[fanfiction] What The Heart Forgets - Typical Situation
Title: Typical Situation
Author/Artist: twilightrose2
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Canada-centric with France/UK, PruCan, Ukraine, Netherlands and America.
Rating: T
Genre: Drama/Angst
Warnings: based in halflight007 's AU verse "What the Heart Forgets"
Summary: Matthew was always the quiet one. His quietness is what binds him to this fate, this fate in which he is forced to remember in a world where no one else can.
Author’s Notes: Been spending a lot of time putting this together, I'm actually really proud of it...
Typical Situation
Matthew drives up the cobblestone driveway of the mansion his father has left him in the will. It is all he has received besides an old golden key. The home is ancient, overrun with vines, dust and a heaviness in the air that Matthew can only attribute to years of being uncared for.
But Matthew still smells the tea, roses and fresh baking in the sunlit air as he walks into the front room, smiling to himself. He feels safe despite having never been to this home but in far-off dreams and the stories Arthur used to weave for him.
Slowly, he begins to make his way up the stairs, the tingling on the back of his neck leading him up the creaking steps.
Matthew is a quiet boy.
Even at birth, he says nothing, cries rarely and can only seems to watch the world pass before him. But he does not seem enraptured by this world, only confused by it. As if it is hiding a secret. His parents worry as he turns a tender age and his twin is already spewing out half-formed phrases and broken curses picked up from their father, but Matthew says nothing, gurgles nothing, remains silent.
They consider taking him to a doctor. They discuss this right outside his room. They are worried. Matthew wishes they wouldn’t. He isn’t slow, possibly mentally retarded or any of the nasty things they call him. No.
For the sake of his parents, he speaks. But he makes his first word count instead of wasting it like Alfred did. Apple. Of all the stupid things to say. But Matthew’s word is more tender, more loving, more cherished. A word he has treasured since birth, kept locked away inside his chest.
One brilliant sunshine-filled day, Arthur walks into their room, humming slightly, a hand running through his wild hair while behind him, Francis follows. Matthew’s bright eyes to not miss the way Arthur only glares half-heartedly when Francis’ fingers graze the Briton’s lower back, dipping down for a moment.
“Not in front of the kids.” Arthur says, waving the hand away.
“It is only dear Matthew,” Francis purrs back, “ ’E would not mind, would you mon tresor?” The tall blond reaches into the crib, pulling out Matthew, grumbling and cooing at how heavy he’s gotten while Arthur checks on Alfred, absently trying to tame his hair.
“Village.” Matthew says, staring directly at Francis.
A quiet pause fills the air, heavy with stirring memories. Arthur’s hand stops combing the cowlick, shoulders tensing. No. Dear God, no…
To Francis, this makes no sense but he is absolutely delighted that their son is talking hugs him close, babbling on in French, positively beaming with joy. The indigo eyes do not close and bury into Francis’ shoulder, but rather peer over and watch Arthur. The Englishman is shaking a hand over his mouth and he looks lost for a moment. To the other parent, this word rings too strong, too true, too raw.
When Francis tries to share this joyful moment with father, the green eyes crinkle and a worn, too-happy smile grace his lips as he takes Matthew from Francis, cuddling him close. “Dearest Matthew…” He whispers, so quietly that even the small child doesn’t know if it’s just the whisper of a wind off the sea, “My little maple.”
All Matthew can do is grip the short blond hair, tugging it fondly, coaxing tears and laughter from his father.
A room greets him with a dilemma. Its lock fits Matthew’s key but there is an ancient and chipped away script dug into the wood. Shifting his glasses away from his eyes, pushing his blond hair back, he squints at the text, tilting his head slightly.
Do not enter.
This is so odd, that Matthew can’t help but laugh. Leave it to his father to lead him to a room to which he has the key, only to have large letters proclaim that he should not explore inside.
Oh well, Matthew thought as he pushed his key into the lock,, he was always the quiet rebel.
Matthew is a quiet boy.
Even at school, he says nothing, answers rarely and can only seem to watch his fellow classmates pass before him. Many try to make friends, the quiet boy being related to Alfred after all, but most are turned off by his quietness. What boy is quiet in grade school? A stupid one. Few stay and Matthew can only thank them with small smiles and his spare words.
His parents are not worried, even when the teachers inform him that they think the boy is “slow”. His father is most adamant about this. “He’s a very smart boy. He just likes keeping his gob shut. Unlike some people.” After this encounter, only Francis is allowed to go the Parent/Teacher meetings. Perhaps for the better.
The two that stay with Matthew are the ones that he remembers the best. The one that taught him the secret that flowers carry and the other that taught him the secret of having open arms. Their small group is tight-knit, the gangly blond with spiked hair protecting them, the quiet girl providing support in trying times and Matthew, always there to lend a fist to a fight or keep his brother in control or a comforting shoulder.
They sit in class, Lars on one side, Katya on the other. They are learning about the world and the teacher pulls down a large, brightly coloured map. The class audibly gasps when he points to the small island nation of The United Kingdom. How could it be so small and why was everywhere else so big?
