Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or the Portal 2 quote in the Note.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Slang. Virginia farming crop. London slums. The previous chapter was so angsty this one should probably feel less so in comparison? Right? Maybe? No? Good luck to you then.
AN: Goodness, took me long enough to update this, just got all wrapped up in Gram and school. Thank you so much for your reviews! I'm glad you've been enjoying this one, definitely a different flavor from the others. There have been some fun suggestions in the reviews: Prohibition/Gangster adventure and a wonderfully morbid series of Death Drabbles (lmao at that one because yeah, let's add more angst and violence. Woo! [Reminds me of GLaDOS...who I hope isn't my spirit animal: "He says what we're all thinking!"). I've also had a few more Tex and America adventures floating around my brain as well, involving a BrieflyIndependent!Tex & America fic at Carnevale (T) as well as an Annexed!Tex, America, & Molossia in the Wild West fic (T), and a darker/edgier Tex & America in Victorian London (T or M). But we do need to see that Gangster/elevator scene at some point, don't we? XD Because that's who we are.
Hope you enjoy! : D
Chapter 4: Poverty And Pestilence
Tejas looked around at the occupants of the drawing room and hated them all with a bitterness previously unknown him. Anger and resentment and envy and jealousy were all mean companions he'd lounged with before...oh, but bitterness...bitterness of this kind was something new.
It wasn't even that he was sure he truly liked America, the too loud, too dramatic American who was as subtle as a tornado.
But he didn't like the manner of his leaving.
Tejas tried and failed to mask his reaction.
"Good Lord, what a face!" Alfred laughed. "You look so very tragic."
He couldn't help it. He never could when he was horrified. "It is not right. For you to go like this...it is not right."
"Hmm?" Alfred tried to look bored, but his lips trembled and he blinked too much.
"He should not have..." He hesitantly gestured his hand to the other's vest which was missing buttons because of that...confrontation. No, that was too clean a word. That was a fight. An unfair fight.
It reminded Tejas of when a gallo killed one of its own chicks and the heavy sick feeling it put in his stomach. Bothered him so much he dragged Papi out there and pointed at the bloody remains, expecting some kind of sympathy because Papi was the one who'd shown him that they hatched in the first place. Spain shrugged that sometimes that happened and they were lucky more weren't killed. The murderous fiend charged them then and Spain shooed the thing away with his boot when it tried to peck at their feet.
Alfred moved a bit restlessly, from foot to foot.
"Oh, yes, well, it can't be helped. I...I overstepped. Forgot myself...my place...I don't know what I thought...goading him like that. It was stupid...I was stupid," It was said in such a blunt, bleak tone.
But it wasn't apologetic.
It was acknowledgement but it wasn't apologetic.
Tejas moved a little closer.
"It doesn't matter though. I'd much rather be out there," he pointed to the woods, "alone and starving then fed and underfoot...having to take kicks as they come. I fought too hard to be free to be leashed now." And his eyes were hard and cold and fierce and blazed like they hadn't in any of their previous conversations.
Blue fire...or blue ice? He couldn't tell...but if America had looked like that in battle, Tejas could more easily understand how his independence was won.
It was odd; Alfred was too honest with him right then. Tejas had enough problems, he didn't need more. So why was it that after they both seemed to realize it and Alfred tried to make up for it by smiling and shrugging, Tejas felt annoyed? Alfred could have kept talking about that. Tejas would've stayed and heard it.
But he didn't. And Tejas should've been glad of it. That Alfred was letting them go back to a "before." They could act like he'd never said anything. They could part as acquaintances and meet up later as acquaintances and always be acquaintances forever...
Tejas's fists clenched and he frowned and repeated, "He should not have treated you like that."
"Yes, well," came the careless shrug, "when one is an Empire one amuses himself by being a complete ass whenever one chooses."
He gave Tejas a smirk.
Tejas crossed his arms and stubbornly repeated, though his voice faltered this time, "He...he should not have treated you like that. Not right. S'not right."
He wished he was better at English so he could've said something more helpful than that. But he was upset and his command of the language was leaving him.
"Not...right..."
