Chapter Text
[November—Washington, D.C.]
Contrary to popular belief, Alfred Franklin Jones actually lives a pretty normal life.
The only thing that differentiates him from any other citizen—a working mom, a high school student, a preschooler—is that he lives forever. Truth be told, he’s taken all the time he needs to adjust to his immortality, but for the most part, he doesn’t fret over it. It’s just a fact of life for nations like them.
It’s morning, recently just turned 9 a.m., and the weather is cool but not cold. A brisk morning, you could call it. Thanksgiving is just around the corner, and everyone is gearing up for the holiday season, which is also around the corner if you think Thanksgiving is a prelude to Christmas and not a standalone holiday worthy of at least a day of recognition.
For Alfred, this means a good time to start saving his money. He’s got a bit of an international reputation for going all out for Christmas, constantly insisting at world summits to host every holiday celebration. No one typically objects; he never loses anyway, because there’s no Christmas like a boisterous American Christmas. Everyone objects to U.S. dominance when it comes to New Year’s. The country with laxer alcohol laws usually wins—cue 4-time winner Serbia and 7-time winner Germany. Everyone loves Berlin.
That said, Thanksgiving is a holiday Alfred actually loves celebrating. The parades, the food, Black Friday, Thursday football, the food, the family gatherings… Did we mention the food? Around this time, Alfred likes to gather all his loved ones, shove a bunch of well-meaning plates chock-full of turkey in their faces, and watch football… and fall asleep on the couch.
Best. Holiday. Ever.
But he can pig out any other day. What makes it special is the people he surrounds himself with. It’s why he makes such an adamant effort each year to get at least two other people to celebrate with him. It’s not exactly fun to eat a whole feast by himself, though don’t be mistaken, he can down a Thanksgiving dinner solo.
At his office, where he should be working, he finds himself free. That’s right—no letters, no revenue checks. He’s actually free to do whatever he wants until a pesky e-mail finds its way to him. At some point, he’s grown to loathe e-mailing because he can’t burn the e-mail and say it got lost in the inbox or something. He’s tried that before, and as it turns out, you can’t burn a computer… or his mail inbox.
Alfred leans back in his swivel chair, letting out a deep sigh after closing Microsoft Outlook for the fifth time today. God, he’s never hated a billionaire more than Bill Gates. His office is quiet aside from the normal noise outside the door from people walking or chatting in the corridors. He wishes he could leave for lunch already—he wants sushi.
Sushi…
You know who makes a killer maki roll?
His husband.
As he leans back, his blue eyes glance at the ring on his finger, and he giggles to himself. He remembers their wedding day. Thinking of it makes him smile ear-to-ear like an idiot, seeing Kiku all dressed up and the fact that he can just flaunt their love to everyone like, “Hey! This is my husband! Look at him and cry and be jealous of our love!”
He loves being married. Sometimes he wonders how in the world someone like him managed to bag the most beautiful man on Earth. Is Kiku the most beautiful man on Earth? Is there someone more beautiful, more magnificent than his husband?
Hell no.
Thinking of sushi makes him miss his husband. The only bad thing about loving a man from across the ocean is that he’s across the ocean. Alfred thinks God did this because if they were any closer, chaos would happen—ungodly chaos. They’d be too powerful. He glances over at the picture on his desk—it’s actually only of Kiku, one of their professional photo shoots that Kiku insisted they would do. Photos don’t capture his grace, and sure, Kiku at the park during cherry blossom season is beautiful, but Alfred would like to see him in the flesh.
As that one song goes, you know the one, “The beauty of her face was beyond my wildest dreams, like cherry blossoms blooming in the mountains in the early spring.”
Now the song’s stuck in his head.
With Thanksgiving approaching, he might as well get to work on nagging his loved ones. Kiku is sure to come, so there’s no need to bother him, and it’s also 11 p.m. there, and Kiku needs his beauty rest. A man that gorgeous needs his well-deserved rest. He thinks of Matthew next since he’s the nearest. He wonders what that kid’s doing now.
Alfred takes his cellphone (not the work phone; those are recorded and monitored) and looks for Matthew’s contact. His profile picture is indeed Matthew (though at some point, it was Kuma because he looked cuter), but it’s quite old. The holiday season of 2017 in Manhattan. Alfred remembers that night quite fondly, as it was a “Bros’ Night,” also known as “Brothers doing mediocre and maybe exciting tasks together… Night.”