“What’s that one over there?” Alfred says, pointing at a large mass of land in the upper part of the map. There, separated by the great ocean is another world in the north with only two colours breaking the land instead of the numerous countries and shades that shattered Europe into cultures, peoples and nations.
The teacher smiled, his tanned skin, dark beard and hair and almost feral flicker in his eye reminiscent of a Pasha on the White Sea. “It is the Americas,” His long finger points to the one in the south. “This is the United States of America, an old colony of Great Britain and this,” His finger moves up slightly to the country sitting neatly on top of the states, “This is Canada, another former colony.”
“B-But why aren’t they the same country?” The class pauses, all looking around. Matthew. This is the first time he’s spoken in two weeks and some of the class is stunned to discover he even possess a voice. “I-If there were both colonies, w-why aren’t they one?” the blond head buries away into the fluff of his small stuffed polar bear.
Chuckling and still smiling, the teacher merely shrugs. “Despite being so close, there are many differences between the two countries. The United States have always been more involved, a powerhouse though slightly more reserved these days while Canada, still being considered a superpower, was always cast into some kind of shadow by its southern brother.”
“I want to move to America!” Alfred says immediately, “I wanna be a powerhouse! A-A hero! Yeah!”
And Matthew is once again cast into shadows. But he likes it there. It is safe, trustworthy and, should something ever happen, he can always move into the light and offer his quiet words.
The room is lit only by the afternoon sun lazily stretching in through the window, illuminating the layers of dust that cover the dozen-or-so boxes littered around the room. Sniffling slightly, holding back a sneeze, Matthew slips into the room.
Quiet power fills this room, its secrets now revealed to the young man, only hidden in the small treasures chests made of cardboard. Rubbing his arm nervously, Matthew wonders where he can, or will, start.
So he starts with the box with his name. His fingers tremble with a Swiss Army knife as he cuts tape away, opening the box.
Matthew is a quiet boy.
Even with his father, he says nothing, shifts rarely and can only seem to watch the snow fall outside the large windows of the living room. It is supposed to be a special day, where Francis takes Alfred, and Arthur takes Matthew. They switch secret favourites to gain new ones. At least, that was the theory, but there was always been awkwardness between the Englishman and his youngest son, an unspoken truth between them. Arthur is too scared to face it; Matthew is too innocent to understand it.
“Dad?”
Arthur looks up from his newspaper. “Yes?”
The small blond pulls himself to his feet, wandering over to his father, clinging to his legs for support. “C-Can you read me a story?”
Green eyes softening, making him appear his real age for a moment, Arthur nods, getting to his feet, leading Matthew (who clings to the back of his sweater vest with trembling fingers, nervously playing with his newly-acquired glasses) to his private room.
Alfred is not allowed in this room, and neither is Matthew -this is what they tell his brother, just to keep him quiet. The blue eyes never seem to be able to see all the books piled around the shelves. Shapes and colours, the young child grins quietly, wondering if Arthur’s even read all the tomes inside. (he has. twice.)
“Which one?”
Peeking out from behind his father’s legs, Matthew’s tiny fingers still fiddle with his too-big glasses. The books seem to loom, judging him. Quietly, he points to a book at the very top shelf, put so that the casual eye wouldn’t notice it. But not Matthew, Matthew notices.
“That one… W-With the green and gold…” Arthur hesitates for a moment and then takes a ladder, rolling it over and climbs up, grabbing the book, blowing of it free of dust. Matthew watches as the motes spin in the snow-bright sunlight as Arthur climbs down the ladder, taking Matthew’s hand again, book under his other arm.
“You picked an odd book Matthew.” Arthur remarks, sitting down, pulling Matthew onto his lap, and opening the book. His fingers feel the cover lovingly and his son also reaches out a hand, opening it, eager, and humming as touches the old and ancient pages. “This… is my favourite book too.”
Matthew looks back. “Really?” He turns back to the book, staring at it with a new sense of awe, “What’s it about?”
“Yes,” Arthur smiles, sitting back, tucking Matthew’s head under his chin, “It’s the one closest to my heart.”
“Who wrote it?”
Arthur’s smile wavers. “Just… We’ll say an old and dear friend.”
Only slightly confused, Matthew nods, turning to the first page and lets out a quiet gasp. A beautiful illustration of faeries, unicorns and a young boy is on the next page. The boy draws attention, his dark hood made of soft wool that Matthew can only seem to feel in the ink. Behind him stretches a forest filled with creatures of all type and size, all a different colour, glimmering on the page. “Who’s that dad?”
“His name is Albion.” Arthur whispers quietly, turning the page, showing the same young boy, but this time another has joined him, someone older, taller. Shining blond hair that resembles Matthew’s to a tea. The young child makes no mention of this, “Yes… Albion, and this is his story of how he fell in love with Gaul.”
So Arthur weaves his story. How they fought, breathed, allied, lived, hated and loved together. From being close, to far, to killing each other, to slaving each other. Acting as enemies for almost two hundred years only to sign a contract that bound them together forever. Albion loved Gaul but was too foolish and proud to admit it. Matthew asks why and all Arthur says is that Albion is still paying for that mistake.
