A/N: I set the goal for myself to have this story finished before Election Day. I've done that. Now, for any of you who are U.S. Citizens of voting age, and you haven't voted already, GO VOTE TOMORROW. The future of our democracy is in the balance, and Alfred is counting on you to keep him out of a redux of the worst years of his life.

July 1, 1867

Ottawa, Dominion of Canada

Arthur Kirkland was not someone Matthew would normally describe as "matronly" in any context, but he was someone who was used to wielding a considerable amount of control. Today, that need for control manifested itself by making him fuss like a newlywed Baroness hosting her in-laws for the first time.

"Ah, and the menu," Arthur snapped his fingers, drawing Matthew from his abstractions, "has it been finalized?"

"It was approved by Lady Monck this morning," he reported, waylaid behind Arthur as he ducked out of the way of a kitchen trolley. Arthur continued his march down the hall, and Matthew had to jog after him.

"You've seen it?" Arthur asked before Matthew was quite caught up.

"Yes, and before you ask, yes, it's all written in English—except for dessert." Arthur cast him a look.

"What's for dessert?"

"Dacquoise ganache et fraises." Arthur turned to him with a skeptical expression.

"Strawberries?" he asked.

"Yes, Lord Monck's chef has served it before to much acclaim."

"Hmm." The Empire soldiered on, looking down at his notes as they emerged into the dining room. "Oh," he said, suddenly remembering something. "You gave my notes to Mr. Martins regarding the seating chart didn't you? Councilman Bellecourt and Councilman Turnell had a falling out over–"

"Over cards last night, yes, I know, we've moved their seats away from each other."

"It's only–"

"See here," Matthew produced a chart and handed it to Arthur. "Mr. Bellecourt won't even be able to see Mr. Turnell, and Lady Renoult is a wonderful conversationalist, I'm sure he won't even think of cards."

"Good, good," Arthur scrubbed his hand over a non-existent beard, eying the chart. "Is it best to have Lord and Lady Monck seated thus? Is the table wide enough for two?"

"It was Lady Monck's idea." Matthew grinned. "If you must know, she and Lord Monck tested out the arrangements yesterday for practice."

"And what about this side here?" Arthur pointed, immune to Matthew's good cheer. "There's one more guest on this side than on ours. Surely such an imbalance will–"

"Arthur," Matthew cut in, gently putting both hands on Arthur's shoulders until the elder man looked up from his notes. "Everything's going to be fine."

Befuddled for a moment by Matthew's adamance, Arthur blinked away his worries and nodded. "Of course. Yes, I…" he glanced down at the seating chart. "Of course." Matthew dropped his hands from Arthur's shoulders and shifted from foot to foot.

"You're… you're not making a mistake, you know," Matthew said, fighting to meet Arthur's eye. "With all…" he gestured vaguely. "I can handle it. And dinner, too," he said. Arthur looked surprised by his sheepish confession.

"My dear boy," he reached out and took Matthew by the hand, and waited for the colony—no, Dominion—to meet his eye. "I could never have any doubts. I'm sorry for fussing."

"Angleterre, you would fuss if you were hosting tea with only yourself for company," Francis Bonnefoy, already dressed in an immaculate black silk brocade waistcoat and a brilliant blue tie, came sweeping into the room. "Pay him no mind, Mattieu, he will fuss until the day he drops dead."

"And wouldn't you like to see that," snapped Arthur, casting a glare back at his European critic.

"Non," Francis protested, putting a hand to his heart in feigned offense. "Tu es trop amusant pour taquiner."

"Get stuffed, Frog." This only made Francis grin.

"You mustn't speak like that at dinner tonight, mon cher, what will the ladies think?"

Matthew stood awkwardly aside while the two bickered like schoolchildren. He wondered if it had been a poor idea to invite Francis in the first place. He was undoubtedly the outsider here, surrounded on all sides by Englishmen and Canadian aristocrats—who were almost invariably English by birth. The Frenchman had made quite a splash on the Atlantic crossing, apparently, and had charmed (or seduced, Arthur's language had not been clear) half of the British contingent and made sworn enemies of the other half before they made port. Under which category Arthur classified himself, Matthew had no way of knowing.

