Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, FaceTime, Pinterest, or the Bible: "Who among you, if your son or ox falls into a cistern, would not immediately pull him out on the sabbath day?" - Luke 14:5
Warning: Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Starcrossed shoes. Family drama. Me taking a crack at Spanish which I can fix retroactively (if it's too godawful XD). Spain's struggle of being a hardcore Catholic with a rebel son. Some fluff. The U.S. actually has a long history since its colonial days of being paranoid about Catholicism (thanks Henry VIII, Martin Luther, and John Calvin and your legacies). (This actually lasts an incredibly long time.) (Fun side note: there is some modern era controversy over whether rosaries ought to be worn as jewelry since their function is prayer, but I think Spain's of the mindset of older styled Christianity (and I mean oooolder). Originally, as long as you got them to practice, they could combine it any way and it works (the RCC's obsession with heresy and Orthodoxy comes on gradually before it gains full steam). Seriously, if you ever get the chance to read Pope Gregory I's advice to Augustine on converting the Celtic peoples of the U.K. to Catholicism in the 6th Century, he's brilliantly chill about how best to go about it.) And centuries later, if you want to see some weird things the RCC and Celtic Christians decided to split hairs on (pun), look up tonsuring. Spain folk remedies for colds: onion in a bowl to deal with bacteria in the air, special teas, etc.
AN: Wow. Seriously people, school. SCHOOL! All this reading, man...is kicking my butt. As if I didn't have a life beyond school in my previous semester, in this one I don't even have, like, a ghostlife...ya know, like the ectoplasmic residue of one? Sooo that's why y'all have had to wait so long for this chap. XD Thank you for your reviews and your patience and I hope you enjoy:
Chapter 28: Why Do You Hafta Be An Evil Force Keeping Them Apart?!
Arthur set down a plate of waffles Rhys had cooked in front of Alfred and ruffled the child's hair.
One look at the meal revealed that Rhys was getting strangely sentimental...and attached to Pinterest. He'd made the boy "Easter waffles" in the shape of a rabbit with an exorbitant amount of whipped cream, strawberries, and sprinkles. And he'd lurked in the doorway upon the delivery of his creation to see its reception.
"Eeeeee! That's so coool!" Alfred had squealed in delight and snapped a picture of it on his phone before reaching for the maple syrup and drowning his breakfast in it. He pitched his voice a little louder. "D-diolch!"
And though Arthur simply winced because the pronunciation wasn't quite right, his brother ducked back into the kitchen.
Rhys was very particular and protective about his language. Alfred had likely offended him.
When Arthur returned there to load up his own plate and pour a fair amount of baked beans on the side, and inquired after him, his brother rather defensively insisted he was perfectly fine, why wouldn't he be?!
Arthur sighed and apologized for the lack of finesse in his child's delivery, perhaps if they were both involved in teaching him Welsh, they could smooth it out.
Rhys got a bit angry at him then. And he was surprised to be informed that...Rhys hadn't been teaching the child little phrases here and there as he'd supposed...Alfred had remembered…
And Arthur realized he had misread his reaction. Rhys hadn't been annoyed...he'd been overcome.
Alistair had warned him that Rhys had taken being "forgotten" harder than expected. It was just, given their brother's usual stoicism…
It was hard to register that he'd been...truly hurt by it…
Particularly, as he and his nephew had a rather rough falling out due to 1812; Alfred had brutally broken his uncle's leg during a confrontation and the result had naturally colored Rhys's interactions with him following it…
He hadn't blamed Rhys at all and tried to limit how often the two were forced together. Tried to guard his own mouth and not to speak too tenderly about Alfred out of respect for their estrangement...though he didn't always succeed.
Arthur was the boy's father...and even though the teen hurt him repeatedly...and though they had near constant rows with each other...ultimately, he could forgive him anything… because he had to be able to see him...he'd go mad if...
Still, attempts to get Alfred to be more considerate to his uncle failed and Arthur came to assume the coldness between them was mutual.
Only it wasn't.
The nature of the estrangement…was lopsided.
Rhys remembered.
Alfred didn't.
What Rhys interpreted as deliberate disrespect and callousness was simply...the icy indifference of a void.
Much like Arthur had suffered, all the good memories of him were sealed off. Only worse...for Rhys...every memory was gone.
It gave new insight to all the times America had pointed out Wales and gone, "Who's that?"
