Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Or Milton's Paradise Lost.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for the sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically).
AN: Hey! : D Thank you for reading! I'm drowning in end-of-semester projects. DDD: Glububblub. *Bubbles rush to the surface*
Amerikia—Hey, I'm sorry. Hang in there. You'll be more prepared for the next one. Personally, I need around three interviews to get me polished up (and then I am a fierce and shining thing). You got it; Tex and Spain definitely need that sort of talk—he can't keep pushing it off…but he'll try. Garden magic IS the best. ^_^
Time Traverser—I lol'ed at your review because…yes, I feel you on that SO much. I've got one class finishing up in two weeks and there's, like, 11 big assignments still in the queue. And I'm just sippin' my Mountain Dew while chaos erupts. I hope things relax on your end soon. I agree with you, Spain is expecting way too much too soon.
pseud0nymphhh—Thank you! I try to keep the hard conversations real because…some things can't be glossed over and it helps to see people struggle through it. I listened to the song and I liked it—thanks for recommending it! ^^ It's nice getting to show Goodparent!Arthur. He was totally a hero back in the day and he's rediscovering that part of him (but he has a more mature gravity this go-around). I'm serving up platonic love with this fic—no one's going hungry.
MythplacedLogic—Yes. All the parallels; they're bookends/foils in lots of ways. It's tough because he's the catalyst. And he moved on to a happier (if semi-complicated) life. Siblings bonds ARE different than parental ones and his bros are stepping up by NOT making demands on him. Spain is a doer. I blame that. He's struggling because he wants the problems out where he can resolve them. Tex…who is making progress has just enough self-awareness to be like the delivery of these problems will matter and that if he's too blunt…he could cause harm. Which is almost sweet but somewhat sabotage-y?
Guest—Thank you! I'm glad you're invested in Spanish Famada drama.
Vaughn20—THIS. Tex is dealing with a whole bunch of ghosts. I agree with you; he's a pretty straight shooter even with himself and his flaws. I also like that Arthur and Alfred's estrangement, even at its worst, was never full-on "no contact" like Tex and his family. It makes for different problems and troubleshooting dilemmas. Thank you for reading!
Chapter 14: The Boring One
The next day was warmer and the last of the laundry was completed: fancier sheets and finer blankets were cleaned now that Arthur was "back in practice."
They gathered up all the clothespins and organized them by size and strength and set them in a small basket.
The bed looked very fancy now all done up in fine coverlets and bed curtains and tassels. It was layered up to be very soft.
It was good fun to jump on and play with the great assortment of pillows.
Alfred tried to do his part and went on a wood-cleaning frenzy. The can of spray cleaner and polish smelled like oranges. The bed frame, the bookcases, curtain rods, anything wooden got wiped down.
The place started feeling and smelling less dank with their combined efforts.
He'd also helped that morning by dusting since he could hover up to the highest places in the tower.
While he was at it, Arthur instructed him to pick out more books for them to look at later.
Then, he held the dustpan while Father swept again. He liked to make himself useful, especially when sweeping and mopping were endless chores.
"Years of grime," Arthur complained and he wiped his forehead on a sleeve.
Alfred fidgeted. It had been bothering him for a while now. "You don't have to make such an effort for m-"
Green eyes flashed. "Of course, I do! You deserve a good home. Safe. Clean. Warm and well-stocked. I will always do what I can to provide it for you."
Which touched him.
Deserved it.
That was a bold thing to say when life was uncertain and unfair by nature.
It was a bolder thing to boast that he would wrestle with it "always" for Alfred's sake.
He was having trouble dismissing the pretty declaration as Arthur had seemed more confident and sincere than arrogant and manipulative when saying it.
Even so, holding someone to words like that…was unkind…
He must've made a face because Arthur asked him what was wrong.
And when he tried to explain—
"Hold me to it." His father's expression was fierce.
"But-"
"Hold me to it. Fasten it with the other things. You wanted a contract that stipulated I'd love you forever?"
Alfred's face heated up at being reminded of this right now of all times.
Arthur wasn't embarrassed. "You didn't need to ask me for that. Fortuna's Wheel turned and it's woven in the stars, but since you did, rest easy. It will never be broken. I will never break it. And then, what you didn't ask but wanted. You wanted me to always be here for you. I am. I told you. My heart is your garden. Add this now. I am your home. Wherever I am, it will be so. I will build wherever we find ourselves. And I will strive to provide the care and comfort you deserve."
