Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or Young Frankenstein. Or The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (best theme music).
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Globe Theatre. Púca fae.
AN: Thank you for your reviews and HAPPY 2019! Look who has internet again! :D Hope you all enjoy this chap!
Chapter 45: And I Wore My Shoes All Through Here
Mathieu watched Rico drop the marshmallow he'd been toasting and it was only because of spending centuries in military forces that Mathieu reached out and caught the stick before it hit the ground.
He almost threw it back before remembering that it wasn't a grenade to spring a counterattack with.
Unfortunately, that left him awkwardly holding it; Puerto Rico was too absorbed in watching the trainwreck occurring before them to take it back.
Arthur heaved a sigh. "Of all the melodramatic—Antonio, get up. This isn't the Globe Theatre."
"That was not cool, Bro!" Alfred slid down from Momilani's lap onto the ground. He strode over to the eye of the proverbial storm.
Tex clenched his jaw and a muscle ticked, but he forced out a "sorry, Al."
Alfred gave a hard nod to show his acceptance of the apology.
And then, to Mathieu's incredulity, took his spot next to the Texan—coolly eyeing Arthur as the latter helped Antonio to his feet.
"He's not wrong. He's just got bad timing," Al remarked flippantly.
"Lads," Alistair called from where he was prodding at several brook touts he was roasting. "Don't get your knickers in a bunch. Yer hunger-paikt or ack, what are yeh callin' it now? Hangry? Yer hangry. Sit yer arses down and have some-"
"No. I won't let you make him the bad guy!" Alfred argued. "And since he's already spoken for me, I'll speak for him." He stopped in front of Antonio.
Tex rubbed at his forehead like he was getting a headache. "Sorry, Al."
Alfred shrugged. "I wasn't ever gonna say it like it was…so you did."
Tex scuffed the toe of his hiking boot into the dirt and once more muttered, "…sorry, Al."
"No sorries needed. I'm just gonna do the same. Fair?"
Tex shifted uncomfortably but gave a signal of go ahead.
Like a viper, Alfred struck: "He was what? 13 or 14 when Mexico threw you out? And let's be honest, she ain't the nurturing type. Heck, from what I've heard it was always housekeepers and stewards and manservants looking out for Tex. Then he struck out on his own at 15 and did his best to develop into a decent person while growing up on the lawless streets of Laredo or out on the frontier, or up in the frontlines of the Indian Wars, or out on warships during the World Wars, and 'Nam and so on. Sooo, first part of his life…uh, not you. Middle to Present part of his life…not you either. So, you can kinda stick it with what you just said cuz you didn't raise him at all."
"…You let me think he was dead."
Alfred was unrepentant. "You never asked me about him. You never came over. We waited! Cuz if him 'dying' wasn't enough to drag your ass back to the New World, nothing was gonna-"
"Freedom Tent," Tex stated abruptly.
"Tex-" Al started.
"Sorry, Al, I just can't-stick a fork-I'm flippin' charcoal. I-I was so done over a century ago. I'm not up for this-"
Alfred nodded. "I'll be in soon…just give me a minute."
"Right."
Alfred calmly watched Texas cross over to their tent and duck inside. He clicked the tips of his nails together.
One could've almost mistaken it for boredom or obliviousness or apathy, especially given the almost inane smile curving his lips, but his eyes gave him away.
Fury.
Mathieu felt a trill of alarm race up his spine.
Alfred wasn't loud.
He wasn't bombastic.
And he shouldn't have been smiling. But he was.
It violated everything he thought he knew about his brother…his brother, who was always frivolous and flamboyant and relatively harmless for all his great strength. Who, recently in Arthur's care, was explosive about his sorrows or annoyances but…
Dieu…
It was jarring to experience an…implosion?
His footsteps were near silent.
And his voice, while the volume of a whisper, was far too vicious to be called such.
Quite suddenly Mathieu felt a shadow of understanding come over him as to why Alfred's government had such trouble reconciling their nation as a sensitive being with feelings.
He was frightfully inhuman when he was in a true rage…it was the unsettling dissonance…the frigidity of his fury..
"He held out for 50 years," he hissed under his breath, through the dazzling white of his smile. "Good God, what the fuck took you so long to give a damn?"
