Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, Ted Talks, The Prestige, Dungeons&Dragons, or the Oregon Trail game.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Head-canon: America would be an epic mailman. Puritan Punishment. EVERY territory in the history of mankind EVER has pretty much had dreams of expansion and I think it's kinda dishonest when that goes unacknowledged. Family drama to the max. The max! Consider yourself warned D :
Special Warning: Somewhat graphic visceral imagery (at least strongly alluded to).
AN: Something I found interesting: in Latin, "idiota" referred to an uneducated layman rather than a straight-up "idiot" back in the day. Also, I love those Do Not Cross Field signs: "Unless you can do it in 9 seconds because the bull can do it in 10."
Thank you for your reviews and continued interest. This chap took a while because it kept growing and there were was no beautiful break-spot until the end. And here's a super long chapter! Enjoy! : D
Chapter 46: He Couldn't Even Blame Beer For This
Texas slumped back against a tree. He'd gotten cocky. That was for damn sure.
He'd still won...technically…
So take that world. One more tally on the chalkboard for Tex.
Cuz that's what mattered, right?
Matt was the one who ended up doubled over before the round was done because Tex could take a hit and keep coming. There was a tipping point.
If he had to give one of them Ted Talks, he'd probably center it around that.
Survive enough curb-stomp battles and before long the taker-of-hits became the dealer-of-punishment.
It was hard to pinpoint exactly when he'd crossed that line. Some time after the Alamo but before Wounded Knee, he'd stopped being the underdog.
But Matt was still a sovereign nation; he had a level of gusto that shouldn't have been underestimated.
And maybe...if Tex was only able to draw on his state's population and modern maps outlining his border, Matt would've held his own even better. The Canadian was disciplined and he fought in a logical, straight forward sort of way: the military-European-esque tactician's way.
He was all strategy and preservation of energy and minimal risk-taking. He punched and kicked with a sort of refined, drilled vibe.
He felt a lot like how Al had been, but Matt's muscular frame was mostly for show...just potential.
He wasn't ready for the unpredictable chaos and lean mean brutality that was Texas (who'd daily grappled with America since the 1820s out of annoyance, amusement, and o'course...desire for the last slice of pie).
Matt didn't understand how Tex's history and the culture it tied into sprawled in ways that belied the truths that cartographers toted.
Tex had always kinda been an area of dispute.
Being Coahuila y Tejas had given him a taste of what it would be like expanding past his borders. He was ambitious by the time he was the Republic of Tejas—spreading out into New Mexico, Oklahoma, Kansas, Colorado, and tapping Wyoming.
It wasn't hard to dream about Alta California, though he never pitched the idea officially.
He'd just known Mejico's control over that area was weak and he might've confided it to America...better to see it out of her hands and into Al's...and his...
Then he'd gone and taken up the Confederate mantle in the mid-1800s which left an imprint on all that territory.
Plus, lingering Spanish influence from the south through Florida and over through the southwest and western coast...kinda always meant he felt a bit more attuned to those citizens than Al did.
But he'd been to and fought for, bled on, and died all over the U.S. of A...it gave him ties to the land...like Al…
He was power hungry. Always had been. That's what had drawn Tejas and America together at the start. Viciously ambitious, the two of them. Just...somewhere along the way he'd fallen out of love with power for its own sake.
It was better when he had someone to toast its rewards with. It wasn't that he'd gone soft. Nah, he'd gone sharp instead and he didn't mind being used. Not when he got to use Al back.
They knew each other; the best and worst they had to give.
They knew each other; who was better at what, who should zig while the other zagged.
The cherry on top was what he and Al had never told nobody: the ultimate ace up their sleeve.
In the time before Tejas had been officially labeled Antonio Junior...he'd referred to and thought of...himself as...America.
He had to be the New World because he was certainly newer than Azura.
And America or Americus (he'd gone back and forth because the first sounded nice but the latter was masculine) Fernández Carriedo just sounded so good when he'd been young. And if his padre wasn't going to get around to naming him...he figured he'd pick one for himself.
That he must've been named something already as he'd been baptized as an infant never crossed his mind.
Being a New World sounded glorious and he latched onto that before his siblings or anyone else could wrest it away.
Aaaand that was probably the reason he could always step in so seamlessly whenever Al suffered a death or needed someone in a critical spot.
And why forms signed America or Jones could be from either one of them. They liked it that way. It meant they shouldered praise and blame together. He didn't think either of them intended to like it, cuz they were both super self-important, but it wound up that way all the same. And it was great how Alfred could be there at some dull meeting distracting them all while Tex was out and about getting stuff done. None of the Euros ever wondered at it. How America got so many damn missions and projects in the World Wars accomplished.
The Native American tribes had figured it out fast during the Indian Wars—that there were two of them—and started planning ambushes to the point that he and his brother stopped trying to coordinate attacks separately and just rode into battle together.
And if Al hadn't suffered an unplanned death last year at such late notice and their government hadn't insisted on Tex filling in for Al and the fact that Al really wanted him to get along with them because they could make life real uncomfortable for the next decade...who knows how long they could've kept it up? It wasn't like any of the Old World powers really kept in touch with the indigenous tribes on the continent so there wasn't a big risk of being found out.
It was kinda why he'd liked that Prestige movie so much. Even though there weren't horses or cowboys in it. Though...that could've made it better, probably.
God, it just worked.
They worked.
As long as they stayed together.
Al was smart. He liked being one step ahead. He liked having secrets and backup plans and escape routes. He was crafty and crazy like that. He liked to win by playing the odds. The more fantastical the scheme played out, the better. Liked that nobody believed things went down one way or another, cuz it let him pull victories out of thin air.
Tex also liked winning.
His style wasn't as flashy.
He won because he refused to lose. He could play the long game out. He didn't fold. He knew where to be and he could be counted on to be there. That sounded real damn simple in theory but it wasn't in practice. Not where Al was concerned and some of the shit he liked to pull.
