Work Text:
May 1805 :: London, England
Matthew stared out the window at the cold rain falling over London. The attic was a good place to watch from - Arthur's town house was larger than most of the developments around it, so from the attic he could see out over their roofs, watch the fat drops splash on the shingles. It had only been a light drizzle when he'd first come upstairs, but over the last half hour it had increased to a steady pour, the only real variation from the wind blowing the rain around.
Kumajirou fussed in his arms, and Matthew set him down on the window ledge. The bear sat back on his haunches, whined for pats. Or maybe food. But Matthew didn't have any food with him, so he scritched at the bear's ears instead. Kumajirou made a happy churr, leaned into Matthew's hand.
At least someone was satisfied with him. He sighed, breath fogging on the glass. "'Matthew, pick up your clothes,'" he muttered to himself. "'Matthew, why aren't your exports high enough?' 'Matthew, you need to raise a militia.' 'Matthew, why are you so bloody French?'"
What did Arthur expect? Sure, he'd been a French colony for nearly a hundred and sixty years, and a crown colony for a hundred of those, but his exports had only exceeded his imports twenty years before the handover. Then there was the war, and the Acadiens to settle, and the Loyalists, while more British people were sent over every day. All those people took up resources, and took up said resources until such a time as they were established enough to start giving resources backfocused, per se, since Arthur also had to coordinate his own affairs, and Jamaica's, and Bermuda's, and Sierra Leone's, and Antigua's, and god forbid he forget about the trouble France kept stirring up in Europe.
Kumajirou nipped at his fingers, and Matthew realised he'd been scratching one of the bear's sore spots. "Sorry, Kumakichi."
"Who?" the bear replied, but he settled easily enough when Matthew moved his hand.
Matthew pulled a chair up to the window. It was old and ratty, but Arthur had insisted that all it needed was a new coat of paint and a new seat cushion so it sat in the attic, gathering dust. Until the day Matthew had discovered this little hideaway, that is, and beat the cushion until the dust stopped flying. (Fortunately, the mice had chosen the old drafting table to make their nest in instead.) With one hand on Kumajirou and one on his chin, he watched the water fall in long trails down the window.
He didn't hear the door to the stair open, or Arthur climb up the dusty steps. He did jump when Arthur put a hand on his shoulder.
"Sorry lad, I didn't mean to frighten you."
"... No harm done."
Arthur smiled at him, the closest he ever came to an "Atta boy" or even a "Good job." "What are you doing, tucked away up here?"
"Watching the rain." He paused. "You were busy with Ceylon."
"I was." He patted Matthew's shoulder awkwardly. "I come up here to watch the rain too, sometimes. It's calming, I find."
"Mm."
"And you picked a good day for it," he continued, after a pause. "A measly old drizzle doesn't give half as good a show."
"I know."
"Yes, well." He paused, sighed. "Will you be joining us for supper?"
"If I may."
"Go wash up, then, and put your bear in your room. I'll see you in the dining room."
Matthew nodded, and with a sigh Arthur turned, headed back down the stairs.
Matthew gave Kumajirou one last scratch, then put the chair back where it came from. He was almost grateful that Arthur had taken the time to come look for him, hadn't yelled at him for disappearing (not that he should, a little voice protested, Matthew hadn't broken the rule about leaving the house unescorted), but he had to find a new hiding place.
Maybe he could build one out of the abandoned furniture. Now if only he could keep the other territories from finding out about it, or taking it over while he wasn't there...