The sun is already high in the sky when Alfred wakes up to the scent of peppermint tea—one of Arthur's favorite blends. The curtains are half-way drawn, letting in only a wisp of light, and there's an irritating, damp sensation on his chest, as though someone decided it would be funny to douse his torso in oil. Further investigation reveals that the greasy substance is actually some sort of balm, and it's been rubbed into the spots where his scarlet rash appears to be most aggressive.

His limbs are weak like those of a newborn calf. From his fingers to the soles of his feet, everything aches and feels sapped of energy, leaving a hollowness in his bones, but his mind is clearer than it has been in days. After a moment of taking in his surroundings, he ventures rolling out of bed, and does so successfully despite almost getting his foot snagged in the bedcovers.

Semi-consumed teacups are littered around the perimeter of the room, along with old newspapers and paperback novels, and Alfred can't help but wonder how arduous the past few days must have been if Arthur hasn't gotten around to tidying up yet.

He stretches his wobbly, teetering legs and carefully makes it into the hallway and down the stairs, bracing himself on the wall each time he tires. By the time he makes it to the living room, he is panting softly and manages to catch the attention of both Arthur and Ivan, who are sitting on the couch—smoking cigarettes and playing cards.

Ivan notices him first, head twitching upward almost intuitively, as if expecting his arrival. He's a peculiar sight, what with how ill-fitting his clothes are. Arthur must've lent them to him because the shirt he's wearing is clearly a size too small, his slacks are a few inches too short, and his heels are protruding out from the leather slippers on his feet.

"Ah, Alfred. How are you feeling?" the man asks, clenching a cigarette between his teeth. "You've been asleep for a while."

Before Alfred can respond, Arthur is upon him, fussing and clicking his tongue at him with unabated concern. "And what do you think you're doing out of bed? You've been senseless for two whole days—driving us completely mad with worry, mind you—and now you want to parade around the house until you collapse? You're going to rest until I'm absolutely certain you've made a full recovery."

"But I just got up!" Alfred whines, frowning when Arthur presses a cold hand against his forehead. It's mildly irritating that he's being smothered so much.

"Your fever hasn't completely broken. You're going straight to bed."

"I don't want to!"

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and puts out his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table. He opens his mouth to deliver a lecture, but Ivan cheerfully interrupts.

"Alfred, you wouldn't happen to know how to play blackjack, would you?"

"No."

"Your Uncle Ivan will teach you. Luckily, Arthur is a terrible gambler and card-player, so you can practice against him," the man says dryly. "But first, you need to lie down in bed, agreed?"

Alfred has the urge to hug the man in thanks, but refrains at the last second. He can tell Arthur's wearing a sour look on his face from his peripheral vision. "Okay!"

"I hardly think this is a good idea," Arthur grumbles after a moment, eyes following Alfred as the boy treks his way up the stairs a bit breathlessly. "And furthermore, I'd say my card game abilities are decent at the very least."

Ivan chuckles heartily, heading for the stairs as well. "I'm sure Gilbert begs to differ. You still owe him a pack of cigarettes from the last time we played. Now, don't just stand there like a bitter Englishman. We're in quarantine for another two days at the very least, so we might as well find ways to pass the time pleasantly."

"It might surprise you to hear this, but I have plenty of paperwork that I'm behind on and—"

"It's not going to go anywhere. You won't be able to resume work if you can't meet with your clients, so the point is—ahh, what do you lawyers call it again? Moot. The point is moot."

"How you can be in such a jovial mood when you haven't been able to see your son in three days is beyond me."

"Oh, I've already called Francis, and according to him, Toris is having a wonderful time away from me, so I'm not too worried. I miss him, of course, but he's likely baking a soufflé as we speak and has forgotten about my existence for the time being."

Arthur sheds a smile and nods. "Francis is a living disaster, but, in my experience, he's a trustworthy babysitter."

"What worries me more is that Toris is so easily willing let go of me."

"It doesn't mean he cares about you any less. He's simply maturing."

"I know. It's just difficult to accept. It's quite funny, actually. Whenever I would get frustrated with him, I'd always ask, 'When will you finally grow up?' And then he did grow up, but I'm not any happier. I'm sure you feel the same way with Alfred."

"Sometimes, I suppose."

Ivan sighs, a wistful look in his eyes. "It's a crime that children should have to become adults."


"Arthur?"

The blond mop of hair by his bedside snaps up from its book and turns to face him. "Yes, lad? Are you feeling worse? Is your fever rising again?"

Alfred releases a painful cough and shakes his head. "It's nothing like that. Don't worry so much. I'm almost better."

"What's wrong then?"

"I was just thinking… Thinking about a lot of things because staying in bed all day is boring, and there's nothing else to do, and I already beat you at blackjack ten times—"

Arthur frowns and rests his chin in his hand. "Please skip ahead to your point, poppet."

