AN: This is AU. Ultimate AU. fem!France+heta!England
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I don't.
The hospital was quiet, and Arthur sat on an uncomfortable brown chair that curled up at the top. It caused his boxers to ride up to his butt crack, and he frowned at the sensation it brought. However, he could not find it in him to stand up and walk, not yet.
In his right hand he held an unlighted cigarette stick. He thought that he would go outside to light it and inhale the dangerous chemicals, but he instead decided to sit in the chair and stare vacantly at the sight. It was quiet. Yet, there was much movement about. There were men who were dressed in turquoise scrubs, and there were women who were dressed in various colors that ranged from pink to lavender. The men and women wore light weighted white jackets and tennis shoes that were similar to the ones he wore. He noted that they didn't squeak as loudly as his did, and he assumed that was because the ones they wore were older than his. He moved the cigarette to his left hand, and then he moved it back to his right. He toyed with the stick as long as his mind allowed, but he kept his focus on the humans that passed him without a second glance.
The air smelled tense down the hall. It was a pleasant smell, he supposed, but it wasn't an assuring smell to behold. It was a smell, a scent, which his mother would take pride in, but it was a bitter, bleached, and sterile clean smell that she would ultimately approve of. The combined smells of anesthesia and illness lingered in the air; he thought for a moment that the scent of sweat, perhaps his own, was lifted into the invisible air as well. He knew that he was not clean. He had not bathed in some time, and his hair was more than dirtied.
Too obvious it was to see that the yellow blond hair, scruffy as it was, had gone unclean and unwashed. There were no chemicals on top and inside his fine locks, and he normally took the utmost pride in his ability, his standards, to clean and shave at the proper hours of the day. The time was some past noon, and he was in an improper and unwashed state. He wore a light weighted green sweater, a shade darker than his summer green eyes, but it was wrinkled and knotty. He could see visible dots where the washer mangled his favorite sweater, but he was too occupied to care. The white blouse beneath the green sweater was equally winkled but lacked the knots. He knew there was a dark brownish-yellow stain from the vomit that had exploded onto it. He had worn the sweater to cover it up, but he was too tired to regret that decision as well.
In hindsight, it was an impractical decision to wear a summer; after all, it was the middle of summer. The Fourth of July, and it was hot. Hotter than most on normally days, and he found it to be incredibly ironic, tasteless and cruel, that he would be obliged, due to certain circumstances, to remain in a dreaded hospital on Independence Day. He fiddled the cigarette in his hand as he looked up and down the hall; he watched patients with disfigurements and ailments roll in and out of sight.
Nurses hurried but did not scurry up and down the halls in their tennis shoes, blotched black and white with some pink, that rubbed the tiled impatiently. Doctors with their glasses crooked on the bridges of their nose and faces flushed and urgent passed him, and he imagined what was what his doctor appeared to be. A middle-aged man with a balding head, stringy gray hair on the sides of his sphere shaped head, a ripe red nose, and flabby cheeks that matched his flabby, bulging stomach. He was a good man, a reliable man, but it was challenge to remember the reliable part as he sat, waiting.
Indeed, it was past noon; he checked his watch with a grimace. Soon, it would be one o'clock. He swallowed thickly and took an aggravated look down the hall again, but he saw no one who matched the description of the doctor. There were men, women, and doctors alike, but most were handsome middle-aged men with heads full of hair. Their skin contained that youthful middle-agedness that was lost ago on his doctor. His doctor, whose skin stretched and flapped, slapped angrily against his out of shape body as he walked; his doctor who wore owl shaped glasses with glossy brown-blue flecked eyes. They were not him. And he grew agitated, a normal response, and he stepped from the chair he sat on and hurried to the nearest desk. He noted, blindly and annoyingly, that his tennis shoes were beginning to squeak and tear against the tile floor, but he was too occupied to think more on it. He made it to a desk, a circular and medium-sized desk, and politely, though immediately, tapped on the silver bell that was placed on the counter to alert anyone present, and he groaned out in exasperation when his answer was not called upon.
No intention on being ignored, he continued to tap the bell repeatedly. Behind the desk, in an adjacent closet, he saw two women conversing while they retrieved several stacks of manila folders. On a normal day he would have felt a stunted amount of guilt for hurrying them as he did, but his heart was anxious and so was the rest of his body. His brain screamed profanities and threats if nothing was to be done in a short period of time, but he managed to maintain a composed manner. To his fortune a woman turned to him, noticed the animalistic look to his eyes, and stepped quickly to the desk. He was not in a good mood, and his mood was steadily decreasing as time ticked on with no signs of slowing up.
