Ménage à trois

Chapter 1: Gilbert

Chapter Text

Gil, is that you?"

Gilbert quietly cursed as he shrugged out of his coat, then turned. "Sorry, Fran, I didn't mean to wake you. I got an earlier flight," he added, explaining the late hour.

"I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow morning," Francis said, stifling a yawn. He was a slender silhouette in nothing but Gilbert's old football jersey. The frayed hem whispered against his bronze thighs as he walked forward. "Welcome home, chér," he smiled, soft and sleepy. He met Gilbert halfway across the flat and stretched up to give him a honeyed kiss. His touch was slow and gentle and his fingertips smelled faintly of lemons. Gilbert relaxed into it and returned the smile.

"Thanks, schatz," he said, burying his face in Francis' long, loose curls.

"Is everything okay?" Francis asked, pulling back after an extended moment. His cornflower eyes seemed to read discomfort in the German's face, his posture, but Gilbert dismissed it.

"It's nothing," he said, hooking a curl behind Francis' ear. "I'm just... glad to be back. I'm tired."

"Then come to bed," Francis purred, walking backwards and pulling Gilbert with him.

The bedroom was dark, untidy—Gilbert grimaced, kicking aside a pair of discarded briefs—and occupied.

"Hmm, Fran—?"

Antonio's sleep-heavy voice rose up from the bed, followed by a deep, breathy noise as he forced himself to his elbows, his naked back arched, his muscles rippling beneath skin the colour of cocoa. He blinked at the doorway. "Gil? Hey, you're home," he said, rubbing his eyes. A smile stole over his lips. "When did you get in?"

"Just now, schatz," Gilbert said, leaning across the large bed to kiss Antonio. The Spaniard cupped the back of his head, drawing him in. His lips were puckered and petal-soft, his tongue slick and tasting of spearmint.

"Did you—" yawn "—have a good trip, cariño?"

Gilbert's smile tightened. "Sure," he said insincerely, but Antonio's olive eyes were already falling closed.

Gilbert undressed as Francis crawled back into bed. Antonio spared him a kiss and a caress, his hands going to Francis' tapered waist beneath the cotton blanket. It was thin; Gilbert could see the shape of his boyfriends through it. The light from the corridor glinted on the gold cross at Antonio's throat—the only thing the Spaniard wore—before it clicked off, and Gilbert squeezed in between them. He looped an arm around them both and pulled their lean, warm bodies snug against his sides. Antonio shimmied down and wrapped an arm around Gilbert's middle, like a—very hard, rugged—pillow; Francis rested his head on Gilbert's chest and exhaled a soft sigh of contentment.

"We missed you, chér."

"We're glad you're home, cariño."

Gilbert held his breath for a moment, feeling all of the stress and anger and tedium of the past week, the long journey, churning inside of him, then he let it all out on a long, deep sigh. He hugged his sweet, beautiful boyfriends closer, and said:

"Fran, Toni? There's something I need to..."

He stopped. Francis tipped his head up, concerned; Antonio rubbed his abs, which tickled. Both were heavy-eyed and drowsy.

"What is it, Gil?"

Gilbert pressed his lips together, feeling guilty. He knew that he should tell them. He would have to tell them eventually, preferably before the rent was due. But not tonight. Instead, he said:

"Ich liebe dich."

"Ich liebe dich," murmured Francis and Antonio clumsily, falling asleep.

The next morning, Gilbert buried his anxiety in his boyfriends. He ran his hands up Antonio's firm thighs, anchoring himself at the Spaniard's taut, round backside. He leant over Antonio, pushing his forehead between his pronounced shoulder-blades, pressing his lips to the Spaniard's hot, sweaty skin. He groaned as Antonio's hips rolled back against him, his ears full of the man's heavy panting. Beneath them both, Francis moaned in soft, breathy pleasure as Antonio pumped into him, his artist's hands coiled urgently in the Spaniard's hair, his shapely golden legs flung over Antonio's shoulders, tense and writhing. He looked beautiful, his face flushed, his blue eyes half-closed but bright, his long curls spread over a pillow. "Oh, Toni!" he gasped, the climactic cry fuelling Gilbert's desire. "Fran—O-oh! G-Gil!" Antonio's whole figure shuddered, sending a pulse through Gilbert's body. He grasped him tightly and grunted, spilling himself into his boyfriend.

"Fuck," he gasped in relief, in appreciation. He kissed the crown of Antonio's head, then forced himself to get up. "That was good," he grinned, stretching (flexing) his muscles. "I'm going to shower."

When he returned, Antonio and Francis hadn't moved. They were still in bed, lounging in the early-morning sun, talking and laughing softly, nearly nose-to-nose as if they were in a black-and-white film. "Amor mío de mi vida," Antonio whispered, sucking on Francis' plump bottom lip. The Frenchman's fair face was dappled with sunlight, his lashes fanning over his pink cheeks. They were both careless and lazy and beautiful and happy; Gilbert didn't want to disturb them.

"Hey, uh..."

Antonio turned his dishevelled head, looking up; Francis opened his eyes, a demure smile on his red, swollen lips.

Gilbert lost his nerve. "Which one of you wants to make me breakfast?" he teased, affectionately ruffling both of their hair.

Antonio rolled his eyes, then rolled off of Francis. Francis pushed himself up, kissed Gilbert's nose, and said: "Crêpes?"

Gilbert ate crêpes, went for a run, fidgeted through a foreign film, had sex again—it started in the kitchen and finished in the living-room—and then rejected Francis' suggestion that they all go out to a restaurant for supper.

"Why not?" Antonio asked. He was lying on the floor in his black briefs, looking like a lounging underwear model with his head pillowed on folded arms, an impish grin on his face.

"Let's go out to celebrate you being home," Francis pressed, curled up close to Gilbert on the sofa, wearing Gilbert's discarded white t-shirt. It was too big for his thin, elegant figure and clung in folds to the curves of his body. "You've been gone for a fortnight—"

"No," Gilbert said, firmer than he intended.

Antonio sat up, perplexed. Francis said: "Gil?"

Gilbert shook his head dismissively and tried to get up, but Francis pushed a hand to his chest and Antonio hugged his left leg.

"Please, mon coeur," said Francis, looking at him with vulnerable eyes, "tell us what's wrong."

"Did something happen?" Antonio asked, resting his chin on Gilbert's knee.

Gilbert turned his face away. He felt Francis' long fingers stroke his head, smoothing back the fine hair from his sensitive scalp. He felt Antonio gently patting his leg in encouragement. But all he could see in his memory was his father's stern face from a year ago. All he could hear was the man's deep, disapproving voice:

"Your personal-life is none of my business, Gilbert. It doesn't concern me what relationships you choose, as long as you understand the consequences and accept the responsibility. If you choose to keep two partners, then you will take care of two partners. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir. I will."

He had been so confident in his promise back then, and so certain of his decision to invite his two boyfriends to live with him. He had been so sure he could take care of them, provide for them, so honoured they had chosen him, of all people; that they had walked up to him at that festival, when they could have chosen anyone on the street; when they were being ogled by everyone on the street. They looked like they had just strut off a runway, all blinding smiles and summer tans and bright, beautiful eyes sparkling with lust and laughter. And mischief. That sweaty autumn night had been filled with promiscuous mischief. He hadn't expected either of them to call him the next day, but they had—together. And they wanted to see him again; and they wanted to talk to him and play with him and kiss him again; and Gilbert's heart pounded like a drum as he met them on that hot, crowded street in Barcelona. Back then, he couldn't not stare at them in fascinated wonder.

Now, over a year later, he didn't want to look at either of them when he confessed:

"I... kind of... lost my job."

"What?"

"Why?"

Gilbert shifted uncomfortably. "I yelled at my boss. A lot."

"Oh, Gil," said Francis, disappointed.

"Again?" said Antonio, looking sad.

Gilbert swallowed and looked down in guilt. "Yeah. Sorry, I just..." He clenched his fists. "I'm sorry."

A long, tense moment of silence stretched between them. Gilbert felt horrible, for letting his temper get the better of him—again—but, more so, for letting down the two people he loved most; the two people who trusted him. It was Gilbert's paycheck that paid their rent; Gilbert's job that provided them with benefits and security; Gilbert, who had promised to take care of them both if they would move to Berlin, which they did. They had forgiven him when he got arrested for drunk, disorderly, and destruction of property; when he had broken his collarbone in a bar fight; and when he had walked out on his last job in a rage. The more he thought about his behaviour over the past two weeks of working abroad, the worse he felt about the direction his career was taking. He felt like a failure. His father, his whole family—except for his brother, maybe—would have confirmed that he was. His debilitating pride was proof enough of it, which was ironic at best and cruel at worst. He had tried so hard to bite his tongue and curb his temper, but he had failed. Failed himself, his family, and the people who relied on him; the two people he loved.

"It's okay."

Francis' tone was soothing. "It's okay, chér," he repeated, turning Gilbert's head. "I can go back to work until you find another job. It's no trouble. I don't mind."

"And I can take more shifts at the bar," Antonio offered, crawling up onto the sofa. "We're going to be fine."

"I'm sorry," Gilbert said quietly. "I shouldn't have... Fuck." He covered his face. "I'm sorry I keep doing this."

"Gil, it's not—"

"It's my fault, Fran. It's always my fucking fault."

"Well, yeah, maybe..." admitted Antonio, "but that doesn't mean we don't love you, Gil. Sometimes you make bad decisions, but usually you make good ones. I mean, you chose us," he teased, resting his chin cheekily on Gilbert's shoulder. "That was a pretty good one, right? Right?" he goaded, dragging down on Gilbert's wrist. He pouted.

Gilbert looked down at him in disbelief. He thinks that it was me who chose them—? A reluctant grin curled his lips.

"Yeah," he said, threading his fingers through Antonio's, "that was alright."

"You'll find something new," Francis said, kissing his cheek, "something that's right for you. Until then, let us take care of you for once."

"Yeah, you can rely on us sometimes too, you know. That's what makes this—" said Antonio, taking Francis' hand, too, and holding all three over Gilbert's heart, "—so special. We're here to support you. We'll always be here."

"Because we love you," Francis finished.

Gilbert unclenched his jaw, swallowed. Without a word, he wrapped his boyfriends in his arms and pulled them closer to him. He hugged them tightly; maybe too tight. Maybe too fast or too reckless, but none of it mattered, because they had all chosen each other. An embarrassing noise escaped him when he tried to breathe in, making his chest shudder and squeak. It sounded almost like a sob, but Francis and Antonio didn't comment.

"Danke, meine Lieben."

He kissed Francis, then Antonio.

"So, are you ready to celebrate being home with your hell'a fine boyfriends now?" Antonio winked. "My treat, cariño."

Gilbert smiled, for real this time. "Yeah," he said. "That sounds good."

Chapter 2: Francis

Chapter Text

Oh, suck it, Arthur," said Francis into his cell-phone.

"And you wonder why the court gave me custody of the kids," said the Englishman, annoyed. "I don't want them exposed to that kind of language this week, Francis—or anything else," he added dubiously.

Francis frowned. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don't want my kids affected by their father's polyamory lifestyle with two degenerates."

Francis clenched the phone. "My boyfriends are not degenerates. And if Alfred and Mathieu are affected by a stable, functioning household full of people who love and respect each other, then I'll consider it a fucking victory."

"Oh, don't give me that. You and I both know that your situation," Arthur growled out, "is exactly why I got the kids and the house, so don't pretend your fucked-up relationship is the normal one—"

Francis ended the call and hurled the phone in frustration. He wiped tears from his eyes.

"Hijo de puta!" spat Antonio.

"What happened?" Gilbert asked, walking in. "Aren't the kids coming to visit?"

Francis nodded, sniffling.

"Arthur's just being a fucking dick about it," Antonio supplied, wrapping an arm around Francis. "Like he is about everything. Jealous prick."

Gilbert shook his head. "God, your ex is an asshole, Fran.

"But, hey," he added, more cheerfully, "your kids are coming! Alfred and Matthew—"

"Mathieu," Francis corrected. He pressed his lips together as tears filled his eyes. Antonio rubbed his back. "I just hope... they still like me."

"Oh, cariño, how can you even think like that?" the Spaniard scolded. "Of course they will, you're an amazing papa!"

"But they're so—so—so little!" Francis cried. "They're only four! And I haven't seen them for three months!"

"Oh boy," said Gilbert, crouching in front of Francis, taking both his hands. "Hey, look at me, schatz. You're a great father and your kids love you, and we're going to make this the best week they've ever had, okay? It doesn't matter what Arthur thinks. He's not important. Those kids are what's important, right?"

Francis nodded.

"Right?" Antonio smiled.

Francis nodded again, more confidently. "Yes, of course," he agreed. His face brightened at the thought of his children and, suddenly, he couldn't contain his joy. "My babies," he exclaimed, crying excited tears, "I can't wait to see my precious babies!"

Papa!" squeaked Alfred and Mathieu, dashing out of the arrival's gate.

Francis knelt and caught them both in a hug; the momentum nearly knocked him over. "Alfred! Mathieu!" he yelled, laughing and rocking them. "Oh! I've missed you so much, my darlings! Look at how big you've gotten! Oh, you're both so beautiful!" he gushed, kissing their cheeks. "I'm so happy to see you!

"Less happy to see you," he said in English, standing to face his ex-husband. "Arthur."

"Francis," returned Arthur in the same stiff tone.

Despite their mutual disinclination to try to stay married, they had not separated as friends, or even as equal, satisfied parties. The process of getting divorced had been a long, ugly affair made worse by the factors of children, and Francis' then new boyfriend, Antonio. Even now, two-and-a-half years later, both of them harboured jealousy and resentment of—and for—the other. Their attraction had been immediate and their relationship reckless right from the start, back when their nights together were filled with loud music, strong liquor, and cigarettes; back when Arthur was nothing but the vocalist of an opening act, and Francis a dancer who worked the same circuit. Now, Francis taught at a studio whenever money was tight, and Arthur was a music producer, who lived in Kensington and drove a BMW. The court may have disapproved of Francis' affair, but the real reason Arthur had won full custody of the children had less to do with either of their morality or relationships, Francis suspected, and everything to do with the Englishman's six-figure salary.

He stared at Francis now from behind a pair of designer sunglasses, which he took off, revealing his brilliant green eyes. (Damn his weakness for green eyes!) In skin-tight jeans and a black t-shirt, his tattoos on display, Francis hated how good his ex looked. He watched that predatory gaze take him in from head-to-toe, and thought: No, you don't get to look at me like that anymore! It made him feel naked, until the solid, reassuring weight of Antonio's arm snaked around his waist. Now Arthur glared at green-eyed Antonio, who had fluidly inserted himself, then swung over to criticize Gilbert, who was standing with his arms crossed defensively only a few feet away. He clutched his car keys like he might weaponize them if Arthur made a move toward his boyfriends.

