Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or Star Wars. Or Batman. Or Robitussin (not allowed in my medicine cabinet unless I'm dying). Or Villeneuve's Beauty and the Beast rewritten by Andrew Lang in 1889. Or the Zafira Tourer. Or Disneyland.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). If you're someone who doesn't turn in early and you turn in early, everybody in your house believes you're ill. More familial drama. Sibling rivalry. Feuding. The difficulties of road trips. Mr. Gray.
AN: Thank you for your reviews! And a special thanks to all the readers who've made the rounds and gave Sirena a try. XD I think that one will be fun too. It'll probably be on the shorter side...lol...probably (I guess we'll see) but it should be a blast...of angst with light fluff. Yes, I suppose you can say in comparison with the other fics are...these modern ones are the happy ones. XD Happy reading, hope you enjoy the chap!
Chapter 15: The Favorite Uncle
Alfred pulled on his STAR WARS pajamas.
"When'd you get those?" Tex asked as he set his phone to charge.
"These? Maybe a week or two ago? Dad saw me eyeing them and he put them in the cart. I told him I could buy it, but he didn't let me." He felt his cheeks warm.
When he'd tried to argue that he actually had plenty of clothes and didn't need them, Arthur asked if they were all in his suitcase and when he'd answered, "Pretty much," Arthur told him to get that one and one more. He went for Batman on his second choice.
"Oh."
It was clear that Tex was in a mood.
Alfred scratched his neck. "Geez, I...I know I kinda dropped the ball. Sorry."
Texas gave him a flat look.
"I'm sorry!" he insisted. "I just-earlier, he was all upset and-and I could FEEL it and I remembered what you said about letting them give advice and how it makes them happy and I-just...wanted him to be happy. And you saw him! He was...excited about the trip!"
"Al...I ain't gonna sugar coat this. This is gonna be hard to pull off."
"But we'll find a way!"
"We'll give it a go," Tex muttered as he sat down on the bed.
Tex was usually so gungho, it wasn't like him to be gunshy.
Worry pooled in his gut; was he sick?
He climbed up beside him and touched his forehead. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah." He gently pushed Alfred's hand away. "I'm just worried about…stuff."
"Me moving too fast?"
"...Yeah."
Alfred kicked his legs against the mattress—listening to the springs thrum. "It's just...there was lots of stuff I was wrong about."
"..."
"No, really, listen. I know I bitched and moaned to you a lot about super heavy things...that I...attributed to him that weren't...true. I mean, yeah, he was pretty crappy to me for a long time but...there was stuff he didn't do. He...wouldn't do. And I...well, we both really...suffered foot-in-mouth syndrome for most of the Nineteenth Century..."
Blue eyes widened when Tex didn't laugh and just unbuttoned his flannel shirt.
"Texas…I-I'm sorry I made a mess of things." He blinked hard. Dammit, he didn't think he'd fucked up quite that badly. "I-"
"Al, it's fine," Texas cut him off as he set his coiled belt on the dresser. "It's just...back home. It's flooding."
"Gah!" He rushed over to his laptop and typed it in. "Geez. I'm sorry I-I-stupid replacement phone. I-I don't have it set up with weather alerts. Do you need an aspirin or something?"
"Nah, I'm just tired." He pulled his boots off and the spurs clanged as they hit the floor.
Normally, he'd scold him about marking up the wood floors but…
When Tex was down to his boxers and undershirt, he slid under the covers and took his glasses off. He set them on the bedside table.
He wasn't even going for PJs. And his glasses were off already. That wasn't a good sign.
"Would it be better if I left and let you turn the light off?"
"Huh?" Tex sat up. "Nah, we gotta tire you out otherwise you'll have nightmares, right?"
"Actually, I…" Alfred readjusted his socks which were bunching around his ankles. "I think I'll be okay. Even if I DO have a nightmare...Lately, Dad and I keep floating into each other's bad dreams. How freaky cool is that?"
"Wha?"
"I know, right? Before it was like, super strong memories and emotions that'd get us into each other's heads and now we're dream sharing. It's...kinda neat. I mean, maybe we'll be able to manipulate the landscape of the next one. Think of Disneyland with no lines?"
