Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or Duraflame. Or King Arthur's All-Purpose Flour which has been "Baking with joy since 1790."
Warning: Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). In which many things bubble under the surface, and Arthur wades out into it...and Rhys may be the sanest man in the room.
AN: Aced my Middle English Project! : DDD Yeah! Woo! Boring Eng Lit Composition Research Paper, here I come! In other news, THANK YOU for your reviews. I've been reading them daily as I've pieced together this chapter. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 5: Fortress of Blanketude
Arthur swallowed nervously as he awaited a response. The chill of the room made his nose start to run and he fished out a handkerchief.
Rhys returned to the hissing pot.
Arthur followed him tentatively, "Well?"
Rhys stirred the pot and tested a spoonful.
Arthur frowned and put his handkerchief away, "Rhys?"
"I think you'll find it problematic. America fought long and hard for his sov-"
England nearly choked on his mirth and he slapped a hand on the counter, "Ha! Good God, do you honestly think I'm in the shape to play Colonizer?! That I've got the wherewithal for that?! No. His people were a handful as thirteen colonies, now they span from the East Coast to the West and I have more than enough issues at home to contend with. No, I have NO desire to govern America and his sprawling empire of red tape. I want to raise Alfred."
"..." Rhys blinked.
The blond frowned, "I-I don't want to leave it all...unfinished. I feel...responsible for...this. There...there were so many things I didn't get a chance to teach him. Important things I intended to...but I didn't...because I thought I had more time. You see? How to care for oneself, one's household...how to set boundaries with one's government. Who to contact, where to go, should your ruler be...violent...Some of his presidents...they drank so much, I fretted...even now I...and then seeing him struggle now...seeing this." He waved a hand around at the house and felt his throat close up. "He deserves far better than this..."
Rhys gave his verdict: "Take a year. Get counseling."
"A year?!" Arthur spluttered aghast. He gestured to the living room, "He could've set himself on fire! And...I don't want to be questioned as mentally...weakened by the recent events-"
"If anything it will prove that you have more emotional investment in Alfred's well-being. The idea of him being harmed creates deep distress. His government's complacency-"
"You think his government will challenge me directly for custody?" Arthur's voice lowered into something deeper and more aggressive.
Wales shrugged, "They could. They could select a personification already within his borders to act as a guardian. They could select a human. Worst case: they might consider placing him in a facility to educate him."
"God forbid," Arthur shuddered as he immediately envisioned some dystopian research center that acted more as an asylum or a jail than a boarding school.
"However," Hazel eyes appraised him sternly. "Your actions could very easily open a Pandora's Box of Possibilities. By being a foreign entity applying for custodialship, you set a precedent. Other former Colonial Powers could step forward. The U.N. could step forward as being vested in America's future. You will need to prove yourself as the uncontested, best-suited candidate for the task. You must win decisively."
"So...you...you'll support me in this?" Arthur asked him directly.
Rhys returned his attention to the soup, "...I don't know. What does Alfred think of this?"
Green eyes turned venomous, "You-you-you don't know? You don't know?! I am your brother. That's my child! We need to be togeth-"
Rhys set the spoon in the pot and turned off the burner before facing his younger brother.
On his fingers he ticked off what Arthur must do, "Get counseling for your terrors and emotional disturbance. Anger management for your temper. And address your alcoholism. Get Alfred's blessing following a full disclosure of what living with you would entail. Create a contract of sorts between you with ways for him to leave should he wish. Then file."
Arthur lips curled; that was NOT what he wanted to hear.
Before he could argue, he heard Alfred call out, "Texas?"
The child emerged from his haphazardly constructed fort and blearily shuffled into the kitchen. He rubbed his uninjured eye and sniffed at the air, "Texas?"
Arthur forced a smile so it would carry in his voice, "No love, it's us."
"Oh," the American yawned. "Hi…" Alfred hefted himself up onto a barstool chair at the kitchen's granite island.
He scrubbed at an eye while Rhys set a steaming bowl and spoon down in front of him.
"Thanks."
He squeezed his eyes shut, mumbled a prayer and then dug in.
Rhys served Arthur next.
Arthur ate a brisk pace—hungrier than even he was aware. Or perhaps his anger made him want to finish quickly and remove himself from Rhys's presence.
Though at least Arthur wasn't slurping...Alfred had gotten flecks of soup on his clothes, the placemat, and the floor.
Alfred finished, licked his lips, slid his bowl back, and laid his head down on the placemat with a soft FWUMP.
