DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

THE CALL OF THE WILD

LOST BOYS

SIXTEEN

THE ISLES

Arthur slept fitfully. He knew he was in his bed, in his bedchamber, in his house, and he could feel the satisfying weight of his Alpha-mate's body lying next to him, but something was wrong. His mind felt heavy as it worried at the edges of consciousness, eyelids quivering and pulse increasing as he fought the heavy pull of sleep. A cold feeling poured into him, like water. Dad, said a small voice in the distance. Arthur swam through the darkness, trying to reach the surface where, beyond the ripples, a blurry figure was taking shape, staring at him. Dad.

That's me, he thought slowly. His mind felt like cotton. I'm Dad.

"Dad, wake up.

"Dad—" poke, poke "—wake up!"

Arthur peeled his eyes open a sliver and saw two big blue orbs staring eagerly at him. "Alfred?" he mumbled as sleep receded.

Alfred stood at the edge of the bed, his wheat-blonde head no higher than Arthur's. The sleeves of his woolen nightshirt were bunched at the elbows and the cuffs were frayed from the pup's ceaseless picking. Arthur would have to mend it before the entire garment unravelled. It didn't matter how often he was told not to pull at loose strings or unbutton buttons or slip out of his boots; Alfred was an experimenter of the most exhausting kind. Sometimes it took the whole family to keep him out of trouble. Rules and reprimands didn't seem to faze him. He just stared back with a determined set to his soft, round jaw and defiance in his stubborn blue eyes. But Alfred's eyes were not stubborn now. They were as big as saucers and fearful. One of his pudgy hands had balled the bed-sheets into a fist, the other was clasping his brother.

Matthew stood just behind Alfred, as usual. The dark chamber hid most of his tiny figure, but where starlight touched him, chasing off the shadows, his skin glowed white. Sometimes, Arthur thought, in certain slants of sun and moonlight, Matthew didn't look like a pup at all, but instead like one of the fey. If he hadn't remembered giving birth to him—and if he didn't look so much like Francis—Arthur would have called Matthew changeling. Not only because of his looks, but because of how he moved. Or didn't move, rather. Matthew stood silently behind Alfred, not moving a muscle until Alfred said in a quivering voice:

"Mattie's scared."

In that moment, Matthew's violet eyes widened and he pinched his red lips, as if he had only been waiting for Alfred to tell him how to feel.

Arthur sighed and lifted the blanket, inviting the pups into the bed. Matthew crawled over Arthur's belly and landed between he and Francis, claiming the warmest place for himself. Francis barely woke; he didn't even open his eyes. He murmured incoherently and buried his nose in Matthew's curls, a peaceful smile on his face. Arthur wrapped one arm around Matthew and pulled Alfred close with the other. Alfred had burrowed beneath the blanket on the opposite side, near the edge of the bed. Arthur looped his arm under and around him like a safety rope, afraid that the pup might otherwise roll off in the night. The bed wasn't very big. Alfred squirmed for a moment, then relaxed and pillowed his head on Arthur's chest, and, just like that, he was asleep. Arthur lay on his back, sandwiched between his pups' small bodies, and listened to their soft breathing as the tension eased out of him.

Slowly—contentedly—he closed his eyes.

He opened his eyes.

Something was wrong.

A loud, unforgiving torrent pounded in his eardrums and he awoke with a violent jolt.

"Alfred. Matthew."

He blinked in the dark, seeing the same ceiling he had fallen asleep staring at, but something was wrong. The weight and warmth was gone. Disoriented, he clutched at where Alfred and Matthew should have been, but they were gone. Panic squeezed his chest as he rolled onto his side and swiped at the bed-sheets, reaching out, but there was nothing there. His heart-rate increased and his breathing came quick and ragged as he pushed himself onto his knees and began digging, tossing pillows aside and tearing at the bed until the mattress lay bare. "No, no, no—" he pleaded as tears filled his eyes. He could hear their screams, even though he hadn't heard them at the time. He knew their voices, the looks of identical terror they wore when afraid. He saw the water drag them under, but he couldn't reach them. He yelled and begged and prayed, but the water swallowed them both.

"No—please, no.

"Francis," he said, his head whipping frantically from left-to-right. The bedchamber was quiet and cold and empty.

"Francis!" he screamed.

The Alpha quickly appeared in the doorframe, a lithe figure bathed in moonlight. He looked much older than he had two months ago. He wore a defensive expression, ready to face a threat, but it melted into sympathy when he saw his Omega-mate clutching himself, sobbing and shaking.

Francis hurried to the bed and gathered Arthur into his arms. "It's okay, chéri. Just breathe, you're okay."

"I-I-I—I thought you were gone."

"I'm not, I'm right here. I'm here," he repeated, kissing Arthur's head. "I just stepped out for a moment."

Arthur pressed his forehead to the warm skin of Francis' bare shoulder, hiding the sight of the chamber. In a whisper, he said: "I saw them."

"I know," Francis soothed. He rubbed one hand up-and-down the length of Arthur's spine, the other held his Omega-mate tight.

"They're gone, Fran—they're gone."

The Alpha's body stiffened and, for a moment, he stopped breathing. Arthur pressed himself closer, listening to the beating of Francis' heart and the eventual release of breath. Softly, he repeated:

"I know."

THE LOW COUNTRIES

Halt!" ordered the border guard. "If you do not have a diplomatic passport, you are not welcome here, Westerner. Take your..." he paused, considering the ragtag company, "...uh, your family... and turn back. These lands are home to the free clans and we do not want any of your militant sentiments here."

Gil felt a growl claw up his throat, but he swallowed it when he felt Matt's beseeching touch. "We're traveling to the Isles," he said in Dutch. "My Omega-mate has family there. We just need to reach the coast. We don't want any trouble."

"No trouble, and yet you carry weapons with you," said the guard. "Military weapons."

Gil itched to draw his sword and be done with this wasteful conversation. The border guards were many, but none were trained soldiers. He and Ivan could cut through them if needed. But, again, he felt Matt's hand on his arm, and heard the Omega whisper:

"They're not our enemies."