"...Hey, Al?"
"Yeah?"
Texas traced the pattern of the coverlet. "Sooo, you've got this...special connection with Arthur cuz of blood and magic, right?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Do...do you have it with just him?"
"Well, Rhys is an empath so he can-"
"But you...can you do that, too? Or is it just with Arthur?"
Alfred scratched his ear. "I haven't really tried with anybody else-"
"Do you sense me at all?"
"Dude, of course I can sense you. We share land. Same way you can feel my death-"
"No, I mean magically-"
"I…"
"That's a NO, isn't it?" he muttered.
Alfred climbed into bed and wiggled to show he needed more room.
Texas sighed and moved over a bit more.
Alfred turned to look at him. "My uncles told me I wasn't on their radar until Yule. And I still can't really do the same with them. Dad says my sense of them will grow as my magic heightens."
"...and then...you think...you'd be able to connect with me?"
Alfred blinked. "Maybe."
Dude, if he could link up with the Texas that'd be super awesome! In the past when Hawaii was still warming up to them, she'd say that it was like they shared a brain!
Before he could launch into all the hijinks they could get into if they were able to sync up, there was a knock.
The brothers shared a glance and called out, "Yes?"
Arthur opened the door.
"Turning in at nine with no fuss?" Arthur observed. "You lads feeling alright?"
Alfred stiffened. If he wasn't careful, Dad was going to go into helicopter mode and there was a strong chance he'd have medicine poured down his throat. "I'm a-okay but Tex is trying to rest."
Sorry Bro. He wasn't suffering Robitussin tonight!
Arthur frowned and moved closer. "You're unwell?"
"Nah, I'm just...dealing with floods."
"Ah yes, I know too well the feeling. If it's any consolation when I hit my first millennia, my sensitivity decreased tremendously. Perhaps it will be the same for you?"
Tex shrugged.
"Well, Rhys and I were hoping to read you a story or two-"
Alfred snapped to attention. "Magic?"
"Yes."
"Heroes?"
"Of course."
"Dragons?"
Arthur chuckled. "If you make it known you like dragons, good luck getting Rhys to belt up over the subject."
Alfred's jaw dropped. "Why...wouldn't you want to talk about dragons? Dude...you choose to talk about fairies instead?"
Arthur blinked. "I'll try to catch Rhys when he faints from delight."
Alfred snorted at the thought of his stoic uncle keeling over from emotion.
He looked to see his brother's reaction but rather than being tickled he had a powerfully sour expression.
Maybe he really was sick? Traveling could do that and Tex had been in some rough areas; he could've picked up something and it was just making itself known now.
"Oh...hmmm...maybe since Tex isn't feeling so good, we should read elsewhere."
"Huh? No, I'm good you can stay!" Tex argued.
Al shook his head. "I'll take my cell. You text me if you want some medicine or anything, kay? Love you!"
He blew a kiss cuz...germs...he then pushed Arthur towards the exit.
He closed the door to a crack.
"Ally, you don't have to go-"
"Love you Big Bro, feel better!" Alfred chimed through the space and then turned to follow after Arthur.
Mathieu squeezed the stress ball as he descended the escalator. He wasn't sure why, but he kept half-fearing that some new cataclysmic event revolving around Alfred would've emerged in the last half hour of his flight approaching the U.K. and would require the Kirklands' complete attention...and Mathieu would be left at the airport.
It was a childish fear...he was a grown man and could easily take a taxi but…
The fear of being forgotten plagued him.
His counselor Meegan had suggested that it was a persisting childhood fear. Which sounded right. She said his time alone had likely instilled it as a deep set insecurity. One that challenged his ability to trust.
But how do you fix that? He'd wondered endlessly. When he finally asked her, she'd smiled a bit sadly as she stated, "You must know your own value."
Supposedly that would help him by not allowing others to dictate his worth through their actions or...how he perceived their actions...
Which...just didn't help because...if he was really valuable...why would he be so...invisible...so often?!
