Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or Elf the movie. Or the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. Or Pinterest. Or Toca the Italian Restaurant. Or Marvel. Or Disney's Buzz Lightyear merchandise.

Warning: Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). To someone of another culture/country/ethnicity you and yours look identical. Medieval toilets. Indo European Languages vs. Non Indo European Languages. Some angst! Canada vs. America. Anxiety attack. Some fluff.

AN: Hey! Glad to see so many back for this fic! Thank you for your reviews! I love seeing what you guys have to say : D

Chapter 2: Like A Bloody Lobster

Alfred felt sweat drip down the back of his shirt, beneath the layers, as he felt a great many eyes burn through him.

He swallowed and flashed them a smile before he turned back to his parent.

"Hey Dad?" He gave the man's shoulder a harder shake.

Nothing.

"Daaaaad?" He increased his voice to a high, nasally pitch that tended to irritate the old man during G8 meetings.

It didn't disappoint.

Arthur frowned and cracked open an eye.

"H-hey!" Alfred chirped.

"Wot?" the Briton grumbled.

Alfred kept a grin plastered across his face. "It's uh...time to go."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. "What?"

Alfred flashed another nervous grin as the flight attendants formed a ring around them.

Arthur stretched, looked up, and then turned beet red as he realized the plane was devoid of passengers save them.

The Englishman practically tripped over himself in order to leave.

"Why didn't you wake me before half the bloody crew was there?" he hissed when they were finally walking down the jet way.

Alfred huffed back, "I'd been trying since forever. You wouldn't rise and shine! And I was afraid they'd freak if they saw me carry you out."

"I must've looked like such a fool!"

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "You mean like me three hours ago, thinking I was dying cuz of a stupid tooth?"

"That was...an entirely different matter."

"You were just tired," Alfred reasoned as he thought: I was delusional. God, he could be so dumb sometimes.

Arthur didn't comment.

"H-hey, um...are you having trouble sleeping?" Alfred asked. It was kinda something he wanted to broach. A while back his Dad had been gung-ho about Dream Journals...and America went ahead and bought a Marvel one.

"..."

Alfred fidgeted with his sleeves as he sensed a literal and metaphorical chill. "I-I'm still...having...some...sometimes...I have these dreams and I'm like 'No. Stop. Please.' And then I wake up and I have to check the whole bed to make sure there are no restraints and no monsters…"

Arthur's free hand found his.

He wished he had a way to tell him that he totally got what Arthur was going through. That he'd been and...well...was going through the same exact thing! And it was hard having a chink in your armor.

If only he knew what Arthur's deal was...exactly...but the Old Man was keeping quiet and Alfred's uncles were covering for him too.

Uncle Reilley had shrugged it off and tried to tell him it was the simple result of a mushroom phobia that the elferingewort had created. Only the next time he called him for more clarity about it, the Irishman didn't know what he was going on about and said Arthur's troubles were a matter of indigestion; an allergy to gnome dander. It was the third call, where Reilley went off into a detailed explanation of Arthur's deep seated childhood fear of grass and how it was everywhere and he felt surrounded that Alfred realized he was being had and hung up.

Uncle Rhys went the It's-Arthur's-Choice-To-Tell-You-Or-Not Route and gave some mountain top guru advice about respect using Welsh proverbs that usually involved sheep and why don't you ask me something else?

Uncle Al was direct: 'Yeh keep yer nose out of it, or I'll tan your hide. Gawd, I swear yeh, jus' go lookin' fer trouble. I'll give yeh summat, if yeh don't watch it.'

He just wanted to help Arthur shake it off somehow.

He'd tentatively emailed Olivia to see if Arthur had ever chosen a birthday, but she said he hadn't. When she'd inquired why he was asking, he'd thrown caution to the wind and admitted that he just wanted to do something nice for the old man cuz he'd done so much for him lately. She was surprisingly helpful and straightforward after that and their one-line emails exploded like the Big Bang with ideas for June. It turned out that the Commonwealth usually made a big deal out of Father's Day.

He'd even ended up sending "I wish I'd known" without thinking how stupidly vulnerable that sounded. But he got back, "We should have told you."

And now they were recipe buddies on Pinterest.

She was still a bossy-know-it-all, but somehow it didn't seem to...sting anymore.

Alfred tripped as some suit darted in front of him.

"You watch where you're going!" Arthur growled after the businessman and the dude power-walked to get out of his line of sight. "Are you alright? He didn't step on you, did he?"

Rhys was waiting for them down at the baggage claim with their luggage.