In truth, he'd insisted on inviting Francis for wholly selfish reasons. Francis had raised him when he was very young, and still looked down on him because of this, always seeing him not as a man or a country, but as the infant he'd left on the banks of the Fleuve St. Laurent. Should Matthew's future hold any independent relations with France, he was determined to make clear well ahead of time that he was neither infantile nor guileless, and would not fall for Francis' Continental charms. Secretly, Matthew thought Arthur would be proud of him for exhibiting such foresight, but first he'd have to make sure the two Europeans didn't kill each other in his Governor General's dining hall.

"Can I help you with something, monsieur?" Matthew asked, managing an exasperated tone just sweet enough to be polite.

"Ah, yes," Francis tucked his flawless hair behind an ear and blinked away Arthur's insults. "I have come down to ask for fresh linens and a basin of water, to freshen up before dinner. I could not find a maid, and so, je suis ici."

"Oh," Matthew frowned at the air. "I'm terribly sorry about that, of course. Let me, um, I'll see to it and have it brought your room," Matthew said, and stepped away.

"As if you need any freshening up," Arthur drolled as Matthew retreated out of the room. "You're already primped and preened like a goddamned cockatoo."

"A flatterer, as always," Francis smiled at him, and Arthur scowled. Francis stepped out of the dining room into the long main hallway, and Arthur followed him.

"It does not hurt to look one's best in fresh company," Francis said. "It has been some time since I've been this side of the Atlantic, longer since I was this far north. It is far grander here than I had ever dared to hope, all those years ago." His tone was so wistful and humble that Arthur was genuinely caught off guard. "Mattieu has grown up well. You must be very proud."

"He's still young," Arthur demurred, for he would not be an Englishman if he took a compliment at face value, "but yes, he's done admirably." This made Francis chuckle, and Arthur took immediate offense. "What?" he demanded.

"Ça ne fait rien," Francis said. "Only… surely you would have noticed, mon ami, that Mattieu is now taller than us both?"

Arthur's eyes snapped to Matthew's retreating form. The american nation was near the end of the hall, now, ducking and apologizing his way past members of staff as they hurried to and fro, preparing for the evening's festivities. His face and figure looked unchanged from the many years Arthur had known him, but looking at him now… Christ, he was tall, wasn't he?

"I hadn't noticed," Arthur said at last, still staring as Matthew disappeared. Francis eyed him sidelong.

"I assure you, he has," he said, and kept his face poker-still when Arthur turned to glare. "He will not follow the path blazed by Alfred, never fear. I meant only that you've made the right choice at the right time. These American nations… they grow like weeds."

At this, Arthur finally breathed out a laugh. "That they do." A footman carrying a massive tray of tableware edged past them to get to the dining room. "Come," Arthur motioned his old friend, "we might as well wait in the gardens. This house is too damn small for so many staff in one day."

Once in the southeast lawn, the noise and bustle of the house faded away. In its place was the crunching of gravel on the path they walked, and the buzzing of bees coming to call at the garden's collection of flowers.

"Speaking of Alfred," Francis said after some time, "I don't suppose he ever responded to the invitation?" Francis knew all he needed to know when Arthur released a massive sigh.

"No," The Empire said, sounding exhausted. "I warned Matthew that he wouldn't, but he got his hopes up even before he posted the letter."

"They have always been close," Francis mused.

"And I've never discouraged it, no matter how irritating it can be. God knows this world has too few nations who get on well with their brothers. But Alfred is… well, he's Alfred." Arthur looked over at Francis, reining in his expression so he did not look as invested as he felt when he asked, "I don't suppose you've had any news of him?"

"Non," Francis replied, watching the trees up ahead sway and hiss under a strong summer breeze. "After Napoleon ordered troops from Mexico, I travelled to Louisiana, hoping to meet him there, but my intelligence that he would be in New Orleans was mistaken. Wherever he's gone, he's hidden himself skillfully, and deceived many people to cover his tracks."

"Matthew tells me he's out west, but refuses to say exactly where." Arthur scoffed. "He could be halfway to Russia by now for all I know. I understand his need to get away after—well, after everything, but this continent is so damn vast," Arthur complained. "He could be anywhere." Francis smiled.

