Chapter Text
The next day at morning light finds Ivan at Rome’s pizzeria. Besides the tinkling of the bell from Ivan opening the door, droning sounds from the TV is the only thing filling the silence of the restaurant, the rest of the occupants glued to the small television set. Alfred is manhandling Parker out of his house, the other man paling as the American whispers just what awaited him when he got into holding.
“Kiku, don’t you have a police report to fill?” Ivan asks, Antonio choking back a laugh as Romano nearly dies from fright, Ivan situated right in back of the Southern Italian. Kiku stands up, bowing his head. “Hai, gommen, Ivan-sama.” Kiku bows to the Vargas family, “thank you, good bye.” Kiku leaves as quietly as he had arrived with Heracles, the bell not even bothering to make a sound.
Ivan turns his attention back to the TV, “The child trafficking was Yao’s idea, but it was my drugs that were planted with Parker. Here.” Ivan hands Romano an orange envelope. Romano pulls out a slip of paper, a fake ID card, and a key.
“As a show of good faith for the new Braginsky-Vargas territories. This is a security guard ID to get past the initial checkpoints, the guard shift times, and Parker’s cell number and key. Have nice day, da?” And with that, Ivan leaves, the bell clanging loudly as the Vargas processes the information they’ve been given. Perhaps ‘leave’ isn’t the correct word. Ivan steps outside, look up, nods, then waits. Five minutes later, Yao emerges, stripping off the last of his police officer uniform and slinging his rifle case across his chest. They leave the pizzeria hand in hand to a seedy hotel in order to wait for their American (for the night).
The next day, Gilbert is gently shaken away.
“Hmm, Gilbird I already fed you, you fat fuck.” The soft puts of warm air and quiet laughter has Gilbert snapping his eyes open to the sight of Matthew clutching his middle, a hand over his mouth.
“Mattie!” Gilbert says in mock exasperation. Matthew shakes his head fondly.
“Come here,” Matthew pats Gilbert’s spot in Matthew’s hospital bed. It was a small bed, but Mattie was a small guy so Gilbert could fit if they tried really hard. “Dr.Mei said the results came in about the legs.” Gilbert’s heart drops, immediately scrambling up to the bed, sleep be damned. He cuddles his little birdie, squiggling to make sure he doesn’t touch the other’s legs.
Dr.Mei walks in, brown hair done up in tasteful twin buns, smiling at the couple’s antics.
“Mr.Bonnefoy-Jones and Mr.Beilschmidt?” At their twin nods, she continues, “We’ve had multiple experts take a look at Mr.Bonnefoy’s x-rays, and we’ve gotten the consensus that he will not need amputation. We’ll have to—” Dr.Mei was interrupted with a loud whoop as Gilbert scooped up his little birdie in his arms, kissing him squarely on the mouth.
“I knew it,” kiss, “I knew it, Birdie,” kiss, “my strong,” kiss, “birdie”, kiss, kiss. Then, Gilbert sits up on the bed, one arm holding a crying Matthew, the other going into his pocket.
“Birdie. I love you so much. No matter what the doctors would have said, I would have done this.” Gilbert opens the ring box, Matthew crying even more. Dr.Mei gasps and a couple other nurses and doctors alike peek into the room to see the commotion. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, eating pancakes, getting shitty at our brothers, loving each other for the rest of eternity. Birdie, you are awesome. Will you, Matthew Williams Bonnefoy-Jones, do me the awesome honors and marry me.”
Matthew, still crying, nods, “Yes!” The nurses and doctors cheer as Gilbert slips the ring onto Matthew’s finger, kissing once more.
“Congratulations on finally making your move, Bruder. Yes, I knew he would say yes, no you didn’t wait too long. Alright, bye” Ludwig hangs up, turning his attention back to the breakfast at hand. Feliciano woke up from a nightmare, the aforementioned Italian shaking in a blanket atop a couch piled with pillows and anything soft that Ludwig could find in the house. He turned on the news, hoping it would be good background noise for Feliciano to either sort his thoughts in or drown them out, whichever came first.
Which is why Ludwig’s heart dropped when the breaking news headline appeared, Feliciano’s distressed cries making him immediately cut off the stove’s fire and run into the parlor. With wide eyes, Ludwig goes to Feliciano’s makeshift bed of blankets and is immediately tackled with an armful of gangled Italian limbs as Feliciano crowds himself against Ludwig, Ludwig awkwardly trying to provide comfort. They sit within the comforting confines of the makeshift bed of blankets as they watch the remains of the massacre on the news. The TV cameras round the hallway to the holding cells of the police precinct and it takes a lot out of Ludwig to remember how to breathe.
Bloody mess is the understatement of the century. The floors, the walls, hell, even some of the ceiling is soaked with blood and entrails. A wet smack echoes on the tv as what remains of a small intestine falls from the ceiling to the floor, the piece of meat splashing in another pile of blood. The body of Jeremy Parker, as the newscaster identifies it, is suspended three feet above the floor, wrists, and ankles tied to the corners of the jail cell. The top of his body is, for lack of better words, not where it should be— as in, spread across the jail cell. Except for the head, which rolled underneath the urinal, mouth open in a mock-scream. Missing from Parker’s left arm is a missing chunk of flesh, the bone exposed with an empty syringe stabbed into it.
