#alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies

[historia-vitae-magistras]

A lightee ask than usual but do you have any food or eating habit thoughts?

Ooohooohh, I did a whole ass seminar on the history of food. Failed it because I almost bled to death but I got to keep all the material! I've got.... a lot of thoughts and feelings about food culture. Too goddamn many, tbh. This got really long so I'll have to do a part two for other characters if wanted but lol enjoy.

Alfred:

 —Actually pretty gourmet little shit when he's got time and effort. He's made food Maria loves so often she has to give up on pretending she didn't enjoy it because fucking hell, he makes good chilaquiles after they've been drinking and fucking. There is, however, a non-zero chance he hasn't eaten a vegetable since the Nixon administration.

 —With that combustion engine metabolism, he's also perpetually hungry, so he eats whatever is around him. His guts do not like this, especially when it's a lot of dairy.

 —He has that kind of lactose intolerance that's tied to his health and stress, so if he's been particularly freaked out lately, he'll remind the world of his nuclear arsenal when he's got to use the toilet after that triple cheeseburger with a side of deep-fried cheese curds.

 —He's a stress eater too. He eats every negative emotion he's ever had especially when he's trying not to binge drink or do drugs.

 —He’s exceptionally food-motivated. They didn’t call one of his first major historical eras ‘the starving time’ without reason. He has preferences, but food is also food, and he’ll genuinely enjoy it in most forms as long as it's not rotten or otherwise godawful. Cowboy coffee and beans for ten days straight, and he will genuinely be the only man on that cow trail not sick of it by the end.

 —This also goes into why he’s so generous with food. He’s big on homemade food. He’ll make a whole big ass batch of like some sort of mac and cheese, and all the neighbours will get a big ol’ bowl of it with an ‘oh just return the Tupperware whenever,’ and it will genuinely be one of the best things they’ve ever eaten in their lives. Europeans recoil in horror, but our portion sizes are almost never single servings. It’s a generosity and hospitality practice except drinks. He really will down like a 2 liter of Slurpee in a single sitting.

 —He doesn’t mind eating alone. Actually prefers it sometimes. He loves eating in his car. American frontier culture, especially mountain men, had an often hyper-individualized, almost mythic culture of spending long periods alone in the woods and not being very sociable; thus a lot of situations where single servings were a thing, eating alone in quiet without something to do can be a real goddamn luxury.

 —He’s a really big protein guy with his metabolism. Sometimes exists on protein shakes but is more often a beef or barbeque or ham or alligator jerky. And a somewhat chunky Alfred is a healthy Alfred. A perfectly cut no flab Alfred is an Alfred who might be severely dehydrated and on several kinds of uppers.

 —He has better tastes than Arthur who didn't really realize food was supposed to taste good until like ten years ago but his combinations can be equally wild and unappetizing as they are batshit tasty.

—He loves spicy food. He's got so many opinions about hot sauces.

—He’s always hungry. If he isn’t hungry or turns down food, its genuinely a bad sign. If he turns down anything or just is just picking at it his food alarm bells should be sounding. He’s either about to declare war or puke all over the table or keel over dead. Peckish or food coma is his default state. Like if he was a smaller guy someone would say he’s got a binge disorder but he’s tall and beefy so he’s pretty okay.

 —Incredibly adventurous eater too. People will assume since there’s that old school culture of Anglo-American who eats the same 7 meals every week and might keel over dead if the meatloaf is slightly different he’ll be a bit hard to please but then he’s absolutely charmed by everything from Korean kimchi to Lithuanian Lašiniai.

 —He loves anyone who feeds him, just got to be a bit careful because he’s got surprisingly delicate stomach for the world superpower.

 —That American obsession with authencity means he’s surprisingly good at remembering people’s food culture or eating norms. He figured out chopsticks in ten seconds and quickly picked up the cues and manners of eating in any given culture. Still struggles with modulating his voice and personality, so he can often come across as rude, but he's so excited to do so. It's almost frustrating how happy he is to try and adapt to people around him and how happy he can be to fit in.

Matt:

 —He's a very good cook when he's putting in effort for other people, but he's not really like Alfred, who he'll make a whole ass meal for one just to relax on a Sunday.

 —He does tend to eat more vegetables than Alfred, but only because his northern vitamin deficiency has him binging them when he can afford them or they're available during the summer.

  —He can be weirdly picky on his own, but no one ever really needs to ask about his favourite food or how he likes anything because he always just goes with the flow around other people. “Just get me whatever you’re getting.” comes out of his mouth often.

 —There's a lot of sour cream/crema and yoghurt/coconut milk involved when he eats Mexican or Indian food for as much as he loves it.

 —Katya was singlehandedly responsible for his ability to maintain a normal weight during the 20th century by adding rye bread and perogies/vyrenki to his diet. He craves mushroom-umami flavours when he misses her, which is most of the time.

 —When he’s normal and eating the Anglo-North American diet, but he isn’t always eating it, he gets some strong sugar cravings, especially when he’s west of Manitoba. He’s as fond of birch syrup as a flavour as he is maple; there’s just less production. But the kind of deprivation he got and his own tendencies to not eat sometimes cause white sugar to just straight-up burns.

 —There's very much something of François to Matt's dietary habits, but less in his personal tastes and more in that he might be more sensitive to flavours. He has that kind of discerning and slightly oversensitive palate, but he’s a shitty perpetually broke frontier settler colony. He knows better/feels too guilty/is too embarrassed of himself to really indulge it.

 —He kept too much of his peasant communalism in his eating habits. Where Anglo-American communities did have a lot of cooperation, communal eating was a special occasion. The norm was based on the individual household. In contrast, French Canadian habitants still technically lived on medieval land plots and owed labour to a lord while also having a culture of seasonal male work, so Matt grew up used to communal ovens and eating most of his meals around others. Later, in Arthur’s jurisdiction, it was usually the same. He got a plate of whatever he was given, and it wasn’t something he had ever had to initiate himself.

 —Partially, he's sometimes exceptionally bad at eating when he has to choose to do it himself. Especially since the Americanization of the food culture took hold in the '80s and '90s. Whereas Alfred is food motivated from going without when he was little, Matt learned how to block out physical sensation until he collapsed because it was rare that someone, including himself, cared about what kind of state he was in. He just doesn’t eat at all when he’s stressed or anxious. And now it's his sole responsibility to do so as there aren’t the same community structures. He has a lot of Alfred’s abundance now, all the brunch and BBQ places anyone could ask for, but it hasn’t meshed with his eating habits. His people gave up so much of their communal eating in exchange for various choices and then wondered why they were so lonely. So he’ll just microwave a potato or a packet of Kraft dinner a day for a week straight and wonder why he feels dead because, technically, he did eat something. It’s seriously a miracle he got as tall as he did.

 —Feed him nothing but hardtack for three years, and he won't complain until he's dropped dead of scurvy. If Arthur puts some sort of godforsaken mixture of plum sauce or gin-infused spag bol in front of him, he’ll compliment it before he disassociates to get at least some of it down.

#the ask box || probis pateo #hws canada #hws america #meatsack mechanics || the sociology and biology of nations #matthew || my country is winter #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies

[historia-vitae-magistras]

On Alfred's Laugh

A very underrated part of American culture, especially amongst Americans ourselves, is how we laugh. No matter where I've gone in the world or who I've talked to, in French or German or English, when my nationality hasn't come up, and sometimes I'm demurring from answering if I don't want to explain myself, I'm caught as soon as I laugh. Immediately pinned as American. Immediately. Even if it's only a single half-snorted chortle, we open our chests, speak through grins, and make our joy heard. We smile with our teeth, and we laugh with all our hearts, and I fucking love that about us. I'm sure it's not entirely unique to us, but people worldwide know our laughs.

And I think about that with Alfred, how he's gotten good at languages. He's absorbed and speaks several languages and understands several more. He's probably learned how to adapt his behaviour overseas, but the essence of him, the honest, distilled Alfred, is in his laugh. Always in his laugh. He can be as duplicitous as the day is long, play two sides, and wear his self-righteousness on his sleeves as much as he wants, but he can't change that laugh. Not the real one. It's too distinct.

#hws america #aph america #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Anglo-Celtic character aesthetic round up.

Alfred

Matt

Jack

Zee

Alasdair

Brighid

Rhys

Arthur

#Art History and Aesthetics || our eyes across the ages #Alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #Matthew || my country is winter #Jack || a land of summer skies #Zee || ahakoa he iti he pounamu #Alasdair || my heart's in the highlands #Brighid || An Bearna Bhaoil #Rhys || my word for heaven was not yours #Arthur || stone set in the silver sea

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Christmas fic please?

