Welcome back!

I hope yall are liking the story! I am currently writing the final chapters, so I hope you'll stick around! Thank you for reading ^^

Let's roll!

The desk lamp illuminated the cold bedroom, bathing it in a dim, golden hue. It was now evening. Alfred pulled the blanket tighter around his body and adjusted his position on the wooden chair, now sitting with his right thigh pushing against his stomach to ease the stomachache, the other leg dangling from the chair. A diligent left hand worked its way across the page of a writing book, naturally smudging half of the notes in the process. The other hand made sure the other pages stayed on the desk, as well as keeping the hair from falling into Alfred's squinching eyes. His lips muttered the words he wrote down. He had borrowed the book about the bubonic plague with Matt's permission after promising him not to use it for intimidation purposes. Being a person of a little knowledge about everything, Alfred wasn't one to go in depth of the material he was reading. That was why tonight, he'd try and learn as much about the plague as possible. Just to have tried diving deep into a topic for once. So far, he had found out that if the history of the world was a story written by God, the 13th century was the chapter He avoided talking about.

With shoulders hunched over the desk and a pencil scribbling across the page at the speed of sound, it took a while before Alfred noticed the soft knocks coming from his bedroom door. After a contented sigh, he stuck the pencil behind his ear and got to his feet. When he opened the door, he saw Peter in his excessively oversized pajamas holding his pillow, standing in the door frame looking like a lost puppy.

"Can I sleep here?" he asked, eyes averted.

Unusual of him to ask, as compared to simply opening the door and lying down on his bed without an explanation, Alfred pursed his lips and looked at his little brother comprehensively. He stepped aside and let the younger of them enter the room and climb onto his bed. Without a word spoken, Alfred lifted the duvet so Peter could slide underneath to be tucked in. When he was comfortably wrapped into the thin duvet, Alfred retrieved the books from his desk and climbed underneath the duvet himself, sitting up against the wall with the books resting on his crossed legs.

"What are you reading?" Peter asked, his words muffled by the pillow.

"Nothing special."

As with Dad, Peter had yet to know about what Alfred had been working toward for the last two years. Matt was the only one who knew and Alfred had the feeling it would stay this way for a while longer.

The brothers became adjusted to the silence that settled between them, the low hum from the desk lamp being the only sound resonating within the walls. Eventually Alfred started reading again, finding it significantly harder to read the letters when the desk lamp wasn't directly aimed at the page. He grabbed the book and brought it only an inch or three from his eyes. While the hardships didn't exactly cease, at least he could focus on the letters and slowly make out the words written on the page.

"I can't sleep when Daddy is tossing and turning so much," Peter said.

"He didn't seem too good today," Alfred mumbled.

To Peter's dismay the conversation ended there. Or rather, it could have ended there.

"Do you wish you were in America instead?" asked Peter.

Immediately Alfred looked up from the book and at the young boy who was lying with his back facing toward him. "Why're you asking that?" he said and hoped that the heat building up in his ears and cheeks, and the churning in his jaw, weren't visible.

"Nothing special."

Whenever Alfred recollected the few memories he had from his childhood, what came to mind most of the time was the big house and the maids, being rowdy with his classmates, the day the Statue of Liberty looking upon the world, and the day it fell which marked the end of the war, and the start of a life in refuge. He had read in countless books that America was the melting pot of an abundance of cultures due to immigration of people who wanted to "start a new life". In that sense, America should be a blossoming land of the free, which it in many ways was. However, Alfred was born at the end of the war where there was no such thing as a "bright future", an abundance of money nor gorgeous people. It was rather in a little village where everyone had stories like himself, Alfred felt truly at home.

"I'd rather stay here," Alfred said and put his books on the floor.

"In Smalltown?" Peter followed up.

"Mhm."

After yet another silence, Peter snickered.

"What does American sound like?" he asked and rolled onto his back so he could see his big brother's face.

"You want me to speak American English?" Alfred chuckled quietly as to not wake his potentially sleeping dad in the next room. Peter grinned eagerly and nodded, pulling the duvet all the way to his nose so only his round, blue eyes peaked up at him.

Alfred was far from the best accent-impersonator and knew at least ten people better than him. During all those years he had actively tried to suppress his American accent, although his accent was noticeable in many ways, he had to strive to perfect it. He cleared his throat, exhaled, looked at Peter's eyes revealing that he was already giggling, and put on the most melodramatic expression he could manage.

"Rhett! Oh, Rett!" he sobbed as operatically yet quietly as possible, "Where should I go? What should I do?" Then he paused and popped an exaggerated, careless smirk, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

Peter was hushedly cracking up in excitement, wriggling his whole body and hiding his face underneath the duvet to suppress the sounds he could barely contain. Alfred proceeded his show and reverted to the face of a despondent, young woman, before letting it fade into hopefulness.

