Between the Lines [Hetalia; eventual America/England, 1/4]
Title: Between the Lines
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Character/Pairings: eventual America/England; Canada, France
Word Count: 4517 for this chapter
Warning/Spoilers: PG. Use of human names and obnoxious text messaging.
Summary: Sparked by a comment from Francis and prompted by how current world events have strained his and Alfred’s relationship, Arthur decides to step away from his feelings for Alfred. Francis meddles, Alfred remains oblivious, and Matthew watches it all, waiting for something to give.
Summary for this chapter: A piece of notepaper, with Francis’ curved handwriting on it, fluttered to Arthur's side of the table. Pick a direction and stick with it. Then you’ll be back to the little terror we all know and love.
Status: On-going
Chapter Links: [ Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 ]
Author's Notes: Written for the aph_minibang =). Will be posting this in parts because I still want to go through and edit the entire fic. Unfortunately, my artist fell out of the challenge so there is no accompanying art, but I hope you all enjoy the fic nonetheless.
Matthew was walking into the world conference room when his BlackBerry chimed twice in rapid succession. He didn't need to look at his display to know who sent them; part of Alfred's routine each time he hosted a world conference was to cramp a hundred and one messages in the hour or so before the conference began.
He set down his folders on the table and pried his phone from his pocket. The first is an email, with attachments of the meeting files - the agenda, the last meeting's minutes, the environmental policy they had been working on - together with a single-liner: Matt, can you put the agenda up on the screen for me? I'm sorta running late and my boss is getting on my case about being prepared. Thanks - Al.
The second was a text message: plz, like neone else is >_<
Matthew glanced towards the ceiling, then back down at his phone.
"What happened that has you entreating toward the sky, mon ami?" a voice asked from behind his shoulder, and Matthew relaxed, because it's Francis; he recognized the accent and voice.
"Just a bit amazed at how easily Al can go from totally business-like and serious to a goofball in less than a minute." Matthew turned. "Bonjour, Francis."
"Bonjour, Matthieu." Francis draped an arm over Matthew's shoulder and tilted his head. "That is an advantage you young ones have, that flexibility. Pity us elder nations, who cannot easily separate our history and nationhood from our personal lives."
"You're still flexible," Matthew said, then quickly amended. "You're adaptable."
Francis gave him one of his dazzling smiles. "You are too kind, Matthieu."
Matthew smiled back. He glanced down at his phone when it chimed. "Sorry. Give me a sec. It's probably Al again."
u r talkin to F or E
"How in the world does he..." Matthew muttered, then blinked when he received another text.
cuz u'd re: by now. say hi if its F
"Al says hi," Matthew dutifully passed along, then typed his reply. and if it's arthur?
no hi if E. his grump lvl = ∞ lately
"Let me guess," Francis said. "He's having trouble with Arthur."
Matthew hummed a reply as he typed, then looked up with a sigh. "I only hear all about it after every meeting they have. Usually it's something stupid that Alfred’s done, but lately he hasn't been very specific, just... frustrated. They're fighting more than usual, I think."
"You've noticed too." Francis tapped a finger one cheek.
Matthew didn't bother responding and busied himself with the laptop and projector.
"Perhaps it's time to have a word with Arthur," Francis mused.
"They've been doing this for two hundred years; I don't think a word is going to do much."
Francis patted him on the shoulder. "Depends on the word, Matthieu. I do know Arthur longer than either you or Alfred has."
"That's... not very assuring, Francis."
Francis flashed him that smile again. "Trust me, mon ami."
"That's really not-”
Matthew's BlackBerry rang. He gave Francis a look to stay - their conversation was so not over - before answering his phone, jabbing at the call button without looking. "Matthew Williams speaking."
"Matt! Did I put Francis and Arthur next to each other in the sitting arrangement?”
Francis winked at Matthew, and pushed away from the desk he had been leaning against, a devilish smile lurking on his face. Matthew did his best to snag Francis’ sleeve, missed, and had to grab at a chair to catch his balance.
“Crap!” Alfred continued, oblivious to Matthew’s struggles on the other side of the phone. “I bet they're going to be fighting with each other before the hour's up!"
Matthew watched Francis saunter off to his place across the conference room and didn’t doubt it at all.
-----
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Arthur gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to plunge the pointed end of his ballpoint into Francis’ hand to stop the incessant tapping.
Tap-tap. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Taptaptaptap.
And each time Arthur thought he caught the pattern of taps to the point where he could dismiss it to the background, Francis would twist the pen in his fingers and start afresh. With a different set of taps.
Arthur glanced up at the presentation to make sure he already knew the finer points of Ludwig’s financial scheme, then flipped to a fresh sheet on his notepad. Stop it, or I’ll stop you.
He angled it pointedly at Francis, and focused on a point across the room. Yes, nice ceiling. No cracks, no cobwebs. A plain cream color, but very nice nonetheless.
He looked down when Francis pushed the notepad back, looping cursive handwriting under his own neat words.
And risk getting both you and myself shot? You wouldn’t have the ♥ to disturb Amérique’s conference.
Arthur stared at the tiny heart symbol and wondered if Francis’ antics would ever stop being so disturbing.
Then do us both a favor and be quiet.
Francis smiled sweetly and tapped his pen once at him, then quickly tucked the pen away when Arthur made a motion to stab his hand.
Arthur glared at him a while longer, then distracted himself by looking around the conference table. Most nations either listened raptly to Ludwig, or were off in their own world. He smiled a little at Kiku when the other nation’s dark eyes met his, and moved on until his eyes caught, as it inevitably did, on the man with the bomber jacket draped over his chair.
Sometimes when Arthur looked, he couldn’t look away. Mostly it was because Alfred was doing something that made Arthur itch to fix, like wearing that ridiculous Spiderman tie with his suit, or the haphazard pile of candy wrappers surrounding his pen and notepad, almost encroaching on Matthew’s side of the table.
