Chapter 4

~o~

"Kiku, 'hind you!"

The samurai was suddenly ambushed, a party of three ganking him from the bushes. Alfred heard a groan over his headphones as Kiku died.

*Aporogies* his friend said softly, clearly frustrated. *I respawn in ninety secondsu*

"S'all good, I go' i'," Alfred mumbled around the mouth of his blood packet, sucking on it as though it were a Capri Sun. He tossed the empty bag into the nondescript biowaste bin next to his desk and got to business. His paladin expertly wasted the intruders in their territory in short order. "Got 'em. How much time do you have left?"

*Fifty. Wait for me for za raidu.*

"Yeah, yeah," the vampire replied lightly, going off to get himself some monster buffs. He was in his element in this kind of environment and he was glad that he and Kiku still had this to share.

*How is your nyu roommato?* Kiku asked over the headphones. The question caught the vampire off guard for a moment before he continued on fighting. He felt a bit awkward talking about this with Kiku, considering he had pretty much kicked his friend out. But Kiku had been beginning to give him odd looks for going through five birthdays without looking any older. Of course, he'd made the mistake of giving Kiku a birthdate in the first place. It only helped him keep track.

"Fine," he answered after a long moment. "No taste in video games or movies. Kind of annoying sometimes, but he's a good guy. I like him." He didn't dare go into any detail about exactly how fond he was of Arthur. That was something to be jealously guarded. "Okay, ready? Let's go," he said when he saw Kiku respawn.

Upstairs, he heard the front door open and shut, soon followed by heavy footsteps. His eyes flicked down to his bin, making sure the top was shut and the empty packet out of sight. He had to be careful nowadays. Even Kiku didn't have the privilege of walking about anywhere he liked in the house like Arthur did. "I'm home!" he heard Arthur call from upstairs, before the author predictably went off to the kitchen to grab a beer.

"Ergh, I think I have to get off after we finish this battle," Alfred warned his friend, his eyes riveted to the frenetic battlefield in front of him, slashing down multiple opponents to get to the enemy tower. "He's just going to bug me about getting a job instead of playing video games." He'd never thought that his friend would grow up to be such a nag. Seriously, it was all: 'Go outside,' 'Eat something,' 'Stop playing so many video games,' 'Come to the bar with me,' 'Stop being such a stiff.' Arthur had no idea how ironic that last one was.

*Did you not teru him you aruready have a jobu?* Kiku asked.

Alfred's stomach curdled with guilt and he replied sheepishly, "Ah... well, he doesn't know about the programming one and he's been so nice to me because he thinks I'm unemployed. I didn't have the heart to correct him."

*Arufredo-san...* his friend sighed, his voice rife with disapproval.

"Well, he'd probably insist I get an outside job anyway!" Alfred said defensively. "He nags me all the time about leaving the house." The silence on the other side was palpable.

"Alfred, are you down here?" Arthur called out, opening up the basement door and flicking on the stairwell lights. The vampire winced at the sudden explosion of fluorescent around him. Stepping lightly down, the author huffed in exasperation when he saw Alfred playing on his computer, but didn't disturb him. Instead he ruffled Alfred's hair and then settled himself onto the couch to nurse his beer bottle. He immediately went to Alfred's playstation to check out something on Hulu (some British Baking Competition) and started texting "Estonia."

This was a sign that Arthur wanted to talk to him. He'd be hanging around upstairs otherwise.

"Alright, I gotta go. TTYL," Alfred told Kiku before he shut down his game. Then he spun his chair around, glancing over at Arthur. "So, can I help you?" he asked, stretching his arms up over his head. He immediately had the Brit's attention, beer and phone forgotten as Arthur twisted to face Alfred over the back of the sofa. His expression was one of pure delight, which made Alfred's belly flutter with warmth. He was so cute sometimes...

"I had an interview today," Arthur said, looking perfectly pleased with himself.

"Oh?" Alfred replied, his lips quirking into a smile.

"Yes, with a professor from Columbia. He studies obscure genetic diseases." Alfred was failing to see why this would have Arthur in such a cheery mood and he grew more uncertain. Then his very insides froze when Arthur elaborated, "I spoke with him about your case. He thinks he knows what's wrong with you and he wants you to come in to his lab."

