Lovino was right. It was a long flight. Between Spain and his fishes and little Daniel trying to squeeze between their seats in a bid of attention, Lovino could feel time move slower than a slug in a salt maze. He tried so hard to take a snooze like his neighboring snorer ––grandma only woke up once when they were touching English ground––but the insistent prodding of the brats kept him going.

Over two and half hour later, both Spaniard and Italian were on their way to England (the personification) in a cab. Lovino stared out of window, watching the buildings whisk by. Spain was pushing himself into Lovino's side, sound asleep.

He even laughs in his sleep, the Italian realized. So goddamn jolly even he is unconscious to the world.

It took less than an hour before the cab was rolling to a stop. Lovino had to shake Spain before he became one with the leather.

"We are here," he muttered to one in particular.

"Yep," the driver whistled. "Here we are. That'll be 13 pounds."

He pounded on the door, a rich echo pulsed around them. The Italian hoped the bastard was there and not chasing America or whatever the fuck he does when he's not with the pervert Frenchman.

"Oi, bastard," Lovino bellowed, trying to ignore Spain's poking at breaking his promise. "Open up!" He kicked the door, wincing at the pain that shoot through his toes. The Italian rattled the doorknob, pressing himself into the wood. "Oi!"

The door swung open. Lovino stumbled back with a "chigi~!"

"What!" A blonde shouted, red splotching his face and neck. "I don't want any—oh, South Italy."

England stared blankly at Lovino for a moment. He is understandably confused as to why the angriest of the Italian brothers is at his door calling for him. He doesn't really care, though.

He moves to slam the door. A leather shoe rammed between door and frame prevents him from fully closing the door. He groans.

"Heck no, England," Lovino hisses, cursing himself at sacrificing his footwear like this.

"Please, South Italy," England huffs through clenched teeth, "just go away. I'm not feeling well enough to deal with you—or anyone, really—today…"

If England was honest with himself, he would admit that he needs a day in bed, sheets covering up to his chin to warm him up. He feels too chilly, but also too hot and stuffy in his clothes. His nose itches, and his vision is a tad blurry. England should up and admit that he has a cold and shouldn't be up greeting an irate moron with no sense of mindfulness for others. He should just close the door. His budding migraine will thank him later. England should…

Lovino barked out a laugh. It was slow, harsh, and sarcastic. It was a grating noise that England's ear did not quite appreciate. "Ha, Trust me. You aren't going to feel better if you don't fix what you did, Eyebrows."

England perked at this: "Fix what you did." What does he mean? He peeked from the small opening, frowning hard. He was in the process of asking the other for clarification, his mouth half opened when he was pushed aside.

"What in the bloody hell?" England said, indignation painted on his face. It wasn't the Italian. He was still moping in front of him, glaring from under his hair. Then who—

"It's about to rain, Lovi!" A childish voice warned between the two nations. England looked down to find a young child, maybe a toddler, pushing his legs apart with surprising strength, trying to get past them. "Common!"

England was so dumbfounded he let himself be moved aside by the Italian, who cursed as rain began to fall from grey skies. He didn't even react when South Italy apologized for cursing. He simply closed the door, and slowly turned to follow the others, who decidedly thought it was a good idea to act like they are in their own homes.

Why are they so messy? England mused, staring at the tracks of mud leading to the kitchen.

England could hear them in the kitchen, speaking in hushed voices. He could more or less understand what the Italian said—he doesn't know the meaning of whispering. The child the other brought, well…he sounded familiar in a way the blond couldn't recognize.

"Oh shut it, Spain…" Lovino sighed loudly. "You don't have to it eat if you don't want to eat it."

England paused, frowning. Spain? Maybe he is talking to a phone? Maybe— He entered the kitchen and found the Italian and the child poking around the tea tray he had prepared for himself. No phone, just the two of them putting their grubby hands on his scones. He was about to say something, anything to stop the bloody idiots when the kid turned to face him, a mix of disappointment and fear in his eyes. What?

"Arthur," the child addressed England by his human name while holding one of his scones. "Why are you still eating rocks?"

"Those are not rocks…Why would I—" England trailed off, wondering two things: how did he know his name, and how come this child not understand what true cuisine is.

The child hummed as if England's answer didn't satisfy his curiosity. England moved towards the boy and took the scone from his hand, dropping it back on the plate with the others "If you cannot appreciate them then you cannot have them." He turned to the Italian, who was busy inspecting the side of his shoes. "South Italy! What is the meaning of this visit? What do you mean by "fix what I've done? And," he pointed at the other, much tinier, intruder, "who's the boy?"

The Italian scoffed. "You mean to tell me that you don't recognize your own handiwork." He stomped to where the boy was, picking him up effortlessly from behind, shoving him uncomfortably close to England's face. "Don't you recognize him?"