But occasionally, all it would take was a smile or some words spoken in a particular tone, and those times always caught Arthur unaware.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out slowly. The past months had been… trying. They had a dysfunctional relationship, he and Alfred, and it was one that worked for them. But lately, he found himself scrambling to maintain that balance.
Alfred’s boss had been focusing on ties with other nations, sure, Arthur understood that, but recent world events - on which he and Alfred often took opposite sides - had really thrown a wrench into things. He’d been on edge, his words more personal and cutting than usual, and although Alfred gave as good as he got in a fight, Arthur didn’t like the rare flashes of genuine hurt he saw in Alfred’s eyes, underneath the anger.
“You’re pining after him,” Francis murmured, leaning back against his chair and angling towards Arthur. “Again.”
“I am not.”
“I didn’t even say who.” He could feel the smirk on Francis’ face without looking up. “It’s not very healthy. In fact, it must rouse great frustration in you, frustration that I can-”
Arthur growled under his breath. “Continue that line of thought, Francis, and-”
Francis held a finger up to his lips. “Yes, yes. Torture, maiming, I’ve heard them all.” He smiled, and simply looked, and stayed remarkably quiet, not even tapping his pen to be annoying. Arthur felt the hair at the back of his neck rise.
“You don’t like it, when something disturbs your nicely organized world.” Francis leaned forward and placed one hand on Arthur’s knee. “You like routine. Everything in their proper place.”
Arthur looked down at Francis’ hand and didn’t move. “I like normalcy and routine, yes,” he said. “It usually means less nasty surprises like economic downturns and social unrest. Or weekly strikes, as I’m sure you’re very familiar with.”
Francis laughed, his voice low. “My dear Angleterre. You’re missing the point. How long will you spend staring at Alfred and pretending that everything is fine between the two of you?”
“Everything is fine,” Arthur said.
“So you think. And so you thought, before the Revolution.”
Francis didn’t drop the name of that event casually, Arthur knew, because Francis was watching him very, very carefully. Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, and took a careful breath, because yes, he had worked past that, he had made his peace about it, but it didn’t mean he liked being reminded about it on top of all his other problems.
Especially not by someone like Francis.
He met Francis’ gaze steadily, and said, “It’s no longer the eighteenth century. And you better have a damn good reason to bring up the Revolution.”
“You are overreacting, Angleterre.”
For one moment, something in Arthur almost snapped. It would have been easy, so easy to jump forward, to whip one hand up and forward to smash and break Francis’ nose, but he clamped down on the reaction, clenching the arms of his chair to hold himself back until the moment of blind instinct passed. It didn’t stop him from glaring and wishing he could just curse the Frenchman into oblivion, however.
His voice came out a low growl. “Fran-”
“You held back,” Francis cut in, his voice quiet, his hand on Arthur’s knee solid and unmoving. The smirk was missing, Arthur realized. No smirk, no bemused smile, no smug leer. Francis was serious, and the anger Arthur felt edged towards alarm. “That anger was genuine, but you held back. And yet you can’t do the same with Alfred.”
“I’ve-” his voice was rough, and Arthur swallowed “-never thought of physically hurting him, not the way I’m itching to break your face.”
“Perhaps,” Francis said. He glanced up at the podium; miraculously no one seemed to notice their tense conversation. “But Alfred is important to you, and you overreact to every slight and strain in your ‘special relationship.’ You yell and scold and sulk, and it chips at Alfred’s bravado.”
“I’ve done that for years.”
“Yes,” Francis agreed. “You have. But Alfred, lately, he’s been reacting differently to your ever present temper, hasn’t he?”
Arthur stared at him.
Francis turned his head towards the North American brothers. “Others move on, Arthur, and when you are the only one who stands still, you lose things." He chuckled, and rubbed one hand ruefully against his chin. “And you lose pieces of yourself.”
“Hold on a sec, let me check the minutes,” Alfred’s voice suddenly cut through their conversation, either in response to Ludwig or moving on down the agenda, and the sound of that familiar voice made Arthur startle and shift his attention away from Francis’ words.
“Can we not have this conversation at a world conference?” Arthur hissed, tapping his pen pointedly against his notepad before remembering how much he had hated the tap of pens on a table. He dropped the ballpoint. “In fact, let’s not have this conversation at all.”
“It’s the only time you’d actually listen to me,” Francis said, “without swearing or trying to curse me.”
“And now I’m going to stop,” Arthur said. “Kindly remove your hand from my knee before I remove it from your arm.”
Francis pushed his chair back slightly, and Arthur drew a breath as the other nation backed out of his personal space. He wished he was back at his home in London, where a pot of Earl Grey or Darjeeling always sat ready to soothe nerves and settle his thoughts. He knew best how to deal with Francis; have had to deal with his fickle neighbouring nations for centuries. He was fine on that front.
His gaze wandered back to Alfred.
Of all his former colonies, Arthur had the most difficulty defining his relationship with Alfred. Officially, politically, it was easy. Allies.
Personally? Arthur had no idea.
They argued. They fought together, on fronts far away from both their homes. They did silly, inconsequential things like attend world premiers of Hollywood movies that Alfred liked inviting him to. After the sheer chaos of the past century, Arthur appreciated having all that. He nurtured what feelings he possessed in secret and enjoyed what he had without upsetting the status quo, because what he had now was precious enough in and of itself.
But another side of him, the one who had once taken to the seas to build an empire on which the sun never set, whispered that Arthur was caught in a loop. That he was content to let things be because he couldn’t move towards another level in the relationship, and had always chosen not to move back away from it either. So he had let it be, letting that feeling linger and build and build and build until his heart filled to the bursting like a container with too much liquid.
The space between clearly defined boundaries, Arthur found, could be a very precarious place to be.
The ripping sound of paper pulled Arthur from his thoughts. A piece of notepaper, with Francis’ curved handwriting on it, fluttered to his side of the table.
Pick a direction and stick with it. Then you’ll be back to the little terror we all know and love.
Arthur crumpled the note in one fist. He looked again at Alfred and tried to imagine still arguing with him, still fighting together and still attending those dreary movies, but without the underlying tug to do more, without the hurt that came from Alfred’s obliviousness, the frustration that made him lash out.
