DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

MÉNAGE À TROIS

EXTRA

Matt is sick?"

"Yes, the school just called to tell me. They called Arthur first"—grumble of annoyance—"but his PA wouldn't put them through, because he's in a meeting."

Francis' voice was metallic and undulating with poor reception. Antonio heard the sounds of motor traffic in the background and knew that his boyfriend had left the underground, where there was no reception, and emerged onto the busy street. He was distracted and a little breathless, hurrying to a job interview, which began in—Antonio consulted the clock—fifteen minutes. The last thing he needed to be worrying about was a sick child.

"Don't worry, Fran, I'll take care of Matt."

"You really don't mind? Because I can call to reschedule—"

"I'm leaving now," Antonio interrupted, grabbing his jacket and jingling his house keys so that Francis could hear it. "I'm already out the door, so don't you dare even think about cancelling that interview."

Francis had been preparing for the interview—or, more accurately, audition—for a week. A friend-of-a-friend had told him that a prominent theatre company was looking for a dance instructor and offered to pass along his CV, which Francis had dithered over for six long, unproductive hours until Gilbert had had enough. "Just let me do it," he had said, demonstrating in one fluid motion that what he lacked in patience he made up for in perfectionism and upper-body strength. He lifted Francis right out of the desk chair and deposited him on the couch. Ten minutes later, he had finished editing Francis' CV and written a compelling cover letter to compliment it. He even had time to scowl at Antonio, who suggested that Francis use one of Gilbert's cover letters and change the name to save time. (Gilbert had applied for a lot of jobs before finally accepting the position he currently occupied.) "Financial consultant, dance instructor—what's the difference really? A job is a job, isn't it?" Antonio had said cheerfully. Apparently not.

"The school said that Mathieu is running a fever," Francis reported.

Antonio didn't have to see Francis face-to-face to envision his boyfriend's look of anxious consternation, nor did he need verbal affirmation that Francis was starting to stress, because he could hear the nervous ticks in his voice.

"Don't bite your fingernails," he said.

Francis made a small noise of reluctance, then sighed.

"You're going to be great, cariño. Don't worry about Matt, I'll take care of him; just worry about charming the hell out of those theatre-people, okay?"

"Well—yes, okay," Francis agreed. "Merci, mi amor. Call me if you need to."

Antonio promised that he would and ended the call. Then he took the train to Alfred and Mathieu's school in Kensington, which he had only ever visited once before back in September for the twins' induction into kindergarten. Alfred had been overjoyed to finally be attending real school; Mathieu had not. He had cried quietly on his first day, prompting Francis to cry less quietly in turn. (The child certainly didn't get his softness from Arthur, and that was a fact.) At least the boys had been put in the same class, which soothed nervous Mathieu and tempered energetic Alfred, at least until they got home. Then Alfred was back to reporting every detail of his day in a fast, loud recount of colour and play-acting, and Mathieu merely shrugged shyly when asked in reply.

Antonio loved them, but sometimes they gave him emotional whiplash.

By the time he arrived at the school, it was recess, and the din of primary children at play cloaked the whole block. He had a brief but curt argument at the front gate before he was permitted entry, with a visitor's pass shoved reluctantly into his hand. He felt the guard's narrowed eyes on his back as he quickly made his way to the front doors, feeling conflicted. On the one hand, it was nice to know that the children were safe and that the school didn't admit strangers, but on the other hand, how shady did he look that he needed to be interrogated and glared at like that?

He found the office easily with the help of a sign—practically a marquee—which read HEAD OFFICE in huge block letters. Inside, he smiled at the secretary and announced:

"I'm here to get Mathieu Kirkland-Bonnefoi."

"Name?" he asked primly, his fingers poised to type.

"Antonio Fernández Carriedo."

A lightning-fast search of the school's database yielded no results. "I'm sorry, sir," said the secretary placidly, "but you're not listed as a contact for that student."

