DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

MÉNAGE À TROIS

FRANCIS

Oh, suck it, Arthur," said Francis into his cell-phone.

"And you wonder why the court gave me custody of the kids," said the Englishman, annoyed. "I don't want them exposed to that kind of language this week, Francis—or anything else," he added dubiously.

Francis frowned. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don't want my kids affected by their father's polyamory lifestyle with two degenerates."

Francis clenched the phone. "My boyfriends are not degenerates. And if Alfred and Mathieu are affected by a stable, functioning household full of people who love and respect each other, then I'll consider it a fucking victory."

"Oh, don't give me that. You and I both know that your situation," Arthur growled out, "is exactly why I got the kids and the house, so don't pretend your fucked-up relationship is the normal one—"

Francis ended the call and hurled the phone in frustration. He wiped tears from his eyes.

"Hiji de puta!" spat Antonio.

"What happened?" Gilbert asked, walking in. "Aren't the kids coming to visit?"

Francis nodded, sniffling.

"Arthur's just being a fucking dick about it," Antonio supplied, wrapping an arm around Francis. "Like he is about everything. Jealous prick."

Gilbert shook his head. "God, your ex is an asshole, Fran.

"But, hey," he added, more cheerfully, "your kids are coming! Alfred and Matthew—"

"Mathieu," Francis corrected. He pressed his lips together as tears filled his eyes. Antonio rubbed his back. "I just hope... they still like me."

"Oh, cariño, how can you even think like that?" the Spaniard scolded. "Of course they will, you're an amazing papa!"

"But they're so—so—so little!" Francis cried. "They're only four! And I haven't seen them for three months!"

"Oh boy," said Gilbert, crouching in front of Francis, taking both his hands. "Hey, look at me, schatz. You're a great father and your kids love you, and we're going to make this the best week they've ever had, okay? It doesn't matter what Arthur thinks. He's not important. Those kids are what's important, right?"

Francis nodded.

"Right?" Antonio smiled.

Francis nodded again, more confidently. "Yes, of course," he agreed. His face brightened at the thought of his children and, suddenly, he couldn't contain his joy. "My babies," he exclaimed, crying excited tears, "I can't wait to see my precious babies!"

Papa!" squeaked Alfred and Mathieu, dashing out of the arrival's gate.

Francis knelt and caught them both in a hug; the momentum nearly knocked him over. "Alfred! Mathieu!" he yelled, laughing and rocking them. "Oh! I've missed you so much, my darlings! Look at how big you've gotten! Oh, you're both so beautiful!" he gushed, kissing their cheeks. "I'm so happy to see you!

"Less happy to see you," he said in English, standing to face his ex-husband. "Arthur."

"Francis," returned Arthur in the same stiff tone.

Despite their mutual disinclination to try to stay married, they had not separated as friends, or even as equal, satisfied parties. The process of getting divorced had been a long, ugly affair made worse by the factors of children, and Francis' then new boyfriend, Antonio. Even now, two-and-a-half years later, both of them harboured jealousy and resentment of—and for—the other. Their attraction had been immediate and their relationship reckless right from the start, back when their nights together were filled with loud music, strong liquor, and cigarettes; back when Arthur was nothing but the vocalist of an opening act, and Francis a dancer who worked the same circuit. Now, Francis taught at a studio whenever money was tight, and Arthur was a music producer, who lived in Kensington and drove a BMW. The court may have disapproved of Francis' affair, but the real reason Arthur had won full custody of the children had less to do with either of their morality or relationships, Francis suspected, and everything to do with the Englishman's six-figure salary.

He stared at Francis now from behind a pair of designer sunglasses, which he took off, revealing his brilliant green eyes. (Damn his weakness for green eyes!) In skin-tight jeans and a black t-shirt, his tattoos on display, Francis hated how good his ex looked. He watched that predatory gaze take him in from head-to-toe, and thought: No, you don't get to look at me like that anymore! It made him feel naked, until the solid, reassuring weight of Antonio's arm snaked around his waist. Now Arthur glared at green-eyed Antonio, who had fluidly inserted himself, then swung over to criticize Gilbert, who was standing with his arms crossed defensively only a few feet away. He clutched his car keys like he might weaponize them if Arthur made a move toward his boyfriends.