"We're not your enemies," Gil rephrased stiffly. He eyed the Low-Lander wearily. "We're just travellers trying to get home."

"Home?" said the guards' leader. He surveyed the foursome doubtfully.

"Yes, home," Al snapped, losing his patience. "You know, the place where your Omega-parent wiped your ass as a pup."

Gil grit his teeth, angry that Al couldn't follow the simplest order. He had told the others to stay quiet and let him do the talking, the negotiating. "It's better if they don't hear your foreign accents, especially you," he had warned Ivan. The Low-Landers often did trade with their western neighbours, but an Easterner and two Islanders who both smelled like Southerners would invite unwanted suspicion.

At least they don't know who we are—

"My name is Alfred Kirkland," Al proclaimed loudly in English. "And that's my brother, Matthew Kirkland. The Omega who's technically pair-bonded to your Clan Leader's heir. We demand to be taken to the Great House!"

Well, fuck, Gil sighed, at the same time the leader said:

"Seize them!"

Gil shot Al a nasty look when a pair of Low-Landers roughly grabbed his arms and a third relieved him of his weapons. His body tensed and he started to struggle, but, again, he stilled when he saw the plea in Matt's eyes.

Don't fight them. They're not our enemies, Gil.

It would be easier if they were, he thought darkly, growling at the guard who approached Matt.

"Touch him and you'll wish you hadn't," he warned.

The Low-Lander hesitated, then turned to his superior, who nodded. "Turn out your pockets," said the young guard in a wobbly voice; trying to be stern, but utterly enchanted by the pretty, docile Omega. (He couldn't have been older than eighteen-years-old.) For once, Gil was glad for Matt's appeal. He looks so—elegant, he thought in surprise, proud of his Omega-mate's self-confidence. Matt kept his head raised as he obligingly handed over his satchel, a cool expression on his face. He did it all one-handed, his left hand resting low on his abdomen in silent warning, which the guards seemed to understand. No one jostled him or hurried him, and the young guard blushed and muttered an apology when he accidentally brushed Matt's hand. None of them wanted to be responsible for upsetting a pregnant Omega and Matt was taking advantage of it.

"Please don't lose this," he said, handing over the dagger. "It belonged to my Alpha-mate's father. I'll want it back."

The guard nodded.

Despite Gil's position—his wrists bound at his back like a prisoner—he was relieved the Low-Landers showed such respect to his Omega-mate. Unlike the shameless Southerners, he thought, remembering Le Roux, the Alphas of the Low Countries abided by the same codes of conduct as their Western cousins. They discouraged needless violence against Omegas, which was considered to be nothing but bullying, since Alphas were so much bigger and stronger—though, the guards trying to disarm Al may have disagreed.

"What the fuck?" he spat, his blue eyes full of spitfire. "Get away from us! Don't touch us!" he yelled at the guards who approached he and Ivan. "I just told you I'm Alfred Kirkland! Don't you know who I am? Take me to the Great House, I demand it!"

"We are taking you to the Great House!" barked a nearby guard as he tried—unsuccessfully—to bind Ivan's hands.

Ivan biffed him heedlessly aside and growled at the guard stalking toward Al.

"We're not prisoners!" Al argued, retreating to Ivan's side. "Don't treat us like prisoners!"

Gil suspected the Omega's volatile reaction and distrust stemmed from trauma he had suffered at the hands of the Southerners, but if he, himself, had to go bound like a thief—gods damn it—then Ivan sure as hell had to, too.

"Al," Matt said before Gil could. It was good; Matt's words were kinder than Gil's would have been. "It's just a precaution. They're not going to hurt us. Are you?" he asked the Low-Lander, more of a statement than a question.

"No, of course not," he replied. "It's mere protocol, I assure you."

Al looked from Matt to Ivan, ignoring the Low-Landers in between. He's not going to relent until he has the Easterner's approval, Gil thought.

But wait, that wasn't right. When had Al ever needed an Alpha's permission to act? Gil studied them closer and realized he had read the situation wrong: Al wasn't fighting the Low-Landers for himself, but for Ivan's benefit. It's not yourself you're afraid to see in ropes again, is it, Al? It's him. He looked at Ivan, and, now that he knew what to look for, he saw the fear in the Easterner's violet eyes. But he also saw the silent exchange that passed between the Alpha and Omega, and the promise on Ivan's face. It said:

I'll trust you, Alfred. If you think these people can be trusted, then I'll let them bind me. I can withstand it if you ask me to.

For a brief moment, Gil admired Ivan's courage. And he wondered if he, himself, could willingly accept the ropes again so soon after living so long as a prisoner.

"Fine," said Al unhappily.

Without prompting, Ivan presented his wrists to be bound. The Low-Landers looked relieved.

"This way—please," said the leader, starting off.

Matt looped his arm through Gil's and stayed close as they walked. "It's just an escort," he whispered, gently squeezing Gil's bicep.

Gil looked down at Matt and smiled wearily. "So, this fiancé of yours... Just how angry is he going to be?"

Matthew Kirkland?" the Clan Leader gasped in shock.

"And Alfred," Al muttered at Matt's side.

The Clan Leader stood on the dais, his face agape as he looked from Matt to Al and back. "Someone fetch my Alpha-pup," he ordered, never taking his eyes off the Islanders. "Hurry!"

The hall was quiet and everyone was looking at them, whispering, but Matt ignored it. He had been through too much to let a bit of indiscrete staring frighten him.

"We thought you were dead!" said the Clan Leader. "We thought you had drowned in the flood. How is it you survived?"

"It's a long story," said Al dismissively. "Where are our parents?"

"Your parents? Well, they—they thought you dead. They left a month ago."

"They—left?"

Matt heard the disappointment in Al's voice, so he quickly changed the topic. "Sir? It's been a long journey. If it's not too much trouble, might my companions and I beg a bed and maybe a bath?"

