For this chapter:

Character(s), Pairing(s): USUK

Rating: T

Warnings: Violence. Language. Slash, angst, and a little bit of a mind screw. Have fun with that. Temporary switch in perspective. SHORT CHAPTER OF SHORTNESS.

Chapter Summary: The fog rolls in and a message is sent.

A/N: Note to self: writing three fics at once and then reading Homestuck with only 14 days until you go to university is a bad idea. Negligible notes at the end. Enjoy, my lovelies!

Chapter 6: On These Broken Wings I'm Falling (Nickelback; Saving Me)

With knowledge came a price. For Alfred, the price was death. His body had died, his heart had stopped beating, blood still in his veins. It hadn't been murder on Arthur's part; there was no way Arthur ever intended to kill him. It had been an attempt to save his life, Alfred knew that, had known that in the dark nothing between this world and that world. Arthur had inadvertently Opened him to the Otherworld by telling him of Matthew's Ghost, and Arthur had attempting to Close him off.

It had worked, with consequences.

Alfred's body and mind, held under the lock and key of the demon, had done everything it could to save itself from the foul temptation the creature had offered. When Arthur had Closed him off, his mind had slipped through the door as it slammed shut. With his mind locked away, his body died.

Only, it hadn't.

Convinced of its death, but knowing it was still alive, his body had latched onto the nearest semblance to a consciousness that it could; the imprint left in Arthur's wake.

Part of Alfred had always known that this would happen, and he'd always been prepared to give his everything to Arthur and ask for nothing in exchange except maybe a heart to replace the one he'd torn from his chest and handed to the Englishman without thinking anything of it. Arthur had given him that request, and the heart in Alfred's chest beat a rhythm that no longer registered on monitors, beat to the same drum that Arthur's did. At first, it was confusing, because Arthur was behind bars and unable to explain it away in the in-between of dreams and reality the way he always had, and Alfred lingered in his limbo; when he exercised, his heart remained steady, but when he sat at his desk, idly doodling the first character models of what would soon become his source of income, it pounded against his ribs, an erratic staccato of fear. With realisation came experimentation.

At first, limbo was nothing but a boon. With no death looming, his body refused to react to parasites and bacteria, leaving him free of illness and struggling to remember the last time he'd sneezed because of a cold or hay fever. His muscles hardened to stone, turning the once weedy teenager into a superhero – or so he'd said to Arthur, but Arthur had laughed it off until Alfred picked the oak bookcase a clear foot off the floor with one hand, and then the older had been forced to concede that yes, Alfred had strength that bordered on unnatural now. There was freedom in his diet too, because his system took what it wanted from whatever he ate, and ignored the rest of it.

Later, Arthur nearly throttled him for eating nothing but fast food for the year he'd been inside, and Alfred had laughed it off, but obligingly kept fast food for when Arthur was elsewhere.

Life – if it could be called that – was good.

And then Arthur had been released.

Problems started a few weeks after Alfred moved into the cottage, and the problems ran the whole spectrum of physical, mental and emotional possibilities. After a year apart from the other, things had shifted again, from strangers to friends to enemies to strangers to friends to lovers to strangers once again. They had to take the time to learn each other all over again, take the time to learnt to learn what the other didn't say. They had to take the time to learn each other's bodies and hearts and that was okay, Alfred didn't mind it, enjoyed it even, and the healthy flush on Arthur's face as he smiled, stroked a hand through Alfred's sweat-damp hair, laughing breathlessly as he arched certainly agreed. No, learning the things that could turn Arthur to putty wasn't the problem, it was the fact Arthur just wouldn't talk.

He had problems, Alfred knew that – had known it since they first met, really – and he knew that it had to do with his – his what? Ability? Power? Gift? – clairvoyance, but the extent to which Arthur suffered was foreign knowledge. He tried to determine what triggered the headaches, and tried, to varied success, to wean him off painkillers he'd been addicted to for months, if not years. Going cold turkey, he'd learnt, did not work, it just sent him spiralling to the Otherworld with the kind of homicidal tomfoolery or the enraged dead. Giving him alternative painkillers helped a little, though offering sex – which he'd read as a cure for a headache once – got him a smack upside the head and a night on the couch. Sometimes, however occasionally, it worked, so whatever.

