Author's Note: This story was requested by saraalmezel on Tumblr, and I should have written it a long time ago. I'm sorry for being behind schedule. Expect this to be a three-shot. I hope you guys enjoy it and remember to leave a review if you can, so you can let me know what you think!

Today, Arthur Kirkland will be within an arm's length of Death.

He will get dressed for work, put on his blue jacket and silver badge, straighten his cuffs and his collar, kiss his husband goodbye, get into a patrol car, get called to the scene of an apparent natural gas leak at an apartment complex, stand beside another officer and a truck full of firefighters, and witness the searing light show of an explosion that will knock him to the ground several feet away. The orange-glow of flames will wash over him in a blur, and his skull will connect with the concrete of the curb behind him.

And he will think of his children. Oblivious to the pains and burns all over his body, he will see Alfred and Matthew at the forefront of his mind—will have the sudden urge to sob at how big they've gotten. He will remember the terrible argument he'd had with Alfred last night—the knocked over chairs and empty words and how Francis stood in between them. Dear God, that boy's breaking him.

As a pre-med dropout saddled with over forty thousand dollars in student loan debt, the only thing the young man's got going for him is the somewhat reasonable pay he gets from his job working at the fitness gym downtown. When he'd first made the decision to leave school, Arthur had been angry, to say the least. How could he throw away his future like this? He could've been a great physician making great money, but no, a third of the way through his second term, Alfred decided medical school was not the road he wanted to pursue.

Of course, Arthur and Francis had allowed him to come back and live with them in a heartbeat—there's always a place for the boys here, no matter the circumstances. They're more than happy to let Alfred stay with them as long as he needs to, and when he chose to take the semester off to re-evaluate his dreams, Arthur had tried to be as understanding and accommodating as possible, but now one semester has turned into two, and Alfred has gotten involved with some girl neither Arthur nor Francis approve of, and she's pulling Alfred even further away from potentially going back to his studies.

So while Matthew has diligently been working toward getting his degree in early childhood education out in a university in Toronto, Alfred has been causing nothing but trouble in the suburbs of Pennsylvania, accomplishing a whole lot of nothing with no intentions of making any changes. Arthur thought he'd finished raising teenagers, but apparently, his almost twenty-year-old son is stuck acting like he's sixteen.

And Arthur lies there on the asphalt of the smoldering road, limp and semi-conscious as he recalls all of this with growing frustration, thinking he might leave this goddamned earth without ensuring that both of his children will manage without him. Alfred still needs a firm hand to discipline him, so he can't just curl up and die now, can he? He didn't rear the boy for over nineteen years just to watch him transform into an eternal couch potato. No, absolutely not.

He feels blood trickle down his temple but can't reach up a hand to swipe it away. Mouthfuls of black smoke fill his lungs, scorching them, and someone drags him a few meters by gripping his legs—his wounded legs.

"It's gonna be okay, officer… Gonna be okay."

Arthur groans and coughs until it feels like he's going to break a rib, and someone presses an oxygen mask over his nose and lips, filling his chest with gloriously sweet and clean air. He had planned to retire from the force in a few years, and now it seems like that moment might grace him sooner rather than later.

"Deep breaths…"

He cracks open his eyes, only to be met with more darkness, and that's when he realizes he can't see. He can't see. He's blind.

He gasps for more air and panics, thrashing slightly. His heart rate soars, and he pushes back against what he assumes are the prying hands of a paramedic.

"Whoa, whoa! Easy now! Hold still!" the paramedic shouts, and Arthur feels his jacket being fiddled with. "Arthur," the paramedic sighs out his name, reading it off his badge. "Arthur, I need you to stay calm for me. You're gonna get the help you need. Just relax."

Arthur's arm seizes up as it's sterilized with an alcohol pad and a needle presses itself deep into his muscles—heavenly painkillers. He'd better not die, or he swears he'll be rolling in his grave for the rest of the century.

"There you go. Feeling better? Hang on and try to stay awake."

He shudders, body writhing on a stretcher. He can't see. He can't see.

"I'm going to check your eyes now. Don't move."

Gloved fingers pull down each of his lower lids in turn, and he waits to see an image—for something to materialize in front of him, but nothing does.

"All right, Arthur, you're doing great. Keep it up," the paramedic says reassuringly, gently wiping a cool cloth over his forehead and around his eyes. "Just cleaning you up a bit… Your heart rate's going up again. You're going into shock. Take some more deep breaths and try to relax."

