Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Or Sylvester Stallone's iconic Rocky music. Or the Roomba!
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for the sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Implied instances of earlier child neglect. Avoidance coping. Brief references to Roman slavery, Celtic slavery, and slavery in the colonies. Uncalled for rudeness regarding mental illness mixed with reference to Bethlem Royal Hospital, better known by its nickname: Bedlam. Popsicle sticks can help with home repair. When you're an artisan, everything is a project that you ought to do to improve your and your loved one's living situation-offshoot of the "curse of competence." Curse of Competence: this is where you have the skill/drive to be good at a lot of things and are often called on to complete various tasks/side-quests which have little to do with your actual job/bonus points when this infiltrates your homelife as well. When do you rest? You don't! This is how U.S. burnout happens in real time! *coughcoughithitssoclosetohomehuh?*
AN: Hey! : D
Thank you for reading, everyone!
Vaughn20—Yeah, they're missing each other alright.
Time Traverser—Oho? Guess I'll have to work harder XD. Yeah, Barbados was the MVP last chap.
Reader of Rhapsody—Thank you! ^_^
MythplacedLogic—Yes! THIS! It's all about support networks. And if it's really small, there are huge consequences mental health-wise. And (spoiler-ish?), it kind of connects to unhealthy ways Al and Tex have dealt with it in the past (and that even though their relationship has helped them a lot…it still doesn't quite resolve the underlying issues).
Byakuyalove—Glad to hear your schooling is going well. Mine is the type where there are deceptive lulls and then BAM deadline (hope you were using the time constructively!) or Impromptu In-class Prompt (you only get 30 min. to create a meaningful response…which makes me hiss and spit) and you're left hoping the grading won't be too severe. X_X
Lapis Bapis—Alas, you will need to hold tight until the next chapter. :D
AlphaGuardian16—Awwwww. You're welcome!
Amerikia—I laughed hard at this; it's bad when the fae courts seem like a legit
Well done, Scarletnightcrawler! Enjoy your time before Spring semester—seriously! It'll be here too soooon!
I hope you all enjoy this chap!
Chapter 4: No One in the Clinic was Safe
Alfred kicked his feet against the legs of his chair and abandoned a plate of half-eaten strawberries in favor of peering across at Mrs. Gray.
"Yes?" She replied sharply, eyes bright and imperious as she knitted at a measured pace.
"I'm sorry about the ride over," he offered.
"Why?"
"I was loud."
"So?"
"…" He fidgeted.
She studied him hard. "Were you being noisy deliberately?"
He shook his head.
"Then don't apologize. Now, come here. You need to try on these socks. You've worn out your others and you'll catch your death being barefoot here."
He wasn't barefoot; he was wearing sneakers without socks.
"Unsuitable," she tutted once more and gave their surroundings a glare. "Completely unsuitable. Tetanus? Parasites? Don't know why we couldn't just take you home with us?"
"I've already explained it, dear," Mr. Gray replied wearily from her left.
"Not to my satisfaction."
Mrs. Gray was the no nonsense type.
She'd been unshakable during Alfred's…meltdown.
He was upset.
He was really, really, really upset and he couldn't get a grip on himself.
And all the suck-it-up-buttercup, pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps, Rocky music montage mantras in his head weren't enough.
His uncle was probably mortified.
Alfred was probably undermining all of his family's hard work to keep him under the radar.
He couldn't break himself out of this funk.
A car door opened and a pair of beige loafers entered his blurry sight.
"What's this now?"
He looked up, blinked some tears away, and briefly registered a terribly English woman.
She was old with a hawkish nose and pinched lips and the deep sort of unflappability that suggested she was made out of tougher stuff than ship anchors.
Her white hair was slicked back into a small knot of a bun.
She frowned, which increased the wrinkles on her face, readjusted her hearing aide, and then demanded, "Well, let's hear it then? What is it you want? To be so loud, you must want something?"
And maybe it was because he was called out so directly—complete honesty burst out:
"I miss D-d-daddy."
Her expression didn't move. "Hm. It can't be helped then. Well, don't just stand there, Sherwin. Fetch the blanket. The blue one. Yes, the blue one. I packed the blue one. Alfred likes blue. Don't you, Alfred?"
She had piercing green eyes. Almost the same shade…but not…
"Y-yes," he choked out.
"See?"
