[Fic] The Months of Manhattan
Thought I should post something more lighthearted. Here, have fic! ♥
Title: The Months of Manhattan
Author/Artist: Myself~
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, Canada, FrUK (though it's not central)
Rating: G
Warnings: None, really. Possibly Poland's fat mouth.
Summary: A retelling of a modern fairytale, The Months of Manhattan. When Matthew's father gets remarried and he gets a new stepbrother, Alfred, everything seems to be looking down... until he finds a mysterious panting alone in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
When you really sat down to think about it, Matthew Williams was a fairly good kid.
Sure, his grades were (far) from perfect, he didn’t always get along with his peers, and he was often known to find himself in detention at the end of the day for one thing or another (that the Principal could never understand, because really, he was such a sweet boy, despite having a talent for using a hockey stick in all the wrong ways.) Sure, he had to get used to his father flirting with other men, and dragging him off with his face bright red, with yells of Papa, we’re in public! and Francis, please, people are staring. But for a teenage boy living with his father in New York City, that was good, or at least fair.
Then Alfred F. Jones came into his life.
Alfred was the son of his dad’s new… “wife” (if you could call another man a wife), thereby making Alfred and Matthew stepbrothers. Matthew, really, was thrilled; he finally had a sibling, and one who looked amazingly like him to boot. Now he finally had a partner for his video games, and a brother to chase down the lanes of Central Park. He even had someone to help him with his homework, or maybe vice-versa, though Matthew didn’t mind too much.
Problem was, Alfred was almost the complete opposite.
Alfred, on the other hand, hated that he now had to share his room with Matthew, that he had to spend all his time with such a quiet kid, that now he had to move to the steely city when he much preferred the country. And he, overall, didn’t like the fact he now had to share everything.
And worst of all? Alfred had his father wrapped around his finger. Who, in turn, had Matthew’s father. Leaving Matthew nice and alone, to take whatever Alfred decided to dish at him.
Of course, Matthew was not a mean kid. He just sort of took the things Alfred and his father pushed at him, and thought maybe Alfred would change. Maybe.
He had to keep telling himself that as he sat in his bedroom, organizing his homework (and Alfred’s). Maybe he’ll change. Maybe he’ll change. He can’t stay this way forever. He’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t even noticed the door click open, and a hand fall upon his shoulder.
“Matthew…” His father’s voice gently crooned, and the boy jumped at the touch, spinning in his chair. “Are you doing alright?”
“Papa! E-Everything’s just fine!” He did his best to plaster a smile on his face, quickly stuffing the papers farther away on his desk. “Alfred’s great! A-And you’re happy with Arthur- I mean, Dad, right?”
Francis’ eyes went soft. “Matthew… please do not think I have forgotten you. We are all family now, and we must press through any obstacles we find. You will not forget this, oui?”
Matthew smiled. “Yes, Papa.” Maybe this will get better.
“Now, I just need to deal with the obstacle of your Dad, which will take a lot of pushing…”
“Papa!”
-----
After a few months in the company of the two, Matthew was given an assignment for his History class, on American furniture from a decade or two ago. The assignment entailed a personal trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art- which meant notes and time, which wasn’t something his family was plentiful on.
Unfortunately, the only person who could take him was his stepfather, while Alfred was working on the school paper with some friends (all the others who just adored him), meaning he didn’t have a lot of time. On top of that, his stepdad dropped himself down in the food court, told Matthew to be back at 4:30, and buried his face in a book. Checking his watch as he wandered off, he sighed; jut before 3. Now to navigate the huge place that he’d barely ever visited.
Now anyone who knew Matthew would know he didn’t have a perfect sense of direction, and when a distracted guard pointed him in the wrong direction, it really only made things worse. Before long, it was nearly 4 PM, and he was completely and inexplicably lost. Matthew was stumbled around a corner into a dark room, and even with his bad sense of direction; he knew this was not the American wing.
Matthew, by now, was totally at the end of his rope. He didn’t even know how to get back to the food court, and certainly not in a half an hour; plus, he still didn’t have notes for his report (and I believe it was aforementioned that Matthew was not the best student, and he really, really needed this grade). Plus, his new Dad would be entirely miffed that he was late.
And before all else, he fell down in the dark, blank room and began to cry, notepad and pen skittering across the floor. He was down on his hands and knees, tears hitting the floor, when a surprising voice caught his ear.
