Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Teeny reference to Cantabrian mythology: La Sirenuca. Agustine I. Skull Creek Massacre. Wimpy peppering of Spanish words here and there for flavor. Harmar Campaign. Laudanum being used as medicine. Silverware as a means of boasting one's wealth.
AN: Hellooo! I know, I know. I probably shouldn't have two fics going on at once and they'll probably fight for my attention/updating-love...but the idea bit me and wouldn't leave me alone. And I don't plan on this one being super long by any means. So here it is. XDDD This story is set in the same universe as my Kith and Kin Series but I don't think it's necessary to have read those before this. For newcomers, yes, there's my OC Texas in this and he's a major player in this piece; I totally understand if you're not into that and wish you happy reading elsewhere with more canon compliant fics. For those of you who are fond of him, from my other fics, here he is in his 1820's grumpiness. Enjoy! : DDD
Chapter 1: Cold Kindness
Tejas tried to concentrate on the waves crashing against the white English cliffs they were nearing, on the sea lapping at the sides of the small ship, on the gulls crying and the sailors yelling and whistling and the sounds of sails catching the wind.
Anything to drown her out.
Brown eyes stared hard at those cliffs.
Childish as it was, it made him think of the Legend of La Sirenuca.
Papi used to tell him that one whenever he was found playing around the limestone cliffs overhanging the Pecos River. Papi would cross his arms and frown down at Tejas like he was the authority on everything. How Tejas imagined a King would do, since he'd never seen one in real life despite all of Papi's promises that he'd take him to Madrid someday. And all the effort he'd put into pleasing Papi by memorizing lines to the throne was a waste of time and air. To think he'd had a shining romantic idea of them until well, until Agustine I...that was short-lived...and messy.
Kings didn't seem so fantastical after that. Not at all how they sounded in books or fairy tales. If anything they seemed laughably fallible and Tejas couldn't understand why anyone felt compelled by their "power" let alone his padre. There was probably something poetic in that—that Papi could have such power and prestige and strength and be...so stupid and easily led. Less like a bull and more like a steer.
Papi had warned in that grim, mystic tone he used whenever he felt like spooking his son that bad behavior could transform people.
It did, but not to anything near so magical as a sirena. No. You became an ass. Hee haw. That was all.
When he figured that out, the world seemed dimmer. It wasn't brimming with magic and adventure, the way his younger self had dreamed as he laid out in fields or taught his horse to jump fences. It was just chock full of sad ghosts and what if's instead.
"Idiota," Mejico sneered. "Of course Spain is not going to be there."
He shouldn't have asked.
She put her hand on her hip and scoffed. "Like he would want to see us."
He really should not have asked.
It was just….
After Boss...er...their ex-boss…Pa...Spain...was finished making a treaty with Mejico, he'd passed by him in the hall.
Yes, Tejas had helped her fight against him; mostly by doing boring things like supply running and keeping inventory since he'd been fourteen then and she wouldn't allow him to fight.
Said it would be a waste of a uniform.
It was a lost opportunity; he was certain he could've earned some glory and respect from his familia if they'd gotten to see him do well in battle.
He'd even practiced with his rifle and did bayonet charges and everything.
He wasn't even allowed to stay and watch when he came with deliveries of food and ammunition.
His hold on the ship's railing tightened.
He wasn't content being some forgotten patch of land! He could be great if he just had half a chance!
In the hallway, Spain paused for a moment. Light glittered off his impressive regalia and Tejas felt a hard stab of envy.
Eleven years spent supporting his sister and she didn't award him anything! Ungrateful harpía!
Spain's expression was dark as he sized his ex-colony up. It took a lot for Tejas' legs not to quake. The man had always been intimidating with his tall, broad-shouldered form.
He swallowed down the habitual "Señor" that crept up his throat on seeing the nation. Because Spain was a dangerous man to disrespect.
But he thought hard on all the ways Spain had angered and disappointed him through the centuries and he was able to hold the older nation's gaze and he didn't let his head dip down in a passive bow.
