When Alfred finally starts to travel between different places in reality, he likes his own future the best. It's one that seems unbelievable-he and Ivan sitting side by side on the bridge of their own spaceship. One of many.
Future him seems so relaxed, so calmly confident. That Alfred doesn't seem like he still has a hard time eating breakfast sometimes, because it used to be handmade for him, by someone who cared.
The time he spends outside his own earth takes forever to pass, but only second pass at home. So yes, Alfred has bunked with 'himself'.
It's hard to go from be babied to being alone, and the servants weren't the same. His own people are naturally good to him, but the French and English servants knew that he was a 'little child' in a way, and treated him that way.
Now he needs an automated coffee pot with a million [very cool and necessary!] buttons.
Future Ivan seems happy, joking and openly loving in a way the real one isn't. Alfred never knew how pinched and hesitant and wary he was until he saw another version of him. He always kind of thought they'd end up together somehow, even as inappropriately intimate friends.
Of course, he can't say anything. Ivan can't make himself more affectionate in public, or more vocal. It's Alfred that always casually uses words like 'love you', 'big guy', and 'I miss you already' in one sentence.
Ivan often looks unable to settle on embarrassed or uncomfortable with his ease at talking about their 'thing'. How can you have love without communication? he thinks. Is it even a relationship then?
Alfred is too young to think about why some people turn to non-verbal cues and what that means.
He doesn't know that Ivan can sense his reticence and is sure it means he's just not worth being loved any more than he gets-that he should be lucky to be a momentary amusement.
Admittedly, Ivan never actually hints at this at all, but it doesn't help his not very latent gloom and cynicism, both of which push Alfred away. And all the while, he's torn between watching an epic space partnership in a time that's not his and his own guy. His own life.
Alfred wonders if he should reconsider what he's doing... right up until he winds up on the bridge and turns to see a girl version of himself, and of Ivan.
He decides he can put things off for a while.
.
It's very difficult to figure out how old Alfred actually is. Sometimes even Ivan isn't sure if he's watching cartoons ironically-for for real. Of course, it's not like he can ask Francis or Arthur those types of things.
And if he did ask, what if he got the answer he's dreading? Alfred should be at home with a nanny, despite his height. Just because he looks big and tall doesn't mean he can handle adult life.
Arthur and Francis always worry about that, and try to pretend otherwise in public. They scorn Alfred's nonsense about being a hero-precisely because he was a little kid charging into a war plane [in a Canadian uniform, for security purposes: they always make him wear one during truly dangerous times] just to go see his 'friends'. His parents.
He was so proud to have done something personally, and Arthur can only hope the other nation people don't grasp how relatively innocent and naive the boy is. He's had barely any life experience, everything is still practically new to him.
Who else but a child could be thrilled his people turned reliable black coffee into insane desserts?
Arthur has heard the others speak of them, implying he is angry about the Revolution and that Alfred had a row with him then, personally. That all that still matters. It didn't even matter at the time-Alfred was so young that he still had night terrors, nannies and had to be endlessly consoled that just because his country was going to war, he was safe. That Arthur would never leave him.
It was a rough time. Alfred was often extremely emotional, afraid of being abandoned by the person closest to him. Arthur had been both mother and father to him, and Francis was like a distant type of uncle that had almost 'father-like' status. He was more distant and sarcastic with Alfred, who didn't get it.
Arthur was the one who stroked his brow with cool cloths as he woke up shrieking. He was his world in a big way. No politics could change that, even though Alfred thought his Revolution was cool. He often had to go up to Canada to meet with Arthur safely during those times.
Arthur may be brusque and trade barbs with Francis, it's their thing, but never with his little boy.
He only spoke of the political changes and the war as neutrally as possible to Alfred. And when it finally ended for good, in 1812, he was relieved. It was finally over.
