"The one and only. Francis, idiot that he is, decided that apparently Christmas wasn't enough. In honour of your qualifying competition we had to have Thanksgiving as well."
"Uh."
"Oh, don't worry, I think he's learned his lesson." Here she firmly grasped the darker-haired sibling by the elbow and attempted to lift him from the floor. "Come on, James, you great amádan, get up."
Her other half promptly broke into song again as Alfred shut the door behind him, and the noise drew a very pale looking Francis from the living room.
"They've been like this all evening," he muttered. "All damn evening, how they can possibly drink that much-" he failed to note Alfred's slight wince and continued on. "Poor Leon's been trying to convince Arthur that he's not a pirate for the better part of an hour, go in and see if you can deal with him. Where's Mathieu?"
Alfred shrugged in response to his father's question, not really in the mood to discuss the brother that in his mind had fallen slightly from grace. Who's driving Dad mental now, Mattie? he asked himself as he dropped his school stuff in the hallway and headed into the living room.
The sight was not as gory as he expected, he would confess later. Not pretty, but they'd had worse familial disputes. A glass lay in smithereens at the foot of the yellow plaster wall, but it didn't look like either of the remaining two siblings were missing any vital limbs or grievously wounded. Arthur was, however, standing on the table and in the midst of a rousing chorus of some English shanty.
"Rule, Britannia! Take that, you, you...right fucking wankers! Britannia rule the waves! You tossers, 've you ever ruled a wave? Britons never shall be slaves!" he sang-or rather shouted-and upended the pint he was currently holding, to the cheers of his backup dancer David. Alfred was 99.99% sure that those were not, in fact, the real lyrics of "Rule, Britannia," but rather an insult to get a reaction out of the three redheaded siblings. This theory was proven to be correct, as the eldest-James? He was almost certain it was James-made a lunge at Arthur as though to throttle him, but changed his mind halfway through in favour of dashing across the room and vomiting in the sink. David was in the middle of trying to persuade a very exasperated Leon to get up on another chair and join himself and Arthur in their antics. Leon was having no such ludicrousness.
Francis, passing a hand in front of his eyes, waved his two present children towards the back door. "I'll handle your father," he muttered.
"I'll help," Saorise chimed in, unceremoniously dumping her twin on the ground next to a loudly groaning Scotsman.
Deciding to leave them to the delightful task of bringing the siblings out of their delusions and cleaning the bile out of the sink, Leon and Alfred headed to the back porch, plopping down on the bench. It was freezing, but at least it was quiet.
"You alright, Leon?" Alfred asked quietly, after a few minutes of watching the wind stirring the snow. His brother nodded, staring straight ahead. "It's not your fault."
Leon looked up at him in surprise. "I know it's not."
"He's always like this when his siblings come over," Alfred muttered. "It doesn't have anything to do with you."
"Dad...isn't great with people, is he?"
"He's good with us," Alfred replies somewhat defensively.
Leon rolls his eyes. "Of course I don't mean us, you idiot, I meant...well, pretty much everyone else."
"Papa, and cousin Kyle and cousin Avery who sometimes come to Christmas dinner."
"Someone not family. And I quite frankly don't know if we should count Papa, the way those two carry on," Leon responds with a grin.
"So Dad doesn't always get on well with people. So what? He's been the best father I could ever ask for," Alfred continues, not entirely sure he's comfortable with what Leon's suggesting.
"Again, with the defensiveness. You know I love Dad as much as you do. I just meant that I wish family dinners didn't have to always end in a drunken row."
"Yeah, well, maybe if his siblings didn't treat him like utter shit, we wouldn't have that problem, would we?" Alfred snapped, and stormed off the porch and around the garage, pausing only to grab his skating bag. Leon groaned at the phantom space where his brother had been standing moments before, and briefly contemplated why everyone in his household has such a damn short temper.
"You know he idolises Arthur, right?" The voice from behind him sounded amused. He turned to get up in order to greet his aunt properly, but she held up a hand to stop him.
"No, don't bother. I'm probably going to head back inside in a few minutes." She pulled a cigarette box and a lighter out of her coat pocket, pressing one between her lips, and, to his growing incredulity, offered the box to him. He shook his head to decline, and she shrugged and lit the cigarette, blowing a trail of smoke into the wintry grey sky.
"Dirty, filthy habit," she murmured to him before taking another drag. "So what's bothering our Alfred?" She'd always had a soft spot for the more rambunctious of the twins-maybe it was part of being the elder twin herself.
