Alastor spent his entire Saturday on the verge of calling the Montenegro phone.

In a house that big, one would assume it was possible that Anthony and Molly would have their own phones in their rooms and that that was the number from which they had always been communicating, right? But he couldn't know that, and if he wasn't right and one of the adults picked up, wouldn't it be suspicious?

And even if Molly or - god forbid - Anthony picked up, what would he say, what would his first words be? No, it would be inappropriate to call the morning after Anthony had been hospitalized - they were probably having a family meeting or something equally as tedious but to be expected. Alastor could imagine that in a family that somewhat cared about appearances, Anthony's parents would be having quite a long chat with him - not about his health, but how it would reflect on them if he were to, say, overdose.

The very thought drove Alastor to a less-than-sane state. He dreaded going to work and peeling himself from the telephone, and even when he did go over to the station he felt wrong and irresponsible. The show was, of course, not bad at all, but certainly not as exceptional as it always had been.

And though no one could complain, since this was the very first time that Alastor had fallen just a bit short of excellence, they all noted that he was in a strangely bad mood, and didn't want to say anything to put him in an even worse mood, seeing as this was completely new territory. Bradley was the only one who actually dared speak a word to him, but not of reprimand, but just the opposite. He led him to his office quite gently (one of the only if not the only proper office in the whole studio), and asked him to sit down.

Alastor was uncharacteristically silent and dejected, his eyes seeming to feel pain if they landed anywhere specific, so he just stared at the office as if he were very interested in the two, measly books on Bradley's desk. "How are you doing, son?" Bradley asked, leaning back on his leather chair and lighting a skinny cigarette.

It looked ridiculous in his meaty hands. "Quite fine, Mr Bradley, how about you?" He asked, trying to get comfortable in the chair in front of Bradley but finding that it was as if he fit badly in his own skin. Maybe he could borrow someone else's. "A bit shaken up by the news of Anthony's-" "You heard?" Alastor asked, finally focusing well on Bradley's face. "Ah, there it is. I thought it might be that," Bradley commented, self-satisfied. "Yes, Sal called me earlier today, very worried about Anthony. He asked me for a… rehabilitation center.

When I was younger, my brother had a… substance problem, and he went to the best place imaginable to recover." "So they are sending him away?" "I imagine they are, but… I don't think Anthony will be too happy with the idea." Alastor pondered over this for a moment.

He knew that even in this backward time surely it was hard to commit someone against their will, especially if they were still in full possession of their faculties and were not obviously about to die. But they were the Montenegros - it couldn't be very hard to pull just a few strings and get exactly what they wanted.

He didn't even know what he thought would be best for Anthony. Would he get better in this facility that Bradley's brother had gone to? In his head, the only image that came up was that of a reformatory asylum of sorts. Not for the first time, he had the sudden image of himself and Anthony in modern times, where he could get proper help, where he would be left alone. What a daydream. "Well, whatever is best for him, I suppose…" "Yes," Bradley coughed but kept on smoking. "I thought you might be a bit shocked by the whole situation, too. I noticed you were a bit… distracted." "Yes, that's exactly it. Though I apologize if my performance was-" "Nonsense.

Your show was great, Alastor, I only worry about you as a friend, not an employer," Bradley told him, and though it was undoubtedly a kind sentiment, it made Alastor feel wrong. He thanked Bradley kindly and excused himself politely, saying he had some things to attend to.

That was, hovering around the phone anxiously waiting for it to ring. Back home, indeed, the only thing he did was sit in his living room stroking Harry, an eyeball martini untouched in his hand.

He even feared what it would do to his nerves if the telephone did ring but it wasn't Anthony, and instead the station or even Adelaide Adelaide. It was the first Saturday of the month and he still hadn't sent her the cheque.

He quickly got up, swiftly wrote it, and sent it away with a little note apologizing for the tardiness. Then, he returned to the phone, staring at it as if it would spring to life. He dozed off at some point, Harry purring in his lap. It couldn't have been later than one in the morning when he heard it ring in his dreams, and he jumped up from the shock, sending Harry flying with an irritated miaow. He dashed to it and managed to pick it up on the second ring. "Hello?" "Hey, Alastor?" Came Anthony's voice from the other end.

