At some point in the late 1800s:
It was not Christmas but there was a Christmas tree in the Alfred's parlor. They had brought gifts and the aroma of canned apples and cinnamon was drifting out of the kitchen. They were all together. This was their Christmas.
At the moment, Mathew sat at the window sipping hot mulled cider. He watched as snow gently fell down outside. The sky was so clear, and the moon was so full that the moonlight was gave everything a sheen of silver. It looked so very peaceful outside. The view was like a siren call to him. It was nothing like being inside.
Alfred entered the room humming Christmas carols with a box of matches. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he lit a match and brought it to the first candle on the tree. The flames illuminated the surrounding ornaments. The tree was rather pretty and far more humbly decorated than he had expected. Given Alfred's recent obsession with his American made glass baubles, Mathew was surprised to see strings of holly berries and beads hanging from the branches. By the time he was done, the tree was nearly as bright as the fire.
Mathew brought his mug down, unveiling a worried frown. "Isn't that a little much?"
Alfred laughed and winked at him over his shoulder. "Jealous?"
"No, concerned."
Alfred smiled like Mathew was the insane one for doubting him. Which did absolutely nothing to assuage Mathew's fears. "Don't worry about it. I know all about these things."
"Wasn't your first Christmas tree only a few years ago?"
"And I'm already an expert," he declared with a grin that still failed to reassure him or anyone with a working brain.
A knock interrupted Mathew's continued objections. Alfred opened the door so quickly that it nearly crashed into Arthur. In his haste to get out of the way Arthur dropped most of the boxes he was carrying. "Merry Christmas," Alfred all but shouted.
"AH yes, Happy Christmas," Arthur answered. Then the realization that Alfred had caused the mess scattered around him descended. His face began to turn red in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. "Are you going to stand there or are you going to help me with these?"
"Geez Artie calm down. I've got it." Alfred began to pick up the boxes throwing them up into his arms.
"Careful!" Arthur snatched the closest box from Alfred and clutched it to his chest.
"What's even in these things?"
"What do you think," England snapped. "Presents and treat of course. Now will you let me through?"
Francis stuck his head out of the kitchen and peered around the doorway. His eyes widened. "No, Arthur tell me you did not bring those awful things you call scones."
"So, what if I did?" Mathew looked at Francis and then at Arthur's darkening face. Alfred's grin widened. He set the boxes around the tree and moved to perch on a chair by Mathew.
"No," Francis declared while he slammed the kitchen door shut. "I will not let those things into my kitchen."
"Just what is that supposed to mean?" Without pausing to even consider an alternative to screeching Arthur charged after him. Mathew could feel his upcoming headache building and they hadn't even gotten through the hellos. "And it's not your kitchen!"
"I am cooking in it," Francis shouted back. Arthur began to kick the door. "If you do not stop trying to break in here, I am keeping your gift."
Arthur paused his assault. "You got me a gift?"
There was a lone pause. Not a single sound came from the kitchen, not even the scrape of a spoon. Mathew could picture the look on Francis' face while he debated his strategy and eventually chose the same path he always did. "Yes!"
"Liar!"
"I will not let you ruin this holiday with your so called cooking." The locked door did not stop Arthur and Francis from exchanging increasingly elaborate insults. EventuallyEngland spun away from the door muttering. "Alfred! Where's your liquor cabinet?"
"The kitchen." Arthur's gritted his teeth and released his breath in a long slow hiss.
"I have some in my suitcase," Mathew offered. Arthur nodded. "It's the first room on the right."
Once Arthur had gone, Mathew turned to Alfred. He was still grinning. "You couldn't have intervened?"
"You're the one that offered the alcohol."
Mathew frowned at him. "Not that. The argument."
"Oh that." Alfred lounged back into his seat. He looked like a cat savoring each bite of a canary dipped in cream. "Nah, it would ruin the holidays."
Mathew stared down at his cider. Sometimes he really just wanted to throttle his brother. He took a deep breath and forced himself to be nice. "Most would say that it would save it."
Alfred tilted his head. "Nah, they've done this forever. It's practically tradition." Mathew sighed and looked back out the window. After only a minute Alfred's reflection appeared in the glass. "Speaking of tradition, when are you going to make a break for it?"
