Title: Three Time's A Charm
Authoress: Ankaris123
Disclaimer: APHetalia is property of Hidekaz Himaruya.
Summary: AU. Their first connection was when they were switched at birth, the second was the internet, the third was love. Eventual AlfredxMatthew.
Notes: Again there has been a time skip between last chapter and this one.
A/Ns: Wah, I'm so sorry. I haven't abandoned this fic as you can see! I've been trying to focus on just one on-going fic for a time but that didn't really work… Anyways, I was surprised to find that I already had most of this chapter written (I forgot, haha) so I thought I'd just add in the last scene and upload it.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Door swinging open to an empty house, Alfred pocketed his keys and flicked the light switch on. Two obnoxious blares came from the compact yellow vehicle u-turning out front, the driver flashing his friend a thumbs up before driving off to his date. The moment after he disappeared around the bend, the grin Alfred sported slid off his face as he turned back around and stepped inside.
One look into the contents of refrigerator told the American teen that his father hadn't come home today. If he had, there would be more choices to pick from for his dinner. Bypassing the cling-wrapped celery sticks, he snagged a can of cola, the last one too, from behind a half-empty jar of mayonnaise. Various glass jars and bottles containing ingredients Alfred didn't even know the usage of clinked against each other as the fridge door closed.
It looked like another sandwich dinner for one Alfred Bonnefoy tonight. You would think that having a gourmet chef for a parent meant better meals as well, who would have figured. Wedging a fingernail under the pull ring, he eyed the loaf of pre-sliced bread with misplaced contempt.
Being a chef meant there were times when Francis had to work evening shifts. This was logical; after all, other people have dinner when he had dinner too. He could hardly expect his father to be home every day, preparing him dishes he could barely pronounce and probably didn't appreciate like the select clientele to which the French chef regularly catered.
The carbonated liquid seared a burning trail down his parched throat; he downed most of it in one go.
Sometimes though, his father didn't come home at all. Alfred would then dine on bread and baloney for the evening, wake up the next morning an hour after the alarm had gone off having no one to kick him out of his warm bed, scarf down dry cereal and rush off to classes. At lunch periods, if he was running low on money, Gilbert would begin to really regret being his friend. The American's appetite was not to be taken lightly.
One time Alfred caught his old man coming home in the dead of the night. Having stayed up, enjoying an online first-person shooter with Gil over Steam, he had crept down for a late night snack before bed. At first he thought the racket outside his front door were caused by a robber and had picked up the rolling pin off the drying rack ready to deck the poor bastard for breaking and entering. When he saw and could safely ascertain that it was his very French father at the door, he relaxed and made to greet him.
What he didn't expect was his father lurching pass him in a drunken stupor, and then, when his alcohol-inhibited mind finally registering Alfred's cheery hello, stopped in his tracks and turned slowly around until they were face to face.
"Who are you? What are you doing in my house? Get out before I call the police!" he had shouted in barely coherent French and then shoved him unceremoniously out the front door.
He couldn't remember how long he stood there on the front step, numb from the utter shock at what had occurred.
Even now he couldn't remember exactly what he had thought or felt at the time. He did remember that shortly after he gathered his senses together he went around to the side and scaled the lattice-work under his thankfully open window. He hadn't felt the slightest hint of remorse for the winding moonflowers that were crushed underfoot during his ascent.
He should probably tell his dad about that. If Alfred could climb into the house, so can any common thief. In fact, the whole neighbourhood seemed to have similar decorative structures that while quite lovely to behold once the climbing flowers were in bloom were a serious security risk.
It was amazing what the mind can do, shifting topics like that so smoothly.
Having lost his appetite (a miracle in itself), Alfred guzzled the rest of his soda and set the empty can on the counter where his parental figure would surely find it and berate him for being lazy about clean up.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
"Shouldn't you be heading home, señor?"
"Now, now, Antonio, is that the way to talk to a customer?" Francis retorted in mock-hurt, his right hand toying with a crystal tumbler. Tonight he just wasn't in the mood for his favoured wine.
