Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Or Kraft Mac and Cheese. Or Olive Garden.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for the sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Sibling relationships—the good, the bad, the bullying. Food from multiple cultures. Workaholism as an offshoot of unhealthy coping mechanisms. Non-romantic kissing throughout British history—because business, vows, religion, etc…yup, that was a thing…a great awkward thing…XD
AN: Hey! : D Lixe877 made it to the party!
Thank you, !
Navigator101! I hear ya, I don't get notifications when reviews come in anymore. (I just refresh pages manically now.) Had another of those in-class, impromptu prompts. I just…hate those. 2/4 are done at least. That sounds cool. I'd promote French Canadian Poutine! What food did you ultimately decide on?
Time Traverser, I swear you have a psychic inkling on whenever I'm going to post. XD
Hey Liv, congrats on grad school!
Byakuyalove—has the DOOM of midterms passed, yet?
Vaughn20–Ah yes, the multiverse. It IS tempting what could spiral in that scenario. (I have occasionally thought about it ^_^)
Amerikia-XDDD
MythPlacedLogic—THIS. Character growth/regression/growth is always a goal of mine. And I like Eire vs Albion historically and familial-wise (younger vs the youngest—the tension that persists^^).
And thank you other guests for your reviews!
Pretty much, I made it through my midterms and looked up to find the world on fire. D:
Do others feel this way?
Hope you enjoy this chap!
Chapter 5: No Amateur
"You…really want to do this?" Mathieu muttered disbelievingly.
Blue eyes were feverishly bright. "S'okay. I've been tuckpointing chimneys for…forever. Before Arthur even. And then, after he took me in and he was away and I needed money—"
"Chimney work?"
"I fit inside more easily again. It's minor damage. I've inspected it. I can tell the stack was properly shortened not long after the third floor was lost. But you have to tuckpoint every 20-30 years to keep the integrity of the masonry."
Arthur would completely freak out. He had to stall this.
"…Um, maybe we can note it and-"
Alfred gave him a flat look. "Dude, you know Uncle Al is too cheap. It looks worse than it is. And I know it's hard to believe, with me looking like this, but I AM a professional. Once I've repaired it, um…four days to dry. Apply a sealant against the wet. Let it dry. Clean it. And then it should be primed up for use."
"Al?" There had to be a way to talk him out of this.
"If I have to stay here at some point during the winter. I need to be able to light a fire. Otherwise, I'll never survive. I'm not a wuss, Mattie. I just get frostbite really easy compared to you and them."
Stall! Mathieu, stall! "I don't know the rules or permits here for gathering firewood."
Alfred considered that. "It shouldn't have anything too green to start with. Store bought will probably be better for its first use. But it is summer here…supposedly."
It was too cold for his tastes. That was the real reason for this.
Thankfully, they only ended up giving the chimney a cleaning before the Grays swooped in and nixed the plan.
He was almost grateful to have his ear seized by Mrs. Gray.
"Little Cinderella is getting a bath and you can use one too, young man. What were you boys thinking?!"
Despite the fair size of the building (half-demolished as it was), there were only two working bathrooms on the ground floor.
Following a much needed shower, he returned to find Alfred in footie pajamas warming up before a space heater that had been broken out of storage for him.
His brother was also perking up because Mrs. Gray knew how to lean in once she figured out a winning strategy.
The major guideline they'd gotten from Scotland was: "Get him to eat, I dinnae care what."
Alistair was determined to foot the bill to accommodate whatever it was.
The other Commonwealth nations and current territories would have run with that.
But Alfred wasn't the caviar type.
Alfred and Mrs. Gray sat on the floor eating peanut butter out of a jar with fancy spoons.
Mathieu joined them and watched as she rather craftily began incorporating crackers and celery by having her husband supply them midway through.
Later, when she was rinsing off cutlery, Mathieu approached her because he wanted to help out more. Being nearby wasn't enough. He needed to learn how to steer his brother to more age-appropriate behavior.
She was blunt. "Take note. I'm no amateur."
She certainly wasn't.
Rhys was surprised to find Alistair at the clinic.
