Just after dawn, a hand shakes Alfred awake, and the boy sits up ungracefully, bedhead worse than usual and dry-mouthed. Arthur is leaning over him, eyes the size of saucers as he whispers urgently, "I'm sorry for waking you, lad, but we need to get you dressed and over to Francis' house."

Alfred runs his tongue around his mouth a few times, so it doesn't feel like sandpaper anymore, and says, "What? Why?"

"Because I need to run an errand, and I won't be back until later in the day. So, hurry along and get your things. Francis will serve you breakfast and tea."

Arthur's voice is unnaturally low and heavy, as though he can't bear the weight of his own words. He seems somewhat frantic, and he makes an effort to conceal his worries, but Alfred knows him well enough by now to know something is wrong.

"Is it because of Baron?" he asks.

"Yes, my boy," Arthur replies, being honest.

"Is he going to be okay?"

"Let's hope so."

He's about to beg Arthur to take him along, but judging by the look in the man's eyes, he isn't going to be able to convince him, and thus, he gets up and does as he is told instead.

There's no school today, so he grabs some comfortable clothes to play and lounge around in. He combs his hair as best he can, but it doesn't do much to tame the nest of blond strands. He drinks some water, brushes his teeth, grabs a few books in case he gets bored later, and then decides to see Baron for himself before he goes.

The mutt is lying on his stomach, paws tucked beneath his chest and eyes as glassy and pained as they had been last night, if not more so. Alfred scratches behind his ears, hugs him around the neck with a lengthy cuddle, and murmurs, "Get better soon. I'll save you some scones for when you get back, okay?"

"No, you will not," Arthur interrupts, not sounding nearly as gruff as he should.

When Alfred finds that there isn't much left to be said, he watches Arthur heft Baron up into his arms and carry him out to the car. The dog is put in the passenger's seat with a blanket wrapped around his middle, and when he's comfortable and doesn't seem like he's going to move any time soon, Alfred and Arthur cross the street to get to Francis' house.

As blithe as always, Francis steps outside and greets them both with a lustrous grin, trying to make light of the situation. "Breakfast is on the table, Alfred. Make yourself at home."

He motions for Alfred to go inside, and so he does, but he lingers in the foyer, unfamiliar with the layout of the rooms. From behind, he hears Francis softly tell Arthur, "Take as much time as you need."

"Thank you again."

"Oh, please, you know it's never a bother… I'm sorry… Truly."

"I knew this day was inevitable. Maybe it's for the best. He's been sickly for nearly a year now."

"Nevertheless, it's a difficult decision," Francis sympathizes, leaning against the doorframe.

Arthur's voice goes all strange again and he says, "It's been fourteen years."

"Has it? Where does the time go? Maybe you should have Gilbert go with you?"

"No, no… It's fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite… I'm on my way, then. Don't give Alfred too many sweets, and he's not allowed to climb any trees, no matter what he tells you."

"We'll be fine."

And then, Francis closes the door and turns around to look at Alfred. "I hope you're hungry. One would think all of that English food—well, it's not really considered food—would fatten you up, but you're still as slim as a plank of wood! Uncle Francis will have to step in, I suppose. There are some baguettes with jam waiting, and the tea is almost ready. You're welcome to have seconds."

Stomach already growling, Alfred doesn't waste any time getting to the table, and within minutes, there's strawberry jam smeared all over his chin and the corners of his mouth. Once he's so full he can barely move, he takes the chance to really look at the kitchen with fresh eyes and a clear mind.

Describing the place as elegant would be an understatement. Francis seems to take great pride in maintaining his house because every tile, portrait, countertop, and square of wallpaper is in perfect harmony with the other. He has an eye for patterns and design, and Alfred can't help but think the man is better suited for interior design rather than hairdressing. He's wasting his talents.

From across the kitchen table, Francis squeezes some lemon juice into his tea and lets out a long, solemn sigh. "The world keeps changing, dear Alfred. I don't know if I can keep up."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see someday. Oh, how I wish I could be a boy of your age again—just for one day."

"Wanna trade?"

"No, I could never take your youth from you. That'd be a travesty… Tell me something… How are you liking the town?"

Alfred shrugs his shoulders and finishes the last crumbs of his baguette. "Everyone is really nice, and I like living with Arthur. He's not like my old papa, but he reads to me at night, and he's always teaching me a lot of stuff that my old papa never knew."

