Archive of Our Own ^beta

Arthur meets Alex Claremont-Diaz for the first time when he’s barely older than five. 

Moving from London to the States hadn’t been the easiest on his family—his children were still young, and it had broken little Bea’s heart to leave her best friend in Britain, fat tears sliding down her cheeks as she sobbed all the way to the airport. From the top of his 10 years of age, Philip had remained tough and unbothered, but Arthur had gotten good at reading between the lines when it came to his oldest. He still held his son’s hand all the way through take-off, Philip’s nails digging into the soft skin of his palm, never once commenting on it.  

As for Henry, well. 

Arthur’s youngest had been different from the start, and it had taken him and Catherine less than a week to realize it. By the time the third birth had come around, Arthur and Cat had been much more relaxed than they’d been for the two previous frenetic hospital trips. Catherine had walked into the neonatal wing with a smile on her lips and her hands crossed on her belly, announcing to whomever was at the desk that she was about to give birth rather than ask for assistance. 

That plenitude had been Henry’s from the start. 

From the moment their little boy had taken his first breath, he’d been quiet and reserved. Henry took a good look at the world before he stepped into it, his big blue eyes opened wide to the tribulations of life from the moment he was just old enough to hold his head high by himself. Henry was shy and sweet, and he wore his heart on his sleeve in a way that made Arthur’s ache in his chest. Social cues never seemed to quite make sense to him, his small pink lips frowned up in an expression of constant confusion, and by the time Henry learned t0 talk, he observed his surroundings more than he dared commenting on it.

Alex Claremont-Diaz is the exact opposite. 

He is loud and unashamed, a ball of energy that bounces within the walls of a room he walks in. Even at five years old, Alex’s personality is brighter than most people Arthur had the pleasure of meeting. His big brown eyes drinking in the sights around, never tired of learning or asking questions–even as his parents chastise him, doing their best in repressing an untamable personality. 

The first time Henry met Alex, Arthur’s youngest was just about in the backyard they’d inherited with the house in Houston, feet bare in the grass and an expression of wonder glued to his face. A mere two weeks after they’d moved, it was the first time Henry had dared walking out the door, sunset setting in the horizon and the warmth of the day finally sinking into something more bearable. 

Henry’s soft sweater was sliding down one of his arms, an old thing of Pip’s they’d decided upon throwing on Henry’s back for lack of a better option. Their son had always been incredibly peculiar with the kind of fabrics he allowed anywhere near his skin—and as warm as it was outside, it was out of the question for him not to wear something on his shoulders, a grimace of displeasure permanently etched on his face when he was forced into any state of undress. 

Watching him from afar, Arthur could not help the smile that stretched his lips. 

Henry was a free spirit, a little angel in his own right. He might not be as strong-willed as his brother (yet), nor was he as adventurous as Bea, but Arthur had a feeling he would surprise many people when the time came. 

Lost in his contemplation of his six years-old’s first time exploring the wild expanse of their Texas backyard, Arthur completely forgot about the firecracker of a kid next door until he was standing in the middle of the lawn, staring at Henry with interest. Arthur had no idea how he’d even crossed the fence—but every following interrogation was lost the moment Henry looked up and noticed the other kid. 

Years later, Arthur would define this evening in the garden as the moment everything clicked into place. 

As opposed to his usual style, Henry didn’t immediately tense. His little shoulders kept still, body soft and relaxed, his blue eyes settling on the intruder with barely disguised curiosity. 

“I’m not sure you’re supposed to be here,” was what Henry chose to say. 

Only for Alex to fire back, “I played here long before you were.” 

When Arthur had met Alex, he’d gotten a pretty good glance at the Claremont-Diaz’s family dynamic. Oscar Diaz was a kind but proud man, only slightly shorter than Arthur. His Mexican roots had bled into the thickness of his hair and the lines of his face, quite similar to his children’s. Ellen Claremont, as opposed to her husband, was tall and lean, all small shapes and blonde hair. Alex had her nose, and June, Alex’s older sister, had her lips. 

Arthur didn’t meet June until a few days after. They had just moved their belongings into the house, barely settling in for the first night, when Catherine had caught sight of the little girl sitting outside the house next door, her head in her hands and elbows on her knees. 

It hadn’t taken long to hear the screams. It was clear from the sounds that emanated from the house that Ellen and Oscar both held strong opinions when it came to raising their children, unaware of the anxious atmosphere it created around them. Arthur’s heart had ached for June—but before he could open the door and slip outside, she was gone. He didn’t see her again before they walked by the lake a couple of days later, and behind the polite smile she threw their way and the wave she offered Bea, Arthur could guess the scars of a little kid forced into adulthood too soon. 

Alex had seemed oblivious to it at first, bouncing on the balls of his feet like there was no tomorrow, barely paying attention to his surroundings. Unfortunately for Arthur, the facade he’d crafted for protection shattered quite easily in the months that followed, leaving way to an atrophied kid with no sense of self-worth. 

As much as Arthur and Catherine learned to care for Oscar and Ellen over the years, a small part of Arthur’s dad's sensitivities never quite forgave them for tearing their children apart and forcing them into his arms—as willing as he’d been when it came to the latter. 

But then and now, outside in the lawn under the setting sun on that fateful May evening, Henry squints at the other boy in fake disdain. 

“You’re strange,” he decides, and Alex’s face breaks into a toothless grin. 

“And you talk weird.” 

Arthur holds his breath. He expects his son to reel back, shoulders going up to his ears like he usually does to protect himself against things he doesn’t understand.  

“What’s your name?” Henry asks instead, and he’s sticking out his chin like he always does when he wants to be brave but he doesn’t quite know how to be. 

Alex balances his weight to his other foot, before dropping onto the grass with his full weight. “I’m Alex. Wanna go to the lake?” 

There’s a pause. Arthur braces himself for the refusal, ready to interject, explain to Alex that his son is shy, and—

“Where is the lake?” 

“At the end of the path, behind my house. Dad says I shouldn’t go alone, but maybe we can go together. I’d have to ask him, but I can show you.” 

Henry’s eyes flicker to his own father. There’s clear hesitation written all over his face, and Arthur takes it as his cue to creep closer. Rejection is hard, even harder for Henry and his need to please, and he’s got no problem playing the bad cop if need be. Years in theaters has taught him as much. 

“Daddy,” Henry half whispers eventually, his little hand curling around the edge of Pip’s cardigan, “would you come with us to the lake?” 

All Arthur can do is blink away his surprise.  

“Sure,” he replies easily, hoping his son can ignore the clear bewilment on his face. “Are you sure, Hen? You’ve never been a fan of water.” 

Behind Henry, Alex makes a choked off noise of surprise, as if the concept alone feels foreign to him. Arthur imagines his brown skin shining with salty water, the image quite fitting with the idea he’s already made for himself of the little boy’s temperament.

Henry nods firmly. “I want to.” 

They trek along the path with Henry’s hand rooted in Arthur’s, a little clammy with nerves, Arthur’s son never once looking back at the house. Arthur takes it as the first day he gets a glimpse behind the armor his son has erected for himself. 

From there on, there is no stopping Alex from barging into their lives. 

It’s not unusual to find the kid in their garden waiting for Henry, bouncing his weight from one foot to the other as he not-so-casually glances at the widow giving on his son’s bedroom. A small part of Arthur thinks this very window and its small attached balcony might one day become a problem of its own–and he’s proven right multiple times in the years that follow.  

