Be strong. Be firm.

Francis is in charge today, which means a number of things. For starters, as early as eight o'clock on a Saturday morning, the boys manage to take advantage of his lenient breakfast regulations by dumping half a bottle of maple syrup on their waffles when his back is turned, something which would never happen under Arthur's watch. Unbeknownst to him, he's somehow established himself as the fun, easy-going parent—a reputation which he doesn't entirely mind, so long as the boys don't get the wrong idea and expect him to act like a pushover.

Today is his opportunity to prove he can be just as tough as his husband. Arthur's earned himself a day off from parenting duties and work, seeing as he's down with a stuffy nose and a bad headache, which means Francis must maintain control and order until the man is well again. How hard can it be?

He wouldn't have even known about Arthur's poor health if he hadn't caught him swallowing ibuprofen and stifling sneezes in the bathroom earlier that same morning. After a round of quarreling, Francis had miraculously convinced him to stay indoors, something he would not have been able to accomplish had Arthur not felt miserable enough to oblige.

So now, he's on his own, ready to showcase his abilities. First, he plans to take the boys to the park, so Matthew can learn to ride his bike once and for all. Then, they'll go out for lunch, have a scintillating discussion about life, and return home, where Francis will get to work on making dinner and, if time permits, help nurse Arthur back to health so all can be swell once more.

Even though breakfast didn't go quite as he would have wanted, the whole day is still ahead of them, and Francis has high hopes. Very high hopes.

After clearing the table of sticky plates doused in maple syrup, he makes sure the boys put on their sweaters to ward off the autumn chill. Alfred squirms and stomps about, not enthusiastic about having to wear his hoodie.

"We don't want you to catch a cold, do we?" Francis reasons with him. "Look what happened to your father."

Fortunately, Alfred relents, and just as they're all crossing the threshold to leave the house, Arthur comes padding down the stairs in a wrinkled t-shirt and flannel pants. He doesn't appear to be too worse for wear, aside from being a shade paler than usual.

"Are you sure you can manage both boys?" Arthur asks, and Francis makes a derisive noise.

"What kind of question is that? I can watch over my children, but I won't be watching over you if you collapse from overworking yourself. Go to bed."

Arthur shakes his head and frowns. "Did you remember to—?"

"Go and sleep. The boys are better-behaved than you are," Francis snaps, waving a hand for Arthur to go upstairs.

"Bring Alfred's—"

"Goodbye, Arthur. Everything will be fine."

He and the boys walk out the door before the man can get the chance to continue fretting, effectively ignoring his concerns.

That's his first mistake of the day. Rule number one: Arthur almost always has a valid point.

Alfred begins acting up as soon as they reach the park, murmuring half-words to himself as Francis tries to absently quiet him. It works temporarily—just long enough for Francis to forget it was a problem in the first place. His full effort is extended to Matthew as the boy climbs onto his bike and tries to get a feel for it.

"Now, Mathieu, remember to sit up straight and find your center of balance," Francis explains as Alfred stands to the side and starts murmuring to himself again, visibly bothered. "And when you feel like you've steadied yourself, start pedaling slowly."

Matthew bites his tongue in concentration and tries to follow the advice, but it's not as easy as it sounds. There's a lot of wobbling involved, and Francis does his best to be encouraging the entire time, even though he can sense Matthew's fear of falling or crashing. He places a hand on the boy's back to support him, and when Matthew's confident he won't tumble sideways right away, he begins to pedal forward while Francis jogs alongside him, still holding him steady.

"Oui. That's excellent, mon chou," Francis praises, grinning. "At this rate, you'll be competing in the Tour de France in no time!"

Alfred, having been left a few yards behind, but still in Francis's line of sight, finds the distance between them upsetting, and he lets out a series of cries of complaint, at which point Papa is forced to turn around.

It's his second mistake. Rule number two: Never leave a child midway through a task.

The hand he has on Matthew's back slips away for a second, and within moments of him being distracted by Alfred, Matthew leans too far forward and loses his balance before toppling onto the dirt path hard enough for the breath to be torn out of his lungs.

"Mathieu!"

The boy doesn't dare to move, but when he sees a bit of blood well up and ooze over his scraped palms, he wails shamelessly, too shaken to get up.

Francis swiftly lifts him into a standing position, brushes the dirt off of his jeans, and kisses the boy's forehead, thanking his lucky stars that Matthew had his helmet on. "I'm so sorry, mon lapin. Let me see…"

He takes Matthew's hands in his and surveys the damage, pleased to see the scrapes are superficial and nothing that would require more serious attention. "We'll put bandages on the cuts at home. Don't cry."

