Title: Three Time's A Charm
Authoress: Ankaris123
Disclaimer: APHetalia is property of Hidekaz Himaruya. Skype is owned by the folks who created it.
Summary: AU. Their first connection was when they were switched at birth, the second was the internet, the third was love. Eventual AlfredxMatthew.
Notes: Cursing courtesy of Gilbert. A time skip has occurred since the last chapter.
A/Ns: Hello! It's been a while, hasn't it. I initially aimed for some sort of update by Christmas but…it didn't happen. Hope everyone had a nice Christmas! Here's something to wrap up the end of year.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
"I'm sorry I'm late!"
Stumbling into the tiny study area, Matthew paused a moment to catch his breath; his leather book bag clutched tightly against his chest. Seated on the only chair available, Katerina smiled patiently, scooting back to give him space. The study area was originally designed for a solitary student and barely fit all of them inside. Still, tucked away in the corner of the old library (a new modern public library had been constructed nearby attracting the bulk of the student body), it was a quiet forgotten haven amidst the boisterous racket of a typical lunch hour once you got used to the dust.
"It is alright, Matvey. What kept you?"
"Ve~ Matt always helps out the teachers after class, you know." The soft voice floated out from the bottom shelf of the left bookcase that walled in the area. After a few bumps, Feliciano rolled out from underneath dragging his pillowcase-covered bag with him. "But you did take longer this time; I've already finished my siesta."
"Ah, well, I was helping Mr. Ryan find his speech for tomorrow's afternoon assembly. He seemed to have misplaced it, but we found it in the end so that's all that matters," he said, taking out a brown bagged lunch. "I almost stayed when he asked for some help, prepping for the speech."
Their geography instructor was the mumbling academic type.
"Oh? Does Matvey do speeches often?"
"Well, no, not really...but..."
"I would nominate Matt for valedictorian," said Feliciano, removing the lid of his lunch box. The scent of ravioli filled the immediate area.
"The other students would probably vote for someone else, someone more popular for instance, and I'm really not that good with speeches. I suppose I write them alright but…" Once upon a time, Matthew enjoyed presenting his works in front of the class, eagerly volunteering when prompted. As time went on, he noticed how the rest of the class didn't really listen or even seem to notice he was speaking. Sure, they tended to act similarly when other students were called up, but the paranoid blond was half-convinced that there was something inherently wrong with his presentation, perhaps the content wasn't interesting enough or the way he spoke was the problem.
He was never sure and no matter how many times his various instructors reassured him that he did very well he felt discouraged. The longer he spoke, the quieter his voice became. It frightened him how his voice would carry across the room, sounding deafening in the complete silence. That very same fear carried over into his home life and as a result he became naturally soft-spoken.
His explanatory rant died down to a whisper as he busied himself with undoing the cling wrap on his sandwiches.
"You should not be so hard on yourself, Matvey. Truthfully, I find Matvey's writing beautiful," Katerina said, her cheeks pink.
"Thank you…" Feeling down, Matthew felt even worse that his drop in mood was affecting his friends who deserved none of his negativity. Immediately he scrounged his mind for an uplifting thought and found one almost instantly; the smile it brought to his face was difficult to suppress.
They ate in a comfortable silence until it was broken by Katerina when her curiosity overwhelmed her. Fork placed delicately on the lid of her own lunchbox, she turned to the merrily humming blond catching Feliciano's attention as well.
"You're certainly in a good mood all of a sudden, Matvey? Would it be rude of me to ask for what reason?"
A light flush rose to his cheeks as embarrassment replaced his light-hearted joy.
"I-it's not really…" his eyes dropped shyly to his lap where his fingers curled around the half-eaten BLT. "See, I have this net friend who I talk to a lot, just online messaging and stuff like that."
During one of their almost nightly chats having quickly moved on from email to messenger, Alfred had offhandedly suggested that they voice-call each other because it 'kind of sucked to change back to the chat window all the time when he was doing other things'. One way or another, it ended with a promise to talk voice-to-voice. The time and date had already been sorted, though the fanfare with which it was decided made it feel even more important and meaningful than it should normally be.
"Oh~, is this the French buddy you told me about? The one who doesn't speak French?" the Italian interrupted, his fork searching the sauce-covered corners of the plastic container blindly for any remaining pasta.
"Yeah, that's the one. Anyways, he, um, he kind of asked me if…if I wanted to Skype with him." There he said it, swallowing twice. It shouldn't have been this hard to say as it was nothing to be ashamed about. They've been talking for several months now and fast friends.
"Skype?"