Like it was an amusing riddle.
"Alfred?!" Arthur choked.
"No…" he studied his nails again. "You squeaked by because I left the door in unlocked." He waved a scolding finger at Antonio. "Tex is more practical than me. That's a deadbolt there." He laughed. It was strange, unsettling, almost airless—it was more facial movement than sound. "You're gonna have to do something epic, something fan-fucking-tastic to dismantle that barricade."
Without a word more, he turned and strode across the clearing and scuttled into the shabby American tent.
Mathieu couldn't tell if it was worse than when he'd sung Fine Flowers in the Valley or not.
It left that same stomach twisting electricity in the air.
Arthur made to follow but Alistair grabbed his arm—abandoning his cooking tasks to Reilley.
"Let 'em go. Give them a moment."
"…rubbish." The Briton wrestled himself free.
He limped over to the Americans' tent, knelt down, and ducked in after Alfred.
They heard Texas squawk, "Oi, you are not allowed entrance into this sacred Yankee Doodle Fortress of-Hey! HEEEEEEY!"
Arthur shuffled out on his knees with the original posterboy of Yankee Doodle Dandyness in his arms and brought him over to the campfire.
"Did you have permission to enter our tent?" Alfred snapped.
"Did the ground miraculously stop bothering you?" Arthur asked shrewdly. "If so, I'll return you to the joys of your frill-free tent. So sorry to spoil your flair for the dramatic with my concern for your wellbeing."
For a moment, Alfred's face was mutinous.
It was splotchy and unpleasant and…dare Mathieu say it? Ugly. It was a look of naked ugliness.
And yet, there was something honest about its savagery.
Oui…there was a reason Alfred's government was so…ill-equipped to handle him.
But it seemed so outlandish. He was having difficulty accepting it.
Canada must've been making a ridiculous trout face of astonishment because America's eyes caught his staring and they widened with a cutting look of calculation.
To Mathieu's amazement, Alfred consciously smoothed his features.
His younger brother forced himself to take deep breaths and his skin tone evened out.
"Shhh, love. It's alright," Arthur cooed.
Alfred maintained eye contact with Mathieu for a beat more than wrapped his small arms around Arthur's neck and tucked his face into Arthur's shoulder.
Arthur traced circles and various designs onto the child's back. "There, there. Thought we already covered this. You come to me. You don't run off. Please. Please, don't run off. I cannot resolve problems between us without you."
There was a small nod.
"I'm here. I'm right here. See? I'm still here," Arthur murmured softly.
"…I…didn't know that…back then."
"I know. I'm sorry."
Alfred twisted his hands into Arthur's jacket. "He's not a bad guy for saying it like it-"
"Did I say that? Did I say Texas is a-"
"No…but you think he's a pain-"
Arthur's lips twitched with guilty amusement.
A hand clamped Mathieu's shoulder. "What's wrong, laddie?"
He shakily moved with the Scotsman back to where the fish were heating or cooking or whatever, unsure of how to convey his hunch.
He looked over his shoulder and found Alfred watching him with dark blue eyes. Arthur turned to look at him as well and then to stare at the marshmallow he was carrying around.
He found himself stuttering, "Do…you want a marshmallow?"
His heart beat hard and heavy, unsure of how to take the recent events.
Was Alfred being sincere?
Was Arthur being manipulated?
Was it a little of both?
"No, dear." Arthur smiled a bit warily. "How about you, love?"
"…"
"Alfie?"
Alfred's eyes at least moved in the direction of the treat this time. "N-no thanks. I've…had enough sweets today. B-but thanks."
Arthur's agitation was palpable.
"Alfred," he enunciated with a hard edge. "Alfred, let me…talk to him…with your...blessing."
It sounded like that cost the Briton a lot.
"I won't see you oppressed by-"
Mathieu felt his insides twist. Or maybe Arthur was doing some manipulating of his own? Using just the right trigger words to-
"Dad-"
"-his will. I won't allow it."
He wanted a word of release; an unfettered Arthur could tell the Texan what for…and more.
But Alfred wouldn't give it. "Please…please just…don't fight with him. He just went too far that's all. You were gonna win, so he had to go for the ace up his sleeve."
