Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Or McDonald's. Or Netflix. Or Walmart/Wally World.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Fun fact: the U.K. has a history of boxing and Spain...doesn't really. Rhys being a boss. Hardcore shopping. Stuart. Unexpected hosting responsibilities. More family drama. Some violence. Some fluff. All that good stuff.
AN: Survived! : DDD Thanks for lasting through the hiatus. Good Lord, 15 units. What was I thinking? Madness. Special thanks to FlowerFoxWings for translating some phrases into Spanish for me. Hope you guys enjoy this chap and Merry Christmas! : DDD Have safe travels everyone! I hope you all survive your family functions and feast and make merry! : DDD
Chapter 25: Yeh Earned This
Arthur charged forward and time seemed to slow as Antonio blocked him.
No.
Nononono.
He had nightmares like this.
Ever since the wendigo fiasco...and then with Grym.
They'd used to be reserved for his other colonies. Because America was such a robust brute...tall and strong and vigorous...England could trust him to fight his way out of most perils as long as he was conscious.
Only the past year had shown…
America could be outmaneuvered.
His strength….
Arthur remembered the bruised injection sites, the emaciated limbs…
Could be calculated for...strategized against.
He could be starved...weakened.
His will…
He remembered the boy's rage and pain in thinking himself unwelcome in his father's house during Yuletide...tricked by Grym into seeing cruelty where it didn't exist.
His will could be misdirected…could be whipped into a narrow-sighted fervor that prompted him to charge across lanes of traffic.
Arthur had nightmares about that, too.
About being too late.
Racing down the sidewalk because he took his eyes off the boy for just a second. A damnable second and missing the back of the child's collar—fingers brushing against the fabric—a half-step too late to pull him back to the safety of the curb.
He had nightmares about being unable to move. Where he was wounded in the forest, both achilles tendons severed through by a bone knife and he couldn't give chase.
And he could do nothing but watch a smug Iroquois steal away with his son. His son staring at him like he couldn't believe Arthur had failed him.
And he knew why.
O he knew why those eyes haunted his dreams.
They hadn't been properly closed following that terrible car crash and when Arthur had finally found him...torn through that bloody body bag….the tache noire de la sclérotique had not altered the expression.
And it made him look so terribly young. So vulnerable. So damned surprised and horrified and sad and resolved but...afraid. And he'd been all alone...no one to comfort him...to soften it at all.
He'd stared down into that face and...
How could you let this happen to me, Daddy?
Arthur threw a vicious elbow but Antonio gripped his arm. He twisted himself free. He moved again, but the Spaniard wouldn't let him pass.
Damn him! Delaying him!
He threw a punch that was blocked and then another.
They were getting away! Though Alfred was still reaching for him! Calling for him, though Arthur could hardly hear over the angry rush of blood roaring through his ears.
He glared at the Texan.
How dare he say such things! Such awful things!
It brought to mind that night when the boy had set him up, after America's going away party for Calm Waters Clinic.
He was such a simpleton most of the time. The idea of him setting a trap seemed comical. But he'd gone and done it again. He made you underestimate the damage he could do. Because he never made intricate plans. Like this one.
All he had to do was be a whisper of doubt.
And that was enough.
It burned.
That Arthur's words were...how did Blue say it?
"...you were so well-spoken,
you could make anything sound beautiful.
But words are just air.
So all of your promises were empty from the start."
His words were empty while Texas's were...
He made to shove Spain away altogether, but the man caught his arms and braced his weight against him.
Damn him! Damn him and his spawn!
England snarled and pivoted—hurling the man into the endcap of an aisle. Antonio gripped his shirt in one hand and delivered a punch with the other.
Arthur tasted blood.
Fine.
So he wanted to be dealt with first.
Fine.
Him first. Then his whelp.
Green eyes narrowed.
They'd pay dearly for this.
Texas slung his little brother over his shoulder and abandoned their cart.
Usually, Texas prided himself on being one who could roll with the punches, but…of all the things he could've expected for calling his lil' bro out in a Walmart...it wasn't this.
Or that Spain was willing to take one for the team.
No that-not that he was part of the team!
Cuz he wasn't!
Dammit, stuff was gettin' complicated.
This was exactly what he was trying to avoid.
There was a messiness that came with letting other people into their circle.
