#an englishman abroad

[mariocki]

An Englishman Abroad (BBC, 1983)

"The average Englishman, you see, is not interested in ideas. Say what you like about political theory. No one will listen. You could shove a whole slice of the Communist manifesto into the Queen's Speech. Nobody would turn a hair. Least of all, I suspect, HMQ."

[idanit]

ok now i need to know about your niche country-specific jeeves AU

"Every valet takes great pride / in cooking what his husband likes" an edit of a makatka by @maidblues

(You've probably forgotten about sending this ask. I almost forgot I had a reply sitting in my drafts.)

This is incredibly niche and very hard to do for numerous reasons, but I've been thinking about a Polish Jeeves AU for a good while now. I'm not the best person to come up with the best way to cut almost all politics out from a story set in the 1920s in a country that has just become sovereign and is about to go through some further enormous transformations, so I'm not going to try very hard. Wodehouse's stories already take place in an idyllic sort of fantasy on the theme of interwar and postwar Britain, so I suppose a Polish AU would have to just lean into that even harder.

(Polish aristocracts lost their legal protections in 1921, but let's not think about it too much. Don't think about how you could possibly make "Comrade Bingo" work in a post-1920 Poland either. Etc., etc.)

So we've established that this would have to be some sort of barely recognisable fairytale Poland. But something in me is compelled by the idea of trying this out anyway because there are not a lot of wodehousian stories in Polish literature of the time. Not a lot of comedy without other genres mixed in in general. And one does wonder what it would look like.

Names are tricky. I want Bertram to be Bartłomiej or Bartosz (Bartek in the diminutive). @maidblues likes to give him the surname of Kogucik (rooster) and I toyed with the idea of giving him the Kur (another word for rooster) crest.

As for Jeeves's name, his case is more complicated because as far as I know servants in Poland were usually called by their masters by their first name, and the most common servant (as well as Polish in general) name would probably be Jan. So I'm tempted to make Reginald Jeeves a Jan Regulski or a Jan Reguła (reguła means "a rule").

This choice has the advantage of turning the "Jeeves?" / "Yes, sir?" exchange into "Janie?" / "Tak, jaśnie panie?". It rhymes. I find this amusing.

Servants at the time were overwhelmingly female, especially those who worked alone and for a single person/household, but we're going to ignore that.

Bertie is an aristocrat living in Warsaw, since it's the capital city, but his family is from some Mazovian dworek (manor house).

Aristocracy was not quite as much of an exclusive club as it was in Britain (some historians say it made up 10% of Polish society). Bertie probably says his ancestors fought at Grunwald, but he would likely bring up the Romanticism and the XVII century a lot as well, because they were as alive in the Polish public consciousness of the time as Middle Ages were in the mind of a certain kind of Englishman. Bertie could lean into something commonly called "the pride of the Sarmatians" (duma sarmacka).

Bertie's school is important. Everything depends on this, I think — Bertie's language, his friends, his club. Wealthy aristocrats did send their children abroad sometimes, so he could even have a typical British public school education even if he'd be unlikely to attend Eton and Oxford, specifically, but this feels like a cop-out, so I'm going to assume he was a student at some Polish university and not think about it too much lest I get caught up in the timelines of what university in what partition of Poland it would make sense for him to attend.

Bertie's way of speaking. My heart wants to make Bertie use some elements from the Warsaw subdialect because it's very fun and it would fit him, but regrettably, I think it's too working-class for him. I am fascinated by the idea of Bertie borrowing words from German and Russian in addition to French, though. He'd probably make use of some form of gwara uczniowska (student slang), too.

And Jeeves could know the Warsaw subdialect well, even if he would probably not use it while speaking to the members of the aristocracy (I'm pretty sure an early version of canon Jeeves spoke with a subtle Cockney accent, calling Bertie "guv’nor"). I wanted to make him a Warsaw local, perhaps with some family in the countryside, perhaps in the former Prussian partition, since I think the level of literacy was higher there and I need a way for Jeeves to have a chance of getting some education.

The Drones. There were no gentlemen's clubs, so I think the Drones would have to be a coffeehouse, a restaurant, or a szynk / pub called "Truteń"/"U Trutnia"/"Pod Trutniem". It's a significant change because they were not exclusive places, but it's the best I can think of. Coffeehouses in particular had a rich tradition as cultural places where people spent hours and hours on discussions. I think a Polish equivalent of a Drones Club could even serve as a tongue-in-cheek satire on artistic groups like Skamandryci. The Polish Drones would just have to take their gambling elsewhere. (@maidblues came up with another name for a Drones-like place that served food: Darmozjad. I love the pun — the word means someone useless, lit. someone who eats for free.)

As for the Junior Ganymede (Ganimedes), I think it would be a stowarzyszenie (club/society) without its own venue. Its members would probably meet at regular conventions. Here, I see an opportunity of some comedic nods to the tradition of "zjazdy", which in the centuries past were politically significant meetings of the aristocracy.

Bertie sings Mieczysław Fogg's songs.

Jeeves knows quotes from Mickiewicz and Słowacki (Polish Romantic poets) by heart.

Bertie is bi/multillingual enough to run off to Paris instead of New York City every now and then. Not quite putting an ocean between you and your aunt, but far enough for Ciotka Agata not to follow him.

I'm unlikely to ever finish writing anything for Jeeves in Polish, so, to finish things off, have this contextless excerpt from some draft of mine:

Mam na myśli tyle tylko, że podczas półtygodniowego pobytu, w którym jaśnie panowi udało się wpaść do sadzawki, zaręczyć, zostać pogryzionym, rozsierdzić Spodkowskiego i obrazić trzy stateczne matrony, choć nie dokładnie w tej kolejności, Jan ocalił mój ulubiony garnitur (bez krawata), zgrabnie mnie odręczył, opatrzył i odwiózł do Warszawy, a skroni jego nie zrosiła nawet mgiełka potu. Wspaniały człowiek. Obsypałem go, rzecz jasna, pewną ilością marek, ale wydawało mi się to zgoła niewystarczające. Dusza moja śpiewała, wolna jak ptak bez obrączki, a mój wybawca miał z tego tylko trochę świstków papieru, które i tak natychmiast wyśle rodzinie spoza stolicy — znałem go doskonale.

[see-arcane]

I am almost fine with people saying he has one brain cell, because I have seen dozens of people make the worse claim that he is "an arrogant, smug, proud of his rationality Victorian who laughs at the locals for their superstitions."

It is such a prevalent assesment that it's now considered a core character trait of his. When today's entry indicates nothing of the sort.

UH OH, YOU’VE ACTIVATED MY TANGENT CARD

(Text Brick Incoming)

Jonathan’s fundamental flaw at this stage does involve looking down on or viewing the locals and their traditions as quaint/idolatrous/ridiculous et al. He uses poor terminology too, owing to the Doylist reason of his author’s knowledge and biases, while the Watsonian reason is easy enough to read as Jonathan 1) Having to rely solely on biased/incomplete knowledge from his homeland’s writings on the place and 2) What I think is him trying to overcompensate as a trained reflex

I’ve always pictured Jonathan and Mina as having not only a lower social and monetary standing, but possibly a hindrance of race. (Case in point, I suspect a certain unique prop Jonathan brandishes later on is something he inherited, not something picked up by happenstance.)

That said—they are poor, they are not the idealized picture of the fair English Citizen…but they are both polite, charming, hardworking, and masters of ~making friends~ as a defense mechanism. And I’d bet money that included relying on what few positive nods their peers allowed.

“You’re so nice! So industrious! Your physiognomy really counters your origins! And you are wise enough to look down on those silly foreigners, aren’t you? Of course you are! You’re one of the good ones.”

Now, regardless of what headcanon is landed on as far as race/ethnicity/other backgrounds go, those last points are key. Because they go towards Being a Good Englishman/woman. Being wiser than to buy into fretting non-English superstitions. Knowing to ogle the people of other lands like curiosities in a zoo. Judging people by their face or the shape of their skull. This is the Norm. This is Good of the Victorian Englishman Abroad.

And we see Jonathan hold to all these stereotypes…to a degree. But we see within these same early entries that his instincts and general good nature chafe against that social training. He’s too much himself to do entirely as a Proper Englishman should.

He went out of his way to study all the limited info he had access to, incomplete or half-informed as it was. He delighted in learning everything he could of the places and people as he traveled, wanting to embrace and be educated on the land. And even when a lifetime of advising against it, of insistence upon derision, tried to take over when the crucifix was offered? He still accepted it. He still wears it even when the old woman departs, whether or not he believes in its importance.

And, vitally, his instincts are very Very awake to the fact that Something is Off. A Proper Englishman (and many an oblivious or stubborn dad in a ghostly horror movie) would shrug this unease off at once. But Jonathan doesn’t. He remains on Dracula’s route only because he has no other choice. All he does is mention quietly that he hopes Mina gets his diary if he happens to die on this journey.

Imagine that. Bracing for and acknowledging the sense that You Might Die on This Little Business Trip and just…having to go along with it. Because what will you tell your boss otherwise? What will you tell your fiancée?

These aren’t the concerns of a well-off stuffy snob of a man. It’s the resignation of someone who understands they live on the lowest rung of the ladder and that they will risk losing what little progress they’ve made if they dare to turn back.

As for sneering at the locals’ superstitions, period, consider: How likely would anyone really be to suddenly believe in monsters after coming out of the background Jonathan has? What could possibly have convinced him of the reality of the situation OTHER THAN SEEING IT IN PERSON? (Note, a key plot point for certain other characters later!)

The point of his being unable to take the supernatural aspect at face value is that, well, Why Would Anyone Immediately Jump to a Supernatural Conclusion in His Place?

What possible context does he have here!? Maybe he should have read Dracula first, ha ha—

Oh wait. He can’t do that. Why?

Because this man has never read Dracula BECAUSE HE IS LIVING AND WRITING THE BOOK DRACULA!!

Anyway.

tl;dr: I am very tired of both the Stuffy Victorian Snobprick and Oblivious Idiotbaby takes on my good friend Jonathan Harker

[queersatanic]

Finding a better Lord of the Rings analogy for US politics

This sort of comparison goes back at least as far as 2016, and to liberals who like to situate themselves as being the ultimate good and voting as the ultimate political action, it makes sense why this is so appealing.

However, J.R.R. Tolkien's political ideology can unironically be described as a sort of "anarcho-monarchism," and that does seem to actually inform the sort of book series he wrote. So, setting aside his fondness for nobility as "an Englishman's weakness," let's look at this as a matter of anarchism, of opposition to bosses and coercive power.

In the Lord of the Rings, the issue is actually not whether, as a binary choice, free people should support giving the One Ring to Sauron or Saruman. The issue is not how to best effect "harm reduction" by supporting Isengard since it's the only thing that can stop the armies of Mordor.

The issue is that no one can be trusted with the power of the One Ring — even Gandalf! — and the ring's agents must be opposed everywhere because, to an Ent, it doesn't really matter who is chopping down your forests, and, to a Hobbit, it doesn't much matter who is scouring your Shire.

Now, that's fiction and it's still an analogy, but that does seem to be the way many people need to approach this sort of thing to understand it. In this analogy, the One Ring is the state and the imperial hegemony of the USA. You cannot defeat fascism by installing someone else in the seat of power who fundamentally wants to do many of the same things fascists do who will continue building up power to destroy others abroad and crush dissent at home. Democrats bomb funerals and sell military weapons to authoritarian states. Democrats build Cop Cities. Democrats generously fund the violence of racist, anti-queer enforcers like NYPD and LAPD/LA County Sheriff's gangs. Democrats love the power structures of the status quo, of capitalism, private property, and the carceral legal system, and they want to buttress them against challenges as much as possible because Democrats love wielding that power and know but don't care that these tools will inevitably fall into the hands of open fascists who will use them even more brutally than they themselves do.

Anarchists always have a "three-way fight," and we want more liberty than choosing our jailers.

To be clear: vote or don't vote. It is not actually that important. However, it is absolutely critical that you as an anarchist do not mistake voting as being meaningful political action or limit your imagination of the possible to that of "rhetorically affirming, functionally hostile liberalism".

[blorger]

Peter my sweet Peter, what were you thinking?

I was minding my business and living my life when I was assailed by a question: what was Wormtail's endgame pre-book 3?

Like, was he planning on spending the rest of his days as a Weasley pet? Eventually at least one of them was bound to realize that their beloved Scabbers hadn't gone gently into the night like a normal rat.

It's not like he had no other options, he later goes on a jaunt through Europe to find Voldemort in Albania (as an aside, what's with JKR's obsession with Albania?) so he's aware that moving around as a ratman is extremely easy.

Before book 1 he has no idea that Voldemort even survived, what's the point of sticking around as a rat when he could live abroad as a man? Hitch a ride to another country, give your name a bit of a refresh and all of a sudden you're enigmatic englishman Schmeter Schmettigrew, living it large in the Caymans.

I can see why he doesn't join up with Voldemort pre Shrieking Shack (he's not a true believer, he only joined out of necessity and he has no need) but why doesn't he, as the coward we know and love, hightail it out of the UK the moment he knows the V man is not actually dead?

I know, narratively, why he does the things he does but if we think about peter as a fully formed character (with hopes and dreams and whatnot) and not as a glorified plot device his actions make 0 sense

[communist-manifesto-daily]

Socialism: Utopian and Scientific - Part 12

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In England, the bourgeoisie never held undivided sway. Even the victory of 1832 left the landed aristocracy in almost exclusive possession of all the leading Government offices. The meekness with which the middle-class submitted to this remained inconceivable to me until the great Liberal manufacturer, Mr. W. A. Forster, in a public speech, implored the young men of Bradford to learn French, as a means to get on in the world, and quoted from his own experience how sheepish he looked when, as a Cabinet Minister, he had to move in society where French was, at least, as necessary as English! 