Arthur inhaled deeply and exhaled in a long forced stream of steadiness.
That Anger Management counseling had worked wonders. Mathieu might have to write them a glowing review.
Alfred smiled vacantly. "I know…I know he's being ornery but please…he's right. And it's not just you guys…I know it seems like it's all at you guys but…"
"Alfred."
His brother focused on Arthur.
His little face sort of twitched.
The Briton pressed their foreheads together.
"Alfred," he drew the name out. The syllables were spoken warmly, tenderly. "My Alfred Faer Kirkland...Jones."
But that was to be expected, wasn't it? Arthur had named him. Mathieu felt a pang for a father that had never known let alone named him. Sure, he had "Vinland" but he'd never been given a real, human—
He was surprised when Alfred didn't melt from the affection being handed to him on a silver platter.
Instead, the American stilled like there was a gun barrel against his back; he didn't want to say more, but Arthur's concern was palpable.
And his love held more power over Alfred than Mathieu ever imagined.
It came just as quick and quiet as his earlier tirade.
But without venomous confidence, Alfred sounded oddly fragile. "He's actually frustrated with me. He's right to be. I left him. I…I keep leaving him outta the loop. I shouldn't. It's my fault. I let it come to thi-"
Mathieu felt his jaw tighten.
Maybe it was because it was said so bitterly?
Maybe it was because Alfred believed it so thoroughly?
But Mathieu's heart twisted.
It was rather ironic; he found himself completely understanding his Texan brother's enmity following Mathieu's moronic Christmas stunt last year.
But what sided them together…was now what drove them apart.
He did not like seeing his little brother get bullied.
It was weird to behold because Alfred was usually so dominant and aggressive that it was hard to imagine anyone but Arthur trying to control him.
But then…
It wasn't in the active sense of Al being pushed around (because Mathieu would not have tolerated that for a second and he wanted to believe Alfred himself would never allow it either) but Tex knew how to throw his weight emotionally.
He'd been around long enough to be owed lots of favors and privy to intimate information.
He was dependable enough that Alfred allotted him a lot of leeway in all things. It made him dangerous.
Even when he wanted to stir up trouble, a lot of Mathieu's strikes were hit and miss—partly because he and Al had different values and Al could shake off criticism with a laugh and partly because…well…Mathieu usually had difficulty going in for the kill.
Yes, he had made their brother cry with a rant once but…
But…
While he'd make a hit now and then, he never went for the jugular.
So it was always hit…and miss…
To give Al time to recover...
They'd had enough battles in real time, they didn't need private ones.
But Texas knew their little brother best, better than him, he realized ruefully…
...and he never missed.
Violet eyes narrowed.
He never missed.
The label Tex gave him: Deserter.
It was such an over-the-top insult for the setting. On retrospect, it was nearly comical.
Until one realized, he was aiming at something else. Something so far in the past…
It was a casual poke with deadly accuracy to such a trying time of their shared history: him, England, America.
Mathieu hadn't noticed it at first.
It landed harder on Alfred because it highlighted a difference between them all.
Mathieu was a person who stayed; his loyalties, once secure, were unshakeable.
Tex was the kind who waited to move on until everyone else "left" first (though Mathieu wasn't about to let the Civil War go and would gladly dredge it up given half the chance).
Alfred was someone who'd leave.
Whether it was a room or a situation or…a family that didn't support his pursuit of sovereignty…
Deserter…
No, Tex never missed.
He was a sharpshooter.
Alistair hefted another log onto the fire as if it could burn away his uncertainties— glad once again, that the rest (save himself and Canada) had turned in early.
It made keeping watch more tranquil.
Maybe it was his own experience of having endured bad parenting first hand, but he did feel for the Texan brat.
It was hard not to when he recalled Texas and Puerto Rico's argument in the Freedom Tent earlier that night.
They had no indoor voices so it was easy to follow their row.
Puerto Rico was unsympathetic. "It says more about how drunk he was than anything about you. You said it yourself he couldn't remember his own damn name, how was he going to remember yours? You know that's why he says 'Mijo' all the time, so he can't be wrong."
"Yeah well, the second time he couldn't remember my damn name…And my damn name IS his name. I knew then. I knew I never wanted to be called it again."
