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"The only other position I can offer you is directing traffic."

Francis turned it down. He could still feel the aches in his ankles and shoulders from when he used to stand on street corners, waving his arms wildly at oncoming vehicles with short-tempered drivers. He'd pushed his way through the task when he was fresh out of school and in spick-and-span shape, but he couldn't imagine doing that job now. His arthritis wouldn't enjoy being shaken up again.

As much as he didn't want to be working from a car, it was better than getting frostbite in the epicenter of this brutal winter while people flipped him off at every given second for delaying their commute.

So, he was stuck with Raivis once more. Lucky him.

"You're looking rather glum," Arthur said when he made it home that night, cigarette glowing a bright-orange from the moonlit driveway. "Did you take the bus?"

The curtains to the boys' bedroom were drawn. He'd missed his opportunity to tuck them in, and it wasn't the first time. "Mmm," he hummed, crossing mounds of snow to embrace Arthur. He snaked his arms around the man's neck and yanked the cigarette from between his lips. "I love you."

Arthur fidgeted as Francis dropped his nightly helping of nicotine on the wet concrete. "Someone's awfully sentimental. Rough day?"

"You could say that."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

Francis could feel the tickle of Arthur's breath across his cheek as he sighed.

"The boys are still upset with one another. My investigation in the matter is still ongoing."

"You know those two—they'll be best friends by the time the sun is up. I wouldn't worry about it."

Arthur let out a visible huff into the cold air and broke their hug. He was irritated at having his concerns brushed aside so easily. "I know my children, and I also know that this isn't something as miniscule as fighting over a videogame. Early findings are showing Matthew to be having trouble at school."

"Mathieu? Are you sure we're talking about the same twin?" Francis asked, all ears now. "How do you—?"

Arthur smirked, relishing in his minor victory. "Our informer is back from his brief retirement. I spoke to him in the kitchen for an hour. He was hesitant at first, but the suggestion of some sugary snacks took care of that. Then, I went up to the boys' room to fold their laundry and found some rather incriminating evidence."

"You were snooping," Francis deadpanned.

"Pardon me, but I had probable cause. I decided a search warrant was in order, and now I've come to you to submit the evidence into the Kirkland-Bonnefoy Family Court."

Arthur withdrew a folded square of paper from the pocket of his slacks and passed it to Francis. "I'm sure you'll find that it meets the criteria for being admissible. The plaintiff would like to present it at trial, if you'd be so gracious as to—"

"A failing grade? Mathieu's never received a failing grade in his life! Just wait until I have a word with him. I'm going to—!"

"Easy-does-it, officer," Arthur calmed him, wrapping a hand around his arm. "Did you notice anything about that test? What subject is it?"

"English," Francis muttered, perusing the red marks all over the page. Liquid fury was compiling in his stomach. "I don't understand. Mathieu is wonderful at the humanities! His father is an English and history teacher for god's sake! If this were math, then I wouldn't be as surprised. I knew you were spending too much time fretting over those high school students. Your own son is struggling and you can't even—wait. This isn't his handwriting, is it?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes at his husband. "No, it isn't. He just signed his name on the sheet. What was that about me spending too much time with—?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. You must have misunderstood me," Francis hastily amended before pecking Arthur's temple. "So, what are we going to do about this?"

Arthur scowled but let the insult slide. "I think it's an attention-seeking ploy. We've been spending quite a bit of our energy on Alfred's recovery, and we let Matthew slip out of our sights. We'll sit him down tomorrow night and talk to him together, that is, if you aren't late from your shift."

Francis frowned and put the test in his coat for safe-keeping. "I'll be on time. If that boy ever fails another test on purpose again—!"

Arthur laughed a quiet laugh and led them inside. "He won't. We'll make sure of it. Now, it's high time for you to take a shower and go to bed, but first I have some news of my own to share."

Francis toed his soggy shoes off in the foyer and slumped his head wearily. "I don't think I can handle any more news tonight."

"It's good news, I think. I've been offered a permanent teaching position at the high school. If I take it, I'll have three English and two global history classes."

"That's a lot to take on at once," Francis remarked, a tad worried. "You haven't taught their age-group fulltime before."

"You make it sound like they're mutants. If I was able to handle twenty-three screaming eight-year-olds, I'm sure some sixteen-year-olds won't be much worse."

"It's up to you, Arthur. Are you going to take the job?"

Arthur hung up their coats and shrugged. "I don't know. I wanted to consult you first."

"Oh, you make me feel so honored," Francis joked, flattered. "I'm going to give you the answer you don't want to hear."

"And what's that?"

