Faith & Fidelity

by NekoMushi

Arthur was adamant to abandon all of his Catholic preachings upon arriving at boarding school, regardless of whether his parents liked it or not. However, he soon learns that old habits die hard when a familiar American shows up and introduces him to homosexuality. That couldn't be orthodox! Men just weren't supposed to love other men...right? Warning: religion, slight homophobia.

6. Chapter VI

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Chapter VI

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The somewhat fierce rocking of the boat bobbing on the waves could've been enough to lull the boy to sleep had he not been in such an uncomfortable position and if it weren't for the cloying bile he could legitimately feel slithering up his throat. With his legs curled up to his chest as he sat on a rather hard sofa that offered no reprieve for his already aching rear, which had endured over eight hours in the passenger seat of his mother's car, he clutched the fluffy white bear plush seated in his lap as though it were a lifeline, his two wide eyes staring from behind a pair of thick spectacles at the plethora of people milling back and forth. Every couple of seconds, the world dipped, a little more violently than before, and his stomach tilted sharply, adding yet another worry to the rapidly growing list. He kneaded his fingers through the downy fur of his favourite stuffed toy, nervousness making him both clumsy and terribly conscious of how susceptible he looked. He never thought he'd be this anxious alone on the ferry as he'd said his final farewells to his mum, though half of his distress could've been from how the boat dunked and tipped, its speed gradually increasing with every minute that ticked by.

Matthew had never been on a boat before and, if there was one thing he was sure of from the experience of the ground literally moving beneath his feet, he didn't want to travel in such a fashion ever again. His brain was spinning, the front of his forehead pulsating madly as he forced another mouthful of burning bile back down his throat. He could feel the nausea churning in his stomach, producing the most sickening sensation that he'd ever felt before. Nobody had spared him a second glance previously– after all, he looked like just another teenager crossing la Manche to Dover for whatever reason – but he was beginning to feel the concerned stares of both the English and French travellers scorching his skin. It was uncomfortable, and Matthew raised his head uncertainly from its position between his knees, only to meet the gazes of two young women, staring hawk-eyed at his pale skin and the sickly glimmer behind his irises.

If he hadn't felt sick before, he sure felt sick now. He had never enjoyed being the centre of attention. That was Alfred's job. Without a second thought, Matthew rose to his feet, albeit shakily, stumbling sideways at another ferocious lurch from the water vessel, and dashed forwards, stopping only to grab his luggage, including the worn-out case that held his mother's laptop that she'd given to him in order to aid him with his revision, and read the numerous signs pointing in all directions. The words span, jumbling themselves around his head, and he found himself thinking if that was how his twin often saw letters, before he was running towards the front deck, desperate to reach fresh air and freedom before his stomach squeezed out everything he'd eaten for breakfast and lunch. He was lucky, as his escape route wasn't barred by any passengers idling around, and he made it to the glass doors without retching or throwing up in the process of his mad scramble. Forcing one of them open, he dragged himself and his bags through and out onto the deck.

The wafts of clean, open air were a godsend, and Matthew found himself gulping them down ravenously, regardless if anybody thought he was crazy or not. It wasn't as though anyone actually noticed him anyway. They were all too busy, caught up in their own conversations as they leaned over the railings and admired the view of the vast expanse of saltwater stretched out to either side of them. The shy boy had to admit, it was a beautiful view; miles of cerulean blue, deep and seemingly bottomless, rolling and curling over itself in a picturesque ocean display. As he stared, caught up in the endless view, not only did his previous feelings of intense nausea start to subside, cleansed by the unpolluted sea air, something started to rise out of the horizon. Whatever it was, it was barely noticeable, but the more he looked, the more he realized that they were nearing the island of Great Britain.

Matthew knew that when they docked at Dover, he would encounter Alfred again after a month of separation. In the beginning, it had been lonely since, when they'd lived back in New York City, they'd hardly ever done anything without each other. They were twins, after all. The only exception had been their birthdays. Their mother's labour had been difficult, starting late in the evening and lasting through the night. Since Alfred had been turned the wrong way in the womb, meaning he was going to 'come out' legs first, he was born via caesarean, whereas Matthew's delivery was as natural as birthing can get. Due to the complications, the elder of the duo had been born at around half past eleven on 1st July, while the younger followed much later on the 2nd.

Parties and celebrations had always been an awkward affair. It had just been too expensive and difficult if the birthday festivities were one after the other, meaning that Alfred's had been shifted to the 4th – surprisingly, American Independence Day. However, when Matthew looked back on their past, he just saw that it was a cheap consolation, even if his twin had been elated to see the brilliant streaks of red, white and blue dappling the sky at night. When his own birthday had been a wonderful event, complete with cake and gatherings of close friends and neighbours, Alfred's only ever present from their parents had been the opportunity to sit on the roof and watch the Independence fireworks. He'd never complained about it though, despite having never had a proper party. The New York celebrations always were a spectacular sight to behold.

Matthew sighed, leaving his duffle bag to lean against his leg as he stared wistfully over the railing. He was exhausted having been awake since about three o'clock in the morning to depart from Bordeaux. The French countryside had been immeasurable, stretching in every direction as he'd rested his head against the seatbelt and gazed dreamily at the rolling fields of midnight grass, brushing the darkened sky as they zoomed past. The road had been pretty much empty – who in their right mind would be travelling at such ungainly hours? – an endless path of tarmac winding towards the ocean that would carry him far away from his grandparents.

They were generally nice people, with pointed noses and large, glowing eyes. His grandmother had been young looking and somewhat attractive, her sweeping side fringe hiding most of her forehead and grazing her left eyelid, yet scrutiny had proven that her lack of wrinkles and thick, black lashes were caused by luxurious and lavish cosmetic products that Matthew had found sitting on her chest of drawers. Either way, he knew where he and Alfred had inherited their eye shapes from. Though the colours were slightly different, probably thanks to their father's gene, the woman whom he'd learned to call "grand-mère" over the course of the last month definitely harboured a pair of the same close-set eyes that sat upon Matthew's face, as well as a somewhat slim nose that slanted at an almost perfect angle before tapering to a blunt point.

It would have been a dirty lie to say that he hadn't been reluctant to leave them and their marvellous cooking behind, yet something more important had been beckoning him; the prospect of a new school and curriculum, and his twin brother whom he had missed and still missed even now, despite knowing that he would meet him in just less than an hour. Why had Alfred moved to England when he'd gone to France? It was just plain stupid. Were their parents intentionally trying to split them up and pry them apart? Why would they do such a thing? Matthew had been so utterly devastated when he'd heard the news; it had been enough for him to break down in tears in spite of himself. The long weeks spent lounging around his adopted bedroom had been enough to kill him. Truthfully, he was glad for the segregation from his family. His stifling, over-loving, smothering family, who were so proud, so overcome by all of his achievements and so satisfied that he was better than his good-for-nothing, lazy, inconsiderate and wayward brother. Their words, not his.

His grandparents hadn't even met Alfred and they had already started to form their own opinion of him based on Mother's comments. Without going into detail, they certainly didn't think very much of him. Yes, the younger twin was dyslexic and often failed miserably at tests, but that didn't mean he didn't try hard and it definitely wasn't an open invitation for his family – his own flesh and blood! – to prejudge and underestimate him. He was intelligent and creative, boisterous, friendly and hyperactive with a love for everything and everyone. He had always been unique; a peacemaker, a rebel, an opportunist, a daredevil, an optimist, a leader. Why did the fact that he had a slight reading impairment give people the right to make him feel inferior?

It was only when Matthew's grasp on his beloved stuffed toy began to slip did he jolt up, realizing that he'd been falling asleep as he'd daydreamed. The bear, which he'd named Kuma, was dangling precariously over the edge of the boat, staring at the snapping white spray below, and he snatched it back, holding it to his chest as his nostrils flared. The sea would not claim his dear comfort toy. Ever since he'd been little, Kuma had acted as a safety blanket, a warm promise of security whenever he'd been scared. More than once he'd been called out for dragging him around school, but Alfred had been sure to set the provokers right, whether by a few mollifying words or a sucker punch to the jaw. It was only natural for Matthew to miss him, right?

He stared out across the ocean to the skyline, towards the large white structures slowly rising up over the edge of the water. Impossibly pale, the cliffs climbed higher and higher into the sky, bleached white against the background of cerulean blue. The closer the ship sailed towards the gargantuan landmass waiting at the other side of la Manche, the more blanched limestone made its presence known. It was monstrous, a beast forged from dazzling white rock, perfectly pearly and chalklike, reached forwards to swallow the very sea and everything in it, including the bobbing boat. Matthew stared uneasily at the new land, barely noticing the sudden surge of people rushing out to marvel at the natural spectacle. Tourists crowded on the front deck, whipping cameras from their pockets to capture the sight forever in a state of perpetual immobility. The Cliffs of Dover, hm…

Matthew was beginning to feel uneasy again, pressed against the railing by the gaggle of visitors who were anxious to set eyes of the pale stone. It wasn't because he was nauseous though. He was fairly sure that all of his previous sensations and anxieties had been quelled by his undisturbed thought track and the salty sea air. But now, he was starting to get tired of that too. Muttering an excess of "excuse me" and "pardon", he grabbed the remainder of his luggage and trundled back towards the double doors that would grant him access to the inner decks. It was a shame really. He'd wanted to see the famed cliffs yet his reclusiveness and personal space issues inhibited him from doing so without feeling violated.