Alfred hesitantly gave his arm a playful prod, "Say now. Truly, what a miserable expression, ha ha! Don't let it be on my account, I am guilty of enough mayhem as it is without causing you...I...I ought to be going...I was pleased to have your company, Texas...I...er...I…" the jovial air deflated as he ran out of happy words and false cheer and he ended abruptly with, "Goodbye."
Tejas stood there dumbly in the rain watching him go.
There was nothing else he could do. Nothing. He had neither the skill nor influence nor threat of force necessary to soften his host's hard heartedness, or ability to disabuse America of a truth they both knew too well:
Some fathers were terrible.
He wasn't a great liar so it wasn't like he could feign ignorance of England's obvious dislike of America.
And even while it was feasible that he could've argued that it was at least sensible to stay, even under a roof that was hateful (and boy did Tejas know that misery),...he could not bring himself to.
His tongue was ready. It was smart to stay. A more prudent man would stay. There were many excuses he could give. Tejas had more card games and techniques to teach him...more ghost stories to tell him...more dance steps he needed to learn if he was to do well at the ball…
But he couldn't do it.
Because...he was half afraid the latter bits might work on Alfred's chivalry.
And he knew...with a terrible sort of certainty that it would cost him too much.
As a young child he'd witnessed his brothers time and again capturing butterflies with hands and nets with the sinister intent of peeling wings off.
Papi would shrug that it was better bugs than beasts (for if they tormented the horses, he'd tan their hides). Still, he scoffed at Tejas's distress.
Spain frowned at his tears. "You are too soft, Toni...if butterflies are to be mourned, what will you do, I wonder, when the world shows you her real horrors?"
That his father couldn't fathom the terror of being something innocent and alien and unknowing yet still fated to suffer under cruel hands...for no reason...no...worse...for entertainment...
It was better that Alfred crawled away with one wing yet.
Tejas frowned at his competitors over his cards.
Canada smiled and complimented him, "You're quite skilled, Tejas."
He nodded and set down a royal flush.
Canada paled, "Q-quite skilled...I-I've lost."
Tejas nodded and gathered the bets to his side.
"Robbing us blind," Reilley huffed—having folded enough times that he was content to be a spectator only.
Mejico kept giving him hard glances, as if torn between wanting to scold him for showing up their host's family and wanting to swoop in and demand a portion of his winnings for herself as tribute for being the sovereign nation out of the two of them.
"Lady Luck is sweet on you today, boy."
He shrugged.
Some people feel luck and know when its fingers are on them—good or bad.
And then there was this.
Determination.
To play them out of all he could—take their money, respect, reputation.
He wanted to strip them of it all.
Tejas watched his host straightening children's dresses and suits. The ones he lingered with were favorites. They got softer hands and brighter smiles.
Spain had been much the same in giving his attentions to favorites. Though, he wasn't gentle. He just wasn't that sort. But his pleasure was obvious, he got playful, boastful, grinning and fierce when he was in the company of the ones who brought him joy.
Tejas was tolerated of course, he was familia, but he often earned an odd watchful look. Even after he got his glasses and wasn't a tenth of how clumsy he'd been, he still got that look. The one he learned to hate.
It shouldn't have surprised him that he didn't merit a single letter from his father whilst he was abroad and so near.
He couldn't have possibly expected his father to make good on his promised visits to Madrid now.
And yet...any letter...even a hateful one would've been better than silence.
Like he wasn't even worth the effort of pen and paper.
"They're horrible," he told Philippe.
"Who, Señor?"
"They're ALL horrible."
He then gave a thorough, if crude, condemnation of fathers as a whole, which Philippe tried to dissuade—he was a father himself.
Yes, and you followed me out here instead of staying with them, he almost said. Almost. He knew the man needed money. And the promise of money could entice humans to the most ridiculous and far flung places the Earth possessed.
With some of the paltry spending money Mejico allotted him, Tejas made it a point to find out where Alfred wound up because barkeepers always knew things or could find out things for the right price and so he traveled there. She'd have hated that, so he didn't tell her.
Philippe would've hated the place too, so he didn't tell him. Instead, he asked for a ride into town in the morning with the expectation of taking a carriage back by evening.
And he knew well that if one like him, barely literate in English managed to find Alfred, there could be no mystery for his relations. They had to know where he was.
The carriage driver was almost beside himself to take him to such an address but he let his temper flash in his eyes and got his way.
