#matthew williams

¡Especial de Halloween/Día de Muertos 2021!

Quería terminar esto para el 31 de Octubre xd

Was rewatching Hetalia and listening to the character songs and I can’t help but to feel it’s unfair that Canada never got a song. I get that his whole schtick was that people forgot about him and never noticed him but there are some episodes where his existence is acknowledged, so he should’ve gotten a song at least venting about how people forget him.

interregnum

(A snapshot, amidst the Battle of Britain. Arthur and Matthew-centric. Notes: Content warning-wise—injury mention. No explicit violence. “Jack” is AUS, and “Zee” is NZ. 800 words).

London, 1940

“Well then, what does it say, Matthew?” 

Arthur’s right arm is ensconced in a sling—but as always, his father is no less imposing, in the sharp and neat lines of his olive-coloured dress uniform, the gold of his buttons gleaming and polished. Even wounded, he exudes power effortlessly. 

“It’s postmarked from New York.” Matthew slices open the envelope. 

“Go on. Read it out.” Behind Arthur, the morning sun streams in, through the large, expansive windows of his office, scattering diamond-shaped patches of light onto the antique carpet and the hardwood floor. On the glass itself—tape, placed in a methodical, diagonal crisscrossing pattern, accompanied by dark curtains. The standard precautions for nightfall nowadays. 

Thus far, the air raid sirens had mercifully been silent today.

Matthew unfolds the letter. Alfred’s handwriting is bold and hurried, his tone casual and light-hearted. Yo old fart—A whole colourful paragraph on how Billie Holiday and Gregory Peck— a new but apparently promising actor—had been in town. The latest jazz concerts he’d attended. The nice cut of sirloin he’d had last night, at the Waldorf-Astoria.

“He says…” Matthew skims his brother’s letter. He jumps to the second last paragraph, “…that he’ll be in San Francisco. At the naval facility and shipyard there. Keeping an eye on the Pacific. And that Congress will probably widen the cash-and-carry scheme to include war materiel. He wishes you good luck, and says that there’s a box of genuine Cuban cigars for you in the mail.”

“Well, I certainly never would turn down a good cigar but—Good luck? Cash and carry?” Father snorts, his tone derisive. “Does that wretched lad think my gold reserves are unlimited, to pay him for all that?” He turns away from Matthew, the slope of his shoulders tense. “So, he’s not coming, is he?”

He’s angry now, Matthew knows. Not the sort of turbulent rage that was a prelude to the sorts of shouting matches Father had with Alfred, but something simmering, like a kettle slowly boiling over on a stove. Anger was what Father preferred to show, over disappointment—whenever it came to Alfred.

Matthew resented them both for it, at times. How often had he been the bedraggled mediator and go-between for Father and Alfred? For his brother, the ocean that lay between them and Father was actually a barrier the way it wasn’t for Matthew. His brother had always done whatever the hell he wanted, his will as forceful and indomitable as trying to bottle a hurricane. 

Father had fumed for three decades after he’d burned Alfred’s name off the family tree. But then, as the years went by—he’d mellowed on his brother. Turned back to regarding his eldest son with the sort of grudging respect and recognition he bestowed on an equal—and no one else. Not Matthew, nor Jack and Zee, not even Father’s own siblings, let alone anyone else across the rest of his vast empire, no matter how much they’d bled for King and Country. 

But Matthew squashes those feelings down for now. It wasn’t the time.

“No. He isn’t.” Matthew replies carefully. “He says his hands are tied by the Neutrality Acts.”

“Is that what he said?” Father laughs, sharp and loud. His green eyes glint as he turns to face Matthew. “Steel bars and the Almighty himself couldn’t tie that wretch’s hands, not unless he allowed them to.”

The New World, with all its power and might, Churchill had anointed, waxing lyrical and dramatic. Alfred, Matthew knew, would squeeze something more through the legal loopholes, sooner or later.  It wouldn’t be nothing, it would help—but it would be far short of what Father really wanted. His brother was that way. All those tangled up threads about family that Alfred preferred to avoid upfront, to bury under cheerful irreverence or, on other occasions, spiteful snippiness towards their father. 

You have me, Dad, is what he wants to say. But he doesn’t. “I’ll write back to him.” 

“You do that. Maybe he’ll listen, if it’s coming from you.” Arthur’s nod is curt. The line of his mouth is thin. His nostrils flare. “Goodness. When I said ‘in God’s good time’, I meant hurry the bloody hell up, notsit there twiddling your thumbs.”

This, Father says with casual, dismissive annoyance. As though he’s dealing with something no more inconvenient than a tailcoat not being mended on time or being short on his favourite Earl Grey. As though it were something displeasing but ultimately of little import to him and his plans, old and confident as he was in his power—but it’s obvious.

How much Arthur really looked— in the face of the unfolding disaster before them, with bated breath and carefully-concealed hope—to his estranged son and Matthew’s older brother. How much he longed to have Alfred by his side. 

Some D-Day Matt; I headcanon him as a paratrooper with the 1st Canadian Parachute Battalion. So here’s the jump into France. Content warnings: Injury, violence, death mention. [1k words].

6th June, 1944

Through a thick bank of clouds—and then they’re out the other side—into hell.

Brilliant, glowing white streaks of German anti-aircraft fire light up the inky blackness. So much for ever hoping to sneak in, Matthew thinks drily. The silhouettes of the other C-47 Dakotas race through this lethal gauntlet,  hundreds of dark crosses standing out against the blinding, thunderous flashes of light. 