He took Arthur's hands in his own and pressed their foreheads together.

"Do what your heart tells you to."

Arthur gave him a funny look and screwed his eyes shut—caught between amusement and frustration as leftover snow melted in their hair. "You're right… That's not the answer I wanted."

"All right, Al. I don't know about you, but I'm getting tired of these boring stretches. It's time we get you moving a little, 'kay?"

"Do we havta?"

"'Fraid so, or your doctor isn't going to be too happy with me. Not to mention Dad is getting way too comfortable and lazy in that chair over there. It's time we get his attention," Toris said with a chuckle in Arthur's direction. "Let's get you standing up."

Alfred hissed and gnashed his teeth as he was pulled to his feet without the aid of his crutches. "Toris, it hurts!"

"We'll walk for a little bit, and it'll get better," Toris promised, keeping one hand on Alfred's shoulder. "That brace is coming off in a week, and then you'll have to start moving on your own again. It's not going to be easy, but we'll work our way up. We've got nine weeks left to get you to the point where you can run circles around this building."

Alfred winced as he balanced his weight on his ailing leg. "I'm never going to run again."

"Pft, of course you will. You'll be running faster than all of us here. I bet you could beat Dad in a race today."

Arthur glared at the physical therapist but decided not to return the jibe as he skimmed a nature magazine. "Remember what we talked about, Alfred."

Blue eyes rose to meet the green with a heavy sigh. "I know. I have to try before I quit."

"That's right," Toris approved before standing a few feet in front of the boy. "Try walking toward me, Al. Don't hold onto anything. It's just you and me, taking a stroll."

Alfred rubbed at his sore knee through the brace and sucked in a gasp of breath as he took a tiny step.

"Good job. Keep taking baby-steps. Breathe and don't tense up… Keep going!"

The boy made half of the journey and paused, leg trembling.

"You can do better than that. Let's go, Al!"

He couldn't do it. He wanted to march up to Toris, look him in the face, and say, "Hah! That was too easy," but he just couldn't.

His leg gave away beneath him, and he promptly collapsed to the floor, moaning in despair because he'd tried just like Daddy told him to, but it hadn't done any good.

Arthur was out of his chair almost instantly, and he gave the speed of light a run for its money. He crouched before Alfred and caressed his clammy forehead, checking him over for any bumps, bruises, or scrapes. Aside from a wounded pride, he was all right.

"I tried, Dad," Alfred groaned up at him, horribly pale.

"Oh, I know, love. Thank you for being strong."

Two solid pairs of arms lifted him up and onto the foam table. For a moment, it felt like he was floating above the earth, but then he was sitting upright again with a bottle of water pushing itself into his mouth.

"Small sips," Arthur said, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. "How do you feel?"

"Weak."

Toris patted his back and brought him some hard candy to suck on. "We need to get some sugar into you. Lie back and rest for a minute."

"I'm sorry."

"You've got nothing to be sorry for, Al."

"I failed."

"Well, it's a good thing you'll get another chance later. We'll keep trying another time."

Alfred nodded at Toris and allowed Arthur to help him lie down. His father stroked his hair for a long while, sending tendrils of warmth and security down the boy's quivering muscles. Was it true what Toris was saying? Would he really get to run again someday?

"He's drifting off. Maybe I should take him home early," Arthur proposed, petting a thumb across Alfred's fringe as if to erase his troubles. "It's been a taxing day."

Toris took one look at the boy's slumbering form and agreed. "I think that's a good idea. I'll see you both tomorrow."

Not wanting to wake Alfred, Arthur hefted the child into his arms with a grunt and a hushed "When did you get so heavy?"

The boy only leaned his head against Arthur's chest with exhausted breaths, muttering to himself on occasion.

"You're okay now. I'm here, and I wouldn't dare let you go."

Eight beady eyes and thin brows waited before him, impatient and roving as they stamped down the sidewalk. He swung his head down to peer at his feet, doing anything he could to pretend he couldn't see them. He almost came up with an excuse to get on the last bus home, but everyone was so loud and revved up that he couldn't get them to listen to a word he said.

"Did ya see the look on Ms. Courtney's face when I got my test back? Owe it all to Matt. It's her own fault for making us read dumb, boring books no one's ever heard of—that's why you havta make do. Gotta find ways to get by, y'know?"

"Hey, when's my turn to get the answers?"

"You'll get your chance."

"That's what you always say, but I'm still waitin'," one of the boys he was with grumbled, knock-kneed and stocky. "Thought you were finally gonna share."

