Author's Note: Hi, everyone! Sorry it's been nearly a month since I last posted something. I've been in London for the past two weeks on an internship and, as you can probably imagine, things have been hectic. I'll be in London until August but I'll try to keep posting in the meantime. Here's a fic that's actually a combination of a few requests that I received on my Tumblr. Hopefully, you guys enjoy it! Please leave a review letting me know what you think!

P.S. Happy Father's Day!

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

This certainly isn't the first time Matthew has asked his brother this question. In the past week alone, Alfred nearly set the kitchen on fire when he tried to turn the microwave into a teleportation device, broke Papa's watch (which he got as a Christmas gift from Dad) because he thought he could make it turn back time, and tied an old satellite dish to the tree in the backyard in order to send messages to aliens in space.

Someone needs to keep Alfred from watching so many sci-fi movies. At this rate, he's going to blow up the house or kill himself during one of his experiments.

And speaking of blowing things up…

His brother has gone to great lengths to assemble the new piece of technology before them. Here they are, out in the yard again on a beautiful spring day, but Matthew can't bring himself to enjoy the weather because he knows Alfred is tinkering with dangerous toys yet again. This particular invention is intended to be a mini rocket-ship, but to Matthew, it just looks like the space shuttle souvenir Papa bought when they went to the Kennedy Space Center last summer attached to a fuse.

"Mattie, if you're going to be such a scaredy-cat about this, just go back inside," Alfred declares, sticking his tongue out a little as he concentrates on getting the wiring of the rocket-ship right.

Alfred's got a big imagination—Matthew will admit that much—but being around him can feel like a hazard in and of itself at times.

Matthew chews anxiously on his lip until it feels sore and looks longingly at the house. He could leave, but then Alfred will tease him and call him a baby for the rest of the day and night.

"All right, Houston, we're ready for takeoff."

Oh, no.

Matthew doesn't want to watch, but he can't peel his eyes away for some reason. It's oddly mesmerizing to observe Alfred as he orchestrates all of this. It's like he's a mad scientist building the globe's next life-changing device at the mere age of fourteen.

To Matthew's horror, Alfred flourishes a match that he likely stole from the kitchen drawer.

"Here goes nothing!" he says, poised to light it, but before he can strike it, he's stopped.

Thank goodness.

"Hold it right there, young man! What in the world are you doing?" a stern, booming voice suddenly asks, and Alfred immediately slumps his shoulders in disappointment. He's been caught red-handed.

Dad comes to stand beside them, hands on his hips as he waits for an explanation. He steadies a sharp look at Alfred, quickly confiscates the match, and somehow becomes even more cross. "What were you planning to do with this?"

Alfred clicks his tongue and stomps a petulant foot against the grass. "Do ya always have to ruin all of the fun? This is for my physics project."

"You don't have physics. You have biology," Dad says, easily seeing through the lie. He crouches down to inspect the invention in question, picks it up off of the ground, and shakes his head in disbelief. "Where did you get such a foolish idea? What if you had burned yourself? Or what if you had set it off and it managed to injure someone? I leave you alone for twenty minutes and this is what happens?"

"Daaad, it was just an experiment. I was gonna be careful."

"Well, you won't be conducting any more experiments, in that case. This isn't NASA. No more setting off rockets in the yard. Am I understood?"

Alfred sighs. "Yeah, fine…Whatever."

"Don't give me that tone. Clean this up and come inside for lunch."

But Matthew knows Alfred isn't going to stop here. Although his rocket may have been a dud, he'll find some other way to continue being reckless. Tearing things apart and then assembling them back together again is his brother's specialty. He's amazed by copper wires and transistors and getting to the bottom of how things move and function. It's hard to catch Alfred being totally still—even his body is in constant movement.

And while this curiosity can be a good trait to have at times, it has a tendency of getting him into trouble. He'll often do dangerous things just to see what happens, but his intentions are never truly bad.

