"Ahh, good morning, mon petit. Did you sleep well?"

Alfred blinks the sleepiness out of his eyes and scrunches up his face at the harsh sunlight coming through the window. His neck hurts a little from being on the lumpy couch all night, and when he tries to get up, he notices an arm wrapped around his midsection, firm and protective. Arthur is still asleep, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths, but when Alfred tries to wiggle out of his hold, the man grumbles a soft moan of complaint and tugs him back.

Francis, who is towering over them, offers Alfred a grin and gently shakes Arthur's shoulder. "Come now, you lazy man. You've slept long enough."

Arthur groans loudly and rolls onto his back, finally releasing Alfred. He murmurs something incoherent about losing a letter, but then comes to his senses and begrudgingly opens his eyes.

"There we go. I made tea and thought you might like some. It will help nurse your hangover," Francis chuckles before pointing to a steaming mug on the coffee table.

"What's a hangover?" Alfred asks, shifting his gaze between the two men.

"It's when—"

Arthur scowls and reaches up with his uninjured hand to smack Francis in the ribs. "Don't you dare."

"—a person has such an exciting night that they get a headache the next morning," Francis explains masterfully.

"Oh. So if I stay up late will I get a hangover?"

Arthur makes a funny noise in his throat and Francis laughs, which only serves to make Alfred feel twice as confused.

"Let's hope not," Francis says. "It's not exactly a good thing."

Arthur steps in and rests a comforting hand on Alfred's head. "It's nothing you have to worry about, poppet."

"Yes, enough talk. I'm going to make a lovely breakfast for us, if there's anything that can be salvaged from your kitchen, Arthur. We both know how putrid your cooking can be."

"Excuse me?"

"It's a miracle this poor boy has survived this long! He's paper thin!" Francis frets, pinching one of Alfred's cheeks. "Don't worry, Alfred, your Uncle Francis is going to feed you."

At the word "feed", Baron's ears perk up, and he reminds everyone he's still in the room by standing up and unceremoniously flopping onto Arthur's stomach to confirm whether or not his owner is feeling better. He nuzzles his cold nose against the man's ear and gives the entire left side of his face a large lick.

Arthur grimaces but gives the dog an affectionate pat on the head nonetheless. "Yes, yes, everything's okay. You can have some breakfast too, you numpty."

Not needing any prompting, Francis commandeers the kitchen at once, brimming with concentration. Freshly baked croissants with butter and jam are placed on the table first, followed by sliced fruits and yogurt. The smell itself is incredible, and Alfred wolfs down everything with uncontainable vigor. It's clear Francis is an expert in cuisine, and although Alfred has never necessarily disliked Arthur's cooking before, Francis's breakfast seems to melt in his mouth with how light and flavorful it is, something Arthur has never been able to achieve in any of his cooking.

However, Alfred does have some self-restraint, and so, he makes sure not to look too ecstatic over the excellent food in fear of hurting Arthur's feelings. It's probably best to appear nonchalant.

Arthur eats quickly because he claims to have a lot of work to do, and scarcely before ten minutes have passed, he is in his office, sitting by his typewriter and trying to type with only one hand at his disposal.

"Young boys should not have to spend their weekends inside," Francis laments when he sees that Alfred has been left to his own devices yet again. "Perhaps we can convince Arthur to let you go outside, hmm? Maybe you can play in the yard."

Alfred shakes his head, already imagining how such a conversation would unfold. "He's going to say no because it's too cold today."

"Well, he can't keep you locked up like this! It's enough to drive anyone insane."

Before Alfred can get out another word of protest, Francis storms over to Arthur's office and bangs on the heavy door with his fist, demanding to be invited in.

There's an angry growl on the other side, but Arthur pulls the door open and glares at Francis, waiting for an explanation. "May I help you?"

"Yes, you may," Francis jeers, putting a hand on his hip. "You took in this child, and now you can't even spare a single weekend for him? There are things in this life that are far more important than work, Arthur. One day he will be a grown man. Do you want him to look back at his childhood as a time of isolation? He's ten years old! He needs a father. Act like one!"

Thoroughly stunned, Arthur stares at Francis for a long time, blank-eyed and pale. A muscle twitches in his jaw, and then he says, "It's not as simple as you think."

"Why did you take him in if you can't care for him?"

"I can care for him. I've tried to give him everything—"

"Yes, you gave him a nice house to live in and warm meals, but you haven't given him the most important thing of all."

Arthur furrows his brows. "And what's that?"

"Your love," Francis sighs, exasperated. "He spent the entire night sitting by your side, and this is how you repay him?"