After a few weeks of shared living, the Echoes began. At first Alfred thought he was imagining it, just light catching off the lenses of his glasses, a ringing in his ears, a little bit of déjà vu maybe. When he brought it up with Arthur, the Englishman had frowned at him, made a gesture. Three seconds later, Alfred's eyes followed the trail of light that darted across the room. It hit a picture frame on the mantle, and a crack appeared in the glass.

As if a door had been opened, Arthur became more forthcoming with information about what was going through his head and how the Ghosts affected him. Alfred didn't complain about being allowed to cuddle more than normal; he was honest, he'd always preferred softer romances to earthier ones; cuddles and Eskimo kisses to sex and filthy make-outs. It wasn't as though Arthur told him everything – hell, he was still tight-lipped about how many painkillers he knocked back when Alfred wasn't looking , but all in all, it wasn't the most important of things running through Alfred's head. Like the current force-field blocking Arthur from the kitchen.

"I can't see anything," Alfred admitted, still stood on the other side of the doorway.

"No," Arthur hedged, terror still written across his face in sheet white and lime green. "I wouldn't have thought that you would."

Salem yowled again, and something dark rumbled off in the distance.

"Al, find her, please!"

"Will you be alright?"

"For Christ – yes, you stupid – go!"

Alfred frowned for a second, Arthur glaring back, his hair lighting up like a halo and his eyes shining gold in a light that came through the window without a source. Then, when Arthur turned his back and went to the window, Alfred turned his own and disappeared through the back door.

"Salem?" he called, the air colder than it should be for April, and his breath fogged a little. Rubbing his arms, he called out with, "You dumb cat, where are you?"

She fell conspicuously silent and he cursed up a storm.

"Salem, come on, don't be a bitch, Art'll kill me if something happens to you."

Something cold and wet curled around his ankle, and he glanced down to be met with his own feet. Even as he stared, nothing appeared, and yet that cold wetness curled about his leg again. He went to the other end of the garden, shaking the feeling off as best he could, only for it to coil about both legs, slink up his stomach and down his arms.

"Salem, come on, please!"

She yowled again, a little pitifully, and his mouth tasted like ice, had all the texture and temperature of it, and his heart thumped in his chest, uneven, but not erratic. Arthur was keeping his head at least, though Alfred didn't doubt he'd swallowed painkillers dry the moment he turned his back in order to stay that way.

"Cat, where are you? C'mon kitty–kitty–kitty – oh, there you are! Come on."

He crouched to pick her up as she slinked closer, but as he dropped his height, his vision swam and his world went black.

He came around to the sound of Arthur bustling about being his usual self, and for a second, he allowed himself to believe he'd just dreamt it.

"Oh," Arthur hummed from somewhere above him. "You're awake. How do you feel? I am sorry, love," he murmured then, carding a hand through Alfred's hair. "I forget you can react to the same things I do."

"The coldness," Alfred murmured back, leaning into the touch.

"Yes. I'm not sure what it was." He was lying, but Alfred let it slide for now. "But it was – it's been a while. It was old, and dangerous. That was a warning."

"The doorway?"

A rustle of fabric; a shrug. "I don't know – it was an external force."

Alfred though that over for a little while, as much as his brain thought to think it over what with the way his head had taken it upon itself to lean into Arthur's touch like a cat. Speaking of –

"Salem?" he asked, voice low and steady even as worry pricked a sharp pain inside his gut. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Arthur assured him. "Don't worry. She must have been with you for the whole time you were unconscious in the garden. I'm sorry it took me so long to get to you. I wish I knew what that doorway was about."

A grumble spilt from Alfred's mouth and he turned his head to press a kiss to Arthur's wrist, to the too-blue veins entwining under his skin like ivy on a trellis. Arthur chuckled.

"Still," he shrugged, leaning into to kiss Alfred's forehead. The younger met him halfway, caught him and held him and tasted paracetamol on his tongue. "You're alright, and that's all that matters."