"Alfred, Matthew," Arthur addressed the two boys instead. (It's Mathieu! Francis wanted to yell. You chose the name Alfred, I chose Mathieu!)

The four-year-old twins obediently returned to Arthur, who knelt. His edges seemed to soften as he focused on them, and for that, at least, Francis was grateful.

"Do you remember what we talked about?" he asked them, taking their pudgy hands. They nodded. "Good. I want you to be good this week. Have fun, and call me before you go to bed each night, okay? Call me at any time if you need anything at all. I showed you how, remember? Good," he repeated, smiling at them. It was a nice smile; the smile of someone hopelessly besotted. "Come here, give me a hug," he said, wrapping them in his arms. He held them for a long moment, then kissed them both. "I'll see you in a week, darlings. I love you."

"I love you, too, Daddy!" they chirped, making Francis' heart ache.

Then the boys were back at his side, their soft, round faces beaming up at him with expectant smiles. Francis lifted Mathieu into his arms; Antonio lifted Alfred, fencing the child's garbled monologue. Arthur reluctantly handed the boys' small luggage cases to Gilbert, who took them without a word.

"Take care of my kids," Francis heard Arthur warn Gilbert, his voice quiet and threatening, but not without a nervous hitch. That's when Francis realized that he was scared; scared to leave the boys for the first time. A note of sympathy stole into his tender heart, but Gilbert's reply was stark:

"Francis' kids," he said, as if that was answer enough.

Arthur glowered unhappily at him, at Antonio, and at Francis. Then he forced a confident, affectionate smile onto his face, and addressed his boys one more time:

"Goodbye, my loves. I'll see you soon."

The week seemed to fly by in a giddy, giggly dream of soft, sweet kisses and hugs like warm cookies. Francis' heart had never felt so full, so complete, as if half of it—or, two-thirds of it—had been missing until then. He spent every waking minute with Alfred and Mathieu—and every sleeping one, too, since they slept with him in the master bed; Gilbert and Antonio slept in the spare—talking and laughing, taking them out to the park and the shops and to his favourite—age-appropriate—cafés, and then to an amusement park on Antonio's night off. Francis had been nervous about the boys' reaction to meeting his boyfriends again, who insisted on being called Gil and Toni ("None of that creepy Uncle shit," they said.) but it was a needless worry. Antonio had always been wonderful with children, and he adored Francis' as much as they adored him. He chased them around the flat like a bull, provoking peals of excited laughter, then taught them how to make churros, and sang them to sleep. Francis could feel himself falling in love all over again watching them. Gilbert liked to tease the boys, stirring a competitive spirit in Alfred, and sharing secrets with timid Mathieu. It was he they ran to with news, and accomplishments, and bedtime fears. ("No monsters in this house," he promised them, puffing-up his chest. "Know why? Because the monsters are scared of me!") They seemed to sense a protective nature in his strong, stable presence, as well as the approval of someone they instinctively wanted to impress. Gilbert loved teaching them, Antonio loved playing with them, and Francis loved them all.

Arthur's promised return came too soon, and many tears were shed—from Alfred and Mathieu, but mostly from Francis—and hugs and kisses exchanged as the trio bid the boys farewell. Francis held tight to them until the last possible moment, until Arthur insisted they would miss their flight if they didn't hurry—now, please. "It's not like you won't ever see them again," he scoffed in goodbye, herding the boys into security as they waved back at their papa and his boyfriends. If Gilbert and Antonio hadn't been there, Francis was sure he'd have made a scene. The instant he lost sight of his boys, his heart ached, and happy, heartfelt tears became the manifestation of loss, guilt, and regret. Gilbert and Antonio took him out that evening to distract him, enjoying a long walk through the park together, illuminated by festival lights. He leant against Gilbert, who wrapped an arm around his waist for support, and he squeezed Antonio's hand, their fingers tightly interlocked. But the moment they stepped into the flat, Francis burst into a fresh fountain of tears, because Mathieu had forgotten his plush polar bear, which was sitting on the living-room sofa.

A month later, Francis and Antonio returned home laden with paper grocery bags to find Gilbert on a call with Alfred and Mathieu. Francis almost dropped the bags when he saw their big eyes and chubby, rosy cheeks squished together on Gilbert's laptop screen, but Gilbert didn't notice, as his back was turned.

"Maybe you could date Daddy, too," Alfred was saying hopefully, "and then we could all live together!"

"Oh, uh... uh huh," said Gilbert uncomfortably, "that's... an idea. But maybe we should keep brainstorming, yeah?"

Francis was going to interrupt—he wanted to talk to his boys!—but Antonio stopped him. Wordless, he shook his head, then raised a finger to his lips. Let's just listen for a minute, said his eyes.

"Is that really what you want?" Gilbert asked, watching the boys ponder. "For your Papa and your Daddy to live together?"

"Yes," said Alfred immediately, "because then Papa would be with us always."

"Do you miss him when he's away?"

"Yes."

"And do you think—" Gilbert paused, careful, "—that your Daddy and your Papa would be happy together?"

Francis held his breath. Antonio rubbed his back, lending pre-emptive comfort. The reply was a long time in coming, but when it did it came from Mathieu's voice, so small and soft that Francis had to strain to hear it:

"No," he said. "I think they would yell a lot."

"Yeah," Alfred agreed, louder, sadder. "I don't think they like each other very much."

It was then that Gilbert spotted his boyfriends standing in the doorway. It wasn't until Francis saw sympathy colour the German's face that he realized he was crying, again. He pinched his lips, but couldn't stop the flow of tears; couldn't bear the thought of hurting his children.

"Maybe not," Gilbert agreed with Alfred, "but, you know, I think they could learn to get along for you guys. They both love you a lot. You know that, don't you?" Two nods; one fast and fervent, the other slow and subtle. "I just think they need their own space."

"It's too much space," Alfred said.

"I miss Papa," Mathieu whispered. "I wish he was with us always."

Francis pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a sob. Antonio closed him into a protective hug.

Gilbert glanced at his boyfriends, then smiled at the boys. "Well," he said, feigning contemplation, "it sounds like everyone would be a lot happier if Papa was living in London with you, doesn't it?"

"Yeah—?" said Alfred hopefully, inching closer, nearly nose-to-nose with the screen. Behind him, Mathieu's violet eyes were big and focused.

"Not in the same house," Gilbert reiterated, "but in the same city. Would you like that?"

"Yes!" they said in union.

"Me, too," Gilbert nodded. He looked directly at Francis then, who stared back in confusion. The German smiled his knight's smile; the smile that said: I will do anything for you. He shrugged helplessly, and said: "I guess we should all move to London then."

Gil?" Francis' voice was a bare whisper.

Gilbert closed the laptop and got up from the table. He was still smiling that handsome, cocksure smile as he approached his boyfriends.

"Are you—are you serious?" Francis choked-out, nervously daring to hope.

"Fran, this is something we've been talking about for a while," said Gilbert, glancing at Antonio.

Antonio was smiling now too, his eyes aglow with playful mischief, proud that he had kept their plot a secret. "It didn't make sense as long as Gil worked here in Berlin, but now..." His voice lifted as his shoulders did, shrugging a dismissal. "That's not really an issue anymore."

"I'll find a job in London," Gilbert promised.

"And I can bartend anywhere," Antonio added.

Francis stared at them both, agape. "You—" His voice broke. "You'll both move to London, for my babies?"

"Hey," Gilbert gently corrected, "they're ours now, too."

"Because you're ours," Antonio needlessly explained. "London is where you're meant to be, Fran, because it's where the kids are. And we're meant to be with you. So, yeah," he grinned, wiping Francis' cheeks, "jolly ol' London it is."

Overcome with emotion, Francis collapsed against them both, wrapping his arms around his boyfriends, and crying, and kissing them. "Thank-you my loves! Oh, thank-you so much! I love you," he kissed Gilbert, then Antonio, again and again and again.

"Je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime."

Oh, joy," said Arthur sarcastically when Francis told him. But the tone of his voice didn't reflect the relief in his eyes.

Quieter, kinder—honest—he admitted: "It'll make Alfred and Matt—Mathieu really happy."

Chapter 3: Antonio

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Toni, please," begged João, clutching his empty stein. A bubble of froth sloshed in the bottom, and the neon glow from the jukebox danced across his skin, shining in his glassy, pleading gaze. An old, tired rock song played in English, and the crowded beer hall roared as they sang along in a garbled mix of English and German, including Antonio's intoxicated boyfriends. He smiled as he watched Gilbert swing Francis in a wide, clumsy circle, pulling him back inches before a collision. Francis laughed gleefully, finding himself in Gilbert's grasp once more. He wrapped his arms around Gilbert's neck and kissed him, and Gilbert's fingers hooked through Francis' belt-loops, teasing the sliver of skin bared by the Frenchman's low-riding jeans. Gilbert's skin was so white, it reflected the lights; Francis glowed golden. Antonio, himself, still wore a summer tan, which turned him a rich brown. Vanilla, butterscotch, and cocoa. Man, we taste good together! he thought, indulging in a long, lecherous look at his boyfriends. They were giddy and gorgeous and completely unaware of the glare João was directing at them.

Antonio sighed deeply and took a drink of soda-pop (he was designated driver tonight). João leant across the table and pressed gravely on:

"This phase," he emphasized, "needs to end. A couple—a romantic relationship—is for two people, not three. What you're doing here, what you've been doing for the past two years, isn't right. It's not healthy. What about actual, legal marriage and children? Don't you want those things?"

"I do have an actual relationship, João. And children. My boyfriends and I are moving to London for—"

"If you're moving to London, why not just come home?" João interrupted. "I know you think you're in love, but that—" he jerked his head at the dance floor, at Antonio's laughing boyfriends, "—isn't love! You're just confused."

Antonio curled his lip, clenched his fists under the tabletop.

"Look," he said tightly. "I didn't invite you out tonight to insult my boyfriends. They've been nothing but nice to you since you arrived and all you've done is scowl at them. I should've left you in the fucking hotel."

João shook his head, a long, dark tendril falling over his forehead. "I'm your brother, Toni. I just want what's best for you, and it's not them."

"Oh?" Antonio challenged. He crossed his arms defensively. "And what is best for me? What exactly do you suggest, dear big brother?"

"I'm not saying you have to become a monk." João rolled his eyes. "But this threesome thing you're doing is weird, okay? You can't possibly love them equally—"

"I do!" Antonio snapped suddenly, passionately, half rising from his seat. "Gil and Fran mean everything to me, so don't talk about things you don't understand!"

"Toni," João, too, raised his voice, "it's wrong!"

"What's wrong?" Gilbert asked innocently, puzzled. Francis was clutching his arm for balance and smiling in drunk, dreamy contentment. Antonio plucked the cell-phone from Francis' back-pocket before it fell out and he lost it, again. Then he pat the Frenchman's taut bottom for good measure. "Is everything okay, schatz—?" Gilbert prompted, looking between the brothers suspiciously.

João buried his nose in his stein, sucking down the froth.

Antonio said: "It's nothing, cariño. João was just saying he has an early flight tomorrow and he needs to go back to the hotel now."

His brother shook his head, then dropped a twenty onto the table and stood abruptly.

"Oh wow," Francis purred in appreciation, oblivious to João's bad mood. As if he had only just seen him, he dragged a playful finger down the man's chest. "Toni, you didn't tell us your brother was so handsome. You both look so much alike, it's—"

"Not interested," said João harshly, slapping Francis' hand.

Francis flinched and shrank back against Gilbert in surprise. His eyes grew wide, misunderstanding what he had done wrong.

Gilbert's growl was a warning when he said: "Easy. It was just a joke."

"Whatever," João muttered, yanking on his jacket. "Toni," he said, green eyes glaring, "are you going to come say goodbye?"

He didn't wait for Antonio to reply, but strode to the exit without a word to his brother's boyfriends, which, Antonio reasoned, was probably for the best. Gilbert's ruby eyes were following João unhappily. He didn't take kindly to people mistreating his boyfriends on a regular, sober day, but fueled with alcohol he could become quite aggressive. Antonio didn't want to risk either Gilbert or João making a scene—poor Francis hated conflict—so, with an apologetic look for Gilbert, and a reassuring stroke for Francis, he grudgingly followed his brother outside.

"Well, have a safe flight. See you when the next relative dies—"

"Toni," João said, urgent but softer now, "please reconsider. I'm really worried about you, and so are Mamá and Papá."

"I think the disownment negates their parental concern," Antonio countered, bitterly sarcastic.

"But they are concerned, Toni! They love you!"

"No, they love what they want me to be, a version of me that expired a long time ago. I'm not that sweet little choirboy anymore, João. I'm a grown man, who doesn't need his brother or his parents to make decisions for him, so just go, okay? I really am doing just fine, you don't need to worry about me. I'm happy, and I'm in love."

João looked like he wanted to argue, but he wisely backtracked instead. "I know they'd forgive you, if that's what you're worried about," he said, referring to their parents. "They want you to come home, Toni. Just admit you made a mistake. Say you're sorry and repent," he begged, clutching the cross at his throat, "because everything you're doing is breaking Mamá's heart. She can't bear to see you live like this. Please, please just come home."

Antonio's hand instinctively went to his own cross, a twin of his brother's. It was the only piece of jewelry he wore anymore, and he wore it always. It was the only physical connection he had to his old life, his childhood, given to him at his Confirmation fourteen years ago and he hadn't taken it off since; not when he slept, or showered, or fucked his boyfriends. He rubbed it when he was nervous, he sucked on it when he was thoughtful, and too many times it had gotten caught in Francis' hair or on Gilbert's wristwatch. His brother saw it—saw his hesitance—and smiled hopefully, and in that moment Antonio missed him. He missed the brother João had been before the entire family had rejected Antonio for choosing Francis. ("He's married!" his father yelled while his mother sobbed. "He's committing adultery and you're helping!") He missed the way João used to defend him from bullies at preschool, and tell him what a lovely singing voice he had. ("You're going to be famous someday, Tonio, I know it!") He missed the way João used to look at him and see only the little brother whom he loved, and not a degenerate in need of saving.

Just then, the beer hall's door opened and Gilbert and Francis stepped out onto the street. Neither of them spoke, but both regarded the scene with weary eyes. Gilbert's reds were intense; Francis' blues were compassionate. They waited, trusting Antonio.

Antonio took one loving look at them and he decided. He yanked the gold necklace off and placed it in João's hand, and said: "I am home."

Then he slipped an arm around his boyfriends and led them back inside.

The next few weeks were spent preparing to leave Berlin.