It hadn't helped that Spain, who was nearby on his cellphone, visibly flinched and his shoulders fell with the weight of defeat. He looked over at the tent and sighed. "Hm? Sí, Lovi." He nodded again. "Sí."
Alistair wasn't a fluent Spanish speaker. But he picked up enough to know Spain was heading home. He knew when to fold.
Some things just couldn't be fixed.
Like the bloody fog creeping through.
Something about it had him unsettled.
It wasn't until he was instructing Canada on a Star Guide formation (because the Romany Spread was just too visually overwhelming for someone so green) that he figured out what it was.
He tapped Mathieu on the shoulder as the latter shuffled the deck to try again.
Mathieu was bollocks at tarots, but his earnest attempts in trying to learn the art made Alistair feel compelled to continue instructing him. At any rate, him knowing a wealth of formations could prove helpful in the future...though not in the way the Canadian might expect.
His brother was the one with talent, but Alistair wasn't sure his nephew had the memory necessary to remember all the different spreads. He'd noted over the years that America tended to streamline things after doing them for a time...and then forgot older methods he might use. (It was for that reason Alistair made a habit of forcing Alfred to strike up a match now and then or use a lens to catch the sun's light to start a fire. So he didn't grow too dependent on instant fire chemicals and gaslighters. He was actually overdue in making such a demand, though with Alfred's new age and form, Arthur would likely interfere.)
Still, perhaps letting Mathieu have the knowledge and Alfred have the skill would be a good way to teach the boys cooperation? Sometimes in a coven one had to team up, even when tensions were high.
Hell, sometimes Gwalia still managed to offer up some nugget of knowledge that blindsided Alba; some rearrangement of instruction or introduction to a spell or elixir he'd never heard of. And he'd relay it to Alba then because:
Hazel eyes appraised him quizzically. "I'm telling you because you're the one who'd perform it best.'
Mathieu frowned at the cards.
"Pocket those for now. C'mon, laddie, I'll teach yeh something more practical."
Violet eyes looked up a bit gratefully.
Alistair grinned. "How to close an UnSeelie portal without iron shavings."
Because they were nosy little bastards.
"T-they're here?! Like Grym?"
"Nah, not like him. But unwelcome all the same. Now, you had a hand for directional magic, right? Did you bring a pendulum with you? No? Tha's fine. Make yourself the instrument. Try to focus on which element or watch tower favors you."
Mathieu hesitated.
"You can call on all four if yer not sure yet."
The lad nodded and evoked them quietly without needing a prompt and using a lighter in place of a candle.
Interesting substitute.
He was a quickstudy, Alistair would give him that. "Close your eyes. Feel the current of them. Be a needle o' that compass. Point to where they're wanting you to go."
Mathieu took a deep breath, flicked his lighter off, and pocketed it. After a few moments, he pointed to the northern edge of their campsite.
Alistair smiled. "Good. Follow my lead."
He strolled over and maintained a farce of asking Mathieu about hockey training regiments.
The two continued conversing until they were right near the bushes and then Alistair promptly reached in and pulled a púca out.
Interesting. As a rural type of UnSeelie, he'd have been more at home near a farmhouse than deep in the woods.
Which meant, he was definitely where he shouldn't be.
He casually drew his Claymore from the ether.
From the looks of him, the UnSeelie damn near wet himself. His horselike ears twitched.
"O-Oi, we were invited!" the Unseelie squawked. "Brenhin called to us with-"
"Like Hell he did. And I expect a letter of apology for harassin' us with that sign o' yers."
"Sign?"
Damn thing, playing dumb.
"Get you and yours gone, I won't be merciful again." He tapped the flat of his sword against the cretin's face and then let him go.
The creature scrambled back into the surrounding darkness.
There was rustling along the bushes and sounds of disagreement and hushed insistence about "Brenhin calling them and they shouldn't abandon their posts."
Scotland began a countdown. "Còig...ceithir…trì...dhà...aon."
Gone.
He smirked and turned to Mathieu. "Gotta have a firm hand with their sort. Now, this is a small infestation. There's just the one portal which you sensed. Here."
Mathieu nodded.
