Chapter Text
January 21, 1956
Cortina d’Ampezzo, Italy
Matthew wants nothing more than to kill himself right now. But as always, Alfred’s already beaten him to it.
Granted, Matthew doesn’t actually know that was Alfred’s intention. It’s not like he has a suicide note in his hand that explains why Alfred swallowed a supply of housewife pharmacy pills, washed it down with half a bottle of whisky and tossed himself off the mountain Faloria to perform “the greatest feat of skiing the world has ever seen.”
But he’s also not sure what other deduction to make considering the evidence in front of him.
Matthew raises his head from the cradle of his palms and stares at his brother strewn across the twin-sized bed. Alfred’s still in his official USA athletic wear, with tears across both knees of the black pants, and plenty of beatings on his chest and arms of the logo-embellished sweatshirt. The bleeding from his temple stopped a while ago. Feliciano and Romano double-checked that much before he was allowed to be hauled into the guest bedroom of their Cortina vacation house.
No one bothered to put any bandages on him. Feliciano and Romano were drunk on Aperol Spritz themselves, and didn’t seem particularly worried when Matthew appeared at the lower rifugio, begging for their help. If anything, Romano seemed more annoyed than usual at the interruption to his skiing holiday, spitting a string of Italian expletives as he abandoned his drink to fetch the car. Feliciano, however, happily chattered about his day while helping Matthew transport Alfred’s body to the car from where it was hidden behind a tree. It’s a miracle no one saw them do it.
Alfred’s broken head was haphazardly wrapped in the white toggle coat he was wearing earlier, hiding most of the damage. Matthew pretended he didn’t see his brother’s brain mixed with the endless blood before he closed the garment around Alfred’s battered face and dragged him into the back seat. He kept Alfred as still as he could inside that cramped little Fiat, all the while Feliciano and Romano conversed in rapid Italian in front of him. And it made Matthew want to laugh, because no gentle treatment he offered his brother mattered in the grand scheme of things. Alfred would heal no matter what, and both Feliciano and Romano knew that. It’s why they didn’t care.
By the time they parked in front of the charming, two-story alpine home, the gash on Alfred’s head started to close and so, he was allowed inside.
Now, several hours later, Alfred’s blond hair is a mess of dried blood and pine needles. Matthew tried to wake him a few times with no luck. Alfred’s breathing again, so he figures it shouldn’t be long now.
A knock at the door startles Matthew, and he turns around to see Feliciano poke his head through.
“Ah, still sleeping, huh?” Feliciano nods toward Alfred. He takes another step in the room, revealing a fresh drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He’s in a handsomely tailored suit, as though he’s about to step out for the evening. His cropped brown hair is combed into gentle waves. “And here I thought he would be good at skiing. Didn’t he tell me he was? Maybe I should have gone with you guys after all.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Matthew sighs. He’s not in the mood to talk about Alfred’s maniacal death wish.
“Well, he’ll wake up soon enough. Hopefully, he’ll be in a better mood when he does too.” Feliciano swallows the rest of his glass of wine. “He was being an awful party guest. I was starting to regret inviting him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know. Usually, Alfred is so social. I was really hoping to have some of that American charm at my parties. Especially over New Year’s. But since he arrived here, he’s been…” Feliciano ashes his cigarette into his empty wine glass and shrugs,.“…Moody, I guess. Very moody. And not very fun at all. He was starting to remind me of Arthur.” His lips purse in distaste.
“Uh-huh. I see.” Matthew turns back to Alfred with more questions. He’s not sure he’ll get answers to half of them, but he’s prepared to give it a shot.
“Romano and I are meeting some people for aperitivo, so you’ll be alone for a while,” Feliciano adds happily. “You can meet us for dinner when he wakes up, okay? We have a reservation at eight.”
“Uh, yeah,” Matthew smiles evasively. “Yeah, I’m not sure that’s going to happen.”
“Really? Don’t you think he’ll be hungry?”
“I… Yeah, I guess he will be. But we’ll just eat whatever’s in the house, if you don’t mind.”
“Aw,” Feliciano pouts, “Okay, but that sounds very lonely! Come downtown afterwards for drinks at least. Ciao, ciao!” He flashes another smile before leaving the bedroom.
Matthew is still staring at the door when it closes. What is going on with Feliciano? He’s been drinking since this morning. Is that normal for him? Matthew’s never spent much time with him to know, but even drinking aside, he seems a little off. Or is Matthew the one who’s going crazy?
Matthew pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. He doesn’t have time to worry about other people. As always, Alfred’s made sure to do something that demands his full attention.
“Ugh—my head.”
“Alfred!” Matthew gasps, immediately scooting his chair closer. He watches Alfred sit himself upright in the bed. “Al, Jesus Christ. It took you long enough.”
Alfred drags a hand down his face and stares at Matthew like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“Matthew?” he croaks.
