[fanfic] Noise- Chapter 2
Title: Noise
Rating: T
Summary: Some stories can get quite complicated. Especially when they involve crime families, plots to take over the world, and immortality. Time can't erase hate, nor can it erase love, and a life of crime can last forever. England V.S. China AU
(Main) Characters: England, China, Japan, Canada, Korea, America, Russia
Pairings: Brotherly USUK, Brotherly NiChu,
Not a 'romance' story. The love in it is mostly family or brotherly love. Pairings may pop up, but they're not instrumental. Giving away pairings might give away plot, so I'm not saying much about them.
Warnings: Violence, mature subject matter, graphic scenes and painful situations throughout the fic.
Chapter 2:
Part 1:
Chapter 2
"It wasn't by chance that I met you. This is what they call fate."
-Take Off, 2PM
Manhattan, Unites States of America- January, 1922
The air was frosty, biting and vicious. Nipping at people mercilessly as it whipped and whirled down the busy street, whistling between buildings and through crowds. The cold wind blew harshly, blowing up the hems of jackets and sending top hats tumbling to the ground or whisking them away all together. All around, people were bundled up tightly in their thick coats, warm scarves and woolen gloves. The sky was gray, but bright, and that coupled with the lack of snow made the day look nowhere near as cold as it felt.
"Bloody hell, isn't America s'pposed to be warm?" cursed the man irritably, rubbing his gloved hands together. He cupped them and blew, sending a cloud of misty breath into the chilly January air as he tried to warm himself.
"Language please," said his associate with a sigh, wrapping his own scarf tighter about his neck. Appropriate conduct and gentlemanly behavior was a must…even if it was bloody cold.
"My apologies Mr. Kirkland," said the first man, ceasing his frantic motions and straightening his back before looking sheepishly towards his boss. Mr. Kirkland merely raised one of his notable eyebrows before pulling his top hat down further atop his sandy-blonde hair.
"Simply mind yourself better in the future," he said sternly, but not with any degree of menace or true annoyance. He was shivering himself and he sank his chin deep into the folds of his scarf.
"It is cold though," he commented with a sigh. "Let's hurry and get this business taken care of. The sooner we get back to England the better. I'm sure you're itching to get back to your son, right James?"
James grinned and nodded vigorously. "Howard is growing like you wouldn't believe. He'll be five soon. Five!"
Mr. Kirkland smiled at the man's excitement and love for his family but found his smile strained and his mind wandering, as he began thinking of his own son, not yet nine years old. Their relationship was…mediocre at best, and there appeared to be a growing gap between what Mr. Kirkland thought his son wanted and what the boy actually seemed to desire.
The Englishman sighed and he found himself wishing that he could stay in this country longer and avoid the conflict, arguments, and tension that awaited him at home.
Despite the cold, America was a pleasant place. It had a constant busy hum to it and while England had a similar thrum of activity the busy streets of Manhattan just seemed more…alive somehow. The way the people moved, the way they interacted with each other. The busyness that wasn't just business. A person walking might just be walking with no place to go, with no aim, and no purpose. A happy aimlessness that was different from London, where everyone had an agenda. Manhattan had an almost easy-going, joyful vibe that said that most of its inhabitants loved simply living and not living for any monetary or materialistic reasons.
Of course, that wasn't to say that the place was perfect. No, the homeless people on the street corners, shivering under newspapers and braced against the wind, were a harsh reminder that no Utopia could exist, even in a land of dreams like America.
Mr. Kirkland's eyes peered out from under his hat, watching a young couple with large shopping bags skip down the sidewalk with a giddy looking boy in between them.
Of course, the Englishman might be biased. His own home life and existence in London had become so frustrating lately that any place was likely to look better than the British city. There was nothing wrong with London itself, and yet, Mr. Kirkland was rather sick of it. Sick of the businessmen and their lies. Sick of the people there, still floating on euphoria after their victory in the war. And sick of the fact that he, the head of a major company and one of the most influential people in Europe, could not for all his money, seem to get along with his son.
"Hey! Hey! Thief! Stop thief!"
Both James and Mr. Kirkland paused in their stiff, quick walk, the younger of the two turning around with wide eyes while the elder man just looked back over his shoulder with an exasperated, somewhat irritated expression.
"Oi, what's all the commotion about?" inquired James, peering forward with eager eyes at the excitement and movement going on in a particularly loud crowd by a series of street-vendors.
"Ignore it James," commanded Mr. Kirkland sternly, "American theft is no different than British theft. Let's go."
The younger man seemed to deflate a little but he nodded at his boss's request and turned his head with a sigh, snuggling deeper into his jacket collar. "Yeah, ye-I mean, yes. Yes, you're quite right sir. My apologies." James flushed at his momentary slip-up and hid his face in his scarf, averting his eyes. Mr. Kirkland resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his young assistant who, despite having recently turned thirty, still had a tendency to act quite immature.
The two British men resumed walking, and Mr. Kirkland bit back a sigh as he noticed a few white flakes beginning to drift down past his eyes, one of them stinging his nose with cold as it landed. The Englishman shook his head as water ran down the front of his nose and bit back a groan of annoyance. However much irritation he might feel with his homeland, he would take England's perpetual rain over this infernal white stuff any day.
Lost in his thoughts as he was, Mr. Kirkland did not hear the rapid pitter-patter of feet behind him, nor did he pay attention to the cacophony of shouts and curses coming from the collection of street vendors that they had just walked by. As such, he was understandably surprised when James let out a shout from behind him, and something large suddenly crashed into his legs.
"Wa-,"
"Oof!"
Mr. Kirkland's knees buckled and he was saved from falling only by his cane, which he leaned on heavily as he tried to keep his balance.
"Mr. Kirkland! Are you alright? Answer me sir!" James was at his side in an instance, holding onto his arm and helping to stop him from falling forward. Mr. Kirkland shook his head, trying to regain his bearings.
What the bloody hell just happened? He thought to himself in astonishment, eyes growing wide at the sheer force he had been hit with. Mr. Kirkland turned around, steadying himself on James's supportive arm and standing up straight.
The sight he was met with was not one that he expected to see, though not necessarily a strange sight in a city as big and poverty stricken as New York.
It was a boy, looking to be no older than six if that. Messy dark blonde hair, with a single piece sticking defiantly upwards, hung into dazed dark blue eyes. The boy was young, younger than his own son, and, Mr. Kirkland realized with one glance, clearly living in poverty.
Tattered pants that barely reached his ankles, a once white shirt with a frayed, oversized grey vest hanging off of it and shoes with holes in the front, so that tiny toes could be seen. It was obvious the entire outfit had seen better days.
