Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or the song: White Rabbit. Or Pokemon. Or The Fisherman of Shetland.

Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Welsh phrase: chopsing: arguing. Yet more familial angst and drama.

AN: Thank you for your interest, your reviews, and your patience. Good God, I've been through an academic meat grinder. O_o But here it is, at last! Chapter 22! And in it a shout out part to Marzue, whose reviews in Chapter 15 tickled me so much, it inspired me...you'll know where.

Happy Reading! You've waited for it! : DD And we'll see when I can update again. So. Much. Homework. The absurdity...

Chapter 22: Out Of View

Alfred tongued the socket of his missing tooth—the metallic taste of gum had faded and he could already feel something solid underneath. His smile would be repaired soon enough, which was a relief; he'd felt, since he lost his tooth, like it just wasn't as effective as it used to be.

Blue eyes flitted over to the young teen at the table in the kitchen. So this was Mr. Gray's grandson? What a letdown.

Alfred gave Arthur a sidelong glance and shook his head slowly. "Fourteen and a sourpuss."

"Hush now," Arthur replied as he moved past Alfred and greeted the boy.

Alfred trailed behind him because...manners. Otherwise, he'd get a scolding about skulking in doorways.

He stood, feet apart, back straight, head up. And he stayed one step behind, at Arthur's elbow.

Arthur seemed to appreciate it. He smiled warmly as he motioned him forward. "Wynn, this is my son, Alfred."

The American grinned and reached out for a handshake. Instead, he was treated to an obligatory nod and a brief, indolent, stare as the boy played on his phone.

He had dark brown hair and super pale skin...probably because he was always tucked away with a screen somewhere. He was at that awkward fourteen-ish spot where height ruled over breadth.

A strained conversation ensued where Arthur asked politely about how "Year 9" was going and what were his favorite subjects and hobbies and Alfred plastered the inane smile he'd perfected in business transactions over the centuries and pretended he was fascinated with the teen's answers.

He stifled a yawn. He'd already done a few flying exercises early that morning...and he'd only dropped Rhys once. And that was just because a bird had startled him. Thankfully, the whole episode amused Rhys and he didn't seem to be holding a grudge.

Before Mint took off for...wherever flying bunnies go in their spare time...she'd relayed that the Seelies wanted to help him with his Gate endeavors. Only Arthur had stopped mid-waffle and had gone so green around the gills that Alfred just gave noncommittal "Oh's" and "I'll think about it's" to her, which calmed Arthur down. Later his old man warned him very seriously that any help a fae gave came with conditions.

Yeah, like he hadn't already learned that the hard way.

Besides, the way Alfred figured it, he'd already closed the Gate all by himself in 1814. He could probably reopen it alone too. He blinked. He knew...just like that...he knew beyond a doubt that he'd shut it in August 1814 just days before his death.

Of course he could do it. That gave his confidence a well-needed boost, lately the whole magic thing was seeming harder and harder. While they weren't exactly straight-up grading him...seeing his responses and sheets come back pockmarked with pen corrections…

He wasn't doing as well as he should've been and Mathieu's cleaner papers vexed him.

When they finally left the room, Arthur sighed, "I worry for him. I can sense he has potential though for what..."

Alfred stared. Wait, what?

Arthur smiled kindly, "As you get older, you'll pick up on that too. Sometimes, it comes to fruition. Other times, it does not. Which I'll tell you, when you have a monarchy and someone doesn't live up to expectation, it can be the most frustrating—"

"What's it feel like?"

"It's...a knowing. That's...the best way I can explain it. You just know there's something about them…"

"And then you play favorites?" Alfred raised an eyebrow. That would explain a lot.

"W-well, not precisely."

Alfred frowned, "I think everybody's got greatness. In their own way."

Arthur smiled. "Of course, love. Now, Wynn is supposed to be with us for the next few days while things...settle for him. He's been having difficulties at home."

Before he could stop himself, Alfred muttered out of the corner of his mouth, "With such charm and wit, I can hardly imagine why."

Arthur set a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "That's enough. Wynn's had a hard time of it since his f-"

Alfred frowned at the hand. "I always get the heavy hand on the shoulder."

"Hmm?"

"I, like, hardly ever get the gentle squeeze." Canada, and Australia, and New Zealand all got it. All the time. He'd seen. At Christmas!

Arthur humored him.

