Brothers

Francis had silently climbed up the stairs and stolen some of Arthur's clothes by the time he finished washing the dishes. A quick glance at his now dressed frame in the mirror and he felt himself ready to hit the streets again. He had chosen a shirt almost mechanically, his mind occupied by thoughts of Ludwig.

The big German guy wasn't exactly someone he wished Arthur to befriend, no wonder he used to call him "Lieutenant Schulz". Visiting Arthur every so often, knowing where he lived, going to the pub together... Sometimes Francis wondered if buying a house in London would be a good idea. Arthur would pop in at the weirdest times to ask him out for a beer, to celebrate the next football cup or just to have dinner together. They had friends, of course, but they were more or less ghosts for them. They pretended to be jolly and nice when the sun shined, but vanished in the thin air when needed.

At any rate, he couldn't afford a house in the UK. Not now, not with such a past. Of his time spent at Arthur's, he distinctly remembered the scent of sweat that the well-built German guy wore as his personal cologne and the clear disgust showing on his face through the worst grimace, when he used to come in to re-assure Arthur and help him carry some of his paperwork to the kitchen table. Admirable bastard, making Arthur work even in his own household.

"The situation is as particular as controversial, but don't worry, I won't have you fired." He kept on saying with his low heavily-accented voice. In the end, Francis had started snorting at every footstep that was heavier than Arthur's. He had such feet like fairies, as he could dance on air making as little noise as possible. Of course, when not drunk.

Francis preferred to remove such memories from his mind. Memories of cries, sobs and sniffles. They made him feel guilty. Arthur had been drinking for a long time now and his liver was seriously damaged, but he just couldn't stop. There was no other way for him to escape from reality, no-one to support him, no family left behind. Knowing just how much Arthur mistrusted him made Francis feel even worse.

Mistrust. Francis sometimes wondered if it wasn't but an effort to keep him out of Arthur's problematic life. Still, as a friend, he also waited patiently for his moment to show his appreciation and love for the other by standing by him in hard times. Unfortunately, this occasion never came. Francis knew his proud, reserved friend and he could surely affirm he would rather break their relationship than open up his heart. He was scared, he needed time. Of course, but he had had plenty of time by now, Francis told himself. Maybe, it was time to help Arthur fix himself.

On entering his house the day before, he hadn't commented on his red eyes, but had preferred pointing to a random picture in order to make him feel better. On walking through the mirror, he hadn't said a thing about the bread crumples on the dirty floor, but had marched on to the bedroom. When they were at the hotel, he hadn't prevented Arthur from coming close to him like he used to, yet, he still couldn't find the courage to ask him whether he liked to sleep in the same bed when together. And on coming back home, of course he remembered Vash, Yao and everything he had told them about his bright son. Arthur helped him pay for the school fee, how could he forget? And of course, Alfred's room. Why was it so sadly empty? And those stains marking the wall... He didn't like them a single bit.

"You forgot to dry your hair." Arthur stated simply, amused by the jump the other made at the sound of his voice.

"You scared me!" Francis protested in covering his upper body with his arms, slowly observing Arthur coming closer with an hair-dryer in his hands.

Arthur merely smiled gently and walked to the plug serenely. "I'll give you a bag where you can put your stuff. You're going back by train, ain't you?" He asked simply as the hot air started fleeing out the hairdryer.

Blinking, Francis ran to his jacket, fishing his wallet out. Opening it, he took a glance of the return ticket and nodded. "That's right, here's my ticket!" He stated in showing a slightly wet piece of paper.

"Brilliant! Have you already checked what train you have to catch?" Arthur replied in walking to a black suitcase to the side of his bed, the hairdryer now turned off but still in is hand.

Francis thought for a moment, before pulling out a sorry expression. "Sorry, I forgot. May I-"

"Of course." Arthur remarked in taking his personal computer out of his suitcase and placing it on the soft cushion of the armchair. "Come here, I'll dry your hair in the meantime." He offered kindly. He perfectly knew Francis' hair was an utter mess to comb once it had dried its own way. It got all curly and crispy, like a ball of fur spat by a cat. It also got frailer unless treated instantaneously, but it would surely lose luminescence by the time it had gained its colour back.

