Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Dante: No sadness is greater than in misery to rehearse memories of joy." Or Zorro. Or Annie's "Tomorrow." Or The Steam Man of the Prairies (I saw the cover for this the other day and...wow...I immediately knew America would dig it.)
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Implied anxiety attack. Rhys hogging the POV while Alistair and Reilley are on the sidelines. Spain being the rock-strong, supportive...dense. Puerto Rico being...an older brother. Family drama for both clans. Family fluff for one. Canada finding some empathy and empowerment. Allusion to more Plains War violence with a Euro-centric and American-centric bias...however, there were ghastly things done by all involved. Brief reference to the encomienda system as well as the horrific pearl diving practices that indigenous populations were forced to endure after Spanish colonies were established.
AN: Thank you for your reviews! I read each and every one; they are not drops in the ocean and I really appreciate it when you take the time to write me something. They keep me motivated for writing. And a special thanks to FlowerFoxWings for continuing to polish up/translate lines into Spanish. Good lord, this turned out to be a long chap. I just can't bring myself to split it. And now I must go off to take a scary exam D : But before I go, here you are. I hope you enjoy this update! : D
Chapter 33: A Rubbernecker For Tragedy
Rhys assured for the third time that there was no need for Mr. Gray to sit up with him and wait for them all to return.
Following Arthur's example, well, after he'd written out all that Alfred had shared with him (poring over the details until he was certain he'd recorded everything as faithfully as he could manage), he realized he couldn't stay there in the hotel either.
He then called Uber to drive him to the ranch house and was welcomed by Mr. Gray and the two drank tea, made some supper, ate together and proceeded to wait, wait, and wait some more.
Mr. Gray reluctantly acquiesced to his wishes and Rhys was left to his own devices.
He pushed up his reading spectacles and turned another page of one of Alfred's dime novels.
He heard vehicles pull into the drive but didn't sense his family.
He moved himself into a chair by the window and eased the glass open to better eavesdrop.
Hawaii was helping Puerto Rico out of her car, meanwhile an altercation between Spain and Texas, who were already out and standing in the driveway, seemed imminent.
Spain stood with his arms crossed and his face nonplussed while his son ranted at him.
"I'mma gonna call the Feds, er...the Guard, er...uh...wait...no, the cops! Yeah, cuz yer trespassin' and aw hell with it," Tex growled and later tossed the phone aside when it became clear he was too drunk to dial properly. Rhys heard dial tones from where it landed several meters away.
"I'll haul yer ass off my property myself," Tex boasted.
"Ohhh, you want to fight, huh? Big tough guy now, huh? ¿Crees que puedes retar a Papi?
"No, don't do it!" Ricardo slurred. "Papi, if he's real drunk, Tejas will be mean! I dunno if he'll pull his punches! I seen it! I SEEEEEEN him throw a man through a window!"
Spain shrugged, "You get one shot!"
Texas needed no further invitation; he charged and swung. But Spain dodged, grabbed him by the legs and hoisted him over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes.
Tex was stunned. "Tha's not. Tha's not how...you're s'posed to do it. When you say 'one shot' means you stand and take the shot. You...you, cheater!" He slapped at Spain's back. "Allie, hey Al!? Tell him he's a cheater!"
"Al is not here, idiota," Puerto Rico snapped but then offered in support: "Usted es tramposo. Papi, you don't dodge those. Not when you, uh, what do you and Al say?"
"High noon! Callin' me out to high noon. See? Seeeeeeeeee? Even Rico gets it."
"Tomorrow, after your fever breaks. If you still want to hit Papi, even after allllll the tender care he's given you. Fiiiine. But it will be tomorrow."
Rhys winced at the new, creatively violent sometimes rhyming lyrics Tex devised on the spot to the melody of Annie's "Tomorrow" and Hawaii discreetly entered, noticed him, and came over to join with.
"Arthur's with Alfred. I think they're talking it out," she offered. "But...I probably should've taken him along. Al can always handle Tex the best during these Wild West relapses. But his phone's still off."
Rhys became increasingly unsure if he'd need to intervene. The Carriedos weren't technically his responsibility and it wasn't his place to discipline Tex for disrespecting his family members...only the situation seemed to be escalating and Tex's insults only increased in volume after Spain carried him in.
"He's out of my sphere of influence," Hawaii murmured. "Once his temper's fired up, we either need America or Alaska to shut him down."
Spain set Texas down none too gently onto a beanbag chair and then crossed the room to lean against a wall and observe him. He crossed his arms and his face was dark as he stated, "So you hate me, huh?"
Rhys felt his stomach flop. O good. Melodrama. As if his own clan didn't subject him to enough. He took some Tums.
"Yeah! I hate you! I HATE you! Hateyouhateyouhateyou! ¡Apestas!"
Hawaii flinched at the tone.
"That why you disappeared? You hate me and wanted to hurt me?"
"Fuck you! Whaddyou even care, you didn't even say goodbye! I was...I was a kid and you didn't even say goodbye! You said 'good luck?' Good luck? The fuck does that mean? I didn't need a 'good luck' I needed to know you lo...but you didn't even say goodbye or write to me or visit, didn't even-even when you were there! You were there at that ball! Azura and I did a dance. You saw us. I was taller. I got taller, Boss. People in mercado start to call me, 'Señor.' No joking-like, for real. And you didn't even come over-you never-and then when I went over to you-you and you couldn't even-and then when I was independent and you never...you never...And then when I was annexed you never—You didn't care. You didn't write back to me, you son of a bitch. You don't get to just do this, now. You didn't say goodbye."