She took the throw blanket, wrapped him up, and, with her husband's help, deposited Alfred into a booster seat. They worked together to get him buckled in.
"Alright then," Mrs. Gray remarked as Alistair took up the passenger's seat and all of them were settled.
She addressed the driver who appeared to be in his forties. "Get us along, Callum."
"Yes, Mum."
And when Alistair told Alfred to please-for-the-love-of-God pipe down—Mrs. Gray wouldn't have it:
"What are you shushing him for? You can't shush away heartbreak. Turn back around if you're not going to be useful."
"Judith!?" Mr. Gray was aghast.
"Wot? I'm not on their payroll and if the Highlander wants to cleave me in twain for daring to speak my mind, he best get on about it. I've lived this long this way and I've no intention of stopping now."
So Alfred cried. He cried the whole way.
No one was allowed to complain.
They eventually parked at the ruins of a brick country house.
Only the bottommost floor and half of the next one up seemed to be intact.
"The perimeter is charmed," Alistair announced loudly. "So, you don't have to worry about hikers stumbling across the house. I've also got some friendly fae that'll lead them back to the trails if they get past somehow."
The third floor was…gone. Only charred bits of stone around the windows remained and a partial staircase.
"You stay off that third floor," Alistair warned again.
Because it wasn't just the regular condemned kind of dangerous, it was supernaturally perilous, too.
He needed a break from scary things, dammit! He started sniffling harder.
And that's how Mattie found him—puffy eyed and oozy.
His older brother hurried to help him out of the booster seat.
It was something—his usually polite brother had all but ordered the Grays out so he could reach him.
"What's wrong, Al? What happened?"
Alfred wound his arms around his brother's neck.
"He needed a cry is all." Mrs. Gray shrugged.
"I miss…I miss…miss…him…"
He was given a gentle squeeze. "Me too, Al. I think he's got a week left. We can hold on 'til then, eh?"
"…"
That was assuming Arthur would still want to see him. All of his letters suggested that he genuinely missed him, but…what if…when he saw him and all the bad memories came rushing back…he realized they were better off apart?
He dazedly watched as Mrs. Gray approached the heavy oak door.
He wriggled to be set down so he could hurry in front of her and hold it open for her.
"Oho? A gentleman? Well thank you, young sir."
He nodded distractedly as he debated whether to keep holding the door for the rest of their party.
She turned to appraise him. "Yes, I think I have a better grasp of the situation."
He gulped and sniffled.
She nodded. "We're going to need sugar. A good deal of it. Come to the kitchen with me."
She held her hand out with an imperious expression.
And she didn't show the slightest reaction of being grossed out as his damp, dirty fingers (spoiled by tears and runny-nosed wetness) held hers.
Canada had taken a red eye to arrive in Scotland ahead of his little brother's scheduled ferry.
He was angry that Olivia's visiting time had been cut short.
She'd been scared on their last phone call. "It's not working out right. Forget the conspiracies, it's ennui that's going to get Alfred. Mathieu, do something!"
He'd then demanded the right to visit Al from Rhys. The Welshman had been taken aback at his ire and had arranged his flight as a means of assuaging him.
He was furious at the sad state of the country house.
He'd swept and straightened the remaining furniture. He'd sprayed and disinfected multiple surfaces.
It was still abysmal.
He'd texted as much and offered to pay for a hotel instead.
Alistair's assurances that Alfred had holed up in far worse places in the past while visiting him lodged horrified indignation deep in his heart. He'd stared hard at the screen of his phone and willed himself not to break it with too tight a grip.
Yes, he'd known of a few bad hotels his brother had resided at during the 1800s, but Mathieu had always passed the knowledge to Arthur and it spurred the man into action. Arthur would make a point of personally securing or nagging Alfred to seek out better accommodations.
He hadn't imagined that Alistair would encourage Al towards those places.
There were more occasions that he hadn't learned of. Enough that rough lodgings were considered acceptable for Alfred. And if they were alright then, they were alright now.
Mathieu had done what he could.
He'd stocked up on food items for the fridge and the cellar's icebox.
He'd gathered up "fun" materials from kid's aisles at stores following Olivia's advice.
It was still a creepy place even on the best day.
And his little brother was having a terrible day in a long line of terrible days.
And witnessing it…up close…unavoidable…
Texas had. Texas had seen such things before.
Maybe it was a latent sense of competitive estranged sibling rivalry emerging?
Maybe it was arrogance?
