Author's Note: This request was submitted by an anon on my Tumblr. It's going to be a two-shot. Also, just a word of warning that there are mentions of blood and other occasional grossness, so brace yourselves before enjoying!


The worst thing a person could do is grow old, which is why Matthew intends to stay nineteen forever. He knows as soon as he gets through college, he'll have to fling himself into the adult world of taxes, debt, miserable jobs, and jump-starting his non-existent career goals. The secure cocoon of undergraduate studies and living under his parents' roof will be a thing of the past.

Unfortunately for him, his body is already beginning to turn against him with age. First it starts as a little aching twinge on the side of his jaw that comes and goes. Then, within two months, it escalates into a throbbing pulsation that makes chewing his food a chore. It's finally happening, he's reaching a rite of passage that he never wished to have the displeasure of experiencing—his wisdom teeth hurt.

He manages to keep it to himself for an impressive amount of time, but when he lets a few winces and grimaces slip during breakfast and dinner, both Dad and Papa catch on, not needing an explanation. That same week, Dad takes him down to his office in the city, and Matthew suffers through an x-ray of his mouth before being given the worst possible news—all four of his wisdom teeth are impacted and will need to be extracted.

He goes home, locks himself in his room, and proceeds to sulk. He's officially an old person. Alfred has never had an issue with his wisdom teeth, so why should he be the unlucky one? Maybe the pain will go away on its own. Maybe there's another option. Maybe—

"Mathieu? Open the door, please."

"I'm busy, Papa."

"Too busy for me?"

"Yes."

A second or two of silence pass before Papa tries again. "It's not the end of the world, Mathieu. They're only wisdom teeth. If your father said they have to be removed, then they need to be removed. It's for your own health."

If Alfred weren't off studying computer science in California, he'd be here, laughing at Matthew's predicament and teasing him relentlessly.

"But you never had to have your wisdom teeth removed."

"Non, but your father has removed hundreds of wisdom teeth by this point, and he knows what he's doing."

Matthew hugs a pillow to his chest and frowns. He knows he's being a big baby about this, but his teeth are a big deal to him. He brushes twice a day and flosses after every meal, and still, he has to deal with such dental horrors. Where's the justice? It doesn't help that his father is a dentist with a specialization in oral surgery and is a stickler for dental hygiene.

"It'll be done on Thursday afternoon. You'll skip your Friday class and have the weekend to recover," Papa informs pressingly, emphasizing the importance and inevitability of getting the procedure done.

"But can't I just—?"

"It will be okay, mon cher."

And that's the end of the discussion. Thursday afternoon comes far too quickly. Papa picks him up after class and drives him to Dad's office before dropping him off in the waiting room. He has some important errands to run and can't stay, but he promises Matthew over and over again that there's no need to worry—that Dad will take perfectly good care of him.

Unsurprisingly, he's scheduled to be the last patient of the day, but he doesn't have to wait very long for Dad to come and fetch him. Matthew wishes he'd had more time to mentally prepare, but before he knows it, Dad's standing in the hallway and calling him over, causing his heart to stutter with paralyzing fear. He trusts his father. He knows he has plenty of experience with these types of procedures, and yet, he is still uneasy about the whole idea. He has heard too many horror stories around the kitchen table, and he's been reading too many online articles about all of the possible complications of tooth extractions, and, oh God, what if he gets permanent nerve damage or dry socket?

"Matthew?"

"C-Coming," he mumbles, forcing himself to stand up on noodle-like legs. He should have gone away for college, then he could've avoided any and all contact with dentists of any sort, family or not.

Dad puts a hand on his back as he approaches and guides him into one of the small exam rooms. Without having to be instructed to do so, Matthew reluctantly sits on the teal leather chair in the center, trembling slightly. He hates having to get any kind of dental work done. It's absolutely emotionally draining and awful.

"Oh, Matthew, my boy, don't be so nervous. Everything is going to be fine," Dad promises, noticing his heightened anxiety. "I'll get you some nitrous oxide."

"No!" Matthew immediately shouts, throat dry.

"It'll help relax you."

"No, I don't want to be loopy afterward."