He had learnt it by visiting Francis in summer. At first he saw this behavior excessively vain and completely useless, if not feminine, but his French friend proved him wrong by not drying his hair once a power cut had isolated them in a house without electricity. What a day had it been! Francis had gone completely berserk, refusing to speak to Arthur because he couldn't hold his laughter at his lion-like hair-cut. Arthur smiled. Time had really gone by fast.

His hand slowly caressed those thin golden strings he had always envied, while the other moved from side to side quickly so as not to burn his head to a crisp. His eyes glanced at his computer, opened on the EuroTransports page. He reminded himself he had to check his mailbox, but the idea of all that rubbish asking to be put in the bin and eliminated forever didn't enthusiasm him at all.

"I'll be leaving in the late afternoon. Or after dinner, if you prefer." Francis informed in tilting his head to the side slightly to get at least the shadow of Arthur's hand moving.

"What time will you be coming home?" He meant the second option, of course, but he wouldn't say it out loud. Francis' eyes traveled on the lit-up screen before he could form a reply.

"Well, count in the journey to the station, the metro to head back home and any possible delay, I guess I'll be home for midnight, maybe earlier." He then turned to face Arthur's thoughtful face. "What do you say?"

Arthur breathed in deeply, before leaving out a sigh. "You should take the one leaving sooner, then."

"I should stay here for another night, maybe." Francis remarked jokingly. Yet, somehow he felt he would like to stay some more with Arthur. Better him than Ludwig, anyway.

Arthur scoffed. "Why would you like to stay? Haven't you got someone waiting for you at home?" Arthur tried to mock him, but he regretted it as soon as he saw the hurt look on Francis' face. "Sorry..." He whispered, not noticing his hand had stopped moving. Francis shook his head lightly, before resting it against his slender fingers. He sighed.

"Home is where someone loves you." He murmured, before looking up at Arthur again. Home. "Tell me... Where's your home?" He didn't realize his inner question had escaped his lips so bluntly until Arthur's body stiffened, frozen in his place.

Arthur bit his lips breathing slowly, trying to regain his composure as soon as possible. Francis' eyes were sucking in every single piece of skin crippling under the oppressive tension, until Arthur's emerald globes arose to peek from behind his golden bangs.

"Where's yours?" He replied shortly, watching Francis attentively. He was smiling, as he took his colder hand in his own and moved it from his hair to his cheek. Arthur blinked and retreated his hand, on knitting his eyebrows together as he eyed Francis suspiciously.

Francis climbed up the back of the armchair to face Arthur. His smile did not fade, as he simply asked. "Where is Alfred?"

Arthur didn't like bringing up the subject. Family. He had never had much luck with it.

As a son of an unfaithful sailor, he had experienced the hardship of life since he was a child. He had been brought up in an orphanage, as his mother refused to take care of him, considering him a bastard son of a bastard that would end up being just as screwed up as his father. His brothers never really cared about him, no wonder he had never felt anything more than a distant disgust for all of them. And the assistants at the orphanage... A bunch of mind-fucked idiots never questioning the rules they had been taught to obey.

Arthur's childhood hadn't been this jolly, that's why he tried his best to pretend to be a good boy and find part-time jobs during summer, in order to escape from that prison at least for a couple of weeks every year. He was ready to do anything, from babysitting to digging graves, he only needed a sign on a God-forsaken paper stating "You are under Mr. Someone's care". Fortunately, an old lady from Brighton thought he kept good company and every once in a while, when her nurse was on holiday, she would require Arthur to stay with her and take care of her house.

She had first hired him only because of the money the government gave to encourage adoption, but as he was quite lovely and extremely clever, she kept on asking for him specifically, in order to offer him some freedom. She couldn't adopt, anyway. Not only was she too old, but lived alone since the dead of her second husband, which made her an unsuitable parent. "Two husbands, what a slut!" The nurses sometimes said. Arthur just tightened his fists and kept on searching for his freedom.