"…" It was close. It was so terribly close to something America had said to Texas. About home. That home, in its truest sense, wasn't really a place at all.
Hell was that way, too. Milton got that right. The irony wasn't wasted on the American.
Father grew distressed.
"Alfred. If you have ever loved and respected me, hold me to these things now. My soul, my honor, all that is best in me is at stake."
"Yes, Father," he quickly promised.
"Good."
They went outside to do laundry and have lunch.
His dad was determined to feed him well. Almost every meal he chose was hearty.
But it was nice being fussed over. Arthur hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said he was determined to do so.
The laundry flapped and snapped on the clotheslines.
They were sitting beneath the shade of a pear tree nibbling on tasty fruits. Arthur could select the best pears easily.
"Nice and yellow. Some darker speckles. See how they come right off the branch with no resistance? They're ready for us to enjoy."
The funniest part was watching his prim and proper father simply toss the eaten cores off into the distance.
"If another tree grows, I won't complain," Arthur shrugged.
Alistair had hinted before that Arthur's "gentlemanliness" was a recent interest. That he'd been rougher around the edges prior to exploring the New World.
It was odd to witness but things were just run differently here.
He had no real complaints.
Alfred yawned and curled up on his parent's lap.
He was never told off for seeking affection or delayed with a "chores first, snuggle later" reply.
Arthur would stop whatever he was doing to tend to him.
Alfred thoroughly enjoyed being the center of attention, but he was keen not to abuse it.
He'd asked outright if there was a number. Because if there was a limit he could work within the parameters of it.
That made Father sad. He had a natural tendency to frown. Sadness etched it deeper. He assured him that there were no limits.
Even when Alfred came up with bizarre crises like weather storms and magical mayhem and zombies (the sprinting kind), Arthur was adamant that there were no limits.
He got the distinct feeling that Father had regrets over all of the "Not now, Alfred" and "I'm busy, Alfred" and "You're big enough…old enough…smart enough…disciplined enough" and "there'll be enough time later, boy" responses he'd given centuries ago.
He'd said something to that effect last December about carrying him; that he'd missed being able to.
There was something in the way he embraced him now that was different, too.
It was different from before Beltane's. It was different from their earlier days together.
He wasn't exactly sure what it was.
Texas did it, too. Had started doing it on and off not long after he'd become a Republic. Always did it by the time the 1870's rolled around.
There was something in the hug.
Something that said: I am here. If you never see me again after this moment, remember that I was here with you now.
And then what Arthur had said the other day:
"If you're asking me if I know how lucky I am? Yes, I do."
Lucky…to know him…to have him…to be family…
With so many other colonies, it was hard to believe Arthur could really miss one pair of arms.
"Did you miss me?" He asked directly.
"Of course."
He was handed another pear which he gladly accepted.
"I mean, not just lately…after…the Revolution? O-or after 1812?" Alfred clarified as he contemplated the fruit in his hands.
"Of course."
"Like…like you actually stopped and really thought to yourself? 'Geez, I sure miss arguing with that loud, clumsy oaf? Wot wot?'"
A warm hand rested on his head. "I miss my darlingheart every day that we're apart. That never changes no matter the date, or how argumentative he's feeling, or whether or not he is conducting himself gracefully."
"So, you did miss me?" Alfred confirmed.
"Yes."
Lazy patterns were traced gently across his shoulders and back. Tension was gently massaged away from his nape and his shoulder blades.
"I like you best at this," Alfred admitted. "Whenever Hawaii tries to massage my back, she presses too hard. Uncle Al only does it if I'm injured in a war zone and I've a muscle spasm. There's a clinical feel to it. He's good at fixing dislocations, though." He yawned again. "Rhys has been trying lately—worried about how I'm healing. But he can't decide if he wants to touch me or not."
"He's cautious."
"I don't think I'm that germy," he grumbled.
"Ha. I mean that he wants to be gentle."
"Hmmm."
Warm fingers carded through his hair and around his ears. Father made it seem easy.
Fatigue made him blunt. "Did you really, really miss me?"
