"Baby-steps, that's all," Toris had said, swinging Alfred up to his feet with glee. "Take it nice and slow for another week or so until we build up that strength again."

He thought he'd heard the same instructions before. Toris always talked about building strength, but even weeks after the accident, Alfred still felt like a newborn calf that was just learning to use its legs for the first time. He stumbled and staggered, landed himself on asphalt one too many times, and battled through a litany of pains and cramps in his leg.

He didn't feel any better about the situation with Papa and Matthew watching on as though he were made of eggshells. They constantly asked how he was doing, wondered if they could get him anything, and mumbled to one another in French whenever they said something that wasn't meant for Alfred's ears.

They were about to leave the rehabilitation center, but Alfred couldn't find the will to walk. He stood on wavering legs and shuffled a few inches forward before pleading with Toris to give him his crutches back. The man compromised and said that he would get a medical cane to take home with him, but it was only to be used when absolutely necessary.

"Come, we can walk to the car together," Daddy insisted, before locking his arm with Alfred's. Then, he turned to Papa and said, "You two go on ahead of us. We'll meet you there."

When the other half of their family was out of sight, Alfred hobbled a few feet toward the exit, trying to mask the humiliation and pain he was feeling.

Daddy parted his lips into a pleasant smile and followed alongside him. "Don't rush. We'll move at our own pace, lad. Take all the time you need, and if you fall, I'll be here to catch you."

Alfred bit his lip with a nod and carefully shifted one foot in front of the other. He had an urge to reach a hand down to massage his searing knee, but resisted, as it would only make matters worse. At the rate they were moving, he was sure a sloth would've given them a run for their money, but Daddy didn't seem to mind how they hadn't covered much ground in a timely manner. He just kept his arm looped around Alfred's like a bow and told a cheerful story about how his high school students loved receiving stickers and stamps on their assignments.

"You'd think they were a nest of six-year-olds," he joked as Alfred's forehead grew grimy with sweat. "They all think they're well on the road to adulthood, but they're still childish at heart. I always tell them not to grow up too fast—they'll have plenty of time to be adults, but they'll get away with being children only for a little while."

Alfred managed a strained grin and kept going, letting the sound of his father's voice cool the lava in his muscles. They were halfway across the parking lot now, and he was determined to make it to the car without a single slip-up. Baby-steps.

"Ahh, but you'll know what that's like soon enough. In a few years, you'll be a dramatic teenager too."

Within moments, the energy that was spewing out of him before vanished without a trace. Alfred felt himself grow faint, and he reached out an arm to catch himself, frantically grabbing at thin air.

"It's all right. I've got you," Daddy said, hoisting him up and chasing the black clouds in front of his eyes away. Seconds later, Alfred found himself atop his father's back, arms latched around the man's neck. "I'll finish the rest of the walk for you this time, hmm?"

Alfred slumped his head down so that it came to rest on a sturdy shoulder, hating every atom of his body. Why wasn't he getting better? He'd done all of the exercises Toris had ordered, rested when he was told to do so, and never strained himself to worsen his injury. Yet, despite all of the agony, the reward had been miniscule.

"Slow and steady wins the race, lad."

The boy scoffed against his father's shirt. "That's a dumb saying."

"It has some truth to it."

"If you're too slow, you always end up behind—that's the truth."

He wouldn't understand Arthur's response at first, but he was glad his father said what he did anyway because he'd needed to hear it—needed it more than he realized.

"No, my boy. The ones who get left behind are those who leap forward without watching their step. Keep your eyes on the road, and you'll be ahead of everyone else, you have my word."

"Yeah, whatever," Alfred huffed, eyes shut as Arthur's shoes tap-tap-tapped their way to the car without a hitch.

"Mr. K, I don't understand how I got a zero on the essay. It's so unfair! At least I did the assignment!"

Arthur took a careful sip of his steamy tea and looked up at the disgruntled student from behind his oak desk. "Mr. Køhler, I gave you the grade you deserved. Your essay was almost identical to Ms. Arlovskaya's, and I cannot give you credit for someone else's work. Plagiarism is a serious matter, and once you start university, your professors won't be so lenient."

