A/N: Trigger warning for semi-graphic discussions of death (but no actual death), alcohol, and PTSD.
I do not generally write about Arthur as Matthew and Alfred's father, but for this particular story, it is what worked best for the narrative. Arthur here is the literal father of the boys, or as good as. I know that's not everyone's cuppa, so I wanted to give a head's up.
Sometime in the 24th century
The Accident. That's what everyone had started calling it. Or at least, that's what they called it when he was in the room. Alfred had no idea if they spoke of it differently when he wasn't around, though if the hushed tones and timid glances that had reliably followed him since he'd returned were any indication, he'd be shocked if the euphemism wasn't an attempt at personal courtesy.
He'd regained every one of his 218 pounds on the journey home, and as he'd laid there bobbing in the ocean, boneless and swaddled inside the cramped pod, he'd never been so relieved to feel the crushing burden of gravity. It took a little less than an hour for the welcome wagon to arrive and fish him out of the Atlantic. When they extricated him from the hull, the tears had only partially dried on his face, and not a single person had said anything about it. There'd been several photographers there to capture the occasion, as was typical, but ultimately the only stills released to the media were ones where his face was obscured or turned away. The American public did not need to see their nation puffy-eyed and weepy.
He hadn't prepared any verbose or witty homecoming remarks as he had for missions past. He thanked the crew and allowed himself to be manhandled into a seat, where he'd be helped out of his suit, buckled in, and sit catatonic while medics reviewed his vitals.
As they approached the shore, Alfred could feel his heart reknitting itself back into his land in more desperate knots than ever before, an ironclad tangle that he felt might never come undone.
"Welcome back, Commander!" The administrator had come in person to welcome him, and was all smiles as he was disembarked. He'd tried to reciprocate, but gravity's pull on the corners of his mouth outclassed him.
"Thank you, ma'am," was all he'd said, a paltry grin quivering. His focus was on the solid ground under his toes. "Relieved to be back." It was an understatement for the ages.
Though he detested the tropical heat more than either French or English could express, Matthew had willingly traveled to Florida a handful of times in his life, always at the request (and usually bribery) of his brother. This was the first time he'd ever made the journey without being asked.
The last time Matt had fetched Alfred from his homecoming handlers at NASA, the American had already been carted up to DC for a schmooze fest, and Matt had had to wait his turn to see his twin while cameras flashed and Alfred finished shaking hands and exchanging smiles. This time was different. There would be a press conference with mission control, but Alfred wouldn't be there. Matt still wasn't sure who'd made that decision.
When he saw Alfred approaching, shuffling slowly under the newly reintroduced feel of his own body weight, Matt started shaking with anger. He'd been mad at Alfred before, been scared for Alfred before, been existentially helpless at the hands of Alfred's self-interest before, but it all paled in comparison to what he felt today.
There'd been a Canadian out there, a seasoned astronaut from Edmundton mixed in with the small, mostly-American crew. Historically a concise and understated man, the report he'd sent down to Ottawa had contained enough detail and shaken language to keep Matt awake for three days straight. He'd paid an exorbitant sum for the bullet train down the coast, and pulled favors on either side of the border to get a private flight chartered home to Quebec with seats for two. There wasn't a chance in hell Matthew was letting Alfred out of his sight after what had happened.
Eyes glassy and fixated almost entirely on the ground, It took a long time for Alfred to spot his brother, and when he finally did he was close enough for Matt to watch the surprise bloom across his face, to hear his footsteps falter ever so slightly on the asphalt.
"Matt," he said, slurring his words in the accent left behind by nearly two years in zero gravity. "What are you- did the president ask you to–"
"No. I told her I was going to take you home." Matt glanced at the NASA employees who were escorting Alfred toward a sleek black car, no doubt paid to ferry the repatriated astronaut home. "I'll take it from here," Matt told them, his tone non-negotiable. "Come on," he said. When Alfred came within arm's reach, Matt grabbed him and pulled him into a hug that would've crushed ribs, if Alfred were human. The grip Matt dug into his back and neck was no doubt painful. Serves you right, he thought, digging nails in harder as if it could keep Alfred more firmly rooted to him.
"Matt," Alfred spoke thickly, face smushed against brother's shoulder, "I'm so sor-"
"Shut the fuck up," Matthew snapped back. He was shaking with anger again, so much so he couldn't feel that Alfred was shaking, too. "Just shut the fuck up." For the first time in Matt couldn't remember how long, Alfred did.
The flight back to Canada was quiet, monotone hum of the jets functioning as both background track and soloist while the twin passengers sat silent in their seats. Alfred had pulled his window shade shut the moment he sat down, but he stared hard at the darkened porthole anyway, back turned to Matthew. The Canadian watched Alfred for much of the flight, only occasionally trying to disguise his attention, but Alfred did not seem to notice, not even when the American finally turned his face away from the window and to the main cabin. He did not look at Matt; he did not look at anything. His gaze floated abandoned midway down the private jet's main cabin. What he was feeling, usually displayed for Matt to read on his sleeve, was a mystery.
Matt looked out the western windows and watched dusky rays of sunlight dance across the Appalachians—it had always been one of Alfred's favorite sights to watch from the air. When the sunlight reached into the cabin, Alfred glanced to see the source and visibly stiffened. He turned his head back to the shuttered window at his arm and huddled into the arm of his chair.
Matt studied the taut lines of his brother's knuckles, the whitened press of his fingertips on the knee of his jeans, and worried. Matt was good at worrying. He'd spent centuries as Alfred's brother, and had long since become an expert. This worry felt different.
Neither of them spoke to each other beyond short, pragmatic words to share water, snacks, and announce they were going to the lavatory. It wasn't until they'd deplaned in Ottawa and taken the tram to where Matt's car was still parked at the train station that they spoke more than four-word sentences to each other.
They were well into the dense suburbs before Alfred realized that they were leaving Ottawa and, by extension, that they were going to Matt's old Quebec property along the river. For reasons he didn't know how to classify, it made his heart go soft and achy. He found himself sniffling.
"You alright?" Matt asked, glancing at him. Alfred didn't know how to respond, so he didn't. Matt reached into the back seat and produced a small box of tissues, which he deposited into Alfred's lap before turning his attention back to driving. Alfred blew his nose—far more noisily than he'd expected—but otherwise did not respond. After a moment of silence, Matt glanced back at his brother. "Alfred, are you alri–"
"I don't want to talk about it, okay?" the American spoke up. Matt was surprised.
"Talk about what?"
"About… it, okay? You know what I'm talking about. I just. I don't. I'm tired, I don't want to talk about it."
