DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

BROTHERLY LOVE

TEN

NEW YORK CITY

DECEMBER 2013

Matt stepped off the airplane at JFK Airport, practically ran through the customs line to the Arrival's Lounge, and threw himself into Al's waiting arms. Three months apart felt like a long time, since Matt had spent his Thanksgiving break in Ottawa studying for mid-terms. But he was home now. Not New York City; not his parents' penthouse, but this right here—in Al's arms, this was home. Al lifted Matt's satchel over his shoulder, keeping an arm wrapped around him, and led Matt into the underground. He tossed the satchel into the car's back, then got into the driver's seat, leaned over, and pulled Matt into a deep, long-awaited kiss. "I hate when you're gone," he said huskily, then kissed him again. "Promise you'll— go to— Uni— versity— here."

Arthur and Francis made a fuss when they got home, both hugging Matt; asking after his flight. He and Al were ushered into the parlour, where Allistor and Dylan were sitting, already red-cheeked with holiday toasts. Allistor pulled Matt into a bone-crushing hug and snapped his fingers at Arthur: "C'mon, pour the lads a drink, Artie." As he released Matt he gave him a pointed look, glancing from him to Al, and smirked in confidence. Matt returned the gesture, while praying that his intoxicated uncle didn't slip-up and blow their secret. He and Al had agreed to tell Arthur and Francis about their relationship, and they would. They didn't need Allistor's help.

"Mathieu, would you help Papa in the kitchen, chéri?" said Francis, hands buried in oven-mitts. He pulled a big tray of maple cookies from the oven, filling the kitchen with a mouth-watering aroma. Matt inhaled in delight. He knew that Francis had baked them especially for him, since everyone else found maple cookies too sweet, but Matt loved them. "Alfred's been learning to cook with me, but nobody has a sweet-tooth like mon Mathieu," Francis teased. "There's sugar-cookies and maple candy in that tin," he gestured. "And fudge— well, there was fudge."

Matt took a candy and sucked on it. As he moved around the kitchen, handing Francis plates and spoons and ingredients, he tried not to get in the way. Al had always been Francis' cooking assistant, ever since he was young. He liked to cook, and, though Matt wasn't a terrible chef, he could admit that his brother was better; very inventive. Matt leaned over the island-counter, drumming his knuckles to the radio's beat, listening as Francis talked:

"I saw your friend Feliciano yesterday. He and his boyfriend—that big, blonde German boy—were ice-skating at Rockefeller Center. Feliciano looked so happy; he's a sweet boy. They make a cute couple," Francis smiled. "Oh, and Eliza's boyfriend— the pianist? I saw his picture in the newspaper; what a talented boy. Have you heard from Lars lately? I always liked him," he added casually, glancing sideways at Matt. "If you want to visit him in the Netherlands, I'll buy you a plane ticket for Spring Break, chéri. He'd be so happy to see you."

Matt shifted. Francis had somehow got it into his head that Matt and Lars should be together. In retrospect, it was probably the reason why Matt had once thought the same thing; why he had tried so hard to see Lars as more than a friend, but it had failed. He had told Francis this several times—"we're just friends!"—but Francis didn't believe him. He thought that Matt was too quiet and subdued, and was certain that a wild trip to Europe would remedy this.

If he only knew, Matt thought, finding it funny. "Papa, if I did have someone in my life that made me feel... you know. If I was in love with someone, you'd be happy for me... wouldn't you? Regardless of who it was?"

"Of course I would. I want you to be happy, chéri." Then, processing Matt's words, he stopped. "Mathieu, is there someone—? It's not that red-eyed German, is it?" he worried.

"Gil? No!" Matt laughed.

Fortunately he was saved from having to elaborate when Arthur stuck his head into the kitchen: "Mathew, please come help entertain your bloody, sheep-fucking uncles. Allistor— I said don't touch that!"

Eh, Al? Why don't you let me top this time?" Matt said giddily. It was after midnight and everyone was asleep—well, almost everyone. Matt and Al were in the latter's bedroom, confident that neither of their parents would hear; Arthur had passed-out hours ago, and Francis slept like a rock when he drank. Matt snorted at the shocked look on Al's handsome, sun-kissed face. Straddling his brother, he pressed his forehead against Al's naked chest, laughing.

"Mattie—"

Matt kissed his chest, then looked up seductively. "What's wrong, Al? Scared? I won't hurt you," he said, brushing back a flyaway strand of wheat-blonde hair. "I'll take good care of you."

