AICE Cambridge examinations are killing me! I'm so sorry that I haven't udpated any of my stories in so long! There's just so much I have to do for college and school and my life. AHHH!

Anyway, TADA! I finally completed this chapter, and feel like pumping out more chaps for my other stories today so I'll be caught up for ya'll. Thank you dear readers for keeping up with me and being so patient. :) I love ya'll! *Hugs and cookies for everyone!*

I never thought that a room could be so sufferable and quite.

My steps echoed hard, stony foot prints as I marched solemnly up the stairs and into the old cathedral. Its windows were long and masterfully drawn in stained glass, looking prim and brightly spilling kaleidoscopes on the tile as the sun shone through.

I wondered if maybe Alfred had wished it had rained all that day. Just opened up the heavens and let the water wash over the people in their suits or gather in the gargling gutters or drown the flowers that people were laying in the closed casket.

And there he was, standing beside the giant mahogany coffin, dressed in a black suit and blue tie, eyes marshy and thick as he kept his sights trained to the floor until another mourner came up to him, and then, with a languid, dry embrace he'd nod if they asked him if he was alright, or told him they were there for him, and without another word they would part. He looked broken.

Or hanging on by a thread.

It was also hard to miss the young man beside him, wearing an identical outfit, but whose tie was matching the lilac color of his eyes. I guessed this was Mathieu as I approached the two, first paying my respects to Arthur's box and then making my way to the twins.

Little Alfred noticed me first, with his hands coming up to smooth my lapels and then to tighten my tie. Finally he just took my face in his hands and leaned me down to touch my forehead to his, and I half entertained the thought that maybe he was trying to read my mind, or give me his, when he brushed our noses and let go. I noticed Mathieu's hand had been tugging on his shirt tail, signaling that we were being too conspicuous and turned my attention to Alfred's twin.

He was frail in my arms, unlike Alfred who was muscular and strong willed and felt like kissing the sun, Mathieu had an air of hospital scent on him, like rubbing alcohol or cleaning supplies. His cheeks were paled and lightly flushed from crying, the edges of his eyes tired and glistening with tears.

And he looked so much like Alfred, poor Alfred who couldn't cry anymore, that I almost kissed him star crossed. Instead, I sat down in the front row and watched as Francis made his way down the aisle, almost like how a bride might walk up the alter to her awaiting husband. His hair was a mess of silk and golden rays, lips rosy and quivering as he tried his damndest not to cry.

He looked...older? Aged? Something about him simply seemed to crumble from years and years of some silent, violent storm beating itself against the surface until it made a crack, and maybe the crack spread longer, and with a little more force, it was tore deeper, and now, at this pivotal moment, it broke absolutely open and was now spilling into every part of Francis.

Was that what strings are for? To hold ourselves together, like messy, taunt stitches?

Brokenly, Francis finally stood in front of the coffin, his fingers twitching nervously, almost like a young boys as he reaches for his crush's hand, and laid in on the frame, ghosting his touch over the finely carved and polished wood, eyes following the details of the English crest with a keen interest. He bent his lips to the wood, bangs falling in his face to hide his rushed whispers and the birth of low, keening sobs as he recoiled back and fell into the arms of his awaiting boys. Both Alfred and Mathieu were patting his back, and that's when I noticed how alike they all were, with their blonde hair and pale complexions.

Like father, like son, like mother, like uncle. So twisted and so lovely it all seemed, that adoration and marriage had birthed these children, and death took their mother first, splitting their world into a gaping wound until Francis had come in and rubbed balm on the family. And now Arthur was gone, and the frayed edges of their family were loosened and jagged and dear God, how do you fix something that never really was whole anyway?

-WW-

A few people spoke at the podium, a man with red crinkled locks and green eyes reciting an old Irish hymn, an Asian businessman who simply talked about their old school days when they had smoked Opium and joined the Navy together and were so young, so far away. After almost two hours, I was finally aquatinted with Arthur Kirkland, great husband, doting father, grade A alcoholic, Naval Admiral, suave gentleman, cross hatch extraordinaire, WW 1 and 2 fanatic, and gambling pirate.

