Chapter 2

He wakes to silence.

For a moment he's confused; usually he is awakened to the sound of clattering pots and the smell of pancakes as Mathew makes breakfast. Now he hears nothing, and instead of maple syrup there is a faint, oddly familiar scent that causes him to wrinkle his nose.

Alfred's first thought is alcohol. He has a tendency to drink too much and then crash, uninvited, at a friend's house till morning. It's a sound conclusion, but in his gut he feels it isn't right. He opens his eyes just a bit. His vision swims, and after a moment it focuses on the vaulted ceiling above, where a small, unlit chandelier gathers dusts.

What…?

Groaning, Alfred moves to sit up, only to freeze as his shoulder throbs with pain. It is the pain, faint but insistent, that causes him to remember.

Cold and ghosts and little velvet boxes rush back to the forefront of his memory. He shudders.

Alfred has always had a healthy fear of the supernatural, with spirits and the like at the top of his list. In his younger years, it had gotten to the point he had exasperated even his parents, who had taken him to counseling a few years ago. That hadn't gone well; especially considering the counselor was a total douche who asked too many questions –

Shaking his head, Alfred rids himself of pointless thoughts. It isn't the first time he's woken up in a strange place, but something about this one unnerves him. It's quiet, for one. Too quiet. On top of that, the room is…cold. His heart begins to thump inside his chest.

Hadn't it been cold then, when those fingers bit into his shoulder? Hadn't it been silent, completely and utterly silent, when those whispers started at his ear? Yes, a voice says from somewhere within his head. It was.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he recalls the traumatizing encounter, his first meeting with a -

Don't say it, he tells himself. None of it was real, anyway. Probably Mathew, that guy loves to fuck with me.

It's possible. Mathew is clever – it would've been easy for him to pull all those stunts to try and scare him, or hire someone who could. Alfred certainly wouldn't put it past him – the guy has a penchant for exacting revenge. Only, there's no revenge to take. He can't recall any recent slights he's dealt the moody Canadian, and his twin rarely does things without reason. Besides, whoever had been behind him had not just grabbed him; they'd done it with an incredible strength. He's sure if he looks there will be fingerprints, along what he imagines to be a hideous bruise, and that just isn't Mathew's style.

Who, then, had gripped his shoulder? Who had whispered those things in his ears, or made the temperature drop, or managed to slam open a door barricaded with all of his furniture? He's sure no one he knows is capable of those last two.

So who?

He wants to know, but at the same time he desperately doesn't.

Ignorance is bliss, his friend Arthur sometimes says, and for once Alfred agrees with him.

Breathing deeply, he plants his feet on the plush carpet and looks around. The room is large and tidy, with white walls and white floors and white furniture. The windows are hidden with finely woven curtains, and the bed, he sees, is dressed in a white comforter with a floral pattern. It's a nice room, overall, but he's not fond of the color scheme. It reminds him of a room in a hospital or something.

Uneasy, Alfred stands from the warmth of the bed and pads toward the door. He turns the old-fashioned doorknob, and is awed as the door swings open, for beyond lies an enormous living room, complete with a long ring of sofas, towering bookshelves, and an impressive chandelier. A grandfather clock stands directly across from him; just beside it a grand staircase spirals up beyond his vision.

Everything, save the grandfather clock, is white, just like the room he's woken up in.

Amazed, Alfred steps into the soft gray light. As he takes in his surroundings, he becomes more and more certain that this place doesn't belong to anyone he knows. It all seems too out of place; a better term would be 'old-fashioned.' There are no lamps, or light bulbs, only unlit candle holders. The silence is queer, almost eerie, and it gives the empty room a somewhat…haunted feel.

Such thoughts make him uneasy though, so he distracts himself by walking up to the grandfather clock. He's never seen one in real life before; he follows the swinging pendulum for a moment, fascinated, until something else catches his eye.

The windows are covered, but the little light he sees is gray, the kind you see on cloudy days, or when it rains. It was sunny before he went to sleep, and he can't remember seeing any clouds… Curious, Alfred goes to the curtain and pulls it aside.

…What?

He rubs at his eyes, but the sight doesn't change. He pinches himself, but a sharp pain tells him he's not dreaming, either.

Beyond the window, there is nothing but trees and snow. The snow, especially, is everywhere; it practically buries the trees, and the ground is nothing but white. Alfred has never seen so much of it, and for a moment he finds he can do nothing but stare.

Where…where am I?

Something soft and dark and beautifully sad fills his ears at that moment.

Startled, Alfred pauses, his head cocked to the side as the sound washes over him. It takes him a moment to realize it is music, for it is unlike anything he has ever heard. For a moment he is still, until, entranced, he moves toward the sound. His feet carry him out of the living room, through a finely furnished dining room and past what looks to be a study, until he stops just outside a grand set of doors. His head is foggy, his arms numb; there is only him, the haunting sound, and that awful, awful smell. What is it?

