#writing.kat

I: Peterhof

There are about one hundred things that Alfred Kirkland doesn’t like about being on a boat. First and foremost, if Alfred is on a boat, it usually means he’s going to Europe. The only good thing about Europe is that usually, that’s where his father is, and Alfred quite likes his father. Most of the time. If Alfred happens not to be happy with his dad at any given moment, Europe has no redeeming qualities.

Arthur Kirkland is not currently on Alfred’s shit list, so that’s fine. For now.

Alfred generally doesn’t like to be stuck in one place for a long time, which is another thing he doesn’t like about being on a ship. Living all the way across the Earth, Alfred’s sailing trips usually take months. Being on a boat is a terrible waste of time in his opinion. He could be doing anything else, but he can’t. Because he’s on a boat.

Boats also usually have terrible company, especially when his father is not present. Arthur isn’t always there with him, and Alfred has been ferried across the ocean alone countless times. Arthur will sometimes send a servant to come fetch him if Alfred ever needs to be in England for any reason, and then he’s sometimes sent back to North America alone. He usually lives in North America, as Dad says that is where he belongs, but Alfred will sometimes stay in England for extended periods. Usually, these periods end when another war breaks out. That’s another terrible thing about Europe. They love to fight.

Anyway, Alfred’s father is England himself—the representative of Great Britain—so he’s a pretty important man. This is great for Alfred whenever Arthur is actually on the boat with him, because that means he gets treated quite well. He’s treated like the son of a Lord, because he is one. If Alfred is alone, not only is the company terrible and not very intellectual, but they also make him do labor. Alfred isn’t a fan of labor. He’s the son of a Lord—he’s got soft hands.

This time, his dad is with him, so that’s not a problem. The length of the journey isn’t too terrible, either, because they are traveling from England up through the North Sea, between Denmark and Sweden, and then through the Baltic Sea. Alfred had been sent for once again and, luckily for him, he got a month of rest before he and his father started on their trip to Russia.

Usually, a trip on the sea is deadly boring. Alfred never gets to go anywhere but England, but this time it is different. All in all, maybe this trip isn’t so bad compared to all of the other times he’s been forced across the pond.

He won’t pretend to understand European politics, because all the Nations of Europe—his father included—have something wrong with their brains that makes them act the way that they do. They’ll ally up and then betray each other in an instant. They love each other, they hate each other. There is currently a war in Europe—some mess to do with Austria—so Alfred is surprised to be here at all. Arthur usually likes to keep him away from conflicts, but that seems to be a moot point this year, as the whole thing has spilled over into North America for some Godforsaken reason. He doesn’t understand it. Just because all of Europe is trying to kill each other, and Alfred is British America, doesn’t mean he should have to fight with New France. It’s especially awful because New France is his brother.

They both know that they don’t mean it, though, so it’s not so bad. Their fathers are just fighting again because that’s the only thing they know how to do. Alfred just wishes that they would keep their business contained in Europe, because when the British Americans get involved, Alfred gets involved. They’re fighting up in Acadia at the moment, and Alfred’s got a near constant ache in one of his temples from it. On top of that, their already terrible economy has only gotten worse from the conflict, so he’s been coughing up phlegm for what’s felt like months. He really can’t remember the last time he didn’t feel under the weather. He’s been sick for a very long time, but all this unpleasant hacking is a new development that has left his voice sounding terrible, so he often speaks softly these days.

Alfred hates to be sick.

Anyway, Britain is allied with Austria in this war because Austria is fighting with Prussia, France is helping Prussia, and Britain always has to be on the opposite side as France no matter what. Alfred doesn’t really understand why he should care who gets the Austrian throne, as he lives in North America, and none of that has anything to do with him. Why they’re going to Russia also has little to do with it, but Russia is technically on the Austrian side of this conflict as well, which means that they are friends for the moment. Alfred has never met Russia, or any Nations other than his brother, father, and France, but that’s all changing today.

Father had been invited to Saint Petersburg because Russia wants to talk about setting up some colonists in North America. Now, Russia is talking about the western side of North America, which cartographers have done a very poor job of capturing. British America has nothing to do with anything that goes on over there, and neither does New France. Alfred didn’t understand at first why Britain was being asked permission to do this when they don’t have a dog in that fight, but Arthur had said that it was because Russia was trying to be polite. And they’re allies. And the only others in North America are France and Spain. Spain is also on Prussia and France’s side, so they don’t like him, either.

So, should Russia set up in North America, it would be the Kirklands and Russia against France and Spain. That’s why the invitation had been sent. Alfred was brought along because his father decided that he should finally be taught about diplomacy, and what it means to be a Nation. Alfred’s just excited to meet a Nation he isn’t related to.

Not that he’s related to France, but that’s his brother’s father, so it’s kind of like France is his father as well. Especially because of the gossip Matthew (New France) has been giving him about France and Alfred’s dad. Except, it’s not really gossip because Matthew had gotten the information straight from France, usually when he’s wine-drunk. Which happens often.

Alfred’s just happy to meet a new friend, and he hopes that they’ll be allies for far longer than these things usually last in Europe. He asked Matthew if he knew anything about Russia (because Alfred’s father is much more tight-lipped about these things than France is), and he said that France told him that Russia is weird, but handsome. Alfred likes those qualities in a person. He’s a bit weird (an innate quality of North America, he thinks) and he’s definitely handsome, so they should get along.

They arrive in Saint Petersburg on November 22nd, and they’ll be leaving on the 29th. That’s just over a week in Russia, which Alfred is very excited about, and then he’ll return to England to spend Christmas with his dad. After the new year, he imagines he’ll be sent back to North America. If not for the war in Europe, his father would probably be coming back with him. But now there is fighting on their little island as well, for more reasons that are mostly beyond Alfred. Well, not really, but he doesn’t like thinking too hard about it. What are bore it all is.

There’s trouble in England. When Alfred arrived there, he stepped into the middle of a brewing tension which seemed to unwind the moment they left for Russia. The British army is busy fighting in Europe, so the Jacobites are currently attempting to restore the Stuart line to the throne. France and Scotland are in on it. Spain, too. Arthur is very irritable about it. Alfred doesn’t like the Jacobites because King James II (for whom the Jacobites were named) did some very unpopular things in New England before he was overthrown and exiled, so Alfred doesn’t want the Stuarts back in charge, either. His father doesn’t like them because they are Catholic.

So, England is unsafe, and Europe is unsafe, and British America is unsafe. Alfred’s really not sure what’s going to happen with him when they leave Russia.

After landing, they’re escorted to a carriage which will take them to a place called Petergof. Petergof is home to a palace called Peterhof. Why it’s been named like that, Alfred has no idea. It’s just more European nonsense, but it’s fun. It is so exciting to see the architecture in Saint Petersburg as they ride through it, as it is completely unlike anything Alfred is used to both at home and in England. It’s all so overwhelming to him that he doesn’t say a single word to his father until they get out of the city, which he imagines the man is pleased about because he’s trying to read a report he’d been given the second he stepped off the ship. It’s about the Jacobite nonsense. A much faster ship must have forwarded it to Saint Petersburg for him to receive once he arrived.

It is only when they escape the city that Alfred starts on his many questions.

“What do you think of Russia?”

His father quirks a thick brow at him. They’re sitting across from each other in the carriage, and Alfred’s been forced into a red military uniform to match his father’s. He just doesn’t like tight clothing, but he’s expected to be proper on this trip. The only difference between his and his father’s uniforms (other than the high rank of his father) is that the cuffs of Alfred’s are a navy blue rather than cream. The blue is to symbolize British America, but the soldiers at home really are lucky if they are given anything as nice as this to die in. At least the wool is keeping him warm.

