Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or The Piano Teacher by Janice Y. K. Lee. Or The Nutcracker. OrArthur Rankin Jr. movies like: Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer. Or In the Heart of the Sea. Or Krampus. Or Lego. Or Cluedo. Or Candyland. Or Monopoloy.
Warning: Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Brief reference to the first bombing of London by the Germans. Family flashbacks. Family drama. Repeat. Faaaaaaamily Draaaaama.
AN: Hey all, I managed to whip this out. And now pity me...because tomorrow I'm gonna have to write three in-class essays aaaand have exams too...because life... : D Have fun with the cliffhanger while I try to survive until Friday (my final Final). Good luck to us all! : DDD
Chapter 50: Everything Unraveled
Arthur groaned as he came to and then sighed. There was always something awfully unpleasant about waking up in a hospital bed.
O so happy flashbacks of May 31, 1915 came to mind. Goddamn German zeppelins.
He frowned at the smell of antiseptic cleaning chemicals and old carpet and plastic.
Had he suffered some sort of terrorist attack?
No.
A sharp throb from his weak ankle told him why he was here. He tried to think back to what had happened, but the world went hazy.
Something about the stairs. If he'd tripped on another roller skate so help him he'd...
He blinked and shook his head. His vision swam leisurely, but he felt no panic at the lack of control.
He was pumped full of morphine. That was for certain. He glanced down at his injured foot-he wiggled the toes peeking out of a cast.
Helloooo down there.
"You've already been through surgery," Rhys informed him from his chair beside the bed. His hands were gripping the chair arms tightly. "You also needed stitches. The bone...came...er...through."
Fun, fun. What a marvelous holiday he was having? No romping about for him. A ping of melancholy over being "un-fun" swept through him at that.
Which was odd...Sealand preferred to play video games and Wy didn't like to be carried anymore.
Which was just as well. He couldn't afford to put too much weight on his injured foot. His heart ached and he blinked hard as emotion welled up in him.
What in the…? Damn medication-causing him chemical imbalances. He'd come to terms with all that ages ago.
"We've been given leave to take you home," Rhys swallowed. He seemed awfully pale or maybe it was the lighting.
Ah yes, one of the few true privileges of being a nation-it lit up on their screens that hospitals and jails weren't to detain you. It was one of the few good things about technology too. It used to take ages to have an agent sent out to argue for you...and humiliating when you'd just had one too many tankards for a night. The police knew now to just drive him home.
Arthur sat up. Good, it was good. He'd have hated to have to stay overnight. If given the choice, he'd always prefer to convalesce at home.
Hospitals would always be dreary places to him-for too long a time they'd been the step before the grave.
And seeing all his wards go in and out of them during the Great Wars made him resentful of them.
It was irritating though...needing Rhy's help to change into new set of clothes.
Usually, Reilley did that sort of thing-all while making unnecessary taunts like "here your highness," "lemme help with that highness," or "O whoopsie, dear me, someone's buttoned all wrong."
Reilley's help was still superior to Alistair's though. The man was quick and silent, that was true, but he'd be so rough as he dressed you, that you'd prefer the taunting. Reiley was at least gentle as he assisted.
Both were preferable to Rhys though...who was just awkward. His hands didn't quite want to make contact which made the whole task that bit more challenging.
"Had to discard the other trousers," Rhys offered. "Your ankle swelled. Had to cut you out."
England huffed as he sat back down. He'd been fond of that pair too.
He scowled at his patient wristband and suppressed the urge to rip it off.
Reilley knocked loudly on the wall beside the door. He grinned plastically from his spot in the doorway, "C'mon then, I signed you out." He gripped the handles of a hospital issue wheelchair. "Got yer wheels Cinderella."
His brother made an obnoxious Vroomvroom sound-twisting his hands on the handles like it was a motorcycle. "The Ball awaits. Let's go. Yeh'll take yer lecture from the doctor-fairy-godmother and we'll be off. Back to...back to..." his expression faltered a bit "The...festivities."
"Want crutches," Arthur grumbled. It was enough for his ego that a minor tumble had resulted in him breaking a bone. To be wheeled out like some sort of invalid-absolutely not. He'd been injured far worse than this and still been out on the battlefield leading charges.