Having never been the type who indulged himself in physical activities, he found himself struggling with the amount of baggage he had to lug around. Not only was Kuma still nestled underneath his arm, but he had slung his duffle bag over his shoulder and was dragging his suitcase along the floor with all of the strength he could muster. For a few seconds he was immensely glad that it had wheels, however he started to curse that logic when the boat swerved suddenly beneath his feet, and said case was slowly starting to pull him sideways. In an effort to stay on his feet, Matthew leant the other way, squirming constantly to keep his feet rooted in place. However, fortune was not on his side at all that day, for the floor lurched again, sending him reeling to left, stumbling head over heels until he was positive that he would smash through the glass window that overlooked the ocean and tumble into the murky water below.

His headlong fall was broken by something rather hard. Whatever it was, it was also quite smooth, for Matthew found his hands pressed against some sort of cotton material, dyed a rich shade of violet. In the midst of his fall, he must've misplaced his glasses since all he could piece together from the mess in front of his eyes was a distorted assortment of drifting lights, either in clusters or spread out from each other. His world was blurred momentarily, as he heaved himself backwards and started to fumble around on what he assumed was the floor, his fingers running along laminated wooden boards as he tried to search for something to say. He hadn't run into a person had he? But it would look incredibly odd if he apologised to an inanimate object, wouldn't it?

Torn between what he should and shouldn't do, Matthew barely registered the fact that something was being pressed into the palm of his hands. He paused, the hairs on the nape of his neck suddenly sticking on end as he ran his thumb along the wiry metal clutched in his fingers, trying to determine what exactly it was. The look on his face must've echoed how lost and confused he was, for the being who had pushed the mystery item into his hand spoke, his deep voice laced with opulent monotones.

"Excusez-moi? Excuse me, are these your glasses?"

Matthew immediately realised that this person was French, obviously because they had just spoken in France's native tongue to him. It appeased him slightly knowing that this wasn't a foreigner whose language he didn't know, but he was still on guard, knowing that whoever it was, they sounded like a very intimidating male. Murmuring a quiet "merci, monsieur",he shoved his glasses up to his face, squinting as he rested them upon the bridge of his nose and tried to grow accustomed to his surroundings. It seemed that he had toppled over completely, bowling something – wait, no, someone – over in the process. His suitcase lay discarded, wavering on its side, with the laptop case perched on top, as his duffle bag flopped unceremoniously on the floor beside it, looking somewhat deflated. Two other, unidentified, bags lay beside his own; one was hard and rectangular, whilst the other was a simple wheeled case.

As his eyes flicked left and right, searching for anything that would explain his position and the extra baggage, they came to rest on his helper. A young man, it seemed, with rivulets of pale fawn hair trailing over his scalp that looked as though it had been properly groomed with many professional products from its slightly chromatic sheen. Due to its length, he had tied it back in a loose ponytail that hung on the nape of his neck, causing his appearance to be oddly reminiscent of some sort of tree-hugging hippie. All he needed was a peace sign imprinted somewhere on his outfit. Yet, somehow the vibes that were created from both his stylish attire and unconsciously suave gaze, that assumption seemed unlikely.

He was kneeling down, his back hunched slightly as he leaned over into Matthew's personal space, a few flecks of dark facial stubble that dotted his chin glittering slightly from the sunlight slanting in from the window nearby. One hand tentatively touched the floor, helping to steady his precarious position, whilst the other was stretched out in a way that would've been awkward if it hadn't been offering Matthew his glasses earlier. The expression on his face was a mixture of concern and confusion, as though he didn't quite understand exactly what had happened to the person in front of him, and he appeared to be chewing his lower lip slightly, but the action was so miniscule that it was barely noticeable. However, Matthew did notice it because…oh yeah, this guy was literally one centimetre from his face.

Almost immediately, he scuttled backwards, propelling himself via his hands, a long string of jumbled apologies tumbled forth from his half open mouth as he realised that he had just bumped into this person. How he knew this was fairly easy; the purple "thing" that he had become acquainted with whilst he'd been splayed out on the floor previously was the man's waistcoat, wrapped snuggly around his torso and contrasting greatly with the bleached white shirt he was wearing underneath.

"Je suis désolé! I am sorry!" Matthew squeaked loudly, almost forgetting to speak in French. "Oh my gosh, I am so sorry! I just started to fall and – I am really, really, really sorry!"

The mysterious man simply waved his hand dismissively, halting the teen in his rushed monologue instantly.

"Ce n'est pas grave. It's okay," he said simply. "Are you alright? Where are your parents?"

My parents? Why would he want to know where my parents are? Matthew stared at him, dumbfounded, before nodding hastily to confirm his first question. It took him a couple of moments to understand the stranger obviously mistook him for being some years younger than he actually was, like most other people, and he quickly recovered from his temporary state of misperception. Yes, he was often assumed to be a younger teenager thanks to the combination of his hairstyle and large, orb glasses. It probably didn't help matters that he'd been clutching a large, fluffy polar bear toy too; Kuma was lying on the ground beside his hand luggage with an aura of dejection encircling him.

"Uh…" Matthew started. "I – er, I am travelling alone." He was reluctant to admit that snippet of information to the man, mainly because he was unsure of his age. Looking closer, he didn't look too old, but Matthew was still uneasy in his presence.
"I'm meeting my brother in Dover," he added quickly, which was the complete truth. Alfred should have caught a train from Crewkerne and was due to arrive at the port town at around four o'clock, ready to meet Matthew at Dover Priory train station, which was just a half hour walk from the docks.

The man's expression relaxed, silently voicing his relief, which only befuddled Matthew even more.

"Ah, okay."

It was then that he moved, straightening his legs so that he stood to his full height, towering high above the teen still sat on the ground, and reached forward to offer him a hand in getting to his feet. Matthew hesitated, unwilling to outstretch his own arm and accept the stranger's help. Yet, he complied anyway, knowing that it would be rude to refuse, and was pulled upwards where he found that he stood just a handful of inches shorter than his "saviour." The man seemed deterred by his height, and frowned, but otherwise remained impassive.

"Thank you," Matthew murmured, before starting to fiddle absently with his fingers. He wasn't a person of many words.

"It's fine," came the reply. In order to either occupy himself or fill in the awkward standstill in motion, the man began to bustle around, his shoes clicking against the laminate flooring, fetching Matthew's scattered luggage for him by hauling the suitcase into an upright position. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Kuma collapsed upon the ground, but didn't mention anything.
"You – ah…seem a little….well, young to be travelling alone," he commented as he clasped the string of the duffle bag and passed it into the boy's waiting arms.

Once again, Matthew paused, though at first it was to try and piece together exactly what he had said. He wasn't completely fluent in French yet, though he was already past the halfway mark. Once he'd sussed out what the Frenchman had said, he dithered. He didn't particularly want this man to know how old he was exactly, so he continued cautiously, checking each and every word before he eventually formed a sentence.

"Well," he started slowly. "I am going to attend a college." Now that wasn't entirely a lie. After all, the boarding school was called Hetalia Cross College. Now Matthew was completely clueless to the French education system, hence why he just plucked a random word from the corner of his mind. Hopefully, their curriculum was somewhat similar to America's and he could just pass off acting older than he actually was in order to avoid any unnecessary attention. Damn, why did he have to be so paranoid?

"Collège?" Flicking a stray strand of wavy hair behind his ear, the stranger just nodded absently, almost as if he were in quiet agreement with Matthew's explanation. "You must be younger than I thought!"

Oh no, no, no! Why couldn't he just have said that he was attending a boarding school? Why couldn't he have just told the truth? Matthew was so busy mentally scolding himself that he almost forgot to respond to the Frenchman's next question. Said man had just bent over and retrieved Kuma from his place on the ground and was currently thrusting him forward, his face contorted into an expression that would have accented his inquiry had Matthew actually heard it.

"Does this belong to you?" he repeated. Immediately, Matthew flushed, embarrassed at having such a childish item exposed to the public. Nonetheless, he didn't want to see Kuma left anywhere, or worse – thrown in the bin, so he just mumbled "oui" and accepted him with an agitated scowl. Almost instantaneously, he felt a million times better with the soft down between his fingers, comforting and soothing his anxieties.

"Er, thank you…again…"

A long silence stretched between them. It wasn't awkward, just unbearably empty, aching to be filled by words that were eventually presented.

"My name is Francis, by the way."

"Oh, uhm…Matthew….I am Matthew…"

The now-named Francis glanced out of the window to their right, his gaze lingering on the roaring white cliffs, now towering high in every direction, before he checked the silver watch strapped around his wrist.

"I think we are going to be docking soon," he commented before looking upwards towards Matthew. "Would you like to join my sisters and me to get off? Where are you bound?"