☺️

The Blue Hour This is somewhat of a sequel to my other 18th-century fics 'When the Heart is Full the Tongue Will Speak" and "The Prison Ship," but it also stands alone. Valley Forge was arguably the worst winter of the war. Alfred's having a bad time. Matt tries to help. He has something for Alfred. This was supposed to be longer, but I had to say fuck it and put it in the queue, or it wasn't happening, so I'm so sorry for inflicting it on you. Apple pie reference is from the HC that Alfred's pie recipe comes from a nice Pennsylvania Quaker lady who took him in in the late 17th century when he was little after the Massachusetts witch crazes. This isn't a happy fic, but it is deeply loving. Also on ao3

Valley Forge, Christmas 1777

Alfred’s legs didn’t feel quite real as he approached the clearing. It was silent here. No animals. No people, either. Even the last chickadees, so faithful through the winter, had disappeared behind him as the previous winter sun faded from a depressing grey to pitch dark. He was a bit numb and more paranoid as he rounded a copse of trees and found himself staring at a pristine clearing. He recognized this house, grey stone with a heavy slate roof. There was no glass in the windows, but cheery, flickering firelight escaped through whatever slight cracks there were in the shutters. He hefted his rifle, bayonet attached, closer and approached, wary. The forest held its breath, and the fire crackling became louder as he approached. There was smoke from the chimney but no shadows of movement inside. He gripped his rifle. He should go home to his haphazard tar paper and log shack, but it was dark now, and Valley Forge was 30 miles behind.

He pushed open the door with a bang, rifle to his shoulder, and heard a surprised shout. A figure twisted, axe in hand, poised to hook it into Alfred’s neck and remove an arm at the shoulder like a branch from a trunk. Then, a note of laughter, and he was embraced.

Warmth hit him. First, Matt’s entire body was warm, and his clothes were fire-toasty. Then the smell of roasting meat floated, so solid it was almost visible, into his senses. Then, dizziness. Dizziness struck like a blow to the head. Alfred might have passed out on the floor if Matt hadn’t already had his arms around him.

Matt squeezed with more strength than Alfred had ever known his baby brother to have. The rifle was tugged from his hands, and he was suddenly sitting, sodden clothes and boots pulled off, feet stretched towards the fire. He might have vomited if he wasn’t so hallowed out. Matt was gone for only a moment, but Alfred grabbed a hold of him as soon as he was back.

“Have you changed your mind?” He grasped Matt’s sleeve with a shaking hand. “Did you come to your senses?”

“Have you?” Matt said, derisive even as he pressed a mug into Alfred’s hands. “Drink that, and the world will stop spinning.”

“Matthew---” He didn’t let go of Matt’s sleeve. “You haven’t come to—.”

“Bend the knee?” Matthew’s eyes flashed, and Alfred was all too aware of the axe on his belt and the rifle against the wall. “No. I’m not.”

“What are you doing here then?” He let Matt go and sipped on the contents of the mug—broth, salty and rich beyond belief. Matt was right. The world did stop spinning.

“It’s Christmas.”

“Is it?”

“It is,” Matt said with a watery smile. “I take it you got my note.”

“Pie at sundown,” Alfred recalled. “I got it. I could hardly believed you remembered that.”

“First apple pie you ever made me. I’ll remember it til the sun goes dark.” Matt was before him with a blanket and a stack of clothes. “Finish drinking that, put these on and then we’ll talk.”

They were his own clothes, what he’d left in the chest of drawers in Boston after he’d slipped his guards and disappeared across the border and into Quebec. He wanted to toss them back. They were the clothes of a crown subject, a boy with a British boot on his neck. Not the free man he wanted to be. That he was, but he hadn’t had a fresh shirt since his baby brother had dragged his corpse out of his shallow grave on the Hudson. He could wash it as often as he liked, but the linen was still wearing thin. His former things were practically new, the linen fresh and clean, the wool still warm. Alfred ran a hand over the fabric, still so chilled he hardly considered his pride as Matt turned away to tend to the bird slowly roasting over the fire and dressed. He glanced over his shoulder when Alfred slipped the shirt over his head. There hadn’t been a mirror to look at himself in months, and he didn’t want to. He knew his ribs were stark; he could feel them. Matt looked that kind of devastated that, if he hadn’t turned away, might have made Alfred cry.

“Have you had a decent meal since I saw you?” He didn’t look over his shoulder again until the shirt was over his head, and he’d buttoned the blue waistcoat over his chest. Everything was so ill-fitting now.

Alfred ignored him. “Does Father know you’re here?”

Matthew snorted. “It’s Christmas; he’s so deep into the officer’s nog when I left he won’t realize I’ve gone unless I’m not there for epiphany morning with tea going. So I shot a turkey and pissed off south to find you. Looks like its a good thing I did too.”

“I’m fine.” Alfred scowled. “There’s a camp of thousands of men 2 miles from here with nothing but rice and vinegar for Christmas dinner. Next to them, I’m all right.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt said, and it damn well looked like he meant it, narrow shoulders bowed as he sat heavily onto one of the overturned logs he obviously meant to use as a kitchen chair for the occasion.

“You could feed a lot of people if you stayed. You’re a good hunter.”

“Don’t,” Matt said. “We’ve had this conversation. Look at you. You know I wouldn’t survive another war like this. You’re kissed by God himself and you look like death.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Rice and vinegar, eh? Yeah well. Try some turkey and see if it compares.”

“Why do you keep coming to see me if you won’t pick a side, Matt? You’re committing treason and you know it.”

“You’re my brother.”

His shrug was simple, unemotional. The sky was up, the Earth was down, the snow was cold, and Matt would haul and shoot a turkey and walk four days just to sneak him a decent meal. He teared up. Maybe it was the cold, the deprivation or just how much he missed home and heart and heart. Throat working, shoulders shaking even if he wasn’t crying, he grabbed Matt by the shoulders and squeezed for a third time, kissing him on the forehead about a dozen times and just feeling something so desperately affectionate he had to ride it out like dizziness.

“I missed you.” He said.

“You too.” Matt had clamped himself around Alfred, playing as if he just held on; he wouldn’t feel how much weight he’d dropped since summer. After a long moment, he made Alfred sit on one of the logs and tossed the rucksack while he struck flint and steel and put tinder to kindling. “Have you been sick? You look terrible,”

“Everyone is.” He said. There was no point in hiding it. “You know what it’s like. A moving army is a healthy army. A camped army is a sick army.”

“Why do you think I like the woods so much? I could run from the British as easily as from the typhus.”

“Yeah, well, they’re my people. I can’t leave them.”

“Do you have scurvy yet?”

“Gettering there.” He poked his tongue at his teeth. He had all of them, but he was always so tired. It couldn’t be far away.

Matt pivoted and took an orange in each hand, shoving them at Alfred. “Father... he’s in the habit of buying two.”

“I can’t take these!”

“Think of them as reparations.”

“Won’t you get scurvy?’

“I get lime juice twice a day. Just take anything you want out of my pack and eat it. Take the rest tomorrow. I’ll get a rabbit on my way back if I get hungry.”

“Why do you have to go back?”

“Stop asking me that. Pick something for me to make out of what’s in there, all right? Anything you want tonight, and you can take the rest tomorrow.”

“I want you to stay.”

Matt leaned against the wall by the hearth, arms crossed. “And I don’t want to die. So stop asking. That’s the agreement. Stay alive. Not stay with you.”

“You should be my right hand. It should be me and you against the world.”

“You’re the one fighting with the world, Alfred. I already have. I lost. Pick a vegetable, eat an orange, have some wine and stop trying to sentence me to death because you’re lonely again.”

He was tearing up, and so was Alfred. They looked away from each other, and Alfred went to the pack.

He opened food like he had once opened pewter inkwells at the apothecaries, looking for the blue ink he liked better than the quickly fading walnut; there were cranberries, potatoes, apples, stalks of celery, onions, cabbage, carrots, mushrooms, honey cakes, tea, coffee, a jug of wassail and a smaller bottle of Madeira. Smaller quantities of sugar, flour, oats, rice, raisins and rye. There were more of his clothes that he hadn’t taken when he’d fled Boston nearly two years prior. And under all that, a length of blue cloth with shining brass buttons. 

“Mattie.... What is that coat?” 

His brother froze. He’d been dragging his knife down the side of the roasted bird and onto a rough-hewn platter. For one long moment, Alfred thought he might burst into tears. 

“It’s for you.” He said. 

“Whe did you get it?” 

“General Montcalm.” He said. “It was too big so I hid it under the floorboards. Thought I’d wear it too the victory parade someday. It’s... it’s your colour now, isn’t it?”

“It— Yeah it is.” 

“I hope its luckier for you than it was for me.” He said quietly. “I hope Lord Bonnefoy is better to you too.”

“Mattie.” Alfred said quietly. 

Matt was standing there, eyes shut against tears, until he looked up at Alfred with those same big, hopeful eyes he’d always had before all this. Full of all the softness and warmth of Canada that may not have existed elsewhere that winter. Words stuck in his throat, and suddenly, so homesick he wanted to burst, Alfred opened his arms. Matt gave up on carving the bird, put down the plate, and allowed Alfred to pull him in again. If Matt had grown, it was only a little, and Alfred could still easily rest his cheek on Matt’s crown, which he did for a long moment.

“Thank you.” He said. 

“It was meant for you,” Matt replied. “You’re... tall and capable like that. It will fit you, even when you fill it out again.” 

“You’ll grow.” Alfred said. “Someday. And then we'll be fine."

Someday. 

