Author's Note: For some reason I can't fathom, this final chapter ended up being over 6,000 words. I'm sorry for the length in advance, haha! Now that I've gotten this fluff out of my system, I'm on to writing more fluff that you guys have requested. Fluff and lots of angst. You'll be seeing a lot more updates soon! As always, thanks for the support and for being incredible. :)
It's morning. Arthur can hear the birds chirping outside the window and the laughter of children playing in their yards. The sun's warmth sneaks in between the blinds and cascades over his face and neck, merging with the heat already radiating off of him from his fever.
He touches his pulsating head and discovers the cool compress Gilbert must have put on him—it's still cold and wet, so it must be fairly fresh. Honestly, there's no need for this fretting. He can take care of himself.
He goes through a mental checklist of his current symptoms: fever, headache, congestion, general fatigue, and an incessant, semi-productive cough. Marvelous.
He kicks away the covers and gets out of bed on unsteady feet. The pressure in his head makes him groan, and his groan triggers another sequence of coughs. It's like someone is cutting his chest open with a scalpel, and he has to grip the bedpost to recover, feeling dizzy. It'd be wise for him to get to the medicine cabinet for another dose of a cough suppressant and a round of ibuprofen. But first, he should check up on the boys and Francis and then attempt to eat something…He can add loss of appetite to his list because as soon as the thought of breakfast crosses his mind, he has the urge to be sick.
After coughing his way to the boys' room, his eyes fall upon two empty beds. Odd. Did they go off with Francis or Gilbert?
He steps over to the other bedroom and confirms his suspicions—Francis isn't in bed either.
Shame rises from Arthur's stomach. Is he the last one up? It seems that might be the case, which is, frankly, unacceptable. He should be helping to care for everyone, not sleeping in. He's failing at his one job.
Upon going downstairs and reaching the living room, he's greeted by a quaint sight. Alfred and Matthew are situated on the couch, knees drawn up to their chests. There's a blanket over them, and their eyes are fixated on a movie playing on the TV. On the coffee table in front of them lie two plates covered with crumbs along with two empty glasses—evidence that they've already had breakfast.
"Hi, Dad!" Alfred says when he notices him. "You okay?"
"Good morning," Matthew adds in, looking far better than he did yesterday.
"Good morning, my boys. I'm fine, thank you for asking, Alfred," Arthur responds without skipping a beat. He clears his throat, runs a hand over his fever-glazed eyes, and hopes he looks somewhat presentable and decent to argue that he really is all right.
That hope is shattered a second later when Alfred says, "You don't look fine. Gilbert said you were really sick last night."
"Gilbert can exaggerate at times. How are you both feeling? Have you had your temperatures checked yet?"
Matthew sniffles softly at that and perks up. "My fever's almost gone."
Arthur gives him an encouraging smile and walks over to the couch to feel each of the boys' foreheads in turn. He can confirm that Matthew's fever seems to be breaking. Alfred, on the other hand, still feels fairly warm. "That's wonderful, poppet…Alfred, you're still running a high temperature. You should be resting in bed."
"But I'm tired of being in bed!" Alfred whines, crossing his arms. "Gilbert said I could stay on the couch if I want."
Well, as long as the boy isn't up and about, he supposes there's no harm in him being in the living room. It's understandable that he's feeling restless.
"All right," he relents. "Any problems with your blood sugar that I should know about?"
Alfred shakes his head and curls up more tightly underneath the blanket, goosebumps cropping up on his arms and legs from his persistent chills. "Nope."
"Good. Where's Papa?"
Matthew chimes in, "He's in the kitchen with Gilbert."
Eager to investigate, Arthur ambles onward and, sure enough, he is made aware of the sound of chatter emanating from nearby. He finds Francis and Gilbert sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. Gilbert is absently working on a crossword puzzle in the newspaper while Francis telling him some sort of tale about recent Parisian politics.
"And so, I thought that they would make an effort to—oh, Arthur! Good morning, mon cher. Were you able to get some sleep at last?" Francis asks, cutting himself off.
"Yes, I'm sorry for—"
"I wish you'd stop apologizing. When you're healthy, you never apologize for anything, but the moment you're ill, you're suddenly intent on saying sorry for everything," Francis interjects.
"That's not true in the slightest."
