Chapter Thirteen:
"What are you doing here?" Alfred croaked.
Arthur gave a small shrug as he sat in the chair across from Alfred. "I am an ambassador to England, in case you have forgotten," Arthur said, his voice cool, almost cold, in its nonchalance. "I'm here to—survey, I suppose."
"You—why—when—" Alfred stumbled, feeling himself turn red. Why couldn't he talk in front of Arthur? Hell, it wasn't like—it wasn't like there was anything left between them, right? They hadn't communicated in nearly half a century, and the last time when they had talked—well. It had ended poorly, to say the least.
"I know charm isn't your greatest talent, Alfred, but can you try to speak properly?" Arthur said, all prim and proper with his buttoned coat and lace cravat and polished boots—damn him. Just…damn him.
"You," Alfred spat. "What the hell kind of game are you playing?"
Arthur arched an eyebrow, his lips quirking upwards in a smile that dripped with scorn. "I'm afraid you'll have to be a bit more specific."
"Don't pretend like you don't know," Alfred shouted. "How can you even show your face here when you've been—" Alfred gestured wildly "—frolicking with Johnny?"
"Frolicking?" Arthur scoffed, although Alfred caught the hesitation in his voice. "Did you learn a new vocabulary word? That's hardly the correct usage."
"I can't believe that you have the damn nerve to even deny it," Alfred said, clenching the sides of his armchair in order to stop himself from—say—throttling Arthur's neck. "I talked with Johnny. He said you were in the South—negotiating!"
"Cotton is an important resource for—" Arthur started, but Alfred interrupted him brutally.
"I don't need a damn economics lesson right now! Did you really get so lonely that you jumped on the first replacement you could find?" Alfred laughed, bitter. "Are you really that desperate?"
"I'm not the one who is desperate," Arthur said lowly, but Alfred could see the tension running through Arthur's body, the twitch in his eye, the tightening of his fists, the way his right foot began to tap on the ground, impatient and furious. They had spent over two hundred years together, and Alfred knew the significance of Arthur's every move—just as Arthur knew his.
"It looks like it," Alfred said, each word filled with venom.
"What? Are you jealous?" Arthur smirked. "Still wanting daddy's attention?"
Alfred jerked back. "That was—that was completely uncalled for," he scrambled, trying to hide the hurt that was probably showing on his face—yes, that was definitely showing on his face from the way Arthur was smiling at him, satisfied that he had finally dug under Alfred's skin.
"But, it wasn't, was it?" Arthur said. "I'm no longer your father—which you've made clear enough for the past hundred years—and you're no longer my son."
Alfred supposed that the statement would have affected him more—if it weren't for the fact that Arthur was gritting his teeth, if it weren't for the fact that there had been an undercurrent of resentment in Arthur's tone, if it weren't for the fact that Arthur wouldn't even look at him straight in the eyes.
"Yes, you're right," Alfred said, biting each word out. "I am no longer your son—and I'm better off because of it. It's not like you did anything when you were around, right, daddy?"
Arthur flinched before saying hastily, "Better off? Your country is falling to pieces—no, that's right. It has fallen into pieces." He chuckled, all spite. "Congratulations, Alfred—you're getting along right well."
"No thanks to you," Alfred snapped. "Remind me—the last time you were here—I think you damn well torched the White House."
"I had orders," Arthur said, but the conviction in his voice didn't touch his eyes. "I just followed them."
"Did you like it?" Alfred pressed, wanting nothing more than to get a rise out of his former father—because he was damn tired of that cruel façade of steel. "Did you like burning my heart? Did you like hearing me scream over and over and over—"
"Stop it, Alfred," Arthur warned, his fists tightening.
Alfred ignored him. "You were there, when you saw me on the ground. You saw me—and you did nothing." His voice cracked, and he blinked rapidly, surprised at the tears that had suddenly formed at the corner of his eyes.
For a long, agonizing moment, there was no sound in the room but the tick of the mantle clock, each step as heavy and solemn as a funeral bell. Then, Arthur murmured, "I—Alfred…I didn't have a choice."
"To hell with that," Alfred said. "To hell with that."
"No—you're wrong," Arthur whispered, almost to himself. "I—I wanted to…but…they—the orders—they had a gun to my head—they—they would have shot me—if—if…"
"Then you should have gotten shot," Alfred said. "But, I don't mean that much to you, isn't that right?"
