I had written a very explanatory AN for you here. However, I put it on the ending notes of Chapter 4, so if you're curious enough to care... Perhaps I've been watching too much House of Anubis and Hidarime Tantei Eye. Meh. It's rather exciting, writing (or trying to write) a mystery. In case you don't care enough to go back and check that, here's what I said. Some of you tried using online translators, it seems. The reason chapter 4 was so short is this; I only have 2 hours on the computer to write. I used half of that trying to compose those lines. I'll tell you right now, no online translator has this registered as a language. However, it is NOT an original language. I'll let you know what it means when I'm ready, so just relax. (To one particular reader, I can assure you it had nothing to do with horns or worrying… ^^" It isn't French, which is why it came through so strangely for you. That kind of spawned this AN.) Anyhow. On with it. If I haven't already, I say to you this; nothing is as it seems. (I just realized… I gave a hugeass clue in one of the last chapters! D: I'd delete it, but then that would give it away…)

Alfred turned on his bed again, his frown deepening with every moment, thinking back.

"Artie, are you sure I have to leave?" Alfred asked with a pout, standing by the door.

"Yes, I'm sure. Get the bloody hell out." Arthur retorted, quite tired at this point.

"I can stay the night again!" Alfred insisted with puppy eyes.

"Alfred? Go home."

"But-"

"But nothing. Be a responsible adult, will you?"

"But Artiiiieeee!" Alfred whined.

Arthur scoffed. "I rest my case. Out."

"But I want to stay here with you!" Alfred persisted.

"Alfred? Please. Go."

Alfred scowled. "Geez. I was being totes responsible..." he muttered under his breath with a pout. "I just wanted to spend time with him!" he huffed, his pout growing more and more… well, pouty. Alfred glared at the author for her poor choice in words before resuming his sulking. He stayed there for a few moments before sighing. He sat up and looked over at the clock on his desk. Only 6:43… He sighed again and let his mind wander back to Arthur. He had wanted to keep those controversial, disquieting thoughts at bay, but without Arthur physically there with him, Alfred's mind kept wandering back to that worrying notion.

"It's… like a miracle," Alfred mumbled, running his hands through his head. "He's… back… This is totally insane. He… he died, how can he be back?" he wondered aloud. He shook his head and opened the drawer in his bedside table. He pulled out the bible—it came with the place, but he literally never read it—and took out a photo kept behind the cover. He gazed at it fondly. It was a picture of him and Arthur again, except much younger; the two had been roughly 7 or 8 years old at the time. Alfred felt a pang of loneliness looking at the two figures in the background. He gave a weak smile.

"Hey, mom, dad… What's up?" he asked the photo, if only to pretend they would respond. "You'll never guess what happened… Arthur's back! Amazing, huh?" he asked, tearing up. He didn't mean to get all emotional, but who could blame him? It had been a pretty emotionally exhausting two days… And here he had found a picture not only containing him and his best friend—his dead friend—but also the two other people closest to him… both of them gone. He put the picture away and wiped his eyes. He glanced at it.

"If only you guys were back, too…" he mumbled before shaking his head vigorously. "Damn it, Alfred! Quit being upset! At least you got Arthur back!" he yelled at himself, mentally debating whether or not to actually beat himself up over it. He sighed. "Geez. I'm a wreck…" he muttered before standing up and heading to the bathroom.

Alfred turned the handle to get the water started before retreating and facing the mirror. He never used the mirror; he had always thought it took the fun out of life. Now that he looked in it, he grimaced. This was exactly why he never looked in it; the way he saw it, mirrors only brought out vanity, and he really hated having a whole extra load of low self-esteem to deal with. He poked his stomach. "Looks like I've gained a few pounds…" he muttered. (Of course, in his teen years, the only way he managed to keep himself at a healthy weight was due to Arthur's constant "encouragement," as the Brit liked to call it; Alfred just liked to call it Drill Sargent Mode.) Sighing, he proceeded to take off his jeans. "Maybe I should work out…" he mumbled, still thinking on it.

He looked at himself in the mirror again. While he at least was mature enough to know it was illogical, ever since his parents died he never thought himself good enough. He would cry to Arthur, asking the British boy if he was to blame. Asking things like that all the time, wondering if his parents left because he wasn't good enough, if they went to Heaven to find a better son. While in truth, they had been victims of a bad fire—not at all pleasant, but still a somewhat simple scenario—he still couldn't help but feel like in some way or another, it was his fault. It took him 3 years to get over that—as much as he could, anyway—and then not even 4 years later, he had to watch his best friend, the one person closest to him, die in his arms. It opened the old wound, created a new one, and threw salt on both all at once. After all that, what he'd give to just be emotionless, like a shell. But he was Alfred Jones, and Alfred Jones had always been an emotional person. He cried when his dog went missing even an hour longer than usual; he sobbed whenever his parents left him with the babysitter to go somewhere without him. Some would call it loneliness; some would call it being an attention whore. He usually thought of it as the latter. While deep in his mind, there was a comforting voice telling him it was okay, that it wasn't his fault, that voice was often, if not always, overpowered by Alfred's own stubborn, conscious logic.

