Author's Note: There's one chapter left after this! Thank you all for sticking with me for this long!
November 1939
The daffodils are dying.
Alfred sees their wilting stems and petals when he visits Arthur for Thanksgiving that year. The snow is early, and it has buried the garden, leaving a blanket of unpleasant slush behind.
It is also the first holiday he shares with Matthew since they were children, and although the weather is despicable, and there's a war escalating across the Atlantic, they find some peace and make the best of it.
It turns out Matthew's culinary experience is far more advanced then Arthur and Alfred's combined, and so, he does most of the cooking, even though Arthur protests for a good while and claims, "Don't be ridiculous Matthew. You're our guest."
There are brief flashes of shame that run through Alfred's mind as the sun sets and dinner is lavishly served. It seems wrong to be celebrating when there's so much despair in the world. How can they let themselves indulge when others are rationing every crumb on their plate? And though no one says it because it'd be disgraceful, they are all thankful for something atrocious—that they are not on the front lines like the Europeans are.
Arthur has tried yet again to reach out to his mother in the past few weeks in order to convince her to come and stay with them in the States, but she cannot be swayed. Reasoning with her proves to be as futile as it always is, and as much as Arthur is frustrated, Alfred can also tell there's a part of him that respects the old woman's courage.
Some scented candles are lit on the kitchen table, and Matthew brings out the turkey he has dutifully been tending to all day along with a plethora of mashed potatoes, cranberry-apple stuffing, and an assortment of every steamed vegetable known to man.
They take their seats at the table, and as Arthur and Matthew chat, Alfred casts his gaze out to the nearby window and watches the daffodils slump under the weight of the sprinkling snow again. It isn't right. The daffodils have no hope for survival. They aren't equipped for the changing season, and why should they have to suffer because of something they have no control over?
"Al? Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, Matt. Just a little tired."
The bedroom light in the second-story of Francis's house is on. He doesn't seem to be celebrating Thanksgiving, which Alfred supposes is understandable, since he lives alone. There isn't much sense in preparing a turkey for just one person. It's strange how he's never noticed that about the Frenchman before.
Arthur, perceptive as always, notices where Alfred is staring and frowns. A muscle in his jaw twitches as though he's about to say something, but he stops himself at the last second. Instead, he rises from the table with a softly murmured, "Excuse me for a moment, boys," and saunters over to the front door before stepping out into the cold, not even bothering to grab his coat.
Stunned into silence, Alfred watches his caretaker knock on Francis's door through the window. The light on the ground floor flares with life, and Francis appears, a bittersweet smile on his face that grows in size as Arthur exchanges some words with him.
Then, the light is switched off again, and Francis follows Arthur out into the cold and across the empty street to their house, lively and merry like a man who has just seen the world with his own eyes for the very first time.
"I hope you boys don't mind if we have a guest tonight," Arthur mutters as he returns to the kitchen, cheeks rosy from the chilly wind outside.
They don't mind. Not at all.
December 8, 1941
He's in his early childhood education class when he hears the news.
The mumbled whispers of his peers are carried throughout the lecture hall, bouncing off the walls and ringing against his ears like the slow shriek of falling bombs.
The United States is at war with Japan.
The war is no longer some apparition across the pond. It is here. It is real, and it is just beginning.
He goes home to Arthur the following weekend, because he can't stand to be alone when so much is going on in such a short period of time.
"It won't be as bad here. You'll see," Arthur promises one night as they're lounging out on the porch. "We've nothing to prematurely worry about."
Alfred crosses his fingers and hopes he is right.
May 1942
Spring recess provides much needed reprieve from the debilitating drama. With the sun shining on Alfred's face like it is now, it's hard to believe anything could possibly be awry.
He's off to the store to pick up the weekly sugar ration. It'll be needed to cook, and furthermore, Arthur wants to finally be able to sweeten his tea, even if he has to meticulously measure out each spoonful of the stuff with great care.
Fortunately, the line at the shop isn't long, and Alfred's done within minutes, the half-pound box of sugar tucked beneath his arm.
