[FIC FILL] Everything the Same
Oct. 10th, 2009 01:02 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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hetaliasunshineTITLE: Everything the Same
AUTHOR/ARTIST:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
halflight007
RECIPIENT:zulenha
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: France/England, Canada, Seychelles, America
RATING: PG
NOTES: I consider this part of my What the Heart Forgets-verse, because it was the only way I could come up with a plot and story that worked for me. I’m sorry if this is inconvenient to anyone – I don’t think you need to read it to enjoy it, though!...at least I hope so.
SUMMARY: A snow day for the family.
___
“Arthur.”
He more feels than hears the words against his neck, and sighs in response as he moves closer.
“Arthur, your feet are freezing.”
“Nu-uh. ‘s too warm,” Arthur protests, not really understanding his own words in favor of nuzzling Francis’ collarbone and shoulder.
Francis snorts laughter against Arthur’s neck. “Warm, indeed. Which is why you are rubbing the sole of your foot against my thigh and clinging to me like a baby monkey, oui?”
“Bugger off, you wanker.”
“I’d rather bugger you.”
Arthur finally opens his eyes and finds himself staring up into velvet, liquid blue irises and a cocky smirk.
You haven’t changed a bit, Francis.
He hides the nostalgic smile with a scowl and lifts his head to bite that smirk right off of Francis’ lips. They both count down the seconds in their head before –
“Papa! Dad!”
“Dadaaaaaa!”
They both sigh and roll over, and Arthur sits up as Matthew runs into his room, little Leone toddling behind with her small little hand gripping her brother’s. “Voluntarily getting up for school?” Arthur asks, quirking a smile at Matthew’s flushed face and bright eyes. “Well this will make our job much easier.”
“No! Dad, they cancelled school! I just heard on the radio!”
Arthur’s smile drops off his face as he crooks an eyebrow. “Are you picking up your brother’s bad habits?” he half-teases with a smirk on his face. “Remind me to put you in separate rooms when I have the chance.” He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning as Matthew flushes and frowns – so afraid to argue, but never lacking a tongue-in-cheek inner dialogue. Just like back then, when you were so afraid to stand up to people, when you were so quiet you’d get forgotten.
“Ah, what is this, cher?” Francis asks, peeking over Arthur’s shoulder.
“I think I’ve made him angry, Francis.”
“Oh, dear. Don’t kill your father with that glare, petit chou.”
Matthew flushes and opens his mouth to speak when Leone pipes up from the other side of the room. “Snow!” she chirps, and presses one of her chubby little palms against the window.
Arthur lets his smile break through as he turns his head to look at their daughter – so big already. He remembers Francis saying how hard it was to believe she was three. Arthur just smiled and said nothing.
“What is it, sweet?” he asks, sliding out of the bed and making his way to his daughter’s side. “What is it that you see?” He pulls her into his lap, sitting down in the armchair and moving them both so they could see out of her little handprint in the window.
“Snow,” Leone says again, and jabs a chubby little pointer finger at the fogged glass.
“Snow, indeed,” Arthur murmurs, and his eyes follow the fat little flakes as they drift and twirl on the winds and settle on the lawn – and the street, and the trees. “How do you think the school bus will get out here today, Leone?”
“Fly?” she suggests, and Arthur chuckles and kisses her temple before setting her down. Dear little Leone, with her flights of fancy and carefree-bright eyes and her love of fish. So similar to what she was like as a colony. So very different, too.
“Well, it looks like Leone has spoken, Matt – it’s a snow day, all right. It’s a good thing you have such good ears, or else your Papa would probably have walked out to get the newspaper and fallen face-down in the stuff.”
Francis snorts and shakes his head, and it’s his turn to hide a grin. When he’s gathered himself and stilled his shaking shoulders, he looks over at Matthew and Leone with a small smile. “So what are you going to do now, cher?”
“Snowclothes!” Matthew says with a wide grin and sparkling eyes. “…please?” he adds with a mumble a moment later, ducking his head as he remembers his manners.
