Author's Note: We're marching on with this story, despite the summer heat! I have a lot planned, not to mention I'm fleshing out some ideas for a piece that's in the works. As always, enjoy and feel free to leave a review. :D

"I told you it would be better in the morning."

Raivis moaned and shrugged his shoulders out of the crisp bedsheets, feeling itchy and uncomfortably warm all over. The thick padding of bandages over his abdomen were mushy with antibiotic creams and goo, and he wanted nothing more than for Francis to smother him with a pillow. The events of the past few hours were foggy as his mind fought through the lethargy of painkillers in his system.

"What time is it?" he asked, parched and sticky as if he'd been outside too long on a humid day.

Francis stayed seated in a chair by the rookie's bedside and checked his watch. "Six in the morning."

"When did I get stabbed?"

"Around eleven."

"Crap. You've been here all night?"

"You were the one who begged me to stay," Francis reminded before handing him a paper cup with cold water inside. "Drink."

"Don't tell me what to do."

A smile graced Francis's lips. Raivis was sounding a lot like someone he knew. "Fine. I guess you aren't looking forward to getting back on your feet again. It's good news for me, since I'm working on my solo career from now on."

The response was as immediate and desperate as he'd imagined it would be. "Hey! You can't just ditch me like that! We're the dream team, remember? Midnight Dolphin—Swagmeister—I only wanted to—Argh…"

He'd antagonized the boy enough for the time being.

"I'm not going anywhere. I was only kidding," Francis reassured him, pressing a hand onto his chest to keep him still. "You should be discharged soon, as long as you rest. Is there anybody you'd like for me to call? Your parents, siblings, a close friend, etcetera?"

"Nah, you're all I've got, Bad Cop."

"I find that hard to believe. Someone as outgoing as you must get around pretty well."

That was almost a compliment.

Raivis grinned the grin that he often utilized to grind Francis's gears. "Don't let my five hundred friends on Facebook fool you. Seriously though… Thanks."

Francis was about to reply with a sharp comeback, but his phone decided to go off right then and there. "It's Arthur. I told him what happened, and he's been concerned about you."

"Pick it up. I'm sorry for keeping you away from your family. You should go home. You've been here long enough already."

"What's a few more hours now?" Francis said before heading into the hallway to answer the call.

The conversation was short and almost second-nature. Arthur asked him once again if he was at all harmed during the scuffle, to which Francis told him for the umpteenth time that he was quite all right. The man was in full mother-hen mode, and he expressed his sympathies for the rookie officer. Could he get him anything? Flowers? A get-well card? Or—god forbid—a hot meal? Was he comfortable? Should he come down and pay him a visit?

Francis dismissed all of the offers. They were doing just fine. The situation was under control, so Arthur could stop worrying and go back to writing up his lesson plans. He promised his husband he'd be home well before dinner, and when there was nothing left to be said, he returned to Raivis's room with a long sigh.

"He doesn't even worry over me like that," he joked as he situated himself back in the chair. "Are you in any pain? They haven't been stingy with the morphine."

"I'm okay… Tell Arthur I appreciate the concern."

"Oh, I don't want to encourage his doting, but I'll let him know."

"I've never had anyone worry about me like that before," Raivis admitted after a bated breath. "My dad was all about 'tough love' when I was a kid, and I didn't really know my mom well."

Francis frowned and watched the IV drip. "To be honest, I was never very close with my parents either."

"Can't choose your family, right?"

"Mmm… Yes, but I wouldn't have it any other way. If things were different, I wouldn't be the same person anymore."

He'd never seen this side of Raivis—this hint of self-loathing and anger. Perhaps he wasn't as youthful and boyish as he seemed, and Francis considered the thought for a while. Even after he left Raivis in the care of Iryna that afternoon, he couldn't shake the guilt in his stomach for being so hasty to judge the rookie. They were all a little broken inside, but some were just better at hiding it from plain view.

Raivis was back on patrol a week later, only a tad rugged around the edges. He seemed more mature, and though his cheesy humor still remained unshaken, Francis could see the stark shadows around his eyes and heard the gruffness of his voice. He'd seen the realities of the job—the pain and confusion of balancing patience and fury. Patience for their fellow friends and civilians, and fury for the things they did when no one was around to notice.