He spots Gilbert and Ms. Hedervary walking hand-in-hand on his way back, and he greets them with a genuine grin, elated to see the two of them not just getting along, but expressing actual fondness for one another. There is a silver-lining to everything after all, it would seem.
"Hallo, squirt."
And although Alfred is now twenty-two and going on twenty-three (a fully grown and mature young man, thank you very much), Gilbert's nickname for him has continued to stick.
"Hey, Gil. You're still okay with going fishing on Saturday?"
"Ja, of course. I need some man time."
Ms. Hedervary doesn't hesitate to slug Gilbert in the shoulder. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, honey. I just need some awesome me time—man-to-man, out in the woods with this squirt here, trying to survive against the globe's harshest elements."
"Elements?" she laughs mockingly. "You're going to a lake fifteen minutes out of town and coming back at the end of the day. There aren't any 'elements' to speak of."
"Shh, Liz. You're ruining the positive aura. Women just don't understand."
Not looking forward to getting caught in the crossfire of one of their bickering sessions, Alfred chuckles and bids the love-birds farewell. He needs to get home early if he wants to have time to repair the ceiling fan in the living room tonight.
He hops up the steps of the porch of the house and nudges the front door open when he arrives. Then, he heads straight for the kitchen and places the box of sugar in the pantry, whistling to himself quietly.
Arthur is standing by the counter, looking intently through the mail. It's mostly bills, and a PSA explaining some more of the rationing programs that will be implemented in the coming months.
The final envelope, however, seems to catch Arthur's full attention, and he gawks blankly at it, stricken.
It it's a problem with the electric company again—
"Alfred," Arthur croaks, blanching. Everything becomes still, even the little specks of dust floating innocently under the sunshine by the windowsill.
"Yeah? What've you got there? Man, you look like you've just seen a—" he peeks at the letter, and his words wither in his throat.
"ORDER TO REPORT FOR INDUCTION
To ALFRED F. JONES,
You are hereby notified that you have been selected for training and service in the ARMY. You will, therefore, report to the induction station listed below to be examined at the scheduled date and time. Willful failure to report promptly at the hour and on the day named in this notice is a violation of the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940, as amended, and subjects the violator to a fine and imprisonment."
"Alfred," Arthur says again before he grabs Alfred by the shoulders and presses his face into his neck. "Alfred, Alfred, Alfred…"
Alfred leans against his old guardian's shoulder and tries not to pay any mind to the tears cascading down the sides of the man's face.
"They won't take you. Y-Your asthma will cause you to fail the medical examination, and you're studying to be a school teacher so… so we can appeal this to the local board. I'll prepare the documents. It's a mere legal matter."
The tremble in Arthur's tone makes Alfred's stomach roil. He is just as scared, but he won't allow himself to break down in front of Arthur. One of them needs to act calm.
"You know that won't happen. They're desperate. They overlook all those things nowadays," Alfred says carefully, chin resting on Arthur's head now that he is the taller one of the two of them.
"But there's a case to be made here!" Arthur argues feverishly.
"I'm not going to run from this like some kind of coward."
"You aren't a coward! You have a medical condition, and no one in their right mind would drop you onto the battlefield."
"Well, no one's in their right mind anymore."
"Alfred, don't argue with me over this. Or I'll… I'll…"
"I have to go."
"No, you don't! I won't let you."
God damn it, Alfred can feel his eyes start to burn as he lets Arthur hold onto him. He wants to tell him that everything will be okay—that he shouldn't worry so much, but truth be told, Alfred would be just as worried if their roles had been reversed, and he can't blame Arthur for sobbing into his t-shirt.
"Why don't they take me instead? You're too young. You don't know what war is like," Arthur says breathlessly. "I remember when I first saw you lined up with those other children against the wall. I thought about all of the terrible things you must have seen—the trauma that no boy should have to experience, and I thought that perhaps I could spare you from any more pain. And even after all you'd lived through, there was still a hopeful light in your eyes, and it was nothing short of miraculous. It is a dark and unjust world, Alfred, and I've always known it, but you convinced me there is still happiness to be had—that there is a glimmer of compassion and hope."