"Now, yeh never want to just leave a portal like this around. Fae are mischievous even when they're feelin' benevolent. And there are different sorts of doors. Now, fae (UnSeelies in particular) make this type as a revolving door for their kind. Put a hand out. Good."
He put his own out as well. "Cold. See? Tingly cold but not an up-the-spine shiver. And it's in a dark spot, hard to see. That's their usual. Nooks, crannies, shadowy spots...they tear a seam and then they just come and go whenever they please. But spirits can come through too. Problem is fer them...it's just an entry point and then they get stuck here." He paused for a moment. "This is for a different lesson but...whenever you come across a ghostie exit...DON'T close it. You just close the entries fer that lot. Anyways, back to what I was jabberin' about. The more that get stuck, the more haunted and charged a place can get. Enough energy...and then it can let somethin' worse through."
Mathieu swallowed.
"Easy there. That usually takes far more time and a good deal of evil. But, prevention is always best. Now, if we were in a house, we'd have access to candles, sage, iron shavings, and incense. We don't have that. Go grab us some salt."
The lad ran back to grab a shaker.
"Now, usually you'll want to write out a spell in advance for this sort of thing but intent is more important than wording. No fear. That's key. Whatever spell you decide to make will work for you because it'll be how you like it."
"So...you want me to…?"
If he'd sounded more confident, Alistair would've handed him the reigns.
"Watch."
Mathieu nodded in relief and handed the salt over.
Alistair sent his sword back to the ether (he wouldn't be needing it; these had been low level harvest fae congregating). He then prowled around the spot and shook salt into his hand.
"Away. Away. Tha cannot stay.
Yeh've no purpose. Yeh've no say.
Get thee gone. Seal the way.
Away. Away. Tha cannot stay."
He chanted it twice and threw down the salt at the end of each line. The portal dissipated and Alistair bent down to scoop up the salt he'd thrown, mixed with the dirt and shadow.
He walked over to the campfire and threw it in.
"And that's just good housekeeping."
"Do you think Arthur's going to still make us leave in the morning?" Mathieu asked.
"Aye. And he'll be livid that goblins are still acting like rabid fanboys for little Al. We'd be goin' right now if I told him. But that can wait til morning. Let 'em rest."
"And you're...alright with leaving?"
"If Arthur's going to fuss the whole while we're here then, yes, I'd rather us just go."
Damn.
The portal was closed and he still felt off.
"You check the perimeter for any more portals, alright? I'm gonna check in on everyone."
Mathieu gave an affirmative nod that was a bit too zealous and hurriedly pulled his lighter back out.
Alistair took a turn around their site. There was a twin chorus of snoring from the Spanish tent. From the electronic sounds coming from her quarters, Momilani was playing a game on her phone.
Tex's tent was silent so the boy was still awake. (Snoring was apparently a dominant gene in Spain's line.)
He debated whether to invite him out but ultimately decided to leave him to his thoughts.
Scotland then braved his family's tent.
Eire was lying haphazardly across his air mattress...the wrong way...that was why no one liked bunking with him. He spun around like a top or a compass needle trying to find north.
Meanwhile, on the opposite side, Arthur's space had a heap of blankets. Was he taking ill from stress?
He wavered over whether to fess up and inform the lot of them about the UnSeelie infestation. But he and Mathieu had managed it. Surely, it could wait until morning? So long as nobody had been spirited away.
He stilled.
Where was Alfred?
Had he gone back into Tex's tent?
He moved closer to England's bed.
He didn't see the anklebiter.
"He's here. With me," England spoke—pulling down the coverlet enough so Scotland could see the laddie.
There was a mess of blankets and stuffed animals and kiddie crap—fairytale stories and the like.
Even in the dim light, Alistair could see his brother petting the child's hair tenderly.
Safe.
He released the breath he'd been holding.
"...checking on us?"
"Just...just doin' my rounds." He watched Alfred squirm and try to burrow into Arthur's chest—not liking the moist chill in the air that night.
And Arthur was just taking it. He moved the blankets back over the child and himself and tightened his hold— even though all that heat couldn't be comfortable for him. Alistair could smell the sweat. Arthur was definitely overheated.
"Oh."
And didn't care.
