[fanfic] The Story in the name [2/2]
Title: The Story in the Name
Characters: Kirkland Family/FACE.
Rating: PG+
Genre: Drama/mild angst
Summary: He cherished his name because the ones he found he cared for so deeply were the ones who made sure it fit just right. He just wished that it didn't have to leave him living on such a shaky foundation with the man he loved the most.
A/N: Woah nelly, this is a long one. And it took some time to write, but it's basically a very fleshed out headcanon on how Alfred got his name. Ahurrhurr. Enjoy, darlings~
Chapter One | Chapter Two
Canada felt a tear fall from his eyes as France pushed the covers up to his chin and brushed the bangs away from his face.
“P-Papa? Is it my fault that they’re so angry with each other? M-Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything! You told me that names were something to be careful with and maybe if I didn’t say anything to America-”
“Non, non. Do not worry about it, my boy. This is something that those two need to work out on their own. You should not fret, little one.” Canada opened his mouth to say something but closed it just as quickly and nodded his head, bringing his hand up to rub away his tears. France smiled and leaned down to give him a quick kiss on his forehead. “Ah, it is so good to see you again. I have missed you so much.” He whispered as he kneeled down by the boy’s bed.
“Y-You have? Y-You haven’t… forgotten about me?”
“Mon petit, how could I ever forget you! I have spent all these years trying to convince that awful man to let me see you again!” He laughed but Canada just smiled brightly, as he snuggled deeper into his covers.
“He’s not all bad, England I mean.”
“I do not know if your brother would agree.” France said jokingly but a frown broke out onto the boy’s face as he looked away from his former brother. The blonde man sighed and placed a bent finger under the Canadian’s chin, forcing him to look back up. “I am glad you are adjusting to your new home. I was so worried that they would be cruel to you.”
“Oh no, Papa!” He said frantically, shaking his head as best as he could. “England is really nice to me and he always tells us stories and plays with us outside.” France smirked at the image. “A-And America! He… he really is a great brother.”
A moment of silence passed between them as France continued to brush the boy’s bangs to the side. Canada sighed in contentment before looking around the room, as if to check if there was someone watching them. He motioned for France to come closer and tentatively, in his smallest voice whispered something in French.
“I’ve missed you, Francis.”
France swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and laid his forehead on the space next to the younger boy, who had curled back into his bed and closed his eyes, ready for slumber. “Sleep, mon amour. You have had a tiring day.” France stood, placed one more kiss on the boy’s forehead and turned for the door before turning back and smiling.
“I have missed you too, Mathieu.”
-------------------------------------------
He didn’t know where he was. But that was okay. Anywhere further than a thrown stone from his house and he wouldn’t know where he was. So he was okay. He wondered if he was scared, but a part of him knew he wasn’t. He felt comfortable, more comfortable than he had in that house for the past few days, and he watched as the lingering sunlight clung to the sky. He had always loved the colors that summer had provided.
The orange sky blurred in and out of his sight as tears fell from his deep blue eyes. He watched, truly unaware of whatever was around him, as the clouds moved and danced slowly against the fading daylight.
If he just stayed here, would England come looking for him? Would England care? Canada would. He knew he would. He was his brother. He never lied to him, and he worried about him like a brother should. Like England should.
“Mister?”
His eyes snapped open and he felt fear fill his body like heat as he stared at the little girl in front of him.
“Hey mister? What’s wrong?” America barely registered the tears that fell from his face or the fact that, perhaps, he should be embarrassed. He looked around and found… people. He was crying on the grass in a town… amidst people. He snapped up at the realization and stared at the girl, not quite knowing what to do.
“What do you use them for?”
“N-Names? I mean… France told me that you’re supposed to use them with the people you care about. A-And when you talk to humans.”
“Humans?” America asked, as if the concept was foreign to him. Canada let out a nervous chuckle.
“S-Sure, haven’t you ever talked to a human before?”
“You have your own crew? Of humans?”
“Mister?”
“U-Um…”
“Mister, why are you crying?”
“I, uh-”
“Molly! Hurry up!”
“Hush your mouth, Samuel!”
America smiled at the small exchange between the children and watched as a group of boys came into sight with a small beat up ball. He watched carefully as they interacted with each other, sneaking a glance at the people who walked on the path surrounding him as well. Watched as they talked and laughed, watched as the children would giggle and fight, watched as the men would tip their hats and the woman would cover their mouths with their hands.
And he was intrigued.
“Mister, you still didn’t answer my question.”
“Who is this man, Molly?” The boy with the ball said, huffing up and pouting. The girl named Molly shrugged.
“He was crying.” She said pointing, and America immediately looked down at the grass he was sitting on. The boys circled around him. These children had to be young, that was the first thought that crossed America’s mind. They were shorter than him, and their faces hadn’t thinned out as much as his. If he stood, he knew he would be a good head and a half taller, but he still watched with naïve eyes as they circled him.