She was an older woman but not middle-aged. Brown-beige was the color of her hair, and her eyes were a fluorescent green as well. They were light and more gentle than his own, and for some odd reason, he would not find out and did not care to, a flower was stuck between her left ear and her hair. A hair ornament, he didn't catch it, and didn't plan to as his thick eyebrows furrowed deeply and stubbornly. The line on his face must have been present and more pronounced than it was at his arrival; the woman easily lost the cool nature to her atmosphere.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Kirkland," she said in a kind voice, "Dr. Himaruya hasn't arrived."
He tapped his fingers like piano keys, stuffed a hand in his pocket, grabbed a hold of the side of his cheek, and looked the woman in the eye, "As I can see." He didn't mean to sound so rude and inconsiderate, but the situation was dire and would not get any better without assistance.
"Marianne is in labor. She's been in labor for some time, and no one has give her the peace of mind, the common decency, to assist her." His temper began to flare, and he slammed a fist on the counter, rocking the bell, "She is in labor, and she is not getting better. And she will not get better if there isn't anyone to help us."
His words came out in a sneer, a protective sneer, and for the most part, he composed his politeness well enough. However, thought the protective sneer, there was a hill of madness and growing terror. The woman stared at him in concern, more than concern for no one knew what had become of the doctor, her lips formed into a thin line that rivaled his; she nodded in understanding.
"I'll see what I can do," firmness was etched around it, "I'm positive that there is a doctor that can help you."
Though Arthur kept up with his neutral facial expression, on the inside his reprimanded her for her thoughtlessness; she did not know him. She did not know the panic he was enduring. He traded false smiles and securities for an equally false sense, perhaps more so, peace of mind. His fingers clutched around the edge of the desk, and he leaned dangerously close over it but not so close that he could leave an imprint of breath on the woman.
He glanced at the nametag, "Elizabeta, you will find someone to help my Marianne. Won't you?"
"Yes, I will," she nodded, "but nothing can be done until she is fully dilated, and we will have to find her records."
Yes, that was acceptable. He understood that. It was necessary that the doctor who she had visited since the idea of conception was breach would be present, but the woman, Elizabeta, didn't understand. She didn't! On the bed, down the hall, to the right, in the room, his wife twisted in pain, and voices, both coherent and delirious, crept out of her mouth. Some words he was able to decipher, "Please, please. Make it stop. No more," but others were lost in a mess of multi-lingual jumble.
"Naturally! I know," he gritted through his teeth, "so hurry. Don't keep talking to me. It was said that she should deliver as soon as possible, and that's not happening. I know that Himaruya isn't here, and I know there many others are on duty. But damn it, can't you do anything to lessen the pain."
He looked down the hall, and then, he returned his gaze to the woman and wanted to scream and break. No! He didn't need sympathy. No! He didn't want it.
"Mrs. Kirkland's condition is extremely delicate," she explained, "we can't afford to rush this."
"And if you don't act the child will die." He stated coldly, "My child will die, and my wife will be devastated. And that's if we're lucky, my wife and child will die, and there will be hell to pay if that comes to reality."
At a lost Elizabeta sighed and shook her head. He knew it was true. There was no convincing him other wise, and the look on the woman's face told him too much. The flower in her hair bobbed, and he thought that the petals would drop right off onto the floor. She moved from the desk, went to the back, and he heard the gentle voices of another woman and herself. She returned with the sympathetic look on her face shredded, and it was replaced with a determined and professional one. Her hair that was once hung loose was tightly balled in a bun that was pressed against her milk, and she calmed her nerves by taking deep breaths. Arthur, for a split moment, found her quite intimidating but admirable.
"Mr. Kirkland, we will send your wife's medical documents to Dr. Gilbert Beilschmidt," the woman nodded with clarity, "And he will help you. He is available."
"Is he qualified in this thing?" The name was obviously German, and he knew that he should trust the medical judgment the woman was offering him. And yet, the gut instinct, the raw emotion that was terror, told him to be wary of the abrupt change. His mind, which was more rational than his gut, pointedly informed him that the options were limited.
"Trust me," the smile on her face was tired at the corners, "he's qualified."