"That's not—"

A somber frown crosses Francis's face as he murmurs, "Believe it or not, it's okay to feel something other than frustration and grief. I know you're afraid, but you're not going to lose him. He needs you."

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and makes a noise of agreement. He pushes past Francis and finds Alfred in the hallway, a sheepish smile on his lips. "Would you like to go to the cinema this afternoon, my boy?"

"The place with the moving pictures?"

"Precisely."

"Yes! I've never been before, but I used to hear about some of the shows from my friends on the train," Alfred explains, eyes brightening with enthusiasm. "Can Francis come with us?"

Arthur seems ready to reject the request, but then he notices the hopeful twinkle in Alfred's eyes and slowly reconsiders.

"Give him a pout, Alfred. It will help our cause," Francis suggests with a snicker.

Sure enough, as soon as Alfred juts out his bottom lip a little, Arthur's resolve begins to crack.

"Francis is a busy man, lad. I'm sure he has to repaint his attic or apply more mousse into his hair."

Francis rolls his eyes and gives Arthur a sickly sweet grin. "I have all of the time in the world for you."

"Will you at least behave yourself?"

"But of course!"

"Fine, then. You can join us if you wish."

A bubbly giggle escapes Alfred, and he wraps his arms around Arthur's stomach, thrilled at the sudden change in plans. "Yay! Thank-you!"

It's bound to be a good day.

The title of the movie they see is The Broadway Melody, featuring the lovely Anita Page, who fits the definition of a Hollywood girl perfectly. It's a musical/romance film, and although a lot of the banter and dramatic conversations elude Alfred, he enjoys himself nonetheless.

The theater is packed and buzzing with the chatter of people ranging from young to old. Some of the mothers have left their little children in the care of the designated play area in another room, while the men mingle and smoke cigarettes, leaving the theater a tad oppressive and clammy.

Essentially, the film follows a traditional love-triangle with the occasional musical number thrown into the mix. There are a few kissing scenes, and they make Alfred feel a bit squeamish, but the songs are fun, and the images are unlike anything he's ever seen before.

It's over within two hours, and when they finally exit the theater, Alfred has to squint against the sunlight of the day before his eyes adjust. After sitting in front of the big screen projection for so long, the outside world seems mal-proportioned and small.

"Did you have a good time?" Arthur asks him, tightening the scarf around his neck. "A bit too flashy for my tastes, I'd say, but bearable."

Alfred tilts his head to one side and shrugs. "I liked it."

"It was not as good as some French films, but I can see the appeal," Francis chimes, pulling on his leather gloves.

"You can't critique the film; you fell asleep halfway through," Arthur reminds. "On my shoulder, nonetheless."

"Ah, but that's what friends are for, non? Alfred's shoulder is too small to sleep on."

They all share a good laugh, and then it's time to go home. It's another cold day, and with night approaching, the winter chill intensifies.

"Don't fall and break your other arm, Arthur," Francis forewarns, the hint of a tease in his voice. "How will you write your legal briefs then?"

"Oh, shut up."

The bickering between the two men makes Alfred happy in a way he can't quite describe. He knows neither of them really harbor hard feelings toward each other, and perhaps that's why their friendship is so funny in the first place. He thinks back to The Broadway Melody and how relationships can be both a blessing and a curse, and a curious thought comes upon him.

"Arthur? Can I ask you a question?"

Arthur pauses his sparring with Francis for a moment and lets a careful smile flutter across his face. "Of course you can."

"You used to be in love, right?" Alfred wonders, raising his head up to meet his caretaker's gaze.

Arthur bites the inside of his cheek and exchanges a glance with Francis before he says, "Erm—yes, yes, I was, but that was a long time ago. Why do you ask?"

"I just—" Alfred frowns. To be honest, he's not really sure why he wants to know. "What's being in love like?"

Arthur scrunches up his face slightly, thinking. From beside him, Francis shoots him an expectant look.

"Ahh, I suppose… Being in love is when you're willing to put someone else's needs ahead of your own. You accept that person in spite of any flaws, and you stay beside them even when times are hard. When you're in love, you never want to return home because you find a home in them. Is that clear?"

Francis huffs and crosses his arms. "What a terrible explanation!"

Arthur grows red and opens his mouth to defend himself, but Alfred beats him to it.

"No, it's okay. I think I get it now," he reassures, adding a bounce to his step. "Thanks!"

Arthur nods and bows his head in relief, shoulders hunched.

"You have to take this. It isn't a request."

"It's gross!" Alfred wails, casting his arms out in front of him to keep the dreaded silver spoon in Arthur's hand at bay.

"It's the only thing that will help you."

"I'd rather die!"

"Don't say that. You don't mean it."

"Yes, I do!"

