Three plates of toast—lightly buttered and coated with a bit of strawberry jam—three sliced bananas, chamomile tea for Francis with extra honey, milk for Alfred, and juice for Matthew… Is that everything?

Arthur sighs and sits down to finish the rest of his own breakfast, which consists of a bagel with cream cheese and a cup of extra-strong black tea. It's unnerving to be eating alone in the kitchen. On a day like this, the boys should be playing tag around the table until they get scolded by either himself or Francis. Matthew should be requesting pancakes with maple syrup, and Alfred should be pleading his case as to why chocolate milk should be considered a breakfast food.

Last time Arthur peeked into the bedrooms, everyone was still sleeping, and while he doesn't want to wake anyone, it's nearing ten o'clock in the morning, and they really should have something to eat. They can sleep in afterward.

And it sure is a great day for sleeping in. There's a pounding rain knocking against the windows that casts a gloomy aura over the house, and Arthur himself is feeling a little lethargic and depressed as a result.

He checks his watch and decides it's time to start bringing up the trays of food to his ailing family. It'd probably be best to start with the boys first and let Francis doze for as long as possible (his husband can be incredibly irritating and needy at even the smallest case of sniffles), so, with that in mind, he makes his way to the boys' room and ever-so-gently nudges the door open with his shoulder.

Matthew is curled up into a ball under his blanket, peacefully asleep and mouth half-parted, since he's having difficulty breathing through his congested nose. He's also shivering from a bout of chills caused by his fever. Arthur sets down the two trays of food on the boy's nearby desk and softly presses his hand to his forehead—he's a little warmer than when he last checked.

"Matthew, love, time to wake up," he says softly, carding his hand through the boy's hair. "You need to have something to eat."

Matthew stirs and opens his bleary, bloodshot eyes. It's clear he isn't feeling any better, and Arthur feels his heart contract when the boy sniffles and lets out a small whine. "Dad…"

"Good morning, poppet. I brought you some breakfast."

"Not hungry…"

"I know, but you need to try to eat at least a little bit, all right?"

"Mmm…"

Arthur takes that as a concession and helps Matthew sit up before he places the tray of food in his lap. When he sees him reach for the toast and take a small nibble, he relents for the moment and turns his attention to the bed on the other side of the room where Alfred is lying on his stomach and cuddling his favorite teddy bear—Gilbear, the toy Gilbert Beilschmidt gifted him with when he had to spend some time in the hospital because of a complication involving his diabetes.

"Alfred, time to get up."

He checks Alfred's forehead as well, and to his displeasure, the child is burning up—a drastic spike from just a few hours ago. He clicks his tongue in great concern, retrieves the thermometer from the bedside table, and disinfects it.

"Alfred, I need to take your temperature," he says, making a second attempt at waking him. He gives his shoulder a little shake this time, and the boy finally rouses. He blinks a few times, realizes how awful he's feeling, and promptly bursts into tears, bottom lip quivering as he cries.

"I feel bad!" Alfred sobs before he suffers through a painful-sounding coughing fit that rises deep from his chest. He doubles over, and Arthur pats his back, trying to help him loosen the mucus in his lungs. Finally, it's over.

"It's going to be all right," Arthur promises as he slides the thermometer under his tongue-102.1. "I want you to eat some breakfast, and once you're done, I'll give you some cough syrup and something for your fever, okay?"

"No," Alfred groans, holding his stomach and closing his eyes. "I don't wanna eat, and I don't want medicine."

"I know, love, but it'll help, and you'll feel better. I'll set up a humidifier in here as well—it'll help both you and Matthew with your breathing."

Arthur hands a grumpy Alfred his breakfast, but he takes the glass of milk away because the last thing the boy needs with that kind of cough is a drink that will increase mucus production, and juice is out of the question because of his problems with his blood sugar. He gets him a glass of cool, plain water instead, much to the child's chagrin.

He makes a mental note to keep track of how much the boys are drinking because it's likely they're going to need persistent encouragement to keep hydrated. He doesn't want to nag them too much now, not when they've only just woken up, but that doesn't mean he's going to forget about the issue entirely.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," Arthur tells the boys before leaving the room and crossing the hallway to tend to Francis. His husband, always the lighter sleeper of the two of them, raises his head as soon as he enters the bedroom, hair tangled and extra-wavy—a testament to how unwell he is.