Al smirked. "Fuck, you're totally hammered, aren't you?"

In reply, Matt kissed Al, sucking on his bottom lip. "Do I have to be hammered to want to fuck my lover?"

"I hope not," said Al, holding Matt's hips.

"Then why not let me?" Matt asked. Cheekily, he kissed Al's nose. "It only hurts for a little while." Cautiously, he slid his hand down Al's body, clutching his thighs; spreading his legs.

"Wait—" Al grabbed his bicep. He swallowed in uncertainty; heart pounding. He was uncomfortable lying on his back, relenting control; he had always been the dominate one. But I trust Mattie, and we're not virgins anymore, he reasoned, but still felt nervous. It's going to hurt. He remembered the discomfort and pain on Matt's face the first time, but he also remembered the ecstasy he had felt. Matt should experience that, he decided self-sacrificially. And it's not like he hates it now, and I do want him. Slowly he moved his hands up to clutch Matt's shoulders and nodded, signalling his readiness. "Just— go slow, okay?"

Wow," Matt breathed. "That feels... different. Are you okay, Al?" He smiled. "Is my big, strong brother crying?"

"Shut up!" Al snapped in embarrassment, wiping his face. He was still trying to catch his breath; legs shaking under the bed-sheets. He felt stiff—it hurt to move. "Fuck!" he gasped, trying to sit up. "That's... definitely different."

"You'll be alright," Matt said, kissing his cheek. "It's better once you get used to it. It actually feels good."

"I'll take your word for it."

Matt laid back, skin hot and flushed, and Al shifted sideways—wincing—and rested his cheek against Matt's chest. His breathing had regulated, chest rising and falling in a slow, sleepy rhythm. Al knew that pleasantly spent feeling that overwhelmed him after he and Matt had sex. You're going to sleep well tonight, Matt, he thought. Matt's eyes were closed. Al said: "You know that thing you do with your hips? You do it when you're on top too. I like that."

Matt smiled. "Does that mean you want me to top again?" he asked softly. "Al—?"

"We should tell Dad and Papa tomorrow," he said, deliberately avoiding the question. "Cause if you're going to be doing that again, I think they'll need a little warning. I think I bit my lip," he added, touching it with his tongue.

"Next time bite a pillow," Matt suggested, only half-joking. Al had seen Matt bite the bed-sheets on several occasions, and knowing that he was the reason fired Al's blood. "You're right though, we'll tell them tomorrow." Then, as if that concluded the conversation, Matt drifted peacefully off to asleep. Al smiled and closed his eyes.

Good morning, Alfred. You're not usually up before Mathew," said Arthur. He was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper. A half-eaten buttered biscuit—a scone—was on a plate in front of him, beside a mug of black coffee.

Al shifted and tried not to grimace as he sat. "Matt's pretty tired," he said ambiguously.

Arthur snorted, flipping a page. "That's likely an understatement, he nearly drank his bodyweight last night. Serves him right if he's hungover all day."

"Yeah, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you Dad?" Al mocked. "I wouldn't worry about Mattie though, he's pretty tough." Ouch! he clenched his teeth, trying to keep his face impassive. His body felt so tender; it ached in places he didn't want to think about. Arthur frowned:

"Alfred, why are you fidgeting? If you're going to vomit, please do it in the bin."

Al got up and made himself a few slices of jam-slathered toast, then got chastised for drinking orange juice strait from the carton. At eight o'clock Francis stumbled into the kitchen, looking haggard; only half-dressed—wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and boxer-shorts—and with several strands of his curling hair defying gravity. He draped himself sleepily over Arthur's back, resting his cheek on the Englishman's head, and closed his eyes. Arthur cast an annoyed look at Al, who shrugged. "Good morning, love," he said sarcastically. "Sleep well?"

Half-asleep, Francis mumbled: "Bonjour..." Then he yawned and pulled himself up. "Où est le Tylenol?"

"Upstairs loo," Arthur replied. Francis groaned and left, dragging his feet as he climbed back upstairs.

Al watched as Arthur rose habitually and refilled the coffeepot, readying it for Francis. He was trying to hide an indulgent smile, and Al thought: They really are good together. Why have I never noticed that before? Maybe you had to be in love to recognize it. I wonder if they were meant to be together? "Hey, Dad?" he asked hesitantly. "Do you think you—" and Papa were meant to be together? He stopped, afraid of sounding like a love-struck romantic; Alfred Kirkland-Bonnefoi wasn't a pussy, after all. He reworded the question: "Do you believe in soul-mates?" Oh yeah, that sounds less romantic, he berated himself, feeling embarrassed.

