Hetalia doesn't belong to me.

I would really appreciate constructive feedback on this. It's a new route I've taken (and finished), so if you have any advice or see any flaws, please feel free to tell me. Thank you!

The piercing sound of his daughter's shrieking was enough to send Lovino from his pastry-filled dreams to bolting up in bed, eyes as wide as they could stretch. It took him a moment to register that he was awake, and that his daughter's screams were real. In the background, subdued by the volume of the wails, he could hear his son calling for his parents.

Great, both were up. Now they both had to be dealt with. Again.

Lovino glanced down at his wife beside him to see if she had awoken as well. She usually did, unable to sleep through their daughter's screams, but on some nights the stress of dealing with their children, working, and being away from their children in order to work sent her into a such a deep sleep that it took shaking her to break her out of it.

There was no need for that tonight, though; the streetlamp outside their window provided enough light for him to see Anri was conscious, staring at him from her pillow with bleary eyes. Even if she hadn't practically fallen into a coma, she was still exhausted.

He rubbed the side of his face, yawning. He was exhausted himself, yet he said, "Stay here. I'll bring her to ya."

Anri smiled tiredly, reaching for his free wrist as a silent thank you.

Lovino hummed, and forced his legs over the side of the bed. He dragged himself from the comfort of his sheets, blankets, and pillows to the source of the calamity killing his ears - the kids' bedroom. It was a blessing and a curse that they shared what used to be the guest room. On one hand, he could deal with them at once. On the other, his son would probably sleep through the night every night if not for his sister.

"Babbo! Mama! Céline won't stop crying!" exclaimed the four year old in his toddler bed.

"Shush, Giovanni," Lovino muttered, strolling through the door towards his three month old's crib, guided by their moon-shaped nightlight. "You can go back to sleep in a minute."

Céline's wail died down at the sight of her father. She threw out her tiny arms, squeezing her fists open and shut as she begged to be picked up.

Lovino hated how tear streaked her face was. Sometimes he wished she was more like he had been at that age, screaming in order to grab the attention she wanted rather than legitemately crying out for it.

"No, no," he whispered to her, grasping her small, chubby frame and bringing her to his chest. "You're okay. Mama's in the other room waiting for you."

"Babbo!" Giovanni huffed from his bed. "BABBO!"

Lovino shifted Céline's head into the crook of his elbow. No need to guess where his genes had gone instead. "What is it?"

"Here! Come here!" he commanded. "Now!"

Apples hardly ever fall far from the tree.

Nevertheless, it was late, and Lovino didn't want Giovanni to keep screaming for him if he went back to Anri right away. Céline could wait a few seconds in confusion before she got frustrated with the lack of milk in her mouth.

He sat on the edge of the toddler's bed. "What?"

Giovanni scowled up at him, lower lip jutting out defiantly.

Although he had Lovino's tone, his face was all Anri, including that scowl. From the cat green eyes to the shape of his mouth, to the lighter skin tone, he was his mother's child. His hair was certainly from the Vargas side of the family, though, being a light, almost auburn shade and possessing the stubborn curl trait. Unfortunately for the little boy, it seemed he had two on the back of his head. That would be embarrassing when he started school, especially since they couldn't be permanetly cut off. At least they were short, and therefore unnoticable.

Céline was better mix of her parents. While she had her mother's mouth and eye shape like her brother, she had Lovino's straight nose, rust brown eyes, olive complexion, and darker colored hair, even if it was as silky as Anri's. It was too early to tell if she had inherited the curl trait, however; her hair wasn't long enough yet.

Lovino thought it was amazing how alike and unalike his kids were, how his and Anri's genes had blended together to form two different yet similar creatures. Time would eventually expose just how alike and different they were. It was amazing. Just like it was amazing how he was bothering to dwell on something as pointless as genetics at at almost one in the morning.

"Babbo, why do I have to share a room with HER?" Giovanni demanded, catching his attention back. "She cries a lot. She makes too much noise! Why can't she stay in your room? You and Mama come and get her every night anyway."