Tex's stubbornness and willingness to see things to the end was probably how he earned Al's respect.
And he could stake himself on those qualities, could be trusted to uphold them.
The catch was Al had to be upfront with him. And Al was such a sneaky bastard being totally honest with anybody was like pulling eye teeth. Scratch that. Too simple and clean. It was more like pulling his brains out through his nose with a poker like them Ancient Egyptians did to their dead.
Still, Matt not knowing about all of that made Tex's win feel like he'd stacked the deck.
Didn't feel that way when he was fighting Scotland...but Matt was technically a brother.
Didn't know why that mattered. He doubted he'd feel as guilty over giving Colombia the uppercut he deserved...flippin-dangerous-drug-making-fight-starting weirdo. Tex was still hesitant over Al taking trips down there even though the latter insisted his big brother was mellowing out and becoming a tourist spot.
Maybe it was good that Spain had intervened before the fight could turn real ugly.
Though...damn...it hurt his pride bad that Spain was still stronger and faster than Tex had anticipated.
He was supposed to be old and out of shape and a has-been. Like a worn-out dishrag!
Sure he hadn't expected the man to just jump in (so the element of surprise had been on the Spaniard's side) but...it was kinda embarrassing that it only took a handful of seconds for Spain to get him in a headlock and drag him back.
In a real fight...he'd have been dead. A knife through the ribs or armpit or throat and he'd been done.
Instead, Spain had just repeated over and over. "¡Cálmate!"
He'd been given a soft squeeze at the neck to let him know that if Spain wanted to, he could choke him out.
Which...honestly...given that option...actually DID cool his jets.
And there was the fact that he hadn't really wanted to be in a brawlfest in the first place—it just wasn't in him to back down when he was so obviously called out.
"Tranquilo." Spain drew the word out—low and deep and unyieldingly. It was more command than suggestion.
And it should've pissed him off but he was kinda relieved to have the fight over with because America had an undeniable soft spot for Canada and Tex was seriously pressing his luck.
The others rushed past to get to Canada and he wasn't spared a glance. Not even of condemnation. He got a funny feeling that it had less to do with him proving he was an aggressive force that wouldn't put up with any shit from them and more to do with Spain being there.
Apparently, being in Spain's grip, literally, either meant they considered Tex's reign of terror over or…
"Tranquilo."
Spots were starting to dance in front of his eyes.
Tex gave the universal tap out to signal he was good with that.
Antonio immediately released him and moved back over to where Rico was standing.
He stared after the Spaniard. No checking him over for injury? No scolding? No...nothing?
He waited to be accosted by Al and Matt's family but...nothing…
The silence was kinda worse.
He stood there awkwardly for a few moments.
Northern Ireland approached him with a vibe that screamed confrontation and he slipped into a ready stance, but at the last minute Reilley gave a sideways glance to the right and halted.
Tex cautiously looked over and found Spain staring the redhead down.
The Irishman swore something in Gaelic under his breath and spat on the ground before moving back to where the rest of his relatives were gathered.
So…
Shit.
That was...that was...just...embarrassing.
He looked over to Spain whose dark green eyes met his stonily.
Tex couldn't hold the gaze but he did manage to force out: "How'd you do that?"
Antonio ran a hand through his hair and gave an annoyed look that reminded Tex of his childhood.
"How'd you get me so fast?" Tex asked.
"You think I don't know how to fight with an opponent who is strong?"
It was a backhanded compliment. Unnecessary. Nothing he didn't already know. Hell yeah, he was strong.
And yet.
"Ya did it so easy." That was it. There'd been an ease to it that left his pride smarting.
"I've been in many fights."
"Well, so have I!" he blurted. He was pretty sure he'd been fighting his whole life and he said so.
"You think you have fought as much as me?"
And then Spain laughed. And it wasn't in that silly patronizingly affectionate way that he'd been doing for the better part of the year. No. El Reino de España was laughing at him.
No need to stick around for that. He turned and got the hell away.
"Was that always part of the plan?" Rico asked quietly as he trailed behind. "Try and prove to Papi you're tougher than him? Beat him at his own game?"
What had seemed like a reasonable course of action and life's ambition at 14 after staring at Spain's back as he up and left...sounded really stupid out loud.
"...leave me alone."
"You okay?" Al asked.
Stupidest life goal meet stupidest question.
Tex gave him a very dark bespectacled glare.
Canada was wheezing in the background (and had he really never had the wind knocked out of him before? Maybe he should swap out the skates for cleats and try playing quarterback for a change?) and the U.K. brigade was still fussing over him and Spain and Rico were packing up supplies from their tent and pretending Tex didn't exist and...oh yeah! Tex had just made a colossal ass of himself in front of ab-so-lutely everybody!
And Hawaii was probably calling Alaska and Stuart.
Hell, ol' Snobby probably had the whole thing on tape. And the Irish one would make a rude limerick. And Scotland would cease training him. And England would hate his guts even more and sue his ass somehow!
And then he was gonna get a talking-to from his senators and the prez and Congress-
Still, he felt something uncoil in him at Al's expression.
There was no anger or judgment or anything hard there.
"Where?" Al asked.
"Hand."
His little brother took it gently in his. Yeah. It was busted all to hell. Canada's jaw was harder than it looked. Stupid North American Cordillera! And having his right hand out of commission was what had made it impossible to fight Spain off without drawing attention to it or worsening it.
Naturally, he was gonna play it off that Spain had caught him off guard and, like, 'the rage' had made it hard to concentrate and escape.
Cuz it was one thing to be the victorious jerkass of the hour, it was another to be the dumbass victim of his own bad choices. He couldn't even blame beer for this.
"Sorry, dude."