Of course, he wanted his little brother to have bonds with others, had worried about him for a long time cuz he'd shown so little interest in having friendships...even super shallow acquaintance-ish friendships. Ya know, like knowing the cashier or clerk's names and saying howdy to folks when they were out of uniform?
But he'd gone off the deep end since that hex of his had ended—he was snuggling up to them that had hurt him worst in the first place!
Now, Tex was all for redemption stories; his and Al's road to familial harmony took a hell of a lot of paving, construction, and more paving. But...these folks had to prove they were people who'd never throw Al under the bus! Ever again! Ever!
England, his brothers...hell, Canada wasn't too high in his book right now, either.
There were centuries' worth of backlogged crappy things they'd done to his poor brother. And that shit needed to be addressed.
They were trying to pull a 'Get Outta Jail Free Card' because Al was such a softie deep, deep, deep down.
Well, no, sir! That's what Al had Tex for when his bleeding heart got the better of him. If they thought they were gonna bypass Tex and all his concerns…
They were gonna find out firsthand what a hardass he could be when things didn't meet his satisfaction. There was a reason Al hated letting him be the one to do the customer service surveys...unless they totally mucked it up. Then Al handed the reigns over no problem.
He ran through the maternity wardrobe and zigzagged through shoes and accessories until he eventually viewed cashiers.
And if Tex's worst fears about his brother's side of the family were confirmed. And they were just out to use America because of his wealth or prestige or power as a nation…
They'd just go back to the way things were before...when it was just the two of them and they'd shut 'em all out. What could be wrong with that?
He fondly thought over all their misadventures. All the crazy stuff they got into that had stitched them so close together now. All the good times and bad times and wild times...
He wanted to get Al away, just the two them, just for a little while. Just so they could remember the feel of freedom. Of going wherever the hell they wanted, whenever they wanted.
If they left right now…
Right now…
Took nothing...
Paid in cash so there was no trace...
And just drove all day, all night, up to those woods so Alfred could explore them for that portal.
Al would heal up along the way...
Tex slowed down as he approached the exit cuz he didn't want anyone accusing him of shoplifting.
Unfortunately, in his scramble to get them away, he hadn't paid much to attention to Al and realized belatedly that Al was still reaching for...someone.
Texas looked over his shoulder and stared in mouth-open-shock as Wales vaulted over a shopping cart like an Olympic hurdler, much to the shock of the family pushing it.
The man slid to a stop beside them.
Texas faltered, "Um, um, uh."
He stood by dumbly as Rhys pulled Alfred into his arms, settled him on his hip, and then pulled out a small notepad and began jotting things down.
"Uh?"
Was he getting a citation?!
Rhys then handed the pad and his wallet to Texas.
"Alfred and I will be waiting on a bench outside at the front."
The automatic doors whooshed as they went through.
Tex looked down at the paper.
Oh, it was a list of things to get Al. The only problem was...he was gonna have to head back in and brave a sequel to the Anglo-Spanish War.
Al was sick though and he could really use this stuff.
And he'd gone and upset him a lot on top of that.
And if he marched out now, he'd seem like the biggest, uncaring jerk.
Yeah, they could swing by Walgreens, and avoid all the hoopla here, but if it wasn't having sales on what they needed, it could be pricey. Plus, he wasn't sure if he could shake Wales off. It appeared he was quite a sprinter.
Tex released a long breath, pulled his hat down so it'd be firm on his head, and then walked determinedly back into the fray.
They'd get Al healed up and then make their escape.
'Sides this was on Rhys's dime and he might just grab a few more things as a finder's fee.
Mathieu watched aisle rows rip free from where they were bolted down as the two Old World Nations battled each other—slamming one another into shelving whenever they could.
He ought to have followed Rhys but...he just couldn't tear himself away. It was like watching titans fight.
They were both roughly the same height, and on first glance it would look like Antonio (who had a more muscular build) would have a clear advantage but…
Mathieu winced as England kneed Spain between the legs and flipped him over his shoulder.
England was just mean.
The Briton grinned nastily as he leaned over his fallen opponent.
Though…
Spain used the moment to land a punch square in the other's face.
Spain was no lightweight, either.
It was no wonder why France had always come back so injured from any skirmish with them while the three battled for supremacy in the North American continent. Or why the Netherlands had to bow out early.
Mathieu stared as the men slugged it out spitting blood and curses at each other.