"Oh, yes, of course! A celebration!" the Clan Leader clapped his hands. "Prepare a celebration to honour the safe return of my pup's Omega-mate!"

"Uh, no—thank-you," Matt said. "It's very kind, sir, but..." He glanced awkwardly at the crowd. "Perhaps we could talk in private?"

"Nonsense," the Clan Leader denied. "This is your clan, Matthew. We don't keep secrets from each other."

Secrets like, oh, I don't know, the floodgates won't hold?

Matt took a deep breath and proudly lifted his head. This would not be a meek declaration; he would not risk the Low-Landers misunderstanding him. "As you wish," he said. "I can't be Lars' Omega-mate, because I'm mated to him. Gilbert Beilschmidt."

There was a collective gasp and more than a few scornful scowls, which told Matt he was no longer the Low-Landers' favourite candidate.

"No, no," said the Clan Leader in confusion, "you can't be his... you're pair-bonded to my Lars... you can't—"

"I'm pregnant with Gilbert's pup," Matt interrupted, knowing that the confession would effectively end the argument. No self-respecting Alpha would want to raise someone else's pup.

And he was right. The Clan Leader's broad frame drooped in reluctant defeat as a cacophony of disbelief and disagreement flooded the hall. Matt's keen ears heard a few choice insults used to describe he and his Alpha-mate, but the voice that caught his attention belonged to his scorned betrothed:

"Matthew?" said Lars, pushing through the milling crowd. He looked just as robust and handsome as Matt remembered, though his fair brow was furrowed in disbelief. He stopped in front of Matt and looked him up-and-down, his eyes lingering on the Omega's flat abdomen before returning to his face. "Is that... true?"

Matt's eyes were soft. "I'm sorry," he confirmed, "but I can't be your Omega-mate anymore."

"But you swore a vow—"

"A lot has happened since then," Matt interrupted, again. It felt good to be the one in control. "Gilbert saved my life."

"So, what?" Lars scoffed. "You owe him?"

"I love him," Matt corrected. He looked sideways and his eyes captured Gil, who smiled. "I love him with all my heart. I'm sorry if that upsets you, but I'm not sorry it happened."

Lars' look was thoughtful as he ran a hand through his hair, weighing Matt's confession against the loyalty to his clan; the responsibility he had to his bloodline. Finally, he nodded. "I would've forgiven you, you know," he said, bobbing his head at Matt's middle. He lowered his voice so that only Matt could hear him. "I'm not my Alpha-father, Matthew. I made you a vow. I would've accepted you no matter what you had suffered."

"I didn't suffer. I chose this. I chose him."

Lars' sage-coloured eyes flicked to Gil and stayed there for a moment, challenging the Westerner's steadfast gaze. Then he sighed and nodded again.

Matt pulled the delicate gold band off his left hand. "Thank-you for choosing me, and for giving me this," he said, holding it out.

Lars took it, looked at it, and reluctantly smiled. "Thank-you for giving it back."

Release them," said Lars, gesturing to the guards.

About fucking time, Gil thought. His wrists were beginning to chafe.

"Lars! What do you think you're doing?" growled the old Clan Leader. "Those soldiers might be dangerous!"

"No, they're not enemies, Vader," said Lars. He was still looking at Matt. "They're friends."

Gil was relieved by the Low-Lander's practical acceptance of the turn-of-events, but he disliked the way the other Alpha was staring at his Omega. Friend was a strong word-choice for one's Omega-mate's ex-fiancé, he thought.

Then the Low-Lander did something that the Westerner did not expect. He strode to where Gil stood and wordlessly stuck out his hand. His face was reticent as he waited—a rather handsome face, Gil noted in displeasure—but his gesture was earnest. Gil studied the Alpha, who was three years his junior and yet three inches taller than him, before hesitantly taking his hand. He gripped it hard; so did Lars. Neither of them smiled, but both of them nodded. Then Lars said:

"You're a lucky Alpha, Gilbert Beilschmidt. I hope you know that."

Gil said: "I do."

Then they disconnected, their duty done, and hoped never to touch again.

If it's not Matthew, then it must be Alfred. Lars!" ordered the Clan Leader. He pointed at Al. "You'll take Alfred to be your Omega-mate—"

"No."

Al felt Ivan's shadow swallow him as the Alpha stepped forward, facing the Clan Leader. He was still tied, but his tone left no room for misinterpretation.

"Alfred is my Omega," he growled menacingly. Suddenly, Al was reminded of the feral warrior he had met in the wilderness; the Alpha who had fearlessly taken on a bear bare-handed; the Alpha who's glare threatened to rip his enemies apart.

Gods, he's attractive, Al smiled.

"I have a contract with that pup's family," the Clan Leader argued. "My Alpha-pup was promised a mate—"

"He cannot have mine."

Once the Low-Landers had reluctantly untied him, Ivan took Al's hand in his. Al's smile was big and giddy. He couldn't help it, he felt jubilant. He squeezed Ivan's hand and stepped up beside him, wanting to be closer to him, attracted to the Alpha's aggression and unchallenged strength. He laid his head against Ivan's tense bicep and hugged his arm and looked admiringly up at him. He didn't care who was watching or what they thought of him anymore. He wanted them to see he and Ivan together, especially the other Omegas. He felt possessive of the Alpha in the way of a claimed but unmated Omega. There was a note of warning in his eyes, but it was dwarfed by his happiness. He took a deep breath of his Alpha's enticing scent and sighed in contentment.

No one is going to take you from me, and no one is going to take me from you.

"Vader," said Lars.

Al felt the warning rumble in Ivan's throat and he purred in reply.

"The contract—" said the Clan Leader.

"—is worthless," Lars finished.

An apprehensive hush seized the Low-Landers, whose storehouses were now ruined, emptied, and who were facing a winter of starvation if the Islanders' contract was nullified. Al felt a sad flutter in his stomach as he surveyed the crowd. They looked like refugees in their own house. He saw Omega-parents holding their pups close, and Alphas exchange wearisome looks with other farmers and hunters.

"It doesn't have to be worthless," said Matt.