He needs to know.

Alfred's heart is thundering against his chest. His palms are sweaty, but the rest of him feels cool and light. He raises his hands to open the doors, but hesitates.

What are you doing? A voice says sharply in his head. It sounds remarkably like Arthur's.

Get away, it says with a touch of hysteria. Get away! Get away! Get away!

He opens the door.

A flood of light assaults his eyes; Alfred raises his arms as a shield, his head turned away from both the light and that odd smell.

It takes the blonde a moment to regain his senses, and when he does, he realizes the music has stopped. His arms are still raised; Alfred lowers them cautiously.

There is a long, long silence. Alfred uses it to gather what is left of his courage. That haunting melody has lured him here, guiding his footsteps and muddling his thoughts. He feels small and weak now, too afraid to even open his eyes. And it is cold.

"You're awake."

Startled, Alfred's eyes snap open. They are instantly drawn to the figure sitting quietly in front of what looks to be a piano, its long fingers still splayed on the keys.

The young blonde steps back, wary. That soft, treacherous sound that brought him here could have only been played by a master; he was expecting an older, frailer, person…

This is no elder, but a young man – there is not a wrinkle on his face. And his hair - his hair is silver.

Who has silver hair? Alfred wonders.

A tall window sits next to the piano, however – perhaps it is a trick of the light.

He tries to summon the same excuse when he finally looks the man in his eyes.

They are strange eyes. The man's expression is mild, but his eyes…they are feverishly bright as they look on him, and the blonde finds he doesn't like the look at all. Plus, they're purple.

Who has purple eyes?

Rubbing at the goose bumps on his arms, Alfred remains silent. He doesn't like this man – he doesn't like this place, period – and all he wants now is to get the hell out of wherever he is and eat a pancake. With maple syrup. And a nice square of butter on top –

Alfred's thoughts screech to a halt when the man rises from his seat.

The silver haired man is now, in Alfred's mind, a silver-haired giant. He is at least a foot taller than the blond himself - wider, too, with long legs and broad shoulders and big hands that could easily fit around his neck, or dig into his shoulder…

Sweat runs down his forehead as the giant tilts his head, those weird eyes boring into his own. The blonde is coming to a scary conclusion, but he brushes it aside when the man moves quietly to the other side of the spacious room and through a large door. The long, tanned coat he wears swishes around his knees like the ends of a dress, and his boots click loudly in the silence. Now that he's away from the window, the blonde sees the man's hair is really silver. Or maybe it's just a really light blonde…

A moment later he returns with two glasses in hand and a bottle of wine in the other. There is a table near the piano; it is there the man sits and empties the bottle, all of this without a word. When he's done, he turns to Alfred. The blonde has yet to move.

With a small smile, the giant says, "Come now, Alfred, I am nothing to be afraid of." He gestures to the seat across from him. "Sit with me."

The giant's voice is deep and soft, but there is a slight hoarseness to it, as though he hasn't spoken in a long time. Uneasy, the blonde looks back at the open doors. He briefly considers bolting out of the room, but something tells him it would be wiser to do as he is told. Slowly, Alfred crosses the room. The feeling that he is in danger intensifies with each step he takes from the entrance. The smell is stronger, too, and when he finally lowers himself into the stiff-backed chair he feels ready to puke.

Still smiling, the giant nudges the glass towards him. Alfred looks at it distrustfully. In all the scary movies he's forced himself to watch over the years, being drugged and waking up in a torture chamber is a popular theme. The wine is a dark red – it almost looks like blood.

Alfred stares at the glass, about to refuse, when he realizes something.

"You…I didn't tell you my name."

The giant smiles. Sipping steadily at his own drink, he replies, "I know many things."

"That's not an answer."

"It is for now."

The odd man ignores the younger man's glare and fiddles with the glass.

"I am glad to see you are awake," he says finally. "You were asleep for quite a while…I feared you would not wake up in time…"

In time for what? The blonde wants to ask, seething. Fear and unease have made him short-tempered, and the giant's refusal to explain himself isn't helping matters.

"Look," he says impatiently, "I don't know who you are, or what you want from me, but frankly I'm ready to get the hell out of here."

Taking brief satisfaction in the man's shocked expression, Alfred stands. There's only so much creepy he can take – he remembers the trees and snow outside, and a shiver runs down his spine.

All of that was just an illusion, he thinks to himself, turning away from the stunned man before him. It's not real, none of it.

This is probably just a dream.

The thought hits him like a bulleting truck. A dream – it explains everything! The odd surroundings, the giant man, the snow outside when it's supposed to be summer…

Energized by this new revelation, Alfred's fear melts away and he runs from the room, ignoring the low words behind him.

