Past-Part Fills Part 7
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Past-Part Fills Part Seven
Fills from past parts can go here!
Fills from the current part (part 22) MUST go in that part's post until it is full.
Link to the original request (and if an ongoing fill, any previous chapters/sections).
Don't forget to link your new fill at the fill ( Read more... )
It’s Monday, mid-afternoon, and for the second time in as many hours, it’s blowing a gale outside. Indoors, the wind can barely be heard and definitely can’t be felt, but earlier the current rocked the car something fierce as it silently drove Alfred back to his grandparents’, and it did nothing to ease the sick feeling in his stomach that he’d been feeling since Saturday.
Now, as he stands in the doorway to his bedroom, Alfred only feels sicker, because plenty of changes have been made in his absence and he requested none of them. He doesn’t know what’s stopping him from walking inside, but he does know that his feet are frozen in place with reluctance to take so much as one more step. The soldier figurine beside him, leaning against his ankle, is watching with hateful eyes, but Alfred can’t tell if that’s because of the ambience or because of Alfred himself.
Though the room still carries with it the impression of use, from the grubby fingerprints on the door to the grooves of the mattress, Alfred would hardly call it welcoming anymore. His hands find their way to the hem of his shirt, tugging it down until it stretches over his knees.
For a brief moment, he entertains the notion that he might just have been robbed. Shelves have been emptied, toys have been boxed, and books have been tied together. Leftover items, bare necessities for a bedroom, have been left untouched, furniture that will soon grow dusty and drab due to neglect.
Alfred will thankfully not have to see it happening, because he only has three days.
Three days notice - that’s all his parents deemed necessary. Three days until the decorators are done in the city apartment, three days in which all of Alfred’s belongings will be packed up in the country mansion, and three days for Alfred to say his goodbyes. He can’t see how anything is supposed to get better from here, and he takes no comfort in the fact his day’s tutoring has been cancelled - Alfred’s certain that must be a clear indicator of how miserable he’s feeling.
At least his grandmother hasn’t approached him about the glasses he was supposed to be getting. She seems to have forgotten, and that’s for the best - the mere thought of wearing horrible, ugly spectacles makes Alfred nervous. If he’s lucky, the optician may have forgotten, too, and he’ll never have to wear them, ever.
From downstairs he hears the voices of his father and grandfather, and he can’t tell if they’re locked in argument because their tones seem to be alternating between shouting and muttering. He has absolutely no interest in trying to decipher their statements, because he knows they’ll be about moving arrangements. The last thing he wants to hear about is which school he’ll be going to or which sort of diet he’ll be given or how often he’ll see his grandparents from now on.
It’s boring. Boring, boring, boring. And if he leaves the haven of the village, and the atmosphere that comes with it, he worries that he, too, will become as boring as his parents.
Alfred tentatively turns his gaze to the corridor window behind him. He sees that the clouds are dark enough for the threat of rain to hang cruelly overhead - but no rain comes, no matter how long Alfred waits. To pass the time, he tries to remember whether or not he’s ever seen bad weather while at his parents’ apartment, and when he can’t, he doubts the City is exciting enough for such a thing to happen.
His eyes itch - this must be meaning of bored to tears.
There is a knock against Alfred’s calf. It’s Arthur, frustrated and eager to get out of the corridor and into the relative safety of Alfred’s room; he’s vulnerable like this, exposed to whoever might pass by and spot his oddly realistic face.
Though his statuette-scowl is one of impatience, the tap of his painted head against Alfred’s leg diffuses the quivering in Alfred’s bottom lip. At least there’s all this, Alfred takes comfort in reminding himself.
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Why it isn’t insignificant.
But he feels insignificant presently, as he takes his first step into his bedroom that day, deciding to throw his caution to the wind - to the wind outside, no doubt, because the raging gale is starting to make tree branches knock heatedly with gnarled knuckles against the nearest window.
Without Alfred’s things scattered all over the place, the room looks bigger, and the cardboard boxes containing all he owns are ominous. When he sees that his nine other toy soldiers have been removed from their perch on the shelf, his heart sinks into the whorl of uneasiness gathered in his abdomen, and he tries to decide which activity he wants to do more - searching through all the packing boxes to find the Matthews, or just flopping down on his bed in the hope he’ll sleep the hours away until Wednesday evening.
The door clicks shut.
It seems he’ll have the chance to do neither, he thinks, as he turns to see who shut the ingress. He expects it to be Arthur, angry and ready to deliver another tirade about interfering little children, and-
-and it’s not Arthur. For the first time, Alfred finds himself shocked to see Bonnefoy standing before him.
“What?” Alfred asks, simply. He is too tired to argue, his limbs heavy from all the sleep he didn’t get last night. “What do you want?”
“I have one simple query,” Bonnefoy announces, to as much the air around him as it is to Alfred.
“Leave me alone...”
“Now, now,” Bonnefoy says, with a cluck of his tongue, “is that any way to speak to someone who has a present for you?”
Alfred swallows, because that can’t be good news.
Presents, he has learnt, during his extremely long time of eight whole years on Earth, are usually the third-best things in the world, after eagles and Batman. He loves Christmas and birthdays and Easter and everything else that warrants the exchange of brightly-wrapped items, so he doesn’t know why he’s currently feeling so suspicious of whatever it is Bonnefoy has to offer. The wide smile Bonnefoy has taken to wearing only cements Alfred’s concern that, whatever it is, it can’t be a very good gift.
“What present?” Alfred asks, when it becomes evident that Bonnefoy isn’t going to speak without instigation.
“Are you sure you want to know?” Bonnefoy questions, and his smile starts to resemble that grinning cat from those creepy-ass books Verna used to read out loud for Alfred before bedtime. “You look rather busy. Do you need some time to admire my packaging skills? It took me some time to sort out all your things, I must say...”
Any feeling of surprise from earlier drains away. Of course Bonnefoy would leap at the chance to go through Alfred’s things, then put them away into boxes. That way he doesn’t have to worry about putting things back the way they were afterwards - not that it’s ever stopped him before.
“I hear you’re only here until the middle of the week,” Bonnefoy continues. His tone is one of mock-concern; he’s a good actor, but Alfred doesn’t think Bonnefoy truly cares either way. “I’ll miss you, jeune maître.”
“Yeah? Well, I won’t miss you,” Alfred mutters.
He hadn’t intended for Bonnefoy to hear such a comment, but he receives a gentle pat to the head that makes Bonnefoy’s reaction known. It isn’t one of annoyance, but of amusement, his sloped jowls rising under the curve of gleaming eyes.