"Whaddyou care? Leavin' me all by my lonesome last night. Everybody out there mad at me and me...in there...all by myself and it's hard fallin' asleep without y-"
"Oh context," Hawaii snorted as she leaned on a tree near them. "This is why some people used to make assumptions before realizing you two were related-"
"We totally look related." Alfred's cheeks puffed. "Don't we, Tex?"
"Yup." It was a good thing he didn't do confession anymore. He'd keep a Father in that cabinet for years if he racked his brain for every little lie let alone the big stuff.
He twisted the fingers of his good hand in the rosary around his neck. Why'd Papi have to give this back?
"Riiight."
"Hey, respect the Bromance, Ms. Judgy McJudgerson."
She shrugged a shoulder.
"It wasn't weird in the 1800s!" Tex snapped. Folks were always dying then—made friendships more special—never knew when someone was gonna catch dysentery or diphtheria or get bit by a snake and keel over.
Oregon Trail got that right.
"Nice going with that." Hawaii gestured to where Canada was being tended. "Real macho."
He barely felt the sting in his hand over that direct hit.
Alfred reached for the injured hand, inspecting it while Hawaii left to grab a backup First Aid kit since the other was already in use.
"Sorry, Dude, 'bout last night. He said 'storytime' and I was so down for that. I jumped ship. It was just...you're good at anecdotes, you're like the best I know at that but...but Dad's got magic old timey ballads like...I mean, if you tried...well, you'd narrate like a chainsaw when it should be like a flute."
Tex sighed.
It made sense. Al was always kinda flighty and flippant. He was fundamentally unapologetic and uncompromising. Centuries ago those qualities had left Tejas in awe.
And Al's own airy unpredictability had lent him a talent for weathering Tex's tornado temperament.
It usually worked swell for them. And they'd wind up wherever the whirlwind dumped them.
But there were too many people here now. And they were so goddamned fragile compared to them. Collateral damage was unavoidable.
He wasn't good at settling down once he got going...once he got worked up.
He needed a rock to anchor him down and he couldn't find one. Maybe Hawaii should call Alaska. He was so calm—he could leech the chaos out of any tense room.
Tex couldn't stop the trapped feeling from taking hold. It made him ornery and cornered and crazy.
"I'm scared…" Tex admitted softly. "I know what I said...and I meant it but..."
Alfred stilled and tried to force a smile. It was more because other people could be watching them from afar than an attempt at shallow face-value assurance; Alfred knew better than to play games like that with him.
He was just buying them a few more minutes of privacy. De-escalation.
Tex bowed his head. "...I don't wanna lose you…to them."
"..."
Cuz that's what it all came down to. And he was ready and raring to fight tooth and nail. He couldn't be shut out, turned away, left behind…
He wouldn't lie down for that.
"I don't wanna lose everything," he confessed with a desperation he hadn't felt since he was a stupid little sixteen-year-old waking up to the fact that he was honest-to-God on his own.
And it was fucking terrifying.
And there was nothing for it but to pick a direction.
And the direction he chose...led...
His adrenaline waned and his hand began to throb.
"I don't know about 'everything.' But you couldn't lose me if you tried," Al replied. "Heck, you already did in the 1860s. Me and my government didn't go for it."
Tex frowned. "Did this seem like a good time for that potshot?"
"Whelllp, it just 'is what it is,' my favorite fellow 'deserter,'" he chuckled. "But for realz...you'll never shake me loose."
Tex managed a weak smile.
"You'll never be rid of me," Al vowed.
"Ditto that, Pilgrim-pants."
Alfred observed Tex's injury once more.
And then it happened—an unholy gleam of excitement signalled that his brother was visited by an idea blazing with brilliance and it was gonna engulf everything in its path.
"I remembered something, just now," he relayed in a hushed breathy rush. "Magic I used to do for girdled trees and then I learnt how to do it for me. And now you."
Tex nodded cautiously.
"It'll hurt like hell though," his brother mentioned casually.
He wasn't quite asking for permission. That just wasn't Al's style.
But it was a heads-up.
More than what most people got from him.
Tex shrugged. "Well, how convenient. I'm already in Hell."
Not sure he ever really left, honestly.
But as long as Al was with him...he could bear it.
God...though...
What he wouldn't give for a cigarette to take the edge off.
America ignored the rest of the group as they broke down the camp site around them.
As far as he was concerned, Canada had kinda asked for it and Tex just...delivered. Pony Express, man. America wasn't the only ornery orphan who ended up applying.
His bro was too tough to be taken lightly.
Maybe this would send that home?
It had shocked him for a while now, how they had all treated his brother, like they could get away with provoking him time and again, but then Tex had been sandbagging for a while now.
He was a dangerous dude to tick off. That temper...
Canada always depended on America pulling his punches whenever they clashed and the spectre of England's disapproval always guaranteed that America wouldn't pass the point of no return.
Tex wasn't roped into all that.
While a bit exasperated by the turn of events, he couldn't bring himself to even be vexed with his Southwestern brother.
He'd been in too-tight of a spot—he'd had to make room. He was a bull in a china shop. And the only reason he was in it at all was because Alfred hadn't managed the playing field right.
Nope. This was on him. Alfred had gotten tangled up in the family drama of being a prodigal son and nephew and brother, he'd slacked off in his role as a brother-in-arms and partner-in-crime and co-captain.
Tex was still dutifully adhering to Plan A. Alfred had left him there holding the line.
It was his fault. He couldn't make up his mind on what he wanted. He couldn't be everything everyone needed. Not at the same time. He wasn't enough.
That despairing 'I'm all out of moves' expression of 'we're about to lose big' on Tex's face was too familiar. He'd memorized it from bad nights at gambling houses, when Tex would turn to him with a "well shit, that was our last dollar" and usually mouthed 'run' cuz they couldn't pay the bill.
Still, there was something new in it.
Something raw that jogged his memory.
And he was reminded of the War of 1812, pulling Rhys's knife from his shoulder, licking his wounds in the newly constructed Kirkland Hall.
