International politics was an exhausting matter to be involved in. Some days it seemed bearable, albeit tasteless, with every self-centered diplomat attempting to do nothing but gain whatever he fancied, not for his country, but for himself. Other times it was overbearing, and the stress felt like the weight of of a thousand elephants balancing upon Arthur's shoulders. He would feel overheated, bitter, and especially irritable all day, wishing for nothing more than the ability to forget about the problems of the world and simply go home.
Today, however, was especially hellish. It seemed as if the entire globe had inexplicably gone to shit in a matter of hours. Ivan had increased the pressure on Assad, Alfred's election resulted in riots and general alarm throughout the world, OPEC was still attempting to compete with American oil companies, ISIS was making a series of small advances, and global warming wasn't close to being solved - not that many of the other countries cared about that. Not to mention, Arthur still had to work out the technicalities of his new uninvolvement in the European Union, which the world had reeled from for a total of two weeks before forgetting about.
When the man stepped out of the taxicab in front of his townhouse, he was completely spent. He shuffled through the threshold of the building with a deep sigh, shutting the outside world out behind his front door. For a moment he leaned back against it, taking deep breaths to coerce himself to relax once again. It was so damn difficult with the workload he faced, but he knew that stress on this level would affect his health for the worse, and it was critical to lessen its influence as well as he could.
"Welcome home! How was your day?"
Looking up, Arthur found himself staring into the cerulean eyes of the giddy young lad who had been staying with him for a week or so. It wasn't too difficult to look after the boy since he was remarkably self-sufficient, - one had to be when residing in the middle of the ocean - and only seemed to rely on the older man for company. If that was what the child desired, so be it. Arthur had to agree that the solitude he faced out on the open ocean wasn't exactly beneficial to the boy's mentality, and he had promised to take some responsibility for Peter upon their reconciliation a matter of days ago. Aside from that, Arthur felt a moral obligation to start making up for all that lost time, and to right some of the pain he'd unwittingly inflicted upon him by his sheer absence over the years. Now that he realized he cared for Peter, it was time to start properly showing it.
Everyday when Arthur returned home from work, the micronation was there to greet him. He always appeared so jolly when doing so; It was akin to an excitable puppy seeing its master for the first time in a few days.
Unfortunately, Arthur was so weary that he could only produce the ghost of a smile in return. "Oh, hello Peter… It was fine." he answered in an attempt to keep a pleasant tone, but he instead sounded breathless, insincere, and thoroughly drained.
Peter obviously picked up on it, and he watched in alarm and concern as the Brit walked past him, going toward the kitchen. He had known that being a nation involved in world politics was an arduous job, but he had never known just how taxing the vocation was. He'd seen Arthur's return home for only a short period of time, but each time he'd previously walked through the door he was in a condition tremendously better than what he found himself in now. Never had Peter seen Britain so deprived of vitality - not that he was one known for vivaciousness, but even he had a characteristic bitter vigor that made his good health easy to spot. No trace of that rough, distant, curt exterior was visible at the moment, which made the nation appear spectacularly weak.
It was frightening to the boy, whose mind flew to the worse possible scenarios. Had Arthur fallen ill? Had he received some terribly bad news? Oh dear, there was a nuclear war on the way, wasn't there? Or perhaps Elizabeth II had kicked the bucket? The possibilities were horrible and endless.
Despite his concerns being quite numerous and frightening, Peter did not immediately voice them. He instead followed Arthur silently, observing his actions and trying to infer what he could from his demeanor. Under circumstances any closer to normalcy, he would have peppered him with questions left and right, but at the moment he was self-conscious and cautious, not wanting to negatively affect the obviously tired nation.
Arthur stood at the bar in the southern part of the kitchen, which held the stove. He had prepared a kettle of water and was placing it over the fire, opening the cabinet as he did so. After producing a box of British Breakfast tea which he placed on the countertop, he removed his black gloves and turned around, leaning against the bar to look out the window. His eyes were immediately drawn to Peter, and a faint look of surprise crossed his face. He hadn't expected for the boy to follow him, nor had he known he was there, which was a shock considering the fact that Peter hardly ever stopped talking. Upon further observation, Arthur also noticed that he appeared worried, which made him concerned in return.
"Is, ah, is everything alright…?" he questioned, made embarrassed by how intently the boy was staring at him.
"I should be asking you that." Peter responded, his brows furrowed in fret. "You're the one who looks like a malnourished, beaten dog."