“That’s a shame,” Bonnefoy says, “because I really shall miss you. Nevertheless, I will still give you that present, as a parting gift...”
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“Your friend Gilbert dropped by to look for you,” Bonnefoy explains. “I told him you weren’t here, but-”
The rest of Bonnefoy’s sentence goes unheard. Alfred directs all of his attention to the object in Bonnefoy’s hold.
Gilbert.
The name bounces around inside Alfred’s head and his fingers quiver with anticipation; the urge to rip open the letter, to eagerly devour the first contact he’s had from his friend in weeks, is nearly overwhelming.
But there is always the matter of Bonnefoy. The nausea in Alfred’s stomach intensifies.
“Non,” Bonnefoy snaps, and the sudden frustration in his tone shocks Alfred into staring. “Before you accuse me of going through your private mail, I didn’t open it. I have not read the contents, for I am not the untrustworthy Robespierre you believe me to be.”
It’s as though the butler can read Alfred’s thoughts, and that’s even more terrifying than the prospect of him reading Alfred’s mail. There is a gap in the conversation, because Alfred isn’t sure what to say, and he thinks his cheeks might be burning from mortification. He snatches the letter with haste and curls it into a cylinder between his hands, all the while staring at his well-polished shoes.
“Go away,” he mutters, so quietly he isn’t sure Bonnefoy will even hear him. He knows he may well be told off for insolence, but he can hardly read Gilbert’s letter with the butler nearby.
“But I thought you and I could have a one-to-one!” Bonnefoy says, fleetingly allowing his teeth to bare. “You are leaving me with so many questions; I need the answers before I can begin to cope with our parting.”
“Go away-”
“I shall, but first I must ask the question I came to deliver in the first place,” Bonnefoy insists. He straightens to his full height and begins peering around the room. “How did the English bastard react to your... silly little princess hunt?”
So that’s it.
Alfred’s cheeks are definitely burning now; he feels embarrassment creep onto his complexion, along with a healthy dose of anger, because how dare Bonnefoy insult Alfred’s brilliant plans? It wasn’t Alfred’s fault that it all went wrong, it was Arthur’s. Arthur told half-truths and got things wrong and now he’s being cold about it and Alfred tried his best and, and-
And he must be an open book, because Bonnefoy is half-heartedly snickering. Perhaps he really can read Alfred’s mind. “I don’t blame you for the hunt’s failure, Jones.”
“How do you know about it?” Alfred demands, as the realisation strikes him that Bonnefoy should not be in a position to discuss the ‘hunt’ whatsoever. Alfred would never tell anyone about his top-secret operation tactics, least of all Bonnefoy.
His grip on the furled letter tightens, because if he has to, he can use it as a weapon for beating information out of Bonnefoy - it’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it. Bonnefoy might even get a papercut, and those things sting so it’d be worth it.
“I know your plans, Alfred; I know all of them, inside and out, and I must say none of them have been much of a threat to me. Every significant conversation you’ve had within the four walls of this room? I know all about it more or less immediately after you’ve had it.” He grins again. “It’s fun!”
That does it, a crimson flag before bulls’ horns. Alfred sees red and charges forward.
“Creep!” Alfred shouts, and he’s whacking Bonnefoy with the rolled-up letter. “Jerk! Why can’t you just... just... get lost! Leave me alone!”
“Calm down, little one!” Bonnefoy retaliates, words accompanied by a shriek of laughter. “Do you really think you can handle this all by yourself?”
“Shut up,” Alfred howls. “Shut up, shut up, just shut up-”
“Take your own advice,” Bonnefoy offers. He places his hands on Alfred’s shoulders and holds onto him. “Hush, hush, calm down...”
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He is strangely relieved at knowing his fit of temper solved nothing.
“I can tell you are frustrated.” Bonnefoy starts to slowly tap his foot as he speaks, and it’s almost soothing. “I can tell you want to know why Arthur can’t remember anything - who I am, or the purpose you wish you could attribute to me - even my motivation behind involving my son.”
Alfred’s breath hitches with every tap, and he listens keenly, though he doesn’t want to. First mention of Gilbert, and now Francis; he’s not sure who’s meant to be shunned and who’s meant to be befriended anymore. He doesn’t want to have to waste time and energy caring in the first place, but he’s intrigued beyond the point of return.
“Come closer,” Bonnefoy says, “and I will reveal to you everything.”
Alfred forgets to keep himself blinking, wonder caught on the ends of his eyelashes.
He leans forward, and quite forgets that he hates Bonnefoy and everything the butler stands for, because it seems that now - now - not even Arthur’s terrible memory can keep Alfred away from the truth. Alfred stares up at Bonnefoy in awe, reverence, waiting without breath for the story to unravel. The story of the little toy soldier and the following Frenchman and the shadowy silhouette of a princess from long ago.
But Bonnefoy isn’t saying anything. He’s merely watching Alfred right back with a clear expression, even when Alfred tentatively reaches out to tap his wrist.
“I’m closer,” Alfred points out. “Can you tell me now? …Please?”
For a moment there is nothing, and then Alfred finds himself knocked back. Bonnefoy has taken to gently nudging him away by raising a knee. There’s more laughter and it’s certainly not Alfred’s, and the way Bonnefoy then ruffles Alfred’s hair is spiteful and nothing but.
Alfred feels the familiar crawl of disappointment.
“You are too young,” Bonnefoy says. “It’s not any of your business! You should learn not to be so very trusting. Oh, and ... Let me know what that letter is about before you move in with your parents, won’t you?”
As he watches the butler walk away, amusedly shaking his head before swiftly making his escape, Alfred is caught between screaming, or following after Bonnefoy to launch another attack. His conflicting thoughts remind him of the true purpose of the envelope in his hand - containing a letter from Gilbert, no less - and he settles on prioritising.
Read first, declare war later.
He makes his way towards the door in order to close it - or perhaps slam it, just to show his grandparents how very, very angry he is - and kicks away his shoes in the process. This is a choice he regrets, because something knocks his toe through his socks, just as he shoves the door shut.
It takes him by surprise. The cry he lets out isn’t a scream, for he is far too heroic to make such a noise, though it sounds like one. (But of course, it isn’t.)
“Arthur,” he seethes, when he sees the troublesome figurine staring up at him expectantly from the floor. “What do you want?”
Green-Eyes doesn’t speak, but he does begin to stare fixedly at the letter in Alfred’s grip.