"I mean, Uncle Ivan was right; you're really bad at card games."

"Alfred."

Alfred offers him a cheeky smile before continuing. "But yeah, I don't know… I heard you and Uncle Ivan talking about Toris, and I wanted to know…"

"Wanted to know what?"

"I know I've asked you this before but you've never really answered it… Why did you adopt me?"

Arthur takes in a deep breath and rubs the back of his neck, mulling the question over. He doesn't seem to know what to say for a good while. "Well, I wanted a child."

"But why?"

"It's not easy to explain, I'm afraid. When you're old enough to have a family, you'll understand," Arthur murmurs, placing a hand on Alfred's forehead and turning a bit red in the face. "You'll get a paternal feeling… and that's when you'll know the time is right."

"Oh," Alfred says dumbly, feeling a bit guilty for putting Arthur in such an awkward position.

"For the short time I was married, I thought I'd have a child of my own, but then circumstances changed and that wasn't possible."

"Did you ever think about getting married again to someone else?"

"No, it didn't seem right at the time, and I wasn't ready. Besides, it's improper…"

"How come it's improper?"

Arthur clears his throat and shrugs his shoulders. "I wish I could answer that. I suppose remarrying leads to social stigma, especially if you're religiously affiliated, which was never a problem for me, but still…"

"I'm glad you picked me," Alfred whispers, blushing as well. Sometimes he worries that he doesn't tell Arthur how much he appreciates him enough, and he doesn't want the man to think he doesn't care, because he does. He cares a whole lot.

Arthur laughs softly and presses their foreheads together. "So am I. I'm probably not the type of parent you wanted. For the longest time I simply settled for having Baron because I knew that any child would most likely despise me and—"

"You're who I wanted," Alfred interrupts, all mushy and warm inside. It's cheesy and hard to say, but he has a feeling that Arthur needs to hear it from him at least once. Stubborn and self-deprecating as he is, the man probably won't believe he's being sincere, but it's worth a try anyway.

"A-Ahem, well, thank you… How about you try to sleep for another hour, and I'll bring you some lunch, all right?" Arthur suggests, voice hoarse and thick with emotion. "You still need your rest."

"I'm tired of sleeping."

"I know. When you've fully recovered, we'll go out and do something fun. We can't let the rest of this beautiful summer weather go to waste. Deal?"

"You think it's fun to listen to the cricket matches on the radio. If we're going to have a deal, then you have to promise it'll be really fun."

Arthur gives him a glare and crosses his arms. "Perhaps I ought to have Ivan prescribe you another week of strict bedrest until you're companionable again."

"Okay, okay! I take it back. We have a deal!" Alfred shouts, throwing up his arms desperately. "Please, anything but more sleeping!"

"All right, we have an agreement then."

And, always true to his word, Arthur follows up on the promise. Within two days, Alfred is given a clean bill of health from Ivan, and the quarantine is finally lifted. However, Arthur still makes him take it slow for another few days and limits the amount of time he spends outdoors until the boy gets all of his energy back. With two weeks until the start of the school year, Arthur arranges a camping trip for them.

At first, it's just supposed to be the two of them, but then, Francis, Ivan, Toris, and Gilbert somehow find out about the trip and end up tagging along. Arthur and Francis load up their Ford cars with tents, sleeping bags, and food, and before long, they're off.

They stay at a well-known camping site down by the lake just fifteen miles outside of town, but it's quiet and deserted, so they have the area all to themselves.

The first thing Alfred does when they arrive is make a beeline for the water with Toris chasing after him from behind. He tears off his shirt and sandals, but just as he's about to reach the edge of the lake, Arthur spins around and shouts, "Alfred Frederick Jones, what do you think you're doing?"

With a groan, Alfred lets his hands fall limply to his sides and turns around, deflated. Toris, too, has stopped in his tracks. "You said this was going to be a fun trip! I want to go swimming!"

"It's too early in the morning to be swimming. The water's cold, and you'll catch your death. You can swim this afternoon," Arthur declares, handing Gilbert one of the tents that they'll be setting up.

"But that doesn't even make any sense! It's warm out!"

Alfred dips one of his toes into the water to test the temperature, and Arthur is unsurprisingly right, but it's not that cold. It'll probably be just as cold in a few hours anyway. He bites his lip and notices that Arthur has looked away to tend to unloading the rest of the car, and so, he flashes Toris a mischievous grin and attempts a cannonball dive into the water, dunking his whole body into the lake at once. It's refreshing albeit freezing.

When his head breaks through the surface of the water, Arthur is already yelling at him, ranting about how he's going to give himself pneumonia and probably die and all that other stuff he always frets about.