Antonio overheard a telephone conversation between Gilbert and his terrifying father that he wished he hadn't—you knew Herr Beilschmidt was angry when he didn't yell, but got very, very quiet—but his younger brother, Ludwig, came by with pizza one evening, and gave Francis and Antonio an awkward hug each in farewell, telling them to keep Gilbert out of trouble in London. ("When are you going to let me introduce you to my cousin, Feliciano, huh?" Antonio teased the younger, bashful Beilschmidt brother. "I'm telling you, it'd be love at first sight!") He also heard Francis on the phone with Arthur, trying to get things sorted, but that was a much less impressive feat as they tended to fill the entire flat with their bickering. ("The same city as Arthur Kirkland—yikes," Antonio only half-joked. Gilbert theorized that exposure and routine would soften their relationship from hostile to civil, for their boys' sake. "Just as long as it doesn't soften him too much," Antonio muttered, crossing his arms. "I've seen the way he still looks at our Fran.") By the end of the month, Gilbert had several job interviews scheduled, and Antonio's friend from university had promised him a position bartending at his club in Soho. Francis would devote himself entirely to his children, and Arthur was happy not to have to pay for daycare anymore. ("Like he can't afford it," Antonio rolled his eyes.) Finally, it was the night before the move: luggage had been packed and shipped, a flat had been rented not far from Antonio's new workplace, and goodbyes and farewell gifts had been exchanged between them and their friends. ("I don't think they'll let us take four whole boxes of licorice across the border, Lars. Don't they have licorice in England?" Gilbert's—hot—cousin merely shuddered at the thought.) But there was still one thing left on Antonio's To Do List.

"I need three, please."

"Three, sir?" asked the saleswoman, confused.

"Yes," Antonio smiled, hoping she couldn't hear his pounding heart. He wondered how many other men had stood in this same spot, sweating and fidgeting.

"Here you are, sir. Um, good luck," she smiled awkwardly, handing him the bag.

"Thank-you!"

Because the trio were feeling nostalgic—and Francis and Antonio were sentimental—they went to the public-house Gilbert had brought his boyfriends to on their first night in Berlin, and insisted on paying just like he did then. Francis, somehow, remembered what they had each ordered that night, and ordered it again. ("You have such a weird memory for food," Antonio teased.) But they didn't talk like they had back then: when Francis was fragile from his divorce, and Antonio resented his family's disownment; when both of them were eager and excited and still raw from what they had done, and both a little bit nervous about starting life over together in a new place with the German they had both fallen in love with. ("It was your smile," Francis said romantically. "It was your abs," Antonio winked, sliding his foot provocatively up Gilbert's calve under the table.) "Do you remember..." they said now, and the other two nodded, a little sad it was ending but grateful it had happened.

"Hey, let's take a detour," Antonio said when they left. He led them into the park, his fingers dancing across Gilbert's hand on the small of Francis' back between them. When he was certain they were alone on the footpath, he took a deep, brave breath and stepped in front of the others, stopping them. They stared expectantly, but didn't speak.

"I have something for you," he said, holding up his closed fists. "I didn't get the fancy boxes, but..." Slowly, he opened his hands, presenting his boyfriends with rings.

Francis covered his mouth in surprise, blue eyes soft and smiling. Gilbert looked from the rings to Antonio in disbelief, and a nervous chuckle escaped him. He said: "Are you asking us to marry you, Toni?"

"I would if I could," said Antonio seriously, honestly. "I don't want anyone else to think that either of you are available, because you're not. You're mine. I never thought I'd ever love anyone as much as I love you," he admitted, blushing now. "I never thought I'd find one person I wanted to spend my life with, let alone two, so... thank-you," he smiled, "for loving me in return. I want us to always be together.

"Os quiero mucho," he repeated softly.

"Oh, Toni," Francis sighed, wiping away a happy tear as he slipped a ring onto his finger. "Yes, of course we'll be together."

"Always," Gilbert agreed, doing the same.

Antonio fished the third ring out of his pocket and put it on himself. A single piece of jewelry he would never take off. Seeing it, he smiled big and bright, and a laugh escaped him. He couldn't remember ever being so happy.

The next thing he knew, he was wrapped in his boyfriends' arms, and their hands were on his back and in his hair, and their warm, smiling mouths were kissing his neck, his face, and they were squeezing him, and laughing, and he was pretty sure that Francis was crying, and he didn't want them to ever let go. He knew then, indefinitely, that he had made the right choice leaving his home, his family, as much as it had hurt him to do so. He had been unsettled—angry, even—as a youth, never happy in his relationships; always feeling incomplete. Then he found Francis, and that gnawing feeling quieted. Then they found Gilbert, and the feeling was silenced. Maybe their love was unconventional; maybe it was hard for others to understand: "How can you love two people equally?" they asked. "You must love one of them more than the other. It's not fair. It's a lie." Antonio—usually—ignored these people, because they didn't feel what he felt; they didn't know what he knew. Francis Bonnefoi and Gilbert Beilschmidt were the people his heart had chosen, and Antonio's heart was perfectly capable of loving them both.

"Thank-you," he whispered, holding them close. "Thank-you for choosing me."

Gilbert cupped the back of Antonio's head and kissed him, long and deep. Then Francis pressed himself to the Spaniard's chest, hands coiled in his dark hair, hot, slick tongue in his mouth.

"Is that a yes, then?" Antonio grinned.

Gilbert laughed, and said: "Yes."

"That's a yes," Francis confirmed, smiling.

Then Antonio's beautiful boyfriends took his hands in each of theirs, rings glinting in the lamplight, and they walked back to their Berlin flat for the last time, together.

FIN

Notes:

THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)

Chapter 4: Extra

Summary:

Antonio loved his boyfriend's kids, but he had never thought of himself as a good father-figure. Not until they needed him to be.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Matt is sick?"

“Yes, the school just called to tell me. They called Arthur first”—grumble of annoyance—“but his PA wouldn’t put them through, because he’s in a meeting.”

Francis’ voice was metallic and undulating with poor reception. Antonio heard the sounds of motor traffic in the background and knew that his boyfriend had left the underground, where there was no reception, and emerged onto the busy street. He was distracted and a little breathless, hurrying to a job interview, which began in—Antonio consulted the clock—fifteen minutes. The last thing he needed to be worrying about was a sick child.

“Don’t worry, Fran, I’ll take care of Matt.”

“You really don’t mind? Because I can call to reschedule—”

“I’m leaving now,” Antonio interrupted, grabbing his jacket and jingling his house keys so that Francis could hear it. “I’m already out the door, so don’t you dare even think about cancelling that interview.”

Francis had been preparing for the interview—or, more accurately, audition—for a week. A friend-of-a-friend had told him that a prominent theatre company was looking for a dance instructor and offered to pass along his CV, which Francis had dithered over for six long, unproductive hours until Gilbert had had enough. “Just let me do it,” he had said, demonstrating in one fluid motion that what he lacked in patience he made up for in perfectionism and upper-body strength. He lifted Francis right out of the desk chair and deposited him on the couch. Ten minutes later, he had finished editing Francis’ CV and written a compelling cover letter to compliment it. He even had time to scowl at Antonio, who suggested that Francis use one of Gilbert’s cover letters and change the name to save time. (Gilbert had applied for a lot of jobs before finally accepting the position he currently occupied.) “Financial consultant, dance instructor—what’s the difference really? A job is a job, isn’t it?” Antonio had said cheerfully. Apparently not.

“The school said that Mathieu is running a fever,” Francis reported.

Antonio didn’t have to see Francis face-to-face to envision his boyfriend’s look of anxious consternation, nor did he need verbal affirmation that Francis was starting to stress, because he could hear the nervous ticks in his voice.

“Don’t bite your fingernails,” he said.

Francis made a small noise of reluctance, then sighed.

“You’re going to be great, cariño. Don’t worry about Matt, I’ll take care of him; just worry about charming the hell out of those theatre-people, okay?”

“Well—yes, okay,” Francis agreed. “Merci, mon amour. Call me if you need to.”

Antonio promised that he would and ended the call. Then he took the train to Alfred and Mathieu’s school in Kensington, which he had only ever visited once before back in September for the twins’ induction into kindergarten. Alfred had been overjoyed to finally be attending real school; Mathieu had not. He had cried quietly on his first day, prompting Francis to cry less quietly in turn. (The child certainly didn’t get his softness from Arthur, and that was a fact.) At least the boys had been put in the same class, which soothed nervous Mathieu and tempered energetic Alfred, at least until they got home. Then Alfred was back to reporting every detail of his day in a fast, loud recount of colour and play-acting, and Mathieu merely shrugged shyly when asked in reply.

Antonio loved the boys, but sometimes they gave him emotional whiplash.

By the time he arrived at the school, it was recess, and the din of primary children at play cloaked the whole block. He had a brief but curt argument at the front gate before he was permitted entry, with a visitor’s pass shoved reluctantly into his hand. He felt the guard’s narrowed eyes on his back as he quickly made his way to the front doors, feeling conflicted. On the one hand, it was nice to know that the children were safe and that the school didn’t admit strangers, but on the other hand, how shady did he look that he needed to be interrogated and glared at like that?

He found the office easily with the help of a sign—practically a marquee—which read HEAD OFFICE in huge block letters. Inside, he smiled at the secretary and announced:

“I’m here to get Mathieu Kirkland-Bonnefoi.”

“Name?” he asked primly, his fingers poised to type.

“Antonio Fernández Carriedo.”

A lightning-fast search of the school’s database yielded no results. “I’m sorry, sir,” said the secretary placidly, “but you’re not listed as a contact for that student.”

Antonio was unsurprised. Francis and Arthur would be listed as the boys’ parents and primary contacts, of course, and he said as much. “He’s my boyfriend’s kid,” he explained. “And we’re common-law,” he added helpfully. “He’s at a job interview right now, which is why I’m here instead.”

He waited, but the secretary didn’t move.

“Err, so… can I take Matt home now? We got a call that he was sick.”

“You’re not listed as a contact or guardian, sir, so I can’t disclose that information. I’m sorry.”

Antonio blinked owlishly.

“Are you serious?” he asked in disbelief. “You’re really not going to let me take him home because my name’s not on some list?”

“I’m sorry, sir, it’s school policy. Only a parent or guardian can take a child out of school.”

“I am his guardian—one of them, anyway.”

The secretary looked skeptical, now. “Can you prove it legally?” he asked.

“Well, no, not legally, but—”

“Sir, I’m afraid we can’t let students leave with people whom we have no record of.”

“Okay, yeah, I get that,” said Antonio, gesturing in appeasing agreement, “but I’m telling you the truth. Matt knows me, I promise. He lives with me part-time. If you just let me see him, he’ll tell you—”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Okay, look,” he said, pulling out his wallet. He smiled to keep his frustration at bay, and began pulling out identification cards. “I have my driver’s licence, my DNI, my EHIC, I even have my fucking—ahem, my Oyster card.” He shoved them across the counter to the secretary, who didn’t even deign to glance down before pushing them back.

“Sir,” he said, growing impatient, “I need written permission from a parent or guardian authorizing you to take a student out of school. If you would like to take a form to fill out for next time,” he reached into a drawer, then dropped a blank permission form on top of Antonio’s identification, “then I can add you to the contact list. But as for today, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Right, so, let me get this straight.” Antonio took a deep breath. He didn’t have Gilbert’s short temper, but he wasn’t exactly nonconfrontational either. He could feel anger and insult heating his blood and knew he needed to stay calm for the sake of his boyfriend and pseudo-stepsons. He laid his hands flat on the counter and leant down toward the thirty-something secretary. In a low, measured voice, he said: “I’m not allowed to take my sick, five-year-old kid home because you don’t believe me, my ID, or the fact that you called my boyfriend and now I’m the one who’s here?”

The secretary shied away and didn’t make eye-contact. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s school—”

“School policy, yeah, I got that. But what you don’t get is that I’m not leaving my kid here, so,” he said, taking a resigned breath, “here’s what you’re going to do. Call Arthur Kirkland. No, not his office—his cell. Here, this is the number. Call him and tell him that Matt is sick and that you won’t let me take him home. I’ll wait.”

Antonio crossed his arms in defiance as the secretary reluctantly accepted the cellphone number and called. He clenched his jaw when he heard Arthur’s voice on the line, resenting the need for his help. He had never pretended to like Arthur, and vise-versa. In fact, their relationship could still be described as hostile, even after three years. More than Arthur and Gilbert, Arthur and Antonio did not get along, because Arthur blamed Antonio for breaking-up his marriage, even though it had been falling apart when Antonio and Francis met. Antonio’s interference had been the catalyst for their divorce in Arthur’s opinion, and that’s all he seemed to see when he looked at Antonio, even now.

But now wasn’t the time to dwell on petty rivalries, because small, scared, feverish Mathieu was somewhere in this school waiting for one of his parents to come for him. If Antonio thought back, the boy had been lethargic the past couple of days and he hadn’t eaten much the night before. If only he was as vocal about his feelings as Alfred, maybe someone would have noticed yesterday, or this morning before everyone else had rushed off to work. It was humourlessly ironic that the child had four father-figures in his life and yet only one of them was available right now. And it was the one who had no clue what he was doing.

Antonio had never taken care of a sick child before. He had never even picked them up from school—clearly. He certainly wasn’t the strictest or most responsible of the parenting foursome. He didn’t coddle the boys like Francis, and he couldn’t provide for them as well as Arthur. Heck, he wasn’t even the one they ran to for protection, because that was Gilbert. Antonio was just the fun parent, the one who played with them and let them overeat sweets and stay up late. He had never had to be the primary caretaker before, because his boyfriends and Arthur were always there. Sure, Antonio had held the boys and cuddled them and sang them to sleep when they were babies, but the older they got the more he realized just how unprepared he was to really be someone’s father. He hadn’t asked to be, after all. The position simply came with being Francis’ boyfriend, whether he liked it or not. And he did like it. He loved Alfred and Mathieu as if they were his own by blood or law, because they were for all intents and purposes. But loving them was simply no guarantee that he would be good at parenting, despite what his boyfriends said.

“Do you know how I know you’ll be a good father?” Francis had said before their move to London, before the boys became constant, permanent fixtures in Antonio’s life. “Because you care enough to worry that you won’t be.”

Francis had smiled and kissed him lovingly, and Antonio had smiled back, but as soon as Francis had left the room Antonio’s panic returned.

“They’re not babies anymore,” he said to Gilbert, thinking the German would understand his anxieties better than Francis. “Alfie and Matt are four-years-old, they’re becoming actual little people that we are now responsible for! Doesn’t that freak you out?”

“Yeah, it does,” Gilbert shrugged, nonplused, “but in a good way. A way that makes me want to be better for them, you know? Don’t you love them?” he asked, to which Antonio replied: “Of course I do!” Again, Gilbert shrugged: “Then it doesn’t really matter if you feel ready or not, does it? Because you’re not going to let yourself fail them.”