Arthur smiles and stands, walking back to the bedside and sitting on the edge nearest to Francis and letting the other wrap an arm around his waist. “Wait for your brother to wake up, poppet, and then we’ll go and dig them out – we’ll make an event of it. Leone hasn’t even had a chance to wear hers yet.”
Matthew’s smile fades, and his eyes flick away. “Al doesn’t wanna come out,” he mumbles. “He said he was too tired.”
Arthur looks over his shoulder at Francis. It takes one concerned look from him to realize that they both see through the lie. Alfred was tired last night, too; didn’t come out of his room, even when Arthur cooked his favorite hamburgers and even said he could have a Cola if he wanted.
This is different from before. This is something Arthur does not remember.
Well, best to go investigate, then.
“…All right, then,” Arthur says, and puts on his most reassuring smile for his children. “He’ll just miss out on all the fun, won’t he? Run along and go to the kitchen; Francis will come down in a minute to help you both.”
“Yeah!” Matthew shouts, and Leone answers with a gurgling crow of her own as she runs out of the room right behind her brother, leaving both fathers in a small reprieve of silence.
Arthur uses that silence to give Francis a smug grin. Francis responds with a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head. “You are a pompous git, Arthur” he says, as though he’s saying that grass is green.
“Maybe, but I’m the one with a day off while you still have to write that feature article on the wine-tasting party you went to last week, you luxuriant frog.”
“And I shall be the one sitting by the fire and drinking espresso while the children lob snowballs at you and try to make you into a snowman, eyebrows.”
“We’ll just have to call it even, then.” They kiss in the sound, chaste, and familiar ways that parents and lovers do as Francis slides out of bed. “Go help Matthew and Leone, at least. I’m going to go talk with Alfred.”
“I hope he is not sick,” Francis says, his voice tight with worry as Arthur winds a bathrobe around his body.
“I doubt it. Alfred’s always been the healthiest.” Arthur walks back to the bed, bends down, and kisses Francis on the cheek; Francis turns into it and turns it into a sensual, slow moment filled with sighs and tongue.
Arthur breaks off at last and swallows, turning away. Well. Seems his body remembers how to kiss, too. “R-right,” Arthur stammers, “I’ll go see him now.”
“Don’t take long,” Francis says, his voice teasing and sultry.
“God I hate you.”
Francis’s laughter follows him out and down the hall, and he ignores the sound of Francis getting up in favor of knocking on Alfred’s door. “Alfred?”
He hears sniffles, but no one answers the door.
“Alfred, are you quite all right? Are you sick?”
“No,” Alfred replies. Arthur can tell he’s truthful; that voice is cracked and thick, but not filled with coughs or rasping. “Go ‘way.”
Arthur allows himself a smile. “It sounds like something is wrong from here,” he replies, his hands on the doorknob.
“‘M not sick!”
“My dear boy, I never said you were.” Arthur turns the knob and opens the door, stepping into the room.
Alfred is curled on the bed, his knees pulled into his stomach. Arthur can see the blotchy face and the puffy eyes from here, and sees that Alfred’s stuffed rabbit in the corner of the room. “What’s Boston doing over here?” Arthur asks, going to pick him up.
“Don’t bring it over here!” Alfred says, moving back as Arthur sits next to him. “I – I don’t want it!”
Alfred’s behavior makes Arthur frown. This isn’t like Alfred, not at all; Alfred loves Boston to the point where Arthur has had to make several repairs. All easy, of course, considering he made it. Part of him wants to believe that Alfred is growing up and out of his childhood. Like he did a lifetime ago, when he pointed his rifle at Arthur and declared his independence.
But that’s not right; Arthur sees something sad and tormented in Alfred’s eyes as he glares down at Boston. No, something else is wrong here.
“Well that’s a shame,” Arthur says, taking Boston in both his hands and holding him up. “He loves you. He enjoyed watching you sleep last night.”
