Chapter 4
"Hey, Artie?"
Arthur Kirkland looked up at the sound of America's hopeful voice, his lips struggling to turn upwards into a reassuring smile for his longtime lover.
"What is it, Alfred?" he asked quietly.
Alfred F. Jones sighed and reached out to clasp England's shoulder with his hand, his strong arms gently-but-firmly pulling the Briton away from the doorway that he had been standing in for the past hour.
"We were supposed to pick up Mattie and that Russian ten minutes ago," America murmured with forced cheerfulness. "How long were you planning on staring at... that room."
England shrugged, ignoring the usual stab of annoyance and sadness that pierced his heart when America refused to talk about their missing child. "A part of me wants to stare at Alyson's room for as long as it takes... Until she comes back to us."
America flinched visibly at the mention of his daughter and looked away, his bright blue eyes blinking furiously behind his glasses. He carefully avoided looking into the dusty old bedroom that England found so fascinating, his hands clenched into fists at his side.
"It's been fourteen years, Iggy," he sighed.
"Does that mean that you've given up?" Arthur snapped, his voice sharper than he had intended it to be.
Alfred shrugged miserably and ran a hand through his hair, taking care to avoid Nantucket.
"I... I don't wanna give up, Arthur," he croaked, his voice breaking half-way through the sentence. "You think that I don't want to see her again, too? God... She was- she was my little kid, Artie..."
England blushed a furious red and wrapped one of his arms around America's shoulders in an awkward hug. America sniffled and buried his head in Arthur's tousled golden hair, tears leaking beneath his glasses to run through the Brit's tangled locks.
"Shh," England murmured. "I know, luv."
Alfred took a deep, shuddering breath and forced himself to regain control of his emotions. He slowly pulled away from his lover and offered Arthur a weak smile.
"W-we should go and p-pick up Mattie," he muttered. "Before that commie bastard gets ticked at us for being late... You know I hate it when he lectures."
England chuckled dryly and leaned forward to press a light kiss to the American's cheek.
"Fine," he whispered. "But I'm driving. You bloody Americans are awful drivers, and I would rather not get arrested before the meeting tomorrow due to someone's awful temper."
"Hey, that dumbass had it coming! I mean, who the hell pulls out in front someone like that?"
England smiled despite himself and dragged America out of the house, trying to push the memories of his daughter behind him for the time being.
XXX
Matthew Williams knew that something was wrong when he saw Ivan Braginski's vodka bottle abandoned on the kitchen table.
The Canadian sighed and put down the plate of pancakes that he had been devouring, his lilac eyes drifting towards the living room of their New York City apartment. He frowned when he saw Russia sitting on the couch in front of the television set.
"I-Ivan? What're you doing, eh?" Canada asked quietly.
Russia shrugged listlessly and offered his boyfriend an emotionless smile. "I am watching the hockey game, da? My team is playing one of America's... I want to make sure that they beat him."
Matthew frowned and walked slowly into the living room, his eyes narrowing when he caught sight of the television screen.
"The game's been over for hours," he said flatly. "You're watching British soccer."
"Ah..." Ivan chuckled darkly and leaned back in his seat, his eyes fluttering closed as Matthew crossed the room to turn off the television. "I suppose I should have noticed that..."
Canada winced at the dead tone of Russia's voice and settled beside the larger country on the couch, his eyes watching Ivan warily.
"You know Alfred and Arthur are late picking us up," he murmured, hoping desperately that any mention of one of his brother's mistakes would create the usual reaction in his Russian lover.
Ivan merely shrugged listlessly and offered Matthew a tiny smile. "I suppose everyone must be late at some point, Matvey. We were..."
Canada flinched and turned away, missing the guilty look that flickered across Russia's face a moment later.
"We were early, actually," he whispered hoarsely. "Remember? Y-you c-couldn't bear t-to be away fr-from Katerina and Marc for so long..." The Canadian's voice broke and he buried his face in his shaking hands.
As if on cue, a small polar bear slipped quietly into the room and pulled itself up onto the couch beside the Canadian. Kumajiro allowed Matthew to pull him into a tight hug, his black eyes focused accusingly on Ivan's pale face.
"Stop bringing it up," the bear said flatly.
Russia sighed and nodded, not even bothering to be annoyed by the fact that a polar bear was telling him that he was wrong.
"I'm sorry, Matvey," he whispered.
Canada smiled tremulously at Russia and allowed the taller man to pull him into a loose embrace, his thin face pressed against the warm folds of Ivan's scarf.
