Chapter Text
Arthur didn’t return home until late, and he’d departed shortly after, aching for a pint. Or four.
He’d have stopped at the tavern straight after work, only there was Alfred to think of. The lad tended to wait up and leave dinner out; Arthur would have hated to cause any strife.
After dragging himself home to eat dinner, he’d made his way to the tavern. There was never enough money for such frivolities, and t’would have been wise to save it but…what were a few schillings here and there? Sound trade, for a peaceful mind to-night. Besides he was a talented pocket pirate and could make these wasted coins back posthaste.
By now Alfred ought to be asleep—Arthur frowned into his beer. The lad insisted that Gilbert and Ludwig both sleep over.
“Come, surely it can’t be too terrible an imposition?” Alfred had implored. “What’s it to you if they sleep here or across the way?”
Well. Arthur was sure he didn't imagine the rush of relief in Alfred's face, when he announced his blessing. That was the truth of it, too. He didn’t mind. Quite opposite, really. It was almost comforting to know the boys' status...
Less comforting, that Alfred seemed to be inserting himself into their lives so. But. Then. Arthur glanced dourly across the bar. It's not as if he's been given a workable example. Nosy Frenchmen.
Impudent Frenchmen, Arthur amended, and the Spanish were no better. Antonio, ten beers in if he'd had a pint, was making a ruckus on the floor, stumbling into chairs as he tried to flirt with a rosy-cheeked farm girl. Francis had his sights on that barmaid again--Arthur swept the room, but no hulking brother loomed. He tipped back his glass. Fine, then. Let them all do what they want. It wasn't his job to be a frog wrangler anyhow.
Of course those two had sauntered in riiiight after Arthur sat down with his alcohol. Unwilling to toss the drink out the window and beat his retreat, Arthur devoted half his energy to ignoring them and the other half to washing down his inhibitions.
Thunk. Arthur's gaze--which had been getting lost in the beverage, might be time to call quits--snapped up. Antonio was fumbling with a chair he'd bowled over and babbling at the unimpressed farm girl he'd jostled.
Like a vulture, Francis swooped in. Arthur gagged. Were these women blind? Must be, if they couldn't see the blatant opportunism on that frog's smarmy face.
He scoffed when Francis took the farm girl by the crook of her arm and ordered two more pints. With what funds, frog? Honestly. It was as if Francis shared his body with the ghost of a mansion baron sometimes.
Antonio somehow found another partner, to whom he drew close and shuffled along in a dance that was drunken yet confident.
Blighters.
Arthur was silently pleased when Antonio stepped on a lumberjack's foot during the two-step, turning tomato-red in apology to a man three times his size.
All too fast his glass was drained. Well. That was fine. There was a pool of warmth in Arthur's stomach now, and the smoke was starting to sting his eyes. Unlike some people he knew his limits. Hurry home, make sure Gilbert wasn't infecting Alfred with lofty antics.
He stood, floor tilting just enough to be interesting. Ha. Yes. And funny how he felt so nice and drowsy? Sleep wouldn't be far, if he could only get back to his pillow--
So fascinating was the current of grains in the floor Arthur nearly didn't hear it: blabbering. Si, si, you know you could be more friendly about it. The bugle-like scrape of a chair forcefully slid back.
He did hear Francis laugh, the horrid sound that sent alarm bells screeching in his head.
Still. It was only after throwing down his pittance of a tab and stepping into the slap of cold fresh air that Arthur turned his groggy attention inwards, glancing through the window.
"What the--" he wondered aloud, to no-one but the donkey at the hitch.
Antonio, toe-to-toe with a large angry man, looking entirely drunk and entirely ignorant of the death-stare being leveled his way.
Francis on the edge of it, leaning in and saying something Arthur couldn't hear. Every word deepened the hellfire on the lumberjack's face, though.
And--
Francis, that drunken twit, leaning forwards and giving the lumberjack a bop! on the nose with his finger, like he was teasing a child.