He and Arthur were playing Gin Rummy.
Hazel eyes narrowed. Something was afoot.
"You're here," he addressed the Scotsman.
"I am."
"I thought you were here two days ago?"
"I was."
Arthur ignored them to win the game.
Alistair swore.
"Deal me in, lads," Rhys more ordered than requested as he took a seat.
Their auras were cold.
"What are you gents up to?" Rhys asked.
Arthur didn't answer in favor of dealing a new round of cards for three players instead of two.
Rhys felt some kind of statement was being made as a game of Old Maid commenced.
Alistair began with, "I want to go boar hunting. Someone doesn't approve of the hunting party I've selected."
Arthur's eyes flashed.
"That's too dangerous at present," Rhys stated, siding with his youngest brother.
Alfred was in no state to be out in the elements for something as rigorous as that.
Rhys was becoming rather anxious. From Olivia's and Mathieu's accounts, Alfred's health was declining.
"Why not go fishing?" Rhys blurted out—a bit too loudly to mask his desperation.
He earned several looks from other occupants in the room.
"Because I want to hunt," Alistair grumbled.
"Why not ask your hunting party their preference? I can host them if you're so disinclined. I've plenty of fish at this time of year." Rhys gazed at his cards too intently to see them.
It might even work out better that way.
He'd been reluctant to entrust his nephew to his other brothers and had been looking for a way to get Alfred back underwing and ensure he was being properly cared for.
Rhys knew he was…a strict guardian and that was stifling for Alfred, but he wouldn't let the little one fall into neglect or skip meals.
The child was very vulnerable right now; he needed attentive care.
He remembered nights where the child would curl up beside him on the small sofa, not quite resting his head on Rhys's lap…because Rhys wasn't Arthur.
But the chwb was lonely. It bled out across their connection.
Sometimes, he let Rhys card his fingers through his hair to soothe him.
Despite similarities in appearance and behavior, Alfred never mistook him for Arthur no matter how tired or distracted he was.
Thinking back to the previous year, it suggested that while the hex may have interfered with Alfred's ability to recognize Rhys, he always knew Arthur.
When he'd commented, "Wow. There are two of you."
He'd been teasing them.
No.
He'd been teasing Arthur with that one.
See, Arthur? You're not so irreplaceable.
Petty and childish and projecting his own insecurities…
But he hadn't been able to keep to it and had swiftly dived back underwing.
"Hey Reese Cup, I'm sorry you're not as interesting as England."
Cheeky thing.
Arthur's aura had shone with delight back then. At that.
When it was Rhys's turn to host Alfred, he had tried to entertain the child with stories and a better attitude towards being interrupted.
But Alfred had asked fewer and fewer questions, often losing interest entirely to stare listlessly into the void Rhys was trying to fill.
Still, he didn't complain that Rhys wasn't tucking him in "right."
Rhys knew though.
He wasn't affectionate enough.
Rhys didn't kiss anyone or anything if he could avoid it.
He'd endured enough cultural rituals involving it:
Matters of rank or fealty—kissing or being kissed.
Swearing vows to religious artifacts or people or pledging to uphold contracts…
Greetings or farewells from those he knew or visiting dignitaries…
Or honoring the loyal dead…
Now, when he didn't have to partake in it, he didn't.
Therefore, he was horribly out of practice. And he'd always been awkward, even then.
He'd started and then hesitated and then drew back multiple times when he was settling the child in for sleep.
Arthur gave goodnight kisses—he made a point of it.
On the rare occasions Rhys needed to check in on the nurseries as colonies slept for matters of security (because one time Alfred had infiltrated, somehow, to read the other children a scary story and he ought to ask how he managed it), no one ever asked the Welshman for such gestures of affection.
The only one had been…
"Uncle Whees?"
The colony looked up from his handful of daffodils.
His little gloves had great stains of pollen all over them.
It was such an innocent pastime, letting the toddler pick flowers, that sometimes on days like this Rhys chose a peddler's basket large enough that the child could ride in it along with the flowers he'd gathered—as he was doing now.
