Sometimes, A Mix-Up Is A Good Thing

When people usually think of a fight at school, they usually think of high school. Perhaps someone was angry over a breakup, or someone was simply being horribly horribly jealous. Or perhaps, when people think of a fight at school, they think of college, where someone was drinking or smoking or cheating. But it's not typical that a fight breaks out at an elementary school. So when Principal Elizabeta Héderváry-Edelstein heard the telltale shouts, she immediately snapped into action.

She was going to peek into the small after-school care and chat with the supervisor—a Belgian lady the students called Miss Emma—the way she always did before she went was when she heard the commotion. Now, Elizabeta hadn't heard the sounds of bodies slamming into lockers since her high school days, when people had often bullied her friends. Feli and Antonio, for smiling too much. Her boyfriend—now husband—Roderich, for dressing in old-fashioned clothing. Gilbert and Ludwig were often the butt of Nazi jokes because they had German accents. Timo, for being a little pudgy. Eduard, for wearing glasses and having a laptop. Kiku, for being an otaku. The list went on and on and on… So no. Elizabeta did not like bullies. Not one tiny bit.

And now, the bullies were sent home, and she was elated to receive phone calls that their parents would be keeping their kids home for a few days in order to teach them the real effects of what they were doing. Now with that squared away… Wait. And Elizabeta panicked. In all of the chaos, two of the after school care kids had disappeared. Great. These were not going to be easy phone calls to make.

"Alfred?" came a soft voice, hiding in a small corner. "I hurt…"

Little Alfred got upset. "Why? What happened?"

Little Mathieu sniffed. "All the m-m-mean p-people," he squeaked, his tiny voice tripping. He was so scared… "They hurt me b-because… Th-they won't leave me alone because…" And he began to cry softly into his favorite plush polar bear. Now, Alfred was a little too young to understand things like equality or justice, but the fact that someone hurt Mattie did not sit well with him.

"That's not nice!" Alfred exclaimed. "You ought to tell the teacher!"

"NO!" little Mathieu panicked, squeezing his favorite bear to his tiny chest. "Th-they said if I told anyone…"

"So I'll tell the teacher," Alfred declared. "You don't have to say anything at all!"

"N-no!" he squeaked, grabbing onto his sleeve. "Then they'll hurt you too!"

But, in classic Alfred fashion, he didn't listen. "I'm not scared. C'mon, Mattie!" he smiled, grabbing Mathieu's hand. And that was how Mathieu found himself getting dragged down the hallway, where Miss Emma was talking to Principal Héderváry-Edelstein.

Now, Mathieu wouldn't quite remember what happened next in all the chaos that followed. The last he saw of Alfred, he was kicking and screaming as he was pinned against a locker. Mathieu himself was knocked over, and he had dodge all the legs and feet in order to hide in the bathroom. He didn't want to face the bullies, not with his sore ribcage.

All he could do now was sit, wait, and hope that Alfred got out okay.

Alfred… Mathieu could hear the bullies yelling, and he found himself crying all over again.

He was such a coward…

Alfred was scared. (Not that he'd ever admit it. What kind of hero got scared?) He had managed to escape the bullies, but his head and neck hurt from where the bullies had pinned him against the lockers. He hoped that his Dad wouldn't yell at him for getting bruised again. Well, he didn't really yell the way he yelled at their weird-voiced neighbor. It was more like a warning. He had a special tone of voice for whenever Alfred bumped his head, cut his arm, or scraped his knee.

"You really ought to be more careful, Alfred," he'd always say. But Dad was never mad. Not really. But still. Even though Alfred knew he wasn't going to get into trouble, Dad was still upset whenever Alfred was hurt. And Alfred hated it when his Dad was upset, but since Alfred couldn't seem to stop himself from getting hurt… Well, he really was no use in that department, now was he?

"I suck at being a hero," he grumbled, hugging his knees to his chest.

"And why do you say that?" a strange voice asked. Not unkindly, though. But Alfred knew that strange voice. This voice's English was different from Alfred's in the same way that Arthur's was different, but where Arthur simply dropped his "r" sounds or used different words, this voice seemed to say entire words differently.

Alfred didn't know why, but he ended up spill his guts to this man. About the bullies. About how he couldn't even protect Mattie! And that he was crying, and what kind of hero cried?!

And the man found himself comforting the boy. Telling him that heroes cried all the time, and that it was the bad guy that never cried, because bad guys never cared if someone got hurt.

After a while, Alfred finally looked up. The man had a slight beard, the way Arthur's was when he hadn't shaved in awhile, but unlike Arthur, the man's blonde hair was long enough to tie back into a soft blue ribbon like a girl's. And like a girl's, this man's hair was smooth looking and shiny, unlike Arthur's hair, which was messy all the time.

Why was he even comparing them?

But then, Alfred realized something. "You're our neighbor!" he exclaimed, quickly trying to wipe away his tears with his palms.

The man blinked. Clearly, he had not been expecting that response. "My name is Francis," he found himself saying, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and gently wiping the boy's face. "Pardon, but, your neighbor?"