"From what I've heard, I don't mean that much to you either," Arthur said, and Alfred could see that the sentence pained him to speak, as if it were a lash on his back. Then, in a quieter voice, hoarse and brittle, he said, "I though you loved me."
"I never said that," Alfred said, blunt.
"But you wanted to, didn't you?" Arthur's eyes were troubled. "That night…you don't remember—but…after I came back from Paris—after the Seven Years' War was over…we got drunk…and…"
"And what?" Alfred knew he was being harsh, that he was being an ass—because, God, did he remember that night, so clearly that it might as well have been etched in the back of his hand—but he wanted Arthur to say it—out loud, so he couldn't deny it any longer.
"You kissed me," Arthur said. "You kissed me, and you were going to say—" Arthur waved his hand "that and—"
"You stopped me," Alfred finished, grimacing. "You said I didn't know what it meant."
"You remember?" Arthur gaped at him.
"I lied for you," Alfred said simply. "Because you weren't ready to face it, and—"
"But you remember," Arthur stressed, cutting Alfred off. His eyebrows knitted together. "You remember and—God damn you, Alfred!" Arthur snapped, and Alfred startled at the sudden violence in his voice.
"What's wrong?"
"I—how could—you remember and you—still—with—" Arthur sputtered and then, drawing a deep breath, he said, his tone full of frost, "You remember, and you still slept with Francis?"
"I—" Alfred started, then stopped, because the glare Arthur gave him was so filled with rage, a burning and savage anger, that he found that his mouth had gone dry.
"How could you?" Arthur stood up, knocking the chair back at least a foot with the sudden motion. "How could you?"
"Arthur—"
"I thought that the reason you did—" Arthur gestured obscenely "with him was because you didn't know any damn better—but, to think that you remembered—with me—that night—you sodding git!" Arthur stalked up to him and yanked Alfred up by the collar, his hands digging into Alfred's throat with enough force to bruise. "You bloody wanker—I—and you—and he—damn you, Alfred!" Arthur shoved Alfred back, and Alfred stumbled and caught himself—just barely—on the corner of the fireplace.
"Calm down, Arthur," Alfred hissed. "Can we just—"
"Calm down?" Arthur laughed, a manic, crazed laugh, and Alfred tried to take a step away—only to find the wall behind him. "Did you just tell me to bloody calm down? How can I calm down when you've just told me that you remember what had happened that night and you still went off and let Francis have-have his way with you? Out of all people, Francis!"
"Shut up, Arthur," Alfred shouted. "It wasn't that way—not at all."
"He told me," Arthur spat. "Francis told me after you had slept with him during the Revolution—God, do you know how much that had hurt me, to think that he, out of all the damn people in the world, had—had held you, and—and kissed you—and fucked you—"
"Shut the hell up!" Alfred said, pushing Arthur back. "It wasn't like that at all!"
"Like what?" Arthur raged, all semblance of composure lost. "Tell me, Alfred, did you like it?"
"I loved it—" Alfred said. It wasn't true—he had never gotten close to Francis in that way-but, right now, he was beyond the point of caring. "I loved every damn second—you should have been there, Arthur—you should have been there and watched him as he had his way with me—you should have seen the way he made me beg—"
Arthur raised his hand in a slap, but Alfred caught his wrist and gripped it so hard that he knew there would be marks later. "What bothers you more, Arthur?" Alfred said, forcing them closer together, so close that they were almost touching. "The fact that Francis fucked me, or the fact that you didn't have the damn courage to do it yourself?"
"Let go of me," Arthur bit out. "Right now."
"Make me," Alfred whispered, and then he felt something knee him hard in the stomach, and as he was doubled over, gasping for breath, he was knocked onto his back, and then fingers were digging into his neck, cutting off his air supply—but even though black spots were dancing in his vision, Alfred didn't fight back—didn't fight back, because maybe, just maybe, when Alfred saw Arthur this way, his green eyes blazing and hard and thirsty for blood, Alfred liked it.
And he wasn't surprised when he felt the rough press of Arthur's lips on his.
And he wasn't surprised when he felt Arthur's hands dig into his scalp, raking over his hair, and then his clothes—and there was the snap of buttons, a faint sound over the pounding of Alfred's heart in his ears as Arthur bit into his neck, drawing blood.
And he wasn't surprised at all when Arthur licked a stripe up to Alfred's ear and said in a way that made Alfred shiver, "Is this what you want?"