“Didn’t sleep with ‘im last night,” Alfred mutters.
Oh. Uh. Arthur racks his brain. “W-well, he enjoyed going to school with you for show-and-tell yesterday, then.”
Arthur knows he’s hit on it when fresh tears well up in Alfred’s eyes. “Oh, Alfred,” he murmurs, reaching out with an arm and letting his son crawl into it. “Alfred, poppet, what happened?”
“They laughed at us,” Alfred says. “An’ the kids at recess called me a little girl for playin’ with Boston and I didn’t get to play soccer with ‘em because they said girls can’t play soccer. So I got mad at Boston and tossed him into the corner of the room, except Boston keeps the nightmares away an’ – an’…I don’t know what I wanna feel, I’m confused!”
Oh, Alfred. Arthur’s arm tightens around his son as he starts to shake and sob again. He hears the door creak, and looks up to find Francis in the doorway; he motions with one finger for silence when Francis opens his mouth to speak.
“Alfred,” he says, when the sobs have stopped. Alfred sniffles. “Alfred, look at me.” It is a physical pain to look into his little boy’s eyes, but he does, just the same. “Alfred, may I tell you a story?”
Alfred’s eyes widen, and he lets go of Arthur to sit back on the bed. Arthur stares at Boston, trying to think; he isn’t sure what he wants to say, or how he’s going to convey it to –
Arthur gets an idea when he looks into Boston’s button-black eyes.
“I’m going to tell you a story about Boston,” Arthur says. “A story about Boston – and a little boy.”
He shifts his gaze to Alfred, knowing he’s on the right track when he looks into those wide eyes. Heartened, he continues his tale.
“Once upon a time, there was a bunny named Boston, who lived with the birds and the other animals of the forest. One day, Boston got stuck in a trap; and try as he might, he couldn’t get free. But he got lucky, because a little boy came along one day, found him, and said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.’ And he freed Boston, took him home, and tended to his wounds.
“The boy was gentle and kind to Boston, and gave him as many clovers and carrots as he wanted. Boston loved the warm household, the good food, and the way the boy played with him; and he lived there for some time in relative happiness.”
Arthur shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, imagines the scent of warm rain and mud. He hears Francis shift, leaning against the doorframe; heartened, he gathers himself and continues.
“As Boston grew stronger and healthier, though, he began to long for the outside world, as all animals that have grown up wild and free do. He looked out the window and saw his forests and grass, and he wanted to run about and visit his animal friends again. But the boy never let him go out; he wanted to keep Boston with him always.
“But one day, Boston and the boy were playing when the boy’s mother opened the door, bringing groceries into the house. Boston saw his chance and bolted, out into the free air and out of captivity.
“The boy gave chase, shouting and yelling; but Boston was faster, and soon the boy lost track of him. Boston watched the boy cry and search for him from the bushes; and finally, when the sky grew dark, the boy said, ‘Fine! Live out here on your own! See if I care, you stupid bunny!’ But as the boy stomped back off to his house, Boston saw him wiping his eyes.”
Arthur’s own throat hurts a little; he pauses, lets the hardest part of the story – and the memories that come with it – wash over him, and lets the ache fade from his throat. This is the easy part. He opens his eyes and continues.
“Boston and the boy never met again after that. Whenever Boston tried to get near, the boy would give chase, driving Boston away. But Boston still tried to get near, still tried to reach out to the boy for the rest of his life.”
Silence; Arthur contemplates the rabbit in his hand, not sure if Alfred really understands. He isn’t sure whether or not the story was even meant for Alfred, or even America, but for England, for the remnants of a Nation long gone.
“Alfred,” he says, looking up. “What is it you treasure about Boston?”
Alfred sniffles and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “You made him for me,” Alfred says, and Arthur smiles as Alfred’s bright smile fills his heart.
“And are you ready to let him go?”