...What?

Arthur smiled broadly, not noticing how stock still his landlord had gone. "He lent me his book about the subject. He believes you have a form of porphyria. I don't recall off the top of my head exactly what kind, but from what I gleaned from the text it seems to suit your case quite well. Much more than a simple sun allergy. You should definitely give it a read-" he froze, when his eyes finally looked at Alfred's face.

The vampire had no idea what sort of expression he had on, but he was barely keeping in the cold fury that was making his entire body tremble and his sharpened teeth grind in his jaw. "You..." he hissed, throwing his chair back to stalk up to the other man. "I cannot believe you did this!" he cried, throwing himself down on Arthur and pinning him down to the sofa. "How couldyou go behind my back like this?!"

Arthur worked his jaw numbly, shocked into submission. ...No, that wasn't shock. He was outright hypnotized, his eyes wide and unseeing, inadvertently thrown under Alfred's entrancement. Shit, he was so pissed he didn't even realize what he'd done. Disgusted, Alfred threw himself off of the other man, grateful at least that Arthur wasn't going to remember a bit of this. Might as well make the most of it...

"Who did you tell and how much does he know?" Alfred demanded sharply, his rage so potent he didn't feel the slightest bit of guilt (yet) for turning Arthur into a puppet.

"Dr. Vladimir Negrescu," the human replied robotically, going on to explain how he found the man and their succeeding interview. "I told him that my friend was suffering from photosensitivity, low blood pressure, skin lesions and low appetite. Perhaps a genetic condition from your mother."

"...Just your friend? No names?" Alfred pressed, his temper abating somewhat when Arthur nodded. Well, that wasn't as much damage as it could have been. He sucked in a long breath, a leftover human habit to calm himself. His head began to spin, unused to putting a human under his control for so long. It was especially hard without fresh blood. With a wave, he released Arthur and sank down heavily onto the other end of the sofa.

His mind stolen back, Arthur likewise pressed a hand to his brow as a similar headache and bout of lightheadedness debilitated him. "The fuck just happened?" he muttered, his face turning a faint green.

"Dunno, guess we got hit with the same thing," Alfred replied, feeling as green as Arthur looked. To this, Arthur grew alarmed. Without warning, he grabbed Alfred by the arm and hauled the pair of them up the basement stairs.

"A-Arthur?" Alfred asked, stunned as they were both dragged out into the cool night. Arthur didn't answer immediately, dialing up some number. "Arthur, what are you doing?"

"Calling the gas company. There may have been a leak," the author replied, settling them on the sidewalk. His tired, green eyes went to Alfred and his hand reached out, gently stroking Alfred's cheek. "Can't let anything happen to you, now can we?" he said softly, giving his so-called charge a warm smile.

...Yep, there was the guilt. Hello, guilt.

~o~

"Alfred, I don't understand why you won't even talk to the man. We only want to help you!"

Arthur was getting increasingly frustrated with his young landlord. Though he'd introduced the idea of porphyria to Alfred two weeks prior, the boy was having none of it. He wouldn't even touch the book that the professor had lent to read about his condition. Honestly, he had no idea why Alfred would be so adverse to a treatment that could possibly make his life better. He even tried appealing to 'Estonia' but only ended up hitting a brick wall.

Sorry, Art. He's a grown man. I can't force him anywhere.

It was absurd! It was as if his friend didn't even care what happened to his own son! Perhaps he didn't. It explained why Arthur of all people was the one who was able to deduce Alfred's malady after only a month of investigation. Surely, if he cared, his friend would have been able to do the same years ago.

All in all, Arthur was feeling highly unappreciated.

Particularly when Alfred was giving him that highly specific bland expression, as if he was incredulous and annoyed that Arthur was still bugging him about this. "Will you just let it go?" the boy muttered darkly, dangerously close to tuning Arthur out entirely, his hands on top of the headphones resting around his neck. "I told you, I'm not going to meet your stupid doctor."

Stupid, stubborn-!

