#historicalhetaliaweek2021

[rebelsandtherest]

The transition from privateer to naval officer changed a lot about Arthur Kirkland’s demeanor at sea, but it didn’t quite catch all of his jewelry.

This is late, but I will go ahead and tag @historical-hetalia-week​ as I believe they’re still accepting late submissions.

@historihet​ Ella don’t @ me about the uniform I know it ain’t good

[historical-hetalia-week]

Attention all writers!

We now have a collection for the event on AO3!

Here is a link to the collection: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/historicalhetaliaweek2021

Important to note: There is a parent collection which will include this event and possible future ones so make sure you add your work to the collection linked above called historicalhetaliaweek2021.

Posting your work to the collection is not obligatory

but if you’d like to, it’s open to anyone. Works will be moderated however and we ask that your work complies with the rules and guidelines! Also please make sure your work is appropriately tagged when posting to AO3.

This collection will only accept works created for the event! It will be open for late submissions for a week after the end of the event (February 28).

A quick explanation on how to add your work to a collection:

You can add your work by choosing the Post to Collection option found on the collection’s page (linked above) right under the collection name.

If you’ve already posted your work independently, you can add it later on by editing your work and choosing a collection under the Associations section.

We look forward to reading your works!

[rebelsandtherest]

Go West, Young Man

Art by the amazingly talented @historihet — thanks again, my friend!

I am so excited to share this with you all! I’ve actually been working on this story for a little while, but this is the first time I’m sharing it. It’s currently unfinished, but I hoping that I can work more on it and use @historical-hetalia-week​ as the first push to get that going!

This is unlike the rest of the Historical Hetalia Week submissions I’ve made in that it is an AU, specifically a human AU set in the U.S. in the 1870s. While I’ve not written it to be a ship fic, it could very easily be read as a USUK fic—reader’s choice!

Title: Go West, Young Man

Summary: Englishman Arthur Kirkland is forced to travel to the United States to attend to some family business in the wake of the American Civil War. Thrown wildly off course by unforeseen travel complications, he ends up further from home than he’s ever been before. His only chance to return to civilization—and his family obligations—may lie with the irritating and enigmatic cowboy, Alfred Jones.

Chapter warnings:

Language

Guns

-------------------

Chapter 1: Far From Home

-------------------

Arthur Bartholomew Eleazar Kirkland, Esquire, had traveled across the Atlantic Ocean too many times to be excited about the trip. By the time he made it up the gangway, the ocean liner was already teaming with all manner of filthy English men and women, as well as a few Irish and other assorted flavors of European pauper. They waved and cried and bid farewell to their families ashore. Many, he knew, did not intend to return. He walked past them all as quickly as he could, found his cabin, and shut himself in.

Oh how he longed for the days when traveling at sea meant trips aboard his father's navy frigate. Back then, the sea was full of decks wide enough for his growing legs to wander, with plenty of space for him to tussle with his brothers, with a forecastle where he could stand and feel the salty breeze press him forward, as if to fly. Those days were long past, and the dear Admiral had been cold in his grave for nearly five years. Arthur had been ferrying himself between the Old World and the New for just as long. Nowadays, the ocean held little charm; only smoke, and steam, and huddled masses of sweaty people who didn't understand the first thing about table manners.

Business was business and land was land, but the fact that he'd been tasked with managing his family's affairs in the New World simply because he was the youngest and none of his idiot brothers or their idiot wives could be bothered was an eternal source of resentment.

"Swaggering about in the States is a bachelor's game, Arthur," Alistair had told him, as if mucking about in the war-stained mud of the American South were a treat to be envied. His eldest brother had slapped him on the back hard enough that Arthur had felt his teeth rattle. "You're the man for the job."

He curled up in his horrible cot and spent as much time being sick as he did attempting to sleep. With the constant hurl of the ocean and the churn of the engines, sleep eluded him almost entirely for nearly all three thousand some-odd miles of his journey.

They made port in New York City, where he traded in his sterling for dollars, checked in with the bankers who oversaw his family's investments in the States, and hired a valet to carry his luggage to his hotel. He enjoyed all the amenities of Fifth Avenue Hotel, ate what was sure to be the only decent meal before he was back in London, and slept. The following day, Arthur's life relocated to a railcar, or rather railcars, for a trip that required so many transfers from one line to the next that even trying to sort out his tickets brought on a migraine.

Finally, he was on the final stretch of his journey and headed west: inland from the familiar sight of the sea. From here, the train would carry him over miles and miles of desecrated fields, which were only just now starting to recover, six short years after they'd drank their fill of blood.

Headache coming on in force, Arthur found his bed—far more comfortable on this railcar than the last—and fell into it. There was no point to staying awake. It was going to be a long journey, and the only thing visible from the windows was human misery and desolate land. I ought to withdraw all our holdings and be done with it, he thought as his eyes drifted shut. But in his dreams, he could never quite make that call as his father stood by his side, hand warm and reassuring on his shoulder.

Arthur slept, body too exhausted from his journey to observe the passage of day and night, of mealtimes and teatimes.

It was indeed going to be a long journey, but even in his dreams, Arthur could never have anticipated exactly how long it would be.

-------------------

Arthur was not sure how this had happened. He wasn't sure how any of it had happened. How had he slept for so long? How had no one thought to wake him? And most importantly, how had a train set in motion on the East Coast of the United States end up here, in the middle of bleeding nowhere?

Instead of apologizing profusely and offering to take him back East, back North, back to anywhere where he had any chance of getting home, they just laughed and directed him to the door and the vast, flat emptiness outside. There were several attendants watching him stumble off the train, and most of them were snickering. Only some of them were trying to hide it.

"Well, sir," said one, in an accent that rode the line between inbred hick and condescending southern gentry, "this is as close to where you're going as we're planning on being for the next few weeks. As good a stop as any."

"As good a—" Arthur began, and stopped. He was so angry, he had no words. He stared out at the hell before him for a few more moments before he opened his clenched jaw to ask, "and when does the next train head north?" he asked.

"North?" The attendant laughed, actually laughed at him. "We haven't even finished going south, my friend, but you've already overstayed your fare. It's horrible luck, sir, I'll grant you that."

"And what, friend," Arthur spat, "Am I supposed to do while I wait for the next train?"

"Get comfortable," the mustachioed man advised. "You'll be waiting a few weeks, or more, if the schedules are right, which they always are." He shrugged and stepped back up onto the railcar; they were almost done refilling the engine's water tank. With a tip of his hat, the man said, "Find a place to stay. Maybe you could sell that fine ol' scarf of yours," he said, "Or that vest. Silk's a rare thing down thisaway; down here, we're all drowning in nothing but cotton."

A sharp whistle split the air and the platform filled with steam. Arthur jumped, and the train jumped too, surging south to abandon him at a glacial place. And then, there he was, Arthur Kirkland, alone in a godforsaken town made of dirt, mud, scrubby trees, and the saddest ramshackle buildings Arthur had seen in his life. Suitcase in hand, he turned around to see the train platform's sign, brand new and already bleached by the sun: Waxahachie, Texas.

-------------------

With little else to do, Arthur had begun wandering the streets in search of a constabulary, or an inn, or really anywhere that looked like it might offer him some explanation for why the world had betrayed him so profoundly as to put him in Texas. He found none of these things, but after about fifteen minutes or so wandering down what might've been confused with a main thoroughfare, provided one had never stepped foot in an actual city, he did pick up a… well, a follower.

He'd been pretending not to notice the sound of hooves, spurs, and the creak of leather tack for several long minutes before at long last, he stopped, turned, and cast a withering glare over his shoulder. The lone mounted figure behind him came to a corresponding stop and tipped his wide-brimmed hat.

"Howdy," he said, as if they were passing each other on the boardwalk and weren't standing in the middle of a damn road with metres and metres of room on either side where the horsemen could pass him by at any time.

"Do you mind?" Arthur asked.

"Hmm," the horseman seemed to consider this. "I mind plenty of things," he said, "which one you wanna know about?" Arthur scowled, turned, and continued walking. The resuming sound of hooves told him the man wasn't far behind.

"Are you just going to keep following me, then?" Arthur demanded loudly, not stopping.

"You're not from around here, are ya?" Said the man.

"What bloody gave it away?" Arthur growled back, looking around. Surely one of these buildings had a law office tucked away. Surely.

"No need for blood," the man teased, turning his horse to follow as Arthur ducked down an alleyway. Arthur had hoped it was too narrow for the man to navigate on horseback, but his horse didn't even blink, and squeezed itself into the passage without any trouble. "Now, call me crazy, but you sound like you come from out East," said the horseman, ducking under a line of clothes set out to dry.

"Oh really," Arthur was growing tired of this conversation. "You think I'm some Yankee carpetbagger who got lost?" he asked, tone dry. The man laughed—actually laughed, the bastard.

"No," he said, "I'd wager you're from a bit further east than that." They'd emerged from the alleyway and into a larger—also dirt—road. This one looked broader than the last, the buildings taller and decorated with signs of trade and business. That, at least, was promising. The mounted man was still following him. "Lost your red coat on the way over, huh?" he said.

"Oh for God's sake," Arthur stopped and rounded on the man, suitcase swinging. The man's horse jerked its nose back to avoid contact, but the man himself didn't budge, sat atop his steed with his arms folded comfortably in his lap, reigns resting loosely at the saddle horn. Arthur counted three firearms: a pistol at either hip, and a gigantic rifle in its holster strapped to the horse's left side. The man watched him with irritating nonchalance, and had the nerve to smile.

"Are you just going to follow me around all day?" Arthur asked. The man shrugged. Arthur glared at him. "Are you a constable?"

"If you mean a sheriff's boy, no," the man laughed, as if the idea itself were a joke. "Why, you need help finding your way around?"

"Not from you, certainly. Now kindly leave a man to his own business and bugger off," Arthur waved his hand and his suitcase in a 'begone' gesture and stormed away.

About twenty minutes later, wandering from building to building in search of a law office, Arthur turned and found himself confronted by three dirty but well-armed men, all of whom wanted access to his wallet, or his silk cravat, or his boots, which were apparently the exact size needed by one of his assailants; how the man could accurately size a boot upon first glance was beyond him.