"Yours is easy to spot," Rhys remarked—eyeing the red, white, and blue. He tapped one of the jingle bells Alfred had zip tied to a zipper.

The American grinned and explained, "See? And it works, doesn't it? If you just own or are dressed weird, you get to BE the one who's found. You just pick a spot and sit there and they'll find you. No energy needed on your part."

"You do that, don't you?" his uncle murmured.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to find Kiku at a Tokyo airport?"

"As hard as it is to find you at one of yours?" Rhys arched an eyebrow.

"Exactly! Which is why I wear highlighter colors in both cases!" Alfred answered triumphantly with his hands on his hips.

"Alright," Arthur began briskly. "Now, we'll need to find a taxi large enough that I can set the booster seat in correctly."

Trust Arthur to bring a larger suitcase just to tote Alfred's stupid booster seat. He couldn't believe the old man crossed the Atlantic with it.

When Arthur shrewdly deducted that Alfred hadn't packed one, Alfred lied that he "used the bus" to get to the airport and had planned to make use of public transit.

It was waaay better than "I bribed the taxi driver."

Arthur was still feeling the last vestiges of mortification ebb. Sadly, it was being replaced with annoyance.

His son was pouting.

Alfred frowned at all the cubic designs and modern lines of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.

"What is it now?" Arthur demanded.

Alfred stuck his gloves into a pocket of his heavy snow jacket and complained, "Why don't we get to stay at the Chelsea Hotel? There's a water slide!"

Rhys turned the page of a book he'd bought at the airport, "It's 7 degrees."

"...there's arcade stuff," he argued.

England supposed he ought to feel relieved that petty concerns about gaming were back on America's mind; it was proof that America had made a complete recovery from his earlier shock.

However…

Arthur's eyebrows twitched.

"This hotel is lovely, you'll get along fine without your silly games for one weekend. Be good," Arthur barked lowly.

"Bonjour!" Francis called out as he descended the stairs with Mathieu. "Amérique! Angleterre!"

Arthur's mood plummeted. Did the Frenchman have to be the one to greet them?

Francis gave Arthur a wide lascivious smile, rattled something off in French before his gaze slid over and he broke off with a gasp. He rushed down the final steps and over to them.

"Zut alors! Qu'est-ce que c'est? Mon petit!" Francis cried as he cupped Alfred's face and inspected the eyepatch.

Guilt twisted Arthur's gut. Alfred might've bemoaned the injury as a matter of vanity and the consequence of impulsivity. But for Arthur…

For Arthur…

It was inarguable proof that he'd failed in his duties as a protector.

"What happened?!" Francis demanded in that lower, gruffer tone that reminded Arthur of the Hundred Years War.

It wasn't one he usually used around the children and it showed: Mathieu's eyes widened and Alfred was trying to slink away from the tight grip.

Francis repeated himself.

"For God's sake, let him go, you dolt." Arthur reached over and wrenched the Frog's hand's away from his child's face. "You're making him nervous."

France's blue eyes looked sad at that. "I am concerned."

"Accident," Rhys remarked shortly.

Francis blinked and then gave a sideways smile, "Pays de Galle?! You've left your house, you hermit. Salut, ça va?

Rhys stared, turned another page, and sighed, "Ça va."

Mathieu seemed stunned that Rhys was there and looked away as he mentioned, "I...I wasn't expecting you."

Mathieu clutched the brown wicker basket he was holding more tightly.

"I'll board with Arthur," the Welshman stated.

Arthur's eyebrow twitched. Great. He had that to look forward to.

Canada nodded. He reached into the basket and handed England and America a plastic keycard, an itinerary for tomorrow's events, and a small cellophane goodie bag with a large heart-shaped biscuit inside.

"Alright," Mathieu began—gesturing to the staircase. "I'll show you to your rooms so you can get settled. I know you and Rhys had a long flight. I'm sure if you call the concierge desk they can supply you with an additional rollaway bed."

"Yes," Arthur agreed distractedly as he looked over the goodie bag. That biscuit; nearly the size of his hand and frosted pink with chocolate drizzled across it. There were even heart-shaped sprinkles and-Ugh. He'd let Alfred have it; the boy was much more interested in the sweet.

America had immediately unwrapped his and began nibbling at it as they climbed the stairs.

Mathieu's eye twitched a bit, but he didn't comment.

Yes, Alfred probably should've waited until they were in their room and the crumbs he was making could collect in one easy-to-clean spot for housekeeping to tackle. And now the poor souls would have to contend with a hard-to-vacuum trail, but Alfred was a child. One had to make allowances for things like that.

