Disclaimer: Hetalia doesn't belong to me...
Matthew stumbled over yet another stone on the crumbling sidewalk as he ran further down the streets, his backpack bobbing up and down against his back. Behind him, he heard multiple voices coming closer and closer with each step, calling out with laughter and arrogant shouts. Matthew knew that the smartest thing to do right now was to get away as quickly as possible. That way, he would be in good health and the boys chasing him would not get in trouble. It was a win for everyone.
He rushed past gathering groups of men and women dressed in fashionable coats, most of whom were waiting for the bus or walking home from their hunts for employment justice. For a moment, he turned back around to see how near the other boys were getting, when he accidentally bumped directly into a dancer, out on her afternoon break. Taking another drag of her cigarette, the slim woman gave him an odd look as he apologized as many times as he could before he knew that it was time to run.
Matthew was never a very good athlete. He knew how to skate, but only because his mother had taught him. When he was younger, he wished that the other boys – and some girls, who were simply considered odd by everyone other than him – would allow him to play sports on his street, but they never did. They always said that he was too scrawny and too weak, that he was better suited for cooking and sewing. He never told them off – he didn't know how. And he knew that they were right. He was not suited for sports or for friends.
Today, he had finally decided to stand up for himself, which was a much worse idea than it seemed. At first, he thought that, maybe, if he took initiative for once, the other boys would respect him more and want to actually talk to him, not ignore him like everyone else always did. He was very wrong,
While he was eating lunch in the cafeteria, three boys came up to him and decided that he was sitting in their favourite spot. As usual, he was afraid of these boys as well. Every time someone asked him to do something, he was forced to oblige, based on his own cowardice and sense of kindness. He wanted this time to be different. There was really nothing frightening about these boys at all. They were just like him – young, Canadian children. It did not matter that they were ten – two years older than him. Bravery isn't a number, after all.
"Can you maybe sit somewhere else?" Matthew suggested in a light whisper, looking down at his hands.
"What? Are you serious, little homo boy? " one of the boys called out and the other two laughed along with him. "Do you want to get your face smashed?" he laughed again. "Muffin twit!"
Matthew suddenly felt like he could cry. He'd heard these same insults hundreds of times before, but they still hurt just as much each time. He knew what their insults meant. After the first couple of times that kids had called him that, he asked his mother what they meant and she – reluctantly – explained. They used to hurt a lot less when he didn't know what they meant.
"No, I just sat here first, that's all," Matthew had said.
"Well, this will be the last time you ever sit here unless you move right now!" one of the other kids yelled, seeming powerful in comparison to Matthew himself.
"Well, um, maybe I don't really want to move, I think," Matthew mumbled as quietly as he could. He felt very proud for standing up for himself, even if he was scared out of his mind.
And that was how he found himself running over thirty-five blocks from the school to his apartment. He tried apologizing to the boys for taking their spot and talking back to them, but they just called him an idiot and laughed at him. They kept telling him that he was a girl and that he could never stand up for himself, since he was worthless. He told them that they were being rude to him, and they took it the worst possible way.
He was breathing heavily now, as he took a very brief stop to collect his energy for the next few blocks. One wheezy gasp after another, his legs continued to lead him down the full streets. It was not long before he hoped that he would never have to run like this again. He turned back around once more to find that the three boys, still full of energy and looking as threatening as ever, were closing in on him. Whispering a quick farewell to his lungs, he began running towards his home. Matthew ran for as many blocks as he possibly could, finding it more difficult to breath and see with each new step.
Finally, he found himself only two blocks down from his house. A couple more minutes of heaved running brought him only a few buildings down to his apartment. There were less people now, though living in such a big city, there were still large crowds huddling here and there. Just as he was about to reach the door to his apartment building, someone grabbed him from behind and forced his head on the pavement. Matthew thought that he heard a crack, though he hoped that it was just his wrist, which was trying to break his fall.
"Really? You thought you could run away, like a little girl?" the boy who pulled him down hollered, followed by chants from the other two.
"I bet you anything that he thought he could get away. He probably had a better chance if he was wearing his skirt though," another one of them cackled.
"Stop," Matthew wheezed, trying hard to stop the boy who was holding his head down to the ground. "Please, help me!" Matthew tried to cry out, though he knew that no one would hear him. In a commercial site like this, there was no way that anyone would care for some little boys having a row.