The air was thick with soot, smoke, and the dung of man and beast.
There were shrieks and cackles and newborns squalling.
The hotel or hovel or whatever it was, situated here in St. Giles, offered little protection from the outside as it was so full of drafts and malice and squalor and...
¡Dios!
It was a place of poverty and pestilence and Alfred's blue eyes had widened to the size of plates when he forced open his room's battered door.
And that was something.
Catching him truly off-guard was something.
His face sort of twitched—valiantly trying to throw off the look of shock. But it couldn't quite decide whether to sport an expression of horror or pleasant smiley indifference (the sort better suited for if they'd suddenly met up in a park on a happy June day...instead of here).
"Invite me in? Yes?" Tejas put his foot in the door, surprising himself with how forward he was being.
"It would be kinder not to," Alfred mumbled out of the corner of his mouth.
Tejas frowned.
Alfred looked around and then back and admitted, "There...there are roaches here."
Tejas raised an eyebrow. "Yes. They...they are...are probably some of the more innocent inhabitants."
He felt rather proud of the joke.
He'd already heard sounds and thumps and screeches to suggest that violent passions of love and murder could well be taking place mere feet in any direction.
To his delight his declaration (and he had hoped his humor translated correctly) was met with breathy laughter, slightly spitty because it was unplanned and Alfred hastily lifted a hand to try and muffle it. Or perhaps it was to cover the cough that followed on its heels.
He was pulled inside. The door was ill fit to the frame and sagged, leaving a strange, triangular gap at the door and making a terrible groan as it was made to shut.
Tejas was given the room's small wooden stool while Alfred perched on a very poor and lumpy bed that seemed made of straw and empty wooden boxes and made Tejas think of coffins he'd seen for sale at mercado during outbreaks of fever.
Alfred shook his head. "You are something, Texas. I cannot believe you sought me out. You really ought not to be here. Your reputation could suffer terribly."
He shrugged. "Why?"
"Because Texas, this...this is no place for a gentleman."
Tejas stared at him.
Alfred's mouth fought against a frown, and he kept himself upright as he delivered resolutely with a firm cold smile, "I...I am no gentleman."
It felt odd having the difference in rank between them said aloud.
"..."
And it was true. All he said was true.
But…
Tejas had stayed in a castle brimming with gentlemen…
Was raised by one...supposedly…
Was being hosted by another...
And...
For the life of him…
America not being a gentleman...
It didn't seem to matter.
America painstakingly mended a tear in his jacket's elbow, more because he was worried about the draft it'd let in than matters of class and aesthetics.
Where he was staying it simply marked him as a denizen of the realm...granted him admission as it were.
Still, it was almost monstrous strange to have Texas paying him visits here. Nothing in their previous interactions really suggested that Texas had any special affection for him.
It was dangerous to dwell on.
Better to dismiss it: boredom, leisure time, and curiosity could make strange acquaintances. That was all it was...though the sad likelihood of that made him shiver like he had a draft in his soul and he didn't know how to stitch that up.
He ought to end the visits for both their sakes.
It wasn't like Alfred abhorred company...even if hosting a guest never held the special thrill it did for Fa-Arthur.
It just wasn't wise. So he announced during the next one that he had work the following day and expected that to do the trick.
He didn't want to be cruel if he could help it, he'd just lay out why it was no longer feasible.
Only the Texan surprised him further by simply appearing at an earlier time.
He arrived at dawn while Alfred was just just stirring. The brunet was bleary eyed and a bit disgruntled but determined to catch Alfred ere he could evade him.
Alfred explained that there were several roofs in the area whose owners would pay him to patch what he could. It would be messy and the pay would be poor.
Grimy honest work usually scared gentlemen off.
He was met with an almost defensive, indignant, "I have worked before...and for no pay...abuelas need someone to help them when their daughters and granddaughters grow up and leave or their sons die in battle. I help abuelas when I can."
He was obviously uncomfortable being high up, but he glared every time Alfred suggested he stay on the ground. He made the effort and the jobs were done in half the time.