"Bloody hell," Arthur breathed to the donkey. "Farewell to frog, I suppose."
Donkey flicked his ear.
Inside the bar, chaos erupted.
Arthur took one step forwards. Daft fucking frog! It was a wretched task to go in now, drag him out, but Arthur shook off the buzz in his extremities, preparing to brave the tumbling tables and smashing glass--
"I'll run fer the deputy," yelled a lanky boy, bolting past Arthur. Indeed, a stream of patrons tumbled out the door, all unwilling to get caught in some idiot's spat.
"Aye, I think he's just up at Roop's Inn," agreed someone else. "Ye can bring him by in a flash."
Arthur dallied at the doorway, stomach tumbling from both circumstance and liquor. He couldn't even see Francis anymore, nor Antonio for the matter. It was a stream of people stumbling outside, blocking any view.
Roop's Inn was a paltry block away--the roof was visible even from here.
(Arthur felt suddenly warm, and suddenly aware of everyone's pockets.)
No. No, there were limits to his chivalry. If Frog insisted on digging his own grave with a fine shovel and a smile, then Arthur refused to keep filling in the hole.
Even so...it felt wrong, in a completely unreasonable way, every step that took him away from the gaggle of folk and down the path home.
Don't be daft. You're of no use to anyone if you join their lot in the stocks.
He'd go home and tend things there. Right. He'd even be generous and milk Mariette come morning, assuming slimy amphibians wouldn't be able to wriggle free on their own.
They might. They were damn slippery.
Home was quiet, almost achingly so. Arthur felt a rush of some unidentifiable emotion at the sight of his spare nook. One month of Alfred and now it was unrecognizable…a lumpy mattress piled with quilts. Wheat-colored hair sticking up in tufts…a pair of spectacles off to the side…true, Ludwig and Gilbert were new additions, both piled on the floor, snoring away.
It felt…right.
Less right was the makeshift sling-née-shirt that pinned Gilbert’s arm tightly against his chest, visible as the teen lay sprawled on his back. Arthur chilled, even though the alcohol and jacket were still doing wonderfully. Damn. Seemed Alfred had ferreted out information that neither Arthur nor Francis were privy to.
Francis.
What a souring thought.
No. No need to rouse the slumbering young ones with worries about the upstart neighbor. Arthur shed his coat. Snuffed the last candle. Tumbled into bed.
He’d deferr all alcoholic concerns to tomorrow.
-
Tomorrow came down like a hammer blow.
“Bloody hell.”
Arthur squinted up at the ceiling, hangover making him feel queasy and irritable. No wonder Wilhelm was always in such a foul mood.
Still, it wasn’t his worst case of veisalgia, not by a longshot. Arthur rallied to his feet, the world blessedly stable.
He walked into the central space.
Clunk.
It was quiet, that door closing, but it was enough to jolt Gilbert awake.
He slept light. Arthur bit back a sigh. Of course he did.
Gilbert’s gaze was hooded with drowsiness, but his eyes were still sharp, just like the rest of him. “You look like crap.”
“Likewise,” Arthur bit back. He poked at the fire, yet the embers had gone hopelessly scratchy and cold. He sighed and went to work with the flint.
Gilbert was soon up, wandering over to the Beilschmidt house briefly, before returning with an armful of clothes and a handful of fennel seed, already chewing absently on some.
Arthur wasn’t going to ask—and he didn’t let his gaze linger!—but Gilbert snorted anyway and held out a hand. “Go ahead,” he offered. “Your breath probably smells like shit.”
Fine fucking attitude for someone who’d invited themself over for the night. Arthur told him so.
“Don’t blame me, blame Alfred. You know, you should not be blaming anyone. I am an awesome houseguest.”
Gilbert was not the worst houseguest, Arthur conceded. There were dirty dishes in the basin and Gilbert immediately got to work on them, doing a blunt, brusque job of it with only one arm.
