HEY GUYS. Who thought I was dead? I am SO sorry for the amount of time it took to update this. Last year was ridiculously busy school wise, and I already know this year is going to be even more difficult…

Important note at the bottom!

Nonetheless, sorry for the wait! Enjoy.


It was an unusually cool day in the summertime, and clouds littered the sky with only few rays of sunshine peeking through, teasing the world with light and shade, vacillating between the two as the hours stretched on. It was dark for daytime, and the scent of wet earth filled the air as a light breeze fluttered through the wide windows of a large boarding house.

Alfred shivered as he dipped his ragged washcloth back into the now-lukewarm water basin, wringing it twice before lobbing the rag back against the long wooden floor, scrubbing slowly and tiredly. The hall room was scattered with boys and girls in similar positions, all on their hands and knees scrubbing profusely at any given spot. Another bone chilling breeze floated through the room, and a few feet away from him, Matthew sneezed. Alfred paused, and he wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead exhaustedly, leaning back on his heels.

As if on time, the midday bell chimed somewhere eerily in the background, and dozens of eager, weary eyes looked hopefully to the front of the room.

An older boy, roughly around the age of seventeen stepped forward, and held his arms out as he projected his voice, "Alright, stop! Everyone is to gather their basins and rags to the back of the house to dump the excess water. Stack them neatly and orderly in the back corner, and then proceed to your rooms to change for Church. Meet back in the main hall with warm clothes in precisely ten minutes time. Don't be late!"

Alfred looked and Matthew uncertainly, struggling to keep up with the older boy's command. The way he spoke was different than anything either of the boys had ever heard, and they were still reeling from the foreign accent, people, and culture. Tentatively, they hefted each of their basins, both nearly half their size, and lugged them to the back doors along with the rest of the crowd.

"What are we doing?" Matthew's small voice asked confusedly, as he struggled to keep hold of the heavy tub of water. He sniffed, coughing softly. "I couldn't understand him."

"I think we're going to Church," Alfred responded warily over the loud murmur of the group. "He spoke funny," the boy commented as he reached the crowd of children, all anxiously waiting to unload the water. Alfred struggled to peer ahead, but the large crowd and height of the other children prevented him from seeing much of anything. Once outside, he dropped the heavy basin exhaustedly, and lifted one handle to dump out all the dirty, soapy water.

"Funny?" An older, slightly deeper voice repeated from behind him. "An' who d'you fink is talkin' funny, you dumb Yank?"

Alfred turned around slowly; he looked up owlishly to a mean faced, older boy. A second boy, taller but lankier, stepped from beside the first boy, and they glared at Alfred harshly. Matthew shrank back timidly.

"Are you makin' fun of my accen'?" The boy asked, drawing himself up to his full height, nearly a foot or so taller than Alfred.

"I fink 'e is, look at 'im, gettin' all silent and all 'cuz he's been found out. He's makin' bloody fun of us."

"You havin' a right good time with that then, mate?" The boy leaned down to Alfred's face, and scowled, "Why don' you say in to m'face then." Matthew gripped Alfred's arm painfully, but Alfred could hardly feel it past the fear that burrowed itself in his paralyzed state.

"You stupid Yanks are a bloody waste of food and space."

A loud clasp of a hand landed on both of the boys' shoulders, roughly pulling the two away from Alfred and Matthew. The older boy who gave directions earlier spun the two around severely.

"Jim! George! What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" The older teen demanded angrily. His grip increased on the shoulders, and each boy winced painfully, defiance slowly leaking from their expressions.

"They were makin' fun of us and how we talk! They were talkin' rubbish about us behind our backs!"

"That's not what it looked like," the older teen retorted. "Jim, you are not in charge, so do your damn best to stop acting like you are. And George, stop being a bloody idiot and encouraging fights, or I'll have to send you both to Ms. Greene."

"Shove off, Tom," Jim retorted angrily, pulling himself out of the older boy's grip. Tom glared at them icily, and said, "Next time I see you harassing the younger ones again I'll have you reported. Now do shut up and finish your bloody chores already."