"I m-miss them, t-too, you know," Matthew croaked. "A-and I k-keep thinking about what would have happened... i-if we had gotten there earlier... if we could have saved them..." The Canadian's shoulders began to tremble with suppressed sobs, causing Ivan to tighten his grip on the smaller country.
The two countries remained silent for a long time, their arms wrapped around each other in an embrace that spoke more than words ever could. Russia stared down at Canada's light-blond head, his violet eyes tightening as he remembered how Matthew had beamed when he realized that their only daughter had inherited his gold locks, remembered the glow of warmth that had gone through Russia the first night they brought their second child home, the first time he saw his family together and vowed to protect them.
"I failed," Ivan sighed, not realized that he had spoken aloud until Matthew glared up at him with fiercely protective lilac eyes.
"No you haven't," Canada insisted. "You've worked as hard as anyone to find our children. You kept searching even after others told you that it was hopeless. You put aside your disagreements with Al for over a decade to make our chances better... You even told off that insane sister of yours when she got in the way of one of our investigations! Ivan-"
"But I haven't found them," Russia interrupted harshly. "I still don't know where they are, or if they are alive... If they had changed their names, I would know it. I don't know anything, Matvey, and it... it scares me."
Matthew visibly deflated and leaned into the Russian again, the frames of his glasses pressing against Ivan's skin beneath his thick coat.
"W-we will find them," he insisted quietly. "W-we will! Nous devons...(We have to...)"
Russia shuddered at the raw, desperate hope in Canada's voice and pressed his face into the crook of Matthew's neck, breathing in the warm smells of pancakes, maple syrup, and sunlight that were a constant part of Canada's scent. For a brief moment, her wished that he could possess even a fraction of Matthew's unceasing hope, that all of his doubts could leave him for good and bring him the peace he had longed for ever since he walked into Germany's ruined house to find his children missing.
"Da," he said in a hushed tone. "We will find them. я обещаю. (I promise)"
Canada smiled into Russia's coat and straightened as the sound of the doorbell rang through their silent house, his pale pink lips curving upwards into a pleased smile when he saw the look of displeasure on Russia's round face.
"Looks like my brother finally came," he observed.
XXX
Gilbert Beilschmidt slipped quietly out of the hotel that his brother and most of the other nations were staying at before the meeting, a low sigh of relief breaking through his pale lips when he managed to get out of the intricate front doors without running into Ludwig. It was getting increasingly awkward being around his younger brother now, especially since the fourteenth anniversary of his nephews' disappearances had passed less than three days ago...
Prussia shook himself and forced thoughts of the missing children out of his mind, his jaw clenching.
All of the nations involved had insisted that they held no grudges against him for what had happened to their children (although Gilbert still insisted that Ivan Braginski was plotting his death), but Prussia couldn't help the guilt that had stayed with him ever since he had woken up in Germany's empty house to find the children gone, ever since he had nearly torn the place apart searching for his nephews and their playmates and realized that he had failed for protect them..
"Mon ami? (My friend?)"
Prussia glanced up, his usual cocky grin lacking its usual luster when he caught sight of the Frenchman leaning casually against a gleaming silver BMW convertible at the side of the road. France smiled back, his blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully behind immaculate honey-blonde hair.
"Stop tearing yourself up with guilt, Gilbert," France called quietly. "It will not bring them back."
Gilbert shrugged and silently threw himself into the passenger seat of the car, his red eyes falling closed beneath his silver hair.
Francis had been another country that refused to blame him for the tragedy. Although Gilbert's mistakes had cost the Frenchman two so-called "grandchildren" and nearly destroyed their mutual friend, Antonio, Francis had insisted that none of it was Gilbert's fault, that the children would someday be found, that everything would work out.
Eventually, though, even France's eternal optimism had worn out.
"Ich brache ein Bier (I need a beer)," he announced. "And someone to hit."
Francis chuckled and nodded, his smooth white hands already putting the care into gear.
"I have just the place..."
XXX
Francisco Michelangelo Vargas-Beilschmidt watched with narrowed eyes as his twin approached the ring, his hands playing restlessly with the sweat-soaked towel that he clutched in his hands. Magnus had dragged them to the fight club immediately after school ended, his features set into that rare look of passionate determination that showed even the most unfamiliar observer why the Vargas-Beilschmidt brothers were considered identical twins. At times Francisco wished that he could snap a picture of himself and Magnus when his twin was in that impassioned mood of his, just so he could have proof that there were times when he and his brother actually thought alike.
