#Minister Blizzard | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rebelsandtherest · 2 years

Text

Eldest

Rating: PG (some language)

Words: 9521

Characters: Matthew (Canada), Jack (Australia), Zee (New Zealand), Alfred (USA)

Summary: Matthew is having a hard time after an unexpected and costly springtime blizzard. His younger siblings aren't sure how to get through to him, so they call in the cavalry.

Warnings: Mentions of depression

Read on Ao3 if you like

---------

Jack and his sister Zee were, by an appreciable margin, the youngest members of the complicated family tree that orbited Arthur Kirkland. However, since they’d reached adulthood (in body if not in spirit) this hadn’t been a common point of interest for well over a century. Sat alongside their elder brother Matthew across the table from a gaggle of Celts and Saxons who could exchange stories of Roman emperors as though they’d bumped into them at the local Tescos last week, the age difference between the three former colonies melted away to the point they could at times act like an odd set of triplets.

However, when you got right down to it, both Jack and Zee would always regard Matt as the elder brother. Zee and Jack flip-flopped on who fulfilled the older role between the two of them (a mantle most often shouldered by Zee, notwithstanding that she was in reality younger than Jack), but once Matthew Williams stepped in the room, the hierarchy of siblings rearranged itself to affectionately accommodate the Eldest Brother.

Matthew had practically raised both Jack and Zee when they were very small. He’d been a young but fully grown man when Zee was still learning her letters, when dear old Arthur couldn’t make head or tails of what Jack was trying to tell him through his riptide of an accent—then whistled by missing teeth—until Matthew had to translate that there was a tarantula and on the back of Arthur’s shirt. It had been Matt who taught Jack to shoot a rifle, Matt who taught Zee how to ski when snow clung her mountain ranges in the July winter. It was Matt who’d scolded them to hell and back when they attacked each other, Matt who’d made them apologize and part as friends. Matt who told them bedtime stories, Matt who bandaged their cuts and bound their sprains and blew raspberries in their baby-fat cheeks until they laughed again. Always Matt who took the brunt, who shouldered the family burdens, who shielded his younger siblings from whatever maelstroms the empire had brewing a hemisphere away.

Even now, centuries later, with all of them grown, independent members of the commonwealth, the unspoken order of the universe still dictated that it was Matt who did the parenting, and Jack and Zee who were parented.

Therefore, when Matt decided to stop acting like a responsible adult, the universe glitched, and neither Jack nor Zee knew the cheat codes that would set reality back to rights.

It had all started two days ago, when Jack’s flight from Vancouver to Sydney was canceled due to weather. It was hardly unheard of—it’d happened to him once or twice before, albeit never so late in the year. He’d planned his ski trip to the Canadian Rockies in order to escape the still-boiling autumn of his capital. He’d told Matt he would be northside, of course, but when the Canadian hadn’t texted back, he’d shrugged shoulders and assumed Matt was busy. Matt was often busy, and Jack respected that.

But when a freak blizzard swept eastwards across North America and Jack’s flight home was delayed not once, but twice, the Australian decided to cut his losses, postpone his return entirely, and trek over to Ottawa to drop in on his Canadian brother—who he hadn’t seen outside of European boardrooms in many years—for a surprise visit.

This had been, in retrospect, the wrong decision. Or the right decision. In the end, Jack hoped it was the right decision for Matthew, but it was most certainly the wrong decision for him. His prime minister had left eight voicemails so far asking why it was taking him so long to return to Canberra, and Jack didn’t know how to explain that he’d been waylaid by discovering the national embodiment of Canada buried in a Depression Cave of his own making, and how he couldn’t, in good conscience, leave him there unattended.

“What the fuck do we do now?” Jack asked, spying around the edge of the door frame for a last glance at the dragon’s lair before retreating back to safety and the troubled countenance of his little sister.

“Hell if I know,” The New Zealander said softly, not hiding as she looked into Matt’s desecrated bedroom with lines of concern framing her features. “You said he’s been like this for… when did you get here?”

“Three days ago.”

“Jesus christ.”

“Yeah. I’ve been sleeping on the futon, eating his food and ordering delivery the whole time.”

“And he didn’t notice?” Zee sounded skeptical. Jack spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

“If he didn’t he didn’t stop me! He’s not said a fuckin’ word to me ‘cept when I try to get him out of bed.”

“What’d he say then?”

“Jesus, I dunno, something in French, I stepped in the room to hear him better and he threatened to turn me into a headline.”

“Matt said that?” Zee asked, looking infuriatingly like Arthur.

“Bugger me sideways, woman, the fuck else you want me to say?” Zee glared at him, but for once, Jack held his ground. His sister turned her eyes back to Matt’s darkened bedroom, and she sighed.

“Shit,” she said. At that moment, Buddy, Matt’s great fluffy samoyed dog, chose to amble out of the corner of Matt’s bedroom and towards the back door, where he pawed to be let out. Looking unsurprised, Jack went over to open the door.

“Is he allowed to-” Zee pointed a finger from the house to the door.

“Hell if I know,” Jack shrugged, watching Buddy march out the door at a sluggish pace and careful not to catch his long white fur as he slid the door shut. “Not like Matt’s going to tell me. He hasn’t eaten the neighbors kids yet, so,” he shrugged. Zee sighed and went to join Jack by the door, now far enough away from Matt’s room that the white noise of the Canadian’s space heater was replaced by deafening silence. She worried her hand across her mouth and chin not unlike Arthur would, brow tense and creased in the middle.

“This is bad,” she said. Jack nearly smacked his own forehead out of frustration.

“No shit, Sherlock!”

“What do you want me to say?!” Zee hissed, turning to glare at him.

“I don’t know,” Jack hissed back. “But surely you can think of… something, right?”

“Why me?! Do you honestly think I have any better idea of what to do than you do?”

“You always have a better idea of what to do,” Jack insisted. Zee scoffed.

“When it’s a question of “should I pick up this poisonous sea slug-”

“That’s not fair, I didn’t know you had poisonous sea slugs-”

“-of course I have a better idea, but this? What am I supposed to do?” She gestured around them, “why the hell did you even call me?” Seeing her point but unwilling to concede, Jack crossed his arms petulantly.

“If you’re that upset about it, why’d you even come?”

