Chapter Text
Arthur was sluggish all day through, from the moment he woke, gunk clinging to his eyelids, to breakfast that he ate in monotonous shovelfuls, to washing the barrels of wool with wooden motions.
When Feliks finished his third partition, and found Arthur still blearily working on his first, the blonde cocked his head. "What, tired?"
"Suppose."
"You look kind of--I don't know, bad."
Tug. Yank. Plop. "Thanks ever so."
"Not like, to be rude or anything."
Arthur sighed. "A bit late for that, isn't it?" He massaged his temples in slow, thumb-sized circles. "I'm sorry. I'm a bit off it today."
"Why?" Feliks asked, bluntness perfectly matched to his wits.
It's probably something to do with a brother I've inherited, Arthur thought with a barely suppressed grumble. Aloud he said, "Nothing."
Still he'd only a fraction of his normal work done by noon.
So--of course--just as Arthur was about to remark that he'd best hustle the rest of the day for fear of reprimand--the sound of hooves hammering cobblestone stopping outside the door.
Feliks and Arthur had just enough time to bend their heads over wool with renewed fervor before the door popped open, squealing on its hinges.
Regardless of the tepid day, a blast of icy wind burst through.
"Hello, my dear friends. How goes working today?"
Feliks was always useless when talking to Ivan--he either clammed up or got so brazen that the most forward rebel could take notes--so Arthur piped up out of necessity. "Could be better, all considered. We'll see it done."
Ivan Braginsky, wool entrepreneur, chuckled in a way that ought to have been reassuring. Somehow it held an underlying threat, like a dagger under a table. "I know that you will! Your honesty is appreciated, Mr. Kirkland." Slowly, leisurely, Braginsky made his way inside. He hardly fit into his respectable clothes, not wealthy enough for a tailor, and the fabric made a strained noise each time he walked.
Timo walked in with the dried wool and Arthur could tell: it took quite an effort for the man not to turn around and walk straight back out. Instead, Timo effected a smile that almost looked real. "Mr. Braginsky, hello! What brings you out here?"
"This and that," Ivan hummed. “Work proceeds, I see.” Step. Step. “How many pounds are done today?”
Silence. Feliks clammed. Timo’s smile turned carefully bashful. “A third of what came in, sir.”
“A third.” It was hard to read Ivan’s voice—it was one of those rivers that seemed calm on the surface, the eddies only raging unseen underneath. “Mr. Kirkland was not exaggerating. I do hope you will not be too taxed finishing all the rest tonight?”
It was such a sweet little question with only one bitter answer. Arthur couldn’t help but bridle. The gall! Twas like being toyed with. Call him proud. He couldn’t answer with proper piety.
Timo was a good actor, though, particularly with Ivan. “Of course not,” he soothed, in a tone that didn’t betray he was soothing.
Later when Ivan left, Timo just as cheerfully threw half a card of wool into the shop’s crooked fireplace, just to score a secret hit where it would hurt Ivan the most.
Feliks sat happily in the fire’s glow, warming his hands like he was attending some midsummer festival, instead of committing a crime. “This was such a good idea, Timo.”
“It was not, you twit,” Arthur grumbled, throwing the last bits of wool into their proper piles. “Get off your arse, would you?”
Feliks stretched like a cat and ignored him. “How’s our other good idea going?”
Timo, that arsonist, was hastening through his final tasks, yet spared an encouraging smile. “Oh, it’s coming. Just waiting for the snow.”
“Are we going to kill him or just scare him?”
Arthur whacked Feliks with a card, ignoring the overdramatic ‘ouch!’ “For fuck’s sake, keep your voice down! And there is no we. If Timo is determined to get himself hung, let him do it himself.”
“I forgive you for your reluctance,” Timo told Arthur. To Feliks: “I’ll tell you more later.”
“Big bloody favor of you.” What a soul. Him! Forgive Arthur! For not wanting any part of this craziness against Ivan? Yes, Ivan was terrible, but Timo relished the idea of revenge so much that Arthur wondered if that and Christmas made up Timo’s entire life’s goal. Stick it to Ivan and celebrate Christmas like St. Nicholas himself. Christmas and Vengeance. Timo Väinämöinen, everyone.
Walking home, Arthur wondered if the boy—his little brother, he amended—could come work for Ivan with him. It would depend on temperament and age. Perhaps if Alfred wasn’t the sort, he could talk Gilbert into putting in a word at the pit mines. The landowner was, Arthur knew, a rather congenial young himbo and Gil bragged that he was the favorite. Perhaps the boy would do well with a more physical task.