He straightened his dark, forest green sweater. He'd put it on as a mild way to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. If he'd been back home, he might've visited Newfoundland or Labrador for a night of drinks.
He looked around; Rhys and Arthur were supposed to be the ones—
He felt his face warm as he noticed the two men standing by a waste receptacle.
When he approached them and they smiled, he felt flustered.
He was remembered...all that worrying and...he was remembered. He tucked the stress ball into his pocket.
"H-hello, thank you for letting me come on such short notice, I know you-"
He was more than a little caught off guard when Arthur pulled him into a hug rather than a handshake. He knew he'd been testing the man's patience lately.
"It's good to see you, lad."
He sank into the embrace.
Rhys helped him retrieve his luggage and then they treated him to an upscale dinner at a fine French restaurant.
The chicken confit was delicious and the Red Bordeaux eased his nerves.
He smiled as he glanced over at Arthur who was enjoying salmon en papillote with a fine white wine.
Rhys ate his garbure with a tall glass of water.
Mathieu blinked; Francis would've thought that was a crime.
Still, it made it very clear who their designated driver was that night.
He enjoyed the ambiance; the shine of crystal glasses, the pristine white tablecloths, the low murmur of diners' conversations. Everything was clean and organized and calming.
They spoke of trifling matters at first: the plane, the weather, television. But that gave way to more important things; how he'd...missed Arthur and Rhys, his concerns about the wars in the other hemisphere, immigration...but it eventually led back to himself...and his counseling sessions.
"I was...hesitant at first," Mathieu admitted. "There's...such negative connotations on getting help…"
Arthur nodded. "There is. There shouldn't be, but there is. I'm proud of you for making your health a priority."
It made him feel lighter hearing that. He talked about scheduling and that he needed to make phone calls during the trip to Meegan's office.
After several deep sips of wine, he haltingly...nervously spoke of how his counselor had suggested that his childhood was the root of some of his issues.
Not all of them of course…but...but...some of them. And those were the ones...that left him...so unsure...of where he stood.
With one father dead and unknown.
Another father largely absent following his military loss...
He watched his third father-figure turn pale and take a drink of wine.
He felt his nerves tighten like a spring. It was a dangerous topic, he knew that. It could spoil the whole trip. Darken his relatives' view of him...injure Arthur. But...but...his counselor had warned him that he had a tendency to bottle up his worries and let them fester into wounds.
He...he had to gauge Arthur's reaction. See if it mattered to him.
Because it mattered so much to Mathieu to know which man's legacy he was really a part of.
That he was wanted by someone...
Right now, he felt like a can rolled across a floor by a janitor's broom and just ended up in one corner or another. Look, he was part of a Viking settlement, oho, now he was French, oh wait, a British citizen now...eh?
"You must know your own value."
"It was a difficult time," Arthur agreed readily taking a deep drink.
The man drank steadily more as Mathieu tried to ascertain how much of the man's actions were orders from the crown and how much arose from his own affections.
If he could just establish that there was some sincerity, he wouldn't feel like was wandering in a snowstorm.
Unfortunately, Arthur seemed to take it as an attack on Victorian parenting.
"I'd have never made her wear the stays or have you children take laudanum if I'd but known! O-or the wallpaper and paint?! Sooo much...just wasn't known then. About the world, about illness, about food production, good God sanitation! Lord, when I think of all the lives that might've been spared if I'd known more about water and bacteria-"
"It's always difficult for our kind," Rhys stated. "Wars, disease, culture, science, there's always something. Our childhoods were far from perfect as well."
Mathieu frowned—feeling a bit like his uncle was trying to downplay his troubles.
He could feel Rhys's hazel eyes x-raying him. Which was usually something that happened when he'd been a ward of the British Empire and he had to give his side of a scuffle among the colonies.
Arthur sloppily tried to change the subject by abruptly sharing anecdotes from the group sessions of his anger management course in between sips of his drink. "At least I didn't snap completely like this one bloke. He threw the cash register at the customer and I didn't mean to laugh, but I did, and now I'm 'that prat in the corner' which is rather mortifying but-"
Mathieu also finally heard the event which led to Arthur's sessions.