It is an enchanting story and despite the length of the book, Matthew awaits each new page eagerly, the scripted words coupled with elegant illustrations. From battles, to individual people (a woman with fiery red hair; a woman with chopped blond hair) that were important to Albion and Gaul and, finally, to times of peace, when the two finally found a peace with each other, whether on the same side or when the swords grew lighter than their heavy hearts and had to be laid down. Matthew quietly muses about which man was truly more powerful.
Matthew realizes quickly that it is not a happy story. There is much sadness kept in the pages and the tone of Arthur’s narrating, deep and gravely as if seeing these images hurts him deeply. It shows of people tearing at each other. Of Revolutions across the sea and on their own lands. Of a shifting world where Albion and Gaul have nowhere to fit. Matthew can only wonder why they do not simply just confess to each other and find a place with each other.
By the time Alfred and Francis return, it is to Matthew and Arthur curled up on the couch, both sleeping peacefully, the book on the ground, forgotten.
Francis picks up the book, glances at the cover, smiles before leaning over and kissing both his husband and other son on their foreheads. “Come along Alfred.” He says, placing the book gently down, “Let them sleep, we will make pie together, oui?.” They are so old that so one deserves it more.
Reaching blindly into the box, Matthew removes the first item and a deep, Arthur-ish frown furrows his face. A medal, burnished brass whose crimson ribbon has faded with age, sits in his hand. Matthew stares at it, taking in the lion, the cross and the words engraved on it.
Pro Valore.
Only more curious, Matthew sits up on his knees pulling more items from the box; a hockey stick, a buffalo pelt cracked with age, a bouquet of dried tulips (red, meaning a perfect love), a faded and worn copy of ‘Lest We Forget’ that seems so old and decrepit Matthew would assume it was the original.
Each makes him pause and ponder its significance, mind grumbling slightly, as if it didn’t want to look at anything, as if each items was supposed to remain a secret. He only digs deeper, pulling out a small wooden cross.
The dam in his mind, trying to repress everything, suddenly begins to crack.
Matthew is a quiet boy.
Even after a long drive from Paris, to Berlin, he says nothing, laughs rarely and can only seem to watch the German countryside pass before him. It is the last summer he will spend together with his family until they plan another family trip. High school has ended, Alfred and Matthew both graduated and ready to face the world. Being the clinging parents that they were, instead of letting their sons roam free, Francis and Arthur make the two boys go to Germany with them.
Matthew meets a boy, there in Berlin, under the waning summer moon that tempts them to stay out late with its warm air and bright nights. With snow-white hair and crimson eyes. He falls for this boy, and this boy for him. They are given free-range during the summer and all Matthew can do is spend it with the pale boy, enraptured as they sit on a crumbling wall, sharing cigarettes, beer and a kiss.
“My brother lives here too. My cousin and his girlfriend and over in Austria.” He explains one night as they hide in the shadow of the wall, “Can I ask you something weird Matt?”
The blond nods. “Go ahead.”
“This wall…” He pats the washed-away stone; “It feels weird sometimes… like it seriously split something in half… like, two brothers or something.”
The beer halfway to Matthew’s lips stops. “T-That’s really weird Gilbert.” But there isn’t true disbelief behind his voice, only a want to hear more.
“It’s not.” Gilbert insists, “I’ve been growing up with Luddy forever, but it feels like I’ve known him longer and it’s like… he feels guilty for something. I heard him sleep talking once, talking about how he had a promise to keep or something. That he promised to come back.”
There is a pause before Gilbert speaks again, still spewing, whether drunk, high off the night air or just because somewhere in his heart-of-hearts, Gilbert knows that Matthew understands. “Sometimes… do you feel like we’ve done something terrible in the past? Like we’ve forgotten some big important thing, but the harder you try to remember it, the easier it slips away?”
“Yes.” Matthew says, “I know the feeling.”
“Good.” The red eyes turn to him, such power, sorrow and ancientness behind them, Matthew cannot look away, a prey entranced by a predator. But Gilbert means no harm; Gilbert means only to be understood. “Then we can forget together.” And he kisses Matthew.
It is the final day of their vacation. Oxford calls for Matthew and Harvard for Alfred (the product of divine intervention says Arthur) and so their small car is packed to the brim with belongings and goodbyes are finally being said. Gilbert looks uncomfortable and Matthew knows he has been crying (the Prussian is still so callow).
“Yes Gilbert?” Matthew pulls him away from the car for fear of Alfred making kissey-faces, Francis whispering love advice or Arthur glaring at the pale boy for even breathing the same air with his son. “I-I already gave you my email and new address…” He whispers, tucking a piece of long blond hair behind his ear.
Gilbert takes the hand from his hair, placing a light kiss on the knuckles. “I want you to have this.” Uncurling the blond’s fingers Gilbert gently presses a cross into the soft palm. “I’ve had this forever… don’t know where it’s from, never been in the military but.” He closes Matthew’s fingers over it, smiling at him, “Keep it safe. It’s pretty awesome.”
