Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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The daily drawing of blood continued as normal, as did the children’s makeshift lessons and Mengele’s sickening façade of kindness. No numbers were called, but no ‘specimens’ were returned to the fold, either.
Matthew, remembering the dire warnings from their first morning, despaired at the thought of ever seeing his brother again. By day, visions of his twin’s suffering swam before his sightless eyes like a horrible movie real imported straight from his own personal hell. By night, he found some small salvation in the form of the ever-suffering Philippe. The two whose brothers had been stolen from them took comfort in each other’s presence, with Philippe - who had been mute since the loss of Pietro - crawling into Matthew’s bunk to hide from the monsters of their own memories.
After five long, agonizing days of nothing, Mengele appeared before them with a dour expression. The blood-taking that day was even swifter and more efficient than ever, as though his assistants themselves feared his ill-tempered wrath. Once the task was complete, he skimmed over the collective data, scribbled something on his assistant’s clipboard, and shoved it into the lead SS Guard’s hand.
Matthew heard the paper being torn from its pad and held his breath. Around him, the children squirmed nervously in anticipation of what was to come.
“The following subjects report immediately!” the guard snapped, and listed off three sets of numbers in rapid succession.
Philippe gasped and wrapped his arms around Matthew’s waist. It took the teen a moment to realize why - his number had been called.
Heavy footsteps heralded the appearance of a shadow in Matthew’s blurred vision as the black-suited SS guard approached them. Matthew slid back in his bunk, pressing his back against the wall and clinging to Philippe with both arms.
“No,” he growled with all the ferocity of a threatened polar bear. “Stay away. You can’t have him.”
The guard chuckled at that, completely un-intimidated by the threats of a half -starved, mostly-blind prisoner of war. But Matthew was determined. These creatures - because they couldn’t be human, they had to be beasts, demons, monsters of evil and greed like the ones that lurked in the darkest regions of untamed childhood - had already stolen away his Alfred. Matthew would damn himself to hell before he let them take the boy away, too.
Which was why, when the SS guard reached across the bed, Matthew not only grabbed his wrist before he could touch the child, but sank his teeth deep into flesh of the attacking arm.
The guard shouted in pain and yanked the limb back, leaving a chunk of cloth to flutter onto the bed in its wake. Everyone, including Mengele, was taken by surprise. Alfred had always been the louder of the teenage twins, talking back and mouthing off and protesting when the children were treated unfairly. No one had ever expected the quiet, reserved younger brother to react so violently.
Matthew spat a few threads from his mouth, sickened slightly at the taste of blood on his teeth. With a defensive hiss, he curled around the clinging Philippe again and glared in the general direction of the attackers. His inability to focus on them somehow made the gaze that much more haunting.
“I already told you,” he snapped. “You can’t have him!”
“Blasted Americans,” Mengele growled under his breath. He did not know the difference between America and Canada and truly, he could care less. He glared at the two guards who remained by his side with a savage snarl. “Well? What are you waiting for? Fetch him!”
“Sir!”
The SS wasted all of five seconds saluting the doctor before they went on the offensive. The two descended on the bed from either side, one grabbing hold of Philippe, the other wrapping his arms around Matthew’s shoulders.
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Finally, one of the guards came from behind with a baton and struck Matthew across the back of the head. The baton was made of soft wood and wasn’t hard enough to knock the teen out completely, but it rattled his brain in his skull like the contents of a speed bag.
Matthew fell to the side, a flash of light eliminating what little sight he had for a few brief moments. Philippe cried out and was gone from his protector’s arms.
“N-No!” Matthew groaned, his words slurring as he tried and failed to put his frazzled brain back together. “Give him back…!”
“How troublesome,” Mengele sniffed, and took the struggling, crying child from the guard. “Which reminds me. Take care in transporting the other one in here. The last thing I need is for all that effort I put into extending my research to go to waste because that idiot tears open his stitches.”
He turned to leave. Matthew heard the heavy steal toes of his boots scrape across the ground and pushed himself up to lung once more. His efforts earned him nothing but a punch in the gut, and he was deposited, unceremoniously, on of his bunk.
The heavy door slammed shut, and Matthew wept. He hated crying because it made him felt so weak and sickly and now it burned, but the tears forced themselves into existence despite his best efforts. It wasn’t fair - God damn it all, it just wasn’t fair.
Five minutes of silence and sobs later, the heavy door opened and shut one more time. Matthew didn’t bother to look up or even move, burying his head in his arms. But around him, the children gasped in surprise.
“Mister Alfred!” Anastasia gasped, vocalizing it first. “Mister Matthew, Mister Matthew, look! It’s Mister Alfred!”
She ran across the room, her bare feet padding against the hard floor, as Alyshea stayed behind to shake Matthew by the shoulder and repeat her sister’s joyous news. There was a pained groan that could almost be called good-natured. “Hey there, munchkin. Hanging in there?”
Matthew jerked his head up, startling Alyshea. That voice, it could only belong to one person. “Alfred!?”
“Mister Alfred, you don’t look so good,” Anastasia insisted, her voice filled with concern. “Let me help you.”
“I’m okay,” Alfred said, though he didn’t sound like it. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
It took a long time for him to make his way over, his feet scraping against the ground and obviously being rubbed raw in the process. Finally, with a groan, he tumbled onto the bed next to Matthew and just lay there, as though he hadn’t the energy to move.