"He got...stuck in a printer?" Mathieu repeated, trying and failing to conjure the image up.
Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "It was horrible, he was scared. I-I know that's part of why I-I got so-so angry. His bonnie blues...so wide...You know your brother, he's my little lionhearted scamp. He doesn't scare easy in those sorts of scenarios. It just caught the poor dear completely by surprise. And it wasn't his fault. Alfred has been guilty of plenty of damage, yes, the Lord knows, yes, but he was innocent in this. That man he...he just-just shouldn't have touched him! After everything that's...I know I overreacted but…"
Mathieu took a deeper drink so he could last the tirade.
"-people seem to just think they're entitled to touch him, prod him, manipulate him. He's always been pretty and now he's...he's a slip of a thing and he seems friendly and in-in-innocuous and they just reach out. I've been noticing that. At stores with clerks and..." The Briton took a hard gulp of wine. "I've been noticing it a lot more. Like he's a flower and...when I think of his magic and how he was born, I know why it makes sense, and then I get angry." He took another deep sip. "I think of Beauty and the Beast, oddly enough. You know? In the story. The actual story? How all the readers say the Beast overreacted when the father took that rose. I used to think that too. Till now! Until NOW. It wasn't his rose, damn it!"
Rhys finally just reached over and snatched the bottle and glass away from Arthur's place. He set it far away on the other side of the table and scolded: "Arthur, your voice is rising-"
"It wasn't his rose! And now when I see people in the streets, plucking them from hedges: 'She loves me, She loves me not.' That nonsense! Pulling the petals off!" His voice wavered. "Pulling them off?!"
Mathieu took another sip of his glass of wine. Everything always circled back to Alfred.
Mathieu blinked and tried to dislodge that thought. It was unfair. It was his own bias creeping forward. Alfred had NOT deserved that to happen to him. He KNEW that. That was what made Arthur so distressed. The unfairness...
He noticed both men were watching him rather closely and realized that England and Wales had been deliberately censoring their conversations not to mention Alfred until this moment.
Until Arthur couldn't hold it in anymore.
Mathieu also realized he...hadn't really asked after him. He felt a stab of guilt.
"Is he...is Alfred doing better now?"
Arthur sagged with relief at Mathieu's interest. "I think so."
Rhys stared.
Clearly, there were alternate viewpoints on the matter.
Arthur's mouth twisted. "He's...well...he's having troubles with some things of course but, he's facing them! So of the whole, I think...I think he's doing extraordin-din...very well. Given his circumstances and having...so much happen in such a short duration of time. Very resilient. Very strong. Brave." He nodded—eyes bright. "I'm very proud of him."
When they arrived at England's home, the smell of corned beef and cabbage stew permeated the place.
Mathieu closed the door after Rhys helped a tipsy Arthur stagger over the threshold.
"There's extra if you're still hungry!" Reilley called out as he heard the front door close and lock. "I know fancy food means tiny portions! So help yourselves!"
Alfred was decked out in green with a necklace of light up plastic shamrocks that clacked loudly when he moved. They could've induced a seizure with how brightly they flashed.
Texas was noticeably less enthused for the holiday; a roughly cut out shamrock was safety pinned to the band of his hat. Camelot was curled up on his lap.
Alfred sighed, "I'm sorry Uncle Reilley, your holiday's just not as fun now that I'm not allowed to drink."
Reilley smirked and raised his beer. "I don't doubt that at all boyo, but we can still have ourselves a jig on a table if you like. Now that you're not knackered, maybe you won't fall down!"
Arthur's eyebrows came down in an angry line and Rhys struggled to keep hold of him. "Yooooou...were always a horrible influence."
"Don't be like that! Come on, deartháir beag." He brandished the glossy button pinned to his shirt: Kiss Me I'm Irish! "We're all Irish today!"
"Never," the Briton spat.
"Never," Alistair seconded, dressed in orange as protest.
"H-hey Alfred," Mathieu murmured while his hand tightened on the handle of his luggage.
It was important not to project his negative feelings…
He sucked in a breath.