Arthur can only hope the other nations keep up their tabloid ideas-if they knew that the four of them celebrate together in July in Toronto first, and then in New York on the 4th, they wouldn't believe it. That's the thing about children: you want them to have everything. You don't mind if it negatively affects anything else. Their relationship is so much more than mere romantic love.
It's beyond mortal labels. They don't take their clothes off, but they've been off before. And they still live together, sometimes. Just like the old days. Arthur still has servants ready when he's there.
It's just more comfortable that way, to recreate how it's always been. He doesn't want anything to change, and he can tell Alfred doesn't either.
Alfred still often seeks his reassurance on many issues, and recharges in his quiet sitting rooms, his crisp, glorious gardens and his meticulously laid out attic, where only the best of the best is kept. Including American things.
.
There is definitely a seamlessness with which Arthur and Francis created a family for themselves.
When Alfred hasn't seen his favorite [and only] garden obsessed old man he springs out of the plane, one he usually pilots himself, and runs to envelop him in hugs.
He still feels small when his arms are around him. Alfred unconsciously cranes his neck down so that he can lay his head down on Arthur's shoulder for a moment. Arthur always smells the same, somehow. It's the most comforting thing in the world. While Francis changes, always talking about what's new in the world of high culture, Arthur never does. Not even in little ways.
Antonio doesn't know how they do it, they seem like such a unit, with such a strong bond. He's always surprised anew when Lovi breezes by, staying for indeterminate amounts of time and then leaving randomly. Lovi is the one thing, the one person, he'd never been able to control. And he'd never wanted to.
He was the one crack in his intense focus, in the past. The little bit of unique eccentricity in him, to feel so drawn to such a young boy. And then suddenly, he was old. Lovi was there, and apparently available, the way women shoved other women out of the way to get closer to him.
No one did that for Antonio. It's like people were somehow drawn to his distant air, his disinterest.
How strange, he thinks, not realizing that he too has been drawn into that undertow himself.
How do the others play happy families like they do? he wonders. He wants to feel that with Lovi, but then he still doesn't understand him. He never will. Lovi has done things for him no one would–taken care of him personally when he was injured, unconscious. For weeks, sometimes.
When he's unable to sleep from the dreams, which is a lot [forcing him to sleep more during the day to catch up], Lovi calls him, a weird coincidence. That happens all the time.
How Lovi knows to call, he's never figured out. But he talks to him until he's suddenly out like a light. He often thinks of how he wants Lovi to be more demonstrative, but when he is, it's hard to take.
When things were bad around him, and he felt hopeless, Antonio took his mind of it by writing long, wild letters of his feelings and sent them over to Naples, where Lovi usually stayed.
And Lovi would write back him, passionate and clear.
He would write things that Antonio had to read twice, then twelve times. He would promise to always 'hear him', that he didn't need to miss him since he was 'always with me, I watch you… you know my feeling for you'. He would say, 'you are safe. I will come for you if you're hurt again', 'I'm watching you'.
In those long days of worry, he didn't stop to think how nuts it all sounded, because he was desperate. He would have begged him to love him back. And it turned out he didn't have to, as the letters also said 'I would never bother with you if I didn't love you. You know that, it's self-evident. Stay in your house for once, bastard, because you know you're safe there, don't go off into battles'.
Which was actually true, weirdly. His house out in the country had always been almost statistically unlikely-ish 'safe'. Nothing had ever happened there, not even a cup dropped by accident. That was due to the combination of Etruscan and ancient Christian blessed items sealed into the walls of the building, but Lovi felt like it wasn't really Antonio's business anyway. They were Italian items, after all.
All Antonio knows is that Lovi always brings positivity with him. His love, good fortune, almost luck. Everything is better when he's there. That's what love feels like, he thinks.
Lovi is still worried his mystical work has unconsciously affected him. If he's gently, unintentionally bent his free will a little bit, then he can't take advantage of it. It would be wrong. But at the same time, he won't stop watching him from bodies of still water, from far away. He can't decide what to do, be with him concretely or stop altogether? It's a pickle.
