Arthur likes to express himself. His country is the greatest literary source for the world, he often consoles himself-when he's down or dejected about his hopes.
He hates hope in general. Most encounters with Francis, despite his careful plotting, planning research, [and pre-gaming, let's be real], end up with him feeling frustrated. It seems he never gets what he wants, Francis just never reacts the way he thinks he will.
He's staged many a thoroughly thought out day that turns upside down not once, but up to fourteen times. He wishes that was an understatement. Francis never seems to get what he means. With anything.
Romantic gestures are taken as formal snobbery [is he Roderich? How could Francis possibly take it that way?! God!]. Intimate intimations [he doesn't always go as far as to make concrete advances] are taken as evidence of how 'causal' his feelings are and how 'little' he cares about him-as if Arthur is
Vash.
Ugh. Just ugh.
The only thing that gives him hope is re-reading all the letters. When he was a boy, and didn't know any better, he wrote Francis thousands of letters.
Crude, anglo-saxon speech that eventually refined itself.
The thing is, he never stopped. And Francis wrote back, to his endless shock. He wrote things that helped give Arthur the confidence to do whatever he damn well pleased.
That helped him feel loved enough to look at the world with joy each morning. No matter what was happening in the world or with Francis personally, he could fall back on the letters. He could read them forever.
Not all of them survived, he could see them degrade before his eyes-so he copied them. It was tedious and abso-fucking-lutely worth it, as Alfred would say. They gave him the hope to... to something. The hope to hope at all.
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In letters, Francis tells him about everyday life, about what's going on with his friends, about what new cool French thing Alfred has to try.
Alfred does not look forward to it, but whatarya gonna do? He knows he's going to end up doing it anyway. The only thing Francis doesn't talk about is Arthur. Or Matthew.
Alfred talks about them in his letters, but Francis will not write their names, or comment about them. Alfred feels like there's a load of bricks ready to come down on them all on the day Francis decides to change his mind.
On that day, he'll know something's changed. He's not super looking forward to it, not cause he doesn't want Arthur or Francis happy or whatever, just cause then he won't be Arthur's number one buddy.
Even when their countries are at odds, Arthur always made time for him, always talked to him. He kind of almost doesn't want that to change. Even if it's for a good reason.
Cause then, who's going to be his number one friend?
What if he's just alone forever? And no one and nothing ever changes? It would just kill him inside. God it's depressing just thinking about it.
Arthur is the only person who's ever loved him enough to stick to him like glue.
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Francis always has a touch of the over-dramatic around him in real life, but in letters he's much more realistic, oddly. Arthur finds it strange.
His real life appears to consist of artfully lounging in different places, cooking uber-fancy, too heavy food in tiny portions, reading oppressively depressive poetry, and staring at passersby from cafe chairs while drinking his third bottle of wine that morning. Oh, and smoking.
At least, that's what Arthur's observed.
In the letters, he speaks frankly instead of in weird metaphors, is open instead of symbolic and seems much more faithful than his actual behavior implies. One time, a woman jumped over an escalator onto another just to get to him. Another time, a man shoved past someone [they went into traffic] because he wanted Francis to model his fashion line.
Arthur never sees how jealous Francis is, because he never looks at himself in the mirror-or in life. He's less self-reflective, his gaze is focused outward. Francis hates that Arthur always goes to the ballet in Paris, vaguely citing the Frenchman's love of his own arts as why they should always go.
Spoiler alert: Francis does not love going to endless ballets, for centuries... just to watch Arthur gaze lovingly at random French mortals. At least it's just the women-but sometimes that makes Francis more furious than if it were the men.
Sometimes Francis just wants to possess him entirely, and Arthur is the definition of free. Instead of European, he makes everything his own. His little mortals even pronounce French words in their own way-incorrectly! He speaks to spirits or faeries or something, he's in another world. A magical one. And Francis is not part of it. Arthur is always immersed in his interests, his hobbies, his country's new writers, his culture, his politics, and his Alfred.
Francis is a bit more laid back. But you can't dive into another person, sink your soul into playing with them for a weekend, if they're thinking about twenty other things. Francis knows he's just one of the thirteen interests Arthur's thinking about at any given time-and that's when they're in bed!
When they're out of it, the number goes up. Way up.
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Arthur is very happy that Alfred loves aliens [a feeling that is appropriately on the down low]. If they ever show up, everyone's going to want Alfred to do something. Rather obviously, no one else is prepared for that type of thing-even mentally. They will all look to him during that moment of
shock.
Francis always tells him to let the child have his dreams. Arthur would much rather teach him to expect reality instead. Both of them live in a silly fantasy;
Arthur's the only realistic one-and they dare to call him a pessimist!
He often hates that both the boy and Francis are his opposites. Arthur's a neutral on the ph scale, and those two are pure acid and base.
Francis uses his letters to be over the top in words, but holds back in real life. Alfred does the exact opposite. Both are weird to experience.