It pained Alfred though, to split the money he so desperately needed, but his sense of fairness wouldn't allow him to take the lion's share; even if he was the better carpenter out of the two of them. Texas surprised him once more by admitting as much and asking for instruction unflinchingly. He followed his orders to a T and was a quick learner. And Alfred wasn't a trickster of that ilk who could insist such lessons were worthy of payment...even while Alfred was certain he was training up a rival; Texas could easily make use of the skills and start pocketing more funds on the side.
Alfred's reluctance (which he hoped desperately hadn't shone through) swiftly turned to shame when Texas used his new funds to buy the two of them lunch.
That was unexpected and it was curious that it stung quite so sharply. He thought he'd learned by now how to take pity when it suited his purposes but…
Maybe...because it wasn't the high handed charity he usually received in times of trouble…
Maybe because Texas didn't really know what he was offering...
For the life of him, he tried to decline but Texas shrugged him off with a, "Well, Boss, you got us the jobs, I get us the lunch."
Possibilities of friendship seemed fraught with peril, and Texas being a foreigner from beyond his borders made it all worse.
Still, his melancholy in seeing the other go struck him. It was probably the setting. Being stuck here under such gloomy skies was bound to make ennui more catching.
His departure was for the best; dusk was upon them and if this was no place for his fri-acquaintance during the day...it certainly wasn't at night. Though it amused and pained him at turns what the other young man might think of seeing him at his other means of work. If he had, he'd finally know what Alfred was a farmer of.
Despite visiting him a handful of times, Alfred was certain Texas didn't know. He recognized cornstalks when he saw them (which Alfred used to sustain himself and his chickens) but not…
Well, he did let his real crop grow rather wildly, not bothering with rows. Most people never saw them in bloom, let alone used their flowers to decorate their kitchen table. It wasn't Tex's fault he didn't recognize...
His sigh started a bout of soft coughing and he smothered the sound and his running nose in his sleeve.
He'd caught cold and had hoped roof-patching might put off selling for another day. He'd already gone out several nights this week, but there was nothing for it. He needed to go out once more or his funds wouldn't last. And how humiliating would that be? To return to Arthur's gate, tail between his legs, whimpering for scraps and a place downstairs beside the kitchen's hearth?
He eyed the package on the far end of the bed. He'd picked it up on his way back to his lodging from the post office where he'd been paying them to hold it special.
He'd spared no expense in having the packages sent carefully (more care and attention than he'd lavished on himself by far) because...business...and any moisture leaking inside would ruin them.
His plan had been to stay at the castle and then see if he couldn't get his uncles to let him into a gentleman's club or two to sell his wares.
They would've paid him better there.
Oh well. Sadly, his recent troubles meant he had to adjust the price for his new clientele or risk not selling anything at all.
He'd already gone through one package. This one he would take tonight.
And there were still two more on their way which he'd instructed a neighbor to send a bit later.
Initially, he'd intended them all to provide him with some spending money so he wouldn't feel like an absolute beggar in the Empire's presence as they visited boutiques.
But all he planned for wasn't going to happen, and now they were vital to keeping him from sliding lower; if he wasn't careful he was going to end up sleeping in the forest to cut costs. It would be humiliating not to be able to afford his return trip or to have to get it on credit; God, one look at his clothes and a lender would laugh at him.
He stared down at the coat in his lap, knotted his thread and snapped it free. He pulled the worn coat on and buttoned the old, unfashionable thing up. He pulled his boots on, fastened his horribly outdated cloak, and strapped on his vendor's box.
Alfred plodded along down the dark, foggy streets as the streetlamps flickered, calling out,
"If ya wanna good smoke,
Ask any o' folk-
all-around, s'no joke,
it's Virgiiiinia.
Sweet, sweet Virgi-i-inia!
Sweet, sweet Virgi-i-inia!
Smooth little treat,
O the taste can't be beat,
'Cos it's sweet, sweet Virgi-i-inia!"
Sure he got plenty of "Pipe down ye damn whooperup!" But he also got customers.
And it wasn't like he ever just stayed in one spot for long; one, he didn't want to anger his competition and two, he had too much ground to cover and taverns to frequent.
It took practice and a comfortable amount of insolence, but he'd learned the art of making himself amiable and figuring out how to give all the right cues that he was listening raptly to boring stories and petty complaints to earn himself drinks and win an occasional customer.