Arthur snorted, a bit of his typical spirit returning as he smiled and responded, "My my, how flattering. I see you've inherited my gift with words. A right and proper gentleman, aren't you?"
Peter huffed, crossing his arms in an attempt to accentuate his seriousness. "But it's true! You look fit to die! What did they do to you?!"
Arthur paused, thinking over that question. He knew precisely what those bastards did; They pushed, they shoved, they took, they stole, they sneered, they jabbed, and they lied through their teeth. Some were obviously worse than others, but by and by, Arthur was sick of it all. Sometimes the weight of everything came down upon him, leaving him hopelessly despondent and apathetic for a few days at a time. He'd usually come around through some bout of anger, and end up snapping at some poor soul, but at least the fury would restore the life to him.
He couldn't let Peter know that. The kid looked up to him right now, and Arthur didn't want to shatter whatever image the child currently painted of him.
"Oh, nothing too difficult." he answered, trying to appear more like Great Britain and less like a whipped slave, "It was just a long day. Everyone kept bickering as usual, and nothing got done. I worked through lunch today, so I don't have as much energy a-"
"Then let me cook for you!" Peter interjected, determination dripping from his voice as he stared up at the nation, "I'll make an early dinner, and it will taste good enough to make up for lunch! You'll love it, I promise!"
Arthur was very skeptical of how well this would turn out, and his first instinct was to reject that notion. He didn't feel comfortable allowing the kid to prepare his food, and something told him that toasting poptarts would be more suitable to his level. But stronger than his better judgement was his curiosity. He hadn't exactly been close with Peter since his creation, and a lot has happened in 74 years. Peter was admittedly remarkably self-reliant and resourceful for someone his age, having survived 13 kilometers of the coast of Essex for quite some time. There was also a chance that he'd picked up something from the military chefs that inhabited him through his early years, and it was another possibility that he'd learned the craft in learning to take care of himself. Perhaps he'd be good at this.
Biting back his instincts and conceding to the boy's wishes, Arthur nodded with a small sigh. "Well, if you're so set upon it, I don't see why you don't deserve a chance."
Peter's face lit up, and his eyes gained a delighted sparkle. With an exuberant grin, he proclaimed, "You won't regret it!"
A low whistle began to emanate from the kettle, and Arthur picked it up from the stove, pouring himself a cup of tea as he too began to smile. "I'm sure I won't." he stated, placing his cup on a small saucer and looking back to Peter. "Would you like any help?"
Not surprisingly, the boy was averse to that idea.
"Heavens, no!" he proclaimed, huffing as if insulted. Peter glared up at Britain, pointing toward the living room, "You will go to the lounge, settle on your favorite chair, and relax with your cup of tea while I prepare dinner!"
Arthur stared down at Peter, greatly amused by his command. It was adorable to see such a tiny thing try to be authoritative, and the cute, pretentious little show convinced him to entertain his demand. Shrugging, he responded, "Very well then," and, turning in an unaffected manner, he strolled out of the kitchen. Moments later, he was seated on the antique needlepoint chair in his living room, gazing out the window and sipping his tea as the sun began to lower.
It was nice to relax for once, and simply enjoy what he had. Thinking about it now, Arthur was always a discontented lad in his youth. He'd been so set on exploring and competing with that frog across the channel that he'd hardly ever stopped to consider that which he already possessed. It was an endless race to colonize the Americas, and later, gaining resources from Africa. Some of that imperialistic spirit was born of Britain's natural lack of precious things; He was only a little island, after all, and in order to sustain himself, his people, and become the empire he so desired to be, he'd had to take part in conquest. Mind you, that was no easy task. Most of the places he explored were so alien and seemingly hostile that he was forced to invest his heart and soul into his excursions. Centuries of effort had placed him atop the world at one point, and that period of uncompromised dominance was what made his slip from power so devastating.
But look at Peter! While Arthur was still inwardly bitter over how much he'd lost, this boy was doing nothing but looking forward! Peter had gone his entire life being something far smaller than even the British Isles, and despite so many years of isolation and overall regression, he was still convinced that he was perfectly fine as he was. It was bewildering to Arthur, who had so much more than Peter, but was never quite content. It seemed that there was one thing the micronation possessed that continued to elude Arthur's grasp despite hundreds of years of toil.
Self-acceptance.
Perhaps, with time, the trait would rub off onto Arthur. If he continued to learn from the boy's resilience, optimism, and gratitude, he might finally be able to reach that better place, and fill the vacancy he'd been attempting to patch up since his late teenage years.
