Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Warning: Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Elizabethan makeup was poisonous. Ragequitting:a video game term for those who get so worked up they stop playing something forever. Brief reference to Gaslighting...which is a form of emotional abuse where you make someone doubt their memory or their perception of a situation.

AN: Thank you for your reviews! I've been stealing minutes here and there to finish this chapter. I've officially gotten one Final done! Another will be done on Thursday via a portfolio (that I need to have professionally bound tonight or tomorrow XP). Then there's next week...dundundunnnn. One class has two in-class essays, a film project, and a separate research paper. The other final has an exam AND two in-class essays. Sooo clooooose. And now onwards! Enjoy! : DDD

Chapter 8: Role Reversal

Arthur eyed the clock and sighed—lamenting once again that he'd forgotten his lunch. It was no doubt reclining on the kitchen counter near the phone. He'd comforted himself earlier by noting that he was only scheduled six hours and a visit to the vending machine would keep his blood sugar up.

Fool that he was. Nuisances kept cropping up and now it was nearly one. He should've scheduled another day off, but he'd felt guilty for staying away so long. The snowstorm in the States had kept them longer than he'd thought and he didn't want them associating his caring for Alfred with disregarding his work.

If they drew a negative correlation...what could that mean for his little one or his plan for custody?

If his monarchs and Parliament had indeed conspired to keep his infant...and then his teenager...away from him for fear of...distraction?

What would that mean now?

In a world connected by social media; how would they enforce it?

Goddamn it, when did it first happen? Was it a joint effort between their governments? Was it separate? Did his government approach theirs? Or vice versa?

What about now? Were they still trying to keep them apart even now? It was possible they could try gaslighting Alfred again...

Would they try psychology on Arthur, too? It wouldn't work; England wasn't a fledgling nation. He wouldn't be put through his paces. And if he had to fall off the map (as had sometimes been necessary during various sieges by Vikings and later the Normans or when he had a particularly rotten ruler) so be it.

He blinked; did America even know how to do that? His government lost track of him now and then...but did he know how to disappear? Deliberately?

There were so many things he'd never had the chance to impart.

He'd taken his child's silence as estrangement. That was his mistake. It was his fault. He'd been a fool. Hadn't realized his boy was gagged. He let his pride and hurt blind him. He should've noticed. He wouldn't botch things like that again.

Dammit. He was late to another conference. He'd been running late all that morning and he'd skipped breakfast to make the train.

It was so difficult getting up this morning. Especially when Alfred was cuddled up against him and looked up and mumbled, "Do you hafta go?"

If there had been a whine in the words, they would've been easy to brush off, but Alfred's tone was soft and sad and resigned.

And Arthur remembered mornings long ago when the little one would go through the house and jam the clocks to keep them from ringing. Hoping that an absence of chimes would keep Arthur home.

God, he was tired. His body felt heavy. His head hurt and the links Rhys had sent him that morning…

The one about PTSD he understood, but the other…

Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose. He'd already endured three long presentations about what a referendum could mean for their nation. He made it quite clear that if he didn't get one, there'd be hell to pay.

His eyebrows twitched; Joan wouldn't belt up as she followed him over to the water cooler.

O his head was throbbing with a hunger headache and the painkillers he'd taken on an empty stomach left him with a floaty nauseous feeling.

Ugh...

Or maybe it was a lingering vestige of dread holding over from the other day when he'd walked into Alfred's room to find him sorting letters by years.

"I want to have them in order chronologically before I read them," Alfred explained.

Dread seeped in like a breach in the hull and again he found himself wanting to preview them—wanting to remove the worst ones...

"Sweet...let-let me have a look through."

"Why? Did you ragequit me?" Alfred asked.

"Wot?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Am I going to find a letter where you cuss excessively?"

"I should think not!" He hoped not.

"-where my every flaw is meticulously recorded with maliciously unflinching brutal honesty?"

"..." He...doubted it. Arthur could rant and rave when his passions overcame him...but writing was a more intimate art that required some thought. Arthur couldn't imagine himself writing simply to express anger and disapproval. No...he usually let silence do that. He realized with a sinking feeling...that he'd taught Alfred to react similarly.

There had been so many times where the two of them were alone in a room or a carriage...and didn't address any of their problems.

"Did you write me drunk?" Alfred asked. "Considering it was still quill time, it'd be kinda impressive."

Arthur frowned. He was loathe to admit it but...yes, there had been times when Arthur had gotten...so...drunk...so depressingly drunk...he couldn't avow to exactly what he might've written. He was certain there was at least one or two in there...

The child shrugged a shoulder. "Well, that's too bad. Cuz this is part of my experiment now. I wanna make a record so I can compare the timeline of the ones that I didn't receive, with the ones that I DID receive."

"That sounds grandiose."

"Yeah, it'll take a while cuz I'll have to gather everyth-but-I told you I'm-I'm-I'm gonna treat them like gears and see where the teeth line up. It'll be easiest to prove with you, since you've always sent me the most post. I'll be able to see the fluctuations more easily. Tex kinda sucks at the pen-pal thing. More of a postcard kinda guy. And Mattie and I send letters on and off."

"Alfred...that's...admirable but impossible…" Yes, he remembered the barrel of letters Alfred had of his down in the basement but...even then…that wasn't…

Arthur was a very prolific writer in those days and he'd sent bundles of them once it was clear that Alfred was a strong reader and took comfort in them.

And when they're relationship...spoiled...he'd written meticulous business letters...half-hoping they would instruct America on how a grown nation ought to govern himself. He'd riddled them with the vocabulary he thought Alfred ought to have a grasp of...and he made himself deliberately fickle. He knew that if he created enough of a fuss about details that they'd have to meet personally to discuss matters every few years. Because it had hurt him in the gap of years following 1812 to receive human diplomats in his ex-colony's stead. And the note that had accompanied them! Stating that they were better-versed and more eloquent than their personification and that Great Britain would find them better company.

It had seemed then like a bumpkin bowing out. He knew now it was a veiled insult; those tradesmen, those diplomats, those high-born, well-rehearsed fops...

They were full of "Yes, Great Britain," "Indeed, Lord Kirkland, most impressive," "O Admiral Kirkland, you're such a wit."

All things England wanted to hear but from someone else. Someone who refused...who was sitting in a darkened house, nursing his broken body, and thinking the absolute worst of Arthur. He wished now that the boy had confronted him loudly, violently, dramatically at the center of a ball or court gathering. That the wounds hadn't been left to fester in secrecy. That Arthur's own outrage at the injuries and his condemnation of his orders being grossly violated would've proved his innocence then. Heads could've rolled if that's what it took to mollify Alfred. Hell, heads would've rolled to satisfy Arthur. He could've called in a favor and sent them to Francis, he'd had enough practice by then.

And then he could've cleared matters up between them.

"It'd be over three centuries worth of mail. Goodness, you'd have to have every letter I ever sent you…"

The boy didn't make eye contact and ignored him for a good several minutes as he shuffled papers into their proper spots.

Arthur's heart twisted and he lurched forward. His shoes trampled over aged parchment.

"Hey! Careful-"

Arthur swept the child up into his arms and just...took him away...away from all that...to the sewing room.

"None of those letters matter." Arthur told him later as he measured the boy out for a sweater. "Not really. We know about it. That's the bit that matters. The contents of the letters don't-"

"O' course they do. I should have had them. You should've had mine. And it makes you so-so weird! So let's get down to the bottom of it! I-"

"That's what the investigator is for," Arthur argued as he tucked wheat strands of hair behind little ears. "That's his job. He'll puzzle it out."

Alfred went rather quiet after that—mutely pointing when Arthur asked him what colored yarns he wanted for his sweater.

Arthur became acutely aware that the rocking chair was still at Kirkland Manor when he looked about the room for a place for them to sit. It was a rather solitary craft room; one comfortable chair that could fit him alone and a foot stool. He usually moved in another chair for Olivia when they had craft days. Unfortunately, he had a strong feeling Alfred would bolt if he left him here to fetch one.

He decided on the drawing room. With one hand holding a basket of supplies and the other clasping a small clammy hand, he made his way there.

He ran his thumb gently over the little fingers.

Poor lamb went cold so easily.

He forced Alba off the couch so they could settle there. He plucked and arranged blankets to make it more inviting and patted the space beside him.

Alfred climbed up and nestled underwing.

Arthur had chosen his wooden needles just on the chance Alfred wanted to be near. Even though he trusted himself at this craft; wooden was best; he shuddered to think how an errant flick of metal could scratch that little face.

Alfred didn't seem to mind the light jostling of Arthur's arms as he worked. But when Arthur's hands kept botching up the threads and he began cursing every few loops, Alfred looked up at him.

"You don't have to be scared..."

He drained the paper cup of water and then crushed it. He knew the child meant well but…

He blinked and looked around. It was strange...it almost felt like he was near—

"Dad!"

He turned to see Alfred waving at the end of the hall. He was standing beside Alistair, who frowned at the child, and then gave him a shove forward. "Get on with it."

Arthur's hackles raised—did Alistair have to be so forceful?

Alfred raced toward his father dodging workers.

Arthur knelt down to accept a no-doubt exuberant bear hug that would probably bruise him by knocking him down when Alfred stopped short. "Wait."

Arthur waited, with arms open, and a growing sense of disappointment. Strange...now he longed for that violent, aborted hug.

The child unbuttoned the front of his coat and extricated a slightly squished paper bag that had "Lunch of Arthur Kirkland" written in black sharpie.

"I fought against my culinary instincts." The boy grinned. "To follow one of your recipes."

Arthur's eyebrows twitched a bit as he accepted the lunch sack. He peeked inside and rather than seeing the ham Swiss, with questionably fresh ham he'd packed that morning, he pulled out a rather savory looking cheese and pickle sandwich. His stomach growled. He immediately unwrapped the cellophane on it and was about to take a bite when—

He noticed Alfred watching him closely.

"Have you eaten?" Arthur asked with concern. His hands were already moving to tear the sandwich in half.

"Yeah!" Alfred frowned. "That's why we're so late. Rhys made me eat first before I could deliver this. He thought it might take awhile to get to you. Meetings and stuff."

Well, at least Rhys was being sensible. Though why he'd sent Alistair with Alfred rather than coming himself…

He took a hearty bite and felt his nausea ebb. The bread was very fresh.

He led the child to a common room where they could sit at a table.

He'd just opened the tab of the fizzy drink his lunch had, when he looked over at his child. He reached over to touch a small, red ear. "Where are your earmuffs?"

Alfred squirmed. "...I forgot."

"And your hat?"

"I forgot that, too."

"And your gloves?"

"I got my gloves!" Alfred pulled the out of his pocket and set them down in front of him. "See?"

"That's a good boy." He'd let Alfred borrow his hat for the journey home. Otherwise, those poor ears might get nipped with frostbite. He couldn't believe neither of his brothers insisted on headwear.

Though...as Alistair sat down on Arthur's other side, he noticed the Scottish nutter wasn't even wearing a scarf...or gloves. Probably thought Alfred was overdressed.

Arthur frowned. "I understand why Alfred's here, but why are-"

"Well, he doesn't have the best track record with traffic," Alistair muttered lowly.

Arthur swallowed hard. What he'd meant was, why was he there and not Rhys?

"Geez, I'm never gonna live that down, am I?!" Alfred threw his hands up in exasperation. He pushed his sunglasses on top of his head. "Seriously dudes, what am I gonna have to do to prove that it was a one time thing?"

The sclera of his injured eye was clear and white. The iris had a darker ring of blue at the outer edge. Arthur found himself smiling. That darker ring matched the other eye's hue. He was healing up. Those bonnie blues would be back in a matter of days.

"Sooooo...nobody's gonna answer that, huh?" Alfred grumbled.

"That bread's real fresh, hm?" Alistair stated out of the blue.

"I'll reimburse you," Arthur grumbled—annoyed that Alistair always preferred immediate compensation for any small kindness he performed. So he bought a loaf of bread, so what?

"I didn't bake it. Idgit."

Arthur looked over to where Alfred was seated and swinging his little legs. The child beamed and showed off dimples. "Do you like it?"

"Delicious."

"Eat the crusts too. They're good for you," Alfred instructed.

Arthur's smile faltered a bit as he fished out a bag of crisps.

"Barmy brat. Letting Rhys learn ya bake...and well. He'll be holding you to that now."

At the bottom of the bag, Arthur noticed a sticky note bearing a simple message:

Hope your day is good. See you later!

It was signed with a heart shaped doodle and then Alfred in fancy cursive.

When it was time to say their farewells Arthur agreed to bring something home for dinner, and Alistair took him to the side.

"Rhys is worried. Your boy knows you're off and it's throwing him off. Rhys says Alfred's been indulging you for a while. And now he's out and out motherin' ya. Even you must've noticed it with this?"

Arthur sighed. Yes. He'd picked up on the role reversal the other night when his child had told him not to be "scared" and had patted his hand yet again in a very familiar mirroring of how Arthur soothed him.

It sprang from love and the best of intentions, Arthur knew that. He just needed to firmly outline what was expected from a father versus what was expected from a child.

At any rate, he supposed it was a step in the right direction. Alfred was at least expressing his love and concern in a more open fashion. And it reaffirmed what Arthur suspected; Alfred watched him very closely for cues and mimicked him.

He knelt down to give the child a warm hug. "I love you, dear." He set his hat over the child's head. "You keep warm. I'll see you tonight. Be nice to your uncles, provided they're nice to you."

Alistair snorted, "I'm always nice."

Little arms wrapped around Arthur's neck and parroted parts of that back. Alas, the 'I love you' wasn't in the echo. Arthur flushed as Joan drew near and likely overheard. "Be nice to your Parliament. Even though they're annoying...and some of them smell funny."

Alistair released a long sigh and glared at his brother. Aye, he knew he had the whole Yule-jerk-thing splotching his record. It was just a bad time of year for him. They were in February now. It was done.

And...yeah...he wasn't the nannying type and he wouldn't put up with little kid crap...but it wasn't like he needed supervised visits.

Come on now, if he hadn't cracked during Australia's nose picking years, he wasn't going to.

Rhys refused to take the hint. "There are 70 or so-"

"78," Alistair clarified.

"Yes; that's far too many to expect him to memorize. And then there's cups and wands and the major versus the minor. You don't even have worksheets or whiteboards at hand. You ought to break it down. Use them as flashcards. Establish a visual connection first and then-"

"Dammit Rhys, this is my lesson. Shove off."

Hazel eyes narrowed and his nose angled up—signalling his older brother was very irritated. "You've made it too difficult."

"Shove off," Alistair scoffed. "I haven't had the sodding chance to make it "difficult" I only got five minutes in 'fore you came flouncing in."

Alistair knew his nephew was more interested in the pictures than the power of the arcane. What he needed to find out was whether he had any talent. If he did, they'd start in a more practical manner (laying out simple designs and asking simple questions). If he didn't, it'd be memorization drills...like he'd done for Arthur when he was small.

But he had an irritating Welshman to contend with.

And then it happened. Like Alistair was still a petulant little eight year old again.

Rhys's hand found Alistair's ear and gave it a tug. "Alba!"

The hand remained and he received a Welsh lecture about the sin of ignoring his elder brother.

"I'm trying to help you. You need to explain this in a way that Ameri-"

"I could explain it, if yeh'd stop interrupting me!" He growled, slapping the hand away.

The front door opened and closed and a weary Arthur came trudging in with plastic bags smelling of Chinese food.

There were bags under his eyes, a full blown frown on his lips, and his brows were furrowed low. "Tried to overcharge me," he grumbled.

"Daaaad!" Alfred came trotting out to hug Arthur's legs. "You're hooooome!"

It was strange how a dismal day at work melted off for a moment, and his brother seemed young and refreshed.

"Yes…yes, I am home, Sweetling. Were you good?" Arthur asked softly—his green eyes were tranquil as Rhys took the bags from him into the kitchen.

"I tried," Alfred claimed proudly.

They chatted about stupid little things as they slowly followed after Rhys.

"Here," Alfred flung an arm towards Alistair. Alfred was holding The Tower card...upside down.

Wales had come back to ask what sort of silverware they wanted to use; since chopsticks (which were kept on hand for Hong Kong) would require handwashing the next day.

All three Kirklands shifted uneasily at the sight of the card in their youngest family member's hand; the tower was a rather...unlucky card to have appear in any shape or form. He was holding it in the Reversed position; which meant a nasty surprise was on the way.

"This one's left over," Alfred shook it.

Alistair cautiously accepted it and looked over at the room behind them. Alfred had built card castles, bridges, and houses.

A thick red eyebrow twitched; he'd treated the cards as toys.

Arthur flushed a deep red as he realized what his offspring had done with his brother's divination tools. He gently pushed the child behind him. "Er...Alistair, I'm dreadfully s-"

But Alistair held a hand up. "Al?"

The child's blond head peeked around his father's legs.

Alistair knelt down and beckoned with a square finger. "C'mere."

"Am I in trouble?"

"No, Sweet, next time just-"

"Depends." Alistair stated. "Answer faithfully now. Why'd ya make things?"

"Huh?"

"Why not lay them down in a design? Why not sort 'em out—yer favorite pictures versus the rest?"

The child scratched his ear. "I-I dunno. I asked a question. Like you said and then...I just ended up building stuff. I...I wasn't really thinking. I usually don't make bridges cuz I'm not very good at them."

"What'd yeh ask them?"

Alfred chewed at his lips.

"Yeh heard me laddie, what'd you ask them?"

"...Would my flight magic return?"

Alistair felt a twinge at that. That was a rather personal question. He should've asked in a lower voice. Ah well. Too late for that now. "Ahhh. And they're showing you: A house. A palace. And a bridge. Now what's that tell us?"

The child shrugged.

"Nono, come on. Why build a bridge in 3-D? Not just draw one out on the floor?"

"It looks neater?"

"Is it hail and strong this way?" Alistair asked—guiding him to the answer.

Alfred shook his head.

"No," Alistair agreed. "It's flimsy."

"I'm a flimsy flyer?" Alfred connected the dots and was aghast.

"Wait, wait. Let's not jump ahead." Alistair warned. "Let's think; If we don't want card structures to fall. What must we do?"

"Put them together well?"

"Aye."

"Not breathe too hard on them?"

"Aye."

"Keep Texas away from them?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Not stomp around them?"

"Aye."

"Be...be cautious?"

"Well done." He patted the lad on the head. "They say yeh will be flying again. But tell yeh to be cautious. Tomorrow, I'll show you some patterns you can layout. They'll make getting the answers from the cards easier and yeh won't have to play twenty questions."

A brilliant smile lit up his nephew's face. "Kay!" And in a burst of childish affection threw his arms around his uncle. "That was way easier than Numerology, Uncle Al. And they all acted like your lessons are all hard and scary."

"Yeh know better now." Alistair stood up with his nephew on his hip. "They're only that way to talentless idgits."

"Yay!"

"Let's celebrate by eating in the fancy dining room Arthur keeps off limits."

"Yaaay!" The Scotsman got another hug and then his nephew wanted down.

The little'un clambered over to the right hand spot of the dining table. Alistair chuckled and retrieved the two plush cushions they'd been using for Alfred's seat in the kitchen. He and Rhys had decided to elevate him during lunch. Otherwise, they'd be treated to another meal where Alfred's arms roamed like errant antennae trying to reach for things instead of just asking. Rhys had told him that if Arthur wasn't present, Alfred didn't ask for help. Plus, the dining table was even higher up and if they wanted to see his face...the cushions were essential.

Alistair nodded blithely at his two stunned brothers and felt rather satisfied with how that went; his nephew had a spark of talent. And why shouldn't he? Just because Eire, Gwalia, and Albion were no good at cartomancy, didn't mean America had no chance by default.

He was Alba's relative just as much as them.

Alfred peered up at the bookcase on his tiptoes. Dad had all sorts of cool looking books. He really wanted a large one in navy blue. It had gold lettering and boasted nautical mythology. He was sure reading from it would cheer Arthur up. And his dad really needed it; he'd seemed down today, too. Maybe he needed a beach day? Yeah, it was winter and cold...and horrible. And the sand would get everywhere and he'd have to wring it out of his underwear (even if he never sat down in it). But Arthur loved the ocean no matter the weather. And Alfred could put up with all that, if it made him happy.

The sea always worked magic on Father. When America was little it used to bother him immensely…that the ocean held such sway...that it owned a part of England's heart that he'd never have. And it always pulled him away like the tide receding...

And then America got older and learned to accept the fragments he got. Like shards of broken bottles on the beach...you could have that...or you could have nothing.

Arthur had mentioned a while back that Alfred was a piece of his heart and blah blah blah necessary for his happiness…

Only...he hadn't been very happy at all lately...

Alfred was still just a piece…

And a piece was, by definition, a small thing...and Arthur seemed to have a big problem...and having this piece with him...didn't seem to be helping all that much and he wasn't really sure what he could do about it.

Alfred sighed and stared up at the book. He couldn't reach it. Damn his unimpressive reach. It was waaaaay up at the top. Even if he pushed a chair into position underneath and climbed the back, he'd still be at a loss.

Well aware that here on the floor, he had no chance, he still futilely stretched a hand towards it.

Oooh, he wanted it so bad.

Blue eyes focused hard on it. On the treasure way up that he desired.

"Dyami…"

The clinking of roanoke beads…

Watching branches wave against the night sky…

Hearing hatchlings chirp from newly made nests and wanting to see…

There was a strange canoe on the water...wider and larger than any he'd seen before. It even grew trees in the middle!

It was a marvel from his Water-Father. A gift? A sign?

Joy and curiosity blended in a dizzying whirl of buoyant cheer.

Made him feel lighter and lighter and—

His fingers touched the blue book's spine. He tugged it out from its spot and hardly dared to look down. Still, he risked a look and wiggled his toes in their bright striped socks and giggled.

He was doing it!

He was totally doing it!

He was—

"Alfred?"

"GAH! Ooof!"

He'd lost it…

Ouch...he landed on his butt hard.

The door opened with urgency.

"I heard a crash."

Arthur looked up to the gap on his shelf and then down at where Alfred was sprawled and launched into a powerful round of fussing and scolding.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt? Sweet, you should've fetched me! I told you not to go climbing. O are you hurt?"

The American was torn between sharing his latest adventure and keeping it a secret. He opted for the latter; once he'd perfected it, he could surprise Arthur with his skill.

"Can we read this?" Alfred held up the book.

"Of course we can, darlingheart. Of course. Are you certain, you don't need ice?"

Arthur tossed and turned in a cold sweat.

A ringed hand was on his shoulder and it may as well have been an anchor the way it weighed him down.

It came again!

The cry! It made his breath catch, his eyes searched the space. All the bland smiling faces of court as they set down for a meal tormented him. Many had painted their faces with ceruse...with...white lead and vinegar…cochineal reddened lips and cheeks.

Herbs and perfumes masked the smells of rotting teeth and gout.

He refused to wear makeup if he wasn't on stage.

There was music and merriment but...a baby was crying and no one took note.

He pulled his wig free and tossed it away.

Everyone kept talking. Mundane things.

The French and the Spanish were mocked.

Arthur's fingers twisted in the ruffles of his sleeve and a baby went on crying as his needs went unmet.

He stood up.

"Arthur, you are making a scene," His Queen scolded.

Her fingers held fast to the ruffles, but he didn't stay.

The fabric ripped and there were snickers as he left his sleeve behind.

As he left her side to search.

His baby was crying.

He jerked up and practically fell out of bed.

He rushed over to the bedroom beside his and immediately heard soft sounds of distress. He knew it! He knew it had been too soon to send him off to sleep alone. Stupid Rhys insisting on it! Now his child had gone and had a terror!

The lights were already on and he found Alfred...on the ground. Why was he on the ground? His little fists were balled up and rubbing roughly against his eyes.

Arthur flinched; that was no way to treat that poor injured eye. He knelt down beside the child and realized belatedly that there were still letters all over the floor.

God, if his letters were to blame for this, he'd gather them up in a bin and burn them tonight.

"Kn-knock," The child sniffled. "You-you should knock. It's polite-"

"Hang what's polite," Arthur muttered. "What happened?"

"N-nothing. I fell...on my head."

"How?!"

"Out of bed?" The child's head tilted as he said it, which let Arthur know immediately he was lying.

"With the lights already on?" Arthur remarked as he checked the little head for lumps. Just in case...

"...I... was trying to do a handstand."

"At 2 in the morning?" Arthur replied skeptically.

"...I...tripped?"

"I don't see any marks. Did you fall? Did you really? Tell Father the truth."

"..."

Emerald eyes searched his child's face. "Were you lonely, dear?"

Blue eyes blinked at him.

"It's alright. It's alright, my darling. You don't need to lie. You could come in, any time. Just because you were tucked in here, doesn't mean you can't leave. My door was open."

Bare little toes curled around the edges of letters and tried to pick them up.

"Don't do that, you could get a nasty paper cut." He tickled the white feet and after getting a squeal, stood up to fetch socks from the dresser. "Are you suffering insomnia, pet?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" Arthur knelt down and secured the woolen socks on those cold little feet. They were so small and adorable, but the nails were turning purple. "You need to keep these on."

"...kay..."

"Are you listening?"

"Hmm?"

He gestured at the letters on the ground. "Did you read something that upset you?"

"Huh? No."

"Did you have a bad dream? I swear if Alistair said anything about not coming to me when you have a bad dream-You." Arthur released a hard breath. "You." He gave the boy a poke. "You. Come to me when you have bad dreams. Do you understand?"

Blue eyes looked this way and that.

"Sweet?"

Alfred sniffled and rubbed his nose on his sleeve.

Arthur pulled the child into his arms and stood up.

"Hop!"

He made a detour to grab the child's stuffed animals, turned off the light, and returned to his room—determined for them to have a good night's rest. And then in the morning, he could chew his brothers out for their horrid advice.

Read & Review Please : DDD