A/N: I never thought I'd write a dark, angsty fic, but here you go. In case the summary didn't make it obvious enough, here you go: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. I won't be doing much in the way of pairings unless they're necessary to the plot.

Just so you know, Vivette Bonnefoy is Monaco, and in my headcanon she's Francis's twin.

Enjoy!

The news hit Alfred in the face when he opened the door and two police officers were standing on the porch.

"We have some bad news regarding your brother."

All the way to the hospital, he was praying that it wasn't Mattie, that everything would be okay, because Mattie was Mattie. Always there. Always dependable. The only thing in this godforsaken city Alfred could rely on. He sipped hot coffee and tried not to look at the policemen, because he knew the expressions on their faces would just make this worse; pity with a dash of condescension. Mattie would be in the hospital, but he'd be in his nurse's uniform, rushing around, helping patients, not lying in some foreign hospital bed with starched sheets and skin bleached of life; it was not possible that he could be dead.

All the way up to the ward, in a cold lift with an empty styrofoam cup in his hand he didn't realise was there, Alfred kept on not believing. It was not real. It was a dream. He glared at the security cameras wrathfully as he strode through the hall, sneakers squeaking on linoleum floors, hands shoved in pockets, and the cold smell of medicine invading his nose. Every nurse he passed, he checked if they were Mattie. He shoved his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and rubbed his hands together; were hospitals supposed to be so cold? There had to be a mistake. Mattie was sitting at home, watching the ice hockey championships, or perhaps talking on the phone to Lukas or Tino, or going to Yekaterina's bakery to get himself a bun; anything but in a hospital bed, like the one behind the door in front of him.

His hand rested on the doorknob, and Alfred felt a sudden urge to knock. Ridiculous. He was Alfred F. Jones, and Alfred F. Jones did not knock, just as Matthew Williams did not die.

There he was, his quiet, shy, unassuming half-brother, still as a frozen pond in that hospital bed, eyes closed, glasses removed, nurses standing around with hands pressed to mouths, because they knew this man, they had worked with him for the past three years, and yet none of the nurses could possibly understand the grief that Alfred felt, seeing Mattie straight on his back with faded green sheets covering him.

"I'd like to have a moment with my brother," he said, voice not shaking one bit, and the nurses and policemen left the room. One girl burst into tears as she left; it was Bella Janssen. Alfred barely recognised her without her usual catlike smile, and he would only realise it was her later, because now he only had eyes for Matthew.

The door closed silently and it was only then that he allowed himself to approach the bed, trembling, laying a hand on Mattie's shoulder (it was freezing under his fingertips), and whispered into his ear, "Mattie? Are you okay?"

There was no response.

Alfred buried his face in his hands and began to sob, huge gasps of agony that wracked his whole body until he was sure his ribs would crack.

Arthur received the phone call at two in the morning, just as he was finding some warm clothes for Francis, who for reasons unbeknownst to him had gotten kicked out of his apartment and had stumbled into his place soaking wet and freezing. Francis was currently huddled on the couch in Arthur's thickest bathrobe, holding a cup of tea, and Arthur swore as he heard the phone, dropped the shirts he held and answered the call.

"What bloody time do you think this is? This is complete bollocks! I could have been bloody asleep! Who is this, anyway?"

Francis, shivering, snickered slightly.

"Alfred? A-Alfred, are you okay?" Arthur's voice changed completely. "What? Jesus Christ... bloody... my God, Alfred, I'm so..."

Francis heard Arthur's voice crack and sat up straight.

"God, of course, I'll come over, yes of course I'll tell Francis... you sit tight, Alfred. Don't move. We'll be there. I-I have to go. Tell Francis. Y-yeah. Just wait there."

Francis heard the phone hang up, and watched as Arthur stumbled into the hallway, white as a sheet, blinking away - were those tears in his eyes?

"Jesus..." Arthur murmured, clutching at the walls as he made his way to his favourite armchair. He sank down, burying his head in his hands, tousling his fingers through his hair.

"Arthur?" the Frenchman asked cautiously, standing up and moving toward him. "What did Alfred say? What's going on?"

"Bloody hell," whispered Arthur, raising his head. With a shock, Francis saw tears streaming down his face. "I can't believe it... Francis, I'm so, so sorry..."

