Work Text:
Contemporary Era
Cardiff, Cymru.
"How much of what did you snort or shoot up before this happened?" Rhys took tweezers on hand and gestured to the obviously infected safety pin rammed straight through Arthur's ear, woven through the cartilage a worrying amount of times.
"Bold of you to assume I remember." Despite the cost in holes, he gave a shit-eating grin, obviously content with his bender. "I don't even remember getting on the train. Last I knew I'm closer to Heathrow than I am the house and I think, 'Aye, haven't seen Rhys in a moment' and next thing I know, I'm in your loo."
He shouldn't have asked. He shouldn't have been surprised. But he sighed anyway. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again, the navy getting rid of the tot was the worst thing that ever happened to you."
Arthur gave a gentle sound of agreement, swaying in his perch on the shut toilet seat, closing his eyes against what Rhys would have bet a year's salary was a fierce wave of nausea. He was now dressed in joggers, socks, and an oversized rugby shirt that hardly fit Rhys when his winter body appeared. It hung off his brother's shoulders and made him look young and slender, like an Arthur who would still listen to the old stories Rhys told him rather than the one who had anglicized them and, in turn, held his children in rapture by the fireplace. Rhys cuffed him gently around the other side of his head, a love tap to keep him still and tutted.
"I suppose it's commendable there's just this mess instead of you stumbling home after three years abroad with scurvy and six types of intestinal parasites like you used to."
"Oh, God, don't mention intestines." Arthur groaned. He inhaled; in anyone else, it would have been only that, an inhale. But the move was practically a gag in his brother, and Rhys knew it. If the collective hangover of what seemed to be a solid week of drink (at least judging by the stink of him when Rhys had let him through the door) hadn't knocked the life from him before, now it seemed too completely.
"If you're going to be sick, do it now, love. Because that's got to come out before you sleep, or you'll wake up in the morgue with lock jaw on the death notice."
"There's nothing in me to bring up," Arthur said, bracing himself on the sink with grim resignation.
"Right then," Rhys said. "On three." He smoothed down his brother's straw-coloured hair, still damp from the shower. "One." And on his next breath, he ripped out the offending not-earring. And like he'd pulled the pin from a grenade and not his poor whinging cunt of a brother, there was an explosion of gagging, coughing and cursing that only got louder as Rhys doused a face flannel in hot water and laid it over the problem at hand. He gave the ear a squeeze with it and let the heat relax everything as much as it could.
A few pinches to get the worst of the fluid out, more profanity, and unexpectedly, Rhys felt Arthur topple. He barely managed to sweep the begonia and books off the dusty chair that held his bathroom reading before he sat and let Arthur collapse with the good side of his head on Rhys left knee.
"For Christ's sake." Rhys tutted. "You're still high, aren't you?"
He didn't answer, but eyes shut and looking an inch from death, Arthur had the smug look of a well-fed cat. He'd obviously had fun, whatever he'd done. Rhys shook his head. Hopeless. Four children, two thousand years, two world wars, and Arthur was still Arthur. As bad as a tomcat. When the ear was as pliable as it was going to get and all the rust and grime was removed from the skin, Rhys picked up the bottle of peroxide.
"This might sting a bit."
Arthur eyed the bottle suspiciously. "Is that.... strictly needed?"
"It this or I take you to A&E,"
"That feels rather dramatic."
"Do you want to get tetanus the week before Christmas? Fancy one of your spawn scraping you off the floor again when you keel over keks first on the good tourtière?"
"... No."
"Then don't be chopsy with me and hold still." He tilted Arthur's head up and propped it on a towel so the peroxide would flow the way he wanted after pooling on the shell of his ear. Quick as you please, he flipped the cap on, and dumped chemicals out.
Arthur bucked and cursed because he always did when no one else was around to give him reason to hold his lip stiff. Keeping hold of what he was doing, Rhys instinctively cradled Arthur's head. A spare hand cupped his neck like a newborn, and Rhys had the bizarre feeling of when he was one of three siblings, their mother told him to mind the baby's head when it was his turn to hold the tiny, squawling bastard mother kept so carefully wrapped up. He held Arthur like that now, shushing and holding him fast. Arthur cursed him up and down for it, striking the counter weakly.