Because a warm belly was a comfort when you knew your fingers were bound to turn blue before the night's end as you tromped about. And it was smart to sell to tavern keepers at a discounted price.
You had to make that known without being obvious. You sold a standard price to customers within earshot and when they asked, you looked at 'em…as if surprised that they were the tavern keeper themself, you rallied yourself up and gave them the better deal. If they called you on it, you'd say that not all keepers were as nice about letting you do business. Some tossed you right out on account of being a foreigner.
And that would bring up questions about America which he was man enough to answer candidly. His place wasn't perfect; he knew that, could handle the criticism.
And all that usually got him off on a good foot and sometimes the keeper would have a soft spot for him when they noticed him down on his luck later.
He'd get to wipe down tables and counters and whatnot for a bit of chowder and a gruff, "it wasn't gonna keep anyway, yeh may as well have it."
The biggest trick was slipping out before the gents insisted it was his turn to buy a round.
Which wasn't good Samaritanism at work, but a sound strategy for his light purse.
He continued on his way when he felt his cheeks flush and his smile grow lighter on his face. Yes, he was no longer as surefooted as he'd been an hour earlier but he needed that liquid boost of cheer.
As he went to the seediest spots near the docks, a pair of wagtails flashed him their wares and demanded cigarettes in return.
He laughed and flapped the bottom ends of his coat back at them in kind—shaking his shoulders as they had done and making the packs in his vending box rattle.
"A look for a look," he barked back with the same harshness. "I peddle my wares same as you. The very same! And I take the same currency too!"
They all had a good cackle at that til the watchman sneered at the lot of them. The women decided he and his high and mighty mood and his huge mustache was good sport and tested his temper if not his morals by going after him.
Alfred stationed himself by a ragged match girl and eventually the two of them settled on the stoop of a rough-looking tenant house and Alfred draped his cloak over their laps as a makeshift blanket.
This was his nightly pattern for the next few days until he finally just gave the child his cloak...because it bothered him to see her leave in the early hours for her home.
Because she was a slip of a thing...going blue from cold...and the only breadwinner of her household.
Because she was nine and lisped through the gaps of her teeth. She couldn't read and her parents were dead and her grandfather was sick and bedridden but her brother was a sailor and maybe he'd come back to them this year in the spring. Maybe this year was the lucky year she'd been waiting for? She was praying hard for it.
His cloak was no prize now but it had been fine once when Hancock first presented it to him. It was still good against a cold winter and they had a cold winter's start now...with the promise of a deadly winter's end later. And he didn't want that rosebud's bloom cut short by frost; she had to make it to spring. Maybe her brother would come back? Miracles could happen anywhere and for anyone, right?
However, no good deed went unpunished.
And she was the reason Scotland and Ireland found him.
They'd recognized the cloak and she led them straight to him.
Apparently, Ireland fed her some lie that America was a lost prince that had run afoul of a witch and she gaily informed them all that she'd found him!
"And now yeh get to go back to yer castle, m'lord!" she exclaimed.
And he didn't dare argue with her when she seemed so happy.
In return for her aid, Scotland bought out her wares and then some and overcome she sprinted for the apothecary and then to home...though not before scolding America to take care and be wary of witches.
"That's a lot of matches," Alfred murmured at the great heap in his uncle's arms.
"Ach, I might as well. I'm about to have a hell of a lot of cigarettes." He set the pile onto Alfred's box.
Alfred gave a ridiculous price, triple what his amount was worth even for his top-paying customers, because his Scottish uncle was a spendthrift and it had probably galled him to have bought out the girl's stock and irked him to do the same for Alfred.
Reilley whistled and read off the box, "Best in the land, so have one in hand. They'd better be the best for such a cost as that."
Alfred had it in his mind that if the price was high enough, Alistair would scoff and send him on his way, and he'd be left alone to rot wherever he pleased.
He got a very hard look and then his uncle counted out the amount.
Alfred felt his stomach flop, "You don't have to-"
"You're dead set on not returning to the castle. Huh, laddie?"
He raised his chin defiantly. "...yes."
Reilley pulled his scarf off and wrapped it around Alfred.
The warmth was welcome.
"Would it matter if King Idgit-land wanted Princeykins back?" Reilley waggled his eyebrows.