“Hey kid. Watcha’ ‘doin? Ya seem down.”
Matthew jumped up, wiping away the tears as he looked up. Before him, was a big, bright painting of Rockefeller Center, with twelve people standing all around it, all varying ages. All the way to the left was an Asian man, black hair tied back in a ponytail and sitting atop a statue of a tiger. Next to him was a tanned European, painting a picture of the Spanish countryside. Next down the line was a tall, pale German, looking miffed at a seemingly younger man clinging to his arm. The younger was the one who’d spoken; he had brunette hair, with one curl sticking out the side. He was beaming wildly, and spoke with a thick Italian accent.
Matthew took a minute to survey the rest of the picture. Past him was another Asian man, standing in a tactful business suit, though holding a samurai sword. Next was a tactfully smiling man with short brown hair, who looked as if he was being dragged slightly by the one next to him, a blond with hair to their shoulders in a sundress (which Matthew had to stare at a little longer to realize yes, it was indeed a man).
There was another row down the front of the picture. A girl, this time, sat on the edge of a stone planter, intently watching a brunet man next to her who was playing the violin. Behind him was a silver-haired man who sat on the ground, a flurry of birds surrounding him. The last two men were almost opposites- the first was very small, looking almost scared and glancing over his shoulder to the second, who was very, very large, and sporting a long pink scarf and sandy hair. His hand was resting on the smaller boy’s head.
At this point, Matthew looked oddly confused. Did a painting… just talk? “Did… are you talking to me?”
“Uh, yah!” The blond at the end responded, dragging the brunet next to him further when his hands flew to his hips. “Like, who else would we be talking to? You’re totally the only on in here.”
At this point, Matthew had no words. He looked at his watch (if only to make sure his arm was still solid and the entire world wasn’t falling apart at the seams)- 3:40. He could’ve sworn it was later. He was snapped from his thoughts by the painting speaking again. This time, it was the woman at the edge, who had stood and let her green dress fall to her ankles.
“What’s wrong? Maybe we can help you.” She accompanied the statement with a grin, which somehow made Matthew feel a little more at ease.
“I’m… lost.” He choked out- this time, the response was from the large man at the edge.
“So are we.”
Matthew blinked once or twice. “Do… do you want me to tell someone you’re here?”
“Naw. That’d ruin the fun!” The bird-man had spoken, one of the birds finding his way to sit atop his head. “We prefer to be found by chance.” Before Matthew could speak again, the man in the dress cut in.
“So like, kid-”
“My name is Matthew!”
“Okay, Matthew. What month is it?”
“November.”
“Aww, November’s so totally boring.” He commented. “Always too cold and sloshy.”
“Well… not really.” Matthew commented- the people in the picture turned to face him with newfound interest. “There’s Thanksgiving and Christmas is coming soon, so there’s a lot of family time and warm cookies. And the parades are gonna come through the town, so there’s always something to look forward to.”
The man with the samurai sword finally spoke. “Well, what about January? You must hate January.”
“And what about February and March?” It came from the man with the violin.
“I kind of like February and March.” Matthew replied, the people turning back to him. “It’s kind of nice to be cold and then slip into a nice warm home, and have hot chocolate. Plus, the leaves are just beginning to grow in, and the wind likes playing with the others and people’s hair.”
“Well what about April? They say April is the worst.” Commented the Asian on the far left- the first man who had spoken to Matthew shot a pout in their direction.
“April showers bring May flowers.” Matthew chimed- the man with the curl grinned happily. “Besides, I kind of like the rain and the way it smells.”
“Well, then you must hate the summer.” It came from the large in the corner- the blond in drag stuck his tongue out at him in rebuttal.
“Well it’s hard to stay in school when it’s all bright and sunny outside, but then summer vacation comes, and then we go to Cape Cod and I get to have fun with my dad. Plus, it’s all relaxed, and I can go skateboarding with my friends.” Matthew spoke. Finally, the tanned man spoke.
“Then you must hate the fall.”
“Well, not really. I get to see all my friends again when school comes around, and plus the leaves start turning all those beautiful colors, and-” Matthew stopped, shaking his head. “Look, this is really, really cool, but I have a huge project due and I’m late and so lost. I’ve gotta go.”
“I think we can help you with that!” The guy in the front said- it was the one with the curl, who had addressed him in the first place. “Can’t we, March?” He looked up towards the face of the man he was clinging to, who let out a sigh.