Francis nods. "You're not feeling a little homesick for New York?"

"Maybe a little," Alfred admits, wiping his face with a napkin. "Mama, Papa, and Mattie aren't there anymore though, so I don't think I'd want to live there again."

"I see…"

"Yeah… I wanna go back and see them someday."

"Do you know where they are buried?"

"Only Papa, but Mama and Mattie are probably where he is."

Francis sits up and puts his elbows on the table. "Probably?"

"Well, I never saw Mama and Mattie after they were taken to the hospital. Some police officers came over later and said I had to go to the children's home, and that's it."

"Mon dieu. How terrible."

Francis becomes serious and stares at Alfred for a long time, thinking and contemplating, and unsure of whether or not he should share what's on his mind. "Alfred, were you ever told exactly what became of them?"

Alfred draws his brows down and tries to remember. "No."

"If the police came, then that means you no longer had a legal guardian, but your brother is another matter. Your brother could very well have recovered and been brought to a children's home as well. We would have to look up the records."

Alfred feels a twist in his abdomen and glowers. He doesn't want to get his hopes up. Everyone is gone. They must be, Matthew included.

"I'll tell Arthur to look into it at a later date. He's the only one with a mind for these kinds of legal matters."

Could it really be true? Could Matthew be alive?

"In the meantime, how about we play some football in the yard while we wait for Arthur's return?"

Alfred hastily learns that his idea of football greatly differs from Francis', but it doesn't matter all too much because they still manage to run around and kill time anyway. He wonders if it's okay to be playing when Baron is probably stuck in some horrible animal clinic, but Francis says Arthur will take care of everything, and that the best thing they can do right now is keep their spirits up.

"Alfred, you have to understand that Baron is an old dog. He—"

"I know what's happening to him," Alfred mutters, feeling a sting in his eyes. "I know. I'm just hoping there'll be some way… Even though Arthur always complains about him, I know he cares about him a lot. Kinda like he complains about you. I don't want to see him sad. I'll be sad too, but maybe the vet can still—"

"I don't think that's going to happen, mon lapin. Arthur planned to… No, I'll let him tell you. It'll be better that way."

"Planned to what? Tell me!" Alfred insists as some tears rolls down his nose. "Tell me, please."

Francis bites his lip and says, "He's putting him to rest… To sleep."

Alfred sits down in the grass and puts his face in his hands, lightheaded and filled with a type of fury he's never felt before. "So there's no medicine they can give him, or—?"

"I'm so sorry, mon chou."

Francis reaches out a hand to embrace him, but Alfred runs off toward the nearest tree and climbs onto one of the branches, wanting to be left alone to sulk.

"He's not even going to try to make him better?" he squeaks once he's high enough.

"There's nothing he can do, Alfred."

"If he's gonna die, we have to at least try to save him! Do something!"

"There's nothing to be done."

"It's not fair!" Alfred shouts, arms shaking. "He's just a dog! He didn't do anything wrong!"

Francis frowns and rubs his forehead, trying to think of something to say, but he's not a papa either and people who aren't papas don't know how to say the things they should.

"You're not supposed to be in the trees, Alfred. Come down from there, and we can talk."

"No! I'm going to stay here until I die!"

"Don't say things like that! Oh, what have I done? Arthur is going to be furious."

"Baron was my friend!"

"I know he was… Please, come down!"

"No!"

Francis groans and goes back into the house, surrendering for now.

He sees Arthur's car pull up in the driveway, the engine making a racket and indicating a need for repairs, which is just another thing the man will have to worry about in the coming days. Alfred watches him park from his perch in the top of the tree, cheeks salty with tears and wanting nothing more than to yell at his guardian for letting go of Baron so easily—for not fighting tooth and nail for his recovery.

Arthur bows his head and gets out of the car, the blood drained from his face. The expression of emptiness on his features is almost inhuman, and Alfred pushes himself closer to the trunk of the tree, frightened and angry and not quite sure what to feel anymore.

The man runs a hand through his hair and stiffly makes his way toward Francis' house. For a while, everything is still and calm, but within the course of a single minute, Arthur barrels his way out the back door and into the yard, beside himself. His green eyes are enveloped in red, and Alfred has never seen him look so austere.

He stands at the bottom of the tree, rubs a hand across his haggard face and orders, "Come here, Alfred."

Feeling a burst of courage, Alfred shakes his head and holds back more tears. "No."