“Is that the only injury?” Arthur asked, similarly blunt.
“Ja. It’s fine.”
It most certainly was not fine, but Arthur knew it was a moot argument. A clipped, pragmatic side of him also knew that they’d no practical way to fix the issue, even if they acknowledged it, so best leave it shoved under the rug, where they could pretend that yes, the rug was supposed to have a giant lump in it, don’t all rugs?
Arthur began on a breakfast-for-four, which was a fancy way to say four pieces of toast and a few strips of pork.
“Here. I’ll get eggs from Francis’,” Gilbert said tiredly, dishes done.
Arthur started to warn him—Francis might not be back yet—but Alfred rolled into the land of the living, and he butted in before Arthur could raise the point.
“Morning,” Alfred mumbled, shuffling inelegantly off his cot, hair tousled and eyes half-closed. He yawned widely. “Hs th’ tavern?”
“Fine, more or less.”
“Th’s nice.” Another yawn. “Said hi to Mr. Kane for me, didnja?”
“Naturally,” Arthur lied. The task had completely slipped his mind. “Although he was a bit distracted.”
“Aw. I should happen by. He said he wanted to move a few kegs but can’t on account of his back.” Yawn-stretch. “So I shall step in.”
Arthur was about to respond with a mix of approval and tactful resistance—t’was a fine sentiment but Alfred must be careful, lest people take advantage of his good nature. Gilbert returned before he could wind up.
“What happened to Francis?” Gilbert demanded, plodding back in, looking something like a grouchy hen, what with the eggs nestled in his sling. “I got the eggs anyway, I’ll trade him something for it later, but he’s not even home.”
Arthur cleared his throat:
"Well. I don’t know all the details, but last night--there was an altercation. At the tavern." Arthur explained as clearly as he was able through the haze. At the end, Gilbert looked torn between standing slack-jawed, numb and lopsided with his tied-up arm, and laughing hysterically. Alfred meanwhile jumped up like a jackrabbit.
"So where is he now?" Alfred was already tugging on his coat, fumbling with the buttons, fighting hard to shake off his drowsiness. "In the stocks? Not at the yard--"
"They're both in holding at the jail, I'd assume," Arthur said. "I didn't stay to see what they'd be charged with."
Alfred, traitorous boy, looked almost affronted. "What, you just left him there?"
"Excuse me for not wanting to get tangled in the law over the frog's mess!" Arthur snapped.
"You could have at least seen where they took the poor fellow--"
"Francis is a grown man, however much he doesn't act it, and he can deal with the consequences of his bawdy actions!" Arthur sighed, checking his throttling emotions. "Perhaps tonight--as a neighborly kindness, mind you--I'll happen by the jail and see just what idiocy those two heaped upon themselves this time."
Which Alfred simply responded to with an offhand, "Heroism cannot be put off until dusk," as he fastened the last button, yanked up his collar, and barged towards the door like a siege weapon. "Gilbert, are you coming along?"
Arthur rolled his eyes, because of course Gilbert snickered and agreed, "Sure. Hey, Arthur, don't tell Lutz where we went if he wakes up before we're back, alright?"
Arthur sniffed. "Bold of you to presume I'll babysit."
And. Well. Gilbert frowned, which transformed his face from snickering prankster to senior military official. Bedraggled, bed-headed military official but still. Arthur rubbed his temples, sighing anew. "Yes, I'll watch him, no need to kick up a fuss. Just be back by the time I'm off to work." Which should go without saying, since both boys would be off to the mine by that time anyway, but one look at Alfred's romanticized expression of determination declared his intent: Victory or Death.
The two departed, quietly so as not to wake Ludwig, who now seemed very small on the floor, now that he was alone. Arthur put on a kettle and picked up Don Quixote. He'd not slave over breakfast yet, not when the main agitants of mealtimes were heading out. Besides, there was a while before the day started...which was melancholic, since Arthur knew he'd be up late tonight slumming around the prison.
