Author's Note: This story was requested by MunchyFox here on fanfiction, so be sure to let them know how awesome they are!
Gluttony and Temperance:
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
Back when they were kids, going to church was a mandatory ritual. No arguments. No discussion.
Tidy up, get dressed, and be ready to leave at the break of dawn.
No amount of pouting, whining, or faking sick was to be tolerated. Unless you sprouted a second head or were so debilitated by fever that you couldn't stand upright, you were to put on your dress clothes and make your way out the door—rain or sun, snow or apocalypse.
And to be honest, Canada never really minded all that much. France used to take him to church all of the time when they still lived together. It was the place to catch up with news circulating around the town, and for many, it also served as a source of comfort during the harsh winter seasons and sparse harvests.
America, on the other hand, would stomp his feet and bemoan about having to give up an hour of his Sunday to listen to some old guy on an altar preach about stuff he couldn't understand anyway. The prayers were hard to remember, there was a whole bunch of sitting down and standing and kneeling and genuflecting and hand signals and standing up again. Why even bother?
"America, the Lord has given you another day to live on this earth. You can sacrifice part of your morning in thanks," England would tell him, squatting down to straighten the boy's collar. "I trust you'll behave yourself."
Then, when the boys looked presentable enough for England's liking, they would be on their way. Blazing summers spent perched on wooden pews were the worst. They would sit up in the first or second row, and fifteen minutes into the liturgy, everyone would be drenched in their own sweat, skin sticking to the fabric of their garments. America would squirm, wriggle, and undo the top button of his starched shirt, unaware of England's glares of disapproval. Soon after, his leg would fall asleep or his nose would itch. He'd yawn and mumble hymns half-heartedly, giving up on trying to follow along.
Canada, however, knew most of the appropriate responses that were to be spoken throughout the mass. He was used to Roman Catholic churches, and although England made them attend an Anglican church (one of the few found in the New World), Canada could hardly tell the difference between the two institutions. England once told him the biggest difference was that the Anglican Church doesn't answer to the Pope.
"I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth," Canada would recite alongside England while America tried to move his lips to match their words. "I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen."
The only part of the mass that seemed to interest America was the Holy Eucharist. He would eagerly hop off of the pew and saunter down the aisle for his share of unleavened bread, excited at the prospect of food, no matter how small.
And dear God, could America eat. After being famished and deprived of a meal throughout the entire mass, he would tear through the kitchen upon their return and devour whatever he could get his hands on. Fruit, stale scones, rolled oats—anything remotely edible and able to be broken down by the human body.
After a while, England lost the will to scold him. "Well, he is a growing boy after all. Let him have as much as he likes."
Unfortunately, this often meant smaller portions for Canada. He was always taught to savor the tiny blessings and to appreciate what one is given. France would say that no one likes a glutton.
But when America eats the last tea biscuit one evening and doesn't even leave a crumb for Canada, the boy decides he's had enough. He shoots daggers out of his eyes and mutters lowly, "Did you know it's a sin to eat so much, Alfred?"
"Huh? I've never heard of that before."
"Yeah, it's called 'gluttony'. It's one of the mortal sins. Deadly sins. If you keep sinning, you go straight to hell."
Too gullible for his own good, America pales. "Hell?"
"Yeah. It's where all the bad people are sent to suffer for eternity."
His warning appears to be effective because by the following week, America cuts down his intake of sweets and large dinners substantially, fearing "the wrath of God." It's quite a noticeable change, and it manages to worry England thoroughly.
"Are you feeling all right, America? I want you to finish everything on your plate," England fusses, pressing a palm first to the boy's forehead and then his cheeks.
"I'm not sick."
Of course, it only takes a few more days for England to run an investigation and discover what's really wrong with America. Needless to say, Canada is left with a lot of explaining to do, and he's not allowed to have dessert for two weeks for "endangering his brother's health" and "planting silly thoughts into his head."
Oh, and he's forced to apologize.
"Sorry for saying you were going to hell, America."
America gives him a long look and begrudgingly says, "It's okay."
The years roll on, and America adopts philosophies like the bigger the better and the more the merrier. His voracious appetite both physically and metaphysically never really diminishes, and when they're both too old for England to keep the peace between them, Canada continues to call out America for his gluttonous tendencies. America brushes most of the jibes off, but Canada's criticisms stay with him on some level because when the world falls into war again and the rationing begins, America never indulges in more than he is given.