Matias Køhler pushed back the unruly forest of hair on his head and groaned. "If my mom sees this, she's going to kill me. Please, Mr. K, I can't show her this kind of grade. I can't hide it from her either—she's the type of woman who knows everything that goes on in her house."

Arthur organized his attendance sheets, and shot the boy a disappointed frown. "I've already lectured Ms. Arlovskaya on this matter, and since I don't make it a habit of mine to be a miserable and unforgiving teacher, I'm going to give you another chance. I want you to submit another essay to me by the end of tomorrow—citations and all. It should be proofread and as close to perfect as humanly possible. I mean it when I say it had better be flawless and pristine. If you do that, you'll have proven that you deserve a higher score, and we'll put the past behind us."

"Oh, my God, Mr. Kirkland," Matias breathed a loud sigh of relief and regained the color in his cheeks. "You are the best. I swear it'll be good. I'm on it."

"Mhmm… Now, go on before I change my mind. You have a lot of work ahead of you. Oh, and I'll be able to tell if you copied someone else's paper again… I have my ways. Good day."

"See ya, Mr. Kirkland. Stay snazzy! I won't let you down!"

Arthur clicked his tongue and said, "Don't worry about impressing me. Take pride in yourself for doing your own work."

They were allowed their fair share of mistakes, as long as they learned from them. That, of course, was more valuable to Arthur than any essay. There would come a time in his students' lives when they wouldn't be able to hide behind feeble excuses. There wouldn't be room for a reset to try again—they'd just have to face their demons.

So, Arthur gave them swords and stepped back.

The rest wasn't up to him.

"Did we remember to leave the Vargas brothers a list with the boys' allergies?"

"Yes. You gave them two extra copies."

"How about Matthew's stuffed polar bear? Did he take him along? You know how he gets when he leaves it at home."

Francis puckered his lips and blew an air kiss at his husband as they approached the main entrance of the hospital. "Yes, he brought it with him, mon chou. Now, why don't you try to relax? You're so worked up over this."

Ever since they'd left the house earlier that morning, Arthur had been coming up with ways to delay his procedure. He fretted over the twins for an extra hour and vacuumed twice to 'make sure he didn't miss a spot', but Francis didn't let him get away with the scheme. He'd dragged him to the car while the man insisted he check to see if he locked the front door again because one could never be too safe.

And somehow, the magnificent forces of the universe finally sent them off to the hospital. They were punctual, and Francis took it upon himself to sign Arthur in, a delighted and encouraging smile resting on his mouth. Within an hour, Arthur was in bed and clad in a muted turquoise gown, looking as though he could rip Francis's head off with his bare hands.

"It's going to be fine," Francis repeated like a broken record. "Relax."

Arthur balled his hands into fists and stared at the fluorescent lights above his bed until his eyes burned. "I am relaxed. Can't you tell?"

"The nurse took your blood pressure and said you're as tense as a puppy during a thunderstorm. Shut your eyes and think of a happy place."

"If you tell me to relax one more time, I swear I'll—"

"Shhh… You promised you'd be on your best behavior."

"I promised no such thing! Get out! I don't want you here any longer!"

Francis chuckled and squeezed Arthur's hand. "You don't mean it. Don't be afraid. The doctors know what they're doing, and you're going to be well taken care of."

Thankfully, the nurse returned shortly afterward with a moderate dose of Valium, and the effect it had on the man's mood was awe-inspiring. Whereas Arthur had been ready to heavily mutilate Francis just minutes prior, he later slowed his breathing and blinked against the calming warmth running through his veins. His eyelids drooped, he uncurled his fists, and he turned to Francis in defeat, far too tired to care what was being done to him anymore.

"Feeling better?" Francis asked with a breezy laugh, teasing the ends of Arthur's hair with his fingers. "You're… what's the word I'm looking for? Ah, yes… You are stoned. Completely baked. Tasting the sky, non?"

The previously irate Englishman had a slack smirk plastered to his mouth, and he seemed to find the pattern of dots on his gown very intriguing. "What?"

"The procedure will start soon. You're nice and relaxed for the staff now. Look at you—wouldn't hurt a fly anymore, would you?"

"You… Stay with me?"