“What? Yeah, of course. Who else—oh, right,” Matthew scoffs, “Your glasses were tragically lost in your stunt, and I have no idea if you packed another pair or where it might be. I can lend you one of mine if you don’t have a spare. We’re still the same prescription, right?”
“What are you saying? I do not—” Alfred’s sentence breaks off just as his eyes go wide. He swings his head in every direction before backing up further, crowding himself against the wooden wall like an animal that’s been surrounded by predators. His tan skin pales in terror. “Where am I? This isn’t my home.”
Matthew watches Alfred’s erratic movements in confusion. Alfred’s been in Italy since before New Year’s. As far as Matthew is aware, he’s been staying in Feliciano’s house the entire time. Unless—
“Fuck. Did you—god, don’t tell me you lost your memories too?” Matthew tosses his head back with a groan. “Great. Retrograde amnesia to avoid a difficult conversation. How convenient for you. Okay, what’s the last thing you remember? Do you remember coming to Italy? Do you remember leaving D.C.? Al? Fucking answer me, come on!”
“Matt! Your language!” Alfred scolds.
Matthew narrows his eyes. “Huh? Are you—are you blushing?”
Alfred doesn’t answer. In fact, he seems to have found a new source of panic and starts patting down the tattered ski suit he’s wearing, pinching the material of the pants and pulling up his elbows to inspect the damage from the fall he clearly doesn’t recall.
“Where am I? What—what are these clothes? I have never worn anything like this! And why does it look as though I’ve been accosted?”
“Um—” Matthew watches Alfred stumble out of bed, wobbling to his socked feet so he can cross the room and reach the window.
“Ow, my head,” Alfred hisses, holding onto one side of his temple. He draws back the curtains and peers through. Whatever he sees doesn’t keep him interested for long, because he turns around, and keeps his weight braced against the wall. “Why is my vision so—so awful?”
Matthew rises slowly from the chair. “Al, maybe you should take it easy. I think you might’ve hit your head harder than I thought.”
“Hit my head? No, surely I was shot,” Alfred dismisses. “This pain feels just like a gunshot. I should know.”
“Shot?” Matthew echoes, dread coiling in his stomach.
Alfred gives him an unimpressed look. “Yes, shot. You know as well as I do that England is still very angry with me. It is very strange I cannot remember what happened, however. The last thing I recall…” he trails off. As he lets go of his hair, he squints in Matthew’s direction. “Matt, have you grown?”
“Uh…”
“Are you taller than me?” Alfred scurries closer, immediately measuring his height against Matthew’s with the side of his hand. It lands at the middle of Matthew’s head, marking the few inches between them. Alfred steps back, appalled. “How—when? But I only saw you last month, and I was definitely taller! This is incredibly unfair. I am the one who earned his independence,” he declares, pouting. “If anything, I should have gotten taller!”
Matthew manages a wobbly smile. “Um, yeah, you got taller too. After that…uh.” He takes a deep breath and takes hold of Alfred’s shoulders, looking him square in the eyes so he can see for himself if there is a lie or possibly an act hidden somewhere. “Okay, Al. What year do you think it is, right now?”
Alfred peers back at Matthew with matching scrutiny, as though it is Matthew being insane.
“It is 1790.”
Oh, come on. This can’t be happening. Not now.
“And who is your current boss, er, your president?” Matthew asks tentatively.
“Why it is George Washington, of course!” Alfred beams. “How could you forget such a thing?”
Matthew’s hands drop. Alfred didn’t just lose the memories from the past few days or even weeks. He lost well over a century.
“…Shit.”
“Please, Arthur,” Matthew whispers urgently, talking low into the phone as to not be overheard. His finger twists around the cord as he keeps an eye on the window so to observe Alfred on the balcony. “You need to come here. Now. It’s important.”
“Absolutely not. I have only just arrived. My headache is killing me, and all I want to do is sleep this awful day of travel away. Can this not wait until tomorrow?”
“No,” Matthew snaps. “And you’re not the only one who’s head is killing them.” He glances back at Alfred every few seconds, making sure he doesn’t jump off the railing.
It doesn’t seem like Alfred is a danger to himself, at least. Matthew forced him to take a bath and finally scrub all of the dried blood off.
When Alfred walked out with flat, wet hair and wrapped in a robe, Matthew had already set out some fresh clothes. A blue sweater and a fresh pair of trousers. Fortunately, while rummaging through Alfred’s belongings he found an extra pair of glasses as well and made Alfred put them on.
At first, there was some excited chittering about the fabrics and styles, accompanied by many more questions. However, whether it is due to Matthew’s evasive answers or Alfred’s broadening view of the modern world he’s currently occupying, he started to go very quiet. He fiddled with his glasses and peered at everything around him with acute suspicion. Matthew watched for a while, but eventually had to excuse himself to call for help. Alfred wandered onto the balcony halfway into Matthew’s phone call with Francis and he’s not moved since. He appears to be looking out into the distance, either at the small town below or at the snowy Dolomites surrounding them on all sides.