He could see Mathieu weighing out on whether to comment on it. Arthur caught the boy's eye and gave a warning glare.

It would ruin the flavor of that treat and the boy's hero complex would activate. He'd feel bad; Arthur could envision it now: Alfred trying to pick the crumbs up by himself...piece by piece with his fingers.

Mathieu frowned.

Arthur sighed.

France watched with interest.

Rhys and Alfred discussed pigeons.

"How can you not like pigeons?" Rhys frowned. "They're rather smart, and you can teach them to carry messages. A message received after sunset by a faithful pigeon can turn the tide of a battle-"

"They're loud, they molt, they're gluttons, and they poop. They poop everywhere. And they live everywhere. So everywhere gets trashed—"

Arthur's knees popped on the third flight of stairs.

"What's wrong Angleterre? Not getting old I hope?" Francis teased.

Bastard.

"Hey, we could've used the elevator!" Alfred squawked—lips and tongue unnaturally pinkened by his treat.

"I think we all lived in fear that you'd copy Buddy the Elf and press all the buttons," Rhys muttered.

Alfred frowned at his uncle and then smirked. "You've done it."

Rhys turned a surprising shade of red. The adults of the group stared at the Welshman and he turned a deeper crimson.

"You've totally done it!" Alfred crowed.

"Shush, Alfred, There could be business workers sleeping."

Alfred sidled up to Rhys. "I've done it too. It's fun to press the buttons and see them light up. Especially, when you're headed into a really boring meeting."

Mathieu cleared his throat. "So this is your room, Arthur. Alfred, yours is a few doors down on the right."

Arthur frowned as Alfred rolled his luggage down to his assigned room...which was six rooms down and on the opposite side of the hall.

"Mathieu and I will be down at the hotel restaurant, Toca, at 7, if you care to join," Francis offered.

"Yes, I think we will," Arthur replied as Rhys plucked the key from his hand to open and enter the room.

Arthur caught the door before it could swing shut and lingered in the hall.

Mathieu and Francis made their way back down to the lobby to greet and direct additional members of their party.

Once they were gone, Alfred heaved a sigh. He looked down at his room key, up at the room's number, and then longingly over to where Arthur's room was.

The blue eye widened and his cheeks pinked when he realized Arthur was still there.

Arthur held the door open wider and motioned with his head for Alfred to head inside.

The boy rushed over, the silly baubles on his suitcase jangling.

Trying to separate them like that...Arthur's temper bubbled. He doubted it was even legal for Alfred to be alone.

Arthur swallowed a deep drink of water as the other members of his party made their orders to the waiter.

It was a nice restaurant; highline with an elegant, sophisticated atmosphere and an impressive wine selection he planned to sample.

Unfortunately, it wasn't a good fit for Alfred. The boy was struggling with the Italian Menu and its vague English captions. He should've just accepted the Children's Menu, but had glared when the seater tried to offer it.

Arthur motioned for the child to come closer, so he could assist him.

Mathieu murmured smugly from his spot across from his brother, "If you made multilingualism a priority, you wouldn't be having this issue. Even knowing just one Romance language would help you decipher-"

Green eyes narrowed. "Mathieu, you are not helping-"

The Canadian shrugged, "I'm simply stating that if Alfred studied more and read manga less-"

"Anta wa urusai, Matthew!" Alfred bit back—using the English pronunciation of the name that always rubbed the Canadian wrong.

"Alfred," Arthur warned sternly.

"You see?" Rhys murmured. "Alfred is studying. It's just a non-Indo European Language."

Alfred glared at his brother, "I'm not the lightweight picky eater. I can choose anything on this menu and choke it down without being a princess about it."

Things really unraveled from there and they both started in on each other much to the discomfort of their waiter.

"If America put any effort into its school system, children would be receiving instruction in foreign languages since grade school-"

"If Canada's so great, how come all your movies try and pretend they take place on American soil?!"

"Boys!" Arthur growled, but they paid him no mind.

They ignored France as well.

Finally, Arthur lifted the napkin from his lap and threw it on the table as he stood.

The loud scrape of his chair made several diners nearby give pause.

He picked Alfred up and left—ignoring calls from Francis that they could work it out...like they were quarrelling lovers. Imbecile.

Once they were in the lift, Alfred mumbled, "It was defense. He gunned for me first...he did. You saw. I just didn't feel like taking it today. I'm sorry...I...I'm not bad."