He wanted to look firm and brave and determined...but his glasses slipped down his nose a bit and he blinked hard as a tornado of butterflies stormed in his stomach.
The hard look Spain had been wearing changed to-to something else. It-it wasn't anger, even if Tejas couldn't exactly tell what it was.
Which made a dangerous bubble of hope rise in his chest because he knew he wasn't the man's favorite; would never be. That spot would always be Lovino's but...if Mejico had been displaced because of the war…
Maybe Tejas had moved up?
Spain moved toward him and set a heavy hand on his shoulder as he passed: "Tonio...Que tengas mucha suerta."
Then he kept moving and the boy watched him disappear down the hall and out of his life.
The bitter words weren't a declaration of affection...but...but...maybe...
Mejico's eyes widened. "You think he misses you?"
She threw her head back and cackled.
Bruja.
Tejas' teeth gnashed and he was about to give her a well deserved shove—maybe if he did it hard and fast enough he'd knock her off her feet. He knew she was having trouble with the new fashionable shoes she'd purchased for the trip.
One hard push and she'd be on her ass and the ladylike act she was trying to put on would shatter when she started swearing at him.
And if the sailors milling around the deck thought that was brutish and unseemly of him to do, who cared? It wasn't like this trip really had anything to do with him at all.
She was just toting him around as a spoil of war...or maybe because she didn't trust leaving him behind. It seemed like every other dinner they shared she was berating him about being too friendly with the American settlers entering his territory. That he was making them feel too comfortable. They were allowed to be there by her grace and nothing more. And were they converting to Catholicism like she ordered them to?
He had a suspicion that her sudden interest in having him tag along(when she'd always hated it before) had something to do with him aging. She probably didn't think it mere coincidence that he gained a year after having such close contact with the settlers.
Mejico laughed hard enough to snort and he started to move forward when—
He was abruptly pushed aside by America.
He turned to hiss a well-deserved curse at him but ended up grabbing the back of the American's levita to make sure he didn't fall overboard as he retched into the water.
Gross as it all was, it did disrupt his black mood. It kind of relieved him to know someone was having a worse time on this voyage than him. After all, being in such close quarters with his hermana could dampen anyone's spirit.
Alfredo-no-Alfred, he corrected himself for the umpteenth time, was practically the Eighth Wonder of the World; unceasingly sea sick.
He'd come to appreciate it. His near-constant vomiting acted like a talisman that warded Mejico away.
Why, it was working right now. Her face had already turned green, she was deliberately not looking in their direction, and was edging away.
When America recovered somewhat, he fished a handkerchief from his pocket and patted at his mouth. "Terribly sorry, Texas. You both were having a moment. Horrible of me to interrupt. Do hope you'll forgive-"
He nodded blankly. America talked too fast for him to translate everything. And he knew from experience that if he told him to repeat himself, he'd go just as fast and maybe throw in another line or two.
Talking with America was an exercise in patience. He smiled too much. He talked too much. He gestured far too much. He was loud and oafish and-
Tejas still couldn't forgive him for forgetting him!
Yes, he'd seen up close the aftermath of the grisly head shot the American had taken on account of the War of 1812 and could understand why his memory of the Texan personification leaked out. But it hurt his pride to be forgotten so easily. Especially given how warmly the American had endorsed him when he'd learned of Tejas' plans for a revolution of his own in 1812.
He'd pretty much showed up at Tejas' front door with a small escort of soldiers just to say hello. They were all dressed in red, white, and blue. Tejas had stared blankly at the pristine white stallions and the way America's flag waved gracefully with the wind's soft caresses.
His blue eyes were bright and his smile infectious as he took Tejas' smaller hand and shook it. Tejas had been completely overwhelmed by the spectacle. The blond was taller, broader, stronger, handsomer, and older looking than him...and yet the way he went on...he acted like they had so much in common. He'd even said that he felt like they were "friends already."
Which Tejas had thought was too much even then, but losing it all made him feel worse.
It was a stupid way to feel.