Matt's fingers creaked against the ancient leather of the steering wheel, finding his own breathing speeding up. His eyes stung, but he couldn't let his own fear and hurt boil over while he was driving. While he reigned in his tears, he didn't have enough control to keep his anger in check as well.
"What else am I supposed to talk about? Ask about?" Matt snapped, head turning to look at Alfred before turning back to the road. "You were. For two years, and you— Alfred, you know better than anyone that—but you still insisted on being the one to—I can't—Jesus Christ, Alfred, I wasn't going to do this," Matt was shaking despite himself, hating how his voice started wobbling full of anger and hurt. "I wasn't going to yell at you until we were home."
"You don't have to yell at me," Alfred said, looking out the window. Matt was too occupied with keeping his vision steady to notice how forlorn his brother sounded.
"Yelling at you is the only thing I can do, Alfred!" And Matt was truly yelling, raising his voice as he couldn't remember doing in decades—a century, even. "I yell at you every fucking time you decide to leave the goddamn planet, but this, this was beyond the pale! It's one thing to slingshot yourself up to the ISS every decade just so you can take some pretty pictures and give your brother fucking heart palpitations, but it was too far when you— when I heard you'd almost—" his emotions choked as a palpable mass in his throat, keeping him from enunciating the reality of what had almost happened, what the universe had avoided by literal millimeters. Speaking it aloud felt just as precarious as the tether that had come undone 173 million miles into the abyss. "You can't just tell me not to yell at you when I thought I'd never see you again! You don't get to tell me not to fucking scream at you because you got so wrapped up your obsession you were going to float off into oblivion and die for eternity, you don't have the right," his voice cracked. "Y-you don't have the right to tell me that I– that I can't–" Matt's hands were shaking harder, and the world had grown watery and hard to see. "Fuck!" he yelled, and veered off into the highway shoulder, slamming on the brakes. As the car screeched to a halt, Matt brought a shaking hand to his face and released the sob he'd been holding back. Once he started, it was difficult to stop. He could hardly believe the sounds coming from his own throat. Distantly, past the sound of his own irregular gasps for air, he heard Alfred shift the car into park and click the hazard lights on.
"Matt," Alfred grabbed his brother's arm, hand warm through Matt's flannel. He tugged gently on it. "Matt, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Don't apologize," Matt finally brought his hands down, shaking his head, "you always apologize and then you go and fucking do the same stupid thing again, and again, and again, and I'm tired of it, tired of pretending it's okay, I don't want to hear–"
"No, Matt, I'm– I'm sorry I went at all. I shouldn't have. I know that now. I should've–" it was very close to sunset, and dark enough now that it took a moment for Matt to realize Alfred was crying, too. Maybe he had been already, when Matt had fetched the tissues. "I should've stayed," Alfred said, voice quiet and wobbly and so close to cracking it stopped Matt's tears for the shock of it. "I'm… I'm just so sorry." Even in the dark, Matt couldn't remember a time when his brother had looked so… old.
Matt stared at him in silence, breath still shaky, whole body wary. Alfred tugged again on Matt's arm, and in the same motion they fell toward each other, arms wrapping and grabbing in the same patterns they'd used since infancy. The middle console of the car made it awkward, but it didn't matter. They both knew they would have to stop crying if they were going to keep driving. Matt couldn't imagine what he'd say if an officer approached them to offer assistance.
"Matt," Alfred said into the Canadian's flannel collar, and Matt could feel the heat of his breath through the fabric. "Can we go home?"
"Yeah," Matt said, still gripping his brother hard. "Yeah, of course." Absurdly, Matt suddenly remembered: "I have everything for potato soup at the house." The sound that came out of Alfred was an absurd blend of sob, surprise, and a sound of longing that came straight from Alfred's stomach, and it made Matt chuckle past the dregs of his tears. "And some California wine, too."
"Oh, I love you," Alfred wept. Matt's smile was wavering but genuine. He pushed Alfred back into his seat, giving Alfred tissues before taking some for himself. 'I love you too' felt somehow too routine, too trite.
"Come on," He said instead, putting the car into gear. "Your old room has missed you."
Though Alfred's old room may have missed him, they'd bunked together in Matt's bed that first night back, like they had when they were small. Without prompting or permission, Alfred had gone back to Matt's bed for the next night, and the night after that, until it was clear Matt had done up Alfred's bed in vain. He didn't mind. In the olden days, they would've huddled for warmth against the Quebec winters, but in the coziness of modern amenities retrofitted into the 17th century home, they cuddled for more ephemeral warmth; the sound of a brother's heartbeat, the brush of a hand or arm as they turned in the night, groggily fighting for a comfortable position against each other like two puppies curled in a pile. Physical presence was something they hadn't been able to offer each other in two years, and in the grip of sleep, these small, tangible reminders of I'm still here made up for what they'd lost. Alfred snored and muttered in his sleep, Matt was all elbows and frozen hands, but Alfred never left for his own room, and Matt never asked him to.
Alfred did little for the next several days but eat, sleep, and—especially in the evening—stare into the middle distance. The long summer days were prettier than they'd been all year, but Alfred refused to leave the house. Occasionally Matt could coax him into a game or a simple conversation, and he was pretty sure he almost got a smile out of him when he let him win in uno. Still, for the most part, Alfred remained utterly catatonic. It was uncharted territory for Matt. He'd seen Alfred go through depression a handful of times, but even when he was deeply depressed, Alfred had always been talkative. Alfred loved talking about himself, especially when he was sad. Now, though, he only spoke when he absolutely needed to.
Matt tried to help as best he could. Whenever Alfred's melancholy staring spells set in, Matt refused to leave him alone, even if the sunshine beckoned. He would cook or clean and cast nervous glances his brother's way while Alfred stared or napped or scrolled the news. Eventually, Matt would run out of chores and, with Alfred's mind far away, would find himself alone with his thoughts. He hated every moment of it, because there were new ghosts in his brother's eyes and for the first time in centuries he didn't know how to take them away.
It's okay, it's okay, he could hear his own voice saying it in younger years, centuries ago when it was just flesh and bone, when he could hug Alfred's face to his chest while he cried. It's going to be okay. His hands itched because there was nothing to do.
He'd been waiting days for his brother to share whatever thoughts were churning in his brain. Alfred never did. Still he waited, wasting time in whatever room Alfred occupied. Tonight, it was the living room. Matt scrolled through the options on his TV—or whatever this newfangled contraption was called. The humans had changed the name somewhere along the road of technological development, but Matt was too tired to remember. Draped in a blanket, he browsed the North American block of content, bored with his options and not willing to start a new show when his brain felt like wet cement. Eventually he heaved a sigh and let the nightly CBC news broadcast flicker onto the main screen. If nothing else, he knew the evening newscaster had a beautiful voice—maybe he could at least zone out long enough to have a break from his thoughts.