He already knew the answer. Had heard it several times. But it came anyway.
"Of course."
"I don't know why I like hearing that so much," he murmured sheepishly.
"Because you missed me, too."
"Well...yeah." That part was obvious.
The side of his head, near his ear, was given a chaste kiss.
Reilley was getting annoyed. He drummed his fingers on his desk.
"Can you not ask me anymore about Arthur? I don't know anything."
"You feel no responsibility?"
Reilley glared at his phone which was on speaker.
That Rhys could be this irritating even when he was leagues away…
"None. I'm doing Arty's share of paperwork. Isn't that enough? More than what I ought to?"
"We're all doing more paperwork to help out-"
"Constant phone conferences. Constant. I mean, constant. I'm starting to just plough through my day. Breakfast? Phone conference. Driving? Loudspeaker. Loo? Why not?!"
"Reilley?!"
"I'm tired. See how I have to tell you that? Cuz yeh never ask."
"…How are you, Eire?" Rhys muttered tonelessly.
"See? Yeh don't care."
"Reilley-"
"Yeh don't."
"Where is Alba?"
"You care about everyone else at least a wee bit. But when it comes to me-"
"I have full faith in your dogged sense of self-preservation?"
"Gread leat!" He ended the call and blocked the number. Two days of no contact seemed reasonable to get his point across.
The melter…
Rhys only ever contacted him for information, or to eat his head off, or order him around, or all of it. It was never a friendly chat. Or an invite to grab a pint or go to the pictures. It was all duty all the time. But not with the others, no. Grand tea times and other merrymaking. Eire was an hour and a half away by plane. He wasn't asking anyone to swim the Irish Sea for him!
He sighed and looked over at the other occupant in his work office.
Reilley pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't keep covering for you, Alis. He's going to figure out you're here, if he hasn't already."
"Just a bit longer."
Reilley shook his head. "If you're staying, you're working." He handed his older brother a stack of reports. "I have a face-to-face meeting with the brat coming up. You can help with that, too."
"Oh aye, because I just do so well with wee ones," Alistair muttered as he perused the paper.
He was in a melancholy mood.
"Your message machine had a lot more bravado," Reilley observed.
"Aye, it did…it's… the messages Rhys is leaving me, I-"
"Stop listening to 'em."
Alistair gave him a look. "I can't tune him out as easily as you. He sounds at the end of his line. I don't need him going mental, too."
"Like he could. He's half-machine or stone-"
"Rhys has feelings. He's usually just more reserved because they overwhelm him."
Reilley rolled his eyes.
"Even calculators get confused sometimes," the Scotsman argued.
"Fine. But why are you telling me this?"
"I'm worried about him. Something's been set off in him. I know he feels bad that he pushed Arthur when he was already cracking. Could be that. Or that Alfie had to lose his mother-hen right after a memory breakthrough. So, Little Al fully remembers being abandoned after the Revolution and was abandoned again now."
"Hold the phone. We didn't abandon him. We did fine with Alfie-boy. You're overthinking."
Alistair scoffed. "Do yeh think we did well? That you did-"
"Oi! He lived!"
"Ack. You. Ack…not a goldfish."
"We did our part. He's back with Albion. It's over. Mission success. Play the trumpets."
"…Do you really feel that way?"
"Alfie-boy had it easy compared to what we all went through at his age."
"Eire…"
"Food, shelter, plumbing, the works! No raiding threats! I didn't rock him and sing him lullabies because I thought we were respecting that he didn't need hand holding. He's independent. Arthur was smothering him for some time. It was good for him to have a break."
"It wasn't a holiday, man."
"It wasn't a prison either. Just because the room was a wee bit cluttered—there were no infestations. I'll have it known!"
"I dunno if it's because Rhys is feeling protective. I mean, he might've seen it as a second chance."
"I don't follow."
"I did more child rearing of Albion than he did. I was a child meself. It was terrible. I was bad at it. But Gwalia was just a tween and he was out at the front—Romans, Vikings, intertribal conflicts…and him with his powers…I wish I could've gone instead. I'm more of a brute. I'd have been fine. He should have stayed with Arthur."
Reilley fiddled with a pen. "Point being?"
"I think he saw this as a making-it-up occasion. See Arthur? I took good care of your bairn."