"It is an incredibly American escape plan, you must give him that." One corner of Arthur's mouth twitched up into a smile. "Do not tell me you would not do the same thing, Angleterre. He learned his worst habits from you."

"Why you–" Arthur scowled, and then scoffed, completely missing how Francis' smile grew. "I haven't the time to catalog the ways you're mistaken. I would never run away from my responsibilities at such a time."

"Not on land, at least," France said meaningfully. "Seigneur Corsaire." England closed his mouth with a click, and France allowed himself a chuckle. He reached over and brushed the hair away from Arthur's right ear, poking at the lobe where a dimple remained from a centuries-old piercing. Arthur slapped his hand away.

"Get your hands off me," he groused.

"You should take up wearing it again," Francis said, still eyeing his ear. "The emerald one brought out your eyes beautifully, far better than that horrible tie." Arthur ignored the compliment and looked down at his dark green tie, and then back up at Francis.

"What's wrong with my tie?"

"Nothing, if you were dressing for a funeral."

"It's green, not black."

"It would be more fashionable if it were black. It clashes with your jacket enough to drive a man to tears. Borrow one of mine for tonight; I have a beautiful gold one that I think would suit you."

"I'm not wearing your gilded French finery, keep it to yourself."

"Please, mon amor, you and I both know that over half of your wardrobe comes from France."

"Casse-toi, you absolute trollop," Arthur said, and marched ahead.

Arthur's use of French took Francis so off guard that he burst out laughing, sending a cloud of startled chickadees fluttering from the rosebushes.

The ball that evening was a wonderful affair. Though small in venue and in guests, the mix of Canadian and English representatives—and one interloping Frenchman—made for lively conversation and livelier dancing, particularly after the staff distributed aperitifs in the ballroom. Lord and Lady Monck presided with smiles for all of their guests, and by dusk, even the more reluctant Englishmen seemed to be in good spirits. Though Rideau Hall was hardly big enough for a house party, let alone an actual ball, the space felt warm and airy like the best ballrooms on the Continent.

"It is your good influence here that must keep everyone so cheerful," Arthur said when Matthew found him in a rare, complimentary mood by the hors d'oeuvres. "Truly, I've never known a people as pleasant as yours. I'm very lucky to call you my brother."

Brother. Not 'little' brother, just brother. Matthew tried not to smile too wide as he walked away to speak with another of his guests. The entire gathering was, after all, in honor of Matthew and his new status as a Dominion. The celebration itself had been Lord Monck's idea, and while Matthew had assumed Arthur would be against it, instead he'd surprised everyone by insisting on attending in person. Unfortunately, the collection of diplomats and councilmen who'd crossed the Atlantic with him had balanced the evening's tone on the tightrope-thin union of jubilation and politics.

"Now my boy, you must learn how to be a good country for her majesty," one of Arthur's diplomats had decided to condescend to the nation at one edge of the ballroom. "I suppose we'll see what you're really made of now that you can't cling to Sir Kirkland's apron strings, now, won't we?"

"Don't worry," Matthew had smiled, the emotion never quite reaching his eyes. "I have three centuries of practice. Perhaps Sir Kirkland can regale you of the details."

Thankfully, such verbal sparring matches were largely unnecessary, and he received more congratulations and well wishes than he did insults.

The pre-dinner dancing was relatively short lived, and soon the party was called into the dining room for dinner. Lord and Lady Monck took their seats at the head of the table, while Arthur, Matthew, and Francis took the seats of honor on the less-crowded side. As they sat, Arthur caught Matthew looking longingly towards the wine trolley sitting at one end of the room. It was only when Arthur saw the spare table setting sitting therethat he realized why. The spare name card was turned away, but Arthur knew what it said.

"Come now," he said, giving Matthew's arm a pat. "You know you will celebrate with him later. I'm sure his next letter will be thick as a book with purple prose." This made Matthew smile, and he nodded an unspoken apology to Arthur. Then, he did a double take and frowned.

"Is that new?" he said, indicating Arthur's fashionable golden tie. "The color suits you." Arthur scoffed and looked away. His face seemed pinker than before; the yellow tones in the tie highlighted the fact.

"Yes, I seemed to have spilt cigar ash on the other one."