Well, at least with him being asleep over here, Arthur wouldn't have to step over him in the other room.
When Arthur finished his soup, he took down the blanket tent and began extricating items from the twisted folds.
Electronics went in one pile. Unexpired food went back in the pantry. Rubbish went in the bin. He flipped through the President book and noted that George Washington and Andrew Jackson were bookmarked. He made a face and set it and the photo album on the coffee table that had been pushed against a wall.
"My Fortress of Blanketude," Alfred mourned as he shuffled into the room—having jerked back to semi-wakefulness.
Arthur sighed, "Rhys?"
His brother threw several empty soup cans into the bin, and replied, "Yes?"
"If you can make some suitable bedding from…" Arthur gestured to the mess. "This. I'll try and thaw some pipes out."
Alfred frowned at him and when the Briton drew near enough tugged at the bottom edge of Arthur's coat, "That tent was gonna stave off the cold."
Arthur frowned. Despite having the heater on, the room was still deathly cold and Alfred was shivering. Their breaths continued to mist between them.
Arthur came close and tucked a blonde tuft of hair behind the child's ear, "This is important, Alfred."
The boy blinked at him lethargically and Arthur sincerely hoped it was just exhaustion and not the onset of hypothermia.
"Where do you keep emergency firewood?"
"...Shed."
Arthur nodded determinedly; he was going to have to locate a flashlight and make his way through the elements-
"Wait!" Alfred caught Arthur's sleeve. "Emergency wood...emergency...there," He pointed to a lower cabinet of the Entertainment Center.
Arthur immediately investigated and found several Duraflame logs. It would last them the night. The next day (when the temperature would likely be higher) he could go out to the shed.
"Perfect. Nice and close, and they're kept good and dry. That's my boy," He ruffled Alfred's hair. "You remembered that." Arthur had spent a good time of their colonial years drilling how important it was for his colonies to always have dry wood and kindling on hand.
Arthur gladly carried one to the chimney and then prepped the fireplace. He opened the flute and apologized as Alfred shivered harder at the draft.
"Hold on, pet."
He retrieved a butane lighter from the kitchen and ignited the corners of the packaged log.
Once the flames had enveloped it and heat began to radiate outward, Arthur slid the mesh firescreen across it. They didn't need anything tumbling out.
Arthur guided Alfred over and wrapped a blanket tightly around the boy, "Now you can sit right here. Right here and no closer. Else an errant corner of your blanket or, God Forbid, you could catch. Understand?"
There was a tired nod.
Good. He'd lost far too many people in ages past because of carelessness where fire was concerned. When he thought of all the flammable hairstyles and clothing that went up from getting too close to a candle or kipping near the fireplace…
He flinched from memories.
"Arthur?" Rhys remarked. "You're standing on a quilt I want to use."
Arthur moved. Though he was greatly irritated by his brother's unsympathetic reaction to his desires...they came to their usual silent truce. In true Kirkland fashion, they ignored their issues for the moment.
Despite, their family's often explosive, resentful, dysfunctional interactions with each other...they'd spent plenty of nights huddled in roundhouses, barracks, caves, and woods as storms raged...this was no different.
The brothers took turns heating pipes in the basement with a blow dryer and keeping the fireplace lit. They also set up a small electric heater near the water meter and wrapped towels around pipes after they thawed.
Rhys had scoured the linen closets and found more blankets and quilts for the Living Room. The rest of the house was simply too cold to even think about breaking off into separate rooms.
It was a little past one in the morning when their hard work paid off; the little heater was unplugged, the fireplace doors were closed, and they got to settle in beside Alfred.
6 AM found Alfred flitting about the kitchen with a cellphone at his ear. He frowned at its generic black color—it was still the emergency one he'd been issued in December. He hadn't had the opportunity to replace it with a sleeker, more personalized one.
He set it on the counter on loudspeaker and then pulled on oven mitts.
"And I'm totally unprepared to host anybody—I mean thank God I still had some Baker's Yeast in the freezer," Alfred opened the oven and pulled a tray out setting it down on decorative iron coolers.
He closed the oven door as a Texan drawl came across: "Gawd! You! I tell you, ya have to leave the heater on at, well, at least 55 degrees with one faucet tricklin' or the pipes'll freeze. Your house is drafty as hell."
Alfred's cheeks puffed, "That image makes NO sense. And my house is NOT drafty. We're just in a snow storm right now. And heating it when no one's home is a total waste of money-"
"YOU'RE HOME!" Texas hollered.