But if Texas, who was coarse and ungraceful, could be trusted for support in times like this…?
Mathieu could definitely be trusted.
"I'm sorry you're having to-to see me like this," his little brother mumbled from the room's frayed settee. "I dunno what's wrong with me."
"There's nothing wrong with you," Mathieu replied. "You're upset."
"…"
"Olivia was so worried about you. She was upset that Alistair took you early and she called me. She knows how worried I've been about you, too. So we made sure I could get here."
"You volunteered for this place?"
"I wanted to be with you wherever that was."
Alfred looked like he was going to cry again and was trying to hold it in.
He stared hard over at the kitchen that was missing a door—his eyes glancing at the gaping holes where kitchen drawers were missing and cabinets were hanging by one hinge.
"There aren't any bugs," his little brother noted brightly, but the smile didn't match the moment or the tear that streaked down his face.
"No, there shouldn't be," Mathieu replied softly as he came to sit beside his brother.
It had been fumigated a few months ago. There'd been an old receipt about it lying on the counter. He wasn't sure how Alistair managed it if the place was enchanted against humans but he had…somehow.
Mathieu had vigorously cleaned up the traces of it because Texas had warned him that Alfred didn't like insects; being a baker made him "super touchy" about the pantry and kitchen being "top-notch-clean."
Oui. Mathieu completely supported Alfred in that.
He coaxed Alfred into letting him cook him something to eat.
His little brother was wasting away.
Olivia had warned him and it was still a shock.
He'd just been a little off in Rhys's care when Mathieu had seen him last; a little paler, a little quieter, a little sadder than he was supposed to be.
And that was still within the confines of normality because not having Arthur around was a huge adjustment. Of course he was going to struggle. They all were.
This was something else.
Olivia was right.
Something scary.
It wasn't anorexia or an infection.
It was some kind of depression or apathy infiltrating from the darker corners of Alfred's personal anguish over everything that had happened.
He wasn't sure how to rescue him from it but was determined to try.
Once Alfred was seated at the wobbly kitchen table, he fiddled with his spoon. He wasn't interested in a bowl of soup.
He didn't want Oreos. He didn't want soda. He didn't want coffee.
He didn't want anything.
"But thanks, anyway" was the standard rejection.
He pushed the bowl away to rest his head on the table.
There was something off about his hair. The color? The texture?
Intuition said diet. His malnourishment was becoming noticeable.
One week. One week and Arthur would be back.
"I could make you something else? Do you want a burger?"
He'd been hoping to save a burger smorgasbord until tomorrow night but—
"Thanks, but no thanks. I don't want anything. Thank you for the soup. Sorry, I can't eat it."
"…"
To hell with the rules, Mathieu gave Texas a call.
"Howdy there, neighbor to the North!"
"My counselor suggested several meat substitutes that taste better than steak," Canada declared.
"You sleep with one eye open. Them's fightin' words."
"Good."
"I know the studies are still ongoing, but acrylamide is a real thing that-Wha? Wait, what?"
Violet eyes narrowed in determination. "Cuz we're going to have a 'fight' that lasts two hours if anyone questions the phone record. Okay? Okay."
"Huh?"
And then Mathieu set a shocked Alfred on the line.
"You…you're breaking the rules…" Alfred whispered.
Mathieu smiled.
Alfred stared at the phone now in his hands. "T-Texas?"
"Baby brother! How the hell are you?!"
Alfred grinned. "Big brother! Gah! I've missed you so much! I've got gobs to tell you!"
Mathieu nodded approvingly before moving to leave.
Alfred's hand caught at the hem of his shirt.
"You…you can stay. Tex, I'm putting you on speaker phone with Mattie and me."
"Okay!"
They traded bad news like a tennis game—volleying and one-upping when they could and then laughing at their own misfortune.
Mathieu was still recovering from a fire in Fort McMurray that had started on Beltane's Day—that was going to go down as a bad day all around.
Alfred had grumbled a bit about rabid politics taking root and the resulting "feud" between members of Team USA as he shoveled in spoonfuls of soup and accepted some saltines.
"Does that happen a lot?" Mathieu asked, genuinely curious.
"NO!" Texas protested immediately.
America's flat expression said it all.
They also learned that Spain was dropping in on Tex and he was trying to get things handled and tidy his ranch up despite a massive understaffing disaster.