"Ja, it is," Gilbert counters, pushing aside his newspaper. "You were boiling a few hours ago, in case you didn't know. Go lie down. I swear you're worse than Alfred. Do I have to start bribing you with food and toys to get you to listen, too? Sit down, at least."
"I know my limits," Arthur argues, "And I assure you that I can manage to care for—"
He has to stop to cough. Damn this virus. His shoulders hunch forward, and he covers his mouth with his sleeve as the itch in his chest grows more powerful. Tears involuntarily spring up in his eyes as he gasps for breath.
Gilbert comes to his rescue and pounds a hand against his back, trying to help break up the mucus in his useless lungs. "Francis, get us some water, please. And Arthur, sit down for God's sake before you kill yourself."
Without protest this time, Arthur obediently takes up a chair at the table, doubling over as he continues to cough.
"Here you are, mon amour," Francis says, placing a tall glass of water in front of him.
He carefully takes a sip, managing not to spill it all over himself.
"Now do you understand why you need to be bedridden?" Gilbert asks gruffly.
Francis worriedly pecks his forehead with a kiss and says, "You're very warm. Let us take care of you."
Arthur sighs and wishes these two would stop their nagging and doting already. Maybe he should slow down until his respiratory system learns to cooperate with him again, but he doesn't need anyone watching his every move. He takes another sip of water and starts piecing together all of his knowledge on home remedies for chest congestion—the sooner he can treat himself, the better.
Ignoring the protests from Gilbert and Francis, he gets up and goes to the cupboard to get his favorite box of tea. Then, he fills the kettle with water and sets it on the stove. The entire time, Gilbert is hovering beside him, looking as if he'd like to break something.
"I could have made your stupid tea," Gilbert seethes. "You shouldn't be drinking tea anyway because of your fever, but if you really want it, you can have it lukewarm."
"You mean cold," Arthur frowns.
"No, I mean lukewarm."
"Which essentially means cold."
"Nope, not the same thing, and you know that," Gilbert huffs decisively before nudging Arthur out of the way and taking over. "Don't get on my bad side or I'll make you eat raw ginger. Sit with the kiddos, and I'll get you some more cough syrup. Francis can scrounge you up a plate of breakfast."
Arthur opens his mouth to chide Gilbert for trying to threaten him again, but his lungs flare up and draw more coughs out of him. In the end, he has no choice but to slump his shoulders and peevishly make his way over to the couch. Matthew scoots over to the middle, and Arthur tiredly sits to the left of the boys, sniffling to regain feeling in his nose to no avail.
"I feel like we're camping," Alfred says once they're all resettled and leaning back comfortably. He pulls his legs into a pretzel and rocks back and forth slightly, looking excited and energized despite the signs of illness on his face. "'Cause we're all together under a bunch of blankets, and it's raining out, so it's kinda dark inside since we don't have all the lights on."
"I'm glad someone is able to see the silver lining in this situation," Arthur replies, allowing himself a soft smile. He wraps an arm around Matthew's shoulders, and the boy doesn't hesitate to rest his head against his overly-warm chest, yearning for comfort. A moment later, Alfred slides over to them to be nearer as well.
"It does feel like camping," Matthew quietly agrees, clutching part of Arthur's t-shirt in his fist. "I like it when everyone's home."
Something in Arthur's heart snaps. He's sure of it. He knows what Matthew is eluding to—he isn't home enough. The unfortunate reality of his job is that he's always running to and fro, never pausing for too long to spend time with the entire family or to tell them how much he loves them. It's so easy to get caught up in the constant buzz of work—of his long shifts at the hospital that take up most of his daily life—that he often forgets the simple, little things like sitting under a blanket with his children.
How many times have Alfred and Matthew wondered when he's going to be home? How many times have they stopped to miss his presence? How many times have they wanted him to merely sit here and be with them—even if only for the purpose of watching a TV show together?
"I know we don't get to spend time together often enough, and I'm sorry for that," he tells Matthew, petting the boy's hair. "I wish I didn't have to work as much as I do."
"It's okay," Matthew sighs, holding him tighter.
"No, it's not."
"At least we get to tell everyone our dad's a hero," Alfred says, eyes glimmering with happiness. "You save people's lives."
Arthur clicks his tongue and meets Alfred's gaze. "Not always."
"I wanna be a doctor like you someday," Alfred continues, as if not hearing him. Honestly, everything he tells the child seems to go in one ear and out the other at least eighty percent of the time.