Naturally, good things can't last forever, and Canada knows that in a few years' time America will be back to stuffing burgers down his throat.
And when that day comes, all will be well again.
Envy and Kindness:
China is an old friend. They've both lived a great many years (more than they care to admit), and history has left them with their fair share of scars. They're more alike than they realize, so when Russia sees the man hunched over the conference room table with a pyramid of papers sitting before him, he can't help but feel a pang of sympathy rise up in his chest.
"Is everything all right?"
China snaps his head up and takes a swig of whatever is in the mug he's been served. For a moment, his lips curl up in disgust and he grimaces, and Russia is suddenly reminded of the fact that he's probably drinking the watered down tea that Americans seem to consider palatable. They're in Washington this week, and, by now, Russia has learned it's best to ask for the coffee. China, apparently, didn't get the memo.
"Ah, it's only you, Russia. Yes, I'm fine. You know how it is—America always gives me a headache."
Russia chuckles, all too familiar with the man's woes. "You should be used to him by now."
"I'm too old to adapt to the ways of the younger nations," China says with a dry murmur, a peculiar look in his eyes. Clearly, he's still annoyed by the day's earlier events. Hearing America talk on end is grating, especially when he gets started on international affairs. "Who would have thought a child would one day rule the world?"
"We can blame England," Russia chimes, glancing at the clock at the end of the room to check how much longer they have until lunch ends. "Don't let it bother you. He doesn't know any better. He's naïve."
But the floodgates open despite Russia's words of consolation.
"I shouldn't have to listen to his stupid proposals. What does he know about what goes on at our side of the world? He can barely find Beijing on a map, and he gets to stand by that podium and tell me what I should be doing with my fossil fuels? I've been around far longer than he has, and I don't need him interfering with my policies! Oh, and let's not forget the money he owes me!"
Russia frowns. The man has a point, of course. He too has sparred with America over who has the authority to make decisions and has stood his ground more than once. Even since the end of the Cold War, their relations have always been shaky at best. He doesn't enjoy the idea of being bossed around by America like the Western European nations often are, but he also respects the fact that America has a right to pursue his own interests. Russia can handle his own land, and America can handle his. They've both made that clear to one another.
"I can speak from experience," China adds. "He jumps into things and waits to see the results without considering consequences. How he ever became a superpower is a mystery, and now he's going to challenge me? I have the fastest growing economy in the world. He'll be falling apart at the seams soon, you'll see! Then, he'll be begging me to absolve his debt!"
Russia smirks and shrugs his shoulders. If China wants to blow off steam, he'll let him. He can vent his bitterness, exasperation, and maybe even an inkling of jealousy now, and when America comes back into the room, he'll be perfectly composed again.
"I'm not so sure of that. Fools are not easy to get rid of," Russia retorts without any actual malice. Sure, America is a thorn in his side, but they've battled out their differences before, and he doesn't want to reopen old wounds. Having a nuisance around at all times has made him a stronger nation—more determined too. "We were once like him—full of optimism and arrogance. And he'll learn to slow down, just as we did. Besides, he's not that bad. We could've ended up with worse."
He never thought he'd be one to defend America, but he supposes he's gotten accustomed to having the brat around on the world's stage. In this new era, America is certainly guilty of too much policing for comfort, but he's also pushed them forward with the help of modern technology. The globe is not what it used to be, and Russia can't help but feel a little too tired to be in the front row of it all. Maybe, on some miniscule level, having someone young and fresh around to wreak havoc and then scramble to fix it isn't bad. At the very least, it's entertaining.
Even though he's nothing more than a teenager compared to the rest of them, Russia has always regarded him like any other nation. He does not belittle him or look down on him. In his eyes, they are both adults.
"He's given a lot of humanitarian aid. Say what you want about America, but if we were faced with a natural disaster or an epidemic, I don't doubt he would send help," he admits, flashing China a thoughtful expression. "We all live on one earth, and we somehow have to co-exist together."
It's an awfully kind thing to say aloud, and thank god America isn't around to hear it or he'd never live it down. He doesn't hate the younger nation—doesn't hate anyone for that matter. That being said, he doesn't hesitate to keep America on his toes now and then.
