They leave as soon as they're ready, which is the last Saturday in November.

They had argued, naturally, over which one to find first. Alfred, Francis argued, could be anywhere. The boy was always a wanderer, if he were still too long in the dirt he began to itch. To Alfred, his home was anywhere, from California to the New York Islands. His thoughts, his moods, and his dreams were never easy to understand and they were never easy to pin down. Francis believed he knew the boy would be the same.

But Arthur knew. He would be in Virginia just as Alfred had always been, drawn to the coast and the fields and the presence. It was half way North and half way South: a center in the midst of chaos, the oldest medium he knew. Virginia had been his home for years, hundreds of them, and whether Alfred was aware of it or not he would be there, at his home, at his genesis. Arthur was in London, Francis was in Paris- Alfred would be in Virginia.

Then, Arthur argued the same about Matthew. He believed that Alfred had a home, and so did Matthew, but where Alfred was loyal, Matthew had loyalties. To the southern border: where the people settled and where the culture thrived. The national stage, the reigning culture, and ultimately, the English. Then, to the east: the first and oldest home. Not where the people are united but where they're strongest; not where the culture dominates but where it's the most powerful. The history of lilies, the oldest Canada, and ultimately, the French. Arthur could never hope to imagine on which side the boy fell, just as Francis had argued for Alfred, anywhere from Sea to Sea. Matthew did not take sides, he compromised. He did not break, he embraced.

But Francis knew, as Arthur has realized by now he should've known. Montreal, the only place where he could ever be true and the only place he ever felt stable. A home to French and a friend to English: a center in the midst of chaos, the brightest medium he knew. Just as Virginia was to Alfred, Quebec was to Matthew; and truly, they were twins, two of the same whole and too alike to not look to one for where the other would follow. Francis knew, not out of wishful thinking or blind optimism, but out of trust. Matthew would be where the world spun steadiest and that was Montreal, had been for hundreds and would be now.

In the end, they book two tickets from Heathrow to Reagan, Saturday 13:00. The decision is made late Thursday night, after long argument and hesitation, but ultimately it comes down to which of the two will make finding the other easier. The question isn't devotion to the task, never that. The one will fight viciously, an untempered and unstoppable riot; the other will set the ends of the galaxy ablaze, from one annihilated end to the other. Those boys will stop at no wall, no strife or sake, to find each other again- of that Arthur and Francis are entirely confident.

Their decision comes down to this: simply, Alfred is louder.

"It's bloody fucking Paris all over again."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing, dear." Really, though. He might as well be in Paris, at least that was Europe. Americans are starting to make him queasy.

It's Day Eleven in Arlington and, because everything is set to god's wicked and masterful plot, they have nothing. Admittedly, they came in without really a plan, hoping only that maybe they would land in the United States and just feel a tug in the right direction. Alfred could be buying coffee on the corner outside the airport, he would recognize them instantly, and boom! Family brought together and off to Quebec within the hour.

Maybe Arthur should just stop having dreams. It'd be easier.

They're just sitting down at a café for lunch, booth tucked in the back and only one woman in the vicinity to their right, tapping away at a laptop. The walls are not yellow, fortunately, and to the left of them is a window, not a man sketching in charcoal. If Alfred pops up in the window during their lunch, though, that would be convenient. Except, definitely not funny. Arthur has lost a lot of his sense of humor since this whole thing started; he's now less interested in laughing at the goofiness life and more interested in telling it, unequivocally, where it can shove its cute jokes.

"Arthur," Francis starts after the server takes their orders. He knows that tone, gentle and patient beyond lifetimes. He is about to suggest something that Arthur is going to shoot down immediately but in the end Francis will win. He knows it and he hates it.

"No," he nips it in the bud right away. Take that! "I know, Francis, I do. But we agreed, Alfred for Matthew. We agreed! I will not-"

"You act as if you are the only one who wants to find that child!" Francis cuts Arthur off, hissing with a fierce glare of disapproval. Arthur takes a moment to study him, to evaluate the anger flushing Francis' features, then to acknowledge the hurt that lies beyond it.