Hell for all he knew, Alfred's well wishes might've even been bad luck considering how well the American fared in his own war.
Maybe it was morbid interest that spurred him to be the one meeting with America for his and Mejico's business deals from then on. But he knew America's war was far from a glorious victory and he just...wanted to see how he handled it.
He'd expected the nation to brood as he licked his wounds and for them to swap stories. He could speak of Medina. Alfred could lament his capitol. They could curse their awful families. But once the blond got his looks back he went back to being as careless as a summer day.
Which was...irritating.
When Tejas was certain the American was steady on his feet and he wouldn't be lost at sea, he went down to ready his belongings.
When he returned to the deck, the harbor was in view.
The lurch the ship made as it came to port got him grinning. The whoosh of his stomach was the feeling of adventure!
He turned to comment on it to America but the man was bent over the side once more—two sailors were holding his arms to make sure he wouldn't fall.
The passengers disembarked soon after. It made him smug to wave away offers of help from their servants and the British sailors as he moved his and his sister's luggage. He was tall and strong for fifteen and proud of it. It hardly took any effort at all!
If only Azura could be grateful but no! His sister's eyes were dark as she watched him. After years of her taunting him for being the weakling of their household, he'd thought there'd be some acknowledgement of his newfound strength.
But she was silent. It was almost worse than being teased.
He walked down the gangplank and waited for their advisers and servants to join.
They'd had to really narrow down their selection on who was to accompany them. Mejico was determined for them to travel in style, so they each had a personal servant; Camellia for her, Philippe for him. But they couldn't afford to bring all of her advisers let alone even one of his. And the ones she chose...ugh, bossy, pompous bores. They were so interchangeable to him, he kept switching their names by accident. Much to everyone's annoyance. He found it easier to just nod at the one nearest him and to start talking.
His sister elbowed him out of his thoughts and they thanked Captain Taylor, a coarse gray bearded man with a tanned face and eyes so light they were unnerving.
The man was sure to kiss her hand for decorum's sake but seemed rather bored with her. He quickly excused himself with a hasty, "Forgive me, I must assist 'The Duchess.'"
Both felt rather indignant at the slight. Because they knew damn well that the merchant ship they could afford passage on was NOT carrying royalty.
He'd been warned that they wouldn't command the same level of respect here as they did at home, but he wasn't quite prepared to be faced it with so blatantly.
However, his rancor didn't last when he realized who the "Duchess" was.
The captain murmured consoling words as he carried Alfred off the ship like a bride.
"I'm dying!" Alfred moaned pitifully.
"No," The man refuted calmly.
"I'm dying!"
"No."
"I died. It's over."
The captain's weathered face creased with barely restrained mirth. "I guarantee you are very much alive, sir. I cannot say that you braved the Atlantic. But you did cross it successfully once more."
A sailor set down a large, battered trunk and the captain carefully laid Alfred down on it.
The American treated the moment like a deathbed scene.
"I'll...see to it that your many kindnesses...to me...are remembered."
Captain Taylor clasped Alfred's hand and patted it goodnaturedly. He called over his shoulder, "Mr. Parry?"
"Sir?"
"I'll give you a shilling if you see to it that Lieutenant Kirk-"
The blond's head whipped around to deliver a glare.
"Forgive me, Jones. Jones." He sighed and repeated it a third time. "Jones. I shall remember, Alfred. Be patient with me. That Lieutenant Jones makes it to the edge of town unmolested. I doubt any shall look upon him...and his...dated wardrobe as prey, but one can never be too careful given his current condition."
Which was seasick as a dog. Yeah, it'd be easy to roll him without much effort. If he had anything.
"I have full faith his land legs will return by the time you reach the trees."
Tejas scrutinized Alfred's clothing and shook his head. Si, it was certainly something to behold. Almost twenty years too old and that ratty scarf around his neck. It was a constant source of amusement for Mejico, who'd gone to great lengths to procure fashionable clothing for them.