The two boys stalked off crossly, and the remaining children watched them go. Once out of sight, the older boy turned back to Alfred and Matthew with a gentler expression. "Don't mind them, lads. They hate new orphans, and they hate not being in charge even more. It's best to avoid them as much as possible. My name is Tom, by the way."

Alfred and Matthew peered up gratefully at Tom, speechless. "T-thank you," Alfred stuttered, his face pale, eyes flickering across the ground.

"It's okay mates, you two will get used to England and the accent soon enough. I can understand the confusion. Come on."

As all three, now the last remaining people in the room, exited, Tom looked sympathetically to the two Yankees. Too polite and knowing to inquire of their current situation, he said comfortingly, "Me mum was a Yank as well. Straight from New England. Or so I've heard, anyway. I've read about it, and it sounds fascinating."

A draft in the room caused both young boys to shiver, and Alfred said weakly, "It's cold here."

Tom laughed. "That's England for you. I hear America is blisteringly hot this time of year. Now get dressed warmly, and don't be late. We leave for Church in approximately seven."

Meeting back with all the other children nearly five minutes later, Alfred and Matthew clung to Tom shyly. Breaking away only to let the older boy speak with the nuns, they scarcely left his side. The large crowd of children gathered in the street noisily and the nuns and the boys second in charge gave directions. As the group finally commenced their trip, Tom apologized to the boys.

"I'm afraid I won't accompany you this trip," he said sympathetically. Glancing to the next group over, he explained, "I need to watch over that group, along with Jim and George." Rolling his eyes, he continued supportively, "You boys will be fine, okay? Be sure to keep with the group, and if you have any questions, ask James, he'll help." Turning off, he gave them a small wave before leaving.

Alfred and Matthew watched the older boy leave apprehensively. Matthew clung to Alfred's arm nervously, effectively eliciting a wince from Alfred. The younger twin averted his eyes downwards, mumbling a soft apology, knowing exactly the cause of injury.

The large group of orphans, in their poor tattered clothing, took the long walk to Church surprisingly cheerfully, and despite the confusion and antsy silence during Church, there was something strange in the air, something that Alfred could not quite pick up on. Something not entirely genuine.

Unfortunately, Matthew had fallen asleep during prayer and was dragged away by the ear from an alarmed Alfred; his punishment was a light scolding, and supervision from the older boy two aisles away. Fortunately, James accepted his presence nonchalantly, and seemed not at all bothered by the extra responsibility. In his graciousness, he offered Matthew a handkerchief to cough into, which the boy took gratefully with strained, watery eyes.

Now in two separate groups yet again, nearly two hours later, Alfred walked by himself silently, observing the clamor of the other children. Girls chattered with each other hushed and excitedly, and boys chased each other around the groups despite the nuns' exasperated protests. The older boys managed to get a hand on the runners, and yanked them roughly by the collars, choking them temporarily to enforce obedience. Alfred swallowed, heart beating quicker at the scene.

From the corner of his eyes, a girl and a boy he had never seen before, surreptitiously pulled on a cap and bonnet, slipping to the back of the group. Alfred paused curiously, watching the spectacle. Quickly out of sight, they approached a nearby bread stand slyly.

The girl inquired sweetly of the food, chatting with the seller, while curiously, Alfred thought, the other boy slid around the back and grabbed several loaves of bread. However, slipping the loaves in his clothes not quickly enough, the vendor turned around just in time to catch a stack of loaves falling, shedding light on the dubious thievery.

Alfred jumped at the earsplitting yell the baker bellowed, and both girl and boy took off sprinting frantically to get away. Even stranger, the overweight seller began to chase the two children down the street.

And despite Alfred's better judgment, perhaps due to the weeks of starvation and cold that had finally taken its toll, the young boy lunged forward, snatching a loaf for himself and Matthew, before running off in the other direction.

Running off far enough in the opposite direction ultimately led back to Matthew's group, in which Alfred sighed in relief. However, his respite did not last long upon the following scene.

The cruel boy from earlier yanked Matthew's hair painfully, before pushing the young foreigner to the ground, cackling and running off. Matthew, for some reason or another, did not get up.

