Author's Note: We have one more chapter left after this. Thank you all for sticking with me. :) Also, just another reminder that you can find me on Tumblr under the username "mandelene" if you aren't following me yet. I'm always happy to answer any questions/provide further details about my fics on my blog. Enjoy the chapter!

"Frère Jacques, frère Jacques,

Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?

Sonnez les matines. Sonnez les matines.
Ding, ding, dong. Ding, ding, dong."

Daddy's French didn't sound right. Matthew could pick out the clunky vowels—the Germanic undertones peeking into Dad's singing. His pronunciation wasn't bad by any means, but it differed from Papa's native timbre.

"Try to sleep, my love."

Matthew shivered through a sob and clutched Arthur by the waist, unmoving. He hadn't spoken since they'd left the hospital, and now he was lying in Dad and Papa's bedroom, shaking so hard that the mattress rattled beneath him.

"Rest your eyes… That's it."

He must've been lying by Dad's side for hours because it was nearing two o'clock in the morning. Warm hands scrubbed the tears from his face with a moist towelette, and Dad murmured old rhymes, testing them against Matthew's ears.

"Three blind mice. Three blind mice. See how they run…"

Dad himself wasn't faring any better. The whites of his eyes seemed to take on a permanent shade of crimson, and his shoulders fell forward with fatigue as though he could barely hold himself up. Every now and then, he'd let his attention wander to the nuances of the room—the dress shirts that needed to be ironed, Papa's wristwatch on the nightstand, the abandoned pair of slippers by the closet.

"Oh, Matthew… My dear Matthew," Dad whispered, too distressed to turn off the bedside lamp. Perhaps he couldn't bear to sit in darkness. "I'm s-sorry. I'm—"

Matthew wanted to say there was nothing to be sorry for, but he knew the words wouldn't leave his lips. Nothing they said was of any importance anymore. They were just making noise to fill the silence.

"I love you so very much."

Oh, please don't go—I'll eat you up—I love you so, Matthew thought, remembering the lines from one of the many stories Dad had read to him and Alfred over the years. Alfred had fallen asleep hours ago—barely made it to the car before he nodded off. Alfred slept to forget because you couldn't feel pain in your dreams. Matthew envied him.

"Oh, God," Dad said with a pitiful moan. "What am I going to do?"

A lump of cells without an identity—that was what had become of Papa, according to what Matthew was told. He was alive on a fundamental level. His heart was beating, his blood was flowing, a ventilator pumped oxygen into his lungs, but he couldn't manage anything beyond that. How was that life?

The doctors knew it. Dad knew it. Matthew knew it. Brain dead was just a slightly less toxic word than dead, but they were remarkably similar in definition.

They could keep Papa physically present for as long as they pleased, but what was the use in that? He couldn't hear them—wouldn't be able to process a single word spoken to him. He'd never laugh or cry or hum or scoop them up in his arms and kiss them.

And Dad seemed to know this too. As much as he would've liked to hold on to some blind hope for a miraculous recovery, he knew the world had no such miracle to offer him. Papa would've wanted peace—a death without further suffering or embarrassment, and Dad planned to give it to him. In the morning, he'd visit him for the last time, and decide that enough was enough. Let the dead rest and the past remain the past.

He would lay his head on Papa's chest, listen to his steady heartbeat and study his robotic breaths, and then, he would let him go because it was the right thing to do. They'd loved and loved each other for as long as they possibly could have, and there was nothing else Dad could do.

Dad would wrap his arms around the boys, squeeze them tight, and take them home.

The house would be quiet. Dad would retreat to the bedroom with the door shut, and he'd sit on the ground, staring up at the windowsill until he could convince himself that everything was fine. The carpet could use a good vacuuming. The bed needed to be made. There were dust-bunnies under the dresser. He'd fluff the pillows, smooth the sheets, and realize just how large the bed was for one person.