This is his dream; nothing and no one can hurt him. His feet take him into a large room, decorated with the same old-fashioned flair of the one he just left. A large door carved with black wood stands just ahead.

The blonde has had lucid dreams before in his life, and he knows what to do. Closing his eyes, he imagines the door is an exit. When he opens it, he'll wake up.

Alfred hollers and sprints for the door, unheeding of the heavy steps behind him. He grabs hold of the knob, twists, pulls...

The door swings open with a loud creak.

Alfred is stunned into silence.

An icy gust of wind assaults his pajama-clad body, but his legs refuse to move.

For there is a storm outside – one of windy screams and swaying trees and falling, falling snow. Some of it blows into the house and gathers at his toes. Shivering, he looks down at it with disbelief.

It's summer, he tells himself. This is a dream.

Was there ever a dream so cold?

He feels a presence at his back. A hand reaches past him and closes the door, then comes to rest on his injured shoulder.

"Fool." A voice whispers coldly in his ear. "Did you think to run away?"

The hand tightens, the voice chuckles, and suddenly Alfred knows.

With a growing sense of horror at his own stupidity, the American tries to jerk away.

"You son of a bitch," he gasps, his shoulder throbbing with pain, "get away from me!"

"But we were not finished talking…"

Alfred opens his mouth to retort when he is flipped onto the floor. His back hits the wood so hard he feels the breath knocked out of him. He's still gasping for air when his arms are pinned on either side of his head. A heavy weight settles on his body.

It takes the blonde a long moment to breathe properly again. When he opens his eyes, purple hues stare back at him. They've darkened considerably.

"You…you're...crazy…"

Alfred pants as large fingers pet his hair.

The man – no, ghost, as Alfred's sure that's who he is now – ignores his words. He looks wistful, almost sad.

"I have waited a long time for someone like you to come along." His unusual eyes roam the other's face, as though they're seeing something the blonde himself is not. One hand, big and gloved, hovers above his face.

The ghost's expression is awed, and he whispers something in what Alfred believes is Russian.

"Dude," Alfred whispers back, warily eyeing the hand a few inches from his face, "what the hell are you doing?"

Again he is ignored.

Frustrated and confused, the American wriggles beneath the giant's hold. He's rarely bested when it comes to fights, but the ghost has him completely pinned down. He can't escape.

His panic grows at the thought. What if it wanted to finish what it started back in his apartment? What if it wrapped its fingers around his throat and killed him?

He wasn't ready to die.

With a surge of desperation he throws his head back and, with all of his strength, brings it forward again, into the head of the giant.

Stunned, he shrinks back and clutches his head, howling with pain. Alfred is dizzy himself. Eventually he wills himself to his feet and stumbles away, grasping at random furniture for support. It's the first time he's ever head butted someone, and fuckit hurtsithurtsithurts…

The American falls to the floor as the world spins around him. He hears a growl of rage, but his consciousness is already slipping away. A hunched shadow starts towards him, but Alfred can no longer move. His head throbs, but he feels warm. Warm and fuzzy.

The shadow's slow gait turns into a sprint, but before it can reach him the room melts away, replaced with blinding light and a familiar, calling voice…

"Alfred."

His head hurts.

"Hey."

It really hurts. Like he banged it against a car or something.

"Alfred."

Actually, it's not just his head; his back kind of hurts, too. And his shoulder…ow…

"Alfred!"

"Dude, what?"

The blonde forces himself to sit up, cringing at the pain in his forehead. He must have imagined the back pain, although his shoulder really does hurt…

Mathew is kneeling next to his bed, glaring worriedly at him. "You're finally awake. Are you okay?"

Confused, Alfred replies, "Y…yeah. My head really….hurts…"

It is then he remembers. The house, the snow, the long-legged giant who had almost killed him…

Trembling, he jumps from his bed, ignoring the startled shout of his twin. His blonde head whips from side to side, taking in his surroundings. This is his room. It looks normal…

"What the hell is wrong with you, man?" Mathew looks wary. "If you wanted some Aspirin you could've just said so. Wait here." Muttering under his breath, the Canadian leaves the room.

The moment he's gone, Alfred walks to the nearest window and rips the curtain aside. For a moment he's scared he'll see snow, but it is sunny instead, and when he opens the window a gust of hot air assaults him. He laughs with relief.

"It was a dream."

Yes, that's all it was. A very realistic dream, but a dream, nonetheless. As Mathew returns, he looks at his shoulder.

The fingerprints are still there, but they look…darker. In the dream – or rather, nightmare – the man had gripped him there, again. Could that be the reason?

No, Alfred tells himself. That would make it real.

"Here." Mathew hands him two pills and a glass of Dr. Poppa. "That should get rid of your headache.

"Thanks."

Mathew watches him down the pills.

"What happened?"

Alfred wipes his mouth. "Huh?"