"Soul-mates?" Arthur repeated, taken off-guard. Al shrugged. If anyone believed in soul-mates it would be his superstitious father—right? "Honestly," said Arthur, "I've never given it much thought. I think people work at their relationships and that's why they last. It's about compromise, putting someone else's needs before yourself. Obviously some people are better suited to each other— who knows, maybe there has been divine intervention for those of us who aren't." He smiled, nodding upstairs. "Why so curious, Alfred?"

Before Al could reply, Matt dashed into the kitchen, looking refreshed despite his exorbitant consumption of liquor the previous night. I'm going for a run," he said, stretching his arms; tying back his hair. He pulled his hood up overhead, wearing his earphones, and called: "Be back in an hour!" Then he left. The front door slammed—

"Who's being loud?!" Francis groaned, wiping a hand down his face. He lifted the fresh coffeepot and poured himself a mug-full. He breathed in the heady scent, took a sip, and then sighed in contentment. "Merci, chéri."

Arthur glanced from Francis to Al, and smiled indicatively. "You're welcome, love."

Ready?" asked Al, clutching Matt's hand. Matt nodded resolutely. They walked into the kitchen: "Dad, Papa—"

"Just talk to them, they're your brothers!" Francis was holding the cordless telephone receiver out to Arthur, who was refusing to take it. "It's Christmas Eve, you should make-up with them and invite them here for New Years; the boys barely know their Uncles Patrick and Seamus—"

"Good! Because they're both gits!" Arthur insisted. "They probably just want money or something. Hear that, you bloody wankers?!" Arthur shouted at the receiver. "You're not getting a fucking penny out of me!"

Al looked skeptically at Matt. "Maybe we should just tell them later."

Matt nodded, pulling Al in retreat. "Good idea."

But later Allistor and Dylan returned with gifts, which put the telling completely out of Al's mind: "Presents, yes!" The family talked and laughed and argued—Allistor and Francis liked to team-up against Arthur—and then ate until they all felt pleasantly ill. Al fell asleep lying on Matt's lap on the couch, lulled by the noise. He loved a full, lively house; it felt safe. In Al's experience, if your relatives—adoptive or otherwise—weren't arguing, laughing, and carrying on at each other's expense, there must be something wrong. It was a reassuring thing, as was Matt's body beneath his; absently fingering Al's hair. It was late when Matt finally nudged him awake, urging him upstairs to bed. Allistor and Dylan had fought for the "good guest room" and Dylan had won; the Welsh-born could be hellishly stubborn when he wanted to be. Arthur and Francis were talking quietly in the kitchen, out of sight. Al heard drunk Arthur clumsily say: "Je t'aime," and then kiss Francis. But Al wasn't paying attention. He let Matt guide him upstairs to bed and snuggled close to him, hugging him like a pillow. He fell asleep almost instantly—a happy smile on his face.

Matt was surfing the internet for Boxing Week sales, legs kicked over the couch's armrest, laptop propped against his knees; Al was lying on the floor on his stomach, a game-controller in his hands as he fired at virtual enemies. Francis poked his head into the room: "Do you boys have plans for New Year's Eve tomorrow night?"

Al paused his game. He counted on his fingers: "Laura went to the Netherlands for Christmas, and Lars is still there; Roderick is taking Eliza out, just the two of them; the Vargas family's restaurant is having a big celebration, so they're both working that night, and I assume that Antonio, Ludwig, and maybe Gil will be there. So— nothing," he concluded. "It's just Mattie and I this year. We'll probably stay in." Matt bit his lip, hiding a grin. "What're you doing?"

"Arthur and I are going out for the night. We're staying in a hotel," said Francis, unabashed. "I'll leave money so that you can order-in for supper, but you'll be alone all night. Is that alright?"

Al glanced at Matt. "Yeah, Papa. Don't worry about us, we'll be fine." After Francis left, he added: "Should we tell them before they go?"

"And ruin their night? No," Matt shook his head. "Let them enjoy the last of 2013 before we totally destroy all of their hopes and dreams for 2014."

On 31 December, at seven o'clock sharp, Arthur and Francis left the house, wishing the boys a Happy New Year's. "It's almost 2014, are you excited, mes chéris? Have fun tonight," Francis waved. Arthur said: "Don't make a mess. There's take-away pizza in the kitchen." Then they left.

