"Dad? We're almost at the hospital."

He's rocked from side to side in the back of a truck, and every bump in the road feels like someone is carving his chest like a pumpkin. There's a hand around his, small but reassuring, and the little touch takes away the worst of the pain, even though he will never admit it. It's nice to know he's not alone—that Alfred is with him and there's a reason for him to keep calm.

Still, he hardly has the strength to speak, and it isn't until he's placed on a stretcher that he realizes the severity of the situation he's in. Someone has changed him into a clean set of clothes, but his wound hasn't been properly dressed, and Arthur knows this is a cause for worry. He tugs down his collar and steals a quick look at the gruesome mess of caked blood and sand. The skin around the entire left side of his chest is already turning an angry shade of scarlet, and it's hot to the touch.

"Infection," he declares, because hearing the word aloud makes him more alert. He needs to stay focused, and the rational part of his mind is ringing alarm bells while the irrational part tries to coax him back to sleep. "A-Antibiotics."

Thankfully, Alfred is all ears as he stands beside the stretcher and squeezes his hand. It's meant as a gentle reminder to his father that he will not leave him. "What do I do?'

"Call one of the doctors," Arthur says in between ragged breaths. He's pretty sure he's running a fever, and it explains why he's clammy all over. He thinks he might be able to coach Alfred through bandaging the wound if need be, but he's spared the thought when a Thai doctor strolls in a few seconds later, spectacled and beaming with optimism.

Arthur counts his lucky stars when he discovers that the man speaks English, and things don't seem so bleak anymore. He explains the predicament and within minutes, there's an IV in the crook of his arm that pumps a round of cephalexin into his veins. When that's taken care of, the doctor takes his leave because there are dozens of others that he must tend to, and thus, Arthur is essentially left to treat himself.

He accepts the challenge.

There are hundreds of poor souls in the hospital, all pouring in with different ailments, and Arthur will not use up the precious time of the staff if he can manage on his own.

"Alfred, I need you to find me some gauze, an elastic bandage, surgical tape, and maybe an antiseptic spray. Check the cabinets and drawers around the rooms or ask a nurse."

"Okay, I'll be back."

When Alfred heads off on the reconnaissance mission, Arthur is finally able to clear his mind. He thinks about Francis, Matthew, and all of the victims in this hospital and how it kills him to know that he isn't capable of doing a single thing to help. He's a doctor. He should be up and about and saving lives, but instead, he can't move a muscle. His body is still going through shock, and so, he pulls up the sheets he's been covered with to his neck, doing his best to stay warm. Ideally, he could use a blood transfusion, but he doubts anyone will go through the trouble of giving him one unless he's nearly comatose.

He takes a good look around. The place looks more like a factory than a hospital, considering how the patients' beds are lined up in neat rows throughout the large, warehouse-esque room. To his right is a young woman, talking to herself in her sleep. To his left is his IV line, and a little boy who can't go five minutes without being sick in his bedpan.

Alfred is back surprisingly quickly, and he drops the things he's found by Arthur's feet. It's everything he's asked for and more.

"Thank you, love. Hand me the spray first."

The boy gives him the canister, and Arthur shakes it as best as he can before he exposes the wound and sucks in an anticipatory breath. He makes sure to spray every bit of the injury, and even though it hurts like hell, it's a job that has to be done. He stifles a groan when a flash of pain forces him to squeeze his eyes shut, and Alfred hovers over him, waiting to see what will happen next.

The worst of the burning sensation passes, and then Arthur knows he must relinquish the rest of the work to Alfred. "Lad, fold the gauze into a square, and tape it onto the wound. It looks worse than it is."

Understandably, Alfred is reluctant at first, mostly because he doesn't want to end up doing more harm than good but also because blood makes him squeamish. He can faint at the sight of it, but Arthur trusts that the boy will push through his fear.

"Come on, love. It's just like when I fix your scrapes," Arthur tells him, gasping through each breath he takes. It is becoming harder and harder to breathe. "Be careful now…"

Alfred is as gentle as he can be, and although his patchwork is a tad sloppy, it suffices. His hands shake when he coils the elastic bandage around Arthur's torso, and Arthur showers him with praise to soothe them both.

"Well done. Don't make it too snug… That should be tight enough. Thank you, poppet," Arthur rasps when Alfred finishes, blinking through a haze of vertigo.

"Dad?"

"Yes, love? It's all right. Don't look so troubled."

"Are you going to be okay?"

Arthur's lips split into a crooked grin between his fits of huffing and puffing. "Of course I will be."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise," Arthur coughs, dragging himself into a reclined position to ease the stress on his lungs. "It'll take more than a cut to keep me down."

