Author's Note: Hello again! I now have a tumblr account. My username is Mandelene, just as it is here. Got a question about me or one of my stories? Want to write a fanfiction but don't know where to start? Found some cool fics/fanart you'd like to share? Swing on by to my blog (Mandelene Fics) for a chat because I'd love to hear from you! I hope to see you there! ;)

"They're going to be fine. You've prepared them well."

Unbeknownst to his junior students, Arthur worried about standardized tests more than they did. He wanted them to reap the spoils of their labor, and as he sat in the teachers' lounge grading homework and talking to Francis over the phone, he hoped they would remember all he had taught them. After all, he'd trained them to write essays in their sleep. They dreamt of thesis statements. They could pick out literary techniques from passages as though it were second nature. Symbolism, allusions, imagery, direct and indirect characterization—they knew it all. Now, they just had to apply it.

"Have you started thinking about what we'll do over the summer? We could use a vacation," Francis proposed, shifting topics. "A getaway to the mountains would be nice. I know you aren't the biggest fan of the outdoors, but we could stay in a cabin, and it'd be a great experience for the boys."

Arthur tapped his red pen against the table he was working at, unable to keep his hands relaxed and still. He'd been so busy lately that he'd hardly considered the upcoming break. "Do you know how many things could go wrong? Ticks, mosquitoes with the West Nile virus, sunburn, skunks, bears, snakes, rabid raccoons—"

"Oh, please. You always find reasons for why we shouldn't do things. Are we supposed to sit at home for the rest of our lives?"

"That's not my point. Can't you pick something a little more practical and safe?"

Francis huffed, and Arthur could sense every inkling of his aggravation. "How about a trip to Philadelphia, then?"

"Philadelphia gets more dangerous every year. Their murder rates keep soaring."

"What? That's nonsense. We both grew up in cities that are far more dangerous. Both Paris and London have their fair share of bad areas—every city does. The boys would be with us the entire time, and we'd be in a hotel with security."

"I will not expose my children to the harsh realities of urban life. They're not old enough yet."

"They're eleven! It'll be fine!"

Arthur took a large gulp of his tea and tried to decipher the chicken-scratch that one of his students had handed in. No matter how much he narrowed his eyes, the writing wasn't legible. "You asked for my input, Francis. If you didn't want my opinion, you should've organized everything yourself."

"The mountains it is, then. I'll find us a suitable cabin and make a reservation. In the meantime, you should buy yourself some bug-spray. We wouldn't want those ticks to nip at your toes in the middle of the night, now would we? Oh, and I'll leave you in charge of setting up the bear traps," Francis goaded him. They rarely finished a conversation without irritating one another on some fundamental level—it was a sign of their twisted form of love.

"Intolerable frog."

"Stuffy Englishman... When will the students be finished with the exam?"

"Not for another two hours, I'm afraid. Until then, I'm supposed to isolate myself from them. I'm prohibited to even walk by the classroom where the test is taking place."

"Why don't they let you go home? You're not going to be teaching today anyway."

"I might have to proctor a different exam if the need arises."

There was a shuffle of movement on Francis's end, and Arthur surmised that it was about time for him to start preparing dinner. The clatter of pots and pans a minute later confirmed his suspicions.

"Well, it's horrible how they're keeping you away from me. Here I am, spending my day-off in an empty house," Francis grumbled, and Arthur could hear the door to one of the cupboards creak. "All the more reason we need to go on a vacation. Ahh—before I forget… Mathieu has his final soccer match today, oui?"

"Yes, and there's a celebration scheduled afterwards. Unfortunately, it coincides with Alfred's physical therapy, so I won't be able to make it."

"He's going to be upset if you're not there."

Arthur sighed and could feel guilt being lodged at his chest with each passing tick-tock of his wristwatch. "I know, but I can't be in two places at once. I'll make it up to him."

"I don't know, Arthur. This wouldn't be the first time that boy has waited for your arrival."

"Thank you for making me feel even worse."

He could picture Francis washing a head of cabbage under running water, phone balanced between his shoulder and neck. He'd be wearing a frown of disapproval, and Arthur would've said something dry and snarky to kill the silence, but his husband beat him to it.