“Because you said you needed help, you bunghole! I thought you’d broken your knees or lost your passport or something! You didn’t say that Matt needed help.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know what to say!”

“Jesus, Jackie, ‘Matt needs help’, three bloody words, would that have been so hard?”

“Well who would you’ve called? Arthur? It’d be a fuckin’ week before he’d have time to fly out here.”

“Of course not, idiot, I would’ve called…” Zee’s voice suddenly trailed off as a thought occurred to her. She flicked her eyes up to Jack, who caught on after a moment of confusion. Frustration gave way to hesitant hope.

“Is he even at home?”

“I mean, probably?”

“Don’t you think he would’ve known about this in the first place?”

“You didn’t.”

“Well no, but it’s not like I live next door.” Jack glanced back at Matt’s room, back at his sister.

“He’d come, wouldn’t he?” She asked him.

“It’s Matt,” he said.

“Right. You have his number?”

“Well yeah, but…” Jack looked sheepish, “I kinda… racked up a hefty bill texting you, I was kinda hoping—”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” she pulled out her phone. Buddy scratched at the door, and Jack went over to let him in and clean his snow-wet paws while Zee scrolled her contacts and put the phone to her ear. It only rang for a handful of seconds.

“Hey Kiwi, what’s up? And why the hell are you up at 5am? Isn’t it a Saturday there?”

Zee heaved a relieved sigh, “In Wellington sure, but I’m in Ottawa.”

“What! You’re up north and you didn’t tell me?! I'm hurt!” Zee opened her mouth to speak, but didn’t get the chance. “Also you chose a helluva week to be there, it usually doesn’t blizzard this late in the year.”

“Uhuh I know, but that’s not why I’m—”

“Have you spoken to Matt? I’ve been trying to get a hold of him for days. I thought he was going to be down by Niagara last week and I thought about going up there but he never texted me back—”

“Yeah that’s why I was calling y—”

“I figured he was busy, but if he’s been hosting you in Ottawa—”

“Damnit, Yankee, just shut up a minute!” Zee shouted.

“Oh. Sorry, Zee.” And damn him, his kicked puppy drawl almost made her feel guilty. She took a steadying breath.

“What’s with the accent, anyway?”

“Oh sorry, I’m in San Antonio. The good taco stalls don’t serve blond gringos the spicy shit unless they sound local.”

Zee rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Whatever. San Antonio. That’s… what, a seven hour flight to Canada? Six?”

“I mean, if you’re talking commercial, it’s somewhere ‘round there. Why?”

“We may need your help here in Ottawa.”

“We?”

“Jack and I—”

“What! You’re telling me you and Oz have both been a hop and a skip from the States and no one told me?”

“We didn’t plan it, it’s… listen, Matt needs help and we don’t know what to do.” The line went quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his tone was jarringly serious.

“Help how? What happened?” Zee’s shoulders relaxed. Alfred Jones was obnoxious at the best of times, but when he decided to be competent, she knew he could handle just about anything.

“The last week happened. It’s been a helluva time, like you said. He won’t come out of his room, won’t eat, threatened to turn Jack into a hashtag, apparently.”

“Headline,” Jack corrected. Zee made a face and waved her hand dismissively at him.

“Aaaah fuck,” Alfred said, “Got that double depresso espresso huh. How bad is it?”

“What do you mean, ‘how bad is it’?”

“I mean like what level of depression cave are we talking? How many half-smoked doobs are on his bedside table?”

“What does that- I don’t know!”

“Does he have any empty wine bottles in there, or just cigarettes?”

“He won’t even let us in the door, Alfred, I don’t know how to—”

“Right, right, okay, how’s the smell?”

“Of his room?”

“Yeah.” Zee took a sniff; even from a distance the half-open doorway offered whiffs of odor.

“Kinda like a sweaty ashtray got fucked by a skunk,” she told him.

“Ah, hell, it’s bad, then. Jeez, I wouldn’t’ve thought a blizzard would’ve taken him out like that. Something else must’ve made it worse. Ugh, and I just got here, too…” The American heaved a sigh. Zee held her breath. “Alright, I reckon I can be there in three or four hours in the Cessna.” Relieved she hadn’t had to ask, Zee’s shoulders relaxed.

“You’ll come up, then?” Jack looked up when he heard this, watching Zee’s expression carefully.

“Yeah, ‘course.” Zee gave Jack a thumbs up, and the Australian pumped his fist in relieved joy. “I gotta make a few pit stops first though… hey, I’m gonna pick up some barbecue, you or Jack want any?”

“Jack, you want any barbecue?” She asked. Her brother perked up.

“What kind?”

“Texas.”

“Fucken yeah I do.” Zee relayed their preferences and thanked Alfred for being willing to ditch his taco plans to help Matt.

“Anything for the baby bro,” Alfred joked, “see y’all in a few hours.” The call ended and left Zee feeling bemused; somehow, she’d entirely forgotten that Alfred was older than Matt.

“Do you think he keeps air freshener anywhere around here?” Jack asked aloud, opening kitchen cabinets and craning his neck to see all the contents. “This place is rank.”

Three or four hours later, Matt’s Ontario home still smelled of sweat, smoke, and old weed. Jack had eventually located “some kinda cashed up frog lavender shit” which he’d sprayed liberally in the hopes that it would mask the odor. It did not. With much cursing, Zee had cracked windows to air out the space, after closing Matt’s door so the Canadian would not grow (more) irritable when he felt that they were allowing cold air in rather than letting him stew in the smell of his own depression.

Once the cool became unbearable, Zee began closing the windows once more, and was nearly done when keys rattled at the front door. Upon hearing the noise, Buddy, who’d been piled miserably onto Jack’s lap for belly pats, perked up for the first time since the Anzacs had arrived, and left the living room for the entryway. Jack followed, and turned the corner just in time to see Alfred Jones backing into the house, carrying multiple bags and a large styrofoam cooler. Buddy was there waiting for him, tail wagging slowly.

“Hey, Buddy,” Alfred smiled down at the dog, toeing off his snowy shoes.

“Oh thank fuck you’re here,” Jack said. Alfred looked up when he heard the Aussie’s voice.

“Hey, man—not a headline yet, I see,” He grinned, and then looked back down at buddy as he moved further into the house. “Careful, dude, I don’t want to squish you with groceries.”