It’s clear that he doesn’t want to talk to Alfred - because otherwise, he would have taken on his regular form - but he desperately wants to know what the letter contains. He probably thinks it contains some kind of clue, and to be perfectly honest, so does Alfred. They are still angry with each other, but they are still working together all the same. They have no choice - Alfred stands no chance of working out Arthur’s origins by himself, and Arthur is too limited in his current state to work alone.
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It’s barely half-a-page long, and the spelling is atrocious - it could be because English is Gilbert’s second language, but Alfred knows that isn’t the case. Gilbert’s younger brother, Ludwig, is far more attentive to grammar and correct punctuation than Gilbert is; Gilbert’s just lazy.
Arthur continues to stare at Alfred expectantly, but Alfred doesn’t read aloud.
Sup, the dispatch eloquently begins, This is GILBERT. Long time no see. If you are readin this, we have not hung out with each other four a LONG TIME and that is UNGOOD. I wonted to see you today but you WERENT IN. So this is a notice of RE-SCHEDUAL. I will be at your house on TEUSDAY and you better be their or else. This was GILBERT.
To think, it’s the first letter Alfred has ever received completely for himself.
Once he’s finished absorbing the message, Alfred reads it again, and then a third time, just to make sure it actually says what he thinks it says. Buzzing excitement rushes through his core, though he does his best to hide it. Perhaps Gilbert won’t be able to provide any closure on Arthur’s mystery, but he might be able to provide some on Alfred’s.
“It’s nothing important,” Alfred says, coolly, in response to Arthur’s glare. “None of your business, anyway.”
Arthur doesn’t seem convinced, his painted eyes narrowing, but he doesn’t press the issue. He lets out an incensed hmphf and hops away to the dolls’ house, left out by itself in the corner as usual. It seems Bonnefoy had the insight not to pack that away, at least, and Arthur seems intent on locking himself away inside it.
Three days suddenly feels like too long.
Between the hours of midnight and seven o’ clock, Tuesday morning, the heavens finally rain down upon the hillside.
Eduard von Bock only sees the deluge because he wakes at five o’ clock, and once he’s been woken for the day he’s never been able to go back to sleep again. From the comfort of his bedroom window, he watches the clouds burst outside and - for reasons unbeknownst to him - delights in the discovery that the fields around his home are infested with rabbits, a discovery only made when he sees them dashing for cover from the downpour.
It’s been raining consecutively for some time now here, but yesterday was an anomaly in the pattern. There wasn’t any rain then - just angry clouds, and weather conditions almost akin to a hurricane. It’s not right, not for later November; it’s absurd, worse than Estonia’s snowing summers. That being said, Eduard can’t remember a time anything made sense in this corner of the world.
By the time the rain stops, everything outside is wet and gleaming and the window-pane is covered with glistening water-patterns.
At about the same time, Verna Jones shows up on the doorstep to the optician’s surgery beneath Eduard’s flat. She has an umbrella in one hand, and an optical prescription in the other. She is angry, understandably so, but it’s still inconvenient because Eduard has been somewhat lazy as of late when dealing with his patients. He blames the weather, but he entertains himself by thinking Verna would probably have a more theatrical theory to contribute.
As Eduard unlocks the door to let her in - thanking her for her patience, assuring her that the glasses she came to collect have definitely been shipped in by now, sorry for the delay, Ma’am - he takes just a moment to linger in the doorway, breathing in the scent of imbibed earth and bevvied Spring.
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Their purpose should be clear. They are hired to fulfil domestic service, their main duties involving organisation and housekeeping. However, unlike Emma, maids are not usually supposed to take care of children, nor supervise them, unless they’ve been assigned that particular task by the man or woman of the house.
The state of being a ‘maid’ is simply the state of being employed, so Alfred simply cannot work out why they’re so organised when it comes to annoying the living crap out of him.
As far as he knows, no maid has been told to constantly keep an eye on him. And yet, as he sits on the steps outside the manor’s front door, watching eagerly for Gilbert’s arrival, any maid that happens to walk through the hall insists on asking him a question or two. They are repetitive in their queries, as though they’ve held a meeting and have decided to keep firing off the same things - what are you doing and why are you sat there and are you feeling sick or something, dear?
He blames his grandparents, at the centre of it. They themselves are not messy people - they are old, and old people by rule are boring and only cause trouble in packs - but the maids are required to keep such a large property in check. They are also required due to Harold’s insistence that his friends should come over and trash the place at least once a week because, for such a scary man, Alfred’s grandfather has an impressive social circle.
Luckily, however, Harold hasn’t decided to invite his friends over today, and that’s fortunate because otherwise Gilbert might be scared away. Alfred isn’t sure if today is the right Tuesday, because Gilbert forgot to specify, but he still hopes Gilbert will show up soon.
There won’t be another Tuesday, he glumly remembers, because this is the last one he’ll ever have living here. He pushes that thought away.
Though the maids and their relentless interrogating is grating, Alfred is glad that he hasn’t seen Bonnefoy yet, because when there is Bonnefoy there is usually Francis. Alfred certainly doesn’t want his reunion with Gilbert to be ruined by Francis’s meddling, because Alfred already thinks Francis stole his drawing set so it’s quite clear the French boy cannot be trusted with anything.
He knows Francis would still deserve a fair trial, however; Alfred’s just been in a bad mood since the start of the weekend. Alfred has often been told that ‘good things come to those who wait’, but he was never warned about how boring the waiting would prove to be. He keeps his physical eyes set to the gates at the bottom of the hill, waiting for that first precious glimpse of Gilbert’s shock-of-silver hair, while letting his mind’s eye wander.
Perhaps Alfred will see his grandmother first, he thinks. She left the manor earlier, even though it was still raining heavily when she set off. She said she had errands to run and that she’d bring Alfred back something good, which can only mean cake. Maybe her usual choice, lemon drizzle. Maybe chocolate cake, preferably. Not carrot cake, because carrot cake is yucky. Alfred’s dad loves it, but Alfred doesn’t see the attraction. Strawberry cheesecake, on the other hand...
His thoughts are interrupted by someone gripping his shoulder.
Initially, he thinks the hand clutching him is that of a maid, so he pays no attention to it - he hopes they’ll get the message and leave him alone. Such an approach proves futile, as he quickly realises the hand is damp when it begins soaking through his shirt; he looks up over his shoulder to glare at the maid that dared ruin one of his good outfits when his grandmother is going to be back with cake soon.
He sees a drenched Gilbert standing behind him, a trail of water leading away from where the boy stands.
“What...” Alfred begins, but he soon stops speaking because he has absolutely no idea how to finish his sentence, letting his mouth fall open of its own accord.