"Did he send you?" he blurted.
"No," Alistair replied bluntly, holding his gaze.
Reilley's expression twitched with annoyance, apparently he'd been planning on spinning two yarns that night: one for the girl and one for Alfred.
Of course not. Was probably relieved he was gone.
Wanted him back...
That would really be a fairytale.
Damnation...really now…
He glared at the Irishman.
Tricking him like that.
"But I don't think he'd...bar you from...returning," Reilley tried to smile as he gave gave Alfred an awkward hug and complained for him that he was freezing. "Your fingers are gonna fall off. Hell, more, if you know what I mean, could fall off if you don't take care."
Alfred rolled his eyes, his Irish uncle was always so lewd, he opened his mouth to retort but coughed instead.
The two redheads exchanged serious looks.
He broke away from Reilley's hold.
"I just caught cold is all. A few days and it'll be gone. Some sleep is all I need."
Alistair looked like he wanted to chew him out but said instead, "For God's sake or mine, if yeh give a damn about me, you get better accommodations. I know you're somewhere Godawful. Get out. Tonight. And I don't catch you here in East End again, yeh follow me?"
Alfred sulked and looked away.
Alistair gripped his chin and forced him to look him in the eye. "You understand me, laddie?"
"Yes, Alistair."
He got a hard clip on the ear.
Reilley kept the blow from knocking Alfred over.
"Tha's Uncle Al and you know better," the Scotsman growled.
Alfred pulled the vendor's box off and set it down and leaned into the man.
Alistair gave him a spine-cracking hug and told him gruffly,"You change your mind, yeh send for me. I'll come get ya."
"He doesn't want me there."
"I want you there. When that gets through your skull, send for me." He then handed him an invitation to the ball. "Your arse will be there."
"Or what, Uncle Al? You'll drag me there?"
"Aye."
"And I'll write a song about it."
"You found him?" Arthur tried to say it lightly. As he waited for confirmation, every muscle stiffened with tension. It was what he'd been hoping for every time they went out, announcing they needed a night at the pub. He couldn't afford to say that outright but...he'd hoped it was understood. He usually complained when they left too many nights in a row. Managing all their wards' needs could be a lot with only Rhys to rely on.
They nodded.
England poured brandy into three glasses and pushed two across his desk. Ireland immediately took his up and tipped it back. Scotland took his and studied it and then him.
"The Royal Suspension Chain Bridge in Brighton is nearing completion," he gave as an explanation for his good cheer.
Alistair refused to toast it with him.
Arthur drank his down anyway.
"No problems, I trust?" He tried not to seem over interested, though he'd been starved for news and had spent several evenings pacing until his ankle began to give him real trouble.
His servants had been unable to locate the boy and in the absence, Arthur began to fear he'd left altogether without a thought to their unconcluded business, the ball, or the meeting.
The boy could lose him himself in impulsive passions; why his storming off was proof of that.
"..."
He tried to be cool, patient, composed. But they had information he wanted. Information that could help him sleep at night without fear that Alfred was in an alley or, God forbid, a ditch.
"I said, 'No problems?' He's alright? No illness?" He was on tenterhooks. He'd been positive that Alfred was perched on the precipice of falling under some terrible infectious disease when he'd seen him last.
It was likely borne out of lingering concern for Australia's recurring bouts of whooping cough; the toddler had a special vulnerability for it.
Meanwhile, Alfred always seemed to get pneumonia. And there was something truly terrifying in watching him cough up blood.
And if it was ever compounded by consumption...
"..."
Arthur took a breath and shook his head, "He's well?"
Scotland nodded.
"Good." Arthur pulled out a book he kept for dates and details. He readied his quill. "What hotel? Just so I know."
Alistair shrugged. "He was renting a room from some ol' biddy, he'll be changing tomorrow night."
"Changing to where?"
The man shrugged again.
His frustration mounted. If only he could've sent Rhys, who was almost eerily efficient in acquiring information, but his brother was still understandably angry with the boy for their last war and wouldn't appreciate being put on any errands that pertained to him. "What good are you?"
Alistair stretched and cracked his neck. "You wanted to make sure he was still here, did yeh not? Well, he is."
"But you don't know where he'll be next?" he frowned.