Antonio had groaned and buried his face in Gilbert’s t-shirt. “I really hate it when you’re right,” he said.

Gilbert stroked his head. “I know.”

“Uh, sir—?”

Antonio blinked. “Huh? Oh, right. What did Arthur say?”

“Mr. Kirkland is on his way now. He said you needn’t wait—”

“I’m not leaving,” said Antonio firmly.

The secretary sighed and gestured to the waiting area before turning back to his computer.

Feeling too agitated to sit, Antonio paced the lobby, which did nothing to reassure the school staff of his good intentions. He could leave now that Arthur was coming to get Mathieu, but he wouldn’t. No matter what the school or Arthur wanted, no matter what they thought of him or his relationships, he wasn’t going to leave until he knew that the child was safe. He might not be an experienced caretaker, and he might not inspire the most trust or confidence, but he could do this. He could wait.

Fortunately, he wasn’t waiting long before Arthur Kirkland strut into the lobby, wearing designer sunglasses and heeled shoes that elongated his sleek, black-coated figure so that he was five centimeters taller than Antonio and looked about nine kilos thinner. Antonio was tempted to sucker-punch the wind right out of his arrogance—or, trip him like a primary schooler—but he gallantly resisted.

Responsible, he reminded himself. I am a responsible, mature, adult-person.

“Oh, you’re still here,” Arthur said by way of acknowledgement. He removed his sunglasses with sardonic exasperation. “Great.”

Ignoring Antonio’s reply, he went straight to the office.

“Are you going to take Matt—” Antonio began when Arthur re-emerged, but, again, Arthur ignored him and started quickly down the corridor. Much to the secretary’s dismay, Antonio followed.

“Hey!” he snapped, jogging to catch up. “I’m talking to you! Are you going to take Matt home?” he repeated.

Arthur side-eyed him in disdain. “I have a meeting to return to, because I have an actual career, unlike some people.”

Antonio bristled.

“Why are you here anyway? Where’s Francis?”

“At a job interview,” Antonio countered. “And Gil is at work. He’s a consultant for a private firm,” he added proudly.

“Oh? Someone actually hired that walking Restraining Order?”

“Vete a la mierda!” Antonio snarled.

“That means nothing to me.”

“Yeah? Well, do you know what this means—”

Antonio raised his hand to direct a rude gesture at Arthur just as a teacher emerged from his classroom. He gave Antonio a deeply disapproving frown.

When they reached the infirmary, Antonio followed close on Arthur’s heels to enter, startling the nurse who had been expecting one man, not two. Antonio flashed his visitor’s pass like an MI6 agent and headed to the back of the room, where Mathieu was ensconced. He was lying on one of two small metal beds, looking like a boiled lobster in a silver pot. His breathing was slow and laboured and his baby-soft skin was covered in sweat. Antonio stopped short when he saw him and his insides twisted; apprehensive for the child’s sickly state, and angry that the school wouldn’t let him take Mathieu sooner.

"Mathieu, love?” said Arthur, kneeling down. He touched the child’s face, pushing back his sweaty curls. “It’s okay now, sweet-pea. It’s time to go home.”

“Daddy.” Mathieu made a meek noise of distress, then slowly opened his eyes. A tear rolled down his cheek when he saw Arthur, and Antonio knew that he was scared. Help, said those big violet eyes, beseeching and heartfelt.

“It’s okay,” Arthur repeated, coaxing Mathieu out of bed. The child moved lethargically, his eyelids fluttering. “It’s time to go home, darling. Antonio is going to take you home.”

Antonio realized his cue and stepped forward, brushing past Arthur as he lifted Mathieu into his arms. “Hey there, Mattie-baby,” he said softly.

Mathieu wrapped his arms weakly around Antonio’s neck and pressed his forehead to the underside of the man’s chin. Antonio felt the burn of his feverish skin and damp curls. “Toni,” he said in a small, sad voice, “I don’t feel good.”

“I know, chiquito,” he soothed, holding Mathieu tight, “but you’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”

Antonio followed Arthur back to the lobby in weighted silence, the two men united in their silent agreement not to fight in front of the boys. There, Arthur spoke to the secretary and signed himself out—We were supposed to sign in? Oops, Antonio thought—then returned to bid his son goodbye for the day. He kissed Mathieu’s head, ignoring his proximity to Antonio, and promised to call later to check-in. He told Mathieu to rest and drink and take whatever medicine he needed without a fuss. Then he addressed Antonio:

“Here,” he said, shoving a piece of paper and a couple of banknotes into the Spaniard’s hand. “Don’t take my son on the train, take a taxi home.”

Then he left before Antonio could reply.

He spared a glare for the Englishman’s retreating back, then shoved the money into his jacket pocket. Then he shifted Mathieu’s weight, trying not to dislodge him as he lifted the paper to eye-level to read.

To his surprise, it was the permission form that the secretary had offered before. It said:

I, ARTHUR KIRKLAND, hereby give permission for GILBERT BEILSCHMIDT and ANTONIO CARRIEDO to act as parent/guardians to ALFRED AND MATHIEU KIRKLAND-BONNEFOI for the duration of the present school year.

Signed this day, 16 NOV., Arthur Kirkland

Antonio put the form in his pocket and left the school with Mathieu half-asleep in his arms, smiling a little, and only a little peeved that Arthur had forgotten his first surname.

Antonio took Mathieu home and put him straight to bed, smiling when his eyes were open and fussing and worrying when they weren’t. He changed him into his pyjamas and cleaned the sweat off his flushed skin, then prepared a cold compress and laid it on his forehead. He dug an extra blanket out of the linen closet and searched the cupboards for canned soup, but ultimately scowled in dissatisfaction and began to make it himself from scratch. Francis called to check-in—for Mathieu and Antonio’s sake—and say that he had been asked to stay for a second audition and wouldn’t be home until later. Arthur called to lecture Antonio, which Antonio had no tolerance for, so he hung up on him after reporting that Mathieu was fine.

Is he fine, though? Fuck—I don’t know!

“Where does it hurt?” he asked, petting Mathieu’s head with one hand while searching common childhood illnesses on his phone with the other. Mathieu’s reply of “everywhere” was most unhelpful.

By the time Francis and Gilbert got home, Antonio had convinced himself that Mathieu had caught a terrible rare illness, for which all he could do was worry and make chicken noodle soup. As soon as Francis entered, Antonio launched into a recount of everything he had done, describing Mathieu’s symptoms, and following his boyfriend like a puppy-dog, asking questions and making suggestions based on online articles. Francis was grateful for Antonio’s care, and he kissed him and told him as much before calmly going in to see Mathieu. Gilbert, on the other hand, was highly amused by the Spaniard’s uncharacteristic mothering, and he teased him about it until Antonio whacked him with a wooden spoon.

“Not the cool, fun parent now, are you, Papá Toni?” Gilbert laughed, poking Antonio’s ribs.

“What is it? Is Matt okay?” Antonio asked when Francis returned. (Gilbert took advantage of the distraction to sample a spoonful of soup.) “Should I have taken him to the doctor?”

“No, no,” Francis dismissed, chuckling a little. “He’s going to be fine. It’s just chicken-pox.”

“Oh,” said Antonio, breathing a sigh of relief.

“He only has a couple of spots on the back of his neck, but it’ll probably be worse by tomorrow,” said Francis, grabbing his cellphone. “I just need to call Arthur and tell him to keep Alfred for a few days, because the chicken-pox is really contagious. You’ve both had it, right?” he asked in afterthought.

“Yeah, I had it when I was a kid,” Gilbert confirmed.

“Okay good, me too,” said Francis. “Toni?”

Antonio had wondered why he was feeling so warm and lightheaded. He had thought it was just from making the soup.

“Fuck,” he said.

You look silly,” said Mathieu, who looked like a vanilla cake dusted with pink sprinkles.

Antonio glanced down at the child, who was using his chest as a pillow. “Yeah,” he agreed, resisting the urge to scratch his own itchy spots, “so do you.”

They were lying together on the living-room couch, with the curtains closed and a Disney film playing on low volume on the T.V., both of them buried beneath a heavy blanket. Antonio took a cloth and wiped the sweat from his face, even as he shivered and pulled Mathieu closer, who was also suffering chills. The boy murmured and closed his eyes, letting the deep rise-and-fall of Antonio’s cagey breaths lull him to sleep.

“How are my brave boys doing?” Francis cooed softly, coming in with cups of chicken soup. “Are you feeling any better?”

Antonio accepted the cup with a raised eyebrow. “The best description for how I’m feeling is not appropriate for little ears,” he replied.

“Ah,” said Francis in sympathy. “Well, at least Mathieu doesn’t have to suffer alone.”

Antonio took a sip of soup, then licked his lips. “Huh?”

“Well, he can’t feel too bad about being sick, now can he?” Francis smiled. “Not when his cool Papá Toni has the chicken-pox, too.”

Antonio rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide a pleased smile. If someone had told him five years ago that he would be living in London with his two boyfriends and two children, he would have laughed. Now, he looked down at the child asleep on his lap and praised his own good-luck and life-choices. Maybe it was unconventional, and maybe others—like the school—would stare at him and whisper and doubt, but he didn’t care. He loved his family and was grateful every single day to be a part of it. He knew that he would stand by them, do his best for them, no matter what. It wouldn’t always be easy, and none of them would ever have all the answers, but the happiness was in knowing that they would figure it out together, always, and the knowledge that none of them would ever have to be alone.

One had become three had become five, and now Antonio wouldn’t have had it any other way.

He gave Mathieu a gentle squeeze and leant back into the firm couch cushions with his soup, his son, and a half-finished Disney film, and he smiled.

Cool Papá Toni. He kind of liked the sound of that.

Notes:

This is probably not the Extra anyone expected (or wanted), but it's something that I've wanted to write, in many different incarnations, for a while. So, I did. It's not the full-length "Spain taking care of baby-Canada" one-shot that I had originally envisioned, but I think it's pretty cute nonetheless. :3 Thank-you to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story, either chapter-by-chapter or in it's entirety. I really appreciate all of your kind words and support! n_n

Chapter 5: João

Summary:

João had made a mistake. A big mistake, and now he needed his brother's help. He only hoped it wasn't too late.

Chapter Text

Is this it?” asked the taxi-cab driver in a thick Birmingham accent, which João had to take his word on.

“Born-and-raised in the Black Country,” the man had said proudly. But João could barely even hear the different national accents of English, let alone decipher between specific British dialects, so, rather than tell the man he had no idea where or what the ‘Black Country’ was, he had just smiled politely and pretended to be a tourist enamoured with the view. The driver was friendly and kept pointing out famous London landmarks, but between his vocabulary and João’s own surmounting anxiety, he didn’t retain a single thing. English was a slippery, serpentine language that challenged him at the best of times. It slithered back-and-forth and played fast and loose with linguistic rules—more like guidelines, he had thought, shaking his head in frustration. (What was the use of pilfering from every other language in Europe if you weren’t even going to use the words properly?) João’s Spanish father and Portuguese mother ensured that he had grown-up bilingual, and he even knew a little French from school, but English was hard. English didn’t make sense. And then it had to go and change from London to Birmingham to New-Mac-Burgh-Shire—or, whatever-something-the-hell-it-was.

So, why am I here?

“Oi, alright?” asked the driver.

João swallowed and forced himself to smile and nod.

“This is it, then?”

Again, he nodded, fear and anxiety jousting inside of him. He paid the driver, then exited the vehicle, pulling his suitcase out behind him. A four-story, red-brick carriage house stood in front of him, each floor converted into a spacious flat with a garage and wrought-iron balcony. The fourth-floor balcony, at the very top, was green with potted plants and had a sliding door with a hand-painted rainbow on it.

João steeled his resolve and clenched his suitcase handle. “Yes,” he said—for better or worse, “this is it.”

Hello,” said João, because the boyfriend who answered the door was not the one who spoke Spanish. It was the other one; the German one. The one whose red-eyed glare made João’s legs feel like jelly. “You are Gilbert, yes? I am João, Antonio’s brother.”

Gilbert didn’t reply. Instead, and without taking his eyes off of João, he called into the flat: “Uh, Toni—?”

A moment later, Antonio appeared, still holding a textbook with his thumb jammed inside to mark his place. The cover read: Tourism and Hospitality: An Introduction. He came to the door in happy curiosity, like a dog excited to greet a guest, but his figurative tail ceased wagging the second he recognized João and his hackles raised in defence.

“What do you want?” he asked in Spanish.

João swallowed the lump of guilt in his throat, because he deserved the cold reception. The last time he and Antonio had spoken face-to-face, João had accused him of gross immorality, patronized his life choices, and belittled his relationships. Frankly, he was lucky Antonio had greeted him with words and not fists.

“I came to see you, Toni. I… really need to talk to you,” he said honestly. “Could I come in? Please?”

Maybe it was the plea in his voice, the suitcase in his hand, the desperation in his eyes; João didn’t know, but after a long moment of hard scrutiny, Antonio stepped wordlessly aside.

“Papi, who’s that?”

The first thing João saw was a blue-eyed blonde child, whom Gilbert was holding by the hood to prevent him lunging at the newcomer.

“Alfie, go back—” Antonio began, but was interrupted.

“Chér?” said the French boyfriend—Francis—who did speak a little Spanish. He peeked out from the kitchen, wearing a dishevelled ponytail and a flour-dusted apron, and with his hand resting apprehensively on the shoulder of another blonde child, who wore a matching ponytail and apron in miniature.

“Nothing,” said Antonio, shooing Alfred back toward Francis. “It’s no one.”

João’s heart deflated. He deserved it, but the denial still stung. He glanced at Gilbert and Francis in meek apology, seeing suspicion in one and sympathy in the other, but neither one disobeyed Antonio’s unspoken request.

“Come, Alfred,” said Francis with faux cheer. He took Alfred’s hand and only then did Gilbert let go, like two athletes afraid to drop a baton. “These cookies won’t decorate themselves.”

João offered a small smile to the boys, who stared curiously at him until they were successfully herded back into the kitchen. Gilbert followed, but stopped and leant in the doorway with his arms crossed, friendly as a junkyard dog, and just as guarded; guarding those inside from João’s sight.

“In here,” said Antonio, jerking his head.

João stepped into a pristine office and Antonio closed the door behind him. He didn’t invite João to sit, so João didn’t. He didn’t know how long he would be staying, so, instead, he stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, looking at everything except his brother. Yet, he could feel Antonio’s hostility, and heard the snap of it as he tossed the textbook down.

“Are you in school?” João asked, seeing another textbook on the desk. Small Business for Beginners.