"Harrumph."
"Or maybe it was to the laddie? I mean, Rhys and Al had been pretty close until 1812. Then they fought and Rhys got his knickers all twisted. And it's not like seeing Al afterwards, all mangled and out of his head, got his mercy flowing."
"He did try to contact Arthur," Reilley pointed out.
"Aye, but he didn't help out hardly at all with the actual task of caring for Alfred as an invalid. Don't you remember how standoffish he was?"
"Think he's trying to make up for that?"
"Well, he's been radging at me on and off for supplanting him as Al's 'favorite uncle.' And I've been pretty lenient about it—letting him vent but I told him straight that nothing was stopping him except him."
"Think we should've invited him?"
Alistair was quiet for a moment before he shrugged. "We maybe should have told him that he'd been forgotten outright."
"He didn't like talking about him!"
"I ken! But it might've been the courteous thing. That America wasn't actively insulting him in some of those diplomatic papers by leaving him out. Remember? That's why we went. England was being written to like he was the United Kingdom in all of its entirety."
"His ego loved that," Reilley grumbled. Arthur had pranced about after receiving such flattery. "It couldn't be borne."
"So we went to set things straight-"
"And you nearly got stabbed with a bayonet by an armed amnesiac," Reilley recalled fondly. "And I was nearly done in by a goat. Who keeps a goat when they've got no farm? Should have sold him!"
"It was after I helped him out, Little Al got fond of me and I was the favorite."
"I was there, too."
"But yeh didn't haggle the way I had to. And you weren't willing to do first aid."
"His eye socket was manky and oozy and smelled like rotting-"
"And that's why you're not the favorite."
"…Fine. I can accept it if that's the case. Maybe spell it out that way for Rhys and he'll get it?"
"Wha?"
"Did you help with Alfred's eye last December?"
"Uh…well, in the initial moment of the crisis, yeah. He was bleeding. I had to help. But Arthur did all of the after care. I offered but he wanted to be the one." The Scotsman shrugged. "I guess that was good. Bonding and what-not."
"You've got the stomach," Reilley murmured appreciatively.
"Battlefields-"
"No. You had it before, too. You could go with Máthair and visit the sick."
"She just needed someone to carry things who didn't fall ill easily-"
"You have a strong stomach. Take the damn compliment."
"Fine. But so what? How does that help?"
"Maybe you weren't top shelf caregiver material?"
"Let me down easy."
"But you always had food and shelter for him. Sometimes he threw tantrums and didn't want to share a tent. I remember that. I remember how you always tended Albion whenever he got sick or hurt and didn't bat an eye. Or get nervous. You didn't run from it. You never ran from things. Whatever else you did… you taught that to Arthur."
Alistair shrugged. "I feel like I'm running from this."
"Oi." He gave his fellow ginger a soft punch to the shoulder. "Arthur wants you to help him. Not Rhys. Must've done something right. Aye?"
"…Aye."
With their chores for the day completed and the sun still shining bright, Alfred, decked in a pair of navy blue swim trunks, entered the pool.
"It could be slippery," Arthur warned.
It was.
And he spat out some water when he resurfaced.
"Alfred!?"
"I'm okay!" He assured him.
Several more lilies bloomed as Alfred approached the greenery.
"So I can practice swimming here?"
"Yes, but… O what a sight we would have made. Believe you me, there would've been twitters all through the heptarchy." He entered as well, not bothering to undress beyond removing his shoes. He was in a pair of shorts and a tank top.
The water was up to Arthur's shoulders.
Shallow for a sailor, deep for a seven-year-old.
Arthur seemed very aware of that—he stayed within arm's reach.
Most of the refresher course consisted of Alfred being held by the hands while he practiced kicking.
He was also instructed to practice floating. He'd lost some skill at it.
"Some water wings will help you," Arthur decided.
Alfred cringed. "Everyone will tease me."
"Everyone can endure my wrath."
When his energy flagged, his father carried him out, aware of several stone steps hiding among the lilies that Alfred hadn't known about.
He was raised high above Arthur's head.
"You did such a good job!" Arthur insisted.
Alfred flushed; this was too much praise for such a small feat.
It still felt nice.
"I'm dripping everywhere," Alfred observed.
"So you are. Maybe shake it off?"
