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One
I love my brothers, Owain reminds himself, taking a calming breath, which does not calm him in the slightest. I love my brothers.
He doesn’t know how the fight started nor does he particularly care. From where he’d been in the kitchen, foolishly believing that two grown men could be trusted alone, Owain’s head started throbbing at the sound of Arthur’s sharp intake of breath and Sean’s unkind laughter.
I love my brothers. I love my brothers.
Arthur was first to his house while Sean arrived two hours later, both a day early. Owain wondered briefly if they planned it, but thought better of that hearing how they spoke to one another.
At least Connor doesn’t cause this much trouble. He’s a good lad.
His eye twitching, Owain grips his cup tighter. Arthur remarks something witty and a small part of Owain wants the Irishman to walk away but the probability of him letting Arthur win an argument is so small that it's not worth mentioning. To Owain’s horror, Sean grabs a lamp and - absolutely not.
Later when he looks back on it, Owain would be surprised by the speed he stood, his tea spills on the floor and his steps heavy as he approaches his two idiot brothers, “ Iwerddon, Lloegr, that is enough!”
Arthur startles, jumping slightly at his voice. Sean’s mouth is open, breathing hard and the lamp still in hand. Both nations make a pained noise when Owain takes them by their ears, something he hasn’t done in years. “Put my lamp down.”
Lamp away from Sean, Owain’s anger only grows. “I don’t care what either of you supposedly said or did to the other to provoke an argument, I don’t.” He pulls them closer to him by their ears, needing them to hear him. “This verbal spat of yours has gone on far too long. I will not tolerate a physical altercation, especially not in my home. Do you understand me?”
Owain gets a yes from Sean and a yes, Owain from Arthur.
He needs them to understand the consequences, “If Connor was here, would you have thrown my lamp at Arthur? He would have hit back, Sean. You damn well know that. What does that show Connor?”
Arthur’s eyes are downcast; Sean swallows, not answering. They all swore to do better for Connor, and they hold each other accountable. “I’m going to let go, and you both will walk into my study.”
Arthur doesn’t argue with Owain when it comes to this; he accepts it begrudgingly, if only to set things right with his brothers or with himself.
Sean and Arthur are more similar than either would admit, but not in this regard. The Irishman does try to talk to get out of punishment. Owain admits, sometimes he’ll let things go. He doesn’t like spanking his brothers; he doesn’t like being the cause of their tears.
Connor mimics them for better or worse, he wants their approval. Arthur was the same way. Whatever we did, he copied. He became what we were.
Sean shakes his head, a pleading look in his eyes. “Owain -”, he begins, but stops at his unforgiving glare. He blinks, looking down.
“Go wait in the study. Face different corners.”
He watches as they walk down the hall, and feels burdened. He wishes for a different outcome, but he knows better than to make a wish in the presence of fairies.
Two
Arthur has never liked getting spanked, doesn’t particularly care to spank others either. He really doesn’t like getting his arse tanned in front of others, especially his brothers. A part of him finds comfort knowing that Sean’s arse will be no better than his, and he’s immediately repulsed by that thought.
Arthur hates that about himself - the part that derives any sort of joy from the pain of others. The shame of his past actions threaten to consume him at times, and he swore that he would never go back to who he used to be.
At different times in the recent past, he’s admitted this to his older brothers. Sean held him as he sobbed and told him the fact that he felt guilty is a good sign - it shows a desire to do better. Alistair bent Arthur over his knee, telling the Englishman afterwards that the slate was clean. He allowed Arthur to do the same to him several days later; Arthur refused at first but the Scotsman insisted. Owain talked with Arthur through his thoughts and feelings, and both were emotionally drained. There had been a lot of crying and apologizing on both sides.
The older three weren’t perfect, they all did and said regrettable things. Arthur had been surprised when they apologized to him for their actions. Those three conversations, as needed as they were, were emotionally raw. They promised to be better, and it had been a good start. Nowadays they get along swimmingly, even when the currents become strong.
The wallpaper of Owain’s study is outdated, and Arthur has never disliked it more. The paper - a certainly interesting pattern of blue diamonds intertwined by yellow and white flowers - are long faded by time and yellowed by cigarette smoke. The smell has nearly faded, Owain gave up the habit in the nineties, but Arthur has his nose so close enough that the smell bothers him.
The rhythmic tapping of his fingers against his leg fails to distract him from the situation at hand, but that’s to be expected: he is getting very familiar with the corner.
Sean hasn’t spoken nor glanced his way, not when they walked down the hall into the study and not when they took to the corners of the same wall. Arthur understands why, but he doesn’t care for it. He wants to say something, anything, but that will not go over well.
He and Sean have upset Owain enough, and Arthur has a negative desire to provoke him further.
His arse wouldn’t forgive him.
The study’s door is open, and Owain’s movements are easily heard. Arthur takes deep, slow breaths in order to keep his nerves in check. Sean’s breathing is controlled. Arthur hopes he’s not as anxious as he is.