Regardless, Matthew’s not sure how to break the news Alfred is not living in the 1700s anymore; he’d much rather do so with Francis and Arthur by his side. As annoying as they may be, surely their age and experience has to be useful for something.
“I told you not to stay at the same hotel as him,” Arthur chastises, “Boy’s ego is too large to contain right now. Take my advice: it’s best to give him a radius of ten meters so you don’t find yourself running into it,” he comments dryly. Matthew can hear him taking a sip from a glass. At this hour, it could be either tea or beer. “Where did I go wrong with him?”
“That’s not the problem!… Actually, wait—” Honestly, Arthur probably is partly to blame for whatever Alfred has become. But there’s no time to get into that now. “Whatever. It’s not the current problem. And I don’t know if I can say this over the phone, so you need to come to Feliciano’s house right now.”
“Why in heaven’s name are you there? I thought you were staying at the hotel… the hotel… oh, I can’t remember a damn thing right now,” Arthur groans. “Blast this headache. You know, I blame the driver. I believe he made it his mission to make me nauseous for the first time in a century.”
“Arthur, please. I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know what they’ll do to him if they find him like this.”
Matthew’s not even sure who he means when he says it. The U.S. government? The USSR? He's afraid of anyone talking to Alfred as he is now: too naive and trusting for the modern world he's been thrust into.
There’s a long pause. When Arthur speaks, his tone is marginally more concerned than before. “What happened?”
“He thinks it’s the year 1790! He has no recollection of anything after that! He’s acting like some—some sort of colonial school boy.”
Arthur scoffs. “He’s playing a joke on you, Matthew. I’ve never heard of a nation having amnesia of 150 years before. That’s poppycock.”
“Yeah, well, he hit his head pretty damn hard,” Matthew drawls, his gaze dragging toward the blood-stained coat rolled up by the trash cans. “Practically cracked it open. And that was after the cocktail of drugs and alcohol he took. And god knows what he does at home to scramble his brains.” Matthew sighs. The exhaustion of the events is sinking into his bones, but there’s no time to rest yet. He needs the adrenaline to keep him alert until this problem can be solved. “Just… come here. Please. I already called Francis, so he should be on his way.”
“I was your second phone call? Why was I not first on your list?” Arthur demands, clearly offended now.
Matthew rolls his eyes. “Gee, I wonder why.”
He hangs up the phone, and darts toward the door to the balcony to check on his brother. He rounds the corner, hand wrapping around the wooden railing to balance his turn.
Alfred is staring out in the distance. There is a tense, calculated expression on his face that makes Matthew wonder for a moment if the real Alfred is back and currently plotting his next move. He would take the insane, ego-driven, self-asserted capitalist hero of the world over this confused teenager.
At least, he thinks so.
“Matt, I insist you tell me what is happening,” Alfred declares, turning toward his brother. “I know I am not in America. Or Canada. Or even England. What is going on?”
“I know everything must seem very strange, but,” Matthew hesitates, trying to choose his words carefully. “You’re in Italy, right now. You suffered a really bad injury. Um, Arthur and Francis are on their way to help explain more.”
“Tell me now,” he begs. When Matthew does not immediately obey, he steps into his personal space and clasps one of Matthew’s hands between his cold palms. “Tell me. Please. I still trust you, no matter what transpired between England and myself.”
God… fucking damn it. It’s been years—no, decades—since Matthew’s felt a fragment of older brother protectiveness. But those same instincts rush to the forefront of his brain anyway. He has to help. He has to help this superhuman demon brother of his. Sometimes it feels as though it’s the only real destiny he has.
“Okay, I’ll—yeah, let’s get inside,” Matthew suggests with a smile. He presses his palm against the flat of Alfred’s back and tries to urge him toward the warm interior. “I’ll make some tea and we can talk while we wait for them to arrive.”
Matthew doesn’t tell Alfred much. He bides his time making tea and bringing it to the living room. He checks on the furnace and makes sure there’s enough heat to warm the rest of the apartment. Eventually, Alfred pesters him to say something, and Matthew reluctantly sits down and takes his mug of Earl Gray between his palms.
But he doesn’t say much. The bare minimum really. Matthew’s not exactly cut out for this. He thinks he understands the real Alfred beneath the image that has been so hard fought and meticulously crafted, but then he uncovers things that makes him doubt it.
On one side is the young man with shiny, pomade-combed hair, a heavy cologne to disguise the scent of a daily pack of cigarettes, and a megawatt smile that’s perfectly designed to convey both ease and confidence on whatever screen he’s gracing. This is the one who knows exactly what to say at every given moment, and who wants to win at all costs.
On the other is some distressed nineteen-year-old who has a diary full of electroconvulsive therapy appointments and a stash of barbiturates, miltowns, and amphetamines in his Altoids case. And Matthew didn’t even know this other Alfred until today. He only learned this after Alfred died, when he had several hours to kill rummaging through his brother's pockets and suitcases.