"...I never say….in...situations like that, Toni, I...I never say... Because I don't want it to be goodbye. Because being familia doesn't stop because my...rule stops. I-"
"Well, I like goodbyes! In case shit happens then I know everythin's tidy. If I go out and don't come back I ain't leavin' anythin' that's important half done."
"So, you gave me the goodbye instead?" Spain pointed to the boy's rosary. "Goodbye means it's over. The end. You never tell me goodbye. I was a wreck!"
"Well, you never bothered to show up so what does it matt-"
"I came; I tried to find your grave on three trips. Because something should have grown where you had fallen. It's usually a tree. Rome had a tree. Taino left a tree. I wasn't sure if you'd be a Pecan tree or a cacti or what. But I'd know when I saw it. I'm your papi, I...I'd know. I had to give up because it was too painful. I go places and fail and I get hope. You know what hope does? It makes you not able to sleep! To concentrate. Go a little further. Check again. Still, I can't find your grave. Maybe it is you are alive? But why doesn't any of the government know? Why wouldn't they know if you are alive? Why would they lie? Why would they make me do business with America when they had you? When they could send you to me as diplomat? You speak Spanish. You know me, my culture. I know you. You are my Tejas, no diplomat from America would be received better. Woe to any who treat you poor in my kingdom! Even now! I want you to come. I have Madrid Deep Space Communications Complex, you have-"
"Goddammit, that's right. Dammit, you like space too?"
Spain blinked and nodded, "Yes, I like the heavens. Son hermosos."
Brown eyes narrowed. "Well, you can't. Cuz it's my thing."
"He does this about the flag too, Papi. Like he's the only one allowed to have a solo star-"
"You and Cuba copied!"
"No, we didn't!¡Imbécil!"
"¡Basta! Rico, Papi is handling this. You are not helping me." Spain gave him a warning look before turning back to Texas and giving a flat answer of, "I liked the heavens when you were still a starry twinkle in my eye. I am the reason you like them, mijo. You got that from me."
"...well, you're still mean...and scary...and you're never there for me."
"How can you be saying this? Yes, maybe back then. Yesyesyes, fine. Papi was not good at managing his home life with his career. But it was different then; I was the breadwinner...of a very, very big family. I worked hard to keep you all fed, clothed, housed. Every one of you had several pairs of shoes. I worked hard for that, mijo. Yes, my working kept me from you, but I am here right now," Spain argued a bit shrilly.
"Nope."
"I am two feet. Look, now I am a foot away from you. Look again, I am here. Riiiight beside you. I am RIGHT here, RIGHT now."
"...You're still mean and scary and it just makes me-"
Spain's lip curled back. "Makes you what? Hate me? Makes you want to hit me? Hmm? Makes you want to hurt me? Well? ¡Dime!"
Texas shook his head.
"Tell me now?" He demanded. "It makes you what?" he snarled, reaching out and giving Tex's shoulder a hard shake.
The lad burst into noisy tears.
Hawaii stood up but hesitated on whether to move forward. Rhys shared her dilemma.
"Oh...it...it make...makes you sad," Spain murmured; he wilted at his own observation and then moved forward to wrap an arm around his former colony.
Puerto Rico blew out a long exasperated breath and looked over at Rhys and Momilani. "He's always been a crybaby."
"Ricardo," Antonio hissed from where he was consoling his other child. ""Sé amable a tu hermanito. He just has deep feelings!" He focused back on Tex. "Lo siento...mi Tonito. Your temper was so like mine right then I just...forgot for a moment you are delicate."
"I am NOT delicate!" Texas snapped. He sniffled, "You stupid, creepy, conquistador. I knew what you did. I knew it was blood on you. The others didn't know what you did. But I did. Mejico didn't even have to tell me. I knew what y'all did from the start. What the encomienda system did! How you got your gold and silver and pearls!"
Spain stiffened and then nodded. "Ah…" he went very pale and then nodded resignedly. He sighed and agreed with a sad smile, "Que asusto."
Tex rubbed at his running nose with the cuff of his sleeve. "And the worse part is...I didn't want to grow up into you. I didn't want to! But I did! Cuz they killed Al. They killed him! They hacked him open and he died in my arms and I fucking lost my mind!"
Rhys's eyes were blurring from fatigue as he read through The Steam Man of the Prairies which was yet another dime novel in Alfred's collection; a particularly ridiculous one in his estimation. He adjusted his pair of reading glasses.
Alfred had underlined certain lines, sometimes adding his own rebuttals or admiration. He'd also doodled here and there: Texas was a favorite subject.
Although Alfred lacked Mathieu's artistic talents by leaps and bounds and the faces he drew were cartoonish and rudimentary, he captured his Texan brother's moods masterfully. Rhys found himself snickering at a caption of "Read this part to Texas. He was less than impressed" and there was an accompanying caricature.
A particularly loud snore drew his attention to where Spain had camped down in the middle of the parlor with both of his sons, despite there being no couch. Apparently, two blankets for the boys and one pillow for Spain was enough. Or maybe that was strategic and he liked being their pillow.
After a lot of yelling and crying and arguing (sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish) and then discussing the finer points of random non sequitur subjects, Spain forced a group hug and they all, more or less, settled down.
