Author's Note: This story was requested by an awesome anon on Tumblr. It'll probably only be two or three chapters in length, but I hope you enjoy it! Make sure to leave a review if you get the chance, and let me know what you think!
It's the most wonderful time of the year, or so they say.
Francis has long since abandoned hope in merry TV commercials and annoying Christmas carols. Despite all of the marketing ploys and advertisements, he is not, in the least, excited about the holiday season. For him, December means perpetually cold nights during which he must wear a minimum of three layers of clothing in addition to his fuzzy socks and slippers, only to still feel chilled. It means slushy snow and crowded malls filled with unpleasant people. It means arthritis, icy sidewalks, and an increasingly hollow wallet.
His husband seems to share his sentiments, because when Arthur returns home from work on the first of December, he rolls his aching shoulders and trudges into the kitchen, carrying the definition of gloom with him.
"Bad day at work?" Francis carefully asks, just barely wrangling a kiss from him.
"Don't ask, and don't kiss me. I'm most likely covered in hundreds of pathogens. I need to douse myself in rubbing alcohol," Arthur grumbles, loosening his tie and snapping his eyes shut. "I hate December. Six cases of the flu, four colds, three incidents of pneumonia, a smattering of RSV, and a broad and bountiful abundance of bronchitis."
"And a partridge in a pear tree," Francis sing-songs with a grin as he sets the table for dinner. "I'm disappointed. I thought the turnout would've been higher this year."
"Oh, just give it two more weeks, and you could fill a stadium with viral upper respiratory infections… Where are the boys?"
"Upstairs, doing their homework. Alfred keeps reminding me winter break begins in twenty-two days. Mathieu, on the other hand, is upset at the idea of being away from school for the holidays."
After an entire nine-hour shift of having patients sneeze and cough on him, spreading God knows how many germs, Arthur finds relief in being able to discuss more family-related matters. "If only Alfred had half as much love for school as Matthew does," he says with a hopeful chuckle.
"Alfred is a good boy," Francis insists, coming to his defense. "I didn't enjoy going to school when I was his age either... So, have you found out whether or not you'll be working on Christmas this year?"
"I'll be on-call."
"Of course you will be."
"Oh, don't say it that way. You know I don't have a choice in the matter. There should be plenty of physicians on the unit that day, so hopefully, even if something comes up with a patient, I'll just be able to handle it over the phone."
Francis clicks his tongue but he's not as irritated as he wants to appear. "I know it's not your fault. I just wish we could have one Christmas without interruptions from work getting in the way."
"I'd like that as well, but the hospital is busy this time of year. New Year's is even worse."
"Just promise me you'll try to spend more time with the boys over these next few weeks," Francis murmurs, walking up to Arthur and laying his head on his husband's shoulder. "Please."
Arthur nods, thinks for a moment, and then smirks wryly. "I'll try, as long as you promise to handle all of the Christmas shopping."
"Oh, no, I'm going to make you suffer with me. We still need to find a gift to send to your mother."
"Just send her a card and a picture of the boys."
"We'll do that, too, but we also need a gift."
"Every year, she specifically states she doesn't want any presents."
"That's what everyone says," Francis counters, waving a hand at Arthur in a shooing motion. "I don't know why I bother talking to you about it. I'm the one who'll end up picking the gift anyway. Mrs. Kirkland always appreciates the thought… Oh, now that I think about it, since you're off tomorrow, you should give her a call and see if you can find out what she'd like for Christmas. It'll make my trip to the mall much quicker."
In a rare show of childishness, Arthur lets out a little groan of complaint and whines, "That woman can talk for hours."
"You two can catch up. It'll be nice," Francis says with an amused grin, laughing at Arthur's expense. "Don't look at me like you took a bite out of a lemon just now. She's your mother, and in her old age, she will appreciate having the chance to talk to her son."
Arthur glares at him, but it's good-humored. "I was warned not to marry a frog, and now I know why."
"Better a frog than a rosbif."
"I beg to differ... I'll call the boys down for dinner."
When Arthur is out of sight, Francis rolls his eyes, wondering what the rest of December has in store for them.
Rumor has it that Mr. Braginski, Roosevelt Elementary School's third-grade teacher, is a Russian spy plotting to torture American schoolchildren until the end of time. The wild tales surrounding him have become more detailed and elaborate over the several years he has been teaching, with some older students suggesting a connection between him and the KGB.
