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... )
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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