"Cenaw arth," Rhys murmured. "Don't be like that."
Arthur blinked and blushed at the pet name he hadn't heard since childhood.
It took him back to days of thatched roofs and roundhouses and wool clothes and wooden toys.
"Come on, cenaw arth," Rhys entreated-exasperation tinging the tone of the gangly thirteen year old. He blew the messy, stringy fringe out of his face as best he could-since both of his hands were occupied. "Come on," he held the spoon up. It was pockmarked with bites because Albion's teeth were coming in and he took his frustrations out on the poor spoon.
"Come on."
Albion scrunched up his nose and blew his tongue-leaning back hard-away from the person holding him.
Rhys had to compensate for his weight, or he'd have fallen hard onto the ground. As it was, the older boy decided to sit down on one the woven mats. That way if Albion repeated the stunt and he wasn't quick enough, the child would only be a short distance from the floor.
"Such an angry little bear," Rhys muttered. "How do you know you don't like it? Yeh've not even risked a bite, yet."
Alba's frowning face came into view over Rhys's shoulder, "Albion." He sucked in a breath through flared nostrils and ordered, "Eat it."
Young Albion shuddered at his most intimidating brother.
"Alba…" Rhys sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yeh can't just force a bairn to-"
"Aye, I can. Yeh keep lettin' him think he has a choice about it," the seven year old huffed hands on his hips. "If he does not eat, he'll fuss. He will. He's got to eat. He's got to." He drew his eyebrows together menacingly and glared.
"Alba, stop that. Yer face'll freeze like the pond and everyone in town'll say: Ugh, it's that Alba the Unpleasant-"
"They already say that."
"They'll say it in lands that have yet to meet you."
"...no they won't...yer tellin' tales..."
"I'm prophesying."
"I'll eat it," a young Reilley volunteered.
"Eire!"
"Eire!"
"I don't mind that it's mushy. Mam says we cannot go till he eats. He ain't goin' to eat. Cuz he was born cross. And when yer born cross yeh live to make folk unhappy."
"Eire tha's terrible-who told yeh that? You tell me now-"
"Let Eire eat it," Alba nodded. "He's right."
"No! Now go on, yeh little goblins. Get. Go. Out. Now."
"Mam says-"
"Mam can take it up with me, Eire. I say you two can go…" Rhys settled. "But Alba...yeh hafta hold his hand."
"Aye, ya hafta hold my-"
"Ack! Nooo. Yer a sticky muck monster from the loch-"
"Alba!" Rhys scolded.
"And yer...IT!" Scotland gave Ireland a playful push and the two went running and screeching outside.
Albion whimpered. He wanted to go outside. He pointed his chubby finger where he wanted to be.
Rhys sighed and stared him in the eye, "Will yeh eat outside then?"
Hazel eyes were watching him intently.
Arthur blinked several times-Rhys didn't usually volunteer memories like that to him. Memories where they almost seemed like some ordinary human family...
It was...unexpected...it was...comforting...it was...patronizing.
"F-fiiiine," England spat blandly. Angry at having a soft spot prodded. "But-but yer over-overreacting. Not the firs' not the firs'...I... I've...I...perfectly" he was getting flustered at the unblinking hazel gaze "Humph."
After an awkward ride in the elevator, he'd nodded vacantly through Dr. Chhabra's regiment. He passed the paperwork to Rhys who pocketed it.
Yes. Yes. PRICE.
Protection. Yes.
Rest. Yes.
Ice. Yes.
Compression.
Elevation.
Right-o.
And showering would be a pain in the arse. Yes. He's had broken bones before. Thank you.
And yes. Medication. God bless medication. Yes, they were heading to the pharmacy now for some happy pills.
He was going to need them.
One long queue and then they were truly off.
He was surprised that Reilley didn't try anything in the parking lot. Usually, he made a big show of losing control of the wheelchair and just when it seemed like Arthur was in imminent danger of running into a vehicle or falling off the curve, he'd dive back in and set things right.