Alfred opens his mouth to reply, but then the boy to the left vomits again, and Arthur is suddenly reminded of their flight. That could easily be his Matthew in the bed beside him, crying, miserable, nauseous, and needing an adult to make it better.

He must do something to help.

With a small moan of discomfort, he stumbles out of bed and walks over to the Thai boy, fingers wandering to the child's wrist to check his pulse.

"Dad, what are you doing? You need to rest. The doctor said—" Alfred says helplessly, tears running down his cheeks. "P-Please, you're going to make yourself worse."

"It's okay," Arthur murmurs back to him before lightly pinching the skin of the Thai child's hand to check its turgor. It becomes clear that he's very dehydrated, and Arthur already knows what's causing it. With some IV fluids and rest, he will be fine, but no one has bothered to check up on him, and his tongue is so dry that it resembles sandpaper.

He takes the stand of his own IV line in hand and makes his way down the row of beds, scanning the place for a heplock and needle, but the hospital is so crowded and disorganized that the task becomes more difficult than he initially thought it would be.

Then, his doctor from before spots him and cuts his scavenger hunt short, arms flailing and optimism waning. "Sir, what are you doing? Go back to your bed."

"There's a boy—he needs an IV drip. I can do it, just give me the supplies."

"Ah, you are some kind of American doctor? You think you can come in here and do my job?"

Arthur wrinkles his nose at the mix-up. "I'm English."

"What's the difference?"

"Look, I don't give a rat's arse about the authority that you think you have or your ego. There's a boy dying over there, and it's obvious that you are understaffed. Now, either you can let me help, or you can let that child die from cholera. It's your choice."

The Thai doctor stares him down, and when he sees they are getting nowhere, he sighs and points to what looks like a storage closet next to a makeshift nurses' station. "You will find everything you need over there."

A curt nod is exchanged, and then Arthur bolts into action, ignoring the searing burn in his lungs. In minutes, he is back by the child's side with a bag of IV fluids and everything else he needs to start the drip.

"Dad, you need to lie down," Alfred chirps again, sitting at the foot of Arthur's empty bed.

"In a moment, Alfred."

And even though he's feeling a tad dizzy, Arthur is certain he can insert an IV in his sleep. Still, it's best if he takes his time, because he isn't going to be of any help if he botches everything up.

The boy doesn't seem to speak English, but Arthur mumbles soft words to him anyway, hoping his tone will be somewhat reassuring despite the language barrier. Then, he readies a needle and finds a good vein on the back of the boy's right hand.

"This'll sting a little."

It's smooth sailing from there, and when Arthur is sure that the IV isn't infiltrated, he finally goes back to his own bed and lies down before Alfred can have a panic attack.

His son frowns at him, and Arthur finds it rather amusing.

"You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did."

"But why?"

"Because when you have the chance to help someone, you should."

Alfred lies next to him, and Arthur cleans the tears off of his face and combs his hair back with his hands. The boy doesn't seem to know what to say, so they just stay there together, listening to the clamor of the medical staff bustling back and forth.

The Thai child has eased into a peaceful sleep, and Alfred smiles at him, butterflies flapping their wings in his stomach.

This is why he loves his father.

"ARTHUR? ALFRED?"

Papa's voice echoes against the darkening sky, and it makes Matthew quiver because he doesn't like it when Papa shouts, especially not when his tone is so forlorn and panicky. His father is pacing back and forth, and even though he's checked the ruined resort three times for the other half of their family, he isn't ready to admit defeat. He has overturned all of the dank smithereens, screamed his voice raw, and cried through his entire search, and Matthew wishes he would just stop because it hurts to keep watching him.

There are others in the search group, and when the sun had first started to set, Papa had managed to get his hands on a working cellphone. He'd tried to call Dad, and the other line rang once, twice, and then three times before going to voicemail. It was no use.

Now, Papa is even more frantic. He won't stand in one spot for too long, and Matthew can tell he's coming up with a backup plan.

"Mathieu," Papa walks over to him after another twenty minutes of searching. The stars have come out, and they're sparkling above their heads. "Alfred and Arthur might be in one of the hospitals around here. I will keep looking. I want you to go up the mountain with the other search party. They will take care of you and bring you to the shelter there, okay?"

His worst fear has come true. He's being left behind.

Fresh tears cloud his eyes, and he throws his arms around Papa's neck, afraid he will disappear too. "No! Don't leave me here alone, Papa! What if I can't find you again? What if—?"

"Shhh, Mathieu. I will be back tomorrow or the day after. I will come back for you."