He'd sat on the floor of the music room, part outraged, part vindicated, morbidly fascinated, and wholly horrified at his own circumstances. Helpless. Hopeless...as all his worst fears came true.
His stomach kept flopping as the feeling of falling never ceased. He focused on his breathing to achieve a false, enforced sense of calm as what little magic he had at his disposal was employed to knit the muscle, fractured collar bone, and skin.
There would be no happy endings here.
His family was turning on him.
There were no safe places anymore.
Nothing was sacred.
Harris was right.
It was a terrible memory. Painful. Awful.
Helpful.
Valuable because it could aid Texas now.
He had to give credit where credit was due.
Tex was tough. His mouth twitched a bit but he didn't cry out as the bones in his hands were abruptly reset—simultaneously.
The snapping sounds were the only proof that something supernatural was going on at their end of the campsite.
And nobody knew but them. And that gave him a weird bubbly feeling of accomplishment.
The rest were so busy, trying to give them the cold shoulder, they didn't even realize what was going on under their noses.
"Do you think we should take Mathieu for emergency treatment?" Rhys asked with palpable concern...a feat considering his usual flat tones.
"Ack, he's fine."
"Hardly, he was brutally assaulted," Arthur asserted.
"I-I'm alright," Mathieu assured. "I think the cold pack is helping. I'll be fine."
"He took one on the chin alright, but his jaw ain't broke. He's fine," Alistair insisted and then started in on Mathieu. "And don't think you're gettin' off with just bruises. I'm keepin' you on the hook, laddie. You were the one who started that fight. Shame. Hardly a square go. You hit him first and without a warning! Tha's bad form."
Alfred stared at the unexpected Scottish source of support.
"He's my favorite," Tex announced in Alfred's ear. "If you wanna tell him our plan, he can stay. Got my vote. The rest gotta go."
Alfred kept that in mind as he sealed sinew and skin. Once done, Tex flexed his hand.
"Damn, that is something. Wish you could've remembered that trick sooner."
Trick…
At first he felt an absurd welling of indignation at such a talent being labeled a trick but…
Why?
Tips and tricks…
He prided himself on being filled to the brim with tips and tricks…
Anything that got one ahead.
"Me too."
Even if it wasn't especially heroic.
Harris complained that if he remained too sentimental, he'd value everything and nothing and no one would appoint leadership roles to him. Because he couldn't prioritize.
And if he couldn't prioritize, he couldn't be trusted.
Didn't he want to be shaped into something great and worthy? Someone of importance?
Harris only wanted what was best for him...for everyone's sake.
Alfred watched from between branches in a strategically placed tree.
From the way Arthur was rubbing the bridge of his nose, he had a headache coming on which boded ill for Alfred trying to reason with him over why they couldn't be sensible and just leave.
Alfred had to admit everything was happening way faster than he expected; Spain and Puerto Rico were moving out equipment in record speed.
Which flustered his uncles, particularly Alistair, because he didn't like being a deadweight and Rhys, because he didn't like the way the two were organizing the supplies.
England seemed put out that his foot garnered him a light roster and his job was to sort out map routes while his brothers trekked back and forth from the site to the vans.
Despite volunteering to carry various things, Arthur was told in no uncertain terms to sit it out or rather, "sit his arse down out of the way or have it booted out of their way." He was too delicate to participate, like one of those injured damsels from a 1950's horror film, according to Reilley.
That really got Arthur's goat, but the old man did concede in sitting down in the last chair left by the dying fire.
"I'm sorry, Rhys. You went to a lot of trouble." Arthur waved a hand at the fancy tent and sighed.
Rhys gave him a baffled look. "It's unsafe here. The sooner we leave the better. I've already called the agency to take it down."
"What sort of fae do yeh think it was?" Reilley called over as he collected up cooking supplies.
"They were Unseelies-"
"American or British?"
That gave them a cause for pause.
"They...had to be American, right?" Arthur asked Rhys.
"But I thought only the British ones were fans?"Alistair raised an eyebrow. "How'd they know 'Brenhin?'"
"Yes. How would they know the UnSeelie King's dictates?" Arthur murmured at Rhys.
"Fire sending, perhaps?"
"Or the post," Reilley volunteered.
Both Dad and Uncle Rhys's eyebrows twitched at that.
It was just...such an unmagical means of communication. It looked like they couldn't quite accept it.
Tch. Alfred's eyebrow twitched. Proof they'd never been mailmen. It was highly exciting if one did it right!
Still, it did amuse Alfred to think the UnSeelies were probably emailing and snapchatting by this point in the new millennium. They knew how cameras worked if Scotland's mention of a creepy America-shrine was accurate.
He watched his uncles leave for another trek to the vans. In their absence, Arthur rubbed down his injured ankle and winced.
It gave Alfred an idea that was so crazy it was miraculous.
He floated down from the tree to where Tex was waiting in virtual exile by his crappy, duct-taped tent.
"Hold tight, I wanna try something first with Dad."
"..."
"If I can show him that I can just...heal up any injuries we get, maybe I can convince him that there's nothing to fear about you and me staying?"
"So we ARE staying. I mean, I knew I was. Cuz there ain't no way I'm gettin' in close quarters after that shit show. Even if your relatives don't get me, Spain will. I can feel it. I'll take my chances hitchhiking with a bunch of witches on my tail. Safer."
"I thought you weren't scared of getting the horns?"
"Yeah, well, dammit, that toro's still fast. 'Gotta be able to cross that field in 9 seconds, because the bull can do it in 10.'"
"Fair enough."
"I don't get it, Al. Let's just slip out now. I always kinda thought we were gonna have to leave Hawaii behind but...them's the breaks. She ain't the cross-country running type. And if we get a good gallop going-"
"I just...I don't want everybody and their grandma, 'specially cuz my dead gram gram is super mean, to be butthurt over it." Cuz he didn't really see any circumstance where Arthur would cheerily wave goodbye from the van as he left a seven-year-old Alfred in a creepy, witch-infested, UnSeelie-dominated dark forest. Maybe he'd leave Tex but not him.