“He is…” Arthur trails off. “I don’t know. He’s still young. Relatively.”

“How young?” Alfred asks immediately, leaning in slightly. His breath catches in his throat the wrong way and it sends him into a little coughing fit—damn the war in British America sucking up what little money they had to begin with. His father waits until he’s finished to reply, by this point very used to Alfred’s current sickness.

“Lord, I don’t know. He’s a few hundred years older than you, I think, but you grew up quicker, so he might appear near your age. He could be my age, for all I know about these parts, but if so, his growth was stunted. Russia has always been behind the rest of Europe developmentally.”

That’s a very good thing, Alfred thinks. He doesn’t know many people his age.

Arthur asks, “Why do you care?”

Alfred shrugs, and watches light snow fall outside their window. “I just want to know what to be expecting. I don’t often get to meet new people. New people like us, i should say.”

“You’d better not cause me any trouble,” his father warns. “I’ll not bring you along to another one of these if you embarrass me. This isn’t a playdate—it’s politics.”

“Yes, I know,” Alfred nods. “Thank you for bringing me. I am excited to be part of it. Whatever it is.”

“He’s not particularly friendly, if that’s what you’re hoping,” Arthur says. “You’ll probably be bored.”

“He speaks English, right?” Alfred asks. “I’ve been reading that book of Russian phrases, of course, but I do hope he’ll be able to understand me.”

Arthur scoffs, “I don’t think he likes to, but he can.”

“Has he told you his name?” He dares to ask.

His father gives him a dry look, “No, why would he do that?”

It isn’t very proper for a Nation to refer to another by their human name unless they are family, or at least very close friends. Alfred doesn’t know why this is—a respect thing, he believes—and he honestly hates this rule, because none of his names are very good except his human one, in his opinion. They’re all a mouthful. Alfred is a nice name. It’s a very English name, as his dad had named him after the first king of the Anglo-Saxons.

He knows his father’s name, of course. And his brother’s. He knows France’s name through them, but he doesn’t use it, as he’s not been given the permission from the man himself.

“I don’t know,” Alfred shrugs. “I was just wondering.”

“Don’t go asking Nations for their names willy-nilly,” Arthur tells him. “That’s your first lesson—he’ll tell you if he wants to tell you, but I can’t imagine why he would.”

Alfred crosses his arms, frowning. “Maybe he’ll like me. I could charm him.”

“You know absolutely nothing about that man,” Arthur says, and then he turns his attention back to his report. “He’s aloof, so he’ll probably want to keep things that way.”

Whatever. Alfred is determined to use this week to it’s fullest potential. He’s going to make a new friend whether Russia likes it or not, and then he’ll have a new person to write letters to. North America is a lonely place, so even if it takes a year for a letter to arrive from Russia, it will be worth it. That’s one more person to grace Alfred’s mailslot, and that’ll make him all the happier. It’s not that Alfred is lonely. It’s just that British America is. That’s all. It’s a quality of the land.

He isn’t sure what to expect when they arrive in Petergof. He knows that they are going to a palace, but he’s got the image of English castles in his head when he hears that. You can imagine his astonishment when their carriage pulls up to a place that is downright French in style. He’s never been to France, so he doesn’t actually know, but Peterhof appears similar to some descriptions of French estates that he’s read about. There are acres of gardens sprawled out in front of the palace, littered with many marble fountains and statues. The ground is coated in snow, so he can only imagine what it would look like in the summer. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen before.

The palace is backed up against the gulf, and there appears to be even more gardens in the back. The building is all yellow, white, and gold. He wouldn’t say this aloud with with his father right next to him, but it is one of the most beautiful structures he’s ever seen in his life.

Alfred is forced into a quiet awe as they come to a stop. Arthur his quick to get out once the door is opened for him, and Alfred scrambles after him. The snow crunches under his boots as he escapes the carriage, and he takes in the sight of Peterhof Palace. It is completely alien to be here. Nothing in North America can compare.

Up on the porch (do you call it that when it is attached to a building this grand? British America is too poor for Alfred to know), a group a Russians descend upon them. Some immediately go to take their belongings off the carriage, and one young man approaches them. He’s got curly, dark hair peaking out from underneath a tall hat. He’s dressed much nicer than the peasants Alfred had seen on the streets in the city.

“Greetings, Great Britain and British America,” he says with a heavily accented voice. “I am Alexei—I will show you to your rooms.”

“Quite right, thank you,” Arthur says, and he starts to follow the man. Alfred falls in line behind him, still in a bit of a shock about the outside of this building. “It will be good to get some rest after our trip.”

Up the stairs and into the magnificent building, Alfred has his breath taken away once again. The only comparable thing is the throne room at Windsor Palace, but this is still leagues better. There are marble statures all about, and the reception hall seems almost completely gilded in gold. The ceilings are incredibly tall, and Alfred has hardly any time to look around before they head deeper into the palace. No single wall is blank, as every surface is adorned with large portraits of figures of Russian significance. Alfred cannot wait to wander around and stare at them when he has more time later.

As they head through the halls, he gets more and more excited about being here. It truly sets in that he is in a new place when he sees members of the house staff going about their day wearing traditional Russian fashion—something so normal here, and completely unlike what he is used to. Every detail is new and different to him.

At the end of a hall, Alexei stops in front of a large white door. All of the doors and trim are white—that’s how you know this place is made of money. He says to them, “We have suite for you. Two rooms.”

He unlocks the door and then passes a key to each of them. Inside reveals a sitting room with a fire already lit to warm it. This room is just as opulent as the rest of what he’s seen so far, and he can hardly believe that this is where they’ll be staying for the next eight days. There are three other doors in this room excluding the one they entered through. One on either side leads to bedrooms for each of them, and one in the center which belongs to the room for bathing.

“They are bringing your things,” Alexei says to them. “You will be retrieved for dinner this evening. Would you like something brought in meantime?”

“Oh, yes,” Arthur says, admiring the room around him. It seems even his father can find the beauty here. “Some tea would be wonderful.”

“Tea, yes,” Alexei nods, grinning. “I was told you like tea. We are prepared.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

Alexei disappears after that, off in search for tea and scones. Finally alone, Alfred says to Arthur, “I cannot believe this.”

“It is nice, yes,” Arthur says, immediately getting comfortable on one of the couches flanking the fireplace. “A bit like Versailles for my liking, but they’ve put their own spin on it.”

“Yes, I noticed the French influence,” Alfred says. He goes to sit next to his father and says, “Still, I hope that we have something like this one day in-”

And then he devolves into another fit, and nearly hacks up a lung in the process. As he tries to clear his airway of whatever has manifested there, his father sighs and rubs small circles on his back.

“You should rest before dinner,” he says. “You’re unwell, and all this travel has been taxing.”

“It’s not the travel,” Alfred says once he’s able to form words again between his coughing. “We’re rich in resources and poor in just about every other way, and there’s not enough gold and silver to go around-”

“I know,” Arthur hushes him. Alfred tries not to blame his father for British America’s financial troubles, but maybe if England actually helped them in some way rather than sending over more mouths to feed, something could be done. As it is, British America prints their own money because they haven’t been approved to mint their own British coins, and they often print too much for it to be worth anything. They barter what they have, but a lot of it is sent over to England to help with their economy.

Arthur says it will even out eventually. He’s always saying that, though, and Alfred is tired of being sick all the time. He really can't remember a time that he felt good.