Scotland shook his head and snorted, "So much for the 'Anger Management' sessions."
Reilley looked less amused, "I don't...know the procedure for this one. Do we call someone? Store security? Homeland security?"
They watched as several more aisles domino-ed into each other—spilling the contents of their shelves onto the floor.
Mathieu watched one lean precariously into another shelving unit and gasped on seeing Texas there, doing a military crawl with a plastic basket—checking various medications that had been dumped onto the floor.
"Numpty," Scotland followed Canada's line of sight and sighed. "England's gonna get a hold of him and he's gonna deserve it. Baiting him like this. He's gonna shake him like a pitbull with a ragdoll."
On finding what he needed, Tex scrambled out to a cart. He tossed his plastic basket into the cart and then used the cart like a scooter—rolling across from one side to the other.
Spain noticed and his green eyes bulged. He physically held England's head to keep him from noticing too.
Though, it cost him.
Arthur worked Antonio's ribs hard with a flurry of punches.
Still, the Spaniard only released him once his son was gone.
Scotland brought over some chairs from the furniture section and invited Canada to sit down.
Canada supposed this was worst part of it all...it just didn't end. He checked his watch and looked back up.
Both combatants were in terrible condition.
Had to feel horrible. Arthur was visibly limping. Spain's arm looked like it might be dislocated—it wasn't moving right.
They were both breathing hard and their faces were contorting in pain.
And yet, they continued to charge at one another and hits continued to land.
Mathieu looked over at Alistair and Reilley for some kind of sign that this was in its final period or something.
Alistair crossed his arms. "They're gonna fight, laddie. They're gonna fight and fight and keep fighting, till they can't fight no more. Til one or the other or both of 'em just fall and can't get up. Tha's how they've always done it."
Reilley sighed, "Open field, medieval. Long as they could keep going. For as long as they were standing...they'd keep up the morale of their men. Just be glad, boyo. They don't have swords. Trust you me, this would be a much bigger mess."
And the ground was a mess already. Products scattered or leaking, mouthfuls of blood and trickles from scratches splattering onto the floor, that was sometimes cracked when one or the other landed hard.
Mathieu thought things were going bad when Walmart workers and security guards began trying to talk them down from a distance with the overhead PA system and a blow horn.
And then he realized that it was all just a stall tactic...and the police arrived.
Texas stared, "Come again?"
After shopping under duress, fiddling with the self-service station (Al was so much better at using those than him), and trying to keep a low profile and slip out before the cops were called, now he had to deal with more demands from the unwanted tagalong.
"Drive us home," Rhys repeated imperiously.
"With...you? Uh, I don't think there's room in the truck, we got...groceries...now."
Rhys didn't blink.
And Alfred whined that he wanted to go home already.
When he unlocked the passenger door, Rhys observed, "You don't have a booster seat for Alfred."
"No, Snobby, I don't."
"Well then, you'll need to go back in and purchase one."
"What?! You want it, you get it."
Tex and Al could then peel outta here without the wet blanket.
Rhys looked down at Alfred, "Alfred, I fear your brother's obstinacy means we must venture back in to ensure your safety on the road."
"Nooo" was the low moan. Alfred pressed his head into Rhys's shoulder. "I'b gonna throw up. I don't want ev'ybody to see be."
Rhys shrugged. "It's a normal reflex. If you must be ill, then you must-"
"Fine!" Tex threw his hands up. "Fine! I'll head back in-"
"Leave the keys," Rhys ordered. He nodded at the cart, "I can get the groceries situated."
"Whatever."
After stomping back in there, grabbing a stupid booster seat and having a nervous girl ring him up as officers began filing into the building, he stormed back into the parking lot.
Had to use his pocket knife to open the damned thing and then they had to shift the seats forward and then back to get it to fasten in correctly, before they could finally get in and be off.
And because Al was in the middle seat now instead of next to the window, when he did throw up, he had to use the barf bag from the glove compartment rather than just rolling down the window.
Which meant they had to hold onto the gunk until they were home.
And once they were home, the Welshman got bossier—demanding to know where supply closets and linen closets and specialty electronics were.
Tex set his hat down on the counter. "Look, it ain't the plague. We just gotta let him rest it off. I'll fix him some soup and-"
Rhys glared, "You don't have a humidifier?"
"Why...would I have that?"
