Chapter Text
Two months pass in the blink of an eye. Without negotiations to worry about, and feeling confident that he has secured a deal that will be prosperous for both himself and the future of America, Alfred is able to relax somewhat. It takes time, but some of the tension melts away. There is still fighting in America, so there’s that to deal with, but it’s something he’s grown used to over the last two years. His palm has healed. While his shoulder is still sore at times and weak from disuse, he’s able to write with some small confidence again. His brother is happy to spend time with him, and they even get to see Francis again. Matthew brings back that champagne, just as he said he would, and they’ll be popping it open tomorrow.
Tomorrow is Christmas Day. Alfred hasn’t spent a Christmas with his family in… forty years, it must be. He’s not quite sure how to feel about that. He wants to get something for Matthew, but he doesn’t have any money at the moment, and they might not even take his American coins here in Ghent if he did. He dutifully poses for a portrait with his brother, and that will have to be gift enough. Two copies will be made, and one will be forwarded to him in Washington once it is done. Before that day, Alfred hadn’t posed for a portrait in fifty years. He never did get to see the final product of that, after all was said and done.
The king, or the prince, or whoever, had no issues with their treaty. They’d gotten the news maybe two weeks ago, but they waited until they could hear back from President Madison to do anything. It was not required, but Alfred wanted to do it. Mr. Madison is pleased with him, and he says that they could not have wished for a better outcome unless they truly had been able to drive the British out of the north. Alfred thinks he might disagree with that sentiment, but he keeps that to himself. It is not what the Canadians had wanted for themselves.
The delegations had thought it appropriate to do the signing on Christmas. Alfred thinks it might symbolize a new birth for the relations between their countries, a real opportunity for peace. The last treaty claimed peace, but it really never could be with the way Arthur acted towards him the day they went over it. He doesn’t want to go through that again, and he thinks Arthur might feel the same. They went over this treaty one last time earlier today, though it really hadn’t been necessary. It has the three main qualities that, so far, every treaty between the United States and the United Kingdom has had: it is short, it is generous, and it is written in the purposefully hard-to-follow voice of the Crown. To see it done in front of him took a load off his chest. The same seemed true about Arthur.
Truly, he doesn’t know what to do with that man. These two months have been strange. They snap at each other, and they’ve even argued about various things, but Arthur always goes back to pretending none of it happened by the next morning. It is frustrating, but he can also admit that the man has been gentler. He doesn’t always glare or glower when they share a space. The snapping and shouting happen because of unnecessary little comments, yes, but Alfred is the cause of those conflicts just as much as Arthur is.
Once they heard back from the king, Matthew managed to wrangle them into having dinner together every night. Gone are the days of Alfred hiding in his room, and it feels good. It is strange, but it is a routine he finds that he will miss once he is back in America. As clear as the sky is blue, Alfred knows he will miss his brother something awful. A revelation that had been murky, he finds that he will miss Arthur as well.
Maybe he shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. It is just strange to occupy the same space as this man who had raised him, this man who taught him to read and write and ride a horse, and then go and pretend that he will not notice the absence once he leaves Ghent. It is also strange that the man who did all those things has treated him so horribly, but that is something he is still reconciling with. He is not forgiving it, not forgetting it, just letting it exist.
He hates Arthur Kirkland. Then again, so does Francis, and they can all kind of tell he doesn’t mean it. Alfred had promised not to lie, but he does not think this is one. He does hate the man. He just also happens to love an old version of the man, even when he shouldn’t, at the same time. At least it’s something he’s self-aware about.
Perhaps he will miss Arthur not for the company, but for the fact of being known by someone. After being near him, his brother, and Francis, Alfred has found that there isn’t really a soul in America who knows him like that. He'd not let anyone get close enough to try.
As much as he will miss Matthew, Francis, and (begrudgingly) Arthur, and how desperately he does not want to go back to being alone in America, he’s sort of looking forward to it. He’d not known what to do with the money when he sold the Watertown house, and he is paid by the State Department well enough to support a man with a family. He’d like to find a house of his own, like the one Matthew has, and carve out an existence for himself that does not revolve around the White House. Well, the White House is not there any longer, but whatever. They’ll figure it out.