In a gust of movement, something he hadn't caught, she disappeared down another hall with a small stack of papers in her hands. He stood there for several seconds, watching her retreating figure, before he slumped his shoulders and retreated to the room where he belonged. The cigarette was still in his hand; he looked down at it in his open right palm. But it had snapped and broke into two. The small brown masses of nicotine and other substances were pressed against his hand, and he decided that he would wash his hands before he returned to the room. He didn't want her to think that he was smoking. He may have wanted to take a small whiff, but he wasn't a smoker. He smoked under special occasions, and while this was more than a special occasion, he couldn't see it as a proper time to take a drag. A swift right he took into the public restroom, and he headed straight to the water faucets. He ignored the strong odors held within the walls, and he headed to the faucets.
Pink, bubbly liquid fell into his hands, and he let the cold-water fall in a loud rush onto them. He scrubbed furiously, wanting to get the bits and pieces from underneath his nails. As he washed, he looked up into the mirror and frowned. The skin on his face was an unhealthy shade of white. It reminded him of glue paste, and his cheeks appeared to be sunken, just a bit. His eyes were bruised with black patches that hung precariously underneath his eyes. His lips were chapped, and a visible split was forming in the middle. Gently, he traced his tongue around it, and the familiar sting of pain registered in his mind. He finished washing his hands and retrieved a napkin from the side. Ignoring the state of his face was the best option, and he made sure not to remember that his yellow blond hair appeared flatter and scruffier than usual.
He came to a stop at the door where his hand was wrapped around the metal handle. He didn't want to return to the room in the state that he was. His ashen face and bruised eyes; he did not want her to see him as he was. Especially when she was in no better state than he; her reasoned that one of them at least had to look proper, and he decided that it must be him. He walked back to the faucet, and he cupped his hands into a small bowl of sort. The water was cold against his face, and he dug it deeply around his eye sockets, gasping as he continued the practice seven times more. To the point he went that his mouth was like a gaping, gasping fish, and his red-rimmed eyes were lessened somewhat. He slapped his cheeks, once and twice, and breathed intently as trails of fat balls of unclean water rolled down his cheeks. He hurried to the paper towel dispenser and got a long sheet to dry his face with; it was rough, the brown paper, against his face. But it didn't matter to him as he scrubbed his face dry, hoping that he wouldn't look too awful when he returned.
At last he stepped out and the intense smells of the hospital overwhelmed him. This time he didn't double over, but he stiffened is body and walked down the hall while the water that had fallen on his green sweater dried. A small thought frightened him, that he walked too slowly, but he pushed the small into the deepest parts of his mind as he neared the room. Hands in pockets. Hands out pockets. He couldn't decided whether or not that he should call his parents, brothers, sister, or some other friend or relative to arrive, but he hadn't done it. Those were idle thoughts when compared to the reality; he knew his mother would want to know. Though she and his wife hadn't gotten along, his mother hated her, it was her grandchild she carried, her very first. He assumed that his mother would want to know.
Friends, he hadn't informed them, and he predicted that they would be most displeased when he finally broke the news to them after the fact. But he, at the time, couldn't think straight, and he hadn't gotten his little black book with an extensive list of friends and close acquaintances. He was too much in a hurry; too much of a panic to think correctly, and knowing that he lost his nerve, when it was perfectly realistic to do so, sickened him.
Because she hadn't lost her nerve. She, the one was carrying the child within her uterine walls, was absolutely fine as the liveliness held inside her vaguely light blue eyes dwindled down to small, broken webs. She had smiled and joked. She had tickled him as he drove down the highway in a deranged manner; she had talked to him calmly. She had said things, sweet and bitter things to him, to calm him down. And he expected that they would have worked, her lullaby words, if he hadn't looked into her face. If he hadn't looked into her eyes and saw the depravity, the subtle but brilliant depravity, he would have calmed. He would have stilled, but instead, he sped down the streets, sharp turns, and while she spoke to him, stating that he was going too fast and would kill them all, she still held onto the perverted sweetness he had come to know, adore.
"Viens ici." She still breathed. He shot his up in the blinding lights, and recognized that he had unintentionally walked in.
Fifteen minutes ago when he last saw her, she was stretched out on the bed, sleeping. But no, this time, she was upright with her hands folded on her swollen stomach. Stretch marks and kicks were hidden beneath the purple fabric of the gown the hospital had provided for her. Underneath the extra pounds of blankets, she was a bloated but slim creature, but she was determined, alive. And now, he stood blankly and watched her. She had managed to raise her bloated self up; she was sitting up with her head towards the sun, the window was opened. He wondered who had done it.
Loving hands were placed on top of her stomach, below to where the streaked line graced her belly button, straight down. She wore the shawl she had brought with her; faint blue with pink laces that her grandmother had given her as a child. She looked at him, too kindly and too sweetly, that the bruises that were on top of her eyes, more pronounced and sagging, didn't seem as awful as his own.