They were ice skating together. Alfred thought to take pictures because he’s a selfieholic. He thought to himself, “I don’t have many pics of Matthew.” So, while Matthew was tying his skates, Alfred told him to look up and smile, and maybe the smile is a bit awkward, but only Alfred can find it endearing. He wears his little beanie, his little gloves, his little scarf, and his little earmuffs.
Alfred has no clue why he’s using little. Matthew is actually taller than him.
However, there was once a time when Matthew was littler than Alfred, but that was when they were toddlers. Also, cuteness aggression is one hell of a drug, and Alfred is unknowingly an unrecoverable addict. It’s half the reason he likes to wrestle or purposefully irritate Matthew. It’s not because he dislikes him secretly—quite the opposite, actually.
Good memories.
He taps the phone icon, and it begins dialing. He spins around aimlessly in his chair as it dials. Alfred knows the guy isn’t that busy. His government doesn’t nearly torture him as badly as they do Alfred, and that is a fact. Before he jumps to hasty conclusions, the other side answers.
“Hello?”
That is definitely not Matthew’s voice.
“Who the hell are you?”
“… Matthew Williams…” The way he said Williams, Alfred knows exactly who this is.
“Yong-soo, dude, why did you answer the call?”
“I was playing on it!” Yong-soo says this so innocently and with a very present smile, and Alfred supposes he’s not doing anything malicious, but it’s still bothersome. “What do you want?”
“Dude, why do you have his phone?”
He hums. “I was playing Clash of Clans… Your brother’s very busy right now.”
“Doing what?”
“You should be working right now,” Yong-soo mutters, obviously concentrating on something entirely different, probably Clash of Clans. “I’ll call you later.”
“Don’t hang up, bro! Give the phone to Matthew.”
“No.”
“Dude.”
“I’m almost done with the raid. You can call later if you’re not busy.”
“That’s why I’m calling right now! I have to ask Matthew something!”
“Like what?”
Alfred hesitates. “I’d… prefer if I could ask him myself.”
“Hyeongnim (brother-in-law), you can tell me—we’re family too.”
Alfred can then hear a faint voice, and then Yong-soo replies, “It’s Alfred.” Finally, Yong-soo reluctantly hands over the phone and abandons his raid. “Al?” At long last, it’s actually Matthew’s voice.
“Hey, Matt, what are you doing? Also, why did Yong-soo have your phone?”
“Uh, I guess he wanted to play on it,” Matthew clears his throat. “Anyway, why are you calling? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I can ask the same thing. What are you doing… and why is Yong-soo there?”
“Marriage leave,” he answers, “and I was doing some shopping. Why?”
Now it makes sense why Yong-soo is there, though he doesn’t quite get why he likes going to Canada. Something about his husband being there, but Alfred thinks Canada is significantly more lame than the U.S., and it’s only he who thinks that.
“Well, I was gonna ask if you… y’know, if you wanted to come by on Thanksgiving.”
Matthew thinks about it as characterized by a prolonged, “Um.” Alfred knows that in God-hating, football-loathing, hockey-fucking communist Canada, Thanksgiving is not nearly as important as it is in the States. He simply can’t be bothered to board that train of feeling indifferent toward Thanksgiving. What’s not to love?
And he knows Matthew is exactly what he thought—a God-hating, football-loathing, hockey-fucking communist.
“It’s next week, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, you didn’t know?”
“Well, I was just thinking of this week, really. Yong-soo has to go back by Saturday. So… I can see. If nothing comes up that day, and I get a holiday, I’ll drive down there. Did you call Kiku?”
Alfred scoffs. “I’m not gonna disturb my husband’s beauty sleep right now. I’ll do it after work. But I’d like you to. It doesn’t have to be much… It can just be us. I know you Commies don’t know about football, but we can watch the game that day.”
“Al, I do watch football, because if I didn’t, you would get on my ass about it.”
“You just saved yourself an earful.” Alfred smiles. “Look, you don’t have to bring anything if you don’t want to. I’ll make everything. I make a killer pumpkin pie, don’t you know?”
Matthew smiles to himself. “Yeah, I’ll give you that. Anyway, it’s the same place, right? You still live on Clinton?”
“Yeah… Oh, and Yong-soo can come if he wants.”
“Eh, you have to ask his government about that. You know how strict they are.”
Alfred nods as if Matthew can see him. All in all, he does like talking to Matthew, and, believe it or not, Alfred is quite mindful of other people’s time. Those SNL skits really jacked up his reputation, and now everyone thinks he’s an inconsiderate asshole who’s as obnoxious as he is gluttonous.
Well, everyone has a bit of nuance in their personality. Alfred is no different, and you could maybe blame his utter density on the fact that he’s on the autism spectrum. Where he is exactly is entirely up to whether you think he’s worth the spot he deserves in your mind.
