CHAPTER EIGHT: The Road Not Taken

Lightning crackled, lighting up the sky.

Thunder boomed like the crash of a hundred kettle drums.

Wind savagely howled and ripped at the trees.

Heavy rain assaulted every exposed surface with the precision and aggression of a nail gun.

The noisy storm was impossible to sleep through.

They feigned it.

In two shelters, two pairs of eyes cracked open at the angry thunder. Two pairs of ears were bitten by the sound of the pelting rain. Two hearts pounded at the fearsome wind.

Lightning found its mark on an innocent maple tree with a crack.

Both heard it.

The tree burst into flames, engulfed in the orange tongues that lapped ruthlessly at its branches. Eventually, the fire was muffled out by the downpour, though the tree was left charred, beautiful red leaves turned a smoky black.

One floated to the ground, where it met the relentless onslaught of rain.

"God dammit!" Arthur cursed as the house chose then to to spring another leak right above his head.

As if the previous night's storm hadn't been enough, the rain had carried on into the next day, and the Briton was forced to waste the better part of his afternoon dashing about sticking buckets under uncooperative places in their insufferably weak ceiling.

This was the fourth leak he'd had the displeasure of coming across in the same room, and he was beginning to wonder if it was possible for the house to still be in one piece. Grumbling to himself, he grabbed an empty cup from a nearby coffee table and positioned it under the leak. That would do the job until he found something more suitable.

Heaving a sigh, the Brit slumped heavily on the couch and ran a hand through his unruly hair. He was up to his neck in work, from the house, to the dogs, to his job that hardly paid the hospital bills. Things were overwhelming, to say the very least. He felt the beginnings of a migraine laughing at him from behind his eyes.

The crisis of his leaking ceiling seemed to be temporarily averted. Now he could focus on his other work.

Bloody brilliant.

Squinting slightly against the tingle of pain in his head, he forced himself to his feet and made his way to the study.

The article wasn't going to write itself.

After situating himself in front of the computer, booting it up, and opening the writing software, he began to type. However, he found his hands resting motionless on the keyboard not five minutes later, and his eyes stared unblinkingly at the screen. Words had climbed out of reach once more, and were teasing him from just above his head. He was stuck. Again.

Sometimes, he hated being a writer.

A knock from the doorway behind him broke Arthur from his daze, and he turned to find Francis standing in the hall.

"Matthieu starts chemo in an hour. Alfred and I are going to head over to see him. Are you sure you can't come?"

"If I don't get this in by the deadline, I'm going to be out of a job." The Englishman sent his husband a look as close to apologetic as he could muster. "I can't afford to not work on it. Besides, the house is bloody falling apart." He sighed. "Tell Matthew I'm sorry, and I'll be there to see him as soon as I can."

Francis merely nodded and stepped out again, seeing as Arthur was on the verge of stress. He did not want to help that stress along. An overworked Arthur was scary at best.

He closed the door gently, but before he turned to leave, he blew a kiss at the polished wood.

"I love you, Arthur," he murmured. "Please go easy on yourself."

Alfred awaited him back in the living room, amusing himself with some sort of brightly coloured game on the screen of his cell phone. His eyes were glued to the device, so if he acknowledged Francis's entrance, he didn't do so visibly or very loudly.

Deciding against waiting for the boy to look up on his own (as there was a very real possibility that it wouldn't be happening within the next hour), Francis decided to announce himself. "Alfred, are you ready to go?"

Alfred didn't raise his head, but he clicked off his phone. "I guess." He stood slowly, shoving the rectangular device into his back pocket.

Francis frowned a little, seeing Alfred so quiet and unhappy. It was a bit unnerving, to say the least, but he chose not to focus on it. "Come, get in the car. We should get going."

"Gilbert. You need to get a job."

From his reclined position on sofa, the albino replied by rolling over and tossing an excessively dramatic arm over his face. "Vatiiiii," he whined weakly.

"Don't you dare start," Gilbert's father replied sternly. "You are eighteen years old, and you need to get a job. I don't want to see you loafing around the house anymore while your sixteen year old brother is out earning a paycheck."

Lifting his arm slightly at his father's stern tone, Gilbert shot the man a half-hearted, ineffective stink eye. "Can you maybe not compare me to Luddy?"

This obviously earned him zero points with his father, whose glare intensified. He crossed his arms. "Once you've started applying yourself, sure."

Gilbert sighed heavily. The arm went back over his face. "I don't even know if they're hiring anywhere," he muttered, giving in.

"You won't know until you look."

The teen didn't move.

"Keep in mind that I won't let you freeload once you graduate. If you end up homeless, don't bother trying to come back to me."

Still no response.

"The computer is on when you're ready to start looking." And with that, he turned on his heel and stepped out.