“I haven’t seen you around here before, where ya from?” One asked.
“How old are you?”
“Yeah, and why were you crying?!”
“Boys, leave him alone!” Molly cried when she saw the frantic look that crossed over the blonde boy’s features. He watched silently as the boys gave him incredulous stares and backed away as the girl stood right in front of him once more.
“Don’t pay attention to them, mister. They’re just silly boys.”
“Hey!” She ignored them.
“My name’s Molly, and that’s Samuel, Jacob, and Richard.” She said pointing to each of them. America nodded and let the names burn into his mind as he switched his gaze between the four of them. “What’s your name?” She asked extending a hand.
He felt tears form in his eyes once again as he looked around. He barely registered how they fell into the grass and onto his knees until the human girl let worry flash in her eyes.
“M-Mister? Are you okay?”
“I-I don’t have a name.” He said quietly as he bent his head. “Th-that’s why I’m crying.” He looked around at the boys who had become decidedly uncomfortable and were shuffling their feet and looking at each other as they bit their lip. Molly still didn’t move. “I don’t have a name.”
“Th-that’s silly!” One of the boys said. “Everyone has a name!” America shook his head sadly.
“Did you forget it? Because mama said that that nice locksmith man hit his head really hard and now he can’t remember anything. Maybe you hit your head, mister!” He couldn’t help but smile at the comment but shook his head again.
“No, ma’am.” She blushed at that. “I didn’t hit my head. I don’t have a name.”
The four children looked at each other with sad expressions until a smile broke out on the face of one of the young boys.
“Hey, mister! What if we gave you a name?!” All the boys nodded enthusiastically and Molly clapped.
“Oh that’s a wonderful idea! I’m sure we could come up with a great name for you, mister!” He looked stunned between them and didn’t even process that he had nodded.
“R-Really?”
“Of course! Okay, boys!” They all huddled around him. “What does he look like?”
“Hmmmm…” They all said, scratching their chins and squinting.
“Boys, Molly. Time to go home, it’s getting dark out. Come on, Jacob, we have to get going.”
“Oh, not yet, Mrs. Lee!” Molly exclaimed. “We’re trying to help out this mister!”
“Yeah, mama! We can’t leave yet!”
“Oh?” The woman said with a string of amusement in her voice. “And how exactly are you helping this young man?”
“We’re naming him!”
“Yeah, mama! He doesn’t have a name!” The woman chuckled at the response until spying the solemn nod that came from the boy with his red eyes and sad smile.
“P-Please, ma’am?” America asked quietly.
The woman stared at him and then back at the children who had all clasped their hands together and pleading her for just a moment longer. She nodded and all their faces lit up at once. Again, they had huddled around America eyeing him carefully.
“What about Moses?”
“Hmmm… Yeah, that would be okay.”
“Oh dear,” the woman said chuckling. “Children, he looks nothing like a Moses.”
---------------------------------------------
France watched carefully as England downed another shot of alcohol before standing up to pace around the room again. He wondered for a moment if the Englishman even knew he was standing there, watching him in one of his weaker moments.
He wondered if he even cared.
France crossed his arms as he leaned against the banister of the study. Watched as England clenched and unclenched his fist around the paper that left ink marks on the other man’s hand.
“What do you want, frog?” There was a slur in his voice but his feet didn’t sway and his pacing wasn’t hindered by the alcohol that marred his voice.
“You’re drunk, go to bed.” England shot him a glare as he continued to pace around the room.
“Pity doesn’t flatter you.”
“I don’t pity you. Far from it. Go to bed.”
England walked to the desk and poured himself another glass. France sighed as he watched the liquid spill down the man’s throat, but made no move to stop him. The paper in England’s hand was clenched tighter and tighter. The figure of the Englishman was shadowed by the night sky that spilled into the room, but the light from a few candles and the fireplace giving France all the light he needed to see England’s firm scowl.
He paced again, this time toward the Frenchman, and looked him dead in the eye, before turning away toward the fireplace.
“I know what you’re thinking.” His words were shaken by the alcohol as he stood and watched the fire crackle and the firewood nip away bit by bit. “You’re thinking about what an awful man I am. Hehe.”
“I am always thinking that, Angleterre.”
“You’re thinking why I didn’t name the boy, hmm?” He chuckled again, dark and low as he stumbled backwards and landed on the plush chair that faced the fire. He watched the flames intently. France rolled his eyes at the man’s behavior and walked toward him, stopping behind the chair and leaning against it, trying to find what was so fascinating about the burning wood.
“Well?”
“Well what?” He snapped, crinkling the paper even tighter.
“Well, why didn’t you give the poor boy a name?”