They'd all assumed he was being cruel and impertinent. But that hex had been working itself fiercely over him for him to "forget Spring." And the full meaning of that was still lost to them…
Dammit boy, what exactly did you wish?
England was remembered in the worst light possible...and assigned the responsibility for monstrous acts he'd never commit.
1812 was a blank with violent consequences.
Wales...didn't exist.
God, if America had...looked at him with those bonnie blue eyes...and not known him…
It would've broken his heart, but he'd have known immediately. And there was no way he would've been able to let it lie. They could've had that hex off him sooner.
Instead, it festered and his relationship with his Welsh uncle remained strained and static until Rhys's quiet anger and disapproval and chilly reception of him slowly erected opposition in Alfred.
Rhys had 1812. Alfred had Rhys's treatment of him.
Once that was made clear…Rhys moved to scrap those barriers.
When Reilley had commented on Rhys's swift change of attitude (because he wasn't someone who rushed into anything), Rhys had murmured, abashed, that he'd been "...locked in a staring contest with a shadow."
And his brother was usually so composed…
That hearing regret in his voice…
Yes, Arthur still had some reservations about the two of them because Rhys just wasn't as gentle with children as Arthur was…
And his manner of dealing with traumas wasn't quite what Arthur had in mind…ever...
But…
He'd worked awfully hard on a breakfast whose details would be devoured in minutes.
And he carried a lot of children's books without ever complaining about the weight.
And he dutifully answered all of Alfred's questions when Alistair and Reilley would've told the little one to "belt up already."
And being remembered, even if it was just in sudden spontaneous pieces...was enough to…
Arthur blinked hard. He'd write a thank you or...something...or-or-or...something...
On Arthur's return to the dining room, he sat down beside his child. Alfred's countenance lit up and he swung his slippered feet joyfully.
"Happy Easter!" he burst.
"A very happy one, indeed," he agreed, giving the child's cheek a gentle, though mischievous, pinch.
The fever hadn't returned, and that alone was enough to buoy Arthur's spirits considerably.
The dining table and chairs had been set up the previous night and Alfred had woken up, delighted to find everything inside.
He spun around in one clear spot and laughed. "It's like we live here again!"
Which hurt him…
...thinking of the boys...
Surviving in hollowed out shelters instead of homes...
Alistair brought over some sausages and set two down on Alfred's plate, before leaving the whole grease-dripping platter in the middle of the table. Arthur hastily moved some napkins under it before the new furniture was damaged.
Rhys eventually joined them and sat near Alistair and Reilley and went a little pink when Alfred sang his culinary praises.
Mathieu had opted for pancakes and eggybread, and seemed in good spirits as he gave his brothers "Happy Easter" greetings.
At the head of the table, Texas was eating a...mixture of breakfast foods; a waffle, a pancake, a breakfast taco. There was syrup on one side and salsa on the other; the meat dishes were dipped into either depending on his whim.
It looked like a stomach ache and when he muttered as much under his breath, Alfred whispered back. "No way, dude-er-Dad. He's got a cast iron stomach. Like, even stronger than mine. And nothing's ever too spicy. He breaks those diner competition people and whatever spicy death sauce they whip up. Let's put it this way...he can eat a Carolina Reaper. And if he cooks stuff for himself when I'm not around...I don't take my chances with the tupperware leftovers...He likes ghost peppers."
Spain, who was on the Texan's right, was trying to plead his case for a Catholic mass, "I did not make you go to Easter Vigil last night. Today's morning service will be like your regular Protestant serv-"
Reilley had already volunteered to join him, but it was obvious who he really wanted to accompany him.
Tex yawned and gave him a flat, irritable look. "You said I didn't have to celebrate with-"
"Sí...but...I thought...hoped...you would change your mind."
"Whellllp. I didn't."
"O-okay...which church...will you be going to, then? My phone has nav soooo we...we can drop you off. And then I pick you up and we have nice father-son lunch toget-"
"Guess, you'll be getting a cab," Alistair smirked at his Irish brother.
Texas chewed and swallowed, "I don't see it happening this year. Al's still sick, I don't wanna go without him."
Antonio stared, faltered, and plastered an unconvincing smile, "W-where's your Bible? I...I can bookmark some pages for you-"
"Don't bother. I got him, Captain Pilgrim Pants over there, can quote Scripture like you won't believe."