“Online,” said Antonio shortly. Then, because neither of them had gone to post-secondary school, he took the opportunity to gloat. “I’m buying a pub. Actually, I’m buying an old hotel that I’m going to renovate into a pub after the owner retires. I put the down payment on it last week—or, well, I signed it; Gil did the paying part. He’s a partner at his firm now. Did I mention that?” he asked rhetorically, proud as a peacock. “He’s been helping me get organized, with school and business and stuff.”

And stuff. João smiled a little, glad that Antonio had someone to help manage the and stuff for him, because Antonio’s history with his finances was—well, irresponsible was putting it nicely. Then again, the old Antonio he knew never would’ve considered going back to school, let alone opening his own business, so perhaps he really had changed for the better. Maybe this place and these people—his family—really were good for him, just like Antonio had told him two years ago in Berlin.

“That’s great, Toni. I’m happy for you,” he said, trying to look and sound sincere. Trying not to breakdown in self-pity, because his once reckless, angry, and undependable little brother—who abandoned his faith and his family for adultery and polygamy—now had his life together, with a job and children and a cute little carriage house flat by the park; and he, the older, responsible brother—the one who had always followed the rules—did not.

Now, he was the fucking mess, and it was Antonio he had come to seeking help.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” he repeated helplessly. “And, um… your kids are really cute—”

“Why are you here, João?”

João felt winded by his brother’s starkness. I deserve it. I deserve it. I deserve it. He couldn’t meet Antonio’s green gaze. João’s eyes were a shade darker, cool jade to his brother’s warm olive. His hair was darker, too, and so was his skin, if he let himself tan. Right now, though, he looked wan, almost sick. He felt sick. And he wanted—needed—someone to tell him he wasn’t. That’s why he was here.

“I’m here, because… I’m sorry,” he said, finally saying the words he had imagined for so long. “I’m sorry for what I said to you, and them—your boyfriends. I’m sorry for not listening to you, and for not trusting you. I’m sorry I walked away that day in Berlin. I didn’t know, Toni. I was stupid, and I… I wish I could take it all back. Everything with Mamá and Papá… I should’ve supported you. I should’ve listened to you, but I didn’t, and I’m sorry. I’ve been a shit brother and I won’t blame you if you don’t forgive me, if you never want to see me again. It’s what I deserve after everything I didn’t do, and should’ve done, and…

He swallowed thickly, reaching the crescendo of his confession, “I’m here, because I didn’t know where else to go. Papá threw me out. He said I… wasn’t his son anymore, and that he had no sons…” He pressed his lips together. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“João—?”

João took a deep, brave breath and finally looked his brother in the eye.

“I’m here, because I had sex with a man. And now I don’t know what to do.”

Would you like another cup of coffee?” Francis offered. His Spanish was slow, but his voice was soft in sympathy. A loose curl fell to his shoulder and his blue eyes were dark in the quiet lamplight.

He really is beautiful, João thought, and felt a stab of guilt. A month ago, he never would’ve described a man as beautiful, but when he looked up at Francis to decline the coffee, there was no word in any language more fitting for the Frenchman’s looks or soul.

“Okay, well, the coffee press is in the cupboard with the beans if you change your mind. Help yourself.”

João managed a small, grateful nod. He didn’t trust himself to speak to Francis, who was smiling so kindly at him despite the horrible way João had once treated him. Nor did it help that his face was red: his eyes and nose from crying, and his cheeks embarrassed because of it.

It was half-two in the morning, now. Alfred and Mathieu had been put to bed hours ago, both poking into the office to receive a goodnight kiss from Antonio (though, João suspected their true purpose was to stare at the sobbing stranger on the floor). He and Antonio had moved to sit in the living-room after that, and, after a hushed conversation that João was not privy to, he was given a black coffee from Francis, and permission to stay the night from Gilbert.

“I am very sorry for then. My bad words,” he said in clumsy English to Gilbert, who accepted the apology with a sugarless warning that made him feel like a scolded preschooler. He was glad when Gilbert—who had to work in the morning—finally relinquished his post and retired to bed.

“I’m so sorry for the way I treated you before,” he said in Spanish to Francis, who pulled him into a forgiving hug and shed a tear on his behalf.

“They’re nice,” he said to Antonio, now, after Francis had gone. Antonio cocked a doubtful eyebrow, so João amended: “Francis is nice. Gilbert is… well, you’re lucky he likes you. You’re lucky to have them both.”

“Yeah,” Antonio agreed, touching the ring on his finger. “I love them.”

João looked down at his own tightly steepled hands, embarrassed by his brother’s easy words, and ashamed to be embarrassed. He had admitted so many embarrassing things in the past six hours; things he had never dreamt of even thinking, let alone saying aloud.

“You had sex with a man?” Antonio had repeated, unable to hide his owlish surprise. It would’ve been funny, if João’s whole world wasn’t crashing down around him.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“More than once?”

“Yes.”

“And you liked it?”

João paused. It had been the most thrilling, the most liberating, the most incredible thing his body had ever experienced. Nothing had ever felt so good, so—right. In those fleeting moments of passion, the world had fallen away and João had been left with only his truest feelings and desires. But he certainly wasn’t going to volunteer the details of his sexual escapades to his little brother, so he simply said: “Yes, I liked it.”

How had it happened? Antonio asked. João replied: It was with a colleague on a weekend retreat. We were both fired when work found out.

Can they fire you for having sex? Yes, they can, when it’s homosexual sex at the company’s expense, and that company happens to be the Catholic Church.

Is that how Mamá and Papá found out? Yes.

How upset were they? Papá hit me.

Has anyone else hurt you? João—? I don’t want to talk about it right now, Toni.

Was it the colleague you were with? Did he hurt you? No.

Are you in love with him? No. He’s a nice person—a good person—but it was just convenient for us both.

Are you sad about losing your job? What was it you did again? I worked in Social Services. It was really hard sometimes, because I worked mostly with kids, but I liked knowing that I had, maybe, made a difference in someone’s life, even just a little bit. I’m going to miss that, but I’m not sad I got fired. I was at first, but now that I’ve had time to consider it, it wasn’t a good place. Not truly. They—we—told people how to live, and how to think, and how to be. No one should have that power.

“You’re still wearing your cross,” Antonio noticed, handing João a tissue, because he was crying again. “Do you still believe in it?”

João clutched his cross tightly. “I want to,” he said, a little desperate.

What he didn’t say was that he had spent most of the past month in-and-out of soul-crushing confessionals and kneeling at alters, praying for a cure. He had spent sleepless nights with his rosary, wondering and worrying, and worrying others when he began to lose weight. He was distracted and defensive when people inquired, and he jumped at shadows on the street at night. His mind kept circling around could and should and would and want, and the lines between what he had always believed as right and wrong began to blur, scaring him, and making him feel more lost and alone than he had ever been. He had prayed so hard for it to all go away, but it hadn’t. And he was glad it hadn’t. Even though he still had no idea what he was going to do, he finally knew how he really felt—for better or worse—and couldn’t deny how unbelievably good it was to be rid of the lie he had been living for weeks, months. Maybe even years. He wasn’t completely okay with it yet. He didn’t even know how to define it. But he had accepted it, and he was glad, now, that all of those frightened prayers had gone unanswered.

“Not all churches are like the one you worked at, you know,” said Antonio carefully. “You’ll find a new one, if that’s what you want. One with people who are as good as you—people who accept you.”

“I do want that,” João whispered in relief. “It’s just…” He sighed and put his head in his hands, suddenly very tired. “I still don’t know what to do.”

It was silent for a long time. João heard the gentle tick-tock of the folk cuckoo clock on the mantle—yeah, it’s awful, but Gil’s dad gave it to us, so we have to keep it now until he dies—then he felt the warm, reassuring weight of Antonio’s hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to do anything tonight,” he said, squeezing gently. “Or, tomorrow. You can stay here with us until you figure things out. Fran won’t mind.”

“And Gilbert?”

“Gil will do whatever we want,” Antonio grinned. “He’s a big, mushy pushover for me and Fran, and an even bigger sap for Al and Mattie. But don’t tell him that. He likes to think he’s the tough, decision-maker of the house and we let him.”

“You’re lucky,” said João for the second time, a sad smile curling his lips. As happy as he was for Antonio and his family, it only put unhappy emphasis on the fact that he was completely alone now.

“Toni,” he said quietly, barely a whisper. “…I’m scared.”

“Don’t be,” said Antonio firmly, letting the last of his resentment go, and dragging his brother into a proper, invasive, bone-crushing hug. “No one is going to hurt you here, I promise. You’re safe now, João.”

“Thank-you, Antonio,” João buried his face. He hadn’t realized how much he had needed someone to say it. “Thank-you so much.”

One night became one week, and then a month.

João moved into Mathieu’s bedroom, who moved into Alfred’s, who was smug about his new landlord status, and wrote a list of guest rules—in orange marker—that his brother must abide by for the duration of his stay. Francis apologized for the tight squeeze of the three-bedroom flat, but assured João that it was a big improvement upon the two-bedroom flat they had lived in before Gilbert’s promotion.

“No, it’s perfect, thank-you very much,” João assured him, and then apologized—again—for being a burden.

Because Francis only worked part-time, he and João spent a lot of time together between school drop-off and pick-up, shopping, cooking, and doing the house chores—sometimes watching films together; sometimes just talking for hours—and they became fast friends. João found it easy to open up to Francis, who harboured no resentment, and who didn’t seem to have a judgemental bone in his whole beautiful body. He liked that he could relax and let his walls down with Francis… even though they shot back up the moment Gilbert got home.

Fortunately, Gilbert worked long, regular hours and so he was gone for most of the day. Francis assured João that Gilbert wasn’t nearly as intimidating as he looked, and that he was, in fact, doing it on purpose to tease João, but it didn’t make João feel any less uncomfortable around him. “Shoes go in the closet. Don’t leave your hair in the sink. The bin collection is Thursday. Who drank the last of the milk? The radio’s too loud. Your voice is too quiet—don’t mumble, João, I can’t hear you.” João knew, logically, that Gilbert’s orders were only instructional, but the strict tone ensured that he always felt like a houseguest and could never fully relax in the German’s presence.

“Nah, you’ve got it all wrong, João,” laughed Antonio. “Gil wouldn’t bark at you if you were just a guest. He’s actually nice to guests. If he’s nagging at you to pick-up and follow the rules, then consider yourself officially accepted as one of the family.”

João was grateful for Antonio’s guidance, but even more so for his forgiveness. The first couple of days had been awkward between them, both trying to reconcile their shared past with separate presents. It was weird, being so tentative and reserved with your own brother, and sad, too, to see how much Antonio had changed without him. The first couple of days, João felt like he was living with a stranger, but, thankfully, it was short-lived. Despite living apart, they were too similar and knew each other’s hearts too well to remain standoffish for long. Once they found a rhythm, there was never empty silence between them. They still had the same sense of humour, the same love of football, the same taste in music, (the same size in clothes…). João hadn’t felt so free to be himself in months—maybe years. It was nice not to be editing his own words in his head before speaking, and fun getting to know this new, adult Antonio, not just as a younger brother, but, for the first time, as an actual friend. He wasn’t a stranger, and for that João was the most grateful of all.

As for Alfred and Mathieu—João adored them. The relationship was immediate and mutual and Uncle João soon found himself the new-and-exciting centre of the boys’ happy, energetic world. It was they who truly pulled him from the depths of depression; they who accepted him without question or critique; and they who unknowingly filled the empty chambers of his heart. There was simply no time to be sad or self-loathing with Alfred and Mathieu vying for his attention. The day Antonio got João a job bartending with him was the day Alfred learnt the phrase: “I object!” because João would no longer be there to play after school. He felt guilty for leaving them every day, but he couldn’t deny how good it felt—how heartwarming—to know he was wanted at home.

The other thing he owed to Alfred and Mathieu was his English, which had greatly improved over the mouth.

At first, Alfred and Mathieu had been quick to accommodate João, jumping at the relatively rare opportunity to speak to someone in their second and third languages:

“Papi teaches us talk Spanish!” Alfred had stated proudly.

João cocked a bemused eyebrow at his brother. Antonio only shrugged, and said: “We’re still working on it.”

Alfred’s Spanish wasn’t nearly as bad as Mathieu’s, though, who, every time, said polla instead of pollo. (“Do not let him talk to people until he gets that right,” Antonio warned his boyfriends.) However, whatever skills Mathieu lacked in Spanish he made up for in French, and it was common to hear Francis and Mathieu conversing exclusively in French as if neither had ever spoken anything else.

(Gilbert had briefly tried to introduce German, but since no one else spoke it, it was much harder to practice. Mathieu had learnt a little by mimicking Gilbert, but nothing appropriate for polite conversation. After being told not to repeat what Vati said on the telephone, he was taught bitte, danke, and a few sweet endearments, but that was it.)

João was charmed and relieved—again—that communication was never a problem in the house, but, after a couple of days, he tried to speak to Alfred and Mathieu exclusively in English, and only reverted to Spanish or French if he absolutely needed to. Antonio made fun of him for helping the boys with their homework—the boys had to help him more often than not—but João took it in good-humour, because doing primary level exercises really did help his understanding of how the blasted language worked. By the time he went to work with Antonio, his spoken English was complete enough for even the most inebriated patrons to understand, especially when accompanied by gestures, and Antonio’s hostile shout of: “Get the fuck out!”

João was very content living with his brother’s family. It wasn’t as large as his parents’ house, but nor was it plastered in accusatory religious portraits, or steeped in traditional values. The weight of responsibility and propriety was crushing in his childhood home, where there was no tolerance for divergence. Get married! Have children! Serve God! said his parents, and his grandparents, and his work, and church, and—well, João didn’t really have friends. Or rather, he had never had friends of his own choosing. The people he knew were all connected through the incestuous threads of the church congregation, introduced by their parents and parents’ parents, and expected to maintain those familial alliances whether they liked each other or not. João had known and tolerated most of them since childhood, but there had never been anyone he truly called friend.

Now, Antonio was his friend. Francis was his friend. Gilbert was… still his friends’ boyfriend, but it wasn’t so bad. João had a job he liked—bartending was an entirely different kind of counselling, he discovered—where he got to meet new and eclectic people every day, and, soon, he and Antonio would begin work on the pub. But the best part was simply coming home each night, where he was greeted with smiling faces, playful children, and food on the table.

The days passed. One month became two, and then three. And João was happy. It was enough just to be accepted; to be himself. He didn’t need anything more than that.

Or, he thought he didn’t—until he met Arthur Kirkland.

Chapter 6: Arthur

Summary:

Arthur Kirkland is anything but happy when he's forced to go on holiday with his ex-husband's new family to the "happiest place on earth". But it's there, halfway across the world, that he finds something he doesn't expect: a new perspective (and the very charming, very handsome man who helps him see it.)

Notes:

Better late than never, right? n_n"

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Scott's laughter roared in Arthur’s ear. He held the mobile at arm’s length and waited for it to stop.

