This isn't me!

A constant thought that plays on a loop in Mathew's head, a constant truth shoved in his face, and each day he feels himself slipping away more and more. His tired eyes drift to Alfred, across the room. To his precious brother, who brought him back. To his brother that refuses to admit that he couldn't bring Mathew back, not properly. And the ever-growing bandages that proved it.

Across the room, Alfred winces as he tries to bend his bandaged fingers to cut a mass of - something - on the counter. Fingers he was lucky to still have. It had taken all of Mathew's willpower not to bite them clear off, the last time it happened. I shouldn't be like this! I shouldn't be here! Alfred moves too jerkily, one of his many injuries probably pulling at his muscles, and a glass goes crashing to the floor. Mathew twitches. He should want to go to his brother, to help, to make sure he wasn't injured-

He should be worried, but he's not. It's building inside of him, day by day, and Mathew's struggling to keep it stamped down. Anger. Aggression. Bloodlust. He should be worried for his brother. He's not. Mathew's fingers twitch again, and he curls them tightly into a fist. He can't hurt Alfred. He loves his brother. I shouldn't want to hurt him! This isn't who I am! Alfred, much too cheerful for his situation, hops over the shattered glass like it's a puppy lying in his path, and makes his way to Mathew with a glass.

"Hey, Mattie! Try this! I've been doing more research and I really think it might help this time!"

Alfred doesn't tell Mathew what's in the glass. And Mathew, like always, doesn't ask. He's putting every ounce of his strength into controlling himself, reaching for the glass and not his brother, each movment stiff and jerky like a robot. It shouldn't be this hard. Even holding the glass takes effort, not to grip it so tight it shatters. Mathew doesn't expect the drink to help, it never has before. But when it does help, Mathew only wants to cry.

Because he knows, even without being told, what the drink he's tasting is. He recognizes the flavour. Blood. He nearly chokes, his hand trembling in the glass. He wants to throw it, to toss it away, to vomit right there on the carpet. He can't. Against his own will, he gulps the rest down greedily, feeling his Bloodlust satiate as he does. This isn't ME! The Bloodlust recedes, but the anger doesn't.

He hates himself, for what he is, for what he wants to do. For what he does do. He hates Alfred, for letting him, for putting him in this situation. He hates Alfred for refusing to admit the truth.

He isn't Mathew anymore.

I'm a monster.

And Alfred only beams delightedly at Mathew as the tension seeps from his body.

"It's working!... Isn't it?"

There's so much Mathew wants to say, he wants to snap and yell and hurt Alfred. It's not working! Can't you see? This isn't right, this isn't me! Just let me go! But Mathew doesn't yell or snap or hurt Alfred. Because his precious twin is smiling so purely, like everything is perfect. Like Mathew is his whole world. And Mathew loves his brother, even when he hates him. He nods jerkily instead, and Alfred dances away, back to the kitchen, nearly stepping on the shattered glass in his excitement.

"I knew it! Don't worry, Matt! I'll have you back to normal again in no time!"

What part of "normal" includes drinking blood?

Mathew looks past Alfred, to the kitchen window, and even though he can't see from this distance, he still sees it in his head. His grave. The place he wants to return to, more than anything.

But Alfred won't let him, and Mathew won't leave his brother.

"Al?" He broaches the subject he's brought up many times in the three weeks since he's been brought back.

"Yeah?"

"When are you going to tell Arthur?"

Alfred stills, and Mathew knows why. Arthur will fix this. He'll understand. Their older brother will know, as soon as he sees Mathew, as soon as he sees Alfred, thst something is wrong. That I'm wrong. And he'll put everything back to right again. And Alfred knows this too. That's why he keeps putting off calling Arthur. That's why he's insisting on keeping Mathew secret.

"Soon!" Alfred promised. " I just gotta figure out some kinks first. And look! Now we're making progress! Try this next!"

Alfred shoves a plate of an unidentified, but definitely raw meat in front of Mathew. Mathew's stomach turns in a way he wished he could pass off as disgust or revulsion, but his stomach is growling way too loudly for that. Mathew reaches for the raw meat, relishing the taste, and hating his own self for it. Pleased, Alfred runs for his notebook, to record his finding, humming and chattering like Christmas had come early the whole time. Like feeding Mathew's Bloodlust was the key to fixing him.

And Mathew moved his tired eyes from his twin, to the phone on the wall.

I want to go back. I don't want to live like this anymore!

And if Alfred wouldn't make the call, there was only one choice left.

Arthur... I need your help.