Never let it be said that Arthur Kirkland couldn't keep his composure in moments of chaos.

It was clinical. He could stop the splurges of emotion from oozing out from beneath his chest by slicing a divide in his thoughts. Being a substitute teacher had sharpened the knives of this ability, and he held apathy close in the face of horror. He could grab heartache and gloom and despair by their collars and tell them to just wait—to understand that there was a proper time and place for calamity.

All in the span of seven minutes, he had swaddled Matthew in a throng of blankets and steered him over to the Vargas residence, where the boy was showered with kind reassurances and promises that he'd soon be right as rain. Arthur offered a hurried explanation of the circumstances, but he needn't have bothered. The Vargas brothers had Matthew settled on their living room couch not a moment later and fetched a wide assortment of food meant to quench the boy's churning stomach.

"Thank you so much. It'll only be a few hours, and I can pay for—"

Lovino Vargas took his turn to look offended and slapped away Arthur's hand as he reached for his wallet. "We don't want your money! This is an emergency, idiot. Now, go! The boy'll be fine."

A tad stunned by the gruff response, Arthur cleared his throat and shared a stony expression with Matthew. "Be good, lad."

"I want to go with you!" the boy insisted at once, tears obscuring his vision. Alfred was his other half and he'd been affixed to Francis for as long as his memory had served him. He couldn't bear the thought of being separated from the two.

"I'll take care of everything, but I need you to rest for now," Arthur replied, leaving no room for argument. "I won't allow you to grow even more ill from a trip in this horrid weather. Get some sleep, and I'll call you later."

"Hmph."

And thus, one crisis was avoided. As soon as Arthur was certain there was nothing else he could do for the child, he sprinted to the nearest bus stop and prepared himself for a tedious wait. With the roads still slushy, there was sure to be a delay in the bus service.

Thankfully, his ride arrived within fifteen minutes (which was just when he began to twitch with irritation), and he clambered inside the bus with wobbly legs, finding it difficult to stay calm now that he had been left to his own devices.

He didn't allow his thoughts to wander toward the injuries of the accident—no use in hypothesizing the damage. Now was not the time to sulk.

He walked an extra four blocks from the designated bus stop to the hospital. Well, "walking" wasn't exactly what Arthur had been doing—careening, yes, but not walking.

Security stopped him in the lobby and asked him to present his ID, and then he soldiered over to the nurses' station on the unit. Alfred wasn't allowed to have visitors yet—he was still being seen by the doctors—but Francis was awake and down the hall.

Hoping his feet wouldn't fail him now, Arthur slowed his pace and found the appropriate room number, bracing himself for the worst.

He peeked inside and saw a physician standing over his husband, who was reclined in bed with an elastic bandage swathed around his head. Otherwise, he appeared to be relatively unscathed.

"Francis. Oh, thank God."

Arthur sprinted across the remaining distance between them and wrapped his arms around the man, unable to stop tears of gratitude from cartwheeling down the sides of his face. He was okay. He was breathing and sitting up and wonderfully alive. His chin was still stubbly, his hair was still sun-bleached, and his eyes were still cornflower blue and scintillating under the fluorescent half-light of the room.

"Arthur, I'm so sorry," Francis muttered into his shoulder. He was shaking.

"Oh, shush, you damned numpty. How dare you put me through something like this?"

"Alfred. How is Alfred?"

"I wasn't able to see him yet."

"Arthur, it's all my fault… He was sitting in the front seat and—"

A chaste kiss connected with his brow. "Stop that. You're okay," Arthur muttered, directing his gaze to the doctor. "He is okay?"

The doctor dipped his head in confirmation. "Fortunately, yes. However, he is suffering from whiplash and a strain in his lumbar spine. He should rest his back for the next forty-eight hours and decrease his physical activity for two weeks. That means no overly strenuous activity such as lifting heavy objects or running."

"I'll make sure he doesn't exert himself," Arthur vowed before snapping his attention back to Francis, eyes wild and untamable. "Don't ever put me through this kind of stress ever again, or you won't have a spine at all."

