Author's Note: This story was requested by peppermenttea on Tumblr. If you'd like to submit a request, you can reach me through my blog, MandeleneFics!
San Diego, California, 1970-1975
Alfred is not like other children.
Francis and Arthur begin to notice this very early on, less than a year after they adopt their wriggling, four-month-old twin boys. Well, technically speaking, Arthur adopts the twins, and Francis has to remain invisible in front of the law because the law is complicated, and love isn't love unless a court can tell you it is, apparently. A boy can't have two fathers, but Francis is still there, possessing all of the qualities of a father but without the paperwork saying he is.
None of it makes any sense, but sometimes, it's best to accept the nonsensical things as they are.
"Alfred! Alfred! There's my sweet cher."
It begins with little oddities, like how Alfred doesn't respond to his name as quickly as his brother, Matthew, does, or how he cries often and loudly. At first, they accept this as a mere difference in personality. All the boy needs is more time to adjust to his new surroundings—to his new family. God knows the turmoil the poor thing has been through.
But soon after, he starts a habit of forming intense attachments to certain toys. Playing with him is near impossible because he always seems to be in his own world, choosing to keep to himself. One time, Francis takes the boy's bunny away and tries to give him a new stuffed animal to try out instead, but Alfred immediately howls bloody murder. So much for throwing the ratty thing into the laundry machine, let alone the garbage.
"Alfred, look at Daddy. Hey, there…"
But he won't look. He never looks.
Arthur decides to bring up the strange behavior at the boys' next check-up at the doctor's. At the time, the boys are slightly over a year old, and Matthew is given the usual, clean bill of health before being set back into his stroller so the doctor can take a look at Alfred.
Even examining the child is a nightmare. He wails as soon as he's touched, and he flails and flaps around tirelessly, refusing to hold still.
"It's all right, Alfred. Shh, the doctor is just trying to help," Arthur coos, but it doesn't calm him. Fortunately, he has the boy's favorite bunny with him, and as soon as he hands it to him, his whimpers quiet, and he's too distracted to care what's being done to him.
In the end, the doctor explains that some children are merely more inhibited than others, and that with time and patience, Alfred will be just fine.
Arthur, however, isn't so easily swayed. He decides to get a second-opinion from a specialist in early-childhood development, and that's when he finally gets some answers.
The specialist only has to observe Alfred's behavior for a single minute to give a diagnosis.
Autism, an illness without a concrete definition. It's different for everyone, it's unclear what the exact causes are, and there's no reliable treatment.
"Incurable?" Francis asks later that night, pale and hysterical. "Then we just have to watch as it gets worse?"
"There's behavioral therapy, but it only prevents the onset of more severe symptoms," Arthur explains as the boys crawl around their playpen. Matthew is babbling happily away, already beginning to form basic syllables while Alfred remains completely silent and keeps his gaze secured down on his bunny, an unreadable expression on his face. "I'll schedule an appointment."
Every attempt they make at helping the toddler manages to somehow backfire. The sessions are exhausting for Alfred, and often leave him more frustrated than when he came in. He rarely smiles, never giggles, won't look up regardless of how many times one tries to engage with him, and overall, seems unhappy and, frankly, miserable. It becomes increasingly clear that Alfred is in no way, shape, or form the same boy Matthew is.
The boys reach their third birthday, and still, Alfred is unable to utter a single, coherent word. He can't follow instructions and throws violent fits that aren't remotely considered healthy or expected. No, his tantrums aren't the same as Matthew's. Matthew will cry and fuss over not being able to have a cookie from the cookie jar. Alfred will fuss and cry over seemingly nothing.
Further problems arise when the staff at the daycare is at a loss for what to do as well. Alfred won't share with the other children, tucks himself away in his own corner, and can't be coaxed into interacting, even though he attends weekly therapy sessions.
Ultimately, Francis and Arthur are left with no choice but to remove Alfred from daycare, especially once the other children begin commenting on his behavior. And when they enroll Matthew into pre-school the following year, they must come to terms with the fact that Alfred will not be joining him because there's no conceivable way the boy will be able to sit through a six hour school day for five days a week, especially not when his teacher will be busy tending to twenty or more other students.
"He's suffering, Arthur."
"You think I can't tell?"
Alfred needs round-the-clock care, and so, Arthur quits his job as a copy-editor at the local publishing company. Someone needs to be home 24/7, and Francis's career in design pays better and should be enough to keep them going.
In the mornings, Arthur gets the boys into the car and drops Matthew off at school, and then he returns home with Alfred, where he makes feeble attempts at homeschooling him. It all sounds lovely and coordinated in theory, but half of the time, Arthur has no clue what he's doing, and he's afraid he's somehow doing more harm than good.