Tejas had to say, he liked the way the pantalones reached all the way down to his feet now. And given how cold it was here. He shivered as a gust blew by.
The cut-away coat was...restricting and the colors he and his sister were wearing were...rather dark and gloomy but...looking around at what others were swathed in. She'd known what to buy to help them fit in.
A sound strategy because a second glance revealed that they already stood out more than was comfortable with their darker coloring.
Everyone here was so pale, you'd think the sun never showed her face.
"So then, Lieutenant Jones, was it?" Parry nodded as he slung one of the young man's arms over his shoulder and helped hoist him up into a standing position. "If you don't mind my asking, what business has you sailing to this side of the world?"
"Business? You-" Alfred held his handkerchief to his mouth for a moment. "You...you don't think I sail for pleasure? O-or for my health?"
Quite a few sailors nearby snickered at that and Mr. Parry had a good laugh.
Brown eyes watched the two begin their journey with Alfred dragging his trunk alongside.
Jones.
Tejas frowned. He still didn't understand it; why the nation went and changed his human surname. When Kirkland was well-known and established in the marketplace.
It hadn't even occurred to Tejas to change his name now that Spain was out of their lives and Mejico hadn't mentioned it either.
Carriedo had a certain weight of respectability. Many did trade with him out of deference for his father.
When America and Parry had hobbled out of sight, the captain called another sailor forward. He withdrew an envelope from his coat. "See to it that this is delivered and at once. He'll want to know."
Tejas squinted and made out A. Kirkland.
He felt a stab of envy, so Alfred's padre still watched over him?
Lucky bastard.
While Tejas and Mejico checked into a small inn, Philippe and Alejandro (or was it Fernando?) arranged for a stagecoach to bear them from Liverpool to London. Supposedly, the company advertised that it could get them there in three days! The catch being that they had to leave at an ungodly hour.
It'd be a lie to say he even remembered the morning the coach ride began. It was all thanks to Philippe that he was up and dressed at all.
He came to when they were out of town and the ride became rougher. His jaw a bit when he looked out the window and saw...America.
He'd assumed a horse had been waiting for him at the edge of town. That his father's letter was a bid to make haste and have one provided for him. But...it appeared America was taking the same route as them...just walking.
The blonde tipped his cocked hat as they began to overtake him.
They were surprised when the driver slowed down.
Mejico was furious and rapped her knuckles and demanded to know what he was doing. She'd paid dearly for swift service! But the driver paid no heed.
Tejas eased his window open.
"How de yeh fare there, Master Alfred?" The driver tipped his hat at America in recognition.
"Well enough. And how do you do?" The blond smiled.
The man said something about not expecting America so soon. That they hadn't received word else they'd have sent someone to the dock for him.
The nation smiled and waved his apology off. "I fear I'm walking this time."
The man's voice leapt an octave. "W-walking?! To London?! From here? Sir! Reconsider! There are highwaymen! Bandits! Beasts!"
America laughed. "I can only hope! It should be a very boring week for me if there aren't."
The nation noticed Tejas staring at him through the window and waved.
Flabbergasted by the flippant response, the driver sat back and shook his head. "Tempting fate like that, sir?!"
Alfred laughed again. "If I am accosted, they shall be sorely disappointed. They'll be all the poorer for the waste of their time."
"Sir!" He scolded.
"Mayhaps I'll turn the tables and be the one who comes out the richer in such a confrontation?"
It took Tejas a moment but when he realized that Alfred was joking about being the one doing the robbing to a robber—he burst out laughing and slapped his knee. He felt his sister glare on him.
Alfred heard him and smiled brighter—catching his eye.
"Sir!?" The man asked aghast.
Brown eyes met blue and he nodded his support to the American's plan. The blond boy broke down into helpless giggles and gave a clownish bow to him.
The driver sighed. "God keep you safe, sir. I'll let them know up ahead to expect you. A-and they can send word on to-"
"You needn't trouble yourself."
The man nodded and flicked his reins as he muttered lowly. "If I want to keep my neck and shoulders together, I will. Twit."
