Taking Over 11 PART 1

Thursday nights were spaghetti nights.  And the only night where everyone ate all of their meal, without complaining.  Well, for the most part, Al once screamed that his sauce was too red, but he ate it anyway because he wanted dessert.
        The trick to yummy, authentic spaghetti was to have an authentic Italian teach you to make it.  Particularly an Italian who’d actually instruct you until it was perfect and preferably not one that would hit you with a tomato every time it wasn’t.
       When the boys had started on solid foods, noodles seemed to be the perfect beginner meal.  Sadly Arthur learned early on that, rather amazingly, a lot of things could go wrong while just boiling noodles. So he’d enlisted the only two Italians he knew to help him and regretted it immediately.  Luckily Feliciano was patient enough to stay on and finish the job, otherwise Thursday nights would not be something to celebrate.
Arthur sat at the kitchen table, enjoying the sound of people eating.  Or to be more precise, little boys slurping and squishing noodles.  The far end of the table was unaccustomedly empty. France usually made it a point to show up on Thursdays, if not for the solidarity of a family meal, then to endorse eating dinner in general.  Especially eating dinner that England made. It stung his pride, but it had been a good plan so far.
He rested his chin on his palm and watched the boys, America was playing, more than eating his noodles, moving them into odd little hills and trails on his plate and then smashing them, all the while talking to himself.  He didn't look remotely interested in eating, but at least he licked at the red spots that covered cheeks.  Canada on the other hand was trying very hard to scoop his noodles onto his Spork.  He had little success, one noodle out of every ten eventually clung to the plastic and made it to his mouth, it was slow going but at least he was eating.  
England sat with his face in his hand watching the boys and absently pushing his own meal around until the clock in the living room tolled 7:30.  Checking his own watch he looked back at the empty chair across from him with a frown.  France still wasn't home. Sighing, he dabbed his mouth with a napkin and readied himself to excuse the boy’s absent father.  Just as he opened his mouth however, France walked through the door, alive, if looking a little harried, and as if he had just counted to ten before stepping inside.  He still wore his coat and hat and was carrying a small filing box.
“My apologize, Mon tresor’s,” he exclaimed, putting the box down and kissing the blond tops of the boys heads.  “Traffic was murder, down town. Ah spaghetti, merci Angelterre, I don’t know if could stomach another meatloaf.”  He took off his coat, and sat, but instead of eating he took the lid off the box and began sorting its contents.
“It’s Thursday, Francis, we always have spaghetti on Thursday.”  France nodded vaguely, still giving all his attention to the box.  Arthur bristled at being ignored and forgotten,  “And no work at the dinner table!” But the man opposite him didn’t seem to care, he began pulling pictures from the box and setting them in rows. As quick as lighting a messy hand grabbed one.
“Non, Alfred, this is Papa’s.” France scolded the boy gently, but in the resulting tussle, ended up harshly ripping the photo away.  
        The little American began to cry, each tear tugged at Arthurs heart, but he kept his eyes on his plate and muttered. “Shouldn’t have brought work to the table, Mate.”
“It’s not work, mon cher,” France sighed, as he lifted Alfred from his seat to calm him, realizing too late that the boy was covered in red Marinara sauce.
England snorted into his glass of water as he saw Alfreds dinner mess transfer onto Francis’ suit shirt.
“Merde,” looking down at himself, then at England, Francis sighed “I suppose I deserve this?”  
“Do you?” Arthur asked as he hooked his foot in Matthews chair, moving the photo curious toddler closer to his end of the table.
France rolled his eyes and planted Alfred on his hip, continuing to bounce him, while he deftly twisted his fork in the spaghetti and took a bite.   Arthur watched France eat while still holding Alfred, looking very tired indeed.  The boy looked tired too, but less sleepy and more bored, it was only a matter of time before he lunged for freedom.  He was already straining for the wallet in Frances pocket.
“Watch it, Al’s going for your billfold. You might as well set him down, he hasn’t eaten his dinner yet.”
