There's a reason this fic is rated M. And its not the sex.
A sharp smack to the head greets Alfred as he opens his room's door upon hearing knocks, loud and as sharp as the one that hit him upside the head, enough to shake him off from his deep sleep after returning home yet again with the rise of dawn on his back, from a very recent visit to a certain witch.
Lately, Alfred found himself walking in the middle of the night with nothing on his person but a crisp old coat to save his bones from the chilly air and a good pair of hiking boots as he walk towards a path that is starting to become eerily familiar to him, not to hunt but merely to get a glimpse of that old worn coat and maybe luckily, a glimpse of that face with those bright eyes and that smile-
Smack.
Alfred gets another smack on the head, making him jump and get pulled from his thoughts in an instant. He blinks the haze of sleep in his eyes and rubs at them to hasten the process and finally sees the perpetrator.
He instantly felt a heavy weight fall inside his gut, enough to make him go down on his knees, his legs wobbling. He finds himself silently grateful to have his hands on the doorframe, keeping him from actually doing so at the sight of the man himself, his guardian and mentor, Francis in the flesh. He doesn't look quite as pleased, his brows furrowed, a scowl pulling down his lips, and his eyes dark and sour as he looks at him straight in the eye.
"Uh, Francis…" Alfred finds himself saying, the words stuck in his throat.
He should have been feeling happy, seeing Francis since god-knows-how-long. It has been years, and now is the perfect time as any-with Alfred feeling at a loss for the first time since he was but a mere amateur, new to hunting and falling off on his rear whenever he pulls the trigger, missing a target entirely and so easy to get killed.
But this is Francis, not some any other mentors Alfred had and out of every one he had, the only one he ever calls his mentor is Francis.
Because, well, its Francis. Its not eay to explain.
And since it was like that, if Alfred were to ever see Francis uninvited, it means Francis has something very important to take care of that no one else can.
Or he's finally heard of what happened to Gilbert a few nights ago.
Just thinking about what Francis may do to him is enough to chill him to the bone.
"Uh," Alfred pauses, takes a gulp of air before continuing once again, trying his best not to falter under Francis' gaze. "What brings you here?"
The fact that Francis' expression is of disappointment and disdain is not encouraging.
Francis raises a hand and runs them through his hair, brushing them off his face with a graceful shake of his head then juts out his hip as he crosses his hands across his chest, an eyebrow rising. He drawls, "What do you think?"
Francis' obvious distaste towards Alfred right now made Alfred's nerves trickle with cold dread and he finds himself sinking into himself as he lowers his shoulders and uses the doorframe to shield himself from Francis' further scrutiny.
It took him a few days to cool off and finally coming into the realisation that he had that night was stupid and wrong. Disrespectful, even. Gilbert had been nothing but kind if not occasionally harsh when it comes to poking at Alfred's side but no matter how overwhelming Gilbert was sometimes he never went as far as Alfred did. Gilbert's curse was a very sensitive topic, neither Francis or the man himself liked to talk about it and Alfred was probably lucky enough to hear about the truth (or some of it) from Gilbert's own mouth when Alfred was getting older and getting suspicious as to why neither of his guardians seemed to age like the men around them.
"I'm sorry," Alfred manages to choke out, eyes darting down to the ground. It makes him feel like a child again, but the thought of what he had caused to make Gilbert act so strange and downright terrifying that night makes him think that apologies weren't enough.
He hears Francis huff from outside before it was followed by harried footsteps and then Alfred was being pulled out of the door and into the streets, Francis' tight grip on his collar, pulling him along.
They walk in strained silence, Francis silent and efficient as he strides a few steps in front of Alfred, causing the younger to keep up with the pace or else he falls on his face, with the hand constantly pulling at his collar to keep him off-balance.
He almost falls over once his collar was released, and Alfred looks up with worry when he realises that Francis brought him to a morgue.
He gives his mentor a wary glance, "What's-"
"It seems that they couldn't find any other way to placate him," Francis' eyes fixed on the building's entrance with such hate as if it was the cause of his very annoyance at the moment.
At Francis' reply, Alfred slowly turns to stare at the building, eyes wide and knees shaking once again. So the gunshot he had heard that night-
He gulps, feeling cold sweat dribble down from his forehead.
"Gilbert should've been awake a few hours after that, but it has been more than a week, and he has yet to show any signs of activity." Francis continues, seemingly unaware of Alfred's thoughts.
