@attrociteas || United Nations Special Assembly, New York City, USA.
Aleksander would rather be anywhere else in the world than here. He’d take dying in a frozen tundra over having to do his climate change and oil industry talk before his colleagues, to be quite frank. He’d tried his damndest to push it back, but there was no wiggle room in the schedule. It wasn’t but a few months since the last time he’d set foot outside of Scandinavia, since... Well. Since he’d summarily had his ties cut with the English rep.
At least standing behind a lectern and presenting things he knows like the back of his hand is not too terrible. He keeps the discussions on topic, the cold glare and icy tone keeping everyone in line for once. People tend to listen to the big, scary Norwegian when he speaks. Plus, with his only ever attending UN conferences, none of them really get a chance to get used to him.
Once his slides were done and all questions were answered, the session was dismissed and Aleks begins to tidy his papers and laptop, focused on sorting things into his laptop backpack without much regard for the goings on around him. He was expecting to just go back to his hotel and sleep until his flight later that night, not intending to go out and galavant around the Big Apple like so many of his colleagues liked to do. No, he was a responsible man who had better things to do than get drunk and fuck off.
“If you like it. They did name your place Jamestown.”
They are playing a game in which, like some sort of gift-giving crow, James sprints about the woods and returns, only to deliver him things of progressively less value. He nods vigorously and runs, disappears, and Arthur knows to extend his hand when James comes back squealing to bring —
A piece of desiccated bone. Is it very far away? Very. An entire sea in between, stretching unimaginable distance.
A small pebble. Is it like here? Sort of. It rains a bit more.
A wooden branch. Will I get to come back? Every once in a while.
A clump of dry grass. Is the boat very big?
Arthur smiles. “Nowhere near as big as the ocean, but yes. It is big. But not always comfortable, or safe. It takes sixty days to get from one place to the other. You’ll be with me at all times, though. You will be safe.” Arthur learned early how battering a trip by sea is. Still, this child is, already, used to weathering storms, death, disease, callous folk and Arthur doesn’t think it can get much worse for him. It will be worth it, then, if at the end of this he has a home, as any child of their kind should. It’s hardly safe for him merely to roam about by himself, with no education, no training in anything in these times.
The kid nods again and smiles. “My name is James ... I never had a name before. Did you have a name before?”
“A long time ago. I chose Arthur for myself.”
“I want to be James.”
“It’s a good name, eh?”
James nods, not a trace of doubt in his eyes. “What did you do before you had a name?”
“Eh? Same thing you’ve done, luv. I roamed about until I found my way.” Was found, rather. But it doesn’t matter which way it goes.
“You didn’t have a mom, either?”
“Not at all.”
“What did you do?”
“Same thing that you’ve done, luv. Again. I roamed about until I found my way.”
“Will I have friends in the new place?”
“ … I don’t know a lot of your kind.” An unexpected question, and he can tell he’s answered it wrong, because he can see the child’s expression begin to falter into an upset panic. Almost as if he might cry. Arthur glances around as if in some sort of panic of his own, as if someone might tell him what to do or say. “But there will always be people around to take care of you. You will have everything else. I might even find you a sibling, or an animal companion.”
It’s pointless. He feels like he’s begging for this not to happen, but he can see it now. The quiver in his lip, the hitched breath. He keeps waiting for the horrendous moment when the child will begin to wail miserably, but it never comes. He realizes that he cries silently, bringing his hands up to wipe away at his face. Arthur doesn’t know how long he stands there, frozen, can’t tell why he keeps shaking or crying or what to do with it.
Realizing that no one else is coming to deal with it, Arthur drops the grass and dirt and pebbles in his hands and scoops him up so that his chin is resting on his shoulder. He can’t see him crying any longer, but he can hear it and feel it and it is just as unfortunately painful. Sniffles on his shoulder. What is he supposed to do?
“Shhhh,” he follows it with a small staccato of shushes, sh-sh-sh-sh-sh, rocks him a bit like he’s seen not mothers but caretakers do for the princesses at home, when they are carrying their children, children that are not on their own, expertly rocking them into a lull. Only he feels woefully inadequate for it. He can’t be sure it’s doing much of anything, and tries to adopt a more casual tone. “When I was like you I had all sorts of friends, too, in the forest, you know. Back then the snakes were the size of a young human, just like you, did you know that? I woke up every morning to the sound of chirping birds, and squirrels running about, and the rats stealing my food. Animals can be nice companions too, we will just have to find ones that won’t bite. But you’ll have everything. Pets, toys, people to take care of you and read to you, they will be older than you but they will be your friends as well. And me, of course. I’ll be your … your parent, friend, mom, dad, what do you want me to be?”