The boy took a few moments to ingest this information, and another few to come to a decision. It reassured him slightly to know that this stranger – wait, Francis – had sisters at least (the thought of brothers terrified him), yet he still felt a nervous buzz in his presence. He wondered why this person whom he had just met would be interested in conversing with him further, especially as he had just knocked him over. Maybe he could join them for the offloading of the ferry and then make a quick escape to the train station. Somehow he doubted that their journey would take them to the same region as him. Partially satisfied with his conclusion, he nodded shyly, drawing his foot along the ground and trying to bury his cheeks into Kuma's fluffy fur. Francis just responded with a fluid gesture and started to stroll towards the stairs that headed down to the pedestrians' exit.

From what Matthew could see, there were only a handful of people congregated there. Most of the passengers were still on the outer decks, admiring the view, or they had brought their own vehicles with them and they had no need to take the way out that was specifically for people without cars or buses for transportation.

"If you don't mind me asking," Francis began as they walked, Matthew trying to look as though he wasn't struggling with the amount of baggage he was carrying; once again, his duffle bag was slung over his shoulder as he dragged his suitcase along. This time, he had decided to crumple Kuma away so that he wouldn't be seen in his arms. He couldn't risk further humiliation. "You have a strange accent. Are you not from France?"

That was a surprise, he had to admit. Of course, when he'd learned French in school, he hadn't been taught the proper dialect so it was only natural for him to have an accent, but he hadn't really expected anyone to notice it.

"Ah, no," he started to explain. After deducing that it was safe to mention his birthplace, he continued. "Actually, I am from America."

This time it was Francis' turn to look shocked. He appeared to struggle to keep his mouth closed as his jaw hung open, exposing the inside of his mouth. "America!? Mon dieu! My God! What are you doing here then, in England? Surely, you are not here just for collège? And you are so young too!"

Matthew could barely supress the amusement upon his face, though secretly he was a mess inside. Being quite a socially awkward person, he didn't want to admit that he might've made a mistake by using the word collège. His self-proclaimed companion was making quite a fuss about his alleged age.
"Well, I moved to France just a month ago with my mother," he explained. Francis seemed satisfied with the answer for a few seconds. That is, until something must've caused him to think otherwise, as he narrowed his eyes.

"But, didn't you say you were meeting your brother in Dover? Did you not move together?"

"Um…it's, er…" He faltered, unsure of what to say. It felt like a betrayal to reveal his parents' divorce and financial struggles. "It's…complicated…"

Francis seemed to understand, for he just waved his hand, as though he was pushing the matter away into the atmosphere. "Don't worry," he pacified. "You do not have to explain." Matthew nodded nervously, before scoping the area again. There were very few people standing around the exit. The boat was starting to slow, the odd lurch throwing the passengers off balance momentarily before they repositioned themselves, signalling that it was probably rolling into the docks at that precise moment. Francis was checking his watch again, only glancing up for his eyes to scan the corridor as though he was searching for somebody.
"They said they would meet me here…" he mused.

"Francis!"

The voice was easily distinguishable as a woman's, though it sounded as though the bearer had a bad cold or, at least, a blocked nose. Even before he turned around to look at her, Matthew was fairly certain that she was furious, for whatever reason. Enough so to roar across the deck of the ship anyway. The second he'd flicked his hair out of the way and adjusted his deportment to the point that he could peer over his shoulder at the girl whom had yelled out his temporary companion's name, he was met with a pair of misted olive eyes, both a deep shade of ruddy green that wasn't unlike the grime found in a swamp or underneath the schlock of a rainforest floor. Not that they were unattractive…just…dull.

Whoever she was, she was quite pretty, with a bundle of caramel locks tumbling down in a loose braid over her shoulder, the fringe of which was pinned back by two slim hairpins. She would've probably been more attractive if it weren't for the bookish spectacles, red rimmed, perched on the bridge of her nose that did not compliment her complexion or facial structure much, and the deep-set scowl that made up her mouth. Her long skirt billowed out behind her as she walked, an aura of purpose framing her clacking footsteps, and when she spoke again, all of her words were a fast garble of French and her voice punched the air.

"Where have you been?" she demanded, her haughty question directed towards Francis. "Michelle and I looked everywhere for you! You said you would meet us here half an hour ago!"

Francis could only hold up his hands in mock despair. "I am sorry, Lucille. I must have lost track of time." She did not seem to be mollified by this.

"We have been taking our luggage around with us. This isn't funny!"

"Yes, I am sor–"

"And we have to walk to the train station too! You are carrying my bag." Without another word, she unstrapped a leather satchel from her shoulder and dumped it on Francis instead. It was only when she glanced backwards over her shoulder, as though she were awaiting the arrival of somebody else, did she finally notice Matthew's presence. Throughout the entire exchange, he had been standing stock still, regretting the decision of putting Kuma in his backpack. At first, she only stared at him, wondering why he was in such close proximity to them when he had the whole ship to wander around. However, once she had just made the decision to speak up and ask of his business, another girl joined them.

Considerably shorter than the other two and clad in much more vibrant colours, which contrasted significantly with her light mocha skin tone, she looked more than a little bit out of place as she lugged what must've been her own baggage with her. Matthew was doubtful that she belonged to the label of "Francis' sisters", mainly because she hardly looked anything like him, what with her dark hair, warm copper irises and broad, rounded nose, yet recognition flashed upon the Frenchman's face once he laid eyes on her, and he smiled widely. She seemed diffident to return it.

"Francis," she began, frowning, her voice harbouring an agitated edge. "Where were you?"

"Ah, Michelle!" came his response. "I just got caught up with something, that's all. Have you seen the shops?"

"Yes, too many times, thanks to you. You just said you were going to the cafeteria!"

"I know, but something came up –"

"Who is this?" Lucille's voice silenced both of them, and Matthew realized that, as he'd been trying to follow their conversation that she'd been scrutinizing him with a hostile glare for the last two minutes. Once he hadn't departed from the scene, she'd guessed that he had something to do with her brother, hence why she quipped in with her own question, mostly directed towards Francis. His gaze lit up like Christmas lights once he glanced back at Matthew, who just tightened his grip on the strap of his bag, feeling uneasy under the inspection of so many people. Check that: three people.

"Matthew!" he chirped. "I almost forgot you were there! Why didn't you say something?"

"I –"

"Lucille, Michelle," Francis interrupted, addressing each of his sisters respectively. "This is Matthew. He is attending collège in England."

"Collège?" the smaller of the two girl asked, her brows furrowed. "I thought they had a different education system in England?"

"Oh yes," her brother pondered. "So, he will be going to a high school, as they call it."

"Anyway, my name is Michelle," she purred, her voice smooth as she smiled softly, her cinnamon eyes glittering. The other was a little less welcoming.

"I am Lucille."

"Yes, Matthew," Francis started to elaborate, addressing the misplaced boy with an unexplained warmth in his tone. "These are my two younger sisters."

"It is good to meet you." Before he had time to take a breath, Francis was talking to his siblings again, explaining that he was from America, hence why he "spoke in a strange way." He was not offended by his words, not at all, but he did find himself shuffling his feet and wishing that he could just get off and start walking to the station already so that he could meet up with his brother. He would feel a lot better after seeing him again.

"So, Matthew," Michelle started, pushing past Lucille to speak to him more freely. "I was in collège too. We might be the same age. I am going into quatrième – ah, wait…er, I think it is Year Nine in England." She looked expectantly back at him, as if hoping that he would say how old he was. Considering Matthew had no knowledge of the French or British education system, other than the fact he was going into his first year of Sixth Form, he was at a complete loss on what he should say, and just stuttered hopelessly for a few moments, praying that something would distract them momentarily. Sure enough, his wishes were heard far above, for an announcement boomed over the loud speakers, first in English, then in French, and the gates by the stairs swung open, motioning that the boat had slid safely into the docks and that it was time to disembark.

"We are here!" Francis yelled, ushering the trio through the narrow opening where they began to descend the winding steps. All that could be heard for a long time was the clunk of somebody's high heels upon the plastic and the distant roar of the engines, as well as the subdued chatter of the other passengers behind them, no doubt heading towards the steps that would lead them towards the lower car park. Luckily, there was no unnecessary pushing nor were there any accidents on the way downwards, so Matthew managed to emerge onto the tarmac unharmed. The glaring sunshine brushed against his face, and he could feel its warmth as he followed the metal signs towards the pedestrian exit.

It hadn't quite struck him yet that these steps, those slow, naturally fluid motions that his legs were making, his jeans brushing against each other as he moved one leg forward after the other again and again, were the first ever steps that he was taking in England. The air he breathed, smelling of an odd concoction of sea salt, petrol fumes and wet cement, that he forced through his nose and into his lungs, belong solely to the island nation that was Britain. Every sight, every sound was a novelty, something he had never seen before. Like the first time he had arrived in France, he felt small and lost, as though one mistake would end his life right there and then. He was alone, standing by the ocean and listening to the sea foam lap against the tarmac. Ships sailed past, oblivious to his turmoil. Seagulls screamed above, circling the cliffs and dive bombing both residents and tourists alike.

