Hey, everybody, here you go. I got distracted last night from my muse with the new story I'm writing, which might be going up soon. That one is going to be a RUSCAN, USUK AU. Thanks to Eternally1Yours, 13pinklizard, my-dear-fangirl, 1woof1, HetaliaLover, it's-an-Alice-thing, closeincline, CherryFlamingo, InsaneNicEly, yamishun, 2bblue101, and karatekid369. REVIEWS BE LOVE, but aren't necessary for updates...
Arthur woke up earlier than normal, his head pounding with the amount of alcohol he'd ingested last night. Why had he woken up in the first place? He was about to turn back over and go back to sleep when he remembered LaRose's offer of help. He wasn't planning on going to the meeting today, and had been ignoring the calls that were now piling up on his phone.
He got dressed and headed out for the mystic's shop, hoping it was open.
"Adonis, come on, I let you sleep in, now come on, come have breakfast. I have a store to open, and you have grocery shopping to do, and if I were you, I would get on that, because I can sense that today, all the old, slow, aisle blocking, people will be out." Alfred fell out of bed, and picked himself the floor. He'd not heard his alarm that morning, which was very strange. Well, he'd not been able to sleep after the first dream he'd had, for he fear he would forget it if he went back to sleep without writing it down, so he'd jotted it on a napkin he'd found, it being one in the morning, but then found when he tried to close his eyes, that he simply lived the dream over and over, and soon wished he'd never had it in the first place.
The dream seemed important; maybe symbolic was the word he wanted to describe it. He'd been standing in a field, watching as a young man, about sixteen, he guessed, picked up a small child, holding him tight.
"Brother, y-you can't leave!" At the child's words, the man looked down, his emerald eyes full of tears, and gave the now sobbing child a reassuring smile.
"I'll be back, you know that." The British accent cut straight to his heart, but before he could react, he'd been thrown into another field, the muddy, dream ground wavering under him. There was the British man with those eyes and the child, now much grown.
"Go, leave. You are no longer my brother, and I yours." The words were cold, meant to hurt, the British man's face turning into a desperate one, before he strengthened in anger.
"NO!" And that had been where he'd woken up each time. He was left wondering why the child/boy, whose face had been blurry, had gone from begging his brother to stay to disowning him and casting him aside, telling him to leave. The both of the people in the dream had worn extremely outdated clothing, and besides the British man's eyes, Alfred had been able to notice nothing about the man besides his blond hair.
What could tear apart a family that horribly?
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
He quickly got dressed, running downstairs and sitting down at the kitchen table that was hidden in the back area of the building. Eggs Benedict awaited him, and he dug in. The dream was now pushed aside as a shopping list was set next to him, reminding him of how he hated these days when all the senior citizen homes seemed to drop their patients from assisted living at the same grocery store, meaning blocked aisles, slow moving vehicles, bad hearing, and worst of all…EXACT CHANGE! The old people seemed not to be able to pay with a simple twenty for their milk, adult diapers, dentures, and prune juice. No, they counted out three hundred pennies and seventeen nickels along with lots of one-dollar bills. And then, recounting happened, and counting the change they got back.
He finished quickly and headed out, taking the list and money for the groceries with him.
Madame LaRose smiled as he ran off, and opened up the store on her own, and a few minutes after she'd unlocked the door, a young man walked in, his hair mussed up, green eyes foggy from his hangover he was recovering from.
"Arthur, would you like to take some morning tea with me?"
"You said you'd have something to help me find Alfred…"
"Would you like some tea? I hear you Brits love the stuff. I can't get Adonis to ever take a sip of it. Remarks on how he'd like to take the tea and throw it in the harbor." Arthur stopped, his eyes flashing.
"Ha, Boston Tea Party. The beginning of the end. He must think himself very funny." Arthur's glare was immediate.
"No, he simply loves his coffee. He'll be back. Then I can help you."
She led him into the kitchen.
"What is it exactly that is supposed to help me? Is it a spell book, because I've tried all mine, and none of them work in the least." He sat down, watching his English Breakfast Tea steeped.
"No, it is something much better. May I see that journal you have?" Arthur gave her a no-nonsense look, reaching into his bag and retrieving the book.
"I never said it was a journal…" Arthur handed her the book, and she set it on the table.