Alfred coughs up something terrible and green into his handkerchief, and his father says, “There you are, Poppet. I know it’s the money, but all this movement can’t be helping you. Here, let’s get you to bed.”

Alfred wants to protest because he very much does not want to go to bed the moment he’s arrived in a new and exciting place, but the idea does sound very tempting. He allows his dad to haul him up, and he keeps a hand on Alfred’s back as they head to the bedroom on the left. That’s the one he’s been assigned, he guesses.

“Will Russia be at dinner?” He asks as he takes in the sights of his room. The bed is huge and has a canopy of golden fabric hanging above it. Alfred doesn’t know that he’s ever had the pleasure of staying in a bed this nice.

Arthur starts to help him with all the very unnecessary buttons on his coat. That’s another reason why he doesn’t like to dress this way—it takes entirely too long to get the clothes off, especially when he’s feeling unwell.

“I imagine he will,” Arthur tells him. “I’m not sure that the Empress is even here. They’re not asking permission to settle in North America, as we don’t own the whole continent, they’re just…”

“Being polite.”

“Right.” He finishes with the buttons and takes a step back, “It will be good to have an ally in North America, anyway. That’s what this is about. If New France goes after the Russians, they’ll be expecting us to help drive them off, and vice versa.”

“New France wouldn’t do that,” Alfred mumbles. “France might make him, but he wouldn’t care about someone that far west.”

Arthur frowns at him as Alfred shrugs off his coat. “You’re not still talking to him, are you?”

He sighs, “You can’t just expect me to stop speaking to my brother. There’s no one else to talk to over there.”

“New France is the enemy, and he is not your brother,” his father reminds him for the thousandth time.

“I don’t tell him any sensitive information,” Alfred says. In their letters, they just… talk. About normal things. Human things, and then whatever gossip they hear about what goes on in Europe. Little updates on their lives. Matthew doesn’t tell him anything that could be used against France, either.

“It’s his fault that you’re sick—his and his father’s.”

Alfred kind of disagrees, but he doesn’t want to fight about it right now. The expectation of laying down has made him tired, and his muscles are sore from all his heaving, so he sits on the edge of the plush bed to take his boots off. The problems with British America’s economy may have been worsened by the fighting with New France, but that wasn’t his brother’s fault. The finances had been bad before that point, just not debilitatingly so, and it was France and England who were really fighting, not Alfred and Matthew. They’re just puppets in yet another conflict between their fathers.

Arthur kneels in front of him, looking him in the eyes. “You will get better, Alfred. Imagine—if the Russians set up their outposts for trading furs, and we’re able to find a quick way across the continent, that will help you. I’m sure that land is not as fertile as yours, and you’ll be able to trade our crops with them. The Spaniards will want those furs, I assure you, and we’ll be able to sell them for a pretty penny.”

“I’m not sure there is a quick way across North America,” Alfred says. He can’t very well feel the land past the mountains which divides the Thirteen Colonies from France’s land claims south of Canada. He’s seen maps, though, and he knows his continent well enough to understand that if there were an easy way, they would have found it by now.

“The Silk Road was not built in a day,” Arthur tells him wisely. That’s not how the saying about Rome goes, but he understands the meaning behind it. Alfred often thinks that, being from England, Arthur does not fully comprehend the scale of North America. That’s probably why he doesn’t completely understand their financial troubles, either. “It doesn’t matter how we do it, but it will be done. These things just take time—you’ll be even stronger once you’ve seen this through.”

“I wish I knew the state of the war,” Alfred says, referring to the fighting with New France. He could probably stick his head out a window and shout for someone to tell him the current score in Europe and he’d get an answer, which he is unused to. No one here cares about a little war in North America, though. They probably don't even know it’s happening.

“You haven’t fallen over and died, so that’s a good sign.”

As he takes off his waistcoat, Alfred scoffs, which causes a few stray coughs to come out. “Yes, I guess we’ll know the score if that happens.”

“It won’t, of course,” Arthur says confidently. “We have more numbers than New France. They may have more land, but it is empty.”

That at least is true, and you can’t easily defend land if no one lives there. France has had trouble getting people to willingly settle in North America. The key word is willingly. This is not a problem that England has, as they send people across the Atlantic whether they want to go or not. That’s part of why they have no money.

Arthur stands again, and he goes to shut Alfred’s curtains so that he can rest easier. He says, “Try not to worry too much about New France. There’s nothing we can do about it from over here, and our generals know how to handle the situation. Once we are back in England, we’ll have an update.”

“And how goes things with the Jacobites?” Alfred teases.

Arthur practically growls at the question—that’s how angry he is at the situation. “Damn Francis is footing their bill, of course, sending them money and guns to help their cause. There was fighting—I felt it—but things are calm today. They are weak. His Majesty will stay on that throne, so help me God.”

His Majesty in question being George II.

And Alfred isn’t even sure that Arthur realizes how often he uses France’s true name while in his presence. Maybe he doesn’t care, and he’s doing it to be disrespectful, but Alfred figures that he just truly cannot help but say the man’s name. That’s how riled up France makes him. This is a common topic of discussion between Alfred and his brother.

“I’m sure he will,” Alfred agrees. “If the Jacobites were smart, they would want nothing to do with the throne while England is at war in both North America and Europe.”

Arthur turns to him and smiles, “They’re not smart, dear. That’s the whole point.” He approaches the bed again and puts his hands on Alfred’s shoulders, holding him a moment. “Do not fret. We are here for Russia, and everything else will be fine. There are capable men in charge of the situation—I would not have left if I didn’t feel confident about that.”

“I’m sure,” Alfred says, and he means it. His father would fall on his own sword before he let anything happen to England that he could prevent. He would not be concerning himself with Russia at all if he did not think this was the best use of his time.

His dad gives him a kiss on his forehead, and Alfred smiles. “I will wake you for dinner if you are not up already. Rest well—we would not want Russia thinking there is weakness in North America.”

Right, that’s the last thing they want.

“I’ll see you later,” Alfred says as the man makes his exit. “I hope the food is good.”

“Of course that’s what’s on your mind,” Arthur says, and then he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Alfred just sits for a moment, looking around the room. It’s dark now thanks to the curtains, but enough light filters through that he can see well enough. The fire is not lit, and while it is a little cold, it’s not enough for Alfred to want to fool with that at the moment. Like the outside of the house, everything is white, gold, and yellow. There are touches of other colors—berry shades and blues, mostly—and the furniture is made of a warm wood. It appears to be walnut.

Alfred thinks that this one room is nicer than anything in British America, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that. It makes sense, as Russia is an older place, but Alfred has always felt that England should try harder to make their colonies a more inviting place to live. They are not only there for growing tobacco for England to sell, and they deserve nice things as well. Institutions of learning and cathedrals. The land may lend itself to an agrarian life, but that is not all that they have to be.

That’s all that they can be, though, while the issues with the economy persist. Alfred is unsure of how that particular story will end despite his father’s constant assurances that it will. Over a decade ago, Parliament put a tax on molasses from the French West Indies, which threatened to ruin British America financially. They did it to make molasses in the British West Indies cheaper in comparison, but that was still too much for them to afford. Smuggling started after that, and the Crown has done little to stop the habit. Without that, Alfred would be even sicker right now. If such a thing is possible.

It is for that reason he does not trust it when his father says he will get better. Alfred’s well-being is currently hinged on the back of illegal smuggling—if Arthur is aware of this, he hasn’t mentioned it. Maybe he is in denial about the issue, and he allows it to happen so that Alfred is able to stay healthier. He wishes they would just acknowledge the issue of money in the colonies, though. He doesn’t think that any amount of fur trading will be able to fix this for him—it is only the king and Parliament with the power to save them.