England stared at the boy. He stare at his green eyes under brown curls. He stared at the easy smile on his face as the child tried to comically kiss South Italy's hands. He stared as the Italian simply let go of the child with a disgusted grimace. He stared as the child began to tear up, putting his hands up begging to be picked up. South Italy did pick him up, not after noiselessly mouthing what England was sure to be his usual profanities.

"Lovi, can I have some tomatoes?" The child asked, humming as he pulled on the other's clothes.

"No," the Italian said, trying to stop the tiny hands from grabbing at his face. He failed.

"But." The child whined, head butting him in the chest.

"Ugh, fine," South Italy groaned, pulling a paper bag out of the front pocket of his hoodie. The boy took the bag greedily, hugging it tight to his body. The bag crinkled noisily under his fingers. "Just one," the Italian warned, the child conceded with a nod.

Do you always carry tomatoes with you? England wanted to ask just that, but what came out was: "Spain?"

England didn't know what possessed to ask that. This child couldn't possibly be Spain, but still England pondered on the slight possibility. Perhaps it was the sheer physical similarity between the peninsula and the tomato muncher in the Italian's arms. Or, maybe, it was the cheeky look under the under the unruly chestnut locks that spoke of simple asinine mischief. Though, the look of exasperation that always seemed to take hold tight in the Italian's visage seemed, right now, to England, borderline affectionate. It always was like that, England remembers, whenever South Italy dealt either with Spain or his brother, North Italy. He never seems to be as truly angry, annoyed, mortified as he appears to be whenever it those two are involved.

"Yeah," the Italian said, throwing a glare at the Englishman. "You changed him into this," he nodded to the child in his arms. "You change him back."

England bit the inside of his cheek, thinking. Questions darted around his head as his piercing green eyes roamed the boy's face. Is he really Spain, though? Is this not a stupid prank orchestrated by the French bastard? But that stupid grin on his face as he eats the damn fruit… Just maybe…

"I couldn't have possibly have done this." England said, meeting the hard eyes of the Italian. "Why would I waste my time with such a silly spell?"

"I don't know!" Lovino shouted, throwing an arm to the air. "You were the one wearing the dress and the wings!

"He had a halo and a wand, too," Spain added, his face twisting as he recalled the sight. It was funny, conceded the cursed country.

"It was a robe," England muttered, looking more closely to the giggling child. He definitely had some traces of magic in him, he thought as he poked at the small round face. The Spaniard pouted, inflating his cheeks like balloon as he pulled away from the blond touch.

"Stop touching me with your yucky hands!" Spain trilled, snuggling closer to South Italy. He wrapped himself to the Italian's torso not unlike a climbing plant twining around tree trunks.

England made a face. "I assure you my hands are not…"yucky."

The only response was a muffled sound came from the bundle of green and red attached to the Italian.

South Italy hissed, trying very hard to control the boiling rage he felt for the Island nation at the moment. "You better make things right, Eyebrows. I'm not about to waste my whole weekend taking care of Spain like this.'

England could feel the subtlest twitch underneath his left eye. He breathed in deeply, and slowly let the air out his nose. "And what?" England reluctantly motioned them to the living room, bring the tea tray with him. "Were your plans involved the bloody git hand-feed you tomatoes while singing praises of your lazy arse?'

"Hey, England?' Lovino asked as he followed him, voice tight with anger.

"Yeah," the blond answered, voice light with laughter.

"Why don't you shove both scones and tea up your a—mmmh!" Brisk fingers on his mouth interrupted him, pressing his lips together. "SPAIN," he growled, the sound muffled. It made the other curl up his lips, an easy smile settling on his face.

"You can't swear, Lovi!~" He singed. "You promised!"

South Italy grasped Spain's hands, gently tugging them away from his mouth. "Yeah, well," the Italian huffed as he eyed England serving himself some tea, offered him a cup. "He deserves every swear word I got."

At his words, England wondered if the Italian is going to send him the same book he had sent Germany. The one cursing his very existence, each swear more creative than the last. Shame he couldn't take a peek before Germany used it as fire fuel.

"You promised," England heard child Spain whine.

"Fine, fine." The Italian shook his head towards England, mouthing a quick sorry. It seemed to please Spain.

They moved to the living room. It was a cozy place; the fireplace was crackling busily at the other end of the room. The Italian set down the cursed country, who immediately pulled himself up to the sofa, leaving muddy footprints on it. England cringed at the sight, sitting across the other two in a worn armchair. He wordlessly offered them some of his tea and scones. They declined with varying levels of unease.

They sat there, not speaking for what seemed a long while. South Italy glared while Spain swung his feet, letting his eyes flicker around the room. He grudgingly admitted that England has some taste in decorating. England sipped from his teacup. It soothed his mounting headache.