“I suppose we can, April.” He replied (as the other jumped up and down happily), looking down at Matthew. “We can’t write it for you, of course. But we can give you the time to do it in…” He paused, and the brunet on his arm pouted at him. “…And maybe some directions.”
Looking down at the woman, he managed a smile. “Alright, August. Go for it.” Looking back to Matthew, ‘August’ grinned.
“Good luck, Matthew. See you later.”
And then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone. The painting was still there, but it was just splotches of color, and only looked like people if you had a vision in mind. The plaque beneath it only read ‘THE TWELVE MONTHS OF MANHATTAN.’ There was no artist, no time period, nothing- just blotches of paint on paper.
Matthew squinted at the painting one last time before checking his watch- 3:05. He nearly did a doubletake as he rushed out of the room, found his way to the American Wing with no wrong turns, and took notes for his paper until nearly four. Then, he made his way back to the food court without even thinking- it was like magic. And when he arrived where his stepdad was, it was exactly 4:30.
“Hmph. Good job. Let’s go pick up your brother. You’re lucky you made it.” He responded, dragging the blond outside. The streets were crowded, and he visibly frowned. “Great, now we’re going to be hours late picking up Al. Ugh, he’s going to be so mad- -”
And just as he spoke, a taxi pulled up before them and the passenger got out, leaving Matthew to be ushered in. They made it to get Alfred just in time- the traffic moved in perfect sequence. “What a spot of luck!” He gasped out as Alfred climbed in the car.
Matthew looked at his notes and smiled.
------------
From that moment on things got much, much better.
Matthew, it seemed, could do no wrong in luck- taxis were there, Christmas went over great, and he never missed the bus anymore. Plus, he never could lose a game of cards- anywhere luck counted, Matthew could trump it. Even when they played Monopoly and his dad used the top hat- his dad always won with the top hat -Matthew won anyway, and was left beaming as they counted their money at the end.
“Lucky.” Francis muttered, a small pout crossing his face.
However, Alfred was skeptical… and jealous. Ever since Matthew had gone to the museum, he had been luckier than any being on this earth should have. It wasn’t fair that he was getting all the luck- so he set up a plan. He challenged Matthew to a game of Rock Paper Scissors- and after 7 lost games that settled it.
“That’s not luck. That’s magic. Tell me what you did to get it. I want to be lucky, too.”
Matthew thought about lying, but it didn’t really hit him right. Besides, he doubted the Seasons would not be able to handle one person, even a person as annoying as Alfred. So, he spilled all about his trip- getting lost, finding the painting in the room, and then was stopped.
“I’m not a total idiot. If you tell me everything it’ll ruin it. You’re probably just lying, anyway.” And with that, he stood and left, leaving an astonished Matthew in his wake. He almost went to stop him, but then paused. The Seasons could take care of him, right?
The next day at dinner, Alfred announced he had the same project Matthew had gotten about the furniture. Of course, it was now Friday, and the project was due Monday. Francis said they should make it a family trip- Alfred insisted he do it himself, and they all agreed to go tomorrow. Matthew was still uneasy, but said nothing.
That Saturday, the whole family went to the museum, Alfred wandering off in the opposite direction of his family. As it usually was, the museum was a madhouse on weekends, and people were constantly shooting him nasty glares for bumping into them. Before long, he was more lost than he’d ever been, and had ran up a flight of stairs and into a dark room with a single painting in it.
In apprehension, he’d almost forgotten the reason he’d come. But after looking over it, Alfred just sighed. “This is so stupid. Everybody knows magic isn’t real, anyway.”
“Like, who says?”
Alfred whipped back around- one of the people in the painting just talked… someone with blond hair and a dress. Was that a man? Or was it a really flat girl?
“I do.” Alfred responded, if only a bit warily.
“And who’re you?” Replied a pale blond in the front; his stare was all but friendly, and Alfred shuddered.
“Alfred. You made my brother Matthew lucky, in November. I want it too.”
“Aah, November.” The only female in the painting mused; she was grinning. “Is it still November out there, in your world?”
Alfred replied, with a scowl. “You’re supposed to be magic and you don’t even know what month it is? It’s December, for your information, and it’s cold and wet and I hate it.”
The tallest man in the corner scowled right back, looking almost scary (for a painting). “What about Christmas, and the snow?”