Along Alex, Henry grows out of his shyness. 

When he used to look down and pretend the world around didn’t exist, Arthur is surprised to realize that the arrival of Alex in his life changes his orbit all at once. The once disinterested care in anything not relating to books after self-teaching himself to read gravitates onto looking for Alex when he disappears from his side, as if spurred on by the chaotic energy radiating from the other kid. Alex and Henry become fast friend, as surprising as it is for Catherine and Arthur, and soon enough there is no looking for one without finding the other. 

They start school at the end of summer, and Alex is bummed to realize that Henry is a class above him, and they will not be able to sit together. 

The year following, his teacher tells Ellen and Oscar that Alex could skip the next grade if that was an option they wanted to consider. Two days later, Alex proudly tells Arthur with all the ease in the world that he’ll be able to sit next to Henry in class, now. Arthur and Catherine exchange a glance. 

As it turns out, having Alex in his grade renders Henry strangely competitive. Teachers and parents alike watch in awe as the two find pleasure in beating one another over that top of the class distinction, and before long, Alex and Henry become Alex and Henry . The worry that was brewing at the bottom of Arthur’s stomach at the idea of moving his sensitive son to the other side of the world slowly dissipates. 

“Arthur,” Alex lisps one day, his two front teeth missing, “tell Henry that he’s boring.” 

“He will do no such things!” his son replies with annoyance. “You’re being pushy.”

“And you’re a bore.” 

“Dad! Can you tell Alex to stop? He’s being ridiculous.” 

“You’re so British .”

Years ago, Arthur would have intervened in defense of his son, his baby boy, the one he’s seen shy away from conflict so many times before. Now, he just stands there and look between the two boys as they bicker, Alex ruffling Henry’s hair in a way that makes the oldest groan in annoyance every single time. It’s familiar, and comforting, and Arthur wonders what the house would be without those two stuck to the hip.

“Boys,” he says, “how about we quieten down and get in the shower, hmm? Alex, you know your parents will never let you stay over if you refuse to shower again.” 

A grimace finds its way on Alex’s boyish face. “Fine. But only if I get to use all of Henry’s old man shampoo.” 

“I’m not an old man!” 

“And if I get to wear one of his cardigans to bed,” Alex whispers in a snicker. 

“ DAD !” 

Henry comes out to him on a Wednesday morning. 

Being a stay-at-home dad has never been on Arthur’s plan for the future–but he’s gotta admit that he loves it. Catherine has found a job as a publicist somewhere in town, and in true American fashion, she starts making the big bucks for the both of them. 

Arthur has fiddled for a few weeks with the idea of going back to work full time, but he finds that he doesn’t feel like stepping on a stage again any time soon. Taking care of the kids as they settle in a whole new country looks like the best choice at the time—and before he knows it, it’s been a year and Arthur is fully committed to making the most creative meals he can for his children coming home from school. 

On that particular Wednesday, however, Henry has woken up with a fever and his bottom lip trembling, prompting his father to call the school and excuse him for the day. The little boy had fought tooth and nails, but there was no arguing with his dad. Instead, Arthur had rushed to the kitchen to prepare some soup and a warm drink, force feeding him until he fell back asleep and his temperature got a little better. 

It’s a couple of hours later that he finds his son sitting on the couch by the window, his back bowed and his head hanging low. He looks every bit of the 12 years old he is, if not less, and Arthur immediately lets go of the pie he was in the process of making in favor of sitting down next to his son and wrapping his arms around his lithe frame. 

“How are you feeling, darling?” he asks, pressing a kiss against his forehead. The fever has gone down a bit, cooler against the seem of his lips. He’ll put Henry into another cold bath before bedtime if it gets any worse. 

“Do you think I’m being punished?” 

Arthur blinks. “What was that?” 

“Grandma says sins are punished by God, and now I’m sick.” 

“What–”

“I’m sorry.” 

Mary M0untchristen had been a lot of things when she was alive, but Arthur’s cup of tea had not been one of them. From the moment he’d met his now-wife up to the point Mary bit the dust, Arthur had made it a personal mission to make her life as miserable as possible. Every interaction she had with his children was controlled as much as he could, too–which, apparently, had not been enough. 

Wrapping his arm tighter around Henry’s shoulders, Arthur noses at his son’s hairline.

“Hen, you’re not being punished by God. You’re the sweetest little boy in the world, why would God want to punish you?” 

Henry’s bottom lip trembles. 

“Grandma said I was sinning.” 

“That’s a load of crap.” 

Artur hates that his son doesn’t even laugh at the use of a bad word the way he usually does, cheeks pink and lips pursed like he’s holding back a laugh that will never bubble out. Instead, his shoulders shag even further. 

“Philip’s got a girlfriend,” he whispers, cheeks tainted a deeper shade of red now, as if the mere mention of his brother’s girlfriend is enough to make the ten years old blush all the way down to his small toes. 

“He has,” Arthur says, unable to help the smile spreading his lips at the thought of his fourteen years-old living through his first ever love story. “What about her:?” 

Henry ponders on the question for a full minute. “I don’t want to get a girlfriend,” he says timidly.

“That’s okay, buddy. You don’t have to have a girlfriend for a long, long time. You know, they might not interest you now, but someday…” 

His son wrinkles his nose in disgust. With the fever and the blush taking over the apple of his cheeks, it makes him look even younger than he is. Arthur pushes a strand of moist hair behind his ear, waiting for Henry to find his words patiently. 

“No, dad. I don’t want a girlfriend ,” he says eventually, eyes falling to the floor before the couch. 

It takes Arthur a couple of seconds to let that sink in. 

“ Oh .” 

Henry seems to shrink on himself, shoulders hunching forward and head dropping low. 

“Is that why God is punishing me?” he asks again, voice trembling. 

Arthur is seconds away from flying to London and digging the old witch from her grave with bare hands. Instead, he steadies his breathing, wrapping an arm around his son’s frail shoulders to squeeze him hard against his chest.

“Darling, no. No one is punishing you, because there is nothing to punish.” 

“But grandma said…” 

“Henry, I need you to listen very carefully. Your grandma was mean, and old fashioned, and she was not a good person. You need to forget everything she’s ever said to you, alright? I will not have it in this house.” 

Henry’s lips jut out. Arthur keeps on going, 

“There is nothing wrong with not wanting to get a girlfriend, alright? You’re allowed, just like Pip is allowed to have one. There is no wrong or right here, and certainly not when you follow your heart, alright? Never, ever forget that.” 

As Henry’s body trembles around an exhale, snuggling against his father for dear life, Arthur has a spare, fleeting thought to what he’s going to tell Catherine that very night. They’ve always talked about the possibility of their children not fitting society’s ordeal before, not that it mattered very much to either of them. 

But to see it become a reality for one of them is something else entirely, and despite himself, Arthur’s heart aches for all the obstacles his baby might run into on the way to being truly himself. 

“I love you, Hen. You know that, right?” 

Slowly but surely, Henry nods against his collarbone. “I love you too, dad.” 

Alex barges down the door two hours later, arms full of candies he’s grabbed on his way from school and excited to tell Henry everything about the classes he’s missed. When he sits down next to Henry on the couch, knocking their shoulders together playfully and making an off-comment about Henry’s hair being a mess, Arthur cannot help but think about how glad he is that his son has found a friend in the midst of it all. 