“So, basically…” said the Scotsman in mocking delight, “…you agreed to spend a whole week at Disney World in fucking Florida with your ex-husband and his new partners.”

“I assure you, it wasn’t my choice,” said Arthur irritably. “It’s for the boys’ birthday.”

“You’re a fucking moron.”

Rather than give his sadistic older brother the satisfaction of knowing that Arthur agreed with him; that the whole situation was his worst nightmare made real; and that the mere thought of it provoked the same sick feelings of crushing shame and inadequacy he had numbed with prescription drugs for the past four years, he defended himself in the only way he knew how: he attacked.

“Listen, you fucktard man-whore, I didn’t ask for your sodding opinion, I asked you to pet-sit for a week, or do I need to use smaller words you fuckwit Neanderthal?”

“Calm your tits, Art, I’ll do it. Wouldn’t want you preoccupied while playing princess with—”

“Scott, I swear to fucking God.”

Scott chuckled. “How did this even happen, anyway?”

EARLIER

You promised them what—?!”

Arthur glared across the dining table at Antonio, who crossed his arms and glared defensively back.

“We promised them Disney World for their birthday,” he argued. “We all agreed on it, so that’s what I told them.”

“No, we promised them Disney Land,” Arthur corrected.

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference, you dimwit, is that Disney Land is in Paris; Disney World is in fucking Florida!”

“Enough!” yelled Gilbert, slamming his hand down between them. The whole table shook and the silverware rattled. Arthur flinched. “It’s done,” he said. “We’ll just have to tell them that Toni made a mistake.”

“Tell two six-year-olds that they can’t go to Disney World? That’ll go over well,” Antonio scoffed.

“They’ll just have to deal with it,” said Gilbert sternly. “And realize that they can’t always have whatever they want.”

“Pft!” said Antonio, and for once Arthur agreed. “You’re the worst one, Gil. We’re lucky they asked for Disney World and not a fucking helicopter.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gilbert grumbled, even as his ears tinged pink.

“I think we’re making a bigger deal of this than it needs to be,” said Francis, returning from the kitchen with a coffee service and tea for Arthur. (Black tea prepared exactly the way he liked it, he realized with a twinge.) “What’s wrong with Florida?”

“Repeat that back to yourself,” Antonio deadpanned.

“No, no, I’m serious,” Francis pressed, taking the vacant seat beside Arthur. “I’m not working right now, Gil still has four weeks of vacation to use, and Toni can have João manage the pub while he’s gone. And Arthur,” he said in afterthought, “is self-employed. It’s not like we can’t afford it.”

“We can afford it?” said Gilbert sarcastically.

Arthur wondered if he ever felt resentful for being the family’s primary bread-winner—Antonio’s income was pocket-change in comparison—who paid for everything from rent to groceries to Francis’ expensive taste in skin-care products. And now flights to Florida, as well. (He had even offered to split the cost of Alfred and Mathieu’s schooling, but Arthur had refused.) He wondered if Gilbert ever got sick of going to work day-after-day while his partners played bartender and house-husband. They probably make up for it in the bedroom, he thought cynically, then glanced over at Francis and wished he hadn’t. His stomach twisted and he took a sip of tea.

“It would be nice to actually go away on holiday for once, wouldn’t it?” Francis was saying.

“My idea of a holiday is not a queue of kids in the blistering heat screaming for Snow White,” said Gilbert.

“At least they serve alcohol,” Antonio put in. “The staff, not the kids.”

“So, we’re in agreement? Alfred and Mathieu are so excited about it,” Francis pressed, “I’d hate to disappoint them. They’ve been making a list of all the things they want to do and those things are only in Florida. It’s so cute.”

“And expensive,” Gilbert muttered. Antonio patted his hand.

“Arthur—?”

Arthur looked from Francis’ hopeful face to Gilbert’s resignation and Antonio’s thinly-veiled belligerence. It had been two years since the threesome had moved to London. Two years since they’d become a permanent fixture in Arthur’s life, because of his boys. It was all for his boys, without whom Arthur would’ve succumb to his demons a long time ago. This trip was for his boys, too, and yet… How was he supposed to pretend that nothing was wrong with him going on holiday with his ex-husband’s new family? How was he supposed to smile for his boys when just being near Francis made his heart ache? How was he supposed to spend a week in close quarters with the men who had ruined his life? There weren’t enough anti-depressants in the world.

“No,” he said, standing up. “You take the boys to Disney World. They’ll love it. I’ll celebrate with them when they get back.”

“But Arthur—” said Francis. He stood and reached for Arthur, but Arthur deliberately stepped back.

“I’m not going to fucking Florida.”

PRESENT

Fight 2066 to Orlando International Airport will depart in thirty minutes. All passengers for Flight 2066 please proceed to Gate 70 for boarding.”

“I’ve changed my mind. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. M-Maybe we should j-j-just go home… t-t-take a cruise ship to Florida instead…”

Antonio caught Francis’ forearm before the Frenchman could dash for the nearest exit. His face was pale and his blue eyes were wide and fearful. His gaze darted from his luggage to the airplane through the window, crushing his boarding-pass in a white-knuckled hand. Arthur saw the tightness in his jaw and the circles under his eyes and knew without being told that Francis had been up all night. He saw Antonio rub his hand until he could pry the boarding-pass free.

“Cariño,” he said gently, “you’re panicking. You need to calm down, okay? It’s a safe flight. There’s no need to worry.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. Telling someone with a crippling fear of flying to calm down was akin to telling a child there was no monster under his bed. He might let you soothe him into a false sense of security, but it didn’t make the fear go away. Antonio could coo and coax Francis for the next nine hours, but it wouldn’t do either of them any good. Nor would the sugar that João was buying for Alfred and Mathieu in the form of bagged sweets and juice at the kiosk nearby, while Gilbert wheeled four cases of luggage into the boarding queue.

(The boys had been aghast when told that João wouldn’t be joining them at Disney World. “Don’t you want to have our birthday with us, Uncle João?” they asked him with pouting lips and puppy-dog eyes. João hadn’t stood a chance—nor had Gilbert’s pocketbook—and a seventh flight and third hotel room were booked.)

“Fran—”

“Non,” said Francis, blue eyes begging. “Non, s’il te plait…”

“Papa, what’s wrong?”

“Papa’s fine,” Arthur quickly interjected. The last thing he wanted was Alfred and Mathieu adopting Francis’ phobia. Instead, he redirected them into the queue and onto the airplane, while Gilbert and Antonio half-carried, half-dragged a sandwiched Francis between them. Arthur almost felt bad when Francis was forced to release his strangle-hold on them to take an aisle seat next to Arthur, who sat in the middle so that Alfred could have the window. What he did, instead, was scoff when Antonio reached across the narrow aisle from the adjacent bank of seats, took Francis’ hand, and cooed something soft in Spanish. Francis clutched Antonio’s hand until the flight attendants told them to stop obstructing the aisle and thereafter worried sweaty palms against his trousers. Alfred crowed in delight when the airplane lifted, but Arthur’s smile for him was brief. Shoulder-to-shoulder, he could feel the tension in Francis’ body; see that his eyes were squeezed shut and his face was as pallid as his bloodless knuckles. His hands were shaking.

Subtly, Arthur glanced across the aisle. Gilbert was leaning over Mathieu’s shoulder to share the window’s view, and João was talking to Antonio about the in-flight menu. Arthur caught João’s gaze, but only for a split-second. When no one else looked over, Arthur fortified himself and took Francis’ hand.

Immediately following the spontaneous stupidity of touching one’s ex-husband without permission, Arthur didn’t breathe. Then, suddenly, Francis’ hands were closed around his like a clam shell snapped shut, squeezing hard enough to make the Englishman wince.

“Excuse me,” said Arthur to the stewardess, “I’d like a gin and tonic, please.”

“Of course, sir.”

As soon as she was gone, Francis pierced him with an appalled glare. “Are you serious? I’m having a fucking panic-attack and you’re going to drink instead of watching our children?”

“It’s not for me, it’s for you. Take one of these,” Arthur instructed, producing a packet of anti-anxiety pills, “wash it down with this”—accepting the drink—“and you won’t feel a thing until we land.”

Francis eyed the drug-laced-alcohol dubiously.

Arthur sighed. “I know you don’t like taking medication, but—”

The airplane lurched with turbulence.

“Fuck it,” said Francis, and downed the glass.

Francis slept deeply if not comfortably for the remainder of the flight, with his head lilting to the side until it finally came to rest on Arthur’s shoulder. Alfred, too, fell asleep after the initial thrill of being airborne petered into a monotonous commute, and curled-up in his seat with his head pillowed on his father’s lap. Arthur, who couldn’t sleep on moving vehicles, much less in public, resigned himself to immobility and in-flight entertainment and took petty satisfaction in seeing that Gilbert suffered the same between Antonio and Mathieu.

I could be in First Class right now, he lamented. He, Alfred, and Mathieu could all be in First Class, if not for the boys misunderstanding that everyone holidaying together meant that everyone was getting along, and Arthur—despite being the conflagration factor—didn’t want to be the one to ruin it. He wanted to prove to them, to his brother, to himself that he could do this. He could spend a week with his ex-husband and survive.

Francis was still passed-out when they landed in Orlando and had to be shaken into drowsy consciousness.

“Wha—?” His gaze was cloudy and he could barely lift his head. Arthur had to push while Gilbert pulled him up.

“That was lovely, wasn’t it?” he said drunkenly, leaning all of his weight against Gilbert. “Thank-you for such a wonderful flight,” he said to the stewardess as they passed. “You’ve all done a terrific job at your jobs and I—” He grabbed the entrance as Gilbert tried to pull him out. “—I really like your uniforms!”

By the time they reached the arrival’s lounge, Gilbert had given up dragging and simply hoisted Francis into his arms, leaving Antonio and João with the luggage. Francis’ bedraggled head lolled from side-to-side and his hands grabbed limply at everything and everyone they passed, talking nonstop: “What a beautiful airport this is. What a beautiful Florida. I like your hat, mademoiselle. Oh look, oranges! And Disney World! But it’s just a picture. I’m going to real Disney World with my sons and my boyfriends and my ex-husband,” he told no one and everyone.

“I’m buying him coffee,” said Arthur, partially in annoyance and partially in embarrassment.

Arthur bought Francis a coffee—low-fat soy milk, no sugar—while they waited for their car rental to be ready. Car rental: singular. (Arthur was already regretting not booking a car for himself, but it should be fine as long as he or Gilbert did the driving. If Antonio or Francis got anywhere near the steering-wheel, Arthur would jump out and walk.)

“Where are the boys?” he asked, handing Gilbert—not Francis—the coffee. (Francis’s eyes were closed and he was humming to himself.)

“Toni and João took them to get something to eat,” Gilbert said.

“What, now? We’re going to the hotel, we’ll eat there.”

Gilbert shrugged unhelpfully. Arthur huffed and turned on his heel.

He found his quarry browsing a kiosk by the gift shop. Alfred had a handful of potato chips and Mathieu a handful of chocolate and Arthur was about to march over and rain all over their junk-food parade, but João beat him to it.

“No,” he said, extending his hands. “We’re leaving for the hotel soon, we’ll have supper there. You can each choose one snack. Toni, that means you, too.”

“But—” argued Alfred.

“No buts.”

“Ha, butts,” said Antonio, making the boys giggle as they surrendered their spoils.

Arthur watched, impressed, as João guided the boys—and Antonio—to a shelf of healthier snack options and manipulated them into being happy about it.

By the time they reached the hotel—Gilbert drove, thank sodding St. George—it was nearly nine o’clock, and by the time they finished eating it was almost ten. Francis and Co. bid the boys goodnight, then disappeared into their room, leaving Arthur to wrangle two excited six-year-olds into bed. The boys were sharing a room connected to their father’s by a door that Arthur left open as he slipped through it on tip-toes so as not to wake them. He took one look at his own empty hotel room, perfectly pristine and unoccupied, and face-planted on the bed.

Day one…

Arthur’s wake-up call came at seven o’clock the next morning, in the form of: “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Disney World! Disney World! Disney World!”

“Uh huh…” he groaned blearily as he peeled open his eyes to find Mathieu staring starry-eyed at him, while Alfred helpfully pulled open the curtains to let the bright, piercing sunlight in.

Fortunately, Gilbert was an even earlier riser than two six-year-olds on holiday. He had already been to the hotel gym, showered, dressed, and was walking down to breakfast, so Arthur all but shoved the bouncing boys at him, then locked the door and dragged himself into the shower.

By the time he arrived at breakfast, Gilbert and the boys were long gone, but João was at a table alone with a coffee and a half-eaten plate of an ‘All-American Breakfast!’. Arthur briefly wondered what made toast and sausage exclusively American, but didn’t have the energy to argue with the hotel staff. Instead, he had an internal argument with himself about where to sit. He didn’t really know João and didn’t want to spend any more time with Francis’ household than necessary, but—Oh, great. João had seen him and was waving him over. Now, it would be incredibly rude to refuse.

“Good morning, Arthur,” he said through a smile and the adorably thick accent of a newcomer to English.

Arthur offered a self-conscious smile in reply as he sat down. A part of him wished that João would continue to scroll through his mobile, as he had been before, but the Portuguese man immediately put it away and gave Arthur his full attention.

“So,” he said, smile still firmly in place as he regarded his plate, “what do you think makes toast and sausage so American!?”

Arthur couldn’t help it, he laughed, and they fell into casual conversation after that. João turned out to be a remarkably easy person to talk to (and even easier to look at). By the end of the meal, Arthur felt guilty for villainizing him by proxy.

“João, I’m sorry that I’ve been a bit… um… unapproachable in the past, and I just wanted to, um…”

The apology got stuck in Arthur’s throat as they left the dining-room, but João only smiled.

“I understand,” he said kindly. “If I had come home to find a strange man alone with my children, I’d have been a bit apprehensive, too.”

Arthur shook his head. “I still can’t believe it took you living with them for three months before they told me. If they had just told me you’d be babysitting that day—”

“Ah, but that would’ve required you actually talking to each other,” João teased.

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. In truth, he’d known almost immediately who João must be, if not in name then in looks, because he and Antonio looked so much alike, it gave Arthur whiplash. But he’d still resented the fact that he hadn’t been informed of João’s moving-in and had regarded him with cool indifference ever since. He didn’t want to let himself get any closer to Francis’ new family then he had to, no matter how much the boys loved Uncle João, nor how—ahem—attractive Uncle João was. Much better-looking than Antonio upon second-glance. His hair was longer and his eyes were a darker green. In fact, if Arthur really looked at João’s height and skin-tone and handsome smile, he really didn’t look that much like his younger brother who was Arthur’s sworn nemesis…

“You might want to apply sunblock before we go to the park, Arthur. You’re already looking a bit pink.”