Lovino was too tired and impatient to argue, once again, that they only had two bedrooms in the house, Céline couldn't stay in their room forever, and it would be a few more months before they afford to move into a bigger home. He adjusted her in his arms for the somethingth time so he could stroke his son's face. "I'm sorry, mijo. You deserve to get a full night's rest, too. You need it more than your Mama and I."

Mijo. Lovino had long ago given up trying to stop calling his son that. There wasn't a drop of Spanish blood in their family's veins (to anyone's knowledge), but it had become his go-to term of affection for Giovanni.

Lovino blamed his old foster father, Antonio Fernández Carriedo. The man had been from Spain itself, and had brought his language with him to Italy. He had even tried to teach Lovino how to speak Spanish, but Lovino had stubbornly refused to learn.

He blamed him for affectionately calling Lovino that growing up, hence why the term had been passed on to Giovanni. Hell, the man had been like a father to him for years, no matter how long Lovino had cut him out of his life after he left his home. Of course the phrase was passed on.

Either way, it had inspired an idiotic joke in their household.

Lovino had grown up in Italy and been partially raised by a Spaniard. Anri had grown up in the French-speaking Walloon region of Belgium with her Dutch father, which made her family to be biligual. For their jobs, it was necessary they both knew English. That meant their family as a whole knew four-plus-some languages. By that logic, their children should be able to learn all almost five languages from a young age, making them language prodigies by adulthood.

Or at least, they should; Giovanni hated to be left out of conversations, so whenever his parents started speaking another lanugage, he got mad and started screaming instead of picking up at least one other of the five different phrases for "Come eat breakfast." They doubted Céline would be any other way. One language was frustrating enough for a young child. Lovino didn't know how Anri and her brothers had handled learning two at once.

So it was an idiotic joke. It was hardly funny. But it kept coming up and cracking stupid smiles due to the irony of the real situation (namely the screaming).

"You should make her live in your room," Giovanni continued to rant outside of Lovino's mind.

"We'll think about it," Lovino lied, wanting nothing more than to go back to his bed, curled under his blankets.

His son's face lit up. Uh oh. Bad lie. "Really?"

"We'll think about it, I said. Don't count on it. Only a couple more months before you each get your own room, mijo," Lovino hastily told him.

He could see Giovanni think about that. To him, a couple months must have seemed like forever. He already had a hard time comprehending waiting an hour to go to the playground, let alone a few months to get the rest he desperately needed at his age. Lovino wasn't sure how to make him understand it really wasn't that long. Maybe Anri could explain it better to him. After all, Anri knew how to deal with him, so why not her little clone with his personality?

The concentrated face Giovanni pulled as he thought, though, made Lovino do a doubletake. Despite his wife's features, it startled him how much his son suddenly resembled Feliciano when they were kids. Knit eyebrows that nearly closed his eyes, pursed lips, and slightly wrinkled nose, even the auburn hair; it was all his younger brother's.

Lovino hadn't thought of Feliciano in months, not since Céline had been born. The births of his children always brought back memories of his original family. The memories might have been quickly forgotten, but they were there. It was simply easy to forget with work, his kids, and finding the time to be alone with his wife constantly on his mind.

His original family had never been the closest, not that it was entirely their fault.

His mother's side had disowned her for one reason or another Lovino had never learned, wasn't interested in learning, and his father was the only legitemate son of a womanizing widower.

After his parents had died in collision with a drunk asshole, his six year old self and three year old brother had been placed in their grandfather's care. Although he had been doting and careful with them (and, in Lovino's then young mind, had seemed to play favorites), he also had a love for wine that rivaled his love for woman. Their grandfather had completely destroyed his liver and put himself in a coffin by the time they were eight and five.

They were placed in the foster system, where the brothers stayed together for six months before Feliciano was adopted by a couple who found Lovino too troublesome to take with him. They acted as if it was his problem alone the deaths of his family members had soured him. In the end, he was glad they hadn't adopted him, despite the fact it ripped him apart that they'd taken the last of his family away. He had been placed in Antonio's care after that.