And Arthur pushes himself back in the booth and backs down, displaying a rare moment of apology.

Arthur and Francis had always had their respective twin. It was natural, and as much as Arthur and Alfred delighted in spiting each other, that was who they were. Their relationship had always revolved around hurt, then comfort; a loyal mentality of the only person who gets to kill him is me. And no matter how much Arthur lived simply to deny it, Alfred was his legacy, his mark. The one thing he could point to and say, either awful or wonderful, that was what he left behind.

But Francis was not indifferent and Arthur knew this well. He was anxious to find Matthew, his own piece of posterity, but Alfred was his luminary. Francis shaped him where Arthur could not, or would not, in the ultimate act of revenge: taking Arthur's perfect child and making him better. Francis had watched Alfred grow as long as Arthur had, was as influential as Arthur was, and when Alfred was a lost child alone in an unkind world, Francis was his friend. Arthur shaped the boy, but Francis modeled him into a man.

And Francis was consumed, just as Arthur was. Alfred was not his child, he was their child. Arthur knew better.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "You know I do not believe that."

Francis sighs and also backs down, combing his hair back with his fingers, up and out of his face.

"I know. I know, but it stands that we have been here almost two weeks with nothing. I am not suggesting we move on, no. But, mais, Arthur. We must either change tactics or he is not here and we must look elsewhere."

Arthur doesn't like it but he's nothing if not a pragmatist. He knew Virginia was truly nothing more than a hunch and that Francis was right, Alfred was home anywhere and being unaware that he is he could be in Milwaukee, could be in Alaska for all anyone knows. He has already given great thought to Boston and New York and the more he thinks, the more he's convinced. The East Coast is long and sprawling but it's just the beginning. If they have to move state to state, city to city, from Washington to Houston to San Francisco they can. They will.

Arthur nods and reaches out to give Francis' hand a brief squeeze in acknowledgement. Their food comes shortly after and they carry on with lunch just as they would any other day. On the way out Francis grabs a Washington newspaper ("Always practicing your atrocious language just for you, mon beau cher.") and snatches Arthur's hand when he's not looking.

Just as if they're roughly eighty years old, at 20:30 they start getting prepared for bed in the hotel room that's been home for the last eleven days. Tomorrow is another day of scouring, this time south to Alexandria to see if there are any clues that can be picked up there. Just the thought of asking around, digging through data for a single crumb of information is exhausting, but it's become routine during their time here. Wake, search, repeat. Whoever spoke the words "searching tirelessly" is a wholesome ignorant fool.

Arthur is washing his face in the bathroom and Francis is sitting cross legged on their bed, reading the newspaper he picked up earlier in the day. He speaks aloud occasionally, mentioning a humorous story about a dachshund racing competition or asking what a particularly American slang term means, but mostly he reads hungrily and mutters under his breath in French. Arthur leaves the bathroom to retrieve his toothbrush and asks Francis what he's going on about, but the man tosses his hand in dismissal at Arthur. Outwardly, he huffs and sneers fiercely at the brush off but, despite himself, smiles when he turns his back to return to the bathroom.

He's just about to spit out a mouth full of water when Francis calls to him. His voice is raised but is without significant trace of alarm, so Arthur continues his brushing and simply grunts in acknowledgment.

"Where is George Washington University?"

This, sadly, requires more than a grunt so Arthur spits out his final handful of water and caps his toothbrush, tossing it towards his suitcase on his way back towards the main room.

"It's in Washington, close to the Mall," he replies without much thought, moving to the other side of the bed and not sparing Francis a glance. "Why?"

Francis doesn't respond and remains frozen in his spot on the bed. Arthur doesn't take notice until he takes his own spot, leaning back to look at Francis, and then stops. In the span of a teeth brushing and a few steps, something has changed. Something has happened.

And Francis turns to him, face bright and eyes shining.

"I have found him."

In faster than a breath Arthur's eyes dart down to the paper sprawled before them. It's a crowd of words and ink but in the bottom right there's a short report that Francis' fingers lay mutely next to. The whole thing is no bigger than an ad for a yard sale and the bolded letters of the headline is long but neat.

