Author's Note: I've decided to keep going! Thank you all for the feedback! Please enjoy the chapter, and remember to follow my blog on Tumblr (Mandelene Fics) for other info regarding my stories.
Arthur sure is a strange fellow.
Alfred's been around for a few days to get the gist of his routine, and it goes something like this: at precisely seven o'clock in the morning, the man is up and about for a cup of tea. It must be piping hot, strong, highly caffeinated, and sweetened with a single teaspoon of sugar. Then, once he has regained some awareness, he attempts to make breakfast, and sometimes (about a third of the time), those attempts are successful. He'll leave a plate for Alfred on the table, and although breakfast is not always palatable, Alfred eats it because he knows he shouldn't be wasteful, and he appreciates the effort Arthur goes through on his behalf.
Alfred will usually be up in time to share breakfast with Arthur at the table, but he has been guilty of sleeping in more than once. Thankfully, Arthur doesn't complain when he does. He says something along the lines of "growing boys need their rest" and leaves it at that.
After breakfast, it's feeding time for Baron. Supposedly, the dog is on a "special diet" for his joints, which means Arthur must feed him a peculiar blend of biscuits made of compressed meat and greens. He breaks them down into small pieces to make chewing easier for the mutt's tired gums and teeth, and although the biscuits don't look appetizing in the least, Baron happily gobbles them up.
Then, Arthur goes to his office, which can be found upstairs—the last room on the left. While he's in there, Alfred busies himself with entertaining Baron or playing with the wooden soldiers Arthur bought him. Once in a while, his new caretaker asks him to water the plants in the garden, tidy up his room, or sweep the floors, but generally, Alfred is free to do whatever he likes as long as he promises not to make a racket.
All in all, Arthur is pleasant company to be around. He always makes sure Alfred is fed, intently listens to the boy ramble about this and that, and has even started teaching him the alphabet. He stays patient when Alfred doesn't always understand how to do things and doesn't mind repeating himself more than once.
That being said, there are bad things about his new parent as well. For starters, he is distant. He can spend hours in his office without so much as a peep, and the main reason he ever steps away from his desk in the first place is to make sure Alfred hasn't gotten himself into any trouble.
And because the man is often too lost in his own work to be interacting with Alfred, the boy easily finds mischief in everything. Yesterday, he was out playing in the rain when he shouldn't have been, and Arthur gave him a long scolding, followed by a hot bath.
Arthur can be really mean and scary when he's cross. He has a lot of rules, and Alfred doesn't understand why some of them are important in the first place. Why can't he walk outside without an adult? He used to do it all of the time back in New York, and New York was much bigger in size—colossal compared to the bucolic town. Why does he need to take baths every night? He doesn't stink. Why isn't he allowed to have sweets before bed? Eating is supposed to be good for you. Why does he always have to fix his collar and tuck in his shirt? It's uncomfortable.
There are also times when the man is called to go down to the firm, and Alfred is left all alone in the house. When the weather is fair, he gets to play by the garden, but with the colder months drawing near, the boy is beginning to spend more time inside than ever before.
So when Arthur announces he has some errands to run in town, Alfred jumps at the chance to go with him. Together, they pick up some groceries and visit the post office, and though it's far from the adventure Alfred was hoping it would be, it's still better than sitting around and watching Baron snore.
"How about a treat?" Arthur suggests, and Alfred is all ears once again. "We'll visit the Beilschmidts—they own a sweet shop just a little ways down the road."
When the display of lollipops, caramel chews, and other goodies come into view, Alfred can feel himself salivating, wishing he could try a bit of everything without making himself horribly sick. Arthur slips a dime into his palm and sends him off to inspect the shelves while he lights a cigarette and speaks with the storeowners.
"Ahh, this is the scamp you took in. Tiny thing, isn't he?" one of the men behind the counter remarks, blinking at Arthur. His hair is so light it looks silver in the gleaming sunshine coming through the windows. A newspaper is splayed out before him, and the pads of his fingers are covered with ink. "Earning his keep around the house yet?"