Matt didn't register the fact that he'd fully fallen asleep until a loud clatter on the hardwood made him jerk awake, momentarily unsure of where he was.
"—ted States' crew continues their mission from the Martian base after Commander Jones' departure." The words took a protracted path from the speakers to the nerve endings in Matthew's brain, but when they finally did, he paled.
"Shit," he pulled himself to sit fully upright and looked over at Alfred, whose phone was on the ground while he gripped the arms of his chair with white knuckles. He looked terrified. "Shit," Matt repeated to himself, looking desperately around for his phone.
"Though NASA has not released a full report, a recently-leaked memo from CSA details a harrowing brush with disaster near one of Mars' two moons. During a routine spacewalk to service the Swan-Leavitt Telescope—"
"God fucking damnit," Matt tore at his blanket, tossing it off himself in handfuls until his phone fell out. He fumbled for it and frantically tapped at the screen to reopen the controls to the TV while the news anchor continued their report.
"—ccording to the memo, Commander Jones' safety tether came undone mid-walk, requiring Jones to catch it and hold on to it with nothing but his hands while the ship's crew rushed to reel him back. The cause of the malfunction is still unclear, but is under inves—"
"Jesus fucking- come on, just—you stupid piece of shit, just turn off the—" Matt finally found the button and the broadcast disappeared, leaving behind only the aging paint of Matt's living room wall and the almost-invisible panel of the TV screen. He looked back to Alfred, who hadn't moved an inch. Silence hung in the air thick as tar, and for a moment Matt wasn't even sure Alfred was still breathing. He moved slowly from his seat and crouched to retrieve Alfred's phone from the floor.
"Al?" he handed it back to his brother, who after several seconds of silence, blinked rapidly and wordlessly took the phone. His hand was shaking. Matt felt utterly useless. "Al, are you… I'm sorry, I fell asleep." No response. Alfred was staring at his knees. Matt wanted to yell at him, to scream at him, hit him or strangle him, anything for a response, anything that would tell him it was still Alfred sitting in front of him. Fighting impulse, he stood and scrubbed his hands over his jeans.
"I'm going to get a beer. Do you want a beer?" Without waiting to see that Alfred wouldn't respond, he said, "I'll get you a beer."
When he returned with two full-pint cans, Alfred was nowhere to be found. Confused, it took Matt a moment to realize that his bedroom door had been pulled shut, though the lights were still off. Biting his lip to restrain the anger or fear or whatever emotion was threatening to boil over, he sat back on the couch and took a large gulp of his beer, setting the second one aside for later. He rubbed at his forehead, knowing not a single nation on Earth could tell him what to do next, because not a nation on Earth had ever faced what had happened—almost happened—to Alfred.
God, he wished he'd remembered to buy more cigarettes.
Alfred was already asleep in bed when Matt turned in for the night, tipsy, annoyed, and exhausted. He fell asleep almost immediately, curled away from Alfred.
He awoke what felt like seconds later to the sound of screaming. It wasn't purposeful screaming, but the breathy panic of someone who was too terrified to do anything but flee. He could feel the mattress jostling, but it was dark and without glasses it took a moment for Matt to see Alfred, uncovered on the bed and scrambling for the duvet like his life depended on it. He was grabbing a fold pinned in place by his own body, and sounded increasingly panicked when it wouldn't budge.
"Al," Matt struggled to sit up as Al's frantics shook the bed, "Al, stop it, it's not—here, here," Matt lifted the covers open. As soon as he saw it, Alfred grabbed onto the edge and burrowed under it in a hurry. He'd curled in on himself, facing Matt, but had pulled himself completely beneath the covers so the Canadian couldn't see his face. He was catching his breath, letting out a few last sounds of panic, and eventually went still. Matt watched his outline carefully, realizing that Alfred might not be entirely awake. Cautiously, he pressed a hand against Alfred's upper back through the duvet.
"Al?" He asked quietly. Receiving no response, Matt gingerly withdrew his hand to let Alfred sleep, but then the lump of covers started whimpering. Matt immediately ducked under the covers and shuffled closer to his brother. "Come here," he said, and Alfred remained stiff while Matt pulled him close, snaking a hand under him to hug him to his chest. "You're okay, you're okay." With the hand that wasn't still death-gripping the duvet, Alfred grabbed onto Matt's shirt like an anchor.
"It was— I— we designed it to have—there were failsafes, I don't know, it wasn't supposed— I almost didn't catch it," Alfred choked out, breaking into an involuntary sob as he shook in his brother's arms. "It slipped twice while they were—they were—I almost—could only reach the bitter end, they were screaming over headset—I-I almost didn't catch it," the man cried, and Matt had a hard time keeping himself from tearing up. Since they'd arrived home, Matt had refused to think too long or too deeply about the accident. Alfred was here, in the flesh, back on the planet where he belonged, safe and solid and real. That they'd narrowly escaped Alfred's neverending death in the oblivion a year off the coast of home was more than Matt could stand to think about.
"It doesn't matter now," Matt lied. He pet Alfred's hair and rubbed his back in soothing patterns. "You're okay," he said to himself as much as to Alfred. "You're okay. You're safe. It's going to be okay." Matt wasn't so sure about that last one, but witnessing the true severity of Alfred's trauma made him realize that he was in way over his head. As he let Alfred cry against his shirt, Matt decided he'd have to make a phone call first thing in the morning.
Alfred was not pleased when Matt told him he'd called a therapist, and wound up saying more words of protest in the span of a minute than he'd said in the time since Matt had picked him up at the airport.
"It's my therapist," Matt had said, trying to placate him. "You know her, she knows us, what we are and all that—"
"She doesn't know," Alfred had snapped back. He'd been doing that more often after the night terror episode. "Neither do you. Just… fucking leave me alone."
"Alfred I'm trying to help,"
"I know you think you are, but nagging me is not going to—"
"You're too terrified to leave the fucking house, you need help."
"Even if I do, why is leaving the house a metric to decide—"
"She'll be here 10am Thursday. You're going to speak with her."
Alfred cursed at Matt as he walked away. Though Matt's mood was considerably sour, he realized in a moment of absurdity that he'd almost missed how angry Alfred could sound. Any emotion suited his brother better than silence, and if anger got Alfred acting like himself again, Matt was willing to suffer through it.