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Gilbert is slightly taller than he was when Alfred saw him last, and his hair has finally been cut - it was threateningly long before, leaving only a flash of his eyes visible to anyone looking to him. His clothes haven’t changed, still black, reminiscent of those panda-eyed metal bands Alfred has occasionally seen on TV. But aesthetics don’t matter, because he’s real and vivid and his grin is still the same.
Instead of launching into immediate rambling, Alfred decides to go for a safer topic of discussion when he regains the power of speech. It takes him a good few moments but he eventually overcomes his shock, asking, “How did you get in here?”
Gilbert tilts his head. “What?”
“I’ve been waiting here for ages and ages and didn’t see you!”
“Back door was open,” Gilbert shrugs in response, gesturing vaguely towards the kitchens. Funnily enough, the trail of water on the floor leads to the kitchen too, and Alfred isn’t dumb enough to think that the two aren’t related.
“You were out in the rain earlier, weren’t you?” Alfred asks, frowning. “Now your shoes are all wet and you’ve made a mess all over the hall. You’re gonna get in trouble.”
Gilbert places his hands on his hips and sniffs, imitating his mother perfectly - she is a scary Berliner lady with a penchant for discipline. He also sounds a lot like her when he demands, “Is that how you’re gonna greet your best friend after you’ve been apart for ages and ages?”
Without thinking, Alfred opens his mouth to correct Gilbert, to tell him actually my best friend is Arthur, but he manages to catch himself just in time. It just wouldn’t do to tell Gilbert about Arthur’s existence - because Gilbert could be working with Francis - and then there’s the fact that Alfred doesn’t think he wants to be friends with Arthur anymore.
He keeps quiet. He gets to his feet, and as he stands up, he feels the rush of excitement and delight that he thought he wasn’t going to experience. Gilbert is here, really here, standing there in the flesh, the boy that taught Alfred how to tell trees apart and how to tie knots - and subsequently how to climb the trees after making rope ladders for them.
Alfred launches forward and hugs Gilbert as tightly as he can, only slightly annoyed that Gilbert smells like wet dog and is as dampening as one.
Gilbert is not one for hugs - he once tried to stab Francis to death with a pencil, simply because Francis tried to link arms with him - but he seems willing to make an exception for Alfred, just this once. He limply places his hands on Alfred’s back and Alfred knows that’s as close to reciprocation as he’ll get, so he shows his gratitude by finally releasing his rambling.
“I’m so happy to see you oh my god this is so amazing like I didn’t ever think I’d see you again and > did I do something mean I’m sorry if I did it’s just ahh--!”
“You’re still annoying, then,” Gilbert grumbles, then he roughly pushes Alfred away. “It’s good to see you, too.”
“But why did you stop coming over?” Alfred cries, taking a step forward, undeterred by Gilbert’s rejection. “And why are you back again?”
Gilbert takes a deep breath, preparing to launch into a lengthy speech, but he’s interrupted by the loud slam of a door. Alfred jumps, turning to direction from whence the noise came.
It proves to be the kitchens, because Bonnefoy bursts out from the connecting corridor, eyes set to the ground with his hands furled into fists. He looks positively hopping mad, his steps more like stomps and his mouth twisted into a snarl, one reminiscent of the rather large Alsatian that Gilbert’s brother owns. The sight of him is enough to make Alfred’s heart sink; the familiar feeling of nausea from yesterday settles in his stomach.
“You,” Bonnefoy announces in near a shriek, a finger pointed firmly at Gilbert. “You!”
“Me,” Gilbert says, as if confirming something, poking a thumb at his own chest.
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Gilbert shrugs again. “So?”
The display of fury on Bonnefoy’s face strengthens, and Alfred tries not to laugh at the sight of it. He’s never seen the Frenchman so livid before.
“So? So, now you’re going to have to clean this up.”
“You can’t make me do chores,” Gilbert scoffs. “I’m the guest.”
Bonnefoy waggles a finger. “But you are not the guest, because you happily invited yourself into this house!”
“Liar, I’m Alfred’s guest,” Gilbert says, turning to hook an arm around Alfred’s shoulders. “And we are trying to have a confidential conversation.”
Bonnefoy fumes further but doesn’t say anything, and Alfred is in awe. Gilbert’s so smart. He knows how to silence Bonnefoy successfully and he knows way bigger words than Alfred does.
“When you are done... chatting,” Bonnefoy says, oddly calm, “there is a mop waiting for you, next to the door you invaded through. I expect dry floors.”
“Don’t count on it,” Gilbert calls cheerily, as Bonnefoy disappears back the way he came. His shoulders rise at Gilbert’s comment but he doesn’t try countering it, and then he’s gone.
Neither Alfred nor Gilbert speak again for a while - mere minutes, but it feels a lot longer. Overjoyed at his friend’s return, Alfred can’t stop grinning, and Gilbert is content to look around the hallway, taking in details of the Jones manor that he’d forgotten since his last visit.
“So,” Alfred finally says, when he tires of merely watching Gilbert fidget about, “let’s go talk upstairs.”
Computers are wonderful things.
They can be used for recreation or business, entertainment or exertion. They open passages of communication that otherwise would not exist, keeping the whole world connected via the wonders of the internet. They are relatively new, as far as life-changing inventions go, but even the most technophobic person alive would admit that it’s difficult to imagine a world without them.
It’s a shame that, though Kevin Jones spends inordinate amounts of time online as he works from home (when he’s not at his office itself, of course), he’s never shown give his son the same opportunities. Alfred isn’t even allowed to use Harold’s battered home PC without constant supervision.
But this isn’t about Alfred’s anger towards the fact he never got that laptop he asked for one Christmas.
This is about Antonio Fernández Carriedo.
Though the settlement Antonio lives in is referred to as a ‘village’, it is merely an offshoot from a fairly affluent town, a quiet retreat for young families and retired well-offs. The area was once used primarily for farming and there are still a good number of farms in existence, attractive to immigrants searching for manual jobs, or immigrants searching for comfortable, remote locations in which to raise children of their own.
The Fernández Carriedo family didn’t have any drastic reason to depart from their native Spain, but there are many reasons behind why a person would wish to emigrate from their land and live in another. It’s quite possible that Antonio has no intention of staying in America once he’s grown up, because he speaks of Europe with a passion unmatched by anyone else - as a result, Antonio has gained quite the following amongst the girls at his school, since he is charismatic and friendly, with an exotic pet tortoise that he swears is actually a turtle.