"Oh, that's too bad. Do let me know if you'd like to have our launderess see to it." On Matthew's opposite side, Francis grinned to himself but said nothing.

Dinner commenced to great acclaim, and even Francis, ever the food critic, did not seem to have anything poor to say as they moved from soup to appetizer to salad. They were just beginning to set out the main course when Mr. Martins, Matthew's ever-faithful butler who'd travelled down for the occasion, stepped quietly into the room, eyes urgent as he spoke with the lead footman. The footman nodded and allowed Mr. Martins to pass. Careful to not interrupt the table staff, he stepped up to Matthew's elbow and bent low to whisper in his ear,

"For you, sir," and hand him a slip of folded paper. Matthew looked up at the man questioningly, but the butler only smiled and melted into the background as men of his profession were trained to do. Matthew read the note, and his eyes shot wide. He turned around to look at Martins.

"Right now?"

"Yes, sir. At the garden door." Matthew looked down at his plate and rushed to fold up his napkin as politely as he could before practically launching out of his chair.

"Thank you Martins–um, my apologies, Lord Monck, Lady Monck, um, I'll… please continue, I just need to, um, I'll return shortly," He said, and nearly tripped as he extricated himself from his seat. As their honored guest left the room in a rush with his butler following closely behind, the dinner party waited in confused silence until Lord Monck smiled and wished them to enjoy their meal. While the aristocrats tucked into the roast duck, Francis' eye drifted over Matthew's seat and noticed he'd dropped the note in his haste. Careful not to draw attention, he plucked up the paper to read it. Arthur saw him.

"Well?" the Englishman asked quietly. Francis's eyebrows shot towards the sky, and when he met Arthur's eyes, his were alight with surprise.

"Amerique," he said.

"God, this was a bad idea," Alfred said to himself, right arm gripping his left sleeve awkwardly as he looked around the darkened estate. He could hear activity and chatter coming from inside, and the windows were alight with the warm glow of oil lamps and candles. It was not a massive estate, certainly, but compared to the prairies and mountain ranges Alfred had called home for the last two years, it was a castle. There were too many lamps here, too many roads, too many people. "It's probably half over already," he grumbled under his breath.

A sudden noise made him turn around to see if anyone was watching him, but it turned out to be just a horse and buggy some ways down the hill, clopping along the paving stones. He watched them pass to make sure they did not see him.

A much louder noise made him whirl back around, this time to an open door and a person silhouetted by the light inside. Matthew stared at him in silence, mouth open but not moving. With every passing heartbeat, the quiet grew more and more awkward, and Alfred grew more and more desperate to put himself out of his misery.

"I'm sorry," was the first thing he said. "I know it's really late, I'm not trying to be rude, honest. I got your letter kinda late—I wasn't in town until… well anyway," he rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at his shoes—Christ, his shoes looked horrible, scuffed and dusty. "It's a long train ride over here, and I came as fast as I could, but, obviously I'm running a little late, and–"

There were two quick thumps as Matthew's feet found the steps, and then suddenly Alfred was pinned in place by the fiercest hug he'd had in nearly a decade.

"You're here," Matthew said, breath stirring the hair by Alfred's ear. "Oh my God, Al, you're here. You came." Frozen by the overwhelming sensation of a hug, it took a moment before Al's arms remembered was to do. He reached around Matthew's middle to hug him tight.

"Of course I came," Alfred fought his chin up to escape the smothering lapel of Matthew's dinner jacket so he could talk. "I wasn't going to miss it. I'm sorry I'm so late."

"You're not late, not at all," Matthew pulled away, and didn't hide it when he had to wipe at his eyes. "Come, come inside. We're having dinner, I'll have Mr. Martins set out your plate." Matthew tugged on his twin's sleeve and practically dragged the other nation through the door.

"You really don't have to, I'll be fine," Alfred protested, "I just came to see you. I'm hardly presentable for dinner, I'm filthy. I can't meet your Governor like this."

"Then let's get you changed. Arthur and Francis will be so happy to see you!"

"Arthur and Francis are here?" Alfred panicked. Matthew only pulled him upstairs and down the hall. Once in the quiet of Matthew's bedroom, he threw open the doors of the wardrobe.

"Right, I didn't bring over that many outfits, but these should get us through the night."