And maybe it's just a silly and natural thing that all children say—"I want to be just like my [insert family member here]," and Arthur is sure Alfred will change his mind a million times over about what he wants to be, but the words are strike a chord anyway, and for a second, he is left speechless.
He can't imagine why anyone would want to be like him. He is flawed in many ways, and yet, for some reason he'll never quite understand, he's enough for Alfred and Matthew. He is far from a perfect father and has made more mistakes than he'd like to recall, but the world hasn't imploded and his sons haven't come to despise him.
Francis comes into the living room just then. A splash of color has returned to his face, replacing the sheen of illness that was there before. Perhaps it's the fever that makes him sentimental, but when Arthur sees him standing there in the doorway, slippers on his feet and hair uncombed, he seems like the most spectacular sight in the universe, and Arthur is overcome with admiration and love for him. Somehow, the two of them have made it this far together. Despite their quarrels and trivial albeit constant back-and-forths, they've managed to keep their quirky family afloat.
"Mind if I join the party?" Francis asks with a little grin before perching himself on the opposite side of the couch, next to Alfred. He wraps his arm around the boy just as Arthur has his arm around Matthew, and Alfred flops down into his papa's lap, more than content with being fussed over and coddled.
Just like camping...If Arthur imagines hard enough, it almost seems like a vacation. Gilbert provides them with more pillows than they need so that the boys can build a pillow fort around them to pass the time while the TV hums the theme song of a cartoon. The rain outside taps gently against the windows, and they burrow underneath a large quilt that the four of them can all fit under.
Arthur nibbles half-heartedly on some toast and drinks his tepid tea. Francis talks about potential ideas for an actual vacation that they can go on once they've all recovered, and Gilbert tidies up the house and steps into another room to call his brother Ludwig so he can keep him updated on the escapades they've had thus far.
At peace at last, Arthur lets out a small cough and feels himself nodding off. He thinks Francis cards a hand through his hair at some point and whispers, "Get some rest, mon coeur."
He can sense Alfred and Matthew still wriggling under the quilt but that just draws him even deeper into sleep. One moment he sees Francis talking to the boys and laughing with them, and in the next, he's drifting away.
"DAD!"
Alfred is lying on the floor, as limp as stone. His fingertips are tinged with blue and his eyes are closed as Francis yells at him to do something—anything. Why didn't he come sooner? Always late to the party. Always too late for his family. Always too late to his own life.
"Why couldn't you save him?"
"Why weren't you here?" Matthew suddenly says, appearing behind him with teary eyes.
"I'm doing everything I can."
But no, that's a lie. He has failed Alfred. Failed his family. Failed to be there when it mattered most.
"Code blue, Matt! He's flat-lining!"
"What do we do?"
"Hand me the paddles, duh! Haven't you ever watched what they do on TV? Use the empty tissue boxes."
"Oh, erm—right, sorry."
"BZZZT!"
"Did we save him?"
"Shh! I dunno yet. These things take time, Matt. You can't just do it once and expect him to live, you know. Clear! BZZZT!"
Did someone hit him over the head with a mallet? Sure feels like it. So, it was all just a dream, then? Fever dream, no doubt.
Arthur painfully flutters his eyes open, only to find Alfred sitting on his legs with Gilbert's stethoscope hanging from his neck and two empty tissue boxes on each of his hands. Matthew is faithfully sitting beside him on the couch, awaiting further instruction.
"Alfred, can I ask what on earth you're doing?"
Instead of answering his question, Alfred sits upright and shouts, "We did it! We saved him! He's alive!"
"Saved me?" Arthur asks with a groan. His fever isn't giving up yet—he can feel the discomfort of it still hiding beneath his skin.
"The patient is confused, Dr. Mattie. Ask him where he is."
Matthew blinks three times in rapid succession and murmurs, "Do you know where you are?"
Arthur, still trying to get his groggy, fevered mind to process all of this, says, "The living room?"
"Dr. Al, the patient knows where he is. What now?"
"Ask him how he feels."
"Uh, okay...How do you feel?"
"Bloody awful."
"He said—"
"I heard what he said, Dr. Mattie. I'm not deaf, ya know," Alfred mutters. Then, without warning, he jabs two fingers against Arthur's trachea.
"Aghh, what was that for?" Arthur demands, swatting the boy's hand away.
"Dr. Al, please don't hurt the patient."
"Don't worry, Dr. Matt. Just checking his pulse."