Matthew scrambled around, feeling with his hands until he found his brother’s body. The sheer amount of heat, radiating from his chest like the range of a stove, made the younger twin draw in a sharp breath.
“Jesus, Al, you’re burning up,” he gasped, running his hand across his brother’s chest. His fingers stumbled on a series of rough, bumpy lines - rows of precise stitches, three of them, forming an “I” across Alfred’s chest - and began to shake. “Oh god. Oh my god. What did he do to you?”
“I said ’m fine,” Al insisted, and Matthew could hear the smile in his voice. “They can’t do anything to me. How’re your eyes doing, Mattie?”
Matthew opened his eyes and looked at the blob of light against the darkness that was his brother. Unsatisfied, he moved his hands to brush Alfred’s face, tracing the familiar shape of his smile. There was something staining his lips, both dry and fresh - blood? “This is no time for that, Al. We have to take care of you.”
“Mattie…” he felt Alfred frown, then fingers brushing over the aching wound on the back of his head. “You’re bleeding, Mattie.”
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God, his voice sounded so weak, and he was so warm. Men and nations were never meant to get so warm, like a stove, like an iron, like the ovens. “Alfred, stop it. I’m serious.”
“So am I,” Alfred insisted with a muffled cough, a bit of something warm splashing against Matthew’s hand. “We gotta get that patched up for you.”
“God damn you, Al!” Matthew shouted, the burning tears coming to life once more. “Why is it the only time you don’t think about yourself is when it actually matters?!”
He rubbed at his eyes painfully, knowing that his tears were full of dye and blood and staining the blankets they slept on, but he didn’t care. Alfred shifted, his weight rolling around the mattress with a great creaking of rusty springs. Matthew expected strong, confident arms to wrap around him and pull him in for soothing words, but the elder twin just couldn’t get up the strength.
“Mattie,” Alfred said, as though he couldn’t quite get a hold on the words. “Mattie, please don’t cry. Please. It’s all going to be okay.”
“Okay?!” Matthew almost laughed at that. “How is this okay? How the hell is this ever going to be okay?!”
“Didn’t you notice?” Alfred grinned and slipped his hand into the one that had been holding his cheek. “He’s scared.”
Matthew’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Scared, who?”
“Mengele. He’s freaking out. He’s terrified.” Alfred insisted, his voice growing animate. “I saw it. They thought I was too out of it to notice, dead or dying or something, but I saw. Everyone was freaking out, talking about bombings and evacuation plans and ripping stuff out of the walls like crazy. Do you know what that means?”
Matthew shook his head. With every word, Alfred’s voice became stronger, but also more hysterical. Matthew wondered if the fever and torture had driven his twin insane.
“It means they’re coming for us. Russian front’s closing in to bite that bastard in the ass,” Alfred laughed, rolling over so that his head was pillowed in his brother’s lap. “Russia’s coming, Mattie, he’s coming to get us. Ivan’s coming to get us and he’s gonna take us home, he’s gonna take us all home and shoot that bastard in the head and he’s scared!”
Matthew sighed, stroking his twin’s hair. “Wow, Al, that’s…that’d be great.”
“It is gonna be great. It’s gonna be awesome!” Alfred insisted, laughing out loud. “He’s gonna come get us, and we’re all going home, and then…then everything will be back to normal! It’ll all go back to normal!”
“Alfred, please, you’re getting hysterical.”
“I’m not getting hysterical!” Alfred crowed, and dissolved into a painful fit of coughing.
In an instant, all the energy that had built up in his body dissolved away. The great hero curled into a fetal position in his brother’s lap, hacking and choking so hard that his entire body shook with the force. A warm and sticky liquid burst from his mouth, splattering Matthew’s shirt, and this time, there was no doubt that it was blood.
For the first time, Matthew was glad that he could not see.
Alyshea tugged at his sleeve from the side of the bed, pressing a wet rag into his hand. Matthew allowed himself of a small, kind smile that he did not truly feel.
“Thank you,” he said, and used the rag to gently clean his suffering brother’s face. “You’re okay, Al. I’ve got you. I’ve…I’ve got you.”
The coughing faded away soon enough, leaving a trembling, crying America in Canada’s arms. He clung to Matthew’s clothes like a child to the apron of its mother, a few desperate tears of pain mixing with the blood. They would be joined soon enough by the dye that polluted his own.
“They’re coming for us, Mattie,” Alfred said, his voice so soft it could barely be heard. “They’re coming. We’re all gonna be free. Free.”
Matthew wiped his burning eyes on his sleeve and pulled his brother into an embrace. “Whatever you say, Al,” he whispered. “Whatever you say.”
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I hope they find the bastard. I really want to see france and england beating the crap out of this guy >_<
oh, poor matt and al. just...wow...
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So... I suppose America and Canada can take some small comfort in that they outlived the bastard. ;_;
(This continues to be a most amazing fill by the way. <3)
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Seriously? Could've sworn they found the bastard... That's scary. Who knows where he went and what he did after that...
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Don't know if or when I'm going to use that particular factoid. Feel free to reimagine it anyway you see fit, anons. :3
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And Al's so sick that...gosh, it's one of those cases that immortality would be so painful DX Especially if it really is still going on in "present" time... /-\
Excellent job, writernon.
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Yaaaaaaaaaay! Oh yay. Bravo, Anon.
This is the anon who requested rescue by the Russian Front, and I am now giddy with glee.
Another wonderful chapter... Oh the horrors... This fill makes up for the lack of fill on my WWII POW request too. Hoorah
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