"But it'll make you feel better," Dad reasons softly, putting a calming hand on Matthew's knee to stop his jitters.

"No, because I'll say something stupid, and you'll record it and upload it online since that's a trendy thing to do nowadays."

Dad chuckles and shakes his head in disbelief. "You really think I'd do that? I'm sensing a lack of trust here."

"I don't want any laughing gas," Matthew states firmly, mind made up.

"All right, love. If that's what you'd prefer, I won't insist otherwise," Dad relents before clipping the oh-so-terrible peppermint colored paper bib around his neck. "Just relax. You know I don't bite."

"Hmph…"

Dad frowns and leans Matthew's chair back, reclining him. "I know you're upset with me for putting you through this, but you'll feel much better in the long run. Most people have to get their wisdom teeth removed at some point, and if you're having trouble with them now, it's best to have them taken out as early as possible before the roots grow stronger and raise the possibility of more complications… Are you certain you wouldn't like any medication to ease your nerves?"

"I'm sure."

"Okay, tilt your chin up and open wide. I just want to have a look and put some numbing gel on your gums before I give you the novocaine injection. It'll taste funny."

Matthew swallows thickly and lets his mouth fall obediently open, loathing every passing second with more vigor than the previous one. There are some sterilized instruments on a silver tray next to him, but they're tactfully covered with a paper towel so he can't make out the details of the torture devices. Why does this kind of stuff always happen to him? Why couldn't he have one or even two impacted teeth instead of four?

Dad smears the sticky gel over his gums with a cotton swab and lets it sit in place for a while, so it can take effect. Then, as they wait, Dad jumps into a tangent about how they need to spend some time together as a family when spring break rolls around, and how maybe when Alfred gets back, they can take a road trip out west for old time's sake or head up north to stay in a log cabin and enjoy the outdoors. Matthew only hears half of what is being said to him, but Dad doesn't seem to mind, nor does he expect a more eloquent response aside from an occasional hum or "uh-huh" every now and then. He's just talking for the sake of making noise, and Matthew appreciates it. It's surprisingly soothing.

Then, the cotton swab is taken out from where it has been dangling from his mouth and Dad says, "All right, I'm going to give you the novocaine now. It might pinch a bit. It'll be in five places."

Five shots? Has he lost his mind?

But Matthew's not the expert here, and so, he claws at the armrests of the chair and resigns himself to his fate, taking a deep breath to calm himself. Dad takes a moment to give his shoulder a comforting squeeze before getting to work.

"Just close your eyes and try to relax, poppet. You'll be okay."

He tries, but it's hard to focus on anything else besides the needle in his mouth. Thankfully, it's not so bad because before Matthew can register the pain in his mind, Dad's already prodding him in a different spot. Four shots go by quickly and with relative ease, but on the last one, Dad pauses and adds, "The fifth one is going to go in the roof of your mouth, and it tends to smart a bit, but I'll try to make it as quick as possible. It'll feel odd."

Odd is not the word choice Matthew wants to hear, and despite the warning, he still lets out an involuntary whimper and flinches when a sudden stinging sensation blazes to life in his mouth. It's over in under five seconds, and as soon as the syringe has been set aside, Dad rubs his arm soothingly and apologizes, guilt clearly inscribed in his features.

"The worst part is over with, I promise. Now you shouldn't feel a thing. I'm going to let you rest for a few minutes to let the medicine start doing its job. Your face and lips might feel funny, but don't be alarmed. When you're completely numb, we'll get started, okay?"

Matthew nods his head to show he understands. Already, his bottom lip is going numb and his tongue feels heavy. He leans further into the chair and tries to keep from drooling on himself to no avail. It's a little embarrassing, but Dad has seen him in worse conditions.

Dad hands him a few tissues so he can wipe his mouth, and Matthew feels like a baby that can't stop spitting up on itself. His cheeks lose feeling next, and then, his whole mouth turns warm and tingly, giving him the sudden urge to take a nap.

"How are you feeling? Is the novocaine working?"

He tries to say yes, but it comes out as a nonsensical jumble of sound, and so, he merely nods his head again.

"Good. We'll give it another five minutes."