After being in the man's class for a little over three months, Alfred and Matthew aren't sure what to make of the murmurings and accusations. All they know is that he assigns double the amount of homework the fourth graders get, and according to anonymous sources, he's a vampire who sucks the blood of the unfortunate children who get detention with him.
One day at recess, a fellow classmate, Feliks, claims Mr. Braginski is definitely associated with the KGB because he heard his grandfather talking about it when he was retelling the history of the Soviet Union. No one is really sure what the KGB exactly is or what the Soviet Union was, but it sounds impressive coming from an eight-year-old, and so—collectively—the class begins to believe him.
Regardless of the Russian teacher's motives, all Alfred knows is that Mr. Braginski hates him. He gets scolded by the man at least five times a day, and it seems everything he does is somehow wrong in his critical eyes. He's extremely strict and unwavering, he gives weekly pop quizzes for math and grammar, and he probably is a blood-sucking vampire!
Matthew, on the other hand, is more sympathetic. The longer they've been in his class, the more he has become convinced the only reason Mr. Braginski is tough is because he wants his students to learn, and he genuinely cares about every child in his care.
Alfred pretends to gag every time he catches Matthew defending him. "He's the worst teacher ever and that's that!" he always says, unwilling to see the other side of the situation.
The closer they get to winter break, the more Alfred's relationship with Mr. Braginski seems to deteriorate. In math class one day, Alfred asks to go to the bathroom, but Mr. Braginski tells him that, unless it's an emergency, he needs to sit through the lesson because it's important that he learns how to multiply decimals. So, Alfred suffers through holding his full bladder and broods for the rest of the day, talking on and on about how cruelly he is often treated.
It takes Matthew a while to recognize it, but there's something deeper and weirder going on than at first glance. Mr. Braginski hasn't become meaner or stricter, but Alfred has become more of a pest in class. His brother asks to go to the bathroom four to six times throughout each day, and when he isn't asking to go to the bathroom, he's asking to get a drink of water.
Both Matthew and Mr. Braginski seem to think Alfred is simply trying to find ways to get out of sitting through lessons, but then on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday morning, Matthew is taken by surprise when Mr. Braginski pulls him aside as the class is going to lunch and asks, "Matthew, do you know if everything is all right with your brother?"
"Umm… I think so," Matthew says, hoping it's a helpful enough response. To the best of his knowledge, nothing is wrong with Alfred other than how annoying he's been as Christmas approaches.
"Would you keep an eye on him for me, please?"
Never one to disappoint an adult, Matthew instantly nods his head and takes on the request as a personal mission. He runs off to the cafeteria to eat lunch with the rest of the class and sits directly next to Alfred (as he always does), intending to pay particular attention to him today.
It's hard to say for sure, but yeah, maybe there could be something a little off with Alfred. It's not that noticeable though. Maybe he picks at his food a little more, and he drinks one more carton of apple juice than he usually does, but that's not necessarily strange.
The rest of the week passes quietly, but the days seem to get longer and drag on. It isn't until the beginning of the third week of December that things start to get interesting. Matthew's investigation finally comes upon a new twist.
On Monday, after Papa drops them off at school, Alfred looks visibly out-of-sorts. He's definitely paler, and he's irritable. Talking to him becomes impossible, and at lunch, he takes a few nibbles of his food and gives up.
Matthew ventures the courage to ask if he's okay, and Alfred responds by lifting glazed eyes at him and murmuring, "My head hurts, and I think I'm gonna be sick."
"Do you want me to tell a teacher?"
"No!" Alfred immediately yells at him, cheeks flushed. "It'll go away."
Why does his brother always have to be this stubborn? It's not like anything horrible will come out of admitting he's unwell. Sure, he'll probably have to stay in bed for a few days and drink some not-so-great tasting medicine, but he'll be okay in the end, and isn't that a better alternative? Matthew would much rather be snuggled under the covers of his bed and have a bowl of Papa's soup when sick than suffer in silence and not have anyone to take care of him.