Alfred grinned, "Well yeah! Or the Puritans…" he abruptly got a haunted look, "get upset."
Arthur should never have left him in their settlements. It was just...some of the other towns were so lowly moralled or besieged with epidemics, he thought they were the safer option in 1690.
"Otherwise, I'll turn the T.V. on. There's a televangelist gabbing on there somewhere."
"...so...you don't talk to priests at all now, huh?" Spain looked troubled.
"Oi, I don't think I like your tone. I ain't faithless, ya know?"
"...you're not Orthodox, that's for sure," Antonio grumbled.
"Papi, I'm eating and I don't wanna deal with you being Catholic and crazy right now. No Inquisition until after I finish my waffle, kay?"
Antonio got flustered, "When was the last time you went to Confession?"
"As I'm not a Catholic anymore, some time."
"When?!"
"Some time right after 'Don't hold your breath.' Heck, you should be glad I'm anything following the Alamo. Thank Al, for that," he pointed his fork.
Spain physically flinched at the implication and abandoned his breakfast and silverware to fling his arms around his offspring.
"Cuz this doesn't interfere with my eating."
"You should've come to Papi with your moments of doubt and darkness. I could have taken you to the Church. Helped you with your trials."
"Yeah, well. Guess what?"
"¿Qué?"
"I was busy! If you were so goddamned-"
"Don't blasp-"
"Worried about what I was up to, maybe you should've gotten off your ass and sailed over-"
"The Carlist Wars, mijo. My monarchs did not want me leaving when there was so much turmoil-"
"Didn't stop you from going to Carnevale with the Italies-"
Spain's eyes widened and he looked a little shamefaced. "Tejas-"
Texas used an arm to shove him back over to his own seat. "Yeah, yeah, there was always something. Cry me a river. Whatever-"
England sighed. Yes, Spain really did need an ally, didn't he? But how could he help without it being obvious and causing some manner of alienation or distrust? With their luck, they'd be painted as Big Bad, Old World foes uniting against them.
There was a possibility that if he just told Alfred right out that Antonio was desperate to mend ties with Texas and wanted to come to May Day, he might appeal to the boy's heart...particularly, if he played up the opportunity for father and son bonding.
Arthur, himself, was hopeful for that with Mathieu and Alfred.
But there was a chance it could backfire. Alfred was very loyal to his Texan brother and very good at suppressing his feelings. He might even feel sympathetic to Antonio's cause and it wouldn't come across to anyone...except, perhaps, Rhys.
Once Alfred chose to stand by something...he stood by it...heart be damned...as Arthur learned too well.
It was a cruel irony that all those lectures about principle and duty and holding to one's word that he'd stressed to his young colony had been remembered and adhered to in the worst way imaginable.
All those good intentions and they bit him in the arse.
He'd have to be clever, to maneuver Antonio into the event without causing an upset.
It was made more difficult because the man just...wasn't subtle.
Spain dramatically pushed his half-eaten meal away. He morosely pulled something out from his pocket and fiddled with it. He kept throwing obvious looks that suggested he longed for Texas to glance over and comment on what he was holding.
But the boy had a talent for defying him.
Reilley set his napkin down, "Oi, Spain, we best be off if we're to be in time."
The Spaniard sighed and stood up, "I...I wanted us to be at church but...I see now...Here." He took off the Texan's hat.
"Hey! Nobody just gets to grab the hat-"
He set a strand of beads over Texas and then set the cowboy hat back on.
Arthur appraised that it was a rather handsome cross, solid silver, and adorned with a mix of turquoise and white quartzite beads.
"There. I put it on a longer cord. Added beads. Still has the turquoise from your home. And now has quartz...from mine. But I tried to pattern it so you can still count them easily..."
"I don't count the ros…" Tex broke off and sighed and then studied the jewelry and let it drop. "I didn't expect to get this back."
Spain reached over and straightened it with the same sentimental look England knew he got whenever he helped America with the unruly lapels of a coat. And England could almost see a much younger Texas getting the necklace tangled and Spain fixing it.
"When Mejico wrote me saying you were dead, I would not believe it. My line was strong. How could that be? I thought, no, impossible...vicious lie...then she brought me that." He swallowed and gestured to the cross. "You always had that with you."
Texas stared over at Alfred.