Arthur rasps through the oxygen mask, "M-My family."

"We'll contact your family for you, and you'll get to see them soon," the paramedic insists softly, and the stretcher shakes slightly as the ambulance makes a sharp turn. "Almost at the hospital… Stay awake, Arthur. Can you still hear me?"

No. The darkness eats him up, and by the time his ears can register sound again, he's already in the burns unit, getting doused in lidocaine and cooling gels. Hot… His skin must be on fire. He blinks against the darkness and still nothing.

"Suspected retinal detachment in both eyes and vitreous hemorrhaging," someone says, towering over him. "Give him more morphine and get a surgeon down here."

"My family," he moans again as a soft bandage gets wrapped around his abdomen.

"It's okay," another person responds, patting his shoulder.

A gloved hand touches his eyes again, except this time, the pain is excruciating, and he screams, breaking out into a clammy sweat until falling unconscious.

"Oh, Arthur. Arthur, mon amour. It's okay. You're safe."

He knows that voice—has loved it for over twenty-five years. "F-Francis."

"I'm right here, cher."

"Francis, I can't see," he groans for what feels like the hundredth time, smacking his dry lips.

"I know, Arthur. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, mon coeur. It's all right. You're going to be all right."

A plastic cup of water is held up to his mouth, and he takes a greedy drink from it, flinching at how sandpaper-like his throat is when he swallows. He reaches up a hand to touch his face, feels the IV in his arm…

"Don't touch it, darling. It needs time to heal."

"H-How bad?"

"A broken arm, burns on your legs and abdomen, and..." Francis trails off, unable to finish without revealing the thick emotion in his tone.

"Have my eyes been burned?"

"Yes, somewhat, but they were also hit with debris. You were suffering from a small concussion earlier, but that was a few days ago."

Arthur feels his heart stutter and his stomach drop. "A few days ago? How long have I been here?"

"Four days. You've been mostly delirious and sedated from the pain medication. The burns are beginning to look a little better."

Arthur covers his mouth with one hand and feels an urgent need to throw up. Thankfully, Francis holds something up to his chin as he vomits, stopping him from being sick on himself.

"Shh, shh," Francis soothes when it's over, cleaning his face with tissues. "It's okay. The doctor said you might feel a little uneasy after rousing."

"A little?"

Francis pecks a kiss to his temple and says weakly, "I've been worried sick about you, as have the boys. Alfred was here a few hours ago, but he had to leave for work. Matthew will be flying in at the end of the week to visit."

Arthur clutches a handful of his bedsheets in a fist and betrays some of his feelings of fear as he asks, "Is it permanent? The blindness?"

Francis takes a moment to respond. "It's hard to say until your eyes begin to heal. We'll have to wait for an answer. The doctor said you'll be meeting with an ophthalmologist over the next few weeks, and they should be able to give us a better idea of what to expect. You underwent surgery because there was damage to your retinas, but we don't know how much of your vision was saved. Right now, you need to rest and take it slow. You've been through a lot of physical stress."

Arthur raises his hands to his eyes again, and this time, Francis doesn't stop him. He thinks he can feel himself crying, but he can't be sure because of the bandages covering his eyes. His tears are absorbed by the bandages, but a few of them manage to slip past and roll down his cheeks.

Instantly, as if by magnetic pull, Francis rises and embraces him, minding his injuries. His husband buries his face in his hair and mumbles sweet nothings and apologies to him over and over again, wishing he could magically absolve him of the pain somehow. "I love you… We'll get through this. It's going to be okay. What matters is that you're alive and here," he emphasizes, pressing kiss after kiss to Arthur's head.

"I-It was all a stupid accident," Arthur manages to choke out against Francis's shoulder. "A damned gas leak… What happened to the others?"

Francis tenses and mumbles, "Don't worry about that for now. Let's focus on making you better, mon cher."

"I want to know, Francis."

"The other officer that was with you is in critical condition at the moment… It doesn't look promising," Francis finally reveals, holding Arthur a little more tightly. "I'm sorry…"

They stay in each other's arms for a good while, and when the nurse steps in to take Arthur's vitals, she retreats and says she'll be back in a few minutes, giving them some temporary peace.