Normally, Arthur would have scolded the boys by now and told them to stop fooling around at his expense, but he's incredibly tired and in quite a bit of pain, and so, he can't be bothered to raise his tone at the moment and function like a parent should.
Instead, he says, "That's not where my pulse is," and guides Alfred's fingers to the side of his neck, beneath his ear. "Check now."
"I can't feel anything. The patient is dead, Dr. Mattie!"
Arthur rolls his eyes and Matthew snickers. "Stop talking and press down a little more firmly. Feel it now?"
"...Yeah, I think so. Scratch that, Dr. Matt. The patient is alive!" Alfred cries out jubilantly. He puts the buds of Gilbert's stethoscope into his ears and presses the diaphragm to the center of Arthur's chest.
Again, Arthur takes hold of Alfred's hand and moves it so that he has the stethoscope on the correct spot—over his heart. After a second, he shifts it again and puts it over his right lung.
"I wanna try, too!" Matthew insists, and Alfred relents enough to let him have a go at it as well. When they've both played with the stethoscope and are sufficiently bored with it, they continue their innovative doctoring with other instruments.
Alfred rummages around with some items on the coffee table and then brandishes a thermometer in front of Arthur's mouth. He rips open the wrapping of one of the alcohol wipes on the table and sterilizes it—Arthur has taught the boy well—before he says, "Under your tongue, mister."
Well, this is certainly one way to spend more time with the boys, Arthur supposes. No harm in letting them have their fun for now. Obediently, he lets his mouth fall open and allows Alfred to slip the thermometer between his lips.
"If I could just—"
"Shh! No talking!"
"Right, sorry," Arthur says with pursed smile, voice muffled by the thermometer. It's been a while since he's had the opportunity to play with the boys, and although this wouldn't exactly be his game of choice, it'll do for now.
To Arthur's chagrin, Alfred finds his penlight, and a second later, the boy is shining the bright light into his eyes, which only worsens his seemingly never-ending headache. When he can stand it no longer, Arthur takes the penlight away and shines it playfully into Alfred's eyes instead, making him squint.
"Eeek!" the boy squeals, and Matthew lets out a peal of laughter. "Dr. Mattie, we've got a bad patient!"
"I deny that accusation," Arthur mumbles.
"Hey! I said no talking!" Alfred reminds, wagging a finger at him, and just then, the thermometer gives a cheerful beep. He takes it out of Arthur's mouth, holds it up to the light, and pretends to narrow his eyes at it very seriously. "You're sick."
"You don't say? Let me see that," Arthur requests, looking at the reading for himself—102.1...Hardly an improvement.
"Let me do something!" Matthew complains.
Alfred climbs off of Arthur's legs and stands up beside the couch. "You're just the intern, though!"
"Am not!"
"Yeah, you are, but fine, you can try, too."
Without delay, Matthew takes Alfred's place and says, "Gimme the penlight and a tongue depressor."
Arthur is regretting leaving his supplies out in the open. His medical resources often end up scattered around the house, and it's no wonder the boys are using them against him now.
"Say, 'ahh,' Dad!"
"Don't call him, Dad! He's our patient, remember?" Alfred corrects his brother.
"Oh, yeah," Matthew murmurs, absently acknowledging the slip-up.
Arthur will admit he can appreciate the cuteness of this moment, but he isn't happy about it in the least. He opens his mouth again and utters a pained 'ahh,' because his throat still hurts a fair amount. Matthew accidentally pokes the inside of his cheek, and he apologizes when Arthur flinches.
When Matthew's done, he sets the penlight aside and tells Alfred, "Gimme a cotton swab."
And that's where Arthur has to draw the line because as much as he loves the boys and is willing to go along with their machinations, he does not trust them enough to let them stick a swab into his throat without worrying they will injure him or make him choke.
"That's enough," he announces firmly, sitting up. "Thank you, doctors, but I think I can take it from here."
As luck would have it, Gilbert traipses in just then, whistling a tune as he comes over to the couch to find out what's going on. "Hey, kiddos...I mean, Doctors Alfred and Matthew...How's the patient doing?"
"He said he's much better," Matthew tattles.
Arthur watches Gilbert pick up the thermometer off of the table and knows his claim is about to be debunked.
"Hmm, doesn't look much better to me. I'll get you some meds, Arthur. Also, it might interest you to know that Francis has a bad case of man-flu. His fever has already broken, and he's still moping around like he's on his death bed."
