Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, or John Wayne and his many westerns. Or Shakespeare's Hamlet. Or Milton's Paradise Lost quote: "Which way I flie is Hell" (No, that is not a typo. Original spelling : D because 1660's!) Or the corruption of H.L. Mencken's original quote into the more modern and still hilarious: "Puritanism is the haunting fear that someone, somewhere, is having fun." Or Tylenol, Mother's Cookies, Hotwheels, Lord of the Rings,
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Benjamin Franklin. Canadian currency and Britain's apron strings. Quick reference to Tim McGraw. The moon does have resources...surprise! (Mining them seems really dangerous though XD)
AN: Finished one history essay on Sunday night and now have to finish a different history one today D: and have a conference about a third, English one, since that one's my Seminar paper. I can make it to May 19th, right? Right? X_X
Enjoy this chapter! Thank you for your reviews and patience! : DD
Chapter 34: It's Why I Avoid Karaoke Bars
Alfred watched Momilani's car pull up. Considering how she loved driving out and about for anything and everything, he wasn't terribly surprised she'd already gone on some kind of quest before 10 AM (she liked being contradictory, Alfred was never entirely sure if she was a morning or a night person—sometimes she slept til noon, sometimes she was up at the crack of dawn).
She liked explaining her love of the road as a result of the Victorian era where, if she visited Alfred, high society contended that she was supposed to stay in parlors and let the men do the shopping.
Like Alfred ever suggested or enforced it or like she actually did it. Alfred could probably count on one hand how many times she'd actually stayed in a parlor and received guests for him. Most of those only occurred because she was house-sitting for him while he and Tex were abroad and he'd gotten it in signed writing that she wouldn't ignore officials who came to the door.
Alfred usually watched out for his own guests, he was his own angel of the hearth dammit. Cuz it certainly wasn't Texas or anyone else on Team U.S.A.
He frowned down at his feet; they were stinging from burst blisters.
Stupid boots.
Stupid him for wearing them.
Stupid family dysfunction making him have to dress his feet out here on the porch than risk doing so inside and being subjected to a myriad of old man advice on how best to treat them...because Rhys and Antonio could be nosy and bossy.
And he...he had a real big feeling his dad would've overreacted on seeing the superficial injury.
Even when things...weren't good between them, he'd always shown concern for this sort of stuff—tutted over marching fractures and things.
And now...after he'd stressed repeatedly that Alfred needed to exercise care over his spellcasting limbs…
He went and did something dumb and paid for it.
Plus, his old man was...off.
He'd been all wrong all morning.
First, when he was overly flattering to him about his violin skills. Next, when they came to the table and he was careful to only discuss pleasantly safe topics like the weather, without commenting on the previous night. And then, the way he took every opportunity to pat Alfred's head or shoulder...which wasn't too bad except he did it with a hesitancy...like Alfred was made of glass or flower petals.
"What happened to you, baby!?" Momilani demanded.
Alfred jumped and nearly sent the contents of the First Aid kit scattering everywhere.
"Boots I was wearing," he shrugged, looking up and cringing when he saw Canada a half step behind her.
It was sure to get back to Arthur now. Crap.
"I swear, every time I see you, you're all hurt. You need to be careful, hon."
Mathieu sat down beside him and took out some antibacterial from a pocket. He lathered his hands up, shook them so they air dried, and then took up Alfred's cotton swab to doctor the spots.
"I don't need your-"
"You're better at wrapping bandages, I'll leave that part to you. But it'll be easier for me to see and make sure nothing's caught in the skin anywhere so it'll heal up quick and clean."
Couldn't really argue that. Stupid feet being at an odd angle where one can't always just do stuff for one's self. "Fine."
"Hey Al?"
"...yeah?" Al replied begrudgingly.
Mathieu looked him over and winced.
Yeah, yeah, one of 'em was bleeding.
"Wow, they are in bad shape."
"You know it all would've healed in a day or two. It's just skin," Alfred mumbled.
"Well, now it will heal faster, eh? But that's not...what I mean to say is. I'm sorry."
"...not your fault I wore stupid boots."
"Er, no. I mean, about-well, I-I don't like to see you hurt, of course. But I mean about December when-"
"Look, you didn't want to be part of my pirate party. The only one who suffered was you. Cuz it was awesome. Barbados has a great pirate voice. It's a hidden talent-"
"I-I suppose I am sorry to have not been a—wait—what I'm saying—I'm sorry for that awful gift at the gift exchange!"
"...oh...I said what I meant...I don't need a forced apology, so if France or England have been guilt tripping you, forget it. I-"
"It hurt your feelings."