But Alfred's way of reasoning is different, so Matthew gives him the benefit of the doubt and lets the whole thing slide. Besides, he can remember a few times when he himself wasn't in the mood for lunch, and maybe Alfred's just thinking about too much or feeling sad, and that's why he doesn't want to eat, in which case, he deserves some space.
But two hours later, they're off to gym, and Alfred comes in sixth in the relay races, even though he's normally one of the fastest boys in the class and always ends up being among the top three runners. After the race, he asks the teacher to go get a drink of water from the water fountain, and Matthew sees him stumble uneasily across the gymnasium and around the corner, looking even paler.
Matthew almost risks telling the gym teacher Alfred is sick, but he stops himself at the last second because he doesn't want Alfred to be angry with him. If Alfred finds out he tattled, he'll get the silent treatment for at least three days, and nothing is worse than the silent treatment when you have to share a room with the person who hates you.
At dismissal, Matthew prays Papa will notice something is off with Alfred and save him the trouble of having to tattle. Unfortunately, Papa's mind is elsewhere, and it doesn't occur to him that Alfred is dragging his feet and his face is completely drained of all color. He talks about how busy it's been at the restaurant he cooks at and how there's still so much cleaning and shopping to be done in the week and a half left before Christmas.
Dad, however, seems to be at least vaguely aware that something isn't right. During dinner that night, he notices Alfred has lost his appetite.
"What's wrong, Alfred? Why aren't you eating?" he asks.
Alfred responds by shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know. I'm not hungry."
Dad reaches across the table to feel Alfred's forehead and frowns. "No fever… Do you feel ill?"
"A little," Alfred admits, taking a big gulp of water.
"What hurts?"
"I just feel… icky."
Dad nods reassuringly and replies, "All right, well, maybe you're coming down with something. Why don't you go to bed early tonight, and we'll see how you feel in the morning?"
And then, the weirdest thing of all happens; Alfred doesn't protest having to go to bed two hours sooner than he usually does. He leaves the rest of his plate untouched, changes into his PJs, and goes right to sleep. For a good while, Matthew stares at him from his side of the bedroom, stunned. He reads silently under a soft lamplight as to not wake his brother, and Dad comes in to check on them after another hour or so.
Dad quietly steps over to Alfred's bedside first, feels his forehead again, and tucks him in. Alfred doesn't even stir at the disturbance.
Then, he comes to Matthew's bed, smooths back his hair, and whispers, "Goodnight, my boy."
"Goodnight, Dad."
"Sleep tight."
"Is Alfred going to be okay?"
"He doesn't have a fever, but I'll have Papa check his temperature again throughout the day tomorrow. It might just be an upset stomach."
Matthew nods and feels a little more reassured. Dad pulls the covers up and tucks him in just as he did to Alfred, turns out the reading lamp, and leaves, keeping the door open a few inches.
"Arthur, maybe we should take him to the clinic. He needs to see a doctor."
"And what am I? A midwife?" Dad asks with dripping sarcasm and a lighthearted smirk in the early morning as they greet another freezing winter day. "It's probably the beginning of a stomach bug that's going around. There's not much that can be done. We'll keep him at home for now, and I'll be here tomorrow to monitor him if it's not better."
Papa sighs and reluctantly agrees. "Are you sure you can't give him an antibiotic or something?"
"I don't know what he has yet, so no."
"But he's in pain."
Dad gives an unhappy and crabby Alfred a reassuring smile before straightening up to his full height. "I'll bring up some pain relievers and take Matthew to school. I wish I didn't have to work today… Francis, are you sure you'll be able to take care of Alfred on your own?"
"I'll try my best."
And so, Papa stays home with Alfred, takes his temperature periodically even though he remains fever-free, and ultimately feels helpless because he has absolutely no idea what he should do next.
"Do you feel any better?" Papa asks when he comes in to check up on him an hour later.
Alfred bites his lip and shakes his head. "I feel the same."
"Hmm, you should try to eat something. Are you hungry?"
"No, I'm thirsty," Alfred mumbles sleepily.
"I'll bring you some orange juice."
It isn't until about noon that Alfred admits to himself that something is really wrong with him. It's not just a stomach ache. He's sweating, his head is pounding, and every time he tries to stand, he gets dizzy and has to sit back down again. While Papa is downstairs taking care of errands and making lunch, Alfred lies in bed and thinks about all of the possible things that could be making him sick. What if he has cancer? Or what if he's gonna have a stroke and die? He's heard Dad talk about so many people who can get sick out of the blue and maybe now it's finally happening to him.