For what felt like a single, fixed period in time, Arthur sat there, perched upon his furniture in the room that hadn't changed for nearly a century, pondering for once over how much he had instead of how much he didn't, and silently giving thanks for it all, especially for his luck in having a delightful younger brother who, despite all of his mistreatment, returned to Arthur in a time of need. It was a brilliant moment, however simple it was. The sun had set at this point, throwing its last vivid rays across the sky before perishing, and when coupled with the sounds of the resolute tween working hard in the adjacent room just to make him happy, it made for a surreal and sublime scene.
Unfortunately, it was shattered by the screeching of the smoke alarm. Arthur redirected his attention to the kitchen, swiftly setting down his tea and springing to his feet. Within no time he was standing in the doorway of the room, staring in at a panicking Sealandic child who was gaping at the open oven in horror. When he turned to look at the older man, Arthur saw that the poor kid was nearly in tears.
"A-Arthur, wh-what do I do?!" he questioned, clutching a dish rag like a drowning man to a ring buoy.
The first course of action was clear, and Arthur undertook it without hesitation. Brandishing a mitt, he reached into the oven and pulled out the smoking pan, setting it on the counter before closing the appliance and turning it off. After removing the glove, he redirected his attention to the alarm, which was still producing an unbearable din. He reached up, extending himself to his full height by standing on his toes, and disabled the obnoxious device. After the horrid sound ceased, Arthur took a deep breath, and walked to the window over the kitchen sink, opening it to allow the room to air out.
With the adrenaline fading away, Arthur turned to Peter, only to find him staring at the dish in despair. He approached, hearing the boy murmur, "It's ruined…"
Looking down into the pan, Arthur saw the charred remains of what was meant to be a shepherd's pie, which had now cooled off quite a bit from its previous fiery state. Curious, Arthur produced a fork from a drawer, and began to poke the substance. It took quite a few tries just to pierce the outer shell, which gave way with a resounding crunch. However, the scent of burnt meat and potatoes made Arthur immediately regret the decision, and he promptly set the fork down.
"Yes, it appears you've toasted it quite thoroughly.."
Peter looked up to him, his eyes still watery. He acted as if he'd committed some unspeakable transgression, and began to apologize with a quavering voice, "I-I'm sorry, Arthur! I was supposed to help you relax and handle dinner, b-but it's a complete disaster!"
The outburst surprised Arthur, who hadn't realized what this meant to Peter. He'd clearly cared very much about the meal, and he'd had nothing but the purest intentions. Oi, all of this just to make the man relax!
A mirthful giggle arose in Arthur's throat, growing until it was a warm, genuine chuckle. Peter continued to gaze up at him, wide-eyed and confused by the gesture. Resting a hand on the micronation's shoulder, Arthur reassured him with a proud smile. "This isn't a bad thing at all!" He asserted, sounding incredibly pleased with the situation, "You've inherited my cooking skills." His voice dripped with a heartwarming tone, beaming at the fact that he was no longer isolated in his culinary ineptitude. His horrid cooking was a proud tradition that he was elated to pass down to the last relative that had both the time for and interest in him.
"R-Really..?" Peter responded, sniffing as he regained a bit of his composure. His expression had shifted from one of sorrow to one of growing happiness, and his eyes were beginning to regain their usual twinkle.
"Yes, really." Arthur reaffirmed, patting his head with the same merry demeanor, "This is cause for celebration. How about we go out for fish and chips?"
Peter's face lit up at the suggestion, and he displayed his own radiant grin. "Yes, please!"
"Excellent," Arthur responded, satisfied with the plan, "Remember your overcoat, it's cold outside, and I don't want you getting sick."
"Yes sir!" Peter responded with zeal, straightening his back and pressing his heels together. He flinched, catching himself with his arm half-raised, staring up at Britain with a shocked expression. He clearly hadn't expected to slip into his old military compulsions, which were still a fundamental part of his being beneath the ocean of his personality. It was the stitching that held him together, seeing as how, quite unlike every other nation in the world, he was built to serve. Something about being near Arthur and experiencing pleasant interactions for the first time in decades had reawakened that old, loyal side that made him willing to be blown to bits for the sake of the mainland, and after hearing the first command he was happy to obey since the '40s, his instincts simply overrode his mind, much in the same way a retired sportsman starts when a ball is thrown his way.