"Your voice," Alfred replied. "You're the one that yells back whenever Dad curses stupid bloody frogs."

Francis blinked. "Your father is the man with huge eyebrows?" A little rude, Francis was aware, but he didn't think this boy would know who he was talking about if he said "that handsome British man that I've been pining after ever since we moved here from Canada."

"Yup, that's my dad!" Alfred beamed with pride. "The eyebrows are weird, yeah, but all my uncles are like that too."

"That's all well and good… Pardon, but what was your name?"

"My name is Alfred F. Jones, and Arthur Kirkland–that's my dad–is my cousin! But he's my dad because I hate my uncles. And my Irish aunt. And since my parents left to travel the world or something like that, Arthur's my dad! Oh he can't cook or anything, but he's the best dad I've ever had!"

Francis blinked. Wow, did this boy talk a lot… But. Arthur Kirkland. Yes. That suited the man with obnoxious eyebrows who ran outside to the garbage cans with burning, charred, ruined meals. Who always was yelling at Francis but was always polite with young pizza delivery boys or the nice ladies from the Chinese food place down the street. Who had a clipped London accent and rescued cats from trees when he thought no one was looking. Who secretly kept a perfect garden with the loveliest roses Francis had ever seen. Arthur Kirkland…

"He doesn't mean to be mean to you, you know," Alfred said suddenly.

Francis looked at him. For some reason, the look on his face said that little Alfred really seemed intent on making sure that Francis knew that Arthur wasn't a bad person. Francis was surprised.

"There's a reason for it!" Alfred insisted. "I hate my uncles because they hate my Dad. They've always hated Dad, and I know that even if Dad never talks about them. My uncles left Dad by himself a lot, so he thinks he has to do everything by himself, even now!"

Francis frowned. Why is he telling me this? And little Alfred just stared up at him… He must be so trusting, Francis mused. Not like his father at all…

"Well then, little Alfred," Francis finally spoke. "Let's show your father that he's not alone after all." Francis stood and offered his hand, and before he knew it, Alfred grabbed his hand and eagerly began pulling him down the hallway.

Little did Francis know that that wouldn't be the last time Alfred would drag him somewhere.

Arthur Kirkland should have been mad. After all, technically, the school had managed to lose his son. But Arthur—thank goodness—was far more rational now than he was in his teen years. He knew that Emma and Elizabeta were more than capable ladies, and besides, knowing Alfred, it was more likely that he got himself lost. Honestly, the boy was incorrigible…

Arthur heard little sniffles from the bathroom. Now, Alfred was not the type to cry, but contrary to popular belief, Arthur wasn't heartless. The poor poppet was crying! No one deserved to be alone when they were crying. He knew that from experience. And so, with careful steps, he entered the bathroom. He saw a little boy in a t-shirt and jeans, and the bruises on his arms alarmed Arthur: they looked precisely like the ones he used to get in his teenage punk days. This little boy had been stepped on. But that wasn't even what set him off. What set him off was how much this poor bruised poppet looked like Alfred.

"Hello there," he said softly. Apparently not softly enough: the poor thing looked so scared. "Why are you crying?" He crouched down so he was at the boy's level, keeping his voice and his movements soft and slow. He was a veterinarian, used to dealing with scared animals. Not that he thought that this poor thing was an animal, but Arthur often found them to be quite similar: animals and children. Both had a tendency to be unpredictable when absolutely terrified, and so they should be a approached slowly and gently.

Little Mathieu was still scared. He buried his face into his favorite bear's head. "My papa said not to talk to strangers," Mathieu replied in French. He knew that such a response tended to throw people off, and he prayed that the man would be so thrown off that he'd just leave…

But this man, as Matthieu would come to find out later, was nothing like anyone else he had ever met. Oh sure, he blinked in surprise, but Mathieu was shocked by this man's answer. "Je m'appelle Arthur Kirkland. Tu t'appelles comment?"

The little boy looked up. "My name is Mathieu," he replied in English, stumbling over the words a bit; he was surprised. "You're the man that Papa calls out to every morning!"

Arthur blinked. There was only one man that called out to him every morning… "Your Papa is that fro–er, that Frenchman that lives next door?"

"Oui, his name is Francis. Francis Bonnefoy," Mathieu replied. "I recognized your voice. Although, it sounds much nicer now."

Arthur inwardly cringed. He was really mean to that frog, wasn't he?

"He really does want to help you, you know," Matthieu continued. "He just wants to be your friend."

A friend. That sounded…nice. But since I don't really have friends, I'll likely treat him badly…he doesn't deserve that…I could never be "just friends" with someone I—

Arthur realized that his ears were probably red at this point, and he prayed that his face wasn't turning that color too. "Speaking or your father," Arthur finally said, clearing his throat. "He's probably worried about you." Arthur stood up, offering the boy his hand.

Mathieu blinked, then looked down at the ground, almost hanging his head in shame. "My leg hurts," he whispered. And Arthur blinked. Because that was exactly how Alfred looked when he didn't want to admit he was scared. So Arthur smiled softly and crouched down once more, easily picking up Matthieu.