Spain wasn't a terribly observant man but he caught that exchange and, in a show of genuine anger, sat back down.
"Er, Antonio?" Reilley muttered. "Mass?"
"So? How did Mejico get it?"
"W-well," Alfred began.
"You don't have to tell him anything," Texas spat.
"I deserve to know this!"
"Well," Alfred scratched an ear. "It kinda started when I won Tex's glasses in a card game."
Mathieu set down the maple syrup and stared. "You bet those?"
"I was drunk."
"You...you let him?"
"Hey!...I was also drunk," Alfred argued. "...and I lost a shoe! It'd be something if he wanted both. But he only took one! The bastard!"
Texas looked very satisfied. "...it's still funny. Cuz it's right there."
The occupants of the dining room turned to see that balanced on one stack of crates in the corner was a young man's western boot. It was very old and creased from use.
Alfred's jaw dropped and he wailed, "The other one's all the way back in Virginia!"
"Yup."
"You!"
"Mmhmm?"
"Why can't you just let them be together? Why do you hafta be an evil force keeping them apart?!"
"Cuz...I won that one and that's how I like it."
"Jerk. Anyways, so I was wearing them, the glasses not the shoe, and people kept asking and I was all, 'They're Tex's' but everybody heard, 'They're Texas' like...it was all that was left of him-"
"Sometimes, I wish I'd bet the spurs. I'd have liked being associated with that. That would've been cool. Ka-ching. Ka-ching. What's that sound? Texas."
Arthur frowned, "And you didn't correct this assumption? Either of you?"
Alfred gave a guilty smile, "Well, I kinda thought it was funny."
Arthur stared, blood going cold.
"-let Tex know. I planned on surprising everyone at a Hallow's Eve celebration with him reappearing. Man, that would've scared y'all. I'd have won that year. Ya know, especially if I'd put him in a bloody sheet and ripped up military uniform and he was all, 'Ooooooh, hooooola, I am the ghost of the República de T-"
"Funny?" Spain muttered in a dark tone. "You think this funny?"
"Well, yeah, because...because...anyways, I told him and he just…" Alfred looked over to his brother.
"I saw my out and took it. But I knew glasses wouldn't be enough. I had to give somethin' better."
Spain scowled and his tone darkened, "I had that cross made the year you were born."
"..."
"I had it blessed by Pope-"
"I don't care."
Spain's green eyes flashed.
Tex shrugged. "But I knew it'd freak Mexico out and if I could convince her...she had such a fat mouth, she'd spread it around. And she did."
Antonio's voice hardened. "And you do not feel any remorse for this? For your hermana? For your hermanos? For me?"
Arthur swallowed. Because he just...didn't want to imagine how horrible...
"Not a bit."
Arthur's eyes widened.
A muscle ticked in Spain's jaw. "We grieved for you."
Tex rolled his eyes. "Hey, you're gonna miss your Mass. There's gonna be traffic."
Spain stood up and the chair screeched and though it was obvious he was furious, he beseeched him again.
And Arthur knew how hard that was, stamping down the scorching anger and hurt, so the bridge between parent and child wouldn't be burned.
"¿Viene usted conmigo, por favor? We talk more."
"No, there ain't anymore to talk ab-"
"I grieved for you."
Arthur flinched at the palpable pain in that. He knew that horror. But he'd been relieved of it almost immediately—finding a transformed Alfred. And it didn't matter that his boy had changed drastically as long as he could hold him close.
But Antonio…
Antonio…
Had nothing…
No warning...
No last moments…
No body…
A cross, a pair of spectacles, and a void nothing could mend...were what his boy left behind…
And he had to try and live with that...
Tex waved a dismissive hand. "Okay, okay, I'm sure that was a rough message. I'll give you that, geez...dramatic...but you're fine now."
Arthur shuddered at the callousness.
Spain slapped a hand against the table. "Yes! Because my grief ended when Feli send me picture of you at meeting! In restaurant. I drop glass was holding, go everywhere. Older. But I know you. I know you anywhere. I go, '¡Lovi, Lovi, mira! Es mi bebé-"
Arthur looked over in sympathy. His oft rival and foe and ally was beyond upset. He was losing his command of English and his accent was hard and angry and breaking through.
"..."
Spain lost his composure and his voice shook as he spoke.