Matthew can tell that Alfred doesn't care that he could have burned his hand to a crisp just now. It's a sacrifice he would have been willing to make just for the sake of seeing his rocket fire forty feet above the ground.

And that's what scares Matthew most.

Matthew knows not to get dragged into things...

Well, he should know better than to let himself get dragged into things. Sometimes this is a lesson he has to relearn…

"Man, I wish I could come but my board's busted…Yeah, I'm waiting to get a new one…Uh-huh…Dude, that'd be great. Yeah, of course, I'm in. I'll meet you there. See ya soon."

Alfred hangs up the call, stuffs his phone into the pocket of his jeans, and starts looking around for a pair of shoes to wear, making a mess of his already disorganized closet as he tosses some old shirts and worn sandals aside.

Meanwhile, Matthew watches him from his bed across the room, disapproval evident in his eyes. He doesn't want to be a snitch, but it's tempting.

"Don't you remember that you're grounded for what you did to the microwave?" he asks Alfred, "and we both know your skateboard isn't broken. You had it taken away after that stunt you pulled."

Matthew knows his brother's skateboard is securely tucked up in Dad and Papa's bedroom. They took it away after Alfred tried to skateboard off of the roof of their house and land in Mr. Carriedo's pool on the other side of the fence separating their two yards.

Papa stopped him before he could attempt the jump, and he very nearly had a panic attack while dragging Alfred back down to safety. Needless to say, Dad and Papa unanimously agreed to forbid Alfred from using it for the foreseeable future—possibly forever.

"Dude, just mind your own business, 'kay?" Alfred huffs, finally finding a suitable pair of sneakers. He aggressively shoves them onto his feet.

Matthew frowns. "I suppose you want me to cover for you?"

"Just don't tell anyone I'm gone. I'll be back before Dad or Papa even notice."

Matthew isn't convinced this is the truth, and he's not looking forward to being an accomplice in another thoughtless scheme. "You're gonna get caught."

"As long as you keep your mouth shut, I won't."

"You're already grounded for like three months. It's not worth it."

"I've got nothing to lose. Being grounded for four or five months makes no difference to me at this point," Alfred reasons, opening the window in their bedroom as far as it will go so he can sneak out. He gets one leg through and is about to bring the other one over as well when suddenly, a new idea strikes him.

"Hey, Matt, bro—my buddy," he beseeches him, puffing his bottom lip into a pout. "Do you wanna go to the skatepark with me? It's a lot of fun, I promise."

"No, I'm not going anywhere."

"It'll look pretty suspicious if I disappear on my own, but if you tell Dad and Papa that we're going to the library to study or something, maybe they'll let me go even though I'm grounded. All you have to do is tell one itty, bitty lie. They'll never know. We'll come home before curfew," Alfred begs, folding his hands and pleading with him to reconsider.

"No, thanks."

"Mattie, pleeeeease? Didn't you once tell me that you wanted to learn how to ollie? It'll be fun."

All right, so maybe there was a brief time in Matthew's life when he was fascinated by skateboarding. The tricks and maneuvers look cool, but it's dangerous, and he knows he shouldn't be attempting them. Dad has told him countless stories about kids splitting their lips open or getting permanent brain damage from a bad fall, and he doesn't want to end up like them.

"I can teach you how to ollie, Matt."

"No."

"Fine, you don't have to skateboard, but you can watch Jason and me."

"No."

"You only live once Matthew. If you don't ollie now, you'll never have the chance to again."

"Dad and Papa would kill me."

"They won't know, and even if they do find out, they won't do anything to you. You're the golden child. They'll let you slide one time," Alfred assures him, giving his back a slap of encouragement. "Get some shoes on and let's go. Say we're going to the library to work on an English paper about Shakespeare. It's believable enough. Hurry, before Dad gets home. Papa won't question us as much."

It's stupid. Matthew should know better, and yet, he allows himself to be coerced.

"Fine. Let's go," he mumbles.

A shiver runs down Matthew's spine when he hears dozens of wheels scraping against the unforgiving cement around them.

