AN: Another chapter! Unfortunately, I lost my laptop. The screen decided it had better things to do than to work for the past month or so. It finally died completely last week. I have a temporary replacement now, though. We're in good shape for the end of 1955!

September, 1955

Sunday

The room was full of reds and oranges. The window sprayed the sun's last rays over the room, creating a peaceful glow of mixing colors.

Brian sat up and leaned over Ritchie, who was waking up from his own feverish sleep. Brian stroked the boy's brow to the sound of gentle cooing coming from the crib. Ritchie's cheeks matched the colors that danced across the walls and burned under Brian's fingers.

"Let's hope no one else gets sick," Brian whispered to himself.

George sat up and made a pattern of babbles that meant he wanted his foster father. Brian slowly rose and picked the toddler up from out of the crib. He had been used to the littlest one not using his name and understanding when he was needed.

"Can you say 'Brian'?" he asked. "Or 'B'yan'?"

George didn't open his mouth. He held on to Brian's collarv.

"'Bi'?" Brian tried prompting once more.

But George was not interested in learning botched English.

Brian pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes. He couldn't imagine tiny bodies feeling the way he did. He wanted to sleep forever under a hundred blankets. He wanted to escape the malaise with hibernation.

A knock on the door made Brian break his embrace.

Mal peaked his head in. "Dinner's ready."

"We'll be down," Brian said, brushing George's messy hair with his fingers.

Mal examined Brian. "How are you all feeling?"

"George is feeling better, I think. He doesn't feel as feverish as before. I think he's on the mend."

"And you and Ritchie feel worse?"

Brian nodded. "Ritchie's pretty warm."

"Maybe eating will help. You haven't eaten since breakfast, have you?"

Brian shook his head.

"Well, come along. I already have John and Paul seated, and God knows what they'll get into if we leave them alone too long."

Brian chuckled. "I'll take George if you take Ritchie."

Mal scooped Ritchie up from the bed and cradled him in his arms as they walked out. Brian wished he could carry the boys like that instead of on his hips. If only they were a little smaller, or Brian a bit bigger, they would fit perfectly nestled against his chest. The strain of carrying George on his hips still made his entire body scream. With each step he was closer to toppling over.

"Thank you so much for doing this," he said as they sat at the table.

"I've told you, it's no big deal," Mal said, getting Ritchie situated. "You would do the same for me."

"But I hate taking you away from Lily."

"Lily loves having me out of the house - so long as it's not at a club. She thinks it's cute that I'm helping you with the boys."

"Maybe she thinks this is good practice," Brian teased.

Mal smirked. "I wouldn't be opposed to a few kids someday."

"If they ever get sick, call me."

Mal shook his head with a chuckle. He helped Ritchie take a few sips of juice when the little boy appeared still too sleepy to grab his cup on his own.

"That'll all be some time from now." Mal looked at the boys, eating half of their dinner and smearing the rest on their faces and clothes. "Can we have some of yours? They're housebroken already."

Brian laughed. "I'm too fond of these ones to part with them. Maybe the next batch. We'll see who else comes along."

They laughed, but it was hollow.

They both knew the impermanence of the boys. They knew that they could be gone as soon as they got there, but there was no way to acknowledge the fact anymore without forced laughter. To actually address their fears would be going a step back in the anxiety.

Their laughter faded, and the silence didn't feel foreign.

Brian gave George a little privacy that night. He went to the bathroom to take his temperature, away from the other boys, while Mal took Ritchie's temperature by the mouth in the living room.

"Just one more degree," Brian told George. "And you'll be fine."

He cleaned the thermometer off and placed it on the sink, feeling drained after such a simple task. He pushed on, though, and began to redress George.

Mal walked in as Brian was buttoning up the front of George's onesie.

"Ritchie's temperature is just over 38 and a half," he said, beginning to clean off the thermometer.

"George's temp is down," Brian said. "It's almost norm -"

He quickly turned away to cough. He hung his head, feeling even more fatigued. He tried to catch his breath as his lungs recovered from their most recent abuse. They burned and couldn't get enough air no matter how hard he breathed.

A thermometer was shoved in his mouth before he could compose himself.

"Mal," he mumbled.

"Don't talk. There's no way you don't have a fever."

Brian glared, but kept the thermometer in place. He was aware that his cheeks held a flush, and he felt chilled in a jumper. He didn't want Mal to know, though. He didn't feel right out of a suit with his hair out of place, let alone sitting in a bathroom floor having his temperature checked by Mal.

He felt like a child.

"Just about the same as Ritchie," Mal said, examining the thermometer. "Close to 39."

Brian didn't say anything. He just glared at Mal with the hardest (and very impressive) stare he could.

"Who's going to take care of you if you don't?"