Alfred took out the roll of bandages and began working on his right foot until Momi gently but firmly took it out of his clenched hand. "Maybe I ought to do this."
Mathieu leaned in, trying to get Alfred to face with him without actually reaching out to turn him.
"I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. That I...keep hurting your feelings. I...I've been a real hoser to you lately."
Alfred released a breath through his nose. Because...yeah, he always forgot what that word meant exactly. But he knew it wasn't good since it tended to be yelled at him during hockey games.
So he decided to just agree, "Yeah, you have."
Mathieu sighed, "I'm sorry, Alfred. Can we rewind a bit?"
"I dunno, you've been a hoser for a while," Alfred bit back snidely, deploying his new vocabulary word to its utmost capacity.
Still, it startled him when Mathieu abruptly threw his arms around him. "I'm so glad you weren't eaten by wendigo!"
Alfred stared up at him. What was he…?
"I rewinded to October," Mathieu informed him softly.
Alfred leaned into the hug and mumbled, "...you haven't been a jerk the whooole time."
It was kinda annoying.
Because he knew Mathieu wasn't just trying to look good in front of Arthur, he didn't even know the Briton was nearby. Though from Alfred's vantage point, he could see the old man watching from the screen door with a soft expression.
Alfred couldn't just call his brother out for play-acting his remorse to impress Arthur.
It just wasn't fair.
Mathieu never had to do any real heavy lifting to impress the old goat, Alfred thought bitterly.
Here, America had put a man on the moon and England had shrugged and asked what resources he secured by doing so?
And when the moon hadn't really yielded anything, (because yeah there was stuff present but nobody really gave the green light to start mining) England had scoffed.
All Mathieu had to do was show up to stuff and he and his people earned compliments; it was probably lingering affection over their currency and the fact they still had a soft spot for the monarchy.
When England noticed he'd been spotted by America, he came out and warmly welcomed Canada back.
And the ease there...rankled Alfred.
Arthur's pleasant expression soured when he looked at America. "W-what happened to your feet?"
"...blisters."
"Blast, you were limping last night and I didn't-"
"I'm okay."
Arthur looked to Mathieu for confirmation.
Alfred couldn't help but feel the slight burn of that...that his word wasn't being trusted, not when there was-
"Right one is worse than the left."
"I see."
Mathieu would always be the goody two shoes snitch with excellent timing. Even if the apology was sincere, it was pretty damn lucky he got to do it within earshot of Arthur and Hawaii and…
Alfred sighed when he glanced back over his shoulder.
Rhys too…
The Welshman was on the threshold of the doorframe watching.
Some people got all the breaks.
Still, when Mathieu and the rest of them owned up to spying last night via Puerto Rico, he got some payback. Alfred mustered all the horror he could and gave them a serious look.
"Do not tell Tex you were spying on him!" he warned.
"...wouldn't it be better for him to know than to find out suddenly?" Arthur raised a bushy eyebrow.
Mathieu's eyebrows knitted together. "I need to apologize to him too and-"
"I repeat: Do NOT tell him! Or Tornado Tex will-" he broke off and shuddered.
Alfred was pretty pleased with their looks of concern. Even Momilani bit her lip.
Didn't make a convincing Claudius. HA!
"So you want me to use it as a reason to freak out?" Tex asked, scratching an ear.
Alfred, who was sitting on his brother's dresser, crossed his arms. "Well, yeah. I mean, you said yourself you'd need to have some huge confrontation to throw your family out. And we could use that. Heck, toss out Mattie too while you're at it. Both our families were complicit as far I'm concerned."
"Sure spyin' sucks, but I ain't exactly shy. I been caught doin' much worse than last night—it's why I avoid karaoke bars-" He stared out the window for a moment. "I learned my lesson. But it's not even Papi's fault that it happened, Al."
Alfred frowned.
"I mean I can throw Rico out and rage at Momi, for sure, but…" Tex's gaze lowered before snapping up, "you didn't soften those boots, you earned that." He pointed to Alfred's bandaged feet and tisked.
Alfred wriggled them. "I know."
"Wait a gosh darn minute. I thought you said Mathieu apologized to you today? And meant it, finally. I swear that Canuck was really testing me-"
"I don't like...that he always gets to be the 'good one' and I'm stuck-"
"I LIVE that with you and our government."
"Nuh uh! There is no 'Good Twin, Evil Twin' dynamic for us. We're BOTH the EVIL twin, Bro. That's the twist."
Tex snickered and gave Al a playful shove.
"Well, come on, I guess I can let you bum a lift." He set Alfred onto his shoulders and warned him to duck as they left their bedroom.
They almost immediately ran into Spain.