"Arthur, please don't—" Alfred whispers, biting his lower lip as a tear slips past his defenses.
"And now they want to take you from me."
"It'll be all right. They aren't taking me forever. I'll be back."
Except he's not allowed to make promises of that nature.
"Don't go," Arthur begs.
"I'll go in for the medical examination first and see what they have to say? All right?"
It's a way to push the topic off for another day, and they need time to let all of this sink in.
Time which they don't have.
Alfred's fairly certain he could have showed up to his appointment half-blind with one lung and an injured spine, and he still would have been given the 'okay' to serve in the military.
He shows up to the makeshift clinic only to be sentenced to wait over two hours for a doctor to see him. Dozens of men are lined up to be examined, ranging from young, spry boys of eighteen to older men with thinning hair. It's quite similar to being on an assembly line, and there's only one overworked physician to tend to them all.
When it's finally his turn to be seen, he is herded into an exam room by an impatient nurse with a snappy temper. She orders him sharply to take off his shirt and has him sit on a lumpy exam table, and then, without offering any explanations, she shoves a glass thermometer into his mouth as the doctor makes a fashionably late entrance. He takes over and (thankfully) the nurse leaves.
Apparently, his blood pressure and temperature are both normal. His eyes are checked for cataracts, infection, and other unpleasant illnesses, but he is deemed all right, even though he's as blind as a bat without his glasses. As long as he can see with the aid of glasses, he's supposedly fit to be in the army, regardless of how bad his myopia is.
Then, his heart and lungs are listened to. Actually, his lungs are listened to twice because, unsurprisingly, they're still rather sickly, but the doctor doesn't make very many comments and instead writes some stuff on a clipboard.
He opens his mouth and gets his tongue and teeth checked. He learns a bunch of things he never knew about himself, like how his wisdom teeth still haven't completely grown in and are somewhat crooked or how his adenoids are enlarged, and he should have had his tonsils removed when he was a child, but there's no point in doing anything about it now. None of this, however, is enough to exempt him from serving.
He has bad posture from slouching, and he's a tad on the lanky side, but there isn't any fluid in his lungs, and he doesn't have tuberculosis, so that's good to know. He's given a number of vaccines, and then, the doctor hands him a paper that says he is fit for combat and nearly shoves him out of the room as he calls in the next patient.
And for a moment, Alfred regrets ever complaining about Ivan's medical practices. The Russian man is, at least, sympathetic and competent at what he does.
He's free to go, but Alfred's not so sure if he wants to leave so soon. The sooner he leaves, the sooner he'll have to break the news to Arthur, and he's not sure how to explain it to him as gently as possible.
In the end, he doesn't have to explain it at all. Arthur takes one look at his face when he crosses the doorway and just knows.
They stay up all night, droopy-eyed and listless as they slump against the couch and listen to the radio, gin and tonic at hand. Arthur takes a heavy drag of a cigarette, and Alfred looks out at the window and remembers the daffodils. He, too, is wilting. He can feel it. Petal by petal, leaf by leaf.
Beilschmidt Sweets is all but rebuilt after the fire, and in the final days before Alfred is to be shipped overseas, it becomes his favorite hangout spot yet again. Gilbert lets him take whatever sweets he wants, free-of-charge, but Alfred always ends up paying him anyway out of good conscience.
And if there's one thing Alfred is grateful for, it's that Gilbert doesn't pity him. He talks to him in the same way he always has, offering tidbits of advice every now and then when it's necessary to do so. They go on their fishing trip, have a fun time, and make some great memories that Alfred will carry with him when he leaves.
But good things never last, and to Alfred's chagrin, a group of boys from the high school he used to go to come prancing on by the shop one day, looking for trouble. At first, they dawdle outside of the store in a little congregation, and as Gilbert steels himself to chase them away, one of the boys throws a jagged rock at the display window and leaves a nice sized crack in the glass.
"Disgusting Nazi!" another boy screams.
Alfred isn't sure what possesses him to do what he does next. Maybe it's the pent up stress and fear in his body that seizes him. He gets up, storms after the group of children and grips both the boy with the rock and the boy who shouted by the collars of their shirts and lowers his voice into a threatening growl.