One of the boys threw a quick punch at Matthew, while a second one joined in and began kicking his midriff. Matthew slowly reached out to his side, trying to clutch his wounds and check if any more fractures had been made. Quiet sobs erupted against the pavement as he gripped his loose shirt, feeling somehow more reassured having something physical in his hands. At least this way, he would have something to dig his fingernails into at the pain of the kicks and punches. Three more kicks followed, punishing his weak legs and shoulder. He sucked in his breath once more, feeling skin break as his knee slid across the cemented ground. All that he heard above were pitched laughs and a couple of harsh words, shared among friends.
"Please, stop," Matthew gasped and attempted to squirm away from the bullies. He began to push himself up onto his knees to escape the beating. Truthfully, he was not sure whether he deserved it or not, but that did not make the pain any different. All that he wanted was to go home, to talk to his mother and ask her how her day went. He never wanted any of this.
"Oh, are you too scared to fight back?" the children chanted and laughed.
Matthew turned around, so that he lay on his back. He began to sit up, leaning onto his elbows, to face the three children that loomed over him. It seemed as though the boys had backed down for a moment, Matthew noticed, just to let him get up and fight them. They knew that he had no chance against them. But, they also thought that, if they gave him a chance, he would fight them. Of course, he was not that stupid.
He quickly touched his lips to find blood on his fingertips when he pulled them away. He slowly got up off of the ground, blood dripping from his bruised lips. The air seemed thick and moist once he stood tall enough to feel it. A light autumn breeze blew past his curly locks, sounding a faint battle cry.
"The little girl's crying! You little queer," the boys laughed loudly. It did not matter to Matthew that they were calling him anything at this point. It was still better for them to use their words than to use their fists.
He did not want to argue with them, nor did he want to fight them. He wanted to be safe and at home, where his soft blanket and cup of milk would be waiting for him, as he sat in front of the radio and listened to a couple of old folk songs. Out here, in the cold, he felt very scared.
As soon as he stood up completely, he briefly looked around, calculating what the quickest route to his home could be, trying to do so inconspicuously. He didn't want his escape strategy to foiled before it even came into motion. Just as it looked as though he was about to be attacked again, he decided to forget the plan and began running with all that he had. Luckily, his apartment was so close by that all he had to do was quickly force his key in and run through the front door. The three boys charged in after him, screaming the entire way.
Matthew raced up the staircase to the first floor, then the second, and finally the third. He took out his second key, jammed it into the lock of the first door, and quickly threw the door open, shutting it behind him as fast as he could. Only once the lock was in place was he able to finally relax. He fell to his knees behind the locked door and threw his head back a little bit, forgetting for a moment that he was bleeding.
"Mom, are you home?" he called out, but received no answer. She must still be out, then.
He stood up and reached for some nearby newspaper that lay scattered on the floor. The headlines were the same as every day. "Unemployed Citizen"and "Wall Street in Panic as Stocks Crash" were very common headlines these days. It was all anyone ever spoke of anymore. His mother was not usually out this late, but recently, she's only been coming home later and later each evening.
Remembering what had happened just moments prior, Matthew quickly tore out a page from the newspaper and applied it to his bleeding mouth. Sure, it wasn't the most sanitary thing he could find, but it could get the job done all the same. He didn't want to bleed all over his mother's favourite – and only – carpet. They would probably have to sell it soon anyway, so Matthew kept the newspaper as close to his lips – and as far from the carpet – as possible.
He made his way to the kitchen, over to his left, to get something better to clean himself up with and get his usual glass of milk. A chair had already been pulled out from the table when he entered. He sat down on the chair and placed his tired hands on the table before him, stretching his limbs as far as he could reach them. He closed his eyes and was about to rest his head on the table when he noticed something odd and out of place on its surface.
Nearly every day, the mail would be placed on a small pile on top of the table by whoever picked it up. Today there was only one envelope on the table. Matthew flipped it over to check the address, which was printed on the corner in fine, dark ink. It clearly depicted his address, as well as the return address of someone living in New York City.
"What?" he wondered aloud, double-checking that this was indeed the address. Why would someone from New York City be writing them? He was sure that neither him nor his mother knew anyone who lived in New York, or would be writing from such a large city, especially not from the United States. It was then that he noticed the name written in swirly cursive letters on the corner.
Matthew quickly gathered the envelope in his hands as he stared at his own name scribbled across one of the corners. His fingers drew over the swirly ink, tracing his name. It would have been one thing to have his mother's name on the letter, as she has gotten odd mail a couple of times before, but for such a letter to have his name on it – that made no sense. He barely knew many people in Toronto, and definitely knew no one in the United States.