They were returning to the castle when—
"Yeh did not kiss me when I fell," Alfred observed.
Large, solemn blue eyes looked up at him.
After he fell.
No.
He didn't; though, he'd wiped away the tears and talked calmly and comfortingly until the child settled down.
"Hmm? Err…"
He already knew he'd be facing Arthur's ire for having that occur on his watch but this question…
"Your father will kiss you after we tell him," he assured.
So over-dramatically that Rhys was sure Shakespeare would roll in his grave.
"Why him and not you? Do yeh not wuv me the same?"
That was a more challenging question. He shifted the basket to his other arm.
"Uncles and fathers…er…It's…it's not the same…it's a different kind of love."
"Oh…" The toddler mumbled—mouth against a daffodil.
"Ah! Keep those petals out of your ceg! Lest you sicken!"
He never asked again.
Attempts to broach the matter now, several centuries later, yielded responses like:
"I know you can't love me the same" and "I'm not your favorite."
Trying to explain it better with "I love you differently" didn't repair what was broken because "different" was heard as "less."
Rhys grappled with that.
Arthur's love was obviously the grand, gallant, heroic kind that would rend himself or the world in twain if that was what was needed to stage a rescue.
Alfred clearly treasured that.
Rhys's love would fare poorly against it in any contest. He wasn't certain he could sacrifice on such a large scale. He was too aware of the balances that had to be made and honored, of all the other factors and innocents that could be tangled into such selfish chaos.
He understood loss and grief. He understood surrendering what was loved for the peace and prosperity of others…and living with it—grinding through days of bitter unhappiness until the reality of it became bearable.
Still, that his love wasn't seen as something enough to even factor into Alfred's calculations…
That gave him something to prove.
"Do you have a preference?" Rhys had asked candidly, trying to get Alfred's take on which uncle was easiest to live with or what place had suited him better.
"Each place and person is…different."
It was very diplomatically spoken. No harm done to any party involved.
It still sent a pang through his heart when he was sure he was trying very hard—much harder than his brothers.
Yet, it was that statement and the next which drove home the wound he'd inflicted on his nephew years earlier.
He'd then asked him to list out things he appreciated about each caretaker determined to try and find what Alfred liked best and adjust accordingly. If he clearly liked one style better, the others could try and mimic it.
Alfred obliged.
Alistair was very steadfast and didn't get ruffled.
Reilley was very accommodating with what he'd allow.
Rhys was…
"You're very capable at things you plan out."
Damned by faint praise…
Because his eldest uncle was playing at being a parent—plotting out and practicing on Alfred.
And Rhys could better understand some of Arthur's guilt now.
Because Alfred could be a good sport and play along and forgive all the clumsy mess ups with a well worn patience; he was used to being someone's rough draft.
It wasn't fair to Alfred, but he bore it gracefully.
There was always gratitude and no joy.
Rhys could better see that now.
Still, he loved his nephew. And whatever good his love and sense of responsibility could do was going to be put to work—he was going to improve!
He was going to show that Arthur needn't be the only adult Alfred trusted.
The best way to do that was to have the child back in his care! He could head over and judge for himself the state that Alba's country house was in. He really should have insisted on checking all of the agreed upon residences.
Or perhaps, he'd ask Mathieu for evidence? Maybe check in with Olivia, too?
It was hard for any of them to compare with Arthur's lodgings but that didn't mean a free pass for slovenliness.
Effort was essential.
He was thinking of sewing an indoor child's tent, something whimsical and medieval that would inspire Alfred to play.
He needed to play. Rhys had noticed him getting less active and more withdrawn when he'd hosted him.
Perhaps a gift would help mellow the sorrow? Even when Arthur was released from the clinic, there'd be a transition period where Alfred likely wouldn't get all the attention he needed. Rhys could help smooth it out.
The tent could have lights and some kind of musical mobile with amulets to dispel evil and bad luck?
He'd already made arrangements to do more of his reports remotely to avoid suspicion, blaming his flock of sheep for being finicky. His government was used to accommodating him on that account.
So, it wouldn't be difficult to sew while listening in on conferences virtually.