"I'll be waiting here as soon as it's all over. You won't even notice I'm gone," Francis soothed, deciphering the fragmented sentences. "Listen to what the doctor says, and everything will be okay. I'll have food for you when they bring you back. I know you haven't been able to eat for a while."

"Not hungry…"

"You will be later."

"I hate you."

Francis laughed and blew a raspberry. Even while in a drugged state, Arthur squeezed in a few jibes. Nothing could squash the dark humor entrenched somewhere between the lobes of his mind.

"I'm aware."

They made small talk after that. Francis recounted another one of his grand adventures with Raivis, and Arthur listened as best he could while chasing away the temptation to sleep. Aside from the occasional murmurs and plodding footsteps outside of the room, it was quiet. A cardiac monitor flickered behind the bed, the IV bag with Arthur's Valium dripped in time with the changing seconds, and Francis prayed for the right words to come to him at the right moment at least once. There had to be something he could say to rid Arthur of his anxiety. He was an awful spouse for pulling up his fishing net of words without a single catch.

And by the time he could try again, the pulmonologist had come in with a pearly white smile. If Francis hadn't known any better, he would've thought Arthur was being treated to free lunch and tea.

"Are we ready, Mr. Kirkland?"

His husband must've been at least fractionally sober because he drew his brows into a fuzzy line and said in a perfectly clear voice, "No."

"Hmm. I think you're as ready as ever," the doctor replied without losing his cheer. "Won't be as bad as you imagine it'll be, promise."

Truth be told, it really wasn't that bad, but Arthur complained to Francis and reminded him he was a sadistic frog anyway. Arthur couldn't remember everything, but he did recall lying on his stomach as something cold touched his back, followed by the doctor telling him to hold his breath. Despite the numbing medication, he still felt the sharp sting of a needle breaking through his skin, and he blamed Francis all over again, tying together a chain of colorful curses in his mind. Damn Francis for making him go to the clinic in the first place. Damn Francis for taking his cigarettes. Damn everything because it hurt, even if only for a few minutes.

Then, he earned himself a chest x-ray and was instructed to lie flat for two hours before being sent back to the room he'd started in. The medication hadn't fully worn off yet, and the world was soft around the edges. He sighed into his pillow and shivered when a hand came into contact with the dressing wrapped around his torso.

"Welcome back," Francis said, smiling that taunting smile of his. "How was it?"

"Horrible," Arthur replied, mostly because he was still unhappy. Nonetheless, he struck out an arm and grabbed Francis's hand, holding it tight. "I don't just hate you. I loathe you."

"You can loathe me as much as you like, if you promise to start treating your smoking habit. You don't want another scare like this, do you?"

"Don't lecture me."

Francis recycled the statement Arthur often used on the twins. He hoped he'd never have to see Arthur in a hospital bed again—neither of them could stand it. "I do it because I care."

"You care? My God… I must be dreaming."

"I wonder if the doctor can do something about your wisecracking."

"Oh, if only," Arthur quipped, wiping the smirk off of his face only when Francis seemed genuinely upset.

The Frenchman smoothed out the blanket Arthur had been given to keep warm and brought Arthur's hand to his heart. "When will we know the results?"

"When the pathologist looks at whatever they took from my lung. He's going to take his time, I'll bet."

"You… You should talk to Alfred. Spend some time with him when you've recovered."

Arthur rubbed the sore spot underneath his bandages until Francis whacked his fingers away from the injury and told him to lie still. "Is something wrong? I know he's been having a hard time at school, but I thought things were getting better. I helped him with his history paper on the Civil War, and he said he was doing well in class."

"It's nothing like that. I just… I think you two would be able to help each other," Francis clarified, eyes twinkling in a way that made Arthur nervous. "If you can get him to race again, I'm sure he'll be able to get you to quit smoking. You'll be able to push one another. It's the perfect bargain."

Arthur glared at his husband from the bed. The expression lacked its intimidating effect, considering he was prone and had to crane his neck at an odd angle just to look at the other man. "As if Alfred will listen to me."

"Of course he will. You're his father. Have you seen how that boy admires you? If you challenge him to do something, he'll do it without question."

"And how is this supposed to stop me from smoking?"

