You don't think a tragedy will befall you until it does, and by then, it's too late.

He'd been washing dishes when it happened. The bloody, accursed dishes—as if glossing their teapot to perfection mattered. The window was slightly ajar, and he could hear the boys laughing on the lawn. Their happy cries echoed under the pastels of the sky, and Arthur remembered thinking to himself that they were having far too much fun out there. He set down a soapy plate, dried his hands, and made a move to nag them for disturbing the neighborhood with their staccatos.

But then, the phone rang. The home phone.

Expecting a telemarketer to greet him, Arthur ignored the call. No one of importance would be trying to reach them at five o'clock, and scolding the twins was higher up on his to-do list. In fact, he'd gotten as far as the front door before he realized his grave mistake.

The answering machine flared with life, and the voice that came quaking out of the speaker made Arthur's heart fall to his stomach.

"Arthur, it's Raivis."

He darted for the coffee-table and swiped up the phone, stumbling over a lone sneaker along the way. How many times did he have to tell Alfred to clean up after himself? He would fester in his own pigsty someday and—

"What happened?" he demanded, already grabbing the keys to the car and his coat. He closed the window with a wallop, stunning the boys out of their play. Before long, they were stamping their way inside, curious about what was going on.

Raivis, meanwhile, was speaking a mile a minute into the phone, shouting and only partially coherent. "Just get here as soon as you can."

"Dad?"

Arthur flinched. "What do you mean? Tell me what—"

"Dad!"

In a rush of movement, Arthur swung around and grabbed Alfred by the arm to quiet him. "Not now. Raivis, calm down and tell me what happened."

The boys watched as their father's face drained of color. He seemed to be making a conscious effort to breathe, and he slammed down the phone a second later and said, "Get in the car."

"Dad? Did something bad happen?"

"I said, 'not now', Alfred!"

It would be the second time Alfred ever saw his father cry, and it wasn't pleasant. Dads weren't supposed to cry. They were invincible. They were the ones who checked for monsters under the bed and carried you on their shoulders when the world became too scary. Though Arthur tried his very best to hide his sorrow, there was no mistaking his puffy eyes and crackling voice, and the boys had a very strong feeling that something awful was about to happen.

"Don't cry, Dad."

Matthew's soft sympathy did nothing to quell the sadness. If anything, it only made the spastic hiccups filling the car worse. Arthur lit his way through three cigarettes before they arrived at the hospital (a hospital he'd become all too familiar with).

The Emergency Room seemed to be under siege as they entered—a line of police cars were stationed outside of the lobby, the staff on the unit dispatched themselves like foot soldiers bounding into combat, and Arthur found himself in the middle of the battle.

A trauma team assembled. Arthur recognized their new admission from the other end of the cold hallway, and he weaved his way through the masses to reach them. A nurse noticed his intrusion and tried to stop his foray, but fear gave a man immense strength, and she was no match for him. Seconds seemed like days as he came before the right stretcher, bursting through the sea of doctors.

A bleeding man was the center of attention in the hospital room—a blond haired, blue-eyed officer clad in a shiny badge. With a unified heave, two paramedics and a nurse transferred the man to a proper bed.

"Francis, Francis, Francis."

Perhaps if he said the name enough, the ghostly shell of a man staring back at him would remember how to be human again. Noticing the slack emptiness on the poor soul's face, Arthur could hardly admit to himself that he was looking at his husband. He'd mixed up the rooms. He barged in on the wrong patient. He must have.

He twisted his neck around to find the nurse who'd been chasing him earlier. She would know where Francis was. She would lead him to a different bed. His frog was probably watching a re-run of a sappy soap opera as a doctor stitched up a little cut on his arm. This wasn't him. This white-washed, sweat-drenched man was not his intolerable bastard. No. No.

"Sir? What are you doing in here?"

Please, please, please. It's not him.

Before he could be whisked away from the scene, Arthur took the sallow man's hand in his own and peered into his clouded eyes. Francis was awake, but one couldn't really say he was conscious. Delirious, yes, but not mindful of his current state or the people around him. There was a globular wound above his ear, relatively small and innocent to those who didn't know any better, and Arthur kissed him as hard as he dared, hoping to rouse him. How many times had he missed the opportunity to show how him much he loved him? How many parts of him remained unkissed—unappreciated?

"Francis, I'm here."

"Sir, we're going to have to ask you to leave."

Arthur's tears dribbled from his chin and splashed the bedsheets. Why had he fought with him that morning? The boys caught up to him, and they were trying to break their way through the crowd to see.

"Oh, Francis. I'm so sorry. Please…"

"Sir."

Words. Words always consoled them—they were the buoy in the open ocean. He racked his mind for something that he could recite. Something they could both carry with them until the storm blew over. Whitman, Poe, and Rilke all failed him. What did they know about the kind of crushing pain that was ripping his heart from between his ribs? They were frauds… Pretty dreams of love and eternal romance.

Why couldn't he have a pretty dream? Why was he left to suffer the refuse of life?