Arthur exhales a stream of smoke through barely parted lips and simply says, "He's faring well enough. Alfred, have you picked something yet? By the time you're done browsing, they'll have closed the shop."
Alfred offers the man a sheepish smile and rocks on the heels of his feet. "I can't decide."
"Well then, don't take too long, all right?"
A quick nod, and Alfred is back to admiring the assortment of candy. He wants to make sure he chooses something he'll like, but he hasn't had sweets in a very long time, so he isn't sure of what his tastes are anymore.
"Gilbert, get a mop and clean the floor. You've been standing around all day," another man from behind the counter chimes in. This one has stark, blond hair and a pointed jaw.
"Yes, Your Highness."
Arthur gives the silver-haired man, Gilbert, a mocking smirk. "Ludwig is right. An idle mind is the devil's playground after all."
Finally making up his mind, Alfred plucks a chocolate bar off one of the shelves and returns to Arthur's side, gently tugging on the hem of his shirt to get his attention. "Can I have this one, please?"
"May you have this one?" Arthur corrects, placing a hand atop the child's head. "Yes, you may. Give Gilbert the money."
Alfred trades in the dime and gets his chocolate along with two pennies in change.
"What do we say, lad?"
"Thank-you."
They bid the Beilschmidt brothers farewell and step outside again, following the route home.
Talking to Arthur can be difficult sometimes because he uses words that Alfred doesn't always understand, but Alfred responds in the best way he can, usually settling for a hum of agreement or a nod.
There's a lot of stuff that Alfred still wants to find out though, and he supposes he'll have to start asking questions to get the answers.
He starts with the easiest inquiry first. "Do you know everybody in town?"
Arthur gives it a moment of thought and says, "Yes, or at least, I'd like to think so."
"But then how come Francis said you don't have friends? You have lots of friends!"
Arthur makes a choking sound in his throat and grimaces. "I suggest you take everything Francis says with a grain of salt. He's not the most reputable source of information around here."
"When can I see Francis again?"
"Why would you want to see him?" Arthur huffs, bristling.
Maybe that wasn't a good question to ask. Alfred lowers his gaze to his shoes and mutters, "I don't know. Maybe he can take me places."
"Take you places?"
"You work, and sometimes I want to go out and do things, but you're busy in your office…" Alfred admits, shoulders hunched in a blend of fear and shame for talking badly of his caretaker.
Neither of them say anything for a minute. They let the words hang and droop over their heads until they're both woebegone and filled with regret.
Arthur sighs, rubs a hand over his eyes, and murmurs, "I'm sorry. You're right—I don't spend enough time with you. My job can be very demanding, and there are people who are counting on me to devote my efforts into representing them and speaking on their behalf. I-I will try to do better. It wasn't my intention to make you feel ignored."
"I know. I'm sorry for being selfish," Alfred frowns, scuffing a shoe in frustration.
"No, no, you're not selfish. I'm the one to blame," Arthur assures him with a weary sigh. "I'm afraid I've bitten off more than I can chew."
And there it is—that look of loneliness in Arthur's eyes again.
Alfred knows how awful loneliness can be. He remembers being on his own for a while after Mom and his brother, Mattie, came down with yellow fever. They grew sicker and sicker until there was nothing Alfred could do but wish he could go to heaven with them.
Long nights of mourning followed—tears and screams no one could hear beyond the walls of their apartment. He lay in bed for a week, too overcome with grief to move, but someone in the building must have noticed something was wrong because the police soon came knocking on the door and carried him away to a children's home.
That's what they call it anyway, a children's home. It's more like a facility. Most of them are run by the local churches, but their religious affiliation doesn't serve to make the places any friendlier. Alfred tried to run away many times, but he would always end up with a swatting and be sent back to wait for a family with hundreds of others. Then, the trains would come, and they'd be shipped out west like cargo.