Without a second thought, he took the letter in his hand and slowly tore it open. His bruised finger got a tiny cut when in contact with the torn paper, but he didn't care. All that was on his mind was the name on the back. The letter came out of its envelope with ease as Matthew spread it out on the table.
Just before he was about to turn it over and read it, he considered that it might just be a coincidence that his name was on it. Of course, he did want to know what exactly was written on it, just in case the letter really was concerning him. He turned the letter over in his hands and began reading from the introduction.
Dear Rosemarie and Matthew Williams,
It has been long since we have spoken. I apologize for such an inconvenience in time, and would not mind to speak at some point. I have been well, though I suppose you wouldn't want to know of how I've been. I hope you are also well.
I am writing this letter concerning Matthew Williams. Dear Matthew, if you are reading this, I hope you have been faring well. I understand that I have not contacted you in a long time, and that you would rather it stay that way, but I have an important topic to discuss with both of you.
Marie, it has been years since I have seen Matthew, and would like to see him again some time. But, I am not the only person who would like to meet him. I know that I have waited very long to mention this to you and to him, but I would like for him to meet Alfred. I suppose this is not entirely appropriate, especially at this time, but I know that both Alfred and Helen have waited long enough for this meeting, as I am sure that Matthew has as well.
It's hard to believe that it has been almost nine years already. It really is unfortunate that we had not been in contact for so long. I truly hope that Alfred and Matthew would be able to bond together and mend such a large gap, as it would have been better had they known each other from the very beginning. Please, respond to this as soon as you can. I am also happy to invite both of you to our home in New York City (though, yes, I know this really is not the best time to be in that city) for Thanksgiving Day, the fourth Thursday of November. You do not have to attend the dinner, if you don't want the attention of the family, but you would be very welcome to. Our address is on the envelope.
If you ever need anything, contact me and we may be able to work something out. But, keep in mind that these are economically dangerous times and it would be best to wait until the next year. Hopefully, by then, everything will be sorted out and we can put this Wall St. crisis behind us all.
Sincerely, Roger Jones
The letter fell from Matthew's hands and fell harsh ly on the table. He simply looked down at it, too shocked to bother picking it back up. Who was Alfred? Who was Helen? Who was Roger Jones? Why did he want Matthew and this "Alfred" to meet? What exactly did all of this mean? His mother must know. He only wondered why she hadn't opened the letter and why she isolated it on the table if she didn't want Matthew to read it; it just seemed like something he shouldn't be looking at without her consent. Or had she wanted him to see it? It was sent to both of them, after all.
He knew that he couldn't go to America in nearly a week. Surely, such a trip would cost their family tens of dollars that they did not have. Then again, how could he even consider something like that when he didn't even know who had invited him in the first place.
How will Mom respond to this? he wondered.
He moved the paper further away, towards the centre of the table. He turned back around and stood up from his chair, not giving the letter a second glance. His knees threatened to buckle under their newly found weight, reminding Matthew of the beating he had taken just a couple of minutes ago. But, then again, it's not as though he's never taken a beating from other children before, though it was usually nothing more than punch or a few kicks. This time, it had been much worse and involved a rather greater amount of blood.
He ran his pant leg up, grabbed a cloth from the kitchen counter and ran it under the tap briefly before applying it to his bleeding knee. Wincing, he applied it one more time, cleaning the wound off carefully. Once the wound looked clean enough, he limped over to the washroom and grabbed a roll of gauze and a pair of scissors from the nearby cupboard. He flopped down on the couch and began unwrapping the gauze, piece after piece, until he had enough to use for his wound.
"I forgot the pins," he remembered in awe, getting up once more.
"I'm home," Rosemarie said and slammed the front door after her. She sighed and walked into the kitchen, finding Matthew sitting there, drinking a glass of milk and towering over something on the table.
"What are you looking at?" she asked him, coming to look over his shoulder.
"I – I don't know," he said and looked up. He tried to hide his face beneath his hair as he really did not want her to worry, but it was too late.
"Are you alright?" his mother carefully placed her hand on his shoulder, her voice turning soft.
"I'm fine," he said, though he knew that his mother could see the tears in his eyes. His fingers brushed against the paper before him, his other hand resting on his knee. "Mom, can you please tell me what this is?" he asked, lifting the paper from its place on the table.
Rosemarie swiftly moved towards the table and grabbed the paper from his hands. Her eyes, calm and serene at first, quickly turned to ones of anger and worry. She grasped the paper tightly in her hands as she strutted over to the table and snatched the empty envelope from the table.
"Where did you get this?" She scanned the envelope while waving the letter in front of him, fighting away her own tears.