"I'm glad it was me… I'm glad it happened to me instead of you. If you had been working today instead—I don't think I could've lived with myself," Arthur mumbles tiredly, curling his fingers around Francis's middle.

Francis clicks his tongue at him and murmurs, "Don't say that. We're both police officers. We do this despite the risks involved. It's our duty."

Arthur doesn't respond and simply lets himself drowsily fall back into a fitful doze with Francis running a hand through his hair. He can't see… He may never be able to see again.

The full impact of this revelation hasn't completely hit him yet. He's too fatigued to really understand the implications, which he supposes is a good thing for now. He slumps against Francis's arms, feels himself being lowered back to his pillows, and sighs.

"Sleep, Arthur… You need it."

Going home has never been this hard.

He's given a walking stick before leaving the hospital to help him get around. The only problem is he's not sure how to use it effectively and has to rely on Francis to guide him along the hallways anyway. It doesn't help that his left arm is in a sling, rendering every accidental bump and jostle painful.

Francis drives them home, helps him maneuver his way from the garage to the front door, and directs him inside. Stubbornly, Arthur hopes to retain some of his integrity by attempting to take off his coat on his own, except he fails in this endeavor as well and succeeds only in agitating his already fractured arm. In the end, Francis helps him out of the blasted sleeves of the coat and eases off his shoes, scolding him for pushing himself.

Immediately after the lecture, clobbering footsteps approach, and Arthur wishes lightning would strike him then and there because he really doesn't want anyone to see him in this state, even if it is just Alfred.

He's not sure what to say to the boy, especially since they haven't been on the best of terms lately, and he ends up standing there awkwardly, bandages blessedly concealing any betrayal of emotion in his expression.

Nothing happens for a few, long seconds. It's just silence, until finally, Alfred steps forward and carefully hugs him, winding his arms around his shoulders.

"Hey, there, old man," the boy jokes brokenly. "It's good to see you're on your feet again. Papa and I were worried."

Arthur nods and bites his lip, thinking of things to say but still failing. He returns the hug as best as he can with one arm and clears his throat, feeling a little silly for reasons he can't explain.

"I'll bring him up to bed, Papa. I know you have some errands to take care of."

Francis hums in agreement. "Oui, that would help. Thank you. Oh, and I could use some help changing the bandages later, Alfred, before he falls asleep."

Arthur frowns and adds, "I'm right here you know. Just because I've lost my vision doesn't mean I can't handle my own affairs or that I can't hear all of your fussing. The visually impaired can be quite self-sufficient, and I'd appreciate a little more independence from you both."

Francis scoffs. "While that may be true, not everyone who is blind also has a broken arm and numerous second-degree burns across their body. Not to mention you're still recovering from what was considered major trauma, so it's in your interest to let us take care of your health for now."

The sodding Frenchman is too adept at countering his arguments—a side effect of their marriage.

Not granting him the opportunity to keep bickering, Alfred grips his uninjured arm and begins the arduous process of guiding him up the stairs, slowing down when Arthur stumbles midway and needs a second to brace himself on the adjacent wall.

"Baby steps. Where are you in such a rush to get to?" Alfred teases, and Arthur can hear the strained grin he's probably wearing. "You okay?"

"Fine," Arthur snarls, swearing loudly when he accidentally misjudges the width of the staircase and smacks his broken arm against the banister.

"Careful, Dad. You're already injured enough."

He scales the final stair. Good God, everything hurts. His legs and abdomen are stinging and itching from the healing burns, his arms feels as though it's been crushed by steel, and his eyes are definitely swollen, bruised, and scorched. "I need to sit," he pants.

Alfred carries the brunt of his weight and encourages him to keep walking down the hall and into the bedroom. "Almost there, you're about to cross the threshold—take a big step over it… That's it. Lower yourself onto the bed slowly. You won't fall. I've got you."

He safely finds the bed and perches himself on the edge, not accustomed to figuring out depth without the help of his eyes. "I can take it from here."

"Don't be stubborn. Let me help you change into something comfortable, and then we'll get to work on your bandages."

"I'm fine, Alfred."

"No, you're not."

"Please, I just need some space at the moment. Everyone has been crowding around me, and I can't stand it."

Alfred sighs and begins to argue, but he gives up soon after, and Arthur supposes it's due to either pity, sympathy, or both. "All right," he concedes. "How about I help you change, and then I promise to leave you alone for a while?"