The high-class chef was a regular at the small exclusive bar situated on the ground floor of the same skyscraper where the restaurant he worked for was located. It had become something of a habit, nipping down for a pick-me-up or two a few hours before closing after a long night.
"No, but you are also a friend, so I am saying it to you as a friend," the Spanish bartender quipped from behind the marble counter and truth be told, he was genuinely concerned for the mildly intoxicated man in front of him. "Hasn't your boy come home from America? Surely he's expecting you."
"Hmm?" the Frenchman hummed confused, the alcohol tickling his mental functions. "Who do you speak of?"
"Your hijo, your son. Hmm, perhaps you've had enough to drink if you're forgetting your own child," Antonio said with a shake of his head and turned to his other customer. "A little help, amigo?"
"I'm off duty already; if señor Bonnefoy wants to drink, that's his decision as a full-grown adult and not my problem," said the gruff olive-skinned man leaning heavily against the counter, a lit cigar held in the corner of his mouth.
"That's the spirit, Carlos," Francis said in agreement, hunched over his drink. "I am responsible…for my own actions."
Carlos said nothing in response, quietly enjoying his smoke. He had to admit it was an odd sight, the lowly restaurant bouncer—his real duty despite the job title of Doorman—and one of its famous chefs together in comfortable camaraderie. His borderline slovenly presence (his bowtie and the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone) already and always did draw disapproving leers from the other patrons in the establishment, but this he had learned to ignore since a long time ago. Life as a bouncer thickened his skin to ill intent.
Exhaling leisurely the Cuban observed his co-worker, if they may be called such, with a cool objectiveness.
Like most information, the rumours about Bonnefoy's son had made their way through the grapevine at work. Despite this being old news it was still a hot topic for discussion, mostly fuelled by the unwillingness of said chef to speak of his child and the lack of change in his behaviour and work schedule. Indeed the man continued to conform to his usual routine of relatively long hours in the kitchen and spending the bulk of his time off work at the bar drinking and chatting up women.
Here Carlos had a little more insight than his fellow colleagues, observing his tentative friend who was fast becoming drunk. These days he drank a little more, spent more nights sitting at the bar until the Spaniard was forced to kick him out at closing. Perhaps it had to do with that other rumour, one everyone already knew to be true and Bonnefoy had neither denied nor accepted.
This mysterious side of Bonnefoy was befuddling and peaked his interest, he wasn't afraid to admit.
"Does he remind you of her?" he tried cautiously perhaps too callously. At first there was no response and then Francis turned his head to face him, tinged a rosy red. Already treading dangerous waters, he refrained from repeating the question and waited for him to answer. Behind the counter, Antonio busied himself with polishing random glasses that from the looks of it probably did not require further wiping.
"Non, he does not," Francis mumbled, sober from a deep sorrow and staring fixated on the melting ice in his own glass. "He's nothing like her. Nothing like her at all."
Draining the rest of the liquid in one shot, he shot the doorman a bleary look, one Carlos could not comprehend.
"Nor is he anything like me."
Shaking off the temptation to lighten the mood with a joking retort (something along the lines of: "And thank goodness for that"), the atmosphere that settled around them heavy, thick and ever present.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
—London, England
Where had he put it?
That was the question running through one Arthur Kirkland's mind as he rummaged through his file folders for notes he had hastily scribbled down one early morning. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, he replaced them on their respective shelves and set about pacing around the room in hopes that it would stimulate his memory. The fading colour on the carpet was evidence to just how habitual the action had become for him.
Over by the single window, thick drapery drawn over it, his ancient typewriter sat on his old oak working desk waiting for his return. Normally orderly, the rest of the polished wooden surface was littered with loose leaflets of all sizes, some of thicker stock card and others tissue-thin.
He turned on his heel and paced across to the other side of the small room which while being the most spacious enclosure in the townhouse doubled as his bedroom and study. Bookshelves lined the two of the walls. In addition, the extra table and chairs for when he had company over occupied most of the available space. Catching sight of his large poster bed, he considered for a moment the thought of replacing it with something more practical. The memories associated with it which surfaces now and then only spurred him towards this decision.