Truthfully, he’s not sure he’s been close with Alfred for several decades now. So, it’s no surprise that whatever tumbles out of his mouth does not work.
Alfred drops his mug on the coffee table, spilling some of its contents on the wood, and jumps to his feet.
Matthew dries the spill with one of the napkins Feliciano had laid out on the coffee table.
Once finished, he bunches the napkin in his hand and turns around. Alfred is on his feet, hands like claws on either side of his head as he walks back and forth across the living room.
“Alfred, you need to calm down,” Matthew pleads. “Arthur and Francis are on their way to help explain things.”
“How do you expect me to calm down? You are telling me that I have leapt over a hundred years into the future!”
“That’s not exactly…” Matthew tracks Alfred’s pace tiredly. “Whatever. It’ll be fine. You’ve always been able to take a beating, right? I’m sure we can figure this out,” he forces a smile. But Alfred’s not looking. “Al, please sit down. Your pacing is driving me insane.”
“What?” Alfred halts with a blush. “Sorry. I—I have this strange anxiety in my chest. It’s been there for hours now. My lungs feel rather strange,” he confesses, pressing his hand against the center of his knit sweater. “I am having a difficult time ignoring it.”
“Oh. Huh.”
“What is it?”
Matthew scratches the back of his neck. “I think that’s your cigarette addiction, actually. That’s funny. I guess the body doesn’t lie after all.”
“Cigarettes?”
“Yeah, like tobacco,” Matthew nods. He hops across the width of the couch so that he can lean over the armrest and grab Felician’s silver cigarette container, and the box of matches stowed inside. “Man, were there cigarettes back then? Maybe it was pipes. Sorry, I’ve always sucked at history.” Matthew shakes his head and opens the container, producing a cigarette, “Anyway, now you smoke these. Well, not exactly these. Your brand is Camel. I don’t know what this is—some Italian brand, I guess. But you’re about a pack or two packs a day smoker. You’re pretty cautious about doing it out of the public eye though.”
Alfred takes the cigarette cautiously. “This seems very strange.”
“It’s fashionable, actually. It helps to keep you slim too.” Matthew nearly laughs when he realizes he’s directly quoting Alfred’s words back at him. He never thought he’d be teaching a darling of Hollywood how to smoke. Matthew takes the box of matches and lights the end once Alfred has the cigarette between his lips. “Just inhale. And breathe out. You shouldn’t have a problem.”
Alfred takes a slow, careful drag and blows out the smoke. His eyes sparkle.“Oh, yes. It does feel rather soothing.” He eagerly goes back for another puff. “Do you smoke too?”
“Socially, sometimes. Usually when I’m with you. Well, I guess with everything going on, maybe I should join, huh?” Matthew laughs, and sets up his own cigarette.
He breathes out smoke and tries to will himself not to worry.
Surely, whatever is going on with Alfred is temporary, and something that can be fixed. There’s no reason for him to spiral. It can still be figured out.
“You said we are in Italy?” Alfred asks, sitting down on the couch beside him. He follows Matthew’s lead and taps his cigarette against the edge of the crystal ash tray on the coffee table.
“Yeah. This is Feliciano, um—Italy’s vacation home. Up in the mountains.” Matthew nods toward the window with a view of Faloria. Oh, right. The site of Alfred’s most recent death. Matthew turns away. “I’m sorry, Al. But my history’s really rusty. Did you meet Italy in your… whatever year you think you’re in?”
“Not yet. But I always wanted to visit,” Alfred admits with a boyish smile. It’s actually remarkable how his behavior and mannerisms make the same features seem so much younger. Or maybe, Matthew is seeing what he remembers. “I suppose, I eventually had that opportunity if I am here.”
“Yeah, you’ve been pretty much everywhere,” Matthew tells him.
There’s a strange pang in his heart at this reminder of how Alfred was at the beginning. It’s almost endearing how naive he is of his potential.
Matthew’s attention snaps up when he hears a knock on the door. He stubs out his cigarette, blowing the last remainders of smoke past his lips.
“Oh, finally. Okay, I’m going to get the door,” he announces, rising to his feet.
Alfred copies him by putting out his own cigarette. Matthew can feel his eyes following him as he exits the living room.
Matthew runs a hand through his hair and opens the door. In front of him is Arthur, wrapped in a gray coat.
“Oh, it’s you,” Matthew deflates. He peers over Arthur’s hat for any sign of Francis and finds none.
“I must say that is a disappointingly mild reaction after dragging me out of my warm hotel room,” Arthur clips, already pushing back his left sleeve to check his silver wristwatch. “Has he awoken from his stupor already? Damn, I knew I should have kept the car running.”
“No! I just thought you’d be Francis!” Matthew flushes in irritation. He steps aside to let Arthur pass through. “Whatever. Get inside.”
Arthur removes his hat and coat and glances at the art on the walls in idle curiosity. As he passes his coat into Matthew’s arms, revealing the very business-like attire underneath, he asks, “So, where is he?”