Alfred frowned, "I was gonna deal with it today! When I was more rested, and less depressed. I was gonna figure out the threshold temp to keep up the-look, I just needed to get one corner of the house semi-habitable; kitchen, the bathroom-nearest-the-kitchen, and the living room to hunker down by the fireplace. Laundry could wait. Upstairs could wait."
"You are so lucky it was them and not me that found you. God, you're like one of those dumb Survivalist sitcoms. Where an idiot goes out into the desert to document how they suffer!"
Alfred's jaw dropped, "Dude, harsh."
"Dude, dumb. I'd've thrashed you for leaving the stuff off. I mean it's one thing if there's a power outage. It's another thing entirely-"
Alfred pulled the mitts off, and got butter from the fridge, "I thought I was dreaming them coming over. A lot of my time with Osha was surreal like that. And I'm thinking about us, man. I gotta trim the fat somewhere. I got let go! I've lost a major source of income!"
"Jesus Al, you'll still have your pension. You're just freaking out cuz it's a change. You pendulum swing like this. Al, we're good. Remember, we got investments? We're gonna sell off some crap this year."
Alfred closed the fridge door harder than usual, "Dude, I got this house. I got the flat in New York. I got the Virginia cabin. I've got the condemned Hall. And if Hawaii forgets to pay her utilities again that crap goes to me and I'll get dinged for it."
"Kay. We get you off the hook for her estate. We rent the New York apartment a couple months each year when you don't think you'll need it. The cabin pays for itself, Al. It's a historic site. It's got tax exemptions. Schools flock there for colonial field trips. It hosts historical group bingos and dress-up reenactments and the cafe part is rakin' it in. I told you our recipes would kick butt and they have. Ya don't wander around the whole frickin' U.S.A. and not learn what's tasty. Stop worrying about the cabin. It'll outlast us all."
"And the Hall?" Alfred brought up as he raked a bit of butter over the top of the fresh, hot loaf of bread. He nodded in satisfaction as it melted.
"Ehhh," Texas shrugged, "You're gonna have to figure out that one with your dad."
"Excuse me?!"
"It's his pet project. He made it Alfie Jr. while you were gone. God, he babied all your stuff, Al."
"What does that even meeeean?"
"All your stuff became hallowed ground, ya shoulda seen him freak when I cracked one baseboard of crown molding with a rake-"
The knife Alfred had been about to use to slice the bread, went up aggressively, "You son of a bitch, you chipped my crown molding? Where? Which house?"
"Ugh...the one you're in right now. And now I know who you get that from. Chillax, Arthur had it repaired. That day."
"Why were you carrying a rake?" Alfred demanded as he sawed into the bread.
"Stop worrying about it."
"O. My. God." Alfred glanced around at the floorboards for holes and cracks. "Was there a rat?"
"NO. Now. Stop it."
Alfred arranged the slices on a platter and walked back over to the refrigerator. He stared hard, "Can't believe this. I don't have jam. I don't have any freaking jam." He stalked back over to the cell phone. "Why don't I have jam? Texas?"
"We ate it. Soooo sorry."
"I don't have any preserves. None. How did this happen? I always have-"
"Uhh...Al?"
"What?!" He snapped.
"Um...you okay?"
"Course I'm okay. I'm just complaining. I mean, I am so understocked. I can scarcely believe-"
"Hey Al...when's your busiest canning month?"
"Canning or pickling?"
"...both...er I mean canning."
"July. Duh." He smiled. "I use the happy afterglow of the 4th to recharge me and then I dive into cherries, then strawberries, then blueberries, raspberries, apricots, and peaches. Then I go on a second round and dehydrate the next batches of all these things for those trail mix and granola recipes you guys like so-"
"Al?"
"Mmhmm?"
"Buddy, where were you last July?"
"Whaddya mean I was...right. Right," He sucked in a breath. "Kay." Funny how you can just...block those sort of things out...
"Al?
"You're right," He smiled blandly.
"Baby bro, you okay?"
"Yup," His voice cracked.
"Cuz it kinda sounds like-like you're not okay."
"...it's just inconvenient," He murmured as pulled forward a can of pears and rummaged around for a can opener.
"Not having jam? Or being kidnapped?"
"...she's still writing me…" Alfred admitted.
"Oh?"
Alfred swallowed hard, "She's glad I'm gonna work at opening the portals…"
"Yeah?"