"You left it on the counter," Matthew explained, though he refused to meet her sad eyes.
"I didn't," she cried. She balled her fist up around the envelope when she realized what had happened. "No, I thought I threw it away. I – I must have forgotten." She pulled out a chair for herself and placed her head in her hands, running her fingers through her hair while taking long, loud breaths.
Matthew quickly came to her side, placed his own small hands on her shivering ones. "I'm sorry," he said with a low whisper, as though that would calm his mother down a little bit.
"No, it's not your fault. Your name was on it, so of course you would have wanted to know what was inside," she muttered, a tear escaping her wary eyes. "I – I'm just worried. You read all of it, didn't you?" Rosemarie stuttered, though her words seemed firmer than before.
"I did," Matthew mumbled with a bowed head. He gave his mother a quick hug, burying his head in her shoulder before settling back down in his own seat. "I didn't understand it. Mom, who is Roger?"
At this, Rosemarie actually did calm down a little bit more, pulling her head away from her folded arms and lifted it towards her son. She reached out her hands and placed them softly over Matthew's, which were now shaking more, little by little. Matthew knew that the following conversation was going to be a difficult conversation for the both of them, and yet he couldn't imagine what exactly she was going to break to him. Whatever it was, it seemed as though it was destroying her on the inside, just be holding it in, and Matthew did not like it at all.
"Whatever it is, I can handle it," he reassured her, giving her the most caring smile that he could.
"I'm sure you can," she said with a smile of her own. "You're old enough, that's for sure." She took a deep breath and took the letter in her hands again. "Alright, there are some things we need to talk about, Matthew. They're concerning your – your father," she sighed. Matthew's eyes widened as those last words left his mother's lips.
For years, the only things he has been told of his father were comments about how stern and strong he was, of the way that he was always looking for adventure, until his business and family pulled him away and brought him back to France, where he came from. Other than that, Matthew had never heard anything else about the mysterious man who was absent from his life for almost nine years. Even the idea of mentioning him, in fear of upsetting his mom, was unspoken of. Up until this moment, that is.
"What?" he whispered, but his mother didn't hear him.
"Nine years ago," she began, "I fell in love with the wrong man. He was kind, intelligent and charming – the perfect man, in those times. I don't know what I was thinking back then, now that I look at it. It was stupid of me not to suspect anything, but I didn't know that he was married when I met him," she paused for a moment, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. "His name was Roger Jones."
Matthew gasped a little bit, already seeing where this conversation was going. Rosemarie noticed this, but she decided to continue her explanation anyway.
"Roger Jones is your father," she said, handing Matthew the letter. He read over his name on the bottom of the paper, seeing this person as more of an actual human than a simple series of letters for the first time.
"Who is Alfred?" Matthew asked, remembering the other unknown name that appeared on the paper.
"Alfred Jones is your half-brother," his mother confirmed, making Matthew gasp once again. "I never thought that your father would speak to us again, actually. After I found out about his marriage and his wife, Helen, found out about me, everything just fell apart."
Matthew watched as she picked up the letter and seemed to re-read a couple of lines from it a second time. "Why did they invite me?" he finally asked. "If I was... a mistake, then why would they want to be reminded of me? I'm not even supposed to exist," he whispered as a few tears made their way down his cheeks.
"I don't know," his mother said, either not hearing the last part or just not arguing it. "I would say that it must be something involving either money or power – both of which are worth more than gold bricks these days."
"Can I go see him?" Matthew blurted out, feeling more daring than he should be. Seeing his mother's expression now, he wished that he could take those words back.
"Go see him? Your father? After he threw us both out on the streets, poor and alone?" Rosemarie's voice grew louder and louder. "Do you know what that was like, Matthew? Imagine if that had happened now. We would be dead in a matter of days," she sighed desperately and waved her arms in the air dramatically. "And what about you? You weren't even born and he left you! You have nothing to prove to this man, nor do you have to even acknowledge his existence!" She only stopped when she saw Matthew – frightened and fighting back tears.
"It doesn't matter to me," he lied with a soft sob. Knowing that he was supposed to be the strong one, he tried hard not to show the truth.
Seeing this scared child before her, biting back tears as to seem older than he was, she realized that he really was only that – a little boy, trying to find his way in the world, as they both were. "I'm sorry," she whispered, holding her arms out as her son jumped into them, embracing her with apologies of his own.
"Don't be sorry," he told her. "It was my fault. All of it. If I hadn't been born, you could have forgotten all of this. You could have found some sort of job, somewhere, without having to worry about me," he sobbed and gestured to the letter on the table, "You wouldn't get any stupid letters from bullies like Roger Jones."