Having been focused on breathing, the sounds of Owain approaching gives him a reprieve from his obsessive thoughts. He doesn’t look away from his corner when the door shuts, and he taps his fingers in the same rhythmic taps he’s been doing.
The room is of average size. The focal point is the hand carved wooden desk, small dragons carved into the dark wood. It had been a gift from Arthur in the 1700s and he’s happy that Owain still finds use for it. However, speaking from experience, Arthur knows that being bent over that desk isn’t comfortable. Hindsight - he should have thought about it back then.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
“Arthur.”
With one final tap, he turns from the wall.
Three
There had been an incident in the seventies involving Connor. He’s so young, not even a century. Sean wants to protect him, they all do. Connor had left the house without telling any of them, just past five in the afternoon. Nothing major, not even a minor occurrence. Tensions were high; they were arguing and when Alistair discovered the lack of Connor; all hell broke loose.
Owain and Arthur went out into the countryside to look for him, coming back several hours without any luck. Alistair went into the nearby city with the same luck. Sean stayed in the house, fretting. Growing angrier and angrier in not knowing where Connor had gone to. The silence of the house was deafening, and the sound of the door opening and closing had them on their feet.
Sean stormed towards Connor, ignoring how the younger took a step back, and bent him over his knee in front of their brothers. He didn’t take into consideration how Connor would feel about the whole ordeal.
Humiliated. Embarrassed. Scared.
Alistair stopped Sean from continuing, and it was then that Sean took a breath and looked around. Owain and Arthur were standing where they had been before, but they were closer to each other. Their focus was on Connor, and concern baked into their faces. Alistair’s hand was on Sean’s elbow, pulling him away.
Connor wouldn’t meet any of their eyes. He stood there staring at his feet, face in his hands and crying. Alistair called out to him, but he ran past them and locked himself in his bedroom, refusing to open it. The sounds of his sobbing echoed throughout the house, slowly dying down as the night carried on.
He wouldn’t leave his room for three days.
I love you guys, Connor still wouldn’t look at them, keeping his head down. He was hugging himself, still dressed in the same outfit four days previous. I went for a walk and lost track of time. I’m sorry.
North, the blame’s on us.
Sean’s behavior had been appalling, a complete and utter overreaction.
The sound of Arthur’s pained breaths and the sound of flesh being struck, Sean makes a fist and uncurls his fingers repeatedly.
Would he have thrown the lamp if Connor had been there?
While Sean wouldn’t say that Connor had been on edge around him, it certainly didn’t go back to how they were before. He was quieter, more withdrawn. Connor made it a point to tell one of them where he was going, and did not leave the house alone.
It struck Sean cold that Connor was afraid.
What would he think? Sean and Arthur having another pointless argument, only for it to turn violent. Connor would sit there, watching and absorbing the scene. Internalize familiar violence, probably. Would he accept violence in his romantic relationships? If it happens between his brothers then why couldn’t it happen between lovers?
Owain strikes hard; Arthur cries out.
Sean understands why Owain is doing what he’s doing: had Owain done the thing Sean had, the Welshman would be getting his arse beat too.
Arthur and Sean’s relationship has improved by leagues in recent years, but both are stubborn men. There were setbacks, but those were happening less and less and less. For Connor's sake, they've all been trying.
“ LLoegr , it’s alright. You’ve done well.”
Arthur’s struggling to catch his breath, and Sean listens as Owain comforts him.
Would he have thrown the lamp? Sean swallows, feeling sick. He knows the answer, and he’s disturbed.
Four
Arthur had been moved to the side of the desk, his arse bare and red. Sean’s own lily arse quickly turned a dark rose colour. Owain comforted Sean as he did Arthur, and then sent them to bed with a promise of act up again and that will feel like lovetaps.
The curtains are closed though light filters in, illuminating the room to a degree.
Sean’s on his front, Arthur’s on his side. Turning his head, Sean looks at his brother with red, puffy eyes. The sheets are at their feet, and they’re naked save for their shirts. He wants to say something, but what? He doesn't worry about what to say, Arthur breaks the silence first. “Sean, I was rude earlier.” He exhales slowly and the older man blinks. “I’m sorry.”
“We both were.”
He goes onto his side to face Arthur, not having his arse touch the mattress. Once he’s settled, Sean searches for any sign that contact would be unwelcomed. Finding none, he touches Arthur’s arm. The Englishman doesn’t stir and Sean thinks he’s made a mistake, but then Arthur has himself pressed into Sean.
Connor crawled into Sean’s bed several weeks after he’d been humiliated. His face was wet when he buried it into Sean’s neck, the memory is decades old but it’s in the front of his mind.
They’re very alike - Arthur and Connor are.
Sean puts an arm around his brother and kisses his forehead. “Tá brón orm freisin.” Arthur responds something in Irish, sounding happy, but Sean can’t make out the words. He’s tired - Owain won’t mention this when Connor and Alistair arrive tomorrow, and all Sean wants is to put this behind them.
Owain goes to wake them for dinner, his steps light as he goes to the bedroom. Neither are disturbed when the door creaks open, and as he pulls the covers over them he’s struck by the thought that he loves his brothers.