"Have I ever lied to you?" their ringleader asked, picking at a scab on his chin "You're always complaining. Anyway, maybe we'll chill at Greg's today. Introduce him to Matt."

A few of the boys grinned at the idea and bounded ahead of the group, jittery and frenetic. They knew they were in for a treat.

Matthew wasn't exactly sure who Greg was, but the others had mentioned him a few times in the past. Apparently, he owned a store and was as old as their science textbook. His wife had passed away a few years ago, and now he cared for his business as though it were a living, breathing thing.

"Yup, been a while since we last saw Greg, huh? Almost forgot all about him."

The sun was setting on another short winter day by the time they made it to Greg's shop, and they formed a little huddle outside to devise a plan.

"All right, Matt. You're gonna get in there and take something off the shelf. Don't let Greg see you or he'll send his dog after ya. We'll be here to help ya out."

"Stop scaring him. He ain't got a dog."

Matthew tightened a hand around the strap of his backpack and shook his head. "What do I have to do that for?"

"C'mon, are you a chicken? Everyone in this group you see here has done it before. You can't be part of the crew if you don't do it. Gotta introduce yourself to Greg, remember?"

"What if I get caught?"

A rumbling chorus of laughter from the other boys left him rigid. He hated it when people laughed at him.

"Guess you're not cut out to be one of us after all. I thought you were pretty cool at first but—"

Matthew cracked under the pressure, mind whizzing and whirring as he dared himself to be rebellious for once. He was already in trouble for wandering off after school without telling anyone, but maybe he could still get away with this. All he had to do was be cool-headed about it. No one would ever have to find out.

He could prove he was more than little, timid Matthew. He didn't walk around with his tail between his legs. He was a child like everyone else at school, and he needed to be scolded—wanted to be scolded. For once, he didn't want to be the stick in the mud.

Little, bashful Matthew. The image itself made him gag.

"Okay," he whispered, and the others wound themselves up like springs as they bided their excitement.

He staggered forward and pushed the glass door to the shop open, feeling a rush of heat climb up his spine. There were a few people in the aisles, so he worked his way into the back, trying to find something to whisk into his bag so he could make his exit without looking like a fool.

There was a wooden box with a rather cheap looking watch in it, and Matthew quickly stuffed it away, heart banging against his body.

Little Matthew practiced his roar.

"Hey, kid!" one of the customers squawked in protest at him, red-faced and dumbfounded. "Put that back!"

He swore the whole world was shaking his head at him as he made a run for the door, shoving himself outside. Well, that had gone over delightfully.

He searched for his classmates, but they were nowhere in sight, and the only remains of them being at the scene were the footsteps inscribed in the snow.

Realizing he was trapped and had been set up for failure, he pulled the hood of his sweater over his head and continued his sprint across the street, gasping and coughing against the unforgiving wind blowing into his eyes and mouth.

And then, he heard a siren bellow after him, drowning out his squeaky roar.

"I told you, Raivis, you can't use your badge to get free entrance into that concert."

"I'm a hard-working member of law-enforcement and should be allowed some perks."

Francis rolled his eyes and reclined in the passenger's seat of the patrol car. He wouldn't touch the driver's side, but he'd talked himself into being driven around by Raivis. The rookie didn't mind being the designated driver, since he'd done most of the driving even before Francis's accident, and it set the older man's mind at ease to know some of the responsibility was off of him.

When they were in motion, however, Raivis would have to blast the radio as loud as it would go because Francis couldn't listen to the sounds of the road without feeling sick and panicked. The Latvian also insisted on keeping the pop station on with all of its flimsy lyrics and auto-tuned galore—he had to keep Francis in check somehow, and he couldn't be too nice to him. It was their makeshift compromise—they kept the radio on, but Raivis had control over the music—and Francis couldn't find the ire to argue.

But sitting like this, in the eerie calm of the approaching twilight, Francis struggled to remember what he'd been afraid of.

The static from their dispatcher drained the serenity washing over them, and Raivis strained his ears to get the information they needed through the garbled tones.

"We've got a shoplifter two blocks away," he announced after the static died. The engine stuttered and the radio spouted out trashy music before they were off, speeding down the street with urgency.

They reached the store in question in under a minute, and Raivis nearly pulled over to the curb to speak to the owner inside when something caught his eye. "Someone's running away. That's not suspicious at all," he said, motioning toward a person in a gray sweater and plump winter coat. "Let me take care of this."

Traffic ahead was slow to get out of their way, so Raivis left the car by a fire hydrant and started the foot-race, catching up to the criminal with surprising agility. He had a hand on the holster of his gun, and Francis's mouth grew numb as he realized why that marshmallow-esque jacket seemed familiar. A lock of blond hair peeking out from under his hood confirmed his suspicions, and he rammed the car door open, screaming obscenities at Raivis to get him to stop.