Wales envied that Spain had an ease in...moving over obstacles. The Spaniard could accept failings, catalogue them, implement new strategies, and move on—letting the past chapters close. It made it easy for him to "switch gears" as it were. He could go from being angry to remorseful to supportive to concerned about his sons getting sleep and not get tangled up in the things that had come just a moment before.
His children seemed similar. The Texas who'd come through the door furious, was the same Texas curled up on Spain's left side. And for all the quarreling Puerto Rico did with his family members he had no hang ups about being there with them now.
Unfortunately, the trait Spain passed on that was truly obnoxious was...that they all snored, loudly.
Rhys sighed and turned another page. He resisted calling Arthur because he didn't want to interrupt them if they were having a heart to heart, but it was getting harder as the hours progressed.
It was nearing 2 in the morning when his brother and nephew arrived.
He knew immediately something was wrong and hurried to open the door.
Bloodshot green eyes met his as he staggered up the porch with a sleeping Alfred in his arms.
Unable to help himself, the first thing out of his mouth was, "I told you not to delve there and now you've gone and hurt yourself."
The worst part was how aware he was that it was fragments of a speech he'd often given centuries ago to all three of his brothers (apart, together, or in combination) whenever they did something unnecessary that got them injured or sick when he distinctly warned them against it.
For Arthur, it was usually brambles. He'd scramble through and get all scratched or not realize there were nettles growing up between the shrubs and—
There must've been something familiar...familial...safe in the rebuke because Arthur sagged against him and his shoulders shook.
Which was the usual reaction that scolding provoked...more than two millennia ago. Though his brother had so much more at stake now.
He didn't want his nephew's illness to relapse or for his brother to contract it so he rambled soothingly in Welsh and firmly guided them inside where it was warm, locking the door behind them and helping Arthur step over the Spanish family kipping in the middle of the space.
"I'm jealous," Arthur muttered tonelessly. "He's ended his night far more peacefully than I."
"..."
For privacy, Rhys chose them a guest room at a far corner of the house. He wrinkled his nose at the barracks feeling of the room but pulled the sheets back of a lower bunk.
He then moved away so Arthur could tuck the child in.
When Arthur sat down on the edge of the bed, Rhys joined him and waited.
"I failed him," Arthur choked out. "I let him down."
Rhys nodded.
Arthur took a deep breath and then went off on a tangent. "His government knew he was a magic practitioner...back then."
Rhys's eyebrows rose. They'd known about the superior officer, but the whole government knew? Did they still know?
Arthur pulled out his handkerchief and mopped at his face. "I've texted Detective Jenkins to follow up on that and I-I ordered a booster seat from Amazon...should come soon...expedited shipping."
"Albion…"
"Needed to feel like I did something tonight that was...helpful."
"Brawd bach-"
"That night...he saw the British Empire was there and...Father wasn't. 'How could you leave me?' he said. He's right. How could I? He did come to me…he did. But I thought he was coming to boast about...he was such an insolent...but...no...I did this. I made this...mess." He looked Rhys in the eye. "I fucked it all up. Damnation...I...all up...all of it...I..."
Rhys frowned, that was taking a bit too much credit in his opinion; everyone had played a part. And Alfred's silence and secrecy had done no one any favors.
"And he just...I could feel him just…" his hands made a gesture of something...breaking.
"Arthur, you should've let me handle that." Painful as it would have been on him with his powers to experience; it didn't feel right to let his brother take the brunt of it. It probably never would.
"..."
"Ar-"
"Mine. My Alfred. That was my Alfred." He pulled out a very small portrait Rhys recognized from centuries ago.
"Where did-"
"Alfie had it..."
"..."
"Just got it back from him." He traced his thumb over the enamel. "My Alfred Faer Kirkland. Sassy thing. Such idealism. Such gall. Such...whimsical ideas. He was young and strong and stupid and passionate and fierce and bright and beautiful and spoiled and...mine. He was in such pain." Arthur pocketed the portrait and and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.
Rhys nodded. His brother had felt it...the despair Alfred experienced…
Arthur looked back up. "But his eyes blazed. He was there. Don't just nod. Those eyes. You don't know what they mean to me."
Oh but he did.
Because Arthur kept projecting memories of them at him: delighted, curious, fearful, angry, eager, frustrated, adoring…horrified...betrayed...heartbroken...hopeless...empty...
Arthur knew those eyes…
And now he knew every emotion that flitted through them.
He knew those eyes...
Jewel bright and beloved.
"Those eyes looked on me and...you don't understand those eyes...they weren't just stars...those eyes were mirrors...that loved me best and then they were broken...then they saw me all wrong. Or maybe they saw me as I really was...finally...And they never..."
They never lit up right again. The hex ensured it and Alfred's expression got harder for Arthur to read...even years later when their bond was restored.
"Arthur, take care. Think of the terminology you're using. Blaze. Bright. That's fire, Arthur. You don't want to burn."
Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "I've burned for lesser offenses. I did a terrible thing to him. If I must be singed to get those stars to shine again, so be it."
"Mirror shards...sharp, cutting, dangerous. Arthur, your subconscious knows what your will ignores. Caution is needed here."
"You just don't understand," he snapped softly. "He was there. My Alfred in all his intensity."
"Your Alfred and his passions did great injury to us in the past and if we're not car-"
"...despair," Arthur murmured. "The intensity of his despair."