23 Year Old, Alfred Jones, Overcomes Struggle to Become Recipient of a Masters of Computer Science at GWU

And Arthur looks back at Francis, so shocked he feels like maybe he's dying.

"You found him."

Francis just nods, at a loss on how to grasp this unexpected conclusion to their unexpected adventure. He nods, grins, and accepts Arthur's embrace when he leans forward in exhilaration.

Too shocked to think much about the uphill struggle that now lies before them, definitely too shocked to actually process the headline. Alfred Jones? A Master's Degree? Who'da thunk?

It's the second week of December and George Washington University has a week left before the semester ends and the University empties. In other words, Arthur and Francis have a week to find their wandering boy before he disappears back into obscurity.

They are not and will never consider themselves desperate but sometimes... trying times call for trying measures. With the reluctant consciousness but steadfast refusal to admit that their actions are bordering on stalking a University student who does not technically know them but had in a previous life or whatever, Francis calls the computer science department posing as an undergrad to ask where Alfred might be so that he may answer a question. The representative, in a mildly concerning fashion, cheerfully directs him to Alfred's graduate advisor who, also in a concerningly helpful way, tells him that Alfred TAs on Mondays and Wednesdays but often camps out at the library for the rest of the week as a sort of unofficial office hours. Francis just barely remembers to thank the man for his time before hanging up, turning to Arthur looking like he just found solid gold bullion in his soup.

"You look like you just found solid gold bullion in your soup," Arthur tells him flatly, stark in contrast to the uncontrollable wringing of his hands.

And though Francis wants to explode with all this life changing information, in rising to Arthur's taunts he is loyal to a fault.

"That sounds awful and I would think gold is very bitter tasting. Although, it might be one of your better tasting creations. Overall, eight out of ten."

So, they too, camp out at the campus library.

It's like being at Uni all over again and Arthur goes to lengths to hide his delight but, as Francis tells him repeatedly, utterly fails at it. They pick a table not completely in the back but well out of the way, one with the best vantage point, and then they sit and they wait. Students flutter around them, many looking half dead and wearing the same pair of sweatpants for three days in a row, hunkering down with their laptops and their textbooks and typing furiously. Ah, winter finals. The most wonderful time of the year.

Arthur takes the time to work on his own laptop, responding to emails and inquiries and, eventually, grasping for his own inspiration. The book he released at the end of spring has been doing jolly and, honestly, a lot of the emotions he usually feels when releasing his work have escaped him. He supposes he's been busy with other stuff. But it's been over six months now and his editor is starting to lose her subtlety when asking how things are going. He doesn't necessarily feel too much pressure to get working, like maybe he would if he had never met an artist in Paris, but work has started to hover on the corner of his concerns. Right now, he has priorities, immense priorities, but eventually he'll have to return to the life of Arthur Kirkland, English author, hater of Paris. At least, until then, his mental numbness has company.

Francis spends his time mostly alternating between reading and doodling. He picks up a couple French language works at first, burying himself in being a Frenchman, not a man with an English companion at an American university in the capital of the United States. Trop d'anglais, s'il vous plaît, ayez pitié! He loses interest quickly though and finds a newspaper, snatches a pen from the front desk, and with the illusion that he's actually catching up on current events instead begins an elaborate landscape within the margins. Arthur glances over at about an hour in to see an entire section nearing to be completely blacked out. Francis looks up, smirks at him and winks, then leans back into his work. Okie dokie.

As much as Arthur enjoys his first day amongst all the students and the work and the vague feeling of impending doom, their first Thursday at the library is disappointingly without results. They leave when it's already well into evening and their stomachs are rumbling too loud to justify staying. Tomorrow is another day, another opportunity and they're so close, too close. Alfred will rear his ugly head if it's the last thing Arthur makes sure happens on this earth.