He can't explain it, but there's this panicky sensation that keeps running through his veins. He's never usually this nervous and anxious, but now his mind races with possibilities, and thoughts of potentially dying scare him to the point where he starts to cry. At first, he only sheds a few tears, and as he's doing that, he suddenly vomits into the garbage bin by his bed. The acrid aftertaste causes his crying to get louder, until finally, he starts sobbing loud, unabated sobs.
Papa rushes into the room, just as panicked. "Alfred! Mon chou, what's wrong? Did you get sick? It's okay."
But Alfred isn't consoled in the least, it's as though he's feeling worse and worse by the minute now, and he's so distraught he's on the verge of hyperventilating. His breaths come out in short, shallow gasps, and Papa is absolutely hysterical with worry.
"Shh, shh, mon lapin," Papa pleads with him, kissing his head. He cleans out the garbage bin, brings Alfred a fresh glass of water, and asks, "Are you feeling much worse?"
Alfred nods, and as soon as his stomach feels a little calmer, he realizes he really has to pee. With Papa's help, he climbs out of bed and makes it to the bathroom on teetering legs, sweating profusely.
"Okay, Alfred. I'm going to call your father at work. He'll know what to do."
He's so dizzy he's afraid he's going to collapse on the ground as he's flushing the toilet or washing his hands. He's never felt like this before, and now he wants nothing but to go back to sleep and hope Dad comes home soon so he can fix him.
He manages to make it back to his room by himself, and he can hear Papa talking to Dad on speakerphone somewhere in the distance. "He's not getting any better. He just vomited, and he's very pale. He looks like he might faint."
Alfred's crying quiets into sniffles as he hears Dad's voice on the other line say, "Has he been drinking water?"
"Yes, that's the one good thing. He's been thirsty and has been drinking," Papa replies.
Dad, however, isn't reassured by this tidbit. "He's been thirsty?"
"Yes, that's what I said."
"Exactly what have you given him to drink today?"
"Well, I think he's had two glasses of orange juice, and about three or four bottles of water since this morning."
Dad sharply interjects, "That doesn't sound like someone who has a stomach illness. He should've been putting up a fuss about staying hydrated. Don't give him any more juice. What are his other symptoms?"
"He's sweating, he said his head hurts, and he's dizzy."
"What does his breath smell like?"
Papa frowns, confused. "What?"
"Does his breath smell fruity at all?"
Papa shakes his head in exasperation and sighs angrily, "I don't know! How would I be able to tell?"
"It should be obvious."
"I'm not the doctor, you are!"
Dad mutters something under his breath about "dramatic frogs," and says, "I need to try to figure out what's wrong first. You said his temperature was normal just a little while ago?"
"Oui."
"If a virus was causing this, he would've had some sign of infection or fever by now, but we won't rule it out. Can Alfred hear me? Let me talk to him."
Papa walks into the bedroom and places his phone on the nightstand next to Alfred and informs Dad, "You're on speakerphone."
"Okay… Alfred, love, are you still thirsty?"
Alfred rouses himself out his lethargy just long enough to mumble, "Uh-huh."
"He's falling asleep," Papa remarks.
"Don't let him. He's breathing rapidly. I can hear it."
"But that's because he was crying."
"No, it's not. You need to bring him to the hospital immediately. Let's hope this isn't what it's beginning to look like."
"What do you think it is?"
"We won't know for sure until you bring him here. Stay calm, but act quickly. I'll meet you in the ER," Dad instructs, leaving no room for further questions. "I'll get out of my shift and find someone to cover for me."
"B-But is he going to be all right?"
"Francis, please," Dad sighs, and the situation must not be good because he's not saying everything's going to be fine like he usually does when something's not a big deal.
The sharpness of Dad's words combined with the seriousness of his condition makes Alfred start crying again. What if Dad can't fix him? What if he really is going to die and—?
"Okay, Alfred, let's get you changed and into the car."
"I d-don't want to go! I want Dad to come here!"
"I know, mon chou, but your father will be able to help you more effectively at the hospital, not at home," Papa states, pulling off Alfred's t-shirt and replacing it with a new one.