The blunder made Peter feel exposed, as something he'd worked so long to drown inexplicably surfaced at the mere doting reminder Arthur had cast his way. It made him feel fragile and delicate, like a weakling whose basic mindset relied upon a nation larger than him. Peter detested showing any sign of reliance upon what Britain used to be to him, and quickly broke attention, averting his gaze downward.
"I, mean, uh- alright!" he corrected himself, swiftly scurrying out of the room to avoid the larger nation's gaze.
Arthur hadn't known what to think of the event, though he felt indescribably awkward. Despite watching over him and feeling partially responsible for his well-being, he hadn't viewed him as the sea fort he was. It was such an easy detail to forget, as being with him was similar to raising a colony, albeit without the hassle of constantly defending him from rival nations or regulating his trade. The role Britain played for the boy was, at the moment, a provider of social interaction, protection, security, and perhaps even a type of role model. It was not his place to control anything beyond that, and for that reason, Arthur did not feel the same sense of ownership that he did upon building him. It struck him then just how much things had changed since then, seeing as how it was now uncomfortable for Peter to refer to him as 'sir'.
Being a nation, Arthur was accustomed to the feeling of time flying by, but rarely did the extent of its influence strike him as hard as it did then. Perhaps it was the fact that neither Peter nor he physically looked any different than they had seventy-something years ago that hid how much had changed; It was surreal to know the true age of the boy who appeared no older than twelve or thirteen. The world was entirely different now, and although it was infuriating and far from perfect, Arthur was much more comfortable with modern politics than the war Peter was born into. Everything was better nowadays, which was obvious, seeing as how there was very little room for things to get worse during the second world war. It had nearly brought Arthur to his knees, and gave him wounds that would continue to scar him for the remainder of his life. But aside from his own health and prosperity, his relationship with Peter had improved drastically, and that momentary glimpse into the past unsettled him with thoughts of how they were before: impersonal, distant, and detached.
"All ready!" Peter chimed as he jogged back from the corridor in boots and a buttoned overcoat. He sounded cheerful, but there was nervous quality to his voice that hinted at his own discombobulation, as he still trying to play off his previous actions.
Arthur, being ready to move forward and forget it, simply nodded and walked to the door. He slipped on his shoes and grabbed his coat from a hook before going outside, Peter close behind him.
For a short while the pair walked in silence, each bundled up against the cold. Arthur allowed his mind to wander for a bit, his eyes momentarily settling upon Peter's coat. It was made of wool and fashioned in the typical style of the British navy, with midnight blue fabric and large gold buttons on its double breast. There was, of course, the white-accented sailor collar, which Peter seemed to have on all of his clothes, although with varying inverted colors.
It was odd to recall that Peter was a sailor, given his kindness. Arthur was used to seeing hardened, rough seamen with coarse exteriors, which the micronation wasn't. The knowledge that Peter had once been in Arthur's military was frankly disturbing, as it had chanced obscene corruption. Of course, the boy was still affected by it, but not near as much as he would have been if he were exposed to the conflict later in life, or if he weren't built for it. The first instance in which Peter's natural stubbornness was useful appeared to be when it prevented him from becoming a jaded and apathetic machine, and even then, Arthur was only just appreciating it seventy years after the fact.
Truth be told, Arthur didn't want for Peter to grow cold, as most sailors did. The moment Peter's optimism failed, so would his spirit, and his childhood. Arthur didn't know what he'd do if the boy grew up. Surely Peter would lose interest in him and take his turn in abandoning Britain, and naturally, Arthur would be heartbroken. But what to do afterward? Attempt to nurse himself back to emotional well-being with imperialism? He wouldn't - he couldn't. Not in today's world.
Arthur dispelled those thoughts upon arriving at a small food stand. He came to a halt in front of it, greeting the worker with a simple, "Good evening," before ordering, "Fish and chips, please, with an iced tea - and.." he paused, looking down to Peter, who quickly received the message.
"Precisely the same!" he chimed, grinning at the aproned man behind the stand, "Oh, except with a melon soda, please!"
The worker offered a polite smile and nodded, preparing the meals before ringing them up. Arthur paid and handed Peter his food and drink, which elicited a bright smile. "Thank you!" Peter said, his breath turning visible in the night cold and rising above his head.
The boy's bubbly spirit was infectious, and the sight of his joy produced a warm sensation in Arthur's chest that he hadn't felt in an ungodly amount of time. He felt the urge to reach out and hug him, but that wasn't possible given that their hands were occupied, and it wasn't called for. Instead, Arthur settled for reassuring him that it was no trouble, and beginning to walk.
