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Delaware hated his grandfather. He never understood why his mother would keep insisting that the man would be in their lives— his life. To think, after all things he had said and done she still loved him…
Delaware scoffed and crossed his arms.
“Something on your mind, lad?” The source of his loathing, England, asked.
All he did was sniffle and glare in response.
“Listen, I know you don’t want me to be here—”
“Good.” Delaware interrupted.
“ But,” England said in that obnoxious ‘ you're gonna get a bloody lecture from me, boy’ , tone of his, “ It is not my fault that you caught the flu, yeah? Don’t take your woes out on me. I’m just here trying to help you; the least you can do is pipe down that attitude of yours.”
“I didn’t ask you to come and bother me.” Delaware grumbled into a cough.
England patted the stubborn teen on the back—perhaps with a bit more force than was needed, “ You didn’t ask, but your mother certainly did.”
Traitor. Delaware thought. Why couldn’t she have asked his dear beloved uncle, Canada? Or even Prussia? HELL! He would have taken one of his siblings! He would never hear the end of it but it sure would have been better than this !
He watched as his grandfather stood up from the bed, taking note of his wrinkled sweater vest, uncombed hair, and the bags under his eyes. Delaware hated the twinge of guilt he felt; he was the cause of those things after all. His grandfather was a stickler for appearances, a fact as true as the statement that the earth rotates the sun. Something was clearly forcing him out of orbit—Or rather someone specifically named Delaware.
Delaware shrunk back down into the plush blue pillows stacked beneath him. The quilt that his grandfather had brought with him covered his chest in both a suffocating, but comforting manner. It was a stunning blue and white hand-crafted one that the older man had made himself; perhaps that’s why it felt like it had so much weight to it.
Delaware took one of his hands and began picking at some of the pilling that was occurring on the forget-me-not pattern it displayed. His mouth somehow felt more sour than it already did from the illness, at the realization that it was probably meant for his mother. He barely even registered England’s departure or his mumbling.
As the scent of tea wafted through the kitchen and into his dimly lit room, Delaware pondered about the shift of it all. It was almost a century ago at this point, where Delaware went from not even knowing if his grandfather knew of his existence to watching the man almost trip over himself trying to make up for ‘lost time’ with his mother. The absolute gall of that man…
Delaware could hear something clamoring to the floor in the kitchen; England must have dropped something if the muffed ‘ Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell!’ was anything to go by. Typically he would have been inclined to go and investigate and make sure everything was okay, however he was feeling rather comfortable at the moment and didn’t quite feel like moving. Oh well. Besides, checking in on him would have meant defeat . It would mean that he would have admitted that he cared .
Which he didn’t.
Obviously .
Delaware and England shared quite a few things in common it seemed. Not only did he look like a younger version of the older man, but they even shared a name: Arthur . God he hated that name. Delaware wrinkled his nose at the thought of how much he adored it when he was young. What a foolish child he was. However, they had even more in common—much to his dismay of course. They were, quite obviously, both extremely stubborn people. Especially when it came to each other. Delaware, refusing to give the man any sort of positive relationship, and England, refusing to give up on having one with the boy.
What was that saying about apples and trees, again?
The wooden floorboards in the hallway near his room began to creak.
Delaware could feel a headache coming back on.
“Apologizes for the wait lad,” England said, carrying a tray of assorted things to his wooden bedside table, placing it gently, “Had a bit of an incident, I suppose—but you needn’t worry about that.”
Delaware just hummed in confirmation. He was finding himself having difficulty meeting his grandfather’s eyes.
“When your mother was young,” England began softly, clearly reminiscing, as he sat back on the bed, dipping it slightly, “She got ill quite often…”
Delaware watched as a small bittersweet smile graced England's lips, his eyes twinkling with adoration, and his hands fidgeting with a handkerchief.
“She’d cling to me constantly,” He continued as he poured a cup of tea, “Said it made her feel better— Safe, even.”
He added two sugar cubes and a splash of milk, “Perhaps it was some sort of nation-instinct, or it truly was a comfort to her...”
He stirred it and tapped the spoon on the edge of it twice, “Then again she hasn’t seemed to have broken that habit just yet.”
“Where are you going with this?” Delaware squinted in distrust.
“That perhaps , your mother simply wanted to…give you some sort of comfort knowing she isn’t currently available to give it to you.” England said as he began to make a second cup; this time for his grandson, “So don’t get upset with her.”
Delaware was taken aback, “Upset with her? What makes you think—”
“Do not sit there and tell me that you weren’t just pouting about how your mother asked me to be here for you, lad.” England said bluntly.
“I wouldn’t say pouting —” England’s raised eyebrow cutting Delaware off, “Fine. I won’t complain about it to her later.”
“Good.”
The silence between them was thick and heavy—At least it was to Delaware. England seemed perfectly content to continue and finish making Delaware some tea. He watched as the Englishman silently passed the cup to him, both refusing to meet each other’s eyes.