In a second, Alastor felt more emotions than some do in an entire lifetime. His heart fell and was subsequently lifted, and then fell again as he realized how timid and shattered Anthony sounded, like he was shaking, or something of the sort.

It was unnatural to hear him in such a state, and it even made Alastor feel guilty, though of what exactly he wasn't sure. "Anthony, are you alright?" "Yeah, right as rain, right as rain…" Anthony replied though he didn't sound like he believed it himself. "What did-" "Listen, I just called to ask you if you wanted to go out tomorrow." Alastor paused at this. Go out? He had imagined Anthony would be locked up in his room with fifteen burly bodyguards until they could lock him up properly in an institution.

How could he even fathom going out? How would he be allowed to, anyway? "Go out?" Alastor repeated, echoing his perplexed thoughts. "Yeah, I could go over to yours at around six?" He asked tensely as if he was nervous about talking with Alastor, which was strange in and of itself, even though the whole conversation hadn't felt so surreal even in its tone. "Are you sure you can-" "I'll tell you all the juicy details when I see you, yeah? Six?" Anthony asked, not letting him finish or ask him any relevant questions. "Yes, sure, but Anthony-" but the line was already dead. Alastor put down the receiver and stared at nothing in particular, not even knowing how to begin processing everything.

It didn't take him long to realize it was very late and that the conversation made no sense, and he wasn't about to decipher the mystery in the state that he was in. So he prepared himself for bed and tried not to think too much about what would happen the following evening.

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He didn't do anything on Sunday. He went into the mostly empty station for a few hours, but as he had no concrete show to participate in he sped back home the moment he wasn't required.

It wasn't even like he had anything to do or something to get back to, he was just more comfortable looking into space unfocused in his own home. Even Harry had noticed something off about him, and he curled around his legs, miaowing, worried for his master.

Alastor forced himself to have a very early dinner right before Anthony came so that he wouldn't be completely thrown off, and at six in the afternoon exactly, he went down to wait for Anthony. Except he was right on time.

That wasn't like him at all - he either arrived early and began honking at you in exasperation, or he arrived ten minutes (at the very least) late. Or, at least, Alastor thought it was Anthony because this certainly wasn't his car. When he approached the car, he soon learned the reason.

Anthony wasn't at the wheel and instead was lounging in the back seat, smoking eagerly at a cigarette and filling the interior with thick, spiraling smoke. He was very elegantly dressed, even more than usual, with his creamy color pallet accentuated here and there with the occasional soft pink. He would've looked stunning if he didn't look like he had spent the night at a hospital after injecting too much heroin.

He noticed Alastor and popped open the door for him with a foot. Alastor snuck a glance at the chauffeur, who seemed as vacant-faced and uninterested in him as could be. He swiftly greeted Anthony, but the boy didn't say anything. He looked… slightly angry, actually, but the anger was so superficial it was plain to see that it was concealing pain, even a bit of shame. "I have a surprise for you," was all he said instead of a greeting. Alastor watched as the car took an unexpected turn. "Oh?" He asked.

He wondered whether this driver was taking another route to pick up Edwin, but his gut told him that that wasn't the situation at all, though it failed to offer any alternative explanations. When the car went exactly to the opposite side of the city, eliminating any possibilities of a different route, Alastor pursed his lips and mustered the courage to speak.

Words had always been easy with Anthony, probably because the boy was the one who spoke most of them, but now the tension in the car was as easily felt as the smoke coming from the cigarette between Anthony's lips. Alastor had had a million questions in his mind, but all of sudden they appeared ridiculous and inappropriate, and they slipped his tongue on every occasion.

He didn't fail to notice the bags beneath Anthony's eyes, as if his withdrawn disposition didn't reveal enough. "Aren't we going to pick up Edwin and Reena?" Alastor asked. "No. This a surprise for you. And anyway, even if I wanted to, they wouldn't let me go out with them.