“Oh! Ha, ha… I… yes, I will. Thank-you.”

At nine o’clock, everyone assembled in the lobby to catch the shuttle to the park: the boys bouncing, Francis and Antonio chatting, and Gilbert—

“Oh, dear Lord. What in the Queen’s bloody bloomers are you wearing?”

“What?”

“We’re going to Disney World, not Mount Everest,” said Arthur, pointing at Gilbert’s backpack. “You’re really not doing much to dispel the German Tourist stereotype, you know.”

“Fuck you. Where else are you going to put all your crap?” Gilbert grumbled, adjusting the straps. “I’m being practical. You don’t think we’re going to buy anything for the kids?”

“Well, no… we are, but—”

“You want to carry it?”

“No. But that already looks full. What have you got in there?”

“Water, sunblock, aspirin, Toni and Fran’s wallets—”

“Wait, why aren’t they carrying their own wallets?”

Gilbert shrugged, as if it was obvious. “Because Toni will buy shit no one needs or asked for, and Fran’s outfit doesn’t have pockets and he refuses to carry a bag that—and I quote—clashes.”

“Of course,” said Arthur, glancing at Francis, who dressed like a catalogue model, even to a children’s theme park. “Well, I can carry my own stuff, thank-you very much.”

Gilbert snorted. “Yeah, right. I give you half-an-hour, noodle-arms.”

Arthur would have retaliated, but it was then that the shuttle arrived and their day at Disney World began.

How come Alfred doesn’t have to wear sunblock?” Mathieu complained as Arthur reapplied it for the third time.

“Because Alfred has Papa’s complexion and you, my little snowball, inherited the consumptive pallor of your redheaded uncles. I’m sorry.”

After doing his own cheeks and arms, Arthur tossed the sunblock bottle to Gilbert, who sighed in resignation and got to work on his own milk-white skin, while golden Francis waited patiently, and suntanned Antonio insisted that: “Sunblock is for the weak.” That’s when João said: “I have an idea.”

Fifteen minutes later, he had let Alfred choose hats for everyone from a colourful street cart.

“I get the crown, ‘cause I’m the king!” he declared, placing a plastic yellow crown upon his little yellow head. For Mathieu he chose a fluffy hairband with fluffy white cat ears, Gilbert was given a cowboy hat, Antonio a big pair of copyrighted mouse ears, Francis a red-and-white silk bow, Arthur a deerstalker, and João a pirate hat. Nobody asked questions and nobody dared not put them on. The only switch came later, while they were waiting in a long queue in the blistering sun, when João traded his floppy pirate hat for Mathieu’s cat ears to shade the child’s poor face.

By three o’clock in the afternoon, however, Gilbert was pretty much—almost literally—cooked.

“July,” he panted, wiping his brow. “Who’s idea was it to come to fucking Florida in July?”

“It’s the boys’ birthday, remember?”

Gilbert sighed in defeat. “I’m taking Mattie to get ice-cream.”

“That’s a toy shop,” said Arthur.

“Then I’m taking Mattie to get a toy.”

“You just want to stand in the air-conditioning, don’t you?”

“Fuck-off,” said Gilbert.

As soon as the word toy was spoken aloud, Alfred raced his brother into the store and their parade of parents followed, grateful for the reprieve. It was crowded, like everywhere else, so the group decided to wait at a table by the entrance while the twins explored the many shelves. Things were said, opinions given, and toys critiqued, until Gilbert finally threw up his hands.

“Okay, what is wrong with Snow White? She’s a classic!”

“I don’t know…” Antonio bobbed his head indecisively, “don’t you think she’s a little old-fashion?”

“The film’s from 1937. Of course she’s old-fashion, but what’s wrong with that? The message is timeless.”

“That being—?”

“Oh, come on! Everyone she meets becomes a better person just by knowing her and experiencing the pure goodness of her goddamn heart! She’s a motherfucking sweetheart!”

“Ahem!” said a nearby store clerk.

“Sorry,” said Gilbert.

“Yeah, but her prince doesn’t do much,” Antonio argued. “What moral is there in him?”

“Not do much? How dare you,” said Gilbert, affronted. “When she goes missing, he spends all of his time searching the kingdom for her. That’s sweet as hell, come on!”

“What? When does that happen?”

“It’s in the part you have to read,” said Francis.

“Ah. That’s why I don’t remember it,” said Antonio.

“I always liked Prince Phillip,” put in Arthur. “He played an equal role in the story.”

“Prince Phillip is a knob,” said Antonio. Dude doesn’t do shit, except get himself captured. The fairies are the real MVPs of that film.”

“Prince Phillip waits for a hundred years to be reunited with his soulmate,” Arthur argued. “How is that not romantic?”

“Doesn’t he get blinded by roses?”

“Nah, that’s Rapunzel,” said Gilbert.

“Huh. Okay, but do you know who’s kind of hot? Aladdin,” said Antonio.

“The guy with no nipples?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay—” said Arthur with a self-deprecating gesture, “—royalty might be a little out of my league, but I think I can do better than a homeless man.”

“Elitist prick,” said Antonio.

Arthur rolled his eyes.

Francis said: “My favourite is Prince Charming. I mean, it’s right there in the title, isn’t it? Charming.”

“The guy’s got, like, one line in the whole film. Your favourite is Prince Charming’s outfit,” Gilbert teased, to which Francis merely shrugged.

“I could absolutely pull of a white jacket with gold trim.”

“How about a sparkly white dress?” Antonio elbowed his boyfriend in the ribs.

Francis smiled primly. “I could pull that off, too.”

“You’re all circling the obvious, you know,” João finally spoke.

“Which is—?”

“That Prince Eric is the closest thing Disney’s ever given us to a gay prince.”

“What?” Antonio laughed. “Why do you think that?”

João gave his brother a patronizing look. “Well, he’s a sailor, a musician, and he’d rather marry a fish than a woman. If that’s not closet-gay, I don’t know what is.”

The others considered for a moment, then nodded in unanimous agreement.

After a junior art studio lesson—which Mathieu and Francis loved, but which Alfred and Gilbert had no patience for—and a scavenger-hunt through Cinderella’s castle—which Antonio got way too competitive with (“not today, Timmy! The prize is mine!”), day two ended at a crowded light parade on Disney’s Main Street that Arthur couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for. Fortunately, he was neither the tallest nor strongest member of the group, so he didn’t have to hoist either child onto his shoulders to watch.

“Hey, we’re going to get a drink before heading up. Do you want to join us?” João asked back at the hotel.

“No—thank-you, though,” Arthur added. “I’ve got a bit of a headache. I’m just going to go to bed.”

“Really? I mean, it’s your vacation, too. You should enjoy it.”

Arthur’s smile was wan. He glanced at the happy threesome and shook his head. “They don’t want me there, João. Goodnight.”

Wow! Papa, look! Gator World!” cried Alfred, his nose pressed to the shuttle window. “Can we go to Gator World?!”

“Disney World, Alfred. We’re here for Disney World.”

“But gators—!”

“No,” said Arthur, already rubbing his temples.

“Vati, I don’t want to go to Gator World,” said Mathieu quietly.

Gilbert pat the child’s curly head. “No one does, baby.”

Day three at Disney World began with the hot sun and long queues, much the same as day two had, however, it was as they were submitting a purchase form that one of the store clerk’s frowned.

“Err… I think I have to report this,” he said awkwardly.

Antonio frowned. “Huh? Report what?”

“Sir, you’re going to have to wait over there.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Francis.

Antonio shrugged. “I have no idea. Something’s wrong with my passport, I guess.”

Arthur did his best to keep the boys distracted, but when Disney World security arrived, he couldn’t prevent Alfred taking immediate interest.

“Is Papi being arrested?” he asked in delight.

“He’d better not be,” Arthur glared at Antonio. “What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing! I don’t even—”

“Sir, if you could come with us, we need to ask you a few questions.”

“Oh, for the love of God,” muttered Arthur.

“Uh, Gil—?!” called Antonio, dodging the security.

“I’m coming, schatzi—”

“No, wait.” Francis grabbed Gilbert’s arm to prevent him going. Instead, he said: “Arthur, you go.”

“What?!” said Arthur and Antonio in unison.

Francis ignored the outburst. Leaning in, he told Arthur: “Gil’s got too much of a temper. He’ll get himself arrested. Besides, you’re better at the legal stuff. And you’re the right kind of foreign.”

Arthur frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means we’re in Florida and you’re a Caucasian Englishman.”

“Ugh, fine,” Arthur huffed. To the boys, he said: “Papa’s going to take you for lunch, now, loves. Antonio and I will meet you in a bit, okay?”

Arthur and Antonio were led into a private room, where both were offered chairs across from a stern-looking man with Donald Duck on his security shirt.

“If I may, we’re not sure what this is about,” Arthur began, but was undermined by Antonio’s panicked shout of:

“I’m innocent! Whatever you think I did, I didn’t! I’ve never even been to Florida before!”

Arthur cut him a glare. The security officer said: “Oh, really? You’ve never been here before, Mr. Fernández? Then why are you on a No-Fly list?”

“It’s a mistake, it has to be,” Antonio argued. “I left London just fine. And it’s Fernández Carriedo.”

“Antonio Fernández, born in Cartagena?”

“Yeah, but—”

“You’re on a No-Fly list,” the officer insisted. “I need to call the authorities.”

When the officer produced a pair of handcuffs, Antonio’s pleading eyes went to Arthur. I know you hate me, but please help! Think of the kids!

Arthur took pity on him. “Excuse me,” he said politely. “There is an Antonio Fernández on a No-Fly list from Cartagena? Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Would that be Cartagena, Colombia by chance?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not me!” Antonio leapt up. “I’m from Catalonia! Spain!”

“Spain…” the officer repeated dubiously. He still held the handcuffs, but paused. “And you’re travelling with a man from France, a man from Germany, and a man from England?”

“Yeah?”

“Hmm, seems suspicious.”

“It’s really not,” said Arthur. “It’s just Europe.”

“It seems you’ve done a lot of international travelling, Mr. Fernández.”

“Fernández Carriedo,” Antonio emphasized. “It’s a really common name. And yeah, I’ve travelled,” he added when the officer narrowed his eyes. “There’s this thing you might’ve heard of called the EU—?”

“Don’t sass me, boy.” The handcuffs disappeared and a photograph materialized. The officer glanced from it to Antonio and back. “This isn’t you?”

“No.”

“I don’t know, it kind of looks like you.”

“That man has a mustache and brown eyes!”

“Hmm. Still could be you. Have either of you seen this man?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, because I’m not Colombian!”

“Your passport says you were born in Cartagena.”

“Cartagena, Spain! I was born in Cartagena and moved to Catalonia, both of them in Spain! SPAIN!"

“Antonio,” said Arthur quietly. He put a hand on the Spaniard’s arm and pulled him back into his seat. “Sir, if I could make a quick call on behalf of my… friend… I assure you, we can put this misunderstanding behind us.”

Fifteen minutes later, Arthur and Antonio emerged into the sunlight.

“So, uh… thanks,” said Antonio awkwardly. “For a minute there, I thought you might actually leave me.”

Arthur stopped and stared back at him, direct, and a little wounded. “Is that really what you think of me? No, I don’t like you, Antonio. No, we’re not friends. But do you really think I would actually hurt you?”

Antonio shrugged. “You’ve never given me a reason not to think that.”

“Well… I wouldn’t.”

“Okay.” Pause. “I don’t actually think you’re a monster, you know.”

“Pft, right.”

“I don’t,” Antonio insisted, catching-up when Arthur started walking. “I mean, I don’t like you either. You’re a total prick, but… Remember last Christmas Eve? You took the boys to your studio and let them record a Christmas album to give to us as a gift. At first I thought it was cruel and unusual punishment, because… yikes.” He made a face; Arthur had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “But it was also fucking adorable, Arthur. The man who does things like that isn’t a monster.”

Arthur swallowed, nodded mutely. Then said: “Come on, everyone’s waiting for us.”

That night, Arthur answered a knock at his door to find Francis standing on the other side.

“Oh. Did I forget something, or—”

“Merci,” said the Frenchmen earnestly. Then he leant in and kissed Arthur’s cheek. “For saving my Antonio. Thank-you so much.”

“Oh.”

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

“Yeah… goodnight.”

Day four at Disney World saw Gilbert and Antonio dodging prams as they raced excitedly through the crowd to reach the biggest, fastest rollercoasters the park had to offer. When asked to join, Arthur had declined along with João and Francis; the former because the boys were too young for rollercoasters, and the later because he was terrified of them.

“I’m keeping my feet planted firmly on earth until it’s time to fly home,” Francis said with a shudder.

“Suit yourselves!” called Gilbert, gleefully tugging Antonio along. “We’ll meet up with you guys later!”

(“Hey, if you get scared, you can hold onto me, schatzi. I’ll protect you.” — “Me, scared? Ha! Dare to dream, cariño.”)

“I want to ride a rollercoaster, too!” insisted Alfred, so they walked around the park until they found an age-appropriate thrill ride. However, at the queue’s entrance they came upon a sign that said: You must be this tall to ride. Alfred—being the taller twin—just made it to the line, but little Mathieu did not.

“Hold on, I can fix this,” said João, who was going to ride with them.

Arthur frowned in confusion at first, then laughed when Uncle João yanked the tie out of his own hair, then piled Mathieu’s hair up and secured it into a curly topknot.

“There! Now, you’re tall enough, Mattie. Right—?” said João to the ride operator, who merely rolled his eyes and waved them in.

Arthur was still smiling as he and Francis made their way to the exit to await the inevitable shrieks of joy and terror.

“I expect they’ll be in there a while.” Arthur consulted his mobile. “That queue’s going to take at least forty-five minutes.”

“Coffee?” Francis suggested.

So, they got a soy latté and a frothy iced-coffee and claimed an unoccupied bench in the shade the second the previous guests vacated it.

“This is nice, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Francis agreed. “The boys are having so much fun.”

“It’s nice that the four of us can be here together. It’s been a long time, not since the boys were babies.”

“Yes.”

Arthur took a sip of coffee to steady his nerves. He waited, his heart hammering. Then he took a chance.

“Do you remember when we took them to Hyde Park? It wasn’t long after they were born and we were both so exhausted. I don’t think either of us had slept for a month. We were walking back home from—God, I don’t even remember where, but the weather was perfect, so we decided to sit in the park and—”

“All four of us fell asleep. Not just a cat-nap, but deep, snoring sleep,” Francis chuckled. “I remember.”

“It’s one of my favourite memories.”

“Mm.”

“We were happy then, weren’t we?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think…” Arthur’s hand inched closer to Francis’ on the bench, “we’ll ever be happy like that again?”