Brian didn't back down.

"John and Paul are almost ready for bed," Mal went on, cleaning up. "I can take care of the boys tonight if you want to relax."

Brian broke his glare. He nodded.

"Don't let them rope you into more than one bedtime story."

"But I'm easily convinced. You know that."

"For the sake of everyone in the house, be a cold bastard tonight."

"Brian! That language in front of George?" Mal looked completely scandalized.

"He can't even say my name yet. He'll be fine if I swear in front of him once."

Mal shook his head. "Being sick makes you grouchy."

Brian rubbed his face. Mal wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. The past hour had been hell and put his on his last nerve. He had bathed George and Ritchie in lukewarm water against their wishes, rose his voice more than once, and then tried comforting them on the sofa until their brothers were washed.

He had left Mal to deal with Paul and John as he had no energy to do so himself and dreaded the thought of passing the illness along to them. He couldn't deal with two more sick kids. That would have been too much for everyone.

"Ready for bed?" Brian asked George, pushing aside Mal's observation.

The toddler seemed wide awake. He had laid on his back but had not bothered to sit up. Brian poked his nose. George giggled, smiled a gummy smile, and reached for Brian's finger.

"I think that's a no," Mal said.

"George?" Brian talked in his baby voice. "Ready for sleep? Feeling sleepy?"

George shook his head and turned his attention to Brian's hand.

"Maybe when he lies down, he'll keep quiet," Mal suggested. "And eventually put himself to sleep."

"It's worth a shot."

Birna picked up George and carefully stood. He grimaced.

"Why do you keep making that face when you pick up one of the boys?" Mal asked.

"What face?" Brian schooled his features. "Do you mind getting -"

Mal picked up the towel that was under George and put it in the nearly full hamper.

"Did you hurt yourself? I thought you shouldn't have been carrying more than one boy at once, but I didn't want to say anything."

"No. I'm just sore. And I'm capable of carrying two boys at once. I'm not that weak. They don't weigh that much."

"Whatever you say," Mal said.

They walked out of the bathroom and into the sitting room. All of the boys were in their pajamas and now waited for their bedtime story. Ritchie sat on the sofa, swallowed in a blanket too big for him. John and Paul sat on either side of him, trying to provide a little comfort. Paul stroked his hair, and John tried to make him laugh. They succeeded in getting a little smile.

Mal grabbed Ritchie to the disappointment of John and Paul.

"You don't want to get sick as well," Brian told them.

John glared at Mal. Paul was too transfixed on George to care about the excuse.

"Joj!"

He reached out for the little boy.

Brian assumed he was going through some withdrawal not having his younger brother by his side for the past week. They were always with each other.

George reached for Paul, but Brian had to pull him away. They both whined, and Paul crossed his arms with a fierce pout. Brian shared a look with Mal.

"I think if George would have given him something, he would have already," Brian said.

Mal shrugged but didn't look like he disagreed. He sat on one of the chairs adjacent with the sofa and wrapped Ritchie tighter in the blanket.

George happily accepted the seat in between John and Paul. He was immediately caught in a hug by Paul.

"Do you boys want a drink while you hear your story?" Brian asked.

They nodded eagerly. John clutched his dog closer to his chest and whispered to it - probably repeating the question.

Brian smiled and left for the drinks. He pulled out their preferred cups and crushed aspirin for George and Ritchie. He knew the juices they liked and that John would drink milk over juice.

He had to wonder if he would have been a skilled bartender. He could remember drinks, he thought as he took a couple aspirin for himself. Ritchie liked grape; Paul liked apple; George would drink just about anything, but he preferred to match one of his brothers' drinks.

"You boys can have one story," Brian told them, as he did every night.

"And I'll read it this time," Mal said.

The boys looked excited for the change.

"Do you want to pick out your book now?" Brian asked.

John sat his dog aside, leaving it to protect his sippy cup and perched carefully so he could have a drink of milk if John's imagination dictated so. Paul held George's hands as he slid off the sofa and reclaimed his cup from the cushions.

Ritchie, sadly, only sat on Mal's lap, being prompted to drink. Brian wanted to comfort him as well, but he knew Mal was handling it and his chest was beginning to spasm again.

He coughed harshly into his jumper sleeve. His eyes watered, and his throat was beginning to burn from the re-occurring fits. When he looked up, Mal was staring with a furrowed brow - a near perfect impression of Brian.

"Do you know what my mother would tell you right now?" Brian asked.

"Do you know what your mother would tell you right now?"

Brian ignored the question. "She would say your face will stick like that."

Tuesday

"How are you all doing?"

Brian kept his phone pressed to his ear with his shoulder as he flipped through his paperwork.