High school is a quick affair. 

Arthur can only watch in amusement as Alex grows into his bright personality, as alive and chatty as ever. He bounces into their house without an invite, offering Arthur his most beaming smiles—and Henry his secretive ones. He carves himself a place in the family right next to them, sitting at the dinner table with his parent’s permission like he’s always belonged there, finding solace in the quiet of his neighbor's house rather than the chaos of his own. 

Pip ceases to be surprised he’s staying over for dinner, rolling his eyes whenever Alex throws a few jabs his way, ignoring him in favor of being the biggest person—a recent development Arthur is quite happy with, since he’s grown tired of him and Bea butting heads around the table. The latter likes to snuggle with Alex on the couch whenever she finds the occasion—planting her feet on his lap and demanding foot massages; a necessity for his sleepovers, as she likes to say. 

Alex is a good sport. He obliges, eyes dancing with mirth as he throws Henry a fakely annoyed look every single time, fingers digging into the knots of Bea’s feet. 

Henry, on the other hand, has also grown more confident. 

Where he was all boney limbs and shy smiles hidden behind overgrown blonde locks, he’s turned out to be a more outspoken, sassy teen as of late. Arthur likes watching the pair bicker, bodies brushing no matter where they are. Alex has completely given up on the concept of personal space, always embracing Henry one way or the other—and Arthur is not dreaming the blush that’s permanently taken over his son’s cheeks nowadays. 

No matter the time or place, there are a few constants in the world. Earth revolves around the Sun. Donald Trump is a dickhead and should never be allowed anywhere near the Oval office. Catherine is still as lovely as the day Arthur first laid eyes on her. 

Alex gravitates around Henry.

Teenage years typically mean a lot of changes. Pip has gone through it, God bless him, and Bea is in the midst of it, too. The slam of her door is a typical occurrence nowadays, and no one even bats an eye at her pillow-muffled screams resonating through the hallway.

Puberty hits Henry a little differently. 

Where he was all lean body and awkward long legs, he thickens up a little—probably due to the amount of food he ingests on a daily basis now. He’s grown taller than Pip and Bea now, much to his older brother’s displeasure, but not quite as tall as Alex is still. The latter has grown like a spurt, standing awkwardly on tall legs like a lamb for a few weeks before he stabilizes and shakes the awkwardness clinging to his limbs.

It’s strange, Arthur thinks as he watches acne cover Alex’s chin and Henry’s forehead, to think that those are the same little boys who once met outside in the garden. They’re growing so fast, and it does something to his heart the first day his youngest starts high school, chin held high and anxiety clawing its way out of his clenched fists. He almost misses the late night stories and tiny little hands clenching to his shirt and soaking it wet during bath time. 

He wishes water had left a permanent mark on the tissue, if just to get a glimpse at those summer nights and let it fill his heart to the brim. 

When he tells Catherine, she warns him that they’re way too old to have any more children. He has half the mind to argue. Then again, on some nights, Arthur feels so out of his element that he remembers that three kids are more than enough. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks one evening, finding Henry curled up on the couch, a worn out blanket he’s had since he was a child wrapped around his entire body up to his chin. 

It has been a strange couple of days. Henry has embraced puberty differently from his siblings, but Arthur is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not that he’d expect his youngest to ever scream from the top of his lungs at either of them, but. He also knows how surprising kids can turn out to be. 

“Nothin’”, is what comes out of Henry’s half-covered mouth. The divot in between his eyebrows tell a different story. 

“You know, I can still tell when you’re lying.” 

Henry rolls his eyes. Arthur has grown quite used to the gesture now, and he’s quite unaffected. 

“I’m not lying.” 

“Hmm. Weren’t you supposed to go to the movies’ with Alex tonight?”  

He realizes it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave his mouth. Henry’s entire body tenses, and his eyebrows knit together in annoyance. 

“t’s been moved to another day.” 

“Oh. Right.” 

Arthur is left wondering how to get himself out of the mess he’s created when Henry sighs. 

“He’s taken Candice to the movies tonight.” 

Somewhere at the back of his mind, Arthur remembers the name. He wishes he’d noted it down as important information back when he first heard about it, as it leaves him scrambling for a reply in front of his 15 years old son. 

“Which,” Henry continues, “is pretty fucking annoying, if you ask me. Because we’d planned on  going to see X-Men together for the past few months. But what can I say.”

It hits Arthur at once. 

“That’s pretty annoying,” he emphasizes, because he doesn’t want his son to feel like he invalidates his feelings. He does not, as tempting as it is, point out that Alex is a 14 years old filled to the brim with hormones and probably does not see the harm in bringing a girl he likes to the movies instead of his best friend. 

Because if there’s one thing Arthur has been preparing for all these years, it is to mend his youngest’s broken heart. 

They haven’t spoken about Henry’s love life since that afternoon a few years ago. It’s been about four years now, but Arthur has never quite found the right way to bring it up–and Henry had seemed more than happy to ignore the elephant in the room. In typical British fashion, Arthur had then decided to ignore the massive question mark until someone else brought it up–something that he’s not overly proud of now. 

“Anyway,” Henry huffs. “I didn’t even wanna go see that stupid movie in the first place.” 

Arthur knows a big ass lie when he sees one. Still, he nods like he agrees, and does not offer to take Henry himself, because he knows how fragile the peace that’s fallen onto the living-room just now is.  

Alex breaks up with Candice two months after. Colour returns to Henry’s cheeks, and Arthur’s heart breaks. He’s quite certain that his son has set himself on a path of pain and heartbreaks—but he intends on supporting him all the way through it. 

Henry gets his first boyfriend a few months after, and it makes Arthur feel extremely old as he helps him pick an outfit and drives him to the movie. He spends the night of their first date staring at his watch wondering when they’re going to come home, and even after Joshua’s mother drives Henry back and he watches as the other boy drops him off with a shy kiss on the cheek, Arthur cannot stop feeling like something doesn’t feel quite right. 

It’s only a few hours after they’ve gone to bed that he realises that he hasn’t seen Alex around the house in days. 

“Weren’t you supposed to wait for Alex?” he asks his son in the morning when he sees him grab his backpack and head out, headphones already screwed in. Arthur is too old for all of this drama, especially before a good cuppa. 

Henry shrugs. “He said he’ll see me at school.” 

It’s weird enough to be noted, but Arthur doesn’t push. He does, however, spare a look through the window at the adjacent house wishing he could see through the walls and inside a certain teenager’s head. 

It’s another few weeks of awkwardness before Arthur sees Alex in his house again. 

He missed him, is the thing. He’s used to seeing Bea and June as they barrel down the stairs and disappear in the garden to gossip under the trees, far from any eavesdropping or from Pip’s willingness to annoy them when he’s in a mood. 

But it’s different with Alex and Henry. Bea and June are the quietness after the storm, whereas Alex and Henry are the rain that splatters the sidewalk during it. They’re full of life, noisy and loud when they walk into the house, unmistakable and impossible to miss. 

Arthur misses his house feeling like it’s lived in . 

It’s a strange feeling, and he can’t quite explain it to Catherine without feeling insane. He’s always had this attachment to his youngest, sure, but it’s ultimately more than that. Henry is a different person around Alex than he is around other people, and Arthur misses the glimpses of his son he gets to have in those days. 

