Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for the sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically).
AN: Hey! : D Happy Leap Day! : D
Thank you for reading!
Guest—Yeah, I'm surviving. This semester is a bit more exasperating than the last one…somehow. Ughhhhh.
pseud0nymphhh—Hey! Thanks for making an account! Awww, you're making me blush! Thanks! I'm glad you enjoy the character dynamics and dialogue (those are my favorite parts to write!) and that the adventure suits your tastes! I hope you enjoy this next chap, too!
Guest—Yeah! Wooo! Angst! *High-five* Yeah…I don't know how good a parent Arthur would have been in the Dark Aged—if he'd have taken even more for granted. But his present self is definitely getting more mature.
O the Spanish Famada…Drama awaits…*grins*
OctaviaWorks—"Character development in fanfics, who woulda thought?" THIS. So much this. Because it gets weird if there's no change, right? Right!? Even, as you want to make sure they stay in character. There has to be something.
Yup, Spain and Tex will eventually have to head that direction (cuz Papi wants answers). Good luck, Tex.
Navigator101—Welcome back, friend! I'm stoked that you've come for a visit! XD
Gah! That's sooo cool! However it turns out, I'm glad you're taking steps to accomplish what you want out of life. If you want to travel abroad and are open to all the avenues, I'm sure your hard work will get you there.
Glad you like all the fam drama. Aaand sometimes the family tattletales have a point and the skills can be used for good (It's rare but sometimes…).
Time Traverser—God, I know. Poor Arthur. He's going through it, but he'll come out better. He will. I hope.
"And what comes next after one of Tex's brothers has verbally acknowledged that there is a problem there that is far deeper and more complicated than, 'Well because screw you guys…'" ?
I laughed so hard at this! This is the perfect sum up of that situation. Poor Spain. The road gets rougher. It's good he's tough.
MythplacedLogic—THIS. He's finally opening up to reanalyzing old memories with a new perspective. It's not fun or comfortable. But it's needed. People often discard children's perceptions despite having experienced the phenomena themselves! It's tough to break cycles. Do the work, Arthur!
Glad you liked that metaphor! ^_^
gabygabens—You're welcome! Yeah, that's a risk when I do the rescuing. Mattie IS sunshine when he's in the right headspace. Yeah, Rhys needs some help...100 yard stare. "Arthur and Alfred are worth each other." HA! Yes. Yesss.
We stan Punk!Arthur (shout it louder for the folks in the back and the passerby).
Amerikia—THIS. Yes. Awww to owww. They do need a break! And thank you! Tex is the king of all delicate/glass/glasses metaphors! XD
ENJOY!
Chapter 11: Everything Was Going to Change Now
The stone floor stung as Arthur dropped to his knees to envelop the child in a tight—
…Crick…
He immediately loosened his grip.
Hug. A gentle hug. He had to be gentle.
"Myn swetyng, you can be upset." He set the mirror to the side so it wouldn't break and hurt the child.
There was a sniffle and then a muffled sob.
"You let that out," Arthur ordered sharply. "You don't hold onto pain like this."
Perhaps his son had been waiting for permission to start sorting through his feelings?
And their bond flared with a powerful connection.
A tantrum would've been easier on Arthur.
More common. More age appropriate. Understandable.
This…this wasn't infantile frustration or belligerent defiance or pent up anger.
It was like his child's heart was sand and he was desperate to keep all of the grains from slipping through his hold.
His son had been trying to keep himself together for too long…and now couldn't.
There was so much fear and loss and loneliness. There was guilt and helplessness and frustration. Alfred was overwhelmed. He was drowning.
What was Arthur to do?
Being a powerful nation, a master swordsman, an exceptional druid, a ruler of the seven seas, and King-Bloody-Arthur was worthless in the face of this.
But he wasn't backing down.
Not a chance.
If courage was all he had, then so be it.
And he'd kindle it where he could.
"There you go. That's right. Good boy." Arthur rubbed soothing circles on the child's back and rocked him.
Now that the anguish had been loosed, perhaps, the child could speak more freely to him?
He put all of his conviction and steadfast dependability into his voice in a bid for trust. "It will be alright. Talk to me. Go on, now."
He was very proud when the boy tried.
At first, the child could only offer whispery statements of: "You're here. You're here. You're being…so nice."
It was a damning compliment considering the circumstances.