He glared at his brother's reflection. "I'm not going to make a break for it."
Alfred met his gaze and winked. "Sure, you are."
"I'm not." Probably. Maybe. It was hard to resist the snow when it looked like that and everyone else was being…well there were a lot of things Mathew could say about his family and it all boiled down to the fact that they were much more enjoyable to be around when it was not a holiday. Or in this case, pretending that it was a holiday.
"Oh, I believe you. You would never wander off into the middle of the night. You hate the cold and the snow. It's a good thing your lands are all tropical or you'd probably die otherwise."
"Oh, shove off." Alfred grinned and backed away. He turned to the corner of the room and started up his phonograph. Mathew recognized the tune. He'd told Alfred he liked it months ago. He shot a look at his smug brother and tried to stay at least a little bit mad.
Mathew's liquor was quickly disappearing down Arthur's throat and reappearing on his cheeks as a dark red flush. Alfred had made some sort of game out of his drinking and tossed back popped chestnuts at ques known only to him. He tried to get Mathew to join in, but he's never been into Arthur-Is-Drinking games.
The door cracked open. A dishtowel forced its way out of the narrow opening. It waved haltingly. Mathew knows it's as desperate to attract his gaze as it is to avoid anyone else's. Maybe if Alfred and Arthur weren't in the room together, the ruse wouldn't work but as it is Mathew is practically forgotten in his corner.
Francis quickly shut the door behind Mathew and moved a chair under the doorknob. Then he swept Mathew into his arms regardless of whether he wanted to be there or not. He did want to be there. He loves Francis' hugs. They're always warm, if a little bony. He smells really good too, like baking bread and rose perfume. It's just that he's not a child and would like to be asked about Francis' affectionate displays.
"Mathieu," he crooned, "chop the onions for me." He's not asking, he's never asked, but Mathew has never refused him. They are forever drawn into the kitchen together. It's beyond tradition at this point. It's the way they exist together.
Francis leaned against the counter as Mathew wielded the knife. Each chop was accompanied by a chorus of Francis' thoughts. He talked about the trip here, 'far too long and too cold', the wine he's sipping, 'spilling a single drop of it would be a crime', and as always Mathew's hair, 'nearly as beautiful as my own.'
Francis ran his hands through Mathew's hair when he finished. Mathew obediently tipped his head forward to allow him more room and to hide his smile. It felt marvelous. All too soon, Francis hands him a glass of his heavenly wine as a reward for his cooperation and shoos him out. He refused to risk Arthur noticing his absence and launching another attack on the door.
He managed to catch only a glimpse of a secret. Alfred's was head leaning against Arthur's knee as they talked. They move away so from each other so fast Mathew felt the need to roll his eyes like a he needs to tell his heart to beat, it's not even a conscious thought so much as it is an unstoppable fact of life. He knows that Alfred actually likes Arthur and that it goes both ways. He's known it or years, even before they both knew it. It's honestly embarrassing that there has to be this much alcohol involved in their relationship.
Mathew returned to his seat at the window without to comment. His cider has long been finished but he held the cup simply to have something to hold.
In time, Francis brought out the first finished dish with Alfred's largest carving knife in his hands like he expected to have to defend his work from Arthur's sabotage. Arthur probably can't even stand straight but Francis still eyed him suspiciously as he sets the dish out.
After the table is fully loaded, they manage to find their seats without incident.
The peace doesn't last much longer than when they pick up the silverware. It shatters over cranberries. Mathew didn't catch who said what but soon insults are flying with bread rolls.
It's a victory for Alfred. The dinner argument bet is the only thing Mathew indulges his brother in every year. It takes an immense amount of knowledge of English and French cooking trends and even more luck to win. This year narrows Mathew's lead down to two, a lead he's sure he'll soon loose. The bet's very nature makes it impossible to keep.
His victory brings him very little satisfaction in the moment. All too soon a twinge of pain shoots through Mathew's temple. He massaged them vainly. He's not sure how much more of this he can take, even though he'd hate to prove Alfred's accusations correct. Alfred is always flinging around wild accusations but there's something particularly terrible about them when he's right, especially when they both know he's right.