Gilbert, on the other hand, has a less carefree yarn to his name. His family fled Germany for reasons they never discuss, but they are liked and well-known in the village’s community - or at least, his parents and Ludwig are. Gilbert is in the same class as Antonio at school, but unlike Antonio, he is not extremely popular, especially amongst the girls. It may even be possible that the girls hate him, and the boys - aside from his ex-friend Antonio - are scared of him.
In fact, Gilbert knows the boys are scared of him, because they’re not as amazing as he is.
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The boys met Alfred during a weekend two summers ago, when he was visiting the town’s sweet shop with Verna. When Alfred offered to share his bourbons with them, they decided to make Alfred an honorary member of their group. And Alfred was flattered, because Gilbert and Antonio and Francis are all a few years older than him, and when older boys want to be your friend, it’s a privilege.
But again, this isn’t about Alfred; this is about Antonio Fernández Carriedo.
And even more specifically - because now is the specifics, no matter how dull they might be - it is about Antonio Fernández Carriedo’s usage of computers. Though computers are indeed wonderful things, they’re also a nuisance. Antonio received his very own laptop one birthday and Alfred has been envious of him ever since, and he secretly hopes it will one day explode - but Alfred isn’t the only one that hates Antonio’s laptop, because Gilbert hates it, too.
Of course, Gilbert didn’t hate Antonio’s laptop to start with. He’s never cared much about computers, and he isn’t really the jealous type, honestly. Jealous over objects, anyway.
The trio fell out in August, after ‘it’ happened. That’s because ‘it’ started in July. You may be wondering what ‘it’ is, and Gilbert is only too happy to tell you - the International PenPal program at the local school, set up by Mrs Vargas, the teacher for Gilbert and Antonio’s class.
The International PenPal program originally wasn’t going to be international. It was going to be an inter-state thing, with various schools across America taking part. A child from one city would be able to write to a child in another; a Californian would be able to become best friends with a Virginian overnight. But the preliminary idea grew over time, and Vargas signed her class up because she thought it would be good to introduce the isolated townspeople to the world outside.
Thus, Gilbert ended up with a pen-pal that spoke two languages, English and German, just like Gilbert himself. A fellow European, still living in Europe; Austrian in nationality, named Roderich Edelstein.
Gilbert was overjoyed at first. A kindred spirit, someone who understood. Gilbert sent Roderich photographs of America and Roderich replied with photographs he’d taken during his holiday to Berlin, and the two of them initially bonded over what they had in common.
They soon realised they had a lot more differences.
Over time, Roderich showed his true colours, slyly replying with pretentious and rude statements, looking down on Gilbert’s sprawling handwriting. He lamented Gilbert’s terrible spelling and grammar in both English and German; Gilbert replied by calling him a stuck-up, stupid aristocrat. When their communication changed to email via usage of the school’s computers, things only got worse - Gilbert would use bright, irritating fonts on purpose, and Roderich would react by sending insulting emoticons.
But Gilbert didn’t see it as arguing. He saw it as fun.
Through it all, he treated it like a game. Roderich would always reply, no matter how angry with Gilbert he claimed to be, and Gilbert would find himself actually looking forward to schooldays, because he didn’t have a computer at home and needed to use the school’s ones to read Roderich’s emails to him.
Gradually, so slowly that Gilbert didn’t even realise it at first, Roderich became Gilbert’s first crush.
That’s almost where the story should have ended. It would have been nice to have ended it by taking Roderich away into the sunset on the back of a motorbike, but Gilbert would have been content with a simpler ending, one where he spends hours in the school computer room every weekday, gleefully inventing horrible insults to send to Roderich’s email address.
But he didn’t get either of those endings, because Antonio ruined it.
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The pen-pal in question was a fiery Mexican girl named Carmen, with the amazing ability to swear in over twelve different languages. She was also bilingual in Spanish and English, and this was the reason Mrs Vargas paired Antonio with her. It was just bad luck that Carmen took a disliking to Antonio from the very start and, unlike Roderich, refused to participate any further in the pen-pal program, leaving Antonio with no-one to write to, or email.
Now, Gilbert likes to think of himself as a good friend. He would never do something for someone unless he thought he’d get something out of it too, obviously, but he’s still considerate.
That’s why he gave Roderich’s email address to Antonio, quite forgetting about the laptop that Antonio received in February.
To paraphrase Gilbert’s previous description of Antonio: Antonio has gained quite the following amongst people at his school, since he is charismatic and friendly. He is everything Gilbert is not, and Gilbert would usually be okay with that. But he isn’t okay with it now, because it seems that Antonio’s fan-club was not enough for Antonio, and Antonio stole Roderich.
It wasn’t a fair competition, and Gilbert should have seen it coming. Gilbert should have known Antonio would go on the charm offensive. Gilbert should have known that Antonio would be able to send Roderich more messages, due to the damned laptop of his.
Most importantly, Gilbert should have known that Roderich didn’t like him back. Not in that way. But the rejection hurts, because Roderich’s daily messages began to dwindle, from one or two a week, to one, and then to zero, while Antonio received two or three within the space of 24 hours.
Gilbert couldn’t believe Antonio would betray him in such a way. Antonio didn’t think he was doing wrong. Francis didn’t say anything either way, and drifted apart from his friends. And Alfred, not involved in any way with the village school, sat alone and abandoned in his house on the hill.
That’s the story Gilbert has to tell.
How often does a person’s eyes fall out?
That is the burning worry at the base of Alfred’s skull. He is under the impression that, if his eyes get any wider, his eyeballs themselves will simply dislodge from his head and roll across the floor. But he can’t help it; he’s staring attentively at his estranged friend with something like horror, something like surprise, and his tongue aches with all the questions he wants to ask.
He feels sick, and he feels like he should have done something, and he feels curious as to how Gilbert could like a boy because boys are meant to like girls, and he most of all just feels betrayed that nobody told him about any of it.
He doesn’t know which feeling will win out.
Gilbert, in the meantime, doesn’t seem to realise how deeply his story has affected Alfred. He’s sprawled across Alfred’s mattress, staring at the ceiling in silence, bored with speaking now that he’s finished his narrative. Alfred is standing awkwardly next to the bed, wishing he could move to sit down on one of the cardboard boxes, but he’s frozen in place.
“So,” Gilbert says eventually, breaking the silence because Alfred certainly isn’t able to. “That’s pretty much it. Sucks, right?”
“I…” Alfred trails, staring at his shoes for (probably) the millionth time today. They’re getting less and less shiny every time he looks at them.