“You need help?” Jack asked.

“Nah, I got it. I don’t have plates for the barbeque though.”

“I’ll get ‘em,” Jack said, relieved to be able to do something. He went to the kitchen and Alfred followed. Although he was barely able to see past his cargo, the American navigated to the kitchen table without needing to look and set down his bags just in time for Zee to come in from the hall.

“Oh thank fuck you’re here,” she said. Alfred snorted, and glanced back at Jack. “Gee, it’s almost like you two are related. Hey Kiwi,” Flashing a fond, all-American grin, Alfred stepped forward to give her a hug. Though she would never admit it, Zee had never been happier to be crushed by Alfred “sorry I forgot to not hug too hard” Jones, and gave him a few pats before pushing him away, shrugging helplessly.

“I’ve never seen him like this, I’m sorry for bothering you, but Jack didn’t know what to do so he called me, and I didn’t know what to do, and we weren’t sure you were free but-”

“Hey, hey, don’t apologize, it’s alright, it happens, I’m glad you called. Where is he? Still in his room?”

“Yeah.” Alfred nodded.

“That tracks.”

“Where’s the food?” Jack was holding a plate in both hands and leaning predatorily around Alfred’s arm, eyes searching through the pile of things he’d left on the table.

“Jack,” Zee reprimanded, “he just got here.”

“I’m hungry!” Alfred only snorted.

“In the cooler. I call dibs on the barkiest brisket, otherwise have at it.”

“What, the charry bits?”

“Yup. Hey, quick question, which one of you is the better baker?” Zee raised her hand at the exact moment Jack pointed at her, not looking up from the styrofoam cooler. “Cool,” Alfred dug around in one of the tote bags and produced a large, very old ceramic pie pan which contained two plastic-wrapped disks of dough. “He’s got a rolling pin somewhere around here—bottom drawer to the left of the oven, I think—could you roll these out and set the oven to 375?”

“Oh,” Zee took the dish in surprise. Of all solutions she’d expected Alfred to offer, pastry hadn’t been one of them. “Sure.”

“Mate, what the hell did you wrap this in?” Jack was hard at work excavating his dinner from the cooler, which contained a dense package wrapped in what appeared to be thick gold tinfoil.

“Satellite grade mylar,” Alfred bragged with a boyish grin.

“What?” Jack looked up at him, and Alfred nodded, grinning wider.

“Got a whole stockpile of it—reject batches from NASA, they just let me walk off with it. I swear it’s the most useful shit.” Jack turned back to the barbeque with a manic grin.

“Sick,” he praised.

“It should still be plenty hot. But tell you what, before you dig in would you mind turning on the bathtub to get the water warmed up?”

“Uh… sure,” Jack said, glancing down at the hall to the washroom, which was next door to Matt’s bedroom. “...why?” he asked apprehensively. Alfred shrugged off his old bomber jacket and hung it off the corner of a chairback.

“Because I can smell him from here,” he said, rolling up the sleeves on his flannel. “Jesus, it’s freezing. Why isn’t the heat on? And why does it smell like rotten lavender?” He spoke as if musing to himself, and went over to the thermostat to turn up the dial.

Jack was too out of his depth to feel embarrassed about standing there waiting for Alfred to go first towards Matt’s room before he followed. He scuttled to the safety of the washroom while Alfred continued on fearlessly toward Matthew’s door.

“Maaa-tieee,” Alfred sing-songed, rapping his knuckles against the door in a cheery rhythm. “How ya doin’, kiddo?”

“Va te faiire foutre, tas de merde!” Matt’s voice burst from inside. Jack’s French vocabulary consisted almost entirely of curse words and insults, which allowed him to understand most of what Matt had said, but even if he hadn’t known that Matt had called his brother a pile of shit and told him to fuck off, his tone alone would’ve certainly kept Jack from knocking again.

“Aww, I missed you too,” Alfred laughed, and Jack couldn’t believe how unbothered he was. Alfred did speak French, didn’t he? “Welp, I’m coming in, so if you’re planning on throwing anything at me, now’s your time to aim.” Seated on the edge of the bathtub, Jack turned on the faucet and craned his neck to peer out the doorway.

“Je vais t'en tabarnaker une si tu continues!”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” Alfred opened the door and let himself in. Jack watched a wine bottle fly past and shatter in the main hall.

“I hope that didn’t have anything left in it, it’ll neve come out of the rug. Jesus, Mattie, did you smoke an entire dispensary in here?” There was more indistinct French grumbling. “No dice, bucko. You are getting out of bed and you are getting into the bathtub. I might even have a fun surprise for you as a reward.”

“No one asked you to be here,” Matt switched to English.

“Yes they did, you got both Anzacs all the way up here and they’re worried about you, you dramatic bastard.” Alfred turned and shouted back, “Heya Jack, how’s the bath?” The Australian started, suddenly realizing he had an actual job aside from eavesdropping.

“Uh, y-yeah, it’s good, mate, ‘bout warm enough I reckon.”

“Perfect.”

“John Christian Kelly you fucking traitor,” Matt moaned, and Jack was suddenly a teenager again, feeling like the worst brother in the world.

“O ho, breaking out the passport names? Be nice to the kid, asshole. Let go of the duvet. Come on, Matt, you’re not an infant. Get up.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“I will drag you out if I have to.”

“Non.”

Jack took the opportunity to plug the tub to let it fill before swiftly fleeing the scene. If things started flooding, he decided, that was very much an Alfred problem.

“Let go,” the American was saying.

“T’es donc ben niaiseux!”

“I can be more niaiseux if you’d like,” Alfred said, and there were sounds of a struggle.

“Alfred put me the fuck down!”

“I warned you!—Ow! Put your goddamn claws away, I’m trying to help you, you jerk,”

“It’s cold,” Matt complained, voice louder now. From a safe distance, Jack could see Alfred carrying Matt tossed over one shoulder, the Canadian’s limbs caught halfway between koala-hugging a duvet and beating at Alfred’s front and back with ineffective flailing.

“Which is why your wonderful, thoughtful, caring big brother thought to turn the bath ahead of time.”

“It’ll still be cooold,” Matt whined, even as Alfred marched him into the washroom.

“Upsy-daisy,”

“Alfre-AH! Don’t you fucking dare,”

“If I set you on your feet are you going to punch me?”