"You use it to chat with people with text or verbally, like a telephone! But on the internet. There's even visual if you have a webcam. Fratello uses it too. It's really handy and it doesn't cost anything and it works just about anywhere!"
"It sounds very useful. I would very much like to use it. I have not spoken with my family in Russia for a long time now, but I am not very good with technology."
"I can teach you! It's very easy, fratello showed me how," Feliciano offered, beaming. "When are you going to Skype with him, Matt? I hope he's a nice guy. Do you already know what he looked like?"
"N-no. But we're only going to do the voice call, we're not actually going to see each other's faces so…" Inwardly Matthew berated himself for rushing the first part of his sentence and for the disappointment in his voice during the second half. It was nerve-wracking enough to finally talk directly with Alfred but to talk face to face was too much for him right now. Just the thought filled him with anxiety, fear, and a dash (just a tad) of excitement.
"Oh, that's too bad," Feliciano said, deflating a little. "But you will have fun, si? Remember to speak up and say what you want to," he added, recalling Matt's tendency to clam up when nervous. No matter how hard the younger blond tried to hide it, Feliciano could see the social anxiety in his friend. "Be yourself, I'm sure he'll like you as you are."
"I hope so…"
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
—Paris, France
"Hey, Gil, hey, Gil, hey, hey-"
"What the hell do you want, Yank?" the East German said, rummaging his jeans for the car keys. On the passenger side, Alfred sprawled against the glossy yellow exterior, pouting pathetically at his friend.
"Drive me home."
"Drive yourself home, loser. I have to return this before West comes home and finds it missing."
"But I don't have a car and I'm too lazy to wait for the transit and it's too far to walk," he whined, until an idea came to mind. "If you don't, I'll phone your uncle right now and tell him you took his baby out for a spin without his permission."
"Resorting to blackmail? You play dirty." However his bluff was weak. West might only be two years older than him but he was technically his uncle (their family hierarchy was somewhat of a mess), owned the apartment they shared, and loved his Beetle to pieces. And let's just say that Gilbert's history with vehicles and the road had been less than impressive no matter how awesome he claims himself to be.
"Are you going to drive me or not?" His question was followed by an overdramatic display of withdrawing his mobile from his jacket's inner pocket.
"Get your ass in here before I leave you behind."
The vehicle rocked gently as the American whooped, pulled open the side door, and hopped in. Engine purring, they pulled out of the student lot and zoomed down the main road at a speed that disregarded the safety of nearby pedestrians and fellow classmates. Served them right for Jay-walking.
"Hey, Gil, hey, hey-"
"What? The awesome me is driving right now, so shut up and let me drive!"
"Can I drive?"
"What? No! You think I'm suicidal or something?"
"You haven't even seen me drive! I can't be any worse than you!"
"I'd rather not find out. Besides, you probably can't even read the traffic signs here."
"Come on, just let me have a go, just until I get back to my place, I know the way better anyways."
"Just no, alright? They don't produce this model anymore, if anything happens to it, West will have my head! Fuck-!"
Tires screeching to a halt, the Volkswagen jolted to a complete stop skirting the crosswalk markings. A brunette adorning their international school's rugby jersey threw up her grass-stained arms in disbelief, having narrowly avoided being mowed down. If it weren't for her long hair (which was pulled into a simple ponytail at the nape of her neck) and the decorative flower-shaped hair piece, she could've past for a pretty-faced guy from her mannerism and the exasperated rude gestures she was making at the driver. After she made her point across, she stalked away to the other side of the street.
"Isn't that the chick you're totally hot for?"
"Yeah, I'm going to get her someday. She can't possibly ignore my awesome charms for long."
"Get her is right, you almost ran her over."
"Shut your mouth, Yank," he groaned, making a sharp turn with a little less care than before. "Are you going to be on tonight? I've been rearing for some game time. It's not fun trolling noobs alone, you in?"
"Sorry, potato head, but I've got plans for tonight already, awesome plans." Bored, he fiddled with the heating dials until the temperature rose close to baking. Sure it was January that this was ridiculous.
"Awesome plans that don't involve the awesome me? Now that I can hardly believe. What are you going to do, watch porn? Because that's just juvenile, man. Also, potato head? Is that the best you can do?"
A few shoves to the head later Alfred turned the dials down to a tolerable level.
"Hey, I'm not the one throwing out ethnic slurs like it's second nature. And porn is way more awesome than you any day, but no, I'm Skyping a friend of mine."
"Skyping one of your loser friends takes precedent over an all-night online gaming spree with yours truly? You must really like this guy, like really like."
"If anything, he's a way better friend than the foulmouthed bastard next to me."
"Watch it or I'm pulling over and kicking you out."
