#jack kirkland | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ego-meliorem-esse · 1 year

Text

Questions He Can't Answer

1880s, London

In the serene atmosphere of Arthur's private library, Matthew found solace among the rows of rare and treasured books that adorned the shelves. Bathed in the soft glow of gas lamps, he was nestled in an ornate, much too large armchair, surrounded by a collection of books that held secrets in their aged pages.

In the dimly lit library, Matt sat engrossed in the pages of a weathered medical tome. The leather-bound book lay open on his lap, its delicate pages filled with intricate illustrations and detailed descriptions of ailments and their remedies. The book itself was even older than he himself was. His fingers traced the words, absorbing the knowledge that lay within.

Around him, the shelves stood tall, bearing witness to a vast collection of books that spanned various subjects and eras. History, philosophy, poetry, and literature mingled together, creating an intellectual tapestry that mirrored the breadth of human knowledge. The scent of aged paper and worn leather filled the air, a comforting aroma that always seemed to put Matthew at ease.

As his eyes scanned the pages, his mind delved into a world of medical theories and practices. The tome spoke of ailments, treatments, and the delicate art of healing. Matthew found solace in these pages, finding comfort in the tangible knowledge they held.

Lost in thought, Matt's focus shifted momentarily from the book to the surrounding shelves. His eyes wandered over the titles, the eclectic collection reflecting Arthur's insatiable thirst for knowledge as well as his need to collect. Mostly pshysical valuables. He marveled at the diversity, the wealth of human ideas and experiences captured in the rows upon rows of books.

But amidst the philosophical musings and historical accounts, there was one section that stood out to Matthew—the shelves dedicated to art. A wide array of gathered paintings, drawings, and sketches shoved into an old leather binder adorned the shelves. Matt's gaze lingered on a particular piece of paper that had slipped out of the carefully gathered pile of papers and stuck out from the rest, if only slightly. Enough to see that the sketch was done some time ago and certainly not by Arthur himself.

It was in the realm of art Matthew used to find peace. In those days, sketching was his solace, his sanctuary where he could pour out his emotions and express the depths of his soul. As a quiet child, this was one of his favorite hobbies. It was a language he understood.

But as the years went by and his life took unexpected turns, Matthew's artistic pursuits became neglected. There was little room left for creative expression. The once vibrant palette of colors faded, replaced by the weight of duty and the burdens of history.

A sigh escaped his lips, tinged with a hint of regret. He wondered if he still possessed that same artistic spark, however limited the ability may be, to capture beauty on canvas. Doubt crept into his thoughts, whispering that perhaps he had lost that part of himself some time ago.

Shaking his head, Matthew banished those doubts and refocused his attention on the open tome before him. With renewed determination and interest, he continued reading the medical tome, absorbing the knowledge within its pages. For now, he set aside the canvas and the paintbrush.

Just as he was about to turn the page, the library door swung open, and in rushed Jack, his still-growing, energetic footsteps echoing through the room.

"Matt!"

Startled, he snapped the tome shut and looked up, his heart pounding in his chest. Jack's voice echoed through the library, calling for him with a mix of excitement and curiosity.

The abruptness of Jack's intrusion caught Matt off guard, his mind still processing the wealth of knowledge he had just absorbed.

"Hey, Matt!" Jack exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "What are you reading there? Anything interesting?"

Matthew's eyes meet Jack's. There was a brief pause as he considered his response, his words cautious and measured. "It's a book on medicine," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement. He looked at the book, turning it around in his hands and tracing along the title on the cover with his finger. "Old book. Older than you by at least by a few decades."

"Why do you speak French?" Jack blurted out, his eyes wide with anticipation. Completely ignoring the previous answer to his questions. Matthew got used to that by that point.

Matthew's lips parted, his voice quiet and measured. "I learned it... growing up."

Confusion knitted Jack's brow. "But why? We're English!"

A flicker of sadness danced in Matthew's eyes, but he masked it well. "I'm not English. Neither are you. "

"Father says we are."

"I suppose there's no debate then." Matthew had no fight left in him to continue this fruitless discourse.

"Why do you speak French?" Jack tried again. The hope that his question will be answered this time very much present in his big, green eyes.