Somehow though, the thought had a peculiar edge of déjà vu to it. Perhaps he had considered it before but hadn't gotten the time to throw the damn thing out. This time for sure then, he affirmed mentally.
A low grumble from his abdomen brought his attention to a more pressing issue. His feet automatically brought him to the door while he was still deep in thought about the new development he wanted to incorporate in his current novel-in-progress.
Only when his eyes focused and become aware that he was staring at a bare side table in the dingy hallway did he become taken aback by his actions. He felt a little silly standing there, entirely expectant that a hot meal would be waiting for him there. Surely that was foolish thinking yet it felt, to his subconscious, plausible.
Stretching, Arthur stepped out into the chilly hall and was heading for the stairwell when his ears perceived some sort of incoherent disturbance further up the hall. Steeling himself for the possibility of a break-in, he crept towards the source of what he could now distinguish as talking.
Upon reaching the bedroom door which swung smoothly and soundlessly open under his touch, he peeked inside the unlit room.
Illuminated against the artificial glow of the computer screen, a youth sat at the desk tapping away at the keyboard. It was difficult to see who it was in the poor light. Unwittingly he pushed the door further open, allowing the light from the hallway fall across the unaware figure.
"D-dad?" the youth started, ripping the headset off. Eyes having adjusted marginally to the darkness, a few seconds passed before he registered the face as familiar.
Ah.
"Is everything alright, dad?" Matthew repeated a shade more quiet, pushing back his chair so he could stand up. The computer screen was subsequently turned off.
"No…nothing, my boy," Arthur managed, catching himself. "I was just going down for…something to eat."
At this the teenager glanced at the alarm clock sitting on the end of the desk, panic quickly overcame him.
"Oh, I'm so sorry! I-I lost track of time. I hadn't realized it was this late…"
Also taking a gander at the time, Arthur too was surprised that it was so late, far too late for a proper dinner. His stomach protested again to remind him that it cared little for schedules and the human concept of time.
"I'll go heat up the leftovers from yesterday night's dinner, if-,' here Matthew faltered, hands finding the hem of his sweater nervously and deep blue eyes cast to the side, 'if that's alright with you, dad."
"That will be splendid."
Without further ado, the pair descended to the kitchen, Arthur taking his usual place at the dining table and Matthew to the refrigerator and stove. In a matter of minutes, the delicious scent of homemade curry filled the air.
Watching the younger male at work in silence Arthur couldn't help but bring his thoughts to the incident a short while ago. In retrospect it was laughable that he, Matthew's father, could not recognize his own flesh and blood on sight. The more he mulled this over in his mind the stronger the sense of guilt grew in his chest.
The boy had always been unobtrusive by nature, surely the result of Cecile's teachings for he was confident Matthew had not inherited this trait from himself. To even suggest that he got it from his outspoken mother was ridiculous to the extreme. Yet he was almost unnaturally demure and good-natured to boot.
A steaming plate was set before him. Thanking the young man, he accepted the proffered utensil and dug in as politely as he could manage, ravenous.
When was the last time they sat down like this and dined together?
He could not remember off the top of his head. Throughout these years following his retirement from the police force, their interactions had been strained and far in between. In the immediate years following, there was not a single memory that did not involve his typewriter. Almost possessed, the Brit laboured away in front of the contraption, releasing his resentment and stress in the form of literature. The fact they survived with the sole bread winner of the household unemployed had been a miracle. It was truly a stroke of good fortune that his steady and timely stream of letters to the editor culminated in his employment as a columnist.
Silverware clinking against ceramic, Arthur noted his son's slim frame. Matthew had always been on the thin side from what he remembered, most likely due to their frugal living and tight budget. Still it came across as a tad odd to him, having a stockier physique that, while far more slender than his brothers, was naturally filled out and his wife was even more so, big-boned and a broad chest, all heart, of course. Matthew, now, willowy was the best word to describe him. It worried him some, hoping that his growth hadn't been stunted.
Guilt made a stab at his conscience. They were family, father and son at that. It was pathetic that he couldn't name a single familial activity they'd done together. The lad's early childhood had gone by without him around and the opportunities for bonding in his youth (before it would become unbearable to live with each other as he had experienced with his siblings and parents) slipped by, disregarded.