He seemed to be calming down...somewhat as his brow furrowed in contemplation.
"Despair," Arthur repeated. "No sadness is greater than in misery to rehearse memories of joy."
"What?"
"Alfred keeps saying that to me when I...well," he continued more candidly, "when I pry into 1812. And forgetting Spring. He says he had to forget Spring. That he was in Winter...I know it's all...odd...strange..."
"The only reason people endure Winter is with the hope of Spring. That's the whole point of Yule."
Arthur's mouth made an 'o' and then became a grim line before he said, "If you knew Spring wasn't coming."
"What?"
"If you knew...or thought that you KNEW without doubt that Spring wasn't coming and you didn't want to be haunted by it. You'd want to forget it. If Spring never existed for you, you could live in Winter without ever feeling the loss."
"You're losing me in metaphor."
"He had to shake loose the despair so he surrendered joy. They can't exist without...they're both anchors on the same plane."
Rhys frowned.
Arthur began thinking aloud, "Hex of the doubting eye...that's what the UnSeelie King called it...but then Lome said when he was casting the hex Alfred kept asking for more...but how did it turn to doubt? Doubting memories? Forgetting memories?"
Arthur gripped Rhys's hand hard and shared what the old elf had said:
"...his mind flooded. He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be great. He wanted to be glorious. He wanted a heart made impervious. He wanted to forget. And that forgetting wish was different than the first one. It spanned from the war to you lot to himself."
"He made a multitude of wishes. Well, that's what caused the hex to spiral," Rhys muttered. Again feeling frustrated with Alfred, so much experimental magic: a fortitude spell, a shapeshifting spell, a hex…
These were all deep-reaching spells that manipulated or rearranged his person...
"Wot?" Arthur asked in concern.
"He has no sense of preservation."
"...no. No, he didn't...back then. He just dived in...because he believed in all that was good and that it would go right...he was like that...now...now he dives into things...out of...gallantry...duty…"
"Two forgetting wishes. The first. We don't know what that was. And then the second and the second was different. The second was the...the reason why I was forgotten…"
Arthur faltered as if only realizing that part and gave him an awkward squeeze on his arm in sympathy.
"But it was just me…" Rhys felt himself bristle. It was so monstrously unfair.
"And magic...and being a practitioner of it...and much of me was lost too...or distorted…"
They both looked over to where the child was resting, face somber, body still.
Rhys blew out an exasperated breath. "But he doesn't remember what he wished…"
"He wasn't thinking right," Arthur asserted. "He was so young and he was pushed to his limits...he wasn't…" Arthur's head tilted and he began nodding. "He wasn't...well...when he made the wish. He wasn't well. How could he be? He was under siege as a nation and a person. He was under great pressure from his government. He was suffering from our estrangement. He feared we'd use our magic against him."
Rhys flinched at that. Not to say that they never hexed or cursed one another in times of trouble or pettiness but there were boundaries! If Rhys did cast a spell or two over his brothers, it was so they overslept or something of the like. What he'd done to Yamasee was different…that was...different.
Hexing America in any capacity during that damned war never crossed his mind.
Arthur steepled his fingers. "He was….paranoid. He was paranoid and betrayed and in danger and it made him unwell...unwell and desperate and willing to take a risk and make a wish with Lome."
That…
They shared a look.
That made more sense...it was beginning to shape up.
"Desperation," Rhys murmured. "That's a recurring pattern. When he was Roanoke he cast the fortitude spell, later when his colonies were in danger again he shifted to an older age where he'd be taken seriously, when all went wrong in 1812...he…"
"He's a gambler," Arthur breathed. "He makes absurd gambles when he thinks he's nothing to lose and all to gain. Alfie, what could you gain that was so worthwhile by losing so much?"
No answers came from the boy but his hand twitched and Arthur took it in his. "I'm here, my boy…" and then laughed a bit in self-deprecation, "whatever that's worth..."
Alfred woke up on a guest room bed sandwiched between Arthur and Rhys. The three of them baaaaarely fit, if any of them sneezed Rhys would fall onto the floor.
Dude, when did Rhys get here? Heck, when did he and Arthur get here?
Judging by the light, it was late morning.
His hair was being pet by Arthur and his shoulders by Rhys.
Neither were paying attention to him, they were holding a soft conversation about music.
"Yes, you should hear him play violin. You must ask him. He's a prodigy."
"Arth-"
"I'm not exaggerating. I don't need to. The way he goes through notes. Beautiful. And the way he kept at it, mastering the instrument. He chose to continue on his own, you know? Not badgering from me like Jet. Dedication and talent...I'm proud."
"Who...are you talking about?" Alfred asked groggily. He liked hearing other violinists play and measuring himself against their greatness. Sometimes he even called them out for a friendly competition.
Arthur looked down, "About you, Sweet."
He felt his face flame.
Arthur frowned, "Whatever is the matter?"
"I...I only play the one instrument very well."
He remembered watching the Empire's wards go from one instrument to the next. It was better to leave his violin in his trunk than to be a one-trick pony.
He could manage a few military tunes for the trumpet, but his best, "Taps," wasn't a real feel-good, crowd-pleaser.
"Better the one magnificently than a fleet adequately."
Which...wasn't adhering to the old rhyme at all:
Jack of all trades, master of none,
though oftentimes better than master of one.