Francis swiveled his head to be eye-to-eye with Arthur, but his neck immediately began smarting again. "Thank you for being so—argh—sympathetic."

"Roll your shoulders carefully," the doctor told him, noticing his dilemma. "Little exercises like that each day should help you regain your range of motion. Light stretches will help as well."

Heeding the advice, Francis gradually tried to loosen his taut muscles. It helped somewhat, and the doctor soon took his leave, promising to pay them another visit within the next two hours.

"I need to stay overnight for observation," Francis said once they were alone again. His voice was strained as though he'd been shouting rally cries all afternoon, and his vocal chords wavered under the strength it took to mumble. "Please, go and find out if Alfred is all right. Arthur, you have to—"

"I'll check with the nurse again."

"Then, I'll go with you."

"No! Stay put, frog!" Arthur growled at him, slamming a hand against his shoulder to keep him supine. "You aren't going anywhere with those injuries of yours."

"But you don't—"

The protest dangled in its unfinished state on Francis's parched lips because Arthur was already roaming the hallways, unable to stand in one place for too long. He felt the itching need to smoke, but swallowed down the appetite when an RN directed him to Alfred's doctor.

A gray-bearded pediatrician met him in the waiting area, clad with a stethoscope whose diaphragm had an image of a duckling on it. He shook Arthur's hand firmly, and it radiated confidence.

"You're Alfred's father?"

Every word became coagulated cotton on Arthur's tongue, and he hid his jittering hands in his pockets. "Yes. How is he—?"

The doctor gave a glowing smile and fastened a hand on his back. "He's doing well and has been reacting better than expected to the medications. Most of his injuries are superficial."

"Most?"

"Let's start with the good news. Your son has no signs of a spinal injury, not even a minor one, which is fantastic. That's the most common problem we see in patients who have been in automobile accidents," the doctor informed him, never losing his grin. "Now, he has a sprained ankle, a broken left wrist, and a few lacerations here and there, but nothing that required stitches."

Arthur released a breath and gripped the inside fabric of his pockets. "And the bad news?"

The doctor's grin waned and was replaced by a slanted frown. "There's been rather extensive damage to his right knee. He has a damaged ligament, and he'll be in for at least twelve weeks of physical therapy. On the bright side, the knee doesn't need any surgical intervention, it's just going to be a headache to heal."

The cold feeling in Arthur's toes began to dissolve. A ruined knee was nothing compared to what could have happened. "Why his knee, of all things?"

"It's not as rare as it sounds, considering the car was hit from the rear. He most likely collided with the dashboard and his knee took the brunt of the impact. Our goal is going to be to try to get the entire leg back to full strength."

"Will there be any lasting damage?"

The doctor's gaze wandered for a moment as he went through the possibilities. "Well, knees are very complex and tricky to treat. Unfortunately, that is why—with this type of injury—there is nearly a fifty percent chance there will be degenerative changes. His right knee might always be weaker than the other, but we're going to do the very best we can to help."

Degeneration?

And then it dawned upon him just how devastated Alfred was going to be by this news. He was a runner, born to stretch his legs beyond their limits, and if he couldn't race, then…

"Can I see him now?"

"Of course. He's a little dazed from the pain relievers, and it's made him a bit cranky, so be wary of that. I'll be over to have another look at him in a few minutes."

After a courteous thank-you, Arthur pursed his lips and pushed aside the curtain blocking Alfred's bed from view. The boy seemed to have been dozing off, but sprang his head up at his father's entrance, both relieved and a bit ashamed to see the man fretting over him.

"Oh, love."

The rain clouds hanging above them exploded, and Alfred's cheeks were covered in dewy drops of tears that washed away the fear burrowed under his skin. "Dad."

Arthur immediately took a seat on the bed and tugged the boy's upper-body onto his lap. His fingers ran through the child's hair like liquid, cooling the steaming aggravation crawling under his skull. None of this was fair. It was all horrid, horrid luck. "Shh… How are you feeling, my boy?"