"Don't think I won't bring you straight home!" he scolds, too irritated to notice Gilbert creeping up behind him until the other man shoves him over the edge of the lake with a bubbling laugh.

Arthur falls into the water face-first with an ungraceful and loud splash, clothes and all. It takes him a few seconds after surfacing to realize what just happened, and when he finally does, his eyes become murderous, and he furiously wades out of the water, dripping and soaked to the bone.

Immediately, Gilbert sprints in the opposite direction, laughing despite being terrified of what Arthur might do to him.

"You idiot! Come here!"

"No! You're going to kill me!"

"Killing you would be too merciful!" Arthur growls, running after the man. Unfortunately, he's bogged down by his wet clothes.

Alfred and the rest of the group burst out into hiccups of laughter as Gilbert takes cover behind a tree with Arthur poised to attack him from the opposite side.

"Get out here and face me like a man!"

"Oooh, tough talk from someone who looks like a drowned rat right now."

"I hope you like woodland creatures because you'll be sleeping outside with them tonight."

"That's all right. I'm more likely to get mauled by you than a bear anyway."

As the fight escalates, Alfred gets out of the lake and looks on in anticipation, both amused and horrified for Gilbert's wellbeing. He stands next to Ivan, Toris, and Francis for safety, just to make sure he doesn't get caught in the crossfire.

"I'll bet you a dollar Arthur gets him," Francis tells Ivan with a crooked grin.

"You're on."

After circling around the tree for another minute or so, Arthur surprises Gilbert by jolting forward abruptly and grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. "Who's the rat now?" he asks before tackling the man to the ground, covering them both in dirt and filth. He pins Gilbert down by sitting on top of him, grip still tightly locked around his collar.

"Ahhh, help! I'm sorry! Oh, mein gott, I have so much left to live for! Francis! Francis, tell mein bruder that I hate him and that I want to be cremated, regardless of what he thinks is best!"

"Francis won't help you now," Arthur snarls, shaking Gilbert by the shoulders.

"Have someone play Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata at my funeral!"

Ivan takes a dollar out of his wallet and begrudgingly hands it over to Francis, ignoring the Frenchman's snickering. "I think you've scared him enough, Arthur."

Carefully, Arthur releases Gilbert, deciding he has sufficiently threatened him. "I'm glad I had the foresight to pack beach towels," he grumbles, shaking the water out of his hair before marching back toward the car. "And you," he pauses, pointing at Alfred. "Don't think I've forgotten about your punishment."

"Punishment?" Alfred whines, shoulders slumped. "We were just playing around."

"You and Gilbert can get to work on digging the latrine."

"Ughh, gross!" Gilbert and Alfred gripe in unison, exchanging expressions of disgust.

Smug, Arthur blinks innocently at them and says, "Have fun, boys."


"Did you hear about Dorothy O'Malley?"

"Who's that?"

"She's the girl who jumped off of the Lyons-Fulton Bridge. She was blind and spent most of her life in a mental asylum because she had 'hysteria.' If you say her name five times, she shows up and takes your eyes right out of your head and steals them for herself," Toris explains, lowering his voice to a cryptic timbre.

Alfred rolls his eyes and waves one of his hands in mock dismissal. "You're lying. That could never happen."

"I dare you to try it then."

"Why would I do that?"

"If it's not true, then why won't you do it?" Toris challenges him, forcing down the swelling smile on his face.

"Okay, maybe I will," Alfred decides, sitting upright in the tent they're sharing. It's nightfall, and everyone else has already gone to sleep. Though he'll never admit it aloud, Alfred's quite afraid of the dark, and he's not sure how to go about summoning this ghost. He won't let himself look weak in front of Toris though, which means he'll have to force away his fears and be brave. "All right… Dorothy O'Malley… Dorothy O'Malley…"

"Scared yet?"

"No," Alfred insists, even though his hands are becoming clammy and his face has paled. "Dorothy O'Malley… Dorothy O'Malley…"

He squeezes his eyes shut and thinks that maybe if he keeps them closed, the ghost won't be able to steal them away. "Dorothy O'Malley!"

It's quiet. Ten seconds pass, and Alfred lets out a little breath of relief, feeling a bit silly for being scared. "See? I told you nothing would—"

The rustling of leaves makes his mouth go dry. He looks at Toris in horror, and now they're both terrified and quivering with only the dim light of their small lantern to ease them.

A twig snaps right outside the flap of their tent, and Alfred screams bloody murder, clutching Toris for dear life. "NO! Don't take my eyes!"

"AHHH!" someone shouts from a few feet away, and Alfred screams even louder, practically in tears. "What the hell is going on? Can't a man take a piss in peace?"

Wait a second… Alfred recognizes that voice. It's Gilbert.

Lo and behold, Gilbert casts aside the flap of their tent after a few seconds and narrows his eyes through the darkness. "Why were you screaming?"