Gunless, knifeless, and knowing his boxing skills would be wasted when all three of these men had more guns than they had ears, Arthur pulled out his wallet. Shaking with rage, he prepared to part with the majority of his cash.

"Come on now, Gunnar, I thought you were better than this," said a familiar voice, and Arthur, along with his would-be robbers, looked up at the same time. It was the cheeky horseman from before. The gigantic rifle was out of its case, balanced casually across the man's left knee and aimed at heart-height of the spindly, black-mustachioed man whom Arthur presumed, by a matter of deduction, was Gunnar.

"Jones, you get that damn thing out of my face," Gunnar waved at him, "This ain't none of your business."

"Maybe I'd like to make it my business," Jones said, drawing back the hammer on his rifle. The barrel alone told Arthur its caliber would throw a man back a matter of metres at this close of range. Jones' finger rested lightly on the trigger.

"Come off it, man, do we look like buffalo to you?" said one of the others.

"You sure can sound like one. Gave poor Maddie your best impression at the Tail last night, didn't you, Keets?" This earned a loud laugh from the third man, whom Gunnar smacked in the stomach. Jones shot the jokester a grin. "See? Logan must've heard you, too." Keets cursed and pulled his gun on Jones, but by the time the barrel was up, Jones had his own revolver up, aimed, and cocked.

"Careful there," said Jones, right hand on the rifle, left hand holding the revolver, "we all know I'm the faster draw. Now get outta here, all three of you." After much cursing and vulgar hand gestures, the trio slunk away. Jones remained, keeping his guns out and cocked until the three men had disappeared. Then, he holstered his revolver, let down the hammer on the rifle, but kept its barrel aimed at Arthur.

"Still looking for that constable?" Jones asked. Arthur glared at him.

"What do you want?" he snapped, "Why did you help me?"

"Well," Jones gave a half-smile, and Arthur was shocked at how white and straight his teeth were, "Seems to me you got a full purse, and I've got no place to stay tonight. Seeing as I just saved your pretty little hide, you're going to thank me by buying me a drink and a room at the Bull's Tail Inn."

Arthur decided that he hated this man.

-------------------

One drink turned into three, and for reasons that Arthur could only chalk up to a deep-seated hatred of self, he was still drinking alongside Jones at a corner table of the Bull's Tail Inn well into the dark hours of the evening. It was not so much an Inn as it was a Saloon, or perhaps it was both at the same time. It was the largest building on the main road, and had two stories. The upstairs floor contained a modest number of bedrooms to let, some of which seemed to be reserved for the clients of the Inn's "waitresses". Arthur had paid for two of the non-reserved rooms. One for himself, and one for Jones.

Jones himself, Arthur learned, was called Alfred. He was young and blond and held his whiskey well into his forth shot—which somehow, he still expected Arthur to pay for. He'd left his giant paint mare (Comoco, he'd called her) hitched outside, and had led Arthur into the inn, guns and all, looking for all the world like he'd rolled into town on a tumbleweed two weeks ago and hadn't bathed since. Alfred ordered one of the most expensive whiskeys on the shelf, and Arthur took three rounds of the house beer. After a while, they started talking, and the day's events came spilling out.

"And now," Arthur slurred, tepid beer fizzing in his belly, "I'm here, in the middle of bloody nowhere—"

"Waxahachie," Alfred corrected.

"With no fucking train and no fucking constable, and no fucking money thanks to some lunatic cowboy who's getting pissed off all my damn cash." Alfred laughed, liquor making it come out closer to a cackle.

"Where you wanna go, anyway?" the lunatic cowboy asked, downing the second half of his whiskey.

"I'm supposed to be in Georgia right now."

"Georgia?" Alfred gaped at him, and then laughed. "H. Christ, Redcoat, how long were you asleep for?"

"I don't know," Arthur's face was bright red, he could feel it. He blamed the beer. "I need to get back east, I'm not meant to behere. God, it's all so stupid."

"I'll say," Alfred chuckled. He looked back at the bar like he was considering adding a fifth drink to Arthur's tab, but eventually set the glass aside and lounged into his chair, kicking up his boots on the empty seat to his right.

"Listen," he said, and Arthur was immediately wary. "The stationmaster probably already told you, it'll be another two weeks before any train comes in that's headed that far north. It's all local service down here—frankly, I'm not even sure how you ended up here." Arthur scoffed. It was his own colossal bad luck, he was sure. "Now me," Alfred continued, "I'm headed up north, day after tomorrow on a drive. If you want, you can come along, and I'll get you up to Abilene."

"Abilene?" Arthur said.

"Kansas," he clarified. "Biggest railway station this side of St. Louis, s'far as I'm concerned," Alfred told him. "Up Old Chisolm Trail. From there, you can hop on the Kansas Pacific Rail and it'll take you all the way east to wherever you want to go."

"To Georgia?"

"Wherever you want to go," Alfred repeated. Arthur considered this.

"And… why are you going there?" He asked.

"A drive," Alfred reminded him. "Cattle drive, that is. A hundred fifty head, five hundred miles. 'Bout a month's long drive."

"A month?!" Arthur burst, loud enough that a few of the bar's remaining patrons turned and looked at him. "You can't be serious," he said. Alfred shrugged, unbothered by the theatrics.

"As heaven and hellfire," he assured. Arthur gaped at him.

"You can't seriously expect me to take you up on an offer of… a month of travel, over land, on horseback?" He paused, but if Alfred was bluffing, his poker face remained steady. "You expect me to travel by road for a month, rather than wait two weeks for a train?" Alfred shrugged and raised his hands defensively.

"You were so damn worried about your purse back there that I figured you might not want to spend your pennies on two weeks here," Alfred said. "'Sides, Gunnar and his idiots won't be driving their herd north for another week, almost two. You really want to spend all that time waiting around for them to find you again while I'm not here to save your ass?"

"For the sake of whiskey," Arthur reminded.

"Look, all I'm sayin' is, waiting is expensive," Alfred met his gaze. "You come with me, I won't charge you a penny. I'll give you food, shelter, horses. All I ask is that you pull your weight. Look after camp, tend the horses, help keep me and my animals alive, and I'll get you to Abilene with your purse intact." He glanced at the glass on the table. "Aside from the room and the whiskey." Arthur continued to glare at him.

"You honestly expect me to act as a farm hand?" His voice dripped with every ounce of distaste and condescension he'd learned at his father's side. "I do not work with cattle, Mr. Jones, nor do I work with men who do."

Alfred watched Arthur for a moment, and then shook his head and sighed. He stood and dusted off his chaps. "The offer stands," he said, pushing his chair back under the table. "Sounds to me like you ain't got much to lose."

-------------------

The following day, Arthur awoke mid-morning to sunlight streaming in from the street window and a straw mattress lumpy beneath his back. He made no intentions of leaving bed anytime soon, even if it was horrifically uncomfortable. He stared at the ceiling and listened to the clink and rumble of breakfast underway downstairs. He eventually dozed off again, only to awake when a loud thump rattled his door. Cautiously, he sat up and shuffled out of bed, going to the door and slowly pushing it open.

The door brushed against something, and he peaked around to see the rolled edge of a newspaper. He brought it into his room, shutting the door behind. It was this morning's newspaper. He'd only been given a portion, it seemed, but there on page three, near the end of the middle column, large block letters read:

M.K.T. TRAIN DERAILED BY SINKHOLE BETWEEN MEXIA AND SPRINGFIELD ALL NORTH-SOUTH SERVICE SUSPENDED UNTIL WRECKAGE CLEARED

Across the text in an adjacent column, someone had written on the page with dark blue ink:

Redcoat: Offer stands, unless you want to start walking. You know what room I'm in.

"Bloody fucking hell," Arthur slapped the paper against his thigh and fell back into his bed with a groan.

[rebelsandtherest]

Dioscuri

Summary: Having recently taken on the role of guardian to the young New France, Arthur is baffled by the boy’s quiet and solitary personality. In an attempt to draw him out of his shell, Arthur arranges a meeting between his newest colony and his much more exuberant southern neighbor. What results is something he’d never even thought to imagine.

Word Count: 2,546

Warnings: None

Written for day 4 of @historical-hetalia-week 2021

--------------------

1764 Quebec

Arthur Kirkland wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. He'd long known that New France had a representative—someone like him. He'd known for a long time that it was a he, and that his Christian name was Matthieu, or rather Matthew, and that he was still very young. He'd even heard that the boy was half white and half native, though no one could prove it for of course he had no living parents.

It was a story Arthur knew well, for it was virtually identical, down to his brown skin and blue eyes, to that of Arthur's own young charge, British America, called Alfred. Therefore, when Arthur had signed the papers in Paris, shook Francis' hand and taken ownership of the entirety of New France, he'd assumed it would be easy, taking on whatever boy Francis had left along the St. Lawrence. Of course, the French Catholics left there hated their English protestant neighbors and vice versa, but the boy would be easy enough to handle. His story was identical to Alfred's, and so Arthur supposed, in hindsight, he'd begun to imagine Matthew as a carbon copy of Alfred. He was already raising one American hellion, what was one more?

Therefore, he arrived in Quebec utterly unprepared for… this.

"Hello?" Arthur leaned away from his desk, looking to the open door of his study. He'd heard the floorboards creak in the hall, as though under footsteps. It was around this time that his head of house usually came to pester him to go to bed, but Mr. Cooper was nowhere to be seen. "Is someone there?"

A pair of wide blue eyes peaked around the doorframe. No sooner had they met his gaze than did the owner dart behind the door again.

"Matthew?" Arthur called, setting his quill aside. "What is it, dear boy?"

It took a long moment of waiting, and Arthur was about to call out again, but eventually Matthew slid back into view, shuffling forward and coming a bit closer. He moved along the wall and the furniture, keeping one still-chubby hand brushing along the shapes like an anchor.

"Bonsoir," Matthew said, in his timid whispering voice.

"Bonsoir, good evening to you too," Arthur said, turning in his chair fully to face the boy. Matthew's English was progressing but he understood more than he could speak. "You're up late—did you have fun today?" It certainly looked like he had. His knees were muddy and there was a stick in his hair.