He closed his eyes.
He didn’t want to think about it.
“I really, really hate you, you damn frog,” Arthur whispered under his breath, softly, he thought, but not quite enough to escape Francis’ notice.
“My dear Arthur-” Francis began, leaning forward, the pressure of his hand a sudden hard line on Arthur’s thigh, and Arthur thought, why yes, it is perfectly acceptable to break the perverted frog’s arm now and promptly whipped his tea into Francis’ face, cup and all.
It was just a plain mug, after all, as expected of a world conference organized by Alfred. Arthur glared at the stupid blonde nation and his stupid glasses and upsweep turn of Nantucket before Francis’ retaliating kick forced his attention away.
-----
“Told you,” Alfred said, not even bothering to keep his voice down. “Didn’t even last an hour.”
“I know.” Matthew sighed. “That’s why I didn’t bet against you.”
Matthew winced when Francis’ head bounced off a corner of the conference table. A second later, they heard Arthur yell as Francis swept his feet out from under him. Half a second later, the sound of Vash’s guns drowned out both their screams.
“But if you did, I’d have won.”
“But I didn’t bet, so you didn’t win,” Matt muttered. He nudged Alfred’s elbow. “Al, it’s your conference, can you do something so we don’t have to explain to our bosses why Europe’s at war again?”
“Come on, Arthur and Francis have always been at odds, what else is new?”
Matthew kicked him under the table.
“Okay, alright!” Alfred stopped slouching in his chair and sat upright. “Roderich and Ludwig look like they've got Vash. Can you get Francis? I’ll handle Arthur. I hope he doesn’t’ snap at me.”
They made their way across the room easily enough, since most of the nations didn’t want to risk getting shot and had used the distraction as an excuse to take a break themselves. At least the gunshots had forced Francis and Arthur apart to stand on opposite sides of their conference table.
Matthew slipped under Francis’ arm and maneuvered the other nation into an upright chair, clicking his tongue a little at a cut at the side of Francis’ head that bleed quite liberally.
“Ah, Matthieu,” Francis muttered, shaking a corner of his tea-drenched jacket as Matthew pressed a napkin to the wound. “Merci, but would you mind moving just a little to your left so I can see?”
“See what?” Matthew asked, shuffling sideways.
“Angleterre and Amérique.”
Matthew looked over. It had taken Alfred a minute to work around the crowd surrounding Vash, Kiku slipping through the mess of broken furniture to join Alfred along the way. He hopped over an overturned chair, snagged Arthur’s wrist and pulled him upright, drawing closer and steadying the other nation by the elbow when Arthur swayed.
“Hey, you okay, old man?” Alfred said, his voice carrying.
Matthew shook his head and checked on Francis’ cut. “Arthur’s going to yell at him for that.”
“Is he?” Francis’ voice was noncommittal, and that was enough to make Matthew really suspicious.
“Francis?”
“Let go,” Arthur said quietly, not quite commanding and not quite asking, and Matthew’s head whipped up just in time to see the look of surprise flashing across Alfred’s face. His grip tightened, then dropped away.
“Arthur-san, are you all right?” Kiku asked, glancing between the two nations.
Arthur stepped away, not quite looking at Alfred, then said in a stilted voice that almost sounded normal for Arthur. “Ah - I apologize for causing a ruckus at your conference, Alfred. It is most ungentlemanly of me.”
“Oh... nah, it’s cool, we kind of expected it anyway - I mean,” Alfred hurriedly corrected himself when Kiku stepped on his foot. “It’s almost time for a break. You and Francis just had to jump the gun, ha!”
They all waited for the lecture Arthur always gave Alfred about responsibility and commitment, and Matthew saw from Alfred’s expression that Matt himself wasn’t the only one who was bewildered when Arthur simply nodded before turning to Kiku and asking for ice.
“There’s going to be drinking tonight, isn’t there,” Matthew muttered to himself, and didn’t even realize he was speaking the thought out loud until Francis answered him.
“Best if you go with him,” Francis murmured, still speaking in English because their French conversations always caught Arthur’s attention, made him suspicious about what the Frenchman was plotting. “I rather enjoy not running for my life, and I’m sure you’ll agree that letting Alfred anywhere near our dear Angleterre isn’t prudent at the moment.”
Matthew glanced around for Alfred, but his brother had turned to focus on the rest of the room, a look of single-minded determination on his face. Matthew sighed and turned to meet Francis’ gaze. “What did you do, Francis?”
Francis smiled lopsidedly at him. “Ask Arthur.”
-----
Matthew took a measured sip of his beer and glanced sideways at Arthur. They were at a nice bar, fairly low key, away from the upscale establishments of the business district. Arthur had dressed down to shirt and loosen tie and traded his suit jacket for a trench coat when he left his hotel. He didn’t say a word when Matthew had fallen into step with him.
Matthew’s BlackBerry buzzed in his pocket, as it had every ten minutes since they got to the bar. Matthew had stuck it on vibration mode after the first text message, not wanting to get distracted by Alfred as he wove in and out of the end-of-the-work-day crowd, dogging Arthur’s footsteps.
Arthur was smiling at something the cute bar girl said, looking more relaxed than quiet and withdrawn as he had been earlier. He seemed fine enough for the moment, so Matthew dug out his BlackBerry and scrolled through the list of text messages, starting with the earliest one, which he received about ten minutes after the meeting ended.
re: meeting. ???
Then, r u w/ E? and F wont say nething before descending towards r u even reading these? >: Matthew rolled his eyes, replied with an obligatory we’re fine, i'll talk to you tomorrow and scrolled past the rest of Alfred’s messages for the ones marked from his government. But after his phone buzzed for the third time while he was trying to reply his boss, Matt gave up and opened Al’s latest message.
seriously, matt! talk to me or else i'll think E knocked u out too n i'll hav to come over to save both ur asses and E might flip out again
Matt dug one knuckle into the side of his forehead, then hit the reply button.