The fact was, the English middle-class of that time were, as a rule, quite uneducated upstarts, and could not help leaving to the aristocracy those superior Government places where other qualifications were required than mere insular narrowness and insular conceit, seasoned by business sharpness. [2] Even now the endless newspaper debates about middle-class education show that the English middle-class does not yet consider itself good enough for the best education, and looks to something more modest. Thus, even after the repeal of the Corn Laws, it appeared a matter of course that the men who had carried the day – the Cobdens, Brights, Forsters, etc. – should remain excluded from a share in the official government of the country, until 20 years afterwards a new Reform Act opened to them the door of the Cabinet. The English bourgeoisie are, up to the present day, so deeply penetrated by a sense of their social inferiority that they keep up, at their own expense and that of the nation, an ornamental caste of drones to represent the nation worthily at all State functions; and they consider themselves highly honored whenever one of themselves is found worthy of admission into this select and privileged body, manufactured, after all, by themselves.

[2] And even in business matters, the conceit of national Chauvinism is but a sorry adviser. Up to quite recently, the average English manufacturer considered it derogatory for an Englishman to speak any language but his own, and felt rather proud than otherwise of the fact that "poor devils" of foreigners settled in England and took off his hands the trouble of disposing of his products abroad. He never noticed that these foreigners, mostly Germans, thus got command of a very large part of British foreign trade, imports and exports, and that the direct foreign trade of Englishmen became limited, almost entirely, to the colonies, China, the United States, and South America. Nor did he notice that these Germans traded with other Germans abroad, who gradually organized a complete network of commercial colonies all over the world. But, when Germany, about 40 years ago [c.1850], seriously began manufacturing for export, this network served her admirably in her transformation, in so short a time, from a corn-exporting into a first-rate manufacturing country. Then, about 10 years ago, the British manufacturer got frightened, and asked his ambassadors and consuls how it was that he could no longer keep his customers together. The unanimous answer was:

You don't learn customer's language but expect him to speak your own;

You don't even try to suit your customer's wants, habits, and tastes, but expect him to conform to your English ones.

[ First | Prev | Table of Contents | Next ]

[imzsuzsis-blog]

It's okay that I won, but now a modest celebration is coming, because of the two dwarves.

"Children, let's take it back, please."

I laughed to myself and let them take some more photos.

"Of course, yesterday must have been rough."

"I don't want to talk about it, Mom and Dad. That's all they were born with."

“ I was saddened and tears appeared on my face.,I also understood how you showed the picture of them, they turned out to be very beautiful, Leah, you are pure as a little baby. We should celebrate now."

"It won't work, they're the only ones in my head and I can only hope that they survive the whole thing."

I bit my lip and almost cried, I loved them, but I was also worried about them.

"Is it a natural feeling that I loved them very much, but at the same time I'm worried about them?"

"Yes, it's because you suddenly became a mother and it will last you the rest of your life."

I sat down and buried my face in my hands and cried, then I spread them out so that the twins were there, but I was just imagining it, because it wasn't real and I couldn't hold them in my hands because they were somewhere else.

At least Lando has completely disappeared from the radar and Max is nowhere to be found. Tell them that they went with Martin and Loki, but we don't know where.

"Max, they've stepped down."

"I know, you sharp-witted bastard from Monaco."

Max slapped me from behind and I could only grimace.

"Hello..." "Hello... Loki... You?"

"Yes, I came from the hospital, Lando and I changed hands."

"Here?"

We asked Loki in chorus, who could only look in front of him.

"What the hell happened?"

"Girls came into the world just in time."

"Is this some stupid joke?"

"Unfortunately, it wasn't all that unexpected... He was complaining to me and suddenly we noticed a soft cry."

Loki sat down next to us and almost fell asleep, he was so tired.

"How long did you sleep?"

"Not too much for worry, but I don't think Lando either."

You showed us that we don't have a shot.

"We just don't know that he messed with the team and we can't find him. So that we know where it is easier, but we don't go after it."

We froze and wanted to go after it, but our legs didn't obey us and we are both in good shape.

"Daniel, Carlos?"

“Yes?"

"Lando went home?"

"He signed the paper both home and abroad that it was certain that the girls were adopted."

"My Jesus, I can't believe this, and Lando was expecting the twins, and that's the end... This is a fucking rule."

"Supposedly, it was his parents who got involved in the whole thing, so he can't raise them."

I was watching the video on my mobile where he is driving his Porsche and talking to one of his friends, probably about it.

"Did you see?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

I leaned against the wall, then I continued to turn the pages and on the third page I read that he was single.

“Fuck doesn't go with Loki!!!"

"Don't worry, we also read it, but we cut it with our gloves."

I called my girlfriend, who said that he was a scumbag in front of Loki, he couldn't have done that to him in him heart, now he was the stupid one, but he loves him very much and says this all the time. I didn't tell them, but after the race I saw Lando and Loki kissing after the race and talking about sex, to say the least, and I won't get into that, it's none of my business. I was angry that I said that and his partner still stands by him.

I went whistling, they called me on the street, I can go to the Grand Prix, it made me happy.

“Yes? Carlos? You? Fuck me and I kissed Loki, boom.”

I looked at him and wanted to pull him one right now.

"The girls? Or the rumor that you adopted them, you plain stupid Englishman.”

"What's up???? Where the hell did you get it????”

"That's what George, Danny, Max and Alex said too."

"Well, these are as stupid rumors as that I go out with girls... Charles started this during the summer vacation because I was only hanging out with one girl for the most part... I've sent him to hell ever since."

“It's good.." ,,Yes, my parents were true, my father to be exact... He said I should first become a world champion and then a parent... He was there when I was a teenager, because he didn't want to hear a baby crying in the house...If that's the case, he's a dick he can be nice to me, especially when it comes to Oliver, he's nice and cute."

I hugged Carlos sobbing, I didn't want to meet dad this weekend, with everyone in my family, but not now, I hated him permanently for what he did. I never told them this, but he insisted on my miscarriage in 2020, and then I didn't talk to him for months, I only did it because of the press, I didn't talk to dad about the matter except on camera. In fact, I dumped Connie because of her boyfriend at the time, because he gave him all the shit that wasn't true and it wasn't the first time. He did this with my first boyfriend and with all of them, but now I won't let myself go, I loved Loki and I feel he will be my husband.

"I feel that Loki will be my husband... What should I do against father now?"

I bit my lip nervously and was afraid that if I gave it to him he would invent something again that I had a girlfriend again, like Connie.

"Well, this is for me... What did he do to you as a child?"

“If you say you have Stockholm syndrome?”

"I'm trying to erase these from my mind."

My friend shook me but I just continued to sob, this is a painful memory for me.

"Tell me, please."

He shook his head and threw up in the open street. I know that Adam is a careerist, but for him to be violent was quite surprising now. But his jerkiness was also the same, I thought he was a kind and cute person, but for him to abuse his son and prey on him is too much.

"Lando, have you thought about suing him?"

"A lot, but it always comes with the fact that I don't receive from the inheritance or from the business part. But none of them excites me, especially after that, when I'm at home, he beats me when I'm at home, and if no one is watching, he beats me, like if I were a child, he rapes me."

"Regardless of your results?"

"Yes, he's been like this all my life."

I ran away sobbing, this is a fucking big secret that I told him, so far no one knows, not even Oscar.

[miffy-junot]

Junot helps an Englishman to evade arrest in 1803

a little bit of context: England and France were at war, and so Napoleon called for the arrest of all Englishmen between the ages of 18 and 60 in Paris. Jean-Andoche Junot, who was Governor of Paris at the time, was given the responsibility of carrying this out - however, Junot believed the demand to be unreasonable, and due to his natural generosity, he was rather lenient. This is the account of James Forbes, an Englishman in Paris, who was 54 at the time:

“At length my number was called, and I was conducted to the general [Junot], who was presiding at a board of green-cloth, surrounded by his aides-de-camp and secretaries. […] On observing that my age was not inserted, he wished to know if I could call myself sixty; I told him I could not. "You are approaching it," said he; - "most certainly, Sir," said I, "and very rapidly". "You cannot remain in Paris unless you are registered as under eighteen or above sixty years of age." I replied, "my principal object in coming abroad was to complete the education of an only child, and I requested to remain in Paris for no other purpose than that of obtaining the best masters." The general smiled, whispered something to a secretary, and said that I must be called sixty in my passport of safety, when I might remain in Paris until any new decision of the government should take place respecting the British prisoners."

source: James Forbes, 1806

[neufhistoires]

Loveless Marriage (FrUK) Chapter 11

Loveless Marriage

Chapter 11

Word Count: 4,496

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been about a week since Francis and Arthur spoke. They hadn’t really seen each other either because the Englishman made sure to leave before the Frenchman woke up or he would get home so late that the other man was already asleep. On days that Arthur didn’t leave the house, he would stay in his bedroom all day and complete work from there. Francis was starting to wonder if he was a ghost, if he didn’t even exist.

It was a miserable existence, but Francis used work as a distraction. He didn’t share his frustrations or embarrassing stories with Feliciano. Instead, he pretended like nothing bad happened, like he had no life problems and he was happy to be living abroad, working at a flower shop.

Escapism worked well for Francis until he returned home each night to either be alone or be ignored– he wasn’t sure which was worse at this point. Arthur wouldn’t even eat his food anymore, and Francis honestly had no clue where or what he was eating. He couldn’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy at the thought that the Englishman might be eating meals with someone else all day…

“How’s your fiancé?”

Francis was cutting flower stems in silence, something that he usually did while humming softly. He was working slower than usual, too, as if he was in some sort of trance, lost in deep thought about his recent misfortunes. However, he was pulled out of his thoughts when his perceptive coworker noticed a change in his body language.

“What?” Francis replied, a mix of surprise and sadness in his eyes when he heard someone bring up the very person he had been thinking about.

“You mentioned that you have a fiancé a few times before, so I was wondering how he is,” Feliciano replied softly, taking some of the flowers to help the Frenchman cut the stems.

Francis was quiet for a moment, motionless as he stared down at the stems.

“How is he..? I wonder that, too,” Francis murmured, his voice almost a whisper. Then, he suddenly returned to trimming the flower stems as if he hadn’t just froze for an abnormal amount of time.

Feliciano glanced over at the other man, who refused to make eye contact with him, with an empathetic look on his face. He wasn’t sure what happened, but he could tell that Francis was really upset because of something that happened between him and his fiancé. 

“Are you two fighting..?” Feliciano asked hesitantly, hoping he was prying into his coworker’s personal life too much.

“Something like that,” Francis replied, still keeping his gaze fixated on the flowers in his hands.

“Why don’t you bring him some flowers again? I’m sure it will ease the tension between you two, at least some, and then you can talk,” Feliciano suggested.

Francis finally made eye contact with Felciano as he started to seriously ponder the Italian man’s suggestion. He knew that it wouldn’t fix everything, but like Feliciano had said, it would probably release some tension and at least break the ice…

“D’accord, I’ll take your advice,” Francis replied, smiling warmly at Feliciano, who immediately mirrored his smile.

Francis returned home with a bouquet of red roses, just like he had given Arthur last time, and carefully arranged them in the same vase from before, which was still sitting on the kitchen counter. 

Arthur wasn’t home yet, but Francis decided that he would wait in the kitchen until he came home, that way he couldn’t avoid him or sneak past him.

The Frenchman prepared dinner, cooking for two even though Arthur had either been eating premade meals or someone else’s food. He figured that he would offer him dinner and roses and he wouldn’t be able to avoid talking to him for at least a little bit.

Hours passed and Francis couldn’t help but feel frustrated when he thought about how he cooked dinner for the other man but he was coming home at a terribly late time just to avoid him.

And that was exactly what happened. Francis ate dinner alone, which he let become cold because he had foolishly assumed that today might be the one day the Englishman would come home on time. After he put the leftovers away, he cleaned up the kitchen, scrubbing the counters and mopping the floor more times than it needed to be done in hopes that when Arthur came home and saw him he would just think that Francis was busy, not that he was waiting up all night for him.

Eventually, Francis sat back down at the table, exhausted and frustrated. He lay his head down on the table, telling himself that he would just rest for a second and then he would go back to finding things to clean, but… he passed out.

The quiet jingle of keys could be heard from outside, and then the front door opened. Arthur was surprised to see the kitchen light on so late. He tensed when he noticed the Frenchman sitting at the table, but then he did a double take when he realized he was passed out.

The Englishman stared at him for a few, his keys and bags still in hand as he tried to make sense of why the other man was sleeping on a kitchen chair instead of in his own bed. Then, as he glanced around the room, he noticed that the kitchen was spotless. Everything was clean and organized. The only thing that stood out was the bouquet of fresh, red roses, arranged beautifully in the intricate glass vase from before.

Arthur’s chest felt tight when he saw the flowers, recalling how Francis had bought him the same ones before. He must’ve been waiting up all night to talk to him, Arthur thought. He felt kind of guilty until he reminded himself why they weren’t speaking in the first place and his thoughts turned sour.

Carefully, Arthur slipped past the table, hoping he could avoid the other man like he had been. But, in spite of his efforts, the jingling of his keys as he passed by was enough to make the Frenchman open his eyes.

“Arthur..?” Francis called out groggily. He couldn’t believe he had stayed up so late and yet he still ended up passing out at the kitchen table, of all places.

The Englishman hesitated when he heard his name, but then continued in the other direction anyway.