Matthew nodded, a stray curl wobbling adorably. It made Arthur's mouth twitch, but he did not smile, for he was concerned about something else:

"Why are you still in breeches? You ought to be getting ready for bed soon, don't you think?" Matthew wilted at that, looking down at his feet as though in shame, and Arthur wished he hadn't said anything. Matthew fell fully mute when criticized. "It's no matter," He said gently, "what did you need, poppet?"

Matthew said something in French, but it was so quiet Arthur couldn't understand him.

"What was that, dear?" Matthew spoke up by a fraction.

"Quand est le dîner?" he asked. Arthur blinked at him.

"When is… when is dinner?" he repeated, eyes flicking to the window. It was utterly black outside, sunset having taken place hours ago. "Matthew, we've already…" the boy's face was so guileless and, yes, now that he was looking for it, hungry. "Matthew, when was the last time you ate?" Matthew seemed pensive for a moment.

"Ce matin," he said, and Arthur fought valiantly not to look too shocked, for he knew it would upset the boy. This was not, unfortunately, the first time this had happened.

"Oh dear. Where's Miss Charlotte?" Matthew shrugged. Arthur sighed. "Come on, then," He stood, and bent down to pick Matthew up. He was far, far, too big to be carried about, but he seemed to dislike most all other forms of physical affection, and so Arthur had indulged him in this one childish thing ever since they'd met. He was the only one in the house who did so. "Come on, then, we'll find you something to eat."

Arthur was a dismal cook, but Matthew was eating up the fruit and porridge with silent appreciation, swinging his legs lightly in his seat and licking huckleberry juice off his lips. Arthur watched him, hoping the boy wouldn't see the worry etched into his guardian's face.

That morning. No food since that morning, and it was closer to midnight now than to suppertime. And here Matthew was, hair unbrushed, still in breeches, apparently having fended for himself for the last seven hours. Matthew's newest nanny, Charlotte, had been inconsolable when she'd seen Arthur carrying the boy downstairs, for apparently she'd been searching for him in vain all afternoon, and was nearly ready to demand a search party be sent out. After beseeching her to stop crying, Arthur had sent her and another maid to do up Matthew's bed and have a nightdress waiting for him; it was long past the boy's bedtime. All other staff had gone to bed already, or were else holed away in some cupboard cutting tomorrow's vegetables or mending clothes. This left Arthur alone with Matthew, which was very much the same as leaving Arthur alone altogether, for the boy had always been incurably quiet, staying mute even when he looked like he desperately needed to say something. And that, really, was the problem.

Arthur had no qualms with caring for quiet children, for he himself had been one eons ago. He certainly did not mind that Matthew tended to amuse himself with his own toys and games rather than needing constant attention from others. However, Matthew's reservations defied all norms, and often bordered on dangerous.

He would miss meals and not mention it for fear of making someone upset. He would hurt himself while playing, and neglect to tell anyone until the blood started showing through his clothes. Once, he'd sprained his ankle so badly it was nearly black with bruises by the time Arthur saw it, but he hadn't said anything because he was waiting for it to heal itself "on its own". No child of the Empire, Arthur had tried to tell him on multiple occasions, needs to suffer in such a way. No child of Arthur's should fear telling him what they need. If Matthew had understood his words, he'd not changed his behavior accordingly. Which only left Arthur to wonder: What on earth did Francis do to this boy?

Becoming Matthew's guardian was not at all what Arthur had prepared for. After the quick arrival and departure (or resignation) of a dozen English nannies who could not keep up with—or merely keep track of—Matthew, Arthur was now hard pressed to come up with a new strategy for breaking through to the boy. Perhaps he would benefit from company his own age, the thought had occurred to him one day. Certainly, there were not a great many children here on the outskirts of Quebec. Perhaps Matthew's shyness was but one symptom of loneliness. And if socializing with other children might help him, how much better, then, to socialize with another young nation?

And so, Arthur had sent a letter to the colonies. Then, he'd packed Matthew up into a ship and sailed him up and out of Quebec and down to Boston. It would be good, he thought, to have Matthew and Alfred meet. Their peoples were about as different as different could be: Catholic versus Protestant, French versus English, newly British and hating it versus longstanding, loving subjects of the crown. The Americans had been clamoring for the land along the St. Lawrence for years, but now that the French were being assimilated into the Empire's holdings, their minds were not so much on settlement as much as conversion and, if that failed, domestic warfare.

But despite all the tension between the colonies, Arthur was hopeful that Alfred and Matthew would get along. They were only children, after all. They likely didn't even fully understand their own nature yet, let alone their own people, for their cultures were still growing just as they themselves were. They were young and lonely, and could provide each other with much-needed company.

And, in the case of Alfred, hopefully provide the other with a new sense of confidence and, God willing, improved skills in the English language.

They made port just before noon. While Matthew and his nanny stayed on the ship, waiting to be transported with their luggage, Arthur left the formalities to the crew and was off the ship in a flash, knowing there would be chaos if he did not say hello to Alfred before introducing him to a crowd of strangers. Arthur was only just in sight of the front of the house when the door cracked open and a small brown body emerged.

"ARTHUR!" screamed Alfred across the courtyard, and Arthur couldn't help it when he smiled. How such a small pair of lungs managed to shout quite so loudly, he did not know. Alfred barreled toward him, running as fast as his small legs would carry him, and Arthur chuckled to see it. He leaned down slightly to catch Alfred right as the child hit him, hoisting him up by the armpits with a groan; Alfred had certainly grown taller and heavier in his absence.

"You were gone forever," Alfred accused, expression serious.

"I was no such thing," Arthur told him, tapping his nose. "You have dirt on your face."

"You were gone forever," Alfred repeated, voice hissing through a missing front tooth—that was new. He crossed his arms over his chest. "And I don't have dirt on my face."

"Yes you do, silly boy, and you'd best clean it off, for there's company coming to join us for dinner." Alfred's mood transformed at this news.

"Really?" He asked, excited, "who?"

"I shall tell you once you get inside and show me you remember how to wash up. Come along," He set the boy down, and Alfred proceeded to spring right back up to the house just as quickly as he'd left. Arthur shook his head. Alfred's nursemaid, who'd come huffing and puffing up the drive after her wayward charge, paused and nodded at Arthur, her forehead sweaty and looking tired.

"Welcome back, my lord," she huffed and curtsied, forcing an exhausted smile, "excuse me, my lord." And she turned and jogged right back up to the house after Alfred.

"It's good to be back," Arthur said, even though she was already too far away to hear him.

The fated meeting had to happen before dinner, and so not only was Arthur's stomach twisting in knots of nervousness, but also hunger as he led Alfred to the drawing room where Harold had been showing Matthew around its many books at artworks.

"Now, tell me what I just said?" Arthur asked patiently, holding Alfred's hand as they paused outside the door.

"To not yell, or hug him, or talk too loud," Alfred parroted back at him, sounding slightly annoyed at being asked to do so. "I wasn't gonna,"

"Going to," Arthur corrected, knee-jerk. "Good. Just introduce yourself like you would anyone else. You can ask him about his people and his colony later, alright? At dinner."

"Alright."

"Good boy," Arthur said, and opened the door. Matthew was across the room, gazing up at one of the wall tapestries, entranced by whatever story Harold was weaving about its imagery. Harold looked over when the door opened, but Matthew's gaze lingered. Alfred was already straining forward, hand itching to slip out of Arthur's to go and say hello.

"Matthew," Arthur called, and at last Matthew looked over to see them. "I'd like you to meet someone—this is Alfred Jones."

Suddenly, Alfred froze mid-stride, and grabbed Arthur's hand hard in his own. Alfred was looking at Matthew, and Matthew was looking at Alfred.

A word slipped out of Alfred's mouth, but it was not English—or French for that matter. It sounded like a question. He was staring straight at Matthew when he said it.

Matthew stared back at Alfred with the widest eyes Arthur had ever seen. Then, after a moment, he yelled something—Arthur hadn't known that Matthew could yell—and then wailed aloud, before promptly bursting into tears.

No sooner did this happen than did Alfred yank his hand out of Arthur's grasp, run toward Matthew, hug him to his chest like a ragdoll, and join him in his weeping.

Utterly gobsmacked, Arthur stood watching in shock and confusion while the boys sobbed and cried over each other. He was equally shocked to see Alfred crying as he was to see Matthew being hugged—and hugging back. He stepped closer cautiously, glancing up at Harold, who looked just as baffled as Arthur.

They were speaking to each other through their sobs, and a few words Arthur recognized as the language Alfred had spoken before Arthur had taught him English. It meant nothing to him, but to the boys whatever they were saying seemed to mean everything in the world. Alfred was wiping at Matthew's face, trying to clear away the tears, while Matthew continued to sob, clutching fistfuls of Alfred's shirt in either fist, ruining the presentable, tucked-away folds. Alfred murmured to the other boy and then pulled him back into a hug, holding him so tightly that Arthur could see his arms straining with the effort.

It was only then, seeing their even brown skin against each other and their small heads side by side that Arthur realized what he'd just seen.

Alfred and Matthew were brothers.

Oh, Jesus Christ. Arthur quietly raised a hand to his mouth. Brothers. Brothers, of course they were brothers. Twins, even, how had he not seen it? They had the same skin, the same eyes, the same hair, the same smiles, they were the same age—how had he not seen it? They were just so incredibly different, such utter opposites of the other, he had never even considered the possibility. He'd brought them together for that very reason, that Alfred might help draw Matthew out of his shell, that Matthew would offer Alfred the companionship he so desperately needed. And now…

Arthur knelt beside the boys, putting a hand on either of their shoulders, and the two hesitantly drew apart to look tearfully up at Arthur's face. He looked between them, seeing firsthand their mirrored features, down to the swirls in the front of their hair to the single dimple on opposite cheeks. Feeling tears prick at his own eyes, he brushed a finger across Alfred's cheek, Matthew's chin.

"Oh, my boys," he breathed, not sure he was believing what he was seeing. Nearly two centuries, centuries he'd known about them both. Francis had known. Antonio had known. And had anyone even considered the possibility…? Alfred sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, and Matthew's chin was shaking precariously once again. Biting back his own emotion, Arthur put a hand behind either of their heads and silently drew them into a hug. They clung to him, and to each other, and cried.