“We’ve just gotten word that with the further analysis of the contents in the syringe, police are ruling Jeremy Parker’s death an assisted suicide.” The newscaster explains, looking very confused at the news she has to present. “In other news…”
Ludwig looks down, where Feliciano continues to sob in his shirt. He’s unable to tell whether it’s tears of happiness or some other emotion. He lifts up the blanket and takes Feliciano in his arms, quickly becoming accustomed to the Italian’s close proximity.
“Grazie, Ludwig.”
“Feliciano, I had nothing to do with his murder.” Feliciano manages to nod.
“I know, but thank you anyway. You were there and that’s all I could ask for.” Feliciano rests his head on Ludwig’s chest, content.
“I’m glad.” And he really was.
At the precinct, there is chaos. A clean-up team is attempting to find all the remains of Parker, with little progress being made.
Arthur is in his office, nursing his head and a strong bottle of scotch.
“Jones, stop your bloody twiddling and get in ‘ere.” He snaps, Alfred immediately bursting through the door.
“I want the lead on thi—” Alfred is interrupted by Arthur’s scotch slamming onto the desk, liquid sloshing over the lip of the glass.
“Done, have it on my desk before the working day is over. Dismissed.” Arthur points at the door, Alfred giving a determined nod and spinning on his heel to get the fuck out of there. But, just to be a dramatic asshole, he turns around right before he leaves.
“It’s a shame, huh?” Arthur snickers, pointing to the door and returning to his day drinking.
Two hours later, Alfred has the finished report on the death of Jeremy Parker. He raps on the wood of Arthur’s doorway.
“Alright, Artie. Ruled it as an assisted suicide. After further investigation, the assistant could not be found.” Arthur, about to break open the second bottle of scotch, nods, grasping for the manilla folder. Then, closing his eyes, he feeds the report to the shredder at the edge of his desk. Alfred’s eyes widen, he knows Arthur was a lightweight, but to drink this much— the American steps forward, but Arthur beats him to it.
“Alfred, my boy, sit.” Arthur gestures to a chair.
“This city is going downhill. I’m pretty sure everyone in this precinct is owned by one mafia or another. Hell, Francis probably has some connections to a mafia, bloody frog. This case is just a crude reminder of how messy it can get when the police aren’t enough. If people were to find out about the real underworkings of this case, beyond the slapping around of some college students, there’d be riots. Got it?” Alfred felt chills down his spine as Arthur talked, for someone drunk he sounded very sober.
Sometimes, Alfred doesn’t give Arthur the credit he’s due. He remembers what it was like before the families rose to power, how the people in the city would go house to house and slaughter everyone, his pop and ma no exception. He remembers hammering the nails in his bat and checking the weed that Mattie would smoke for anxiety on whether or not it was spiked. He remembers the pistol that Arthur fired at the men who jumped him and Mattie, how the same pistol is hung up in Alfred’s study, lighting and all.
Yeah, the families may be scary, but Arthur is a little scarier.
“You got it, Iggy.”
Alfred leaves the precinct and, hands tucked into a pocket, makes his way to Ludwig’s house, fingers clutched around the burner phone given to him by Ivan, unsure of what lies ahead of him.
Arthur polishes off the second bottle of scotch, texting Francis that he’ll be home early. As he stands to leave, he shoots a glance at the mirror in his office, his reflection with pink hair, red eyes, and freckles, winking back. He shakes his head, bloody 2ps.
The sun has said its goodbyes, along with the open hours for Rome’s Pizzeria. “Here, mi hermano, like this.” Antonio takes the fingernail scrubber and one of Romano’s hands, gently taking the blood out from underneath the finger beds. “At an angle, yeah?” Romano scowls but nods nonetheless. It took five showers to get the sticky sensation of blood off his skin, and one more to make sure he got the smell of that bastard’s guts out of his hair. Antonio, the bastard, just needed one shower and all the evidence practically melted off of him. Yet, here Romano is, still scrubbing at the spot of blood on his hands.
Despite Rome’s Pizzeria being closed for the day, the inside buzzes with activity. The back table is filled with the rest of the main Vargas family, Kiku and Heracles teaching the importance of faking a blood splatter with tomato sauce to Sebastian, Peter, and Wendy.
Romano and Antonio watch the teachings from the back kitchen. “It’s nice to have kids, a family to protect, no?” Antonio asks, resting his head on Romano’s shoulder. Romano scowls, leaning in to the other man’s warmth.
“I suppose.” Antonio sobers eyes glazing over red.
“Romano, when are you going to tell Feliciano about the family business?” Romano’s eyes widen before his mouth splits into a smirk.
“Tomato bastard,” he says, fondness in his voice, “of course Feli knows about the family business. He was the one that built it, after all.”
“Wha—” Romano shushes him, straightening up and dragging Antonio out of the kitchen.