That said, being around Alfred constantly allows him to pick up on his body language and learn how to more effectively communicate with him. He quickly realizes Alfred responds better to visual demonstrations of actions rather than verbal commands, and so, he starts with simple things to keep Alfred's mind stimulated, like coloring.
Patience is key. Alfred is quite capable of doing things on his own once he's been shown how to complete a task a few times. He even begins sounding out words. Most of them are made up, but it's welcome progress, and Arthur is relieved to finally hear his child's voice without sobs or screams getting in the way.
Despite this, they still have their fair share of bad days. Very bad days.
Like when Alfred knocks over his sippy cup and gets apple juice all over the kitchen table. Arthur makes quick work of cleaning it up, but something triggers one of Alfred's infamous tantrums, and soon, he's banging a fist on the table and shouting meaningless words, causing a big racket.
And Arthur, who has already dealt with four prior tantrums in the span of just two days, lets his patience wear thin. He grabs the boy's arms to still him, but that just makes Alfred fight even harder, and, god damn it, if the boy would just tell him what's wrong, he'd be able to fix it.
But Alfred can't tell him, and it's not his fault. Even so, it's all very exhausting for the both of them.
The boy thrashes in his grip and lands a few kicks to Arthur's waist, but Arthur's more concerned that Alfred will injure himself.
"Alfred, please. Stop it! What's wrong? Look at me!"
The more he yells, the more Alfred cries, and it kills him to know his child is in pain—that he's trapped somewhere in his own mind—and there's nothing he can do to get through to him.
He lowers his voice, releases Alfred's arms, and buries his face in his hands, overwhelmed. Is this how it's always going to be? Is every day going to be a constant battle from now on? Alfred's hurting. Hurting more and more by the hour.
The tantrum ceases as suddenly as it starts, and everything is quiet again aside from the soft music coming from the kitchen radio.
He's a horrible father. The absolute worst.
"Ob-la… Ob-la-di," Alfred chirps.
Arthur rubs his face as he leans against the counter and blinks at his son, intrigued. "What was that, my boy?"
"Ob-la-da… Ob-la-di."
For a moment, he thinks the child is just babbling to himself again, but then the song on the radio increases its tempo, and Arthur finally realizes that the boy isn't babbling after all. He's singing. Singing to The Beatles. He's mimicking the radio.
"That's right, Alfred," Arthur says, heart soaring with realization. "Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on…"
Alfred claps his hands, suddenly overjoyed that Arthur is singing along with him. "Ob-la-di!"
"You know, I'd never imagined you to be a fan of the Beatles," Arthur jokes, and it's such a simple thing—a little fragment of a song—but he feels closer to Alfred than he has in months. They have finally stumbled upon a shared understanding of something.
They're communicating, no matter how briefly.
"Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on," Arthur repeats again, and Alfred shakes with bubbly giggles, smiling from ear to ear.
Arthur would give anything to keep that smile on his face. This is his son. His beautiful, laughing son, and he is perfect.
He isn't like other children, but that's okay. He doesn't have to be.
People talk. It's a natural part of life. Arthur has come to terms with this. Francis has not.
On a refreshing autumn day, they take a family trip to the park, and while the boys play on the jungle gym, Francis and Arthur sit themselves on a bench directly across from the twins, grateful for a moment of rest. The sun is out, there's a mild breeze ruffling the leaves on the trees, and the boys are getting along nicely for the meantime.
But there's always something that sends things spiraling downhill.
The hissing whispers of the two families perched on the next bench over is hard to ignore.
"It's unhealthy, that's what it is. Donna, darling, don't let Michael too close. Lord knows what's wrong with that boy," one of the mothers says.
Instantly, Francis's knuckles whiten as he clutches the edge of their bench with splintering strength, and Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard.
"He might be dangerous. He belongs in an asylum," another woman adds.
"But you know why he is the way he is, don't you? Is it any surprise? Look at the parents."
Francis moves to stand, but Arthur yanks him back down.
"Don't cause a scene," Arthur growls. "Leave it."
Francis, red in the face, is already blinded by his sizzling fury. "No one speaks about my child that way."
"He's my child, too, and the last thing we need to do is draw more attention to ourselves," Arthur reasons before directing his focus back to the twins. Unsurprisingly, despite Matthew's efforts to be inclusive, Alfred is now playing in the sandbox all by himself.
Arthur sighs and approaches them both, a practiced, warm smile on his face. "What are you boys up to?"
"I'm going all the way up!" Matthew exclaims as he climbs the rope wall leading to the uppermost part of the jungle gym.
"Watch your step, lad."
"I will!"
"And you, Alfred? What are you doing?"
Alfred doesn't even notice him.
"Daddy! Daddy, look, I'm at the top!" Matthew shouts.
"That's very nice, Matthew," Arthur says absently before crouching down next to the sandbox. "Are you building a castle, Alfred? Would you like some help?"