To Mathieu's surprise, Alfred didn't volunteer himself to help with a harebrained heroic scheme. And Texas didn't ask.
"It's nice that Spain cares about you and wants to help." Mathieu willed himself to not be upset—aware that Alfred was right next to him. He was working through the familiar sting of resentment. He wished he had a father in his life. But he didn't. But he had role models, right? And he could learn about his father from his…estranged Nordic brothers?
This didn't have to subtract anything from him. It only took if he let it.
"Tch. He thinks I'm a baby idiota that can't handle things."
Antonio wanted them to spend time together in his country.
Mathieu fought the twist in his heart.
Alfred was all cheery congratulations.
He tried not to resent that either. That Alfred could be that way so effortlessly when Mathieu was struggling.
That Alfred could be positive and supportive for Tex, when he often wasn't really like that for Mathieu.
"That's great, Bro. I'm glad he's stepping up his game! Finally!"
Drip.
Mathieu stared at the droplet that landed on the table.
"Cuz you know you deserve the best!" Alfred gushed. "I always want you to be happy."
Drop.
Their little brother continued smiling so warmth stayed in his voice.
Or maybe Mathieu was wrong? And it was just as hard?
But Alfred was set on being a hero about it?
Mathieu rested his hand over his brother's. Small, cold fingers slowly gripped his own.
They both affirmed their well wishes for Texas on his familial reconciliation and then the topic moved to chores.
When the second hour wrapped up, Tex told him, "I guess you're alright in my book…for now…for a Canuck."
"What praise?" Mathieu replied.
"I know, I know! I'm just too damn friendly for my own good. State motto, ya know?!"
"'Too damn friendly?'" Mathieu deadpanned.
His brothers cracked up.
Alistair was pure done-in as he knelt down beside his youngest brother.
The drive to Blue Rose Blooms Clinic had been long and all of the drama of yesterday was wearing on him.
Luckily, the Grays were good with wee ones having paleeries. They'd been able to scoop his bawling nephew up with a soft blanket and soft words and bundle him into their auto. Mr. and Mrs. Gray then stationed themselves on either side of Alfred's booster seat.
Their son, Callum, drove the whole way. Good man. Alistair knew him from the police force. He didn't buckle and, God almighty, that was something. The caterwauling had lasted for hours.
Alistair wasn't the anxious type—his knee bounced the whole drive to Galloway Forest.
And then, there'd been Mathieu's accusatory expression when they arrived.
"What happened?" The Canadian demanded.
"I dunno. We got off the ferry. I was trying to prepare him for this place. He reached the end of his tether."
"Alistair?!"
"I dunno! Do what you can for him." He looked over at the small shivery bundle curled up on the moth-eaten settee. "Do what yeh can. We're all trying."
It felt like he'd barely gotten the bairn settled in and laid himself down to sleep when his alarm was going off.
"You're going to see him," Alfred stated hoarsely from the doorway.
Alistair paused as he reached for his motorcycle keys. "Aye, I am."
The child's expression was pained as he gripped the doorframe. "...Can you lie? Uncle Al? Can you lie and say I was good and I didn't cause any trouble?"
"No lie in that, but I'll be sure to tell him. I promise."
His nephew almost smiled.
The orderlies had let Alistair join in on the outdoor activity.
"So," Alistair began as he dug his spade into the soil.
"So," Arthur echoed back boredly as he set a tray of sproutlings sitting neatly in their cubes of dirt closer to where they were working.
If Alfred had been there, he probably could've waxed poetic on the plants and Arthur would've indulged him, especially if Alistair told the ankle biter to belt up.
But he wasn't. The absence of him…the silence was loud…
"Around a week, hm? And then you're set loose?"
"Six days, or so I've been told." There was a dullness in Arthur's tone, in his eyes, in his demeanor that didn't suit him.
"So cheery."
Arthur sighed. "Why are you here, Alba? Why not just call? The usual two-minute weather check?"
They weren't great at conversation. The two of them just never really…
But that was alright. He just needed to say what he had to and no more. He'd have an answer in how Arthur reacted.
If he reacted…
It had been an awful thing, dealing with his brother at rock-bottom.
Arthur was sitting against the wall, arms around his knees, trembling.
"…I…I hate feeling like this. I told myself I would never… never feel like this…so... Never again. No matter what it took. Not after Rome."
Alistair waited. "..."