When she saw him, standing like a fool at the door, she raised her arms up tiredly, and he instantly move, noticing that the simplest of actions were a chore for her
"Mari névrosé," she said in a singsong tone, "my poor husband.
But he was afraid. He was afraid to touch her; he was afraid to wrap his arms around her failing body. He had touched her many times in the past. On the night of conception he had thrust himself inside her, deeply and harder at her beckoning, he groaned into her neck. He pressed butterfly kisses on her neck and face; she laughed giddily, teased him with her tongue. In and out, he went, and he kept his lips shut as the movements became more frantic, yearning.
She wanted it, he remembered clearly. She wanted him inside her, and he had complied. He could not stop looking to the nights when they had participated in fondling and lovemaking, because that was it was, and think, most likely, he should've said no. No! Damn it, he should have said; should have told her not until the procedure had been done. Not until they were positive that it wouldn't kill her.
No, he hadn't. She convinced him, and she was the one to blame.
He would not blame her as he would not blame the unborn child. The only crime the unborn child had committed was being convinced during a time when it shouldn't have been, but even then, Arthur was starkly aware, it was his fault then. He should have said no. He should have had self-control.
"There, it's alright." How warm her hands were when the rest of his body was so cold, "No need for tears."
He sat behind her on the bed. Too frightened to move one finger against her body, she pressed hers against his, and smiled. Soon, though his protested on the inside, ranted and hollered on the inside, he gently moved his chest to her back. He leaned his head on her grandmother's shawl, and a hand went straight to her stomach where the unborn child, he hoped it to be a girl, kicked and fought, preparing for the trial it would have to endure in the upcoming future. Months he had anticipated the time when it arrived; when the time arrived when it would happen. Too frail. Twisted insides. Cannot handle the burden of a child. She was determined! Determined to carry it through the end; had done what the doctors told her to do. Taken special vitamins, special exercise regimens, and diets. She hated diets and loved food, but she was persistent in her actions.
There were secret times when she cried. Bawled when she thought he was not home, not watching from a dark corner as she shriveled in sobs. Curled up in a tight ball, imagined that she could still manage it, and fell asleep as her eyes puffed and ached from too many tears.
The memories returned as he breathed. Dressed in a hospital gown and surrounded in a hospital, she did not hold the distinct scent the hospital had. He inhaled the ancient aroma of the shawl, "How do you do," he asked without thinking, and a small shudder ripped down at his sides.
"I am great," she whispered in return, "and how do you do."
"Marianne," the thickness in the name, the dread, could not be unheard, "I believe, and I am positive that I am right, that I am deathly terrified of losing you. I don't know what to do if you do die, and what will I salvage when the time comes."
A faint chuckle escaped her mouth, "Always the British gentleman. Flattering, but this baby will live, and this baby will need you. So promise me that you will take care of him or her when she or he is born."
He felt another striking kick and nodded, "I promise." The sun outside was bright and magnetic. The warmth it brought to their cold room was unimaginable, and to the right a small table held a bouquet of yellow flowers, a decision he came to in a matter of seconds. Gently, her hand went out to them, guided on the light texture of the petals, and she sighed softly. It echoed in the room.
"A new doctor will be arriving shortly," he said after some time had passed, "they cannot locate Dr. Himaruya."
She made no response, but she heard. She heard things that she wasn't meant to hear.
Out came from the window was a butterfly that was the same shade, a tad lighter, as the flowers that sat on the table. It was a small and timid little thing, flying about around them, but he hadn't seen it, not entirely. It made peace with the flowers and sucked up the nutrients. Then it flapped its light wings towards them, and Marianne plucked out on finger, slowly but eager. It was widely known that a butterfly was as timid as its name suggested, but it trembled on to her outstretched finger, soundlessly landing with its wings fluttering. The invisible legs hidden the mist of the sun, tickled her finger, and she released a gentle sight as her husband's hand grazed her the surface of her bulging stomach.
"Excuse me," an intruding voice disturbed the solemn peace. The two turned to the door, and Arthur recognized the nurse known as Elizabeta. She was not alone at the door; there was a man with silver-white hair and crimson eyes. He wore a pair of black hard framed glasses that made his eyes seem more rectangular than they actually were, and it was baffling to see that a small yellow bird, no telling whether it was real or not, perched on his right shoulder.
"I am the great Beilschmidt, and I am here to deliver your baby," he marched in with an air of confidence, "There's still a chance for her to deliver manually. Do you want to take it?"