Who decided skateparks had to be designed like this? What happened to rubber padding and other safety measures? He looks on in silent shock as one girl comes barreling down the half-pipe, loses her balance along the way, and skids across the ground, scraping her hands and knees.

"On second thought, my stomach's acting kind of funny, Al. I think I have to go," Matthew murmurs, trying to desperately get himself out of this situation.

Alfred yanks him back, slaps a reassuring hand onto his shoulder and exclaims, "Bro, I heard Dad might be cooking dinner tonight, so if you're feeling queasy, home is the last place you'll want to be right now."

"Al, I really don't think—!"

His protests are, once again, ignored. Alfred high-fives his skater friends and gets into some sort of loud, cheerful conversation with them while Matthew self-consciously stands off to the side, trying to brainstorm feasible ways in which he could slip away from here undetected.

If he goes home without Alfred, Papa will know they didn't go to the library, and he'll end up grounded as well. If he stays here, he's going to see Alfred get himself injured somehow and have to be a witness to his recklessness yet again, and Matthew really doesn't like seeing blood or bruises.

"Hey, Matt, long time no see!" one of Alfred's friends—a sophomore named Jason—says.

From what Matthew has heard at school, Jason's home life isn't that great at the moment, and maybe that's why Alfred has been spending so much time with him lately. In fact, Matthew was beginning to think Alfred was over his whole "skater phase." Perhaps he has just been trying to protect a friend, which makes Matthew feel slightly better about everything.

He shakes Jason's hand and waves to two other boys who seem to know Alfred as well, but before Matthew can properly acquaint himself with everyone, Alfred grabs a skateboard from one of his buddies and starts trying to flaunt his skills.

He successfully shows off a kickflip and an ollie, but of course, that's not daring enough to satiate Alfred's hunger for danger. Without bothering to put on a helmet or elbow and knee pads, he dives down the halfpipe on his board to gain some speed and starts doing tricks in mid-air. The entire time, Matthew keeps his fingers crossed and hopes his brother doesn't fall.

When Alfred's done making a spectacle out of himself, Matthew lets out a breath of relief and hopes that's that. Now they can spend the rest of the day doing non-life-threatening things.

"Hey, they finished renovating that big set of stairs on the corner, I bet that'd be a good place to grind," Jason suggests, and Alfred is all for it.

Matthew doesn't think much of it at first. After all, how much more perilous could a staircase be?

But then he sees the fifteen large steps for his own eyes and how they're just a yard or so away from a busy road with tons of cars.

Matthew isn't sure how he can sense what's about to happen, but his body reacts out of something akin to instinct. As soon as Alfred hops onto the stair railing and starts grinding his way down, sirens go off in Matthew's head and he poises himself at the base of the steps, waiting to catch his brother who he knows is about to go careening into the oncoming traffic.

Sure enough, the momentum at which Alfred is going is too powerful for him to stop on the sidewalk. He flings forward, but Matthew jumps in front of him and blocks his path, shielding him from imminent death.

However, what Matthew doesn't take into account is that the weight of Alfred's body crashing against his will send him falling backward as well, and he gets knocked onto the road.

He hears a honk, and a millisecond later, his back connects with the bumper of someone's black BMW, which he only realizes once he's lying on the ground. He hears Alfred and his friends scream out but he can't seem to scream back.

A bright hot flash of pain passes over him and everything gets blurry before he loses consciousness.

"Francis, you said I could cook today."

"Oui, but that was before I found out you came into contact with a patient with measles."

"Oh, nonsense. I come into contact with those sorts of diseases every day and you've never been concerned about it before. You know I disinfect myself every time I come into the house. Have you caught anything from me yet?"

"Well, no, but still…"

"You said I could make shepherd's pie," Arthur reminds before stretching out his arms behind his back to get some circulation into his sore limbs. "Admit it, you just don't want me to cook. Are you afraid the boys will like it more than your food?"

Francis snorts but tries to conceal it behind a cough. "No, mon cher, of course not. This is not a competition, but the boys are out today and you know how they are—they'll probably have something to eat on their way back and won't want dinner anyway. I don't want you to slave away over a hot oven for no reason."

