“They wouldn't fire me. Why they hired me... why it suddenly seemed like everyone treats us right once they find out who Alfred is. Because they're afraid of you! They all know who you are, and...” He clenched his hands into trembling fists. “Everybody knows! Everybody! They all know what you are and that Alfred is your boyfriend! How did you not see this coming!?” Matthew started to laugh hysterically. “You doomed him from the start, but it's okay because you were in love!”
“You should go home,” Ivan said. He just couldn't find it in him to be angry at Matthew. Why should he? He was angry at himself.
The miserable young man nodded. “Francis should be here soon...”
“Oh, you called him?”
“Yeah... I asked him to meet me here. I didn't say why, but he could probably tell I was upset...” Tears again filled Matthew's red, swollen eyes. “We might've been opening our presents now. I bet he got me something nice. He acts stupid, but he pays attention. I could notice something I liked in a store tomorrow and make a passing comment about it, and he'd remember and get it for me on our next birthday.”
“I'll find him,” Ivan said quietly. “Or die trying.” He finally turned away, unable to look at Alfred's grieving twin any longer. His own eyes burned with unshed tears.
The door soon opened to admit Francis, who strode through the bar—which was looking a bit better now, the owner and bartender having been cleaning up some—looking around in confusion. His eyes lit on the cop, and he made a beeline in that direction. “Well hello, officer~”
Kirkland eyed him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh. British.” Francis walked away, noticing Matthew and heading over. “There you are.” It had always struck Ivan as odd that Francis never mixed the twins up. Ever. He could come across one when he was expecting to find the other, and still not make a mistake. “I've come to pick you up. What is wrong?” He looked around. “Why are you here? A robbery?”
Matthew slowly looked up at him, and Francis' face fell at the look of utter misery. “Alfred's been kidnapped,” he said dully. “Ivan's head of the Russian mafia. The two are probably related.”
Francis started to laugh, though it quickly trailed off at the looks on their faces. “You are serious?” He turned on Ivan, eyes wide.
And so the cycle of accusation started over, only Ivan was much less tolerant of Francis and the Frenchman was soon cowed into just comforting Matthew.
“Take him home,” Ivan said. “I need to get the hell out of here.” And do... what? Getting drunk, killing people, sending everyone in his house away so he could rage... nothing would help. He would just have to concentrate on finding Alfred. On planning what to do when the kidnappers contacted him. If he didn't hear from them... well, Alfred was probably dead then...
Fighting down a wave of nausea, Ivan fled from the bar.
-----
“I don't know...” Matthew bit his lip. “I should wait.”
“Open it,” Francis said gently.
He let out a breath and tore into the present from Alfred. The box contained a lot of tissue, which he flipped aside to reveal a picture book.
“Hmm.” Francis tilted his head. “He didn't think much of your reading abilities.”
“Oh...” Matthew lifted the book up, eyes filling with tears again. “No, this was our favorite book when we were little. It's been out of print for ages. How'd he get it?” He hugged it close to his chest as the tears spilled down his cheeks. “What am I gonna do?”
“I don't know... They're looking for him. And once we hear from-”
“Hear from who?” Matthew snapped, setting the book aside. “If they took Al because they want money from Ivan, then yeah, we'd probably hear from them. But if they're just... rival mafia, or other enemies of his... they'd just kill him! His body's probably in a ditch somewhere! Or at the bottom of a river!”
“You shouldn't think that way...”
Matthew stared at the floor, unable to stop thinking of Alfred's dead body, discarded somewhere like trash. He had to be dead. All because of the one person he had trusted and loved above all others. “It all makes so much sense now...”
“What does?” Francis said, voice low and soothing.
Bratva 19c/??
“You should go home,” Ivan said. He just couldn't find it in him to be angry at Matthew. Why should he? He was angry at himself.
The miserable young man nodded. “Francis should be here soon...”
“Oh, you called him?”
“Yeah... I asked him to meet me here. I didn't say why, but he could probably tell I was upset...” Tears again filled Matthew's red, swollen eyes. “We might've been opening our presents now. I bet he got me something nice. He acts stupid, but he pays attention. I could notice something I liked in a store tomorrow and make a passing comment about it, and he'd remember and get it for me on our next birthday.”
“I'll find him,” Ivan said quietly. “Or die trying.” He finally turned away, unable to look at Alfred's grieving twin any longer. His own eyes burned with unshed tears.
The door soon opened to admit Francis, who strode through the bar—which was looking a bit better now, the owner and bartender having been cleaning up some—looking around in confusion. His eyes lit on the cop, and he made a beeline in that direction. “Well hello, officer~”
Kirkland eyed him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh. British.” Francis walked away, noticing Matthew and heading over. “There you are.” It had always struck Ivan as odd that Francis never mixed the twins up. Ever. He could come across one when he was expecting to find the other, and still not make a mistake. “I've come to pick you up. What is wrong?” He looked around. “Why are you here? A robbery?”
Matthew slowly looked up at him, and Francis' face fell at the look of utter misery. “Alfred's been kidnapped,” he said dully. “Ivan's head of the Russian mafia. The two are probably related.”
Francis started to laugh, though it quickly trailed off at the looks on their faces. “You are serious?” He turned on Ivan, eyes wide.
And so the cycle of accusation started over, only Ivan was much less tolerant of Francis and the Frenchman was soon cowed into just comforting Matthew.
“Take him home,” Ivan said. “I need to get the hell out of here.” And do... what? Getting drunk, killing people, sending everyone in his house away so he could rage... nothing would help. He would just have to concentrate on finding Alfred. On planning what to do when the kidnappers contacted him. If he didn't hear from them... well, Alfred was probably dead then...
Fighting down a wave of nausea, Ivan fled from the bar.
-----
“I don't know...” Matthew bit his lip. “I should wait.”
“Open it,” Francis said gently.
He let out a breath and tore into the present from Alfred. The box contained a lot of tissue, which he flipped aside to reveal a picture book.
“Hmm.” Francis tilted his head. “He didn't think much of your reading abilities.”
“Oh...” Matthew lifted the book up, eyes filling with tears again. “No, this was our favorite book when we were little. It's been out of print for ages. How'd he get it?” He hugged it close to his chest as the tears spilled down his cheeks. “What am I gonna do?”
“I don't know... They're looking for him. And once we hear from-”
“Hear from who?” Matthew snapped, setting the book aside. “If they took Al because they want money from Ivan, then yeah, we'd probably hear from them. But if they're just... rival mafia, or other enemies of his... they'd just kill him! His body's probably in a ditch somewhere! Or at the bottom of a river!”
“You shouldn't think that way...”
Matthew stared at the floor, unable to stop thinking of Alfred's dead body, discarded somewhere like trash. He had to be dead. All because of the one person he had trusted and loved above all others. “It all makes so much sense now...”
“What does?” Francis said, voice low and soothing.