AN: A new month! And… I'm realizing I fucked up big time with the ages. George should be two months older. I am so bad at math. I can't really think of a way to fix this without disrupting everything except to tell you guys to take the ages with a grain of salt, and they should be righted in February, 1956.

So, roughly:

Ringo - 4 years, 3 months; John - 4 years; Paul - 2 years, 4 months; George - 1 year, 6 months (18 months)

Also, it's John Lennon's and Sean Lennon's birthday! Yay! It was the perfect initiative to get this chapter up (even though this chapter didn't turn out as good as I wanted it to be). The next chapter will be up by Halloween.

October 9, 1955

Saturday

"Goodnight," Brian whispered to Ritchie.

"G'night," Ritchie said.

The boy had just gotten over his illness. The night the fever broke was triumphant, but he still tired easily the following days. His body was spent after fighting off his cold, Dr. Samwise had told Brian, and it would be a while before he would be up to his usual energy. The same had happened to George, and the boys would take extra naps together and fall asleep quickly after being tucked in at night.

Ritchie rubbed his eyes and curled up with his stuffed bear. Brian ruffled the top of his head.

George was already sleeping, looking as adorable as he could. Paul was - for perhaps the first time ever - falling asleep without a fight. Brian smiled as he passed their cribs.

"Do you know what happens tomorrow?" he asked, bending over John's bed.

John smiled and nodded. "I'm four!"

Brian tucked the sheets around his chest. "When you wake up, you'll be like Ritchie. And, you can eat cake and have presents."

Brian didn't know it was possible for John's eyes to light up even more, as they had held an eager shine the entire day, but they did. He regretted reminding John of his birthday at bedtime. How was he supposed to get the kid asleep now?

"But you need to sleep first," Brian said.

John shook his head and kicked his legs. "I can't!"

"Yes, you can. Just close your eyes -"

John did so.

" - And lay still. Don't think about your birthday. Think about something else. Like kittens."

"I like kittens," John whispered.

"What kind of kittens?"

John pressed his lips together in thought. "Grey ones."

"With white feet?"

John nodded.

"And soft fur?"

John nodded again.

"And what do those kittens do?"

"They drink milk, and they play with strings, and they sleep in my bed."

"Do they purr?"

"Yeah."

John seemed to be relaxed. His breathing was getting slower, and his hands were loosely wrapped around his dog.

"Think about those kittens," Brian said. "Goodnight."

"G'night," John whispered back.

Brian turned off the light, left the door ajar, and walked down to the kitchen.

He probably shouldn't have been drinking so much immediately after putting the boys to sleep or after getting over a cold. On the other hand, he hadn't had much time to drink since the boys had moved to his care, and he was itching for one. It made cleaning a little more bearable - and the house had become disastrous over the past few weeks. At this point, a drink was well-needed. Two was deserved.

Dishes were done by 8:30. Toys were picked up by 9:00. Laundry was washed, folded, and waiting in a basket in the sitting room by 10:45. Brian's third glass of brandy was downed at 10:50.

He checked on the boys before going to bed, falling asleep relaxed and content.

Cake was everywhere.

The boys were bouncing in their seats, hands and faces covered in icing and pastry. George had tried recreating a Picasso painting and had his food smeared on every inch of his highchair.

"I have nothing against art," Mal said, wiping George's hands. "But I think the work would look better on a different canvas."

"You know how art is getting nowadays," David said. "It's all abstract. People splash paint around on a wall and say it represents the chaos in our society."

Brian laughed. Sarah shook her head.

"Don't encourage him," she whispered to Brian.

He couldn't help it. He had begun to find David's bitter sense of humour funny.

"What are you trying to say with this piece, Mr. Harrison?" Mal asked. "That food should be appreciated for more than its nutrition?"

"More cake," George said.

Mal nodded. "I see."

"No more cake, George," Sarah said. "Time to get clean."

Brian wiped at John's face. John crawled into his lap, smearing food onto Brian's suit. He cringed inwardly. Suits could be cleaned. Children didn't know any better.

"Are you having a good birthday?" Brian asked.