"How considerate of you," Arthur drones, unconvinced. "Where did you say they were off to again? The library?"

"Oui, something about an English paper involving Shakespeare."

"And you believed them?"

"Should I not have?"

Arthur takes a sip of tea from the warm mug Francis hands him and shakes his head. "I find it hard to believe Alfred would go to the library with Matthew unless we specifically told him to do so."

Francis frowns and sits across from Arthur at the kitchen table, resting his legs. "What you're saying is that I've been lied to?"

"Most likely."

"But what if Alfred has taken a liking to Shakespeare?"

Arthur chuckles and rolls his eyes. He's sure even Francis knows he's in denial. "If that's what you want to believe…"

"Why would Matthew lie to me?"

"For the same reason he ever lies—Alfred has persuaded him into doing something foolish," Arthur says, glancing at his watch. "I'm sure we'll be finding out about whatever it is they're doing fairly soon. Rehearse your best stern tone."

Francis puts a hand on his hip and glowers. "You know, I can be just as stern as you when I want to be."

Arthur hums, still not particularly convinced. He finishes the rest of his tea and shuts his eyes for a moment. "Given that we're going to have to expend most of our energy on lecturing the boys tonight, I suppose I can cook another day…"

Kudos to Francis for making sure not to look too triumphant.

Then, Arthur's phone begins to vibrate.

He pulls it out of his pocket and sighs when he reads the caller ID. "It's Alfred."

"Okay, I think I'm feeling stern enough now. You can answer," Francis jokes, folding his hands on the table and waiting expectantly for the news.

Arthur obliges by picking up. "Hello, Alfred—it's all right, I know you're not at the library…What's wrong? Take a deep breath. Are you hurt…?" he asks, immensely worried by how hysterical his son sounds on the other end of the line. "I can't understand a word you're saying, love. Start from the begin—"

Arthur's hand shakes violently, and Francis shoots him a look of confusion.

"Which hospital, Alfred…? Okay, we're on our way," he assures before setting his phone down on the table and raising his petrified gaze up to gape at Francis. "Get the keys to the car. Matthew's been in an accident."

The color drains out of Francis's cheeks as he jumps out of his chair. "An accident? What accident?"

Arthur tries to steady his voice as he says, "He was hit by a car."

This is all your fault.

Alfred sobs into the sleeve of his sweater for the hundredth time, feeling lightheaded from all of the anxiety and grief coursing through his veins. He didn't mean for this to happen. He didn't think Matthew would jump in front of him or that he wouldn't be able to bring the skateboard to a stop in enough time.

But that doesn't matter now, does it? Matthew's hurt, and it's all because he was being stupid and wanted to show off some dumb tricks.

He won't be surprised if Dad and Papa say they hate him now or that they want him to move out. He can't stand to face himself either. If it weren't for him, Matthew would still be at home, peacefully reading a book or something and not suffering in this pediatric ICU.

"Oh, honey…" one of the nurses says when she sees him weeping. She glances at the doors leading to the unit and then back at him before murmuring, "Are your parents on their way?"

Alfred nods his head and sloppily wipes his eyes. Everything feels heavy—like the air is trying to crush him—and it makes him want to puke.

The nurse hands him a small packet of tissues and asks, "Do you want some water or juice?"

He shakes his head.

"Well, let me know if there's anything I can do for you, okay?" the nurse insists, placing a hand on his upper arm and rubbing it soothingly.

She doesn't say it's going to be okay or that he doesn't have to worry, which is a harrowing sign of how bad things must be. Alfred has parsed Dad's words in situations like these and normally, whenever something isn't too serious or critical, he's always quick to say, "it's all right."

But it's clearly not going to be all right this time if the nurse isn't making such promises.

It's all your fault.

He hiccups and buries his head into his knees, wishing he could turn back time. He can't unsee the moment when the car connected with Matthew's side—how he was lying huddled on the asphalt afterward, blood running down the side of his temple and how his eyes rolled back into his head.