"I think it would be best to enroll you in school," Arthur proposes when they enter the house, ignoring the way Baron shoves his head into his side for a round of petting. "Would you like that?"
It doesn't sound bad. Alfred has often wondered what school is like, but what if everyone is far ahead of him in terms of knowledge? What if he's too dumb to learn anything, and everybody laughs at him?
"I've never been to school before," he tells Arthur, hoping he won't have to say anything else to explain the dilemma. Papa never went to school either. As soon as he could move his hands, he started working in a factory. It's the way he always lived. It's the way he died too—working.
Arthur scratches behind Baron's semi-floppy ears and smiles. "That's not a problem. There are students of all levels and ages at the school. You'll fit right in."
"Okay," Alfred agrees, finishing the last bits of his chocolate bar. The warm, milky aftertaste leaves him feeling giddy.
"Wonderful! It seems as though things are finally falling into place, doesn't it?"
The first time he has a spasm since the train ride is about two weeks into his stay with Arthur. The day is muggy, the sun hangs quietly behind the clouds, and a miserable drizzle plagues them throughout the entire day, too much of a nuisance to allow them to go outside but not strong enough to flood the garden.
The air is thick and sticky. It makes Alfred's chest feel a little heavy, and a tightness contracts in his lungs, burning and tingling as though he's inhaled a big billow of smoke from a cigar. He struggles to take a breath, and when he does, a horrible wheeze reverberates out of his throat.
He doesn't want to disturb Arthur when he's working, but this seems like as good of an excuse as any to go into his office. Shakily, he climbs the steps and knocks on the office door, waiting to be invited in because Arthur says it's rude to do otherwise.
"Come in."
The door seems impossibly heavy, but he opens it with a rough push, staggering to regain his balance. Arthur, unsurprisingly, is scribbling away at something on his desk, oblivious to the outside world. He doesn't even look up until Alfred starts to cry, tiny sobs hiccupping out of his mouth around dribbling mucus.
Arthur jumps to his feet at once and puts his hands on the boy's shoulders, searching his face for an explanation. "Dear god, Alfred! What's wrong?"
"It's one of m-my lung spasms," Alfred whimpers, striking out his hands to shield himself. Mr. Vargas used to hit him for being this hysterical. He would yank him up by the shoulder and tell him to toughen up or else he'd never find a good home.
"Lung spasms? How—?" Arthur lets his words die on his lips and goes about trying to make Alfred feel better instead. He puts a hand on the child's head, wipes his eyes and nose with a handkerchief, and steers him into his bedroom. When the boy is properly tucked in, Arthur heads into his office once more to make a quick phone call, battling to control his panic.
Alfred can hear him from bed.
"Ivan? It's Arthur Kirkland. I apologize for calling so suddenly—no, no, that won't be necessary… Alfred is sick… He's ten… No fever. He's just struggling to catch his breath… Yes, that's what I suspect as well."
The wind has been knocked out of him. It feels like he's been running a race all day, even though he's been loafing around the house since he woke up. A sweat breaks out on his forehead, and he groans, sucking in sharp breath after sharp breath until Arthur comes back into the room and gently hums that everything is going to be fine.
"I'm not faking," Alfred says miserably, shaking with tremors. "Mr. V-Vargas says I'm looking for attention, but I'm n-not!"
Arthur sits on the edge of the bed and gives him a startled glance. "Vargas," he hisses after a moment, shoulders rigid. "How long have you been having these 'spasms', Alfred?"
"S-Since I was in the children's home."
"I'll kill him. I'll kill him," Arthur fumes, standing up and pacing about the room. "The damned idiot. He told me—never mind that now. I'll deal with Vargas later. Preferably, in court."
All this talk of killing people makes Alfred scared, and Arthur seems to notice because he calms himself considerably. His shoulders slump forward, and he straightens the bedsheets, one hand on Alfred's knee.