He halted in his tracks. Perhaps Matthew's existence was lonesome. He was just a silhouette, an unwelcome figure in a land where he didn't belong. But where did he belong? Was his true calling in the enclosed skyscraper jungle of New York City or the humble town of Bordeaux? Or did he not belong anywhere anymore? Was he a nomad, forced to roam the globe in search of a place to call his own? It was when he stood there, rooted to the spot as he stared straight ahead, his eyes blind to his surroundings, that he felt as lonely as he'd been at least ten years ago when he'd lost sight of Alfred on the playground. Back then, he'd curled up in a ball and started to cry, terrified at the prospect of losing his twin forever. And back then, he'd come bursting out of oblivion, grinning like an idiot as he held a new toy to play with. But this time, Alfred was nowhere to be seen, and Matthew had learnt by now that he would have to fend for himself rather than rely on his twin all of the time.

So he walked again, his eyes clearing and catching sight of a familiar face. He continued towards it, despite his previous precautions and almost – almost – smiled when he was recognised.

"Hey, Matthew!" Francis called, still speaking in French. "I thought you left."

"No, I was just lost," he replied truthfully.

"We should probably get out of here," Lucille suggested curtly, already tugging her suitcase towards the pavement that would probably lead them towards the port town.

"I though you said you were meeting your brother…?" Francis shot him a quizzical look and, for once, Matthew didn't hesitate to answer.

"I am meeting him at the Dover Priory Station."

Michelle noticeably perked up. "The station? We are going there too! We could all walk together!" For the second time that day, Matthew found himself wondering how on Earth she could possibly be related to Francis and Lucille. It was easy to see the resemblance between the latter duo, but she was completely opposite in appearance to both. Nonetheless, he did not mention anything for fear of upsetting her or coming off as rude. He had, after all, only just met these people.

Francis nodded in agreement with the idea, afore lifting all of the luggage he had been saddled with and continuing after Lucille, leaving his other 'sister' to strike up a conversation with their companion. They walked considerably slower than the other two, both unsure of where exactly they should be going. Matthew noted that he was taller than her by quite a few centimetres, but it didn't exactly surprise him. He guessed that she was in her early teens at the most, perhaps around thirteen or fourteen years of age.

"You can speak English, right Matthew?" Michelle asked.

"Yes."

"We started classes when we were younger, but Francis never liked it. He's not very good, probably because he was a lot older when he started learning."

Uncertain of how exactly to respond to the piece of unnecessary information, he just nodded lazily, not entirely paying attention to what the girl said until her tone changed and she brought up the subject of school again.

"You didn't say how old you were," she pressed, and again, he felt an odd sense in the pit of his stomach. He didn't want to lie about his age, he really didn't, especially because he was a terrible liar. If he told Michelle anything other than the truth, she would be sure to pick up on it and quote him later. He had already made a fool himself with the whole collège mix-up – he could only guess that it was a type of middle school, or perhaps elementary. He wasn't keen on the idea of admitting that he'd been wrong, but there wasn't any other way of tackling it. Surely, they couldn't blame him for not knowing much, if anything, about the British curriculum?

"Well…" Matthew began, spurred on by the curious gleam in Michelle's eyes. "I am supposed to be going into a 'Sixth Form.'"

She frowned. "Sixth Form? Like Francis? I thought you said you were in high school?" Oh God, all of the information processed was starting to give him a headache. He could hardly keep up with what she was saying, which didn't help matters.

"Are they not the same…thing…?" He trailed off, furrowing his brows. If Francis was an alleged 'Sixth Former', then he was nowhere near to how old Matthew's earlier assumptions had guessed.

"I'm not actually sure," Michelle admitted, shrugging. "The English have an odd way of doing things. They are weird people. So, does that mean you are the same age as Francis?"

He wasn't entirely sure why, but he felt a lot better speaking to a girl whom he knew was younger than him. It made him feel more at ease with what he was saying. No-one could blame him really; Francis had, at first, looked like a creepy, unkempt thirty-year-old thanks to his unshaved stubble and thick tresses. He even dared to use the word paedophile in the recesses of his brain.

"How…how old is Francis?"

"Seventeen." Holy – ! Well, that shocked him, and that much must've been evident on his face from the amused expression Michelle was wearing. She covered her mouth with her free hand to mask the smile that had started to spread, her lashes fluttering in such a manner that it would've been a seductive gesture had her face not been so babyish.

"I am sorry," Matthew apologised hurriedly. "I thought –"

"Don't worry, don't worry. He gets that a lot. So, are you seventeen as well?"

"No, I turned sixteen in July." She mulled this over for a while, occasionally pulling a face until her expression soured and stayed that way for a considerable amount of time.

"That doesn't make sense. That means you are a year younger than him, yet you are still in Sixth Form?"

Matthew shrugged. "That's what I was told."

"The English are strange. You don't look sixteen at all. I thought you were younger."

"I get that a lot." At that, Michelle laughed, her lips curving into a childish smile as a brook of giggles streaming from her mouth. Her laugh did not suit her since it didn't flow well. Matthew had imagined that it would mimic the sound of ringing bells, but it was broken and disjointed, a sporadic hiccup worming its way in between each breath. The laughter was not beautiful, but it certainly was enough to make him cough to try and disguise his own chuckles.

"Hey, you two!" Francis called over his shoulder, slowing his pace so that he detached himself from Lucille's side and ended up walking just in front of them. "Stop flirting." At once, Matthew's cheeks flushed a bright shade of crimson and his façade coughs changed to semi-violent hacking. Flirting! That had been the last thing on his mind whilst talking to the young girl. Funnily enough, Francis too began to chortle, his eyes flashing mischievously. "You look quite cute when you blush, Matthew."

Whereas his choking fit had started to subside, after the Frenchman's comment, he was snorting again, rubbing his face vigorously with the sleeves of his jumper, as if he was trying to manually wipe away the blush. Had Francis just 'hit-on' him? Seriously? A guy? Hitting on him? Not that he was against the thought of men being together – his twin was gay – but it just caught him off guard. Was that a hint that Francis swung that way too? An odd revelation. And so open! It was almost as if he didn't care at all if anybody knew! Then again, Matthew could've been jumping to conclusions. Perhaps it had just been an innocent jibe, meant to ruffle his feathers. Perhaps it hadn't meant anything at all.

In the end, they strolled at a leisurely pace all of the way to the train station. Matthew had often liked to walk when he'd lived back in the streetlights of New York. There was always somewhere to go in the city, somewhere that he could wander to, away from his everyday life. Not that he ever had any problems. It was more of the problems that were offloaded onto him, such as Alfred's sexuality. He had been the first to know for obvious reasons and the first to understand exactly what his brother was going through, though not entirely. Walking had been a good reliever, a good thinking tool that would set his mind at ease. It was something he felt he could do to conjure up some answers for the difficult questions that faced him back at home e.g "Why me, Mattie? Why do I have to be different?"

Nearly every day, rain or shine, hot or cold, he would leave the apartment to walk through the city – never really going anywhere, but simply going wherever his legs happened to take him. New York was an inexhaustible space, a labyrinth of endless steps, and no matter how far he walked, no how well he came to know its neighbourhoods and streets, it always left him with the feeling of being lost. Lost, not only in the city, but within himself as well. Each time he took a walk, he felt as though he were leaving himself behind, and by giving himself up to the movement of the streets, by reducing himself to a seeing eye, he was able to escape the obligation to think, and this, more than anything else, brought him a measure of peace, a salutary emptiness within.

The world was outside of him, around him, before him, and the speed with which it kept changing made it impossible for him to dwell on any one thing for very long. Motion was of the essence, the act of putting one foot in front of the other and allowing himself to follow the drift of his own body. By wandering aimlessly, all places became equal and it no longer mattered where he was. On his best walks, he was able to feel that he was nowhere. And this, finally, was all he ever asked of things: to be nowhere. New York was the nowhere he had built around himself, yet he realised he had no intention of ever going there again. Because nowhere was a place that Matthew found that he didn't belong anymore. Now, he belonged somewhere, and that somewhere happened to be waiting for him. Whether it were to be his new dorm room in Britain, or an old village in France, or with a particular person, somewhere was where he would always find a place to be.

Why did he think so much? Why did he let his mind wander like that? It only ever made him feel nostalgic and sometimes despondent. After a half hour of walking and chatter, that somehow drifted into English after Michelle and Lucille both agreed that it would better to practice their language skills, despite Francis calling it an "unsophisticated and blasé excuse for a tongue", the station was finally in their sights. Somewhere in the midst of their conversation, Francis had come to understand that Matthew was not, as he'd originally thought, an overgrown thirteen-year-old boy, but in actual fact an AS-level student with aspirations to become a doctor. He had settled considerably from when he'd first learned Francis' name and accepted the fact that they were more than acquaintances now, and was starting to mentally prepare for their farewells, since he had a feeling that they would be catching a train that would take them to this far-off boarding school that they had mentioned.

He was also starting to understand that Alfred was probably close-by too, if he wasn't late. Matthew would've put that past him. He had never been an organised person, nor was he skilled at time management or reading anything other than a digital clock. Nonetheless, he found himself itching to see him again, though not much time had passed since their good-bye in the terminal at the JFK airport. He'd probably have to get used to some separation from his twin whilst he was at Hetalia Cross College, just to avoid any unneeded stress in later lifetime.

"What time is our train, Lucille?" Francis asked as she started to rummage through her reclaimed satchel, probably searching for documents. In spite of Michelle's earlier words about his English, he actually spoke quite well, though he made no efforts to try and lift his heavy accent, which was probably why so many people had thought he was speaking gibberish when he'd asked for directions.