"I was clumsy attending them. Pouring things. Carrying food. I took beatings. You don't feel lucky. But when you're older, you understand. There were other things that could've been done. I wasn't a pretty bairn,Thank Dagda. How much worse it could've been…cruelties…"
Alistair frowned and argued softly, "…It was…still…cruelty."
"…"
"It was still cruelty," he repeated. "And it shouldn't have been visited on you. On anyone…and you were wee."
"You don't understand. You make wishes. When you're small, you make wishes. In those moments. When they don't happen right then, you lose faith."
He nodded. "Understandable."
"No. Because I was there in that…and then I was returned, but I didn't do more. I should've done more."
This was that disorganized thinking that Rhys had warned him about.
Rhys was an empath and he struggled to make sense of Arthur as he was right now. The rest of them were screwed.
Alistair leaned against the wall and then slid down to sit near his brother.
"There was so much more," Arthur muttered and held his knees tighter to his chest. "I could've come back. Done something to stop it. Slavery then serfdom then slavery again in the colonies. But I didn't talk about it to my rulers. To them, it didn't happen. I never talked about it. Would it have changed things? Changed hearts? Minds? Reasoning? Would they have cared? Could I have made preparations?"
"Albion?"
He was all over the place.
"I never wanted to feel that way again. I thought talking about it would make me relive it…would make me…You don't understand…what I wished for. You don't think anything is listening. When you're little like that, you think that kind of wish…that kind of wish…And nothing happened. Never wanted to feel like that again…Powerless…"
Rhys would've hushed Alistair. Rhys wasn't there.
"What'sit you wished for, Arthur?" Because he wasn't up for beating around the bush.
"For someone else. The next time, I had to be powerless, I wanted it to be someone else instead. You don't think about who that will be. When it will happen. When you're small, you think small. Nothing beyond you."
"I…really cannae understand yeh, Bráthair."
Green eyes pierced him with a sudden glare. "They could've focused on me. My government. His government. The fae. Harris. Morganna. They all could've focused on ME."
The Scotsman scoffed, "I don't think you've sidestepped it, man."
Arthur continued like he hadn't heard him at all. "You don't think when you make wishes like that…when you're a child…if it was someone else… Wouldn't that be better?" He got a haunted look. He gripped his hair and he choked on his next words, "And then, you're grown when it happens. When the wish is granted…and it's your child that takes your place."
Alistair dug a small hole. "So…Gwalia wants to throw yeh a dinner party o' some sort."
Arthur made a vague noncommittal sound and stared glumly at the delicate greenery he was supposed to be planting.
Granted, this dinner event would be lackluster. Arthur would probably be on medication that couldn't be mixed with alcohol. Wherever venue Rhys chose would end up being wrong—either too bustling for an Englishman in recovery or too freakishly quiet.
"Him. Eire. And you."
Arthur stilled, green eyes going wide—immediately picking up on what wasn't shared.
Alistair wouldn't be there. Alfred wouldn't be there. Alistair would be with Alfred then.
There was that cleverness he'd come to expect out of his youngest brother.
Arthur's head turned to watch him almost unblinkingly.
Good.
"Now," the Scotsman began, "we've put a rush on everything. But even then, it's still another two weeks or a bit more before that paperwork comes through. And we don't want any funny business at the end."
Arthur nodded slowly, transfixed.
Alistair stuck his spade down and came closer so they were nearly knee to knee, like they were children again and conspiring behind a pillar in a temple of Jupiter. "Bráthair, I have a plan."
"…"
"…It hinges on you."
"…"
Alistair took a deep breath. "The way I see it, you can be there at the dinner with them or you could be…somewhere else…"
Hope entered his brother's eyes.
"See?" Alistair lowered his voice. "I know someone who's been awfully good—"
"My bairn."
The tone put a lump in Alistair's throat.
When they were children and a spoiled, selfish Arthur was making ridiculous demands, he'd suggest his baby brother go eat dirt to win his favor.
Outraged, the blond would hiss and spit and stomp and stalk off cursing his name with bad words he'd learned from his brothers but didn't understand—linking them together oddly.
"My bairn?" Arthur prompted, shuffling closer on his hands and knees, beseeching him for news.
He could've made Arthur do anything right then.
He'd have eaten that tray of sproutlings…plastic and all.
No satisfaction came with that revelation.
"Aye, your bairn."
Mathieu stared. He'd hoped Alfred had been exaggerating earlier when he listed out "chores" that he'd had in mind to Texas.