"Arthur," Alfred gasped, his breathing ragged. "Arthur—"
"Tell me what Francis did to you," Arthur said, his teeth tracing over Alfred's cheek. "Tell me where he touched you." He buried himself into Alfred's collar, sucking at the skin there. "Here?"
Alfred couldn't reply—couldn't, because—everything—dizzy—
"What about here?" Arthur said, his mouth settling onto Alfred's chest, right above the heart.
"Arth—oh," Alfred tried to say, but then Arthur's hand touched there, and any hope of being coherent immediately fled his mind.
Arthur smiled down at him, mocking. "Did he touch you there too, Alfred?" he said, running his other hand up to caress Alfred's face.
"Hmm—" Alfred sighed, but then the weight on him was gone, and Arthur was standing, fastening his coat and adjusting his collar.
"What—what the hell?" Alfred said, staring up at Arthur, astonished and confused. "Why did you stop?"
"I'm not going to give you what you want, Alfred," Arthur said, looking down at him, his green eyes swimming with—Alfred couldn't tell. Lust, probably. But—there was something else…something darker…
"You—you can't just do that," Alfred said, hurrying to button his shirt and giving up when he found that some of the buttons had popped.
"I can. And I just did."
"That's just—that's just mean," Alfred said, shoving himself up so that they were eye-to-eye.
"Maybe," Arthur shrugged, but then, in a hush of breath, he said, "Alfred—tell me…and be honest. Did you sleep with Francis?" There was something desperate in his voice—and in his green eyes, which burned with a fire that Alfred couldn't hope to understand.
"No," Alfred said, meeting Arthur's gaze, challenging him. "I didn't. And you should have known better than to believe what Francis had told you."
"Ah—" Arthur choked out, and then gave a weak chuckle. "I—that's…That's good." Shaking his head, Arthur said hesitantly, "What…what really happened then?"
Alfred looked away. "I—well…"
Francis touched Alfred's forehead, his fingers cold and slick with rain. "Are you feeling all right, Alfred? You seem a bit hot."
"I'm fine." Alfred moved Francis's hand away. "I'm just tired—that's all."
"It must have been rough for you, seeing Arthur out on the battlefield," Francis said, and even though he was sitting close—so close—to Alfred on the bed in the tent, and even though he was looking at him with those eyes that meant nothing but trouble, Alfred didn't move away.
To hell with it, Alfred thought. He had had one mess of a day, and at this point in time, he didn't give a damn.
"It was," Alfred agreed, aware that Francis was moving nearer. "I guess that's just the way things go."
"You're still young," Francis mused. "You have a lot to learn."
"And you're old," Alfred retorted, even though it was childish. "And you still don't know everything."
"I know enough," Francis said. Then, softly, he said, "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
"Notice what?" Alfred snapped, knowing full-well that no amount of denial would cover up his secret—he was an open book, after all.
"That you're in love with him," Francis said, and Alfred hated how plain Francis made it sound, as if it were so simple. "It's true, is it not?"
"So what if it is?" Alfred said, gritting the words out. "It doesn't matter—not right now."
"But it does," Francis whispered. "What is this war to you, Alfred?"
Alfred blinked at him. "What do you mean? I—I want to become independent from him—I'm sick and tired of him treating me like I'm second—or that I'm not grown enough to—"
"Did you think that if you won, you might have a chance?" Francis cut in, swift and knowing, and Alfred couldn't meet Francis's eyes that gazed at him with pity and understanding—because Francis didn't know everything, couldn't know everything about Arthur and him after only just a few months.
"No," Alfred said.
"Did you want to be allies with me to make him jealous?"
"No!"
"Then—why won't you look at me?" Francis said. "I know you need my help to win this war—but, there's something more to it, isn't there?"
"Kiss me," Alfred said—no, demanded—suddenly.
"What?" Francis jerked back, uncharacteristic shock on his face.
"You heard me," Alfred said, balling his fists. "Kiss me. I want you to."
"Alfred—I don't think—"
"Just do it," Alfred spat, and before Francis could move away, he grabbed Francis's hair—and then—
Francis didn't kiss like Arthur, that much Alfred was sure of. Of course, Arthur had been drunk at the time, so maybe that night wasn't any indication of what he could do under normal circumstances—but Francis had a kind of finesse about him, as if he knew exactly what he was doing, as if every move he made was calculated—he was skilled, that was the right word.