Al looked at his brother in amazement. When had Matt ever spoken-out in front of a crowd unbidden before?

"It can still benefit us both," he said to Lars. "We could rewrite it."

"Pah!" the Clan Leader barked. "An Omega—write a trade contract?" He regarded Matt with a bemused grin. "My dear, I admire your ambition, but you do not honestly think that you can—"

"I can," Matt said indignantly, "because I did it before. Who do you think translated the first one?"

(Matt didn't mention from which language he had translated it, Al noted. The Low-Landers still didn't know that Francis was a Southerner, and it seemed like Matt was trying to preserve that fact. My brother the diplomat, Al thought proudly. Huh.)

"You know the contract?" Lars asked in surprise.

Matt smiled. "Every word," he confirmed. "We can rewrite it together for the benefit of everyone. It won't be one-sided. My clan will have finished reaping the harvest by now and know exactly how much food can be spared for your clan. It might be lean, but it should be enough to last the winter. You can pay us back with labour in the spring. If the growing season is plentiful and we pool our land and resources, we'll have doubled our gain and profit in a couple of years. My clan has land yours can work, and your clan has skills that mine needs. What do you say? Do you want to be partners, Lars van den Berg? Business partners?" Matt smiled.

Lars took a moment to wordlessly consult his hunters, all of whom nodded curtly. The Low-Landers still had their pride, after all, no matter how dire the circumstance or how desperately they needed aid. It was something that everyone in the hall seemed to understand, except for the greedy Clan Leader, who was sputtering in confusion, trying to regain control. ("Wait now, just wait a minute! I haven't agreed to anything yet!" he said.) Al almost pitied him his position—still the leader, but no longer fit to lead. His recent bad decisions only confirmed how much the clan was in need of new leadership, and Al had no doubt that Lars would not disappoint.

He really cares about his family, all of them. He'll make a good Clan Leader. And an honest trade partner.

He almost felt bad for the current Clan Leader, who would be forced to abdicate sooner than he wanted, the future of his bloodline still unsecured, but if Al had learnt anything political from his adventures, it was the difference between monarchy and democracy—absolute power versus shared power—and found himself an avid supporter of the latter.

Your time is over, he thought of the Clan Leader, who was gaping at his Alpha-pup in disbelief. It provoked a picture of his own family and what they would do and say when he and Matt returned to them. He wondered how they would react to each Omega's new Alpha-mate and what roles Gil and Ivan would find within the Islanders' clan? He wondered, but he didn't worry. He saw the proof of the future standing there in the form of Lars, brave enough to break tradition. He saw it in the form of Matt, the pregnant diplomat, proving that someone could be more than one thing. He saw it in the form of Gil, who would—he suspected—never truly let go of his history and forever serve as a reminder of how important past lessons were. He saw it in the form of Ivan, who was his future. And he smiled.

It's time for a new generation to take over, he thought. And he almost felt bad for the old Clan Leader of the Low Countries, who didn't—couldn't—understand why it was happening, why it was needed.

He almost felt bad, but not quite.

Lars offered his hand to Matt like he had done to Gil, an Alpha accepting another on equal terms. "Business partners," he agreed, smiling now as well. "It would be an honour, Matthew Kirkland."

A celebration was held that evening in the spirit of fortune and friendship. The food and drink was rationed, but the spirit was hopeful. Not every Low-Lander was keen to trust an Omega who had betrayed them—or rather, betrayed their heir for another Alpha—but the promise of rescue outweighed any blatant animosity, and Lars' hunters were too loyal to their leader's decisions to challenge the turn-of-events. Not that Al was paying any attention. He was sitting in front of a roaring fire on Ivan's lap, his arms looped around the Alpha, his cheek pressed to the top of his head. He felt warm for the first time in weeks—so warm he was flushed—and, though he hadn't eaten a proper meal for many days, he wasn't hungry. Not for food.

"It's settled," said Gil, striding over. "As soon as Matt and Lars come to an agreement with the trade contract, he and I are leaving."

Al cocked an eyebrow. "And we're not?" he joked.

"No," said Matt, joining them, "not just yet."

Al frowned in confusion. His head felt blurry.

Matt leant in and whispered: "I think you and Ivan should find a room, Al. You're in pre-Heat, and you won't want to be in Heat on a ship—trust me."

"I—I am?" Al blinked in astonishment. Then his face split into a relieved smile. "Oh, thank the gods," he said, pressing his forehead to Ivan's chest. He peeked up at Matt. "How can you tell?"

Matt merely cocked an eyebrow at his brother, who was rubbing himself wantonly against Ivan, whose lap he was perched in. "Omega's intuition," he said sarcastically.

Gil chuckled, then said: "And you're starting to smell like a buffet. You won't make it to the ship."

Ivan growled.

Gil shrugged. "What? It's true. Take him somewhere safe," he advised. "The negotiations aren't finished yet, and the last thing Matt needs is a fight breaking out."

Ivan opened his mouth to reply, but Al kissed it shut. "We're going," he said, without looking at his brothers. He couldn't take his eyes off of Ivan, even as they stood. They left the Great House, but not before Al called over-the-shoulder: "I'll see you at home, Mattie!" without a shred of doubt in his tone. He barely registered Matt's reply, which wished them both a swift, safe journey, or Gil's reply, which wished them something much less innocent, and then Al's world was only Ivan.

The Omega felt like he was in a dream as they entered the guesthouse, giving no thought to the last time he had slept in this room, or the changes the flood had left. He didn't care that the walls were water-stained and smelled a bit like wood-rot; he didn't care that it was cold—he couldn't feel it anyway; he didn't care that the bed was nothing more than a sleeping-roll, the bottom insulated with a layer of straw, and piled high with furs and blankets to make it less unbearable. He didn't care because none of it mattered. A bed, a cave, a sleeping-roll in a refugee camp—Al didn't care where he was, only whom he was with. Finally, finally.

"Wait," said Ivan.

Al paused in undressing, already half-naked. "What is it?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes."