“It doesn’t really snow here.” Alfred responded, still looking downright snotty. “It just turns into slush from all the stupid pollution. And Christmas isn’t Christmas without my actual family.”
The blond from before, who seemed downright pleased the large (and now infuriated) man was slandered, decided to speak. “So what about spring, or, y’know, summer is totally awesome too…”
“No. They suck.” Alfred replied bluntly- the blond looked outright offended, and a brunet with a curl looked sad. “It never really gets warm until June, and then its just baking garbage all over the place and it smells. Plus the humidity is horrible and you never have any fun. I hate it. I hate all of it.”
The Months exchanged silent looks. Finally, one in front spoke, a man holding a violin. “Well, we know where you stand.”
“Great.” Alfred responded, still glaring. “Now you’re going to make something horrible happen to me, and it’s not fair.”
“Don’t you worry, honey.” The girl replied- it came out with a fake sweetness. “We’re going to give you exactly what you deserve. And I don’t want any crap out of you, October.” She leered at a man covered in birds, who promptly sunk back in a slump.
An Asian man on the left side held out his hand. “The luck you have asked for is yours. Now go.”
Before Alfred could say anything, he felt himself pushed out of the room, and through many, many hallways and corridors before he was left in some room on the far end of the museum, completely lost. On top of that, he couldn’t find his way back to the family for another hour, where he was met with some very mad parents. Then, when they realized he had no notes, they were even madder. And when he accidentally let it slip that he didn’t really have the project, they were mad enough to start another Hundred Year’s War.
The only person not completely infuriated with Alfred was Matthew. At first, he was happy. Alfred really, really deserved this- but after a while, Matthew began to feel bad.
If Matthew was the king of good luck, Alfred was king of bad. Everywhere he went, he’d lose games, step in gum, forget some key notes for school and have grades drop. He caught every cold that could possibly be invented, and eventually came down with the chicken pox during their summer break in July. And of course, this did nothing for his disposition- Alfred blamed Matthew for every inch of it, and continued to be the biggest grouch ever.
So one day, when Alfred was bedridden and even Arthur didn’t want to see him, Matthew came in and sat down. All Alfred did was scowl and turn away. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Why? Look, Al, I didn’t want to do this to you. In fact, I didn’t want to do anything.” Matthew paused, sighing. “But maybe there’s a way to break it! There always is in fairy tales.” At this, Alfred turned, propping himself up and beginning to shout.
“This isn’t some story, this isn’t magic, and you’re just being stupid!” He shouted back- Matthew recoiled just a little before continuing.
“Well maybe you should apologize to the Months. You must’ve offended them in some way.”
“Apologize?” Alfred scoffed. “They’re the ones who should be apologizing for doing this to me. Shut up!” And with that, he made a move to push him away- he ended up falling out of bed and smacking his elbow into the bedside table, causing him to hiss in pain. Matthew walked to the doorway, looking back sadly.
“Look, Alfred. Look at yourself. This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t tried to hit me. Think about it sometime.” And with that, he left, leaving Alfred to climb back in bed with a sigh.
------------
Later, when Alfred was alone again, he began to think. Maybe he really had hurt the Months, and maybe that’s why he was in that position. Maybe… maybe there had been something about July here that he just hadn’t seen before.
Looking out the window, he watched two doves fly in playful banter around each other in the sky, and the way the sun shone off their wings like diamonds and sent the rocks Matthew brought him from Central Park into a spectacle of colors. Before long, Alfred realized he liked it. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.
Soon, he began to notice other things. How he could always count on his father to bring him books or food, even when he neglected it. How Matthew had always put up with him for the last few months and still, the blond would talk and help him with his homework and everything, and how even Matthew’s father would come and console him when he was sick.
And before long, Alfred realized that maybe he was just being a little too negative about the whole thing.
Next thing he knew, the pox was gone, and they all went on their family vacation without flaws. On top of that, he could find his games when he wanted them, he could take a walk through the park without stepping in something, and the bugs bit everyone, not just him. By the time school started, things were happening to him that could happen to anyone- losing pencils, misplacing a paper or two and losing the occasional card game. In fact, Alfred had become a pretty good kid.
By the time November rolled around again, the brothers decided it was time to go back and thank the Months- but no matter how lost the two tried to get in the extensive museum, neither could ever find a way to get back to the room with the Months of Manhattan.