Alfred pauses, thinks for a moment – and then shakes his head no. Arthur holds out Boston. “Then hold onto him, Alfred, and treasure what he means to you – no taunts or bullies can ruin that. Hold onto him – because you might never know what you’ve lost before it’s too late.”
Alfred’s gaze darts from Arthur’s face to his hands; and finally, he reaches out, takes Boston, and hugs him. “‘M sorry, Boston,” Alfred mutters.
“I’m sure Boston forgives you.”
When Alfred looks up at him again, his face is familiar and enthused – the Alfred he loves so much. “Can we go out and make a snowbunny together?”
“I don’t know if Boston likes getting wet.” Arthur hears Francis snort from the corner of the room, and then hears footsteps fading down the hallway.
“You can hold him for me!” Alfred says. “Please, Daddy? Pleaaaase?”
Arthur is powerless against those brilliant blue eyes and wishes for the parental willpower he had when he was still a Nation. “Of course,” Arthur smiles, taking Boston back. “I think he’d like that very much.”
“Thank you!” Alfred gets up on his knees and kisses Arthur’s cheek before wiggling off the bed and running out of his room and down the stairs.
Arthur doesn’t move, though. For a few moments, he just sits and looks at the bunny in his hands, into those shining button eyes, as his fingertips caress the warm spot where Alfred’s lips touched his cheek.
“Alfred,” he whispers, and shuts his eyes. “Thank you.”
___
When Arthur joins Francis outside, he sees that the snow has not let up at all, and that Alfred and Matthew are helping Leone build a snow fort.
“I’m afraid you’re too slow,” Francis says from the porch seat, holding up a steaming mug of cocoa for Arthur. “Your seat has been taken.”
Arthur smirks down at the stuffed bunny before taking the Styrofoam cup from Francis’s hand and taking a sip. “That’s all right,” Arthur says, leaning back and watching while Alfred sneaks away from his siblings and takes a handful of snow. “I’ll just stand.”
Arthur and Francis watch their children in silence, waiting for Alfred to spring his surprise attack.
“I keep telling you that you should write children’s books, mon cher,” Francis says, and Arthur feels fingers lacing through his. “Then you’d get rich and we could move somewhere and live like snobs.”
“Would that require me giving up my job and leaving my kindergarten class?”
“…perhaps.”
“Then no.”
“Aww, but Arthur….”
“It’s not an issue of entertainment, either,” Arthur says, letting his hand slip from Francis’s as he steps forward and watches Alfred chuck a snowball at Matthew’s head. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my past – done a lot of things I regret.” His eyes turn skyward as Matthew screams and fires back at Alfred. “Telling my stories through fables…it helps me to remember and learn from my past mistakes. If the children can learn from them, well, that’s good, too.”
Shrieks and laughter fill his ears; warm arms encircle his shoulders, and Arthur reaches up to touch an arm as he looks at Francis.
“I want you to tell me a story someday,” Francis murmurs, tightening his arms on Arthur’s shoulders. “And I want it to be from this life – not the life you lived before me. And I want you to smile while you tell it, so I can see the happy light in your eyes.”
Arthur’s hand squeezes Francis’s arm across his shoulders; his pulse quickens as their faces lean closer, closer, and –
Thwap.
A snowball to their faces ruins the moment; they are left gasping and wiping at their cheeks, staring at the kids.
“Look, Leone, I got a bulls-eye!”
“Bull-ai, Bull-ai!”
“Al-Alfred, I don’t know if that was a good idea….”
“But it’s gross! Snow is for snowball fights, not lovey-dovey babymaking!”
Arthur and Francis look at one another and share a dark, knowing smile.
“Shall we show them just what we know snow is for, my darling?” Francis asks loud enough for the children to hear, reaching down and taking a handful of thick snow.
“Uh-oh…”
Arthur follows suit, his smile just as wicked. “That sounds like an absolutely smashing idea.”
“Run!” Alfred shouts, and as the children scatter, Arthur and Francis give chase with ammunition of their own. The five devolve into wrestling, snowball-throwing, and laughter and love for one another.