He arched his eyebrow at Marianne, who struck him as severe but in a maternal way, "Yes!" And Arthur gaped at her instant response but was in no position to oppose her, but his breath caught in his throat. His hand tightened around on her stomach, and the doctor, though he was oblivious to many things, was able to catch on to that almost nonexistent display of emotion.
"I want to," she said with conviction, a resolute force shone in her eyes, "I want to. It can still be done, oui?"
The doctor smiled gingerly, "Yeah! There's still a chance to have a manual labor with great success. So get the lady outta here, Elizabeta, and get her to the intensive care, ASAP." He pumped a fist in the air and charged out the room as the silent yellow bird rustled on his shoulder. Elizabeta scowled at him as he ran down the hall to finally prepare for the great ordeal that was about to come.
"Alright, Mr. and Mrs. Kirland," she piped, "we'll just be moving you downtown."
He stood at her side as the bed was wheeled out, jogging to keep up with the rushed pace. Another nurse appeared, and further down the hall, so did another. His hand was wrapped around hers, and she looked up at him from her spot on the bed, her lips spreading into a smile.
"Soon, we are going to parents," she giggled, "I wonder what we will name him."
His hand tightened, a lifeline he was refusing to let go, "Emilie, if it's a girl. Alfred, for a boy."
"Oui, mon amour," she tightened her hand as well, "Emilie est pour ma fille, et Alfred est pour mon fils." Tiredness spoke volumes in her eyes, but they were wide with high expectations, giddy excitement.
And soon, the bright light of the future engulfed them.
"I don't like this," he said impatiently, "I don't like it in here."
Up at his stricken face, she couldn't tell whether he wanted to vomit or to pass out, but she was positive that either would happen, possibly both, if she didn't decide to intervene soon.
"This isn't as horrible as it may seem," she tried to peek beyond the blankets and shields, "it's been done all over the country, and it's perfectly safe."
He wasn't as attentive as he would have liked to be. Most of the time, he held her hand close to his beating chest, and other times, he let it linger on the side while his eyes perched above the blankets and curtain, watching was claimed by professionals and his wife as a "simple and uncomplicated procedure." In spite of their words of comfort, he couldn't believe it.
"You're not the one who has to watch it," he said with a disgusted scowl, "it's quite unsettling. Just tearing in and out like that. Don't you think they could be a bit cleaner?"
"And this is why I asked for Francis to come instead," she laughed at his paled complexion, the soft flare in his hair and eyes, "he can take it like a trooper!"
"Like Hell I'll let that Frog come out here when I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself!" He hissed possessively, "And besides, you do not need his presence in your condition."
It was impossible for him to see reason, "He'll take offense, but I do prefer your company more. As long as you don't vomit or lose consciousness, we'll all be fine."
He pouted at that. Ashamed that he was not as accustomed to the human anatomy as he would have liked he rolled his eyes at her humor, but it was no fault of his that he couldn't digest it. He had attended university for Political Science and Law, not Biology or anything related to it, but it was interesting to see, as well as inspiring, as the chemicals were placed on top of her stomach, rubbed thoroughly in. She couldn't feel it, and her legs were like jelly beneath the sheets. It was an understatement that he was nervous, though he had gone through a similar experience three years ago, but he was determined to see it through. Yes, he would. He would, no doubt, see it to the end.
"I see the scalpels," he swallowed thickly and looked down at her, "they are beginning to cut."
"Give me piece by piece detail," it was hard to look at him without smiling, "I want to know every detail of this, please."
"Fine." So his stomach dropped and sank as he described the horrid details of the procedure. Where the uterus was located the surgeon cut a vertical line through, tearing the epidermis and lining beneath into an accurate and clean line. Immediately after, a great flood of crimson blood began to flow out, and Arthur felt his knees go wobbly at the sight of it. Of course, he reminded himself, he had seen the videos of the procedure. He went to Youtube, watched the videos, and digested all the information that needed to be known for the day, but he couldn't stop the wincing of his eyes, the dizziness in his head, the flopping of his stomach. A beautiful thing indeed! He couldn't take it.
"They've cut through," he stuttered, "and Dr. Beilschmidt is digging his hand through. Yes, he is digging his hand through."
She watched him silently, "Arthur, do you want to sit down? You're not looking too well."
"No!" He said a bit too quickly, "I'm just peachy, dear. Um..yes, his hand is on the inside now, and wow." He went on to describe how the doctor's hand twisted on the inside of her uterus, and he went livid on how he forcefully but surprisingly tenderly grabbled the baby's head out. More blood and amniotic fluid spilled out, he supposed that was normal, but the sight of the infant coming out was a sight to behold. The doctor flung the little body out, head first, onto the table, and instantly, nurses surrounded the child in an effort to get it breathing correctly and to clean it.
