'Francis, get the fuck in.' Arthur sat up and back further in the tub to make room, 'Stop looking at me like that; get in and shut the bloody door. You're letting all the heat out.'
'Oh, I thought it was hot enough.'
Arthur raised his eyes to the heavens and sank back lower into the water.
Francis shut the door and turned back to glare at him, 'You're taking up all the room.'
'You took too long.'
'Move.'
'I will when you get in.'
'You're insufferable. This is supposed to be relaxing. I'm supposed to enjoy this.' In a swift movement, Francis shucked off his (overly) fluffy bathroom, ‘Get out of the way.’
‘I will when you get in.’
Francis stepped one foot fully into the water with a wince and Arthur grinned, ‘Too hot?’
‘Arthur, I swear to God I will sit on your legs.’
‘I took the tap side for you.’
‘I appreciate the weaponry to hand. Move.’
Before Arthur could retort, Francis stepped fully into the tub and Arthur had to swiftly moved his legs out of the way to avoid tendon damage.
‘Look, you’ve flooded us.’ Arthur said, eyeing up the overflow along the tub’s rim from the wave made by Francis’ entrance. ‘That better not go through the carpet to the floorboards, we can’t afford to redo them after the kitchen.’
‘I’m surprised you have enough heart and feeling in your stingy heart to allow us to have this much water.’ Francis sank as deep as he could go, knees sharp mountains in the water, and closed his eyes, ‘Ugh, it’s been too long since I’ve had a bath. I needed this.’
‘Hmm.’ Arthur pulled one of Francis’ feel forwards to massage his calf, firm circles with his thumbs, ‘It’s rarely cold enough to be worth it.’
‘That’s a terrible opinion.’ Francis cracked open an eye, looking just behind Arthur and to the right, ‘As is the need to have the window open.’
‘I like the contrast.’
Francis shook his heard and closed his eyes again, ‘I think I’m going to quit.’
‘Finally.’
‘Yes, well. I had hopes. Growth upwards, more than anything currently improving.’
‘Move on to another station?’
Francis shrugged, ‘The chance for more responsibility. Menu choices, ideally.’
Arthur snorted and moved onto Francis’ other leg, ‘As if David would ever let you do that.’
‘He does for Nikhil.’
‘Nikhil is an arselick.’
‘Nikhil is also the level above. But even then, to just move off vegetables and fish. I hate fish, or I hate cooking fish. The smell gets everywhere.’
‘I don’t mind you smelling like a whore.’
Francis hit him with a sudden splash of water, Arthur catching the grin of his teeth right before he closed his eyes.
‘Stop it. Let me moan; don’t make me laugh.’
‘I would do no such thing willingly.’ Arthur lay back as much as he could with the awkward and hard metal of the tap, lolling his head against the wall with his arm slung over the ceramic to keep him from sliding. ‘Your unhappiness is my entire aim.’
Francis snorted and cupped water in his hands to tip onto the crown of his head, fingers raking through the strands.
‘Are you actually?’ Arthur asked after a moment, his hand going back to the meat of Francis’ calf, then the cool skin of his knee, ‘Going to quit; go somewhere else.’
Francis shrugged. ‘No. Yes. Inside, mentally, I quit ages ago. But today was just...’ he waved a hand lazily, ‘I don’t know how much longer. Not because it’s hard or bad but, what’s the point. Of being stuck somewhere that won’t change, clinging to something that left a long time ago.’
‘True, I-‘
‘Like you with me.’
Arthur froze, a coldness blooming in his stomach to spread like ice through his veins. He pulled his hand away and Francis eyed him, eyes flicking up and down.
‘How many years has it been?’ He asked, ‘Five? Six?’
Arthur tried to speak but managed only a croak. Swallowed, tried again, ‘Seven.’
‘Ah yes, seven.’ Francis looked around the bathroom, at the cracks that Arthur now remembered as being on the ceiling, the damp mildew stains along the tiles to pillow black in the grouting that hadn’t been there a second ago. ‘Too long, my love.’
Arthur couldn’t speak. He reach forwards, through still, tepid water to where Francis still lay bright and whole against clean ceramic and the vibrant colours of years before. His hands met nothing but the smooth other side.
Francis watched him, silent. There was something of pity in his expression, almost readable as contempt. ‘Arthur.’
‘No.’
‘You have to let me go, Arthur.’
‘Francis.’ Arthur pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, keeping the sound of Francis’ voice safe and away from the reality that his eyes could now see, ‘Please.’
‘It’s funny that this is where you see me.’ A soft splash, the gentlest movement of water, ‘Is this the only place that you have left? The last place you can call me back?’
It was. There had been others, especially right at the start. Francis in the kitchen, Francis in bed. Francis draped across the lounge sofa, hair in Arthur’s fingers, his warmth against his side. But the rooms were too large and the truth too heavy, too much to filter with so much space to repaint. As the years fell away, it became harder through the years to recall Francis there for more than a flash, and Arthur always needed more.
The bathroom, small and cramped in their little old flat, was still enough. Arthur could pull their relationship out there and unfurl it like a canvas, run through imaginary tapes of old conversations and quiet little moments to fill the space and coat it completely.
It still felt so real.
‘Your brothers are worried about you.’ Another splash, coming closer, ‘You look at least ten years older than you should.’
‘Stop. Please, don’t.’
‘Keeping me here is taking too much.’ Another splash. Arthur heard something lift out of the water, heard the plink plink plink of droplets falling from something tangible there with him. ‘How much life do you have left to waste on trying to get back the one that you lost?’
Arthur felt Francis’ hand on his cheek, his fingers cold and hard as bone. Arthur’s breath caught and he squeezed his eyes so tightly that he could hear a roaring of blood in his ears.
‘Are you waiting for me to say that I forgive you? Do you keep bringing me back here, dragging me up, because you hope that maybe I’ll say you’re not to blame? And, since I won’t, you instead play happier memories again and again and again-’ Francis squeezed hard, fingers digging in sharp to Arthur’s skin, ‘to avoid that day?’
Arthur tried to shake his head but couldn't, found his whole body was rigid and stuck. He tried to jerk away, kick his legs at the thing holding him there but his legs couldn’t move. The tap pressed sharply into his back, limescale cutting his skin.
‘Oh.’ The thing that still sounded like Francis tutted, ‘If only you hadn’t been drinking.’
A crash, a car. Night time, Coldplay’s Yellow lifting into the darkness as behind him on the verge... Whiskey on Arthur’s breath, he’d been at the limit but still-
The grip tightened, harder against Arthur’s teeth to force the bitter reality past the lie and into his mouth. ‘Didn’t you have just. One. More.’
Finally, Arthur opened his eyes.
It does not take long for flesh to decompose. Especially in the summer, especially when it was already so ruined, so open.
Nothing hung from Francis’ bones, nothing was left of his softness. His beauty vanished when his soul did, leaving only the shell of a thing that sits before Arthur in chilling water: empty darkness between ribs and cheekbones, picked clean by the creatures of the earth that he was returned to.
‘I’m sorry.’ Arthur whispered to it through its fingers, ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
‘I know.’ Francis’ voice is still in his head; the fused jaw did not move, ‘But that doesn't change anything, does it?’
-----------------
AN:
... I... This just happened and did not go quite according to the plan that I had in mind but we're rolling with it
[8] + fruk? idk, it sounds like something they'd hardly tell each other but I figured it's a challenge you could enjoy solving. :) i love your writing btw. Thank you for sharing it with the world. <3
[8] 'I love you'
Both of these asks are so so old but I enjoy a challenge, Anons! Took me a while but I got there in the end. Hope you like!
England says this to him in warm candlelight, yellows and orange hues dancing gently on his cheek and across his nose. On his back, no less, looking up at France with wine soft eyes amongst expensive coverlets and pillows of a borrowed palace bed.
France's hands are busy, one supporting him, one not, and thus he knows there is some bias to England’s words.
If it were darker, less candlelight and more masking cover, maybe they would be more true. England had always been gentler in the shadows, safer when he feels he can't be seen.
'Shame the same cannot be said for you.' France says in reply, and bites him hard on the shoulder.
-------------
'You can be useful.'
France sounds surprised.
England clenches his jaw. 'Fuck you.'
'I'm serious.' France twirls the pointed end of his share knife into England thick wooden table. 'There may yet be hope in regards to you being anything of value.'
It is France's own knife, at least, that he is blunting. Gilded- overly so, so it's almost more decorative than usable. Almost. France does so like to find those lines and tease them.
The remains of a meal are pushed aside, a map open and curling long between them instead like a dried up sea. England wants to grab the knife out of France’s hand and jab it in his eye but he doesn’t. He needs France, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, needs his help sweet talking the French nobility and keeping his King in check and so refrains from lunging across the table. Swallows bitterness down and looks from the maimed table to the map.