"All right."

Alfred sorts through the clothes in the dresser, returns to Arthur's side, and starts tugging his shirt off, carefully pulling it over his head. It's not an easy task, considering he has to first remove Arthur's broken arm from its sling, and then ease the appendage through the sleeve. He apologizes when the fabric gets snagged a few times and has to be untangled.

He would have made a good doctor, truly.

Arthur sits there resignedly and waits for it to be over, head drooped and shoulders hunched. He's reverted back into being as helpless as a child—can't do a damned thing for himself after all. As much as he wants to parade around and proclaim he's able to take care of himself, he's coming to terms with the reality that he's going to be relying on the assistance of others for the foreseeable future. Even when he was a young boy, he would seldom ask for help. He had to assert his self-reliance at all times. It was the only way to survive in a household where he was always the youngest of four.

"Do you want to know what I did when I first found out you were in the hospital?" Alfred suddenly asks, interrupting his sulking.

"Hmm?"

"I felt guilty for fighting with you the other night… I wasn't sure if you knew how much I appreciate everything you and Papa have been doing for me, even though I suck at showing it sometimes. Everything that's been going on has nothing to do with you. I'm just at war with my own head right now," Alfred says with a feather-light chuckle, standing Arthur up for a moment to help him into some flannel pajama pants.

Something in Arthur's chest swells, and he sighs as Alfred helps him sit back down again.

"I worry about you, Alfred," he says at last, lying back and leaning into his pillows.

"I know," Alfred whispers before making his way to the door. "I'll be back with Papa in a bit. Those bandages still need changing."

Arthur gives a small nod and pulls the covers over himself, feeling chilled. "Alfred... You should know that, contrary to what you may have thought in the past, I only want you to be happy."

"I can't believe you just said that to me," Alfred abruptly snaps back, sounding genuinely angry and insulted. "Why don't you stop thinking about everyone else, and worry about yourself for a change? You're blind, Dad, and you're still thinking about whether or not I'm the one who's happy?"

"I'm—"

"Just shut up. No, I'm not happy, Dad, but you shouldn't be the one to have to fix that." Alfred huffs, but his anger isn't mean-spirited. It's more like exasperation riddled with a hint of concern. "Get some rest."

He leaves, and Arthur is finally free to appreciate the solitude he'd claimed to have wanted, but for some reason, everything feels lonely and secluded. Lying alone in bed with nothing but darkness all around and complete silence aside from a thud or the sound of shuffling feet downstairs makes him feel worse. He realizes that without anyone by his side, he's defenseless. He probably couldn't even get up right now to go to the bathroom on his own. He'd trip and likely knock out all of his teeth or fracture another brittle bone in his body.

"Francis," he calls forlornly into the black void ahead of him. "Francis..."

He doesn't think anyone hears him, until the bedroom door creaks open and the cold isolation is shattered. He swallows hard and reaches out an arm to touch Francis, yearning to feel his skin against his—to tell him he's here. He's here, and he's not going to leave him alone in this endless darkness.

"Yes, mon amour? Did you need something?"

A little embarrassed to have disturbed his husband without a plausible excuse, Arthur sniffs and tries to come up with something off the top of his head. "Could you bring me some water, if it wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"Of course, cher. Give me one minute okay? I'll be right back."

"Wait!"

"Yes?"

"Never mind..."

He can feel Francis's eyes on him. "I'll only be gone for a moment. Do not worry."

It is hard to judge how much time passes without visual cues. A minute feels like ten, and an hour may as well be half the day. He discovers this as he falls victim to a brief nap, only to wake up to two pairs of hands removing the gauze from each of his eyes. A chorus of hisses fill the room as Francis and Alfred assess the damage, and when Arthur weakly asks how severe it is, they shush him and tell him it'll all be just fine—that recovery takes time along with a bunch of other platitudes that don't do much to calm him.

"I'm going to put this ointment the doctor prescribed you on your eyes now. I'll try to be gentle," Francis warns him before gliding his hands over the sensitive area, spreading the gooey cream liberally. It tingles at first, and then it reawakens the ferocity of the burns.

"Try to hold still, Dad."

Arthur jerks a couple of times throughout the application, but he does his best to be cooperative. Eventually, fresh gauze and bandages are placed over his eyes, and he's left to rest again. His fear of being abandoned in the room again ignites once more, but he doesn't have the courage to ask someone to stay with him. He lies completely still, sick with anxiety at what comes next—at whether or not he'll ever be able to achieve some sense of normalcy in his life again.

