Chapter Text
Alfred was really, really regretting agreeing to meet Francis.
He was currently sitting outside the local coffee shop he’d first seen the Frenchman at the other day, knee bouncing in vague anxiety. He had a bad history of eating around his family. Of eating around any of the other nations, really. That had been part of his journey to, being comfortable eating in front of other people.
It still felt weird sometimes, but he hadn’t had the urge to throw something up in almost four months, even when it made him feel heavy. That being said, he wanted to throw everything up right now, sitting in this fucking coffee shop. But things had gotten better, and he wasn’t going to relapse because some bitches waltzed into his life again. He couldn’t imagine going back to that airport Starbucks.
The whole thing felt oddly reminiscent of that day at the airport Starbucks, the day he had blindly left them all behind and had intended to never look back.
That felt like a long time ago. Too long, perhaps.
“Alfred.”
Talk of the devil, and he shall appear, Alfred supposed. Francis looked the same as he had left him; long, silvery-blond hair, blue almost purple eyes, same coat even. He looked exactly the same, other than those lines under his eyes that appeared every now and again and the slight downturn of his lips.
The American cursed himself for expecting anything different. Eight months were nothing to a nation.
“Francis.” The elder nations frown deepened at that, and Alfred really didn’t know why. There were so many things he wanted to do in that moment; turn away, curse, run into the elders arms, spit, cry, laugh. But he did none of that. Instead, he tilted his head, watching, cautious. “Hi. You sittin’?”
Francis looked down at him, an unrecognisable emotion in his eyes. Was it… guilt? Hesitation?
“Yes, I suppose I am,” The French nation murmured, taking the seat across from him.
Alfred waited for the other to stop shifting awkwardly, letting the silence hang for a minute or two. He didn’t quite know why; he just felt a bit petty. “So! How’ve you been as of late?”
“Mon- Alfred. Please. Let's not do this.”
Not that many sessions ago, Alfred’s therapist had told him that he had an “issue” with not recognizing his negative emotions until he had an opportunity to vocalise them.
“Do what? What’re we doing here, Francis? What are you doing here?” Alfred took a sip of his hot chocolate. It almost made him feel nauseous. “Here to drag me back? ‘Cause I’m doing just fine where I am, thanks so much for asking.”
“That's not fair, Alfred. We’re- I’m trying to help you. You know that. You’re struggling. We understand that now. Please let us help you.”
Allegedly, this meant he “hid” behind pretending things were fine when there were “serious issues” occurring in his day-to-day life.
“‘Struggling’? I don’t think you would even know what that would look like for me. You sure didn’t before. But other people did. Humans did, Francis, humans who had known me two weeks could notice what was wrong with me before you did. What are you doing here, Francis?”
“I don’t know, because we’re worried? I- Alfred, why do you never admit anything? We know you’re struggling so just tell us what the problem is instead of- of-”
Personally, Alfred thought that this idea was hogwash and therefore did not apply to him as a nation personification. As many aspects of therapy did not, like medication and “recognizing emotional instability” (which he DID NOT HAVE, thank him very much!).
“Instead of what, Francis? Hmm? Instead of what?” The American snapped, crossing his arms and staring the elder straight in the face. He wasn’t scared of this bitch. The other’s features seemed to soften with… something. Francis exhaled, letting the tension sag from his shoulders and the defensive tone fall from his voice.
“I’m… sorry, mon fils. I am not used to not knowing things about you.”
“Yes, you are.” The words slip out before he can stop himself. Francis sucks in a harsh breath, and Alfred grits his teeth. So this is what his therapist meant. He looked away. “You probably didn’t even know I was missing until a couple of months ago.”
Francis seemed to fall… disturbingly silent, after that. Alfred couldn’t bring himself to look at the elder nation, the nation he’d considered his father all those years months ago.
“...How could you say that…? How… How could you even imagine that?” Francis sounded… he sounded like something Alfred hadn’t heard in a long time. “We have spent every day looking for you since that world meeting. Every day, Alfred. Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been-” Francis stopped abruptly, cutting himself off as he buried his face into his hands.
The elder seemed to sit there for what felt like minutes, just breathing. Finally, he looked up again, peering at Alfred from below.
“I am… sorry, mon fils,” Alfred bit his cheek at the endearment, “this is not what you need. Tell me, what do you want?”
…ah, this bastard. This was exactly the kind of opportunity his therapist told him to take and run with.
“What do I want?” Alfred parroted, feeling way out of his depth. How was he supposed to know? He wanted them to leave him alone, he supposed, but… he didn’t, really. Not without, an apology, maybe?