The ire in China's eyes has begun to fade, and Russia supposes his job here is done.
"Believe it or not, the world still needs us, China. Our time isn't up yet."
It's exactly what China needs to hear, and he nods his head in agreement. Not five minutes later, America, France, and Japan enter the meeting room for the next round of discussion. When America announces that it's China's turn to speak, the Asian superpower doesn't hesitate to shake his hand as they switch places at the podium.
From across the table, Russia smiles.
Sloth and Diligence:
"Hey, Italy, have you finished writing the notes for your presentation on the auto industry yet?"
"Not yet. I need to finish making this first. Spain said he's never had my cannellini and pancetta soup before! I told him I would bring it to him during the meeting, but now I think maybe I should make enough for everyone else. It wouldn't be nice to only make a dish for him. You always tell me diplomacy is important, sì?"
There he goes again. Always getting his priorities backwards! For the life of him, Germany can't fathom how someone could be so irresponsible, so incompetent, so carefree, so, so lazy!
"The soup can wait! The data on manufacturing—"
Italy's breath rises into a little chuckle as he says, "You are too stressed again, Germany! Would you like to give me a hand? Cooking always relaxes me."
"No! There's work you still have to finish!"
One of these days, Germany will stop caring. At least, that's what he tells himself. He has plenty of his own problems to juggle—an escalating refugee crisis, the rise of radical, right-wing sentiments, and, of course, his brother. His brother is always a problem, ever-present and irritating and only helpful on special occasions.
Italy, on the other-hand, is not technically his problem to deal with. He should very well be able to manage his own affairs without Germany's involvement, and although Germany wishes this were the case, it often isn't. Somehow, he always finds himself scolding Italy anyway, even though he shouldn't bother. They're friends, unfortunately, and friends are notorious burdens.
"Sit down, Germany! Have some of the tiramisu in the fridge."
No, he won't sit down. He's going to head back to his hotel room to make some final tweaks to his PowerPoint presentation on clean energy. Someone has to be the responsible one, and once again, that person is going to have to be him. If he doesn't keep things in check, who will? God knows he's the only one holding the EU together with all of the funding he dishes out to the other member nations. Well, him and Britain he supposes, but that old fool is so prideful that he keeps threatening to leave. The media has even given it a cutesy name—the "Brexit." The least he could do is adopt the euro, but no, he refuses to give up his currency. Damn him. Damn the English. Damn it all!
Then there's France, and while his contributions to the EU have been great, he's still a pain in the neck, so that cancels out his usefulness.
Italy has paid a decent sum as well, but he barely knows what he's doing half the time, and the only reason he gets anything done at all these days is because Germany makes it his mission to keep him organized. Europe would be in a state of chaos if he didn't do so.
But that's all right. Getting things done is second-nature to Germany. If he's not being productive, he feels sick. He's been both applauded and scorned for his efficiency in seeing things through, and if there's anyone who can maintain a strong economy, it's him. Pigs will fly before he lets the EU crumble.
And pigs will fly before he lets Italy slack off at a meeting he's hosting.
"I want to proofread what you have so far."
Italy slaps a hand to the back of his neck, flushing. "Ehh—It isn't much…"
"Show me."
"But I—"
"Italy!"
Italy turns off the burner on the stove, casting a mournful look at his pot of soup before he wanders off into the living room and returns with a number of index cards. He hands them to Germany, anxiously awaiting his verdict.
Germany runs his eyes over the bullet points, squinting at Italy's penmanship. After a few seconds, he huffs and sets the notes down on the kitchen table. "That's it?"
"I told you it wasn't finished."
"This doesn't even scrape the surface of what needs to be done! Give me all of the briefings that have been sent to you in the past two weeks."
Once again, he willingly entangles himself in a situation where he'll probably end up doing most of Italy's work for him. He wants to be furious, but the sooner this gets done, the sooner he'll be able to stop thinking about it, which is all he really wants. That tiramisu in the fridge had better be mouthwateringly delicious or else there's going to be trouble. If he's going to subject himself to writing Italy's presentation, he had better get fed as thanks.
"Germany, you don't have to—" Italy starts to say, shrinking under Germany's sharp glower.
"Never mind it now. Give me the papers and finish cooking. I've never had your cannellini and pancetta soup either."