Matthew sniffles, and Francis gives him another kiss, this time on his knuckles, trying to chase away some of the pain. He stops crying, but as soon as he has calmed, Alfred picks up from where his brother left off.

Francis clicks his tongue, sweeps over to Alfred to put a hand on his trembling shoulder, and tries to figure out what's wrong this time. "Be a good boy for Papa, and don't cry, Alfred."

"Bunny," Alfred whimpers. "I wan' bunny."

"Bunny? What bunny?"

From in front of them, Matthew scrubs a finger under his puffy eyes and says, "He means his stuffed bunny from home. You didn't bring it, and he always takes it with him when Dad brings us to the park."

Francis knits his brows together and raises them when he recalls the toy. So that's what Arthur was trying to warn him about. "Ahh, I see. You can play with your bunny at home, Alfred."

"Bunny."

"Not now."

"Bunny!" Alfred shouts, fixated on the dilemma.

"I can't get you your bunny now."

Alfred shrieks, signaling a tantrum, and Francis takes in a deep breath and mentally counts down from ten, reminding himself to stay composed. Now he has one son who's injured and another who's equally upset.

He takes one of Alfred's hands and begins to lead the way home because Matthew doesn't seem too keen on giving his bike a second chance at the moment, and Alfred is only going to grow more distraught with time.

And, mon dieu, Francis is tired. He understands now just how much Arthur must have to deal with on his own when he's at work throughout the week. Having a set of extra hands around makes a world of difference, but being alone means having no one to turn to for support.

The madness doesn't end even when they make it through the front door of the house. Alfred's still being dramatic, Matthew's scrapes need to be tended to, and Francis can only deal with one crisis at a time.

A grouchy Arthur comes strolling into the kitchen barely five minutes later, investigating as Francis applies the last bit of antibacterial ointment to Matthew's cuts and wraps them. Arthur quickly notes the widespread hysteria going on and helps out by dealing with Alfred.

"Alfred, look at me," Arthur instructs, voice a little nasally. "Why are you upset?"

"I wan' bunny!"

"That's what I thought," he replies, shooting Francis an I-told-you-so expression. He walks into the living room, locates the infernal bunny that caused this entire mess, and places it into Alfred's awaiting grasp.

"There, now there's no need to cry," Arthur says, pausing to clear his scratchy throat. When Alfred has been satisfied, Arthur directs his attention to Matthew's bandages and jokes wryly, "I leave the boys in your care for a few hours, and you return them to me in physically and emotionally compromised conditions."

"Ha-ha," Francis growls flatly. He can't pretend he doesn't hold some of the blame for this situation, but he needs to state his case before his husband subjects him to a night on the couch. "I didn't want this to happen."

Arthur nods his head and coughs. "I know it can be trying."

"But you somehow do it every day."

"That doesn't mean I don't make mistakes constantly. Don't be so hard on yourself."

He's right. Neither of them are without their flaws.

Francis lets out a tense breath he's been holding for a while and says, "Thank you. I'd kiss you, but I'd rather not share in your virus."

Arthur chuckles and twists his lips into a crooked smirk. "What? You're scared of a few germs?"

"Oui, I'm working on an important project at work, and I can't afford to be ill right now," Francis retorts before setting Matthew on the ground and sending him off to play with Alfred.

"Frankly, I'm offended," Arthur jibes, muffling a sneeze into the crook of his elbow. "I thought you'd want to suffer together."

Francis rolls his eyes and pats Arthur's shoulder. "I'll make some tea for you and lunch for the boys. Are you hungry?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, you're going to eat anyway."

"Yes, mother."

"You're twice as snarky when ill," Francis observes, not terribly pleased with the discovery.

Suddenly, a little figure comes running into the kitchen, bunny at hand and a thumb in his mouth. "Dad?"

"Yes, Alfred?"

Alfred shuffles from foot to foot, eyes unable to settle in one place as he tries to find the right words. "Play?"

"Not at the moment, love. Play with Matthew."

"Matt is," Alfred takes a second to let the rest of the sentence find him, a technique he's been practicing, "doing home—homework."

Arthur directs another sneeze into his sleeve and says, "Perhaps later, then."

It's odd, Francis thinks, that Alfred is far more talkative when Arthur is nearby. He knows more words than he lets on.