"Hola boys, soooo Papi and Rico are going out for shopping. Because I for one," he plucked at his shirt. "Am not so fresh anymore."
"Dude, they've been-"
"Wild-westing it," Tex grinned.
Alfred shook his head. "Lord of the Rings style. You get one outfit. Dude, we've got detergent, though. Somebody shoulda spoke up."
Tex's expression dawned with remembrance.
And Alfred's lips pursed...the way they did when Tex left the headlights on, or the stove on, or the fridge door open.
"Yeah, hey, Al, I think the others have the same plan. Rhys was sayin' somethin' earlier...I dunno that monotone he gets sometimes makes me zone out so I can't remember exactly but they were gonna be out and about today and-"
Tex was drawn into a hug by Spain where he was asked softly and seriously, "You will be here? When I get back?"
Wow. That was so direct. He kept a hold on Alfred so his brother didn't fall.
Texas expected a catch and release hug, but Spain lingered, awaiting an answer.
Feeling embarrassed, he nodded and felt a great sigh of relief against his shoulder. The hug tightened and then he was freed.
"Do you need me to bring home anything?" Spain asked.
Home…?
He felt Alfred stiffen at the casual word-drop and his brother's hands, which were near Tex's collar, dug into the shirt.
It was kind of a hypocritical overreaction because the U.K. clan had started using it but…
He didn't really feel like starting a fight over it with Al because Al would assume then that he was on Spain's side and even he wasn't sure if he was okay with Spain saying it.
They could be totally overthinking it; it could just be a linguistic problem or that his dad was too dumb to navigate the ins and outs of "special" words having meanings deeper than what they seem.
Tex was no poet but next to his dad...well, he wasn't fragile and flowery! But he was more...touchy feely... just in comparison! Cuz he had more brain cells to spare for that stuff, and it was safe to bet that Spain had been clubbed in the head more than a few times over the years.
"Um...er...storage boxes and trash bags...uh big ones, gotta start goin' through all this. I always kept...puttin' it off. But...you can't go in, they've got a restraining order on-"
"I send Rico. But!" Spain held up a finger and waggled it, "Not too much today. You are still getting well. I want you to make that your priority, understood?"
The command made him feel like a child.
And to his own embarrassment he answered obediently, "Yes, Papi."
At least he didn't say "Boss."
Spain grinned and squeezed Tex's shoulder. "Bueno."
Two weeks later, after Alfred and Tex whined about needing fresh air and that they were suffering cabin fever and Tex threatened to binge-watch John Wayne movies at the highest volume their television could produce (so nobody in the household could do paperwork and get caught up on their national duties), both their dads finally lightened up and deemed them healthy.
The whole group tripped down to San Antonio for a new couch, which should've been fun except everybody and their grandma felt entitled to give their two cents. Even Reilley and Alistair had left the sanctuary of the penthouse suite to join them on the hunt and declare which sofa attributes were best.
And it didn't seem to matter how many times Alfred insisted that only Tex's opinion mattered because it was his house and his money, everybody had a stance on it.
Alfred popped two adult Tylenol pills from Rhys's miraculously-over-prepared bag to stave off a headache from snowballing into a migraine. Though it meant having to endure a lecture about what too many could do to his liver if he was overzealous.
Still, it was nice to have Mr. Gray onboard for the adventure. "I always feel like you're trapped in residential areas so I need you to know that you're free to go wherever you want. I can have a car sent to the house special for you."
"That's very kind, Master Alfred, but I don't require that. I want to help you get your residence in order and then I'll need to make my return to Kirkland Manor."
"Right. I'm sorry you got dragged out here."
"I won't hear such apologies. I heard you were in need of my services and I'm glad to help you in times of trouble."
Alfred chewed at his lip. He was too nice to him.
"My times of trouble just keep stretching though. I mean, I've had, like, six months to get a handle on it. I've really dropped the ball."
"...I think you're doing very well considering your circumstances," Mr. Gray replied rather incredulously.
"Yeah, I guess. I just…"
"Now, I've heard you've two other estates in Virginia."
He scratched his neck, "Yeah, there's my home residence which-"
"Doesn't have a staff...to my understanding," Mr. Gray leveled a disapproving look.
"...no...and the other's a fixer-upper."
"Really?"
"No, that's fancy talk for it's a condemned house that I constructed before 1812."
