Hi so I’ve seen you answering some asks and I thought I’d send one myself. I know you don’t do much of soft Arthur and Alfred but if you could that would make my day. Maybe something with a delirious!Al and comforting!dad!Artie? I just need like a tender moment between those two, where they’re not fighting.
Thank you so much 😘😘
ALRIGHT.
You've all been asking for long enough- here's the start of a multipart mini story that has taken me longer than I'd care to admit to get going (three almost full attempts, to be exact)
Characters: England, America
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Wreckage: Part 1
The smoke was metallic: sharpened acid and modern warfare.
‘Hello!’
England pulled at the wreckage, bare hands flinching at the searing pain of handling too-hot metal. He wished he’d worn his leather gloves, wished he had thought to put them on a mere few minutes ago when the crunching whirr of broken engines and crashing trees had woken him, but they lay useless and forgotten back at his campsite.
‘Can you hear me! Allô! Pouvez-vous m’entendre!’
The plane wore allied colours. It was a British make but that didn’t mean anything these days- the pilot could belong to any of the allied official or resistance groups. All England knew was that there was to be a drop coming, they were in the middle of nowhere, and that it all had apparently gone horribly, horribly wrong.
‘English! French! Polish! Czy ktoś mnie słyszy- is anyone alive in there!’
The door to the craft was stuck shut, parts of the top hinges warped and buckled from impact. He gave up on opening it to try for the window, pounding at the thick glass with the butt of his gun in fool’s panic (that, at least, he had been sensible enough to bring). He could see someone inside through the thick black smoke, an outline of shoulders and head that seemed to be moving slightly whenever the flames behind them near the engine choked.
This was occupied French territory; the nearest village was a while away but not that far. This crash would be noticed and investigated all too soon. The least England could do was to get in there and end the pilot’s misery before whoever shot them down came looking, there was no help for them out here.
That, and to be sure that there was nothing incriminating to be found.
‘Hang on! Almost there.’ Stepping back, he scanned the forest floor wildly for something better to use and caught sight of a large stone, half buried in the ground by the roots of a tree. It had rained recently, the ground was soft, and England tore into the dirt impatiently to work it free.
‘If you can hear me, sit back!’ Raising the rock above his head, he brought it down with a crash in the lower centre part of the windshield, hopefully far enough away from the pilot’s face. A hairline crack appeared, nothing more, but it was enough. England raised the rock again, choking as the smoke whirled about him, and kept going until the glass had splintered into delicate, cobweb-like lines.
One last hit made a hole. Smoke billowed out immediately and England worked quickly before the flames grew too intense on the new oxygen supply, hacking away until the hole was big enough to push an arm through. His fingers found material, sticky with something England didn’t want to think about, and a weak hand that gripped him back.
Taking a last breath of mostly fresh air, England pushed his upper half through to get to the cockpit, groping about blind until he felt the pilot’s seat straps. The heat was ferocious already, fire just behind where the poor man was trapped, and England fought not to take a breath or retreat to the safety of the cool night air. He couldn’t keep his eyes open, couldn’t see, and the glass bit into his stomach and arms when he leant more of his weight on the frame. It was a struggle but he pushed through, fingers groping by muscle memory to where he knew the clasps were, where he’d need to unhook an arm from the straps to pull the man free.
It would have been far easier to shoot the poor bastard.
It would have been quicker, kinder, than this certainly. No matter what happened, England wouldn’t leave him to die naturally. To die that way- encased in smoke, lungs desperately straining for clean air that wouldn’t come, flames against your feet- was one he knew all too well. It was a horrible way to go, one that he wouldn’t wish on anyone, but cruel though it was to make this child suffer needlessly, the engines hadn’t exploded yet and he couldn’t risk it.
Get him out first. See what message he had to give, if he could give it. Then let him go quickly and cleanly, the knife against England’s thigh waiting and patient.
It took three return trips for air, each one making his lungs burn more and more until he felt light headed and dizzy, but eventually they were free. Pilot cleared from his seat and legs thankfully clear, England hooked his arms under the man’s armpits and heaved them backwards out of the cockpit. There wasn’t far to go, the plane had nosedived onto its side in its final crash from the now broken trees, and they rolled backwards easily onto the forest floor.
The pilot screamed shrilly as they came free and gripped tight on England’s clothes to then sob piteously in his arms.
‘It’s alright.’ England sat up as carefully as he could and gently rolled the man off him to lay on his back. ‘You’re alright, I’ve got you.’
The pilot was a mess, aviator goggles and hair under his cap blackened by soot or oil or both. There was blood all over him, smeared across his neck and front that likely came from his head- England couldn’t tell. There wasn’t the time for it, and it wouldn’t matter soon anyway.
‘Give me your name.’ he asked urgently, struggling onto weak knees to sit over him, ‘Your ID and nationality, I’m-‘
He stopped.