No, they just strolled out with Reilley being unusually mature as Rhys phoned the British Parliament and the Royal Family on his cell-letting them know that Arthur was alright.
Rhys nodded, "Yes. Yes, I'll let him know. I see...yes, if you could continue trying to make contact, we'd appreciate it. Yes, we'll need to discuss it as soon as possible. The current arrangement is unacceptable. Thank you."
The Welshman slipped his phone back into his pocket and gave Arthur a nod.
The car ride was strangely peaceful. Arthur had been given an insane amount of blankets that Reilley had apparently bought on sale. The Irishman had waltzed about the city while his brother was in surgery and decided to buy blankets. They had stupid cartoonish figures on them, but they were soft and warm.
Calm orchestral music filled the silence. Though...Rhys was seated uncomfortably close to him and he kept twisting the paper bag holding Arthur's prescription.
Now and then he'd pop some Tums and chew them methodically.
Neurotic thing.
Arthur turned on his side and watched the dark sky against the shadowy swaying outlines of tree tops. Every now and then a strong gust of wind would push at the vehicle.
The sun had gone down a while ago. He'd missed out on the whole day.
A shame; he'd really wanted to make today a bonding day with the children. They usually held a Christmas movie marathon and indulged in warm treats and cocoa.
It was usually a relaxing way to spend the day following Yule-all the little ones gathered around him. It was such a pleasure getting to have them so near and the festivity of Christmas put everyone into a fine mood. If he nodded off during White Christmas he'd usually awaken with Hong Kong or Barbados leaning against him or Camelot curled up in his lap.
That was the way to follow up Yule.
Instead, he found himself trapped in the company of his brothers...both of whom smelled suspiciously like they were in need of a shower.
Arthur sighed and hissed as he jostled his foot.
Rhys froze and watched him like he hardly dared to breathe and Reilley was sneaking glances through the rear view mirror.
What in the world?
He was tempted to make a malicious joke about Irish chauffeurs and Welsh nannies to get them to act more normal, but his brain wasn't working well enough to be witty.
Something was off.
Reaching the manor didn't dissipate the solemn mood, and his brothers were quiet as they carried him and his wheelchair up the steps to the front door.
There was a curious assortment of baskets piled near the door; fish, flowers, wreaths, bread, candles. The fae were paying tribute. Strange, they almost looked like bereav-
The hazy feeling fell more heavily over him. He was exhausted. He didn't have time to worry about all this. He needed to go in, rest up, and prepare himself for tomorrow. They had tickets to The Nutcracker. They weren't going to miss it on account of him. If he healed enough during the night, they wouldn't have to haul around a wheelchair for him and he needn't fear being separated from his group for the performance.
Alistair immediately opened the front door as they approached-suggesting he'd been there waiting for them.
Which was...odd.
The Scotsman stared at Arthur. His gray eyes swept over to Reilley and then to Rhys. It was like they were having a whole bloody eyeball conversation.
Arthur was getting steadily more frustrated. He crossed his arms irritably.
Alistair blew out a long whistling breath.
Arthur's mouth slackened in surprise; his brother usually only did that when he'd been teaching staff and pike fighting to the girls and one got him 'tween the legs by accident. The boys he'd swear at for such a mistake, but the girls…
Alistair ran a hand through his hair and didn't make eye contact, "Livvie and the rest got the cream parlor all set up for yeh. So yeh won't have to deal with the stairs."
Arthur wrinkled his nose at the thought of being tucked away in a small room over his luxurious suite but after being wheeled over to it...he was delighted by how well it'd been made over. Cream with dark red velvet. Ah, the colors of England. The room had been tailored with him in mind.
Olivia had such fine taste.
Still, there seemed to be something missing.
He glanced around unsurely.
There was one good sized bed in the middle and it looked like a wardrobe had been moved in to accommodate him for the time.
It looked quite sophisticated.
Elegant.
Adult.
For some reason his fingers dug into the childish, cartoon blankets and drew them tightly around himself.
He couldn't fend off a chill that had breezed through his heart.
"Ar-arthur?" Peter murmured from a distance.
He turned to see pairs of eyes peeking at him from around the corner.