“I’ll kill you,”

“Well in that case,” there was a giant splash. Jack gasped and covered his mouth. Zee had wandered over to eavesdrop, hands still coated in flour.

“You idiot! My duvet!”

“Needs to be washed just as badly as you do, genius. Give it here, I’ll put it in the washer. And look—I even brought that stupid sissy French soap you like so much. You do remember how to use soap, right?”

“Fuck you,”

“You’re very welcome. Now strip, pretty sure those clothes should be incinerated at this point.”

“I’m not stripping in front of you.”

“If I leave, are you going to take them off?”

“....I’m not stripping in front of you.”

“Have it your way,” Alfred said.

“What the- get your hands off of me, you pervert!”

“You’re my brother, Matt. And you call me a prude. Take them off or I will take them off for you, how do you even stand that smell?”

“I hate you.”

“I know, we can talk about it later. Now give ‘em here.” Some splashing and cursing ensued, but at the end of it all, Alfred emerged from the bathroom half soaked but victorious, a pile of soggy bedclothes and pajamas in his arms. “Do not get out of that tub until you’ve washed your hair twice!”

Alfred carried the aforementioned duvet and soggy clothes and dumped them in a pile in the laundry room before returning to Matt’s bedroom and gathering up all the other laundry he could find.

“Does he have a broom anywhere, or…?” Jack asked, gesturing to the shattered wine bottle shards.

“Don’t worry about it, man, go eat. I’ll take care of it.” And take care of it he must have, because Zee and Jack sat quite peacefully in the kitchen for some time, eating barbeque and listening to the sounds of American hustling and bustling from down the hall. Only once they’d heard eight or ten dustpan fulls of rubbish rattle into the bin and the washing machine click on for the second time did Alfred return to the kitchen, not a hair out of place or a bead of sweat in sight.

“Oh, that’s perfect! Thanks, Zee,” he said upon seeing the pastry disks rolled out on the counter. Though Zee had rolled them out some time ago, they remained cold and malleable thanks to how cold the house remained.

“Are they big enough for what you wanted?”

“Yeah, they’re great, thanks.” Alfred rifled through the pile of tote bags and carried a large bundle of fruit to the counter, gathering up bowls, cutting boards, and knives before dumping it all on his workspace before raiding Matt’s spice cabinet.

“What is it you’re making, anyway?”

“Pie!” Alfred said cheerily, untying a canvas sack and carefully corralling the colorful pile of apples that rolled out. “Apple pie. It’s his favorite.” Jack frowned. To that exact moment, Jack hadn’t ever known Matt to have favored pie any more than the next man, certainly not enough to classify it as his favorite.

“Really?” He asked aloud.

“Yeah,” Alfred told him, “I used to make it all the time for him when he was—oh, speak of the devil, look who’s rejoined society.” Jack and Zee turned to see Matt standing in the kitchen doorway, bundled up in slippers, fleece PJs, a bathrobe, with a towel wrapped still around his hair. With a squinted expression, no hint of a smile, and bags under his eyes, Matt’s presence made Jack lean away, ever so slightly.

“Feel any better, kiddo?” Alfred asked, slicing apples. Zee shot a look at Jack.

Kiddo? She mouthed, eyes wide and flicking to Matt to see how their brother would respond to the moniker. Jack shrugged, just as confused as she was. He watched the scene surreptitiously while helping another dinner roll onto his plate.

To the Anzac’s shock, Matt didn’t respond to Alfred’s comment at all, and his sheepskin slippers hissed across the hardwood as he shuffled over to where Alfred was calmly moving handfuls of thin apple slices into a large glass mixing bowl. The American didn’t look up as Matt came to loom over his shoulder, watching the process in silence. Though Matt was a few centimeters taller than Alfred—especially with a towel piled atop his head—he was hunched over and curled in on himself enough that when he chose to lean forward onto his brother, his mouth and nose fell onto the back of Alfred’s right shoulder. The American glanced at his brother briefly before returning attention to his work.

“You smell nice,” he said quietly, and though Zee could hear it clearly she suddenly felt as though she were eavesdropping. “Feel better?”

“Mmph,” Matt mumbled into Alfred’s shoulder, eyes following the movement of his knife, the apples to the bowl.

“Sorry for dunking you. You don’t have to forgive me until later.” Matt let out an angrier grunt at that, but stayed where he was, standing close to his brother’s warmth and watching him slice apples with centuries-old experience.

“What kind?” He asked at length. Alfred finished with the last apple and pushed his cutting board aside and began mixing the slices in the bowl, blending the greens, browns, and reds all in amongst each other.

“Roxbury russet, Rhode Island greening, and,” He turned his head to look at Matt when he said, smiling softly, “some snow apples, too.” The Canadian’s eyes lit up for the first time in weeks.

“Tu as trouvé la Fameuse?”

“Well,” Alfred smirked, looking back at his work. “I took a cutting from your place back in the 50s. Wasn’t sure if you ever noticed. I’ve had these in my cellar since the fall.” Matt made a surprised noise, but otherwise did not reply. Alfred allowed him to lean against his shoulder for some time more as he sprinkled in spices, lemon, and butter shavings, but eventually shrugged his shoulder so it would shake Matthew off his back.

“Go eat something,” He said softly, elbowing in the vague direction of the table where Zee and Jack sat with their barbeque. “I brought you klobasnek.” Jack himself had no idea what a klobasnek was, but Matt’s interest seemed to be piqued, and without so much as a thank you he shuffled zombie-like away from Alfred towards the food. “It’s in a paper bag, left side of the cooler,” Alfred offered helpfully, and Matt grunted in acknowledgement as he dug.

Zee and Jack watched Matt scavenge for his mystery dinner with a measure of wariness. Having lived with a porcupine of a brother for the last several hours and days, it was jarring to see him standing upright and quiet and… docile. After some raccoonish digging in the aforementioned cooler, Matt emerged grasping what looked like a long doughy bun—klobasnek, Zee concluded—with sausage and cheese leaking out the end. He bit into it, sighed, and fell into a seat across the table from Zee. Beside him, Jack had paused mid-chew to make sure the Canadian posed no danger before returning to his brisket.