"Don't use words you don't understand. You're no better than the Nazis when you try to hurt other people. Go in there and apologize."
The irritating smirks on the boys' faces are replaced with frightened grimaces. They hang their heads, walk inside, and follow Alfred's instructions. Gilbert says he's going to find their parents so they can pay for the damaged window, and then, the children scurry away.
"You didn't have to do that," Gilbert sighs, inspecting the damage done to the display window more closely. "This happens all of the time now."
Alfred frowns. "You shouldn't put up with it."
"I don't have a choice."
"I'm sorry, Gilbert. No one should have to be harassed like that."
"Ahh, don't worry about it, squirt. I've seen worse," Gilbert says with a sad smile. "Thank you... Can you promise me something, kid?"
"Sure. What is it?"
"Stay safe. Don't be a hero if you don't have to be one."
Alfred takes in a shaky breath and replies, "All right, but only if you promise me something, too."
"Hey, I don't have to promise you anything! Remember your place!" Gilbert jokes teasingly, but he's all ears nonetheless.
"Keep an eye on Arthur for me while I'm gone. Check in on him now and then, and make sure he doesn't overwork himself, okay?"
"You know you didn't even have to ask, squirt."
Matthew comes to see him off.
And so do Francis, Gilbert, Ivan, Toris, and, of course, Arthur.
Alfred will be taking a train to the coast, and then a ship to the training site, and then another ship to wherever the powers that be determine he should battle once he learns how to fire a gun and hit a target. He is reminded of wanting a gun on his thirteenth birthday, and how Arthur refused to give him one. Maybe it was then that his fate was sealed.
The train platform is just about the worst place on Earth in that moment. He is glad that everyone is here for him, but it also makes it infinitely harder to say goodbye. He is loved here, in this forgotten town with its overgrown fields and quirky inhabitants. This time, when his eyes burn, he lets them water.
"Make us proud out there," Toris says first, giving him a hug and a pat on the back.
"Don't get into any trouble, squirt."
"You will be in our prayers, mon chou."
"Write to us, solnyshko."
He can't see through the glossiness of his eyes, but he recognizes Mattie's arms around him a second later.
"I know we didn't get a whole lot of time together, Al, but because of that, the time we did get to spend together is so much more valuable—" Matthew cuts himself off as his breath hitches and hastily apologizes, trying to keep his resolve. "I love you. You're my brother, and I'll always love you, so please be careful out there and write to me."
"You've got it, Matt. I love you, too," Alfred smiles through his tears. "I'll keep you updated on everything."
And then, last but certainly not least, there's Arthur—by far the hardest person to say goodbye to, but Alfred doesn't want this to be a tragic departure. They need to separate on a high note.
Alfred rubs at his eyes and chuckles, "Come here, you."
Arthur walks into his arms and is tormented by a fit of tremors in his limbs. He tries to speak, but he can't, and so, Alfred decides he'll have to do the talking for them both.
"I don't tell you enough how much I love you. You're the closest thing to a father that I could have ever asked for, and thank you for everything you've done for me—what you still do for me. No matter what happens, that won't change. Please don't be sad. Believe it or not, I hate seeing you sad, and… and I'll be all right. You helped raise me, after all," Alfred finishes with a soft laugh. "H-Hey, don't cry."
He knows that if it were possible, Arthur would offer himself up to go on that train in his place. Damned madman.
Arthur cards a hand through Alfred's air, takes in a long breath, and says, "You had better write to me, young man."
"I will. Pinkie-promise."
"And take care of yourself out there."
"I know."
"If I have to go and kill Hitler myself to bring you back home, I will."
Alfred laughs again and drops his head onto Arthur's shoulder. "I know you would."
"I love you."
"Are you sure?" Alfred jokes, pursing his lips. "I've done some pretty messed up things over the years."
"Well, now that you mention it," Arthur counters before allowing himself a smile of his own. "Stay safe, my boy."
"I'll try."
He lets Arthur go, gives everyone one last wave goodbye, and forces himself to turn around to board the train.
It hurts more than any physical wound ever could.