"Well, Al, what do you want to— ah!" Matt laughed as Al scooped him up, holding his thighs (either Al was stronger than he looked, or Matt weighed less than he thought). He wrapped his legs around Al's waist and placed his hands gently on either side of his neck, leaning down. "Your room or mine?" he asked, kissing him.

Tonight wasn't a secret. There was nobody here to hear them so—for once—they didn't have to keep quiet. Matt could yell as loudly as he wanted; he could laugh and shriek with giddiness. He could walk from Al's bedroom to the kitchen and back without dressing, unafraid that someone would see him. After working-up an appetite, he pulled on his boxer-shorts and Al's big t-shirt and together they devoured the pizza in front of the television, watching the live-footage from Times Square. "You've got cheese on your face," Al said, licking Matt's chin helpfully. "C'mon, Matt." Five-minutes before midnight, Al took Matt's hand and—grabbing their coats—dragged him outside onto the balcony.

Matt shivered, pulling his coat tightly around himself. It was snowing. "It's beautiful," Matt sighed, staring at the bright city lights. "I love the snow," he said, lifting his face to catch snowflakes on his tongue.

"I love... that you love it," Al teased, pulling Matt into a one-armed hug. Matt leaned into his brother's touch. Even from their high vantage-point they could hear the city celebrating, heralding in the New Year; it seemed to tense, holding its breath in anticipation as people starting counting. Al checked his cell-phone: thirty seconds to midnight. He faced Matt. "I've waited a whole year to do this properly." He took both of Matt's hands and squeezed. "Ready?"

"Three," said Matt. "Two," said Al. "One"—

Fireworks exploded overhead, bursting in bright white stars, filling the city with loud bangs and smoke. Matt kissed Al, just as tenderly as last year's first kiss had been; closing his eyes and squeezing Al's hands. Then Al dropped his hands to Matt's waist and pulled their bodies together, deepening the kiss. His lips sucked greedily, desperately, and he slipped his hot, slick tongue into Matt's mouth, moaning throatily. Matt ran his hands up Al's torso, beneath his coat; he held Al's neck, pressing their chests together. "Al," he said breathily, pulling his brother backwards into the house as he undressed him. He shrugged out of his coat, tossing it next to Al's on the floor, then, feeling his way down Al's supple body—having memorized the contours of his muscles—he slipped his hands beneath the waistband of Al's boxer-shorts, dragging them down.

Al forced Matt onto the couch, pulling his t-shirt off overhead. He kissed him; long, loud, and wet, breaking a string of saliva when he pulled back. "I love you, Matt," he said, for the thousandth time. Before he could stop himself, he added: "I'm glad you love me too."

Matt smiled; half-surprised, half-amused. "Of course I love you, Al. Here," he said, reaching for him. His cold hand grasped Al's hot, throbbing cock and squeezed, guiding it. "Let me show you."

It was past-midnight when Matt awoke, shocked to find Al lying breathlessly on the floor beside him, grinning. He reached out and cupped Matt's cheek, swallowing; his chest rising and falling irregularly. "Welcome back, babe," he said. His taut skin was flushed healthy over his suntan, cornflower-blue eyes bright and sparkling. "Happy New Year."

Matt exhaled, feeling dizzy. "What happened?" he asked, surprised by the rawness of his own voice.

Al's grin grew in arrogance. "You blacked-out, just for a minute," he assured. "But you totally climaxed and blacked-out. Tell me I'm the best," he said giddily, leaning close. "Go on, Mattie— tell me how fucking good I am."

"I can't," Matt said. "How could I know if I blacked-out?"

Al's face contorted into an unsatisfied frown. "Oh, c'mon Mattie! That's just mean."

Matt laughed and kissed Al's cheek, then his lips. "Alright, love— then show me again."

JANUARY 2014

Al felt pleasantly drowsy. He was lying in his big double-bed, stark-naked between the bed-sheet and rumpled duvet, his head buried beneath a pillow. "Mm... Mattie?" he reached-out blindly, relieved when he felt Matt's familiar body beside him. Matt shifted sleepily, mumbling. Al lifted his head, blinking. The bedroom was dark, but: "Fuck, it's almost noon," he said, reading his alarm clock. "Mattie, wake up," he hit him. "Dad and Papa will be home soon."

Matt sat up and yawned, stretching his arms overhead. "They're probably already home."

Al paused, halfway into his trousers. "Don't you think they'd have poked their nosy heads into our rooms if they were already home? Dad doesn't let us sleep until noon; not unless we're deathly-ill."