The Briton gave him a careful shaking.
"No? What about a spin cycle?" He moved in a lazy circle with Alfred still overhead. "No?"
He continued on back to the tower, holding Alfred up like a model airplane. "What of this? Still no?" Arthur mock-gasped. "Oh wait, I know!"
Alfred was gently dropped into a basket of sun-warmed linen.
"There!" Arthur crowed.
Alfred was shocked.
These sheets had been clean, just not folded. This just made more work for Arthur to do.
"I say, you are a difficult customer to please. But you've met your match, I assure you that I'm every bit as stubborn as you."
Arthur started tickling him.
Yes. It made more work and Arthur didn't care at all!
Alfred squealed as his neck was tickled.
Arthur cackled. "That sounds more like it!"
Attention was paid to the ticklish spots under Alfred's chin and then the elbows and armpits and behind the knees.
He laughed and giggled until he was breathless. Until it was hard to believe the world could be bad in so many ways when he felt this happy.
The Kingdom of Camelot hadn't heard a child's laughter in centuries.
It was strangely healing and poetically fitting that it was its king's long awaited son that was responsible for the sound.
Something in Arthur's heart mended at last. Camelot felt less…fallen.
"Lilies are known to clean the water they're in," Alfred insisted as Arthur prepared him a bath.
"I'm sure you're right, but I'm too paranoid for that."
Arthur pulled on a pipe from the ceiling and began releasing its stops. "I have a system rigged to collect rainwater so I can use it when needed."
A manageable stream of water flowed into a medium sized barrel. Arthur would stopper the pipe and swap out barrels so he could carry over a full one and pour it into a great cauldron he had in the hearth.
Sturdy buckets would then be used to carry the heated water over to—
"Ye olden metal bathtub." Alfred had watched Arthur give it a scrubbing the other day.
"That's right. When a design works, it stays."
He added a fun green bubble bath mixture as he poured water in.
"I don't have a toothbrush," Alfred remarked out of the blue.
"Oof, I meant to tell you I packed one for you." He rifled through his duffel bag. "Aha!"
Alfred cheered at the sight of a children's sized Superman one.
After making use of it, Alfred set it beside Arthur's red one in a cup beside the wash basin and pitcher.
Arthur relaxed out on the balcony to give the child some privacy as he bathed. He'd moved an old storage bench out there to sit on. The cushion was old and needed replacing. Still, it was a fine day.
The air was fresh. The sun was warm. He turned the page of an old magazine trying to remember why he'd kept it, Right! It had an article about Hong Kong—listing out the accomplishments of the region. He read it over again. It still made his chest swell with pride. Kaoru had done so well in politics and commerce and in improving life expectancy for his people.
He paused and listened to the low thrum of wind.
He frowned.
There was no sound of splashing in the background; he gave a quick check over and had to stifle a snort.
Alfred had cupped up foam and given himself an impressive beard worthy of the Early Middle Ages.
"It's very studio apartment-ish, here. But…medievally," Alfred mused loudly to him.
Arthur hummed agreeably and called back, "It was intended as a place for spellcasting and astronomy. I liked it too much and made it my bedroom instead."
"I like it, too!" The child announced with an exuberance that signaled he was feeling more like himself.
Arthur smiled. "I'm glad."
Tex checked his handiwork. He'd brought in more chairs to the break room and set up another folding table.
He set out napkins and paper plates and condiments.
Tina was making hotdogs for the whole team on the break room's griddle. She eyed him sharply. "How you doing, sug?"
He set a large keg of ketchup on the table and checked its pump by filling a small paper cup. "I miss Al."
"It has been too quiet. Where is Mr. Sassafras?"
"With his daddy."
"Still?"
Tex took his phone out to show a picture he had of the two of them.
Tina's false lashes went high. "Wow. Bless his heart. Mimi, over in Grapevine, would give him a good rate to help with that…eyebrow situation there."
Tex then showed her a group picture of Al's U.K. family.
"That's a shame. Well, if y'all grow up and we get space colonies in 3,000 A.D. on other planets and all that and Al has kids…with them eyebrows… You be nice about it, okay?" She poked him with a long nail and stared him down.
"Yes, ma'am."
She patted his shoulder. "Good. And just so's I know, you're 100% okay with your family still being here?"