"Matt!" Alfred yelled worriedly, as he began to sprint towards his brother. "Mattie!" Just as he began to pick up ground a hand snapped forward and pulled him back by the collar, forcing the boy off balance, tumbling to the ground.

"And just where do you think you're going?" An old nun's shrill voice interrogated. "You don't think you're going to—" she cut off abruptly upon seeing the bread slip from Alfred's grasp. She shrieked in horror. "Thief! You're the one who's been causing trouble! We do not tolerate that, young man!"

Alfred scrambled to gain balance again, but to no avail as the old woman dragged him roughly behind her by the collar. Alfred gagged, finally finding his footing as his feet propelled himself forward in the same direction. He twisted around to gain one last look at Matthew concernedly, and in the midst of his struggling and the nun's yanking, he saw a tall blond man help Mattie to his feet. His mind grappled endlessly, unsure of whether to be worried or grateful at the stranger's kindness.


Alfred's face stung bright red, bruising his left cheek and swelling his eye, making it difficult to see. In all truthfulness, he had felt far worse, but it still hurt nonetheless.

The humiliation stung almost as much as his face. The vendor growled at him menacingly, and the boy and girl from earlier were suffering similar punishments elsewhere. Alfred apologized in a small voice, but somehow realized in the midst of it that he wasn't sorry so much about taking the bread as much as he was sorry he was caught. His starving stomach refused to let his mind acknowledge the guilt that ate away his morals, so instilled by his mother. His eyes fell to the ground, grateful when it was finally over.

He had been forced to clean dishes after supper, and the work, while seemingly endless, was not hard. Nearly every child scraped clean their plates, which minimized scrubbing. For this, Alfred was grateful.

He inhaled his own dinner, being forced to wait until the entire hall finished their plates and after him cleaning, and trudged upstairs, finally feeling the guilt settle on his shoulders heavily when he passed a disapproving Tom. The older boy shook his head empathetically, but said nothing. It was just as well. There was nothing to be said.

He entered the room he shared with countless other children, most of whom were crowded around a bed near the corner, whispering in hushed voices.

Alfred crawled in his own bed exhaustedly, dully wondering where Matthew was, when a few hushed tones floated over to him.

"—that tall strange man, with the long hair—"

"—he looks wealthy, why would he want the odd one?"

"—the French hate Brits, of course they'd take a Yank—"

Alfred's ears perked upon hearing the familiar term. He sat up confusedly, looking at the group with a curious expression. They quieted after noticing his puzzled stares.

"What?" One of the older ones finally said in irritation.

Alfred's heart pounded nervously in his chest. Usually he was never without his brother at this time, and he was beginning to fear all these funny sounding Britons in general, associating unpleasantness with the accent. "What are you talking about?" He asked timidly.

The group of children looked at each other, and finally an older girl in a long nightgown said, "We think that Frenchman is purchasing your brother. We saw him carry him back here after the walk."

"What?" Alfred asked, bile rising in his throat. He suddenly felt incredibly nauseous, to the point where he almost felt like throwing up his dinner.

"Matthew wasn't at dinner at all," another boy continued. He said this not unkindly. "That man has been talking with the nuns all evening."

Harsh, cold, uncontrollable fear took over Alfred, and he felt an immense wave of panic hit him. He was unable to move for several moments, his lungs temporarily forgetting how to function. The room was loud with hushed chatter and silent at the same time. It felt as if air was pressuring against Alfred's head.

"I… I, I—" Alfred stuttered as he got up. He was running before his feet hit the floor.

His usually light footsteps pounded across the floor, and he darted down the hallways, past lingering girls and boys, startling Tom and James somewhere along the way. Voices shouted at him, but he processed nothing. He raced down several floors, finally coming in sight of the two main doors. He crashed into the railings haphazardly, looking down the foyer as sweat beaded at his forehead despite the cold temperature. His lungs gasped for air.

The strange Frenchman carried a sleeping Matthew, thanking the nuns repeatedly with a smiling face and accented English, holding the boy in one arm and a stack of papers and bag in another. One of the nuns opened the large woodened doors graciously while the two exited, the door closing with a soft click. The sound resonated in Alfred's heart, and horror struck him harder than any physical blow.