It was fascinating to hear through the wreathed sobs and choked stories about the man that Alfred had been escaping. I began to wonder, where on earth in this mess of accomplishments had be cut his final string? Other than the drinking, he was the perfect friend it seemed, with his appeal to the finer things in life and his impeccable tastes.

Near the end, Francis stood to speak, saying small, quipped sentences like "he was my sister's greatest love, he will be missed..." and "in everyone's heart there will now be a hole that can't ever be filled." He didn't say anything about how he felt though, never gave good natured stories about their times together.

But I guess there was too much at stake, just like Alfred had said. The family was drenched in secrets, and they had to be careful about what they said. If everyone knew about the scandal, Alfred and Mathieu would be kicked out of the family. Francis would be publicly shamed.

My ears picked up the sound of Alfred beginning to speak, the shuffle of his suit distracting as he moved the microphone closer his lips, and gave a tired sigh, of either of disappointment or sadness, or maybe even something deeper that humanity has never it given a name.

Loneliness?

"My father was a..." I shivered at the brief pause, the endless silence. "...He was a good man. After Mama died, I didn't think that things would ever be the same. But he made sure that the silence was filled and her place was never forgotten. He would pull out her old recipe cards and try to cook them." He gave a gentle, broken laugh. "He was terrible at cooking, but it was nice to smell something familiar in the kitchen, before the smoke alarms went off. And he sat in her chair sometimes and would knit with her needles, even though they looked dwarfed in his rugged hands. He never knew I watched him and listened to the tiny clacks that they made when he fixed his line of pearls, but I loved those quite moments. Because it was almost as if she never left."

Mathieu quietly strode up to stand beside him, an arm around his shoulders as Alfred broke his calm facade and took his face in his hands, a flood of tears in palms. I had never heard him so tearfully mournful, as his shoulders ached and wracked with quite sobs, people in the pews tearing up as well or looking down at their hands to avoid watching a man crumble.

At last, his brother had been able to coax Alfred to finish his speech, his quite loving whispers just moving lips as he kissed his brothers cheek and leaned from his ear.

"But now he's gone too. But that doesn't mean we can't keep finding things that keep him here with us. It's the least we can do for him. I don't know why he'd..." A breath caught itself hard and hot in his throat. "...Kill himself, but that doesn't stop the gaping wound left him. It doesn't change death. I want to say, that if anything we should be thankful we had the time with him that we did."

Before he choke on another sentence, his brother lead him away, so loyally and so swiftly that no one saw the bitter tears that Alfred was reduced too.

After that, the ceremony was quite and heartfelt, as everyone mingled and talked, almost as spreading secrets or gossiping about him, as if he wasn't if the room. I excused myself politely, and went after Alfred, who was sitting on the marble steps of the church out front.

"Where's Mathieu?" I asked softly, sitting beside him without invitation.

"Went back in to talk with the others. He says it looks better if at least one of us can consol his grieving friends and family." His words were bitter with understanding, and anger that he couldn't be strong enough to do the same.

"I was proud of your speech." I placed my hand over his, giving a comforting squeeze even though he recoiled back from me.

"What? All those lies?" Alfred scoffed, turning his head away from me and too the sky, "Francis said that I couldn't just go up there and scorn him for all the bad things he's done, because no one else knows the real man. Or maybe I didn't know him at all, or maybe he was never real," Again, his ideas were coming fluid and fast from his mouth and it was a rush to keep up with him.

"I mean, all of my uncles talk about his past, and all his friends laughed and shared great memories, and the longer it went on, the more I wondered where that man went. I never met hat Arthur. Not once have I ever seen the man they were ever talking about." His quivering lips stopped their shattered sentences and he turned his face to the crook of my neck as he latched to me and cried.