#hws america #hws canada #na bros #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #the ask box || probis pateo #alfred and matt || lonely boys with the longest borders #matthew || my country is winter #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies

[historia-vitae-magistras]

New England Alfred always pulls at my heartstrings, but consider Detroit-flavoured Alfred. A city born in his brother's foreign tongue, its archives are as full of the 18th century as anything on the Atlantic, but never in English. He looks upon Frank Lloyd Write and Monet and doesn't flinch at the odd gunshot in the background. The American dream turns towards the all-American waking nightmare with the soundtrack of Delta Blues, Detroit Rock City, and the Real Slim Shady. He's dislocated a shoulder smashing on the riot shields, refusing to give another inch to the ruling class. He walks down a street that was once considered the crown jewel in America's Paris and later used to train teenage soldiers how to hunt in urban combat and shivers. He never does get as much credit for the winters here as Matt does for his.

The summer a grenade rolled under his cot in Vietnam, the rest of the country and much of the world swooned with the summer of love. That summer, San Francisco laid languorous with lust, but he went home to Detroit. Because Detroit burned. It's always burning. The Black Day In July never ended. They don't bother putting out the fires anymore. Urban sprawl drains the city like open veins, blue and red lights flashing, and that eternal American question: Who are you? It can't be answered the way it used to. "An optimist." He'd say, scoured clean by fire hoses set on strikers. But now it's harder to answer. Now, democracy's arsenal lay open on the morgue table. And a city, a country and he are vivisected by one scalpel stroke, and one bone saw blade cracks open one chest to answer. What went wrong in Detroit? What's happening to American democracy? Who are you, Alfred? Who are you?

Detroit's only real Van Gogh stares at him from under a sun hat as intently as the locals do that Bruins jersey he forgot to take off in the airport bathroom. The river that parts him from his brother whispers under the silence of the city desolate and depopulated: O, American Atlas, are your shoulders still as broad as the Spirit of the Detroit?

#the ask box || probis pateo #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #what the fuck is this? idk

[historia-vitae-magistras]

How do you feel about nation jobs or finances in your universe? Like are modern Matt or Alfred on government payroll even if they don’t do anything? I know you’re mentioned that Alfred is better at managing his money than Matt, is he rich??

Sorry I’m not phrasing this very well 😅

This is somewhat esoteric even for me, but I tied their abilities with money to their economic histories.

Alfred was born looking pretty pathetic next to the Spanish possessions in Mexico and South America or even British holdings in the Caribbean but, in short order, made up a significant percentage of the ships, people, and wealth of the British Empire. He became that on what was primarily the efforts of private enterprise. Alfred grows up understanding he is valuable; he represents value, and his choices create value. He's easy to love because he's a goddamn cash cow for Arthur until the Seven Years War when Britain spent a shit ton and wanted the Yanks to pay their share, and we threw a bitch fit and declared independence.

Matt, however, has the French bitching about what a money hole he is from about 20 minutes after he comes into being. The Basque, by far, made the most money initially with their fishing and whaling in the east, following what was reasonably similar to the Viking routes into Newfoundland. The fur trade that drove French settlement faced collapse about a half dozen times in his childhood, and besides a short binge economy for Ginseng and its brief boom in China, his entire existence was just fur. Dead beavers and the black market. That's it.

While the US was building ships, growing cash crops, running a fur trade economy, engaging in fishing, rope making, pitch collection, barrel making and everything and anything else, in the Caribbean, they had 90+ control over sugar production and trade routes. Canada had 10% of the population and thus 10% of the market power. We didn't do shit except freeze, fire at the British, commit war crimes against the New Englanders, ditch the farms and run off to the west to make families with indigenous women and run furs up the rivers to the point that France tried to make it illegal for people to leave the settlements of Quebec City and Montreal without permission.

So from a relatively early point, Alfred is very smart with his investments, and he's been making his investments since the early 19th century, so there's a significant but often catastrophically destroyed habit of investing. When he was younger and incredibly newly independent, he got fleeced a few times, but he's called smart and secure, especially since the 1929 crash. It's not remarkably large amounts of money because he'll never completely trust the government, and he doesn't want to attract attention or pay massive amounts of taxes, so he's very well diversified. But he's certainly not poor. All his more expensive hobbies come from a particular office in the state department that Alfred sometimes cooperates with and sometimes doesn't, depending on how anti-establishment he and the public feel.

As for Matt, having spent a lot longer as a colonial subject, it's not that he's entirely shit with money but what he knew how to do. The heart of the empire was the financial hub and was outside his control long after even the Confederation in the 1860s. The money situation has been a nightmare since the earliest days of the French Regime using playing cards to pay people. Colonial America had some similar issues. The whole concept of the US dollar originated in the 1690 invasion of Quebec when the Massachusetts Bay Colony printed its own money to fund the expedition, but Alexander Hamilton did some flash economic magic for the US in this department in the 1790s, so it got its shit together long before Canada. Matt knows what he needs to know. He was stationed in various Canadian ports, keeping an eye on his father's investments, not his own.

So, in the modern day, Alfred reads his bank statements every month, keeps track of his subscriptions and bills, and probably has an accountant. Matt is more aware of Alfred's money habits than his own. Because he's over here just kind of vaguely wondering if his debit card will work because my man cannot make heads or tails of his economy (no, seriously, Canadian economists have no idea how Canada's own shit works. Sometimes it's pretty fascinating, there's often no real consensus like the US academic economist have.) And international investors in Canada are always freaking out because the Canadian economy is always getting its shit rocked by the US economy. It's hilarious to think of people in Matt's life frustratedly trying to figure out where and what his money's doing. If their health is tied to their economies, Matt's in pretty good shape, thanks to close ties to the US, but he's randomly dying reasonably often because the US economy's tiny little ripples will randomly tear him apart. It's pretty funny (laughs so I don't sob in the Canadian job market.)

And that's pretty fitting, considering that most Canadian economic policy is boiled down to 'hope the Americans are feeling cooperative next time NAFTA comes up for debate.'

#the ask box || probis pateo #Alfred and Matt || lonely boys with the longest borders #Alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #Matthew || my country is winter #meatsack mechanics || the sociology and biology of nations

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Do you have any fic about the difference between how Matt is to Alfred vs Jack/Zee? That feels untapped.

Four cunts and a Kiwi walk into a trench.... Please note this is a work of historical fiction based roughly on the Kaiserschlacht of 1918, Germany's last offensive. It is not a textbook. The interactions here cannot possibly begin to represent the real motions of history. The depictions of war and empire are fictional. Everyone's a piece of shit in this, but they are fictional pieces of shit. The existing author's views do not align with that of the fictional characters or any other message you think you're gleaning from this. Everyone in the following piece is fictional and over the age of 18. Do not get your morality from fanfic. No one is happy, no one is having a good time. They are individual, fictional characters and they are miserable. If I haven't made them miserable enough its because my wrist is busted in two places and I'm not in the fucking mood. Flanders March 1918

Matt’s slicker is draped over the tent pegs, a crude shelter against the elements beating down on them. Between Matt shoved in tightly to his left and Zee wedged into his right, and the blankets still tucked in tight all around them, Jack is as warm as he’s been since he stepped foot on this bloody continent. He shifts, something uncomfortable against his back. 

He mumbles something and tells Matt to roll over, but Zee says something about Matt fucking off if he was going to be an insomniac. But Zee is to his right, and Jack is on his back. She can’t possibly feel anything. He disregards it, rolls back asleep, and snuggles in tighter against her back. 

There’s a rush of cold air, Matt yelling at him to get up! To get the fuck up! There’s the crack of steel on a skull. He knows the sound has driven his own shovel into enough Turkish and German heads by now to know it, as well as he knows the sound of his own voice. Matt’s grunting gets louder. Jack is on his feet, pulling Zee up with him. He may as well have not opened his eyes. It’s so fucking dark.

He snatches Zee close, and she screams at him, working something over in her hands. 

“Get down,” He hisses at her. 

He’s too late. She’s lit the flare. In the dark, formless under the clothes and blankets, she might have not been noticed, but in the sick light of the flare, green as gas, there’s no mistaking her form, a girl’s form even in the trousers of the men’s field uniform, permitted this near the front with the medical officers. They were supposed to be safe here, three trenches back. There’s a joyful German noise and then the swell of bodies. Not a trench raid, not a squad. This is a counter-offensive. Matt throws one into another’s bayonet, and Jack breaks another German’s neck without thinking. The world is lit in green light reflecting from the gore.

He kills three men in seconds, Matt even more. But they’re replaced. This is no trench raid. It is a punch right through the line, a blow puncturing right through the armour of the front line. Jack takes up one of the rifles, but it won’t fire. He swings it into another man’s face. Where the fuck is his gun? Where the fuck is Matt’s? 

“Zee! Go!” Matt bellows. Jack spun and watched his sister’s face. There’s German blood there, splattered across her jaw and cheeks, her hand red, a knife that is not hers dripping. 

“Go!” Jack says and bodily shoves her back at the ladder. “Find Dad!” 

Her eyes flash with the knowledge that this is the only way to avoid the worst, but also full of loathing. She hates him, and maybe Matt, for making her go. 

“Go with her,” Matt tells him. Gripping him by the sleeve and shoving him as hard as he can. “Go!” 

