Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Oi, what’re you doing?” Arthur braced himself against the window frame. The weathered wood splintered against his palms, and morning fog drenched his nightshirt—but it was worth it to catch that slimy frog in the act. “Thief!”

Francis was wise enough not to respond in kind; he shot Arthur a withering look but quickly hurried along in his task: carrying an armful of hay across the yard. Well. That wouldn’t do. Arthur scoured the kitchen for a projectile and soon found it in a damp dishrag. He heaved it out the window. It was a mild disappointment that it hit the dirt with a muddy ‘splat’ at the frog’s heels, but at least it startled Francis into an about-face.

“Bring that back at once, you rotten tit!”

“I am simply reclaiming what is mine!” Francis hissed, in a much quieter voice. Arthur had to drape himself out the window to hear it above the tweets of nature awakening. “Do not pretend that you did not do the same last night!”

Arthur had, in fact, stolen a chest-to-chin bundle of hay from Francis’ patchy shed of straw, but at least he hadn’t been caught. Call it stealth or blame Francis’ affinity for pilfered wine at nine-o-clock every night…either way, Arthur drew himself up and replied, “I don’t have an inkling what you mean. Now put that back or so help me I’ll send for the constable and have you hauled back to prison!”

“Oh. I could never take your cell. Where will you sleep come Saturday?”

“Perhaps your room, since you’ll no doubt be gracing some gutter, drunk off your arse—”

“Pooh. Unlike some, I can handle my liquor with grace.” Francis sniffed but shoved off the bundle of hay. “Very well, then. But do not think I am not onto you, mon ami.”

Arthur was warm with satisfaction, even as the morning chilled him to the bone. “Let it be a lesson to you, frog. I’m not one to be swindled.”

“You are,” Francis said breezily, somehow not even looking cold as he stood in the mist with threadbare work clothes. “But it seems you escape your fate for now.”

“Whatever you say,” Arthur said, victorious enough to let the snideness slide. Noticing that Francis’ bag was slung across his shoulder, he asked, “I say, a bit early to be headed to work, isn’t it?”

Francis shrugged, the motion fluid. “Harvesttime does not last all the year long, mm? We must make the most of it.”

“I see. Good day, then.”

“Good day,” Francis called, turning to go. “And I do not mind warning you, Arthur, that I have counted every stick of hay in my home. If there is even a single straw missing tonight, I will know.”

“Right-o,” Arthur agreed easily, fully intending to snatch a single sprig for the sake of smugness. Heavens knew Francis wouldn’t be back until well after he tonight. The yeomen were always demanding of their field-hands when the grain grew longest, when winter was a-knocking on the door.

Arthur yanked the window closed, though the shutters never quite fit the frame properly, resulting in a perpetual draft. Drat. His shirt was damp from the dew. The very idea of marching into town and sitting down to sort with wet clothes gave him a headcold; it wouldn’t do at all. But then—his other shirt was still soaking in a kitchen bucket, splattered with mud from a passing carriage. It had been worth it, of course; Arthur was only on that street to pick a man’s pocket, and fine work he did of it, too. Still. It left him with pithy options.

Cursing the frog and gathering his wits, Arthur marched into the dawn chill, teeth chattering the whole way, and across the yard to another worryingly slanted home. Weren’t they all, though? No one hereabouts claimed to live in Buckingham House. He stood on the stoop and pounded three times at the door.

When no one responded, he whacked his palm on the door again and said crossly, “Bugger all, Gilbert, I know you’re awake!”

Soon enough the door opened, but Arthur bit back on his ire when he faced Ludwig, not Gilbert. “Oh. Ludwig.” He cleared his throat. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“Would you kindly fetch your brother for me?”

“He’s having breakfast,” Ludwig said with a slight air of apology.

With no air of apology came the voice from deeper within the house: “And tell him he’s the one who woke me up by yelling at Francis!”

“And you’re the one who woke him up by yelling at Francis.”

"So I heard." Arthur leaned around the lad, just enough to glimpse into the hallway beyond, but it was a gaping void. "I don't suppose..."

Ludwig, wise for his age, stepped aside and answered the unspoken question. "You can come in. He's not home."

"Ah." Arthur felt awash with relief, worry he'd barely noticed building letting go like crumbling bread. If he'd awoken Gilbert with his little amphibious tirade, Wilhelm would no doubt have been roused, too, and that was storm Arthur was keen to avoid.

"The hell are you so loud for?" Gilbert demanded from his table, where he was furiously eating a terribly watery bowl of porridge. Askew hair and a shirt that hung half-off one shoulder announced that Gil was not long out of bed, and snapping red eyes announced he would like to have been in bed longer.

"Have you got an extra shirt? I'm afraid mine are both out-of-sorts."

"Geez, just make yourself one when you go to work."

"I'm hardly a tailor," Arthur sniffed. Though he always fancied he could be, given half a chance to get away from the cards of wool. "Well? Have you any?"

Gilbert ignored him to drink the rest of the porridge, forgoing the spoon. Arthur tapped his foot.

"Do you want me to go look, bruder?" Ludwig offered. Even as he spoke, the boy inched closer to the dim back room.

"Ja, sure." Gil waved a hand that was almost flippant. "Take it from the ancient's closet."

Arthur was...vaguely impressed, and vaguely concerned, at how Gilbert goaded Wilhelm sometimes. Bruises and harsh lacerations, all too frequent and brazen to dismiss, proved the acts weren't without recourse. "Are...you certain?" he asked. T'wasn't his place, per se, but-- "I'm certain I can fit in one of yours, if you can spare it."

"Well, sucks for you, I can't spare it." Slurp. "If he has a problem with sharing his, he can tell me himself."

Ludwig, too, seemed wary. "Vater will have a problem with it," he said, voice dour and dripping with defeat.

"Sucks for him!" Gil smacked the bowl onto the table, dishware rattling. "That’s an order, Lutz. Just get the worst one, alright?"

With hesitant steps that announced his displeasure, even though he kept his tongue, Ludwig obeyed. Only when he was gone did Gilbert slip into an attitude more hardened, and he leveled an accusatory finger at Arthur. "If you don't bring it back before Ancient gets here, I'm never doing anything chivalrous for you again, got it? Even someone as awesome as I can't be that generous."

"...have you any inkling when he'll return?"

"Knowing that loser? Probably not for a few days."

Unsaid hung the implication: but he could stumble in at any time.

"Understood," Arthur said at the end of the long pause. Ludwig returned and held up a shirt, far too large for Arthur's willowy frame, but dry and surprisingly clean. "I say, this is the worst shirt? Quite tidy."

"We did laundry yesterday," Ludwig explained.

"Impressive," Arthur said, and he fully meant it. T’was a challenging thing to stay neat when working a grown man's hours. He himself hadn't done a proper cleaning in...a longer time than he'd likely own to. Well. That was why people married, wasn't it? One to work and one to see to the domestic? It was just hard to court when simple existence gobbled up so much energy--at least, that was Arthur's excuse. Francis, the lech, found plenty of time to throw himself at barmaids and women far out of his social league. Gilbert was still too young to entertain marriage at all.

"I am," Gilbert agreed. "Now scram. I've got to get ready to leave. Lutz, you ready? Got your stuff?"

Ludwig hefted a worn hand-me-down coat over his shoulder and nodded. Arthur took this as his cue, cleared his throat, and said, "Thank you. I'll be sure to return this posthaste."

"Yep. If you get back before we do, just toss it in my window. Unless Ancient's here. Then just--I don't know." A shadow passed, however brief, over Gilbert's face. "Hold onto it, I guess."

Arthur nodded. With any luck, they'd scrape by without Wilhelm ever knowing his closet was pilfered. For Gilbert's sake, Arthur hoped providence would smile on them so.

-

Arthur knew his way with a sewing needle. T’was effeminate, some said derisively, but Arthur would simply scowl and redouble his stitching. No one accused the fine tailors of the day for their craft.

But then, he couldn’t insert himself into their ranks. He'd never escaped the fleece bundles.

Town was a flurry of activity, everyone hunched over in their early-morning layers. At the tail end of summer it took a while for the sun to warm everything nicely; it was far too early to break out winter coats or snug winter shoes, though. Arthur’s was almost glad to reach the shop. It represented drudgery, but there was always a tiny fire in the haggard-looking fireplace.   

Both of his coworkers were on the floor when Arthur arrived, though neither were working, one lounging in a corner and the other standing in the entryway with willow branch in hand. "Hey, Arthur," greeted the corner-dweller.

"Good morning, Feliks. How much, today?"

Feliks. Now there was a man one could easily accuse of femininity, but it had nothing to do with sewing.

"I don't know. Like, a lot."

Which, when it came to Feliks, could mean both a few manageable bundles, or an entire warehouse full of wool. Arthur poked his head into the storeroom. Twenty-or-so bundles gleamed up at him, a full day's work and then some.

"How much?" Timo, Arthur's other compatriot, craned his neck to see.

"Plenty. Have you willeyed the last batch, yet?"

Timo brandished his willow branch. "Just heading to it."

"Very well then. We'll start sorting. Feliks?"

Feliks groaned and curled in on himself like a cat. "I'm still, like, tired. Let's just wait a minute and the wool will be drier--"

"If we wait a minute," Arthur interrupted, tone clipping like shears, "Ivan's liable to walk in and find us dawdling. Best belt up unless you want to be a bairman come winter."

Like a beached whale, Feliks groaned and flopped and protested, but stood to face the bales of wool, settling into his seat, starting to separate. Arthur was glad for that. Pulling the course wool from the smooth wasn’t Arthur’s strong suit. If he didn’t take his time and concentrate it was sure to end up mixed... Feliks, fickle though he may be, had a deftness.

It left Arthur to mix cleansing agents, though.

What a fate.

He wrinkled his nose as he rolled up the borrowed sleeves—damn, the stench of lye and stale urine was always terrible. The shirt would have to be washed before it was returned, or Wilhelm would know.

Work proceeded in rhythm. Timo was always humming some Finnish folk song or another. Feliks chimed in every so often with a silly comment.

“I wonder if the sheep know what happens to their fur,” he spouted an hour in.

“Their wool?” Timo corrected.

“Yeah. I mean, wouldn’t it be weird if someone shaved off all your hair, and then mixed it with other people’s hair, and then did this to it?” Feliks expounded, pulling up two fat tufts. “I wouldn’t like it, if I were a sheep.”

Timo huffed with a half-laugh from his pile of sorted wool. “Lucky you’re not a sheep, then.”

“Yeah. If I were an animal I would be a horse.”

“Better a horse than a frog,” Arthur muttered.

“Hmm? Oh, your neighbor,” Timo said, long ago having mastered the art of jumping topic-to-topic (an art central to survival, when spending any length of time with Feliks). “What did he do this time?”

“The bloody blighter stole my straw!”

“Don’t you steal his?”

“Only in retribution for what he steals from me!” Arthur slapped a card of wool into the washbasin, imagining for a delicious moment that it was Francis. “I’ve half a mind to drag the deputies into it. Get that amphibious twat shipped back to Paris.”

Timo tutted. “Oh, Arthur. Who would entertain you if he left?”

"I don't need entertainment, I need peace of mind, to which Francis is directly contra."

Francis was a bane. A scourge. Arthur bellyached on it, picturing the day he’d be able to move away. Anywhere to get away from the blasted frog.

Feliks cocked his head some time later. “I think my landlord just evicted someone, if you really want to move.”

“It’s hardly economical,” Arthur grumbled. By Jove, his neck was barely above the waterline as it was, and his rent was dirt cheap. “No. I shall just have to grin and bear it, even if it is the Second Plague.”

Timo hummed, sounding unconvinced, and work churned on.

It was one of those days where Ivan failed to show, a move less about trust and more about a hidden threat. There was no schedule, no rhythm to it--even if the day was two minutes from finished, Ivan might stride into their tired shop. "I always check to make sure my workers are well," Ivan would say. "Your well-being is very important to me."

Bull. Shit.

Arthur dragged himself home, stench of lye and urine still coating the inside of his nose, fingers still itching with stray coils of wool. Where was this concern for well-being last year, when Timo fell and sprained his wrist after dragging one of Ivan's broken barrels? And what of the pneumonia Arthur caught three winters ago, elbow-deep in a freezing vat, because wool must be washed no matter the weather?

He grumbled under his breath all the way into town, a furious march that any army would envy. The haste was well founded; only a few shops remained open and the bakery might close at any moment, which would be a tragedy. Arthur’s cabinets were depressingly bare. Damn it all, it had gotten dark far too early for barely September, he was tired and smelled awful, and his wrist hurt for no discernible reason. Was it so wrong for a man to want a proper dinner?

He wanted a proper dinner.

A flicker of optimism quickened Arthur’s footsteps—the baker’s door was still propped open, and he dug in his pocket for the loose schillings, only for the flicker to be snuffed dead. There was hardly enough for a day-old bun, let alone anything filling.

Well. That wouldn’t do.

Arthur steeled himself and turned on his heel, slipping into the crowd that always clogged these inner streets. One blended in best by looking slightly aloof and angry. Shoulders hunched, feet pointed forwards, like you've a destination firmly in mind, ignoring the calls of bairmen and drunkards.

Though...no less than three passers-by gave Arthur a harsh look as he brushed against them. Arthur huffed. Lye was worse than any constable. Best make it a quick job.

Arthur slipped into a familiar alley, then five more, glued to the shadows like sludge. Wealth didn't live in pockets by the bakery and alehouse--it was all in the merchant classes, among the tailors and lawyer's offices and reputable apothecaries.

He hung in a shadow across from one such apothecary, finding a good rock in the meanwhile, hiding it in his fist.

Ah. There—a young couple. Lovers, if Arthur's guess was good. Not nobility, but the beading on the younger one's bodice announced some sort of status, and some sort of prize to be won in her companion’s satchel. With artful timing, Arthur strolled out into the street adjacent to their path, walking the opposite way.

 Now for the intricacy—when the lady was a hair's breadth ahead of him, Arthur sent the rock flying into the near brick wall.

Place oneself just-so, and--

The man turned his shoulder to confront the noise and bumped into a well-placed Arthur. His features shifted at the sudden smell and his tone was cool and dismissive. “Oh. Do be careful, sir.”

"I'm terribly sorry," Arthur murmured. His hand had already slithered in and out of the handbag, reasonably confident he’d snagged the coin purse, but he refrained from dating off straightaway. One must be careful not to arouse suspicion, here. "Terribly sorry indeed."

And—now. Now was the time for a hasty bow and a wizard’s retreat into the crowd, before those two could raise a holler. The money slid safely into his pocket.   

It was a dangerous game, though. It never took long for savvy townsfolk to check their pockets and bags after bumping into ragged strangers, and Arthur made himself scarce, disappearing down the first alley he saw. He caught the baker just as the potbellied man was closing the door, bought his dinner and hustled out of town, dark pressing in hard as he hit the muddy road. It was a relief to see the gaping shapes of their ramshackle court leech from the night, and not to hear the screeches of a constable, nor the jangle of handcuffs, from behind. Damn, though. He could see candlelight through both neighbor's windows. Francis' hay was safe tonight.

As for his shirt--

Holding his breath, Arthur tapped on the Beilschmidt’s back door, no harder than a hummingbird.

There were thudding footsteps from within, then the door whipped open. Gilbert. Dirty and tired but smug and grinning--Arthur breathed out in relief. "Wilhelm's still gone, I see."

"Ja. Loser. I told you he would be." Gil's nose wrinkled. "Geez. Did you take a bath in that lard stuff?"

"Lye. Practically," Arthur admitted acerbically. Then, with a proper amount of apology: "I think I'll have to wash it before it's returned."

"Eh. Just give it to me and I'll toss it in the washbasin tonight," Gilbert said, which was a better metric of his reluctance to incur Wilhelm’s wrath without due cause. "Throw it in the window like I told you to. Lutz and I are having dinner."

"I do appreciate it."

"Appreciate it somewhere else!" Slam. Arthur's nose was two inches from the wood.

From inside the house, an echoing little voice asked, "Was that Arthur? Does he have Vater's shirt?"

"Ja, except it smells like sheep factory now--"

Arthur held back a scowl at the blatant rudeness, reminding himself that it was no small favor to pilfer clothes from under Wilhelm’s nose. He did as bid, returning the used shirt and putting on his own dry one before returning the quiet solitude of his house.

Embers, stoked into a polite little flame.

Dinner, purchased at a random Mr.’s expense.

Cold, licking at the corners of his house.

Tomorrow, already promising to dawn far too soon, and to transpire far too similarly.

Chapter Text

Court dinners, Alfred decided, were miserable places.

There was no spontaneity, no joy, no jest. The fool relegated himself to slapstick, because it was the only thing guaranteed not to ruffle ducal feathers. Slapstick was well and good, but when Alfred thought of 'high-society galas', he thought of intrigue and lively debate, not prickly buffoons staring at a juggler while dissecting pork roast. Matthew was disappointed, too, though for other reasons.

"I thought the art would be finer," he confessed under his breath. "And the food is over-seasoned. I can't taste anything but salt."

"Really?" Alfred glanced down at his own plate, cleaned clear. "I thought it tasted good."

"You think anything tastes good. I don't know how your palate developed so…poorly."

"It matters not, anyway. What's decent food without a good debate? Without discourse?"

Matthew blinked, unimpressed. "Aren't those the same thing?"

"We could debate it. And wouldn't that be more fun than just sitting here? Eating? Being bored?"

"Maybe." Matthew sighed and readjusted the frill at his neck. It was large and flamboyant as peacock feathers. "I don't think that would be proper."

Perhaps not, Alfred agreed, but as he sat in a pool of monotony though the whole course, and then as desert was brought out, it became a debate internal: wasn't it better to be improper than to be dull?

"Would you like to talk about something interesting?” he asked the waiter who brought out his cream pastry and candied figs.

The waiter's eyes widened. “No thank you, Master Jones.”

Sigh. “I shall die of boredom, then.”

Matthew nibbled at the crust of his pastry. “Tis a great honor to be invited,” he reminded softly.

“I don’t feel very honored. I feel like I’m in a play. Tis all very pretentious. I fear the nobility is competing to see who can wear the most ridiculously pompous collar—"

Matthew gave him a wide-eyed glare and a kick beneath the table—perhaps he’d said that last piece a bit too loudly. One of the noblemen down the table looked as though he'd been struck, jowls quivering above his ballooning ruff.

Alfred tugged at his own choking neckwear. It was so puffed up and frilly that he could barely move his chin

"You shouldn't tip the boat so," Matthew whispered. "What will Father think?"

Alfred laughed, quieter than he would have at home. "I'm sure he'll tell me."

Matthew took another dainty bite of custard. "Alfred..."

"Matthew."

Silence lapsed over their end of the banquet hall, the air filled with nothing but the obnoxious clink of cutlery.

Alfred glanced up the table, searching for—yes, there he was. Father sat like a statue, unmoved by words, uncharmed by anything. By contrast, Mother next to him was a windsock. She caught onto whatever conversation struck her fancy, easily enraptured. It had always been that way. New plays or books or fashions or people snagged her attention like spiders snagged flies.

At this particular time, Duke Carlton of Easton played the part of the spider. Mother leaned forward farther than was appropriate, laughing at a terrible joke the preening Duke had told. It could be explained away, and Alfred intended to, until she let her hand hover atop his.

“Oh,” Matthew murmured upon noticing, lips pursed.

Alfred bit back a sigh, mirth suddenly dampened. “Yes. Oh.”

Father was unmoved now, save for a sliver of ice in his expression, but once the tides of court receded, the carriage ride back to the manor promised to be rife with shouts. Could he get out of it, Alfred wondered?

No, was the answer.

Dancing proceeded, livening up the dreary court for a few hours, and Alfred made full use of the opportunity, striking a rhythm on the fine waxed floor. It was a good distraction from the fact that Mother and Father did not dance.

Or.

Not together.

Mother danced plenty, pressed improperly close to the Duke of Easton. One dance Alfred swore he couldn’t see candlelight between their bodies.

“How fast can we get home, eh?” Matthew whispered as the family took their leave. The pomp of court farewells was loud enough to cover such mutterings.

“I’d rather walk, hang the mileage. Toris,” Alfred added, when they were close to their footman, “For our sakes, make the ride hasty. There’s going to be a dogfight.”

Toris was property sympathetic as he popped the carriage door. “I’ll keep it mind, sir.”

“But not too hasty,” Matthew put in. “You know how the jostling aggravates father.

“I enjoy the jostling, myself,” Alfred chimed.

Matthew frowned in soft disapproval. “It’s not you that we have to soothe, Al.”

“I know. But still." Alfred huffed in one last quiet laugh as the carriage step creaked with his weight. "Maybe if these old goats learned to enjoy the bustle, there would be less to nag each other about."

"It's more than nagging." Matthew squashed beside him, the couch just a touch too small for comfort, but providing a perfect place to pass hushed words. "You saw how Mother danced with that count."

"Of Easton. I saw it. My spectacles are good as yours."

"All I mean is--"

Then a hurricane of bottled emotions boarded the carriage, the entire contraption bobbling under the weight, and Matthew's jaw snapped shut. Smart. As soon as Toris closed the door, Father and Mother got to bickering. Nothing good could come of gossiping to their faces.

Alfred propped his elbow against the pane and wished he could urge the horses faster with his mind alone.

-

The next day, Alfred attended breakfast in the bright hopes that the inferno would have blazed through its fuel and settled back into embers. It was difficult after balls, where Father was always extra prickly and Mother always extra flirtatious.

One look at Toris’ drawn face as he served the buttermilk rolls, though, told him the fire was still raging.

“Good morning, all,” Alfred announced, plopping into his seat. The family was already gathered; Matthew sat like he could make himself disappear if he just wished hard enough, and Mother was cutting a slice of ham with such vigor that Alfred worried vaguely for the plate. He plastered on a ready smile anyway.

Mother sniffed. “Is it?”

“I think so,” Alfred said. Would it be a bit too much, making a list of all the reasons today would be splendid? Ah, to hell with it. “There’s bread, there’s ham, it’s a sunny day. Say! Mattie, I heard there was an oration today at—”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Father interrupted, words wooden. He was buttering a roll slowly, methodically, staring straight through the food and into the table.

Mother made a noise of one passing extreme judgement in the privacy of their own mind, but the moment passed. So. It was to be one of those breakfasts. Alfred piled his plate accordingly and focused on eating his fill as fast as possible. Nothing so small as a parental meltdown could temper his appetite.

Next to him, Matthew chased a cube of ham around his plate with a fork, mouth drawn.

Quiet reigned until Toris drifted by—poor soul, Alfred could tell that the man was trying to stay out of sight, but Mother was a hawk when she wanted to be. “Toris!” she demanded.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Is Cook well today?”

How odd. Father’s mouth twitched into a fleeting smile.

“I believe so?” Toris murmured, turning vaguely green.

“Then what,” Mother sniffed, “is this?”

This was the bed of peas that lay underneath the cuts of ham. Mother brandished a butterknife at the platter, her ersatz scepter pronouncing doom upon perfectly good meat. “She knows very well I cannot stand the taste of peas.”

Toris froze, then eked out, “I believe it was especially requested this way, ma’am.”

“Specially requested?” Mother’s eyes went wide and furious and the scepter was jabbed in Father’s direction. “You audacious coxcomb!”

(Toris, wise fellow, took this as his cue to evacuate; Matthew looked like he’d pay anything to follow suit.)

Father straightened, nostrils flaring. “You'd lecture me about audacity?”

“I'd lecture you about proper conduct—”

“You know,” Alfred interrupted, “about that oration.”

“I am not in the mood, Alfred!” Father snapped.

“Oh, let him speak, for goodness’ sake!” Mother gave a derisive snort. “Or can you only stand the sound of your own voice?”

“The only voice I can’t stand is yours!”

“Not allowed to speak at my own table,” Mother mocked. “What a gentleman you are.”

“More of a gentleman than a lady like you merits.”

Alfred cleared his throat and raised his voice above the din. “Mother. Father.”

And ah! Here at last was something they could agree on, for they hissed in tandem, “Alfred, silence!”

Well fine then. Let them be cantankerous old coots.

They didn’t spend much time glaring and returned to sniping at each other.

Alfred cocked his head towards Matthew underneath their blathering. Matthew met his eyes.

“Five minutes?” Alfred whispered, already hovering out of his seat.

Matthew nodded.

“I’ll get the food—could you grab the book open on my nightstand?”

“Yes. I’ll meet you at the stables.”

Alfred stood up with a grand shove away from the table, stuffing the last bit of a buttered roll in his mouth, and declared, “I see we’re disturbing your spat. I won’t take it personally. Mattie and I shall breakfast in the hall. Or beyond it. Better for all of us, don’t you think?”

Father whipped his glare to Alfred. “You are not excused.”

“O come now. I’m sure you’d feel freer to clear the air without us underfoot. And we shall be back before supper. Not even Armageddon itself could deter us.”

Father was in a frightfully sour mood, though. “Al-fred.”

 Alfred took a deep breath, tugged down his vest, and prepared to argue the point, but Mattie stood, barely even jostling his chair, knuckles wrapped around the edge of the table. “May we be excused?”

The room simmered.

It would be much more entertaining if it all boiled over, Alfred thought.

But then, Matthew was a magnificent pacifier when he set out to be, as some of Father’s stern energy ebbed. He flicked his fork in their general direction. “Fine. Off with you,” he said.

It was not the cheery farewell Alfred would have preferred. Still, Matthew bolted like a rabbit for the stairs, while Alfred sauntered out the back door. He hadn’t been jesting—t’was a fabulous day, crisp and sunny and lazy, and he intended to make good use of it.

-

“Cook!” he called, bursting into the kitchen building that was practically his second home.

“Master Alfred! Just in time. I’m in need of someone to taste the trifle for supper.” Cook’s face, framed with a frizz of grey hair, always broke into a wreath of happy wrinkles when Alfred poked around. “What luck! You wanted to know how to make that one, didn’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Alfred agreed. “But not this morning. I’m afraid Mattie and I need lunch to go. There’s a catfight going on within.”

“Mm.” Cook pursed her lips. “I thought as much when the word came for peas all week.”

Alfred made a sympathetic noise, helping himself to a crust of bread on the cutting board. “All week? Bugger. Father’s meaning to drag this one out.”

Cook did not mind his…underdeveloped table manners. “Ach. If I could I’d send you and Master Matthew a picnic supper, too, but I doubt ye can be spared.”

“You know I can bear whatever as long as I’m fed.” Alfred glanced around. “Need any help moving anything? Repayment for the picnic?”

She pinched his cheek. “Yer a dear, Master Al. Could ye get the flour from the pantry?”

Shouldering a few sacks of flour was more than a fair trade for the overflowing basket Cook produced five minutes later, and besides, Alfred was glad to spare Toris the job. Not everyone was an absolute beast. Purely muscle.

He was nibbling a maple candy from the basket as he approached the stables and eyed Mattie scampering from the house, a ghost with an armful of books. “You got the book by the bed?” he called.

“The Tempest, aye?” Matthew caught up, breathing heavily. “Yes, that and more.”

Alfred burst into laughter and clapped his brother on the back. “Capital job, Mattie! We’ve enough to escape for a week.”

Matthew gave the basket a skeptical look. “You could survive off of that for a week?”

“Point taken.”

Toris in a stroke of brilliance already had Liberty and Champlain saddled when they arrived, horses chewing at their bits. “I figured you two would be angling for an excursion today,” he explained with an air of apology.

“We’re waiting out the storm,” Alfred agreed. “Thank you, Toris. Best of luck with those two today. If they give you a hard time let me know and I shall set them straight for you.”

Toris still looked pained, but the smile was real. “I know you would. Don’t worry, Master Al. Go on. We’ll be fine here.”

That was all the permission Alfred needed; he kicked his heels into Liberty’s sides with full confidence that the waves, if not dissipated, would be on their way to quelling by the time the brothers sailed back to port.

-

“Did you want the jelly roll?”

“No.” Matthew readjusted his back against the tree trunk, squinting as his sketch. “But if you eat the last maple drop, I won’t forgive you.”

 Alfred let his head loll to the side, finding a new sunbeam, and tucked into the roll. “Noted.”

“Al.”

“Mmmph?”

Matthew sighed, longsuffering pinching his face. “Please don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Really. Like they were at a court dinner instead of among toadstools and sparrows.

Matthew glanced at him. “Did you finish your book?”

Alfred made a show of chewing and swallowing before his reply. “Aye. I should have brought another.”

“I packed that pamphlet on the last continental treatise they signed,” Matt offered. “The one you bought last week.”

“You did?” Alfred popped his head off the ground. “Really?”

Matthew smiled softly. “I thought you might want it.”

“Sure I do!” Alfred rolled onto his side, full stomach lulling him into a catnap. He fought it off like a champ. “Where is it? I’d better get to it now. I’m liable to fall asleep but I’d rather read up. They like it if you know what you’re talking about, you know.”

Matthew rested his sketchbook on his knees and fiddled with the edge of his graphite pen. “You still want a seat in the Commons or Lords someday, don’t you? You haven’t jumped to another fancy?”

Munch, munch. “That’s still the plan.”

“That’s good, then. I spoke with Count Culbertson about it last night. He thinks you’d be a good fit if you can keep showing initiative.”

“You spoke with him on my account?”

“Yes.” Matthew smiled again in his gentle, wistful way. “You could stand a few less dances, eh? It’s good to have connections.”

“Bully. The dancing is the best part.” Even if it was a bit too stiff for his tastes, scuffling around in an Almain procession.

“Well. In any case. He gave me a few titles to pass on.”

“You’re fantastic.” Alfred poked Matthew’s arm. “Are you certain you don’t want to join me as an up-and-comer in parliament?”

Mattie paled, violet-tinged eyes going wide. “I’m certain. I wouldn’t be able to get a word in.”

“I’d get enough in for both of us.”

“Yes, you’re unignorable,” Matthew agreed with a tiny frown. “But it’s not enough to be loud.”

“I can be charming too.”

“Connections,” Matthew said with some exasperation.

“I’ll work on it,” Alfred promised. He dug through the pile of stuff Mattie had brought, leaflets from publications and charcoal and storybooks and notebooks. There was the pamphlet, tucked haphazardly in the middle. Alfred snuggled his face into his arm, enjoying the way that sunlight warmed his shirt and ignoring the dirt accumulating on his pants, and settled in to read. “What time is it?”

Matthew blinked up through the treetops. “About noon, I’d say.”

“Aha. I can get through it thrice with time to spare.”

Matthew resumed his sketch with a little huff of laughter and Alfred let the world slide into an easy haze of studying.

-

The library oration was a pleasant bustle; Alfred enjoyed a plum seat. Mattie deserved much of the credit for their good standing. His breeches were untouched by moss and mud, even though he’d been sprawling on the same forest floor as Al, and it was Mattie who garnered most recognition. That is the heir to the Jones estate. Master Matthew. And his younger brother Master Alfred—they say he’s a firecracker, you know, industrious boy—

Well. Alfred could do without the pompousness of it all, but he a pinch of notoriety never hurt anyone.

(Yes, it has, Matthew oft objected. Alfred carefully ignored that pessimism. Nonsense.)

Alfred heckled a bit here and there. Shouted out a question near the end.

“Earl of Mansfield was watching you,” Matthew offered on the ride home.

“Aye? He seemed amicable to my observations?”

“I don’t know,” Matthew admitted, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “But I think so. He seemed intrigued at least.”

The sun was clipping the treetops by the time they trotted through the gate, and candlelight pouring from the dining room announced that supper was upon them. Fantastic. Al was starving, hadn’t had a crumb in three hours. His stomach growled as if to agree with him.

“How are you hungry?” Matthew murmured as they hurried up the front staircase. “If they’re still fighting, I don’t think I’ll be able to eat a thing.”

“You ate nothing but maple candy today, Matt. I’ve got to eat extra to compensate.”

Matthew snorted. Somehow it still sounded dignified, which Alfred didn’t understand.

“Besides,” Alfred crowed, all confidence, “it’s been ages now. As long as Father has given up on the pea thing, they’re on the mend.”

They must be!

Mustn’t they?

The table was set for supper, candles on every pricket…and void of life. So. That was not a fabulous sign.

Matthew put a hand over his stomach as if he were willing himself not to puke. “They’re terrible.”

“The worst,” Al agreed, keeping his voice cheery. No need to be mopey, he supposed. Matthew would more than fill the quota. “Shall we?”

Matthew’s lip curled, annoyance hardening the edges of his face and souring his placid demeanor. “I think I’ll just retire,” he murmured, and drifted upstairs.

That left Alfred, a feast for four, and the impatient tick-tock of the grandfather clock.

He sat. The chair scraped loudly There was no one, at least, to tell him not to talk with his mouth full.

But then, there was no one to talk to at all.

Chapter Text

Arthur finished the day with his bones aching like a man three times his age.

It was the weight of the world, really. Autumn stared them full in the face…winter to hit soon after. Winter. That bear. The season grew bigger and meaner and older as time passed. When he was child, it edged on whimsical. Kicking Alistair into a snowdrift. Playfighting his brothers with icicles like they were wielding Excalibur and Durandal. Arthur shoved his hands farther into threadbare pockets. Adulthood winters had quickly turned into debts, unthatched roofs, blue lips and ill-humor. Braginsky’s mean streak didn’t help a lick.

On his trudge home, he passed the ale house. The windows were open, raillery from within spilling out like an overflow of water. Arthur bit back his melancholy; a good ale would be brilliant, but there was no use bellyaching over his empty pockets, not when he’d pilfered so recently. Wise thieves paced themselves. A bit of goat’s milk at home would suit, and was of no greater cost than the time it took to tend Elizabeth—

“Ohon, I only ask because I see the desire in your eyes.”

Arthur stopped cold, eye twitching. That voice! That slimy, amphibious voice, coming from within the tavern. Of course Francis spent his free evening skulking about the ale house.

It wasn’t his business, but Arthur paused to listen anyway, even sidled closer to the window to catch all pertinent words. Though—he choked on phlegm at the barmaid’s purring response.

“I say, yer quite a brash one, aren’t yeh? Lucky you I like that in a feller.”

Arthur chanced a glance and scowled. Yes, there they were—Francis’ back was to the window, but his carefully suave posture was impossible to mistake. The barmaid leaned over the counter, dress leaving…little…to the imagination. “Every girl likes confidence, don’t she?”

“I promise, mon chérie, that is not the only part of me you will very much like.”

Arthur rolled his eyes to Heaven and back.

The barmaid chuckled, swatting Francis’ arm. “O, don’t get to ahead of yerself. I might act free as a bird but I ain’t.”

“Will you not allow me to liberate you?” Francis crooned, like the froggish despot he was. “Believe me, mademoiselle, if there is one thing the French know it is passion and pleasure and the freedom that comes with it.”

“Ach, I don’t know about all that. I consider meself a proud Englishwoman through-and-through.”

Good girl.

“A taste of exotic pleasures is no treason,” Francis said, leaning forwards. Ugh, he was inching closer and closer to contact; Arthur reeled away to leave, when—

“Hold yer horse, luv, none of that here.” The barmaid’s voice dropped, and only Arthur’s proximity allowed him to hear, “Me younger brother’s at the back table, and the prickly sort, he is.” She gave a cheeky, knowing smile, and added in a low tone, “If I were yous I’d not want to tangle with him if I could help it. Maybe ye’v got the passion but he’s got the brawn, eh?”

Arthur snuck a glance down the room and balked. The man at the farthest table was a mountain, so hulking that Goliath might’ve stared up at him.

Francis made a pouting noise. “Oh, Pooh. Surely you cannot live your life based on what brothers think?”

“I’m thinking on yer own welfare, handsome,” Barmaid teased. “If he sees ye sneaking a kiss, ye’ll get a knock right on that pretty nose.”

“Hon.” Francis—who had such a smarmy laugh, especially when he was about to do something infuriating—leaned closer still. “Lucky for you, what I am imagining requires lips, so we have nothing to worry about—“

Arthur watched two events unfold, in tandem:

One, the barmaid grinned, eyes sparkling in clear invitation. Francis brought himself nose-to-nose with her, no doubt planning to RSVP.

Two, the mountain looked up, rumbled, and stood until his head scraped the ceiling.

Damn it all!

 Arthur burst through the nearest door, quickly as he dared, and made a beeline for the bar. He caught Francis by the scruff of his collar. “Francis? A word?”

Caught by surprise, Francis yipped and stumbled backwards, but soon recovered enough to dig his heels in. There was only one year between them, but Francis made effective use of his twenty-one-year-old frame. Arthur often vowed he’d make up the height by the time he was twenty-one. “Forgive me, chérie,” Francis said smoothly, before his head snapped o’er shoulder and he hissed, “What is it, Arthur? Can you not see I am working my charms?”

“Yes, I’m sure she’s in raptures. Apologies,” he added to the barmaid, who at least seemed more amused than insulted. “The frog is needed elsewhere.”

“Sure, luv.” But oh! That was a flash of disappointment, and a saucy lip-bite, as she tipped her chin to Francis and said, “Come find me sometime when yer little brother don’t need ye, eh?”

“We are not brothers!” Arthur protested, in the same instant Francis sighed,

“Oui, I will be sure mon frere is tucked safely in bed next time."

"Do I sound as though I'd be related to a Frenchman?"

Francis laughed his horrid smarmy laugh. "He is just in denial." To Arthur, with critical eye, "Can you not see what a terrible fate you have subjected this rose to, denying her my gifts? I hope you are in urgent need of something--"

"Oh, hang it all." Arthur let go of Francis' collar—tug it anymore and the threads would no doubt give, and then Arthur would be plunged straight back into shirt-debt—to cross his arms. "I'm not going to throw out my back hauling your sorry arse down the way. Either come with me or don't."

Another dramatic sigh from Francis, but he elegantly pushed away from the bar. "You understand that I cannot leave my little brother in distress?" he said, with the tone of one mourning a passed parent.

Barmaid patted his arm, an action that would have been chaste, had it not lingered. "Aw, chivalry at its finest. Gals like that sort, too."

Arthur scoffed. Francis' impressive side-eye made it clear he hadn't disguised it as a throat-clear very well. But really! The frog? Chivalrous?

"Then I will see you at an hour when fate smiles upon us," Francis said, bowing with far too much flourish (and far too much suggestive eye contact) to be proper. Barmaid didn't mind.

It was only upon their exit that Francis soured, tugged his dusty jacket, and demanded, "Explain yourself, Arthur! And if your explanation is not up-to-par I expect an apology for toppling my handiwork--"

"Your handiwork was about to see you beaten to a bloody pulp on the floor, you mindless twit, and the only apology in order is yours!"

"The brother?" As they stepped outside, Francis let his voice spiral, louder and higher. "What price could he exact that is too great for love, hmm, my little black sheep?"

"Did you see the bloke?"

"Hmm?"

"'Course you didn't, I know perfectly well what you were looking at," Arthur muttered. He shoveled Francis towards the window. "Right. Look. Back corner. Last table."

He could pinpoint the moment understanding hit—Francis' smug ire dripped away like melted wax, replaced by something akin to disgust. He cleared his throat. "Merde."

"Indeed."

"When she said 'younger brother' I thought she meant someone like you."