He chuckled and blissful, longed for, warmth seeped in-even headier than the medication he was on.
"S'alright, children; I'm perf'ctly fiiiine," he slurred as he gave a little wave.
He half-hoped for a hug, but no one came forward. Probably out of fear of doing more harm to him.
They stared at him doubtfully and made no comment-disappearing from sight to huddle and hold hushed conversations.
Goodness. They always overreacted.
It was a difficult part of being a guardian. Children viewed you as something infallible-when injury came upon you-it rocked their whole world.
When he was settled in, he'd see what he could do about their distress. He was tired of course, but he didn't want them worrying themselves sick.
Something tugged at him and he felt an ominous pull on his metaphorical apron strings-he glanced back over to the children who'd reappeared in a gaggle to watch him.
Green eyes flitted from one face to another as he did a headcount.
Sealand. Wy. Hong Kong. Barbados. Australia. New Zealand. Jamaica. Seychelles...
Canada! Yes, Canada was there. Sooo...wait...wait...something...someone…
His eyebrows furrowed.
Something was wrong.
Ten.
He was supposed to have ten.
Where was number ten?
"I'm…" missing one… "Where…?"
He was cut off by Alistair lifting him onto the bed. The greater shock was that his brother didn't complain, instead he just walked back over to the doorframe and stared broodingly out at the children.
Arthur frowned as Rhys pulled the blankets over him.
Alright, things were just getting bizarre.
"Oi, wot's with you lot?" he demanded.
"We're just...waiting for the best...moment. That's all" Rhys muttered. "Alistair, the door."
The Scotsman silently went over to shut it. No comment was made on him being "the maid."
Reilley paced about before going over to a white faux aged dresser. He tapped his fingers-drumming out a beat that Arthur half-recognized but couldn't place.
Yankee...Doodle?
The hazy blanket feeling increased. Like he was caught in a ball of yarn...wouldn't that just be a dream come true for Camelot? Heh, heh...
He frowned.
It wasn't the medication that was making him feel like this.
He glared at Rhys who immediately ducked his head and stared at the floor.
"Stop it."
Rhys swallowed again, "I just...I don't think...not yet...not until...O Arthur, I warned you about…" Rhys began smoothing the covers as he continued muttering, "I warned you. I did. But you never and now…"
Arthur shoved his hands away.
"Artair," Alistair mumbled.
He hadn't heard his name pronounced that way for some time. Not with that sigh of...dare he say it...concern?
"Blast it all," Alistair sat down heavily on the bed. "Dammit, it's always gotta be me. Yeh couldn't do it over there?"
Reilley and Rhys made no motion to correct him or intervene.
What was he going on about?
"Look," Alistair scowled as he stared him in the face-dark red eyebrows drawn together fiercely. "Look...there…" he paused and took a deep breath and forged on. "There...was an accident."
Arthur raised a bushy brow, looked down at his foot and dryly replied, "You don't say?"
Alistair reached over and flicked his ear, "Not you."
Arthur stiffened and sat up, "Wot?"
Oh God, he hoped nothing had happened to the Royal Family. They'd dealt with enough over the past few decades. They deserved a respite.
"It was just an accident. T'wasn't anybody's fault, ya see. Before you get any ideas, I need yeh to know that. Lady just didn't see 'im, yeh follow me?"
Arthur stared.
"He's wee now, he forgets that. And he was in town and it's busy now. With Christmas so close, it's damned busy now. You know how it gets. He darted out. She just didn't see him," for a moment Alistair just chewed a bit of dry skin from the corner of his heavily calloused thumb.
Breathe. Take a breath. Breathe.
Alistair ran that hand through his hair, "Ya understand? It was an accident. It was just an awful accident. None o' us even knew he was goin' out or we'd've gone. It gets so mad out there, tis dangerous to go alone fer anyone. Let alone..."
Alistair broke off.
Arthur shook his head and dug his fingers into the covers. No. Nooo…
There. In his chest. The chord...the chord that had distressed him earlier. He followed it to where it stopped. Where it felt like a great stone wall had dropped and separated them-No. Nonononono.
He was under there. He was under. Being crushed. He had to lift it off him somehow.