Title: The Months of Manhattan
Author/Artist: Myself~
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, Canada, FrUK (though it's not central)
Rating: G
Warnings: None, really. Possibly Poland's fat mouth.
Summary: A retelling of a modern fairytale, The Months of Manhattan. When Matthew's father gets remarried and he gets a new stepbrother, Alfred, everything seems to be looking down... until he finds a mysterious panting alone in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
When you really sat down to think about it, Matthew Williams was a fairly good kid.
Sure, his grades were (far) from perfect, he didn’t always get along with his peers, and he was often known to find himself in detention at the end of the day for one thing or another (that the Principal could never understand, because really, he was such a sweet boy, despite having a talent for using a hockey stick in all the wrong ways.) Sure, he had to get used to his father flirting with other men, and dragging him off with his face bright red, with yells of Papa, we’re in public! and Francis, please, people are staring. But for a teenage boy living with his father in New York City, that was good, or at least fair.
Then Alfred F. Jones came into his life.
Alfred was the son of his dad’s new… “wife” (if you could call another man a wife), thereby making Alfred and Matthew stepbrothers. Matthew, really, was thrilled; he finally had a sibling, and one who looked amazingly like him to boot. Now he finally had a partner for his video games, and a brother to chase down the lanes of Central Park. He even had someone to help him with his homework, or maybe vice-versa, though Matthew didn’t mind too much.
Problem was, Alfred was almost the complete opposite.
Alfred, on the other hand, hated that he now had to share his room with Matthew, that he had to spend all his time with such a quiet kid, that now he had to move to the steely city when he much preferred the country. And he, overall, didn’t like the fact he now had to share everything.
And worst of all? Alfred had his father wrapped around his finger. Who, in turn, had Matthew’s father. Leaving Matthew nice and alone, to take whatever Alfred decided to dish at him.
Of course, Matthew was not a mean kid. He just sort of took the things Alfred and his father pushed at him, and thought maybe Alfred would change. Maybe.
He had to keep telling himself that as he sat in his bedroom, organizing his homework (and Alfred’s). Maybe he’ll change. Maybe he’ll change. He can’t stay this way forever. He’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t even noticed the door click open, and a hand fall upon his shoulder.
“Matthew…” His father’s voice gently crooned, and the boy jumped at the touch, spinning in his chair. “Are you doing alright?”
“Papa! E-Everything’s just fine!” He did his best to plaster a smile on his face, quickly stuffing the papers farther away on his desk. “Alfred’s great! A-And you’re happy with Arthur- I mean, Dad, right?”
Francis’ eyes went soft. “Matthew… please do not think I have forgotten you. We are all family now, and we must press through any obstacles we find. You will not forget this, oui?”
Matthew smiled. “Yes, Papa.” Maybe this will get better.
“Now, I just need to deal with the obstacle of your Dad, which will take a lot of pushing…”
“Papa!”
-----
After a few months in the company of the two, Matthew was given an assignment for his History class, on American furniture from a decade or two ago. The assignment entailed a personal trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art- which meant notes and time, which wasn’t something his family was plentiful on.
Unfortunately, the only person who could take him was his stepfather, while Alfred was working on the school paper with some friends (all the others who just adored him), meaning he didn’t have a lot of time. On top of that, his stepdad dropped himself down in the food court, told Matthew to be back at 4:30, and buried his face in a book. Checking his watch as he wandered off, he sighed; jut before 3. Now to navigate the huge place that he’d barely ever visited.
Now anyone who knew Matthew would know he didn’t have a perfect sense of direction, and when a distracted guard pointed him in the wrong direction, it really only made things worse. Before long, it was nearly 4 PM, and he was completely and inexplicably lost. Matthew was stumbled around a corner into a dark room, and even with his bad sense of direction; he knew this was not the American wing.
Matthew, by now, was totally at the end of his rope. He didn’t even know how to get back to the food court, and certainly not in a half an hour; plus, he still didn’t have notes for his report (and I believe it was aforementioned that Matthew was not the best student, and he really, really needed this grade). Plus, his new Dad would be entirely miffed that he was late.
And before all else, he fell down in the dark, blank room and began to cry, notepad and pen skittering across the floor. He was down on his hands and knees, tears hitting the floor, when a surprising voice caught his ear.
