"Alice?"

"Are you, Alice?"

Her emerald green eyes glimmered, as a peaceful smile graced her lips.

::

Long and slender fingers silently grazed the dull gemstone before him. His cuffs were rolled up from the heat, revealing a pale scar on his forearm. The mark, like a vine, circled his arm, going from his elbow to his hand before fading away.

The Russian man hummed to himself in mild contemplation, lightly playing with the piece of jewelry in his right hand as he casually leaned on his left one. Face blank, a vague sense of boredom emanated from him as he kept his face from displaying any emotion.

His golden eyes unnoticeably narrowed before he quietly closed them and leaned further into his quilted fauteuil.

Alice, he gingerly thought.

His blond lashes quivered, letting his eyes flutter open. When was the last time he saw this earing? Gaze tinted with mild nostalgia, he imbued the Mist attributed earing with some of his Sky Flames.

The way it suddenly seemed to lit up, coming to life as a multitude of shades of indigo danced behind the gem brought a small smile to his lips. He longly exhaled, closing his eyes in the process, and when he opened them, the nostalgia was gone, leaving only coldness and indifference.

His gaze was sharp, leaving place for no mistake and the temperature seemed to drop by a few degrees. If one listened carefully, the low sound of statics echoed in the office, flashes of red and orange mingling with one another, clashing and disappearing before bursting out of nothingness at once.

AliceAliceAliceAliceAlice—

He closed his eyes, hiding his golden irises which were now tainted red as he regulated his breathing, calming his beating heart. He heaved a sigh, his eyes fluttered open, and in his golden hues, only small sparks of red appeared.

The red and orange which previously chaotically danced around his study turned calmer, merely flickering from time to time from one place to another. Aleksey paid it no mind his whole attention focused on the token he once left to his woman.

A light chuckle slipped past his lips as he saw the bright gem turn duller from the lack of Flame. He didn't input any, solely watching as the life withered from it only to leave behind an empty shell.

An empty shell.

For a short moment, his mind went back to this girl he once met in France. The way her long straight lush green hair had fluttered in the wind as her gem-like eyes silently blinked at him, hidden laughter evident in her gaze. The slight quirk of her lips had displayed a smile he could only dream of before an enchanting voice slipped past her parted lips.

He could remember it, this dream-like encounter with the Fool.

Fool. Aleksey mentally sneered at himself. She wasn't the Fool, he was the foolish one.

In a breath, the beautiful painting in his mind scattered, he was back to his office, alone. Sometimes, when Aleksey wasn't working, he had trouble understanding where they had gone wrong, both him and her.

Alice.

::

Old Renée shook her head in mild defeat and amusement, her chapped lips were curled up as she silently remembered her oldest grandson's reaction before she put the landline telephone away.

With careful steps, nor too slow nor too fast, she reached the kitchen and opened her fridge to see what kind of vegetable remained. It was only ten in the morning, and truth be told, Old Renée didn't need to take out so much from the fridge.

After all, the only people who lived in the house all year round were herself and small Francis, her second grandson, the youngest one, and the last one she would ever have.

But quantity didn't matter much to Old Renée. As she grew up in a big fratery, awarding her more than five younger siblings, she had long grown accustomed to cooking for many. The thought of her now mostly deceased brothers and sisters saddened her, but she didn't dwell on it for long, instead thanking the sky for letting her live a bit longer to raise her two angels.

Back to cooking. As an Old Lady, Renée had long since entered her retirement period, and although it at first seemed like a dull and lifeless moment of her life— if not for her children, she would have probably died of boredom.

Cooking came to her as a casual way to pass time first. After all, wandering around in the mountain was good for health, but it got old quick. Cooking was necessary, she first tried out new recipes, preparing her meals for the week, watching some cooking TV shows or reading some specialized magazines.

Old Renée was a thorough person when she began something she did it until the end. Maybe, Mikaël's stubbornness in regards to his project in Japan came from her?

Anyway, she soon grew fond of the menial task, finding some sense to her action and a deep feeling of satisfaction every time a new dish came out of her oven. It was like magic, the way those raw ingredients would turn into delicious meals once cooked.

Maybe the thought and analogy were childish, but Old Renée didn't care, the fulfillment was too grand, she was already addicted to the art.

Humming to herself as her wrinkled hand carefully held a knife while the other had a zucchini, she expertly cut it. Her whole attention was focused on the task in front of her, and as usual, when absorbed into her work, she failed to notice Fran's dazed appearance as he entered the living room.

The boy had given his grandmother a long hard stare, blinking several times as if to confirm the authenticity of his vision, before turning and walking to the dining room, an unnoticeable sigh leaving his mouth as he walked away from the kitchen.

The boy had his usual blank, and bored expression etched on his face, but his green eyes, which usually perfectly complimented his features seemed to glow with pearls of wisdom inappropriate of someone his age. More precisely, something he didn't possess as early as two weeks ago.

He came up to the dining table on which was a multitude of food, more than enough to fill his small stomach for breakfast. Cereals, jam, bread, milk, yogurt, ham, cheese, and the likes were displayed for him to choose from as he took a seat at the end of the table.

Fran was used to eating his breakfast alone, Mamie usually was busy, but she would sometimes take the time to have a cup of coffee while watching over him. Fran loved these moments the most, they filled him with warmth, washing away every one of his troubles as he knew Mamie would never let him down.

She was simply that great of a grandmother.