It was all too easy to lose patience and cling to anger instead. All too easy to pick up a gun and end the problem before it festered—Francis knew this better than anyone, and it made him feel sick.

He'd once complained of the rookie's naïve and misguided ways—the way he revered his job as though he were some sort of hero—but he'd found comfort and light in his innocence. Those days had flown into the past, and Francis almost wanted to catch them by the wings and pull them back. He wanted to be around someone who didn't understand the complexity of things. He wanted to witness blissful ignorance.

Because thinking about things too much just invited the darkness.

"I'm gonna tell on you!"

"No, you won't."

"Yeah, I will! You can't do this to your own brother! DAD! HELP ME! I'M BEING BURIED ALIVE!"

Matthew snickered and dumped another heap of snow on Alfred's chest. He patted the snow to keep it compact, rendering Alfred's flailing useless.

They'd been lounging outside when Alfred fell asleep against the tree by the driveway, exhausted after another grueling day at school and physical therapy. Needless to say, Matthew took advantage of the perfect time to strike, and he'd started burying his brother's legs and arms in the snow without thinking twice.

"Let me outta here!"

"Not yet! I'm not finished."

"Mattie! DAD!"

The only part of the boy that was still visible beneath the blanket of white was his face, flushed scarlet with frustration.

Fearing something terrible had happened, Arthur swept out of the house without a coat, and it was only when he was within five feet of the boys that he realized exactly what the problem was.

"What in the world—? Matthew?"

"Quick! Take a picture of him before he frees himself," Matthew insisted, stumbling onto his feet and sticking his hand into Arthur's pocket to find his phone.

"Worst. Brother. Ever," Alfred punctuated from his trap. "Dad! Yell at him!"

Caught in a fit of chuckles, Arthur watched as Matthew finally snagged his phone and took pictures from a number of angles. They would pick the best one to print and frame.

Arthur leaned down to browse through the photos and said to Matthew, "I like this one best."

"DAD!"

"Poppet, you're bothering the neighbors with all of your hollering."

"You're not supposed to take Mattie's side!"

"Who said I'm taking sides? I'm neutral," Arthur remarked with a playful look. Nonetheless, he went about digging up the boy a moment later, brushing the layers of snow off of his winter attire. "Your clothes are soaked through. I'll set up a hot bath, and then we'll get you changed into something dry."

"Aww, a bath? No fair."

"Yes. Hurry along."

Minutes later, Alfred was being led into the house by his father. However, he paused by the front door and stuck his tongue out at Matthew, fastening a tight scowl onto his face. "This is war, Mattie. I'm gonna get you good. Sleep with your eyes open tonight, bucko."

His brother had the decency to seem at least a little bit afraid of the threat. "I'll be waiting, Al."

"Pfff…" Alfred spluttered as he followed Arthur into the bathroom. "Why'd you adopt him too? Wasn't I enough?"

The man tousled Alfred's hair and steadied his gaze on the forlorn blue eyes looking back at him.

"Everything's better in two's, Alfred."

Sometimes, you just had to drop everything and unwind. Now was one of those times.

"I'm taking you out."

"I beg your pardon?"

Francis clawed at a tickle on his chin and said, "We're going out for dinner. Wear something nice."

"Nonsense... I have papers that need to be graded by the end of the weekend, and by the time I round up the boys, it'll be time for supper."

"We're not taking the boys."

Arthur dropped his red pen and narrowed his eyes. If only looks could kill…

"Excuse me, Bonnefoy, but are you suggesting a date?"

"Oui. I didn't think I was being conspicuous, Kirkland. The boys will be leaving for the Vargas's house any second now, and they'll be out of sight until exactly ten o'clock tonight."

"How could you send them off without telling me?"

"Don't make this difficult, Arthur," Francis pleaded, bowing his head in mock reverence. "We haven't been on a date together in over eleven years. You can set aside one evening of paperwork, can't you?"