"MATTIE! MATTIE!" Alfred shrieked. "Mattie! Please! Mattie, come back! Don't leave me here!"

He nearly stumbled down the stairs, but hands reached out of nowhere, and pulled him back, preventing him from running after the two. Tom, James, and several others rushed to the scene and immediately attempted to restrain the frantic boy.

He screamed, latching on the railings with a deathlike grip. A flurry of shouting and hands snapped at him, grabbing and pulling as much of him as possible. His flailing did no good as more and more hands reinforced the previous.

"No! No! No! No!" Alfred howled fearfully, finally sobbing. His fingers were eventually pried from the railings, and the last thing the boy remembered was the constant streaming of hands continuing to pile on and restrict his movement, pushing him down to the floor, a blur of faces coming together to hover over his, looking appalled by the madness of his behavior—


Alfred jolted awake, stirring to find himself in a similar situation. His heart raced.

Hands firmly gripped his arm and chest, and several faces were peering from above him. He recognized Arthur's within a frenzied minute, but the person that stood out among the others was Rhys.

He held a knife in one hand, and gripped Alfred's arm in the other.

"Stop!" Alfred cried, yanking his arm out of the grip, startling all of the Kirkland brothers. Rhys nearly fell off balance, and Connor and William wrenched him backwards to prevent him from falling (and possibly impaling) Arthur and Alfred.

Sitting up, Alfred buried his arm in his lap alarmed, looking at Arthur in betrayal, hurt, and confusion. He shrank away from Arthur.

"It's okay, relax, lad," Arthur immediately consoled, wrapping an arm around the boy. He winced at the situation, realizing exactly how wrong it looked to the boy. He feared any ground he may have picked up with the boy relationship-wise may have been lost in the fear and confusion upon awakening. "They're only trying to help you get better," Arthur promised earnestly. Looking towards his brothers, Arthur asked in a strained voice, "Are you sure about this?" He could feel the boy's heart racing against his side, and felt guilty.

"It's the last thing I can think of," Rhys apologized sympathetically. "It's a bit outdated, but in previous decades, doctors believed cutting a small area on the upper arm would improve illness. God knows if it works, but it's the only option we have left."

"Bleeding out the sickness," William repeated. "It worked sometimes, or so they've said."

Arthur frowned, and glanced back down at the boy at his side. Alfred trembled, sweating faintly at the forehead, clearly shaken from whatever he was dreaming and the whole knife ordeal. It was not often one was greeted with a knife in the face so early in the morning. Arthur vaguely wondered about the cuts on the boy's back, but knew that had long healed since then. Alfred's eyes darted between the four of them, gazing on Arthur's last, still holding a betrayed albeit trusting expression. Arthur grimaced, and squeezed the boy's shoulder.

"I suppose it's all we can do," he said finally. Gently, he said, "Alfred, you're going to have to trust me; we're doing this for you." Softly, he pulled Alfred's arm from the boy's chest. Alfred relented slowly and warily, allowing Rhys to hold his arm and roll up his sleeve.

"It's better if the knife is sharp," William commented anxiously, peering over his brother's shoulder. Alfred jerked his arm, and Rhys instinctively tightened his hold, eliciting a whimper from the younger.

"Not too sharp, otherwise you'll damn well slice the boy's arm clean off," Connor replied nervously. Rhys furrowed his brow.

"It's clean, right?"

"Shut up!" Arthur barked. "You're frightening the lad! Alfred, don't look at it, it'll only make it worse." To emphasize this, Arthur pressed the boy's face to his chest, directing the boy's view away from the others. Alfred buried his face into Arthur's clothes, suddenly hyperaware of everything going on in his pounding heart and exposed arm.

Carefully, Rhys sliced a small cut in Alfred's upper arm, deep enough to draw enough blood, but shallow enough to prevent excessive bleeding. He sighed in relief, not realizing how stressful it was until after. He squeezed the boy's arm, drawing a good stream of blood to ooze out from the makeshift wound. Alfred peeked at his arm from Arthur's chest, still trembling. Everyone stared at the wound.

"Now what?" Connor questioned.