He stilled. Had be misread Ivan? Was the guestroom not good enough for him? Should Al be building a nest?

Ivan chuckled. "Relax, little one. I only want to give you this."

Before Al could speak, Ivan looped a necklace over his head.

"Let me do at least one part of this claiming right."

"A gift? For me?" Al asked in disbelief. No one had ever given him a gift before, let alone a claiming-gift. He ran his fingers slowly over the fine gold chain, feeling each delicate loop. It must have cost a fortune to have it crafted. Incredulously, he looked up at Ivan. "How did you—? When did you—?"

"When you and Matt were bathing," he said, "I traded my sword to the goldsmith."

Al's exploration stopped abruptly. "You—you what? But that sword was—"

"Not something I ever wanted. It was my past," Ivan interrupted, smiling now. He reached for Al's necklace and held the wooden pendent up for the Omega to see. "You're my future, Al."

Al saw the pendent and happy tears flooded his eyes. A little oak bear swung from the chain. He laughed and clutched it and kissed Ivan over-and-over again in thanks, in wholehearted acceptance.

And then the time for words was over and it was happening, without pretense or planning. Planning had not fared well for either of them in the past. They ignored the setting and dispensed with all talking. There was no need to ask if either of them was ready. No need to share secrets or make promises. It was all done—it had all been done for weeks, for months. Fuck planning, Al thought as the bedding yielded gently beneath their combined weight. Fuck savouring the moment and making a memory. Fuck foreplay. He and Ivan already had enough first memories to last a lifetime, and both had been ready and willing for too long. I'm not waiting, he thought, kissing Ivan, conveying his feelings and deep, un-sated need. He tasted the Alpha's tongue and felt his firm lips; he smelled his sharp spearmint scent, like sweetened ice. He felt his body, muscles hard as rock moving beneath scarred skin soft as cured leather. He felt his hair, thick and coarse on his head; fine and fair everywhere else. He felt the Alpha's big hands grope him and his long limbs wrap around him, engulfing him. And he felt the Alpha's long, wet cock engorged in want. Al mewled in desire and pressed himself further into Ivan's touch. He wanted more of it. And he wanted it now.

I'm done waiting. I'm taking what I want. This time, I'm not letting go.

It was a bit clumsy, at first. And despite Ivan's promise not to hurt Al, he did. Being in pre-Heat was not the same as being in Heat, and, though Al's body was close—only hours shy of lubricated—the couple was much too eager to wait any longer. The friction of Ivan's stiff cock sliding into Al's defensive body pulled a sharp yelp from the Omega, which gave the Alpha pause.

"Al—?"

Al shifted his weight and spread his legs a little wider. He could feel his body slowly yielding to the intrusion, trying to compensate. "Keep going," he begged, his voice already laboured. He clenched Ivan's shoulders. "Go slow."

Ivan kissed his lips and cheek and neck as he moved, pushing inside the squirming Omega inch-by-inch until his cock was entirely sheathed. Al let out a small gasp, then begged a halt. He was sweaty and panting with the effort. His skin was hot and flushed and his insides felt stretched and full. Very full.

"Gods, you're big," he moaned, digging his fingers into the Alpha's taut skin.

"I'm sorry," said Ivan half-heartedly. His eyes were closed tight and he pressed his forehead to Al's shoulder, fighting his fickle self-control.

"I'm not," Al whispered. He kissed Ivan's temple and let his lips linger. "I love you and your big Alpha cock."

Ivan laughed; Al felt the heat of his breath, then the press of his mouth. "I love you, too, little one."

Ivan tried to be patient. Oh, gods—he really did try. But with Al's permission, and he, himself, buried to the hilt in the Omega's hot, wet body, he couldn't wait any longer. His heart was pounding, his blood was pumping, and his instincts were screaming at him to take what belonged to him. Take him, he's yours. Finally yours. Only yours. Mate him. Put your mark on him, inside of him. Do what you've wanted to do since the first time you saw him.

The first time I saw him... he thought, feeling dazed.

He remembered Al then, cold and hungry and naked, but not scared. Al had never been scared. It's what had drawn him to the Omega since the beginning. Al's indomitable will. That will is what had saved him. It was the reason Al was here now, safe and happy and glowing with health. And arousal, he thought as Al rubbed his gorgeous body suggestively against him. Let's not forget that. The tension in his weeping cock grew thicker, harder to bear. It wanted so much more than what Al's teasing was giving it. He could feel the Omega's insides growing wetter and more pliable as the seconds ticked by; he could smell it, and the salty-sweet smell of his young, fertile mate drove him wild with lust.

"Alfred," he said, his voice a burly growl. His hands were eagerly engaged in pampering the Omega, stroking him harder and faster until Al's hips began to rock, thrusting into Ivan's touch. (He made the most beautiful noises, Ivan thought.) "I can't... I need to... please..."

Al kissed his lips. "It's okay, sweetheart. I've got you. I'm going to make you feel good." Then he pushed Ivan onto his back.

Ivan let himself sink into the bedding as Al switched their positions so that he sat across the Alpha's lap, his long, golden legs straddling him, impaled by the Alpha's cock. He braced his hands on Ivan's shoulders, using him as leverage as he pushed himself up, then down. Up, down. Up, down. Al gasped and moaned, and at first Ivan thought it might be hurting his Omega, but he was soon too invested in the moment to care. He grabbed Al's rhythmic hips and began jerking more forcefully, encouraging the Omega to move faster and sink deeper into every thrust. Ivan's world became a blur of sound and scent. It wasn't how he had planned to mate Al for the first time. He had wanted it to be soft and sweet and slow enough to properly worship the Omega he treasured above all else, but somewhere between getting captured by Easterners and getting captured by Southerners that plan had lost its fairytale charm.

I don't care where we are or how we do it, he thought now, I only care that I'm with you.