.
While Spain is okay with written love from Lovi, he can't take it in real life. Romano learned the hard way.
You'd think he'd be thrilled, touched, excited. But no. Antonio doesn't act like he's finally gotten what he wants, like he hasn't always been trying to wheedle these types of words out of his young lover.
Instead he acts totally unpredictably.
If he says even something as innocuous as 'you are most important person in my life', Antonio seems to freeze and get a little panicked–looking like he said something cruel [?! wtf]. It's beyond weird.
Lovi does not know how to fix it: as soon as he says something, the moment is ruined and Antonio says 'No, your brother is the greatest priority you have, everyone else is a foreigner'.
Lovi refrains from pointing out that he, the guy undressed, underneath him, is also a 'foreigner'. It's a struggle.
But this is a real thing with Antonio. Lovi doesn't know how to approach it, and he cannot ask about it if these simple words are unacceptable already.
He thinks it must be a kind of insistence on his own political freedom [in terms of his nation], that Antonio doesn't want him to feel like he's 'weak' for 'submitting' to being in a relationship with him.
While he's seen Antonio get it on roughly with others [ not through spying through more mystical avenues or anything… ahem]–he is much too gentle with Lovi. He's forced to take it upon himself to just ravage him with love. Lovi can't stand back and wait for Antonio's out of place gentleness to manifest itself. Ugh.
But when the going gets fast, he does get going. There's that at least, Romano thinks.
The real problem is that Antonio has problems with himself. Lovi is much more confident and at peace with his own everything [personality, decisions, actions, past] than Antonio. He hasn't even figured out his dreams are part and parcel to how unexamined his life has been.
His awake mind might list along pretty much okay, half the time, but his unconscious knows what's up. Antonio is very unhappy with himself, and tries to block it out.
It isn't working.
.
None of them warn Ivan off Alfred, but neither do they speak with him. Francis will, but he speaks only of art and culture.
That doesn't mean he doesn't see the looks. All three of Alfred's little family watch him, silently. Neutrally. He sometimes wonders if the neutrality is a strain, and laughs to himself silently.
Of course it is.
They must worry about their little one being tainted, he thinks morosely, drinking at home. Out in the countryside, there's nothing more relaxing than end of the night drinking. In truth, he wouldn't be able to bear it, to see his sweet little dear be somehow less pure than he is. Less happy.
Less good.
And yet, he isn't willing to give Alfred up. What a light, a joy, an exhausting whirlwind he is. He wants him. Don't all flowers want the sun? There's nothing wrong with that.
Ivan has never asked Alfred's group anything, much less about the boy himself, but his sister in Belarus mentions him. She is the only one-not even older sister will speak of Alfred. She talks 'around' his name, never discussing him.
But when the other one calls him from Belarus once a week, sometimes three times when she's feeling unhappy, she asks him when Alfred's coming by-and suggests what he should see in Russia. It's very weird for Ivan.
But it's also very touching. She is very supportive of Alfred visiting him, and caring for him. He once hinted at questioning why she approved of the American, and she outright answered him. "He treats you the way you should be. I like it."
He's so overcome at the idea of someone approving of both the relationship and the fact he could be appropriate for Alfred [something he wonders about all the time himself] he fails to focus on how she knows that-?! If he stopped to think about it, he'd get upset she watches him. And apparently them?!
It means something, touches him, even if they're aren't a 'real' family the way Alfred's is. Most of the nation people don't bother to talk to Ivan, assuming he's as harsh as his past. It kind of hurts his feelings, to be honest, but he'd never give those superficial foreigners the satisfaction.
Alfred has never treated him like that. And yet, he is waiting for the day when Arthur tries to put a stop to it all, and Francis also puts his foot down. How could he possibly compare to family?
He doesn't. He wouldn't want Alfred to even have to do it to him. Dumping him. He would spare him by leaving first.