But if he could convince him that they were equipped for this adventure through playing up his aspects as a magical healer via Dungeons & Dragons speak. It introduced it to the realm of possibility. There'd be no cheery wave of course but maybe a hand on the shoulder and a warning to call the moment things went out of his depth.
"If you fail?"
"I want you to wait with a raft ready. Give me twenty minutes and then start heading for the river. I'll catch you up."
"Al…"
"I will catch up to you. No matter how it goes."
Tex wavered, rocked on his heels twice, and then nodded.
Alfred released a long, slow breath and tried to psyche himself up. It could work. It could. Best case scenario. Come on, best case scenario. Lady Luck, you know I'm due, he thought.
His dad was sitting and staring moodily into the embers. Not the best sign.
Had to pull out all the stops. Butter him up.
"Daddy?"
Arthur looked up.
"Daddy, can I talk to you? Pleeeease?"
"Oho? Playing messenger? He's not a leper. Texas can talk to me himself. I don't mind being mediator for him and Mathieu, but I won't accept this. You're no carrier pigeon. He doesn't have to wait all the way over—where is he? It isn't safe for us to be spread too far apart."
"..."
Arthur hesitated on whether to stand. "Where-"
"He's okay!" Al insisted. He was surprised. Dad being concerned about Tex at all in light of all that happened was definitely a step in the right direction. It kinda came out of left field. And he wondered if his original idea was a good one or not.
"Is he helping Spain by the vans?"
A well-timed white lie couldn't hurt.
"I think so."
Arthur sighed in relief.
Alfred fidgeted. "Look. I just...I wanna show you something I can do. I...I remembered how."
Arthur indulged him and beckoned him closer, setting an arm around him and drawing him in.
"Are your feet alright?"
It felt a bit unfair how easily he was brought back into the fold while his brother was on everybody's shitlist; and the biggest reason he was there...was out of loyalty to him.
"What did you want to show me, love?"
He had to something big, something grand for both of their sakes to wipe their slates clean.
"Something so...you don't have to be scared anymore. No one does."
The Briton looked perplexed. "Alfie? I...I'm not...love, I'm not scared. I'm concerned. It's…" His eyes widened with insight and his voice went almost sickeningly sweet. "It's alright for you to be frightened, though...though I promise I won't let anything befall you, sweet. Here, you're welcome to confide in m-"
"I'm not."
And it was a weird thing. Maybe he was arrogant like everybody said, but he wasn't scared of the fae, or the witches, or even the bad thing in the ground his feet kept warning him about.
He rested into the embrace and released a steadying breath. He reached out with his magic—taking inspiration from trees and searching without vision.
Lifetimes ago, he'd loved to do magic. It was something he could do by foot, and hand, and will. He didn't need to know how to read or the rituals that Osha and others kept secret from him or the things Arthur and his brothers locked away in their cupboards and basements. He just needed to watch, listen, guess, try.
And he was always game to try.
He'd failed too often to be afraid.
He didn't have any spells. Or words. No one had taught him how.
He learned because he did. Trial and error in the gasping spaces after a bad fall or a sharp rock. He remembered those now.
There was nothing special in it. Nothing but will.
But it was enough.
"Alfie?"
Determination had always been the only thing that made him special.
He leaned against Arthur who jolted with sudden insight as the magic crept where he willed it.
"No, Alfred. Let it be."
No.
It wasn't in him. And while Arthur's grip on him tightened, it became clear that...it wouldn't escalate further. It was almost like his father was scared of hurting him. Which was kinda funny...because sprains and breaks weren't things that could.
"Stop!" Arthur hissed.
Not when he could prove himself in one go as to why Arthur didn't have to worry about their mission. Any mission ever again!
Because this was a game-changing skill. And wouldn't he be impressed if he could just sit through the unhappy part now? He wanted to share it with him. That was an honor. He usually didn't share things he just learned how to do with anyone because they'd score him on it. Nobody except those he held closest.
"No!"
Tex trusted him, why couldn't he?
"STOP."
The hex was tricky because it was way down deep and tangled. Tangled because it didn't want to let the bone set like it should—like roots disrupting pavement.
Something had to be done.
Alfred was a gardener; he could weed out what didn't belong.
Memories that weren't his spilled out as well while he worked and faces and battles and shame he hadn't known flickered and grew until they hit a crescendo of agony.
Pain magnified across their bond on a plethora of levels. But pain was never something that really fazed America.
And he didn't understand the embarrassment. Why knowing was such a big deal.
Like Alfred was never s'posed to know about it. O his father could talk and edit what he wanted to share about that Crusades injury, but Alfred wasn't supposed to know it like this. Wasn't supposed to feel like he'd been there standing over them and their puddle himself.
Wasn't supposed to know that father had been...in his mind at least...lesser and common...uneducated...brash and young...
His father's thoughts labeled the whole thing "disgrace" and he seemed to think it mattered.
Or that it should matter to Alfred also.
Alfred tried to show it didn't by sharing memories of his own—standing in a public square in Massachusetts with a sign around his neck. The first time, he couldn't read it beyond identifying its 9 letters and he was too ignorant to understand how it applied to him. Sad, huh? He was so stupid then. The second time, he'd known what the word hanging from him meant and wept. How weak and cowardly, right? On the third, he displayed it proudly for it summed him up well and doing so unsettled them that put him there.
INSOLENCE.
But Arthur wasn't comforted by his triumph.
Disgrace was something more to him. Something incurable.
The hex certainly seemed to agree. It was severe, pitiless, and over-righteous. But maybe that was because it thought like a sword and all the world was narrow and straight to such an instrument.
It didn't know what the hell to make of America. But that wasn't a new thing.