"..." He just...wasn't sure how to take the compliment. So he decided it was as good a moment as any, "Yeah, I'm...sorry about...last night. I just...emotionally barfed all over you. All over. It was gross for me, it was worse for you...cuz you did actually, physically... But yeah, sorry I-"
He was swept into a crushing embrace. "I want to be someone you turn to in times of trouble. You were right...back then to...I-I could've guided you out-"
Rhys muttered, "I wish you would've traveled to us rather than write. They were going through your mail."
"They thought it would be bad for morale if I left the country during the war," he returned so matter of factly that even he was surprised how he knew it. And realized it meant he'd asked to do so and was denied.
Which made Arthur's face contort like he was in physical pain.
It still wasn't as bad as last night.
Because last night...last night after Alfred...freaked out at him…
Alfred stared as all the color went out of Arthur's face…
"You...you came to...you…came to-"
Even in the dimness of the late hour with only signs and a nearby traffic intersection to give light, the horror was obvious.
"...to give me…"
Arthur had handled wendigo, boogeymen, fae, and whatever Nekosi had ended up as without batting an eye and yet…
The key to Kirkland Hall was the straw that broke...
"You...you came to my office to...give-"
And yeah, Alfred had made the key all special and fancy and yeah...he never really got over being turned away…and then worse things happened...
"You...came...home...to me…?"
The words came out...disjointed and reminded Alfred of broken glass grinding together.
Arthur abruptly moved him off his lap and exited the truck.
For a moment, Alfred just sat there and stared at the open door feeling numb as the vehicle dinged because the keys were in the ignition.
He slid down and followed after, standing unsurely as he listened to the man throw up.
He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, just...not knowing what to do.
A cold wind tugged at his clothes, he ought to go back to the truck where it was warmer but he shuffled closer to where Arthur was kneeling near bushes.
He must've gotten some sun earlier today, to feel so cold now...
The Briton hazardly crawled his way to the curb and sat down. The blond kept staring down at the gutter and shaking his head.
At the sound of Alfred's limping approach, he startled and burst out, "I'msosorryI'msorryI-I-" his breath hitched. "O Alfie..."
Alfred shivered again.
Arthur removed his coat and put it around Alfred, turning the collar up. "...God, I...O darlingheart, I...I...Oh God, I-" he turned and covered his mouth with his hand and gagged like he was going to throw up again.
When Arthur recovered enough to look at him again, he choked out, "Mīn childe…"
He'd been angry with Arthur's presentation of his side of their estrangement because it was just so…'I'll welcome you back with open arms my prodigal son,' which was just friggin' frustrating. Because one, no he didn't. And two, standing up for his people's rights wasn't wrong! He wasn't some twit who gallivanted around, spent up his inheritance, and came crawling back.
If he wanted forgiveness, it was for hurting his father's feelings—Not for disobeying him.
He didn't regret that.
Still, he must've thrown a harder hit than he'd thought...if it knocked Arthur back into Old English.
He babbled on a bit and then seemingly realized Alfred couldn't understand him. His accent was still a bit off as he said, "You-you don't have to-to stay out here with me. Y-you're cold, g-go to the truck. T-turn on the-stay warm, Sweet."
Alfred stood and stared. Because...it was a total trainwreck and he'd always been a rubbernecker for tragedy.
It was kinda unavoidable…
The hero couldn't always save the day...sometimes they arrived just in time for the aftermath.
Arthur shook his head and grasped Alfred's face with trembling hands before releasing him...letting his hands just drop.
There'd always been something about when the old man cried.
Something familiar in the sadness...
Something that rooted him and made him stay.
He should have laughed. Joked about the greasiness of the burgers getting the better of him or about the man's expression.
For the first time in his life, Arthur seemed as young as he looked, like some out of luck twenty-three-year-old who had no fucking clue what to do next.
It should've made him laugh.
That he got to see the British Empire stumble and fall on his metaphorical ass...
Like some green newbie seeing his first battle...
Like men America saw at Nam, or in the trenches, or out on a tree stump in the isolation of the frontier when they just couldn't deal anymore...
It should've made him laugh.
Because England was always so smug and together. Because even when something surprised him he wasn't undone. Because even as London burned he'd held fast, carried all his responsibilities and duties, ordered his men with cool confidence and kept all of his colonies calm.
He should've laughed at seeing him reduced thus...so why?
Why did he have to bawl at him instead?
Like the first time England had to leave on his ship and America didn't want him to go because he knew...he knew with a wisdom born of experience that nobody who left on those ships ever came back. They were always leaving.
So many settlers and explorers, captains and swashbucklers had been lost. And all their promises of return were for naught. They never came back to him.
John Smith was a liar.
And he couldn't lose this person...this person who was different...this person who was a-a-a thing like him...
And not just a thing but Water-father, his Water-father, and he loved his little Alfred and if he never came back-
Soul-shearing sorrow escaped him.
Like it had when he wrestled free of his nanny and raced down the dock and howled.
Because Arthur getting lost in his head while Alfred stood to the side...felt like being abandoned yet again.
...always leaving him… And he tried to communicate that but...but...
"Shh, love, shh. S'alright. Nonono, I'm right here. Not leaving, not leaving," was murmured in his ear as arms came around him and he was carried into the truck.
The dinging sound stopped as the door closed.
"I'm right here, my sweetling."
He was given soft shushes and soothing lies that "everything was going to be alright" even though it wasn't. It couldn't. Because everything that was wrong happened too long ago to be fixed properly.