It was uncomfortably silent.

"I suppose we just…wait," William offered with a shrug. Arthur rolled his eyes, and pulled out a handkerchief to dab at the cut. Alfred watched him warily as he tied the cloth around the wound.

"Let's go get something to eat, shall we?" Arthur suggested, and Alfred clambered delicately on his back. His ankle, while mostly healed, was still fragile and had to be moved slowly and gently.


"You boys had better get a hold of Mr. Bonnefoy's bags today," Mrs. Kirkland announced to everyone as she brought a basket of food to the table. Wiping her hands on her apron, she unfolded the cloth and revealed a pile of warm bread. Hands dug in eagerly.

Francis said nothing at the table, appearing to not have understood anything at all. He tentatively picked up a loaf and began ripping it into small pieces for Matthew, murmuring something softly to the boy.

"I can't," William announced. "I've promised I'd meet Mary. Someone else will have to do it."

"I'm coming with," Connor followed quickly. "I want to meet Mary, properly this time."

"I'm not," Rhys deadpanned. "I've other things to be done and I'd need to keep an eye on his wound." He motioned to Alfred's arm. He quickly buried his face in the newspaper, and it was clear to his brothers that he was smug he shirked the duty.

"Wait, what?" Arthur questioned suddenly, having half-listened to the conversation. "Rhys, you were the bloody designated translator!"

"Oh come off it, your French is pristine! You live in the city!"

"And what exactly does that have to do with anything?"

"Belt up, Arthur," William interjected exasperatedly, "This is for Alfred too, y'know. His brother's…guardian is missing their things. Be a gentleman an' help out his family."

"You be a gentleman," Arthur scowled softly, knowing he was acting like a child but stubbornly refusing to care. He sighed, peeking at the Frenchman, who was paying them no attention. "I was going to try a new recipe and cook a stew," He sighed remorsefully.

Connor choked on his tea, sputtering. "My God, you had better leave soon, daylight doesn't last all day y'know."

"I think we'd better leave now as well, now that y'mention it, Connor," William conceded quickly, bumping his knee into the table as he quickly exited the room.

"Of course," Connor agreed, nearly falling over himself as he followed suit.

"I don't think that will be quite necessary today, Arthur," Mrs. Kirkland said gently and somewhat forcefully. She smiled. "Though I think your brothers are right, you and Francis should leave soon."

"I suppose," Arthur compromised, confused at the sudden scramble for everyone to leave. "Perhaps I can assist with dinner tonight?"

"I—of course," she said. "Now do go, I think William and Connor have left you two the horses."

Arthur furrowed his eyes at the sudden urgency of the whole situation, but said nothing of it, brushing it off simply. They were right anyhow; the sooner, the better.

"I suppose it's in order," he began tentatively. "Yes," he said, gaining confidence. "I'll go get my coat. No use arguing about it any longer."

It didn't take long to get everything ready for yet another trip to the city; Francis had been stiffly relayed the message by Rhys (as Arthur somehow managed to leave the room in time), and acquiesced wordlessly. The Frenchman was still wary of leaving Matthew behind, but saw no valid reason to drag him out in the cold alongside him. No, it was best for him to stay in the confinement of a warm, protected house. He still held no great amount of trust for the Britons, but he could not deny the evidence supporting the blood relations between Matthew and his new-found brother. Francis pulled on his thick overcoat silently, and searched for Matthew's eyes.

The boy sat at the table next to his sickly brother, something Francis still winced at, but it couldn't be helped. Any forced separation would be cruel. Matthew offered him a small, vulnerable look.

"I will be back," Francis murmured softly, extending his arm out in a weak wave. Matthew nodded. "Do not cause any trouble," he repeated, despite knowing the boy was nearly incapable of it. He turned, and followed the Briton out the door, and the other brother (Rhys, was it?) closed it softly behind him.

Arthur exited the stables, holding two horses by the reigns. He offered one to Francis.

"You know how to ride, oui?" Arthur asked neutrally in French.

Francis took the reigns from the man stiffly. His pride was still offended from the previous night, and he disliked the Briton's suspicious aggression towards him.