Alfred doesn't ask insensitive questions about his past, but sometimes Ivan wishes he'd live up to the stereotypes. He's actually very sincere and respectful-but Ivan wants an excuse to let it out a little, to talk about how ancient hurts still feel real. And recent.
And how painful many things still are to him. Some are weird, some obvious, some unexpectedly triggering him into long stretches of dark moods and wet eyes.
He wants an excuse to cry on someone's shoulder and be comforted, but Alfred hasn't given him one yet. He almost wants Alfred to pushily demand he take the scarf off-he leaves it on in bed, even though the lights are off. Their type heals fast, but endless torture can leave marks. The stretches of his body that is marked up is truly disturbing looking.
If Alfred thinks his little silly horror films are upsetting, he'd pass out straightaway at seeing his body in the light. Much less his neck, which is Deadpool level ugly. He doubts Alfred's ever even seen such things-outside of comic books.
He doesn't want to introduce reality to him any more than his mere presence does. Ivan doesn't like being someone people talk about, instead of to.
What did he do to deserve this life? he thinks, tearing up a little. He's just one person, with no control over anything. Most of history featured him hiding out in his countryside as terrible shit went down everywhere.
He asks Alfred that exact question half an hour later when he is so drunk, he doesn't remember he called the next morning.
.
Arthur is very particular about Alfred. Everything for the boy must be just so. Even when he's older, during Vietnam. He's always sent him elaborate presents, and he still does, every holiday.
Oddly, it's Francis who tends to be most strict with him. He's the one who demands Arthur do something about how Alfred speaks to 'that Russian'.
But Arthur doesn't. The more you forbid something, the more you want it. He wants Alfred to be totally exposed to what foreigners are like-because they all have bad sides. And they show them constantly. Ivan drinks like a fish, something the boy abhors. Even now, he hates to see Arthur drink at all.
Ivan is also too hopeless. Alfred can barely tolerate Arthur's level of static, hating change and stuck in the past-ness-Ivan's leagues beyond, seriously. And he hates how Francis swoons of nihilist nonsense, which of course Ivan takes seriously.
He's a real downer, as they say. Arthur wants Alfred to see it all up close and personal. There's no way Ivan can keep it together most of the time, he always seems so emotionally scarred and like a ptsd afflicted veteran that it's inevitable for him to shock Alfred.
And when he does lose it, probably emotionally [and creepily], Alfred is going to freak and run for it.
Arthur cannot wait for the day he hightails it across Europe and into his spring garden [one of the best seasons, though summer would also be acceptable, really] and bursts out with it, regaling him with wild stories.
It's only a matter of time. Until then, his child can do what he pleases. He will learn on his own that foreigners who are old are often the most terrifying. He should know.
He's still afraid of Francis deciding to 'share his feelings' verbally when they're together. It's a real fear.
They live forever-you can't tell someone they're your whole world, and you love only them, and their life has no purpose without you. It's ridiculous.
And impossible to live with. To know. They all need autonomy, to learn to live alone and get along fine by themselves. It's important. You can't make yourself weak and depend on someone who will ultimately fail you.
You have to stand on your own, at the heart of things.
.
Alfred didn't know what he was getting into when he met Ivan. He didn't expect to be so drawn in, care so much. But he does.
Ivan is lot like Francis, with a dash of rugged Arthur-like survival-ness. He's very deep, all 'hmms' and books of poetry... that sound strange when he translates them.
Alfred can of course already understand it all, he has every language in his country, in his every city, almost. And he likes them all, all so different and strange. He used to insist that others speak English only to him out of a worry that he wouldn't totally grasp their words, like how Francis and Arthur are hard to understand when they speak to each other.
[It's like they have a special language for each other.]
But of course, other people didn't understand why Alfred didn't want to use their words-to him, their words have no emotional feeling, but to them, they do. Ivan can get quietly upset just at hearing [random, mortal] people talk about things that remind him of the past.