And they continued.
It felt weird leaving him there, watching his bright grin fade to a bland polite smile. Without the cheerful sounds of joking, he looked hauntingly out of place in that dark cloak from the 1790s. Less like an actor in costume and more like a ghost.
Or maybe it was that he was so untroubled by the world passing him by, that he reminded Tejas of a ghost.
Settling back down into a sour mood, Tejas brooded over how the American just smiled and waved. Like Tejas was part of some silly parade sent to amuse him.
He flushed as he realized after the fact that he'd half hoped to catch some glimmer of resentment in the other's face; that they were riding in style and he was hoofing it. He didn't know why but ever since he'd met the nation, he'd been hunting for it. Some spark of jealousy or-or something!
He was weirdly affable and clueless. He couldn't even tell that Tejas didn't actually like him. He was entertaining alright, but as clever as a clay brick most of the time. Sometimes he just...was struck with brilliance like earlier. His mouth, which was always at a gallop, let loose something of shining merit. Like lightning striking the top of a church by chance.
Which made it seem even more like it was simply dumb luck that America had become a sovereign nation.
And that just infuriated Tejas; luck was the one thing he didn't seem to have.
Tejas was careful not to slouch in the blond man's presence.
So...this was the British Empire? The one who was the first to acknowledge Mexico's Independence from Spain?
Who'd defeated Papi's armada...and was his sworn rival and enemy in their quest to conquer the New World?
The pressure of which led Papi to drink so much when he wanted an escape that Tejas sometimes wondered if he knew what the man was like sober.
England was shorter and thinner than Tejas expected. It was hard to believe his padre would struggle to overcome this man. He felt...disappointed...by both of them.
Their rivalry had seemed like an epic before...and now it...felt like gossip through an open window in the kitchen.
England bent over Mejico's hand to deliver a kiss. "Senora Carriedo, it is my pleasure to welcome you here."
She preened at the attention. "Thank you Admiral, my brother and I are honored to be your guests for this time."
Admiral.
Ad-mir-al.
Tejas begrudgingly admired how well she'd pronounced that word. It was a mouthful of foreign syllables. Though, he'd heard her practicing them over the trip to her hand mirror and she'd even hired an English speaking tutor a few months ago when she'd been planning the trip.
She still rolled the 'r' a bit, but the Englishman didn't seem to mind.
Tejas knew his own English was far from perfect but he had made a point to meet with the American settlers in his land and most of them spoke only in English or if they knew extra languages it was tribal speak for trading purposes. He was pretty damn sure his 'r' was better than hers though. He could say 'America' and not 'Amerrrica,' the way she did whenever they met with their fellow nation for business.
Admiral Kirkland pulled out a silver pocket watch, stared out at the horizon, nodded and slipped it away.
He made a motion to a man leaning against a pillar. The orange haired man took his spot on the front steps and Tejas realized he'd witnessed a rotation of sorts. They must've been expecting another guest.
It took him a moment to realize it was probably America. Though, the Yankee would have to run faster than a charging bull for days to make it there by nightfall.
England gave them a tour of Buckingham Palace and he came to the unhappy understanding by the first room that they were poor. Dirt poor in comparison.
While they were being shown a magnificent intricate garden because England wanted to show them quickly before the rain came and they were confined indoors (he knew they desperately needed fresh air after a ship and carriage ride), Tejas noticed another man crossing the lawn in the distance. He had such dark red hair, it was hard not to stare at him.
A servant ran across to meet with him and offered a coat. Red nodded at whatever the servant was saying and let him help fasten the garment on. Then he turned on his heel and left.
America tried to concentrate on the few things that had gone well.
He'd survived the voyage. One.
He'd gotten a fair price on bread and meat and if he allotted it right, it should last him the journey...if it didn't drown in his leaking trunk. Two-ish.
He looked up and sighed as more icy rain fell and he adjusted his soaked hat.
Now a third. A third. Hmm. Well, the downpour was hiding the fact that his nose was running.