“Okay,” but truth be told, Alfred does like chatting with Matthew, “well, I’ll let you do your shopping. Where are you?”
“Uh, at H-mart. We need some rice paper. Yong-soo wants to make tteokbokki with it.”
“Dude, seriously, can you even handle that much spice? You freak out over salted nuts.”
Alfred can hear the eye roll in Matthew’s tone. “I’ll have you know I can eat kimchi now without milk. Yong-soo told me he wasn’t going to make them as spicy as he usually does, anyway.”
“Bro, I think you’re too white,” Alfred rubs his eyes with a sigh.
“Don’t! You couldn’t eat kimchi without crying!”
“Because it went down the wrong hole!” His immediate clapback was almost too quick. “How many times do I have to say it? Not even Kiku believes me!”
“And Yong-soo doesn’t either.” The fact that he can hear the man’s snickering in the background irritates Alfred. “Maybe you’re too white.”
It’s like two homeless guys calling each other broke.
“Don’t forget your roots, Mattie—you’d spit out meat if it was too seasoned for you. I know your secrets.”
“And I know yours—you ate boiled chicken and buttered rice for six months straight like you were allergic to salt. And butter?! You butter your rice?!”
“Not anymore, bro! Kiku already gave me enough shit for that, but you’re not innocent either! You remember the mayo incident…”
Matthew gasps like he was genuinely fearing for his life. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would—put me on speaker, I want Yong-soo to hear this shit.”
“I’ll hang up on you.”
“YONG-SOO, MATTHEW ONCE PUT MAYONNAISE IN HIS RICE—!” “Okay, bye, Al!” And then the phone call ended.
It’s true, though. Matthew reached the pinnacle of caucacity when he added mayo to his rice with ranch. However, Alfred will not admit that he tried it and thought it wasn’t half bad. You’d have to kill him for that, and no, you can’t waterboard that information out of him either. The 70s were an interesting time.
It does make him wonder where their whiteness truly spawned and infected them, even to this day.
Arthur Kirkland.
Francis doesn’t count because, at the very least, he actually seasons his food and knows how to cook. Arthur, on the other hand, still cooks and eats like the Blitzkrieg is ongoing and they’re being invaded by the Normans. Alfred can give him credit where credit is due—he can cook and bake. Yes, he can season his food… but the issue lies in the fact that he’s extremely petty.
Alfred almost wants to feel bad for him if he weren’t a spiteful man. You can wrong Arthur once in the most trivial way possible, and he’ll purposefully serve you the most bland food ever concocted in mankind’s history, or straight up kill you if the minor crime was just that grave. It was quite a hard pill to swallow when Francis told him (with Arthur out of the picture, mind you) that Arthur can cook, but he’s so incredibly petty that the only people he actually serves palatable food to are his government officials.
Everyone else can suck his bellend.
Alfred wonders what went wrong in his life to have him be this way. What unspeakable childhood trauma could he have endured to purposefully slight people he hates by serving them undercooked, overcooked, or bland food?
Him serving you bland food is actually a mercy in the nation sphere.
It’s harder to stomach than the idea that he can’t cook. It’d be a lot easier to digest if that were the case.
When Alfred finds Arthur’s contact, he looks at his profile picture. It reminds me of how boomers unknowingly take selfies at unflattering angles when using a phone. This is precisely Arthur’s profile. The most unflattering angle, taken from below, thick brows furrowed in confusion as he was likely tapping his phone screen like a bird pecking seeds, and accidentally took a picture.
To be fair, it was from a long time ago, back when he first got his smartphone, which was 2010. Does he look funny like this? Hell yeah, so Alfred kept it as his profile merely because he looked like an old man. Nowadays, he’s a lot more adept with the touch screen, but still gets pissed at the tiny things and wears his reading glasses like an old man. Arthur is just very old, Alfred fears.
He decides to dial him, mostly to mess with him but also to see if maybe he’d like to join him for Thanksgiving. Arthur, being the pretentious ass he is, will likely scorn Alfred, but Alfred knows that if he doesn’t bother to at least invite him, he’ll bitch about not being invited.
Cosmopolitan Magazine labeled this man as “Gentleman of the Year” for 20 years straight now, by the way.
Eventually, the phone surprisingly picks up. “What?”
Yep. Definitely Arthur.
“Wow, so blunt. Not even a hello?”
Arthur’s voice toward his enemies or his former charges will always be the same—blunt, sharp, and nonsensical. You get used to it. “No, because you’re bothering me. What do you want?”