He mulled it over as he squelched his way home, the quiet nature of the road soothing his nerves. It was late enough for most of the countryside to be quiet.
The silence broke when Arthur approached his neighborhood.
“If you want to drink more, then fucking work more!”
Some piece of furniture rattled mightily. A low tone, too deep and muffled in timber for Arthur to hear.
Gil’s voice was loud and angry and distinctively sharp, sailing past silly barriers like walls and shutters. “No way in hell. I already told Antonio, if he sends Lutz down I’m quitting.”
Arthur felt almost bad for standing on the street listening—until he glanced to the alley between his and Francis’ ramshackle homes to see a blonde head. Arthur’s ears steamed. He marched over, hissing like a snake.
“Damnation, Francis, haven’t you got an ounce of shame?"
Francis, instead of even gracing him with a glance apologetic or otherwise, hushed him with a flapping hand.
"I worked at his age," boomed the lower voice. Even from far away, it leeched into Arthur's bones and gave him the sensation of a jig, perhaps a whole ballroom over his grave.
“Ha! Ja, an apprentice job. Not the same!”
“He is big enough for hard work.”
"Like he doesn’t work hard? He does, and he shouldn't have to, he should be romping in fields or some shit, but if he's gonna work it's not down with me!"
"Enough," thundered Wilhelm, voice strengthening and strengthening, just like Arthur knew the man was standing: taller and taller. "Enough of this."
"Enough of nothing!" Yes, this was the tail end of the argument; Gilbert had long stopped coherence and was running on a cocktail of adrenaline and emotion. It always resulted in plenty of volume...
"Worthless boy," Arthur strained to hear Wilhelm say. The word was spoken in a low, loathing tone.
Gilbert fell silent for one sickening second, then: "Better a worthless boy than a drunk-off-his-ass washout."
Crunch.
Francis and Arthur winced in tandem at the unmistakable sound of a body hitting a table or chair, then booming footsteps and a slammed door.
"That idiot little bird," Francis breathed, eyes snapping. "I warned him."
Arthur stared at the house for a moment--best not go within, not if he wanted to keep his innards inward--before he said in loud whisper, "What kind of pervert listens in alleyways like that?"
Eyes scanned Arthur pointedly.
He sputtered, face flushing. "I was simply happening by! Walking home like normal folk do, not crouching around eavesdropping!"
"Oh, off of your high horse," Francis said. His voice was icy hard. "Get inside and meet me back here the moment Wilhelm leaves."
Arthur barely questioned the clairvoyance; instead, another wave of dread hit at the lack of levity in the frog's tone. Heavens, he was smarmy and smug about all but the worst of things. "Wot? Why?"
"Wilhelm came back sober; I saw him myself in town. It is like a volcano, no? He has been waiting to explode." Francis huffed humorlessly. "Gilbert has not been able to keep himself from asking for a lashing, and Wilhelm has not been able to help himself from giving it."
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, stomach rolling. Damn. He'd hoped-- "How bad?"
"Not the worst," Francis allowed, uncoiling one of the knots in Arthur's stomach. "Still. You know them both."
He did indeed. If Wilhelm came back sober he'd be leaving in haste to bury the sting of an argument, and perhaps more physical ills too. "Wonder how bad Gilbert got him tdhis time."
A glint of mean joy lit Francis' gaze. "Oh, he got him."
"...Good."
Quiet, for a long moment.
Arthur thought of Alfred Jones and hoped, whatever situation he was in, it wasn't this. He wondered what Francis was thinking as they stared at the house opposite.
Then: commotion, movement from within. Arthur peeled into his home--behind him, he saw Francis stealthily do the same, the pair of them shadows, latching doors to pretend that they'd been inside the whole time, and waited for the sound of a departure. First there was a final racket. A rummage through what, if Arthur remembered correctly, was the kitchen, then a low, barked curse.
Wilhelm was surprisingly silent for a man of his height. When he left his house, he bled into the night within seconds, though not before Arthur caught a glimpse of a cut to the man’s face that was oozing blood. Arthur poked his head back outside to see Francis echoing the motion.
The neighbors rendezvoused. "I suppose he’s not feeling well," Arthur offered.
Francis glittered with that cruel smugness again. "I suppose not. He’s not very good at dodging."