The man's eyebrows twitched furiously and then he asked through clenched teeth, "I trust you have a shower?"
He pointed down the hall.
Rhys gave a tight nod and steered Al to it.
In the meanwhile, Tex put away the groceries and cooked up a can of chicken and stars soup.
When it was ready, he switched the burner off and went to round Al up.
Through the crack of the open door, he saw Rhys was kneeling beside Alfred, who was leaning heavily against him.
"There you go, now. Good. It'll help loosen the congestion. When you're up for it, I can show you some yoga poses and breathing techniques that can help you as well."
Tch. Yoga.
"You will break him like a popsicle stick, if you force him to do yoga," Tex scoffed from the doorway. "Soup's ready."
Rhys turned the shower off and helped maneuver Al back to the kitchen.
Rhys seemed to take a good look around then. "You...where's your seating?"
Tex felt his ears heat up a bit as he poured soup into one of Al's favorite Marvel bowls. It was easy buying packs of those plastic bowls and plates. It was sure to improve his baby brother's mood.
"Why...just...just look at this place?!" He then garbled out something in Welsh that Tex was pretty sure wasn't flattering.
Yeah, the decor left something to be desired. But he hadn't been planning on having guests!
There were two bean bag chairs, a mess of wires leading to various video game consoles, and two adjustable TV dinner standing trays leaning against the wall. There were towers of DVDs and VHS cassettes and Blu-rays with their corresponding machines stacked up on each other under where the TV was mounted onto the wall.
Tex tried not to flush as he gestured back at the kitchen, whose granite bar had two barstools. "You can grab one o' those."
Embarrassing as it was for him, it was kinda funny that this was the thing that really got Rhys's goat.
"How on earth are you supposed to entertain?"
"I don't," Tex snapped back. "What part of me playin' dead for all these years, are you not getting? I don't play host to other nations."
"W-what about humans?! Government officials? Good lord," Rhys stared at a crack in the ceiling which signaled water leakage….yeah, that must've happened while they were gone. "Health inspectors?!"
Tex and Al shrugged. He'd had a handful of disasters (natural and self-inflicted) which had kinda led to... this...
"For God's sake, how do you not have a sofa?!"
Alfred was careful to look down and away and Americat provided a distraction by bounding into the room then.
"Where is your furniture, Texas?"
Tex shrugged as he set up a TV tray for Al at his preferred beanbag, "I...I got stuff in storage that I just haven't gotten around to…"
"Pretty kitty," Alfred cooed and scratched Americat under the chin.
"Simply ridiculous. Simply-simply, Alfred, we're going to a hotel-"
"Whoa, there! You are overreacting-"
"This no place to convalesce. Just look at all the dust!"
"I will grab a mop and the vacuum. Chillax! We just haven't been here for a while."
"I thought Stuart was watching over the house for you-"
"Well, yeah. Americat and his litter box, I don't use Stuart as an all-out maid and-wait…"
Both Americans turned to stare.
Al looked up from his bowl. "How...did you know Stuart was…"
Rhys didn't quite falter but seemed to realize he'd revealed too much. However, he was too riled up to hold back now. "W-well, Stuart and Spain keep in contact and when the two of you terrified us by disappearing in the middle of the night-"
Stuart!
Brown eyes narrowed!
He and Stuart were gonna have to have a hard talk about breaches of confidence.
The doorbell rang and Tex groused as he answered it, "Speak of the devil and he appears, Stuart."
The man was on his porch with a phone at his ear. "Captain Jones, sir. I need you to accompany me across town. Immediately."
"Like hell."
Stuart handed the phone over which Tex reluctantly accepted.
"Huh? No, I-Well, they eavesdropped on a private conversation. No. I. No. What?! Now that's just...don't, don't hang up! Dammit." Tex thrust the phone back into Stuart's hands. "I don't get why I hafta to be the one to bail 'em out!"
"I believe they would like you to issue an apology for providing the...catalyst that...produced the escalation."
"Riiiight." Tex turned back to the house and hollered, "Al, I gotta go out! Al?!"
"He cannot yell right now, he is ill! You imbecile!"
Stuart's eyes widened a fraction. "Wales, sir?"
"Yeah, ol' Snobby's here."
"You...got him to yell…"
"Yeah, I know. Kinda proud of myself. He's usually the quiet, condescending type. Apparently, not having a sofa just...is the straw that breaks his grouchy-old-man-back."