And through it all, Boston watches in silence.
AUTHOR/ARTIST:
halflight007RECIPIENT:
zulenhaCHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: France/England, Canada, Seychelles, America
RATING: PG
NOTES: I consider this part of my What the Heart Forgets-verse, because it was the only way I could come up with a plot and story that worked for me. I’m sorry if this is inconvenient to anyone – I don’t think you need to read it to enjoy it, though!...at least I hope so.
SUMMARY: A snow day for the family.
___
“Arthur.”
He more feels than hears the words against his neck, and sighs in response as he moves closer.
“Arthur, your feet are freezing.”
“Nu-uh. ‘s too warm,” Arthur protests, not really understanding his own words in favor of nuzzling Francis’ collarbone and shoulder.
Francis snorts laughter against Arthur’s neck. “Warm, indeed. Which is why you are rubbing the sole of your foot against my thigh and clinging to me like a baby monkey, oui?”
“Bugger off, you wanker.”
“I’d rather bugger you.”
Arthur finally opens his eyes and finds himself staring up into velvet, liquid blue irises and a cocky smirk.
You haven’t changed a bit, Francis.
He hides the nostalgic smile with a scowl and lifts his head to bite that smirk right off of Francis’ lips. They both count down the seconds in their head before –
“Papa! Dad!”
“Dadaaaaaa!”
They both sigh and roll over, and Arthur sits up as Matthew runs into his room, little Leone toddling behind with her small little hand gripping her brother’s. “Voluntarily getting up for school?” Arthur asks, quirking a smile at Matthew’s flushed face and bright eyes. “Well this will make our job much easier.”
“No! Dad, they cancelled school! I just heard on the radio!”
Arthur’s smile drops off his face as he crooks an eyebrow. “Are you picking up your brother’s bad habits?” he half-teases with a smirk on his face. “Remind me to put you in separate rooms when I have the chance.” He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning as Matthew flushes and frowns – so afraid to argue, but never lacking a tongue-in-cheek inner dialogue. Just like back then, when you were so afraid to stand up to people, when you were so quiet you’d get forgotten.
“Ah, what is this, cher?” Francis asks, peeking over Arthur’s shoulder.
“I think I’ve made him angry, Francis.”
“Oh, dear. Don’t kill your father with that glare, petit chou.”
Matthew flushes and opens his mouth to speak when Leone pipes up from the other side of the room. “Snow!” she chirps, and presses one of her chubby little palms against the window.
Arthur lets his smile break through as he turns his head to look at their daughter – so big already. He remembers Francis saying how hard it was to believe she was three. Arthur just smiled and said nothing.
“What is it, sweet?” he asks, sliding out of the bed and making his way to his daughter’s side. “What is it that you see?” He pulls her into his lap, sitting down in the armchair and moving them both so they could see out of her little handprint in the window.
“Snow,” Leone says again, and jabs a chubby little pointer finger at the fogged glass.
“Snow, indeed,” Arthur murmurs, and his eyes follow the fat little flakes as they drift and twirl on the winds and settle on the lawn – and the street, and the trees. “How do you think the school bus will get out here today, Leone?”
“Fly?” she suggests, and Arthur chuckles and kisses her temple before setting her down. Dear little Leone, with her flights of fancy and carefree-bright eyes and her love of fish. So similar to what she was like as a colony. So very different, too.
“Well, it looks like Leone has spoken, Matt – it’s a snow day, all right. It’s a good thing you have such good ears, or else your Papa would probably have walked out to get the newspaper and fallen face-down in the stuff.”
Francis snorts and shakes his head, and it’s his turn to hide a grin. When he’s gathered himself and stilled his shaking shoulders, he looks over at Matthew and Leone with a small smile. “So what are you going to do now, cher?”
“Snowclothes!” Matthew says with a wide grin and sparkling eyes. “…please?” he adds with a mumble a moment later, ducking his head as he remembers his manners.