Fifteen years ago, he met the only person he truly loved at an open mike in an American tavern. His name was Francis. He didn't give a damn about poetry—he just came for the delightful wine. Poetry, he said, was mostly a collection of nonsensical ruminations. Why waste time writing about the rosy past or the grim present? The only words worth writing, he believed, were the ones that created new life and meaning—the ones that taught a deaf man to hear and a young boy to love.

That night, Arthur had learned how to feel—how to love until the sky split open and rained on them in contempt. And now, after nearly fourteen years of marriage, he spoke the same verses of E.E. Cummings that he'd spoken then.

"Yours is the light by which my spirit's born. You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars."

Francis blinked, but everything remained doused in a haze. Arthur waited for a flicker of recognition or that sly half-smile of his. He waited and waited, but it was no use, he may as well have been talking to a brick wall.

"My God, Francis. It's me, Arthur. Say something… I love you."

The bothersome nurse from before put a hand on his shoulder and led him away from the bed as though he were a kitten who had ventured into the precarious corner of one's house. The boys followed, not yet sure of what they had seen.

Someone had soaked his eyes with pepper-spray because they wouldn't stop running, even after the nurse led him a safe distance away. "What's wrong with him? T-That's my husband. I need to know—"

The nurse sat him down in the nearest chair and frowned. The pity in her eyes made Arthur sick.

"The bullet seems to have damaged part of his left brain, which means he can't process language at the moment."

"But could he recognize me? Does he know I was there?"

"It's hard to say. We can't tell the severity of the injury until the scans are completed."

Arthur let his face fall into his hands. All he'd wanted was for Francis to know he was there. He was there, and he loved him—would never stop loving him. The thought of not being with Francis made him numb, so numb, in fact, that he'd forgotten how to move until the sound of Matthew crying pulled him into reality.

He reached out his hands and gathered the boys in his arms. Matthew wriggled onto his lap and Alfred seated himself beside them, resting his head on Arthur's shoulder. For a while, nothing was said. They eased into each other's presence and listened to the buzz of the ER. Cardiac monitors were bleeping from some of the rooms, the crinkling of plastic wrappers could be heard as sterile packaging to syringes were torn free, and there were doctors making small-talk as they passed.

"—and he didn't even give him a blood thinner. I mean, honestly, how did some of these people make it through medical school?" one of the doctors murmured before gnawing off the end of a candy bar. "I'm telling you, it gets worse every year."

Arthur sighed and laid Matthew's head over his erratic heart.

Alfred had finally mustered the courage to ask, "Is Papa going to be all right?"

"I don't know, lad. We have to wait and see."

"Did somebody hurt him?"

"Yes."

"Who did it?"

"I don't know."

"Is he going to go to jail?"

"He might."

Alfred leaned back in his chair and chewed on his thumb in worry. "I hope he gets in a lot of trouble and never gets to hurt anybody ever again."

"So do I."

Their exchange upset Matthew even further, and Arthur did all he could think of to soothe him. He tugged the boy closer, petted his hair, and told him it was okay. They were going to be okay. They were a family, and families always worked their way through tough times. Even when things seemed broken beyond repair, and all they wanted was a 'reset' button to start over, they'd come up with a way to hang on.

"Shhh. You know Papa wouldn't want you to be crying. We're going to be strong for him."

"Yeah, it's okay, Mattie," Alfred added with a meek smile. He could feel his need to be protective of his brother growing, and he wished he'd stop his tears. "Dad won't let anything bad happen."

Arthur twisted his fingers through Matthew's hair and ignored the aching in his legs from holding the boy in his lap for so long. When had he become so heavy? Arthur couldn't recall giving him permission to grow up.

"W-When can we see Papa?" Matthew whispered after calming down somewhat. He was grateful for the fact that Arthur was still dutifully holding him tight.

"As soon as the doctors say we can, poppet."

And so, they continued their stake-out in the waiting area. Time seemed to pass with pregnant pauses. At one point, Arthur and Matthew fell asleep, meaning that Alfred was left to keep watch on his own. He thought of all the bus rides with Papa, the funny stories, the talks about the past and what life used to be like. Papa always had an anecdote up his sleeve, and Dad disapproved of most of them.

"Hey, kid."

"Huh?"

Alfred furrowed his brows as a hand found his shoulder. A young man stood in front of his chair, and Alfred was fairly certain he'd seen him around before. He was a friend of Papa's.

"Are you Raivis?"

"I sure am," the young man replied, letting his eyes wander to Arthur and Matthew. He had a skittish demeanor, but his voice gave him confidence that he'd otherwise have lacked. "Did you guys hear any news yet?"

"No."

Raivis planted himself in one of the lumpy chairs and sulked. "Your papa's been a great mentor to me. You see, I'd just become a cop when I met him… Drove him up the walls at first, but I don't think he ever really hated me. We got along most of the time, and I got a few laughs out of him. He's a complicated man, and he's obviously gone through a lot in his life, so I can see why he takes his job very seriously."

"My papa? Serious?" Alfred wanted to snicker at that. If Raivis thought Papa was a serious character, than he must not have been well-acquainted with Arthur. "Papa says all the funny stuff. He makes Mattie and I laugh at everything."