“Strangely,” Arthur said, and Matthew jumped at the unexpected voice, “his messages become more coherent the longer you ignore him.”
Matthew stared down at the sent note on his phone and wondered what Alfred would think of his blank reply. “Is that why you don’t reply his texts, to the point where he uses me as a go-between and floods my inbox instead?”
Arthur made a quiet noise in his throat. “I’ll talk to him about that. Sorry.”
“Um. It’s fine, Arthur.” Matthew fiddled with the BlackBerry, then moved it further down the counter, out of Arthur's sight.
They sat quietly for long minutes. The bar girl swiped the counter down, smiling at Arthur each time she passed, and although Arthur nodded back at her, he seemed more content to stare into the golden depths of his glass. Matthew grasped his beer bottle with a sigh and settled down to wait Arthur out.
"If you nursed something long enough, does it just fade away?" Arthur tipped the last of his drink down, then set the glass down with a faint clink. "Or does it imprint itself onto your skin, soak down into the bones like old ink on paper?"
“Ah.” Matthew pulled at the bottom of his sweater, not sure if it was just a rhetorical question. Arthur slanted him a look, and he thought about it for a moment. “That… depends, doesn’t it? If it’s important, it wouldn’t just go away.” He swirled the beer in its bottle, then drank deeply from it.
Arthur turned sideways on the bar stool to stare at him.
“I love him.”
Matthew choked over his beer.
People often overlooked him, gaze past him like he was his brother’s shadow. Even Arthur did, sometimes. But there was one thing Arthur had never done, and that was to fully mistake Matthew for Alfred, because when Arthur looked at Alfred, he saw someone else all together. Matt wasn’t particularly bothered by it, but now he felt as if someone had slammed him into a wall and left him reeling.
“I-“ Matthew tried to say over his coughs. He pounded one fisted hand against his chest, and tried again. “I- him?”
Arthur looked amused, and reached over the bar to snag a bottle of orange juice the bartender had been using as a mixer. He pushed the bottle over and gestured once at it. “I know who you are, Matthew. And no, I’m not insane. Just tipsy.”
Matthew took an obligatory swig, allowing the citrusy liquid to sooth the burn on his throat. “Then why are you telling me?”
Arthur’s gaze flickered away, before returning back to meet Matt’s eyes. “Because he doesn’t listen.”
“And I do?” Matthew asked.
“You didn’t ask who ‘he’ is.” Arthur laughed, his tone flat, and the sound echoed as he ducked his head, pressing his fist to his forehead.
“Arthur.” Matthew’s hand hovered uncertainly over Arthur’s shoulder. “Why are you telling me?”
Arthur looked at him over his fisted hands. “Because I love him, and maybe it would be easier if I didn’t.”
Matthew stared at him. “Why?”
“Maybe I want peace. Maybe without this hidden thing between us, we can be more honest with each other.” Arthur pushed his glass away and steepled his gloved hands; Matthew remembered that, remembered that Arthur never quite broke the habit of wearing gloves after the wars, had always preferred to keep his hands hidden. “Yes, he’s important. He is an ally, someone who will always be dear to me, but I need to stop treating him as special. Perhaps we’ll fare better with a true friendship than we do in this one-sided love of mine.”
“I-” Matthew bit at his tongue, then opted for the truth. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I'm drunk," Arthur said softly, sweeping on finger against the rim of his glass.
Matthew knew Arthur wasn’t drunk enough. He had had several glasses, his face flushed and eyelids heavy, but the glint in the green irises behind those lowered eyelids told Matthew that Arthur knew exactly what he was saying.
“You’re not asking for my opinion,” Matthew said slowly. “You’ve already decided.”
“About time, don’t you think? It’s been years.” Arthur breathed out. “Bloody long time.”
Matthew’s BlackBerry buzzed again, rattling against the counter. Matthew bit his lip and dropped his hand over the phone, muffling the sound. “What are you going to do?”
Arthur shrugged. “Be civil. Keep my distance. I need to think about it when I return to London. He’ll notice a difference, I’ll give him that.” He paused. "Already has noticed."
Matthew remembered the flash of surprise on Alfred's face at the end of the meeting.
Arthur’s lips curved ever so slightly upward, but Matthew couldn’t quite call it a smile. “But hopefully, that change will be for the better.”
Matthew concentrated on the texture of his phone under his fingers - the smooth edges, the raised buttons of the keypad. It was strange, to be sitting there and hearing Arthur’s confession. But then again, Matthew admitted to himself, it wasn’t the first time he had stayed by Arthur’s side, not quite in place of his brother, as a silent, non-interfering supporter.
This was one role Matthew chose for himself.
“Will you be okay, Arthur?” he asked, and it wasn’t the question he wanted to ask, but it made Arthur smile, a genuine little smile.
“Yes." Arthur touched his index finger to his lips and held it there for a long second before reaching for his trench coat. "Think I’ll head back now. Go ahead and stay out.”
“But-”
Arthur waved a hand at him. “I promise not to be a nuisance tonight. I’ll head straight back to the hotel. And I’ll be all right in the morning.”
He looked tired, the bruises from his scuffle with Francis showing clearly on his pale skin, but vindicated, somehow. Maybe it was the look of personal conviction in his eyes; it reminded Matthew of how Arthur often was during wars; bleeding and injured but most definitely not defeated.
“I’ll call in half an hour to make sure you get back safely,” Matthew said.
“Thanks, lad,” Arthur said, and leaned over to ruffle Matt’s hair as if he were a young nation all over again. Matthew rose with him, hovering by the counter, as Arthur pulled on his coat and left a crisp note under his glass. He dropped back on his stool the moment the door swung shut on Arthur’s back, feeling winded and oddly displaced out of time.
His phone buzzed again, and this time, it continued buzzing. Matthew stared at the caller ID - Alfred F. Jones - and wondered if he should pick up the call, let Alfred in on his uneasiness even if he couldn't outright tell him what had just happened.
His phone buzzed on.
Matthew closed his eyes, and hit the cancel button. The cut off sound and the resultant silence was a blessing.