“You worry too much,” Catherine tells him at night, when she eases the crease between his eyebrows with her thumb and presses a kiss at the corner of his lips. 

He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that it’s his job to. She’d be way too rational about it, and if there’s one thing Arthur hates, it’s beeing proven wrong with a perfectly good reasoning. 

It all comes to a stop one night, when it’s dark enough outside for all the people of the house to be plunged into a deep slumber. Arthur has no idea what wakes him—but all of a sudden, he’s wide awake, and the thumping in his chest tells him something is wrong . Careful not to wake Cat, he slips out of bed and checks Pip’s room first. Finding him asleep, he reaches Bea’s, only to find her dead to the world too, with an open book on her chest in her king size bed. Finally, he reaches Henry’s, stopping short at the sight that greets him there. 

Curled around the leg of the bed Henry is currently snoring in, Alex’s body is shaking with quiet sobs muffled around the back of a clenched fist. On the floor next to him, Arthur finds the key he’s given him all those months ago, abandoned on the plush surface of Henry’s plush carpet. 

“Alex?”  

His whisper is not loud enough to rouse Henry, but neither is it to tear Alex from his heaving sobs. Letting go of the door, Arthur steps into the bedroom, careful not to jost either of the boys. 

“Alex, darling, are you alright?” 

The smaller body tenses for a second when Arthur’s hand makes contact with his back, and Alex’s sobs hang in the air for a quiet second. It’s like everything comes to a stop, including Arthur’s breathing. 

“Talk to me, son.”

Alex only cries harder, lithe body shaking with every sob that racks through him. Arthur’s heart break—for Alex, but for himself, too, and his inability to help.  Finally, after what feels like hours but can only reasonably be mere minutes, Alex’s hoarse voice breaks the tensed silence between them. 

“Dad left.” 

It takes Arthur a second to understand what he’s saying. “What do you mean?”

“He left when I was at school. I found a note in my bed, he’s gone, and he’s not coming back.”

Another sob slips past Alex’s lips. “He’s gone because I wasn’t good enough to get him to stay.” 

“Oh, Alex.”

Unable to do anything but hold onto him for dear life, Arthur wraps his arms more firmly around the boy. He feels like screaming with every shiver and every tear that slips past Alex’s lashes, soaking the shirt he’s wearing and reverberating through the hollowed cave of his chest.

When he was just a boy, Arthur had always known that he’d wanted a big family. 

If it hadn’t been for Catherine, he wouldn’t have stopped at three little ones—but she’d been quick to lower his expectations. He was happy with his life, and ever so grateful for his children and the joy they brought his life. But even then, after over twenty years and three (to four) kids, Arthur still had no idea how to deal with his children’s pain. 

He wished he could take it all away, reach for the ache that burnt through Alex’s chest and make it his own. All he could do was wipe away the tears that fell with patience, and silently curse the neightbor he’s called friend for over a decade for the hurt he brought his family. 

“I’m sorry,” Alex heaves at some point, fists clenched in the fabric of Arthur’s shirt, “I didn’t know where to go.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Alex. You’ll always have a place here, you know that.”

It takes Arthur a full minute to register the movement in the bed behind them, only realising that Henry’s awakened when he swiftly slips out of bed, finding a place in the crook of Alex’s neck in silence. Their bodies entwine on the carpet almost out of habit, the combined weight of their heads resting against Arthur’s plexus. Alex’s sobs intensify for a moment—until they ease like an orange leaf travelling under the breeze.

Exhaustion takes over Alex at once, his eyelids growing heavy with it. Henry’s hand is in his hair now, lithe fingers disentangling the curls as Arthur watches, their breaths synchronising with each minute that passes. Arthur feels like he’s privy to someone he shouldn’t be the witness of, a casual intimacy he hasn’t ever seen in the boys before, two teenagers holding on to dear life as if no one but themselves exist in the world. 

Much later, when they’ve both fallen asleep on top of the rug and Arthur has managed to slip out of the room, he allows himself to feel all of it, tears clinging to his own lashes until he sets them free in the darkness of his ensuite bathroom. 

Somehow, Arthur feels like those stolen family moments are the last he’s going to get in a long time. 

Arthur keeps a close eye on the Claremont-Diaz kids from there on. It’s little glances sneaked in the garden when they’re outside studying in the shade, or in the careful steps they take around the house for a little while after Oscar has left. For a few weeks, all Arthur sees in Alex is the shell of a teen he used to know, and it makes every valve in his heart ache with it. 

He watches as June shoulders the role of mother, then father, for her brother. 

“Do you think they’ll be alright?” He asks Catherine one morning, nose deep into his Earl Grey for the kids not to overhear. June is curled up on the couch with Bea, but even from his spot in the kitchen, Arthur can see the dark circles around her eyes. 

“They will be,” Catherine replies confidently. “They’re strong kids.” 

Arthur envies his wife’s faith. 

“But they shouldn’t have to be. They’re just kids.”

He envies Catherine’s sensitive touch when he finds himself hovering around June awkwardly, unable to do more than offer her a shoulder to cry on if she needs one. But June is strong, and she’s proud, and she’s too good for her own heart. She simply thanks the Foxes for their welcome every night with pursed lips and sad eyes, and slips out of the door and into her house without a glance back. 

Arthur aches for her, and for the woman she is becoming. He sees her in the set of Alex’s jaw, too, and the way he retracts himself at times. He catches the bits of dry blood pooling on Alex’s knuckles one night where he’s shoving his hands into the front pockets of his pants, avoiding his gaze, and the sour taste at the back of his throat feels a lot like copper.

“Do you want me to take care of that?” he asks as casually as he hopes to sound. 

Henry’s in his bedroom picking up his phone before driving them to the movie, and Alex has become strangely vulnerable to those times alone with Arthur. He hates the way the boy flinches away from him, almost subconsciously at times. 

Alex’s eyes flicker away, his jaw clenching under the light stubble he’s managed to grow in the past few months. “It’s fine.”  

“Alex…” 

“I forgot my gloves at the gym the other day, and forgot how hard the bags can be. It’s fine , Arthur.” 

Not for the first time since he’s met the kid, Arthur wishes things had been different for him. He thinks about the abandoned garden next door, full of weeds and growing herbs–where not too long ago, two kids played without a care for the outside world. In a way, it feels like time has come to an end when Oscar left, the family garden becoming a cemetery of long lost memories.  

There’s only so much Arthur can do to stop time from slipping past his fingers. Scaring Alex away with an overprotectiveness he will not accept is not one of them. 

“Alright, son. If you ever need, you know where to find me.”

It hurts to watch Alex flinch at the endearment, as much as it does watching them go, Henry and his kind heart oblivious to the turmoil his best friend seems to be going through. But Arthur has long learned that being a parent means letting his kids experience heartbreak by themselves. He looks through a magnifying glass as Alex rips apart by the seams as days pass, his curls wilder and his eyes hollower, in a run against an ideal that’s never going to satisfy him. He watches as June becomes a carbon copy of her mother in so many ways, as if trying to fill out a void that’s been carved by Ellen’s absence. 

All the while, Arthur aches, helpless and desperate. 