They'd had a heartbreaking months-long separation and Arthur being on his best behavior for a measly handful of hours had earned him a child's high praise.
It spoke plainly as to what Alfred assumed was Arthur's default temperament: insufferable arsehole.
The barest effort earned him a "gold star."
God, it was mortifying but he took it on the chin and kept encouraging the boy onward.
Alfie wasn't making much sense yet.
He was talking about cabinetry that was broken and windows that needed sealing, he was missing Arthur, he didn't finish carving bedposts, and he didn't fix a chimney. He had misplaced his embroidery, his fingers were cold and they hurt, something was wrong with him, he felt so down, he was missing Tex, nothing was tasty, all he wanted to do was sleep, but he never felt rested. It felt like 1818 but there was no Texas this time.
Aha! Arthur was getting snippets of the child's last three months in a jumble!
The boy kept repeating that he was cold and tired. And everyone was trying, he could see everyone trying, so why couldn't he? Why couldn't he try, too? If he could just will himself to stop feeling poorly.
"I think you are trying," Arthur asserted as he clasped the cold little hands in his to warm them. "I think you've been trying so hard for so long that you're tired. I also think that you've been very sad for a very long time. That makes a person tired, too."
And that hurt in a lot of ways because he hadn't caught onto that for the child in the same way he hadn't realized it for himself.
Arthur had been worn out and frustrated to the point of instability. It cut him to the quick to think his little one had never experienced him at his most rested and even keeled. The other children had at least enjoyed momentary lulls of peace when the British Empire had felt secure in his power and comfortable expressing his care for his wards. Had Alfie ever known it?
He'd spent America's early childhood grappling with other colonial powers for supremacy. In the years following the boy's independence, he'd interacted haphazardly with him—a blend of resentment and gloating and hurt and anger.
Because he hadn't known how to cope with all he'd seen and experienced in his long life.
He also worried that some of the troubles he had…Alfred had, too, because of genetics. If those pamphlets were right, Alfred could be predisposed to certain depressive episodes because he was Arthur's son.
And the only way through it would be to lead—Arthur needed to model the right frame of mind and healthy ways to respond to stressors—teaching by doing.
But damnation, if that didn't make him more determined to succeed for Alfred's sake and wellbeing.
Pained blue eyes were watching him right now; he needed guidance right now.
It was such a surreal feeling—like he was seeing them both with sudden clarity in that instant.
Arthur struggled with an inescapable tangle of anger that alternated between tripping him up and bracing him well against obstacles. It was a volatile vein of power that let him cheat at times and he grew lazy and dependent on it. It corrupted his courage into arrogance and his leadership into tyranny.
For Alfred, there was a pit.
Arthur had seen tectonic plates pull away from one another and watched magma bubble up to the surface.
For Alfred, it was sadness that rose up and spilled.
But it didn't burn. It froze.
It fit.
For a gardener, for a harvester, for Spring…the greatest enemy would be a killing frost.
And it was cruel and poetic that such sabotage could come from within.
But why did it thrive if it caused devastation? What support did it offer Alfred that Arthur wasn't seeing?
"I'm supposed to be happy now, damn it," Alfred insisted and pulled his hands away to pull at loose threads on his sleeves. "I'm doing it…wrong. This is the part where I'm supposed to smile and everything is supposed to be alright. Happily ever after until the next adventure." His mouth refused to cooperate.
Thank God for small mercies.
"It's not a stage play with a script to follow." Arthur brushed away tears from the small face. "I think you are happy…I also think that you're sad and lost and impatient and scared and surprised and relieved. I think you're grieving. I think you're in pain and this may be the most feelings, or at least conflicting ones, that you've ever felt simultaneously before?"
The little one trembled.
"I think you're handling it rather gracefully," Arthur added softly.
"…I'm cold."
Arthur carefully pulled him closer and used the cloak he was wearing to enfold the child.
The boy sighed. "I can't blame the hex for the cold anymore. It's…inside…I can't…"
"Loneliness can give a chill. Anxiety can make you feel cold. Rejection and a host of other negative feelings give rise to…mental, emotional, and physical sensations that are…bad. I…I read quite a bit during my…stay," Arthur offered.
"…"
"You are not alone. As I've long told you, you carry me in your heart with you wherever you are. As I hold you. Always."
The boy grimaced.
"You're blocking our connection again. Why?"
He'd been doing so well until this moment.
Alfred heaved another sigh. "What if…you're angry?"