Arthur allows himself a snort of laughter and says, "Oh, believe me, I know. He won't be back to normal for at least another two days, and I won't stop hearing about how awful all of this was for him for the rest of the month."
"Wow, well, I'll let you deal with him, then...Okay, kiddos, time to give your dad a break and go to your beds."
In unison, Alfred and Matthew dreadfully whine, "No!"
"Thanks for shooting down that idea right away," Gilbert says disappointedly. "The rain finally stopped. How about I let you guys sit outside on the steps for a few minutes to get some air? But only for a few minutes!"
That idea seems to go over well, and so, while the boys scurry off to get their shoes, Gilbert procures a number of pills and syrups for Arthur to take, watches him swallow them with a glass of water, and says, "While needy patients can be annoying, noncompliant patients like you drive me even crazier."
"I'm not noncompliant. I just took dextromethorphan for you. You should feel honored."
"Ja, I feel blessed," Gilbert scoffs. "Just please let me know if you feel worse or if the meds don't help, 'kay?
"I feel better already."
"Arthur, I'm serious. I know you can doctor yourself, but you shouldn't have to. Besides, you're on vacation, so you should be all right with me catering to your whims."
"You're on vacation as well, in case you've forgotten," Arthur points out in between yet another rough cough.
"Oh, I know. There's nothing I love more than being a doctor, so every day is a vacation for me."
Arthur bursts out laughing but regrets it when he gets stuck in another coughing spree. "That's a bold-faced lie."
"It's a half-truth. I really don't love anything more than being a doctor, but there are days when I just want to wring someone's neck, like when a new nurse or an intern page me at four in the morning to order Colace."
"I've had that happen to me as well."
"Hasn't everyone? That's when I lose all compassion for a colleague," Gilbert huffs. "All right, I'm gonna let the kiddos out. Don't get into any trouble while I'm gone."
"I'll try not to."
Once Gilbert is out of view, Arthur takes the opportunity to get up and stretch, back aching from having slept in a crooked position on the couch. He slowly makes it upstairs and returns to the bedroom, where he finds Francis browsing something on his laptop.
"What are you up to? Gilbert tells me you've been particularly bothersome lately," he says as he lies down next to his husband. Is it just him, or has the bed become cozier since the last time he slept in it?
"Just looking through some resorts in Cancún," Francis responds, typing away.
Arthur leans over to have a better look at the website Francis is perusing and says, "You don't have to go through the trouble of finding a place for us to go to. I know you're not particularly fond of traveling, and you don't have to do so just for me. I can sunbathe in the backyard."
Francis chuckles. "We deserve to go away someplace after this week."
"This is going to sound horrendously sentimental, but I've learned something from this experience."
"What's that?"
"That what really makes me happy is simply being around you and the boys, and that's all I could ask for from a vacation."
"You're right...That was horrendously sentimental," Francis teases, eliciting an angry growl from Arthur.
"I take back what I said. Just being around the boys makes me happy. I can do without your company."
Francis snickers and gives Arthur a small kiss. "But I can't do without yours, so I guess you'll be stuck with me anyway."
"Woe is me."
"You're feeling better—your impudence is returning."
"So, Cancún it is?"
There's some kind of commotion going on downstairs.
Arthur isn't sure what it is because he's been in and out of sleep all day and for most of the early evening—a side effect of his breathing difficulties. The more he sleeps, the more exhausted he gets. His body simply isn't willing to let him recuperate yet, and although he knows he needs to be patient, it's not easy. He debates for a long time whether it'd be worthwhile to check out what's going on.
Francis is gone, so the bed is cold now. The only thing keeping him glued to his spot is the fact that his muscles ache, and his mind is still sluggish enough to want to lure him back into another long nap. He grabs a tissue and tries to get rid of the blockade in his sinuses by blowing his nose, but it doesn't do him any good. His head feels so full and filled with cotton that his ears are ringing from the pressure. On the bright side, his fever must have dropped at least somewhat because he doesn't feel quite as hot and bothered anymore.
He can either stay here and be miserable or go explore. Might as well explore.
By the time he makes it to the base of the stairs, he can hear laughter echoing from the living room and music playing. It's a relief to hear the house filled with noise again after it's been silent for a good while.