Tex walked over to the government issued, black van parked in his driveway. "Look, how much am I gonna have to shell out to get 'em all out?"
"There won't be a bond," Stuart offered as he walked over to the driver's side and gave Tex a pointed look.
Tex grumbled and reluctantly walked back around to the passenger side.
Stuart fastened his seatbelt and waited for Texas to do the same. "The government is intervening on their behalf and apparently, the incident-"
"Is that what we're codifying it as? The incident?" Tex raised an eyebrow. "The Wally World Incident?"
The human adjusted his glasses and then turned the ignition and released the brake. "Yes, sir. There will however be a joint-effort to repay the property damage."
"Of course," Tex grumbled. "...always make us foot the bill."
"There is the matter of surveillance cameras as well."
"Ugh, everybody's going high-tech."
"Yes. So they've already asked for them."
"Stuart?"
"Sir?"
"Why the hell did you tell them where we were?"
The man blinked, "I was...unaware that you-"
"You should assume that anything we do or tell you or you learn is confidential."
The man looked semi-amused. "Really?"
"Dammit, Stuart. I'm serious."
"I apologize that you feel upset over my actions regarding this sit-"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. That's not a real apology. I know that apology. I've given that apology. It's almost as bad as the 'It's not you. It's me. I'm tryin' to find myself.' No. You don't tell folks stuff about us."
Stuart frowned.
"Your job is to assist us, Assistant."
"Actually, sir. That is a small feature of my job description. My main objective is to minimize damages of all natures, ensure smooth relations between you and your fellow nations, keep tabs on your behavior and stability—positively influencing it when I can—and reporting back."
Tex blinked.
"Since the...wendigo operation...and General Jones's...downsizing...the matter of age and maturity has been forefront in discuss-"
"Hey, Al is very competent!" Texas hissed. "He doesn't need you guys spying-"
"Yes, for his age. He is hypercompetent, as are you, in various situations."
"My list is shorter though, I'm sure."
Stuart's lip twitched. "It has brought up...concerns."
"Al-"
"About you both."
"...huh?"
"Both of you have been treated as personifications since the founding, or in your case, the annexation of your land into the United States. Without thought to your physical or mental age and the effects that-"
"So? I'm eighteen. I can pass for twenty-five if I got a beard. Thirty, if it's a mountain man one."
"You were even younger, fifteen? Sixteen? When you joined?"
"What's that got to do with anything!?"
"It's triggered questions about whether either of you have been…raised. Properly."
"Tch. We can take etiquette lessons if that's what's got y'all bent outta shape."
"It has been mentioned that you and your brother are very...different from other nations in how you structure your priorities. And the reality that you and he essentially raised yourselves... seems to answer why that may be."
"And?"
"No resolutions have been made. These are simply discussions they're having right now."
"And you snitched on us to them and our dads, because? Why?"
"They're resources you should take advantage of."
"Stu-"
"If I can relay reports proving your emotional stability and the presence of a support network of nations and family members, whatever step the government decides to take will be significantly less drastic."
"...That's ominous."
"Yes, sir. I thought so, too."
To Tex's surprise his dad was happy to see him.
"Mijo!" Antonio cheered as hurried over to the bars. Mathieu, Reilley, and Alistair were still seated on a wall-side bench behind him.
"P-papi," he greeted and tried not to grimace.
His father had suffered a broken nose which, from the looks of it, he'd already straightened back out and mopped up, but there was still dried blood around his nostrils and he was missing a front tooth. His arm was in a sling and his shirt was all torn up and stained.
Arthur was being held in a separate cell. Alone. One of his eyes was swollen shut and he had a split lip. Yet, the one venomous green eye watching him made it clear that he was still dangerous. And everybody knew it.
There was a lot of paper signing, and officer warnings, and Tex had to read off the apologies (to the police department, and the U.K., and Spain, and Canada) that Stuart forwarded him on his phone.
He made sure to give England a wide berth and picked up that Spain deliberately moved to block him from the Briton's view whenever possible.
Alistair and Reilley fought over who got to have the front passenger seat, which meant Tex wound up next to Spain, who seemed to think he deserved a hero's welcome for his troubles.
Meanwhile, Canada had a hundred yard stare and Tex had to buckle his seatbelt for him.
"I've never been arrested before."