"You're welcome, mon amour. It's what I do best, isn't it?"

In a week's time, he'd be told that all of his students passed their exams with grades of mastery.

Having a papa and a dad was a good thing—at least in Matthew's opinion. Alfred said families had to have a mom—that moms were the ones who were meant to do the nurturing, and if you didn't have one, you didn't grow up the way you were supposed to. Each time Mother's Day appeared on the calendar, Alfred pretended he didn't mind, but Matthew wasn't fooled by his indifference. At his core, Alfred had some traditionalist tendencies, and he couldn't shake off his idea of what a family 'should' look like.

Matthew wasn't as picky. He loved his parents for who they were. He wouldn't dream of trading one of them for a mother figure. He liked their lighthearted bickering and the way they got on each other's nerves and somehow managed to love each other even more because of it. They argued because they cared. They cared and cared until they just embraced one another and vowed they'd work through things together.

This was where Matthew and Alfred disagreed; Matthew would rather have two fathers who loved him to the moon and back then a mother and a father who couldn't stand each other.

Dad and Papa were a team. Their relationship was built upon compromise and mutual decision-making. They were equals. One did not have more authority than the other, but they did, however, rely on each other to fill certain niches.

Some jobs were strictly reserved for Papa, but then there were things Dad excelled in too. Papa washed the car, cooked most dinners, fixed the plumbing, changed the tiles in the bathroom, sewed buttons onto shirts, mowed the front yard, and took their family out on adventures.

Dad, on the other hand, helped with homework, watered the flowers, shopped for clothes, shared imaginative stories, handled most of the bills, brewed tea, and crafted the punishments for bad behavior.

It was better to get in trouble with Papa; he tended to be the more lenient parent, and his punishments weren't always enforced. Cross paths with Dad, and he would remember the exact length of a sentence. If Matthew wasn't allowed to use his computer for a week, then Dad would know whether he had eighty-six hours left to serve or seventy-six.

If Matthew wanted to talk about culture and his parents' roots, he'd go to Papa. Discussions about politics were more interesting with Dad. Advice regarding how to make a tough decision was better received from Dad, but advice about dealing with friends came from Papa. He could tell Papa about a pretty girl at school, but he wouldn't dare ask him how to approach her. No, that was to be discussed with Dad. Though he would deny it if confronted about it, Dad could be remarkably romantic.

And so, Matthew held a certain fondness for both of his fathers.

Yet, despite this, he still felt as though he connected with Papa more than Dad. Papa could throw an arm around his shoulders and listen to anything he had to say, but things weren't as easy with Dad. Dad wasn't so quick to notice his voice, and he always seemed to be busying himself with something. As the more soft-spoken twin, Matthew failed to be assertive enough to grasp his attention for too long. He was sure Dad never intended to give him the cold shoulder. He probably didn't even realize the many instances in which he had overlooked Matthew's presence. He was so used to Alfred's flagrant exclamations that he didn't notice Matthew's more subtle remarks.

Normally, Matthew didn't mind the fracture between them—he just learned to appreciate the time he spent with Dad more. But when Dad didn't show up for his last soccer match, he couldn't calm the stinging in his heart. Yes, Alfred's physical therapy was important, but why did he always place Alfred before him? Why couldn't Papa take Alfred to his appointment for a change?

Papa must've noticed his displeasure because he said, "You know he didn't have a choice."

Dad once taught him about making good choices. Was Alfred the better choice?

The anguish in his gut gave him his answer.

"Alfred, don't you think it's a little too soon for this?"

"I want to do it, Dad."

"But you should be resting. You don't need this kind of physical exertion right now."

"Yes, I do. I need to finish a race before I go crazy."

Arthur massaged his temples and nodded his consent after some reluctance. He didn't want to see the boy disappointed again, but he had to give him the space to challenge himself. "Okay, lad. If you're sure this is what you want, then I can't stop you."