Arthur looked at him. "Did I say that? Did I say you were bad?"

The child studied the floor. "...No."

"No. You are not bad. I just need a nice, quiet meal. I assumed you'd agree," Arthur sighed as the elevator dinged for their floor.

He moved them out and heard Alfred's tummy rumble. Well, that certainly explained his attitude. Alfred often grew surly when his appetite was neglected...

"Did you eat breakfast today?" Arthur questioned.

The child sighed, "I was running late this morning."

"I see. We'll have to find a hearty meal we can order for you."

"Room service?" Alfred pondered. "...It'll be overpriced."

"Not if I achieve tranquility," Arthur muttered.

Alfred chewed at his lip. "I can cover the bill since I kinda ruined tonight's-"

"No."

"Okay then, we can split it. We'll make it clear in the order that we-"

"No."

"Dad?"

Arthur opened their room's door and locked it behind them. It was tempting to use the chain lock, but Rhys would return the favor at an inopportune moment.

"I will cover it." He set the child down. "Now go find something you like."

Not too terribly long after, America was ecstatically eating a cheeseburger as Arthur picked at a salad that he probably shouldn't have ordered.

He just couldn't get over all the little details he'd overlooked. Mathieu hadn't greeted his brother with an embrace. There'd been no warm exchanges from either of them, actually.

And then...this...at dinner…

Their feud was escalating and Arthur had probably worsened matters by 'choosing' Alfred, but it wasn't like he could just stand by and let the elder rant at the younger.

He remembered too vividly how awful it felt; being ganged up on by elder siblings.

The child swallowed and then pulled his burger into two roughly equal halves.

Arthur blinked as one was set on his plate.

"It's good," Alfred assured him.

Arthur chuckled, "Red meat. Two meals in a row. Why not?"

They then ordered a dessert to split.

Arthur was finally starting to relax into the pillows as he watched the news. Alfred was curled up beside him.

He just couldn't bring himself to blame Alfred for the scene in the restaurant. He'd reacted defensively because he'd had an attack on his intellectuality in a moment that should've been peaceful.

Arthur took an extra napkin from the bedside table to gently clean off remnants of Devil's Food chocolate cake from Alfred's mouth.

He gently reached over to unbuckle the straps of the eyepatch.

He tutted at the red indents, "Sweet, you don't need it have it on so tightly."

He rubbed his thumb against the angry red marks. The child leaned into his touch.

The drapes of the room were open and Arthur fell asleep looking at the cityscape through the frosted window.

He woke up to hear water running. Groggily, he looked around for the source and noticed that his arms were empty.

The bed was empty. Where was-

"He's taking a bath," Rhys answered from his spot on the rollaway bed cramped near the wall.

The bathroom door was still open so Arthur approached gingerly.

Alfred was setting up his amenities: a short Batman toothbrush was now residing in the toothbrush cup alongside Arthur's plain adult red one and Rhys's blue.

The child was stripped down to his lightest layer: a white tank top and jeans. He still looked small and underfed with sharp little shoulder blades. Alfred looked over his shoulder, "Oh, hey. Need the toilet before I lock the door and head in?"

"Leave the door unlocked," Rhys called.

Alfred's face scrunched up, "Ew no. You go now if ya gotta. If you gotta go after I get in, you find somewhere else to relieve yourself. This ain't the Middle Ages, buddy, I don't do communal toilet time."

Rhys called back, "If there's a fire or something and we need to leave quickly, it'd be nice if we didn't have to break down the door to fetch you."

Arthur suppressed a shudder; a natural disaster...it was the one thing they hadn't endured yet.

"Oh...fine."

Arthur moved past the child to reach a hand to test the water, "Ack!"

God, scalded himself!

He immediately turned the tap for cooler water.

"Hey!" Alfred whined.

"You'll boil yourself alive, you twit! Like a lobster! Like a bloody lobster! You want third-degree burns, boy?"

Alfred cringed and shuffled back.

Arthur blinked hard, "I...I'm sorry love, I-I am tired. I'm being short with you...I'm sorry."

The boy nodded, but the one blue eye continued to stare at him uncertainly.

With his dry hand, he brushed fringe away from Alfred's injured eye, "How's your eye, pet? Is it hurting, still? Do you need help with your drops?"

There was a shake of 'No.'

"Are you sure?"

"I just can't see yet, and it looks ugly."

"It looks fine," he assured as his thumb traced the white eye's eyebrow. "Handsome boy." He then spared a glance back to the bath. "Ugh, I need to drain some of that."

"S'fine," Alfred replied.