“Arthur! Wait!” Francis called out, stumbling as he tried to stand up from the table after just waking up.

Arthur continued to walk away from Francis, picking up his pace some when he heard the sound of the other man’s footsteps behind him.

“We live in the same house– you can’t keep avoiding me like this..!” Francis called out, frantically chasing the Englishman up the staircase.

“It’s like I said– you disgust me and I don’t want to see or talk to you,” Arthur replied coldly as he stood still on the top step, his heart aching at the sound of his own words.

Francis felt a pain in his chest, too, when the first words out of the other man’s mouth were yet again ones of disdain. Could he truly never forgive him?

“Arthur, I want to apologize to you and–”

“No apology will fix what you did,” Arthur interrupted, abruptly turning around to face the Frenchman, a look of anger and hurt on his face as they locked eyes.

“And I want to clear up the… misunderstanding,” Francis finished his sentence anyway.

“Misunderstanding?” Arthur repeated with a sarcastic laugh.

“Oui, I…” Francis hesitated as he took a step closer to Arthur, moving up a step so they were eye level. “What happened at the hotel was…” The Frenchman’s eyes averted towards the ground.

“Yes?” Arthur urged, impatiently crossing his arms as his icy gaze never left the man across from him.

“It was meaningless. I was so drunk I can’t even remember what led to it, but I can assure you that I would never want to do something like that with you..! I mean– you and I, together in a relationship? Really? We can’t stand each other! It’s been driving me insane to think that you would even suggest that I would want to have sex with you..!” Francis blurted out, feeling like he was a star in some sort of cheesy highschool play.

He was lying through his teeth.

Arthur hadn’t moved at all, an unreadable expression on his face as he seemed to pause and contemplate what the other man just said. Francis watched the Englishman’s eyes impatiently, wondering what was going through his head, if he bought the act, or if that false information even meant anything to him.

Well, it was partially false information. It was true that Francis had been terribly drunk, that he couldn’t remember much, and that he wouldn’t force himself on Arthur. But the lie was that he didn’t want to be in a relationship with the other man. In fact, after their sham of a honeymoon getaway together, he couldn’t be anymore sure that he had feelings for the Brit.

“I wish you’d put it that way sooner,” Arthur replied, both his tone and gaze softening when he said so. Francis didn’t know if he should be relieved or heartbroken.

“The thought of you and I in a relationship is definitely laughable, isn’t it?” Arthur continued, a smile grazing his lips for the first time since they were in Seychelles.

Now he could at least identify how he felt as heartbreak.

“Oui, it’s truly a bizarre thought,” Francis replied unenthusiastically.

“Let’s put this behind us then…” Arthur started, his tone returning to a more serious one again. “But you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone what happened that night, okay? On that condition, we’ll just forget about the whole thing…”

“D’accord… I promise,” Francis agreed, trying his best to hide how deflated he suddenly felt. It was somehow a worse feeling than before, even though he was elated to talk to the other man again.

“Alright… Good night then,” Arthur replied dismissively, turning around and continuing upstairs without waiting for a response. He was probably hoping that he wouldn’t have to deal with Francis suggesting they share a bed again. Although, the Frenchman no longer had any intention of suggesting a thing like that.

Francis went to bed alone that night, conflicted about whether or not he made the right choice by lying like that. Sure, Arthur was willing to talk to him again, but at what cost..? 

It was much later than Francis usually woke up, and he probably would have continued sleeping, too, if he wasn’t awoken by a few knocks on his door.

“Francis?” A familiar voice called out, causing the Frenchman to slowly open his eyes and roll over on his side.

“Come in,” Francis replied with a groan. He had slept more than usual and yet he felt even more exhausted than usual. It was most likely because despite being in bed for so long, he hadn’t truly been sleeping the entire time. He stayed up the entire night, tossing and turning as he contemplated everything wrong in his life.

Francis was disgusted by the way Arthur could destroy his entire day just by stringing a few words together. The worst part was probably that the Englishman didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Arthur opened the door, fully dressed in trousers, a button down cardigan and loafers. He looked a bit irritated when his eyes slowly made their way down to the Frenchman who was still in bed.

“I was going to… ask if you wanted to come shopping with me today in London…” Arthur said, his thick eyebrows furrowing as he realized that if the other man said yes, he would be waiting forever for him to get ready.

The Frenchman held back his surprise and… excitement when he heard what the other man proposed. Yes, the way Arthur’s words could lift his mood in an instant disgusted him, too. When did he become this way? “I guess so… You probably need someone like me to go with you so you know what kind of things to buy…” Francis mumbled into his pillow, his attempt at seeming uninterested coming off as more of an insult.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur asked, his eye twitching as he leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed. He was hoping that the Frenchman would get up and start getting ready sometime this year.

“Nothing,” Francis replied with a yawn as he finally sat up.

“Well, you’ll have to be ready soon though if you’re coming. I don’t want to have to drive home in the dark,” Arthur said, standing back up straight. “I’ll make you breakfast and you can eat it on the way or something…”

“Non, please don’t,” Francis replied so quickly that Arthur couldn’t help but be a little offended. Was it really that bad?

“Just hurry up,” Arthur said, his cheeks tinged red with embarrassment as he shut the door and headed back downstairs.

Surprisingly, Francis didn’t take too long to get ready and Arthur didn’t subject him to his awful cooking. The two of them headed off for London and the skies appeared to be bright and sunny.

Understandably, there was an awkward tension between the two of them, albeit for different reasons. However, without words, they both agreed to try and make things work. They cracked jokes and passive aggressively roasted each other until they got to the city. It was as though nothing had changed between them…

“What do you think of this one? It’s nice, isn’t it?” Arthur asked, his green eyes settling on the Frenchman as he lightly pulled on the bottom of a long, plaid trench coat that was hanging on a rack in front of him.

“Hm? That one?” Francis murmured, putting his hand on the coat, too. He seemed inattentive despite how long he gazed at the coat in front of him. His mind drifted off into thoughts about how Arthur’s hand was so close to his, how he swore he could feel warmth radiating from him.

Ultimately, the only quiet response Arthur was left with was, “It suits you.”

Then, Francis turned away and continued on in the same direction that the two of them had been walking in. Confused, Arthur looked back at Francis, then the coat again, and ended up pulling it off the rack to follow after the Frenchman.

“That’s not necessarily a compliment, you know? Is it a nice coat or isn’t it?” Arthur repeated his question, his cheeks tinged pink as he realized he was basically begging for the other man’s fashion advice.

Arthur ended up buying the coat and the two of them headed off to the next store that caught their eyes, a street fashion clothing store. It wasn’t particularly either one of their styles, but part of going into the city was seeing things that they usually didn’t see, right?

As they walked through the store, Arthur saw a pair of black, ripped, oversized jeans and ran over to them. He pulled them off the rack and held them up to his waist in front of a mirror to see what they looked like without the hassle of actually trying them on.

Francis slowly walked behind him, cocking an eyebrow in confusion as he stood behind the Englishman and watched him in the mirror. He soon realized that Arthur wasn’t actually considering buying the pants, but was just joking around. He heard him start to speak, a big grin on his face, but… he couldn’t hear him.

Something about the way Arthur was messing around, being so carefree and playful, as if no one else existed but the two of them… it reminded Francis of walking around Seychelles and taking stupid pictures in straw hats and gaudy sunglasses. He felt disgusted with himself for even considering it, but he wanted to cry. His heart ached at the thought that the Englishman didn’t return his feelings, that he would probably be elated if he never had to see him or deal with him again.

“Did you know that I wanted to be in a band when I was in high school?” Arthur mused, laughing at himself as he put the pants back on the rack.

“Oh? What stopped you?” Francis asked, his jaw clenched tight as he mentally talked himself out of suddenly crying. He would surely be worse off if he did something like that.

“My parents,” Arthur replied, his mood visibly becoming sour. “As you know, they like making choices for me,” He added, giving Francis a small smile.

“Oui, clearly mine do, too,” Francis replied weakly, assuming that Arthur was referring to the arranged marriage.

“Well, hopefully we won’t have to deal with this whole thing much longer. I heard from my parents that your family’s wine business is slowly, but surely, starting back up,” Arthur murmured, shifting through clothes on the racks as he passed by them.

“Oh, is that so? I didn’t know that,” Francis replied, his voice almost a whisper as he started to space out again. He couldn’t help but feel hurt that Arthur didn’t even seem to notice the way he hadn’t been paying attention…

“Really? They’re your parents…” Arthur replied, his eyebrows furrowed as he glanced over at the other man, who was looking down at a shirt in front of him. It didn’t look like the sort of shirt that would usually catch his eye, so the Englishman assumed that he had become bored of the store and zoned out.

“Anyway, do you want to go somewhere else now?” Arthur initiated, periwinkle eyes meeting his. “We passed a decent looking bakery on the way here. I think they might have had macarons.”

“Let’s go there then,” Francis replied so quickly that he made Arthur let out a small laugh.

“You could’ve told me that you were hungry..!”

“Well, I wasn’t hungry until you mentioned macarons,” Francis joked, his mood seeming to lift at the thought of food. Maybe he was just overthinking things because he had gotten hungry.

Nonchalantly, Francis looped his arm around Arthur’s arm and pulled him along out of the store. The Englishman didn’t seem to mind though because he left it there.

“Which way was it?” Francis asked, glancing down at the map Arthur had opened on his phone.

“It looks like it’s that way,” Arthur replied, struggling to point because he was holding his phone, shopping bags, and now Francis was clinging to his other arm.

They eventually found the bakery, which was rather extravagant and expensive, just as one would expect of a specialty bakery in a big city. It was a café as well, so they both ordered a cup of coffee and various different kinds of baked goods. Normally, Arthur would’ve gotten a tea, but he was trying to take Francis’s recommendations, because although he was reluctant to admit it, the Frenchman did have great taste.

They chose a window seat which gave them a nice view of the city around them. However, the sky that had been bright and sunny for the majority of the day had abruptly become gray and cloudy.

“I suppose I jinxed it by saying that I didn’t want to drive home in the dark,” Arthur mused. As soon as he finished his sentence, the sound of thunder rumbled through the bakery, causing the lights to dim for a moment. Then, a heavy rain started.

“Non, I think that there was jinxing it,” Francis replied with a small laugh before he took a sip of his coffee and turned to look out the window in awe. It was unbelievable how quickly the weather had changed.

“Well hopefully it will let up soon,” Arthur murmured, using the side of his fork to cut a piece of the pastry in front of him.

Once again, Arthur had jinxed it. The rain never let up, and eventually the two of them had been there too long. Hours had passed, the sun went down completely, and the bakery was going to close in less than a half an hour.

“Aren’t there any hotels nearby?” Francis asked, standing up. He started to clean up their table, stacking the garbage onto one plate so it would be easier for him to carry it over to the trash can.

“That’s what I’m looking for…” Arthur murmured, bent over his phone as he scrolled through lists of nearby hotels. “It looks like the closest hotel is a two minute walk away, but even so, we’ll still get drenched…”

“It seems that we’re going to get wet regardless, so you might as well call that one and see if they’ve got any rooms available,” Francis replied before he walked away with the garbage.

When Francis returned, Arthur had just finished up his phone call.

“They said they’ve got a room available and they’re willing to hold it for us if we make it there within the next fifteen minutes,” Arthur said as he stood up and started to collect his bags.

Francis gulped when he heard Arthur say they had a room available– a room. Just one? Was it really a good idea for the two of them to share a hotel room again?

“D’accord, let’s get going then,” Francis replied, grabbing his bags, too.

The rain never let up, so they were completely drenched when they reached the hotel. Somehow, running in the rain was kind of fun though.

“Mr. Bonnefoy-Kirkland?” The receptionist asked, making Arthur blush in embarrassment and Francis chuckle.

After the ceremony, they hadn’t been able to agree on who would take whose name, as both of them were reluctant to give up their own name. The only possible agreement they could come to was to use both of their names with a hyphen in alphabetical order. The alphabetical order part was Francis’s idea, of course.

“Yes, is the room available?” Arthur replied, reluctantly answering to the name.

“Yes, we have it all set up for you two,” The woman replied, a smile on her face as she handed Arthur the key.

“Thank you,” Arthur replied, swiping his card to pay for the room before the two of them went upstairs to find their room.

Eventually they found room 212, which was a rather large room– a luxury suite, to be exact. The only problem was that…

“What kind of joke is this?” Arthur asked loudly, his voice shaking as if he was terribly offended by what was in front of him.

There was only one bed.

Francis let out a heavy sigh and set his bags down on the floor.

“Well, what did you say to the receptionist on the phone?” Francis asked, mostly due to his own curiosity. Did Arthur go around calling him his fiancé, he wondered.

“I said that two people, two men, needed a room for the night because of the storm,” Arthur replied, seeming more and more annoyed and worked up as time passed. “I mean, do I really seem–”

Arthur was cut off when Francis let out a laugh that he failed to hold back. He pretended he was just coughing or choking when the Englishman glared daggers at him.

“You think this is funny?”

“Non, non,” Francis replied, waving his hand as he continued to cough in an attempt to cover up that he was only laughing harder when Arthur got more upset about it.

Irritated, Arthur stormed out of the room and went back down to the lobby, determined to get a second bed.

“Excuse me,” Arthur started, a forced smile on his face as he approached the receptionist again.

“Yes, sir? Was there a problem with your room?”

“Yes, yes, there was.”

The receptionist seemed surprised to hear that there was something wrong with the room, but was eager to help resolve whatever the issue was.

“Oh, no. I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the issue?”

“There’s only one bed in our room,” Arthur replied, his cheeks heating up with embarrassment.