"Mattie, I can't wear your clothes," Al said sheepishly.

"It's no problem, Al, really, I'm just so happy you're here," Matthew flashed a grin at him and resumed browsing. "This one's a little warm for July, but I think it would look grand on you."

"No, Mattie, I…" Alfred sighed frustratedly, annoyed that he had to spell it out. "I can't wear your clothes. They're too big for me." Matt stopped what he was doing and turned to his brother in confusion.

"No they're not," he said, as if the idea were absurd. "You've been the same size as me for the last thirty years."

"Yes, well, thirty years ago I hadn't just survived a goddamn civil war now, had I?" Alfred snapped, with far more venom than he'd intended. Matthew looked shocked, and then he blushed. When he started to look up and down Alfred's slight frame more critically, Alfred looked away. "I'm sorry, Mattie, I shouldn't have shouted. I just… I'm smaller now, is all. Still trying to gain back some weight. It's not… it's taking a while. If I put on your shirts, I'll look like I'm drowning," he forced a half grin, trying to regain some levity.

Matthew pursed his lips, glancing at Alfred's shoulders and waist. "Wait here," he said. He left and returned shortly with a footman's suit, rows of brass buttons and all.

"Put this on," Matthew instructed, "quickly, dinner will be cold."

They dressed him in the footman's trousers and shirt and one of Matthew's favorite ivory waistcoat. They'd had to cinch the back so tightly to fit that the edge was comically ruffled. Thankfully the trouble was hidden once Alfred donned the footman's jacket. Matthew topped off the hastily-drafted ensemble with a dashing sapphire tie. While Matthew straightened the knot, Alfred caught his reflection in the mirror over Matthew's shoulder. He certainly looked better now than he had ten minutes ago, but the dark circles under his eyes remained, as did the sunken hollows of his cheeks and the bony juts of his shoulders. And not even such a dashing collar and tie could conceal the skinniness of his neck.

"I look like death was warmed up and rolled into a suit," Al said hopelessly. "I can't see Arthur and Francis like this."

"They'll be happy to see you alive, Al," Matthew told him, finishing off the tie and giving it a pat. "They've been asking after you constantly. They've been worried for you, as have I."

"Worried," Alfred scoffed. "Worried because I didn't roll over and die for the sake of King Cotton, are they?" Matthew smacked Alfred lightly in the stomach.

"Stop it. That's not true, and you know it." Matthew's annoyance transformed into concern when Alfred remained bent over his stomach where Matthew had hit him and a quiet groan escaped him. "Sorry," Matthew said. "I didn't think you were still, that is, I shouldn't have–"

"It's alright," Alfred said, voice thin as he straightened. "It happens."

"Come on," Matthew said once Alfred had recovered. He grasped him gently by the arm and threaded it through his own. "Let's get you some food."

Seeing Alfred Jones in the flesh was akin to an out of body experience for both Francis and Arthur. Matthew had returned, grinning like the sun, before Mr. Martins introduced their new guest and Alfred came through the door, looking completely unlike himself.

Jesus Mary and Joseph, he's skin and bones, was Arthur's first thought, and his second, he looks like he's seen a ghost—or a hundred thousand of them.

Still, Alfred was all smiles and polite nods as he said hello to the patrons of Rideau Hall and apologized for his late arrival. He was even smiling when he acknowledged Francis and Arthur, but said little by way of greeting before he was seated down to eat.

They'd made room for Alfred's table setting to Matthew's left, leaving Francis on Alfred's left side, separated from Arthur by both twins. The Frenchman suspected he would have much to discuss with Arthur by the time the meal was over.

It was obvious that Alfred's manners were out of practice, but he was making a valiant effort to model well-bred gentility. It was, however, equally obvious that he was starving. He arrived over halfway through the main course and began his meal as others were nearly finished, but by the time the wait staff arrived to clear the table, Alfred's plate was wiped clean. His furtive looks to and fro, Francis suspected, were efforts to locate more food. While they waited for dessert, the elder nation decided to distract him.

"You are a difficult man to track down, Amerique," he tried to ignore it when Alfred looked startled upon being spoken to. "I had it on good authority you were in La Nouvelle Orléans last spring, and thought to find you and ask you to coffee, only to find my best informants were mistaken." Alfred gave a shy smile.