They approach the library the next day, Friday, with realism tempering their enthusiasm. Tomorrow is Day Fourteen in the United States and by now they're no strangers to disappointment. They have long come to understand that they must simply be patient and vigilant, believing only that their perseverance will yield results. Most likely they will not find him today, most likely they will not find him tomorrow, but it's the persistence that counts. Search today as hard as you can, make this Friday mean something, then try again tomorrow.

So, when they reach the second floor and begin moving towards the table they sat at yesterday, both stop like they've been absolutely smashed with approximately ten thousand pounds of cement bricks. Give or take a few.

There's a boy sitting at the table, laptop opened in front of him and large headphones wrapped around his head. He has blond hair of amber, feather bangs swept back and placed to the left, rimless glasses reflecting blue from the computer screen. He looks young for his age, boyishly handsome, defined but soft, an echo of dimples tucked into his cheeks. He looks like if you approached him he would automatically smile before even placing who you were, the kind of person that would laugh with delight at nothing at all.

"Alfred-" Arthur chokes but Francis snatches his wrist, pulling him back and around the corner, out of Alfred's view.

"I know, my love, I know," Francis grasps Arthur's face, eyes intent, and places pressure on his cheekbones to get Arthur's undivided attention. "Arthur, that boy has no idea who we are. We must be steady and slow, otherwise we will scare him away. We cannot jump on him, we must let him come to us."

"But how?" He whispers frantically, not yet quite steady on his own two feet. "What if he never-"

"He will, I know it."

"How do you know?" Arthur asks, broken.

Francis slips on the barest of smiles. "I know because it led me to you," he whispers, but he's confident. They both remember that, as if Arthur could ever hope to forget.

And Arthur takes a breath. He nods, pulling Francis' hands away from his face but squeezing them in thanks and Francis places the briefest of pecks just below Arthur's hairline.

This is it, the first step up the mountain.

They take another minute then move back to the common area. Only the table directly across from Alfred is open and, grateful for the opportunity to observe but less happy about the opportunity to be discovered, reluctantly and quietly settle down there. Arthur pulls out his laptop, Francis pulls out his newspaper, and they begin their watch.

Luckily, Alfred is either extremely concentrated or extremely detached, because they soon notice he is entirely oblivious. Once, a phone rings, drawing the disapproving eyes of everyone in the room- except for Alfred. Another time, Alfred reaches across his sprawl of papers, books, and bags that clutter his table for a calculator. In the process, a massive book with a title involving some sort of coding teeters then tumbles onto the floor with a sound clap. Again, curious glances flood in his direction and everyone notices- except for Alfred. Arthur can tell Francis wants to chuck his pen in an attempt to hit the boy square in the forehead, just to see if he'll look up. He knows better, but still, the idea is tempting.

They arrived at the library at 10:00 and now it is 14:00- four hours and without a single movement from Alfred. Francis has begun work on completely marking up another section of the paper and Arthur, for all the turmoil rolling around in his head, has already written a solid ten pages. Alfred just continues to type; not looking up, not standing, not moving, not speaking. Working, diligently and effortlessly. Arthur might even call it a miracle, a divine work itself made known on this here planet earth. Incredible.

They're both exhausted when 18:00 rolls around. Discreet spying is more awful than anything else Arthur has ever experienced, especially when your target hasn't moved in six. fucking. hours. They even started shifts an hour ago; Francis would get to stand, to walk around, yell at the top of his lungs for fifteen minutes and then he would return, sit down at his newspaper art, and Arthur would get his own turn. After his second break, though, Arthur has decided that fifteen minutes isn't good enough anymore. Time to bump it up to thirty, just long enough to maybe recite an entire presidential address or run a full five kilometers. Anything but sit and be quiet, oh god, anything but that.

Francis has just returned from his own break (thirty-four minutes, the rat!), sitting down to his right and getting settled for the next thirty (six!) minutes. Arthur waits for a few moments to avoid certain suspicion, minimizing his windows slowly and thinking about how he is going to spend his next thirty (eight) minute break. Maybe it is time to check out the café that is advertised in the basement, grab a cup of tea to tide him over, perhaps have a good cry in the process. He is nothing if not productive with his time.