"Oh, where are we going?" Peter inquired, having not expected to travel anywhere to eat. He glanced back at the picnic table nearby, which was unoccupied.
"Somewhere you may like." Arthur responded vaguely, strolling along the sidewalk with the appearance of aimlessness. He kept his box of food firm in one hand, and nonchalantly sipped tea out of the cup held in the other. His oxford shoes generated quiet, precise thuds against the cement, which were echoed by the softer, irregular scrapings of Peter's footfall as he adjusted his pace to keep up.
The two walked in silence for awhile, Peter not inquiring about their destination, and Arthur showing no intention to tell him. The streets were ominous during the night - at least, they were to Peter, who wasn't accustomed to being on land past daylight. He would have been frightened, but the presence of his older brother and caretaker was endlessly reassuring, and provided him with a security and comfort that he'd never had before. Not even his military days brought him this much confidence, and that was with an abundance of sailors at his back to defend him and his country. No, Arthur alone carried an effect much more profound than his entire military could. Of course, he was a nation, and he could pack quite the punch when provoked, but his power did not matter much to Peter. The boy enjoyed Arthur simply because he was kind, mature, and was finally paying attention to him, and the knowledge that someone with his character was walking aside him made Peter feel as if he could successfully wage war against the entire world, if need be.
After a solid ten minutes of walking, Arthur slowed down and changed directions. He stepped off the sidewalk, heading into the shadows, which soon engulfed him. Peter froze for a moment, realizing that he had no idea where the man was going. Standing beneath a streetlamp, he was blind to what laid beyond the small circle of light which protected him. However, he felt helplessly exposed without Arthur, and he quickly decided that he'd rather follow him into uncertainty than remain alone in what may or may not have been safety.
Peter moved his legs again, taking up a hurried pace in order to catch up. He paid no heed to the fact that he was doing so blindly, and after about ten seconds of movement, his feet caught on rocky terrain. Just as he lurched forward, a hand reached out and grabbed his sailor collar, pulling him back and rightly on his feet.
"Oi, be careful!" Arthur scolded, his voice nearly irritated, "I can't have you falling and breaking your bones out here."
Peter turned toward the sound of the voice, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the low light. He was able to make out Arthur's figure against the streetlight, which was now some distance away. Beside him was a park bench, which faced further into the darkness.
"Sorry," Peter apologized, smiling nervously, "But, ah, thank you for catching me!"
"Of course." Arthur said, taking a seat and gesturing to the space next to him, "Now, come here."
Peter did as he was told, gingerly making his way over to the other side of the bench and settling down beside him. He looked up to Arthur, squinting to make out details in his face, although he was met with varying levels of success.
"Uh, if you don't mind me asking," the boy asked, "where are we?"
"Listen." Arthur answered, opening his box of food and beginning to absently chew on his chips. Peter followed suit, and returned his gaze forward, staring into the inky blackness. There were lights in the distance, which appeared to belong to buildings whose purposes Peter could not discern. After a few moments of confusion, Peter found that he was able to make out a familiar, glorious sound.
"Arthur, are we by the water?" Peter asked, glee in his voice.
"Yes indeed." Arthur responded, "It's almost been a week, so I figured you'd be tired of seeing nothing but land."
As odd as it sounded, Arthur was absolutely correct. Peter had been growing antsy during the time Arthur was gone to work, and he was beginning to have trouble sleeping at night without the familiar sounds of the ocean shifting outside his walls. Although he could not clearly see it at the moment on account of a new moon and clouded skies, the knowledge that a waterway was so closeby was greatly consoling to the micronation.
Although he did not speak of it, Arthur was aware that the only way he was able to comprehend and predict Peter's yearning for the sea was because he had experienced it for some time himself. He knew firsthand just how alluring the ocean could be, and when one had established a sort of residence within it, returning to land resulted in tortuous withdrawal.
Arthur would hate to experience that for his entire life.
"Thank you…" Peter said just above a whisper, leaning back into the bench and feeling the tension he'd accumulated over the past days dissipate. The sound of the waves were as familiar as his own bedroom door, and they seemed to carry away all of his worries. He was no longer concerned with whether or not he was a burden, or if his existence was merely a mistake that would be erased soon. Even his greatest fear, which haunted him at every second regardless of how sincere Britain seemed - that was, the idea that Britain would simply grow sick of him and abandon him once more like an old toy - was drowned within the depths of the sea. They were no longer Peter's problem, but Davy Jones'.