Gilbert tilts his head back to look at Alfred’s face. “Yeah?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Alfred asks, quietly, because ‘betrayed’ has won as the dominant emotion.
At least Gilbert has the decency to sit up.
“You were always the one to invite me,” Gilbert says, defensive automatically. “How was I supposed to know if I was still welcome or not? For all I knew, you were on the… the… the tomato bastard’s side.”
“Francis never stopped coming over,” Alfred huffs. Not that he really wanted Francis around, but leaves out that particular detail. “And invites never stopped you before - you broke in today!”
“I didn’t break in,” Gilbert insists. He waves away the accusation with a flap of his hand. “And don’t lie to me, I’m not stupid. Francis hasn’t been here for ages.”
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“It doesn’t matter,” Gilbert replies. His words are near-spat, bitter. “I’ve been avoiding most people anyway. Haven’t been going outside at the weekend, haven’t even been hanging with any of the guys at school… I’ve been working on some wicked revenge plans.” For all his previous bravado, he begins to look nervous. “I… forgot about you. A little bit. I’m sorry.”
Alfred takes offence. “So why are you here now? ‘Cause nobody else wants to talk to you and I’m your last resort?”
“No,” Gilbert says, leaning forward. “I saw you with your oma near Eduard’s place the other day. Reminded me that I should come up and see you.” He smiles, smugly. “Your life must be boring without me. I’m doing you a favour. Because I still count you as a friend, see?”
Though Alfred swells inside with abrupt happiness, confusion wins out and he asks, “Oma? Eduard?”
“Your gran,” Gilbert clarifies. “And you should know Eduard, right? The glasses guy. Gets mad if you bite him.”
Oh. That Eduard, the optician, the newest addition to Alfred’s list of arch-nemeses.
Gilbert is still talking. “…when I did show up, you weren’t here, so I gave Francis’s dad the back-up letter, and…”
More specifics. But Alfred isn’t particularly interested in those ones, because he cares more about his earlier curiosity. “Hey, Gilbert?”
Gilbert stops his rambling and asks, eyebrow raised, “What?”
Alfred swallows. “Roderich’s a girl, right? I just… heard wrong.”
“Nein,” Gilbert says. Briskly, like he was prepared for this. “He’s a boy.” And Gilbert scowls. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, I like him and that’s the only thing that matters. He’s totally my wife, anyway - Berwald agrees with me.”
Alfred doesn’t know who Berwald is and he doesn’t think he wants to. He thinks of the dollhouse behind him, and the toy soldier inside it, and he wonders if Arthur’s listening.
“The prince always marries the princess.”
Gilbert’s eyebrow stays raised. “But what if the prince wanted to marry the prince?”
Alfred says nothing more, uncomfortable beyond belief. He’d never considered that before and he doesn’t know why he feels so awkward, because it doesn’t really bother him - so long as a dragon gets slain and a wolf eats an old lady, the details of the romance subplot aren’t important.
“But hey,” Gilbert states, snapping the silence as he did before. “It’s not your problem. I can destroy Antonio by myself, don’t worry. And from now on, I’ll make sure to visit you a lot more!”
Ah. This time the sensation of sickness takes its hold, Monday’s nausea rushing back into Alfred’s stomach.
“I’m moving,” he says, before he can stop himself. He weakly gestures to the boxes around him, boxes that Gilbert thought were just there for Alfred to build a fort. “You won’t be able to visit me here ‘cause I’m being sent to the City by Mom n’ Dad.”
This time, Gilbert doesn’t break the silence. This time, it’s Gilbert’s turn to look betrayed and stare at his own shoes.
Three days is not too long, Alfred decides. It’s short, way too short. There’s so much he’s leaving behind here, his entire life as he’s known it so far, and it’s not fair that all his problems seem to begin working out just when he’s about to depart. He’s dimly aware of Gilbert standing up, but he doesn’t care, too busy deciding if he’s angrier with his grandparents or his parents or even Antonio Fernández Carriedo.
He’s not even aware that he’s crying until Gilbert offers him a tissue, scrunched-up and stained with ketchup.
“It’s okay,” Gilbert says, and he’s doing his best to offer a comforting smile. And maybe it is okay, because Gilbert’s smart, and he knows way bigger words than Alfred does. “It’s not like we’ll never talk again.”
Alfred frowns. “It isn’t?”
As Alfred takes the tissue, Gilbert delivers a grin.
“We can email each other. Right?”
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Three days, then.
Time has ticked away one already, and now the second one is nearly done, the morning outside sweeping into afternoon and then to evening, strokes of dusk over rain-clear skies. Gilbert goes home because it gets too late for him to stay, and his details lie on a paper scrap within Alfred’s pocket. Time will tell if Alfred uses them or not, but he hopes he’ll get the opportunity to.
Gilbert’s departure is a point for sadness, Alfred thinks, but his grandmother doesn’t. She seizes it as an opportunity to give him something. A gift. But it’s not a good thing - even though presents are, of course, usually the third-best things in the world, after eagles and Batman.
“Here,” Verna says from the doorway, making sure not to step into the room itself. That would be overstepping a line, and Alfred wants to keep his room a sanctuary during his last days within it. “I told you I’d bring you something good, didn’t I, dear?”
Alfred knows that ‘something good’ should have meant cake. He despairs, because the black case she hands over is far from being cake.
Bonnefoy is efficient, that’s for sure.
He’s cleared up Alfred’s bedroom perfectly, arranging the furniture without flaw, clearing up everything Alfred called his own. He’s made sure that Alfred’s last half-week with his grandparents feels even emptier than it would have done otherwise. If making Alfred irritated was his objective, then he’s certainly achieved it.
But even Bonnefoy has his faults, because he’s forgotten to clear out Alfred’s bathroom.
The en-suite doesn’t contain much; it never has done. There are the usual shampoos one would expect near a shower, lined up on the overhanging shelf, and there are a few assorted bath toys within the tub itself. These typical bathroom products were not boxed up when Bonnefoy set to work on preparing Alfred’s things for moving; the bathroom hasn’t been touched.
Alfred only knows this because he’s locked himself inside it.
He’s locked himself inside it because he can now see it clearer.
The gift was, as one might have guessed, the glasses he was threatened with on Friday, and though he must admit they’re useful, he still hates them. Just because he’s wearing them doesn’t mean he’s at peace with them. In fact, he’s becoming quite well-acquainted with his shoes, more than anything else, because they are a preferable sight to his own reflection; he accidentally caught himself in the mirror earlier and god, does he hate how he looks with spectacles.