Matt sat there, holding his still-steaming Texas fare with both hands, elbows on the table, head bending to take bites like a bobbing bird in water, while Alfred continued with his peeling and coring of apples. After a while, the American began to whistle. Neither Jack nor Zee recognized the tune, but Matt’s robotic munching faltered and he let out a huff that a depressed person could have interpreted as a laugh.

Uneasy next to the unfamiliar doppelgänger of his usually mild-mannered brother, Jack inhaled the last of his food and stood, busying himself by clearing away dishes and repacking the remains of the food. Cleaned and fed or not, Matt was still emanating the murdery vibes of a trapped animal, and Jack had enough experience around dangerous animals to know better.

Zee stayed where she was, too fascinated with this version of Matt to look away.

“What’s in that, anyway?” She ventured, addressing Matt. Matt regarded his meal and continued to chew.

“Al?” He croaked around a mouthful.

“Mm?”

“What’s in this?”

“Kolache dough, sausage, cheese, Canadian-safe levels of jalapeños, and a century’s worth of Czech-American love,” the American said, popping an apple shard into his mouth. Matt looked up at Zee.

“That,” he said, looking like a bear who’d come out of hibernation early and wasn’t happy about it. Zee did not want to push her luck further by asking what kolache meant, so she quietly Googled it on her phone.

Just as Matt was down to the last few bites, a kettle began to whistle, and Alfred paused his pie making to pour the hot water into a large teapot and set an honest-to-god tea timer.

“I didn’t know you knew how to make tea,” Zee teased. Alfred shrugged his shoulders as he returned to his baking.

“The only time I don’t know how to make tea is when Arthur’s in the room,” he replied, growing a roguish smirk, “It’s the weirdest thing, I always end up confusing the sugar with sea salt.”

In his strongest display of emotion since bathtime, Matthew rolled his eyes and said something exasperated and French under his breath. Alfred glanced over at him, hands still working the rolling pin without needing to look.

“Wow, Mattie, was that a facial expression?” Matt did not respond, but Alfred only chuckled and returned to his work.

Precisely three minutes and fifty seconds later, Alfred was hoisting his pie—which had to be taller than most all apple pies Zee had ever seen—into the oven. It was hard to judge how heavy the pie was since Zee had once seen Alfred Jones lift the front end of a lorry with one hand, but she squinted at it anyway, attempting to calculate the volume of the dish, the diameter of pastry she’d rolled out, wondering how much apple pie Alfred thought Matt would actually eat.

Zee’s mental math was interrupted when Jack returned to the table and took the open seat next to his sister, sliding a mug of tea her way. This left Alfred the seat next to Matt, but the American did not sit down. After taking a large gulp of (heavily sweetened) tea, he set down his mug and stood behind Matt, where he began to pick at the twisted towel atop his head until the Canadian’s mostly-dry curls fell out over his face. Matt did not react and sipped at his tea.

“Ne touchez pas à mes cheveux.,” Matt warned.

“I’m not gonna,” Alfred said, petulance but no real venom in his voice. “Now drink your tea, you fussy papist.” Zee almost choked on her tea, but Matt only mumbled indistinctly into his tea and endured his brother’s careful attention.

Jack and Zee fell into the contented, quiet trance of a commonwealth citizen at their tea. It took a while for Zee to notice that Matt, more than being catatonic from depression and placated with tea, was actually nodding off as Alfred gently tugged at his curls, pulling at the knots that remained and carefully parting his hair so it would dry in a comfortable pattern.

“Ne vous couchez pas tout de suite, votre couette n'a pas fini de sécher..” Alfred instructed. It’d been a while since Zee had heard Alfred speak anything but English, and his accent had a open, relaxed kind of swing to it that Matt’s did not.

“Mm,” Matt grunted, eyes now fully closed, hands cupping his tea for its last dregs of warmth. “Vous parlez français comme un bébé élan qui se promène,” he said, which made Alfred grin.

“Aww, vous me trouvez adorable? Merci.” Matt sighed, which made Alfred smile wider. “Lorsque j'en aurai fini avec ça, vous devriez aller chercher votre chien, vous lui manquez.”

“Hmm,” Matt seemed content enough to stay where he was, body swaying ever so slightly to the gentle tugs and scratches on his scalp, “okay.”

At length, once Matt had finished his tea and Alfred had sufficiently teased out Matt’s hair to dry, the American stepped away and gave his brother a light pat on the arm. Matt sighed and, with a concerted effort, stood to his feet and allowed Alfred to shepherd him to the living room, where he collapsed onto the long sofa there. Buddy immediately jumped up on him, knocking him back and winding him, which made Alfred laugh.

“Hi, bud,” Matt grumbled, and allowed the dog to sprawl out on top of him, inching up on his chest until he could lick the man’s face. Matt scratched behind his ears while Alfred teased the fire back up to a roaring flame.

Jack and Zee spied on the scene from the doorway, neither noticing the other’s presence until Alfred spotted them and they nearly bumped heads when they jumped.

“Oh, stop hovering,” Alfred said quietly, shooing his younger siblings away from the doorway as he went back through to the kitchen and closed the door behind. “Honestly, it’s not like he’s going to bite."

“Maybe not you,” Jack grumbled under his breath, and Zee would’ve smacked him except that he was right. Alfred didn’t appear to hear, and was instead looking through the glass of the oven and mumbling to himself. He tapped something into his smartwatch and looked back up at his Anzac companions. He gave a quick but emphatic sigh, and quietly clapped his hands together.

“Alright, he’s bound to fall asleep any minute, Buddy’ll keep him occupied for the next couple of hours. In the meantime, Zee, I need you to make up his bed—oh, and be sure to close the windows and turn the space heater back on, I was letting it air out. Jack, I need you to start washing up the kitchen and start clearing out the fridge. I’ll clean the bathroom and get more firewood. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” said Zee. When Jack said nothing, the kiwi smacked him in the side. “Oi, mate,”

“Hmm?” Jack shook himself, having been too preoccupied by how Alfred’s focused, frowning expression looked so exactly like Arthur that he forgot to listen to whatever the man had said. “Sorry, what?”

“Dumb cunt,” Zee scoffed, which earned her an affronted look from Alfred. She ignored him and grabbed a towel off the counter, slapping it on Jack’s chest. “Dishes, fridge, now.”