“Well, obviously, what you’re doing is very important, so maybe I’ll call back later, okay?”
“Please do.”
Alfred scoffs lightly. “You’re not even gonna fight me on it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was busy.”
“Oh…” The pout in his tone is almost palpable. Watch in real time its effectiveness even after centuries of inactivity. “Well… I just wanted to see how you were doing. But… if you don’t want me bothering you, I’ll just call you after work.”
Arthur can tell what he’s doing with the very slightly whiny tone he does. It’s a shame that he can recognize it and still fall for it. He sighs heavily. “Fine, what do you want? Do you want me to wire you some money?”
“No wiring needed. What were you doing?”
“… I was having lunch at home,” Arthur sounded exhausted, “then you called and ruined my time alone. Seriously, what do you want, Alfred—I’ve only got an hour or so.”
“Okay, well, I have to ask you a very important question.”
A beat of silence.
“… Which is…?”
“Would you, Sir Arthur Kirkland of England, of the most prestigious title of the most prestigious House of Windsor—”
“Get to the point.”
“Wanna come over for Thanksgiving?” The little smile in his voice ticks Arthur more than anticipated.
“… Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah, the giving of thanks. Y’know, where you can pig out all you want.”
Arthur pinches his nose bridge. “And catch a 12-hour flight from Heathrow to JFK for just one day of celebration?”
“Well, you can stay for longer! Who said you had to stay for just a day? You can bring Francis if you want.”
“Francis would be even less enthused about a flight,” Arthur sighs. “Look, truth be told, I don’t know if I can snatch a day off, let alone multiple, long enough for me to fly over there. I feel I can spend my time much wiser than spending that much money on a flight for a holiday I don’t even celebrate.”
Alfred rolls his eyes before adjusting himself in his chair. “It’s less about the meaning of the holiday and more about the traditions. Are you telling me you wouldn’t want to eat and sleep it all off the next day? Or going Black Friday shopping?”
“Preferably not,” Arthur replied. “Unlike you, I don’t function well with being bloated.”
“That’s the best part!”
Arthur’s eyes flicker to the phone held against his head in judgment. “Right.” He then shifts it between his shoulders. “Listen, I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather not. There are many better things I can spend my time on. Why don’t you come over here for a change?”
“Uh, because why would I eat your food willingly?”
“Well, just for that, I don’t want you anywhere near this damn island! Christ, you make it so hard to hold a feasible conversation with you instead of bickering.”
Alfred’s face shrinks in offense. “Oh, I’m the difficult one? Not you, acting like I’m a nuisance every time I call. Y’know, this is why I never call you—you always find a reason to think less of me, even when I’m trying to be nice to you for a change.”
“Maybe if you didn’t irk me every breathing chance you get, I wouldn’t be so nitpicky!”
“Oh, yeah, blame me—that’s all you do. You choke on food, and you blame me for distracting you.”
“I’m asking you to take accountability, you cretin!”
“So am I, limey!” Wow, he hasn’t used that insult in a long time. “Whatever. I only asked so you wouldn’t come bitch to me about it. If you come… Surprise me.”
After that, Alfred hung up without saying another word. Not even a goodbye.
Arthur pulls out the phone from between his shoulder and head. What remains is Alfred’s caller profile—his profile picture. It wasn’t a picture of Alfred, just a stuffed gray rabbit with floppy ears. It’s how Alfred feels to Arthur, despite how bothersome the man actually is.
He groans to himself, “Christ… You were cuter when you were a baby.”
As of now, Arthur resides in his Edwardian-style mansion located in Crawley, about 80 miles south of London. It’s an old property of his; he took the time and money to renovate it to fit modern standards and be equipped with modern amenities. Along with a decent size of land under his ownership, he considers it his best piece of work over the past century since it was built.
It’s remarkably quiet, the natural fauna is beautiful, and not too far away from the capital to go to work every day by train. Arthur adores it because it is so peaceful, and there’s no one to come bother him aside from the postal workers to deliver his mail and packages… and his husband, Francis.
The concept of marriage leave exists to provide a specified amount of paid time off for individuals to spend with their spouses. This leave is typically designated by the government or advisory council of an immortal. When two countries legally recognize a marriage, it becomes easier for their governments to collaborate and agree on an appropriate amount of time for marital leave that suits both parties. At a minimum, a week must be allowed for at least one party, particularly applying to countries that do not recognize a marriage.
Arthur will work instead of taking paid leave, while Francis, who has taken paid leave, will come over to stay with him. Does this mean Arthur wants him to stay with him?
No, it doesn’t.