Dinner would have to wait.

[rebelsandtherest]

CHAPTER 2

Art by the amazingly talented @historihet​ — thanks again, my friend!

FF.Net  |  Ao3

Tumblr: Chapter 1

My last submission for @historical-hetalia-week​ 2021! Whew, what a week! I’ve had a blast, and am particularly excited to continue this story. Thank you all for your all the reblogs/tags/comments on the first chapter! Getting notes on fanfiction in this fandom can be a little challenging, and I’m still pretty new here and am still trying to get out there, so to speak, so I really, really appreciate your support. It means the world to me!

Onwards! What on earth has Arthur gotten himself into?

------------------

Chapter 2: Boots and Tack

------------------

Despite knowing he had no alternatives besides running himself bankrupt in a backwater inn or being robbed blind on the street, it took an hour for Arthur to swallow his pride. Once he managed it, he didn't let himself linger. He marched to Alfred's room, knocked on the door, and agreed to Alfred's absurd plan before the man had time to say good morning.

Arthur had only known Alfred for twelve hours, and the most substantive of those hours had been defined by a haze of alcohol. Still, he found the horseman's lack of pithy remarks disappointing. He'd expected jibes and snide smiles, some form of mockery that was, no doubt, requisite for a British pansy stranded in the American west. What he got instead was a curt, understanding nod and a sympathetic apology about the rail line disaster ("It's a damn shame," Alfred had said, when Arthur handed him back his newspaper, "They just got done building that thing.").

He was so taken up in his surprise (and disappointment?) from Alfred's amiable attitude that it took him a moment to realize the American had begun to examine him, not unlike how a soldier might evaluate a new war horse. Eventually, Alfred's eyes settled on Arthur's feet.

"You got any other shoes?"

Arthur looked down at his plain oxfords and back up at Alfred, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"No," he said. He only had one suitcase to his name; the majority of his clothes had been in the luggage car, and were probably waiting for him somewhere in Georgia. "Is that a problem?" Alfred stood back and put his hands on his hips, still considering Arthur's feet. He heaved a sigh.

"Yeah," he said, sounding torn. "What size are you?" Arthur told him, and Alfred sighed again. "I can work with that. You got all your things together?"

"Just me and the suitcase," Arthur said.

"Simple enough," Alfred finally cracked a smile. "Come on, then."

Arthur waited out front while Alfred fetched Comoco from the stables. He saw a man who looked like Gunnar from across the street and he clenched his suitcase handle tight, wishing he felt less out of place, less helpless. Suddenly, a mass of brown and white blocked Arthur's view, and he looked up from Comoco's shoulder to Alfred.

"I'm assuming you don't have a horse," the cowboy teased.

"Unless you mean the iron one that brought me here, no," he deadpanned, which earned him a chuckle.

"Hop on, then," Alfred nudged Comoco toward the raised front porch of the Inn. He took Arthur's suitcase and waited while the Brit mounted—well, hauled, cursed, and shoved himself, really—onto Comoco behind him. It was an awkward fit, and the saddle clearly wasn't designed to accommodate two riders, but eventually Arthur found a comfortable spot. He gripped the back edge of the saddle, partially to hold on and partially to keep it from pressing too sharply against his thighs. Alfred had swung one leg over the saddle so that he could lash Arthur's suitcase to the side. Once satisfied, he found the stirrup again and sat up straight.

"Comfortable back there?" He asked over his shoulder.

"Not particularly," Arthur told him.

"Well, it's only five hundred miles," the cowboy shrugged nonchalantly.

For the briefest and most horrific moment, Arthur was going to take the man at his word. Alfred must've felt Arthur stiffen in terror, because he laughed.

"I'm only joking. It's five. Might want to hang on, though, soon as she sees the end of the street, she's gonna want to run."

Arthur hadn't believed him, so when they reached the end of the street (and thus, the edge of town) and Comoco thrust them forward into a full-blown gallop, he let out an inelegant yelp and fell forward to grab at Alfred's waist lest he fall off the horse entirely. Alfred only laughed and let the horse have her head.

"She hates the city almost as much as I do!" He shouted, smiling wide and rolling with the movements of his horse, tossing up a cloud of dust as they barrelled down the trail.

"The city?" Arthur repeated, reaching up to prevent his hat from flying away. The removal of one hand from his anchor caused him to lurch, and he smashed his nose into Alfred's shoulder. If the American even felt it, he didn't seem to care. He laughed aloud and let his horse run faster.

Eventually, once Comoco had had her fun, they slowed to a more sustainable canter, and eventually a walk. Arthur considered himself an accomplished equestrian, but riding off the back of a saddle—a deep spanish-western saddle, at that—was something he'd never been taught to do. By the time they reached their destination, Arthur was ready to melt off the horse and find some comfortable spot of earth to interr his dying thighs. He didn't want Alfred to know exactly how taxing the ride had been, so he disguised his stretching by a show of looking around.

Somehow, they had ended up even further into the middle of nowhere than Waxahachie. The land around them was utterly flat, interrupted only by copses of short, scarred looking trees, bales of hay, grazing cattle, and a quaint, two storey farmhouse.

"Wait here," Alfred said, and Arthur turned to see the man dropping Comoco's reins over the beam of a rotting fence before setting off for the house. "I'll be right back." Once Alfred was far enough away, Arthur stopped disguising his winces and let himself stretch to his satisfaction. The horse didn't seem to mind.

Arthur stood there, uncomfortable in the exposed silence of the fields, feeling sweat drip down between his shoulder blades. The sun here was relentless, despite the fact that it was not yet May. It could not bode well for the next month of his life, and Arthur felt something like dread pooling in his belly.

The sound of a door opening was like thunder in the quiet, and Arthur turned to see Alfred standing at the farmhouse door, waving him over. As Arthur went to join him, a dark-skinned figure emerged from the house beside Alfred. Shorter and far older than the cowboy, he leaned heavily on a cane and peered out in a farmer's long-distance squint, as if eternally looking over a field. He did not look entirely happy and seemed to be glaring at Arthur. The first thing Arthur noticed about him were the waist-long braids of hair that ran down either side of the man's chest. Dark at the tips and nearly white at the roots, Arthur could not help but wonder how long the man had been growing out his hair to achieve such an effect.

"Arthur, this is Jesse Atetewuthtakewa," Alfred said, and if Arthur had been looking closer he might've seen the uneasy look in his eye as he introduced them. "Jesse, this is Arthur…" Alfred stopped suddenly, and Arthur realized he'd never given Alfred his surname.

"Kirkland," Arthur finished, reaching out a hand, "pleasure to make your acquaintance." Jesse took his hand firmly and gave it one shake up, one shake down. He withdrew his hand and crossed his arms.

"You're joining Alfred for the drive?" He asked, deadpan, eyes boring into Arthur with every passing second. Not a man of pleasantries, then. That was fine.

"Um, well, yes," the Englishman said. Jesse did not look inspired with confidence.

"I hear you need boots," he said, not bothering to look at Arthur's feet, "And horses."

"And a hat," Alfred added apologetically at Jesse's side.

"And a hat," Jesse echoed, still staring at Arthur.

"Yes, I… I would be highly appreciative of all of those things. I'm afraid I… well, I don't have much here," He said, feeling exposed and embarrassed. "I'm rather… rather far from home." He was sure he must've been blushing again, and hoped the shade of the covered porch would hide it. It was not often that Arthur Kirkland was left to the charity of others, let alone the charity of... well, the charity of farmers. Jesse turned to Alfred.

"He is the same size as Reuben," it was not a question. Alfred nodded anyway. Jesse was quiet for a moment. Then, he looked at the ground, down and away from Arthur. "You know where they are," he told Alfred, quieter than before. Alfred looked marginally surprised, a look he shared with Arthur.

"Thank you, Jesse," he said, and left it at that.

"I'm having lunch," Jesse announced, not looking back as he left his white visitors on the porch. He limped against his cane and retreated to the kitchen. "I will leave some out for you."

"Thank you, Jesse," Alfred said again, and then looked pointedly at Arthur and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

"He doesn't like strangers," Alfred confided quietly as he directed Arthur to go inside. "That went really well." Arthur made no comment about how his own reduced circumstances made him long for the earth to swallow him whole.

------------------ 

"Here," Alfred placed a pair of boots in front of him. They were western-style riding boots, obviously worn but still quite new, made of the thickest hide Arthur had ever seen. "Try these on." Arthur did, tucking his sleek black trouser legs into the edges of the boots in what was likely a ridiculous display.

"Good lord," he said moments later, "these may be the heaviest boots I've ever worn in my life."

"Heavy is good," Alfred told him, watching him shift and fidget with an expert's eye. "Heavy means unbroken ankles and fewer snakebites. Walk."

"What?" asked a wide-eyed Arthur, about 'snakebites'.

"Walk," Alfred repeated. "Move. How do they feel?" Arthur twisted his ankles experimentally and walked up and down the hall, trying to ignore the smell of the beef Jesse was cooking a few rooms away and the fact that he hadn't eaten breakfast.

"Tall," he decided. "The heel is higher than it looks."

"It's good for keeping your seat in the saddle," Alfred told him. "So, you think these will work?" It wasn't as if Arthur had much of a choice.

"Yes, I think they're serviceable," Arthur replied, chewing the inside of his lip. I only hope they won't give me blisters. He moved to take them off, but Alfred stopped him.

"Keep them on, walk around a bit, break them in. You'll want them as loose as you can before tomorrow."

"They feel like they've already been broken in," Arthur said, fairly sure he could feel his toes brushing up against the imprint of another man's feet. "Who is Reuben?" The question seemed to catch Alfred off guard, and it took him a long moment to answer.

"A good friend of mine," the American said. "He doesn't work here anymore, though, so…" he gestured to the boots.

"Doesn't work here… wait, do you work here?"

"For the last four years."

"With mister, er…" he knew he would not be able to duplicate the pronunciation of the name he'd heard earlier. "With Jesse?" Arthur clarified. Alfred chuckled.

"Not with him, for him," he corrected. "Jesse's a good boss, and a good rancher. It's his cattle we're taking to Abilene."