The French coastline looks alien upside-down but England doesn’t ask France to turn it around.
‘So.’ France’s voice is silky and low, ‘Can you deliver on your end?’
England thinks of his own King, thinks of his endless envy that is great enough to engulf his nation’s pride. He nods.
France clicks his tongue, ‘What a surprise.’
-------------
‘Where have you been?’ A nation who will one day be England pouts and crosses his arms across his chest, ‘I’ve been waiting here for hours’.
‘It wasn’t hours.’ A nation who will one day be France looks about the bank of the tree where England is sat in distain, ‘The ground is wet.’
‘You’re late.’ England insists, ‘You said you would be here by noon. And wet ground is better to write in.’
‘It’s still noon. Couldn’t you have picked somewhere sunnier? The ground hasn’t dried here; where will I sit.’
‘Are you stupid?’ England holds out an arm and gestures to the shadow it makes upon the floor with another. It is slightly longer than noon would provide, ‘Does that look like noon?’
‘Do you want me to help, or not.’
‘No.’
France sighs, ‘Fine. Do you want me to do this the easy way or the hard way.’
England kicks at a small stone and it bumps a little ways down the small pathway along the edge of the wheat field he’s been biding his time in. This France knows, because there’s chaff caught in his hair and dusting amongst the mud of the dampened hem of his cloak.
‘I already know how to write letters,’ England grumbles, ‘Rome made me learn his, and they’re exactly the same as your ones. Why do I have to do this all again.’
‘Because after Rome, you learnt some barbarian ones, and now I want to make you presentable. These are things any decent, proper nation should know.’ France dusts down England’s hair, ‘And it’s very hard to bring you up to par when you keep avoiding my visits and moving from castle to castle.’
England shakes his head and looks away.
‘You should stay with the King,’ France says pointedly, ‘Not move about the strongholds like a vagabond. You shouldn’t show your earls too much favour.’
France sees England hold himself back from speaking. He knows what England wants to say and is relieved when he keeps the several possible and difficult arguments to himself. An improvement, but maybe only because there’s no one else to hear.
‘Move.’ England says suddenly. He picks up a stick that France had failed to notice, propped up ready to go against a thick root, and waves him out of the way and off the flat dirt road. He begins scrawling in the ground in rigid, sharp strokes. ‘If I write “go fuck yourself” in Latin, Norman, and French, will you do so?’
-------------
‘I don't always hate you.’
France says this so quietly that England almost didn’t hear him. He wouldn’t have done, if he didn’t know France’s voice and his habits so well. He halts, the quiet palace yawning open unseen down the darkened passage ahead.
From the corner of his eye, England sees France shift where he leans in the archway. He was so still that England hadn’t noticed him as he walked, his dark shape held like a statue in shadows. Now that he knows he’s there, England can almost see the glint of silver threads in the moonlight, fine clothes on a man made just as much from the dirt as he.
A shift of fabric as France moves again. England stares ahead and does not look at him.
‘You may not believe that, but it’s true.’ France offers quietly. ‘I don’t like to think that you believe otherwise.’
‘I don’t like that you make me believe so.’
A pause. England can hear the sounds of the evening: distant footsteps on flagstones, the rustle of trees in the orchard beyond the stone courtyard walls. The smells of thousands of past summers on the warm breeze, blurring the edges of the era and turning the night endless.
The moment stretches, full and expectant. Then, a sigh.
It passes.
France does not reply, and England walks away.
-------------
‘Are you coming with me?’
France snorts. ‘I am offended that you would ever think that I would.’
‘Oh fuck off. Come on.’ England’s eyes are dangerously captivating, ‘You’re just as bored as I am.’
‘Unlike yourself, I am able to find joy in the finer things.’
‘Francis, this is the worst fucking ball we’ve been to in centuries.’
France winces, ‘Yes, but the food is at least good. And the people here are-‘
‘All over fifty.’
‘We are over fifty. And they’re-’
‘Boring.’
‘Important.’ France corrects, ‘They are important, my dear.’
England scoffs and looks across the lacklustre and lethargic dancefloor, couples with outdated clothes and dour expressions stiffly moving in their formations. He swirls his wine in his glass and points with it shamelessly, ‘Important for what, exactly.’
‘To be seen by. To talk politics with. To encourage away from silly decisions that will ruin my skin for the next decade.’
‘And the younger important people? Or heaven forbid, any fun ones? Where are they?’
France shrugs with one shoulder helplessly, ‘The Viscount is... particular.’
England raises and eyebrow and France shrugs, ‘Fine. It is dull. He is dull, and these are all his dull friends. What do you want me to say, the money is here but the life is gone. I’m not blind, Arthur.’
England adjusts the lace of France’s collar, straightening it from where a point has curled under itself, ‘Well, I’m going to the inn on Perry street. That’s where the kitchen boy told me-‘
‘The one with the hair, or the one with the funny leg?’
‘The one with the teeth.’
France shakes his head, ‘Poor boy. Sugar is a terrible thing, I wonder when people will pick up on that.’
England rolls his eyes and downs his wine. France winces, ‘That was expensive.’
‘Good. I’m off.’ England kisses his cheek quickly, the powdered hairs of his wig tickling France’s neck, ‘Have fun somehow being the most interesting thing in the room for a change.’
‘Ha ha.’
France watches England carelessly drop his very expensive glass onto a passing waiter’s tray and tuts at him, ‘You’re too over-dressed for a common inn, you’ll get mugged.’
‘I’ll manage.’
‘I’m sure you will. When I find your naked corpse in a hedge tomorrow, don’t tell me I didn’t tell you so.’
‘I tell you your make-up makes you look like sun bleached fish every day, and yet you still wear it.’
France huffs and turns away. He hears the clip of England’s shoes as he slips behind a curtain until his steps soften, sights fixed on the dancers. The crowds in the edges of the hall, in the dark corners where candles cannot find them, have a low murmuring buzz that heaves itself above the orchestra enough to give life to the odd word of two. None of them give France any hope.
Once he is sure no one noticed England leave, France downs his own wine and pushes himself away from the wall to join him.
------------
‘Be careful.’
England blinks, confused.
It is dark, moonlight all they have to go by, and they are watching British soldiers pour out from and over French beaches into hungry, waiting boats. Months of planning, countless sleepless nights and hours held stressed and tense in the wait for scraps of coded information has lead them here, to this. To men running through waves, to home so close and yet so far, and a flight through the dark to get stranded soldiers home before France falls.
England feels hollow. His chest feels concaved, an empty feeling of something like relief rotting and curdling there at the thought that this momentous victory is in the grand scheme of things, nothing at all. A huge success merely only for how difficult any small victory is. And still a failure because... because-
France’s hand brushes his. England swallows and entwines their fingers together.
‘You’re the one who should be careful.’ He says.
France squeezes his fingers. ‘If-‘
‘Don’t.’
‘-If.’ France’s grip tightens, ‘If, Arthur. Just be careful. I’ll be fine. It’s you who-‘
France breaks off.
‘I won’t.’ England says. He takes a deep breath in. ‘Not me. Not yet.’
‘I would be deeply embarrassed for you, if you do. It’s shameful. To a child, and one raised by Gilbert, no less.’
England snorts and smooths his thumb over France’s knuckle before he breaks them apart. He tugs down his uniform, wishing for gold trimming and a deep red coat, and smooth wood of a longbow.
D-Day unfolds in the muddied, darkened shallows of Dunkirk beach, and two empires watch the world turn over and into something new.
------------
‘Move over.’
France wakes to a knee in the small of his back. ‘A.. Arthur?’
‘Francis, move.’
Bewildered, France obediently shuffles over and there’s a gasp of cold air as England lifts the covers to climb inside. ‘What are...?’
‘Shh!’
France hears the heavy drapes around his bed being rearranged, then gets another knee in his back as England burrows down next to him.
France turns over. In the darkened room and behind thick curtains, England is nothing more than a source of warmth and the feeling of being watched. ‘What are you doing here.’
‘This is my castle, isn’t it?’
‘It’s one of your King’s castles, yes.’
‘Well then.’
‘But you weren’t here.’ France whispers, When we arrived. ‘He is very upset. He says you shame him.’
‘He shames me.’ England’s cool hands find themselves under France’s back, ‘The grandson of a usurper has nothing to do with me.’
‘Arthur.’ France cautions, but then stops. It is not the time, nor place. Nor, he knows, his place, really, to say anything at all. He places his hand on the cool skin of England’s arm and squeezes it, ‘I’m happy you’re here now. Apart from all the dirt you’ve likely tracked into the bed.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘I can smell it. You smell like outside.’
