Allen cursed under his breath as the sound of hurried footsteps raced up the stairs. He told Ivan to stay at the ready in case things did go wrong, and Ivan agreed before ending the call and allowing Allen to begin the quick tidy-up. He closed the gun case and slid it back under the chair, before grabbing a random book from the nearest shelf so he didn't look too suspicious. The last thing he wanted was someone asking questions prematurely. 

The footsteps, however, passed the library at top speed, and Allen let out a sigh of relief. A door slammed down the corridor, and was soon followed by the sound of the front door being shut quite carelessly too. Had something happened in his absence? Mindlessly holding the book under his arm, Allen's curiosity got the better of him and he decided to stick his head out of the library to see what was going on. Maybe Charles had done something. But maybe he hadn't, because he was a smart and arrogant prick who knew better than to cause any more problems for the time being. 

More footsteps came up the stairs, and Allen walked with a small limp (he'd forgotten about his injury in the spur of the moment, and had to suck in the pain before he was faced with someone. He didn't want it to be Charles and give him the satisfaction.) into the hallway. Thankfully, it was Alfred who showed his face, and he halted in his tracks when he saw the auburn up and about.

"Allen, hey," he said with a small questioning frown. "You're not resting or anything?"

"Oh, uh . . ." He felt the book in his possession and took it in his hand again, before holding it up. "Thought I'd do some reading to pass the time, but I guess it isn't necess--"

Alfred read the title of the book, squinting slightly through his glasses. "'The Complete Poems of John Keats'? Didn't take you for a poet, Al. You like that sort of romantic, lengthy, macarbe stuff?"

"Uh, yeah, f-from time to time," Allen replied. He hadn't even seen what the book was. Heck, he didn't even know who the poet was, let alone the sort of things he'd written. 

"Damn. You and Artie could totally start a poetry club together," the blonde said with a snort, before he quickly remembered just what it was he was supposed to be doing. He cleared his throat. "Well, I have to, uh . . . I need a quick word with Alex, so if you don't mind, I'll just . . . Be on my way," he sheepishly replied, edging past Allen and continuing on his way.

"Poetry club?" Allen muttered under his breath. "Fuck that, I think I'd rather study Shakespeare with Ollie . . ."

"Who's Ollie?"

Allen's head snapped left towards the new voice, and he swore internally at himself. It was Arthur. "He's my England."

"Oh . . . I see . . ." Arthur said. He watched as Alfred disappeared into one of the rooms further down the hall, and thought it best that he left them to it. He didn't want to cause any more problems, and decided that perhaps he ought to get to know the only American he hadn't really spoken to. "Why don't you tell me about him? He's crazy and an avid baker, if I recall what you've already mentioned correctly."

An idea popped into Allen's head at this point. Alfred was busy. There was no guarantee he would be prepared to listen to what he had to say regarding his recent find. Regarding Charles. But Arthur? He seemed reasonable enough, and he was willing to talk and listen to Allen. There was no prejudice -- they'd only really just met -- and for him, that was a green light. So, he agreed, and he suggested that they talk in the library since it was quiet and Allen didn't really want anyone else to listen in. Talking about his England . . . Well, it was certainly an interesting topic . . . But one that could wait just a while longer.

Downstairs, Charles and Amelia finally arrived back at the house. She had insisted that they both put away the abandoned archery equipment in the shed, and Charles hadn't objected. It wouldn't have been fair to leave it outside for someone else to pick up, after all, would it?

"Jeez, what time is it?" Amelia huffed as Charles closed the front door. It wasn't like they'd been outside for long, really, but it felt as though hours had passed since England had shown up.

"Just gone three," he answered, glancing across at the clock in the living area.

She hummed. "Perhaps we ought to think about dinner soon. I don't think Alfred needs anything else on his plate right now." Amelia remarked, heading towards the kitchen with Charles in tow. "I mean, what do you make of all this?"

"All of what?"

"This. The incident with Allen, Alex's episode outside just now . . . You seem to have an idea as to why we're here . . ."

"I do?" Charles said with a slight but wary frown.

"Yeah, our first morning here, you asked me what I thought of our existence here. You seemed to have an idea -- just an idea -- of why we aren't . . . Home," she said quietly.

She was just starting to realise how much she missed her family. It had been a few days now. Were they worried about her? Had they noticed that she'd gone missing in the first place? Were they all panicking over there, trying to find a way to bring her back? Amelia hoped so. She wanted to think that she was missed as much as she was missing everyone else, but then she didn't want to seem selfish or pretentious . . .

"Well, I don't know any more than anyone else, I don't think," Charles responded. "As far as I'm aware, we're just not meant to be here. Different versions of one person, unleashed onto the physical plane."

"But we were on the physical plane, Charles!" she protested, turning to face him and leaning against a kitchen, arms folded and frown on her face. Amelia was adamant about the fact. There could be no doubt. "We have friends, we have families! And they're probably freaking out, wondering where we are!"

"Hm, I guess . . ." Charles sighed.