Whatever issues he had with Arthur's...what felt like Arthur's favoritism...wasn't something to hold against Alfred…
He released his breath.
Otherwise he'd be perpetuating a toxic environment where they couldn't bond.
And...didn't he miss his little brother?
Didn't he miss those 'Bro-movie-marathons'? Prepping the week before and buying all the extras Alfred loved; whipped cream, and strawberry syrup, and sprinkles. Decorating until the pancake looked like a blobby dessert and while a small voice whispered it was sacrilege to his favorite food...it was worth it because his brother's face would light up…
Didn't he miss that?
The easy camaraderie of sharing a blanket on a couch and knowing it was only a matter of hours before he'd need to shrug out of his parka because Alfred would creep closer during a horror movie and eventually cling to him and their combined body heat would make him sweat. And it'd remind him of their childhood where Alfred was constantly sneaking into his bed when they'd finally been given separate ones. And...he didn't really mind. Even if Al did drool.
Or the way Al preferred sharing a kayak rather than paddling one on his own because, while he wouldn't say it, Mathieu being in charge of it made him feel safer. It was fun taking him on the Kipawa River. And if other more advanced kayakers tried teasing Alfred, Mathieu would point blank ask how they enjoyed Clendening Glacier since they were experts. Which usually shut them down pretty quick and Alfred's shoulders would relax again.
He felt his throat close up a bit because...yeah, of course he missed it.
The blond nodded but didn't look at him—eyes fixed on the television screen.
Ah...the cold shoulder...eh?
"A-alfie," Arthur hiccupped. "Be nice. Be nice, say 'hullo' like a good boy."
Alfred sighed and he looked over at Arthur. "Seems like you celebrated enough for us both, Old Man."
"Alfie, please? Be nice...be nice to your brother. Say hello. For Daddy?"
Alfred's mouth trembled a bit and Mathieu's stomach flopped.
This wasn't how he wanted things for their family; for guilt to be a constant motivator in their interactions.
"...Hey, Mattie."
The Canadian chewed his lip and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "H-hi, Alfred."
Neither could quite look the other in the eye.
Sorry, Al...next time, I'll try to make sure Arthur stays sober when we start talking.
"Perfect! Brill! Thank you, sweet." Arthur pulled them both into an awkward, lasting hug until Alfred wiggled and they were released with a breathy laugh that reeked of alcohol.
"Hey, Matt," Tex greeted. Texas had a grim look and gave him a hard eye.
He couldn't say he'd been expecting a warm welcome from them but...this was several more degrees past frigid than he anticipated.
"Hello, Texas...so er...why are you all on a trampoline?"
"O! Oh yes, I didn't say." England moved forward and clapped his hands. "Alfie's learning to fly once more! He is! He's doing a bangup job, he is."
Mathieu felt his stomach twist as Arthur gushed, "Come pet, show your brother. O sweetling, don't be shy." He turned back to Mathieu. "It is quite a thing to behold! Quite. A. Thing. How natural he is when he's in the air. Alfie, come now."
Alfred was rather pink as he shook his head.
"Please, poppet?"
Alfred went pinker and shook his head more vigorously.
Flying? He was flying?!
Yes, he'd seen him do so in the seances and he knew Alfred had managed it during their battle with the wendigo but-
His brother could fly?
It was hard to feel special next to that.
Arthur groaned. He popped in two aspirin and drank water from the faucet to swallow them down.
Good Lord. What had he been thinking drinking so much?
He remembered somber violet eyes.
"...she suggested that my childhood may have been an influence..."
Right.
Riiiighto.
It was always the parent's fault.
O the Kirkland Manor Wine Cellar would be put to use on this visit at least if...he had his way and could avoid Rhys.
After making sure his toiletries were packed for the fourth time, he left his room and caught sight of Alfred standing idly. A million things for them to do and he just wanted to dillydally!
"Alfred, aren't you ready yet? Did you take down your things? You've had all morning!" Arthur demanded and then winced at his own sharpness.
"Ugh, you're still hungover," the child muttered and then in even quieter tones, as if counting on Arthur's throbbing headache to block the soft words, went: "I hate having to deal with you when you're like this."