“Um, he’s in the living room,” Matthew answers quietly, laying the coat on the bench by the door. “But Arthur, maybe it’s best we wait for Francis to arrive too. I’m a little worried how he’ll react to…” Matthew trails off with a vague gesture.
“My face?” Arthur raises a brow. “Come now, I have certainly looked worse than this.”
“No, to you!” Matthew hisses. “He thinks you detest him! And I'm pretty sure he detests you too!”
Arthur waves his hand dismissively. “Please. That boy is indestructible. I should know best of all. Maybe a good scare is—oh,” his head tilts to the side as an evil grin cuts across his face. “Yes, a good scare might be exactly what he needs.”
“Oh my god, why are you so unserious?” Matthew cries. He turns back to the front door wishfully. “Where is Francis? What is taking him so long?”
“Hush, Matthew. Let me see if this will work,” Arthur murmurs, raising a finger to his chin in deliberation. “Now then, how did I use to speak back then? What year did you say he thinks it is?”
Matthew can feel his patience being shredded to pieces with each passing second.
“For fuck’s sake. Stop trying to get into character and just—” He grabs Arthur’s arm and bodily shoves him into the living room.
Alfred launches off of the couch as soon as they enter. His shoulders square back, and his jaw sets, glaring at Arthur as though he’s armed to kill.
“England!” he seethes, eyes darting around in search of a weapon. The blue sweater and khaki trousers Matthew dressed him in suddenly seem too soft and domestic for such volatile behavior.
“Hello, lad,” Arthur greets, accentuating his accent. “Tis I, the ghost of your Christmas past.”
“You really think he’s going to get that reference?” Matthew mutters. Turning toward Alfred, he adds, “It’s all right, Al. I told you, he’s on your side now.”
Alfred’s lips press together in a way that suggest he’s not fully on board with Matthew’s story. But his posture relaxes marginally, and he puffs out his chest in a front of confidence. “I… You look remarkably different as well,” he notes. “Is it possible that you are shorter than before?”
“Yes, charming,” Arthur chuckles without humor. “Matthew, you are worrying for nothing. He is just the same as he always is. Give me back my coat. I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not! He’s not the same at all. Just look at him!”
Arthur follows Matthew’s point lazily. “I am. Aside from shaking in his boots, he looks perfectly healthy.”
“He’s shaking because he’s afraid of you,” Matthew lowers his voice. “Remember? He thinks you hate him. The year 1790. Ring any bells?”
“Barely,” Arthur sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Was that after he had a tantrum or before?”
“...You're not suggesting that you actually forgot when Alfred declared independence? Are you seriously that pigheaded?”
“Why is he here, Matthew? What are you two planning?” Alfred demands.
“Al, I told you that he would be stopping by,” Matthew reminds him, but he can hear the beg in his voice. This is exactly why he called Francis first.
Arthur frowns at Alfred. “All right, son. Sit back down. No one is planning anything.”
“I do not trust you,” Alfred spits. His eyes are blue fire. The blond locks of hair, untamed by pomade, flop against his forehead as he swings his gaze to Matthew. “Where is France? You said he was here too.”
“I don’t know, Al. He’s late. But he’s coming, I promise.”
“I will listen to him, but not England. Never him.”
“Ah, this does bring back memories,” Arthur smiles fondly. He unbuttons the first button of his suit jacket and slips his hand into the pocket of his trousers. “I forgot how much of a wet cat you looked back then. Especially when you were angry.”
“Do not test me!” Alfred bristles. He grabs the crystal ash tray, winds back his arm, and launches it across the room.
It shatters against the wall by Arthur’s head, missing him by less than a foot.
“Jesus Christ! Al, get a grip!” Matthew screams.
Arthur, who had closed his eyes for the attack, opens them and touches the side of his cheek where a piece of glass had cut him.
“So he really does mean to kill me again. Lovely,” he says blandly, spreading the blood between two fingertips. “What is that saying again? History comes first circle? I confess, I did not expect it to happen quite so literally.”
“I told you—! Wait, I think I heard someone arrive.” Matthew turns toward the sound. He makes a false move forward, before reversing so he can speak to Arthur once more. “Can you survive a minute while I drag Francis inside?”
Arthur takes a long breath, and slowly lowers himself into the armchair across the couch. “I will certainly endeavor to try.”
“Great.”
Matthew abandons him and Alfred, snaking his way down the hall and opening the front door leading to the wraparound balcony. He trots across the wood, hearing it creak in his haste. Beneath him, a new car turns its lights off and a tall figure steps outside the door.
“Francis! Finally!” Matthew calls. As soon as Francis glances up, he waves hurriedly. “Up here. We’re on the second floor.”
Francis’s boots crunch against the gravel, and it seems to Matthew he walks as though he has all the time in the world. When he’s climbing the stairs, Matthew can hear him whistling and it makes him want to attack.