"You're going to be all right. The doctor is on his way."
Alfred's head has begun to hurt from all of his crying, but he nods anyway. "I'm sorry. Are you going to send me back to Mr. Vargas now?"
"What? No, of course not! Why would I do such a thing?"
"Cause I'm not fit for nothing," Alfred whimpers, nearly jumping out of his skin when Arthur pulls him into a hug. He can't remember the last time he was held.
"You're staying right here—at home."
Just then, someone knocks on the door, and Arthur briskly gets up to greet them. He hurries down the stairs and shares a few words with the visitor before they both make their way to Alfred's room.
"He's in here. Gave me a fright. It's only been two weeks, and he's already ill," Arthur murmurs, stepping aside to reveal a large man with a leather messenger bag and a wool trench coat. He's so tall that his head almost touches the top of the doorframe.
He approaches Alfred's bed with a pearly smile, boots squeaking against the floor. "Hello, little one."
Alfred pulls the duvet up to his eyes and cowers. He thought giants only existed in fairytales!
"It's okay, lad," Arthur reassures him, arms crossed over his chest. "Ivan is here to help."
"Arthur, this is worse than I thought. Can you hear how he's wheezing?"
"I wish I couldn't. What are we going to do?"
Ivan clicks his tongue and unzips his leather bag. "We'll do what we did for those returning from the Great War."
"And what's that?"
"Come here and hold him still."
Suddenly, there are two pairs of hands pinning Alfred to the bed, and Ivan pours a nauseatingly brown liquid onto a silver spoon. Alfred doesn't hesitate to clamp his mouth shut, eyes wide and frantic as the spoon is poked against his lips.
He tries to twist his head to the side, but Arthur's hands are firmly holding his head in place, and he has no choice but to let his jaw fall open.
"That's it," Arthur praises as Ivan feeds him the horrific stuff.
It burns, and he almost manages to spit it out, but Ivan holds a hand over his lips and firmly orders him to swallow. When the spoon is taken out of his mouth, Alfred bursts into tears again, and Arthur strokes his arm comfortingly, trying to hush his sobs.
"There, there. It's over now. You should feel better soon. Just close your eyes and relax."
His breathing does become more even after a few minutes, and he lets his head loll against the pillows in exhaustion, trembles dying down.
Arthur smiles wearily at Ivan and says, "Thank you. What was in the bottle?"
"Ephedrine. Stimulates the nervous system," Ivan explains, watching Alfred pant and cough with muted curiosity. "He's going to feel restless for a while. Keep an eye on him. If his condition doesn't improve within the hour, call me."
"All right. Hang on, I'll see you out."
Arthur makes a move to leave the bedside, but Alfred snatches his hand in his and whines. "Don't leave me."
"I'll only be gone for a moment, my boy."
Ivan grins at the two and shakes his head. "You'd better stay, Arthur. He'll recover more quickly with some company."
"Don't leave," Alfred repeats, a little louder this time in the hopes that he'll be taken more seriously. Arthur is all he has. He's the only friend in a sea of people he still doesn't know all that well, and he doesn't want to lose him.
Green eyes find the blue, and Arthur finally whispers, "Okay, okay. I'm right here. I won't leave you."
"Catch me if you can!" Alfred giggles, squealing when a figure slightly smaller than his slams into his back and knocks him to the ground. If he were home, he'd probably be yelled at for rolling around in the mud, but at school, anything goes as long as you stay out of the sights of a teacher.
And boy, is school fun. Not only does he get to horse around with his friends, but he also gets to learn all kinds of things about the world and then show off what he knows to others. He's ahead of some of the boys his age, thanks to Arthur teaching him all of his letters and how to sound out syllables. He's also an incredibly fast learner. By the end of his first week at school, he's able to read full sentences without stumbling over any words.