"No! I won't let you!" he screeches, pounding his fist against Papa's chest. "I want to go with you!"

"Mathieu…"

"Don't leave me!"

"Be brave for Papa."

"I can't be brave!"

Papa sighs and leans down to give him a kiss, but it's not comforting. He lets Matthew cry himself out for a little while, and as they stand there on the beach, feet sinking in the sand, he picks up an orange seashell and warms it in his palm. It's quite pretty, and when Matthew hushes his sobbing somewhat, Papa presses the seashell into the boy's hand and kisses him again.

"Hold onto this shell, and whenever you feel lonely or scared, you can think of me and know that I am with you."

No, no, no. He won't let Papa trick him like this.

"Papa, they're gone. Forever."

It pains him to say it, but it's a last ditch effort to convince Papa that there's no point in leaving—that he can search the whole ocean, and still, he will not find what he's looking for.

Papa draws in a hitched breath and gnashes his teeth. "I need to know for certain, you know that."

"Please…"

"Be a good lapin and stay with the group. I have to go—everyone else is waiting for me."

Papa uncurls Matthew's fingers from where they are buried in his t-shirt and, after one final embrace, he gets in the truck with the others. Matthew screams for him to come back and chases after him, but he can't keep up, and Papa vanishes into the twilight.

He drops the orange shell that's still in his hands and stomps on it with his foot until it shatters.

Now he is left with nothing.

After his previous confrontation with Dad, the headstrong Thai doctor is the definition of pleasant by morning, and he makes sure Arthur is well tended to. He sets the Englishman on supplemental oxygen, and does periodic rounds, often asking if there is anything else he can get him.

But by midday, his brows crease together and he says something the thing that's been on Arthur's groggy mind for hours.

"I think you may be resistant to the antibiotic. The infection only seems to be getting worse, and it's attacking your lungs. We will try a new medication."

Arthur readily agrees. He doesn't feel much better, and he'll try anything to get Alfred to stop fussing over him. The boy barely eats the food he's offered, and he doesn't dare to leave Arthur's bedside for even a second unless Arthur asks him to bring him something. He appreciates the company, of course, but he worries that the boy will spiral into a state of depression at this rate. They need to at least try to keep their spirits up.

When Alfred asks him how he's feeling, he lies, and although he feels guilty for it, he knows it is for the best.

A nurse walks over to switch his IV bag, and Arthur makes up tall tales for Alfred as a way to pass the time. Most of them involve knights and fairy godmothers and princes who save the kingdom from peril.

He's halfway through telling one such tale when there's a tickle in his throat. It isn't much at first, just an irritation that he tries to cough away, but then, he can feel his muscles clamping down and his heart stutter with terror. His face goes red, his eyes water, and he can't catch his breath. A strangled wheeze leaves his mouth, followed by a sickeningly gurgle.

Alfred's hands are on his shoulders in an instant, and the boy chokes back sobs as he tries to figure out what's wrong.

And god damn it all, because Arthur didn't come this far just to walk right into Death's arms. Not here. Not in front of Alfred. Not like this, or he'll be rolling in his grave for eternity.

He tears out his IV, and with all of the energy he has left, he looks to Alfred's blue eyes, wondering if this is the last time he will see them. He wants to wipe away his tears and kiss his head. He wants Francis and Matthew to be here so that they can tell the boy that everything will work itself out—that it isn't the end of the world if Arthur isn't a part of it anymore. It's a terrible thought, but there's so much he wants to say just in case this is it—just in case he dies of damning anaphylaxis. The medication he hoped would save him may now ruin him.

Flucloxacillin. Bloody flucloxacillin—an allergy he never knew he had.

"Epi—" he whispers, relying on a thin stream of air to stay conscious. "Epi—"

Miraculously, this dual-syllabic fragment is enough. Alfred, bless his soul, knows what this means from all of the stories Arthur has told at the dinner table regarding his practice. He soars to the nurses' station and returns with two doctors, absolutely hysterical with anxiety.

A pinch in the side of his thigh lets Arthur know that he's been given epinephrine, and once that's done, another injection with a fast-acting anti-histamine it sent through his bloodstream.

It takes a minute, but Arthur's airways open up again, and he sags with exhaustion.

"Dad? Say something."

"No more flucloxacillin."

Alfred tries to laugh but ends up crying harder instead and buries his head in Arthur's neck. "You're okay now?"

"Yes, I'm okay."

"Don't do that again."

"I don't plan to," Arthur mutters, his fear ebbing. "Thank-you, Alfred. You're a clever boy for realizing the urgency of the situation."