They could make it work.
Alfred had enjoyed being around the sheep. He'd sensed it.
Alfred was very accustomed to rural settings.
Yes, it would be for the best. In theory, it had been a good plan to rotate between brothers to avoid burnout. It obviously wasn't working if Alfred was unwell and his brothers' didn't want to adjust their lifestyles.
Perhaps, they could order in Arthur's celebratory dinner, and his youngest brother would be welcome to spend the night…though, it would be a pinch cramped?
It would also be a good test to see how Arthur coped with the rigors of childminding on him once more. He could then return to London, get his house back in order, find a schedule that worked with his new needs, and they could arrange more visits.
The paperwork would be further along and—
"And then what?" Arthur asked abruptly.
Startled out of his plans, Rhys stammered, "W-well, you'd be welcome to visit of course."
Something dark passed over Arthur's face.
"To visit?" He breathed out.
Rhys frowned and looked over at Alistair.
"Only to visit, hmm?" The Scotsman sneered.
Oh…
He rushed to explain, "W-well, I don't want you overexerting yourself. You'll have an awful lot to accomplish in a very short amount of time. Especially if you want certain arrangements to be considered."
The goal was custody—to get Arthur custody. Surely, they were all united in that effort?
Arthur didn't look at him as he spoke, "And you'll be fishing. I can visit, but I can't stay. And I can't host such an excursion myself until I exceed your expectations regarding certain standards of operation, correct?"
Rhys froze and shook his head. "I…only want what's best. For you…for you both. So…so nothing like…like this happens ever again."
"…"
He tried harder. "Maybe take-out would be better for the celebration? For your dinner? Anything you want. Bundle it up and take it right home. Then, you can spend the night."
"The night? I can spend one night."
Rhys faltered. "Your…get your house in order, arth bach. And we can revisit this."
Arthur blinked hard.
No. He was not trying to supplant his brother. He wasn't!
Betrayal permeated through his brothers' auras.
It was a shock to feel Alistair so upset.
The tidiness of metaphors and allusions unraveled.
Alistair growled, "That's his bairn."
"I know that!" Rhys set his cards down. "Albion…" He turned to their brother imploringly. "I don't want you to be overwhelmed. I want the return to be done in phases. For you, for chwb."
Arthur was silent. His aura darkened.
España resisted the urge to fan himself.
The bus they were riding had failing air conditioning.
"You so owe us for this, Pá," Colombia grumbled. "Argentina's gonna pass out."
"Yeah!" Venezuela backed him up.
España was amused—Colombia and Venezuela had such a grumbling relationship. Banding together or grappling at the flip of a coin, but they still watched out for their brothers together.
"You know he's from a more mild climate!" Venezuela argued.
"Argentina?" España dutifully inquired after his son.
"I'm okay, Viejo," he assured, though there were beads of sweat running down his face.
España made a grumble of concern and handed him his bottle of water.
"Gracias."
"Dios mio, Tejas, how do you manage to be dry and humid! Pick one!" Colombia groused.
Argentina took a deep gulp of water before adding, "It wouldn't be so bad if he didn't smell like dirt and sulfur."
"Industry. Mills, drilling," España offered. "Not all of him will smell so-"
"No, lucky us, when we get to the ranch it'll smell like cowshi-"
"¡Eh, mira!" Venezuela tapped at the window excitedly.
His ninos all clambered to watch a giant tumbleweed bounce by.
"So weird."
"He's so weird."
España shook his head. "He is NOT weird. When we arrive, be nice to your hermanito."
Dark looks were sent his way.
He frowned back. "Be NICE to your hermanito."
"He doesn't even like our posts or nothing, Pá. He doesn't do the bare minimum!"
Antonio sighed. "I know. We have to talk to him about that. But he is still delicate. You will scare him off or scare him angry and he'll…he'll-"
"Run off and fake his death? I can't believe he did that to you, again. You and Rico," Colombia growled.
It did hurt. It must've shown.
Colombia fidgeted. "Sorry, Papá."
He didn't have anything he could say.