His mother did not argue him, but instead hugged him tighter, holding him as the treasure to her that he was and less like her burden. He sniffled into her dress, wetting it with his own tears.
"I don't want to see Roger Jones," Matthew mumbled. "I want to meet Alfred."
At first, his mother stiffened, as if the very thought of meeting anyone of the Jones' family was a horror in disguise, before kneeling down in front of Matthew.
"Why?" she asked him, wiping the tears that were rolling down his cheeks. She hated to see her little boy this way, just as Matthew hated seeing his mother the way she was now as well.
"Because, I've always wanted a brother and he is my brother, even if his mom is different. And, his father is Roger Jones, so he needs someone else there for him." Matthew bit his lip, as if to not let any more words escape. Rosemarie lowered her gaze towards the letter once more, lingering on a particular quote.
"Thanksgiving? That's in a week," Rosemarie pondered aloud – as her son often did. Unexpectedly, the two of them weren't able to have a Thanksgiving celebration this year, even though it was traditional. She didn't want to tell Matthew that they would not be having a celebration this year, but if that meant having to see Roger again, after so many years, she would rather her son to not have one at all.
"I know," Matthew said, "We don't really have any money, do we? Not enough for such a long train ride."
Rosemarie looked at him carefully, at this poor little boy who was so kind and so intelligent, but got nothing that he deserved, only less and less. He had no friends, an unemployed mother, and happened to be at his worst during a time that seemed to be against the favour of everyone.
"I can scrape together something," she finally said. Matthew's face instantly lit up, his brilliant smile finally replacing the sullen mask that he seemed to wear more often each and every day.
"Wait," he paused, his smile falling, "Are you sure?"
Rosemarie nodded enthusiastically, squeezing her son's tiny shoulders. She may not be the best mother, but she hoped that she was at least decent enough to make her own boy smile. That was all she really needed. "I won't be going, though," she said.
"What? Why not?" Matthew asked, though he already knew the answer. There was simply no money.
"Your father," he heard his mother mutter as she stood back up, brushing her hands off of his shoulders.
It was at this point that Matthew decided not to tell her about the beating from this afternoon. She had enough of her own problems to have to worry about something like that.
"Alfred, could you come in here for a second?"
Alfred entered the room as quickly as he could. It wasn't often that his father would like to talk to him when he was so busy. Usually, Alfred would just play with one of the neighbourhood children, even if his father wouldn't approve of them. His mother never really had an opinion on these things.
"What is it?" he asked casually, finding his father standing up from behind his desk.
"Do you remember how we spoke of Matthew?" the man asked as he took off his reading glasses. Alfred just shook his head.
"I don't know," he admitted, sounding a little bit confused.
"We had that whole conversation. Do you remember how we talked about your mother and I having... problems all those years ago? How I had another son?" his father spoke slowly, if only for his son's benefit.
"Oh," Alfred stiffened, remembering the conversation that he and his father had many weeks ago. He had tried to forget it, but it seemed like the truth would never go away, no matter how much he wanted it to. As much as he hated to admit that his father had a second son, he hated the fact that this "half-brother" was the centre of all his problems. "I remember," he finally said.
"Well, do you also remember how your mother insisted that we invite him and his mother over for Thanksgiving dinner?" Roger asked his son once more. Alfred had no idea why it was that his mother agreed to this. After all, this was the woman that his father cheated on her with and the son that he had with her. One would expect her to shun this woman and never speak of her in this house ever again. But, no, now they were inviting the bastard child over? Sometimes, Alfred didn't understand adults at all.
"Yep," Alfred muttered.
"Well, it seems that they've agreed," he said reluctantly. "But, it will only be the son attending. His mother refused. He'll be arriving here tomorrow, I suppose."
This only frustrated Alfred more. Why would a mother – one who messed with own his mother and father's marriage – send them the child who participated in the scheme for their family's tradition holiday? It made about as much sense as his own mother's insistence on inviting the bastard in the first place. Truthfully, Alfred didn't hate his unknown half-brother. He hated what this boy could do to their family.
"There's more," his father suddenly said, snapping him out of his thoughts. "As you know, the Kirkland family and Bonnefoy family will both be joining us for this holiday. Sure enough, they obviously do not celebrated the same tradition where they're from, but I felt like it was time that we invite these families for a dinner. At a time like this, it's best to spend every moment as comfortable as possible, while it lasts."