While in Europe, he’s discovered that watercolor painting has become popular once again. Maybe he’ll try that.
That night after dinner, Alfred is very shocked to receive a knock on his door. He figures it will be his brother, but it is not. It’s that lousy little redcoat, Henry Fields. Alfred actually thinks he might miss him, too.
“Is everything alright?” He asks. It is strange for a visit after dinner, as that is usually when everyone goes about their routines before bed.
“Oh, yes, it is all fine, sir,” Fields says with a little smile. “Happy Christmas, by the way.”
“Happy Christmas to you. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve just come to retrieve you,” the redcoat says. “Your father is requesting an audience in the meeting room.”
Oh. That’s strange. “Alright, then. I’ll just be a moment.”
Fields nods at him and says, “Have a good night, Mr. Jones.”
A lousy redcoat, indeed, but Alfred is also a terrible prisoner.
He cannot imagine what the man could possibly want at this hour, but Alfred won’t keep him waiting. He throws on his waistcoat for a bit of modesty and checks his hair before he heads off. He’s grown used to it, by now. He thinks that he likes it. Perhaps it had been weighing him down.
He feels odd when he gets to the room because Arthur is just lingering by the doors leading to the balcony. Matthew isn’t here, which also makes it strange. They are not often together without their Canadian glue these days. The room is bathed in candlelight, and through the darkness of the night, Alfred can just barely see snow falling. They do not often enough get white Christmases in Virginia, so it is a nice change of pace.
Arthur does not acknowledge him as he clicks the door shut, and only looks his way once Alfred is mostly across the room. He’s got his arms crossed, but not because he is angry. Alfred can tell.
“Good evening,” Alfred says on his approach. “I thought I’d seen the last of you at dinner, but I guess not.”
“We still have business, I’m afraid,” Arthur says. It might even be a joke. Lord, what a sight. “When is your delegation leaving?”
Alfred sighs, leaning against one of the windows. “They want it to be quick so we can get this ratified and stop the fighting. It’ll be the day after tomorrow. The morning, I believe.”
“Hm,” Arthur says.
“Hm,” Alfred agrees.
“Well, this is a good time, then,” Arthur says, and goes reaching into his coat. He pulls out Alfred’s sheathed knife, and, Lord! He’s almost forgotten about that. His confiscated knife has been the last thing on his mind as of late. Arthur holds it out to him, and Alfred takes it readily.
“Thank you,” he says earnestly. “I was going to forget.”
“I figured, considering you haven’t been pestering me for it,” Arthur remarks. He says so many things that sound like they should bite, but they hardly ever do these days.
Alfred checks the blade and finds that it looks better than he remembered. It might have been polished in the aftermath of their oath. Arthur really didn’t have to do that, but he did. He really didn’t need to do the oath either, but here they are with matching scars on their palms. They are not so bad that they will stick around, but they are present for the time being.
Thinking back on his imminent leaving, there is still one thing that has not been resolved during his time in Ghent. Alfred will give asking it one final shot before he goes.
“Might I ask you one question, and you won’t avoid it?” Alfred asks. Arthur huffs, but does not deny him. Alfred knows very well by this point that you must catch him in a generous mood before you go asking hard questions. “Am I truly your favorite? I deserve to know.”
Arthur’s eyes harden, and he keeps looking out the windowed doors. Alfred should not have even asked, because it is unfair to Matthew, but he has to know. He’s felt tortured by it ever since it happened.
Damningly slow, the man says, “I do not fancy myself a liar. I told you that.”
Alfred feels his lip tremble, and he bites down on it to keep it steady. He huffs, an insolent yet disbelieving noise. A wavering noise that he is immediately embarrassed by. Of course it had been true. Alfred wanted very badly for that to be the case, even though he should not have. He’s come to find that he wants many things he should not.