Nodding slightly, Matthew kisses him and ignores the way Alfred wolf-whistles. They drive away and the young blond watches Gilbert who waves, the darkness of a crumbled wall cast across his thin and pale body. A gilded and shadowed cage that even the Prussian doesn’t know he is trapped in. One day, Matthew will return and help Gilbert escape the past he doesn’t understand.
It is handcrafted and Matthew can only remember how broken and scarred Alfred’s fingers were after he made this. But Matthew also remembers how it stayed with him through everything. The trenches, the losses, the good and bad times. Through Depressions, uprisings, outcries of their people, wars that brought them across seas to save those they once considered guardians. He never told Alfred, but it was his good luck charm.
His head pounds with these memories beginning to leak into his conscious. In an effort to stem them, to forget them, to ignore them, he slips the cross around his neck, reaching into the box again and pulling out the final item.
It is a small storybook; with an emerald cover coloured in swirls of gold. Fingers trembling, Matthew opens it, anything to get away from his memories.
Matthew is a quiet boy.
Even at the funeral, he says nothing, cries rarely and can only seem to watch the coffin pass before him. But he does not seem saddened by this, merely confused. On both his sides, someone is crying. Alfred is sobbing, tears streaming down his cheeks as he clings to Matthew’s hand, trembling. His father fares not much better, blue eyes swimming with tears he refuses to cry. Matthew’s hand rests on his back, the only thing keeping him attached to this world.
Someone asks him to say a few words. To describe his father in a few words. Matthew politely declines as does Francis and Alfred. No one can bring themselves to talk about the man they never truly knew as the funeral only has a priest repeating words the graveyard has grown tired of.
The coffin is merely a formality, so that people can pay their respects to a stone stuck into the ground. A smirk plays at Matthew’s lips. He doesn’t ever plan to come back. When he wants to talk to Arthur, he will go to the place where his ashes had becomes with the earth (but truly Arthur was scattered on the back of the silver dragon that protects his land from the rest of the world.)
People ask why and how he died. Francis tells them it was a heart attack. Only one person knows exactly why Arthur has passed on. His contract was broken. Arthur tried to forget and that wasn’t allowed and thus his life (such a precious and fragile thing) left him.
But Matthew says nothing.
Matthew is a quiet boy.
Even at the cusp of discovery, he says nothing, breathes rarely and can only seem to open the letter that was tucked within the pages of the storybook. He recognizes Arthur’s messy yet somehow still elegant script immediately and with trembling fingers he pulls at the heavy material of the envelope. A single sheet of paper is contained in the cover. Matthew doesn’t take off his glasses to read it.
Matthew,
I’m so sorry I leave this to you. But the memories can’t be forgotten, someone must remember, someone must bear the weight of my selfishness. My life has ended because I tried to leave everything behind. I should’ve known that would’ve been impossible, I made a deal to save your father.
Everything is there Matthew. In your lap. My story, my memories. Do not show them to anyone. No one can be trusted with their past and so you too must be selfish and suffer alone. Matthew, my dearest son, I have always loved you. Even when I abandoned you with the spell, you still managed to find your way back into my arms.
Tell your father I love him. It is the one thing Albion can stop regretting. Also, tell Alfred that he should be as free as he desires and that my memories shouldn’t keep him tied to the world. He was free and should be so again. It suits him.
And you, my little one, must bare their weight, but find someone to support you. To love and care for you. Francis was there for me, supported even though he didn’t know what for. Find this person Matthew for they are the only thing that will keep you as yourself.
Truly, men are selfish creatures. If my words are meaningless, then there is nothing I can do but heed them Matthew. There is such truth in them, you will never understand.
Love, forever and past the reaches of time
Arthur
- The United Kingdom of Great Britain
Matthew is a quiet boy.
Even after the memories come rushing back, he says nothing, blinks rarely and can only seem to stare at the whittled cross and note in his hands (the storybook lies open, forgotten, on his lap.) So it was true. He wasn’t just Matthew, he was something else. A nation often forgotten, abandoned and yet still relied upon. A brother, to the hero, to the south, to Alfred.
He wonders why him. What made him special? Where did the world decide that Matthew should suffer? He sits there, tears forming in his eyes as all the guilt of the world falls on his shoulders. It is unbearable and he immediately feels thousands of years older. He almost expects wrinkles to form on his skin, for his vision to blur more or for his mind start to fracture. But nothing happens. It is all in his head, swelling and tumultuous, a monster of a blessing, an angel of a curse.
Finally, he gets to his feet, only taking the storybook and cross, everything else left behind. The key stays in his pocket. Perhaps for later during his rare bouts of selfishness, when he shows Alfred the chipped rifle, when he shows Lars the crumbling tulips, when he shows Gilbert the broken chain with the remains of a shattered Iron Cross, when he shows Ludwig the red armband, when he shows Katya the frayed remains of a hand-made scarf and when he shows Francis the petals of a red-rose, now black with age.
In the end, Matthew eventually decides why the world falls to him. He muses about it as twilight falls across the English countryside. Perhaps the spell forgot about him.
He was always the quiet one.
