This time, when Arthur made the journey to Alfred’s house, Oliver and Francis joined him. The Frenchman didn’t have a good feeling about this plan; wanted to be sure his younger brother was alright, him having the title of Big Brother of Europe.
They made it to their destination and knocked on the door. Alfred opened the door before he slammed it shut and locked the bolt. “NO ONE’S HOME!” he called as he pushed the door shut in case the lock failed.
“Open the door you bloody git!” Arthur scolded as he attempted to turn the knob.
Seeing the door shut, Oliver lightly pushed Arthur aside. “Allow me.” Pulling out a small kitchen knife, he wedged it in between the door and the frame, twisting, pulling, and tugging the door open. Seeing it not working, he took his knife back and slid it in the keyhole with a paperclip he found in his pocket. It took many tedious moments of listening, but they heard the bolt slowly turn.
Alfred felt his blood pumping right against his throat, nearly chocking him. Sweat beaded his face. The knob turned and Oliver started to creek the door open.
Seeing it open, Arthur and Oliver both pushed the door open as Alfred fought to keep it shut. ‘Just a little more.’ he thought to himself. ‘If I can just get this door closed for just a second, I can lock it again. Then, while they deal with that, I can get Allan and get out. I gotta keep them away from him, or he might crack!’
Allan came out of the guest room of the home after pausing his game. “What the hell is going on?!” he shouted. “I was just about to shoot enough people to level up!” He looked up with his blood red eyes and saw his counterpart in high distress.
Upon hearing the dark American, Oliver stopped pushing the door open and stood straight. Arthur stopped as well, making Alfred stop and listen. The sound of maniacal laughter filled the otherwise dead silent air. “…Come out Allan~” Oliver’s voice chuckled.
Arthur and Francis looked over at the Englishman as he looked up with wide baby blue eyes, hot pink swirling in a continuous whirlpool of insanity. In a flash, Oliver spun around, took Francis by the sleeve, and pulled him close, holding him close by his shoulders. He pressed his knife right at his stubbly jaw. “Arthur told me you want to be a hero~” he squeaked, his voice nails on an old chalkboard. “Rule number one, poppet, heroes save everyone!”
Arthur took a step forward and growled at his deception. “Oliver, you little-“
“Ah-ah!” the lunatic warned. “One move from any of you 1ps, and…” He let his knife complete the sentence for him as the bright crimson blood dribbled down the blade; the blood that was once flowing undisturbed in the Frenchman’s veins. Francis could only try to stay still. “Alfred, be a good little boy, and open the door so I can talk to my little brother~”
“Don’t Alfred!” Francis called. “We are the ones at fault for bringing him here!”
“Stop it you bloody frog!” Arthur scolded. “Do you want to live? Open the door Alfred!”
The two Americans didn’t know what to do. Alfred looked to Allan for guidance. Allan gave Alfred the same desperate look. He could already tell that Oliver lost it; it was obvious in the laugh that was heard beyond the wooden door.
“What’s it going to be, poppet~?” Oliver asked. “Stay there like a coward, or come out and be the villain you were born to be?”
Allan’s breathing stopped. He wanted so desperately to be a hero, but he’s been a villain for as long as he could remember. Only one thing was for sure, he was no coward. “Open the door.” he growled at the blonde American. Unsure what he was going to do, Alfred complied and opened the door.
On the porch, Francis’ eyes strained to see anything but the deceptive bright skies above them, and Oliver held him there with his swirling eyes growing wider in insanity at the sight of the American he searched for as Arthur inched past the threshold inside the American home. While one of the madman’s hands kept the knife at the Frenchman’s throat, Oliver raised his other hand with his index finger extended on the other hand. At the very tip of the finger was a pair of square, black sunglasses.
Allan took in a deep breath and started to walk out. “I don’t want a fight, Oliver.” he stated calmly. “Just let the goody-two-shoes 1p go.”
Oliver hummed in mocking consideration. “How about…no~!” he smiled. “You need a reminder of who you are; where you come from. I need some more French Flesh for my cupcakes for Christophe’s birthday coming up~!”
Francis’ bold blue eyes grew wide at the sound of that, but he tried to keep his whimpers silent. Allan glared at his childhood caretaker. “I know exactly who I am, and where I came from.” he growled as he reached for the baseball bat that collected dust against the wall. Though the nails were gone, they still left stray splinters all over the end where the nails originally were, and the dark, dried blood still wasn’t completely cleaned off, though the bat was still much less bloody than it was a day ago.
“Where did I come from?” he asked, coming closer to the pink and blue Brit. Oliver, now seeing the rage of the American, quickened his breathing. The knife in his fist started to slightly shake. The sunglasses that dangled on his fingertip slipped down to the concrete he stood on. “Alfred took a potion, split in two, and the other half became me.”
The American started to tower the Englishman as Oliver’s grip got looser and his eyes slowly lost their sense of happy-go-lucky. “Who am I?” Allan growled. He suddenly took his bat and smashed down on Oliver’s head with full force, which was enough to make a large dent in the skull. Upon impact, Oliver let Francis go and crossed his blue eyes to look at the bat. “I’m the hero, you bastard.” Allan took one more step closer to Oliver to enjoy the pure shock and fear in the bright blue eyes tinted slightly in pink. Beneath his grey sneaker, the black sunglasses cracked and the lenses shattered under his weight.
Allan lifted his leg and kicked the Brit in his chest, freeing his bat from the mess of blood coated blonde hair. Large, deep splinters stuck out from the cave in as the bat accepted the blood from it’s last victim. The bright crimson dribbled down the wood that was now rested over Allan’s shoulder. Oliver fell to his knees and dropped on his face frozen in shock and a hint of fear.
Looking down at his bat, the impact stripped the weapon of the stray splinters; it looked to be smooth enough to run bear fingers over it, though there were small holes and scars on the wood. His red eyes were brought back down to the square, black sunglasses that laid next to the cold, pale index finger. The frames were completely crushed and the lenses were practically turned into dust.
Alfred, Arthur, and Francis still stared at the growing pool of blood on the porch that oozed from Oliver’s sadistic brain. Allan simply smiled coldly at the corps, small silver tears leaking down his face. He looked down at his hands stained in the Brit’s crimson blood, small tears landing in his palm and washing the red stains away. Though blood stained Allan’s hands, he has never been cleaner.