"He took some comments that I made about Arthur the wrong way," he muttered. "I wouldn't worry about it," she reassured him. "Alfred is a bit like his father in his overreactions. He's probably just stormed off to the rink to cool down for a bit. Come on, shall we go inside and see if your papa has managed to coax your father off the table yet?" she asks, extinguishing her cigarette. Leon follows somewhat reluctantly, dissatisfied with her answer but not quite sure why.
Alfred resolutely pulled his bomber jacket up past his chin to cover his mouth, trying to block out the frigid air. He bunched his hands up inside his sleeves as well, regretting for the fourth time since leaving his front porch not bringing gloves with him. He also regretted not planning out beforehand exactly where he was going. He knew he was still in the neighbourhood, he couldn't have gone all that far, but the street he was on was nigh-unrecognisable. Although he had always been fortunate enough to consider himself firmly upper middle class, the houses here put his to shame. The houses here stood four or five stories high, complete with vaulted ceilings and some with rather pretentious Greco-Roman design outside their front doors.
Cursing, he was digging in his pocket for his phone when he was interrupted by a shout from down the street.
"Alfred!"
He groaned. "Braginsky," he shot back, unwilling to engage in conversation at the moment.
"What brings you to my neighbourhood?"
"You live here?"
"Hence why I said 'my neighbourhood.' Use your thinking cap, Alfred."
"I wasn't looking for you."
"No? That seems like a rather specific denial for a harmless question."
"You know what? Just forget it, Braginsky. What's the fastest way to town from here?"
"Ah, I see. You are lost."
"I'm not lost. I am temporarily geographically embarrassed."
"Three polysyllabic words in a row. I'm impressed, Alfred."
"Braginsky, if you could hop off right around, I don't know, yesterday, that would be great."
"And there is the vulgar Alfred we all know and love. Tell you what, I'll make you a deal. I'll show you the way into town-more specifically, the dance studio. And then we can train together."
"That is such bullshit, Braginsky. I upheld my part of the deal, which was that I would dance in the mornings with you. You uphold yours and testify for me. That's it. Not hard."
"I see that the idea is less than appealing for you. I also see that you are rather poorly dressed for wandering around in the snow. I don't think you have many options-unless you'd like to tell me exactly what you are running from?"
"All right, I'm going," Alfred groans in reply, and starts up the path to meet Ivan, who is still smiling in that infuriatingly childish way of his.
"So secretive, Alfred. You are like a little cat. Kotyonok."
"Fuck you too, Braginsky."
"Cat."
"Huh?"
"That's what kotyonok means. Not 'fuck you.'"
"Dude, I am way cooler than some dumbass cat! I'm a brave superhero! Like Superman, or Thor! Have you ever seen the Avengers?"
"Lions are cats, you know."
Alfred hesitated for a second. "Okay, maybe I'm okay with being called a cat. But only because lions are cats. And really big and scary."
"Lions are really quite lazy, so I suppose the metaphor fits."
"Nuh-uh! Lions are king of the jungle, and all that shit! Haven't you ever seen the Discovery Channel? Or the Lion King?"
"First of all, lions don't live in the jungle. That would be tigers. Secondly, lions, like most cats, spend most of their days napping. Thirdly, no, I've never felt the need to watch a particularly childish cartoon adaption of Hamlet."
"Wait, every time I'm watching Disney I'm actually learning Shakespeare? Hah! And Dad said I was 'uncultured swine.'"
Seeing the slight shadow pass over Alfred's face at that remark, Ivan tactfully diverted the topic of conversation away from their fathers.
"I think I would rather be a bear than a lion. Bears are fearsome, strong creatures used to hard winters."
"If by 'used to,' you mean 'hibernate through,' then yes, bears are used to winter. I think this really establishes something essential about both of us."
"Oh? What might that be, kotyonok?"
"We're both lazy little fuckers who enjoy sleeping way more than they should."
Again unexpectedly, Braginksy let out one of his deep, genuine laughs. Head tilted upward to the dusky winter sky; deep, throaty laughter bouncing up into the air, nothing like the sweet, childish giggle he was all too fond of.
"You should laugh like that more often," he suggested as the two of them climbed the steps to the studio. "It's less...creepy than your other laugh."
Braginsky smiled in return, the shark's smile, all teeth and no humour. "What if I want to be thought frightening when I laugh?"
"Then I'm not going to talk to you for this whole dance lesson," Alfred retorted as he slipped off his shoes. He still very much liked his feet attached to his body. Braginsky didn't say anything, just smiled at his remembrance, and headed inside to fiddle with the speakers as Alfred stretched. When he deemed his student-God, how Alfred hated being thought of as a student by anyone but Ludwig, and maybe Mr. Edelstein-stretched enough to begin their lesson, he guided him over to the bar.
