Mindless, confused wandering, as if he was trying to find something, though what he didn't know. In a jacket, a shirt, shoes, he was not familiar with. Wherever he was, it was cold. The greenery was so lush, bright, that tender green the plants only are in the first spring month. The rain was constant, he felt that it never would stop, the wilderness, too, seemed endless, so surreal. He was so tired. The glasses on his nose felt heavy, symbolic. He felt out of place, and that he, too, had a deep, heavy meaning. That the place he belonged was so far, he knew, but he didn't know where that was. How old was he? He felt a weight upon his mind, like endless memories wanted to burst into him, tell him everything he could know. Centuries of knowledge he felt in himself, though his body felt young, adolescent.

And in the haze of the steady rain, through the puffs of smoke his breath produced, he could see a light, yellow and warm, coming towards him. A figure, a man, began to run as he held the light. The silhouette had a coat on, unbuttoned as it flailed in the rain. Was the figure running to him? He could make out features, now, emerald eyes shining in the cold rain, short blonde hair soaked, dripping along his round face. The man was talking, but he couldn't understand. Some anger, annoyance, shone suddenly on the man's face, and then he grabbed the lost one's elbow and started walking in the direction from where he came, dragging him. He could feel the same weight, heavy significance and symbolism in that man as he could feel within himself, and his glasses. And just over the hill he'd been walking up, there was a large home glowing inside with warmth. Heater humming just outside, the man took him in.

Going past a kitchen, into a living room, the man stopped and looked him over, wrinkled his nose, said something else. The adolescent stared, trying to make something of the lip movements. The man rolled his eyes, left the room in a rush, and came back in with a thick blanket, draped the thing over the adolescent's back. He took the adolescent's shoulders, pushed him towards a wall, and when he felt a cushion at the backs of his knees, and the man spoke, "here, sit," the adolescent could understand. The room was so warm, and he was so cold, he felt safer, less out of place there. Clutching the blanket, he then noticed a boy next to him on the couch. He had the same significance, symbolism radiating from him as the lost adolescent and the man, and his face held the same confusion, sense of displacement, that his own held.

"Do you know your name?" The man who had taken him, blonde and proper in a suit, asked.

The adolescent watched his face, the man's thick brows furrowed. He felt that weight in his mind, the emptiness that possessed the rest of his consciousness, but some words, fragments of knowledge reached him, "Al… Alfred." He felt that was his name, and he felt a bit less lost, knowing he had a title.

The man watched him, pursing his lips, "is that it? Your whole name?"

This time it was easier, the information slipping past his tongue as he identified it, "Frank Jones… Alfred Frank Jones."

"That's it? Nothing else?" Alfred nodded, clear blue eyes satisfied.

The man looked behind him, to another man, tall with long blonde hair and blue eyes darkened with some emotion, face serious and arms crossed. The tall man took a deep breath, asked in a smooth deep, accented voice, "You are sure you have no other titles?" Alfred was sure, so he nodded. The tall man shrugged, looked to the emerald-eyed man who'd taken Alfred.

Suddenly the situation seemed oddly familiar to Alfred, and both men seemed like people he knew. He now saw the smaller emerald eyed man in a different time, different place, with a softer face, a hand outstretched to him saying it was time to go home. He remembered seeing the man come to him with a suit, not as long ago, telling him that he needed to dress formally, and that he could also use some new clothes. Alfred, a new age now, saw the man, down on his knees but still taller than him, scolding him, telling him of some large responsibility, and Alfred felt it had something to do with the significance he felt within himself. In the past again, this time Alfred saw the tall man, towering over him, eyes soft, holding a young boy, just a toddler, saying "yes, he's your brother," Alfred reached out to the boy as the man came to his knees, and realized that their hands were the same size, that they were the same age. Alfred then noticed the boy next to him looked like the toddler in the memory. Again in the past, he felt himself in the bath, hating it, struggling, and with the emerald eyed man washing him, his hands so big, angry, washing his hair, the suds getting in his eyes. Alfred now felt a certain protection coming from the emerald-eyed man, as if he was a parent.

"Do you remember me?" The question was sudden, bringing Alfred out of his memories. Alfred looked up at him, eyes dark with thought.

"You're…" Alfred's mind strained, trying to get words out from the weight in his mind, "my…" he murmured, closing his eyes, he remembered baths, meals, the man searching under his bed and in his closet for monsters, "dad" he breathed, the word surfacing with uncertainty, Alfred not sure if that what he normally called the man.

The man who had taken him blanched, staring at him, emerald eyes growing wide. He began taking deep, uneven breaths, wheezing a bit as his eyes darkened. He made a noise deep in his throat, as if to speak, then simply turned to look helplessly at the other man. The tall man had a brow raised, and gave a small smile before coming to stand beside the troubled emerald-eyed man. The tall man put a hand on the short man's shoulder, gave a larger smile to Alfred, "and me?" he asked, "do you remember me?"

Alfred nodded, knowing the man's face, and the tall man's smiled more, "And what you called me, do you remember?"

Alfred watched him, thinking, and he had no idea what he called the tall man, so he shook his head.

The tall man nodded, and said "Papa, I am Papa," eyes gleaming a vivid blue. He nodded to the boy sitting next to him, "and him," he asked, "do you know him?"

Alfred immediately smiled, sure of himself this time, "He's my brother."

And the tall man nodded, pleased, "Yes! He is your twin brother, do you know what that means, that he is your twin?"

Alfred nodded, said, "He's my age, we were born on the same day."

The man, again, nodded, "Very good! And you know his name?" Alfred stared at his brother, eyes darkening with thought, straining to remember, he eventually shook his head.