Arthur mutters angrily under his breath and tries to calm his temper, wanting to take a more patient approach but failing. They've been at it for over thirty minutes, and he is rapidly running out of the energy needed to keep this up.

Alfred had woken up in the middle of the night complaining about another lung spasm, and so, Arthur had taken the liberty of finding the ephedrine he kept in stock in the bathroom, only to return to a protesting and absolutely incorrigible Alfred who refused to take it.

Hence, they are now poised in Alfred's bedroom, each of them as stubborn as the other. The battle would have ended minutes ago if Arthur had the availability of two working hands, but his debilitated arm is currently in a sling, leaving him in no condition for a tussle with the boy.

"Alfred, for the last time, take the medicine."

"No!"

"In that case, I'm going to tell Ivan you disobeyed his instructions."

The wheezing in Alfred's lungs is getting worse, and soon enough, he grows too miserable and sickly to continue pushing himself. Arthur seizes the chance to force the medicine down him, and though Alfred cries and howls as though Arthur has chopped off his leg, he is all right again within the hour.

They both go back to sleep afterward, but Arthur calls Ivan in the morning anyway, and he stops by for a visit just to make sure there's nothing to worry about.

Alfred sulks and glowers as Ivan puts a stethoscope on his back, but the exam is over fairly quickly, and Alfred is allowed to put his shirt on again.

"Everything's fine for now. I'm afraid this is going to be a regular occurrence," Ivan announces, packing up his things.

Arthur doesn't seem satisfied with the verdict. "Isn't there anything else we can do?"

"Well, you could move to the coast where the air is better, but even that doesn't guarantee he'll feel better."

"I don't want to move!" Alfred chirps, making sure he isn't left out of the discussion.

Arthur ignores him. "But there's a chance it'll cure him?"

"No, it won't cure him, but he'll experience fewer symptoms."

"I see… Okay, it's something we'll consider. Thank you again for your time."

Once Ivan is out the door, Alfred sweeps his way over to Arthur with a deep frown and asks, "Are we moving?"

"I don't know yet," Arthur sighs, carding a hand through his own hair.

"But I don't want to move! I'll have to leave my friends, and I like everyone in the town!"

"We won't make any rash decisions now, all right?"

It's enough of a reassurance for the meantime. By the next day, they don't even mention the subject anymore, and Alfred hopes this is a sign Arthur has given up on the idea.

A new development takes place the following week, but it has nothing to do with potentially moving. Instead, Alfred is taken to get fitted for a pair of frames because a trip to the ophthalmologist proves he's as near-sighted as a bat in the daytime. At first, wearing his new glasses is a little annoying because they feel awkward on his nose and always seem to get in the way of things, but before long, he barely notices he has them on anymore.

He jokes he's a whole new person now that he has glasses—definitely smarter and more mature. He even fantasizes they will give him superpowers like night-vision and the ability to see invisible objects. For three days, he prances around the house and declares he "will save the world!"

Twice, he misplaces his glasses and is left to wander around blindly. Thankfully, Arthur finds them on top of the dresser in his bedroom, but before he gives them back to Alfred, he attaches an elastic band to the frames so that he isn't as tempted to take them off or let them fall off of his face.

"The only time you should be taking these glasses off is when you're in the bath or going to sleep," Arthur chides him, and it's only the start of an arduous lecture. Of course, it goes in one ear and out the other because by the time Arthur finishes speaking, Alfred is back to conjuring fantastical tales. This time he's on a scavenger hunt in the heart of the Amazon rainforest, using his handy-dandy glasses as binoculars to spot exotic animals.

Everything looks different behind glass, or maybe it just seems that way. The windowsill in his bedroom looks smaller, and Francis's house across the street appears to be farther away. He has never seen the world through a new lens before. It's a puzzling discovery.

"Would the hero like to have his dinner now?"

Alfred spins around, and the rainforest disappears from his mind when he sees Arthur standing in the doorway of his room. "Yes, please."

"Then come and help me set the table."

He nods and parades after the man, eager to be of assistance, especially since Arthur clearly needs the extra hand. If he wants to save the universe, he supposes he should start with small acts of heroism around the house first. Today's meal consists of veal, potatoes, and ever-so-slightly charred vegetables.

They both sit down and begin to eat, but just as Arthur picks up his knife to slice the meat, he is made very aware of how impossible it is for him to hold both a knife and a fork at the same time due to his injured hand, and he is left to haphazardly hack away at the veal. His left hand is uncoordinated at best, and he nearly cuts his finger as a result. He drops the knife, curses, and apologizes profusely when he realizes Alfred has overheard the foul words.

By the time he picks up the knife again for a second try, Alfred gets up and stops him before he can hurt himself.