Magnus had moved to the center of the ring, his arms- more muscular than Francisco's- folded defiantly across his bare chest as his opponent materialized from the crowd of drunks, addicts, and compulsive gamblers that had gathered to see the outcome of the fight. If Francisco took the time to search, he would have easily caught sight of his cousin Cielo's dark head among the throngs of enthusiastic fans as the younger boy slipped among the adults making bets and collecting money. Francisco wondered for a brief moment if Cielo had convinced Alyson and Katerina to remain upstairs this time, or if he had given in again and allowed the girls to trail him through the crowds as Achilles was doing. He hoped that the girls had stayed away from the fight. It made him uneasy to think of the innocent Katerina and naïve Alyson unprotected among the crowds...
"Match 15: The Berlin Menace versus The Blood."
Francisco stiffened and eyed the two fighters as the match began, his lips quirking upwards into a small smile when he saw the tightening of his brother's jaw. He had helped Magnus create the alias he used in the fighting world years ago, and use of the name never failed to give him a sense of pride and fear whenever it was uttered. His fratello was a strong fighter and was had never been beaten by these amateur drunks and addicts... But Francisco found that he could never quite get rid of the urge to protect his brother whenever he watched Magnus get the inevitable injuries, whenever he watched other fighters get carried out of the ring in tangled, bloodied heaps and realized that his twin could be next.
A loud shout erupted from the crowd when Magnus's opponent, the Blood, swung a neat right-hook at the teen, his knuckles colliding with the side of Magnus's auburn head. Magnus's ice-blue eyes tightened infinitesimally as he dodged another blow, his slim fingers curled into fists raised protectively in front of his chest. The Blood smirked at the small sign of his opponent's discomfort and allowed Magnus to aim a clumsy lunge at his throat, his scarlet eyes glinting in an unseeing savage glee. Francisco shuddered involuntarily when the fighter's blank red gaze passed across his face, his own blue eyes taking in the man's pure white hair and scarred white chest. Was this man a professional fighter? Magnus wouldn't stand a chance if he was...
The pale man, the Blood, landed another blow on Magnus, as if proving Francisco's doubts correct. Out of the corner of his eye, Francisco saw flashes of blonde hair drawing closer to the ring as Alyson and Katerina fought their way to the front of the crowd, their expressions anxious. He cursed silently and turned back to the fight, his lips pressing together in a suppressed shout as Magnus was nearly knocked to the ground by another right-hook and a well-aimed kick. Magnus shook off the blow and straightened again, his eyes meeting Francisco's for a brief moment. The twins nodded to each other in silent encouragement before Magnus's attention was reclaimed by his opponent. Magnus leveled a steady gaze as a response to the albino fighter's savage glare, eliciting a fierce flash of pride in the heart of Francisco. His twin was strong, he would not fall to such a show-off.
He couldn't.
XXX
Magnus Friederich Vargas-Beilschmidt forced his face to remain expressionless as he stared down the albino that he had been assigned to fight, strands of his auburn hair sticking to his sweat-streaked face as the fight rolled on. The albino seemed to sense his weariness and began to attack him with more carefully-aimed blows that were harder to dodge. Magnus huffed as one of the blows barely missed his curl and allowed himself a small glare. The Blood sneered and leaned closer, allowing his guard to slip for a brief moment.
"Give it up, kid," he whispered, his German accent more pronounced in the heat of battle. "I'm a legend."
Magnus stiffened as the sound of the voice shook something deep within him, forcing images that he had tried to suppress to the surface... images of a man with his hair cooing over him, while another man with his eyes watched them with a quiet sort of affection. Another image came to him, one of an albino that would joke and ruffle his hair.
Your pretty awesome, neffe (nephew)... Almost as awesome as me!
Magnus snarled and slammed his shoulder into the albino's chest, driving the fighter farther away from him. His control snapped and he glared furiously at the other fighter, his chest heaving. Why? Why had those images, those memories, come back to him now, after so many years of struggling to keep them hidden? Why did they have to torment him with memories of people that he would never see again, never know?
The albino was looking at him, his head cocked to the side in a mixture of confusion and emerging triumph. He thought that he had won, that Magnus was giving up...
I'll show him, verdammt.
Magnus snarled and lashed out at the albino again, his lips curling in satisfaction when the blow connected with pale skin and sent the other man reeling. He followed with another shove and a second blow, this one to the man's arrogant nose and jaw. He heard Francisco let out a low cheer from the outside of the ring, heard Katerina's quiet cry of happiness below Alyson's loud yell of victory, and felt his heart swell with a familiar sensation of purpose. This was why he did this, this was why he fought. Every fight he won brought more money to these children, the only family that he had ever knew.
Every man that he sent to the ground brought another day of food, lifted a little more weight from the shoulders of Saichi and Marc.