Still, he is not prepared for what he sees. The living room is adorned with party streamers made of neon construction paper, there's a banner taped to the wall with a drawing of a medical cross on it, everyone is drinking strawberry lemonade, and Gilbert seems to be playing some kind of trivia game with the boys and Francis.
"Look who's up! Come and join the party," Gilbert invites him. "We have some wholesome and educational games here. I'm asking the kiddos some medical questions, and whoever gets the most right gets to win a chocolate bar and a surgical mask. You're disqualified though, for obvious reasons, and Francis is disqualified because he's Francis."
"Fair enough," Arthur remarks as he sits down on the couch beside Francis while the boys play on the rug with Gilbert. He really has to commend Gilbert for his creativity. This will do wonders for the boys' undoubted restlessness.
Gilbert cracks his knuckles, picks up an index card, and says, "Okay, munchkins, remember to write your answers down on your cards and show them to me at the same time...When your body is fighting off infection, your [blank] blood cell count becomes high...You've got five seconds."
When five seconds have passed, Gilbert imitates the sound of a loud buzzer and announces, "Okay, hold up your cards!"
He reads both of the cards and grins. "You're both too smart for me. You got that one right—it was white blood cells... Okay, this one will be the tie breaker. You ready?"
Both of the boys nod and grab new cards, focused and ready.
"What's the organ in your abdomen that filters out your blood?" Gilbert asks, reading the question slowly and repeating it twice for dramatic effect. "Tick-tock, tick-tock. You guys ready? All right, this time, I want to see your cards individually—makes it more nerve-wracking. Alfred, show me your card."
Alfred bites his lower lip as he finishes writing his answer and holds it up for Gilbert to see.
"Eeeeeeh, incorrect. It's not the kidneys. Matt?"
Sheepishly, Matthew reveals his card next.
"DING, DING, DING! We have a winner! The spleen is the correct answer! Congrats, kid! You just won a bar of the finest chocolate and this handy dandy medical mask."
Alfred pouts but is a good sport about the loss. Arthur, however, comes to his aid and isn't as easily placated.
"Excuse me, I'd like to state an objection!" he intervenes, glowering at Gilbert. "The kidneys filter fluid out of the blood to produce urine, therefore, Alfred's answer wasn't incorrect. You should have specified you meant an organ in the immune system and not the urinary system."
Gilbert hands Matthew his prizes and gives him a pat on the back before frowning at Arthur. "I thought I told you that you were disqualified, Arthur."
"I can't stand idly by at the sight of injustice."
Alfred smiles triumphantly at Arthur and crosses his arms, pleased that someone came to his defense.
"Ugh, I'm telling you, Mattie, don't ever work with doctors. They're the worst," Gilbert says jokingly before giving Alfred a chocolate bar as well and another surgical mask. "Fine, you can have the rewards, too, Alfred. Your dad makes a good point, but I still think he's wrong and I'm right."
Thankfully, that's the end of the competitive gameplay because, apparently, Francis has made rice pudding for them all, and they're all digging into their dessert before any more bickering can break out. It's perfectly sweet yet still light enough for their recovering digestive systems.
And then, it's time for a movie marathon consisting of a bunch of animated films for the twins. Their party carries on into the night until Arthur finds himself trapped with a sleeping Alfred sprawled in his lap. The boy still has his prized surgical mask on his face, and he has decorated it with colorful sketches made with markers. Francis soon has the same dilemma with Matthew, and that's when they decide it's time to head back to bed and cut their party short.
Once the boys are in their bedroom, Arthur carefully slips the mask off of Alfred's face and plants a chaste kiss on his head, flooded with relief when he can no longer feel a fever.
They'll be better in no time.
Three more days, that's how long it takes for Arthur to finally get his bearings back. His nose is still stuffy, his voice is gruff, and an occasional cough still assaults him, but by all other standards, he is better, and so is the rest of the Bonnefoy-Kirkland family, for that matter.
He convinces Gilbert to leave at the start of the second day, mostly because Francis is back to his usual self by then, and the boys are no longer running temperatures despite being congested. Besides, the pediatrician has apparently rescheduled his fishing trip with Ludwig, and fortunately, it doesn't look like rain is in the forecast for at least the rest of the week. Alfred and Matthew make him promise to come over sometime when they're actually well so they can get ice cream together or go to the fair, and Gilbert crosses his heart and swears to hold true to his word.
