Alfred had always been a fan of language, and a man of many words on top of that. Officially, Alfred considered himself bilingual – fluent in both English and Spanish, thanks to that snug high-wall border between himself and Mexico – but he knew several other languages as well.
One of his favorite languages was French.
Perhaps it was the feeling of the smooth syllables rolling from his tongue, or the warm embrace of vowels in the back of his throat (like the warm embrace of arms in the middle of New England downpour). Or perhaps it was the nation itself that Alfred found himself so thankful for.
Francis Bonnefoy was a man that Alfred tried, again and again, to express his gratitude towards. He tried over and over to find the words to explain just how grateful he was for the kindness, for the gifts, the Statue of Liberty standing tall and proud in New York City – but it was difficult to speak sometimes, with Francis's mouth working to silence his speech as soon as possible.
(Holding him tight in that chilling rain, hands rubbing warm spots into his shoulders through his dark blue coat; whispering, "c'est bien, c'est bien," over and over to him until he find a way to stand on his own.)
"Merci beaucoup, grand frere," he could gasp out through fumbled attempts at kisses, and Francis would smile and stroke his hair-
And call him 'mon petit Matthieu.'
Alfred had always been a fan of language, and a man of many words.
And yet he could find none to express how grateful he was to France for warding off the loneliness, for a bit.