Alistair blew out another long breath. "Rhys. You can quit shielding now." Gray eyes looked into green apologetically, "He didn't want it to be the first thing yeh felt."
Canada sat with his knee bouncing nervously. He fiddled with the cords on his sweatshirt and then cleaned his glasses compulsively.
"Do you think they told him?" Sealand asked in a hushed voice for the upteenth time. "Do you think they told him yet? He didn't seem like he knew. I mean…he came in and he seemed...I don't think they told him, yet. Do you think we should ask the officer to come back? He knew everything, maybe-"
Jet sat down between Sealand and Wy and wrapped an arm around each micronation. Both children leaned into the comforting hold.
Olivia was sitting on a settee, her face in her hands, "My fat mouth. If I hadn't...he'd have just gone outside and gathered some weeds and we wouldn't be..."
Jamaica sat beside her and took her hand-patting it, "Don't take all the blame. None o' us went with him, I didn't. I saw him this mornin', I asked what he was up to, but I didn't go."
Canada ran a hand through his hair.
Jake mechanically selected another Arthur Rankin Jr. movie and hit play on the DVD player. He was holding onto the Christmas movie marathon tradition...because it was something to do. He amused himself by changing the language settings. It didn't matter. No one was watching.
Hong Kong was staring intently at his book, The Piano Teacher by Janice Y. K. Lee, he'd turn a page now and then but…well...the book was upside down and had been for the past half hour.
To think...this morning, Canada had been arguing with Texas over In The Heart of the Sea.
He'd been more than a little peeved with the Texan. Not only had he been a terrible movie-goer…
He snacked loudly, hogged the chair arms, didn't bother to whisper when he had something to say, propped his feet up...and he just didn't GET IT. Arthur and Alfred would've gotten it.
Tex complained that the film was boring and wished that they'd gone to Krampus instead.
Mathieu was beginning to question if Texas read any classical literature at all when his Southwestern brother abruptly stood up and left the room. In fact, he left the house altogether through the servant wing. He swiped a pair of keys from the servant's rack, got into the spare service car, and drove off. Without telling anyone anything.
One minute they'd been talking and the next…
Something steely slid over Tex's expression. His jaw clamped shut and he stared straight ahead.
He stood up-chair screeching behind him and walked determinedly away-fists clenched at his sides. He didn't even come back for his hat which was perched on the chair beside him since he was "holding" the spot for Alfred. He'd been determined to wait at the table until Alfred came for breakfast. And earlier Canada had felt a smidge of envy at that and the way he drew out eating-so it would seem like he'd just started when Alfred finally dropped in.
At first, Canada feared that he'd upset him. That he'd managed to alienate two brothers in one holiday. He scrambled out of his chair and chased after him in order to apologize, but then total chaos erupted. Cries from the entryway had him backtracking. He'd figured that he could make it up to Tex later.
He'd arrived half a step behind Rhys to find Arthur unconscious at the foot of the stairs.
His main job then had been wrangling a frantic Wy and Sealand out of the area as Wales took over.
The mystery surrounding Tex's sudden departure was revisited when Spain entered the fray. Mathieu tried to explain that he didn't know where Texas had gone, but Spain wouldn't have it.
"How can you not know where he is? He spent all last night with you. I saw you. Not wanting to sit with us. You were the cool amigos. He'd tell you where he was going."
But he didn't. He just left. Breakfast plate half eaten. Hat abandoned.
Mexico and Southern Italy in a combined effort managed to get their ex-colonizer off Canada's back with suggestions that he make inquiries to the American Embassy.
It was only because Spain doggedly called them and was friends with Stuart that they eventually confirmed that he'd made it there safely. Attempts to find out why he'd gone there were stonewalled.
It was several hours later in the aftermath of Tex's departure and Arthur's emergency trip to the hospital, that the officer arrived.
Mathieu had been the one to answer the door before Scotland commandeered the spot and told him to go sit down. That Scotland had gotten a phone call and could Mathieu just go sit down already?!
He retreated to the hall to eavesdrop with Jamaica, Australia, and New Zealand. Barbados and Seychelles were doing their best to keep Sealand and Wy away from it all. Peter still managed to slip in near the end though.