A whinny in the distance confirmed that it'd be a good thing when he recognized the rider as his uncle.
Scotland looked more irritable than usual as he urged his horse and another one onward.
He untied the second horse's reins from his saddle and nearly hit Alfred in the face with them as he came near.
"Yeh look terrible," He commented as Alfred secured his trunk. "The hell are you wearing? Did you dig one of your leaders up for his drawers?"
"..." When Alfred didn't answer he tried a new angle.
"Yeh were gonnae walk the whole way?" He demanded once Alfred was mounted.
"..."
He reached over and gave a hard punch to Alfred's arm. "Idgit."
"...I didn't meet with any highwaymen," Alfred murmured as he rubbed the smarting spot.
He didn't know if he was trying to reassure Alistair or comment on his own disappointment.
"Why do yeh think I'm runnin' so late, laddie?" A thick red eyebrow rose up.
Blue eyes went wide. It was like his uncle was a magnet for glory. His cheeks puffed; he was hogging it all! If it could've been him instead, it would've solved Alfred's conversation conundrum! It would have provided him a topic that could've lasted him several weeks, easily. Especially if he embellished it. The men would've applauded his strength, the women would've touched his arm and called him a "poor dear" as they fanned themselves. He'd have been sought out specifically to talk about it and nothing else and now! Now?! Now, he was doomed back into topics he was well-versed in: namely agriculture. And there just wasn't a way to speak of it at parties and have everyone's admiration and interest. He'd tried. Desperately. Since the 1770s. It wasn't going to happen. Though Austria was usually a good sport with him and heard him out even though it seemed to require more wine to do so and he'd clean his glasses at least eight times before America was done.
Scotland flicked him hard in the forehead. "No daydreaming. Get a move on."
Even without thieves to watch for, it was still two hard days of riding before the palace came into view and if Alistair hadn't been in a sociable mood when he'd found him...he certainly wasn't now. Not that Alfred had been much better.
Even still, he wished he could've gone with him as he took the horses to the stables, but the man wouldn't hear of it.
"Yeh've been in that storm for days. You're chilled. I seen corpses with more color in their cheeks. Get inside. Now!"
True, he was numb with cold and just the warmth of being indoors was making his skin tingle as his body recovered but...anything would've been preferable to this. Even losing a finger...or ten.
"You're making a puddle." England observed from the top of the staircase.
Looking down on him…always looking down.
Alfred's face moved into an easy smile and he greeted the Empire—whipping his hat off with a flourish and a clumsy bow that sent even more water everywhere.
The crowd loved it when he did things like that. It usually sent them into peals of laughter. If there was one thing he'd learned from his time in the circus it was how beautifully mechanical such movements were. Drama, comedy, thrills, they all depended on performing certain movements; whether it was one foot in front of the other on a wire, or one windmilling arm that caught another perfectly in the face, or a back flip made at a fatal height.
It wasn't even limited to performance; why the gears of a pocket watch, the stitching of a repaired seam, the muscles in a face during a dull conversation...
It was all a matter of small movements that with time and practice, could be perfected.
With enough practice, the rough became smooth and the uncomfortable became bearable. Though there was a fine line between seeming natural and being rehearsed. And he seemed to lean on it at times; his politicians had warned him that they feared he was 'losing his sincerity.'
Well, considering how much he'd lost and in such short time, it was more of a surprise that 'sincerity' wasn't already in that pile to begin with.
The Briton descended the stairs, footsteps ringing with authority. The fine pair of boots came to the edge of the puddle and harsh eyebrows were furrowed together in disapproval.
Alfred didn't move at all.
Not recoiling was another learned talent. A crowd loved to lean in as near as possible to performers who charmed them. Regardless if they were eating, drinking, or smoking. You learned to ignore them. You learned to ignore a lot of things.
"You're soaked through. Did your luggage fare any better?" England unnecessarily lifted the trunk and they both heard water slosh in it. "Oh dear." He murmured with false empathy. "I fear not. I imagine all of your things will need to be aired out. Should've purchased a better sealed trunk. I can recommend several shops, if you like."