Then there was what the boy was carrying. Or what he had been carrying before he had crashed into Mr. Kirkland. A scattering of buns were spread out across the dirty pavement and as soon as the boy came to his senses he began frantically gathering them up, casting panicked glances back over his shoulder towards the crowd of street vendors.
Clearly, this boy had been stealing.
"Oi! Don't go runnin' into people like that!" snapped James irritably at the boy. The youngster looked up at the two Englishmen, having finished gathering up his stolen goods, and stuck his tongue out defiantly.
"Nyeh! Stuffy ol' farts! Shoulda watched where yous was walkin'!" he replied angrily in a thick Brooklyn accent, before resuming his frantic flee from whomever he had stolen from.
"Now wait just a minute!" fumed James, making motions to chase after the boy. Mr. Kirkland, however, tightened his grip on his young associates arm, causing the young man to stop.
"Let him be," said Mr. Kirkland, staring after the boy with a somewhat saddened expression. "I'm sure he needed the bread more then the one who was selling it anyways. Poverty is painful to see in children. That child…"
Mr. Kirkland shook his head, suddenly feeling like a leaden weight had settled into his chest.
"That child was younger than Arthur."
/
Alfred was feeling particularly lucky. It wasn't often that he got away with stealing so much at one time. The man who had been selling the buns had been so engrossed in a conversation with a rich-looking lady that he hadn't even seen the young boy grab an armful of food. Alfred had managed to get halfway down the street before nosy citizens had pointed out his theft.
Still, he had gotten away with his prize and the young American was feeling quite proud of himself. The warmth of accomplishment that spread through him was almost enough to banish the cold that had wrapped around his body. The winter winds bit at his unshielded toes, blew down his tattered shirt and through his matted hair, sent shivers up and down his spine and caused his nose to drip uncontrollably. But he had food and that made it all go away in the glow of achievement.
Alfred wiped away the drippage with his sleeve, taking care to maintain a tight hold on his buns as he did. It had been a chore keeping hold of them the whole time he was running. He thought that he might have lost a few, particularly when he had run into those two old guys.
Alfred scowled at that. He had worked hard to steal all these buns and then some stupid stiffs who talked funny had made him lose some! The young boy mumbled angrily to himself for a few moments before his irritated face gave way to a triumphant smile as he realized that he really had gotten away. That thought in mind, he finally stopped running and slowed to a brisk walk as his destination came into view.
It was a small, abandoned warehouse. Somewhat spacious, empty, and with holes dotting the roof. It really wasn't that much larger than your average house, and looked more like a large shack then a warehouse. The wood was rotting in many areas and the left back corner of the structure had collapsed and was covered up with badly hammered in planks and a number of blankets sewn together. The main doors were padlocked and rusted shut so that the only way in and out was through one of the many of the holes dotted about the exterior. Alfred made his way towards one of these holes, clutching at the buns that were beginning to escape the confines of his arms. The young boy hummed to himself, some song that had been stuck in his head for as long as he could remember. He thought that one day he'd put lyrics to it or maybe pay someone to do it for him!
Alfred smiled at the idea of getting someone to work for him and maneuvered his way through a hole in the wall, struggling to maintain his hold on the buns as he did and losing a few in the process.
"Mattie!" he called excitedly as he entered the warehouse, ignoring the few buns he had dropped and calling out for his brother. "Hey Mattie! Yous won't believe how much food I nicked this time! I knows ya don't like it when I steal but-,"
Alfred stopped his speech as he heard a soft sound echoing around the small warehouse, a quiet, but easily recognizable sound.
Coughing.
"Mattie?" called Alfred again, worry causing him to drop his buns as he dashed towards the corner of the Warehouse where his brother had been resting. "Mattie! Hey Mattie yous ain't still coughin' are ya? Yous said yous was feelin' better, right? Mattie? Mattie? Mattie?"
There was no answer as Alfred ran towards the small form hidden under a mound of blankets in the dark corner. The young blonde's heart hammered in his chest as he approached, worry erasing the previous feelings of happiness and accomplishment that had moments ago consumed him.
"Mattie?"
In the corner, snuggled up in a pile of torn, thin-looking blankets, was another young boy. Similar to Alfred in both age and looks with wavy pale blonde hair and a flushed, skinny face. The boy's red-rimmed eyes opened a crack, revealing striking violet orbs that looked up at the other boy blurrily.
"A-Al?" he whispered, before his voice dissolved into harsh, phlegmy, coughing.
"Ack! Mattie!" cried Alfred in horror, falling to his knees and sidling up to his brother's side. "I thought yous stopped bein' sick! Why is yous still coughin'? H-hey! Hey!"
The younger boy doubled up in a coughing fit, curling up into a ball and tugging the blankets closer to him as his entire body shook violently.
Mattie…
Alfred swallowed thickly, hands trembling as he laid them on his brother's shaking form and eyes wide as Mattie's breath began coming out in short, painful wheezes. Alfred's breath hitched in his throat as he saw tears snaking their way down Mattie's dirty cheeks and a sob burst forth his lips.
"Mattie…" he whispered, clutching the blankets that covered his brother tightly, feeling the boy's severe trembling and the waves of unhealthy heat coming off of his body.
"Please don't die!"
/
"Blimey sir, have you seen some of this stuff? Some o' these chocolates are glowing I swear! You think these would still look this fancy if I took them back to London? Do you think Howard would fancy them? Or Lillian! Do you think Lily would like them?"
Mr. Kirkland resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the ceaseless excitement of his young assistant, who currently had his face pressed against the window of a sweet shop. The older man shuffled a bit, shivering in the icy wind that was blowing through. The temperature seemed to have dropped by several degrees since their walk to Mr. Kirkland's appointment with an important business associate, earlier that morning. The journey back to their hotel was proving to be much less enjoyable than the stroll to their meeting place had been. The air was crisper, colder, and large flakes of snow were blowing past at a heavier and heavier rate. Mr. Kirkland was beginning to regret not getting a driver to ferry them places. He had originally declined the offer because he had wished to experience the city of Manhattan without having it whiz by him too fast to see. Now, he wished for the warmth of a station wagon and the shortened distance between point A and point B. The cold chilled him to the bone and his joints were beginning to ache in the most annoying fashion.
I'm too young to feel this old, bemoaned the Englishman internally. Why am I so old? It's probably the cane. Should not have bought the bloody cane. I'm only thirty-nine for Christ's-,
"Help! Please! Somebody help!"
Mr. Kirkland was torn from his thoughts by a panicked, pleading voice coming from further up the street. The man looked in the direction curiously, his grip tightening around the hated cane as if in anticipation of stopping whatever was causing the unidentified voice harm. James tore his face away from the window, pouting as if upset at having been interrupted in picking out the perfect chocolate for his son and his wife. "Oi, what's all that racket?" he inquired, an irritated look on his face as he straightened up.