But with you…" Anthony passed his tongue over his teeth and looked at Alastor intently. A shot of nerves went through Alastor's body. Something had gone amiss, and the way that Anthony looked at him was likely to be the least terrible thing of the evening, but he didn't know what was in store for him yet. Surprisingly, the lack of control over the situation wasn't the thing that was rattling Alastor the most, but rather not knowing just what it was that was going through Anthony's head.

He seemed… upset with him. Then again, he could also just be upset at the world, and surely if his parents allowed him to go out only with Alastor he should've been thankful to at least be able to leave the house. Even if it was with a babysitter. Though Alastor had been itching to see Anthony again, he kept looking out the window to avoid Anthony's strange, displeased eyes.

Anthony didn't seem too keen on looking at him, either. The situation made Alastor's whole chest feel as if it had been laden with coal, but he also knew that there wasn't anything that he could do about it just yet - he could only wait for whatever needed to unfold tonight to do so. It would likely come from Anthony's part, too.

They finally rounded the corner to New Orleans' most prestigious theatre. The sign at the very top of the beautiful building read 'ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE'. The chauffeur stopped and curtly told them he would find a place to park and then come back.

Anthony ignored him completely and stepped out of the car. Alastor followed suit. Anthony silently led him to the queue, where beautifully dressed people were lining up to see the show. "Anthony, are we going to" but Anthony silenced him as he pulled out two tickets from his coat pocket. "I got these a few weeks ago.

It's supposed to be a great show - real Italians in this opera, something like that. I thought it would be a waste not to use them." Alastor just stared at him, stupefied. Anthony looked just as cold as ever, with the slightest hint of bitterness to his tone. "Weeks ago?" Alastor asked. "But I only told you-" "I pay attention, alright? It's not a big deal," Anthony said awkwardly, showing vulnerability for the first time the whole evening. He swallowed hard and looked down at his feet.

Alastor searched in his brain for when exactly Anthony might've heard him talking about the opera, and he dimly remembered having a conversation with Edwin about it.

Had Anthony picked up on such a thing? It seemed like he had. Alastor was taken aback, and shocked that Anthony had gone through such lengths - weeks ago? They had barely even met then. He didn't know how to take all of it in, so he just looked at his tickets in amazement and tried not to show how worked up all of this had gotten him.

He should've been flattered, touched by the sentiment, but something in Anthony's eyes told him that it was a gesture from another time, carried out like a duty. Once they were inside, Alastor found that Anthony had gotten them a private balcony, and with Anthony's little bodyguard returning, he handed them a pair of opera glasses and lingered in a corner, standing behind them silently.

Anthony looked immensely irritated but said nothing, only hanging from the balcony and waiting for the show to commence. If such a thing had happened in any other context, Alastor would've felt elated, over the moon, nervous, and happy in the most beautiful way.

But with the way that everything had unfolded, he couldn't help but feel like everything was wrong, and wish that Anthony would suddenly look at him and explain why everything he was doing right now almost felt like a reproach of sorts. Instead, it just looked like he was about to throw himself off the balcony the moment the show began.

The opera was beautiful, the acting, scenery, and singing exquisite to say the very least, and yet the phantom menace of Anthony's bodyguard loomed over them like a shadow, and Alastor went through great pains not to turn around and look at him to see what he was doing, as if he were, ironically, like Orpheus.

In short, the whole thing was bordering on awkwardness on many different levels, but at the very least the spectacular show compensated somewhat. Anthony looked taken with it, and though Alastor was the one who loved the opera, he found it was rather hard for him to truly immerse himself in it all.

In the interlude, they went to the general congregating area with all the other high-class peacocks but had no drink. Anthony didn't even make for the bar area, knowing that his bodyguard would surely stop him and an unpleasant scene would unfold.

Still, it wasn't like Anthony to shy away from making a scene, and Alastor wondered momentarily whether it was for his sake, or whether he felt so beaten down he didn't even have the energy to fight for such a thing anymore.