It was Arthur's turn to deliver a sharp thwack to Francis' arm. "And what did I tell you about giving the impression we're related? Or do you delight in dooming my prospects?"

"What prospects?" Francis chortled, immediately tapping Arthur's nose like he was a tot. "Ohon, I joke, Arthur. Your big brother would help you find a nice English girl if you only asked."

"None of us are brothers!"

"Don't say that. You need replacement brothers--"

"Another word, frog, and I'll cut out your tongue, understand me?"

"Mm." Francis hummed in apparent acceptance, letting the squelch of mud-under-boots fill the evening air.

The walk was quiet, filled with starlight. Arthur wasn’t holding out for that apology, though heavens knew he deserved it and a thank-you card besides. A ‘Thank-You-Arthur-for-Being-the-Bigger-Person-and-Saving-Me-From-My-Own-Bloody-Letchery’ card. Perhaps stuck to a few consolatory straws of hay.

In lieu of that miracle, Francis asked some feet down the road, "Is Wilhelm back yet?"

Arthur yanked his fleece coat tighter, not that it did much against the damp chill currently zapping his nose. Winter was persistent this year, even in September. "How would I know. I’ve not gone back yet."

Instead of answering the plank-flat question, Francis let out a huff that turned to thin vapor, staring at the sky as he walked.

After some more steps and a cutting blast of wind, Arthur grumbled, “Wot, why?”

“Mmm. Just wondering.” What a bloody helpful answer, frog, Arthur thought acerbically, and he almost said so until Francis added, almost offhandedly, “Sometimes I wonder if it would be kinder to everyone if one day, he never came back at all."

It was like a syphon, leeching Arthur's annoyance away. "Quite a morbid thought, even for you, Bonnefoy."

When Francis didn't respond, preferring to lavish his attention on their smattering of stars, Arthur pressured hesitantly, "Any...particular reason why you've such a sentiment?" Not that Arthur had seen anything lately--and he did watch, especially little Ludwig—but then, he wasn't near so nosy as Brother-To-All Francis.

Francis kept quiet for fifty more muddy, squelching steps.

"T'was just something our little bird said," he eventually admitted.

"I thought he asked you not to call him that."

Francis winked, though his heart wasn't in it. Arthur hated that he could tell the difference. "What he doesn't know, mm? Keep it among us."

“Come off it, frog, what did he tell you?"

A hundred more squeaky leather steps.

Just when Arthur became convinced Francis would let the question fester in oblivion, he murmured, “He said—and I have observed it too, you know—that every winter is like a…notch, each denoting a new step in the descent to madness." Francis blew air loosely through his lips. "I tell you, that house cannot be good for the man."

Arthur privately agreed; he wasn't yet a father, but the idea of living in the same rooms your child had languished and died in made his teeth ache. But still-- "That's hardly an excuse. They've no means to move." At this point, what cure could a move be? Maybe a decade ago...

"No, he doesn't," Francis agreed. "I think he will die in that house. And I do not think it a kind fate."

Arthur also found himself obliged to point out, “Gilbert did not tell you thus verbatim.”

Francis flapped a blasé hand. “It was the spirit of it.”

Arthur grumbled and groused—such a horrible narrator, that frog, couldn’t be trusted not to dress the dramatics up and trundle the important bits down—as they trudged back into the scent of goats and mud and a small smattering of humanity. Relieved to see that all houses were quiet (Wilhelm, in accordance with Francis' offhand hope, could therefore not be home) Arthur bade the Frenchman good-night. "Next time I won't save you from your own debauchery."

"Can it be debauchery, when it brings a woman's soul so much joy?"

Arthur quirked a brow. "Can it be joyous, when the idea brings my soul so much revulsion?"

"Hon." Francis hummed, instead of anything approximating intelligence. "Goodnight, my little black sheep."

"Yes, fine. Good-night."

T'was easy to eat, milk Betsy, and fall into a tired sleep when the whole of the world felt quiet.

-

They kept waiting for Mother and Father to regain sanity.

They were still waiting one week later.

Alfred did his best to keep levity. Father stopped coming to breakfast, which helped.

“So,” Alfred said in lieu of candied greeting, on Day Five of the Siege on Domestic Contentment. “How goes the row?”

Mother tutted, draping the napkin over her lap, doing a find job of pretending that she was not in a verbal bareknuckle boxing match with her husband. “Mind your mouth.”

“Oh. Poorly then. You know, I thought I heard yelling last night.”

“Alfred!”  

Matthew swallowed thickly. “Are you at least speaking?” he asked in a timid murmur. He had eaten two mouse-sized bites of a roll and still looked green-gilled.

Mother shot them both a deadly glare. “You’re aching for a switching, are you?”

She’d never so much as whacked either of them. It was a toothless threat if Alfred had ever heard one.

“Aye, they are,” Alfred told his brother breezily. “Didn't you hear the screeching?”

Matthew’s face pinched. “I asked if they were speaking.”

Mother impaled her egg, mouth pulled into a furious bow. “I will not hear another word about it!”

Matthew, who Alfred thought may be the least confrontational, most passive person on the planet, tended to retreat into his drawing room at such times. He sequestered himself with a palate of oil paints and a blank canvas, haunting the house at mealtimes only. Alfred quickly grew bored of wandering the halls, listening to arguments from Mother and Father every three hours like clockwork. He occupied himself in town more days than not; the Duke of Glousney flagged him down on Tuesday, and Alfred made hearty conversation, though he never quite knew how to end those chats. ‘Well, now that I’ve networked all I can from you, tootle-loo, don’t forget my face for future prospects!’ It felt fake and flabby. Matthew was eons better at smoothing regal feathers.

The townsfolk’s children didn’t mind such deficiencies, of course. Friday evening Alfred was loathe to return to a graveyard estate and joined the youth in a game where he played the ogre, out to catch his dinner. Or something along those lines. It was game of chase and everything else was set-dressing. Alfred couldn’t help but think that galas would be much more fun if tag were a centerpiece.

“Mister Jones!” hissed one little gremlin who’d defected to Alfred’s team. She tugged his arm. “I’ve an idea!”  

“Ah! Do tell.”

She leaned conspiratorially close, lisping through a gap between two front teeth. “There’s an empty barrel over there. If ye hide in it, then ye can leap out and grab ‘em when they come by!”

Alfred nodded along, following the girl’s point. Oh. That barrel. It was big enough to hold him—barely. Alfred’s heart sped at the thought of squeezing his limbs in one by one. Waiting. Dark pressure on all sides—

“Capital idea,” he said, shaking off the shudder. It was worth it for the delight on that little face. “But I think,” Al whispered, “that you ought to be our secret weapon. I daresay I can lead the whole troupe that way, and you’re much stealthier than I. When we draw near, that’s your cue to leap out. Shall we try it?”

It worked marvelously. After the success there was no shortage of goblins volunteering to squeeze under wagons and inside barrels, which Alfred could melt in relief for. Why could the Jones Estate not run this smoothly with just four occupants? It made no sense that a horde of stranger’s children were ten times easier to get along with. That could be his object of ponderance as he rode home. Alfred let the little ones pat Liberty goodbye as he hiked himself into the saddle.

“Isn’t there time for just one more round?” one of the younger goblins whined.

Alfred gave a showy sigh. “Nay, I’m afraid. My mother and father will be wanting me, and you know how mothers and fathers get.”

There was a chorus of agreement, save a bleated, “I don’t know, mine died,” from the back.

“Well, they’re not to be crossed. Besides, Liberty says she is tired and wants her stall.”

“Liberty can’t talk!”

Alfred drew back in shock. “She can too! I’ll have you know she’s very affronted by your lack of faith. I shall have to give her an apple tonight to soothe her feelings.”

“Nuh-uh--!”

Liberty, brilliant girl, chose that moment to give a grunt, and that gave Alfred all the ammunition he needed, even as he fed Liberty lines while he trotted away. It was warm in his stomach, breeze biting his cheeks in a way that made him feel alive. The warmth slowly leeched away as the estate loomed into view. Were they making amends at this very moment, Al wondered?

Likely not, but he chose to believe it. It insulated the warmth for a bit longer.

Inside was quiet. Alfred drifted through the foyer. “Mother?”

No response.

“Father? Mattie?”

Supper hadn’t yet been served. Perhaps they were in the drawing room? Alfred headed that way, dusting the last flecks of town from his coat just in case Father was in a nitpicky mood. Noise piqued his ears from the south hall. The rug was thick here—a plush import that Father bought Mother when Alfred was much younger and they cared about making each other happy…

“I am sick of your bickering!”

…instead of miserable.

They were in Father’s office. Alfred always felt the room was a grand palace, all mahogany and intimidation, always smelling like fine fabric. Should he barge in? Give them a dazzling distraction from their woes?

“Your bickering? Perhaps I’m tired to death of your smothering. And the arrogance!”

This was going too far.

Alfred wracked his brains for some tangible thing to force those two onto the same team. Maybe a fake problem they could solve together? Hmm. Many possibilities here. An invented duchess who’d taken a fancy to Matthew? Father especially was eager to betroth his firstborn, and mother loved gossip. Matthew would forgive him eventually. Alfred’s hand hovered over the handle, churning potential lines over in his head, listening for an opportunity.

Father’s voice dropped to a new low, dripping with derision, even through the door. “I have had enough.”

“Oh have you.”

“Indeed,” Father growled. “This is my household, and this—this promiscuity of yours will not stand. You shall pay dearly for every misstep next.”

“Is that a threat?” Mother hissed.

“Perhaps. If it takes a threat to stop your mouth.”

“What delusions of control you have, you old fool.”

Father slammed something—the teapoy, Alfred guessed, due to the china rattling—and thundered, “I hope you’re happy with that new decor in your sitting room for that’s where you shall spend your every waking moment from here on out!”

“Brute!”

“Whore!”

Alfred made a face, even though there was no one to appreciate the act. This had taken a nasty turn and he wanted to kick himself for not barging in earlier.

“Oh-o, if you only knew!”

Father scoffed. “'If only’? I've not heard a pettier threat. Let us not fool ourselves. You're no great catch.”

Mother screeched like a bat. “How dare you?”

Father was quiet, but even through the door Alfred could tell the silence was smug. He was not surprised to hear his mother furiously spit a few moments later, “You’re an idiot of a man, if you truly think this house could ever be under your thumb.”

“It is and it shall be!” Father roared. “As will you, as my wife.”

“Don’t call me such a despicable thing. I’ll be a whore ten times over before I ever again am your wife.”

Maybe he should just kick the door in off its hinges, Alfred thought, fully considering the idea.

Father’s voice was like rose—sweet in words but sharp and bitter in every other metric. “Not my wife? Tell me then, what I am to call the woman who leeches my every sixpence and produced my two children?”

Mother sniffed. “If both even are yours. Ha. What say you to that, husband?”

Alfred blinked, a pit forming in his stomach despite his best efforts at internal levity. Bastardry? In their home?

Yes, Mother was no Queen of propriety, but still…Alfred found it suddenly difficult to swallow.

Father, at least, gave a hard laugh. “I say you are making up stories to get under my skin. I knew your sort, even when we first wed. You think I let you out of my sight those first years of our marriage? Or the sight of my fellows?”

“I noticed. The Earl of Darby was a poor choice, husband. Such a daft fellow. You know he is simple enough be tempted by the pub, but smart enough not to own to it.”

The silence was thunderous, even through the door.

Father’s voice now quivered with anger, and he after long pause said, “And pray tell, who do you claim to have visited, hm?”

It was Mother’s turn to laugh. “Does it matter? So long as I was not binding myself to you, it could be anyone— “

“I demand to know! Who was it—the Duke, what was his name, Percival Trembley?”

“Even if so—“

“It was, was it not? You think yourself so clever—”

“It was not!” Mother yelled, laughing and hysterical. “Oh, you flatter yourself to think it was someone so high and mighty, but it was not! Tell me, husband, what say you to the fact that your wife preferred the stable hand?”

Alfred did not stay to hear what his Father had to say about it.

…if that was truly his father at all.

No. No. Best not to jump to such conclusions. Mother was in a ghastly state, liable to say anything inflammatory. And—yes. That was possibly the most inflammatory thing imaginable.

Still. Could it be true?

Matthew was older, but barely by a year, and though they both looked terribly similar—mother’s genes were strong—the differences churned at Alfred’s insides now. The softness in the face, the violet tones of the eyes, these were traits shared by Father and Matthew and them alone.

If this were true. If.

(And of course she was probably just bluffing).

But if it were somehow the truth, it would mean that he and Matthew were not truly brothers, a fate somehow more dreadful than an unknown sire.

Alfred stood in the upstairs hallway, staring at the mirror, accounting his features. Oh! It was such a harsh realization: the features that had not come from Mother were no matches for Father.

“Alfred?” Matthew poked his head out of his sitting room door, eyebrows knotted. “What’s wrong?” Brows knelt deeper. “Al? You’re a bit pale, eh?”

This was as good an invitation as any: Alfred hissed some sort of assurance as he barreled into the sitting room, yanked the door closed behind him, and relayed the harvest of his eavesdropping.

If Alfred had gone pale, Matthew went white as a sheet. “Oh,” he peeped, fingers pressing into the upholstery. “That’s worrying.”

“For me more so that you!” Alfred hadn't sat down—the rug would have a trench in it soon if he didn’t cease pacing—and he took another pass now. “I know I’d be the bastard, Mattie. I just know it.”

Matthew looked ill. “Don’t say that word. Please.”

“It’s fine. I—I’m no snob about lineage or any such thing. And I know some things will be thrown into upheaval, but you were always going to inherit. I shall be fine, I think. Father is reasonable. But we’re still brothers, aren’t we?” The last bit came out in a frantic rush of words, like river water that had been caught up behind a dam. He had to know. T’was one thing he could not lose.

"Of course," Matthew said, tone weak. "But Al, please. We don't even know if any of this is true. You know how mother is. She might be making it up." I hope she is making it up, Matthew did not say, but Alfred knew he was thinking it.

Well. Best dash that against the rocks posthaste.

"But doesn't it make sense, though? I don't much look like Father. I heartily disagree with him on most matters--"

"That hardly disproves parentage."

"Do you think she would tell me? If I were to ask?"

Matthew balked. "Why would you do that?"

Because, Alfred wished he could yell, it was very hard to be in a limbo of suspicion. These few minutes had been vexing enough. "I would just like to be certain, either of my Father or my bastard nature," he explained, crossing his arms with a decided huff.

"You shouldn't call yourself that, Al," Matthew said, barely louder than a whisper.

"But it may well be true."

"No." Matthew shook his head, and a flash of conviction steeled his soft face. "No matter how this turns out, you're not."

Brotherly affection was so much surer than parental. Alfred took a deep breath. "Appreciated, Mattie."

It took Matthew ten minutes to drift back to his painting, and even so his hands weren’t steady. Alfred flopped onto the floor, bench-pressing Matt’s canopy bed for amusement. He’d tried to settle in with a book, but his thoughts were circling too fast to focus on the words.

Bastard.

The stable hand.

Not a Jones.

Alfred tried to swallow and found his throat was too dry.

Matthew glanced at him, expression tangled with worry. “You’re not going to go ask, are you?” he prodded.

I ought to. Rip the bandage off and all that.

Yet Alfred found himself shaking his head, eyes fixed on the painted rosebuds on the ceiling. “No. I think I should like to remain a member of my family tonight.”

Matthew sighed and resumed quiet brushstrokes.

It was safe within the walls of this room, but outside was suddenly so much less certain.

Chapter Text

Neither could stand to part that night, so they camped in Mattie’s bed. Toris brought them supper. At least the news hadn’t whittled Alfred’s appetite.

Alfred woke early the next morning, a gnawing of what he decided was hunger poking at his insides. He’d not even had thirds last night, no wonder his stomach was revolting. He slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Matthew, dressed, and wandered downstairs. Where was Father? Would he be pacing the halls, ready to pounce the moment he saw Al?

No, as it turned out. The house was once again abandoned. Alfred even rapped on Father’s office door, preferring to face the loudest music and have it done with, but even pressing his ear to the door yielded nothing, not even Father’s heavy, angry breathing.

It was only in the east wing that Alfred heard a door unlock to his right.

“Mother!”

Her arm darted out to snag his. "Alfred." Mother gave him a tug, drawing him into her old sewing room like a pup on a leash. "Come here."

Alfred didn't protest. "I need to talk with you."

"That's good, darling," Mother said without a second glance, her whole energy focused on scanning the hallway for stray souls in a frantic saccade. When she found none, the door snapped shut and she ushered him onto the couch. "Alf, dear, I need you to listen. I've some things of importance to tell you."

It was all well and dramatic, but Alfred felt a bubble of frustration build, and he popped it by spoiling the reveal. “You and Father’s spat is now over my being a potential bastard?"

Her face darkened. "What did you hear?"

Alfred told her and tried to do chipperly. It was easier than any other emotion from the vat currently brewing in his gut, from which dread wafted like steam. "So naturally I'd like to know--and I know you'll tell me straight, won't you?—if it was all true."

Mother didn’t look him in the eye. "No. It was an ill-suited fib on my part. Nothing more than a noose for your father."

Would she look at him, when she said that, Alfred asked?

No, the wouldn’t, because she busied herself straightening her skirt and tutted, "For your own good, darling, that's the truth."

“We’re a bit past 'for my own good',” Alfred couldn’t help but point out.

The barb soured Mother; her face twisted like she'd just eaten a lemon straight. "Heavens, child, if you were eavesdropping then you know all there is to know!"

Flimsy though it was, it was confirmation. Alfred sagged into the couch. He'd been with Father when they bought the fine piece. He'd chosen the fixtures for the claw feet. It'd always felt his, just like the rest of the house did, a nest from which no one could thrust him.

Ha. Well. The topple had begun, and Alfred hysterically wondered how long he had before he hit the ground.

No. I won't hit anything. Birds who fall fly. It'll all straighten out.

"What was his name?" Alfred steadied himself. Best to clear away as much uncertainty as possible. "The stable hand?"

Mother stared for a long moment before replying. "Alfred, keep your nose out of the dirt, for once. You've no need to know."

"He doesn't work for us still, does he?" The thought occurred suddenly, and Alfred bolted from his chair, a cat startled into action. "It’s not Old Jack Sulby, is it? Damn! I told Matt I’d not be a snob about things, but that would be insurmountably mortifying—“

Mother, at least, looked just as affronted by the implication as Al. “It certainly was not!”

“Kevin Ham? No, he’d have been barely a teen, and I cannot believe you’d have gone there—“

“Alfred! The impropriety of this conversation—“

“Is no greater than the impropriety of the one you had with Father.” Or the acts that bore the entire conundrum, Alfred refrained from saying. “Please. I’ll have no rest until I know.”

“He doesn’t work for us anymore. Hasn’t since you were a tot,” Mother said, “and that is all I will say. It’s far more than you need to know anyhow.”

He swallowed. “What happens next?”

Mother was silent, which said everything. Alfred felt air rush past his ears as he performed another mid-air somersault.

Another question, then, as a consolation prize. “Where did Father go?”

“That doesn’t concern you either, though I imagine he left to scold that daft cow Darby. I’ve not seen him since last night.”

“Should I even call him ‘Father’ anymore?”

“Quiet. That is enough.” Mother’s yellow silk dress practically bristled on its own like a hen fluffing her feathers. “You are not to act any differently. For all our sakes.”

It was too much. “A much harder task now that you’ve made me a bastard, Mother.” He stood, coat snapping harshly, which Alfred thought was a fitting panache to a dramatic exit. He deserved the flair…but still. This was his mother, so he took a heavy breath, tugged his lapels, and forced a smile. “I’m sure we’ll sort all this out when Father gets home. All’s well that ends well, ha.” Except this hadn’t ended at all. The mess had just been made. “Think I have time for a ride before Father returns?”

“No,” Mother deadpanned.

“Bully all. I’ll make it quick.”

“Alfre—“

He couldn’t listen to the rest, escaping to the stables without bothering to change into riding boots. Early autumn leaves crunched underfoot. He wondered if Mother had taken this path when—when she’d—

He made some noise more reminiscent of a moose than a human.

Damn it, Alfred wasn’t even angry about the infidelity. That writing had been scrawled on the wall for a decade; even Mattie couldn’t hem-haw it away, not when Mother scorned subtlety so. Let her flaunt, let Father mock. That was how their marriage worked.

No, it wasn’t the thatched, potholed marriage and Mother’s role in it he bridled at, it was the choice to whip out this information and implode everything now.

"Toris, tell me Liberty is rested and fed," Alfred burst, in lieu of proper greeting as he fell through the stable door. "If I don't get out for a gallop I'm liable to die."

Toris, polishing a saddle, startled. "Master Alfred? Are you quite alright?"

Alfred yanked on a military grade smile. "Dandy as ever.”

Toris stood, back bowing under the saddle's weight, but his eyes riveted to Alfred with an understanding that was almost telepathic. “Master Jones was agitated too,” he disclosed quietly.

“When did he leave?”

“Before dawn. I’d barely woken up myself.”

Alfred tried his best brave face, polished grin the centerpiece. It felt misplaced, but it was his default expression. Besides, that was his title. The optimistic Jones. The industrious Jones. The unafraid Jones. With the Jones bit already fluid, the other pieces gained importance, and he swung into the saddle with enough gusto to fool himself into feeling fine. “It’s a bit of a mess,” Al admitted. “Mother is counting on my discretion—what a state of affairs, you know my mouth!—so I can’t divulge the details.”

“Of course not,” Toris murmured.

“Anyhow. I’ll be back soon. Just need to step away for a moment.”

This turned out to be a fantastic lie, as Alfred found excuses to pal about town until the end of the day. Ogres were in high demand. He worked his studious air at the library. Count Clark’s son came by itching for a race and Liberty could not let a challenge go unfulfilled (the result had been too close to call, but Alfred had the support of the local youth, so he contented himself with the prize of public opinion). Alfred only returned home as dark descended, when Liberty began to flag and his stomach began to pine for something other than bread and fruit.

He spotted Matthew as he trotted through the gate. His brother was pacing, a cornered specter, along the grand marble slabs atop the front staircase, and he zeroed in on Alfred as soon as he dismounted. “Where have you been?” he hissed, too stressed to feign blasé.

Alfred began to reply. Matthew held up a silencing hand.

“No. Nevermind. It really doesn’t matter.” Matthew ran a hand through uncharacteristically haggard hair and resumed his pacing. “Father got back this afternoon. I’ve never seen him this angry, Al. He’s locked in his office. Mother tried to go speak with him. He wouldn’t have her.”

“Has she told you?”

Matthew drew his willowy frame up. It would’ve made him look sturdier if he weren’t so pallid. “She says nothing needs to change, so long as it doesn’t get out that you’re…a…”

“Don’t protect my sensibilities,” Al assured brightly. It was fine. There were worse things to be than illegitimate.

“We just can’t get in the habit of saying it aloud. It can’t be known, Al. For your sake more than anyone’s.”

Mother made herself scarce that evening, and Alfred knew without asking that supper would not be a family affair today. He and Mattie supped in their room. Or at least, Alfred ate. Mattie did his best impression of a scientist dissecting a fish for research and barely got down a leaf of lettuce.

“Mattie, you’re apt to wither away,” Al pointed out.

“It’s fine,” Mattie murmured, nudging his plate away with one uninterested finger.

Yes. The most passive person in existence, and dually the most passive-aggressive.

“I have a feeling about tomorrow,” Al declared quietly over their last candle, well into the night. Sleep was beginning to tug at his eyelids, but he clung to lucidity for a while longer, though he didn’t know why.

“Good or bad?” Matthew murmured, eyes closed.

“Good. I think.” Alfred pictured good things. Father calling him into the office. Offering his surname back. A shared smile, a whoop of delight, a handshake that devolved into a hug. Or perhaps an argument that Alfred could wrangle. A well placed point here, a loving sentiment there, and new fenceposts staked in their first patches of solid ground. “Don’t be down, Mattie. We shall land on our feet. You may count on my doing something heroic if I can help it.”

“I hope you’re right.” Matthew reached out a cold hand to brush Al’s, adding, “And I know you would. But don’t go looking for trouble, eh?”

 “Never.”

“Al.”

Alfred could tell by the tone, his brother didn’t believe him.

“I shan’t,” Alfred assured. Be brave, Al, blow out the candle. He did; it left the room with a sinister aura.

“’Tis a good feeling,” he repeated, softer this time.

It must be.

-

Matthew was already awake and pilfering his giant closet for a good doublet when Alfred drifted to his senses. Al rubbed morning stickiness from his eyes, yawning. “What is it?” he slurred.

“I thought I heard a horse on the drive.”

Al stretched and slithered out of bed, floor cold against his feet. “Was it Father taking his leave, do you think?”

“I thought I could find out,” Mattie mumbled, chin to his chest as he fastened his last button. There. Alfred couldn’t help a brotherly snort. Matt was the picture of a nobleman’s son; what palpitations Father would have endured if Matthew had been the bastard? 

Alfred wafted to his room, to his considerably smaller closet. Come on, he told himself. Wake up. He heard the clop and clatter of a carriage coming up the drive and hurried his pace. Whatever that ominous feeling in his bones was hadn’t faded and he pulled on a doublet mercifully devoid of ribbons and ruffles. Really. How the fashionable folk managed to look in the mirror without bursting into laughter, he had no clue.

Such musing was shattered with commotion from below. A slam, a scuffle of feet stampeding into the foyer, a yell, a loud cry. A hubbub of protest. Mother’s voice broke shrilly above the fray.

Then:

"Alfred!?"

It was a frantic call, loud enough to carry--and Matthew's voice was never loud enough to carry, not even when he got caught in a runaway carriage as a child. Alfred's coat, halfway on, was immediately abandoned as he barreled down the hall and tripped over stairs in haste, like the house was an Olympic event and he, angling for gold. "Mattie?" he cried. "Matt, what's the matter?"

On the front steps, there was a cacophony of noise--people Alfred didn't recognize, though Mother and Father's angry voices sizzled above the rest. Matthew stood in the back of the fray and latched onto his brother the moment he tripped outside.

"Mother's being taken to an asylum!" he blubbered, voice a wound lyre string. "Alfred, we've got to do something!"

"What do you mean, an asylum?"

"For her charges regarding--adultery.” Matthew mouthed the last word, blushing, glancing this way and that. Then, “Father’s insisting on it!”

“Since when? Mother, Father,” Alfred said, grabbing hold of Matthew’s celery-colored coat and shouldering them both through the gaggle, “what is this about?”

Mother, red as a beetroot, was flanked on both sides by well-dressed men, one of whom Alfred recognized as a doctor by the fragrant scent of myrrh that clung to him like dust. “This is how you treat your wife!” she screeched. It wasn’t really a complaint and it definitely wasn’t an answer

Alfred blinked.

“Father, please.” It seemed all Matthew’s volume had gone to fetching Al; his new plea was weak and twig-like. “I beg you reconsider—“

“I will reconsider nothing,” Father trumpeted. His back was rigid. “Gentlemen. Go on.”

Matthew made a strangled noise. “Al?”

Well. He felt rather—underprepared, what with his half-dress and sock feet, but wits were not bound up in his cravats and lace poufs. “Gentlemen, I must object. No, mother, don’t hit them—Mattie? Take her arm and keep charges of assault at bay, thanks. Father.” Deep breath, Jones. “Do you not find this an—an overemotional reaction? Your humors are usually well-balanced. When did you decide this was the best solution to our ills?”

Father’s eye twitched, but it was the only break in his façade. The doctor and his mate were there, after all. “Hold your tongue, boy, and know your place.”

Alfred swallowed thickly, suddenly thankful for thick skin. He’d never been called ‘boy ‘, not by Father, not even in their most passionate disagreements. “Is this not a decision to be made at some length? Over a week? A month? Temper is a terrible thing to steer decisions. Surely you agree to that.”

“Inside,” Father said, tone dark. “Doctor, escort her. Matthew. Come here.”

“Or if you cannot agree to that, you must at least endeavor for marital civility—“

“Be silent or I will silence you myself! Matthew!” Father spoke without ungluing his eyes from Mother and Mattie and their uncomfortable-looking retinue. “Come here at once.”

Alfred tried to will his brother to stay, but it was no use—just as winds did not move father, Mattie was a willow branch, hesitantly swayed but swayed nonetheless. Small consolation that he only waved an inch and not to Father’s side as he’d been bid.

“Father, this is insanity!”

“No,” the man rumbled, molten iron in his tone. “’Tis sense that I have finally come to. If I hear one more protest out of you, boy, you may join your mother.”

None of it seemed real. It seemed shimmery, too ridiculous to take seriously, and Alfred nearly said as much, but was interrupted by Mother.

“Alfred. ‘Tis alright.” Mother tried to toss her hair, but it clung to her neck. How odd it was to see her in company of others without her hair curled and cheeks powdered! Her gaze went hard and it flickered to Father, brimming with hate. “Go back inside. The both of you.”

“I will not! Doctor, I’m sure this is a misunderstanding, you see it all started at Court. Have you gone of late? Ah, yes, I thought I saw you—”

Matthew took a hesitant step towards the door.

“You too, Alfred,” Mother pressed.

“I’d rather not, thanks.” He tried to catch Father’s eye. “We as a family must talk things out, not sequester ourselves away from each other in perpetuity.”

Something venomous glinted in Father’s face.

“Alfred.” Mother’s voice was cold as ice, but underneath it…there was an urgency that even undertone-blind Alfred could parse. “Turn around.”

“But—”

“Go inside and not another word.”

As if anticipating movement, the driver popped the carriage door open with an ugly, ominous creakkkkkk.

And it hit very suddenly, after that.

A one-way ride. A musky interior. The estate shrinking into the distance…

One spilled secret and Mother was no longer a nobleman’s wife, but a woman with no jewelry being herded into a carriage, physician at her elbow, dignity back on her dressing-room floor. The slope beneath his feet began to crumble, yet a retreat now felt dirty. He opened his mouth to protest once more.

It was Matthew whose nails dug into Al’s arm and tugged him backwards. Matthew wasn’t strong enough but Alfred wasn’t expecting it; besides, his thoughts swirled so quickly that he halfway forgot why he was making a fuss if everyone, even Mother and Mattie, wanted him inside. The doctor, who had been studiously ignoring the familial meltdown (some said compassion was the crowning trait of a physician, but most nobles would probably prefer a barbarian so long as it was a discrete barbarian), ushered Mother towards the carriage. In moments they’d bundled her into the seat and closed the door and clamored back to the reins. One flick of the driver’s wrists and they were off.

A morning wind whistled ominously.

And that—was all. That was it.

“Upstairs,” Father demanded over the clip-clop ­of hooves on pavement.

Alfred could feel Matthew’s body trembling next to his. That was some small comfort. T’wasn’t fear, of course. O no. A terrified Matthew went stock-still, melting into shadows, stowing away on a breeze, but tremors came from anger.  “How could you?” Mattie breathed.

Father soured further. Any more and he’d begin dissolving from the inside out, Alfred was sure. “Do not test me now.”

Get him, Mattie.

But alas. Matthew bottled up his ire, mouth pressed into a flat line, and stormed upstairs. Slam. There were liable to be cracks in the doorframe, after that.

Alfred assessed the situation. Assessed his angle. Things were quickly slipping out of his grasp, and he needed to—needed to find some common purchase with father, wrestle things back onto the right track, convince Father what a mistake this was. Their eyes met; Alfred wondered wildly if the stable hand’s eyes had been blue, too? Did Father know? Was he thinking the same thing at this very moment?

“This is all a bit much before breakfast,” Alfred observed. Really. Not even an egg sandwich.

Last week Father would have laughed at that. He’d soften ever-so-slightly in his stoic, composed way. Last week confidence would have bloomed in Alfred’s chest and he would chat the man inside, shouldering his way through objections with a smile and easy promises. And maybe the discussion would end heatedly, with Alfred stabbing the air to make points, whipping out a nifty turn-of-phrase he’d heard at a play, and maybe Father would have slammed his hand on a desk like a gavel, but it would have been motion, and it would have felt perfectly normal.

Not so, anymore.

“Father!”

The man had stalked back into the house without a word, without even acknowledgement, and Alfred found himself trailing behind a tornado of temper. “Come on, this isn’t like you. If you think I’m so wrong, refute me!”

Silence, save for the thud of their footsteps. Alfred quickened his pace. They were already halfway to father’s study.

“I won’t believe this is all your doing. Were you pressed into it? Perhaps the Earl of Penth? I can have a word with him if you like. Surely he could be convinced to see reason.” On instinct Alfred rolled his shoulders. Convincing had two forms and Al fancied he was getting good at both, or at least he would when he finally got into fisticuffs with someone. “Well? You’ve got to tell me plainly, you know. I cannot break down the wrong doors—”

They reached the office and Father was too quick. The door slammed, shuddering in its frame, and the noise rang loud in Alfred’s ears.

He was still smiling, he realized, beaming into the wood like an idiot.

Alfred shook off the buzz that zapped through him, let his countenance sober, and pounded the door instead. “Father?”

The whole scene stank of desperation, but then, it was a desperate sensation that inched up Alfred’s spine.

“Father?”

“Get you gone, Alfred,” Father said from within. His voice was heavy.

Alfred pressed his palms into the cool wood, willing Father (or was he? What a pickle this was!)  to come to his senses. “I see. Perhaps you’re overexcited. Fine. I suppose I can be patient, although you know very well that’s not my strength.”

Nothing.

“I would like you to know you are being a smidge unreasonable. But I, of course, stand ready to forgive.”

Silence could creak, it could sneer.

Alfred babbled as he backed away just to show silence who was boss.

“Capital then. I know you’ll think over our domestic quandary and come around to Mattie and me’s dissatisfaction. And you’ll miss Mother before the week is out, mark it. You’ll see posthaste.”

How effective you are, ‘boy’. Did you not hear what he called you?

“I may step out a bit, but I’ll leave word with Toris. Back for supper and all that.”

Anything would be nice. A grunt? Even a final dismissal, just to know his words were being heard.

Yet nothing else came.

Silence cackled, and Alfred, out of alternatives, retreated before the ground gave way completely.

-

Another soul-draining day.

O joy, though—he’d get a whole seven hours of exhausted sleep in return. What a prize.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose as he approached home. Monotony had a way of making one dread tomorrow. It was part of the sea’s allure—even if he was dog-tired and burnt to a lobster-red crisp, there was something mouthwatering about waking up to a new port every fortnight. But that was a daydream for some other time.

The houses came into view, and they too seemed to sag, like standing there all day had set rot deeper into their frames. Elizabeth was already asleep and Arthur consigned himself to bread and leftover soup as dinner. The soup, last Sabbath’s concoction, had a strange quality to it. Watery and…smoky. Francis, who’d wandered by the window in what he phrased as ‘neighborly concern’, accused him of burning it. Hmph. Ludicrous. As if you could burn water and spinach. Arthur had got a good shot in at the pervert (who else went peeping in private windows?) by hurling an empty pail at his smarmy head.

And he’d strained all the mysterious black bits floating in his soup that night, unwilling to give Francis basis for his blasphemy.

Arthur stopped before his front door. There was a letter jammed in the crack. Couldn’t be bills, could it? No. Arthur knew the moment he yanked the letter free; the parchment was far too expensive. He didn’t recognize the address. The oddness made him suspicious. He tucked it into his coat pocket, mentally rifling through all the worse case scenarios. If nothing else, the letter made his immediate course clear: tea was needed afore anything else.

He started a tidy fire. Set a kettle atop. Steeped a few choice leaves, breathing deep and savoring their delicate aroma. It wasn’t that he could afford a commodity like tea, but ever since pickpocketing netted him a pouch he’d been hooked. Francis had his wine, Wilhelm his spirits, and Arthur his tea and sugar, good as any quilt or drug.

Sugar!

Damn all, he was out. Arthur scowled into the empty jug, mood curdling.

Francis would certainly have some; heavens knew the twit stole from Arthur on a regular basis so he had every right to swindle the lousy Gaul. Still, the accent gave Arthur a terrible headache. Was it worth it?

Arthur pondered as he retrieved his soup, placing the pot of the table and giving it an experimental stir, hoping it had thickened into something heartier. When he did, the spoon scraped terribly against the bottom and came up caked with black gunk.

Cursing long days and wool grades and his already-forming headache Arthur shoved the pot into an inconspicuous corner and marched across the patchy grass, watching his target carefully as he approached. A warm glow lit Francis’ window through cracks in his shutters, and Arthur slowed his pace to listen. He’d not be scarred by walking in on—Arthur gagged, refusing to think further.

But. Dallying in the frog’s yard it smelled of garlic and thyme and whisking. No slamming bodies, no French. Then a noise of protest in Gilbert’s ineffaceable tone broke through the wall, a herald announcing all was safe. Arthur closed the distance and smacked his palm on Francis’ door thrice. “Frog! A word.”

That wanker! He was making him wait, Arthur was certain. Well fine then. Arthur gave the door a stout kick, a burning satisfaction bursting in his chest as the wood went parabolic. “Francis!”

A few jabs of muffled angry French further fueled the blaze. When Francis whipped the door open, his demeanor was carefully smug, but Arthur could pinpoint an eye-twitch borne of real annoyance. “Merde. If you have broken my door with your tantrum, I hope you are prepared to repair it!”

 “Oh, sod off.” Arthur shouldered past, schooling his stomach carefully as he stepped into the sweet scent of roasted vegetable and fresh sourdough. How Francis had time to cook, Arthur hadn’t the foggiest. “I’ve a need to borrow some sugar.”

 Gilbert was lying on the floor, eyes closed, arm draped across his face, Ludwig camped against the wall nearby. Those were the postures of people who’d worked all today; take note Francis. “You don’t borrow sugar,” Gil observed with a snicker. He sounded more asleep than awake. “Makes it sound like you’re going to give it back.”

Arthur shot the boy a glare. “Yes thank you Gilbert. So glad that I asked you.” To frog: “Have you got any or not?”

With a gargantuan sigh Francis popped open a clay jar. “Oui, for mon frere—”

“I am nothing of the kind!”

“I will consider it.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed to slits, trained squarely on Francis and the slimy way he was stroking his jar of sugar, like a dragon to a golden egg. “Wot do you mean consider it?”

“I mean to consider, non? To think about. I am not convinced you deserve ingredients, Arthur. I feel like I am sending an innocent lamb to slaughter.”

Arthur closed the distance, shoulders tensing. Frog was limby but glass-jawed and could be done in by a good punch to the kidney. Lamb to slaughter, what pretension. “You know very well that you stole flour from me last week,” he snapped.

Sniff. “That was a mission of mercy. If you had kept it, it would be burnt to a crisp just from sitting in your presence—”

“It would do nothing of the sort!”

“Didn’t you burn soup?” Gilbert piped up, cracking an eye.

Damn the frog and his housewife gossip! Arthur spared a glare for Beilschmidt. “Oughtn’t you run along home?”

“You’re not the boss. Nice try!” Gil crowed. He whacked Ludwig’s knee. “Right, Lutz?”

“Right.”

“Besides, they are helping me,” Francis broke in. “They have added carrots and radishes to the feast and Ludwig is my Sous Chef. We are cooking the rabbit he trapped.” Francis glimpsed his pot in a way that almost looked natural, that calculating amphibian. “Mon assistant, I need just a cup more of water. Could you be troubled?”