“Hey kid. Watcha’ ‘doin? Ya seem down.”
Matthew jumped up, wiping away the tears as he looked up. Before him, was a big, bright painting of Rockefeller Center, with twelve people standing all around it, all varying ages. All the way to the left was an Asian man, black hair tied back in a ponytail and sitting atop a statue of a tiger. Next to him was a tanned European, painting a picture of the Spanish countryside. Next down the line was a tall, pale German, looking miffed at a seemingly younger man clinging to his arm. The younger was the one who’d spoken; he had brunette hair, with one curl sticking out the side. He was beaming wildly, and spoke with a thick Italian accent.
Matthew took a minute to survey the rest of the picture. Past him was another Asian man, standing in a tactful business suit, though holding a samurai sword. Next was a tactfully smiling man with short brown hair, who looked as if he was being dragged slightly by the one next to him, a blond with hair to their shoulders in a sundress (which Matthew had to stare at a little longer to realize yes, it was indeed a man).
There was another row down the front of the picture. A girl, this time, sat on the edge of a stone planter, intently watching a brunet man next to her who was playing the violin. Behind him was a silver-haired man who sat on the ground, a flurry of birds surrounding him. The last two men were almost opposites- the first was very small, looking almost scared and glancing over his shoulder to the second, who was very, very large, and sporting a long pink scarf and sandy hair. His hand was resting on the smaller boy’s head.
At this point, Matthew looked oddly confused. Did a painting… just talk? “Did… are you talking to me?”
“Uh, yah!” The blond at the end responded, dragging the brunet next to him further when his hands flew to his hips. “Like, who else would we be talking to? You’re totally the only on in here.”
At this point, Matthew had no words. He looked at his watch (if only to make sure his arm was still solid and the entire world wasn’t falling apart at the seams)- 3:40. He could’ve sworn it was later. He was snapped from his thoughts by the painting speaking again. This time, it was the woman at the edge, who had stood and let her green dress fall to her ankles.
“What’s wrong? Maybe we can help you.” She accompanied the statement with a grin, which somehow made Matthew feel a little more at ease.
“I’m… lost.” He choked out- this time, the response was from the large man at the edge.
“So are we.”
Matthew blinked once or twice. “Do… do you want me to tell someone you’re here?”
“Naw. That’d ruin the fun!” The bird-man had spoken, one of the birds finding his way to sit atop his head. “We prefer to be found by chance.” Before Matthew could speak again, the man in the dress cut in.
“So like, kid-”
“My name is Matthew!”
“Okay, Matthew. What month is it?”
“November.”
“Aww, November’s so totally boring.” He commented. “Always too cold and sloshy.”
“Well… not really.” Matthew commented- the people in the picture turned to face him with newfound interest. “There’s Thanksgiving and Christmas is coming soon, so there’s a lot of family time and warm cookies. And the parades are gonna come through the town, so there’s always something to look forward to.”
The man with the samurai sword finally spoke. “Well, what about January? You must hate January.”
“And what about February and March?” It came from the man with the violin.
“I kind of like February and March.” Matthew replied, the people turning back to him. “It’s kind of nice to be cold and then slip into a nice warm home, and have hot chocolate. Plus, the leaves are just beginning to grow in, and the wind likes playing with the others and people’s hair.”
“Well what about April? They say April is the worst.” Commented the Asian on the far left- the first man who had spoken to Matthew shot a pout in their direction.
“April showers bring May flowers.” Matthew chimed- the man with the curl grinned happily. “Besides, I kind of like the rain and the way it smells.”
“Well, then you must hate the summer.” It came from the large in the corner- the blond in drag stuck his tongue out at him in rebuttal.
“Well it’s hard to stay in school when it’s all bright and sunny outside, but then summer vacation comes, and then we go to Cape Cod and I get to have fun with my dad. Plus, it’s all relaxed, and I can go skateboarding with my friends.” Matthew spoke. Finally, the tanned man spoke.
“Then you must hate the fall.”
“Well, not really. I get to see all my friends again when school comes around, and plus the leaves start turning all those beautiful colors, and-” Matthew stopped, shaking his head. “Look, this is really, really cool, but I have a huge project due and I’m late and so lost. I’ve gotta go.”
“I think we can help you with that!” The guy in the front said- it was the one with the curl, who had addressed him in the first place. “Can’t we, March?” He looked up towards the face of the man he was clinging to, who let out a sigh.