"The damp hasn't set in so fixing tiles will be pretty easy," Alfred explained.
He'd found a stockpile of supplies in a closet for home renovations that hadn't come to fruition.
"Al?"
"I need to feel useful."
So he made himself useful…and Mathieu helped where he could.
Cracked tiles were replaced. Grout lines were refreshed. Cabinetry hinges were tightened or repaired or replaced.
Alfred was maneuvering a popsicle stick to apply silicone evenly when Mathieu tried to broach the topic again.
"Al? Why are we doing all of this?"
Alfred's eyebrows drew together. "I made a bad impression. They're being nice about it, but…"
No. The Grays were understanding. His little brother was hurting and he didn't know how to accept their care.
After accomplishing something he felt was "worthy," then they could "reward" him with treats and attention.
This was the type of relationship he had with his government; where he tried to please everyone and win their favor and just got used up and worn out as a result.
Mathieu worked hard for compromises, like playing movies or music while they fixed tiles and sealed drafty windows or polished silverware.
Mathieu was more of a lumberjack than a construction worker, but he was used to assisting with tasks. He'd followed Arthur diligently through many situations and learned as he went.
And he gradually realized that Alfred wanted to be exhausted…because he wanted to sleep.
Working hard was a way of blocking the world out.
He couldn't be as sad as he was if he was exhausted.
The skin on his brother's hands was chapping and the nails were flaking.
He was going to work until his fingers bled…until he couldn't work…anymore.
Mathieu had to find a way to stop him.
A way to get him to talk…
"Al, let's go outside."
His brother faltered.
"I want to see the forest, don't you? I mean, that's why Scotland chose this place, right?"
Mathieu was gambling hard in that Witch of the Woods title.
Al looked longingly through the window. "It…it is allowed here…I…I suppose a-a minute outside couldn't hurt."
"A wonderful suggestion," Mr. Gray asserted.
The rest of the afternoon was spent ogling trees.
His brother was…doing a lot of the things Mathieu remembered from when they were colonies.
Alfred was balancing on their roots, climbing and leaning against their trunks, perching on their branches, gathering and inspecting seeds from the forest floor.
Mr. and Mrs. Gray had their act down pat; every discovery Alfred made was treated with complete fascination.
His brother tentatively reached for their hands to take them around to different sights.
Mathieu could almost see the past as an imprint.
Arthur had let Alfred do that—walk him all around and point out ordinary things.
All things a young Mathieu had dismissed as a younger Alfred being spoiled by so many toys that he grew bored of them and made a show of being interested in dirty plants so Arthur would feel embarrassed and buy him more gifts.
He wasn't pretending.
Gardener magic.
"Look, Mattie!"
He cupped his hands and they glowed.
Several seeds sprouted.
"I always wanted to show you, but you wouldn't admit you were a witch, too. Even though you were left-handed and everything."
Mathieu paused.
So then, it hadn't been just simple teasing. If he'd shown even the slightest interest in the occult back then or confirmation of being a fellow witch…
Alfred beamed. "Let's plant them!"
"…"
"Er…please?"
"Huh? Oh, of course, Al. Where do you think a good spot would be?"
He offered his hand for Alfred to lead him.
Al stilled. "My…my hands are dirty."
"Hmm. I don't think so. They're a little full, but see? If I hold some of these and you hold some. Like this."
Mathieu was careful as he handled the seeds; he was even more so when he took up his brother's now free hand.
"This will work, won't it?" He asked.
"Y-yes. I think a good spot is over there. My feet…want to go that way."
"Lead on."
Even years later as a guest in a castle, England would oblige and follow an excited, independent, America into his own gardens if a plant managed to earn a compliment from the American.
There'd be a "How interesting? I can't recall which one, you'll need to show me."
And Alfred would; sometimes, so caught up in the moment that he'd start to reach back and then remember himself abruptly and continue on.
If he'd been less embarrassed and had looked over his shoulder…
If Mathieu had been kinder and pointed it out…
If the Briton hadn't possessed the same damnably infuriating sense of pride…
Alfred would have seen Arthur reaching for him, too.
Eire moved through a series of corridors out to an aquatics area minding the safety signs and avoiding slippery spots.
Jaysus, clinics were creepy. So many dull colors and repeating room layouts. Or maybe he'd watched one too many scary movies with Alfred?