Arthur's Spanish was far from perfect but he felt his throat close because he knew enough...to understand Antonio was talking about the horror of having his son taken from him and the pain and the unfairness of it and why would God do that to him? And now knowing it was a sick joke? And couldn't Texas at least do him the decency of telling him why he made him suffer like that?
Texas rolled his eyes. "Jesus C-"
"No tomarás el nombre de Dios en vano-"
But Texas wouldn't have it and stood up, snarling, "What's your grief even worth? You never knew me. None of you did. Not one of you ever came to visit me 'less ya wanted something and were frickin' desperate. Cuz there wasn't anything out there where I was at. What was I? A buffer. I was that seat at your table, that last fringe family member to invite to stuff because, 'Oh yea, we need the whole familia for this one...even what's-his-face,' the only reason anybody even knew which one I was, half the time, was because I was 'the one with the glasses!' How frickin' sad is that?!"
Alfred blew his nose with a Kleenex. It was amazing how Arthur always seemed to have a packet of tissues on him at all times.
"Are you certain you're still alright?" Arthur asked—eyebrows knit together. "It's awfully soon for you to be out."
His uncle Rhys looked similarly grim and shook his head gravely as he gave stats about the likelihood of pneumonia when colds weren't properly cared for.
Alfred forced a grin. No. No, he felt pretty rough and the thought of being home and in his pajamas sounded pretty good. But...he had to put on a brave face. He balled the tissue up and shoved it in his pocket, preparing to be on the lookout for a trashcan.
"I'm feeling a lot better," he lied.
Arthur hmmed at that, looking far from convinced.
Rhys scoffed.
Alfred shifted a little uncomfortably. Pews were always tough on the butt.
Arthur sighed and pulled him onto his lap. "Poor thing."
"Yeah," Alfred confessed, "I'm still a little achy."
Arthur nodded and rubbed his back soothingly. Alfred snuggled into his father's chest and was considering trying to take a cat nap when—
"You see?" Texas hissed from beside them. "This is how he gets his way. Any means necessary."
Yup, the group of them, minus Alistair, had ended up at a very crowded Catholic Mass. And it took them several vehicles to get there.
But…
Alfred couldn't work up any resentment not even his old shudders of fear over "Papists," that usually haunted him like a bogeyman for most of his early years as a nation, were in effect anymore.
The truth was...he felt sorry for the old dude.
"Bro, you totally made him cry."
He heard Arthur make a grunt of disapproval that suggested he sided with Alfred on the point.
Because yeah…
That was hella uncomfortable. Especially cuz he'd wanted a hug that Tex just wouldn't give him. His brother just sorta stood there, arms crossed, staring at the wall, while Spain cried on him.
Tex didn't quite meet his eyes, "So?"
"C'mon, that's kinda cold. Even Alaska would've given an awkward back pat."
Brown eyes slid to meet his. "Hey, nothin' I said wasn't true."
"Yeah, well...I'm not saying your childhood didn't suck hard...and that your family didn't play a huge part in that...cuz they totally did...and you've got issues now but I don't think your dad'll survive if you drop the hammer."
"...don't need 'im," Tex flicked a finger against a book of hymns, stored in front of him.
Alfred stared and he felt his dad freeze up like he had one time during WWI.
They were running from machine gun fire and dammit, he felt ill prepared. Battles on lands that weren't his own left his feet feeling uncertain and he tended to be clumsy for the first few weeks as he adjusted...which definitely didn't endear him to England and gave the Briton new fuel to berate him with.
And then there was the fact that everything about this war was so different than most of the ones he'd been in. So much team coordination was involved. Where were America's solo missions? Too much hand holding. Too much planning. Too much we have to do everything just so. And even though England had stressed the difference multiple times. He didn't want to come across as some incompetent lackey so he tacked down his bravado as tight as he could and pretended to be invincible. And it seemed to work because Arthur didn't use kid gloves with him and that was fine.
It was fine that other former colonies and current territories were treated nicer than him. It kept things simple between them. That's how he liked it anyway. After the war was done...he could just go back to America. No strings. It was better that way.
Kept things practical, sterile, simple. If he did die, it was good to know that England wouldn't waste time lugging him around like Texas would and get himself killed. He'd just be left behind. And then when he reanimated he could fight however the hell he wanted without having England bark orders at him about "how" he was supposed to battle enemies and what was "fair play" and what wasn't. He had too many rules.