Arthur felt his face grow hot and he swallowed thickly, "I..I am. I'm sorry if I'm...a little...waspish."
As if it wasn't humiliating enough for Rhys to have taken him aside that morning and scolded him for his excesses last night...
"Have you any appreciation for how easily this could be used against you in a custody case?"
He could feel a worse rebuke in those disappointed blue eyes.
"I'm sorry," He repeated. For letting you down…
It could be used against him…
If he wasn't careful…
If Alfred was questioned...and answered honestly…
His blood went cold as he envisioned a social worker pacing a courtroom: 'Alfred, how much would you say Arthur drinks? How often? Can you smell it on his breath? Or off his pores? Does he slur? How impaired is his judgment? Is he violent? Do you feel safe in his care?'
If pictures from heavy drinking nights were shared…
'It seems you were in quite a state of undress, Mr. Kirkland. Do you think of yourself as a suitable role model? Can a man of poor impulse-control, be entrusted with the well-being of a young child?'
Alfred nodded and sighed. He looked back to his open bedroom door. "...I...I'm just kinda sad to go. I mean, we just got my stars up all nice."
Arthur walked over to his son, and realized the boy had been admiring their handiwork from the previous weekend: there were bursts of silver metal stars on the wall where the headboard was.
"It's interesting," Mathieu offered.
Both of them jumped a bit—sometimes it was unnerving how silent Mathieu could move.
Alfred recovered more swiftly. "It was Dad's idea to get them different sizes and to set them like this."
There were more clustered at the top and then greater space as they trailed down. It gave the image of falling stars or (as Arthur privately thought) the falling sparks his wand made when he cast.
Alfred loved it, though it might've also had something to do with the fact that they'd painstakingly counted out 50.
"Very nice," Mathieu repeated but the phrase sounded colder the second time.
He wasn't sure why he did it, but Arthur abruptly the closed the door to the room and cleared his throat. "Come along, boys."
He warned Alfred to use the rail of the stairs and was pleasantly surprised when he did so. Usually, he required another reminder...or three.
There wasn't much room in the rental car Alistair brought home yesterday, so tying luggage to the roof rack was a necessity.
While Arthur was making sure they had some emergency granola bars, since they were going to drive the whole way rather than take the train, a new drama unfolded.
"Wait! We're not taking Camelot?" Alfred stated aghast as he held the struggling cat in his arms.
Arthur hastily came over and got him to release the poor thing. It wasn't easy leaning over while his head pounded and he forced himself to take long easy breaths.
"Charles will take care of him. You met my housekeeper, remember? Very good with cats, don't you worry."
"But, but, but-"
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Stupid headache.
"It wouldn't be safe for Camelot to wander the manor with so few people in it. If he got shut in a room and we couldn't find him, why the poor creature could-"
"Don't say it!" Alfred cried in horror and buried his face in Arthur's leg.
Arthur's breath left him in a rush. Careless idiot! Why on Earth did he say that?! Such an unhappy thing to tell a little boy! And one who feared starvation as a special kind of evil.
And then he felt even worse…
He'd effectively summarized what happened to Alfred. Trapped in a room, starving, why the rest of the world wondered what happened to him.
"I...I'm sorry, love. I-I'm so so sorry. I-I shouldn't have phrased it like-" He lifted the child up into his arms for a tight hug.
He pressed his lips to the child's temple and willed himself to find perseverance. He forced in several breaths, shocked with himself for the morbid insensitivity that nearly escaped him.
Come on, Arthur, old boy. Hold yourself together.
Alistair sighed as he looked over the Zafira Tourer. It got fair gas mileage, he talked the agency's listed price down, and it had just enough room for their group.
Only one thing happened, he hadn't expected: England wanted America in the middle row, middle seat and he wouldn't budge on it which meant—
"Sorry Lads, someone has to suffer and since Alfred's out, you two are up next with the youngest knees. You have been chosen," Alistair quipped.
Both gave a dry "thanks" as they were forced to accept their spots on thinly padded, fold up seats in the vehicle's third row.