"Mon dieu, what is it?"

"Alfred called from the hospital. Matthew... Matthew's been stabbed."

"Non..." Francis whispered. It couldn't be... his little Mathieu couldn't possibly be...

"Francis, Matthew's dead."

And then Francis was howling, falling to his knees, head in Arthur's lap, and keening with grief. Matthew had been like a brother to him - no, a son to him. He clutched Arthur's knees and sobbed, unbelieving, for who in God's name would stab Matthew? There was some deep shit in this town (and Francis knew more than most would think), but Matthew - it had to be a mistake, he couldn't be dead. It wasn't true. He couldn't believe it. On his head, he felt something moist and warm, and he knew Arthur was crying too.

"We have to go to the hospital," he heard Arthur whisper, and he knew the man was trying to focus on something, anything to keep the pain away. "Alfred wants us there, they're not going to let us see the body for much longer, Francis, we have to..."

His voice trailed away into Francis's hair, and they stayed like that, for a while.

The news travelled to Vash Zwingli as he sat in his office, talking on the phone. His secretary, Vivette, had come rushing in. Said it was urgent, and gave him a post-it note. On the note, in her familiar curly handwriting, were the words.

Matthew Williams has been murdered.

"Shit."

It wasn't unusual for murders to occur, for the city had one of the highest crime rates in the country, but they were usually amongst gang members, and Vash and the police force had learned to leave the gangs mostly alone, provided the drug dealings and murders and kidnappings stayed separate from the general law-abiding populace. But Matthew Williams was a nurse. A goddamn nurse, who was generally loved by all, and he had comforted Lili when she had her tonsils taken out, and he played for the city's ice hockey team, and he was nothing like his half-brother (thank God for that, one Alfred Jones was enough).

Matthew Williams murdered. Well, this changed everything.

Vash hung up on the man (he had never got his name, but he sounded Eastern European - Russian, perhaps?), picked up the note and scanned it again to make sure he hadn't misread it. It was two in the morning, after all. "Vivette!" he barked, and he heard the familiar clack of her heels as she entered the room.

"Yes, Mr. Zwingli?"

"Who told you this?"

"Lars Janssen."

Janssen? The name rang a bell.

"His sister was a colleague of Matthew's," Vivette continued. "She's devastated. If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll need to tell my brother. I knew Matthew rather well. When his mother died, and his father started drinking, Francis and I took care of him and Alfred."

"I'm sorry, Vivette. I had no idea." Vash sounded awkward, and the sympathy sounded forced, he knew, but he'd never really dealt with anything like this before. "It's well past your hours, anyway. Please, go home and rest."

Vivette nodded crisply, and left the room.

Vash massaged his temples and groaned. There'd be a full police investigation, no doubt, and they'd use the city's money, and there was nothing that he, the mayor, could do anything about it. As much as he felt pity for the man, they couldn't afford this. You'll have to make it work, Vash, a little voice told him, and he knew it was true.

Still. Who would ever want to murder Matthew Williams?

Feliciano put down the phone and looked at his brother, shaking.

"Fratello," he said, "Matthew Williams was murdered last night."

It was nine o'clock, and Lovino was late enough to work as it was, but Antonio would surely forgive him for this.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he cried. "Matthew fucking Williams? Feliciano, he was a nurse, for Christ's sake! Everyone liked him! He was a nice guy! Who the fuck told you this?"

Feliciano was white as a sheet, trembling like a leaf. "Ludwig,' he said quickly.

"Oh, Ludwig? Your potato bastard boyfriend? Well, you can't trust anything he says, can you? Matthew Williams isn't dead. You've got it wrong. I'm going to go to work, and someone there will know the truth. Dead, my arse." He swept out the apartment, the door slamming in his brother's shocked face.

All the way to the office, Lovino couldn't bring himself to believe it. The man was arguably the nicest person in the city, and there weren't many nice people left. Williams was a good guy. He was sweet to all his patients, organised charity events, paid his taxes, kept his idiot brother under control, never judged anyone. Lovino, although he hadn't known him well (but, said a little voice in his head, Matthew Williams knew him very well), felt a connection to the man. He hadn't deserved to die. He felt bad for yelling at Feliciano, but that stupid potato hulk of a boyfriend was wrong. Williams could not be dead.