"There are reasons... I suppose it's my mother tongue."

Jack's curiosity only grew stronger. "Then why don't you have a French accent?"

Matthew's response was curt, his tone guarded, yet slightly amused. "Accents can change... depending on where one stays for a long period of time."

Jack thought about it for longer than Matthew deemed necessary, but he didn't comment. The boy's gaze shifted to the shelves of books surrounding them. "Why does Father think Francis is a bad person?" Jack was eyeing the books, absentmindedly asking questions he didn't know the weight of.

Matthew hesitated, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "There are... complicated history and personal reasons I think."

A furrow formed between Jack's brows, a contast to his young face. "What do you think of Francis?"

The amusement left Matthew instantly.

Matthew's silence was deafening, his emotions tangled in a web of unspoken words. He shook his head, avoiding Jack's gaze. "I can't answer that, Jack."

The frustration tinged Jack's voice as he pressed on. "Why not? Is he really a bad person?"

Matthew's eyes darted away, his voice barely a whisper. "He... he is complicated, Jack. It's not as simple."

Jack's eagerness began to wane, replaced by a mixture of frustration and confusion. "I don't understand... Why won't you tell me?"

A wave of panic crashed over Matthew, his chest tightening with unspoken fears. He fought to maintain composure, his voice strained. "It's... it's complicated, Jack. I can't explain it all."

Jack's frustration reached a boiling point, his voice escalating into a frustrated yell. "Why won't you ever talk about yourself, Matt? You know everything about me. About Zee. But I can't know anything about you? It's not fair!"

Matthew winced at the intensity in Jack's voice, his eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and resignation. He took a step back, his hands trembling slightly. "Jack, please try to understand... It's not...I am not..."

Slight tears welled up in Jack's eyes. The same tears that had Arthur allowing his son to bring a new wild animal into the house, knowing fully well he'd have to replace the ottoman a week after due to unfortunate fabric ripping or nonwashable stains. "But why, Matt? We're supposed to be like brothers! I've trusted you with everything, and you won't give me anything in return!"

Jack's curiosity and frustration burned bright in his eyes as he leaned closer to Matthew. "Matt, what happened? Why doesn't anyone tell me anything? I'm not stupid!"

Matthew's gaze flickered, a shadow of discomfort crossing his face. He hesitated for a moment, his voice filled with evasion. "Jack, it's complicated. And of course you're not stupid! Just... There are things in our past that are not pleasant, things best left unsaid."

Jack's brows furrowed with determination as he leaned in even closer, his voice growing more insistent. " I can handle it. Tell me, what happened?" Jack insisted with a burning fervor.

A wave of overwhelm washed over Matthew, his breath catching in his throat. His gaze darted around the room, searching for an escape, but finding none.

His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, each word weighed down by the weight of his past. "Francis... is best when he's by himself, Jack."

Jack's eyes widened, a mix of shock and disbelief washing over his face. "Why? Did he really leave you like father says?"

Matthew's voice cracked with vulnerability as he continued, his gaze fixed on an unseen horizon. "Jack, it's really not important. "

Matt sat back down to regain his composure. He hoped Jack wouldn't notice his disconcertment.

Jack wouldn't have it. Matt never avoided his questions like this. It didn't seem right. He refused to let the topic rest, his voice filling with determination. "Did you do something to make him upset?"

Matthew shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze shifting away from Jack's piercing eyes. He was taken aback by this question. It wasn't one he was anticipating or expecting. "I don't know." He said honestly, for the first time in this suffocating conversation.

"Trust me, it's better if we don't dwell on it." Matt tried again. He always tried with Jack.

Jack's frustration grew with each dodge, his voice growing more insistent. "No! I won't let it go!"

Matthew's breath caught in his throat, his voice strained as he tried to find the right words. "I am his son. He is my father. But...politics... They change, Jack. People tend to find what's best for them, what suits them better. Like I said, it's best to look forward in life."

Jack's voice trembled with a mix of anger and hurt. "Why won't you answer me, Matt? Don't you trust me? Am I not important enough to know?"

Matthew's eyes filled with tears, his voice barely a whisper. "Of course you're important to me, Jack. It's just... I can't open that door again." The tears didn't shed this time. Not from Matthew. He had enough of those in the past decades. If he was going to be even the slightest bit honest, he would do it in a composed state.