"Oh, no, I was uh… I haven't been down there in quite a while," he said. It was only after this that Francis realized New Orleans had been a city hotly embroiled in the war—and the aftermath. He mentally kicked himself.

"As I say, you've been quite elusive. I've missed you, Alfred." Such an admission made Alfred duck his head, as if confused by such a notion. France watched him a moment more before asking, "how are you, mon bon ami?"

"I'm…" Alfred began, staring into the middle distance with a lost sort of ferocity that France recognized from the years following his own bloody revolution. "I'm… doing better than I was," He said carefully, and looked back to Francis. The elder man smiled softly, sadly.

"Bien," he whispered, and could not resist reaching out and taking Alfred by the hand, giving it a squeeze. "Le monde célèbre avec toi."

After dessert, the party moved back to the dance floor. The musicians struck a slower tone than before, inviting partners to waltz leisurely about the room as wine flowed amongst those who found the sidelines better suited to digestion. Alfred clung to the edge of the room, determined to survive the evening without dancing or drawing undo attention to himself.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he jumped violently, nearly spilling his drink.

"Terribly sorry," said a voice, which was nearly as triggering as the touch. He turned to face Arthur Kirkland, who gave him a smile. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"Arthur," Alfred acknowledged cagedly, not sure where this encounter would go. Arthur looked almost hurt.

"It's good to see you again," he said, and Alfred remained silent. Arthur sighed. "Truly, Alfred, do you think so little of me to not believe me when I say I was concerned for you?"

"Your shipbuilders seemed to think quite differently," Alfred replied immediately. "As did your gentry." Arthur cleared his throat and glanced around, glad to find none of his countrymen eavesdropping.

"Surely you know by now the vast differences of opinion that can exist between a Nation and their Government," Arthur said, fighting to sound patient. "I cannot apologize for either my gentry or my shipbuilders, for their actions and beliefs are their own, but likewise, they cannot dispute my own sentiments. I've been worried for you. It does my old heart good to see you again."

"Bet you like what you see," Alfred quipped, unwilling to let go of his bitterness. "Weaker than ever, smaller than ever, I bet you're thinking how you could break me in half. Well it's not going to happen." Arthur was only half-listening to Alfred's little speech, because he was busy considering how despite his emaciated frame and sunken eyes, Alfred had grown taller in the last few years, and was now several centimeters taller than Arthur. "I'm not going to just disappear because you Europeans never figured out how to grow your own damn cotton," Alfred was saying.

"I should hope not," Arthur said eventually, tone slipping into the well-worn ruts of their mutual rivalry. He knew Alfred would find it more comfortable than hearing of how Arthur had been wringing his hands over Alfred's fate for the last five years, and anyway, Alfred's attitude was beginning to grate on Arthur's nerves. Swallowing his feelings with expertise, Arthur quirked an eyebrow and said, "The world would be a far less interesting place without lunatics like you to stir the pot. Had we transatlantic wires these last several years, I would have had several choice things to say to your Dear Southern Friend. Chief among them would be to not bother with you, as you're really not worth the trouble." Alfred scoffed, and the sound was as close to a laugh as Arthur had heard from him all evening.

"A lot of trouble for nothing," Alfred agreed, shaking his head.

"Not nothing," Arthur corrected him. "Even civil wars are never for nothing. It's your job to find out what it was for. First, though, you ought to have another glass of wine." Arthur tapped the wine stem in Alfred's hands, which he'd left largely untouched.

"Why?" the younger man wanted to know.

"Because if you do not start making a dent, your brother will have your share, and he's inherited the Frog's habit of turning into an overly-affectionate drunk."

At that, Alfred actually did laugh, and Arthur counted it as a victory.

Alfred snuck out of the ballroom shortly after midnight, when most of the partygoers were too sleepy or tipsy to notice his absence. He went up to Matthew's room and changed back into his traveling clothes. Careful not to wrinkle them any more than they already were, he folded his borrowed outfit and placed it into a neat square on Matthew's bed. He patted his pockets to make sure he had all of his personal effects, and then dug out a small box, which he placed atop the folded clothes.

"Happy birthday, Mattie," he whispered, and turned to the door.