“I am sorry for the delay, Matthew,” Francis apologizes with an easy smile. He removes his hat and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “It’s a funny story, I was—”
“No time,” Matthew cuts him off. He grabs Francis’s wrist and drags him toward the door. “Get inside. It’s an emergency. And I don’t want Arthur dying tonight too.”
“Yes, that would be a tragedy,” agrees Francis sardonically.
Once inside, Matthew shuts the door to not let the heat out. Francis pulls off his gloves one at a time, giving a cursory look around the hallway as he does so; Matthew ignores how his habits are so similar to Arthur’s. Francis lays his fur hat, leather gloves, and fur coat on the bench beside the door, just beside Arthur’s clothing, and follows Matthew into the living room.
“Okay, we’re here. Everyone still alive? Limbs attached?” Matthew looks wildly around the room.
To his surprise, Alfred is sitting down on the couch again—a little stiff, but at least not actively in attack-mode—and Arthur is lounging in the chair across.
“We’re fine. You act as though I’ve never been alone with him when he’s acting the part of madman,” Arthur dismisses with a wave of his cigarette. He frowns at Francis, obviously disappointed to see him. “I see Matthew was able to pry you away from whatever important business you had.”
“You know I am always at the mercy of my family,” Francis purrs.
“Please, can you two shut up and behave for once!”
“France!” Alfred exclaims, jumping to his feet. He flies across the room and wraps Francis in a tight embrace.
Well, Matthew assumes it must have been a hard hug because Francis lets out an audible oomph! when he’s tackled.
“Finally, a friendly face!” Alfred cries.
“All right, now that does irritate me,” Arthur sneers.
When Alfred pulls back from the hug, his blue eyes are wide and pleading. “France, you have to explain what’s happening to me. I don’t understand why… why I’m here. Or rather, why I don’t remember everything that has happened? Is something very wrong with me?”
“There, there. Brother France is here to help,” Francis cooes, patting the top of Alfred’s head and ignoring Arthur’s mutterings in the background. “Although, I will need Matthew to fill me in on some of the details on how you died this time.”
“Yeah,” Matthew nods, already wondering how much he should say. “Let’s just all take a seat.”
Francis joins Alfred on the long couch, resting a reassuring hand on Alfred’s knee whenever a stressful detail was revealed. Arthur remains planted on his armchair, smoking cigarette after cigarette, until he tires of the activity and crushes his last one in the ash tray. Matthew is in between all of them, alone on the loveseat, and cowed over his knees as he finishes the last details of how Alfred met his fate. In the end, he does mention the alcohol and the pills, but he keeps the ECT a secret.
Afterward, Matthew chances a look at Alfred and finds him deathly pale. However, his brows are knit together as though he doesn’t believe or perhaps finds disagreement with what Matthew said; he’s probably never even considered suicide an option at the point in time he remembers. And that’s so much like him, Matthew cracks a shadow of a smile.
“I see,” Francis says, the first to bridge the silence. “Well, I admit I am shocked such a…mortal thing could damage you like this.” He pats Alfred’s knee.
Alfred chews his lower lip and turns away.
“Are you being serious, Matthew? Falling off the side of a mountain and a little bit drunk?” Arthur uncrosses his arms to point accusingly at Francis. “This man’s had his bloody head cut off a dozen times and somehow never lost his memories. Wouldn’t that have been a nice change if he did?”
“Well, maybe I lost some,” Francis murmurs, looking up thoughtfully. “But never so much as this I believe.”
Matthew glances at Alfred worriedly. “Yeah… um, I think Alfred kind of scrambled himself before this to be honest.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Arthur asks flatly.
“I don’t really know,” Matthew mutters, slipping out of the truth and back into a lie. “It’s just… he tries weird things, okay? But he doesn’t tell me everything either.”
Francis sighs and reaches across so he can pat Matthew on the leg. “Matthew, if you don’t know the answer, there is no need to talk. Vagueness is only more irritating to my curiosity.”
“Right,” Matthew rolls his eyes.
“If I may interrupt—!” Alfred blurts, attracting all eyes on him.
He’s sitting at the edge of his seat, hands clenched over his knees and knuckles very white. His face is flushed like he’s been waiting for a chance to speak and suddenly lost his patience.
“Oh, but no matter how strange this is, I admit he is very adorable,” Francis chuckles, sharing a look with Arthur and Matthew.
Arthur does not share his amusement. “Will you please—”
“France,” Alfred tries again, flexing his fingers over the fabric of his trousers. “Can you tell me how much has changed since 1790? Am I… is it true that I am no longer enemies with England?” He eyes Arthur warily.
“Every relationship has its ups and downs, no? But currently, you are on very good terms, I would say,” Francis answers diplomatically. “You have even fought in a war together.”
“Did we now?” Alfred sounds no less skeptical, but it does soften the tension in his hands. “And what else?”
“I…” Francis frowns in Arthur’s direction as though sharing a silent conversation. “I fear we do not have enough time to rehash 150 years of history, mon lapin. Otherwise, we will be here all night. And why should we reminisce the past anyway? Suffice to say, circumstances are very different now. You are not the little independent nation you remember. You are quite a superpower. That should come as good news to you, no?”