The thing was, he had been left out of that group -- the group who had been gifted with people like them, other personifications for them to live with in their own little worlds. He had been forgotten about, obligated to exist as punishment for his failure in the civil war and having to continue living rather than being granted a merciful death. He'd been all alone for over a century. Alone in a vast black space with no one to talk to . . . And he wasn't going back there without a fight.

"Whatever the explanation is," he continued, "we'll just have to wait for it. Things'll sort themselves out eventually."

'Where do you stand?' The words rang in Amelia's mind over the sound of Charles' voice. 'Where do you stand, Amy?'

"Sure . . ." she mumbled. 

Something didn't add up. Something didn't sit well with her. Something was wrong, and Amelia could feel it. But she didn't call it out. She didn't want to create any trouble for anyone or come across as paranoid. Though, perhaps being the only female in the house alongside four -- now five -- other males was getting to her, and she was just in need of speaking to someone of her own gender so she could escape all the testosterone flying about the place. That would've been lovely.

The duo decided to change the subject, then, and while they began to think of possibilities for dinner, Alfred was still trying to talk to Alex upstairs in the latter's shared bedroom. The blonde with a knack for shooting was sat on the bed hugging his knees, trying to block out the surrounding world by any means possible. He'd never really felt that way before. Alex wanted to curl up into a ball and poof out of existence, but no matter how hard he prayed for it to happen, he remained there. Praying. Pfft. What god was there for him? He was a killer; cold-blooded, ruthless, heartless and unworthy. He was damned from the start.

"Dude, you can't sit in here in silence for the rest of the day . . . You're going to have to show your face again at some point," Alfred said. He was sat on the other side of the bed, twisting and leaning to try and get some sort of response from Alex, but his attempts had all been futile so far. "No one judges you, if that's what you're worried about."

"How nice of them . . ."

"Alex, seriously. I don't understand what you're going through, I can't lie . . . But I know that if I were you, I wouldn't be burying my head in the sand."

Alex didn't say anything. He held his tongue and stared at the wall blankly, his eyes beginning to itch and burn from dryness. Alfred was at a loss, really. He wasn't sure how to console Alex or reassure him, or even get him to look him in the eye! He was so different from when they'd first met a few days before. The confidence, the smile-come-evil-grin, the chirpiness and even the occasional innocence, gone. The original American let out a sigh. 

"When you started to talk to me about him . . ." he said, turning back around and looking at the floor, his final attempt to try and get more than four words out of Alex beginning. "You sounded happy, but you sounded sad . . . You seemed to really care about him, respect him, love him . . . Whatever you want to call it."

"Stop."

"But you were still so sad, and you might think that's a weakness or whatever, but it isn't . . . It's human."

"Alfred, I said stop."

"I-It's not wrong to ever be upset, to miss someone, to have regrets and wish with all you have that you could change the past . . . It's human of you, and it means you have a heart. Alex, you have to understand . . . What you did, it was unforgivable . . ."

"I know, now will you just st--!"

"You killed the man you loved, and you have every right to be upset or angry with yourself. I'd feel the same, but I just . . . I want you to know that no matter what you think of yourself, none of us think any less of you . . ." Alfred said. His voice had grown progressively quieter as he came to finish, and he stood up on the floor, walking towards the bedroom door. "Don't live in the past, OK? You'll only make yourself feel worse, and you'll never move on."

Alex half-smiled to himself. 'Head in the bloody game, Jones! You'll get both of us killed!' he could hear the Brit yelling at him before it became soft again. 'You ought to leave this sort of work to the professionals . . . So, same time next week?'

"I'll be down in a bit," he told Alfred quietly. "I think I just need some time alone right now . . ."

Alfred nodded even though Alex couldn't see it, and he closed the door behind him as he left with a gentle click. He decided that he ought to check on the others, maybe see how Allen was doing or something, before getting started on some food. Food always made everything better, right? But as he proceeded down the corridor, he was almost scared out of his mind when the library door flung open and Arthur appeared.

"Jesus, Artie! You trynna give me a heart atta--?!"

"Shut up and get your sorry ass in here," Arthur said.

From the look on his face, Alfred could tell that sentence wasn't without warning or consequence, so he held his hands up in surrender and followed Arthur into the library. He wasn't particularly surprised to see Allen in there still, and something clicked in his head when he registered that it was Arthur and Allen together rather than anyone else.

"Wait . . ." he said, eyes flicking between the other American and the Brit in suspicion. "Did you two . . . Did you actually start that poetry club?!"

"Oh, bloody hell . . ."

"No, we didn't," Allen responded, rolling his eyes. He was sat in the armchair, guarding the gun case that was underneath his seat, and he stared at Alfred with a determination that the blonde had never yet seen. 

"So what . . . What's this about?" Alfred asked with a frown. "Artie?"

"Don't call me that."

"Arthur, then. Sorry."

"It's about Charles, Alf--"

"Hey, Alfie!" a certain voice called loudly from the bottom of the stairs. "You got a minute? We need a hand!"

<><><>

Over a month since an update.
How have you guys not abandoned this book yet? ;w;

Also, I would totally join a poetry club if Arthur and Allen were in it. Don't know about you lot, but *cough* they can read some Keats with me any day~