But for Arthur's sake, Alfred will allow his father to try with Russia. Maybe Alfred is completely wrong, and they just need another trading partner in North America to fix the problem. He would be happy if that were the case, because then he would not have to be so resentful to the Crown and their policies.

As he crawls into the bed—a very welcome change to his hammock on the ship—he tells himself not to worry about these things for the time being. He is here to meet Russia, and that is what he will be doing this evening. Going to sleep now will just get him closer to dinner that much faster.

---

II: Dobryy Vecher

Alfred jolts awake some hours later, and is met with the image of his dad inches away from his face. Groggily, he makes a, ‘huh?’ noise.

“Up, Alfred,” Arthur tells him, and he lightly pats him on his cheek a few times. “It’s time for dinner. You need to get dressed.”

As he forces himself up and wipes the sleep out of his eyes, Arthur steps away towards the fireplace. It’s freezing in here now, and all he wants to do is hide under these fluffy blankets.

“You’ll get sicker if you don’t stay warm,” Arthur chastises with no real bite as he starts to set up logs in the fireplace. Alfred’s glad for it—the room will be warm once they are back later. “You need to be careful about these things.”

He yawns. “That’s not why I’m sick.”

The only light is coming from the common room, as Arthur has left the door open. Alfred hears a match striking, and then a ruby glow slowly lights the bedroom. Arthur says, “I know, but you still need to remember.”

Finished with the fire, his father returns to the bed and tosses him a fresh handkerchief from his pocket, then starts to pick up the outer clothes Alfred had left lying around before bed. As he does this, he asks Alfred how he’s feeling after his nap.

“The same,” he replies, but it’ really much more than that. It’s not just being sick, it’s being sick for years with no reprieve. It’s exhausting in a bone-deep way, but at the same time, it feels as though his body has forgotten how to be anything but ill. He’s used to it, but he remembers a time when this wasn’t the case. He knows that his father must understand this feeling, being as old as he is, but it’s probably been so long since he’s had to deal with any major economy-related sickness.

“Well, do try and get it out of your system before dinner,” Arthur says. That’s why he’d given him the handkerchief. Alfred does make an earnest attempt at this, forcing all the phlegm he can out of his body, but he knows it will only be a matter of time before more has manifested.

After that, he finally stands to redress himself. He asks Arthur if he can just wear the waistcoat and not the jacket, but he is denied. He hopes that his father won’t make him wear it for the entire week, but oh well.

Once he’s dressed and a bit more awake, he realizes that he’s actually about to meet Russia—the thing he’s been looking forward to for months. Ever since He received a note from Arthur telling him that he had to come to Europe of this reason, he’s been excited. Not about the travel or going to Europe, but to meet another Nation. As previously stated, he doesn’t really know anyone, and he’s really looking forward to expanding his circle. He’s nervous about it, because this is frankly a huge event, but it’s a good nervousness.

Before they leave their room, his father tries to flatten that one tuft of Alfred’s hair that never wants to stay down. To Alfred’s horror, the man takes off one of his white gloves and licks his hand before attempting a final time. Alfred tries dodging out of the way, they have a little scuffle, and then it’s time to go.

He doesn’t even pay much attention to his surroundings as he and Arthur are escorted to the dining hall, too busy imagining what it will be like to meet Russia. What he will look like, sound like, be like. Alfred tries not to let any expectations get the better of him, as his father had told him that Russia can be aloof, but he just can’t help it. This is a person that he will know for the rest of his life—a person who cannot die, same as him. They may not always be on the same side, but they are today, and Alfred wants to make a good impression.

They’re led to another set of grand doors, and everything next happens so quickly. Their guide pushes them open, makes a little announcement in Russia, and then steps aside. That’s when he sees him.

Russia.

He’s in a long tunic and stockings, same as all of the other men, but he’s got a very elegant coat thrown over top of it which nearly reaches the floor. He’s dressed in the same colors as the house, ivory and pale yellow, and his clothes are adorned with a few little jewels and medals which catch the light. Looking past the clothes, Alfred notices that he does appear to be about the same age as him, maybe slightly older. That could be because of his height, though—he is a few inches taller than Alfred, easily.

He has a round face, which Alfred thinks is charming. It makes him look well-fed, which is a good characteristic. His most prominent features are his large hooked nose and his ashen, almost white, hair. Alfred perhaps spends too long dumbly staring as his father is quick to greet the other Nation.

Yes, he’s handsome. Alfred’s glad he wore his jacket.

“Thank you for the invitation, Russia,” Arthur is saying as they shake hands. The sleeves of Russia’s robe are quite roomy. Lots of fabric. Lots of money. Good health. “I am pleased to introduce you to my colony, British America.”

“Hello,” he says dumbly as he reaches out to shake the other Nation’s hand. “Wait, no, um, dobryy vecher.”

Russia actually looks surprised at him for even attempting his mother tongue, but Alfred figures that is the polite thing to do. His eyebrows raise just slightly, his eyes widening, and Alfred notices that they are a beautiful shade of periwinkle blue, like snow lit by a purple sunset.

“Dobryy vecher,” Russia repeats. Alfred is a bit stunned by how warm and round his voice is, not at all how he’d been expecting. It is a good change. And his pronunciation is much better, obviously. “British America,” he says, heavily accented. Alfred wishes that he would say his real name, but he likes something about the way that he says the word America almost as Ah-merry-ka and not Ah-mare-ica. Does that make any sense? He swears that there had been a difference. It’s all in how the syllables are stressed.

Russia says, “It is honor to be among first to meet you.”

“Well, I am honored to be here.” They’ve been shaking hands for too long. Alfred still doesn’t let go. “It is very beautiful.”

Russia finally lets him go, and he says, “Come. Let us eat.”

Alfred is pleased as a pickle to do that, so they go to the grand table in the center of the room. You could fit maybe thirty people at this table, but only three spots have been made up, two on one side, one on the other. Russia sits on the lone side, naturally, and Arthur sits across from him. This leaves Alfred in the spot off to the side.

His father effortlessly starts the conversation as servants buzz in to fill their glasses with wine. “I know I am a few years off, but I first wanted to congratulate you on your victory against the Swedes.”

God, Alfred is so lacking in knowledge about the affairs of Europe. Sweden is allied with Prussia. Russia has a longstanding history of wars with Sweden. Even if Russia is not overly involved in the mess with Austria, that sort of makes them allies by default.

“It was easy—big win,” Russia says, smiling almost devilishly. “He picked fight to distract us from rest of conflict. We took some of their land years ago, and he wanted it back. We won, so we took even more.”

“Has Austria called for aid?”

“Not directly, but he knows that we are here. He will soon—this is certain.”

“Yes, I’m sure. I almost feel sorry for the git—this is a pointless thing for so many of us to get involved in.”

Alfred can agree with that, especially because he’s involved. It’s in a minuscule way, but he guesses that the fighting in North America may be keeping Frenchmen in New France from heading to Europe to join the larger conflict. It’s also keeping the English in British America from doing the same, but Alfred does not feel strongly that his constituents would want to do that anyway. He knows that New France feels the same.

And it does seem very pointless, because as he understands it, it’s all because a bunch of Nations do not think that a woman should lead Austria. Alfred doesn’t know why this is such an issue, as England has female monarchs. Even Russia has an Empress at the moment.

“We are not here to discuss Austria,” Russia tells them, and then his eyes slide to meet Alfred’s. “I want to talk about North America.”

