Chapter Text
Halifax
Early 1760s.
He likes the silence of death, in the moments where what makes him an individual slips from his body. Water rushes over his head, the breath slips from his lungs, his soul slips from his body, and everything is quiet. He died then, his heart shuddering to a halt, and he hoped it would stay that way this time. Whatever the priests say about the warmth and wonder of the eternal come to pass is true, and he can have it. Everything here is cold, and the loneliness of never being alone while always being solitary aches like the loss of any concept of father he's ever had that rings in his bones and in his heart. Silvery bubbles of the last of his breath warp as they pass to the surface, and it is so cold, his clothes are so heavy and he has nothing left. He has no kin, his people are no longer his. It is a British flag that flies red over blue. The British have taken him, but it is Francis who never said goodbye.
When death has closed his eyes, there is always the silence of an empty church. Holy, echoing, and desolate with the promise of heaven before a choir of horrors rings out. The people, the thousands of hearts that beat in the chest that Matthew calls his own. He is nothing but them; they are gone, given to another. But today, the holy echo of his own name stretches into eternity, and a flash of hope finds its way into the dark. The priests speak of heaven, of a virgin mother with warm, tender hands where the soft first days of summer never end, and there is neither hunger nor hopelessness nor canon fire, fever or fighting. He sinks into it, and lets himself fail. Let his body go. Let it rot in the ground in a small grave on the banks of his great river. He hopes someone marks it with a little cross and maybe wraps what's left in him in a blanket for a shroud and that he doesn't make too much of a mess for them.
But the thoughts fade as the promise of warm hands, a warm bed, and peace thrust him from his rest. Requiescat in pace, the priests, have said. Rest in peace. All he wants is any sort of rest, in any sort of peace. The serenity of something other than the waiting of war. The patient, persistent misery of marching was only ever punctuated by the regular reach of horror. Canons or calvary or crossed swords. It didn't matter. It all ended with blood. And if it's his blood buried in this body in the earth no more of it can spill. No more of it. No more. It's the last thought that crossed him. He is damned to live.
He lies in darkness for a long time. But it is quiet, and he is quiet, and quiet is almost hope. A hope that it is over, that it is all over. Darkness, velvety soft like the antler of a young stag's first rack muffles whatever is left of him and he is warm and if this is heaven, it's enough for him, even if it is still so lonely.
When he hears his name, he wants to cry. Because surely the angels don't speak English, surely saints don't wrap clumsy English tongues around the syllables of his character and force it through their teeth. He'd cry if he could remember what tears were.
"It's time to come back," A voice says, English and flat. He doesn't know what the word means anymore, but he thinks the words might sound sad. "It's been too long, you need to wake up. Come on, wake up. It's Alfred, Matt, come on, wake up for me, Mattie, wake up,"
He doesn't want to do whatever waking up is. But there's pressure on something he knows is his shoulder, and he knows what warmth is, and he knows that whatever an Alfred is, it's blond and broad-shouldered and loud and warm.
The warmth, the soft, velvety darkness of warmth, drops away from his body because suddenly he has a body, a name, and a brother. He is in pain and cold, and he exists again. His horror of it, the terrifying prospect he is alive runs through him as fast as a cry passes from his mouth, and the blond broad, shouldered, the loud and warm thing he calls Alfred takes up all the space of the world and holds him so tight it's hard to remember where they each begin or end.
"You're all right," Alfred said. "You're okay, you're okay," Everything hurts, hollow and sick and endless. It's endless. The horror of what Alfred says reaches into him and reminds him he has a stomach that clenches, a head that is far too heavy, lungs that will not draw in the air easily, and limbs that are so cold and that he is so, so alive. He belongs to no one, he is no one, and it's all been for nothing. He has his life, and he doesn't want it. Tears prick at his eyes, and it will never be over. All that, and he's still here.
Matthew doesn't know what sound he makes, but there are arms around his back again, and Alfred is strong, fit, and safe. Apples and warmth, wheat blond and blue skies, and the priests say heaven is soft spring days like America.
"I've got you," His brother says again. "I've got you,"
He cries. He remembers how all at once to cry, reach, sob and shiver and come apart and feel nothing but the empty, frozen void of pain. And he remembers how to anchor himself on Alfred. Because his brother is strong and his brother loves him, the failing of Matthew's strength means he can have a little of Alfred's now because they each belong to that sprawling Empire they call Britain.
He doesn't know how long anything lasts. But eventually, the world widens a little beyond Alfred's back and he understands he's in a bed drawn close to a crackling fire. He's been washed and warmed and dressed in clothes that are not his own and tucked in tightly and none of it matters at all the moment Alfred stirs and lifts himself from the chair at the bedside, he wants to weep again.
"Don't go," He says because he's not sure he's real, that any of this is real. Maybe hell is a trick played on him by the English, maybe he's dreaming, maybe he's dead. But Alfred feels real, or as real as anything, and he finds himself unable to quiet himself or tell himself to be silent, stoic, and good. Why should he? If he's not sure that he's alive. "Not yet,"
"Not yet," Alfred agrees, and he is still broad and warm, and so is the gentle smile. "I'm glad you're back,"
Matthew isn't. He's not sure he ever will be. But, he thought, hell wouldn't have Alfred.