"I believe we went over the positions of ballet the last time you were here. Do you remember them?"
"For the last fucking time, Braginsky, I skate. At the Olympic level. I do, in fact, know these positions."
"Excellent. Then we can proceed to-" here he took hold of Alfred's leg near the top of the thigh and just below the knee, lifting it so that it was perpendicular to the floor "-battements, da?"
"Da," Alfred replied instinctively, trying to figure out why he felt so damn warm in the room. Ivan's hand felt like it was burning a hole in his pants where he held it.
"I'm glad to see you've decided to learn some of my noble language," Ivan continued as he released Alfred's leg, then shook his head in disapproval when Alfred let it drop. "Oh dear, and here I thought you would be picking up quickly. I want you to hold that position, then we will practice the movement of the battement."
"You little bastard," was all Alfred could spit out, as he raised his leg back to the appropriate angle. Ivan did not grace him with a reply, just watched him. Alfred's leg was fine for a minute. It was twinging a bit by the second. By the third, there was a definite ache in his muscles, but nothing he wasn't used to from skating. It wasn't until he was halfway through his fifth minute of holding his leg at ninety degrees that his muscles finally cramped and gave out. Try as he might to hide it, Ivan was impressed. Alfred was stronger than he gave him credit for.
Alfred, who was now sitting on the floor, rubbing his quad muscles, glared up at him with all the defiance of a petulant child. "Don't even act like you're not surprised by that."
"I confess, the endurance is greater than most people's. I expected more from an Olympian, however." Although he was usually committed to his barbed insults towards Alfred, he had to admit that his last one had lacked conviction.
"Weak, Braginsky," Alfred snorted. It had been, and they both knew it. Ivan wondered why he'd gone for Alfred's skating, the one thing no one could ever fault him for. Like it or not, they could not deny that if Alfred passed these qualifiers-and everyone was so certain that he would-he would be the youngest skater to ever attend an Olympics.
"I know," he said, and Alfred looked surprised that he'd actually uttered the words out loud. It was not like either of them to admit having been in the wrong. "I know your skating is the one thing I cannot touch, nor fault you for. You are magnificent at what you do, and I can only hope that you do not waste this chance, as mine was wasted for me."
Alfred sat there in stunned silence.
"Go," Ivan said softly. "Go and be with your family, before I change my mind and make you do a thousand sit ups." Alfred stood somewhat shakily, as if not quite sure what he had just heard. Later, he would blame it on the surprise, whenever Ivan brought it up, but he thought in that moment he felt a touch of empathy for Ivan, and that was why he'd asked.
"I know tomorrow's Thanksgiving, but are we still going to practice?"
"Would you not rather be at home with your family on this special day?"
Alfred considered telling him about Matthew-he trusted the Russian kid to keep his mouth shut about secrets, if little else-but opted in favour of a more generic statement of frustration. "Have you met my family? We're all a little nuts," he said with a wide grin and easy charm. "Kind of like someone else I know," he continued, and then, with a wink, ran down the stairs and disappeared out into the starlight and snow. And for the third time since conversing with him, Ivan Braginsky found himself laughing.
"Kotyonok, you are a strange and beautiful creature," he murmured as he stared out at the figure fast vanishing around the corner. "And a dangerous one as well."
Alfred ran, feet slipping in the snow, shrugging into his bomber jacket as he ran, not wanting to stay and face Ivan's wrath but not exactly desirous of returning home either. He settled for ducking into one of the town's most well-loved establishments, greasy and cheap but open all day, every day. Probably made a killing off of over zealous Black Friday shoppers driving through town on the way to the outlets. Ordering a stack of pancakes and a coffee, he dug through his skating bag until he surfaced with the object that he'd been looking for. Thumbing through the pages until he found the faded black ribbon he'd used to mark his place from last time, he flipped open the weather beaten diary, shoveled a forkful of pancakes into his mouth, and read on.
Dear Journal,
By all accounts, I should hate Eliza's friend. He's Austrian, he's a total prick, he has a trust fund, he plays classical music, he speaks like he grew up around Shakespeare and Dickens and all those other authors I couldn't understand for shit in highschool-and he is simply the most beautiful person I have ever seen.