Antonio had been more patient with him. There were times at the beginning in which Lovino had been sure he was going to send him back into the system to find another temporary home, yet as the weeks went on, they got used to each other. Antonio became more like a real father to him.

But he wouldn't adopt him. Lovino hadn't understood at the time how long, complex, and ardous the system could be, especially towards a single man from a foreign country (no matter that they allowed him to foster). It had caused a rift between them, one that hadn't closed until Antonio had contacted him last year. Lovino had reluctantly given him a chance to explain, and his only regret since was not listening before.

Yet even with this successful reunion in mind, Lovino hadn't been able to push himself to look for Feliciano. He never had. He knew the name of the couple that had adopted him, the Edelsteins, but he hadn't put that information to use since becoming a legal adult.

He wasn't sure what exactly he was scared of. That Feliciano wouldn't accept him back into his life because he had clearly moved on without him? That Feliciano had moved on himself by starting his own family, too, and didn't want the brother that had abandoned him anymore? That the sibling rivalry that had sprouted between them when they went to live with their grandfather would resurface and worsen to the point they chose to separate again? Out of all three, he didn't know which question was bullying him into indolence. Maybe it was all three.

It was certainly amazing how little fears were able to hold one back tremendously. That was exactly why he tried not to think about it. The prospect of having another person he loved turn his back on him was too realistic to want to fathom.

Céline jolted in his arms. She was sick of being confused about where her mother was with her midnight meal. She whined, the waterworks getting ready to return.

Lovino hurried to stand up.

He had to get her to her mother before she attempted to damage her throat.

He turned from Giovanni. "Good night, mi- Oh! Sorry."

Anri gave him a small, forgiving smile. She held out her arms for Céline. "You were taking forever, you know."

He flushed, handing her over. "Yeah, whatever. She's hungry and your son wants to complain about sharing."

"Hey!" Giovanni protested. "I'm right!"

Lovino didn't bother to watch him pout as he reached down to ruffle his hair.

For a brief moment, he wondered what would happen to his kids if history repeated itself.

Since Antonio had never adopted him, he had no legal rights to them. Anri's parents and brothers were still living in Belgium, and he had no idea how cases like this would work with international borders in the way. On the chance that the system worked against them (which he didn't think it would, hoped it wouldn't), would his children be separated the way he and Feliciano had been?

Would they grow up without knowing each other, without caring about each other, without trying to look for each other out of fear of rejection? Was there some way he could teach them to love each other enough to get passed that? He didn't know. They were still so young. Loving each other was supposed to be natural, but life didn't always work like that. They might despise each other one day for all he knew.

The thought of his family being torn apart again, one way or another, terrified him. He had no clue how to remedy the situation if history ever did repeat itself or they grew up hating each other. He didn't want to lose his second family, like he had his first.

Anri touched his shoulder lightly, concern in her expression. "Lovino?"

He felt Giovanni tug at his pajama pants, oblivious to his parents' worries. He just didn't want to be left out. "Babbo! Pick me up! I want to go to bed with you and Mama!"

Céline cooed curiously against her mother's chest. Who knew if she had the slightest hint as it what was going on.

The three brought him back to reality. He shook his head. It wasn't good to think like that. Nothing had happened. Nothing was likely to happen.

If he was really concerned about it in the morning, he would talk to Anri. They would call their lawyer to make sure the kids would stay together with their family. As for hating each other, well - the kids would have to work it out sharing a bedroom (no one said they had to separate them in their new house; there was nothing wrong with having another guest room until the kids' teen years).

"I'm fine," he half-grouched, leaning down to grab Giovanni, who latched onto his shoulders like a baby monkey. "It's one in the freaking morning. I'm falling asleep on my feet. Can we go back to bed now?"

And who knew, maybe he would ask their lawyer about the first step to finding Feliciano. That might be a good place to start. L-Lead by example, or whatever.

Babbo: Italian for "father/dad/daddy" (according to Google Translate).

Mijo: Spanish slang for "my son."