"I mean, they're hard workers. The drama ain't too bad, like I expected." He wasn't sure how to explain the faking-his-death part in his estrangement from his family to her and how sore Spain was over the subject.
His old man had cooled off somewhat but…Tex was careful not to be flippant on the subject now.
Antonio was adamant that he wanted a better explanation for why it happened but…
It was complicated and simple at the same time.
And the answers all sounded bad just in his head—they'd be worse out loud:
'I gave up on you and threw my lot in with Al' seemed kinda harsh even when it was the gentlest one.
'I hated my life and everyone in it and tried to reinvent myself' sounded like an invitation to how did Mexico say it? 'Haul his ass to therapy?'
'I lost my way' might earn him Papi's sympathy as a Catholic and he'd be flooded with spiritual advice. But it didn't quite cover it all.
Or maybe, 'I didn't know if I'd ever discover happiness, but I was confident it would never be found in this family.'
Or…
'I was angry. And all of my rage could only hurt me and not you. And since I couldn't cut out your blood from my body, I took aim at everything else.'
All of them were true and none of them would help.
Texas sighed. "I'd like the new hires to start before I tell my family, and the I-talian, that they're free and clear. And I need to make sure we compensate them right. Overtime rates."
"You got it, Boss Man. Now, do you want chili and sweet pepper relish and jalapeños and banana peppers?"
"Yeah, I do! You know the way I like it!" He brought out more chips.
"Ring the bell, hon."
Tex eagerly struck it.
It would figure that his father saw the spread as something unusual.
"You do things like this for your workers?" Antonio asked.
"Yeah, people need to eat good to work hard. Coffee ain't always enough. Don't tell Al I said that," Tex said around a mouthful. He chewed and swallowed. "So, we try to have something on hand when we can…when it works out. Otherwise, cans and boxes." He pointed to a cabinet. "Or-" He pointed to cubbies where people could bring in their own preferences. "Or there's the fridge to keep their lunch from home cool. And I don't let off lunch-stealers. No flex. Ain't no reason to steal your coworkers' lunch. There's food here. And if you can look on through and find nothing, come find me. I'll stock the pantry better."
"…You're very generous, mijo."
"Don't go givin' credit I haven't earned. It wasn't like I came up with it. I learned it. Al never had so little that he couldn't share with me."
And one time when Al really had had nothing to offer after coming home to his cabin after being abroad and not knowing that the Republic of Tejas would be waiting for him…
Stubs of candles were hastily gathered onto a chipped plate on the table and lit with a match. Shards of a broken mirror were then arranged around them to direct the light.
Texas was quieted by the display of cleverness.
"I'm so sorry, Texas. I didn't know to expect you." His traveling cloak was tattered and his breath fogged in the chill air. His empty hands were held up placatingly. "It's too late for a meal in town. And my personal stores are…I could draw you a drink from the well. But it might be too cold for you to find it refreshing."
Tejas took the cold hands in his and gave them a playful shake.
It was true he'd been somewhat hopeful of a meal because being a nation was harder and more expensive than he'd known and because…there was something about sharing a meal with this person that made him feel welcome.
He was so stupid…and selfish. He'd come at an unreasonable time. Of course Alfred couldn't host him. And yet…he was being received very graciously.
Tejas felt…shame and tried to hide it by pulling the other in for a hug. "Welcome back!"
"…Thank you, Tex." He sounded very touched and the hug he gave back was very unsure though genuine.
Tejas felt worse even as he resolved to greet America more warmly from them on.
Tejas was awkward in trying to move the firewood into the hearth to heat the room and make up for coming unannounced by being helpful. But he was unused to servant work.
Alfred, on realizing the fact, kindly directed him on what to do and thanked him for his help.
The young Republic had ended up nodding off not long after.
He woke to find a homespun quilt had been draped over him.
His host was gone.
A search outside in the moonlight revealed the American at work with a spade, digging up carrots from the hard ground.
They would go into one of the weakest soups Tex ever had in his life.
He'd never been more determined to compliment something terrible.
Even when Al raised an eyebrow and remarked, "I know it's bland, Tex. Don't tire yourself. You rode a long way. You have to have something. This need only last us 'til morning. I will figure something out."