Unable to contain himself, Toris erupts with laughter and flops to the ground, covering his face with his hands. "I can't believe you fell for that!"

"Oh, shut up!" Alfred frowns, punching Toris in the ribs. "That wasn't funny."

No more than a minute later, a groggy Arthur and Ivan reach the entrance to their tent as well, concern on their faces.

"What's going on?" Arthur asks, voice laden with the slur of sleep. He peeks his head into the tent and glowers. "Are you boys all right?"

Alfred juts his bottom lip out and replies, "Toris scared me!"

"Toris," Ivan mumbles disapprovingly. "Apologize right now."

Toris is still laughing, but he slowly gets his composure back and murmurs an unconvincing "Sorry."

"Scared the crap outta me too," Gilbert accuses from somewhere outside. "It's a good thing I had already finished peeing. Well, if that's all, I'm going back to bed."

Ivan and Arthur make a movement to follow him, but that's when another sting of fear runs through Alfred's chest and he squeaks, "Wait!"

Arthur yawns and looks down at him with lethargic eyes. "Go to sleep, lad."

"But what… What if the ghost—?"

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Arthur assures, ruffling the boy's hair. "Goodnight."

"But how do you know?"

"I just do. Trust me."

"Okay. I trust you, but if the ghost comes and takes my eyes out—"

Arthur chuckles lightly and closes the flap of their tent once more. "Should that happen, I'll come out and deal with it."

And so, they get through the night ghost-free.


"Oh, I wish I had someone to love me

Someone to call me their own

Oh, I wish I had someone to live with

'Cause I'm tired of living alone," Gilbert sings by the morning campfire, eating a half-charred bratwurst for breakfast.

Francis is cooking up some eggs, ham, and toast for everyone while Toris sits on a nearby log and sketches a picture in his notebook. Arthur and Ivan, on the other hand, are tidying up the campsite and talking about the upcoming presidential election in November as well as a bunch of other topics of discussion that Alfred isn't very interested in.

"Anyone but that bastard Hoover," Arthur grumbles, picking up the empty cans of soup they were eating from the previous day.

"I'll be carried to the new jail tomorrow

Leaving my poor darling all alone

With the cold prison bars all around me

And my head on a pillow of stone."

"Can't you sing something a little more joyful for once, Gilbert?" Francis asks, scrambling the eggs over the fire with a worn-down skillet.

Gilbert stops his singing for a second and huffs, clearly insulted. "Excuse me for wanting to sing something that reflects the realities of life rather than the garbage everyone else buys into."

"Now if I had wings like an angel

Over these prison walls I would fly

And I'd fly to the arms of my poor darling

And there I'd be willing to die."

Francis clicks his tongue but doesn't comment any further, too busy with making sure the eggs don't turn out to be too crispy or soggy. When he's satisfied with the consistency, he serves Toris a plate and then passes the next one to Alfred.

"Eat everything, Alfred. You're getting awfully thin again," Arthur reminds.

And it's true, Alfred is getting thinner and lankier, but he can't help it. He's been eating plenty, but he's also been growing taller every day, and so, any meat he used to have has been redistributed down his long legs and arms.

"Roosevelt seems like he has a good head on his shoulders," Ivan says before accepting his own plate of breakfast.

Arthur nods in agreement and takes a bite of toast. "Let's hope so."


They start packing up to leave on the third day of camping. Aside from Alfred, everyone is looking forward to going home to a warm bath. Reprieve from the blasted mosquitoes would also be a blessing, and although Alfred wishes they could stay for another day or two, he knows all of the men have to get back to work, especially with the economy being what it is.

He takes one last swim in the lake with Toris, and they're back on the road by sunset, smelling like the forest and sporting sun-kissed tans and burns. They reach town in an hour, but Alfred falls asleep during the car ride, tired from all of their adventures, so he misses the scenic parts of the trip. Arthur shakes him awake once they're parked in front of the house, and he lets out sluggish protests as the man walks him up the porch steps and steers him toward the couch in the living room.

"This is what happens when you stay up late," Arthur chides, well aware that he and Toris were awake long after everyone else went to sleep yet again. "And now who's going to have to carry all of our things into the house alone? Me, that's who. The thanks I get…"

Alfred opens his mouth to apologize, but the words fade from his lips, and he doesn't get a chance to properly say them.

At some point, after most of the camping equipment has been put away, Arthur sits beside his sleeping figure on the couch and rubs his back. "Troublesome boy…"

"Sorry," Alfred finally manages to mumble. "I'll be good."

Arthur laughs a pleasant laugh that lulls him back to sleep and says, "I won't cross my fingers."


Footnote:

The song Gilbert sings in this chapter is called The Prisoner's Song by Vernon Dalhart, and it's from 1925.