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
—London, England
A frosty breeze kicked up as Matthew turned down his street, nose and cheeks flushed from the frigid weather. Shadows cast down by the various trees planted in the fenced out strips of grassland rustled lazily overhead. Reaching the townhouse in which he lived, his gloved hands unlocked the simple iron gate when a voice startled him from behind.
"Good afternoon, Matthew. Is your father in?"
From the sleek black car parked a couple metres away, a man of Asian descent dressed in a thick knee-length woollen coat stepped out. He was carrying a thick wad of manila envelopes.
"Oh! Mr. Honda, I didn't notice you there, have you been waiting here for a long time?"
"No, not at all. I've just arrived," he replied politely. "Your father did not come to the office today, so I came to pick up his manuscript."
Kiku Honda was a junior editor at the newspaper company for which Matthew's father wrote his periodic columns. Always cynical and acidic with his blunt criticisms, it was a wonder that his father's columns had enough of a following to continue in the paper. Just the mere fact that they sent along the Japanese man to personally collect his manuscripts spoke more than words could about his value. It could partly be because the two were friends of sorts, one of his father's increasingly few friends at that.
"I'm really sorry. When he's into his writing, his concentration is so deep that he hardly responds to anything else but the typewriter," he said, ducking his head, ashamed of his father's discourteous actions. "Please come in. He should be in the study."
As soon as the soft footsteps made their way upstairs, Matthew rushed to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Eyes flickering to the analog clock hanging above the doorway, he scrubbed idly on the black stains on the stovetop while the tea steeped. It was just after five. Only three hours left until he talked with Alfred. A giddy feeling tingled in his stomach as he carried the tray to the study.
He knocked once quietly, bouncing on his heels while thinking about tonight. He wondered what Alfred sounded like. He was always talking about dangerous bold actions he'd undertake with his friends, things that sounded like what any teenaged guy ought to do before they're through with their teen years, so probably very masculine, at least more than Matthew's demure whisper which more than once got him mistaken for the opposite gender. Come to think of it, probably very loud too. Or maybe youthfully boyish? That was fitting as well.
Immersed in his imaginings, the blond teen did not notice that he had stood in front of the old oak door for several minutes until the ache in his arms reminded him of the loaded tea tray. Balancing it gingerly on one hand, he knocked again louder.
The door cracked open, his father's vivid green eyes peered out of the gap, surprised for a moment at his appearance. Classical music warbled out at an ambient level.
"I brought tea for you and Mr. Honda," Matthew said, smiling gently. He lifted the tray a fraction for emphasis, eyes squinting slightly from the sharp contrast between the bright light and the dim hallway.
"Right…thank you, son," he said after short blank stare, "I'll take it from here." And then feeling obliged to interact more in the presence of a guest added, "How is school? Are you keeping up with your grades?"
"Yes, dad. I'm on the honour roll again this year."
"That's very good of you. Well done," he said, taking the tray from him. "Don't stay up too late and remember to finish all your homework."
After the door closed again, Matthew pressed his ear against the smooth worn wood briefly, listening to snippets of conversations too soft to make out. Pulling away with a sigh, he slipped downstairs and then returned to his own room with a steaming mug of chai to fight the cold.
The old-fashioned alarm clock sitting on his desktop displayed the time to be half-past five. With little to do, Matthew changed out of his uniform, doubling up on socks as they kept the thermostat low to save on gas bills whenever possible and as such the house was in a constant state of frigidness.
He busied himself with mundane tasks, rearranging his bookshelf, clipping a few articles from yesterday's paper. Recalling his father's words, he checked his book bag for worksheets until he remembered that they hadn't been assigned any.
"It's not like he'll notice if you do your homework or not. He never checks," Inner Matthew commented curtly from his perch on the sheer window ledge, his vibrant red sweater mismatching against the sober earth-toned wallpaper.
"But he cares about my grades, and if I don't do my work, they will drop."
"Since when has he really cared? You leave your report card on the dining table for a month and he barely glanced at it. He doesn't even know if you're doing well in school or not, just well enough that he hasn't the need to attend parent-teacher conferences on any problems and such. Face it, kid, it doesn't matter to him whether you get a straight As or straight Bs."
"I'm not listening to you," Matthew grumbled, using his usual argument stopper. He knew the ghostly apparition was rolling his eyes at him and ignored it, booting up the PC to check the setting on Skype and rereading online tutorials on how to use it properly for the umpteenth time. The brand-new cheaply bought headset was plugged, unplugged, and moved around the desk several times.