He seemed to be doing that often now a days.

Mathieu came up behind us and gave a noise of disappointment. "Alfred, stop, please, I can't take you crying anymore."

Quickly, I turned around to bite at him, to ask who he was to tell Alfred not to weep and let out his liquid frustrations. Until I saw how red Mathieu's eyes were, and the sorrow in the crease of his worried brow.

I bet as the younger twin, seeing the stronger one so wrecked was terrifying, so deflating, so draining in itself.

But Alfred, stubborn as always, rose his face from my shoulder and looked at Mathieu, taunting him with his tears and his watery eyes. He drew his body from mine, and lent his hand in helping me up, and with a quick, loving movement, kissed me, swift and soft in front of his brother.

"From now on, I'm free to do what I want. He's gone." I was still dazed from his bold show, but I could detect the hate and painful intent in Alfred's voice as he stared down his brother.

But Mathieu didn't move, didn't say a word.

"Stop cutting strings, Alfred, or you'll end up like Father. Now come say good bye to everyone."

Strings. Again I was swimming in the mystery of stings, and I wondered what the twins were saying in their harsh glares at the other, Alfred holding onto my hand, almost as if he'd fall without me, Mathieu turning away from us, and retreating to the quite, softening atmosphere of the church. Without a look back at me, Alfred followed, his fingers feeling cold and ghost like as he let me go.

-WW-

Francis was the last to leave, I watched him slide his hand from the casket in a cold, remembering gesture. I wondered what thoughts he was dwelling on, what questions and answers were ringing in his head, or how many strings he was hacking at, in futile attempts to keep him, or lose him, or whatever he was doing to cope with the loss.

I knew he had better things to say about Arthur than the bland, hallmark card fake he had memorized sweetly to say farewell to his sister's husband. To his lover, his Arthur.

"I'm sorry."

The apology left my lips so subtly I wondered if I had said them, or if he had even heard me. But he responded with a slight shrug of his shoulders, the same sign Alfred gave in defeat or when there wasn't any real answer.

"It's not your fault, he's been tottering on this cusp for years. I'm actually surprised he made it far. Wasn't a strong man, was never a trusting man."

I wasn't sure what else to say, but I let my brain lead me to the coffin, standing beside the Frenchman with a friendly intention to let it all out.

"My sister was always so sweet to him. She'd bake when I invited him over. And she'd make him lunch, and busy herself in his dorm room as he studied. He once told me as that he only slept with her because he couldn't have me. That feeling was so strong that he had to just have her. We'd be tethered together forever. But it was a mistake. She had Alfred and Mathieu, and he didn't know how to father. He kept coming to my house sad and recollecting. He didn't want to grow up. He wanted to be a young adult forever. Wanted to drink and party and travel, simply live. What was to say to him? Leave my sister and do what you need to?" He shook his head and ran a dry, shaking hand through the curls.

"She died so young too, so strong and so alone in a hospital bed from some disease that doctors couldn't explain. But He blamed himself for loving her more. He could have visited her, could have let her see her babies a little more. He could have sent her flowers, or busied himself in her room as she was counting down her days. But he didn't, no he couldn't. All Arthur had the courage to do was to tip the bottle and forget. I've hated and loved him, and I've seen him at the top of the world, and now about to be underneath it."

I trembled at his confession. So many times and instances to cut strings and break ties, and yet Francis was still here, and Arthur was gone.

"But you have to promise me something, Ivan." His violet eyes flickered to me, a hand resting on my shoulder as I faced him. "Promise you won't do this to Alfred. Don't you dare let him end up like his father. Don't let love send him into the mires and lead him from brambles. This is a cruel world and I have a feeling that Alfred is close to falling off the edge."

I nodded quickly, acutely, and gave him a strong embrace, feeling him tear up and let me go so he could leave his lover for good.

And all I could wonder was how on earth I had fallen so deep into this twisted, knotted life.

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