In the kitchen, the radio began playing a popular rock song that Alfred vaguely remembered as one of his brother's favourites. Whilst Alfred cherished the familiarity of the I'll pick you up off the ground, I've watched the weight of your world come down washing over him, Arthur stiffened above him, ear turned to the door.

"That wasn't on before," he whispered, low and steady, slow, cautioned. Not fooling Alfred for a second. "The odds of it playing Matthew's favourite song – Al, there's Someone in the house."

Alfred wanted to move, but found himself unable to, his limbs numb and lungs full of frozen air. He would have already been down the stairs if he could have moved, the moment Arthur started speaking enough to convince him of danger. As it was, he caught Arthur's wrist, felt the thrum of his pulse as surely as he felt is in his own chest and whispered a caution.

Arthur grinned; grim, and scared, and disappeared through the door. With him went his warmth and the light, and Alfred slept.

Later, Arthur called Francis.

"Shut up," he said before the older blond had even greeted him. "Shut up and listen to me. Gil's still here, even though he said he wasn't staying, and he was right. There's a demon loose. It's much stronger that the one we faced in the wake of Matthew's death. Francis, I'm scared; when the demon announced its presence, I was blocked from leaving the living room by a force-field of magic.

"Francis, I'm terrified – that was my own magic. Why would I cast a spell like that? What's happening to me?"

The laugh from the other end was as sultry as it was dark, black silk on an oil slick, and it sent shivers down Arthur's spine as it danced its way across it, delighting in his fear, revelling in his confusion.

It was only as Arthur listened to the dial tone that he realised the laugh wasn't Francis'.

Later still, as Alfred cooked a light meal, having found himself up-and-about enough to leave the bed despite Arthur's protests, Arthur took the time to write himself a letter that he hid behind the mirror.

TO THE ME THAT READS THIS,

There is nowhere safe, and you are just as dangerous as the demon. I don't know what the hell happened today, but something we did went seriously wrong. The demon tried to possess Al, but I don't think it succeeded.

(I think it's got Francis.)

I felt the chill, the anger. But Al's Closed off.

(NO ONE'S SAFE. GET THEM OUT.)

It failed. Knocked him for six, but it failed. And I wasn't there to help him, to distract the demon, to do ANYTHING, because for some INANE reason, I put a SPELL ON THE DOOR. I don't remember when or why, but I did, and it let Al through, because he's dead – he's a Ghost –

(If the imprint is anything to go by, he's an angel. Why does that scare me this much? He's still Al.)

(THE DEMON'S GOT FRANCIS. KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN.)

IT'S GOT EVERYONE AND YOU KNOW IT.

There's something in the woods, it's taken a bit of you, you can see the bruises whenever you look in the mirror, plastered all over you. Everywhere, every time you close your eyes.

(CAN AL SEE THEM TOO?)

JUST GET THEM ALL OUT.

I know there has to be an explanation for this somewhere, but please, future me, look around, find any other bright ideas you've had to protect yourself and negate them all. I don't want – I can't – I won't let – I can't risk being unable to help Al again.

DON'T KID YOURSELF.

YOU'RE ALREADY DEAD.

LOVE ALWAYS,

ME XXX

++End Chapter++

NOTES::

Art's homicidal tomfoolery is of course a reference to Homestuck's Act 5. If you've read it; I lost my shit. If you haven't; I lost my shit.

Okay, having never played it, I don't know if it's true, but according to this one fic I read which had FACE playing a game of Worst Case Scenario, besides painkillers, the best cure for a headache is sex. How true this is, I don't know, find out for yourselves.

The song on the radio is Three Days Grace's Life Starts Now.

I hate to say this guys, but this will be my last update on anything for a while. I've got two weeks until I move into my dorms and then I have the fun of starting my life all over again. New home, new timetable, new subject, new friends, new everything. Whoopie. So if I don't update again this month, it'll probably be later in October. I'll try to write as much as I can, though I can't guarantee anything. I feel bad for it, but eh, there's not much I can do except try to keep up with myself.

++Vince++