"It's going to arrive in about fifteen minutes," she said, pulled out three pieces of paper. Matthew was instantly reminded of his own documents, and slipped off his duffle bag to prod around for them before Alfred arrived. The station wasn't too big, but there was a surge of people flooding through the doors, no doubt from the ferry that had just docked. Most squeezed into the available seats, checking and rechecking their luggage over and over again whilst others fussed around by parking metres to check how many days their stay would be.

"What time were you supposed to meet your brother?" The sudden question surprised Matthew as he was so busy try to sort out his bags, and he had to ask for it to be repeated. Francis obliged patiently.

"Oh, he should already be here. I just can't see–"

"MATTIE!"

People could never seem to get enough of interrupting him that day, he thought, as he inwardly brightened at the sound of that oh-so familiar voice screeching his name. Out of nowhere, a bright streak of brown barrelled into him, effectively knocking him off of his feet and punching the breath from his lungs. The one downside of having a brother that played football: he was damn good at tackling, and it seriously hurt. Over the sound of his ribs gradually being crushed, Matthew could hear the endless babbling of his overenthusiastic twin and the mirth dripping from every syllable as he explained how kind his grandparents were, and how they'd given him so many gifts before he'd gotten on the train at Crewkerne, including a super old leather jacket that one of their ancestors had worn during World War Two and a brand new laptop so that he could study, and how he had spent most of his holiday staring at the cows in the field by his bedroom window…

Matthew laughed, chortles trickling through his lips as he tried fruitlessly to pry his twin's arms off of his waist.
"It's good to see you too, Al."

…xXx…xXx…xXx…

If there was one thing that Arthur hated more than anything else in the entire world, it was public transport. One: it was difficult to get a decent internet connection, if any at all, and when he did, it was often so weak that the web browser he was surfing would either show a message along the lines of "this page is not available" or it would shut down entirely. Two: the stench. Why was it that, even when he tried so hard to choose a comfortable place where he was sure that no tramps had sat before him, the familiar smell of shit managed to invade his nostrils and was so damned poignant that he could still feel the putrid warmth flooding through his nasal passages even when he tucked his nose into his jumper or breathed into one of his sleeves. And three: people.

There were all sorts of annoying, gross and generally unpleasant people who chose to plonk their arses right next to his, ranging from twats, to wankers, to gits and idiots. In the space of thirty minutes, he'd already been violated by a man who was so unkempt that he could've passed for a tramp (in fact, he probably had been a tramp), a woman whose face resembled a clown's from the amount of make-up she'd slathered over her cheeks and a greasy teenager wearing a McDonald's uniform who smelled as though he hadn't bathed in months. How people could carry themselves through public looking like that, he never knew. But now, thankfully, he was alone, sitting silently and enjoying the bliss of solitude. At least buses weren't as bad as the London tube. Of course he loved London and it's bustling streets, but the bloody underground…Arthur shuddered violently just thinking about it. Why did people think that, even though a carriage what full to the point that limbs and head were still stuck through the killer doors, there was still room for just one more? Were they trying to suffocate everybody with their added body mass, or were they just stupid? Then again, as much as he loathed buses and every other kind of transportation that involved coming into close contact with strangers, he would've much rather sat next to every single twat, wanker, git and idiot in the whole of United Kingdom – scratch that – the world rather than have his father drive him all of the way to York.

Again, the connection failed, and Arthur heaved a sigh, snapping his laptop shut and switching to another means of entertainment. He was supposed to be revising the Elizabethan era, since his yob of a brother, Dylan, had hinted at a few of the topics he might be covering in A-level history, but considering the internet was too busy fart-arsing around to co-operate, he instead started to flick through one of his novels, hoping that the negative vibes emanating from both his infuriated facial expression and generally agitated conduct would be enough to repel any unwanted travel buddies. As one could probably tell, Arthur was not in a very good mood. His final farewell to his family had been bitter and awkward, full of empty words, mainly promises that he was sure to break, and not-quite-genuine lamentations.

His mother had kissed him on the forehead, confusing and leaving her middle son gawking at the suddenness of her act, and then proceeded to gush about how much she was going to miss him. Huh, she barely even registered his presence around the house anyway! Arthur doubted that her words had been true, yet the sincerity in her eyes could've fooled anybody. John Kirkland's goodbye had been, by far, the most daunting, ending up to only be stern list of prohibitions and a brief handshake. Each of his older brothers had bid him farewell in their own ungainly ways, somewhat reluctantly, whilst the younger two had just stood by patiently until they were able to wish him luck with the new school. An air of ineptness had hung over the family until he'd left, taking a quick detour towards the stables to throw his arms around Crumpet's neck for one last time and collect his guitar from its home nestled into the confines of silage. That alone had been enough to render him despondent for the rest of the journey; the misunderstanding in the mare's eyes as she sensed his sadness and nuzzled his chest, seeking answers and the loud whinny that she had screeched as he'd turned his back on the stone structure and walked across the field towards Chard.

The walk to the usual stop where he'd catch the school bus had been long and tedious, following the well-worn path spindling downwards through the hills and valleys, and eventually cutting through the forest. Whereas the trees had been in full bloom the last time he'd set foot there, emerald leaves blossoming on the branches up high, twisting and turning in the summertime winds, this time they'd looked so much older, with thin limbs boasting clusters of crinkly brown foliage. The bark had been worn and dull, long gashes ripped downwards as though a grotesque beast of some sort had dragged talons through the trunks of every tree. It hadn't rained much throughout the course of the month, hence why the vegetation littering the floor had crunched with each footstep Arthur had taken, leaves of deep auburn, golden and burgundy curling up and touching the sides of his shoes and cracking down the middle.

Sure enough, following a brief wait, a desolate bus to the town had pulled up, it's doors folding open with a sigh. After spending twenty minutes staring absently out of the window, he'd arrived in the town centre where he had caught another bus, more suited to long distance travel that wound north-eastwards to Bristol. And after sitting for just under half an hour on said vehicle, he was already sporting a mild headache and was displeased with the majority of the public. Somewhere, towards the back, was a gaggle of young woman discussing various feminine matters that he did not care in the least about with voices so uproariously loud that they could probably be heard all of the way in London. He furrowed his brows and just sunk deeper into his chosen novel for the journey – 'War and Peace' by Leo Tolstoy, which counted as history, he guessed, since it was set during the Napoleonic Wars – choosing to completely detach himself in the pages.

Reading never failed to extinguish his worries and fears, which is why he indulged himself in books so much. It didn't particularly matter which book he read, as long as it was something with a decent plan and respectable descriptions, for there was something immensely satisfying allowing one's mind to become a chant that echoed the essence of the story completely, constantly shifting and changing to the flow of the plot. Each word embedded itself in Arthur's subconscious, creating a mantra of sorts and rolling onwards at different lengths. Each sentence became an atmosphere, a setting, whether it was a dull undertone of melancholy or a barren winter wasteland that offered nothing but dry, power-snow and the promise of death. And every book became a world beyond reality, somewhere new (or sometimes old) to escape to. Sometimes the world was better than actuality. Other times it wasn't. But it was always – always – a haven of its own where one could lose themself for all eternity.

The seat dipped slightly, and Arthur glanced upwards, his novel-induced intonation shattered as he glared at the offender. A man, looking well past his sixtieth year, with wrinkled flesh and skin so papery thin that it was too easy to see the web of veins and the shape of bones beneath. For someone so old and frail, the teen had to wonder why on Earth he wasn't sitting closer to the front of the bus, yet when he looked, he saw that he couldn't. In the time that he'd been following the tales of some Russian aristocrats, most of the seats had been claimed by groups and couples who chatted mirthfully as if nobody else in the world could hear them. Arthur's wristwatch read that a half hour had passed. How times flies…he thought sullenly. If he wasn't careful, he might end up in bloody Cardiff by accident.

Though he wasn't too pleased at having to share his double-seat space with somebody else, he could hardly snap at the geezer to get up and sit somewhere else. He wasn't that cold. Suddenly bored with the tone that the book followed along, and unwillingly to allow himself to slip across the Channel without being aware of it, Arthur propped himself up on one elbow and stared out of the window. The bus was stopping more frequently, no doubt to drop people off at different points and pick up others to take into Wales. All sorts were boarding, though he couldn't give a damn about them. In fact, it was starting to infuriate him again, the constant halting. The outskirts of Bristol weren't really much to look at; just houses, after houses, after houses…

Despite living in the countryside for most of his life, Arthur had been to many, many cities, including London on numerous occasions. On good days when he was chipper and not-so socially reluctant, he had rather enjoyed wandering around Trafalgar Square and admiring the intricate confines of Westminster Abbey. But on bad days, he loathed everyone who came within three inches of him, which was basically everybody on the tube and half of the people on the streets. When he'd been younger, he recalled the weekend breaks his family and he would take, as a treat, to walk the winding streets of England's capital. Once, they had even decided to go on the London Eye, though Arthur hadn't enjoyed that very much. He had been just past eleven years old and the whole family had squashed into one stall, waiting patiently for the oversized wheel to carry them upwards so they could stare down at the Thames, a blue artery that slinked in between skyscrapers and apartment blocks. Peter had wailed and cried, clinging onto the ever-nonchalant Dylan as fat tears had streamed down his cheeks. Cillian had complained and spent the duration of the ride scowling irritably, though the glimmers of humour behind his eyes had not gone unnoticed, whilst Allistor had tried to quell the anxious Connor by grasping his hand. And Arthur had just sat there, trying his absolute hardest not to scream, not out of fear or excitement – moreso frustration.