They'd been ambushed and they were the only two that had made it and so they were on a retreat. They were supposed to be heading to safety. But when they rounded the corner, Arthur stopped in his tracks and Alfred bumped hard into him.
His old man had still been an Empire then...so he didn't knock him down. Rather, he was the one that landed flat on his butt. And being there...low to the ground and behind England's legs, reminded him of when he was a child and there'd been a raid.
Arthur must've gotten trapped in a similar vein of memory because his hand found Alfred's face and he ordered, "Don't look." But it was too late and Arthur's hand only blocked one eye; his troop had already bit it.
"Sooner he gets it," Tex grumbled. "The sooner things can go back to normal."
Alfred nodded. It wasn't looking like Tex and his dad were heading for a happily ever after reconciliation.
Tex just wasn't feelin' it.
"Oh. Okay." Because...if that was how he felt, that was how he felt.
He got the impression that Arthur wasn't too stoked about either of their responses though. His old man held him very tightly after that and breathed kinda funny.
Antonio returned from communion, arms behind his back and smiling, "You should go too. There's plenty."
Texas hunkered down in his seat, arms crossed, and glowering.
"Ohhh, heaven help me...teenagers. Be mad at me, don't be mad at God. Go up."
"C'mon, Tex. Catholic Easter, here we come! Here we go," Al wriggled for his dad to let him go and grabbed his brother's hand. "Dry cracker time!"
"I hate it so bad. The songs. The smells. Aaaaall the old wood and B.O.," but for all his bellyaching, Tex followed Al up. "And it's so hot in here, too."
Yeah, all the people made it kinda warm but...he was surprised to see his brother was sweating. He usually had a high tolerance for heat; it was something he liked to boast about.
When they returned, Antonio was chatting with a strangely amiable, silent Arthur, "Oh, this reminds me of when we were both Catholics! You remember, don't you? We used to have meetings and feasts and marriages and watch little royals get baptized! So cute!"
Arthur gave a weak smile that turned more genuine as Alfred clambered onto his lap.
"Made me so proud. Well, you know, until I had my own babies. Now, that was exhilarat-" The Spaniard broke off and grinned at Alfred and then at Tex, who shuffled back over with considerable less enthusiasm. Antonio patted the spot on the bench next to him and Tex let out a long suffering sigh as he sat down.
"Soooo, there are Easter Eggs!" Antonio looked at Alfred and winked. "I already talked to a woman when I was in line, Isabel. Good name. All women I meet with this name. Good women. She gave me this for you. They had extra." He presented a small plastic Easter basket. "So you can have Pagan fun."
"Our family's favorite," Reilley snarked from the bench behind them.
"Dude, that's so nice. Awww."
"We got Easter Eggs," Tex grumbled. "At home."
"We do?"
"I got the plastic ones."
"When?"
"Last night."
"Dude, seriously, when? Dad says you guys were all up late movin' furniture around."
"..."
"Well, that explains why you're such a crabby apple today."
"It does?" Spain looked puzzled.
"Al," Tex warned.
"You pulled an all-nighter. Duuuuude. You're always a pain in the butt when you don't get enough slee-"
"Hey! I knew you were gonna be all, 'Waah! We didn't do nothin' fun for Easter,' so I dragged myself out and drove to-"
"You did not sleep?" Spain murmured, looking concerned. "That is no good, how can you stay healt-"
"Why do you think I let you drive?"
"...because you trust Papi to follow the rules of the road better than the pirata?"
Texas struggled with that. "Fine. Granted. You are a better driver than limey psycho and co. But I know when I can't be the designated driver."
He massaged the bridge of his nose.
Spain scrutinized him hard then.
"What?" Tex demanded irritably.
He didn't reply but immediately reached a hand to touch his cheek and then forehead.
"¿Qué diablos crees que haces?"
"You feel warm," he noted quietly.
"O' course I'm hot under the collar. I'm angry and this places is crawling with people. It's a furnace."
Antonio frowned and felt his neck. He then compared with his own temperature. "No, you are warm."
Alfred grimaced, "Sorry, bro."
"I ain't sick...physically. I'm just tired of having a bunch of Euros bossing me ar-"
Arthur sighed, "So we have two sick children now."
"I ain't a child."
Antonio set a hand on his son's shoulder and sighed wearily, "C'mon, mijo. I take you home. I wish you had told me you weren't feeling well."