"Mmm…"

More saliva dribbles out of his mouth, and he has to dab at it with the tissues. How gross. Dad, however, is unfazed. His father steps out for a minute to tell the assistant to come in to give him a hand, and by the time he comes back, Matthew has completely lost all feeling from his lower jaw up to his cheekbones.

"Nice and numb?" Dad asks.

"Mmmrgh…"

"I'm going to use one of my instruments here. Let me know if you feel any pain at all."

He feels a pressing sensation against his teeth, but it's not painful, thank goodness.

"No pain?"

"Nrghh."

"Excellent. You're doing swimmingly, Matthew," Dad praises as he puts some kind of rubber apparatus between his teeth to hold his mouth open. "You just let me know if you're in any pain at all during any point. Just poke my arm, and I'll give you more numbing medication. Now, try to hold still and keep your chin up."

Matthew is incredibly happy he can't see what's happening because he's sure he'd be mortified if he could. A number of tools are put into his mouth and taken out again, and he has no idea what any of them are doing because he can't even feel them. Before he knows it, the first tooth is out, the one on the top right. He doesn't feel it getting taken out, nor does he feel the sutures being put in to close the wound.

"Twenty-five percent done, Matthew. Turn your head toward me and relax."

The bottom teeth are not as simple, since they are rooted more deeply in his jaw, and Dad bides his time with them, careful not to use too much force. He works quietly and gently for fifteen minutes, loosening the tooth by teasing it back and forth. Then, suddenly, there's a startling cracking noise that makes Matthew jerk in fright, but Dad places a reassuring hand on his chest to keep him still and says, "Don't be scared by any of the sounds. You're all right. Fifty percent done… Keep your eyes closed."

Maybe he should have accepted some laughing gas. Then, he would've been too woozy to hear the horrible noises.

The top left tooth is taken out as easily as the first, and Matthew wouldn't have even known it was already removed had Dad not announced, "One more left, poppet."

The last one takes the longest. It requires a whole lot of patience and tugging. For a moment, Matthew begins to worry it's not going to come out at all, but Dad isn't as quick to quit.

"Your wisdom teeth enjoy being in your mouth very much," Dad jokes gently, and finally, there's another little cracking noise that sounds much worse than it really is, and the last of the sutures are threaded through his gums.

The assistant rolls some fluffy gauze up and puts a nice helping in both sides of his mouth before telling him to carefully bite down to aid in stanching the bleeding. When that's taken care of, Dad helps him up and gives him an ice-pack to place on his jaw. He's supposed to alternate it between sides every ten minutes. Matthew can't believe he survived.

"That wasn't so bad, hmm?" Dad asks, not expecting Matthew to give a clear response, since he clearly won't be talking any time soon. "It's very important that you let the area heal and don't touch it with your tongue. Sit in the waiting room, and I'll be out in a moment to take us home."

All right, nothing hurts yet, so that's good. It's over with. He can't believe he actually made it through without passing out or thrashing around in a fit of panic. There's no turning back now, and all he has to do is make it through the next few days and never worry about his wisdom teeth ever again. Of course, there's still the possibility of some kind of post-op complication, but he's forcing himself not to consider the thought, choosing instead to focus on the cold sensation of the ice-pack stamped against his jaw. He wants to go directly home so he can collapse in bed and sleep for however long his recovery will take.

Dad tidies up, grabs his stuff, and then they're on their way. Matthew's vaguely aware of the taste of blood in his mouth as he gets into the car, but he's not as panicked by the revelation as he thought he might be. He's still drooling on himself a little, and now his spit is unnaturally pink. To say it's scary is an understatement, but Matthew just wipes his mouth with more tissues and keeps his gaze locked on the road to distract himself. He wants to ask Dad if it's normal to be bleeding like this, but it's impossible for him to talk coherently through all of the gauze in his mouth and the numbness.

He picks up his phone and decides to type out the question instead, holding it up to Dad's face once they're at a red light. His mouth is a Niagara Falls of disgusting bodily fluids.

Dad glances at the message and assures, "There'll be some bleeding for another hour or so. The local anesthetic should be wearing off soon. We're going to have to stop by the pharmacy for a moment to get your medications. Will you be okay waiting in the car for a few minutes?"