“Oh, yes!” Arthur agrees.

Their servers return with bowls of soup. Alfred isn’t sure what it is at first, but Russia tells them, “This is Shchi. With beef. Traditional Russian meal.”

He watches as Alfred takes his first bite, and it is rather good. To finally eat something fresh after being on the ship (that’s another thing he hates about sea travel) makes him smile, and the warm broth loosens some of the tension in his chest. While there is meat in the dish, it is mostly comprised of cabbage and other vegetables.

“It’s very good,” he tells his host, and then he searches his mind for another Russian phrase he knows. “Spasibo.” Thank you.

Russia smiles at him, more genuine than the last time.

Arthur doesn’t comment on the food. He takes a bite and then says, “Tell me, how did the expedition to North America go?”

“Longest part of journey was getting from here to other side of Russia,” he tells them. Alfred can definitely understand that—while the top left corner of North America has not been mapped out very well, Eurasia has, and Russia is huge. “North America is closer than you would think. If not for ice, it would take one month. Maybe less.”

“A month,” Arthur gasps. “It takes nearly three to get over the Atlantic. And were you able to confirm that North America is connected to Asia?”

Russia shakes his head. “It is not, but it is close.”

His father does seem a bit taken aback by this information, but he recovers quickly. “Well, alright then. I imagine it would be a very lucrative opportunity for colonization if you had a capital on the other side of Russia.”

Russia does not reply immediately, and Alfred wonders if it is because Arthur had used many large English words that the other might not be as familiar with. He shouldn’t assume things like that about people, but he does.

“It is better to be close to Europe,” Russia says finally, “unless travel across continent becomes easier.”

“Oh, I understand completely,” his father says, sipping at his wine. “Still, you are interested in the land for trade?”

“Yes,” Russia nods ones. “Too much hunting in Siberia. North America is… what is word? Meaning plenty?”

“Abundant,” Arthur says, nodding along as well. He glances at Alfred for a moment before saying, “Yes, North America is very abundant. That land was completely untamed when we found it, and there is so much of it. It was a risky venture, but it was worth it for us. The land in British America is very fertile—some of the best croplands on Earth. What was the report from your men?”

“Hard to tell—it was in winter. Climate seemed same as here.”

“It would be similar to New France as well, I imagine. They don’t do as much growing, either.”

Russia shrugs, “Fur and meat—that is what we want.” Once again, Russia looks to Alfred. “What do you think of North America?”

Oh. He’s not quite sure what to say. He’s in the middle of a sip of wine, and he uses that as an opportunity to think before answering. “Well, it’s home. My portion is very different to where you are looking, so I’m not sure what good it would be for you to hear.”

Russia’s gaze is unwavering. “I want to hear. I have never met American.”

American. Ah-merry-kan. Something is titillating about that. “Alright. I guess my main takeaway is that… it is sunny.”

His father scoffs at his quietly. “He wants to know about the opportunities in America, not the sun.”

Russia does not confirm if this is true or not, still watching Alfred with rapt interest. “Well, there are plenty of resources, if that is what you care about. It can be harsh on the humans, but once you are set up, you should not run into too many problems—especially with a willing militia. That part is very important.”

Russia hums. Alfred hopes that he understood all of that.

His father cuts back in to ask, “Are you thinking of setting up a colony, or just trading posts?”

“It will be long time before we can think of colony,” Russia tells them. “Not until it is easier to get there. Decades, maybe. Trading posts for now.”

“That’s good,” his father says, seeming a bit relieved about something. With great hesitation, he says, “There is something you should know if you are serious about starting a colony. No one told me—Spain could have, but I figure he didn’t share because he thought it would be funny if I were surprised. Wanker.” Arthur then pauses for a solid ten seconds before he says, “If your colony is successful, you will have a baby.”

And that makes sense because how else would Alfred be sitting here right now? But the way that he says it implies that the issue does not only lie in being a parent. Alfred isn’t so sure that he would have used the phrase, ‘have a baby,’ if he were talking about just anything. That’s a very human way to say that.

Russia is looking at him skeptically. “Have baby? How does this go?”

Arthur shrugs noncommittally, “Oh, you know. There’s only one way that I know of to bring children into the world.”

Alfred drops his spoon, and then Russian jumps slightly when it clatters to the table. Nevermind his poor etiquette—“You carry the baby?”

His exclamation causes something in his lungs to catch, and he starts coughing. It was only a matter of time, but he hates that it had to happen in front of Russia. He tries to play it off as choking on his meal, but he’s not sure how well it works. Once his vision is clear again, Russia is looking at him with a mild concern.

His father ignores it, not wanting to bring attention to his sickness and have the state of his colony questioned. Once Alfred is calm again, he sighs, “Yes, America.”

“But you are a man!” He may be young in comparison to his fellow Nations, but Alfred knows how procreation works, and he knows that this isn’t it. His father had told him that the Nations of Europe came to be by crawling out of the ground, or something, so he figured that’s how it had been for him as well. Evidently not!

Russia asks him, “You were unaware of this?”

He sputters, “You didn’t know, either!”

“I was born of earth. Naturally.”

“America was born naturally,” Arthur defends. “It’s just a different process for colonies. It’s the same as a human child being an extension of their parents. You feel a deeper connection with your colony than with any other Nation.”

His father has avoided his question, so he repeats it, absolutely horrified about what he’s learned. “But how does it work if you are not a woman?” Arthur shoots him a look which tells him that he really doesn’t want to be discussing this at dinner, but Russia needs to know! And so does he!

“You must cut the baby out—there is nowhere else for it to go,” he says. “I’d never wanted to be a woman more than I did that day, I will tell you.”

“That sounds absolutely barbaric.”

“It is—I was killed in the process.”

“Dad!”

Arthur takes his glass of wine and has a big swig of it. “Anyway, Russia, I just wanted you to be aware of that.”

Russia also looks a little horrified by this revelation, staring down at his dinner for a moment before looking to them again and saying, “Thank you?”

“You are still rather young, physically,” Arthur points out to Russia as if he doesn’t already to know that. “I was as well when I… carried America. It is taxing on the body, so it may be a good thing it you decide to wait.”

The way he says it is so jarring to Alfred, and he can’t help but picture his father as a blown up pregnant woman. Lord, what must the humans have thought about that? Certainly something because they’d had to-

Cut him out!

And his father had died!

They’re going to have to talk about that later, but it’s not really a discussion to have with Russia while at dinner. He can’t help but think about his brother, though, and how he would have had to be born this way as well. Does that even make them brothers if they came from separate wombs? That is an upsetting thought. Except if Alfred’s father and France are still fooling around like Matthew has been implying in his letters, they could still be brothers. Step-siblings. That could work.

How does the conception happen? There isn’t any real physical way that would work like it does with the humans. Is the baby carried for nine months like they do, or is it different or them? It cannot take only nine months to carry a colony to term.

A hand on his stomach, Alfred wonders if he has a womb. Just in case? Do all Nations? Is it a divine virgin birth situation?

“America,” Arthur says, and Alfred snaps out of this thoughts. He’d gotten too lost in them by worrying about this, but in his defense, it is not every day that you learn you had been born abnormally. “You have been asked a question.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Great. Now he’s embarrassed for two reasons. He’ll probably never hear the end of it from Arthur. “What was that?”

Russia had been looking at him intently, but his gaze softens. “I want to know about you, British America.”

“About me?”

Russia hums, a little smile on his lips. “You were saying about the sun?”