Alfred's head bowed, "...it just…"
"Yeah, I'm listenin' bro."
He twisted the can opener and watched it bite into the metal, "...it...really...pisses me off...when someone's only happy with me when I'm doing what they want done…"
"I think everyone feels that way now and then."
He stared into the open can and detachedly counted how many fruit slices were in there so he could divvy them up between three small bowls, "...I'm so angry...and the more I remember of...her then…I...plus our past and…." He squeezed the handles of the can opener. "I get angrier...and she wants me to come visit. Says she knows stuff about portals-"
"Al. For the love of God, and all that is good. Don't. Go."
"..."
"Al, you know I don't wanna control you. You know that. But dear God, Al, don't go unless you can go from a place of strength. And please, don't feel like ya gotta go it alone."
"...it crossed my mind," Alfred admitted.
"I know it did, but please-"
"I'm not gonna go-"
"Phew, thank-"
"I don't think I can be trusted," He stared down at the ruined can opener. He'd bent it all out of shape. He blinked hard. "I think I'd lose my temper and-" His breath caught as he realized his father and uncle were now very much awake and standing in the kitchen—their eyes wide.
"Al, you there?"
"Yup. Yup, but I gotta call ya back. It's breakfast time."
"Alright. I love you. You take care now, ya hear?"
Rhys's gaze slid to his brother. There was a deeply pained expression on Arthur's face.
And Rhys was a bit ashamed to find himself taken aback that Arthur was displaying more maturity than he'd anticipated. He'd fully expected to see some flicker of triumph on Arthur's face at hearing Osha fall from her pedestal.
Instead, he seemed...gutted…
He was upset…that Alfred...was hurt…
Interesting…
Alfred might've been the one to lose a tooth and meet a milestone, but Rhys now found himself wondering if Arthur would be the one aging. Come to think of it, Arthur had been twenty-three a long time.
Alfred's smile was uneven as he greeted them, "G'morning. I...made you breakfast."
"It looks delicious," Arthur answered without looking at all.
"Thank you for your efforts," Rhys offered.
"Look, I'm not up for beating around the bush...you guys...heard a lot of that call, huh?" Alfred muttered as he pushed the platter of bread slices toward them.
"Yes," Rhys answered candidly. "We did try and alert you several times and move into your current line of sight but your eye stayed downward."
"So yeah, I got some issues...anyway," Alfred quipped as he made his way over to the fridge and pulled out a glass beverage dispenser. Arthur immediately moved forward to help him and lifted it onto the counter. "I mixed apple juice, cranberry juice, and ginger ale...it's Pilgrim Punch...nonalcoholic...unfortunately, for us all. For some reason all of my stashes are gone."
"Eire and Alba," Rhys replied knowingly. They had a sixth sense when it came to finding liquor. Rhys was almost certain if he handed them a witching stick in the midst of America's Appalachian forests, they'd find moonshine.
Considering the meagerness of the ingredients, Rhys was surprised to find the taste so pleasing, "You fry dough well."
"Tried and true, county fair winner," Alfred boasted. "This is my funnel cake. I also win with my Sweet Virginia Cherry Pie, several...of my bread recipes, and pumpkin scones, and I also make a lot of very highly regarded cakes." At their continued stares, his cheeks puffed. "I'm a baker! Plus if there's no entry fee and a cash prize; hell yeah, I'm gonna enter. Though s' harder now when everything's televised and newspaper reported, but there's still some backwoodsy ones I go to now and then."
Rhys supposed he could believe it; his nephew was rather competitive. And if this was the way it manifested itself, he could support it. There were far worse ways to awaken than to the enticing smell of bread, pottage, and fried dough. Australia and New Zealand had loved to wrestle in the early morning hours and hearing something porcelain break was NOT the best way to start the day.
"What's in the slow cooker?" Arthur asked.
"Vegetables. I'm...I'm gonna try and make a stew for us with...with what I've got…thanks for thawing the pipes out...everything would've been much harder to do this morning without...water."
"You're very welcome," Arthur replied. "I only wish you'd have told us back at the airport you were having troubles."
Alfred's eye widened as realization set in, "How...how did…you know to come?"
"Arthur had a bad feeling," Rhys explained.
"You came here over a bad feeling?" Alfred raised a disbelieving eyebrow.
"You didn't answer any of my calls, either," Arthur replied sending the child a stern look.
The child flushed, "Sorry."