"You must be getting more noticeable," Reilley suggested, despite having Alistair's hand over his face.
"But I've never…"
"Really?" Tex questioned doubtfully. "All the illegal substances you've done and you've never-"
"I am not a druggie!" Mathieu snapped.
"...oh...that's not what Al tells me."
"That's because Al, no-just...no...I'm not getting into this."
"O, lighten up jailbird," Tex grinned. "It just means you were finally a part of somethin' interestin' and you oughta-"
"Oh? So interesting things get people arrested?" Mathieu glared. "Are you speaking from experience?"
"Mijo?"
What would Al, say in a moment like this?
"I...refuse to confirm or deny anythin' without a lawyer present."
Arthur's insides continued to seethe as he waited for the front door to be unlocked.
Stuart had wished him luck and patience before driving off. And he'd need it. He'd need a lot of it.
No sooner than he heard an affirmative click, he shoved past the Texan—knocking him hard into the door.
"¡Oye! ¡Inglaterra!" Spain growled as he steadied his son."¡Mira por dónde vas!"
It took so much willpower not to dash that boy into the pavement like he deserved.
The only thing keeping him was…
His expression softened as he found Alfred nearby in a beanbag chair cuddling with Hop and a box of tissues and trying to avoid Rhys, who was desperate to spoon him some medicine.
"Come on, chwb. This will help you."
Arthur sighed and limped forward. "If he's being stubborn, you have to give him hon-"
Alfred looked up and gasped, "Dad."
Or apparently, you had to use the element of surprise. Rhys forced the spoonful in then.
Alfred swallowed and gagged and gave Rhys a wounded look.
Arthur eyed the supplies that Rhys had rounded up in a large cake sheet tupperware container. He picked up a bottle of honey shaped like a bear.
Alfred sniffled. "You're all beat up. Are you okay?"
"O' course, love. Spain's never learned how to throw a proper punch. Doesn't know the first thing about boxing. Daddy's fine."
"You...you just wait…" Spain muttered darkly out of the corner of his mouth as he passed by. "Te doy una hostia que te visto de torero."
Tex sighed, "Look, Papi, let's get you some ice for your...everything."
Rhys relinquished the spoon to Arthur, and Arthur filled it up with honey which Alfred gratefully accepted and gestured for one more.
"Two spoonfuls for one dose of medicine? Two?"
Alfred licked his lips, "We have to adjust for inflation."
"Well, I don't approve but I suppose we can make exception for the day you've had."
While he poured a second serving, Arthur glared at Texas and gritted through his teeth with every ounce of indignation in his being, "You...are...WRONG."
"Eep." Tex nearly dropped the ice tray.
Alfred sat up straighter and pointed, "See?! You see. Tex? Told you so. I..."
Arthur knelt down beside him.
"I told hib so."
Arthur nodded gravely, "One two three...one two three." He guided the spoon in. "Good."
He pushed sweaty fringe from the child's forehead and frowned at his brother, "Temperature?"
"Fevering," Rhys confirmed. "I need to wet another washcloth."
Arthur nodded, "Sounds like you could use some bedrest, Darlingheart. How about I read you…" He blinked and noticed there were no books in sight. "Tell you some stories?"
Alfred shook his head, "TV."
Well, it was big enough to be sure.
"We have Netflix."
"Oho."
"O aye, ya got Netflix. But where the hell is your furniture?" Alistair demanded as he looked around at the sparse space.
"We weren't expecting company," Tex replied in exasperation.
"Is it in the basement?"
"Uh, there are some cots there."
"Where is it, then, lad?"
"Down the hall to your left, you'll see a janky rug, under it, is the hatch to the storm cellar where you'll find-" At the concerned looks of the rooms' occupants, Tex cracked a smile, "Yeah, storm cellar. Well Gents, welcome to Tornado Alley."
Arthur ignored the twinge in his ankle and patrolled the house with a hawkish eye while Alfred kipped in his chair. He wanted to know the layout in case the boys tried anything else later.
It was a rather grand Spanish Colonial ranch house set far into the rural fringe of the area. However, all the splendor was in the architecture.
Reilley and Alistair hefted the spoils of their search of the basement. The venture produced two more bean bag chairs, several sleeping bags, a faux-leather ottoman trunk, two cots of dubious age, and a Keurig machine.