Arthur smiles and stands, walking back to the bedside and sitting on the edge nearest to Francis and letting the other wrap an arm around his waist. “Wait for your brother to wake up, poppet, and then we’ll go and dig them out – we’ll make an event of it. Leone hasn’t even had a chance to wear hers yet.”
Matthew’s smile fades, and his eyes flick away. “Al doesn’t wanna come out,” he mumbles. “He said he was too tired.”
Arthur looks over his shoulder at Francis. It takes one concerned look from him to realize that they both see through the lie. Alfred was tired last night, too; didn’t come out of his room, even when Arthur cooked his favorite hamburgers and even said he could have a Cola if he wanted.
This is different from before. This is something Arthur does not remember.
Well, best to go investigate, then.
“…All right, then,” Arthur says, and puts on his most reassuring smile for his children. “He’ll just miss out on all the fun, won’t he? Run along and go to the kitchen; Francis will come down in a minute to help you both.”
“Yeah!” Matthew shouts, and Leone answers with a gurgling crow of her own as she runs out of the room right behind her brother, leaving both fathers in a small reprieve of silence.
Arthur uses that silence to give Francis a smug grin. Francis responds with a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head. “You are a pompous git, Arthur” he says, as though he’s saying that grass is green.
“Maybe, but I’m the one with a day off while you still have to write that feature article on the wine-tasting party you went to last week, you luxuriant frog.”
“And I shall be the one sitting by the fire and drinking espresso while the children lob snowballs at you and try to make you into a snowman, eyebrows.”
“We’ll just have to call it even, then.” They kiss in the sound, chaste, and familiar ways that parents and lovers do as Francis slides out of bed. “Go help Matthew and Leone, at least. I’m going to go talk with Alfred.”
“I hope he is not sick,” Francis says, his voice tight with worry as Arthur winds a bathrobe around his body.
“I doubt it. Alfred’s always been the healthiest.” Arthur walks back to the bed, bends down, and kisses Francis on the cheek; Francis turns into it and turns it into a sensual, slow moment filled with sighs and tongue.
Arthur breaks off at last and swallows, turning away. Well. Seems his body remembers how to kiss, too. “R-right,” Arthur stammers, “I’ll go see him now.”
“Don’t take long,” Francis says, his voice teasing and sultry.
“God I hate you.”
Francis’s laughter follows him out and down the hall, and he ignores the sound of Francis getting up in favor of knocking on Alfred’s door. “Alfred?”
He hears sniffles, but no one answers the door.
“Alfred, are you quite all right? Are you sick?”
“No,” Alfred replies. Arthur can tell he’s truthful; that voice is cracked and thick, but not filled with coughs or rasping. “Go ‘way.”
Arthur allows himself a smile. “It sounds like something is wrong from here,” he replies, his hands on the doorknob.
“‘M not sick!”
“My dear boy, I never said you were.” Arthur turns the knob and opens the door, stepping into the room.
Alfred is curled on the bed, his knees pulled into his stomach. Arthur can see the blotchy face and the puffy eyes from here, and sees that Alfred’s stuffed rabbit in the corner of the room. “What’s Boston doing over here?” Arthur asks, going to pick him up.
“Don’t bring it over here!” Alfred says, moving back as Arthur sits next to him. “I – I don’t want it!”
Alfred’s behavior makes Arthur frown. This isn’t like Alfred, not at all; Alfred loves Boston to the point where Arthur has had to make several repairs. All easy, of course, considering he made it. Part of him wants to believe that Alfred is growing up and out of his childhood. Like he did a lifetime ago, when he pointed his rifle at Arthur and declared his independence.
But that’s not right; Arthur sees something sad and tormented in Alfred’s eyes as he glares down at Boston. No, something else is wrong here.
“Well that’s a shame,” Arthur says, taking Boston in both his hands and holding him up. “He loves you. He enjoyed watching you sleep last night.”
“Didn’t sleep with ‘im last night,” Alfred mutters.