It's the phrases they use, sometimes, the words, not always just the topic. When the rest of the world sneered at his English-first position, Alfred decided to keep the real reason to himself. And so, he does not use Russian with Ivan. Besides, when he calls up drunk and forgets to use English, Alfred's got a built-in alibi for not 'remembering' what he said.
It's never what he'd like him to say, though. It's never about him, or if he cares about him. Alfred always hopes the next call will be different. It never is.
At his house though, things are different. Ivan has a looooot of French stuff. Sometimes it gives him a weird feeling of deja vu, because no, he's not in Paris right now. Ivan is very peaceable during the day, but at night things get bad.
If he sleeps, he wakes up-but seems to be almost unable to realize he's awake. Alfred tries to talk to him, but he turns his head away and won't answer. He's never mentioned it in the morning, so
Alfred assumes he doesn't remember it.
If he doesn't sleep, he opens lots of windows during inappropriate weather [it's literally below zero! wtf?!], and weirdly pets his hair and talks to him when he thinks he's asleep. Newsflash: Alfred has been faking sleep since he realized he could sneak extra English biscuits if he did. All Ivan says is 'Alfred' and 'my dear'.
It snows into the room. It's pretty crazy. Alfred's kept mum, but feels like he definitely deserves his endless alcohol stash.
He never asks Alfred to drink, though. He doesn't know why, it could be the usual 'you're a kid', or something else. He always makes him hot chocolate instead... which is the shit, literally, so it's worth it.
.
Alfred has known real fear. As a boy, he saw true evil and true good. He has visited the far reaches of the world with Arthur.
And where he wouldn't go, with Francis on the sly. He has seen the ancient citadel of Mr. Roderich by Jerusalem, the underground caves of ice in Tino's land. He's taken the grand tour of the earth.
Arthur always told him, I have the sea.
And he would say, I will have the sky, then.
As a boy, he imagined that if he could somehow climb up into the sky, fly, he would be safe from the terrors on the earth. He has seen what things steal the youth from tiny babes and shred them.
He has been afraid.
Sometimes, in his dreams, he sees the spirits of that undying death that linger in the dark edges of his own America. He jolts awake, and is reluctant to go to sleep most days. But Alfred never talks about it-Arthur knows, of course.
Alfred tries to resist calling him every time; he's getting better at it. He can calm himself down much better now. He's so afraid of the dark that it's a true phobia sometimes.
He doesn't want to need Arthur so much, but he does. Sometimes he just visits on a whim, just to smell that tea, see the random sewing projects, frown at Torchwood and laze around in the gardens after tea time. [Arthur thankfully has an old lady as a cook, and her scones are to die for.]
The servants mill silently about, and Arthur flits around, doing his thing. Alfred never feels lonely, even if he's hanging out alone there at any given time.
As to knowing about his sleep problems, Francis kind of knows, he suspects it. And so does Ivan.
Alfred likes to visit him especially because he doesn't sense dark things with the same intensity when in Russia. It's all a blank white, snowy winter wonderland. Like an old Slavic story with bright colored clothes and snowy forests.
How can anything be scary in a sparkling land of reindeer and candy colored church domes?
Ivan tries to get him to speak of what troubles him, but Alfred says nothing, only stands in the bathroom over the toilet. Ivan doesn't know he's stashed an emergency bible in his bathroom. [He cut out one of the wood panels in the floor, in the north corner and stashed it in there, in a protective plastic casing.]
A bible from 1623.
.
Ivan loves how obsessed Alfred is with his birthday-but most don't know it's really the day when Raleigh arrived on Roanoke Island [off North Carolina], in 1584, on July 4th. It's coincidence that the later July 4th lined up.
Arthur always insisted on a special observance and celebration on that day-because it was the day that brought them to meet each other. Of course, it really was the fact that Alfred kind of stalked Arthur, from a distance. He eventually noticed.