The thought was enough to make him feel like small bits of him were coming apart. The second and final act was just as lovely as the first, but still, Alastor could not shake off the feeling of the numb, bitter Anthony he had seen. He was in the same state as when he messed up and went into a child-like silence.

But this was awful, more stretched out. When the spectacle was over, Anthony still hadn't said anything to him, and Alastor was beginning to fear the evening would end the same way it had begun: with nothing clear, the atmosphere tense, and a million questions hanging in the air unsaid.

He tried to muster the courage to speak to Anthony about everything that was troubling him, to question what would happen to him, whether he would be going to a rehabilitation center, and how he was feeling. But nothing came out, and he was just left feeling like an imbecile as Anthony put away cigarette after cigarette while waiting for his bodyguard to bring the car around.

He remembered how he wouldn't be able to talk to Anthony for only god knew how long, and that soon enough he might not see him. He found his courage. "Anthony." "Hm?" He said between puffs, side-eyeing him nervously. "Are they going to are you going to" "Get sent to a nuthouse?" Anthony asked sardonically. "Not if I have anything to say about it." He considered his words. "I might not, though." "What are you going to" "Not now, Alastor," Anthony told him dismissively, chucking his half-smoked cigarette to the ground as the car pulled up. If not now, when? Alastor thought, but he couldn't say the words as Anthony piled into the car.

The bodyguard had just started driving when Anthony poked his head into the driver's seat. "I'd like to make one stop before leaving Alastor at his place," he said. Alastor's heart jumped to his throat. "Straight home," the bodyguard replied curtly, not even bothering to look back at him. "Just one stop.

It won't take more than fifteen minutes." "I have clear instructions," the man replied, seeming to feel for Anthony. "C'mon, man, they might be locking me up soon, you going to make me beg?" The man tilted his head as if considering. Was it worth it to potentially get on Montenegro's bad side if anything went sideways? "If you don't I'll open the car door and throw myself," Anthony told him quite casually. The man agreed. Anthony gave him some precise coordinates, and the man veered the car around. From Alastor's estimation, the place was near New Orleans' train station, and quite a bit out of their way, at that.

The drive must have taken a little over twenty minutes, but Anthony told his bodyguard to stop a bit before the station itself. The place was your typical, shady-looking alley next to a train station, with all the structures mounted around the rails and an eerie air to it.

When they got out of the car, Anthony led them deeper into the shadows of the strange, unfinished structures. Alastor feared but was rather curious to see what this was all about. He led them around strange, cement railings and metal structures with rotting stairs that led nowhere until they finally reached a semi-decent metal stairway. Anthony looked back at his bodyguard. "A moment alone?" He requested, though he was good at using his authoritative rich kid voice, and it didn't exactly sound like a request.

The man quirked a bushy eyebrow and folded his hands across his chest. "You're kidding?" He asked, looking like he was exhausted. "C'mon. It's just a few stairs, they're not even that far and it's not like we could escape. It's a dead end - you can see for yourself." "I don't know," the man said, looking severely uncomfortable. "I'm with Alastor. It'll be fine," Anthony reassured, and the man looked from Alastor to Anthony, looking very unsure. Alastor offered a smile. Finally, with a huff and a sigh that said 'I don't get paid enough for this', the man threw up his hands. "Ten minutes and then I'm coming after you," he warned, but Anthony was already up two stairs, beckoning Alastor along behind him.

The rusted, long-forgotten metal stairs creaked beneath them, and Alastor made sure that they were never standing on the same step at once. Even with that precaution, however, the very structure of the rickety place was wavering. They had to pass through a hallway and then go up another set of stairs to get to the top of wherever it was that Anthony was taking them.

These stairs were way more rickety and precarious, but shorter, too, and in very little time they had reached the top. They were standing in what had to be the best view in the city. Buildings twinkling in flickering lights were sprawled before their eyes, the living, breathing life of New Orleans splayed out for their observation.