"Oui," he replied briskly, mounting his horse easily, trotting towards the edge of the premises. Arthur raised a brow, but mounted his horse just as quickly and followed suit.

The air was thick with tension, nearly as visible as the overcast clouds in the sky. They had been traveling in dead silence for nearly twenty minutes, and as much as Arthur hated to admit it, he was wrong to judge the Frenchman so quickly the night before. Of course it was natural to immediately think Francis was potentially the abusive father figure (and wouldn't anyone else react the same way?) but Arthur realized he probably could have taken a less aggressive stance towards the man, instead of jumping on his preconceived misconceptions.

His mind flip-flopped as he struggled to gather enough courage. He cleared his throat awkwardly and called, "Francis."

The Frenchman looked over disdainfully, raising a brow. Arthur pursed his lips, slightly taken aback.

He might have deserved that, but it still didn't feel good.

"I may have misjudged you earlier last night, and mistaken you for someone else." A pause. "Je suis désolé."

Francis said nothing for a long time, and Arthur was beginning to wonder whether the man even heard him or not. Or perhaps he was intentionally ignoring Arthur's apology, and at this thought Arthur gritted his teeth, because Goddamn the bloody French for always acting so damn high and mighty, he knew he shouldn't have bothered—

"I accept," the man replied back, but he didn't look at Arthur. Arthur felt a twinge of annoyance at this, but he rolled his eyes. He said his apology, so now he had no reason to feel any guilt.

"I suppose it is natural for the British to think they are always right, when most of the time they are not. It cannot be helped," Francis smirked.

Arthur furrowed his brow, translating everything quickly from French to English. He felt his face go hot, and he gripped the reins to stop himself from lashing out.

"Anyhow," he gritted with mocked politeness, trying his best to ignore the comment. Bloody French people. "How have you…come to own Matthew?" Arthur asked innocently, suppressing a small smirk. He knew much more than the Frenchman thought he did.

Francis blinked in shock, gripping the reins. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Arthur swelled upon Francis's suspicion. "I know for a fact that Matthew is not related to you. Alfred himself said he's never seen you before. Who are you exactly to either of them?"

"That is not of your concern."

"Look," Arthur interjected. "I understand that you mistrust me because I am a stranger. But something isn't right about these two. Do you not find it a little strange, that two young Americans are lost in Britain without any known family? And they've been separated, and brought back together by pure, God-granting luck. If you happen to know anything, anything at all, I implore you to share. Perhaps we can piece together what is going on."

Francis pondered at the Briton's outburst. It did make sense, but he wasn't so keen on sharing anything of himself.

"Have you ever considered asking the boy?"

Arthur paused. He had never really thought to ask directly, because the boy was absolutely evasive on the matter. Especially as they became more comfortable with each other, Arthur was hesitant to jeopardize their relationship at the subject. It was an ugly matter, and who wanted to be reminded of it? The few times Arthur did ask usually resulted in distressed silence, which would last anywhere from a few hours to a day. Like the ugly wounds on Alfred's skin, as they disappeared so did any of Arthur's questioning. Alfred seemed eager almost, to move on. Even until last night, Arthur hadn't fully comprehended that the boy might still be grieving.

He was blinded by the boy's overwhelming affection. He hadn't even thought it might have been to shield the boy's grief.

Was he merely a replacement figure then?

Arthur's shoulders sagged as he grasped this new thought. He felt the edges of his heart crumble as sadness licked the surface of his being, but he pushed the thoughts away to continue the conversation.

"I haven't gotten much back in response." He mumbled back in French.

Francis raised a brow at the Englishman's sudden dismay. Clearly seeing the Englishman's inner turmoil, he couldn't help but acquiesce, frowning slightly. If Alfred was anything like Matthew, then he could understand clearly the weight of the situation and Arthur's distressed need to know more. Matthew was painfully shy and a near mess of bawling emotion the day he had adopted the boy, and coupled with his frightful illness, Francis had never bothered the ask. He merely assumed the boy's orphan life was normal (as normal as could be), and threw out the old and on with the new. Matthew never talked about it either, shifting into long bouts of muted shy, silence. When Francis had finally gotten the small blond to open up to him, he found he didn't care much about the past, with so much potential for the future of them.