Later, England couldn’t quite say what it was. He hadn’t noticed in the rush what he could feel now- the itch of someone like himself close by. But there was more, perhaps something about the pilot’s body that was familiar, or something deeper than that which ran through them both like the unbroken lines of history. An indescribable connection of family that mortal language couldn’t quite explain.
Fingers clumsy with sudden, familiar, terror, England tugged at the goggles which covered the pilot’s eyes and pitched forwards breathless and horrified at what he found.
‘Oh Jesus- Alfred.’
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AN:
The historical research that has gone into this is minimal, so please be kind to any inaccuracies that you see.
Is Australia aware that he shares similarities with England? (if he does ofc)
Oh he does. I think out of all of Arthur's children, Jack probably shares the most of Arthur's common habits, appearance, and mannerisms- how he walks, how he shakes peoples' hand when he greets them, how he holds a pen- but also a lot of Arthur's personality too
They're both aware of it and I think this made it harder for Arthur when Jack was young- he was so like himself in so many ways that the ways he was not was infuriating. (Jack could understand a complicated physical puzzle easily, but he couldn't sit still. He was brillaint with languages, but he didn't care to speak to people. He had a great ear for music but hated it.)
Either this, or Arthur saw in Jack what he considered the worst in himself: how emotionally reactive Jack is and Arthur still is, hidden and carefully masked away under eyars of personal control. How Jack wanted to be outside and be dirty whenever he could, and Arthur grew up under open skies wandering wild and still yearns for that. How stubborn Jack is, how he refuses to do what he's told if he doesn't agree, how clever he is at picking holes in arguments and locked doors to escape and do his own thing by his own rules
They're both aware of it, but Jack is in more denial about it than Arthur is. These days, now that they have more distance from each other and Jack has matured, Arthur unwound, he makes more of a jokey denial and doesn't mind as much as he used to. These days, now that they can enjoy each others' company a lot more, both can see the positive similarities as well as, if not instead of, the negatives
Australia and New Zealand stared at the toadstool by their shoes, one of many others forming neat ring in the forest bordering their father’s estate. Somewhere near here England's estate ended and the common woodlands began but, Australia thought, this little copse amongst the trees was still firmly in Kirkland hands. It was far older in this part of the forest than the other, the trees left entirely alone for hundreds of years so that moss grew thickly upon some of the broad, twisted trunks like a green carpet.
New Zealand squatted down and held their finger above the toadstool’s dewy surface and looked up, ‘Should I?’
Australia joined them, ‘It won’t be poisonous.’
‘How do you know.’
‘Cos, I know.’
‘This isn't one of your mushrooms. Just because it’s not from your lands doesn’t mean it’s not poisonous.’
‘I know that!’
‘Sure.’
‘Touch it then.’
‘Hang on,’ New Zealand rolled up their shirt sleeve, ‘What will you give me for it?’
‘Pudding?’
New Zealand looked impressed, ‘Really?’
‘Only if it’s poisonous.’
‘That’s not fair.’
Australia shrugged.
New Zealand sighed and regarded the toadstool once again seriously, ‘Alright, I’m going to do it.’
‘Wait!’ Australia grabbed at their hand as it started to move, ‘If it is poisonous then I ought to do it first. I’m used it to.’
Before he could change his mind or New Zealand could talk some sense into him, Australia bopped the toadstool with an open palm and held his breath. Under the dew it was firm and solid, skin as smooth as silk.
Nothing happened.
Australia overturned his hand and showed the unblistered, entirely fine, appendage to New Zealand, ‘See! Not poisonous,’
New Zealand huffed, ‘Fine.’
‘Told you that I know what I’m talking about for deadly stuff.’
‘You got lucky.’
‘Now, I get your pudding.’
‘No, we didn’t agree to that.’ New Zealand straightened and glanced about, looking confused ‘Can you hear that?’
Australia stood as well and brushed some mud from his knees, ‘What?’
‘Bells.’
‘Bells?’
‘Yeah…’ New Zealand frowned and glanced towards the centre of the ring of toadstools, ‘Little tinkling ones.’
Australia strained to hear. A wind blew through the trees, light and quiet with the rustling of leaves in the otherwise silent woods. No bells.
Australia strained to hear. A wind blew through the trees, light and quiet with the rustling of leaves in the otherwise silent woods. No bells.
‘Nah. You must be imagining it.’
‘I guess so.’ New Zealand’s attention remained fixed on the ring’s centre, their expression slack and relaxed, ‘Let’s go and explore.’
Something twinkled out of the corner of Australia’s eye, a quick flash of light. He twisted around but nothing was there and he rubbed his eyes, feeling them water. The air felt heavy, all of a sudden.
‘Maybe we should go back.’
New Zealand didn’t answer. They took a step forwards inside the ring, eyes turning vacant.