No, the only real surprise was that it turned out that Arthur was NOT as conservative as Tex when it came to expressing suffering.
And it reverberated not just in his head psychically but outloud and startled birds into the air.
Admittedly, Alfred had been more invasive this time around. Had to dig deeper.
He had to! But he was sorry the discomfort was necessary.
Hands wrenched him away.
"What are you doing?!"
"The hell did you do?!"
"Artie?"
"Albion? Answer."
His uncles were panicking and cursing in words he didn't understand.
He wasn't finished helping Father but they roughly pulled and shoved him back until the seams of his jacket gave.
They checked Arthur and swore anew.
He backed away until he was under the cover of the trees.
He could've sealed those up...but they weren't going to allow him near again.
"Staunch it! Quick!"
"Dammit, I already took the kit to the-"
"Fetch it-"
Alfred let the slippery gooey handfuls of hex fall to the forest floor and he crushed it underfoot where it dissipated in a dark but harmless stain. Maybe what he'd done wasn't fancy but it had worked for the UnSeelie King and it worked for America too.
He might have to write a letter of thanks. Because it did seem kinda rough now to do something of magnitude and for there to be no accolades.
No smiles.
No demands for explanations.
No gentle hands for him.
He looked down at his ruined jacket.
They didn't understand.
He'd helped Father. Did what he couldn't. What they couldn't. For centuries.
But they didn't care.
Maybe he'd been lying to himself the whole time.
He would never regain their trust…
He'd never had it.
Harris was right about that too.
He'd always be different, apart, away.
He turned and forced himself onward to meet up with Tex.
If nothing else, all of that would keep them busy.
It hurt though...
He was still stupid.
He was just a stupid person who could read well and do more, so the stupid stuff he did was on a grander scale than when he'd been little.
Though...he had a wriggling doubt that such a declaration didn't ring exactly true…
He sniffled.
He just thought Arthur would finally be impressed—grateful that Alfred could do something for him that would really make a difference in his life...the good kind. And he could be confident whenever his son went his own way, that all would be well.
So much for that.
At least he had towelettes, safety pins, and a Tide Stain Remover in his pockets; he set himself to work.
He'd traveled a good distance and made some real progress on his jacket before the sound of twigs breaking prompted him to turn around.
A battered but furious Canada stalked toward him, his usual soft voice had gone hard with near-hysteria.
"Are you freaking possessed? Dammit Al, what's wrong with you two?! Are you psychopaths?! Why would you hurt him?!"
He put two and two together fast or maybe their relatives explained it with a simple "Al did it" but the motive for doing so wasn't present.
That was uncharitable of them.
"I saved him," he clarified. Sure it was from something a long time ago, but it should still count. He was the hero. The best could succeed at impossible things.
Canada disagreed.
He shook with barely restrained contempt. "What more do you want from him?! You want to hurt him? You actually want him to suffer? What more could you take from him? You have his mantle, Superpower. You have all the guns and glory and pride to choke a-"
"...shut up…"
"You have everything!" Mathieu insisted as he knelt down in front of Alfred and gripped him by the shoulders. He looked down and took in the mess of him and came undone. "Why?! Why would you hurt him?! Tell me!"
"..."
"You have all of his affection!" Mathieu all but spat. "All of it! And even still that's not enough for you?!"
"No." Blue eyes narrowed to slits and in a deadly whisper that seemed loud because of the venom in it...because Mathieu was such a stupid smart person who never got what was obvious. And that was unforgivable.
"Not when you have all of his respect."
España listlessly folded up camping chairs and arranged them into the van as best he could—knowing Rhys would probably re-do it anyway. He tried to participate in small talk.
He knew he was repeating himself but Momilani was too kind to criticize him for it. He kept remarking on his amazement that they'd been allotted so much space and was surprised the grounds had allowed a campfire for cooking rather than imposing the use of camp stoves.
But he was at a loss of what else he could say that was still pleasant.
"PAPI! Papi! Papi!" Rico rushed over to him with worry in his eyes and tugged at his sleeve with an urgency España hadn't seen from him since the 1600s.
"Pa-"
He cupped the boy's face. "¿Qué pasa? Dime, mijo."
"He left his hat!" Rico blurted. "And he ran that way with a raft."
He gently took the suede cowboy hat from Rico's shaking hands. It had fallen off during the fight but…
Antonio frowned. Tejas hadn't reclaimed it in the time since?
Odd.
And he left with a raft?
Odder still.
He could not pretend to understand his young son's thought process sometimes. Maybe he needed fishing to help him...relax?
He put an arm around Rico to comfort him.
It was hard being a father of so many.
It was a challenge of knowing when to hold on and when to let go. And don't get him started on how hard it was keeping track of who liked what and who didn't like it anymore and then who didn't before but now they do and 'Papi, why didn't you know?!' And then who was supposedly his "favorito" at any given time!
¡Dios mío! That one always drove him loco.
He stared down at the hat. Tejas was grown enough to choose his adventures.
But…
He thought of wood and foam gravestones depicting all the times his son had chosen wrong, had placed his faith in, or perhaps stuck his courage on precarious foundations.
There was a forced cheerfulness in those rhyming inscriptions; one he knew too well.
It had hurt to recognize it.
Rico pulled him in the direction of their wayward relative. "Papi, something is up."
España sighed.
Rico got more nervous.
España tried to smile for his son's sake and grimaced.
He'd tried to be cheerful when Rome came and claimed himself and Portugal as slaves for his empire.
He had smiled because he didn't want their mother's last memories of him to be of his anguish. Dios, the terror he felt in being dragged from their home—being too small and young and weak to do anything about it.
His brother had smiled as well, for her, as the soldiers marched them away. He endured. Portus Cale was good at that.
Maybe it was because Tonito was a crier from the start that Antonio had been confused with how to handle him. Tejas never understood how terrible tears were. How unnecessary his had been because España would always provide for him to the best of his abilities. He'd made Azura promise to care for her hermanito as she ascended to power.