Author's Note
If it’s not obvious, I goddamn love UKan father/son love so much ;A;
-In Turkish, “the White Sea” is another name for the Mediterranean
Author/Artist: twilightrose2
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Canada-centric with France/UK, PruCan, Ukraine, Netherlands and America.
Rating: T
Genre: Drama/Angst
Warnings: based in halflight007 's AU verse "What the Heart Forgets"
Summary: Matthew was always the quiet one. His quietness is what binds him to this fate, this fate in which he is forced to remember in a world where no one else can.
Author’s Notes: Been spending a lot of time putting this together, I'm actually really proud of it...
Typical Situation
Matthew drives up the cobblestone driveway of the mansion his father has left him in the will. It is all he has received besides an old golden key. The home is ancient, overrun with vines, dust and a heaviness in the air that Matthew can only attribute to years of being uncared for.
But Matthew still smells the tea, roses and fresh baking in the sunlit air as he walks into the front room, smiling to himself. He feels safe despite having never been to this home but in far-off dreams and the stories Arthur used to weave for him.
Slowly, he begins to make his way up the stairs, the tingling on the back of his neck leading him up the creaking steps.
Matthew is a quiet boy.
Even at birth, he says nothing, cries rarely and can only seems to watch the world pass before him. But he does not seem enraptured by this world, only confused by it. As if it is hiding a secret. His parents worry as he turns a tender age and his twin is already spewing out half-formed phrases and broken curses picked up from their father, but Matthew says nothing, gurgles nothing, remains silent.
They consider taking him to a doctor. They discuss this right outside his room. They are worried. Matthew wishes they wouldn’t. He isn’t slow, possibly mentally retarded or any of the nasty things they call him. No.
For the sake of his parents, he speaks. But he makes his first word count instead of wasting it like Alfred did. Apple. Of all the stupid things to say. But Matthew’s word is more tender, more loving, more cherished. A word he has treasured since birth, kept locked away inside his chest.
One brilliant sunshine-filled day, Arthur walks into their room, humming slightly, a hand running through his wild hair while behind him, Francis follows. Matthew’s bright eyes to not miss the way Arthur only glares half-heartedly when Francis’ fingers graze the Briton’s lower back, dipping down for a moment.
“Not in front of the kids.” Arthur says, waving the hand away.
“It is only dear Matthew,” Francis purrs back, “ ’E would not mind, would you mon tresor?” The tall blond reaches into the crib, pulling out Matthew, grumbling and cooing at how heavy he’s gotten while Arthur checks on Alfred, absently trying to tame his hair.
“Village.” Matthew says, staring directly at Francis.
A quiet pause fills the air, heavy with stirring memories. Arthur’s hand stops combing the cowlick, shoulders tensing. No. Dear God, no…
To Francis, this makes no sense but he is absolutely delighted that their son is talking hugs him close, babbling on in French, positively beaming with joy. The indigo eyes do not close and bury into Francis’ shoulder, but rather peer over and watch Arthur. The Englishman is shaking a hand over his mouth and he looks lost for a moment. To the other parent, this word rings too strong, too true, too raw.
When Francis tries to share this joyful moment with father, the green eyes crinkle and a worn, too-happy smile grace his lips as he takes Matthew from Francis, cuddling him close. “Dearest Matthew…” He whispers, so quietly that even the small child doesn’t know if it’s just the whisper of a wind off the sea, “My little maple.”
All Matthew can do is grip the short blond hair, tugging it fondly, coaxing tears and laughter from his father.
A room greets him with a dilemma. Its lock fits Matthew’s key but there is an ancient and chipped away script dug into the wood. Shifting his glasses away from his eyes, pushing his blond hair back, he squints at the text, tilting his head slightly.
Do not enter.
This is so odd, that Matthew can’t help but laugh. Leave it to his father to lead him to a room to which he has the key, only to have large letters proclaim that he should not explore inside.
Oh well, Matthew thought as he pushed his key into the lock,, he was always the quiet rebel.
Matthew is a quiet boy.
Even at school, he says nothing, answers rarely and can only seem to watch his fellow classmates pass before him. Many try to make friends, the quiet boy being related to Alfred after all, but most are turned off by his quietness. What boy is quiet in grade school? A stupid one. Few stay and Matthew can only thank them with small smiles and his spare words.
His parents are not worried, even when the teachers inform him that they think the boy is “slow”. His father is most adamant about this. “He’s a very smart boy. He just likes keeping his gob shut. Unlike some people.” After this encounter, only Francis is allowed to go the Parent/Teacher meetings. Perhaps for the better.
The two that stay with Matthew are the ones that he remembers the best. The one that taught him the secret that flowers carry and the other that taught him the secret of having open arms. Their small group is tight-knit, the gangly blond with spiked hair protecting them, the quiet girl providing support in trying times and Matthew, always there to lend a fist to a fight or keep his brother in control or a comforting shoulder.
They sit in class, Lars on one side, Katya on the other. They are learning about the world and the teacher pulls down a large, brightly coloured map. The class audibly gasps when he points to the small island nation of The United Kingdom. How could it be so small and why was everywhere else so big?