"Good morning, my least favorite patient," Arthur teases him as he approaches the bedside. He crouches down, folds his arms on the edge of the bed, and places his chin on top of them so he can be eye-to-eye with Francis and smile cheekily at him in full glory. "How are you feeling?"

Francis flicks him on the nose to get him to stop smiling at his misery and croaks, "I'm sick and dying."

It works because Arthur frowns. "You're not dying."

"Yes, I am."

"Well, then, let it be a lesson to you for being careless when you were around Matthew. You knew he was ill."

"Do something," Francis pleads, throwing his head back against his pillows. "Make it stop. You don't care that your husband of thirteen years is sick as a dog and needs your aid?"

Arthur shrugs his shoulders, feigning apathy.

"Arthur! You vowed to be by my side in sickness and in health!"

"I did, didn't I? Well, I guess I can't turn back time now," Arthur jokes darkly before feeling the man's forehead, disinfecting the thermometer he now has to carry with him at all times, and sliding it under Francis's tongue. "I'll bring up your breakfast. Keep the thermometer in your mouth until I return."

Francis makes a noise to show he understands, and Arthur treks downstairs to get the final tray of food. He's going to be running to and fro a lot today, it seems, and it reminds him of the work he does at the hospital and how on some days, he hardly gets the chance to sit down for even a minute during his twelve-hour (sometimes longer) shift.

"Dad!" he hears Matthew shout on his way back, and he hastily heads over to the boys' room again, depositing Francis's breakfast on the nearest side-table for a moment.

"Yes?" he asks as he walks in, but he doesn't need any clarification because Alfred is now sitting on the edge of the bed, pale and shivering with even more vigor than before. He's going to be sick.

Quickly, Arthur leads the boy out of the room, down the hall, and into the bathroom. Within seconds, Alfred's head is hanging over the toilet, and Arthur rubs circles into his back, trying to soothe him even though his efforts don't seem to be doing much.

Alfred sobs in between his retching and coughing, and when his stomach calms, he leans back into Arthur's arms and presses his head against his chest, seeking warmth and security.

"Shh, shhh," Arthur whispers, brushing his hair back and cleaning up his face and mouth with a dampened washcloth.

"I t-tried to eat breakfast," Alfred says pitifully as Arthur hugs him and pulls him closer. He's still burning up.

"It's all right, my boy. Let's get you back into bed, and then we can try to bring that fever down. I also want to check your blood sugar."

He helps the boy up, escorts him back to the room, makes sure he's as comfortable as he can be given the situation, and places a cold compress on his head. He doesn't know if Alfred will be able to hold down any medication, but it's worth a try, so after running another wet cloth over the boy's arms and legs, he coaxes him into drinking a syrup for the fever and another for his terrible cough. Alfred takes the medicine without much of a fuss, and he must truly feel awful if he doesn't even have the energy to complain.

"Take small sips of water every few minutes, love. It's very important, even though you feel nauseous."

Alfred nods his head weakly, and Arthur goes about getting everything he needs to check the child's blood sugar—if the boy's type 1 diabetes starts causing problems, he wants to catch it early and be able to nip it in the bud as soon as possible.

"Arthuuuuuur!" Francis suddenly calls him, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"One moment!"

"I need you!"

"I said, one moment!" Arthur growls, sterilizing Alfred's index finger with an alcohol wipe.

"Papa's sick, too?" Matthew asks from the other side of the bedroom.

"Yes, and he's going to be a thorn in my side for the foreseeable future...Hold still, poppet…"

Fortunately, Alfred is used to being poked and prodded by now, and he only flinches slightly at the finger-stick before Arthur places his bleeding finger on the awaiting test strip. The glucometer makes a chiming noise, and Arthur is pleased to see the reading is normal—a solid 95 milligrams per deciliter, which is good even by non-diabetic standards.

"Arthur!"

"I'm coming!" Arthur shouts back, frustrated. He holds the alcohol wipe to Alfred's finger for another few seconds to ensure the bleeding has stopped and cleans up his supplies. Once everything has been put in its rightful place, he washes his hands in the bathroom, picks up Francis's breakfast tray again, and goes back into the master bedroom.