"Well, you taught me that… You and Papa always—never mind," Alfred stops himself. He's said too much, and he's reopening raw wounds. He cannot mention Papa or Mattie, at least not until Arthur is better. "Maybe you should go to sleep. I'll—I'll be here if you need anything."

It's strange. Arthur knows he's the one who's supposed to be consoling Alfred, not the other way around, but with the current circumstances in mind, he supposes he can let the tables be turned for today.

"I'm so proud of you."

When Alfred's sure his father has fallen asleep, he puts his head in his hands and weeps.

There are other children like him, ones that are traveling on their own without a destination.

They're a tough bunch, and it's hard for Matthew to let himself be sad in front of them, especially when he knows that many of them are worse off. The children that come into the shelter are often malnourished, underdressed, and sick with one disease or another. Sometimes, they are as young as two or three years old, and when these little ones cry, Matthew can feel his brotherly instincts kick in. More than once, he's held a toddler in his lap and sang his Papa's lullabies to them. Usually, it is enough to put them to sleep for an hour before they start crying again.

He remembers times when he and Alfred used to tell ghost stories under the covers late at night. They thought they had been sneaky for staying up way past their bedtime, but Dad caught them once on his way to the bathroom and made them go to bed early for the rest of the week. Of course, by then, they'd been so scared that "Bloody Mary" was going to appear in their bedroom mirror or that the ghost of Papa's grandfather was going to possess them after playing around with their Ouija board that they were happy to go to sleep as soon as the sun went down.

Matthew appreciates Dad and Papa's house rules now. He wants them to walk through the entrance of the shelter, gather him in their arms, and yell at him for being away from them for so long. He wants to be grounded. He wants to do extra chores and go without dessert. He'll go along with all of it as long as his parents come back.

He wants to fight with Alfred over the T.V. remote and call him stupid for putting on the annoying cartoons instead of the good ones. Burger King is still better than McDonalds. He wants to smack Alfred upside his unruly head of hair for mixing up their toothbrushes and not bothering to refill the toilet paper in the bathroom.

But most of all, he wants to catch Alfred in a chokehold and tell him how dumb and infuriating he is. He'll tell him how much he hates him and how he has corrupted his childhood because he could've grown up to become a normal boy if not for him. He's insufferable and spoiled. He's an attention-seeking moocher and a crybaby because he secretly loves it when Papa and Dad fuss over him.

He is the worst brother on the face of the planet—a complete terror even during his better days.

And yet, they are still brothers whether they are pleased with the arrangement or not, and Matthew begrudgingly loves him. He loves it when Alfred plays with his vegetables during dinner and sticks baby carrots up his nose just to make Matthew laugh after a bad day. He loves him when he gets Daddy to loosen up by throwing himself onto his back and trying to wrestle. He loves when he impersonates Papa by mimicking his walk and doing an impeccable French accent.

And when Matthew got a pesky splinter in his foot last week, Alfred had been the one to hold his hand and cheer him up while Daddy pulled it out with a pair of scary-looking tweezers.

But Alfred is gone now, and Matthew doesn't want to think of what horrible things may have happened to him. As much as he is a good big brother for the children at the shelter, Matthew needs his own brother by his side to comfort him. He needs Alfred to slap his back and flash him a cheeky grin. He wants Alfred to sit with him and rub his head. Together, they are invincible.

Without him, he can't find his own strength.

Dad is not getting better—that much is clear.

He can't hold down solid food, needs to be on supplemental oxygen 'round the clock, and his fever is so high that his eyes are all watery and bloodshot. Alfred doesn't know if the medicine isn't working, or if it's simply not strong enough. The hospital is running on limited supplies, and judging by how infrequently Dad's IV bag gets changed, Alfred guesses that whatever he's being given is the last of the stuff they have in reserve. Not even the Thai doctor is of any use anymore.

The place is so packed that even opening the window behind Dad's bed doesn't make the stuffiness go away. Everyone is either coughing, groaning, or calling for a doctor, and the chaos makes Alfred's head spin. He had helped Dad change his bandages earlier in the day, and they'd been soaked with sweat and disgusting pus. He isn't surprised that his father isn't recovering when it's so hot in the hospital that Alfred himself has to strain to breathe.

"Say you'll be okay," Alfred tells Dad even though his eyes are glazed over and he's a little delirious. "You have to get better so we can look for Papa and Matthew and go home together."

"Home," Dad parrots him with a tired groan.

"Yeah, home. We're going to go home when you feel better. Maybe Papa and Mattie are waiting for us."

"Home," Dad says again, and Alfred bites his tongue to keep from crying.

"I'll get us home somehow, Dad. We're going home."

It's his turn to protect Dad.