I found this one fanart piece of an AU where Alfred is a serial killer who murdered Arthur and regrets it, saying “I miss you, Arthur” or something along those lines.
However, there was no link to the original fanfiction. Would anyone possible knows what it’s called or where I might find it?
His glasses made a soft sound as he set them down on the table.
Sighing, he folded his arms together and gently buried his head into the folds of his skin, closing his eyes to try and black out the confusing and troubling world problems that refused to relent in his harsh headache. Knitting his eyebrows together, he nuzzled his head deeper, further and further away from the unforgiving world he lived in. Why, he thought desperately, why did I have to be me?
“Alfred?”
The call from downstairs floated up to his room, and he nearly had a seizure right there. Slowly lifting his head up, he turned slightly to peer out into the darkness behind his door. A light had been turned on, and the previous comforting dark was replaced with a golden glow that signaled he had arrived home.
“Alfred, you’re here, aren’t you? You’re in your room, right?”
The creaking of the old wooden steps foretold the other’s ascending progress, and he panicked, trying to think of somewhere to hide, somewhere to escape, someway to get away.
The closet; too predictable. The bathroom; too noticeable, plus the window’s stuck. The fire escape; too far away, he’d have to jump from the sill; too dangerous. I could shut the door, push the dresser in front of it; he’d be able to break it down, then he’d be furious with me, which means he’ll bring out the belt. He started to tremble as he mentally crossed off each plausible escape route, knowing they were impossible with his father.
Stepfather. He shuddered at the mistake. How could that monster ever be someone’s father?
“Alfred, I hope you’re studying up there.”
The steps were from down the hall, and he depressingly realized that he had run out of time. Sucking in a breath, he tried to subdue his shaking. It’ll only make him madder, he reminded himself.
The polished brown leather shoes he knew he would be wearing stopped outside his door, the arm draped in his dark trench coat creaking the door open slightly, the hips that were hugged by his pressed and ironed black slacks leaned against the door frame, the chest that was clothed in his typical sweater vest leaned into the room, and that tousled blonde head of his peered in dubiously.
He remained silent as he slowly turned toward him, his throat refusing to swallow the thick dread in his mouth, his armpits moistening and dampening his baggy sweatshirt, his trembling knees threatening to give him away, as he tried once more to clear his mouth and he silently whispered,
“Welcome home, Arthur.”
“Honestly Alfred, how do you expect to study in such dim lighting? And Francis wonders why your sight’s going…” He strode into the room and flicked on all the lights. Alfred seemed to shrink in on himself as the light threatened to grab at him, to pull him out and expose his fear.
“What subject is this?” Walking over to him, he peered over Alfred’s shoulder, head inches from his own as he quietly studied whichever textbook Alfred had brought home with him.
Pulling back, which Alfred released a grateful sigh for, he said in great disgust, “Chemistry.”
As he walked back toward the door to the hall, he muttered, “I don’t know why you waste your time on that nonsense. Should have brought your English home; your grammar is horrendous.”
Just before he was about to turn down the hall, and when Alfred thought he was home free, he stuck his head back in and reminded him, “Don’t forget to drop by my room for your, ah, training.”
The steps faded back downstairs as he descended, and Alfred shuddered at the thought of what tonight might entail. Just last week, Arthur had shown his affection for him by decorating his body with hickeys and bruises and scars, courtesy of his favorite leather belt, studded with leather spikes that he lovingly polished and shined every week.
He nearly puked.
—
“Alfred, you look sick.”
The concern evident on his twin’s face was not new to Alfred. He had seen it every week for as long as he could remember ever since Arthur had first started calling him to his room.
“I’m serious, Al. You look green.”
“And you sound surprised why?” He knew he seemed apathetic to Matt, indifferent, but he honestly didn’t care at this point. His body had grown numb with each flick of Arthur’s wrist, with each night he was forced to spend in the company of his stepfather.
“It’s getting out of hand, Alfred. You really should consider coming to stay with me and Francis.”
Glancing up with his mastered blank expression, he stared back into the pale lilac eyes. They weren’t actually twins, but it was easier than explaining what they actually were.
“You make it sound as if I hadn’t considered this already.” He had heard the same thing, weeks, months, almost a year before, and he knew it was impossible. Impossible just like moving into the home of his other father, Francis, who had taken Matt with him when he and Arthur had split up. Impossible like his theories how Arthur might eventually stop the abuse sometime. Impossible like how he believed Arthur might let him leave.
“Maybe I should get Francis to talk to him…” Matthew trailed off. Not because he was thinking, but because he knew that would never happen. Not since Francis had become disgusted with his former companion, not since Arthur had started drinking. Not since Francis had figured out what Arthur did to their children at night.
“Matt, it’s alright. I’m fine, really.” Alfred’s weary eyes said otherwise, their bright life dimmed past revival ever since the first incident. “I’m fine.”
It wasn’t fine. He had only convinced himself everything was okay. He had convinced himself it was better than letting Arthur get his hands on Matthew. It was better than letting him taint someone else.
Alfred wearily closed his eyes, trying to catch up on his lost sleep.
Lovino lifted his head slowly and stared at Feliciano like he was seeing him for the first time. He smiled softly. “When did you become the wise one, Feli?”
Feliciano smiled back. “I’ve always been the wise one.”
” —Lovino and Feliciano, Auf Wiedershen Sweatheart
