This one is kind of long...

"Damn it, where could he be?" Spain muttered as he cut across someone's lawn, ignoring the barking that came from the house. He'd checked all the usual places—the park, the library, the mall, that weird little café down the street where Romano always ended up after they had a fight—but there was no sign of Mexico anywhere. Frantic, he'd expanded his search to a one-mile radius around his house, to no avail. It didn't help either that he had to stop frequently to deal with his constant bouts of nausea. He'd almost thought of giving up, but every time he did, an image of that poor boy, his face tainted with sorrow, always surfaced in his mind. His hands balled into fists. He couldn't give up. It was his fault Juan had run away and he would fix things with his son if it was the last thing he did.

He went through his options. Continuing to look for him the way he was doing now was pointless; there were simply too many places Juan could be. Calling the police might work, but the local chief wasn't fond of kids and would probably insist that Juan would return home in a couple of hours. (The useless pig.) Perhaps he could get Huayna to join him in his search. But the Peruvian was as unfamiliar with these streets as Juan was, and if he got lost, what then? Spain didn't want to find out. Maybe Romano…? But sending Lovi to look for Juan was like sending one angry cat after another, and they'd probably beat each other to a pulp before they even remembered to come home. And calling other nations to help was out of the question; most of them hadn't even arrived yet. He sighed. "Dear God," he said, leaning his head against a lamppost, "I'm sorry for upsetting Juan. I really miss him and wish he would come back. Please guide him to me safe and sound… please… my son…"

"Well, you might want to try searching over there."

Spain jumped. "G-God?" he gasped, looking up. "God, is that you?"

"Wow, I've never had someone revere me that much before," said the voice, and Spain felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned. A bespectacled old man stood beside him. "I don't know if this would help you or not, but I saw a strange teenager running across the road a few minutes ago. Looked like a Mexican. Does that sound like who you're looking for?"

Spain hugged him. "Oh, gracias, gracias! Which way did he go?"

"Last I saw, he was heading downtown." The man scrutinized Spain. "Aren't you a little young to be his father?"

"Adopted," Spain replied hurriedly as he took off. "Thank you so much!" Hopefully Juan hadn't made it too far in those few minutes since the man saw him. Only trouble could ensue if the boy disappeared into those tightly-packed streets. It was too easy to get lost there. And if the boy should run afoul of any gangs roaming around…

He quickened his pace.

Mexico grunted as he was shoved brusquely against the ground. Above him, the gang boss was laughing as he lit himself another cigarette. Mexico bitterly recalled the first one, which had left a painful mark on the underside of his arm. Someone grabbed his hair and rudely pulled his head up. He was too disoriented to resist; his body hung limply as his attacker unleashed another round of beatings upon him. His body was covered in cuts and bruises. One of his arms flopped lifelessly by his side; the thugs had dislocated it a while ago. The hair on the back of his head was matted with blood. He raised his good arm protectively over his torso. The gang laughed. The boss strode up to him. Smoke billowed from his face as he exhaled. A movement of his hand revealed a long knife glinting menacingly even in the dim light. "Know why we have two eyes?" he sneered. "It's so we can still see when one of them's cut out." He raised the knife.

Mexico glared at him, his gaze unwavering.

The boss laughed. "You're resilient, boy. I like that."

"Go to hell," Mexico snarled, and with the last of his strength wrenched himself from the thugs' grip, wincing as his hair came out by the roots. He slammed into the boss, narrowly missing the knife. The blade sliced a long line over the left side of his forehead and another one across his upper arm as the boss retaliated. Mexico quickly picked himself up and ran, bowling into another gangster along the way. There was blood running into his left eye and the contact lens in the right one had slipped out of place, distorting his vision. He stumbled out of the alley and was immediately struck by the bright lights from the street. He faltered for a moment, momentarily blinded. Behind him, an angry rumble grew louder as the gang thundered after him. He chose a direction and took off.

A terrible shooting pain flared up in his leg as he ran, and he realized he'd probably twisted his ankle when he fell earlier. Blood pounded in his ears, blotting out the sounds of the street. He glanced frantically behind him. The gang had probably split up to search for him. He ducked into another alley to catch his breath and screamed as a pair of hands suddenly landed on his shoulders. They had found him!

He was spun around. A voice called his name; to Mexico it sounded distant and fuzzy. He felt hands on his face and quickly pulled away, but something hard struck him from behind. He'd backed against the wall. The hands ran over his face, the thumbs wiping dirt and blood from his eyes. He squinted at the blurry images before him. A face, its features warped and fuzzy from the tears gathering in Mexico's eyes, looked down at him. The person's hands smoothed his bangs back. Mexico blinked. "Papá?"

"Juan…" Spain caressed the boy's cheeks, looking at him with pain in his eyes as he took in all his injuries. "Oh, Juan… what happened to you? You poor thing…"

"Papá!" Mexico sobbed as Spain wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "Papá, I'm so sorry… I shouldn't've run away… Papá…"

Spain embraced him. "I finally found you, Juanito. Do you know how worried I've been?"

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

"No." He nuzzled Mexico's forehead. "I'm the one who should apologize, for saying such harsh things to you. You're not second-rate, Juanito. You never were and you never will be. It's just that, well… I love the two of you differently, all right? It would be wrong to make a comparison. I'm sorry if I made you feel unwanted before, I—I realize what I said sounded a lot meaner than I'd meant it to be. Sorry..."

Mexico sniffled as he buried his face in Spain's chest. "Papá, te quiero."

Spain stroked his hair lovingly, smiling wanly. "I love you too, mi Juanito. Let's go home; I bet Lovi and Huayna are worried sick about us by now."