------------------ 

After they ate lunch, Alfred scrounged around a bedroom—the bedroom he let from Jesse, apparently—to find a hat that fit Arthur. After a while, he settled on an old grey bowler hat ("Never really fit me anyway,") that, while it had a frayed brim, would keep the sun out of Arthur's eyes. Next came a series of bandanas and scarves ("To keep your neck from burning to a crisp,"), many thick socks, and the only set of clothes he could find that fit Arthur, ("Can't fix what you're wearing now, but I can give you something to change into down the road,") and a pair of leather gloves.

After all of this, Alfred suddenly paused, looking thoughtful. Hesitantly, he drew one of his revolvers.

"You know how to use one of these?" he asked, raising the gun grip-first toward the Brit.

Arthur was offended on behalf of all six generations of his navy-commissioned forebears. "Of course I do," he said, "my father taught me to shoot before I could hold the gun with one hand." Alfred looked both surprised and relieved.

"Good," The American said. Then, much to Arthur's surprise, he handed Arthur the gun, removed his belt, unfastened the empty holster, and attached it to a plain leather belt for Arthur. ".44 caliber, six rounds. I'd give you extra ammo, but you don't have anywhere to put it. Hopefully, you won't have to use it."

Arthur held the gun and the empty holster, dumbstruck. All his understanding of the American West told him that prairie men were inseparable from their sidearms.

"Are you sure you want me to carry this?" He studied the American's face for any signs of internal conflict, but saw only calm resolve. "I mean, don't you want to keep it with you?"

"Everyone should have a gun out on the trail," Alfred said, and there was a dark edge to his voice that made Arthur wonder, not for the first time, what the hellhe'd gotten himself into. "'Sides," he patted the gun that remained on his right hip and gave Arthur a cheeky grin, "this one's newer and nicer." He adjusted his belt and turned. "But leave it here for now. Let's go see if any of Jesse's horses don't hate you."

------------------ 

Arthur may not have been experienced in the high-horned Spanish saddles of the American west, but he'd been riding atop pedigree English, Spanish, and Arab horses since before he could stand. His mother's stables had always been something of a haven for him, huge and lively and full of plenty of tall, hooved friends. It had been home to eight purebred mares and two stallions who'd sired warhorses and champions for his Majesty's Armies. For Arthur's tenth birthday, his uncle had given him a pony, brought all the way down from Scotland, to help him improve his riding skills with an animal his size. After such an upbringing, Arthur considered himself a decent judge of horseflesh.

Pedigree, these animals were not.

Alfred let out a whistling, humming sort of noise as he approached the paddock. It seemed to be a call of some kind, for the horses beyond the fence perked up and one of them, a sturdy brown bay, came walking calmly toward him. Her ears flicked in interest, nostrils flaring and huffing with recognition. Alfred grinned at her.

"Heya there, Sally girly." She came right up to the fence and didn't stop until she'd butted her nose against Alfred's chest, pushing him back a pace. He laughed and began scratching along her jaw and behind her ears, which she leaned into with welcoming little huffs. "Good to see you too, missy." He kissed the white star on her forelock before waving Arthur over.

"Sally's probably the sturdiest mount here," he explained, "we'll get her saddled up and see how you ride."

"I can ride perfectly well, I assure you," Arthur told him.

"Relieved to hear it, but we train 'em a bit differently out here. Different tack, too. Come on, we'll get you set up and have you throwin' lassos in no time."

"Who said anything about lassos?" Arthur panicked, but thankfully, Alfred laughed it off.

Once Sally was tacked up and chomping pensively on her bit, Arthur took himself and his new boots to the horse, grabbed the saddle, and was about to swing himself up when he spotted something that gave him pause. Sally was branded on the shoulder, a giant pale "US" against her dark coat. Arthur glanced back at Alfred, who was leaning casually against the paddock fence.

"This ain't her first rodeo," he confirmed solemnly. "Cannonfire, gunfire, shouting—cattle," he added at the end with forced levity, "Sally doesn't budge for anything. Hop on up." Arthur did, and spent some time readjusting himself in the saddle, fiddling with the stirrups and hoisting them higher. Alfred came up to him and took them back down.

"Easy way to ruin your legs on the first day," he said, manhandling Arthur's booted foot into what he judged as the right length—far too low, by Arthur's measure—and giving his leg a pat when the stirrup was buckled. "Probably feels weird now, but believe me, your ass'll thank you by day two."

"Right," Arthur said instead of thanking him. He guided Sally around the paddock in a casual walk, following Alfred's instructions on how to use the split reins, how to guide her with one hand, and very repeatedly, how to relax.

"You can't ride for a month if you're tight as a damn bowstring, Redcoat," he'd said at one point as Arthur was struggling to steer, because apparently American horses learned commands the exact opposite of English horses, because of course they did.

"Yes, yes," Arthur grit his teeth and tried not to tense his knees too tightly against Sally's sides lest she decide he wanted her to gallop.

"Careful," Alfred warned as he strayed a bit too close to the other horses in the paddock.

"I'm trying."

One of the others nipped at Sally's flank, and she kicked back, and someone neighed and then it was all hooves teeth and Sally was rearing onto her hind legs, throwing out her front hooves at the others and backing up on her hind legs.

"Steady on, lass," Arthur kept his seat only from decades of experience. He yanked on the reins and pulled Sally's head back until she landed her front hooves and backed away from the feisty horses which continued to eye Arthur, ears back. "Come along, then," he nudged her back away from the group and ended up near Alfred, who'd vaulted himself into the paddock at the first sign of trouble. He was watching Arthur with a newfound look of respect.

"I see you've met Ohapitu," Alfred nodded his head at the feisty golden dun, who still had his ears down.

"Ohap- hapi-what?" Arthur frowned.

"You can call him Happy," Alfred offered, crossing his arms and watching the horse snort and flick his tail, "though he rarely is. He's a mustang, and likes reminding people of the fact. Come on, Happy Boy, enough of that," Alfred chided the horse, to little effect. "You'll get your chance to nip at the heifers later, you goddamn cattledog." He shooed him away.

"He's coming with us?" Alfred asked incredulously. He knew little of the mustang breed except that they were born wild and tended to stay that way.

"Oh, he's a menace alright, but the fastest runner of the bunch and too stubborn to get tired fast. We'll need him out there to keep the steerage in line." This meant nothing to Arthur, but he nodded anyway.

"Alright," He said, and eyed the group of horses again, half of which had resumed their midday grazing and pretending the humans weren't there. "Any other wayward teeth I ought to watch out for?" Alfred chuckled.

By the mid afternoon, they'd assembled their mounts, three to each man. Alfred would take Comoco, Happy, and a dark and spritely thoroughbred, Banjo. Arthur would have Sally, a leggish piebald called Pedro, and a stout little roan horse who Arthur was alarmed to find out was also a mustang.

"Paka's an older girl," Alfred had assured him, "but still has a feisty side. Hold on tight!" Which did nothing to reassure him.

They spotted Jesse on their way back to the house, across a far field and mounted on a tall quarterhorse. He was pivoting around to get a better view of the mass of cattle crowded into the fenced-off field, clicking his tongue and and whistling to direct an unseen cattle dog around the herd. Alfred explained that he would be completing his final count of the cattle before the drive began the following day.

"He seems quite at home on horseback," Arthur said, surprised considering how the man had leaned on his cane just hours earlier. Alfred smiled.

"Jesse was born in the saddle, I think. Sure has taught me a thing or two. Come on, we ought to get dinner going. Big day tomorrow!" Alfred gave Arthur a slap on the back and jogged ahead to the house. Arthur felt his gut begin to sink again, and looked down at himself. He may be wearing western-style boots, a worn hat on his head and a bandana about his neck, but he was still wearing his English-tailored trousers, which even tucked into the boots were now splattered with mud. He heaved a sigh.

"If you could only see me now, Alistair," he whispered to the world, knowing for a fact that he had no clue what he'd actually signed up for. "Swaggering about, indeed."

------------------ 

Notes:

Atetewuthtakewa is a real Comanche name that, to my understanding, translates to one who strikes with a bow. I've had to rely on some older academic sources for some of my applications of the Comanche language, so the translations are likely imperfect and possibly mis-applied, and I apologize for this. The three-part article series by Joseph B. Casagrande, available on JSTOR, was one of my primary sources for names and terms. It was written in the 50s (by a white man, naturally) and I'm not a subject matter expert but it was interesting to read!

Ohapitu simply means "yellow".

Paka means "arrow".

If anyone is interested, I wrote most of this chapter while listening to the Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron soundtrack on repeat. That movie absolutely defined my childhood, I tell you. Give it a listen!

[rebelsandtherest]

La Mode Parisien

Summary: What if the 1389 Truce of Leulinghem had included a celebratory feast afterward? Downtrodden by decades of war, an embittered and closeted Arthur Kirkland travels to France, where he encounters some liberal new fashions that confuse his perception of one Francis Bonnefoy. Does he want to punch him in the face, or stare at his ass? If Francis keeps being so goddamn French, he’ll end up doing both. Pre-FrUK, enemies to… frenemies? This is a very silly fic.

Written for day three of @historical-hetalia-week

I never write ship fics, but I've had this idea kind of floating around regarding men's medieval fashions for a while, so... here we go. Apologies all around, shipping is not my forte. Written for Day 3 of Historical Hetalia Week 2021

Content Warnings:

Period-typical homophobia

Strong language

-------------------------------

"Only the old, the fat, the prudish and the clergy do not find [the new men’s fashions] exciting. Hence the widespread disapproval among contemporary chroniclers [...] they blame the men for displaying very short skirts and well-packed hose, and they blame the women for being delighted by what they see."

-Ian Mortimer, The Time Traveler's Guide to Medieval England: A Handbook for Visitors to the Fourteenth Century

-------------------------------

June, 1389

Leulinghem, Normandy, Kingdom of France

It was an unseasonably windy June in Normandy that year, and Arthur was grateful for it. If the wind ruined the hairdos of everyone around him, no one would be able to tell that his hair naturally looked this bad. Perhaps horrible hair and thick eyebrows would one day be the fashion, but it was not, he suspected, liable to happen anytime soon, least of all in France.