England gave a rueful laugh. "What if I am? Like that will ever hold a candle to how strongly I care about you." He was becoming more self aware that there might always be a small flame of anger going in him, but as long as it didn't overpower him…as long as it was managed… "And I'll be honest. Regardless of how it may seem, the bulk of my anger is generally at myself and the situation and not-"
America looked away.
"-you, sweet. Not you."
And he could almost see his son staring into that metaphorical pit.
"I can't have you angry at me anymore," Alfred said. "You wouldn't even look at me. You were so angry."
Beltane's Day…
Arthur frowned. "I'm not angry right now. Do I seem angry to you?"
It was with great reluctance the child reached back out with his magic.
"…"
"Am I angry?"
"…No." Alfred pursed his lips for a moment and his nostrils flared. "But…you were angry."
"…I…Are you talking about Beltane's?" He at least wanted to clear up what he could.
"Yeah."
"I was angry because I was scared. I hate being scared, but I never meant to…I am sorry. I am so sorry."
"Uncle Rhys says you were enchanted. I knew that already. There were red rings in your eyes."
Confirmation. He had known and let…
"Why didn't you…do something?" Arthur demanded. "To free yourself?"
Don't be angry. Don't be angry, he warned himself. Even though he was aghast at the idea that—
"Like what?" Alfred asked.
Hurting Arthur hadn't been an option to him. Ironic, given he'd performed an unwanted surgery just hours earlier.
No. It wasn't the time for that conversation yet.
His child wasn't capable of it yet.
Baby steps. Building blocks.
He needed other help and healing first.
Change the subject.
"…I should have sensed the magic," Arthur replied.
"Rhys says you wouldn't know—that you have a natural resistance so you don't usually have to worry about it. But that winged form is susceptible…and you didn't know that."
"…" That was too generous. Damn it, Rhys, he thought. That was much too generous.
Something lightened in Alfred as he summarized the night with, "Uncle Rhys says you hunted the gramarye down. Uncle Al says you subdued it. Uncle Reilley says that you all unlocked the gate? And Tex says that you wouldn't let the fae get off easy for planning a hit job on me…even though we were enemies back then."
"Yes." He did those things. A bunch of nothings when he'd also been the one who—
CRICK…
Arthur took a deep breath. "We weren't enemies, though. Not really. Our nations were at war. And we were supporting our governments. But you and I…if I'd but known…if I'd just…"
"…"
"I'm still struggling a lot," Arthur admitted. "You…you were waiting for me. Outside my office. Right before the war. Pinckney Treaty, I think. You had that key with you. Didn't you?"
Alfred nodded.
Arthur sucked in a painful breath. "If I had just…but I didn't. And I didn't like that human. But I didn't check in on you like I should have. I didn't follow up on anything. I didn't have important conversations with you about how to deal with dangerous people and situations as a young, sovereign nation. I did not prepare you. You were not…prepared for...so much because of me. You suffered because of that. I let you down. I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry, too. I locked the gate and I broke all kinds of witchery rules and I didn't help at all last May!" Alfred blurted out in a rush.
"Wot? No. Alfie, that's not—it's not the same."
"I'd be angry…if I were you. Didn't handle it right back in 1814. And I couldn't even fix it two whole centuries later! I'm a Superpower now and I still let it become everyone else's problem instead of just mine-"
"Sometimes problems spiral, sweet. And when they do, it usually happens very fast and it's disorienting. It's normal to need help to sort it all to rights. I need you to confide in me so we can head matters off before they unravel like that." Arthur pressed on, "I will never blame you for what Harris did. You're not accountable for him and his schemes. He alone is responsible."
"My citizen," the child stated gravely.
"No. I don't think he was in the true sense of the word. You'll come to recognize that more as you get older. Sometimes the patriotism others espouse is just lip service—cover for their real aims. Don't take it poorly or as a reflection of your own worth."
"…Everyone says it's not all my fault."
Arthur smiled and nodded. "Good. That's right."
"…"
He gently lifted the boy's chin and turned the small head to look him in the eyes while he repeated himself, "Good. That's right."
"I put it all on you. Defeating him. Harris. That wasn't right of me."
"Pish-posh. Don't be absurd. Of course it would come to me. As it should. I'm your father. It's my job to vanquish any monster that accosts you. Remember? I promised."
Big blue eyes watched him intensely.