‘Outside doesn't have a smell.’
It does. Brought in to a human space where it doesn’t belong, the night air that clings to England’s hair and skin is earthy and cool. Fresh and foreign amongst wood fires and the fresh thresh on the floors.
‘I changed.’ England insists, seemingly having taken France’s lack of answer as an argument, ‘I do have nightclothes, you know. I’m not a savage.’
‘Hmm.’
England wriggles his fingers under France’s back to the soft parts of his sides and France can’t help but yelp as they tickle.
‘I was in York but heard you were leaving.’ England says, ‘Did you want to go riding before you go?’
‘We go Tuesday.’ France whispers, conscious of the servants littered about the room asleep. How England crept past them all or even got into the castle so quietly in the first place, he’ll never know. ‘We’re almost ready.’
‘So, do you want to go riding, or not.’
It is Sunday. There will be a lot to do before he goes back to his own lands, lots of packing and planning and then talking to people and France is exhausted just thinking about how much of it he will be needed for, let alone the voyage back across likely windy seas.
‘I don’t want to share. I want my own horse.’
‘Fine.’
------------
‘Here.’
England looks up from his laptop to find a cup of what might be soup held aloft before him.
France waggles it, evidently deeming England too slow on the uptake, ‘Take it.’
England does, cautiously, and moves his laptop aside to safety. ‘What’s this for.’
‘You.’
‘I could infer that.’
‘Could you? I never want to assume.’ Before England can tell him not to, France settles himself in the seat opposite. The booth England has hidden himself in has a wide table down the middle which takes up most of the room, but France moves himself into the tight space far more dramatically than is needed.
The soup is hot. England pops the lid off- carrot and coriander. His stomach clenches at the smell, he hadn’t realised how hungry he was. ‘Where on earth did you get it? They stopped serving dinner hours ago.’
‘I know. You missed it.’ France shoots him a pointed look, ‘I went to a café down the road.’
England looks down and swirls the soup around the Styrofoam. It’s thick, good quality. ‘I’m not paying you for it.’
‘Ah yes, because that is why I went.’
England glances at his laptop. France shuts it. ‘Now, whilst you’re eating, listen to me. I have a story for you.’
England takes the spoon that France offers and stirs. He wonders if France has any chocolates in his pockets, ‘Is it about the look Antonio gave-‘
‘Yes.’ France leans forwards eagerly, ‘But shut up. Let me talk.’
-------------
‘It’s... it’s large.’ The scientist at the front of the room looks shrunken, weighed down and wizened. He runs a hand through his hair, glasses glinting in sterile, overheads lights. ‘It’s large.’
France looks up and catches England’s eye. He looks tired, old.
Scared.
Question lights flash on around the room, every national and political delegation with something to say or ask. The scientist seems to freeze, overwhelmed by where or who to turn to first, and then people start shouting all over each other, nations and their politicians alike.
‘What the fuck is this?’ France’s president holds her hands to her mouth and shakes her head slowly from side to side, ‘This cannot be happening.’
‘There is nothing we can do!’ France hears the scientist say over the braying clamour, ‘It’s too late, it’s-‘
‘Francis.’ England is there, at his shoulder. ‘Come on.’
-------------
‘What the fuck have you done to yourself?’
France sniffs and turns away, ‘That’s none of your business.’
England snorts and hangs his hat and coat on the stand, ‘You look like you’ve fallen off a horse.’
‘You look like an unkempt vagabond.’
England looks down at his finely pressed suit and trousers and then back to France. He is on his sofa, studiously reading a book and not looking at England making himself comfortable in France’s livingroom. His leg is before him on a padded stool, swollen at least twice the size, and there is a purple bruise blossoming upon one cheek.
England comes around the back of him and brushes soft golden hair away from France’s shoulder. ‘I could do better.’ he says, gently thumbing the fragile scabbing of France’s bottom lip.
France swats at him, ‘Go away. I don’t want you here.’
‘Wrong place wrong time? Or did you try to speak sense again to someone who actually has some.’
‘Arthur, stop.’ France catches England’s wrist and kisses the inside, ‘You’re too unsympathetic to understand.’
‘Hmm.’ England kneads at France’s shoulder and then heads to the kitchen, ‘Would it help you to know I’m planning on telling everyone you fell ice skating?’
France lets out a bark of laughter, ‘Oh? And who on earth would you tell.’
‘Anyone who will listen.’ He collects a glass and a bottle of wine, along with some bread and some of the expensive cheese that he knows France always squirrels away in his pantry whenever he can, and takes them back to the living room.
-------------
‘If you could be anywhere, where would you be.’
Soft music from a Spanish restaurant down the road, warm ocean breeze. Anywhere and everywhere, all at once.
Besides him, England sips warm ale from a can he smuggled through customs and shrugs, ‘Home.’
‘That’s a boring answer.’
‘That’s the truest answer.’
‘And where again would Arthur go, if he could leave England behind.’ Francis watches Arthur from the corner of his eye, sees the fragments of him outside of all else that they always are.
‘I can’t leave England behind.’ England says, ‘So there’s not much point entertaining it.’
‘I’m trying to have a serious conversation.’
‘Then don’t ask a hypothetical question.’
Francis sighs, and retreats. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette and watches the smoke drift away into the dark.
‘But if you’re asking time.’ England tilts his head, considering. Behind them on the seafront, students between bright club front lights in loud, drunken clusters, ‘Now, I think. Maybe a hundred years ago, at most.’
‘Really?’ France is surprised, ‘I would have thought-‘
‘Boring answer,’ Arthur says, and the rest remains unfinished.
-------------
‘Don’t you fucking die on me.’
Of all the places England expected to die, this was actually what he’d considered the least likely. In Calais, oft contested, right by the sea, and entirely calm. No war or battle to take him, no disease or crop failure to push him along. He can see Dover in the distance, his white cliffs so close he can almost feel them in the bones they represent.
But above them, burning and close, the sky roils.
France lies in his lap on the grass of his garden, eyes wet and smiling. ‘That’s not fair, you can’t say that to me. That’s what I was going to say to you.’
‘I’m serious.’ England swallows down something bitter and painful in his throat, and brushes the hair from France’s face, ‘You’re not allowed to go first unless I’m given that honour. Keep yourself awake.’
France freezes, eyes wide, ‘What-‘
‘I know you too well,’ England says, and dips his head to kiss him. There is a golden chain around France’s neck, old and reliable. On it hangs a much-used pendant, once again filled and ready. Still full, he hopes.
England fiddles with it in the hollow of France’s neck and sees the burning heavens reflected in his eyes. ‘We’ll go together.’
-------------
‘I love you.’
On a nameless bit of a terraformed Earth that might have once been a small kingdom in the northern sea, a man called Francis pauses at the hydro sink, half washed cup in his hands. A man called Arthur stands next to him with a dish cloth and when Francis turns to him, Arthur stares back, face inscrutable.
Arthur does not mince words. He has always spoken his mind frankly, regardless of how offensive or tactless his thoughts may be. He has never tailored himself to a situation, never presented himself as anything he is not. But softness and open vulnerability is not a texture he can wear upon himself. Not because he doesn’t have any, Francis knows, but because he expects that Arthur doesn’t know how. Some core part of his personality that gets lost from his heart to his tongue, or given spikes along the way.
Maybe that was what caught Francis’ attention in the first place, all those years ago on the transport ship to Earth. The parts Arthur kept to himself more than the parts he did not. Arthur spoke kindness and care in actions, not words, and words were what Francis had heard far too much of.
Francis looks away and makes sure to keep his face just as blank, just as unconcerned.
My soul cries out for Scotland and England being siblings; I love those two and their stormy sense of brotherhood. I may or may not be biased cos my favourite period is medieval, which is ripe for England and Scotland conflict and shenanigans.
Congratulations on 1000 followers! You deserve it!
Thank you so much, Ballad!! And to you too Nonny, that's a high compliment indeed <3
I got a few requests for UK bros and England and Scotland as a pair, so there will be more than just this. I hope this quick little story fits the bill in the meantime!
----------
Currency
Alba nodded in satisfaction as he tilted the horse's face slightly to the side, its rubbery lips soft and warm against his bare palm.
'Teeth seem fine.'
'Let me see.'
Alba bent to hold Albion up to the animal, settling his weight against his hip.
'Careful.' He warned as his brother reached out for the horse's nose, 'Slowly. Or she'll bite.'
'I know.' Albion said sharply, but paused his hands in mid air before lowering them carefully down on the short fur, 'I'm not stupid.'
'Sure.'
'So what do you think.' The horse's owner, a traveller from Gaul unusual this far up north, peered at them with lowered brows. His accent was thick, more used to the Brythonic dialects of the south than the midland ones now quick on Alba's tongue. 'You take her? She's strong; good for distance.'