But then, following god's ruthless and uncaring way, there is movement. The two men have to remember to breathe as Alfred, seven and a half hours after Arthur and Francis originally found him, pulls his headphones off and closes the laptop lid in front of him. In pieces, he picks up his clutter on the table and places it all into his blue backpack, starting with the computer and ending with the academic tome lying on the floor. And then, as quietly as he worked all day long, Alfred departs. But not before casting a glance to the table with two men trying so hard to watch, to reach, but not to push.

"Hey."

Arthur makes too much of pretending to be startled, like he was entirely unoccupied with Alfred's presence the entire time and is simply being pulled from his work. If Arthur could laugh horribly and obnoxiously at the thought he would.

Alfred looks at Arthur, to Francis, then back to Arthur. His brows furrow into a thick line, puppy-like in his confusion.

"Are you..." Alfred shifts his balance from one foot to the other, like he acted spontaneously and is now not quite so sure he chose correctly. "Do either of you work for the University? I'm sorry, I feel like I know you but I just graded so many papers that my brain is just freakin' dead." Then, like a last thought to tie it all together, "Alfred Jones, computer sci," he introduces.

Arthur, not quite sure what he's doing and not quite sure if it's right, leaps.

"Perhaps not, but I believe I know your brother? Matthew Williams? You two look so much alike."

And Alfred's brows furrow even further, looking like he's just been told the sky is truly purple after all.

"No, uh, sorry. I don't have a brother."

"Oh, my mistake then." Arthur flips his laptop closed and leaps up, not even bothering to put it back into his bag. He turns to Francis and stares at him with intent, rousing the man from where he had been sitting still as stone, then turns back to Alfred and gives an apologetic smile to the look of absolute loss on his face.

"We must be going though, good night." And Arthur flees, dragging Francis behind him, down and out and away.

They go to their rental car in the parking lot and assume their spots without thought, Francis in the driver's seat and Arthur in the passenger's. They sit there for a moment, for two, and then Francis whispers, "What now?"

And Arthur replies, "Wait for the seed to grow."

He doesn't return to them until Tuesday.

They aren't sure, so Saturday and Sunday are also spent staking out the library. It's less painful this time, thankfully, with the long awaited establishment of contact and a plan going forward already set in place. They decide to check in twice, once in the morning and once in the late afternoon for an hour each, knowing that if Alfred is to show he will be there for at least one of their check ins, alone and unmoving, almost certainly for hours. Thanks to the information from the oblivious graduate advisor, they know Monday can be taken off from haunting the library. Their next stop is Tuesday, the day before GWU's fall semester ends, at 10:00.

When they arrive in the morning to their same floor and same spot, Alfred is there, at the center of the hurricane that touched down at his table, looking like he's achieved a grand total of twelve hours of sleep over the last ninety six hours.

And when Arthur and Francis settle at a table a few down from their usual spot in an attempt at subtlety, Alfred actually looks up at them. His eyes are wide, lips parted, and he watches them until he's caught staring. It's a cute twist on the game of who's-watching-who they've been playing since the previous Friday.

After a minute Francis reaches over to Arthur's hand underneath the table, giving it a lightning fast but hard squeeze.

He thinks, maybe, that he's done it.

They make a terribly dedicated show of being nonchalant, laptops and newspapers opened with care, pretending at length that today is just another day in their completely ordinary routine. Stalking and harassment? Never! If anything, he harassed us first.

So they wait, falling into their oddly comfortable custom. Arthur actually, miraculously, gets some work done and Francis has just about turned a week old American journal into a fully sketched forest growing out of headlines that report increases on taxes. They watch lowly, out of the corners of their vision, and it quickly becomes apparent that Alfred is not accomplishing the same.

In twenty minutes he's taken his glasses off thrice, letting them clatter to the table below in order to massage the bridge of his nose. His headphones often get pushed to sit around his neck and he cards his fingers through his bangs, an overall collection of fidgets and squirms. They could have chalked it up to this boy truly being Alfred, always bouncing with too many ideas and too many things to say, but the Concentration Train they had seen parked on Friday contradicted this. The boy seems uncomfortable, disturbed even, and it looks to them that this is only but a day among days of general unsettlement.