The scalding hot water snapped him out of his reverie. He stood there for a moment; closing his eyes to relax under the hot water, though his brows remained furrowed in deep thought. He always got so attached to others. The pain of losing both his family and best friend had been so great. After Arthur's death, he had shut himself off completely. He desperately wanted friends, but he couldn't bear to get so attached again. Everything he loved seemed to end up getting hurt, or worse, and Gods, how Alfred hated it. He wanted to be a hero. He wanted to save people, not hurt them. All these thoughts and countless others piled up, and Alfred punched the wall in frustration. He winced at the searing pain he felt, and clutched at his arm.

"Crap. Right. Ceramic tiles..." he muttered. He gave a wry smile, his sandy blond hair covering his eyes. "Heh. I'm not being very heroic at all right now..." He chuckled. He washed himself and tried to cheer up.

When he got out, the phone was ringing. Alfred wrapped a towel around his waist and dashed out of the bathroom to get it—nearly slipping and falling on his ass on the way out. "Hello?"

"Alfred-kun?"

Alfred blinked. "Kiku? What's up?" he asked. He paused to check the caller ID before adding, "Why are you calling from the hospital?"

"It's Mr. Kirkland. He's panicking, but we can't even sedate him in the state he's in. We have no idea what's happening…"

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Alfred hung up right then and there and grabbed his clothes. He put his jeans and shoes on (forget socks, those could wait!) and chose a button-up shirt so he could put it on on the way out to his car. He could've looked like an idiot to any and every passerby, but he really truly didn't give a damn. Arthur was in trouble, somehow, and that was all Alfred needed to know.

What should've been a 10 minute drive was reduced to 5; Alfred was incredibly lucky he didn't crash or get pulled over. As soon as he parked, he practically leaped out of his car and dashed up the stairs. Room 146! 146! Almost there!

Alfred flung the door open to find Arthur, thrashing about wildly and screaming incoherently, being held down by a number of doctors. He looked completely terrified. Alfred dashed over.

"MOVE!" he screamed at the staff, immediately running towards the bed. "You're scaring him more!" And with that, he pushed through them to capture Arthur in a hug. He glared at the doctors, giving a glare so predatory and protective that even with the things they had no doubt seen in their line of work that they backed off without a moment's delay. He pulled Arthur closer to him. Arthur continued flailing about frantically, his fear-filled eyes flowing with tears. He hit Alfred in the face in his inexplicable panic, giving Alfred a nosebleed. But still, Alfred held him tightly. It took a long time, and Alfred was battered and bruised at the end, but Arthur finally calmed down, reduced to sobbing into Alfred's arms and clutching at the taller man's shirt. Alfred didn't have a clue what happened, but right now Arthur's wellbeing was all that mattered to him. He sat there with Arthur in his arms, rocking the terrified man back and forth gently and whispering little 'its okay's in his ears.

Kiku and the doctors stared at the scene in awe. "He's… amazing," a nurse commented.

Another doctor nodded. "He's pretty dedicated…"

Kiku and Mr. Jaynes, the other doctor who knew about Arthur's case, exchanged glances uneasily. "I know we agreed to keep this quiet," Mr. Jaynes said nervously, "but I'm starting to think we might be in over our heads if we do…"

Kiku winced visibly. "I agree, but all the same…"

"Again, with the talking. You never do that," Mr. Jaynes said with a smirk, looking at Kiku out of the corner of his eye.

Kiku frowned. "This isn't a good time for joking, sir."

Mr. Jaynes frowned and returned his attention to the two men on the hospital bed. "Well, what am I supposed to do? Gotta lighten the atmosphere somehow…"

Kiku shook his head and turned to the rest of the staff lingering in the room. "It's over; please return to your other patients," Kiku urged, speaking remarkably loudly (for him). The others frowned, but did as they were told. The hospital was large, and there were others who needed their attention.

Alfred looked down at Arthur sadly. "Geez, Arty… What happened…?" he wondered aloud, gazing softly at the trembling man in his arms. His glasses were smashed, his nose had bled all over his face, and his shoulder would probably be entirely purple the next morning, but he had never cared less. Arthur is all that matters. He's the only one.

Arthur finally fell asleep of exhaustion, resting in Alfred's arms. His face was covered in dried tears, his eyebrows were furrowed, and the sight broke Alfred's heart. He never wanted to see Arthur that upset ever again. Gently caressing Arthur's golden hair, he looked over at Kiku. "What happened?" he asked quietly, so as not to wake Arthur.

Kiku frowned. "We really don't know. He simply began screaming…" he said quietly, eying the floor with uncertainty.

Alfred gazed down softly at Arthur before looking back up at Kiku with a hardy stare. "I'm not leaving him. Screw the rules. I'm staying right here." Kiku opened his mouth to protest, but gave in to the harsh look Alfred was giving off. Kiku sighed.

"I'll get another pillow for you."

"No need. I'm not sleeping. I'm staying awake so I can protect Arthur," Alfred stated rather matter-of-factly. Kiku nodded. The one thing that always remained the same about Alfred; when he went into "momma lion" mode—as some of their friends had so affectionately referred to it—there was no reasoning with him. Kiku left the room silently, and Alfred resumed his focus on Arthur. He gazed at the small man with a look of combined confusion, pity, worry, and sheer love. He looked up at the ceiling.

Don't worry, Artie. I'm here. I'll stay here. I'll protect you, I won't let anyone hurt you.