Somewhere along the way, the gods had screwed up, big time.

Outwardly, there had been nothing different about that day in Central. Just another Tuesday.

"What the <********>"

Yeah, just another Tuesday.

Murphy paced back and forth in front of the couch, bony and callused fingers worrying at the very roots of his hair in distress. They'd already had a go at his shirt collar - now stretched far beyond its usual shape.

"This, this, this--!"

He stopped his pacing to turn to the couch, worry lining the widened whites of his eyes. His brother looked back, unconcerned and in a relatively chipper mood, considering.

"Stop freakin' out, Murph," Seamus piped up, as if that would help.

"Stop freakin'- Seamus." He dropped to his knees before the couch, hands shaking in the air emphatically, as if they were shaking Seamus himself. "Seamus, you are tiny."

And he was. His brother's face stared at him as if out of one of Mum's family photos; like the one, back when they were five and it was Halloween, and they'd dressed up as George and Fred Weasley and dyed their hair ginger, and ran around yelling various spells at their relatives, some of the curses more malicious than others depending on who had handed out apples instead of candy that year.

The picture was near identical, except for the jagged, half-healed, perfectly shrunken scars that ripped across Seamus' face. Even his clothes had been miniaturized.

Seamus looked down at himself, confused, before looking back up at Murphy.

"Yeah, so?"

"So," Murphy gritted his teeth, his hands wrapping around his twin's shoulders so easily, and they were so huge. "You're my twin. You're not supposed to be this small, remember?"

Seamus, obviously, did not quite recall this little fact. Maybe the godly magic had screwed with his brain, but he was under the impression that something like this was totally, completely normal, and that he'd always been a five-year-old. After a moment, clarity seemed to dawn upon him, muddy and difficult to come by as it was.

"Oh," Seamus echoed, blinking, perplexed. His eyebrows furrowed, nose scrunching in thought, before nodding, quite seriously. "It'll get fixed. Pro'lly."

It looked absolutely ridiculous. Murphy had to bite back the hysterical laughter that bubbled in his throat.

"Pro'lly," he deadpanned in return, sighing and leaning forward to rest his forehead on the couchseat, arms dropping to the floor. "Mum's gonna kill me."

Maybe, on some other occasion, he would have found this hilarious. But after Southern, and after the scars and the Chinese god ladies, events like this were entirely unwelcome when they involved his only brother.

His only--

"Awh, ********!" His head jerked up, body reeling back, thoroughly startling his younger (too literally) brother. "Prince!"

Just another, typical day for the blessed.

~*~*~*~*~

OMAKE

~*~*~*~*~

Valeriu was not so distressed as he had been merely an hour before. This was due, in very large part, to the fact that he was now safely ensconced in a cheerful little pastry cafe, seated on a chair just a bit (only a bit - well, maybe a lot) too tall for him to easily get on and off, and steadily working his way through a complimentary piece of dark cocoa bread, the only item in the sweets shop he hadn't turned his nose up at.

Some small part of him knew something was off. A much larger part of him was more concerned with clinging to the owners' coattails until someone he knew came to pick him up. He wasn't quite sure who that would be (something said no, not his parents, though he didn't know why), but they'd show up. Eventually.

He buried his free hand in the fur lining the hood of his coat, an altogether pleased purr escaping him as he took another bite of the bittersweet loaf. He could hear the owners exchanging a gunfire of hushed whispers from behind the counter, his sharp, over-sized ears swiveling and flicking curiously, but he wasn't that interested in the conversation.

What he was interested in, however, was the figure that just opened the door.

"Murphy!" He dropped the bread back onto its plate, relief washing through him and arms held out eagerly from his seat atop the bar stool. His demand was swiftly rewarded, Murphy hoisting him up into tight carry.

"Oh, thank god, thought you'd be in the freakin' ruins this time of day," Murphy babbled, then mentioned something about nearly tearing apart another shop in his frantic search, and then he was directing a stream of sincere thanks and gratitude to the two shop owners, but Vale was content to merely burrow his nose against Murphy's chilled collar bone and wrap his arms tightly around his neck in a near-chokehold.

Soon enough his hood was pulled back up over his ears, and he was carefully plunked down in the motorcycle's sidecar next to Seamus, seatbelt buckled snugly across their laps.

"You didn't cry, did'ja?" Seamus laughed at the sniffles of relief Valeriu was trying to cover up.

"No." Yes, yes he had. His tail fluffed in defense, and Seamus amusedly pat it back down. The motorcycle revved up, pulling away into the street, albeit at a much slower pace than it had ever gone in its life before this day. He clarified, more haughtily, as he rubbed the p***k of tears away from the corner of his eyes, "They gave me a treat, because I v'as so good."

"What? Murphy, where's my treat? That's not fair!"

"Mum'll give you both something - oh, for the love of--" The motorcycle slid to a somewhat sudden halt, and Valeriu peaked curiously over the top of the sidecar at the sidewalk.

"Quinn!"

Murphy groaned, and left his seat to retrieve the next wayward Godling.