The room stilled for a moment, the only sound coming from the flames as they popped against the brick. France looked down to see the man breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling with some concealed emotion that tugged so desperately at the man’s heart. He opened his mouth once to speak, and closed it again before finally saying, “get me a drink, won’t you?”
“I think you’ve had enough-”
“It is my house, I let you come here on my ship, to see my boys, and the least you can very well do for me is get me another drink.” The man snapped and held the glass in front of France’s face, almost hitting him in the nose.
He snatched the glass from the gloved hands, eyes narrowed as he walked toward the desk to pour him another round, tempted to take the bottle and throw it into the fire and see how England would react. Instead he walked back toward the man and dangled the glass right in front of him, pulling it out of reach when the man went to grab it.
“Answer my question first.”
“Give me the glass.”
“Why didn’t you give him a name?”
“Why does it matter to you?” He reached for it once more and France pulled it away.
To be honest, he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. He was curious, that was all. And he was angry and tired. And he wanted to make England mad. He wanted to make him admit something. He could care less of what it meant or what significance it held. The fact that Canada had a name was good enough for him, and he was glad to give the boy something that would never truly be England’s. It practically made him giddy.
“Well?”
England snarled and shot his hand out to grab France’s wrist, bending it in a painful way so that the man let out a hiss. The drink spilled and sunk into the carpet of the study but England held on strong until he finally snaked his hand down to grab his drink, bending his head back to devour whatever tiny bit was left.
“Nothing was bloody good enough.”
“Pardon?” Francis asked irritated, rubbing his injured wrist.
England unclenched his hand around the paper and let it fall to the ground next to him.
“Nothing seemed to fit.”
Francis bent down slowly and picked up the document England had been holding on to so vigorously and carefully unfolded the kinks that permanently bent and contorted the paper.
Names.
It was a list of nothing but names.
Some had been crossed out, some had question marks next to them, some had been circled once, twice, three times.
Nothing seemed to fit.
“It’s better this way, anyway.” England’s words sounded like an out of tune song, the notes clashed with each other and ran together like water and paint. “He doesn’t need a name. He’s not a bloody country. He’s my colony. Mine. And I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”
France stared at the list and then looked down at the man, his face glowing in the light of the fire, his emotions flashing across his face with the help of the liquor in his system.
“You’re drunk. Go to bed.”
“No.”
France rolled his eyes but turned and headed toward the stairs, ready to retire in his own quarters. Not really caring if England went to bed or not, not caring if he drank himself to death.
He’s still such a child.
England sighed and rubbed his forehead as his breath hitched slightly.
He wouldn’t go to bed until he came home.
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“How about Nathaniel?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, that doesn’t fit him at all!”
“Oh, but I kind of like it!”
“I still think Daniel would suit him quite nicely!”
“We already discussed that one!”
America felt his heartbeat thump in his chest as he looked around the crowd of people. It had started with the parents of the four children he had run into, but now…
Now it was half the village. The children had attracted even more children, who attracted their guardians as well, until a small crowd had formed and everyone was curious as to what had shaped such a mob.
The little ones crawled all over America’s lap and shoulders. The bigger kids sat next to him or jumped around in excitement. The adults huddled in a refined way, and he watched. Unsure of what to do with himself at first.
Not sure whether to speak, whether to stay silent, what to do.
He had never interacted so directly with so many humans before. But he found he enjoyed the attention, he was so grateful for a purpose he was sure sounded so silly to so many of them. But they were still here. Helping him. Watching as he reacted to the names that were thrown out, shouted, yelled, one by one.
And soon he was laughing along with everyone in the crowd. He was allowing his face to contort at the bitter sound of an unfit name. He watched and smiled as the village worked so hard for a stranger.
No. He wasn’t a stranger. He knew these people. He didn’t know how, but he did. He felt a connection with them. Each and every one. He felt as if he was being reunited, not as if he were being introduced.
He felt comfortable. And that surprised him.
“Joshua! I love the name Joshua!”
“That just reminds me of that mean boy who likes to tug on my hair!” One of the children shouted and some people in the crowd let out a boisterous laugh, America joined in as well.
“I don’t quite fancy that name, myself!” America added and he heard disappointment flutter through some of the women.
“Look at this boy,” one of the men said pushing himself forward, “he needs a name that’s as tough as he will grow to be! He’ll fill out nicely, I’m sure of it!”
“Oh hush with your nonsense, darling!” The woman, America assumed was the man’s wife, called out. “His face is so sweet and as innocent as a newborn. He needs something that suits him in that way.”
The crowd continued to call out in an incoherent babble that America could barely decipher. He laughed at the countless arguments and shook his head as some of the children threw out a few more names.
“Jonathan?”
“No…”
“David?”
America shook his head and some of the younger children mimicked him.
“Oh, Gabriel!”
“I don’t like that one at all!”
“Be gentle boy, that’s my name!” The crowd was laughing again and America couldn’t stop the wide smile that split his face in two. He wondered why he had never interacted with these people before, why it took him so long to wander so far from his house.