"I don't know," frowned Mr. Kirkland, trying to see through the crowds and the increasing haze of falling snow. "Perhaps we should go and see."
James grimaced, shivering in the cold wind and shifting his feet slightly. "Well, it's like you said," muttered the young man, pulling the collar of his coat up against the harsh winds, "Whatever is going on here isn't different then what would happen back home. Some one will help whomever it is out. Manhattan's a big city, and we're not exactly locals. What would we do? Direct them to the nearest hospital or police station when we don't know where they are?"
Mr. Kirkland frowned deeper and part of him wanted to reprimand James for the impertinence he had heard in the younger man's voice, while the other part reasoned that what he had said was true. Whoever it was that needed help would receive much better aid from someone who actually lived here rather than from two foreigners.
Mr. Kirkland gave a curt nod, stifling a sigh at the unpleasant feeling that had settled in his stomach, and continued walking. James gave a partly triumphant smile before shoving his hands into his pocket and following after his boss.
"Please, anybody, help my brother! Please!"
Mr. Kirkland stiffened as he heard the voice again, this time closer than before. It sounded painfully young and tugged at his heartstrings. That was the one thing that had really changed in the times since his wife had had Arthur. Previous to having a son, he'd been able to turn a blind eye to the poverty in the streets. He'd been able to walk by an urchin with no shoes begging for money. He'd been able to ignore it, just like everyone else.
But now, hearing a child's voice crying for help, knowing that the child could be Arthur's age or younger...And the fact that the cries hadn't stopped, that it seemed like no one was going to the child's aid…
"Please!"
Mr. Kirkland stopped abruptly, causing James to bump into him with a startled sound.
"Oi! Sir, what's the mat-,"
Mr. Kirkland began walking quickly towards the left, the direction from which he had heard the crying voice. As James began questioning his actions, a determined, stubborn look appeared on the older man's face. The famous 'Kirkland' face of absolute tenacity and steadfast gentlemanly pig-headedness.
Yes the locals were more able to deal with whatever situation was eliciting those cries, yes it was cold and he should really just go back to his hotel, yes it really was none of business. But Mr. Kirkland had a soft heart under his gruff business like exterior and moreover, he had a son who used to use that exact tone of voice when pleading for his father to play with him.
"Somebody…please…"
It didn't take the Englishman long to find the source of the voice. Weaving his way through the sidewalk crowd, he made his way over to a narrow passageway between two buildings, at the mouth of which stood the cause of the distressed cry.
Mr. Kirkland's eyes widened in surprise, bushy brows going straight up into his hairline as he recognized the young boy who had run into him earlier.
This time, however, there appeared to be two of them.
There was the first boy, who was standing with tears running from his swollen eyes and hoarsely calling out for help. Then there was the second boy, who the first boy had slung across his back in piggyback position. This boy was completely still, with his head lolling against the first boy's shoulder and entire body hanging limp.
"Somebody please help my brother!" screamed the first boy, taking a few staggering steps forward before falling onto his hands and knees.
Mr. Kirkland rushed forward, kneeling in front of the boy and placing his hand on his shoulder.
"Are you alright, lad? What's the matter?" asked the Englishman, casting a concerned look at the other boy, the one who hung limply and who hadn't moved an inch.
The first boy looked up in surprise, blue eyes wide. "M-my b-brother is s-sick," he sobbed, entire body shaking, "I-I th-think he's g-gonna d-d-die…"
Mr. Kirkland's face paled and he took a closer look at the second boy.
Indeed, the boy did not appear to be in good condition. He was worryingly pale except for the unhealthy flush on his cheeks. His hair was damp from either snow or sweat and hung in limp blonde waves around his face. The boy was breathing shallowly and his face was scrunched up in pain and discomfort. Mr. Kirkland reached out a tentative hand towards the child but found the boy yanked out of reach by his brother, who scurried backwards with a panicked look on his face.
"Watcha gonna do? Don't hurt him!" screamed the young boy, eliciting glances from several of the passerbys who had previously been ignoring him. "If you hurt him I'll…I'll…I'll biff ya somethin' awful!"
Mr. Kirkland paled and held up both hands in a placating gesture, astounded by the sheer volume emitted by such a thin-looking boy. "Now, now lad, calm down. You've been calling for help right? That's all I want to do, help you and your brother." The Englishman cast a worried look at the other boy, who hadn't moved at all despite his brother's loud outburst.
He looks extremely ill, thought Mr. Kirkland, brow furrowed with worry, and he's barely clothed…in this weather…
Mr. Kirkland once again moved closer to the two little boys but the conscious boy moved backwards, retreating into the alley with a panicked look. The Englishman gritted his teeth and moved back slightly, feeling a rising sense of urgency as he watched the sick boy's harsh breathing give way to coughing, the now heavily falling snow settling into his hair and on his back. While trying to think of a way to get the boy to trust him, Mr. Kirkland suddenly stiffened, noting for the first time that James had come up behind him and was standing by anxiously.
"Sir…" began the young man hesitantly while casting a wary glance towards the young boy crouched in front of his boss. The youth recoiled at the new man, sticking his tongue out as he did but with panic in his red-rimmed eyes.
Fearing that the scared boy was likely to bolt at any moment, Mr. Kirkland turned to give James a stern look. "Hush James, give me a moment," he shushed, before pausing and looking over his assistant's shoulder to the busy street behind. "Actually, James, do you mind hailing down a cab?" asked the older man, watching the thick snowflakes with increasing concern. His eyes slid back towards the shivering boy in the alleyway and his sickly brother. Both were dressed in threadbare clothes, attire not suitable for decent weather, let alone an increasing snowstorm. The sick boy appeared to be wearing socks but no shoes, while the other boy had too-small shoes but no socks. Despite his belligerence, the apparent elder brother was shivering and an unhealthy flush was beginning to colour his cheeks as well.
They need to get out of this weather…
James startled slightly, surprised by his boss's request. His eyes narrowed suspiciously and he cast a suspicious, somewhat contemptuous look at the boys cowering in the alleyway.
"Sir," began the young man sternly, "If I may…I realize you…your heart is in the right place but honestly, the little brats are just going to run off with your wallet the second you turn your back and the smaller one gets tired of playing sick. It's like you said before, America isn't any different from England."