"It's simple. Alfred has you wrapped around his finger. If he pouts and chides you for reaching for a cigarette, you'll feel ashamed of yourself, and a little shame is all you need," Francis snickered as Arthur flushed.

"I won't fall for that. Unlike you, I set strict boundaries for my children, and—"

"Do I have to remind you of the many times Alfred persuaded you into buying him toys he didn't need. Remember the remote-controlled race car? How about the stuffed whale that was a meter in length and collected dust on the bedroom floor? Then there was the miniature gumball machine, and the—"

Arthur snarled something foul and sucked in a gasp as though he'd scalded his tongue. "Okay, you've made your point."

Francis would've been more than happy to continue the discussion at great length and detail, but Arthur's doctor interrupted his rant, and both men fell silent at once.

"I have wonderful news. Mr. Kirkland, you've been blessed with stunning fortune."

Benign. Arthur never thought he could love a word as much as he did then. One in three individuals in his position ended up with lung cancer, but he'd been part of the lucky two who didn't. Though his lungs were performing at the rate of someone ten years his senior, he was still okay. For now, anyway. The doctor gave him a long-winded oration on the dangers facing him if he continued smoking a pack a day, but Arthur had heard the speech before, and it didn't resonate with him like it should have.

Yet, something in him had changed. Fear played profound tricks on the mind, and two days later, Francis found Arthur traipsing his way to the front door with Alfred.

They were going to the track.

"This is so dumb. I can't do stuff like this anymore, and you know it."

"Who says? Don't you dare give up on your dreams, understand? Your dreams separate you from everyone else, and nothing can take them away—not even an injured leg. Every athlete gets hurt, and though this is your first time, it won't be your last," Arthur told the boy, fixing his scarf so that it was snug. He was going to teach the child a lesson he wouldn't soon forget.

Alfred stepped away from his father's reach and shook his head. He wanted to go home. He hadn't expected Arthur to drag him here. He wasn't ready. "I can't race."

"Yes, you can," Arthur insisted, walking him onto the track. "Close your eyes. Can you hear the cheering?"

Alfred's eyelids fluttered, and he lowered his head with a frown. "We're all alone."

"Are you certain?"

If he thought about it long and hard, Alfred could imagine the whistle going off, and the rumble of people standing up on the bleachers. They had cheered for him once, but those days were over. He was poor, sick Alfred. Terribly unfortunate Alfred.

He opened his eyes when Arthur's coat brushed against his, and suddenly, his father was jogging ahead of him with a quirky smile twisting his lips. "Perfect day for a run!"

Alfred could feel his jaw unhinge as it fell open against the icy air. He'd never seen his father run in his entire life. It was ungentlemanly, uncouth, and indecent in every way. Sure, Arthur walked briskly when in a rush, but he'd never broken out into a full jog. Not in front of Alfred, at least.

He stood dumbfounded for a good moment, unsure of how to react to his father's strange behavior. He thought of calling Papa for help, but Arthur had already started his second lap with no sign of giving up.

Alfred wrinkled his nose and ventured a few footfalls, limping his way forward. Useless… Arthur would be on his twelfth lap before Alfred would even manage to walk through one.

And sure enough, Arthur soon caught up to him once more. He slowed his pace and put a hand on Alfred's forearm. "Just one sprint, Alfred. You can do it. I know you can."

Dad was begging—he could hear it in his voice. He wanted his Alfred. He wanted loud, obnoxious, quick-footed, cheeky Alfred.

"You can do it."

He moved without realizing it, and for about three seconds, he ran. Euphoria swelled in his heart, and he cried tears of joy, sobbing and laughing and sobbing again as he matched Arthur's speed. He'd never felt such love eking out of his heart—such pure happiness. The air tasted sweet on his mouth, and the tremors in his leg propelled him.

But then, his knee remembered to be useless again, and he pitched forward with momentum like a domino, colliding with the ground.

His face slick with tears, Alfred flipped himself onto his back and watched the gray sky above, chest aching with twenty thousand feelings. He'd done it. He'd remembered what it was like to run.

"I told you," Arthur murmured against his hair, pulling him into a sitting position. "It's not over, Alfred. If you want to run, then run. Run and run until your legs can't carry you, my boy."