He was certain he could. Shops that would have the best of the best. Ones he couldn't hope to buy anything from and then England would make that horrible "Oh" sound he made whenever America's less than prosperous coin purse was paraded before him. And then he'd sigh and say he supposed that he could make a gift of the item. Charity was the proper "Christian" way to respond in such circumstances.
England delighted in embarrassing him. The best way to deal with it was robbing him of the satisfaction by feigning ignorance of the slight.
"I imagine airing them shall work. Is there a clothesline and a fireplace I can make use of?" He looked pointedly at the large one warming the entry way.
Arthur immediately balked at the mere idea of Alfred's underthings drying there for all to see and Alfred not having a whit of modesty about it.
And then his lip curled. The way it always did when Alfred committed some vulgar, common-man sin.
"Of course you may not," He answered coldly once he composed himself. He made sure to stress the "may" because "can" was an improper choice of phrase and Alfred felt his cheeks warm in spite of himself. Arthur then called a servant over and instructed him to take Alfred's trunk downstairs to be dealt with...
Downstairs...where peasant things belonged. Maybe he ought to follow and be banished there as well.
Dinner was every bit as excruciating as America feared; so many serious faces and such immaculate suits. He tried to comfort himself with the fact that at least he wasn't alone. Because yes, if he'd been back in Virginia right now he'd be eating at an empty table in an empty house marking time through lengthening shadows and rotting floorboards.
He tried to prevent a frown. But at least there wasn't rules there. Here there was a ridiculous amount of etiquette. He'd already used the wrong silverware twice, much to Canada's mean spirited amusement. He smirked each time it was pointed out. He couldn't figure out why all the silverware would be out, if some of it was to be used and the rest of it not.
When he'd muttered as much, Reilley gave him a sad slow nod and told him he'd explain it some time.
Mathieu had snickered softly. Humph. So his brother was still angry with him over 1812 and his disastrous military campaign northward. Whatever.
It was just...unfathomable to him that he didn't want to join America and be free. That he'd want to remain under the crown's thumb.
Violet eyes narrowed at him. His brother was trying to punish him. Usually, his northern sibling made sure to welcome him warmly whenever they saw each other on trade missions regardless of how hostile the terms between America and England were.
The lack of affection should've bothered him. But didn't. Not when he could still vividly remember smoke and flames and charred skin. No, he wasn't feeling too tender towards him either. Hell, he wasn't feeling much at all as of late. It was like ice was creeping into his veins.
He'd seen that happen in pavement. Lines and cracks filled with ice in the winter seasons. They'd crack and widen and in the coming years fill with more ice.
Ever since the war had ended...something in him had...changed...
Like a door deep inside him that had always been open...was finally closed and locked.
It meant he was secure. Safe. Right?
"You're going to seek out business ventures. In that?" Arthur took a deep sip of wine.
Smile. Smile. Smile. It'll get easier. "Yes. That is my plan." He scooped up a small cut of meat and tried to enjoy how the seasoning transformed it from the bland fare he had back in his own lands.
"How brave." Arthur arched an eyebrow. His lips twitched with a smile of poorly disguised, ill humored pity.
There was a cloud of...something in his chest that grew heavier as the conversation plodded along.
Mexico and Texas seemed fairly at ease and their advisers were already making connections with people of import at the absurdly long, expensive table.
That was a wise thing to do. What he should've been doing but…
He could only breathe freely when piercing green eyes moved off him and England began asking Mexico about the carriage ride over. He'd thought the prices were very economical. Couldn't understand why anyone wouldn't make use of them and the security they afforded travelers.
Winter winds rattled the windows and rain pelted the glass.
He tried to think of something good that's happened since he's arrived. Something that will make it worthwhile, no matter how small.
But it was like trying to catch light with his fingers. It reminded him of his childhood—romping through the fields trying to find rainbows after every storm...like an idiot. To his own chagrin, he was still like that...only now there was no one to call him in anymore.