He's crying so much it's hard to breathe, and Papa's hands are shaking as he hefts him up into his arms and carries him out to the driveway, singing gentle lullabies and cooing sweet words to him. It's such a sudden turn of events. "Shh, shh… You'll be taken good care of soon."
It's a short drive, but it feels like forever and a day. The stoplights change slowly, the other cars ahead of them seem to be taking their time, the streets wind and curve on and on, until finally, the view of the hospital emerges, and Papa parks the car, helps Alfred up, and supports him as they enter the ER. They walk up to a woman sitting behind a little desk shielded by a glass window, and she asks Papa to fill out some paperwork and describe what the problem with Alfred is. When all of the forms have been taken care of, the woman tells them to take a seat in the triage and wait to be called inside.
Alfred's name is called less than fifteen minutes later, and he ambles through the double doors with Papa and is told to sit in a plastic chair by the wall. A nurse in purple scrubs comes up to them, introduces herself, and tries to take Alfred's vitals, but Alfred, being the difficult patient he often is, screams and cries until it feels like his lungs are going to erupt.
The nurse, poor woman, tries her best to calm him, but it's futile. No matter how hard she and Papa try to subdue him, he thrashes and shouts to the point where his voice becomes hoarse.
"What are you doing to my child?" Dad asks sarcastically, appearing in the doorway with a silver-haired stranger in a white coat. "Let me try."
Papa lets out a relieved breath and steps back as Dad crouches down in front of where Alfred is sitting and plants a feathery kiss on his forehead. Fortunately, this stops the worst of the screaming and fussing.
"Alfred, something tells me you're going to drive everyone in this hospital to drink," Dad jokes before taking a thermometer from the nurse and placing it under his tongue. Then, he takes a pulse oximeter off of the counter and says, "Hold out your hand for me, poppet. This won't hurt."
Alfred is skeptical and pulls his hands close to his sides, clearly afraid as the thermometer wobbles between his quivering lips.
"This little device tells me how fast your heart is beating and if you're getting enough oxygen when you breathe," Dad explains, trying a new tactic. He takes the pulse oximeter and clamps it on his own finger to prove it's harmless. "See? Look at the screen."
Alfred looks down at the little numbers on the device and finally holds out his hand, convinced he isn't going to be subjected to any additional pain. Dad carefully puts it on his left index finger and waits for the reading, frowning when he gets it.
"Elevated pulse and eighty-nine percent oxygen saturation," Dad tells the nurse and the other man in the white coat whom he hasn't introduced. He also takes the thermometer out of Alfred's mouth and adds, "Normal temperature."
"Dad, I wanna go home," Alfred whines, having had enough of this whole hospital ordeal already.
"I know, my boy, but you can't go home yet. You're unwell," Dad says patiently, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Alfred's upper arm. "Hold still for a moment."
"Is it gonna hurt?"
"No, it's not going to hurt."
The tight sensation of the cuff inflating feels uncomfortable, but Dad's right, it doesn't hurt, so Alfred doesn't complain. He stays still like Dad tells him to, and it's over within a few moments.
"140 over 80."
"Is that bad?" Alfred asks worriedly.
"It's a bit high."
The nurse checks his height and weight and puts a hospital bracelet on his wrist, and Dad helps him stand up from the plastic chair. Apparently, Alfred has lost seven pounds without anyone noticing.
Their whole party moves out and relocates to one of the many curtained rooms in the ER, and Dad and Papa help lift him up and into a bed. When he's settled, Dad turns to the strange man he brought with him and says, "Alfred, this is Dr. Gilbert Beilschmidt, a pediatrician and one of my colleagues. He's here to help, all right? So I expect you not to give him any trouble."
"Ah, just call me Gilbert, kiddo," the doctor says, stepping forward and shaking Alfred's hand. "Heard you've been feeling like poop for a while now. Lucky for you, I'm like, totally awesome at what I do, and every single kid that comes in here feeling like poop is better than ever when I'm done with them, so you're gonna be fine. Plus, your dad over here isn't too shabby himself, so you've got nothing to worry about, short-stuff."
"I'm not short," Alfred mumbles, eyes only half-open now.
"Yeah, you are. Don't deny it. Are you feeling sleepy?"