He doesn't venture out of the room for the remainder of the day. The clock on the nightstand tick-tocks away, and he can't bring himself to do anything. His world has stopped while everyone else's keeps going about its way.

"How are you doing, cherie? Would you like your dinner in bed?" Francis asks when he comes up to check on him, clearly worried that Arthur hasn't committed even a single act of resistance to try and return to his daily activities, something that's generally been customary when he's been under the weather in the past.

"Not hungry…"

"You need to eat to recover," Francis murmurs, taking a seat next to him on the bed before rubbing his back in a brisk, up-and-down motion. "The doctor didn't say you have to be bedridden. You can come downstairs and eat with the Alfred and me."

One-worded responses are all he can muster the strength for at the moment. "Tired…"

"I know, but it'll ease all of our nerves if you come downstairs. You can't stay cooped up in this room forever. You can go right back to bed after dinner, if you'd like."

"I can't…"

"Why not?"

Because he can't feed himself, that's why. With only one usable arm at his disposal and zero vision, there's no conceivable way he'll be able to use a knife and fork to successfully eat a meal. He won't even be able to see his plate, and even if he does eventually adjust, there's going to be a window of trial-and-error in which he'll definitely end up making a mess and dropping food on himself or the floor.

"I told you, I'm not hungry," Arthur lies.

"So you're just going to sit here and mope?"

"Yes."

"Arthur," Francis sighs, carding a hand through his hair. "I know this isn't easy, and I can't imagine what you must be feeling right now. I know this is hard… It's going to be hard for all of us, but I have faith that we'll get through this. We just need to push onward."

He's crying again. It's so pathetic.

Francis tuts and pulls him close, pushing his forehead to rest against the gap between his neck and his chest. "It's okay to be upset."

"I'm sorry."

"Shh, don't be… Alfred and I are here for you, and Matthew will soon join us. You don't have to cope with this alone, so please come downstairs, okay?"

Arthur nods, sinking against the soft touch of Francis's hand on the back of his head. "Okay."

Francis leads him away from the bed, down to the base of the steps, and over to the kitchen, where Alfred is already sitting, waiting for them.

Arthur hears the clank of a glass plate being set in front of him with steaming food on it after he's seated. He bites his lip and feels around for a fork, trying to be discreet about it, but failing when he ends up finding his mashed potatoes instead and dirties the tips of his fingers. He just barely manages to keep from swearing.

From his left, Alfred pats his shoulder and cleans his hand off with a napkin. "Need some help?"

Arthur stares down in the general direction of his plate and glares. His better judgment tells him to utter a simple yes, but his mouth doesn't comply.

"Here," Alfred murmurs, moving around some silverware before pressing a forkful of potatoes to Arthur's lips. "Open up."

"I don't need you to feed—mmphh!" Arthur growls, nearly choking when the potatoes are roughly shoved into his mouth. He obediently chews and swallows, coughing when he's done. Why did he decide to adopt children all those years ago? They were supposed to take care of him in his old age, but it's a little too soon for that. If this is what he can expect when he's ancient and can't take care of his own bodily necessities, he's not looking forward to it. End it now.

"Good job," Alfred says playfully, and for a split second, Arthur considers stabbing him with the fork, but he quickly casts the thought aside because he really is quite famished, and apparently, it's not socially acceptable to stab your own child with kitchen utensils. "Yummy, right? Here, have some more."

"Alfred," Arthur finds himself growling as more food gets shoveled into his mouth against his will.

"Here comes the train, Dad."

From across the table, Francis has the nerve to laugh—traitor.

"All right, all right," Alfred consoles, suppressing his bout of snickers. "I won't tease you anymore. You really should finish the rest of this though."

So, Alfred and Francis alternate between making sure his dinner actually ends up in his digestive tract and not all over his face, and Arthur doesn't have the option to protest. If he complains, he'll have to go to bed hungry, and while that might seem like a small price to pay to maintain his dignity, he knows that if he chooses to fight this battle now, he'll just have to repeat it in the morning when it's time for breakfast. Better to get used to this unfortunate eating routine now.