"Not that I need an invitation," Arthur sniffed. "It's my honor to do so. I only regret that it was sloppily done, belated, and that he hasn't been permanently dispatched yet." He straightened his shoulders. "But I will see it through," England vowed. "I will. I give my word."
Lightning flashed. Arthur approved of its dramatic timing.
He released the child's chin to pet his hair.
"…Why… didn't you look at me?"
"I was so horrified," Arthur answered truthfully.
Alfred froze. There was a screeching flash of alarm across their bond.
Arthur gasped. "God, what is it? What's wrong?" He pulled the child nearer to cradle him in one arm while he checked him over. Had he been stabbed by one of the ornate pins of the brooch he was wearing? Had his spine twinged?
"Horrified?" There was an oppressive sense of doom in the tone. "You were horrified? Everyone saw. Repulsive and I couldn't do anything about it. I knew it. I knew it. Horrified." He stared off into nothingness.
Arthur's breath caught. "Sweet, I don't understand." He gave the child a very gentle shake to regain his attention. "You…you cannot be talking about yourself. Why on Earth would I be horrified by you? No. Nonono. I was horrified by what I'd done to y—"
Blue eyes locked on his own with an almost manic intensity. "You don't have to lie. I…I'm better again! Or at least I would be if I stopped—" He scrubbed roughly at his eyes. "I'll try harder to stay this way—"
"What are you talking about?" He demanded. There was a roaring in his ears. Because this had to be wrong…
He had to be misunderstanding this.
He carefully cupped the little face in his hands. "What do you mean? Speak plain."
Even as he wanted him to make sense, there was a churning in his stomach—knowing what he'd have to hear.
"You said you wouldn't look because you were horrified. I've heard it before. It's just one of those things…as a shapeshifter, you shift."
A cord in Arthur's heart pulled taut.
Alfred pulled his father's hands away from his face and gently released them.
He took a shuddering breath and spoke in a very quiet, defeated tone that Arthur didn't care for at all. "I remember. I can't always control it very well. I don't always sense it happening. I remember. I used to scare the other children in the longhouse sometimes. I didn't mean to. And then, sometimes, the settlers came across me when I was eating. And when food was tough to eat, my teeth would just shift. Or if I was in danger, I'd shift to scare things off." He gave a miserable smile. "I tried so hard to never shift in front of you. And then, your brothers. And Mattie…They…and then, all my magic returned and this happened and you all saw…finally…"
"Who told you that you were," Arthur's mouth twitched with a snarl, "…not beautiful?"
He wanted to be wrong.
Damn it, Alfred, correct him.
Alfred flinched and looked down—his almost paranoid sense of vanity tacked into place.
"No," Arthur answered and began petting the wheat blonde hair carefully. "No. Looking at you, injured at my hands…The agony and the shame made a coward of me. You're right. I should've faced you. 'Twas the proper thing, but I was too afraid that I'd see your face devoid of all trust."
Alfred looked up at him doubtfully.
But there was no lie in that.
Arthur leaned forward until they were nearly nose to nose. "Who said it? Who dared to call you—?"
He couldn't even say it aloud!
He felt almost dizzy with hate. He could hardly contain it. Who on Earth could be so stupid as to goad him like this?
Anger management techniques be damned. He could try some later. He was allowed this moment to be angry about this.
His baby. His breaths were short. Repulsive? It made his heart pound heavily.
Three months. Spent thinking that? When ONE phone call to the clinic would have fixed it!?
No one corrected this? Not one of his brothers straightened it out on his behalf?
Alfred shook his head slowly. "You're not remembering. My eyes, my claws, my teeth…little wendigo…they all said…pointed. It's a witch. It's a monster." He swallowed. "Mint said… Morganna was a shapeshifter, too?"
No one corrected this?!
"So what? What are you on about?" He snapped. "What are you bringing her up for? She has nothing to do with you. You have nothing in common. You listen here, young man. You have nothing in common with her. Nothing! Not a thing! You trust me! I know. And I will never let her or her memory taint anything where you are concerned!" He'd die first.
Blue eyes narrowed. "You saw me."
"Yes, pretty thing, I saw you—like a sweet, baby fae. You think I've never seen any? Alfred Faer Kirkland…Jones, I'll have you know that I have helped deliver and rescue and watch over faerie babes and other species of creature for millennia! Why do you think I'm so well-known, boy? Why do you suppose I am owed so many favors!?"