"She knew it was one. This journal belonged to a Mrs. Charlotte Johnston Wilson, a woman who lived during the Civil War in Virginia, who died in childbirth. I have talked with her on many an occasion."
"What are you talking about, that is Alfred's book!" Arthur now was reaching across the table to try and grab the book back.
She held it up for him to see, and he paled. Where Alfred's words had been, there now was a feminine script, the name Charlotte written on the top. Then it faded, and Alfred's words reappeared overtop.
"Charlotte granted Alfred's wish, wanting to show him that love wasn't something one took for granted, a love she could never enjoy due to war. This journal is key to solving this. Don't lose it; this is the most magical of books I've held in a long time. She lives in this book." The book was handed back, and Arthur flipped it open, seeing that Alfred's words were still there, but on an empty page, there was that script again, although illegible.
"But Alfred is missing! I can't solve this on my own…"
"He is closer than you think." The psychic smiled at him. "Now, I don't usually give free readings, so don't going around telling people." She got up, and Arthur continued to sit his tea, relieved and now motivated to look anew for his love. He was just finishing his tea when the front door opened, ringing a little bell over the door. The woman, who'd been washing dishes, straightened her back with a sigh, and went out into the store.
"Adonis! Back already! Well, I'll take the groceries from here, you stay at the counter to take my appointments…"
"Madame, these are really heavy, and I know you don't have any appointments this morning, remember, I schedule them. Now let me set these groceries in the kitchen, and then I'll be out of your hair. I'm sorry I took so long, the old man in front of me in the check out was telling me all about how today is Canada's birthday, and I remarked about how Gettysburg begun today, although I had no idea I knew this stuff, and we got into this HUGE discussion on Gettysburg and the Civil War in general, and he patted me on the back, and told me there was hope for the younger generation yet. Isn't that great, and."
"All right, Mr. Chatterbox, come on."
Arthur heard the fast paced discussion and came to the conclusion that LaRose's help, Adonis, was back from wherever he had gone out to. He watched as the small woman scurried into the kitchen, looking anxious for once, her natural calm broken, a man standing in the doorway, the grocery bags he was carrying in, which looked heavier than a man his size should be able to hold blocked the man behind her. Body-builder, probably.
"Mr. Kirkland, this is Adonis, my employee. Just set them over there, dear." The tall man went over to a place over at the far end of the kitchen, putting the groceries down on a counter blocked by an open door.
"Adonis, this is Arthur Kirkland, a friend of mine." The man turned around and Arthur's heart stopped. There, in front of him, was Alfred, his hair a tad longer than he remembered, his smile the same, his clothes a tad off. Then, he realized, as the man came closer, with his hand out, he was wearing his bomber jacket.
Their eyes met, and he watched Alfred stop dead in his tracks, his eyes widening for a moment before he looked away, grabbing Arthur's hand in a lame handshake, before the hand dropped to his side.
The door rang, and Alfred's head jerked up. He started to walk out of the room. "Madame, I'm going to go work the shop." And he was gone. Arthur's mouth was open.
"Alfred…" It came out as a whisper, and the woman's hand was on his shoulder.
"He remembers up to the night he ran away from you in the hotel. That is it. That is why he is so standoffish. I've had him here ever since then, working for me. Would you like to see his room? There is something you should see." Arthur felt the rejection Alfred had just given him fiercely. He nodded numbly; not believing his Alfred was really in the next room, wanting nothing to do with him.
Alfred watched as a few customers browsed the store. He'd know those eyes anywhere. That was the man he'd slept with that night he could remember. This man who he'd just gotten away from, pretending to have never met him before.
This man who had the answers to his questions.
Alfred sighed as he heard footsteps up the stairs behind him. He needed to talk with this man. How else was he supposed to remember?
A woman flashed in a mirror across the room, her face impassive, in her hands a brown book, and Alfred watched her fade, trembling. He was scared of ghosts. But the brown book seemed familiar, like the one he'd mailed...
He peeked into the kitchen to see it still lying on the table. He reached for it.
Fun Fact: The first black head of state to be received at the White House was Toussaint L'Ouverture, the President of the new Haitian country, by John Adams, only to be cut off from America and its trade by Thomas Jefferson in a few years, crippling the new nation.