But the rudimentary checklist of comforting was followed.
His hair was pet, he was held close, he was bombarded with sweet nonsense: endearments and affection.
Alfred mumbled and twisted his hands into his father's collar and vest.
He had to get it off his chest. "...y-you didn't come back...so I came to get you..."
Arthur nodded.
"F-father, you...you-you disappeared..."
Arthur shuddered but nodded determinedly.
"You took 'home' with you." And he couldn't explain it any better than that...that-that hole that had been left...
Arthur took a ragged breath. "I'm sorry. I know that's not enough."
Alfred looked up.
And tears that weren't his own burned as they fell on his hands.
Alfred hesitantly reached a hand to that collar—poking at where a button had popped off.
He must've done that when—
Arthur took the hand gently between his and traced his knuckles with the pads of his fingers.
Rhys was apoplectic. "It's horrible, it's just—they just didn't want you to go. We would've recognized you as a diplomatic presence and if you had made it known that you, as a personification, were in distress. We could've taken you to some neutral nation to host you. Especially, if you felt ill at ease with us because of-Or if you'd prefer being at home—we'd have just...found you somewhere safe outside of the public eye—"
And it was touching to realize his usually stoic uncle was beyond furious on his behalf.
"It's one thing to choose to fight us nation to nation, for duty or honor but if you're not choosing-If-if you're being coerced. Well, that's an entirely different matter."
"You said 'distress,'" he murmured, looking over his shoulder.
His uncle nodded vigorously. "Yes, when a nation or personification is being commanded unethically or abused and comes forward it is the duty of his fellow nations to deliver him to a safe place of said nation's choosing until they can make their return."
"You can do that?" Alfred asked.
He almost regretted saying that because of the wide eyed looks of fear and concern he received.
Still, this sounded important so he asked more and was immediately bombarded with advice. That there were lines. There were boundaries. There were necessary rest periods.
"Rest periods?" Alfred murmured.
"Well, of course. All out wars besides, it's vital for there to be periods of non combat or selective attendance. How can you be a proper nation if you don't get to experience society as a civilian as well?"
"..."
"Not to mention if you have duties to family? Sometimes it allows for better legislative input in Parliament. None of us are on active-duty right now, chwb. We go in for training to keep fit, we visit bases to see new policies and technologies, but we don't have to continuously serve-"
"Texas could stay!" he blurted. "T-texas could stay with me while I'm...while I'm like this?"
Rhys cleared his throat and clarified, "As a guardian?" He was almost carefully neutral as he continued, "I suppose he could...if he curbed a range of habits..."
He felt hope fill him. "Yeah! That could be our work-around. He'd be my guardian on paper and we could move our assets into his name. I mean he's already on almost all of my accounts. Dude! Dad, I don't have to act on the 'inhuman' strategy if I can just get them onboard with Tex..."
He had to share that. He had to share that! NOW!
They'd been unsure of how to handle his downsizing. It was kinda assumed Texas would have to pick up America's slack, and Alfred would just have to figure out what he was gonna do. But if they weren't required to be on duty...if they could go into some sort of deep reserve or temporary retirement status until America grew again…
Wait a minute…
Texas…
There was some feeling of apprehension at the edge of his mind when he thought about his brother.
His heart skipped.
Texas!
"OMG! I have to check on Texas, what if Spain-"
"What if Spain, what?" Spain asked abruptly as he passed by the open door.
Diplomacy skills activate.
Because sometimes honesty wasn't the best policy and starting off a day or a conversation with, 'Good morning, you're still here...and alive. I totally banked on you ruining things forever and being cast out of our house' wasn't the best foot to balance on.
He shifted uncomfortably. Think of something, think of something, think of something: "I-I dunno. Tex, he, uh...gets ornery? When he's drunk? Soooo last night? You make it out okay?"
Good save. Cuz Tex was cool with being used as an excuse the same way America was. There were plenty of times where Tex didn't go into work or attend things because "America" was sick, injured, in need of a lift, flying in, flying out, trapped in a fence, regardless of if he was in the state, let alone the country.
"Oh, ehhh, yes...he is a little ornery." There were bags under the Spaniard's eyes and he seemed pretty tired. "But he is a good boy. Even his ornery isn't too bad."
Alfred didn't believe that for a minute.
Spain seemed to guess it and shrugged. "Often, I host for World Cup."
Like that it explained it. Dude, what was he talking about?
"Anyways, his fever broke," he announced triumphantly, "I have been looking for you."
"To tell us that?" Rhys asked, perplexed.
"Yes. That and I am making breakfast. Tejas doesn't want poor America to be stuck with oatmeal again."
America scrambled after him; if there was anything he'd learned in his many years, it was pragmatism and a good meal with his brother's good company was too good a thing to pass up.
Tex ran a hand through his hair. Wasn't sure where his hat had gotten to, hopefully, it'd turn up soon. He fiddled with his buckle and stared at his boots.
Pleasedon'task. Pleasedon'task. Pleasedon't-
"Soooo?" Alfred drew out as he gingerly eased his feet out of his boots.
Dammit. This was just embarrassing.
"Goddammit, Al, I'm just not a mysterious person." Tex stomped a foot. "I ain't good at squishin' it all down."