He smiled at one small crack in the plaster of the wall across from him and decided that the flaw in the opulent room must be it.
Alfred pulled up his stocking. Aware that only the servants seemed to still be wearing them and that he was almost hopelessly outdated in his attire. Well, at least he wasn't wearing a powdered wig.
He sighed; his finances were still a mess from when he'd been erroneously written off as killed while serving. Uncle Alistair had helped him straighten out the worst of it. But then there were back taxes due on properties since he 'wasn't dead after all' and Alfred just couldn't afford to be frivolous and spend lavishly on clothes.
This day should've been better than the last but it wasn't. Even though he'd gotten to sleep in a bed, have breakfast, and was out of the bitter November chill. It should have been more than enough, really, when you thought of it that way.
But…
As Alfred leaned against a corner and watched Arthur with the latest gems of his Empire's crown mixed in with his older colonies too…
They were a gaggle of silk, muslin, satin, cotton, and class. Sparkling and refined, they embodied England's desires for them so effortlessly, that they all seemed to fit together like puzzle pieces. Like a well-composed painting or poem.
Green eyes were bright and he smiled and leaned over at times to answer children's questions. He straightened collars and bows and his fingers lingered. He was gentle and considerate and handled them carefully.
It was a complicated feeling watching someone else's happiness unfurl.
He couldn't call it resentment because...he didn't begrudge them for it. He'd seen and was continuing to see that there were plenty of ugly things in the world; the Skull Creek Massacre being just one from earlier in the year.
So seeing this moment of familial tenderness was a good thing. A beautiful thing.
But he did acknowledge that it was a thing he wasn't going to have.
He'd made choices. Ranked his priorities. And he let that one go.
He stared down at his feet and the scuffs on the inner sides of his shoes.
People failed in their duties when they got greedy. When they overreached.
Still, when poor renditions from clumsy clarinets were given glowing praise, Alfred left for the garden.
It was still raining but…
He laid down on the stone bench and soaked in the silence.
He remembered a quiet moment like this after Heller's Corner as he sank into the marshy ground beside his fallen men and the world fell away.
"You're going to catch your death of a chill. Or drown."
Alfred held in his sigh and opened his eyes to see Arthur frowning down at him, with his arms crossed.
"Why ever are you out here in this dreadful weather?"
"The quiet." He shrugged.
The eyebrows went up in surprise, "Headache?"
He looked away. "No."
With an iron grip on his upper arm, Arthur forced him inside and he was made to take a bitter drought that burned his throat. He coughed hard.
"Just a little laudanum and you'll be well. It shall help your headache," England replied matter of fact as he set the bottle back into an elegant china hutch. "Relieves all sorts of aches."
If it didn't kill him with its awful taste first!
"If you require more, have a servant fetch it. If they ask, say you have my permission."
He was then led into another parlor with a crackling fire and quilts. It was a generous gesture. But when he tried to thank the man for tending him—
"Don't be daft, I'm your host. It will reflect poorly on me for one of my guests to fall ill in my care. Even if it is the result of his own idiocy."
It killed his gratitude stone dead.
Cold kindness was perhaps the worst kind...at least outright cruelty was honest.
"I see. Your commitment is admirable. Particularly as I don't make it easy, I imagine?"
"Indeed." He nodded and swept out of the room. "Dinner will be in the same hall. I trust you can find your way when it's time? Or ask a servant, if you can't? It's a bother if I have to go out of my way searching for you." He paused by the door as he awaited an answer.
"I do hate being a bother." Blue eyes were sharp as he smiled sweetly over his shoulder.
Arthur took that as an understanding and left.
Alfred turned back to study the intricately designed mantle and tried to lose himself in the craftsmanship and the tiny hairline cracks at certain corners.
Alfred had lived long enough to watch trees and roofs gather icicles in cold seasons many times. It was new however, to feel like he was collecting some in his soul.
He leaned back into the plushly cushioned chair that Arthur had moved near the fire for him and let the glow warm his body.
It was a shame it couldn't reach further in.
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