"His body appears to be still intact; no signs of decay-or so I was told," Turning his eyes to Alfred as he pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. Alfred finds himself frowning-a mix of confusion and worry etched on his face as looks on, "That's-"
"He's doing it on purpose," Francis grits out as he shoves the paper back in his pocket and strides inside the building, not bothering to knock on the door with his knuckles but instead uses his foot to kick harshly, making the hinges shake and Alfred wince at the violence.
It doesn't take a while for someone to answer the door, cracking it open gingerly. A wary eye pokes out and from the inside; they can hear a mumble of "Yes?"
"You called for me?" Francis announces, at which the eye widens behind the door and vanishes to open the door completely to let the both of them in.
"Ah, yes, yes! In here, please!" The man behind the door, Alfred figures is the caretaker of the establishment, quite old but still quick as he paces around, leading them both to an empty room, with Gilbert's body lying on top of a metal table, naked as the day he born and covered with a thin white cloth to keep his modesty.
Alfred shudders at the sight of a large hole where one of Gilbert's eyes were supposed to be in. The wound appeared fresh, as if it was inflicted yesterday.
This is Gilbert's corpse.
Alfred felt sick at the sight, a hand clamping his mouth closed as he felt something rise up to his throat. He tried his best not to throw-up, lest he direct Francis' attention to himself once again, when it had just finally left him to focus on Gilbert's body, unmoving and dead.
"We're not sure what was wrong, but we took out the bullet right after he was brought here…" The caretaker nervously says as he wrings his sweaty hands, unsure of how to explain-if there was anything-details that Francis may need to know.
Could they have finally ended the curse of a resurgent?
Before the caretaker manages to speak once again, to let his thoughts be heard, Francis cuts him off by raising a hand, dismissing him out of the room to be left alone with the corpse, at which the man gratefully follows with no questions asked.
Once the door was closed shut with a click, Alfred hears Francis sigh tiredly, a hand coming up to knead at the skin between his eyes.
"Gilbert, please stop this madness, the boy meant no harm, stupid thing that he was," The last words that Francis said were uttered low beneath his breath but enough for Gilbert, perhaps, to have heard. He moves to pull a reluctant Alfred right next to him, to bring close to Gilbert's body, still a terrifying image of a corpse that barely twitched at the sound of Francis' voice.
Alfred flinches when he feels Francis subtly pinch at his arm, urging him to speak as well.
Nervously, he steps closer towards Gilbert's body, his eyes straying towards the gore of disgusting red and black. "I'm so sorry," He says truthfully, feeling his eyes sting. His voice was too low to be heard but it doesn't seem to be the case when he feels something cold and heavy land on his head, stiff hand awkwardly ruffling his hair. He doesn't realise he closed his eyes until he opens them and finds his face right in front of Gilbert, his eye wide open with a crooked smile fixed on his face, the hole still prominent but healing in a rate that is not normal but slowly, in the case of the cursed ones.
Alfred figures that smile was supposed to be comforting, but since Gilbert has remained a corpse for the past couple of days, his body was too stiff to move as they used to at the moment, only enabling him to make a strange grimace instead. Even so, it was enough for Alfred's eyes to water, and it doesn't take long for him to be sniffling and gasping, his head lying on Gilbert's stomach as he wails, hiccupping, "I'm so sorry."
Gilbert, still unable to properly operate his jaws to speak, merely raises his other arm to cover Alfred's head.
I know.
"So, where the fuck have you been going to these days?" Gilbert says over a cool mug of beer across the table, free hand waving towards Francis' direction.
Francis shrugs, both arms resting on the table's surface with his eyes focused on them. He absently brushes his hair away from his face when they started to fall over like curtains to cover his expression. They seemed brooding, eyes dark and unfocused. Alfred silently watches and listens as his elders attempt at an idle conversation.
Francis doesn't look like he's in the mood to engage though and Alfred couldn't help but notice how the tavern was suspiciously quiet tonight, its patrons and workers trying to go through the regular business but is failing with the way their eyes couldn't seem to help themselves but linger on their table, the barmaids giving Gilbert strange looks as they refill his glass. Either men on the other hand, doesn't seem to care, Gilbert going as far as giving the barmaids a wink and a flirty smile when they stare at him too long.
Then Francis sighs, pulling Alfred out of his thoughts and his attention returns to the now.
"What is going on with you, boy?" Francis mutters, lip pursed into a straight line as he turns towards Alfred.