Arthur's fork fidgeted uncertainly, "I...I had one...much more intense than this...of course...but...I-I had a bad feeling before you went off to...to Calm Water Clinics."
Alfred stiffened.
"But I thought...I was being...ridiculous...I thought, you'd think me a Mother Hen creating scenarios...but...after...all of that...I'm listening to these feelings more..."
"Oh…" Alfred replied with a hard, unreadable expression.
"The bread's very good," Arthur complimented—returning them to a normalcy which Alfred pounced on.
"Thank you," He steered the conversation to frosting and all the different kinds of flowers he could pipe and which ones had to be refrigerated before you could add them to the cake.
Rhys dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
It was curious; seeing how Victorianism influenced Americans. In the U.K. all sorts of customs and rituals were erected. Even now, though the barriers were eroding they were still present in what one should and shouldn't discuss. Being overly emotional was embarrassing...
Americans were interesting because they feigned that they weren't prim or private. They spoke loudly and dramatically about their opinions...on things that mattered to them in obtuse ways.
And in the loud, blustery, distracting silence—tucked private things away.
Arthur readjusted his gloves and gripped the snow shovel more tightly. He and Rhys took on the more laborious task of clearing the walkway while Alfred sat ready with the salt.
The Briton held in his contempt for the chore. If he complained about his back too much the child would insist on taking over and struggling with the adult-sized equipment.
Arthur's groceries arrived not long after they finished and Alfred was a mixture of surprised, agitated, relieved, and appreciative as Arthur signed off for it.
The child was a whirlwind of opening and closing fridge and pantry doors as he shelved the welcome supplies into their proper spaces.
It amused Arthur to see someone so enthused as they poured new flour into a tupperware container.
When he commented on it, the boy stuck his tongue out roguishly.
"Don't think I didn't catch what you did here," the boy pointed at the discarded wrapping: King Arthur's All-Purpose Flour.
"Baking with Joy since 1790," Arthur read off before going to the more pleasing detail. "And it's American made-"
"Stop making fun of me and my love of lore!"
Arthur laughed and poked the child's puffed up cheeks.
Alfred's pottage crockpot experiment grew more appetizing with chunks of beef, cheese, and milk stirred in. Arthur now found himself looking forward to lunch.
While the food simmered, Alfred gathered games and movies and piled them together, "Okay, this is what we got."
Arthur stared at the heap.
Alfred chewed his bottom lip, "I'm having satellite issues." He demonstrated by turning the television on. It gave a 'No Signal' error message. "The weather might be disrupting it or...there might be ice. I could climb up and-"
"I do hope you're joking," Arthur responded flatly.
Little feet that were triple-socked (because Arthur wouldn't let him outside to help with clearing the snow if they weren't) kicked at the floor, "Don't want you to be bored. You had all those nice things for me at your place," Alfred murmured as he stared out the window at the snow covered grass. "I don't even have TV...and the internet's wonky right now."
Arthur reached over and tugged a wheat colored lock of hair, "Sweet, you don't have to entertain me."
Alfred looked back.
Arthur smiled, "I'm family."
Most of the games and movies were returned to their proper places and the wooden coffee table was cleared so they could make a large puzzle.
Rhys was content in a chair he'd moved near the fireplace. He had a pile of books in a tower beside him. Arthur noticed that several of them were small pocket-sized fairytale books. He'd watched curiously as Rhys removed them from his carryon bag.
At first the material seemed strangely childish, but then Arthur realized his brother had packed them on the off-chance hope that Alfred would be interested at some point during the Valentine's Weekend and that it would've given uncle and nephew something to bond over.
It was hard to remain annoyed with his eldest brother, when he kept doing kind things like that for Alfred. Arthur would need to bring about a reading session somehow.
The fire crackled merrily and showered the room in a pleasant orange glow.
The three of them had moved a large stockpile of wood indoors earlier that morning. While the heater was on, the inner temperature of the house increased by slow degrees. If they wanted to remain comfortable, a continuous fire was essential. Even now they were still bundled up in multiple layers.
Arthur moved a softer pillow under his knees. His body was a mess of aches. He'd need to hunt down a heating pad soon for his joints. A nap wouldn't hurt either. He was exhausted.
Alfred grinned from the other side of the table and the gap in his smile made Arthur's heart melt.
Arthur was working on a corner of the puzzle when he made his overture, "Sweet? I...I was wondering..."
"Yeah?" Alfred was concentrating on dividing pieces by their colors.