"I had adopted Mathieu from some orphanage in –-shire a few months ago. I was unaware he had a brother."

"You thought nothing of his American accent?" Arthur inquired, raising a brow.

"We speak mostly in French. He's a bright child," Francis boasted. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"You didn't think to ask him about his life previously?" Arthur pressed incredulously.

"Did you?" Francis challenged.

Arthur paused. "No," he retorted. "I found the boy on my doorstep. I nearly—", he immediately stopped himself, reddening as he realized his slip of information.

Francis looked at Arthur dubiously. "You found him on your doorstep?"

Arthur mentally cursed his defensiveness. There was something about the French frog that just felt so aggressive; anyhow, it was too late to back track, and he just lost a bit of his superiority in the situation.

"Yes," Arthur conceded. May as well share. "I didn't anticipate…actually adopting the boy. I don't know. It was all a real blur."

"You kept him without official orphanage papers? Someone could be looking for him!"

Arthur reddened further, feeling cornered. He hated this, but Francis was right. "Well, he had scars and burns on himself! Whoever had him previously clearly did not treat him properly. I wasn't about to just toss him back into the streets!"

Francis looked at him gravely. "You know people consider them property, yes? Someone could be looking for him. Legally, you might have stolen him. He's a foreign immigrant, undocumented."

Arthur blood ran cold at the thought of this. However, he refused to show anything. Swallowing, he said with mock confidence, "There's no one looking for him. There's been no posters or search warrant for him. He's under my protection and care."

Francis frowned. Despite his harsh questioning, he found he did care for the well-being of the boy. (And the Briton, he supposed, but definitely to a lesser extent.)

The Frenchman sighed. But the sudden release of information bothered him; he asked tentatively, "He had…..burns?"

Arthur nodded solemnly. "And bruises. Doesn't…Matthew?"

Francis looked horrified. "None overtly abusive…or that I've been aware of."

The two sat in silence for a while longer, as the information dawned upon the two of them. Why was one child abused and not the other? Why did Alfred receive the brunt of the abuse? And what were they doing in Europe?

Candidly, Arthur asked, "So you know nothing about the boy's previous life? Nothing at all?"

Francis shrugged lightly. "I did not adopt Mathieu to talk about the past. I adopted him to begin a new future. Perhaps, one day, he may wish to tell me, but until then, we focus on building a better life for the present. We cannot change what has happened, but every day is a new day to move forward."

Arthur frowned.

He wasn't sure if the Frenchman's philosophy rang true in his heart.


The reached the station without any major difficulty outside of speed and time. There was an unspoken agreement in which Arthur was to ask the station officials of lost baggage, and as he did so, Francis held on to the horses patiently and quietly.

"What the bloody hell do you mean, they've been taken?" Arthur demanded angrily. He slammed his hands flat against the station counter, a loud echo reverberating throughout the station center. "Who the hell checked them out?"

"Please low'r yer voice, sir," the burly Scottish man snapped. The younger red-headed Scotsman (the one dealing with the brunt of the Englishman's anger), paled frantically.

"I'm sorry sir, but the bags checked out under Francis Bonnefoy have already been picked up. We don't know where they are now." The young man swallowed nervously.

"Isn't there any sort of identification that goes on here?" Arthur demanded. He spun around, looking across and around the station. People passed everywhere, making it nearly impossible to focus on any one person.

"We don't offer bag watchin' services, sir," the older Scotsman barked. If it was his intention to startle Arthur, it didn't work.

"This is the most inept system I've ever heard of. Any bloody thief could have picked up the luggage!" Arthur shouted. At this point, people were beginning to stare at the scene questioningly. For all Arthur cared, they could watch all they wanted; he wasn't so much concerned about losing Francis's bags, no, he was more concerned about the items inside.

The medicine, tucked safely away inside, to be precise.

"Sir, if you don't lower your bloody voice now, we will have to forcibly remove you from the premises!"

Arthur exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose stressfully. "Can you at least," he seethed, enunciating every word slowly and evenly. "Tell me who picked up the bags?"