“Matt!” 

“Go!” 

He’s got a German rifle to his shoulder and is already flipping back the lever and aiming. He looked up, and he was horrific in this light, face sharp, eyes narrow, lip curled back. But a flash of Matt, of peacetime. “I can slip away if they capture me. You can’t! Go!” 

“He’s right!” Zee whispered. “Come on!” 

“No!” Jack wrenched his arm free of Matt. They’re surrounded by his soldiers. Australians are to their left and their right flanks, awake now and fighting. Their souls come to his awareness like stars as the sun sets. Pinpricks of light he can’t leave. Too much is happening. “No! Stop!” 

“Jack, Go!” Matt’s firing, and something is screaming in the distance. Five bullets, then four. “I’m right behind you.” Four bullets left, more screaming. The trenches around them are coming alive. He won’t leave them. He can’t.

 But Zee’s got him by the arm and is dragging him with her.

“You know what happens if we stay!” Zee whispered. Three bullets become two. Hoarse shouts. She gripped him by the face, her own grey with terror, but her brown eyes set with certainty. She has all of Dad’s decisiveness. “What happens if I stay,” 

And just like that, she’s straightened his thoughts. He won’t let Germans have her, and she won’t leave him here. So they go. They have to go. 

“Okay,” He exhales his panic and shakes his entire body. “Okay.” 

Matt has fired twice more. He’s out of bullets, and more are coming, more are coming now. His sister tugged him back. He snatched up his sidearm, forgotten on the floor in the mêlée. 

“Be quick and be safe!” Matt tells them. It’s a benediction as hoarse as his prayers are when he thinks there is no one around to hear him. They’re just as futile, too. The time their slaughter brought them is at a standstill, and Matthew’s bullets are gone. 

“Find Alfred!” Matt screams over his shoulder as if he’s on another German. The last thing Jack sees of him is the full horrific brutality of his Matt in hand to hand. The filth of his fight. Matt was a brutal bastard. He thrust his fingers into an enemy’s face, finding eyeballs for leverage and twisting heads, viscous as a wolf just before spring. Matthew gives Germans a fight the way he gave their father before Jack was born, and that’s before his fingers close around the pine of his favourite axe. Jack turns, hearing Zee say his name. Their artillery is waking now. He can hear the guns open up. They have to go.

Zee was just ahead of him, running headlong into the dark. It’s wrong. Leaving his men. But she’s ahead of him. It’s the way the world works. Zee sailed into a new day ahead of him on their spinning planet. He follows. A German must have crawled past Matt. Jack shoots.

Zee jumped, startled, and for a fucking moment, he thought his wee Kiwi-bird of a sister, flightless and round, was going to sprout wings and fly straight home to New Zealand. But she’s repeating his name, and he’s staring into the dark, eyes swimming with the gun flash, wondering if hell is a different sort of red from home, with all its bright baked clay. Zee took his hand, her bloodied fingers around his, and looked at him. He grabbed her and hauled her along, forcing her to keep up with him despite their height, as he has their entire lives, from the moment she toddled into existence and he was taller.

He can trace her in the dark as she zigzags through the bullets and is lit by the odd shell in the sky as they escape into the night. He never lets go of her, making her steps longer when her weight hasn’t completely shifted. She is not alone. He is not alone. 

They slip into the night, into chaos, into darkness, and further back into the line. Jack trips when a floodlight opens on them, temporarily blind as Zee hauls him to his feet. Everywhere, everything is chaos. Horns honking on trucks they only see when their lanterns appear from nowhere upon soldiers firing up the ignitions, officers and enlisted men shouting. American rifles being broken out from their boxes, sleeping soldiers on rest, still dreaming as they take distributed weapons. The trenches give way to tents, and tents give way to the depots. Still, Zee pulls him along. 

“Where—” Jack asked, panting. “Where the fuck are we going, Zee?” 

“Alfred!” She huffed, breathless, like that was obvious. But he had wanted father first and figured she would, too. 

“Why?” 

“Father will prioritize defending the front line.”

“So?” 

“So— Alfred understands defense in depth. Give up the first line easily, then they pay for driving in deep, using the salients for killing zones. The more warning he has, the more of his and ours that man those salients, the more of theirs will die.” 

He swallowed. He hated it when she sounded like Dad. 

“Like Ypres before Matt took the high ground. Guns on three sides,”

“Exactly,” Zee replied. She had picked up a lantern at some point, and as she raised it, her eyes, always more brown than green, glinted for a moment with father’s thrilled, satisfied cunning. “We make them pay.” 

They stumble through the night, guided by the sensations of a nation so like and unlike them. They are flavours of the night jars that encircle the Pacific. They fly; they’re so much larger than their father. Matt, cold and clinging to the top of the world, his back against Alfred, with even more people. Then, Jack was warm and all alone in the Pacific in his early years. But the Tasman Sea is Zee’s hand on his elbow. He loves her so much, and he hates his father, and he hates Matt for making them go and both of them for being right and for being practical. He collapsed into the early morning grass off the road, nearly taking Zee down with him. Soldiers yelled, and more traffic roared in his ears.

“Jack?” Zee tugged him to a stop. “Jack, mate. Hey.” 

He couldn’t quite seem to get his breath, and he barely avoided puking all over her as he sprawled to the side and vomited what felt like everything he’d ever eaten since stepping foot in France. 

Zee made a sympathetic sort of sound, and he felt her arms around her. It’s his soldiers behind them now. He can feel hers a little, too, on the flanks and Father’s, but his own are fighting, and he is running, and he has killed again. Again. And not for the last time. What’s his count? Can he add those to his count? Matt does. Zee counts hers against the lives she saved, and now she cradles his head, gently taking him by the jaw to make him look at her. Her eyes are hers now, and it’s not her father’s words in her mouth, not his will or his brutal practicality. 

“Jack,” she said, and he squeezed her, clamping his arms around her smaller body like he had when he was little, and she was all he had of home in frigid England. “Jack, Christ.” 

“I’m sorry,” He said but didn’t let go. She squirmed, not escaping but looking up at him. “I’m sorry,”

“Look at me,” she said, and he finally lifted his eyes to her. “Thirty-six thousand.” 

“What?” 

“That’s how many you evacuated from ANZAC cove. You. Not father, not me. You and your generals planned and executed that. Your balance is still positive, do you understand me?” 

“Kiwi-bird,” He said because he was trying to argue, because she could read his mind sometimes, and he didn’t want her to, not now. He wanted to get up and move again and pretend he’d thrown up his sins with his stomach’s contents. “Don’t.” 

“Thirty-six thousand.” She said again. 

“Those weren’t directly... that kind of number is different from the ones you put back together on the table, Zee. It’s not the same. It’s not the same and it’s blood and it’s so much blood.”

“Look at me!” She said, this time harsh and sharp. “We do these things together, right? That’s what we said. My balance is your balance. You watch my back, I cover your arse.” 

“Where the fuck was that cover when I got shot in the bum at Lone Pine, eh?” Jack shot back out of spite. But then she snorted so hard he thought she might puke, too.

“It’s not my fault it’s so bloody big!” She said. “You got the birthing hips, mate.”

“You are such an arsehole.” He countered, giving his side a rub where it most certainly did not round out into berthing hips. Then he was serious. “You mean it?”

“Heart and soul, dick.” She offered him a hand up, and he let her swing him to his feet. “Your balance is my balance.” 

“Except at the commissary.” Jack huffed, unsure why that was the thought that popped into his head. “They won’t let me buy oranges anymore.” 

“Correct. I trust you with my life and my immortal soul, but not the money.” 

They push through the busy roads of new refugees and even more soldiers towards the pull of their father and the pull of whatever Alfred is, still half a stranger. It takes Zee pulling a “Do you know who my father is?” to some Oxbridge-educated fuck she might have rubbed elbows with in her school years to get them through the guard and into the command tent, and a damn good thing she did or Jack was ready to take out British soldiers like he had German. Arthur and Alfred are together, already half aware, and Father looks relieved, openly so. Not a good sign. Alfred looks bewildered. Less empire than boy startled out of bed. Because he still tends to sleep in one of those, even now. Because he is precious and held in reserve. Zee explains what happened and what needs to happen next. Jack fills in details as they go. His soldiers are the brunt just at that moment, and his heart is banging away in his chest when Alfred rolls around on him, full of piss. Looming because he does have two inches and an empire on Jack.

“You LEFT him?” He demanded, one fist gripping Jack’s collar. “You left Matt? What the fuck is wrong with you!” 

“He can get away!” Zee said, trying to wedge herself in between, struggling as much with their father’s grasp as Jack was with Alfred’s. “Matt’s been doing this for years. He’ll be fine! We had bigger things to worry about!” 

“Get the fuck off me!” Jack could do nothing about Alfred’s hold. His struggle was useless.

“Like what!” Alfred practically shouted. “What’s more important than making sure Matt gets home in one piece?” 

“Like the entire western front, you dumb cunt!” Zee shoves her face up at Alfred’s, willing to argue even if she is a foot shorter. 