Alfred hid his head in the front of the man's coat, terrified by his own strength. He didn't think his muscles even remembered how to move aside from a slow shuffle. "What if I don't have what it takes?"

Arthur scoffed and settled a kiss onto the boy's forehead. "After that display? Of course you have what it takes. We're going to train together. We're going to have you racing by April if it's the last thing I do."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

Carefully, the pair got to their feet, and Arthur dug around in his pocket, producing a cigarette. He poised the flame from his lighter at the tip, pretending not to see the glower on Alfred's face.

"Papa said you're going to be very sick if you keep smoking."

"Papa should worry about his own health," Arthur huffed, disgusted by how weak his arguments were sounding lately.

Alfred reached up a hand and took the cigarette away, blue eyes glittering with worry. "I don't want you to get sick."

"Don't do that, you're going to burn yourself," his father tutted, stealing the cigarette back. "No one is going to be sick anytime soon."

Alfred nibbled on his lip and watched Arthur take a drag. "Papa also said I should give you a… a…"

"Yes?"

The boy wrinkled his nose as he thought of the word Papa had used. "I should give you an ultimate-tum."

"I think you mean 'ultimatum'."

"Yeah, that!"

Arthur sighed and clenched the cigarette with his teeth, hooked on the way the nicotine dried up all of his stress. He had the decency to feel a little uncomfortable as Alfred watched him distastefully. "And why would he say such a thing?"

"He told me I can't go on walks with you unless you promise not to smoke as much. You can't smoke until we get home."

"Now he's getting you involved in this? Alfred, poppet, you're just a child, so you don't need to be thinking about these sorts of issues."

"But I don't want you to be sick again!"

"Alfred, love. I'm not going to—"

"Don't lie! Papa said you don't listen to anyone! You care about your cigarettes more than your children."

Arthur pursed his lips and scowled. Francis fed the boy those words. A child couldn't come up with remarks like those on his own. How could Francis accuse him of not loving and caring for his children? It was uncalled for.

"We're done here," Arthur decided before storming off toward the car.

Alfred struggled to keep up, and when he reached the Chevy, he gave Arthur the most baleful look he could manage. "I don't want to go on walks with you. You can't make me."

Arthur started acting strange again. He did the second thing Alfred rarely saw him do.

He banged a fist against the steering wheel and cried.

"How are the kids doing?"

"Well, Mathieu still hasn't robbed the Federal Reserve, so I think they're going to be okay," Francis informed his partner, reclining his seat and yawning. Each day he spent in the patrol car made the road more bearable, and though the man wouldn't take the wheel even in his wildest dreams, he was able to sit alongside his faithful driver without falling into a state of panic. "Thank you for asking."

"Yeah, of course. Matthew's a cute kid. I don't want to see him making stupid mistakes," Raivis said. "If you ever need Uncle Raivis to discipline them, I'll be ready. We'll take the rascals down to the station, and they won't do anything bad ever again. They'll be scarred for life."

Francis chuckled and waved off the help. "Stay away from my children."

"Ah, you're one of those protective dads. I get it."

"No, I leave that mainly to Arthur. Are you still pursuing the love interest you told me about?"

Raivis bounced in the driver's seat, reminded of his excitement. "Iryna? Oh, yeah. I'm taking her out for coffee tomorrow. I've been practicing some cheesy jokes to break the ice. Ladies like a good sense of humor."

Francis bit down his huge grin and let the young man continue. "What jokes?"

"So, one of them goes like this… What do you call a fake noodle?"

Francis shrugged his shoulders.

"An impasta!" Raivis finished with a wink, exuberance peaking. "I've got a cop joke ready too. What did the policeman say to his belly button?"

"Do I really have to know?"

"You're under a vest!"

Francis covered his ears with his hands and groaned. "No more, please."

"Okay, just one more! Promise! I'm not sure if this one should make the final cut."

"Fine."

"What do you call a big pile of kittens? A meowntain."

"Scratch that one off the list."

Raivis exploded with laughter, holding a hand over his diaphragm just to make sure he stayed intact. "Haha! Scratch, get it? Because cats scratch things…"

Francis hated himself for smiling.

"If you get a second date with this woman, I will pray for her."