 Ludwig was a toy soldier, but his commanding officer was not Francis. It took Gilbert’s sharp grin and teasing “schnell!” to set him in motion. He slipped out the back, bowl in hand, all focus.

“I came back early,” Francis murmured once the boy was out of earshot. “Wilhelm arrived not long after. He was nursing a bottle and so I thought it best to—intercept the mine canaries for a little family feast.”

“I think you’ve not learned the proper definition of the word ‘family’, frog. It means relations, kin, et-cetera.”

“Pooh. Does it not also mean those who share circumstance?”

“No!”

A decidedly smarmy look smoothed Francis’s face, making him insufferable to behold. “How sad. It is unfortunate, Arthur, for I would be happy to lend sugar to a relation, but you leave me no choice—“ 

Arthur closed the distance and made a savage grab for the jar, tearing it from Francis’ grip, wondering what, exactly would the penalty be for ripping a neighbor’s vocal cords out? “I have had to it to here with your parasitic mooching. I shall exact this as payment for the flour with interest,” he informed Francis, waggling the jar. “And if you come near my kitchen again I’ll have your neck in the pillory for a month, understand?”

Francis made a retaliatory swipe for his sugar. Fat chance; Arthur was the dragon now and uninterested in yielding. He held the prize aloft, in wait. Go ahead, give it another try. 

“I am shattered by your coldness,” Francis pouted.

“I’ll soldier through the knowledge somehow.”

Gilbert propped himself onto his elbows and gave Arthur a strange look. “What’s that?” He asked. 

“What’s wot?” The twitching in Frog’s face? Just desserts, retribution for all the ribbing and squawking and petty theft?

“It’s a letter, isn’t it? Huh. Who the hell writes you?”

The insinuation made his face burn of its own accord. A pile of rebuttals piled up and bottlenecked in his throat to produce a sputter. “My correspondence is none of your concern!” He eventually managed, hyperaware of the letter and its mystery contents. And now so exposed—

"What a fine piece of paper," Francis said, lifting one eyebrow and looking far too gleefully at Arthur's mail. "Ohon, has my hopeless little brother managed to court up the ranks of society?" In one disgustingly swift move Francis, that thief, plucked the letter out of Arthur's pocket.

"That's the losers' way out," Gilbert said.  

Arthur scowled and held the sugar against his hip. If nothing else it could be his ransom. Or a weapon to smash some manners into the frog’s head. He held out an expectant palm, fingers beckoning. "It's certainly none of your business--piss off, Francis, give it here this instant!"

Franics ignored the reprimand in favor of flapping the letter, a teasing fan to Arthur's ire. "What else could it be, hmm? An invitation to a ball?"

"Do not open my correspondence!"

Pop went the wax seal, as Francis completely ignored him.

Ludwig--who'd returned with a cup of water--obediently set it on the counter and returned to his spot next to his brother, but his attention was tied with a string to the letter. If nothing else, he held his tongue. It was more courtesy than Gilbert displayed; he blearily squinted up and Francis and demanded, "Well? What's it say?"

Arthur shoved the sugar aside and launched himself at Francis. Hell if they were going to bowl over him, steal his mail, how dare they!

It was an evenly matched flurry of elbows, hair-tugs, and spit--Francis was taller but Arthur was tougher--until Gilbert dragged himself off the floor and joined the fray of the Frenchman's side. Arthur dug his heels in and wrestled like a Grecian. It wasn't so bad as two-on-one on account of Gilbert being exhausted, but he was damn strong for fifteen, and the boy made a habit of scrapping for spare change. Wiry muscles built by the pit mine eventually locked Arthur's right arm in an iron vice.

Well. Arthur--who had come back into possession of the letter but just barely--snapped the parchment up in teeth, shoved a palm in Francis' smug face, and planted a boot in his stomach. T'was not a kick, Arthur rationalized, even as Francis wheezed (the pansy). It was more of a forceful shove.

"That'll teach you, frog!" Arthur gloated, words muffled, spittle spraying onto the letter. Still. The delicious feeling of Francis doubled over--

"Mon dieu, I thought we were pulling punches," Francis gasped.

Arthur felt Gilbert laugh into the back of his head. "Hey, at least he didn't bite you this time."

"I didn't bite him last time!"

Gilbert just snickered anew. "Ja? How'd he get teeth marks on his arm?"

Arthur blushed but squared his shoulders and sniffed. "Of course I wouldn't know," he said around the letter in his mouth. "Perhaps he disappointed a lover; no doubt he greatly exaggerates the size of--ow!"

Gilbert increased the pressure on Arthur's shoulder.

"Luddy!" Gilbert said, too loudly for a voice pressed against Arthur's ear. "I order you to assist your awesome brother."

Oh. Ludwig. Right. A gentlemanly part of Arthur was always impressed with Gilbert's campaign: Keep Ludwig Innocent. Children had no need to know about the more...primal things. The rest of Arthur rolled his eyes at the futility of it. Certainly some of the other miners said crass things when Gilbert was occupied, wasn’t it moot?

Ludwig obediently approached, standing in front of the fray, their personal tin soldier.

"Francis, suck it up," Gil snapped, grin in his voice. "Get the other side of your sheep here."

Arthur made it difficult, but reach was a hard thing to overcome. Francis pinned his left side, and Gil shifted to trap his leg. "Okay, good. Lutz. Take the letter."

And...Ludwig would probably jump off a bridge if Gilbert told him to. The boy stepped forward and gave the letter a clinical tug, paying no heed to Arthur's dirty look.

Arthur clamped down hard.

"Should I rip it?" Ludwig asked, eyebrows kneeling.

"No!" Arthur grated, in tandem with Gilbert's, "If you have to."

The soft sound of wet paper tearing filled Arthur's head like a flood. He spat out the corner still left in his mouth. "What the bloody hell is wrong with all of you? Who tears up someone else's correspondence?"

Ludwig, at least, looked a tad bit sorry.

Francis sounded the exact opposite of sorry as he crooned, "If you had just been willing to share your life with your big brothers, we would not have gone to such lengths, mon ami."

It was redundant to protest familial ties, but-- "What do you mean, older brothers? You're the only one older than I am, twit."

"Task two, Lutz," Gilbert interrupted. "Open the letter. Yeah. Good. Okay, hold it in front of Francis now."

Francis cleared his throat. Arthur’s attention snapped back to present. He gave a mighty wretch, earning the pleasure of his captors wobbling. “Unhand me!”

“Dear Arthur Kirkland, it has been made known to us—“

Arthur cut the frog off momentarily by jamming a heel into his shin.

“that you are kin to one Alfred Kirkland (formerly Jones),” Francis continued in a strangled tone, “who has heretofore resided amongst his mother’s family. Present circumstances demand he be relinquished to the care of his father’s household.”

Arthur gaped, suddenly dizzy. “Wot?”

Even Francis’ smug glee took a turn towards confusion. “As you were found to be the only member of such kin who is in position to accept such a burden, the boy is humbly obliged to encroach on your hospitality—hon, that shows they do not know you, doesn’t it, Arthur?”

“Wot do you mean?” Arthur demanded. “I’m perfectly gentlemanly and hospitable! But not to—to whoever this mystery person is!” Heavens, he could barely afford himself in this world! Though…Arthur pictured a small lad, cold, abandoned, sniveling on doorsteps…would he could help…his heart tightened.

“In recognition of the burden tasked prior the Jones estate has agreed to supply, with the boy, a stipend of ten schillings a week, until the boy is eighteen, which they hope will ease any reservations.”

“Ten a week?” Gilbert piped up. “Not bad. Pretty much what Lutz gets.”

“And you must assume he is able to work, besides,” Francis agreed. “Let us see…until the boy is eighteen…ah. In anticipation of your acquiescence, we are making all travel arrangements and hope that an arrival on the twenty-fifth of the month would suit. Please make it known immediately by writ, addressed to the Jones Estate in Turney otherwise and it is our honor to be at your disposal. Signed Kent Burrows, esquire.”

Arthur stared, fingertips numb in a way that had nothing to do with his neighbor’s arm-bar. “I—it’s—“

Ludwig flipped the letter to look at it, as if understanding could float into his head on its own. “Your brother is coming to visit you?” he said, a note of wonder in the words.

“I—it’s not—no.” Arthur shook his head; maybe if he did so hard enough his thoughts would magically slot into place. “I’ve only three brothers, all older, and they’re all bloody nuisances in their own rights. I’ve never heard of this—this Jones character.” He pulled himself from both grasps. It said something about the general shock in the room that they let him go. “Are we sure it’s not just some prank? Tomfoolery? Francis.” His tone dropped like lead.

Francis’s eyes went wide, and he held up both hands in mock surrender. “Arthur. My dear little rat. You cannot possibly suspect I had a hand in this.”

“Like hell I can’t!”

“Non, think of my tastes, mm? Is this not outside my usual repertoire?”

Arthur choked out a noise, some paltry disagreement, but no. Blast all, the frog was right—this reeked of mischief and a cruel hook, not embarrassment. Besides. Francis bragged when he got his way.

Halfhearted glances turned towards Gilbert. Unlikely, but he did have a sharp streak in him. “I suppose you’ll be claiming ignorance too, then.”

Gil snorted. “When do you think I have time to write you a fancy-ass letter and mark it with a wax seal? Do I look like a snot-faced aristocrat?”

“Perhaps there’s a livery man in the mines,” Arthur muttered, then: “I say, my father never mentioned anything about another …”

“Might not have known about it,” Gilbert offered.

“What’s the day today?”

Ludwig stared at the ceiling mouthing words for a moment before he perked. “The twentieth.”

“Five days?” Arthur snatched the letter from the lad, reeling. It was a joke. Must be, otherwise— “This cannot be happening. I don’t even—“ he flipped the letter front and back . “It doesn’t even say how old the child is, for heaven’s sake! Wot, am I supposed to mind a babe? Bring it in to work with me like a wet nurse?” Not that he opposed it, per se—the right tikes were rather charming, darling with their dimples and coos—but Arthur shuddered at the idea of Ivan discovering such a thing. Ello gutter. Picking pockets couldn’t cover all aspects of life.

“Surely you can narrow it down,” Francis said, sounding irrationally rational. “Your father is passed on, no? When did that happen?”

Arthur blinked. “A good while. After mother. I was eight, perhaps. No older.”

“So twelve years.” Francis snapped. “The boy is at least twelve years old.” He flashed Ludwig a conspiratorial smile. “Only a few years older than you, mm? Perhaps we have found you a little playmate.”

“I don’t need a playmate,” Ludwig said with all the seriousness of an Atlas child.

“Oh, do not be proud. Every little child needs a playmate. It is only too bad that Little Kirkland is a boy. Would that not have been adorable, a petit romance?”’

Gilbert made a derisive noise. “He’s eight.”

Arthur took a deep breath. The world was rocking, teetering the same way it did when he’d imbibed too much and began arguing with an armchair. Except there was nary a fume in sight, and none of the bodily lightness that made such overindulgences worthwhile. He reread the letter once, twice. Again.

No age, no reasons, nothing but the name Alfred Jones.

“This isn’t happening.”

Francis was strangely even tempered. He stroked his chin like a great philosopher. “What an interesting development. Another brother.”

Oh hang it all. Arthur couldn’t be bothered to correct him anymore.

“Well, I suppose such news merits a celebration,” Francis announced. He removed the bread from its sheet and sliced it with expert precision Arthur would never acknowledge aloud. “Would you care to join us, mon mouton?”

It flustered Arthur. He waved the offer off. “Er. No, don’t be daft, Francis. You’ve hardly enough food to entertain.”

Francis winked (farewell, appetite). “Somehow we will make do.”

“Here, we can go get another plate.” Gilbert swaggered out the door, half of it iron confidence, half of it bone-tired. “C’mon, Lutz. We can see if the Ancient’s in a pissy mood or not while we’re there, ja? Kseksekse. That was a trick question. He is always in a pissy mood but our awesome compensates—” the one-sided chatting ambled out the door, fading across the yard, and leaving the kitchen quiet save for the rhythmic crunch-clack of Francis slicing.

“You truly had no idea?” Francis asked after a moment.

“None.” Arthur sank into a chair. It wobbled, doing no favors to his spinning head, and he skimmed the text again. “Not even a suspicion.”

“Ah.” Crunch. Clack.

“Tis a terrible time,” he murmured. Though there’d never be a good time. “I’ve no resources to raise a child. It’s more than funds, it’s energy. Attention. By Jove, Francis, it’s a life.”

If anyone was to inherit some secret child, it ought to be Francis, promiscuous lush that he was. Those would be just fruits. Not him. Not here, not now.

Francis hummed in response. Then: “It is a big thing to be entrusted with, but it is a beautiful thing too.”

“Mmmph.” Arthur pressed his palms into his eyes. How to begin unpacking this? “It said the child lived at an estate. It may be a spoilt brat, frog. I’ve not the resources for it.”

“It is a child being sent to live with a stranger, mon ami. I do not know what else he may be, but he will be frightened. In need of a supportive hand. Try not to worry. Big Brother Francis shall help.”

It was a strange world indeed when Francis Bonnefoy said something helpful.

A big brother.

None of Francis’ brand of counterfeits. A real one, the same ilk as he’d grown up with. Arthur suppressed a shudder. The lot of them made his life a scraping struggle as far back as he could recollect. ‘Big brother’ left a bitter taste on his tongue. It meant hissing. Biting. Hatred. Finger-pointing.

Yet now there was a sliver of candlelight, shining through a door cracked open. In one letter big brother meant something else, now that Arthur had been assigned to their ranks, and despite the uncertainty, he couldn’t help but begin wondering what kind of big brother he’d be.

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?

Chapter Text

The week had passed in precarious abeyance. Alfred didn't care much for the tightrope, but he walked it with energy and flair. Someone in the estate had to choose grin-and-fix-it. Mattie was the master of silent resistance—the hunger strike was in full effect, and the door to his drawing room was frozen shut. Father too barricaded himself, only his fortress was the mahogany office.

So. Apples and trees and all that.

Cook and Toris were bastions of normalcy. Alfred spent the week fending off boredom and jitters by learning Cook’s repertoire of pie recipes. “Yer a natural with the apple, Master Al,” she’d cooed at him, before shoving a fresh pastry in his mouth.

Alfred grew impatient thrice a day, but he could usually restrain himself from pounding down Father’s door demanding the man deal with this mess. Usually. It was always fruitless. Father either hollered ‘Get you gone!’ (which was bad enough) or ignored him completely (far worse). Matthew always let him in, but Mattie was waspish and terrible company nowadays, not in the mood for anything other than conspiring and practicing eye-daggers in the mirror.

Conspiring, Alfred could get behind. Matthew was an excellent strategist. 

“Shall we break mother out of whatever asylum she’s been marooned in?” Alfred asked one afternoon. 

‘No’ a non-conspiring brother would have said.

“It’s not that simple,” Matthew replied blandly.

“It could be," Alfred pressed. "We could take the carriage—”

“Father would notice immediately.”

“Fine, then I can take Liberty. We shall make better time anyway.”

Matthew sighed. “Al, they won’t discharge her without papers.”

“Drat.” Alfred slumped. Alfred would produce them himself, but his penmanship had gotten stuck somewhere around the level of a twelve-year-old girl’s. Passable but nothing like Father’s elegant script. “How long would you need to pull those off?”.

“Another week. At least his signature’s easy.”

But the earth shifted before the week was up.

Father called him in. Finally.

A shot of adrenaline punched through Alfred’s system when he sat down. Exactly as he’d pictured it: Father on one side of his desk, he stationed across. What a waste of two weeks, when this could have been their immediate position.

Alfred graced father his most winning grin. “Father! Tis good to see you. I shall skip all the good-mornings and that racket. Mattie and I have been thinking and—”

“Alfred.” Father held up a stalling hand. How strange! His eyes had a sad luster. “I am afraid the future has changed for you, boy. Listen carefully.”

There was nothing to do but acquiesce.

There was nothing to do but listen as the cliff gave way and sent Alfred tumbling into the unknown.

Kirkland.

Four of them remaining. One in prison, another unaccounted for, but the fourth was suited, word had already been sent, and that was that. Like it was done. Like Alfred was a bad stain that had to be scrubbed out of the carpet, and the sooner the better before people had a chance to point and stare.

I see. Yes. Yes, that makes sense.

It didn’t but Alfred couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Father was cold, crueler than Alfred would have thought, though he didn't allow his smile to slip. He had such little ammunition now. Grace and good cheer would not be left on the office floor.

"But you may take a trunk, and whatever clothes you wish."

Smile. Nod. Alfred endeavored to take the poorest trunk in their home, bowed to "Father" with a cheeky amount of flourish, like he could not be bothered to take this shift in circumstance personally.

It was hard. But. The alternatives were unsavory.

Only when Matthew found him, furiously stuffing things into a busted trunk, that he burst like a geyser. "Father said he's sending you away," Matthew demanded the moment he walked in. Horror dawned as he took in the scene: a trunk, splayed clothes, the scene of a traveler-to-be. "Al, you can’t just leave!"

"Well I can’t just stay." Would he need these shoes? Probably, who knew when he was to see the cobbler again. "Fathe--your father made that expressly clear, and even if not, I know now I'm not welcome."

Matthew gaped, eyes welling. "But you can’t make your way alone. You're only fifteen. Al. Please."

"I'm not going out alone. Did you know that my father--my real father, that is--died some twelve years ago? Widower, as well, may they all rest in peace and all that." He would not be taking the wired lace collar, Al decided with gusto, as he tossed it over the bed. Paupers didn't need such unsavory baubles. "But he had several sons. So. I've stumbled into an inheritance of brothers, one of which whose care I am being sent into."

"Where are they situated?"

"Not sure. Here and there. Suppose I'll figure it out."

Matthew took a deep breath. "I--can't abide this." In a flurry of fine silks, Matthew swept out the door, his voice ambulating down the steps as he called, "Father? Sir, I must ask for a word--"

Alfred was almost moved. T'was nice to know that unflappable Matt could be worked up so at the prospect of Al's departure. But. Matthew was a piece of driftwood when it came to arguments--solid in and of himself, but easily swept away by those with more temper or emotion. He did not need to hear the muffled voices through the walls to know it was a losing argument. Best not to waste time in packing; who knew when "father's" fuse would end, and Alfred found himself in a carriage, trunk be damned?

More shoes. Boots. A thick Parisian winter coat, brand new--fitted just this month, at Father-not-father’s insistence. When the trunk nearly overflowed with clothes and old books, Alfred stuffed a few more pieces in, both as a middle finger to this household, and as a personal comfort.

Mother's old timepiece, not terribly expensive.

One soldier from the set he and Matt had played with until they were ten, and which Alfred still kept tucked behind the dresser.

A handful of more expensive, finely bound books--the Bible, the Pilgrim's Progress, Othello, King Lear.

Matthew returned, crestfallen face relaying the results of his argument clearer than any words. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "Al, I tried, but—he’s in a frightful mood, and I fear I’ll follow you out if I don't watch my tongue."

Smile. Nod. Alfred even threw in a back-pat. "It's alright, Mattie, you tried, and besides! It would have been more an insult to me if you managed to argue--him successfully, where I could not."

Matthew knew too much. His gaze softened unbearably. "Al..."

"Now, do you think I can fit Don Quixote into the top, or will that burst the seams irreparably?"

"You could have taken your normal trunk," Matthew pointed out with a hint of exasperation. "Al, this one's liable to collapse in on itself."

"I think that would be taxing your dear father's hospitality." Perhaps there was a flash of iron in his voice, anger snapping to the surface for a brief moment. "No. Let him keep his gilded things. He wants nothing of me and I’ll impose as little as I can. It’s all shaken up now, Matt. I’m not his kin anymore. I’m entitled nothing. I’ll have to take my clothes and the necessities, but I wish I didn’t.”

Quiet quelled the room for a moment. Alfred spent the reprieve shoving his elbow into the lid, hoping the leather would hold.

Matthew stood and left, abrupt. He returned two minutes later, palms full of something, and knelt in front of the trunk, a closeness only proper because there were brothers. Up this close, Alfred could see the fury hiding behind soft violet eyes and glinting spectacles. He could also see what Matthew held.

"I just told you, Matt," Alfred said, doing his best not to sound cross, "I'll not be leeching of his charity nor his wealth. It's a principle."

"It's got nothing to do with him," Matthew shot back, popping open the trunk. He dug a grave for his prize--a palm-full of Mother's expensive jewelry and tucked them in like one would a babe. "They're Mother's wealth. Which I will inherit someday. And it is I gifting it to you."

"That's not strictly allowed--"

"To hell with what's allowed," Matthew snapped. "We're brothers. You are taking these, Alfred, and you'll sell them the first chance you have. And--" Matthew swallowed audibly, fear coursing through his face, but he churned on: "And if you should need more, I'll find a way to get it to you. I swear it."

All crossness drained out of Al like water through a sieve. "Don't compromise your position for me." He nudged Matthew with his elbow, trying to rekindle levity, but feeling a rush of warm, comforting gratitude anyway. "I would not want to be the cause of your getting thrown out too, ha--though I suppose we could be vagrants together--"

"When Father is gone," Matthew said, voice hollow and distant, like Alfred hadn't even spoken, "or when he’s come to his senses…we’ll reconcile. You'll come--home." On the last word his voice broke. "This entire arrangement is a temporary trial."

It was the closest Alfred came to throwing himself into his brother’s arms and asking to hide in his room until this had passed. Like this was a thunderstorm to be weathered instead of an earthquake. But no. A thunderstorm could put up its squall and leave nothing worse than a felled tree, but the ground had already broken open and Alfred was already amid the fall. No need to take Mattie’s hand and drag him down too.

Matthew wrung out the end of his hair. “When?”

“Tomorrow. He seems eager to be rid of me.”

“Tomorrow?!”

“It’s fine. I shall take it as a compliment; no doubt I am close to breaking his resolve with my charms.” Alfred took a steadying breath and smacked the lid closed. The whole thing bowed dangerously. No matter. “It’ll mend in time. Look, Matt, the next step is to work on bringing Mother home. You mustn’t flag.”

“No.” Matthew’s features were hardening in that familiar calculating way. “No, Father’s far fonder of you that he is of her. You’d be the first to come home.”

What fickle fondness, Alfred thought but didn’t bother saying.

It would ruin the unaffected air, you understand.

-

He remained unaffected until he left before dawn, up early with the dew and drab and drizzle.

Father did not see him off to the carriage, but Cook and Toris and Matthew did, and Matthew wrapped him in a hot, desperate hug that gave Alfred an excuse to bury his nose in Mattie’ lavender-and-wheat-scented locks on more time.

Don’t think like that. It’s not like you’re off to your deathbed.

One more time for the foreseeable future, then.

In the embrace Matthew slipped something loose and weighty into Alfred’s jacket pocket. As the carriage bobbled away, Alfred swaying in his seat, he pulled it out and guffawed despite himself. Father’s coin purse, straight from his office drawer. It gave Alfred an anchor, the weight steadying him as the morning wore on. If he arrived at this new situation and found it untenable, there was a way out.

Time dragged its feet. The horses pressed on in a hasty trot.

(He napped.)

Sleep had been impossible last night. He’d wondered about everything, considered all angles, including running away straight from the estate instead of letting himself be delivered to this mystery relative, before concluding that free ride out of father’s purview ought not be discarded.

So. Sleep.

Then a snack, which a teary Cook had foisted upon him in a covered basket. It was piled high, bless her heart, no doubt meant to feed someone for a weekend. Alfred made it last the hour.

Then. More time. The sun marched into frame, then up past midmorning, to noon.

Another nap, before midafternoon.  

Alfred contemplated a twig on a road, wishing the trip would end sometime soon. When the twig was squashed betwixt the wheel of a carriage and the mud below, did it think on its terrible compression? And could it possibly be a worse fate than Alfred suffered between the carriage wall on the left and his trunk on the right? Playing cards in their little boxes were less pressed!

But. Alfred wriggled, straightening his shoulders as much as the cramped space allowed. T'was...just part of his newfound part to play. Certainly he could manage. After all, it was only one carriage ride--

Yes. Just one. He could grin and bear it.

The countryside turned decidedly barren. Alfred expected as much. He was not so naive to think his estate upbringing was the norm, the only norm about it was the Norman roots of great-grandfather. Ha. Alfred smothered a snort in the silence of the carriage. Heavens knew, the driver was probably paying close attention for noises of hysteria. Wouldn't "father" have a happy conniption then? Mother and Alfred might even share a room in the asylum. Still. Such a shame. He hoped this brother would be game for a few jokes of wit.

"Brother".

Of course when Alfred first thought the word, Matthew's face came rushing to mind. The idea of another brother didn't feel so much like a betrayal then it felt...incorrect.

Did he look like them? Al tried not to think about it too hard. Best not to build up an image in his head. Quite unfair for the poor fellow.

'Poor' indeed seeming to be an apt label,' Alfred's rebellious mind put in, as he spared a hesitant glance outside.

Some of the homes looked barely fit for donkeys, let alone men.

"But I shall make do," Alfred repeated under his breath. "Not the end of the world."

-

It became clear he would have to think seriously about selling the jewels. Up until Pudding Lane (three towns over and slums by noble standards) he'd fostered a fledgling flame of hope that they could be kept and returned as proud trophies to Matt. Thank-you-for-your-thoughts-but-I've-figured-it-out trophies.

Now, thirty miles out, it was clear that money’s services would be needed.

Well. He'd just--pawn them. Then earn back the value somehow, and if he couldn't buy the gems themselves at least he could present the sum.

An inn housed them for the night. Alfred didn’t sleep much; they were back on the road as the sun floated over the horizon. At least he got a good long nap in, starling wake around noon, having dreamt about an insane asylum that forged fancy jewelry.

A small eternity later Alfred rapped the roof. "I beg your pardon, but oughtn't we be getting close?" he called.

At least the driver wasn't too gruff to reply. "Aye. Not ten minutes now by my reckoning."

And oh. That sent a new flutter of something soaring through Al's stomach, having nothing to do with the wood-cracking rocks of the carriage over potholed country roads. He focused on the sway of the carriage, staring outside. Which home was his brother's? So few choices, this far out. A small collections of buildings on one knoll, still a smaller one clustered past the next.

The carriage slowed in front of a trifecta of homes. Piles of sticks. What have you.

"Not sure which is the residence of Mr. Kirkland," the driver called out. Right. Kirkland.

His...

Alfred Jones popped the door under his own power. "Say, looks like no one's home." All the houses seemed devoid.

"Aye." The driver sounded almost amused, and perhaps would if he wasn't so gravelly sounding. "Unmarried lot, s'pose. Any man lives around here works this time of day."

"Oh. Yes. That makes sense. I daresay I'll be joining those ranks soon, since I do as of this exact moment 'live around here'..." Alfred's boots hit the ground and sunk an inch in mud. "Bugger. How have the horses been getting on in this quagmire?"

The driver softened slightly. "They make do." A slight pause. "We all do." Then, with a middle-aged grunt, the driver heaved off the seat and hauled Alfred's trunk out halfway.

"I beg you let me help you with that."

"Lanky thing like you? Good way to pull a muscle."

Alfred shrugged and took the other side anyway. When the driver slipped in a particularly vile patch of mud, Alfred took the entire thing.

"Stronger than you look," the driver grumbled, as Alfred lugged the trunk to a dry mound of moss and set it down.

"So I am often told, but unfortunately I'm rarely afforded the chance to prove my mettle so readily as I have now."

Driver climbed back into his seat. "That sorta thing will serve. The landowner of this parcel, he's known to have mines. Make it known you can handle yourself and you'll get a job."

Alfred's smile was a touch forced as visions of cramped walls darkened his mind. "Good to know. Of course I'm not overmuch fond of kerplunking about the depths of the earth. Seems terrible unnatural."

The driver shrugged. “Might square with it. In this area work might be slim pickings.”

Square with it, more like the idea could square up and fight him, Al determined.

With a thwack of the reigns, the carriage and driver were off again, and it was Al, three houses, a—was it a goat?—and thoughts aplenty. With no clue which stoop to camp on, and no humans in sight, Alfred plopped himself on the trunk, prayed quickly for its structural integrity, and waited.

He watched the world trundle by. Lucky for him, the day was mild save for a few chilly gusts, like the heavens were content to let him and his trunk stay dry while they waited for this brother.

Wish I knew his first name.

Alfred stared at a little wildflower. It was wilting, well out of season, speckled with mud.

He sighed, tucked his chin in hand, and looked at shapes in the clouds instead.

Every now and again a ping of life would strike the knoll--a bleat from the goat that stood in a ramshackle pen, a breeze that whacked a squealing hinge closed--but the world was otherwise lonesome. Not so much as a carriage passing by; the closest Alfred saw was a handcart drawn by a grumpy-looking man.

He'd felt a bit silly at his relief when the handcart man trudged by, not even glancing his way. They hadn't looked alike at all--but one could never know--

It had been hours, and the sun was starting to set, when Alfred saw a figure speedily marching down the road, a long way off. His heart leapt. The person, blonde, was clean-shaven and slight, and as he got closer Alfred could pinpoint the moment he saw the trunk and its occupant.

Oh, hell. That's him.

Alfred stood, cleared his throat, and hastened to meet the man halfway.

They approached, and Alfred was struck by his brother's (it had to be him) features: monstrous brows, cornmeal-colored hair that would look hackneyed even if brushed, a smallish, angular, almost elfin nose. How funny, though--the shapes of their faces were dead ringers.

The man stopped a foot away, no doubt indexing Alfred in a similar manner. "...Alfred?" he said after a moment of thick silence.

Deep breath, Jones.

Alfred bowed, popping back up as soon as was proper to smile. "That's me, yes! Sorry to rush out to you like this, I was simply eager to be done with the anticipation and--I do hope you'll forgive me, but they’ve neglected to give me your name? Beyond Kirkland, of course."

The man balked. "I. Er--you're Alfred?"

Damn, Alfred sucked in a quiet breath through his teeth. Here he was, drowning the poor fellow in greetings; clearly he wasn't measuring up to Mr. Kirkland's mental picture yet. "Spot on again, Alfred F. Jo--well. I much prefer simply 'Alfred', anyhow."

Silence. The man seemed to survey him anew.

When Alfred could not bear it any longer, he braved another splash of conversation, as if poking a horse to go on, walk. "Should I just call you Mr. Kirkland, then?" He hardly seemed old enough to prefer such miser titles, but some people just loved to be haughty about those things.

It jolted the blond out his analytical reverie. With a slight start and headshake, the man said, "My apologies, it's--Arthur is perfectly fine. Arthur Kirkland."

"Perfect! Arthur. It's a pleasure, though I’m sorry to meet you in such an...intrusive fashion." Alfred didn't blush--he didn't do embarrassed, or at least it was always wise to feign indifference--but he did feel the jitters in his fingertips. "It's something of a new situation. Quite recent. Not sure how much you've heard, but t'was not my intention to darken your doorstep so suddenly."

Arthur picked his way slowly down the road, towards the trunk, and Alfred fell into step beside him. "I really don't know much," Arthur said carefully. "I was informed by writ of your arrival--some five days ago."

Alfred bit his lip to smother a squawk. Five days? That was all?

"I must confess, I was surprised." Arthur glanced at him, green eyes politely hooded. "I wasn't aware I had a younger brother. Pardon my bluntness."

"No, no. No need for apology. I wasn't aware I had another older brother." He barked a laugh at the incredulity of it all, for here he was, chatting with that older brother. The one that didn't exist. "It's been something of a wild month for me. Playwrights ought to take note and learn a thing or two about dramatic flair."

Quiet, save for boots in the mud.

"That must have been quite jarring for you," Arthur ventured.

How gentlemanly. Alfred felt oddly touched by the delicacy, and the backdoor exit he'd been offered. It was more than he rightfully expected. Anyone burdened with a heretofore unknown sibling had a heaven-ordained right to take a pry bar to their new guest. And anyway he could feel the elephant's breath down his neck. 

"Oh, we don't need to dance around it. I'll happily tell all, you know, it's certainly not a secret now. Three weeks ago my mother announced that I am, in fact, a bastard."

Arthur cleared his throat. "I see," he said diplomatically.

Which, if Alfred translated correctly, really meant 'do tell more'.

"Come to find out I was the product of my mother's affair with our stable-hand, one Mr. Kirkland--condolences, by the way--and that the Jones family isn't entirely mine. In any case. My mother's husband had quite the volatile reaction, which when all was said and done landed my mother in an asylum and me...here. So. That is the general situation."

"I see," Arthur repeated, tone even more clipped than before.

They reached the trunk; Alfred hefted it before Arthur could protest. The blonde raised a gargantuan brow. "Got it?"

"Yep." Alfred kept the smile up. "Which way?"

"Ah, this one here." Arthur led on to the leftmost house, and Alfred did his best not to grimace as the stoop bowed mightily under his weight, nor to wrinkle his nose at the smell of goat and--burnt animal fat? And mud. It smelled earthy in a way not typical of the indoors.

A draft ripped through a crack in the slats. Ah. That would do it.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder and gestured to an open entryway. It let into a small nook of the main kitchen, the floor dirt and window boarded. A neatly-tied mattress of hay, lumpy but covered in a clean wool blanket, sat against one wall. "I'm afraid this is all I have by way of spare room," Arthur said, sounding uncomfortable. "I wasn't able to procure much by way of bedding. It's been a busy week, but we'll sort it out as soon as possible."

"Capital!" Smile. Alfred set the trunk down with a harsh plop. It wobbled dangerously at the seams. "It's perfectly fine. I expected to make do even before I learned you only had five days notice. Terribly kind of you to have anything ready at all."

Arthur murmured something under his breath; Alfred didn't quite catch it. Then: "Must see to some sort of furniture for you. A dresser for your things, perhaps."

"Thank you, but...Arthur." So strange, to test the new name in this new context. Alfred shook off the buzz of oddness. "You shouldn't go out of your way."

"Wot? Don't be nonsensical," Arthur said, not unkindly, brow furrowing. He rubbed his chin absently. "Perhaps a rug of some kind."

Somehow Alfred didn't think whatever sheepskin tatters they could wrangle would stand up to the Ottoman runners he'd grown up on. He bobbed his head and smiled nonetheless.

"Hungered?" Arthur offered, after a contemplative pause for mental interior decorating.

Always, was the truest answer.

But. Alfred could guess the kind of diet that came with dirt floors. He shrugged.

Arthur's gaze lingered on him for a moment before he sighed and nodded. "Right. I was thinking perhaps we could head to the tavern, have an early sup, perhaps learn a bit about each other."

"Good idea." Alfred let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

Silence only followed them for a few minutes down the street--no, Arthur did not own horses, Alfred missed dear Liberty already--before Alfred broke it. Questions burned at the tip of his tongue, and ho, there was the man who could answer it, directly stage left.

"So. Arthur. I'm sure you don't mind me asking your age?"

"Twenty," Arthur replied, and Alfred--blinked, missing a step.

Sure, the guy looked young, but there was an air about him that suggested age. He'd suspected twenty-six at the least.

Arthur scrutinized him for a short moment. "And you?"

"Fifteen." Just this past July, though Al happily left that detail out.

For some reason Arthur laughed softly.

"What?" Alfred took his words in hand, examining each for some fault. He found none. "I've been told I'm on the tall side, if that's what you're saying--"

"No, no," Arthur huffed through his nose, though the laughter abated. "It's only. Well. One of my neighbors, he's your age."

Hmm. That could go either way.

"My neighbors--" Arthur cut himself off. He shook his head. "Nevermind. I suppose you'll meet them all soon enough. They're rather nosy. Particularly the frog, who lives directly adjacent. I apologize in advance for him."

"He's the fifteen-year-old?"

"No, he's twenty-one, shockingly. It's a miracle he's made it that long in life without someone throttling him."

The wind picked up halfway through their trek; Alfred was glad for his nice coat. He glanced to Arthur, stomach sinking like an iron ship.

Why, there were two threads on that jacket!

And what was underneath but a thin cotton work shirt?

"Say, you ought to give this one a try, Artie." He shrugged off the jacket, ignoring the slightly affronted "Artie?" "You look as if you'll spout icicles from your fingertips any minute."

Arthur wore the same expression he had when speaking about the furniture in Al's room--like the beginnings of a storm on the sea, not truly angry, but stirring, stern. "I assure you I'm fine."

"O come on, Artie--"

"Arthur," he corrected flatly.

"Ho-hum. Give it a go, at least. It's just my traveling jacket, and it's a year too small for me. Didn’t get it replaced in time. Pulls terribly. I'm taking it off anyways, and I'd hate to waste it."

"Don't be absurd. You need a jacket or you'll catch a chill."

Alfred laughed and pushed the coat into Arthur's arms, ignoring the way he shied like a stubborn horse. "In September? Hardly! Besides. My winter coat is sitting cozy in its trunk. I'll retrieve it the moment it's required. Come on, please? I'm overmuch warm anyway."

Arthur looked at him sharply, as if he could decode the lie through emerald stare alone, but Alfred considered himself a proficient bluff. Play stupid, that was his calling card. Silly how much one could hear, if the world thought one was lost in the music of his own mind. When Arthur did not take the impressed garment, Alfred slung it over one arm--the one nearest Arthur--and hummed a jaunty tune. Shame he didn't know the lyrics.

The coat hung in the balance for two minutes at least. Arthur yanked his own thin jacket tighter thrice in that period before thinking better of it.

Alfred carefully cultivated his own warmth. It had been a lie--the slowly churning breeze was growing ever colder, who wouldn't feel a slight sting?--but his own vest, shirt, and undergarments were ages stouter than Arthur's.

At long last Arthur reached for the coat. It was still a wary thing, expression shadowed. "You're certain you're not chilled?"

"On a trek like this? Not to worry, I'm pumped up. Warmer than July itself."

One more hesitation came, but it didn't last. Arthur accepted the jacket. He shrugged it on; Alfred politely kept his eyes forward, though he couldn't help but notice the sag of relief that seemed shot into Arthur's veins.

"Very kind of you to offer," Arthur said, words quiet and addressed as much to the world at large as anyone else.

"Oh! Think nothing of it at all. Besides. I think I'm stuck in your debt for a considerably larger toll than a jacket. I have expressed my condolences, haven't I? Five days. Ugh. That's terrible unsporting."

They were reaching the beginnings of what some might call a ‘village'. Alfred was not 'some': it was another knoll, but this time with ten ramshackle buildings instead of three, and in the flattening land beyond, there was the distant twinkle of lit buildings that announced the true heart of the village, a mile yonder. Thankfully, Arthur led them into the gaggle of structures. Ah, yes. There was the smell of a bar. Alcohol and sweat.

(And dirt. Everything around here, Alfred was quickly learning, smelled of dirt.)

"Here we are," Arthur said, leading them in and settling at a table. The quipped pleasantries of ordering food took precedent, Alfred content to let Arthur lead. T'was his dime, after all. His stomach drooped at the thought. What a tax he already was!

"You must let me pay for the meal, Arthur," he said as soon as the barmaid left. Gratitude flooded him once more for Matt and the smuggled shillings , Alfred himself too proud to take those bribes. "I insist on insisting."