“What’s that one over there?” Alfred says, pointing at a large mass of land in the upper part of the map. There, separated by the great ocean is another world in the north with only two colours breaking the land instead of the numerous countries and shades that shattered Europe into cultures, peoples and nations.
The teacher smiled, his tanned skin, dark beard and hair and almost feral flicker in his eye reminiscent of a Pasha on the White Sea. “It is the Americas,” His long finger points to the one in the south. “This is the United States of America, an old colony of Great Britain and this,” His finger moves up slightly to the country sitting neatly on top of the states, “This is Canada, another former colony.”
“B-But why aren’t they the same country?” The class pauses, all looking around. Matthew. This is the first time he’s spoken in two weeks and some of the class is stunned to discover he even possess a voice. “I-If there were both colonies, w-why aren’t they one?” the blond head buries away into the fluff of his small stuffed polar bear.
Chuckling and still smiling, the teacher merely shrugs. “Despite being so close, there are many differences between the two countries. The United States have always been more involved, a powerhouse though slightly more reserved these days while Canada, still being considered a superpower, was always cast into some kind of shadow by its southern brother.”
“I want to move to America!” Alfred says immediately, “I wanna be a powerhouse! A-A hero! Yeah!”
And Matthew is once again cast into shadows. But he likes it there. It is safe, trustworthy and, should something ever happen, he can always move into the light and offer his quiet words.
The room is lit only by the afternoon sun lazily stretching in through the window, illuminating the layers of dust that cover the dozen-or-so boxes littered around the room. Sniffling slightly, holding back a sneeze, Matthew slips into the room.
Quiet power fills this room, its secrets now revealed to the young man, only hidden in the small treasures chests made of cardboard. Rubbing his arm nervously, Matthew wonders where he can, or will, start.
So he starts with the box with his name. His fingers tremble with a Swiss Army knife as he cuts tape away, opening the box.
Matthew is a quiet boy.
Even with his father, he says nothing, shifts rarely and can only seem to watch the snow fall outside the large windows of the living room. It is supposed to be a special day, where Francis takes Alfred, and Arthur takes Matthew. They switch secret favourites to gain new ones. At least, that was the theory, but there was always been awkwardness between the Englishman and his youngest son, an unspoken truth between them. Arthur is too scared to face it; Matthew is too innocent to understand it.
“Dad?”
Arthur looks up from his newspaper. “Yes?”
The small blond pulls himself to his feet, wandering over to his father, clinging to his legs for support. “C-Can you read me a story?”
Green eyes softening, making him appear his real age for a moment, Arthur nods, getting to his feet, leading Matthew (who clings to the back of his sweater vest with trembling fingers, nervously playing with his newly-acquired glasses) to his private room.
Alfred is not allowed in this room, and neither is Matthew -this is what they tell his brother, just to keep him quiet. The blue eyes never seem to be able to see all the books piled around the shelves. Shapes and colours, the young child grins quietly, wondering if Arthur’s even read all the tomes inside. (he has. twice.)
“Which one?”
Peeking out from behind his father’s legs, Matthew’s tiny fingers still fiddle with his too-big glasses. The books seem to loom, judging him. Quietly, he points to a book at the very top shelf, put so that the casual eye wouldn’t notice it. But not Matthew, Matthew notices.
“That one… W-With the green and gold…” Arthur hesitates for a moment and then takes a ladder, rolling it over and climbs up, grabbing the book, blowing of it free of dust. Matthew watches as the motes spin in the snow-bright sunlight as Arthur climbs down the ladder, taking Matthew’s hand again, book under his other arm.
“You picked an odd book Matthew.” Arthur remarks, sitting down, pulling Matthew onto his lap, and opening the book. His fingers feel the cover lovingly and his son also reaches out a hand, opening it, eager, and humming as touches the old and ancient pages. “This… is my favourite book too.”
Matthew looks back. “Really?” He turns back to the book, staring at it with a new sense of awe, “What’s it about?”
“Yes,” Arthur smiles, sitting back, tucking Matthew’s head under his chin, “It’s the one closest to my heart.”
“Who wrote it?”
Arthur’s smile wavers. “Just… We’ll say an old and dear friend.”
Only slightly confused, Matthew nods, turning to the first page and lets out a quiet gasp. A beautiful illustration of faeries, unicorns and a young boy is on the next page. The boy draws attention, his dark hood made of soft wool that Matthew can only seem to feel in the ink. Behind him stretches a forest filled with creatures of all type and size, all a different colour, glimmering on the page. “Who’s that dad?”
“His name is Albion.” Arthur whispers quietly, turning the page, showing the same young boy, but this time another has joined him, someone older, taller. Shining blond hair that resembles Matthew’s to a tea. The young child makes no mention of this, “Yes… Albion, and this is his story of how he fell in love with Gaul.”
So Arthur weaves his story. How they fought, breathed, allied, lived, hated and loved together. From being close, to far, to killing each other, to slaving each other. Acting as enemies for almost two hundred years only to sign a contract that bound them together forever. Albion loved Gaul but was too foolish and proud to admit it. Matthew asks why and all Arthur says is that Albion is still paying for that mistake.