Matthew never approached him about it, not once. Instead they maintained a strange coexistence, each dependent on the other, he on the boy's benevolent care and his son most likely on his provision of room and board as well as funds for his basic needs. How easy it was to view it in this light, a curt unspoken business exchange of goods for services.
Maybe Matthew hated him, his distant unloving parental figure. That seemed logical, he thought bitterly and in an instant, pretty much accepted it as fact in his mind.
They could hardly be called a family after all.
The silence that bore down on them was awkward he realized after a time, though Matthew seemed quite content, even happy, about this arrangement. Feeling compelled by his musings to start conversation and perhaps grasp at the possibility of reconciliation, he inquired offhandedly,
"So who were you talking to?"
Metal ringing resounded in the kitchen, the slim teenager looked up briefly eyes wide then back down to his empty plate.
"N-no one…"
"I see."
And so ended the conversation.
Well, that went well.
Of course, it could be the lad's best friend for all he knew, he faintly recalled a cheerful brunet boy who appeared on occasion in their home. Washing down the meal with a mug of cold water, Arthur, dispirited, did not try again at starting a conversation.
There were some things you couldn't overcome after years of ignoring one another.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
—Paris, France
Brushing his desk clean of bread crumbs, Alfred occupied his time with refreshing the internet browsers he had open while he waited for Matthew to return.
At long last, the creak of a floorboard sounded in his headset, signalling his Skype buddy's return.
"—sorry about leaving so suddenly," said Matthew in his usual quiet, breathy voice.
"Yeah, well, I could've done without that loud noise when you took off your headset and dropped it on the desk."
"O-oh, I'm sorry I didn't mean—"
"Hey, man. It was a joke, calm down," Alfred chuckled, leaning back into his padded computer chair. The swivel joint squeaked from the movement. "Parent trouble?"
"…yeah…my dad doesn't normally come ou-, um, come into my room. I guess I should have closed my door…"
"You should lock it next time, man. If you don't want your dad barging in on you." From his lounging position, Alfred could see the digital screen of his radio alarm clock on the side table. The fluorescent red block numbers gave the time: 1:27 AM. It was getting fairly late.
"My door doesn't have a lock…"
"What? Seriously? Why not?"
"Fire hazards I guess, we've never really renovated the place so…"
"Speaking of locks, just a sec, Matt." The British boy uttered a quick 'okay' before Alfred slipped his wireless headset off and muted his microphone. The silence in his spacious room was deafening, interrupted only by the faint buzz of the PC's internal fan. His eyes swept over to the closed bedroom door.
With a groan, Alfred rose from his seat and dragged his feet to the white wooden door. Any time now, his own father would return, reeking of alcohol like he'd gone swimming at a brewery. From experience, he knew that the Parisian man was no light weight when it came to drinking. However, every person had their limit and whenever Francis came home this late in the evening he was sure to be completely and utterly smashed.
The brass knob locked with a click and, for extra security, he dimmed the lights. No need for his dad to barge in here thinking some no-good robber had broken in; the American-raised teen could do without the unnecessary drama that would no doubt result.
After his little chore was done, Alfred returned to his computer desk feeling a little downhearted from the bitter thoughts. Slipping the headset back on, he smiled, hearing his friend humming idly on the other end.
"Hey, Matt," Alfred chirped, unmuting the mic. "When did you say your birthday was?"
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A/Ns: I had intended to develop Arthur and Francis's characters more than I did here which was part of the reason why I left this chapter mostly written but unfinished. I may have mentioned it before but one of the primary focuses of this story is the parental relationships between Matt and Al and their dads (the other being the relationship between Matt and Al themselves) so these types of scenes will probably crop up again in the near future. Next chapter will be more light-hearted though for sure with more fluffy business. There's just not enough AlMatt fluff going around.
I'm not sure which reviews I haven't yet replied to but I promise to be more prompt this time around!
Thank you for reading as always and feel free to drop me a review! I'd love to hear from you!