Undeterred, yet still aware of the shift in the room's aura, Jack's voice grew softer, tinged with vulnerability. "Do you want Francis to come back? Do you miss him?"

A heavy silence hung in the air as Matthew's eyes locked with Jack's. The weight of the question was unbearable, pushing him to his breaking point. They locked eyes for a long moment until finally, Jack opened his mouth to add something else. Abruptly, Matthew's composure shattered. Overwhelmed by a tidal wave of emotions, he felt his heart race and his breath quicken. A silent panic attack consumed him, the weight of his secrets and unanswered questions suffocating him.

Without another word, Matthew rushed out of the library, leaving Jack standing there, bewildered and filled with unanswered inquiries. The air in the room grew still, the books on the shelves standing as silent witnesses to the unspoken complexities that shaped their lives. They were taunting him as he walked out. A silent reminder of the history and recognition that he could never have.

In the wake of Matthew's departure, Jack was left with a burning curiosity, a hunger for understanding that gnawed at his core. The questions remained unanswered, the mystery surrounding Matthew and his past deepening with every passing moment.

And as the library fell into a hushed silence, it held the weight of untold stories. As if waiting along with Jack for Matthew to return. As Matthew always did.

Soo uhhhh

I'm sorry again, but I truly do love me some angsty Matt. He had a tough childhood and I shan't let him rest :)

Maybe a part 2 if I decide it's worth continuing. idk if people like it I will continue this angst lol

Anw, Francis ain't shit and you have my written and verbal consent to run him over in any motor vehicle model of your personal choosing.

#ohhhhh and matt is emotionaly constipated bless his french canadian soul #we all want a jack in our live amirite #meli writes #new tag alert weewoooweewooo #hws canada #hws australia #hetalia #hetali fanfiction #historical hetalia #matthew williams #jack kirkland

32 notes · View notes

myrddin-wylt · 1 year

Text

love reading about the Great Rapprochement. Arthur spends 1895 to 1915 metaphorically kneeling on the ground going pspspspsps in Alfred’s general direction mostly getting ignored but occasionally getting an increasingly half-hearted “go fuck yourself” in response. it’s fantastic. look at this.

German Ambassador Bernstoff, a shrewd observer, reported in 1911, “The British efforts [to cultivate America] are meeting with a certain return of platonic affection. The old rooted dislike to England is gradually vanishing... But it is not accompanied by any wish to offer anything in return.” In hard diplomatic coin, the Americans took but they did not give. British ministries from Salisbury to Asquith made important concessions of substance and form to the United States. These statesmen gained not alliance nor even true reciprocity, but the elimination of grounds of conflict, occasional and essentially “platonic” or negative support in world politics, and above all a transformation of American attitudes which would pay immense dividends after 1914. While other factors propelled America in the same direction, British policy from 1895 to 1914 was the indispensable element.

I love it. Arthur hasn’t been this nice to Alfred since 1754 and Alfred is completely weirded out and has absolutely no idea what to do with this. so he just keeps being belligerent and Arthur just keeps being nice until eventually Alfred is sitting at a table in Arthur’s garden wondering how the fuck he came to the point where he’s having literal tea parties with the old fucker.

meanwhile Matthew, Jack, and Eliza are just as weirded out. maybe Matthew less so than Jack and Eliza but like. it’s still really fucking weird when Alfred says things that would get Jack sent to boot camp in the most remote part of the Canadian wilderness and Arthur just smiles. Duncan, Morgan, and Erin are much less surprised, since obviously they remember how much Arthur loved Alfred as a child. on the whole, Duncan thinks it’s funny, Morgan is relieved and pleased, and Erin is utterly disgusted lol. like c’mon, Al, don’t listen to him. he’s so full of shit you know he’s full of shit.

alas, the end of WW1 proves Erin right and Alfred goes right back to belligerent and aloof (though perhaps not near as much as pre-1895).

#historical hetalia #hetalia hcs #hetalia headcanons #kirkland brood #ratman and ratson #jack: australia #eliza: new zealand #duncan: scotland #morgan: wales #erin: ireland ofc

97 notes · View notes