"Terra… Home… I'll go home… And I'll think of some way to get him back." His voice was barely louder than a whisper.

"After all… Tomorrow…" Alfred sat up straight and grabbed Peter's hand, "Is another day!"

Under the duvet, Peter was nearly bouncing with delight, squeezing Alfred's hand back. Alfred took great joy in seeing the happiness on his round and playful face, and exhaled satisfied before leaning back on the wall again, pulling the covers farther up his stomach. Ah… Vivien Leigh.

"The woman I just acted out was British, did you know that?" Alfred smiled as he had never thought of that before. Then again, his headspace hadn't exactly been filled with Gone with the Wind-quotes either since all he had been doing these last years was running from war and working his butt off.

"She didn't sound like Daddy, though," Peter said as his giggling slowly came to a still.

"What, you want a fair lady to come up and greet you with a 'Roight!' instead of a soft 'Hello'?" Alfred asked, once again triggering Peter's laughing reflexes which in turn made himself begin cracking up.

"Gert lush," Peter squealed in between fits of violent, silent guffaws, and Alfred had to clutch his stomach and bend over to keep his voice from rising.

"How about-" Alfred attempted but took a few seconds to breathe it out before he could continue, "Remember when Dad watched- watched us play cricket with Matt and Gil?"

Peter replied with a nod, too scared to say anything in case he would explode. Watching Alfred trying to contain himself was hard enough in itself.

"'Pick 'ee out the stingers-!'"

Before Alfred could even finish, the boys curled themselves together as tears streamed from the crooks of their eyes. The covers rustled as Peter squirmed underneath it and Alfred kept pounding the mattress with his fist, and the wooden frame squealed underneath their concealed movements.

Eventually, the laughter calmed down, both lying on their backs with the covers up to their chins.

"Man, the old man," Alfred sighed contentedly before a small worry wrinkle made its way to his forehead, "I wonder what's up with him tonight."

"He said-"

Peter stopped himself mid-sentence. Alfred expected a continuation but it never came. He ended up lying on his side so he could look at his brother, supporting his torso on his forearm.

"What'd he say?" asked Alfred quietly.

He almost felt bad for Peter upon seeing his hesitation, but eventually the younger boy came a few inches closer and lowered his voice so much it was barely audible.

"You know Daddy was a soldier and stuff…" he started as his eyes darted everywhere, but eventually he gave up the fight. "I'm scared to say more."

Well, that certainly put things in a new perspective.

"He also said he wished he could have joined dinner today," Peter concluded.

Alfred had his gaze attached to Peter for an uncomfortably long time until he finally lied down again. Uncomfortable with lying on his side however because Peter used his pillow, he rolled onto his back and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. 'Course, he knew Dad had served in the military, which for sure must have had its consequences on his health in some way. Matt had told him all about an illness Alfred couldn't remember the name of, which a lot of soldiers got after war. Often, they would feel guilty for their actions or relive some moments through vivid flashbacks. Then he had listed a handful of other symptoms. Alfred remembered it as sounding quite rough and knew from this that Dad was not sick, except being slightly detached at times. However, if Peter were right and Dad really did have episodes where the effects were extra heavy, wouldn't that mean he went to some sort of psychological counseling? Which cost a fortune?

Either Dad was convinced that none of his stupid sons would notice, or he was playing a guessing game. Perhaps he already knew about Alfred's university plans and strived to be the oh-so-virtuous father who never let himself show his weaknesses so his sons would believe he was strong and reliable. Did he not realize that in doing so it made him less reliable? It diffused the line that needed to be crossed to push him over the edge, and Alfred did not want to take part of something that could lead to dangerous consequences. Neither did he want to walk on eggshells around his own father.

Alfred wasn't going to stop Dad from playing whatever game of virtue he was holding up, but neither did he want to play a part of it. From now on Alfred would focus on himself and himself only, until he was no longer ashamed of how far he had come.

When he had made sure Peter was sound asleep, Alfred got out of bed and sat down by his desk again to study.

Translations:
- "Gert lush". British (Bristol) slang meaning that something is very nice.
- "Pick 'ee out the stingers". Another Bristollian slag, associated with cricket.

Notes:
- Gone with the Wind is an American movie from 1939 (so it doesn't align with this story's setting which is in the 1920's, but I thought I'd add it anyway) based on the novel of the same title by Margaret Mitchell. Vivien Leigh is the actress that plays one of the two main characters.

Seeya next week, folks!