‘Get the fuck away from there!’ A loud crashing through the trees, seemingly out of nowhere, and then their father was there, red faced and panting. He ran towards New Zealand and yanked them bodily backwards and to the floor where they sprawled heavily into the grass, ‘What in God’s name are you doing!?’
His eyes were wild, the whites of them visible all around the iris and Australia had never seen him so furious before. He looked nothing like the father he was used to seeing, nothing poised or serious or calm. There was something wild to him, something old and near forgotten that drew Australia in and locked him there.
Australia stepped back, fearful, ‘We didn’t do anything!’
There was a moment’s pause. Their father seemed too furious to speak, the tendons of his neck raised as he clamped his jaw shut. Then he took hold of Australia tight by the arm with one hand and hoisted up a now crying New Zealand from the grass onto his hip with other. Without a word or look back, he began to march them towards the house.
‘We’re sorry!’ Australia didn’t even try to escape him, too bewildered and confused, and tripped over his own feet in his effort to keep up. The air felt lighter almost as soon as they started walking and he realised, only then, that his mind was feeling clearer too. It was as if there had been a fog before, muffling all of his other senses that were only now coming back. There were birds squawking in the trees and their footsteps crunched noisily over broken twigs and crunchy fallen leaves as they walked. He had no idea how he hadn’t heard his father approach until he was right upon them, ‘We didn’t mean to do anything wrong.’
Their father still didn’t say anything helpful. He muttered something dark and old sounding under his breath and Australia didn’t try to speak again, lest this was aimed at him.
After about five minutes of walking England dropped Australia’s arm and looked backwards in the direction they came as if waiting or watching for something, still clutching New Zealand firmly to him. Finding nothing there, or finding only what he expected to see, he set New Zealand down and hurriedly began checking them over, handing them a handkerchief to clean their face.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No.’
‘Did you touch anything?’
‘Jack touched one of the toadstools.’
England whirled around to face him, pulling him forwards sharply, ‘Where.’
‘Just my hand!’ Australia quickly held out his hand for inspection.
England took it, rough skin and callouses, and turned it over to run fingers across his palm and fingers. Whatever he found, or didn’t, seemed to relieve him and he released a breath, ‘If you ever find a mushroom ring like that you come and get me straight away.’
They both nodded.
‘I swear to every God that there is if I catch you anywhere near one of those things I’ll lock you both in the damned house; is that understood.’
It wasn’t a question.
They nodded again and followed their father mutely back towards the house, cutting off from the main trails to head through the trees, following paths that only England could see. Despite the early hour, once inside they were ushered straight to bed where Australia fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, finding himself suddenly exhausted. As he drifted off, mind slipping into dreams, he imagined that he could see small lights winking at him from the corners of the room, bells and laughter tickling his ears that turned sharp and hungry at the edges.
He woke in a cold sweat when the night was still low in the sky, convinced that the shadows of the room were moving.
‘Just get it over with’/ Treading Water/ ‘Take my coat’
Characters: England, Canada
Day 17
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Matthew found out he would be moving when the carriages rolled up to take him, shiny new paint wrought with gold leaf on the edges, curling around the emblems of France and, more quietly in the loud character of the decoration, of France himself- lilies and cockerels and twisty stems to show longevity, curled around a jewelled golden goblet.
Usually, these carriages meant that his Papa had arrived, an event which in itself offered no real comfort or sadness. It was, simply was- a break in the routine of Matthew’s day that carried with it sweets, new clothes or toys, and news of the world around him, alongside a new hobby his Papa would desire him to pursue if his previous one was no longer so fashionable.
But that morning was not his Papa. That morning it was for him, sombre servants entering his halls and telling him in quiet tones that he needed to pack, to gather himself, for he was to be sent to the English.
To the English himself.
A letter, Papa’s swirl of language dancing across the page in elegant strokes, informing him of why- a war lost (this Matthew knew. He’d felt it, felt the strangers breach his shores and blend and merge with his population. Felt boots upon his cobbles, hands around necks and chest and resources where they should not be until- until. Until they didn’t feel quite so ‘other’ anymore) and a prize to be transferred to the victor. It was in his best interest, the letter said, to be the good boy Papa knew him to be and to agree politely to the request. Maybe this would not be for long, perhaps Papa could win him back. Perhaps he could see this as an opportunity?
Matthew, through a seeping numbness born of fear and grief, could not bring himself to hope so. The fact that Papa was not here to say all of this himself, to hug him goodbye or cling to him in dramatics, stung as much as the truth that this lack implied. There was an undercurrent of meaning here, something that Matthew felt more than quite yet understood, and as he was herded about his country house and gathering his belongings- smoke fires in the distance and cries in the night- he could only think about where he was going.
The carriage ride was not long. Only a week’s travel moving everyday to get to Quebec City, where he was finally brought to the docks to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
After a while, Matthew had begun to hope that he wasn’t actually waiting at all. That perhaps he had been forgotten in the mess of the world, or that he would be ruled from afar.