Alfred's cheeks puffed. "You can't do them simultaneously! There's rules!"

Arthur smirked and pulled him close while ruffling his hair.

He tried to enjoy it...this feeling of closeness...this warmth...

Tex had told him that morning to write out a list of magic questions. Cuz they were "gettin' into do or die time" and were leaving early on Friday, and if they didn't glean anything by then they'd have to wing it.

Today...and tomorrow...was all he had left...and then Mission: Call-the-Locksmith would commence.

It'd be a good opportunity to test his powers...to get back into the groove of solving problems for himself or with Tex but…

He pressed into Arthur's leg as they walked—knowing a hand would card through his hair. It did—brushing by his ear gently.

He had to soak it all up. Now. Because after Friday, Arthur would probably be angry and disappointed in him and-

Reluctance swamped him.

No. He steeled himself. This was happening. Their mission was happening.

He couldn't make Tex get along with Spain.

He knew that.

Even though...Spain was more than willing to give it all a shot and he and Tex had a hell of a lot in common. Not that he could ever in a million years tell his brother that.

Which was irritating because Tex kept pointing out similarities between him and England. (It didn't help that a lot of them were the more annoying qualities—like being bossy, or OCD when it came to locking things up, or being know-it-alls about subjects they were well-versed in, or being the killjoy who told Texas to get his feet off things.)

It took a lot to swallow down his own observations and not bark back that Tex was loud and cheery or loud and angry and never beat around the bush. Like Spain. He liked music and food and could be insensitive even when he was trying to be nice. Like Spain. He liked what he liked and he hated…

He hated...what...and...who...he hated…

Brown eyes narrowed and he tipped back his drink before slamming the empty glass back on the bar. "I confronted him! I confronted him and it took him a minute before he could even remember me…before he even...el cabrón..."

Alfred nodded and drained his own glass; he had the opposite problem...his father never forgot...

He looked around the hallway that was growing more homey each time he passed through it. Did he want to stay?

Yes.

Did it matter?

No.

Because he'd made a promise to the UnSeelie King that he'd deal with the Gate thing that...he was kinda responsible for in the first place.

And more importantly...Tex wanted to go. And that alone was enough.

His brother had put up with a lot for him lately. So if he wanted to go...they'd go…

He owed him that.

He looked up at Arthur, who smiled for him.

Even though it was childish and stupid and embarrassing…

He raised his arms and scrunched his fingers in a carry me signal.

Arthur blinked and then smiled and obliged.

It was all the little things. The well worn sweater vest Arthur was wearing with the little fluffs of fuzz that were starting to escape. The sturdy feel of the man's collarbone under Alfred's cheek. The way Arthur sang a sea shanty under his breath as he climbed stairs and hummed the naughty words out in a self-censoring manner.

Alfred tightened his arms around his father's neck.

"Sweetling, if you're not up for lessons, you don't need to-"

"I'm good! I'm fine!" Because he didn't want to waste what time was left!

Arthur sighed and paused in the hallway. "Alfred, I'm serious. These past few days, we've had you on a rigorous flying regime. A right gauntlet. That's taxing. If you need time to recover, I want you to tell me. We can record the less-"

"Dude, it's a lecture day. It is a reprieve."

Or it was s'posed to be.

Except Reilley's Rune Lesson was super hands-on and hard and none of the markings made sense to him and he wasn't any good at any of it. And this was how he was gonna go out...sucking. He was going to leave this place on a sour note.

Meanwhile—

"Tha's great Mattie-boy!" Reilley ruffled Mathieu's hair. "Just like that-"

Mathieu smiled and cast his runes again.

Arthur nodded approvingly and gave Mathieu's shoulder the much sought for I'm-proud-of-you squeeze.

Blue eyes narrowed. Of course. He'd be good at this. It just figured.

Just friggin' perfect.

Arthur came over to his desk. "What's wrong?"

He bit his bottom lip and shook his head.

Arthur pulled a chair up beside him. "Tell me."

"...I'm...no good at this," he confessed quietly.

First Numerology, and now this too.

Arthur's arm went around him and settled on the back of Alfred's child-sized chair. "That's alright."

Alfred picked up his rune stones and then let them slide off his palm to clatter on the desktop...and they still said gibberish. "I just don't feel anything. He said I was s'posed to feel a warmth. That my fingers would tingle...I didn't feel anything. I just..."