The therapist was six minutes late, which fed Alfred's hope for solitude just enough that the doorbell made his heart sink through the floor. After quiet introductions, Matt left them alone in the house and went to work outside, casting looks back at the driveway periodically to see if his therapist's car was still parked outside.
It was two hours before she left the house. Matt set aside what he was working on and went to meet her by her car.
"How worried do I need to be?" he asked her. She raised her eyebrows until they disappeared into her fringe and let a sigh puff out her cheeks.
"I'm going to come back tomorrow, if that's okay with you. And I have an hour available Saturday evening. I think you should consider it."
"That bad?" Matthew was genuinely surprised. His therapist winced.
"I know he he doesn't want to leave the house," she said, tone implying she knew well enough that Matt would never have a chance of forcing him, "but I've had Dr. Mittal send out some prescriptions for him. You can wait for them to be posted, but it would be faster picking them up at the pharmacy yourself. They should be ready in," she looked at her phone. "Three hours."
"Yeah, sure, I can get them," Matt rubbed his face, wishing he could get a good night of sleep. The therapist gave him a sympathetic expression.
"Look out for him, as I'm sure you've been doing already. I'll be back tomorrow—and," she hesitated briefly, weighing her words, "when I do, I'd like you to take a nap, Matthew, you need rest just as badly as he does."
And so it went. Alfred slowly relaxed under the influence of the sedatives and antidepressants the doctors gave him, but he was still a shell of his usual self. Matt watched and waited, arranged for regular check-ins with the therapist, made sure Alfred was never alone when he fell into a mood. There was some progress; the night terrors became fewer, and milder, and eventually disappeared altogether. Alfred ate more, smiled more, played card games or video games with Matt most days. He even learned to go back outside in the daytime, spending hours exercising or relaxing on the porch with Matt and, more often, Matt's dog.
Then, one afternoon, Alfred fell asleep on Matt's bench porch swing, basking in the sun while Matt sat a few meters away in his own chair. It was getting dark by the time Alfred finally roused, and Matt was twisted practically sideways so he could read by the light of the porch lamp. His concentration broke when he heard his brother yelp and fall to the ground.
"You good?" He snorted and looked over, assuming Alfred had rolled in his sleep and fallen. Buddy, who'd partially broken his brother's fall, grumbled and crawled out from under Alfred's shoulder. He didn't have to struggle for long though, because Alfred shot up as fast as he'd fallen, and looked up at the sky as if he'd seen a missile inbound. Just to be sure, Matt looked over his shoulder. There was nothing in the dusky sky, not even a cloud. He looked back at Alfred, who'd begun to shuffle towards the door, not lifting his feet more than he had to. "Al? Are you—"
"Fine," Alfred intercepted. "Fine, I'm fine, I'm just going to—it's getting—and I should go inside. Yeah. Sorry. Sorry I'm just going to—yeah. I'm fine." He opened the door quickly and jumped inside, slamming it shut behind.
Matt shared a look with his dog. With a sigh, the Canadian finished his page, marked the spot, and followed his brother inside. Alfred was curled up on the couch hugging a pillow, staring at advertisements play on the TV, which was at half volume. Matt went to sit by him and very pointedly didn't say a word.
"It's just—" Alfred began. He'd grown more talkative with the therapist's help, but it was a fragile state of affairs. "Every time it's. I see them and I feel like I'm back, like I'm going to… fucking… float off again. Like gravity's going to turn off. I know that's dumb. I know it won't, but my heart just… it feels like I'm going to have a heart attack, and I'm all sweaty, and… I don't know. I don't know why, I just. I can't look at them."
"At what?" Matt asked. Alfred hesitated, looking embarrassed.
"The stars," he answered. Matt had to make a conscious effort not to react. Oh, Alfred. His heart wept.
"One thing at a time," he said instead, cuddling up at Alfred's side on the couch, looping his arm through his brother's. "Take it one day at a time."
Matt only woke up because there was sun in his eye, so he rolled over to block it out, and found the bed all to himself. Well accustomed to Alfred being an early riser, he grunted appreciatively and stretched out across the whole bed, content to doze a bit longer in the cozy morning sun, surrounded by pillows. He could hear Buddy yawn and lick his lips before settling back down to softly snore.
"—not listening to me, I said I'm not going to," Alfred's voice carried through the closed bedroom door, accompanied by the pad of bare feet across the old floorboards, "What? That's not—no, you let me talk. I'm not being held here, I'm not under duress, and I'm not going home yet. Jesus, Matt is my brother, he's not kidnapped me."
Eyes still closed, Matt frowned into a pillow.
"I don't—no. Fine, I'll message her... no, I'm not calling her. We've spoken already, if she didn't record that somewhere, that's not on me. What? It wouldn't matter if I was on an airbase right fucking now, I'm not flying out to DC just to be interrogated all over again—not "interrogation" yeah, okay, sure—what? Yes, I meant it. We've been through this—so what if it was only for a few hours? You had your few hours! Other people were there! Ask them! Listen to the recordings! Just leave me the fuck alone." There was silence before Alfred let out a half-sigh half-growl, and a large thump told Matt he'd collapsed onto the sofa.
Sighing, Matt dragged himself upright and through the door, putting the coffeemaker in his sights. In his peripheral, Alfred looked over at him in surprise.
"Oh god, Matt, I'm so, so sorry—I didn't realize you were still asleep," Alfred said when the other emerged, boxer-clad and sporting a formidable bedhead.
"Nnnngg," Matt replied. He continued on to the kitchen and waited while the coffee machine buzzed and hissed. He returned to the living room only after he'd taken a generous drink of his latte.
"So," He said groggily, settling himself on the couch and tucking his bare feet into a throw blanket, "Are you not calling the president, or not calling NASA?"
"NASA."
"Ah." Matt sipped at his coffee and did not press further, but Alfred didn't wait for permission to continue, leg bouncing rapidly as he sulked in his armchair, practically falling out of it.
"They want me back in Maryland to help them—to show them what everything looked like when it happened. They're trying to recreate it, up at Goddard. And the Administrator apparently wants a word while I'm at it. You'd think she's never heard of fucking PTSD before."
Matt allowed his eyebrows to raise, quietly happy Alfred had accepted that he had PTSD. Maybe all the therapy was finally paying off. He sipped at his latte, holding both hands to the cup and allowing his eyelids to flutter closed, still drowsy.
"Maybe she wants to apologize," Matt offered optimistically.
"She doesn't have to drag me all the way to Maryland for that. Besides, apologizing for shit like this isn't really in her repertoire."
"Shit like this?"