Arthur hesitated. He didn't particularly enjoy spontaneity anymore. He followed a meticulous plan carved specially for him, and it wasn't easy to break him out of that schedule.

"At least give me a chance. I know you're a heartthrob these days, but I'm a man with good-intentions. I'll treat you well," Francis went on with his teasing, hoping it would be the final grain of sand to tip the balance in his favor.

"I… I don't know about this."

"Mon amour," Francis was practically purring, and he used his nimble hands to his advantage. A little caress here and there, and Arthur melted into his touch. He was so stressed, and it hurt Francis to see his husband suffering from such mental fatigue.

"Okay. I'll be ready in half an hour."

Francis pecked his temple and nodded. "Perfect. Je t'aime."

"Manipulative, frog," Arthur grumbled as he trekked his way over to his dresser. He was going to leave it at that, but then he remembered the incident with Raivis, and then the car accident, and then the many other times he'd come frighteningly close to losing the man. He bounded across the room, pressed his semi-cold hand against Francis's cheek and said, "I love you too."

And that was the thing about Arthur, Francis realized, when he said he loved you, you knew he meant it. He didn't throw the words around and waste them on just anyone. He treated the words with great care—the complete opposite of Francis. They weren't habit for him. They never tired or lost their shine. His words made you feel their impact.

So, even though Francis had burned out his words long ago, he tried to show his affection through his actions instead. When they arrived at the restaurant he had found for them, he walked arm-in-arm with Arthur and ignited some cheerful banter. Not a single dull moment broke their fun.

Tables didn't suit them well because they would've had to sit across from each other, and that was too much distance for them to spare. Thus, they sidled into a booth and sat side-by-side, leaning on one another because life could be damn tiring.

"I get to choose the wine," Arthur whispered when they were close to dozing off. It was a shame they didn't do things like this more often, but they were parents, and the boys were still too young to be left to their own devices for too long. They could only enlist the Vargas brothers as babysitters so many times.

"Anything you'd like, mon cher. The night is ours."

When the food came, they taste-tested each other's plates before diving into their own. They talked about work, the boys, future plans… Maybe they'd save up and go someplace nice over the summer. A proper vacation was in order.

They left the restaurant around seven o'clock, and it seemed a shame to head home early and waste the three hours of freedom they had left. Arthur suggested they take a walk, but it was cold out, and neither man had the energy for that kind of hike through the snow.

"We're in the city, and we have the car. We can be wild," Francis alluded, a coy look on his face. "We could go to a club."

The response was expected. Arthur scoffed as though offended and crossed his arms. "We're too old for that."

"Too old? You must be joking. We're not even middle-aged yet, Arthur. You act as though we'll keel over and roll into our graves tomorrow."

"We're definitely not at our prime anymore, Francis."

"That doesn't mean we don't get to have fun every now and then."

It took fifteen minutes of bickering for Arthur to relent, and then, they were off. At wit's end, Arthur had given up his role as the 'responsible one' and remembered walking into the club, but not walking out.

Regrettably, he'd had a few drinks, and Francis hadn't bothered to stop him until it was too late. Impaired and dazed, he forgot much of what he did that night, but Francis told him all about his escapades. Apparently, he was a very good dancer when tipsy.

Francis had been sober, and he drove them home at a quarter to ten, no longer fearful of the road after his experience with Raivis.

"You're a lightweight, Arthur. You always have been."

He shouldn't have said anything because as much as he loved mocking his husband, the man was also extremely loud and irate while intoxicated. "Shut it! You think you know everything, don't you? You're always on about this and t-that—"

"Shush. You're going straight to bed once we get inside. Then, I'll pick up the twins."

"I'm not going anywhere with you! I-I need… Need…"

"Yes, mon cher? What do you need?" Francis queried as he unlocked the front door. "A breath mint?"

"Cigarette."

"No, none of that while you're like this."

They made it to the foyer, and Francis took off Arthur's coat for him and untied his shoes. "It's bedtime."

"Want a drink first."

"You've had enough. I can't wait to see you try to grade papers in the morning."

"Ughhh."