"It's too deep."

"It's fine," Alfred insisted.

"No, it's-"

"Arthur. Out," Rhys demanded.

Arthur forced himself to leave because he was overreacting. He knew he was overreacting. Rhys knew. Alfred knew and was indulging him a lot.

But it was no use; he was having an anxiety attack and it was hard convincing his nerves and paranoia that Alfred was just taking a bath and nothing bad was going to happen. There were no fae here spying on him; he'd had Rhys check the room three times when they settled in hours ago.

He collapsed into a leather chair by the window and proceeded to reread the same line of Mathieu's itinerary: 10:15 Trust Exercise.

And the only thing that kept him sane was the childish singing and splashing several feet away.

But then there was silence.

Arthur straightened.

"Wait," Rhys replied.

Nothing.

"Arthur, wait."

His heart began to pound.

"Arthur, just knock on the door if it'll give you peace..."

He did and there was no response.

He knocked harder. "Alfred, are you alright?!"

Dear God he was under the water! Must be! He must've fallen asleep!

He was three steps in, when the boy resurfaced.

America spluttered when he realized he wasn't alone, "D-dude?!"

"I-I...it got quiet-I worried-I knocked-you didn't answer-feared that you fell asleep or hit your head-or I-I-Sorry," he abruptly turned and walked out.

"Arthur," Rhys murmured lowly. "This is becoming a real problem. If you're not going to speak about it to me, or Alistair, than speak to a professional. I've seen your office; you have several lined up for Alfred, should he express any desire. Now think of yourself."

"I can't," he whispered.

Rhys frowned, "Of course you can-"

"No. I can't…" He couldn't afford to. Not when it could be used against him.

Arthur sat down on his bed, head in his hands. He stared at his shoes for a long time and gasped when Alfred was suddenly crouching there—pulling at Arthur's shoelaces and tying them together.

"Stop that."

"Good, you came back!" Alfred giggled. "You were totally zoning out."

Arthur flinched and felt his stomach flop when he realized he had indeed "zoned out" for fifteen minutes.

Alfred shuffled closer in his Buzz Lightyear pajamas and the hotel room's overlarge robe. He'd wrapped a towel into a sloppy turban for his wet hair.

"I know that look," Alfred mumbled and the amusement drained out of his face. "I've seen it. I've worn it. What happened? Who let'cha down?"

It was too close; the boy nearly hit the mark.

Arthur straightened and folded his hands into his lap, "It's nothing, sweet."

A droplet of water ran a trail down Alfred's face.

"I wish I knew how to make you feel better," the little one stated in that sweet simple tone of thinking aloud that made Arthur's throat catch. "I dunno if it'll do much but-" He wrapped his little arms around Arthur tightly.

"It does a lot," Arthur assured hoarsely as he squeezed him back. And then he unwrapped the towel turban to help the boy dry his hair before he caught a chill.

Knock. Knock.

Rhys looked up from where he was outlining a plan with his light-up pen in the pocket-sized book he kept for Alfred. His nephew needed magic lessons desperately if they were going to avoid future mishaps like the ones they encountered in December.

Wales already had bulleted the need for Introductory Courses in subjects such as: Magical Safety, Mystical Flora and Fauna, Fae Court Customs, Numerology, Runes, Tarots, Dream Interpretation, and Lore.

Once Alfred was a little more accustomed to the Arts, they could add Fae History, Spell Casting, Potion-making, Alchemy, and Ether Geography.

And after that they'd oversee him in linguistic courses; Mastery in Magic required the ability to interpret various archaic languages and texts.

Throughout his education they could see into adding additional subjects, or removing ones he had no talent in.

Hazel eyes narrowed as the shy knock came again.

Rhys looked over to where Arthur and Alfred were sleeping, unsure if he should get a second opinion before acting.

He clicked the pen off. He stood up and cracked his neck, semi-glad he'd left the drapes open. It was past midnight, but the moon provided some light for navigating the room.

As he approached the door, he recognized the aura and found Mathieu on the other side of it, red-eyed and distraught.

"Mathieu?"

The Canadian ran a hand through his hair, "I…I-I know it's late I just…and I know you and Francis said…to wait until morning but...I just...if I could talk to Arthur now..."

Rhys nodded and let the boy in—hopeful he'd redeem himself.

After his initial fit of temper in the restaurant, the lad's demeanor had given way to an extreme sorrow that had alarmed France and himself.

They'd had to assure him multiple times that he could apologize in the morning before he'd staggered off—dismissing both of his elders.