He was fairly sure that he wouldn't be going on that attraction again. It was expensive, as most of London was anyway, and the Brit would've been uncomfortable going up that high. He wasn't scared of heights, of course not! They just unnerved him. He could climb an oak tree well enough, even when he was bat-shit drunk. Ah, he would miss that oak tree, just like he would miss his nightly raids. Yet, he wouldn't miss his drunk-buddy companions, nor would he wish for his family's company. In fact, that probably ranked at around number ten of the things that he desired least.

The bus rolled to yet another standstill, the engine vibrating the whole of the back half. The world outside was mainly grey from the pavement, but the bursts of colour from several buildings proved that they were getting close to the town centre and also alerted Arthur that he should be disembarking soon so that he could get something to eat for lunch (his stomach was starting to feel a little bit empty) and catch his train. After shoving 'War and Peace' back into his hand luggage, and rootling around until he located his all-important train ticket, he began to muse listlessly. It seemed that others were stirring in their seats as well, preparing to get off and continue on their own journeys. That fact didn't particularly faze Arthur. Whether he was the only person departing or not, he simply did not care.

"Excuse me," he muttered to the elderly man and, without waiting for an answer, he slid past him, trying not to smack him with his satchel. He would have to make a note to try and purchase a mobile music device, such as an iPod when he had some spare time. He enjoyed reading, yes, but doing so whilst sitting in a moving vehicle full of hot breath from people talking excessively gave him a headache. Besides, it wasn't like he could boom his favourite tunes from his laptop whilst on public transport, partly because it was rude and inconsiderate, but also because…oh yeah, there was never any internet. The teen found himself wedged between two monstrously tall men upon emerging into the isle. It was times like these that he sourly wished he was just that little bit taller, just so that he did feel so compressed. Claustrophobia wasn't that big of a deal to him, but he could feel his guitar getting crushed into his back. Perhaps he should've asked the driver to put it in the hold with his wheeled suitcase…then again, there was no way he was getting separated from one of his most prized items.

The fresh air was sweet and clear after spending so much time in a cramped space. Arthur hoped that the train would boast a larger area of breathing space. He nodded to the driver after he was handed his suitcase and started to trundle down the main street. The amount of beings bustling about was few, yet the restaurants were packed to the brim, as expected since it was just past two o'clock. As he weaved his way in and out, following signs hacked into walls and strung on streetlights that pointed towards the train station. The whole concept of leaving was enthralling to him, but truthfully, he was not looking forward to the long haul train journey that would take him from one corner of England to the other. Arthur just wanted to arrive at the boarding school already so that he could unpack and just get settled. The views from the train wouldn't enlighten or inspire him – he saw enough countryside from his bedroom window.

Carrying only ten pounds, in the form of loose change in his pocket, he decided that he would just buy a sandwich and some bottled water for the train since most of the cafes were either too closely crammed for comfort or much too expensive for his budget. He wasn't really that hungry anyway, so something small would easily suffice. The remaining walk must've been a blur, for the next thing he knew, he was inside the station, the tips of his fingers hovering over a collection of silver buttons on a vending machine. His chosen food was propelled forwards by the metal wires, and dropped to the bottom with a thump, and he collected the items with a frown, as though he was unhappy with his selection, before moving on to check the timetables. As expected, his ride wasn't due to arrive for about twenty minutes, so he just flumped himself down in a (stingy) teashop, refrained from ordering himself an Earl Grey as it looked very distasteful, and began to pick at his snack.

The wholemeal bread was cold to touch, and Arthur guessed that the ham inside was roughly the same temperature. His lips started to pull downwards into a scowl. He wondered whether he should've bought something hot instead, but knew it would be a waste to throw it in the bin now, so he ate it anyway. Lacking taste, his meal was less than satisfactory – what had he expected from a vending machine? – and the absence of butter made the dough unbearably dry. It was then that that he was immensely glad for the water he had bought, though the sheer iciness in and outside the bottle was enough to make his throat and fingers freeze. Overall, a bland and uninteresting lunch that he wouldn't leap at the chance to eat again.

The remaining five minutes were just spent digging around for the documents that would grant him access to the carriage he was supposed to settle in and glancing at the orange, pixelated letters flashing on the digital agenda screen every couple of seconds. There wasn't anything to think about or do in that time, and it wasn't as though Arthur desperately needed to buy anything else, so he just sat in silence, a bored look plastered on his face. Finally, after what seemed like years of time dragging past at an unbearably slow pace, a large train started to squeal as it rolled into the station. It was obviously something built for long distance travel from the luxury seats, curtained windows and slick shape, the front tapering to a rounded point so that it was streamlined.

Arthur was already on his feet when it slid to a stop, the tracks screeching bloody murder as, who he assumed was a conductor, leapt out from one of the compartments and waved his hand around for people to present their tickets to him. Unsurprisingly, the Brit was one of the first in line. It didn't seem that there were many people commuting from Bristol to York, though the train was already fairly busy looking through the windows. The inspector was a thin man with a scraggly beard to hide his loose chin and even looser mouth, with glassy eyes that blinked too much. He seemed to eye Arthur more than the train ticket, frowning as though he was unsure whether he should let him board, not because his documents were invalid or inacceptable, but because he didn't look as though he should be on the vehicle at all. Eventually, he let him pass and step inside.

For a brief second, Arthur hovered in mid-air, one foot jumping upwards from the platform whilst the other stretched out in front of him towards the metal floor of the train. For a brief second, contemplation flashed through his mind; is this what I want? To leave home in search of bigger, greener pastures? To leave behind everything that I have ever known? He touched down, his dubious thoughts instantly dispelled as he secured his place upon the road to freedom. This was exactly what he wanted, no more, no less. The scent of fumes rising up from the clanking engines below was sweet and sultry at the same time, almost pleasant. Arthur glanced down the aisle at all of the full booths, and deduced that he didn't want to sit in that carriage afore swinging open the door to the next and checking the availability of seating there. To his dismay, most of the chairs were taken, so he continued, squeezing in between the spaces whilst tugging his case, guitar, hand luggage and laptop with him. It was strenuous, but worth it, he realised, since he'd need every single item that he'd packed for his new education.

After a full two minutes had passed, and the doors had slammed shut, barring his only way out, he chanced upon an empty booth towards the back of the train. Four seats, all clustered around a rounded square table provided a sizeable amount of space for him to read, sleep or do whatever he pleased without the worry of disturbing somebody else. Happy with the outcome, Arthur nabbed it before anybody else could by gently laying his beloved guitar case on the chair that he had hopes of claiming and started to push his suitcase up into an overhead compartment. By the time he'd settled, plonking his arse down, the train was in motion, gradually picking up speed as it hurtled down the track. Of course there would be some other stops at other towns to drop off and pick up others, but he was particularly fussed about them. As long the vehicle didn't get too crowded, Arthur would be perfectly fine.

The motors whizzed, audible throughout the train, and it started to groan, as though it were straining to pump itself faster. The floor creaked and windows rattled, grey, urban streets passing by. As stated before, there was nothing interesting about Bristol's roads to the Brit, nor was the English countryside a fascinating substitute, for he saw it every day in all its glory, so he paid no heed to the view outside and just went back to his book. Since a train never had to halt for the traffic, and each turn was smoother than on a bus, Arthur didn't feel quite so nauseous whilst reading, which proved to be a very good thing as he could scan through a substantial number of words in a short space of time. However, the reason behind why he was flicking through the pages at a million miles per hour probably wasn't down to his impeccable reading ability. His mind was beginning to wander, confirmed by the dreamy glaze to his eyes. Truthfully, instead of fretting over his favourite character's fate in the depths of the intricate plot that Leo Tolstoy had woven, was thinking ahead about much more modern things.

According to Hetalia Cross College's website, which he had practically read over a billion times, it sat close to the border with Northumberland, which was, in turn, right next to Scotland. In fact, very close. Though it was in a rather remote area, among hills and dales, valleys and streams, forests and meadows, places like Edinburgh, Glasgow, Carlisle and especially Newcastle were within day-trip distance. Though he wouldn't be so happy to be close to his full-of-shit brother, Allistor, he doubted that he would ever have the misfortune to meet him if he ever did decide to pop into Scotland's capital for a day or two. Perhaps he could buy some tweed. He had the money for it, definitely, whether he'd swindled it from under his siblings' noses, been granted it by his oh-so-lovely (cough) parents or saved it up from eons and eons ago, he had a crapload of cash to spend how he pleased, all bottled up, nice and safe, in his bank account. As long as he didn't misplace his wallet and card details, he would be fine.