"…Mermaid teeth are scary. You weren't scared at all? I dunno if I believe you-"
"Wot? I've socialized with mermaids since before I could tie a rope knot, before I could weave a net for fishing let alone sail on the sea! I'm not—wait, did they? Mermaids looked after you, didn't they?" Well, there was one good thing at least. "Taught you how to eat creatures of the sea and shore with teeth like that?"
His son nodded—surprised Arthur had guessed it.
Arthur theorized aloud, "You watched them and then you mimicked them. Shapeshifting…and at such a tender age, too. No wonder the UnSeelies had such an ungodly interest."
Some things were making more sense. Other things needed more details.
"Now," he continued, leaning forward conspiratorially, "who insulted you? You tell me who it was."
Big, teary blue eyes blinked hard.
The United Kingdom might've done away with all the punishments that had teeth, but this was Camelot. He could rule as he saw fit.
Arthur tapped the little nose and he asked again, and layered his voice with honey. "For an insult to you, is an insult to me. Who insulted us, sweetling? Who dared insult my America the Beautiful?"
The ceiling was very high and packed with bookshelves that were crammed full of tomes and scrolls and other things. Alfred was used to Arthur being more organized than this.
It was kinda refreshing. More young adultish vibes than he typically associated with his dad.
Twenty-three wasn't old…
He knew that but…
Arthur was watching him explore the space with a warm patience.
Alfred pointedly looked away and heard a chuckle.
If he admitted to himself that Arthur was young-ish…mentally and physically…in the grand scheme of things…
Where the hell did that put him?!
He didn't want to think about it. Or the breakdown he'd had barely an hour ago.
He went back to inspecting things.
The place wasn't rundown; it was just…analog and cluttered. There were clear attempts here and there to update it.
He poked at a hand crank drill on a shelf that contained tools.
Arthur guessed his thoughts, looking up from a bowl he was mixing—from the ingredients (dehydrated eggs, water, and oil), he was trying to make some sort of cake.
A Dutch oven had been scrubbed for the baking attempt.
"I know, I know, this place is not half so modern as Kirkland Hall. It'll be a breeze renovating that estate in comparison," Arthur remarked.
To Alfred, the house he'd constructed for his father was embarrassingly retro and quirky—a child's haphazard design. Nothing as sophisticated as what he could plan out now.
Hearing it praised…
The way a younger him had fully expected…
Arthur's expression was kind. "It was so well thought out. I'm still in raptures over it. You knew where to set the chimneys and the gutters. You made the walls thicker. You understood insulation even though you didn't have the materials you needed yet and considering that you did the same thing for the ceilings and floors… you…" Arthur beamed with pride. "You anticipated that pipes were going to become common. You already guessed that indoor plumbing for lavatories was coming even though you weren't exactly sure what it might look like…but you left space for it. My clever boy, the house was built to be updated or added on to."
Alfred's face warmed. Yes. He had tried to make it adaptable.
Arthur nodded in approval. "And you used strong old-growth wood and made sure the surrounding trees were the same type for repairs. You knew where to set support posts and how to make them aesthetically pleasing. The plumbing and wiring is going to be so easy, pet."
Alfred felt his face heat up even more and pointed out. "Still, the bureaucracy…involved…" was going to be hellish. Alfred could sense that. So much paperwork and money was going to be involved.
"Oh, I had it assessed and already paid the back taxes on the property for it months ago, sweet. I wasn't going to let them claim evasion and implement a lien and knock it down or auction it. And now I know even more. Harris unlawfully detained you using your own government's resources, then you were considered KIA for a while. According to Reilley and Alistair, you were actually a POW, and then broke out and went MIA for a while at which point other properties and finances of ours that were jointly owned were seized. Right, poppet? So, all kinds of bureaucratic things got messy."
"…You…went off on them," Alfred mumbled in realization and his eyes went wide.
Arthur gave a very dark chuckle. "O yes, I 'went off' on them. Your government. It was wonderful. Cathartic. One of the first matters I took care of on my release from the clinic and I was checking in at Parliament which, coincidentally, I also 'went off' on. Overdue, really. Detective Jenkins is very thorough. Good man." Arthur whipped the ingredients in the bowl.
"I got the cabin back." Alfred gently took the bowl from his father and measured out more egg for it so it could be moist. Then, he added half a teaspoon of vanilla extract to the batter.