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath and lowers his gaze to his shoes, suddenly somber. "I'm not going to say it again."

"I'm never coming down."

Arthur purses his lips, thinks for a moment, and asks in a serious tone of voice, "Shall I deliver your dinners to the tree then?"

Not sure if the man is messing with him or not, Alfred crosses his arms and nods.

"All right. Well, that's sorted, at least," Arthur huffs before swiveling around on his heel and sauntering away.

He makes it through half of the yard before Alfred's heart falls into his gut, and he screams, "Wait!"

Arthur comes to an abrupt halt but doesn't turn around, shoulders drawn back tightly. "Yes?"

"You're going to leave me here?"

"Isn't that what you wanted?"

Alfred swipes a hand under his leaking eyes and bites his tongue, shivering with sobs. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to find a new family, and things were going to be all right again. He wasn't supposed to end up sad and crying. He wasn't supposed to lose another life. He wasn't supposed to feel his chest split in two, and he wasn't supposed to look at his new parent and see him look so hopeless—so solitary.

"Why couldn't you save Baron?"

Arthur lifts his arms up and drops them, emphasizing how powerless he is. A clumsy tear runs down to his chin, and he says through quivering lips, "I-I don't know, Alfred. I wish I knew, but I don't. The only thing I could do is let him go with dignity. Everyone has to pass away eventually. That's all there is…"

Alfred swallows painfully and sniffles as Arthur approaches the tree again and climbs up. He plops himself next to Alfred and releases an exhausted sigh before wrapping an arm around the boy and resting his chin on his shoulder.

"He was a good dog. An evolutionary disaster, but good nonetheless," Arthur croaks, holding Alfred snugly against his chest. "Will you come home, now? I can't stand to stay on Francis' property any longer."

Alfred gives a conceding murmur of agreement, and they scale their way down the tree at last, both feeling a little lighter.

"You're an absolute mess," Arthur gripes after a moment, using a thumb to clean up Alfred's tears.

"You're a mess," Alfred corrects him, reaching a hand up to pat at Arthur's wet eyes as well.

He doesn't know why, but for some reason, doing that brings a new batch of tears to the man's face.

July 3, 1932

"Hey, Gilbert, do you know how to fire a gun?"

Gilbert lays his head beside the register of the candy shop and stares longingly outside of the display window. "Look there, squirt. Isn't she a beauty?"

Alfred rolls his head to the right, sees Ms. Hedervary walking down the street, and turns back to Gilbert with an expectant look. "I said, do you know how to fire a gun?"

"The older she gets, the more beautiful she becomes; it means she's got a pure soul. It's hard to find women like that nowadays," Gilbert continues, lustful eyes scanning Ms. Hedervary up and down.

"Why don't you talk to her?"

"Talk to her? Hah! That shows how you know nothing about romance, kid. You're still too young."

Alfred flushes and wrinkles his nose. "I'm old enough. Arthur lets me walk to town alone now, and I'm even starting to grow a beard!"

"Where? I don't see anything," Gilbert mocks before pinching one of Alfred's cheeks. "You've got a baby face."

"Do not!"

"Sure you do."

"I've got three hairs right here," Alfred says, pointing to the spot. "Anyway, are you coming to my birthday party?"

"When's that again?"

"Tomorrow."

"Oh, yeah. Almost forgot. Ludwig wrapped your present already."

"Is it a gun?"

"Nope."

Alfred frowns and slouches in his seat by the counter. "Darn."

"Why are you suddenly so dead-set on getting a gun?"

"Cause I'm turning thirteen now, and most of the boys at school shoot guns with their dads."

Gilbert lights himself a trusty cigarette and cracks open a bottle of beer. "Yeah, well, good luck convincing Arthur to get you one. Besides, he's probably right, there's no reason boys should be learning how to fire bullets. That's how wars are perpetuated."

"Mr. Honda said the Great War was the 'war to end all wars'."

"Yeah, well, Kiku doesn't know what he's talking about. There's been war since the formation of the earliest civilizations, and there will always be war."

"Why?"

"That's just the way of the world. Humans can't coexist together," Gilbert hisses, downing his beer and getting some foam stuck on his upper lip. "Anybody who doesn't see the rise of these right-wing nutcases in the Reichstag are either blind or stupid. These damned Nazis are a disgrace to the rest of the German people, you know, but some still have bitter sentiments from 1914, and they let these kinds of idiots into the national parliament because of it. Heed my words, the Nazi Party is going to become the majority party soon, and that's going to be a dark day for Germans."