He looks boring. Boring, boring, boring, like his father is, like his father’s glasses. Alfred is not his father and he never wants to be.
That’s why, somewhere - not before his grandmother’s ‘gift’, but after Gilbert’s visit - Alfred decided to take his leave and hide. He can’t be dragged to the city if his parents can’t find him, he can’t be removed from this room if his grandparents can’t get to him. He’s lucky that the bathroom has a lock on its door, gold and shiny, brass.
He intends to sit here, with his grandmother’s gift perched upon his nose, and never ever come out.
But, much like Bonnefoy, this plan has its faults. The main fault comes in two shapes - a toy soldier, and a fully-grown annoyance, currently standing outside the en-suite door.
There is a knock, soft and quiet, but there have been many knocks before that one.
“Go away,” Alfred says, though he knows Arthur won’t listen to him.
And sure enough, Arthur is undeterred. “Sir, please. Sir?” Knock-knock-knock. “May I be allowed entry?”
“Go away, Arthur!” Alfred picks up a bar of soap and throws it at the door; the thud upon impact seemingly makes Arthur jump back, because Alfred hears the clack of his footfalls outside. “Just go away!”
“No,” Arthur says, voice soft. “I’m not leaving you when you’re clearly distressed, Alfred. What’s the matter?”
“What do you care?” Alfred asks. “This is the first time you’ve bothered speaking to me. You’ve been a total… a total ass!”
There’s a moment of quiet, and Alfred hopefully thinks Arthur’s given up, but that hope is crushed when Arthur chuckles. “You really need better insults, Sir.”
“I know lots of insults,” he huffs. “I’m just not allowed to say most of ‘em.”
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“Not until you apologise.”
It’s almost fascinating, how easily those four words instil sheer rage.
“Why the fuck should I be the one to apologise? I’m the one offering an olive branch!”
“I just wanted to make you happy,” Alfred sniffs, adjusting his awful glasses. “You didn’t-”
“Oh, here come the waterworks,” Arthur says. Alfred tries to speak, but Arthur gets in first. “You effectively ignore me all weekend and then think blubbering will fix things?”
“I didn’t wanna talk to you!”
“There’s a surprise. Mess everything up and then walk away- ”
“You didn’t hafta make me look silly in front of everyone!”
“Nobody knows anything about what happened in the attic except that French chap,” Arthur scoffs. “And if you really didn’t want him to know about it...”
“But... I didn’t want him to! I don’t know how he found out!”
“Well, I’m certainly not the one leaking him information.”
Alfred hardly believes what he’s hearing. “You... you think I told Bonnefoy all that stuff?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, but he certainly does seem to know a lot about me,” Arthur replies.
“I...” Alfred begins, but he falters. He’s not sure whether to feel hurt or angry.
“That would make perfect sense, really,” Arthur goes on, his voice sharpening when he steps closer to the door. “You and him, in this together - ha! I never had a chance from the offset...”
“You...” Alfred’s fists clench so firmly that his fingernails bite his palms. Angry it is. “You’re a real jerk sometimes.”
“Liven your vocabulary,” Arthur sneers. “And you wouldn’t be so insulted if you had nothing to hide, would you?”
“I’m hiding nuthin’ - he knew all that stuff about you way before I did!”
“My memory’s gone to pot; how am I supposed to know whether or not I’m telling you things that you choose to tell him after?”
“I’d never do that!” Alfred begins, desperate, indignant.
But Arthur just ignores him. “Has he been bribing you with sweets? Or perhaps he’s the one that cursed me? Never you mind about endangering my safety, it’s quite clear whose side you’re on.”
“Shut up!”
“Don’t you fucking dare tell me to shut up-”
And then it’s just angry rambling.
Alfred thinks of himself as a good boy. He attends Church whenever he gets dragged along, and he’s always done his best to please each and every teacher he’s ever been given. He has only ever told someone he hates them once, and that person was fictional - even then Alfred felt guilty, but he thinks it’s acceptable because he doesn’t think anyone could possibly like the Wicked Witch.
There is a second time for everything.
“I hate you!” Alfred declares, drowning out whatever it is Arthur’s saying. “Just leave me alone!"
“You don’t mean that,” Arthur says. His voice quivers with a strange sort of inflection, but he’s still as arrogantly confident as he ever was. “It’s Bonnefoy that’s been-”
“I hate both of you!” Alfred clarifies. “I hate him and I hate Emma and I hate you!”
Arthur doesn’t reply this time, so Alfred waits. He’s never felt so angry before, so indignant; he thinks of the worst possible thing he could wish on a person, silently hoping that Arthur ends up needing glasses soon. That would show him. Revenge would be sweet.
He expects Arthur to grovel for clemency, but the silence is dragging on. He expects Arthur to apologise for being so needlessly stubborn, now that he’s been told exactly how Alfred feels about him.
“Open this door,” Arthur says eventually, and it’s far from being the reaction Alfred desired. “Open this fucking door right now or I swear, on this very wreckage of a life that I have left, I’ll never bother with you ever again. Is that what you fucking want, you stupid brat?”
It isn’t. It isn’t what he wants at all, so how could Arthur possibly think that?
Alfred begins to admire his ankles, because though he knows Arthur can’t see him through the door, he feels safer with his eyes set to the ground. Alfred allows a few moments of silence to pass before he slowly rises to his feet, hands at his sides.
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When Arthur strides forth immediately, Alfred doesn’t want to look up at Arthur’s face because he can already see Arthur’s body trembling with rage, breathing laboured and hands ready to lash out. Looking up at Arthur would make the situation worse; it would be presenting a challenge, and Alfred has already lost a friend today, he doesn’t want to lose Arthur, too. There are so many things Alfred wants to say, unkind jibes or mocking taunts, but he doesn’t use any of them.
Instead he whispers, “I got glasses.”
Arthur doesn’t say a word, and Alfred is grateful for that; he’s glad to see Arthur providing the same courtesy that he tried providing. The anger that’s making Arthur’s body quiver gradually begins to subside, and Arthur’s harsh breathing mellows, his temper lessening more and more as he stands before his liege.
“Alright,” Arthur says eventually, softly. “Are… Are they hurting you?”
Alfred can’t make himself reply, so Arthur tries again.
“Aren’t they the correct prescription? Aren’t they working?”
Alfred shakes his head. “That’s not the problem...”
“Are they too tight? I can adjust the frame for you--”
“It’s not that, either!” Alfred cries.
Arthur’s fingers flex. “Then what?”
“I just… I seriously just hate them. I look like a dork.”
There’s a pause, and then Arthur sighs. “Look at me.”