Alfred remembers his whole childhood, in great detail. Let's just say it was obvious that Arthur had never taken care of anybody else before. He did not care for the Puritans, he was not an extremist, but Alfred did.
What he really did, because no nation person needs anything, really, as per their immortality or inhuman nature, was be his friend. He hung out with Alfred a lot. They did things Alfred liked to do [finding wildflowers, following bunnies around, jumping into creeks], and Arthur showed him his interests as well [ships, navigation, poetry, fashion].
They were best friends, and still are.
When Alfred has his birthday, Ivan just sends him a letter in the mail later. A few days after. He doesn't want to risk anyone seeing it. Ivan actually looked up 'what Americans do regarding birthday' and found that have a cake-and that someone else makes it!
In Russia, you celebrate right after the day [don't tempt bad luck by doing it before], and you make all the food and cakes yourself. He makes up a little box of packages of jam filled Tula gingerbread cakes, the fruit pastilas that Alfred always buys himself, and honeyed, deep fried dough chack-chaks.
Ivan himself prefers baked apples [as Russian apples are more sour than modern kinds] and vatrushka, flat cheese danish buns. He wraps up Alfred's present and waits for him to arrive.
His letter told him he better hurry up-the foxes might eat up his gift in the meantime. He always comes. He doesn't like Russian tea so much, though, so Ivan makes it British style for him.
.
Romano has always loved women. All types, all ages–even Northern Italians! He can make exceptions for the really incredible ones.
And sometimes other countries' girls as well, but not always. They're like a good afternoon, [nice food, great wine, interesting conversation] in human form. And they love him back. He only likes women who are passionate, so that they match his level of ferocity in the bedroom.
Antonio treats his random mortal lovers much more disposable-y. Romano buys them jewelry, lounges around with them, chats on random mornings over coffee, standing up at the bar. He openly tells them he adores them, he loves them–he lets them slap him, and laughs. And they laugh too. He's playful and fun and smiles.
Antonio has noticed all this, but he doesn't know what to make of it. Romano only brings food to his house, nothing more. And he rarely smiles.
Once, he trailed after Francis as he left a world meeting in New York with Arthur–and ended up in a secret, twenties style hidden speakeasy. And inside were dozens of people packed in dancing, and drinking, and there was Romano, sitting next Alfred.
A gorgeous Italian girl was on his lap, laughing with him as they both watched the table's impromptu card games, and Alfred sat beside him with a glass bottle of coca-cola.
It's like he has another life, another world, that Antonio doesn't get to see. It feels like the cruelest thing he's ever done to him, he reflects, and walks back outside into the cold air of the March streets.
.
It is a strange thing, Ivan thinks, that Alfred serves many people. He looks to his Arthur and then to Francis for what civilization is, what progress is-and to Romano for what morality is, torn between his excessive, baroque faith and his own Puritan roots.
They're definitely noticeable, Alfred won't even use vulgar language most of the time. Casual swearing, yes, but nothing crude. And never in [or even near] intimate moments. Ivan does not totally know what it would feel like to be that Puritan, but Alfred is still clearly half-feeling it.
The rest of the time he's a totally modern person, on the cutting edge of everything, obsessing about the future. Always looking to tomorrow, and tossing today's coat on the floor in an effort to concentrate on tomorrow's experiments. Ivan has never looked to anyone but himself. He has watched the people of his endless land in the far east's north rise and fall, and rise again. He has loved their folklore, their phrases, their little culinary ideas. He is fond of it all, really.
Does Alfred really have anything of his own? he thinks. He has seen him out and about sometimes, partying it up with his friends and at places other nation people frequent.
He has seen him even kiss Romano's hand-but not really. An odd gesture, since Alfred puts his own hand on top, and then touched his own lips to it. What's the point? Ivan wonders.
Sometimes Arthur and Francis's mastery of him bothers Ivan a little-how he jumps up and goes running when they beckon. He will carry their things, listen as they dictate, obey.