TBC
-----
.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Character/Pairings: eventual America/England; Canada, France
Word Count: 4517 for this chapter
Warning/Spoilers: PG. Use of human names and obnoxious text messaging.
Summary: Sparked by a comment from Francis and prompted by how current world events have strained his and Alfred’s relationship, Arthur decides to step away from his feelings for Alfred. Francis meddles, Alfred remains oblivious, and Matthew watches it all, waiting for something to give.
Summary for this chapter: A piece of notepaper, with Francis’ curved handwriting on it, fluttered to Arthur's side of the table. Pick a direction and stick with it. Then you’ll be back to the little terror we all know and love.
Status: On-going
Chapter Links: [ Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 ]
Author's Notes: Written for the aph_minibang =). Will be posting this in parts because I still want to go through and edit the entire fic. Unfortunately, my artist fell out of the challenge so there is no accompanying art, but I hope you all enjoy the fic nonetheless.
Matthew was walking into the world conference room when his BlackBerry chimed twice in rapid succession. He didn't need to look at his display to know who sent them; part of Alfred's routine each time he hosted a world conference was to cramp a hundred and one messages in the hour or so before the conference began.
He set down his folders on the table and pried his phone from his pocket. The first is an email, with attachments of the meeting files - the agenda, the last meeting's minutes, the environmental policy they had been working on - together with a single-liner: Matt, can you put the agenda up on the screen for me? I'm sorta running late and my boss is getting on my case about being prepared. Thanks - Al.
The second was a text message: plz, like neone else is >_<
Matthew glanced towards the ceiling, then back down at his phone.
"What happened that has you entreating toward the sky, mon ami?" a voice asked from behind his shoulder, and Matthew relaxed, because it's Francis; he recognized the accent and voice.
"Just a bit amazed at how easily Al can go from totally business-like and serious to a goofball in less than a minute." Matthew turned. "Bonjour, Francis."
"Bonjour, Matthieu." Francis draped an arm over Matthew's shoulder and tilted his head. "That is an advantage you young ones have, that flexibility. Pity us elder nations, who cannot easily separate our history and nationhood from our personal lives."
"You're still flexible," Matthew said, then quickly amended. "You're adaptable."
Francis gave him one of his dazzling smiles. "You are too kind, Matthieu."
Matthew smiled back. He glanced down at his phone when it chimed. "Sorry. Give me a sec. It's probably Al again."
u r talkin to F or E
"How in the world does he..." Matthew muttered, then blinked when he received another text.
cuz u'd re: by now. say hi if its F
"Al says hi," Matthew dutifully passed along, then typed his reply. and if it's arthur?
no hi if E. his grump lvl = ∞ lately
"Let me guess," Francis said. "He's having trouble with Arthur."
Matthew hummed a reply as he typed, then looked up with a sigh. "I only hear all about it after every meeting they have. Usually it's something stupid that Alfred’s done, but lately he hasn't been very specific, just... frustrated. They're fighting more than usual, I think."
"You've noticed too." Francis tapped a finger one cheek.
Matthew didn't bother responding and busied himself with the laptop and projector.
"Perhaps it's time to have a word with Arthur," Francis mused.
"They've been doing this for two hundred years; I don't think a word is going to do much."
Francis patted him on the shoulder. "Depends on the word, Matthieu. I do know Arthur longer than either you or Alfred has."
"That's... not very assuring, Francis."
Francis flashed him that smile again. "Trust me, mon ami."
"That's really not-”
Matthew's BlackBerry rang. He gave Francis a look to stay - their conversation was so not over - before answering his phone, jabbing at the call button without looking. "Matthew Williams speaking."
"Matt! Did I put Francis and Arthur next to each other in the sitting arrangement?”
Francis winked at Matthew, and pushed away from the desk he had been leaning against, a devilish smile lurking on his face. Matthew did his best to snag Francis’ sleeve, missed, and had to grab at a chair to catch his balance.
“Crap!” Alfred continued, oblivious to Matthew’s struggles on the other side of the phone. “I bet they're going to be fighting with each other before the hour's up!"
Matthew watched Francis saunter off to his place across the conference room and didn’t doubt it at all.
-----
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Arthur gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to plunge the pointed end of his ballpoint into Francis’ hand to stop the incessant tapping.
Tap-tap. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Taptaptaptap.
And each time Arthur thought he caught the pattern of taps to the point where he could dismiss it to the background, Francis would twist the pen in his fingers and start afresh. With a different set of taps.
Arthur glanced up at the presentation to make sure he already knew the finer points of Ludwig’s financial scheme, then flipped to a fresh sheet on his notepad. Stop it, or I’ll stop you.
He angled it pointedly at Francis, and focused on a point across the room. Yes, nice ceiling. No cracks, no cobwebs. A plain cream color, but very nice nonetheless.
He looked down when Francis pushed the notepad back, looping cursive handwriting under his own neat words.
And risk getting both you and myself shot? You wouldn’t have the ♥ to disturb Amérique’s conference.
Arthur stared at the tiny heart symbol and wondered if Francis’ antics would ever stop being so disturbing.
Then do us both a favor and be quiet.
Francis smiled sweetly and tapped his pen once at him, then quickly tucked the pen away when Arthur made a motion to stab his hand.
Arthur glared at him a while longer, then distracted himself by looking around the conference table. Most nations either listened raptly to Ludwig, or were off in their own world. He smiled a little at Kiku when the other nation’s dark eyes met his, and moved on until his eyes caught, as it inevitably did, on the man with the bomber jacket draped over his chair.
Sometimes when Arthur looked, he couldn’t look away. Mostly it was because Alfred was doing something that made Arthur itch to fix, like wearing that ridiculous Spiderman tie with his suit, or the haphazard pile of candy wrappers surrounding his pen and notepad, almost encroaching on Matthew’s side of the table.
But occasionally, all it would take was a smile or some words spoken in a particular tone, and those times always caught Arthur unaware.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out slowly. The past months had been… trying. They had a dysfunctional relationship, he and Alfred, and it was one that worked for them. But lately, he found himself scrambling to maintain that balance.