“Oh, sure,” Jack caught the towel and looked around the kitchen, as if seeing it for the first time. Alfred

“Thanks, guys, seriously, you’ve been a huge help,” Alfred said, gathering a few cleaning supplies before retreating to the bathroom.

“We’re being a big help,” Jack chuckled as he gathered dirty dishes to the sink, “I feel like a toddler trying to help out with the baking,” he turned on the water and watched suds begin to churn in the saucepan, still encrusted with old kraft dinner, “being told jolly good for getting flour all over the floor.”

“I’m not going to complain,” Zee muttered from the nearby laundry room, hauling Matt’s copious amount of bedding out of the dryer and piling them together.

“I won’t either, but fuck, mate, has he sat down since he got here?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He’s not even been here 4 hours, and he’s got the entire house cleaned up. It’s like he’s done this before.”

“Something tells me he has,” Zee stepped out of the laundry room, unable to see above the mountain range of bedding in her arms.

“I mean, if Matt got like this often enough to give the Yankee practice, then surely we would’ve seen him like this at least once before, right?” He looked over his shoulder at his sister as she shuffled her way to the hall, trying not to bump into anything.

“I dunno,” she said distractedly, “depends on how long Al’s been practicing. I forget how old those cunts are, sometimes.” Jack did too, but didn’t want to admit the fact that he had no clue how old Alfred was, and didn’t realize he’d forgotten until that exact moment. He struggled to dredge up the Arthur’s Boring History Lessons Slash Rants portion of his memory. Alfred had always featured heavily in those.

“Ya know,” Jack mused instead, hands soapy as he squinted at nothing, “I don’t think I can picture Matt as a baby.”

“And sometimes, I can’t picture you as an adult,”

“Hey.”

-----------------------

Alfred finished with the bathroom in short order, and took no break before re-donning his coat and his boots to slip out the back door to gather more firewood before the mid-afternoon sunset. Matt seemed to have had burned through most of the stockpile near his house, so Alfred took the toboggan leaned up by the door and dragged it out to the firewood shed that stood a safe distance from the house.

“Jesus, Mattie, why do you keep it all the way out here,” Alfred grumbled, although he knew the answer, because he’d been there when a lightning bolt and a shed full of timber had nearly set Matt’s house ablaze. “My ankles are wet,” he complained anyway. “Can’t believe a blizzard knocked you out, for real. I mean, seriously, dude, it’s not like you get them every two sec….onds.” Alfred stopped as he rounded the corner of the shed. “Oh. Oh. Oh, Mattie.”

-----------------------

Zee was leaning across Matt’s bed to finish fluffing up Matt’s pillows—and Jesus Christ did this man owned a lot of pillows—when a tapping on the window startled her so badly she faceplanted directly into the pillows. She marched over and yanked the curtain aside, revealing Alfred Jones cupping his face to the fogging glass.

“What?” she griped, annoyed at him for giving her such a start. With a gloved hand, he pointed sideways, towards where she knew the rear door to the house was. He made an additional “come on” gesture, and she waved him away before meeting him at the backdoor.

“Hey, sorry,” he said as soon as she slid open the door. He was soaked from the knee down and was hauling a toboggan impossibly laden with firewood to the doorstep. “I don’t wanna track mud everywhere. Would you mind bringing some of this inside? I gotta go back out.”

“For what?” Zee asked, eyeing the tower of firewood that was sure to last them a day and a half, at least.

“Gotta chop up some more wood,” he said, already trudging back through the path he’d plowed to the shed.

“Alfred, I’m pretty sure we have enough for—”

“Thanks, Kiwi!”

---------

Jack had a strong stomach, so he was completely unfazed by the menagerie of molds that awaited him inside of Matt’s fridge. Even when he had to dispose of the half-full pitcher of clumpy, curdled milk, he remained unaffected by the neglected fridge and its contents.

The oven and its contents, on the other hand, was a different story. Jack inhaled deeply through his nose, and could not help but give a guttural groan as his head filled with baking apples and spices.

“I swear to god, if he doesn’t let me eat it as soon as it's out I’m gonna get crook.”

“It’s for Matt,” Zee reminded him, even though she was stationed at the oven staring intently through the window, mouth watering involuntarily. “Besides, the filling’s bubbling,” Jack moaned with longing, “you’d burn your face off.” Jack dumped another bag of spoiled food into the bin, and on his way back to the fridge paused at Zee’s side to press his face in close and stare at the bubbling apple pie with her. Mesmerized, he lingered.

“He’d better fucking give me the recipe to this,” Zee muttered. As if on cue, the back door opened and shut with a slam.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” Alfred was chanting, fumbling to get out of his boots and and dripping snow pants, “shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” he continued as he darted into the kitchen, tossing his gloves aside and sideswiping the kitchen island as he sock-surfed his way toward the oven, scooping up the oven mits on the way. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” Jack and Zee parted like the Red Sea so that Alfred could yank open the oven. It was at this point Zee realized that in the background of Alfred’s four letter incantation, a frantic alarm bell echoed from his smartwatch. The American heaved out the pie with an ease only Alfred Jones could manage, and slid it onto the trivets waiting on the counter. Once the oven was closed and turned off, the silence that followed allowed them to hear the bubbling pie filling. After a satisfied sniff and sigh, Alfred retrieved a butterknife from the drawer and ran it gently over the crest of the pie. It audibly scraped across the pastry, and Jack could feel the saliva filling his mouth.

As if sensing the younger nations’ attention, Alfred took off his oven mitts and fixed them both with a firm look, pointing his finger at them.“Do,” he said to Zee, “not,” to Jack, “eat,” back to Zee,” “This,” Jack again. He stayed on Jack, jabbing his finger for emphasis.

“Oi,” Jack frowned at him, smacking the hand away. “I wasn’t thinking about it,”

“Yes you were,” Zee accused.

“Which is why I’m telling you now, don’t. Zee,” Alfred said.

“Aye?

“Don’t let him eat it.”

“Aye.”

“Hey.”

“Right, I’m going back out for a bit longer. Text me if he wakes up.”

“Back outside?” Zee asked, glancing at the window. “Mate, it’s nearly dark.”

“It’s fine, I have a headlamp,” Alfred waved her off, retrieving his gloves and stepping back into his snow pants.

“For what?”