His eyes were dazed and misty on the sides, "It's here. Here." He let out a low whisper just for her to hear, "Here."
"Here?" Her voice raised an octave, and she strained to lift her head to see the action, "Where is it? Boy or girl? I hope it's a boy."
He could not tell with the strangled cries that broke through the child's lips. A piercing scream and the shouts of congratulations, success, as the child was carried from the table and to the nearest cleaning area. He was not allowed to cut the umbilical card. The delivery was an urgent one, and he watched without breathing as the child was cleaned, umbilical chord snapped and discarded, the furious cries simmered into gentle whimpers that were scarcely heard. And the nurse, dressed in her pale blue scrubs and white tennis shoes, held the babe in her arms, bundled up and gurgling. White blanket with blue and pink stripes on it, the nurse walked to them with a pleasant smile gracing her lips, and he instantly opened his arms to the child, moving his expectant gaze from the nurse onto the child.
"A sweet, precious baby boy," her voice was drowned out by his erratic thoughts, "congratulations."
"Matthieu," her breath came out in one joyful gulp, a sharp gasp, "my Matthieu." Still feeling the strength in her arms, she reached out to the baby, wanting to grasp him as tightly as her husband, "I want to see him, Arthur. Let me."
He bent low enough for her to glance at his pink, puckered face. Eyes closed and fingers curling in and out; a cotton hat was wrapped on his head, pale-pale blue. He whimpered some cries, gurgled some more, but he was perfectly fine and pink. They had anticipated that the child would be larger, but he was so small and helpless in their arms. He hadn't reached their expectations, and that was both a worrisome but reassuring matter.
"Mon bébé doux petit," tears dropped on the child's red cheeks, "mon précieux Matthieu."
"I suppose that this will be the last one." He looked down at the child with happiness, but he knew that the ordeal would be too much for his wife to bear if she dared had another. He opened is mouth to speak again, but a nurse came to retrieve the child to send him to the nursery. Soundlessly, though reluctantly, Arthur released his hold on the child, carefully placing the slumbering child into the woman's arm, as the doctor gave them a prideful look.
"Told you so." His words weren't above a whisper but lingered in the room, and he finished his medical duties with stitching up the gaping wound that he finely designed on his wife's abdomen area. There were cautious movements in his hands, and staples were clamped down hard on the mutilated skin, stitched on after the other. The procedure was a success, but Arthur couldn't stop the scrunching of his face while the blood on her stomach was washed clean. A mix of crimson blood and clear chemical fluid, but she wouldn't feel it. She couldn't feel anything down at her waist, down after that, and he moved his attention from the grotesque to the mildly tired, moderately happy woman on the table.
"Now," she said between breaths, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"
The laughter that escaped is mouth was just as relived as his wife's, but he hadn't realized the fact until she nodded at him, "No, I don't suppose it was, but I rather not do it again. All this mess, and you'll be a wreck afterwards."
She clutched his hand, "I suggest that you send in a double, love. You were pitifully pale."
Three-year-old Alfred Kirkland was too excited to sit down on his Uncle Francis' lap. Instead, he crawled up and down the man's body, tugging on collars and drooling on his stubble bearded face. He giggled with fascination at the rough texture that was unlike his father's hairless face, but he clamped his sticky fingers onto the man's yellow blond hair, bouncy and pretty, not scruffy and hard to the touch Daddy's hair. The child knew the man, had recognized him from the frequent visits at the home, and he loved the man like he loved his father. But his love for Daddy was one not to be compared so easily! His Uncle Francis was loved, and his Uncle Francis was a loving man. The child grew bored and restless, as most three-year-old children were.
His mother was nowhere to be found. He missed his mother.
Her hair smelt sweet like honey, and whenever she pressed her firm body close to him, it was warmth that captured his much smaller form. He wondered where his mother was. Where could she be? He knew that she was inside, somewhere near, but his father was with her too. They would come back. They would. He was supposed to get a present, and presents meant good things.
"Mommy." Fingers drew invisible circles on the Francis' face, "Want Mommy."
Uncle Francis laughed gently at the gentle brushes of wet skin, saliva tinted skin, "Now, Alfred. Maman and Père are busy."