“I suppose we can, April.” He replied (as the other jumped up and down happily), looking down at Matthew. “We can’t write it for you, of course. But we can give you the time to do it in…” He paused, and the brunet on his arm pouted at him. “…And maybe some directions.”
Looking down at the woman, he managed a smile. “Alright, August. Go for it.” Looking back to Matthew, ‘August’ grinned.
“Good luck, Matthew. See you later.”
And then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone. The painting was still there, but it was just splotches of color, and only looked like people if you had a vision in mind. The plaque beneath it only read ‘THE TWELVE MONTHS OF MANHATTAN.’ There was no artist, no time period, nothing- just blotches of paint on paper.
Matthew squinted at the painting one last time before checking his watch- 3:05. He nearly did a doubletake as he rushed out of the room, found his way to the American Wing with no wrong turns, and took notes for his paper until nearly four. Then, he made his way back to the food court without even thinking- it was like magic. And when he arrived where his stepdad was, it was exactly 4:30.
“Hmph. Good job. Let’s go pick up your brother. You’re lucky you made it.” He responded, dragging the blond outside. The streets were crowded, and he visibly frowned. “Great, now we’re going to be hours late picking up Al. Ugh, he’s going to be so mad- -”
And just as he spoke, a taxi pulled up before them and the passenger got out, leaving Matthew to be ushered in. They made it to get Alfred just in time- the traffic moved in perfect sequence. “What a spot of luck!” He gasped out as Alfred climbed in the car.
Matthew looked at his notes and smiled.
------------
From that moment on things got much, much better.
Matthew, it seemed, could do no wrong in luck- taxis were there, Christmas went over great, and he never missed the bus anymore. Plus, he never could lose a game of cards- anywhere luck counted, Matthew could trump it. Even when they played Monopoly and his dad used the top hat- his dad always won with the top hat -Matthew won anyway, and was left beaming as they counted their money at the end.
“Lucky.” Francis muttered, a small pout crossing his face.
However, Alfred was skeptical… and jealous. Ever since Matthew had gone to the museum, he had been luckier than any being on this earth should have. It wasn’t fair that he was getting all the luck- so he set up a plan. He challenged Matthew to a game of Rock Paper Scissors- and after 7 lost games that settled it.
“That’s not luck. That’s magic. Tell me what you did to get it. I want to be lucky, too.”
Matthew thought about lying, but it didn’t really hit him right. Besides, he doubted the Seasons would not be able to handle one person, even a person as annoying as Alfred. So, he spilled all about his trip- getting lost, finding the painting in the room, and then was stopped.
“I’m not a total idiot. If you tell me everything it’ll ruin it. You’re probably just lying, anyway.” And with that, he stood and left, leaving an astonished Matthew in his wake. He almost went to stop him, but then paused. The Seasons could take care of him, right?
The next day at dinner, Alfred announced he had the same project Matthew had gotten about the furniture. Of course, it was now Friday, and the project was due Monday. Francis said they should make it a family trip- Alfred insisted he do it himself, and they all agreed to go tomorrow. Matthew was still uneasy, but said nothing.
That Saturday, the whole family went to the museum, Alfred wandering off in the opposite direction of his family. As it usually was, the museum was a madhouse on weekends, and people were constantly shooting him nasty glares for bumping into them. Before long, he was more lost than he’d ever been, and had ran up a flight of stairs and into a dark room with a single painting in it.
In apprehension, he’d almost forgotten the reason he’d come. But after looking over it, Alfred just sighed. “This is so stupid. Everybody knows magic isn’t real, anyway.”
“Like, who says?”
Alfred whipped back around- one of the people in the painting just talked… someone with blond hair and a dress. Was that a man? Or was it a really flat girl?
“I do.” Alfred responded, if only a bit warily.
“And who’re you?” Replied a pale blond in the front; his stare was all but friendly, and Alfred shuddered.
“Alfred. You made my brother Matthew lucky, in November. I want it too.”
“Aah, November.” The only female in the painting mused; she was grinning. “Is it still November out there, in your world?”
Alfred replied, with a scowl. “You’re supposed to be magic and you don’t even know what month it is? It’s December, for your information, and it’s cold and wet and I hate it.”
The tallest man in the corner scowled right back, looking almost scary (for a painting). “What about Christmas, and the snow?”