"Alfred, how about you come over here and help me with lunch instead?" Francis suggests, eager to spend time with the boy. The extra interaction might do him some good.

Alfred purses his lips, loses his focus for a second, but then fights to get it back and says, "Okay."

"I'll leave you both to it, then," Arthur says, grabbing a wad of tissues off of the counter on his way out. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be upstairs, reading as I wait for this plague to pass."

Once the sound of the man's retreating footsteps fades, Francis smiles at Alfred and murmurs jokingly, "He's a diva, non?"

Alfred flashes him an understanding grin and makes a noise of agreement before getting the bread out of the cupboard for Francis. "Cookie?"

"No, no cookies until you've had lunch. Besides, you haven't been listening to Papa today, and boys that don't listen aren't allowed treats."

"Cookie, please?" Alfred pouts, jutting out his lip cutely. He's using his manners. How can Francis be strict now?

Francis tuts and says, "All right, one cookie."

It's official, he's a pushover. His thoughts are confirmed when Arthur successfully gets Matthew to ride a bike in a single try.

It's the mundane moments that have the most potential for bringing surprises.

"We won't be long. You aren't feeling any worse, are you?"

"I'm fine, Francis."

Matthew needs a new pair of sneakers for school, since he's outgrown his old ones, and with Arthur still on the mend, Francis has volunteered to take the boy to the mall and get some shopping done. He'd rather not leave Arthur alone and in charge of Alfred when he's still unwell, but Alfred's made it clear he doesn't want to go out. In fact, he's been attached to Arthur's hip for over a day now, refusing to leave his side. It's endearing, but also an occasional hassle, seeing as Francis can't get the boy to eat his dinner or take his bath without some pleading.

"Okay," Francis concedes, shrugging into his jacket. "Take care of Daddy for me, Alfred."

And so, Arthur puts on the television in the living room and gets comfortable on the couch while Alfred sits on the carpet in front of him and plays with his action figures. Every now and then, the boy will raise his eyes to look at the TV screen, intrigued by the cheesy soap opera that's on.

"Wait, Harold," Alfred mutters, repeating one of the character's lines. "I was… made to love you."

"I thought this dreadful series ended last season," Arthur huffs, but he's not motivated enough to cross the room to change the channel. Besides, there probably isn't anything much better on at this time.

"Made to love you," Alfred says again, twisting one of the arms of his action figure with a distant expression on his face. "Love you to the moon and back, Alfred."

He's quoting Francis now.

"Moon and back. Made to love you."

"Alfred?"

Alfred breaks out of his daze and looks to him. His eye contact is improving somewhat. "Take care of Daddy."

"Yes, thank you for looking after me, my boy," Arthur encourages him with a fond smile.

Alfred snaps his eyes away again and bites his lower lip. "Daddy… Daddy, made to love you." '

Arthur frowns and tries to decode what the boy is getting at. It's hard to make out what he's saying when his head is bowed and facing the floor.

"To the moon and back. Made to love Daddy."

Oh… Oh.

Arthur chides his sluggish mind for not putting it together sooner. Once again, the boy has rendered him speechless by doing something unprecedented. He's trying to show affection—not unlike the woman on TV and how Francis showers the boys with sweet nothings. He's trying to connect—trying to say "I love you," but unable to say it in the traditional way. He's doing it his way, the Alfred way.

Seven years, and Arthur has never managed to get Alfred to return any gesture or word of affection until now. His throat clamps down on itself as a result. If he wasn't still ridden with this blasted cold, he'd take the boy into his arms and hug him.

"I love you, Alfred, to the moon and back," Arthur tells him hurriedly, trying to let the boy know the feeling is mutual before it's too late. Unfortunately, the words don't seem to register with Alfred, even when he repeats himself. He's in one of his daydreams—lost in a reality Arthur will never be able to fully comprehend.

Arthur sighs, and hopes Alfred knows he's very, very loved. Sometimes, he's not sure he does.

1978

The driveway transforms into a landscape of color before their eyes. Armed with a bucket full of sidewalk chalk and two runaway imaginations, Matthew and Alfred have been busy developing their artistic visions. They're drawing an abstract piece mottled with blue and red streaks that don't really represent anything but look pleasing to the eye nonetheless.

"Needs more red," Matthew says, fishing a stick of scarlet chalk out of the bucket. It's supposed to rain tonight, so they want to finish drawing before all of their efforts are washed away in the drizzle.

"More blue!" Alfred says, coloring excitedly.

"Sure."