Ivan doesn't understand that servitude can be a subtle part of love, when you're used to an ancient system. And that both of the older men have done much more than just carry trinkets for Alfred. They have spent trillions on him over the years, just out of love.
They've dedicated years to teaching him all they know, and hiring tutors for things they don't. They are very invested in him, on an intense emotional level. He is their fresh start, the time they get to start over.
With Alfred, they get to be kind, a mentor, a parent, a brother. They get to set the scene just the way they want, with no past looming over them. Alfred is new to everything, and all is new to him. He doesn't assume anything about them.
And in that blank slate of his youth, they both find they can be the best versions of themselves. After they started it all with Alfred in the late 1500s, both Arthur and Francis turned a corner within themselves.
They turned from emotionless, idle chess masters to people tempered by feeling, inspired by the fragile beauty of the world.
They stopped being total dicks, Ivan reflects. They became their real selves, the part buried within. Ivan can't really resent their hold over Alfred, though, because he knows first hand how good they were [and are] to the boy.
How they love him. They hop on planes to get to him immediately if he's having problems or is in a fit of moody sadness.
Ivan's seen how they bring him little odds and ends just to surprise him, randomly. He has seen Alfred laying half on top of Arthur, bent over to approximate the way a child would, since he's too tall now for it. And how Arthur always praises him with funny backhanded compliments when he gives a speech at world meetings. He's not very good at doing it, but he tries his best. It's mostly odd ramblings with movie references.
.
Norge is a conundrum. Matthais loves him, but rarely understands him. He's always got a jam-packed schedule, everything from playing with dogs in pet daycare to working at the lego store to exploring the endless natural caves beneath the ground-there's even abandoned mines to explore. Matthais is Europe's number one urban explorer.
He even has a special instagram for the pics.
When he comes home from his adventures, often to the old house Norge, [that is, Erik] and him shared together in land outside of Copenhagen, he often finds Norge already living there. It's weird, to say the least. [There are boxes of coffee everywhere... and cans of soda pop from all over the world? Inexplicable, typical Norge.] .]
[Over the years, Norge has brought quite a lot of stuff into his house. One day he just showed up in the 1500s. Matthais hadn't even really mentioned the place before.]
Norge has a roundabout way of saying things. He will criticize Matthais' book collection, but by the time he's through, he'll suddenly realize what the real problem is. It's always an interpretive dance, an unpacking of symbolism and signs.
Norge gets especially omnipresent if anyone comments on his 'dislike' of Denmark. Matthais has never tried to have him 'move in' on purpose, he's never asked for sweet words, he's just enjoyed Norge when he's there.
The rest of the time, he enjoys everything their lands have to offer. He doesn't always truly get why Norge often enjoys reclining for days out in the wild hills, or contemplating a book for weeks. Matthais is a man of action. He will never guess at how insecure Norge actually is. It's all too clear that Den will never need him, he's always rushing from one activity to the next, from one battle to the next-from one street to the next.
Norge is always worried that if he doesn't keep showing up and getting in his face about the flaws of his stuff, his culture, his history, his culinary world and yes, his furniture [!], Matthais will simply float on, unperturbed.
And he'll be forgotten. He loves his magic, but not enough to withdraw from real, vibrant, mortal life completely. All Matthais seems to be sometimes is human.
He has tried to seek out Iceland as well, as a helpmeet and friend, but the boy has his own interests, his own life. All Norge has is Matthais. And the only way to get his attention is to barge in sniping.
If he really loved him, Norge thinks, wouldn't he try to tie him down? Try to be a 'couple' with rings, as the mortals do?
Norge snaps into a cold fury and leaves when he hears the other nation people joke about 'who is practically married'. It's almost mocking. The others seem to genuinely believe Norge cares nothing for the person closest to him, when it's really more the other way around.