“All the kids g-grow up, but not, but not—” Whether he finishes his sentence or not, Arthur can’t tell. He already knows what it is. He doesn’t want to hear it, but he does. Not the words, but the sound of the kid choking on his own sentence, wiping his wet hands on his shirt. “M-my friends get sick and leave and d-don’t come back.”
“I know. I know.” Suddenly he sounds much more resigned. “It’s not your fault, do you know that? You’re special, that is all. It’s a small miracle from God, who put us here. You may not see it that way yet, but you will and you’ll soon get used to it.”
Eventually he puts him down, even though he is not too heavy. In fact, he is not heavy at all from how malnourished he is, and maybe he would carry him all the way if he knew it would not make matters worse.
“Let’s get on the boat, yes? A new place, new start. We’ll sing songs on the boat; you won’t have even a moment to think about being sad.”
@attrociteas cont: Arthur notices each thing sequentially: the bright red bouquet on the steps with the brief, lighthearted note, which makes him smile for a minute before he notices that's not just any motorbike parked outside his home (thank God, because he'd been just about to go and get the bike's number plate, goddammit ...) and that he can hear a subtle melody playing from ... "Gilbert? Where are you?" he asks, raising his voice so that he might heard, dropping his bag on the front porch and heading over to the gardens in the back, vase full of flowers still in hand. "These are lovely, thank you. Surprise visit?" he says when he finally comes upon him.
***
Gilbert slowly stopped playing as he heard Arthur come close and hummed a bit. He was sitting in a garden chair, an open laptop on the table next to him with dozens of new, ignored emails, and an open bottle of beer next to it.
“I was just in the area,” he responded nonchalantly, smiling at Arthur. ‘I was just in the area’ had begun to be Gilbert’s go-to response and it was code for ‘I went out of my way to fetch a flight, enter this country, travel to your home, and seek out your company, responsibilities be damned’
“Thought you could use a pick me up, after what happened in Pariament today.” Gilbert actually had no idea what happened in Parilament today - he was too busy travelling to the UK and making his way through the familiar streets of London - but he really didn’t need to know anything specific at this point. He was roped into helping the neighbour lady replace her roof shingles a few hours prior, for example, and he had to replace his currency to buy Arthur some flowers, of course.
“I hope you don’t mind I let myself in. I was just going to go out and buy some ingredients for dinner.”
If Magdalena had been in a more poetic mood, she would say that the weather was an accurate representation of her present state of mind. Sheets of rain fell upon her head as she hurried through vaguely familiar streets (things really do change over the years, after all). After the last week or so of frantic travel, all Magdalena wanted was a warm, safe, dry corner to rest long enough to find her bearings. Even if it was for a single night.
It had been less than a year since Magdalena had left Poland, back when there was an independent Polish state to leave. It felt like a century. And yet, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had made the right decision to leave in the first place; she felt so guilty when she thought about all she had left behind. A part of her wondered if she should turn around and go back home this very second, but she had sworn to the president of her exiled government that she would find him in London.
So here she was. In exile with very little other than the wet, dirty clothes on her back. Unsure where to even begin looking for the Polish leader and unable to ask directions in a tongue so foreign from her own. Raising her fist and giving three knocks in quick succession on one of the few doors she knew in the whole city.
Magdalena prayed that the door would open as she bounced anxiously from one foot to the other. After what seemed like an eternity, she raised her hand, knocking again and again until the door opens and an understandably confused but familiar figure appeared before her. The woman straightened up, doing her best not to look like the wet stray cat that she absolutely was, and gave the Englishman a smile. Goodness, she realized that it would be a wonder if he even recognized her now.
❝Hello Arthur. Remember me? I do hope I'm not interrupting anything…could I come in?❞
Some of Francis’ favourite moments with Arthur were after dinner, after dishes, sharing a calm and uneventful night that allowed them to enjoy each other’s company in silence as they read on the couch together. He felt as if he could stay like this forever, safely and calmly in their own fictitious worlds. Well, hardly fictitious- Francis was reading The Essays by Michel de Montaigne for the tenth time. And Francis was feeling particularly bored of it in this moment, so he softly shuts it to lean in closer to Arthur and peer over his shoulder.
“Madame Bovary? Again?”
His head finds the familiar spot on Arthur’s shoulder, and his eyes start peering over the words as his hand absentmindedly reaches under his arm, linking them together.
The woman spends a good several seconds in complete silence, dark eyes fixated on the swirling reddish-brown liquid as she stirred it over and over again with a spoon.
“Here you are,” Iman finally announces, gently pushing the cup in the male’s direction with a single touch of her dainty fingers. “I added some saffron to the tea, for a little bit more flavor. It’s a bit different, but I assure you, also very delicious. After all, poetry is most enjoyable when read over a nice cup of tea, is it not?”