And they were truly in France, now. Though they stood but miles away from Calais, that fortress would be England's sole remaining property on the continent by that afternoon. The last twenty years of warfare had done a number on Arthur's body, to say nothing of his mind and soul, and he longed for lasting respite. However, the truce his king was about to sign would be temporary. Twenty-seven years' peace is what they'd negotiated, but Arthur new better. They would not last half that long before someone important got shot in the face. Preferably, they'd be French.

Arthur squinted into the sun alongside the rest of the English entourage while they waited for their French hosts to formally receive them.

"Sir Arthur," Richard inclined his head toward the kingdom to speak privately.

"Yes, your Majesty?"

"There are no weapons allowed at any point during today's proceedings," the king said, sounding pained. "I shall also ask that, as a matter of personal honor, you refrain from using any magic, no matter what nonsense Monsieur Bonnefoy has to say to you." Arthur clenched his teeth together.

"Of course, Sire." Damn it. "I would never dream of it." He would, actually, and had been for weeks.

After they were escorted into the massive, carpeted tent, Arthur spent most of the morning waiting around trying to not look bored and using every opportunity to avoid speaking French. Francis Bonnefoy, his bastard French counterpart, finally made his appearance just before the ceremony began. Standing opposite him at the negotiation table, he gave Arthur a smug little smile; they both knew the truce terms favored the French. Arthur scowled back at him, which only made the Frenchman smile wider. Then, he had the balls to wink.

Damn Richard and his damn his 'honor', because if there was one set of hexes that Arthur knew especially well, they were hexes meant for Frenchmen. He clenched his hands tightly behind his back and made himself focus on the two kings as the terms of the truce were read aloud—in French, of course, because god forbid the continentals learn English.

Soon enough, the papers were signed, seals affixed, and copies of the truce were exchanged between the kings' respective parties. See you in twenty seven years, Arthur thought as he glanced up at Francis, who must've felt Arthur's eyes on him for he looked up and they locked eyes. Though I doubt I'll let you live that long.

-------------------------------

Whoever had thought it would be a good idea to have the aristocracy of enemy kingdoms mingle to celebrate the signing of a temporary truce after two decades of bloodshed was, in Arthur's opinion, the worst kind of idiot. The air was stilted and awkward as the kings expressed their gratitude for the truce, and wished their men to join in their jubilation. The nobles of either kingdom were only able to converse with one another because all of them were privileged enough to have learned French as children, though by and large they split off into distinct English and French groups of conversation, because truces could never heal the divisions that had led kings to war in the first place. Most everyone here was rich enough to have avoided fighting in the war altogether. Arthur, on the other hand, had died in battle more times than he could count, so he went directly for the wine and hovered there with his goblet until he felt a pleasant buzz coming on. He felt the outermost layer of his inhibitions and frustrations relax, and was grateful.

The negotiation table had been cleared away to make room for dancing, and the very same table now held refreshments for the assembled kings and their lords. The musicians struck up some lively tunes, and as the wine slowed, people began to laugh and relax. The English party had no women in attendance except their cook, but the royal French entourage provided more than enough female company to entertain the assembled men with dancing, laughter, and good looks. A few of the Englishmen, Arthur could see, were becoming perhaps a bit too entertained, having spent many long months away from their wives.

"Come join me in a dance," a gorgeous brunette approached Arthur and tugged on his arm. She had a dazzling smile and was both young and fit of feature, with a few tendrils of her hair slipped scandalously out of her wimple.

"No thank you, mademoiselle," Arthur told her, clutching his wine glass like a shield. "Non, je suis désolé, merci." He patted her hand. Her smile faltered, but she merely curtsied and left to find another partner. As the woman retreated, Arthur glanced all around him and hoped to God no one had seen the exchange.

After having emerged from the purgatorial throes of puberty some years ago, Arthur had come to the alarming realization that men's bodies held far more physical interest to him than women's ever would. He prayed penance for this defect daily, but it was a difficult chore to maintain. With every passing year, men's fashions at court became tighter and shorter, and some days it was truly a wonder Arthur did anything at all but pray to God for forgiveness.

Arthur suspected that Francis, who'd reached majority almost a century before him, had made a similar discovery about himself, with the caveat being that he was still immensely attracted to women. This was a fact for which Arthur despised him with a white-hot jealousy. The Frenchman was foppish and extraordinarily generous with his affections towards both sexes, and used his availability towards women to disguise his interest in men. He spoke warmly to any courtiers who approached him, and approached others for himself with a charm unparalleled in Europe.

Arthur hated him for that, too. How was it fair that Francis, that feral gothic rat, had crawled out from below Rome's heel and transformed into God's most charming gift to the green earth? How was it that he emerged from the pig sty one day and found himself kissing the hands of princes the next? Arthur had overcome similar obstacles in a similar time, but all he'd got for his trouble was a beard that didn't fill in properly, a resting scowl that drove away all but his own kings, and the omnipresent anxiety that at any moment, someone might catch him staring at another man's ass.

Fuck, he'd been staring at Francis' ass.

It was, infuriatingly, a very nice ass. The only reason he could tell was because Francis was wearing tights that were so, well, tight, that Arthur could see the creased edge of his braies when he moved. He dared not hazard a guess at what the front of his trousers looked like, but Francis' tunic was cut nearly as high as his belt, and Arthur's imagination happily filled in the details. He scowled at the universe and took a large gulp of wine.

Mustering his courage and clutching his goblet, he marched across the tent and demanded:

"What the hell are you wearing?" Which prompted the object of his attention to pivot, dance-like, to face him, and oh, Christ, the front of the trousers was worse than the back.

"Hmm?" Francis Bonnefoy's expression was one of surprise and innocence. His cheeks were tinged pink by the alcohol, and Arthur hoped he could blame his own blush on the wine. Francis gave a rakish grin.

"Ah, so Angleterre deigns to speak to me at last. What an honor," he gave a sarcastic flourish.

"You look like an idiot," Arthur told him.

"Careful, mon cher," Francis sipped at his wine, "Your King must pay homage to Charles later, I do not think I would be outside my rights to demand the same from you." Arthur's eyebrows came down like thunderclouds.

"You wouldn't even dare ask such a thing,"

"Wouldn't I?" Francis asked, sipping coyly at his wine.

"It would be the last thing you ever did."

"Oh, how tempting," Francis made eyebrows over the edge of his glass. "Four whole hours of armistice, and I find peacetime ever so dull." Arthur continued to glare. Eyes inevitably flickering to the exposed breeches once again, he decided to change the subject.

"Did you forget your tunic at home?"

"Ah, you've noticed," Francis turned and… modeled, and God, it was so much more distracting to see him in motion. "The newest fashion at court. La courtepie," Francis gestured to his top, which Arthur could not possibly call a tunic. It was royal blue and embroidered with fleur de lis and barely long enough to cover his belt. "All the most fashionable young men are wearing them."

"It's short enough to fit a child," Arthur accused, and Francis gave him a deadpanned look.

"Surely, Arthur," he propped up a hand on his hip and turned in such a way that his groin, in all its hosieried glory, was put on full display. "I do not look like a child to you."

"Christ, you're vain," Arthur turned away and drank his wine in order to hide the fact that his face was red once more. Francis shrugged and followed suit.

"Aren't we all?"

"You weren't wearing it before."

"The occasion did not call for it, before."

"You changed dress expressly to flirt with your own nobility?"

"I could flirt with you instead, if you like, but I fear you might stab me in the neck like you did at Crécy."

Arthur choked on air, sputtering.

"Come now, Arthur," Francis leaned in to Arthur's personal space, prompting the shorter—barely shorter—man to lean away, keeping his goblet between him and the Frenchman, "the courtpie is the popular fashion in England too, I saw for myself just a few years ago. Don't pretend you've never seen them just because you can't afford one yourself." He stood back and downed the last of his wine. "Though I shan't blame you if you've never seen one on so fine a specimen. English thighs are not built for it." Arthur saw red.

"You absolute, backwater, pox-mongering—"

"Careful, mon ami," Francis sing-songed, "there are ladies present." the Frenchman paused before giving Arthur a scrutinous look that made him immenselyuncomfortable, "Then again, perhaps feminine favor is not something dear old England is after, non?"

Arthur stared at him, paralized for a moment by the horrible realization that Francis may have deduced his secret just as he had deduced the same of Francis. The shock wore off as quickly as it'd arrived, and then the anger surged forth. He bared his teeth and leaned forward to tell Francis in a low, furious voice,

"There is no world in which I would ever pay homage to you, or anyone like you, no matter how many kings told me to. By the time all is said and done, Aquitaine will be mine, and your knights will pay homage to me." He stalked off in huff, crossing back across the tent to fetch more wine.

Arthur spent the remainder of the evening eating and drinking, stewing the entire time. Francis, of course, continued flirting. To his never-ending despair, Arthur found his own eyes straying to the Frenchman's rear more than once as the evening wore on. I wonder what I would look like in a court piece, he found himself thinking, for Francis was right on that count: He'd never worn one, because there was no money or time to tailor one while at war. He tried to imagine it, but his mind's eye fell short. Not nearly as good as he does, he found himself thinking, and cursed aloud. Richard looked over at him, surprised.

"Is something amiss, Sir Arthur?"

"No, Your Majesty," Arthur said quickly. "It's nothing."

Night closed in around them, and soon both parties were retiring to their respective camps, where they would regroup before their respective journeys home. Arthur donned his cloak with urgency. If he never saw a speck of France for the next twenty seven years, it would be too soon.

While the kingdoms themselves had re-emerged from their indulgences unscathed, most of the humans remained tipsy and sleepy. Therefore, there was no one to notice when Francis went over to Arthur as he reached the tent's entrance and pressed his face in close to Arthur's and said:

"One day, Arthur, no matter how this war turns out, I am going to ask you to pay homage to me, and when I do, you're going to say yes." Arthur narrowed his eyes at him.

"I would rather die," Arthur snapped back, breath stirring the curls of hair around Francis' face.

"Oh," smirked Francis, raising an angled eyebrow with relish, "that can certainly be arranged. Until next century, Angleterre."