Through the open door of the plane, a glimpse of sheer chaos and utter pandemonium above, behind and below. The colourful blue, red and green of the German tracer bullets soaring up to join the hail of lead chasing the Dakotas. Split seconds later—the awful sound of rending metal, accompanied by a deafening roar; the fiery outline of a damaged plane right in front of theirs spiralling down to the ground, its fuselage wreathed in brilliant flames. 

Then—before Matthew can even spare a thought for the lost men—a series of violent lurches, like that of the worst out-of-control rollercoaster ride, a thousand times over. He swallows a curse, as he’s thrown hard to the left, his shoulder meeting, bruising against the sharp edge of a metal switchbox welded to the wall, through his jump uniform. He drags himself upright. The C-47 bucks sharply again, as their pilots took evasive measures, slamming several more men to the floor of the plane in a tangle of limbs. Loud cursing and groans of pain, as the paratroopers who were sent careening into one another furiously fought to untangle their individual static lines, which they’d already clipped to the main anchor line running along the aircraft’s ceiling. Minutes earlier, the red signal light had come on, and they’d all completed their equipment checks and hooked themselves up in preparation for the jump.

Their plane banks violently again, this time to the right. Matthew grits his teeth, bracing himself on an icy-cold metal latch. His stomach roils queasily—but the airsickness pills he’d swallowed back at the RAF airbase do their job. More explosions. Another German anti-aircraft battery strikes home. His ears are ringing, his heart hammering in his chest.

Amidst this chaos, the sounds of retching. One man’s dinner has evidently come right back up at the worst possible moment. Matthew twists around, his eyes straining to see amidst the alternating darkness and blinding flashes of the tracer rounds and anti-aircraft fire, the fuselage of the plane lit only by the feeble, crimson glow of the signal light by the door.

The sick man is doubled up on the floor, bent over by his airsickness and the weight of all his gear—all 150 pounds of it, a buddy right behind attempting to haul him to his feet. Matthew bends down carefully, one hand holding his own static line taut so it wouldn’t get entangled. Then, he grasps him by the other arm, and between the two of them, the ill man manages to right himself.

His brown eyes are wide and his face is pale, underneath the areas where the camouflage paint had smudged off, but he nods at Matthew, mutters a prayer, rechecks his static line and flashes a thumbs up.

The much-awaited green light flickers on.

For Matthew, the thunderous cacophony of anti-aircraft fire, and the muttered curses and prayers of the nineteen other men behind him all fade away.

He was good at this, Arthur had always said, the way he could slide into a state of absolute cool, placid clarity. Battle calm.

Time slows to a crawl. 

The only thing in the world is the inhale and exhale of his lungs. The solid, reassuring feel of his parachute harness, the weight of the gear on his back and the second, heavy pack strapped to his leg. One of Arthur’s ideas. A leg-kit, Father had said primly, where extra ammunition, rations, machine-gun tripods, whatever—could be stuffed, without overburdening the paratrooper and injuring him upon landing. Matthew was of the opinion that the whole damned thing was likely to be ripped off his leg the moment he jumped, at that wind speed and velocity. He’d said as much to Father. They’d know soon enough.

The knife he’d stuffed down his right boot. His good-luck talisman. It was old, the hilt made of hardwood he’d cut and polished himself, countless seasons ago, underneath the long shadows of the trees and their fading leaves.

The wind rushes through the open door ferociously. Too fast, he notes. The pilots were supposed to ease back on the throttle, slow the plane down for the jump. Naturally, they were panicking.

But there is nothing else to do but to take the next step forward. To lead the way, as the officer in charge of the nineteen other men behind him.

The French countryside is a dark, waiting void below, lit only briefly by the rapid, muzzle flashes of the German anti-aircraft gun batteries and the bright streaks of their tracer rounds.

(Farmhouse, fields, hedges, a church steeple—)

Somewhere below, is their target—the bridge and German garrison in the village of Varaville. Which would otherwise have free reign to cut down the British, Free French, Norwegian and Polish troops coming ashore at Sword beach in a few hours, if he and his men didn’t do their job.

Somewhere—who knew where—was his other father. Francis. Alive, dead or lingering somewhere in between, who knew.

Behind, still making their way across the Channel, under the dark blanket of radio silence, were his father and Alfred. He wouldn’t concern himself with them, for the moment. There’d be plenty of time, later. 

Matthew crosses himself. It’s nothing less than an ironic privilege he has, knowing that Death could not hold on to him, would not come for him.  

Behind, his men are all mostly silent now; all wrapped up in their own private rituals, thinking about family, lovers, home, on this precipice in between life and death. Their thoughts flow around him, their emotions strong and distinct, but never blurring or mingling with his own, akin to the clear waters running around a stone resting in a river. 

The open door of the plane awaits, the icy, onrushing air stinging his eyes, the glowing, incandescent streaks of the enemy tracer rounds and the hot, metallic smell of spent ammunition suffusing his senses.

He shoots his men one last glance over his shoulder; a whole row of tense, wide-eyed young faces shadowed by their helmets, disappearing back into the darkness of the plane, their hands bracing themselves upright as their craft shakes and judders violently. 

Amidst the thunderous din, his own expression is equal parts calm and grim. I’ll see you all on the other side.

Then, his mind is clear and cool, emptied of everything except the parameters of the mission, as uncluttered as the darkened, seemingly featureless landscape rushing by far below. 

Matthew braces himself, sucks in a breath, exhales once, twice. 

And then he steps out, lets himself fall, into the unknown.

Vilma Sjöberg

Office Magazine x Givenchy | FW 22

shot by Olivia Ghalioungui

F.A.C.E.

Please don’t remove ma credit.