His mind still dazed from the night and the many unanswered questions in his head, Fran mechanically reached for a piece of bread, he grabbed the butter and sprawled some on the toast before adding a layer of blueberry jam, a homemade one made by both him and his beloved grandmother.

Well, he only helped to clean the dishes by licking them clean— but who needed to know that?

His mind elsewhere, his hands were hard at work, bringing the toast over to his mouth and absentmindedly chewing on it as he tilted his head to the side, a low questioning hum emanating from his throat.

Should I call Big Brother?

The question trotted in his mind for a few minutes before a frown etched itself on his face. He gently shook it, now licking his fingers from the remaining jam before wiping them clean with a napkin.

No, he didn't want to worry him—

He bit his lower lip, his usually blank face showing a rare conflicted look. Who was he trying to fool? He was most afraid of his Brother leaving him behind.

After all, time and distance were powerful things. It didn't matter how many times Mikaël repeated how much he loved and cared for him over the phone. It didn't matter, the number of presents and postcards he sent out every month.

At the end of the day, when was the last time the two spoke face to face? Without any interruption of sorts, without faking anything? When had they been honest with one another in this life?

Fran felt bitter, it wasn't right to accuse his Brother of lying and faking everything when he obviously cared for him and showed some genuineness.

He sighed, his features went back to its default expression as his green eyes glinted with repressed thoughts. He felt a bit cramped in such a tiny body, but at the same time, he felt it was his mind who was too big for him to cope with.

He closed his eyes, the scenes from these dreams replaying at once before he snapped them open, a glint of indigo coursing through them. He extended his hand, remembering the sensation in his dream, though he had no catalyst, he believed himself to be strong enough to deal without one.

Maybe it was him being pretentious and overestimating himself, but Fran didn't show an ounce of doubt as to the foreign matter, Mist Flames they called it, gathered at the tip of his fingers.

He felt jittery all over, spasms sometimes taking over his body as he focused his mind on this magic he intuitively knew how to use. All of his thoughts were converted in this language known to only those like him, and in a matter of seconds, a miasma of indigo appeared before him.

It was oddly tamed, twitching from time to time but never leaving the boy's sight. Fran hummed, he heaved a sigh and relaxed his shoulders a bit more, he could hear his grandmother's humming from the kitchen.

Slowly, as if waiting for him to get accustomed to the feeling and way to use this matter, the miasma condescended itself. It turned more compact, unabling others from seeing through it and making it seem almost solid.

Fran's right hand, the one he kept in front of him, twitched under the indigo matter, the electric feeling still coursing through his limb as he observed the block in front of him slowly change shape to fit his desire.

Silently, its shape became rounder, then thinner, more human-like, similar to a mannequin. The color changed, letting part of indigo turn a healthy shade of pink, flawlessly imitating caucasian skin tone, while the rest also drifted away from its original indigo color.

Fran's eyes filled themselves with wonder. It wasn't from the successful use of those Mist Flames he supposedly possessed, but from the familiar yet foreign image, he had managed to create in less than ten long seconds.

Those eyes filled with adoration, they glinted with a kind of hope and despair he had only ever seen in those pools of gold— witnessed in those improbable dreams of his.

He stared at the teen's silky locks of green, a shade oh so similar to his it couldn't have been more obvious they were related.

At last, his eyes moved to these inconspicuous earrings on the figure's left earlobe, and he frowned. "Brise?" He hesitantly said, remembering the foreign word and how close it was to one of his mother tongue's.

Fran thought for a bit if his dream was correct, something he hoped it was and at the same time prayed it wasn't, then in less than ten years, a madman with white hair would rule the world.

He would be part of some underworld organization, sometimes an assassin, sometimes a lackey, but always trolling people. His grandmother had most likely passed away, and his Brother, his sole relative, despite being alive hadn't grown up one bit?

It seemed crazy and impossible, and he swore something was amiss.

But seeing as he did possess those powers, it wouldn't be wise of him to dismiss those conjectures as if they were nothing.

Honestly, he wasn't eager to meet any of the people from his dream, and he thought never knowing them would perhaps be better. After all, though teasing them was fun, compared to his Brother's life in this situation, he knew which to prioritize.

Maybe, meeting none of those crazy people would result in those things never happening. This hypothesis seemed even more impossible to him, and he sighed.

He stood up, deciding to go out and clear his mind of those thoughts.

Ah, if only he could forget them all. It would be much easier—

Fran's foot made contact with, what he would later know was, spilled yogurt. He didn't have the time to blink, his world went upside down as he harshly fell on the floor, his head not missing a beat steadily hitting it in turn.

His mind was hazy. He felt foggy and dizzy.

Everything hurts so much.

"Mamie..."

His half-lidded green eyes began to lose their focus as he tried to resist closing them.

"Brother..."

How was he on the ground? Was this the dining room? Did he slip?

His mind was a total mess, sending a throbbing pain through his skull. From afar, he seemed to hear his beloved grandmother's cries, he could see her figure behind his blurry eyes.

Ah, he was a bit tired.

A nap. A small nap wouldn't hurt.

Mamie: Grandmother/grandma/granny...

Brise: breeze

Because poor Fran is fated to be an amnesiac  ¯\_( ◉ 3 ◉ )_/¯

Should I do a quick recap of the members of the Bratva in the next chapter, in case some got forgotten?

Thanks for reading, until next time^^