Not again. Oh, God… Please, not again.

"RAIVIS! STOP!"

The Lativian's gun was dangling in his hand already, a deadly warning for the perpetrator to give up.

"THAT'S MY SON! GOD DAMN IT, RAIVIS!" he barked, trying to catch up to the pair. Neither of them could hear him over the honking gridlock.

Raivis finally snagged their delinquent by the collar of his jacket and dragged him back as though he were a naughty kitten. Then, he set his gun back in its holster and frowned. "Hey, you're just a kid. I thought—"

"Mathieu!"

Francis was close enough now to be heard, and he tore the boy out of Raivis's vice-grip, panting. "What are you doing here? You should be at home! Your father is going to have a conniption!"

Matthew's breath caught in his throat as Francis held him still with a quaking fist bunched up around the front of his coat. He tried to say something, but the words came out as a jumble of terrified nonsense.

"Please, tell me you didn't rob anyone."

Tears poured onto the boy's face like a spilled glass of water, and he sobbed at the expression of pure fury Francis wore. "Papa, you're scaring—"

"Show me it! Show me what you stole!" the man demanded, holding out his free hand. "Right now, young man!"

Matthew dug into his backpack and handed over the watch, sniveling and wailing as Francis latched onto his arm and led him down the block.

"Let me take care of this," Francis addressed Raivis as they passed.

The rookie held his hands up and nodded, feeling sorry for the child. "Don't be too hard on him, Bad Cop."

Francis clicked his tongue and made his way for Greg's store, ignoring the feverish protests from Matthew along the way. The boy was wriggling and thrashing in his hold, but Francis didn't relent. They must've made quite the show of themselves for the bystanders.

When they entered the shop, Francis directed Matthew to the register at the front counter and gave Greg an apologetic sigh, shoulders heavy with remorse. "I think we have something of yours that we'd like to return. Isn't that right, Mathieu?"

Francis placed the watch on the counter along with twenty dollars. "Do you have something you want to say, Mathieu?"

"I'm sorry," Matthew howled, clearly regretting what he'd done. "I'm s-s-sorry!"

White-haired and scraggly around the edges, Greg didn't look nearly as intimidating as he'd envisioned. The old man looked him up and down before conceding a gentle smile. "I suppose no harm's done now that the merchandise is back. I don't want to see you doing something like that again, boy. You're better than that—I can tell."

Matthew scrubbed the tears from his face and sniffled as Francis apologized for a final time and began their retreat to the patrol car. It was a short walk, but every step Matthew took with his father's hand on his wrist made him feel more dreadful than before.

"If you ask politely, maybe Raivis will agree to drive you home."

Raivis, the boy found, was able to make light of every dark situation. As they reached the car, he waggled a finger at Matthew and said, "So, what's it gonna be? We puttin' him in cuffs or what?"

"Not this time. I think a firm warning will do," Francis assured, escorting the child into the backseat.

"I dunno, Bad Cop. He looks pretty rough and dangerous to me. First it's Greg's Handy Dandy Supplies and then it's the Federal Reserve. You know how these things go," Raivis chuckled with a wink aimed at Matthew in the rearview mirror. "Anytime you decide to take him into custody, you just let me know. I'll read him his rights and offer him some water while you read through his computer history."

Matthew burrowed his hands in his lap and stiffened his posture, blinking away the sting in his bloodshot eyes. "Uhmm… Officer Raivis?"

The man perked his ears and flashed his signature grin at the boy. "What's up, shorty?"

"C-Can you please drive me home?"

"I dunno, tough guy. It's gonna cost ya, but I guess the first ride can be free. I'm a generous man," Raivis decided, flicking on the radio and smacking some gum between his lips. "I can sympathize with your criminal record, son. I used to get in trouble with my dad all the time. You're lucky your dad is pretty cool, but mine was a seven foot tall Russian and would make me shine his shoes and clean out the gutter. Whew, you bet I cried through it all. Helped me grow a backbone though, and now I'm stopping youngsters like you from hijacking cars and assassinating the president."

Francis snorted and nudged him in the side with an elbow. "Keep dreaming."

Twenty minutes of banter and they were back at the Kirkland-Bonnefoy home, whereupon Francis got out of the car and walked Matthew to the front door. After a sharp knock, Arthur stormed outside and encased the child in a hug.