'She seems healthy.' Alba agreed, 'Perfect for the winter.'
'That what you need her for?'
Alba didn't reply.
The stranger raised his hands, conceding, 'Well, she is yours if you want. She can't have more foal so she no good to me, and no war mount either.' He patted his other horse on its thick neck, the creature a good few hands taller than the smaller female they were discussing. They were tied together with a long rope, the smaller horse further tethered to a loaded wooden wagon.
Alba ignored this comment too. 'What do you want for her?' He asked, switching to what he hoped was the man's native tongue, a language from Northern Gaul he had picked up from some sailors a few years ago. It was useful to know the closest ones from the mainland and he was rewarded for his rusty troubles with a wry smile.
‘125 denarii’, The Gaul said smoothly, ‘Or equivalent, if you have other currency.’
'Coins?' Alba shifted Albion's weight, his brother slipping from his grip in his attempt to lean closer to the horse, too interested in stroking her to pay any attention to the conversation. 'What about in trade?'
'I trade in coin for horses.'
'We don't use coin here.' (1)
'Then you don't trade with me.'
Alba silently cursed. They did not need a horse, not in the way they needed food or shelter, but it would certainly be useful. Winter was tightening its grip on the land and a horse would make tracking across snow and icy terrain between clans much easier. Alba and Ériu could cross the distances fine enough, but their brothers were too young to make as many long treks without either numerous breaks in between or long stops in settlements. Summer, with its days of generous light and warm weather, made the amount of travelling Alba wanted to do easier, but as soon as the days grew short it became more and more difficult to move safely at any decent speed. Mama always had them more settled at this time of year, but even Albion could feel a new restlessness in the air that hadn't been there in her time.
A mare would help.
Alba placed Albion down and felt discreetly for the pouch of assorted coins against his leg. 'Why do you want coin?'
The Gaul shrugged, 'Much of the mainland uses coin. It's common.'
'Not here.'
'Here is not the main land.'
'Why for horses?'
The man spread an arm in an arc over his wagon, the thick waterproof cover high over whatever was piled underneath, 'Everything else, I'll trade for in these parts. But horses are worth their weight in gold, here as much as anywhere else. The value is not tradeable.'
Albion tugged at Alba's trousers, 'Let me back up.'
'We have quality things to trade.' Sticking to the stranger's language, Alba kept the Gaul's gaze. Albion tugged at him again and Alba gripped the shoulder of his cloak to hold him still, fingers digging down firm. 'Cloth, dyed. Jewellery, skins, meat-'
'I only trade horses in coin.'
The man spoke politely enough but Alba could hear the note of finality in his words.
'Adair-'
'Shh!' Alba pushed Albion away towards the horse, noting that she was still patient and calm despite the child by her feet. 'Go away.'
From his inner pocket, he lifted out the pouch which held their meagre collection of coins. They were all different: various sizes and colours, with different pictures on their sides. They found them along their travels by the sides of worn and well walked roads, usually in the south around port settlements and trade points. Albion and Ériu had a keen eye for them in the mud and grass and they had amassed a fair few.Alba selected the biggest one and held it out.
The man blinked at him.
'For the horse.' Alba said.
The man laughed loudly. Alba felt his cheeks flush and brought his hand back down, feeling wrong-footed. 'What?'
'You are serious?' The man shook his head and grinned, 'One coin?'
Alba frowned. 'You said you wanted coin. One horse, one coin.'
'By the Gods.' The man ran a hand through his hair and laughed again, 'If I didn't know you were serious, boy, I'd beat you for the cheek of it. One horse, one coin; my my.'
He huffed in amusement and gestured for the pouch, 'Show me those.'
He took the collection and tipped the contents into Alba's palm, moving the coins around with a thick index finger. 'You see the different faces and sizes? They all have different worth.'
Alba stared at them.
'They're not like pots, or furs, where the value is unique to what you’re trading.' The man continued, flipping over one of the coins, 'If one if shiny or newer, it doesn't change value. So long as it is the same weight. And the different sized coins represent different value, as well as what they’re made of.'
‘But some are gold.’
The man patted Alba hard on the shoulder, 'You need to learn money, boy, if you want to do proper trade.'
Alba forced his face to stay expressionless, 'Is it enough. For the mare.'
'No.'
Alba scoffed and tipped the money back into the pouch. 'Then this has been a waste of both our time.'
The Gaul sucked at his top lip behind his moustache and jerked his head over Alba's shoulder, 'They all yours?'
Ériu and Cymru were further away behind them on the muddy track, kicking a small rock back and forth between them. Ériu caught the rock between Crymu's feet and kicked it free with a shout of victory, dashing away to gain a clear advantage.
'Yes.' Alba said, watching them.
‘Parents? Clan?’
‘No.’
The man nodded. 'That's a lot of you. You’re all young to be alone as you are.'
Alba didn't reply.
‘Tell you what.’ Before Alba could react, too quick even to register exactly what happened, the man hunkered down and gripped a hand around Albion’s upper arm. He tugged him closer, hard enough so that Albion tripped over his feet, ‘I’ll take this one as payment. We’ll do it your way and make it a trade.’
He cupped a hand around Albion’s head to stare into his eyes, critical and cool as if assessing an animal, ‘He seems strong enough to grow into something worthwhile.’
‘Get off him!’ Alba’s voice cracked, surprise rendering him younger, and stepped forwards, one hand going to the dagger by his side.
The man put up a hand, eyes still on Albion, ‘Calm down. I’m only looking.’
‘He’s not for sale.’
‘You want to trade rather than pay? This is at least a fair exchange.’
Albion, the shock of being tugged about by a stranger finally having worn off, twisted sharply and bit down hard on the man’s wrist. The Gaul reacted in kind and stood with a yelp, sending Albion flying back with a wet thud into the muddy ground.
‘Vermin!’ He kicked out at Albion where he lay sprawled, catching him in the stomach.
Over Albion’s cry of pain, Alba heard Ériu shout something from behind him, then the sound of running.
The man returned his attention to Alba and cradled his wrist, his eyes flashing, ‘It was a true offer, made in kind faith. He would have had a better life with me and you’d know it, if you weren’t so damn foolish. Food, shelter; not this.’ He gestured to Alba’s worn clothes, travel stained and haphazardly repaired.
‘We don’t want the kindness, sir.’
‘Then by your own death be it.’ The Gaul shook out his hand and swung himself up onto his horse. Clicking his tongue, he kicked at its flank and moved them off without a look back.
Alba lunged forwards and quickly dragged Albion out of the way of the wheels before they could clip him, hoisting him into his arms.
‘You’re alright.’ He told him, more to make it true than anything else, ‘It wasn’t that bad.’
‘What happened?’ Ériu came panting beside him, looking from Alba to Albion and then at the retreating caravan, ‘Did he-‘
‘Leave it.’
Ériu reached for his dagger as Cymru came breathless and horrified by his side, ‘Who does he thi-‘
‘Leave it.’ Alba, grabbed his arm. ‘It’s not worth it.’
He felt Albion press his face into his shoulder, arms tight about his neck, and swallowed back something hot and bitter, ‘He’s not one of ours.’
Ériu’s expression soured into disgust, ‘I don’t think that should change anything.’
‘Doesn’t matter what you think.’ Alba turned away so that Ériu couldn’t see the shame and anger on his face, ‘It fucking does.’
--------------------
‘Adair.’
Alba opened his eyes and stared at the dark ceiling of their makeshift shelter. The campfire Ériu was guarding outside made the shadows jump, the outlines of the branches supporting the skins above their heads jumping and lengthening into nothingness.
‘Ad-‘
‘What, Arthur.’ Alba turned his head to find Albion, wide-eyed and watchful between him and Cymru.
‘What that man said earlier-‘
Alba turned away. ‘Go to sleep.’
‘Is that how people see us now?’
Albion’s voice was quiet, smaller beyond trying not to wake Cymru fast asleep on his back. Alba rolled back to face him, ‘See us like what.’
Albion shrugged, a small movement under heavy furs, ‘Alone.’
More than simply alone, Alba knew he meant. ‘Alone’ as something bad, something less than. Something to be pitied. He cracked the knuckles of one hand with his thumb under the covers as he thought of what to say, ‘We are alone.’
‘Mama was alone.’ Albion said quietly, ‘She used to say so, before we were here. But-’
‘Mama was grown.’
‘She wasn’t always.’
‘Before then, there were more. Mama was the last one of her family before we came along.’
‘It wasn’t a bad thing then, though. For her to be alone.’
‘Were you born?’ Alba raised an eyebrow even though Albion likely couldn’t see it, ‘How do you know.’