"Finally! Where were you?" Francis moans dramatically.

"I was tending to the boys. I thought I told you to keep the thermometer in your mouth until I came back."

"Oui, but you were gone for twenty minutes!"

"I'm sorry, but I can't be in two places at once," Arthur sighs, taking the thermometer from his husband before handing him his food. "The tea is probably cold by now. I'll make a fresh cup for you…Your temperature is 100.3—you're going to be fine."

"My head aches."

"I'll bring you some ibuprofen."

He treks down the stairs once more, fills the kettle in the kitchen with more water and brings it to a boil, makes a new, piping hot mug of tea with extra honey, gets the ibuprofen tablets out of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and brings both the medicine and the tea to Francis before he can start howling about how he's dying again. Almost immediately after he's done, he hears the sorrowful call of "Dad!" ringing from the boys' room for the second time.

"What's wrong?" he asks, poking his head into the room.

Matthew holds up an empty box of tissues, and Arthur takes it from him before going off on a search for a new box. He finds a whole stash in the storage closet by the front door along with the humidifier he'd promised to set up earlier. He cleans the humidifier thoroughly, fills it to the top with water, and brings his treasures back to the boys. He places his spoils on the nightstand between the boys' beds so they can have access to them and plugs the humidifier into the outlet in the wall. A moment later, the room is filled with a soft humming noise as steam begins to emit from it. Hopefully, it'll do wonders for the boys' nasal and chest congestion.

"Let me know if you boys need anything else, all right? I'll be checking in every once in a while. Try to rest," Arthur assures his sons as he takes their now abandoned breakfast trays. Matthew seems to have managed to eat half of his meal. Alfred, on the other hand, barely touched it, but now that he's already vomited once, he's not going to press him on the issue for the time being.

"Dad?" Alfred asks.

"Mmm?"

"My throat still hurts… I don't want that spray again though—it was gross."

Arthur frowns and puts both of his hands on the sides of the boy's neck, feeling his lymph nodes—they're definitely swollen. He sweeps out of the room again, takes yet another trip to the kitchen, and returns with a bag of lozenges. He hands the boy two of them. "Here, perhaps this'll be better. You can have two every four hours."

He leaves two on the nightstand for Matthew as well, should he decide he would like some, and when he runs out of things to do, he lets the boys continue resting and takes a breather of his own on the living room couch. Finally, a moment to collect his thoughts and—

His cellphone rings. That had better not be anyone from work. Don't these people understand he's on vacation?

He checks the caller ID, and to his surprise, it's Gilbert Beilschmidt.

"Hello?"

"Kirkland—I mean—Arthur! I forget first names are a commonplace thing outside of the hospital. How's it going? Can you believe my brother canceled our fishing trip because of a little, itsy-bitsy bit of rain? Who does he think he is?"

Arthur rolls his eyes because that's the only reaction he can muster. "Gilbert, there's a torrential downpour outside. I'd hardly call that a little rain."

"But what's it gonna do? Scare the fish away? They're lovin' the extra water! We could've grabbed an umbrella and still gone… Anyway, now I'm stuck at home with nothing to do on my vacation. Can you believe it? Oh! By the way, how's the kiddo doing? Any better?"

"Unfortunately, no, and now Francis and Alfred have caught it as well."

"What?" Gilbert gasps. "The whole family is sick? How about you? How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine for now. Everything is under control so far," Arthur says wearily, and as soon as he says that, he can hear Alfred calling for him in the distance. "Spoke too soon. Alfred needs me. I apologize, but I really can't talk now—I have my hands full."

"Wait! Are you sure everything is under control? Do you need an extra pair of hands? It's not like I'm doing anything today anyway."

"That's very kind of you, but you're on vacation, and I wouldn't bother you with my personal matters now."

"Bother me? It's not a bother! The awesome Dr. Beilschmidt is always ready to work. Besides, your kiddos could never be a bother—they're great," Gilbert insists. "Look, Arthur, if I know you like I think I know you, you're going to drive yourself into the ground from exhaustion taking care of everyone on your own. Let me lend a hand. I want to help, and I'm not taking no for an answer. I can be there in an hour."