Reilley shrugged a shoulder. "There's a fridge full of beer down there and a pool table. So I can't say it's all bad."
Rhys had plenty to complain over.
"He bought lobsters." Rhys's eyebrows twitched as he looked over a receipt. "Lobsters?! I'm not made of money."
Alistair rolled his eyes. "You gave your wallet to a teenager. Yeh earned this."
"I couldn't abandon Alfred."
Arthur found the guestrooms were either empty or like barracks with military bedding that reminded him of WWI.
And there seemed to be a...recovery room of sorts, stocked with crates of medical supplies and an ominous freestanding industrial sink that had...stains. The bed was a hospital issue that looked straight out of the 1940s.
Great.
If there was anything that put him on edge, it was memorabilia from the World Wars and the boys' tendency to avoid hospital aid.
Still, what really bothered him was that he couldn't find Alfred's room.
Mathieu approached from the other side of the hall, "Snooping as well?"
No use denying it. "Have you seen Alfred's room?"
"There's only one master. Two beds there."
It echoed what the rest of the house seemed to say, that there were two people who lived here and to hell with anyone else.
The master bedroom was almost comically split in half with Alfred's side being painted white and Texas's side being blue.
The oak dressers matched and their gun cases matched...and that was it.
Arthur walked nearer to Alfred's bed. There was a corkboard with pictures of the two of them and contest ribbons and movie tickets tacked to it.
Alfred's side was a good deal homier than the room Arthur had known in the Virginia estate. There was a cubby wall with various knicknacks and toys.
And it said something for Texas that those quirks which, for a seventeen year old, seemed particularly odd, didn't faze him.
There was a Lego creation on a shelf on the older boy's side (that he'd have never made given his loathing of Legos) that spelled out TEXAS in red, white, and blue blocks.
Arthur left the room and explored some more, briefly wandering through the arches of the Spanish styled courtyard that had a fountain in desperate need of water until he noticed Antonio had brought the lad out there.
He batted down his wrath.
For Alfred.
He told his boiling blood.
For Alfred.
He crossed his arms and glowered.
For Alfred.
He'd hold his peace.
"Mijo, how are you living like this? Are you having fiscal problems?"
"What? No."
"There is no need for embarrassment. Be honest with Papi. Is this why you didn't want me visiting? I can help you-"
"NO. I have lots of reasons why I don't-Look. Stuff's just in storage."
Antonio plucked a McDonald's plastic toy out of his pocket.
"Hey, Al's gonna notice that missing. He knows all them Ninja Turtles' names and colors-"
"You had this on display?!"
Arthur winced. Yes, he'd noticed that also; rows of cheap figurines in decorative niches where paintings and vases ought to have been.
"Don't judge me off of this. We just haven't had time to haul everything back over. And with Al being..."
Sick? Small?
"Ya know. And us being out and about and globe trotting, I just haven't pushed it as an issue-"
Antonio choked, "How can this NOT be an issue? Your house has no furniture and it's leaking. And it smells of cat."
It did smell strongly of Americat.
"Easy there, I will change the litter which will solve that last prob-"
"Alfred's hacienda is in much better shape."
"Papi, don't nag me about the cleanli-"
"I am not nagging. I am worried. Where is your fair share?"
"Huh?"
"Alfred has a nice house with nice things in it. Where are your nice things? You accomplish half the work, you get half the stuff. Where is your half?"
"I got stuff, Papi. We just get deployed a lot. And I don't want all my stuff flying to the four winds if there's a tornado while I'm gone! You get it?"
"Yes, fine. I get it. But this is what familia is for. If you had just told me this sooner, we could've planned something for Easter and your brothers could have come and we'd all be happy to have helped you move back in and dust and clean and make it livable."
"...I...would've had to cook enough tacos for an army. They'd have ate me outta house and home and probably broke half the stuff they moved in-"
"Tejas-"
"We got some vintage stuff, I don't want their paws on. Hell, they might walk off with some of my prized-"
"Tejas, no hables mal de sus hermanos," Spain scolded.
"¡No me diga quién soy y lo que no estoy permitido de decir!" Texas snapped back.
Arthur ducked back into the house; he had enough family dysfunction of his own at present. When Alfred was feeling better, they'd need to have a very serious discussion about communication and they'd need to get to the bottom of whatever the hell the boys had been planning.