Alfred pulled on his sneakers and tied the laces into tight knots. He hadn't even attempted to run since the time Arthur had dragged him to the track, but when he heard about a local race open to boys between the ages of eleven and thirteen, he knew he had to seize the opportunity. He had to see if he'd made any progress, and lying in bed with an icepack on his knee wasn't going to measure his strength.

"I'll be watching you. If you get tired or want to withdraw from the race, I'll sort things out, okay?"

"Yeah, I know. Thanks, Dad. You've done a lot already. I'll be okay."

He sounded mature, and Arthur tried to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat. His boy had grown up, not physically, but emotionally. He hadn't embarked upon a growth spurt yet, but the light in his eyes was wiser. At just eleven years old, he'd begun to grow into his own identity as a human being. He was forming beliefs and setting his own limits—positive limits.

"Of course, of course… You'll be all right," Arthur whispered as he stowed Alfred's change of clothes in a bag and deposited it in the trunk of their car. "Would you like me to walk you onto the track?"

"Go and find a seat on the bleachers. I'll walk by myself."

Something was dying inside of Arthur. He could feel it shrivel up and turn black. Why did children grow old? Who would want to rid them of such innocence and purity? "Good luck, then. Do your best."

"I will."

Arthur lugged his body away, oddly wistful and wretched as Alfred disappeared from sight. He took the first seat that was available and folded his hands in his lap, sweating profusely under the searing sunlight. Even sitting still in such heat was tedious, and he'd be relieved if Alfred made it through the race without contracting heatstroke.

A vague longing for Francis came upon him. It was easier to get through a bout of anxiety with an accomplice, but Alfred had been adamant that Francis and Matthew stay home, since he didn't want the extra spectators.

"READY."

The mass in his throat tripled in size.

You don't have to be the best. You just have to shine the brightest.

"SET."

You're a big lad now, Alfred.

"GO."

The boy had a good albeit shaky start, he surpassed half of the runners and kept up with the group in the middle, but one could see the pain inscribed in his features. His brows were drawn into a furrow, his lips curled into a grimace, and he squinted through involuntary tears. Arthur could tell he was struggling to stay on his feet because his legs were quavering to the point where he couldn't run in a straight line. Nonetheless, he soldiered on, and he made it to the three hundred meter marker without a single stumble. While everyone in the stands shouted and clapped, Arthur didn't risk making a sound.

Then, Alfred slowed down. With a hundred meters left, he was nearly last. One boy had already finished in first place, and the others followed shortly behind. One after another, boys zoomed past the last marker and left Alfred in the dust. He'd fallen into a sluggish walk, limping along as the crowds grew silent in confusion. Who was this child? And what was wrong with him?

Alfred seemed to notice the attention he was attracting, and he crept ahead with a sort of terrified humiliation, unsure of what to do next. They were staring. Any second and they'd be laughing too. He was the only one still toddling along.

"Alfred…"

Arthur ran up behind him, panting and frantic. He knelt down so that Alfred could hang an arm around his shoulders and get some of the weight off of his bad knee. Thankfully, the relief was immediate, and Alfred wasn't surprised when he turned his head around and saw his bent-over father smile back at him.

"Finish your race. It's what you wanted."

Too overwhelmed and touched to speak, Alfred walked the remainder of the distance. It wasn't any trouble now, and when he'd finally crossed the finish line, the crowds in the bleachers rose up section by section and applauded him. Grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles—everyone from the community cheered as though he'd claimed victory. Even Arthur stepped back and clapped for him, eyes twinkling.

And suddenly, it didn't matter that his knee was garbage, or that his parents were gay, or that he had come in dead last. He was happy. He was so happy that he couldn't contain it all at once and had to lean against Arthur for support. He hid his face in his father's shirt and wept, barely able to breathe because everyone was too kind to him—too wonderful.

You don't really know how beautiful people can be until you see them make a champion out of a loser.

"What did I tell you?"

"Oh, belt up already, would you?"

"You see, this is why we can't go on trips. The boys are never any trouble. You, on the other hand, always manage to do something stupid," Francis berated as he led Arthur back to their cabin. He was never going to let the man hear the end of it. "What am I going to do with you now? You never listen to reason. I told you not to wander into the shrubbery after that ball. I hope you've learned your lesson, stubborn man."