"Gilbert, it's really not—"

"See you then!"

The line goes dead, and Arthur groans as he stows his phone back into his pocket. What has he gotten himself into?

He should never have answered the call.

"Matt? Are you sleeping?"

"Not anymore," Matthew mumbles with a yawn and a sleepy glare, feet poking out from underneath his blanket as he tries to get comfortable again so he can go back to sleep.

"I'm bored. Can I put on the TV?"

"Do I get to pick what we watch?"

"No... Fine, can I find something we both like?"

"Okay."

They settle on a superhero movie, but their constant sniffling and coughing make it hard to focus. Alfred grimaces every time he misses part of the storyline because he either has to sneeze or because Matthew is blowing his nose. They think about maybe going back to sleep after all, but it's hard to sleep when they feel hot and restless with fever. When the commercial break comes on, the doorbell rings, saving them from their fit of boredom as they both start to wonder who might be visiting.

Did Papa order something online again? If so, Dad's going to yell at him for buying "useless rubbish we don't need," and Papa will say it was on sale and came with free shipping, so it was worth it.

Alfred volunteers to get up and see what's happening, but before he can move, the door swings open all of the way and the brief mystery solves itself.

"Hallo, munchkins! The awesome Dr. Beilschmidt is making a house call today," Gilbert announces as he leans against the doorway. It's weird seeing him in a black t-shirt and torn up jeans instead of in his usual dress shirt, tie, slacks, and white coat. He does have his stethoscope draped around his neck, though. "A little birdie told me we've got an enterovirus on the loose."

"I need to do my rounds again," Dad says, joining Gilbert's side.

"Okay, but save some fun for me. Who's first?"

"Matthew!" Alfred shouts, much to his brother's dismay.

Matthew withdraws into the safety of his nest of blankets, looking as though he'd like to disappear. He doesn't like having the spotlight on him, no matter what the reason is. He rubs at his raw nose, sniffles, and it appears like he might start crying again—or maybe it's just the fever making his eyes watery.

"I don't bite, promise! Well, except for that one time at the dentist's—" Gilbert says, winking at Matthew and managing to get a small laugh out of him. He sits down on the edge of his bed and asks, "What's hurtin' ya kid?"

"My head and my throat," Matthew says very softly, holding a tissue up to his nose, which has been running nonstop for the past few hours now.

"You've got a headache, sore throat, and runny nose trifecta going on, huh? Good thing you've got Doctor Dad here and now me to kick the virus' butt. You know what's the best cure for a virus?"

"No, what?" Matthew asks, pushing his blanket away from his face as his curiosity makes him braver.

"This…" Gilbert says cryptically before assaulting his underarms with tickles.

Matthew giggles and tries to swat at Gilbert's hands, but the man doesn't stop until Matthew is almost breathless from laughter and there are happy tears in his eyes.

"Laughter and an apple a day—those are the tricks to staying out of the doctor's office," Gilbert insists, ruffling Matthew's hair for good measure. "Don't forget it."

Dad then takes Matthew's temperature, and as he's doing that, Gilbert skips over toward Alfred next, suddenly looking grave and grim. "I thought I told you you're not allowed to get sick, so what are you doing all cooped up in this bed, huh?"

"It's not my fault," Alfred whines as a stern hand presses against his forehead.

"Hmm… Oh, no," Gilbert says, eyes widening. He picks up Alfred's right arm and inspects it carefully. "I hope this isn't what it looks like."

"What? What's wrong?"

"The virus may have traveled to your funny bone, and when your funny bone is sick, you can never laugh again."

From across the room, Dad snorts but doesn't say anything, back turned as he holds the thermometer in Matthew's mouth.

"Really?" Alfred asks, skeptical.

"Yup. I've seen plenty of kids who had to get their funny bones replaced… I need to do some tests to find out how bad this is," Gilbert explains before setting his stethoscope on Alfred's forearm and listening intently. "Just as I thought. It may be too late."

Alfred stiffens as Gilbert removes the stethoscope, legitimately worried. "So, what's gonna happen to me?"

"We can try to fix it, but to do that, I need you to go through some exercises with me. Repeat after me, 'Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked.'"