Why can't they be normal?
Of course, he can't look at himself from the outside. ...He's not exactly demonstrative, himself. Arthur thinks he's very loving, and very talkative. No one's ever really spelled it out for him [in a way that he understood, at least] that he comes across a little differently.
His letters to Francis end up being so focused on beauty, the cosmos and existence, it boggles the Frenchman's mind. Francis adds details like he ran out of yogurt.
Arthur details the way the sheen of mist after a night rain make a ruined abbey from the 1500s look like purgatory itself, and the flowers, [mostly a rainbow of pansies that look like multi-hued jewels], like the good intentions that they must cultivate to get out of that trapped land.
Sometimes Francis has to read it twice just to believe it.
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Francis finds Arthur to be impossibly masculine, all strength. He tries to never mock his little habits of embroidery or gardening excessively, but Arthur's defensive about it all.
That just makes him more of a 'real' man to him. Francis got really excited during the whole eruption of rock and punk and whatever you call it music from the UK, from the '50s on. He was sure Arthur would get into it, and invite him over-over his body.
But it's more than that. He could get sex anywhere, easily. So could Arthur. His innate nobility, his subtle charm, his rugged look of a wiry sea captain on an endless mission. He wants to lay his hand over his emotions, his little wishes, his quirky opinions.
That is the currency of love.
[Arthur never dressed other than his usual way when they spent time together, all those years. Francis always hoped he'd switch it up.
At the bottom of his id, in all his unconscious mind, he really wanted to be switched up in places, to be put first. To have Arthur need him desperately, to be a savior. An American-style movie hero. To have Arthur look at him like his hero.
He's only ever looked that way at Alfred as he walks away. Francis doesn't even comprehend how much he himself resents that. It's a mighty river of a storm of anger.]
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Francis longs for completion, a union of souls, while Arthur already feels completed. He can feel utterly connected to Francis even if he's alone with Alfred in New Orleans, looking up at the golden statue of Saint Joan riding forth.
Arthur enjoys the imperfections and randomness of their time together, in life that is what is perfect. Those people of Kiku weren't all wrong with that wabi-sabi stuff, he thinks. Nature is imperfect, as is the soul, as is time.
And the experience of love.
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Alfred always wants to fast forward to the future-everyone will be more stable, more happy, better, faster, and of course, he and Ivan will run the real life star trek exploration program together. Out in space, on the bridge, there will be no other immortals with them, no one to keep the lines drawn.
Those lines made of sand have already been swept aside into a jumble and hastily remade a few times already, not that either them has betrayed that fact to anyone. Like a multi-colored mandala, remade a thousand times.
Apart from the mortal historical nonsense, it's just the fact that Ivan's far too old, and Alfred too young. He's just a boy; infatuated with the ruins of desolate lands of ancient evil long since forgotten, that's what they used to say behind closed doors.
Arthur and Francis should have known that Alfred wants to know things even more if they're kept from him. Where's there's a will, there's a way. Maybe they're right somehow, he thinks, remembering the few experiences with uneasy dark places, shadows that never seem to wipe away in the light of day.
But even if it means regret, he feels himself drawn towards Ivan, who always seems so unlike his locale's reputation-so gentle in little movements, so quiet and almost awkward socially [like he thinks he's not good at socializing and is afraid to do it too much], the genuine joy on his face at the byplay of the stars.
The way he looks away so much. He's happy to stare at Alfred unseen, but in the same room he acts like they've just met. Or just moved in. Or just got engaged. All subdued nerves.
He never shares much, though. That's what keeps Alfred at arm's length. Alfred is too young to understand that he too reveals nothing of consequence; he was taught to keep his crazy, wild, almost existentialist thoughts [but what are they but fears disguised?] out in the open, and his real feelings close to his chest. Francis is a good teacher.
Ivan thinks he has the perfect conversation openers; he's read books, researched, scoured the web. It never works. They're both just barely connecting, like seeing someone by a single candlelight at night. How can he not even do this, Ivan thought, upset with himself.
How can he not even talk to a child? Is some part of him trying to make sure they stay a respectable, moral, distance apart? He doesn't know. But the drinking helps him feel better about it. And his contacts in the Russian part of New York City give him detailed reports on his 'special friend'.
Even the mortals give him pitying looks. They try to give him love advice.
... At this point he'd take it.
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Ivan never feels like Alfred is really himself when they're together. He's just so much more restrained, catching himself, lowering his volume, pausing, falling silent.
The guidebooks, [under travel in the library], tell him that these are not normal American characteristics.
He's seen Alfred with Kiku, how bubbly and youthful he acts. But not with him. He and Kiku openly mock each other, laughingly like school children. The better the joke, the more true it is.
He would never dare to joke about things like Alfred's weird thing with Arthur [who seems to have simply stolen him in youth and tried to make him [personally] as British as possible-isn't that child abduction?] or Alfred's age [technically he's like 4 compared to most of the rest of them. He should probably not be living on his own, given the amount of fire alarms he sets off by accident at conference hotels.]