"Alfred, it's alright," Arthur assured.

"...I feel like I'm letting you down…"

"Dearheart, I've never been more proud," Arthur replied.

"Well yeah," he muttered "Mattie over there is a pro-"

"Of you," Arthur finished.

"Riiight. Fail harder? O, I'm on it," he grumbled.

"I'm perfectly serious. I am proud of you."

"Of what?" he asked flatly.

"You're being honest."

Which hurt, because the hero never liked anyone insinuating him to be a liar. Didn't like to think of Arthur thinking of him that way. And even though Arthur tried to clarify what he meant when Alfred grew more upset, the hit had landed.

Because it was a special fear of his...one that he kept close and tucked away...that he was nowhere near as sincere as he'd once been. That his spirit didn't shine like it used to...that it was getting tarnished...and he'd never be able to buff it back out.

Lunch didn't go much better; not with Mathieu and Texas swapping lesson successes and Wynn scoffing that Pokemon video games were dumb, and no, he didn't play them. Which made his soul weep.

His uncles were griping about a referendum and nobody wanted to play checkers with him as they finished up. Alistair and Tex were heading back outside. Arthur and Mathieu had to talk to their counselors. Reilley and Rhys were still talking politics.

Later they'd play a round with him.

Everyone said later…

Later...like he had later...

Alfred stared out the window.

Two days left...

He looked longingly over at the frozen pond.

Reilley noticed him as he and Rhys argued the pros and cons of being in the EU. "Ask Scottie, if he's been out."

"Huh?"

"The ice. Go Ask Alis...I think he'll knooow," Reilley joked in a sing-song mockery of White Rabbit.

"Kay."

When the room was empty of adults (because Reilley and Rhys now wanted to use their laptops to offer stats on why they were right), Alfred tried calling his uncle. But the man was terse with him (cuz he was teaching and either "get your arse out here if yeh wanna learn or wait til I'm done to be bumping your gums").

"I saw him out there," Wynn muttered—eyes focused on his phone screen.

"Really?" Alfred replied skeptically. Kid's eyes seemed glued to his device.

"Earlier. He was walking around it and smoking."

Yeah, that sounded like him.

"So he checked out the pond and gave it the thumbs-up?" Alfred asked hopefully.

Wynn shrugged. "He stepped on it a lot and there aren't any cones or caution tape. I was here one time when he did that. Ringed the whole thing."

"I see…" Alfred replied steadily, trying to be cool and composed, and then his joy overwhelmed him. "YES!"

Alistair shifted irritably as he watched Texas draw a defensive circle with the bone knife into the dirt.

Two days ago, he'd been giving Rhys a hard time for mischief's sake, because Rhys's sudden foray into athleticism had amused him greatly and it wasn't hard to guess the reason for it.

"You're just jealous, that Uncle Al is the undisputed favorite," Alistair smirked and leaned against a wall. "That Alfred would trade that stack of Welsh fairy tales for a spar with me in a heartbeat."

Rhys's hold on "The Fisherman of Shetland" tightened as he shifted the pile of the books to line up more neatly. "...I am."

The redhead stared, "Eh?"

"...tell you what it is. It wasn't so long ago that I was in the spot you enjoy now."

Alistair hastily straightened.

"Hey now, I'm jus' takin' the piss," He tried to shrug. "Bairns get older yeh know? They go seeking for different qualities. I'll be on the outs soon enough when he hits puberty and Reilley will be the shoulder he can cry on when his face is an oily mess and I'll be replaced-"

"I wasn't replaced," Rhys hissed. "I was forgotten. And you knew...and didn't tell me."

"Whoa now. You didn't want anythin' to do with him. You didn't come with us when we visited-"

"I thought we were chopsing! That our confrontation had ruined-"

"Well tha's your own mistake!"

"You knew!" His nostrils flared. "You know I kept Arthur from calling you out when we arrived. But perhaps I should've let him."

"What are yeh-"

"Perhaps you deserve it." Rhys glared. "You. Knew. You knew it all. You kept Arthur from finding out which...made me think...the worst of him...I...I thought I delivered my news and he callously ignored it."

1812...Alfred's injury…

No...no...Alistair refused to feel guilty for it.