And then the Alpha thought nothing at all. As blissful climaxed reached him, he could only feel his love for Al and Al's love for him and the word together resonated somewhere in the back of his foggy mind, but it was felt more than thought, and known more than hoped. He held on until the last drops of his seed ejaculated into Al's body, then exhaled in deep satisfaction and exhaustion. Slowly he opened his eyes—and was met by the most beautiful Omega he had ever seen. There was Al—his Al—flushed pink and writhing in audible pleasure as he fervently rode the last dregs of his own climax, which seemed to go on forever.

Al collapsed onto Ivan's chest, panting and trembling. Ivan could feel the Omega's heart beating against his and it was the most perfect thing in the world. He looped his arms around the weakened Omega, resting them on Al's lower-back, and Al nuzzled and kissed his neck.

"I love you, my Alpha-mate," he murmured happily.

"I love you, too, my Omega-mate."

And just like that, they fell asleep.

THE ISLES

TWO DAYS LATER

Arthur hefted the axe overhead and swung it down forcefully, cleaving a log in two. He kicked half of it aside, then straightened the other and chopped it again, again, again until it was too small to be used as anything but kindling. By the time he lowered the axe he was standing amidst a field of splinters, his tormented heart racing. It was a grey day, a thick fog hovering low over the moors. He wiped the sweat from his face, pushed back his hair, then looked up.

A fist squeezed his heart. The shape he saw emerging from the fog was an Omega shape. It was Matt's shape.

It can't be, I'm imagining it, he thought, too afraid to hope. He clenched the axe. I'm seeing what's not there. I'm seeing what my heart wants to see. I've finally gone mad.

Matthew is gone.

"Matthew is..."

He watched, paralyzed, as the Omega walked cautiously to the edge of the garden, then stopped. There was an Alpha with him, but Arthur didn't acknowledged him; barely even glanced at him. He didn't care about the Alpha, only the Omega. The young Omega who looked so much like his lost pup. I'm seeing a ghost. But he didn't want it to disappear, so he didn't move and he didn't dare breathe, too afraid the beautiful illusion would vanish if he so much as blinked.

"Dad?"

A voice. A real, live voice. Matt's voice.

The Omega smiled. "I'm home."

The axe fell to the ground.

"Francis!" Arthur screamed. Seconds later he collided with Matt. His hands touched a solid, living body—not a ghost; not a dream—and he wrapped his arms around the Omega. He smelled Matt's scent and felt his breath and body-heat and stroked his silky-soft curls—he loved those curls; he missed those curls—and he gazed lovingly into the gentle violet eyes he thought he would never see again. Then he broke down and cried. Tears spilled down his cheeks as sobs racked him and he cried and sniffled like a swaddling-pup, but he didn't care. "Alive!" he gasped. That's all he cared about. "My precious pup, you're alive!"

He didn't ask why or how Matt was alive, because he didn't care. He cradled Matt's face in his hands and he kissed his Omega-pup's cheeks. His hands were shaking.

"Dad," Matt cried as well, "I'm sorry I worried you. I didn't mean to. I'm so, so sorry."

"Oh, my darling." Arthur pulled Matt back into his greedy arms. "I thought I'd lost you forever. I thought you were gone. I thought... Oh, Matthew, I've been so afraid," he confessed.

"I'm sorry."

"No, no," said Arthur sternly. "It's not your fault. It was never your fault. It was me—"

"Dad. Don't."

Arthur hiccuped; his voice shuddered. He shook his head. "It doesn't matter anymore—nothing does," he agreed. "You're home now, Matthew. That's what matters. You're here with me. You're safe. You're alive."

Gil smiled as he watched the Omega-father and pup's heartfelt reunion. Both of them were crying and making high-pitched noises of happy disbelief and clutching each other, too afraid to let go. Omegas, he thought, keeping to a safe distance, yet secretly endeared by the scene. If it were possible for him to feel his Alpha-father's arms around him again—even just a pat on the head—he wouldn't be in a hurry to let go either.

I'm going to hug my pups every fucking day, he decided, then and there. They're going to know without a doubt that I love them.

Then a howl erupted.

"Mathieu!"

Francis Bonnefoi looked like an older, Alpha version of Matt, but with Al's bright blue eyes. He was pretty for an Alpha, even if he looked a little tired. Not that it stopped him from tearing across the garden like a soldier charging into battle. Gil took a step back to prevent being knocked over. Unlike Arthur, Francis didn't pause to stare in shock at Matt's reappearance. His Alpha nose did not need to second-guess his pup's scent. He opened up his arms and pulled Matt into an embrace, catching Arthur in the middle.

"Mathieu—Oh, my Mathieu!" he cried. And then there was more hugging and kissing and laughing in giddy, happy relief.

"How?" Francis asked. "How is this possible?"

Matt smiled. "It's a long story, Papa. But Gil—"

Then Francis went rigid. He shooed Arthur back a step, much to Arthur's dismay, and leant in to better smell Matt. He was so thorough, his nose almost touched the Omega's skin. Then he looked over Matt's shoulder at Gil, only then noticing him, and his brow furrowed in disbelief, then displeasure. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared as he registered Gil's unmistakable Alpha-scent and his gaze fell to Matt's midsection. A growl escaped him, pulled from the back of his throat like a rumble of thunder; not loud, but threatening. And he whirled. He turned on Gil so fast, his teeth bared, his blue eyes blazing fury, that the Westerner took a step back—

—and hit something solid.

"Who the fuck are you?" said a deep, angry brogue.

Francis closed the gap and, suddenly, Gil was surrounded. I didn't even hear them approach, he thought, too focused on Matt's Alpha-father to notice his four mean-looking uncles. They all wore identical scowls, but the family head was not hard to discern. Scott Kirkland was the biggest Islander Gil had ever seen, tall enough to look Gil in the eye and as solid as a brick. The wiry Westerner did not relish a blow from one of those blunt fists if it came to a fight.

"Stop," said Matt, pushing into the pentagon. "Papa, Uncle Scott—this is Gilbert. My Alpha-mate."