"Dad, my leg—!" Alfred wailed, crying a tsunami that couldn't be halted as it demolished everything in its path. He let himself convulse against the man's sturdy figure, drooling on his shirt.

"I know, poppet. It'll get better."

What else was he going to say?

He hated seeing his children cry, and he wished he had the power to take away the boy's sense of helplessness—to show him he was far more hard-nosed than he realized. Life wasn't over. It kept moving, and he'd have to move with it.

But Arthur's words did nothing to soothe the boy, so he wound his arms around the little waist and sighed. "I spoke to your doctor. It's going to be all right. Everyone's going to do everything in their power to make sure you get better. Stop these tears, they won't fix anything."

I will help you through this if it's the last thing I do. I swear it.

"I'm scared, Dad."

"There's nothing to be scared of. I'm here now, so you don't have to be afraid," Arthur muttered into his ear, continuing to stroke the child's head. "I love you, and I'm so relieved this wasn't worse."

Alfred's breathing began to slow, and he cradled his broken wrist close. His sobs quieted to hiccups. "Is Papa okay?"

"Yes, he's just fine, lad."

"Can we go home now?"

"Not quite yet. You're going to have to stay in the hospital for a little longer."

"How long?"

"Not too long," Arthur promised, scanning the hinged knee brace on the boy's leg as well as the swelling around his foot. This was going to be a challenge for both of them.

"When can I race again?"

"Not for a while, love."

"When spring starts?"

"We'll see."

That always meant "no". They were both fooling themselves.

He'd be lucky if he ever saw a track again.

A six-thousand pound SUV—that's what had pummeled their tiny Honda Civic. The poor thing had survived ten long years of their family antics before meeting its demise, and although it was hardly more than a semi-useful hunk of metal and cheap plastic, it would be missed. Arthur had explained to the twins that the vehicle was in "car heaven" now, more commonly known as the county junkyard.

The driver of the SUV had been a seventy-three year old man, and he'd suffered a stroke behind the wheel. It didn't take long for him to swerve into oncoming traffic, and it seemed that Francis had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time—not an unheard of phenomenon throughout his lifetime.

The man died in the hospital the following evening, but both Francis and Arthur decided it was better not to share this news with the boys for obvious reasons.

Alfred was released from the hospital two days later with the instruction to remain on crutches until at least his second week of physical therapy. Thankfully, their insurance covered most of the cost of the sessions, but there were a multitude of underlying fees that forced Francis to plan for the extra hours of overtime he'd have to stack up at the station. As it was, he had missed a week of work to get his bearings back.

Matthew had long since recovered from his bout of the stomach flu, and often complained about having to go to school while Alfred stayed home. Why didn't Alfred have to do his homework? Why didn't Alfred have to make his bed, set the table, and do the dishes?

"Your brother's not feeling very well, so we need to be considerate and give him some special treatment," Arthur had reasoned. It was only natural for the boy to be jealous, and his father tried to be as patient with him as possible. He stressed that this was a temporary situation, and things would be back to normal soon, but Matthew wasn't buying any of it.

They replaced the car, mostly because Arthur had to get to work somehow, and public transportation wasn't going to cut it. A lightly used Chevy stood in their driveway a few days later, courtesy of Francis. Personally, Arthur didn't have a preference for what kind of car they purchased, as long as it drove and didn't eat up gallons of gas within the span of driving just one mile.

Francis, however, seemed keen on getting a Chevy and nothing else. Arthur joked that his husband fancied himself a southern man, and they should've gotten their hands on a good ol' American pick-up truck instead, but he didn't comment on the matter further.

And it was odd, Arthur thought, that Francis had been dead-set on choosing the car but refused to go near it. He watched it from afar as though it were cursed. Arthur suggested he take it out for a test-run, but he wouldn't be persuaded.

"Don't do this to yourself, Francis."

"Do what?"

Arthur laid his lesson plan on the coffee table in the living room and fished a cigarette out of his briefcase. "The best thing you can do is get in that car and drive. You'll feel better afterward. If you don't do it now, you never will."