“Choppin’ wood, like I said. Later,” The door shut behind him. Zee looked back at Jack, who shrugged. They both ended up looking at the pie that lay between them, contemplative. After a few seconds, the door opened again and Alfred stuck his head through. “Don’t,” he said, and the Anzacs jerked up their eyes, suddenly needing to be elsewhere.

-------------

Matt ended up sleeping far longer than just a few hours, well past sunset and into the actual evening. Zee eventually curled up in the sitting room nearby the back door and began to read the books he’d left out—the English ones, anyway. Jack was cuddled up beside her in a blanket and drooling on her shoulder when Alfred finally came back inside. Zee looked up and watched him set what looked like a chunk of wood by the door so he could take off his wet gear.

“What’s that?” She asked.

“Eh, just a scrap, though I’d carve something,” he said, sounding out of breath. Water dripped from his hair onto the floor, and Zee realized he was soaked head to toe. What the hell had he been doing? “Matt up yet?” he asked.

“No, still snoozing.”

“Alright,” Alfred didn’t seem surprised. “I’m going to shower, if he’s up before I’m done, get him a slice of pie, would you?”

He was not up before Alfred was done, and so Zee stayed put and Jack slept on. Before too long Alfred returned clean, dry and wearing a set of thick sweats under a flannel. Zee would’ve assumed he’d nicked them from Matt’s closet, but both the sweatshirt and the joggers had faded NASA logos on them, so he must’ve had the forethought to pack a bag. He sank gratefully into an armchair, letting out a delighted noise when he realized it rocked. When he produced the scrap of wood and a pocket knife from his kangaroo pouch, Zee lowered her book.

“Firewood’s a little dry to carve, isn’t it?”

“Oh, no, this stuff is fresh. Just carved up the tree.”

“Is that what you were doing? A whole tree?”

“Well, I didn’t want it to sit out in the snow and start to rot,” Alfred said, knife schick-ing into the wood with a satisfying sound. “It must’ve fallen down in the storm, that’s why Matt’s so down right now.”

“Over a tree?” Zee asked, glancing down at Jack’s sleeping face and jostling her shoulder until he fell into a more comfortable spot.

“Well, to be fair, it wasn’t just any tree, it was his oldest maple on the property. Hell, even I’m a little torn up about it. I remember helping him plant that thing, back in the day.”

“Shit, mate. How old was it?”

“Oh, gosh,” schick, schick, “I can’t remember the exact year. Maybe… ‘67? 68? So that’s what, two hundred fifty years, give or take? Alfred focused on his project, blowing away maple curls. Zee could smell the sweet wood from her seat, and it mixed wonderfully with the lingering smell of the pie. “He was still pretty small, couldn’t really lift heavy things, so I helped him carry the sapling over,” Alfred recalled, and a smile tugged at his face. “He was a cute kid, you know.”

Zee had done the math quickly in her head and was somewhat surprised to realize Alfred was talking about the years just after Matt would’ve come under Arthur’s guardianship, before Alfred’s revolution. Matt never really talked about those years, at least not to Zee.

“Really?” She smiled, and couldn’t help but glance down at Jack.

“Oh yeah, totally. The village ladies couldn’t get enough of him, when he was small. Chubby cheeks, perfect blond curls, a pout that could end wars. He was standoffish for most people but he liked following me everywhere. There used to be some stables out where the firewood shed is now, you know. I’d take him out on the pony to tap wild maple, before he was big enough to ride by himself.”

The image entranced Zee, but she struggled to imagine it. She knew from Arthur’s anecdotes that Alfred had only been a teenager during his Revolution, so she supposed he must’ve been something like a tween when Matt was a new child of the Empire—and she also knew from Arthur that Matt had been little more than a toddler at that time.

“Did you get the sapling from the woods?”

“No, he insisted on growing it from a seed,” Alfred focused on his carving. “Lost several sprouts until I convinced him to seed it indoors so the moose wouldn’t get it. When it worked, I convinced him it’d been his idea.” Alfred smiled, turning the wood in his hand and trimming off the edges shard by shard. “He was so proud of that thing. It took me a while to learn that it’d survived to maturity, actually, cause it was still pretty small when I…” Alfred faltered, pausing between swipes of his knife. “Anyway,” he said, “it’s no wonder he’s upset. That tree meant a lot to him.”

“I can imagine.” Zee looked back to her book, but didn’t see the words on the page. She couldn’t get a thought out of her head, so eventually she shared:

“You know, Al, I forget sometimes you’re the oldest of us.” Alfred let out a laugh.

“I’m assuming this happens in the same way I forget you’re not older than Jack,” he eyed the sleeping Aussie. “Don’t think I don’t know how it works, I know everyone sees Matt as the mature, responsible one.”

“I mean,” the kiwi scoffed, “can you blame us?”

“Hey, I can be responsible sometimes. And sometimes Matt’s the one who needs a rational adult around, although no one ever believes me when I say that.” Alfred huffed. “But no, I can’t blame you.” Schick, schick.

“Well, he does now, but I’ve sure never seen him like this before.”

“He can hide it pretty well.”

“If he has you to help clean him up like this every time, I can see how.” That made Alfred smile.

“What are brothers for?” He shrugged.

They both looked up when the sound of a creaking door broke the stillness of the evening, followed by the click-clack of unclipped dog claws on the floor.

“Bonjour, marmotte,” Alfred called across the house. “Did you finally smell the pie?”

“Mmrf-hmm? Pie?” Jack was suddenly awake, blinking away sleep. Zee snorted. “There’s pie?” Alfred set aside his craft and hopped up from his seat.

“Man after my own stomach,” he said. “Come on, maybe he’ll let us have some.”

Alfred took time to whip cream for his pie, but Matt did not wait, digging into his slice as soon as it was out of the dish. Still, the slice was so large that by the time the whipped cream was available, there was still a full sized slice to catch the dollop that Alfred plopped on Matt’s plate without prompting. Jack took an equally large slice and stuck his tongue out when Zee gave him a dirty look for it. She took this as permission to get a large as well, though hers was pointedly smaller than her brother’s and she let him know it.