"Ah, so it's a historical renovation project. Plantation style? Or New England? Though it is Virginia so probably not-"
"It's colonial but...since I started the blueprints in the 1770s and the construction by the 1790s and finished up by 1808 there are lots of different details from each of those decades and it was my first real construction project, sooo...not gonna lie...there are some weird architectural flubs. Where you just go, what were you thinking, Al? You can't open both of those doors at the same time. And then whenever the newest, greatest thing came out I added it regardless of if it made sense or not. Still learning how to adult, ya know? So there's a strong sense of Federalist architecture yet I can't say it's fully Regency Era. If that makes sense? I wanted it to look important and a little imposing."
"It's beautiful," Arthur contributed softly, pulling out his cellphone and showing pictures.
"That is lovely. Oh...look at those chandeliers. Must've cost a fortune."
"Indeed, some of them have...well you see like this one,here, in the 1790s the glassworkers had just learned how to taper the glass like this. See, small at the top and then larger ones at the bottom. It's like rain. Beautiful."
Alfred squirmed and shrugged, "She's seen better days. Still has a huge-ass ugly colonial kitchen fireplace."
"Well, your father and I know a good deal of contractors who could help modernize it without losing her antique integrity."
Too nice...it made something in him just...
"-I...what is it, Master Alfred? Are you distressed?"
"No, it's just...you're a lot more like the grandparent I imagined I should have had."
Arthur and his brothers abruptly turned to him with a mix of expressions.
Alfred picked at his sleeves. "You talk so...so nicely to me and you're supportive and yeah, you're old, but you're not boring or bossy. And I've never heard you to talk about bunions."
Alistair gave Reilley a shove because the Irishman was an over-sharer.
"Thank you for such a kind compliment."
"I don't even know if it's a compliment! I just—you're waaaay nicer than Gram Gram was."
"Wot?" Arthur's eyebrows came together.
Alfred blinked. "Oh...yeah, I forgot to tell you. Last time I died-"
Arthur visibly shuddered at the reminder.
Maybe it'd be easier to address this to someone else. "See, Mr. Gray? When I die I go to the Elysian fields. And mine's like a straight up, literal field. I am a dude chillaxing in a field waiting for my Real World avatar to heal up from damage points. And I met Gram Gram there this time."
"You...you met with her?" Reilley murmured.
Immediately, he was crowded by family.
"Eeeyeah."
They demanded a description and seemed fairly satisfied with his answers.
"She was so beautiful."
"Aye."
"Uh, no?"
"I miss her sweet voice."
"We all do."
"Nope."
"You're just young so you don't appreciate-"
Alfred side-eyed Gray. "I think they're remembering someone else and I don't blame them-"
That got him some heated flicks and tugs on the ear until Arthur's arms came around him.
It was weird. Arthur's brothers usually harassed Arthur and Alfred whenever they were separate. Alistair and Reilley usually poked and shoved Arthur at the least provocation since his downgrade from being the British Empire. And Alfred had taken a lot of noogies through the years. And yet...whenever Arthur had Alfred in his arms, all mischief ceased.
"Well, what did she say, pet?"
They were all watching him intently.
"Well, she chased me. Yeah, I mean, I threw an acorn at her first but-"
"Dead man," Reilley whispered.
Alistair nodded.
"She was crowding me! My field. And she...Daddy!" he got rather flustered "She-she…"
Arthur nodded.
He lowered his voice, "She spanked me for that acorn. I didn't even really throw it, it was more of an underhand lob. And she gave me a smack..."
Reilley and Alistair snickered.
"Hard."
"Oh…" Arthur murmured.
"Grandma's aren't supposed to do that...it hurt," he stated indignantly.
"I'm sorry, love."
"Her eyes were all wrong. Crabapple green. Fitting. Crabby lady. She said I was spoiled and she's cross with me cuz I make you cry and she forced me onto the path back to, ya know, life and that I was a, and I quote, 'a 'something' acorn.' I know it wasn't flattering!"
"She didn't give any message or anything?" Rhys inquired a bit too casually.
"I dunno. I didn't always understand what she was saying. And she spanked me. I think you're forgetting that part-"
"Well, try to remember," Scotland growled impatiently "What was the last thing she said?"
"Ummmm. Right."
He concentrated harder at their intense looks.
"Here goes. Is too, McGraw."
"What?"
"Wot?"
"The hell?"
"Maybe she's a country fan. That's a redeemable quality," Tex offered.
"I know it!" Reilley cried triumphantly. He cleared his throat, "Is tú mo ghrá."
"That's it! She said that at me. At me. Not to me." He crossed his arms and looked to Arthur for some sympathy.
But he was quiet.
So were Rhys and Reilley.
Scotland rolled his eyes, "Ack, she said she loved you, yeh imp. Impressive, given what you were up to."
"She did? Then why didn't it sound nice? She didn't say it nicely. She said it smug and mean."