That land was Tejas's. She could not hurt him. Antonio still had allies there, they would tell him and he would return. She had to have him clothed, fed, educated, and raised as a gentleman. A gentleman because Antonio wouldn't forgive her if she put him in the military.
No, his Tejas could be a diplomat and then España could see him regularly again.
O his little Tejas. He never understood how his timidity, his helplessness, haunted his fatherland and made him nervous for him. And he cried too damn much. Not out of frustration, the way Lovi did. But something more desperate. It always put Antonio on edge.
If España was scary in his strength, Tejas was terrifying in his delicacy.
He hated it when he cried.
His hijo didn't ever need to cry to get his attention or sympathy the way that—that—
It was hard to dismiss the sound of crying from doorsteps—a chorus of scratchy, raspy mewls like kittens.
He loved babies with their soft, chubby skin and their big dark eyes. It was instinct to make funny faces and coo and pet their wrinkly wrists with his small but sturdy, careful fingers.
His brother always told him not to do it. Not to remember them.
The smart one. His hermano. Very practical.
A pity that he seldom listened.
It took Rome accompanying him at dusk to learn what his brother knew.
He'd been taken by complete surprise that the Empire in all his lordly state would follow him in from the fields.
He'd felt strangely honored that someone so powerful should visit with him. When he said as much, Rome mentioned that guards Hispania knew and joked with spoke of him often. They liked his courage. His willingness to kill snakes and other pests.
Thought he'd make a fine soldier for the legion someday.
Rome said that was what he was there to determine.
The Empire was a funny man. He knew many jokes and told them and laughed with his listener as they laughed.
Probably for the sound.
Because he didn't like being as alone as he was and the sound of voices mingling in mirth was good.
España was too young then to understand that. But he'd known the man was odd.
The two of them strolling through narrow, rancid-smelling slums so close together amused the younger. There was some degree of relation between them. The shade of hair? Maybe? Not the texture. Or maybe it was the skin?
Young España was very tan from all the sunshine and his duties out of doors. He came to know it as a distinction of slavery.
It pleased him to find Rome equally tan from all his battles.
But while he knew their stations were far apart, he didn't comprehend the ceremony he was meant to uphold; that a slave was meant to attend his lord when they were in his presence. That Rome was supposed to be treated like the Sun of his sky.
He hadn't given a thought about abandoning Rome and rushing over to where an infant lay whimpering.
Rome leaned against the crude concrete of the insula. "Why do you come over, Hispania? You have nothing to offer him? Her?"
Hispania looked up, confused. Even then, he'd thought the leaving out of babes was some kind of ritual. Fresh air for their health or for a god or goddesses' blessing? Maybe Matribus Gallaicis or Juno or whoever ruled over this spot?
"You cannot adopt. And even if you could, it would interfere with your duties to me and they're too young to help. They'd only be a burden."
He stared.
Rome looked annoyed that he had to explain it all for him.
But it was better that it was him.
And he understood why his hermano wouldn't do it.
Because the telling couldn't be taken back.
Couldn't be forgiven.
Rome continued and España learned it was the patriarch who decided their fate…chose who got to be in the family and who was left to…
The supposed "lucky" ones went on to be adopted into households, usually as slaves.
The rest…
The rest were left…
All households?
All were like this? In this "great" empire?
At the head of each house, every patriarch made decisions such as these?
He asked even when he knew the answer already.
"Even you, mea imperator?"
It was too bold to think, but he went and he said it. And later when he'd tell his brother about it, Afonso would remark that he was an impressive kind of stupid; "a glorious idiota."
"It is hard to be the Patriarch," Rome returned evenly, not breaking eye contact.
Even of his own flesh…he'd select from among his heirs and let the rest...
"-smile," Rome ordered. "You should smile, Hispania. Go on, now. It pleases me and it makes you look friendly when you do. Smile for me? Be friendly?"
"…we're not friends."
It was the greatest satisfaction to know that a personification as young and lowly as him…could make an Empire flinch.
España let out a weary sigh and searched the woods for a sign of his child. The trees were lessening and the sound of water grew. "¿Dónde estás mi hijo?" he softly questioned.
"-look, I'm sorry things had to go down that way, Al. I am. But if he was stupid enough to cross both of us in one day...it must be a full moon or something. We'll send 'em all fruit baskets, kay? Now, get to gettin' and quick so we won't have to Houdini this."
There he was, hatless and restless. "Text Hawaii, Al, maybe she can give us a screenshot of it."
They were startled as España and Puerto Rico ambled out from the wilderness.
Tejas gaped at them for a full minute before announcing belligerently, "We...are going rafting! R-right now. Don't try and stop us cuz it's happening. We...uh...we need this."
It was almost funny.
So many years spent being unsettled by how easily the child was cowed by his father and siblings. España always had to step in and come to his rescue. Then when his son was annexed and vanished from the World Stage, Antonio grieved and lamented and blamed it on Tejas's lack of nerve…
Certain that if he'd had more of it, he'd have been able to resist America.
The joke was on Antonio. His child had plenty.
And it would present itself now when he had no patience or good humor for it.
Tejas drew himself up to his full height; he was taller than his father and he wanted it acknowledged.
Antonio could almost hear Turquía mocking him over his height.
And then his hijo had the audacity to try and look down on him, like being tall made him less of a child.
"You can tell the others-"
Antonio ignored him and helped Rico get into the raft with Alfred and then began launching it into the water. He was surprised to see Reilley appear on the other side of the raft.
When had he shown up?
Tejas clumsily splashed through the water to keep up.
Tonto.
España had centuries of practice with such things.
He moved into the vessel easily, as did the irlandés, and he reached a hand to pull his errant child in.
Tejas blinked up at him and watched him as he took a seat beside Rico. "We…uh-Al?"
"You are rafting," Antonio stated. "That is fine. We are rafting too."