Romano turned around in his seat to look back at him; heat and sweat had plastered his shirt to him.
Amazingly, he'd yet to complain.
He was worried.
They were all worried.
They were waiting for España to shrug it off.
He couldn't.
It still hurt him a lot.
"More bacon?" Mathieu asked.
"More bacon!" Alfred cheered.
Mathieu stirred more in.
Francis would've been abhorred at the sight of maple bacon macaroni and cheese.
But Francis wasn't great at "please the crowd" situations anyway.
And Canada's Kraft creation was très magnifique.
Mathieu took a careful bite that was more of a temperature check before taking up another spoonful to let Alfred try.
"It's good!" Alfred grinned.
Mathieu could see where the nub of an adult tooth was just starting to emerge in Alfred's smile.
He'd been starting to get a little worried after several months had passed since Alfred had lost that tooth and nothing had grown in.
"It's an especially good batch. C'est délicieux. I know because I make this a lot."
"Delicious?"
"Oui."
"Delisoo?"
"Délicieux."
It took a few more tries before "délicieux" left his brother's mouth.
He tried not to be annoyed. His brother had pockets of French speakers. Along their border, in the South—
Alfred guessed his thoughts.
"Tex talks to them more. The Cajuns. He's had some for the last hundred years and more traveled to him in the last few decades. I know some food stuff. It's just…I never had to do a lot of translation work diplomacy-wise. Always had people for that. I was good with weaponry so that's kinda where they kept me. I'm learning some Japanese, but…"
"Do you want to learn some French?" He asked a bit too hopefully.
"I dunno. I feel like I should learn Spanish. I live with Tex a lot and never picked it up. He said he wanted to learn English, so we spoke English. But…maybe…I should've…"
"If you learn French, it'll be easier to understand Spanish or vice versa."
Alfred contemplated that while Mathieu turned the stove's burner off.
He divvied the main dish up between bowls and commented again that it was a good batch.
"Really? Why do you think that is?" Alfred stared up at him unguardedly. "Elevation? Humidity?"
"Must be because you helped."
Alfred's eyes widened and he blushed and looked away. "I don't…think…I believe you."
Mathieu shrugged. "I've made it a lot..."
Adding a blend of shredded cheeses made it next level.
Alfred had made biscuits as a side for the meal.
Mrs. Gray prepared broccoli while her husband made cocktails for the adults and warm cider for Alfred.
Anything to take the edge off.
They'd unofficially agreed that all of Alfred's drinks and meals needed to be warm unless otherwise requested.
Alfred was having trouble regulating his temperature and was running cold; hence, his earlier preoccupation with the chimney.
Mathieu was letting him wear one of his sweatshirts that night because he'd finally gotten to see all that Scotland had allowed his brother to bring.
It made him even angrier.
Only Hop. Three pairs of pajamas. Two journals. Cheap toiletries. Four outfits with two sets of pants and two pairs of shorts. Bland shirts, three of which were wearing out. Not enough underwear to last a week. No undershirts. No sweaters. No gloves. One thin coat. One pair of sneakers. A ratty Ziploc bag with embroidery thread and hand-sewing repair materials. And Arthur's jacket which he never took off, except to bathe.
Mathieu would make sure to let him continue wearing his sweatshirts. He'd leave them with his brother when he had to fly back home next week to meet with his Prime Minister, provided Arthur (on being released) didn't have a fit and buy half a boutique for Alfred to make up for…this.
Mathieu forced a smile and did his part to uphold a conversation about reforestation and green space efforts over dinner.
Alfred was worried about urban hot spots which were magnets for pollution and heat-related illness and death.
"I get that he's worried about water conservation, but Tex keeps getting more heat islands. And those hot spots keep promoting rock gardens and synthetic lawns or concrete—making it all worse. Those folks are gonna fry!"
"Does he do better seeing things with charts?" Mr. Gray asked as he buttered a biscuit.
"I guess so. I could make a PowerPoint with that stuff. Do you think that would work?"
He was eating with more enthusiasm and even asked for seconds—all three of them had stood up to go get him some.