It took a lot of explaining—interrupted with more smiles and hugs ("Mattie, honey, we missed you!")—before Scott's stance reluctantly relaxed, followed by Owen, Liam, and Patrick. Francis remained worryingly stiff. Gil thought he might burst a blood-vessel if he continued to glare with such ire. Tactfully, the Westerner said nothing throughout the exchange, deciding he had a better chance of not getting punched if Matt did the talking. He merely listened as the Alphas argued about where to place blame and what to do now. For a family that values unity, they sure bicker a lot, he noted. The only person who didn't speak was Arthur. He stood beside Matt, one arm wrapped securely around his Omega-pup's shoulders. Then, when everything was finally said and done, he asked one simple, lonely question:

"Matthew, where is Alfred?"

The Alphas went abruptly still, awaiting Matt's reply.

"He's perfectly fine, I promise," said Matt. "He and his Alpha-mate are safe in the Low Countries. They'll be home soon."

"His Alpha-mate?"

Arthur looked shocked. Francis looked sick.

The Kirkland Alphas exchanged an incredulous look. "We are talking about Alfred, right?"

Matt laughed, but his next words were aimed at his parents. "Yes. Al found himself a wonderful Alpha, truly. He saved Al's life, just like Gil saved mine—"

"Yes, about that," said Francis skeptically. His eyes swivelled to meet Gil's. "I don't like it," he said bluntly. "I don't like what you've told me, and I don't like you. Just what kind of Alpha are you? How dare you take advantage of such a young, impressionable Omega! How dare you claim my pup without my blessing!"

"Papa, it's not like that, I told you—"

"How dare you impregnate him!" Francis seethed.

"Pregnant?" said Arthur, looking at Matt in mild surprise.

Matt nodded. "I told you it was a long story, Dad. But yes, pregnant. And very happy to be," he added, in case there was doubt—which there was.

Francis shook his head and spat at Gil. "You beast!" he growled. "You filthy cur! You selfish, underhanded Western—"

Gil braced himself for a strike, but Matt quickly inserted himself.

"Papa," he said in a gentle, soothing voice. "Please don't be angry. This is a good thing. I love Gil. I chose him to be my Alpha-mate. I wanted him to mate me."

Francis bristled. "Him? No. I don't like it, Mathieu. I—"

"Papa, please listen." Matt took Francis' hand and stroked it as he spoke. His look was soft and coy. "I'm so, so happy because of Gil. I've never been happy like this before. Please don't take it away from me. Please," he begged.

Gil saw it the moment Francis surrendered. His blue eyes softened when they met Matt's, revealing the truth. He only wanted what was best for his Omega-pups. All he had ever wanted was their happiness.

Helplessly he looked to Arthur, who nodded in support. Then he heaved a deep, dramatic sigh.

"Oh, but Mathieu, chéri, he's a Westerner," he sulked. "He's a soldier. Are you absolutely sure he's what you want? Because if you're not, your uncles and I will make him disappear," he threatened, glaring at Gil. "You're home now, bébé, you're safe. You don't have to be afraid anymore—"

"Papa," Matt interrupted. Deliberately, he pressed the Alpha's hand to his abdomen. "Grandpups," he said.

Francis' face froze for a moment, then it transformed. "Grandpups!" he shouted in glee. "Oh! I didn't even think of—Ah!" he screeched like an Omega, waving a hand excitedly in front of his face. "Arthur! Arthur, grandpups!" he gushed, yanking both Omegas in for a joyous group hug.

Gil caught Matt's laughing eye and nodded in approval. Well played,schatz.

Then it was finally his turn to speak.

"You, Westerner," Scott demanded. His tone—his green eyes—left no room for discussion. He was the pack-leader, and if there was one thing Gil understood it was hierarchy. He knew what was expected of him if he wanted to join the Islander pack. He thought it would be hard, that it would feel wrong, like a betrayal to the West. But it didn't.

Obediently, he knelt on the grass and bowed his head. Then he said:

"I'm not good with words, but it doesn't matter, because I love Matt more than words can say. He's my life now. I'll love him and our pups until the day I die, and if I die trading my life for theirs then I'll go to the afterlife with no regrets. I'll live by your clan's customs and laws and yield to your authority if only you'll accept me. I'll protect this family like it's my own. And I will never stop trying to be the Alpha-mate that Matt deserves. This I swear," he vowed like a soldier. "This is a promise I will never break."

Scott made him wait for a long time, but Gil didn't move. He didn't raise his head and he didn't glance up. He stayed in a submissive kneel, only guessing at the silent exchange going on overhead. Then—finally—Francis said:

"I believe him."

The moment Gil felt Scott's hand come to rest on his head, the fear and doubt went out of him. He thought of the last time someone had touched him like this, claiming him as theirs, and he bit back a smile. It had been such a long time ago—eight years—but in that moment of wordless acceptance, Gil felt like someone's Alpha-pup again. Not the lost soul he had felt like for so long, but someone who had finally found his way home to where he belonged.

"Welcome to the Kirkland family, Gilbert Beilschmidt."

ONE WEEK LATER

The first person Al saw upon arriving home was Matt.

It was barely dawn and Matt looked a bit pale as he greeted his brothers at the door, so Al blamed his being awake on something pregnancy related. They hugged, and Matt congratulated he and Ivan on their pair-bonding, and Al proudly showed Matt the necklace his Alpha-mate had given him. ("Oh, it's beautiful!") Ivan smiled, but he stayed silent, distracted by the threat of pending discovery. His violet eyes scanned the main room, lingering on windows and the back door, Al noticed; searching for an escape route if needed. Gently, Al squeezed Ivan's hand in reassurance.

"They're going to hate me," Ivan had said the night before as they boarded a boat.

"No more than Gilbert," Al shrugged.

"Alfred." Ivan's look was stern with unease. "I don't want your family to hate me," he confessed.

"Ivan, sweetheart," Al said, patting the Alpha's arm, "they're not going to hate you. My family's going to be so relieved that I actually have an Alpha-mate, they won't care who you are."

Ivan shook his head as if Al had misunderstood. "You underestimate how loved you are, little one."