Arthur marched across the yard, Francis hot on his heels, and didn't bother knocking, instead stepping straight into the dark "Gilbert? Ludwig?"
"Candlelight from the bedroom," Francis pointed out.
As he spoke, there was the pitter-patter of small feet, and the bedroom door creaked open with the protest of hostile old hinges. Ludwig looked ready to melt with relief. "We're here," he said.
Arthur's gaze flickered up and down the boy, but saw nothing, not even a stiffness of form under his crumpled nightshirt. Good. "Is your brother alright?"
"Tell them I'm fine--no, actually tell them I'm awesome--"
"Bruder says he's fine," Ludwig reported.
"I didn't say to say fine!" Gilbert demanded, voice clear and loud enough to set Arthur's worst fears to tentative rest. "I said to say awesome, the word encapsulates me better."
"They heard you say that part," Ludwig pointed out.
"That's not the point!"
Francis did not wait for further invitation, taking the hall in four fluid strides. Arthur followed, "Mon ami, I hope you are not lying to your favorite big brother--"
He flowed through the door, shuffling Ludwig gently out of the way, to find the sanctuary: a thin blanket on the floor, a lone candle lit and flickering softly. It was enough to see Gilbert and the bruise already blossoming across his cheekbone, the way he was slightly curled over his stomach...but also the bright bloodlust in his disconcerting eyes.
None of the glassiness that made Arthur vault with worry.
Francis, too, lost an edge, something in his shoulders looser at the sight (and wasn't that a twisted thing, Arthur reflected later). He raised a brow. "I saw you got him back for that."
Gil grinned, sharp as a dagger. "Ja. Almost got an awesome elbow in, too--little to the right and I would've broken the bastard's nose."
Francis sank to the ground, a cloud. "Mm. I thought so. You know I could not help but overhear most of the...altercation--"
Annoyance flashed through the teen's expression. "Geez, how hard is it for French people to mind their own business?"
"Impossible, apparently," Arthur said with a flat look at Francis. "You know he was listening in the alleyway?"
"What?"
Francis shot Arthur a look that could sink ships. "So were you!"
"Only because I was there confronting your indomitable habit!"
"It does not matter in any case," Francis said, throwing up his hands in mock exasperation. "With how loud these two are, I would have heard halfway down the street. That is not my point." His voice, the damn sleaze, was back to molasses smooth. "My little bird, did I not tell you not to be so provocative? For your own good?"
"Told you not to call me that," Gilbert grumbled, more of habit than actual fervor. His face hardened. "If you heard, then you know why." To Arthur, he said, "Ancient bastard was trying to get Lutz working in the mines. Not just at the top."
Arthur nodded, sympathy rising to indignation. The idea had always rankled him--little children crawling into the pits, digging for coal. Their skin would chafe, and what chance would such little things have if the pit collapsed? For as much as he tempted fate, Arthur knew for fact that Gilbert was careful whenever he went below, avoiding the worst of inevitable cave-ins. The worst he'd ever come out with was a nice gash on his head from a falling rock.
Why, a little child might have been killed by the same stone!
"Preposterous," Arthur snapped. "Ludwig's a fine job as is."
"Ja, I know." Gilbert snorted, the noise harsh and derisive. "He just wants more change to blow at the bar. Fuck that. Like Ancient would be able to enforce it, anyway. Besides, you like what you do, right?" This to Ludwig, who was sitting right next to his older brother, ready to jump to any bidding. Ludwig nodded.
"Exactly. So we're not switching it." Gilbert glanced, a touch defensive, to Francis. "If that's what's on the table, I'll be the most provocative little shit in Europe."
"Which is hardly a break from the norm, non?" Francis winked. Arthur gagged. "Now. Take off your shirt--"
Gilbert yanked his shirt tighter, then winced. "No," he grated.
"Pooh, do not be so difficult. Big Brother only wants to make sure you have not snapped a rib."
"I'd know if I had, so back off--"
Arthur's instinctive hackles rose. "Best let him check."
Gilbert scowled. "Since when do you take his side?"
"Since he has seen the reason in listening to wise elders," Francis crooned.
Blech. "Nevermind, Gilbert, I rescind my support. Best not let this letch anywhere near you."
"I am wounded," Francis said, somehow sounding dramatic while also giving the impression he cared very little for what Arthur said at all. His gaze was back to shrewd and somewhat cold; it was focused on Gilbert entirely. "Mon ami, I must insist."