He stands up from his seat in the waiting area and finally vomits in the nearest trashcan, bile burning his throat as it rushes into his mouth.

Then, the doors to one of the shiny elevators on his right slides open, and Dad and Papa appear, pale as ghosts.

"Alfred, come here," Dad immediately says when they lock eyes, and Alfred fully expects him to scold him or even hit him for what he has done, but Dad just traps him in the warmth of his arms for a few brief seconds before asking, "Are you okay? Are you hurt in any way?"

Alfred starts sobbing all over again, but into Dad's sweater this time. "I-I'm s-sorry!"

Dad pats his back and brushes his hair away from his forehead. "Sorry for what?"

"M-Mattie got hit by a car because of me."

Dad pulls away from their hug to furrow his brows at him and says, "We'll talk about this later…Francis, wait here with him for a minute."

Papa's arms replace Dad's, and even though Alfred is almost certain he's going to be kicked out of the house as soon as Dad finds out how serious this all is, he's relieved he gets to have one last hug before they send him away forever.

"Matt was just trying to protect me, Papa. I'm so s-sorry."

Papa clicks his tongue at him and tries to shush him by saying, "It was an accident…A terrible, terrible accident."

"No, but it's my fault."

"It's no one's fault."

"No, it is," Alfred tries to explain. Dad and Papa clearly don't know the full story yet, but once they do, they'll understand why he doesn't deserve their affection any longer.

Since Papa has to stay strong for him, he stays pretty calm and collected until Dad comes back out to join them several minutes later, more ashen-faced than earlier. Alfred can see the tears pooling in his eyes and how he's trying to suppress them with all of his might.

"Arthur? What did you find out?" Papa asks, standing beside Dad and putting a hand on his shoulder.

Dad angrily swipes at his eyes and hoarsely says, "He's paralyzed from the waist down…"

And now Papa begins to cry as well. "Permanently?"

"We won't know until he tries physical therapy and rehabilitation," Dad mumbles, weakly hugging Papa. "But he's breathing and has a pulse and that matters more to me than anything else at the moment."

Papa nods, but tears are still leaking from his eyes and dribbling down his stubbly cheeks. "Yes, of course…Is he awake?"

"He's on very strong pain medication at the moment, so no, but we can sit with him whenever you're ready."

"Let's go now. I can't bear to think of him being alone."

Dad agrees, but then he turns to Alfred and frowns. "Come, Alfred. We're not upset with you, but you do have to tell us what happened."

Alfred chokes on another loud sob. "I c-can't. You'll hate me."

Dad steps over to him, puts both hands on either of his shoulders, and says very firmly, "We could never hate you. You're our child."

Papa agrees and adds, "When times are tough, family sticks together."

It's all your fault.

And so, Alfred walks onto the unit with his parents, and although telling the story makes his chest hurt and his stomach contract, he tells them everything and lets it pour out of his heart until he's left feeling cold and hollow by Matthew's bedside.

Matthew…

He's so still and frail in this bed, but the rise and fall of his body as he breathes is reassuring. Papa whispers French lullabies to him while Dad watches his vitals on the monitor to feel more convinced that this isn't the end of the world.

He's asleep for now, which is good because Alfred doesn't know if he'll be able to look at him once he's awake.

And when they have all calmed somewhat, Dad regards Alfred with a stern gaze and says, "What you did was very reckless and foolish, but you already know that. Your papa and I understand this was an accident…You shouldn't blame yourself. We'll discuss it at greater length when Matthew wakes up."

"But Mattie isn't going to be able to walk because of what I did! Stop being nice to me and just yell at me for being an idiot! Tell me what a bad kid I am and how you never want to see me again because all I do is ruin everything and cause problems!" Alfred cries, storming out of the hospital room, off the unit, and all the way to the elevators. He shouldn't be shouting when Matthew needs his rest—that's one more crime he can add to the list.

It's all your fault.

It's all your fault.