"…m-muy bien..." Tejas mumbled without enthusiasm.
Rico sighed and Antonio felt a little guilty for dragging his elder son into this. He should've given him the option of sitting this out.
It was only going to get more uncomfortable, but the sooner it was out, the sooner preparations could be made. Antonio was a man of action. He couldn't put things off.
And the water seemed pretty treacherous here right from the start. He needed to straighten his household and then see about finding a safe place for them to dock.
A hard splash soaked his sleeve. He had to get to it and quick.
"So, are we talking now? Who do I talk to? You or you? Hm?" He looked from America to Tejas. "It doesn't matter who as long as I am hearing answers. I know Tejas can be shy. I know America can be pushy. I know you both can switch like-like that chess move. Inglaterra was always good with that. The knight and the king or something. Right? So?"
"This really isn't the best time for this," Toni muttered. "Raincheck, Papi."
"Who am I talking to about this?"
"…"
"…"
"Okay, let us start. Who's idea to raft?" he demanded.
"…"
"S'kinduva a joint decision."
"You both wanted to raft in the dark?"
"This early in the morning?" Reilley raised a bushy eyebrow. "Hit and run? Yeh perform a nasty game of operation on Artie and-"
"What is this?" Antonio asked.
Reilley shook his head. "Ya know what? Let them answer first and then we'll fill you in after won't we, boys?"
"E-eyeah?" Tejas blurted. "K-kay. At the end. Got it."
España rolled his eyes. "Okey, I will pretend I believe you. Who actually wants to stay? Even though there are scary interlopers in the woods who are witches? Witches in the biblical, powerful, scary sense-"
"Mutual," Tejas supplied. "It's mutual, we ain't about to get pushed around by, uh, um-witchy people."
"Who is angry with me? And who is angry at Inglaterra?"
Both looked at each other and then him.
Antonio stared. "Is it both? It can be both. But it makes me worry. You share one brain?"
Tex glowered at him and insolently answered through his teeth in the nastiest tone he could manage: "Sí, Senor."
"He's gonna tan your hide," Rico stated knowingly as he struggled with his paddle.
Alfred shook his head gravely and looked at the swiftly passing landscape.
"Really? You two want to stay in this dangerous place? THIS is relaxing?"
"We're adventurers," Tejas stated. "We adventure. It's a lifestyle."
"I don't believe that. He is white as a sheet. And you're jumpy like a jackrabbit. That's not how I did my exploring. That's not how your father did his, Alfredo. We explored with confidence, preparation, and fascination. If we were made weary it was by the end because of what we'd faced, not at the beginning of an expedition…and we always welcomed more travelers with us to wherever we were heading. Why are you here? Why is this secret? What don't I know that I need to? And-"
"We need time alone. Without you. Or him." Tejas pointed to Rico. "To…get over all our uh, disappointments with…you guys."
"So I am a disappointment," España stated.
"Boot's on the other foot now, huh, cowboy!?" his child spat at him.
He frowned. "You were not a disappointment to me."
A challenge to be sure. And a constant source of worry. But not-
"Like Hell, I wasn't. You were always naggin' me. I never measured up. You always spent time with me last cuz you couldn't stand me."
It hurt because it was held up like truth.
"When I came over, I did always spend time with you last," he agreed.
Tejas nodded triumphantly.
"Because you were better behaved. You weren't as spirited as your brothers, I didn't need all my energy with you. I could say something, Mejico could say something, you would listen. I didn't have to chase you down. By the time I made it to your house…I was usually tired. Worn out. You were good at playing by yourself; you had the imagination for it. You didn't need Papi to entertain you, so I brought you toys. And I made time to rest. Then I'd take you for a ride into the Mercado for new clothes and boots. You minded me. Heeded most of my rules. At least the most important ones…I could do that with you. They were…were supposed to be treats. I was no fun. No good. I see that now. Sorry."
"…"
"What? I am agreeing with you. I wish you'd had a better childhood too! What? I do. I wish I could've given it to you. I do. If I could change it, I would. You'd have had the best of everything and the best of me. All of you. All of my niños. But I can't change it. I can't. Yo le pido disculpas a usted."
Puerto Rico swallowed thickly.
Antonio held in a sigh. Failure was hard on a father; it weakened one at the knees. Cut him off at his clay feet.
The rest of his children, give or take a few (Mejico and Peru were special cases), had always been surprisingly forgiving. Naturally, they did not condone all he and his people had done (how could they?) but there was still mercy in their criticisms.
It just seemed so monstrously unfair that his sweet butterfly catcher could have such a cruel iron grip on his heart now.
It would figure that Tejas, the one who was always different and difficult and dangerously the same where it mattered, would be the one that held him to the fire.
Were those the same mistrusting eyes that Rome had seen?
"I can only do things now. It is hard. Any object, any item, any thing that I can give you…you don't need anymore. The way you talk, you worry about money but you have plenty. You don't need anything. All I have is me, my time…me…you do not need me. I think you make it clear that you do not want me either. Tell me this. Tell me this now. And I will not bother you anymore." He set the cowboy hat on his son's head and didn't let his hands linger though they longed to.
To lose this child again…
He returned to his spot and sat down heavily.
Wary brown eyes watched him the way they always did when he hovered at the edges of rooms like he was something fundamentally treacherous.
Antonio nodded to himself slowly.
He would need to accept that his heart would never be whole.
He had to stop reaching for this piece, no matter how precious it was.
"…"
Because if all he could ever do was cause his little one harm…
He sucked in a painful breath. "Tejas. Te amo. I want you to be happy. If you are only happy while I am away, I will never bother you again."
It was a silence worse than death, more like damnation, and he couldn't bring himself to care about the rapids or man his oar as he should've.
But then he heard his son offer a very soft equally miserable: "Yeah...I'm sorry too."
And just as his heart lifted...their raft capsized.
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