The headphones were now all the way over Alfred's ears and he turned himself to his video game. Even though he was technically ignoring the author, his slender shoulders were radiating with tension. It was enough to make Arthur want to scream. However, the most that he could do was slam the (likely rare and expensive) book down at Alfred's elbow and storm upstairs and out of Alfred's self-imposed prison.

The author had every intention of slamming out some very colourful curses in an email to Estonia. Creative soul that he was, he was quite good at them. He despised being put in this position. He never intended to care this much about another person's welfare. It simply wasn't in his nature. He was rich and unattached and he liked it that way. Yet all it took was to lay eyes on one sickly, but sweet young man and he was ruined. Because he knew, against all logic, that if he didn't care about Alfred then no one else in the world would.

Arthur's fingers slowed, unable to keep flying across the keyboard to pound out the email. His shoulders trembled, his heart physically aching inside his chest. He only wanted, so desperately, for Alfred to be happy. He deserved so much better than to be locked up inside a basement for the rest of his life. He just didn't know why Alfred didn't see that himself.

He felt something wet on his cheek and it took him a moment to realize that he was in tears. Tears. Bloody tears over some ungrateful little shit! With a wet snarl, he shoved aside a mug of pens he kept on his desk, letting it shatter to the wood floor in a satisfying crash of ceramic and plastic. The red pen broke, sending red droplets splattering across the wood.

His treacherous mind pulled the memory of Alfred's burning, remembering the screams that still howled in his nightmares, the anguished cries, the sound and smell of sizzling flesh. Those wide terrified blue eyes pooling with agony. The blood on his hands.

Arthur closed his eyes, willing the images to fade from his mind. He knew it was worse in his mind than it actually had been. Guilt, memory and imagination all worked against him. However, it was more than they should ever have to go through. He was just a writer and Alfred was just a boy.

Sweeping a hand over his brow and his head, he let out a shuddering breath. This was too much. He couldn't handle this all at once. He needed to relieve the pressure. His hand went to his phone and he quickly texted an old acquaintance though it was near the dead of night.

Are you up? Can I come over?

Si. Bring vino.

~o~

When Antonio Carriedo was involved, everything had to be incredibly dramatic. Arthur found it a bit tiresome in long stretches, but his lips pulled into a smile when the door to the little apartment in Soho opened and the Spaniard inside gasped loudly as though his visitor was entirely unexpected. "Ah, mi corazón!" he cried out kissing each of the Brit's cheeks thrice. "Entre, entre, por favor. Arturo, it is so naice to see you again. ¿Did you bring vino?"

"Right here," Arthur replied, holding up the bottles he brought from the house.

"Ah, you are too kaind," the Spaniard said, showing the author into his little apartment. It was even smaller than Alfred's basement, but it was nearly blinding with all the bright reds and golds that decorated the home. "Seet, seet, I will get you something to drink." He sauntered off into his kitchen, showing off the infamous Carriedo booty in his tight black pants.

Arthur openly leered at it. Yes, it was most definitely worth pissing off his old publisher for that piece of arse. He followed Antonio into the kitchen, waiting until the other man's back was turned to attend to the wine. His body suddenly pressed the Spaniard up against the fridge, eliciting a sharp gasp from his host.

"¡Ah, Dios mío! You are feeling eager tonight," Antonio purred, letting himself be ravished. He turned around as Arthur slipped his hands underneath the skintight pants to grope him. His mouth was devoured into a greedy, suckling kiss. "Mmmm~ You hhave been hhere for soo long. ¿Why did you not come to visit before?"

"Busy," Arthur grunted, maneuvering them over to the bedroom to begin their more rigorous activity. Antonio pouted at him, but gasped when Arthur pressed himself enticingly against his groin. Below him, Antonio writhed, wantonly throwing himself into the act of pleasure with dulcet moans.

Yet the Brit could not help but tune him out. In the throes of their lovemaking, his mind going instead to a body more slender, only just come into manhood. Instead of honeyed tan, he imagined white like lilies under moonlight. Bright blue eyes, looking up underneath a blond fringe. Small smiles that turned into playful smirks or adorable pouts. Cool fingers tracing over his brow.

"Arthur..."