Matthew opened the door and froze.

"What–" He realized that Alfred was fully dressed for the outdoors, and panicked. "Where are you going? You're not leaving, are you?" Alfred looked apologetic.

"I can't stay, Mattie." The words registered to the northern twin like a physical blow, and in the dim lamplight his eyes shone with emotion.

"What? Why? You've only just arrived here, I haven't seen you in years, none of us have, and now you're just going to, to leave? Is it something I've done?" He needed to know.

"What? No, no, it's not you, truly. It's not even Francis, or rotten old Arthur." Matthew crossed his arms, determined to ignore the slight. "It's just…" Alfred wore a pained expression, gesturing futilely to the world around him in an attempt to measure the invisible weight of years. "I'm not ready," he said helplessly. "I thought I was, but I was wrong. I'm sorry, Matt. I need to go home. Or as close to home as I can get."

Matthew didn't say anything in return. Instead, he stepped fully into the room and shut the door quietly behind him. After a moment more, he went over to Alfred and, without asking, wrapped the other in his arms. Alfred melted into the embrace, and reached around to cling to his twin with a fervor, knowing it would be a long time before they did this again.

"I'm so glad you came," Matthew said thickly. "I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you too, Mattie," Alfred said, suddenly fighting tears. "You have no idea." They stood there in silence for a while, listening to each other's breathing, memorizing the sound of each other's heartbeats.

"You'll write?" Matthew asked.

"Of course I will. And I'll be sure to tell you where to send your letters."

"Still avoiding Washington, then." Alfred heaved an exhausted sigh, and did not answer. Matthew pet his hair in apology. "It's going to be okay, Al. I promise you. It's going to be okay."

Alfred dug his face into his brother's shoulder and quietly wept, just for a moment. When the moment passed, he pulled away and sniffed. He looked behind him and found the small box he'd been intending to leave for Matthew to find later.

"Here," he said. "I know it's not much, but it's not every day you get so celebrate your brother's new birthday."

"It's not my birthday," Matthew rolled his eyes, even if he secretly liked the idea.

"Mattie, come on, it's practically your independence day."

"Al!" Mattie hissed back, "I'm not independent." Alfred chuckled at his scandalized expression.

"Well maybe you should be," he tossed the box and Matthew was forced to catch it with one hand. He glanced at it, and with another look at Al, opened it. The was a small note on top that read:

Happy Birthday, Mattie! Three days before mine, but I'm still older than you. Here's to your newfound freedoms and here's to may more in the future.

"You're not older than me," Matthew reminded him. "We're the same age, you dolt."

"Semantics," Alfred shrugged. Matthew shook his head and unwrapped the gift underneath. He gasped.

"Oh," he said, pulling it from its case. "Alfred, this is beautiful." It was a shining silver pocket watch with mother-of-pearl and gold inlays on the front in the shape of many tiny, immaculate flower blossoms. "Where did you get this? It's incredible."

"San Francisco is really turning into something, not like anything here out east," Alfred said, a measure of pride in his voice. "I met a clockmaker who moved there from Japan—all of his stuff is like that, and better! You'll have to come see for yourself sometime."

"I will," Matthew said, turning the watch over in his hands. He opened the front cover and found an equally stunning clock face of mother-of-pearl and crisp gold arms. On the interior of the lid, there was an engraving: Tendit in ardua virtus. "Virtue strives for that which is difficult," Matthew translated, and eyed Alfred. "You're quoting Ovid at me, now?" Alfred shrugged, wearing a knowing smile.

"Just thought I should remind you that 'Dominion' doesn't have to be the end of the road."

"You're unbelievable," Matthew scoffed, shaking his head and smiling. He clicked the lid closed. "Don't hold your breath," he said, and reached out to hug Alfred once more. "But believe me, if it ever happens, you'll be the first to know." He could feel Alfred smiling against his neck. Too soon, they pulled apart.

"Let me walk you to the train station," he said on impulse.

"At this time of night? And leave all your guests? No, Mattie, I'll be fine, really."

"Well at least let me have Mr. Martins bring the coach, and pack you some food for the morning. Please, Al. As a thank you for your gift." Alfred had to admit, an extra helping of food did sound good.