"Don't tell me what to do. Al, you wanna do that Easter Egg hunt here first?" Tex asked just to be contrite.
"Uhh…"
"Well, Lone Ranger?" Tex demanded.
"Ummm…"
Al looked around and saw Mathieu shaking his head and murmuring, "You don't have to."
Cuz he was kinda tired...and hungry...and...achy. And he probably couldn't handle two Easter Egg hunts...
"Let's all go home," Arthur pushed forward. "Alfred's still ill and if Texas has caught it too, he's going to come down hard in a matter of hours. Which means you're contagious. You don't want to get all these nice people sick, do you?"
Which hit Tex's chord of gallantry, and his expression fell.
Tex was frowning out the window when his nose started to run.
Awww, dammit. He'd caught Al's cold for sure.
He looked ahead and saw Al's family was driving way over the speed limit. Yeah, Spain was a better driver than the U.K. nations. Only...taking advantage of that meant agreeing to be stuck with him in close quarters.
He sniffled.
He'd been feeling a little rough since his trip to the store but he'd put it off as simple exhaustion.
He discretely tried to wipe his nose on the cuff of his sleeve without attracting notice.
"Poor Junior."
To no avail.
"Oh Toni, why did you not tell me you were feeling poorly? We could have stayed home if this was why. 'Who among you, if your son or ox falls into a cistern, would not immediately pull him out on the sabbath day?'" Antonio frowned at the fields of pasture. "I should've cut an onion and put it in a bowl for you...with you and Alfredo sharing a room. Gah, I am angry at me. I will do that tonight. I will remember."
"I just need a good drink of whisky. That'll burn it out."
"No, I will call Stewart. He will get Propolis, I will make you tea. You will rest."
"No, I got stuff I gotta finish 'fore this thing lays me out."
"You will make yourself sicker!"
"I gotta prep Al's Easter Eggs and hide them."
"Okay, I help."
"And my house is a mess so that'll work for the Hunt but after I gotta try and make sense of it or we'll be tripping over-"
"Papi will order the house. You will-"
"And I really oughta go through my emails, my box is full again-"
The truck parked in the driveway and Tex reached over and grabbed the keys out of the ignition.
He entered the house, hung his keys, saw Alistair had taken lunch upon himself to make...which was at least one thing he didn't have to worry about.
And Al's kin had made themselves useful by setting the table.
He ate a couple bites of the roast and then hurried himself along to deal with the eggs. He'd bought some candy and stickers to hide in them. He had to do that now and quick. And then he had to hide 'em all.
As he'd predicted Al loved having an Easter Egg hunt and he did his best not to be too "crabby." Hell, even Matt tried to pick up the slack by letting Al ride on his shoulders for the high up eggs.
And then the U.K. wanted to take various holiday pictures and Al had to set up the T.V. so Spain could wish "Happy Easter" to his brood via a ridiculous amount of split screens which kept the idiota out of his hair for a while.
Tex had to get all he could in order. It was bad enough that Al was sick and now he was going under too.
And with both of them down for the count that left a dangerous vacuum of authority and European Nations loved calling the shots.
Old World Powers...tch...
He got through constructing Al's nice bed and Rhys helped him move their nicer dressers in.
He wiped his arm across his sweaty forehead and put up with Arthur administering bitter medicine to him and Al at various intervals.
He moved crates into the proper rooms with Reilley and Matt's help.
He heaved a china hutch with Alistair to the dining room.
He didn't trust anyone but himself to maneuver Alfred's treasured grandfather clock into its hallowed spot in the hall.
And he put up with his father pestering him every step of the way after his FaceTime chat with the familia ended.
"Okay, I think this is enough, mijo."
"More than enough!"
"I would like you to stop now, please."
"You are very red. I think your fever is worse."
"Here, I will do this, you can-"
"I don't think you should be handling power tools right now-"
"You worry me, mijo. Descansa un rato...por favor..."
"Dinner is ready!" Alistair bellowed.
He laughed lightly as he heard Al ring a cowbell. He used to do that as a signal for him to come in from working outside.
He wiped his face on his sleeve.
Only...
He got up too quick from where he'd been constructing his own bed frame together and the room tilted. He flung an arm out to grab at the wall and missed but...didn't fall.
"I got you. Papi's got you. Rest time now, yes?"