Arthur's voice hits that particular high note that terrifies dogs for the first time that night and Francis discarded all English in retaliation. It doesn't matter to him that Arthur can still understand him, that's the best part of the insult in Francis' opinion. Alfred pouted and whined to hide how he's still drinking in every insult. It's all getting to be too much and now the smoke was starting to sting Mathew's eyes.
Mathew turned to stare wistfully out the window…and words tangled with his tongue. He choked on his alarm. There were growing flames reflecting off the broken glass half hidden beneath the tree. The candles little flames have snuck away from the wicks. They engulfed the tree's needles and raced towards the drapes.
Mathew's knees hit the table as he jumps up. "Mathew," Arthur yelled without thought, "where are your manners." Mathew jabbed his hand towards the burning tree.
"Oh Fuck!" Alfred's laughter dies as he turned to see where Mathew's manners are. He instantly lunged across the table. Not that he can smother the flames with his hands, it's far too late for that.
Arthur and Francis were far more taken back by having their argument bodily interrupted than the drapes going up in flames.
One of them screamed. Maybe at the other, maybe in fear, does it even matter?
France tossed his precious wine at the rising flames.
"Are you kidding me," Mathew yelled.
"Oh, it's not too bad," Arthur said.
Francis made a sound between a screech and a laugh. "Are you comparing it to when your city was on fire to the last time you cooked?"
"Now see here," Arthur hissed holding his finger threateningly.
"Priorities!"
"Yes, this is hardly the time to bring up such things Francis. Not that you've ever had a sense of-"
"I got it," Alfred yelled while throwing a bucket of water on it. The fire climbed further up the wall. His ever-present grin faltered. "You know on second thought… maybe we should just go."
Alfred tossed Arthur over his shoulder. Mathew pulled Francis after them. They ran outside. When they were far enough away from the flames not to get burned nor freeze from the cold, they turned around. Alfred loosened his hold on Arthur and let him fall into a mound of snow.
The look Arthur shot him could almost be considered not angry, a true sign of his sympathy for the burning husk the house will soon be. Meanwhile, Francis tried to frantically scrape soot off his clothes. Alfred began to shiver.
The fire popped and crackled as it consumed the house. "Well, there goes everything," Arthur said while glaring at the flames like that alone would quench them.
"Oh, it's alright. It's just stuff. I'll get a replacement." Alfred laughed weakly and rubbed his arms. "I am sorry about the gifts though. I mean Francis even brought one for Arthur."
Francis snorts. "I did not."
"I knew it!" Arthur plunged his hands into the snow, flung it at Francis' face, and then threw himself at him. The screaming and howling started immediately afterwards. Alfred's teeth chattered as he shot a smug look at Mathew, who couldn't even summon up enough surprise to be either angry or disappointed.
"You know this might be my favorite Christmas yet." A gust of wind blew a thin veil of snow at Alfred. He yelped and clutched at his arms. "No! Fuck! That's cold. Oh my god. I'm going to get the sleigh and get somewhere warm. Anywhere warm."
Mathew sighed. He let go. All the stress, all the tension he had been holding while he waited for everything to fall apart; it all melted away. He collapsed onto the ground. His eyes slipped closed. He heard the crunch of the snow under Alfred's boots and felt the cold seep into him. He hummed happily and began sweeping his limbs through the snow.
There was a crashing sound as something in Alfred's house collapsed.
The horse whinnied as Alfred returned. Arthur and Francis were sitting glumly side by side, both of them covered by the dirty wet slush they had created with their fighting. "Hey you two, sleigh's ready." Mathew opened his eyes slowly. Alfred stood above him. His grin had returned; softer, fonder, and for once genuine. "I knew you'd do this."
Mathew threw a handful of snow in his face. He laughed as his brother shivered. "Merry Christmas, Al."
AN: The 1st White House Christmas tree was in 1889.
I had meant to get this out last year but it didn't happen. So this is kind of an overdue and yet on time Happy Holidays fice.
PS: The Christmas tree decorations are period accurate for like the Victorian era. I used to do Civil War Reenactments and we had member of our group that did a bunch of research. They also took milkweed pods and made them into adorable little birds.