Tweed, as he knew, was an expensive material costing over one hundred pounds per item of clothing, but very durable. His father owned tweed – suits, waistcoats, even trousers. It wasn't say, the most attractive of fabrics, yet when fitted and coloured correctly, it made for very dashing, gentlemanly attire. Arthur didn't particularly count himself as a gentleman (yet), what with all of the illegal activities that he indulged himself in after dark, but he could still try and be a civil human being. Gentlemen were allowed to drink and smoke, just as any other members of the public were. They weren't limited to walking around with metal canes slung under their arms and handkerchiefs stuffed into their pockets, nor were they required to own and wear monocles. Although, all of those things were definitely contributing factors.

On the subject of clothing, he had to admit that he probably wouldn't wear tweed anywhere other than a fancy night out at a top-notch restaurant. And why would he ever want to go on a fancy night out at a top-notch restaurant when he could enjoy himself much more in the company of a strong, refreshing beer and a sweet ciggy? Denim and cotton suited him just as well, if not better...now he was starting to sound like an addict. That would have to be rectified, Arthur decided, before he got himself caught up in a swirl of debt and delightful lung and liver conditions.

The train rumbled to a stop again, presumably in Gloucester. Arthur didn't care enough to check. Wherever they were, it wasn't York yet. The Bruit just continued to read, too bored to do anything else lest he wanted to just stare aimlessly out of the window at familiar landscapes and lose himself in thoughts about boarding school. He'd pondered far too much on the subject already though, and he feared that if he dared to let his mind wander down those corridors again that his brain would sizzle and shrivel into nothing.

"Excuse me."

Since the train was starting to groan into movement, Arthur hadn't really expected anybody to be speaking, and the voice itself was so quiet that he would not have noticed it had he not spotted a sudden flash of bright colour in the corner of his vision. When he looked to his right, he found himself staring at three vividly clad teens. He could not tell who had spoken, yet they all looked expectantly towards him, as though they were waiting for a response. One stood more forward than the other, more prominent in his crimson red garb, which looked like some sort of a whimsical robe, complimented by a pair of simple jeans. His skin was the same colour of parchment, his nose and face as flat as his posture was elevated, though he was rather small himself. Despite looking like he was no more than eighteen, his expression seemed as solemn as a man of sixty and his eyes were filled with their own department of mysteries. Incalculable puddles of sadness, the distance between them and Arthur's own gaze was a mixture of both misery and questioning. The stranger did not seem to be a particularly despondent being, just discreetly challenged by his own discreet mystery.

Beside him, and dressed not nearly as ceremoniously, was a younger teen still, with a mop of swept-back brunette hair and a pair of equally dark eyes, but not so foreboding. They were quite the contrary actually, alive with untamed energy and light that could've been birthed from a billion-and-one fireflies. Clad in an off-white jumper with sleeves so long that they hung off the edge of his hands so that only his fingertips and thumb was visible and some ripped, baggy jeans, he looked out of place compared to his two companions. The zeal in his eyes reminded Arthur of somebody he knew…oh shit, not that damned Yank again. He should not, could not, and would not think about Alfred F. Jones for the remainder of his educational "holiday" – no, scratch that – the rest of his life. It was bad enough that he'd actually decided to shove the idiot's stupid jacket into his suitcase, mostly because he didn't want his mother to go probing around his room (which, thankfully, he had decided to purge of all the empty cans, bottles and cigarette boxes) and ask him where he'd gotten the bloody thing from, why it was too big for him and why it was so dirty. No, he hadn't thought to wash it, nor did he ever want to.

All thoughts of the American aside, Arthur's eyes flickered to the final member of the trio, a petite boy with eyes too big for his forehead and too murky for his complexion and a bowl-like haircut. Deft fingers clutched a briefcase, his arms hidden by a baggy shirt which in turn was overshadowed by a navy jumper-vest. Dressed formally, the Brit himself had to wonder what he was doing a train headed to York, via a couple of other townships and cities, and why exactly he was in such apparel as he looked quite young. Well, he could talk. He was often seen in similar clothing when bustling around the house, so it wasn't as though he could complain. All of them had similar facial structures, leaving him to wonder whether they were related, yet there were some very distinguish features that the latter two and the previous did not.

Either Arthur was unwilling to reply or he had not quite caught the question that had been asked as he'd been staring dumbly at the newcomers, but he did not say anything. Eventually, the one with the briefcase offered his voice up again.

"Uhm…there are no other seats in the carriage. May we sit here?"

Like his deportment, his voice was also slight and he had the slimmest of accents that merged his vowels together in the queerest of ways, though it was barely detectable. But Arthur, trained in the fine arts of proper linguistics by his own mother, could pick up quirks in an accent quite well. He may have been wrong, but something told him that this person wasn't native to Britain, and that wasn't just down to the fact that he didn't look Caucasian either.

He was reluctant to give up his perfect little space, however he knew better than to be rude and just shrug them off. Following a hasty scan of the carriage that did indeed confirm that every other seat was taken, he could only frown. The trio didn't look that bad. He guessed he could survive sitting next to them for the next five hours of the trip. His fury at the public had started to die down a little bit, just enough to let himself be lenient.

"Yes, yes, of course," Arthur finally replied, scooting over towards the window to reinforce his statement.

"Thank you."

That time, the tallest of the trio in the scarlet robe spoke, and it was he who settled in the seat beside the Englishman, leaving the other two to shimmy into the other side of the booth, squashed by the table placed in between. The silence that settled was rather awkward, a sheet of quiet that muffled all sound produced, until it was like people were scarcely breathing. Arthur didn't dare to separate his gaze from the words on his page. The hum of the engine was deafening, the only voices heard from the booths in front and behind theirs. He was barely concentrating on the plotline at all. He didn't like this sudden proximity; it had caught him off-guard and there was something…off about it. After ages of limited noise, somebody spoke.

The words were a slur of a different language entirely, chock full of odd, wonderful sounds and a mangle of vowels hanging off of each other. Immediately, he looked up, his attention directed at the speaker. It was the less formally dressed, nudging a severe looking youth who sat across the aisle in a two-seat space. His voice was loud, yet thin, as though he were talking through a trumpet, for it bellowed outwards only when it reached its target. The language he spoke suited him well, he thought subconsciously, for it seemed that every word was shaped to his mouth and demeanour perfectly. In spite of its natural flow and optimism, Arthur definitely wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of his speech.

The boy's object of attention glared irately at him whilst an attractive young girl beside him startled to giggle, her laugh teetering dangerously on breaking the highest octave. Then, she responded, her dialect peeling easily off of her tongue and Arthur found that he still couldn't distinguish which language they were speaking in. Their antics were starting to draw attention from the other passenger's as well, and ultimately, the small cluster of chattering teens were silenced by a sharp string of words from the Brit's neighbour's mouth. He had a surprisingly harsh dialect, making him sound probably thrice his real age.

"I am sorry," said the boy sat opposite Arthur, clutching the hem of his shirt sleeves nervously. It was only when he realised that this one was talking in English that he understood the apology was directed towards him. The blond remained impassive for a few seconds, the sentence running through his head several times before his expression changed to one of complete confusion.

"Er…pardon?" he asked, furrowing his brows.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his face betraying virtually no emotion. This time, however, he gestured towards the boy next to him. "For their audacity. My brother can be very loud. Thank you."

First he apologises…then he thanks me!? Arthur just stared, however rude it was, at the stranger as though he was mad.

"It is…er –" He faltered, unsure of how exactly to react to the statement. "It is…quite alright. I don't mind."

"I am Honda Kiku, but please call me Kiku."

If Arthur hadn't been surprised before, he was surprised now, eyeing the hand outstretched towards him with distrusted bafflement. Each finger was pale and long, with elegant, yet untrimmed, nails reaching forwards for acceptance. There was no reason for this person to tell of his name, but he did regardless, and offered a polite smile as well as a handshake. Such odd behaviour.

"Ehm…" the Brit began, reaching forward tentatively. "Arthur. I'm Arthur Kirkland." Once again, the sudden introduction brought back memories of another odd encounter back on the country roads outside Chard when the moon had hung in the sky…he angrily pushed the memory of Alfred's arrogant grin to the back of his mind.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Kirkland-san."

Wait…what?! Arthur stared, total bemusement taking up most of his face. Kiku's hand was cool to the touch, yet fitted loosely with his own. Their fingers were too delicate for each other, and they both appeared to have the same notion that they might break. However, much unlike the other's smooth fingers, Arthur's tips were hardened and even calloused from years of allowing them to roam over guitar strings and from pulling harshly on horses' reins whenever he when riding. A small difference, but noticeable. The contact was short, if that.

"Likewise," he responded graciously. "Please, call me Arthur." He did not understand what that final snippet had been on the end of his surname, but he decided to brush it off as just a simple slip of the tongue.
Kiku seemed surprised for a brief second, but the sentiment was gone just as soon as it came.

"Ah, okay, Arthur-san."

There it was again. 'San?' Before he could question further, Kiku's alleged brother nipped in with his own sentence, yet it was not in English so Arthur did not comprehend. Instead, he just listened the jumble of strange words manifesting in the air between them. They seemed…different to how he'd spoken before, the words more focused around punitive consonants and soft vowels. They didn't sound as listless as before…in fact, angrier, though the speaker's expression did not show rage. He was smiling. After he'd finished, Kiku murmured his own sentence, bringing his brother's attention to Arthur. He instantly felt uncomfortable, feeling the eyes of both the person next to him and the two others on the other side of the gangway on him. It made his skin crawl in the itchiest of ways.