Arthur gently tapped a corner of his current puzzle piece on the table's surface,"There was so much we planned to do in December that we never had a chance to embark on."
Alfred looked up and nodded solemnly, "We didn't get to ice skate or ride on a sleigh or eat peppermint gingerbread together."
Arthur blinked, "No...we didn't, did we?"
"I haven't even made a snowman, yet!" the child confided in a loud whisper.
"The travesty," Arthur deadpanned.
Alfred giggled and set both elbows on the table.
Arthur cleared his throat, "What I mean to say is, our Magic Lessons were delayed. There's so much that we've only begun to explore."
Alfred nodded and the interest in his cornflower eye gave Arthur confidence.
Heart in his throat, his words rushed out, "I would very much like for you to continue your magical studies with me in London."
Alfred blinked, "R-really?"
"That is if you're not too busy, here."
"Oh...well...uh, I-I could probably move a-a few things around," The boy was trying to save face, but his cheeks had gone rather red. "C-congress would understand that I've responsibilities...elsewhere that I...and...good opportunity for international diplomacy… and I can attend meetings virtually or on the phone."
The wind howled and branches hit against the windows; Alfred subconsciously moved closer his father.
Arthur rested a gentle hand on the child's shoulders, "Of course; I'd hate to steal you from your duties. We'll make sure that you have all of your needs met. I'll give you access to my fax machine and copier printer, and I'll find another filing cabinet with lock and key for your full, personal use."
Alfred straightened—his head tilting up, his shoulders moving back, "You...you wouldn't mind my using your office for my affairs?"
If Arthur could show the child that they could live harmoniously together, it'd be easier to gain his "blessing" as Rhys had put it.
"Of course not."
Alfred scanned his face suspiciously, "...Are you certain, we'll both fit? That it won't be incommodious to either of us?"
Incommodious...incommodious...
What a vocabulary gem! A diamond!
Arthur looked over to see Rhys had put his book down to stare at them and then mouthed the word at Arthur.
One blue eye was fixed on him.
"Any troubles we encounter, we will resolve," Arthur assured.
Only that didn't seem to settle the matter.
America released a breath that disturbed his golden fringe, "Yes, but...it occurs to me that your-your office is often locked. This could be...vexatious should I-I require something within..."
And it occurs to me, England thought, that when you're nervous your language becomes infinitely more formal and I don't understand why something as simple as sharing a space-
Ohhh...the boy was asking for something a bit more symbolic...a bit more...powerful on multiple levels.
It was a bold (though semi-veiled) request. In many ways it could be viewed as presumptuous and yet...rather than feeling affronted Arthur was deeply pleased.
It was the first time since they'd begun their long road of reconciliation that the child was actively asking for more trust. Prior to the hex breaking, (and after reading a slew of psychology websites) England had observed that America had largely rebuffed most of his attempts to establish more emotional intimacy and interdependency (not just between them but between the boy and his uncles and other relatives).
This was good. Alfred was rediscovering his own, real sense of agency (one unhampered by the reward-punishment dynamic of his hex). Alfred wanted a deeper relationship and he was initiating it.
More access in Arthur's home meant more responsibility. It was an acknowledgment that their bond was healing and moving toward the next step. Where they wouldn't be "guests" and "hosts" anymore in each other's dwellings but inhabitants. No longer would they simply "stay" at one another's abodes, they'd "live" there instead...the way Arthur suspected Alfred and Texas lived at each other's houses.
Arthur smiled, "I agree. We'll need to see to it that you receive a duplicate key for the office. I'm glad you brought this up. I've been meaning to give you something."
His knees popped as he got up, but the pain didn't stop the bounce in his step. He walked away for a moment and extracted a key from his suitcase in the far corner. With the drama of Mathieu, Arthur had forgotten all about it.
Arthur returned and deposited the key in Alfred's hand, "To my London flat."
It made his heart flutter to watch the child smile as he pulled out his ring of house keys.
As little fingers added the new addition on...
Arthur spied one heavily used key with chipped Texan flag colors. He saw one that was dark blue, one had a hibiscus pattern, and one was striped blue, white, and green.
Perhaps Arthur's key wasn't as flashy as those (he'd been far too nervous to even dare consider putting his flag colors on it), but...his plain silver key seemed like it was in good company with the equally simple bronze key at the end. A bronze key that was the twin of the one Alfred had gifted him with last year...
Keys of home...
It felt so good to know his house was included once more.
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