It must happen when Arthur's not paying attention because, suddenly, Francis just stops. It's not a pause in his elaborate crosshatching used to collect inspiration or thoughts, no. This is a full, hard and complete, stop. It takes a moment for Arthur to stop too, then to feel the gravity of the upcoming exchange that has already settled on Francis' shoulders. Seriously, is it the two year difference? Francis always finds out things before Arthur, it is completely unfair.

Alfred stands before them, bag slung over his shoulder and long winter jacket on but unzipped. Again, Arthur sees the disturbance on his face but closer, in greater detail this time. His brows sit low on his forehead and dark smudges trail under his eyes. His hair and clothing seem disorderly, like maybe he hasn't actually gone anywhere from bed to library and back since they last saw him on Friday. It's his eyes though, like a lovely clear blue day being hunted by dusky gray overcast and falls prey, sun and warmth swallowed up by thickness and fog. He looks like he's just lost his best friend.

"I'm sorry, I don't, um," Alfred clears his throat, clearly at a complete loss. "I don't mean to disturb you. Really, I- I don't- May I? Sit, I mean?"

Arthur nods but Francis vocalizes, gesturing to the seats across from them and folding his paper away. Arthur closes his laptop lid slowly, afraid if he's too fast or too loud this moment might shatter and Alfred will vanish.

Alfred nods himself, clears his throat again, and mumbles a thank you. He places his bag in the chair to his right and sits across from Francis, not entirely bothering with making himself comfortable. Simply sitting, stable enough to listen but open enough to flee.

"I came here, to the library, to just fuc- sorry, um, escape my apartment. It was so, so loud in there. In my head," Alfred glances up from his fingers like he's just been caught chanting in tongues. He smiles, a brief one, as if to cover his tracks. "I'm sorry, that's crazy talk, I'm crazy. It's just..."

He heaves a breath, feeling his armor then letting it fall.

"You," he looks to Arthur, "you mentioned a brother? Matthew, last time I was here? I don't have a brother, seriously, but the name just set something off in my head. And I can't control it, I can't breathe. I don't know what you said but it really messed me up and I know you can't help me but, just, I don't understand. I want- I need to understand."

Francis, the better friend, the better father, and the better man reaches for Alfred's fidgeting hands. And so, because Arthur can't or Arthur won't, Francis guides Alfred home.

"You feel like you are waiting for something, like you are only waiting for a letter in the mail. It will be arriving any day and you just have to work through this week and then you'll have it by the end of the day. But it does not come at the end of the week, now it is coming at the end of the next week. You wait for it and add another week to your life, hoping it comes now- but, no, it does not. You are okay, you enjoy what you are doing in the meantime and the letter is not truly that urgent. It is still heavy, though, and it builds up in your head. You want it because you think it is going to complete your day. With the letter you will feel a little more right and a little more happy and a little more of home. Until then, though, you wait and the time gets heavier and heavier. You have been waiting for years, for years Alfred, but you believe your letter will still be coming, despite the weight and despite the time. Any day, Alfred, you know it will come and then you will be safe and then you will be home."

Alfred's eyes are wet and he is shattered.

"Francis," the boy whispers and shakes his head.

Francis leans forward and grasps his hands tightly, bowing his head to connect their eyes and get his full attention.

"Alfred, we're going to find Matthew. We're going to bring him home."

Alfred, my kid, I've missed you so.

So, this one is 1k longer than the previous and I believe the next is 1k longer than this? Pft, fuck if I know!

ETC ETC:

Do I know anything about computer science graduate programs? Do I know anything about George Washington University? Nah! There's a café in the basement of my campus library though so GWU if you want to steal the idea… Unless you already have a café… Then that's cool…

I really tried to make FrUK as old and domestic as possible which, obviously, is their natural state of being. If only I could've fit in one of them washing dishes and the other drying them, then I would've really clinched it!

Okie dokie, gonna reunite my sweet children before I explode?

Thanks for reading!