He wondered how long it would take Alfred to realize that prison bars could not be debated down, no matter how loud and well-intentioned the orator.
No.
It took one thing to fell those gates: money.
Much as he tried to absolve himself of guilt, Arthur still felt it. Sorry that he could do nothing at present but watch and wait for the fuss to blow over, for Francis to serve his petty day in the stocks, and for him to be insufferable the moment he returned home.
The least he could do was drop by, assure the frog that Arthur would see to the paltry affairs of international bluff.
-
Alfred and Gilbert returned shortly before the whistles blew, the former slapping open the door in a rush of disappointment that flowed verbal the moment he stepped oe'r the threshold. "Dammit, we hardly got to speak to anyone at all, and the jail's in a terrible state," he complained. “Oh, good morning, Ludwig."
Ludwig--currently eating eggs and toast at Alfred's table seat--half waved. "Gw mornhn," he said, mouth full.
"Don't talk when you're eating like that," Gilbert corrected, tone light even in reprimand. He ruffled the child's hair nonetheless. "But ja. Francis got himself in deep shit this time."
"Oh dear," Arthur said, flipping his piece of toast above the flame--though, the way Alfred was pacing a hole in the floor, he probably ought to offer it to the boys. "How utterly dreadful."
"And did you know?" Alfred made another harried about-face. "Did you know Antonio got himself out of the prison not one hour ago? Met us outside as I was arguing with the constable—he’s awful pompous, by the way--and was cheery as could be! Seems he was able to pay his way out. Not that it’s what they're being held for, but I suppose owning land gives him some sort of sway. Anyways. The tavern maintains they caused some sort of 'riotous, drunken ruckus'."
"It certainly sounded riotous. Did either of you lads fancy a toast?"
"Art, you lifesaver, yes I'm starved. But in any case. I asked Antonio what he'd paid to walk, and he reported a figure so astronomical I thought it an auditory hallucination! And that was only his fee of freedom! Francis it seems would incur that same sum separately if he wishes to avoid languishing afore a trial. Which of course is ludicrous."
"Yep." Gilbert plopped into the wobbly seat adjacent Ludwig. "So like I said before. Deep shit."
"Mm." Arthur flipped one slice off the fire and glanced at Gil. "Gilbert? Toast?"
Gilbert nudged Ludwig with a lazy elbow—or at least, it came off as such, when one wasn’t eagle eyed. “You want another slice, Lutz?”
“…no. Danke.”
“You are not allowed to lie to me! Remember my awesomeness decreed it.”
Ludwig turned peach, then nodded.
Arthur raised a brow, said “Right,” aloud, proceeding to put two more slices on the griddle. To hell with that nigh-near martyrish attitude, there’d be no high-and-mighty starvation in this house as long as there was food to be had. Twit.
As if Ludwig wasn’t easily the healthiest of them all, chubby cheeked even at eight!
“It’s ridiculous.” Pace, pace. “I cannot believe a bar fight would beget so much ballyhoo.” Pace—and oh, what a break in tradition, Alfred raked his hands through his hair, whipped off his spectacles. “They’re holding him for--what? Drunkenness? Ha! As if there is a single man outside the strictest clergy who must not admit to that charge. Ridiculous. Can I throw the book at them? Dammit. Gilbert. Arthur. Hell, Ludwig even, all of you. We need ideas. 'Tis not an acceptable state. Francis seemed miserable."
It was only a little gratifying...Arthur thought of all the times Francis pissed him off and felt marginally better.