“Thanks,” Delaware sniffled.
Perfect.
As alway.
It was warm and earthy; the sweetness of the sugar and the hint of honey he didn’t see the man add perfectly covering any sort of bitterness that might have been present. The warmth of the tea settled nicely in his stomach, soothing it. He focused on the cup; it was old—clearly a personal favorite of his grandfather’s if the scratches and chipping of the paint were anything to go by. As much of a perfectionist as he was, England was most certainly a sentimental man as well.
“I know I’m asking for quite the verbal lashing from you, but why do you hate me?” England asked, voice barely above a whisper, purposefully turned to face the window instead of his grandson.
Delaware clenched his jaw. There was so much he could say; so much he wanted to say. However, he couldn’t find the words. They wouldn’t leave his throat and formed a lump.
“...Why did you leave her?” Was the only thing he could manage to get out, his eyes glassy from both tears and fever.
“I had to.”
“Bullshit.”
England sighed and dropped his head, “I got scared.”
Delaware furrowed his brows.
The tea tasted cold and bitter now.
“I know that’s not the explanation or excuse you wanted.” England sighed
“You’re right; it isn’t.” Delaware bit.
“In all honesty,” England said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I punished your mother by staying away because it was easier for me than confronting my own emotions.”
Delaware's hands shook with fury.
England looked his grandson in the eyes, “You’re a Kirkland you know—like it or not you are. Do you know what that means?”
“I’m bound to be an ass?” Delaware sneered.
England chuckled, “ Some people might say you’ve already achieved that, but no. It means you have the Kirkland fatal flaws; stubbornness and pride . Don’t be foolish, there’s no shame in admitting when you need to lean on others. I had to learn that the very hard way.”
“And I’m supposed to lean on you?” Delaware scoffed.
“I would like for you to be able to, but I suppose you don’t have to.”
“Well I suppose I won’t be then.”
“I am trying, you know?” England sighed, “ Pride pushed me away from a lot of people. Clearly I’m still facing the consequences of that.”
England's face softened as he grabbed the now empty cup of tea from his ill grandson’s hands and placed it back on the tray, “I suppose what I’m trying to say is…I’m sorry.”
Delaware was shocked to say the least. He didn’t know the man was capable of actually feeling sorry.
“I hurt your mother, horribly, yet she still chose to forgive me—lord knows why.”
“It’s because she loves you.” Delaware found himself saying, a little surprised by his own words and voice.
“Indeed she does.” England smiled somberly.
“I don’t want to forgive you,” a familiar lump was forming back in Delaware's throat.
“I think that’s understandable.” England said, clasping his hands together, one thumb rubbing the other hand.
“But—” Delaware eyes felt like they were burning.
But what exactly? But he felt like he needed to for his mothers sake? But he can’t? But it wasn’t fair to him? or his mother? But he wanted to forgive him ?
Did he want to forgive him?
Maybe England was right. Maybe grandfather was right. Delaware took note of the subtle glint of hope in the older man’s eyes. The way they were framed with crows feet and baggage. The wispy stray hairs now turning a slight silver from its previously straw like hue. The way the warm light of noon from the open window gently lit him. The way it all began to turn blurry like a watercolor painting as heavy tear drops rolled down Delaware's face.
Delaware was a prideful and stubborn fool after all it seems. He had fallen for the same vice his grandfather had; too afraid to love someone in fear that they would hurt him. Pushing them away so that they can’t push you. He had done to his grandfather the same thing he loathes him for doing to his mother.
Delaware hiccuped as England pulled him gently into a hug. His nose was filled with the scent of freshly brewed tea, old books, and an ocean breeze. The man was also warm; not like some of his siblings who would occasionally get used like personal heaters by some of their kin— more like a soft sweater on a cool autumns day. The long, lanky, and calloused hands of his grandfather rubbed his back.
Delaware couldn’t recall the last time he actually let his grandfather hug him. He sobbed harder at the thought.
“It’s alright, lad” His Anchor whispered.
“It’s not!” Delaware sobbed.
It didn’t feel fair. The swirling storm of emotions flooded his heart making him feel like he was drowning. He felt guilty. Oh so guilty. For the hatred. For the forgiveness. For the pain . He wanted to hit the man. Scream at him. Yell about how dare he do this to his mother—how dare he do this to him . He wanted to push him away. He wanted to cling and never let go. He just wanted…
So they sat there. They sat there till there till the storm passed by; Delaware curled up in the arms of his grandfather who refused to let him go. Till only small sniffles and hiccups were left like forgotten raindrops left on the trees. England, let the boy pretend to sleep as he carded his hands through hair oh so similar to his own, and whispered small and soft comforts.
Delaware doesn’t think that he could forgive his grandfather fully anytime soon; one day in the future he will, when the tangled knots of emotions are finally unraveled. As of now, he just wanted to pretend.
Perhaps his mother had a point about his grandfather being a comfort after all...