“Oh, I…” The receptionist’s cheeks flushed, too. “I just thought that because you two have the same last name… that you… Not to mention that the two of you suit each other quite well…” She trailed off in embarrassment.

She then started to hurriedly click through different rooms on the computer behind the counter in an attempt to find a different room before the uncomfortable conversation could continue any further.

“It’s not like that!” Arthur raised his voice defensively, his cheeks now completely crimson.

They suited each other? That was the same word Francis used to describe the coat Arthur had bought earlier. Once again, he was left wondering if it was really a compliment. All the two of them did was fight, so surely the woman, who was merely a stranger, was mistaken.

“I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding, but the last room with two beds has already been taken. And there aren’t any single bed rooms available tonight either… Again, I’m really sorry,” The receptionist replied, avoiding eye contact with the Englishman after he raised his voice.

“I, um, I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have yelled,” Arthur replied awkwardly before he turned around and went back upstairs.

When Arthur got back to the room, Francis was sitting on a chair, drying his wet hair with one of the hotel towels. He glanced up at the Englishman.

“What did she say?”

Arthur ignored Francis and walked past him.

“It doesn’t matter. This whole thing has me exhausted, so I’m going to sleep now,” Arthur eventually replied dismissively.

“She thought we were a couple, didn’t she?” Francis teased, a smirk forming on his face.

“Only because of our stupid last names..!” Arthur replied, getting worked up again. “Now where do you want to sleep– the bed or the couch?”

“Well, since you asked, the bed.”

“Fine,” Arthur replied as though he was disappointed, but too tired to object. In fact, as soon as he heard a response, he started moving a blanket and pillow over to the couch.

“Just because I’m going to sleep in the bed doesn't mean that you can’t, too. We are married after all,” Francis continued to tease the Englishman as he walked over to the bed.

“At this point I wish you would invite the receptionist to the bed so she would get whatever idea she has about me out of her head…”

“It might get that idea out of her head about me, but not about you. Bonne nuit!” Francis replied in a singsong tone as he turned off the light.

“Oh shut it!” Arthur yelled, tossing his pillow at the Frenchman from across the room– a decision which left him stumbling around in the dark trying to find it for quite awhile…

[hwsforeignrelations]

The Psychic And The Sceptic

AO3: Give it some love!

Words: 10k+

Summary: In the world of Mob Psycho 100, England convinces phasmophobic America he is haunted by a ghost named Birchington to get revenge against Alfred’s constant insistence that the supernatural does not exist. The prank goes too far when America generates enough collective fear to materialize Birchington into existence. Now faced with a dangerously powerful spirit, the Transatlantic lovers must defeat Birchington and save their vacation.

Made for: USUKUS Twice Per Year 2023-2: "Across the Universe" @usukustwiceperyear, organized by the most FANTASTIC Narco and Verus

Alfred F. Jones idles by Dog & Duck’s entrance, hands cupped against his lips to protect the Zippo’s flame from the London wind waiting to swallow its heat. The round, silver-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose fog up to temporarily blind his street view. It's late in the evening and America glances up, pretends he sees bright constellations against a black expanse instead of the light-polluted haze.

Alfred never liked the cold and he wants to crawl under a warm, heavy blanket. Preferably with the selfish bastard subjecting his American greatness to London’s miserable weather. Soho’s pointedly upturned barstools and the clusters of laughing suits pouring out from bars and onto cobblestone streets feel eternal in their effect. The scene could be seen in exactness on any Friday evening, one hundred years ago, even. The bitterness of tobacco bites the American’s throat with familiar comfort and his fingers tingle at the rush of nicotine. He always smoked more when abroad.

 America presses his body closer to the doorframe and just stands there, fills his lungs with smoke and enjoys the peace of being surrounded by conversation he isn’t expected to lead. If he has his way, he’d be providing patronage a few doors down and he peeps longingly along 5th Street where Ronny Scott’s Jazz Club tests his commitment as Designated Arthur Escort.

Good music and the best espresso martini of his life…  

“No fookin’ wae. Thi’ Japanese physic defeated th’ Dagger!” exclaims a woman, her and a similarly blasted friend gaping down at the phone held precariously in her hand. “Scared each ‘ther w’ stories about her in prim’ry school.”

America pauses a second then smiles behind his cigarette hand. It takes a day for his brain to realize every retail attendant and secretary he speaks to aren’t imitating British people. They just are British. Though he’s been balls deep for over half a century and should be accustomed, England’s voice doesn’t register as British. He just… sounds like England.

Somebody stumbles and curses behind him, crashing into his side when they exit. Speak of the devil, “Oi mate, watch where you stand!”

Alfred smushes the end of his cigarette into a street pole and flicks the butt into the abyss. It’ll decompose, right? He excuses it by rationalizing: the streets are already littered with soggy stubs. It wouldn't look very awesome to bend over and pick it up now that it’s done. Whatever.

He distracts himself by grabbing Arthur’s side and presses England close so he can smell the stale whiskey on his breath when the Englishman squawks in indignation.

Arthur wiggles but makes no move to dislodge himself from the American’s arm. To be perfectly honest with himself (which he didn’t make a habit of) he had doubts about whether Arthur was actually a lightweight or just enjoyed being carried home. Maybe a combination of both. Regardless, Arthur makes a consistently convincing show of being drunk off his tits.

Arthur slurs, “Didn’t see you there, lad. Just had a few, straight as a pole.” His eyebrows are pressed into one long furrow and his feet totter on the sidewalk, unfocused pupils never lingering on one thing. The yellow streetlamp catches faint freckles dotting Arthur’s nose when the Englishman presses a sloppy kiss against America's cheek. His coordination is off so it's more of a wet-lipped mush, but it’s so ridiculous that it folds Alfred’s lips upward. 

If Arthur has been acting all these centuries Alfred would be honored by this magnificent display of public shitfaced-ness. It’s done a lot for their relationship over the years.

“C’mere, y’old drunk. Back to your fairy friends.” Alfred dumps his jacket on Arthur’s shoulders and keeps the Englishman tucked into his side when they finally abandon the closing bar. Arthur’s tie is missing and a mysterious beige stain sits on his left arm, right above the silver band on his ring finger. The little emerald nestled in the center sets off the color of his green eyes and Alfred kisses their closed lids.

“P-public indecency!”

“What?! Man, I fly my ass across the Atlantic, get dog-piled by everyone and their grandmother about some ESG ratings (which I can’t fucking control- I mean, c’mon!), barely find a second to order a burger and latte (thank god for Starbucks), then I’m dragged to Soho just to be put on Designated Arthur Duty so everyone else can drink their merry hearts to… aw I don't know- the Almighty Dollar! Now, now, I get gaslit by my limey sweetheart who hasn’t bothered to fly over in years! Y’all got lucky I ain’t on caffeine withdrawal, cuz tonight woulda been wayyy shorter.” Alfred laughs, and this time Arthur only huffs when Alfred kisses the other eyelid. 

“‘M not drunk!” Arthur responds instead, followed by a noise like there’s peanut butter on the roof of his mouth and he can’t quite unstick his tongue. The silence following that declaration is so pungent an Olympic sprinter would cough.

“Tipsy,” Arthur allows, charitably. A guy passing them scoffs into his beer and Alfred just barely manages to yoink Arthur back before he lunges at the guy.

Alfred starts their walk towards a busier street to hail a taxi.

(“Cab, yank!”).

Arthur’s car is parked nearby but Arthur doesn't trust Alfred not to crash his beloved LHS 1955 Rolls Royce Silver Wraith into the nearest post box. 

Alfred doesn’t argue. He wouldn’t dare risk denting those beautiful antique headlamps, that chrome grill…. A flush rises up Alfred’s cheeks and he dips in to kiss Arthur’s ear.

To apologize for his unfaithful thoughts towards The Car.

Not that the Englishman isn’t absolutely aware of what ol’ Roycie does for him because boy, oh boy does it do it for him!

Arthur naps on the ride back while nuzzling into the leather headrest in front of him. Outside the window, London's street lamps illuminate the city. Tudor and Victorian and Brutalist homes idle side-by-side, thin mailboxes odd with their vibrant red paint and phone boxes Alfred forgets exist outside of BBC shows whiz by on the streets. This is the stuff architects back home worship, and homes further from the shopping areas remind Alfred of San Francisco’s Victorians (minus the fun colors). 

Then he’s struck with a sudden sadness. It depresses Alfred to remember the millions of families who lost their homes in the Blitz. Alfred sees their hollow, starving faces in his mind every time he hears the many construction projects replacing crudely assembled housing infrastructure. 

But 77 years later and you wouldn’t know what carnage wrecked the city if you hadn’t seen England drag himself from the cliffend of abyss by the skin of his teeth. Two in the morning and London isn’t even close to quiet. America’s rolled window allows the wind to freeze his cheeks red, and he hopes they don’t look as flushed as the group of teenagers tottering down the sidewalk in their rumpled school uniforms.

England’s heart is decadent, simple, foreign, and familiar all at once. But it’s kinda creepy with all its crusty historical stuff. Ghosts like crusty historical stuff, and America does not like ghosts.

… Not that ghosts exist, exactly. But the vibes? SO ghosty.

A chill runs down America’s spine and he shakes himself from staring at the window to find a credit card that will pay their fare.

⚜⚜⚜

He’s loose and affectionate but vulnerable and inhibited, hiccuping against Alfred and bemoaning the glory days of sea life. . “Nothing compares to standing at the helm of an even ke-keeled- hermpfg-” England covers his mouth and jerks for them to stop walking.  

After the cab (thank god) and on the beautifully pruned lion outside his condo Arthur chunders at least lunch and probably breakfast. 

Alfred makes sure his partner hadn’t disgraced his shoes, then snatches England’s keys from the jacket slung over his shoulder. “Saw this scene play out the moment you ordered that last round of shots,” Alfred’s fingers sift through the keys while Arthur mutteres profanities up the short stairway. At the top the shorter man presses his forehead against Alfred’s back, steadying his dubious and trembling knees by clutching the American round the middle. “You d-didn’t think to stop me? Cruel,” Arthur moans, tightening his hold to emphasize the extent of Alfred’s inhumanity. 

Alfred laughed. “Try? Babe, I couldn’t dream of getting between you and a bar tap. You’d send me home on the next flight!”

Arthur snuggles delightfully into his back, not denying. Alfred’s firm spine and familiar warmth quell the rebellion of his flesh, as if forgetting its owner's mistreatment to revel in the closeness to this source of love, so rarely afforded this luxury. 

Relief was temporary, and all is not forgiven. 

When Alfred opens the door he leaps out of the doorway (and Arthur’s arms) as a fairy comes barreling towards his face.

Arthur loses balance and crashes into an oakwood coat stand with a belated yelp. 

Trixie sneers towards Alfred as he sprints at the bedroom, then circles back to flutter innocently around Arthur’s crumpled form.

Flying Mint Bunny peels off from the darkened window to join them, and England sees others gathered round the entrance watching. England swears he can feel glittery sparkles surrounding his magical friends like auras and he sneezes. 

Trixie lands on his shoulder with an air of disdain and twitters, “You’re one of the most powerful physics  in the world, and you pick a non-believer? Why do you burden yourself with that self-denying imbecile, Britannia? America felt my presence. Then he turns around and pretends we don’t exist.” Arthur sighs and shrugs a little helplessly. Trixie insists, “It’s insulting.” 

England rubs where his smarting head smacked the wood and watches the last of his American disappear through the door to the bedroom. The bump on his scalp heals before it fully forms, and with it, so heals a part of his intoxication. 

But he’s still a little tipsy and a lot too nauseous to re-engage that particular conversation regarding Alfred’s denial of the supernatural. It’s not as though Arthur disagrees with Trixie, per se. But he doesn’t want to get into it while Alfred exists just not far away, transforming the bedroom carpet into the aftermath of a hurricane. 

A cacophony of mutilated zippers and abused, rough canvas assaults his ears as Alfred sorts through his suitcase. 

“God, my head is killing me,” mumbles the Brit in lieu of a proper response, trying in a vague attempt to extract sympathy from beings he’s not sure possess it. Trixie and he can shit talk later over tea. He turns to Flying Mint Bunny for a distraction when he’s saved by “disaster”.

“Where in the fuck is my floss?” cries a familiar voice, dismayed. Sharp, emerald eyes follow the direction of the noise. Oil portraits and rectangular trimmings from floor to ceiling line cobalt walls, adorned in ornamental plasterwork. At the end of the hallway a seven section bay casement window bleeds moonlight onto the faded oriental rug, swathing an otherwise unlit space in soft blue hues. They are staying in an old house and one he hasn't updated to current styles in well over a century. He’s a self-admitted creature of habit, and he won’t ever update another of his properties if he can help it. The ancient foundations maintain their old magic and Trixie, Flying Mint Bunny and the rest are most comfortable on its undisturbed grounds.

“You smell like vomit,” Trixie adds, in that neutrally observational tone. Something Arthur can’t see catches their attention, they kiss his cheek and flutter off. 

Mint Bunny squeals happily and flies off to the kitchen, probably to check his cupboards for the usual American snacks Alfred carries with him each visit. At least one of his friends approves of their relationship. 

⚜⚜⚜

When Arthur finally peels himself from the coat rack and stumbles to the bedroom Alfred is sitting on the bed sorting through his email, nails click–clack-clacking at the keys and hair damp from the shower. A long string of floss is stuck in an incisor, just ending at his chin. Alfred looks much more comfortable than he did in his work attire, sporting a pair of disgraceful (adorable) striped pajamas. Blue eyes look up and smile at his now mostly-sober lover, beckoning with his bare toe for Arthur to come nearer. 