"Ha! And I counter-insist!"
Francis snapped his fingers. "Fine. Ludwig. Tell your brother that you wish for us to tend him."
"Screw that! Lutz. Hey. Look at me. Do I look like I need tending?"
Ludwig swallowed thickly, blue eyes wide and too wise. "Maybe you...might?"
Some of Gilbert's brightness faded, diluted by real brotherly concern. He reached out just enough to ruffle Ludwig's head. "Hey, come on. I'm fine. You know that, right?"
Another shaky swallow. "Ja. I know."
Silence.
With a gargantuan sigh, Gilbert unlaced the front of his shirt. "Fine. Fine! But none of you make a big deal of anything, got it?"
Francis bit his lip. Arthur knew viscerally he was biting back some snarky comment that would shatter Gil's reluctant compliance.
Despite the flippant words, Gilbert rankled his nose, movements slow and tepid, as he eased the shirt off, tugging it over his head gently.
Ludwig, closest, saw first, and his face drew carefully closed. “Bruder…”
“It probably looks worse than it is,” Gil assured, but—Arthur’s blood still boiled.
Francis let out of a rush of air. “What happened to no snapped ribs?”
“They aren’t snapped!” Gilbert argued, back to looking annoyed. “If they were broken, I’d be able to feel it when I breathe. And I don’t. So they aren’t. Case closed!”
“No,” Francis agreed icily, fingers drumming on his hips. “But they are bruised. What was it this time?”
Gil rolled his eyes. “A chair. Joke’s on the Ancient anyway, it was his chair and he broke it, so he can eat off the floor from now on.”
“It’s not that broken.” Ludwig was watching his brother like a hawk. Stared at the bruises. “The leg came loose.”
“Yep. I am just that great. I don’t break, the chair does. Francis, it’s fine—ow! Scheisse! Not if you jab at it!” Gilbert swatted Francis’s probing hand away. “Lutz, gimme my shirt back.”
Francis frowned. “Be careful. Are you sure we should not bandage things up?”
“Ja, ja. It looks worse than it is. It’s not my fault that I bruise easily.”
Ludwig did not look entirely convinced, but Gilbert snapped, “Lutz! That is an order!” and he obeyed at once. Arthur’s worry pinched, but he smoothed the rankle down. Gilbert was right; skin so paper-white didn’t hide any sort of bruising. And look at him! He was jabbering away, shoulders relaxing, none of the tautness that came with excess pain. Still. A domestic spat ought not devolve into hurling furniture, and Arthur shared a brief glance with Francis.
There seems nothing more for us to do, can you think of anything? Their gazes said. No?
Eventually Francis heaved a sigh, rising from the floor as a sage leaving pupils to their lessons. “If you are sure…”
Gilbert made a derisive noise not unlike a horse. “You’re both overdramatic princesses. I’m sure.” He got up, too. Good—no swaying, no wincing. Once the shirt fastened the only evidence of the spat was the darkening blotch to the right of his eye, and it would disappear soon enough. Nothing would linger. Gil ruffled Ludwig’s hair. “Look. Lutz appreciates you checking, in, right?”
Ludwig nodded hard.
“Right. So thanks. Now quit worrying and go home, we got stuff to clean. Lutz, you wanna wash or dry?”
Francis accepted the cue, though as they departed he kept cutting glances backward, like he feared the house would spontaneously combust.
“No need to mope,” Arthur chided, raising a brow. “I daresay they’ll be fine for the night.” Even when Wilhelm drifted home, Arthur never knew the man to have two outbursts the same evening. The man was a furnace that roared scorching every now and then, but keeping that anger ablaze required fuel anew. And. Well. Gilbert inadvertently did most of the fueling, but he, thank providence, usually waited to recover before tossing more tinder in.
“Oui.” Francis sounded unconvinced.
“I’ll keep half an ear open as well.” Even though Francis was closer. Arthur supposed he’d wake up if his neighbors made a habit of including their furniture in brawls. “Goodnight then.”
Francis’ smile was not as gauche as usual. Arthur loathed that he could tell the difference. “Goodnight, my little black sheep. Thank you for the help with my birds.”
“O piss off, frog, not everyone needs a wildlife diminutive.”
Francis laughed, a bell-like sound, all the way through his front door.
Sleep claimed Arthur soon after, but not before the drowsy thought hit him: was Alfred Jones more a bird or a sheep or a frog or something else entirely new?