Once the coach was set up and Alfred bundled into the car, Matthew stood outside the window while Alfred leaned out to say their last goodbyes.

"I've had the kitchens pack you enough food to get you through to your next transfer," Matthew said, heaving a large cloth-wrapped bundle through the window. "Try not to eat it all at once," he teased. "And while I don't have anything as extravagant as a watch, I heard you were missing these." Matthew handed Alfred a small waxed-paper bag, which he opened. It was full to the brim with huckleberry candies. He looked up to Matthew, astonished.

"They aren't from Chicago," he amended. "But they are from my house by the lake. I hope they'll remind you of what home really is." Alfred felt himself growing misty-eyed, and fought the feeling.

"Thanks, Mattie."

Matthew reached up and grabbed Alfred's face so he could bring it down to kiss him on the forehead. "Happy Birthday, Al. I'll miss you."

"I'll be back before you know it," Alfred winked, and ducked into the carriage. Matthew watched them pull away, and waved goodbye at the retreating car as it rumbled quietly down the long driveway.

"Mattie!" Alfred leaned out the carriage door to shout back, and Matthew was suddenly very glad that no one was awake to hear his brother when he next said with a beaming smile, "remember to tell Arthur that he still owes me a shit ton of money!"

finis

Translations:

Dacquoise ganache et fraises = Dacquoise cake with chocolate ganache and strawberries. Dacquoise cake is a layered cake often made with chocolate ganache and hazelnuts—fun fact, ganache was invented just a few years before this, around 1850.

Tu es trop amusant pour taquiner = you are too fun to tease

Fleuve St. Laurent = St. Lawrence River, one of the primary waterways connecting inner parts of Canada to the Atlantic.

Je suis ici = Here I am

Ça ne fait rien = never mind / it does not matter

Seigneur Corsaire = "Lord Privateer". We all know Pirate Arthur was Peak Arthur, and Francis knows it, too.

Casse-toi = A very rude french phrase that basically means "fuck off".

Le monde célèbre avec toi = The world celebrates with you.

Historical Notes:

1. Rideau House is the official residence of the Governor General of Canada. Originally constructed as a private residence by Thomas McKay for him and his family, the estate was leased from the McKay family by the Canaian government as a temporary residence for their viceroy until a permanent residence could be built, but later on, the government decided to purchase the property outright and renovate it instead of building afresh. It was originally noted to be an exceptionally small home for a state residence (it was not actually that small, only small by British aristocratic standards), but has since been added on to multiple times, the first significant expansion having been done by Lord Monck in 1865.

2. Mr. Bellecourt, Mr. Turnell, and Lady Renault are all characters of my own imagination, and are not historical. The 'Councilmen' referred to here are meant to be the Queens Privy Council, an advisory body to the viceroy of Canada.

3. In case it was not clear, they are here of course celebrating the first Dominion Day, now called Canada Day, which celebrates the confederation of Canada in 1867. The act of union enacted in that year united the Province of Canada (thereafter divided into Ontario and Quebec) with Nova Scotia and New Brunswick into the Dominion of Canada, which became an autonomous Dominion of the British Empire. (Other provinces which re now parts of Canada would join the confederation in later years.) This Act was the single most important step towards Canadian independence until the middle of the 20th century, when Canada would reach full sovereignty after the decline of the British Empire in the wake of World War II.

4. Francis' references to Napoleon's withdrawal of troops from Mexico is a reference to the fact that shortly after the American Civil War ended, France abandoned their visions for a European monarchy in Mexico, mostly because of how sternly the United States (thought technically neutral) disapproved of the goings-on. Essentially, Napoleon was willing to trade in his vision for a French-ruled Mexico in exchange for a positive relationship with the newly-victorious United States.

5. As mentioned in the last chapter, the third and most successful transatlantic cable was laid and put into operation in 1866, so by this time in the story, the boys have had reliable transatlantic telegram service for about a year.

6. Large numbers of Japanese immigrants would not arrive in San Francisco for a few more years, the first large boats arriving in 1869. However, I theorize that maybe there were one or two who'd made the trip already, and Alfred stumbled upon him when he went to visit the city.

7. Tends in ardua virus is a quote from Ovid's Epistulae ex Ponto.