"You know what I mean." He gestures around the room, and Alfred sees that most of his furniture is still piled around the door from his makeshift barricade. Seeing it reminds him of that ghostly encounter. He doesn't want to remember that.

"I…It's nothing."

Mathew doesn't look convinced.

"Really?"

"Really."

Mathew's eyes narrow. "You know what? I don't even want to know. Just...fix it, okay?"

Rubbing his shoulder, Alfred mutters his agreement, and Mathew turns away. But then he pauses. Slowly, he turns back around, his eyes fixed on the other blonde's hand; or rather, the shoulder it was covering.

"Why are you doing that?"

Alfred stiffens. "Doing what?

"That. Rubbing your shoulder – what's wrong with it?"

The American steps back. "Oh – it's nothing. I just banged it, is all."

"Yeah, you look you're in pain."

He steps closer. "Let me see."

"What?"

"Move your hand."

"Mattie-"

But the Canadian is quick, and before his twin can do anything, he's already lifting the hand and examining the shoulder. His violet eyes widen.

"What…?"

Alfred jerks away. "It's fine, dude."

"That's not fine!" Mathew's face hardens. "Those are serious bruises; look at the size of those finger marks! Who the hell did that to you?"

"I… got in a fight."

Mathew crosses his arms with disapproval and Alfred silently applauds his genius.

"Again? It was those hosers from Greer, wasn't it? How'd you even run into them, anyway?"

Alfred shrugs.

Mathew sighs. "Look, I understand they're assholes, but you can't go through life punching every guy that looks at you wrong. It just doesn't work that way." He runs his hand restlessly through wavy blonde hair. "You know they're just jealous of you, right?"

Alfred hums in agreement. Greer is his school's most heated rival, especially when it comes to football. Their players are good, but Greenwich's are better, and the rival team hates them for it. As quarterback, he gets most of the insults, resulting in many heated confrontations, and those often escalate into savage fist-fights. He's learned to cool down somewhat, though.

Mathew doesn't know that, though, and the blonde is using that to his advantage.

"You're right, Mattie," he says quietly, looking at the floor. "I really need to learn to control my temper…"

The older boy immediately softens. "Al…"

"I'm sorry for worrying you, and I promise I'll try to do better. It's just…they make me so angry!"

Mathew steps toward him, unaware of the thunderous applause in Alfred's mind. He's a genius! Hell, he deserves, like, an Academy Award or something! Yeah, he feels a little bad about lying to his brother, but what else can he do? The truth is something Alfred's not even sure he believes.

The Canadian pats his back, a comforting gesture. "It's alright, Al. I'm not mad. I just wish you were a little smarter sometimes."

He's gone and out the door before Alfred can reply, leaving the blonde to wonder if he's just been insulted.

"Oh, yeah."

Mathew pokes his head back in the room. "That little snow globe thing – in the box?"

Alfred feels a chill down his back, though he's not sure why. He remembers the look on that Italian man's face when he handed him the little box, and he wonders again if it has anything to do with what's happened.

"…Yeah," he looks around, "where is it?"

"Well, when I got back from Francis' you were holding it. I thought it might fall on the floor or something, so I set it on the counter."

He frowns. "There was something weird about it…where'd you get it, anyway?"

The thought of Mathew touching the music box unsettles him.

"Uh, some Italian place. Did the box do anything…weird…after you touched it?"

"What?"

"Ah…never mind. Sorry, I'm still a little groggy."

Mathew frowns. "Yeah, I can tell. Anyway, Arthur called. I told him you were sleeping. He wanted me to say 'hullo' and that he'll be back in a couple of weeks."

Alfred plops on his bed, his previous thoughts forgotten. "Weeks? C'mon man, I won't function much longer without my angry Brit…"

Mathew laughs and walks away.

Rage.

He hasn't felt it in a long time, and he's forgotten how powerful an emotion it is. His fists are clenched, his teeth gritted, his blood boiling as he stares at the spot his prize has disappeared.

He wants to scream, to thrash and break and –

No.

Instead he breathes. Slow and deep, each breath comes easier than the last until his anger has simmered down to stark disappointment. So close...he had hoped they'd have more time. How wonderful the boy had smelled…

Something awakens inside him at the thought; something he'd believed was dead.

Surprised, the Russian looks down at the bulge in his pants.

He would have to take care of that.

Sighing softly, he stands. The house is quiet again. He's used to it, yes, but the sound of something other than his piano is always welcome.

No matter, the Russian thinks to himself as he leaves the room, he will be back.

I'll make sure of it…

A/N: I know, I know. 'Why didn't she mention Alfred was a quarterback, earlier?' This chapter was written very recently, and the idea just came to me. I couldn't find a way to put it in the first chapter without sounding awkward. That...and I am very lazy. Trust me, this is gonna play a more important part in the future.

Also, did I use the word 'hoser' right? I looked it up, but I'm still not sure.