"You chose to not be involved afterwards. I fought him too. It didn't stop me. Didn't stop Reilley." Alistair crossed his arms stubbornly. "There was nothing keeping either of you from visiting. Yeh just didn't. And I did. More than any o' you. More than Reilley. I looked out for wee Al. Helped him when I could-"

Rhys got aggressively close, but Alistair held his ground.

"It didn't have to be you," Rhys went on. "Do you understand yet? It didn't have to be you. Only you… only when you had the time. You let it be that way. And you know who paid for it? Alfred. What's worse, is how grateful Alfred is to you. You, who kept him estranged from the rest of us. How many times was he in trouble that you weren't there to help him? That he never thought to seek anyone else? Wha? Say wha?"

His Welsh accent was coming out strong now, which meant he'd probably spent the week brooding until he had momentum.

He needed to get out of this and fast. "Tha's not…that's not...you're wrong."

"Am I? Let's hear it, then."

"...I don't have to do this. Answer to you," He sneered before he could help it.

Rhys stiffened and his hazel eyes slitted. "No, you don't. Alfred's not my child. But you do owe his father an explanation. And the next time he wants it, I'll support him in getting it."

Alistair rubbed at his forehead.

It wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. Ever.

And now when he saw Arthur...especially when he was with Alfred and the two were...being ridiculously sentimental…

He remembered joining his nephew on the sidelines: by the punch bowl, or in the gardens or taking him out of the palace altogether for a ride in the forest, or a drink in a tavern.

Sensing something was off in a letter he received, and using a business contract as an excuse to visit him and find out what the hell was going on.

Or then there were all the times he didn't do anything.

It was in the 1880s, and they made eye contact as Alistair struck up a match. Alfred was openly staring at them, as the lot of them bustled from shop to shop. They were dressed brightly enough to look like an exotic aviary. Arthur didn't like his wards in black and he'd wanted to reward everyone for excellent behavior at Court and so the parade through town began.

Alfred must've arrived early. He wasn't dressed for an encounter with them; his clothes were simple and worn and he looked haggard and sickly from being on a ship.

Alistair's eyes lingered on the tattered traveling coat—military issue—torn to ribbons in some places that blew with the wind. Alfred's eyes followed his gaze and nodded. He smiled wistfully and fell back into the mist...out of view.

And aye...he'd been wrong...and he knew that now…

But he didn't then…and...

Then...he'd...he'd really thought he was doing what was best. For Alfred.

Canada adjusted the microphone of his earpiece and looked down at his laptop. His counselor, Meegan, gave a friendly smile.

Earlier, Texas had guffawed at the name when Canada mentioned her.

"Meegan? Her name is Meegan? Tch. Meegan...As in, Meegan the Vegan?" He rhymed inanely and snickered.

Which made Mathieu blush because...yeah...she was and that was a completely valid life choice! But when he tried to argue for her, Tex tuned him out.

Which earned him a raised eyebrow from Alfred, "Dude, that's Texas. Texas? Before he struck oil, cotton and cattle were the...actually...Dude, cotton and cattle are STILL some of his major...and he has oil now. You're not going to convert him. He's a truck-driving, cotton-wearing, carnivore. Ya gotta take him as he is."

Tex frowned, "You talk like I'm a cracked sewing machine in the discount aisle."

When Mathieu replied that he wasn't trying to convert him, that he was trying to open his mind to the reality that other people were allowed to have differing views, Alfred huffed, "You can invite her to your strange, blasphemous, Canadian Thanksgiving, but she can't come to ours!"

They were ganging up against him. He noticed that lately. His American brothers were usually together now. Attempts to engage one in conversation, instantly involved the other.

The line had been drawn. And when he tried to change the subject to magic lessons, Tex began trying to oneup him with what he was learning from Scotland. For no other reason than to annoy him.

Considering how things had gone since Alfred's rescue, he could understand the treatment.

Alfred had given him a lot of chances to smooth things over...and he'd squandered them. And as Texas was a staunch supporter of Alfred in all things, Mathieu's blunders sabotaged that relationship too.

Meegan nodded sympathetically. "I can appreciate how difficult this must be. It sounds like there are a lot of different family dynamics at work. Just between you and these two brothers...that's three families that are blended. And then there's the Commonwealth and-"

"Yes. There are some cultural clashes but…I guess I...I just don't know Texas well enough to be...fighting with him as much as I do with Alfred...we just don't have the same history." Mathieu sighed, "It's just...Al's always front and center and loud. And I'm...not...I...it was always like that when we were young and it...never really changed. Even when he went off and was independent...he was gone...but he didn't really leave. Even his absence was loud. And Arthur wasn't...the same. Wards like me or Barbados or Jamaica...we knew it...but the younger ones didn't...and I never knew how to tell them that he was...not always like...that before he'd...but after..."