"Neither does he. He's checking the rates."
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have several locations in mind that are very reasonable-"
"He won't be able to afford-"
"I know the owners."
"He wouldn't accept it."
"...they would give a very reasonable price." Arthur could pay for the room and board himself and then Alfred would just be paying for services that would include them tidying his chambers and freshening his linens. He'd still be paying so that would stave off any misgivings the boy had about receiving charity.
But Arthur would have the peace of mind of knowing precisely where he was and being able to visit him more easily.
"Where did you meet up with him?" he demanded. He'd arrange it in person if his brothers couldn't be trusted to handle it for him.
"Oooh me," Reilley shrugged. "We had a couple drinks in us already when we tripped over him."
"Tripped?" It immediately rendered visions of Alfred drunk in a gutter. "He was drunk?!"
"Huh? No, I was drunk," Reilley asserted, "Wearing off now. Too bad. I could use another few rounds-"
"Unsurprising-"
"Now, Alis, was it Tom Cribb's pub on...no, no, no or maybe...no, O, I can't remember. So sorry 'bout that, Your Worship."
"You're both worthless," Arthur hissed.
Alistair deliberately set his glass back on the desk, undrunk, turned and left, considering his work done.
Reilley laughed and rolled his empty glass at Arthur and flounced after their older brother, singing a Gaelic drinking song as he went.
Arthur glowered after them, lips twitching into a snarl.
He set Reilley's glass back upright, reached over for Alistair's and tossed it back.
Though the alcohol only seemed to encourage the angry flames in him to rise.
Damnation, he should've just gone himself. But he hadn't wanted to venture too far. Little Tobago kept having nightmares because of that silly headless horseman story America had shared.
The American really needed to learn that just because he'd enjoyed such amusements as a child (and even then Arthur couldn't say he fully did all the time) did not mean all little ones had a desire for such tales.
If he could just wait for Christmas, America could hear and share all the ghost stories he wanted with likeminded people.
What especially bothered England, was he still hadn't learnt how Alfred had slipped into the nursery with nobody seeing him do so. The governess slept in the adjoining room and was none-the-wiser of his visits. He might have to replace her if she wasn't vigilant. What if that had been a robber or worse? Sneaking among his babes?
He was reluctant to press Tobago for more information as he'd already been singled out as England's informant (his nightmares had prompted the child to share the source and Alfred's part was revealed) and despite England's scoldings to the rest that he wouldn't tolerate cruelty among them, Tobago was being given the cold shoulder.
It was largely the result of there being a horrible, ridiculous rumor circulating that their colonizer had turned America out on account of him terrorizing the colonies with that Legend of something or other.
Said colonies thus blamed the only terrorized one among them.
His poor little Tobago.
He'd tried to explain to them all that America was a grown up nation (yes, he couldn't even convince himself on that point) and that he was welcome to stay wherever he chose provided he followed the rules of that place.
He'd gotten skeptical looks...which pained him…
Because he thought of himself in much kinder terms…
He'd lost his temper yes but...he hadn't thrown the boy out. He had trouble forcing cats and dogs outside even when they were misbehaving, he could never…
Not one of his children...no matter how strained their relationship was.
It was an empty threat. Surely, that was obvious?
No, it wasn't.
More days passed without him knowing where the boy was staying.
He came upon two maids folding linens.
"Threw him out in the rain, I hear-"
"Aye, that Spanish one saw him to the gate and then off 'e went. Disappeared into the woods and was never seen again. I think the wolves got 'im."
Each retelling had Alfred fall prey to something new and terrible.
"-a run in with the red caps."
"-captured by gypsies."
"-murdered by highwaymen."
It all fed his paranoia.
It only got worse when Reilley got a hold of the tale and embellished it.
Arthur nearly lost his temper completely as he overheard his Irish brother telling a scullery maid, "O and he raged at him something awful and fierce and chased him into the forest like a great bushy-browed hellhound snapping at his heels."