Francis and Arthur had talked about it before—what they would do if the other passed. Back then, the conversation had been formulaic. They'd sat in the living room as young parents and considered their options from afar. It all seemed distant and foggy, as though it could never possibly become a reality.

They both agreed that they'd want each other to continue a life of normalcy. They also agreed that it would be okay to see other people, but Arthur made it a point to mention that he'd never allow himself to move on to someone else. Francis didn't argue. He knew firsthand how stubborn Arthur could be, and he figured he'd be the type to never allow himself another love. So be it.

One day they'd joked that if they were killed in a plane crash or lost at sea, the boys would be sent to their Uncle Allistor (Arthur's elder brother) in Scotland. They laughed at the idea of the twins herding sheep and eating haggis. That's all death had been to them in years past—a joke… An unfathomable state of being.

The funeral took place on the fifth of October. It was a gloomy date filled with unforgiving rain and swamps of mud. Arthur handled all of the formalities, and the boys witnessed his incredible tenacity for being a well-mannered host. People meandered in and out of the house for an entire week, offering condolences and depositing white flowers on the kitchen countertop as the boys watched on with weary eyes and solemn faces. Half of the guests were complete strangers to them.

Alfred and Matthew occupied themselves with sitting on the front lawn, ripping dandelions and blades of grass out of the ground as the house was taken over by the community. Many of the visitors were police officers, and thus, intimidating to be around. Raivis stopped by often to check on them, and they would chat for a while, but that was all of the social interaction they generally took part in.

"Do you think it makes Dad angry?" Alfred asked Matthew, spruced up and dressed in black as a gust of autumn leaves pranced around them. Their outfits were identical—black suits and loafers that matched Dad's attire, except that Dad wore his clothes with a certain gracefulness. Matthew couldn't remember the last time either of them looked so put-together and tidy.

"What makes Dad angry?"

"Seeing all these people here? The same people who used to give him dirty looks for being gay."

Matthew frowned. He hated the word 'gay', and he couldn't help but grimace every time it was spoken. People were people, and they could love whomever they desired. Why did they need a separate word for it?

"I don't think it bothers him that much… Dad probably thinks they've changed."

Alfred scoffed. Already, Matthew could see a smudge of dirt on his brother's collar. He seemed to attract filth. "People like that don't change."

"Yeah, they do. Anybody can change."

"Well, I don't believe 'em. I remember what they did and said."

"Al, sometimes you just have to let things go. You can't stay mad at the world forever."

"Who says?"

Matthew sighed and tried to swipe at the remaining streaks of tears on his face to no avail. "Fine, do whatever you want. Papa would've been happy to see everyone here, whether he liked them or not."

"Papa deserves better than those jerks in there."

"Alfred…"

"They weren't even his friends."

"But they knew him. That counts for something."

"Not really. Besides, Papa never wanted friends. He didn't need them… He had us and Dad, and we were happy together."

Over the days following Papa's funeral, this was how most of the conversations between the boys progressed. Alfred could snap at anything, and he regarded even minor issues with aggression. Matthew pictured him slowly growing into a ball of fire, raging without mercy. No matter how many times Matthew told his brother to calm down, his pleas were left unacknowledged, and when Matthew finally informed Dad of the dilemma, his response was uninspiring.

"That's just the way in which Alfred is grieving, lad. He'll be all right with time—we all will be."

And though he didn't believe Dad at first, his prediction came true one night, and all of the walls Alfred had built up over the span of two weeks broke apart. He plodded into the master bedroom, bawling and clinging to a soggy pillow with all of his might while saying, "I miss him," over and over again.

Dad tossed aside the book he'd been trying to hide in, and he spread his arms out like wings to draw Alfred near. He thumbed away the boy's tears and dipped his head down to kiss his cheek as he had done so many times before.

"I miss him too, love. I miss him too."