Matt shrugged, unconcerned. "I'm going to shower," he said lazily, then paused in the doorframe. He cocked his pale-blonde head and smiled enticingly: "Want to come with me?"

"You're horrible," Al replied flatly, feeling desire stir in his stomach. But they couldn't fuck as long as Arthur and Francis were home. Not until we tell them, at least. And probably not even then; it'd be too weird. Matt shrugged and left, taking his sinfully gorgeous body with him. However, he returned a minute later holding a note:

BE BACK IN AN HOUR. The time was scrawled beside it—Arthur was meticulous—clocked fifteen minutes ago.

"They'll be back in forty-five minutes," Matt mused, dangling the note; feigning innocence. "What could we possibly do in forty-five minutes— twice?"

Al didn't need prompting. He stalked toward Matt and grabbed him, kissing his neck; Matt laughed. "Wait," he said, detaching himself. He headed for the parlour. "I left the— ah, Al!" Al tackled Matt, throwing him down onto the couch; kissing and tickling him. Matt gasped: "Al, I can't— O-oh! Ah-Al!" Al loved the heady, breathless sound of his name on his lover's ravished lips; loved the feel of Matt's flushed skin; loved the look of his beautiful face, violet eyes shut and lips parted in an erotic O. Al toyed with his brother for a minute. He squeezed his cock between his lips, egged on by Matt's soft whines, but he stopped before climax; watching him writhe. "Al—" Matt pleaded weakly. And, since Matt asked so nicely, Al obliged. He thrust his throbbing cock deep into his brother's body and moaned loudly. Hard and fast: "Ah, fuck!" he gasped, clenching Matt's hips. It felt so good; everything else disappeared. There was only he and "Mattie, I-I'm—" Matt yelled in climax; a strangled sound that urged Al over the edge: "AH!"

Matt hugged Al, tangled together like some ancient, multi-limbed beast. Al kissed his shoulder, tasting salty sweat; relaxing against his brother's embrace.

Suddenly, Matt tensed. "Al," he whispered in terror. And then—

"Francis!" Arthur yelled.

Al whipped around, coming face-to-face with his wide-eyed father. His blood went cold. He held his breath, mind racing for something—anything!—to say. Oh fuck— fuck, fuck, fuck! For fuck's sake, say something! his brain screamed, but words failed him. In reflex he hugged Matt closer, shielding him. Like frightened prey, he stared at Arthur. Vaguely he noticed the brown-paper bag he had dropped, milk and egg yolk oozing over the hardwood floor.

"Francis," Arthur repeated, sounding choked, "could you come here please— now?!"

"What is it, cher?" said the Frenchman, hurrying in. "What's wrong—" He stopped beside the Englishman; a wine bottle fell from his hand. It seemed to happen very slowly, to Al's paralyzed brain. He saw the transformation of Francis' expression into shock. "W-what are you—?" He swallowed; mortified. "You can't be— but you— you're—"

"Brothers!" Arthur snapped. In panic, he suddenly surged forward and grabbed Al's forearm, yanking him roughly off of Matt, which provoked a yelp; pulling Al's flaccid cock from Matt's body. Arthur immediately let go in alarm, his face reddening in anger and embarrassment. To mask his mistake, he snatched the pillow Matt was using to hide his face and fired it at Al. "Adopted or not, you're still brothers. You can't be doing this. I mean... I just can't believe you're doing this," he finished weakly.

Francis covered his mouth, still staring. Quietly, he said: "You're seventeen-years-old; we've raised you together for seventeen years. How long have you been—?"

Al looked guiltily at Matt. Matt swallowed. Holding the pillow, Al stepped forward. Delicately, he began: "This isn't how we wanted you to find out— obviously," he added, blushing. This is so embarrassing! They're looking at us like we've done something horrible, just like Matt was afraid of. Feeling protective, he glanced at Matt, who was wide-eyed and curled-up on the couch, holding his knees. It's alright, Mattie. I'm going to fix this. Bravely he faced his parents, and bluntly said: "Matt and I are together. We've been together since last January, but it's okay because we're not related by blood. And we're in love," he finished, holding his chin up.

His confession did not, however, have the desired effect:

Francis sucked in his breath. Arthur made a strangled noise, and repeated: "It's okay? Did you really just say it's okay?! This is not okay!" he shrieked in disbelief.