Mathieu blinked, especially since Arthur's face was suddenly so close to his own. He hadn't been picked up like this in forever, and yet somehow… It was in that moment that Mathieu knew: he could trust Arthur. After all, didn't Alfred always talk about how his dad was a hero: saving lots of dogs and cats and such?

"Come on," Arthur told Mathieu gently. "Let's go find your Papa."

Little did Arthur know that that wouldn't be the last time he would say that to Mathieu.

Like many little kids his age, Alfred hadn't quite developed a habit of watching where he was going. So it really shouldn't have been a shock that, thanks to his relentless dragging, Francis whipped around a corner and went barreling into a man in a horrid green sweater vest, who was walking slowly and holding a child. And naturally—because it's how fate works—the man was Arthur and the boy was Matthieu. Now, Alfred was still short enough to duck underneath Arthur's legs, but he had let go of Francis and sailed past. This left Francis on a collision course with Arthur.

Fortunately for Mathieu, Arthur had long since learned how to fall when while carrying something precious: mostly from carrying puppies or a cat while some large dog was trying to jump on him. So as he fell, he managed to make sure that Mathieu didn't get hurt in the process. Unfortunately for Francis, however, despite all his years as in ballet and in figure skating as a youth, he somehow managed to fall gracelessly with this bushy-browed Englishman on top of him.

Francis felt a jolt and stared up at the other man. "Oh mon Dieu," he whispered in French. "Look at that beautiful face." And he felt the other man groan in pain a little as he lifted his head to stare back.

"This moment would be perfect right now," Francis continued in French, knowing that even if Mathieu could hear his whispers, he wouldn't understand all of what his Papa was saying. "Except for the fact that you've landed on my testicles."

And Arthur froze, positive that his face was just as red as Francis's. Although, Arthur couldn't quite tell if Francis's face was red out of embarrassment or because he was having trouble breathing. Between the shock of the fall and the slam of Arthur on top of him, Francis must have really gotten the wind knocked out of him.

"S'il vous plaît," Francis squeaked out, still in French. "Get off of me."

That left Arthur to carefully roll off of him, and Francis to roll onto his side in the other direction.

"Oh God," he squeaked when he could breathe again. "My balls…"

Arthur, who was sitting up now, awkwardly cleared his throat. "Everyone alright?" he asked Alfred and Mathieu.

Alfred was helping Mathieu up off the floor. "I'm okay, Dad," he replied. He must have scurried back when he heard everyone falling over.

Arthur had stood up at this point. "You really ought to be more careful, Alfred," he sighed.

Alfred hung his head. "I know," he said, and his head shot up. "And I try! I just—"

"I know, poppet," Arthur interrupted gently. "I know."

"Papa, Papa!" Mathieu scurried to his father. "What happened? Is it like what happened when I hit you with that hockey puck?!"

Francis could only nod, and Arthur could only try and choke back his laughter. I'm definitely going to ask about that later… Arthur stopped. Later?! When was there going to be later?!

"Oh, so you all found each other!" came a cheerful feminine voice.

"Yes Miss Elizabeta," Mathieu and Alfred chimed in perfect unison.

Arthur watched as Elizabeta glanced at him, glanced at Francis—who was finally getting up at this point—and gave a look that was all-too familiar to Arthur.

It was the triumphant look of a matchmaker. Although, his co-worker Kiku's look was far more subtle than Elizabeta's. But it was still the same look Kiku had when Berwald caught Timo's "accidentally escaped" puppy. When Ludwig's dogs "somehow got out" and jumped all over Feli, happily licking the giggling Italian's face. Telling the other, less giggly Italian to "do him a favor" and hold Antonio's turtle. "Accidentally" mixing up Mattias's and Lukas's cats. Leaving bird feed in his cousin's hair so Emil's bird would land on his head. Even somehow making Feliks's pony run to Toris. Kiku was terrifying, really.

"Anyway," Elizabeta said. "I'm going to tell Miss Emma that everything's been taken care of now. Then I'm going home. It is almost dinnertime, after all." And with that—smirk still on her face—Elizabeta whirled around to make her exit, leaving Arthur to swear up and down that Elizabeta winked at him.

Arthur checked his wristwatch. "Blimey, it is almost dinnertime."

"Is it?" Francis grabbed Arthur's wrist to check the time himself. "Mon Dieu, it is!"

Arthur stared at the other man holding his wrist: his long blonde hair, the blue eyes. And he made a suggestion that—little did he know—would change all of their lives forever. (And, for the better.)

"Why don't we all have dinner together?"

Alfred gasped excitedly and even Mathieu chimed in on the excitement.

"Can we?!" they exclaimed, hopping up and down eagerly. "Can we please?!"

Francis blinked. Well now, he couldn't possibly say no to all three adorable faces, now could he? And so, Francis gave the answer that—little did he know—would change all of their lives for the better.

"Dinner," he smiled, "would be wonderful."

A/N: Actually, I feel bad. I forgot I wrote this one.

I'm actually quite proud of this one, actually.

But quick disclaimer?

Je ne parle pas français.

Seriously. I don't.

So I fully expect my French to be wrong.

Literally: pardon my French.