"This is what I'm saying now!" thundered Mr. Kirkland in a loud voice he rarely ever used, a stern, angered voice that caused his young assistant to jump. "I will not simply walk by and let two little boys freeze to death! Regardless of whether or not they plan to steal my belongings, they will die if left alone. Or do you not see the snow falling in front of your face? Has your affluence so desensitized you from the plights of others? Do you truly intend to have me walk away from children younger than Arthur? One of them sick and in need of medical attention, while the other is sure to follow if he continues living in these conditions? If this is truly your opinion on the matter, than I gravely misjudged your character when I hired you. Now, James, go do what you're paid to do; obey me. Go hail a cab." Mr. Kirkland's last statement came out as a harsh snarl and James recoiled as if he had been slapped, a stricken expression on his face. He took a step back before nodding stiffly and turning away, running to the side of the sidewalk while waving his hand in the air somewhat frantically.
Mr. Kirkland stood proud and angry as he stared after his young assistant before deflating like a balloon. He released his breath in a loud sigh and took off his looming top hat to run a hand through his sandy locks.
James was young. He had never known poverty, his family being a well-off, well-known English family that the Kirklands had been working with closely for a few generations now. He had grown up in the same manner that Mr. Kirkland himself had; with his nose sharply upturned to the plights of those 'beneath' him and with a conditioned blind eye towards the poor.
Mr. Kirkland felt a twinge of guilt as he turned away from his young assistant, but he brushed it off. James was in the wrong here. No questions asked.
A harsh cough caused Mr. Kirkland to whirl around, his attention once again on the young boys. The boy he presumed to be older, the one who was carrying his brother, was looking up at him with a puzzled and somewhat stunned expression. The Englishman withered on the inside. Had his outburst destroyed any chance he had had of making the child unafraid of him?
The child stared unblinking at the man and Mr. Kirkland cleared his throat awkwardly, preparing to try and placate the boy.
"Wow," said the boy, blinking his wide blue eyes and interrupting Mr. Kirkland's thoughts, "Ya sure gots a loud voice. Heard ya right over da city noise. An', t'was real nice whatcha said. Y'all dressed real nice an' stuff. Nice-dressed people ain't usually nice. Theys always tryin' ta take us to da cops or somethin'. Didn't 'spect a nice-dressed person ta stop when I started hollerin'."
Mr. Kirkland blinked, stunned at the sudden rush of words from the young boy who, moments before, had been screaming at him, terrified.
"Oi, Mista," continued the boy, waddling out of the alleyway to stand in front of the Englishman. "You really mean it, ya gonna 'elp us? Me an' Mattie? Mattie's real sick ya know…I…I'm real scared…" the boy's sudden rush of confidence disappeared as he hung his head, tears once again dripping down his cheeks as he took the limp hand of his brother.
"P-please," he whimpered in a heart-breaking voice, "I…I'm s'posed ta protect him. I'm 'is big brotha…I'm s'pposed ta b-be his h-hero!"
Mr. Kirkland's heart positively broke as the little boy broke down into sobs and he knelt in front of the young child.
"There, there, don't cry," soothed the man, awkwardly patting the boy on the head. He mentally sighed in relief when the child didn't flinch or pull away and continued with his movements, inching closer as he did. "Listen, you're here aren't you? Out in the cold? And it's all for your brother, right? That means you're doing a splendid job of protecting him. I mean, it might have been better if you had left him inside instead of exposing him to the elements, but…"
Mr. Kirkland trailed off as the young boy looked up at him, a stricken look on his face.
Dammit, I never could talk to children, cursed the man internally, even Arthur…
"S-sir."
The boy drew back, looking up distrustfully at James, who had hesitantly appeared behind Mr. Kirkland. The older man turned around, slightly irritated at having the progress he had made regressed. However, his eyes softened as he saw the dejected and somewhat pained expression on James's face.
"Ah," said the elder man somewhat awkwardly, "Did you-?"
"Yes," replied James automatically, before flushing and recoiling as if apologetic for interrupting. "Y-yes, th-there is a cab waiting." Mr. Kirkland nodded, turning away from his assistant. Just looking at the young man's depressed face was causing his conscience to send waves of discomfort through his stomach.
I'll talk to him later, sighed the man internally, but right now…
The boy had retreated into the alley again, looking at James with pure distrust. There was a pout to his lips and his entire body was shivering. His brother had begun coughing again, and tears were gathering in the eyes of both boys.
"Now, now," soothed Mr. Kirkland, once again turning his full attention to the boys, "I thought we were on better terms! Come now, come out, please?"
A few long seconds later, the boy inched himself and the brother he was carrying out of the alleyway. The blonde boy sent a particularly nasty glare at James. The young assistant actually flinched under the intense stare and, with a glance towards his boss, retreated to the cab.
Mr. Kirkland could visibly see the boy relax and he couldn't help but smile as the young American gave him a small smile once James had gone.
"I dun like 'im, m'glad he's gone," mumbled the boy, shivering more than ever, stamping his feet as he did. "W-wotcha need a cab f-for anyways? G-gonna call a d-doctor? 'urry please, I'm w-worried 'bout M-Mattie…'so cold, y-y'know?"
Mr. Kirkland's heart clenched painfully again. "Mattie? Is that your brother's name?"
The boy looked up, seeming a bit surprised at the question. He nodded once, casting a worried glance over his shoulder, where his brother's head lolled limply.
"And what's your name?" asked the Englishman.
"A-Alfred," responded the American, looking more and more detached from the environment as he began to shiver more violently, his blue eyes blinking lethargically.
Bollocks. Cursed Mr. Kirkland internally. "Well Alfred, I'm going to take you and Mattie to see a doctor, okay? We're going to go in the cab, to the hotel I'm staying at, and- bloody hell!"
Mr. Kirkland just managed to lunge forward and catch the two Americans as Alfred toppled forward, his eyes slipping shut as he finally succumbed to the cold that had been nipping mercilessly at his body.
"Dammit!" cursed the Brit aloud, "James! James get over here! I need you to carry one of these boys back to the cab!"
Mr. Kirkland gently eased the brothers to the ground before quickly taking off his jacket. He wrapped the article of clothing around the younger one, Mattie, and picked him up carefully. James rushed over and, quickly assessing the situation, picked up Alfred. The young man's mouth was in a straight line, and he kept whatever opinions he might have had about the situation to himself. Mr. Kirkland nodded to his assistant before rushing quickly towards the cab.
I don't know what I'm doing...thought the British man, wincing at the unhealthy heat coming off of the young boy in his arms, but I can't let these boys die out here. I don't know what it is, but I feel…responsibly for them somehow.
Mr. Kirkland looked down at Mattie. The boy's face was pale with an unhealthy red at the cheeks and sweat beading his brow. His hair was wet and clung to his skin; his mouth open as harsh, grating breathing came through.
Mr. Kirkland gritted his teeth angrily.
No matter where I go, it's the same. It's always the innocent who suffer for the mistakes of the arrogant.