“It doesn’t really snow here.” Alfred responded, still looking downright snotty. “It just turns into slush from all the stupid pollution. And Christmas isn’t Christmas without my actual family.”
The blond from before, who seemed downright pleased the large (and now infuriated) man was slandered, decided to speak. “So what about spring, or, y’know, summer is totally awesome too…”
“No. They suck.” Alfred replied bluntly- the blond looked outright offended, and a brunet with a curl looked sad. “It never really gets warm until June, and then its just baking garbage all over the place and it smells. Plus the humidity is horrible and you never have any fun. I hate it. I hate all of it.”
The Months exchanged silent looks. Finally, one in front spoke, a man holding a violin. “Well, we know where you stand.”
“Great.” Alfred responded, still glaring. “Now you’re going to make something horrible happen to me, and it’s not fair.”
“Don’t you worry, honey.” The girl replied- it came out with a fake sweetness. “We’re going to give you exactly what you deserve. And I don’t want any crap out of you, October.” She leered at a man covered in birds, who promptly sunk back in a slump.
An Asian man on the left side held out his hand. “The luck you have asked for is yours. Now go.”
Before Alfred could say anything, he felt himself pushed out of the room, and through many, many hallways and corridors before he was left in some room on the far end of the museum, completely lost. On top of that, he couldn’t find his way back to the family for another hour, where he was met with some very mad parents. Then, when they realized he had no notes, they were even madder. And when he accidentally let it slip that he didn’t really have the project, they were mad enough to start another Hundred Year’s War.
The only person not completely infuriated with Alfred was Matthew. At first, he was happy. Alfred really, really deserved this- but after a while, Matthew began to feel bad.
If Matthew was the king of good luck, Alfred was king of bad. Everywhere he went, he’d lose games, step in gum, forget some key notes for school and have grades drop. He caught every cold that could possibly be invented, and eventually came down with the chicken pox during their summer break in July. And of course, this did nothing for his disposition- Alfred blamed Matthew for every inch of it, and continued to be the biggest grouch ever.
So one day, when Alfred was bedridden and even Arthur didn’t want to see him, Matthew came in and sat down. All Alfred did was scowl and turn away. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Why? Look, Al, I didn’t want to do this to you. In fact, I didn’t want to do anything.” Matthew paused, sighing. “But maybe there’s a way to break it! There always is in fairy tales.” At this, Alfred turned, propping himself up and beginning to shout.
“This isn’t some story, this isn’t magic, and you’re just being stupid!” He shouted back- Matthew recoiled just a little before continuing.
“Well maybe you should apologize to the Months. You must’ve offended them in some way.”
“Apologize?” Alfred scoffed. “They’re the ones who should be apologizing for doing this to me. Shut up!” And with that, he made a move to push him away- he ended up falling out of bed and smacking his elbow into the bedside table, causing him to hiss in pain. Matthew walked to the doorway, looking back sadly.
“Look, Alfred. Look at yourself. This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t tried to hit me. Think about it sometime.” And with that, he left, leaving Alfred to climb back in bed with a sigh.
------------
Later, when Alfred was alone again, he began to think. Maybe he really had hurt the Months, and maybe that’s why he was in that position. Maybe… maybe there had been something about July here that he just hadn’t seen before.
Looking out the window, he watched two doves fly in playful banter around each other in the sky, and the way the sun shone off their wings like diamonds and sent the rocks Matthew brought him from Central Park into a spectacle of colors. Before long, Alfred realized he liked it. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.
Soon, he began to notice other things. How he could always count on his father to bring him books or food, even when he neglected it. How Matthew had always put up with him for the last few months and still, the blond would talk and help him with his homework and everything, and how even Matthew’s father would come and console him when he was sick.
And before long, Alfred realized that maybe he was just being a little too negative about the whole thing.
Next thing he knew, the pox was gone, and they all went on their family vacation without flaws. On top of that, he could find his games when he wanted them, he could take a walk through the park without stepping in something, and the bugs bit everyone, not just him. By the time school started, things were happening to him that could happen to anyone- losing pencils, misplacing a paper or two and losing the occasional card game. In fact, Alfred had become a pretty good kid.
By the time November rolled around again, the brothers decided it was time to go back and thank the Months- but no matter how lost the two tried to get in the extensive museum, neither could ever find a way to get back to the room with the Months of Manhattan.