"'Ow 'orrible. Don't ever think I seen the Admiral behave so-"
"O aye, very sad. And now the poor boy, wanderin' round threadbare among the gypsies and the drunks-"
The woman frowned, "I heard that the fae-"
"You know, after he was tired from dancin' barefoot with the fae in the gutters-"
"My mam always warned me the UnSeelies are out in winter and they'll dance you dead they will-"
"You and me both, Missy. But what else could he do when all his moneys was stolen by a gang of highwaymen? Yup, he does what he pleases for he's caught his death on the streets of East End with matchgirls and slatterns."
"He fell so low so fast?"
Arthur shuddered and made himself visible which scared off the young woman and made Ireland's usual, brash grin falter.
Because all that was nothing to joke about.
He glared and bared his teeth.
Reilley dismissed himself and stayed out of reach as he passed him in the hall.
There was nothing funny at all about imagining Alfred in that area; it was dangerous. It was unclean. Disease ran rampant there. It was no place for his Alfred.
And it wasn't until he'd been assured several times over by spies, he wasn't supposed to employ for such selfish ends, that Alfred was nowhere in that vicinity but in West End in a quaint hotel, that was rundown but relatively safe, that he was able to breathe again.
Damn Reilley's streak of cruelty, hurting him with such awful imaginings.
The only thing that worked at unknotting the anxiety was daydreaming as he waited for sleep at the end of the day.
He went through various ways he'd relay the absurdities to Alfred, trying to be at his utmost clever as he went through all the scenarios with the right turns of phrase. And doing his best to mimic dialects he'd overheard.
Alfred liked to laugh.
He laughed easily. He was a nervous jokester's friend. A performer could depend on him for support in a crowd. It sometimes annoyed him that Alfred didn't make them work for it.
Alfred laughed inanely for anyone who made an effort...but he laughed best when someone was actually clever.
Arthur tried to envision hot tea and coffee and a merry fire in the hearth. They'd have a good laugh and then maybe he could segue into how that hotel still wasn't where Arthur wanted him, but after the ball…they could see to—
His eyelids drooped as his breaths evened out.
"-don't really have anything suitable for the ball," Alfred replied, gesturing to his clothes.
"You're a regular fairytale."
The boy gave him a sour look.
"Now, now, it's alright. I suppose I can play fairy godmother or was it a wishing tree? I'll have to clarify that with the frog. It's too late now to order you a suit, but I'm sure you can borrow one of Reilley's. We'll have a royal tailor fit it to you. That can be handled in an afternoon."
"He wouldn't mind the back and forth? Fetching the suit, then coming to me for measurements, then heading back-"
"You're right, he is getting older. Tailor's bunions. It would be much easier if you simply stayed at the palace, save him the trip-"
And then winter would hit and it would be folly to try and sail in such weather. Arthur could then make use of Alfred's funds dwindling and insist he stay indefinitely at the castle for practicality's sake as well as sentimentality; no one ought to spend Christmas alone.
And maybe…
With the right atmosphere, with the right circumstances…
They might begin to reconcile.
And all the family would pile into the private rooms of his personal wing for gifts and heated punch and cider.
Mornings were stark after dreams like that.
Preparations for the ball continued.
Malta came down with a fever and England never got to pay a visit to America and assist him in matters of fashion.
As a compromise, he vowed that he would be pleasant to Alfred at the ball; wouldn't comment on his state of dress at all. Would curb the talk of others who did. Wouldn't pursue the subjects that had led them into quarrelling.
No, he'd be amiable. And while he couldn't spend the entirety of the night watching over him (there was too much he needed to do for business and diplomacy), he'd make it a point to indulge America's agricultural interests, dull as they often were when they crept into conversation.
And when the night wore on, he would give the boy a place to stay; he'd make that room he'd allotted for America more comfortable. It would send every tongue waggling if he purchased new furnishings with Alfred in mind, but...there was nothing to it if he simply moved some of his own things there and bought replacements for himself. If pressed, he'd say there was a scratch or something and if necessary, though he doubted it would be, could scrape some paint off a back corner to legitimize his actions.
Once he was moved in, Arthur would have his things fetched that night.
It was a bold idea but...too much time had been lost for him to play subtle now.
He was going to fix this.
He was going to prove that such rumors were unfounded.
It was going to be a good night.
He caught his reflection's eye in an ornate mirror as festive banners were hoisted up and stacks of fine china were carried in and counted.
He repeated to himself aloud like a ward against evil, "It is going to be a good night."
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