Crappy title is crappy? It's "Family" in French...
Something short I wrote a while back, kinda Maple Tea-ish, I guess, but not really...It's actually one of the better things I've written, I think. Hope you enjoy!
All characters (c) NOT ME
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Matthew breathed in heavily, then winced at the sharp pain from the inhale. Blood dripped down from his forehead, trailing onto his eyelashes and down his nose. He limped a little, supporting a leg that looked like it had been stabbed multiple times with a bayonet. A large bloodstain on his chest and a ripped and singed uniform gave away that he’d been shot as well. His entire body ached. His men had suggested he get medical attention immediately, but he had refused. He would survive. But he needed to see Arthur.
“How could you side with him?”
Matthew felt another pain in his chest, but not from breathing this time. The image of his twin, as bloody and beaten as he was, flashed across his mind.
“I’m your brother, Matthew! Why won’t you join me?!” The American shivered behind his rifle, dyed crimson from the blood and the reflections of the buildings burning around them. “England has done nothing to help either of us!” Tears came to his eyes. “Come on, Mattie! You don’t need him! Fight with me!”
“I’m not leaving Arthur, Alfred!” Matthew had no weapon, rifle flung a good four feet away from him. His back was to the fiery walls. It took everything he had to not break down right there in the crosshairs of his twin’s loaded gun. “You’re my brother, but he’s my family, too!” he said, voice straining. “I can’t fight anymore!”
The harbor came into view, and with it the large, proud ship that Matthew knew well. The HMS Titania. Matthew let out a sigh of relief, but then cursed himself for it from the pain it gave him to exhale. He stopped and coughed a couple times, ignoring the blood that dripped from his mouth. Just a little further and he’d be there…
“Family? He’s your family?!” Alfred’s voice cracked just a little bit. “He’s an oppressive tyrant, Matthew! Who cares if he raised us? We shouldn’t be under the care of such a neglectful, stubborn, drunken lime-sucking mother—”
“Stop!” The tears raced down Matthew’s face. “Just stop, Alfred! Don’t you think I’m going through enough?!” His legs gave out, and he fell to the ground. “D-do you think I want to choose between you two?! I love both of you!” He choked on the words a couple times. “Wh-why did you have to go and s-screw everything up, Alfred? Why?!”
That last bit had come out a bit more accusingly than he had intended. Alfred stopped for a moment, speechless, rifle drooping a little. His cerulean eyes met Matthew’s violet-blue, and Matthew saw a trace of despair there. Then they hardened, and his twin raised his gun.
Matthew finally reached the gangplank, surprised at his own success. He glanced up to the sentry, who looked at him in absolute shock. “I-I need to see the captain,” he said quietly. The sentry gave him an open-mouthed nod, then regained his senses and motioned for Matthew to follow him.
“Do you need help, sir?” he asked. Matthew glanced over the boy, who looked like he was about sixteen and had never seen blood before in his life. He shook his head.
“Just get me to Captain Kirkland as soon as possible.”
The sentry nodded, happy not to have to come in contact with Matthew’s bloody arm…leg…everything… He dashed ahead, stopping in front of the door to the dining hall to wait for Matthew to limp after him. Once he had made his way to the sentry’s side, he gave the nod for him to open the door. He could hear loud shouts from inside. This wasn’t going to be pretty.
The door opened to reveal a large group of noisy, rambunctious, and obviously drunken sailors, with one Arthur Kirkland sitting at the head of the table, rum bottle in hand and wearing the giant feathered pirate hat he got out whenever he got himself extremely intoxicated. He waved the bottle around a bit unstably. “Yeah, yeah, and then we’ll blow that bloody Yankee straight to hell, right, boys?” He was met with a roar of approval, and his drunken grin spread wider across his face. From somewhere came a shout of “God save the King!” Arthur raised his bottle and shouted it louder, until the whole table was singing George’s praises to the tune of some British drinking song. The sentry looked to Matthew, who was now leaning against the door to keep himself standing. He glanced back to the rowdy sailors and coughed.
“Captain?” he said quietly.
The entire room turned to look at them. Like everyone else at the table, Arthur looked extremely annoyed to have his drunken sing-a-long interrupted by such a lowly member of the crew. Then he saw Matthew.
He stood up, suddenly shaking a little. “Mattie?” he said, barely a whisper.
“Hey, Arthur,” said Matthew, attempting to pull his mouth into a small grin. Instantly the Englishman was up and at Matthew’s side.