And when Alex finally smiles at him after months of avoiding his gaze and fleeing the rooms he’s in, Arthur almost weeps from the sheer joy that bursts through him. Then maybe, just maybe, he will be able to avoid seeing him run himself to the ground until there’s nothing left to salvage.

Alex and Henry move in together in college. They say it’s for the rent, but Arthur knows better. 

Sure, Hyde Park is pretty bougy, but Travis County is not the most expensive Austin neighborhood they could have ended up in. Alex is working his way through law school with a job to the nearest coffee shop on the side, and Henry has taken over giving classes on English literature in his spare time. They make do, enough to pay for rent and some. 

 Arthur feels like he’s going insane, because there is no way he’s dreaming his wife’s annoyance when he tells her about the boys’ obliviousness. 

“Arthur,” she warns. “Do not meddle.” 

“I am not meddling, merely observing.” 

“It sounds a lot like meddling,” Pip says from the kitchen, where he’s been hiding for the better part of the argument. In truth, Arthur had almost forgotten he was there. 

“Don’t you have a house?” Artur pipes back. 

“Martha’s hidden all the sugar. I need my fill.” 

Betrayed by his own blood. Catherine’s features soften a little, and she reaches out to take his hand. 

“I know you mean well, my love, but I need you to stay out of the boys’ life. They will figure it out by themselves. Just give them time.” 

“But what if they don’t? All that time wasted, and for what?” 

“At least that’s more time for us to take bets,” Pip supplies. 

Catherine’s jaw drops open in shock. “Philip! You will not bet on your brother’s love life.”

“Too late.” 

It’s Alex who texts him first. 

‘we’ve adopted a puppy!’

The sweet message is promptly followed by the picture of a truly adorable looking beagle, propped securely in the crook of Henry’s arms. The thing that strikes Arthur from the start, however, is not the dog, nor the sizeable spot of drool on his grey sweater. 

It’s how happy his son looks in the photograph. 

Arthur is not stupid—he’s well aware of the mental health issues his son has struggled with in the last few months. Henry has told him about getting diagnosed with anxiety and depression, and he’s kept him in the loop of his medications and therapist sessions since through texts and a few extremely raw phone calls. 

Still, Arthur is a dad. He worries. 

He calls his son one too often during the week, making sure his courses are going well. He makes sure to drop by a few times a week, too, just to invite them to dinner and make sure they’re keeping on top of their classes. He’s a little overbearing, but he knows Henry doesn’t hold it against him. 

But, well. He worries about the situation his son and Alex seem to have dug themselves in, unable to see what’s right before them and how easy it would be to take that extra step and make their relationship official—not that it isn’t already. On all accounts, Henry and Alex have been together since they were old enough to fall in love. Surprisingly, however, everybody seems to know it but themselves.

It’s extremely painful to watch, and kind of frustrating. 

Very frustrating, actually. 

“Hey Cat,” Arthur says, shoving his phone under his wife’s nose. “Look.” 

He watches as a multitude of emotions flicker on his wife’s face, thinking, hard same . Henry’s feelings for Alex aren’t new. Hell, Arthur has known about it since his son was old enough to blush. But he’s always wondered how someone as smart as Alex never figured it out. 

The damn photo taunts him.

Because Alex is as gone for his son as Henry is for him, and that also has been Arthur’s knowledge from the start. It is, however, painful to see it firsthand, or through obviously domestic candids such as this one. Sometimes, all Arthur wants to do is hit them both on the head with a broomstick until they figure their shit out.

“Obliviousness has a face,” is all that Catherine says, shrugging the annoyance away like it means nothing. 

Not for the first time, Arthur kind of envies her self-control. 

Having his children over is always a pleasure for Arthur. He makes sure to extend the invitation to all of them, of course, but it always circles back to the same two ringing at the door with a smile and painfully empty stomachs, that he loves to fill with his favorite receipes. On that particular occasion, however, Arthur finds it hard to keep a straight face when it comes to those two. 

It’s been two hours of Alex and Henry being home, and Catherine has had to dig her fingers into Arthur’s left thigh at least three times in the span of those 120 minutes. Really, Arthur wonders how such intelligent beings such as his children managed to dig themselves so deeply into their obliviousness. 

“I’m just saying,” Alex mumbles into his potato chips with a frown, “he could have apologized .” 

Henry’s nose crunches up. “He did. Thoroughly.” 

“With a box of chocolate. That’s lame.” 

“That’s how you apologize to your boyfriend!” 

“No. You get him flowers and chocolate at least, and that is if you don’t wanna half-arse things.” 

“What is it that you have against Quentin anyway?” Henry asks with a huff. “Y0u criticizes everything he does, and quite evidently everything he doesn’t do. Will you quit it already?” 

Arthur wants to slap them both with the tension that’s hanging in the air between them. He feels Catherine’s gaze on the side of his face, and stubbornly chews on his dish a little harder. 

“I’m just saying,” Alex stiffles, “he doesn’t deserve you, is all. I wish you could see it, too.” 

There is so much more to unpack there, but somehow Arthur doesn’t think either of them are ready for it. Instead, Catherine not-so-subtly clears her throat, sitting straighter on her chair before their son bites back with another argument that will lead absolutely nowhere, and make Arthur want to scream from the top of his lungs.

He hasn’t been this frustrated since the last season  of Game of Thrones came out.  

“So, Alex,” she says, “how’s law school? You haven’t talked about it at all.” 

The best way to get Alex going about anything is to ask direct questions, and she knows it well. 

Predictably, he immediately jumps into a tirade about school and homeworks, the bags under his eyes counting a totally different story to the ease he makes a habit of retelling. Alex has always had a nasty habit of running himself into the ground–from the moment he was a kid, he’d made a promise of proving himself to everyone around, driven by divorced parents and an absent self-worth that clung to his skin like a cloak.

From the corner of his eyes, Arthur catches the frown Henry shoots his way, and he understands. He knows that Alex is lying for the sake of not being a burden to them, and making it sound easy and effortless is easier than to face anyone’s pity. He wonders how much of it Alex is hiding, how deeply the exhaustion runs inside of his body and how little sleep he gets on a day to day basis. 

Judging by the way his hair sticks to the side in a mess of curls, Arthur doesn’t think he’d like the answer very much. 

“As long as you take care of yourself,” Catherine says when Alex is done babbling, and Arthur loves her so much he’d be ready to put a ring all over again. “I’m glad you’re having fun.” 

Henry looks even more pained. Something in his expression pinches, and the tip of his fork mindlessly bumps against the chicken breast in his plate. On the table, his phone flashes with a few upcoming texts, but he ignores them in favor of staying in the moment—something his father appreciates. Reaching out, Arthur grazes the outside of his pinkie’s against his son’s, something they did once upon a time; back when nothing else but their tiny problems mattered in the outside world. 

Later that night, when Alex is chatting to Catherine about his upcoming project and drowning the white noises with chatter, Arthur finds his youngest by the sink in the kitchen. 

“Quite an argument you both had today,” he says as he comes up behind him, laying a hand on Henry’s shoulder. He uses his free one to grab a sponge, too, squeezing Henry’s collarbone in silent support before reaching out for a plate. 

Henry huffs. “Alex will never let go.” 

“Ah, you know how he is.” Rincing the plate with warm water, Arthur lets the burning droplets sink onto his skin. “He’s not wrong, though.” 

“Dad.” 