"Don't be silly. It's well in hand." Arthur folded his hands, somehow making himself look stately, even in a borrowed foam-green traveling jacket and hair more akin to a rat's nest than hair. "Though I suppose it'd be prudent to discuss financial matters. I wasn't sure how old you would be, so I hadn't set anything in stone..."

"I'm planning to find work," Alfred filled in, "if that's what you mean."

Arthur's expression only lingered for a moment before he nodded, curt. "Good then. Had you anything in mind? Where did you work before?"

It was like smacking his nose into a brick wall. "Ah. This upcoming employment will be my first 'job'." Alfred tried not to be discouraged at the sudden look Arthur gave him, as if he realized the boy he had been speaking to was actually a cat. "I suppose I have a handful of skills that may or may not prove useful, though? I'm told I've a Midas touch with horses, I'm quite a good at galvanizing a crowd (if orations are commonplace here) and I fiddle, too. Though I left my fiddle... Damn. That's on me. Should have brought it."

Arthur hid his surprise well after that first stroke of emotion, clearing his throat anew. "I'm afraid there aren't many orations," he said. "Hm. May I make...a few suggestions?"

"Please."

"Most of the people hereabouts work either under the Carriedo endeavors, or at some enterprise in town. I myself work in town cleaning and sorting wool. I'd be happy to put in a word for you, perhaps on a trial basis to see if the work suits you."

Alfred let out a breath of air, something clicking into place in his mind. It was intimidating but freeing to finally have a plan. Nothing sucked worse than limbo. "Perfect. Yes. I'm not planning to be picky, wool it is. Thanks, Arthur."

Arthur smiled, the motion tiny but genuine. "Of course. If--" his nose wrinkled slightly-- "there are complications, there's always the pit mines. Gilbert, that's the fifteen-year-old neighbor I mentioned prior, works at those."

Pit mines. Even the name roused claustrophobia.

“But no matter,” Arthur added. "We'll see it sorted." 

How tired Arthur looked in that moment! Alfred felt a new stirring of guilt. Here he was, dragging poor Artie out to sup when the man just barely escaped a day of drudgery.

The food arrived and both were hungry enough to put conversation aside.

A more conceited part of Alfred’s brain balked at the idea that soon he might look the same under the same strain—that he would soon eat the way Arthur was eating now, in slow, mechanical bites, eyes affixed on something far away. He wouldn’t, would he? Arthur said he was twenty-one. Permanent hollows in his cheeks, under his eyes, testified to the toll of…whatever Arthur did with wool, and whatever else hardships living this way invited. Immediately Alfred made a mental promise to not dally too long in that industry, or the pit mines, or anything else that might eat away at his lifeblood, the way Arthur’s had.  He’d throw gusto into it, sure. But behind the scenes he’d keep on. Next time he made it somewhere where pamphlets were hawked, he’d nab the latest and read it cover-to-cover. He must keep up with his real future.

He mustn't let not-Father bury him. 

Alfred finished. There was no cook to offer him seconds.

Arthur had surprisingly tidy table manners, dabbing the edge of his mouth with a translucent handkerchief. “Best head back then. Get you situated.”

“Capital idea,” Alfred agreed. He felt another rush of gratitude for Arthur’s early kindness. It made him feel even more justified for hawking his coat off, ignoring Arthur’s attempt to hand it back as they began the walk back to the…their house.

Yes. He really ought to get comfortable with that notion, for now, until he could improve their fortunes.

Upon nearing the triad of homes Arthur let out a satisfied-sounding huff. “I suppose it’s your lucky day. No neighbors in yet.” He glanced Alfred’s way, appraising. “They’re quite curious about you.”

“No fear, Artie, I shall endeavor to surpass their expectations.”

Arthur balked like Alfred had less loose a string of profanities. “Arthur,” he corrected.

“Arthur. Terribly sorry.”

“Yes. Ahem. Well.” Arthur marched up his steps, ushering Alfred inside. “Don’t vex yourself on their accounts. They’re a nosy lot and you’ve enough to manage without their pilings on.”

Arthur was right about one thing, there: this night was enough to manage. It was more jarring than Alfred anticipated and the night stretched out for forever in the mind’s eye. His trunk sat, sagging and lonely, at the foot of the straw mattress. Alfred was flooded with the absurd thought that it was a good thing he’d been the bastard, not Mattie, because Mattie would be a puddle on the floor already. He muffled a sharp laugh. Imagine it! Matthew, fretting over lice and mice that damned draft.

But not him. Alfred F. Jones was made of sterner stuff—

Or. His stomach rolled uncomfortably; he quashed the feeling. Just Alfred.

And Just Alfred or not he would make it through, smile intact, and bade Arthur good-night. “And thank you again for supper. I won’t be such a terrible toll for long, though, fret not, haha.” 

Arthur graced him with a small smile. “Tis my pleasure. If you should need anything in the night, let me know.”

He’d need something, Alfred was sure. Just as he was sure that he’d not rouse this exhausted relative unless Armageddon was nigh.

At least the moon was bright. Alfred unpacked a few things from his trunk, trying to free his books while leaving the jewels tucked away. Not that he didn’t trust Arthur. It was the shadowy outside that raised his hackles, hardened his brow, made him ready to crack his knuckles. He brushed the cover of the first, the velvety leather binding, before frowning at the next. There was a paper stuck inside it that he didn’t know—

Oh. Mattie.

That pamphlet he’d been pining for. Alfred hadn’t been focused enough to pack it, not in the whirlwind of his departure, but leave it to his clever brother. Those disregarding thoughts of a moment prior felt nasty now. And it made thinking of Arthur in any terms other than ‘relation’ traitorous, despite his humanitarianism. Not when Brother was Mattie’s title.

It all tangled Alfred’s brain into a knot and though he had every intention of reading, getting straight to work on yanking at bootstraps, a sudden exhaustion hit instead. Not quite bodily exhaustion. It was everything crashing down at once. No Mattie, here. No mother. No bed, no Liberty, no parliamentary job being batted around by fond nobles. Already a vague hunger that couldn’t be munched away.

Alfred placed his glasses carefully atop the trunk. He’d fix this. He’d survive exile and come roaring back strong than ever. Self-made and generous and forgiving and benevolent, everything that made a hero. This was just his—his Cerberus. Yes. Thinking of this in grand terms made it infinitely more palatable.

And the expedition to the underworld would begin tomorrow, at dawn’s early light.

Tonight, though. Tonight Alfred let himself go numb and stared at the ceiling and wished that Zeus and Hera had dealt with things amongst themselves instead of dragging him into the mire.

Chapter Text

It was, in fact, before dawn when Arthur roused Alfred with a bowl of tepid porridge. Alfred slurped it down, not tasting it much.

“Come on, then,” Arthur said shortly after, scrubbing the big pot that had an alarming amount of scorch marks. “I’m not always off this early, but I’d like to give you a bit of time to get your bearings. Frog’s not up, either. Added bonus.”

“Frog? The older neighbor, aye?” Alfred licked the bowl, determined to get whatever he could (damn, he missed Cook already). “Surely it’s not all that bad.”

“You’ve no idea,” Arthur said grimly.

He proceeded to give Alfred an idea. Frog, the blight from Paris. Notorious thief of hay and intermingler into affairs where he had no business. Handsy pervert—and for the love of all good things, to be avoided at all costs when in the company of one Antonio Carriedo. Throw Gilbert into the mix and it’s apocalypse nigh, Arthur had grumbled, almost too low for Alfred to catch. From there the tirade seemed ready to divulge into a list of personal grievances (something told Alfred that there was a list, tediously kept, every petty score detailed) but Arthur seemed to come to himself.  He shook his head.

“Nevermind that. We’ve more immediate concerns. I don’t suppose you’re much versed in sorting?”

“Nary a clue!” Alfred agreed cheerily.

"Right then. I’ll explain. We get the fleece in sacks," Arthur explained, Alfred listening with as much interest as he could summon. "It's raw at that point. Not yet sorted or washed. We're tasked with separating the wool into three grades--that is, fine, medium or coarse--then washing and beating it. A quick dip of oil and it's into barrels, off to be sold at margin." Arthur offered a demur smile. "I'm sure you'll catch on."

Alfred nodded so hard his glasses slipped. "I'm eager to try," he said. It wasn't a lie, no matter how...boring…sheep sounded. Wool types, yawn. He was used to being looked at as useful. And he was eager for that to continue.

"Brilliant," affirmed Arthur.

It was only when they reached town that Alfred's stomach did a tiny tap dance. He quickly yanked the curtains. Nerves were for the weak. "What was the owner's name again? Bransky?"

"Ivan Braginsky," Arthur said, and was that a trace of sour that tinged Arthur's face? Al squinted. "He's a bit of a...particular figure,” Arthur added.

Aha. "By which you mean to say he's unpleasant," Alfred filled in democratically.

The guard slipped back up full tilt. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, I'm not trying to trip you up, Art, I won't go around blabbering. I'm trying to get a feel for the man is all.”

Arthur gave him a look, then sighed slightly. "Arthur,” he corrected. “You'll meet shortly. Don't worry over it, Alfred."

The shop was a humble building that smelt of strong soap and the essence of livestock. Arthur let himself in with a rusty key. "We're a bit early. My coworkers ought to be in anytime."

"...and Braginsky?"

At that moment the back door--Alfred only jumped an inch, and it was only because he didn't know that was there--creaked open. "Yes," said a voice that made Alfred want to strike something. "It is so good to see my employees so eager to work."

A giant lump of a man stood in the opposite doorway, and Alfred’s hackles immediately rose.

"Mr. Braginsky." Arthur collected Alfred by the arm and shepherded him forward. It was an art--to the outside it looked like Arthur was simply guiding his elbow, but it was really an iron leash. "I didn't expect you so early."

Braginsky's face was frozen in a smile, and Alfred prayed his beaming never looked like that. That smile was all wrong, all cold in the corners and smooth on the skin. Blech. "Early to bed, early to rise, Mr. Kirkland," Braginsky crooned.

"Yes. Of course. Well." Arthur cleared his throat. "Alfred, may I introduce you to Mr. Ivan Braginsky. Mr. Braginsky, the--relative I was telling you about."

Ivan bowed just low enough to say he did, while staying just straight enough to be haughty. His eyes dribbled over Alfred and Alfred felt very viscerally

he

did not

like it.

Alfred couldn’t read people’s emotions but he could read bad guys. He just had a sense for dangerous people. And here Ivan stood, in all his broad-shouldered glory, setting off every alarm bell in Alfred’s head.

But he needed a job. So…

So there was only one way to play this.

Alfred bowed with flourish, popped up, and interrupted just as Braginsky opened his mouth. "Alfred F—ah, at your service," he announced. “Do forgive my forwardness. Did you prefer 'Ivan'? Or 'Mr. Braginsky?"

"Mr. Braginsky is fine,” Ivan said with a tiny head-tilt.

There was something sharp under Ivan’s rubber façade, Alfred was certain.

"Capital. Just wanted to be sure," Alfred said. He kept his tone light, friendly. Most people took it at face value. He wondered if perhaps Ivan was different? After all, Alfred saw right though Ivan’s placid smile, straight to the icy cavern beneath. Maybe Ivan could see farther than Al would like, too.

“How wonderful,” Ivan chirped.

“I thought to show Alfred the ropes,” Arthur put in, cadence careful. He’d taken on the same hooded demeanor as he’d had when Alfred first met him. “See if he’s a knack anywhere.”

“An industrious idea, Mr. Kirkland.”

“I think I can make myself useful,” Alfred put in, reaching out on a whim to give Ivan a joshing pat-pat on the shoulder.

(So what if it was a stout pat, more of a smack really? Ivan was big as a house. He wouldn’t buckle, Alfred was sure.)

And aha! The sharpness flashed like a drawn dagger in Ivan’s eyes for one heartbeat of a moment, and Alfred knew for certain that he was right about Braginsky. The alarms had rung true. Arthur had vastly understated Ivan’s lousiness.

"I see no reason why not," Ivan agreed. How fake! His smile flickered with a dozen reasons why not. With a giant’s fingers, he plucked Al’s wrist off his shoulder like he was handling a cockroach. “And you may begin by keeping your hands to yourself, are we agreed?”

Alfred swallowed a joke and reigned himself in a little. The goal must be remembered: job. Wages. Don’t burden Arthur more than you already have. He clapped his hands, the smack echoing through the drafty warehouse. "Happily. Now. Where can I help?"

Face thoughtful, Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but Ivan beat him to it. "Would it not be nice to see if you have talent for sorting?"

He produced a bundle of what Alfred assumed was wool and nudged it and Al towards a wobbly bench.

Yes. Definitely wool, it smelled like sheep.

"By sorting he simply means the different grades, Alfred," Arthur explained lowly, settling nearby with the same task. It helped nothing that the man looked vaguely on-edge. "Here. Let me show you."

"Do not hold his hand too much," Ivan sang. It was a daisy-chain warning.

Arthur pursed his lips and didn't reply.

"So--what?" Alfred peered into the sack. "It all looks like wool to me."

Again Arthur leaned over to instruct, but Ivan froze him out. "Try to feel the difference in grades," he cooed.

That. Tone. Was. Awful!

No use pretending it was just an innocent field when everyone already saw the bomb under the poppies. But Alfred took a steady breath. Not today. Remember. Every now and then a hero must be humble.

One hand ventured in. The wool was full of grainy bits, dirt and dust and probably sheep dandruff. Alfred examined the handful. There was a break in texture betwixt the end of the coil sheared near skin, and the fluffier outer end. "Should I separate it halfway through, then?"

Ivan made a humming sound. "How many grades do you feel?"

"Er--two?" And yet even as it left his mouth, Alfred knew it was wrong, because Arthur had explained on the way to town that there were three.

"Tsk-tsk." The patronizing noise made Alfred's blood bubble. "Try again, little deer."

Alfred's glanced up. He gave a short laugh that wasn’t as charming as usual. "Little deer? Pray tell, where did that come from?"

"Oh, do not mind my little nicknames. I give them to everyone, do I not, Mr. Kirkland?”

“I suppose,” Arthur allowed in murmur, from his seat adjacent.

 “And you are so small. Like a fawn," Ivan pressed. Alfred loathed the knowing flash of glee that lit Braginsky’s face for a moment. "It is all in fun, yes?" he added.

No. Nope, nope, no. Not in fun at all, or at least not until Alfred clarified, “So it is a workplace rite?”

“In a way,” Braginsky allowed.

Alfred met Braginsky’s gaze and didn’t back down. “Then you must tell me your nickname, or I fear you’ll have me at a terrible disadvantage.”

Ivan blanked for a short moment. “My nickname? I do not give them to myself—"

“Well I would hate to exclude you. Perhaps ‘Elephant.’ Or ‘Beluga Whale’. So long as it is something massive.”

Ivan, props to the man's acting chops, didn't react other than the slight widening of his eyes, though to Alfred (who was watching critically) it spoke volumes. Score one for Al.

Arthur, who'd been pretending to start his work, froze in what Alfred hoped was awe. Awe at his quick wit, perchance?

"That is fine," Ivan said slowly, smile never wavering. "The elephant is a strong animal. Very hard to bother." Pause. "The deer is hunted by boys in the woods."

Alfred strained not to pop up like a firecracker. Remember. His station had changed. Humility was a virtue. The meek should inherit and all that.

He released his breath and affixed a smile, hoping it did not ruin his face the way Ivan’s did.

"Let us get back to work,” Ivan decided. "See if the deer can find the third grade. Come now. It is not too hard."

Patience, Al. Alfred growled and bent over sorting.

...it all felt the same, damn it!

Oh, the gargantuan effort it took, to strike most of the sarcasm from his tone as he held up his next attempt a few minutes later. "Is that more satisfactory?"

But one glance at the grimace on Arthur's face said all, and Alfred wished he could retract it. No use. Ivan rounded in and frowned. It was a pouting frown. What a farce. Pleasure at the failure was practically printed all across his forehead.

"Poor little deer. This too is not correct."

Snap. Alfred practically heard the crack of annoyance inside his head. "Then perhaps you'd like to show me? You must be an ace at such things. Won't I learn all the faster at your direction?"

"I do not believe people learn best if they are coddled." Ivan pretended to think about his next words before adding, "Though perhaps for little children, exceptions must be made."

"On the second thought, don't bother." Alfred slapped his selection of wool back into its package. "T'was remiss of me to ask. It must be a terrible tax on old joints, this sorting. Say, Mr. Braginsky, you really don't need to hang about this dank place. Imagine the pain on my conscience if you were to catch a chill.”

"The cold is my friend," Ivan chirped. Then, in a darker warped tone, "I cannot promise it will be yours."

“I handle the cold just fine,” Alfred promised.

“Do not test it, little one.”  

Biting his tongue, Alfred threw himself back into the wool. The smell of it, the textures all came together in an oily slick that coated his fingertips and made sorting all the harder.

“What about this?” he tried sometime later.

Arthur was quick to respond, and Alfred saw relief ripple through his elvin face. “Yes. Well done,” he breathed, and Alfred was just about to whoop in triumph when the shadow fell upon their huddle, and Ivan’s chaunting voice sang from behind:

“Close. But not quite. Again, please.”

Arthur frowned.

Alfred forced a laugh. He was hoping for levity. It came out more like a jab. “O bother. What’s the matter now?”

Ivan, instead of responding, fixed Alfred with a smile that sang of his demise like a church choir.

Alfred felt a sudden rush of anger. This man was a special sort of disgusting, and Alfred knew viscerally that if he were standing in his fine clothes, with the Jones estate at his back, Braginsky wouldn’t dare be such a creep. It was just because he thought he could get away with it—and wasn’t that the peak of villainy, to pick on people with no real recourse—?

Alfred knew his new limits, but the blatant baiting bulged past them; he opened his mouth to retort.

Creak. The door opened, ruining his focus.

Ivan pretended to be pleased at the new arrival. "Väinämöinen."

The newcomer made eye contact, however brief, with Alfred and Arthur. Alfred found the expression hard to make heads or tails of.

Thus surprise as the man--Timo, he would learn in short order, swooped in like an idiot dove and captured all of Ivan's attentions. "Oh! Mr. Braginsky. I'm so glad you are here. There was a bad batch in yesterday's shipment. When you have a moment I would love your opinion."

Ivan hummed and hemmed, torn between a new chew toy and a problem to intimidate. Timo was an actor. Scarily good. So good that Alfred thought he and Ivan were pals, the way Timo chuckled at the right moments and never cringed in fear, not even when Ivan hovered over his shoulder like an avalanche of doom.

The moment Timo led Ivan outside, still chatting easily about wool, Arthur let out a controlled breath and rounded on Alfred. "Try not to provoke him," he warned. His expression wasn't stern, just knowing. Tired. "I can appreciate that it's not easy, but--"

Shame punched Alfred in the gut. Look at him, already blowing to high heaven the job Arthur wrangled for him! And after he'd professed to be so eager, too. "My apologies, Art. O bugger. I know better than to ruffle feathers like that, he was just so..." Alfred sighed. It was better than growling and tugging out a chunk of hair. "The way he looked at me. Did you see?"

"I did," Arthur admitted. Something hardened in his monstrous brows. "I was rather afraid your personalities would clash."

"I'll soldier through, though." Alfred heaved a breath and exhaled as his form returned: smile, straight back, glint on his spectacles. That was better. How was it that Ivan simply leaving the room made it exponentially easier? "Perhaps I ought to take notes from Timo? They seem to get on like grease and an axle."

"Wot?" Arthur blinked. "No, Timo--" But he hushed himself, shaking his head and looking like he'd prefer the day to end already, irregardless of the seven-am hour. "Here. You separate the grades like this."

It was far faster under Arthur's instruction, hands kind, more akin to a governess to a favorite pupil than older brother to bastard chore. Alfred paid close attention. It was more patience than he rightly deserved. What a display. Yes, Ivan was a terror, but clearly everyone else learned to manage. He could too.

Ivan thankfully left within the hour. "I look forward to learning more about you soon," he told Alfred as he left, taking up the entire doorway, staring down at Alfred and his meager pile of wool like a bear upon a wounded wolf. Patient. Unbothered. Insufferable.

Replying with a civil, "And you as well," took every ounce of Alfred's Polite Points.

At the very least he was vindicated when, following the behemoth's departure, Timo clapped and said, "Don't worry! Braginsky will get what is coming to him. Very nice to meet you. Call me Timo."

It was a fabulous introduction as far as Alfred was concerned, though as he bowed he mentioned that comeuppance could be somewhat late. Hard thing to count on, that. How vexing that sometimes one had to wait until the White Throne for justice.

"Oh no," Timo said easily, sitting down to sort. "I don't wait for the grave. Just the weather."

And--

Arthur sighed hugely. "Timo. Please don't infect the lad with your ideas. He’s only just arrived."

Which of course was a better advertisement than anything. Alfred forgot his unsorted wool and leaned forward, mentally salivating. "What sort of ideas? I say, have you actually spoken out against the man? Bravo, if so, and I'd love a transcript--"

"I like to be subtle." Timo hummed a few unfamiliar notes. "And decisive."

"Oh. Well, that's good, that's not the route I take. What did you tell him? Wordplay that flew right above his head, perhaps?"

"Not exactly." Hum, hum. "Things did fly, though. Some even above Ivan's head."

Alfred chewed on that one for a moment, until Timo cheerily added,

"Mostly it was Ivan's head that did the flying. So close. Oh well."

Arthur made a strangled noise. "Timo. Please. For the love of your bloody job. Don't speak of it."

That threw Alfred for a loop, and he whirled on Arthur, jaw slack. "You were in on that too? Making--what, Ivan's head fly? By Jove are both of you assassins?" Which was--so thrilling, if not a bit sleazy. For the sake of agreeability Alfred leaned into the thrill factor. "Is Ivan a mafia boss? A Russian spy? Blast, I knew there was something off about that devil the moment I laid eyes on him--"

"No! No to all of the above!" Arthur brandished a warning finger at the both of them. "Timo is the twit with these designs, and I strongly advise you, Alfred, to steer clear of such snares. Tis an evil as dangerous thing he’s planning."

"Evil plan?" The door opened, and a daffodil voice popped into the conversation. "Oh, are we murdering Ivan soon?"

Arthur let his head thunk against the wall, eyes closed, defeated.

Thus Alfred met Feliks, and learned that Arthur was the only sane member of his workplace, 'sane' here meaning he was unwilling to murder his boss (though it was more for job security reasons, rather than moral.) Feliks had a guerrilla streak in him, Alfred could tell. But where Feliks could be flighty and fantastical, Timo existed in that dangerous overlap of a) competent b) fearless and c) hating Ivan Braginsky with boiling fervor.

It was only the promise of solidarity that convinced Alfred he may be able to survive under Ivan's iron thumb.

"I am sorry," he said again, at the end of the workday as he and Arthur trudged to Arthur's house. Home.

Home. Home. Alfred tried to hammer it into his head. Best to think about things correctly as soon as possible, even if it was temporary.

As for his fingers, they were stiff and cramped, and he slowly working them in, out, in, out, as they walked.

"Hmm? Oh, for Ivan?" Arthur glanced at him briefly. "It's quite alright. He's not the easiest personality to handle." His expression soured. "Hence the current designs against him. I do hope you'll stay out of their foolishness, by the way."

"Of course." Murder left a sticky feeling on the roof of Alfred's mouth.

At some point Arthur, in a tone that suggested fluster, added, “Soon enough he’ll lose interest. It’s just his ghastly way."

“Yes. I understand." Though Alfred also understood how Ivan had managed to make enemies of his entire employ.

They returned to Arthur's house. Alfred immediately piqued as they approached: people! He'd not yet seen any of the neighboring occupants, and Arthur alluded to them so much that his move felt woefully incomplete as long as they remained strangers.

"Oh bother." Arthur didn't sound angry. Or if he did, it was comical anger, that of a jester or long-suffering bard. "Frog's out. I'm afraid he'll insist on making your acquaintance”. Wry amusement stole across his angular features. "He's something of a nosy twit—I told you, didn’t I? I'm almost surprised he restrained himself this long."

For a moment Alfred entertained the nightmare of an Ivan-esque figure, but as they got closer, he wrote it off. Ivan had a purple aura about him, doom and gloom his cap and hat. Neither of the two figures, chatting easily over a fence post, looked particularly gruesome.

Well. The shorter one had skin akin to a toasty corpse, but somehow didn't invoke a graveyard half as much as Ivan Braginsky.

When they were within comfortable hollering distance, the taller figure stretched to full height and waved them over. "Arthur! Come introduce us to our dear brother! We have waited long enough, have we not, mon frere?"

"Apologies for the hollering git. I know it's terribly rude," Arthur said, with both a volume five decibels louder than the beckon, and an expression that was beautifully ignorant of that fact. "He's French. Twat can't help it."

The Frenchman had cat's features--not literally, Alfred amended as they finally stood toe to toe. It was the essence. The look in the man's eye, the way his finely defined brows arched in twin amusement and casual elegance. He even purred as he smiled and crooned, "Ohon, this must be Alfred. How wonderful to finally meet you. Arthur, he is so big." To Alfred, with a touch of teasing, "When Arthur received your letter we did not know how old you would be, mm? Forgive our surprise."

Arthur let off a wave of annoyance, but Alfred didn't see why. He dipped into a cheery bow. "Consider it forgiven! You're--Francis?"

"Oui. Francis Bonnefoy."

"Arthur's said quite a lot about you," Al admitted.

"I most certainly have not!" Arthur steamed, giving Alfred a glare that would have made him curdle, if it wasn't offset by those eyebrows...and if there wasn't an undercurrent of familiarity to this whole affair. Even Alfred, new to this river, could feel it. Arthur whirled on Francis. "And even if I have," he added, "it's only for the lad's own good. Someone has to warn him about your debauchery."

"He gets so wound up," Francis said, bypassing Arthur completely, ignoring the steam that was pouring from his ears, the sputtered indignance. "I hope you can help to settle his nerves."

"I'll do my utmost," Alfred offered. He stalled. Should he? O to hell with it. Alfred clapped a hand on Arthur's shoulder, relief mounting as the man tensed for only a moment. The contact seemed to remind him: breathe.

After a measured exhale Arthur gestured to the shorter figure. "Well. Now that the unpleasant introduction is out of the way--" here, a glance shot at Francis with the speed of a practiced musketman-- "Gilbert, Alfred. Alfred, this is Gilbert Beilschmidt. I believe I mentioned him to you as well."

Alfred bowed, a quick pop up-and-down. Gilbert didn't, but Al flattered himself it was because they were busy sizing each other up.

Wonder what he's seeing.

Probably a bit more dust than Alfred was used to on his face, a few halos of insomnia. Eh.

Gilbert was pale. Oddly so. On another person Al supposed it might make someone look fragile, like porcelain, but there was something sturdy about Gilbert's jaw, the wiry build of his frame, that made it look like marble instead. Hair, that strange no-man's land that wasn't any color at all. It reminded Alfred of the color suds take in dirty dishwater.

Though. The eyes were what really made Al dig into his memory banks, flipping through tales of vampires for hints and talismans. Pale skin? Blame the Isle. Nothing-color hair? Bleaching gone wrong perchance. Red eyes?

No explanations sprung to mind.

"Nice to meet you," Alfred said, in lieu of longer examination. He cocked his head.

"Ja, likewise." It caught Alfred's ear, the hint of German on Gilbert's voice. Nothing so flagrant as Francis' accent, which as so dramatic Alfred tempted the idea of it being staged.

"And I am sure you are young enough to disclose your age comfortably," Francis pressed, stepping gracefully back into the conversation’s limelight.

"Aye, I'm fifteen."

Francis chuckled, like a sage whose designs had just come to fruition. "What are the odds. My little bird here is the same age." He nodded at Gilbert, who looked suddenly very amused.

Right. Arthur had mentioned that. So then-- "You're the one who works in the mines?"

The amusement slid into a vague brand of annoyance. "Yes. What, is that all Arthur told you about me? Geez, Arthur." Gilbert made a face in Arthur's general direction (to which Arthur had no response, bar unimpressed brow-raise). "Why'd you lead with the boring stuff? You could have told him how awesome I am. How cool."

"O but then we'd have been there all day," Arthur quipped with a put-upon sigh.

Gilbert snickered. "Good point." The noise gave Alfred pause. The laugh was a peculiar cocktail of witches cackling, a bird chirping, and steam hissing through a vent. Such an oddity, through and through.

Unaware or perhaps unbothered by Al's scrutiny, Gilbert leaned away from the fence. "Well, if we're doing introductions you should meet Luddy then. Hey! Lutz! Get out here, that is an order!"

Arthur shared a glance with Francis, slipped under noses. Al wasn't certain he was meant to see the mouthed word Arthur offered up: 'he's gone?'

Lips pressed together, Francis nodded, so slightly that only someone watching for confirmation would peg it as such.

Who was gone? Luddy? But no--Gilbert watched the third house expectantly, and in a flurry of creaking doors and floor planks, a boy appeared at the back step.

"Ja. Come here. We've got to introduce you," Gilbert said, waving the boy to his side. He ruffled the blonde hair once the lad was in reach. With a proud grin that was sharper than a butcher's knife he declared, "You now have the great pleasure of being introduced to my awesome little brother Luddy."

"Ludwig," corrected the boy.

"Either-or."

"It's Ludwig," said the boy, but then he fell silent. Shy?

Alfred hoped not. "Pleased to meet you, Ludwig."

"Now. Alfred. You must tell us all about yourself," said Francis, and though it was late, and his fingers ached from sorting, Alfred obliged. It was the same syrupy cheer he'd blanketed his explanation to Arthur with, only this time even more convincing: laughs in the right places, more mirth in his tone when he announced his bastard status, to hide the bitter taste the word was leaving on his tongue nowadays.

No, he hadn’t known of his illegitimacy until this month.

Yes, it was all quite shocking.

No, he didn’t need a non-black-sheep confidante, but thank you kindly Francis.

Yes, he came from a well-to-do household. No, he hadn’t had a job before, unless you counted casual baking and a role as King Lear in the theater’s play last summer. No, it wasn’t paid.

It was hard to know how much to say, how much former wealth to own to.

Al cut the explanation shorter than he'd planned. It had nothing to do with the lump in his throat that formed when he told of Mattie. Such reactions, so impractical! He scolded himself internally, hands on imaginary hips. Was he to fall to pieces at the mere mention of his recent life? No. Alfred steeled himself and put on his most dazzling smile. He was here now. With a plan, flimsy though it may be, and in danger of Ivan's meddling.

"We'd best not stay out too late, " Arthur said in a diplomat's tone, some minutes later. Alfred's tale had wound down. Gilbert had accepted Al's well-placed laugh and storytelling smiles with enthusiasm of his own. Francis, Alfred could tell, was not fooled. At times when Alfred tried to brush away a harsh point with a laugh-- "And then I woke one morning to find my mother being stolen away!" for one, which he delivered like a punchline to a jester's routine--Arthur politely kept blank, Gilbert cackled, but Francis pursed his lips, all sympathy.

Alfred, then, was eager to take Arthur's ticket out. "O bugger, it's sundown already? Drat. Artie's right--"

"Arthur," the man corrected at a mutter, adjusting his cuffs, face flushed.

"Arthur, right, terribly sorry. He's right, though. Dinner and to bed?"

"Of course," Francis agreed, tone generous. He flashed Alfred a parting smile. "Ravi de vous rencontrer, Alfred. So happy to have another younger brother. Goodnight!"

All retreated to their houses. Over dinner, the parting words gnawed at Alfred even more ravenously than he gnawed through the cold cut of tough beef they ate. At last he ventured, "Arthur? What did Francis mean about having 'another younger brother'?"

"Hmm? Oh. That." Arthur blustered, rolling his eyes in the manner of a man who was very much through. "Don't mind it. Twit likes to pretend that everyone hereabouts hold fraternal bound to him, on account of his being the oldest."

"How old is he again?"

"Twenty-one," Arthur admitted, tone tinged with the derisiveness of someone who was twenty and resented the year. He sighed. "Just ignore it. Heavens knows I do. Though," he added after a slight pause, eyes flickering up Alfred's form, "if it truly irks you--"

"No, it's fine, perfectly fine. Just wondering.”

The day had sapped him. Alfred went to bed, a bit less apprehensive than last night. Some questions had been answered, at least. The job. The neighbors. Nevermind that Ivan’s introduction invited a host of new problems that Alfred was loathe to tackle. The moon was obligingly hovering outside his window, and Alfred slogged through two pages, eyelids fighting to fall throughout.

It was enough for the night. Alfred dozed off, spectacles still on, and dreamt of debating an elephant that cried tears of wool.

-

The next morning was an eerie rinse and repeat of its predecessor. Arthur woke early. Alfred was first on his mind. This…brother scenario had upended his life, caused a stir, but Arthur couldn’t deny that he was grateful for the break in monotony. How callous to think it. Poor lad was tossed into the muck, and here Arthur was, thinking of it the same way as he would a new shop opening. Maybe if Alfred had been whiny, pompous—Arthur wouldn’t feel much sympathy. A nobility brat had been his worst fear, yet Alfred was obliging so far, bright and energetic. So sympathy it was. Sympathy from a safe distance.

Arthur whipped up porridge again, unwilling to test out anything more flammable. Not that he burned things, mind you! It was just a precaution. And look! Pride burst in Arthur’s chest, uninvited, as Alfred gobbled up the entire dish. Ha. Take that Frog.

Hastening out the door, though blessedly a half-hour later than the day prior, meant that the knoll’s occupants slipped out at roughly the same time.

“Farewell, mes freres,” Francis sang, as he headed out across the field.

Arthur scoffed. Francis did not have time nor funds to dawdle on his doorstep, watching his neighbors depart, yet he did it anyway. Impudent twit. See if Arthur would have any pity come winter when Francis came round whingeing about his empty belly!

Alfred squinted down the road leading opposite, and Arthur absently followed his gaze. Fifty paces out he spotted two figures, hair and height identifying them as the Beilschmidt brothers. Yet there was a clatter from their house. Alfred was immediately on his toes.

“Say, Art—”

Careful now. Sympathy or no.

Alfred had the good grace to look penitent. “—thur. Arthur. What’s the racket?”

Arthur felt his mood go stony, wondering how much to share. “Wilhelm. Gilbert and Ludwig’s father,” he offered, wading only into the shallows of this particular quagmire. “He’s not the friendly sort.”

“Oh.” Alfred’s smile really was dazzling. “I suppose he’s your favorite neighbor, then, if he’s not inclined to nosiness?”

Arthur pursed his lips. “You would think.”

Some of Alfred’s enthusiasm waned, and it brought a dimness to the boy’s expression that inexplicably made Arthur ache. Dammit, he didn’t mean to ice out the lad…

“He’s a drinking problem.” Just one step more, up to the knees. “Something of a temper.”

“Oh.” Confidence regained, Alfred insisted on nudging him an inch farther, face contemplative and genuine as he asked, “So a father and the two of them, no mother? I’m to conclude…uh, respects are in order?” Alfred scrunched up his nose. “There must be a better way to breach that.”

“Yes, she’s passed. I don’t know the details, only that it was some time ago. They don’t speak of it.” Arthur didn’t like to pry at doors best left closed. And if there was one thing in the whole rotten world that Gilbert and Wilhelm seemed to agree upon, it was keeping mum about family history. The only reason Arthur knew that she had died, not run away from Wilhelm’s fists, or deserted for greener pastures, is because of Francis, who loved flinging open elicit doors, even as Gilbert worked hard to barricade them. “I’m not the best source on the topic.”

From there, they saved their energy for work, although Alfred bounced on his toes the whole way, antsy, like he had too much of the stuff pent up.

The workshop was uncomfortably cold, though. Arthur sucked in a breath through the nose. He didn’t even have to turn around to know that Braginsky was here. Waiting. Baiting. Arthur itched with a strange disdain. He’d never liked Ivan. No one did. But it irked him in an unfamiliar way, to know that Alfred was Ivan’s fascination now. It was like using a muscle he’d not had cause to before.

Arthur gave Ivan the coolest glance he could without edging into impolite. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Ivan, whose body was far too large for that stool, replied to Arthur but smiled at Alfred. Arthur bit his tongue.

Steady now lad.

It was hard to know what to make of the boy on just a few days in shared company, but Arthur suspected an ego based on yesterday’s spat with Braginsky, though at least with a silver tongue to match. Ego was something Ivan loved to crush. He ought to have instructed the boy more thoroughly before they came; the best way to get by was playing the simpleton. It bored Ivan. All he could do now was hope.

Hope and of course try to steer this rickety boat away from the rocks first.

“We didn’t expect you two mornings in a row,” Arthur said, tone level as a sandy beach. “May I inquire as to what we owe the pleasure?”

Creak. Every shift Ivan made sent the chair into a throe of wailing. “You may. I am here to monitor the progress of our little deer. How are you both today?”

Arthur stabbed the water with another jerky row. “We’re quite well, thank you—“

Here Ivan reached forward, snatched the oar, and halved it over his knee with a painful ‘snap”. “And what of my little doe?”

Arthur tensed.

But. “Capital,” Alfred said, so cheerily that Arthur almost believed the lad. Then, in almost the same breath, he added,

“Say, Ivan, that became my favorite chair yesterday. Mayhaps be careful. It’s not meant to support the weight of ten.”

Ivan’s eyes flashed with bloodlust.

The boat entered rapids.

(Arthur in the privacy of his mind, began scripting what he would ask Antonio: ‘yes the child’s allergic to wool, so sad, perhaps the mines would work out better, might you have Gilbert show him the ropes?’)

Ivan stood with a smile. “Would you like to try sorting again? I hope you have improved since yesterday.”

“My pleasure,” Alfred said. Where Ivan had a subtlety to him—a good lawyer would be able to argue that no, the man was being sincere, words veiled enough—Alfred had a rippling transparency to him, his ire a bucking horse behind a fence. His words were so friendly, tone so bouncy, and expression so peeved that no one in their right mind would ascribe him genuine cheer. “I suppose you’ll want to watch over my shoulder?”

“I may.”

“Lovely.”

It settled into a simmer, the boat tumbling along the river, and Arthur bent his head over work. Quiet breathing prevailed until Ivan made a discontent hum. “Oh dear.” More humming. “That is not right, little doe.”

“So sorry.” Bless the boy. He was trying, Arthur could see the little etches of effort in his face as he listened carefully, intently, to Ivan’s instructions, even as Ivan gave the most meandering instructions possible.

Ivan dismissed him with a singsong, “Again.”

“Happily,” Alfred announced, just a bit too loudly to be convincing.

Arthur waited for Ivan to leave. Minutes ticked by, filled with nothing but the sound of Ivan’s boots pacing in a circle around them. Big, inelegant thuds.

Every so often they’d stop, usually to correct Alfred on a trifling matter.

Clunk. “Oh dear. What a silly mistake.”

Clun-clunk. “Tsk. We will have to train that habit out of you, won’t we, little doe?”

Timo and Feliks arrived sometime in the midst of this charade. It said something about Ivan’s hyper fixation on Alfred—a fifteen year old! How petty, Ivan was a grown man—that Timo was not able to rope Ivan into belittling something else.