They rocked back and forth on the bed, and Alfred stifled his hiccupping. "I d-didn't want to b-be sad 'cause I didn't want to s-scare Mattie, but I—"

"It's okay to be upset, Alfred," Dad hummed. "It's important to feel the way you want to feel."

"P-Papa said I'd be the man of the house someday, but I can't do that if I cry like some little kid."

Dad put on a tired smile and brushed a hand through his hair. "You can still be a man even if you feel sad and scared sometimes."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive."

Alfred bit his lip and looked up at the soothing green eyes blinking back at him. "Can I sleep with you tonight?"

"You don't even have to ask, my boy."

Around the time the boys went back to school, Dad let them know that they'd be having more visitors. Uncle Allistor and his wife, Aunt Maretta, would be staying with them just until Dad and the boys "got back on their feet". They also had a son, Peter, and chances were he'd be tagging along too.

Extended families were a foreign concept to the twins, as they'd never met any of their relatives. Dad never kept up very good relations with his brothers, and Papa had always pretended he didn't have a family outside of their little quartet.

Therefore, the boys braced themselves for the worst when the other branch of the Kirkland family came knocking on their door. Matthew felt tempted to lock himself in one of the bedrooms and demand the foreigners go home, but it would be in poor taste, and he didn't want to trouble Dad.

Dad greeted them cordially, although one could tell he was friendlier with Maretta and Peter than with Allistor. The two Kirkland men eventually shook hands and exchanged a grumbled set of words. When all of the luggage had been brought in, Dad and Allistor snuck away into the kitchen and had a long and arduous discussion by which they resolved the bulk of their differences. Apparently, they hadn't had a proper talk with one another in years, and it seemed to do Dad some good to improve his relations with his sibling. He walked with lighter steps, and the creases in his forehead were eased.

"The lads are becoming men," Allistor had noted, shaking hands with each of the twins before engulfing them in a bear hug. "Have ye introduced yerselves to Peter? He doesn't bite. Not anymore."

Peter was nine, making him the junior of the twins by three years. He made for interesting company, but he had more energy than both of the twins combined, and before long, his presence became slightly irritating. However, both Alfred and Matthew got along with him rather well, and when they weren't completely burnt-out, they did enjoy playing together. Unlike the twins, Peter had taken additional time off from school and had far too much time on his hands.

The house wasn't quiet anymore, and they didn't understand how much they'd missed the noise until it was finally back.

Probably the best part about having additional Kirklands in the house was Aunt Maretta's cooking. She always kept the kitchen table stocked with food, and the boys never had to worry about a lack of snacks. She took over most of the household duties, forcing Dad to take some time out of the day for himself. Their father often insisted on keeping himself busy because "idleness was the devil's playground", but Aunt Maretta wouldn't let him touch a single dishtowel or broom.

"For God's sake, Arthur. I'm sure you have something better to do than sort laundry."

"No, I don't, actually."

"Then go upstairs and relax. Take a kip. If you don't stop hovering about, I'll skelp you until—!"

Dad threw his hands up in defense. "Fine. I'll check on the boys."

"The boys can check on themselves. Allistor and I will handle the rest. Keep to yourself."

And so, without any reason to do otherwise, Dad went up to the bedroom and lost himself in another book. He wasn't seen or heard from in hours, and when Allistor eventually invited himself in, he found his youngest brother smoking a cigarette beside the window.

"Alfred mentioned ye smoked. He told me ye'd quit."

Arthur swung his gaze to Allistor, looked him up and down, and then focused his attention back on his cigarette. His informer never failed him. "I did quit. This is my first cigarette in weeks."

"Well, if yer gonna smoke in the house, ye'd better be prepared to share," Allistor muttered, crossing the room. He lit up a smoke and they relished in the atmosphere together. The children were outside, enjoying the final days of relatively mild weather. "How are ye?"

"Damned awful."

As Allistor tried to come up with a response, Arthur blinked furiously at the moisture in his eyes and willed himself to stop his onslaught of wretched thoughts. This was exactly why he needed to be folding clothes and scrubbing tiles.