“I know, I know. You don’t want to hear from me when it comes to your love life.” 

“It’s not that.” 

“Hmm.” 

A sigh. “It’s not that I don’t want to hear from you dad, it’s just different.”

“What is?” 

“Gay relationships.” After a beat, Henry keeps going, “I love you to bits, you do know that, but it’s just different from me. I’m not dating a woman, and I will never be. You will never be in love with a man, or at least that I know of. Things just work differently for us, and Alex has a hard time understanding that with the heteronormative glasses he’s screwed onto his own nose.” 

Arthur sits on it for a second. 

“You know, while I understand where you’re getting at, I don’t think I agree entirely.” 

“Of course you don’t.” 

“Now, hear me out, smartass.” He bumps Henry’s nose with a foam covered finger, and his twenty-two years old son glares at him so hard he feels the chill of it down his spine, “I think it has nothing to do with the actual relationship, more so with what it represents to you, and to Alex.” 

“Alex thinks heterosexual signs of affections are the norm,” Henry argues, wiping away the foam with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of wet on his pale skin. “It will never be the same for us, and I don’t know why he won’t simply let it go.” 

“Alex thinks you deserve more from someone who loves you. It has nothing to do with gender, simply with the way your boyfriend treats you and what you expect of him in return.” 

This time, Henry finds it hard to come back with a snarky answer. 

“I like Quentin the way he is,” Henry says finally, and Arthur feels strangely satisfied with the use of the term to describe their relationship. “And it’s no one’s business but my own.” 

Arthur is old and smart enough to understand when he’s being shut down. And for that, he nods, reaching out for the last of the dishes in the sink and switching subject easily. 

“How’s David doing? Don’t think I haven’t seen Alex sneak him treats under the table all dinner long, by the way.” 

“Don’t even get me started on this. He’s got the most sensitive tummy, and Alex is never the one walking him after dinner at yours.” 

It’s another two years before Arthur opens the door to find Alex leaning against it, the most of his weight tipping off when he pulls it open. It’s not a strange thing for him to find Alex at his doorstep, but this time feels different. The apple of his cheeks is red with exhaustion and his breath is short, coming out in puffs, making the long strand of hair that’s fallen in front of his mouth quiver with every movement. 

“Are you alright, son?” Arthur asks. 

“I am in love with Henry,” Alex whispers back, and Arthur raises an eyebrow. 

“Is that supposed to be breaking news? I could have saved you fifteen years.” 

The young man looks mildly effronted. “Oh, I will not be bullied for this.” 

“I’m afraid that’s a tad too late to worry about this now, is it?” 

Still, he moves from the door, and Alex steps into the house like he owns it. Which, Arthur thinks, is kind of the case. Alex has been one of Arthur’s kids since he was old enough to trott after his son. 

Alex falls onto the couch face first–and Arthur has half the mind to remind him that he’s not ten anymore when the old thing makes a terrible noise of protest. 

“What am I going to do about it?” 

“Tell him?” 

Alex turns his head to the side to glare at him. “It’s not that simple?” 

Heavens help him. Arthur is not equipped to be dealing with those two idiots. He briefly wishes Catherine were here, because she’d know how to be politically correct about the situation—Arthur just wants his sons to pull their heads out of their arses and get together already. 

The bet he’s got going on with Bea is not looking too good for the moment. 

“Isn’t it? You’ve been in love with each other since you were old enough to know what it meant.” 

“Henry’s not in love with me,” is what Alex immediately replies. Arthur kind of wants to throw the towel he’s retreived from the kitchen counter to his face. 

“Henry’s in love with you. You’re in love with him. Why do you young people have to make everything so complicated?” 

“You talk like a grandpa.” 

“Get off my couch, you little shite.” 

“Nooo,” Alex whines, making pleading eyes. “I take it back. Please help me, I am heartbroken.” 

“You’re not heartbroken, you need to grow a pair.” 

“Ouch.” 

Putting the kettle on, Arthur reaches out to press on the coffee machine. If there is something he knows about Alex, it is that his mind works better around caffeine. And maybe, just maybe, the brown liquid will help clear his senses and make him see what’s in front of him. 

“I can’t risk losing what we have,” Alex says in a smaller voice. He sounds like a child again, vulnerable and hurt. “I can bury all of this if it means seeing him happy.” 

“He will be happy if you confess your feelings.” 

“But what if he’s not?” 

“Alex,” Arthur says slowly, like he’s speaking to a child. “I love you like a son, you know that.” 

“Of course I do.” 

“So please do believe me when I tell you to trust me. Henry loves you, and you love him. You both have for a very, very long time, and it’s killing me and everyone else around to see you both struggle with what’s right in front of your very eyes.” 

He hands Alex his coffee, unable to hide the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips when Alex wraps his huge hands around it, frowning down at the cup like it holds the secrets to the universe. 

Maybe they’re not that much of a lost cause after all. Arthur cannot wait for Bea to loose, too.

Arthur is not pacing. 

It’s just. 

He hasn’t heard from Alex and Henry in three days. It’s not unusual, is the thing. They’re both in their twenties and awfully busy with Uni, but there’s also always an occasion for the two of them to send him a meme or two on Instagram, and moan about how he doesn’t use TikTok like everyone in their generation. 

Arthur doesn’t like the interface, alright. He prefers reels, even though Alex has made his opinion about them very clear, loudly , on several occasions. The point is, Arthur has not received a single reel in the past 72 hours, and he’s worried. 

Catherine has told him to chill–not in such terms, of course, but she didn’t have to. Arthur very nearly found himself sleeping on the couch the night before, because he could not fall asleep and spent the majority of said night tossing and turning in bed until his wife glared at him. 

So, he’s decided to do something about it. Grabbing the spare key to Alex and Henry’s flat, he slips out of the door before Catherine’s back from her dinner with friends—mostly because she would probably be opposed to him sticking his nose in their son’s business, but also because he wants to be back in time to massage her feet before bed. 

Her soles always ache when she wears heels for an extended period of time now, and although Arthur is well-aware that it’s their aging bodies’ way of protesting, he’s not silly enough to tell his wife so. And so, he rubs her feet until she relaxes into their bed, and relishes in the casual intimity of it. 

The drive to Alex and Henry’s is a short one, one of the reasons why they chose this flat in the first place, situated not too far from their campus but also from their childhood homes. He pulls over in the parking space their neighbors never uses, and helps himself into the building and up the stairs. 

He has half the mind to knock before he walks in, but he’s also been given a key for a reason. He’s used to the mess Alex leaves around the couch when he studies, and the empty tea mugs he finds all over the kitchen counter when Henry works on his manuscript. 

The flat is quiet when he walks in, save for the familiar jingle of David’s paws rushing to his side. The dog was clearly asleep, warm from the bits of sun streaming from the window and directly on his dog bed, and his body feels firm when he collides with Arthur’s shins. 

“Hello you,” he cooes, bending over the scratch between the dog’s ears. David keens, his pink tongue lolloing out of his mouth, and Arthur could almost lose himself in the feeling if not for the worry still brewing deep inside of his stomach. 

He eventually abandons David in favor of dropping the keys into the bowl by the door. The noise doesn’t rouse anything nor anyone from any corner of the house, and it only spikes Arthur’s worry even further. He makes quick work of getting rid of his shoes by the door, creeping closer to the bedrooms. The first one he opens is Henry’s, and it’s painfully empty. The bed looks a little messy, pillow creased from someone rolling them into a ball underneath their head in the midst of the night. His computer is opened on the bed, the curser blinking lazily back at Arthur. 