Arthur raises an eyebrow and remains in the doorframe. Beyond the American’s bespeckled sight England presses his fingers into the wood, need for Alfred battling with his pride. What sort of besotted fool would he look? To follow that manicured big-toe’s command. He was England, for god’s sake! An officer of His Majesty’s Military, privateer of the seven seas, knight of King Arthur’s Round Table –

Alfred jumps off the bed, plucking the floss from his mouth in what Alfred must imagine to be sexier than it is. He approaches Arthur’s appraising gaze until they stand centimeters apart- 

Arthur’s eyebrows untense and he’s wound into a warm, tight hug.

Alfred doesn’t mention that Arthur smells like stomach acid, which he knows he does. “Holding you in my arms, after a long-ass day… god Artie, I missed ya. You melt my heart right down to butter.” A huge smile breaks Alfred’s face (he can feel it against his shoulder), and Arthur closes his eyes to savour this feeling.

“Ditto.”

It’s difficult to internally admit when something foreign drives intense  affection. The urge to become closer, to crawl under Alfred’s ridiculous pajamas and hold him beneath his skin is strong. It reminds him of the yearning he felt for cold, fresh water after a long while at sea. The crown of Arthur’s head is peppered with kisses and Alfred’s clean scent hits him like a rush of warm air. “You left me to die,” Arthur reminds Alfred’s chest, resisting the urge to nuzzle the edge. “By the door. I might have choked on my own sick and died.”

“Catch you in the field, babe,” Afred laughs, referring to the mysterious meadow where all nations regenerate, naked at the day… they were born? 

Were they born?

 It took about a day for a regenerated nation to find humanity and by then, its location was forgotten.

“Don’t even think about it, boy,” Arthur sasses, balancing the tone by groping Alfred’s lovely behind. “It's about time you pulled out that fat republican wallet. Eight o’clock tomorrow evening, reservation for two. Sushi, the best of what London has to offer.”

Alfred laughs, using one of his own hands to help Arthur get a better grip on his ass. “Sure thing, sugar. But first you’ve gotta work for it.”

“Needy Americans,” The Brit huffs, walking them towards the bed. The back of the American’s knees make contact with the mattress and Alfred falls with a huff, Arthur smirking over him. 

Blue eyes smile up when England crawls on top and uses his quick, sharp tongue to ravish a California sun-tanned neck and collarbone and chest like the sky was falling. Alfred’s hands pull at Arthur’s shirt and he moans with pleasure, baring his neck to allow more access, to get all the attention he hasn’t been given for far too damn long.

“Bend your knees,” demands Arthur, taking one of Alfred’s legs in his hand and pushing it up so he can bite a line down his inner thigh. Alfred does as he is bid, but not without a bit of sass. He tries to focus on one hand and massages Arthur's left shoulder, right where he knows it’s tight.

The effect is immediate and Arthur slumps.

“Gghmph,” England moans.

“I missed you, sweetheart,” America pants, Southern twang drawing out the pet name and Arthur feels his arousal spike. Virginia always did the trick for Arthur, brought him right to his metaphorical (and occasionally physical) knees. Buttery and sweet like honey, Alfred keeps the accent up when he mewls the name of every deity he’s never believed in and breathes the Englishman’s name right against the ear adorned in silver piercings. 

“Don’t you dare stop.” There’s no need to clarify what they won’t want to end, because it’s never been articulated beyond lips shaping their meaning against damp, desperate skin.

Arthur bites into his American roughly, at the juncture between his shoulder and neck, and one-handedly unties the drawstring of Alfred’s pants. The fabric is pulled down a beautiful pair of hips and now they’re both fully in the mood, cheeks red and huffing hotly.

Alfred kisses Arthur right shoulder the moment it’s revealed. “You’re still kinda dirty,” Alfred laughs and devours Arthur’s mouth.

✰ ✰ ✰

Wind sweeps through the open window and billows out the curtains like a lady’s ball gown. England and America lounge on the couch, Arthur’s perpetually chilled feet buried under the American. Arthur reads a dog-eared copy of Shakespeare’s works and Alfred is nose-deep in a Bureau of Labor Statistics report. They’ve been like this for two hours post-sex and it's disgustingly domestic, but Alfred decides he doesn’t care. It’s very late and Alfred can see sleep tugging at England’s eyes, and although it’s a full six hours ahead of Washington DC Alfred watches Arthur’s chin dip every ten minutes. Then he’d jerk awake, frown, and keep reading. It's a little entertaining and a lot cute.

The papers slap onto the side table to disturb an otherwise quiet space. 

“Dude,” Alfred closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up his forehead. He looks under them at his partner.

Arthur doesn’t glance from the page but a toe shifts under his ass. Sassily. 

Alfred rolls his eyes, “Arthur.” 

Haughty green deigns to meet baby blues, expression still. Alfred stares back and Arthur eventually raises an impressive eyebrow. “Yes, love?”

Alfred laughs and flops sideways, fumbling until his ear lays over Arthur’s stomach and his right arm hangs over the couch to prevent either man from slipping. Arthur snorts and fusses a bit before settling into their new position, rubbing circles over Alfred’s temple. A few hours ago every point of contact burned like fire. Now, it just feels nice. And post-sex shower Arthur’s back to his usual soap and tea smell.

If all days getting dogpiled ended like today Alfred wouldn’t need half the cigarette budget.

“Read to me,” Alfred demands, proud of himself for such an awesome idea. The position is awkward but they fit together like puzzle pieces.

The hand rubbing his temple deftly pinches his nose. Alfred flinches and the same fingers ease wire frames off from where they’re squashed between Alfred’s ear and Arthur’s stomach, folding the arms on the side table over the rejected report. Alfred looks up to see the blurry shape he knows to be Arthur, adopts his most innocent expression.

“Please?”

Even the fuzzy colors of Arthur’s sharp features soften. Heh, got ‘im.

Arthur scoffs and resumes his petting. “Oh, very well. Spoilt brat.

“‘Benedict: O, she misused me past the endurance of a block! An oak but with one green leaf on it would have answered her. My very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the Prince’s jester, that I was duller than a great thaw, huddling jest upon jest ith such impossible conveyance upon me that I stood like a man at a mark with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs. If her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the North Star.’”

Alfred laughs at the last sentence and Arthur’s eyes crinkle faintly at the edges. His reading voice is unbelievably sexy and warm, tongue looping through Shakespeare’s words like an experienced weaver’s hand winds their thread. Arthur doesn’t just read when telling a story. He spoke the lines and he brought their meaning to organic, vibrant life. Before the modest fireplace England delivered Benedict’s wit and charm with an adeptness Alfred, having attended Much Ado About Nothing dozens of times, had never felt. The Englishman’s affection for the words of his old poet and slight fatigue softening rounded vowels make America’s heart flutter.

Anxiety brought by the BLS’s report soars to far crevasses of America’s brain, busy activity settling by England’s lolling voice.

Alfred closes his eyes and breathes deep, deeper than he’s been able to breath in a long while. Vibrations of Arthir’s chest, pressed against his ear, flood his body with ease so he doesn’t register when the act ends and England’s silent.

⚜⚜⚜

 England blinks through exhaustion at the lax, tanned face.

A silly urge prods the older blond and Arthur considers it absentmindedly. Squirming in embarrassment, Arthur gently blows America’s hair to confirm that he’s asleep. His eyelashes don’t flutter and Arthur sighs with relief and mutters, with more tenderness than he will ever allow the egotistical fool to hear awake, “I love you.”

The words hang in the air a moment, and Arthur closes his eyes and sighs deep when the American’s face remains relaxed in sleep.

“Coward!”

Arthur jumps, heart leaping up his throat. Trixie is watching from the mantle, their tiny feet swinging back and forth. It’s clear the faerie has been observing them for a while. Just his luck. Shouldn’t they have something better to do?! 

England flushes and looks awaywhere but his small friend, demanding, “Something funny?”

Silence follows the question and Arthur eventually looks towards the fireplace, blames the heat in his cheeks on the flames licking up applewood. Trixie tilts their head, suddenly serious. 

“Britannia slept wrapped amongst oak root flares,” they say, so indirectly it might not be for Arthur. 

“You’re happier.” Now they face England. He doesn’t answer, picking apart the odd sentence.

Alfred produces a loud snore in the moment Trixie and Arthur lock eyes. Arthur raises his right hand, previously holding the book, to smooth through America’s golden hair. The stands are soft from the shower and he tugs gently at Nantucket. He raises an eyebrow at the mantle, tempting the magical creature to comment.

They don’t. Arthur looks down at his lovely lad and the rings of exhaustion below his eyes and the peacefulness of his expression in slumber. He looks younger without his glasses, and the weight of his torso is warm and heavy. Just enough to be comforting, even if he was losing some sensation in his legs.  He can feel Trixie’s gaze on his face. He doesn’t know what thoughts might be going through their mind, but he believes what they say is true and he is happy for it, though he will not reveal such sentiment to reward their audacious behavior.

✰ ✰ ✰

America wakes to the sensation of a page brushing Nantucket and a pair of bony wrists resting on his crown. England reads beneath him and Alfred pretends to stay asleep.

“Good afternoon- or should I say morning, Mister Eastern Standard,” Arthur murmurs, blowing Alfred’s cover. Paper scrapes against America’s hair as England turns a page.

Sunlight filters through lacy curtains, its gentle warmth tingling the skin of Alfred’s back. Arthur’s lounge room’s overall chill is attributed to the outdated (to state it gently) building’s poor insulation. 

Combined with their point of contact the temperature is perfect.

Snuggling close, Alfred smiles into Arthur’s waist and pulls his right hand up- except it’s fallen asleep on the floor. So he pulls that one in and successfully retires with his left where a thin-rimmed Texas is deposited. 

Alfred didn’t like opening his eyes without them. He’s been told it makes him look tired and young, neither of which was his desired image. Plus he couldn’t see more than four inches in front of his face. 

Alfred refuses to contemplate what that symbolized of his nationhood.

Without looking, the lenses squeak against a blanket pooled on the floor and are placed on Alfred’s face. Arthur's gaze briefly flicks down to meet blue eyes when the American looks up. His lip twitches just barely, then he goes back to reading. The Englishman looks younger than usual, features relaxed as sharp eyes scan the lines of text with efficiency. Sometimes his lips mimic the words, but Alfred knows Arthur would be self-conscious if he were told and so he tries not to look or smile too adoringly. He settles for nuzzling the inside of Arthur’s wrists.

“Morning! I’m a little surprised you didn’t try getting up,” Alfred digs his phone out from the couch cushion and starts checking the news. “I mean, not sure why you’d wanna.”

Above him Arthir huffs, “Oh, bugger off. I haven’t felt my legs for the last ten hours and you’re about fifteen tones above my current PR.” 

Alfred smirks and wiggles, not moving. “Better get back to the gym then, sweetheart. I ain’t seen you in years. You can bet your black pudding I’m not moving before lunch. Speaking of,”

⚜⚜⚜

Alfred closes Wall Street Journal and scrolls through nearby restaurant pages. Now that food is mentioned, Arthur realizes he is starving. However, he doesn’t want Alfred to see his own realization because it would be embarrassing to admit he hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning, and forces his eyes to continue reading the words. Internally Arthur begs his stomach not to rat him out.

“Alfred!” Arthur squawks when America bounces up, sending Shakepeare at his face.

“Whoops!” shouts Alfred, already down the hall. He emerges a moment later wearing jeans, tugging a sweatshirt over his head. Arthur scowls while Alfred pulls his shoes, “Remember that French-Prusian bakery you took me, Matt, and the Aussie to in the ‘50s? With the halva croissants?”

It takes Arthur a moment, but he does. In fact, he remembers selecting that particular bakery, along with a few other restaurants, in an attempt to encourage America’s prolonged stay in London. So they could… so he could spend more time with him. Or something like that.

“Yes.”

“It’s gonna close in, like, thirty minutes,” Alfred pleads, struggling to tie the laces on his combat boots. Then he's running back for a toothbrush.

Memories of that visit are forced to the forefront of his mind and he allows them to run their course while he bookmarks his page and folds the blanket and stacks it on a towering pile of afghans.

As it turned out, Alfred hadn’t needed more than an invitation. Between the American embassy, London’s reconstruction, and a pitstop in the French countryside the two of them ended up in one another’s company for much of the following week as a result of “sheer coincidence”, and the tireless efforts of clever secretaries. Their schedules overlapped perfectly. It was pleasant remembering that week of travel and sleep, a small break from his own stressful affairs with the worn and edgy politicians reconstructing the dissonant pieces of a shattered empire. 

On their train out of France and towards the Channel, England had broken down against the observation car’s rail. He had thought himself alone with cold, loud air rushing against his back. He didn’t make a habit of crying but in that moment he’d been overwhelmed by it all and dropped his shields in (what he thought was) the privacy of night. When Arthur wiped any trace of distress from his face and saw that an hour had passed, he reentered the car to find America staring out the window. 

Two cups of liquid sat balanced on either knee and when he looked up, expression concealed by an absence of light, he offered the right one to England. 

“Found a moment to cram your face in the dining car, have we?” Arthur asked, taking the cup with visible suspicion and sniffing the rim. His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

It was tea! Either he had fallen off the balcony and gone to heaven (extremely unlikely) or been the victim of frostbite and gone delirious (possible), because in no universe did the United States of America offer England tea.

England was more surprised not to receive even a “stuff it”. America’s silhouette only shrugged.