Real love means wanting to stake a claim, to take possession, he thinks. A certain particular Dane hasn't bothered. Norge fears he never will.
.
Norge lives in a mystical, often other-worldly world. He walks with trolls, takes boat rides in the sea constantly and speaks to the draugen, the spirits of people who died at sea. Mortals would be killed unless they out-raced one, but Norge is no mere mortal.
He feels close to them; they are alone, wandering around their land, earth, nature. He sails on his lake Seljordsvatnet and speaks with the monstrous serpent Selma. He bribes the nisse gnomes by Denmark's house to look after him, and has them tell him all that has happened.
He lives a life of true sight, of looking beyond the physical. And yet, his dreams are mundane. Loving, sweet. And always him writing jeg elsker deg on Matthais' palm, and then a Danish ring being produced. And the question being asked. [It's a ridiculous thought, no one does that. They live forever, it's silly to even pretend they could. No nation ever has, as far as he knows.]
Sometimes the dreams feature the Dane declaring he loves going sailing aimlessly into dangerous waters and talking to terrifying, macabre spirits as they drift on one of his little boats.
Spoilers-Matthais hates that.
Norwegians have no world for 'sorry'. Apparently, it's easy to surmise from how the others see him. Why is his inner focus maligned? He has a resting bitch face, sure. But he has feelings just like anyone else. Does he not bleed?
He has overheard Tino talking about him-he neither cares for nor dislikes him. His magic is stranger, more esoteric than Norge's, and he wants nothing to do with it.
[+ finger writing idea from the classic, excellent Dennor fic In Our Sanctuary]
Francis is very fond of Ludwig. He's Prussia's little boy, after all. When he was young, Francis taught him French and about culture. God knows what he was learning from Roderich, who is more ethnocentric than anyone on earth.
So they meet still, once a month. To 'discuss things'. Mostly Ludwig just gets a chance to talk freely about whatever he wants, under the guise of Francis imparting some important high culture knowledge.
When they are alone, Ludwig really relaxes, and talks with startling openness. [When he was small, Gilbert told him he was always safe with his two friends.] He talks about his 'situation' with Feli, but it's mostly the fact that Feli is a very strange person, it turns out.
He can go from hot to cold in a New York minute, and rival Lovi in his impulsive walk out disappearances.
The only difference is that Feli keeps up a normal, cheerful façade, right up until you realize he's gone-and with all his stuff! And of course, Ludwig has no idea why, what's wrong, anything. Just as Feli is startlingly forward in love, so he is in anger.
He really puts Ludwig through the ringer, Francis reflects, listening once more to his recent adventures. Ludwig comes to him for advice, but really Francis just sits and drinks rosé in the summer sun. [He secretly allows Alfred to put ice cubes in it; the struggle is real. The struggle for dignity.] Mostly, there's no answer to Ludwig's questions.
It's just what you deal with when you find someone you care about more than their peccadilloes. It's not that Feli is a bad communicator, it's just that he doesn't convey anything at all. He's not interested in that.
To him, love [and life itself] is about symbolic moments, special silences, and grand little surprises. Firstly, Ludwig doesn't understand what that even means. Secondly, he doesn't value it.
They're bound for trouble, Francis reflects, half-listening to him drone on. Ludwig doesn't yet realize he's the one who loves more-like with Francis and Arthur. Francis is the one drawn back in, again and again.
He's seen something incredible [ie. Arthur] and wants it for himself. Once you find someone truly unique and worthwhile, who inspires you to be a better person, it changes you. Ludwig has found that in Feli, but Francis doubts it's worked the other way around.
Lovi is hanging out at Antonio's house more often than Ludwig gets to see his 'friend', [as he refers to Feli, never saying his name]. Francis would know, seeing how Antonio always texts the two of them 'busy' when he's there.
It's a lot.
[And Antonio seems to think it's nothing at all, a paltry amount of time! He'd have to move to Italy if he were in Ludwig's shoes.]