And it dredged up all the times America arrived disheveled and early and Alba sent him away for fear his pitiful appearance would spark cruelty.
Alfred made a sound of annoyance and Arthur gave an absent-minded kiss to the top of that messy blonde mop.
"Aye." He turned on his heel to go when—
"...thank you...for checking on him..."
"..."
"...for me."
"W-whatever." He stalked over to Rhys's bedding to make sure his eldest brother was present before getting the hell out.
"Nos da, brawd," Rhys offered as Alistair stood near.
He felt his face heat—knowing his eldest brother had witnessed the whole debacle from the moment he'd stepped foot in. Bassa probably recorded it!
"Piss off, ya sheep-shagger. And I wore my shoes all through here."
That should've soured things but Rhys burst out snickering.
It got worse when Arthur and Reilley joined in.
Unwilling to be a source of amusement, he wrenched the tent flap open and found himself face to face with a stricken Canada.
"Ack! Spit it out, laddie!"
"We're surrounded!"
It was 3 in the morning.
Alfred yawned. Maybe BECAUSE it was 3 in the morning, the fact that their campsite had been "raided" and another sign, this time: Leave While You Can, wasn't hitting him full force.
Alfred sat huddled up on his fold-out chair with a stuffed animal and a mug of hot chocolate. He'd passed up on Reilley's offer for witching-hour bird-watching. Which had been a less than subtle means to get him a couple spans away and out of earshot.
He couldn't leave when it was so tense.
Cuz he was more worried about this right here than some stupid witch and whatever beef they had.
He was seeing firsthand the cocktail of volatile ingredients that culminated in Arthur being violent to his Southwestern brother.
He'd been shocked to hear Arthur had more than threatened but physically assaulted his brother several times during his capture.
But now…
While he'd never condone it…
He was…kinda understanding why the two kept locking horns:
Texas was irreverent even when he was at his friendliest and England stood on ceremony. He lived to be hailed as a figure of import in every gathering he attended.
He'd been King-freaking-Arthur!
Tex's total disregard for anything the Briton said infuriated the elder nation to new levels of hostility.
Apparently, even when things were at their worst between them, England let America get away with a lot.
He was starting to see that.
His old man hadn't even begrudged him over the previous night. He'd been more than a bit surprised when the Briton ushered him into the tent by waving Willywoolingywch and a small fairytale book.
"...I can...stay?" He stared.
Arthur almost dropped the toy. "O-of course you can-you were defending your brother, I understand that even when I think it unnecessary."
"But…" He motioned between them.
"Wot? You think that affects us? That doesn't affect us. Matter's already settled."
"It is?"
"No quarrel will ever be severe enough that I'd want you to leave."
Which...challenged a lot of memories he had where he'd felt justified in storming out…
And where England had downright threatened that America's behavior would warrant a hasty departure.
Though…
Alfred blinked in realization.
Though...he never had actually carried such things out...
"You never said that before."
"I would have, if I'd known you needed to hear it. What can I say, poppet? I'm old. Sometimes I'm a little slow."
And even while that melted him like cheese in a fondue pot.
It put things into a sharper relief; Arthur didn't have any tender feelings for Tex.
At all.
And that meant he wasn't willing to take any flack.
He alternated between neutrality and hostility.
No peanut butter sandwiches and ironed shirts for him!
He rubbed sleep out of his right eye and then slapped himself on the cheek to try and wake himself up.
He needed coherence if he was going to mediate things between them.
It didn't help that Tex felt like he was manning a gatling gun alone.
In the two seconds of privacy they'd had in the tent—
"Hey, sorry if I cut it too close to the quick," Alfred apologized.
But instead his bro abruptly asked him, "Did you have a flashback on the raft? Is that what happened?"
"Yes." Surprised that they were talking about that and not the soap opera situation they were currently in.
"Did you tell Arthur and not me?"
The question hung like Agent Orange before the burning started; and surviving phase one just meant more agonies.
"…Yes."
It was good that the inside of the tent was dark so he didn't have to see.
"Dammit, Allie. It hurts that you ain't talking to me anymore. There was a time when you'd tell me first…not as an afterthought."
"…"
And then his dad burst onto the scene and whisked him away and he'd been forced to sneak quick texts to try and mend matters between the two of them.