He laughed as Arthur's profanity came to a halt and he only seemed half-conscious. "Fuck me, mate. I think you just told me to go fuck myself with a tree in Cumbrian."
Arthur hummed weakly, lolling against Rhys. "Did I?"
"So you did," Rhys wiped some of the sweat off Arthur's brow and looked at the mess of the ear, gingerly lifting the fabric. "You're lucky this wasn't worse."
"Hmm," Arthur replied noncommittally. He'd gone a bit pale and seemed nearing the end of his tolerance for general and liver abuse.
"Are you going to go down swinging if I go and try to find you some paracetamol and dioralyte?"
"Can I have some whiskey?"
"No."
"Fine." Another noncommittal noise. The absence of cranky insults was as good an admission a pain as any.
"Bloody hurts, does it? Must if you're being reasonable."
"You're... Reasonable." Arthur retorted lamely, his eyes shutting and the weight on Rhys' body increasing as he got closer to sleep.
"Yes, I am." He chuckled. "Christ alive, you're still high." Rhys shook his head. "Idiot."
"Only a little." Arthur still hadn't opened his eyes, but he tapped Rhys on the forearm and squeezed. "Oh... er... now might be a good time to mention..."
"Lord, what'd you do?"
"Might have a tattoo I don't remember getting... or where I got it."
"And let me guess, there's not a licensing board in the Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland that can vouch for the cleanliness of the needles."
"... Maybe."
Rhys groaned. "I take it back. I miss the scurvy. At least back then, bloody malaria did me a solid and took care of the venereal disease with you. Is the tattoo at least something good this time?"
"Stratocaster." He said, tapping his thigh to indicate to right from above his knee to his hip, awkwardly bent on the toilet still.
"Jesus Christ. You're going to the clinician in the morning. I can practically see the bacteria. And if you're going to make a habit of this shit again, you're going on PreP."
"On what?"
"We'll discuss it in the morning. Come on, get your sorry arse off my shitter already. " He heaved Arthur up by the shoulders. Grateful he'd only ever gotten an inch on Rhys and not half as much as his Welsh bulk, he kicked a stack of mail off one of the mismatched chairs and threw his brother down. "You're eating whatever I put in front of you and going to bed, and if you've scuttled off again before seeing a doctor, I'm telling Lilibet."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me, you miserable fuck." Rhys chirped, flicking the kettle on and ducking into the fridge to remove leftovers. He smeared some on bread and whacked it into the oven, and dumped a bowl into a pot as Arthur practically melted into a fat fucking mug of tea and a handful of painkillers. Twenty minutes later, he looked significantly perkier as they each had a bowl of cawl and a few slices of welsh rarebit in front of them.
"Bugger me that's..." Arthur looked surprised, blinking when he stabbed a bit of leek into his mouth and had a pleasant human sensation while not off his tits on a litany of substances. Funny how the human senses worked.
"Actually food, yes. Shocking." Rhys replied.
"Lamb?"
"What do I look like? A heathen?" Rhys laughed. "What the fuck else would it be?"
"No, no. It's lamb. I know its lamb. But its... Oooohoo, fuck me, mate. That's from New Zealand."
"The fuck it is."
"The fuck it isn't."
"How on earth can you tell that?"
"The entire island made its living shearing sheep since before I was born and I have two children who have more sheep than people!" Arthur replied, incredulous. "How could I not?"
If only the man ever talked to his children like a normal person. Rhys thought and sighed. "New Zealand lamb was on sale."
"No, it wasn't. It probably had better marbling. I'd bet a tenner it was the best on the rack. You're a right fuckin snob, and you know it."
"Listen here, you little shit." Rhys shook his head. The stones on his brother, honestly. "You haven't got any room yourself on that front."
"When was the last time I turned up my nose at food?" Arthur said.
"The last time your son made burgers?"
"I did not. The pineapples are a lovely addition. Quite fond of the beetroot as well, truth be told."
"Not that one. The other one."
"Ah, Alfred. He put peanut butter on it. On a burger."
"Did it look that bad, or were you hungover?"
