I Can’t Help But Feel Like At One Point Alfred Really Got On England’s Nerves (and Possibly Everyone

I can’t help but feel like at one point Alfred really got on England’s nerves (and possibly everyone else’s) in a meeting, and so Arthur in his rage pulled out the Full Name Scolding™️ and was like “Alfred Fly From Fornication Jones you behave yourself” and everyone laughed while Alfred was mortified just like daaaaaaaaaaaadddddd

slight plot twist: smug, confident 20th century alfred is harder to mortify.

Washington D.C, 1998

The ensuing silence in the wake of Arthur’s outburst is interrupted only by Antonio’s snicker. “Oh, it’s been too long since I last heard that name.”

Ivan tears his eyes away from the pie charts and figures on the projector screen to shoot an accusatory gaze at Alfred, who is beaming cheerfully at his father in that patented, all-American way that was calibrated to somehow be simultaneously charming and obnoxious. 

“I was under the impression that your middle name was Frederick, Alfred.” Ivan says calmly. If this is the truth, he feels faintly cheated at having missed out on this amusing and critical source of mockery for the past seventy years. 

Alfred’s smile is dazzling, as he nonchalantly flips through several intricate-looking engineering blueprints. “’Course it is, Vanya. Just a little joke of the old man’s. You know how he is, he’s still not over the Battle of Yorktown. Now how ‘bout we get back to the—”

“I am most assuredly ‘over’ your teenage tantrum and have been for the past two hundred years,” Arthur says drily, taking a deliberate sip of his tea. His green eyes sweep the others seated around conference table. “I suppose he has been telling you lot one story or another when it comes to what his middle initial stands for, but it is most definitely Fly-from-Fornication. We were, after all, Puritans in that time.”

Alfred’s eyes are large and innocent, as he stares at his father with undisguised concern. 

“Shit, pops, I can’t believe you’re already getting fuzzy around the edges. Don’t you remember, you named me Frederick, after Friedrich the Great? I didn’t have a middle name till then, but then you took a shine to ‘Frederick’ after getting weak at the knees for Old Fritz.”

Ludwig, who had been about to firmly suggest that they return to the agenda, is now clearly trying to bury his laughter behind a thick binder prominently labelled European Space Agency Budget. 

Arthur is unruffled. He regards Alfred with the air of a schoolmaster long-used to dealing with a particularly tiresome student. He smirks. “I must say, the length you have gone to cover this up is nonetheless, quite amusing.”

Kiku’s brows are considerably nearer his hairline. The complicated calculations he had been working on are forgotten. He looks disappointed at Alfred’s lack of candour. “You told me the ‘F’ stood for ‘Franklin’ back in 1853. So, your middle name is truly Fly-from-Fuckin—” 

“Fornication,” Antonio corrects brightly. Shrugs at Alfred’s loud No It Isn’t. “Well, it is the truth, you know—I heard it from the Pope himself when he was having a conniption about Arthur back in the 17th century. Perhaps it is better to just embrace it,” he counsels reasonably, as Francis nods sagely next to him. 

Arthur looks positively delighted at this unexpected source of support and raises his tea cup challengingly at his son. Who proceeds to brandish a rolled-up NASA report threateningly at his father. 

“Well, firstly, this is bullshit. Secondly, if it is true—don’t you guys think this proves that my dear old man shouldn’t be allowed to name anything, including the kick-ass project we now have in the works? And that I am considerably better at choosing names?” By the end, Alfred’s scowl has morphed into a winning smile, of the variety often worn by his politicians in their television ads. 

Arthur snorts. “As I was saying—before we detoured on the amusing subject of your middle name—just because you’re providing most of the funding doesn’t mean you have exclusive naming rights. This is an international collaboration and needs to embody peaceful, multilateral cooperation in every respect.”

“And the names you submitted are boring and uninspired.” Alfred returns. Throws his hands up in exasperation. “We can’t just call this groundbreaking, reach for the stars ‘The International Space Station.’” 

“Well, but ‘The Death Star,’ would give a rather worrying impression—” 

“You know that was just a joke, Lutz.”

“Come on, Al. It’s not terribly interesting but ‘International Space Station’ is diplomatic and a good description. I doubt we can get fifteen governments to agree on any other name—at least for now.” It’s Matthew, who has just returned from the restroom. Then, noticing that everyone else is staring at him. “What is it? Did I miss something?”

It’s Feliciano who gets the question out, unintimidated by Alfred’s warning glares, his hazel eyes wide with irrepressible curiosity.

“Matthew, is your brother’s middle name really ‘Fly-from-Fornication’?”