When he realized Arthur was watching him thoughtfully, he murmured, "Another egg will prevent overbaking and keep it moist. The vanilla will add just a touch more zest and could help prevent it taking on a smoky flavor. It's been a while since I cooked like this, but if I tend it closely—it shouldn't burn."
Arthur nodded and then resumed his prior train of thought, though his voice was gentler. "You lost the Virginia house your Founders gave you in town and you had to wait over a century to purchase it back with Texas's help. Only a small collection of personal items were properly returned to you after this heinous treatment, which I feel was retaliatory and Anglophobic, and I said so. No real compensation was made-"
Alfred paused for a moment in his stirring. "I barely lived in the house. Most people didn't even know it was mine. I was in the cabin more. It had fields for farming. Alistair helped me get the cabin back. Having land I could live off of was more important."
Arthur's lip curled. "No real compensation was made. They also didn't pay you out fully for your services during that war. Plus, I'm not certain that you're still aware of this. It's in your records that I am a beneficiary of Alfred Faer Kirkland. I did not receive proper notice let alone your pension following your 'death.'"
"…They could say you didn't file a claim." Alfred moved the mixture out into a waiting pan.
"They could also concede that they've been tampering with our mail for centuries and willfully conspired to hide your parentage and your actual age and the deaths you've endured while following inhumane orders. They could also concede that they were, essentially, abducting you in violation of my custody rights at that time and thereon. Then, if we are blunt, there's child neglect and child labor to consider. You were a child soldier for centuries. O dearheart, all of the leverage we have..."
"…" Alfred smoothed the batter with the back of the spoon. He took the pan and tapped it to release air bubbles. Then, he covered it in foil and punctured it strategically.
He set the trivet into the waiting Dutch oven and poured water in before setting the pan inside.
Arthur helped him move the heavy cast iron contraption into the hearth.
Arthur was good at assembling the firewood on top of the oven and lighting it.
"Three hours and two minutes to start," Alfred stated. "My nose will know if it needs more time."
Arthur consulted his pocket watch and gave a nod. And then he set the watch where Alfred would be able to see it as well.
He was curious if his intervention could circumvent his father's cooking hex.
They both stared into the hearth.
Arthur gently petted the back of Alfred's head. "I imagine there will be some court cases in the future. Daddy will handle them as they come. Anyways, regarding Kirkland Hall, my name is on it. I needed to make good and strike while the iron was hot. The house is entirely in my name. The land has both of us on it. You were paying for the land. I just made sure the residence was caught up. And," he cackled, "once more, I must be acknowledged as a property owning gentleman in your country."
Alfred gave him a flat look. The way he said "property" was so snobby.
"I don't usually press for it, but I should be addressed as 'Lord Kirkland.'"
It took a lot not to cringe and roll his eyes.
"As my son, you would have the courtesy title, 'The Honorable.' And your government, and mine, could deal with that."
Alfred stared as his father schemed aloud.
"Wouldn't that be a delight? I'm working on getting us both dual citizenship, you see?" Arthur hissed darkly, vengeance on the brain,"It will work out. Your country loves taxes. Don't give me that face, pet, it does. It taxes citizens even when they're living abroad and lets them be double-taxed. Your government will love being able to tax me."
"…I don't like what you're insinuating, Father."
"We don't have to like it, Son. We have to use it to our advantage. As I am paying in, I get access to more benefits. As will you, here, once the paperwork is processed and my paternity is established and I'm granted legal custody of you. Oh! You'll see!" He clapped. "We could finally sort out your schooling situation!"
Alfred looked up at him, startled. "I…I don't…have any…formal…"
"I know! It's a crime." Arthur gently pulled him closer. "But Daddy will settle it. I could pull some strings if you were willing to endure some exams and we'd get you the certificates and degrees you deserve."
"…" Alfred stared.
"You can easily read at a uni level. That's obvious. I know you're well-versed in technology and medicine and maths. Oh! And literature of course! Your vocabulary is fine, but I think I'd need to coach you a bit in grammar for you to excel in composition and get a degree there, too. Yes, it's very exciting, but I want to be clear. I don't want you bragging to the other children. I mean, yes, you can be proud. You should be. Of course. Of course. I want you to be proud of yourself for lots of things. I just-You're a prodigy, but you're still a person—same as the rest of us. No big head about it, please?"
Prodigy?