“What are you wankers staring at?!” he shouted at his men, who all quickly turned back to their drinks as if nothing had happened. “Come on, Matthew,” he said, voice dropping back to a whisper, “let’s get you fixed up. Come with me.” He draped one of Matthew’s arms over his shoulder and began to lead him downstairs towards the captain’s quarters. Matthew was surprised at how quickly Arthur had sobered up…er, somewhat sobered up, as the Englishman still stumbled a little on their way. He opened the door, giving one of the nearby cabin boys a nasty look, then shuffled Matthew inside and shut it behind them. Carefully, Arthur helped Matthew sit on his bed. He took a step back and glanced Matthew over.
“…Dammit, Mattie, what the bloody hell happened?” he asked quietly.
Matthew’s hand went to the bullet wound in his chest. “…He came to Montreal,” he said.
Arthur’s face went white. He turned quickly, immersing himself in the task of searching for medical supplies. There was a silence, save for the sound of Arthur going through the clutter in his drawers. Finally, he turned back, holding bandages and some herbal ointment that looked creamy, almost like something edible. “You should probably take your uniform off,” he said, voice sounding less spirited than normal, especially considering how much he’d been drinking. He placed the medicine on the bed and helped Matthew pull off his jacket. Matthew unbuttoned his shirt and prepared for the worst, peeling it off. It hurt like hell, but he refrained from crying out. He almost did when he saw the bloody mess that was his chest. It looked like the bullet had missed his heart by mere inches.
The Englishman looked at the wound for a while, unperturbed. He’d seen this before, too many times, Matthew knew. “Did the bullet go all the way through?” he asked, looking up to meet the Canadian’s eyes. Matthew nodded. “Good,” said Arthur as he pulled off his gloves and jacket. “That’ll make things easier.” The feather from his hat fell into his face, and he jumped. Sheepishly, he removed his hat and put it on a bedpost. “Dammit, I shouldn’t be doing this now,” he muttered, “but tonight had to be the night the doctor went into town…I’m sorry, Mattie. This is only a quick patch-up job.”
“I’d rather that than bleeding out.” He gave Arthur a reassuring smile that didn’t seem to do its job.
Letting out a sigh, Arthur grabbed a towel from atop his dresser and wiped some of the blood from around the wound. Matthew cringed, but tried not to make it too noticeable. In about a minute, most of the excess blood was cleaned up, though the wound itself was still bleeding. Arthur went for the herbal stuff then, something he probably concocted himself. Oh well, his medicines were better than his cooking, at least. He had once told Matthew that he learned how to make them from the faeries. Matthew didn’t believe him, but the stuff did work wonders. “This is going to sting a little,” said Arthur as he scooped some of it onto his fingers. He rubbed it first on the area extremely close to the wound, then on the wound itself. Matthew felt a sharp blow of pain, and he gripped the sheets tightly.
“A-A little?”
“I’m sorry, Mattie.” Arthur reached out with the hand that wasn’t covered in ointment and squeezed one of Matthew’s hands. “I’d rather you not get infected, okay? And you’ll heal faster now,” he said, putting the last touches on the bullet wound and grabbing the bandages. “This was quite a clean wound,” he said as he wrapped the bandages around Matthew’s chest. “How close to the shooter were you?”
Matthew thought back on Alfred’s bloodstained face, his hardened eyes. “Close enough,” he murmured sadly.
Arthur tilted his head, a little concerned, then finished tying the bandages and backed away. “Alright,” he said, “what next?” He didn’t wait for Matthew to answer, instead bandaging up his head quickly and then moving on to his leg. They didn’t really talk after that. Matthew felt his eyelids start to droop, but a wave of pain from the ointment on one of his wounds would keep him from falling asleep each time he got close. After a good ten minutes of this comfortable silence, Arthur finally finished. He placed the medical stuff on his dresser, not bothering to try to figure out its proper place. “How do you feel?” he asked quietly.
“Like I got run over by a moose.”
“You should get some rest,” said Arthur. He pulled out a shirt that probably would have been extremely baggy on his small figure but looked like it’d fit Mattie perfectly. Handing the shirt to Matthew, he dropped his voice even lower than before. “H-how bad was it, Mattie?”
Matthew slipped his arms through the sleeves, wincing as he brushed a few of the wounds. “…Bad,” he answered at last. “Buildings burning, rebels raiding homes and stores…We were able to push them back, but…” He cringed again. Arthur sat next to him on the bed and placed a hand on his again. Matthew glanced to him, and his other hand wandered to his bullet wound. “It’s just…It’s just hard…” Neither needed to clarify any further.
“You’re staying here tonight. And getting to bed,” said Arthur finally. “Come on.” He stood up, then offered Matthew a hand. Reluctantly, Matthew accepted it, and the Englishman helped pull him up, letting him lean on his shoulder for support. Arthur pulled back the sheets on the bed and rearranged the pillows a bit, then turned so that it would be easier for Matthew to lie back down.