"He'll simply have to wait for trial," Arthur said. "He'll not be treated to anything harsher than a trip to the stocks, though, Alfred." Branding at the absolute worst--it was only a possibility due to Francis' prior activities. He'd warned the frog: don't go curbing at Pudding Lane, the night watchman took tea at Ms. Tibble's boardinghouse every other day. But no. Francis, crooning about finesse and dripping with innuendo, got caught with a hooking pole through the window. Somehow--Arthur suspected with curdling gut that it was to do with batting eyelashes--Francis got off with a slap to the wrist, an hour in the stocks, and a tidy jot on his criminal record.
O, that hour had been a de-light.
(He'd even wasted a rotten apple, teased the frog with it. "I always did wonder what spoilt fruit did to one's hair.")
"Even so. What is he to do, rot there? You did not see him, Arthur."
"Nor do I wish to," Arthur replied smoothly.
Alfred huffed. "How long until the courts see his case, then? Can I expedite it? Whose door must I kick down--"
Arthur looked up sharply. "Don't be daft. There will be no door kicking."
"Then I shall break through the windows, and if you prohibit that next I will crawl through chimneys or laundry chutes--"
"I do indeed prohibit all of the above."
"—and if that is forbidden me I will break down the walls themselves.”
“Bad plan,” Gilbert sang. “Gutsy but bad.”
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alfred, I’m sure Francis appreciates your enthusiasm. Nonetheless you will find yourself in the cell next to his if you cause a great ruckus."
Alfred ran a hand through his messy hair again. "But I can’t just sit around idle."
"Actually," Arthur said, setting the toast on the table, "that is the plan precisely. We must all carry on with business. Tis a workday, irregardless of frog’s tomfoolery.”
Grumbling something about justice! Heroics! The star-spangled way! Wot? Either way, Alfred plopped down at the table. He began shoveling food into his mouth, muffling his complaints.
Arthur watched them eat, his mind only half on the present. He had his own work to get to, but the thought of Francis in jail, dragging their entire neighborhood into his mess, gnawed at him. Damn frog. Couldn’t handle the consequences of his own actions in stoic aplomb, no, of course not, it was Everyone’s Problem Now. Brilliant.
Breakfast ended. Alfred gave a grand speech about broo-ha-ha and bumfuck nothing. In the lad’s words, it was about freedom and liberty. This exasperated Arthur. “And mark my words, we shall see Francis’ shackles loosed! This injustice cannot stand.”
“Ja, ja, ja. Move. Shnell!” Gilbert yapped, taking the words right out of Arthur’s mouth. “I refuse to be late!”
Arthur sighed. “Try not to orate your coworkers into a coma, Alfred. Thanks ever so.”
With a final salute, Alfred bounded out the door, Gilbert and Ludwig trailing behind. The house fell silent, and Arthur let out a long breath, the weight of the day pressing down on him. Yes, in his bones he knew it would be a long one.
-
For all his high-handed overtures to Alfred, Arthur found it hard to focus on work.
“Arthur,” Feliks blanched. “You missed like half the wool grade.”
“Damn. Sorry.” Arthur collapsed onto the stool, feeling it lurch beneath him. He sighed. “I’m afraid I’m not myself today.”
Timo made a sympathetic noise and offered, “Would it help your spirits to know that I am onto Phase Two of my plan—”
“No,” Arthur bit. Then, with less vitriol: “Thank you for the thought.”
At quitting time Arthur took swift leave.
The jail stood nearby, its proximity a mere stone's throw, unfailingly dismal. The stones were always wet and the stench had a particular thickness to it that made your eyes water. Arthur neared, his lip curling on its own accord.
Go on. In and out.
With one last gulp of air Arthur plunged through the door, feeling as if he'd jumped feet-first into the sea, rather than passed over a rotting wood threshold.
The jailer wasn't in, but his wife was, and she obliged Arthur with curt civility. They squelched down the steps to the lower levels, where light leaked in through inch-wide windows. Arthur swallowed a gag. It seemed the jailer's wife wasn't keen to dally, for she pointed him towards new intakes and retreated up the steps.
"Thank you," Arthur murmured. But his attention was already elsewhere.