“Oh, well, I love the sun,” Alfred says very stupidly. “It is very warm in British America. It is cold in the winters, and it snows, but it really depends on your latitude. The autumn is orange and the spring green. It is like the Garden of Eden, each season appearing exactly as you think it should for the perfect amount of time. And the landscape is very beautiful, as well. Mountains, plains, and beaches. There is nothing to be bored of in North America, I will tell you that.”

“Where do you live?” Russia asks, genuinely interested. “It is big place.”

“Oh, yes, but nothing compared to Russia,” Alfred replies. Russia is so bloody massive that he can’t even comprehend it. You have to actually turn the globe to see all of it. “I live in Philadelphia, which is in Pennsylvania. That’s one of the middle colonies. I like the climate there the best because it is warmer than in the far north, but not too hot. And the city is actually quite big—I think it will overtake Boston in population soon.”

Russia tests the word out on his tongue, and Alfred just loves how his accent twists everything he says. “Philadelphia. I have heard this before.”

Arthur cuts back in to say, “There were a few Greek settlements with the same name. It is supposed to mean ‘brotherly love.’”

“It is very sweet, isn’t it?” Alfred asks, grinning. “There are all sorts of developments happening in Philadelphia all the time. Just a few years ago, we got a fire department!”

“Fire department?” Russia asks, quirking a brow. Maybe he isn’t familiar with the department part.

“The people who put out fires,” he clarifies. “And it is all made of volunteers. We’ve also got a library, and they are working on a hospital right now. One for just anyone to go to.”

Russia latches on to the library for whatever reason. “You go to the library?”

Alfred nods quickly, “Yes, I think it might be the only library in British America. We do not have many books that are not Bibles at the moment, but some wealthy men decided to pool their private collections for the people. And they are mostly in English, as well! I’ll read in Latin, as there is a good amount of Latin poetry, but it is so very nice to have some English around. They even let you borrow a book if you are not a member. It is all very generous.”

“Poetry?” Russia asks. His tone is a little lighter now than when he’d been speaking to Arthur about politics.

“You know, the songs you do not sing,” Alfred says. This is going so well, he thinks. Except for the part about babies. Russia seems to like talking to him, and Alfred’s getting to talk about poems. “I like songs, as well, but they are sometimes not so fun when you have to sing them alone. Poems are more private.”

“Ah, I know what you mean,” Russia says, nodding. “We do not read them. They are said.”

“That sounds very special,” he replies. “Very fleeting.”

He’s cocked it up, because Russia next says, “You say many foreign words.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Alfred frowns. He’d really been trying not to, but he gets too excited when he talks about the things he likes. “I will try to be better for you.”

“No,” Russia says, shaking his head. He has a sip of his wine, and then, “It is good from your mouth.”

Alfred might actually be blushing. God, that’s embarrassing. “I’ve spoken too much about myself. I want to hear about Russia. It is very beautiful here. I am sad we will be leaving after such a short stay, and that I won’t get to see very much.”

Russia hums, thinking on what to say, and maybe how to translate it. This whole time, Alfred’s father has been dutifully listening, not saying a word. He might have opinions about their conversation, which is very mundane, but Alfred’s got to make friends first before he can talk about politics. That’s probably backwards in Europe, but that’s how he and Matthew do things. Not that they often talk about politics with any agency, their fathers always being the ones to handle important things.

“We are opening up to Western ideas,” he says. “I think it is good, but we must remember tradition as well. It is not all or nothing.”

“That sounds fair,” Alfred says. “But what of the sun?”

So quietly next to him, Arthur huffs in amusement.

Russia looks a bit surprised at this question, and Alfred cannot figure why because he had been questioned on the same thing. “Solntse,” he breathes. That must be sun in his language. Alfred hopes. “It is warm only for short time, but there it is, always mocking.”

“That is a shame,” Alfred says sadly. He cannot imagine living with only a few months of warmth. “Still, we must especially enjoy the things we know we will only have for a short time. One must learn to savor life when you live in such conditions.”

As he says it, he thinks of his sickness and how he had not fully appreciated health while it was a thing he could hold. He does make attempts to savor the time he gets to spend with his father even though they occasionally butt heads. Alfred prefers not to be alone compared to almost any other alternative. He savors his letters with Matthew, who he really has never gotten to spend any worthwhile amount of time with in person. He savors peace above all, as the world so often delves into madness and drags him down with it.

Those are all rather big things, though. It is just as important to enjoy a book you know you’ll have to return soon, or a week-long trip to Saint Petersburg, or a short summer. The brief moments before you are fully awake and remember how ill you are.

“You should also not take the sure things in your life for granted,” he tacks on. “But those are sometimes harder to recognize.”

He’s gone all philosophical on them, but he can’t help it. His father just gives a nod and says, “Well put. Russia, I think you’ll find that North America is a place which fosters introspection.”

Russia hums as if he is agreeing, but Alfred isn’t sure that he understood that last word. It is hard to tell at all which words he does and doesn’t know. He’s probably been speaking English for a long time, so Alfred doesn’t want to assume he doesn’t understand, but the opposite might also be rude.

“Only fur and meat for now,” Russia reiterates. “I do not think Empress Elizabeth will want to worry about baby Russia.” He pauses a moment, and then says with a little smile, “Congratulations on yours. He seems good.”

He’s making fun—Alfred is self-aware enough to know this—but he still smiles at the compliment. He looks to his father, whose cheeks have gone just slightly red. Arthur says, “Yes, well, it is hard work. That is why I wanted to warn you about it.”

His father takes hold of the conversation once more, talking more about politics that bore Alfred. It’s all European stuff that he can’t give much commentary on. The only good thing about this is that he gets to enjoy his dessert when it arrives rather than worrying about what to say about the state of Austria or France’s evil plans about this, that, or the other thing. Russia dulls a bit during this, and Alfred wonders if his father notices. Alfred continually thinks back on how Russia looked genuinely interested when he was talking about the sun and Philadelphia and poetry, and something warm buzzes in his chest.

Or perhaps those are the coughs he’s been holding in all night.

As much fun he’s having, he’s glad when it is over. They thank their host for the meal, Alfred says, “Spokoynoy nochi,” and it sounds terrible. It means goodnight.

That sparkle returns to Russia’s eye, and he repeats the phrase the way it is supposed to be said. Then, “It was nice to meet you, British America. I look forward to more.”

“Oh, yes, me too,” Alfred nods quickly. “Perhaps you can show me around!”

“Hm,” Russia says, the world’s tiniest smile on his lips. “Perhaps.”

Alfred only makes it to the hall belonging to their suite before he starts coughing, which immediately sets him into a bad mood. What a dreadful way to end the night. His father goes on muttering all sorts of things about it as he unlocks the door to their room and ushers him inside.

He fully lets loose in the safety of their room. It’s so dreadful. So completely dreadful. The war and the money and the tax. All of it comes escaping out of his body violently as he’d tried to hard to hold it in for so long. The coughing turns unproductive and then he’s shuttering for breath.

His father stands right next to him the entire time, looking on with sadness.

And then when it’s close to over, Alfred gasps out, “So, Russia?”

This gets Arthur out of his daze, and he says, “Oh, stop it. You did well for your first time.”

Alfred gets the rest of it out of his system, but it feels him feeling dreadful. All of his muscles are sore from it, and his throat hurts. Still, that doesn’t stop him from asking his next question, speaking softly so he doesn’t trigger another attack. “Your baby?”

Arthur locks up, and then he huffs out a big sigh. “Yes, Alfred. You’re my baby. Now you know my dark secret.”