No matter what, I will not let these boys die.
Rating: T
Summary: Some stories can get quite complicated. Especially when they involve crime families, plots to take over the world, and immortality. Time can't erase hate, nor can it erase love, and a life of crime can last forever. England V.S. China AU
(Main) Characters: England, China, Japan, Canada, Korea, America, Russia
Pairings: Brotherly USUK, Brotherly NiChu,
Not a 'romance' story. The love in it is mostly family or brotherly love. Pairings may pop up, but they're not instrumental. Giving away pairings might give away plot, so I'm not saying much about them.
Warnings: Violence, mature subject matter, graphic scenes and painful situations throughout the fic.
Chapter 2:
Part 1:
Chapter 2
"It wasn't by chance that I met you. This is what they call fate."
-Take Off, 2PM
Manhattan, Unites States of America- January, 1922
The air was frosty, biting and vicious. Nipping at people mercilessly as it whipped and whirled down the busy street, whistling between buildings and through crowds. The cold wind blew harshly, blowing up the hems of jackets and sending top hats tumbling to the ground or whisking them away all together. All around, people were bundled up tightly in their thick coats, warm scarves and woolen gloves. The sky was gray, but bright, and that coupled with the lack of snow made the day look nowhere near as cold as it felt.
"Bloody hell, isn't America s'pposed to be warm?" cursed the man irritably, rubbing his gloved hands together. He cupped them and blew, sending a cloud of misty breath into the chilly January air as he tried to warm himself.
"Language please," said his associate with a sigh, wrapping his own scarf tighter about his neck. Appropriate conduct and gentlemanly behavior was a must…even if it was bloody cold.
"My apologies Mr. Kirkland," said the first man, ceasing his frantic motions and straightening his back before looking sheepishly towards his boss. Mr. Kirkland merely raised one of his notable eyebrows before pulling his top hat down further atop his sandy-blonde hair.
"Simply mind yourself better in the future," he said sternly, but not with any degree of menace or true annoyance. He was shivering himself and he sank his chin deep into the folds of his scarf.
"It is cold though," he commented with a sigh. "Let's hurry and get this business taken care of. The sooner we get back to England the better. I'm sure you're itching to get back to your son, right James?"
James grinned and nodded vigorously. "Howard is growing like you wouldn't believe. He'll be five soon. Five!"
Mr. Kirkland smiled at the man's excitement and love for his family but found his smile strained and his mind wandering, as he began thinking of his own son, not yet nine years old. Their relationship was…mediocre at best, and there appeared to be a growing gap between what Mr. Kirkland thought his son wanted and what the boy actually seemed to desire.
The Englishman sighed and he found himself wishing that he could stay in this country longer and avoid the conflict, arguments, and tension that awaited him at home.
Despite the cold, America was a pleasant place. It had a constant busy hum to it and while England had a similar thrum of activity the busy streets of Manhattan just seemed more…alive somehow. The way the people moved, the way they interacted with each other. The busyness that wasn't just business. A person walking might just be walking with no place to go, with no aim, and no purpose. A happy aimlessness that was different from London, where everyone had an agenda. Manhattan had an almost easy-going, joyful vibe that said that most of its inhabitants loved simply living and not living for any monetary or materialistic reasons.
Of course, that wasn't to say that the place was perfect. No, the homeless people on the street corners, shivering under newspapers and braced against the wind, were a harsh reminder that no Utopia could exist, even in a land of dreams like America.
Mr. Kirkland's eyes peered out from under his hat, watching a young couple with large shopping bags skip down the sidewalk with a giddy looking boy in between them.
Of course, the Englishman might be biased. His own home life and existence in London had become so frustrating lately that any place was likely to look better than the British city. There was nothing wrong with London itself, and yet, Mr. Kirkland was rather sick of it. Sick of the businessmen and their lies. Sick of the people there, still floating on euphoria after their victory in the war. And sick of the fact that he, the head of a major company and one of the most influential people in Europe, could not for all his money, seem to get along with his son.
"Hey! Hey! Thief! Stop thief!"
Both James and Mr. Kirkland paused in their stiff, quick walk, the younger of the two turning around with wide eyes while the elder man just looked back over his shoulder with an exasperated, somewhat irritated expression.
"Oi, what's all the commotion about?" inquired James, peering forward with eager eyes at the excitement and movement going on in a particularly loud crowd by a series of street-vendors.
"Ignore it James," commanded Mr. Kirkland sternly, "American theft is no different than British theft. Let's go."
The younger man seemed to deflate a little but he nodded at his boss's request and turned his head with a sigh, snuggling deeper into his jacket collar. "Yeah, ye-I mean, yes. Yes, you're quite right sir. My apologies." James flushed at his momentary slip-up and hid his face in his scarf, averting his eyes. Mr. Kirkland resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his young assistant who, despite having recently turned thirty, still had a tendency to act quite immature.
The two British men resumed walking, and Mr. Kirkland bit back a sigh as he noticed a few white flakes beginning to drift down past his eyes, one of them stinging his nose with cold as it landed. The Englishman shook his head as water ran down the front of his nose and bit back a groan of annoyance. However much irritation he might feel with his homeland, he would take England's perpetual rain over this infernal white stuff any day.
Lost in his thoughts as he was, Mr. Kirkland did not hear the rapid pitter-patter of feet behind him, nor did he pay attention to the cacophony of shouts and curses coming from the collection of street vendors that they had just walked by. As such, he was understandably surprised when James let out a shout from behind him, and something large suddenly crashed into his legs.
"Wa-,"
"Oof!"
Mr. Kirkland's knees buckled and he was saved from falling only by his cane, which he leaned on heavily as he tried to keep his balance.
"Mr. Kirkland! Are you alright? Answer me sir!" James was at his side in an instance, holding onto his arm and helping to stop him from falling forward. Mr. Kirkland shook his head, trying to regain his bearings.
What the bloody hell just happened? He thought to himself in astonishment, eyes growing wide at the sheer force he had been hit with. Mr. Kirkland turned around, steadying himself on James's supportive arm and standing up straight.
The sight he was met with was not one that he expected to see, though not necessarily a strange sight in a city as big and poverty stricken as New York.
It was a boy, looking to be no older than six if that. Messy dark blonde hair, with a single piece sticking defiantly upwards, hung into dazed dark blue eyes. The boy was young, younger than his own son, and, Mr. Kirkland realized with one glance, clearly living in poverty.
Tattered pants that barely reached his ankles, a once white shirt with a frayed, oversized grey vest hanging off of it and shoes with holes in the front, so that tiny toes could be seen. It was obvious the entire outfit had seen better days.