Sipping it delicately, England had tapped his foot. He wasn’t sure what response the situation deserved and America had resumed his window watching, occasionally sipping what Arthur assumed was coffee. Arthur was tired from years, decades, of constant change and it felt as though that hour of reflection had forced him to recognize the exhaustion for what it was. This brief display of care, in a moment of weakness, was enough to move his cold heart and he melted just a bit. His resolve to look unperturbed by America’s tea offering melted Arthur just enough to sit himself a few seats from the American.

His tongue had tasted black tea. It had been a tad cold, meaning Alfred had seen him crying and retreated to his seat for at least twenty minutes. Dash it all, he'd cursed internally.

The remainder of the trainride had passed in the most silence England and America had shared all week, and when his cup of tea had been drunk to the dregs he’d grabbed America’s hand in a firm grip and they nodded once. Then England had left, grabbed his bags, and boarded the Channel ferry without looking back.

That was not the first occasion America had revealed something tender and lovely behind that megawatt smile, but it was a memory he held dear to his heart during a time Arthur knew a gentle wind might toss him out of existence.

Blanket folded and feelings tender, Arthur pushes himself off the couch and vows never to remember it again. It makes him feel old and inglorious. 

Arthur’s thoughts are interrupted by an unhappy, empty stomach.

“Don’t wait up” He tells the empty room sarcastically. Bare feet follow the farmed portraits towards his room, taking a moment to smooth out a carpet corner with his toe. Alfred has the unique gift of generating an awful racket with the smallest of tools and an orchestra of water, metal, and plastic against procline narrates Alfred’s routine exactly beyond the thick doors. 

Clink! Alfred sets down a can of shaving cream. 

When he enters the bathroom America shoves a bottle of sunscreen in his general direction, raising an eyebrow through the mirror where he’s shaving. England sees his own shadowed face in its reflection and shoos Alfred aside to lather his own cheeks in shaving cream.

“Fucking gorgeous day, huh? Haven’t slept that well in months. Suppose I sleep on you every night; I’d be Superman,” Alfred shows off perfect, pearly white teeth and Arthur considers flossing for the first time in weeks. 

“Suppose you lose about three stone and we’ll revisit that idea,” he pauses to gargle mouthwash, then spits it down the drain and presses a kiss to America’s snarky smirk. “We’ll workshop.”

Slacks, vest, comb, and ten minutes later America and England are out the door and hand in hand towards the bakery.

⚜⚜⚜

Alfred is chipper as usual and Arthur enjoys the wonderful breeze and Alfred’s expressive background chatter as Arthur leads their speed-meander towards the bakery. No need really. The smell of warm pastries hits them a block off and now it’s Alfred pulling Arthur along, like a child towards a candy shop. It's a small building tucked between two larger modern ones and the bell on the door jangles when they enter.

“Arthur!” exclaims a jovial woman manning the register, “We haven’t seen you in months! How’ve you been? How did the roses come along this season?”

Alfred abandons their hold to explore the limited array of baked goods left from the morning crowd. If that boy smudges the display case…

“Blooming even more vibrant than last year, thank you. It’s wonderful to see you, Amahle,” She’s placing five of the remaining croissants in a white paper bag, deft movement not breaking their conversation. Arthur’s mouth waters a bit but thankfully his stomach does not expose his excitement.

He’s missed this bakery more than he realized. Alfred is pointing at a chocolate something-or-other and Amahle adds them to the bag with a smile.

“Business running smoothly?” he asks to be polite, although the answer is evident by the almost empty shelves.

“Always”, she laughs, and frowns playfully when Alfred tries offering his card. She hands Alfred the bag, stuffed to the brim. Golden pastry crust peaks over the edge.

“Thank you, ma’am!” Alfred’s hand crinkles the little white bag and emerges with a cookie, immediately shoving its entirety into his face. 

“A-Alfred!” Arthur sputters behind him, barely resisting the urge to strangle the man for his slobbish eating habits. But Amahle just looks pleased to see a customer enjoying her food with gusto. Settling for a swift smack on that lovely behind Arthur slips a twenty pound banknote into the tipping jar while the shop owner is shelled by midwestern American enthusiasm for anything containing butter and sugar. America barely swallows before going on, “Your bakery is really delicious, you know? Artie dragged us here years ago. Best pastry crust I’ve ever had, and believe me when I say I’ve tried a lot. Haha, never forget!” 

During COVID Arthur made a point to place weekly orders from a few private businesses. Amahle’s being one of them. Luckily her shop pulled through and it warmed Arthur’s heart to see their usual flourishing clientele returned. 

He waves goodbye and drags Alfred, still talking, out the door. He hasn’t seen Alfred for years, and they have a lot to do today.

⚜⚜⚜

On the road towards the nearest Underground station and midway through a weak defense of the Imperial system, America shivers. “D-did you feel that, Arthur?” he whispers, pushing up his glasses and crowding closer. Arthur pulls when his partner’s steps falter, looking around briefly.

Some steps ahead a father pushes a stroller, and a woman wielding five leashes (all attached at the end to dogs of varying sizes) leans against a nearby tree watching her phone. Some ducks idle by the pond, and the usual animal suspects are present. Nothing out of the ordinary. And certainly nothing so peculiar as to cause America’s arm muscles to clamp under his clothes. 

“Those USDA-approved chemicals finally hit their mark. A few bites of sashimi ought to right things,” he says, tapping the side of Alfred’s head to cover up a kiss. The smell of his own shampoo in Alfred’s blond curls makes him a little warm so he cuts it short.

Alfred returns the gesture. But he pulls on England’s arms, and the uncalibrated force both informs the Brit America isn’t joking, and yanks him down before Arthur can prepare. “Alfred, watch it!”

“Oops. But babe,” Alfred stops their walk, and forces Arthur to stare at intense, anxious blue eyes. “I- something- I felt something cold go through my chest. L-like a ghost,” he stammers out, cheeks gone white. 

Arthur feels the urge to roll his eyes. He doesn’t fight it. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

“Dude!” Alfred shoots him a betrayed look, snatching his hand from their hold inside Arthur's pocket. “This ain’t funny! It’s almost a full moon!” He gestures vaguely at the sky.

If there had truly been any “ghost” phasing through Alfred's chest, Arthur would have noticed. And a full moon? Was that some American superstition- that ghosts would abandon their regular hauntings to pester the non-believers? America’s big, blue eyes plead Arthur’s unmoved green one’s to believe him. Or maybe to disprove his anxiety?

Well, there wasn’t any harm in encouraging this superstition. It might even provide the evidence America needed to overcome his see-it-then-I’ll-believe-it system. Trixie would be proud.

“Yes. Yes! Of course, how very silly of me, poppet. I didn’t realize you could sense, uh-” Arthur thought quickly, looking around for inspiration, “Birch!...ington. Birchington, that’s his name. Died an awful, painful death I hear… heard- from the papers.” Arthur nods solemnly, biting into a croissant.

He’s rewarded for his shoddy acting skills by a quick inhale, and his hand is immediately rejoined in his pocket. Ha!

It’s twitchier than usual and Arthur would feel guilt, except that Alfred’s persistent refusal to acknowledge the existence of the creatures that raised him for the first millennium of his life has festered into an admittedly bitter sore-spot in their relationship. As one of the world’s greatest psychics, the responsibility to legitimize his side profession partially fell on his shoulders. England was only performing his duty to all spirit and magic kind!

They descend into the station and Arthur continues the story while he fetches Alfred a metro ticket from the kiosk, “Oh yes, terrible thing it was. Worked under some old fart as a valet for years- 1890s, was it? TB caught him off guard and poof! Apparently he was quite the handsome devil, had the papers all in a rage.”

Arthur slips the ticket into a shaky hand and looks up into a white face, blue eyes wide like saucers. “T-terrible, huh?”

“Terrible,” Arthur agrees, smug.

⚜⚜⚜

To nations there is nothing more comfortable than standing in their homeland and Arthur is no exception. Nothing quite makes England’s day like riding the Underground. The cars are densely populated but quick, just enough people and time to recalibrate his senses after being away from society for any extended time.

Not even Alfred’s twitching can break this sensation of quiet contentment.

The weekend crowd is thin in today’s unseasonable weather and both men find seats promptly.  Arthur busies himself multitasking: arguing with Scotland over text and editing a memo for his boss about yesterday’s meeting, excluding any detail of the after-work drinking party. His thumbs are too fat for the tiny keyboard and every word is a laborious process, relief only granted by Scotland’s motley, half-illertate notifications. Beside him Alfred startles like a lamb at every minute jerk of the traincar and unexpected noise, fiddling with video games on his phone and switching tabs to his inbox and hoaxy Twitter articles on the supernatural every other second.

That’s the third time he misspelled “propositional��! Fuck this!

“What’s got your knickers in a twist? That alien friend of yours escaped through the backyard fence again?”

Alfred delivers a particularly nasty look, knee bouncing. “First, Tony has free reign of the place! He ain’t a pet; he’s a fiend. Second: Ghosts, Arthur! Like you said! I mean, they don’t exist, but what if someone’s really, really good at imitating ‘em. Haunting and, and… and whatever the fuck else ghosts fo- Arg!” Flappy Bird crashes into a green pipe. 

Arthur puts his hand out and Alfred drops his phone into it, watching Arthur beat America’s high score over the trenchcoated shoulder. Alfred raises a thin eyebrow when it’s given back. “Touché.”

Alfred and Kiku weren’t the only nations bored out of their minds in 2013. 

“Birchington has better things to do than play tag, Alfred. It’s insulting to imply otherwise.”

When they arrive at Piccadilly Station Alfred bounces off his seat and flies at the doors, waiting with a hand on his hip for them to open. “Hun, really. I appreciate you tryna make me feel better but I’ve got a gut feeling- something’s gonna go down. I found this Twitter community- they totally agree.”

Alfred throws this over his shoulder. His clenched jaw catches the car’s dingy light. Stupidly handsome yank. 

Blue eyes are hard behind silver glasses and his posture is ramrod straight beneath a classic WWII flight jacket. It reminds Arthur of an officer’s pose, the one Alfred wore during his own training. The serious attitude would be knee-buckling if Arthur didn’t know what nonsense brought the attitude about.

The effect is dampened. Only a slight rouse on the cheeks betray him. Luckily, Alfred is even denser when he’s in a mood and so the Englishman is spared the ridicule.

“Intuition? Good lord, lad, we’ve far too much to do to listen to that,” Arthur scoffs, offering half of his second croissant when they reach the street. 

✰ ✰ ✰

Arthur isn’t taking this spooky business seriously enough. Maybe he’s spent so much time in his “Magic Club” with Norway, Romania, and Haiti he’s developed a tolerance. Which is super weird, considering magic doesn’t exist. One too many “scones”(read: coal nuggets) and his break with reality isn’t limited to his sense of taste. 

But it’s okay, because Arthur looks extremely handsome and mature today and a little sass and insanity’s never been enough to keep him out of Arthur’s arms and bed.

Alfred accepts the croissant and nibbles at its flaky crust, following the beige back of a trenchcoat leading them towards a car. He’d prefer to nibble on his fingernails but then he'll get slapped by Arthur, teased by Mattie, and yelled at by the manicurist. A triple whammy he’d rather not relive. 

They pass by an old bar with ivy weaving through its brick wall (that can’t be up to code) and goosebumps spread across his arms under the leather jacket like a wave of cold water crashing over his head. Jesus on a stick. Birchington, that bastard! He crams the rest of the pastry into his mouth and speed-saunters towards Arthur.

The Englisman scans his car, now visible through a light crowd. No smashed window glitters on the road. Hooray! “I’m picking up a few files at my office before dinner,” Arthur pats his arm with the hand holding his keys, swiping through his phone in the other. “Be a dear and quit stroking the sides. I know you’re besotted but I really hate seeing grease smudges on my way to work.”

Alfred snatches back the hand absentmindedly petting The Car. “I don’t- I wouldn’t- I. What?” He holds both hands in the air as if to pronounce his innocence. 

See, officer? Unarmed. Arthur rolls his eyes and uses the edge of his shirt to wipe a nonexistent smudge on The Car. That ass.

“Not to spoil your plans but weren't we gonna go on that hike? Weather reports say it’s gonna be way worse the rest of my VK dates.”

The driver’s side opens with a well-oiled chick and they both slide in through respective doors. Alfred’s admiration for The Car is so strong it almost distracts the American’s thoughts from Birchington.

“Oh arse it all … yes. Those files will have to wait. You might be right- for once.”

“Haha, don’t hurt yourself.”

Arthur sits back a moment and looks pensive out the windshield. “ My hiking boots and bag are still in the back from last time. Everything should take less than six hours so we’ll be right in time for our reservation. Sounds good?”

“Sounds better than good. And I wanna pick up water and a box of Ding Dongs. When I checked the cupboard half the wrappers were empty.”

“It wasn’t me,” Arthur huffs, and Alfred doesn't know whether or not to believe him. Certainly, Ding Dongs don’t just go poof! But Arthur wouldn’t have had time to eat so many and Alfred has been known to sleepwalk (and eat). 

Alfred brushes his legs up and down in an attempt to warm up. He feels colder than he did a minute ago.Winter can suck his balls. “Mind turning up the heat?”

His request is obliged and The Car is expertly wound through busy lanes. Alfred takes out his phone and scrolls through his Twitter feed. One of the trending posts by Reigan Arataka’s Spirits & Such Consultation. Defeated the Dagger in Japan?! Alfred heard dozens of rumors about her both in Japan and back home. Alfred retweets the post:

“OMG i’m in London rn w my bf and he says theres a ghost named birchington haunting us. any1 else in the uk heard of him?” 