"I-I just…appreciate the-er-that you that made this…for me, yes?" His English wasn't perfect, especially when he got rattled, but that was the nearest he could get. "'Cause you did not have to let me in or let me stay. But you do. Did. I…I…"
"I like your company, Texas. So, you may come over whenever you choose and you're welcome at this table to whatever it has. Always."
Damn it, he was getting teary-eyed.
"Mijo, are you alright?"
"Yeah! I just…If I could get my energy up, I could make us all some chili—with different heat thresholds—I ain't that mean."
Spain didn't back down and kept prodding until Tex had to tell the story and he got pretty choked up.
"What did you do? To repay his kindness?" Spain's frown was surprisingly serious.
"Uh, I got some work at the dock unloading stuff…"
And that started another story. It surprised him when his family leaned in and listened.
He was used to being the Boring One.
Arthur would've just reused the bath water, save for Alfred's shocked insistence that it was too unhygienic a practice.
And so Arthur had to go through the effort of emptying and then preparing a bath the old-fashioned-way a second time.
Reusing water used to be a common sense practice even in the colonies. Admittedly, abuse had created the adage: "Don't throw out the baby with the bath water…" on account of how murky water could get if a whole family partook in the idea and went in sequence of the hierarchy.
Then again, Alfred had often lived in a very small household or alone.
When he thought about it some more, Alfred had also never conceded to visit Bath in Somerset with him no matter how much Arthur touted the health benefits over the years.
A shame. The other children had gotten to enjoy spas and health resorts.
Now that he was thinking about the others, he mused that Australia hadn't been required to share any baths. Though in his case it was a must to adequately scrub him clean. Jet also wasn't very good at remembering to brush his teeth.
Even after Australia was grown, England had to ring the lad up to nag him before special events.
Then there was New Zealand who still rushed whenever it came to washing his hands, ever fearful those extra seconds were keeping him from something fun.
Alfie washed his hands like a paranoid nurse practitioner.
But then, if he had a paralyzing fear of hospitals, he was doing what he could to stay out of them. Which was smart in an offbeat sort of way.
They were all so different.
Arthur's mouth twitched in a fond smile.
"Fresh baths are better," Alfred insisted solemnly. He offered some of the bubble bath mixture Arthur had used for him, grabbed some items, and left the tower altogether.
Supposedly, this was for Arthur's privacy.
After washing, drying, and dressing, Arthur gathered some hair trimming materials. He carried them in a small basket as he traveled down the tower's stairs and out onto the grounds.
He found Alfred nearby playing with toys on a blanket.
"Hi!" Blue eyes peeked out from damp, overgrown fringe.
God, the scruffy strands bothered him.
"Hullo, there."
It was good for them to enjoy some lingering sunshine. Alfie was still very pale.
"Might I join you, poppet?"
"Sure." Alfred made space for him on the blanket.
He settled—half-waiting to hear his knees pop and they didn't. The novelty continued. "If you're not opposed, I would give you a haircut."
"Oh, okay."
"Splendid." Arthur took a small towel out to drape over the boy's shoulders. He casually glanced over to see which toys his son had selected for this foray outside and did a double-take.
It wasn't surprising that Hop, Pilot, Woolly, Scales and the Bilbo-catcher had made the cut.
No, his shock was reserved for the crude, green, horse-shaped toy in his son's hand.
"Where did you find that?"
Alfred pointed to a sturdy stone box he'd brought down. There were Old Welsh phrases chiseled onto it—locking spells so that only family members would be able to open it.
Arthur vaguely remembered Rhys insisting he hold on to it.
He went through the contents with more appreciation now. They were mostly toys from his youth which no doubt had embarrassed Arthur to receive as the Cadeyrn of Camelot.
"I foresaw that they…they could be of use to you," Rhys declared.
If Arthur remembered rightly, he'd gotten very offended.
And then Rhys was amused and remarked that whatever diversions Arthur pursued as he "played castle" were his own business.
A child…
Rhys had foreseen something that suggested Arthur would become a father.
And then when Roanoke and Surinam had…failed and then more…
Rhys was careful to never remind him of this box.
There were some beads, some old stone dice, a pull toy of a roughly hewn ox. The ox was a bright green as well.
Corrosion.