He hates this man. He hates him so much. He hates the way Arthur makes him feel so permanently small. He hates that Arthur knows better than any person on this planet what to say to comfort or upset him. He hates that his poor brother, for all that he has done to support the world’s worst person, cannot be thought of as fondly. He hates that Arthur thinks of him fondly and that he is so pleased to hear the news. He hates all the ways that Arthur shows his fondness.
He wants so many things that he should not, and he wants this most of all. Aptly, this is the thing that he gets.
“Hm,” Arthur says in response, by this point very aware of Alfred’s game with all the humming. Yes, there really isn’t anything else to say about that. But then, “Well, I did lie to you on one occasion. I suppose I should admit to it so the air is clear.”
“And what was that?” Alfred asks, resolutely staring at the floor.
“Fields really is a good shot,” the man says. “I did not tell my men to shoot you fatally. I told them that they’d better make sure to stop you, but not to do too much damage.”
Alfred frowns, playing with the knife in his hands. “Why did you lie about that?” Arthur had been so fire and brimstone about it, as well. It really was convincing.
Arthur sighs, “I wanted to scare you into not running off. I thought the fear of death would be enough. It did not work, as I did not know the full extent of your…”
Yes. Alfred’s whatever that feeling is that he has all the time that makes his chest hurt.
He actually laughs, a short little noise. “Yes, well, we’ve established now that the threat of death is not enough to keep me in one spot. I apologize for being so atypical in that regard. Now you’ll know for the next time.”
Arthur quirks a brow at him, “Next time?”
He can practically feel the blood draining from his face as he blanches, “No, there won’t be a next time. Ignore that.” He holds up the knife, “Was this all you wanted?”
Arthur purses his lips, pointedly looking at the knife and not Alfred. “No, there is one more thing,” he says, and goes reaching back into his coat. He pulls out a long and skinny box and says, “Merry Christmas.”
A present?
For him?
For the first time in over forty years?
Alfred stares at the little black box for so long that Arthur actually rattles it slightly to get him to do something. Alfred takes it, and judging by the shape of the box, he knows exactly what it is. He just can’t believe that Arthur is giving a gift right now, because that makes no sense. Arthur does plenty of things which are completely ridiculous, but this is somehow the most surprising. More surprising than the fact that the man had not really wanted him to die in the camp at Bladensburg.
“You’ve put me in a bad spot,” he says quietly. “I don’t have anything to return the favor. My coin purse at home, as I left in a hurry.”
Arthur deadpans, “Just open it.”
Alfred wedges the knife sheath under his arm so he’s got both hands and then opens the box, finding exactly what he’d been expecting. It is a fountain pen made of a stained yellow ivory. It is the type for travel, meaning it has a matching cap. Being made of ivory, Alfred figures it must have been expensive. Neither that nor the color is the most interesting part of it. There is a little carving on the body of the pen which has been made to stand out by a dark colored filler. Arthur must have had it done custom, and it says, ‘CRAS ES NOSTER.’
He runs his thumb across the lettering and finds it flush with the rest of the pen. He says, “I don’t speak Latin, unfortunately.”
“I’m not surprised,” Arthur says, crossing his arms once again. Yes, he shouldn’t be, as he was the one who taught Alfred to read in the first place. “Tomorrow, be ours. That is what it says.” Oh, that’s a nice sentiment. It’s rather sweet, he thinks. “I figured it appropriate given our promise of future correspondence.”
“It is,” Alfred agrees, turning it around in his hand. “Thank you, I’m sure it was expensive. And it’s yellow, as well.”
“Yes,” Arthur says plainly. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and the pen is yellow.
“Not the first time you’ve gotten me a yellow pen,” Alfred says, thinking back to Watertown. He doesn’t exactly remember what he’d said sixty years ago, but he knows he’d said something about yellow pens at some point because he’d gotten one shortly after moving there. His father had made some comment about sad letters, and he’d been insisting Alfred take in the full glory of their newly yellow house, and it was all related to that. He’d probably been making some sarcastic comment. He’d really loved that first pen—it was the pen he first started writing his journals with. He thinks he saved it before Washington was burned, but it doesn’t work well due to its age.