"A bunch of wet blankets," Alfred mumbled, remembering how boring the Bonnefoy family had been the last time he saw them. All they did was comment on pointless topics, like fashion and money and about how they had both of those things. Really, it made him understand why his mother liked them. Still, he himself didn't fancy meeting any of those upstage people ever again, even if his mother thought it was the bee's knees every time.
"What was that?" his father asked, though Alfred was sure he heard exactly what he's said.
"Nothing. It'll be fun, right?" Alfred said hopefully, trying to casually distract attention away from his previous comment.
"Well, the Kirklands are supposed to bring their children with them this time. They have three sons, therefore the five of you should all get along rather well. Oh, yes, and the Bonnefoy's are bringing their son along with them as well, meaning that you will have a lot of company," explained Roger as he began walking out of the room. Alfred decided to follow him, feeling that this conversation was not over just yet.
"When are they going to get here?" Alfred expected, as a couple of times before, the visiting families would come during the noon, stay the night, and leave the following morning, or the morning after.
"Now, actually," the tall man said, just as the doorbell rang. He stalked out of the and went to welcome the awaiting visitors inside, Alfred following directly behind him.
"Welcome, welcome," he said, letting the family inside. Alfred noticed this to be the Kirkland family – or, at least, how he remembered them to be. He took a couple of steps backward, landing in a soft thump on the stairs leading to the second floor.
Mr. Kirkland entered first, carefully placing his briefcase down before he taking off his hat. Alfred's father was already at his side, calling his wife over to help them. He knew that, on any other day, were his father to yell at his wife to do something like this from across the house, she would probably ignore him, later lying that she hadn't heard him. Of course, when important guests did visit, this would change. Sure enough, in a few moments, his mother came down the stairs, looking as pleasantly perfect as she would like everyone to think.
"Oh, it's so grande for you to visit on such short notice!" she cried out, nearly stumbling over Alfred as she rushed to take the Englishman's hat and coat.
"That's one choice bit of calico you've got there, Roger," Mr. Kirkland said and the two of them both let out a laugh. Alfred never understood the strange friendship those two had.
"That she is," his father agreed, placing his hand carefully around her shoulders. They always acted so happy when there were guests around. Alfred only wished that his half-brother wouldn't have to come here and ruin that. After all, he was practically a living reminder of how weak his parents' relationship had been not long ago, and all Alfred wanted was for them to put that past them and become the same family that they promoted at social gatherings.
After Mr. Kirkland took off his coat, his wife followed him inside. She was possibly the only one his parents' friends who didn't feel the need to point out Alfred's mistakes and flaws every time she came over, so he quite liked her. Then again, his own family seemed likeable when others were around to see them as well.
"It's so great to finally see you again! Times have sure gone rather mad, haven't they? Especially here in New York," Mrs. Kirkland said kindly as soon as she began taking off her own hat.
Alfred's mother nodded in response, taking her coat as well and placing it on the rack. Mrs. Kirkland Gave Alfred a quick wave as well, before stepping out of the entrance hall. Suddenly, four boys barged in through the front door. One of them, a brunette with rolled up sleeves, was pulling at the hair of a shorter blonde one carrying a book. The third one was a slightly older-looking boy who appeared to be laughing at the two before him. The fourth boy appeared to be the oldest. He had bright red hair that seemed to stick up all around his head and a smirk on his face to match.
"Boys!" Mrs. Kirkland yelled out, causing the brunette to stop pulling at the younger one's hair.
"He started it!" the brunette pleaded. "He said I was half-seas over!"
"I don't even know what that means!" the blonde boy snapped back, but realized his outburst as soon as he did. Without another glance, he turned away from the loud brunette and focused his attention on the book in his hands.
"Oh, those children," Alfred's mother said and laughed with a swipe of her hand. Her husband joined her in a quick chuckle.
"Yes, they're always at it," Mrs. Kirkland agreed, shaking her head at the two of them. "I simply must introduce you all to my sons," she said and placed her hands on the shoulders of the tallest son. "This is Allister," she said and gave the boy a little nudge.
"Yes, hello," he said, giving Alfred's parents a proud grin, which disappeared off of his face as soon as he turned away.
"He's my oldest," his mother explained and grabbed her other son. "And this is Patrick," she introduced him.
Alfred noticed that, though this boy also had red hair, it was definitely less obvious than his older brother's wild hair. It was still a little odd, considering the fact that neither one of their parents had red hair.
Patrick waved them a quick hello before his mother was already introducing her third son, Dylan.