Oh. Uh. Arthur racks his brain. “W-well, he enjoyed going to school with you for show-and-tell yesterday, then.”
Arthur knows he’s hit on it when fresh tears well up in Alfred’s eyes. “Oh, Alfred,” he murmurs, reaching out with an arm and letting his son crawl into it. “Alfred, poppet, what happened?”
“They laughed at us,” Alfred says. “An’ the kids at recess called me a little girl for playin’ with Boston and I didn’t get to play soccer with ‘em because they said girls can’t play soccer. So I got mad at Boston and tossed him into the corner of the room, except Boston keeps the nightmares away an’ – an’…I don’t know what I wanna feel, I’m confused!”
Oh, Alfred. Arthur’s arm tightens around his son as he starts to shake and sob again. He hears the door creak, and looks up to find Francis in the doorway; he motions with one finger for silence when Francis opens his mouth to speak.
“Alfred,” he says, when the sobs have stopped. Alfred sniffles. “Alfred, look at me.” It is a physical pain to look into his little boy’s eyes, but he does, just the same. “Alfred, may I tell you a story?”
Alfred’s eyes widen, and he lets go of Arthur to sit back on the bed. Arthur stares at Boston, trying to think; he isn’t sure what he wants to say, or how he’s going to convey it to –
Arthur gets an idea when he looks into Boston’s button-black eyes.
“I’m going to tell you a story about Boston,” Arthur says. “A story about Boston – and a little boy.”
He shifts his gaze to Alfred, knowing he’s on the right track when he looks into those wide eyes. Heartened, he continues his tale.
“Once upon a time, there was a bunny named Boston, who lived with the birds and the other animals of the forest. One day, Boston got stuck in a trap; and try as he might, he couldn’t get free. But he got lucky, because a little boy came along one day, found him, and said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.’ And he freed Boston, took him home, and tended to his wounds.
“The boy was gentle and kind to Boston, and gave him as many clovers and carrots as he wanted. Boston loved the warm household, the good food, and the way the boy played with him; and he lived there for some time in relative happiness.”
Arthur shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, imagines the scent of warm rain and mud. He hears Francis shift, leaning against the doorframe; heartened, he gathers himself and continues.
“As Boston grew stronger and healthier, though, he began to long for the outside world, as all animals that have grown up wild and free do. He looked out the window and saw his forests and grass, and he wanted to run about and visit his animal friends again. But the boy never let him go out; he wanted to keep Boston with him always.
“But one day, Boston and the boy were playing when the boy’s mother opened the door, bringing groceries into the house. Boston saw his chance and bolted, out into the free air and out of captivity.
“The boy gave chase, shouting and yelling; but Boston was faster, and soon the boy lost track of him. Boston watched the boy cry and search for him from the bushes; and finally, when the sky grew dark, the boy said, ‘Fine! Live out here on your own! See if I care, you stupid bunny!’ But as the boy stomped back off to his house, Boston saw him wiping his eyes.”
Arthur’s own throat hurts a little; he pauses, lets the hardest part of the story – and the memories that come with it – wash over him, and lets the ache fade from his throat. This is the easy part. He opens his eyes and continues.
“Boston and the boy never met again after that. Whenever Boston tried to get near, the boy would give chase, driving Boston away. But Boston still tried to get near, still tried to reach out to the boy for the rest of his life.”
Silence; Arthur contemplates the rabbit in his hand, not sure if Alfred really understands. He isn’t sure whether or not the story was even meant for Alfred, or even America, but for England, for the remnants of a Nation long gone.
“Alfred,” he says, looking up. “What is it you treasure about Boston?”
Alfred sniffles and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “You made him for me,” Alfred says, and Arthur smiles as Alfred’s bright smile fills his heart.
“And are you ready to let him go?”
Alfred pauses, thinks for a moment – and then shakes his head no. Arthur holds out Boston. “Then hold onto him, Alfred, and treasure what he means to you – no taunts or bullies can ruin that. Hold onto him – because you might never know what you’ve lost before it’s too late.”