It was bad getting one words replies like: Fine, Sure, and Whatevz.
While his bro had been adamant that he'd never make him choose a side, Alfred was finding that trying to be on two teams at once wasn't working out either.
Tex scoffed, "You're blowing things WAY out of proportion! You didn't even see nobody! I mean, nothin' actually happened. They left a sign. O the horror."
"Why are you being so pigheaded?" Arthur reached for Texas's lapel but Antonio swatted his hand away. "Spain, he's being unreasonable. Do something. Get him under control!"
"Who the Hell do you think-"
"I am sorry, Arthur. Nothing works with him," the Spaniard remarked gravely.
He was being the unruly jackass because Alfred couldn't bring himself to be.
Hawaii gave him a look. He could almost hear the scolding 'Tell them'
He looked away. Tex had to hold the line for a little while longer until he could think of something.
He got a gentle poke in the ribs from Alistair.
"C'mon, we're having a lesson. I gave Mathieu his last night. You get yours now."
Alfred sighed as he played with his dragon toy's wings and nodded at the cards beside him.
"I keep getting 'The Tower.'"
Scotland's eyebrows furrowed. "Well, that ain't good, laddie."
Figures. "Why?"
"It's a card of calamity."
"...oh." Great.
"It might not be you. It might be because you live with that," Mathieu offered. He gave Texas a sharp look.
"Don't start!" Alfred snapped. "He's upset that's all-"
"Why?"
"...lots of reasons..." More than he could accurately list in one sitting.
"Like?"
More than he'd feel comfortable sharing to people who wouldn't understand all the shit they'd been through over the years. And then there was the principle of the thing. It wasn't his side of their story to share.
Texas hadn't been like him in the 1800s; losing everything just made him tough, it hadn't turned him inside out and mean.
It hurt him worse though...because of that…
He'd always...cared more...when things went wrong.
When the heroes on their horses...couldn't save the day...
"I...uh...I didn't go rafting yesterday."
His uncle and his brother gave him a look.
Yeah, it was weak even to his own ears. Sorry, Tex, you aren't making out so well. Curse you, 3 in the morning brain!
And his bro really DID have the absolute worst timing. Like when he decided annexation was the best course of action, riiiight when America was having serious issues balancing slave states and free states and promoting emancipation.
Or like…
Tex's shadow fell over him.
Right. Now.
"C'mon, Al." His brother gave him a rough shove on the shoulder. "We're goin' hiking."
"Um?" Dude, he wasn't even dressed yet!
"Now, we gotta-"
"You leave him alone." Mathieu's voice was low and stony.
Crap. That was a tone he usually only heard while playing hockey.
A sort of thou-shalt-not-score mixed with Frau Blücher!
He could almost hear the horses whinnying.
It made him kinda wish Prussia was there. That dude was great at interrupting stuff.
"Well, lookee here. Someone wants to dance? Think you can go toe-to-toe with me, Canuck?"
And cue the theme of The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly.
Alfred waved his hands desperately. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Ex nay on the-"
"This was supposed to be a peaceful holiday," Mathieu shot back in that snobby tone he'd use whenever Alfred played the part of obnoxious American too well and committed faux pas after faux pas.
Only it wasn't aimed at him so he couldn't laugh it off.
"It's plenty peaceful," Alfred outright lied. "I-I'm relaxed-"
"Shut up, Al!"
"Don't tell him to-"
"Well, you're trying to call me out, ain't cha?"
"Beau cave!"
"Oh yeah? Well, we got places to be!" Tex blindly reached behind him for Alfred and dragged him out of the chair.
Alfred landed hard on his knees and was hoisted up via his left arm.
Still, he'd only endured a painful instant of dangling (two seconds at most) before Reilley came to his rescue.
"Yeh header, what're yeh doin'?! Gonna break his arm or disloc-"
"Shoot! Sorry, Allie-"
Reilley spirited Alfred away to Rhys and Arthur and through the gaps in their arms watched in horror as Mathieu socked Tex hard in the chest.
Big mistake.
Tex was itching for a fight.
Why wouldn't he be?
Cuz he was always waaay better at fighting than arguing.
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