"I don't need you psychoanalyzing me, Arthur."

"I'm trying to help you."

"Save your doting for Alfred."

No use in arguing over it. He decided to give Francis his space; he'd figure things out on his own. Stubborn mule.

Instead, he focused his efforts on the crestfallen boy who laid in bed all day and barely budged an inch except for meals. Alfred despised getting up for the late afternoons of physical therapy, and though Arthur had tried to encourage him every step of the way, they usually reached the rehabilitation center with hot tempers and flushed faces.

Arthur would walk the child inside and wait in a chair across the room as Alfred completed his exercises with the physical therapist. The man had offered to leave a few times, wondering if it would make the boy more comfortable if he wasn't watching, but each time he attempted it, Alfred would set aside the frustration he projected onto Arthur and say, "Please, don't go."

And so, he stayed planted to the chair against the wall. He would read the newspaper or chat with some of the staff, but he remained in his spot until the end of the session. Not even his cigarettes could pull him away from his post.

"Hello, Alfred. How's my favorite patient doing today?" his physical therapist, Toris, asked him during his visits, smile as bright as a million stars. A cheerful man, he always managed to wrangle a few giggles and snickers out of the child. "What's your pain level?"

"Seven," Alfred replied, perching on the little foam table that had been prepared for him. He let his crutches be moved aside, and soon Toris was upon him, checking over his leg with a few hums and murmurs.

"You have some swelling, so we'll stick to easy activities. If you feel any pain, let me know, okay?"

"Uh-huh."

Toris slid a hand under the boy's lower leg and bent the limb before straightening it out again, he did this about three times before Alfred cried out in distress.

"Stop! It hurts!"

There were tears in his eyes already, and they'd only just begun. The session generally lasted an hour, and he couldn't imagine going through any more "exercises".

Toris placed his right leg on the foam table again with a frown. "Can you tell me where it hurts?"

Alfred sniffled and pointed to the sides of his knee. "I can't do it!"

"Yes, you can," Toris assured, placing an ice pack on the knee. "You have a tear in your ligament, so it's going to hurt before it gets better. I believe in you, though. With a little practice, you'll be riding that exercise bike in the corner like it's a piece of cake."

Alfred pressed his fists into his eyes, unbelievably disheartened. Why couldn't they just leave him in peace already? Couldn't they see the torture they were putting him through?

"I can't even stand up by myself!"

At that, Arthur stood from his seat and approached the pair, hand connecting with the boy's head. "Come now, Alfred. Stop sniveling. Give it another go."

"You don't know what it's like!" Alfred screamed at him, puffy-eyed. He wanted to die. The whole world could catch on fire for all he cared, if only he could close his eyes and have some quiet. He didn't ask for this. He didn't deserve this. He was no better than a baby—unable to fend for himself.

I won't let you surrender.

Arthur let his hand fall back to his side with a peevish sigh. He knew there was no real bite in the boy's words. He needed to vent on someone, and his father was the nearest target. "Alfred…"

"I've got an idea," Toris supplied, cutting off their quarrel. "How about we let Dad help, Al? We'll show him it's not as easy as he thinks."

Arthur seemed skeptical of this idea, but gave Toris the benefit of the doubt. It calmed Alfred down, at the very least.

He circled the foam table and stood by his son's feet. A flash of panic ate at his heart. "I don't want to hurt him."

Toris knitted his brows and removed the icepack from the injury. "You won't hurt him. I'll tell you exactly what to do. Now, Al, let's get you lying down completely. Then, I want you to tense up your leg nice and tight. Dad's going to guide you through some simple leg lifts."

Alfred swallowed around the lump in his throat and laid flat on the table, staring up into his father's bewildered eyes. He was a whimsical sight, lost and terror-stricken. Alfred tried not to laugh.

"Okay, Dad. Move your hands here," Toris commanded, bringing one of Arthur's hands to the sole of Alfred's foot and the other to his lower leg. "Slowly, you're going to help Alfred lift his leg a little off the table. Take your time and don't let this kiddo cheat. I want to see that leg move at least six inches. If he tells you he's in any pain, then I want you to stop. Got it? Good."