"Hey! I'm Dylan, but of course, you already knew that. Anyway, great to meet you and all, I guess," he said with a laugh and a matching smirk – one unlike his brother's. Behind him stood only the last son. He was a short little boy with blonde, crazed hair that fell just above his bushy eyebrows and bright green eyes. When he noticed that everyone was staring at him, he closed his book and tucked hit under his arm.
"Hello," he said in a voice that matched his appearance. "I'm Arthur."
"Wait, isn't Arthur the same age as your Alfred?" Mr. Kirkland said, noticing Alfred in the room for the first time; something that didn't happen often.
"Is Arthur eight? I'm eight!" Alfred called out, coming over to finally greet everyone.
"Yes, I am," Arthur said, finally looking up and flashing his green eyes at Alfred.
"That's great! This way, we don't have to be around the boring adults at all, ya know" Alfred shouted cheerfully, forgetting his manners for a moment.
"Alfred!" his mother and father both snapped.
"Mind your manners!" his father yelled at him as calmly as he possibly could.
Alfred froze for a moment. "Sorry," he mumbled quietly, awaiting his father's response. Luckily, he knew that he would not get anything worse than a slight scolding. Of course, his father was not one to give punishment lightly, but he cared more about social status than he did about proving a point – at this moment, anyway.
"I know," his father said and smiled. To anyone else, this would seem more like fatherly care than the actual cold glare that it was. Alfred hated when his father was disappointed in him like this, though, so all he did was smile back at him, hoping that his own expression showed his dad that he would try harder next time, whether that was true or not.
"Maybe the children should go to another room," Alfred's mother suggested, taking her son by the shoulders and gently pushing him towards the staircase and gesturing for the other children to follow him up as well.
How very casual, Alfred thought with a smirk.
Nonetheless, he nodded and said with a smile of excitement, "Sure, I'll show them around." With that, he began walking up the stairs, leading the four Kirkland children up along with him. They stomped up after him, the brunette already pushing his younger brother towards the railing, the youngest Kirkland trying hard to swat him away. The oldest child placed his hands in his trouser pockets and stared upward at the chandelier above them, while the other looked a little bit as if he was staking out his surroundings.
"So, where will we be staying?" the one named Patrick asked once they reached the top.
"Well, we have three spare bedrooms, so your parents and the Bonnefoys will get two and you guys will have the last one," he explained, leading them to what would be their bedroom for the night.
"There are only two beds," Allister noticed just as they entered.
"What? Really?" Dylan cried out as soon as he saw them. "How are we going to split that? I don't want to share with the princess over here," he said and pointed at Arthur.
"Hey, stop calling me that!" Arthur shouted, flashing his angry eyebrows at his brother.
"Well, it's true," Dylan laughed.
"Oh, great, now we have to deal with this all night," Patrick said as both he and Allister rolled their eyes. Alfred decided that now would be a good time to intervene.
"Listen, if one of you wants to stay in my room instead, you can," he suggested, hoping that they wouldn't all suddenly turn their argument on him.
"Please," Arthur said, sounding definitely more mature than he actually looked. "That would be brilliant."
For some reason, Alfred found it hard to believe that this boy was the same age as him. The two of them were obviously very different, and this coming from the past ten minutes or so that Alfred has known this boy. Still, he found it a little bit difficult to keep down his laughter whenever the other boy spoke in the same way as his parents, along with that flashy accent of his.
"Just please tell me you don't snore," Arthur joked, giving Alfred a weak smile. "Unlike some people."
"Hey!" yelled Dylan, even as he realized that Arthur was joking. "At least I don't snore as much as Patrick over here," he said and pointed towards his other brother.
"My, aren't you funny?" Patrick said sarcastically, though he too was smiling.
"Come on, you two," Allister's booming voice rang out. "You're both pretty loud snorers."
Alfred couldn't help but watch in awe at the jokes that jumped from brother to brother before him. A small part of him wanted to have something exactly like this; a friendship between family that was strong enough to have insults and jokes mixed in with normal conversations, without it all resulting in a scolding or a fight. In the least, he knew very well that he could never have something like this with Matthew. He still had a good chance to have something like this with his family, but that chance was only going to decrease if this "Matthew" fellow was going to keep trying to push his way through their already threatened relationship. Alfred could only hope that his parents cared about him as much as he did and would never let some little Canadian boy to wreck their family.
"So, where will I be sleeping?" Arthur said, reminding Alfred of the task at hand.
"Well, in my room, obviously," Alfred said questionably. He could only wonder how this British boy could have forgotten that so fast.
"No, I meant, could I be shown where I'll be sleeping?" he said, this time sighing a little bit, though not out of impatience. "I need put my things there."