She nodded again.

Mathieu sucked in a breath and forged on. "W-whenever America was scheduled to visit, there'd be this angry tension...everything had to be immaculate, we all had to be dressed, everyone had to mind. And I had to step up to help keep things together and Arthur would be grateful and I...felt...useful and...I wanted to be useful but...it's like Arthur would lean on me and...he was an empire so it felt...heavy...and then! Then...when it didn't even seem like Alfred noticed or cared, there'd be this...anger over that...like we failed...And now…"

"Now?" She encouraged.

"...he did notice...Alfred, I mean. He did notice...acted like he didn't...it was his own kind of spite...Both of them were...spiteful...I…" He swallowed. "...and I'm...spiteful...too."

Meegan frowned but didn't interrupt.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. "I don't want to feel like this...it's so stupid...I don't know why...it's like if I could just get one answer more, one answer better. I'd show him once and for all we were different. There was this one time...they had a fight...it was the 1849...World Fair...and I just wanted to calm England down...he was making everyone nervous. I brought him tea...it was late. It was very late and the fire was throwing shadows. And he was a little drunk already. When I came in holding a tray...he didn't see me...he saw...and then he realized...I don't know if you've ever watched hope die on someone's face before but...it's awful."

His counselor's eyebrows knit together sympathetically.

"And now Alfred's back and Arthur's...so happy. I mean of course...I can't imagine what we'd have done if…" He thought of the shattered clay husk in Osha's cabin. His gut churned so he didn't dwell on it. "I just...don't like feeling as though I've just been a stand in…"

"Have you tried discussing this with Arthur?"

"A little…"

"And?"

Mathieu shook his head. Arthur had immediately reached for alcohol at the restaurant when he tried.

Mathieu and his counselor talked some more about more recent interactions.

"I don't want to be taking all of this out on Alfred, but I can't seem to…not… be competitive and now...he's getting competitive. And it makes me even more...It's me. It's my fault this time. And I...but now...earlier in a...class," It was probably better to leave out the occult nature, "He wanted to succeed so much. And he couldn't."

And he knew how that felt. When they were young and Alfred was just a better horseman than him and could jump his pony and race it and win ribbons. The way Arthur's chest would puff when people commented on Alfred's talent.

And for a moment there'd been a wild, mean-spirited, sense of relief to finally have something. Because Al had so much…

"...I feel like I'm letting you down…"

It was the quiet, carefully controlled way he said it. A neutral tone better suited for when he was working on an engine and needed someone to pass him a socket wrench.

"It hurt…to see him...hurt over it…"

To see Alfred on the other side of that fence finally...and realize the grass wasn't that much greener.

Oh Alfred had Arthur's love. That was obvious…

And it wasn't half as restrained as what the rest of them received through the Victorian Era.

When they'd entered the room, Alfred had been in the Briton's arms, and Arthur spun him around with a flourish before setting him into his seat.

Green eyes had shone with affectionate attention...he didn't care who was watching.

But Al still struggled to get Arthur's approval...as a man...just like Mathieu...

Which...given his current form...

There was one knock and then Arthur entered with a basket of laundry. He smiled and gestured to the basket on his hip. He made occasional statements like "Because he's a weasel, that's why." Arthur had his session going on a cordless phone held between his ear and shoulder.

Apparently, he was in charge of laundry because they were too short staffed. He set Mathieu's clothes in a neatly folded pile on his bed and smoothed the red coverlet. As he stood, one article of clothing fell from the basket to the floor.

Arthur saved the child-sized cerulean blue turtleneck with a soft smile and folded it up again. He set it carefully back into the basket.

Meegan laced her hands together. "I'm concerned that you feel the need to compare yourself to him in all things. You're two different people. You'll have different strengths."

"Yeah," He sighed and looked out the panes of the French doors leading to his small balcony.

Violet eyes narrowed as he saw Alfred's small figure tromping through the snow to the pond.