“Enough!” Arthur slammed his hands down on the map-laden table and tugged Zee away, shoving one arm between Alfred’s chest and Jack’s, curling so he was in front of her. But he couldn’t break the grip Alfred had on Jack’s collar. “Get your hands off your brother, boy!” 

“Fuck you!” That was all Alfred had to say to Arthur. Zee was tugging her arm back from their father and freeing herself. 

“You left him there!” Alfred rounded on Jack again, closing the distance he already commanded with the grip on his collar. 

“You always do this!” Alfred tossed back at Arthur. “You always leave him to do your dirty work. No one watching Matt’s back because why would anyone watch his back! Why would anyone give a shit except about how much killing you need done! Why should anyone watch his back?” 

“I was!” Jack was on his toes, the angle of Alfred’s fist the only thing keeping him from using his jacket as a hangman’s rope. He didn’t care. “I was here, watching his back while you were home turning a fucking profit! We were here when it was all for nothing! You only showed up for what? For what? To take credit? Aunt Bridgie always said you were brave, that you were brilliant. She forgot to mention what a bastard you are!

“You shut your mouth. I’m not the one who just abandonded Mattie.” 

“Ah, my dear boy, but you did that first.”

One sentence. One sentence, and that’s all it took. Father looked unbothered. Alfred’s hand dropped like he’d been slapped. Jack fell back, and Zee was there, throwing off Dad’s grip and under his arm in a moment. The room was silent. Jack breathed hard. He would have probably swayed if Zee wasn’t so close, half shielding her body from Alfred, half shielding his sanity from the shouting.

“Want another first?” Alfred wasn’t facing them now. This was an argument older than both of them, conducted in shouts muffled from the other end of the house. “I took his head off his shoulders at Yorktown. I shot our dear lord father’s jaw from his fucking skull and his skull from his shoulders and the lobsterbacks surrendered. And then they left. And when the gutters overflowed, you were born.” 

Zee’s hand tightened on his, squeezing, squeezing like when the hospital ship she’d been on went down, torpedoed by that kraut bastard, and he’d dragged her corpse off a beach, and the only sign of life she could give him was the vice of her hand on his. I love you. It’s not true. I love you. It’s not true. I love you. It’s not true. 

Arthur exhaled a laugh. “Goodness, I read you lot too much Shakespeare. Such a flare for drama, children.” 

Alfred’s face twisted. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Who’s us?” Zee countered. Jack wanted to throw up again. “What’s wrong with you? You two are the kraut fuckers, not us!” Father looked almost as shocked as Alfred. “Matt wouldn’t even be out there if someone hadn’t made mess! And it wasn’t us!” 

The conversation had meandered, shot right from under them, from under Matt. Fuck.

“All right!” Dad intervened like he’d had the same thought. Hard and sharp like the furious fifties that marked the sea voyage home when Jack was small, he cut through the tension. “As flattered as your brother would be to see you defending what little of his honour he hasn’t left in a brothel, I rather think we should get to the task of finding him first, no? And perhaps, if you lot can manage more than one task at a time with the single wit I seem to have left you to inherit, we could perhaps even turn back what looks to be an entire German offensive that’s just caught us with our cocks out.” He paused and glanced at Zee. “Barring you, dear girl.” 

Jack snorted so hard they almost toppled over. Alfred sighed like a martyr. A sigh to make him sound like Matt, if there ever was one, and leaned over the table. “Where’d you put your favourite knife this time, you old bastard?” 

“Excuse you,” A note of laughter in a gravelly voice, still half-ruined by gas. “I am Father’s best knife. Only the finest for when the Krauts come for dinner, eh Dad?”

It was a pile-on, everyone rushing to get an arm around him. If Zee was his rock, the rest of them needed fucking mortar to stick together. Jack nearly elbowed Dad in the face as Arthur tried to look at a particularly large blood stain oozing from Matt’s shoulder but had to settle for turning his cheek and looking him in the eye a moment before he and Zee nearly got bowled over entirely by Alfred rocketing through. He practically picked Matt up. 

“Let me down, for Christ’s sake.” Matt laughed. “I’ve got Gilbert brains on my shirt, bud, fuck.” But Alfred would do nothing but grip him and shake his head. He might have muttered idiot. Jack didn’t hear. Matt was looking over the Yank’s overly broad shoulders, nodding at them both with a wan sort of smile that said as much of pride as it did blood loss. Zee’s hand was on his shoulder, and he glanced at her.

“You want me to slip some arsenic his coffee?” Zee whispered, not doing half as good a job suppressing her grin as she thought she was. “They burn it so bad. It could be proper strong. Nice and quick like the cholera.” Her sense of humour was morbid like that, even if he wasn’t entirely sure it was humour.

“Naw,” Jack drawled. “Reckon I’d’ve taken it some kind of personal too if someone had left you out for the Krauts.”

He got an affectionate punch in the kidneys and a squeeze for his trouble. 

“There’s nothing about you that came from a gutter.” She said, drawn tight to his shoulder. “Not a bloody thing.”

#the ask box || probis pateo #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #jack || a land of summer skies #zee || ahakoa he iti he pounamu #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #arthur || stone set in the silver sea

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Do you think Matt still knows how to drive on the left like the Brits/Australia or does he get his keys taken away?

So fun fact: when I needed to do it a few years ago, a Canadian license can be swapped for a British one perfectly legally and in like five minutes because Tampon Charlie is our head of state and it was okay for me to just try not to die, so I did drive a bit in the UK.

He's fine. It's a bit mind fucky but he's a north American he can drive in any circumstances tbh. Like he's been driving since before there were licenses so he might not be a very legally sound driver, but he is a good driver. It's like using kilos and pounds for food or height. Or klicks, miles and hours for travel. Or having a wank with the left hand because the right got frostbite. Or using French or English. He can switch lol.

No one takes his keys and while he's a tiny bit better at navigating, I do think he can be a bit of a passenger princess. Alfred fucking loves driving and he's kind of shit with maps so Matt navigates sometimes but mostly he will pass the fuck out listening to NPR or Alfred monologuing. A thing Alfred can be trusted with is not getting them killed on the freeway so Matt's just like "I am safe, it is nap time." And just wake up two states later with the best sleep he'll have had in 6 months lmao

#the ask box || probis pateo #matthew || my country is winter #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Since now we know how the Kiwi is when on the green, how are her brothers when they're greened out as well?

Jack's a bit of a mess on pot. I don't think he likes it very much. He's mellow on like 2-3 hits. But after that, then he's one of those jittery, starving potheads that's shaking down the nearest service stand for like 10 Chiko rolls, and between him and Zee, they clean out the damn kitchen. He gets greened out pretty easily and runs for the fucken hills when startled. Kind of prone to bad highs but in that really easily upset kind of way rather than the paranoid-might-induce-schizophrenia-type. Also the least chill person on weed.

Alfred is fine when he smokes. He unwinds, eats a lot, and stares up at the stars like he's seeing them for the first time. He plays a lot of cozy video games and watches stoner comedies if he does it at home. Gets pretty cuddly. It's really a relaxing thing for him to do on the balcony. When he does edibles, spots or any other types, he's impatient, goes and does way too much and becomes a paranoid whacko who just starts talking about how aliens are real, the government put something into the water to make the frogs gay and then starts crying on Matt its not his fault he's bi since he's just a tadpole being biochemically manipulated. Despite also being bi as the day is long. He is no longer allowed to do dabs or eat more than one brownie.

Matt... Matt is a fucken pro at this, and he's one of those people who tries fucking everything. He's downing six shatter bars and experiencing his first serotonin in six weeks. He's doing dabs just to sleep sometimes. He's hot-boxing Northern Light. He's got the cannabinoids, terpenes and flavonoid ratios of every subspecies of weed known to man memorized. He's boofed it, dabbed it, spotted it, done every bong known to man. He's got one of those like sci-fi-looking gravity bongs in the back room somewhere. And as a result, his highs have a pretty broad spectrum between giggly happy lad who is perfectly functional to so fucking baked he's actually enjoying his life too crying about how he's sorry he's so sucky. And then there's like 'such a resolute mess of a stoner he's been absolutely ripped for three weeks in a row and hasn't even noticed he's got bong cough so bad its probably pneumonia' kind of high.

#the ask box || probis pateo #matthew || my country is winter #jack || a land of summer skies #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #alcohol and drugs || carpe vinum

[historia-vitae-magistras]

3 and 19 for Alfred pls!

3) Who depends on them. 

With Alfred, when he shows up he shows the fuck up. But he's usually trying to avoid more personal entanglements because he can't effectively manage the amount of acquaintances he's already got. Man's trying to duck his phone and calendar way more than he should. So way too many folks and it makes him kind of an overwhelmed flake until he's sat down and actually made firm choices.

19) When they feel safest

In a tent as far into the country and as far from people as humanity possible after a very long hike. Preferably with Matt conked out next to him if only because hiking and camping alone is pretty dangerous. No one's gonna find him in the great big ol titties national park (Grand Teton.) His satellite phone will ring and he'll be on the verge of throwing it just because if someone asks about an extended warranty even 1,200 miles away from people he'll still be expecting it.