Alfred readied himself with a deep breath, keeping his gaze steady on his father.

"Are you ready, Alfred?"

"Yeah, Dad."

He chewed on his bottom lip and watched as Daddy brought his leg into the air and down to the table again. It was a bit uncomfortable and all of his muscles felt stiff, but it didn't hurt by any means.

"You're both doing great!" Toris praised, thrilled with the outcome.

Daddy repeated the motion ten times and had worked up a sweat by the time he was done. "How do you feel, love?"

"I'm okay."

Toris cocked his head to one side and clapped his hands together. He knew his strategy would work. "That was excellent progress. Let's take another ice break."

Out of all of his remedies and treatment plans, a touch of love always did the trick.

The fact that it got the two to stop bickering was the cherry on top.

"Everyone's going to laugh at me!"

"No one is going to laugh, but even if they do, I want you to tell your teacher."

"I'm not going!"

"Lad, you have to go to school."

"But what about the stairs?"

The keys in Arthur's hand jingle-jangled as he reached the front door. "I already called the school office. You're going to get an elevator pass. Come along, I'm driving you boys today, and Matthew is waiting."

"You can't make me!"

"Alfred, you have ten seconds to step outside. I have a class to teach."

The Battle of the Threshold continued for a good minute or two before Francis requested a ceasefire. He was returning to the station for the first time since the accident, and he wasn't at all surprised to see that Alfred was hobbling about on his crutches, trying to look intimidating and resolute as he badmouthed authority.

"You're far too old to be throwing temper tantrums, my boy."

"I don't care!"

Francis jerked his head in Arthur's direction and pulled his shoulders back. The dark circles under his eyes were growing more pronounced each day. "Arthur, I'll take care of this. We'll take the bus together."

Despite not being too fond of the offer, Arthur had already wasted enough time and decided to take the bait. "Will you two be all right?"

"We'll be better than ever," Francis replied, though he lacked the zeal to support his claim. He plucked Alfred's backpack from where it was slung across Arthur's shoulder and led the child out the door. "Let's walk, mon lapin. Walk and talk, hmm?"

Alfred curled his nose up and glared. "I can't walk."

"I don't believe that. You're getting around, aren't you?"

"The crutches are hurting my arms."

"Good, you'll build up some muscle. The other boys at school will be jealous," Francis backfired with a wink. If only the child didn't mope about with that awfully sad expression all day, then he'd be more willing wrench a few rehearsed smiles on his lips. "It's nice you're going to school again… It'll help you get your mind off of things."

Alfred scoffed as they crossed the street at a snail's pace. "Everyone's going to laugh. Dad says they won't, but I know they will. I'll just be a tattle-tale if I go to the teacher, and everyone will hate me even more."

"I'm afraid there are terrible people everywhere, and they scorn you because they've never experienced hardship of their own. Someday, they will take back their bitterness," Francis told him just as the bus arrived.

"People always find something to make fun of me for…"

Francis drew in a sharp breath and helped the boy onto the bus, arms poised to catch him if he tripped. "There's a saying in French, 'A laver la tête d'un âne, l'on y perd sa lessive'."

Alfred took the seat by the window. "What's that mean?"

"To wash an ass's head is but loss of time and soap."

Silence, and then…

"Bwahaha!" Alfred sniggered, laughing until he was doubled over in his seat. A few others on the bus turned their gazes upon him.

What Francis wouldn't give to keep the boy smiling like that forever.

"Now, let's not tell your father about it, okay? It'll be our little secret."

Still caught in a bursting bubble of giggles, Alfred tried to nod but failed as his shoulders erupted with mirth again. When he was tranquil once more, he burrowed his nose into the sleeve of Francis's coat.

"Hey, Papa?"

"Mmm?"

"Can we take the bus again tomorrow?"

Something fluttered its wings in the man's ribcage.

"I don't see why not."