Raivis smiled and traced circles on Alfred's shoulder. He could tell the boy had been crying, probably when no one was looking. "Guess he had a funny bone after all… How's the leg doing?"

Alfred snapped his head up. "Hey, how do you know about that?"

"Your father told me a lot of stuff about you and Matthew. He didn't have anyone else to tell it to. You didn't answer my question, by the way."

"It's better, and I've started racing again. I can even ride the bike at the physical therapy center now. Dad says we can all go biking together soon."

"That sounds like fun."

"Yeah, Dad says I have to wear a helmet, but I'm old enough not to. I told him it's not cool, but he says that he'd rather have me be uncool and safe than cool and in danger."

Raivis mimicked the humming noise he'd picked up from Francis and pursed his lips. "Your dad's got a good point. All professional bikers wear helmets. He's just looking out for you. I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, but our parents are usually right. Not always, of course, but they do have a lot more life experience, and that makes them a little wiser."

Alfred spluttered and grimaced in disagreement. "There are a lot of things parents don't understand."

"That can be true, but they've been in your place. Plus, they love you, and they get scared when they see you making mistakes. Sometimes that fear makes them come off as unreasonable. But let me tell you something about your papa, he loves you and your brother. He'd do anything for you two. He talks about you guys all the time, and it's obvious that you, Matt, and your dad are the greatest joys of his life. I couldn't even believe—oh, I'm sorry. Don't cry, Al."

There were a fresh set of tears smeared over Alfred's face, and he looked at Raivis with a deep despair. "I saw what they did to Papa. He was hurt bad and—"

Arthur woke up during the conversation and carefully shifted Matthew off of his lap and into the next chair, doing his best not to rouse him. Then, when he was certain the boy was still asleep, he greeted Raivis with a nod of acknowledgement and crouched beside Alfred, who had gone from sad to absolutely distraught in a matter of seconds.

"Come here, my other juvenile delinquent," he said to the boy, encasing him in a hug. "Chin up. If you keep frowning, you'll be stuck like that forever."

Voice muffled in Arthur's shirt, Alfred retorted, "I don't believe you."

Arthur managed a tiny smirk and patted the boy's back. "How about we find you some food? You must be hungry."

"I can take the boys out for something to eat," Raivis offered, still clad in his uniform. Judging by Arthur's state, he didn't have much of any appetite, nor was he looking forward to leaving the hospital without an update on Francis' condition.

The relief on Arthur's face confirmed his thoughts. "It wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"Of course not. It's the least I can do."

And it was a good thing the twins left because no more than five minutes later, Francis' doctor arrived to speak with him, and Arthur was at the end of his ability to stay calm for the children. He had to remain seated when the doctor approached, because he couldn't trust himself to stand without toppling over. Everything hurt—breathing, blinking, thinking, talking, questioning, even just listening. Especially listening.

"There was a lot of bleeding, and the hemorrhaging in his brain was quite severe."

Arthur gripped the edge of his chair and tried to get his heart to work normally again. "But you treated it. You stopped the bleeding?"

The doctor lowered his head. "I'm sorry. We did what we could, but with that kind of trauma…"

They say your life flashes before you when you die. It doesn't. It flashes before the living.

Suddenly, he was in Paris, choking down a garlic-buttered snail because Francis had dared him to and thought it'd be hilarious. It was.

"If there's anything I can do..."

He shoved Francis against the wall of their one bedroom apartment. How could he even suggest moving back to Europe? Of course they were homesick, but life was easier here—peaceful—even if they attracted scornful gazes on the street. He made it clear that it was either him or Paris. He chose him.

"You can see him, if you'd like."

Children. They'd always joked about the idea. Yes, they wanted a family, but imagine the pair misfit fathers they'd be. Francis insisted they adopt—that it wasn't as preposterous as it seemed. They made the best decision of their lives on a whim.

"Take as much time as you need."

He turned the corner to the hospital room and lost all feeling. He couldn't process grief. He merely stood by the bed and let tears fall of their own accord. He was a pool of nothing. He'd lost the one thing he'd ever needed. Here lied the broken remnants of his life.

The long nights spent together, the lullaby-singing and diaper changing, the Christmas dinners and gingerbread houses, the birthdays, the anniversaries, the rainy days spent inside, the sick days full of sniffles and cuddling under blankets, the unwanted French lessons, the laughing at the stupidest of things—gone, all of it.

His worst fear had come true.

"You said you would be safe. You said you'd be careful," Arthur reminded him, locking their hands together. He pecked kisses on his head and sobbed, cursing colorfully in between gasps for air. "You promised, you git."

The ball playing, the road-trips, pushing the boys on the swings, movie nights—

"You promised."

The time he'd been sweeping the floor in the kitchen, and Francis grabbed him by the waist, spun him around despite his protests, and said, "I'm so lucky to have you, mon amour."

"I don't know why I love you."

They'd met by chance. That's how they'd lived their lives—by a series of chances. Beautiful, magnificent chances.

"But I do love you, and you can't do this to me. The boys need you. I need you. I won't smoke. I'll compliment your hair every day. Just don't leave me like this."

Been and gone. All of it.

And he wished he were dead too.