#the ask box || probis pateo #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Jack has brighid, kiwi does too probably, Matthew has Alistair and kinda not really Francis but does Alfred have anyone he'd consider a second parental figure? Or is his one and only parent high-strung and dubiously affectionate Lord Father? Boy was fucked from the start if that's the case lol

Brighid is very much in his life. She lived with him for years and years across the 19th and 20th century. Alasdair also has a very strong relationship with him and tbh I probably exaggerate Alasdair's attachment to Matt because I've got to give the boy something. Considering the Scottish influence in Australia, NZ and the US amounting to about as much importance.

But man, I've undersung Rhys! I haven't written much of it recently because I got a bit gunshy after I got into it with a Welsh guy at a discussion once who was very angry when I wrote about Cornish and Welsh influence on the British Empire because the whole double edged sword of empire for the Celtic fringe but y'know what, Welsh Methodists and other nonconformists really influenced especially American protestantism. And my favourite flavour and the thing holding Alfred's sanity together are Quakers.

So Rhys has this huge influence on Alfred and a supremely stabilizing one. If Alfred has normal opinions on anything, it's because the Quakers got to him before the evangelicals did. His batshit high literacy rate and idealism largely stems from that puritan and quaker need to fuck shit up. I'm not sure Alfred would consider Rhys as much of a parental figure as an adult considering how he stepped right into the hegemony Arthur vacated but there are occasions where Alfred whips out an ungodly accurate Welsh pronunciation. When questioned he just shrugs like "what? Like it's hard? Even Thomas Jefferson managed."

#the ask box || probis pateo #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #Rhys || my word for heaven was not yours

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Part Two: Space

Part One: Here. Part Two: You are Here. Part Three: Here.

Author's note: Inspired by the 1950s short story "The Man Who Came Early" by Poul Anderson. This is as close to sci-fi as I've ever written and therefore not accurate to the ISS or other actual science because its time travel. Warnings for panic and some goreless action.

International Space Station 400 km above the surface of the Earth. 21st Century

“Careful up there, Jones.” The navigation officer’s voice echoed through the intercom, making Alfred look up, a domed helmet in his hand. He grinned.

“Don’t you worry yourself, darling,” He replied. “I’ve sat on some bison bigger than that panel.”

He could practically hear her eye roll. “Stay in communication and don’t pull another stunt like that backflip.”

“Aww, c’mon. Kids on the live stream went wild for it.”

“Try me, Jones. There won’t be a presidential order on earth that’ll get you back up here again.”

“Laaaaaame.”

The ISS floated serenely 400 kilometres above the earth. Alfred sailed from the equipment locker, pushing off until he reached the airlock. An old hand at this, it was almost as intuitive as horseback riding was when he was younger, but his heart sped up anyway. He clamped his helmet down and checked the comms.

“Eagle Scream, back to baseboys, over. Confirm baseboys.”

He could practically hear an eye roll from the command module. “Eagles don’t even scream. They get that sound from a hawk.”

“That should be a state secret.” Alfred grumbled. There was a whoosh as the airlock was sealed at the inner end. He opened the outer hatch, giving it one final pat for good luck. Hitching his tether, he grabbed the metal rails and took a moment. He never got sick of this part, the void of nothingness with the sheer expanse of the universe before him. The sun was at 40 degrees; the planet was just behind him.

Tossing a look over his shoulder, he could see the little green sweep of Nantucket at the edge of a grey nor’easter. He released one hand to get a better look. He was a handsome bugger from this angle, almost a thousand miles above the earth. He couldn’t quite reach his ass in the suit, but California looked good regardless. When he was done being vain, reverence swept him through the weightless silence. He leaned his helmeted head against his shoulder, watching his pale blue dot. He smiled: home sweet home.

“Move your ass, Jones.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He snapped out of his reverie, grinning in the helmet. After releasing the rails, he sailed gracefully up and behind until the Canadarm appeared. She was preloaded. All he had to do was line it up, fix some wiring and screw it in, and they were golden.

“Jones to command. Jones to command. Come in command. Need you to swing’er over nice and easy.”

The bright white arm twitched on its crane-like elbow joint, and its flexing attachment worked as steel fingers clamped on the panels and kept them in place as Alfred fastened them. It had better joints than Matt, only whirring softly instead of popping and creaking like organic bubble wrap. Alfred positioned himself near the panel that needed replacing, flexing his hands and cracking his knuckles before pulling out his wrench. The arm reached out, perhaps a bit too fast.

“Whoa, easy on the gears! My brother will shit bricks if we fuck up his baby.”

“Sorry.”

Alfred replaced the panels for an hour. The steady guidance of the Canadarm provided the stability he needed to make damn sure the solar panel was securely in place. He stopped, needing an adjustment as the command module chatted with Houston.

Alfred patted the arm and said, "You've got a better grip on that panel than Mattie does on his mental health." She was almost alive, the machinery warm, and she practically purred.

“Captain, we’ve got some funky radiation readings.”

“Almost done, just crank’er up .2 degrees and I can get this finished and come back in for some sweet tea.”

“Houston advises re-entry.”

So? They hadn’t ordered to retreat, and navigation wasn’t panicking. “I just need oh point two degrees and thirty seconds.”

“Noted.”

Canadarm moved a touch. “There you go.” He centred the panel and lined up the screws. He was the last one in when the alarm rang. Emergency lights flashed red and blue. Alfred had never heard them in action before and grew cold. Comms opened again. No. He breathed. He was not panicking.

“Captain, they’re ordering re-entry.”

“Retract the arm. On my way.”

Alfred gripped the rungs and swung his line out of the way. He pushed off hard and scrambled over the top of the rigid cylinder of the can-shaped module. It was dark here, away from his work lights and sliding across the expanse towards the hatch. He caught himself on the handle, keeping his movements controlled.

“Captain?”

“Almost there.”

“Radiations rising!”

Alfred glanced towards the sun, not looking at it. It was brighter now, with dark fire spots. The rings of light jumping up the Corona stretched and flexed like the hoops of the flexible baleen skirts he used to crawl under every now and then before Lemonade Lucy came along and put him on the straight and narrow.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me we were going to get solar flares?”

“The data didn’t show any!”

“Well, that just dills my pickle.” He muttered. He was almost at the hatch. It was brighter now, and he scrambled up the rungs, barely touching one before climbing the next. Alfred swung at the hatch.

Almost there, almost there. Why was he hot? He shouldn’t be hot. His fingers slipped inside his gloves, but he had the lever in his hand. The world fell black before he closed his fingers.

Incident Report Diplomatic Security Service Bureau of Diplomatic Security State Department

On [redacted] and at [redacted], the ISS and ground services at Carnaval facilities reported unusual radiation readings and advised the crew to return inside. See addendum one. Captain [redacted] was in contact with personnel until Captain [redacted]'s suit abruptly transmitted a distress beacon. A thorough search of the ISS was conducted, leading to the discovery of an empty spacesuit, with the helmet still attached. The inner flight suit, including the Snoopy cap and lining, was not recovered. It has been suggested that a replacement may have been made. However, the space suit contained four viable samples of [redacted]'s DNA, leaving no doubt that it belonged to [redacted]. See Addendum Two.

Two simultaneous investigations were conducted by a multidisciplinary team of experts from [redacted] and [redacted]. Interviews were conducted, telemetry data analyzed, and video footage reviewed. The spacesuit Captain [redacted] wore was intact, with no signs of damage or malfunction. Video footage and telemetry data did not reveal any abnormalities or anomalies, except as previously noted. Crew interviews did not provide any significant information regarding the incident. Pushback regarding these results has been seen overseas, significantly [redacted] and [redacted]. It is the recommendation of this body that our counterparts be updated as to the results of this investigation due to the international familial ties of the next of kin and the diplomatic pressure being leveraged.

#hws america #aph america #the dangeld axe to grind: the viking age time travel au #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #Alfred and the stars || the first golden retriever in space #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #dont know why im continuing this part one flopped so hard but lmaoooo i finally figured out how to do plot i fucken guess

[historia-vitae-magistras]

You got anymore fics or hc of Alfred being a good brother to his 8ft tall beanpole?

'tis garbage I wrote about 20 years ago and is poorly recycled but here! enjoy if you can lmao. TW for poorly written ptsd, references to beheading and axe murder and snuggles.

1920, Quebec City.

"I'm fine." His baby brother said, even as he looked like he desperately needed to lay down.

"Matt, that cough does not sound good,"

"It's fine," He said, stifling another fit with a harsh swallow. Alfred grimaced and jogged to keep up as Matt strode ahead on the rain-battered sidewalk and took the umbrella with him, like speeding up would disprove the implication he wasn't at perfect 100%. How could it sound like he'd been gassed recently?

"You sound miserable,"

"It's fine," Matthew said again, shrugging and knuckling his chest as he struggled to keep his breathing even. "It's just the weather. Tell me about the new Ford coming out,"

"Oh it's a beauty, they're even going to come out with other colours than black," Alfred said, longing to reach out and squeeze Matt's shoulder and steer him inside. "But it will mostly only affect internal market goods.

"Interesting. What are the implications with free trade?"