"Why does the delivery matter?" Scotland snapped. "She said it, didn't she?"
"Dude, she managed English for most of our interaction. Why didn't she say it in that?"
"She said it. Tha's what matters."
"Ugh! It's genetic. The emotional constipation is genetic. I don't think I've ever heard you say you love me, Uncle Scot. I mean, Rhys has said it. Reilley says it when he's drunk-"
"It takes great strength Alfie-boy to know how to be tough and when to be sensitive. I know time's short, I don't waste what I got. I just need a little liquor to grease the wheels sometimes."
Scotland crossed his arms. "I don't got to say what yeh already know."
"Dad says it."
"O'course your dad says it. He's your dad. I'd wallop him if he didn't say it to you now, you being...wee again. Not that I need to. He can't belt up about it as it is."
Alfred looked up.
Arthur murmured a soft and sincere, "I love you, Sweet."
Alfred looked back at the group and jerked a thumb to indicate Arthur, "That's how you're s'posed to say it. She got it wrong."
"Well, you haven't exactly been gushing affection yerself though," Reilley muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
"Because it's genetic! And I know who to blame now!"
"Nuthin' she said was wrong. You are spoiled."
Alfred stuck his tongue. He did not expect it to be pinched between the Scotsman's fingers.
"I warned yeh."
"Alistair! He's a plentyn!"
"O let him go, Alis. Ya know he fantasized her to be the embodiment of the Mother's Cookies brand. I'm sure it was a let-down."
Alfred whined. Holy crap! He did not expect this.
Nor did he understand the low growl of words Arthur emitted at his uncle.
All he knew was his uncle abruptly released him.
Arthur immediately check him over. "You alright? That brute didn't-"
"I'm okay. He did warn me...forever ago...I just...didn't think he meant it." Alfred flexed and clicked his tongue, trying to get it to feel normal again.
He almost wished he had melancholy Arthur back (since their car-side drama he'd been super down) because now Arthur was royally pissed off.
"Mr. Gray," the Briton announced tensely. "You, myself, Mathieu, and Alfred will accompany the Carriedos and Momilani. The rest of you...can bugger off."
Arthur picked him up and away they went.
Mathieu noted that his U.K. relatives didn't abide by Arthur's advice per se but they did follow at a very leisurely pace that granted them a safe distance.
Following the Seven Year's War and his movement into British hands, Rhys had easily been the uncle who took the lead in getting him underwing.
The Welshman was quiet, calm, and kind and didn't fault a young Mathieu's slipping into French.
Music and stories were easy ways to spend time together.
He had vague memories of a young Alfred being rather put out about it.
Looking back on the past with older eyes, he felt some sympathy for his brother—Quite suddenly he'd had a better behaved rival (Mathieu was just a different temperament and certain rules were easier for him to manage) for Rhys to compare him to.
Was it then? That he'd started drawing away? From Rhys, from Mathieu? And started gravitating toward...
If he remembered right, it did annoy the man to have to search for the American and scold him for trailing after Alistair...who never seemed exceedingly fond of children.
Tolerated.
Indulged on occasion.
But never truly fond.
When Mathieu was a toddler, the Scotsman had seemed overwhelmingly intimidating and the Canadian dreaded every time they had to search the courtyards for Alfred, knowing the red haired man would likely be there...swinging his very sharp, larger than Alfred-standing-on-Mathieu's-shoulders-when-they-wanted-a-book sword.
Naturally, he outgrew the childish fear; with enough time and better understanding of Arthur and Rhys's Scottish brother, he came to envy Alfred's easy rapport with the warrior.
He didn't envy it now.
The same athletic, Spartan really, relationship that let Alfred box with Alistair let Alistair roughhouse with him whenever the Scotsman felt like it.
Alistair never did that with him and Mathieu found himself feeling grateful even though it meant a lack of closeness.
What was curious though, was Arthur's reaction to it all.
It wasn't new behavior and Arthur seemed to think it was. He was angry with Alistair's "newfound" aggression toward Alfred and very verbal about it.
Yet, as Mathieu racked his memory he couldn't recall Arthur being present for nearly any of those "sparring matches" or playful shoves Mathieu remembered. No, the few rounds Mathieu knew Arthur witnessed, he interrupted.
Right now, Arthur hovered protectively near Alfred like a moose with a calf...ready to charge at any perceived threat.
Alfred's attempts to lessen his anger with quips like, "I don't think he'd really cut it off" and "he was playing. He plays like that," didn't really help.
Alfred eventually gave up or realized the importance of shutting up if he really did want to help Alistair's case.