Alfred starts to grin, but stops himself. “Am I famous? Am I well recognized?”
“I am sure there is not a country on Earth who does not know your name.”
“Excuse me, but can we do this without inflating his ego?” Arthur cuts in. “For god’s sake, we finally have a little respite from it. Is that not the reason he continues galavanting the globe getting involved in wars he has no part in?”
“Arthur—”
“Am I happy?” Alfred prompts eagerly.
Matthew nervously watches the way Francis processes such a question. But he knows that it is better him than Arthur.
“Are you… happy?” Francis repeats cautiously.
Alfred grins. “Yes! Am I happy with my country?” He barely takes a pause for breath before his eyes open wide, asking, “Oh! How could I forget to ask? Am I still in love?”
“Oh dear,” Francis laughs quietly. He bides his time by stealing a cigarette from Feliciano’s case and lighting it. “I am nearly afraid to ask who you mean.”
Matthew looks down at the floor and sighs. He should have expected this. With everything else, it was the last thing on his mind, but… he should have expected Alfred of the past to fixate on this doomed crush of his.
The awkward silence appears to confuse Alfred and he stares at each of them impatiently. “Is it… is it not known?” This time, the lack of confirmation makes him lean back in his seat and he cups his chin thoughtfully. “How strange. I would have thought we would be together by now. I did not think he would be so slow at courting. Or is it I who am slow?”
“Well, you understand that any relationship between two nations is a… very hard thing to manage,” Francis smiles tightly.
“Of course, you’d be the one to say that,” Arthur chips in, stealing Francis’s cigarette and taking a long drag himself.
“Arthur, are you really not curious about who he’s talking about?”
“No,” Arthur frowns, blowing out smoke. He passes the cigarette back and drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair. “It is plainly obvious, as it should be to you too.”
There is a long pause as the puzzle pieces fit into place. And it’s clear when they do, because Francis lets out a theatrical gasp.
“Back then already?” Francis whispers, bringing the same cigarette back to his lips. His eyes land on Alfred with a glimmer of unbridled curiosity. “No. Impossible. I would surely remember such a thing.”
“You’re getting old,” Arthur reminds him unsympathetically. “It is a miracle you remember anything at all.”
“I am speaking of Russia, of course!” Alfred blurts, frustrated that he’s ignored again. His cheeks color as he speaks about his love with uncomfortably ardent passion. “The Russian Empire. Matthew, you know this. You saw the letters he sent to me,” he says, unable to contain a giddy smile, “Is he all right? Is he here? How much as he changed? When can I see him?”
“Ah,” Francis shakes his head, shoulders trembling, “this situation is becoming so delicate I do not know whether I should laugh or cry.”
“You’re already laughing,” Arthur points out.
Francis forces himself to stop chuckling, and wipes his eyes. “Why aren’t you then?”
Arthur’s face is a mask. “I have never found one moment of this disastrous relationship humorous.”
Matthew stares at him. He’s not exactly surprised to learn that Arthur’s been aware of what’s transpired. A little concerned, perhaps, but not shocked. Alfred’s cautious at present, but in the past he was well known for his lack of subtlety about all types of subjects, including ones of the heart.
The relationship between Alfred and Russia recently has been… complicated, to say the least. Matthew’s been there since the start of it, but even he doesn't know it all.
He sucks in a breath. Arthur and Francis have done their part, but they cannot break this part as delicately as he can.
“Al, this is going to come as a shock to you,” Matthew begins, his voice featherlight, “but your relationship with Russia is in a… difficult place right now.”
“Difficult? In what way?” Alfred knits his brows. “You do not mean to tell me we are war? Because I shan't believe you.”
“Um, not exactly a war in the way you’re thinking,” Matthew hedges. He reaches for a cigarette out of desperation. “But yeah, it’s difficult in pretty much... every way possible.”
It’s Arthur’s idea to drug Alfred into sleeping. Matthew doesn’t like it one bit, but he gives in when Alfred’s interrogation about Russia seems like it’ll never end. So he fetches the Altoids tin he confiscated and lets Arthur slip the barbiturate pills in with the tea. Alfred falls asleep soon afterwards, and Francis helps Matthew put him to bed.
Afterwards, when all is quiet, Matthew walks Arthur and Francis outside. They crowd the balcony in tense silence until Francis approaches the railing and tilts his chin toward the clearing sky.
“Ah, what a beautiful moon it is tonight!” he declares brightly.
“Oh, bloody hell,” snaps Arthur. He takes one stomp forward and glares Francis’s way. “We just spent the last hour trying to talk sense into my mental patient of a son and that’s the first thing you have to say?”
Francis raises a brow. “We have done our part. I do not see this as any huge issue, aside from him acting a little eccentric. But he always acts unpredictably so why should this matter? And do you expect me to simply ignore such a sight?”