He indulges Italy too much, and he knows it. That being said, he's dug himself in too deep now, and Italy isn't about to change his ways overnight. He will do Italy's work this time. Just this once. Never again. Well, hopefully never again.
"And get me a beer while you're at it," he adds, rubbing the side of his face. It's going to be a long night.
Wrath and Patience:
"Bastardi! You ask them to fix one leak and they take apart all of the pipes in the house! I can't go back there for a week. A week! It's my fault for living in Sicily. Damned idiots!"
"Está bien, Romano. You know you are always welcome to stay with me. These things happen, but look on the bright side, now I get to spend time with my little querido chico. It's been too long. You never visit anymore. I'm starting to get the impression that you don't like me," Spain murmurs, taking the opportunity to be offended. He really is glad to see Romano. The boy is so grown up nowadays. He used to be able to pick him up with one arm.
As expected, Romano immediately becomes defensive, rage building. He has a hot temper at the best of times, and this entire predicament of him having to stay at Spain's house for a week has made him twice as volatile. "Of course I don't like you! I don't like anybody, which is why I stay in the goddamned house all of the time!"
Any reasonable person would have booted Romano out on the curb for his tone. Spain doesn't have to help him, and if he doesn't, the young man will most likely go and spend the week with his brother instead. He has other options.
But Spain is not a reasonable person by any means. He cracks a grin and ushers Romano inside, asking right away if he'd like anything to eat, and although Romano says he isn't hungry, Spain says he looks famished and puts a plate of croquetas in front of him not a moment later. It's followed up with a glass of sangria.
"You're always in a better mood after a good meal. As I always say, 'barriga llena, corazón contento.' Full stomach, happy heart." Spain teases him with a lopsided smirk. "What have you been up to lately?"
Romano looks like he wants to direct a jab at Spain for the taunting remark, but the sangria has made him mellow, and he lets the comment slide. "Nothing much. I've been trying to renovate, obviously, but that hasn't been working out well."
"Renovating takes time," Spain says, reassuring. "I remember trying to fix the wiring in this old place. It took four different electricians before I was done. How is your brother doing?"
"I don't know. Why don't you ask him?"
"Dios mío, don't tell me you got into another argument with him."
Romano knits his brows together and mutters, "It was his fault this time. I'm still waiting for the stupid idiot to apologize."
"Or maybe you can just forgive him," Spain suggests, taking the now empty dishes to the sink. "He's your brother. You should be filled with nothing but love for him."
"Hah! Maybe if he wasn't always doing dumb things, I would be."
Spain sighs and leans against the kitchen counter, twiddling his thumbs. "You have to accept people for who they are sometimes. Your brother may have his faults, but so do you."
"Yeah, well what do you know about us anyway? It's my business."
"I'm only trying to help. Besides, I know how you can be."
At this, Romano gets riled up again. "What? How am I?"
"You know," Spain tut-tuts. "You get upset at the tiniest things."
"No, I don't!"
"Yes, you do!"
"Bastardo!"
"See, that's what I mean! Now you're upset that I said you always get upset. Try to be a little more tranquilo."
Romano closes his eyes and opens them again, teeth gritted. "I'm not listening to this anymore. I'm damn tired. Do I sleep on the couch or in the guestroom?"
It's no use, Spain decides. He may as well stop now before Romano goes on a full rampage. "The guestroom, of course. I wouldn't let you sleep on the couch. It's bad for your back, and then you would have something else to complain about."
"Shut up already," Romano snarls, jumping to his feet. He's already halfway up the stairs when Spain runs after him and calls him to a stop. "What is it now?"
Spain manages a smile and says, "It's good to have you here."
"Whatever."
"I missed you. It really has been a while… I worry sometimes… I know I shouldn't, but…"
Romano clears his throat and tries to sound angry as he replies, "You shouldn't! I'm not worth missing."
Spain bites the inside of his cheek and shrugs. "I don't think that's true."
For a long while, neither of them says anything, and they stay in that awkward position of Romano being perched up on the steps while Spain looks up at him like he's the most interesting spectacle in the world. Then, finally, Romano sucks in a breath and marches up the rest of the stairs, breaking the conversation.
But as Romano reaches the landing, Spain swears he hears him say, "I worry about you too."
He can't be sure.