They stood right above the train tracks, Alastor found, before an entrance at the station. "We're lucky my dad only sent Gerry down there and not one of their other hard-asses. I think Gerry likes me more than them," Anthony told him casually, scratching his nose and leaning against the rails looking towards the train station.

It was possible that a train would pass right under their feet. Alastor stared at Anthony in the dim light coming from the far-off station, the bags under his eyes, the ones that had grown seemingly overnight, protruding more than ever. "I still don't get why I need a babysitter…" he trailed off, suddenly looking back at Alastor, a strain of guilt muddling his beautiful eyes.

A train's horn blared in the station. They might be able to see it up close. "Anthony, why did you-" "Sh…" Anthony hushed him, shutting his eyes. "If you pay attention, you can feel the wind coming with the train.

It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" "Yes, but-" "Just listen to the wind, to the train coming. Close your eyes," he indicated. But Alastor didn't want to close his eyes. He wanted to take Anthony in, to drink him in as best he could in case he was taken from him. Anthony, his eyes still closed and leaning back against the rail, seemed to be enjoying every second of the night wind and the sounds of the train.

Alastor realized that he was leaning a little too far back, however. "Anthony-" "Listen to it," the boy only said. The train was getting closer, closer, the wind rippling through his pink hair as he leaned back further and further against the low rail. It was either going to give way, or he was going to topple over.

He just about leaped when Alastor grabbed him roughly by the collar and held him back. "What the hell are you doing?" Anthony snarled, and he opened his eyes to stare at Alastor, whose face was just inches from his own. And there it was. The same subdued feeling that Anthony had been showing throughout the entire the evening, was now in full force, crushing Alastor with its full weight.

It was a cold, hard anger. The train was getting closer, and Anthony was still struggling against Alastor to fling himself down towards it. "What are you doing?" Alastor demanded, bringing Anthony closer to him so that he could restrain him better. But he couldn't lie to himself - even in this precarious situation, the feeling of Anthony's warm body against his was enough to make him feel woozy.

But this was not the time, not the place. "Let me go, Alastor! What the hell do you care, anyway?" The anger in his voice was too much to bear, and Alastor felt himself crumbling. "What do you mean what do I care?

I care for you, Anthony." But at that, Anthony shoved him off to the other end of the platform. Alastor was about to step forward when he realised that the boy wasn't trying to hurl himself back anymore "Oh yeah?

You want to save me because you care about me or because my dad paid you to 'take care of me'?" And though the last word was partially drowned out due to the train moving beneath them, Alastor knew exactly what was going on. "Anthony, I-" "I heard you two assholes talking about it when I was in the hospital, so don't even try to deny it!"

He bellowed as the dangerously close force of the train made the whole structure rattle beneath them. Alastor knew that, deep down, he had feared something of the sort happening, but he had dreaded it so much that he hadn't dared to truly even consider it. "Anthony, please, I know what it sounded like, but I really-" "You really what? Did you like playing babysitter?

You know, I knew you were in my dad's payroll, just like everyone else is, but I never expected you to be such a lying, two-faced asshole." "Anthony, please, just let me explain," Alastor pleaded, stepping forward towards him, but at that, Anthony leaned back again as if threatening to toss himself on top of the train. "There's no explanation you could give that would make me feel less disgusted by you.

I wouldn't believe a word that came out of your mouth, anyway," Anthony spat at him, the rage in his eyes still bearing into Alastor like the worst dagger he had ever felt. And the worst part of it was that Anthony was right - there was nothing he could say now that would set things right.

He would always be tarnished in Anthony's eyes, and would always be the villain. He had caused enough suffering for him as it was with his betrayal, and god knew that he had enough things to deal with without Alastor's treachery.

He hung his head in shame, unable to tolerate Anthony's accusatory gaze any longer. "I understand," he said darkly, his voice thick. Anthony paused.

Without another word, he went over to the stairs to leave. He paused for a moment and looked back at Alastor's withered frame. If Alastor had been able to see him, he might've noticed the hesitation and pain of his expression. But the boy said nothing and left him alone on the rickety platform, the train passing beneath his feet.