"Mmm," Matthew hums with a tiny nod of the head. He's beginning to get a bit of a migraine. He takes a selfie of himself and sends it to Papa and Alfred, hoping to garner some sympathy from them both. His face has already swelled up quite noticeably, and there's some pale bruising forming on both sides of his lower jaw.

The car comes to a stop, and Dad cuts the engine before hopping out. "Don't move, my boy. I'll be back in a moment. Text me if there's an emergency."

"Mmm-hmm."

He can already tell he's going to have a rough time once the numbness subsides. The gauze in his mouth is uncomfortable, the swelling is making him feel gross, and not being able to talk is an additional nuisance. He's crabby, and that's probably a side effect of having your teeth forcibly yanked out. He reminds himself not to give Dad or Papa a hard time, but he's not sure how long he'll be able to keep his temper in check. He's not one to get angry very often, but when he's sick, he can be fairly unapproachable and sour. Hopefully, his parents are prepared for this.

Dad returns in ten minutes with a paper bag filled with the promised painkillers and a bottle of antibiotics. They're all labeled with Matthew's name, and he takes the bag from Dad, scrutinizing the pills.

He texts out another question, "Why do I need to take antibiotics? Do I have an infection?"

Dad shakes his head. "No, it's prophylactic—which means you need to take them as a preventative measure. It's a weak dose of clindamycin. You'll be taking that every six hours for a week."

Oh. Fair enough, Matthew supposes. He rests his head on the cool window and sighs, beginning to get some feeling back in his lips, which isn't necessarily a good thing. He'd prefer to stay numb for as long as possible.

They pull up into the driveway of the house, and Dad helps him out of the car, even though Matthew can walk perfectly fine. Honestly, there's no need for all of the fussing. He wasn't drugged up with laughing gas, so he's alert and cognizant of everything around him. He walks himself through the front door, takes off his shoes, changes into a pair of sweatpants, and lies down on the couch, intending to watch some T.V or play a video game.

Dad puts a stack of pillows under his head and stresses the importance of keeping his head elevated to reduce the swelling in his face.

"Your gauze needs to be replaced, so I'll take out the old one. You can have a few sips of water and take the pain medication before I put a new one in," Dad announces, but Matthew honestly just wants to be left alone and couldn't care less.

He watches Dad put on a pair of gloves, and then he's poking around his mouth again.

"Close your eyes."

Matthew wants to ask why, but he already knows the answer his own question. Dad doesn't want him to get lightheaded at the sight of what is most likely blood-soaked gauze. It's probably also why he won't let Matthew take it out himself. Admittedly, he has a history of being squeamish, so he can't blame Dad for taking the extra precautions.

The novocaine is wearing off quickly now, and Matthew has to grimace when a sharp shock of pain jolts up from his chin and spreads outward in both directions, almost reaching his ears. Now that he has regained some feeling and the gauze is out, he can attempt talking, although his voice sounds a little funny. He's never going to forgive his father for putting him through this. "Oww…"

"I know, poppet. It's not pleasant," Dad soothes before handing him a chilled glass of water. "You need to stay hydrated. You should also probably eat something before you take the medication. Would you like some pudding or applesauce?"

"Applesauce."

Dad speed walks to the kitchen and returns with a small cup of applesauce and a spoon, promptly handing over the food to Matthew. "Slowly, now. Take your time."

He doesn't realize how hungry he is until he gets halfway through the cup and devours the rest of it, feeling a little better. Then, as soon as he finishes the final spoonful, Dad hands him a pill and he downs it with the help of the water, groaning at the growing feeling of discomfort and soreness in his mouth. It's a throbbing pain that won't go away. He has the urge to massage his face, but he knows he's not supposed to touch anything for the at least twenty-four hours.

Dad helps him out by holding a fresh ice-pack up to one of his cheeks while Matthew holds another one on the opposite side. This really sucks. He's not even feeling up for playing a video game. It's too much work, and so, he settles for watching a movie that Dad puts on instead, letting out little complaints every now and then as the pain rages on, unabated. He drops his stack of pillows in Dad's lap and lies down on top of him, feeling clingy. He doesn't care if he's nineteen and should be able to be a grown-up about this. Right now he's feeling terrible and needs someone nearby.