Till, one day:
‘He’s in here.’
A knock upon the door. Strange men coming to take him, rough language, rough hands about his arms to bundle him back into a carriage. We’re looking for a boy, a description he fit perfectly. Dragged to the river where a boat was arriving, made to stand in the late winter snow to greet a man his Papa had described as all manner of things- a monster, a bastard, a cunt. A thief and a rouge, a thorn in his side for thousands of years and stuck there as history unfolded around them. His friend, his lover- Papa drunk on wine and weeping regrets into Matthew’s shoulder before shooing him away as sobriety returned.
Empire wore boots of dark leather, a coat of red. Rings about his ears and fingers, hooped into chains to hang from his throat and won in seas warmer than Matthew could imagine. He was a man as like any other, someone tangible and real who Matthew had seen in snatches across rooms and through the gaps of doors in Versailles but felt more, felt greater. Millions of souls made him now, countless cultures and lives weighing down upon his shoulders like a cloak to craft and shape him into being. More than Matthew felt himself, more than Matthew had experience before. He had felt Papa and now felt the lack of him, his loss of Matthew, carried by this stranger, more more more.
This devil stepped again now onto his shores with a ripple of change and Matthew shivered to feel it, the earth shifting and recoiling and swarming in ways that only he and perhaps this Empire could feel.
‘Hello.’
The man stood before him, hard sounds in his mouth. He crouched at Matthew’s silence.
‘Can you speak English?’
Matthew shook his head, ‘Little.’
‘Ah. I see,’ the language switched to French, a odd northern dialect that Papa never used, ‘That’s alright. You’ll learn.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise.’
Yet. Matthew added that there himself, a warning to heed added to a list he knew would grow if he wanted to survive this.
‘Lord, how long have you been out here?’
A roughened hand upon his arm, heavily rubbing at it. Matthew forced himself still.
‘Here, take my coat. I told them to find you, not freeze you for Christ’s sake.’
Warmth wrapped around Matthew’s shoulders, smells from the sea and smoke too. He fingered the edges, fine stitching and well done seams. A heavy hand rested upon his shoulder and squeezed it, ‘Do you like pies? I’m afraid that’s all we’ll have quick to hand.’
‘Yes.’ He didn’t.
‘That’s “yes” in English. Come on,’ a pat, gentler, kind, ‘let’s go inside.’
I have more thoughts than I probably should about Sealand and England and I am overjoyed to have recieved these asks
I'm going to start off by mentioning that I don't follow the popular fandom canon that Sealand is or has been with the Nordics in anyway shape or form. For me, he's been with England the entire time which makes more sense, both for Sealand's history and the fact that England is a grabby son of a bitch and I can't see him giving anything up, especially not a child (lack of resources or not).
The Start
Sealand was unexpected, to say the least. To have a new nation randomly pop up in the middle of the North Sea from an old sea fort turned pirate radio, of all things, is not something England could have seen coming, even with his long long life.
In his experience, nations are born from war, bloodshed, and hope; a community of enough people growing strong and large and stable enough to shout with a distinct voice from those around them. One random guy on an old pirate fort doth not usually a nation make and Sealand's arrival caused quite a bit of confusion.
Aside too from his strange appearance and continued existence, England had considered himself done raising children. By the time Sealand popped up in 1967, all of his other children were grown up and gaining independence and the dismantling of the Empire, which had previously produced new nations in its growth, meant that England very much did not foresee another small child appearing.
But appear Sealand did
Their Relationship
By this point in time, England was well experienced in child raising. He's been there, done that, and was and is a lot better equipped emotionally and mentally to care for a child.
But one of the biggest factors in their relationship is time.
England is always a busy man. But nowadays, his busy-ness is somewhat mitigated by modern lifestyle and technology. He works long hours still but these days, it's often within his own lands. He still travels a lot but he can call instantly now, or facetime. His work might call him away at a moment's notice or keep him occupied longer than planned but that's alright, he can drive home in a few hours or fly back in a few days. Unlike the rest of his older siblings, if Sealand wants England he can get hold of him almost instantly. Even in the 60's there were planes and trains and cars and Sealand doesn't have the experience of being left along for years on end in the company of only a rotation of human staff.
England can be more of a hands on parent because he's there to be one and although nations don't require as much hands on parenting, he can be as involved with Sealand so much more than his other children even without trying.
The consequence of this is that Sealand has grown up expecting England to be there when he's needed or wanted him. Maybe he will go a few months without seeing him, like if he stays on his fort and England on the mainland, but England is always ever only a phone call away. This is such a huge change from any one else aside from North, who all had England sporadically and never for very long. This was made worse for everyone else because, depending on the decade, England could wary in his parenting or personality and it was difficult to predict and learn how to be around him in the way that he wanted (for example, before the American revolution and after. Before WWI and after. Before the Victorian era, and after, etc.). By the time Sealand came around, England is stable, settled and a lot more mature and Sealand's upbringing and relationship with England is a lot healthier because of it.