A nasty encounter with poison ivy wasn't the best way to start off their summer vacation. They'd only been up in the mountains for two nights, and they already had their first medical emergency to deal with. Arthur should've known better than to walk down to the river to retrieve the twins' football, but he couldn't go back to correct his mistake now. He didn't mind the itchy rash on his forearm as much as Francis's constant fussing.

"Now, who's going to have to drive you sixteen miles to find a pharmacy? Me, that's who."

"I'm sorry."

"I really hope a tick bites you."

Arthur chuckled in spite of himself, angering Francis even further. "I can drive. A little rash is no reason to—"

"No," Francis growled at him, ready to strike down the suggestion. He threw open the door to the cabin and stormed into the bathroom. "You are going to sit in the car and be grateful that you have a loving husband who endures your stupidity. Now, wash your hands thoroughly. It's not contagious, but you don't want to spread the residue everywhere and make it worse. You know nothing about nature, do you? It's obvious you're not an outdoorsman."

Arthur didn't comment as his husband let off steam, deciding he'd already agitated the other man enough for one afternoon.

"This reminds me of when your mother told me you—"

"Francis," Arthur groaned when he couldn't help himself. Francis had a large repertoire of embarrassing stories from his childhood. His mother was to blame for gossiping on the phone with him for hours on end during the holidays, recounting every detail of Arthur's existence.

"—got tree sap stuck in your hair. It had to be cut out, remember? How you grew up to be so oblivious to these types of things is a mystery to me... Use more soap, and don't scratch it!"

Arthur tried not to sound petulant, but he was losing his composure. "But it itches."

"Good. Change out of those clothes. They need to be washed. In fact, you should probably shower just to be safe."

After Arthur had gone about scrubbing down every inch of his skin, he dressed in a new set of clothes and met the rest of the family in the car. Alfred and Matthew were excited about the scenic drive, but not everyone was quite as pleased. Francis gave him a cold towel to hold over the red skin until they could get him some proper ointment, frowning and fretting the entire time.

"Like a child…"

"I said I was sorry."

"We're putting you in a bubble from now on."

The drive to the nearest town wasn't as long as they had anticipated it to be, and they killed two birds with one stone when they purchased the medication and then decided to eat at a nearby diner. All in all, everyone felt more chipper after a warm, filling meal, and the drive back to the campground was far more relaxed.

With the sun low in the sky, Francis and Arthur settled themselves by the campfire in the middle of the grounds while the boys played in the grass a few yards away. To put it lightly, both men looked a little ragged. Hair tousled, slightly sunburnt, and exhausted from their rendezvous with the perils of the woodlands, it was clear that they'd been through a series of ups and downs in the course of twenty-four hours.

Arthur slouched against Francis as they perched themselves on a lone log, watching the tiny embers flutter into the sky from the fire. His rash-covered arm had been treated with a generous helping of cream and then wrapped loosely in a bandage to keep him from scratching the area. What a whimsical pair they made.

"How's the arm?"

"Fine. It's only a nuisance."

"Mmm, I'm sorry for being so annoyed with you today."

"It's quite all right. I'd have done the same," Arthur mumbled, closing his eyes. "Peaceful, isn't it?"

Francis nodded and lowered his head to meet Arthur's lips. It was nice to kiss him when he didn't smell of cigarette smoke. The man only smoked once a week now—he called it his 'cheat' day. Hopefully, he'd quit completely with time. Any progress was welcome. "Want a marshmallow?"

Arthur scrunched his nose. "Too sweet…"

"You could use some sweetness in your life," Francis coaxed. He stuck a marshmallow on a stick and held it near the flames, waiting until it turned a golden-brown before offering the gooey treat to Arthur. "Open wide."

Humoring the other's whims, Arthur bit off a piece and glowered. He licked his teeth clean and said, "The top was burnt, frog."

"I thought you liked the taste of charcoal."

Francis laughed as Arthur jokingly smacked the side of his head. Then, as an apology for the jibe, he pulled his hostile Englishman into a hug and offered him another marshmallow.