Very reluctantly, he nodded, "...Yeah."
Antonio sighed in relief and remained annoyingly close, even after he'd gotten his balance back—hovering at his elbow. He almost tripped into him twice but rather than getting a hint, his former colonizer just got closer.
Europeans, they just had no sense of personal space.
He ate about half his plate, showered, got dressed again, and took another crack at his bed.
But it was getting harder to concentrate and he was starting to get a little worried about his coordination.
He needed the screws to go in straight or he'd splinter the wood and he'd have to fix it...which would be a pain.
His hand hovered unsurely on the screwdriver and it was plucked from his grasp.
He blinked dumbly at his empty hand.
"Toni, I finish this. You rest in my guestroom. You will know it is mine because it has creepy owl in it now. Reilley and Alistair have been decorating with those. Anyway, you rest. I get you after."
He huffed and stood up, because at this point, the odds were in Spain's favor on who'd screw it up less.
And then he tripped a bit over his own tools, which was hella embarrassing, as he tried to leave the room.
"Here, I walk you there."
He tried to push the guiding hand away but clipped a corner with his shoulder which earned him two guiding hands on the shoulders and it reminded him of how Spain would steer him around when he was young and wandering around early in the morning without his glasses.
Spain would usually order a servant to fetch them and practically hold Tex in place, hands firm on his arms nearly pinning them, or guide him somewhere where nothing was around them. He hated it when Tex broke stuff.
Alfred watched as Arthur and Alistair set the mattress onto his brother's bed. Rhys brought in fresh linens and made it up.
Mattie took out the disassembled pieces of their previous bed sets. Reilley made short work of transferring over their dressers' contents and was disappointed there wasn't anything more exciting in there. They usually only lived out of the top drawer. Though Al sometimes kept a favorite movie or comic in a second one and Tex usually had snake tongs and sometimes an NRA magazine or a Nascar one.
However, he kinda got the feeling that Reilley was after something else since he kept repeating that Tex was eighteen...like that meant something.
"The duvets don't really match the quality of the furniture," Arthur complained. "But we can look over some online catalogues, I'm sure, to get a better idea of what you two are aiming for here. That wall...though..."
"Kay."
Spain carried Tex in and set him on his bed.
"He crashed." Alfred blinked up, "Inside or outside? He must've been outside cuz I didn't hear it."
He got looks.
He tried to explain. "Well, you usually just gotta let him tire out. I mean, until he accepts he's sick...he just gets mad. And when he's real ornery and frustrated, he's real mean. I just wait for the 'Timber!' THUD! And then I can take care of him. In fact, I can take it from here."
He hopped off his bed and over and onto the other. He pulled his brother's boots off. Reached for the hat, but Spain beat him there and hung it on a peg under a familiar hat rack, Tex must've hung up earlier, that read in western block letters: Home Is Where You Hang Your Hat.
"Inglaterra, I need two bowls of water, white onion, wash rags-"
Alfred frowned and interrupted, "I can do all that. He doesn't like being babied by anybody but me."
"No, Alfred." Antonio sat down on the bed. "I am the Papi. I take care of him."
Alfred stared unsurely. "But-but-b-"
It was always them taking care of each other. That's just how it was.
Antonio rested a hand on Alfred's head and then slid it down to cup his cheek. "Muchas gracias, Alfredo, for taking such good care of my Toni while I've been away. But I am here now."
"Come along, dearheart." Arthur picked him up and it felt...very...very strange to be on the other side of a room while Tex was sick.
He stared at his old man for a beat and then back over, "But…"
Unease rippled through his blood.
But what if he did it all wrong?
What if he let the pillow go flat?
What if Tex was ornery? He wasn't the easiest patient to deal with, even for Alfred.
What if-
Arthur kissed his forehead and Alfred looked up.
"Alfie…"
"..."
"You're my baby. That's his. He should get to do the 'babying,' don't you agree?"
And yeah...he could get why that sounded like it made sense...but...
It was weird.
It was like all of Al and Tex's years together didn't count for anything...in their old fogey eyes.
Like they knew better than them…
Which was...kinda...what had been ticking his brother off so much...
Well…
If Spain did fuck everything up…
And he hurt Texas' feelings...
Al would be there for his brother.
And if he had to cancel the whole May Day trip and banish everybody in the house...so be it.
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