Yet, there was Alfred. He arrived one day, sleeping in a box, covered with an American flag, one of those sold at the local street-market. He carried nothing, but his own clothes. Arthur was the one naming him, as he saw him first. How couldn't he see him? He was already up that morning, brushing his teeth before someone could hide his toothbrush, when he heard the small creature crying.

A new brother. Someone younger than me! The thought filled him up with excitement. He ran down that stairs and smashed against the door, jumping a little to reach the door handle, where he saw him.

"Hello.." He said in offering him his hand to play, before the headmistress pushed him away from the toddler shouting something about bacteria and diseases, offering the baby to one of the nurses. As she asked for his name, Arthur promptly stated 'Alfred', not giving anyone an explanation for his choice as he immediately ran up the stairs to his bedroom. The toddler would be shown to everyone after a bath. Cold. The coldness of the water they had to bathe into was still in his mind. Even rain was warmer than that.

His temporary mother had no problem in accepting Alfred into the momentary family, as more kids meant more money. Besides, Alfred was quite an obedient child, if only Arthur didn't weep that much...

When Arthur was of legal age, he managed to find a work by some of his fake parents, who also offered him a place where to stay. Of course, he had to go to school, too, but this wasn't an excuse for not working double as much and being always ready also to clean their house and babysit their children, but he didn't care much. If he wanted to get Alfred out of that hell, he had to have a job and a home. And he was determined to make him escape before one of the other "brother's" made something to him.

He managed to save his little brother just in time. Inside the orphanage, a strange white substance was being given the children. Something to cure an Attention Deficiency or something, they used to say, not letting out that they were practically forced to give that drug to kids. He hadn't given much importance to the thing, until Alfred started acting weirdly. He was more impatient, more arrogant, fell asleep when stressed and couldn't concentrate well any more. Sometimes, he cried in his sleep. Arthur didn't know how to help him and hadn't enough money to have him seen by a doctor, plus, he trusted those kind of people very little. So he just kept on tolerating Alfred disturb, curing it by making him work as well.

He went around on a red bicycle, delivering newspapers to the whole citizenship. After a day of work he was always so tired, that he couldn't keep his eyes open. This was everything Arthur had managed to do for him. In the meantime, he succeeded in having him pass his exams, calculating exactly how many days he could go working instead of going to school. What a hellish life, Arthur sometimes said.

At the time, none of them drank nor smoked. They had no money to lose, not until also Alfred would be of legal age. With their savings, that had bought the house where Arthur still lived, working even on Christmas at the local department store and skipping meal after meal to save a pound everyday, too.

Arthur was happy, at the time. The only luxury he liked them both to have was spending a week with Francis. Francis described him the life he had never had, he made him dream of something marvelous, he made him imagine a true family, where people love you for real and not because someone pays them for it. When he felt depressed, he thought of Francis and counted the days that separated them from their next meeting. When he needed advice, he wrote to Francis. He always knew what to do and was always ready to give a hand, just like an elder brother. Arthur would not eat for a week, working even at night if that meant saving enough money for him to meet his best friend.

Francis had never felt superior. He knew everyone's life had the same dignity and he actually admired Arthur for being so determined. He also liked to be treated as a Big Brother, as he had only cousins to take care of. Of course, he was somewhat vain to the point of narcissism, but he couldn't change this side of his own self. And Arthur liked him the way he was. Or, at least, it seemed to him.

As his English friend and him were always around together, Alfred used to spend his week among Francis' relatives, who treated him like a doll, as he entertained their children in the most untypical ways, asking for nothing more than sweets and stories.

Life was hard, but they managed to be harder. At least, so it seemed. Arthur kept on crying every night, sitting by the washing machine so as not to be heard. He kept a small piece of glass under the closet, which he used to cut himself with. Small cuts, good for a few drops of blood, doors for his soul. Under the closet there were also simple notes, stating illegible words, disconnected the one to the other. Those were Alfred's.