"...and weaknesses…"

He looked over to where Arthur had paused in the doorway with a frown. "Because Reilley is a git. Alistair's a git, too. Unless, I've stated otherwise. You should assume they're all gits-"

Mathieu looked back out the window as Meegan droned on about how even when she asked him personal questions...he managed to bring his brother into it. He dominated conversations and wasn't even there.

His little brother sat down near the edge.

He wasn't wearing enough to be outside. Whenever he visited Canada and complained about the cold, Mathieu would scold him about not being dressed properly. Why didn't any of that ever stick with him?

What was he doing? Did he even have ice skates?

Arthur had said something a while ago about needing to get Alfred some and that surely, Mathieu would be the best advisor—veteran that he was in the sport of hockey.

It was an opportunity, served on a silver platter, for him to step up into the good older brother spot.

Arthur had stared hard at him as he'd said it—wanting him to care.

But…

Mathieu hadn't thought to bring it up, given how they'd kept squabbling.

The Canadian peered down. His brother was strapping something onto his shoes…

Oh no…he must've found some antiques.

A sense of wrongness twisted his gut. "Hey Arthur, does...Alfred have permission to-"

The Briton gave him a look. He'd already gotten a few terse warnings over the last few days. First from Arthur, who'd beseeched him to get along for the sake of family harmony, and then a rather surprising one from Rhys.

The Welshman had stopped him from leaving the room on the pretense of going over one of his papers at the end of the class. Afterwards, he abruptly asked him why he felt the need to add onto Alfred's answers.

"There is a pattern: Sometimes I ask a question and you answer. Other times, Alfred answers. Whenever Alfred answers, you answer after—more elaborately."

"..."

"Why?"

"..."

"I am the teacher. You are the student. When he is wrong, if he is wrong or incomplete...I will correct him. Arthur will correct him. One of your uncles will correct him. Not. You. Do you understand?"

"...I'm not trying to...I just...want to show what I know..."

"To who?" Rhys gestured to the paper. "This shows me what you know. When we talk, you show me what you know."

"I didn't realize you didn't want me to answer questions."

"We both know that's not what I'm saying." Hazel eyes gave him a hard, searching look.

Arrogant...malicious...

Rhys hadn't wanted to phrase it like that...but he was coming close to it and if Mathieu didn't learn to curb the habit...

He'd overheard Alfred telling Texas he was a teacher's pet, a snobby goody two shoes, a big ol' snitch.

Mathieu knew what he was: a bully.

And it was testament to how much Alfred cared about him...that even when upset and frustrated...his brother...didn't define him that way.

Which made him feel awful.

And drawing Arthur's attention to this latest stunt wasn't going to fuel the bonds of brotherly love but...his stomach flopped and he just couldn't keep quiet.

"I mean, the ice in the pond," He gestured. "Has Alistair cleared it as safe to skate on?"

Arthur went deathly pale and his green eyes flitted to the window.

"Because…" Mathieu's mouth dried. "I didn't think he had."

He usually declared something was safe when everyone was gathered together. Should've done it at lunch earlier if all was well.

Arthur's face went green and he dropped his phone.

Mathieu knocked his chair over in his haste to stand.

They both shot over to the double doors in Mathieu's room—leaving their counselors calling their names. Arthur's phone from the floor and Mathieu's laptop at his desk.

The metal latch was pulled from the wood as Arthur manipulated it with the force of a nation instead of a man. They scrambled to the railing for a better view.

Down below, Alfred was making practice glides on the ice. He seemed to be involved in some impromptu game of chase with the asrai.

"Alfred!?" Arthur bellowed.

His brother looked up and waved—breath misting in the cold as he laughed.

Arthur's chest was heaving. "Alfred! Get off the ice, it's dangerous-"

But the wind picked up and Alfred motioned that he couldn't hear. Probably couldn't hear the cracking either.

With desperate windmilling arm, they both signalled him to get off.

But he entreated them with equally exaggerated movements for them to come down.

And Mathieu could read his lips: Play with me.

He was almost hyper aware of the first poolings of water that began to surround his little brother.

And he was too acquainted with the phenomena to even think. He was already moving over the railing, down the garden trellis. He dropped down into the snow.

Because he already knew what came next.

He was sprinting as fast the snow would allow.

It was the wide eyed stare Alfred gave him when he realized what was happening that made Mathieu's insides knot.

Like it never occurred to him that something could go wrong.

It just...never...occurred...

And then he went under.

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