Mathieu checked his phone. Texas hadn't responded to any of his texts or calls.
He gasped as it buzzed with an incoming text.
Francis.
Appelle-moi dès que possible.
Not Texas.
It buzzed again.
Je m'inquiète pour toi.
Seychelles had called Francis about the whole thing and now the man kept insisting that he call him so they could talk.
He wasn't sure he could do it though.
After having such heavily negative thoughts about Alfred for so much of the holiday, having something terrible happen to him…
It felt like it was his fault.
There was a lump in his throat.
Like he'd willed this to happen somehow.
Mon Dieu…
He looked over at the nearby armchair. Eva was sitting there with her knees pulled up. She looked almost as miserable as he felt.
She'd still been asleep when Alfred went off that morning.
Her only response had been to say: "I wasn't even on the job a full day...and I failed."
Then she'd gone quiet and stayed quiet.
Mr. Gray had tried plying her with tea but to no avail. Three full, now cold, cups were sitting near her on a small table.
And there'd been a scene when Mr. White finally returned to the house. He'd resigned on the spot. Gathered all his things in a cardboard box and left in a hurry-ignoring Mr. Gray's pleas to wait, to talk with Master Arthur, to reconsider. No one was blaming him. But he wouldn't stay.
He just asked that Mr. Gray tell Master Kirkland how sorry he was.
And then all the vines in the house died.
All the time spent fighting and tripping over them these past few days and they just...
The stench of rotting flora made the halls seem musty and claustrophobic.
He'd gone for a walk to the garden to clear his head only...the garden...
There were no flowers. There were hardly even any leaves. Hell, there weren't even any weeds now?!
He'd stared blankly at the barren sight for several minutes before realizing Mr. Gray was out there too.
He was sitting tiredly on a stone bench. He nodded and moved over to make space.
He shook his head and gestured around them, "He was keeping Winter from it. It was unseasonably warm for the time of year, but...I should've realized sooner...it was magic that was keeping the frost away..."
"All the vines are dying," Mathieu had responded.
He nodded, "the vegetable garden's...going too. Just...blackening...with rot and...Ah...well then...if the vines are...I suppose we can...get those all cleared out now. It'll give everyone something to do."
Within hours the vines dried up and disintegrated at the lightest touch.
He'd watched numbly as brooms and dustpans swept it all away.
Replacement glass arrived in the late afternoon for the windows that had been broken during the Goblin Raid, and bit by bit...all the traces of Alfred's misadventures vanished.
Scratches on the hardwood floors were filled in and the Lego Statue of Liberty had been completed and disassembled by Wy and Peter. The Lego Box and the Monopoly Box were tucked out of sight behind Cluedo and Candyland.
Americat leapt onto his lap and he tried to keep still enough that the cat could make use of him as a substitute.
He pet the furry ears and the ruff around its throat and stared blankly at Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer on the television screen.
From his peripheral vision he watched Olivia shakily accept a teacup from Mr. Gray's tray as he made his rounds about the room.
It rattled in its saucer as she held it.
He tucked two fingers under the cat's collar to scratch at the skin there. The Main Coon purred and pressed its body against him affectionately.
With everyone gathered in the room…
With the T.V. on, and the heater going, with a cat on his lap, and the smell of tea lingering in the air...
You could almost see the memories of every other Winter Holiday superimposed over this moment.
Like a veil. Like a mirage.
It could almost make you overlook the fact that everyone's expressions were wrong.
And then everything unraveled when there was a horrible scream from down the hall. The closed door, and the walls, and the T.V.'s Spanish Audio wasn't enough to muffle it.
Olivia dropped her cup and the porcelain shattered on the wood floor. The liquid puddled and spread until it reached the fringed edge of an oriental rug.
The cat jumped off, its collar tags jingling as it scampered away...the rest of them stayed frozen and silent.
It was several heartbeats before the spell of shock wore off Wy and she leaned over Jett to tell Peter authoritatively, "They told him."
That Alfred had been struck and killed by a car as he left the florist's shop that morning.
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