Alfred’s gaze darts from Arthur’s face to his hands; and finally, he reaches out, takes Boston, and hugs him. “‘M sorry, Boston,” Alfred mutters.
“I’m sure Boston forgives you.”
When Alfred looks up at him again, his face is familiar and enthused – the Alfred he loves so much. “Can we go out and make a snowbunny together?”
“I don’t know if Boston likes getting wet.” Arthur hears Francis snort from the corner of the room, and then hears footsteps fading down the hallway.
“You can hold him for me!” Alfred says. “Please, Daddy? Pleaaaase?”
Arthur is powerless against those brilliant blue eyes and wishes for the parental willpower he had when he was still a Nation. “Of course,” Arthur smiles, taking Boston back. “I think he’d like that very much.”
“Thank you!” Alfred gets up on his knees and kisses Arthur’s cheek before wiggling off the bed and running out of his room and down the stairs.
Arthur doesn’t move, though. For a few moments, he just sits and looks at the bunny in his hands, into those shining button eyes, as his fingertips caress the warm spot where Alfred’s lips touched his cheek.
“Alfred,” he whispers, and shuts his eyes. “Thank you.”
___
When Arthur joins Francis outside, he sees that the snow has not let up at all, and that Alfred and Matthew are helping Leone build a snow fort.
“I’m afraid you’re too slow,” Francis says from the porch seat, holding up a steaming mug of cocoa for Arthur. “Your seat has been taken.”
Arthur smirks down at the stuffed bunny before taking the Styrofoam cup from Francis’s hand and taking a sip. “That’s all right,” Arthur says, leaning back and watching while Alfred sneaks away from his siblings and takes a handful of snow. “I’ll just stand.”
Arthur and Francis watch their children in silence, waiting for Alfred to spring his surprise attack.
“I keep telling you that you should write children’s books, mon cher,” Francis says, and Arthur feels fingers lacing through his. “Then you’d get rich and we could move somewhere and live like snobs.”
“Would that require me giving up my job and leaving my kindergarten class?”
“…perhaps.”
“Then no.”
“Aww, but Arthur….”
“It’s not an issue of entertainment, either,” Arthur says, letting his hand slip from Francis’s as he steps forward and watches Alfred chuck a snowball at Matthew’s head. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my past – done a lot of things I regret.” His eyes turn skyward as Matthew screams and fires back at Alfred. “Telling my stories through fables…it helps me to remember and learn from my past mistakes. If the children can learn from them, well, that’s good, too.”
Shrieks and laughter fill his ears; warm arms encircle his shoulders, and Arthur reaches up to touch an arm as he looks at Francis.
“I want you to tell me a story someday,” Francis murmurs, tightening his arms on Arthur’s shoulders. “And I want it to be from this life – not the life you lived before me. And I want you to smile while you tell it, so I can see the happy light in your eyes.”
Arthur’s hand squeezes Francis’s arm across his shoulders; his pulse quickens as their faces lean closer, closer, and –
Thwap.
A snowball to their faces ruins the moment; they are left gasping and wiping at their cheeks, staring at the kids.
“Look, Leone, I got a bulls-eye!”
“Bull-ai, Bull-ai!”
“Al-Alfred, I don’t know if that was a good idea….”
“But it’s gross! Snow is for snowball fights, not lovey-dovey babymaking!”
Arthur and Francis look at one another and share a dark, knowing smile.
“Shall we show them just what we know snow is for, my darling?” Francis asks loud enough for the children to hear, reaching down and taking a handful of thick snow.
“Uh-oh…”
Arthur follows suit, his smile just as wicked. “That sounds like an absolutely smashing idea.”
“Run!” Alfred shouts, and as the children scatter, Arthur and Francis give chase with ammunition of their own. The five devolve into wrestling, snowball-throwing, and laughter and love for one another.
And through it all, Boston watches in silence.
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Date: 2009-10-10 10:39 pm (UTC)