"Better," he said. "George is playing with Paul and John. His fever's been gone since Monday morning. Ritchie's taking a nap, but his temperature was down this morning."

"Good. And how are you?"

"Honestly, I feel fine."

"Eppy."

"No. I truly do."

"I'll take your word for it - but only because I know what your definition of 'fine' is."

Brian's definition of fine was capable of sitting up, reading paperwork, and seeing the line where he needed to sign. But, hey, he had been shaving. That was well-past his standards.

"Thank you," Brian said. "How's the shop?"

"Quiet. It's been a slow day."

Brian hummed. He flipped over a paper and scribbled his signature.

"What's the date?" he asked.

"The 29th."

"So tomorrow is the last -" Brian stopped with his pen centimeters away from the paper. "Christ."

"What's wrong now, Eppy?"

"John's birthday is in a week."

Brian looked to the little boy, oblivious as he built a castle out of blocks.

"That's exciting!" Mal said. "I hope everyone is in better health by then."

John placed another block on the walls of the ever-expanding building. Paul worked on the length, lining up a seemingly endless train of blocks. George played with a single block, unmotivated to help.

"I think I should be feeling a sort of nostalgia," Brian said.

"For when? A month ago?"

"It's been an eventful month," Brian said, his eyes catching another paper for a newly released album.

Mal laughed. "I'll leave you to your nostalgia. I'll see you this evening."

Brian hummed in his acknowledgement, though he didn't hear. He was back to flipping through his papers. Working at the least kept his mind off his pains from his cold. He couldn't tell he was congested or that his throat still had a little tickle. He could work to distract himself until he was over the whole thing.

"Mal, can you do me one favor?" he asked.

There was no response. Brian frowned when he realized the line was dead and sat the phone on the receiver.

He walked the phone back to its rightful place on the chest of drawers. Perhaps he should be more aware during phone conversations. People tended to hang up without knowing… and there was a possibility children could get into trouble.

Brian spun around to look at his boys. Paul and John continued to play. George had moved on to another block. Ritchie had woken up and was watching Brian. The eyes were what tugged on his heartstrings. Blue and mournful… he had to sit with the boy.

"Did you have a good nap?" Brian asked.

Ritchie nodded and leaned into Brian's chest. Brian felt his forehead. It was a little less warm than that morning, but not exactly where Brian had anticipated it being the night before.

"Do you want a snack?" he asked.

Ritchie nodded.

Brian left Ritchie in his blanket cocoon.

In the kitchen, he recruited the help of John and Paul to carry the spoons and sippy cups out to the sitting room. They handed a spoon to George and Ritchie, and then to each other. With a little help from Brian, they decoded what cup went to who.

"Thank you, boys," Brian said as they all settled in the living room.

He watched them try to spoon the applesauce into their mouths and desperately wished they still wore bibs. At least George still accepted his help and didn't whine when Brian took his spoon to scoop the applesauce on his chin back into his mouth.

"John," he said when he saw the boy out of the corner of his eye. "We don't use our hands."

John pulled his fingers out of his mouth. Brian grabbed a napkin off the coffee table and knelt down in front of John and Paul. He smiled as he wiped off John's horrifically messy hand.

Now was as good of a time as any to tell him.

"Do you know what happens in nine days?" he asked.

"No."

"It's your birthday!"

John's eyes lit up. "When's nine days?"

Brian set the napkin aside. He carefully straightened up and felt the muscles in his back protest.

"Let's go look."

He offered his hand to John, and Paul took the opportunity to join George and Ritchie on the sofa.

Brian pressed his lips together and held his breath before bending down to lift John over the chest of drawers. He found that routine to be the best to deal with the initial pain. They looked at the calendar.

"The is today," Brian said, pointing to the date and flipping the page. "And this is your birthday. See how close it is?"

John nodded, beaming. Brian set him on the floor and sat down to look at him eye-to-eye.

"You only have to go to bed nine more times before you're four."

"Ritchie's four!" John shouted, bouncing.

Brian nodded. "You'll be the same age for a little bit."

John took off for the sofa. He clambered on top of it to sit next to his older brother.

Brian listened to the excited conversation, leaning against the drawers. The boys - with the exception of George, who went along eating his applesauce - abandoned their bowls to join in the excitement. It was overlapping, nearly-intelligible words flying across the room. Brian could work out only a few sentences and did not notice when they jumped to a new topic.

Brian coughed into his sleeve. Drawer handles and sharp edges dug into his back as his body spasmed. His head felt exceptionally congested when the small fit was stopped. Looking back to the boys, he noticed how close they all were to one another.

Brian closed his eyes and prayed that everything would go alright for the next week. Just for John's first birthday in his care. Just so he wouldn't need to be any more overwhelmed or disappoint his boy.