When Francis finally broke away, Alfred was left feeling lightheaded, his breaths coming out in heavy pants.
"Why?" Francis murmured.
"I—just—do it again," Alfred said, and Francis complied.
Francis was more sure this time, more confident, and Alfred winced as he was pushed down onto the cot, jostling his wounds—but it felt good—so, so good—and terribly, terribly wrong at the same time, because while Francis was moving down his cheek, around the shell of his ear, his long fingers pushing away Alfred's uniform, one layer at a time, running over Alfred's hips and pressing them closer and closer and closer—hot and wet, because both were rain-soaked—all Alfred could think about was Arthur.
If only it were Arthur doing this to him—and Alfred couldn't open his eyes, couldn't open his eyes because that would shatter the illusion and—
"Stop," Alfred gasped. "Francis—stop."
Francis did and rolled off of Alfred. "What is it?" he said, a bemused smile quirking at his lips as he sat up.
"I—I can't. I'm sorry—I—" Alfred stuttered and chewed on his lip.
"No, it's all right," Francis said, his eyes gentle. "I understand."
"Please—please, could you—I—tell Arthur we did. Please." Alfred couldn't look at Francis as he said those words—the shame was too great, the burn in his cheeks coupling with the sting in his eyes.
"Alfred—"
"I want him to—I need him—I—" Alfred broke off, unable to finish.
"You'll make this war harder on yourself," Francis warned.
"I can handle it." Alfred hated how his hands were shaking, hating how he was struggling to keep himself from breaking apart into pieces and sobbing out loud. "Francis, as a favor to me—tell him. Tell him in the most—the most brutal way possible. I don't care how you word it, as long as it hurts him."
Francis did not answer him. Instead, he began to button Alfred's uniform, nimbly and almost—almost fatherly in how careful he was.
"I need to know that I meant something to him," Alfred gasped, and the tears finally came. "I need—please—those letters…You said—before…"
"You know as well as I do that those letters were the past," Francis said and tilted Alfred's chin up. "You know that he loves you."
"I don't care," Alfred said.
"You—honestly—" Francis sighed. "What am I going to do with you?"
"Will you? Please."
For a moment, Alfred feared that Francis would refuse, that Francis would just get up and walk away in disgust over Alfred's blatant desperation, but then Francis held him in his arms and said into Alfred's hair, "All right—all right, Alfred. I'll do it. But—remember, there will be consequences for this—for you and me both."
"I know," Alfred said, more to himself than to Francis. He peered up at Francis, who rubbed circles into Alfred's back, soothing and warm. "Thank you."
Francis chuckled, although it was more sad than amused. "You're just like him," he said. "You two—no wonder."
"Hmm—" Alfred said, and Francis rocked him to sleep as the rain continued outside.
"So—so you didn't," Arthur said after Alfred had finished.
"I didn't. We didn't. It was a lie," Alfred said, and he felt as if some great burden had been lifted from his back. "And it was my fault. Francis—he didn't want, but…I—I don't know."
"I can't believe—you—" Arthur shook his head, and even though he was trying to stay upset, he sounded relieved. "You're such a damn fool sometimes, Alfred—did you know that?"
"I know." Alfred nodded. "It wasn't right—but…God—Arthur, I was such a mess, and I know that's no excuse, and I'm sorry—you won't believe how sorry I am for doing that to you, and—"
"Just stop," Arthur sighed. "You're digging the hole deeper for yourself."
"But, Arthur—"
"No, listen to me. I can't say—I can't say that I can forgive you—as of right now—for what you lied about—but…I think…I think I can understand." Arthur laughed mirthlessly. "In any case, you did get the job done."
"How much did it bother you?" Alfred said, although he already knew the answer.
"No word really covers it," Arthur said. "God—when you told Francis to describe it in the worst way possible…Francis didn't hold back. On any part of it, for that matter."
"Were you jealous?"
"You wouldn't believe how much I wanted to shoot him between the eyes—how much self-control letting him walk away took."
"I'm sorry," Alfred said quietly. "But now you know."
"Now I know," Arthur agreed. Then, "Alfred, Johnny and I—"
"I know," Alfred grimaced. "I talked to Johnny—and he told me what it was about. How nothing happened."
"Good," Arthur said. "Then—why were you so…bothered about it?"
"Because you acted like it didn't matter," Alfred said. "You came in here as if—as if nothing was wrong…that Johnny was—was irrelevant—and God, Arthur, he's everything."