He had to stop himself from frowning when he realized it was because he was always waiting for England. He was always lonely because he was always watching, and waiting, and hoping he would come back. But everyone here was so kind, and surrounded by so many of them, the last thing he felt was lonely.
He felt warm, and safe. He loved it here.
“Alfred!”
“Samson!”
“Wait!” The crowd stopped along with America as he was mulling something over in his mind. “I-I like that one.”
“Samson?” He shook his head.
“Alfred?” America felt himself blush as he nodded and smiled, his eyes turned toward the grass. “Does… Does everyone else like it?” He wanted everybody to like it, he couldn’t possibly consider a name that these people, these humans, so kind and generous, standing outside with him in the middle of the night under the chilling summer breeze, didn’t like.
“Alfred, hm?”
“Well, I like it!” One of the children called.
“I think it’s a name he could grow into.” One of the men laughed.
“I think it’s sweet, it suits him very well.”
One of the children snuggled up closer and asked “and we can call you Al!”
The crowd roared in approval and America’s chest went tight as he watched the celebration of finally finding the perfect name for the strange boy that had entered their village not even three hours ago.
“What do you think, Alfred?”
Something warm flushed through his chest at the calling, he felt giddy, as if he were flying and stood up from where he had been sitting for so long and tried to take in each face, each feature, and burn it into his memory.
“I like it!”
And the mob cheered and clapped and whistled and called his name. One of the men came over and ruffled his hair and a woman came by and wrapped a blanket around him, saying it was for his walk back home.
“All right children, time for bed now!” The mothers gathered their children and one by one they left the boy’s side, each calling over their shoulders as they clutched their mother’s hands, “Goodbye, Alfred!”
“Good night, Al!”
“Stay safe going home, okay, Alfred?”
And Alfred nodded and smiled and waved and raced through the town, hearing various calls after him.
“Be sure to visit us again soon, Alfred!”
“Looks like it might rain so you better hurry home, Alfred!”
“Alfred, be careful where you’re going!”
It felt so right. It felt like it fit. And on his way home, with the village behind him and the house coming into view, he cried and wept because he couldn’t contain all his joy in a single smile.
He was so happy.
He couldn’t think of England right now, he couldn’t think of their argument, he couldn’t think of the fact that he was even back.
He had a name. And he would cherish it until the day he died.
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Matthew woke when he felt himself being shaken so vigorously through his covers. He let his eyes flutter open and the beginning of the morning spilled into his eyes as the dull room barely filled the room with light.
He looked up to see his brother, eyes red, and smile wide, hovering right above him.
But something was different. It didn’t look like his brother in a way, he was… older. As if he had aged another decade in one night, and his sleep-deprived mind wondered how long he had been sleeping.
“A-America?”
He shook his head and his smile seemed impossibly wide.
“Canada, I have a name!”
“W-What? That’s great! Did England-”
“No.” America said simply as he held up a finger and walked toward the door of their room before turning around and mocking surprise when he saw Canada lying in his bed.
“Oh hello, sir. It’s nice to meet you.” Canada tilted his head and stared at his brother through incredulous eyes. But America extended his hand for Canada to shake, whispering “introduce yourself.”
He laughed at his brother’s odd request but sat up straighter in his bed and took the hand.
“Hello, sir. My name is Matthew. It’s lovely to meet you. What might your name be?”
And America beamed as he shook the hand more firmly, “my name is Alfred. And it’s a pleasure to meet you! Might I also say what a handsome man you are.” Matthew rolled his eyes at the comment but laughed when Alfred crawled into bed next to him.
“How did you come up with that?” He whispered laying back down with his brother beside him.
Alfred’s eyes drooped, the long walk and the events from that evening finally draining him as he snuggled into his brother’s bed and let sleep consume him.
“They did. They named me. And it’s the best name in the world.”
“They?”
Alfred let his eyes flicker open one last time that night as he stared at his brother who was about ready to fall asleep as well. His smile, never really leaving his face, widened as he stared at his brother.
“My people.”
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England watched as his two colonies fell asleep side by side, the door creaking a bit when he closed it all the way.
His head hurt and his clothes stuck to him from the summer heat. He rubbed his forehead and sat against the wall next to the door of his two boys and stared at the pale blue color of the walls. Stared at the window a little further down the hall next to where France was sleeping. He watched as the sun slowly rose and sunlight bounced through the house.
He felt like vomiting. And his head pulsed loudly in his ear.
He pushed himself up and walked slowly down to his study, taking in the empty bottles and the forgotten document that France had left behind. He bent down and tried to smooth the paper to the best of his ability, staring at the list with darkened and hung-over eyes.
And without a second thought, threw it into the fading fire.
Arthur turned his back as the list turned to ash, and left to retire for the night.