He had salt and flour and lemons. He had baking soda and vinegar. He would clean the horse and the ox. They were awfully simple toys, but they deserved to look their best.
Especially, when Alfred petted the horse's blocky mane with the appreciation of a child who hadn't had much.
Sealand and Wy wouldn't have deigned to touch something so dirty and unrefined and secondhand.
Arthur remembered the stick doll his young colony had cuddled and the scratches it left.
Little fingers traced rough corroded metal. If he snuggled that toy…
"Here. Let Daddy clean Cyflym before you play."
"I…thought haircut? Cuffem? His name is Cuvlim? Are these…yours? I mean, when you were little?" Alfred held the horse up.
Arthur took it gently. The past rose up like a powerful tide. He missed his mother and the way her eyes sparkled, his brothers smiling and laughing…the smells of hearth and home. The sounds of horses, crwths, and singing. A world that made sense to him because he was warm, well cared for, and wanted.
"Daddy?"
He would rise to the challenge of replicating what he could.
"Yes. And I can attest that Cyflym is a fine horse. May he serve you well. We'll spruce him up after your haircut."
He set the toy aside, half-surprised by its weight. He was too used to plastic. Cyflym was solid copper.
He pulled out combs, scissors, and towels, and got to work.
"I'm not… great at hairdressing," the boy admitted as Arthur combed and trimmed. "So I didn't try."
"There's an art to it. And you have me. Tilt your head forward, please."
"My hair isn't… right. It feels wrong when I touch it."
"Nothing we can't address with care and diet." He shook the hair to make sure he was getting the layers right.
The child definitely looked more kempt by the time Arthur was through, though the strands were still fragile.
Arthur wasn't a stranger to that. Long sea voyages with harsh weather and poor food could stress his hair into a frizzy mess.
It also meant he knew what to do. He added an after treatment to his son's hair to help repair it.
"There you are. I nearly lost you under that mop." Arthur judged his work.
The child tentatively touched his hair and on finding it sleeker and "more normal," recovered more of his good humor. He sat up straighter with confidence.
Then…
Arthur felt pain for him; the child had known that his health and his looks had suffered.
For someone who had so much of his self-worth tangled up in his appearance…
"Yes, a bang up job. It helps when the canvas is handsome to start with." Arthur tweaked Alfred's nose.
The compliment was well-received. Eventually, they'd need to talk more about beauty and its many forms and layers but…now wasn't the moment. Arthur would need to be very gentle as he worked Alfred free of that trap. There was a lot tied into it; Alfred's shapeshifting, his rejection as a toddler among his first caregivers and community, Arthur's habit of flattery, his 1812 injuries, his government's appraisal of his attributes, cruel dismissals of his intellect, and history's mercurial obsession with beauty trends.
And his own view of himself…
Repulsive…
Arthur felt a surge of compassion at recalling that. He'd need to be so careful navigating those waters.
Alfred, with sudden interest, asked, "Did you send one of the nice pictures of me? For my passport? So I look good?"
He'd need to meet him where he was first and then chart a course.
"Of course." He packed the scissors and combs back into the basket and moved it further away so it wouldn't be mixed in with the toys and cause an injury. "We used one from the December photoshoot. You looked smashing. It was hard to pick just one. Luckily, I had your Uncle Rhys help me."
"Good! It's tough with the whole neutral expression thing. Gah. I hate posing for an in-person one with my government. They never count it down for me. So I get this incredulous smile thing going. Like, I'm smiling but my eyebrows rebel. And I get this sort of snobby 'Oh, is that so?' air when really I'm like 'Is it gonna go? Did it go already?' Tex just flipping stares the camera lens down—daring it to blink. But I don't want to look mean. Subtle smiling is better for me. Otherwise, I end up looking sad or full of contempt. You know?"
"No. I'm too British to fret about such things."
Alfred was stunned for a full beat and then collapsed in a heap of giggles.
Direct hit of humor.
"Dude, you're good. Ha! The timing. Ha! The delivery. Hahaha!"
Arthur couldn't quite hold a comedically stoic expression and smiled lightly.
Alfred grinned up at him.
If this was a glimpse of what their future could be, why hadn't they reconciled sooner? How could Arthur have let the estrangement drag on?
No. They had now. They had after.
It wasn't enough, but it would have to do.
Read & Review Please :D