"Don't try to distract me. I know you don't give a shit about economic law unless you're being forced,"

"If it interests you, it interests me,"

"You can't force yourself to be quiet through this,"

Matt rolled his eyes. "I'm not dying,"

"You kind of sound like you are,"

"Then I'll die!" Matt shrugged and gave one of his rare, frustrated Gallic shrugs. "C'est la vie! And honestly, it'd be nice to sleep without waking up coughing. Wake up and go to work tomorrow with more than an hour of sleep behind me,"

Alfred frowned, a surge of helplessness as he watched Matt press on through the rain as if determined to outpace whatever was wrong. Alfred lengthened his stride to keep up and get back under the umbrella, snatching it from Matt’s hand to make him slow down.

“Come on,” He said, steering them both down the path towards the subway stop.

Halfway down the park hill, he couldn't stifle anymore and ended up clinging to a tree branch, doubled over and coughing so hard veins corded at his forehead and throat and when he breathed, he shuddered through another bout so hard Alfred thought he was going to throw up all over the park path. He sucked in air and the wheeze that accompanied it was so horrific Alfred grabbed his shoulders and steered him to a bench as Matthew tried to get his breathe. Air coming in and out rapidly and almost uselessly like Matt was breathing through shredded black smiths billows. Alfred pulled him upright.

Two neatly dressed couples threw them dirty looks like Matt was some infectious consumptive polluting a public park. Alfred glowered right back. He might have flirted with the one who’s dainty green dress that was fashionably short to show off shapely legs but now he was just frustrated.

"Go fuck off to the circus if you want to gawk at something!" He yelled and the men sped along, dragging the women with them. Matt made another face gesturing for Alfred to stop but couldn't get words out as coughing wracked him all over again.

It was another five minutes of Matt coughing and coughing and coughing before he stopped and collapsed on Alfred's shoulder, heaving.

"Jesus Christ, Matt," Alfred said. “You sound like you’re dying.

"I’m not—" Matt heaved air, it caught in his throat and he hacked out another pounding cough that left him spasming and shivering against Alfred. "It comes and goes,"

"Are you sure it's not consumption?"

"Yeah, Dad made them x-ray me three times during demobilization, I'm just like this now,"

"What? Chronically asthmatic?"

Matt shook his head. "I’m not chronically anything. It’s just a bad day every now and and again."

"Is that what doctors say?"

Matt nodded and leaned more heavily onto him, panting again.

"You're burning up," Alfred could feel it against his coat. “Mattie…”

Another nod. “Like I said, it comes and goes.”

He sighed, getting them to their feet. “Christ, Matt.”

“Oh, don’t look so sad.” Matt rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, the supply of your favourite whiskey isn’t about to dry up.”

“Is that what you think? Fuck you.” Alfred scowled. “You’re such a–” Realization dawned on him and he turned to his brother, grabbing his shoulder again. “You little shit. You’re trying to piss me off so I leave this alone, aren’t you?”

Matt blinked, taken aback. “Fuck me, you finally figured that one out?”

“You little asshole,” He laughed. “That is so manipulative.”

“Hardly. You’re so self righteous usually all I have to do is mention Dad and you’ll leave me alone for a month. What is this? Character development?” He laughed, and the coughing started again.

This time, Matt didn’t argue when Alfred insisted they go home. The grey stone heart of his brother’s first city, into the stone houses behind the stone walls the English and the Americans had besieged more than once. Behind slate walls, warm wood greeted them as they passed through the red door with the same iron hinges, squashed between what had once been the apothecary and the bakery. Matt had once been stingy with the firewood but now he had electricity and the coal fired boiler in the basement that heated the house beyond the parlour with its polished brass fire grate and brick hearth.

"Sit," Matth said as he leaned against the wall. He threw aside his damp coat and propped himself against the worn wood. Scrubbing his damp hair off his forehead, he sighed. "I guess I should make coffee and sandwiches or something."

“Will you bite my head off if I offer to make something?” Alfred asked, cautiously toeing off his shoes.

Matt gave a wry sort of look, almost amused. “No.”

“Hallelujah.” Alfred replied, throwing his hands above his head.

“Don’t push it.” Matt said but his face was light.

Alfred chuckled and headed to the kitchen. He rummaged through the cabinets, with all the fine little details of grapevines heavy with fruit and swirling knotwork that reminded him of Aunt Brighid’s embroidery. He thumbed one and wished she was there. She wouldn’t put up with this. He put on water to boil, dug a slightly dessicated chicken carcass out of the fridge, tore it apart to make sandwiches, put the bones on to make soup and returned to the living room with a mug and a plate for each of them.

Matt was sprawled on sofa, his face pink. Alfred didn’t want to wake him up, they both spent so much time ignoring the other’s nightmares these days. He still looked like Matt when he was asleep, sweet and still, like the man the cherubic baby Matt should have grown into rather than the wraith that had to shake off their father or the trenches. But he was feverish and Alfred made himself wake him.

“Here,” He said, handing Matt tea and the sandwich.

“Thanks.” Matt said quietly. He drank the tea eagerly but set the plate down next to him.

“Eat that.” Alfred said, taking a bite out of his own and throwing himself onto the leather chair. “You always do this when you’re sick. Don’t want to eat, don’t want to bother anyone, don’t want to admit you feel like ass. Just like Dad. It’s fucking annoying.”

“No one said you have to be here.” Matt glared, but he had picked up the sandwich and taken a decent bite. “Happy?”

“Never happy when you’re miserable.”

Matt snorted. “Oh, that’s bullshit.”

“Stop.” Alfred sat forward, hands on each of the chair’s arms. “Stop, okay? God. I know you’re–”

“Know I’m what?” Matt took another bite of the stupid sandwich and there was a flash of something flinty and dark behind his eyes Alfred didn’t like.

“Like how you always are after a war,”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you get good at killing and keeping everyone alive and–”

“And what?” Matt said.

“You get shit at everything anything else.” Alfred desperately wanted a cigarette but it felt a bit cruel. “Bring back Gilbert’s head like some sort of fucked up barn cat, sure, you’re great at that. But lay down and act like a human being? God forbid.”

“Oh don’t you–” Matt sighed through his nose and ate more, and too Alfred’s bewilderment, smiled. “You know how often I tell Dad something like that?”

Alfred stared, but leaned back, holding his coffee. “You back talk the old man?”

“Bringing Gilbert’s head back like a fucked up barn cat gave me some leeway.” Matt said, the sly smile on his face fading into something more serious. “But yeah. By the end, by the hundred days, we talked. About what I did. About what he didn’t stop. And I told him to shove it up his ass sometimes. He’s a hypocrite and so am I.”

“Sometimes.” Alfred responded. “You’re still a pretty good brother though.”

“Thanks.” Matt said. “I try.”

“I know.” Alfred said. “And I’m sorry I don’t sometimes.”

Matt shrugged. “Not your job. You don’t have to waste your time if you don’t want too. I’ll live, the overpriced booze will keep flowing. I shut up and do my job, everyone benefits. It’s fine.”

“We’re brothers.” Alfred said. “We’re supposed too… I don’t know.”

“You’re a rising great power, I’m the favourite knife of the British Empire. We have our roles. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want too.”

“Matt–”

He’d drooped against the arm of the sofa, breathing ragged, unable or unwilling to reply.

“You with me?”

“Yeah.” He responded, hoarse. “Sorry.”

“Is this from the gas too?”

“Yeah,” He didn’t off anymore of an explaination and Alfred shook his head.

“Dumbass,” He stood, and crouched to reach out. He gently placed the back of his hand against his brother’s forehead. “All you have to do is ask for help and, fuck, I think you’re warmer.”

“Just tired.” He murmured, but he didn’t open his eyes.

“Mattie…” How many times in a day could he let denial slide before it was stupid? Matt was trying to rally himself, push Alfred off and reach for the tea, muttering about how he was fine when there was a loud crack. The windows rattled and suddenly he had his arms full of his brother, shaking like the last maple leaves on the trees, eyes screwed shut and mouthing something in French Alfred couldn’t make out.

“Hey,” Alfred laughed nervously. “Hey, you cold?”

“They’re coming.” Matt said, and the fever flush had disapeared. He looked bloodless. “They’re coming.”

“Hey.” Alfred suddenly understood. “Hey it’s okay. I’m right here. Matthew, I am right here. Nothing’s wrong. It was a car backfiring, not gunfire. No one’s coming.”

Matt leaned in more, burying his face in Alfred. “You don’t let anything happen to me.”

“Never have, never will.” Alfred rested one cheek on Matt’s feverish head. He held on tight, feeling the tremors that sprang through Matt until they stilled. But Matt’s breathing was still fast and shallow. He hadn’t been this close in a while, and the path of Matt’s spine showed through his layers, and he’d had that pinched up look half his life.

“Come on.” He said, gently. “Bed.”

“No.” He burrowed against Alfred more tightly, like he was four, barely spoke English and it was a cold morning he didn’t feel like greeting just yet. He’d always had a streak of stubbornness.

Eventually, Alfred got him up, got him to change and horizontal. He was a little delirious, shivering between the sheets and coughing until he was curled in a ball and muttering about how he needed his axe. But he didn’t get up to get it. He breathed through a split lip and rolled around trying to get comfortable. Alfred fed him pills and glass after glass of water, and somewhere around the seventh, Matt seemed to pass out into real sleep. Alfred sat on the bed and pressed his hands to Matt’s cheeks and was relieved to find it a little cooler.