Francis smiled and led them to their room before tucking Arthur in. The bundle of sheets and the comforter would make it difficult for the man to meander out of bed.

"Be quiet, okay? You don't want the boys to see you," Francis said with a brief laugh. "At least you had one night of fun, even if you are going to hate me in the morning."

Arthur groaned as slumber claimed him against his will. He hadn't realized how sleepy he was until his head touched the pillow.

"Goodnight." Francis murmured to him. "I love you."

But the words still sounded flat to his ears.

"Gimme twenty-five jumping jacks!"

"But my leg hurts!"

"No pain, no gain!"

Alfred sucked in a strangled breath and swallowed back the aches in his knee. If he was ever going to race again, he'd need to work on his stamina.

Matthew had been a good coach thus far; he never gave in to Alfred's complaints, pushed his twin relentlessly, and remained calm and collected even while his brother agonized over his swollen limb. They understood each other, and Matthew always seemed to know when they'd exercised enough. He was brutal and dished out commands with an iron fist, but he knew his brother's limits.

Jogging, leg lifts, mountain climbers—Matthew stood over him through everything. He was more than happy to be in a position of authority, and his bashful and timid nature scurried away as soon as he'd recognized his own power. Alfred couldn't help but think he made a great teacher, and he'd picked up his teaching techniques from the best.

"That was twenty-three. I counted," Matthew scolded him when he'd stopped jumping. "Now you have to do ten more!"

"Mattie!"

"Do you want to race again or not?"

Alfred huffed and completed the task under his brother's watchful gaze. The snow on the lawn had begun to melt, and the faint warmth of spring was slowly rumbling its way through the hills. "That's a dumb question."

Suddenly, their drills came to an abrupt end as Francis came to check on them. He plodded through the soft snow and lowered his head slightly to look at them. "You boys have been out here for a while now. I think it's time for a break."

"But Alfred's never going to be able to run or play soccer if we don't—"

"Soccer?"

"Yeah, Alfred's going to try out for the team in a few weeks and—"

Francis glowered and looked on with worry as Alfred tried to rub the pain out of his leg. "Who decided this?"

"Dad did," Alfred supplied, always the one to give up the latest news. "He said he'd stop smoking if I promised to try out for soccer."

"I see… Well, I'm going to have to talk to him about this."

The man was bubbling with unspoken rage, but he strained a smile onto his lips and wrapped an arm around Alfred's shoulders. "Let's go inside, boys. How are you feeling, Alfred?"

"My leg still kinda hurts when I walk."

Francis clicked his tongue and pulled the boy closer to his side. "I knew you were taking things too quickly. You shouldn't be exercising if you're in pain. We need to schedule you another appointment to the doctor because you're not getting better."

"I am getting better, Papa!" Alfred protested, even though a horrible voice in the back of his mind thought otherwise. He didn't know why his father's words bothered him so much, but tears soon welled in his eyes, and he repressed a sob. "I have to be getting better. If I don't get better, then I can't—I can't—!"

"Shh, shh… Maybe we need to try something else, my bumblebee."

Francis brought him to the couch, pulled the boy's snow boots off, and rolled up his jeans to see the troublesome leg. It was awfully inflamed and hot to the touch. Under his breath, the man muttered, "And he wants to sign you up for another sport? Has he lost his mind?"

Matthew stood behind the couch and put a hand on his brother's head, trying to ease his crying. "I'm sorry if I made you worse, Al."

"Arthur! Come down here!"

"I'm really sorry, Al."

"Arthur!"

The twins jolted forward at the drastic change in Francis's tone. Papa rarely raised his voice, and they discovered right away that they never wanted to be on the receiving end of that booming outcry.

In no time, Arthur made his entrance into the living room, wearing his sternest scowl. He seemed ready to tell Francis off for shouting, but then he noticed Alfred lying miserably on the couch and sang a different tune. "What happened?"

"You're pushing the boy too hard. Go on, take a look at his leg. He needs to rest. I know you want him to race next season, but he needs more time."