Arthur did not respond, as he did not feel the need to. There had developed an unspoken communication between the two, which allowed them to sit and enjoy a comfortable silence for some time, both savoring the moment of simply sharing a meal by the water.
However, all moments had to end.
The moment the chill pervaded Arthur's jacket, he deemed it the appropriate time to take their leave. He was sure that Peter, being much smaller than him, was likely freezing. Movement would likely allow the two to warm up again, and with that in mind, the man unceremoniously stood. "Well then," he stated, affected by breaking the comfortable silence, "I suppose we should be on our way."
"Aw.. Already..?" Peter responded, reluctance obvious in his tone. He stood as well, looking up to his fatherland in the darkness. Although he was shivering, he did not want the outing to end so soon. He would do almost anything to lengthen the trip, as he didn't want to forfeit the attention he was receiving for anything. At home, Arthur would have the opportunity to think about work, and that would only cause him stress and result in his infamous grouchy behavior. Aside from that, Peter was having a ball.
"Aren't you ready to go in?" Arthur asked, "Surely you must be cold by now."
"Not at all!" Peter lied, trying his best to convey his excitement. If he seemed hyper, perhaps Arthur would stay out longer in an attempt to tire him out.
Arthur released a long sigh, feeling the effects of his long day come rushing back to him. The piercing night air made him yearn to be indoors, where he could bundle up beneath a blanket and drown his sorrows with tea, but he did not want to disappoint the child whom he was now accountable for. Peter had made it abundantly clear that Arthur had provided quite enough disappointments over the years, and it was high time that he began to make up for it.
"Hm. Well, there is one last place." Arthur stated, a contemplative tone to his voice.
Peter reacted with enthusiasm. "Excellent! Where?"
"Oh, I can't tell you that. You'll just have to wait and see." Arthur said, walking back to the sidewalk, where there was a waste bin. He tossed in his trash, Peter close behind him.
"Then let's hurry up!" The micronation declared, attempting to hasten the process.
"Patience, my boy." Arthur said, an amused smile gracing his lips as he watched the other grow giddy with anticipation, "We'll be there soon enough."
It was clear that Peter thought differently, but he saw no use in argument. He huffed in frustration, then released a sigh of his own with an exaggerated,
Arthur enjoyed seeing that he was getting through to Peter, even if it was only by doing something as simple as forcing him to wait for his desired result. However, he was not entirely heartless, and in a small gesture of sympathy, he set out at a brisk pace that was still well within reason.
The walk took about fifteen minutes, during which Arthur watched Peter phase through different stages of excitement. The lad was fidgety, and with each passing second Arthur thought him fit to explode. However, he did an excellent job in not running ahead for the majority of the walk, and by the end Arthur felt as if he had made an accomplishment in teaching Peter how to properly exhibit self-restraint.
That pride vanished after Peter caught sight of their final destination, and sprinted onward. Not wanting to be left behind, and concerned that Peter would trip and injure himself, Arthur took off after him. "Wait up!" he called forward, but to no avail. Peter was far too caught up in his own eagerness to heed his brother's command. Within seconds he was standing before the craft, staring up at it in awe. Arthur was only moments behind, and came to a staggering halt beside him with an irritated expression.
"You shouldn't have run off like that!" Arthur scolded, "You could have gotten h-"
"What's her name?" Peter interrupted, not paying his reprimand even the slightest attention.
"Wha.." Arthur paused, following Peter's gaze. He soon realized what he had asked, and responded in a nonchalant manner, "Oh. Cutty Sark."
Peter's eyes were wider than saucers as he looked up at the boat, which was a massive clipper. He had only ever heard of such boats in the history lessons and sea legends given to him by the Captain back during the war, and he could hardly believe that he was currently standing in front of one. He suddenly felt very small, not just in space, but in time. Maritime customs were at the core of his being, and here he was, standing face to face with a representative of one part of the culture that he had been entirely absent for - yet his fatherland shaped it! All Peter could do was stare up in astonishment at the craft as if he were staring into the eyes of god.
Arthur was surprised at how Peter was reacting to the ship. He'd figured that, considering how the boy was on the water constantly, he would only find the vessel mildly interesting. But he had to admit that it made him quite satisfied to see Peter fawning over his work, and he decided that he could be kind and treat the boy further.
"Would you like to go aboard?" Arthur asked ever so casually.
Peter's eyes gained a thrilled light, his head turning swiftly to look up at him. "May I?"