"His name is Matthew." The tall man told him, voice softer. He moved to Matthew, done speaking to Alfred, then hunched over, looking the boy in the face, "Matthew, are you listening?"

The boy, Matthew, already looking down, gave a small nod. His shoulders were hunched, hands clenched at his knees, whole form speaking of timidness and fear. "Matthew," the tall man asked, "Do you know now who he is" he tilted his head toward Alfred. Matthew nodded, and he began to shake a bit. The tall man stood up, taking one of Matthew's hands, recognizing that the boy was becoming over stimulated. "Come now," he whispered gently, "it is getting late, why don't we get you to bed." He looked to the emerald-eyed man, looking to see if he had gained his composure yet. The two shared a look, and the tall man said, "you too, Alfred, lets get you both into your pajamas."

Alfred followed, watching with wonder as the tall man got a towel from the linen closet, and lead then into a large bedroom; large enough to comfortably fit two full sized beds. He watched as the tall man led Matthew to one of the beds, told him, "this one is yours," and left Matthew there, looking frightened, to lead Alfred to the other bed and say pleasantly, "and this one is yours."

Alfred studied the bed, a large fluffy thing, touched it, saw that it was soft. He felt it, the softness of the cotton, and pressed down on it with both hands. It was bouncy. Behind him, the tall man discovered that Matthew couldn't make odds or ends of his pajamas, wondering at the drawstring on the bottoms. The tall man helped him into them, and left Matthew to fiddle with the drawstring, trying to figure out the knot. He then went to Alfred, stopping him from climbing onto his bed. The man took the moistened blanket from Alfred's shoulders, told him with soft words, with a soft smile, "you are far to wet to go to bed now, let us dry you off," he took the towel to Alfred's hair. Alfred watched the man's face, looked up to his arms, watching them move. The man stopped suddenly, crossing his arms and cocking his head a bit, keeping his soft expression, "do you know how to change clothes?" Alfred blinked, recognizing but not knowing the meaning of the man's words, and he shook his head. The man nodded, and helped him dry off and change, guiding him gently through the steps. Alfred, too, wondered at the drawstrings. The tall man ended the evening by tucking them both in, watching as the moved to fiddle with the sheets, eyes wide at discovering each texture. They both gasped when they noticed that the covers became warm when they let any part of themselves stay on the sheets for a few minutes. When they focused on an individual part- Alfred a loose thread on his pillowcase, Matthew the fold in a corner of the flat sheet- the tall man went to Matthew. Covering his eyes, murmuring soft things to him, the tall man turned the lamp off, momentarily stunning Alfred. Uncovering Matthew's eyes, the boy was frightened, as the man had expected, and he let the boy calm and become used to the dimmer light. He whispered to Matthew, "just try and relax, go to sleep, dad and I will be nearby if you need anything," between goodnights, then did the same for Alfred. He left them like that, with soft words in a dark room, leaving the door ajar to let in the light from the hall.

The tall man then went downstairs urgently but with silence, going to the emerald-eyed man who'd calmed himself by then. He was sitting on the couch, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he thought on the events of the day. The tall man sat down next to him, closer than he normally did; hip to hip, shoulder to chest (the emerald eyed one was a good deal shorter that the other man). The tall one leaned down to the small man's ear, murmured, "They are not yet asleep, Arthur." Arthur gave a small nod.

"Francis" Arthur breathed, voice heavy with emotion, "what the bloody hell happened! Do they look younger to you, too?"

Francis nodded, "they are so much smaller, they seem no older than fifteen," he bit his lip, rubbed thoughtfully at the stubble at his chin.

"And they don't remember a thing" Arthur murmured, took a deep breath.

Francis nodded, took a breath, "We will care for them together," he said, "non? And of course," he added, "they know that they are brothers, but," his voice became deeper, tone not quite suggestive, "they think that we are their parents."

Arthur stiffened, looked up suspiciously at Francis, "look, you fag," he whispered venomously, "I already told you I'm not interested in you."

Francis smirked, "I never said we had to take things that far. I was simply going to suggest we put aside our differences to help Matthew and Alfred get through whatever is going on with them." Arthur's expression changed from that of suspicion to anger and disbelief, "Of course," Francis purred, "If you wish, of course, we could add a new dimension to our relationship."

Arthur then chose to elbow Francis in the stomach, smiling when Francis doubled over, gasping. The man leaned back onto the couch after a minute, holding his stomach, regaining the rhythm to his breath. "I think you are tired, Arthur," Francis said breathlessly a few minutes later, "you seem grumpy." He stood, shaky from getting the air knocked from him, "Come, let us go to bed."

Arthur watched the man with a brow raised, but stood after Francis turned back form the stairs to look at him. "Why are you trying to lead me?" Arthur asked silently, "this is my house." Francis just smiled, and opened the door to Arthur's bedroom. He walked to the middle of the room, in front of a generous queen bed. Arthur suddenly felt that elbowing Francis in the stomach hadn't quite been enough when he saw the smile the man gave him.

"They think we are their parents," Francis whispered, "and parents share a bed, non?"

Author's notes: How's that for a first fic? XD But da well, I hope some of the weaker spots in this aren't too distracting (I'm at a loss on how to fix them), and that Arthur's little 'asthma attack' isn't too alarming. I know it's random, but England is a little too defensive in this chapter to explain himself. XP But reviews are desired, and I think that since it's winter break, and I wish to procrastinate on that paper I have to write, and that I don't think I have anything better to do (how sad DX) I think I'll start on the second chapter tomorrow. :D let's hope it turns out longer!