Alfred’s boss had been focusing on ties with other nations, sure, Arthur understood that, but recent world events - on which he and Alfred often took opposite sides - had really thrown a wrench into things. He’d been on edge, his words more personal and cutting than usual, and although Alfred gave as good as he got in a fight, Arthur didn’t like the rare flashes of genuine hurt he saw in Alfred’s eyes, underneath the anger.
“You’re pining after him,” Francis murmured, leaning back against his chair and angling towards Arthur. “Again.”
“I am not.”
“I didn’t even say who.” He could feel the smirk on Francis’ face without looking up. “It’s not very healthy. In fact, it must rouse great frustration in you, frustration that I can-”
Arthur growled under his breath. “Continue that line of thought, Francis, and-”
Francis held a finger up to his lips. “Yes, yes. Torture, maiming, I’ve heard them all.” He smiled, and simply looked, and stayed remarkably quiet, not even tapping his pen to be annoying. Arthur felt the hair at the back of his neck rise.
“You don’t like it, when something disturbs your nicely organized world.” Francis leaned forward and placed one hand on Arthur’s knee. “You like routine. Everything in their proper place.”
Arthur looked down at Francis’ hand and didn’t move. “I like normalcy and routine, yes,” he said. “It usually means less nasty surprises like economic downturns and social unrest. Or weekly strikes, as I’m sure you’re very familiar with.”
Francis laughed, his voice low. “My dear Angleterre. You’re missing the point. How long will you spend staring at Alfred and pretending that everything is fine between the two of you?”
“Everything is fine,” Arthur said.
“So you think. And so you thought, before the Revolution.”
Francis didn’t drop the name of that event casually, Arthur knew, because Francis was watching him very, very carefully. Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, and took a careful breath, because yes, he had worked past that, he had made his peace about it, but it didn’t mean he liked being reminded about it on top of all his other problems.
Especially not by someone like Francis.
He met Francis’ gaze steadily, and said, “It’s no longer the eighteenth century. And you better have a damn good reason to bring up the Revolution.”
“You are overreacting, Angleterre.”
For one moment, something in Arthur almost snapped. It would have been easy, so easy to jump forward, to whip one hand up and forward to smash and break Francis’ nose, but he clamped down on the reaction, clenching the arms of his chair to hold himself back until the moment of blind instinct passed. It didn’t stop him from glaring and wishing he could just curse the Frenchman into oblivion, however.
His voice came out a low growl. “Fran-”
“You held back,” Francis cut in, his voice quiet, his hand on Arthur’s knee solid and unmoving. The smirk was missing, Arthur realized. No smirk, no bemused smile, no smug leer. Francis was serious, and the anger Arthur felt edged towards alarm. “That anger was genuine, but you held back. And yet you can’t do the same with Alfred.”
“I’ve-” his voice was rough, and Arthur swallowed “-never thought of physically hurting him, not the way I’m itching to break your face.”
“Perhaps,” Francis said. He glanced up at the podium; miraculously no one seemed to notice their tense conversation. “But Alfred is important to you, and you overreact to every slight and strain in your ‘special relationship.’ You yell and scold and sulk, and it chips at Alfred’s bravado.”
“I’ve done that for years.”
“Yes,” Francis agreed. “You have. But Alfred, lately, he’s been reacting differently to your ever present temper, hasn’t he?”
Arthur stared at him.
Francis turned his head towards the North American brothers. “Others move on, Arthur, and when you are the only one who stands still, you lose things." He chuckled, and rubbed one hand ruefully against his chin. “And you lose pieces of yourself.”
“Hold on a sec, let me check the minutes,” Alfred’s voice suddenly cut through their conversation, either in response to Ludwig or moving on down the agenda, and the sound of that familiar voice made Arthur startle and shift his attention away from Francis’ words.
“Can we not have this conversation at a world conference?” Arthur hissed, tapping his pen pointedly against his notepad before remembering how much he had hated the tap of pens on a table. He dropped the ballpoint. “In fact, let’s not have this conversation at all.”
“It’s the only time you’d actually listen to me,” Francis said, “without swearing or trying to curse me.”
“And now I’m going to stop,” Arthur said. “Kindly remove your hand from my knee before I remove it from your arm.”
Francis pushed his chair back slightly, and Arthur drew a breath as the other nation backed out of his personal space. He wished he was back at his home in London, where a pot of Earl Grey or Darjeeling always sat ready to soothe nerves and settle his thoughts. He knew best how to deal with Francis; have had to deal with his fickle neighbouring nations for centuries. He was fine on that front.
His gaze wandered back to Alfred.
Of all his former colonies, Arthur had the most difficulty defining his relationship with Alfred. Officially, politically, it was easy. Allies.
Personally? Arthur had no idea.
They argued. They fought together, on fronts far away from both their homes. They did silly, inconsequential things like attend world premiers of Hollywood movies that Alfred liked inviting him to. After the sheer chaos of the past century, Arthur appreciated having all that. He nurtured what feelings he possessed in secret and enjoyed what he had without upsetting the status quo, because what he had now was precious enough in and of itself.
But another side of him, the one who had once taken to the seas to build an empire on which the sun never set, whispered that Arthur was caught in a loop. That he was content to let things be because he couldn’t move towards another level in the relationship, and had always chosen not to move back away from it either. So he had let it be, letting that feeling linger and build and build and build until his heart filled to the bursting like a container with too much liquid.
The space between clearly defined boundaries, Arthur found, could be a very precarious place to be.
The ripping sound of paper pulled Arthur from his thoughts. A piece of notepaper, with Francis’ curved handwriting on it, fluttered to his side of the table.
Pick a direction and stick with it. Then you’ll be back to the little terror we all know and love.
Arthur crumpled the note in one fist. He looked again at Alfred and tried to imagine still arguing with him, still fighting together and still attending those dreary movies, but without the underlying tug to do more, without the hurt that came from Alfred’s obliviousness, the frustration that made him lash out.