And Francis has a solid track record of doing precisely this. Sure, they’re married, bonded together in holy matrimony, but it doesn’t neglect the fact that Francis will still be Arthur’s number one irritator. Holy matrimony came second to their millennia-long rivalry. You can ask each other why they married each other out on the street, and they will stutter in response. What’s their secret, you may ask?
Sex. It’s sex, and anyone saying that’s invalid has never met them in person. Sex is the glue that keeps them together and keeps them running back. Oh, and they get benefits from their marriage too, like reduced taxes, but that comes second to sex.
Thankfully, and Arthur truly does thank whatever merciful god gave him this, Francis is not here, and he can have this big, quiet, and gorgeous mansion to himself and his cat. Life just couldn’t get better than this.
And who cares if Alfred thinks he’s the worst person on Earth? When hasn’t he?
In this big, old mansion, Arthur doesn’t need anyone but himself… and maybe Francis, but he could live his life gleefully without that ogre he reluctantly calls his spouse. Right now, for his lunch break, he just made himself the most delightful coronation chicken sandwich and a bottle of lager to go with it. Sitting in the living room with a deadpan sitcom playing on TV, Scottish fold loafing at his side, life really couldn’t get any better.
As an Englishman, the true victories in life are small. Curse his old bloody imperialist past—no amount of glory or gold could amount to this life he lives now! He scoffs when he thinks of his past, thinking it could all fill the hole in his chest if he just conquered and conquered, when in reality, this is the perfect life he should’ve been living! Alone, content, and drinking a beer at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday!
To break himself from his perceived joy, his phone, tossed to the side on the couch cushion, began vibrating—not ringing. He almost rolled his eyes. He thought he was done with phone calls today, and he wouldn’t have to put on his blasted polite voice again. When he grabs it again, he notices that it’s Alfred… again.
“Damn cretin doesn’t know when to give up,” Arthur sighs heavily before answering the phone call. “Yeah?”
From the sounds of the call, there seems to be a lot of commotion going on in the background. Suddenly, a woman’s voice answers instead. “Hello?”
Immediately, Arthur is confused. “Who is this?”
“Is this Arthur Kirkland?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Uh, well,” her voice sounds nervous, “I don’t know how to explain this… Er…”
At this point, Arthur is preparing himself to be told something heavy, like Alfred got into an accident or some uncontrollable injury that’s grave enough to warrant someone else contacting him. It’s fine. What tragedy could be heavier than any of the traumatic events Arthur has endured for thousands of years?
“Alfred Jones is your former charge, right? I’m not mistaken?”
“He is…”
Arthur grows hotter, and his diagnosed but very poorly treated anxiety flares up. Nothing is heavier than the British declaration of war on Germany in 1939, right? Nothing is heavier than when his kingdom began pillaging the ancestral lands of his brothers, right? Nothing is heavier than witnessing his own mother get slaughtered by the Romans when he was a toddler, right? Nothing is heavier than being starved and imprisoned for years, then forcefully assimilated into Norman society, right?
Right?
“Try to believe me when I say this, sir,” she mutters, “but Mr. Jones is… a-a baby.”
Nothing, not all of Arthur’s accumulated trauma over his childhood and adulthood, could prepare him for the absolute speed at which his heart sank into his stomach.
“… I’m sorry?” That’s all he could mutter. He swears if this is some prank Alfred does over the phone, he’s going to seriously consider killing the bastard and then decide not to. “This isn’t some joke, right?”
“I fear not. This just happened.”
“What do you mean, it just happened? How did you call me from his phone?”
“It was already unlocked, sir. I didn’t open it myself. I… I don’t know who else to call.”
Ah, yes, call the boy’s former guardian. Surely he knows what to do after not taking care of an infant for almost 300 years.
“I-I refuse to believe this! If this is a prank orchestrated by Alfred himself, I refuse to play along with it! I’m hanging up!”
“Wait, sir!”
She couldn’t finish before Arthur pressed end call. What utter nonsense or sadistic pleasure does Alfred gain in orchestrating these? If anything, he’s only humiliating himself in the end. Before he tosses his phone back to its original position, he’s sent a photo from Alfred.
Arthur reluctantly opens the push notification to see the photo.
Upon seeing that photo, his entire life is spelled with the words O-V-E-R.
Covered in a brown suit jacket, a shirt, and a blue tie is a naked infant with familiar baby blue eyes, shiny blond hair, and a perturbed face, sitting on the tile floor.
“Oh, my fucking God.”
Alfred Franklin Jones, embodiment of the United States of America, is a fucking baby.