But any apology would just sound fake.
“Yes, Alfred. What do you want?”
“I- I want you to go the fuck away, is what I want!” The younger exclaimed, cursing himself internally. He was the one who’d invited Francis to talk in the first place. So why was it going so wrong? What did he even want out of this? “And- and I want you to not come back, and I never want to see your face again or hear your voice or listen to one more fucking comment about how much ‘bigger' I've gotten recently or any of your stupid jabs, I want you to go away!"
Francis sat there, still, and Alfred couldn’t look at his face. Didn’t want to know what he was thinking. “I spent months! Months getting better, and healing, and doing all the shit I was supposed to be doing, and I’ve been feeling great! Why did you have to come and fuck it all up? WHY?”
Alfred’s breath came deep and quick, but not frantic. Not panicked. “That’s what I want. I want to know why you’re here.”
There was silence after that. No yelling, no shouting, no talking, not even any whispered insults. Just his feelings of anger, confusion. Just Francis’ silence and shaking shoulders.
“Oh, Alfred,” Francis’ hand comes up to wipe the tears gathering beneath his eyes, “I am so sorry, mon fils. We are so sorry. How could you be feeling that…? Have our words hurt you so much? We did not mean- we never meant…” Francis trailed off again. “It does not matter what we meant, does it? Je suis désolé, I am sorry.”
Alfred could not bear to look at Francis’ face. He could not bear to see the tears he knew were in the Frenchman’s eyes. They sat in silence, breathing, focusing.
“You have been, what is the- anorexie? Or… I apologise. Please, tell me.”
Alfred discreetly (because it was discrete, fuck you-) wiped his nose on his sleeve and nodded, his voice cracking as he spoke. “Uhm, yeah I don’t… It’s not really anything, I guess. Just an eating disorder. Not anorexia or b- bulimia, just sort of, there. Think my therapist said it would be referred to as ARF-something-or-other,” he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, “not important, really.”
“Mmm.” Francis’ voice sounded crackly, like he had something stuck in his throat. “I did not- that is why you took so many breaks during meetings…? I thought the hurricanes were making you sick. I should’ve-” The elder nation’s hands tapped absentmindedly on the table. “I did not notice. I am sorry.”
“Y’ve been apologising a lot.” Alfred noted, feeling vaguely like he wanted to bash his head in. “Stop it. I’m tired of people apologising to me.” Was he? He didn’t really know anymore.
He missed Francis. And Arthur. And his brother.
“Right.” The Frenchman whispered. “You are- yes. I- yes.”
The American looked away, rubbing his forearm lightly.
“Alfred… we cannot- cannot ask for your forgiveness. There is… nothing, that I can say that will make this better. I know there is not.” He took a shaky breath. “But I have not been there for you. I did not notice when you needed me, my help, and I am s-” Francis stopped himself, “I regret it. I cannot speak for Arthur, or your brother, but I failed you, mon fils. I failed you in a way I promised I never, ever would. Please, je t'en supplie, let me make it right. Tell me how to help you, Alfred, please.”
Alfred paused, going over Francis’ bid in his head. His hands felt shaky, his face slightly wet from the few tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He nodded once, shakily, and then twice.
“O- okay.” He nodded again, mainly to himself. He wasn’t sure if this is what he needed. He wasn’t even sure what exactly he was agreeing to. But he did know that he missed Francis. He missed one of the men he had considered his fathers. He missed his family. “Okay.”
With those words, all of the tension seemed to leave the French nation's body, his shoulders slumping, his posture loosening until he was leaned over the table, his face pressed into and supported by the steeple of his fingers, tears rolling freely down his cheeks.
“Que ce soit un jour glorieux, thank you, mon fils. Je vous aime, thank you. You will not regret this. You will never regret this. I promise you, I will not fail you again, my son. Sur dieu, I swear it.”
—
It had been almost three days since Francis had seen Alfred at the coffee shop for the first time, and just under 48 hours since they’d sat down and talked.
After the emotional (though Francis was sure Alfred would refuse to describe it that way) confrontation they’d had, and the perhaps permanent redefining of their relationship, they had simply talked. About everything, anything. Francis was both excited and deeply ashamed to admit that he learnt far more about Alfred than he had known before. Simple things, truly; his work schedule. Who he was close to. Who his friends were, new and old.
Despite all the mixed emotions, Francis could tell that the eight months had done Alfred simple wonders. He smiled brighter than when he left. Not as frequently, but that’s how he knew Alfred was being genuine.