"I can do it," Alfred tells him kindly. However, getting the man to accept help isn't so simple.

Arthur waves a hand at him dismissively and wastes no time in portraying how irritated he is. "That's all right. I can manage."

"No, you can't."

"I beg your pardon?"

Alfred huffs and takes the silverware away. "Let me do it! You can trust me."

"I don't recall asking for—"

"Don't worry," Alfred beseeches, already cutting the meat into pieces. For a moment, he feels ten years older, and it's as though the hands holding the fork and knife are no longer his own; they are from a future he has yet to know.

Slowly but surely, the snow makes way for blooming flowers, and the town rises out of its dreary hibernation once and for all. The sun shines a little brighter, and the school children linger in the streets, playing and shouting delightfully between the leafless trees. For them, nothing else seems to matter. The hardships of the world have been stowed in the closet for the day.

Or so Alfred thinks until he takes another walk with Arthur to Beilschmidt Sweets. They are greeted by Ludwig when they enter the familiar, quaint shop, and Arthur buys himself a pack of cigarettes and a roll of Life-Savers, placing a dollar on the counter.

"You're the first customer I've seen today," Ludwig sighs, hunched over with weariness. "Business has been slower than usual."

Arthur makes a low noise of sympathy. "I suppose it's not really surprising, given the circumstances. Where's Gilbert?"

"I sent him home early. At least one of us can enjoy this nice day… Roderich lost his job last week, did I tell you?"

"No, you didn't. Roderich's the cousin in Chicago?"

"That's the one," Ludwig confirms, counting up Arthur's change. "I would offer him a place to stay here, but there isn't any work to be found in the suburbs. How's the arm?"

"In one piece," Arthur says with a dry laugh, lighting up one of the cigarettes. "It's a relief to have that damned cast off."

Ludwig nods and hands Arthur some coins, but Arthur pushes them back and shakes his head.

"Keep it, please," he says before taking another drag of his cigarette. "These are trying times."

Even though he doesn't recognize it right away, Alfred will one day take pride in Arthur's willingness to be charitable.

Ludwig hesitates for a moment, but then accepts the money with another sigh. "Thank you… Oh, and hello, Alfred! How are you doing today?"

Alfred smiles widely and shrugs his shoulders. "I'm okay!"

"You're doing well in school?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good, that's what I like to hear. Educated men will always be able to support their families," Ludwig explains, wiping down the counter with a wet rag. "We need more clever boys like you."

Alfred thanks the man and grabs a Life-Saver when Arthur offers him one. He has grown to really like the Beilschmidt brothers, even though they can sometimes be unnerving. They're interesting people, and Alfred always finds himself fascinated by what they have to say.

"All right, then. We'll be on our way. Take care, Ludwig," Arthur mutters before they head home for the day. The sun is beginning to set, and the sky bleeds pink and orange and a mural of other colors as they cross the street. The mild air on their skin feels so refreshing that neither of them want to go inside when they reach the steps of the porch.

Arthur unlocks the door and swings it open, waiting for an excited greeting from Baron but getting none. Confused, he steps inside and calls for the dog from the foyer. "Baron! Come and sit in the garden for a while."

A tad worried, Alfred follows Arthur into the house, and they look for Baron together, only to find him lying in his plump bed stationed in the corner. He's quite lethargic, and he doesn't even bother to lift his head when they approach him. He's curled up into a ball of fur with his nose tucked into the fabric of the pet-bed.

Arthur crouches down and rubs Baron's head softly, unable to hide the concern on his face. "Hey, there… What's wrong? Don't tell me you tried to eat one of my shoes again," he jokes, but the words are flat. "Oh, Baron…"

Alfred bites his bottom lip and stands back, scared that if he gets too close, he'll somehow make things worse. "Is he sick?"

"It would seem so," Arthur murmurs, voice thick with emotion. "I-I'll get him a blanket, and we'll let him rest for the night. Maybe he'll be all right in the morning. If not, he'll have to go to the vet."

Alfred nods, and while Arthur gets up and staggers toward the closet, he sits down on the floor beside Baron and gives him a careful hug along with a kiss atop his nose. "Feel better soon, okay?"

The dog whines miserably, and Arthur tucks a quilt around him, hands shaking. "There… That'll keep him comfortable."

When there's nothing else they can do for him, they have dinner and get ready for bed, but instead of going up to his room, Arthur decides he'll sleep on the couch to stay by the mutt. A heavy feeling of dread washes over Alfred and leaves his hands and toes cold because they both know what is happening here, but he doesn't say anything. He goes up to his own bed, understanding that Arthur probably wants to be left alone in his watch.

He prays the dog will recover, but this is something not even a hero can fix.