Another huge factor in their relationship is that Sealand, despite being the creature he is and despite not being human, lacks something that very much would have affected the way England, or any other nation, reacted to and treated him- resources.
Sealand has nothing.
He is a metal lump in the sea. There are no trees, no food. No oil, no gold or diamonds. He cannot give England manpower, cannot help in produce or maintain. Sealand cannot rise up and declare war on him, and nor will anyone else wage war to get control of him. He is nothing but himself and this is probably what makes his and England's relationship the healthiest. England's opinion of him cannot be changed by his worth because, in strictly selfish, political nation terms, he's worthless. He has nothing that can benefit England and so England, Arthur, can see him for himself- Peter. A young boy.
Sealand is stripped of all that makes him a nation in a majority of ways and England's behaviour with him, opinion of him, and future plans with him do not include politics. Together they can be as 'normal' and as human as any of their kind can get.
Because of these two main factors, England and Sealand are very close. Not close in that they have a warm, loving relationship in a 'we get along great' way, but close in that Sealand can cross a lot of boundaries and act in ways which no one else can. He doesn't have any hang-ups around England and feels perfectly comfortable flopping on or against him on the sofa to watch TV or wind his arms around England's stomach for a hug. He's perfectly fine to whinge at England to let him get something that he wants or misbehave for minor, trivial things. He pushes buttons more readily, answers back more than most, and gives and receives more physical affection from England than anyone else.
England still takes no nonsense and is just as strict with him as he ever has been but Sealand and England's relationship is definitely easier and more natural than with anyone else. (In a balanced way, of course. Sealand might be allowed to speak in public and act more childish but he's not given cocaine for a cough and nor was he allowed to aimlessly wander about by himself when really young- different time period different levels of 'acceptable' child rearing)
Even Canada, whose relationship with England is arguably very good, still feels a sense of duty and loyalty, either as an elder brother/ child but also as England's right hand in so many spheres: political, military, or financial. Canada is a son but he is also useful and feels responsible, even if there's currently nothing for him to feel responsible for. Part of this is his position in the family as the second son cleaning up after the eldest did a hit and run, but also how England has raised him. Sealand, as the baby and as a nation without anything to give, is nothing more than Peter and is thus not expected to be or do anything else.
This comes with negatives, of course.
As much as Sealand's lack of resources means that England can relax, it does cause problems because as much as Sealand is more 'human' than the rest of them, he's not- he's a nation. A nation with an oddly finite lifespan because the entities or souls he's tied to is minimal but a nation nonetheless. He has as much yearning and aspiration as any of them and England's constant dismissal of him in this way, even though grounded in logic, hurts. It drives a wedge between them because Sealand wants to be taken seriously and be given responsibilities and respect like his siblings but he never can because he cannot be an asset or a help in that way. He struggles with feeling guilty, stuck, rejected and useless and also incredibly bitter about it, at times.
Logically, Sealand may know that it's not England's fault but England is the one actively preventing this by refusing to entertain any other idea and it's easy to direct anger at him. Children aren't stupid, nation children even less so, and Sealand knows that he's treated differently from everyone else, as much as he also takes advantage of this fact.
Lastly, another factor that influences their relationship is lifespan.
Sealand isn't here forever and England knows this. He is both stricter and more lenient with Sealand because of this and was something he really let affect their relationship at the beginning- don't get too close. This child will die.
Sealand is the only child who England cannot promise will live to adulthood. He cannot protect Sealand like he could his other fledgling colonies because no matter how much time or money or resources he could put in, Sealand's land and population is unusual and limited and largely based off England's own. Sealand's fate is almost entirely outside of England's control. As there is no way that England would give up some of his own land for him to become another country within his borders, Sealand's death will, inevitably, somewhat be caused by him.
Nations are selfish. Their longevity and survival comes at a personal cost and a nation parent cannot be the same as a human parent. Arthur might love Peter dearly, but England would never act in ways that would be at the cost of himself if there was no benefit.
It was hard for England at the start to let himself open up to the idea of Sealand and see him as his son. It was easier to not think about it, stay emotionally distant, and let nature take its course without doing too much damage to himself along the way. But, as much as England cannot stand the idea of losing a child, he cannot not love children. For all of his grumpy, shitty personality he really does adore small children and, in this modern age and his recent maturing and self awareness, knows that this aloof mindset isn't fair on Sealand. He didn't ask for this, he has no other choice, and so England has decided to treat him as he would any of his other children whilst trying very much not to focus on the inevitable end.
Would you mind doing some more america and england angst and hurt/comfort headcanons?