"Peter Piper picked a pickle—agh!"

Gilbert frowns. "That's a bad sign. We may need to operate right here."

"What?"

"There's no other way. Right, Arthur?"

Dad takes the thermometer out of Matthew's mouth, raises both of his brows, and says with a straight face, "Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Let me just get my scalpel so we can get this over with," Gilbert says.

"No!" Alfred shouts, jumping out of bed, and that's when both Matthew and Dad start laughing at his expense. "I'll never laugh again, just don't cut me open!"

Gilbert bites his lip to contain his own smile. "Okay, okay… Relax, kid. Your funny bone is just fine," he assures, coaxing Alfred back into bed. Joke's over. "You're gonna be all right."

Alfred's pride is hurt by being the brunt of everyone's amusement, and, as a result, he crosses his arms and pouts. "That wasn't funny."

"I'm sorry for scaring you," Gilbert chuckles, stepping aside as Dad comes over to take his place so he can check Alfred's temperature next.

"It's lower—the medication is doing its job," Dad says when the reading is done. "I'll bring you boys some more water."

"Arthuuuuuur!"

Dad smiles dryly and tells Gilbert, "That's Francis. He's feeling neglected today. Can you handle things here for a moment while I check in on him?"

"Sure, that's what I'm here for!"

As soon as Dad leaves the room, Gilbert turns toward the boys, grins at them, and says, "Okay, who wants to hear an awesome story about how I saved a three-month-old baby's life last week?"

Crickets…

"You guys are no fun," Gilbert huffs, skulking off to fetch that water Dad had mentioned earlier.

"I'm here to cater to your every whim now. Your wish is my command," Arthur says as he crawls into bed next to Francis, one hand reaching up to feel his head. He's clearly envious that the boys are receiving more of his doctoring and that there isn't an equal distribution of care. "Any better?"

"Non, I'm still dying, and now you've invited Gilbert, so I'm going to die twice as fast."

"Gilbert may prove to be useful, and you don't feel as warm as you did before."

Francis makes an unintelligible noise and rises unsteadily to his feet, wincing at the pain in his sinuses.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"To check on the boys," Francis mutters.

"That's what Gilbert and I are doing. The boys are fine."

"Mathieu will want me to sing to him."

"He's nine, Francis."

"Exactly. He needs his papa."

"I can see there's no reasoning with you," Arthur surrenders, watching Francis disappear into the hallway. At least he's willing to be up and about again—a good indicator of some progress.

Now that he's alone in the bed, he's made aware of how nice it would be to lie back and take a quick nap. His head twinges a little—he must be getting a migraine from the commotion. He shuts his eyes for a moment and swallows against his dry throat, reimagining that cruise in the Caribbean and how he would step off of the ship to plod along the shoreline before lying in the warm, off-white sand of the beach. He'd have one of those drinks with the colorful parasols in them. Someone would ask him, "how are you?", and he'd be able to say, "wonderful, and you?" They'd talk about something mindless for a minute, and then they'd leave, and he'd pick up a book, preferably something by Jane Austen or H.G. Wells if he were feeling particularly idiosyncratic.

"Arthur?"

He jolts and snaps his eyes open. "Yes? What's going on?"

It's Gilbert. "Sorry, just wondered where you went. You've been gone for a while."

"A while?" he asks, rubbing his face.

"Yeah, almost two hours. Francis is feeling better and made the kiddos some lunch."

Two hours? He was asleep for nearly two hours?

"Ah, I see…Well…My apologies for disappearing so suddenly," he murmurs, sitting up. How irresponsible of him to doze off like that.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes, of course."

Except, now that he thinks about it, his throat does feel a tad scratchy and his migraine hasn't gone away.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, don't be ridiculous."

He tells himself not to succumb. This is nothing he can't handle. The boys and Francis need him to be healthy so he can tend to them, and this is no time to be resting. Instead, it's time to go around and check everyone's vitals again.

When he has to stifle a sneeze into the crook of his arm ten minutes later, he writes it off as a dust allergy. He's fine. Better than fine. Fantastic, even. He's on vacation, and he's just dandy.

If he repeats it enough times, he'll convince himself eventually.