"You know," Alfred waved his hand abstractly. "Trauma. Emotions. Stuff that doesn't involve plasma jets, circuit boards, or the senators who approve her budgets."
"Ah."
"Whatever," Alfred waved his hand, as if sweeping his mind clear. "I'm not going to fucking DC. Do you want to play something? I got you some new video games."
Matt's brain wasn't ready for video games. "Why don't you get yourself some coffee first?"
"I've already had three." Jesus.
"Okay, well let me finish mine first."
"Kay."
Matt took deep, calming breaths as he listened to Alfred chew on his fingernails.
They played video games—Alfred won, of course—went for a short run, splashed around in the nearby pond, and took Buddy to the local dog park. By the late afternoon, Alfred was smiling and laughing again, shoulders lax. Matt got them home before moonrise, they played cards, drank some unnecessarily complicated cocktails Alfred wanted to try, and turned in for the night. By the time Alfred was out of the shower and ready for bed, Matt was confident in having tackled another day and brought Alfred that much closer back to himself.
Then he woke up to the sound of his brother screaming. Once Alfred settled back down, Matt wanted to cry from frustration. Square one.
While Alfred fought his way back to unconsciousness, Matt squinted at his phone screen in the dark and opened his messages. It was barely 0500 GMT, so he was surprised to receive a response within minutes.
I can be there tomorrow, the response read. Do you want anything from duty free? Matt only laughed because he didn't want to cry.
Maybe, he wrote back, just look for the largest size of the highest proof of scotch they have.
By the time they'd made it through the remainder of the day and the following night, Alfred had bags under his eyes. Around one in the afternoon, while Alfred was carrying his fourth coffee to the table where he'd been assembling a jigsaw puzzle, a car door audibly closed outside. He backtracked a few steps to the entryway and pulled aside one of the curtains to get a better look. A nondescript cab was idling out front, trunk open, shoes visible behind the tires. A moment later, the trunk closed to reveal a slender man with short, messy blond hair. Alfred's heart sank. He looked over at Matt, who'd come to stand nearby.
"You called dad?" Alfred accused.
"Alfred," Matt began, "listen,"
"I can't believe you," Alfred yanked the curtain closed and stepped back from the door. "Seriously? Seriously?"
"He's here to help,"
"Help, my ass—that man's done more to my psyche than for it."
"That's a little harsh,"
"It's really not."
"Oh come on—Al, for Christ's sake, I didn't know what else to do!"
"Not calling him would be a good start," Alfred retreated back into the house, racing the doorbell. To Matt's surprise, he chose not Matt's bedroom, but his own unused bedroom as a hiding space, slamming the door and clicking the lock behind him. Matt sighed and rubbed his eyes, right in time for the doorbell to ring.
He opened the door and Arthur Kirkland was there in the flesh, sporting outdated luggage, a duty free bag, and a weary smile.
"Matthew," He greeted, and let himself in so he could set his things down. He immediately reached for his second son, who bent down and fell into the embrace with a sigh of relief.
"Thanks for coming, dad," Matt mumbled into his collar.
"Oh, pish, of course I came," Arthur fussed a hand over Matthew's hair before pulling away. "It sounds like you've had a time of it," He squeezed at Matthew's shoulder, frown deepening when he felt how stiff it was. He looked around. "Where is he?" he asked. Matt sighed.
"Hiding," he jutted his head toward the locked bedroom down the hall.
"Of course he is," Arthur sounded unsurprised. "Well then, we'll start with this," the Brit toed off his shoes, setting them by the door before taking up the duty free bag, which clinked with glass. "I've brought options. Would you like tea with your whiskey, or whiskey with your whiskey?"
Father and son drank and caught up for hours while Alfred hid away. They saved him a plate at dinner, but he never reemerged. Eventually, Matthew grew sleepy and shuffled his way to the couch.
"What are you doing? Go to bed, silly boy," Arthur said.
"You can have the bed, you're a guest, I'll take the—"
"I'll not be sleeping for a while yet, off with you."
"But the jetlag—"
"Matthew."
"Alright, alright," Matt surrendered, shuffling towards his bedroom door, humming when he realized he'd have the bed to himself. "Night, dad. Thanks."
"Go to sleep," he shooed, and Matthew shut the door. Arthur lowered himself onto the couch in the silence and the dark, and consulted the time. It was not quite midnight. He looked over his shoulder down the hall to the door where Alfred was, apparently, still sulking. There was a dim light visible under the door, and if he listened closely, he could hear the rustle of someone shifting in their seat. He leaned back into the sofa, and waited.
He let himself doze off, still sitting upright. Eventually, the sound of a door unlocking roused him. He blinked away sleep, yawning quietly and waiting until Alfred had come fully into the darkened room before speaking up.
"There you are," he said, and Alfred jumped so violently he almost fell over.
"Jesus H. Christ—the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Shhh," Arthur hissed at him, "your brother is trying to sleep."
"You're the one who just about gave me a heart attack," Alfred hissed back while Arthur stood to his feet, "don't shush me."
"Don't be so loud and I won't have to. Come on," he said. Alfred immediately began to shut down.
"No, I'm not doing this,"
"Yes you are," Arthur gently took Alfred's elbow, and the American promptly yanked it back.
"I'm not."
"You are, and unless you want to put your brother through even more grief than you have already, you're going to do it somewhere you won't wake him. Step outside with me a moment,"
"Outside?" Alfred froze in his step, petulance replaced with genuine fear. "Why?"
"I just want to speak with you, Alfred,"
"No," Alfred snapped.
"You can't hide from this forever, you stubborn pain-in-the-arse, now please just—" Arthur stopped short when he realized his eldest was no longer looking at him, and was eyeing the window pane of the back door. Arthur looked back at it. Behind the black silhouette of the trees, there were stars. He let out an inaudible ah, and turned back to his son. "Not outside, then," he said, softer than before. This time, when Arthur took Alfred's elbow, the younger man allowed it. "Come on."
Still annoyed but now embarrassed as well, Alfred allowed himself to be corralled into the kitchen, where Arthur flicked on the lights and shut the door—a door that was so rarely closed Alfred had entirely forgotten it existed. Next, he pulled out a chair at the table.
"Sit," he ordered. Having no comeback ready, Alfred did, crossing his arms. Arthur plucked a glass tumbler from the dish rack and rustled with what looked like an airport shopping bag. He returned to the table with a bottle of unopened bourbon. Dad hates bourbon, Alfred thought, watching him tear the paper wrapping and pop the cork before pouring a very generous portion into the tumblr.