Just then, Ludwig comes out of the storeroom and clicks his tongue. "Don't confuse the boy with politics. And why are you drinking out in the open like that? Do you want to get us in legal trouble?"

"Ah, no one enforces that crap anyway, and Alfred should know the truth! He needs to be informed. Instead of wanting a gun, he should be wanting a newspaper. Let him pick up a copy of Mein Kampf while he's at it. Let him see what kind of chaos society is devolving into!"

"Oh, you and your conspiracy theories."

"It's not a conspiracy theory! There's going to be another war, and Adolf Hitler is going to be at the front of it."

"He doesn't even have any administrative power, Gilbert."

"He will soon! He's going to run for chancellor!"

"He won't get the position. Alfred, don't listen to a word he says. He gets too worked up about politics. Ivan says it's bad for his health," Ludwig explains before giving the boy a free chocolate bar. "Eat and don't pay him any mind."

Gilbert smacks a hand against the counter and says, "My health is fine."

"Your blood pressure is high."

"No, I just have white coat syndrome, you dummkopf."

"Deny it all you want, but it's not going to change anything."

"Deny the impending war all you want, but that's not going to change anything either!" Gilbert exclaims, getting up and storming off, leaving his beer unfinished. "And prohibition is complete horse crap!"

When it's quiet again, Ludwig mutters, "See what I have to put up with? Oh, and don't even try explaining to him that he needs to take medication. Ivan and I have already lost our voices twice."

July 4, 1932

He doesn't get a gun for his birthday. Unsurprisingly, the box with a big, blue bow and his name on it contains a new suit, and even though he feels a little disappointed, he's grateful for the gift nonetheless. He tries it on in front of Arthur, and the man is utterly ecstatic, going on and on about how Alfred is finally becoming a young man and—my goodness—when did he get two inches taller? He already reaches Arthur's shoulder, and they're both pretty sure he's going to sprout up even more within the coming years.

"Make a wish, love."

Alfred thinks long and hard about his wish, and although he's still dying to get a gun, something else comes to the forefront of his mind—something Arthur has been researching for months now.

He wishes to see Mattie again.

Apparently, the hospital records have been lost somewhere in a myriad of files because Arthur has written to over twelve hospitals within the New York area, and none of them have records of what may have happened to Matthew or his mother. And even though Alfred knows he shouldn't be enthusiastic, he can't help but imagine what Matthew might look like now—probably just like him but a little scrawnier and with curlier hair.

Arthur promises he will keep searching, and Alfred believes him. The man hasn't let him down yet, and if his brother is out there somewhere, he's certain Arthur will be able to find him eventually.

He blows out his candles and Gilbert, Ludwig, Francis, Ivan, Toris, and Arthur all clap gleefully and proudly. He feels incredibly special and privileged to be on the receiving end of their affection.

"Can I slice the cake?"

"Okay," Arthur agrees, handing him a knife. "Just be very careful not to cut yourself."

Alfred serves himself a large piece of chocolate cake with extra frosting on top (courtesy of the Beilschmidt brothers) and grins. "Ivan can sew my finger back on if anything happens."

"Very funny," Arthur grumbles, changing his mind and taking the knife back from Alfred in order to serve everyone else. "I remember what happened the last time I trusted you with the cheese grater."

"That was one time."

"Yes, and the last time."

Once everyone has a plate full of cake, a round of playful banter starts up, and Francis says, "So, Arthur, how does it feel to officially be the parent of a teenager?"

Arthur closes his eyes and groans. "Please don't remind me. You should see the state of his room."

"Hey, it's not that bad!" Alfred protests, mouth practically overflowing with cake.

"No, not at all. Tomorrow, you'll be cleaning it until it's spotless and sparkling with cleanliness."

"It only gets worse," Ivan chimes in, ruffling Toris' hair, causing the boy to whine with discontent and embarrassment.

Alfred smacks his lips and cocks his head to the side. "You always act like I'm the worst kid in the world."

"I do not. I was only joking," Arthur assures, winking at the boy before shaking his shoulder fondly. "You're just too exuberant for your own good sometimes… It looks like you're going to need a second piece of cake."

Alfred glances down at his plate and chuckles. "I guess I will."

He doesn't stop smiling for the rest of the night.