"Of course," Arthur answered, smiling warmly, "It's after hours, but I'm sure they can make an exception for us." he glanced over the glass pavilion that supported the craft, "...Yes, surely. I can tell them that it's a matter of international diplomacy. It is
ship, after all." he reasoned aloud, speaking to both the boy and himself. He pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocking it and beginning to look up the phone number of the National Maritime Museum. Just before he was able to place a call, a voice resounded from overhead.
"Oh, Arthur, she's
When Arthur looked up, he was shocked to find that Peter was standing atop the boat's deck.
"Christ, Peter, how did you get up there?!"
"It was easy!" Peter responded cheerily, "I just jumped off that rubbish bin in the corner and shimmied up the roof off the doorframe-"
"Peter! That was very dangerous!" Arthur exclaimed, staring at the path that the boy took to board the ship. In all honesty, it was impressive, but it was equally horrifying to imagine how hurt Peter would have become in the event that he slipped.
"Not really!" Peter called down, "It was good fun, actually!"
"Well, stay put, would you? I'm coming up as well!" Arthur huffed, highly aggravated that he was having to chase after the child in such a manner. But he didn't want to risk him falling off and breaking his neck, so Arthur decided that he'd have to make haste.
He walked over to the bin in question, which was approximately four feet tall. Luckily, there was a lid atop it that allowed for Arthur to stand on it. He had to rest a hand against the side of the building in order to support himself as he awkwardly lumbered onto it. Once he had properly balanced himself on the bin, Arthur was tasked with getting onto the roof. Taking a deep breath, he managed to lift one leg and place a foot on the top ledge of the slanted door frame, and by gripping the seal of where the roof met the wall, the man was able to push himself up onto the top of the pavilion. Once there he had to be very careful so as to not lose his footing, but with great care he managed to reach the bowsprit, which he used to pull himself aboard the vessel.
Now standing aboard the clipper, he began to walk the deck in search of his youngest brother. "Peter! Where'd you run off to now?!"
"I'm over here!" Peter called, his voice from even further up.
Arthur felt his heart sink as he jogged further along to see that Peter had situated himself up the center mast. He was balanced on the running rigging near the main upper topsail, peering down at Arthur with an elated smile.
"I can see the entire world from up here!"
"I told you to stay still and not go anywhere!"
"I'm sorry, but I had to! This magnificent craft was calling me!"
Peter did not respond, nor did he make any move to climb down. He appeared frozen, staring down at Arthur with an expression now hidden by shadow.
"Do not make me climb this rigging.." Arthur stated.
No response.
Muttering curses beneath his breath, Arthur walked to the cordage and began to climb. He thought nothing of it now, as he had done this too many times to count when he was younger. Within thirty seconds he had reached Peter's perch, and he stood next to him with an expression of disapproval and a fistful of rope to steady himself.
Peter spoke before Arthur had an opportunity to chastise him.
"You gave me a middle name?"
Arthur paused and stared down at him, baffled. "Er, yes.. I suppose I have."
The boy drew out the eye contact, his expression perplexed. "Why?"
"Oh, well, um…" Arthur took in a deep breath, leaning into the mesh. "Everyone needs one, and you seemed like you could use two. You just seem like a Henry and a Maxwell to me, so…" he trailed off, thinking about the names himself. He didn't know where he'd produced them from, and he'd never had a conscious thought about what to dub him. Peter had always been fine, but now that he took the time to consider it, Henry Maxwell sounded like the most natural option. Presumptively, that was why it came from him like a reflex.
"Of course, you don't have to be Henry Maxwell, if you don't want." Arthur continued, not wanting to seem like he was forcing anything upon the boy, "It was just a thought."
"I love it." Peter responded, not pausing to think. He beamed up at Britain, ecstatic with the knowledge that his older brother had given him two excellent middle names. It was a gift of sorts, and Peter felt as if he had been knighted. Aside from that, it simply sounded right. Each time Arthur said it, Peter instinctively knew that it was referring to him. It fit him like a tailored suit, and beckoned him like the ocean. If it weren't for the fact that they were suspended fifteen meters off the ground, Peter would have hugged him.
"Oh." Arthur murmured, shocked that he took a liking to it. He'd half expected to be slapped, thinking that Peter would interpret it as Arthur trying to control him, or tell him what he should be. He felt lucky to have not come off as overbearing, and decided to count that as a blessing next time he gave thanks.
"Well, that's splendid." he continued, trying to steer himself back to his main concern. "But that's aside from the point. This was very dangerous, Peter. We really shouldn't be up here."