Albion stayed silent. Alba thought of his belly, the purple bruises they had found bloomed into his pale skin from the boot that caught him earlier, and reached for his brother to gently pull him closer, ‘We are alone. That’s our fate now. Believing it to be good or bad won’t change it. It just is.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Nothing wrong with being alone, anyway.’ Alba tucked Albion’s head under his chin, his hair cool from the chilly air, and closed his eyes, ‘We’re alright on our own.’
‘We need to get better at it.’
‘I’ll take your advice when you can stay awake through a watch.’
‘...That was one time.’
‘The only time we let you try.’
Albion huffed and shifted closer. ‘I don’t want to go on watch anyway.’
‘Then I don’t want your advice.’
Albion fell silent, and Alba listened through Cymru’s snores as his breathing slowed and deepened. Every experience had something to learn, Mama had always said, and the day’s teaching was a valuable one, as hard as it was to take. The world beyond their lands was unknown, and something they’d need to learn to read and understand if they wanted to work with it successfully.
The next day, Alba spread the illegible coins of foreign kings onto the ground and began to learn.
--------
AN:
(1) Celts and trade. Celtic peoples used a bartering system of trading goods, rather than using money. Coins were used to store or show wealth but were also just as often used in jewellery. Celtic nations on the European mainland did eventually start minting their own currencies, followed by the British Celts much later, but it was a system quite late to take compared to their contemporaries
You can read more about it here, though as always please do your own research!
Congrats on 1000 followers!! If you're still taking requests, I'd go absolutely feral for some of your scotfra! I love how you write modern nationverse with where characters reminisce or philosophise about the past <33
Phi I... I strayed. Okay, I strayed way off topic because this came to me so clearly that I couldn't not write it. I hope that you like it, even though there is no nationverse philosophying ;u;
Characters: Scotland, France (ScotFra)
-------------------------------------------
Starscape
Their home hits him with unexpected force as soon as he opens the door, the brass handle cool against bare palm. The smell of their lives together, clean linen and cedar aftershave. Walls cluttered with photos, Alisdair’s large leather armchair in the corner, Francis’ collection of Vogues tucked neatly besides Alisdair’s nature books into a handmade bookcase- collected fragments of two lives turned into one. A busy, friendly, assault of the senses.
Francis is in the kitchen, warm yellow lights and background radio above the metallic clatter of their cutlery drawer.
Alisdair sloughs his coat off, drapes it over the sofa, and walks in to join him.
‘Hello there.’
Alisdair can hear Francis’ smile through the words as he hugs him tightly from behind where he is at the counter, chin to shoulder. His arms go around him to their places automatically, right hand to Francis’ left hip.
Francis tilts his head back and up to try and meet his eye, ‘Good day?’
‘It’ll do.’
Francis snorts and cups his cheek lazily with one hand, reaching to place an empty pan on the stove, ‘Better than nothing.’
‘How was yours?’ Alisdair is loath to let him go but Francis wiggles free, gently nudging him back and away to let him get on with things. Alisdair retreats to the table in the middle of the room and watches.
‘Oh, you know. Same old same old.’
‘Tell me.’
Francis gifts him with a raised eyebrow. He fills up a pot with water and sets it salted to boil. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘Do you remember that new woman from a few weeks ago?’
Alisdair casts far back in time to find the name Francis might be referring to and finds too many to filter. ‘I remember you telling me about her.’
Francis raises an eyebrow, ‘Tina.’
‘Ah. Tina.’ He had forgotten Tina.
‘I cannot understand what is driving her to-‘ Francis sighs and clicks his tongue, ‘I don’t want to judge, but-‘
Alisdair smiles, ‘Yes, you do.’
Francis waves a hand. ‘Yes, fine. I do. But still, I am aware it’s not my place to say older people can’t randomly move jobs out of nowhere, and obviously they can learn how to do something new, but it’s...’
He stops, ties his hair up, and Alisdair's smiles widens. ‘Some people are slow, and I understand. It’s irritating to train them but I understand. Everyone has their own pace, and all that. Christ, I sound like Arthur when he’s being his most pretentious.’
Alisdair wants to call his brother then and has to swallow the feeling away, eyes fixed on Francis to keep him focused.
Butter to pan, salt to onions. The smell in the air is sweet. Condensation softens the windows, fogs the dark shadows of their garden beyond the glass. Francis moves whilst he talks, stepping lightly from one task to another.
‘But she’s not just slow to train. She’s someone who keeps questioning things, rather than just learning them. “Why do it this way, that way is much better.” Or, “In my last position, we did X Y Z blah blah blah”. Horrible. Aggravating.’ Francis tips mushrooms into the pan and shakes his head, ‘Anyway. Today I found out that she didn’t just move to join the analyst team because she wanted some sort of end of career change or have a last-minute depressing existential crisis. She was asked to move down. Because she was terrible at her job.’
Francis grins at him, his smile sharp teethed and wicked, ‘No wonder she’s so picky with everything. I got the feeling that she thought that we and what we do were beneath her but now-‘
Alisdair cuts him off before he can finish. Away from the table before Francis can stop him, he presses his mouth to Francis’, then to his cheek. Cups the back of his head in his hand, kisses his neck and feels the beat of Francis’ heart jump his pulse strong against his lips.
‘Stop it.’ Francis swats at him but the gesture is half-hearted at best, ‘You’re going to make me burn dinner.’
Alisdair kisses him again, Francis’ long hair soft and undone in his hands. ‘I don’t care.’
‘I care.’
Francis never burns dinner. No matter how busy the day or how many tasks he’s doing at once, dinner is never something to be sacrificed as part of a greater good. No matter how hard Alisdair could have tried to force it, in their life burning dinner was not a thing that would ever have happened. Today is no different. Francis extracts himself just in time to save things and Alisdair lets him go, knowing he needs to in order for things to work as they should.
The taste, once Francis is done, is perfect- one of his best meals, in Alisdair’s opinion, a warm mushroom soup. Thick bread- not homemade, Francis laments, but good enough- lightly toasted and thickly buttered. Alisdair savours every bite, takes small spoonfuls to draw out the experience for as long as it can go.
After they’ve eaten, the cooking a perfect mixture of memory and longing, they retreat to the living room sofa to fall deadweight against the cushions.
‘That was too much food.’ Francis says where he sits against Alisdair’s chest, their legs together under blankets before them on the L-shaped bend. ‘We keep on eating portion sizes that are way more than we need.’
Alisdair disagrees entirely. He is slimmer now, of course, much slimmer, but Francis doesn’t seem to notice. He pats the meat of Francis’ thigh and then grips it tight, ‘We’re doing just fine.’
Francis rolls his eyes and tuts but Alisdair sees the smile in his eyes, ‘No, not that. I mean that it’s expensive.’
‘It’s doable.’
‘Not with the sheer amount of lamb that you’re eating.’
‘It’s my favourite.’
‘It’s the costliest of all of them.’ Francis smiles and reaches up an arm to play with the short hair at the nape of Alisdair’s neck, ‘This needs a cut.’
‘You said you wouldn’t cut my hair anymore.’ Alisdair reminds him. Francis’ hand is warm, so warm, and Alisdair closes his eyes. ‘You said I complain too much.’
‘You do.’
‘Only because you threatened to shave me.’
Francis laughs lightly, ‘It would suit you.’
‘Well. That's why I complained.’
Beep.
Alisdair opens his eyes.
‘Shall we watch something?’ Francis sits up for the remote on the coffee table.
‘Only if it’s not a period drama.’
Francis sighs, weary, ‘Emma is not just a period drama. I’m told it’s a brilliant film.’
Alisdair wrinkles his nose and then grins at the look Francis gives him, ‘I’m sure it is. But are you going to be able to sit there quietly and not bitch about the costume design?’
Francis blinks at him. ‘Yes,’ he says after a while, ‘Obviously.’
‘Fucking liar.’
‘I will! I won’t say anything.’
‘I’ll bet you a fucking tenner you won’t be able to stop yourself saying something.’
Francis glances at the TV, then back to him. ‘Fine,’ he says after a moment, ‘If it’s shit research, I won’t be able to help myself. But that doesn’t detract from it potentially being a very good film.’
‘Besides shit costuming.’
‘… So I’m told.’
‘But see, there you go.’ Alisdair leans forwards, ‘You’ll have a great time nonetheless but I won’t be able to focus on anything because-‘
Beep.
Alisdair wavers, ‘…because I’ll have you going off making comments all the time and I’ll forget what’s happening and-‘
Francis looks scandalised, ‘You don’t know the story anyway?’
‘Why the fuck would I know the story?’