Maybe I have, Al considered, now. Maybe I've never really appreciated what I have. Once upon a time, Al had wanted nothing more than to leave his dull home life and embark on a grand adventure. He had wanted to have something to tell that no one else in the pack did. He had wanted to become something that no one else was. But now that adventure had been had and lessons learnt, he couldn't deny how good it felt to be back. Back to the uninspired two-level house; back to a foggy landscape of hills and rocks and superstition; back to a monotonous routine of chores and lectures; back to secluded nights with only his boisterous family for company. Back to feeling safe and loved and knowing that, no matter what, he would always be taken care of. He looked around the room and recognized all of the comforts he had taken for granted before—everything from Scott's old tartan to Francis' accounts books to Arthur's unfinished needlework was exactly where it should be, as if Al had merely stepped out for an afternoon stroll. He took a deep breath and he smelled wood and wool and dried fruit baked into shortbread, and he blinked happy tears from his eyes.

Home. I'm finally home.

Then Gil's sharp shadow appeared at the base of the stairs. Still a light sleeper, Al thought. He took a deep whiff of Al's new scent and smirked.

"Shut it, Beilschmidt," said Al pre-emptively.

Gil opened his mouth to reply, feigning hurt, but was suddenly whacked from behind.

"I heard voices," said Arthur unhappily. "It's five o'clock in the bloody morning, who the hell—"

Then he saw Al and the words got lost in his throat.

The Omega's eyes flooded shamelessly with tears as he shoved Gilbert hastily aside, rapidly descending the last few steps to reach the ground-level. He flung himself at Al and then Al could feel nothing but his Omega-father's skinny body—he's lost weight, he thought guiltily—covered in an ugly nightshirt that was so threadbare it was soft as a cloud. Al had clutched at and cried onto this nightshirt more times than he could remember. He bowed his head to Arthur's shoulder and breathed in the sweet, homey scent of him. He heard Arthur gasp and felt his body shudder, but otherwise he was silent as he cried. He kissed his Omega-pup and he squeezed him so hard it hurt Al's ribs. It felt like Arthur was holding on for dear life, but it was not unwanted. It was very, very wanted.

"I'm home, Dad," Al said softly, a lump of emotion in his throat.

Finally, Arthur pulled back. His eyes were red and his nose was redder. Al had only ever seen Arthur cry once before—only three months ago, but it seemed like so much longer. He had cried when Al and Matt had left, and he was crying now that they had returned. For a long uninterrupted moment he stared at Al, memorizing him, his gentle hands cupping Al's bright-eyed face.

Then he smacked Al's cheek. Not hard, but enough to take Al by surprise. And he said: "You're late, Alfred."

Al's smile widened, and a single, happy tear fell from his eye.

"Sorry, Dad. I won't do it again."

The Omegas' quiet reunion was interrupted when Al's Alpha-father descended into the scene, causing such a ruckus that soon the ground-level was teeming with Alphas all trying to hug Al at once. Ivan was afraid they would smother his poor Omega-mate, but Al's laughter joined the cacophony as rough hugs and kisses were exchanged. It looked more like a hunting celebration than a heartfelt reunion. (Ivan saw Gil tug Matt protectively out of the way.) The only Alpha who wasn't shouting but cooing instead was Francis, who suffered the pushing and shoving of his brothers-by-mating-law if only so he didn't have to let his Omega-pup go.

"Oh, my Alfred! My precious Alfred!" he cried, rubbing his face to Al's.

Then Al was scooped into the arms of his redheaded uncle, whose hug swung him clean off his feet. "Alfred!" Scott boomed. "Glad to have you back, pup!"

Ivan watched it all from a safe distance, Al's joy easing his nerves. That is, until Al struggled free of the mob and thrust a hand out toward him.

"This is Ivan," he said, beaming. "My Alpha-mate."

Ivan froze like a deer in lantern-light as everyone turned to look at him. He could already hear the refusals and furious growls as they chased him off, proclaiming him unfit to be Al's Alpha-mate. He was an Eastern deserter with no family, no wealth, and no way to prove his credentials. They had no way of knowing he was a good hunter and craftsman; no way to know he would be a good provider for them. They had no reason to think he was anything more than the sum of his size and strength, just like the Easterners. To them, that's all Ivan had ever been. Even now he was significantly the biggest Alpha in the house, but he also felt like the meekest. If Francis Bonnefoi rejected him as Al's mate, or if Scott chased him away from the pack, what then? Would Al follow him back into exile at the risk of being disowned? Would Ivan be responsible for ruining Al's family reunion, his future? Would Al eventually resent him for not being the Alpha-mate his family had wanted for him—

Scott let out his breath. "Well of course you are," he said sarcastically. "Why wouldn't you be a great Eastern brute? Because none of the Kirkland Omegas can be satisfied with a nice, well-bred Islander for an Alpha-mate. Oh, no. That would be way too conventional for them.

"So welcome, Ivan," he spread out his arms, "to Allistor Kirkland's home for wayward Mainlanders."

Ivan merely stared, unsure what to say. Is this a joke?

Then he saw Al's bedazzling smile.

When it became apparent that Scott's grudging welcome was at its end, Arthur elbowed Francis in the ribs.

"Ivan," he said, stepping forward. His look was formal—or, as formal as anyone could be dressed in his bed-clothes—but he had Al's striking sapphire-blue eyes. Ivan focused on them, holding his Alpha-father-by-mating-law's steady gaze until Francis held out his hand.

Ivan didn't know what was expected of him, so he took Francis' hand and firmly shook it.

The moment Al burst out laughing, he knew that he had done the wrong thing. Francis yanked his hand free and rubbed it, a look of displeasure on his disgruntled face.

"You're supposed to bow for a blessing," Matt whispered helpfully, although he was hard to hear over Gil's snickering.

"Oh." Ivan glanced at Al, then Francis. "I didn't know—"

"Never-mind," Francis dismissed. He eyed Ivan skeptically and then shook his head in defeat. "Welcome to our family, Ivan," he said. And patted the Easterner's head.