"Drink." Arthur plunked the glass in front of him, corked the bottle and set it aside. Without looking at Alfred, he returned to the kitchen counter, where he busied himself with the kettle and Matt's tea cabinet. Alfred looked down at the bourbon and circled his finger over the glass rim before eventually deciding to take a drink, baring teeth through the burn and setting the glass back down as quietly as he could. The kettle hissed on and Arthur washed a mug in steaming water. Alfred took another drink.
"I doubt you remember it this way," Arthur said while he worked, "but I was still quite young, back when you decided to go your own way. Young and, I daresay, quite stupid." Alfred looked up in surprise. Of all people to admit their mistakes, his father was not a usual suspect. "The nineteenth century was quite kind to me, if you'll remember, and I was stupid enough to feel invincible. I thought it was a grand idea to join the search for the Northwest Passage. We'd been attempting it for years, with no luck. I wanted to see to it myself. Thought I'd be a kind of… good luck charm. Inspiration to the men. You know how it goes with humans, sometimes," Arthur took the kettle as soon as it began to boil. Alfred watched the steam billow as the older man poured and continued,
"So I asked for a spot aboard and was happily given an officer's welcome aboard the HMS Terror." Alfred felt his eyebrows raise. He hadn't heard the name in quite some time. He couldn't recall if he'd known Arthur had been aboard that doomed expedition, but if he had, he'd long since forgotten. Even the recovered shipwreck was centuries-old news, but he remembered the gruesome details the forensic scientists had reconstructed, back in the day. Starvation, hypothermia, botulism, scurvy, cannibalism. "It was not my brightest idea, I admit," Arthur said mildly, carrying his tea back to the table, where he sat across from Alfred, who watched him in silence. "Your poor brother had to round me up—had to dig quite a few holes in the ice to find me, I'm afraid." Alfred felt his eyes bug. Arthur stared into the middle distance for a moment, apparently lost in memory, and then shook himself. He sipped at his tea, and finding it too hot, set it back down, staring at the steam curling off its surface.
"It's ironic, really. I can't tell you the number of times I've died at sea. Countless times. Shot, stabbed, drowned, sunk, crushed, impaled, any number of improbable deaths. I even got trapped under a few times, for a week at one point." Alfred winced, and took a drink. "But never in all that time, even after the worst deaths, never once did I wake up scared of the sea. I'd lost, that was all. But the sea remained my closest companion, the truest home I felt I had. But after the Terror…" Arthur shook his head and sighed. "I couldn't look at the ocean for months. Months. Stayed with your brother for… I can't recall how long. Every time I was near the bay, as soon as I saw ice flow in on the tides, I'd get feverish all over again. The next time I got on a ship, it was the dead of summer, no ice in sight, but my feet were sweating so much I almost slipped out of my boots."
"Why are you telling me this?" Alfred asked before Arthur could go on. Arthur finally looked up at him, eye to eye. The older man pursed his lips before he said,
"I read the memo from the CSA." Alfred deflated, now staring at his whiskey with newfound interest. "The one from the ESA, too. That one's still under wraps, though, not to worry," Arthur assured, even as Alfred downed the rest of his bourbon in a single gulp and leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes shut. Arthur watched him in silence, waiting for him to respond. Alfred refused.
"I'm telling you this because you are not alone, Alfred."
"Oh, fuck that," Alfred leaned back forward, letting his hands fall exasperatedly to the table with a loud clatter. "Like fuck—you don't—you don't get it, none of you do, so you were on a shit expedition, that's not the same."
"How is it not the same?" Arthur asked calmly.
"It's just not, okay?"
"Tell me how."
"Because—because—because boo fucking hoo you got trapped in ice, trapped under it, even, I don't know… but you came back from that. You were always going to come back. Even if Mattie wasn't… even if he took his time, you were always going to come back from it eventually, with or without help."
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Well I wasn't!" Alfred shouted, and then remembered his brother sleeping across the house, and continued somewhat more quietly, "I wasn't—that wasn't a guarantee, I was just going to… to…"
"To what?" Arthur asked, just as calmly as before.
"To… to float off. Just. Gone. Float off, and…" he trailed off.
"And…?"
"You know."
"I don't, tell me," Arthur insisted.
"Stop being an asshole, you know what I mean."
"You need to say it, Alfred," his father said, suddenly firm. "Say it out loud so you can hear yourself say it."
"I was going to suffocate, okay!" Alfred burst, whiskey turning his blood hot like a kettle about to boil. "I was going to cycle through my air until I got monoxide poisoning, and then die while my crew watched, and then do it again, and again, and float off further into space because that fucking rock doesn't have gravity for shit and I broke the longest tether we had, and I was going to keep on going, dying and dying and dying, baking in UV until my skin boiled and then I was going to die that way a few thousand times, and maybe, just maybe, my headset would keep working long enough for them to tell me "it's going to be okay" or some bullshit before my suit decayed and then decompression is on the menu for the foreseeable future, and maybe the humans would come for me, maybe Matt would—I don't know, but it wouldn't be a week under the fucking ocean, not even a month. It would be years—years, if they could ever even get to me without sentencing more people to death. And all because of a fucking hairline stress fracture in a goddamn glorified carbiner clip!" Alfred finished all at once, but his chin continued shaking. He looked furiously down at the table, more furious when he saw his hands were shaking too. He pressed them firm to the table to hide it, and then realized he was about to cry. He put one shaking hand to his face and dug thumb and forefinger into his eyes, desperate to stop himself. Arthur watched in silence for a moment while the younger man composed himself.
"Had you said any of that out loud before?"
"...No." Alfred heard the bourbon bottle open, his father pouring him another drink. More silence.
"You are right," Arthur said above him. "I don't know what that feeling is like. I don't know anyone alive who does. It's certainly more harrowing than a week underwater." He sipped at his tea, which had cooled enough to cradle in both hands while he watched his eldest. At length, Alfred opened his eyes and reached for his glass, watching how the light made the whiskey shine as he twisted the glass from one spot to another, giving his still-shaking hand something to do.
"It's not your job to come back from something like that quickly, Alfred," Arthur said.
"But I want to," Alfred looked up, exhausted and wrung dry, "I want to just… go back. To normal, to the way it was. They way it should be. I don't like this, any of this—the, the panic attacks, the nightmares, the… I can't look at the fucking stars, dad, stars! I…" his eyes were watery. With his father right in front of him, a memory arose unbidden from when he was small, when he'd helped unpack his very first telescope, shipped all the way from London. "I don't… I'm afraid of the thing I've always loved more than anything. I've loved the stars my whole life. Since before most everything I remember. And fuck, it—nothing even happened. It didn't. I'm fine. I'm alive. But it doesn't seem to matter, because I'm…" He shrugged helplessly, struggling with words. "I don't know who I am anymore. I feel like I'm going crazy, just, completely losing it."