David pushes between his legs without ceremony, jumping onto the sheets and huffing in contempt. Arthur isn’t sure he’s allowed to be on the bed—but David is technically his first grandchild, and no amount of fur is going to take away the instinct to indulge him in anything he’s set his mind on doing. He stares as the dog makes himself comfortable on the big, fluffy pillow against the headrest, and Arthur leaves the room with a secret, victorious smile. 

A rustling behind the second door down the hall has him looking up worryingly, just as the unmistakable sound of something falling to the ground reverberates through the empty appartment. Without thinking, Arthur rushes to the other door, the father in him not thinking twice before he yanks it open and rushes through the space.

On second thoughts, he’s pretty sure he should have knocked—at the very least. 

The sight that greets him has him pausing in shock, wondering if he’s ever going to forget it. First of all, it’s been a good few years since he’s seen his own son naked, and Arthur is pretty sure he could have done without the knowledge of what he looks like at twenty six with no shred of clothing on his body. He has half the mind to feel grateful for the position he and Alex are in not to get too much an eyeful of their exposed bodies, but it’s very little compensation to the sheer horror rushing through him. 

Lying between Henry’s legs, Alex is unaware of the catastrophic entrance and probably unable to hear anything with the way his face is smudged against Henry’s throat, latching to the skin with each roll of his toned body against Henry’s. 

Arthur’s throat feels dry. 

“Oh God,” he eventually manages. “Oh dear.”  

Henry’s eyes snap open, and he makes a strangled noise that has nothing to do with the previous one when he catches sight of his father by the door. 

“Dad!” 

Alex has the decency to spring into action and cover himself with the discarded duvet immediately, but Arthur is not sure he’s going to forget the sight of those toned ass cheeks any time soon. 

“I’ll be in the living-room,” he says, turning away from the sight rapidly. “Or in the car, maybe. Just… yeah. Away.” 

Behind him, Alex chokes off a laugh. Henry makes another wounded noise, and the sound of skin being slapped rings loudly to Arthur’s ears, followed by a small ‘ouch’ on Alex’s part. 

Well.

It’s certainly jarring to fix himself a cuppa while his children scramble for their clothes, after being caught red-handed. Arthur almost takes a minute to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but he’s pulled out from his reverie by the sound of Alex’s bedroom door opening. 

Both he and Henry spill into the living-room in tentative steps, cheeks painted red. Arthur can see the beginning of a bruise blooming on Henry’s neck, and he does not want to give too much thought to the marks he’s seen on Alex’s torso earlier on. 

“So,” Henry starts. His hair is a mess, and Arthur is not sure he’s ever seen him blush so hard before in his life. “That happened.” 

“Told you so,” Arthur tells Alex then, ignoring the look of confusion on his son’s face. 

True to himself, Alex snorts around a laugh. 

“The evidence is concluding.” 

“I see you had to make sure, still.” 

“Thoroughly.” 

Arthur makes a face. “Alright, now…” 

“Hum,” Henry says, “What the fuck?” 

“We had a bet,” Arthur says at the same time Alex says, “Don’t worry about it.” 

Henry blinks. “I reiterate, what the fuck?” 

“Language.” 

“That’s rich coming from you, dad, if you’ve made a bet on my sex life.” 

Arthur refuses to give it to him. Instead, he crosses his arms on his chest and hopes to look as menacing as he tries to make it seem. Which, truthfully, is not a lot given the situation they’re all in, but still. 

“I was worried about you two.” 

Behind Arthur where he’s busing himself with the coffee maker, Alex sniffs . “Evidently.” 

“You didn’t text me back in two days. Nothing, not even a stupid tiktok for the sake of it.” 

Henry scratches at his right eyebrow. “We were busy.” 

“Right.” 

“Studying! Jesus, dad.” 

“Is that what the kids call it these days?” Arthur asks innocently.

“We were,” Alex defends them, now armed with a steaming cup of coffee. “The distraction came after.” 

“I was worried,” Arthur emphasises. He feels strangely vulnerable, standing in the middle of his son’s kitchen with misplaced worry clinging to his skin. But it’s true, and they deserve to know it, too. 

“Dad. We’re twenty four and twenty five,” Henry says, his kind and gentle Henry, always looking after others before himself. “We can take care of ourselves for two whole days, you know? Even Alex is well-fed and not working too much lately. The amount of caffeine, however, is a work in progress.” 

The latter lets out an undignified gasp, but Arthur deflates. This entire situation got out of control in too little time because he was too worried about his children–but he finds it hard to accept how fast time flies, especially lately. Henry is and will always be his last child, the one he worries about the most, and the one he refuses to see grow too much. 

Looking at him now, standing in his kitchen barefoot with his now boyfriend plastered to his side like it’s painful to even leave a small bit of space between them, Arthur is forced to realise that his son has grown up. He’s grown up into this soft-looking, caring tall man who likes to keep his hair messy because of how much his grandmother hated it, wearing oversized sweaters and soft cardigans that make him look like he’s stepped right out of a Jane Austen novel.

“I’m sorry. I know I’m turning into an overbearing old man, but for my defense, I truly was worried about you two. For one of you to ignore me is usual, but I usually manage to get a hold of the other in the next few hours.” 

“Sorry,” Alex says a little sheepishly. “My phone’s dead somewhere, and I couldn’t find it in myself to charge it. I just really needed a break, you know? And I’m afraid i’ve been kidnapping all of Henry’s attention in the last couple of days.” 

The latter turns as pink as the smeg kettle he’s gotten for his birthday, the tip of his ears bright under the fluorescent light of their kitchen. 

“I simply didn’t look at mine,” he says as an excuse. “I'm sorry dad, I really am.” 

It’s a ridiculous situation they’ve all found themselves in, and suddenly, all Arthur can do is laugh. It’s a full belly laugh that bubbles out of him in ecrements, and before long, his belly aches and his sons are laughing along, too. 

“I never want to see any of you naked again,” Arthur says when he’s found his breath. “Please.” 

“Duly noted.” 

“Loud and clear.” 

Christmas has always been an important family tradition within the Fox household.

It is, however, the first Christmas with Alex and Henry since Alex and Henry have admitted to themselves that there is a Alex and Henry . Evidently, Arthur finds quite quickly, things haven’t changed much at all. 

“If you touch me, you’ll die,” Alex warns Bea when she circles around him with a bright pink garland. His hands are full of glitter from the previous ornament he’s put at the top of the tree, a smear of it on his nose, and Arthur’s pretty sure he’s got some of it in his curls, too. 

“Promises, promises,” Bea says with a devious smile. 

“I will burn your makeup palettes.”

“What am I, five?” 

Alex frowns up his nose, taking a step back. “This threat used to be effective.”

“Yeah, like fifteen years ago.” Before Alex can as much as blink, Bea wraps the pink garland around his frame in one swift, rehearsed movement. “You need to catch up, old man.”

“This is slander! I’m younger than you!”

“Only in spirit.”

Alex shrieks inelegantly, wriggling in her hold. “Hen! Do something.” 