Hmm hmm hmm, I'm not sure how many specifically angst/ hurt comfort headcanons I have for these two, but have these for now whilst I ponder on more:
Alfred has inherited Arthur's inability to ask for help
Whenever he's sad, overwhelmed, or emotionally lost Alfred would rather die than ask for help, especially from England. There's a weakness to it that they both hate, something that feels degrading and raw and strays into an aspect of themselves that they aren't comfortable addressing- that they can't stand alone. That they aren't good enough, somehow, by needing or wanting someone. That this makes them less than, makes them small.
England takes this one step further by refusing to acknowledge personal injury or illness. The more severe the problem the more he'll hide it and he experiences something close to shame about people finding out. There's a lot to unpack there for him, but for both him and Alfred regarding emotions they grew up isolated and alone, learning to self soothe and were either scolded or punished (whether intentionally or just by fate playing a part) for not hiding it. Weakness can be used against you, fears can be capitalised and life will kick you when you're down if you let it. These are lessons Arthur internalised and passed on, unknowingly and purposely both.
Matthew is the only exception for Alfred. He'll talk to him about pretty much anything and everything and will go out of his way to seek his brother out as he always makes him feel better, either by talking him through things or just listening. The more serious the issue, the more Alfred will go quiet and maybe even refuse to talk about it at first, but he will still travel to Matthew if needed to sit with him in silence until he relaxes enough to let go and talk about it.
When things are really bad though, when there's an enemy knife to his throat or fever is fatal, or when he first gasps back to life and the weight of America pushes air into Alfred's lungs, he will think of Arthur and want to see him most of all.
They both wished that they talked more
As pleasant as they are now and how well they get on, their relationship is still very strained compared to what it once was. There's that Boston Tea Party sized elephant in the room between them, maybe less from the call independence itself and more from how it happened- on both sides.
To talk about this, to bring it up and try to get over it or better would require a conversation with emotions. They would both have to admit how they were hurt and do equal listening and speaking to both sides and they're not yet willing to do that (the point I made above comes into play- they hate to admit what they perceived as a weakness by admitting vulnerability).
Nowadays, they awkwardly skirt about the topic, avoiding it at all costs and, although they spend a lot of time together and are openly very friendly, (especially compared to what they were before WWI) it's still so strained compared to what they had before- a ghost of a deep, warm relationship.
They both, however, do very much want these uncomfortable feelings to go away and would like to be closer, although they won't ever admit this. The problem is that they don't know how and aren't willing yet to put the work in to achieve that. Both are also still too stubborn to admit all the faults that they have and mistakes that they made in order for any of this to be possible.
I kinda wish you'd just write something cute or angsty or both about Baby Alfred and England.
I got u anon, I got u. I have a longer fic for these two and this topic in the works set in a more modern time period, but for now have something quick.
Word Count: 1233
Characters: England, America
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'Shhh,' Arthur sighs and rearranges Alfred on his hip, the crown of his head pressed into the crook of Arthur's neck, 'I know. I know.'
'It hurts,' weak fists grip Arthur's night shirt, pulling the fabric taut around his neck, 'Please. Please make it stop.'
Arthur moves again, slow steps that gently rock the child in his arms against him as he crosses from one end of the room to the other. He brings up one hand to cup the back of Alfred's head, feeling the burn of fevered skin, 'I'm sorry, love. It needs to run through.'
Alfred lets out a high moan into Arthur's shoulder. His hair is damp, sweaty from a whole day of this, but Arthur is scared to wash him again. Too much information from too many centuries contradicts, should he undress him? Keep him warm and covered? Wash the sickness or keep him away from the water that apparently now bleeds health away?
Arthur is exhausted.
He had readily listened to the doctors at first, all but allowing them to apply the recommended leeches that Arthur had never had a problem with until they had come close to Alfred's skin. But now, as Alfred grew hotter and weaker and Arthur grew more panicked, he has gone back to older, more desperate advice. It is Alisdair's voice - younger, warped by time- he heeds that tells Arthur to keep him cool. To give Alfred water and sing to him. Offer honey to strengthen him, willow bark to reduce the fever. A cool hand on Arthur’s own forehead, his cheek on rough, home spun wool.
It is night. Almost at the end, morning threatening to brighten the horizon below still bright stars and through the window Arthur can see nothing but the faintest outline of the garden and woods cresting against its edges.
‘Come on,’ Arthur gently places Alfred on the bed and firmly wraps him in a heavy blanket, ‘Let’s go outside.’
The house is quiet, the servants all asleep and Arthur carefully manoeuvres them through, hushing Alfred when he stirs. They would only interfere if they woke and this was something that Arthur felt he needed to do personally, despite their pointed advice and concern. He didn’t want to hand Alfred away to be cared for by someone else, even if that person was familiar, and damn the current customs and etiquette that continue to try and remove him.
‘Look,’ Arthur says once they are outside, ‘Look how bright the stars are tonight.’