On cue, Alfred opens his mouth and yawns, "Yeah."
"Acetone breath," Gilbert suddenly says, turning to glance at Dad. "Let's deal with the low oxygen saturation first, then do an EKG, bloodwork, urine, and a finger-stick. If we find ketones, we're bringing him up to the ICU."
"And a normal saline drip, I presume," Dad chimes in.
"Yup. If he's this lethargic, we don't have a lot of time."
None of what is being said makes any sense to Alfred. He just lies still and thinks about how this is worse than doing decimals with Mr. Braginski. Papa's standing in the corner and his eyes are red for some reason as he holds a hand to his cheek and watches the buzz of everything that's going on.
Alfred could go for a nap right now, but Dad and Gilbert sit him up, and he's changed into a hospital gown against his will. Then, they're putting a nasal cannula in his nose, and it feels cold and gross, so he tries to yank it out with his hand, but Dad tells him firmly to leave it alone because it'll help with his breathing.
"Wouldn't it be better to have the nurses do this?" Gilbert asks, but it sounds distant to Alfred's ears.
"Yes, but he won't let any of the nurses near him. He might not even let you touch him, and we don't have time to waste," Dad responds before taking a bunch of stuff out of a cabinet against the wall.
Gilbert, meanwhile, presses a cold stethoscope against Alfred's back and says, "Take a deep breath, kid."
Alfred does so, and when Gilbert's heard enough, he starts attaching sticky circles to his chest. "W-What're those for?" he asks.
"It's so we can check to make sure your heart's working like it should, and you don't have any arrhythmias. They're called electrodes," Gilbert explains.
"Feels funny."
"Is it as funny as this?" Gilbert asks before taking a glove out of his pocket with a majestic flourish, blowing into it, and tying it off into a makeshift balloon animal. "It's a turkey."
From the other side of the room Dad shakes his head in amusement and chuckles, impressed. "Have you considered joining the circus, Beilschmidt?"
"Ja, if the whole doctor thing gets boring, maybe."
Alfred takes the turkey-balloon and smiles, laughing. "It's cool."
"Thanks! I can make a dog, too, but it always ends up having different sized ears," Gilbert says, a bit disappointed in himself. He finishes sticking the electrodes on Alfred's chest, attaches some colored wires to each of them, and then a machine to the right of the bed lights up and starts working. A steady beeping sound fills the room, and Alfred is intrigued by the little lines indicating his heart rhythm. It's over in a few minutes, and Gilbert disconnects the wires again.
Then, Dad sits on the side of the bed, takes Alfred's arm, and swabs the crook of his arm. "I'm going to draw your blood, Alfred, so I need you to hold still."
"But it's gonna hurt!" Alfred whines, certain this can't be good news because nothing that involves needles is ever a pleasant experience.
"Only for a second. I know you can handle it. You're a brave boy," Dad insists, tying a blue tourniquet above Alfred's elbow. "Gilbert thinks so, too."
"Yup!" Gilbert agrees helpfully, flashing a bright grin. "You're tough stuff, kid. You've got this. Wanna hold my hand? I made your dad hold my hand once when the hospital was making us get our annual flu shots. I'm a big chicken, so if I could do it, you can."
Alfred laughs again, feeling emboldened, and he sees Papa smiling at him from the corner of his eye. "Okay."
"All right, make a fist, poppet," Dad says, and Alfred obeys. With his free hand, he grabs onto Gilbert's hand and squeezes it.
He flinches when the needle breaks through his skin, but once it's in, it stops hurting so much. Gilbert makes him gently turn his head and says, "Don't look. Look at me instead. There's a good kiddo."
It takes less than a minute, and then Dad pulls the needle out and presses a fluffy cotton ball onto the spot and covers it with a band-aid. He disposes of the needle in a little bin hanging on the wall, labels the tubes filled with Alfred's blood, and says, "You did an excellent job."
"Thanks!" Gilbert beams.
"Not you!"
Alfred lets another short snicker escape him and thinks that must surely have been the worst part, but it seems Gilbert and Dad aren't finished poking and prodding him yet. Dad takes Alfred to the bathroom and makes him pee in a cup, which is embarrassing, but thankfully, not as bad as being subjected to needles.