“I expect you to hold some semblance of gravitas for longer than five minutes after we have left the goddamn door! Matthew is barely holding it together, and you know how fragile he can be!”
“Please, as if you know him at all. Alfred will always be your favorite. You have made that abundantly clear by showing actual emotion for the first time in years.”
“I care about both of them deeply.”
“And yet the word love is still impossible for you to say. Why is that?”
Matthew fights the urge to cup his ears. He’s so fucking tired of their squabbling! Why did he involve them? Maybe it would have been better to do this alone after all.
“Guys, come on,” Matthew interrupts quietly, trying to lower the temperature. “I know we were able to give a… very redacted lowdown of the situation to him. But if Al’s memory doesn’t come back soon, he still has to like—interact with people all month in this state.”
“Send him home to recover,” Arthur shrugs, slipping into a professional tone with ease. “Not every nation is present. Just every one that wants to be.”
“No, I think that’d be worse,” Matthew shakes his head. He nibbles his lips in deliberation. “Alfred is expected to be here. Like by his government. It’s not like how it is with you or me. I think it’s because Russia will be here and… Well, you know how Al likes to put on a show and all, especially now. If he goes back, it’s not going to look good. And who knows what’ll happen to him then with...” He avoids bringing up the asylums again, and adds, “Alfred is—very careful about his image.”
Arthur raises a brow. “Really? The man who rode a horse upside down through the streets of London with ten cigarettes in his mouth is careful about his image? You could have fooled me.”
“Okay, you’re just making shit up now.” Matthew laughs tonelessly. “What do you mean upside down?”
“He was doing a handstand,” Arthur purses his lips. When he turns toward the balcony again, his hat shades half of his expression. “Strong, coordinated bastard.”
“See, I know you’re lying, because that’s not the same Alfred who spends his Sunday nights watching What’s My Line in front of the television with a frozen TV dinner on his lap,” Matthew sighs. “He’s actually comically boring at home. I wish I could make fun of him for it, but if anything, it’s like his most redeeming quality.”
“It is impossible for either of us to know every side of him,” Arthur says coolly, “Even so, I know more about him than you do. That is the truth.”
Yeah, right. Matthew immediately dismisses such an accusation. Arthur doesn’t know anything.
“The Alfred I know would be out dancing with women until the heels of his shoes have worn out," Francis hums. "So, perhaps Arthur has a point. No one really knows anyone after all. Even after hundreds of years, Arthur is little more than a stranger to me. Sometimes I see a middle-aged tourist stumbling through Paris and wonder if that's him. Ah! How the mind plays tricks on us.”
“Do shut up now. Matthew cannot tell when you are serious or joking.”
“But I was being serious,” Francis smirks.
“Precisely. Pipe down and watch your moon if that is all you have to contribute to this conversation.”
“Whatever,” Matthew huffs, interrupting the banter. “I just—I don’t want him to go back while he’s fragile like this. Maybe he’ll gain his memories in a few days. I just need some help managing his, um, international affairs while he’s like this. The fewer people who know about this, the better.”
“It could be months before he recovers,” Francis muses, eyes still on the stars. “I’ve heard of some amnesia patients taking years.”
“Yes, Francis. Thank you for that vote of confidence,” Arthur snaps.
“Did you say years?” Matthew repeats fearfully. He grits his teeth. “No. It’s not going to take that long. Al’s not even a human! If anything, he's superhuman. He’ll recover sooner than that.”
“Perhaps,” replies Francis.
His hand dips into the pocket of his fur hair coat and retrieves a golden cigarette case. He lights one with his metal lighter and puts his supplies back in place again.
“It is the Soviet Union’s first Winter Olympics debut, you know,” Francis adds, between whisps of smoke. “It is going to be quite the show. And now, it is televised.”
“Exactly.” Matthew crosses his arms over his chest. “We have to make sure Alfred doesn’t do anything stupid. There are too many eyes on him right now. His government gives him a longer leash than most, and I don’t want his freedom taken away. He wouldn’t be able to handle that.”
Francis hums in recognition, going back to staring down at the landscape and the many deer trodding the snowy fields below. He takes his leave first, slowly climbing down the staircase leading to the driveway.
After he is out of earshot, Arthur steps forward and looks in Matthew in the eye.
“You know as well as I do that Alfred will run up to him the first opportunity he has and even army wouldn’t be able to stop him,” Arthur says. “That boy will do exactly as he wants. That has always been the case with him. He should go back before he causes a scene like is guaranteed to do.”
“Do you really think he’ll willingly go back now that he knows Russia’s here?” Matthew counters tiredly. He lets out a breath and tries to enjoy the moon too. “Let’s just give it a few days. If he can make it through the opening ceremony, then maybe we can figure out a good excuse for him to go back. He just needs to show his face, flash a smile, and then everything will be fine.”
There’s a strange sense of foreboding in those words even as Matthew says them. He gets the strangest feeling that Alfred might live by that motto.