"Can you even change me back?" Spain broke the silence, unexpectedly relaxed.

England shrugged. "I could."

"Just do it then!" The Italian bellowed, moments away from flipping the coffee table between them. He will beat the magic remedy out of the blond if it helped. Would it help, though? His fist clenched.

England shrugged again, thick eyebrows furrowing in thought. "I could, but I need time to consult my books." He looked down at his hands, sighing. "Might take a while, however."

"You motherfu—" "—Lovi!" "—dger!" Why can't you just wave your wand again?" South Italy yelled, waving his hands about. "You did it once, do that again! Reverse this crap!"

England stood up, seething. "Sure! Let me go grab it and wave it around; turn Spain to his proper idiot self just like that again. Not like," he let out a bark of laugh, "there might be a chance of error and have him turn into a, a, a scone!"

"No!" Spain gasped, turning to the Italian, fear etched clearly on his face. "I don't want to be turned to a scone!"

"You baby," The Italian said, exasperated. "He won't turn you into a scone."

"Really?"

"Probably."

England interrupted what he was sure was waterworks on the verge of starting. "I won't turn you into a scone. Stop giving me that pathetic look, git" Spain stuck his tongue.

South Italy sighed loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How long will it take for you to, ah, prepare yourself?"

"It depends." England said slowly as to set off the temper of the Italian. "I'm not entirely sure what exactly I cursed Spain with. I don't know if this is a curse I can reverse or if it's one that has certain conditions to be met before it break. Maybe it'll wear off…or not ever." He coughed, as he took in the incredulous look on the two. "Whatever the case it may be, I need time to not only understand what I did to you, Spain, but I also need time to prepare my solution."

South Italy looked sick. "How long, England?"

"Give me…," he checked the clock hanging on the wall. It was late in the afternoon. "Give me more or less 15 hours." England nodded to himself. "That'll give me plenty of time to do—"

"—15 hours?" The Italian interrupted. "Oh my God! I'm going to kill someone!"

England shrugged. "What do I know? It could be more than 15 hours."

"You should know!" South Italy exploded, face crimson. "I thought it make take ten minutes, twenty tops. Not 15 hours!"

"Maybe more," England muttered, sipping some tea. He wished he made more. Half a teapot is not enough tea against this mess he created. "You're free stay the night, ok. I'll even make a special meal for you tw—"

Spain raised his hand, staring hard at England. "I want to cook."

England laughed. "You can't even reach the countertop."

"True," Spain agreed. "But even without reaching it, I can make something way better than you ever will."

"You ungrateful little prick," England said, frowning. "I'd leave you like that if it weren't my fault."

"So, it is settled, then," South Italy said loudly, drawing the attention of the other two. "England, you'll focus your time on searching whatever you need to do to undo your curse. And, Spain, you'll sit quietly in a corner, not touching anything.

"But I want to cook!" Spain whined.

"As much as hate saying this, England is right. You can't cook like this!"

"But!"

"But you can be my, ah, assistant in the kitchen." The Italian said quickly. "I need the best of the best assisting me. Are you the best of the best, Spain?"

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"So, yeah, England," he addressed the blond. "We'll cook; you do your magic."

"Whatever," England said, slightly upset at not cooking tonight. "Just…clean after yourselves."

He got up, picking up the tray set, and ambled out of the room. The other two heard the creak of a heavy door swinging open.

England just entered his basement. He made his way carefully down the stairs. It was a gloomy place illuminated by even gloomier flickering candles. Half of the basement was a makeshift library with a bookshelf overflowing with books with varying levels of thickness. It held an invaluable collection of the ways of spellwork and the like. The other half was basically the lab; a table to the wall was covered with flask and bickers filled with colorful liquids. A huge black cauldron sat on the middle of the room, unused for the moment.

England set down the tea tray on a book stack by the stairs, and proceeded to trace the spine of several books on the bookshelves. He occasionally picked one, flipped through the thin pages before setting it down. If he was honest with himself, he wasn't exactly sure what he did to Spain. He didn't remember. He started nibbling at a scone as he paced back and forth through the book stacks scattered by the stairs.

He had felt the residual spell in Spain. But. What kind of spell?

A book fell from one of the stack. An old book with no visible title. He flipped it open. It was a spell breaking book. It had only spells to break hexes and jinxes and the smallest of curses. It was the only book he found so far that it dealt with breaking curses.

He settled down, close to one of the flickering candles, and began to search for something that might turn Spain back to normal.

A/N: Hello, readers. Sorry for the delay. I did my best with this chapter, but I don't know. Seems to me as I write that I don't really know where I'm going (even with the outline I've written, aahh)

I might get out an update once a month. My academic life is putting everything I am through hell.

I sincerely hope you enjoy this. Feel free to comment.

I'll see you next time, dear readers.