Alfred opens a watery eye and peers upwards, head lolling back on Arthur’s shoulder, ‘Why are we out here?’
‘Fresh air will help,’ Arthur hefts him higher, tightening his grip to tuck a fold of the blanket closer around Alfred’s neck, ‘It’s too stuffy inside.’
‘It’s cold.’
‘It’s not too cold,’ the air was crisp but not bitter and Arthur himself felt better just being outside of that house, ‘You’re merely too warm.’
Alfred doesn’t respond and Arthur settles them on a bench by the trees, close to the house but near to the forest like a bridge between worlds.
‘I used to hate being unwell when I was very young. I didn’t have a house all year round and always felt terribly cold outside,’ Alfred lays against him heavily and doesn’t react when Arthur rearranges him to be more comfortable, body limp and loose, ‘You had to put up with the rain and the wind and I always wanted the fire. But then when I did have a stable home, I found that I felt worse inside. I feel better with the wind on me, after all.’
Clumsy and familiar, Scotland trying his best. Still the first thing Arthur’s mind goes to when it cannot comfort itself and he is too weak to stop its wandering to older places.
‘Even now?’
‘Even now.’
A flash of light amongst the trees, the mirror of an eye watching from the shadows. Arthur follows the dark shape of movement, daring it to emerge.
Alfred curls a hand out from the folds of the blanket and lightly holds Arthurs’ arm, dancing his fingers slowly into his skin, ‘When will this stop?’
‘When it is done.’
‘But why.’ He has never been seriously ill before, the sensation entirely foreign to him.
‘Because you’re alive. Because to be of your people is to suffer with them, sometimes.’
‘It’s not fair,’ Alfred huffs and his fingers pause. He sniffs and turns his head to bury it back against Arthur’s shoulder, ‘I don’t want to hurt anymore.’
‘I know,’ Arthur strokes back his hair and cards the strands through his fingers, working at the knots until they are gone. He finds himself humming after a time, a tune that swings from ‘Lowlands Away’ to ‘Miri it is while sumer ilast’ and then all the way to something nameless and forgotten. It thrums with a melody of an ancient tongue worn thin and pale in the current day and lost to the hills that bore him. The voice that hums it in Arthur’s head is a woman, someone so long gone he can’t even put a face to her voice but her song still lives within him somewhere, down in the deepest parts of his memory that doesn’t need words.
A slight breeze lifts Alfred’s hair to brush against Arthur’s chin. He is quiet, quiet and still and panic grips at Arthur’s heart suddenly like a vice, ‘Alfred?’
His hand is lifeless against the blankets, head downturned and face hidden.
The colony is stable, others have caught the pox but not them all but despite that Arthur, for just a moment, can understand keenly how fragile all of this is, how mortal they are despite the long years that their kind are granted to watch. What if this was a sign of Arthur’s negligence, his inability to care for something other than his own greedy self. What if he were taking life from Alfred, rather than Alfred from him- draining rather than growing to feed a hungry expansion.
He couldn’t bear it. Even a temporary death is one Arthur wishes Alfred to avoid for as long as he can.
Arthur shifts him again with growing urgency, ‘Alfred. Alfred, darling.’
Alfred’s head lifts, ‘No,’ he draws out the vowel, face puckering as he turns to tuck his chin over Arthur’s shoulder, ‘I want to sleep.’
Arthur lets out a short, sharp breath, ‘You can sleep,’ he says. He stands; they have been out here long enough, ‘Sorry for waking you, close your eyes again.’
‘Hmmm,’ Alfred goes quiet, all too happy to follow instruction and Arthur takes them back inside, closing the door firmly shut behind them.
-------------------
AN:
The songs Arthur hums are, in order of appearance, Lowlands Away: a sailor's song, or a sailor's wife's song, from the 17th century and Miri it is while sumer ilast: one of the oldest English songs ever recorded and dating from the 13th century.
I love your headcanons so much and I wanted to ask what you think the relationship between Canada and France is like? Being primarily England's son, it would be interesting to know whether or not Canada still considers France a parental figure of any kind.
I don't think I entirely agree with 'primarily England's son.' It is true that Matthew has spent more time with Arthur overall as part of his family and the English part of Canada has strong cultural connections to the UK which binds them closer together; Matthew is as much Arthur's son as much as Alfred is. But the core of Matthew, his oldest parts and patterns and memories, are very much French and this is a tricky thing for him to work with, sometimes.
One interpretation of the motto of Quebec is:
’Je me souviens/ Que né sous le lys/ Je croîs sous la rose’ -
‘I remember/ That born under the lily/ I grow under the rose’.
I'm not going to go into historical accuracy for this coming view of mine, it is more personal than anything else. Please do read my headcanons on Matthew and Arthur's relationship first for a better understanding of how Matthew ticks and how Arthur parented him after Francis as this will make a lot more sense. Because Francis was different. Not different as in cruel, or different in that he does not, did not, love Matthew but different in that Francis views children, nation children especially, very differently from how Arthur does.