Francis stepped away before Arthur could make any reply, so the Englishman stood there in silent indignation while the Frenchman strode out into the night. Just as Francis' broad shoulders disappeared beyond the door of the tent, Arthur realized that the entire man was actually quite beautiful, not just his ass.

God, he hoped he got to kill him a few more times before the war was over.

-------------------------------

Historical Notes:

1. The Hundred Years War was actually a series of three separate war campaigns—which spanned somewhat more than a hundred years—fought over the same disputed territory. Essentially, the English and their allies and the French and their allies were fighting over which kingdom (England or France) was the rightful ruler of Aquitaine. In 1389, they had just wrapped up the second 'phase' of the Hundred Years War, the Caroline War, and called a truce. At the time, France was grappling with a king who suffered some mental illnesses, and England was next to bankrupt and facing political strife at home. As noted, they negotiated a 27-year armistice. However, true to what Arthur predicted, it would only last half that time, 13 years. Still, it was the longest-lasting peace the kingdoms saw between each other in the entire Hundred Years War.

2. The truce signing took place at the small village of Leulinghem, which is in Normandy, nearby the English fortress at Calais. Although the English had held Normandy for some time, and made some gains during the war, as a part of the truce they forfeited all their holdings in France except for Calais. In return for allowing them to keep Calais, the English king had to pay homage to the French king for the dutchy.

3. Braies are a type of medieval underwear. Until the 14th century, they would have been loose-fitting and usually fallen to the knee. However, the 1300s were a wild and sexualized time for mens' fashions, and over time, as mens' tights got tighter, the braises got shorter and snugger to allow for a better fit.

4. A courtepie or court piece was exactly as it has been described: a fitted tunic, but extremely short for the time, the hem landing a mere inch or two below the belt. Nothing about this sounds particularly scandalous, until you see them paired with the ludicrously revealing tights that men wore with the courtepie. Then, Arthur's blushing suddenly makes sense. Let us just say that the tights of the time very clearly highlighted both the posterior and anterior assets (or lack thereof) of the wearer.

5. Just so we're clear, there was certainly not a celebration after the signing of this truce in real life. That, my friends, is pure fanfiction indulgence.

[rebelsandtherest]

Final Frontier

My Day 6 submission for @historical-hetalia-week​!

Title: Final Frontier

Summary: He didn't know it, but Alfred F. Jones was about to make what he would later describe as the best mistake of his entire life. A simple mistake of engineering leads to a grand adventure that leads Alfred closer the things he loves most, and the places he can never truly leave behind. Written for Historical Hetalia Week 2021.

Content Warnings: Language

Word Count: 3,406

---------------------

Huntsville, Alabama, USA 1996

He didn't know it, but Alfred F. Jones was about to make what he would later describe as the best mistake of his entire life. Considering that he'd celebrated his 388th birthday shortly before making the mistake, this was no small accomplishment. Small or not, however, it passed by in an instant.

"Hey Jones," Harvey knocked lightly on the open door frame even as he leaned in, broad striped tie swinging to the side. "The writers sent me, you got their specs ready yet?" Alfred looked up at Harvey through his double-bridged glasses, and then back around at his desk, which was covered in papers.

"Uh, yeah, yeah, I've got it here." He elbowed a stack of computer code out of the way and rifled through a pile of floppy disks before uncovering a thick, bound report. He yanked it out from underneath a book. "Here ya go."

Harvey took the report.

"Thanks, man."

"Sure." Alfred turned back to his work.

Mistakes, it must be said, can go undetected for quite some time.

-----------------------

Cheyenne Mountain, El Paso County, Colorado, USA 2008

Alfred's phone began ringing while he was carrying a heavy box to his car.

"Shit," he breathed, and glanced around to make sure no one was looking before balancing the box in one hand, never once breaking his stride. He fished the phone out of his pocket and flicked it open without checking the number. "Hello?"

"Mr. Jones," said the caller. It was a man, and he sounded bureaucratically annoyed in the way that only government officials can. "Do you have a moment to talk?"

"Uh, sure," Alfred frowned, pressing the phone to his shoulder and balancing the box on a hip to unlock his trunk. He set the box inside and picked up the phone again, "who is this?" The man gave his name, which Alfred didn't recognize. He didn't know how to admit this, so he stayed silent. The caller sighed.

"The Administrator of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, Mr. Jones." Alfred's eyes went wide.

"Oh shit—I mean, I'm so sorry sir, I, uh, it's, uh, hello," He put his free hand to his face, wincing. "What can I do for you, sir?" The man on the other end of the line chuckled.

"Well, Mr. Jones, I'll cut to the chase. I'm calling about a machine you helped build for us back in the mid 90s. Part of the Unity module, you remember that project?"

"Yeah, of course," Alfred could see more Air Force personnel coming out to the parking lot with their own boxes, so he ducked into his car and shut the door for some privacy. "What about it?"

"I'm afraid it's broken." Alfred's heart leaped into his throat.

"Unity is broken?!"

"No, but the machine you built is."

"Oh, thank God," Alfred breathed a little easier. The Administrator did not seem so relieved.

"It started malfunctioning earlier this year, and it's getting worse. We don't know why."

"Oh, gosh," Alfred rubbed his forehead. "That ain't good. Have the troubleshooters been able to isolate the problem?"

"That's just it, Mr. Jones. The manuals we have on the system schematics do not seem to be wholly accurate." In the silence and privacy of his own car, Alfred took a moment to look horrified as he realized what this man was saying. The Administrator continued, "A couple of million dollars worth of R&D and many more millions of taxpayer dollars to send the thing into space, and the manual we have isn't accurate. I've already spoken to the writers who edited the manual, Mr. Jones. One of them still had the report you gave her to work from. Her manual was written accurately to your report."

So it's your fault, you see, he did not have to say.

"Oh, Jesus," Alfred said, putting his head into a hand.

"So I was hoping you might have a good memory. Are you in D.C. by any chance?"

"No, sir, I'm out in the rockies, they're moving NORAD out of Cheyenne, and I had to get my old shi-uh, stuff, and…" he realized the administrator would not care. "...when do you need me there, sir?"

"There's two very expensive research projects on hold while this machine is offline. The sooner the better. I will advise you, I've already spoken to the president about this."

Oh, well, shit.

"Yes sir. I'll leave as soon as I can, sir."

It was a good thing he was right next to an airfield.

Alfred travelled to D.C. and met with the administrator, conference called the engineers, even spoke with the ISS expedition crew as they described to him the errors they'd encountered, but for the life of him, Alfred could not identify any flaws in what he was hearing. He poured over his old notes and the finalized manual, he looked at old images of the machine and new ones sent down by the crew.

He could not make heads or tails of it. Neither could anyone else.

A month and a half later, he returned to Colorado in a flight of shame, and winced whenever he heard his cell phone ring. Over the next year, he flew to Texas, to Florida, to Georgia, back to D.C. He'd even flown to Ohio to speak with the technical writer who'd written the manual, to try to suss out the details of what he could have possibly gotten wrong, but she remembered even less than he did.

He was the only living on Earth being who had a comprehensive understanding of this machine and how it'd been built, and unless he could remember what he'd written down—or not written down—back in the 90s, that damn thing was going to be orbiting the earth as a multi-million dollar piece of space junk for the foreseeable future.

"God," he groaned to himself one night, cracking open a beer and half-listening to the American Idol theme wafting over from the television, "Just my fucking luck."

Solutions, like mistakes, can take some time to uncover.

-----------------------

Peterson AFB, Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA 2009

It was 6 A.M. and somehow Alfred Jones was vertical and conscious, already at his desk and scrolling through his email while he waited for the breakroom black coffee to finish waking him up when his cell phone began to ring. He let it ring a few times and took a long sip of his coffee before he picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Alfred Jones?"

"Yes, who's this, please?"

"Yes, of course, I'm the new Administrator at NASA," the voice chirped merrily at him, "and I've inherited a bear of a problem that I hear you've been the main point of contact for."

Alfred wanted to cry into his coffee.

"It's… very nice to meet you sir, and yes, I'm… I'm afraid so."

"Well I'm hoping you might be willing to humor us one more time, Mr. Jones. If you were able to get your hands on that machine again, do you think you'd be able to fix it?"

Alfred considered it. He'd built the thing, written all the software. The manual and the schematics he'd written were apparently off, but if he could actually break the thing open and see for himself, he was fairly confident he'd be able to crack it.

"I think so, sir, but I was told no one had a copy of that machine, only prototypes and models. The only realone is in Unity."

"Hmm, yes, I'd been told that too," the Administrator said, almost absently. "Mr. Jones, the President tells me that you are a very accomplished pilot, is that true?" Alfred glanced around his office in the NORAD HQ, decorated with old USAF memorabilia, honors, and photographs.

"Yes sir, you could say that," he sipped at his coffee.

"Are you qualified for special missions assignments?"

"I have been in the past." Another sip.

"You ever been to space, Mr. Jones?"

Alfred nearly choked on his coffee. He recovered.

"No sir," he said, suddenly awake. "Why?"

"Would you like to?"

"I'm sorry?" Alfred squeaked. The Administrator seemed to find this funny.

"Old problems sometimes require simple solutions. As you said, the only real machine is two hundred and fifty-four miles above our heads. If your track record is anything to go by, I don't think you'll need much training. The President and the Secretary of Defence have already authorized it, I'm only asking if you'd be comfortable participating in expedition 20. And if you don't mind my saying so, Alfred: you break it, you ought to fix it."

Comfortable participating? Going to space?

"Of course," Alfred said, feeling as though he were floating.

"Good. I'll forward the memo to NORAD shortly. The simulation folks will be expecting you in Houston in three days, it'll be a fast turnaround from there until Launch Day."

"Right," Alfred managed, physically shaking with excitement. "Yes, sir, of course. Um, thank you sir, for the opportunity, I am really so flattered, I can't wait to-"

"Good," said the man happily. "Have a nice day, Mr. Jones, and we'll speak again soon." The line went dead, and Alfred sat there in silence, staring at the screensaver of his computer, which he'd allowed to grow idle. In the black space of the screen, he could see his own dim reflection, the faint outlines of his shoulders and face, the face of… an astronaut?