‘Oh for the love of-‘ Beep. ‘We have to watch it. That’s it, I can’t have this.’ Francis clicks on the TV and scrolls to Netflix, ‘What on earth was your mother thinking. You’d think with the amount Arthur goes on-‘
‘Arthur was the weird one. I-‘
Beep.
Alisdair feels a tightness in his chest. He tries not to think of the cause.
‘You were saying?’ Francis prompts. ‘Something about you and Arthur.’
His hair is tucked behind on ear but strands have fallen free. Alisdair wants to reach forward and brush them back but he can’t move. He feels hollow, belly empty.
He takes a deep, long breath in. His lungs fill, then release. Under his fingers, he feels the whorls of the sofa upholstery on the arm rest. Feels the warmth of Francis near his outstretched leg, face buttery yellow in the lamplight by the wall. It is all so real.
‘Right.’ He runs a hand over his face, ‘Arthur was the one who read all the books. I was a normal child and young man, and went outside. Made friends.’
‘I read those same books.’ Francis presses a hand to his chest, ‘And I feel I came out quite normal from the experience.’
‘I wouldn’t quite say that.’
Francis nods, sagely, and tilts his head to one side. ‘You’re not entirely wrong. I’m with you, after all.’
Alisdair nudges him with his foot, in the softness of his stomach, and Francis laughs.
Beep. Oxygen levels critically low. Warning.
Alisdair should have turned the alarms off.
Francis settles back against him and Alisdair leans back against the sofa, tucking them back in as he goes and wraps his arms around Francis, hold him tight. Here, like this, it would be so easy to forget. To think that this was happening, and was still something he could have and return to. Francis is so solid, so real.
Beep.
But Alisdair cannot forget. Thousands of miles above earth, his body free from gravity, he watched as without warning mushroom clouds peppered through the skies below him. Rushes of clouds shot across oceans to collide with another wave, and then another, until the planet fell still.
The silence was loud. Space pressed in against the glass, a thick, dark nothingness that stretched on and outwards around him. Endless stars dull when there is no one waiting to share them with, Alisdair has found.
He still has no idea what happened. Whether it was planned, who started it, who could be left. He waited weeks for something, endless days on a knife’s edge by the comms system, unable to leave in case something came through or his planned replacement arrive to relieve him. Sleep in broken chunks, too tired to stay away any longer.
He doesn’t know now how long it has been. He stopped checking the days. There was nothing that could be done for him, anyhow. What good is it to know details of his final days, when the grand fact was that no one was coming. He lived because he was too scared to die, and that was that.
And now, here it is.
Warning.
Alisdair had remembered to override the auto-safety control that diverted power to essential systems, at least. That was the important part.
Warning.
It could warn him all it wanted; he wasn’t going to change anything.
Oxygen levels critically low.
A few more days with the bare essentials to sustain life, or this. One last go at the hollo-systems, one last story to play.
Warning. Oxygen levels critically low.
Alisdair had been holding back on playing this one. Eking out the power left on his ship for as long as he could, everything non-essential closed off to- why? To live? To remember?
Just in case, maybe. Just in case.
In his arms, the programmed memory of Francis shifts under the blankets and sighs through his nose. The film has started, Alisdair hadn’t noticed. The colours and sounds all curl and bleed together, flashes of something distinct stand out before falling away like a motion blur. Francis breathes in Alisdair’s arms, his face calm and easy, and Alisdair watches.
Beep.
This is how he wants to go.
Beep.
To go home to a life that only he can remember. Kept safe here in memories and code, a final goodbye.
‘I love you,’ he says. His voice cracks, ‘So, so much.’
Francis turns his head. He reads something in Alisdair’s face; Alisdair sees the flicker in his expression as he notes that something is wrong. But memory and code can only go so far, the real Francis would never have seen him like this before. Alisdair doesn’t know how he would have reacted. Whatever his husband’s virtual echo sees in Alisdair’s drawn, wasted face, it is not something that he was designed to see.
So, he smiles. Sees him as whole. ‘I love you too.’
The living room darkens, shadows fill the edges. Alisdair closes his eyes and buries his face in Francis’ shoulder. ‘I’ll be home soon.’
Francis turns slightly and wraps and arm around and under Alisdair’s back, ‘I’ll be waiting.’
Would you write an america and england fluffy drabble?
If domestic counts as fluffy, I sure can indeed
---------------------
Another Man's Trash
From his spot on the rafters, America watched England teeter up the ladder to the attic, a full mug in each hand, and took pleasure in offering him no assistance.
‘Took you long enough,’ he said when England was safely up and crouched under the oddly crooked roof supports. He took the mug England held out to him before it had the potential to become a weapon, ‘I thought you’d died down there.’
‘How kind of you to come and check on me.’
‘After what you’re making me do, you deserve it.’
‘’Making’ you do? I deserve death for asking for your help?’
‘Yes.’
‘Noted.’
England hunkered down a foot away and eyed the section of rafters, or lack of, which America was guarding. There wasn’t much natural light to see by. The attic spaces of England’s huge country manor were partitioned and sectioned off between the different wings, some used as servants’ rooms, others for proper storage. This particular section was one of the more abandoned, quickly and haphazardly boarded, and with were only two, small windows to fight against the dust flecked darkness. The hole which America was sat next to was lighthouse’d by a several flashlights, and he could see more by the light from the room below than he could from the small, round, single paned window above it.
England nodded at the room below, bones on the right side of his face sharp with yellow flashlight. ‘Shouldn’t be too long left.’
‘Are you fucking kidding me? There’s still a huge hole in the floor.’
‘Ceiling.’
‘Whatever.’
‘We’ve done most of it.’
‘Done? The whole thing needs replacing.’ America waved his arm wide, coffee still in hand, and England watched its trajectory with alarm. They’d cleared this area of the attic when they’d first started work, the ancient objects and historical junk which had previously occupied the space piled high or scattered about whatever space up here that remained, but hot coffee through the already abused boards probably wouldn’t end well. ‘This boarding is hundreds of years old, I’m surprised any of it is still weightbearing.’
‘It’s well made.’
‘It was well made, like a billion years ago.’
‘It’s not that old.’ England rolled his eyes at the look America gave him and took a sip of his tea, ‘The whole thing doesn’t need replacing, and the main beams are fine. That bit only rotted because of the leak in the roof.’
America opened his mouth and then closed it again, sensing that arguing this point wouldn’t actually get him out of the damn attic any faster and might, in fact, trap him into helping for a much longer project. It was bad enough that his quick summer stay to the UK had been consumed by this; if England accepted an additional idea that he proposed, there was no way to wiggle out of it peacefully. Instead, America glared up at the spot of roof they’d spent the better part of the last few days fixing and waterproofing.
‘You’re lucky I was visiting. If I hadn’t noticed the stain in the guest room ceiling you’d be fucked.’
‘Hardly.’
‘And you wouldn’t have been able to do this by yourself.’
England made a non-committal noise, ‘I would have been fine.’
‘Sure you would.’
‘I would have. It would have taken longer though, certainly. And I’d rather someone I trust than some random builder who has no idea how old this all is. Far too difficult to explain and it would have been an utter ball ache finding a specialist.’ England turned away, placing his mug down and busying himself with the stack of floorboards waiting patiently for them along one of the beams.
America smiled and shook his head. That was as close of an acknowledgement of thanks or gratitude as he was likely to get. Enough too that England considered him competent.
He tried his coffee, mournfully noting that England had reverted, likely out of habit, to making the instant stuff rather than the proper beans. Either that, or America had torn his way through the good coffee that England kept handy for what he called his ‘overly picky’ guests. ‘How old is this part anyway.’
‘This part of the house?’ England handed him a measuring tape and a board, the wood thick and heavy. They’d need to cut them to size, then add the insulation, then plaster the ceiling- actually no, fuck that. England could deal with the decoration himself, America had already splintered his hands tearing out all of the sodden stuff that was there before. ‘Not that old. I think I had this wing built not long after I found you. Maybe my first trip home afterwards.’
America let out a whistle, ‘Hate to break it to you, but that’s too old.’
‘It’s the youngest part of the house.’ England huffed, ‘I’ve been living here for about two thousand years in one way or another lad, a few hundred years is nothing in the grand scheme of things.’
‘I’m not gonna bother giving that a response.’
America peered down through the hole, cautiously perching on the edge of the rafters to see into the bedroom below. His room of all rooms; he’d had to relocate himself to Canada’s. He was sure his brother wouldn’t mind.
‘Mind yourself.’ England warning, hand twitching as if to grab him when America leant even further forwards, ‘We don’t need an A&E trip on top of everything else.’
‘I’m not gonna fall.’
England tutted and looked away, ‘And haven’t I heard that before.’
‘Stop moaning, you’ll go grey.’
‘You’ll make me go grey.’