He gets through most of his plate, and then, he rises from his chair and does his best to carry his dishes over to the sink. Surprisingly enough, he handles that small task wonderfully. The plate, indeed, ends up in the sink. However, he also manages to knock over a glass that's sitting innocently on the counter, and it shatters, startling everyone.

"Bloody—!" he hisses through gritted teeth, good hand turning into a fist at his side. He can't live like this. It's impossible. He's going to go mad.

Francis swiftly grabs him by the elbow and steers him away from the wreckage. "You could've just left everything on the table. I don't expect you to be doing any chores," he chides while checking to make sure Arthur hasn't cut himself on any of the glass.

He's shaking with frustration, and Francis can tell. He's never taken well to being told he can't do something.

"Why don't you go back to the bedroom, cherie? I'll join you in a minute. Take your father upstairs, Alfred. He's being difficult."

"Difficult?" Arthur fumes.

"How about I take him out on the porch, instead? Some fresh air might help," Alfred suggests, escorting a grumbling Arthur to the front door.

And the boy's right, it does help. The cool breeze outside calms him, and he leans himself against the railings of the porch, miraculously managing not to hurt himself in the process.

"You know, I wish I had actually gone to med school, maybe then I'd be of some help," Alfred sighs after a moment, straightening out the strap of Arthur's sling, which has apparently been slipping off his shoulder. "You okay? Do you need to sit down?"

Arthur shakes his head. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Hey, Dad? Did… Did you always know you wanted to be a cop?"

He'd expected Alfred to ask him this question eventually, and it's good that he's asking him this now. It takes his mind off of everything else. "No. Once upon a time, I fancied the idea of studying philosophy."

Alfred lets out a breath of laughter. "A philosopher? That's a pretty big jump. Why'd you change your mind?"

"Philosophy doesn't pay the bills, nor does it put bread on the table."

"But what if it made you happy?"

"It's important to be happy, but it's also important to be practical," Arthur replies, smoothing a hand over his bandages. "Besides, philosophers are too high-class for me. I'm too old for posh formalities and idealistic discourse. Speaking of philosophers, I wonder how Matthew is doing."

Alfred hovers close by and says, "I'm sure he's fine. He's the type of person that always has his life together. He's going to freak when he sees you, though. If you think Papa and I are smothering you, just wait until Matt gets here... Come on, let's head back in, you're shivering."

Non-24 Sleep Disorder—a confusing set of words that simply means Arthur can forget about sleeping at regular intervals and getting tired when the sun sets. He lies wide awake next to Francis, waiting for his mind to tire, and he suddenly regrets taking all of those naps throughout the day. He's facing the consequences now.

He tries to stay very still because Francis has work tomorrow—a twelve-hour shift—and he really doesn't want to be the cause of him not getting any rest either. He can't even check the time to know exactly how late into the night it is.

But Francis's intuition strikes again, and he fitfully tosses and turns in bed for a moment, as though something isn't sitting well with him, and he knows there's trouble nearby. Perhaps it's a sixth sense all law enforcement officials have.

"Arthur? Are you awake?"

"Yes."

"Can't sleep?"

"Don't worry," Arthur reassures, lying flat on his back. He'd tried resting on his side, but the burns on his legs didn't appreciate the position.

Francis isn't so easily convinced. He rolls over, presses his lips against Arthur's forehead, and murmurs, "If you can't sleep, I won't be able to sleep either."

"Who's being difficult now?"

He can feel a smile stretch across Francis's face, skin pulling outward. "I'm not being difficult. It's just part of being in love."

"Mm, how sentimental of you."

"Can't you see how madly in love I am with you?"

"It may have slipped your notice, but I can't see anything."

"Stubborn man, you don't need eyes to see love," Francis mutters cheerfully, taking Arthur's hand and placing it over his own chest, right above his heart. "Don't you see it? The jumping sparks, the rays of warmth, the flow of affection—all proof of loving someone. It's as clear as day, Arthur."

"I don't see anything," Arthur harrumphs dismissively.

"You're not looking hard enough, mon cher. Look closer."

"First I lose my vision, and now you're having delusions, lovely. What a match we are. Jolly good."

Francis gives up and tsks. "I hope you're not this sour in the morning."

"Anything's possible."

"Oh, Alfred's going to have a fun time with you, I can already tell. Dieu, bless that boy."

But Arthur doesn't believe in blessings and gods. He hardly believes in himself.