Finally, Ivan placed the last straw on his tidy pile. “Hmmmmm.”

Alfred blinked up at him, too innocently. “What is it?”

Ivan nodded at Alfred’s pile of wool. Decently sorted. Good as Arthur’s work on a given Tuesday. “It is still not acceptable,” he chirped, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. As if Alfred had presented him with a pile of kitchen scraps instead of wool.

“Then do instruct me, oh King of the Wool Grade.”

Crack. The hull hit a rock.

“Mr. Braginsky if you please,” Ivan corrected, tone almost bland enough to suggest indifference (one had to watch the man’s hands, Arthur knew. When they twitched, he was angered, and they shuddered terribly now).

“Of course.” Alfred shoved forward his sorted piles with enough force to send up a little flurry. “Please tell me my error.”

Ivan leaned forward.

Plucked a single strand from one pile.

“See this?” Ivan pursed his lips. “Incorrect.”

And Alfred—

Alfred gasped and slapped one hand to his cheek. “I. Am. Mortified. How could you forgive me for such an error, Ivan? ‘Tis untenable. No, unforgivable. Unatonable.”

“Mm.” Ivan cocked his head to one side. “I do not believe you are being sincere.”

A wry smile flickered across Alfred’s face, making him look suddenly much older. “Likewise.”

Yes. Mines. Tomorrow. Arthur swallowed his sigh and hoped to Heaven Timo didn’t recruit Alfred for his immoral plans before the morning was out.

At the end of the thick silence, Ivan leaned back with a creak. “It makes me very sad to say this, little doe, but unless you are willing to apologize for your rudeness, I must ask you to leave. Your work speaks for itself. I don’t like what it says.”

Poor lad. For just a moment his face went stricken, a hurricane of emotions that Arthur could sympathize with—guilt, surprise. Disappointment. Anger.

“Of course, if you would like one final chance, I would accept your sincere apology.”

Alfred’s gaze flickered to Arthur, and dammit if Arthur didn’t feel a tiny pinprick of something, that the boy’s expression went resolute and he said flatly, “I apologize, Mr. Braginsky.”

But.

It was never that easy.

“I do not believe that one,” Ivan said. There was a twisted happiness in his tone. “Please feel free to try again.”

Alfred's jaw tightened."What would sway your regard, then?" he grit out.

"Sincerity," Ivan replied simply. "True humility. Surely you are capable of such emotions."

It looked like Alfred carved out a piece of his soul with every word. "Yes. Fine.” He cleared his throat. “I am sorry. I do hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me."

But no. Ivan batted at the dying mouse, unimpressed. "What are you sorry for, little doe?"

A flash of ire lit the boy's spectacles. "For losing my tongue."

"And?"

"For...slowing production and disrupting Arthur's workday."

“And?”

“For emotional distress, I suppose.”

Ivan sighed. Arthur smothered a scoff. It was all insultingly theatrical, and despite the burden of fixing the lad in a new employ, Arthur felt himself thinking sharp, razor-blade thoughts. Go on. Let him have a piece of mind, leave with dignity.

Piece, being the operative word. Not the entire mind. Arthur feared for his job by association were that to occur.

"Surely that cannot be all," Ivan said. "Please. Continue."

Alfred, like a drowning man looking for a lifeboat, caught glances with Arthur.

And. Well. Arthur couldn't be helped if he mouthed the words, 'go on'.

Resolve bloomed in the boy's face, and he focused on Ivan with a syrupy smile. "Gladly," he said, with enough happiness in his voice to cause Ivan's back to stiffen. "I'm sorry you're an insufferable lard. I'm sorry that they don't make clothes in your size. I'm sorry that you smell like sheep all the time, Ivan, wash your jacket would you? And most of all, I am so sorry that here our acquaintance must be abruptly severed." Alfred took a deep sloppy bow, hand twirls and all. "So with all the meager humility, true sincerity, and whatever-else I possess, I respectfully tinder my resignation. Though by respectfully I do mean 'with prejudice'."

Ivan laughed, a little tin bell. "You may leave," he said, tone unalterably pleased. "And if I ever see your face here again I will pound it into concrete until you are nothing but a stain on the road."

"What imagery," Alfred said, all but spinning on air as he waltzed to the door. "Really. You ought to have been a poet."

"Pauper."

"Elephant!"

"Useless tick."

"Sheep consort," Alfred called, before wisely disappearing out the door and away into the street.

This was for the best, Arthur felt it viscerally, more and more every second. Better things end now in a little flash of musket fire, instead of letting those two stockpile gunpowder until the keg overflew. He could only imagine the explosion.

Ivan...was already smoldering.

Arthur kept his mouth zipped.

-

He headed home at the end of a long day--Ivan, had left shortly after Alfred had, under the guise of ‘collecting a shipment’, but they all knew it was a flimsy excuse to go…do whatever Ivan did to blow off steam. Kick baby bunnies, maybe. Arthur worked double-time until five, whereupon Ivan, still in a foul mood, dropped by again and press-ganged the shop into an extra hour of labor. Halfway down the road a slight figure was pacing back and forth, hair tussled up by the wind and exaggerating the cowlick. As soon as Alfred turned, he jogged the distance between them.

"Arthur, I--"

Arthur exhaled and held up one tired hand. Small pleasure, the boy stopped short, mouth frozen.

"It's alright," he assured, watching the relief drip into the lad's expression like candle wax. Really. As if he were going to toss the child out for being insolent to Ivan, who had it coming. "No more of that behavior, but just this once, we shall put it behind us, yes?"

"Sounds perfect," Alfred said in a breath, falling into step beside Arthur. Still. He frowned anew. "I am sorry though. Is he angry at you on my account?"

Yes. "Nothing that won't pass."

Alfred sucked a breath through his teeth, looking pained. "Sorry about that. Truly."

"And sincerely?" Arthur ribbed, chuckling a bit.

At least Alfred caught the olive branch and accepted it with a small laugh of his own. "Yes, and all synonymous sentiments." He rubbed the back of his head, a tick that made him look bashful. "I do feel rotten though, Art. After you went and got me the job straightaway. I'll head to the mines tomorrow--talked to Antonio already and it's a settled matter."

Arthur blinked. After all his scripting! "When on earth did you corner him?"

"Well. Seeing as I had naught to do this morning, I went down the path that your neighbors--our neighbors—were following to work. You said Gilbert worked the mines, so. Anyway. After a good while I found the mining operations and Antonio was about.  He was happy enough to let me come in with Gilbert on the morrow."

"Antonio was there?" Antonio seemed to wake up every day and flip a coin on whether or not to be present over his inherited fiefdom. In some ways it was a boon--Antonio, occupied with dancing and ladies and horse races, never even entertained the idea of raising rent, but good luck if your roof leaked. Best get a ladder and thatch it oneself.

"Aye. He's the chatty sort, isn't he?"

Arthur huffed, rolling his eyes. "Yes. I also told you that he and Francis get on well, which speaks volumes about his character."

Bar a noncommittal hum the trip fell silent.

“I really am sorry though,” Alfred said at one point.

But Arthur just waved him off. He’d thought about the situation over work, a kind distraction from washing and lye stench. In a way, it was almost easier that Alfred found alternative employ. What would he have told the boy, when finances were low and a lady was destined to part from her pocketbook?

Could he have tagged along?

No. Arthur had laughed to himself the moment he thought such a thing. No, chatter and charm were fine attributes to have, but not when the goal was to fade into a brick wall, invisible to the constable and any witnesses who happened by.

Maybe. Someday

Someday felt silly to think about, though, what with the boy being so new. So unsettled. The idea rolled around Arthur’s mind. It had been two full days now. The time felt dually longer than it should but shorter than it was. How was Alfred holding up, Arthur couldn’t quite tell in the set of the boy’s jaw, nor the small furrow kneeling between his brows.

Arthur wondered what was polite to ask the lad. He’d been forthcoming so far, but woe to elder brothers who pried at lids that better remained closed. Arthur knew this by experience. Alistair had been particularly stubborn, poking at their youngest (known) kin with insufferable verbal ‘bops’. Things like, ‘Watter yeh doing? Where do yeh think yer going? I swear if you don’t do the bloody laundry I’ll kick yer arse across the channel’.

But it was equally distressing to give the impression of aloofness. Arthur’s heart sunk like his boots in the mire. What a delicate balance. With a throat clear Arthur attempted to thread the needle. “Alfred.”

The boy glanced his way, expression open. “Hm?”

“I was wondering. How do you think you’re getting on? In your new …living situation.” Another throat clear. Damn all this pollen.

Yes pollen. Yes in fall. Shut it Francis.

“I mean to say, it cannot be an easy transition, so if I can lend help in any manner, I would be happy to oblige…” Arthur trailed off, frown worming onto his face. “Even if help is just a sympathetic ear.”

Even as an open book, Alfred flipped through pages like an editor skimming manuscripts. First came the most honest emotion, at least that Arthur could pinpoint: raw and young gratitude. The words matched in tone. “Thanks, Artie.”

Arthur swallowed his tongue to keep from correcting, it would seem too harsh when he’d just offered himself up as confidant. But really! Was ‘Arthur’ too many syllables?

“I think I will manage.”

Would he, though? He seemed stalwart so far, Arthur him consented that, but life never got easier from here, it only got harder. Colder. Hungrier, sicker. Those fine clothes, thick and well-fit now, wouldn’t last six months, not if Alfred’s lanky limbs were any indicator. And when your clothes didn’t fit and your soles wore down and the year stretched ahead of you in miserable script…

Arthur let them into the house and left those tiring thoughts at the stoop.

Alfred offered to help with supper, but Arthur shooed him off. The lad had things to unpack, and besides, it was a simple affair. Supper featured a slab of hare, courtesy Ludwig’s snare. Gilbert had dropped off the cut, dust in his hair making it almost look like a real color. “We leave at six in the morning! Don’t be late,” he crowed to Alfred.

“Nice of them to share the meat,” Alfred commented later, over their roast and peas.

Arthur waved it off, mashing the peas in with his fork, as cultured people ought. “We’ve an understanding,” he explained. “Those two make out well with traps. I’ve milk from Betsy and no mean garden. Trading the excess is mutually beneficial, especially in leaner months.”

“And Francis isn’t in on the trades? Aw.”

Smack. A pea met a particularly violent end and Arthur primly added, “Francis may or may not have a penchant for herbs and breads. Mind you, not that we can’t bake ourselves—”

“Course not.”

“But it’s the charitable thing to do, to let the Frog feel like he can contribute.”

Alfred, good lad, didn’t question it and cleaned his plate without so much as questioning the black char on the meat.

Chapter Text

Pit mines.

Dreadful name. Why not ‘subterranean scavenger holes?’ Much more fun. Much less drear.

Up at five-thirty, Alfred dragged himself onto the floor, ignoring the screams in his head that pled for more sleep. No. It was time to rise and grind and suck it up—he, Alfred F. TBD, was now a pit miner.

And this was only day three of his new life away from the Jones estate and all the luxury thereof…he stared into the rough wood beneath his nose, skin itching from hay, extremities tingling for warmth. It was all moving at breakneck speed. Already his stomach was shriveling up like a withdrawing addict.

(Tonight, he’d read the pamphlet cover to cover. He really did have to get a concrete plan in place to fix this.)  

 Today, though, it was another bowl of Arthur’s unseasoned porridge and slices of bread slathered in preserves. Alfred’s eyes bulged at the taste. “That. Is. The most fantastic thing I’ve had since Friday, Artie tell me there’s more.”

Arthur looked very put-out. “Well, yes. Ahem. There is. Tis nothing special though. Just something the frog cooked up.”

Turned out, the preserves were another one of those items that got passed around their little town square. International bluff, really, what with all the accents hereabouts. Though Arthur seemed miffed, he did slap together two slices of bread, smeared generously with the preserves, and wrapped it in a cloth, handing it to Alfred red-faced. He’d made him lunch.

It was very brotherly. Sweet, even. Arthur made him lunch. Alfred pocketed it, promising himself he’d not devour it on the walk to work. Should he get Arthur a present? He’d been so indulging, and Alfred wasn’t blind—there was little food to be spared hereabouts, making the gestures feel grand, even the simple ones. But then he’d run out of time because Arthur informed him it was time to leave and herded him out the door into the chilly morning. Gilbert and Ludwig appeared moments later. Gil waved Alfred over.

Arthur cleared his throat, sounding awkward. “Good luck. Er. Be mindful.”

“Sure thing. You too. Do give old Ivan my fondest?”

That cracked a smile on Arthur’s face.

Though Alfred knew the way, Gilbert and Ludwig knew it better, so Alfred tagged along, alert despite the dewy hour. He learned quickly that Gilbert was still the chatty type even this early in the day. Also Gilbert was helpful in ways that Arthur wasn’t. When Alfred poked for some better purchase at this strange—friendship? Fraternity? In Arthur’s case loathing?—that entangled the neighbors, Gilbert was a fount of information. Alfred learned that: The Beilschmidts were here first. Then Francis moved in, three years ago. Arthur, the year after that. How Francis’ English had been terrible in the beginning. How Arthur was angrier than a wet cat his first few months in residence. How Francis asked if Arthur had suffered a house fire, for he smelt smoke, and wet-cat Arthur yowled that it was his dinner that produced those noxious fumes. They’ve been pissy ever since.

Alfred soaked up the info. Following Gilbert like this, his counterpart seemed world-ready in a way that Alfred yearned to emulate. He felt like a cocker spaniel nipping at the heels of an interesting gull? Hawk?

Bird of some sort, at least.

“So anyway, that’s why he calls me Gilbird sometimes, even though that’s stupid, because the bird’s name was Gilbird, it’s not even a clever joke he came up with.”

Ludwig swung his pail, watching it absently. “He calls you ‘little bird’ too.”

“That is even worse!” Gil snapped, with the type of venom that meant nothing at all; it was a vial of glitter labeled with poison. “I’m not little. You’re the little one. Tiny. So small even the chicks think you’re small.”

“I’m growing,” Ludwig said, proudly at first to Gilbert, then growing reserved when out of the corner of his eye he acknowledged that Alfred was here, too.

“Ja, you are,” Gil agreed easily. “You’re gonna be big and strong just like me someday. But today is not that day—the overload of awesomeness would be too much!”

Ludwig nodded, like such speeches were commonplace.

“So.” Alfred clapped his hands in the lull. “Lay it on me. What am I to expect today? I think I’ve torched any bridges with Braginsky, so you may tell me honestly, I’m not about to run back to Arthur’s.”

“It’s the most terrible work,” Gil said, sounding uncharacteristically grave. “The things I’ve seen are horrifying—“

“It’s not,” Ludwig said, glimpsing Alfred with a serious expression. “He’s just joking.”

“Lutz!” Gravitas was gone. “What did I tell you about interrupting?”

“You’re going to ward him off, Bruder.”

“I was not.” Gilbert elbowed Alfred in the side. It was bony and sharp but congenial, nonetheless. “Cmon. You’re made of sterner stuff, right?”

Al nodded, one jaunty bob. “Right.”

“Right. I thought so. You don’t have the aristocrat look, you know? That’s a good thing. When Art said you came from money or some shit I wasn’t sure what we were getting. Can you imagine dealing with a snot-faced trust fund whiner? Ha! I would’ve made Art send you back.”

Alfred felt a laugh bubble up his chest, a geyser he didn’t expect, and he didn’t bother clamping down on it. Perhaps it startled the cow they passed—poor Betsy lowed, a tired noise in the field. But Gil snickered along—what a funny laugh it was! Al didn’t comment, just to play it safe, best not make the fellow reconsider his positive assessment. “Bully, you’ve got that kind of sway?”

“Psht. Yep. Arthur’s easy. You want the key?"

"Gosh, that kinda feels like cheating, but sure."

"Key is: get Francis to endorse the exact opposite of what you want Arthur to do." Gil snapped his fingers. "You think he'd catch on, but it's like a bull and a matador or whatever."

"Hmm." Alfred trailed along in contemplation. "Well thanks."

"No problem."

There was a pleasant beat of silence, but such beats grew boring without a melody, so Alfred was glad when Gilbert threw another glance over his shoulder and asked, "But really, if you wanted to know about the job, it's pretty simple. You'll do fine. Just do what I do."

He hoped against hope he wouldn't have to tread deep into the earth. If nothing else he'd like to be able to see sunlight. A tether to the surface, perhaps. But there was no chance of being such a whinge in front of Gilbert. "Capital advice," he said with his winningest grin. "What, are you a veteran of the job?"

"Pretty much. Five years, now."

Alfred blinked. "You've been working mines since you were ten?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Ja. I mean, I just lugged around the coal when I was smaller. I didn't get a pick-axe until I was big enough to swing it."

"When was that?"

"Uh--twelve, maybe?"

It felt so odd since they were the same age, both fifteen. When Al had been grudgingly practicing the fiddle, complaining about the wire frill in his collar and drooling over macaroons he could see in the sitting room...at that very hour, his counterpart had been--where? Hauling a bucket of ore underground?

Alfred's gaze hit on Ludwig's pristine blonde head, and nearly tripped. "And Ludwig's at it, at only eight?"

"No." For the first time Gilbert scowled, tone really dropping into something serious. It was much easier to pinpoint now, compared to the dramatic effigy of earlier. "Luddy works with the donkey for the pulley."

"Bruder doesn't let me go down the mine," Ludwig confirmed, sounding completely unemotional about it, either for better or worse.

"Nope. Above ground until further notice.”

Alfred let out a puff of air. “Mayhaps I can shadow Ludwig’s job.”

He was only half-joking. Gilbert cackled like it had been a marvelous barb.

The trek to the mines was only half of Arthur’s walk to work, and Alfred’s heart beat arrhythmically when the mines faded into view, shallow puckers in the ground that went down and down, who knew how far.

He’d know, soon.  

Gil stopped at one of the mouths, not far from a gaggle of people, some old, some smaller than Ludwig, and one draped in wealth and inexplicable sunshine. Antonio. Alfred recognized the silly grin, the relaxed stance from afar. “I work this one,” Gilbert said. “Antonio said you could work with me, ja?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes.”

“Good. Stay there, I’ll make sure he knows you’re here and all that. Luddy, get the donkey.”

Gilbert trotted off to the group. Full grown men, types with beards, formed the flock around Antonio, but Gilbert inserted himself into their midst like he was one of them. And, Alfred noticed, no one questioned it.

Ludwig brought a lone beast over and began fastening its harness to a pulley contraption that stood near the entrance to the mine—a dark hole in the ground, big enough to fit a barrel through. The rope, a rough mildewed thing, looked thick enough to hold, the basket attached to the end battered but serviceable. Still, Alfred gulped, panic from this hellish month surging all at once. He was to step into that basket? Lower himself into that hole? What a terrible catalyst, and what terrible timing, with Antonio standing right there!

Well. Antonio was chattering away to other workers about, if Alfred could hear correctly, an upcoming horse race, back turned, so perhaps the last point was moot.

Gilbert returned, seeming unworried about re-entering the mines he’d known since ten years old. “Alright, he’s got you down. Grab one of those.” He waved to the stack of pickaxes nearby, nabbing his own. "You ready?"

"As ever." Gilbert was watching, one expectant brow raised, so Alfred forced down his apprehension. It was like plugging that emotion-geyser with his hands, demanding it not go off with grit teeth and force of will.

“Great. So get in.”

Get in. As in, get in the basket and plunge to Hades with nothing but your wits and a little iron stick.

Ludwig gave him a blank look. “I need to get the others down, too. We only have the one donkey.”

Alfred laughed. Tried to, anyway. “Apologies. Say, you’re quite the taskmaster, Ludwig.”

Ludwig nodded shortly, not bothering to argue the point.

Count of three. One, two--go!"

Al stepped into the basket, stomach lurching as it swayed over the narrow abyss. He planted his feet against the sides until they ached. "Ha. Wobbly."

"You get used to it," Gilbert said. "Okay. Lutz is gonna lower you down."

O joy, his fate in the hands of an eight-year-old.

Something about that sentiment must have shown in his face, though; Gilbert snorted and said, "Hey, he's related to me. No doubting his abilities. When you get down there, just step out and wait for me. I'll be down next. Then I'll show you the ropes of the actual work."

At least Gil had been the friendly sort thus far. The prospect of learning the 'ropes' almost sounded—dare Al think it, fun.

Doing it in the bowels of the earth, less so, but battles ought be picked-and-chose.

Clutching his determination just as hard as his borrowed pickax, Al grinned. "Yessir. Away I go, I guess."

Gil grinned back, but it was so razor-sharp that no comfort could pretend to hide in it. "Alright, go, Luddy."

Lurch.

The descent was bobbling, in time with a donkey's hooves. Alfred took one last breath of crisp fall air before his lungs were assaulted with more dirt-scent than he'd been confronted with since joining Arthur at International Bluff.

(It was so apt, and it wasn't like they'd a prior name; Al didn't see why Artie balked so at the neighborhood moniker. Perhaps it was because Gilbert assured him that Franics would undoubtedly be a vocal proponent.)

Mud, mud, more mud. Alfred knew it, and he didn't even have to wait for his eyes to adjust to the cave-like light. Where were the seams? How did one even find them? Was coal really a necessary part of the economy, and why didn't it grow conveniently above ground like wood or wheat or--

Plunk. Al jolted, but stepped out onto the bell pit floor. The basket rescinded at once.

True to his word, Gilbert came down next, lone lantern flicking shadows against his face and making him look even more vampire-esque than normal. "Time to get to work," he announced. "Rules: number one, if I tell you to do something it's not a request, it's an order. Unless you want to end up with a cave in or some shit."

Al glanced at the ceiling, newly suspicious. "Cave in?"

"Well, ja. It;s not like they have support structures. We work at these things until they cave in, and then they dig a new one. Just don't trigger anything while we're down here."

"And how do I avoid causing a cave-in?"

"By doing exactly what I do. That's rule two. Rule three is no stupid questions. Rule four is no slacking, I'm not gonna drag your dead weight. Any questions?"

"...Suppose not."

"Good. Grab your pick."

Gilbert set him on a seam, instructions shockingly devoid of teasing, joking, or excess verbiage. Alfred huffed. Less fun, but then again, all the better to focus on the physical. It had always been his strength, especially when paired against Mattie. Poor sap. He was that willowy type of build that did well with precision tasks--archery and ice-skating and polo--but brute strength and speed? Those were Al's domains.

But. He wasn't used to the pick axe, and soon sweaty palms rubbed unbearably against the chafing wood.

It was here Al learned how stringent rule four could be. No sooner had he set aside the axe, squinting at his miserable palms in the low light, than Gil snapped, "What?"

"What? Oh." Al held up his hands, eyes widening at the brusque tone. "Just trying to get these sorted."

Gilbert marched over and flipped Al's hand by the wrist. Even without seeing, Alfred could feel how toughened and tried the other boy's hands were, and a sudden embarrassment flushed his stomach. Best not to let such frilly feelings show on his face, though. "Damn. Didn't expect them to blister so easily," he said apologetically.

"It'll take a while for your hands to toughen up. Here." Without warning, Gil snatched the decorative hem of Al's shirt, tearing it off with a clean 'rip', threads popping in sequence.

Not that Alfred had cared much for the frill, but-- "Hey!"

"Wrap this around your palms and keep going," Gil said, not bothering to tack on a 'sorry'. "It'll keep you from getting blood all over the handle, at least." Then without attempt at further encouragement he picked up his own tool and got back to work.

Al did as bid. The softer patches of his hands were already blistering and warm, but tying the cloth like a boxer's glove at least kept the skin from sloughing off any further.

He bent his back over and drove his pike down for all he was worth, sweat beading down his brow, his back, making him itch.

Time was hard to reckon.

He was strong, but he'd never had to tax himself so--not these muscles in his back, which were already sending sharp pings of protest when he straightened his spine, and not his mummified hands. Worse still was his stomach, which was not accustomed to such work without being given fuel. Feed me, it rumbled every few minutes. As if you did not already skip breakfast.

I did not skip breakfast, Al thought to himself sternly. Arthur had split the remaining loaf of bread halfway, even when Al gallantly tried to insist Arthur take more, because he was thin as a rail!

Arthur had gotten all miffed, eyebrows knotting in some complex caterpillar dance, but it was true.

In any case it would not have mattered; Alfred had a big morning appetite and even a whole loaf would be loathe to satisfy it.

"Say, Gilbert--"

"What." Gil didn't pause to talk, so Al didn't either, instead speaking around the clank. clank. clink of iron hitting ore.

"I was just wondering--" clank -- " what time we'd be eating lunch?"

"Lutz will tell us."

"How soon, do you think?"

Gil made a face, eyes flashing and looking, oddly, more rufescent in the waned light. "What do I look like, a sundial?" Clank. "How am I supposed to know?"

"But you've got to have some sort of reckoning." Clank. Heavens, his shoulders were aching. "Your best guess."

Clink. "Nope." He tossed the pick axe down to dump coal in the waiting basket. "Look, if you wanna know that bad, ask Luddy the next time we send this stuff up."

When the ore had accumulated, Alfred wasted no time, not even pausing to feel peeved at how the coal made a squeaky noise that set his teeth on edge. The moment it hit the basket, he tugged the rope. "Ludwig? Got a moment?"

A blond head appeared at the top of the shaft--mighty far, Al noted with a suppressed gulp--and called down in echo. "This one is ready?"

"It is, and I'll move posthaste, but more pressingly how far away are we from lunch? Not to be dramatic, but I do believe I'll be naught but a skeleton before the hour is up."

He could see Ludwig pull back a touch, glimpsing the sky, before calling back, "Half an hour."

"O good. Wouldn't want to give anyone so morbid a task as hauling up a corpse," Al said, the last bit under his breath, not for Ludwig's ears.

Gil snickered. "They'd just make this your grave, dummkopf. Now hurry up before I invoke rule four."

"Yelk, what a horrible thought." Absently, as he picked up his tools and resumed, Al wondered what penalty Gil could possibly prescribe. Report him to Antonio, perhaps? Get him canned and sent back to Arthur in further disgrace?

Somehow it seemed...unlikely.

They worked in clanking quiet until, like Gabriel blowing his trump from the heavens, Ludwig called down with a small flurry of falling pebbles, "You can come up for lunch now."

Al all but kissed the ground--the grassy, mossy, not-in-the-pits-of-the-earth ground--the moment he set foot on it again. Ludwig didn't seem to notice; it figured, since he was hurrying about the task of hauling his brother up, doing the job with a dual care and rapidity that a) impressed Al and b) Al was sure he hadn't been privy to.

Gosh--Al only realized his own condition when he saw Gil, face stained with dirt and shirt clung with sweat. A glimpse down revealed Al looked somehow worse-off. Maybe finer shirts, like his, looked all the more jarring when ripped at the hem, drenched and smelly, blackened in streaks.

It was sobering. But it would be fine, Al promised himself. He inhaled lunch, chiming into the general chatter. Most other miners bent over lunches, focused on eating, but a stream of loud conversation was a pleasant distraction.

Eating was--hard, when his hands were so stiff, the fingertips red under their bindings. A punch of fear hit Alfred square in the stomach. Only three days in and he was ruining his hands. He'd never been one of those nobles, the ones who laid their palms on silk pillows between meals and bathing their skin in Austrian goat milk--callouses were no shame to him--but to see them brought so low, so quick?

A sudden image of himself, back irreparably bent, hobbling at age twenty, screamed through his mind's eye like a poltergeist.

Don't be silly, Al talked himself down, shoving another bite into his mouth, like it could gag his imagination. Look at Gil, for Pete's sake. He's been here for years already and he's no worse off than you, save a few callouses here and there.

But no, that wasn't strictly true, Al realized as he looked more closely to his counterpart, who'd done him the service of sitting next to him at lunch, and who was currently egging Ludwig along in German. It was hidden beneath the soot stains now, but Gil sported the remnants of a mighty bruise across his cheek, the mottled yellow of a blow almost healed.

He bumped Gil with his shoulder. "Hey. Had you a cave-in recently?"

Gil broke off, head cocked. "What?"

"You were speaking of cave ins earlier, and I was wondering if there had been one of late."

"Nah, last one was four months ago in the last mine," Gil said breezily. "Don't worry about it. I'm too awesome to get caught in one of those. There's ways to tell when one's about to go, you know?"

He didn't know, and Al thought it would be prudent to learn. First, though-- "I say, then, how'd you manage such a bump?" He tapped a finger at Gil's face, ignoring how the boy immediately scowled. "I thought perchance it might've been a falling rock or something."

"Geez, you're nosier than Francis," Gil muttered, before he rolled his eyes and answered, "I got into a fight."

A fight! Al sat up straighter, nerves tingling. The idea had always held a secret appeal to him, one that Matthew constantly tried to shun. But Al couldn't stop picturing it: himself debating against some hot-headed opponent, throwing down his jacket when words failed, raising his fists and exclaiming sternly, "If my wit won't stop you, good sir, then I shall leave it to my fists."

"You have?" He leaned forward. "Did you win?"

Gilbert grinned so confidently, Al half thought he'd believe it if Gil proclaimed himself a member of parliament. "What do you think?" he cackled.

"Damn, you're lucky," Al burst. "I've always wanted to get into a row like that. Prove my mettle by socking some count in the jaw. Court frowns upon it at dinner parties, unfortunately." Though perhaps now that he wasn't confined to court, he'd get his chance. "Who was it against?" His voice lowered. "Not someone hereabouts, I hope?"

Gil let out a contemplative exhale, squinting out into the fields before responding, "It was some dick with a stupid braid in his hair--no, he doesn't work here," he added, when Al conspicuously began glancing around, searching for anyone with braids, stupid or otherwise. "You want a fight? Do you know how to punch and all that shit?"

"I fenced," Al admitted, frowning, "but it wasn't much to my liking. I'd rather bare-knuckle box."

"But you've never actually done it," Gil filled in.

Alfred nodded, sighing an over dramatic sigh worthy of a thespian. "No. I tried to get my brother to rough-house--you know, feel out the ropes--"

"Uh-huh."

"But he wasn't game. He was worried to death we'd tear up our britches, or that I'd lose my control and clock him too hard. And of course Mother and Fa--her husband wouldn't let us get into any formal boxing. Said it was 'too gladiatorial'."

"Huh." Gilbert was quiet for a few moments, finishing his lunch. Then: "It can't be that hard to find someone to fight you, even if you don’t want formal scrapping. You could just jump in front of someone in the street--"

"I don't want it just to be about the scrap," Al explained. "I'd like there to be some moral behind it, either a defense of someone helpless or defense of a worthy ideal."

"Chivalrous, huh? Nice. I like it." The approval felt better than it should have, and Alfred did his best not to preen. "Well, it's still not gonna be that hard. All you've got to do is spend a few weeks around the alehouse and jump to the rescue of some farm girl. Ha!" Gil snickered so hard that he doubled over. "You know how you can guarantee that'll happen? Just go with Francis. He doesn't know how to stop himself from flirting."

Al hummed. 'That bad?"

"Yep," Gil concurred, popping the 'p'. "Antonio too."

"Antonio? The boss?" At Gilbert's nod, Al shot off a laugh. "How do you know that? Hypocrite, if you accuse Francis of snooping whilst turning and doing the exact same--"

"Psht. I don’t snoop, I go with them sometimes.”

“In their quest for romance?”

“In their quest for beer!”

Work began again. Alfred appreciated that Ludwig hoisted the other miners down first, a courtesy extended to Gilbert that Alfred gratefully commandeered. But all too soon it was back in that damned bucket. One hand gripping the rope so hard he could feel his blisters strain. And then whack. Dirt-scent. It was about as welcoming as the morgue and Alfred was glad for the dark so that he didn’t have to act chipper for Gilbert, who ignored him so long as he kept his head down and pounded the seam.

“Hey. Careful,” was all that Gilbert said, some eternity later, when Alfred was glad for the burning in his lungs, because it helped him ignore the tightness that came with the cramped space.

Alfred paused, uncertain. His shoulders yelped as the sudden stop, but he ignored them. “What?”

Gilbert slung his pickaxe over-shoulder and joined Alfred’s side. He brought the candle. Some of the gloom in Alfred’s gut eased. “I said careful,” Gil repeated. It wasn’t a crabby reprimand, just a blunt one. A calculated one, like a general pointing out a flaw on the battlefield. “You’ve got to swing it tight in here so you don’t chip the ceiling. See?”

“Oh. Yes.” Alfred blinked up through the dark. The ceiling here was no more than three inches above his head. “Didn’t even notice I was nicking it,” he muttered, feeling a prickle of unease. But he had been, a little crater attested to that much. Those shrieks of cave in, which he’d been wresting to the sidelines all day, now swooped back in, tangible banshees.

Steady on, heart. No quitting here.

Gilbert's expression softened slightly, just slightly. "Look, you're doing fine for a first-timer," he said, his voice echoing faintly in the cramped space. "The seam’s neat. You got a lot of strength in your strikes. Just control it more."

Alfred nodded, adjusting his grip on the pickaxe. The cloth around his hands was now damp with sweat, just like the rest of him, and he was sure it wasn’t purely from physical exertion. He took a deep breath and focused on maintaining heavy, rhythmic swing.

As they worked, Gilbert occasionally offered tidbits of advice or pointed out areas to avoid. They were quick notes. Gilbert, it seemed, wasn’t one to break his own rules, why the chap was so machine-like Alfred half expected to hear a propeller hum.

“Part of your pay is how much you extract,” Gilbert revealed in one of his pint-sized lectures.

Alfred listened, absorbing every word. He was determined not to be the weak link. Not to be a liability. His back ached, his shoulders, arms, all of it, but Alfred found he didn’t mind too much. Twas almost something to relish. A challenge. Bring it on, world, for if Alfred F. Miner could conquer the depths, no mountaintop was safe. Besides. The sound of their picks against the rock was a constant metronome, and Alfred hastened to keep time.

They’d work.

Shovel ore into the bucket.

Work more.

Gilbert would holler for Ludwig.

More work still.

On and on.

Perhaps he’d die down here, Alfred thought.

Finally, Gilbert straightened up, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He was all dirt, but when Alfred paused, shoulders sagging, to see what the matter was, Gilbert grinned in his funny sharp way. "Tired yet?”

Exhausted. And his palms felt like they were on fire. “Just warming up. Lots of energy to spare.”

“Ja? Save it for tomorrow, then. Work day is over.”

Relief sent a marvelous burst of pleasure though Alfred’s extremities; it was all he could not to whoop. Instead he tried to copy the easy way Gil slung the pickaxe over-shoulder and was rewarded with a stout stab betwixt shoulder blades. Hurt like the dickens but he smiled it away and joked, “Ha! You couldn’t figure out how to tell time earlier, but now you’ve figured it out?”

“Jeez, are you deaf?” Gil snorted. “You don’t hear the rest of those freeloaders up there?”

Upon listening there was a vague din from above, clearer now that their work had stopped.

Gilbert posted himself at the bottom of the shaft, squinting up. “Lutz won’t be long.”

Alfred didn't realize how tired he was until he had stopped. His muscles wailed in protest as he straightened, and he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. He steadied himself against the wall, taking a deep breath.

Almost out of the—

Don’t call them hellholes. Bad practice.

--subterranean scavenger locale. Just a moment longer and then one measly walk back to Arthur’s and then hello bliss, straw mattresses never sounded so lovely.

Gilbert watched him, a flicker of something like respect in his eyes. "You weren’t half bad today, you know," he said, offhand. "For a kind-of aristocrat."

“Well thanks. Would have been terrible to eat crow two jobs in a row.” His first two jobs, no less.

And they waited for rescue.

Ludwig, efficient little mite, soon hoisted them back to the world above. The evening air hit Alfred in a wave of clover scent. He breathed in deeply, relishing the coolness, only slightly miffed that it was so dark already, the sun avoiding them.

As they trudged back to International Bluff, the weight of the day draped over Alfred like a heavy cloak. Yet, within him, there stirred a small, defiant flame of triumph. He had survived his mine; Cerberus had suffered his first counterpunch.

Or, you know. Alfred had at least managed to duck this blow, a welcome change from clocked dead on the jaw over the past week.

 Arthur's home appeared on the horizon some small forever later, a beacon of warmth in the encroaching dusk. The windows glowed softly. Good, so he’d made it home from Ivan’s grasp. The Beilschmidt’s had no such presence in their house. There was a fire, but dim and singular somehow.

Alfred found himself trying to peer through the curtains. “Oh. Looks like someone’s within. Who’s that? Your father?”

Gilbert rolled his eyes.

Ludwig sounded glum as he confirmed, “Yes, Vater’s home.”

But then, Ludwig seemed a pessimist. Maybe that was all it was.

Alfred ignored it, just like he ignored how with word ‘father’ made him feel a surge of something.

“Same time tomorrow,” Gilbert said, instead of answering the original question. “If you’re late we leave without you!”

He watched Gilbert grab Ludwig’s arm in a vice grip as they parade-marched back to their house, how he held Ludwig almost behind him.

Strange duo, those.

Much more interesting than court, though. Al would grant them that.

As he approached Arthur’s, the door swung open, revealing Arthur's slightly listless face, which quickly smoothed with politeness when he saw Alfred.

"You're back," Arthur said.

"Yes," Alfred replied, a tired smile playing on his lips. He yanked it back into its proper, proud place. "And never better!"

Arthur's lips twitched into a smile, his eyes softening, though there was still an air of awkwardness about it—like he was pleased but didn’t know how to show it. "Come in. You must be starved."

He led Alfred to the table. Two bowls of stew, thick and steaming, sat beside a loaf of crusty bread and a small pot of Francis' preserves. Arthur served them both, his movements genteel. "Eat up. It’s hard work, that mining. I thought you could use a hearty meal after it all."

Alfred didn't need to be told twice. He devoured the meal with an eagerness born of hard work and genuine hunger.

“Awful kind of you to cook, Art,” Alfred said, once he’d enough food to regain manners. Because…well…it was just very nice to feel wanted. Even if that was just an illusion. Sooner or later Arthur’s indulgence would end, Alfred knew this viscerally, but for now Alfred soaked in the feeling of Arthur, welcoming him home, fixing dinner after a long day, being every bit as kind as Mattie.

Being very much kinder than not-Father, though Alfred endeavored to forgive the man, but really—

Well. To not be chased out of Arthur’s house with a broom was a boon, and it felt nicer than a warm sudsy bath.

Arthur took a measured sip of stew. “It’s not everyday one starts a new job.”

“Nay. But—and you shall be pleased to know—I perform Antonio’s operation much better than I did Braginsky’s.”

Arthur watched him with an expression that mingled concern with a touch of pride. "You did well today, then?" he ventured.

"Better than I feared," Alfred admitted, pausing to savor a particularly crunchy piece of meat. It seemed to be Arthur’s signature touch, that centimeter of char over everything. "Gilbert seems to think I won't be a total disaster down there."

"That's high praise, coming from him."

They ate in a comfortable silence for a while. It broke when Arthur asked carefully, “What’s happened to your hands?”

“What? Oh.” Alfred suddenly wished he could shove them, bandages and all, under the table. “Got a bit rubbed raw against the pickaxe.”

Arthur was up at once, though the movement was casual. “You’ll need to change those before retiring. I’ve some fresh spares.”