He closed his eyes.
He didn’t want to think about it.
“I really, really hate you, you damn frog,” Arthur whispered under his breath, softly, he thought, but not quite enough to escape Francis’ notice.
“My dear Arthur-” Francis began, leaning forward, the pressure of his hand a sudden hard line on Arthur’s thigh, and Arthur thought, why yes, it is perfectly acceptable to break the perverted frog’s arm now and promptly whipped his tea into Francis’ face, cup and all.
It was just a plain mug, after all, as expected of a world conference organized by Alfred. Arthur glared at the stupid blonde nation and his stupid glasses and upsweep turn of Nantucket before Francis’ retaliating kick forced his attention away.
-----
“Told you,” Alfred said, not even bothering to keep his voice down. “Didn’t even last an hour.”
“I know.” Matthew sighed. “That’s why I didn’t bet against you.”
Matthew winced when Francis’ head bounced off a corner of the conference table. A second later, they heard Arthur yell as Francis swept his feet out from under him. Half a second later, the sound of Vash’s guns drowned out both their screams.
“But if you did, I’d have won.”
“But I didn’t bet, so you didn’t win,” Matt muttered. He nudged Alfred’s elbow. “Al, it’s your conference, can you do something so we don’t have to explain to our bosses why Europe’s at war again?”
“Come on, Arthur and Francis have always been at odds, what else is new?”
Matthew kicked him under the table.
“Okay, alright!” Alfred stopped slouching in his chair and sat upright. “Roderich and Ludwig look like they've got Vash. Can you get Francis? I’ll handle Arthur. I hope he doesn’t’ snap at me.”
They made their way across the room easily enough, since most of the nations didn’t want to risk getting shot and had used the distraction as an excuse to take a break themselves. At least the gunshots had forced Francis and Arthur apart to stand on opposite sides of their conference table.
Matthew slipped under Francis’ arm and maneuvered the other nation into an upright chair, clicking his tongue a little at a cut at the side of Francis’ head that bleed quite liberally.
“Ah, Matthieu,” Francis muttered, shaking a corner of his tea-drenched jacket as Matthew pressed a napkin to the wound. “Merci, but would you mind moving just a little to your left so I can see?”
“See what?” Matthew asked, shuffling sideways.
“Angleterre and Amérique.”
Matthew looked over. It had taken Alfred a minute to work around the crowd surrounding Vash, Kiku slipping through the mess of broken furniture to join Alfred along the way. He hopped over an overturned chair, snagged Arthur’s wrist and pulled him upright, drawing closer and steadying the other nation by the elbow when Arthur swayed.
“Hey, you okay, old man?” Alfred said, his voice carrying.
Matthew shook his head and checked on Francis’ cut. “Arthur’s going to yell at him for that.”
“Is he?” Francis’ voice was noncommittal, and that was enough to make Matthew really suspicious.
“Francis?”
“Let go,” Arthur said quietly, not quite commanding and not quite asking, and Matthew’s head whipped up just in time to see the look of surprise flashing across Alfred’s face. His grip tightened, then dropped away.
“Arthur-san, are you all right?” Kiku asked, glancing between the two nations.
Arthur stepped away, not quite looking at Alfred, then said in a stilted voice that almost sounded normal for Arthur. “Ah - I apologize for causing a ruckus at your conference, Alfred. It is most ungentlemanly of me.”
“Oh... nah, it’s cool, we kind of expected it anyway - I mean,” Alfred hurriedly corrected himself when Kiku stepped on his foot. “It’s almost time for a break. You and Francis just had to jump the gun, ha!”
They all waited for the lecture Arthur always gave Alfred about responsibility and commitment, and Matthew saw from Alfred’s expression that Matt himself wasn’t the only one who was bewildered when Arthur simply nodded before turning to Kiku and asking for ice.
“There’s going to be drinking tonight, isn’t there,” Matthew muttered to himself, and didn’t even realize he was speaking the thought out loud until Francis answered him.
“Best if you go with him,” Francis murmured, still speaking in English because their French conversations always caught Arthur’s attention, made him suspicious about what the Frenchman was plotting. “I rather enjoy not running for my life, and I’m sure you’ll agree that letting Alfred anywhere near our dear Angleterre isn’t prudent at the moment.”
Matthew glanced around for Alfred, but his brother had turned to focus on the rest of the room, a look of single-minded determination on his face. Matthew sighed and turned to meet Francis’ gaze. “What did you do, Francis?”
Francis smiled lopsidedly at him. “Ask Arthur.”
-----
Matthew took a measured sip of his beer and glanced sideways at Arthur. They were at a nice bar, fairly low key, away from the upscale establishments of the business district. Arthur had dressed down to shirt and loosen tie and traded his suit jacket for a trench coat when he left his hotel. He didn’t say a word when Matthew had fallen into step with him.
Matthew’s BlackBerry buzzed in his pocket, as it had every ten minutes since they got to the bar. Matthew had stuck it on vibration mode after the first text message, not wanting to get distracted by Alfred as he wove in and out of the end-of-the-work-day crowd, dogging Arthur’s footsteps.
Arthur was smiling at something the cute bar girl said, looking more relaxed than quiet and withdrawn as he had been earlier. He seemed fine enough for the moment, so Matthew dug out his BlackBerry and scrolled through the list of text messages, starting with the earliest one, which he received about ten minutes after the meeting ended.
re: meeting. ???
Then, r u w/ E? and F wont say nething before descending towards r u even reading these? >: Matthew rolled his eyes, replied with an obligatory we’re fine, i'll talk to you tomorrow and scrolled past the rest of Alfred’s messages for the ones marked from his government. But after his phone buzzed for the third time while he was trying to reply his boss, Matt gave up and opened Al’s latest message.
seriously, matt! talk to me or else i'll think E knocked u out too n i'll hav to come over to save both ur asses and E might flip out again
Matt dug one knuckle into the side of his forehead, then hit the reply button.
“Strangely,” Arthur said, and Matthew jumped at the unexpected voice, “his messages become more coherent the longer you ignore him.”