Francis grabbed his lover's shoulder. "Calm down, chéri. This is certainly... abnormal," he said—a rather kind description, "but let's give the boys a chance to explain why they... to explain this," he gestured between them. "Is this what you meant when you asked me about love?" he asked Matt. "Yes of course it must've been," he answered his own question, "if you've really been together for over a year..."

Arthur pursed his lips and looked away. "Get dressed," he said quietly. "Then we're going to talk about what you've been doing, presumably all year. And why it's most certainly not okay."

Al looked at Francis for support, but he only nodded and wordlessly followed Arthur into the kitchen. Al fell back onto the couch beside Matt, feeling shaken. "This really isn't going to be pretty," he said, trying to shrug-off his discomfort; but his voice cracked. "Mattie? Hey, it's going to be okay," Al reached for him. But Matt evaded his hand.

"It's probably better if you don't touch me," he said softly. Then he stood and pulled on his clothes: a t-shirt and plaid boxer-shorts. Al watched him, reminded of a statue that had come to life; Matt's eyes looked thoughtful and afraid, but he didn't speak. Al dressed and tried to smile, but Matt seemed to ignore him.

Al felt hurt. We should be facing them together, Mattie. Unafraid. Bravely, he sucked in a calming breath and followed Matt—his brother and lover—into the kitchen.

Do you want a cuppa?" Arthur asked, pouring tea. He indicated the table, where Francis was waiting; blue eyes staring vacantly, trying to comprehend what he had witnessed. "Sit down boys."

Al started to sit, but Matt said: "No."

Arthur raised an incredulous eyebrow, glancing at Francis, who blinked. "Alright," he said. Deliberately he placed the teacup on the table and faced his teenage sons. "You're both seventeen, I suppose we can speak like adults. I certainly hope so anyway, since you've both made the very adult decision to be together—"

"Dad," Matt interrupted brazenly. "Before you get all condescending, can I ask you something?" He looked between Arthur and Francis, speaking to them both: "Did you ever expect to fall in love with each other?"

Francis opened-and-closed his mouth; then licked his lips. Arthur hesitated; speechless. Matt continued:

"Honestly, I never expected to fall in love with Al, my brother. If you had asked me four-years-ago I would've thought you were mad. But that's exactly what's happened. I tried not to at first, but—" Helplessly Matt shrugged. "I couldn't stop. If I could choose not to love him, I might... but that's exactly why I know it's real love, because I can't. I can't not feel this way. I can't not love him." He swallowed. Al saw unshed tears in Matt's violet eyes. "I know you understand, Dad, Papa. We don't always get to choose who we fall in love with. And I"—he took Al's hand—"love Al."

Al felt dazed, certain that his face reflected the same shock his parents felt. Speechlessly he squeezed Matt's hand in agreement and smiled. "Yeah," he said ineloquently. "And I'm in love Matt. Sorry," he added, shrugging. "But that's not ever going to change. We belong together," he smiled, quoting Matt.

A long, tense silence stretched as the two generations stared challengingly at each other in awe. Al could hear the street's din outside, far below them; he could hear the clock ticking. Finally, Matt interrupted:

"Please don't be angry; we're not doing any of this to hurt you," Matt promised. "This is a good thing."

Francis recovered first: "Love usually is," he said habitually. Standing, he gave the boys a weary smile. "Love, as beauty, is in the eye of the beholder, and just because we don't always understand doesn't mean we should judge—"

"Stop spouting rubbish," Arthur said, though his tongue had lost its bite. He wiped his face with his hands and sighed deeply. "I'm sorry. I'm just having a little trouble absorbing this," he admitted. "Alfred, Mathew, I'm not angry. And I can't pretend that I don't understand your feelings"—he glanced quickly at Francis, then back—"or, now that I think of it, your recent obsession with soul-mates," he stared pointedly at them. He licked his lips. "It sounds to me like you've put a lot of thought into this, and, regardless of our feelings, I think you're old enough to know your own hearts. It's strange for us, no doubt," he said, "but we're your parents. Since the day we brought you both home, your happiness is all we've ever wanted. And if being together makes you happy, then Francis and I feeling weird about it shouldn't matter."

In disbelief, Al's lips curled into a grateful smile. "Honestly, Dad, it doesn't matter," he said, fighting the urge to laugh; he felt so relieved! Happily, he squeezed Matt's hand.

Arthur rolled his forest-green eyes, and muttered: "Of course not." Francis pursed his lips, stifling a chuckle.

Matt blinked tears from his eyes, and said: "Thank-you for understanding."