“No, really, it's nothing," Alfred protested. But Arthur had already retrieved a tidy, clean pile of bandages from one of his stark-bare cupboards. Proper bandages, too, the white ones that didn’t chafe. How funny. “You’ve got those ready to go, Art?” Alfred jested. “I didn’t take you for the clumsy type.”

“Er—no.” Surprise briefly broke the stillness. “They’re simply good to have on hand. One can’t be too prepared.”

Alfred watched, a mix of embarrassment and gratitude swirling inside him, as Arthur carefully unwrapped the soiled bandages. Oof. They were a gory sight, all red and raised. No wonder he felt like he had lobster claws instead of digits. Arthur's brows furrowed in concern as he gently cleaned the wounds.

“Bother. I’m sorry to put you out again, Artie—”

“Arthur. Don’t be ridiculous. Infection is a dangerous thing and we shan’t court the issue here.”

“Still. You must let me pay you back for the bandages. And some of the food. I know I ate an entire loaf of bread the other day. Say, how about I give you—”

“Alfred.” Arthur cut him off sternly. “It’s not for you to worry about. We can take stock of finances when the workweek is done.” One giant eyebrow raised, though it wasn’t unkind. “And you needn’t keep track of—bread. Your estate is sending on an allowance for you, don’t forget.”

Ha! Yes, and Alfred was sure he’d eat it through before the week was out.

“Still.” It would be easier to pull himself out of this bathwater now, before it became lukewarm then cold then unbearable. “I want you to know: it’s my foremost goal not to be a burden.”

Arthur was quiet for a moment as he wrapped Alfreds hands, motions sure. The only clue that he’d heard was the faint blotchy blush that crept into his cheeks. “Now. Er. There’s no need for that kind of talk.” He cleared his throat, stepping back, hands on hips, all judgmental of his work. “Better?”

“Much, yes.”

“Good.” Arthur seemed to freeze—almost like he wanted to do something but chickened out—and settled for dumping the last of their dishware in the bucket. “You must be tired,” he said, instead of whatever else had been on his mind, and glanced over-shoulder at Al. “Tis not much left to clean up. You should head on to bed.”

Any other day Alfred would have insisted…but…he did suddenly feel like a dead man walking.

No sooner did he topple into bed did that corner of his mind, the one that always seemed to have a pencil and task, raise a tentative hand: what of the pamphlets? He’d promised that tonight would be a night of progress?

Yes. Yes, he really ought, sleep was an optional thing.

He pawed for the pamphlet and dragged in into his field of vision, neck refusing to lift his head an inch. The words swam. Alfred blinked.

Come on now. Stay focused.

But he couldn’t muster up the energy to open his eyes once they’d closed.

Chapter Text

Friday began much the same as Thursday except that it was Friday, so the end of the workweek made everything seem a few shades brighter. Alfred wolfed down breakfast and a dimming light in his eyes announced he was still hungry after the last crumb disappeared, although he didn't hound for more. Arthur made a mental note to go into town tomorrow. He could afford to buy more, he supposed, what with Alfred's soon-to-be-sent allowance and soon-to-be-had wages. By day’s end, he'd make a proper tally of funds. It was a frugal time of year. Winter always came with an extra tax--more firewood, more bedding, more storms in which to catch pneumonia, more icy patches in which to slip.

More money to be spent, but no extra money to be had.

Last year Francis' coffers had been wiped clean (not that they were packed to begin with) when the roof of his kitchen buckled under the snow. It had been absolute hell, more so for Arthur who'd begrudgingly (and perhaps in a drunken state of goodwill) invited Francis as a house-guest during the repairs.

Never again. Francis and his ridiculous meunière dinners could kindly fuck off and sleep in a ditch next time.

He bounced figures in his head during the trek to work, as he slogged through mounds of wool and nose-bleaching lye. Ivan didn't show, a small mercy. Feliks was in rare form, which was bad enough...

"Screw him and his wool," Feliks said, sorting faster and faster, which Arthur did not dare point out was an ironic use of his current energy. "He doesn't own me. He doesn't own us. He doesn't even, like, own the sheep."

"He does not," Timo agreed in a voice so melodic, so syrupy-sweet, that Arthur's bones tensed.

…and Timo was in one of those moods.

"Timo." Arthur exhaled slowly. "Have you done something, or are you planning to do it still? For if it's the latter, let me at least try to talk some bloody sense into you."

"Oh, Arthur, you cannot talk sense into a winter storm," Timo said, cheerily sorting his own pile of wool. "It will come nonetheless, won't it?"

Arthur gave the blonde his deadest glare. "At least you won't be as daft as last year?"

Timo just hummed, another one of those Finnish folk songs that Arthur hated; they got stuck in his head, bouncing around like jackrabbits when he was trying to sleep.

"Whatever you're going to do, I think you should do it, like, immediately." Feliks was a wool-sorting machine, hair dotted with discard in his own impromptu snowstorm. "I'll totally help. Do you want to steal his horses?" A wistful glow lit his face, and he sighed. "I want to steal his horses.”

“You wanted to steal his horses last week,” Arthur pointed out, not quite sure why he bothered.

“Yeah, those poor horses. They have to drag Ivan’s weight around. That’s, like, a death sentence. Plus I’m amazing with the ponies, so if we freed them—“

“Stole them.” Arthur breathed in, out, and in again. “If you stole them. Timo. Tell me you’re not going to be a twit and get the lot of us sacked.”

“I won’t be a twit and get the lot of us sacked,” Timo agreed smoothly.

Arthur hesitantly went back to work, though he still felt something tense in the air, like the rope pulled taut. “Well then. Good.”

Timo promptly gave the thread a harsh ‘twang’. “I only plan to give Ivan exactly what he deserves.”

Feliks cheered, Timo hummed, and Arthur wondered dourly if they could survive winter without his salary, for at this rate Timo was going to wash all their jobs downs the drain with his flood of revenge.

Arthur left the wool sorting shop just as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. The air was brisk, the sort that nipped at your cheeks and reminded you that winter was lurking around the corner. He wrapped his coat tighter around himslef, his mind already racing with the possibilities of the night ahead. Tomorrow they’d shopping to do. Alfred…was something a bottomless pit when it came to food.

But they’d not yet received anything from the Jones’ estate.

So. Funds weren’t up to snuff.

Arthur opened the squeaky door as quietly as he could; surely Alfred was back by now? And he was loathe to wake him.

Indeed, Alfred was back already and—warmth replaced the discomfort in Arthur’s chest, so fast that it felt more like a jolt. Alfred was snoring away in his alcove, spectacles at his fingertips, cowlick defying gravity. And the little meal that sat on the table. Enough left for one. It was grilled rabbit and some sort of biscuit that Arthur could tell was fresh by scent alone.

Yes. A kindly boy.

Who knew that brothers could make such gestures? Hitherto Arthur was certain that the only gesture fraternity knew was the middle finger.

It was cold but peaceful.

Those were not really opposites. Just like Arthur was surprised that the scone was tasty but also fiercely glad to finally have a baked good that he could taunt Francis with.

Like how Alfred was his brother but also a pleasant lad.

He let the fire dim.

“Sleep well,” he murmured. That sympathy surged back to the surface and made something inside him ache. “Let’s see what we can make of tomorrow.”

-

Alfred woke blessedly late.

No pit mines today, thank you!

He was not as sick of it as he feared. Yet. It was almost exciting, on the physical side at least. Alfred already fancied that he could feel his muscles breaking down and building up, turning him into even more of a Greek statue than before.

“Good morning,” Arthur called from somewhere alive.

Yawn. “G’mnnn.” He let his hand flop around the floor like a beached fish searching for his spectacles before realizing they were next to his head, perched haphazardly on the pillow. Alfred snagged them. What a dumb move that would be, crushing his only pair of specs in his sleep. The Jones’ would never let him hear the end of It.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Dandy.” Alfred kicked himself into motion. It was much easier knowing that the day was all to be spent above ground. “Everyone’s got the day off?”

“Indeed.” Arthur was sipping something that sent up wafts of steam, and at Alfred’s glance, one giant eyebrow raised. “Tea?” he offered.

“Oh. No thanks. I never had a taste for it.”

Arthur drew in on himself the way posh women do when someone insinuates they’re still wearing styles from last season. “I see,” he said, tone clipped. But he shook his head as if shaking out a stupor and added, “I thought we might head into town today. Stock up for the week. Perhaps gather a few more necessities for your living space. What say you?"

It was as good a shot of energy as coffee. Alfred beamed. “Capital! I’ve been wanting to head down to grab some things; haven’t had the time yet, though. This mining business keeps one frightfully busy.”

Arthur spoke his next words carefully. “Yes. I’d imagine it’s quite a change of pace from…before.”

“Ha, yes.” Alfred snorted. “You could say that.”

“And how are you holding up?”

“Swell!” Afred said hurriedly. Really. Arthur was doing so much already, the last thing he needed was to worry about that. “I’m not afraid of hard work. And—not to be a braggart but I’m something of a Kratos. It’s like I’m built to mine.” Minus the underground bit.

Arthur was good at letting things lie. He took another calm sip before asking, “Well. That’s comforting to hear.” Another sip. “Shall we be off in—say, ten minutes? We can breakfast in town.”

There was no sweeter word to hear in the morning than breakfast, save for when it was paired with a term of immediacy, such as ten minutes. Alfred felt like a stray dog what with how his mouth started watering. “I can be ready in two.”

-

They were off within five. Arthur kept a brisk pace, even though he was shorter than Alfred by at least two inches, and Alfred made up for it with loping, jaunty strides.

It also kept his brain cheery as he asked what had been niggling at him since setting off.

“Has—” how to breach this? Alfred backed up and tried again. “Has the estate sent on my stipend yet?”

They were nearing town and Alfred’s pocket was heavy with coins, just in case the answer was as he feared.

Arthur startled. “Ah. No,” he admitted.

Alfred nodded knowingly and reached for the coin purse. “Well, I’ve got this, it was sort of a good-bye loan—”

Arthur was immediately upon him, shoving his hand down, gaze whipping this way and that like Alfred had just pulled a bomb out of his coat. “Careful!” he instructed lowly. “Take care, Alfred. This isn’t the place to flaunt what’s in your pockets.”

Al blinked.

It hit him a minute later.

“Oh.” He suddenly felt stupid. Or at least a little porridge-brained. “Sorry.”

“It’s quite alright. From here on out keep your hand over your pocket at all times and be wary of anyone who jostles you.” Arthur gave him an odd look. “Not to sound…untoward, Alfred, but I would have thought that you’d have had heard such warnings before. Given your prior circumstances.”

Alfred shrugged. “I don’t know. I never paid much attention.” Though… “I did lose a ton of handkerchiefs in town but I always blamed it on childishness, you know. Doing cartwheels and racing and that sort of thing.”

Arthur looked sour. “I see,” he said. His lips only pursed for a moment before he straightened and said matter-of-factly, “Just be mindful.”

Even when Alfred brought up the topic in word only, Arthur waved him away, saying they had enough for the week.

“Always good to have a bit on hand for an emergency,” he said, which Alfred figured was the man’s roundabout way of instructing him to be frugal.

But.

Arthur’s basket did not look like it had food for a week.

So when Arthur stalled and explained he had an errand—“It’s quite dull, I’ve just got to check in with the cooper about a barrel—”

Alfred hopped aboard the wagon of opportunity readily. “No, that perfect. I’d a mind to nose around town a bit. What if we meet on the hour in front of the tailor’s shop?” That gave him a good twenty minutes to gather what he needed.

Arthur seemed just as eager for a reprieve, if the way his face smoothed was any indicator. Poor chap! Alfred wondered if he was grating on the fellow. Maybe he should try and be a little more palatable? Mattie always said he was a big personality, apt to crush people. Either way, they parted ways, Arthur issuing one last reminder to watch his pockets.

Really. As if pickpockets were that common.

A woosh of relief swept through Alfred’s stomach as he browsed storefronts and realized how far a single coin could go. Mattie had been generous and there were at least three pounds in there. Alfred suddenly felt wealthy again. He immediately helped himself to the best armful of meats and breads. And that one was for himself for dinner, and that nice cut would be for Arthur, and why not throw in another pair for safekeeping? And sure! He’d take extra because Francis would probably want some and so would Gil and Ludwig. He soon found himself laden, chest-to-chin, with goods. It was with this armful that he poked his nose around the place where a young boy was hawking pamphlets.

“What’s in the news?” Alfred asked, all cheer.

“Death among French nobility and a skirmish in Bavaria,” hollered the kid, brandishing a pamphlet at Al. His face dared Al not to make the purchase. “Farthing fer the oh-pining of Sir Winthrop.”

“A bargain,” Al agreed easily. “I’ll take one.”

Never-mind that he’d yet to finish the one from home; today he’d carve out a good hour or two somewhere. The idea of that—of buckling down in a pile of hay, reading on world affairs—gave him a strange sting of adventure. What a fabulous story this would make someday. Perfect for developing grit. Maybe a wigged Whig or tepid Tory would ask, “And pray tell, why ought anyone take cues from a youth like you?” And Al could pose and say, “I made a study of the woodshed and a library of the lawn. If circumstances could not stop me, sir, what makes you think that you could?”

Al circled back around to the tailor’s and whistled while he waited.

Beu-tiful thing, this above-depths business.

It wasn’t long until Arthur's figure loomed in the distance. Alfred bit back a laugh. There was something so—so tidily disheveled about the man, the way his hair refused to look combed and the perfect hemming on his thin clothes.

 Upon seeing Alfred's laden arms, his expression soured.  "What on earth have you bought?" Arthur asked, eyeing the pile as if it might sprout legs and scamper off.

"Essentials," Alfred assured. "And a bit extra for emergencies."

“It’s—” Poor Arthur looked like he couldn’t decide what expression to wear. He landed somewhere nearby the face one gets after eating meat left out too long. “Alfred, how much did all of this cost?”

Alfred would have waved the sentiment away if he’d a free hand. O well. Words would do. “A few pence, I guess. Look, it’s the least I can do. I’m a bottomless food-pit. Tis no secret; surely you must have observed it by now.”

Too gentlemanly to acknowledge that yes, Alfred ate like a man thrice his size, Arthur instead insisted, “You needn’t dip into your funds for such fundamentals.”

Aww.

The bathwater was still warm.

“Point taken,” Alfred acquiesced. “I shall be more mindful.”

Arthur pursed his lips, then nodded once. “Good then.”

He helped redistribute the load for the trek back home, casting occasional glances at Alfred's purchases with a mix of judgement and appraisal.

“Anything else on the docket today?” Alfred asked when they neared International Bluff.

Arthur rolled his eyes. " I had imagined a quiet afternoon catching up on a few domestic things, but with Frog about, quiet is optimistic."

“What kind of domestic things?”

“Er—milking Betsy. Laundry. Tending to supper.” Arthur gave him a sidelong look. “There’s no need for the both of us to do all that. Do you feel equal to lending a hand with supper?”

Forget equal; the offer was a welcome ego-boost, for chances to be the ‘helpful one’ had been lean as of late. “Happy to!”

It seemed to please Arthur too. He smiled, just enough to make the corners of his eyes lift. “Well then. The rest of the day is yours to enjoy as you see fit. It’s been quite a week for you; you’ve certainly earned a rest.”

Strange. It had been one week since he’d left the estate. Half of it felt brand new, still—the routine, the town, the people—and the other half already felt like it was worming its way into Alfred’s bones.

That feeling of mud and dirt, still stuck in his nostrils in a way that made him wonder if it would ever leave, made him eager to study.

There was a river nearby and Alfred headed that way once the goods were safely stowed at Arthur’s, the newest pamphlet stuck under his arm. It wasn’t much of a river now, but Alfred could imagine it turning into fresh and frothy in a spring thaw. Today it was end-of-summer lazy and low. Al picked a rock with a good view and got to reading. He was intentional about the reading, too. You could read these things ten different ways, and eight of those ways left you barely better off than before. No, if you wanted to opine you had to know the ins-and-outs of the work. Get one’s fingernails under those fancy little turns of phrase and coax out the real meaning. Dissect that. Half the words you could end up ignoring, Alfred often found. They were little more than set dressings, like those little masquerade masks that people wore to balls.

Alfred had decoded and debunked most of the pamphlet (this Winthrop fellow was all hot air and Alfred was aching for ink and paper to pen a scathing response) when distant chatter caught his ear. Glancing up, Alfred spotted Ludwig and Gilbert, makeshift fishing poles in hand.

“Wasting your day off?” Gilbert called as soon as they were in hollering range.

“Joke’s on you, I’ve been scarily productive,” Alfred boasted. He waved the paper over his head. “And let me tell you: I could write a better treatise than this.”

Gil snickered. He waited until they’d reached Alfred’s Rock of Reading to inquire further. “What’s it on?”

“This and that. Mostly about a skirmish in Bavaria.”

Gil made a face. “That’s not news. There’s always a skirmish happening in Bavaria. And if there’s not one in Bavaria there’s one in Württemberg or Brandenburg or Hanover.”

Alfred balked. “You keep tabs on it?”

“Pshh. No. I just have too much awesome German blood; I know on instinct.”

“Bullshit,” Alfred sang.

“No, it’s true. Lutz!” Gilbert gave Ludwig an elbow that only looked stout; it landed in the ticklish part of the ribs and it was all cotton. “Tell him! That is an order.”

Ludwig was loyal even in the face of absurdity, Alfred had to give the kid that. “Bruder can…sense it,” he reported. At least he looked pained, and he kept cutting glances towards Gilbert.

“Kseskekse! Exactly,” Gilbert crowed. “So what’s it say, anyway?”

“Tsk, you just said you could sense it!”

“Ja, the broad strokes, not the minutia!”

“Bruder,” Ludwig put in, all somber, all serious. “We have to go.”

Alfred swung his legs around to the dry side of the rock. “Oops. Sorry, Lutz—”

“Ludwig,” the boy corrected in monotone.

(These people sucked with nicknames.)

“Right. Didn’t mean to distract you all. Is there a good fishing spot about?”

“Eh, nothing great, but there’s a decent bend a little farther out.” Gil cocked his head slightly. “You can come with us if you want to know where it’s at.”

The pamphlet was helpful but was also drier than a mouthful of flour, and Alfred joined them without hesitation. And his soul settled into a pleasant sway knowing that at least this was easy. The mines, no. The food, no. This lingering sting of being an unwanted bastard, when not a month ago he was very wanted and very loved and isn’t it funny how temporary that was. But Alfred liked traipsing the riverbank, how the mud squished under his boots, and the cool air, and talk that sauntered along natural as the water.

"Hey. How’re your hands?" Gilbert asked half a mile later.

“Toughening,” Alfred reported, pasting on his best smile. If ‘no longer lobster-red’ could be considered toughening.

Gilbert leaned over to investigate. “Keep them wrapped Monday,” he advised.

Alfred wondered dimly if on Monday some of his trepidation about going underground would have waned.

But nevermind that. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, after all.

“Shall I read the headlines?” he asked, thumbing to the spot he’d left off at.

“Ja, sure,” Gilbert said, as they arrived at a thatched collection of logs that may, with some imagination, pass as a bridge. “Cross here. Luddy, you wanna hear about battle and all that?”

“If you want.” Ludwig seemed more interested in carefully crossing the river; Alfred wasn’t worried about the kid. The river was so calm this time of year and a gnat would be hard-pressed to drown.

They settled in, the Germans on the bank, Alfred on the edge of the log bridge. “Prepare for a tale,” he announced with gusto. “When I tell you this fellow is full of holes, I mean it—”

So he read.

Ludwig caught a beauty. One that wriggled and snapped.

Gil was a good crowd, booing and commenting at all the right spots.

Another barbel.

Gilbert was less lucky but seemed perfectly chuffed at Ludwig’s haul.

“He’s a natural,” he bragged.

Ludwig, tongue stuck out the edge of his mouth and eons too serious for a Saturday fisherman, focused on casting his line with marksman precision more than the praise.

A trifecta of eel, which Alfred observed squiggling in the bucket with interest.

“Our cook—er, the one at the estate I grew up at—said cooking eel was an art,” Alfred observed. “Damn! There were at least a dozen recipes in The Accomplisht Cook but I never got around to those.”

“You can just boil them,” Gilbert pointed out, baiting another hook.

“You can,” Alfred agreed. “It’s the same protein. It’s just better alongside fried potatoes. Though you could say that about everything, I guess.”

Ludwig yanked up another catch.

Only when it was safe in their bucket did he spare Alfred the dignity of tepid interest. “You read cookbooks for fun?" be asked dubiously.

"I did, a bit," Alfred admitted with a shrug. “I’m better with baked goods than the savories, though. My apple pie is killer.”

“Oh.”

“You sound unenthused,” Alfred poked. Was it possible for someone not named Gilbert Beilschmidt to draw the kid out of his shell? He leaned forward over the wake to give it his best go. “You would change your mind after trying some of the pie. No matter, though. There are other things to read.”

Ludwig stalled. “I guess.”

“Do you read yet, Ludwig?”

His cheeks drained and he replied as if confessing to murder, “No. Not yet.”

“We’re getting around to it,” Gil added, sounding unworried.

Alfred's smile widened on its own accord. "Well capital! We shall all be starting a book club soon enough. Oh! I wish I’d brought along some more of my old favorites from home. I thought The Odyssey great fun when I was your age.” Alfred let himself flop fully onto the ground.

(A small pang of loneliness hit. Mattie would have begged him to get up—look, he was ruining his shirt--)

“I should pick up a copy for you in town,” he mused instead of acknowledging that unpleasant business.

Ludwig's eyes flickered to Alfred. "I—that’s—that is—"

“Hey, he doesn’t need fancy shit,” Gilbert said, and his voice was underlain with something hard—oh.

Hide behind idiocy!

“No, you must endorse me, both of you. Arthur will think it frivolous spending, but I am aching for an excuse to buy something entertaining. These—” he flapped the pamphlet— “are useful, but I won’t lie, you’ve got to buckle down to chew your way through sometimes.”

Ludwig glanced his way again. Yes, that was a flash of interest.

But of course, Lutz deferred, gaze flickering to its final resting place: locked on his brother.

“…Ja. Maybe,” Gil conceded shortly. It was miles better than the wall of pride Alfred smacked into a moment earlier.

For a moment he wondered if the idle babble was ruined but Gilbert then commented with no trace of grudging, “Last one, Lutz, we gotta get back and fix an amazingly awesome supper. Without cookbooks and fancy-ass recipes!” To Alfred: “Tell me if you remember your weird recipe, though. We will see if it can improve on my awesome.” He barked with his sharp, hissing laugh. “Just joking! My awesome cannot be surpassed.”  

Alfred happily let that rift sink to the riverbed, and they left it behind upon returning to International Bluff.

“At least you consent to the name.” Alfred let out of burst of air that tickled his bangs. “Arthur is still holding fast against it.”

It seemed like it was a well-known dance; everyone kept to their own company for supper.

Alfred didn’t mind. Arthur was in a good mood, humming as he cooked. Alfred chopped.

“You’d a good day off?” Arthur asked.

 Al assured him he had, and the meal finally filled him in a way that Alfred had already forgotten about. Head heavy, he wasn’t long awake.

It was a good day. A good day. Productive in every measure.

Keep it up, Jones. You’ll make this a fine story yet.

Already half-asleep in bed, his mind was too muddled to make the correction.

But it’s alright.

It really shouldn’t feel alright.

Alfred, with his last bit of lucidity, decided not to question it.

-

Breakfast was lazy and clammy—one of those mornings that the fog clung to the ground and made everything damp, no matter how tightly shut you wrenched your shutters. Arthur watched Alfred carefully through the meal—a feast, really. Alfred bought out half the village! It was…nice, Arthur could admit, the feeling of being overmuch full, the way his belly seemed to strain at his britches’ buttons. Alfred must have a hollow leg for he suctioned food down like a cyclone at sea. At least his fingers seemed on the mend—he’d made a point to change the bandages last night. The wrappings were clunky but it was better than infection and festering.

Maybe he could have a word with Gilbert…get him to take it gentle with the lad. Such new circumstances. Surely Gil could belt up and show some understanding?

Or perhaps Antonio was the better bet. Though Arthur doubted the Spaniard’s discretion, and it wouldn’t do to embarrass Alfred either.

O bother. Such a conundrum for Sunday.

“What’s the order of the day?” Alfred asked, polishing off another piece of bread. It was slathered with the frog’s plum preserves; Alfred seemed taken with the stuff. Damn all, he’d have to barter with Francis for some more.

“I prefer to tend to rest of the domestic. Laundry, baking, cleaning, settling bills, the like.”

He hoped against hope for the promised Jones stipend to come in. It would certainly quell the slosh of uncertainty that was building in his stomach.

“Perf-ect. I’m game to divide and conquer if you are. Do we start now or after chapel?”

Arthur blushed. He certainly skirted some of the Sunday rules and regular attendance was one of them. “It depends on the day,” he covered lamely, then admitting, “I’m afraid I’m known to skip a service or two for the sake of seeing tasks get done.”

“Oh.” Alfred blinked, then repeated: “Oh. Okay then. Yes, I can see how that might happen.”

“But you’re welcome to attend service, even if I’m predisposed. Gilbert and Ludwig always go. I’m sure you’re welcome to accompany them.” It bordered on militant, those boy’s punctuality. Blizzard? Blazing heat? They’d head off Sunday morn, steady as clockwork.

“Those two? Really?”

Arthur snorted slightly. “Yes, that was my reaction as well.”

Alfred polished off his food and was up in a flash. Arthur, determined not to be too nosy thank you, let him have his privacy as he tidied the dishes. He only glanced over-shoulder when, elbow-deep in a bucket of water scraping off the wooden trough, he heard the tell-tale creak of Alfred opening the front door. “I’ll just go tell them I’m tagging along,” the lad announced, and bounced off before Arthur could gather his wits.

“Alfred—” he started, but it was too late. The boy was already across the yard. Arthur shunted the dishware and sidled to the window, watching through the slat that never quite closed.

(Could’ve sworn he heard a little Frech snigger on his shoulder, the most terrible demon of all.)

(This was different—t’was his actual brother!)

Tap-tap-tap.

No response from the Beilschmidts.

Arthur drummed his fingers impatiently against the sill. Gilbert must be awake by now! Didn’t the daft boy hear the knocking?

Alfred rolled back on his heels, unbothered.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-t—

The door whipped open.

Arthur startled, even from his snug spot. Wilhelm was a hunter in how he moved from place-to-place without a whisper, and it made one feel unsettled—like a ship of the line emerged from the fog dead ahead of you.

And he was very tall, very broad. Positively loomed over Alfred as the teen stood on the step below.

Alfred…did not seem cowed.

 “Wow. You’re a dead ringer for Ludwig.”

Wilhelm was too far to get a clear read on, and his reply was too low to hear, so Arthur could only hear Alfred’s next line in ostensible response: “Haven’t we met? Damn. After I’ve been about a week! Sorry. It’s Alfred.”

Again, Wilhelm was too quiet to hear.

“Well—maybe?” Alfred replied, to whatever Wilhelm had said. “Aren’t you going—”

Finally! Noise from within the house announced that Gilbert was on the scene. Gilbert didn’t do quiet; his snappish German was clear, clipped, and annoyed.

Wilhelm rumbled something back in his mother tongue.

Alfred cut a glance back towards Arthur’s spot and Arthur instinctively ducked deeper into shadow.

“What?” This, in English, ostensibly to Alfred. Arthur frowned. No need for him to sound so cross; heavens above Wilhem’s poor temper needn’t sour every interaction.

As Alfred explained himself Arthur watched Wilhelm with a wary eye. The man had always given him a vague feeling of unease. But it had always been at arm’s length, before—now with Alfred so close, and chattering away in reckless oblivion, it felt far more real. Not that Arthur expected anything to erupt now, not this early in the morning, when Wilhelm couldn’t have possibly had enough time to imbibe overmuch. Indeed, he only heard Gilbert reply, “Ja, okay, but if you’re late we’re leaving without you,” before the Beilschmidt’s door smacked closed with a hollow crack that announced the wood was in want of replacing.

Arthur was busy, elbow deep in suds, by the time Alfred wandered back in. “All’s well?” he asked innocently.

Alfred’s expression drifted, lost for a moment, before he shook his head and regained it. “Hmm? Oh, yes, it’s all good.”

 The boy was a terrible fib; Arthur would’ve caught on even if he hadn’t been eavesdropping.  “You seem a bit distracted is all,” he prompted.

“I suppose so. Say Art.” Alfred meandered to his trunk and hastily changed into clean Sunday clothes, far finer than their measly parish church called for. “Have you met that Wilhelm fellow before?”

Arthur could not help sounding dry: “Yes, I may have seen him once or twice in the last two years we’ve been neighbors.”

Alfred took no heed of the tone. “Does he not seem unnatural to you?”

Arthur frowned. “In what way?”

“In the way he looks just like Ludwig!” Alfred exclaimed. “Only with longer hair.”

 Baffling lad! Arthur stared at him hard. “They’re father and son,” he said, saying the words very clearly. “I should think some resemblance is to be expected.”

“Weird, is what I say.” Alfred stuck his tongue out the edge of his mouth in concentration as he fastened his last button. “As a heroic figure myself I shall take the burden of praying for him at service today, worry not, Art. Weirdness and all.”

Small mercies, that pot didn’t even have opportunity to boil over, since Gilbert and Ludwig retrieved Alfred from Arthur’s stoop.

“You’re certain you don’t want to come?” Alfred offered one last time. Arthur softened; the lad’s smile really was brilliant, and the words had a sweet sincerity to them that rang so young.

Before he could reply Gilbert interrupted, “Nah, he won’t. Heathen!”

Ruining the moment, as always! Arthur treated the boy to a scathing glare. “Belt up, Gilbert, for fuck’s sake!”

To which Gilbert responded with a cackle and a rude hand gesture before the gaggle marched off.

Arthur felt his ire deflate very quicky as he watched them walk away. They really were quite small against the backdrop of hill and wheatgrass. 

He remembered his own childhood being a mixed bag. You reach your hand in for a memory and maybe would get a sharp shard, but just as likely were those soft scenes: Mother’s calloused, steady hands swallowing his, showing him how to sew. Sneaking up on Father in the woods and feeling a grand sense of pride as Arthur had caught him unaware (though looking back Arthur knew the man had been feigning ignorance, for the sake of a little one’s laughter). A table with cheap smelly candles but plenty of food. Bubbles forming in Christmas pudding, hot and thick-smelling. Whiskers. Stories. Being warm when you really should be cold.

Again, Arthur wondered if Alfred was missing his old life terribly. It—made his chest feel a certain tightness that he couldn’t name.

He, at least, was trying to keep his chin up.

Arthur, with a calm pseudo-ease that came with practice, did the same.

Arthur saw to the bills; at midafternoon the long-awaited allowance arrived, and Arthur’s stomach sloshed with relief. Alfred returned and proved himself a workhorse; he’d been eager to chop wood but Arthur forbade it, wanting to give the skin of his hands one more day of uninterrupted healing. Heavens knew the mines wouldn’t have that kind of pity, and besides, Alfred was good at shoving and hauling and anything that relied more on brute force than precision.

And as Arthur tidied up for nightfall, he felt his joints popping unnaturally, which he took as an omen, and hoped the weather would hold.

And. He hoped Alfred would, too. One week down now.

Before they bedded down Arthur opened his mouth to ask if he was still doing well with all this upheaval. Tactfully, of course. No need to pry deep.

But Alfred looked so content—so stalwart! —as he settled in bed with a candle, holding a pamphlet close to his face and no doubt straining his eyes. Arthur stalled, and found his tongue twisting around until he asked instead, “What’ve you to read?”

“Commentary on the battles in Hesse and Hanover,” Alfred called lightly.

Why on earth would the boy be troubling himself over that?

“Oh. I—see,” Arthur said instead of his gall. Yes, he could appreciate a hunger for knowledge, but he had to shake his head in bafflement anyways. No matter. He could let it be, twas a day of rest after all. “Erm. Well. Best not stay up too late, Alfred. Early morning tomorrow.”

“Yes, I know. Shan’t be long,” Alfred agreed. “Goodnight!”

Good-night.”

“And—”

Arthur turned, brow raised, already pulling his thin door open.

Alfred treated him to a cheeky half-smile. “I guess—thanks. You know. Tis been a hectic week but you’ve borne the burden so well I hardly feel like one!”

Arthur’s frown felt sharp, cutting into his mouth. “Don’t be absurd. You’ve more than pulled your weight. I see no burden there.”

“If you say so.” Alfred’s agreement was chipper but to Arthur something about it felt flimsy.

“It’s. That is. Erm.” Try again old chap. Arthur cleared his throat. “It’s been my pleasure.”

Perhaps it wasn’t the smoothest admission, but at least, Arthur chided himself, it didn’t come out flimsy, because it was true.

Chapter Text

Days started to slip by as he got into a routine. Thursday dawned fast, after the weekend wrapped.

The day started with no indication that everything would go awry--Alfred bade Arthur good-morning to the best of his ability (between yawns and bites of breakfast), met Gilbert and Ludwig halfway to the road, and trudged through the mist that cloaked the fields. It was cold. His fingers tingled with it.

Mist swirled in listless little whirlpools as they approached the mine. Alfred glanced up to the rising sun, rays not close enough to give any warmth.

It was normal on the surface, but discomfort scuttled through his veins nonetheless.

"What, waiting for a suntan?" Gilbert snorted, tipping his chin towards the horizon. "That's gonna take a while."

Ludwig squinted at the westward sky. "It's not going to be sunny for long either, Bruder. Look."

Though he wasn't 'bruder', Al looked too, and yes. Clouds, wispy but dark, gathered on the sunset horizon like an enemy army.

Ludwig stared at the weather like it had committed a personal offense against him. "Should you go down today?"

"Ja, it should hold for long enough," Gilbert said, far too flippantly for Al to be comfortable. He edged a few inches farther from the pit shaft.

"What do you mean hold?"

Ludwig opened his mouth to respond, but Gilbert flapped and hand a shushed him. "Nothing. Come on."

It was another injection of discomfort, compounded quickly as Alfred eased onto the wobbly lift and felt the now familiar damp clamp around his nose, his lungs, his vision. Small mercy that Gilbert let him take the candle down now. It was a talisman to the oppressive muddy dark.

The air felt wrong today.

It was this vein of paranoia that prompted Alfred to ask, before Gilbert was even on the mine's floor, "Gilbert, what did you mean 'hold'?"

"Nothing. You're worse than Lutz, geez." Gilbert hefted his pick-axe and shovel to the right side of their site. "C'mon, get started. We might not have all day."

"What do you mean might not have all day?" Al pressed, 'discomfort' now building to 'spooked'. "Surely you realize that your verbiage isn't really comforting. Far too cryptic."

Gilbert blew air loosely through his lips, eyebrows knotting. "Look, we've just got to be careful about the rain. These things flood pretty quick." But there--a cocky grin, one that Alfred still couldn't see the depths of confidence past. "I'm too awesome to get caught in a flood, so stop worrying like a prissy little loser. Besides." A flash of something more honest, more wry, crossed Gilbert's expression. "Luddy's the pessimistic one. He's probably going to pull people up the second it starts drizzling."

"Glad he's in charge of hauling us up, instead of you," Alfred said, forcing himself to breath normally, to inject levity.

"I would be amazing at his job. Just like I would be at any job that's not lame."

Which began an off-and-on discussion, between strikes at the seam, about which jobs were 'lame'. It was enough causerie to beat back the worst of Alfred's dreads; they receded like the tide as more pressing matters bore to the front. Aching back, still-tender hands, and thinking up professions that would stump Gil's assertion.

"Clergy?"

"Ha! I would be an awesome priest. Convert or die, suckers."

"Baker?"

"Lame," Gilbert sang.

“Sailor?”

“Doubly lame!”

And on went their chorus, until it was interrupted by a sudden clap of thunder.

It was almost a comedy, Alfred reflected in an odd, detached state: not a second separated the first thunderclap and the drizzle that began.

'Drizzle' turned to deluge within ten seconds--one only needed to stand under the shaft (gulp--the top always looked so far off from the bottom) for a moment. Alfred's spectacles were soon useless. "Alright. I'd like to get out of here now."

Gilbert joined him, and his grim, "Yep," was little comfort.

"Where's Ludwig?"

"He's probably at another shaft," Gilbert said, arms crossed. "Nothing to do but wait until he gets back."

At least Alfred was convinced that Ludwig would be working in all haste to return to their site--not that Alfred thought himself special. But. Well. The way Ludwig looked at Gilbert every day, like the guy had hung the moon, stars, and earth all before breakfast...

Such admiration would come with expedited service.

Still, barely a minute of waiting (and Alfred had been counting the seconds while squinting up at the grey blotch of sky) yielded a fine muddy film all along the bottom of the mine, the sole of Alfred's boot up to a quarter-inch depth. The discomfort was back and in full-force too. He cleared his throat. "Does this happen a lot? Floods and whatnot?"

“Eh. Maybe twice a year.”

The rain itself wasn’t so bad—certainly it was intense, the droplets thick, smacking Al on the nose with fat fervor. The shaft was only so large…

It was the rivulets that begins streaming in like a waterfall, drainage from the still-dry ground, too parched from the summer to absorb this first real rain. They were the real contributors to the inch-deep puddle that had formed two minutes in.

“I had a bad feeling about today,” Al said, voice oddly airy. “You’re sure Ludwig’s on his way, right?”

Gilbert seemed unimpressed by the lot as a whole, which was vaguely comforting. Not moving his gaze from the shaft, he said, “Yep. Give him a second.”

Alfred watched the sky, trying desperately to tunnel his vision, ignoring the strengthening waterfalls in his peripheral.

It was sudden—the rain and splashing water drowned out any footsteps approach, but Ludwig’s blonde head appeared at the top of the shaft, face somber, bangs plastered to his forehead.

He didn’t waste time with words and disappeared immediately, only for the bucket to appear, and half-fall, half-lower to the bottom. It landed hard with a harsh splash.

Gilbert glanced at him. “You want up first?”

Did he! It was no question, but Alfred forced those baser instincts down. A hero could never cut the line. “No. Go, I’ll be right up after.”

Gilbert nodded, climbed into the bucket, and yanked at the rope, hollering above the water and squinting into the white, “Lutz! Clear!”

Alfred stared up, too.

The sky was just a swath of grey and from the bottom of a bell pit, it looked so far off, like you needed Jacob’s Ladder to ascend to it.

Or, Alfred amended internally, when the bucket lowered for him: a pully, a donkey, and a bit too much trust in a mildewed length of rope.

Crrrk. Crrrrrrk. The whole system made an odious noise as Alfred felt the lurch of the ride beginning. Huh. It hadn’t sounded like that when Gilbert got in. He poked at his abdomen slightly. He’d lost weight recently…he just knew it…but then, he hadn’t lost muscle. And muscle was where all your bulk really lay. Twas why he weighed so much (yes, that was why, no need to bring up pastries, Matt--)

When the sky became nearer than the pit floor, and the muddy shaft walls were bright and screamed of the day, Alfred felt the mood in his stomach burst into something new. Before he’d felt a thudding sort of dread, that drummer tap-tap-tapping before musket fire, but now, very abruptly, his emotions were bursting into near exhilaration. A phoenix. That’s what it was. It was ash until he broke through to solid earth again, and then it was thrilling.