Antonio was unsurprised. Francis and Arthur would be listed as the boys' parents and primary contacts, of course, and he said as much. "He's my boyfriend's kid," he explained. "And we're common-law," he added helpfully. "He's at a job interview right now, which is why I'm here instead."

He waited, but the secretary didn't move.

"Err, so… can I take Matt home now? We got a call that he was sick."

"You're not listed as a contact or guardian, sir, so I can't disclose that information. I'm sorry."

Antonio blinked owlishly.

"Are you serious?" he asked in disbelief. "You're really not going to let me take him home because my name's not on some list?"

"I'm sorry, sir, it's school policy. Only a parent or guardian can take a child out of school."

"I am his guardian—one of them, anyway."

The secretary looked skeptical, now. "Can you prove it legally?" he asked.

"Well, no, not legally, but—"

"Sir, I'm afraid we can't let students leave with people whom we have no record of."

"Okay, yeah, I get that," said Antonio, gesturing in appeasing agreement, "but I'm telling you the truth. Matt knows me, I promise. He lives with me part-time. If you just let me see him, he'll tell you—"

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Okay, look," he said, pulling out his wallet. He smiled to keep his frustration at bay, and began pulling out identification cards. "I have my driver's licence, my DNI, my EHIC, I even have my fucking—ahem, my Oyster card." He shoved them across the counter to the secretary, who didn't even deign to glance down before pushing them back.

"Sir," he said, growing impatient, "I need written permission from a parent or guardian authorizing you to take a student out of school. If you would like to take a form to fill out for next time," he reached into a drawer, then dropped a blank permission form on top of Antonio's identification, "then I can add you to the contact list. But as for today, there's nothing I can do."

"Right, so, let me get this straight." Antonio took a deep breath. He didn't have Gilbert's short temper, but he wasn't exactly nonconfrontational either. He could feel anger and insult heating his blood and knew he needed to stay calm for the sake of his boyfriend and pseudo-stepsons. He laid his hands flat on the counter and leant down toward the thirty-something secretary. In a low, measured voice, he said: "I'm not allowed to take my sick, five-year-old kid home because you don't believe me, my ID, or the fact that you called my boyfriend and now I'm the one who's here?"

The secretary shied away and didn't make eye-contact. "I'm sorry, sir, it's school—"

"School policy, yeah, I got that. But what you don't get is that I'm not leaving my kid here, so," he said, taking a resigned breath, "here's what you're going to do. Call Arthur Kirkland. No, not his office—his cell. Here, this is the number. Call him and tell him that Matt is sick and that you won't let me take him home. I'll wait."

Antonio crossed his arms in defiance as the secretary reluctantly accepted the cellphone number and called. He clenched his jaw when he heard Arthur's voice on the line, resenting the need for his help. He had never pretended to like Arthur, and vise-versa. In fact, their relationship could still be described as hostile, even after three years. More than Arthur and Gilbert, Arthur and Antonio did not get along, because Arthur blamed Antonio for breaking-up his marriage, even though it had been falling apart when Antonio and Francis met. Antonio's interference had been the catalyst for their divorce in Arthur's opinion, and that's all he seemed to see when he looked at Antonio, even now.

But now wasn't the time to dwell on petty rivalries, because small, scared, feverish Mathieu was somewhere in this school waiting for one of his parents to come for him. If Antonio thought back, the boy had been lethargic the past couple of days and he hadn't eaten much the night before. If only he was as vocal about his feelings as Alfred, maybe someone would have noticed yesterday, or this morning before everyone else had rushed off to work. It was humourlessly ironic that the child had four father-figures in his life and yet only one of them was available right now. And it was the one who had no clue what he was doing.