Alfred felt his face heat up. Was he a prodigy? It usually felt like he could never keep up with others' expectations. He always saw himself as scraping by and that it was hard work and determination that kept him afloat.
"…Kay."
"Good. Now, back to Kirkland Hall. I had some preliminary inspections done and then continued on. Just because I was in a clinic doesn't change that my money is money and I could hire others to represent me. So, I did. I think the Hall could be a wonderful project for us. I think it would be so satisfyingly symbolic and both our governments could just…choke on the sight of its splendor. Wouldn't that be good fun?" Wicked glee shone in those emerald eyes.
Alfred stared. "…"
Arthur took a deep breath and straightened up, looking more powerful than he had in years.
Alfred felt his breath catch.
"Rhys told me that you were alright with me wanting custody of you? Is that correct?" Green eyes blazed.
Alfred gulped. "I…I don't want to be a plaything or a political prisoner…or a…"
"Or a what?" Arthur prompted.
"Charity case."
"Agreed. You would not be any of that in my care. I am your father, you are my son. We are not humans, but that doesn't mean we're not people or that we're disqualified from having families. I want that. That is what I want out of this. To be family and all that entails."
Alfred swallowed thickly. Dude, his dad was all keyed up. "You're going to…fight for this?"
Arthur stood up, planted his feet and clasped his arms behind his back. "I will fight for you. I will fight if this is what you want? If this is how I can best support you? It will be done. Is this what you want? To be with me?"
Alfred was still seated in front of the hearth and stared down at his feet, feeling very put on the spot.
Dude…he wasn't sure he was ready for serious discussions on this.
Only, instead of artfully postponing the talk until he was more composed, he blabbed his fears: "Everybody says you need time and I can't make trouble and you just came back and I always seem to make your life harder and I'm—"
"Everybody is wrong and they have no say in this. I came back for you."
"Ugh! But you got taken away because of me, too!"
"Wot!? No, I didn't. I was abhorred to learn how manipulated we were. By everyone. That was too much. And you were hurt." He swallowed hard. "I was made to hurt you."
Alfred scoffed.
Arthur frowned.
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Tch. The worst Harris could do was make you hug me too hard. Dude, do you not think he'd have done worse if you'd been literally anyone else?"
"…That's a nightmare for me to ponder another time. What I will clear up is that my leaving to sort my head out was not because of you. You're the reason I was able to sort it. I knew you were waiting for me."
"I'll always wait for you." The words were out before he could be prudent or eloquent or a thousand other things his Founding Fathers had always wanted for him.
Arthur looked down and laughed very softly.
Alfred felt his face heat up. Damn it. It reminded him of his early forays into Poker, when he didn't know how to hide his hand well enough to bluff.
Coyote would've been disappointed. What sort of trickster just gives all his leverage away?
Arthur smiled, took a deep breath, faced him, and looked unflinchingly into his eyes. Then, with his hand over his heart, he knelt.
It should've felt melodramatic and out of place.
But Arthur making a knight's oath fit him and time seemed to peel back.
Alfred could see shining glimpses of the medieval hero he had been…that he could still be…if he wanted to…
"If we go together, there will be no more waiting," Arthur declared.
Alfred stared. He wasn't sure what to do with himself. He wasn't in a graceful, dramatic position. He was sitting crisscross applesauce.
Arthur didn't seem to notice. "How does that sound, sweet? Yes? No? Different situational controls and conditions? We can list it all out. Wants, needs, prefers. Your responsibilities and mine. Our expectations on how this should work in regards to our roles on the world stage. It doesn't have to all be meted out in this one conversation. This can be one talk of many. I expect that."
"…"
England swallowed heavily. "I just need to know. To continue forward that this paperwork isn't an empty gesture because I want to back it, full strength. I want them ALL to know that when they deal with you, they deal with me. And I have a very long history of being someone who can make trouble. I can make their lives very hard if they try anything against us. Are you comfortable with that? Are you comfortable with this? Do you want this arrangement? For us?"
These piercing green eyes knew him too well. The fire in the hearth, with its light and its shadows, made England look impressive.
This…speech? Promise? Vow? It made America feel young, small, and inexperienced.
Once again on the brink of making a huge decision that he only partially understood…
The past flashed between heartbeats.
This would complicate everything. It would tie him down. Loving and being loved back by someone like England came with weight and restrictions. He'd have another he had to answer to; one who wouldn't be like Tex, who lived and let lived as breezily as he did.