“HA!” Alfred leapt from the bucket before it’d come to a complete stop. Lucky he was made of literal muscle; killer quads and calves made it easy to stick the crouched landing—he felt straight out of an action scene in Shakespeare. “Not today, rain! Drown us, I think not.”

His stockings were mushy and his shirt was quickly soaking through but dammit, did he feel alive!

He learned that day that there was nothing they could do until the rain let up. Some men, especially the older ones, took one look at the slate above, made a derisive noise as only Old Men can, and went home. Most stuck it out for a few hours more, until the thunderclaps started in earnest and lighting stabbed the hills nearby. That was when the heavens seemed to say, ‘And now that they’ve had the appetizer, let’s give them the grand feast’. It was pelting so furiously that the world was all blurry and smudged.

Well. The world was smudged because his specs were too, but even so.

That phoenix of emotions had nested somewhere nearby. He and the Germans and a few others were camped beneath a tree that had already lost far too many of its leaves to be helpful. At least everyone else looked similarly sour with the situation.

“Fine,” Gilbert announced, after the thunder rolled. “I guess we’re calling it.”

It seemed that everyone got “rained out”—they met Francis on the road. Alfred felt so good walking back. It was still a downpour but there was an end-of-September warm to the rain, like a kiss and hug farewell from summer, and it made you want to tap-dance and whoop because dammit, you’d survived your brush with death and the tickle of rain streaming down your face was its own sort of glorious.

Francis, too, was chipper, though he draped his thin overcoat over his head, all turtle-like, to protect his hair. “It is perfect misery when wet,” he told them. “Hair spun from the gold of angels should be treated with the proper reverie, don’t you think? And besides, the mademoiselles much prefer it this way.” Francis apparently thought utter deluge the right atmosphere to chat womenfolk, for he sidled closer to Alfred a asked, voice a tease, “Now, mon petit protégé, tell Big Brother Francis all. Have you a special lady friend waiting for you somewhere, hmm?”

Gilbert snorted, smacked his hands over Ludwig’s ears, and walked as far away as the road allowed.

“Not really,” Al owned. “Not to be rude, but I’ve got a million other things to occupy. Mayhaps when I’m a bit older.”

“Ohonhon! How very innocent. You make me yearn to be young,” Francis crooned. “Well. Your passion will bloom in its season, and when you say the word I will introduce you to the wonderful world of romance. It is an art, Alfred.”

It was Alfred’s turn to snort. He shoved Francis off (for the man had a very close sense of personal space) with a tempered elbow—or at least he thought it was tempered; Francis took it with a surprised ‘oof’. “I was warned about that,” he announced cheerily. “Of your prowling. I’m obliged to play the shining knight to such boogie men, you know.”

Franics staggered back with his hand to his chest. “And chivalrie! Mon cher, they will adore you.”

Alfred hence secured that pined after invitation to the bar. Not that he couldn’t have sauntered up on his lonesome, but it was more fun in a group, and Gilbert’s bet that Francis was as good as a punch card for a bar fight seemed sagely. So it was a good day, despite all odds. Everyone made it home. It was a little lonely. Alfred entertained the idea of barging into Francis’…just to not feel alone…but he shook it off. No. Come on then, Jones, don’t wear out your welcome. Besides, it was this place that needed livening.

Amazing, what a roaring fire and the smell of apple pie could do.

Add a sprig of wildflower to the chipper pot on the table and bam! It was every bit as nice as the estate.

Alright, so that was a bit of a lie, Alfred admitted to himself as he sat hard on the wobbly stool that was nothing like the soft armchairs of home.

But when Arthur came in—drenched and tired and probably sick to death of Ivan’s ballyhoo—his face made weird shapes for a while before settling to something pleased, and they got along better over dinner that night than the Jones family had in what felt like forever.

-

Time was funny.

Clap! It was Saturday before Alfred could say bob’s yer uncle.

There’d been no time for pamphlets during the workweek, which was fine, really. Alfred was sure he had the gist of them. Besides, you only had to buckle down before an oration, because no merchant was going to stop and debate you over continental politics for kicks—that was a special breed of chatterers. Back home at the Jones estate it had been more pressing; there was always the threat of a dinner party! Or a call to court! And those were the places where people hemmed and hawed about policy.

No court hereabouts. One must count their blessings.

Alfred counted them a second time as he woke up stiff and sore from the mine.

No court. No frills. No infighting. Capital people. Great premise. Never been better.

Al did churn through reams of reading on the off-day, though.

And look! While in town they spotted the crier: Treatise on the State of Modern Affairs: A Rhetorick, Honorable Doctor K. M. Makinley, Saturday of Fortnight Next. Twas begin given one town over but Alfred looked forward to the chance to stretch his legs.

It was a good plan. Read up. Make the oration. Make his talents known. Once he could stand on his own two feet—maybe a clerical job or that of a scribe—he’d be able to start working his way up in the world again and righting this ship.

Thus Sunday was basked in a warm sense of promise before it even began, moreover Peace and Joy and Kicking Ass were preached in chapel.

(Or maybe it was just those first two, but Alfred could superimpose the third, because it was just the way he rolled).

“What’s on the docket today?” he asked Gil and Ludwig, stretching his arms in a lazy arc as they headed back to International Bluff.

“I am too cool to be your secretary! Do what you want, kid.”

Alfred squinted up into the sky and mused aloud, “I could read more—develop my arguments, you know—”

“Uh-huh.”

“But I did a ton yesterday and I’ve a mind to let that stuff marinate. Cranially.”

Gilbert snorted. “So do something else.”

“Like what?” Alfred walked backwards for the entertainment factor, and so he could carry on a face-to-face chat. “What’re you going to do?”

“Sunday is cleaning day,” Ludwig filled in.

“Ha! Ja, and we are awesome at it, just like usual.”

Somehow Alfred knew, even without offering, that the Germans were not interested in help, and he was just about to frown at the dirt when Gilbert added, “Francis and Antonio are going out tonight. Didn’t Francis want to take you to the bar?”

Alfred perked. “He did, yes. And didn’t you say—”

“Surefire barfight,” Gilbert promised. “It’s hilarious.”

“Are you going too?”

“If we finish all the shit we’ve gotta do in time, ja.” Gilbert appraised him with a critical eye, and Alfred subconsciously straightened. “You’ve got decent reach, so you should be able to land some hits. Stick to the offense and you’ll be fine.”

“What, no defense?”

“Doesn’t work,” Gil proclaimed dryly. “Not long-term, at least. You’re going to eat a punch eventually. Don’t worry too much, though. Whatever loser you fight is going to be drunk off his ass.” A cackling snicker. “If you win treat yourself to a sweet victory beer!”

A sure barfight.

Gil’s words pranced through his head like a unicorn, whimsical, silly, but almost tangible, all day long.

Franics was mysteriously absent through the afternoon so Alfred couldn’t punch his ticket to the night’s festivities…but he was confident that they’d be amicable, and he could hope for no better companions to the bar at least. Gil said that Arthur, poor fellow, couldn’t hold his drinks, and last time left the tavern before 9pm.

Before any rabble worth salt could be roused, in other words.

Francis and Antonio appeared at the bluff at around eight, strolling through with uninterrupted chatter, and Alfred was upon them at once.

“Evening all! I heard you were off to the bar?”

Antonio cocked his head at him. Alfred could tell the moment that recognition snapped into place. “Ah! Alfredo!” He nudged Francis with his elbow. “When you said you are ‘neighbors’ I did no think you lived that close.”

“Yes, I know you are unaware of the proximity of your own properties,” Francis crooned. Alfred was somewhat offput by the man’s tone—it was a condescending sort of thing? Not belligerent until you pulled back a few layers and found the poison.

He tucked that away, though, as Francis’ tone cleared to its normal lilac and he said cordially, “We are, Alfred. It is our—welcome to the week of work, you might say.

The words were out of his mouth, jackrabbit quick, before he could examine them. “Can I come?”

Antonio and Francis both stopped. Then, like a dam bursting they broke into laughter. Alfred watched the unicorn prance just out of range.

But then it took a bold step forward, via Francis saying. “Oh, we tease, mon petit frere. Of course you may come. You know how to mind yourself, oui?”

Alfred nodded, trying to exude confidence. This was not helped by the fact that his glasses kept slipping down his nose, forcing corrections every two moments that made him look like some esquire’s apprentice. “‘Of course.”

“It is settled then. It is a good idea to go with Big Brother Francis, I would be happy to introduce you to a few young madams."

Arthur was less than pleased, and almost put down his Sunday mug of tea to accompany them. Thank every kind thing, Alfred talked him down. "Don't worry about impropriety on my part," he gushed. "I'm really only going for the atmosphere. Not planning even a sip." He'd tried wines before anyways--always too bitter, too pungent on his tongue. Whiskey, now that was another matter entirely, but Matthew swore (over the bottle he'd pilfered from the cabinet, Matt really did have the oddest streaks of rebellion) that the cheap stuff was not fit to set fire to. "Come now, don't be worried."

"I can hardly help it if you're going with the frog and Antonio." Arthur frowned, fingers tip-tapping on the table, mental scales creaking. "They're hardly chivalrous examples of courting."

"I'm not aiming to court," Alfred said breezily, "and in any case it's entirely uncivil to proposition a lady when she's inebriated. Rest assured, Artie old pal, I know it."

Arthur gave a pleased 'harrumph' while clearly trying not to sound pleased. It ended as an uncomfortable sounding throat-clear. "Well. I suppose I haven't any reason to doubt your conduct."

"Not so much as a blemish," Alfred supplied.

"I trust you'll be back at a decent hour? Work at daybreak on the morrow."

"And I shall be skipping first in line to the mine. Thanks a ton; don't wait up."

He left before Arthur could change his mind, or recall to it just whose company he was being released.

“It is just us three,” Francis called as Alfred joined them in the yard, falling into step alongside. “Gilbert is caught up in something or another.”

“Aw,” Antonio pouted, though it was a cheery pout nonetheless. “That is no fun. Work, work, work for him! We should bring him back a beer. Is his favorite.”

Antonio didn't act much like a young landowner. He acted like a terrible trampoline, against which Francis' normal slyness skyrocketed into new heights. What, Alfred wondered as the pair described their most daring nights in town, would alcohol add to the equation?

Oof. Better still that Artie hadn't come.

"Alfred, this is your first time to the tavern, no?"

"Oh? No." Alfred laughed, waved a waffish hand. "I came by once."

"With who?" Francis prodded.

"Arthur?"

The others screamed with laughter.

Alfred felt a poke of indignation, raising hackles he didn't know he had. He was about to roll up his mental cuffs--however brief the acquaintance might be that was still his 'brother'--but Francis wiped away his tears of mirth and whacked Alfred on the shoulder. "Ohon, do not make that face. We only joke a bit at my little sheep's expense. It is no matter. We will introduce you to our favorite home properly."

"You know Arthur," Antonio agreed, voice cheery enough to ease Alfred. The older man chortled. "He likes to be in bed early, yes? That is a good thing. We should not laugh, Francia."

"I like to be in bed early, too," Francis pouted. "One a-m. Two."

"Francia," Antonio said. It was a faux scold if Alfred ever heard one. "I meant alone."

Apparently, it was an answer enough to rend laughter that pealed like church bells, all the way down the road. Alfred followed a half-pace behind. He'd been warned about this--the 'weird camaraderie'--by Gilbert and Arthur alike, but neither had done it justice.

Arthur for one made it sound like the pair of them chanted love curses and cornered women in alleyways.

A bit too far on one extreme...

Then Gil had made it sound like they were simply buddies.

“So. Alfredo.” Antonio popped his head around Franics like the world’s friendliest gopher. “How are you liking your mine? Gilbert is no working you too hard down there?”

Besides the darkness, the oppressive closeness of the walls? “I like the physicality of it,” Alfred decided. “Gets the blood pumping, I think. I’m chuffed you’ve decided to keep me on.”

“Oh, of course. You’re doing a good job,” Antonio praised.

When had Antonio opportunity to observe, betwixt horse races and bar runs?

As if reading his mind Antonio filled in the gap without prompt. “Gilbert is no very patient with his coworkers. If you were slow everyone would have heard him yelling at you. But. For you, no yelling!” A friendly shout of laugher. Even the laugh was sunny, for some reason it sounded the way an orange tasted. “That is the best review you could get, si?”

Yes, Alfred could picture that. Gilbert, transforming into a drill sergeant, barking orders until Alfred went deaf.

Then Antonio began chitchatting with Francis and there were too many in-jokes—

“Hon, if you take the apple and do with it what you did—”

“No, no, you can no hold it against me! You know how it is. It is Sevillian.”

“Do you remember the—”

“Jajajajaja,si, I remember! Is still illegal, no?”

“Not in Paris—”

for Alfred to keep up. It left Alfred feeling vaguely like décor but he shoved the unwelcome sensation aside, instead deciding to strike up a whistled tune. He could make his own fun in lieu of inclusion! For example one could find a wagon wheel tread and walk its imprint like a tightrope, or could try to recall the opening scene of King Lear by heart. Only when they reached the tavern did Francis tug him out of juvenile pursuit. “Alfred, tonight is not about work or worry,” he chaunted. “Tonight is of amour.”

“And liquor,” Antonio added.

“But love is paramount,” Francis decreed with finality.

They pushed through the tavern doors, the din of laughter and chatter smacking them in the face. Antonio immediately splayed his arms wide and announced for all to hear, “¡Hola! Who knows what happened at the races today?”

“Spitfire won,” yelled one man, whose starchy collared shirt announced his means, if his knowledge of horse races didn’t make it obvious.

“Ay!” Antonio smacked Francis and Alfred on the shoulders in glee, his grin infectious. “I won! See what I told you about the horses, Francia? I have an eye.” To Alfred, with an eager nod: “I have a very good eye for choosing a winner.”

Alfred whacked Antonio on the shoulder in kind—the man stumbled forwards two steps. “Good on ya!”

“In honor of my winnings!” Antonio was back to addressing the tavern en masse. “A drink for everybody on me!”

If the tavern had been bubbling before, it boiled over now, into a happy little roar that would make the ocean jealous. With a whoop Antonio demanded the lone fiddler play something alive, like a Savonlinna two-step or something else with passion, you know? Francis chuckled and inclined his head, pointing out what had flown well under Alfred’s radar: Antonio was already drawing the attention of several women nearby and they were all angling for a drink and a dance.

Several other patrons—all male—seemed grouchier now that Antonio had swooped into the spotlight and brought the decibel level up fifty percent—but no fights formed.

Francis scanned the room with a predatory gleam in his eye.

“Ah, there she is,” Francis murmured, spotting the barmaid. “Now, watch and learn, mon ami. Come. Oui, this way!”

Alfred followed, intrigue making his nerves buzz with excitement.

Francis wasted no time sidling up to the barmaid, his voice low and smooth as silk. “Tell me your brother is occupied elsewhere tonight, mademoiselle, and the world itself will fade save the sight of you,” he crooned.

The barmaid was one of those pretty birds that misbehaving fellers were liable to harass, but at least she seemed entertained by Francis’ attention—her gaze on Alfred was friendly but when she turned her eyes to Francis friendly faded most definitely to flirty. “There’s my persistent émigré. How ya doing, luv?” To Alfred, “You here to back up this troublemaker?”

“He is here for an education.” Francis leaned forward. “A demonstration, if you will.”

“From you? Wotter you demonstrating, mischief?”

“I am hoping to demonstrate how to ask a woman for the warmth of her hand upon mine. But tell me: is he here to smother your happiness? Your soul?”

“No, he’s disposed,” she said with a laugh, and apparently that was all Francis needed to begin slathering the innuendo on thick.

It was really just—sexually charged schmoozing.

Alfred again felt that stirring of boredom-nee-uselessness, and though Francis addressed him from time to time—

(“See, Alfred, compliments are so easy when the rose of your affection is so delectable. But, cherie, I am eager to know if the taste of your lips is as sweet as the sight of you—”

“Fashion sense is important, but—and this is the secret, Alfred, you must not tell your despotic little sheep brother—less clothes is always better—“

“Honhonhon, well then we must simply make ourselves agreeable, did not Antonio buy everyone a drink? Alfred, mon ami, enjoy yourself! Set an example for us of the joys of youth—” )

Alfred drifted away into the tide of people, keeping an ear towards Francis’ corner just in case snarls erupted, but…

It just sounded like…

 Mwah-mwah-mwah.

Yeck.

He tuned it out, grabbed a beer, and settled against the counter, chatting easily with the barkeep. Antonio, meanwhile, had charmed his way into the company of three (three!) women and was currently in a group of young landowners shoving tables around to make way for a dance floor. “You know, three partners at once is no easy, but I have done it before,” he was explaining to whoever was in earshot.  

The barkeep rolled his eyes, scrubbing down his bar so hard he’d probably sand straight through the wood with soft cloth. “Never seen such a grand fopoodle in me life,” he grumbled. “I swear, if he weren’t made o’ money and the luckiest damn blighter on the Isle, he’d be in rags before New Year’s.”

Alfred let out a small shout of laughter. “What, he’s a nuisance? But he’s so amiable!”

Alfred had thought that the Spaniard’s jovial nature and easy laughter would make him a hit, if his free-flowing money didn’t pave the way in gold doubloons already.

“He’s a clueless rakefire and I’ve got my hands full with the two of them.” Barkeep jerked his chin towards Francis—er, what could be seen of Franics, anyway, because he was half-hidden behind the bar and tangled hopelessly with the barmaid. A shadow of terror passed over the Barkeep’s face. “Them two’s in rare form. It’s lucky for us that other one stayed well away or this place would probably be on fire by now.”

“Other one?”

“Don’t ask,” the barkeep said darkly, and so Alfred let it go.

If nothing else Antonio knew how to rope people into a good time. He clapped and hollered to the fiddler, “Ay! On my count! Uno! Dos! Uno-dos-tres-go!”

So that was how the bar got swept into a fantastic, merry mess of a dance that no one knew and no one cared to learn. It was just stomping, squealing, squeaking boots on the wood floor. It was a flurry of skirts and whoas when a young buck raised his partner in a lifted whirl.

It was: orange and loud and sweaty and fun.

Despite the barkeep’s grousing Alfred didn’t feel a fight brewing in his bones. Antonio’s suitors were lined up around the room and Francis had found a willing partner straightaway. Ah well. Alfred quashed the very unheroic disappointment and let joy do its work. It was all the better--look how much fun everyone was having! And that was the best outcome of the evening.

But wait. No! A sad face, over there in the corner. Aw, she was staring at the dance, but no one had asked her—and sure, her dress was very bedraggled and she was too young to have come totally into her own but—

Alfred found himself approaching her and extending a hand with a floppy, friendly bow. “Would you like to dance?”

She looked up at him, and yes, that was lonely in her face and an unhappy sheen in her eyes, which was totally unacceptable. She was young, though—fourteen, maybe?—and hesitated.

“Come on, it’ll be fun! I promise.”

She nodded and took the outstretched hand.

It was fun. None of that stuffy court crap—here, you didn’t have to suffer in silence while sweat inched down your pressed collar underneath your mountains of clothes—here you jumped around and whooped and your face got sticky with sweat, but it was from exertion, and the lukewarm beer tasted better than regal chardonnay because you were thirsty and breathless.

The farmgirl didn’t know a single step but she had a surefootedness about her that allowed her to follow Alfred's lead with ease. Her initial shyness melted away in the spins and the stomps. Alfred found himself laughing freely, the camaraderie of the tavern wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

“See?” Alfred said, grinning down at his partner. “Told you it’d be fun!”

It wasn’t about amour, or what-ever, it was just about—joy.

In spite of the dirt-scent and the uncertainty and the painful ache of missing home, Alfred relished the freedom of being a nobody for a moment.

As the night wore on, Alfred noticed Antonio still in the thick of his group of admirers, his laughter ringing out above the music. Francis managed to keep the barmaid entertained—and yes, Alfred could see how this would peeve the barkeep, who was cleaning tables like a madman and casting dirty glares Francis’ way.

The fiddler struck another lively tune, and Alfred found himself dancing with several other partners, the room a whirl of colors. He caught sight of Francis sitting on the bar with his companion, giving him a wink, a proud smile on his face.

Alfred laughed him off.

In the end he didn’t get a barfight. Oh well. There was always next week, Francis assured him.

(Or, at least, Francis assured him that Alfred was invited back into the halls of amour whenever he had the least inclination, and Alfred simply superimposed his secondary quest on the statement.)

What time was it, anyway? No one knew, but when Antonio began kissing his dance partners goodnight, and Francis launched into some overly-flowery soliloquy to Barmaid, as if he were going off to war instead of simply going home for the night, Alfred got the message. He flagged down barkeep. “Want me to put the tables back?”

Barkeep, poor follow! He looked about ready to cry. “Kind of you to offer, boy. But they’re heavy. Here, if ye give me a moment I’ll come help—”

“Oh! Don’t bother, I’ve got it,” Alfred assured, and with a giant yank and an ear-grating squeal of wood-on-wood, began hauling the table back into place.

Barkeep stared, slack jawed. “You’re. Eh. Stronger than you look.”

Alfred grinned. “You know, I’m told that a lot. Do I really look that willowy?”

“Well—no—but—them table’s—can’t usually move them without three grown men—”

Alfred shrugged. “I’m what you would call ‘made of muscle’.”

With that, Alfred made quick work of rearranging the tables. The barkeep gave him a grateful nod as he finished up, clapping him on the back.

“Much appreciated.” His face soured. “You’re welcome back anytime.”

“Aw, I know they’re rowdy, but I shall keep them in line, you needn’t ban my neighbors.”

“You don’t understand, boy. This is just two of them. If they bring that Prussian devil with them, there’s no containing the chaos.”

Prussian devil?! Why, he didn’t mean—

“You mean Gilbert?” Alfred blurted.

“I mean that beer-guzzling, belligerent, loud-mouthed, blood-eyed final piece to the trio of destruction—”

“You do mean Gilbert! Why, he didn’t tell me he was famous of his own accord.”

Barkeep delved into the ramblings of a man who had seen terrible things, and Alfred figured he’d best not antagonize by pressing. Anway he could get better stories from his neighbors.

Antonio, having bid farewell to his dance partners, met Alfred at the door, the tavern quickly draining of all but the most wasted patrons. “Look at you, Alfredo! Making friends already. You had a good time?”

“Yes, although I’ve heard that you’re part of an infamous trifecta, if Mr. Kane isn’t exaggerating—”

Francis joined them and the way home was the pair defending themselves. Lots of laughter and banter, Antonio recounting tales of his previous escapades, and Francis chiming in with remarks that were more incriminating than not.

“Nonono, see, you misunderstand, Alfredo. The table did not break because we three were standing on it, it was a weak joint.”

“Hmm, explosion is such a strong word—”

“Oh, pooh! Gilbert would never waste that much beer. Of course he drank it all. Really, mon frere, we are not heathens.”

When they finally reached home, Alfred noticed a light still lit in the sitting room. Arthur, ever the worrier, had waited up.

“Arthur!” Alfred said softly as he entered the room, wary of the late hour. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.”

Arthur looked up from his darning, eyes tired but relieved. “Well, someone had to make sure you got home in one piece. Did you have a good time?” Wryer: “Those sods didn’t cause too big of a scene?”

Alfred shed his jacket and hastily wiped himself down, shuddering under the cool water. “A fantastic time!” Come teeth, don’t chatter, it wasn’t that cold. “No grand incidents. You should have seen it. Antonio bought drinks for everyone, Francis only terrorized one girl (and she was quite content with it, by the way, but he was so over-the-top), and we cleaned up afterwards. You’d have been proud.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “We cleaned up afterwards?”

“Well, I helped clean up. Tis nothing to boast of, really, though,” Alfred deferred, flexing his arms.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head, but he looked pleased. “Well. I’ll take your word for it that the constable won’t be hunting your down on the morrow. I’ll be heading to bed, and I suggest you do the same.”

“I know, I know,” Alfred said, standing up and stretching. “Don’t worry. I’ll hit the hay as soon as I’m decent.”

“Good, then. Goodnight, Alfred,” Arthur said.

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

No barfight.

Alfred still considered the day a success.

Chapter Text

Blessed holidays. Arthur didn't have much by ways of tradition for Michaelmas--sheep didn't bow out of harvest when the calendar hit October--but like Christmas or Easter, the world ground to a lazy halt. Certainly the bakers and shopkeepers still stocked their wares, and the alehouse would be rancorous by noon, yet the Arthurs of the world could wake, squint at the dawning sun, and roll over with a cat-like yawn. Dear, blessed sleep!

Arthur only consented to getting up when he heard Francis up-and-about next door, when the sun was at a more respectable place. Well. One was verging on sloth if they stayed abed longer than the frog.

In the kitchen, Arthur stoked the fire, basking in the laziness of it all. Glory, he'd the whole day stretched in front of him like a tapestry, unwoven and lush. Perhaps he'd stay in and tidy. Or! Better yet, take Alfred up on his offer of book lending, tuck back next to the fire to enjoy a piping tea and the first few chapters of Don Quixote. The boy had brought some well-bound materials from his former estate and last week, upon catching Arthur eying them, announced that they could consider it a library.

Alfred snored from the spare nook. Arthur smiled. Maybe if the lad felt up to it, they could head into town for a spell, get a proper blanket, planks for a shelf to give the boy some storage other than his battered trunk. Baffling how both options kept that sense of rosy satisfaction in Arthur's chest.

It was closing in on three weeks, now. Three weeks since he’d rushed home from work, worked into a lather of worry, wondering what he’d find on his doorstep. Three weeks since he’d met Alfred. Bright, shiny, some-sort-of-new-feeling-in-his-heart Alfred.

Snoring dead-to-the-world Alfred.

Yes, it was high time to see to those domestic must-do’s.

Might as well have that tea now, start things off properly.

"Mm, I see you are awake at long last," smarmed a too-French voice at the window.

Arthur huffed, but still. The smile didn't leave. T'would take more than a frog, to whom he'd built up an impressive tolerance, to muck up such a fine autumn morn. "Good morning, frog. Haven't I told you it's rude to snoop in other people's windows?"

"That does not stop you--or do I misremember, a certain little sheep spying through the tavern door?"

"Public space, that." Arthur adjusted the pot, watching it steam with satisfaction. "Quite different."

Francis rested his elbows on the windowsill like Juliet in her tower, far too at-home languishing about like a gossipy housewife. "Oh pooh, Arthur. This is practically a public space, what with it being right in the heart of International Bluff."

Arthur didn't dignify the dig. "Did you want something?"

"Oui, in a way. I am using my reprieve to go pick blackberries this morning--you know they are wasted if left longer."

Call him superstitious, but Arthur privately agreed to respect old folklore, namely that blackberries plucked after Michaelmas were unfit to consume. "Oh?"

"So naturally I thought to invite my dear little brother Alfred, and in the spirit of the holiday, you may come too if you wish. Thus is the generosity of eldest brothers.

Arthur barked a laugh at that, ha, eldest brothers generous? He had three shining counterexamples to that gem, thanks kindly. And also. "No thank you, Francis, it's been a perfectly pleasant morning so far and I don't want to ruin it by forcing myself in your company." Still. He hurried to take the pot off, and in the same rushed breath of the action, added, "But thank you nonetheless."

"De rein. What of Alfred?"

Arthur nodded towards the snores. "You're welcome to ask him when he wakes up."

Francis chuckled (Arthur twitched; he hated that laugh more each time he heard it). "Oho, how adorable. I will let him sleep for now; it is not like I am leaving straightaway, non?"

"No, I suppose you wouldn't." With practiced aloofness, Arthur steeped his tea and arched his neck just-so, trying to determine--

"I will ask my little German brothers the moment Wilhelm leaves," Francis said. Sly fucking frog. He had followed Arthur's gaze, sighing knowingly. "I do not know if he is awake and would not like to be the one to stir him, you understand."

Blast all, he did.

Small mercy that Francis departed, calling airily after to "tell when your little princeling awakes," and Arthur saw him off with a fist-shake. Still. Quiet descended once more, some distant cow mooed in chorus with songbirds, and the tea was steeped perfectly.

He assured himself that Alfred would not mind if he took the lad’s copy Don Quixote so far as the table, and read to the chirps of a sleepy morning, face warmed perfectly by the little plume of steam that wafted from his cup.

-

Alfred woke twenty pages in, announced by the 'thunk' of a lanky body rolling off its straw mattress.

"Good morning, Alfred." Arthur took another sip of bliss. "Sleep well?"

"S'well as could be expected," Alfred called back, voice sleepy and honest.

Damn. A shot of disappointment burst through Arthur. Yes, they'd see town today for a proper winter's blanket. It was only fair, when Arthur was at this moment wearing Alfred's loaned coat, however much the gift was forced into his arms.

"Oh, and you've got the tea going." Alfred yawned and made his way into the kitchen, immediately rooting around for food like a friendly, tired raccoon. "Though I don't suppose you've ever tried coffee before, have you, Art? Eons better than tea, that's what I say."

Arthur frowned. Sipped. "Can't say that I have." And he couldn't see how anyone could just...toss aside the idea of tea with so little regard. "I've heard of a few shops in London. It's an Indian beverage, isn't it?"

"Can be. The best of it is Turkish--ugh." Alfred moaned, a sound more often associated with sinking into a hot bath or receiving a massage. "Three cups of that stuff and you feel fit as a fiddle, even if you haven't slept a wink all night. You know that some people use it for medication? Magical." Alfred plundered the cabinet of raisin-rye bread. "O well, I'll introduce you to coffee sometime. Don’t know how you’ve managed a lifetime without it."

Arthur sipped again, not bothering to beg incredulity.

Breakfast was quiet and kept well in the spirit of a peaceful holiday.

“Aha, awake I see!”

Quiet couldn’t last forever, but at least Arthur could pawn off the Frenchman, calmly turning his page and saying, “By the by Alfred, Francis wants to know if you’ll go pick berries with him.”

“I will be making blackberry muffins that even the baker would salivate over," Francis chimed in, draped over the windowpane in what a talented lawyer might be able to spin as 'trespassing'. Bugger that Arthur couldn't afford such talent, else he'd haul the frog away on the spot. "I am happy to share such spoils with those who share in the harvest."

"Bring me back some and I'll make blackberry scones to rival,” Arthur offered.

"Ohon. Hon. My dear clueless Arthur." Francis chortled lowly, incredulous bubbles of snobby laughter. "To rival what? Boot leather?"

Sip. "Frog, I am determined to have a good morning. Sod off." To Alfred, "If you do go with him, be sure he doesn't monopolize your share of pickings. He's a terrible sport."

"Sure," Al agreed, smile still sleepy, droopy at the edges, but pleased. "When did you want to be off, Francis? Unfortunately I don't think I'm much by way of company until I've had at least two slices for breakfast, give me just a moment--"

"Take your time. Say, ten minutes?" Francis pulled away from the window, though his sticky fingers still latched the ledge. "I will try to wrangle the little mine canaries into coming too."

This brightened Alfred. Arthur approved. T'was good that Alfred was making friends. Not that Gilbert was the most upstanding choice--not nearly adverse enough to Francis to have proper sense, for one--but Arthur could think of far worse fates.

"Don't want to come, Artie?"

Arthur felt both brows rise near to his hairline. "And spend more time with Frog? By choice? Really, Alfred, I've no sin that requires such purgatory."

"Ha," Alfred said, but that was all; he resumed stuffing his face with bread. When they went to town they'd be obliged to get another loaf.

(For Arthur refused to subsist on a certain someone's blackberry muffins.)

Alfred left to find Francis five minutes later, leaving Arthur in quiet again.

Birds chirped. Betsy bawed. The book's crisp pages turned, and Arthur enjoyed another cup of tea that turned his fingers a pleasant pink.

-

He heard Francis and Alfred merrily bantering as they headed out to the woods.

Quiet again.

Another cup of tea. It never got old; coffee could bloody well stay in Turkey or India or wherever it was from, how could tea be replaced?

Crisp sunbeams, the pop-snap! of the fire...

Then: noise, indistinct but somehow unhappy.

Arthur glanced out his window just in time to see the Beilschmidt's door slam open, Gilbert stalking out, worked into an early-morning lather. He looked exhausted, pale face made positively ghostly by dark circles Arthur could see from across the way.

Firewood, collected from the shed thirty paces away. Arthur felt an uncomfortable churning in his chest. It was hard to know when to interfere and when to let the neighboring storm thrash, trusting that no ships were to be dashed against rock.

Damn it all! Francis was--slightly--by minuscule proportions--better at making that call!

He watched Gilbert grumble and fume, stacking firewood up to his chin and marching it inside with the vigor of an angry shepherd collecting idiot sheep. All muttering was indistinct, too far off to properly eavesdrop. But all mutterings still carried that undercurrent of anger, palpable even from the opposite house.

Don Quixote struggled to recapture Arthur's attention now, but with great effort he sipped, listened closely for the sounds of argument, and when he found none jerkily read two more pages.

Quiet stretched on again, but this time it felt strained, like a pond just waiting for a disturbance.

Aha, there. Noise. Arthur fought the urge to edge closer to the window.

More words, muffled by wall. It was easy enough to pick out Wilhelm's baritone against Gil's voice, but beyond that, the words themselves were impossible.

Perhaps I need—rhubarb? From the garden?

And shucks, if that garden was in the front of his scraggly yard, putting him a few feet closer, well then wasn't that just a strange coincidence.

No! Arthur tucked his foot around the leg of his chair, a personal cuff. I may not have the title of gentleman but I do pride myself on acting in a civilized manner. Most of the time.

But the devil on his shoulder, which sounded suspiciously like Francis, whined and wheedled: was it not the responsible thing to do? Gilbert was a daft cow sometimes, chalk it up to too many clocks to the head.

And what good were generous intentions if he could not properly hear the goings-on?

So Arthur talked himself first to the garden (an improvement) then to Francis' kitchen (bloody tit had stolen his favorite plate, he was just reclaiming it) and finally to Francis' lopsided chickencoop and stores (because he hadn't forgotten about that stolen hay). Now only one poorly patched wall separated him from the argument, which hissed and boiled with rage.

"I will throw you out of this house," Wilhelm grated.

"Ha!" Gilbert laughed so obnoxiously that Arthur almost admired Wilhelm's thin restraint. "Good luck paying rent, then!"

"You don't think I would."

"I know you wouldn't, asshat."

Silence, tersely strung.

Then: "Do you know what to expect, if I find you were responsible?"

Gilbert growled, putting Arthur in mind of a cornered barn-cat. "Ja, throw a fit like a whiny two-year old. Like I care. It was you and you were too far gone to remember."

Another silence.

But Arthur stiffened in surprise when Gilbert sighed and said in an almost quiet tone, "Fuck. It's a holiday. I'm too tired for this. Can it for one day, would you?"

"It is you who drags this on in perpetuity, Giselbert."

A pause. A deep breath. "Vater.” Slightly strangled, a tone not often used. “Please.”

The answer felt like being plunged into a bucket of ice. "No."

"Fine. Fine! I tried. I fucking tried," Gilbert announced, voice rising up and down the scale like a xylophone. There was a clatter--firewood being dumped, Arthur guessed, and then a series of slamming doors. He could vaguely hear Wilhelm's chair scraping angrily back, and Gil snapping, "Hey. Up, Lutz. We're going out."

Arthur didn't hear Ludwig reply, but perhaps that was because no opportunity was given, since they stumbled out the back door three seconds later.

Ah. Arthur locked eyes with the boys. Quite hard--all of his reasons felt flimsy as wet paper now--

"Frog's taken Alfred hunting for blackberries," he offered, "if you need an excuse to leave."

Gilbert scowled at him. "You're both horrible." But, with a sigh, then with less venom, he shook Ludwig's forearm, which he was using as a handle to haul the boy around. "Hey. Want to go get blackberries with Francis?"

Ludwig looked up at his brother, eyes somber. "Would you come?"

Another long exhale. "Yeah. Sure. Might as well."

"I'll get the baskets," Ludwig said as he began to break away. Tough luck. Gilbert's hold didn't release.

"Nope. No going back inside for you." He tapped his chin towards Arthur. "Where do you keep yours?"

Arthur bridled briefly at the insinuation of agreement, but the gall was hard to summon.

Maybe it was because Gilbert suddenly looked so young and overtired and weary. Fifteen seemed such a paltry number as of late.

Fifteen should be jabbering about coffee and romping amidst blackberry brush.

"Right in the kitchen. I'll retrieve them."

Not one minute later and the boys were off--Arthur felt disgust curl in his gut whenever his gaze drifted to the opposite house. No doubt their haste was partially borne of fear that the house would no longer be a strong enough dam, its occupant too blustery in his ire.

Arthur returned to his chair. Sipped. Read.

The tales of a beaten knight were far less whimsical now.

-

Blackberry muffin production started the moment all four neighbors came home. Arthur pulled Francis aside, whispered a cryptic line about keeping those two in your sights for the time being, and in one of his blue-moon flashes of helpfulness, Francis whisked Ludwig away, crooning this-and-that about 'needing someone to taste the batter, quality, you understand.'

It was clever dangled carrot; Gilbert, boasting, followed closely behind.

Alfred almost followed suit, but Arthur suggested a jaunt to town and felt a warm burst of satisfaction that Alfred readily agreed.

A bucket of cold water on the warmth, that Alfred called out, "Francis, if you don't save some for me I'll mope for a week!"

They bought bedding and bread and butter, Arthur even splurged on a bit of honey, which Alfred clearly wanted to cheer. “But you oughtn’t—Artie, I do hope you’re not getting it on my accord. Terribly kind gesture and all that but I know I’ve not been the easiest on your wallet this far. At least let me pay for the blanket.”

“Alfred. It’s a common need. Winter will be bearing down on us hard this year, Think nothing of it.”

“Half, then.” Alfred cleared his throat, eyes jumping up and down the street before he muttered, “I can easily get an extra influx of cash, if you direct me to a reputable pawn broker—“

Arthur stopped, both to readjust the baskets in his arms and to look the lad in the eye. “Alfred. As your…older brother…” damn it felt odd to use those words, “I can’t allow such a thing. You’re to be provided for. My older brothers—“ he shook his head. That was its own can of worms. “Let’s just say I’m not keen to emulate the example they set. If you’ve even more of a windfall, save it for a true emergency, not basic necessities.”

They trundled on in the silence of leaves crunching underfoot, the first of the season.

Eventually, Alfred muttered, “We’ve a windfall.”

“Hmm?”

Alfred didn't expound, instead bouncing into a whistled tune, and Arthur contented himself to blush and ignore it.

Alfred did buy a few items that raised a brow—a hunk of cheese even though they’d plenty, for one, and Arthur almost pressed, but kept his tongue. Again his brothers were giving him a clinic on what not to do, and prying ranked high on the lesson plan. What’d ya do that for? Where are ye going with that? If ye break it I’ll break yer nose, ya brat.  

Ha. As if he could make good on that threat without getting an eye gouged out by a lion of a baby brother.