It reminded Francis of how he’d used to laugh at Alfred’s smiles when the boy was just a colony. Arthur would, reluctantly, bring him over to see Matthew, and the two would smile and play. Truly carefree, as Francis had always wanted them to be. When Matthew would giggle, Alfred would full-on laugh, bright and consuming like the land he came from.
Francis had asked the American to talk to Matthew at the end of their discussion at the coffee shop. Even he hadn’t known if it had been the best idea. He didn’t know if Matthew would make things worse; Francis adored the Canadian, always would, but he took on a similar temperament to his weather whenever he was so upset or angry. Cold. Biting. He had control over his reactions, yes, but…
But Francis didn’t know how far that control stretched. He didn’t know if Matthew wanted to have that control around Alfred or not. He… hadn’t asked.
Perhaps his inattentiveness was one of the reasons Alfred had slipped so thoroughly through his fingers, why the blond had broken his bonds with them and why they could never be fixed. Not in the same way. And perhaps Matthew was more than on his way to doing the same, to running off, to staying in Asterton with his brother or running off to some part of Canada and staying far, far away.
Francis wouldn’t blame him if he did such a thing, but he could not handle that. Truly could not handle that.
He wasn’t sure Matthew could either.
—
When Matthew heard a soft knock at his door, he knew it was Arthur again, probably coming back around with the same half-hearted plea for a ceasefire only egged on by Francis. He only lasted a minute of response before they were yelling again, and Francis had to come around again and separate them and they’d get another noise complaint.
He wasn’t even willing to give the man the time of day right now, much less an apology.
He threw open the door, ready to cuss Arthur out again, when-
Oh.
Not Arthur.
Matthew’s brother stood outside his door at ten in the evening, eyes wide and round, face a mirror of his own. Skin tanner, hair blonder, eight months different and yet still the same.
The two had always had similar knocks, both softer than any other nations but rapping, demanding attention in different ways. Alfred wanted bright attention, his knock was barely contained nervousness or energy. Arthur’s demand for attention was, more often than not, angry or irritated. Matthew used to be able to hear the difference between his brother's knock and his father’s as immediately and easily as breathing. But this was very decidedly not Arthur.
When had he forgotten how his brother's knock sounded? When had Alfred become so unfamiliar to him? What else had Matthew forgotten, or worse, never learned in the first place?
For almost two minutes, neither North American nation moved. They both stood there, standing, facing each other. Matthews eyes hungrily swept in every detail of the twin standing before him. His jacket was brighter than it was in the airport Starbucks that day, the patches cleaner, prouder. His hands didn’t look picked at at all, and he looked… good. Like he’d eaten recently.
Alfred finally stepped forward, and Matthew moved out of the way, letting his twin into his hotel room. Alfred walked six paces into the room, spinning around, not meeting Matthew’s eyes. He looked like he was trying to figure out what to say.
His breathing was even but fast, his fingers steepled together in front of him. Matthew stepped forwards softly. He felt almost afraid, like Alfred would run off at any second.
But Alfred didn’t run. He simply looked off to the left, blinking almost awkwardly, nervously.
Suddenly, all Matthew could see was Alfred two years ago at the Jährlicher nationaler Weltkongress in Germany. Arthur had been saying something to him during lunch, Matthew now feared it had been something about his weight. It was the first time in a while Matthew had noticed that Alfred looked… sad. Not upset, not angry, not his puffing out cheeks sad he got during meetings when people wouldn’t listen to his presentations. Truly, despondently sad.
He had looked just like this, eyes drifting off to the left, rubbing his fingers against themselves anxiously, visibly biting the inside of his cheek. Matthew cursed himself for not realising that his brother had been thin, maybe too thin, back then. He could have stopped all of this before Alfred felt the need to escape himself.
There were tears in Matthew's eyes, and he could not stop himself now from flinging his arms around Alfreds shoulders. The American stiffened beneath his arms, and Matthew could hear a sharp intake of breath. But Matthew didn’t care, because his brother had tears in his eyes too, and soon the two were kneeling on the floor together, pressed into each other, crying their eyes out.
No words were exchanged between the two as they cried, Alfred's low sobs eventually tapering off into sniffs and tired sighs. Matthew took longer to stop crying. His brother had been undeniably suffering under his nose and he had been mourning for eight months.
He never wanted to let Alfred go ever again.
So the two sat on the floor, hiccups and sobs be damned, until the sun rose.