He'd already planned on Texas being there if Alfred was there, because he knew the Texan could put up with a lot for his brother's sake, but now that the order had been shuffled around—
"Daaaaad!"
Arthur arranged the booster seat in the space. "It's the safest spot of a vehicle!"
"But Daaaaaaaad! I wanna sit with Tex."
"This is where you're sitting, young man!"
"Noooooooo."
"Do not whinge at me. Not with this headache."
So, aye, there was that battle going on.
And then!
It was clear in the side glances the two teens were giving each other that neither were thrilled about sharing the cramped spot or each other's company.
Great. Just what Alistair needed: to be stuck in close quarters with feuding teenagers, a whining whelp, and his brothers.
He found Eire muttering a Gaelic prayer.
He gave his brother an elbow to the ribs. "Better say another. I don't need my cards to tell me that there are lots of ways fer the tatties to go o'er the side on this one."
Only after Rhys had crossed off everyone from his clipboard as having used the loo, were they allowed to enter the vehicle.
Scotland slid into the driver's seat and looked to his left, ready to order his younger brother to search for a good radio station only—
His eyebrow twitched.
Dammit. He told Eire to get there first.
Rhys clipped his ballpoint pen to his clipboard. "Yes?"
He should've taken that as a sign and bypassed the trip altogether.
But he couldn't bring himself to abandon Alfred to Arthur and Mathieu's drama-dominated-magic-lessons.
God Almighty, the wean owed him one!
Several truly excruciating hours later, having endured near-constant complaints about music (because no more than three people could ever agree on a station at any time), appropriate conversation topics (because suddenly they needed to censor themselves and their humor on account of Alfred's age), and what felt like more pit stops than he's ever made on a military campaign in his life (even with men suffering dysentery!), Alistair finally pulled up to Kirkland Manor.
As he was slowing down, Alfred gave voice to the joy in his soul.
"Freeeeeeeedommmm!" Alfred cried and slapped the release button of his seat belt and crawled over Reilley's lap to the door.
He forced it open and before Alistair had come to a complete stop, dropped out and ran up the steps to the double doors of the estate.
"You stupid prat! You didn't put the child locks on?!"
"Uffern-"
"S'alright Scottie, he had a roll goin,' he's done it before. You can tell."
"He's fine, we've worked as stuntmen. He knows how to tuck-"
"-child locks-"
"I-I thought we just had to do that for Australia!?" Alistair barked back as he set the emergency brake.
As they exited the car and walked up to inform the staff of their arrival and make sure Alfred was in one piece, they found the entrance open.
The doors creaked as a breeze of wind passed through.
Alfred was nowhere to be found.
Neither was Mr. Gray, their usual lone greeter in off-seasons.
The clack of rapidly approaching dress shoes caught their attention. "Forgive me, sirs, there was a bit of an emergency that needed tending-"
They all heard a not so distant toilet flush.
Arthur shook his head. "I told him to go at the last stop. I told him."
Mr. Gray smiled, "All is well, sir. He made it."
"It's the small miracles."
"Indeed, sir."
Later, when Alistair set his nephew's luggage down in the entryway, Alfred rushed over—nearly dragging their elderly butler with him.
Alistair was about to scold him for it when his nephew smiled shyly and tapped the tags on his suitcase and then looked up at the man.
Riiight. Mr. Gray had gifted him those.
"An accessory of excellent taste." The man nodded approvingly.
His nephew laughed and he gave the man's legs a gentle hug. Gray patted the child's shoulder affectionately.
It was almost a little odd seeing how quick those two had struck up a friendship, but Gray had always had a good deal of curiosity regarding America.
He remembered him as a teenager cleaning tables in the library while Alistair happened to be there looking over an old atlas.
Gray paused in his work and refolded his rag. "So...so that's America? Right...sir?"
If he hadn't been so surprised that Gray (who seemed like the mousy sort) had dared to speak to him, he would've ignored him (he was busy!).
"Yes," he answered gruffly, hoping that was enough to signal his disinterest.
He waited for the inevitable 'he was a handsome little fellow' compliment. Like him being fair of face was some sort of consolation for his absence and rebellious nature...