There were personnel dressed in crisp white monitoring the area.
He could see Arthur was swimming and doing that fancy underwater flip turn.
The North Irishman made himself comfortable on some bleachers near what he guessed were Arthur's effects. Rhys must've smuggled in a towel for their brother on his last visit. It was the Union Jack. There was also a crimson journal with a glossy white pen.
He wrinkled his nose; Rhys always indulged him.
He looked back over.
His brother was an impressive swimmer.
Eire could swim well enough but had never seen the point of training up to cross the British Channel and all that. He knew Alistair and Arthur did it on occasion for bragging rights.
Eire and Gwalia had more sense than that.
France was on the other side. Who needed that wanker?
Arthur did several high intensity laps before he wound down with easier butterfly strokes.
He gradually became aware of Reilley's presence.
The Irishman waved a hello.
Arthur gripped the edge of the pool and hefted himself out.
Blue eyes narrowed.
Damn him, his younger brother was looking fit.
Eire half-wished he could have a spa retreat that got him in shape.
Though, it also gave Eire a slight shudder because it made Albion look more like the empire he used to be—when putting on muscle had been too easy for him.
As Albion approached, Eire handed him the towel which Arthur gripped and rather than thank him, leaned closer to hiss, "Don't you ever take money I've set aside for the baby again."
"Plaid tout, I paid it back." He couldn't believe what a snitch Alba could be! They were usually united against Artie.
"I expect interest."
"You would."
The green-eyed glare was scorching.
"Guess you are feeling better," Reilley grumbled.
Arthur ignored him and dried himself off.
Reilley scoffed, "That's a fine hullo."
His brother's eyes flashed. "Olivia told me about her visit."
"Aye, she and Alfie-boy made a grand time of it. Blanket forts. Baking. Bubble wands. I was a good sport. I let them have their fun."
Arthur was appalled. "You didn't care for him at all."
"What're you on about? I was giving him food and shelter and free reign o' the place."
"Gah-you-he's not a goldfish or a Roomba! You left him alone! Alba told me how awfully good my Alfie's been for you tossers. And you weren't putting in a modicum of effort!"
"I had to keep up my regular appearances or people would guess things were amiss."
"You couldn't pretend you had a cold and stay home?"
"Uh…" He faltered.
"And you dare to call yourself clever," Arthur sneered.
That got him, he spat back, "I helped when it mattered. On the day. Didn't catch me going out of my head like a Bedlam loony."
Arthur's nostrils flared and angry tears filled his eyes.
Damnú. It was too low a blow, but he wasn't quite willing to apologize; instead, his mouth kept running:
"And to think I even came by to deliver this. Special. On account of my feeling sorry for you."
He fished out a Ziploc bag and shoved it as his younger brother.
The Irishman crossed his arms. "It's all a bit overmuch in my opinion. I mean, don't lose sight of the actual function of the piece."
Arthur carefully pulled out a very elaborate handkerchief done up in flowers and acorns with his initials satin-stitched in cursive and surrounded by red roses.
There was even a second one that was simpler with anchors. And it would've been prudent to stop there, but an attempt at a ship had been made in one corner with crooked masts and uneven sails.
Alfie-boy just wasn't the artist Mathieu was.
"My baby…made all of this for me?"
"Aye, he did. And I played postman for yeh both." The pieces had gotten left at his place in the rush to see America off with Alba. The crafts looked finished enough to pass them on to their intended receiver, so he'd brought them along.
"Oh," Arthur breathed. His anger and hurt deflated. He even smiled as he said, "Go raibh míle maith agat."
And for five minutes, Eire felt proud of himself.
By ten, he started feeling regret.
By twenty, he cursed himself and the doom he'd brought down on this poor establishment.
Would've thought they'd finally found the grail the way Arthur was raving.
And at the rate he was going, no one in the clinic was safe.
"Would you believe my sweetling is only seven?" Arthur asked.
The orderly smiled indulgently. "Very creative."
"Oh yes! My Alfie is that in spades. What a hand!? Look at how neatly done the stitches are. And the vibrant threads he chose. He's mastered the color wheel."
Eire rolled his eyes.
Everyone who yet drew breath was going to give compliments on those kerchiefs ere nightfall.
The man looked it over. "And a ship needlepoint? Uh…wicked."
Arthur burst with pride. "She's a 20-gun sixth-rate frigate! 1712!"
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