Francis is showier, more at ease with himself than Arthur ever was. Francis does not see the best aspects of himself in children, does not search for understanding or empathises with being small and misunderstood and weak. He does not like remembering himself this way, often refuses to explore these parts of himself and rejects it when he sees it in others. Arthur hates it too, of course, and neither had a sweet and easy childhood, especially compared to the silver spoon fed nations they raised, but where Arthur takes this hatred of himself from those years and channels it into pushing himself to improve, Francis pushes these aspects away. He does not have the patience for children, does not want to watch them fumble and fall or get to know them intimately as the half-baked clay that they are. They are children, they will grow- he will have more in common with them then.
This isn’t callous or even really a conscious decision. He just doesn’t relate to children in the same way that Arthur can, cannot get past their youth, their ‘unreadyness’. He can play with children and can talk happily to children but he has no time for children, especially when Matthew was in his care. He would make sure he was fed and cleaned and put to bed on time and was given the best things money could buy, but he also didn’t care about these details overly much. The Duke of Blah Blah said that this specific toy is the best thing to buy children of Matthew’s age? He’ll get it. Oh, Lady So-and-So’s son is having riding lessons? He’ll set them up for Matthew too. What fashions are best? Does he have the nicest apartments? The best servants to hand? Best tutors?
And this is all well and good but he didn’t take the time to find out what Matthew actually wanted or felt. He didn’t care for Matthew as his own person, didn’t take the time to get to know him and this is what Matthew, and all children, desperately want from their parents. Simply to be heard and understood and loved as they really are.
France sees things more critically and logically- the potential a child can have. How having Matthew about made him look, how he was treated differently. The social circles that opened or closed, the way people talk to him and the conversations they pick. Francis sees it all and he cares about it in a way that Arthur doesn’t and he enjoys following and leading the steps that courts dance. Matthew was a very nice ornamental piece for Francis and from an early age Matthew quickly picked up on his energy and intentions.
Smile at parades of strangers. Hold Papa’s hand and bow for the King. Try his best and practise again and again until he knew all of the steps to the new dances that year. To do these things was to spend time with Francis and to make him happy and Matthew was starved for that time and affection- a ghost of a close relationship that came about whenever Matthew accepted Francis’ current interests and social rules.
This of course, meant that when Francis gave Matthew away it really did devastate him. He had tried so hard. He worked every part of himself to do and be his best to make Francis happy but that wasn’t enough. From Francis’ view again this act wasn’t really cruel at all- war is war. A deal is a deal. Arthur may be a fool and he’s not always in Francis’ good books but he’s got a son of a similar age and he’s good with children; Matthew would have a play mate and Arthur’s boy wasn’t dead yet so Arthur couldn’t be that bad of a parent. It made sense. Matthew would be fine.
But again, he didn’t consider Matthew’s feelings as a person, how this would affect him or how much it would hurt. Certainly not the repercussions- on his personality, on how he builds relationships, how he sees himself.
Today Francis and Matthew are on good, if distant terms. Matthew is polite and Matthew is loyal to Arthur and Arthur wouldn’t have approved or a meltdown or rage at seeing Francis again for the first time in years. Nor would Arthur have approved if Matthew had cowered away and avoided him, or causing a fuss of any kind. Matthew loves Arthur, is grateful to him for treating him as a son rather than a spare so… Matthew shakes Francis’ hand and asks about his trip. Takes his coat and hangs it up, smells the familiar smell that knocks him back decades to powdered wigs and jewelled cuffs on a coat that glint in the light of a thousand candles. Hears the language that Arthur refuses to speak with him slip once again between his ears, notices the changes as much as what has remained the same. Hears himself in Francis’ laugh and hopes that he at least sounds more genuine.
Francis knows now that they will never have as close of a relationship as Arthur and Matthew share but he’s grateful for what Matthew has let him have. Maybe it’s because Matthew is an adult now. Maybe it’s because Matthew is his own person, or maybe it’s because Francis himself has grown and matured. It’s likely a combination of all three, but Francis wants to get to know Matthew these days, after WWI especially, and often initiates contact and arranges visits for them both. Matthew is happy for the attention and enjoys getting to know and spend time with Francis but Francis is very much the one taking the lead. Again, similarly to Francis in his youth this isn't to be cruel but just because Matthew doesn't think of Francis in this way. He does not consider going to him for advice or for a good time or even for affection- he has other people for that now.
Although now polite and positive, the bond between them is very surface level, lacking the easy warmth that he shares with Arthur and both he and Francis are aware of why.
Despite this, there is still something there within his chest that rings Matthew back to his earliest days. He’s taller than Francis now, the proportions strange on him like a stolen shadow but in the right light, in the right angle, earlier times will catch him and Matthew feels as much as part of Francis as he ever did.