"Mm." Mexico paused, then looked up at him. "Huayna?"

Spain noticed his dislocated arm. "Yeah," he said as he carefully popped the bone back into its socket, "he came to look for you after you ditched him at the airport. But anyways," he turned to the street as Mexico rolled his shoulder experimentally, "we should head back and get you cleaned up before those wounds get infected. And then you can tell me what happened." He started walking out of the alley.

"W-wait!" Mexico grabbed his arm. "You can't!" While Spain looked at him questioningly, he closed his right eye and slowly prodded the contact back over his cornea. Blinking a few times to clear his vision, he said, "They're looking for me. If they see us together they'll be after you too! S-so please go b-back by yours-s-self… I'll make it back, I promise."

Spain shook his head. "I'm not leaving you, Juan. It's too dangerous." He peered out warily. "Can you run?"

Mexico nodded.

"Good. Stay close behind me. Now let's—"

It was right then that one of the gang members poked his head into their hiding place and spotted Juan. "Hey boss!" he shouted into his cell phone. "I found him, he's over at—"

Spain quickly dispatched him with a blow to the neck. The phone clattered to the ground. Spain motioned for Mexico to run. Whether the phone had died or not didn't matter. The boss would be alerted by the sudden lack of response from his henchman and rush to the scene. They had to get out of there, and fast.

They'd crossed the first street when shouts erupted from behind them. Mexico turned around. Crap, they'd seen him! He called out to Spain, who slowed enough for them to hold hands and plunged into a crowd of shoppers. Mexico could only hold his breath and stumble after the Spaniard as the latter dragged him through the sea of people like a piece of seaweed ensnared on a boat propeller. Their grip broke once, but Spain quickly took Mexico's hand again and pulled him to safety before he could get swept away. They had ended up on the edge of the downtown area. "Do you think we lost them?" Spain panted.

"I-I think we should keep moving," said Mexico. "Papá, are you okay? You look really tired." Spain's face was flushed and covered with sweat, and he was breathing hard. Harder than he should be.

"Yes, I'm fine, thanks for asking. Let's hurry. You go ahead of me." He gently pushed the Hispanic in front of him. "We'll take a long way home just in case. Turn right when we reach the park."

They were crossing the road when a jolt went through Mexico's leg and he fell. Spain, swearing under his breath, picked him up and carried him onto the sidewalk. He dropped the boy with a grunt and collapsed onto his hands and knees, gasping for air. "Papá?" Spain dry heaved once, then grimaced as grey-green bile trickled out of his mouth. The acrid taste burned itself into every crevice of his mouth, making him cough and gag even more. Mexico thumped his back until the retching finally receded. "Papá, I think we should stop for a while," he said.

Spain nodded as he staggered to his feet. "We'll sit down at the park… Come on, we're… almost there…"

He hadn't taken more than a few steps when he suddenly stopped and bent over. Mexico looked at him worriedly. Spain considered the situation for a moment, a troubled look on his face. Then he looked up at Mexico. "Juan, I'm really sorry, could you carry me the rest of the way?" he asked, his eyes narrowed in discomfort.

Mexico immediately nodded. "What's wrong?"

"My stomach hurts…"

Of course. He had completely forgotten about it.

Mexico could've kicked himself, he was so angry! He should've remembered his Papá was pregnant, damn it! He glanced at Spain, lying on the park bench with his head in Mexico's lap, taking slow, shallow breaths, his brow furrowed in pain. Every few minutes he would wince and clutch his stomach as a wave of pain washed over him. Mexico had wrapped his jacket around the Spaniard's belly to keep it warm, but it didn't seem to help; the pains were still coming, and they were getting worse. He'd wanted to massage him to help alleviate the aching, but Spain had insisted that it would only make things worse, so he'd left the man to handle the pain by himself. Spain didn't look like he was coping very well; beads of sweat were forming on his forehead and soft whimpers punctuated his breathing when the worst of it came. He was in dire need of medical attention.

And yet, here they were, huddled under the paltry yellow light of a filthy old lamp, Mexico shivering in his T-shirt and Spain holding his stomach protectively. Neither of them had any means of contacting someone else; Spain had left his cell phone at home, and Mexico's only worked in North America. They didn't even have enough in their pockets to use a pay phone. Mexico hastily wiped away Spain's sweat before it started evaporating. He didn't want him to catch a cold on top of his already grave miseries. The Spaniard was deliriously mumbling words of encouragement and rubbing his stomach, beseeching the unborn baby to do its best. Already his anxiety had led him to gnaw his nails into ragged stubs and pull on his hair until the brown strands came out one by one. On occasion he would smile up at Mexico and reassure him that it wasn't his fault, everything was going to be fine, Huayna's scary Inca intuition would eventually lead him to them, Romano knew the park was one of his favorite haunts, sooner or later someone would come by and see them, turtles loved him, it would all eventually work out and they could go home happily, the three of them. Spain and Mexico and the little bebé inside him, yes…

The man was slowly losing it.

Mexico swallowed. There was a lump in his throat and his eyes were brimming with tears again. Damn it, this was his fault. All his fault. If he hadn't run away, Spain wouldn't've been forced to come after him and risk his health getting him out of trouble. He was so conceited, he hadn't even considered the consequences that would be faced by his father. Or his sibling-to-be.

Spain groaned and rolled onto his side so he could curl up. His hand crept over to Mexico's and squeezed it lightly. Mexico returned the gesture. Usually he relied on Spain for support, but today he had to stand up and protect his Papá. Mexico stroked the Spaniard's hand fretfully.

"Dios," he prayed, "please let my little brother, or sister, live…"

Cliffhangers are fun~~~

Not for you guys, maybe, but they sure are fun to write. R&R :3