They ended up in the living room with Schitt’s Creek playing quietly above the mantle, the last logs of the fire cracking and crumbling into embers. The pie was thick enough that the middle was still satisfyingly hot, helping to melt the cream into the filling and create the perfectly tart, creamy bite of sweetness. Alfred finished first and immediately resumed his woodcarving project. The rest soon followed. Full and growing drowsy, Matt moved to sit next to his older brother and lean a cheek against his arm so he could watch Alfred work. Alfred leaned his head over to kiss the top of his little brother’s head. Jack was dozing off again, and Zee was too, mesmerized by the light of the embers.

Matt fell asleep first, but Alfred could see that Jack wouldn’t be far behind.

“Hey,” he whispered to Zee, “why don’t you two turn in for the night? You’ve had a long day.”

“Mmmhmm,” Zee hummed back, “says sir “I chopped up a whole tree today”.” She began to heave herself up anyway. “Do you want help getting him to bed?” She indicated Matt.

“Nah, I got it. Get some rest.”

“If you say so. Oi, Jackie, time for bed,” she kicked his foot.

“Mmmph?”

“Come on, you fat wombat.”

Alfred muted the TV and continued carving in silence, satisfied with the silence, the warmth of the fire, the soft breath of Matt sleeping beside him. At his feet, Buddy flopped over to expose his belly to the fire, and gave a great yawn. Alfred reached out a toe to scratch the dog’s back.

“Me too, bud.”

Alfred didn’t realize that Matt had woken back up until he was dusting off his completed carving and moving the curls into a neat pile.

“That’s maple, isn’t it,” the Canadian said, and Alfred jumped, bucking Matt off his shoulder.

“Jesus Christ, I’m still holding a knife,”

“Sorry,” Matt said groggily, “I figured you knew I was awake.”

“No, didn’t—for how long?”

“Not long,” Matt yawned. The American tried not to laugh when he saw the creases his hoodie had made on Matt’s cheek. “What is it?” He eyed Alfred’s carving. Alfred looked down at it.

“Oh, not much, I just…” he glanced at his brother. “I saw the tree,” he said gently. “I’m really sorry, Mattie.” He handed Matt his small creation. It was a very roughly carved wooden cup or bowl, a little smaller than Matt’s hand, with a smooth exterior and a far rougher interior and, unexpectedly, a hole whittled into the bottom of it.

“Well it’s not going to hold much wine,” Matt mused.

“It’s not for drinking,” Alfred corrected him with an eyeroll, “it’s a flower pot. I just… I figured… you know, if you ever want to plant a new seed out there, you can start it off here, kinda, keep things going, you know? Connected.” Matt suddenly had a lump in his throat as he turned the gift over in his hands. It didn’t look quite as rough now that his eyes were watery. “Or, I dunno,” Alfred was looking at it too, but with a critic’s eye. “It might be too small for that.”

“No,” Matt said, “It’s great. Thank you, Al,” he leaned into his brother’s side.

“I sectioned up the rest and put it in your shed so she doesn’t start rotting when the snow melts.” At Matt’s slightly panicked expression, Al added, “don’t worry, I didn’t chop anything up too small. Well, except—the trunk was huge, you know, so I had to section it up. I hope you don’t mind, I sliced off a portion already, uh, a pretty big one, I was going to dig out those woodworking tools I gave you that I know you haven’t used, while the wood’s still wet, start making you a new front door. I mean, no offense bud but your house needs it, the one you have is cracked to hell and isn’t even hanging lev-” The last syllable was forced from Alfred’s lungs when Matt wrapped his arms around Alfred’s middle and squeezed. Alfred laughed and fell back under his brother’s weight.

“Is that okay?” Alfred chuckled, patting Matt’s back as the younger man dug his face into his shoulder.

“Yes,” Matt replied, and the unexpected waver in the word surprised Alfred.

“Aw, kiddo, it’s okay,” he wrapped his arms around Matt’s broad and bony shoulders, ignoring it when Matt sniffed against Al’s flannel. He rubbed Matt’s back for a while and let the Canadian quietly emote. Eventually, he said, “I didn’t know it meant that much to you.”

“Of course it did,” Matt turned his face out of Alfred’s shirt so he could speak, now nasally. “That was the first tree I planted on purpose. And it was one of the last times you were up here with me, before your stupid—” Matt caught himself before finishing. He huffed and hugged Alfred tighter to himself.

“Yeah,” Alfred said quietly, guiltily. It took him a long while to figure out what to say. “I remember. I’m sorry, Mattie.” After giving Matt a moment to respond and receiving no reaction, he craned his neck down and kissed Matt’s head. “It was a really good tree, to have lasted this long.” Matt remained silent for a long time, staring at the fire. Alfred was not sure if he was being quiet because he was sad, or because he was keeping himself from starting an argument about Alfred’s Revolution, which would perhaps always be the most tender wound between them. Either way, Alfred realized he was likely going to be pinned in place for quite some time, so he reclined against some pillows and Matt followed, clung to him like a baby koala.

It was Alfred’s turn to grow sleepy, Matt’s warmth on his front, the TV light dancing in unfocused patterns, last embers tinkling and crackling like seaglass on the tide.

“I have a proper greenhouse this time,” Matt said suddenly, sounding sleepy. “So it’ll have a better chance. Will you come back when it’s big enough to plant?”

“Hmm,” Alfred let his eyes fall shut, “you still need help lifting saplings?” Matt poked him in the ribs and he laughed. “Sure I will. I gotta stick around long enough to make you that door, anyhow.” Matt hummed his agreement and the two drifted towards sleep together, Matt’s arms slowly loosening around Alfred as he relaxed. One of Alfred’s hands slipped off of Matt’s back and hung off the sofa, fingertips tickled by Buddy’s fur.

Matt appeared to be asleep—or at least mostly so, when he shifted on his brother-turned pillow and muttered,

“Je t'aime,” which made Alfred’s heart swell. Squinting his eyes open, the American fetched the remote to turn off the TV and pulled a blanket off the top of the couch and onto his brother, tucking in the sides around them to make sure no part of the Canadian would grow cold as the fire died.

“You too, kiddo,” he whispered, bringing his arms back up to wrap around Matt before shuffling his upper half into a more comfortable spot and letting himself drift to sleep to this sound of his brother’s soft breathing.

#hws canada #hws america #hws new zealand #hws australia #matthew williams #alfred jones #alfred f. jones #hetalia #my fic #my writing #na bros #anzac sibs #canzacus crew

213 notes · View notes