"He looks…"
Alistair nodded expectantly.
"...a little sad."
Alistair's head snapped up to study his nephew's portrait. Before he even realized he was saying it, the words were out: "Arthur had to leave before the portrait was done. Can't remember fer what...the faces were put in separately."
"Does he ever visit here? My father said he's never known him to but..." The man's eyes remained focused on the painting.
Alistair stared hard at the map, away from the sad blue eyes. "...No."
The Scotsman remembered another time, years later when gray streaks were setting into the man's auburn hair.
It was late and Gray, who was an underbutler at that time, had been given the night off to attend one of his children's school recitals for Christmas. Being the worrywart he was, he still drove by to make sure there hadn't been any complications resulting from his absence.
After being assured that all was well, he visited the library. Curious, Alistair followed him and watched the man select a book from the shelf.
He lifted Arthur's tattered copy of Sir Gawain to compare it to the painting's and, finding them to be a match, nodded.
He flipped to the back cover, with an air of already knowing what was there, sighed as he closed it and put it away.
Alistair knew what was in it too. He'd seen the book enough; left open on a bed, on a table, on a floor. Had it pointed out to him enough times by anguished drunk fingers...
"It is so good to see you, Young Master, welcome back. Here, I'll help you with your lugg-"
Alistair held up a hand. "I got it. Jus' show him what's what in an off season."
Alfred slipped his hand into the butler's and smiled. "Round 2 Tour!"
Mr. Gray smiled. "Let us hope it's less eventful than the first."
"Alas, I can't promise that. Texas is with us."
"Ah yes," the man agreed.
"Huh?" Tex turned around. "W-what?"
"We're going on a tour on what parts are open and what parts are closed, Bro."
"And where all the waste bins are," the man added pointedly.
Texas blushed.
"Yay!" Alfred cheered and then confided in an overloud whisper. "Last time, I carried lots of stuff in my pockets cuz I didn't know where I could throw it away besides the bathroom."
Gray's mouth twisted like he wanted to laugh. "Oh dear. Well, let us address this immediately. There's usually one in a corner, like that one there."
"That's a trashcan? It's sooo fancy. I dunno if I'd feel right contaminating it."
Trusting Mr. Gray to give his standard warnings about seasonal hazards and how the estate ran when it was manned by minimal staff, Alistair sought his youngest brother out.
Mathieu and Reilley were chatting as they lugged their items up the stairs.
England was opening a bottle of Paracetamol while Rhys pulled out a bottle of water from his bag of supplies.
Their eldest brother frowned as Alistair leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.
"Alba, go tell the cook-"
He waved Rhys off.
"Oi? Albion, you still dead set on teaching them both?"
Venomous green eyes narrowed and the Briton growled possessively, "Yes. They're my boys."
"But-"
"Mine."
Alistair released a frustrated breath through his nose. "Can I at least give Alfred the option of studying with me instead?"
"Alba…" Rhys warned as his hazel eyes flit from one brother to the other.
"No."
"Albion, I spoke with him. He doesn't want-"
"I said, 'No.' If you want an occasional lesson, like Rhys. Like Reilley. I'll allow it. You are...a...veteran practitioner."
It sounded like it cost Arthur a lot to admit that.
"But these are my boys and you'll run your plans by me."
Gray eyes glared and green eyes flashed.
"You are not taking my Alfred from me."
Alistair rolled his eyes. "God, you're so dramatic, the hell do you think I'll do?"
Arthur went strangely still at that. "What you'll do? Or what you won't do?"
"Wha?"
Rhys moved between them. "Alba, go tell the cook we're here."
Alistair glared but the Welshman looked nervous. He kept giving a subtle shake of his head. That they didn't want to have this out. That this was not the hill worth dying on today.
The Scotsman turned on his heel and swore under his breath.
It was always something with Arthur.
Ah well, it just meant he'd have to be patient. He could trust his youngest brother to botch it up. And when Alfred got frustrated, and Alistair knew he would, Uncle Al would come to the rescue.
He smirked.
Like he often did.
It's what made him the favorite uncle.
Read & Review Please : DDD