With a gasp, his body tensed as he climaxed, before it collapsed down next to his partner. The body beside him was entirely too warm. His skin had broken out into a sweat and it was like a furnace. Beside him, Antonio hummed, clearly having enjoyed himself as he lay one arm behind his head. "Ah, you are very rough, Arturo," he said and stretched himself out. "And your maind was a million miles away."

"Sorry," Arthur muttered into his pillow.

"Is okay," Antonio replied lightly, before he turned a teasing smile on Arthur. "¿Now, whho is Alfredo?" The author's already flushed cheeks grew even hotter and he opened his mouth. "Ah, ah, ah," the Spaniard said, pressing a finger to Arthur's lips. "Do not try to deny it, Arturo. ¿You were thinking about hheem, weren't you?"

"I don't want to talk about him," Arthur replied, turning over to press a kiss to Antonio's mouth to silence him. The Spaniard moaned softly, easily going with the flow as he ran his hands over Arthur's naked back.

~o~

'Nothing good ever happens after 2 AM' was what Antonio's mama always told him.

Antonio didn't know what she was talking about because drunk Arturo was hilarious after 3 AM.

After relieving a bit more stress in bed, they decided to finally get into the wine that had been airing for hours. The author had the lion's share of both bottles, then the whole of the third bottle that Antonio opened up for him. Hiccuping, the Brit sat on the floor, back against the foot of Antonio's couch as he cradled the bottle of Rioja like a sailor would a bottle of rum, wailing about Estonia or something. It didn't exactly make sense.

"I just don' un-unnerstand!" Arturo cried out, more loudly than he realized. "Is like- Is like he doesn' care! I though' I knew him better than tha'. After all tha' we shared together! Stabbing me in the back he does. Stupid Estonia! I hope it falls into the ocean and dies!"

Antonio gave him a benign smile, laying comfortably on top of the plush sofa, still sipping from the glass from the second bottle as he ran his fingers through the blond's choppy hair. "So, Arturo, tell me more about dis Alfredo," he prompted, still working on prying more information about the boy that so preoccupied his bedmate's mind. "¿Is hhe pretty? ¿What about hheem turns your hhead so?"

Arturo flashed him a sharp glare, bristling with a sudden bout of anger. "He's not pretty! An' you can't 'ave 'im, he's mine!"

Antonio only laughed, putting up his hands in surrender. Really, the Brit was so funny when he was like this. It got a bit tiresome in the long run, which is why he was quite alright with the author breaking it off with him after the Armada Co. incident, but for now he quite enjoyed Arturo's antics. "Okay, okay," he said to placate his guest. "So, hhe's not pretty and hhe's yours. Got it. ¿So why you think about hheem, hmm?" he asked, his own words a little slurred. At least he knew that he was a bit drunk, but he was maintaining a pleasant tipsy level.

Arturo grew strangely quiet as he considered this, leaning his temple against the side of the couch. After a long moment, he answered, "He's shy n' sweet. But he's... tragic. But not in th'dramatic way. He's... like a ghost. Only he haunts th'basement. It's so sad..." The Brit's eyes were growing misty and Antonio could not help but grow solemn in empathy.

"¿You care about hheem very much?" he asked gently, carding his fingers through the hair on the nape of the author's neck. The author nodded, hiccuping. "Then easy. You tell hheem. Easy-peasy."

"Can' do tha'," Arturo growled at him in annoyance.

"¿Por qué?" Antonio quipped.

The simple question seemed to stump the author as his face morphed from irritated to perplexed. "Dunno," he finally replied. "Seemed like a bad idea a' th'time."

"¿hHow can it be a bad idea?" Antonio demanded with a disbelieving gasp. "Oh Arturo, is silly. ¡Telling people you care make dem hhappy!" He straightened up on the couch and then leaned over to look for the author's coat, rummaging for the man's phone. "You call hheem right now and tell hheem. Go on."

"I dunno..." Arturo said, looking skeptically at the phone as it was put into his hands.

"¡You can do it~!" Antonio cheered, pumping both fists into the air as if he were carrying pom-poms.