Spain, who was cooking and eavesdropping unabashedly, leaned into the room with a sizzling pan and a large spatula in hand. "Nonono, mijo, you are perfect! Bah, mystery. What, you still want to be Zorro? Don't be Zorro. Be Tejas. Papi loves his Tejas just how he is...mi pequeñito cactus."
Texas flushed.
America raised an eyebrow.
"Eeeeyeah. I kinda just...blurted stuff out at him last night."
"You told him about your weird Zorro thing?"
Tex stared at the ceiling fan for a full minute before looking down at his brother. "Yeah Al, I kinda did. Like I said, not good at squishin' it all down 'specially when I'm drunk. And who doesn't want to be Zorro?"
"You are more amazing than Zorro," Spain argued.
"No, I'm not but thanks for playin-"
"Yes, you are."
"N-"
"Yes. You. Are." Spain replied in a tone that brooked no more argument. He then abruptly beamed. "But last night was good talk. We need to talk more like that just...with less alcohol and threats of violence," Spain replied earnestly. "I think it was very good start."
He returned to the kitchen.
Al continued staring at Tex. "What about your plaaaan?"
He felt his face heat up. Yeah, bein' drunk made him deviate; he could still punch him, Rico told him Spain had made the offer, so that part wasn't a dream. Unfortunately, the part where he cried and the part where he wanted Spain to sing to him...and he did...also really happened. So there was that. But...if he did punch him out of the blue...without the proper melodramatic buildup...Stuart would probably get on his case about it and then there was the government. But to be honest, he wasn't really sure if even a good solid punch would be enough to knock him out of his life. Spain was like Bermuda Grass.
"You just blurted stuff at him?" Al repeated back.
"Yes. I like it that way," Antonio called cheerfully. "Toni, you tell me what is the problem. I fix the problem. Or I listen to your feelings and validate them like the self-help sites say to do and I make sure you know what a good boy you are. Which I think is obvious, but I will say it as much as you need to hear so that you can have nice, strong sense of self-est-"
"Yeeeaaaah...Shoot me...please."
Alfred shook his head. "That's your bed, mister. Sleep in it."
"¡Desayuno, niños!" Spain called cheerfully. His tone wasn't as nice when Texas and Puerto Rico shuffled in and he followed it up with, "Algo para mejorar tus resacas.""
Texas felt some sting in that last bit. Spain had already mentioned twice that morning that he knew people Tex could call or write for help if his drinking habits were a problem. Which Spain clearly thought they were.
When Tex tried to complain that Spain wasn't giving Puerto Rico such a hard time, the Spaniard shrugged that Rico wasn't the one underage and using alcohol as a crutch.
Which was just so...blunt and-and-no, he was just trying to have a good time...didn't have a problem...maybe when he was younger...yeah...definitely... but not now. It made things awkward…as if waking up that morning hadn't been awkward enough.
Spain did at least return the wallet he'd nicked from him, but the fake ID was gone. And when he'd requested it back, Spain threw his head back and laughed, then patted him on the cheek and told him he was funny.
"This all looks soooo goood!" Alfred was over the moon to see Patatas Brava, because fried anything was welcome for breakfast for him.
"Tapas," Rico nodded resignedly as he squinted at everything and ordered they eat with the blinds closed and no kitchen lights on.
"You should've eaten more and drank less," Antonio assessed frankly but he still kissed both his sons on the cheek later when he whisked their empty plates away.
Alfred poked Tex's elbow, "Bro, I don't understand what went on."
Spain answered for him, "Oh well, you know how it is, you niños. He was afraid he was turning into Papi. The horror. But that's silly." Spain reached over to comb some of Tex's hair with his fingers.
It was super frizzy and curly today—Gah, he needed his hat!
"He is much too sweet. S'funny."
"It ain't funny," Tex muttered, pushing the hand away.
"S'very funny." The same hand tousled his hair. "Makes me laugh."
"No."
"You? As scary as Papi? Never. The orders? Yes. The violence? Yes. The campaign and aim? Yes. You? Who attacks because of grief? No. You are just wrong person to cross. Your government make use of that. Your enemies underestimate. You said yourself. They laughed at your grief. I'm sure they stopped laug-"
"I don't want to be like y-"
"Ohhhh no!" Spain remarked in a sarcastically flat tone as he got up to go to the sink and began scrubbing dishes. "I am violent when someone I love is taken from me. How will the world ever understand? What a terrible trait to inherit? Wait, is this an insult?"
"It's bad enough I'm a junior, I don't wanna be psycho-Spain-junior."
"You're getting a shirt with that label," Puerto Rico pulled out his phone.
Tex froze. "Don't you dare."
His older brother smirked. "Oh I dare."
"Riiiico, dooooon't."
"I'm doooooing it. It's haaaappening."
"Stooooooop."
"Nooooooooooo."
"No eres demasiado viejo para que te discipline, Ricardo." Spain declared. "Now, stop teasing your hermano."
Puerto Rico looked like he'd taken a big bite of lemon. "It would just be a shirt, it's not like I expect him to wear it."
"But I don't want it!" Tex whined. God, he was just bein' mean! This was why he hated older brothers and made it his mission to not be a sucky one to Al. Without thinking it through, he fell fully into the old pattern and appealed to Spain, "¿Paaaapi?"
"It's alright, Toni," Spain crooned. "Let him make the shirt, then I'll make a shirt that says, 'Puerto Rico's Papi,' and Ricky, I'll have your baby portrait and your adult photo side by side. And I will wear this when I come to do business."