The boy makes a contented noise, and so, Arthur sits with him and shows him how to use a plastic toy bucket to create a castle.
"I can make a castle, too!" Matthew announces, hopping down to join them. He plops himself into the sandbox and snatches the bucket away just as Alfred is making a grab for it, and within seconds, Alfred bursts into tears.
"Matthew, you have to wait your turn. Alfred was using that. Hand it back to him," Arthur scolds, a little puzzled by how brash Matthew is being today. Normally, he's as bashful as a lamb.
"But he doesn't know how to use it anyway!"
"He's trying to learn."
Thankfully, Francis swoops in to save the day. He lifts a drooling, tear-soaked Alfred into his arms, swings him around in a little aerial dance, and says, "Papa's here. I love you to the moon and back. How does a pretzel sound? Hmm? We'll get one for your father and brother, too, okay? Let's go."
"I want to come, too!" Matthew insists, running after them.
Arthur watches the three of them saunter away, brows furrowed, and when he hears the family from earlier make another snide remark along the lines of "imagine the trauma those boys must be going through," he turns to them and glares.
Matthew's pretty sure Daddy doesn't love him.
It's a reasonable conclusion. They don't talk much anymore, and when they do, Dad's always distracted because Alfred always needs something or is making a fuss. He never seems to have any time, and so, Matthew progressively tries harder and harder to get him to notice him. With Papa always at work and Dad tending to Al, he's often left lower on his parents' list of priorities, and it's not fair.
But he has a plan to make everything better.
It starts with working extra hard to make sure Ms. Elizabeta gives him one of the lead roles in the kindergarten Christmas play. He rehearses his lines over and over again until they flow naturally and roll off of his tongue without him having to think about it. If he does really well, Daddy and Papa will see what an amazing and talented kid he is, and maybe they'll want to spend more time with him.
It takes an entire month of preparation and practice, but December finally arrives, and Matthew's big debut begins. Tonight, he will control the stage. He'll be the greatest five-year-old Santa Claus the world has ever seen.
One thing he isn't ready for, however, is the crippling stage fright he gets at the last minute. While Papa, Dad, and Al take their seats with the other parents, Matthew has to take big breaths in and out to stop the shakes in his hands and the sweat from collecting on the back of his neck. He can't blow this. All eyes are on him.
The curtains are pulled open and the school's darkened auditorium appears. Matthew can see his parents and Al sitting in one of the middle rows, and with renewed determination, he pours his whole heart out into the first act of the performance, even though he feels like he's melting from behind his fake beard and itchy costume.
It's all flawless.
Until Alfred ruins it.
Near the halfway point of the show, his brother starts getting frustrated over something—perhaps it's the loud music or the bright stage-lights—and makes audible noises of complaint that attract the curiosity of those sitting around his family. Dad gently leads Alfred out of the auditorium and disappears through the exit, and now, only Papa is left to cheer him on.
Matthew is so preoccupied with watching the scene unfold that he loses track of what's being said on the stage, and his lines jumble up in his throat and get scrambled. He completely blanks, and his face flushes with embarrassment as his classmates and the parents look at him to speak, prompting him to say something.
Within seconds, he runs backstage, tears running down his face in humiliation as the crowd in the auditorium gasps at his disappearance.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to take a short intermission," he hears Ms. Elizabeta say over the microphone.
He sits on the floor near the storage room and draws his knees up to his chest, sobbing. This was not how things were supposed to go. Once again, it's all Alfred's fault. Why couldn't he just have a normal brother like everyone else?
"Mathieu? What happened out there, mon chou?"
Papa's found him already. He was always good at hide-and-seek.
"Go away," Matthew tells him, hating how rude he sounds but too distraught to try another tone.
"Everyone's waiting for you to finish the show."
"I c-can't, Papa."
"Why not?"
"I just can't."
Papa makes a tutting noise and sits next to him, one hand on his back. "I know that's not true. You've been waiting for this for a long time. No one can play the role of Santa Clause as well as you can."
"You're lying."
"Why would I lie? Come now, we don't want to keep everyone waiting. You can't leave your audience with such a cliffhanger! They need to know whether or not Santa succeeds in saving Christmas for the children of San Diego."
Papa ruffles his hair encouragingly and guides him to where the rest of his class is standing behind the now closed curtains.
Ms. Elizabeta is relieved to see him, and she gives a brief pep-talk of her own before she announces the show must go on.
The lights come back, the music chimes with enthusiasm, and Matthew watches at the curtains come gliding open again.
His eyes immediately flit over to the middle row of seats. Dad and Alfred still aren't back.
He swallows around the rock in his throat and delivers his lines anyway, and on the walk home that night, when Dad apologizes for missing the final act, he'll merely nod his head and pretend as though it didn't matter to him anyway.