Matt rolled over towards him, hugging his side, demanding warmth and making a contented sound when Alfred let him with a snort. “You always were a snuggly baby.”

#the ask box || probis pateo #Ideas || i should write this someday #hws canada #hws america #matthew || my country is winter #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #alfred and matt || lonely boys with the longest borders

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Character Profile - America

Character Name: USA, Murica, Alfred, Alfie-come-lately, Al. 1585-1775 - Alfred F Kirkland. 1775-???? - Alfred F Jones.

Age: 16 as of 1775, 18 in 1789, 21 mid 19th century. 25 by WW2 and still generally in that range.

Height: 6'0/183cm in 1775, 6'2/189cm after 1850ish.

Physical Description: This child was born a tungsten cube and grew into an adamantium adult. He's tall, broad-shouldered and strong. USDA Grade-A corn-fed BEEF right here. He's muscle as fuck with a good inch of fat on him every which way. Really putting the dough in doughboy. He's athletic, with the shoulders of a linebacker but is shockingly graceful and easy in his body. Arthur loved him enough that the confidence and good nature he exuded in his posture and looks are 100% genuine 80% of the time. He was an absolute cherub of a baby and grew into the kind of good looking that would really be described as more beautiful than handsome if he wasn't as broad as the baptist definition of sin.

Eye colour: Pacific, deep water navy, NASA mission blue. Dark, dark blue. Almost black, if not in good light.

Hair colour/style: Amber waves of grain. Two or three shades darker than Matt's and less red than Matt's or Jack's. Imagine all the wheatfields of America at the reaping, find the average tone, and that's Alfred's hair colour. Rich, harvest grain gold. It has a good amount of wave to it that shows even with its being short. He's generally worn it short and to one side to show off the wave he can get. Had some wicked curtain bangs in the 90s tho.

Other distinguishing physical traits: He has never worn a beard in his life, but it tends to come in redder than his hair. Aunt Bridgie's genes really start flexing there. He's got a mostly faded scar over his heart from Matt's pyromaniac-ass burning down DC. And probably more I'll have to add here later.

Personal Appearance/Style: Alfred loves looking good. The first thing Francis taught him was how good he could look and he's been following it ever since. He prefers blue suits, but he'll wear warm greys and black. He knows he looks like a ten-course meal in just grey joggers and a NASA t-shirt against those golden guns of his though. Also, the uniforms he picks are the ones that look good on him. Does he look like shit in one shade of olive drab? He's swapping it out. He showed up in Japan on the Black Ships in the most flattering cut of the Navy officer's uniform there was and it looked fucking good on him, all that dark blue with gold accents. He likes brown leather over black because the warmer colour looks better with his golden boy looks, and he knows it.

Verbal Style: He uses a neutral American or a less broad New England accent when overseas but slides in and out of any possible American accent at home. He got shot at during the Civil War because even in blue the whole goddamn time, he would slide into his original Virginia accent and have to duck rifle fire. Fucker probably sounded slightly transatlantic for a while in the 20th century. He doesn't purposefully code-switch from culture to culture; it's just automatic. He speaks several languages fluently and without an accent if he wants to, but he uses a southern accent speaking Japanese or a Kennedy Accent when speaking German. He knows it's not a jelly doughnut, Deutschland, promise! The more Arthur annoys him, the thicker his American accent gets.

Level of Education: Arthur educated him at home, got him, tutors on literally anything that Alfred fancied, apprenticed him out to any trade that interested him; printing and gunsmithing were the big ones, and then sent him to Harvard when he got bored with that. He graduated from West Point just before the Civil War and personally shot a few of his classmates who sided with the south :) but turned more to engineering, commerce and math after the war. He didn't reappear in the east until the 1880s, so he did a lot of mail-order books and self-study during that period. He also got another degree from The University of the Pacific in that period out west.

Occupation: The government is always trying to rope him into shit, but the boy's heart is in the stars, and something the government did has to be a big deal before he gives a flying fuck. His main squeeze is NASA, but he occasionally shows up to DC to steamroll some favours out of congress, especially when he has the urge to fly something experimental or a particular issue has been bothering him.

Past Occupations: Soldier, sailor, airman, astronaut, gunsmith, printing press operator, mechanical engineer, heiress, physicist, chemist, biologist, anthropologist, archaeologist, mechanic, railroad engineer, cowboy, blacksmith, cook, construction worker, gamekeeper, welder, a gold miner. The boy has some restlessness, okay? He's had many jobs.

Skills, Abilities or Talents: Alfred, even amongst nations, is quite freaky. Super strength, damage resistance, resurrection power that's faster than almost anyone. He can fly, drive, handle or otherwise operate any vehicle without training. He knows how they all work. He's also highly gifted in math and physics. He has been known to make California tremble a wee bit when he's genuinely well and fucking pissed. He'll get his ass lost on a boat or on foot, but in the air, he's possibly the best navigator on the face of the earth. But literally, he can do almost anything he sets his mind to. It's unnatural.

Admirable Personality Traits: Optimistic, idealistic, brilliant, generous, confident, fair.

Negative Personality Traits: Self-righteousness, recklessness, thoughtlessness, arrogance,

Sense of Humor: Silly, slapstick, observational.

Physical/Mental illness or affliction: He's sometimes just shy of narcissistic but usually pulls himself off the brim. Arthur's sons might be eligible for an ADHD diagnosis, but I did that on accident before I got diagnosed rifp. He's not the anxious or depressed type. He has had periods of pretty acute PTSD.

Hobbies/Interests: Computers and tech, filmmaking, archaeology, camping, hiking, adventure sports, surfing, paleontology, working out, protein foot products, star gazing, listening to audiobooks and podcasts. But, like, literally everything interests this kid.

Favourite Foods: BBQ; he can't pick a favourite style tho. Burgers, cheese fries, pizza, strangely flavoured novelty chips. Apple pie with ice cream and blueberry maple ice cream is his and Matt's favourite. Paw-paws are a very rare treat. Huckleberry-flavoured anything will make him absolutely grin.

Most important personal item: He expected to inherit Arthur's pocket watch like other sons did their fathers in the 18th century, so in 1976, when Arthur did give him the pocket watch and a very expensive wristwatch because the pocket watches had gone out of style, he has worn it everywhere since. To Mars and the Mojave, he'll wear that thing everywhere and get it repaired if it takes any damage.

Person/friend close to character: Matt's his best friend. He and Maria are also close but belligerent. Arthur is also in his top 5. Kiku, Ludwig, Tolys, Romano, Mai, etc, are all on his very close friend list. Of older nations, he and Brighid are very close, if complex.

Brief family history: He was born in 1585 or so in Virginia. Arthur said, "finders keepers," From that moment, he was the man's firstborn child. In his childhood, he mainly had Arthur and Rhys, and Alasdair and Brighid, somewhat less until later. He's never met his grandmother or her ghost. He was an only child for about 20-30 years and spent a lot of his childhood functionally an only child with Matt in Francois' care. The two youngest 'siblings' he's got he's not quite sure what to do with them. The relationship isn't precisely sibling-like, but he's pretty fond of them, and he has some trauma from being ditched in New England during the British Civil War, so he saved their asses in 1941.

Most painful experiences in the character’s past: I don't think anything can top the Civil War because he represented the Union, i.e. the United States. It took him years and years to recover, especially because he was living a rough out west lot of the post-war. He got consumption while personally marching to the sea to burn the fucking shit out of the Confederacy. :)

Their Song: Babylon by Barnes Courtney.

#Character Sheets || bodies and flesh of borders and fences #Alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #hws america

[historia-vitae-magistras]

hi! 2 and 10 for Alfred 🦅

2) Who they want to please the most.

In a big-picture kind of way, himself first. His ambitions second. God, maybe, in a distant third. In a more interpersonal way, I do think he likes making the people he's around happy. That's the challenge with him and, indeed, a lot of American culture. People can hate his guts but love spending time with him and that winning personality to the point it's confusing and sometimes flat-out distressing.

10) How they deal with pain. 

Avoidance to an extreme degree. He will avoid a problem until it explodes in his face so often. And that includes physical and emotional pain. Those 400 count ibuprofen bottles are a cultural cue I think manifests very strongly in his personality.

#the ask box || probis pateo #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies

[historia-vitae-magistras]

I can't really express how much subverting the traditional image people have their country means to me in hetalia. Columbia or Lady liberty, tits out, torch in the air? Hell no. You get a beefy nerd with stomach problems. He's got great tits though. The nation of lumberjacks? You get a pretty too-tall twink who has the constitution of a Victorian child. He's good with an axe though. Crocodile hunter in khaki? Scoot over, he's an energetic, sensitive wine snob. He likes spiders as much as assumed. Rugged do-it-yourself sheep-farmer in gum boots? Move it, this is a lovely, grumpy, young woman with a mind for engineering. She is very fond of her sheep and gumboots though.

#zee || ahakoa he iti he pounamu #jack || a land of summer skies #matthew || my country is winter #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies