Soul Mate

Summary: AU, USUK. Alfred Jones moves into his new house with his brother Matthew and his recently divorced mother. While exploring the unrepaired sections of the house, Alfred meets someone that will change his life...

A/N: I've had this idea for a while and I decided to go ahead with it after being encouraged by Pippin's Socks after leaving a review for her story "Mediator". I've moved away from writing comedy and have gone for more serious stories, as shown by my main projects such as Tainted (Junjou Romantica). I've still kept my sense of humor (as people who have read Fifty Times would tell you), but sometimes I like to write some good serious angst. As such, most of my comedies are sort of... second-class citizens, I suppose, now. I'll still try to update them, but I write what I enjoy, so yeah... Please continue reading and reviewing!

"Alfred! Get back here and help your brother!"

"Awe, Mattie's got it!"

"Alfred, I'm gonna fall!"

"Fine, fine..." Alfred grabbed the other end of the heavy box containing most of the family's DVDs, CDs, and games (about eighty percent of that was actually Alfred's). After their mother had left their father a few months ago, the twins had been traveling back and forth between their parents as the custody battle raged. They refused to be separated. Their father lived in California, and their mother had moved to a rural town in Massachusetts about an hour's drive from Boston. In short, their mother had moved as far away from California as she could.

Alfred helped his twin carry the box into the new den, which was currently being used as their storage and sorting room. Alfred helped Matthew lift it onto a pile of miscellaneous junk, and they both went back for another load of boxes or furniture. For the most part, Alfred couldn't blame her. After five years of fighting with her husband behind closed doors, putting on a smile while hiding tears from her two young kids, and taking the emotional abuse, Kimberly Williams-Jones had finally stood up for herself and filed for divorce. All the more power to her.

"All right, that's the last of it," she said as she wiped a hand across her forehead. "All right, boys. Go fight over who gets what room. But," she warned, "be sure to stay where it's safe. This place is old, and not all the floors are safe yet."

Kimberly had bought the old Victorian-style mansion at a ridiculously low price. She planned to fix the place up and either turn it into a boarding house or a bed and breakfast. The house had fifteen bedrooms, about as many bathrooms, and three floors, excluding the bathroom. The paint on the outside was faded, but it was obviously white with green trim, and she knew it would require quite a bit of maintenance. A wraparound porch complete with a bench swing completed the homey feel she was looking for. She'd been shocked when the owner had practically given it to her. Granted, the poor man had looked half scared to death. She had heard locals talk about ghosts in the house, but put it off as a load of rumors and superstition. They did, after all, live in the state the Witch Trials had taken place in.

"Got it," Alfred stated, tramping up the stairs three steps at a time. Matthew followed after him, decidedly more slowly. Matthew picked the first room on the left on the second floor, not caring much. A room was a room. America continued to climb up to the third, and followed the hallway.

"Alfred!" Matthew called after him, looking up the flight. "We're not supposed to be up there!"

"Oh, it's fine. I'm not gonna be jumping up and down or anything," Alfred waved him off. He saw that most of the doors were open, showing covered-up antique furniture. His mother was planning on restoring it. Apparently, it had belonged to the original owners, all the way back in the 1840s or something like that. He noticed that one door was closed, though - the door at the end of the hall was shut tight. Alfred walked down the hall. For the top floor, it was rather cool up here. Usually it was warmer upstairs.

He opened the door, and was greeted by a room that was untouched. The furniture wasn't covered up, as the ancient couches and beds had been in rest of the house had been. An old book was on the bedside table, a bookmark in the middle, as if someone had left it to read for another time. An old pair of shoes lay neatly by the closet. Even a set of clothes were set out. It was as if someone had been in here recently.

Then again, the man they'd bought the place had been living here. This had probably been his room. But why had he left these things behind? Alfred went over to the clothes, picking them up. The cloth was old - ancient, even. And the style was beyond out of date; it looked like something that belonged in a museum. Another antique, maybe? He set it aside, and sat on the hand-sewn green quilt covering the bed. It was soft to the touch, and the bed was comfortable.

The room smelled nice, too. He would have thought it would smell musty, seeing as it had been unused for so long, but it smelled aired and refreshed - it actually reminded him of something like a forest after a rainstorm. He continued looking around the room. It seemed extremely tidy. In the corner was a chest of drawers. When he opened them, all the drawers were empty. Next to that was a table with an assortment of items on it - old candles, a slightly rusted letter opener, yellowed paper, an old pen, and an empty ink well. On the wall opposite it was a mirror. Alfred walked forward, looking at himself in the antique silver frame. He smiled, admiring his reflection.

He saw something move behind him, next the table. He turned fast. Nothing was there. He stared at the table for a few more seconds before passing it off as his over-active imagination.

He walked over to the window, which had a cushioned seat that took up the bay window, drawing open the green drapes. He was now overlooking the entire property - the back yard of it, anyway. It had, at one time, been a garden, though no one remembered what had been planted there, he was sure. He could still see where there had once been flower beds, though all that was left now was a tangle of knotted grasses, weeds, and brambly branches of some kind of dead bush.

The room was considerably comfortable, though the decorating was out of date. Not to mention everything was a shade of emerald, forest, or some other kind of green. Alfred would fix that up with a new comforter and a few posters of his favorite bands, and all would be well with the world. He smiled brightly and went downstairs to grab his boxes of clothes and begin moving into his new room.

~*~*~*~*~

Alfred lay awake in his bed, playing his PSP. He defeated another zombie minion of the Evil Lord Zutor, saved his game, and set it onto the bedside table on top of the book. He'd glanced at it earlier, but thought it looked dull beyond belief - "A Midsummer Night's Dream". When he'd opened it and attempted to read some of it, he'd wondered how anyone had ever made sense of it, and given up without much attempt on his part to continue. He set his glasses next to the game system.

He shut off the light (the electricity here worked, thankfully), and lay back, closing his eyes. He had a long day ahead of him tomorrow - his mother, Matthew, and he were supposed to go into town to get some supplies to begin restoration. He was just on the verge of falling asleep when he heard something fall to the floor. He sat up, struggling to find his glasses in the darkness, and snapped on his bedside lamp.

His PSP lay halfway across the room, and the book was now open to the page the bookmark had been in before he had moved it. The bookmark was back in its original place. Alfred stared at it for a moment, then reached over and slowly closed the book. It was cold. He shuddered a bit, fetched his PSP, and placed it next to the book.

That had been weird. He removed his glasses a second time, pulled the green covers over his head, and tried not to think of horror movies that always started with things like this.

~*~*~*~*~

The next day, Alfred had been up before his brother or mother. He hadn't slept well the night before. That whole book thing was beyond creepy. He was currently cleaning up one of the upstairs rooms, sweeping out the dust and other debris that had found its way into the place over the years. The floorboards creaked underneath him uncertainly, and he wondered just how well kept the building had been. His room was rather sturdy - the floors didn't even creak, like the ones downstairs did.

Alfred stepped back towards the closet, to sweep out the wooden floor in there, as well.

He heard the floor groan, louder than it had been in the main part of the room. He ignored it, sweeping up the dust bunnies and old leaves that had somehow gotten into the room when the windows had been open sometime.

The floor gave another loud groan, and he heard a cracking sound. He stopped for a moment, but when he heard nothing else, he continued his job. The sooner he finished the third floor, the sooner he got to eat lunch. He was humming a random song, sometimes uttering the lyrics under his breath.

The floor underneath him splintered, and Alfred felt his foot go through the floor. He let out a scream, sighing in relief when he only went through do his knee.

"Alfred? You okay up there?" Matthew poked his head in. He had been working on the room across the hall.

"Yeah, fine, my foot just went through the floor... The boards must be rotten."

"I'll go get Mom."

"That'll be--" Alfred heard another heart-stopping creak of a groan, and the floor gave way underneath him. He fell through, and was barely able to see the floor coming up to meet him before his world turned black.

~*~*~*~*~

When Alfred woke up, he wasn't in the house. In fact, he wasn't anywhere he recognized. He would have expected to wake up in a hospital or something, but this was beyond weird. Even weirder than the whole book fiasco.

He looked around himself, taking in the scenery. He was in a garden. He was surrounded by rose bushes in full bloom, under a tall tree. A fountain was a few feet in front of him. Looking into the water was a boy, about his age, who was gazing into the water. He had blonde hair, a few shades brighter than his own, and unusually large eyebrows, though it didn't necessarily look bad. He was wearing stuffy clothing - a long sleeved button-up shirt, a plain pair of black pants, and a blue-green sweater vest. He had eyes that were a deep emerald, with a thoughtful look. His mouth seemed permanently drawn into a frown, his eyebrows furrowed slightly.

The boy looked up, then towards him. He stared at him for a moment. "...You shouldn't be here," he stated plainly. He had a British accent. Not one of those fake Hollywood accents that were used for comedic or dramatic purposes, but a real one. The accent suited him, actually.

Alfred stared at him. Well that had been rude. "What do you mean, I shouldn't be here?"

"Leave," the blonde boy responded, eyebrows furrowing further. He stood, his hands clenching into fists and unclenching, over and over.

Alfred looked confused. "What do you mean, leave? I don't even know where I am."

"Not here," the boy scoffed, shaking his head. "My house! Leave it alone!"

"Your house...?"

"You, that woman, and the other boy - I want you out!" the boy said, his knuckles on his clenched hands turning white.

"Hey, look, calm down," Alfred said, holding his hands up. "I have no idea what you're talking about--"

The boy stepped forward, anger in his green eyes. "None of you understand," he hissed. "None of you can just leave me alone!" He brought back a hand, snapping it forward towards Alfred's head in a surprisingly well-controlled punch.

Alfred had been in a few fights before. He knew how to handle himself. His arm came up before he really calculated the movement, his hand closing around the wrist of the green-eyed boy.

Something happened.

All of a sudden, he wasn't standing there, holding the boy's wrist as he blocked a punch.

He was seeing images from someone else's point of view. Knowing things that he had no way of knowing. Arthur. The boy's name was Arthur - Arthur Kirkland. He was seventeen, and he had been born in April of 1825 in London, England. He liked tea, the sea, and books, particularly poetry and Shakespeare. He'd been left at a boarding school by his mother and father when they had gone across the pond to take care of his business over here. Arthur himself had come across to America when he was fourteen, just to find that his mother had died a few months earlier and his father had remarried without bothering to inform him.

He'd been able to see strange - things - since he was very young. He'd spent a bit of time in an asylum here in America when he'd tried to explain this to his father. He'd figured out that pretending he didn't see the things he did was the only way to be considered sane, the only way to be 'normal' in the eyes of others.

A few days after he had turned seventeen, he'd met a man. Someone who believed him about the fairies, about the will'o'the'wisps, about the ghosts. He'd learned from him. He'd learned how to control his Sight. What sorts of fae were friendly, and what sorts weren't. He'd trusted the man completely, even had some kind of connection with him - this man was the father he'd always wanted. And then came his Betrayal--

"GET OUT!"

Alfred felt as if he'd been socked. Something physical barred him from seeing what had happened. He was thrown back into his body, and was looking down at a pale, wide-eyed Arthur. Tears were streaming down the pale Briton's cheeks. He fought against the urge to wipe away those tears, but lost miserably, running a thumb across his cheeks. He felt nothing but tenderness towards this boy. "Arthur, it's okay."

"Shut up, Alfred," Arthur hissed. The strange occurrence must have been two-way. But Alfred had nothing to hide, and he was rather sure that Arthur knew everything about him.

"I won't see anything that you don't want me to," Alfred promised, shaking his head. "Do you have any idea what that was?"

"None," Arthur said, shaking his head. He was beginning to calm down. For someone who saw fairies and unicorns, he was surprisingly level-headed.

Alfred watched as Arthur put on a thoughtful look, trying to figure out what could have possibly triggered the strange exchange of memories that had just taken place. Arthur perched himself on the fountain's lip. "Alfred."

"Yeah?"

"You know, you really should go back," Arthur said quietly. "If you stay here too long, you'll become stuck here. You won't be able to go back."

"But where is this place?"

"The In-Between," Arthur said, shrugging. "According to what your memories told me, you're having a near-death experience, as they call it in your time period."

"I'm DEAD?" Alfred yelled loudly.

"No, just nearly," Arthur corrected.

"Then what about you? You're obviously not nearly dead! If you were, you'd be ancient!"

Arthur pursed his lip, a slight flash of anger going through his eyes. "I can't move on to Heaven. I don't know why. Unfinished business in the Human World, I suppose."

"Unfinished business...? You died when you were seventeen, right? That'd mean you've had this unfinished business stuff for over a hundred years. What gives? Aren't you trying to move on?"

"I can't fix it if I don't know what's broken," Arthur snapped.

Alfred held up his hands in a position that clearly said "I'm sorry, geesh".

Arthur froze. "...Your brother's calling for you."

"Wha?"

"Come on." Arthur grabbed Alfred's hand, and Alfred steeled himself, waiting for another rush of memories. When it didn't happen, he was slightly surprised, but followed after him. Arthur led him towards a house at the far end of the garden. A Victorian mansion, with a rose garden out back, stretching out over acres. A maze of tall rose bushes surrounded the fountain in the middle. The house was painted white with green trim, with a wraparound porch and swing bench.

"That's--"

"The Garden," Arthur said simply.

Off in the distance, Alfred could hear someone calling his name. The closer they got to the house, the louder the voice got, until Alfred could recognize his brother's voice. "That's Matt." Arthur opened the front door to the house, and Matthew's voice grew louder still. Behind the door was something Alfred could only describe as pure light.

~*~*~*~

Alfred opened his eyes, and saw his brother looking down at him, a worried expression in his violet eyes. "Alfred! Can you hear me?"

"Matt?"

"Thank God," Matthew said, looking relieved. "Mom! He's awake!"

"All right, keep him talking, Mattie!" Alfred could hear his mother call back. "Keep him conscious until the ambulance gets here!"

"I'm fine, Mattie," Alfred assured his brother, sitting up.

The normally passive boy put his hands on his older twin's shoulders, forcing him back down. "Lay down, Al. At least until the paramedics give you the okay. You might have messed up your back. You feel a whole floor."

Alfred sighed, but obeyed his brother. A few minutes later, a group of medics tramped in. They carefully turned Alfred onto the stretcher, strapped him down, and put on an extremely uncomfortable neck brace. "Aren't you going overboard?" he complained. He hated being unable to see anything other than what was directly above him.

"If you have a back injury, we have to make sure we move you as little as possible," one of the paramedics explained quickly, smiling down at him. "Just hold on now, okay? What's your name, buddy?"

"Alfred," he said, closing his eyes. This was one of those idiots in the medical field that always treated him like a kid because he wasn't over eighteen.

"Well then, Al... Is it okay if I call you Al?" Alfred really didn't care. He stared up at him, knowing he'd call him that anyways. "We're going to load you up into the ambulance, and take you to the hospital. We'll take some x-rays, and then we'll let you know where we'll go from there."

"Uh-huh." Alfred glowered up at the ceiling, expecting this to be a long day.

Green eyes watched on. Their unseen owner fought down a feeling of concern, even worry.

~*~*~*~*~

Alfred yawned, lying back carefully in his bed. His back was rather tender, but other than a few aches, he wasn't hurt. His doctor had proclaimed that he didn't have any broken bones, and was lucky. He was advised to avoid heavy lifting for about two weeks, so his mother had taken over his carrying jobs. Alfred knew he could get them done in half the time his brother and mother could, but knew better than to argue with his mother.

His father had been informed, but hadn't bothered to call to ask if Alfred was all right, much to his mother's irritation. She'd called him three times, and had only gotten his machine each time. Needless to say, she wasn't a happy camper at the moment.

"How are you feeling? Did the physician say you were going to be all right?"

Alfred's eyes snapped open, and he fumbled for his glasses.

Arthur was sitting on the bay window seat, his knees drawn up. His green eyes looked worried, and a little afraid.

"I'm... fine," Alfred bit out, gulping.

He could see through Arthur. Oh God. He hadn't thought about it, but Arthur was a ghost. A friggen ghost, of all things--

"Good." Arthur looked relieved. He looked out the window, silent.

"Why are you in my room?" Alfred asked.

"That's my line," Arthur replied easily.

"This was... your room?"

"Yes," Arthur stated blandly. "Until you so rudely pinned up those God-awful paintings."

"Hey! I like my posters!"

"Hn." Arthur didn't say anything else, continuing to look out the window.

"You were here earlier, weren't you? Last night. You moved that book."

"You lost my place."