Gingerly, Arthur touched the tender skin of Alfred's knee with a hiss. He swiped a few tissues from the coffee table and handed them to the child so he could wipe his eyes. "He was doing fine before. He's just having an off day. We'll get some ice—"

"What's this about the football team?" Francis continued, crouching beside Alfred. "He isn't ready for that."

"Toris suggested it."

"It's too much running for him. It'll do more harm than good."

"Sitting on the couch all day isn't going to help him either."

Francis didn't want to instigate a fight in front of the children, and their quarreling was getting them nowhere. They would have to find the middle ground. "He can try out for the team, but the moment he decides he's had enough, you have to respect his wishes."

Arthur nodded in agreement and brushed Alfred's bangs aside. "It'll be okay, Alfred. You'll see."

"No, it won't."

The Englishman sighed and elevated the boy's leg with a stack of pillows. "I need you to trust me," he said, turning to Francis as an afterthought. "I need both of you to trust me."

Francis grunted something in French and let his rage be cooled. It was hard to trust Arthur, especially when one considered how he handled issues like his nicotine addiction. Regardless, marriages required trust, and so, Francis passed his husband the reins and waited to see what would happen.

Before long, not a single trace of snow remained outside, and the dreaded day of try-outs had come. Francis had work that day, but Arthur and Matthew accompanied Alfred for moral support, sending him encouraging words as he tried to impress Roderich Edelstein, the manager of the budding team.

To most, Roderich came off as unapproachable and standoffish. Despite this, there was a wisdom in his eyes that couldn't be denied, and he was clearly competent. As the schoolboys chased each other around the field, he watched their every movement and fitted them into positions that had practically been designed for them. He walked between the clusters of children and observed as they hazardously launched soccer balls into the air, flaunting their strength.

One of those balls just happened to nearly collide with Matthew's face. It fired into the bleachers and the boy stuck his hands up to defend himself, catching the projectile without much of a fuss.

"I think we've found our goalkeeper," Roderich announced from a couple yards away.

Immediately, Matthew blushed and ducked his head to his knees. He shoved an elbow into Arthur's side, prompting him to speak on his behalf.

"Erm," Arthur began, patting Matthew's back. "I'm afraid he's not trying out.''

"That's all right. Does he want to play?"

Matthew bit the inside of his cheek and held his breath, incredibly embarrassed at being put on the spot. This was Alfred's day, not his.

"Matthew, answer the man," Arthur urged him. "It's your decision."

The very idea was absurd to Matthew. He wasn't an athlete. He could barely function without stumbling over his own two feet as it was.

His mouth, however, had a mind of its own.

"Yes. I want to play."

Arthur flashed him a proud smile and ruffled his hair. "Congratulations, then!"

He couldn't believe the travesty he'd committed. He felt even worse about the whole ordeal when Alfred stormed over to the bleachers, grabbed his backpack and made his escape for the car.

He hadn't made the team, and after weeks of stressing his leg just for the chance to play, he felt like a complete failure. Rejection stung.

Arthur tried to cheer him up, but his efforts were futile.

"I knew I wasn't going to make it."

"I don't understand… You performed better than most of the boys that made the team!" Arthur groused, unable to bear the sadness on the boy's face. After a moment of thought, he wandered back to the field and addressed Roderich himself, inquiring about what Alfred had done wrong.

"He won't last a full game, let alone half of one. He can try out again next year," Roderich had said, cleaning up. "He's fast and would make an excellent striker if he weren't injured."

"He's recovering," Arthur explained, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He needs this. He needs a team that'll make him feel as though he can be counted on. There isn't a single opening you could give him?"

"I could have him as one of my reserves, but that's it."

"We'll take it."

Alfred wasn't pleased to hear the update when Arthur returned. He was convinced he'd been given his role out of pity, and it made him feel a thousand times worse. He holed himself up in his room for the rest of the day and refused to come out, even when dinner was ready.

After another unsuccessful attempt to get the boy up and about, Arthur said to him from the other side of the door, "I just wanted to make things better, Alfred."

"You ruined everything!"

Later that evening, Francis was briefed on the day's events, and he shook his head at his husband morosely.

"I told you so."

And well, Arthur felt like the worst person in the world. So much for trust.