John nodded. His eyes were bright.

"I'm 4," he said.

Brian nodded. "That's right. And 4-year-olds need to get clean after they make a mess."

Brian grabbed another napkin and worked on John's hands.

"Did you get any in your mouth?" he asked. "Did you use a fork?"

John nodded. Brian shook his head and smiled. He reached for another napkin.

"I remember when he was a baby," Sarah said.

She watched Mal and David with the boys in the living room. Her eyes were watery, but she smiled. Her hands fidgeted on the kitchen table.

"He was so small. He was the first one of the four we got, you know."

Brian wrapped his hands around the cup of coffee in his palm. He nodded.

"And, of course, you know all the trouble he had at first. He was in and out of foster care. Eventually, his own family couldn't keep taking him back. It was so hard for him at that age. Just learning to say 'mama' but no one to say it to.

"He's grown so much since. He was so small..."

Sarah wiped at the tears starting to drip from her eyes.

"Now look at him. He's about to start school... He turned 4. Soon he'll be going to university like the others we've had."

"That won't be for years now," Brian said.

He felt a slight lump in his throat and considered school for himself. It seemed like it had been over so quickly. His official discharge from the army felt like it was a week ago. Now, he had kids. Maybe - and he prayed not - time would go as fast for John.

"Years are so short," Sarah said.

She sniffled. Brian patted her hand, letting his fingers rest against hers.

"I remember when he was just George's age and we got Ritchie. He was possessive of David and I - very possessive." Sarah smiled and looked to the boys, curled against David and Mal for a story. "He didn't want anything to do with Ritchie for the first few weeks. Ritchie would cry and cry. We were afraid we would lose one if they didn't get along. Finally, one day, John came around. I'll never understand his sudden change of heart. But one day we left them alone for two seconds, and John was all over Ritchie."

"As close as they are now?"

"Almost. It took a while longer before they became inseparable. Then, we got Paul, and he was the baby. The boys adored having a little brother. Paul was so spoiled... still is, I suppose. They all are."

Brian smiled. "They're loved."

"They are. Very lucky, too. Foster children sometimes aren't."

David was in the middle of telling the boys a scary story. John and Ritchie were against his sides, eyes wide and mouths agape. Paul and George curled up together in Mal's lap, a protective arm around them.

"You're not frightening them too much, are you?" Sarah called.

The boys jumped at the sudden raised voice. David didn't even look to his wife to respond.

"No! They're fine."

Mal laughed and pulled George and Paul closer.

"They're tough, aren't you, boys?" David added.

They all turned to Brian and Sarah, nodding.

"We aren't the ones putting them to bed tonight, David," Sarah said.

"They'll be fine!"

Sarah shook her head and turned back to Brian. He shrugged.

"I'm sure they'll be fine," he said. "I'll leave a light on tonight."

Sarah chuckled. "If you say so."

They're asleep, and I can drink.

Brian poured himself a glass of whiskey.

It took the boys longer than usual to settle down and fall asleep. They at least handled Sarah and David leaving well. There were no tears or long hugs. They said goodbye and were carried to bed.

The whiskey burned his throat, warmed his body, and he poured another drink.

The boys were so precious. They fell asleep collapsed on one another in the middle of the living room. George didn't even wake up when he was put in his crib. Brian had cradled him in his arms and held him close to his chest. The little bodies fit so well against him.

"Happy birthday," he had whispered to John, who was clutching his old dog in favor of it instead of his new cat that laid abandoned at the foot of his bed. "I'll see you in the morning."

"G'night," John mumbled.

His eyes closed, and the others were already fast asleep. Perhaps it was a sugar crash or the busy day that knocked them out, but Brian was surprised by how early they all fell asleep.

The house was eerily quiet without them running around.

Brian drained his second glass.

He could easily turn on the tv or the radio without waking the boys. Or he could sit in silence and think about his boys for a bit longer and go to sleep himself.

The glass was washed and placed with the others. The whiskey bottle, nearly empty, was locked away with a mental note to buy more. Brian walked up the stairs, peeking in on his little boys once more.