Alfred blinked. "How did you...? I didn't see you then."

"Most people can't," Arthur stated, shrugging. "I can only... do things... when I'm really mad. I haven't moved anything, or been seen, or anything... for years. Sometimes people could hear me, but they never understood me."

"Hear you?"

"The last man tried to have a priest get rid of me," Arthur said, snorting a bit. "He refused to believe that I wasn't a demon, or an evil spirit of some sort."

"Do you know why you're here? What you have to do to go to Heaven?"

"No. I told you. I can't fix what I don't know is broken." Arthur smiled wryly. "Perhaps the insane turn into ghosts. They have to watch people continue living, destroying their old lives... It's almost enough to make one lose his mind."

"I heard they were going to demolish the house before my mom bought it," Alfred said.

"Exactly. If that happened... I don't know what would have happened to me. I can't leave this place. I tried. I wanted to go back to London. To go home." Arthur shuddered. "I always hated it here. After I died, I guess..." Arthur stopped, leaving his thought unfinished.

There was a long pause. "How did you die?" Alfred asked quietly.

Arthur turned towards him, eyes flaming. "I'm not going to talk to a stranger about that."

"We're strangers?" Alfred asked dryly. "After we've both seen all of each other's pasts? Well, me, not so much, considering you hid some of it--"

"You'd hide it, too," Arthur hissed. His eyes seemed to be glowing, like a cat's, throwing all the light they absorbed from the darkness back at it. "We know each other's pasts, we know who we both are. But I haven't even known you for a day. Why the hell should I care about you? Why should I care if you die or live? Why the HELL did I help you? Why did I worry about you?" Arthur was ranting now, his voice rising with each question, tone hysterical. A few books from Alfred's bookshelf flew off the shelf, landing heavily on the floor. Arthur didn't so much as wince - it was obviously his doing.

"You're going to wake up my brother," Alfred stated, whispering loudly.

Arthur laughed. "They can't HEAR me," he scoffed. "You're the only one who ever could. Others heard whispers, sometimes crying if I was upset... Though that was all when my family still lived here. Those who knew me. And now you're the only one - the only person in over a hundred years - that can see me."

Alfred watched as Arthur breathed heavily for a few moments, the dead boy's chest rising and falling with each pant. The dead boy looked back out the window. His eyes were wet, though he stubbornly refused to allow the tears to fall. "I'm so tired. I've been here for nearly a hundred and seventy years, Alfred. I want to move on."

"Then I'll help you," Alfred said, before he was able to think of the words coming out of his mouth.

Arthur looked towards him. "What did you say?"

"I said I'd help you," Alfred said. He wasn't too keen on the fact that Arthur was dead, but it wasn't like the poor guy could help it. "I'll help you find Heaven. Or help you rest in peace, or whatever."

"You'll help me find peace," Arthur stated dryly. "Right."

"I will!" Alfred insisted. "All right, fine. Tell me what you need to fix."

"For starters, you lot could get the hell out of my house."

"Next on the list," Alfred stated without a pause.

"Rebuild my Garden," Arthur stated.

"That old thing in the backyard? No one knows what it looked like, though," Alfred complained.

"I'm here, aren't I?" Arthur shrugged. "I can tell you what goes where."

"All right, find, there's one of your three wishes," Alfred stated sarcastically.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "All right, genie, for my second wish, I want my house restored. But with no more of this poppycock 'modern furnishings' that idiot owner in the eighties tried to bring in. Original furnishings."

"Mom wanted to do that, anyways. She wants to turn this place into a bed and breakfast."

"I'll let that slide," Arthur sighed.

"Anything else?"

"I'll tell you when I think of something," Arthur shrugged. "It'll take a while for you to get the Garden up, anyways."

"About that. Why are you acting like the garden's so important?"

"I grew it myself," Arthur stated. "And besides that, The Garden was - is - the name of the estate."

"The Garden..." Alfred tested out the name, liking the sound of it. "I'll be sure to tell Mom that. We were trying to think of names for it, if we made it into a hotel. It sounds really homey."

"Then keep the name, as well," Arthur said. A faint smile came to the Brit's face. "And Alfred... I know I've been a horrible host. Thank you for helping me."

"You're welcome, Dead Kid."

"Watch it."