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1 July, 1814 :: Montreal, Lower Canada :: during the War of 1812
Matthew froze, door open to the wind. "You-"
Alfred scratched his neck. "Gonna let me in?"
"But, you-" This couldn't be- Why was he-
"All I've got is a change of clothes and some vegetables, I swear. I'm not here to do anything to you. So," he tried to smile, "will you let me in? It's hot out here, and you're letting the cool air out."
He stepped aside, and Alfred took it as an invitation, hauled himself and his sack into the entryway.
"Man, it's hot outside." Alfred hung his coat on the rack, and helped himself to a spot by the fire. "Even Massachusetts is complaining at me. Well, he'd be complaining anyway, but this's the kind of complaining we can bond over, ya know?"
"Alfred?" Matthew asked from the hallway,
"Yeah?"
He took a breath. "What are you doing here?"
He grinned. "Visiting my bro, what else?"
"We're at war."
"Uh-huh. An amazingly unpopular war, too."
"Your General Brown is getting ready to attack me overland again."
"And your fishermen are privateering against my ships." He grabbed a biscuit from the plate Matthew had left on the table. "Well, Nova Scotia's, but whatever. New England is still trading with you, though, and I thought I'd take the opportunity to come check in on my baby brother."
"Why?"
"Why not?" Alfred patted his sack with a grin. "My people are so divided about this that I can have my own opinions, and no one will question them. Come on, sit down! Pull up a chair!"
"These- these are my chairs. And besides that," he pointed at his brother, "you declared war on me!"
"On Britain. That you're involved is just a side effect."
"You say that like I haven't heard what your War Hawks have been saying, or the people who believe in Manifest Destiny."
"Yeah, well, they're not the majority. They're just loud." He scratched his ear. "Really loud. My people are pissed about Britain's trade restriction, blocking our legitimate merchants and pressing our sailors. This has nothing to do with you. Oh, Ginny made tarts – do you want some?"
This was- Matthew just stared, trying to reconcile this overly friendly brother with the nation who'd declared war on him, whose generals had promised dark things for Matthew's people if they resisted, and slaughter if even one Native appeared with the militia.
"They're really good tarts – she used her own home made blackberry jam."
If he was dreaming, there was no harm, and if he wasn't, well, the tarts wouldn't kill him permanently. He slumped into the red armchair. "And the people who believe that North America should be united under the stars and stripes? That I shouldn't exist?"
Alfred hummed to himself as he searched through his bag, pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle.
"Alfred."
"They don't want you gone. I don't want you gone, you're my bro. They just think you shouldn't be British."
"If I'm not British, they'll want me to be American, and if that happens, I'll die."
"What are you talking about? You'd be just like Louisiana - she's still kicking."
"Alfred, Britain split me into Upper and Lower Canada. Those would become the new states."
"But that's just a formality, right? Like when you were Trois-Rivières and Montréal and Québec at the same time."
"But those were all Canada, without a lot of differences between them. Upper and Lower..." He snagged a tart from Alfred's handkerchief. "I'm still doing most of the work, since they're still young, but I'd thought you'd met Ian and Jacqueline already."
"They even have names?"
"Um, yeah?" It was.. It was almost nice to have Alfred so off-balance for a change, instead of waltzing in with big ideas or to complain about Arthur. "Ian's mostly made up of refugees and British settlers, and Jacqueline is what I used to be, minus Ohio. What, did you expect all the Loyalists to assimilate into Canadien culture?"
"Pretty much?"
Even after the time spent in transit, the blackberry tarts weremy troops."
"Damn. He's already revoked the 'Let's fuck with America's Trade' laws, too, but the war's still on." He flopped back against the chair.
"... You really don't like this, do you?"
"Nope. My militia don't like having to serve out of state, New England is pissed and refusing to fund the military, your people aren't selling supplies to mine like we thought they would... Hell, the smuggling alone between New England and the British navy would be a problem, even without the blockade on my southern ports." He started picking at the embroidery on the upholstery.
Matthew smacked his hand. "My furniture. Could you talk to Jefferson and the rest of the revolutionaries, get them to back off?"
"You think I haven't tried?" He lolled his head to the side. "But no, Jefferson's still pissed at Britain in general, always will be – comes with spending his formative years as a Patriot. Don't take it personally."
"You say that like you're not still pissed at Arthur."
"Never said I wasn't. I just remember that you're not the jerk who oppressed me."
Matthew looked back at the fire. "... What do you want me to do? Get on my knees and beg Arthur to stop the war?"
"Just.. don't hate me when it's over. And maybe make me a meat pie?"
He blinked.
"I brought the vegetables for it and everything, and I think I've got a couple pounds on me to pay for the beef. Come on, I can't make it like you do."
"You came all this way to have me cook you supper?"
"And vent."
"... It'd serve you right if I made it with pig jowls."
"Even you wouldn't stoop that low. So," he grinned, "will you?"
Matthew looked into those bright, sparkling eyes, and sighed. "You're insufferable."
Alfred just laughed, and led them both into the kitchen.