Then there was what the boy was carrying. Or what he had been carrying before he had crashed into Mr. Kirkland. A scattering of buns were spread out across the dirty pavement and as soon as the boy came to his senses he began frantically gathering them up, casting panicked glances back over his shoulder towards the crowd of street vendors.
Clearly, this boy had been stealing.
"Oi! Don't go runnin' into people like that!" snapped James irritably at the boy. The youngster looked up at the two Englishmen, having finished gathering up his stolen goods, and stuck his tongue out defiantly.
"Nyeh! Stuffy ol' farts! Shoulda watched where yous was walkin'!" he replied angrily in a thick Brooklyn accent, before resuming his frantic flee from whomever he had stolen from.
"Now wait just a minute!" fumed James, making motions to chase after the boy. Mr. Kirkland, however, tightened his grip on his young associates arm, causing the young man to stop.
"Let him be," said Mr. Kirkland, staring after the boy with a somewhat saddened expression. "I'm sure he needed the bread more then the one who was selling it anyways. Poverty is painful to see in children. That child…"
Mr. Kirkland shook his head, suddenly feeling like a leaden weight had settled into his chest.
"That child was younger than Arthur."
/
Alfred was feeling particularly lucky. It wasn't often that he got away with stealing so much at one time. The man who had been selling the buns had been so engrossed in a conversation with a rich-looking lady that he hadn't even seen the young boy grab an armful of food. Alfred had managed to get halfway down the street before nosy citizens had pointed out his theft.
Still, he had gotten away with his prize and the young American was feeling quite proud of himself. The warmth of accomplishment that spread through him was almost enough to banish the cold that had wrapped around his body. The winter winds bit at his unshielded toes, blew down his tattered shirt and through his matted hair, sent shivers up and down his spine and caused his nose to drip uncontrollably. But he had food and that made it all go away in the glow of achievement.
Alfred wiped away the drippage with his sleeve, taking care to maintain a tight hold on his buns as he did. It had been a chore keeping hold of them the whole time he was running. He thought that he might have lost a few, particularly when he had run into those two old guys.
Alfred scowled at that. He had worked hard to steal all these buns and then some stupid stiffs who talked funny had made him lose some! The young boy mumbled angrily to himself for a few moments before his irritated face gave way to a triumphant smile as he realized that he really had gotten away. That thought in mind, he finally stopped running and slowed to a brisk walk as his destination came into view.
It was a small, abandoned warehouse. Somewhat spacious, empty, and with holes dotting the roof. It really wasn't that much larger than your average house, and looked more like a large shack then a warehouse. The wood was rotting in many areas and the left back corner of the structure had collapsed and was covered up with badly hammered in planks and a number of blankets sewn together. The main doors were padlocked and rusted shut so that the only way in and out was through one of the many of the holes dotted about the exterior. Alfred made his way towards one of these holes, clutching at the buns that were beginning to escape the confines of his arms. The young boy hummed to himself, some song that had been stuck in his head for as long as he could remember. He thought that one day he'd put lyrics to it or maybe pay someone to do it for him!
Alfred smiled at the idea of getting someone to work for him and maneuvered his way through a hole in the wall, struggling to maintain his hold on the buns as he did and losing a few in the process.
"Mattie!" he called excitedly as he entered the warehouse, ignoring the few buns he had dropped and calling out for his brother. "Hey Mattie! Yous won't believe how much food I nicked this time! I knows ya don't like it when I steal but-,"
Alfred stopped his speech as he heard a soft sound echoing around the small warehouse, a quiet, but easily recognizable sound.
Coughing.
"Mattie?" called Alfred again, worry causing him to drop his buns as he dashed towards the corner of the Warehouse where his brother had been resting. "Mattie! Hey Mattie yous ain't still coughin' are ya? Yous said yous was feelin' better, right? Mattie? Mattie? Mattie?"
There was no answer as Alfred ran towards the small form hidden under a mound of blankets in the dark corner. The young blonde's heart hammered in his chest as he approached, worry erasing the previous feelings of happiness and accomplishment that had moments ago consumed him.
"Mattie?"
In the corner, snuggled up in a pile of torn, thin-looking blankets, was another young boy. Similar to Alfred in both age and looks with wavy pale blonde hair and a flushed, skinny face. The boy's red-rimmed eyes opened a crack, revealing striking violet orbs that looked up at the other boy blurrily.
"A-Al?" he whispered, before his voice dissolved into harsh, phlegmy, coughing.
"Ack! Mattie!" cried Alfred in horror, falling to his knees and sidling up to his brother's side. "I thought yous stopped bein' sick! Why is yous still coughin'? H-hey! Hey!"
The younger boy doubled up in a coughing fit, curling up into a ball and tugging the blankets closer to him as his entire body shook violently.
Mattie…
Alfred swallowed thickly, hands trembling as he laid them on his brother's shaking form and eyes wide as Mattie's breath began coming out in short, painful wheezes. Alfred's breath hitched in his throat as he saw tears snaking their way down Mattie's dirty cheeks and a sob burst forth his lips.
"Mattie…" he whispered, clutching the blankets that covered his brother tightly, feeling the boy's severe trembling and the waves of unhealthy heat coming off of his body.
"Please don't die!"
/
"Blimey sir, have you seen some of this stuff? Some o' these chocolates are glowing I swear! You think these would still look this fancy if I took them back to London? Do you think Howard would fancy them? Or Lillian! Do you think Lily would like them?"
Mr. Kirkland resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the ceaseless excitement of his young assistant, who currently had his face pressed against the window of a sweet shop. The older man shuffled a bit, shivering in the icy wind that was blowing through. The temperature seemed to have dropped by several degrees since their walk to Mr. Kirkland's appointment with an important business associate, earlier that morning. The journey back to their hotel was proving to be much less enjoyable than the stroll to their meeting place had been. The air was crisper, colder, and large flakes of snow were blowing past at a heavier and heavier rate. Mr. Kirkland was beginning to regret not getting a driver to ferry them places. He had originally declined the offer because he had wished to experience the city of Manhattan without having it whiz by him too fast to see. Now, he wished for the warmth of a station wagon and the shortened distance between point A and point B. The cold chilled him to the bone and his joints were beginning to ache in the most annoying fashion.
I'm too young to feel this old, bemoaned the Englishman internally. Why am I so old? It's probably the cane. Should not have bought the bloody cane. I'm only thirty-nine for Christ's-,
"Help! Please! Somebody help!"
Mr. Kirkland was torn from his thoughts by a panicked, pleading voice coming from further up the street. The man looked in the direction curiously, his grip tightening around the hated cane as if in anticipation of stopping whatever was causing the unidentified voice harm. James tore his face away from the window, pouting as if upset at having been interrupted in picking out the perfect chocolate for his son and his wife. "Oi, what's all that racket?" he inquired, an irritated look on his face as he straightened up.