He focused on the task at hand.
"Francis?" Arthur squinted through the dark, trying to ignore the smell of the wet, drunken unwashed, the constant scritch-scratch of rats that he knew to be big as rabbits. "Oi! Frog!" he hissed.
This at least got a response from another jailbird, a man who was chewing on a pipe, uncaring that it was unlit and unfilled. Pipe Man laughed. "Yer lookin for the Frenchy?" he asked.
"Aye," Arthur admitted. Glad thing, the dark hid his embarrassed flush. "You've seen him about?"
"Yea, he's moping in the back. Eh! Someone wake up Paree! He's got another visitor." Pipe Man regarded Arthur with an eye that turned, for a moment, critical. "Watter you, his...?"
'Neighbor' sounded so detached surely they would think-- "...Brother," Arthur muttered, flushing even more furiously.
"Oh. Ye don't look much alike."
"And I thank the Almighty every day," Arthur dourly replied, but his attention was quickly caught in the stumbling figure that melted from the dark cell's recesses. "Francis?"
It was indeed, and Arthur held in a breath of silly relief. Frog was dirty and his hair hung in stringy damp rivulets, yet there was haughty indignation that screamed of a sound mind. "Arthur! What has taken so long?"
Arthur bridled. "Wot kind of--could you be any more entitled, you selfish cow? I could be well on my way home and in bed if I weren't obliged to check on your welfare!"
Francis simply sniffed. "My dear little Alfred and Gilbert found time to visit their captive brethren."
"Against my explicit wishes."
"You wound me!" Francis sagged dramatically against the gate. "How can you leave me in such a state, Arthur? Where is your compassion? I cannot stay in such a place!"
Arthur raised a single brow. "No need to be so melodramatic, frog, you've stayed in jail before. T'was not two days before you were released to the stocks."
"Two miserable days," Francis countered, eyes narrowing. His voice dropped. "Do you know how insufferable my cellmates are?"
"Surely you're immune to your own kind."
"O, ha-ha." Francis sighed. "You heard that Antonio left?"
"I was told." It did sting to be reminded, every day, how much of a wheel-grease money was. "Alfred's quite upset about it. I've barely dissuaded him from lobbying at the constable's door for your expedited trial."
Francis smiled his smug smile, blue eyes twinkling infuriatingly in the low light. "I knew I raised that boy well. It is all by my influence."
"Oh yes," Arthur agreed readily, "That impudence and bullheadedness is your direct consequence. Thanks ever so, frog. What a saint you are."
"As long as you finally admit it," Francis said lightly, in the tone that made Arthur want to march on the ceiling in ire. He waved a blasé hand through cell bars. "It is neither here nor there. You will tell him I appreciate his efforts, oui?"
"...if you want."
"Merci. Now. Tell me you did not just come to gloat in my hour of distress. That wretched constable does not feed us so much as a scrap."
With a gargantuan sigh (it was not melodramatic! And if it was, it was only the frog's blasted precedence ) Arthur produced a roll of bread. "It's pilfered from your own kitchen, of course," Arthur added, as Francis greedily snatched it. "I'm chivalrous but not to that extent."
"Trust me, I would have been able to tell if it was from your kitchen," Francis said between bites. "Food burns by simply being in your presence."
It was like a spritz of gasoline onto a dormant fire. How could some people be so--so snide, despite being locked in a cage like vermin? "Enjoy your accommodations tonight, frog," Arthur snapped, "I hope you get lice."
He strode away.
Go for the hair. Francis was so damn vain about his hair.
Of course Francis paled, before recovering to chirp, "Better lice than your eternal bedhead!"
Arthur, already ten steps down the corridor, kept his feet forward and mouth closed via gargantuan effort--
but Frog laughed. That 'ohon', horrible, patronizing sound. Arthur could not help whipping about at the last second and hollering, "O, shut up, Francis!"
"Goodnight to you too, mon frere!"