Shortly after Arthur has regained feeling from the neck up and can go fifteen minutes without hacking up a lung, he rounds up the boys and Francis and drags them to the park because he can't stand being indoors any longer. The fresh air is so incredible he can almost taste how rejuvenating and sweet it is, and the mustiness of the house becomes a thing of the past. He leans back on a park bench with Francis as the boys play with their football and tells himself to enjoy these little, fleeting moments of relaxation while he has them.
Again, his mind drifts to the thought of lying in the hot sand with a cool drink in his hand. He envisages palm trees and seagulls and flip-flops clapping against the boardwalk.
"Arthur?"
"What is it?" he snaps at Francis, cracking his eyes open. "I'm trying to imagine I'm in paradise for at least five minutes. Is that too much to ask?"
Francis bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to smile. "You don't have to imagine it for much longer."
"Don't tell me what I can and cannot fantasize about."
"That's not what I meant," Francis sighs. "I'm not trying to pick an argument with you, I'm just trying to tell you that I made a reservation for us to spend four nights in Cancún."
"You did what? I must be misunderstanding you because the Francis I know is a homebody and refuses to leave the country unless it's for a trip to Paris."
"You're not misunderstanding me. I'm doing this for you. I thought you'd be a little more grateful."
Arthur snorts with laughter and buries his elbow into Francis's shoulder, jostling him playfully. "I do appreciate it...I just don't know how to feel human emotions and can only respond with feigned bitterness and nonchalance."
"I figured that was the case, but it's nice to hear you admit it. We leave in two days."
"Good, that gives me enough time to plan what I need to bring."
"Just don't bring the entire hospital with you this time," Francis begs.
"You say that now, but when you jam your finger in a door or Alfred's blood sugar spikes, you'll be happy I came prepared."
"I'm fairly sure they have hospitals in Mexico, mon cher."
"Hospitals that may not be fully-equipped," Arthur notes, and no more than ten seconds after he says that he hears a distraught voice calling him.
"Dad! Matthew scraped his hand!" Alfred shouts over the noise of the other children and their parents.
Arthur sighs and stands up, knees cracking. "I think I've demonstrated my point."
Seventy-two hours later, Arthur finally sees his dream become a reality. His weight sinks into the white coral sand of Playa Delfines, and the gentle rays of sunshine seem to suck the tired bags out from underneath his eyes almost as soon as he gets comfortable. He may have had one too many margaritas, but that's all right—Francis is in charge of the boys for now. The seafoam of the shimmering water almost reaches his toes but not quite, and he has rolled up a towel to cushion his head with.
Francis is helping the boys build a sand castle fortress a short distance away, and he can hear their bubbles of laughter rising up and lifting the sky, and Arthur can't remember the last time he felt this exquisite.
He lies very, very still and thinks about absolutely nothing aside from his slow breathing. He doesn't budge for a full hour, and once the hour is up, he lets himself sit up and decides he's actually rather bored. Things are too perfect here for comfort, and he didn't think such a thing could be possible.
"Is there a doctor here?" someone shouts in English from the lifeguard post—sounds like an American tourist.
No, there isn't, Arthur thinks to himself, slamming his eyes shut again. He lets a full minute pass before he groans and gets up from the wonderful sand. He shouldn't have complained about the dullness. The universe is punishing him now for being churlish. He looks over toward Francis to let him know he's going off to help, but his husband doesn't need any explanation—he already knows where Arthur is going the moment he sees him stand up.
"It's my mother, I think she's overheated," the woman who had called for help tells him when he arrives on the scene.
He takes one look at the elderly woman sitting beneath a nearby beach umbrella and confirms that she's suffering from heatstroke. He helps the woman back to the hotel, where the air conditioning is running at full capacity. After drinking some cold water and sitting down indoors, she's just fine, and, luckily enough, it seems the hotel has a physician of their own, and so Arthur leaves her in their care and has himself another margarita before going back down to the shore.
"Everything okay?" Francis asks him upon his return.
"Yes," he assures before catching his husband in a hug from behind. "From now on, if someone asks, I'm not a doctor. I'm on vacation."
"Understood," Francis chuckles, and they exchange a quick kiss while the boys cheekily shout "gross!" and "get a room!" at them.
Well, this isn't exactly paradise, but that's okay.
"Arthur?"
"Hmm?"
"Tomorrow, I get to be the one to relish in the margaritas," Francis says.
"Deal."