Lovino drove into the underground carpark and took the lift up to the seventh floor, where he walked in to see a bunch of his colleagues standing around with mugs of coffee in their hands and shock smoothed onto their faces. He was surprised to see his boss standing with them. Antonio turned around and smiled weakly at the younger man, and beckoned him over. Lovino had his excuse for being late ready, but Antonio began to talk before he could say anything.

"I can guess why you're late, Lovi, and it's okay," he said in his lilting Spanish accent. "It's awful, isn't it? Lars's sister worked at the hospital with him and was on duty when they brought him in... she's in shock..."

"It's true?" asked Lovino without any of his usual snark. "Williams is dead?"

Antonio nodded. 'Francis told me, and he saw the body."

"He saw the body? It was Francis?"

"No, silly Lovi," said his boss, smiling a little. "He was in the hospital with Alfred and Arthur."

Lovino hated that moron Alfred with a passion, but he felt a slight pity for the man. After all, if Alfred had loved anyone beside himself, it had been his half-brother (even if the idiot had forgotten about him so often it had become a habit).

Matthew Williams dead. Well, this changed everything. He made a mental note to call Yao and warn him.

Ivan Braginsky stared at Natalia. "What?"

"Matthew Williams is dead," she repeated. "Someone stabbed him at ten-thirty last night."

"Of all the..." he muttered, pacing up and down the hall. Natalia watched him hungrily, noting his striking figure, the scarf fluttering behind him, his violet eyes practically glowing in the half-light. How she longed for that muscular, lean body, his dashing cheekbones, skin pale as snow sliding over hers...

"Is it important, Brother?" she asked, snapping out of her daydream. Tread carefully, Natalia. He doesn't know what you know.

"It changes a lot of things," he murmured distractedly. "Who knows this?"

"Probably half the city at this rate. Everyone liked him. By all accounts, he was a nice man."

"I don't need estimates, I need names!" he barked. "Everyone who matters. Adnan, Janssen, Wang, all their associates, find out what they know."

"Yes, Brother," she said, allowing her gaze to wander over his powerful shoulders, just to let him know how much she loved him, and then she turned her back and swiftly walked to the door. As she opened it, the wind made its way inside, ruffling her dress and causing the hem of Ivan's coat to sway in the breeze. Natalia turned, and locked her eyes on his. "But Brother," she said, "what do you know?"

And then she was gone into the wind and Ivan was left to close the door and stew on his thoughts.

Alfred, Francis and Arthur were picked up by Vivette, who had taken one look at the three of them and bundled them into her Rolls, stuffing steaming cups of hot chocolate into their hands, with napkins to wipe the tears and smudges of cocoa away. Francis didn't doubt that she was just as devastated as they were, and marvelled at his twin's ability to hide her emotions. Alfred huddled between the older men in the backseat, head lying limply on Arthur's shoulder. He had cried so much that tears wouldn't come to his eyes anymore.

Arthur gulped as he spoke to Vivette, who did tend to give off an intimidating aura. "We should go to Matthew's," he said, quietly. "To pay our respects. The police will take over the place soon, if they haven't alr-"

"Yes," said Vivette quietly. "I understand." Raindrops reflected in her glasses as she turned off the main road and down Maple Avenue, where, true to its name, maple trees lined the streets. The leaves had nearly all fallen from the majestic trees, swept into piles on the side of the road, wet and miserable in the first month of winter. Matthew's house was near the end of the street, the familiar reddish bricks standing strong. Stronger than Matthew, thought Alfred.

"Wait," said Francis. "What's that?"

As Vivette pulled into the driveway, they saw the entire front porch covered in colour. Cards, flowers - hundreds of flowers, by the look of it - even a large stuffed polar bear. Various people, men, women and children, putting down more and more bouquets.

The four of them got out of the car, stunned by the outpouring of love. One woman came up to them, patting Alfred's shoulder. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Matthew was a wonderful man." More people came up to them, words of sympathy pouring from their lips, their hearts. Kisses pressed to cheeks by grieving children. Lilies, roses, poppies, daisies, sunflowers, all arranged in bouquets, placed on the porch.

'They loved him," whispered Alfred, a smile tracing his lips. "So many people loved him."

And Vivette, famed for never showing emotion, threaded her fingers through his and allowed a tear to trickle below her glasses.