The younger Scotsman looked nervously at Arthur. "We can't tell you the name of the man, but he was a tan, curly haired Spaniard. That's all." The younger man eyed Arthur up and down tensely.

Arthur blinked, straightening up slowly. He clasped his hands together, tapping his chin restrainedly.

"Thank you," he gritted. "For all your help. It has been very much appreciated," He bit sarcastically. He turned to leave the station.

Francis waited patiently, leaning against a railing with the horses. He stood up upon seeing Arthur approach. He raised a brow questioningly.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, ruffling up the already messy texture. "Francis, I—they don't have your bags. Someone took them." He looked apologetically at the Frenchman.

Francis stared at him blankly. Then silently, without a word, he sank down on a bench and placed his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry, I really am," Arthur offered helplessly. "We'll do our best to accommodate you in any way we can." Arthur reached a hand out to touch Francis's back, but awkwardly withdrew it.

"I—I don't understand how this can happen." Francis mumbled hollowly. Arthur frowned sympathetically.

"I, well, they said a Spanish man took them. So at least if we see him, we'll be able to ask. It was probably a big mix up," Arthur lied.

Francis propped up immediately. "Did you say a Spanish man?"

Arthur looked at him strangely, uncomfortable with the sudden change in expression. "Yes?"

Francis stood up excitedly, and Arthur stepped back warily. "I know who it is! That is my Spanish friend, Antonio Carriedo. He has arranged to meet me here, he must have picked up my luggage!"

Arthur frowned, feeling his grip on the situation spiral out of his understanding. "Okay," he sighed. "So he's probably lolling about somewhere in the town, unless he's checked in somewhere…do you know when he was supposed to arrive?"

"Either late last night, or early this morning." Francis replied, looking a bit more lively at the prospect of meeting his friend. Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Well," Arthur resigned. "I suppose we'll have to split up to cover more ground. You go wander around the town and see if you spot him, and I'll check the local inns. We'll meet back here in, two hours?"

Francis nodded, rolling his eyes, much to Arthur's irritation. He was well aware he sounded bossy to the Frenchman, but seeing as he was more equipped to handle Scotland than Francis (linguistically wise, at the very least), it made more sense for him to direct the orders. He was doing this out of the goodness of his heart—okay, maybe not exactly—to help Francis—Alfred's brother's caretaker, really—but at the end of the day, he was doing a good deed, even if the core of his motivation was elsewhere.

Another long day with long social interaction it seemed. So much for a vacation.


I will never be satisfied with my writing. This can be either a good thing, or a very discouraging thing.

Anyhow, I feel like it's important I address this issue and let you know: I've been transitioning out of the Hetalia fandom for a while now (the past year to be exact), and I cannot even begin to express how melancholic I feel about it. :( There's absolutely nothing worse than knowing you are becoming less and less passionate about something despite conscious efforts to stay. It's really difficult when Himaruya's been gone for over a year now, the show finished, and most of the fandom seems to have moved on. (Has the Bloodbath of 2011 even finished?!) Also, I've gotten incredibly picky when it comes to APH fanfiction since I've been in the fandom for 3+ years, so that sucks. I can't stand it when people misinterpret a character or rehash the same trope over and over again. The muse has really died down, and even while Himaruya finally seems to be updating his blog again, it's been so long and so scarce. :/

This has been the best, most fun fandom I have ever been into, and I can wholeheartedly say this show got me into history and reshaped the way I see the world, people, and even politics. The characters are absolutely dynamic, multi-faceted, and loveable, and this is the most creative fandom I've ever been a part of. I really miss the wonder of characters and history and I really don't want to lose my passion for it, but it's not really something I can control. It's like sitting in a movie theater after the show is over, and most of the crowd has trickled out.

That being said, Hetalia holds a special place in my heart, and I'm doing my best to keep up with it. It is no longer my primary fandom/series, but I love my nation babies. Regarding the rest of this story, I will neither confirm nor deny whether I will or will not update. I may or may not come back to it. If I do, it'll probably be a while. If not, then it has been a wonderful ride with you lovely readers.

Thank you all for reading up this far!