It is an enchanting story and despite the length of the book, Matthew awaits each new page eagerly, the scripted words coupled with elegant illustrations. From battles, to individual people (a woman with fiery red hair; a woman with chopped blond hair) that were important to Albion and Gaul and, finally, to times of peace, when the two finally found a peace with each other, whether on the same side or when the swords grew lighter than their heavy hearts and had to be laid down. Matthew quietly muses about which man was truly more powerful.
Matthew realizes quickly that it is not a happy story. There is much sadness kept in the pages and the tone of Arthur’s narrating, deep and gravely as if seeing these images hurts him deeply. It shows of people tearing at each other. Of Revolutions across the sea and on their own lands. Of a shifting world where Albion and Gaul have nowhere to fit. Matthew can only wonder why they do not simply just confess to each other and find a place with each other.
By the time Alfred and Francis return, it is to Matthew and Arthur curled up on the couch, both sleeping peacefully, the book on the ground, forgotten.
Francis picks up the book, glances at the cover, smiles before leaning over and kissing both his husband and other son on their foreheads. “Come along Alfred.” He says, placing the book gently down, “Let them sleep, we will make pie together, oui?.” They are so old that so one deserves it more.
Reaching blindly into the box, Matthew removes the first item and a deep, Arthur-ish frown furrows his face. A medal, burnished brass whose crimson ribbon has faded with age, sits in his hand. Matthew stares at it, taking in the lion, the cross and the words engraved on it.
Pro Valore.
Only more curious, Matthew sits up on his knees pulling more items from the box; a hockey stick, a buffalo pelt cracked with age, a bouquet of dried tulips (red, meaning a perfect love), a faded and worn copy of ‘Lest We Forget’ that seems so old and decrepit Matthew would assume it was the original.
Each makes him pause and ponder its significance, mind grumbling slightly, as if it didn’t want to look at anything, as if each items was supposed to remain a secret. He only digs deeper, pulling out a small wooden cross.
The dam in his mind, trying to repress everything, suddenly begins to crack.
Matthew is a quiet boy.
Even after a long drive from Paris, to Berlin, he says nothing, laughs rarely and can only seem to watch the German countryside pass before him. It is the last summer he will spend together with his family until they plan another family trip. High school has ended, Alfred and Matthew both graduated and ready to face the world. Being the clinging parents that they were, instead of letting their sons roam free, Francis and Arthur make the two boys go to Germany with them.
Matthew meets a boy, there in Berlin, under the waning summer moon that tempts them to stay out late with its warm air and bright nights. With snow-white hair and crimson eyes. He falls for this boy, and this boy for him. They are given free-range during the summer and all Matthew can do is spend it with the pale boy, enraptured as they sit on a crumbling wall, sharing cigarettes, beer and a kiss.
“My brother lives here too. My cousin and his girlfriend and over in Austria.” He explains one night as they hide in the shadow of the wall, “Can I ask you something weird Matt?”
The blond nods. “Go ahead.”
“This wall…” He pats the washed-away stone; “It feels weird sometimes… like it seriously split something in half… like, two brothers or something.”
The beer halfway to Matthew’s lips stops. “T-That’s really weird Gilbert.” But there isn’t true disbelief behind his voice, only a want to hear more.
“It’s not.” Gilbert insists, “I’ve been growing up with Luddy forever, but it feels like I’ve known him longer and it’s like… he feels guilty for something. I heard him sleep talking once, talking about how he had a promise to keep or something. That he promised to come back.”
There is a pause before Gilbert speaks again, still spewing, whether drunk, high off the night air or just because somewhere in his heart-of-hearts, Gilbert knows that Matthew understands. “Sometimes… do you feel like we’ve done something terrible in the past? Like we’ve forgotten some big important thing, but the harder you try to remember it, the easier it slips away?”
“Yes.” Matthew says, “I know the feeling.”
“Good.” The red eyes turn to him, such power, sorrow and ancientness behind them, Matthew cannot look away, a prey entranced by a predator. But Gilbert means no harm; Gilbert means only to be understood. “Then we can forget together.” And he kisses Matthew.
It is the final day of their vacation. Oxford calls for Matthew and Harvard for Alfred (the product of divine intervention says Arthur) and so their small car is packed to the brim with belongings and goodbyes are finally being said. Gilbert looks uncomfortable and Matthew knows he has been crying (the Prussian is still so callow).
“Yes Gilbert?” Matthew pulls him away from the car for fear of Alfred making kissey-faces, Francis whispering love advice or Arthur glaring at the pale boy for even breathing the same air with his son. “I-I already gave you my email and new address…” He whispers, tucking a piece of long blond hair behind his ear.
Gilbert takes the hand from his hair, placing a light kiss on the knuckles. “I want you to have this.” Uncurling the blond’s fingers Gilbert gently presses a cross into the soft palm. “I’ve had this forever… don’t know where it’s from, never been in the military but.” He closes Matthew’s fingers over it, smiling at him, “Keep it safe. It’s pretty awesome.”