"Oh, that's not true," Arthur insisted. "Don't listen to whatever inner critic is telling you that. You've not lost yourself, lad. You have, however, finally found your limits. It's one of life's cruelties that the two can feel quite the same, at least at first."
Alfred looked up at him, confusion evident in his face. Arthur took a deep swig of his tea and set it back down, fingers drumming pensively on the ceramic while he gathered his thoughts.
"I thought I would sail off the globe and onto the next, back then," he said, catching Alfred's eye. "When I was young and stupid. A bit older than you are now, maybe, but young all the same. So long as I had a ship under my boots and a tailwind in my sails, I felt I could go anywhere. Right off the edge of the map and back again. But then you came along, with your aeroplanes and your jets and rockets and showed the world what that actually looks like, and I admit," Arthur chuckled, "it scared me fucking shitless. Space travel isn't for me. Hell, even air travel still makes me queasy sometimes," which surprised Alfred enough to raise his eyebrows high in incredulity. Arthur resisted the urge to snap back at him and said instead,
"I have my limits. We all do. Even you, Alfred F. Jones." And oh how Alfred hated it when his father pulled out his full name.
"This isn't like someone invented teleportation or something new and scary that freaks me out," Alfred rebutted," this iswhat I love. Space travel. It's kind of my thing."
"Of course it is—it has been for centuries. And seafaring was my 'thing' when I boarded the Terror. I still ended up diseased, starved, and frozen under the ice." Alfred winced. "It was the first of many limits for me. Kittyhawk wouldn't come along for decades, anyway. But the Terror is what made me realize that even in my element, I had limits. That there would be some chapters of exploration I wouldn't want to be a part of. Places I shouldn't go—wouldn't go again. It's not as though I stopped sailing, far from it. But I never went back to the Northwest Passage." Alfred frowned pensively, looking down at the table.
"Ever?" He asked quietly.
"Not until they made jets that could fly me straight over."
"Oh."
"I sail the ocean to this very day; but on the paths I know, the spaces where I feel at home. The appeal of a place doesn't wear off just because you've been there before, you know. Returning home and hanging up your spurs doesn't make you a coward." Alfred tried to imagine himself going back to Mars, to Phobos and the huge telescope nearby. He'd helped build it, years ago. He tried to ignore the instant surge of fear and really imagine it. What would convince him to go back?
Nothing, his heart said exactly what he hadn't expected to hear. Nothing will convince me to go back. His frown crumbled deeper and he sighed, running a hand over his face.
"Your love of the cosmos is ingrained in your bones, I don't think God himself could change that," Arthur said while Alfred wrestled with his thoughts. "It certainly won't change if you decide to leave extraterrestrial exploration to the humans. If your limits only begin after you've thrown yourself careening through space for seven months at speeds unfathomable for most of human history, I dare say your limits are still far beyond that of your peers," Arthur told him, a measure of amusement in his voice. "One day I'm sure some new nation or space colony will pop up and they'll have limits that reach lightyears further out than yours, and what they explore will scare you shitless. It's not a matter of weakness or cowardice. Just a matter of age, and knowing where your heart truly belongs."
Alfred heaved a huge sigh, and scrubbed both hands through his hair.
"Sure," he said eventually, feeling lost, defeated, and fragile, but somehow relieved, like he'd finally vomited up the thing that'd been making him sick. "I guess."
"Good lad," Arthur said quietly, and the two fell into silence, listening to the crickets and the quiet tick-tocking of the grandfather clock nearby.
"Oh my god," Arthur burst a while later, making his son jump.
"What?"
"When was the last time you ate?" he demanded. Alfred blinked, acutely feeling the whiskey.
"Uh… well, I had some coffee around one o'clock…"
"Christ almighty, what am I—I gave you whiskey,"
"Hey, it's not my fault you didn't ask if I'd eaten,"
"And you downedtwo entire—" Arthur stood suddenly from his chair, the legs scraping loudly against the tiles. "I raised you better than to drink that much on an empty stomach—good god, you're as bad as I am! Honestly," he griped, frantically clearing away the bourbon and the tumbler.
"You're listening to yourself, right?" Alfred asked, glaring groggily over at his father while the older man threw open Matt's refrigerator, unwrapping the uneaten plate of leftovers and hurrying it to the microwave.
"Eat," Arthur ordered when it was ready, fussing in the grumpy, maternal sort of way Alfred had never experienced until well after he was fully grown. "Stars above, child, anyone would think you were raised by wolves."
Though he had over 1500 years of experience powering through exhaustion on nothing more than willpower and spite, by the time Arthur was finished fathering his eldest child whilst suffering from Atlantic-sized jetlag, he was entirely ready to turn in for the night. After finishing his dinner in a melancholic, drunken haze, Alfred had shuffled off to his room and shut the door, leaving Arthur to his own devices.
Long familiar with Matthew's home, the Englishman didn't need to be told where to find sheets and quilts for the sleeper sofa, so he worked as quietly as he could in assembling his space. He made the bed and fluffed the pillows, pulled the curtains, shut off the lights, and with a sigh he'd been holding in for thirty-six hours, pulled back the corner of the quilt.
"Dad?" said Alfred's voice. Arthur looked up, vision wavering because he was already falling asleep.
"Mmm wot's it, lad?" Arthur wasn't sure why, he always went a bit Yorkshire when he was tired. Alfred stood in the door of his bedroom, barely visible in the dark, dressed down to his boxers and a beat up band tee.
"...can I swap with you?" the man asked timidly. Arthur frowned, very much wanting to be unconscious.
"What?"
"It's." Alfred sighed, "it's stupid, I'm sorry, I don't mean to—I just—can I—can I sleep out there?"
"Alfred, it's nearly two in the morning… why don't you want to sleep in your own room?" Arthur couldn't keep the aggravation out of his voice.
"I know, I'm sorry, it's just—Dad, please?" Alfred did not beg, least of all to his father. Arthur ran a hand over his face.
"Fine, whatever, come on," he waved with a sigh and Alfred came over, looking embarrassed.
"Thanks," Alfred mumbled.
"Is something wrong with the bed?"
"What? No, no, it's actually a pretty new mattress, no one's slept in it since Matt made it up. I just. I don't know. Bad memories." That made Arthur frown, but his vision was still swimming as his brain tried to shut down for sleep, so he shook his head and shrugged.