Which had meant Rhys was left dining with Francis...which was...unfortunate.

Rhys led Mathieu over to where Arthur was resting—back facing them.

Rhys gave him a careful nudge. "Arthur."

Arthur grumbled nonsensically.

"W-why's Alfred, here!?" the Canadian demanded—spying the American that Arthur was curled protectively around.

Rhys stiffened and gave Mathieu a hard look as more disappointment flooded him. "Because they're both suffering separation anxiety and attempts to keep them forcibly apart exacerbates it."

Mathieu chewed his bottom lip.

"It's just...I dunno if I can talk with...Alfred here," Violet eyes drifted to where Alfred's key card was lying on the bedside table.

The Welshman crossed his arms. "Mathieu, you'll need to find a way, if you wish to speak now. Because we're not going to deposit Alfred in his room, or abandon him here to go somewhere more private. It would be frightening for him to wake up all alone in the dead of night."

The Canadian started guiltily and thankfully didn't rebuttal with 'Well, we could leave a note.'

If he had, Rhys would've had to escort him back out into the hall.

Rhys gave his brother a harder shake.

"Wot?" The Briton blinked blearily as he looked over his shoulder. "Ma-mathieu? Was there an attack, are you alri-"

"I...I'm sorry about earlier...I just...I'm going through some rough-" His voice cracked.

Arthur sat up and turned the lamp on. They all squinted against the sudden introduction of bright light.

Canada took in a shaky breath, "I...I...you know, how...on New Year's I went to go talk to Sweden a-about my origins?"

Arthur nodded lethargically and stifled a yawn.

"Because I-I thought he was my father…"

Green eyes widened and the Englishman became alert.

"I thought it was him...s-since my land was explored by Vikings, but...but he isn't. He and Finland said to talk with Norway...so I visited him...but he's...he said it would've been Ancient Scandinavia…"

Wales and England shared a look and they both nodded slowly because...yes...that would make sense; Scandinavia had been quite an explorer.

And a cutthroat and a scourge on their lands...and...how were they going to put a positive spin on that? For Mathieu's sake?

Rhys released a long breath.

"But he's dead! Been dead...for a long time..." the Canadian forced out.

Arthur's face was very pale and Rhys was sure his was no different. Arthur swallowed and lifted the coverlet for Mathieu to slide in. The boy hesitated and Arthur shook the blanket edge.

The lad slipped in beside his former guardian. Rhys tucked the blanket around him and slid down onto his own mattress...aware that he couldn't give the sought for comfort the boy wanted.

"There, there," the Briton soothed.

"I'll never know him," he choked.

"I'm sorry, lad."

"He'll never know me."

"I'm so sorry, love."

Alfred tried to nuzzle into Arthur's chest—away from the rousing rays of morning sunlight.

He yawned and blinked and gasped as he saw a familiar Canadian face resting on Arthur's alternate shoulder.

"Gah, my crib-mate nemesis," he whispered.

"Don't be so dramatic," Rhys scolded. "You're hardly nemeses."

"Says the creepy man who never sleeps and never gets along with his brothers."

Rhys popped a Tums tablet. "Rollaway bed for the first part and...look at my brothers. They're impossible. I am the most amiable one."

Alfred giggled, "Maybe the...sensible one...I dunno if there is an amiable one."

The Welshman twisted and his back cracked.

"Oooh," Alfred winced, "Ya know...you can have my room...I should've thought of that yesterday."

Rhys waved him off, "Come along, get dressed. We'll go exploring before the meeting starts."

Alfred started to get up and then paused, "Wait. What if they talk mean stuff behind my back while I'm not here?"

"So you don't want to play in the elevator with the blessing of adult supervision?"

Alfred threw his covers off. "Gimme a sec."

He rushed through his morning routine and was soon dragging his uncle down the hall.

It wasn't until two corridors later that he remembered his uncle didn't usually like such close physical contact.

He looked down at their hands and was surprised when his was given a squeeze.

The memory came suddenly and without really thinking, Alfred recited:

"Albion teaches me letters by day

with quill how to write the words that I say.

Eire and Alba teach me how to fight.

Cymru and I dance with faes through the night."

His uncle laughed and remarked, "It has been too long since I've heard that. Say it again, won't you?"

Alfred obliged and then they had a merry chase down to the elevator amidst solemn faced housekeeping workers.

For a moment, he was centuries away—racing down castle halls with Uncle Rhys...Uncle Rhys who always let him win silly games like that and snuck him pastries and tarts during his music lessons.

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