“But where are you going to sleep?” he asked as a weak complaint, lying down anyway. He shifted around, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable.
Arthur waited until Matthew had stopped moving to gently pull the covers back over him. “I’ll figure that out later,” he said, laying a hand on Matthew’s head like he was checking his temperature. Matthew suddenly felt a wave of nostalgia rush over him.
“A-Arthur?” he asked. The Englishman tilted his head. “W-will you read me a story?”
Matthew wasn’t sure he could really tell what the look on Arthur’s face was. It seemed like a weird mix of shock and skepticism. “…Mattie, I’m so drunk right now,” he said, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m surprised I’m functioning this well.”
“Please?” Matthew made eye contact with Arthur and gave him that sad, puppy dog look that always worked. “Pretty please?” He added in a lip quiver for effect.
It didn’t take long for Arthur to cave. “F-fine!” he said, dropping to the ground and reaching under his bed. “You’re lucky I keep this here,” he muttered as he dragged out a large book of faerie tales. Letting out a sigh, he sat down on the bed and began to flip through the pages. He finally stopped on a page with a beautiful drawing of a castle in the middle of a forest, one that Matthew recognized immediately. “You owe me one, Matthew,” Arthur sighed.
“You’re the best, Artie.”
A small blush dashed across Arthur’s face, and he coughed. “Ahem, once upon a time,” he began, “in the center of a dense green forest, there was a magnificent palace where a beautiful princess lived…” The words seemed to flow gracefully, enveloping Matthew in a sense of safety and familiarity. He closed his eyes and listened to Arthur’s soft voice. In his mind, he transported himself to that small clearing by the brook so many years ago, to that quiet night when he first sat in Arthur’s arms, when he first felt like he might actually belong somewhere. With Arthur, and with Alfred…Or was it just with Arthur now? The vision around him slowly faded. Things weren’t the same…They’d never be the same, would they?
It was then that Matthew noticed Arthur’s voice faltering. He opened his eyes and lifted his head. “I-It was then…” Arthur struggled to speak. “Then t-that the he…” He stopped mid-sentence, tried to regain his composure. “That the her…the h-her…the…the…” he stuttered. Matthew sat up, ignoring the pain in his chest, and wrapped an arm around Arthur.
“It was then,” he said, voice quiet but powerful, “that the hero appeared in the princess’s room. ‘Don’t worry!’ he said happily. ‘I’m here to save you!’ The princess was shocked.
“‘Why would you brave so many dangers…just to save me?’ she asked in disbelief.” Matthew felt Arthur shaking, and he pulled the Englishman closer into a hug.
“He grinned. ‘Because that’s what heroes do! And that’s what I am!’” Suddenly, something dripped on his hand. He glanced down to see tears streaming from Arthur’s bright green eyes.
“A hero…” he murmured quietly. He dropped his head, hot tears falling onto the book’s pages. Matthew reached over and gently closed the book’s cover, then wrapped his other arm around Arthur and squeezed him tightly.
“…I miss him, too, Arthur,” he whispered.
That seemed to be the breaking point. Arthur all but collapsed in his arms. He turned and buried his face in Matthew’s chest, by some miracle missing the bullet wound. The shaking was uncontrollable now. “W-why?!” he cried. “H-how could he j-just leave?! What did I do wrong?!” There were more words in there, but they were so separated and muffled by the tears that it was impossible to make out what he was saying. Matthew couldn’t do much but rub Arthur’s back comfortingly and rock back and forth. Eventually the words stopped, and the only sounds were the constantly softening sobs.
Matthew ruffled Arthur’s hair. “We’ll get him back. Okay?” he said, not very confident but trying to sound it. He felt Arthur shift a little. The Englishman moved his arms around Matthew’s waist, trying carefully not to touch the bandages. His crying had died down, but he was still shaking madly. Matthew closed his eyes. His twin’s voice echoed through the darkness.
Because I’m fighting for my freedom. For what’s important to me. Maybe you should start thinking about what’s important to you.
He opened his eyes again. Important? He looked to Arthur, still shaking and holding on to him for dear life. He pictured Alfred, rifle in hand, readying his trigger finger. Important? What was important to him? He felt his eyes begin to tear up as well. Gently, he rested his head on top of Arthur’s.
The people I love, he thought. And protecting them. That’s what’s important to me.
He closed his eyes and gave Arthur one last squeeze before drifting off into the dark.
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Hope you liked it ^^ Not sure about that spacing issue...I'll try fixing it again later...
--UM