The car warms quickly as they drive (on the wrong side fuck fuck fuck Alfred resists the urge to scream every time they turn). Nevertheless a chill persists deep in his bones. It remains even when a sweat builds under his collar while Arthur insists the driver in front of them is a wanker and habitually fucks his mother on Sundays.

It’s cold, but it absolutely shouldn’t be. Could it be the ghost? That fucker Birchington?

“Who in their right mind allowed your daft,”

“Arthur.”

“Flea-bitten, pig-brained,”

“Arthur.”

“Chud to maneuver a vehicle on this blood- Oh you’re turning? Finally! Realized you could suck up even more oxygen by flicking the turnsig-”

“Arthur!”

“What?!”

“I know they don’t exist BUT- There’s a mutherfucking ghost haunting my ass and you’re pretending not to see it!” Alfred snaps, shivering under his clothes and twitching nervously.

Arthur taps the steering wheel and doesn’t respond immediately. Which he should, considering the gravity of the situation. “America,” he says, not kindly. “There’s no ghost.” 

“…Promise?”

“Well, not in the car at the very least. There’s a placard in the glove compartment, be a dove and hang it under the mirror.”

Alfred sighs in disgust and digs through what must be a hundred maps (honestly, who still uses paper maps?) before pulling it out and doing as he’s told. There’s nothing to worry about, Alfred tells himself.

But when he moves his hand from blocking his view of the street a silhouette on the sidewalk appears. It’s a hunched figure wearing a ragged cloak and Alfred sees the red brick wall behind them. The hairs on the back of his neck stand ramrod and he turns to tug on Arthur’s sleeve when a moment later he blinks. 

And the figure is gone.

If there was a ghost nearby Arthur would have noticed, what with all his freaky magic wizarding shit. The goosebumps and feeling like he’s being watched are probably a symptom of burnout. Alfred just doesn’t know how to relax and his brain has come up with something mean to scare his mind into its usual overworked state. That’s what Mattie says all the time, and his Canadian neighbor is usually not wrong.

Alfred can trust Arthur. Arthur wouldn’t lie about something like this. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

✰ ✰ ✰

Thirty minutes into their hike and twenty into the culpability of Twitter users abouts the existence of ghosts, and all the theories his followers proposed in Alfred’s tweet comments, Arthur proves him wrong.

“For goodness’ sake, Alfred! I was joking, love. There is no Birchington. I was just so pent up with your constantly jabbing my magic so I made up a silly little story.”

Alfred stops walking and flails before finding his voice, “... You lied to me?”

“It wasn’t creative enough to warrant a ‘lie’, per se. Anyone with half a brain could see through it. Just- just quit fussing so we can enjoy what little free time we get.” Arthur grabs Alfred’s hands, expression something between infuriated and pleading. Arthur looks at his watch and it’s clear the only thing the Englishman is concerned with is staying on schedule.

Alfred feels beyond betrayed. He trusted Arthur! 

(To be frank this wasn’t inconsistent behavior. Their usual Halloween challenge relied on Arthur using Alfred’s particular weak spot against him. But!) This wasn’t Halloween. This vacation was supposed to be for sleep, exploring, and sex exclusively. 

Flabbergasted, Alfred stutters angrily a few moments before turning cheek and stomping off. Unfortunately Arthur carries all of their navigation equipment, and so Alfred’s gesture can’t have the desired impact and storm out of sight the way he’d prefer, but he can sit down and start typing a draft to Mattie about what a jerk Arthur is. 

Alfred finds a semi-dry log and does just that.

Honestly, doesn’t Arthur know how lucky he is to be with Alfred?? He’s so amazing. Massive biceps, a sweet face, sexy NASA station ID card… Arthur’s totally disrespecting him. Slandering his dignified image! That limey bastard!

Alfred types furiously on his smartphone, striking a comical silhouette along the trunk he leans against. 

But he pauses when the shadow of an unkindness of ravens are bent by his foot. Birds twitter and chirp in the tree tops. They sound so merry, and of course they do. How could the birds be unhappy? The weather is lovely and they’re with all their bird friends. Who knows how long birds live, how long they’ll have to chirp together. Perchance. It’s nice to hear their musical notes and Alfred starts feeling silly for being bitter. Closing Whatsapp, Alfred starts looking towards his Englishman, about to forgive and forget- 

Before he sees the expression on Arthur's face.

England has an unimpressed eyebrow raised above on an equally snooty gaze, almost glassy with disinterest. The birdsongs seem to cut off abruptly in Alfred’s ear and he whips back to Whatsapp, typing twice as furiously.

“If you need a moment to console yourself I’ll just be over there,” says Arthur eventually, finding a stump near a clearing to sip at his Yeti of tea. Japan gifted him a box of teas before the meeting and this black blend has subtle hibiscus tones. It’s excellent and Arthur mentally ponders what gifts he could thank Kiku’s gesture with. 

Arthur does feel a little bad for keeping up the lie, but America is acting so childish that it would hurt him more to acknowledge it than apologize and it was such a fucking. Stupid. Lie!

Behind him Alfred curls his lip in Arthur’s direction, thumb pressing a hole through his phone screen.

The sound of crunching glass makes Arthur look over his shoulder to raise an even (if somehow possible) higher and haughtier eyebrow. 

“Not. One. Word,” Alfred says in an intense whisper, ruined phone falling into a small pouch on the side of America’s borrowed hiking bag. This wasn’t the first technological casualty, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last

Arthur seals the Yeti bottle shut and nods, meeting Alfred in the middle of the trail where they initially parted ways.

Looking down at Arthur and remembering all the birds singing, he realizes how little time they have and how much he doesn’t wanna waste it. “Pop by Starbies tomorrow morning and we’re even.” 

Arthur offers a sarcastic hand and Alfred shakes it. 

They both look down at their hands for a moment before Alfred smiles. “Awww, c’mere you,” he dips Arthur into a tender kiss, almost overbalancing with their combined hiking equipment. 

The trail leads England and America another four miles into the forest, an orange sun just beginning its Eastern dip to cast long tree shadows. 

⚜⚜⚜

Arthur starts feeling something strange. Alfred convinced him to stray from the trail after a late lunch and he regrettes giving in. They each had headlamps but neither man was keen to stay out past dark.

Unfortunately the compass wouldn't quit spinning and Arthur’s phone was dead. Alfred was freaking out as the minutes went by and the sun sunk lower, and Arthur pretended he wasn’t freaking out as well by marching ahead.

Alfred wasn’t in the habit of verbalizing his anxiety, but Arthur chalked it up to some lingering ghost fears.

“We’re lost! Oh fuck Arthur, we’re lost,” Alfred whimpered, chugging his water. “If Birchington- if ghosts existed I’d be real nervous right about now. Dark, empty forest. No weapons, compass broken, phones dead. Ha ha ha. Heh.”

“Pity, it seems we’ll miss our reservation. But we’re fine. We entered the path on the Eastern side, so even if we don’t find the trail for a few miles we’ll run into a road.” But the temperature was dropping, and frankly neither Arthur nor Alfred had been following where they were. Who needed to with a trail?

“Uh, Artie?”

Arthur stopped smacking the side of the spinning compass to look up. “What?”

“The website didn’t mention a big ass castle anywhere.”

“Why would it? There’s no cast- Oh.” In the clearing, illuminated just by moonlight, loomed a massive, dilapidated and ivy-covered castle. 

How neither man saw it before is beyond Arthur. It’s enormous and beautiful, with tall towers on either side. They stand so close they can see the mosaic of rocks, and thick ivy tearing through the binding. Moss kisses each crevasse and the rocks are smoothed by weather and time. It’s a jaw droppingly stunning building and it makes Arthur melt just a bit.

“I thought I’d seen them all…” Arthur whispers aloud. It is curious to realize that something this huge and close to home had gone under his radar.

A force he can’t place seems to pull Arthur’s body towards the looming structure, and before he realizes it he’s weaving through the brush filling the entrance.

“Wha- Arthur! No, man, no c’mon this is- it’s how people die in h-horror movies!”

Subconsciously, Arthur can tell how close to breaking Alfred’s tone is. But there’s a mixture of curiosity and something far more powerful pulling him in and denying his feet their forward march is actually painful. “You wait here, love. I’m gonna have a look about.”

His responses are vague flailing noises which increase steadily in volume until Alfred is glued to his side. They ascend a crumbling stairwell off the parlor, and with each step what little light remains steadily dulls until the brightest thing visible is the entrance to the stairs. They turn on their headlamps, but there’s not much to see. 

“This is creepy as fuck,” Alfred complains, and Arthur can’t help but agree. There’s magic, strong magic, somewhere in these walls and he feels both threatened and enraptured by its pull. He can’t stop himself from placing one foot in front of the other even when he’s decided the potential risk is not worth quenching his curiosity. Alfred is clearly terrified, and the American’s unintentionally harsh hold over his arm threatens to snap the bone.

Behind him a rather nasty cough emanates. “Excuse me.”

At that Arthur whips around faster than light. Alfred would never apologize for coughing! He’s right: In front of his eyes festeres a spirit. His form is vague, but he wears a white shirt under a cloak, and it is speckled with blood. A cloth is held against his mouth and when he looms towards them he doesn’t make another sound. 

”It’s Birchington, just like those guys on Twitter said!” Alfred exclmains.

Ah. That explained this then. What's more stereotypical than an English 1890’s TB victim haunting a dilapidated medieval castle? Very little, that’s what.

“How many Twitter followers do you have, love?” asks Arthur. He knows it's in the millions. It doesn’t bode well for them, alone with an extremely powerful spirit who's still gaining in power from fear generated  by Alfred’s Tweet.

Six hours ago Birchington the ghost, an unfortunate victim of tuberculosis, did not exist.

Now Alfred and Arthur are being pulled right off their feet and into the air by a very real, very dangerous conjuring of the mass imagination. In the end, Arthur can admit this is his own doing.

Alfred’s unholy screams are devoured by an artificial wind, but his mouth is open and he can feel the American’s terror from where he’s being tossed and dragged against the walls on the other side of the room.

With each drag Arthur feels his skin ripping off from his back, arms, and legs and his clothes go damp. He smells copper, and he bites his tongue to keep from screaming.

Alfred has no such reserves and curses up a storm, his superior strength holding up better against Birchington’s onslaught. 

Suddenly the bricks beside him explode into shards of rock and America is right next to him, arms strained against the wall and hands embedded in the crumbled dirty brick. “You said you lied, fucker!”

Arthur strains his neck in order to turn his head and yell against the howling wind, “I did not lie this time, Alfred! Your chronically online Twitter posse believed him into existence! Maybe you should keep your fucking life to yourself insetad of informing the world on your every step and thought, twat!”

“T-twa- I can’t believe you, you-Akk!” And Alfred is yoinked back into the air.

Below them Birchington coughs up what must be a lung and a half. The noise he produces is dreadful and comically fitting for his backstory. The concept of a coughing, evil ghost would be funny if the attacks weren’t so vicious. England is again slammed into a wall, this time stomach down, and he turns his head to snarl. He has to think of something to at least even the scale, and as he does his tongue curiously catches a tooth which must have cracked off when his face smashed against the bricks.

He spits it out onto his palm and clenches it tightly in a fist, closing his eyes and forcing his body to hold up against the invisible winds wanting to shove it to and fro. When he opens them his body remains in the same place and below Birchington releases an energized hacking fit. England senses the spirits' magic increase, but his own abilities allow his physical body to maintain its undisturbed hovering.

Above him Alfred continues to be spun about, flailing his arms and legs like someone who has never learned to swim in a body of water. Arthur can’t do anything about America while he stabilizes his own field of gravity and familiarizes himself with Birchington’s energy.

“I’m going to try exercising him, so try and grab onto something,” Arthur shouts, drawing upon his magic and forming a ball of light in one hand. It’s difficult to maintain because Birchington’s power is being drawn from the land around them, which England partially draws from as well. Without any magical conductor, he has nothing but his own limbs to centralize the force of his blow.

England takes a breath, flexes his leg,

And drops.

⚜⚜⚜

“Bloody buggering- fuck- goddamit,” Arthur seethes, forcing the two pieces of femur together. The only thing worse than breaking a femur was having to re-snap it when the bone healed crookedly. 

Alfred, smushed against his side in an Uber that probably isn’t up to code, rubs his shoulder in sympathy. The lad was obviously exhausted. Not surprising considering the bodily trauma inflicted by Birchington’s attack. The American was fighting sleep, blinks becoming slower and slower. 

The windows are open and leave the car feeling identical to the stone, bone-cold castle they escaped not hours before. The chilly temperature might have helped England fight his own desires to sleep if not for the warm leather jacket sitting over his shoulders.

Immediately after exercising Birchington Arthur blacked out. Alfred took the liberty of wrapping him in that beloved flight jacket and carrying them towards a road, where a car peeled off the road and the driver proclaimed herself an Uber. 

Then Arthur awoke with a shout of pain. 

They listened to her with disbelief, but little choice. The night was empty and it was a stroke of luck that anyone was out here at all.

“No card, though,” she’d then said, and with no cell signal to verify her credentials, they clambered into the back.

And they were, finally, on their way back and blessedly ghost-free. Now England could allow himself to breathe.

England tried relaxing a bit into his seat, laboriously unstiffening his shoulders and unclenching his jaw. Everything screamed, sore and bruised, and he was exhausted in every manner of the word. With his magical reserves depleted to nothing Arthur felt weak and out of his element, and the only thing which provided even a modicum of comfort was the promise that Alfred wasn’t so upset over the (obvious) ghost prank he wasn’t booking an early flight home.

Cheers!