In spite of the fact that they always claimed to despise one another, Allistor winced at the twisting feeling of sympathy in his gut. He threw an arm around his brother's shoulders, and Arthur softened under the touch, letting his eyes seep.

"I'm sorry."

Arthur pressed his palms into his eyes and said, "Thank-you… For being here. For everything."

"What's a family for?"

"Okay, now I'm the knight!" Peter declared, thrusting a wooden stick that he'd transformed into a makeshift sword into the air. "Alfred, you're my horse! Matthew is the fairy godmother!"

Alfred groaned and rubbed his still aching shoulders from the last time he'd allowed Peter to jump on his back. "Why do I havta be the horse?"

"Because you make a bad fairy godmother."

"Why does the knight need a fairy godmother anyway?"

"Really, what part of it don't you understand?"

"Everything!"

Thankfully, the ensuing quarrel was brought to a stop when Dad came outside to announce that dinner was ready. The three children raced away from their posts without hesitance, bumping into one another as they ran. Alfred was still at the back of the pack, it seemed. His leg had made a wonderful recovery, but it was painfully obvious that he didn't have the stamina he'd once had. He practiced day and night, but he couldn't move at full capacity.

Dad gave him an encouraging pat on the head as he reached the front door. His father didn't have to say anything for Alfred to know what he was trying to convey, and more often than he liked to admit, Alfred wondered if they shared the same mind. With just Dad around, Alfred began to notice the scary amount of similarities between them.

Their scowls were identical. When seated, they both crossed their ankles the same way. Their heads tilted off to the left when they were listening to someone speak, and they always scratched their necks when lying or withholding the truth.

This peculiarity was unnerving for Matthew, who tended to mirror Papa's mannerisms instead. He walked with the same kind of swooping motion in his step as Francis, and he would squint his eyes when smiling. Dad tried to ignore the little reminders of his husband, but they were hard to overlook.

"I hope you boys are hungry," Aunt Maretta chimed as they congregated around the dinner table. "I made more than enough food for everyone."

No one could be sad after a full stomach, and so, they wolfed down every crumb.

In the evenings, the boys would watch a movie in the living room as the adults made tea and played cards. Allistor was a rather skilled gambler, and he managed to win some of Dad's cigarettes during a round of poker. Dad didn't seem to mind the loss, he just enjoyed the tranquility of their game.

Alfred thought about what things could have been like if Dad had reunited with his brother sooner. Would their family have been different? Would they have spent their summers in the fields of Scotland, chasing each other until the sun disappeared from the sky?

He thought death was supposed to tear people apart, but it was bringing them together. Was that wrong?

On the sixth day of their impromptu get-together, Alfred shuffled into Dad's room after school and closed the door behind him, seeking a one-to-one chat. Dad had been tidying up his closet when he'd arrived, and he wore a wistful smile at the interruption.

"What's wrong, poppet?"

Alfred sat on the edge of the bed and shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing. Why does something have to be wrong for me to talk to you? Maybe I just wanted to say hi."

Dad shut the door to his closet and sat beside him. "I think I know you well enough to recognize when there's a problem. If you wanted to stop by as a pleasantry, you wouldn't have walked in so quietly."

He was right, of course, and Alfred chided himself for being predictable.

"Now, will you tell me what's bothering you?"

Alfred chewed on the inside of his cheek and pressed himself against Dad's side. "When are they leaving?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"When are they leaving?" Alfred repeated, mumbling.

"You're talking about your aunt, uncle, and cousin, I presume?"

"Uh-huh."

"You don't want them here?"

"It's not that… They're nice, but I like it when it's just us."

Dad nodded in understanding and put a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "A few more days… That's all, okay?"

"Okay… Hey, Dad?"

"Yes, Alfred?"

"Why'd you invite them in the first place? I thought you didn't like your brother."