"Goodnight," he bid, and trudged off towards the bedroom. It was not until he was in bed and switched off the bedside lamp that he realized why Alfred had wanted to swap. "Oh, Alfred," he whispered. Sighing, he hauled himself out of bed, now thoroughly lightheaded, and went back out through the living room and into the kitchen, ostensibly to fetch a glass of water. On his way back, he stopped by the fold-away bed, where Alfred was lying on his side looking at his phone, legs curled because they were too long for the bed.
"Did you know," Arthur whispered, and Alfred looked up at him, "when you were small, after you learned to write, the first thing you ever made for me was a map of Virginia?" The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the silence.
"What?" Alfred asked, confused as to Arthur's point.
"You said you measured it by looking at the stars," Arthur told him. "I didn't teach you how to do that. You'd figured it out yourself—I still have it, it's fairly accurate." Once more, Alfred responded with silence, confused expression dimly illuminated by the soft light of his phone.
"If you let them, all roads will lead you back home eventually," Arthur said, and in a moment of nostalgia, he bent down and tugged Alfred's head over for a kiss right on top. He did not linger to see Alfred's bewildered expression. "Sleep well, my boy."
He returned to Alfred's old bedroom and was asleep before his head hit the pillow, leaving no time for him to admire the meticulously painted, glow-in-the-dark portrait of the night sky on the ceiling above.
The days that followed were refreshingly dull. Alfred resumed bunking with his brother, and in hushed but relieved tones Matt shared with their father that Alfred was not only sleeping through the night without terrors, but that he'd actually slept in a few times, awoken only when Matt himself pulled himself out of bed.
"I'm not sure what you said to him," Matt confided one morning, after Alfred had taken his coffee out onto the porch to listen to the summer rainfall, "but I'm really glad you came."
"Oh, you know how he is," Arthur demurred, standing from his seat at the table to make another cup of tea. "Your brother has never enjoyed growing up. I'm just ancient enough to tell him he'll survive it. Do you want a cuppa, love?"
"No thanks," Matt replied, yawning. He glanced out the window at Alfred, who was swinging idly on the hanging bench and kicking his toes out past the porch rails into the rain. "I may go back to sleep."
"You certainly deserve it," Arthur agreed, and caught Matt with his gaze stuck on his brother. "Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on him." Matt returned to his bed, and Arthur took his tea out onto the porch. He spied Alfred's phone screen over his shoulder, and was surprised to find him scrolling through photos of space; the Earth's orbit, mars, old style space shuttles.
"Room for one more?" Arthur asked. Alfred quickly hid his phone, and scooted on the bench and stopped swinging so his father could sit down. They resumed swinging, gentler this time, and Alfred pocketed his phone to watch the rain fall. Knowing exactly how to get his son to speak up, Arthur began to sip his tea and act as though Alfred wasn't there.
"Dad," Alfred said, when the English silence became too much to bear,
"Hmm?"
"If I… I'm not saying I'm going to, but, if I were to go back out, eventually, when things are… better. If I were to go back out into space," Arthur couldn't help it when his heart dropped through his feet. "If something were to… happen, again. If it didn't turn out so well, please promise me you won't let Matt come after me."
Arthur was frozen for a moment, and then he put his foot down to slow the swing to a stop. Carefully, he set his tea a safe distance away on the ground, and angled himself towards Alfred with a serious, forced expression of calm.
"Alfred Jones," He began, and Alfred subconsciously began to lean away, "I do not know what kind of afterlife awaits the likes of you and I," he suddenly looked and sounded like the Empire of old, righteous anger and authority, "but I swear to almighty God, if you even dare, if you cost me two of my sons in one blow, I will follow you into hell and personally remind you why the devil and I both wear red." Alfred's eyes were large and his brows high, and Arthur glared at him several more seconds for good measure. Eventually, the elder man snapped his eyes away and collected himself, giving Alfred time to sit tensely with his own thoughts.
"And so," The Brit said, leaning down to pick up his tea once more so he could wring his hands around the mug, "the only way I can possibly promise you such a thing is to demand that you never let anything like that happen at all," He took a tense sip of his tea. A gust of wind drove some rain onto the deck, and the sound of the drops hitting the wooden railing filled the silence.
"I forget how dramatic you can be," Alfred said, and Arthur wanted to smack him. "But…" His shoulders relaxed. "Yeah. I… kinda figured you'd say that."
"Your brother loves you to the point of destruction, Alfred. I'm shocked the boy doesn't have more grey hair than he does." Alfred smiled halfheartedly.
"Yeah, I don't think he's gonna let me go home anytime soon." Alfred tested the ground, and Arthur pulled up his foot to allow the American to begin swinging the bench once more. "I love him too."
Soon enough, Arthur had no more excuses to offer his prime minister as to why he was phoning into morning meetings looking like he'd just woken up and was still lying in bed (he had and he was) or missed them entirely. After a particularly heated phone call with the assistant he'd not told about his unplanned trip to Canada, he ordered a cab to the airport and packed up his things.
In a time honored British tradition he'd been practicing for centuries, Arthur buried whatever heartfelt emotions gripped him over saying goodbye with demonstrative grumbling and fatherly remarks of "don't be daft" and "try not to die before I next see you," gave both of his sons precisely timed hugs, and waved his farewell.
Alone with each other once more, Matt and Alfred fell into a more comfortable pattern than before. Matt's therapist continued to visit, and soon reduced her visits from every week to every fortnight, and eventually, after a time that seemed instantaneous to an immortal nation but exhausting to a therapist, every month.
Alfred still struggled to go outside, especially at night. He'd learned to stay out past moonrise, but only if Matt was there beside him. Every night, he tried to stay out a little longer, clinging to Matt's arm as if it was his tether to the planet.
"They are beautiful," Alfred said suddenly one night, prompting Matt to look over at him, hand staying over his brother's. Alfred always gripped him at night, slowly relearning to trust the gravity that kept him home. "I didn't forget, but I kinda… forgot." Matt smiled.
"Yeah," He agreed. "You know, I do hope you get to see them up close again," he said quietly, giving Alfred's fingers a squeeze. "One day. When you're ready. It's how I know you're happy, when you get to see everything from up there." Alfred continued looking up at the sky, eyes tracing over constellations older than his memory.
"Maybe," He admitted. "But not past this," he leaned a bit more into Matt's shoulder, still looking up. "Not past home. I've… I've seen enough, I think. I'll stick to the orbit of Earth, from here on out." Taken by surprise, Matthew's eyes welled with tears, a restless part of his heart calming for the first time in three hundred years.
"Yeah, okay," he said quietly, looking up at the Milky Way. "Sounds good."