"That's irrelevant."
"Picky, picky." Rhys laughed. "Still as fussy as when you got cranky over us going and making you put any fruit we picked in the basket instead of your face."
"Oi, fuck you." Arthur gestured flippantly with the spoon, but it had no real heat to it.
"Can't blame you." Rhys laughed. "You've always been a half step from scurvy."
"I have not."
"World's largest maritime empire, and if I didn't make you eat an orange every time I saw you, you'd keel over dead with that hole from waterloo wide open and poor Matthew having his third worst day that week. You've always been a terrible eater. Even bit mum when you were still on the tit."
He had no retort for that and went a little soft, something sad melting around his eyes that rarely did.
"Did I always make her miserable?" He asked, the words as quiet as his voice ever got. He fixated on a bit of leek on his fork, staring at it like it'd shot one of his children, and he was about to take its head off in the course of dinner.
"No." Rhys cleared his throat, summoning his earliest memories. Everything from before Mother's death was a little faded in colour in his mind, like the waves of the centuries had stolen a bit of the vibrancy. But the sounds were untouched. He could hear even words he couldn't remember knowing and didn't understand now if he conjured them. "No, you made her happy too. You always wanted to run, even before you could crawl. She'd chase after you laughing because you'd yell like a hellion even when you lost your footing and tumbled down a bit of the hill fort and ruined your tunic. You almost went careening into the water trough once, and she had to take off her cloak and plunge her arm to the elbow, searching around for your torc, and you yelled at each other, laughing your heads off for half an hour until she found it, dried it off and clamped it back on you."
Arthur still stared at the bit of leek, but something about his face had eased, and he shovelled it into his face, still not making eye contact.
"Saying you only ever made her miserable is the same as saying Alfred only made you miserable. Precisely untrue." Rhys said, pushing another piece of rarebit at him. "Eat that; it's Gloucestershire cheese this time."
"Thank you," Arthur said, looking up to accept the food and meaning much more than that.
"Course," Rhys said, clearing his throat and ducking his own cheese toast into the broth. "Can't have you half starved to death when your spawn invades for Christmas. Alfred's already half convinced you're a half-step and a communist program jump from starvation."
"After all this, again?" Arthur sighed. "He still thinks everything is communism."
"It's just how he shows he cares." Rhys said, diplomatically. "Do you want more?"
"You're going to have to roll me back into the gutter as it is."
"It's where you belong." Rhys grinned but deposited their bowls into the washing-up basin and offered his brother his hands. "C'mon, spare beds made up and it doesn't even smell like wet Scotchman."
"Is that better or worse than wet sheep?" Arthur took his arms and let him swing him to his feet.
"Oh, when he's been in the Buckfast? Worse. Almost as bad as you when you've been in the... what was it this time? Black tar heroin and gin?" They stumbled down the hallway. "I could smell you before I opened the door. Eau de homeless."
"Your guess is as good as mine." Arthur yawned and slumped bonelessly on the bed.
"Do I have to check you for track marks in the morning?"
He got a noncommittal grunt, sleepy and fading. There was a boneless thump as Arthur met the mattress, and Rhys made a note to check his pulse in the morning. Idiot.
Rhys sighed and threw the duvet over Arthur's prone body. He curled into it like a child. He stood there a long moment. Two millennia of watching him curl onto his side when he was safe, when he was home, when he was himself and safe and within reach. He swallowed something and, needing to do more, pulled another blanket off the end of the bed and tucked it around the gremlin, now hugging his knees, one hip twisted up out of alignment. He'd never understood how Arthur could sleep like that. He paused there.
"You know you could talk to me instead of going off the rails like this. You're my brother, and I do love you, you arseclown."
"Dw i’n lyfio chdi." Came the words, unexpected and sudden as a beam of sunshine in their weather. Rhys stared into the darkness for a long moment, stunned. Of course the bastard used the version with the English loanword. Rhys grinned. Cunt. He stopped a moment, brushing his fingers through the same straw-like hair he'd brushed his hand through for his entire life without knowing what to do with the baby, and then the boy and then the man it'd always belonged to.
"I love you too,"