Alfred almost chokes on his drink as he gulps the liquid down his throat to reply, "H-huh? Me?" Francis' frown deepens.
"Yes. You." He turns towards Gilbert. "Don't you notice?"
"That our little boy has been here for, what, weeks now when there's obviously no witch around to kill? Yeah, definitely." Gilbert drawls, a finger started poking Alfred painfully in the side of his head and he flinches upon contact, hand darting towards the pain and turning to give Gilbert a menacing look. The other barely spares him a glance as he downs yet another glass tonight and adds, wiping foam from his lips with the back of his hand, "Why do you think I'm still here?"
Not sure with where the conversation is going, Alfred's brows furrow. "What are you guys talking about?"
Francis gives him a dark look, confrontational. "Something is going on with you."
"Definitely." Gilbert chirps, arm darting up to flag down another barmaid for a refill, his other hand cupping his face as his elbow rests on the table's surface.
Alfred shook his head. "I don't understand."
"Something is going on. You are not acting like yourself," Francis nods to Gilbert that the other returns. The look on to him worriedly now and it's starting to make Alfred feel nervous. Is something wrong with him?
"For now, we can't tell what is going on with you, obviously and only you can figure it out it seems."
"Only…me?"
"Yes." Francis stands up and prepares to leave, dropping a few silver coins on the table despite not eating or drinking anything. "I'll be staying here for a few days, go find me once you figure it out. I'll help you."
And he's gone.
Alfred turns to Gilbert, feeling lost once again and afraid. With shaky eyes, he looks on as Gilbert idly drinks; distractedly looking somewhere else that is not Alfred. "What, what does he mean, Gilbert?"
When Gilbert doesn't respond, he calls again, louder, hand coming up to clutch at Gilbert's sleeves. "Hey! Gilbert!"
"Help me," He begs, arms shaking as he held on tighter. Looking for something to grab on to.
Lest he fall.
He was about to cry, knows the tears are but a moment away with how he can already feel his eyes pooling with warm tears when his cold hands were covered by a bigger and warm hand and for a moment he feels like a little boy again in Gilbert's presence. Always seeking for someone to hold him close.
He looks up, tears falling down as he blinks into Gilbert's eyes, bright and red and warm.
"You'll do fine." He finally says, ruffling his hair.
That night, Alfred takes his time to gather his gears. Knives of varying sizes attached on himself, sharpened a few hours ago and guns cleaned and filled with bullets enough to last him for days.
It didn't took him that long to understand what Francis and Gilbert were talking about, whatever it was that affected him so much that he started to change. Like an entirely different person.
It was that fucking witch's influence.
With things happening so fast since Francis' unannounced arrival, Alfred wasn't able to ask either men for more about the resurgents and if he were to wait any longer for a good time to bring about the topic, he might just be too late.
So with nothing but his weapons and his knowledge on witches he had encountered in his life, he leaves the town.
No more chances.
He'll kill him now.
He arrives later than usual. The surroundings has already warped into life and his pace slows as he carefully steps into the green living grass, careful not to startle any living creatures as to alarm the witch that he knows is nearby. He follows the source of the glowing colourful lights and wasn't in the least disappointed to see the witch's form away from him, muttering to himself as he appeared to be pulling at a fresh pile of wild flowers.
He pulls at his machete, the blade making a sharp noise that makes the witch pause. The witch makes a questioning sound as the bright lights that runs around him all dart away and into the dense parts of the woods, leaving the witch alone and vulnerable. There was satisfaction as Alfred realises that those things aren't interested in the least to intervene and thinks that this may end more smoothly than he had thought.
Then that form finally turns towards him, his eyes glowing beneath his hood as they widen, his mouth widening as if to say something, his arm raised threateningly over himself towards Alfred and before the witch could do more, he strikes.
The witch screams in pain as the blade comes in contact with his arm, slicing through his fingers and cutting his hand in half, the half with his ring and little fingers falling into the ground not far from the witch. Alfred barely spares the fallen limb a glance as he strikes again, followed by the witch's scream of pain and fear. He loses himself in the sounds as his arm move by itself, up and down it goes, the blade striking every part of the witch until the screams turn into whimpers and deep breathes, the witch's face not as pale as they used to anymore, red as it was drenched with blood. His limbs were scattered on the ground like obscene flower petals, red and damp. Alfred absently thought he must've cut through the witch's stomach as his eyes run along a long pink pile of flesh, the witch's functioning yet weak hand trying to grab at it, pulling it close to his open wound. An attempt to heal itself.