There were lots of pictures and he took care studying them. He realized eventually that Tex must've had countless backups of all of these, since he left them on the walls.
What letters were to Alfred...photos were for...
There was one large oval portrait of Alfred hanging over the mantelpiece in an otherwise empty family room. The room was larger than the parlor the boys used for gaming and TV bingeing. It would've been an excellent place for entertaining.
He stepped closer to the mantel to better inspect the picture.
It had a large ornate frame. The image had likely been enlarged from some vintage photo.
Arthur and his brothers had posed for enough of those through the years, establishing their authority and ownership of certain estates.
Only this was Texas's house, and a clear decorative choice on his part. It was interesting that he'd choose to have Alfred instead of...well, himself.
Keeping with the vintage feel, it was still rendered in sepia tones.
It was elegant.
Alfred was in 1880s military uniform, double breasted, decorated. It was difficult to ascertain his rank due to where the portrait ended at his shoulders. Brigadier General? Major General? Arthur couldn't tell.
He'd certainly have been a young face in the field.
Arthur knew firsthand how difficult it could be when your face didn't match your years of experience.
It was a handsome picture.
No slumping. No ridiculous expression. No immature gesturing.
Alfred's eyes were looking to some place to the side of the photographer and his head was tilted just so...it seemed at first like he was daydreaming…
Given how long it took photos to take pictures back then it'd be easy to dismiss his ever so slightly upturned lips as amusement over the chore of staying still…
Arthur frowned hard at the picture.
It could've been amusement. He tried to convince himself.
Only...
If only his eyes…
Weren't so…
He took a step back.
He couldn't unsee it now.
It was a small smile.
A very small, very sad, smile.
Fragile.
It made the picture haunting.
Tragic.
Arthur's fists clenched.
He hated it.
His eyes burned as he stormed down a hall plastered with pictures to go check on his son.
A wealth of photos to choose from…in uniform, out of uniform, in suits, in t-shirts.
Happy, triumphant, laughing, pleasant, amused, arrogant, surprised, delighted, and Texas went and chose that one for a hallowed spot.
Arthur shuffled forward and carefully knelt down beside the boy as he slept through cinema sounds of explosions without stirring.
Tragic.
He checked his son for signs of fever before tucking the blanket more securely around him.
Alfred blinked up at him sleepily.
"I love you," he told him fiercely. As if those words could erase that portrait from existence if he said it firmly enough. If he took care to say it often enough, "I love you so."
Alfred nodded and yawned and smiled.
The nails of his fingers bit into his palms. And he remembered more of what the boy's brother had said and his blood bubbled. And even though common sense told him to wait until the boy was better recovered, his heart rebelled.
"So much!" he insisted. "Of course, I wanted you to come home. If I'd believed it could've been done by simply saying as much…that I was...sorry...I'd have...I'd have said so a thousand times. I-I didn't think you would listen to me. I didn't think you wanted to come home to me-I-I-"
Alfred gave him a small, sad smile.
No.
His Alfred was never supposed to be tragic.
"I-I love you. I-I've always l-"
The boy reached for him—wanting a hug which Arthur was eager to bestow.
He pressed his face into the golden hair. "I lo-"
"You can't let yourself be bullied by what Tex says when he's upset."
"..."
"But don't be angry, either."
And Arthur knew then that despite it all, all the damage, all the pain, Texas had already been forgiven. A deep twinge of jealousy twisted his gut.
"I know, I know. He can be a real jackass in his delivery." Alfred's lips twitched into a fond smile. "But he means well. Even when he's wrong. He means well. He's just a tornado, Dad."
"..."
"I know your land doesn't get as many of them and...they're not as strong. But you'll get used to them. You'll get used to him, too. If you try."
Arthur's lips pursed tightly together and he released a hard, angry breath through his nose. The boy couldn't understand how much it had hurt to see him in anguish. To have his intentions, their bond, their feelings dragged through the mud like that.
Alfred sighed, "I used to hate the sea."
Arthur frowned.
"All the terrible things it did to ships and to people. All the dangerous things lurking in it. The way it never yields to me and ravages my coasts. How you can't drink it to live! How stingy with food and how cold it can be at night. The pull it had on you...How it always took you away from me! But you loved it. I hated it...And it hurt you when I said it. When I meant it. So I stopped."
"..."
"I can't hate the sea for being what it is to you. Don't hate the tornado."
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