He didn't understand what that meant. Busy. The word had been thrown about periodically in his short life, but he could remember only small instances. Mommy and Daddy were busy on some nights; those nights when Daddy was upset when he walked in their room in the middle of the night. Disturbances, Alfred wouldn't know, Between moments with his wife. Daddy acted funny the last time he saw him, but Daddy always acted funny. This Alfred knew; he knew that this funny was different than all the other times. Jumpy and panicky, not quite steady on his feet, Daddy was not right, and so, that made Alfred nervous. But he wouldn't say that; too young to know the words, but he wouldn't let anyone else know.
"Mommy sick." He pressed his face against Uncle Francis and looked around, "Mommy sick."
"No, no," Uncle Francis smiled and clasped his larger hands onto his smaller ones, "Maman is not sick. Maman needs to get something done. To get your present."
He wasn't satisfied with that answer. "Mommy. Daddy. Mommy," he pushed his face into the man's face and curled his small hands into small fists, "Mommy. Mommy. Daddy." Tears stung his eyes, and he grew red in the face.
"Mon Dieu," Francis cradled the toddler in his arms, a look of concern crossed his face, and "It's been awhile since Arthur has talked to us. I hope everything is well."
Going to the doctor signified that a person was sick; Mommy had brought him to the Doctor many times in the past. Ear infections, booster shots, and other weird things that Alfred didn't understand, but hated to do because the shots hurt the most. He received lollipops on the days he visited the Doctor; hard rocked candy that grew thin and brittle as he sucked greedily on it.
"Lolli!" He jumped on his uncle's face, a bright light glittered in his eyes, "Mommy get candy!"
"Alfred, be still," Francis looked cross at the child. He couldn't understand what had overcame him, "I don't know what you're talking about, mon ami drôle de petit!"
"He's talking about candy, Francis," another person spoke knowingly, "he thinks she's getting candy for checking in."
"At least he doesn't think she's in trouble," he looked to the man who sat in an opposite brown chair, inside the waiting room, "such a handful he is, Mon Dieu."
Warm green eyes the man possessed with curly, matted hair. His skin was a light brown tan, and when he smiled it was crooked and true, "Don't worry Francis, she's with Gil. She'll be fine. She did help with Alfred, ya sabes. Él sabe lo que está haciendo." He appeared somewhat younger than Francis, and yet there was an older gravity to his charm. No lines around his mouth and eyes; he was a handsome man. A handsome and charming brown man with green eyes that were of a lighter, more mischievous shade.
"He misses his parents," Francis held tight on the squirming child, "I knew it was a bad idea to bring him along. Toddlers are energetic!"
The other man chuckled and leaned back into the chair. He wasn't as nervous as he appeared to be, but the unsettling feeling wouldn't go away, not so easily. He suspected that there were some complications; all pregnancies couldn't be as smooth and clean as one would like. The time shouldn't stretch as long as it had, but he wasn't in a place to dictate the matters of conception and birth.
"He's a baby, Francis."
"Yes, Antonio, I know that." The boy had grabbed his cheeks and began to stretch them with a wide grin on his face, "But this is too much. I don't think I could ever have children."
"And hopefully you don't," he eyed his friend suspiciously, "with all the lasting escapades you have ventured into."
Francis gaped, "Do not speak like this in front of the child!" He covered Alfred's ears with a haunting expression on his face, "And I've always been cautious. Very cautious."
The two glared at each other. Francis shifted the moving, squirming, child on his lap, and Antonio smirked at his troubles. Then, in a sudden light that caught their attention down the hall, they noticed a movement that didn't belong to the nurses or the doctors. Someone who wore a pale green gown with blue jeans and tennis shoes, a cap on top of a head of blond hair, and holding a small bundle in his arms. Antonio was the first to notice, turning his head to the side and eyes widening, his smile growing to a champion level score. But it was Alfred, who was growing groggy and tired, that screamed out with protruding baby teeth and in great joy, "Daddy!"
Kicked and squealed, Francis released his hold on the child, and Alfred tottered his way, ignoring the pleas of Antonio and Francis, clutching his grubby hands onto his father's pants leg. He dug his face into them, ignoring the firm, bristling material that his jeans were made of, "Daddy! Candy!"
Arthur laughed, his head hurling back in an exhausted but satisfied howl, "Yes, Al, it's Daddy."
Behind Alfred, Francis and Antonio jogged to the two, three, "Oh! Oh! Is that the Pequeño bebé?
Niño o niña?" Arthur looked to his Spanish friend, or acquaintance, he wasn't thinking correctly at the moment. A bright smile came upon his face, and he nodded, "Take a look for yourself."