The albino snarled, fury rising in his scarlet gaze. A veil seemed to be lifting off of his eyes, giving Magnus the sense that the fighter was finally seeing what was happening in front of him, that what had happened before were the results of instinct and reflexes drilled into him through years of practice. A small flicker of fear built up inside of Magnus as he wondered what this man could do when he really put his mind to it...
I cannot show fear, I will not be afraid... That is the first sign of weakness...
A blond man with his blue eyes appeared again in the front of his mind, his features firm yet gentle as he knelt in front of Magnus.
A person can never be weak when he fights for the right cause.
I fight for my family...
The albino had struck him again, but Magnus barely noticed the blow. The blond man with his eyes disappeared, leaving a hole in his stead. Magnus hissed and punched the albino that had brought up these memories and forced them away, his light blue eyes flashing with a raw fury before he schooled his expression into a coolly determined mask. The albino's red eyes met his own for a brief moment... and the other fighter froze.
Magnus paused as well, his brow furrowing in confusion as his opponent stared at him, his pale lips hanging open, his scarlet eyes widening as if he had seen a ghost. With a suddenness that surprised him, the albino tackled Magnus to the ground and crouched over him, his beer-laden breath invading Magnus's senses as the other man stared down at him.
"...You," the man croaked. "Oh God... Oh my God, you... How- Oh my God..."
"Was zur Hölle? (What the hell?)" Magnus hissed, trying to ignore the fear that was trickling through him. "Was ist Ihr Problem, du Arschloch? (What is your problem, asshole?)"
The albino choked out a low laugh and playfully ruffled Magnus's sweaty auburn hair, his red eyes strangely wet.
"Gott (God), you're so much like West," he chuckled. His expression darkened suddenly and he looked around at the crowd of people that were watching them, his eyes seeming to zero in on a small group at the front of the mob. Magnus followed his gaze, his heart sinking when he saw his friends huddled near the edge of the ring, Katerina and his brother at the front. Damn, he hadn't wanted any of them to see him so helpless... especially not Katerina...
"You're all here," the albino breathed, immediately drawing Magnus's attention. "Except... Nein, there were two others, weren't there? Why aren't they- And what the hell are you doing in this shithole anyways? West would kill us both..."
The albino shook his head and glanced around again, his eyes narrowing as he seemed to remember that they were in the middle of a bloodthirsty crowd. The man snorted when one of the crowd called out to him, ordering him to finish the fight. Without another word, the albino stood up. He glanced down at Magnus and offered him a pale hand, which the teen warily accepted. The albino smiled sadly at Magnus's obvious wariness before turning to the crowd, his lips curling into an irritatingly-cocky smile.
"The Awesome Me has decided to forfeit," he announced cheerfully.
There were a few groans and several stunned stares at the two battered fighters as Magnus and the albino were hustled out of the ring to make room for the next competitors. Magnus sighed and started to make his way towards his siblings, only to be stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder. The albino leaned over and placed his lips near Magnus's ear, his scarlet eyes intense.
"Promise to meet me upstairs in five minutes. Bring your friends and your brother. There's something that I need to tell you..."
Magnus stiffened and glared at the other man, fully prepared to say no.
And then, for some insane reason that he would never fully understand, he felt the following words break through his lips:
"...I promise."
The albino breathed a sigh of relief and ruffled his hair again, his expression unusually soft.
"Danke (Thank you), Magnus," he whispered before disappearing into the crowd.
Magnus stayed where he was, his wide blue eyes locked on the place where the albino had stood until Francisco and Cielo reached his side, their concerned inquiries and furious swears finally pulling him from the thought that had been ringing in his ears since the albino had left him.
How did he know my name?
Yes! The plot finally starts rolling again! Okay, to be honest, I really wanted to get this up yesterday, but I ended up stuck in this awful place with no internet... ugh.
Okay, so I actually have a serious thing to put in this A/N, shocker though it may be.
Um, I don't know if this is conventional or not, but I would like to ask anyone who reads this to please keep my speech coach and his wife in their prayers/thoughts (I honestly don't care what kind of prayers or thoughts they are, every religion is good in its own way in my opinion). See, my speech coach's wife just learned that she has cancer, and it's pretty serious, and there are some doubts as to whether or not she'll make it. However, neither she or my coach is giving up, so neither am I. And that is why I am asking you guys to please remember them, because I hope that with more people thinking of them... well, maybe it'll all work out okay.
So please, if you want to, please remember them and pray for them or think of them or whatever... That's all I ask.
Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story so far, and thanks to the people who favorited it. Hope you all had a great Christmas/Hanukkah/whatever you celebrated and New Years! :)