Nodding slightly, Matthew kisses him and ignores the way Alfred wolf-whistles. They drive away and the young blond watches Gilbert who waves, the darkness of a crumbled wall cast across his thin and pale body. A gilded and shadowed cage that even the Prussian doesn’t know he is trapped in. One day, Matthew will return and help Gilbert escape the past he doesn’t understand.
It is handcrafted and Matthew can only remember how broken and scarred Alfred’s fingers were after he made this. But Matthew also remembers how it stayed with him through everything. The trenches, the losses, the good and bad times. Through Depressions, uprisings, outcries of their people, wars that brought them across seas to save those they once considered guardians. He never told Alfred, but it was his good luck charm.
His head pounds with these memories beginning to leak into his conscious. In an effort to stem them, to forget them, to ignore them, he slips the cross around his neck, reaching into the box again and pulling out the final item.
It is a small storybook; with an emerald cover coloured in swirls of gold. Fingers trembling, Matthew opens it, anything to get away from his memories.
Matthew is a quiet boy.
Even at the funeral, he says nothing, cries rarely and can only seem to watch the coffin pass before him. But he does not seem saddened by this, merely confused. On both his sides, someone is crying. Alfred is sobbing, tears streaming down his cheeks as he clings to Matthew’s hand, trembling. His father fares not much better, blue eyes swimming with tears he refuses to cry. Matthew’s hand rests on his back, the only thing keeping him attached to this world.
Someone asks him to say a few words. To describe his father in a few words. Matthew politely declines as does Francis and Alfred. No one can bring themselves to talk about the man they never truly knew as the funeral only has a priest repeating words the graveyard has grown tired of.
The coffin is merely a formality, so that people can pay their respects to a stone stuck into the ground. A smirk plays at Matthew’s lips. He doesn’t ever plan to come back. When he wants to talk to Arthur, he will go to the place where his ashes had becomes with the earth (but truly Arthur was scattered on the back of the silver dragon that protects his land from the rest of the world.)
People ask why and how he died. Francis tells them it was a heart attack. Only one person knows exactly why Arthur has passed on. His contract was broken. Arthur tried to forget and that wasn’t allowed and thus his life (such a precious and fragile thing) left him.
But Matthew says nothing.
Matthew is a quiet boy.
Even at the cusp of discovery, he says nothing, breathes rarely and can only seem to open the letter that was tucked within the pages of the storybook. He recognizes Arthur’s messy yet somehow still elegant script immediately and with trembling fingers he pulls at the heavy material of the envelope. A single sheet of paper is contained in the cover. Matthew doesn’t take off his glasses to read it.
Matthew,
I’m so sorry I leave this to you. But the memories can’t be forgotten, someone must remember, someone must bear the weight of my selfishness. My life has ended because I tried to leave everything behind. I should’ve known that would’ve been impossible, I made a deal to save your father.
Everything is there Matthew. In your lap. My story, my memories. Do not show them to anyone. No one can be trusted with their past and so you too must be selfish and suffer alone. Matthew, my dearest son, I have always loved you. Even when I abandoned you with the spell, you still managed to find your way back into my arms.
Tell your father I love him. It is the one thing Albion can stop regretting. Also, tell Alfred that he should be as free as he desires and that my memories shouldn’t keep him tied to the world. He was free and should be so again. It suits him.
And you, my little one, must bare their weight, but find someone to support you. To love and care for you. Francis was there for me, supported even though he didn’t know what for. Find this person Matthew for they are the only thing that will keep you as yourself.
Truly, men are selfish creatures. If my words are meaningless, then there is nothing I can do but heed them Matthew. There is such truth in them, you will never understand.
Love, forever and past the reaches of time
Arthur
- The United Kingdom of Great Britain
Matthew is a quiet boy.
Even after the memories come rushing back, he says nothing, blinks rarely and can only seem to stare at the whittled cross and note in his hands (the storybook lies open, forgotten, on his lap.) So it was true. He wasn’t just Matthew, he was something else. A nation often forgotten, abandoned and yet still relied upon. A brother, to the hero, to the south, to Alfred.
He wonders why him. What made him special? Where did the world decide that Matthew should suffer? He sits there, tears forming in his eyes as all the guilt of the world falls on his shoulders. It is unbearable and he immediately feels thousands of years older. He almost expects wrinkles to form on his skin, for his vision to blur more or for his mind start to fracture. But nothing happens. It is all in his head, swelling and tumultuous, a monster of a blessing, an angel of a curse.
Finally, he gets to his feet, only taking the storybook and cross, everything else left behind. The key stays in his pocket. Perhaps for later during his rare bouts of selfishness, when he shows Alfred the chipped rifle, when he shows Lars the crumbling tulips, when he shows Gilbert the broken chain with the remains of a shattered Iron Cross, when he shows Ludwig the red armband, when he shows Katya the frayed remains of a hand-made scarf and when he shows Francis the petals of a red-rose, now black with age.
In the end, Matthew eventually decides why the world falls to him. He muses about it as twilight falls across the English countryside. Perhaps the spell forgot about him.
He was always the quiet one.
Author's Note
If it’s not obvious, I goddamn love UKan father/son love so much ;A;
-In Turkish, “the White Sea” is another name for the Mediterranean