"Oh!" Alfred exclaimed, "That's right! Of course, I'll come and show you." He waved at the three other brothers, even though they were already in the middle of an argument over who is going to get which bed. At least they've already decided that Dylan was sleeping alone – or, at least, Dylan had. Without another word, he and Arthur quietly slipped out of the room,
"It's just down here," he said, leading Arthur down a different hallway nearby. Arthur nodded and followed in after him, lugging his bag along. Alfred finally paused in front of a door and extended his arm out to stop the boy behind him, the later stopping just in time. Alfred excitedly turned the knob and pushed the door open, moving back to let the shorter Brit inside.
"This is nice," Arthur said happily, placing his luggage on the floor. "It looks kind of like my own back home in London." He spun around, looking the room over in one smooth twirl. There was a desk pushed against one of the walls, a love seat shoved into a corner, cabinet next to the enormous window that covered over half of the wall, and a single bed. "But, there's only one bed in here."
"Yes, I know," Alfred said, as if it was the most obvious thing he had ever heard. "I just assumed it would be better than spending the night with your brothers."
Arthur seemed to be considering this for a moment, before he finally came to a conclusion. "Good point," he said and went to sit on the large bed. "I just hope you don't snore," his words bloomed into a shy smile.
"No, no definitely not," Alfred lied. He was glad to finally have someone to spend his time with, and he wasn't about to chase them away with his own nasty habits. He moved to sit next to Arthur on the bed and took a quick glance at the book he had been reading this entire time, but was actually quite surprised when he recognized the title.
"The Secret Garden?" he read out loud. "Is it any good?"
"I guess so," Arthur replied, seeming a little unsure of himself. "But, I don't know, it's not as magical as I thought it would be." This peaked Alfred's attention.
"I didn't know you liked magic," Alfred said excitedly.
"I love magic!" Arthur cheered. "Of course," he said in a more content tone, "this book wasn't meant to be magical. It was meant to be symbolic, I think. It's not a very happy novel at first, but it does get more exciting eventually," he explained. "I mean, not the kind of exciting where unicorns are involved."
"Unicorns? What about dragons? I always liked dragons, because they were big and evil and breathed fire!" Alfred jumped off of the bed in a dramatic flop, landing on all fours, then jumping up and forming an explosion with his hands.
"Yes, but unicorns are more magical," Arthur and placed the novel on the bed, where Alfred had previously been sitting.
"Don't princesses ride unicorns?" Alfred said with a laugh, remembering what Arthur's brother had called him before. Arthur frowned a little bit at that comment. "Don't worry, my lady," Alfred began, bowing dramatically in front of Arthur, "I will be your hero! I can slay that dragon and we can ride off into the sunset on your magical unicorn!" This made Arthur smile, taking the taller boy's extended hand in his own and leaping off the bed.
"Are you sure we won't ride the dragon instead?" he said with a laugh.
"No, no, princess, I'm sure he's far too dead to fly right now," Alfred said in what could possibly be the worst impersonation of Arthur's accent that he could do. Both of them began laughing as Arthur gently hit the American over the head. "That'd be pretty great, though," he heard Alfred finish.
The two of them laughed a for a while longer before both falling over on the bed, Alfred's elbow poking Arthur's shoulder.
For the first time that his parents have had guests over, Alfred actually wished that they wouldn't have to leave and that tomorrow actually wouldn't come. Why did he need to meet his half-brother anyway? It's not as if the two of them haven't been doing fine not knowing each other. Why did he have to come over and ruin everything just as Alfred was finally having some fun. He wasn't even here yet, and already Matthew was causing him worry and guilt. He only hoped that meeting him would not be any worse than just knowing that he actually existed.
Finally deciding to push Matthew out of his head, Alfred turned over to look at his new friend, realizing that he didn't need some stupid half-brother to run his thoughts, and that he would much rather just spend his time in peaceful and merry freedom while he had it – just like any normal American.
A/N: This was meant as a birthday present to one of my dear friends, idislikeceilingfans, who told me that she hated how emotional Hetalia fan fictions could get. Sorry Taylor, but I take that as a personal challenge! :)
I just wanted to say that, even though Matthew seems to be the pivotal character of this fan fiction, the main characters (and main pairing) are still Alfred and Arthur, though Canada shall get involved in his own pairing as well!
Thank you for reading! Please review and, if I made any mistakes, I would really appreciate it if you could point them out to me so I can fix them!
I would also like to note that I use British/Canadian spelling (Flavour, colour, etc.) in this fan fiction.