From his spot on the couch where he’s busy attaching a Christmas bell to David’s collar, Henry doesn’t look up from his tedious task. “I’m afraid I cannot do anything against Bea either, love.” 

“What happened to saving the love of your life in times of crisis?”

“Get me a ring and then I’ll consider making a few promises in our vows. Until then, I’m afraid you’re on your own.” 

David wiggles his tail in retaliation, way too happy to be a part of the festivities. His fur is covered in various bits of glitter and pine from where he’s sniffed around the bottom of the tree, knocking a few decorations to the ground. Out of all of them, Arthur is pretty sure he’s the one having the best of times. 

“I have been betrayed by my own love,” Alex gasps dramatically. Bea tightens the garland around his frame, until there’s nothing left to be seen of his shirt but flashing pink lights. Arthur cannot help but smile, his heart full to the point of bursting. 

“You have been humbled, darling. Let it live as a lesson for the future.” 

In the kitchen, Martha is teaching Pip how to roll the dough correctly, and Arthur’s oldest looks like he’s rather be anywhere else. He’s still hovering over her like she’s made of glass, though, and Arthur and Catherine have a bet going on how long it’s going to take them to announce their pregnancy. Martha isn’t showing yet, but neither of them have ever seen Pip as careful as he is around his wife—and Martha has looked seconds away from murdering him with her bare hands at least three times since they’ve walked through the door. 

Arthur remembers that phase very well. 

“Dad,” Bea says from where she’s managed to wrangle Alex into a sitting position in front of the Christmas tree. “I need your camera.” 

“What you need is serious psychiatrist help,” Alex bites back. David has taken on joining the fun, jumping from the couch and directly onto Alex’s lap—and no matter how much the latter tries, he’s unable to avoid the licks he’s given on the chin. 

“I’ll get the camera,” Arthur says. 

“Seriously, Bea. Therapy, consider it.” 

“I don’t need help, I need men to be tied up and silent. Henry, do you have tape for his mouth?” 

“Children,” Catherine scolds from the kitchen.  “Enough.” 

Martha is fully laughing now, leaning into Pip and his terribly-rolled dough. He’s got flour on the tip of his nose, and the mess he’s made on the front of his shirt has surely ruined it entirely. Still, he looks like a kid on Christmas morning—more than happy to lean into the ridiculous of the situation for the sake of his wife’s laughter.

“June will avenge me,” Alex yelps from his place on the ground, now battling to stay out of David’s reach. The bell on the dog’s collar is rendering the whole scene almost comical, and from the corner of his eyes, Arthur catches Henry filming on his Iphone. “she’s going to walk in and free me from your shackles.” 

Bea scoffs. “June will be on my side, as always. That’s my best friend you’re talking about.” 

June is, predictably, on Bea’s side. She helps them arrange Alex into the perfect position for all of them to look like they’ve just kidnapped the boy—and it makes one of the best Christmas photos they’ve ever taken, much to Alex’s fake displeasure. 

For years to come, Arthur hangs it around proudly, making it a new tradition that he knows will be passed on, even as photos of newly born babies and an older-looking beagle dressed as Santa’s elf join the fun and make the most ridiculous montage above the fireplace. 

It only makes sense for Alex and Henry to get married at the lake they visited on their very first meeting, in a grand circle kind of moment. Arthur decidedly does not cry—or at least, not as much as he likes to believe he actually did, especially when his sons ask him to officiate their union. He takes the role very seriously, even buys himself a brand new suit perfectly fitter to his rounder, softer body, and stands under the Texan sun with a blinding smile and a few tears in his eyes when Alex and Henry exchange their vows in front of their family and friends. 

“I’ve always known this was coming,” he says later in his speech, feeling a little too drunk for his age. “I even had a bet going, but Henry doesn’t like talking about this.”

“Dad,” Henry mutters in embarrassment, his face pink where it’s pressed against the side of Alex’s neck. If they were clingy before, it’s nothing compared to now, completely oblivious to the outside world as they share one big bubble. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know you don’t like to admit it to other people, but I knew you were gone on Alex the moment you laid eyes on him.” 

In the room, a few people snicker. Arthur chuckles into the mic in retaliation. 

“I was five.” 

“And still very open in your feelings, Hen. It’s alright, I’ve always known you were a shy little butterfly.” 

“I need you to stop with the drinks,” Henry deadpans. “Actually, I beg you to stop altogether.” 

“I think he’s doing fine,” Alex says with glee. 

“And when it comes to Alex, well. He has never been very sleek when it came to hiding how jealous he got of Henry’s boyfriends.”

“You know what baby, you’re right,” Alex interjects, jumping to his feet. “That’s enough microphone time for tonight, Arthur.” 

Iliana Claremont-Diaz Fox is, for all intent and purpose, perfect. 

Arthur loves all his grandchildren equally, quite obviously, and Pip’s twins Charlotte and Thomas have been the apple of his eyes since the moment they stepped into the world about five years prior. Safe to say, however, that Arthur has always had a soft spot for babies—and maybe, just maybe, for youngests. 

Iliana is, in Arthur’s humble opinion, a perfect baby. 

She is very tiny, which is almost comical given the size of her two dads, and has been giving the world a critical eye from the moment she barged into it. When Arthur holds her, he sees Henry in the shape of her small, pink mouth, and the baby blue eyes looking up at him with curiosity. He sees his son in her small smiles and the way she kicks her legs when her diaper being changed, limbs stiff and tense when unknown hands wrap around her. 

But he sees Alex in the dark curls on top of her head, and the small, button nose. She’s got Alex’s energy, that much he can already tell, and the brown shade of his skin. When Arthur holds her to his chest, he likes the contrast of his pasty skin with his granddaughter’s. Iliana is a perfect mix between his two youngest, Arthur tells everyone who will listen.

And that, she is. 

It was no surprise when June offered to carry a baby for her brother and his husband, contempt not to have children of her own with her own wife. The Claremont-Diaz siblings have always been close, and even though it had taken a lot of thought and planning on the boy’s part, it only made sense for June to be the one carrying their little girl to the world. 

There had been talks about adoption in the future, Arthur knows. And somehow, he’s got no doubts that the boys will eventually put their mind to it. In the meantime, they have their hands full with Iliana, her strong character and tiny, grabby hands as it is. 

“Are you sure you’ve got everything?” Henry asks for the third time, chewing on his bottom lip nervously. “Pacifier, blankie, favorite plushie?” 

Behind his husband, Alex rolls his eyes. “Sweetheart, he’s raised three kids of his own. I’m pretty sure he’s got this.” 

“You should listen to your husband more often,” Arthur sing-songs. 

Behind Henry, Alex pumps his fists in the air victoriously. “As I keep saying.” 

“Please do not encourage him,” Henry deadpans. The attitude is rendered useless by the softness in his eyes when he looks down at his sleeping daughter, nestled against his chest. Dropping a kiss to her forehead, he lingers a little bit, unable to let go. 

It’s Arthur who gently shoves him towards the door, one hand protectively wrapped around his granddaughter. 

“Come on, Henry. You’ll be late for the movie.” 

It’s with great difficulty and a couple of teary eyes that Henry and Alex finally disappear through the door—and left alone with his granddaughter in his son’s newly bought apartment, Arthur allows himself to laugh out loud, bouncing the little girl with care. 

“Alright, darling. Now that it’s only you and me, I’ve got a funny story to tell you about your dads.”