"Hi!" Now he spoke in English, waving his over-sleeved hand out in front of his face as an accented gesture of melodramatic friendliness. "You've met my older brother, Kiku? He's a bit of a drag, but he's cool. I'm Yong-Soo, but just call me Yong."

His voice literally beat the air between them, its baseline so intense that Arthur could feel the atmosphere strengthen with every word that he said. "Yong" didn't offer his hand and neither did Arthur, but there was no love lost between them. He hardly even knew who he was!

"So, you're name's Arthur?" Yong-Soo continued. "Nice! Why're you going to York?"

"Yong, leave him alone," the girl who had giggled earlier piped up, leaning in front of her travel partner so that her voice flowed better across the aisle. Dark, wavy locks pooled from her scalp, thick and luscious and clipped back by a vibrant, blooming flower that was so obviously fake from its immense size. "You're so nosy!"

"What? I was just asking!"

"Yeah, well, don't." That time, the grim figure beside her spoke, his arms folded across his chest in a manner that made him look even more austere than his expression alone permitted. "It's not our business."

"Hmph." Yong flumped backwards in his seat, combing his hair with his hands. After a few moments had ticked by, clammy with an unbearably obstinate silence, even thicker than the one before, the boy grinned widely and moved his attention back to Arthur, who was struggling to understand exactly what had just happened and why a total stranger had complimented his name. His name of all things! "They're a bit of a drag too."

"Hey!"

"It's true!"

And thus a bout of arguing began, drifting in and out of English and an assortment of words from another language, or languages, before the red-robed stranger interrupted again with a tough scolding.

"Ugh. Yao, we're just bantering!" The girl sounded as though she were pouting, though Arthur couldn't see. For a second he thought that 'Yao' would respond in whatever language he had been speaking before, but he didn't, and instead spoke in what sounded like his own tongue of English.

"Stop! You are too loud. You talk like silly Westerner children!"

The pronunciations were mostly incorrect and bit the air, propelled forward by his tongue in a fashion that made him sound like he was always agitated by something. It almost seemed like he was trying to get all of the words out of his mouth as quickly as possible. Even though Arthur struggled to, the girl understood him well enough, for she huffed and he heard the creak of the chair as she sat backwards as far as her position would allow. Holy shit…what the hell is going on?!

"Arthur-san," Kiku started, his quiet speech drifting across the table. "I apologise."

The Brit frowned. "Eh…don't…don't worry about it…"

"This is my brother, Wang Yao –" he directed his speech towards the already-identified Yao, who only glared, his face permanently twisted into a scowl.

"Step-brother," he correct starkly, as though he hated the concept and wanted to spit the word onto the floor and rub his heel on it. Nonetheless, Kiku continued with the extremely unyielding introductions.

"And Wang Li Xiao –" his gaze strayed to the stiff boy across who had reprimanded Yong before. The only movement of acknowledgement he made was a flicker of his tongue to speak.

"Call me Leon." That was all.

"And Wang Lin Yi Ling." Just as he finished, the only female in their odd little party peered around from Leon and waved playfully, an equally impish smile gracing her features. She was a pretty thing, with soft pigmentation and a natural essence of unripe beauty tracing along every contour of her face. Yet Arthur only nodded anxiously, unwilling to interact any more than he needed with these…these…strange, strange people. So bloody weird.

"Everyone calls me Mei, though."

He doubted he would've remembered her real name anyway. The elocution was difficult enough! Yao frowned, his lips curving deeply; he definitely didn't appear to be pleased with what she'd said and shot Arthur an ugly look, pretty much blaming him for this mess. As if he'd asked to get involved in their bizarre conversation! Goodness, he felt so sensitive under all of their scrutiny. Even when their gazes weren't directly on him, he could still tell that they were secretly looking at him from the corners of their eyes. He shifted a little, running his left foot along his right leg. Every movement that he made was under close observation, most openly by Yao. Whenever he so much as glanced in his general direction, he could see the scathing glare scorching through the atmosphere towards him, steam and venom dripping from his eye sockets. If looks could kill…

Arthur cleared his throat, noting that Kiku was wearing a watch. That was good, at least, since he seemed to be the easiest to talk to. "Ah…" he caught his attention with the drawling stutter. "Do you have the time, by any chance?"

Kiku nodded silently, equally perturbed by the previous outbursts, and spared the two ticking wires behind the glass screen a glimpse. "Uhm, it's just past three o'clock."

Bollocks. It was going to be an exceptionally long journey.

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Author's Note

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There are a lot of things to explain in this part, mainly regarding the French education system. Since I am not French, nor do I live in France, I have absolutely no idea what their schools are like, so feel free to correct me if I'm wrong here.

Instead of counting how many years they have been in school, I believe the French count down to when they are going to leave. So, Michelle, who stated that she was in 'quatrième' was basically saying that she had four years left of school. 'Quatrième' is the equivalent of Year 9 in Britain and Grade 8 in America/Canada.

Matthew did use the wrong word when he was trying to explain that he was going to, what he thought was, a college. Instead of saying 'université', which is the French word for university, he said 'collège', which the equivalent of middle school in America/Canada (plus one more year) and Key Stage 3 in Britain (once again, plus one more year). 'Collège' is a school for children aged 11-15.

I think that in America/Canada, college is the same as university, right? So, whereas Matthew thought by saying that he went to college, he would seem older than he really was and deter any unwanted attention from Francis (yes, he did assume that he was some sort of paedophile. That doesn't mean that I think France is a paedophile though. Matthew's just paranoid.)

It all seems very confusing. Gosh, I love making things difficult. Since I've combined the chapters, I'm going to have to bulk all of the information about both the South-East Asians and the French posse together. I regards to ages:

Francis is seventeen (as stated) and would've been going into 'terminale', which is the last year of school in France. However, since he's moving to England, though he is one year older than Matthew, he will probably be taking a course for his AS-levels, just like him, because they wouldn't accept that he had already sat some exams. Basically, he's one year behind where he should be, as are all of the other older students who will be introduced later. Yao is also seventeen and in the same predicament as Francis.

Kiku is the same age as Arthur and also starting his AS levels.

Lucille is fifteen and would've been in 'seconde' in France, but is instead going into Year 11 (though she might actually be taking Year 10 courses to prepare for her GCSE exams). Year 11 is the same as Grade 10. Both Leon and Yong are fifteen as well and, once again, in the same situation. Mei is fourteen, in Year 10, and also starting her GCSEs.

Michelle is thirteen and starting Year 9, like she said. The fact why she looks nothing like Francis or Lucille will be addressed in later chapters.

When it comes to the countries' heights, I like the mix them up a little bit. Also, I don't really agree that America and Canada are exactly the same height because they're twins. I know a pair of twins who have three inch difference in height with each other. I always guessed that America would be around 5 ft 10, France around 5 ft 8 and Canada around 5ft 7. I don't support the fact that a country is as tall as the size of his/her land mass. Can you imagine how midget-y everyone would be in comparison to Russia?! Holy cow.

I'm sorry for the lack of USUK, but at least the story is starting to move forward a little bit now. This is the point where you can suggest some pairings for the other characters. As much as I regret this, I don't think I'm going to turn this into a massive gay-fest because that kinda defeats the point of the story. So, I'm open for hetero pairing suggestions. I can make an exception with Francis, though, because he may or may not be gay/bisexual at this point. Oh, and there might be nyotalia characters…though I'm sure because I don't particularly like nyotalia and I don't know if I could actually genderbend the Hetalia cast.

A big, big thank you to everybody who has reviewed so far. I'm sorry if I can't thank people via personal message because my PMs have been down for some reason

This is the longest author's note ever. Oh, and thank you to everyone who added this fanfiction to their alerts and favourites lists. I really do appreciate it.

16-10-2013: Now I'm at that point where I've caught up with all of my chapters and I can finally relax. I've probably lost half of my reviews from the deleted chapters, which sucks, but I felt like this had to be done. If my calculations are correct…I might have lost seventeen reviews…crap…that makes me feel upset.
Now that I've fleshed out things a bit, and kinda given myself a reason not to update for a while because the chapters will be longer. This means I'll be writing more point-of-views to each chapter, which I hope will be more interesting.

I'm very sorry if you're disappointed or annoyed at the changes, and if there are any mistakes in the editing, please inform me! I'll try to rectify everything as soon as possible. As for now, I'm tired as f*ck and I've been living off of coffee for the last week…so…good night…

Chapter word count: 14,978 words

Total word count (so far): 75,574 words

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Cast

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✯ France as Francis Bonnefoy.
✯ Monaco as Lucille Bonnefoy.
✯ Seychelles as Michelle Bonnefoy.
✯ Japan as Kiku Honda.
✯ People's Republic of China as Yao Wang.
✯ South Korea as Yong-Soo Honda.
✯ Hong Kong as Li Xiao ("Leon") Wang.
✯ Republic of China/Taiwan as Lin Yi Ling ("Mei") Wang.

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Thanks for reading!

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