"Is that so?" Peter challenged with a tad of indignance, "You don't think I can handle this? What, a bit of height places me in some unspeakable peril, but giving me a machine gun a few weeks after being born, and making me give and receive fire from Nazi bombers - that was perfectly safe?"
Arthur took in a deep breath, feeling the boy's words cut into him deeply. It hurt because of how completely justified he was in saying that. Arthur felt heavy with guilt and stupidity; His judgement was truly the worst, and he realized now that he never should have put Fort Roughs into action once learning of the station's sentience. He'd allowed his own desperation to drive him to placing a newborn child on the front lines of the bloodiest war in modern history, and he was still learning of the damage that the experience inflicted upon the boy. To top it off, the child had actually done a decent job in defending him, and what did Arthur do? Why, he'd nearly forgotten about him completely. In the back of his mind, he'd always known how horrible his decision had been, and he'd wanted to bury it in the past. But that was a very difficult thing to do when it came waltzing back to you with a gift in hand.
"Those were different times." Arthur said, struggling to grasp the words of his own invention, "The world, well… We were.. It was tearing itself apart. My reasoning was askew. I still shouldn't have done that to you, and I'm very sorry. But things are better now, and I'm going to be looking after you properly… Part of that is making sure that you're not put in harm's way, regardless of how severe it is."
There was a long silence in which Peter turned his head and stared out at the square, refusing to look at Arthur. Knowing now that he had surely offended the boy, Arthur decided to remain silent, not wanting to stir up any more negative emotions. However, he wondered what he did wrong. Had he angered him by suggesting that Peter needed his help? Well, surely he was capable of looking after himself - his remarkable ability to defend himself from invaders was proof enough of that. But was that enough to warrant the sudden cold shoulder?
The clouds above thinned, allowing for the faintest starlight to shine down upon the square. Arthur could then barely discern water gathering atop Peter's cheeks, glistening for an instant.
"Oh dear. Are you alri-"
"L-Let's just get down from here." Peter said, his voice wavering. Without waiting for a response, he began to descend down the cordage. The pace he set for himself was far too hastened for his small limbs to keep up with, and within three seconds he had lost both his foothold and his grip, eliciting the beginning of a scream as he fell.
Two strong hands took ahold of Peter's arms, suspending him in mid-air far above the deck of the ship. Looking up, his eyes met the evergreen eyes of his older brother, who wore a look of extreme worry.
"Careful! Going down isn't anything like climbing up." he stated, his arms swaying a bit side to side, "Here, just stay still. I've got you."
In that moment, Peter realized the precarious position the two were in. Arthur had fallen backward in order to catch him, and now hung upside down with his back to the mesh, his ankles' intertwinement with the ropes the only thing keeping the two from plummeting to death or severe injury.
Yet he had faith. The look in Arthur's eyes was endlessly reassuring, as they provided the promise that, even if the earth was at its brink of existence, he would be protecting Peter at all costs. With that silent exchange, he was able to relax.
Arthur bit his lip and took in a deep breath, preparing himself for his next course of action. He did not allow himself any time thereafter for hesitation. He hoisted Peter up with newfound strength, tossing him into the air. He then released his ankles of the rope, and used his upward momentum to right himself before taking ahold of the cordage once more. As he solidified his grip on the rigging he reached out and caught Peter as he fell, using one arm to pluck him out of the air and sling him over his shoulder.
Once he had secured Peter, Arthur wasted no time in descending the lines, climbing down the running rigging with an expertise derived from centuries of roaming the open seas. Once on the deck, Arthur did not stop, and continued to carry the lad off the boat, using his free arm to hold the bowsprit and land gently on the roof. Once there, he set Peter down, then proceeded to slide off the slanted corner of the building. He landed on his feet and bent into a crouch, allowing himself a moment before rising to a standing position once more. Britain looked up to Peter, giving him a warm and encouraging smile.
"Jump, and I'll catch you."
Peter stared down at his brother, overwhelmed with pride and joy. How amazing he must have been in his pirate days! How lucky was he to be related to him? How indestructible he was, now that he had Great Britain to protect him! Without thinking, he stepped off the roof, paying no mind to the gelid wind as it whipped about him in his free fall. Within moments he was in his brother's strong, capable arms, his spirits elevated to cloud nine.
Arthur set him on his feet, and the boy beamed up at him gleefully.
"Thank you! Thank you very much!"
By the time the two arrived home, Peter was exhausted. He ended up collapsing on the couch, curled up with a blanket resembling Union Jack.
That night, he dreampt of sailing the open waters with his pirate brother.