Even with more sustenance, Alfred had trouble staying awake later that night to help make peanut butter cookies, but he ate two and was a little abashed to also get a fancy hot chocolate.
"Now, I'm just getting spoiled. Is it really okay for me to have this many sweets? Everyone's making stuff for me special. I can just eat whatever's in the pantry."
Except that wasn't really true. Not right now.
Not when he needed special attention to feel cared about and food was an easy way to do it.
Mathieu repeated back what Alfred had said to Texas, "You deserve the best and I always want you to be happy."
España led the way to the main doors of his son's ranch expecting it to be locked.
They had arrived at Tejas's ranch near four in the morning.
There was a brief celebration as they found the lobby unlocked and felt strong air conditioning.
Only…
There were no signs of life.
Nothing was locked here. It made him nervous.
"Toni?" He called. He checked his phone. He'd made periodic updates through calls and texts, but there were no replies.
The last "read" message was at 8PM.
"Tejas?!" He called louder.
"Look at it here, all fancy. Carpeted. All the switches and outlets have matching covers," Venezuela muttered. "Coasters and finicky plants and tissue boxes. This is a ranch!"
It had a highline resort lodge feel to it.
There were also lit up display cabinets of trophies, mainly rodeo events and livestock contests.
"Pie?" Argentina muttered quizzically as he stared at the contents of the display.
"Pie-making and pie-eating," Colombia observed.
"I can guess who wins which," Venezuela snickered.
The main building branched out to a lot of different places within the ranch. It gave the sense that Tejas was always adding onto it.
It was deep inside the establishment that they discovered a large lounge space and Tejas.
He was sitting facedown at the table with a pot of coffee across from him.
"Dammit, Tejas, stop dying!" Colombia burst out.
España slowly approached. "¿Mijo?"
He gave the boy's shoulder a worried shake. Nothing.
Fear twisted in his gut. "¿Mijo?"
Romano put his fingers to Tejas's neck. "He's just passed out."
Antonio released a shaky breath.
"It's cold in here. I'm almost kinda pissed off that it's cold," Venezuela complained rubbing his arms. "After today."
"The AC is turned up so high cuz he can afford it, the rich, wasteful jerk," Columbia deduced. "He's the only one here and it's on full-blast!"
"He can do what he wants to do when he's the one paying," Antonio said levelly.
"I'll make a new batch of coffee," Argentina volunteered as he peered into the cold pot on the table.
"I should make the coffee," Columbia argued.
"No, I'm making it."
"But you don't make it how I like it."
"I called it first. Call it first next time, tonto."
"Ay. Fine."
"We need to find keys to lock the place up. It isn't safe for it to just be open like this," Antonio informed them.
Romano was studying a large chalkboard with notes in messy "Spanglish."
"Is there a cot somewhere?" España asked.
Venezuela went exploring and called from further down the hall, "Yeah, there's a rest spot a few rooms over, Papá."
"Gracias, mijo."
"You need help moving him?" Colombia offered.
"No mijo, I have him."
It was a little disconcerting that Tejas hadn't stirred at all during this…boisterous back and forth.
Colombia shook his head. "Geez, he sleeps like the—"
"Bobo!" Argentina hissed from where he was standing in the kitchenette.
"Disculpa."
España ignored it because "death" and Tejas was still too tender a subject.
He glanced down at the child in his arms.
It would always be a tender spot.
He took a breath and hefted the boy up higher.
Venezuela and Colombia followed him into the resting space.
There were multiple beds here for workers to siesta as needed during a long day.
It meant this ranch was supposed to have a night shift watching over the place.
"It's big. I think there's actual housing and trucks here," Venezuela guessed.
Antonio believed it.
"I told you he's rich," Colombia grumbled.
"Papá, is he rich?"
"Anything he can't buy, Alfredo buys for him."
"Papá, how rich is he?"
Antonio cut across the voices with a firm, "Find a first aid kit, your hermano is hurt."
There was a grumbling chorus of "fine" and his older children left to scout the area.
Antonio carefully removed the splitting boots from his younger son's feet.