He fist-pumped the air so hard he nearly knocked over his coffee.

-----------------------

London, England, United Kingdom 2009

Arthur had gotten a cryptic text at 1:03 that morning and hadn't stopped thinking about it since.

Alfred Jones: r u free to skype later today

You: Today as in Tuesday or today as in Wednesday? It's barely past midnight.

Alfred Jones: u still up tho lol. wednesday

You: Wednesday is the Commonwealth meeting, I have very little flexibility. I should be free from 1300–1400 GMT, however. What on earth do you want to Skype for?

Alfred Jones: omg commonwealth! r mattie n jack gonna be ther

You: Matthew and Jack are both here in London, yes.

Alfred Jones: omg say hi to them for me - tell aussie he owes me a coke

You: What?

You: Whatever, it doesn't matter. Why do you want to Skype? I'm very busy.

Alfred Jones: issa surprise, innit?

Arthur had rolled his eyes.

You: I'm too busy for surprises, Jones.

He'd had no response after that, and despite checking his phone every hour on the hour, Alfred remained irritatingly silent. After a solid slate of meetings, the clock was coming up to 1300, and with considerable grumbling, Arthur found himself lugging his computer bag into an empty room in the conference center, even linking his clunky old laptop to an ethernet cable to ensure a reliable connection before opening Skype. He let the screen sit blank while he waited, glaring at Alfred's icon all the while.

At 1309, a call came through, and he jumped at the sound. Quickly adjusting his webcam, he opened the call. Immediately, a slightly grainy but instantly recognizable shot of Alfred Jones came through.

"What the hell happened to your hair?" Arthur found himself asking before Alfred had the chance to say hello.

"What? My hair?" Alfred moved closer to the camera, which seemed to wobble.

"God, it's huge. What did you do? Don't tell me this is some return to the Ferrah Fawcet days, I don't think the ozone layer can handle that." Alfred laughed at this, a big hearty guffaw, and it struck Arthur as odd how his hair clung to its shape amid the movement, not as though suspended in aquanet, but as though Alfred himself were upside down.

Something collided with Alfred's cheek, and he batted it away. It took Arthur a moment to realize what it was.

"Are those your… why are you dogtags…"

"Hmm?"

"Your dogtags are… hovering," At this, Alfred beamed.

"Guess where I am!" His smile was as wide as the sun. Arthur stared at him, looked around him, but there was little to go off of.

"I… have no idea." Now that he was looking, the background around Alfred did seem rather bizarre. Arthur couldn't have said exactly why it was bizarre, only that it was very white, and metallic, and oddly crowded.

"Ta-da!" Alfred exclaimed, extending his arms. Arthur stared.

"Ta-da what?" He asked. Alfred looked above himself, and then at the screen.

"Oh, shit, I guess you can't see. Hold on." He reached out and moved the computer, adjusting the webcam to tilt up. He double-checked the screen. "Okay, there we go. Ta-da!" He said again, spreading his arms once more. Between the "V" of his arms, there was a line of miniature versions of various national flags. The United Kingdom was represented there, as were a good dozen or more others: France, Japan, Belgium, Switzerland, Sweden… and in the center, the United States and Russia.

"Guess where I am!" Alfred said again, grinning so wide he was liable to injure himself.

Arthur frowned at the flags, which did not seem to lay as flags ought to, and at Alfred, who was moving microscopically, almost as if he were floating. His dogtags traveled upwards once more, threatening to bat him in the cheek again.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Arthur heard himself say. "You're not—you're not on the… you can't be on the fucking space station." Alfred looked like he might actually burst. In a higher-pitched squeak than Arthur had heard in eons, Alfred said, still smiling like a lunatic:

"I'm on the International Space Station!"

Arthur stared.

And stared.

Arthur realized his jaw was hanging open, and Alfred was still smiling. He put a hand over his mouth and continued staring.

"Does… does the president know?"

Alfred laughed at that. "Sure he does! He was the one who authorized it. C'mon! I wanna show you around."

And that was how Arthur Kirkland got a personalized tour of the International Space Station. He demanded an explanation, which Alfred gave him in fits and starts as he navigated the narrow, tubular hallways of the complex. That Alfred had helped build and program equipment for some of the original ISS modules came as no particular surprise, and that he had made some mistake back in 1995 that led him to being on the Space Station today was somehow less of a surprise.

"Only you would have incompetence rewarded with something like… like this," he said.

"Hey now! Be nice!"

Arthur was introduced to the crew, Alfred switching between English and Russian without batting an eye as he floated through the various modules, apologizing to other astronauts as he carted his laptop through tight spaces. His crewmates were Russian, American, Canadian, German, and Japanese, and all of them greeted Alfred with smiles when he addressed them in their native tongues.

"Careful, don't tell Mattie about this guy," Alfred said of his Canadian colleague in a loud aside, "He's rooting for the wrong hockey team."

"Hey!"

"Matthew loves all his hockey teams," Arthur retorted loudly enough for the Canadian astronaut to hear. "Don't let this American lunatic tell you differently."

"Aw c'mon, Artie! I gotta have something to argue about up here." Both Arthur and the Canadian laughed.

The tour continued with Alfred's constant commentary, offering overly-complicated and enthusiastic explanations regarding the functions of every computer, doorway, and strip of velcro. Alfred even gave Arthur a demonstration of how he and the rest of the crew slept in space, strapped into their place by a giant vest-like sleeping bag.

"Alright, I've saved the best for last," the space-farer announced.

"Alfred, it's very nearly 1400, I need to be heading back–"

"Yeah, yeah, I know! I know, I really do, just… let me show you this, alright? It'll be worth it, I promise. We're coming up on Europe right about now. It's a clear day over London today, right?"

"Yes," Arthur confirmed, leaning forward in involuntary intrigue. Alfred floated downwards, the webcamera temporarily obscured by his chest. Then, the image erupted into an over-exposed view of the Earth's great curve, the sun's brightness throwing the camera into a tizzy as it focused.

"Here we go," Alfred's smile was evident in his voice. "This is the cupola," he said, as the camera focused on its subject. "Honestly? It's the best module in the whole station."

Sunlight was the first thing Arthur noticed. He was looking at Europe from above, sunlit and sparkling. Iberia and northern Scandinavia were covered in clouds, but the continent from France to Turkey was clear as crystal. Britain shone in the prime yellow of an afternoon sun, and the many lakes and rivers of Finland sparkled like molten gold in a way that no map for ten thousand years had ever been able to capture. Arthur watched, transfixed, as the light of the sun caught the twists and and oxbows of the Volga, and felt his chest swell with emotion.

"Can you see it?" asked Alfred, behind the camera.

"Yes," Arthur told him, quickly wiping away tears so that Alfred wouldn't see if he peeked at the screen. "Yes, I see it all quite well. God, but it's something, isn't it?"

"It's better at night," Alfred told him, voice going soft in its disembodied place. "You can see all the cities, the roads, the connections between places. It's like starlight, but we made it. It's like... even when the sun is gone, we instinctively want to sit among the stars. It's funny, you know," Alfred chuckled, and his voice was unlike anything Arthur had ever heard from him, full of peace and wonder both. "We spend so much time looking up at the stars, I never thought I'd live to see constellations on Earth itself. But they're just as beautiful, you know, as the ones we see at night."

Arthur didn't know what to say, so he covered his mouth quietly and kept staring at the video being funneled into his computer from hundreds of miles above.

"Anyway," Alfred flipped the webcamera around at last, "I wanted to be able to show you," He grinned, lopsided and bright. "I have a lot of work to do up here, but… I thought you should see that. I know space freaks you out, but… it really is quite beautiful." Arthur smiled.

"I know," he said. "Thank you for sharing."

"Arthur?" called a voice outside the empty conference room, accompanied by a loud knock. "We're just about ready to start again, you alright?"

"Yes, Matthew, I'll be right there," Arthur called to him, and turned back to Alfred. "I ought to go," he said.

"Yeah, I know, I'm running out of time on here anyway. Say hi to everyone for me."

"Do any of them know where you are?" Arthur asked, unable to keep his grin at bay. Alfred shrugged.

"It's all been such a whirlwind. I only got tapped a few months ago. No, none of 'em know."

"Shall I tell them?"

"Hmm," Alfred seemed to think about it. "If you do, tell 'em I said that their places all look incredible from up this high. We share a pretty cool planet, ya know."

"That we do," Arthur smiled, appreciating Alfred in such a philosophical mood. "Take some photos for me, will you, love?"

"Already on it," Alfred said. "Not every day a chance like this comes along, you know?"

"I can't believe you're actually there," Arthur chuckled. "Only you would get a ticket to space by doing a poor engineering job."

"Hey!" Alfred defended, "no one had ever built one of those before!"

"My point stands, Alfred Jones," Arthur retorted. "Have a safe trip back. Enjoy your time among the stars." Alfred was all grin.

"You got it," he saluted casually. "See you plant-side, Artie."

-----------------------

That Christmas, most all of Alfred's friends received beautifully framed prints of their homelands, captured in the sparkling lights of the solar system that no cartographer had ever thought to account for: rivers and lakes sparkling, clouded shadows and cresting coastal waves, northern lights twinkling over borders in a way that blurred the lines of politics and human arbitration.

Aim for the moon and you'll land among the stars, the notes all read, but when you reach the stars, you will realize that you've been there all along. There is truly no place like home.

-----------------------

Historical Notes:

1. The ISS was launched in 1998. The first portion of the station, Zarya, was built in Moscow. The first U.S. built module, Unity, was launched and attached to Zarya shortly thereafter. As is indicated, Unity was constructed in Huntsville, Alabama.

2. NORAD, or the North American Aerospace Defense Command, long operated out of the formidable Cheyenne Mountain complex in Colorado. In 2008, its headquarters was relocated to the nearby Peterson Airbase with the mountain fortress thereafter serving as an auxiliary site. It remains so to this day.

3. The Cupola, probably one of the most recognizable places on the entire ISS, is the multi-window observation deck of the station. Though this story takes place in 2009, the Cupola was not actually docked to the ISS until 2010, but I've taken liberties with the timeline for dramatic effect.