"I'm feeding you to the bears," Arthur murmured.

"Mon cher, that's not possible. The wolves will have dragged you away by then."

"Ha-ha."

Around this time, the twins started some kind of ruckus because of a petty argument. Arthur presumed they were cranky from a lack of sleep, as it was rather late into the night. Thus, they abandoned the campfire and steered the boys into the bunk-beds in the cabin, ignoring the pleas from their sons to let them stay up for just a little longer. They all needed rest.

Arthur and Francis took up the double-bed across the room and dozed off within minutes of turning out the light. Simply being outside for most of the day had drained them of their energy, and they slept like rocks.

That is, until Matthew woke them during some indecent time of the night, panic-stricken and as white as the bedsheets.

A rumble of incoherent words left Arthur's throat, and he peeled back his eyelids with great effort. "Mmph? What's wrong?"

"I heard coyotes howling and got scared."

Arthur shifted himself to the edge of the bed and patted the gap between him and Francis. "Come here, love."

"But I'm too old to be scared," Matthew whimpered.

"You can be scared for tonight. I won't tell."

The boy knew he could trust his father's word. Arthur rarely said anything he didn't mean, and so, he accepted the invitation. He slid between his parents and fitted himself against Arthur's back, secure and toasty as Francis snored up a storm. His papa didn't seem at all bothered by his new bedmate, but he did trap Matthew in the hold of a limp arm, mildly confused for a moment when he realized the figure in his grasp was too small to belong to Arthur.

Papa opened a pair of bleary, blue eyes at him, blinked twice, and went back to sleep.

"Still scared?" Arthur whispered upon finding that Matthew hadn't nodded off. He rolled over to face the boy and dusted stray hairs off of his forehead. "It's okay. You're safe. If anyone's going to get attacked by coyotes, it's going to be Papa."

Matthew allowed himself a thin-lipped smile and snickered. "I'm not scared anymore. I was just thinking."

Arthur returned the smile and let his hand fall away from Matthew's hair. "Okay, love. Don't think too much. The mind is every man's folly."

"Yeah… Goodnight, Dad."

"Goodnight, my boy."

One thing was clear—Dad hadn't forgotten him.

They got into a fight that day. A trivial, worthless, maddening fight.

"I can't believe they're already in the seventh-grade. How are we going to get them through puberty? They're going to start rebelling, chasing after love interests, and eating until their stomachs distend beyond repair."

Francis laughed as he finished shaving and went about dressing for work. It was an ordinary Tuesday morning. The boys munched on cereal in the kitchen, Arthur contemplated his life choices, and Francis tried to deal with the ever-growing chaos. "We will do what all parents do at this point, Arthur. We'll pick up drinking habits and wonder where things went wrong."

"Can't you be serious?"

"I'm offering valid alternatives!"

"You treat things too lightly! You never take my concerns to heart!"

"That's not true, but can't we talk about this another time? I'm in a rush."

"You're hardly around as it is."

Boom. Francis's previous cheer flew out the window and let itself free. Arthur knew how to set him off. "Well, I don't have a choice. I'd love to stay home all day and talk about child-rearing with you, but I don't get that luxury. I have to work. I have to go out and spend my days and nights picking up crackheads off the street. Sounds like fun, doesn't it?"

"I know your job is difficult, but would it kill you to call more often? I'm the one who has to spend my nights worrying over your damned hide."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure I can chat while I'm putting someone in handcuffs."

"Don't act so high and mighty. Half of your job consists of writing up reports. You can call then."

Francis balled his hands into fists and glanced at the clock on the wall. "I have to go."

"Francis… Francis, just—God damn it all… Can you look at me?"

Two hands wrapped themselves around his own, and he stared into the green eyes shimmering back at him.

"I shouldn't have to wait until we're on vacation for us to get a good look at each other."

"Arthur, I—"

"I miss you."

Please, don't go. Stay with me.

Can't you see I'm scared?

"We'll talk later. I'll call."

And with that, he let go of Francis's hands and watched him walk out the door.