Metal Birds

Chapter 48: Any Day Now

London, England, November 4, 1940

Arthur could smell the stench of alcohol coming from the small bottle in his grasp. It was half empty, though only now were his cheeks beginning to flush pink as he grew buzzed, swaying on the bench. He wouldn't dare put a cigarette in his mouth, the stench of it alone unnerved him, and so he risked the ill-feeling stomach and ridiculous hangover that accompanied to copious amount of undiluted alcohol it took to get a Nation even close to drunk. 

He sat on the bench, his feathers slumped to ground. He was aware of the puddles about from the raining the previous days, frozen over in a thin layer of ice. It had snowed last night. He could see a dusting of it everywhere he looked, each crevice covered with a thin layer of powdery white. 

He didn't shiver. They kept the window cracked, so Francis' cigarette smoke could escape without choking everyone in the room. He could hear the record player, crackling on about something in French, though Francis was upstairs, and the only one humming along was Matthew. 

Arthur didn't know that much French. 

Alfred was due to arrive any day now. Even so, news of his coming wasn't much to lighten the mood. He had been speaking with Winston. Apparently, though Seamus was in Egypt, the Irish government wasn't going to be allowing Britain to use their ports or military airfields. There was German activity in France, and it wasn't going well for Francis. The blisters were growing, though not spreading, and it looked like his body was attempting to rot away, as if it had decided he was dead even though there was a conscience inside. He'd been talking to his leader a lot as of late. Charles de Gaulle. He'd managed to escape to Britain early on in the war, and now served his purpose motivating the French people.  

He, like Winston, did his best to remain positive in the given situation. How they did it, Arthur didn't know. He did know Winston would drink in the mornings, however, so in that aspect it would be no wonder. 

Arthur took a swig, pulling the loose vest he wore closer around him. He'd managed to get himself some normal, comfortable clothes, though he had to tear a hole in the back of the shirt he wore to make room for his wings. He didn't bother doing the same with the vest, so it sat awkwardly atop his wings from where they jutted from his lower-middle back. 

He found himself glancing down as he felt a needle of cold on his knee for a moment. A snowflake was now vanished, melted on the knee of his trousers. It didn't take long for the tiny thing to be accompanied by another, and then another, and he finally looks up to see it snowing again. Arthur sighs, standing as he lifts the bottle to his lips, the stale stench of whisky meeting his nose once more. Three-fourths gone now, though he didn't sway when he walked. 

He moved inside, spotting Matthew sitting at the couch, sipping on a coffee. He glanced over as Arthur entered, though he didn't say anything about the drink he had in hand. Matthew merely sighed, brushing his feathers to the side so Arthur could sit, though he didn't. 

"It's probably snowing back home." Matthew eventually muttered, adjusting his glasses absentmindedly. A cold breeze filtered its way inside, and Arthur became aware of the continual clicking and scraping of the disc in the record player. 

"Yeah?"
"Yeah, probably. Hell, I bet it's three feet deep already, in some places." 
Arthur cracked a grin. "I remember the winters there. When you and Alfred were young." 
"Do you remember Christmas back then?" 
"...I do. God, that was so long ago." 
"How long has it been since all of us have had a Christmas together? Francis too." 
"I don't know really. At least a century and a half. Maybe longer." 

Arthur could feel his expression grow nostalgic and melancholy. 
"You two always loved going out in the snow in the morning. You woke me up early, and we let Francis sleep in because he would become moody, remember?" 
"And then we'd make hot chocolate." Matthew nodded, smiling blissfully. "That was so long ago. My favorite Christmas with you was probably 1711. When we went to the little dance in town." 
"I remember that... it took so long to get you two looking nice without you running all over the place. Didn't you dance with a little girl?"
"Yeah... I think her name of Caroline. I'm not sure. She's dead now, though." Matthew shrugs, and sighs. "We have to do something like that again. Alfred still dances with girls sometimes. He doesn't care that he's different, he'll pick her up and fly her to the roof and dance her to Neverland." 

Arthur snorted, putting his bottle on the windowsill. 
"Doesn't surprise me. Is Francis still talking with Charles?" 
"Yes. They've been at it a while, but it's alright. He's getting things done."
Arthur paused uncertainly at that. There wasn't much to be done. So, he changed the subject. 

"Perhaps we'll all have Christmas together again. A real one. Hot chocolate and all."

Matthew seemed to smile at that, glancing up. "Definitely." 

As the silence between them was bombarded with the sound of the record player, Arthur sighed. "Well, I'm going to go wait for Alfred on the roof. If anyone needs me, I'll be there." 
Matthew merely shrugged, and Arthur turned to go outside.

He moved his wings sharply, a small cloud of snowflakes billowing about at his feet as he moved to fly upward, and he found his cold booted feet on the roof, the snow crunching underfoot. He'd left the bottle downstairs. No bother. 

He moved, slowly making his way over to where he and Matthew had sat when Francis first arrived, where it felt as if he could see all of London. The place, though grey and dilapidated, still stood, alight with the gentle touch of the snow that fell upon the place with grace. He brought his wings closer around himself, the black barred ends of his feathers creating marks in the snow as he allowed them to sit over his head like a canopy, resting atop his head. His face was still warm, and when he breathed, he saw this warmth escape

It was enchanting to watch, almost more distracting than the alcohol. A sharp, cold breeze drifted across the rooftop, sending a fog of snow across it, and he watched, keeping his wings close about him as he stared down onto the slowly freezing city. Looking up, he could see a dreary plane making its way by, and he found himself subconsciously moving his wings as if he were the plane itself, emerald eyes glued to the world above rather than below, watching the great behemoths of the clouds float by as they gently lay the snow upon the ground.