Antonio had never taken care of a sick child before. He had never even picked them up from school—clearly. He certainly wasn't the strictest or most responsible of the parenting foursome. He didn't coddle the boys like Francis, and he couldn't provide for them as well as Arthur. Heck, he wasn't even the one they ran to for protection, because that was Gilbert. Antonio was just the fun parent, the one who played with them and let them overeat sweets and stay up late. He had never had to be the primary caretaker before, because his boyfriends and Arthur were always there. Sure, Antonio had held the boys and cuddled them and sang them to sleep when they were babies, but the older they got the more he realized just how unprepared he was to really be someone's father. He hadn't asked to be, after all. The position simply came with being Francis' boyfriend, whether he liked it or not. And he did like it. He loved Alfred and Mathieu as if they were his own by blood or law, because they were for all intents and purposes. But loving them was simply no guarantee that he would be good at parenting, despite what his boyfriends said.

"Do you know how I know you'll be a good father?" Francis had said before their move to London, before the boys became constant, permanent fixtures in Antonio's life. "Because you care enough to worry that you won't be."

Francis had smiled and kissed him lovingly, and Antonio had smiled back, but as soon as Francis had left the room Antonio's panic returned.

"They're not babies anymore," he said to Gilbert, thinking the German would understand his anxieties better than Francis. "Alfie and Matt are four-years-old, they're becoming actual little people that we are now responsible for! Doesn't that freak you out?"

"Yeah, it does," Gilbert shrugged, nonplused, "but in a good way. A way that makes me want to be better for them, you know? Don't you love them?" he asked, to which Antonio replied: "Of course I do!" Again, Gilbert shrugged: "Then it doesn't really matter if you feel ready or not, does it? Because you're not going to let yourself fail them."

Antonio had groaned and buried his face in Gilbert's t-shirt. "I really hate it when you're right," he said.

Gilbert stroked his head. "I know."

"Uh, sir—?"

Antonio blinked. "Huh? Oh, right. What did Arthur say?"

"Mr. Kirkland is on his way now. He said you needn't wait—"

"I'm not leaving," said Antonio firmly.

The secretary sighed and gestured to the waiting area before turning back to his computer.

Feeling too agitated to sit, Antonio paced the lobby, which did nothing to reassure the school staff of his good intentions. He could leave now that Arthur was coming to get Mathieu, but he wouldn't. No matter what the school or Arthur wanted, no matter what they thought of him or his relationships, he wasn't going to leave until he knew that the child was safe. He might not be an experienced caretaker, and he might not inspire the most trust or confidence, but he could do this. He could wait.

Fortunately, he wasn't waiting long before Arthur Kirkland strut into the lobby, wearing designer sunglasses and heeled shoes that elongated his sleek, black-coated figure so that he was five centimeters taller than Antonio and looked about nine kilos thinner. Antonio was tempted to sucker-punch the wind right out of his arrogance—or, trip him like a primary schooler—but he gallantly resisted.

Responsible, he reminded himself. I am a responsible, mature, adult-person.

"Oh, you're still here," Arthur said by way of acknowledgement. He removed his sunglasses with sardonic exasperation. "Great."

Ignoring Antonio's reply, he went straight to the office.

"Are you going to take Matt—" Antonio began when Arthur re-emerged, but, again, Arthur ignored him and started quickly down the corridor. Much to the secretary's dismay, Antonio followed.

"Hey!" he snapped, jogging to catch up. "I'm talking to you! Are you going to take Matt home?" he repeated.

Arthur side-eyed him in disdain. "I have a meeting to return to, because I have an actual career, unlike some people."

Antonio bristled.

"Why are you here anyway? Where's Francis?"

"At a job interview," Antonio countered. "And Gil is at work. He's a consultant for a private firm," he added proudly.

"Oh? Someone actually hired that walking Restraining Order?"

"Vete a la mierda!" Antonio snarled.

"That means nothing to me."

"Yeah? Well, do you know what this means—"

Antonio raised his hand to direct a rude gesture at Arthur just as a teacher emerged from his classroom. He gave Antonio a deeply disapproving frown.