Alfred always seems to be rebuffed somehow, pushed back by some unseen thread. What it mostly is is just Ivan's cynicism. Alfred's always seen what France says as wild, poetic nonsense, and England thinks it's not aristo to be defeatist.
Ivan, though, seems legit with his nihilism. When he unconsciously lets his attitude seep through, Alfred recoils. It's just unsettling to hear someone be so devoid of hopes, or dreams. Ivan never gets it across to him that he just wants some space, and some part of Alfred and his time.
But is that even right? Can you consent if you're too young? Maybe he should wait for him to get older... When he'll no longer be interested in some old friend he once knew. Alfred has this odd radiance to him, this healthy glow of loveliness.
Maybe he should just admire it from across the table, instead of wondering what it would be like across the bed.
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The more Ivan is reminded of it, the more Alfred's youth is a problem. The boy travels through the little history he's lived through at warp speed, adopting and discarding zillions of things. He has bits of every country in his-their people, their cultures, their customs, their food.
He has a million cuisines, not one. A million facets instead of one core. Every other nation is much more grounded in some past, some distinct thing. Alfred has nothing but change.
He is a fresh start, a new place for the old world to flood into, combining in weird, unknown ways.
And Ivan thinks, how could he slow down enough to be with one person anyway? His tastes constantly change. Wouldn't that short attention span also apply to him? To be tried and discarded, like trading Thai food last week for sushi this week?
Does he have to wait forever to even see if Alfred is not just ready, but willing to pick him?
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Arthur has realized over time that Francis hates to be the focus. It's a weird characteristic-you'd think his dramatic, metaphor-filled personality would love being the star, but no. He much prefers to talk about Arthur, to Arthur, all the time.
Francis does not like to talk about any of his own problems. The only way Arthur knows he's sunk into more of a funk than his usual is the lack of telephone calls. Thank god they both have stockpiled tons of money in every form throughout the ages, because they spend a ton of it on the line.
Francis calls him all the time, usually to bitch about something or other. From the color of the sunrise to the lack of street cleaners in Paris, to the scarf he wanted at the Hermes sale being grabbed by a snake-like sixty year old French aristocrat, he always has something to deride.
Arthur is a big fan of derision, it's kind of an underpinning of their friendship.
When Francis doesn't call, it takes Arthur a few days to realize it. It's been this way ever since the 1940s. Francis would probably rip off one of his arms and beat him to death if he came by his Paris flat and asked what was wrong [he's always there when glum, something about the city being always in black just agrees with his mood].
When he swings by Paris, Francis is snappy and moody and just wants to read tv and film scripts and mark them up angrily with red pens. He gets over it pretty quickly, what with the distraction of Arthur, who inevitably starts complaining about his own annoyances.
Francis loves to critique, judge and react to someone else's foibles. Just not his own. He never says anything to reveal what set him off in his black mood; Arthur strolls by on his way to this museum or that one-with the excuse of some British painter or other. Just being jostled wakes Francis up out of his funk.
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Alfred loves medicine, and all the factually incorrect medical dramas. He is literally the only person watching Grey's Anatomy at this point. While Arthur and Francis seems to vaguely do a little in some fields, sometimes
Alfred just needs the adrenaline rush of being an ER doctor. Of saving someone from certain death.
It makes him feel like he's done something that's worth it, that's equal to ancient heroics. And then the feeling fades, and he has to do it all over again. It's a great high.
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During the Cold War, Alfred is not at home. Arthur and Francis are nearly apoplectic at the Soviets and their nonsense, and they hysterically shuffle Alfred between their two country houses [in case any major city is hit in the potential conflict].
Alfred helps rebuild houses, barns and farms. Eventually Arthur decides he wants him to stay in London, and so he works there as well. He's always liked construction work. It's something with such a tangible effect. People are so grateful for their new houses or water lines.
He only ever sees Ivan once in a while, from a great distance away. He looks practically sick at having to be embroiled in all this at world meetings. The meetings are just a general thing, only truly continued with because Ludwig likes them.
Of course, Alfred shouldn't be at the meetings at all... thank goodness Arthur and Francis are way too suspicious to use mortals to keep tabs on Alfred. Mortals are too fragile and untrustworthy, they can be manipulated and infiltrated in mere moments].
So Alfred sneaks out. He never gets very far, because they come back pretty quick from the meetings. But he does get as far as meeting with Lovino at the border of Spain and France. [He never ever goes to meetings, seeing them as hilariously stupid].
Lovi assures him it will all blow over, oblivious to Antonio-who's lurking a street corner away, watching them.
Thankfully, it's not for current affairs, his own revolutionary problems, or politics. It's just because he's livid with jealously when Lovi deigns to talk to other nations, as he rarely does it. Alfred feels bad for him.
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