It's a team effort, and they're getting along well, especially since Alfred's been communicating more. On some days, it's hard to get him to stop talking.

"You wanna make the purple mountains?" Matthew asks.

"Yeah."

"And let's make the clouds pink like cotton candy."

Alfred nods, and does what he almost always does when he's in a good mood; he sings (much to Matthew's chagrin).

"Ob-la-di, ob-la-da."

Matthew wouldn't be so irritated by it if his brother would at least attempt to sing a different song, but he's starting to tolerate Alfred's strange quirks. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

"Life goes on, brah. La, la, how the life goes on," Matthew adds, unable to contain the feeling of cheer in his heart when he sees Alfred laugh and clap his hands.

"Is he retarded or something?" a voice cuts in, and Matthew jerks his head up.

On the sidewalk, at the end of the driveway, two children hover like wasps. Matthew recognizes them as the brother and sister that live just up the block. The sister, whom Matthew's fairly sure is younger, has a jump rope in her hands. The brother, who looks to be about eleven or twelve, does all of the speaking.

Seething, Matthew quickly gets to his feet and stands in front of Alfred, shielding him.

"What's your problem? Leave us alone," Matthew tells them in what he hopes is a threatening tone. His legs are shaking, but he manages to stay rooted in place.

The brother sneers. He's much larger in stature compared to Matthew. He turns to his sister and says with a cackle, "Careful, Sophie. You don't want to catch the stupid."

"Shut up!" Matthew shouts, and now he's positive everyone can tell he's shaking. "Take it back! D-Don't talk about Alfred like that!"

"They're gonna take him away, you know," the boy goes on, a menacing look in his gray eyes. "As soon as he's older and people see how dangerous he is, they'll lock him up forever."

"You're lying! Alfred isn't dangerous."

"They're gonna do what they did to old General Anderson when he came back crazy from Vietnam—they'll shock his brain, so it becomes normal and—"

"Stop! Stop it!"

"And then he'll be a potato that can't do anything for himself. He won't remember you or your gay parents—"

Matthew gives the older boy an ineffective shove, making matters worse.

The boy raises a fist to strike Matthew back, but he never gets a chance to land the hit because Alfred barrels into him and knocks him to the concrete.

"See? I told you he was a whacko!" the boy screeches, throwing himself back onto his feet before trapping Alfred in a chokehold.

"Let him go!" Matthew begs, trying to yank at the boy's arms to loosen his grip as Alfred flounders about, trying to gasp for breath. "Dad! Papa! Help!"

The front door of the house flies open, and Papa chases the children off with barked threats. Alfred is set free, and he makes a wheezy, rasping noise as he sucks in a large breath of air, stunned.

Dad is close behind, and he hurries over to Alfred to make sure he's okay. "Alfred? Poppet, look at me. Are you all right?"

Alfred's bewildered blue eyes stare off into space, and he doesn't waste any time before withdrawing into the safety of his mind.

"Alfred," Dad prompts, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Answer me, Alfred. Are you all right?"

"Is—is he r-retarded?" Alfred begins to mimic, breathing hard. "Y-You always ruin everything. Retard. R-Retard."

"Shh, it's okay now."

"Catch the stupid. Sophie, don't catch the stupid."

Dad flinches and squeezes his eyes shut. "My boy, don't listen to any of that nonsense. It's meaningless."

"T-Take me away. Take him away. Dangerous. Shock brain," Alfred continues restlessly, fidgeting.

"No one is taking you away from us, love. Let's go inside, and you can have a snack, hmm?" Dad offers, his voice a little higher in pitch than it normally is. "You, too, Matthew."

But Matthew's more interested in what Papa's doing. The man's storming down the length of the driveway, hands balled up into fists by his sides as he advances up the block, a terrifying expression of unrestrained anger on his face.

Dad makes quick note of it as well. "Francis! Where do you think you're going?"

"To have a word with the parents."

"No, you will not! Come back here!"

Papa doesn't stop, and even though Dad looks like he wants to chase after him, he chooses to stay back. "Daft, idiot," he grumbles once he's set out some juice and fruit on the kitchen table for the boys to munch on. "What does he think he's going to accomplish?"

"What's Papa going to do?" Matthew asks, also concerned.

They don't have to speculate for much longer because fifteen minutes later, there's a knock at the door, and Dad goes to answer it, brows furrowed as he scowls.

Standing in the doorway is a dejected Papa, but that's not what has Dad furious.

Beside Papa, there are two austere looking police officers in uniforms.