As he feared, the skin was blistered and bleeding.
Toni's hands were dried and cracking. All of him was chapped or chafed.
His lips were cracked and he was badly sunburnt.
"O Tejas, what am I to do with you? You are delicate." He pet the dirty hair gently. "I tell you this over and over, but you ignore me. Are you trying to prove me wrong? It isn't an insult, Toni. I just want you to find and settle into work that suits you. I will be proud whatever it is."
Argentina brought him a cup of coffee.
"Gracias, Miguelito."
"I can't believe he let himself get this bad." Argentina leaned against the doorframe. "Why didn't he ask for help sooner?"
"He was asking for help. I just didn't hear it," Antonio muttered bitterly.
Venezuela presented the first aid kit with a flourish.
"Gracias, Pepito." He accepted the kit from him.
"I found the keys!" Colombia rattled a ring of them.
"Gracias, Luisito."
He gently doctored his youngest son while the others watched.
"How many days do you think he's been working nonstop?"
"He's got a beard."
"He smells."
"He grows a pretty good beard."
"Finally, something we can be proud of."
There were chuckles.
"Niños," Antonio replied warningly.
"No, it's a compliment, Papá."
"It's a manly beard."
"Yeah, Panama will be jealous."
There were appreciative snickers.
"He so will."
"I'm texting him."
"Sísísí. Do it!"
"Yeah!"
"Done!"
There was more hushed laughter.
Antonio closed the medical kit. "Escuchen, mis hijos."
They quieted down.
Antonio was stern. "He sleeps. No one disturbs him."
"You got it, Jefe." Colombia grinned and looked at his brothers. "Vamos, chicos. Now, we can be nosy and touch everything."
There were soft twitters of laughter as they left the room.
Romano entered not long afterwards.
Antonio sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Everyone should try and get some sleep."
"Yeah, yeah, Capo."
Antonio looked over the ring of keys. "I need to go lock everything up and make sure the premises are safe."
"You want me to wait with him?"
"I would appreciate that. He's a very deep sleeper. I don't want that exploited."
"I'll keep my phone on," Lovino replied as he sat down on another bed.
Antonio nodded approvingly. "When he wakes up, and I don't think he will for quite a while, he'll need something to eat and then a shower."
"Has he been calling you the whole week?" Romano asked bluntly.
"Every other day. Or sometimes two in a row."
"But he didn't outright say, 'Papi, aiutami, I am an idiota in over my head, yeah?'"
"…He kept saying he was 'low' or 'lonely.' That talking was helping."
Lovino considered that. "You know? You're that kind of idiota, too. Sometimes."
Antonio pulled a blanket over his son and tucked him in. "I know."
Texas woke up to the smell of something unusual.
Not bad but he couldn't quite place it.
Dammit. Did Kitty take pity on his soul and drop by?
She liked to get on cooking kicks and try new recipes out.
He carefully moved towards the lounge's kitchenette.
It was slow work.
God, he was so sore.
He took another deep whiff.
His stomach growled.
"Hey, moccioso," South Italy bit out as he entered.
Tex jumped a little.
"Uhh, hey…?"
The hell was going on here? He wasn't hallucinating, was he? Though, he'd sworn he'd been in the kitchen earlier and somehow woke up somewhere else. And he wasn't the sleepwalking type. And his boots were gone.
And it looked like he'd been bandaged up…and couldn't remember doing that either.
"Well? You, happy?" The Italian demanded.
"Huh?"
A spoon was pointed at him threateningly. "You scared him half to death. Again. That a sick hobby?"
Tex wiped crusts of sleep away and yawned. "I…I dunno what's going on here. You are here, right? I don't think I actually know you well enough to hallucinate ya."
"Or are you just dumb!? Trying to operate a ranch all alone. You got lucky," the man hissed as he turned off all of the stovetop burners. "You fell asleep at the table and not while operating machinery or something!"
"That's enough, Lovi," Spain intervened.
"Would've been a helluva mess for us if-"
Spain grimaced. "Lovi, no. I cannot imagine that. Please, no."
"You got here fast," Tex mumbled.