The author flushed, but gave a sharp nod. "Putting it on speaker phone. So shut up," he warned the Spaniard as the number began to ring. Antonio wriggled giddily in his seat, eager to finally hear from the one who had completely turned Arturo's head.

The phone picked up and there was an uncertain, *...Hello?*

"¡Hola, Alfredo~!" Antonio called out cheerfully, waving at the phone.

*Who the hell is this?* the young voice immediately demanded, right as Arturo hissed at the Spaniard to shut his gob. *Goddammit, Arthur, are you there? I heard you! Are you drunk dialing me?*

Antonio didn't think that this Alfredo sounded very sweet to him, but he carried on his mission regardless. "Alfredo. Alfredo, do be naice. Arturo hhas something to tell you." Then he pushed Arturo forward, as if he were nudging the man to go pick up someone at the bar.

The static silence on the other side was loaded with heavy skepticism.

However, Arturo swallowed and then braved forward. "Alfred, I... I really like you. A lot," he finally spoke, pushing out the words as though he were shoving open a heavy door. "I liked you th'moment I saw you. Even if you look like a corpse n' you kinda feel like one too."

The other side sputtered. *You're drunk, Arthur!* the young man cried out in embarrassment. *And take this off speaker phone! You don't know what you're saying!*

"I do so!" Arturo replied hotly, slamming the butt of the bottle of wine on the ground in irritation. "Forget that shit. I love you! Alfred Jones, I love you from the bottom of my soul. My heart, not the shoes. n' I've never fel' this way about anyone before. So you don' have to like it, but you have to accept it!" Antonio squealed in excitement, wrapping his arms about the Brit's shoulders.

The voice on the other side trembled heavily with emotion, though Antonio couldn't decipher it. *Jesus Christ, Art. Just stop-* However, he was cut off when Arturo broke in:

"I cannot look greenly nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protestation; only downright oaths, which I never use till urged, nor never break for urging.

If thou canst love a fellow of this temper, whose face is not worth sun-burning, that never looks in his glass for love of any thing he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook.

I speak to thee plain soldier: If thou canst love me for this, take me: if not, to say to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the Lord, no; yet I love thee too."

Antonio held his breath, waiting for a reply from the other side. The voice over the phone wasn't saying anything, only breathing heavily as though to keep control of himself. When Alfredo finally responded, his voice was trembling violently. *Arthur... please tell me that was all a joke.*

"What did I jus' say?" Arturo grumbled in reply, though his body was leaning forward and hanging onto every word. "Only oaths, never broken."

Alfredo let out a shaky laugh. *I know that, stupid. I understand Shakespeare just fine.* A pause. *Are you coming back home tonight?*

"Prolly not. I'm drunk," the author admitted, looking around for his bottle and forgetting that he'd already emptied it.

*Okay... good. I don't want to see you when you're drunk.* He sighed heavily into the phone. *When you come home and you're stone cold sober and you say that to me, then I'll believe you. Deal?*

Arturo bristled and replied hotly, "I'm telling the truth, you-!"

*Night, Arthur,* Alfredo interrupted and hung up. The author glared at his phone, but was sufficiently distracted when he was suddenly manhandled from behind.

"¡Ah! ¡Our Arturo is in love!" the Spaniard cheered, drawing up Arturo into a hug and frenzied dance, planting several kisses on his cheeks. The author was still reeling from being spun, falling haphazardly onto the sofa when Antonio abruptly released him. "¡We should celebrate!" he gasped, even as Arturo moaned that he was going to be sick. The Spaniard found a another bottle of wine, uncorking it and bringing it out to his almost-newly-hitched companion. He brought out two fresh glasses, hauling Arturo up to his feet. "Now, a toast. ¿What shall we toast to?" Antonio asked.

"Not vomiting?" Arturo replied, looking very green as the Spaniard shoved a glass into his hand.

"¡Ah! I know," Antonio beamed, holding his glass up. "Un brindis por el amor verdadero."

"Cheers," the Brit managed weakly, holding his glass up.

"¡And for Estonia dropping into de sea!" Antonio chirped, clinking their glasses together.

The glass fell from Arturo's fingers, as he turned deathly white, eyes wide in horrified realization.