"Alfred, Matthew," Arthur addressed the two boys instead. (It's Mathieu! Francis wanted to yell. You chose the name Alfred, I chose Mathieu!)

The four-year-old twins obediently returned to Arthur, who knelt. His edges seemed to soften as he focused on them, and for that, at least, Francis was grateful.

"Do you remember what we talked about?" he asked them, taking their pudgy hands. They nodded. "Good. I want you to be good this week. Have fun, and call me before you go to bed each night, okay? Call me at any time if you need anything at all. I showed you how, remember? Good," he repeated, smiling at them. It was a nice smile; the smile of someone hopelessly besotted. "Come here, give me a hug," he said, wrapping them in his arms. He held them for a long moment, then kissed them both. "I'll see you in a week, darlings. I love you."

"I love you, too, Daddy!" they chirped, making Francis' heart ache.

Then the boys were back at his side, their soft, round faces beaming up at him with expectant smiles. Francis lifted Mathieu into his arms; Antonio lifted Alfred, fencing the child's garbled monologue. Arthur reluctantly handed the boys' small luggage cases to Gilbert, who took them without a word.

"Take care of my kids," Francis heard Arthur warn Gilbert, his voice quiet and threatening, but not without a nervous hitch. That's when Francis realized that he was scared; scared to leave the boys for the first time. A note of sympathy stole into his tender heart, but Gilbert's reply was stark:

"Francis' kids," he said, as if that was answer enough.

Arthur glowered unhappily at him, at Antonio, and at Francis. Then he forced a confident, affectionate smile onto his face, and addressed his boys one more time:

"Goodbye, my loves. I'll see you soon."

The week seemed to fly by in a giddy, giggly dream of soft, sweet kisses and hugs like warm cookies. Francis' heart had never felt so full, so complete, as if half of it—or, two-thirds of it—had been missing until then. He spent every waking minute with Alfred and Mathieu—and every sleeping one, too, since they slept with him in the master bed; Gilbert and Antonio slept in the spare—talking and laughing, taking them out to the park and the shops and to his favourite—age-appropriate—cafés, and then to an amusement park on Antonio's night off. Francis had been nervous about the boys' reaction to meeting his boyfriends again, who insisted on being called Gil and Toni ("None of that creepy Uncle shit," they said.) but it was a needless worry. Antonio had always been wonderful with children, and he adored Francis' as much as they adored him. He chased them around the flat like a bull, provoking peals of excited laughter, then taught them how to make churros, and sang them to sleep. Francis could feel himself falling in love all over again watching them. Gilbert liked to tease the boys, stirring a competitive spirit in Alfred, and sharing secrets with timid Mathieu. It was he they ran to with news, and accomplishments, and bedtime fears. ("No monsters in this house," he promised them, puffing-up his chest. "Know why? Because the monsters are scared of me!") They seemed to sense a protective nature in his strong, stable presence, as well as the approval of someone they instinctively wanted to impress. Gilbert loved teaching them, Antonio loved playing with them, and Francis loved them all.

Arthur's promised return came too soon, and many tears were shed—from Alfred and Mathieu, but mostly from Francis—and hugs and kisses exchanged as the trio bid the boys farewell. Francis held tight to them until the last possible moment, until Arthur insisted they would miss their flight if they didn't hurry—now, please. "It's not like you won't ever see them again," he scoffed in goodbye, herding the boys into security as they waved back at their papa and his boyfriends. If Gilbert and Antonio hadn't been there, Francis was sure he'd have made a scene. The instant he lost sight of his boys, his heart ached, and happy, heartfelt tears became the manifestation of loss, guilt, and regret. Gilbert and Antonio took him out that evening to distract him, enjoying a long walk through the park together, illuminated by festival lights. He leant against Gilbert, who wrapped an arm around his waist for support, and he squeezed Antonio's hand, their fingers tightly interlocked. But the moment they stepped into the flat, Francis burst into a fresh fountain of tears, because Mathieu had forgotten his plush polar bear, which was sitting on the living-room sofa.