"Benjamin Franklin…" Alfred murmured, staring up at a neon colored pop-art print of him among a collection of eclectic wall decorations.
Mr. Gray smiled and pounced on the subject, no doubt as eager as Mathieu to ease the tension.
They discussed Poor Richard's Almanac and the ever popular kite story and his intellect and innovation and all the niceties of trivia without mentioning the Revolution.
Surprisingly, Arthur didn't bristle at the Founding Father's name and even contributed a few admirable traits himself.
Alfred nodded. "Yeah, he was all those things. But mostly…"
Canada and Mr. Gray awaited something philosophical or sage to leave Alfred tinged with melancholy and nostalgia…
Arthur tensed, likely preparing himself to meet whatever sorrow such memories would dredge up.
Instead…
Alfred turned to them. "He was a colossal pervert. And he was always trying to get me to come to the Hellfire Club."
Arthur choked.
"He said there was important spy stuff to know and then there was the magic, and he had strong suspicions about me cuz of Salem. But I wasn't into what he was into...nope."
Reilley who'd dared to come closer began sniggering.
Alfred made a face. "Ew, you totally went there and-and did things."
"O the stories I could tell."
Arthur's nostrils flared and he glared.
"But I won't until you're older."
Alfred gave him a sneer, "I need to go over there, where the air's...purer."
"Don't be like that Alfie-boy. Nobody likes a Puritan and their 'haunting fear that someone, somewhere, is having fun!'"
"What about this, baby?" Momilani called. "It's got cup holders and there's a recliner on the end?"
"What about this modern one?" Spain asked. "Nice lines, yes?"
"I like leather, you guys."
"But there's that fat cat-"
"Don't body shame him, Rico!" Alfred screeched. "It just means that there's more of him...to love. And Americat is his name."
"Amerifat, got it!"
"You!"
"Anyways, it'll get all scratched."
"What about that one?"
"I don't want modern with flashy metal bits. I will hit my foot against that and crack a toenail."
"TMI, Tex," Puerto Rico grimaced at the thought.
"¿Mijo? Do you want it to be sleeper sofa? Or regular? Or sectional?"
When Alfred took a break from examining fabric samples and was having trouble reaching the drinking fountain in an enclave, Arthur stepped in and lifted him.
"Thanks."
He was set on Arthur's hip and toted around the store. Together with Mathieu, they toured the different furniture pieces.
Mathieu glanced over at the two blonds.
Yes, Alfred was being babied but considering what Arthur had told him when Mathieu demanded answers for Arthur's...depression...there was no other word for the dispirited gloom Arthur was suffering…
The Briton haltingly admitted that Alfred had confessed that...during 1812 Alfred had, honest to God, believed he'd lost his place in their family and all their love and was entirely alone in the world...
That was…
Yes, Mathieu, on a more regular basis than he liked, felt unnoticed or underappreciated but…
From the bits Arthur had relayed to him, it was sounding a lot like his brother had dipped into feeling like a nonentity and as a lot of his dimensions as a person collapsed...he ended up overinvesting in his identity as a nation...and was exploited.
And it made a lot of his previous attention-seeking behaviors painful to reflect on.
A non-person...
He never wanted his brother to feel like that.
His counselor was still urging him to talk to Arthur about his feelings of jealousy and resentment but...he didn't think the Briton could take much more.
Not right now.
A nonentity...
"What do you think of this, Al?" Mathieu asked picking up a large magnifying glass and letting it make his violet eye seem huge.
A smile twisted Alfred's lips.
Yes, they were probably being obnoxiously attentive, but...they wanted him to feel wanted.
Alfred took the glass from him, "See? My tooth is growing in."
Mathieu and Arthur "Ooohed" appreciatively.
For a moment he seemed proud, like a seven year old was supposed to be, and then something like panic flashed over his features, "Will my smile be ruined?" He looked to Arthur for confirmation.
"Wot?"
"I think it's...well, it's not the same as the one it's replacing. It doesn't match the other."
"Well, it's an adult tooth, pet."
"...am I gonna have an ugly, snaggle smile?" He demanded, looking distressed at the thought.
"No, you're going to have an I'm-growing-up-smile." He kissed his cheek.
"You're sure?"
"Quite sure. Very handsome."
It kind of hurt that Alfred could get so worked up over body image.
His little brother's eye was almost back to its normal color.
If Alfred cared that much about a tooth, losing that eye...for a second time…
Mathieu accepted the glass back and when Alfred's fingers lingered on the faux, tusk shaped handle, Arthur offered to buy it.
Alfred laughed him off and assured him that he really didn't need more stuff. The house was crammed full of stuff. Until some of it was gone, he needed to have some self-control.