"I don't know," frowned Mr. Kirkland, trying to see through the crowds and the increasing haze of falling snow. "Perhaps we should go and see."
James grimaced, shivering in the cold wind and shifting his feet slightly. "Well, it's like you said," muttered the young man, pulling the collar of his coat up against the harsh winds, "Whatever is going on here isn't different then what would happen back home. Some one will help whomever it is out. Manhattan's a big city, and we're not exactly locals. What would we do? Direct them to the nearest hospital or police station when we don't know where they are?"
Mr. Kirkland frowned deeper and part of him wanted to reprimand James for the impertinence he had heard in the younger man's voice, while the other part reasoned that what he had said was true. Whoever it was that needed help would receive much better aid from someone who actually lived here rather than from two foreigners.
Mr. Kirkland gave a curt nod, stifling a sigh at the unpleasant feeling that had settled in his stomach, and continued walking. James gave a partly triumphant smile before shoving his hands into his pocket and following after his boss.
"Please, anybody, help my brother! Please!"
Mr. Kirkland stiffened as he heard the voice again, this time closer than before. It sounded painfully young and tugged at his heartstrings. That was the one thing that had really changed in the times since his wife had had Arthur. Previous to having a son, he'd been able to turn a blind eye to the poverty in the streets. He'd been able to walk by an urchin with no shoes begging for money. He'd been able to ignore it, just like everyone else.
But now, hearing a child's voice crying for help, knowing that the child could be Arthur's age or younger...And the fact that the cries hadn't stopped, that it seemed like no one was going to the child's aid…
"Please!"
Mr. Kirkland stopped abruptly, causing James to bump into him with a startled sound.
"Oi! Sir, what's the mat-,"
Mr. Kirkland began walking quickly towards the left, the direction from which he had heard the crying voice. As James began questioning his actions, a determined, stubborn look appeared on the older man's face. The famous 'Kirkland' face of absolute tenacity and steadfast gentlemanly pig-headedness.
Yes the locals were more able to deal with whatever situation was eliciting those cries, yes it was cold and he should really just go back to his hotel, yes it really was none of business. But Mr. Kirkland had a soft heart under his gruff business like exterior and moreover, he had a son who used to use that exact tone of voice when pleading for his father to play with him.
"Somebody…please…"
It didn't take the Englishman long to find the source of the voice. Weaving his way through the sidewalk crowd, he made his way over to a narrow passageway between two buildings, at the mouth of which stood the cause of the distressed cry.
Mr. Kirkland's eyes widened in surprise, bushy brows going straight up into his hairline as he recognized the young boy who had run into him earlier.
This time, however, there appeared to be two of them.
There was the first boy, who was standing with tears running from his swollen eyes and hoarsely calling out for help. Then there was the second boy, who the first boy had slung across his back in piggyback position. This boy was completely still, with his head lolling against the first boy's shoulder and entire body hanging limp.
"Somebody please help my brother!" screamed the first boy, taking a few staggering steps forward before falling onto his hands and knees.
Mr. Kirkland rushed forward, kneeling in front of the boy and placing his hand on his shoulder.
"Are you alright, lad? What's the matter?" asked the Englishman, casting a concerned look at the other boy, the one who hung limply and who hadn't moved an inch.
The first boy looked up in surprise, blue eyes wide. "M-my b-brother is s-sick," he sobbed, entire body shaking, "I-I th-think he's g-gonna d-d-die…"
Mr. Kirkland's face paled and he took a closer look at the second boy.
Indeed, the boy did not appear to be in good condition. He was worryingly pale except for the unhealthy flush on his cheeks. His hair was damp from either snow or sweat and hung in limp blonde waves around his face. The boy was breathing shallowly and his face was scrunched up in pain and discomfort. Mr. Kirkland reached out a tentative hand towards the child but found the boy yanked out of reach by his brother, who scurried backwards with a panicked look on his face.
"Watcha gonna do? Don't hurt him!" screamed the young boy, eliciting glances from several of the passerbys who had previously been ignoring him. "If you hurt him I'll…I'll…I'll biff ya somethin' awful!"
Mr. Kirkland paled and held up both hands in a placating gesture, astounded by the sheer volume emitted by such a thin-looking boy. "Now, now lad, calm down. You've been calling for help right? That's all I want to do, help you and your brother." The Englishman cast a worried look at the other boy, who hadn't moved at all despite his brother's loud outburst.
He looks extremely ill, thought Mr. Kirkland, brow furrowed with worry, and he's barely clothed…in this weather…
Mr. Kirkland once again moved closer to the two little boys but the conscious boy moved backwards, retreating into the alley with a panicked look. The Englishman gritted his teeth and moved back slightly, feeling a rising sense of urgency as he watched the sick boy's harsh breathing give way to coughing, the now heavily falling snow settling into his hair and on his back. While trying to think of a way to get the boy to trust him, Mr. Kirkland suddenly stiffened, noting for the first time that James had come up behind him and was standing by anxiously.
"Sir…" began the young man hesitantly while casting a wary glance towards the young boy crouched in front of his boss. The youth recoiled at the new man, sticking his tongue out as he did but with panic in his red-rimmed eyes.
Fearing that the scared boy was likely to bolt at any moment, Mr. Kirkland turned to give James a stern look. "Hush James, give me a moment," he shushed, before pausing and looking over his assistant's shoulder to the busy street behind. "Actually, James, do you mind hailing down a cab?" asked the older man, watching the thick snowflakes with increasing concern. His eyes slid back towards the shivering boy in the alleyway and his sickly brother. Both were dressed in threadbare clothes, attire not suitable for decent weather, let alone an increasing snowstorm. The sick boy appeared to be wearing socks but no shoes, while the other boy had too-small shoes but no socks. Despite his belligerence, the apparent elder brother was shivering and an unhealthy flush was beginning to colour his cheeks as well.
They need to get out of this weather…
James startled slightly, surprised by his boss's request. His eyes narrowed suspiciously and he cast a suspicious, somewhat contemptuous look at the boys cowering in the alleyway.
"Sir," began the young man sternly, "If I may…I realize you…your heart is in the right place but honestly, the little brats are just going to run off with your wallet the second you turn your back and the smaller one gets tired of playing sick. It's like you said before, America isn't any different from England."