A glance at the clock told him it was a quarter to six. Inner Matthew, having stuck around the entire time, wiggled his fingers at him cheekily. Groaning, he knew this was going to be a long night.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
—Paris, France
A hysteric cry cut off as Alfred kicked his bedroom door shut behind him, swallowing the last mouthful of something au vin and blahblah de veau. Call it haute cuisine but the (mostly) American-raised teenager had no connoisseur patience to savour its taste, not when he was running late for his Skype date. He'll apologize to his dad later for shovelling it down and making a mess of the table cloth.
Jiggling his wireless mouse until the screensaver gave way to the desktop, he loaded Skype while drumming his fingers excitedly. His eyes lit up seeing who was online in the Skype side bar, plugging in the jack for his headphones. The main window changed into a chat box after a click; he entered a message at the bottom.
—hey Matt! sorry im late i was eting dinner, u reddy?
Fingers moving frantically above the keyboard while he waited, he couldn't stop a grin when the reply came.
—Hey, Al. I'm good to go and ready as I'll ever be.
Without hesitation he clicked the Call button.
"Hi there!" he chirped loudly as soon as the screen loaded to full functionality. Silence came in response.
"Hello? Anyone there?"
More silence.
"Uh, Matt? Can you hear me? Say something already, this is getting creepy. Did you forget to plug in the headset?"
He was going to type a message instead when he heard a faint noise.
"…I'm here…"
"Dude, Matt, you're going to have to speak louder, I can't hear you," Alfred said, maxing out the volume.
"…Is this better?" The voice was still quiet, wispy but audible and although he hadn't thought him to be so quiet in real life, it was definitely a voice suited to Matthew. Ah, the limits of text-based conversation.
"You know what, man, I'm going to be honest with you. You sound kind of like a chick. Have you been lying to me about your gender all this time? 'Cause that's not cool, bros don't lie to bros. Or sis, sissus? Yeah, definitely not cool."
Swerving his chair to the side, he propped up his legs on the bedspread and made himself comfortable.
"I'm not a girl, Al, so you haven't a thing to worry about me lying to you. My voice just happens to sound like this and I don't want to hear any more of this girl accusation. It's annoying, eh?"
"Alright, alright. God, you sound so British. Like, y'know, British-british, y'know, Queenie and stuff."
"Actually, I've got a trace of Cockney in it, not everyone speaks the Queen's English around here, you know."
He said the last part higher pitched in quite a good imitation of the pronunciation he was referring to. Now wasn't that just precious.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
—London, England
Unrestrained laughter poured out the headset, its genuine quality filled his chest with happiness. The sheer volume made Matthew a tad cautious, afraid that his French-American friend's voice would carry through the cramped household and reached his father's acute hearing. The notion was absurd but it didn't stop him from casting nervous glances at his bedroom door every few seconds.
After the laughing died down, the only sounds he heard from the other end were mouse clicks. He steeled himself to continue the conversation, forcing himself past his shyness.
"I honestly thought you'd be lying about being American. I thought for sure you'd still sound somewhat French. People don't always notice they have an accent until it's pointed out to them," Matthew commented absentmindedly, picking up several of his older textbooks and unfolding the dog-earred corners.
"Yeah, well, I'm 100% genuine, bro. My old man's English is pretty good too, if he was real careful about how and what he was saying, you wouldn't know the guy was French. Sometimes I think he deliberately plays up the French tourist façade, if you know what I mean," came the response with a chuckle. "Prowling the classy bars at night, getting discounts by leaning over the counter and saying stuff like-"
Husky French flowed into his unsuspecting ears, Alfred's voice dropping lower to imitate a seductive purr. Immediately, his heart raced, a flush rising to his cheeks. It thudded loudly, overwhelming as he felt his chest squeeze tightly.
…?
Absorbed in his odd reaction, he didn't hear Alfred's next words. It was only when he started calling his name did he snap out of his revelry.
"-Matt? Are you still there? Earth to Matt! Do you read? Don't tell me I killed you with smexy French accent."
"N-no, of course not!" he blurted out, trying to control his blush. "And you said you didn't speak French…"
"I don't! Pops would be the first one to tell you that my accent is horrible. Besides, I'm enough of a sex magnet already, French would just be overkill-"
A comfortable smile settled on Matthew's face as he listened to Alfred's babbling though he couldn't completely ignore the feeling from early. A hand reached up to rest on the woollen sweater over his heart which had slowed to its regular rhythm.
What was that just now?
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
A/Ns: Gil and Al make interesting friends, and by interesting I mean loud and troubling for school administrators. I had more to say for I forgot so, uh, now that we've had some progress, next chapter will skip forward again and will feature the parents' points of view.
It's a little late but joyeux noël and a happy new year! Thank you for reading.