Matthew stared down at the sent note on his phone and wondered what Alfred would think of his blank reply. “Is that why you don’t reply his texts, to the point where he uses me as a go-between and floods my inbox instead?”
Arthur made a quiet noise in his throat. “I’ll talk to him about that. Sorry.”
“Um. It’s fine, Arthur.” Matthew fiddled with the BlackBerry, then moved it further down the counter, out of Arthur's sight.
They sat quietly for long minutes. The bar girl swiped the counter down, smiling at Arthur each time she passed, and although Arthur nodded back at her, he seemed more content to stare into the golden depths of his glass. Matthew grasped his beer bottle with a sigh and settled down to wait Arthur out.
"If you nursed something long enough, does it just fade away?" Arthur tipped the last of his drink down, then set the glass down with a faint clink. "Or does it imprint itself onto your skin, soak down into the bones like old ink on paper?"
“Ah.” Matthew pulled at the bottom of his sweater, not sure if it was just a rhetorical question. Arthur slanted him a look, and he thought about it for a moment. “That… depends, doesn’t it? If it’s important, it wouldn’t just go away.” He swirled the beer in its bottle, then drank deeply from it.
Arthur turned sideways on the bar stool to stare at him.
“I love him.”
Matthew choked over his beer.
People often overlooked him, gaze past him like he was his brother’s shadow. Even Arthur did, sometimes. But there was one thing Arthur had never done, and that was to fully mistake Matthew for Alfred, because when Arthur looked at Alfred, he saw someone else all together. Matt wasn’t particularly bothered by it, but now he felt as if someone had slammed him into a wall and left him reeling.
“I-“ Matthew tried to say over his coughs. He pounded one fisted hand against his chest, and tried again. “I- him?”
Arthur looked amused, and reached over the bar to snag a bottle of orange juice the bartender had been using as a mixer. He pushed the bottle over and gestured once at it. “I know who you are, Matthew. And no, I’m not insane. Just tipsy.”
Matthew took an obligatory swig, allowing the citrusy liquid to sooth the burn on his throat. “Then why are you telling me?”
Arthur’s gaze flickered away, before returning back to meet Matt’s eyes. “Because he doesn’t listen.”
“And I do?” Matthew asked.
“You didn’t ask who ‘he’ is.” Arthur laughed, his tone flat, and the sound echoed as he ducked his head, pressing his fist to his forehead.
“Arthur.” Matthew’s hand hovered uncertainly over Arthur’s shoulder. “Why are you telling me?”
Arthur looked at him over his fisted hands. “Because I love him, and maybe it would be easier if I didn’t.”
Matthew stared at him. “Why?”
“Maybe I want peace. Maybe without this hidden thing between us, we can be more honest with each other.” Arthur pushed his glass away and steepled his gloved hands; Matthew remembered that, remembered that Arthur never quite broke the habit of wearing gloves after the wars, had always preferred to keep his hands hidden. “Yes, he’s important. He is an ally, someone who will always be dear to me, but I need to stop treating him as special. Perhaps we’ll fare better with a true friendship than we do in this one-sided love of mine.”
“I-” Matthew bit at his tongue, then opted for the truth. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I'm drunk," Arthur said softly, sweeping on finger against the rim of his glass.
Matthew knew Arthur wasn’t drunk enough. He had had several glasses, his face flushed and eyelids heavy, but the glint in the green irises behind those lowered eyelids told Matthew that Arthur knew exactly what he was saying.
“You’re not asking for my opinion,” Matthew said slowly. “You’ve already decided.”
“About time, don’t you think? It’s been years.” Arthur breathed out. “Bloody long time.”
Matthew’s BlackBerry buzzed again, rattling against the counter. Matthew bit his lip and dropped his hand over the phone, muffling the sound. “What are you going to do?”
Arthur shrugged. “Be civil. Keep my distance. I need to think about it when I return to London. He’ll notice a difference, I’ll give him that.” He paused. "Already has noticed."
Matthew remembered the flash of surprise on Alfred's face at the end of the meeting.
Arthur’s lips curved ever so slightly upward, but Matthew couldn’t quite call it a smile. “But hopefully, that change will be for the better.”
Matthew concentrated on the texture of his phone under his fingers - the smooth edges, the raised buttons of the keypad. It was strange, to be sitting there and hearing Arthur’s confession. But then again, Matthew admitted to himself, it wasn’t the first time he had stayed by Arthur’s side, not quite in place of his brother, as a silent, non-interfering supporter.
This was one role Matthew chose for himself.
“Will you be okay, Arthur?” he asked, and it wasn’t the question he wanted to ask, but it made Arthur smile, a genuine little smile.
“Yes." Arthur touched his index finger to his lips and held it there for a long second before reaching for his trench coat. "Think I’ll head back now. Go ahead and stay out.”
“But-”
Arthur waved a hand at him. “I promise not to be a nuisance tonight. I’ll head straight back to the hotel. And I’ll be all right in the morning.”
He looked tired, the bruises from his scuffle with Francis showing clearly on his pale skin, but vindicated, somehow. Maybe it was the look of personal conviction in his eyes; it reminded Matthew of how Arthur often was during wars; bleeding and injured but most definitely not defeated.
“I’ll call in half an hour to make sure you get back safely,” Matthew said.
“Thanks, lad,” Arthur said, and leaned over to ruffle Matt’s hair as if he were a young nation all over again. Matthew rose with him, hovering by the counter, as Arthur pulled on his coat and left a crisp note under his glass. He dropped back on his stool the moment the door swung shut on Arthur’s back, feeling winded and oddly displaced out of time.
His phone buzzed again, and this time, it continued buzzing. Matthew stared at the caller ID - Alfred F. Jones - and wondered if he should pick up the call, let Alfred in on his uneasiness even if he couldn't outright tell him what had just happened.
His phone buzzed on.
Matthew closed his eyes, and hit the cancel button. The cut off sound and the resultant silence was a blessing.
TBC
-----
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