A month later, Francis and Antonio returned home laden with paper grocery bags to find Gilbert on a call with Alfred and Mathieu. Francis almost dropped the bags when he saw their big eyes and chubby, rosy cheeks squished together on Gilbert's laptop screen, but Gilbert didn't notice, as his back was turned.

"Maybe you could date Daddy, too," Alfred was saying hopefully, "and then we could all live together!"

"Oh, uh... uh huh," said Gilbert uncomfortably, "that's... an idea. But maybe we should keep brainstorming, yeah?"

Francis was going to interrupt—he wanted to talk to his boys!—but Antonio stopped him. Wordless, he shook his head, then raised a finger to his lips. Let's just listen for a minute, said his eyes.

"Is that really what you want?" Gilbert asked, watching the boys ponder. "For your Papa and your Daddy to live together?"

"Yes," said Alfred immediately, "because then Papa would be with us always."

"Do you miss him when he's away?"

"Yes."

"And do you think—" Gilbert paused, careful, "—that your Daddy and your Papa would be happy together?"

Francis held his breath. Antonio rubbed his back, lending pre-emptive comfort. The reply was a long time in coming, but when it did it came from Mathieu's voice, so small and soft that Francis had to strain to hear it:

"No," he said. "I think they would yell a lot."

"Yeah," Alfred agreed, louder, sadder. "I don't think they like each other very much."

It was then that Gilbert spotted his boyfriends standing in the doorway. It wasn't until Francis saw sympathy colour the German's face that he realized he was crying, again. He pinched his lips, but couldn't stop the flow of tears; couldn't bear the thought of hurting his children.

"Maybe not," Gilbert agreed with Alfred, "but, you know, I think they could learn to get along for you guys. They both love you a lot. You know that, don't you?" Two nods; one fast and fervent, the other slow and subtle. "I just think they need their own space."

"It's too much space," Alfred said.

"I miss Papa," Mathieu whispered. "I wish he was with us always."

Francis pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a sob. Antonio closed him into a protective hug.

Gilbert glanced at his boyfriends, then smiled at the boys. "Well," he said, feigning contemplation, "it sounds like everyone would be a lot happier if Papa was living in London with you, doesn't it?"

"Yeah—?" said Alfred hopefully, inching closer, nearly nose-to-nose with the screen. Behind him, Mathieu's violet eyes were big and focused.

"Not in the same house," Gilbert reiterated, "but in the same city. Would you like that?"

"Yes!" they said in union.

"Me, too," Gilbert nodded. He looked directly at Francis then, who stared back in confusion. The German smiled his knight's smile; the smile that said: I will do anything for you. He shrugged helplessly, and said: "I guess we should all move to London then."

Gil?" Francis' voice was a bare whisper.

Gilbert closed the laptop and got up from the table. He was still smiling that handsome, cocksure smile as he approached his boyfriends.

"Are you—are you serious?" Francis choked-out, nervously daring to hope.

"Fran, this is something we've been talking about for a while," said Gilbert, glancing at Antonio.

Antonio was smiling now too, his eyes aglow with playful mischief, proud that he had kept their plot a secret. "It didn't make sense as long as Gil worked here in Berlin, but now..." His voice lifted as his shoulders did, shrugging a dismissal. "That's not really an issue anymore."

"I'll find a job in London," Gilbert promised.

"And I can bartend anywhere," Antonio added.

Francis stared at them both, agape. "You—" His voice broke. "You'll both move to London, for my babies?"

"Hey," Gilbert gently corrected, "they're ours now, too."

"Because you're ours," Antonio needlessly explained. "London is where you're meant to be, Fran, because it's where the kids are. And we're meant to be with you. So, yeah," he grinned, wiping Francis' cheeks, "jolly ol' London it is."

Overcome with emotion, Francis collapsed against them both, wrapping his arms around his boyfriends, and crying, and kissing them. "Thank-you my loves! Oh, thank-you so much! I love you," he kissed Gilbert, then Antonio, again and again and again.

"Je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime."

Oh, joy," said Arthur sarcastically when Francis told him. But the tone of his voice didn't reflect the relief in his eyes.

Quieter, kinder—honest—he admitted: "It'll make Alfred and Matt—Mathieu really happy."