“I’ll want to know more about that,” he says. “But I’m drained, so you are getting off easy tonight.”

‘Thank Christ,” his father says, and he really genuinely is relieved about it. “It was dreadful, as I’m sure you can imagine, but I’d do it again if I had to. For you.”

Alfred pouts at him, “Aw.”

On keeping a fic alive: this is why I like to write like… half (ish) of something and start posting. A lot of what keeps me motivated is my own love for the story and wanting to see it through, but it’s also hearing what other people think about it. So when you’re at the Sloggy Middle Part, if you start sharing then, maybe hearing back from others will help you stay motivated. But then that is scary because you’re posting something that’s not done. BUT that’s what most people on ao3 do anyway. I do think I am in a very small minority of people on ao3 who mostly finishes a fic and then updates regularly. People on ao3 are used to having to wait weeks or months for an update, so don’t let that stress you out. It once took me an entire you just to write the final chapter of something. My poor readers 😭

Even if it’s not an audience you’re posting for, if you’ve got a fandom friend, you could share it with them!! Sometimes people interpret your writing in different ways and they can breathe new life into a fic by talking to you about it, guessing what will happen next, or offering suggestions. It’s not fully having a beta reader editing for you, but just. Someone to talk to about it. Sometimes you go crazy if you have no one to talk to about it.

But like I said audience isn’t EVERYTHING in terms of motivation and your own enjoyment of your fic and the desire to see it through to the end. I get a lot of satisfaction out of finishing something (my incomplete fics in other fandoms don’t look). but there have been times that I struggled and something that kept me going is thinking of how badly I want to write something that’s happening next, and that’s why I don’t write scenes or chapters out of order (and other reasons but that’s part of it)

Example: I had a hard time writing the affix the stamp Thanksgiving chapter even though I had been excited about it before. But the thing keeping me going (other than self imposed deadlines) was the fact that IVAN WAS IN THE NEXT CHAPTER. like. We HAVE to finish this one so we can play with Ivan. You’ve got to eat your vegetables before you have dessert. In my eyes if you prewrite all the stuff you’re excited about out of order, then what’s going to motivate you to write the boring stuff? But that’s me. People are different. More power to those people.

I keep scrolling up to make sure I’m not missing anything sorry this is long. Ok on the topic of MOOD. really for me it’s music. I’ll listen to a song or album on repeat for hours while writing something. I loop them on YouTube so I don’t fuck up my Spotify wrapped 💀. And also before I go to bed I’ll plan out scenes in my head as I’m going to sleep. I have done this literally every night for like 15 years. It’s dedicated maladaptive daydream time and then I fall asleep. And that helps for planning as well. And also just helps me sleep because otherwise I’ll start worrying about my personal life 💀💀💀. And I’m also just EXCITED to write. One of my favorite hobbies. It’s my creative outlet.

And I have shitty focus. I write a sentence and then I switch tabs and refresh tumblr. My family and friends has Theorized (unconfirmed) I have adhd. So I think the “listening to one song on repeat for hours” thing helps me focus because it’s just One Song instead of a playlist to be distracted by. (This is also why I bought the walking pad—I am a big pacer and im thinking the movement might help. We will see. I will keep you updated)

So combining all these things to talk about drafting a story line. Man I don’t know 😭 I used to be SUCH a planner when writing fics. But something about this fandom and these characters makes it so hard for me. Like I’ve turned into a seat of the pants person which is very sacrilegious for me personally. I mean I have an Idea of what’s going to happen in each chapter but but the details are completely unknown to me when I get in there. The characters possess me. Idk what they’re going to do until I’m in their heads. It’s annoying 😞 like I’ll remind everyone that Separation was going to be 5 chapters, and now it’s done at 18. What happened? Idk.

So for affix the stamp 2 I’m planning things like this

Date the chapter takes place on (because this is important to me—likely won’t be important to you)

Event 1

Event 2

Event 3

As opposed to how I’ve done it before where I meticulously plan every detail. That works for some fics (that’s how I did Genesis) but not all. So not every method fits every fic. I’m not worrying about the details on this outline because I know that is a lost cause for me 😩

But like. Thinking up the STORYLINE as opposed to outlining the storyline is a different thing. Like I said, I know the big beats, but the details evade me until I’m in there. Like idk if I knew Alfred got that lobotomy until he said that he got the lobotomy. That was not part of the original plan 💀 I don’t remember but I’ll tell you it wasn’t a huge planned out plot point and that’s like. Everyone’s favorite part.

Everything is just one big unraveling mess. And this answer is a mess. I don’t know what I’m doing.

My final words of wisdom is that you’ve got to write the stories you wanna see in a fandom. That’s how you stay motivated. I love reading my own fics bc they were made just for me. I wanted to read (longfics bc I’m a psycho) about Alfred having a complicated relationship with religion, and none existed, so I wrote it. I wanted to read a nations revealed fic less about the drama of politics and more about human connection, but I couldn’t find one that satisfied that, so I wrote one. There are some really good nation revealed fics out there and I’ve read them all but (toots own horn, sorry, please ignore) I wanted to read one about everyday people, so that’s what I did.

This is going off the rails but I think that that mindset is part of the reason why affix the stamp is successful. There are plenty of things about that fic that work against it (original characters, original character POVs, shifting formats, hell the entire thing is 3rd person present tense but ONE chapter of 1st person past tense). Like people hate OCs. The second you open chapter 1 and it’s being narrated from the perspective of a random woman, plenty of people probably clicked off. But I love Jenny Joyce, and that is clear in the writing, so everyone else loves her too. (At least from what I’ve been told by the people who didn’t click off, lmao)

So as long as you are passionate and love the story you are writing, you should stay motivated, and other people will love your story too. If you put care into it, people will be able to tell.

“I am continually impressed by the beauty and comfort offered by Peterhof.”

Russia hums, and then says, “Peterhof. You say it funny.”

“Peterhof,” Alfred repeats, doing it properly this time. “In Petergof—that is the funny part. I kept mixing the two up on the way here.”

“You are learning Russian,” Russia points out, coming to stand next to him in front of the portrait. They’re standing almost shoulder to shoulder, only slightly angled towards each other.

“I thought it the polite thing to do, as you’ve learned English,” he replies. “Before we left London, I found a little book of phrases. It isn’t a full dictionary by any means, but I thought I would give it a try.”

With a little nod, Russia says, “And you speak Latin.”

No, that’s not entirely accurate. “No, I can read Latin. I could repeat it for you, but I don’t really speak it.” And then he grins, adding, “Don’t tell my father, but I am learning French at home in America. I found a dictionary at the library in Philadelphia, and my brother speaks French, so I wanted to give it a go. I pick it up quite easily, I don’t know why. Maybe because I can practice with my brother.”

“You have brother?” Russia asks, seeming genuinely interesting in learning more about him. Alfred is interested in that. He wants to know more.

“Yes—New France. Father says he isn’t my brother, but we look identical. We get along well. Do you?”

“Hm, two sisters.”

“Sisters!” Alfred exclaims. “My, that is exciting! Older or younger? Do you get along?”

“Ukraine is older, Belarus is younger,” he says. A middle child—that is interesting. Alfred is somehow simultaneously an only child and an elder brother, so he can’t relate to that in many ways. “We get along, but politics cause trouble.”

Alfred groans, “Oh, I get that. I’m currently having to fight New France, but neither of us much like that. We don’t put much effort into it, personally. It’s really our fathers fighting.”

Russia hums once more, and very simply says, “France and England.”