So much would have to be reckoned with…
Their past, their time apart, the present…
It would all mean change.
Conflicts moving forward would require resolutions and not slammed doors and bar hopping.
All the weakest points of himself would be dragged out and seen.
But wasn't that what he ultimately wanted? What he complained before that Father wasn't doing?
He had to be fully seen to be fully accepted…
And Father was ready to try.
Come on, hero, aren't you brave enough? He thought to himself.
There would be no going back.
The future yawned forth.
It was overwhelming…and unknowable…
But…this offer didn't let him feel like he was facing it alone.
Anymore…
He chewed at his lips.
Everything would change if he…
He sucked in a shaky breath.
Everything would change if he...
He answered, "Yes."
Everything was going to change now.
It was late. The sliver of the moon was shining bright in a dark sky.
España gathered clothing from the bathrooms and dumped them in a hamper in the laundry room.
Colombia was listening to cumbia.
He gave the door a hard knock without opening it. "Go to bed."
"Papá!" was the indignant reply.
"Now! I'll come back to check."
"Ugh."
He gave a softer knock on Argentina's door and peeked in. He was asleep and snoring lightly as the ceiling fan whirred overhead.
He pulled the blankets up to his son's chin and was bid a slurred, "Nos vemos por la mañana."
"Dulces sueños," he bid his son.
Venezuela was out on the back porch taking a phone call. He mouthed that it was work-related and made a face.
España nodded and beckoned him back inside before locking the door and turning off more lights. He gave the boy a kiss to the temple and continued on locking up the house and turning off things.
After Venezuela and Colombia were tucked in, he went searching for Tejas.
The television was on. News.
There was a folder with reports detailing flood recovery efforts.
Another was about police officers being targeted in Dallas.
He hadn't talked about any of this.
He gathered the materials, set them back into the folder, and placed it on a side table.
Antonio removed his son's glasses and set them on top of the folder.
None of his other sons, should they drop in, would dare touch the spectacles, so the folder was safe.
He pulled out a cozy blanket from a basket and draped it over him.
"S'okay, Al. I'm just resting for a minute," Tex muttered.
"…" He tucked him in.
"Thanks, but you don't have to worry so much."
Antonio dimmed the room's lights.
"Love you, too, Al."
España sat down on a nearby chair, resolving to carry Tejas to bed if he didn't move there of his own accord within the next two hours.
Romano offered some biscotti before taking a seat and changing the channel.
"You're still set on a fiesta?" The Italian man asked. "He's pretty standoffish. And that's coming from me, yeah?"
"Of course."
He deserved more, especially if a blanket offered by Alfredo should receive such gratitude.
Still…it could also be that Alfredo was…unswervingly kind to his Toni and his Toni didn't take that for granted. Ever.
That was seeming more likely.
That would explain Toni's fervent loyalty.
Antonio sighed.
He may need to factor Alfredo into his plans.
That could mean enduring the pirata though. And supposedly he was unstable so…
Great caution would be needed.
"I think it needs to be strategic."
"And that means what, Tomato Bastard?"
"I think Alfredo will need to be there."
Romano gave him a flat look. "Ugh, you want two Americanos to juggle?"
Antonio shrugged. "Maybe they will balance?"
"Did the May thing balance?!"
"Shhh. Tonito is sleeping and what are you talking about, Lovi? May went well for me," Antonio refuted.
"You got screamed at by your brat, duped into thinking he drowned, nearly drowned yourself searching for him, fought a demonic skeleton, bore witness to occult stuff, and got drafted into being part of a creepy cleanup crew at the end!"
"Lovi," España scolded and clucked his tongue. "I reconciled with Tejas, learned more about where his hurts are and how to soothe them, celebrated Easter together, took care of him when he got sick, helped him with his hacienda and it looks nice. You said so yourself—it is nice here. And it is. He picks good things. This is a comfortable chair. I keep telling Uruguay to choose furniture that you want to sit on. Don't get caught up in the magazine trends." He sighed. "He's in a phase. He wants to be cool. I must be patient. Anyways, I spent time with Toni and Rico. Toni gets along with Rico. That's a good sign."
"You're a fatal optimist."
Antonio waved a dismissive hand. "Lovino, to think I tell you all these things and you are not being observant." He tapped his temple. "Think. He is much more affectionate to me than last year. Good progress. I am proving myself. He is trusting me more. We are doing better. But there is still work to do."
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