When the couch was ordered and paid for, Mathieu and Arthur insisted on several trips through different toy stores because Alfred wouldn't just let Arthur buy something for him.
They were in a Hotwheels aisle when Alfred turned around, planted his feet, put one hand on his hip, and used the other hand to point.
"Look, don't take it all so-so-so, I dunno, personally? What happened back then was mostly my fault, I had unrealistic expectations about fath-"
Green eyes flashed warningly.
And he didn't dare finish that sentence.
Because it was looking like whatever "unrealistic expectations" a younger Alfred had placed on the idea of a father, were nothing compared to what said father expected of himself.
They were both hurting. And they were both trying to deal with it in their own way.
It was becoming clearer that Al's way was by pretending the hurt didn't exist. And Arthur…
Well...
Arthur was a materialistic person, however he was also fiercely private, a poor communicator and very sentimental.
Often, purchasing things was the language he preferred in expressing himself.
Mathieu had long figured that out and had learned to accept or ask for things when Arthur wanted to apologize or treat him or his other wards.
He felt something in him hurt when Arthur asked desperately if there wasn't anything, anything at all in the whole store that Alfred wanted?!
Alfred's brows creased as he deliberated and then he asked to be carried.
Which was a...a kind option.
He seemed to sense Arthur's guilt and affection and didn't want to exploit it.
Still, neither Alfred or Mathieu expected the request to be taken so seriously.
For the next three hours, Alfred's feet didn't touch the ground. It would've gone on longer but Alfred asked to be set down.
It was the look of hurt on Arthur's face at hearing the new request, that they both realized Arthur might have carried him for the entirety of the day.
Alfred instinctively looked to Mathieu for some kind of inspiration.
Mathieu took up his nearer hand.
Alfred immediately grabbed Arthur's, "I wanna hold hands now. Help me do that swing jump thing."
They obliged.
That night Alfred kicked off his shoes and grabbed an armful of laundry; Tex was hoarding towels again and there were just too many people boarding with them for that to be okay.
He approached the laundry room and found Arthur there...watched the man lean against a wall and slide down to rest in a heap on the tiled floor—shoulders shaking.
He knew that posture.
Had slumped against walls much the same way when he'd been reorienting himself to a new reality following their second war.
Alfred leaned against the door and made it creak loudly.
Arthur greeted him with a forced lightness...lately, he'd been trying to keep a smile on his face in his interactions with Alfred.
'Cept he wasn't any good at it and it often slid off like a cheap magnet on a board.
It took real practice to look pleasant; it helped when your livelihood depended on it.
Still, Arthur tried to make conversation, "Shirt I bought. Have to wash it before wearing, you know? On the tag."
Alfred nodded.
He wasn't sure how to feel.
Wasn't it good? That Arthur felt this bad? For this long? Two weeks since Alfred had vented at him and even though he knew from eavesdropping on him and Rhys that Rhys was coaching him to shield for the sake of their bond...Alfred knew Arthur was miserable.
Depressed.
Desperate to make amends.
Wasn't it nice that he could make demands and Arthur would scramble to fulfil them?
Like he was some kind of demi-god deserving of tribute?
Would have carried him all day if he'd allowed it. He knew it.
Wasn't it nice to know Father was willing to do that even though it indulged and acknowledged a weakness in Alfred...to want that childish comfort? To hear soft heartbeats and voice rumblings and have strong arms hold him like he was something special?
To pretend that he was the only precious person in his father's life as he'd mistakenly believed in their earliest years together?
It also dredged up a really nasty part of him that he'd thought he'd shook loose by the mid-1800s by befriending Tex and becoming a better all around guy. Because it was one thing to lose something, another to accept it, and something greater to move on.
There was still some jerkass in him way deep down. And he couldn't blame it on the hex.
He'd never really had power like this over his parent.
It didn't really make him feel good or happy but he wasn't as sickened and ashamed with himself as he ought to be. As he would have been if the hex was still on him...holding him to a higher standard of heroism.
It made him feel low. It made him...more honest...
"I dunno how to feel seeing you like this."
"..." No doubt the Briton was alarmed by the bluntness.
"I mean, part of me's glad."
There was a flinch of hurt.
Alfred looked away and tapped his fingers against the door frame. "It's off my chest...finally. You don't know what it's like…carrying it and...no matter 'which way I flie is Hell.'"
Arthur swallowed. "Must've been painful. Difficult. Horrible."
"Yes, and now..." Alfred hovered from one foot to the other. He'd noticed he could do it a while back when he didn't want to put pressure on his healing feet.