"We tried to." Spain wetted down a rag at the sink. He turned the faucet off with a sharp movement. "Here, wash your face."
His tone wasn't…real friendly-like.
He took the cloth and did as told and then sighed. "Wasn't planning on visitors. I should clean myself up."
His stomach growled loudly and he doubled over a little at the sharp stabbing of real hunger. He hadn't been eating or sleeping well since he and Al had been separated. It was hard to keep a schedule.
Trust his appetite to return now and make him all shaky.
Antonio swore softly and helped him over to the table to sit down.
He took the rag back and scrubbed Tex's face to his standards.
"Lovi, let Tejas have some bread. He is starving."
The man brought over several slices of bread, setting the plate down hard. He poured oils into a saucer while glaring at him.
When Tejas stared, he explained, "You…you dip it. You dip the bread. You…you never had this before? Mama mia, you really dropped the ball with this one, tomato bastard. Here. See? Dip, dip, eat." He thrust it in front of Tejas's face. "Mangia!"
He was too tired and hungry to overthink it and took a bite.
"Buono?"
It wasn't bad, so he nodded and accepted the rest of the bread slice to try for himself.
"I'll give him a little of the soup, too. The main dish still needs time."
"Muchas gracias, Lovi."
Tex liked the soup.
"That's gnocchi soup. You like gnocchi?"
Nodding seemed like the right response.
Romano seemed annoyed. "Do you eat cucina italiana?"
"I like…pizza and Olive Garden?"
Romano made a face. "Ugh, those aren't—I mean, real Italian food."
"I dunno. Gelato is good, I think."
"Be easy with him," Antonio scolded lightly.
Romano huffed. "Okay. Okay. He has no experience. It's okay. You know what? Easier for me. You haven't had bad Italian food and got tricked into thinking it's the real thing. You just haven't had it. I can work with this."
"…"
"What have you had? What do you usually have?"
"Texan stuff. 'merican stuff."
"Which is what? Burgers? Hot dogs? Chowders? Tortilla soup?"
"Oh, uh, stuff that's here, yeah. Lots of beef and chicken and corn. Chili, tacos, tamales. Salsa. Hot sauce. Uh, Um-"
"East Coast stuff? Stuff America makes."
"I love pie!
Romano's mouth twitched with a smirk. "I believe you."
"Al bakes lots of stuff. I BBQ lots of stuff."
"What else have you tried?"
"Germans and Dutch folks brought some recipes."
"Fried stuff?"
"Doughnuts." He nodded. "Cajun stuff. Gumbo! Oh, if you're feeling adventurous! I can make a mean gator gumbo and snake cakes!"
"…"
"It's good to bite them back. Makes it all even out."
Romano cursed loudly, swatted at Spain for not teaching Tex what real food was, and went over to clang the bell Texas kept to signal to ranch hands that it was mealtime.
He perked up in spite of himself.
"He eats meat and dessert. You've failed him. He doesn't eat pasta. Feli will have a coronary episode."
Spain sighed.
Again, the whole situation felt surreal and he gave himself a pinch.
That amused Spain. "We're really here, Tonito."
Unable to take the suspense, he asked, "Are Erin and Julio back?"
"No," Colombia replied. "We came to bail your ass out because Papá asked us nicely."
Oh. God. No.
He forced himself to look over.
"Ugh, we can smell you from here, Toni!" Venezuela complained.
"Agreed, he stinks like a dea-uh-"
"Socks!" Argentina interjected desperately as he elbowed his brother.
"Y-yeah, socks," they all hastily agreed.
"Nah, dead horse is closer," Tex admitted as he scratched an ear.
There was harsh laughter.
"How could you know and still-"
"Enough! Greet him properly," Spain intoned while crossing his arms.
They straightened up. All three had inherited their father's muscular build, but varied in hair shade and skin tone.
So, they were buffer than Tex.
And…
"Hola, hermanito," they chorused boredly in voices deeper than his.
"…H-hola…" he forced out, "Mis…hermanos."
Dammit, they were all taller than him, too!
Tch…
Read & Review Please! :D