Rico was horrified. "That's just...evil. You can't...not when I was-was-"
"Ohhhh yes, you were a chubby baby," Spain stated candidly and then grinned as he mimed the action of pinching cheeks.
Puerto Rico turned bright red and spluttered and then glared at Texas.
Alrighty then, maybe...just maybe...Rico was a teensy bit right and Papi did go kinda easy on him...sometimes.
Canada spent the morning contemplating what his next move ought to be.
Last night, after Hawaii left—plonking her headset on Mathieu and declaring him "in charge of the operations" since he was their "neighbor to the north" and as such "more closely allied" ...because...geography puns…he'd found himself in the less than eviable spot of giving tips and instructions to Ricardo. They were acknowledged and adhered to less and less steadily as Puerto Rico got more inebriated.
Eventually, anything he said was ignored and Mathieu became increasingly uncomfortable as Rico became less cognizant that he still had a spycam on. And he couldn't hand the headset to Reilley or Alistair because heaven knew what they'd suggest Rico to do next as his inhibitions lowered.
Still, when Texas began outpouring Plains Wars' incidents and his own biggest fears and insecurities, Mathieu got up and turned the television off and pulled plugs out and disconnected and sabotaged all the equipment until no one would be able to set it back up that evening.
Even while Alistor and Reilley booed at him and pelted him with bread rolls and dinner mints.
He didn't care.
They did not have the right to be a part of that.
That was too real, too private…
They weren't consciously chosen to confide in...
And there was something about it that really struck a chord in him.
All of Canada's life he'd struggled with a fear of not measuring up to his father figures and Texas feared succeeding...
There'd also been something terribly upsetting about Puerto Rico's body cam's last glimpses of Alfred.
Alfred's eyes were wide and he looked so alone standing at the edge of the parking lot staring after them.
He was pale and small and nobody seemed to notice him there under the neon lights...and he didn't speak up.
His loudmouthed, brash, 'Look-at-me!' brother was quiet and apart…Mon dieu! They were going to leave him behind!
Panic set in.
Alfred, say something! You're one of the loudest people I know! If you want attention, you can get it easy! Call after them, belt out a Broadway hit, do a backflip or something!
But he just stood there, getting smaller as Puerto Rico walked further away.
His little brother was going to be forgotten at some seedy bar as a little kid in the dead of night because Texas and Puerto Rico wanted to get drunk and America tagged along...because...Texas was going.
Why didn't they see him there? Hawaii? Spain? Somebody?!
He was right there!
He was right—
Somebody see him!
But they didn't.
It was going to be up to Mathieu to go get him.
His phone was in his hand ready to text Al not to worry, that he was going to come and pick him up when—
Arthur came into view.
Somehow Arthur and Antonio had teamed up.
Mathieu watched their former caretaker pick Alfred up and felt…
He blinked.
Relief...
He felt an incredible amount of relief.
And he sat there feeling more like himself than he had in months.
Seeing his little brother all alone in the dark was as bad as seeing him fall under the ice.
Almost worse because in the former he seemed aware of what was happening whereas in his icy plummet it had happened too fast for him to register everything. He'd been more disoriented than...than what?
Hurt?
Sad?
Lonely…
Forgotten…
Apart…
Mathieu hated feeling those things growing up. Had done a lot for his fellow wards not to experience them whether that meant reading books he wasn't particularly interested in or bringing up tea, or taking them out to shops or to concerts or sitting up with them and listening to the bad or to the good that life had dealt them…
Quiet support was enough to show how deeply he cared.
But it won't work now. How could it?
It was too subtle an approach after spending so much time venting his frustrations at them.
If he tried to do small kind gestures...they'd pale in comparison so miserably... If kind gestures remained unseen, silent, and unknown...if sympathies weren't voiced...it was like they didn't happen. Or if they were noticed but they happened too late they seemed disingenuous.
So, what was he to do?
Resign himself to being an outsider looking in, as he had last night? He was angry with himself for not accompanying Puerto Rico. Mathieu was a brother to Tex and America, he should've been there.
Done something.
He thought of his younger brother again and realized...he probably hadn't wanted to go bar hopping at all. But went out of fraternal loyalty…
Mathieu frowned.
If nothing else...if he couldn't have talked Tex down from getting hosed, he could've provided Alfred a way out of the situation. He could've been the "boring, goody-two-shoes" and insisted on Alfred coming home with him...taken the fall as it were.
Because if the night and Alfred's last expression had revealed anything it was that Alfred wasn't very good at speaking up in moments like that.
Being the "lame" voice of reason…wasn't the most glorious job but...it'd be nice to employ it in Alfred's defense; be the "brave one" for a change. It wasn't often Mathieu got to be his protector.
More over, he hadn't realized his brother was in genuine need of one until now. Maybe Alfred didn't need the showy battlefield kind...he was skilled in that...but...it was clear he needed someone...
It would require a change in strategy though.
Step One: Get the fuck over some of his issues…Done. With the worst ones at least. The rest of them could wait because he needed to get on with Step Two: Apologize.
He called Hawaii to come back to the hotel and drive him over. Belatedly, he added a "S'il vous plaît."
When she waffled about coming over and warned that she'd be taking him into the eye of the storm, he replied that if his family was there then that was where he needed to be.
The answer must've passed inspection because she said: "Be ready in ten."
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