Limply, Gilbert's arm slid off his face, a muffled thump sounding as it collided with the sofa. No matter what he did, it was always, Why can't you be more like your brother?

Heaving a sigh, he forced himself into a sitting position. Going job hunting was just about the last thing he wanted to do, but it was second to continuous comparison to his younger sibling, and dealing with an angry dad.

Deciding it best to choose the lesser evil, Gilbert slowly and begrudgingly made his way to the computer.

The computer that he discovered to be already on and loading a website listing available work in the area.

Thanks, Vati, he thought sarcastically.

Sliding into the leather bound chair, Gilbert took the mouse and began scrolling through the page.

Unsurprisingly, most of the offered work was either incredibly cheap, or simply unattractive to the German boy. Stifling a yawn, he forced his half-lidded eyes down the list again.

This time, something caught his attention.

He sat up a little, wondering how he could have skimmed past it.

The address was the same. He was sure of it.

The pay wasn't great, but he'd be stupid to let this one go.

A faint and almost involuntary vision of honey blond hair and sunset eyes replayed through Gilbert's mind as he stood and called back down the hall:

"Hey, Vati! How would you feel about me doing some work at a hospital?"

"Dad's not coming...?"

"He said to tell you that he is very sorry," Francis told his son from his seat beside the bed, after Alfred had taken his leave to wait in the lobby. "He has much work to do. He promised to come and see you as soon as he possibly can."

"Oh." Matthew tried his best not to look disappointed. He knew Arthur's work was probably the only thing paying the medical bills.

But he couldn't prevent the beginnings of a painful knot in his stomach.

What if Papa was making excuses because Dad had forgotten...?

Francis seemed oblivious to Matthew's concerns, however, and continued to lightly converse. "In any case, your nurse will be here soon, yes? I will stay if you want me to."

The smaller blonde gave a mute nod, unfocused.

The two sat in near silence for a short while, with Francis making the idle comment here and there in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. Eventually, Elizabeta made her entrance, offering a quick apology for keeping them waiting. She pulled the privacy curtain closed on her way over.

Silently, Matthew watched her make the necessary arrangements with the IV. Once she had finished, she turned back to him. "Let me know if there are any problems, alright? I'll be nearby if you need anything at all." At that, she took her leave, the door clicking shut behind her.

Francis squeezed his hand. "I will be right here," he promised.

Exhaustion.

Sheer, unmatched fatigue. Matthew was aware of that more than anything.

His limbs were heavy, his head swam, and keeping his eyes open was proving to be a challenge, despite the familiar nausea that subtly reared its ugly head in the recesses of his senses. He felt like he had run a hundred consecutive marathons.

Miserably, he let out a soft whimper and allowed his eyes close for a moment. He felt his papa's fingers gently brushing his lengthy bangs from his forehead.

"You can sleep, Matthieu," Francis told him softly, after Matthew had forced his eyes open again. "It is alright. Rest."

"I can sleep...?" he managed wearily.

"Yes, please sleep." The Frenchman's voice held a concerned undertone, but he covered it thickly.

Lacking the energy that would amount to a decent protest, all he could do was give a tiny nod before his eyelids dropped again.

He may have dreamed it, but he was sure he heard a familiar voice from a particularly loud passerby in the hall just before he drifted off.

Well, it certainly has been a while, hasn't it? For that, I would like to apologize. The majority of writing this chapter had me looking almost exactly like Arthur towards the beginning: sitting down, writing for five minutes, then staring at my screen for what probably amounted to several hours. Words were elusive, and what good phrases I managed to string together were used in my Language Arts essays instead of the story.

Chunky paragraph in a nutshell: I'm sorry for neglecting updates for several months, and you can blame classwork coupled with a bit of writer's block.

(I must've proofread this chapter fifty times, dammit.)

I hope to get this story back on track very soon.

I DO HAVE THIS ENTIRE PLOT PLANNED OUT ALREADY. So rest assured, I'm not plotting on the go. It's just a matter of getting it down and making it look pretty. And the latter can take time.

I'm determined to finish this story. No matter how much it takes, I will finish this story.

Thank you to anyone out there who followed this back in November of 2014 and is still interested after my stupidly long hiatus. MERCI BEAUCOUP. I love you dearly.

Anyway, I had some things to say, but they've escaped me, and this is getting so long I kinda doubt anyone is still reading... so on with the preview!

CHAPTER NINE PREVIEW

His family is trying, but misinterpretations threaten to drive them apart. Meanwhile, a certain albino doesn't know why he can't forget the boy he saved.

Please don't forget to review! Tony and Kuma know where you live.

(Not really. But a review would be nice anyway... if anyone's still there. *crickets*)

I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday, and here's to a great 2016!

Yours heroically,

Liett