When they reached the infirmary, Antonio followed close on Arthur's heels to enter, startling the nurse who had been expecting one man, not two. Antonio flashed his visitor's pass like an MI6 agent and headed to the back of the room, where Mathieu was ensconced. He was lying on one of two small metal beds, looking like a boiled lobster in a silver pot. His breathing was slow and laboured and his baby-soft skin was covered in sweat. Antonio stopped short when he saw him and his insides twisted; apprehensive for the child's sickly state, and angry that the school wouldn't let him take Mathieu sooner.

Mathieu, love?" said Arthur, kneeling down. He touched the child's face, pushing back his sweaty curls. "It's okay now, sweet-pea. It's time to go home."

"Daddy." Mathieu made a meek noise of distress, then slowly opened his eyes. A tear rolled down his cheek when he saw Arthur, and Antonio knew that he was scared. Help, said those big violet eyes, beseeching and heartfelt.

"It's okay," Arthur repeated, coaxing Mathieu out of bed. The child moved lethargically, his eyelids fluttering. "It's time to go home, darling. Antonio is going to take you home."

Antonio realized his cue and stepped forward, brushing past Arthur as he lifted Mathieu into his arms. "Hey there, Mattie-baby," he said softly.

Mathieu wrapped his arms weakly around Antonio's neck and pressed his forehead to the underside of the man's chin. Antonio felt the burn of his feverish skin and damp curls. "Toni," he said in a small, sad voice, "I don't feel good."

"I know, chiquito," he soothed, holding Mathieu tight, "but you're going to be okay. We're going to be okay."

Antonio followed Arthur back to the lobby in weighted silence, the two men united in their silent agreement not to fight in front of the boys. There, Arthur spoke to the secretary and signed himself out—We were supposed to sign in? Oops, Antonio thought—then returned to bid his son goodbye for the day. He kissed Mathieu's head, ignoring his proximity to Antonio, and promised to call later to check-in. He told Mathieu to rest and drink and take whatever medicine he needed without a fuss. Then he addressed Antonio:

"Here," he said, shoving a piece of paper and a couple of banknotes into the Spaniard's hand. "Don't take my son on the train, take a taxi home."

Then he left before Antonio could reply.

He spared a glare for the Englishman's retreating back, then shoved the money into his jacket pocket. Then his shifted Mathieu's weight, trying not to dislodge him as he lifted the paper to eye-level to read.

To his surprise, it was the permission form that the secretary had offered before. It said:

I, ARTHUR KIRKLAND, hereby give permission for GILBERT BEILSCHMIDT and ANTONIO CARRIEDO to act as parent/guardians to ALFRED AND MATHIEU KIRKLAND-BONNEFOI for the duration of the present school year.

Signed this day, 16 NOV., Arthur Kirkland

Antonio put the form in his pocket and left the school with Mathieu half-asleep in his arms, smiling a little, and only a little peeved that Arthur had forgotten his first surname.

Antonio took Mathieu home and put him straight to bed, smiling when his eyes were open and fussing and worrying when they weren't. He changed him into his pyjamas and cleaned the sweat off his flushed skin, then prepared a cold compress and laid it on his forehead. He dug an extra blanket out of the linen closet and searched the cupboards for canned soup, but ultimately scowled in dissatisfaction and began to make it himself from scratch. Francis called to check-in—for Mathieu and Antonio's sake—and say that he had been asked to stay for a second audition and wouldn't be home until later. Arthur called to lecture Antonio, which Antonio had no tolerance for, so he hung up on him after reporting that Mathieu was fine.

Is he fine, though? Fuck—I don't know!

"Where does it hurt?" he asked, petting Mathieu's head with one hand while searching common childhood illnesses on his phone with the other. Mathieu's reply of "everywhere" was most unhelpful.