‘You’d look more your age, at least.’
‘Piss off.’
‘That’s not a very nice thing to say to- oh.’
‘What?’
In the process of measuring the width of where the first board would go, America’s eye caught on something wedged in the insulation. It must have slipped between the older boards when they became warped by the water, or even lost between them years previously. It was deep in the insulation, not budging when America poked it experimentally with the tip of his finger. Shifting his weight, he reached out further across the hole to tug it free, ignoring England’s muttering to come around the other side and get it like a normal person and the hand he rested on America’s shoulder to steady him.
The object was small and wooden. It looked, of all things, like a thick stick, but as America worked it free it was revealed to be a very short, very crude spear. About half a foot long at most, it was roughly sharpened at both ends with a groove in the middle for a handle.
America turned it over, baffled, ‘What the hell is this?’
‘You tell me. You made it.’
America blinked, ‘Did I?’
‘Hmm.’ England wore a soft smile, ‘I left you alone with a penknife; either that or you took it without me noticing. You brought that to me and pronounced it as a “hunting weapon.”’
‘Huh.’ America rolled the stick in his palm and laughed, ‘You’re a sentimental bastard, you know that?’
‘Shut up.’ England coloured, ‘You would have been devastated if I threw it away.’
‘Uh huh. And that’s the only reason you kept it.’
‘Yes.’ England clicked his fingers and held out his hand, ‘Now give it here and let’s get on with it, it’ll be dinner soon and we need to order something early unless we want to eat at stupid o’clock tonight because by fuck am I cooking after all this.’
America grinned and settled himself more comfortable on his beam, long legs dangling down, ‘And what are you going to do with this very impressive hunting weapon?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Can I have it?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Alfred. Stop talking and give it here.’
America peered down once more, imagining the family room further along the warren of hallways of the manor, ‘Can I put it with Deidre downstairs?’
‘Christ- will you leave that bloody statue alone.’
‘I think Uncle Rhys did a very good job with her.’
‘I think Rhys needs therapy.’
‘Aw. Don’t be mean to her, she’s beautiful.’
‘It’s terrible.’
‘She’ll look good with something to hold. Will make that lump of hers on her chest look more like an arm than a third boob.’ America held the odd stick to his chest in imitation, ‘See?’
‘Fine.’ England threw his hands up and shifted backwards as if to prompt America to do the same. ‘Put it with the statue if you want but stop leaning so far over the edge.’
‘Stop being such a fanny fart, I’m holding the beam.’
‘Yes but that could crack.’
America held on with one hand and sat further forwards, grinning as England swatted at his knee, ‘I thought you said the main beams were fine and strong?’
‘With how your great lumpen weight is swinging from it anything coul-‘
England was interrupted by a sharp, distinct crack of old, dry wood. America froze. A fine sprinkling of dust showered down from the roof, settling onto his knees like snow. They watched each other wide eyed, waiting to see what would happen and America trying not to think about the very heavy slate of the roof not that far from his organs. When nothing immediately collapsed he sat up properly, letting go of the beam slowly as if afraid of spooking it. On the other side of the hole, England buried his head in his hands and groaned.
‘Why. Why.’
America laughed nervously and gently patted the beam. ‘I guess I’m buying dinner?’
They’re all there now, his new brothers along with himself and Alba. Young Cymru, short, stout, and gentle. Albion younger still, all bones and teeth and impatience. Mama is gone. Lost somewhere a few years ago, when they woke up one morning to find her missing, nothing there but her favourite cloak laid over them all still warm with the smell of her. Cymru too, lain awake teary eyed and refusing to speak of it.
He is ten, he thinks, physically. Two hundred, maybe more. Ériu’s body is taller, shadow longer and fuller. He feels more capable, at any rate, and notices how their people change in their manner towards him, parental to deferential, opinions asked for more and more. His people, his brothers’, theirs- the lines between them grow sharper every year.
Ériu is careful.
Does not go out alone in bad weather. Prays to the Gods before crossing the sea, never goes in when it is rough. Walks along paths well-trodden unless in a group, plans meticulous watches with Alba when they travel alone together at night, listening keenly to the hungry sounds of the forest whilst the other sleeps. He thinks before he does, debates and considers the risks before every action. Where is the danger? What could happen? How can I stop it?
Alba knows what he runs from. He says Ériu is too cautious. Says that death will come for him eventually and putting it off will only make it worse. Says that Mama spoilt him with her fretting and that he is rotting inside for the privilege. Despite himself, Ériu knows that he is right. It is worse, waiting with it. The expectation and fear of the inevitable fermenting inside him, growing and swelling and making him throw away food he cannot afford to waste because he is unable to convince himself that the colour is right.
But Ériu does not want to die. He hears Alba cry out sometimes at night, knows that he muffles the dark memories of one particular rainy day into his pack and pulls Albion closer when he veers towards deep water. And Ériu recoils from it.
Death is a funny thing.
It comes to the careful anyway.
--------------------
It is already hot. Sun high in the sky and the morning is clear and cloudless.
Albion lazes fat in the shade of a bush, aimlessly pulling blackcurrants off the branches that lie close overhead to drop into his waiting mouth. Alba glares across the meadow towards the distant hills, feet a tap tap tapping an anxious tattoo on the banks of hedgerows.
Cymru is not there.
‘He knows we need to go.’ Alba says, ‘Where the fuck is he?’
‘He’ll be fine.’ Ériu says. ‘He’ll be back in a minute.’
Ériu is mending his fishing nets, the weave unthreading in the middle to let desperate, lucky fish slip through. They were going to the coast, to the stretch of land that met their shared sea for them to travel back across. He does not want to go. The land they are in at the moment feels more like home to him, this side of the water, and he is more than happy to indulge Cymru’s unintentional delays.
Alba seems to know it. He turns to glare at him, his bags already packed and slung over one arm. ‘When did you notice him go?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘He’s not here though, is he.’
‘He’s only gone for a walk. You know he likes being up high; I bet he’s gone up to the top there to see the view and sit a while. He’s been gone since sunrise so he’ll be back soon.’
‘No, he won’t.’
Both of them stop to stare at Albion, still happily on his back in the shade.
Albion must feel their eyes because he sits up, looking defensive as if expecting to be proven wrong. He grabs for some more currants higher up, tunic riding up as he stretches, juice staining his hands, and points out the suddenly obvious, ‘He took his bag with him, didn’t he.’
Cymru did.
Alba swears and kicks at the dirt, looking towards to the sky anxiously as if it were about to break. ‘We won’t get to the village in time if we don’t go now.’
‘We can set off tomorrow.’ Albion points out but Alba’s not listening. They’ve all been this side of the sea for a while and Ériu guesses that Alba is feeling anxious for home, wanting to feel more himself as he does there than here. The coast is a week’s walk away and the weather can change from bright to brutal in a blink. Alba will not take them if the skies change.
‘I’ll get him,’ Ériu says. He folds his net away and stands, sharing a knowing look with Alba who turns away, hiding his expression. ‘I’ll be back before night.’
‘Can I come?’
‘No. You’re too slow.’ Alba clamps a hand around Albion’s arm and Ériu leaves before things get heated.
It is a nice walk. Ériu can see why Cymru chose it. Animal trails wind up the slowly rising hill, a narrow line through bushes and grasses flanked tall either side until Ériu stumbles out into the clear again, unaware of how high he is until he sees the grasslands roll away from under him in a gentle bulge of earth, green and dappled with trees. He would stop here, if it were him. He’d settle down with some food, right as the terrain changed, and watch the world go by from his midway point between two realms, not quite above, not quite below.
But Cymru likes to see the whole world beneath his feet and so Ériu pushes on, feeling the burn in his muscles and the sweat on his skin as the incline gets steeper and the paths gets rockier- single, large boulders cresting from the soil until they all blend together in bursts.
Ériu finds him as the sun begins to descend. Cymru is right at the top as he’d expected, on the edge of an overhang and content on his stomach. He has his whole upper half, arms, chest, and head, dangling over the edge, a stick in hand to poke at some stones below. The soon to be darkening sky and the fact that he cannot see his brother’s head makes Ériu’s gut flash with fear. He imagines Cymru falling, sees him vanish over the edge before Ériu can stop him, his hands clutching at nothing but air before he too then falls. Down down, neck snapping, bones breaking, darkness waiting for them at the hard, lonely bottom.
Two strides and he wrenches Cymru sharply back by the collar, ignoring his yelp of pain to drag him away from the edge. Ériu staggers with the weight of him, rocks rolling underfoot, and they both splay back into the scraggly grass. Something sharp nicks him in the shin- an edge of a rock, disturbed and jagged- but Ériu is too panicked to care.