"This is what I'm saying now!" thundered Mr. Kirkland in a loud voice he rarely ever used, a stern, angered voice that caused his young assistant to jump. "I will not simply walk by and let two little boys freeze to death! Regardless of whether or not they plan to steal my belongings, they will die if left alone. Or do you not see the snow falling in front of your face? Has your affluence so desensitized you from the plights of others? Do you truly intend to have me walk away from children younger than Arthur? One of them sick and in need of medical attention, while the other is sure to follow if he continues living in these conditions? If this is truly your opinion on the matter, than I gravely misjudged your character when I hired you. Now, James, go do what you're paid to do; obey me. Go hail a cab." Mr. Kirkland's last statement came out as a harsh snarl and James recoiled as if he had been slapped, a stricken expression on his face. He took a step back before nodding stiffly and turning away, running to the side of the sidewalk while waving his hand in the air somewhat frantically.
Mr. Kirkland stood proud and angry as he stared after his young assistant before deflating like a balloon. He released his breath in a loud sigh and took off his looming top hat to run a hand through his sandy locks.
James was young. He had never known poverty, his family being a well-off, well-known English family that the Kirklands had been working with closely for a few generations now. He had grown up in the same manner that Mr. Kirkland himself had; with his nose sharply upturned to the plights of those 'beneath' him and with a conditioned blind eye towards the poor.
Mr. Kirkland felt a twinge of guilt as he turned away from his young assistant, but he brushed it off. James was in the wrong here. No questions asked.
A harsh cough caused Mr. Kirkland to whirl around, his attention once again on the young boys. The boy he presumed to be older, the one who was carrying his brother, was looking up at him with a puzzled and somewhat stunned expression. The Englishman withered on the inside. Had his outburst destroyed any chance he had had of making the child unafraid of him?
The child stared unblinking at the man and Mr. Kirkland cleared his throat awkwardly, preparing to try and placate the boy.
"Wow," said the boy, blinking his wide blue eyes and interrupting Mr. Kirkland's thoughts, "Ya sure gots a loud voice. Heard ya right over da city noise. An', t'was real nice whatcha said. Y'all dressed real nice an' stuff. Nice-dressed people ain't usually nice. Theys always tryin' ta take us to da cops or somethin'. Didn't 'spect a nice-dressed person ta stop when I started hollerin'."
Mr. Kirkland blinked, stunned at the sudden rush of words from the young boy who, moments before, had been screaming at him, terrified.
"Oi, Mista," continued the boy, waddling out of the alleyway to stand in front of the Englishman. "You really mean it, ya gonna 'elp us? Me an' Mattie? Mattie's real sick ya know…I…I'm real scared…" the boy's sudden rush of confidence disappeared as he hung his head, tears once again dripping down his cheeks as he took the limp hand of his brother.
"P-please," he whimpered in a heart-breaking voice, "I…I'm s'posed ta protect him. I'm 'is big brotha…I'm s'pposed ta b-be his h-hero!"
Mr. Kirkland's heart positively broke as the little boy broke down into sobs and he knelt in front of the young child.
"There, there, don't cry," soothed the man, awkwardly patting the boy on the head. He mentally sighed in relief when the child didn't flinch or pull away and continued with his movements, inching closer as he did. "Listen, you're here aren't you? Out in the cold? And it's all for your brother, right? That means you're doing a splendid job of protecting him. I mean, it might have been better if you had left him inside instead of exposing him to the elements, but…"
Mr. Kirkland trailed off as the young boy looked up at him, a stricken look on his face.
Dammit, I never could talk to children, cursed the man internally, even Arthur…
"S-sir."
The boy drew back, looking up distrustfully at James, who had hesitantly appeared behind Mr. Kirkland. The older man turned around, slightly irritated at having the progress he had made regressed. However, his eyes softened as he saw the dejected and somewhat pained expression on James's face.
"Ah," said the elder man somewhat awkwardly, "Did you-?"
"Yes," replied James automatically, before flushing and recoiling as if apologetic for interrupting. "Y-yes, th-there is a cab waiting." Mr. Kirkland nodded, turning away from his assistant. Just looking at the young man's depressed face was causing his conscience to send waves of discomfort through his stomach.
I'll talk to him later, sighed the man internally, but right now…
The boy had retreated into the alley again, looking at James with pure distrust. There was a pout to his lips and his entire body was shivering. His brother had begun coughing again, and tears were gathering in the eyes of both boys.
"Now, now," soothed Mr. Kirkland, once again turning his full attention to the boys, "I thought we were on better terms! Come now, come out, please?"
A few long seconds later, the boy inched himself and the brother he was carrying out of the alleyway. The blonde boy sent a particularly nasty glare at James. The young assistant actually flinched under the intense stare and, with a glance towards his boss, retreated to the cab.
Mr. Kirkland could visibly see the boy relax and he couldn't help but smile as the young American gave him a small smile once James had gone.
"I dun like 'im, m'glad he's gone," mumbled the boy, shivering more than ever, stamping his feet as he did. "W-wotcha need a cab f-for anyways? G-gonna call a d-doctor? 'urry please, I'm w-worried 'bout M-Mattie…'so cold, y-y'know?"
Mr. Kirkland's heart clenched painfully again. "Mattie? Is that your brother's name?"
The boy looked up, seeming a bit surprised at the question. He nodded once, casting a worried glance over his shoulder, where his brother's head lolled limply.
"And what's your name?" asked the Englishman.
"A-Alfred," responded the American, looking more and more detached from the environment as he began to shiver more violently, his blue eyes blinking lethargically.
Bollocks. Cursed Mr. Kirkland internally. "Well Alfred, I'm going to take you and Mattie to see a doctor, okay? We're going to go in the cab, to the hotel I'm staying at, and- bloody hell!"
Mr. Kirkland just managed to lunge forward and catch the two Americans as Alfred toppled forward, his eyes slipping shut as he finally succumbed to the cold that had been nipping mercilessly at his body.
"Dammit!" cursed the Brit aloud, "James! James get over here! I need you to carry one of these boys back to the cab!"
Mr. Kirkland gently eased the brothers to the ground before quickly taking off his jacket. He wrapped the article of clothing around the younger one, Mattie, and picked him up carefully. James rushed over and, quickly assessing the situation, picked up Alfred. The young man's mouth was in a straight line, and he kept whatever opinions he might have had about the situation to himself. Mr. Kirkland nodded to his assistant before rushing quickly towards the cab.
I don't know what I'm doing...thought the British man, wincing at the unhealthy heat coming off of the young boy in his arms, but I can't let these boys die out here. I don't know what it is, but I feel…responsibly for them somehow.
Mr. Kirkland looked down at Mattie. The boy's face was pale with an unhealthy red at the cheeks and sweat beading his brow. His hair was wet and clung to his skin; his mouth open as harsh, grating breathing came through.
Mr. Kirkland gritted his teeth angrily.
No matter where I go, it's the same. It's always the innocent who suffer for the mistakes of the arrogant.
No matter what, I will not let these boys die.