Unknowingly, he approaches the pitiful remains of the witch, his breaths starting to become faint and shallow as time wears on and steps on the pile of organs, crushing the witch's hand as he does so. The witch grunts and that is all he seems to be capable of doing anymore and grunts again when Alfred's boot twists and adds more pressure.
Alfred watched the witch take its last breath, eyes wide and dull as they look at his own hand, crushed beneath Alfred's foot.
At this point, Alfred's supposed to be hauling the witch's body by now to be presented as a trophy. It's over.
It's supposed to be over.
Then why is he hearing the witch sob? Whimpering as its entire body quivers.
He seemed to be in pain.
Alfred kneels down to see the witch's face properly, see his white teeth clank together as he bites at his own tongue then scream as he tries to pull at the hand that remained underneath Alfred's foot. Alfred raises his foot up, watching in curiosity at how the witch will react upon doing so and wasn't in the least disappointed to see it be pulled back, watch the exposed bones to repair itself and be buried back into the flesh.
The chopped limbs, unlike what Alfred had expected, weren't reattached but instead were grown back. It started with the reconstruction of bones, followed by nerves then by muscles and blood and skin. The process took longer than the simple healing process the witch's broken hand did and Alfred let it happen as he watched on with morbid fascination. He had never seen someone heal like this before. Not even on Gilbert or Francis.
The process seemed painful. The witch's pained sobs and grunts at every regeneration was proof enough.
It seems like the witch wouldn't be dying anytime soon. Whatever approach Alfred will come up with will be for naught.
Resurgents truly are magnificent beings, Alfred thought, eyes aglow, lips gaping open like a child seeing a new toy in years.
Could he really afford to lose something this beautiful?
The witch's grunts gets cut off with a yelp, then he grunts again and continues to sob as Alfred turns him on his back, numerous parts of his body has yet to fully grow back, his head barely hanging on his body with the skin of his neck. He witch gasps in pain as he was suddenly penetrated, his chest heaving at the feeling of being filled and crushed at the same time.
Above him, Alfred's body trembles, taking pleasure in the heat and tightness that engulfs him. The witch's blood-soaked and pained face more than enough to keep him going and he does. He takes one experimental thrust, then another when it pulled a desired reaction from the witch below him.
It didn't take long for Alfred to come with a surprised gasp, shocked at how the image below him made him lose control so much. Then hurriedly, he bites into his wrist until the taste of coppery blood invades his senses, not bothering to use a knife at this point when his limbs feels so numb and takes the witch's fully healed hand in his, doing the same, the witch groaning below him as he does so. He then spill his own blood into the cut and immediately, his crest carves itself into the witch's flesh, they glow momentary on both the witch's wrists like a leash and then it's gone as if they never were there to begin with.
He releases a relieved exhale in knowing that he wasn't too late with the ritual for it to take effect. He was supposed to do it during the fucking but he got too…into it he almost forgot.
Catching his breath, Alfred looks down at the witch on time to see the hole on its stomach to patch itself clean, any signs of Alfred's blade gone as if it never happened. Then it starts to bloat, its organs slowly growing back in their rightful places and the witch below him trembles as it does so, the muscles on his stomach tightening and his chest heaving. His head remained partially unattached. It seems like it would be the last to be recovered.
Panting, Alfred raises his wounded arm towards the witch's face, intent on brushing some of its blood off its cheek. He then peers close into its face, unable to see the strange glow in its eyes with the witch eyes pinched closed in pain, he mutters with a breathy voice, "You're mine."
Francis volunteered to accompany Gilbert up to the border of the town despite his disapproval on Gilbert's decision to leave, with Francis being here now; Gilbert doesn't think his presence is needed anymore.
Francis seems to think otherwise.
"Are you sure you'll be leaving now?" Francis worriedly asks Gilbert, watching the other as he hitches up his travelling bag higher on his back. Gilbert turns and gives his friend a smile that fails to alleviate the worry on Francis' face.
"Alfred will need us," Francis adds, intent on making Gilbert stay. Gilbert shook his head in apology.
"I really ought to leave." Looking at Francis up and down, he continues, "You'll do fine on your own, I think."
Laughing at myself bc Gilbert. LOL
For immortal characters, I sure can fuck them up without killing them huh.
I think I need to work on Burning's spin off...I really wanna write Gilbert's tragic backstory™