He did a spinning fouette on the very tips of his toes and added a leap that stayed suspended in air longer than what gravity should've allowed.
He looked at Arthur. "Weird, huh?" He did another impossible jump and perched lightly on the washer and then hopped down on one foot on Arthur's right knee without allowing his weight to settle. "It's easy now." He realized belatedly that it was kinda rude especially given the situation they were in, he gave a sheepish "Sorry" and jumped off.
He was surprised when Arthur snatched him out of the air and in a low, gruff tone muttered, "You don't need to apologize for finally feeling better."
Alfred stared because...more or less...that was at the bottom of it. He felt better.
He felt better.
And Arthur felt worse.
"But it hurts you to see me right now." He could sense it. A chord of pain went through his father every time he was in view.
But if he tried to avoid him and spare him, the man sought him out.
"Nonsense."
"It does."
"Never. You bring me joy."
Alfred gave him a skeptical look. "I do not want your affection if it's to be blended with some form of penance. If seeing me makes you sad-"
"Never." He brushed fringe out of Alfred's face. "I'm glad you're not weighed down anymore."
"...but you're having to carry it now."
He watched those pained, bloodshot green eyes and Alfred alternated between feeling guilty and vindicated and guilty again and glad.
Childishly glad to shove off what oppressed him so long and leave his father to make sense of it, as he'd done so often in his colonial days whenever something in his lesson was too complicated and frustrated him or if a favored toy was broken and he felt full confidence leaving it on Father's desk to deal with and fix.
"Foisting it on you, doesn't seem very heroic." It was a cop out and he knew it. Like a fairy tale or ghost story that required leaving someone else in your sucky spot for you to be free.
"Foisting? No, you weren't foisting…" Arthur frowned. "You were telling me about something I did that hurt you, terribly. You were being honest with me. It's good. It's what I want. How can you trust me if you remember those horrible things each time I make a promise?"
Alfred shifted a bit uneasily. Because...yeah...1812 was kinda his go-to trauma for reasons on why he shouldn't rely too much on anybody.
"But you have to carry it now," he repeated. Surely, the inequity of their positions was obvious?
"Yes." But there was a sudden determination in the agreement and Alfred looked up, startled.
That didn't sound like someone who was defeated.
Arthur gathered him carefully and stood up. He had to wrap his arms around his parent's neck to keep himself balanced.
There was a blend of admiration and envy in him at seeing it happen so suddenly.
The fact that he could FEEL that transformation. That grasping of resilience, that embrace of strength, and that calming permeation of acceptance.
And he just...Alfred's cheeks puffed; it took him centuries and Arthur...what? a fortnight?
And it didn't feel like killing-frost on a spring field, but like gentle rolling waters warmed by sunshine.
"You're bouncing back faster than I did," he admitted sullenly.
Arthur laughed lightly. "Of course I am. I'm cheating. Hard to be lost in darkness when I have a guiding star leading me out." He looked at him gently and this time without sadness.
Giving him the credit…
That was unexpected. And he couldn't write it off as Arthur being patronizing and indulgent. And he wanted to...they were heading into uncharted territory again...going off script...
"...t-that so?"
"O yes."
"It's...it's just...you're just doing it quite fast."
"Well, you need me, don't you? That's why you're here."
That's what it came down to, wasn't it?
There was something very earnest, very vulnerable in that question.
He'd gotten so used to dismissing such things. Persuading himself away from such weaknesses. He didn't need him. That was the well worn lie. He could say he was just here for the appliances. For the towels. But he'd left those outside the room. He'd come in because…
No...
He didn't need anyone's protection...anyone's love...except maybe Tex's and only because he'd proved he was trustworthy and impossible to be rid of. It was safer that way. He'd never need fear what people would expect in return for their affection.
But that...wasn't what was being said here, was it?
Alfred rested his face against Arthur's shoulder because his eyes had started to burn.
He wasn't saying Alfred was weak. That would be easier to deal with. To get angry at and denounce.
No…
He was saying…
He was an inspiration for strength. In a good way...a way that wasn't retaliatory…
A way that meant…
"I'm your father, what else do you need to know me as?"
"Dude! You were a person before-"
"But I'm a better person now!"
...he loved him very much...
Was it so wrong to need and be needed? If it meant he could be part of something good like that?
This was where he usually ruined the mood. Said something offbeat that returned them to normalcy.
He took a deep breath and broke several centuries of carefully crafted protocol to nod in answer to Arthur.
He was held close.
It should've been enough. That nod cost him a lot. He didn't need to do more.
And yet…
"Yeah...y-yes...F-father…" Alfred tightened his hold "...I need you."
Because no one outgrew needing a hero.
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