By the time Francis and Gilbert got home, Antonio had convinced himself that Mathieu had caught a terrible rare illness, for which all he could do was worry and make chicken noodle soup. As soon as Francis entered, Antonio launched into a recount of everything he had done, describing Mathieu's symptoms, and following his boyfriend like a puppy-dog, asking questions and making suggestions based on online articles. Francis was grateful for Antonio's care, and he kissed him and told him as much before calmly going in to see Mathieu. Gilbert, on the other hand, was highly amused by the Spaniard's uncharacteristic mothering, and he teased him about it until Antonio whacked him with a wooden spoon.

"Not the cool, fun parent now, are you, Papa Toni," Gilbert laughed, poking Antonio's ribs.

"What is it? Is Matt okay?" Antonio asked when Francis returned. (Gilbert took advantage of the distraction to sample a spoonful of soup.) "Should I have taken him to the doctor?"

"No, no," Francis dismissed, chuckling a little. "He's going to be fine. It's just chicken-pox."

"Oh," said Antonio, breathing a sigh of relief.

"He only has a couple of spots on the back of his neck, but it'll probably be worse by tomorrow," said Francis, grabbing his cellphone. "I just need to call Arthur and tell him to keep Alfred for a few days, because the chicken-pox is really contagious. You've both had it, right?" he asked in afterthought.

"Yeah, I had it when I was a kid," Gilbert confirmed.

"Okay good, me too," said Francis. "Toni?"

Antonio had wondered why he was feeling so warm and lightheaded. He had thought it was just the soup.

"Fuck," he said.

You look silly," said Mathieu, who looked like a vanilla cake dusted with pink sprinkles.

Antonio glanced down at the child, who was using his chest as a pillow. "Yeah," he agreed, resisting the urge to scratch his own itchy spots, "so do you."

They were lying together on the living-room couch, with the curtains closed and a Disney film playing on low volume on the T.V., both of them buried beneath a heavy blanket. Antonio took a cloth and wiped the sweat from his face, even as he shivered and pulled Mathieu closer, who was also suffering chills. The boy murmured and closed his eyes, letting the deep rise-and-fall of Antonio's cagey breaths lull him to sleep.

"How are my brave boys doing?" Francis cooed softly, coming in with cups of chicken soup. "Are you feeling any better?"

Antonio accepted the cup with a raised eyebrow. "The best description for how I'm feeling is not appropriate for little ears," he replied.

"Ah," said Francis in sympathy. "Well, at least Mathieu doesn't have to suffer alone."

Antonio took a sip of soup, then licked his lips. "Huh?"

"Well, he can't feel too bad about being sick, now can he?" Francis smiled. "Not when his cool Papa Toni has the chicken-pox, too."

Antonio rolled his eyes, but he couldn't hide a pleased smile. If someone had told him five years ago that he would be living in London with his two boyfriends and two children, he would have laughed. Now, he looked down at the child asleep on his lap and praised his own good-luck and life-choices. Maybe it was unconventional, and maybe others—like the school—would stare at him and whisper and doubt, but he didn't care. He loved his family and was grateful every single day to be a part of it. He knew that he would stand by them, do his best for them, no matter what. It wouldn't always be easy, and none of them would ever have all the answers, but the happiness was in knowing that they would figure it out together, always, and the knowledge that none of them would ever have to be alone.

One had become three had become five, and, now, Antonio wouldn't have had it any other way.

He gave Mathieu a gentle squeeze and leant back into the firm couch cushions with his soup, his son, and a half-finished Disney film, and he smiled.

Cool Papa Toni. He kind of liked the sound of that.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is probably not the Extra anyone expected (or wanted), but it's something that I've wanted to write, in many different incarnations, for a while. So, I did. It's not the full-length "Spain taking care of baby-Canada" one-shot that I had originally envisioned, but I think it's pretty cute nonetheless. :3 Thank-you to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story, either chapter-by-chapter or in it's entirety. I really appreciate all of your kind words and support! n_n