Toris, one of the boys in his class, has become a close friend. He's a tad on the timid side, but once he gets familiar with someone, he's as outgoing as all of the other children. He happens to be Ivan's son, and when Alfred tells Toris about the time Ivan helped him with his lung spasms, they become attached at the hip.
"I win!" Toris cheers, rolling off of Alfred's back. "You're too slow!"
Alfred measures a good shove at the boy and huffs. "Am not!"
"Are too!"
At the end of the day, Arthur picks Alfred up and walks him home. He's always waiting by the crooked fence just outside the schoolhouse, making small talk with the occasional passerby. He looks so natural standing there, as though he's meant to be the town's witness.
"Did you have a good day?"
"Uh-huh! Mr. Honda taught us all about the war. You know, the one in nineteen-fourteen?"
Arthur reaches down and swipes some of the chalk-dust off of Alfred's knickerbockers and black stockings. "Mm-hmm. I daresay I know quite a bit about it."
"Some of the boys in class said their dads fought in the war. How about you, Arthur?"
"Pardon?"
"Did you fight in the war?"
A dark look passes over Arthur's face, but it's gone as quickly as it comes. "No, I did not."
"Why not? Mr. Honda says everybody had to fight. That's what a draft is for," Alfred continues, kicking pebbles down the road.
Arthur takes a puff of a cigarette and shrugs. "I-It's complicated, lad. Someday, when you're old enough to understand, I'll explain."
"I'm old enough now!"
"Not old enough," Arthur insists, clearing his throat with a rough cough.
Alfred can tell this is an argument he isn't going to win, so he drops the topic for now. They keep walking in silence, until another inquisitive thought crosses his mind. "Hey, Arthur? You're an immigrant, right? You're not from America."
"Yes, I am. I was born in England. You know this."
"Yeah, I'm just double checking. Mr. Honda says this town is full of immigrants. All of America is filled with immigrants. Everybody comes here for a better life," Alfred says, matter-of-fact. "A bunch of immigrants came here after the war ended, did you know? They couldn't live in Europe anymore because there wasn't much food and everything was destroyed."
Arthur nods and puts his cigarette out in the ashtray that's on the porch. "Life is never easy during times of war, Alfred."
"Did you leave England for a better life, Arthur?"
"I suppose you could say that," Arthur sighs, plopping himself in one of the wooden chairs on the porch. He didn't seem to be ready to head inside yet. "I knew it'd be more peaceful here, and I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to leave. Leaving home wasn't a simple matter either. I had to say goodbye to my family, and I'd never been outside of the city, let alone the country. Oh, and the journey… My God, what a mess that was."
Alfred hops up and down the porch steps, listening to the creak of each wooden board. He's lost most of his interest in what Arthur is saying, but it would be mean to cut him off when he's on such a rant.
"But things worked out for the better. And now I have you," Arthur says with bright eyes, holding out his arms for Alfred to come closer. The boy doesn't hesitate to run over and sit on his lap, laughing at the way Arthur exaggerates a groan and complains about how much bigger he's becoming.
Arthur's not such an awkward papa anymore. Slowly but surely, they have grown used to each other's presence, comfortable and content. It's made Arthur more physically affectionate, and Alfred happily accepts his frequent embraces and squeezes, recalling how his mother used to cuddle him and Mattie.
They've both missed out on many hugs over the years.
"What's England like?" Alfred asks, swinging his legs.
"It's like America, except a bit smaller and full of old castles. That's what most of Europe is like," Arthur replies with a hint of sarcasm. "The culture is different too. America is more casual while Europe prides itself in antiquated customs and regality. Europe is one big social event."
"Would you go back?"
Arthur scoots him off of his lap and stands up, working out the kinks in his neck. "I don't know. Maybe someday. Now, enough with the questions. Go wash up for dinner."
"What's for dinner?"
"Flounder."
Alfred frowns. Fish is definitely not Arthur's specialty.
"Is there a problem?" Arthur asks, noticing Alfred's wrinkled nose.
Well, it could be worse.
"Nope, not at all!"