Alfred had sold that yellow house two years ago and vowed never to return. He still doesn’t regret it.
“It won’t help your mood, I know,” Arthur admits, referencing that past conversation. That’s right, Alfred had said that maybe writing with a yellow pen would make his letters more pleasant to read. He wasn’t serious about it, of course, but his father had latched onto the idea. “Still, you are… too sunny a person to suffer in this way.”
Alfred boxes the pen back up and holds it with his knife. To Arthur, he shrugs, “It is your fault.” He’s feeling agitated by the sentiment and annoyed that he appreciates it. He shouldn’t go being mean to the man after receiving a generous gift, but…
Snapping and shouting.
Arthur does neither. He repeats, “I know.”
Alfred just gives a big, heavy sigh. That’s just great. That’ll do wonders for his already confused line of thought surrounding Arthur Kirkland. Here is all he’s ever wanted—an admission of wrongdoing, however small.
He says, “Well, I’m glad for that. At least we can be in agreement about one thing.”
Arthur has said so many terrible things to him about his poor mood over these last few months. That he has a dismal personality, and he is weak. One instance stands out, and it was the time that Arthur said he was miserable because Alfred is too much like him. He does imagine that it is miserable to be Arthur Kirkland.
“We can be miserable together,” Alfred decides. “As much as the Atlantic Ocean will allow. And our contract, of course, as I am not to bother you with any sad drivel.”
“Right, that would be counterproductive.” He says it in that dry way he says many things, but something in the tone is different. Alfred can only tell because he knows the man so well, and he’s known him for so long. Alfred should not assume, but Arthur might just feel bad about that comment. Good, if he does. There is proof of humanity still present in the man.
“Is that all?” Alfred asks once again.
Arthur nods, looking back out the window once more. You can’t even see anything, as it is too dark. He’s really just looking at himself. Or maybe he can see Alfred’s ghost in the reflection. “You are dismissed. I just wanted to make sure you got your items.”
“Thank you for that. And the gift, once again. It really is a fine instrument. I look forward to using it.”
“I hope it serves you well,” Arthur says, and that’s that.
It still feels unfinished, and Alfred figures it always will. Taking a tentative step off the wall, he says, “I will see you at the signing.”
Arthur does not make any indication that he will say anything, so Alfred takes his leave. Well, that was strange. Everything that man does is strange, and Alfred will never understand what goes on in his mind. He hates that about him.
And then Arthur calls out, “Sweet dreams, Poppet.”
Alfred’s steps stop completely. The words echo in the empty room.
His empty hand clenches nothing. He does not dare to look and see if the man is watching him go, or looking upon him expectantly, or still only watching his own reflection. He wants to cry and scream. He wants to turn and run back to this man. To hug him and hit him. To curse him and love him.
Alfred does not do any of those things, though. Maybe he should, but he stays right in his current spot. Fine, if Arthur wants to play this game, only saying these things when no one else is around to witness it. Only saying it once Alfred has literally turned his back so he cannot see the man’s lips move. So that he may wonder if his ears are tricking him. That will be a fine game to play, but it’s not really a game. It is deadly serious to him. You cannot pretend to love. Alfred had been at that house with Arthur, either in Watertown, Hampstead, or even London. He’d lived with the man. They know each other, and he knows that it is not pretend. It can’t be. Arthur does not fancy himself a liar, and to pretend is to live as a lie. This is not an assumption; it is the truth. ‘Tomorrow, be ours’ carved in yellow ivory. Not pretend.
It also hadn’t been pretend when he’d been slapped at Buckingham House, or cast out of Westminster, or shot at Bladensburg. The two exist at the same time. They are not even that far removed in time, as it has only been four months since he was taken from Washington.
Just as much as he hates Arthur, Alfred despises himself for continuing to humor this man who obviously does not know what he wants.