Yes, exactly. Alfred wonders if he’s heard the rumors, or if that is something only he and Matthew know about. Alfred gestures to to painting of the lopsided horse, “I’ve been enjoying your art! There isn’t much fine art in America unless you know where to look for it. What can you tell me about this?”

“Ah,” Russia seems a bit caught off guard by this question, looking at the portrait a bit closer. He must not have been paying much attention to it before. “Is Tsar Alexei—he died some time ago. He was Tsar a century ago.”

“Ohh.” Alfred points out the object he’s holding, “Was he devout? It certainly seems it.”

Russia makes a face, “He had opinions.”

“Don’t we all!” Alfred laughs. “I really don’t know what I aught to think. There are so many options—and not just in America. Someone’s got to be right, but I’m not sure we can figure who, so I don’t get very involved with it. I’m sure someone must be right, actually. It could be you, or the Catholics, or the Quakers, or some other unknown one from an undiscovered land. There’s really no telling.” Alfred really shouldn’t be saying things like this, but he’s excited to talk to someone new. “My father wishes I was a perfect little Protestant, but my heart really isn’t in it.”

A tiny grin appears on Russia’s face, and his eyes seem to truly take in Alfred in a way they hadn’t before. He says, “You are very different.”

“That’s a compliment, I hope,” Alfred says not unpolitely.

“Da,” Russia says, and Alfred’s smile grows larger. “Is good thing. I tire of Europeans.”

“Don’t I know it!” Alfred exclaims. The Nations here are too old and they all love and hate each other too much. And Alfred doesn’t have the care to worry about the things that go on here. “But aren’t you European?”

Russia gives a little shrug, “Depends on the year.”

“Ha!” Alfred laughs, “That’s funny.” Then there is a little silence that is somewhat awkward, and Alfred gestures to the painting again, “That's a funny looking horse, don’t you think? His eyes are looking in two different directions.”

Russia frowns at the painting, inspecting the horse. The creature might not look so strange if it weren’t looking dead at them, but that’s how the painter decided to depict this event. Russia says, “Um. Sure.”

“Do you like horses?” Alfred asks, desperate to make the conversation slightly more normal. It’d been going very well, he thought. He’d even gotten a compliment, which he’s very tightly hanging onto.

“They get job done,” Russia says neutrally. “Can be fun to ride when it is warm.”

“But it is not often warm, so it is not often fun,” Alfred surmises. “That is a shame. We need to get you to British America so you feel the sun longer than a month or two. Sure, you can get that in Europe, but you need some time closer to the equator, my friend!”

“Friend,” Russia repeats, and his sharp eyes find Alfred’s. “We are friends?”

It almost sounds threatening the way he says it, but no mind that. “I would like to be your friend! It was a goal of mine when I learned I would be coming here.”

Russia smiles, just barely, and Alfred thinks it is a wonderful sight. He’d like to see those teeth. “So you learn Russian.”

Alfred huffs, but he’s smiling as well. “I told you, I only have a book of phrases.”

“Still more than most learn,” Russia says with a shrug. “Is impressive.”

Michelle sticks close to Jack’s side as he investigates the room, but there really isn’t anything remotely interesting in here. It’s a huge let down, honestly, until he opens the doors to the wardrobe and finds his eldest brother staring back at him in the form of a painting. It honestly startles him.

“Look at Mattie!” Jack smiles, looking to Michelle. “He must be around your age here!”

Michelle frowns at the portrait, leaning in to get a closer look. “That is not Mattie.”

“Of course it is.” He looks at it again, trying to see what she does. His hair is different, sure and the exact shade of his eyes is wrong, but sometimes portrait artists don’t do the best job. Perhaps that is why it has been hidden away—it is a bad depiction.

There are other paintings stacked behind this one, all leaning up against the back wall of the wardrobe. Michelle reaches out and carefully pulls the top one aside so that they can get a glimpse of the others. The next one is of this same person next to their father. It must be their brother, but all of the same details are wrong. The hair is too straight, the eyes too blue. This painting was done in a different style, so it is not a case of the same artist making the same mistakes twice.

“Who is that?” He finds himself saying. “If not Mattie, who?”

“I don’t know,” Michelle says, and she pulls the painting back to reveal the last one. They both gasp at it, because there is Mattie. Curly hair and lighter eyes.

Next to Mattie is the same stranger with the straight hair and blue eyes.

There. Irrefutable proof that the person in the other portraits was truly not his brother. It was, for lack of a better term, the ghost.

“Mattie has a twin brother and he never told us?” Jack questions, disbelieving about it. “Why would he do that? Wouldn’t that make this person our brother as well?”

Michelle leans the paintings back up, and they are left looking at the one of the ghost standing alone. Now that he’s seen the two of them next to each other, he can more easily see that this is not Matthew.

“Maybe he is dead” Michelle says slowly. She turns to look at the rest of the room. “This must be where he lived.”

Jack looks at it as well. He looks at his younger brother sticking his arms out of the crack in the window that he can feel the breeze. He looks at the painting of the ghost.

“I guess it is haunted,” he says, feeling more solemn than before.

He's swiped past the, 'you've been scrolling for too long,' and, 'are you scrolling instead of sleeping?' videos twice now, but his algorithm is doing what algorithms do best right now, and it keeps him sucked in. It's mindless, and it's a drug, and as a 417 year old man, maybe he's too old for this. But he's been shown 7 videos in a row about mealprepping and freezer containers, and the consumerism is delicious. Maybe he should buy a bunch of special silicone mealprep freezer things. He's not been eating well because he's always exhausted from the shutdown, but maybe if he had these things-

He swipes, and a familiar face fills the screen.

"Hello! My name is Peter, and I am the National Personification of Sealand! Sealand is the world's smallest country! Thank you for all of the wonderful comments! This user, Miles, wants to know more about my goat! Well, here he is-"

What the fuck? Sealand is on TikTok? That's bad for a number of reasons, probably, and Alfred's lagging brain supplies him with all of them. What are the people going to think about Micronations? How is the UN going to deal with this? Is the UN even going to get involved? Peter's, like, 12. Does he know anything about internet safety? Do his guardians know?

Alfred doesn't actually know Peter that well, because Peter and Arthur had already kinda parted ways by the time Alfred re-entered the family. That's a tough pill to swallow, and it's upsetting. Peter's a kid. And Arthur may be paternal to his other kids, but poor Peter-

Fuck, he can't think about this right now. It just gets him riled up, which is the opposite of what he wants during his TikTok doomscroll. Note to self: talk to Arthur about the Sealand situation. Remind Arthur that just because he and Alfred are on good terms, it doesn't mean he's done atoning for the sins he's committed against his kids. That'll be a tough conversation, but it's one that needs to be had.

Anyway, Alfred doesn't know Peter all that well for those reasons. What he does know is that Peter lives with Sweden and Finland, and that seems to be a good arrangement. He's seen Peter at meetings sometimes, as his guardians don't want to leave him home alone, but the kid shies away from him. At first he thought it was because he's America, but he knows better now. It's because he's Alfred, and for a long time, Alfred was the boogeyman in the stories of children raised by the British Empire. He's got to do something about that. He wonders if he can get the kid's phone number somehow. Probably, if he asks the right people.

Peter is his brother too, dammit! Alfred's done a god-awful job setting an example for his younger siblings--or, half-siblings?--but that wasn't really his fault. Not at first, anyway.

For the time being, he opens the comments and reads them, and they make him laugh. Hardly anyone is taking poor little Peter seriously. That's a good thing, because shit would get complicated if anyone figures out he's being genuine. They will one day, but at least they have time to plan what to do when that day comes.