France did as was directed, which surprised England, usually he enjoyed being contrary.  His surprise didn't last long though, as soon as France was back in his seat, he was looking at the photos again.  France then plucked a picture from the rest and presented it to him.
“What do you think?  Would you buy perfume from this woman?”
        The picture was of a lovely blond woman in a black turtle neck sweater.  She was pleasant enough looking, but before he could get a better look France replaced it with another picture of another blond woman in the same black sweater.
        “What is this…” England hesitated, spooning Americas spaghetti back on to his plate.
         “How about her?”
        “I didn't get a decent look at the first, Matty, just use your hands, for crying out loud.”
        “That’s the point,” France quipped, looking at the picture himself. “She needs to stop people with one glimpse.”
        “Alright,” England sighed and looked at the picture, but it had changed again.
       “Hey I hadn't even looked at that one!”
       “You would have if she were good enough, how about her?”
        Arthur focused on the next picture, this time a brunette with short curly hair.  
       “I-I don’t know, the first?”
       “And… her?”  France had begun eating again and so left the picture up long enough for England to get a proper look.
       “She’s lovely.”
       “Bon,” France said, a mouth full of noodles mumbling his words. Switching the pictures again he placed that one in a different pile; far from any sticky fingers.
       “Can you at least tell me what you are doing?” England sighed, as he spooned more green beans on to Canada’s tray, apparently the spork worked wonders on the beans.
      “I am trying to find a model for a new catalog. What about her?”
       “I thought Seychelles was your model.”  
       France growled and held up another photo.  “She quit.  How’s this one?”
       A bizarre flutter erupted in England's stomach, he had to bite his lip to keep from saying something rude. Looking at the picture he dismissed it with a shake of his head. He was more interested to know what had happened between Francis and his golden goose, Seychelles. No wonder the man looked stressed.  Granted, this meant France would be free to spend more time at home with him and the boys, without her drama to interfere.  
       Just then Francis held up another photo and a whistle escaped his lips.
       “She’s great looking, I’d buy whatever she was selling.”
       “Bon!” France took another bit of spaghetti and whipped out his cell phone.
       “No phones at the table; house rules!” England chided again.
       “No phones, no Phones!” chanted America, before having his mouth covered by Frances hand.
       “I wouldn’t do th-” England cried, but it was too late, France had walked into another one of Alfreds favorite traps.  
     “MERDE!” France shrieked, pulling his hand away from the toddler’s mouth. His hand was now, predictably, covered in spaghetti and green bean mush. Cringing, England palmed his forehead.  
     “Idiot.”  
      Taking his napkin, Arthur picked up the rejected pictures, which had been in the splash zone, and cleaned them off.  It gave him time to actually look at the women who weren't deemed good enough to sell perfume. He couldn't find any fault with a single one of them. But Frances magazine wasn't the best selling publication for nothing.  Out of his fog he heard France walk back over to the table.
     “Oui I’ll hold,” Covering the phone Francis caught his gaze. “Can you bring the boys to the studio tomorrow?”
        “Uh, I believe so, why?”
        “I’m running low on models.”
        England was about to ask ‘what for’, when France caught him off guard again by eyeing him up and down.  A flush crept to his cheeks and suddenly every spot of sauce he’d spilled on himself seemed to burn.  What was the man up to now?
      “Shave tomorrow. Oui?  Oui I’m here…” And with that he left the kitchen with the words wardrobe and alterations following him as he vanished into the house.
     “Daddy, I done, can I play?” Matthew asked, breaking the silence that followed Frances departure.
       “Me too, me too!!!” Alfred added, dropping his sip cup onto the floor.
       Arthur sized up the boys in front of him, it was indeed just another Thursday night.  They were both covered in food, and in need of a bath before they played with anything.  And it was left to him to bathe them, perhaps he’d let them loose in Francis’ suite? That’d serve him right for abandoning his fatherly duties, again.  Shaking the mean thoughts from his head Arthur looked the boys over again and decided that the sauce was definitely too red.

TO BE CONTINUED