Francis returned his hands to Alfred, and picked him up to take sight of what his father carried. The trio looked down at the bundle that held the newborn infant who was pink-faced and a little wrinkly looking, like a prune. His fingers curled in and out, and his eyes were too dark to see the permanent color just yet, but there was a patch of ash-blond hair on the top of his head. Arthur was reminded of Alfred when he looked at the child, but he was so tiny! Unlike his older brother was who was a staggering nine pounds, and the decision to perform cesarean sections was made in the near future. He was a tiny, little thing, only weighing five pounds, but his screams were demanding and frightening, brilliantly reassuring.
"Un garçon! Il est précieux, Arthur," Francis cried, "Look Alfred, you have a little brother!"
Alfred wasn't impressed. The little thing looked weird and malformed. Fingernails that were too short, a head that was too large, he failed to see what was so interesting about the one they called, "His little brother."
"His name is Matthew," Arthur leaned closer for the toddler to see better, "and Matthew, this is Alfred."
Alfred stared at his younger brother, innocent and wide-eyed. What did they see in the thing? How the baby looked at him, unseeing and all seeing, it made him wary.
"Mommy," he shot his head to his father, "Want Mommy."
"Yes!" Francis stepped closer, his face almost pressing against Arthur's, "Where is my sweet Marianne? My darling and passionate cousin."
"For Alfred," Arthur deadpanned, "she's in her room resting now, but I know she'll love to see you, Alfred."
He wanted to grab ahold of his father, but Uncle Francis refused to let him go. The walk down the hall, to the right, wasn't dreary. Before he knew it, they stood outside an open door where a woman blanketed in white lied peacefully in her bed, staring out the window. The men and boy stood at the doorframe, silent, until she felt their presence and gave them a beaming smile.
"Alfred," she scooped him into her arms, pushing his chubby self to her side on the bed, after her cousins handed him to her, "Have you been a good boy for Maman."
He dug into her collarbone, and didn't see that distress look that cross his father's face, "Not so hard, Alfred."
"Hush, Arthur." She wrapped her arms tightly around him and let him kiss her sloppily on the face, "He's missed his maman, and Maman, has missed him." A clean kiss on his forehead, and he smiled eagerly up at her, forgetting his misgivings about the trouble.
"Maman get lolli?" He asked snuggled against, "I gets lolli."
"No, Maman doesn't get a lolli, Alfred," she laughed, "but she did get your little brother. How do you like him?"
In response, he glanced at his father, to the brother hidden underneath the blue blanket, and he looked back at his mother, huffed, "He ok."
Arthur and Marianne chuckled, "You're the big brother. You're going to have to be a good one to him. Protect him, teach him-,"
"Boss." He uttered and began to lull to sleep, "Me. Boss."
Without making a scene, Francis and Antonio crept out the room. Two relieved expressions on their faces, and Arthur moved to the other side of the bed, where the nursing cradle was for Matthew. He didn't drop hard on the bed, but he did move his weight about to accommodate. Finally, the family was together, a family four, and he couldn't think more of how perfect, absolutely divine, the situation was. Now, that all the trials and tribulations were over, gone forever.
"This is worth it," she whispered close to sleeping Alfred's ear, "Worth it all."
"And perhaps, one day," Arthur chuckled, "he'll be Prime Minister to Great Britain, or maybe little Matthew."
She shook her head, "Lets think about the future later, amoureux." Pulling him close with her free hand, she tugged at his head, their lips brushing tenderly.
"Whatever you say," amused and feverish chuckles were heard between kisses, "whatever you say, dear."
A/N: Sugar biscuits. I have a Math test on Monday, which will determine whether I'll take the final or not, and so many other things to do. I should not be stressing out on fanfiction, but here I am. Stressing. Oh well, I love it dearly. Time well spent. Google Translate for the Spanish and French words.
I'll probably be working with Flash Fiction soon enough. You do get run down with these, or I'm just alone it. I think Flash Fiction can be a new direction and fresh start, a helper.
This was inspired by a picture on Tumblr: fuck yeah iraya! on tumblr or simply type iraya on tumblr. I highly recommend. The scene when Arthur goes in to the hospital room and just sits with Marianne where the flowers and butterfly is pretty much the picture. Giving credit where credit is due. Yes, I'm not too fond of Francoise as fem!France's nyotalia name. Sorry.
In my head canon, Arthur and Marianne do have another child; this child is also brought into the world via c-section. Her name is Emilie Leonie. Another story that may or may not be written, but guess who she is. And no, she's not an OC; she's a Hetalia character. To all those who decided to read this, thank you, and the same goes for everyone else. My workload isn't as crazy now, but it still took me a good week or so to finish this.