"I—I suppose…I could have handled it better," Arthur admitted. "To be honest, I just wanted to get on your nerves."
"Well, it worked."
After a short pause, Arthur said, "I couldn't have predicted that almost a century after you declared yourself independent from me, this would happen to you."
"I couldn't have either," Alfred said. He dropped his eyes. "Arthur, I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
"It's all right. None of us are ever prepared for civil wars—and those wars are the worst of all."
"What happened to you when you had yours?"
Arthur looked away. "That's—that's for another time. All I'll say is—the next few years…you won't be ready for them, and they will be—they will be bad."
"Thank you," Alfred said, unable to keep the sarcasm from leaking into his voice. "That was very motivating."
"Alfred, this is no joke." Arthur's hand grasped Alfred's arm. "Do you understand? If you lose, there might be a chance that you won't be here anymore."
"You don't think I haven't already thought about that?" Alfred said. "You don't think I haven't realized that I might die?"
Arthur's grip tightened. "So you know the stakes. Do you know what needs to be done?"
"I don't want to," Alfred whispered.
"You will have to," Arthur insisted. "I'll tell you now, in case you haven't figured it out. There is only one way your country will get back together again—one of you will have to go." Then, in so quiet a voice that Alfred had to strain his ears to hear it, Arthur said, "I hope—for both our sakes—that you will be the one to make it out in the end."
"He's just a child," Alfred said.
"This is not negotiable. You and Johnny cannot co-exist. It is impossible."
"Believe me—I know."
"Do you? If you two remain apart, both of you will be vulnerable to invasion from foreign countries. I could be knocking at your doorstep. Francis could be knocking at your doorstep. Even Ivan could be knocking at your doorstep—and then…" Arthur let Alfred go. "I couldn't bear to see it."
"Arthur—"
"You know what you have to do," Arthur said, the sentence as frigid as the steel of a blade.
"Arthur—"
"Kill him, Alfred," Arthur said, and Alfred was surprised at the vehemence in his voice. "You must kill him. And then you will be whole again."
"What if I can't?" Alfred said roughly.
Arthur cupped Alfred's face. "Then, I would lose you," he said slowly. "And I won't stand that."
"Do you love me?" Alfred said, leaning into Arthur's touch.
"You know the answer," Arthur said.
"But do you love me?"
"I—" Arthur gave a shaky laugh. "God—I don't know anymore. Me and you—we're—we're such a mess." He gave Alfred a wan smile. "What about you? Do you still…?"
Alfred shook his head. "I—I thought…but…right now? I…I just want you here, Arthur. I—I miss you."
"I've missed you too," Arthur said. "You have no idea—but…maybe you do. The past hundred years…it's been—it's been hard. For us both, it seems."
"If I lose this war, Arthur—"
"You won't," Arthur said.
"But if I do—and, the worse does happen—and…and I do…I do die—then…please, promise me—promise me you'll take care of Johnny."
"I promise."
"Good," Alfred sighed. "Good."
"But it won't come to that," Arthur said, and he leaned his forward so that their foreheads were touching, so that his breath tickled Alfred's face. "Do you hear me? I will not allow that to happen. Even if I have to fight for you—and it's just me alone—I will not let you disappear."
"What am I worth to you, Arthur?" Alfred said quietly, and he knew-just as Arthur knew-that those words were the same as that night so long ago, if not more urgent now, more desperate, because there might not be another time to ask in the future.
"Everything," Arthur replied, the same answer as back then, except-
It was Arthur who kissed him this time, slow and steady—not like before, when it had been sloppy or bitter—and Alfred let him press in deeper and deeper, wondering how great it was that this was happening—and how morbid, that it had to be his impending doom that had brought them together at last—but, for once, for once, the Civil War had left Alfred's mind.
Author's Note:
So that happened. If you're wondering where the whole Francis-issue came from, there's a minor reference to it in Chapter Eight (and, who knows, maybe we'll be seeing a Arthur-Francis-confrontation in the future? How do you think that will turn out, now that Francis's lie has been outed? :P). And, don't worry-Arthur will be appearing in more than one chapter in this story, so more of that in the future (but if you're looking forward to seeing Johnny again, he'll be up ahead as we get into the real thick of the Civil War). I hope this chapter was as fun for you to read as it was for me to write, and here's a great big thanks for all of you out there who have stuck with this story for so long! As always, if you liked what you have read and would like to see more, please leave a review! :)