“A spot of tea would be lovely right now,” Arthur mutters, leaning his forehead against the driver's headrest. The leather smelled of cigarettes and toffee and it distracts him from the sensation of bone knitting itself together.

“Mind if I light one?” Alfred asks the driver, Zippo flame already dancing against the wind’s pull. 

“Not at all! Mind lighting two?” 

“Artie?” Without looking Arthur declines with a small wave. He doesn’t want Alfred to see his hand shaking if he tried holding it. 

Shrugging, Alfred hands the driver a cigarette and sucks on his own so long Arthur wonders if the American has switched off his need to breathe.

It would be an overreaction from Arthur’s perspective but then again, a little haunting never spooked him.

But then America breathes out and coughs and Arthur remembers he wants tea. Preferably cold by about twenty minutes, served in a quiet which lacked the burden of guilt.

Alfred acts natural enough, tapping ash out the window and smiling at tall, sparse trees whipping by. But if he were sincerely okay the car would be flooded with conversation and laughter. 

“For what it’s worth…,” Arthur starts (gently, so Alfred will look). “I’m sorry I lied about Birchington. I might not care about ghosts and the like, but I knew you did. I took advantage of your trust and I’m sorry.”

The car is silent for a moment (minus cheesy pop blaring through the driver’s Airpods) and Alfred looks out the window again before meeting his eyes and smiling. This time it reaches his eyes and crinkles the crows feet and Arthur’s thoughts abandon his physical discomforts when he imagines kissing them.

“…It’s ok, I guess,” says Alfred, in a voice rarely used. Arthur knows he means it. “I kinda got caught up in all those news media stories about that Arataka guy in Japan and his Dagger story.”

That sentence sits in the air until it feels settled. Arthur starts, “Speaking of Japan…”

A beat. Then,

“Oh em gee, Sushi!”

[immediatebreakfast]

Moving on from Robert's boyfriend aspirations, now it is a great time to focus on the background characters, and the setting portrayed today.

One thing that we must know is that in any book the background characters and the setting are two of the most important things to define a special environment for your book. The setting itself should be treated as another character.

Is your character a naive englishman lawyer going to work abroad for a weird yet charming client in a country far away? Describe a spooky forest in a wild environment with locals realizing, and fearing where exactly said englishman is going. Is your character a veteran colonel trying to make ends meets while waiting for a pension that will never come? Describe a small pueblo which the colonel will never leave, along with neighbors who see each other every day in a monotonous manner.

In Frankenstein, we going to the artics, reading how beautiful yet wild the frozen ocean is through the eyes of Robert. The untamed quality of the frost and snow remarked by how in the wide ocean there is no time for friends, how this unexplored region of mist and snow grabs the most passionate young men and turns them into ancient mariners. Moreover, this type of setting is followed by the most adequate characters which will accompany Robert in his voyage, in contrast of him all wide-eyed, passionate and full of ambitions, we meet rugged sailors who had already seen, and experienced more than Robert could ever imagine. Hardworking men who will do what he says as long as they get paid.

A perfect frame scene for what is to come.

[dominickeating-source]

TV ZONE ISSUE 147

Englishman Abroad by Steven Eramo

Source: www.dominickeating.com

[microcosme11]

Englishman tells the English not to take French expressions literally

There is certainly a wide difference between the manners of a polished Frenchman and a polished Englishman, and what the one considers as expressive only of common courtesy, the other looks upon as obsequiousness and insincerity. No allowances are made for the superior vivacity of the French character, or for difference of language. The French language is particularly copious in complimental phrases, and a French man is lavish enough in the use of them; but if the Englishman were well acquainted with the spirit and idiom of the French language, he would know that all this volubility of compliment means nothing more between Frenchmen than is understood between Englishmen in the usual subscription to a letter of “Your obedient humble servant,” which is addressed to a person with whom the writer is a perfect stranger. An Englishman is so accustomed to attach some reliance to very strong expressions of attachment and regard, that he really does not know how to receive such expressions as mere words of form; and the Frenchman uses them without the slightest intention of deceiving, for he imagines that all the world understands them as well as his own countrymen. Thus it is that disgust is so frequently caused to English visitors abroad. They fancy that they have met with some delightful people; and a little English vanity helps, perhaps, to lead them into the error of supposing that these people have fallen desperately in love with them at first sight, a mistaken notion which generally in the end causes disappointment and disgust. On the other hand, that cautious manner and habitual reserve of Englishmen towards each other, as well as towards strangers, is construed into dullness of feeling and moroseness of temper.

A tour through parts of the Netherlands, Holland, Germany, Switzerland, Savoy, and France, in the year 1821-2. Also containing, in an appendix, facsimile copies of eight letters in the handwriting of Napoleon Bonaparte to his wife Josephine, v. 2. by Charles Tennant, 1824.

hathitrust

[scotianostra]

On 23 July 1745 Prince Charles Edward Stuart, "The Young Pretender", landed in Eriskay with only seven men.

We know the story about Bonnie Prince Charlie but what of these seven men? They became known as the Seven Men of Moidart.

As with all the people who fought on both sides during the '45 they were not all Scot's in fact only two were, William Murray, Marquess of Tullibardine and the expedition's banker, Æneas Macdonald alias Angus Macdonald. The others were four Irishmen, Clergyman, Reverend George Kelly, Sir Thomas Sheridan, a veteran of the Battle of the Boyne; Sir John Macdonald, an elderly man, fond of the bottle, who had served in the French cavalry in Spain; and Colonel John William O'Sullivan, who had fought in the French arm.The seventh was an Englishman by the name of Colonel Francis Strickland.

Of these men William Murray fled north after Culloden with an Italian, he sought refuge near Ross Priory at the house of William Buchanan, a justice of the peace, who betrayed him,

giving him over to King George's men. Tullibardine cursed them with the utterance: "There will be Murrays on the Braes of Atholl land when there’s ne’er a Buchanan at the Ross.”

The Marquess's curse came to pass when, in 1925 Buchanan's male line finally died out. He was sent to Dumbarton Castle,then to the Tower of London, where he died on the July 9th 1747, aged 58.

Æneas Macdonald surrendered himself to General Campbell on May 13th, he spent time as a prisoner at Dumbarton and Edinburgh Castles, he ended up at Newgate in London and was tried for treason in July 1747. He plead that he was actually born in France and therefor an enemy combatant, this was dismissed and he was found guilty, on 18th of December he was sentenced to death. The case was, however, considered a hard one, as Aeneas was virtually a French subject, and he therefore received the King’s pardon under the Great Seal on condition of his retiring from His Majesty’s dominions, and continuing abroad during his life. It was only, however, on December 11th, 1749, that he regained his liberty, a creditor having brought an action against him for debt whilst under sentence, which resulted in his being detained a prisoner for two years. He subsequently returned to France, and was killed during the French Revolution.

George Kelly did not remain too long in Scotland as he was sent back to France after the battle of Prestonpans to spread the word of the stunning Jacobite victory. Likewise Sheridan, who had been the tutor of Prince Charles and was over seventy when the expedition launched. His age would have made campaigning difficult and he was soon sent back to Rome to keep Prince James informed of the progress of the uprising.

Sir John Macdonald was involved throughout the war, though in a fairly nominal capacity. He was a veteran officer of the French cavalry and Prince Charles appointed Sir John “Instructor of Cavalry” in the Jacobite army. However, since the Jacobites had so few cavalry as to be little better off than if they had none at all, there was very little for Macdonald to do. Still, he was involved in all the top-level activities of the Jacobite camp and kept a journal that has proved invaluable to historians. Taken prisoner at the battle of Culloden he escaped execution by virtue of his French commission and was so was ultimately released in a prisoner exchange for English troops being held in France.

Sir John O’Sullivan was the most involved and most highly placed of the Irishmen fighting for “Bonnie Prince Charlie” and probably one of the most controversial as well. To this day some go so far as to blame much of the failure of the uprising on O’Sullivan while those inclined to trust the judgment of Prince Charles usually have a more sympathetic view of the man and his contribution.

O’Sullivan was Quartermaster for the Jacobite army and was very close to Charles, he was said to "have the prince's ear" he has been credited with helping to arrange the safe escape of Prince Charles back into exile. The colonel himself escaped on a French frigate (which also had an Irish captain) and was later knighted by Prince James (King James III to the Jacobites) for his part in saving the life of his son.

Francis Strickland was with the Prince when the Jacobite army marched south, the Stricklands were staunch Jacobites and most of the family were exiled to France after the '15, all I can find of his fate is that he died "of a dropsy" at Carlisle three or four days after its surrender to Cumberland. I assume he was with Francis Towneley and the Manchester Regiment left as a rearguard there on the retreat back to Scotland.

Near Kinlochmoidart there is a memorial to the Seven Men of Moidart close by seven beech trees planted about 200 years ago to commemorate them. According to the information board these original trees were damaged in a storm prior to 1988.

Seven replacement trees were planted in 1988 but did not flourish.

Seven more saplings were planted in 2002 at right angles to the original trees but it is not obvious which these are, there is a small group in the foreground which could be them though visibility from the lay-by is restricted because of growth at the roadside.

[broadcastarchive-umd]

Actress Coral Browne played herself in "An Englishman Abroad," a dramatization of her encounter in Russia with British defector Guy Burgess (Alan Bates). A BBC production, adapted by Alan Bennett and directed by John Schlesinger, the film debuted on the PBS series "Great Performances" in November 1984.

UMD Special Collections  |  Tumblr Archive  |  Ask A Question    

[gogolex6]

Why a bandage on the leg?

There is such a joke in Russia. The patient comes to the doctor. The patient's leg is bandaged.

- What hurts you? - the doctor asks.

-The head, - the patient answers.

-And why a bandage on the leg?

-Slid down…

I once told this joke while visiting friends. They asked me to tell you something funny - so I told you. Everyone laughed. Only an elderly man sitting at the table opposite looked at me strangely, thought and then, bending over the table, said:

-I'm sorry, I probably didn't understand… What was the patient having pain?

-Head.

-And why the bandage on the leg?

-Slid down.

-So! - the man said sadly and sighed for some reason. Then he thought again.

-I don't understand! - he said in a few minutes. - I don't catch the humor here! … Let's reason logically: after all, the patient had a headache, didn't he?

-Head.

-But why was the bandage on the leg?

-Slid!

-Strange! - said the man and got up from the table.

He approached the window and smoked for a long time, looking thoughtfully into the darkness. I drank tea.

After a while, he walked away from the window and, siting down to me, said quietly:

-Cut me - I can't understand the salt of the joke! After all, if a person has a headache, what the hell should he tie his leg?

-Yes, he didn't tie his leg! - I said. - He tied his head!

-And how did the bandage end up on the leg?!

-Slipped…

He stood up and looked me in the eyes carefully.

-Well, let's go out! - suddenly he said decisively. - We need to talk!

We went out into the hallway.

-Listen,-he said, putting his hand on my shoulder, "is it really a funny joke or are you kidding?

-I think it's funny! - I said.

-What's the humour here?

-I don't know, - I said. - Funny and that's it!

-Maybe you missed some detail?

-What other detail?

-Well, let's say the patient was one-legged?

-Why is that?

-If you think it's possible that the bandage really slipped, then it, crawling all over the body, would have to grab both legs! … Or it was a one-legged disabled person…

-No! - I strongly rejected this offer. - The patient was not disabled!

-Then how did the bandage end up on the leg?

-I slipped! - I whispered. He wiped the cold sweat.

-Maybe this doctor was Rabinovich? - he asked unexpectedly.

-What does that mean?! - I didn't understand.

-Well, in what sense can you be Rabinovich? … In a funny way…

-No, - I cut off. - In this sense, he was not Rabinovich.

-And who was he in this sense?

-I don't know! Maybe an Englishman or a Kyrgyz…

-Why Kyrgyz?

-Because his father had a Kyrgyz and his mother was a Kyrgyz!

-Well, yes," he nodded understandingly, "if the Kyrgyz parents, then of course…

-That's nice! - I was happy. - Finally, everything is clear to you…

-I'm not sure what the patient was hurt after all!

-All the best! - I said, put on my coat and went home. At 1 a.m., my phone rang.

-They're calling you about the joke, - I heard his voice on the phone. - I just can't sleep. This foot doesn't get out of your head! … Is there humour here?!

-Yes! - I confirmed.

-Well. So I understand… I'm not a fool! I'm with education… I told my wife a joke - she's laughing. And what's laughing - I don't understand… Is this, by chance, not the answer of the Armenian radio?

-No! - I said.

Then I just don't know what to do," he whinered. He called me the next night.

-I've consulted with experts here," he said. "Everyone claims that the bandage couldn't slide!

-What the hell with her! - I shouted. - I couldn't have been so able to! What do you want from me?

-I want to understand this issue, - he said angrily. - For me it's a matter of principle! I'm in a responsible job. I have to be witty! …

I hung up.

After that, he telephoned me for a few days and even came home.

I swore, indignant, chased him - all without success.

He wasn't even offended.

He looked at me with his bright, clean eyes and mumbled:

-Understand, it's necessary for me… I go abroad often… I must have a sense of humour…

Then I decided to write a story about him. About a man who wants to decompose the mysterious laws of laughter with the help of a dry multiplication table.

I took my story to the satirical department of a magazine. The editor laughed for a long time.

-What an oak! - said the editor. - Are there any such things?

-There are, - I said. "I've seen it myself.

-Well, we'll type, - said the editor.

Then he hugged me and, leaning to the very ear, quietly asked:

-Well, you'll tell me in secret: what did the patient really hurt?!

-Head, - I said barely audible.

-And why the bandage on the leg? …