He bites his lip when he's thinking, and he has this dark hair that does exactly what it's supposed to all the time, not like mine at all, except for this one cowlick of hair that he smoothes down whenever he's feeling self-conscious, and he wears glasses and calls them 'spectacles.' Sure, it's kind of precocious, but I don't think I even know anyone who uses the word 'spectacles' besides him. And he rolls it around in his mouth the way some people might roll marbles around in their mouths. It's-dare I say it-elegant.
Oh, but I hate him too, mark my words. Every time he comes to pick Eliza up from the rink in his big, shiny, fancy car, he always mocks me for my diction and my accent, tells me to enunciate, whatever the fuck that means, and he's just such a prick to everyone in general that I want to stab him. I think I actually would have a long time ago, had it not been for the fact that he has such lovely eyes. Are they heather? Lavender? Lilac? I don't know, but whatever they are, they are glacial in their magnificence.
For all of his vulgarity, this Gilbert could be quite the poet when he wanted to be.
And every time I see him, he reintroduces himself by his full name. 'Roderich Edelstein.' Yes, I get it, we're not on a first name basis, now fuck off. Eliza always flashes me a worried look every time he says that, like she's afraid that I'm going to snap and strangle him with that fucking cravat. Does he understand how ridiculous he looks when he's wearing that?
Assuming that the aforementioned 'cravat' was that ridiculous scarf thing, then Alfred had to take Gilbert's side in this debate. Although on the other hand, he always thought that Mr. Edelstein's neck would look rather naked without it.
I think Ludwig is the only one who gets how frustrating this whole ordeal has been for me. Honestly, sometimes I think Eliza cares more about her friendship with him than she does about our skating partnership. I mean, on a 'thinking level,' I know that's not true, but I also question it every day. Anyway, Ludwig left a book from the library on my bed, one of the ones about Old Fritz. I think he knows how much I miss home, not that I'm not glad to be out, but I miss it. It's my heritage. Our heritage.
Except not really, because all he's ever known has been Munich, never Berlin. Sunshine, rarely snow. 1871, not 1701.
He skipped ahead another while, eager to hear more about Ludwig's childhood. Maybe there was something embarrassing he could use against him in the future.
Dear Journal,
I'm writing this by candlelight, so I apologise if it's illegible.
Alfred thought it was no more so than usual.
I can't believe I was so stupid. Eliza came up to me yesterday and told me-her voice was so quiet, too, like she was afraid that I'd snap at her-that Roderich wanted me to take the Iron Cross off. And the pieces finally clicked into place. Gott, I've been such an idiot. I know it's the wrong war, I think there's part of me that wants to tell him that, but God knows there were enough members of the Gestapo, of the fucking SS, who wore these.
I think I must really be infatuated with him if I'm even thinking about taking it off. It was Opa's, and Vati's after that, and now it's mine-and I'm thinking of taking it off. It's just that every time I see him now, and I watch those beautiful, disapproving eyes as he introduces himself as Roderich Edelstein, and I can't help but wonder if he's thinking of some family member that he lost the way I lost my Opa.
I keep telling myself that there's nothing to be ashamed of, that Opa and Vati both fought nobly for our country-but I don't think that's quite true, otherwise Ludwig and I would talk about Vati the way we talk about Opa, would talk about Vati at all, would hang his portrait proudly right next to his father's. No, I can't pretend that this Roderich Edelstein is wrong.
Shit, but that medal is Opa's, not Vati's, no matter what the world thinks-but it doesn't matter what the world thinks, does it? I could convince a hundred people, a thousand people, I could write books and newspaper articles and make fucking power points, but it wouldn't make a difference if he still stared at me like that. Maybe I'll carry it in my pocket from now on.
I wonder if I should do some sort of penance for this. I'll likely go to hell either way.
Funny, he hadn't pictured Gilbert as the religious sort.
I think that's really why Ludwig left that book on my bed; he knows how much I love Old Fritz, I think he wants to tell me to go ahead and let this-this thing happen to me, wants to tell me to let go and love, that no one is frowning upon me for it. I think a shit ton of people might frown upon me for it, and some might do a hell of a lot more, and God might be one of them. I don't know. I don't know what to do about Roderich Edelstein except put my medal in my pocket and hope that he forgives me. Anyone who's beautiful enough to pull the rug out from under your feet that quickly is a dangerous man. And yet I think I'm falling for him-just a little bit! A crush!-anyway.
God help me, Eliza was right. I am a Dummkopf.
Alfred wondered if the cross that Gilbert was talking about was the one that Mr. Edelstein used to fasten his cravat every morning, the one with the little cameo in the centre. He was glad they'd made up.
