'ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ' || ʜᴇᴛᴀʟɪᴀ

3

Spain put down the emptied glass slowly, exhausted from only two collective hours of sleep the night before. He'd started coughing in the early hours of the morning, and he regretted staying up until 1am in an attempt to catch up on paper work, figuring that perhaps that was the cause of his sudden ailment. He hadn't really felt sick for a while--discounting all the times he'd literally felt sick after being with France and Prussia, having a drunken and entertaining evening--and he certainly didn't like it.

It was now 10am. Honey and lemon tea was the only solution he'd tried so far. The taste wasn't pleasant at all; the sharpness of the lemon overpowered the sweet honey way too much for his liking, and Antonio was almost convinced that he was just making his throat feel worse with the conflicting flavours and temperatures. Deciding to stick to ordinary water, he carried a cool glass with him as he walked to the living room, the warm draft flowing gently through the space.

There were two things he was grateful for at that moment: ice, and the fact that Lovino hadn't stayed over last night. Antonio couldn't even begin to imagine how many times he could've coughed before the Italian would've smacked him on the head and told him to shut up. He smiled. He was actually more relieved that Lovino had probably slept soundly last night rather than constantly being disturbed, when he thought about it. They cared a lot about each other, whether they'd admit or not, though . . . Antonio didn't understand why Lovino cared about him. Who would? He was just a mu--

A phone ringing stole Spain from his thoughts. He took a sip of water and hurried across the open-plan floor towards the receiver on the other side of the room. He picked up the landline, and was surprised at who was on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Hallo, bonjour, etcetera, etcetera," Belgium responded, a weak smile barely audible in her voice.

"Ah, Belgium, it's nice to hear from you! Is everything alright?" Spain asked, slightly confused. Belgium didn't usually call without at least sounding incredibly happy and excited about something, so, what was wrong?

"I was going to ask you the same thing, to be honest," she answered solemnly. "I was worried about you, so I figured I ought to see how you're feeling."

"Everything over here is fine . . ." Antonio replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Have you not heard?" Emma questioned. She couldn't--wouldn't--believe it if he hadn't. Almost everyone knew by now, surely!

"Heard what? Has something happened?"

"Countries across Europe are falling ill in rather quick fashion, Spain. I don't know how many have been affected, but it's only early days. Germany is becoming worried . . . We all are . . ."

It was only then that it all came out. Belgium explained how her brother, the Netherlands, had been trying to hide the fact that he was suffering from a headache yesterday evening. She had called France seeking advice, but it turned out that he, too, had suddenly contracted some sort of illness--a cold, he believed. Emma had visited France and was now calling from his place to check on Spain, in case he needed any help too.

"I thought it was for the best, because I could hurry over and check on you too if you weren't OK," she explained, "and I have to say that you don't sound exactly like your usual self . . ."

He hummed. "I didn't sleep well last night at all . . . I've been coughing, and my throat feels like it's dissolving from the inside out . . ." Antonio said, walking towards his water, phone in hand, "You know that feeling?"

"Merde . . . No I don't really, no. But my only assumption is that something is spreading across the continent, maybe even the world, and now you feel ill too . . ." Belgium stated with a subtle sadness and horror, "Is Lovino there with you? He might feel--"

"No, he isn't. I thought he was in Italy with his brother," Antonio answered. "Something to do with one of Feli's dilemmas, so he said."

Before Emma could reply, someone knocked on the door. Antonio sighed and stifled a groan and a cough, and he went to answer it, apologising to Belgium en route. Without much hint of a smile, he opened the door.

"Oh, speak of the devil!" he said when he was met with Romano, of all people. "Belgium's on the phone. She wanted to know if you're--"

"I know, I'm fine." the Italian replied softly. He seemed less like himself than normal, and Antonio grew worried. "You, on the other hand, look like crap."

"At least you're alright though, hm?" Spain said, now smiling as brightly as he could manage to try and lighten the mood/ "Come inside, I'll just put the phone on speaker."

As Lovino entered the house, almost hesitantly, Antonio closed the door behind the Italian and pressed a button on the phone, allowing Emma's voice to be heard by both of them. She quickly asked Lovino how he was, and he repeated what he'd told Spain at the door.

"Good . . . That's good . . . I feel scared for our continent right now, really," she said, "what with all the sickness and stuff."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Antonio reassured her. "Nothing a bit of sunshine and water can't help, I reckon."

"You're kidding me," Lovino responded bluntly. "Eight cases and counting, including you, your friends, and my fucking fratellino . . ."

"Feli? What's wrong with him?"

"He has what seems to be a cold, on face-value," Lovino said, his tone quietening again. He thought of how Ludwig was trying to look after his brother in Berlin now, and how useless and helpless he felt/ "Ever since yesterday evening, and only getting worse . . . What's wrong with you?" he asked Spain.

"That doesn't matter--"

"He's been coughing, had no sleep, and his throat is extremely sore and scratchy," Belgium interjected, understand the importance of being honest at that moment in time. "We all have to know, Antonio. It's no good keeping it to yourself."

After that, Antonio quietly sat and listened to everything the others discussed. He couldn't explain it, but he suddenly felt like a burden and a waste of space, almost. Romano had clearly been worrying about him as well as his brother and everyone else, and Belgium seemed just as concerned. Why?

A few minutes after Lovino had turned up, Emma had ended the call, saying that Francis was in need of help, and she told both Spain and Romano to take it easy and keep an eye on each other for her peace of mind. They agreed, naturally, but now that it was just both of them, Antonio felt slightly awkward. He didn't mean to be or need to be--how often had Lovino seem him in worse states than just having a sore throat?--but he couldn't help it.

He didn't see why Lovino was worried, or why he had felt the need to visit him in person, or why he even bothered. The truth that no one but one other person knew was that Antonio had been suffering long before he'd started coughing. Insecurities, guilt, fear . . . Some days, they overrode the sense, happiness and smile.

"Hey, bastard, stop thinking."

Antonio glanced at Lovino and weakly smiled. "You know I can't."

"Well, you have to try," the Italian responded with an unusual sincerity and kindness. "I still don't understand, not really, but I'm not going anywhere until I'm one-hundred percent sure you're feeling fine . . ."

"If you say so, Lovi, if you say so . . ."