“Enough of that, c’mon lazy asses!” Romano calls out to the group in the main dining area, “we have a dinner to get to.”
Back at Ludwig’s (and Feliciano’s place, either until he could land on his own feet or until their dating turned into something more), dinner was being prepared by two Italians and an American. Gilbert and Matthew sit snuggled together on the love seat, completely enamored with each other. Once in a while, Alfred will look over at them, wait till he has Matthew’s attention, then pretend to gag. Matthew flips him off every time.
Natalya and Arthur are deep into a conversation on the other couch when Francis steps out from the dining area and dons an apron and wine glass. Francis pours himself a glass of wine and comments on Arthur’s poor skills in cooking as easily as one would comment on the weather. Arthur, who was having a polite conversation with Natalya on Russian politics, is ready to throw hands.
“You bloody frog! Take that back,” Arthur shouts from his seat at the coach, held down by Belarus, Francis laughs at him from his place at the kitchen, taking a sip from his wine glass.
“Hon, hon, hon, but Arthur it is true, non?” Another sip and Natalya rolls her eyes, siccing Arthur on the Frenchmen to answer the knock at the door.
“Ack! The wine, you uncivilized cretin!”
“Brother!” Natalya greets the figure, Ivan and Yao stepping into the house. Ivan nods at her sister, shedding his coat and reaching out for Yao’s coat, hanging them up on the hanger. The banter between Arthur and France does not abate despite the presence of the mafia boss, probably because they are too enraptured with the other to notice anyone else in the room.
“It is nice to see you again, Natalya. And Alfred.” Ivan smiles at Natalya, but shoots a look at Alfred, one that has the American stuttering into the pasta sauce he puts together. Yao laughs good-naturedly, leading Ivan to the parlor and shooting the flustered American a wink. Alfred goes as red as the tomatoes Feliciano hides his laughter in.
Belarus looks between Ivan and Yao on the couch to Alfred, who is still a worrying red, then smirks.
“I take it your time together was well spent?” She mutters to her brother. Ivan stretches his smile wider, all Belarus needs to know how much Ivan enjoyed it. Well, looks like she’s sharing again.
The doorbell rings again and Alfred nearly leaps to answer the door.
“Ayyy, Antonio!”
“Ayyy, Alfred!” Alfred clasps Antonio's hand in his, pulling him in for a half hug and clapping him on the back. Alfred befriended Antonio a few days after his meeting with Feliciano, wanting to get a feel for the Italian family. Antonio recognized him as one of the regulars at Rome’s and they’ve stayed friends ever since.
“C’mon fat-ass, you're holding up the door,” Romano grumbles, huffing into his jacket. Antonio smiles.
“Well, you weren’t complaining about my fat ass last ni—”
“There are children here!” Wendy shouts from behind Sebastian, covering her ears with her hands. Alfred chuckles, moving to the side so the rest can get in.
“Feli! Need help?” Sebastian asks, helping Wendy and Peter out for their coats. As soon as they’re free from both the coats and Antonio, Wendy and Peter drag Kiku and Heracles to the floor of the parlor with a deck of cards, Wendy demanding that Kiku shuffle for a round of BS. Romano and Antonio are already in the kitchen trying to help Feliciano with dinner preparations.
“Y’all can help me set the table?” Alfred asks, reaching up into one of the higher cabinets to get the dining ware. Belarus, Ivan, and Yao take a moment to ogle at Alfred’s ass.
“Alright!”
“Tch, fine.”
After two rounds of goldfish, with Wendy and Peter winning, respectively, Feliciano steps out of the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready, we’re having pasta!”
They all sit down at the table, Feliciano, and Ivan at the head. Romano and Ludwig on Feliciano right and left, respectively, Yao and Belarus at Ivan’s right and left, respectively. There’s chaos at the dining table, children and adults fighting over the serving utensils, Arthur and Francis breaking out into yet another argument. Gilbert and Matthew continue to be gushy, Alfred still gagging, Matthew still flipping off his twin. Ludwig yells not once, but five times at Gilbert to stop ‘calling Alfred a love nazi, seriously brother, have you no tact?’.
What do teachers, cops, and mafia bosses have in common?
In the end, they all want the same thing— to protect those they hold dearest. For teachers, it’s their students, a new generation that will use the knowledge they learn to thrive in their own environment. For cops, it’s the citizens of their town, their state, their nation, every person entitled to their own set of rights. For mafia bosses, it’s their family, whether it be in blood or through connection, anyone is in for life.
Feliciano, still aching in some places, looks around the dining table. He nods at the questioning look Romano gives him, smiles at Ivan. He laughs at Alfred’s jabs at Francis’ hair, politely turns down Arthur’s suggestion for more food. He winks at the red-eyed brunette reflection of himself in his spoon. He admires the love in Gilbert’s eyes for Matthew, of Antonio’s ceaseless dedication to Romano, of Francis’ banter with Arthur. Feliciano locks hands with Ludwig under the table, leaning into the other’s warmth.
He’s home.