"Non, non mon cher, stop. I think that will be enough glitter."

"But Pa, I've only used half the pot." Cue adorable pout that no father could have the ability to say no to.

"Alfred, you don't need a whole pot to make one card, OK?" Francis rubbed his forehead, leaving a trail of red glitter across his skin.

"But it has to be the best Valentines card ever."

"You know, you can make your own card for your father, if you wish."

"But Paaa, I wanna help with yours. Anyway, you don't give Dad's Valentines cards, everyone knows that."

"Of course, mon cher." Francis gave in, and tried to shake some of the excess sparkles from the scarlet and hot pink monstrosity of a card.

"Pa! You're shaking all the glitter off!"

"Only the bits that haven't stuck. Now, we have to leave it to dry, d'accord?"

"Yeah yeah."

The oven timer pinged in the kitchen. Alfred shot to his feet and through the door.

"Alfred," Francis sighed, picking dried glue and stubborn specks of glitter from under his fingernails, "what are you doing?"

"The biscuits are done!" Alfred yelled from the kitchen. "That means we gotta decorate them!"

"We have to wait for them to cool first. And don't touch the oven! I don't know if you've picked up your father's poor cooking skills yet, and I don't want to have to endure a house fire to find out."

Half an hour later, twenty beautifully baked, golden heart shaped biscuits lay on the cooling rack, with a seven year old Alfred practically foaming at the mouth in anticipation to cover them with glitter.

"I've told you Alfred," said Francis, prising the glitter pot out of his sons hands, "we can only put special edible glitter on them."

"Edible?"

"Eatable."

"Right." He paused to plan his next move. "So... where is it?"

"In the top cupboard, where small boys called Alfred cannot reach it." As he says this, Francis reaches above the young boy's head and takes the small pot of confectionary glitter from its shelf. "Here you go. Try not to get too carried away, oui?"

As if.

Having rescued as many of the biscuits as possible from his son's glitter and icing based wrath, Francis placed them in a small box and set them on the coffee table with the (wonderfully homemade looking) card. Alfred was watching cartoons, but was fidgety and unable to settle, too excited about the look on Dad's face when him and Pa gave him his card.

After what felt an eternity to Alfred's impatient mind, he heard the front door click open, and his Dad and brother enter the house.

"Remember Alfred," Francis whispered, "when one is giving someone special a gift, they do so with an unselfish, quiet elegance, oui? Like we talked about? And we let THEM open it."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure Pa, I remember. You told me like a gazillion times."

"Just checking."

"Dad! Matt!" Alfred bellowed, "We're in here!"

"Alfred," said Francis, rubbing his ear, "Indoor voice s'il vous plait."

"Sorry Pa."

An (only mildly) irritated looking Arthur entered the living room, holding their younger son by the hand.

"Salut," said Francis, standing to kiss his husband on the cheek. Arthur had given up half-heartedly swatting him away years ago. That didn't mean he could stop the awkward warmth spreading across his face.

"Yes, well..." Arthur cleared his throat, and instead looked down to the small boy clutching his hand. "Matthew, could you give your Papa his present please? Like we planned."

"OK." The boy held out a small, flat box and a card to Francis. "Happy Valentine's Day Papa. This is from Dad. I helped him make the card."

"Did you really?" Francis smiled, taking the box, and gently ruffling the boy's hair. "I like it very much." He bent to his son's level, and gently rubbed their noses together. "Thank you." He stood again, and kissed Arthur softly. "And thank you too, mon ange."

"Ewww guys. Stop with the smushy stuff. Can I give Dad his present now?"

"Ever the voice of reason Alfred. Of course you can." Francis leaned to whisper in Arthur's ear. "Just a warning: Alfred helped with the card-making too. We'll all by finding glitter in our underwear for weeks."

"How dreadfully sexy."

"Really? Because I have some body glitter in the – "

"No, I was just – nevermind."

At that moment a large amount of excited seven year old crashed into Arthur's kneecaps. "Here you go Dad! I helped! Do you like the glitter? That was my idea. Pa said it was too much glitter, but I think he was lying, like that time he said you wouldn't like those Play-Dough burgers I made, but then you said they were really nice, and the time –"

"Alfred!" Arthur interrupted, and gave the boy a quick hug and a smile. "Thank you. I love it."

"Cool." He grinned. "Can I help you eat the biscuits now? Huh?"

An hour later and Alfred and Matthew were having an afternoon nap. The chocolates Arthur had gotten Francis and the biscuits had been more or less demolished by Alfred. Matthew had helped, once he had been assured he was allowed.

Francis was now lying on the sofa, his fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee, and his legs tangled with his husband's.

"Thank you for the chocolates, mon ange."

Arthur pressed a kiss to his jaw. "You're welcome. Your card was, umm, really... original."

"Yes." Francis laughed softly. "Alfred has quite the creative flair, it seems."

"He must get that from you."

"I knew there was a reason I married you."

Arthur snorted. "What, for half-arsed compliments?"

"Non." Said Francis, and pulled Arthur closer. "For the times you forget to pretend to hate me."

Arthur said nothing, but kissed Francis' wrist, and allowed himself to be pulled closer.