"The pain medicine should start working soon," Dad promises, stroking his hair, not minding Matthew's neediness, "and Papa will be back from the store any minute."

"Okay…"

"Is the pain getting any better?"

"A little."

Dad continues petting his head, and as the storyline of the movie progresses, Matthew finds himself getting sleepier and more dazed. Within half an hour, he's so exhausted his eyelids are drooping against his will, and then, without his consent, he nods off.


"My poor cher. I'll get to work on some soup for him. Four teeth at once! That's enough to tire anyone out!"

"He's going to feel strange from the pain medication, so we need to keep an eye on him."

Matthew's eyes flutter open, and he's greeted by the sight of the dimly lit living room. The television is quietly buzzing away in the background, and he's still on the couch, except someone has put a blanket over him and readjusted his pillows. The pain from before is gone, and he's actually feeling a lot better already. Who would've thought getting one's wisdom teeth removed could be so easy? Why was he so worried about it in the first place? He's feeling totally fine aside from some swelling and a bad taste in his mouth.

He swings his legs over the side of the couch and tries to stand. The key verb here is "try."

As soon as he's up, the world tilts sharply and violently to the right, and he has to grab the arm of the couch to keep from toppling over.

Oh, wow. Okay, so maybe he's not totally fine after all. He's standing still, and yet it feels like he's on a boat that's rocking back and forth in the middle of the ocean. His vision is swimming, and everything is a little softer around the edges, almost like he's dreaming. He continues bracing himself against the couch and manages to shuffle over to the doorway of the kitchen.

His appearance startles both Dad and Papa thoroughly. Papa stops unpacking the groceries to gawk at him, and Dad sweeps right on over to wrap an arm around his waist and steady him.

"You shouldn't be up, love. You need to rest," Dad explains calmly, gently guiding Matthew back into the living room. "The medicine is going to make you very dizzy."

"I feel drunk," Matthew mumbles, and he hears both Dad and Papa exchange a quiet laugh.

"And how would you know what that feels like?" Dad asks teasingly before sitting Matthew down on the couch again. "If you need to get up to use the bathroom, Papa or I will help you walk, okay? At least we know the pain medication is working."

His head stops spinning as soon as he's at rest once more. "How long do I have to stay lying down for?" he murmurs, voice sounding muffled from all of the swelling.

"At least until tomorrow. Longer if you end up needing another dose of painkillers."

"Okay… I feel like laughing, even though this isn't funny," Matthew says with a slack smile. The world is so snuggly, and all he wants to do is cuddle everything in sight, immaculately content. For some reason, his body decides it's going to stand up again, and he sways slightly, leaning dangerously forward.

Fortunately, Dad catches him and Papa arrives to offer double the assistance. Together, they lower him onto the couch and successfully manage to get him to lie down properly. Matthew doesn't put up a struggle, but his legs are antsy and want to move.

"Shut your eyes and try to go back to sleep, poppet."

"Listen to your father, Mathieu. You need your rest. We'll be right here to take care of you when you wake up," Papa murmurs warmly, brushing his bangs aside. "You'll feel better soon."

His parents' words are like honey, sweet and pulling him down into a sugar-coated dream-like state. He lets out a happy sigh and feels a fuzzy blanket being tucked around him, sinking against the lovely softness. He's completely and utterly wonderful. Never been better. Everything is warm, bright, and perfect. So perfect.

"That's some strong pain medication, isn't it?" he hears Papa say distantly.

"Yes, but I'll downgrade him to ibuprofen tomorrow. The first day is the worst. He won't have to be as heavily medicated soon."

"He's so cute. I should take a picture."

"No, don't embarrass him."

"It'll just be between us, Arthur. He won't have to know."

"I want no part in this."

"My poor, little chou. When did he grow up to be a young man? He's supposed to stay with his papa forever."

"And you have the nerve to call me a mother hen."

"I'm going to stay here with him for a while, in case he needs something."

"You're smothering him."

"How can I not when he's like this?"

"You're impossible. I'll be upstairs. Call me if I'm needed."

And then, Matthew slips into another nap, still smiling against his will.