‘What on earth are you doing!’ he shouts, scrabbling to his feet- Cymru is okay, he’s there-, ‘You know we were supposed to be leaving today.’
‘I’m sorry!’ Cyrmu rolls up to his knees, face dusty and shocked, ‘I thought that I’d only be quick-‘
‘Don’t be a dammed liar; you’ve got your bag with you.’
Cymru averts his eyes, his reasons stuck tight between his lips and Ériu is too relieved he’s away from the edge to take the time to pry them free.
Ériu clips him around the ear, throws Cymru’s bag into his chest, and, without a word, stalks away to lead them down again.
He thinks of it again as they go. Hears the crunching sound of Cymru’s shoes on the loose stones and dry twigs as snapping bone against flesh. Imagines the tumbling fury of it in his mind’s eye, the all-encompassing agony of that impact. He grabs Cymru’s hand to tug him along faster and doesn’t let go until they’re deep into the bushes again, edge of the hill hidden from view and its deadly incline gentler.
He checks them over as they stop to rest near the base where the lands smooths almost flat. Cymru has some scratches to his hands from breaking his fall and Ériu himself has a cut across his shin, no bigger than an inch in length. But nothing more. A worthy price to pay, he thinks, compared to what could have been.
--------------------
The next morning, the split skin around his shin is hot.
‘What’s wrong?’
The next, it is even hotter.
‘Hey.’
The third day, worse. When he changes the shoddily done wrapping Ériu smells that it has festered. The panic sets in. He hears his brothers down the stream from him, two talking, one laughing, and cold fingers grip inside his chest and squeeze him tight enough to close his throat.
He tracks the growth of the darkening, reddening skin by each freckle and mole it passes, willing it desperately to stop. With each new conquest it makes, the feelings of dread grow stronger and colder, and the more he pushes his reality away.
Cool hand in his own. Cymru stares up at him, worried. ‘You’re limping.’
It usually goes away. Why isn’t it going away.
‘Hurt my ankle.’ Ériu says and flicks Cymru’s nose to stop him frowning. ‘It’ll be fine by night time.’
‘You were limping yesterday.’ Cymru apparently won’t be distracted, ‘But it’s worse now.’
Ériu shrugs and forces himself to stand straighter. It is hot. Cloudless skies and a burning sun. What he wouldn’t do for a rest by a cool lake.
It was only small. It can’t be too bad; it was only small. Small things heal.
Ériu grips the strap of his bag and carries on.
Cymru keeps more silences than just his own. He slows his pace to match Ériu’s and takes Albion’s bag from him to make him look excusably more laden. When Alba calls to hurry them as the sun goes down, it is Cymru he focuses on.
--------------------
‘Show me.’
Alba by firelight, hair the colour of polished bronze. He could only be distracted for so long.
Cymru and Albion sleep nearby. Ériu eyes them, then Alba, and slowly, carefully, rolls up his trouser leg to share his nightmare.
It is bad. Something has got into him, under his skin and down further and through the bone. Alba comes over to see better and they both analyse the now weeping, stinking sore with cool, blank faces. The leg is starting to swell.
‘How long?’
‘Four days. It keeps going.’
Alba nods and licks his lips. Goes to touch Ériu’s poor leg, then doesn’t. ‘We need to go to the people. Maybe the rot can be stopped.’
Ériu hesitates, then nods. Allows hope in and forces himself to forget briefly all of the memories he has been replaying of the final hours of writhing men and sobbing children, their skin sore and angry just like his after something tore at it. ‘There’s a settlement near the river. It’s not too much of a detour.’
Alba’s eyes are soft. It makes Ériu’s stomach tighten with cold again, ‘Can you get there?’
‘Yes.’ Ériu says firmly.
Alba nods, ‘Alright.’
He helps Ériu wrap it for the night, newly washed linen that one of them could have used as a shirt. Instead, it is used to hold Ériu together, and he and Alba lay quietly side by side, watching the stars through the trees and listening to the snap of the fire.
It helps, if only for a night.
When their people greet them, Ériu can hardly walk.
Thoughts do not stick with him long. He steadily worsens, the final steps are a blur, and he is tipped from Alba’s arms into a strangers’, hot cheeks pressed to shoulders as he’s carried up the mound at a run.
Then a house.
A fire.
Some blankets, then none. Cool air on his skin, a small hand in his own. The fur of heavy pelts, the cool lightness of linen- something soft under him. Wetness on his forehead. Voices around him, talking and talking and talking but no sense in any of it that he can catch.
Something presses on his leg and clarity bursts in shrieking, the agonising pain flooding up and through him to escape high and shrill, a sound unlike anything he has ever made before. He sees his leg through tears, the skin bubbling and curling away from the angry red centre, and he kicks out to be free of all of it.
Someone is crying.
Darkness swims on the edges but Ériu refuses to go.
--------------------
‘I can make it quick.’ Alba is above him. His expression is serious.
They are alone. This Ériu knows by the air, the lightness of few people in a large space, and that he can hear nothing but absences and his own laboured breathing.
He wants Mama.
Alba shifts beside him. He glances about, turning to look over his shoulder before leaning close to whisper, ‘If you want me to, I can do it. I can make it go faster.’
Ériu weakly shakes his head and whimpers, temples pulsing.
‘Shhh.’ Alba’s hand cups his cheek and he strokes Ériu’s hot skin with his thumb, ‘It will be okay.’
‘No…’
‘It will be better than this. This is the worst part.’ Alba looks from one eye to the other, a horrible, knowing look in his eye. He looks older, haunted, ‘I promise.’
Ériu shakes his head again. His leg burns, it is hard to focus, but he knows exactly what his brother is offering. Death has got to Alba already, and it has eaten away at the gift of innocence that childhood once granted him to be replaced with something bitter and hard. It was a look that Mama once sometimes had, gazing off across fields to something that only she could see and remember. It is a look Ériu is fated to share.
He does not want it. Not yet. He does not wish to know how much death stings, does not wish to return changed. He has seen too much life for this moment to be easy, Alba had been right with his warnings. Worse than the fear of the unknown was the fear of the known that was doomed to come.
Life kicks inside his chest, a silly mortal desire he hasn’t yet tested.
‘It is happening, whether you like it or not.’ Alba brushes the tears from under Ériu’s eyes, ‘There is only one thing left.’
What if he does not return? What if someone else returns inside of him, someone new?
‘Let me make it easier.’
Ériu’s eyes drift to the smoke hole in the thatched ceiling above. Smoke curls past herbs strung to dry in the rafters, yarrow and rosemary and nettles, and Ériu watches as it unfurls towards the heavens.
--------------------
Alba lied.
There are no words to describe the agony that follows.
--------------------
Ériu wakes slowly.
Someone is humming, fingers playing in his hair.
Ériu opens his eyes to find Albion sitting cross-legged next to him on the floor. He stops humming when he sees that Ériu is awake but continues to brush his fingers through his hair, seemingly unbothered by the gritty feel of it.
‘Finally. You took ages.’ Albion glances at him, then away. His eyes are red, ‘Thought you might be dead for real.’
‘You’d be lucky.’ Ériu’s throat is dry and dusty but his voice is still there.
Albion grins and gets up to get him water, carefully and quietly stepping around Cymru still asleep next to him. Alba is there too, arm around Cymru as if to keep him in place.
The house is communal. People are everywhere but they’re a polite distance away, giving Ériu’s family their space whilst still being within help’s easy reach. Ériu lifts a stiff arm out of his blankets to touch the hard, dry earth beneath the floor’s rushes, and knows exactly where and who he is.
--------------------
When North arrives, Ériu is conflicted.
Life is different now. Softer in as many ways as it is harder and death wears different disguises than the ones Ériu grew up with.
His youngest brother has clean drinking water, good food. A varied diet that is richer than anything Ériu would once have ever been able to imagine- fruits and vegetables and meats that still sometimes feel new to him. North’s bed is warm, and guaranteed each night. The medical men and women around him are highly trained, their science always advancing, and his clothes are well made and tailored for the weather. He has several homes, and is always welcome in all of them.
North has four grown men around him, thousands of years’ experience to each of them, who want for him a life they hadn’t been lucky enough to have themselves. North will not die from silly mistakes.
But North does need to die.
Ériu balances fate with reasoning. Lets North drive alone at night, even though he cannot legally do so. Turns the other way when North takes up smoking in parks with newly made human friends. Ignores any signs of reckless behaviour that could easily be curbed or prevented.
Only Cymru disagrees. For reasons Ériu doesn’t understand, Cymru frets like Mama once did, watching North carefully as if making up for a secret past failing.
It is a fruitless effort. North needs to know what it is to feel the edges of mortality, as all of them know. And Ériu knows that waiting will only ever make it worse.
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.