Alfred pouts. “No.”
“Look at me!” Arthur repeats, and then there’s a hand on Alfred’s chin, tilting up his head so Arthur can take a good look at his new spectacles.
It works both ways now, it seems; Alfred can see every feature of Arthur’s face, the individual hairs of his fringe and the upturn of his nose. His facial structure is odd; it seems more defined than it had done formerly, and Alfred’s eyes focus on the angle of Arthur’s cheekbones because he can’t remember them being so sharp before. It’s either Arthur that’s becoming more… realistic, or Alfred’s really been needing those glasses for a while now.
“Alfred,” Arthur says, and then he’s smiling, tired and weary and smiling the smile Alfred never thought he’d ever see again, “you look fine. Don‘t worry about how your glasses appear because there‘s absolutely nothing wrong with you. Alright?”
A pang of something that isn’t sickness washes through Alfred’s stomach and his bottom lip quivers, words trying to escape from his mouth that he can’t quite conjure. He should be stubborn, he knows. He shouldn’t give in until he gets his apology, and he shouldn’t let Arthur near him.
But he must be weak, because when Arthur hugs him, he doesn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. He doesn’t specify what it’s for, but Alfred doesn’t question it. “Sorry, lad, so sorry…”
Alfred shuffles closer.
“You didn’t deserve that, I don’t know what I was saying, I need to fuck off sometimes, I…”
Arthur smells strongly like sawdust and his tunic is scratchy against Alfred’s cheeks. It’s comforting enough, familiar enough, to make him almost believe the act of contrition is genuine.
“We’re moving,” Alfred says into Arthur’s chest, because it strikes him that he hasn’t actually told Arthur what all the boxes are for. “You and me.”
Arthur hesitates, before he replies, “I know you are, but...”
“We’re gonna live with my parents,” Alfred goes on, though he anticipates Arthur’s answer before Arthur says it. His heart sinks beforehand.
The way Arthur keeps wavering is disheartening. “Alfred, I can’t…”
Alfred does his best to ignore it, because if he pretends everything’s okay, then it will be. “Emma, too, I guess, and--”
“I can’t come with you, Alfred,” Arthur says firmly, into Alfred’s hair.
Alfred thinks about Gilbert’s prince.
It’s now that Alfred pulls away, and he watches Arthur’s arms slowly fall back to Arthur’s sides. “Why can’t you?”
“My home is here,” Arthur says, and he takes a step back, back into Alfred’s bedroom.
“Why, though?” Alfred asks, and Gilbert’s tissue feels heavy in his pocket. “Why can’t you come, too?”
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The nausea diffuses, and Alfred realises that this is why he’s been feeling sick. Not the prospect of leaving, but the prospect of this, and he suspected so but couldn’t let the notion overwhelm him. Gilbert’s tissue still feels heavy in his pocket, but he’s too tired to cry.
He settles on saying, “I have until tomorrow.”
Arthur appears crestfallen, sagging mouth and low shoulders. “Right...”
Alfred catches his eyes and tries to memorise them, green like bright grass, and he can only hope Arthur’s poor, broken memory will remember Alfred in return. Arthur’s forgiveness goes unspoken.
There are ten wooden soldiers in the set, and one of them is alive. There are ten wooden soldiers in the set, and only one of them can cry.
“Got everything, sport?”
Kevin is all dazzling-smiles and radio-blaring, his new car so out of place with the old trailer attached to the back of it. He doesn’t look like an inherently strong person, but he must be hiding some kind of force within him to be able to lift the boxes piled up just outside the manor gates. It’s taken him all of ten minutes to be down to this, the last box, and that’s after he had to tug them down from the mansion itself.
Granted, Mr. Varney helped to move them - it seems even Alfred’s terrifying tutor has decided to give Alfred a send-off.
It’s Wednesday morning. The weather is sunny and warm, or at least, as warm as November can get, which isn’t much. But at least the storms that have been plaguing the area are nowhere to be seen. Alfred wonders if he’s being mocked.
“It’s a brilliant day, isn’t it?” Lisa asks, the car’s passenger door open for her to stretch out her bare legs. Her dress is small, and can’t have used up much fabric, but it’s still doubtless more expensive than the car itself.
“That’s everything, yeah,” Alfred says, in answer to his father.
(Though that’s not true, no; the dolls’ house certainly isn’t there and neither is his most important soldier of the set--)
“Great,” Kevin says, just as Verna lets out a theatrical wail from between the manor gates, clutching Harold’s hand so tightly his fingers look like they might pop.
“Oh, Alfred, I’m going to miss you-!” she’s snivelling. “Please, please remember to stay in touch!”
“We’ll see you at Christmas, Mom,” Kevin sighs, but Verna isn’t satisfied, rushing forward to squeeze Alfred so tightly that he might pop.
“Take care, boy,” Harold says, because he’s never been good with goodbyes and can only offer a light-hearted salute.
When Verna finally lets go, her face is wet with an extremely unnatural amount of tears; she is a dramatist to the very end, and Alfred wonders if he’ll miss that aspect of her once it’s gone from his regular life.
And then it’s all just a dramatic blur.
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The boxes in the trailer thump against the sides of it and the sound reverberates, but his parents don’t pay it any heed; Kevin wails along to the stereo almost instantly and Lisa rolls down the window, enjoying the breeze by means of a small smile, throwing out her arm to wave to the people assembled outside the Jones senior’s mansion.
Alfred squirms around in his seat to wave at them, too, staring out the back window, and as the maids and the butler and his grandparents holler and gesticulate their farewell, he doesn’t see a flash of red but he does see the curtain move, only slightly.
And Alfred is ignorant, so he smiles and thinks, soon.
Because there will be no Christmas visits, as Kevin promised.
There will be no keeping in touch or contact or anything substantial.
The next time Alfred sees Arthur, a decade will have passed.
AN: ...So.
I warned you this would be a SUPER LONG CHAPTER. To make up for my failure to update methodically orz. Alas, the last of kiddie!Alfred. He’ll be all growed up next time ‘round, so. But now I can introduce the USUK without feeling like I should be arrested
Also, JESUS H. CHRIST, YOU LOT. <3 <3
What happened last update to make you go so nuts? All the places I lurk with rec posts, and BAM, this fic has been linked there for reasons that escape me. You know who you are, lovely reccing people, and I only hope I keep to the standard I’ve been writing at, because I don’t want to let you - or any reader - down with this. :x Thank you so much! I’m humbled and all sorts of honoured ;u; So thank youuuuu again! <3 <3 <3
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