And yet,
A good deal for America is a good deal for Alfred. He hopes that this affair can be the start of a warmer relationship between the United States and the United Kingdom. If this is what it means to be the favorite, Alfred is glad that Matthew has been relegated to second fiddle. That is how he’ll save his brother from Arthur Kirkland. He’d sworn he would, and Alfred has now made good on that promise; Matthew just doesn't know it.
“Goodnight, Father,” Alfred says, and then he continues on his path out of the room without turning to look back.
𓆟
2 March, 1824
Mr. Jones,
I have received your transcript of President Monroe’s State of the Union Address. It was quite thick. That must have cost you a pretty penny. My late reply comes from how long it took me to absorb what was being said, followed by discussions with our Foreign Affairs minister. Thank you, at least, for cutting out the parts about your debt and budget.
I will tell you that this new doctrine will not be popular, and many are likely to disregard it completely. America has little military might to back up these claims at the moment, and being alone across the Atlantic, the powers in Europe are not overly concerned with you, except for where trade is involved. I imagine they will at most be pleased to hear you have no intentions of getting involved in any European conflict, which is a sentiment I share. You are well aware of how easily proxy wars can break out, and it is in the best interest of the United Kingdom, Canada, and the United States that fighting not be allowed in North America. Then again, this would not be a problem if we ever find ourselves on the same side of a conflict, but I cannot imagine any circumstances that would necessitate such a thing. Still, it is an interesting thought.
I cannot help but notice that, while you are claiming that no European power should ever be allowed to lay claim to the Americas again, you are allowing Russia to go on in that far northwest corner of the continent. I am not overly concerned about that, as I know that land can be as inhospitable as Canada is at times, and I do not think they are serious about developing a colony. Still, you should watch who you make exceptions for. You say you will go to bat for any people in the Americas threatened by European expansion—should the Russians threaten the British in Canada, would you step forward to protect us?
Not that we would need it, and not that Russia poses much of a threat on your continent. It is more of a hypothetical for you to chew on. I do know how you love to worry.
Regardless of Europe’s opinions about all of this, the United Kingdom is currently attempting to enforce a maritime peace, and I suppose that your proposal does not directly contradict it. I have no care for Spain or how many colonies he loses in South America. Neither of us should get involved in that, but just between us two, we would prefer to see those colonies free. It is better for trade that way, as we do not do good business with Spain as it is. Still, Europe will not care. The UK does not oppose your efforts, but when they are inevitably stepped on by another power, we will not help to enforce your rule unless Canada or major maritime trade becomes threatened.
I do think it is hypocritical for you to claim that no European power belongs in the Americas while you, the famed descendant of the greatest European power in modern times, try to reach across to the Pacific coast. That is your prerogative, though. I would be careful with that southern border if I were you. Spain still has yet to recognize the independence of Mexico, and I doubt he will for some time. Even if Spain does not get involved, you should be wary of encroaching on Mexico. Take it from me, a freshly independent former colony does not like to have its sovereignty threatened, or its borders nudged.
Go on waving your sword. The other Nations will ignore you, but the United Kingdom will not. They will not take you seriously, but the United Kingdom understands how close the issue is to your bleeding heart. Good on you for vowing to stay out of Europe. I sometimes wish I could do the same, and I find myself, on occasion, missing the isolation offered by North America.
Your aside about your upcoming trip to Maine with Matthew did not go unnoticed by me; I am simply refusing to comment. Do try to do something productive if you are going to pull him away from his work. Perhaps you could discuss that border dispute. Knowing both of you, you would try to claim that the area is a demilitarized zone of Canadian-American friendship and prosperity. Don’t be so ridiculous.
I am enclosing one crown coin to help offset the cost of postage for your unnecessarily thick parcel. Maybe next time, you can summarize it for me instead.
Yours bound in blood,
Lord Arthur Kirkland, England
The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland
P.S. I enjoyed your sketch of the new Capitol building. Keep it up.