"Where have you been? I was worried sick when Alfred told me you didn't get on the bus with him! I had to cancel his physical therapy appointment and—Francis? What's going on?"

"I'm sure Mathieu will explain everything."

Arthur's face bore a scowl within moments, and he frowned at the boy shuffling from foot-to-foot in front of him. "I'm listening, lad."

Matthew worked his teeth around his bottom lip and said, "I stole…"

Arthur's eyebrows traveled further up his forehead. "You stole? Stole what?"

"A watch…from the store."

"Oh, you don't say?" Arthur growled under his breath, extremely disappointed and upset. Of all of the things he'd expected to hear, shoplifting wasn't one of them. "I want to have a chat with you, in that case. Have a seat in the living room."

The boy bowed his head and dragged himself inside, tears spilling anew.

Arthur pinched his nose and shared his exasperation with Francis. "Our sweet Matthew is in need of a stern lecture. I never thought I'd live to see the day."

"My shift will be over in a few hours, and we can have another talk with him together. We still have that test to discuss."

"Oh, yes. I haven't forgotten. I'll send him up to his room, and I'll save most of the conversation until your return."

Francis nodded and made a move to return to the patrol car. "I have to go."

"I know. Stay safe," Arthur ordered before giving Raivis a brief wave from afar. "Thank you both for bringing him back."

"Don't forget to keep an eye on Alfred as well. I don't want to find him spray-painting the school or setting garbage bins on fire."

Arthur laughed at that and, to Francis's grand surprise, didn't immediately reach for a cigarette. Instead, he adjusted the doormat so it was straight and ventured right back into the house.

Maybe he could be reformed.

"We are both disappointed in the way you've been behaving lately, Mathieu. We understand you've felt lonely since the accident, but that's no excuse for doing poorly in school or stealing. You should have talked to us. You know we'd never want you to be upset and keep it to yourself."

Matthew wanted to hide away in his room for the rest of eternity. The look in Daddy and Papa's eyes made him so sad that he thought he'd never see again because he would be blinded by tears forever. He'd just wanted to be heard. He'd wanted them to know that he wasn't as quiet and passive as they thought he was. He had a voice too, and it had the right to be heard like everyone else's.

"I'm really sorry!" he whimpered until Francis finally caved and wrapped his arms around him.

"Will you be a good lapin from now on?"

"Yes!"

Arthur folded his arms across his chest and towered over the two, reeling in his teaching tone. "Matthew, my dear boy… Look up and listen to me."

The child raised his face from Francis's chest and stared up at the man, who made an imposing figure in the dimness of the living room.

"Sometimes, one has to make a choice when no one is watching, and you'll have to ask yourself difficult questions," he explained, kneeling down beside the boy. "If you knew you could rob someone or cheat or tell a lie and get away with it, would you do it? Many people would, but you don't have to be like them, Matthew. You can decide for yourself. You're the one who makes the choice, and this is possibly the greatest gift and curse we have—the freedom of choice… Of choosing to do the honorable thing even when no one seems to listen or acknowledge it in any way. We can't tell you what to choose. We can only hope you do what you feel is right."

"For example," Arthur continued with a playful smirk. "I tell your father to eat healthy on the job, especially since he works at night, but I'm not around to nag him and make sure he's doing it. He's an adult, and he'll be the one to decide what he does to his body. I trust him to take care of himself when I'm not there because I know he'll make good choices. Right, Francis?"

The other man loosened his embrace around Matthew and shook his head with a barely contained laugh. What a way to guilt-trip him. "Of course, mon cher."

"Now, your father and I have been talking, and we've talked about your punishment. You're not allowed to use your computer, play videogames, or watch television for the next week. You're also grounded for three weeks, and you'll be doing extra chores around the house."

Matthew nodded in understanding without argument. He'd expected something along the lines of that.

"Lastly, since Alfred is getting his brace off in under a week, we want you to start doing some activities with him in the yard. It'll be a good way to work out your differences, and Alfred needs some motivation to exercise that leg of his. You can help him with stretches and get him to move around."

What? Surely, that wasn't fair. He couldn't be forced to help his brother!

"But Dad—!"

"I don't want to hear it," Arthur silenced him. "We wouldn't ask you to do this if we didn't think it was beneficial for you both."

Matthew grumbled and griped about it for a while, but there wasn't any use in protesting.

Arthur ruffled his hair and guided him toward the stairs to get ready for bed. "You'll live, love. Oh, and one more thing."

Matthew paused on the stairs and glared down at his father, still unhappy with the arrangement.

"Make the right choice."

Why couldn't they just let him be a disobedient Mafioso? Things would've been easier that way.