As time went by, his disease seemed to worsen. He started speaking to himself, lulling onwards and backwards, staring at a blank spot in the middle of nowhere for hours, waking up in the middle of the night completely wet and running outside the window to look at the sky. Those notes were another symptom. Nonsensical words written on paper, on the wall, on the mirror. Arthur didn't know what to do.

Arthur tried to cover it all with silence, but one night a tough Swiss policeman kicked down his door. Without giving an explanation, he showed a paper saying they could do whatever they wanted while giving orders to every other bobby on the scene. They almost destroyed the house, without finding anything.

They were looking for Alfred, one of them informed, but he was nowhere to be found. He was a murderer, they said, he had set the whole orphanage on fire, they added. With empty hands, they turned on their heels and disappeared into the night, leaving Arthur alone.

"Alfred...?" He ran to Alfred's room, slammed the door open to see everything had been misplaced. He dashed out of the chamber to enter the other rooms, looking desperately for his brother all around the house. When he entered his bedroom, a hurt look mixed with agony, disbelief and blankness had taken place on his face.

This, until from behind the giant portray exited Alfred, a dumb smile dancing on his face. Arthur jumped back, staring in horror at the figure covered in ash and blood before him. Alfred opened his arms, keeping that sick smile right under his widened eyes.

"Arthur, I killed them all!" He stated proudly, before his smile fell a bit. With true innocence in his voice, he timidly added. "Will you stop crying, now?"

Arthur blinked. He had murdered all those people... for him? Guilt built up in his chest as the horrific image of sufferance and death hit the back of his head like a curse. "You didn't..." he whispered, starting to tremble for fear.

"I did! I did for real!" Alfred shouted utterly euphoric. His enthusiasm could be seen from the glimmering of his eyes. He was... happy?

"Alfred..." Arthur started to say, but the figure in front of him frightened him to the bones. A puppet, a diseases puppet. An ecstatic assassin. His little brother. He didn't know why, but he felt the sudden urge to embrace him and cry, cry out loud and let tears roll down his face.

"Arthur, you're crying..." Alfred stated, utterly surprised by his brother's reaction. He wanted Arthur to be happy, but now? Now he seemed even sadder, almost guilty. "Arthur, don't cry..." Alfred's voice trembled as he walked up to hug him. He felt sorry, but he really didn't know why.

"You have to leave." Arthur suddenly stated.

"What?" Alfred replied, as his brother moved aside and walked down the stairs. Arthur, don't leave me...

"You have to leave. Now." He repeated on taking his wallet, his keys, his jacket. "I don't want you to end up in prison."

"But... Arthur, aren't you happy?" Alfred asked unsurely, following his brother down the stairs. If Arthur wasn't happy, then he had done everything for nothing.

"Alfred, all my life, I've struggled all my life to give you a home, food, education, because I wanted you to be a man I could respect." He stated coldly on staring into his eyes. But then, his sight fell to the ground. "I failed."

Alfred looked at him hurt and bewildered. Was Arthur... rejecting him?

Arthur launched him his jacket, along with his wallet at the keys of his car. "Get away." He ordered before walking to the kitchen. Alfred was about to say something, when a siren started shouting his deadly song. Arthur was mad at him, but most of all, he was not happy. Clutching the keys in his hand, Alfred dashed into the starless night.

"Arthur?" Francis asked as Arthur had suddenly got quieter. The look on his face... he liked it not a bit.

"He's in America." Arthur said, choking back his tears. Alfred was really in America, but he couldn't say where. With another identity and still without a past, he had had to struggle to get a job. This was everything he knew from him. Life was hard, but he was trying to be harder. Of course, he signed everything 'F. Jones' and wrote with American slang in order not to be traced back and, to protect them both, he always gave a false address, sending mails every once in a while.

Francis sighed, before sitting back in place. His hair was dry now and, glancing at the alarm clock next to Arthur's bed, he could say it was almost time to go. He stood up, turned on his heels and hugged Arthur. He could see from the look on his face that he needed someone by his side and mentally blamed that train for leaving so early.

-End Ch. 12

Well, what did you expect? A fairytale?

To all of you, I wish you spent some amazing Christmas holidays. Now go back to your homework, you wankers!