Then, once he's in bed again, Dad says he's going to put in his IV, and Alfred has heard about IVs before, and they definitely involve a needle, which is completely unfair because he's already had to deal with one needle, and now there's another one? Why torture him like this?
Gilbert holds his hand again, and this time, the needle goes into the sensitive skin of Alfred's hand—in one of the veins just beneath his knuckles. It hurts more than the other one earlier, and he cries out in pain and surprise as everyone tries to calm him.
"Shh, shh, I know. I'm sorry, love, but it has to be done… I know, I know," Dad murmurs over and over again, covering the area with some durable, clear tape so that the IV catheter stays in place. "Don't touch it."
"Take it out," Alfred cries, no longer feeling brave. Fresh tears fall from his eyes, and both Dad and Gilbert slump their shoulders sadly.
"I can't take it out yet, poppet. After a while, you won't even notice it anymore," Dad says, ruffling his hair. "It's okay… I know this isn't fun, but it's the only way to make you well again."
This time, Papa weaves his way between Gilbert and Dad and sits beside Alfred, holding him. "Your father and Dr. Beilschmidt know best, Alfred. You need to trust them."
But that's still not the end of the needles. Dad has the nerve to take out a pen-like mechanism, swab his second to last finger, and say, "I'm going to check your blood sugar."
A needle rears its head out of the tip of the pen, and it pricks the delicate flesh of Alfred's finger, drawing more blood.
"Oww!" Alfred shouts, trying to draw his hand back but failing as Dad holds him in a firm grip. He leads his bleeding finger onto a small test strip attached to a little monitoring device, and the device beeps within several seconds. "That hurt!"
"It wasn't so bad," Dad insists as he puts a bandage over this puncture wound as well. "It'll feel all better in a minute or two," he promises. "Beilschmidt, get a bed ready in the ICU for us."
Gilbert raises a brow. "But we didn't get the lab work back yet. What's his sugar?"
"Not good. Five hundred and sixteen."
"Ah, shit," Gilbert says without thinking. He strides away, pulls open the privacy curtain to leave the room, and mutters, "Okay, I'll be back."
Now Alfred's in the room with just Papa and Dad. It's completely quiet until Papa speaks up and asks, "His blood sugar is high?"
"Yes, very much so," Dad says, frowning down worriedly at Alfred before running a gentle hand through his hair. "Alfred, we're going to move you to a different unit where you can be monitored better, okay?"
"Okay, I'm tired," Alfred whispers, shutting his eyes.
"I know, but try to stay awake a little longer for me."
"Mmm…"
Dad makes a tutting noise and squeezes Papa's shoulder…Wait…Why is Papa crying?
"Francis…"
Papa hides his face in his hands and mumbles out a muffled apology, shoulders hunched and back arched. Dad hugs him tightly and whispers something in his ear, and then Papa nods his head and steps out of the room for a minute.
"Dad?" Alfred asks weakly, breathing still a little too quickly for comfort.
"Yes, my boy?"
"Is it bad?"
"Is what bad?"
"Like... Whatever's wrong with me, is it bad?"
Dad continues petting his head and says, "We'll take good care of you, so you don't have to worry about a thing."
"Can I go home soon?"
"No, not for a while, I fear."
"Am I going to go to school tomorrow?"
"Oh, no, of course not," Dad says, and Alfred doesn't know if this is something he should be rejoicing in or not.
"So when am I gonna go back to school, then?"
"At the earliest, sometime next week."
"But winter break starts then."
"In that case, you won't be going back to class until after winter break," Dad decrees, and Alfred feels something in his chest sink down to his stomach.
"A-Am I going to have to be here until Christmas? I wanna go home!"
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, try to rest."
But Alfred doesn't take this news very well. He finds himself crying again just as Gilbert returns, and he's upset to the point that he refuses to look at anyone or acknowledge their existence.
"Want another balloon animal, Alfred?" Gilbert asks, but Alfred shakes his head and feels the need to throw up again.
"Stay with him for a moment," Dad says to Gilbert before disappearing, and Alfred doesn't know how to tell Dad to stay while also continuing to be mad at him.
"Don't cry, kid. Look, I'll try to make that dog I was talking about earlier."
Gilbert inflates another glove, effectively destroying it, and his dog ends up looking more like a worm with ears. It's not as funny the second time around.