Upon return there was a basket of blueberry muffins perched atop the kitchen counter. Alfred immediately made a dive for one. Arthur immediately scowled.

“You know what this means?” he demanded of Alfred.

Alfred made some unhealthy noise, before a muffled, “What, that Francis is insanely good at muffins?”

“No, blast all!” Arthur gesticulated wildly to the basket. “It. Is in here. Which means that he broke into this very room. Dammit, where’s the sugar?”

It brought back the easy candor of that morning.

But when Alfred said, during lunch, that he was making a journey over the weekend—starting this very afternoon—well! Surely a statement like that begged explanation? Arthur raised an expectant brow and waited.

Alfred flushed slightly. “I was thinking of leaving tonight and be back by tomorrow night. Sunday at the latest. So. Yes. Just letting you know.”

Arthur kept his voice very measured, very smooth. “I see. Am I privy to any more information or is that the extent you plan to share?”

 “Well—”

“Because it’s not usually wise to wander away without some contingency,” Arthur pressed. “Come now. It’s not in your character to be cagey, Alfred.”

Alfred’s smile was suddenly different. Painted, wooden. “Oh, you’d be surprised,” he quipped.

And.

That—cut deeper than it should have.

It had been three weeks but then again…

It had only been three weeks.

There were too many prickly feelings vying for control of Arthur’s heart and he fended them all off with a cool step back. “I see.” Throat-clear. “My point still stands.”

“Psht, Artie—”

“Arthur.”

“Arthur, I hardly need to explain every detail of my comings and goings, elsewise you’d be bored to tears,” Alfred continued, trying to keep his tone light. He faltered slightly under Arthur’s unwavering gaze. “It’s just a visit. Really.”

Arthur remained silent, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Alfred. The younger man fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Arthur had a knack for sussing out half-truths and evasions, a skill honed by years of dealing with his motley family—

Family. Of course.

Alfred,” Arthur said slowly, his voice gentle but firm. “You’re not making a pilgrimage to your—estate?”

Alfred’s face gave him away immediately. “No!?”

“Lying becomes no one,” Arthur chided warily, rubbing his forehead and wondering if the whole weekend was destined to go sour, and after he’d been in such a nice mood at the start. “Alfred, these civil affairs can get ugly. Twounldn’t be hard for you to get in trouble for trespassing. Poaching, if you take so much as a quail egg. I’ve no means to disentangle you from a legal web.”

“There’ll be no web,” Alfred assured. What a futile promise! “Believe me I’m not eager to get charged with disseisin either. I’ve got it planned.”

“Do tell,” Arthur muttered, tone bone dry.

“Sure: I’ll catch a carriage north and sleep in the fields tonight and finish the trek on foot tomorrow morning and have time aplenty to catch up with Mattie in the afternoon! Then I’ll start my way back here that evening.”

Arthur felt himself buckling at the mention of Mattie. Yes, Alfred had mentioned a brother once, with fond effusions, back when he’d first moved in. Ever since he’d been quiet on the topic of the Jones’.

As he’d just been biding time…

“And the rest of your family?” Arthur asked. “Will they be as eager for your homecoming as your brother?”

Half-brother, but then, so too were they, so Arthur found no need to wield that scalpel.

Alfred shook his head, cowlick bobbling. “Negligible, my—the head of the house is obliged to attend a weekend at court for the holiday. Matt and I were never invited to that one. It’ll be just us two and a few staff.” 

Oh.

Still.

“It’s quite a trek,” Arthur mused.

Alfred gave him a gleaming smile that would have been more potent, if Arthur hadn’t just been treated to a display of how it could snap to something much more calculated. “I can use the exercise.”

“The weather might turn poor.”

“And I should hope for it too, for I love splashing in mud puddles.”

Dammit, boy, Arthur wanted to yell, you may not be wanted, did you think of that? This estate kicked you to the curb not a month ago!

But then. That was too cold.

Let the boy have his space, then. He was right. It was only three weeks. Arthur was not an Alfred expert nor was the lad young enough to be bossed over such things. And he had the funds…

“Very well,” Arthur conceded with a sigh. He tried not to sound too displeased. “If you’ve not returned by Monday I’ll make inquiries.”

Do be careful, he wanted to say.

Bring your coat and a good pair of boots.

Be on guard of your family. They can deal such deep wounds, otherwise.

But all he said was, “Tell me when you leave, then.”

All Alfred said was, “I will. Mayhaps an hour or so.”

And when Alfred did leave all Arthur said was, “Safe travels.”

As Alfred waved goodbye and strolled away, Arthur couldn’t pick out a single emotion from the damn briar patch of his feelings, but he knew what he wanted to have said:

I’ll miss you.

Which was ridiculous! Because it had been three bloody weeks and that was nothing.

Arthur tried to comfort himself with this, but alas, nothing could change reality: Friday ended much more melancholy than it began.

And the fact that Frog’s baked goods really were delicious made it all the worse.

Chapter Text

Alfred walked as fast as he could without raising the brows of locals. It was hard, the longer he walked, the more he sensed that his brother was close.

It had been a good trip, even though his feet ached from the copious stretches of marching. It had been hard to find a ride yesterday afternoon, so he’d managed solo.

It was fine. He was definitely developing the kind of calves usually only found on Greek statues. 

Now his prize was finally in sight: the manor loomed, first afar, then tantalizingly close. He breathed deep: no mud. No dirt, even though he was outside. It smelled stately, like lavender and horse hair and polished wood. He made a dash for the stables, and yes, the carriage and father's best horses were gone.

Alfred stood on the threshold, legs suddenly useless.

"Master Alfred?"

"Toris!" Alfred whirled--Toris stood, slack-jawed, bridles in hand, in the opposite entryway. Screw the impropriety. Alfred commanded his muscles to move and clasped Toris in embrace that startled the bridles onto the ground. "A friendly face at last! How are things hereabouts?"

"Eh--fine?" Toris shook his head like a dog shedding water. Stupor clouded his face and stumbled his words. "Master Alfred, what are you doing here? Not that I'm not pleased to see you, of course, but I thought--"

"Oh, I'm still banished," Alfred said, ignoring how even such words said in jest nuzzled painfully at his chest. "But I remembered: fa--the man of the house goes to court for that silly Michaelmas ball, so what better time to pop back in, just to see the state of things? Is Mattie home? I'd hoped he stayed behind."

"Yes," Toris breathed. A smile spread, hesitant but butter-smooth, across his face. "He's within. You should know that he refused to go to court without you last week. He's made quite the fuss about it."

It was a balm to the perpetual sore spot Alfred had felt in his chest these long weeks, and he barked a laugh. "Aw, he didn’t have to! To hell with it, Toris, would you bring me to him? You know where he is?"

"Of course." Toris led on at an appropriately hasty clip. His steps only faltered for a moment. "Though. Master Alfred. I'm sure you're aware that it's not strictly...permitted for you to be a guest at the estate..."

No. The bruise squeezed painfully. Alfred sighed. "Not to fear, Toris. I'll make my retreat this evening. He won't even know I happened by."

"Not that I'm displeased to see you, sir."

"Nor I you, my friend. Enough of that, then. How have things been? Liberty's well?"

Toris' eyes widened almost imperceptibly, yet it spoke volumes to Alfred. One did not grow up in Toris' company ignorant of such little tells. Al balked. "It's been that haywire?"

Toris cleared his throat. "Haywire is...an understatement, but I really shouldn't gossip, Master Alfred. Do ask Master Matthew." Another weak throat-clear. "He's been in such rare form as of late."

Alfred all but whooped. Matt in rare form--what a spectacular thing to behold! The idea of Father contending with his owl-soft firstborn when the talons came out was such a delicious concept. The vengeful imp in Alfred's gut loved the thought.

They burst through the door. Toris, stationed at the curled banister, called up in his heralding voice, "Master Matthew? A visitor for you."

Gleefully, Alfred bit his tongue.

From upstairs came a voice that sounded thin and detached (though Alfred knew far better): "See them away, Toris."

Alfred's tongue threw off its leash, unable to still anymore. "Really? I thought--"

Something hit the upstairs floor with a 'thunk', followed by a flurry of footsteps and a door slamming open. "Al?" Matthew raced down the stairs in a whirlwind of burgundy. "Alfred!"

Every hurt, every new ache faded to nothing as Alfred catapulted into his brother's arms, squeezing so tight that he felt Matthew squeak. Still. Matt didn't beg to be released, and held on like a koala bear to a tree.

"Did I pick a good day to visit? I tried to time it best I could--"

"Father left this morning," Matt murmured, still not pulling back. "He won't be back until well after dark, if he comes back at all tonight."

Toris shuffled just loudly enough to catch the brothers' attention. "Be that as it may, might I suggest the pair of you adjourn to the rear parlor?" Hint, hint, the one with a back door for fortuitous escapes, Al could read in the crease between his brows. "Allow me one moment to prepare, and I can bring refreshments."

"Refreshments? Refreshments, oh Toris you godsend. I'm starving."

"You are thinner," Matthew observed, finally pulling back with a frown. Alfred's stomach dropped an inch as his brother took him in: clothes that hadn't been properly washed in a few days, jacket dusty, boots positively destroyed by the mine. "Al, tell me everything."

So Al did, first as they hustled to the sitting room, and then over the crackers and caviar Toris brought on inappropriately fine china. He left out choice bits: the fact that his bedroom floor was dirt now, or the way his lungs seized up at the thought of that deathtrap mine. The way breakfast was never big enough, leaving a confounded gap in his stomach that poked him all morning long.

Matthew was one of those watchers, though. He probably noticed that Alfred polished off the entire platter of food by himself, shoveling crackers down between every sentence. "So--he's not unkind?" Matthew said, at the end of Alfred's synopsis. "You're fond of Arthur?"

"Sure, he's a sport. Not like he had much by way of preparation. I told you he only had five days warning before I landed on his doorstep?"

"You did." Matthew swallowed and picked up a cracker, even though he only nibbled it. "I was so afraid you'd be sent to some unsavory old drunkard."

"I know exactly what you mean--one of the neighbors is that exactly!" Alfred exclaimed, unlocking another half-hour spiel, this time about the residents of International Bluff and the associated escapades.

"But what about you?" Alfred asked at the end, stomach finally bulging. He relaxed into the warmth of the parlor, fingers rosy and tingling in a pleasant way. "Toris says you're in rare form of late. I'm almost sad I've missed it."

Matthew rolled his eyes, but there was iron underneath. "I'm just incensed," he said, "and am acting accordingly."

"Are you stealing whiskey?"

"Just enough," Matthew said with a placid smile. He readjusted his tea-cup in its saucer. "I'm sorry there's not more I can do. I've tried arguing with him, but you of all people know that's no use, eh?" A deflated sigh. "If you couldn't argue him down, there's no chance for me."

"What have you been doing?"

"Siphoning liquor," Matthew admitted, "writing letters to Mother's doctors. Gleaning what information I can."

"Come again?"

Matthew took an innocent (ha) sip and shrugged. "You know father doesn't watch his tongue around me."

"Aye, I know you're like a ghost sometimes."

Sip. "And you know he’s got a terribly simple signature. And I’ve got good penmanship.”

Alfred catapulted forwards, banging his shins on the server. “You’re forging now? I was the one who told you he was easy to emulate, and you dissuaded me from pursuit!”

“I only told you to stop trying to copy his writ because you were going about it like a bull in a China shop,” Matthew said, tone walking the tightrope of patience and exasperation. “You didn’t take the time to find the appropriate background information. Those are the things that sell it.”

Al sniffed. “I would have ad-libbed, Matt. Or have you so soon forgotten that I have the gift of gab—“

“Al. Listen to yourself.”

“O, fine,” Alfred huffed, throwing himself back on the sofa with a velveteen ‘squeak’, arms folded in his best impression of a cross Arthur. “But at least keep me in the loop. I won’t be shouldered out, even if I am banished.”

Matthew’s face bunched up, an uncomfortable wrinkle. “You’re not banished,” he said softly.

“What do you call being cast out of my home to live with distant relatives?”

“It’s really not that distant, Matthew pointed out. “A stout day and a half walk.”

“It’s distant enough when I’m the one doing the stout walking. Toris, my favorite man. I don’t suppose I could beg you for some of Cook’s treats?”

Toris, at the door, looked terribly amused. “I think one or two would not be missed.”

“I am in your debt forever. Both of you. Should I help—“

“Oh no,” Toris said, sounding on the cusp of laugher. “You’ve walked far enough today, Master Alfred.”

The baked goods were thus brought—and look. They were blackberry muffins, it seemed all bakers had the same idea this week.

“Are these cook’s?” Asked Alfred, staring at the bite he’d taken, crumbs dribbling.

Toris paused. Contrary to his promise of nabbing a ‘few’ he was setting out an elaborate pyramid, muffin-base with macaroon dots. “It is, Shaw baked just yesterday,” he said. “Are they not to your liking?

“No, no, they’re splendid. It’s just my neighbor makes them—softer ? More berry-ish? But no matter, thanks ever so, Toris.”

“Berry-ish isn’t a word,” Matthew prodded, looking faintly off put.

“Berry-esque, then.” Alfred polished off the muffin nonetheless. “It’s good. Francis just has—a way with food, I guess.”

It led to another lapse of easy conversation where Alfred described Francis, both via firsthand experience and Arthur’s stories about the “hospitality from hell”, where Francis managed to rearrange half the kitchen in “the most French way possible”.

“What does a French kitchen even comprise?” Matthew wondered weakly.

Alfred shrugged. “I hardly know and have been warned against ever finding out.”

Then it fell into brotherly quiet.

Alfred wondered aloud when he ought to be off.

"It's not been two hours yet." Matthew frowned, smoothing his perfectly smooth lapels. "I didn't think you'd have to leave so soon."

Alfred smiled, but even though he had no mirror he could tell it was wry. "Like I say, it's a trek. I won’t be able to cover it all today so we’ll be eking into Sunday, and as work’s the morning after I don’t want to arrive late, you know?" Matthew opened his mouth, and Alfred belated extracted his foot from his; work would only lead to the less savory topics of current life. "But it'll be a far pleasanter walk this way around, what with a full belly and knowledge that Fa--your father had not turned his ire to true kin. And look, the sun's out. Really, better weather can hardly be expected."

Matthew gaped for a few seconds more, a pile of words rattling around in his head like marbles. Then, at last: "Al, I'll just ride you back."

Oh, the idea sounded lovely to Al's aching feet, but he waved it away with a laugh. "Come on, Matt, that's far too troublesome--"

"Champlain can carry both of us. At least to Lennewick." Firm as rock.

So Alfred sunk into the couch, grateful, and they chatted more about nothing, about Arthur’s food and Gilbert’s rules and how Antonio had made a mortal enemy of the local barkeep, though Alfred suspected that Antonio was totally unaware of the hatred.

Later Matthew brought down the painting he’d been working on, and Alfred gave Liberty an apologetic show of affection.

Some time later, long after Alfred had planned to leave, Matthew stood. "Wait there, I've got to fetch something."

It could not be a 'good' and 'legal' something, Alfred supposed, if Matthew was himself retrieving, rather than sending Toris, who flitted in and out of the doorway for their whims. His suspicions were confirmed the moment he caught sight of a fistful of coinage.

"Mattie. No." Alfred bottled up the banker in his gut, the one that wanted to palm though each shiny shilling. "Did you take that from his office? How?"

"It pays to be invisible," was all Matthew said in response. He held his palm out. "Alfred, just take it. You know it won't be missed."

"I cannot have you stealing for me," Al said. Though think of it—he holds the pay I get for three weeks of backbreaking work. "It's awful kind, but..."

The corner of Matthew's mouth drooped in a very chastising way, the set of his jaw grim. "If you never use it, that's fine. I'd just feel better if you had it available, eh?" Matthew sighed. "For emergencies."

Matthew had always been the worrywart between them, but for a moment the possibilities splashed across Alfred's mind too: winter sickness. Ludwig's fingers turning blue with cold. The mine collapsing. A dwindling fire. Empty cupboards.

"Thank you, Matt." Alfred took the offering, holding it in his hands for a moment before slipping it into his pocket. It felt heavy in so many ways. "I'll do my best to return it to you."

At least the acceptance seemed to lighten Matthew's countenance. "I feel better knowing you have a bit of disposable income."

A bit! Now three weeks of his mortal life could be equated to a bit of income.

Enough of that. Alfred tucked the thoughts away as they slipped out the back door, ushering Toris along with them. Champlain was a fine horse. Matthew was a slip and Alfred--had lost enough weight to make him less of a sack of bricks. The canter to Lennewick was light and lively: Alfred sat in the back and felt laughter bubbling up at the scent of grass and Matthew's wheat-lavender hair (both of which caught in the wind and tickled his face. )

Five hours later, well beyond Lennewick, when he fancied that there was perhaps only three more hours by foot, Alfred dismounted. "I'll walk in from here," he said, lowering his voice. "Truth be told Artie wasn’t too keen on me visiting the estate today, I think, and I don’t want to make a scene if you ride me all the way in. Capital of you to take me so far, though."

"Al!" Matthew said, miffed. "Is he trying to keep you away?"

"No, no, he’s just a worrywart. Anyway, it’s better you turn around now, knowing our luck your father will throw a fit in court and come storming home early. I couldn’t forgive myself for being the cause of any familial misfortune.” Any more of it, at least.

Poor Matt! Champlain shied under his hands, and he bobbled like a buoy, as did his expression. He’d always been so tepid. None of that; Al gave him a verbal shove. “Well! I shall see you by-the-by. Don’t know when I can make it to the estate again, but you mustn’t fret if you don’t hear from me. I’m planning big things, Mattie.” That the ‘big plan’ was so flimsy as ‘more hustle = more opportunity’, Alfred chose not to divulge. He and tact were not the mortal enemies Francis seemed to imply. “Really. I’m landing on my feet. I’m far from destitute.”

The edges of Matthew’s distress smoothed, like a pond settling. “I’m glad.”

Alfred patted Champlain’s flank, trying not to sound wistful. “Good day, then?”

“Yes.” Matthew cleared his throat. “If you get around to telling your…brother and your neighbors about our fraternizing—“

“Which I most likely will,” Al supplied dryly.

“—could you pass on my best regards?” Matthew offered a slight smile. “And my admiration that they were able to handle your ego in such stride.”

“I don’t have ego, I have confidence. But aye, I will.”

Matthew meandered.

“I miss you,” he eventually managed. “Home’s not the same.”

Alfred smiled. Smile. Don’t think about the lump in your throat, now, it’s a bad time to get soppy. “I miss you too.”

“You remember what I said, eh?” Matthew swallowed thickly. “About this whole—mess?”

“Just a temporary trial,” Alfred repeated wistfully. “I think about that from time to time, you know. It’s alright. I’ve endeavored to come out the other side better for it.”

“Alright.” Matthew let out a breath. It only wobbled a little. “Alright, then. I—love you. Try to come home soon. Before Christmas. Father will be busy during the holidays.”

“Aww, I love you too. I’ll try. Now hurry and go! ‘The vain travail hath wearied me so sore’, as they say, and I’m eager for bed.”

Matthew laughed wetly. “I’ll be waiting.”

Alfred turned and began the long walk home, the sound of Champlain’s hoofbeats growing distant.

The smell of home, fading back into mud.

-

Alfred intended to make that oration—truly, he had—but after the holiday, after returning to Arthur’s with his soul refreshed and ready to go….

if felt like there was

Simply

No

Time

For anything! No time to read, to breathe, and on some evenings even cooking seemed too tall a hill to climb. The Saturday Alfred planned his jaunt, he’d overslept, eyes crusty with gunk, stomach grumbling and legs too stiff to carry him to the fireplace, much less the next town. There was no chance of attending that oration.

A hollow had opened in Alfred’s stomach, like he was standing on the precipice of a cliff. What a fantastic flop. And after he’d been so lofty with Matt, too! I’ve got a plan, indeed.

If the plan was to languish forty feet underground until rescue came, then he was doing a damn fine job of it.

As October wore on with worrying speed and November encroached, the weather took a sharp left turn into nippy and nasty.

Alfred found himself less enthused than normal. Back when he rode in coaches…when not-Father bought him riding jackets lined with goose down…when the walls of his room had stopped the wind in its tracks, instead of letting it whistle on through…

Back then an early cold snap like this would have been diverting. It would’ve drawn some good-natured complaints, to feel his nose go red with chill, but his fingers and toes would be warm, and a heating pan would be waiting for him in bed every night.

Now, though, this sharp decline into sludgy, crisp cool hit very different.  

Alfred tried to occupy himself with being a stalwart worker. Chin up. Winter was great, really! A lot of good things. Christmas and sledding, ice-skating, the way frozen puddles crkkkak! When you step on them. Besides, this wasn’t even Winter. Just its prelude. It was just a fall cold snap.

But it was harder than he thought it would be, because the mine wreaked havoc with his temper.

It was strange. On any given Tuesday Alfred could feel almost…content down in that mudhole. It was nice to feel strong, to feel like he was putting in a man’s hours. People chatted with him at lunch; they laughed at his jokes and complimented his strength.

Then at some random point between then and Thursday, the latch on the pendulum would release and it’d swing viciously the other way, just for a moment.

And today?

Today he hated the mine in a way that rankled his bones. He hated being both too hot and too cold. He’d sweat until his shirt grew clammy, even while his fingers grew stiff. From there it only took a nudge--a chilly draft, a pause to breathe, and snap! His chest would touch the sweat-soaked shirt and Alfred wanted to crawl out of his skin.

He hated the mine and he hated the cold.

He hated how frozen his smile felt.

Worst of all, he hated how everyone around him seemed to bear it with a grim acceptance. How petty. Who rooted for the demise of their compatriots, for whingeing and whining?

Misery, that was who, famed lover of companions and current king of Alfred's mind.

It was this mindset that made Gil's hissed complaint all the more welcome: "I fucking hate when winter’s coming."

Alfred paused--but not long enough for that damned chill to assault him--to glance at his contemporary. He felt a smile twitch on his lips, a phantom reflex. "Ha. Yes. Not much fun--"

"No, not 'not much fun'," Gilbert corrected, somehow not getting lost in negatives. "Fucking awful."

It was a dam breaking. Alfred whacked the wall with bitter vigor. "Yep. Pretty fucking horrible."

Whack. Whack. "What's the catalyst for you?" Alfred prodded.

More whacks resounded. It wasn't clear to Alfred if Gilbert planned on ignoring the poke or was just whittling down the suckiness of a cold snap into a numerable list, able to be expressed afore the end of the workday. "What's not to hate," Gilbert eventually said, which wasn't quite an answer.

It was, however, a response that Alfred could expound upon. "I don’t think my toes have been warm since last week.”

“The whole house smells like smoke all the time,” Gil groused.

“We’re down in this pit before even seeing morning light,” Al added, “and soon it seems we’ll not be relieved until after the sun is set again. I hate that with every inch of my being.”

“Ja, it sucks. And the dirt is harder now.”

“As if it wasn’t hard enough before.”

Clink. Clink.

Silence bound the mine until Gilbert said, tone colder than winter itself, “The ancient bastard is always pissier when it’s cold anyway.”

Though Alfred’s hackles instinctively rose at the term ‘bastard’, he smoothed them with an internal scold. Funny how something could so quickly become a personal insult. Instead, he frowned, inspecting Gilbert’s words. “What, your father?”

“Yep.”

He wanted to ask why. Badly. But he heard Matthew and Toris both chirping in his ear, chiding him to have restraint for Heaven’s sake, and thus bit his tongue hard enough to wince.

Clank. Clank.

It could, Alfred belatedly supposed, be any of those gripes they had listed prior. Somehow, though, the set of Gilbert's shoulders was too rigid to suggest simple crankiness.

Clank.

Al cycled through two bouts of too-warm-then-ice-cold, fingertips turning the purplish red of working through cold, before a sharp clatter sounded behind him. "Shit," he heard Gil hiss. Pickaxe abandoned, Al rushed over, though Gilbert wasn't splayed on the ground like he'd feared--he was just nursing his arm, glaring at it with an expression that might set an igloo aflame. "Oh, hell no. I'm way too cool to be injured. Ow--dammit--"

"I think you'd best not move it," Alfred advised. "What did you do?”

"I didn't fucking do anything, " Gilbert said, and that was all, until Alfred gave his best Arthur-to-Francis impression. Gilbert frowned at him, annoyed. "Shoulder's sore. Dislocated it last night.”

Click. The puzzle wasn't complete, but Alfred fit two pieces together with frightening clarity. "Damn." His tone was leaden, prickling with disgust that he tried to dust over with levity. "He really is worse in winter."

Beyond a derisive snort of apparent agreement, Gilbert didn't reply, instead easing his shoulder upward and wincing.

"Dislocated, you said?"

"Yep," Gilbert agreed with a grimace, but he swatted Alfred with his good arm when Al shot towards the shaft, a 'Ludwig, at once' already dangling from his lips. "Hey, no--don't go yell about it, geez. I can pop it back in."

Alfred was...slightly awed, slightly dubious. "Are you certain?"

"'Course I'm certain. That’s how I fixed it last night."

"...and it's come undone again? Are you sure you re-set it correctly in the first place?"

"Ja, you're just supposed to--fuck, I don't know, take it easy or something--and that's not going to happen." He took a deep breath (Alfred felt himself taking a steadying one alongside) and settled gingerly on the floor. "Fuck," he muttered again. "I hate this part."

"Can I help?"

"You can help by not telling Lutz," Gilbert said tightly. "Kid worries too much."

At the moment, Alfred thought Ludwig likely worried just the right amount.

With a quick move and a sickening pop! the shoulder wrenched back into place. Gilbert let out a measured breath. “See, no problem.”

“Can you still work?”

Gilbert seemed affronted. “Of course I can still work! What kind of question is that? A question for a non-awesome person.”

Alfred paid close attention to his strikes, pantomiming the action if one of his shoulders was out of commission. It was an awkward task and Gil seemed unable to use that shoulder for much of anything. “Are you sure—”

“Rule number three!” Gilbert snapped.

Alfred let the matter drop.

During lunch Ludwig dragged it back to the fore. “Are you still alright?” he demanded, voice quiet. Alfred could only overhear because he was eating lunch next to his neighbors. Clearly Ludwig was aware of a problem despite Gilbert’s best efforts, but wasn’t keen to announce his brother’s malady for the entire crew to hear.

“Kseksekse! What did I tell you about stupid questions?”

Ludwig shifted his weight, uneasy. “That they are a waste of breath and inefficient. But—”

“No buts!”

“Bruder…”

“Do you hear this kid?” Gilbert crowed, pulling Ludwig into a headlock with, Alfred noticed, his good arm. He caught Al’s eye and the message was clear: don’t you dare spill or your guts will be next! “If there was an award for worrying he’d win it. I am perfectly fine. Tell him what an awesome coworker I was today!”

Yes, Alfred could appreciate wanting to protect your brother. Understood keeping those sharp, unsafe edges of your situation under butcher paper, where you could deal with them before anyone else got cut. So the deflections came easy: “I would not say awesome.”

Gilbert’s eye twitched, and he opened his mouth to protest—

“He is a terrible taskmaster, Ludwig, if you can believe it. Screaming about this rule here, that rule there. If I don’t hack fast enough I fear I’ll get yelled out of the mine—”

Ludwig didn’t seem convinced, but Gilbert took the storyline and ran with it, which placated the boy enough to smooth the concern in his face.

Safely (ha!) back in the pit, as the picked back up their tools, Gilbert admitted, “He’s a bean-counter. Bothered about everything he can’t micromanage.”

 “Believe me I know the type,” Alfred sympathized. “My brother’s the worst-case scenario type too.”

“Your brother, huh. The one from the family that kicked you out?”

"Ha, the family unit is in a bit of a rough patch, yes. But Matthew’s my elder by not even a year. T'was not uncommon for us to be labeled twins."

"You guys look the same?"

"Startlingly so." Alfred wished he had a mirror and a portrait, for then he could compare all those little differences he and Mattie had compiled so copiously in their youth. "People tend to think he looks softer but by-the-by they still mistook us for each other at court functions. Even our extended kin! Who ought to know better."

There had been days when, in the hubbub and glass-clinking of court, Jones' could be heard saying, 'think of it thusly: the one in the red coat is Matthew, and as for Alfred he is in blue.'

Indeed it was only a spur for Alfred to be more forward. He would match wits with the Count, or the Earl, banter with the Marquees with surefooted confidence. Soon enough the Jones relatives amended, some with dripping distaste, some with a dollop of pride, 'the soft spoken one is Matthew, and should you see one arguing with a better it is apt to be Alfred.'

Much better, Al thought, than that red-coat blue-coat business.

"I separated myself from Matt through conduct later on," he added.

"Weird," Gil mused, "since you're only half-brothers."

"I know. Mother's genes domineer, it seems." Some of the air deflated from Al's sails. What a tiresome label, 'half-brother'. He switched topic, eager to stay in green pastures. "What about you?" he asked around the axe's swing. "You and Ludwig are hardly dead ringers."

"Nah, we're not. I don't really mind. Blonde-hair blue-eyes is too much like the Ancient for me." Gilbert shrugged lopsidedly. "Whatever. You can’t help that kind of stuff."

Their mother Alfred had never heard mentioned beyond that chat with Arthur his first week here. He spoke the next words with careful levity. "What about you, then? Do you take after your kin in feature or are you the anomaly?

"I don't know." Gilbert snorted lightly, doing away with Alfred's fears of disturbing hallowed grounds. "Maybe. Ancient's got a brother--our Uncle, I guess--but I don't even know where they are, let alone what they look like. I definitely don't take after Mater." Gilbert's chest puffed out in smug pride. "Basically, I am just over-abundantly awesome in every way, including in personal appearance! Can’t be inherited. No one could handle looking as cool as I do."

"I'm going to be blunt here," Alfred said brightly.

"Go for it, kid."

"I think: you look like a vampire and are liable to be burnt at stake."

"Ha! Only if they catch me first, suckers!" Gilbert snickered, the steam-escaping-a-pipe sound that was so odd to hear. "Vampire, huh? I can work with that. I could probably take over a town in Transylvania, make the locals give me my own secluded castle, threaten to bite them all in the neck if they cross me--yep. That's my new plan," Gil announced with a decisive thwack of the pick axe. "Good idea."

"It wasn't my idea per se," Alfred pointed out with genteel humility, though he cheered and added, "But you're welcome! The hero of the mines is happy to help."

"I wasn't saying 'good idea' to you, dumkopf, I was saying it to myself--"

"What— t’was my good seed of thought that sowed your plan—“

“Ja, my plan, as constructed and executed by me!”

“I would defend my honor with force if it were not such an unheroic move— ”

“Awesome beats heroic,” Gilbert crowed nonsensically, and from there no real conversation could be built—it was verbal snowballs lobbed with no rhyme or reason, aimed to startle but none to hurt. Oh, if Mattie had been here he could have taken offense at being called a ‘snot nose, four eyed doily,’ but Alfred didn’t mind, so long as he could fire back ‘stunted, stake-fodder mine-rat’ without being labeled the villain.

No. The mine was a strange little pit where mutts could be let of their leash. It was such an antithesis to court. In court Al had felt hamstrung, even when his words were genuine and opinions properly sugarcoated, any random Duke or Countess could still wheedle out some petty offense, which was then pocketed as passed around as court gossip. Gah, what a farce.

Oh, there were some theaters of good lively debate even above-ground. Alfred felt certain he’d never been introduced to the right alehouses, and every time he passed the House of Commons he imagined the great hubbub of discourse.

Their little fisticuffs court helped to pass the time until Gilbert decided that they’d bent Rule four far enough and zeroed back in on one-armed mining.

So. There was good in the mine, even when it sucked. You just had to tease it out.

Because he hated his own footnote, aware that it made the whole plan seem like an orphan boy’s idle daydream, Alfred promised that next week he’d splurge some of Matthew’s stolen sixpence on an edition of Common News and a pamphlet titled ‘Thoughts on the Holy Conflict and Preconception.’ War was great for debate.

At International Bluff affairs were less settled.

“Oh, great,” Gilbert groused as they trudged up, eyes glistening over the Beilschmidt house, snagging on the incriminating glow of a candle in the window.

More worrisome was the slam of a trough hitting the table and a general air of discontent that hovered over the roof ominously.

Who wanted to wander in there, Alfred thought, stomach straining for something comfortable, something nice?

No. Not on his watch.

The words shot out of Alfred’s mouth before he could parse them: “Say, I’ve got a capital idea. Ludwig, you’ve still yet to learn to read, aye?”

Ludwig nodded, eyes glued to his house, hand glued to his older brother’s.

“Bully, so then let’s get a start on those lessons. What say you, Gil? I’ve got several copies of Shakespeare yonder. We can just pluck words from that.”

Gilbert’s thumb was tapping absently on Ludwig’s palm. He looked terribly humorless for a moment before: “Ja. Yeah.” He snickered and was back to full cackling knight, steed and pike and all. “Up and at them Luddy! You are being issued a new assignment.”

Ludwig was no nitwit. He gave Gilbert a look that bordered on exasperation and murmured, “Are you sure? There are things to finish.”

“Oof! Up you go!”

Alfred shouldn’t be so amused to see Gil manhandle Ludwig—but Ludwig was built like an iron sculpture, not one of those waif children who must have bird bones. You could probably toss him into the boxing ring with a child three years his elder and he’d have a fair chance. And Gilbert was no Goliath, even with both arms in full working order. Still he snatched the kid and hauled him off over his good shoulder. “You are learning tonight whether you like it or not!”

“You’ll teach me?”

Alfred didn’t take the statement (which had emphasis on you’ll) too personally. “Ja,” Gilbert said. “Why not?”

“And you’ll rest your arm?” Ludwig chastised.

“Pfft. I need no rest!”

“Bruder, you aren’t using it at all.”

“So it is a little bit sore. Es ist keine große Sache.”

Ludwig frowned, mouth exasperated.

Gil gave his brother a rough-but-gentle bounce. “Ah, don’t be like that. You want me to rest it, I’ll rest it. I am cool enough to do things like that, you know. People try to understand it and they never can. When you are a loser there is no frame of reference to compare against me.”

Ludwig shared a brief glance with Alfred—did you understand all of that? No? Good, then it’s not just me—

But Ludwig was always willing to brush ramblings aside, it seemed, and stapled himself to his brother for lessons.

It kept that way for a while, even though Alfred itched to be part of the process—reading was such an essential skill and felt like Ludwig was on the edge of a brand new wilderness! And Alfred was a longtime pilgrim in that land. Knew the paths by heart. Could show him the prettiest spots and the shortcuts…alas. He handed off A Midsummer Night’s Dream and got a pot bubbling. There were beans...plenty of bread left over, though it was starting to get chewy…

Gilbert was a straightforward teacher: he picked a scene and started with the first word’s first letter, explaining the sound.

“So ‘h’ is weird. It’s a breathing sound. Try it. Ja, good. Likewise ‘e’ is weird. It’s eee or eh, just depends on the word and what language you’re reading. Try that word now.”

“H. So hhhh.”

Ludwig was very serious about it. Clearly he had trouble seeing this adventure as a romp; he was practically scouring the ground before each careful footfall.

“Next is?

“Eee or eh.”

“Right, now put them together.”

Ludwig mouthed it. Then he blinked. “He?”

“Hey, hey, Mr. Smarty-pants! I did not realize we are dealing with a child genius.”

The compliment made Ludwig flush furiously and he was hasty to ask for the next letter.

It continued until Gilbert stood up and wandered towards where Alfred was prepping dinner. “What is the menu?”

“Beans and quasi-bread pudding. It’ll be edible.” Or at least edible to Cast-Iron-Stomach Alfred.

 “Yepppp,” Gilbert said with a stretch, “we need meat. You set your traps last night, Lutz? Same place as usual?”

At the nod he announced, “His Awesomeness will now retrieve the star of dinner: protein.”

“Here here,” Alfred called appreciatively.

And he was even more delighted when Gilbert caught his eye and probed, “If he asks about a word, you’ve got it handled?”

Hell yes! An effortless catch. “I’m on it,” Alfred assured.

“Good! Lutz! New order! If you have a question while I am out ask four-eyes for help. Understood?”

“Understood,” said their domestic child soldier.

Alfred happily threw on his mental tour guide uniform and divided his attentions between food and Ludwig’s learning. He was old enough to pick up fast and detailed enough to tuck away some of the tips Al gave. Soon his eyelids drooped, even as Gilbert returned and stuck the fresh meat over the fire.

Poor kid looked ready to doze off where he sat after he’d eaten dinner! It probably helped that he was leaned against Gilbert’s side. Gilbert snorted softly. “Relax, kid,” he said. “Lessons are over, you can go to sleep.”

“But…” A drowsy, confounded blink. “Must we go home?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Gilbert said, with such ease and firmness that even Ludwig couldn’t find room to doubt, sagging instead into Gil’s shirt. He was asleep within minutes.

Alfred pounced. “Surely we have the same fantastic idea? Just spend the night here.”

“Nah, we’ll be fine. I’ll just carry Lutz back.”

“Not one-armed you won’t. Not without waking him up,” Al pointed out.

“Nag, nag, nag. Fine, I’ll sleepwalk him over.”

“O come on. I thought the point was to ignore your father?”

“Ja, that’s the idea—“

“So what better way than to circumvent your house entirely?”

Gil rolled his eyes. “Even the Ancient Bastard has to sleep. It is totally under my control.”

“If you’re wrong and you screw up your shoulder again, it’s going to wreak havoc on our production. Two bad days in a row. Terrible for pay.”

At least that got a pale eyebrow twitch.

Alfred picked at a loose thread on his shirt cuff. The shirt was already yellowing from constant wear, even though the blouse had been new last summer. One button was frightfully close to popping free. Which was wrong…buttons ought to remain together…didn’t like to be alone. He blustered with a sigh. “At least let us see what Arthur thinks of the prospect.”

“Ancient’s probably asleep already, which means it is totally fine!”

They hushed for a moment.

Smack. Thunk-thunk-thud-thud.

It was wood being moved and unless the Beilschmidt house was haunted, it meant Wilhelm was still on his feet. They glanced out the window and caught a figure in the opposite house taking a long drink.

“So it is not under my control at this exact moment,” Gilbert admitted with relative calm. Only the half-frown that danced over his face when he glimpsed Ludwig gave him away. “What Arthur thinks of the prospect, huh? Bet he’ll hate it.”

“How could it bother him at all? There’s plenty of room in my nook.” ‘Plenty’ was an exaggeration—the entire house was smaller than Alfred’s bedroom at the estate, but he was trying to give things a positive spin and comparing Arthur’s house to the estate was not conducive to that end. “Let us just wait and see.”

“Alright. Fine. Doesn’t hurt, I suppose.”

Alfred didn’t know exactly why, but the agreement made him feel fifty pounds lighter. Like he’d been wearing an invisible harness and angels had just now slipped his neck out of the yoke.

“So how was he reading while I was out?” Gilbert asked.

“Fantastic, he’ll be reading rings around me in no time—”

It was the heroic thing to do, keeping the Germans out of harm’s way…and it was nice to have someone to talk to sometimes, instead of giving yourself over to pamphlets that could talk and talk but never banter.

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!"