Dad let out a long breath and clicked his tongue. "Well, I suppose I thought it'd be good for us."

Alfred considered the words for a moment and frowned. "You were lonely, weren't you? You were scared that you'd have to do everything alone."

"A little," Dad admitted, surprised at being caught. "And though I'm not proud of it, I thought it might provide a distraction, which I realize was a mistake. I made the decision with poor intentions."

"It's okay. You tried to make things better," Alfred consoled him.

"I-I called Papa's parents and tried to explain what happened in broken French. It dawned upon me just how little they knew about him. They hadn't even known he was a police officer, and he hadn't spoken to them in upwards of fifteen years." Dad shook his head in despair. "He had broken off all ties with them for personal reasons, and it bothered me to think that I might live my entire life without ever contacting my brothers. As much as I disagreed with Allistor when we were younger, I still consider him to be family, and I didn't want our someday deaths to be the only thing to settle things between us. I can't even remember most of the reasons why I was upset with him anymore, and the ones I do remember were trivial at best."

Alfred blinked in awe. "I can't imagine not talking to Mattie for fifteen years."

"I was also setting a bad example," Dad added. "Sometimes you need to forgive the people that hurt you… It's the only way to heal."

"So, are we going to see Uncle Allistor again?"

"Maybe we can spend Christmas with him. Would you like that?"

"Yeah, but only if there's a lot of snow so I can go sledding. Oh, and Uncle Allistor told me that when you were kids—" Alfred paused to snicker and decided that perhaps it was better not to tell Dad what he had heard.

"What nonsense has he been spreading now?"

"It's nothing."

"Alfred."

Already red in the face with repressed laughter, Alfred gave his father a cheeky smile and conceded. "He told me you guys used to dress up as pirates and battle with toy ships. The loser had to do whatever punishment the winner came up with, and one time Uncle Allistor won and tied you to a tree. Then, he made you lick Uncle Dylan's foot."

"Ah, yes. Now I remember why I hate him," Dad growled before standing up and marching into the hallway. "Allistor!"

Within moments, he was met with a response of "Stop yer barking! What is it now?"

"You're mortifying my children, that's what!"

"I think yer've already accomplished that."

Alfred knew from personal experience that it was better to stay out of sibling arguments, and so, he took the opportunity to leave, doubting Dad would even notice his disappearance.

True to Dad's word, the Kirklands left on the tenth day. They'd seen them off to the airport, and Dad exchanged heartfelt goodbyes with each of them. He griped about how Aunt Maretta had been far too kind to them and claimed that if Peter grew another inch within the year, he'd be the tallest boy in his school. When he finally got around to Allistor, he directed a curt nod at him and nearly left it at that. However, something possessed him to grab his brother by the lapels of his coat, and he wrapped him in a stiff hug.

His big brother instincts kicking in, Allistor swallowed Dad up in his arms and grinned. "I'll call ye tomorrow, all right?"

"All right," Dad agreed, feeling small.

"Take care of yerself. Treat the boys well, and if ye need something, let me know. Aye?"

Dad smiled wryly and said, "Aye."

They ended their embrace, and Allistor bent down to say goodbye to the twins, putting a hand on each of their heads. "Be good for yer father."

Dad was crying again. He'd been doing it a lot lately, and Alfred had lost count of the instances. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Aunt Maretta rub Dad's shoulder soothingly.

When Allistor had sufficiently coddled the boys, he turned to Dad and clapped his back. "Remember what I said… If ye want me to stay…"

Dad shook his head and sucked in a breath. "No, no… There's no need."

"Guess that's it then."

"Guess so."

And as the Kirklands disappeared to catch their flight, Matthew could've sworn he'd heard someone say, "Bien joué, mon amour." Or, "well done, my love" in English. Maybe his ears had deceived him, as it could have come from the French couple standing not too far from them.

He couldn't be sure. And yet, his heart swelled with joy anyway.