“Arthur,” said Francis, removing his hand, “what are you doing?”

Francis’ tone was not accusatory, but Arthur’s insides still shrivelled at the rejection.

“It… could be like that again… maybe?”

“No, it can’t.”

“It could be, if we just—”

“Arthur,” Francis repeated. He stood. “This is not the time or place for this conversation.”

Arthur stood, too. “It’s the only time I’ve got. It’s the first time we’ve been alone together in years, Francis. The first chance I’ve had without your bloody bodyguards growling at me. Please, just—think about it.”

“There’s nothing to—”

“I still love you. And I know you love me, too.”

Francis pursed his lips, jewel-blue eyes going glassy. “Arthur, I will always love you, but I’m not in love with you anymore.”

“But you’re in love with them? What’s the fucking difference?”

Francis glanced nervously from side-to-side. He shook his head. “I’ll always cherish what we had, Arthur. I’ll always care about you, and you’ll always be a part of my family because of the boys, but the way I love you is different. It’s not romantic love.”

“It was once, before you left.”

“Don’t.” Francis’ eyelashes were wet, now. “Don’t do that, it’s not fair.”

“Not fair was you leaving us.”

Francis opened his mouth to speak, but lost his nerve. Instead, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t…”

“Fine, go then!” Arthur called as Francis retreated. “Run away again! You’re good at that!

“Fuck!” he cursed, sinking down onto the bench with his head in his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt tears press at the corners, felt the heartache pumping in his chest.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

Arthur’s head snapped up. He wiped his face. He plastered on a smile. “Did you have fun, my darlings?”

“It was awesome!” squeaked Alfred. “Uncle João barfed in a trashcan!”

Arthur looked at João, who gave a sheepish shrug. But it was only a moment before his expression changed to confusion, then sympathy and Arthur quickly looked away.

Mathieu said: “Where’s Papa?”

Arthur swallowed the rejection, the grief, the loss, the heartache, and his voice only cracked a little when he said: “Papa went back to Gilbert and Antonio.”

That night, Arthur sat alone at the hotel pool, his legs dangling in the water. It was after midnight, so he was surprised when someone sat down beside him.

“Do you want to talk?” asked João.

Arthur could’ve—maybe should’ve—feigned pleasantries to be polite, but he didn’t. “No.”

“Okay. I’m just going to sit here with you, then.”

So, they sat in silence, which should’ve been uncomfortable but wasn’t. The breeze whispered warmly across their skin and crickets chirped in the grass. João kicked his feet in the water, making drops jump and plop in patterns across the surface. Arthur didn’t realize he was slowly kicking his legs as well, until João’s foot bumped his beneath the surface. Arthur bumped him back and João kicked a playful spray in retaliation.

“You know,” said João, glancing cautiously sideways, “you’re a lot kinder than I thought you’d be.”

“What? You mean Antonio hasn’t been singing my praises?”

João smiled in apology. “Toni can be stubborn—”

“He hates me. And the feeling is mutual. Me doing one nice thing for him isn’t going to change that.”

João nodded thoughtfully, then asked: “Do you truly hate him? Or, do you just hate what he did?”

Arthur looked down at the rippling water and his distorted legs beneath it. He said: “Do you know what it’s like to walk in on some stranger fucking your husband in the middle of your living-room while your babies sleep in the next room?”

“No,” João admitted.

“It doesn’t feel good. So, yeah. I’m pretty sure I hate him.”

“What did you do? When you found them like that… what did you say?”

“Nothing. I turned around and walked out. Francis tried to stop me, tried to explain, but…” Arthur shook his head. “He wasn’t mine anymore.”

“That’s incredible, Arthur.”

Arthur frowned.

João said: “To have that much self-control, that’s incredible. I don’t know many men who could’ve walked away from something like that.”

“Sometimes I think I shouldn’t have. Sometimes I think I was supposed to stay and fight for him; that maybe that’s what Francis wanted from me all along and Antonio was some kind of test that I failed. If I had made an effort, if I hadn’t left, then maybe…”

“Toni wasn’t a test, Arthur, and I think you know that.”

“It still hurt, though, seeing them like that. For so long I couldn’t even think of them without seeing it.”

“Not in a sexy way, I guess.”

“No. More like, I was secretly writing both of their eulogies way.”

“Arthur, can I ask you a personal question? You don’t have to answer, but… If Francis hadn’t cheated on you, would you have divorced him?”

Arthur felt it in his threaded fingertips, in the corners of his eyes, in the pit of his aching heart. “…no.”

“You divorced him because you were angry at him, not because you stopped loving him.”

Arthur didn’t answer.

João sighed and leant back on his elbows. To the night sky, he said: “He’s happy with them, you know.”

“He was happy with me first. He was mine first,” said Arthur, hating the envy that poisoned every word. “We weren’t perfect, we disagreed, we fought, but there was never a moment I didn’t love him. I never cheated on him. I never betrayed his trust. And he left us. He left me and our children for them. How am I supposed to forget something like that?”

“No one is asking you to forget it. They’re asking you to forgive.”

Arthur swallowed his misery and wiped his weeping eyes. “Thanks,” he said flippantly, “but I’ve already got a therapist.”

“What about a friend?”

It was so sincere, it gave Arthur pause. He looked at João, who was looking back at him with a gentle smile.

“No,” said Arthur softly. “Can’t say I have any of those.”

“Well…” João stood and offered Arthur his hand, “…now you do.”

There was no hesitation, no second-thought, no fear. Arthur took João’s hand and let the other man pull him up, support his weight, be his strength.

“Thank-you,” he said, and meant it. “I’ve felt like such a fool for coming here, and… I shouldn’t have come. I know that, now. I don’t know what I expected, but—”

“I’m glad you’re here,” João interrupted. “I don’t know where I’m supposed to be either. I’ve had doubts, too. And I’ve been afraid. I don’t think I could do what you’re doing and I’m not going to pretend I understand how you feel, but…” He shrugged. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

When Arthur realized that he was still holding João’s hand, he squeezed it before letting go. His heart felt calmer and his head was quiet. He returned the Portuguese man’s beautiful, honest smile with a cautious one of his own, and said:

“Goodnight, João.”

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

Arthur spent most of day five at Disney World with João. Francis had begged a headache that morning, so had stayed in the hotel, which left Arthur in the impossibly awkward role of single man crashing a date with his ex-husband’s boyfriends. Thank God for the boys, whose energy and enthusiasm had not yet exhausted.

“Just two more days,” João whispered to him as they waited in yet another queue.

Arthur sighed, but perked-up when he heard:

“Hey, mister! What movie are you in?”

“Huh? No, I’m not in anything,” said Gilbert to the trio of young children in line behind them.

“But what movie?”

“No, movie. I’m just me.”

“He’s Vati Gil,” said Alfred helpfully, but the other children didn’t seem to understand.

“But what movie is he from? Oh! Is it Frozen? I love Frozen!”

Snow-white Gilbert with his snow-white skin and hair knelt down and gave the children a tired, snow-white smile. “I’m not a Disney character—”

“But what part in Frozen are you?”

Arthur pressed a hand to his mouth to hold in his laughter. Antonio and João did no such thing.

Gilbert sighed and spread his arms wide. “Okay, you got me. I’m a knight from a faraway land called Prussia. Do you know where the Kingdom of Prussia is? It’s a land of warriors! Frederich II, Wilhelm I, Otto von Bismarck, and Baron von Richthofen! Can you say Baron von Richthofen, kids?”

The children blinked at him, as to be expected. That’s when the ride operator intervened.

“Um, sir? Are those your children?”

“No, my kids are—Huh. They must’ve moved-up in line.”

“Riiight. Sir, you’re going to have to leave the ride.”

“What? Oh, yeah… I see what you’re seeing and it’s pretty bad, but no. I’m here with my family, honestly.”

“And where are your family members?”

“They’re… I don’t know, my kids and boyfriends are around here somewhere. They must’ve gone inside.”

“Boyfriends, plural?”

“Yeah? Oh, actually one of them is back at the hotel, but the other one is—”

“Sir, I need you to step this way. I have to call security.”

“Goddamn it,” said Arthur, when he arrived to collect Gilbert from a security office. “Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you and Antonio? Are you doing this on purpose?”

“Oh, shut up,” grumbled Gilbert, elbowing his way back out.

You got arrested?”

“Only a little,” Gilbert told Francis when the party returned.

“What do you mean only a—mmf!”

Gilbert silenced Francis’ with a kiss and Arthur turned on his heel and left the dining-room.

“Not hungry?” João asked.

“Not anymore.”

“It’s been a long day, you should eat something. Come on.”

Arthur followed João out of curiosity more than hunger and soon found himself on a street flanked by palm trees and lined with bars, bistros, and restaurants.

“Your choice,” said João.

Arthur glanced apprehensively over his shoulder. He wanted a quiet night—for the love of God, he wanted a quiet night—but:

“Shouldn’t we at least tell—”

“I texted Toni. We’re good. I thought you might want a little peace,” João admitted.

“Oh. Uh, thank-you. Um…” Arthur scanned the street. In truth, he didn’t care where or what he ate. “Is this one okay?”

“Sure,” said João, walking in without even glancing at the menu.

“Can it be my turn to ask you something?” Arthur asked as they sat down at a small, quiet table.

“Of course.”

“Why are you so nice to me? I’ve been a total asshole to your brother and his partners since the moment you met me.”

João smiled. “Yeah, you have been. But a few years ago, I was, too. And they gave me a second chance. And I wouldn’t be here without them.”

“I’m not irredeemable, is that what you’re saying?”

“No, Arthur,” João chuckled fondly, “you’re not irredeemable. No one is. And neither is your relationship.”

Arthur shook his head. “Francis has made it pretty clear he doesn’t want me.”

“He does want you, Arthur. And I think he needs you, too. It’s just different from how it was before and that’s what makes it difficult. The past hurt you both, but…” and here João’s grin became leonine, “you can either run from it, or learn from it.”

“Fuck you, did you just quote The Lion King at me?” Arthur laughed.

“Well, we are at Disney World. Seriously, though,” said João, after the waitress had left with their orders, “I think you and Francis just need to have it out.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, all of it. Every thought, every feeling, every fear. Be honest with each other. Cry, scream if you have to. Just have it out completely until there’s nothing left between you, except what you need to move forward.”

Arthur took a sip of water, looking at João over the rim of the glass. “What is it you do for a living, anyway?”

“I’m a bartender at Toni’s pub, but before I moved to England I was a social worker.”

“Ah, there it is,” Arthur teased.

“I’ve seen a lot of people destroy themselves and their families, because they couldn’t let go of the past. Don’t be one of them, okay? The past can’t change, but you can. Forgive the past, cherish the present, hope for the future.”

Arthur pursed his lips, then nodded. “I’ll try.”

F-Francis—? Can I… ahem.” The words got stuck in Arthur’s throat. He tried again: “Can I talk to you? Alone, please?”

Gilbert and Antonio stiffened like sentries on either side of Francis, who merely stared at Arthur in surprise.

“Um…”

“Come on, boys,” said João cheerfully, “let’s go to the pool!”

Everyone—Gilbert and Antonio included—thought João was talking to Alfred and Mathieu, and so everyone was shocked when he grabbed Gilbert and Antonio’s wrists and pulled them away, the twins racing eagerly ahead of them.

“Um, I guess so…” Francis finished helplessly. “Should we go to my room, or… your room, or…”

“There’s a garden around back. Neutral territory.”

Francis nodded, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Okay.”

The garden was beautiful and tropical and entirely wasted on the two men who walked through it, refusing to make eye-contact. It wasn’t until they had circled a fountain three times that Francis finally said:

“What’s going on with us?”

Arthur took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about before. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. It just… felt like we were a family again.”

“Arthur, don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you even here? Honest, I don’t mean to be rude, and the boys are glad you’re here, but I never expected you to agree to this trip when I asked. Has something happened?”

“Yeah, your boyfriends happened.”

“Arthur—”

“Not like that. I just mean…” Arthur paused and ran a hand through his hair. “Alfred and Mathieu love them. They talk about them all the time at home, about how fun and cool and talented they are. I’m always hearing about the places you all go together and the things you do. I have to hear: Papa Toni sings to us and Papa Gil plays football with us and Papa Francis is teaching us to cook and… it hurts, okay? Because where does that leave me? What do I do for them? I work. I give them everything that they need to be safe and healthy and successful and for that I’m the boring parent.”

“That’s not true. They love you.”

“I know they love me, but they don’t get excited to see me. I’ve seen the way they go running to Gilbert and Antonio and… Who do you think they’re going to want to live with when they’re old enough to choose? Who will they ask to teach them to drive? Or, take them to get a tattoo? Or, walk them down the aisle at their weddings? It was hard enough competing with just you, Francis, but now… what am I?”

“You’re the one who’s always been there for them. You’re their rock, Arthur. Can’t you see that? You’re the one they trust to always be there, because you’ve never not been. You’ve never broken that trust… like I did.”

“They’ve forgiven you.”

“Have you?”

It was such a direct question, Arthur couldn’t lie. “No,” he admitted. “When you left… you broke my heart.”

“Art—”

“I loved you, but it wasn’t enough, was it? I wasn’t enough for you. It took two people to make you happy.”

“Don’t you dare go there, Arthur Kirkland. You and I both know we were poison for each other. It would’ve destroyed us both if I’d stayed. And don’t act like you got nothing, because you used the courts to take my children from me!”

“I had to!” Arthur yelled back. “Because they were all I had! You left to make a new family, a whole new life! I couldn’t lose them, too! If you had taken them… If anything ever happened to them, I don’t know what I’d do! Our divorce broke me, Francis! You have no idea how hard it was!”

“Well, I’m sure the house and your career and six-figure salary softened the blow,” said Francis acidly. Then he sighed. “Though… I suppose I am grateful for that. Toni and I wouldn’t have been able to take care of them as well as your money did back then. At least they never had to suffer.”

“They lost their father, Francis. Trust me, they suffered. Money can’t buy the things that matter—Don’t scoff at me, it’s true! I tried my best, I really did, but it was all too much. After I lost you, I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else raising my kids, so I didn’t hire any help, even when everyone said I should have. I couldn’t make myself believe that I wouldn’t lose them to someone else the way I lost you. Yes, money made basic needs a lot easier—of course it did—but it didn’t make living easier.

“About a year after you left, I crashed,” he confessed. Fear, guilt, and regret clogged his throat, but he forced himself to keep speaking. “I was taking something to help me sleep and one night I took too many. I did it on purpose. Scott was staying the weekend, so I knew the boys would be okay. I knew they’d go to live with you and they’d be okay. Everyone would be okay except for me and that was fine. I’d made my decision.”

“Oh, Arthur… no.”

“Scott found me and wouldn’t let me go, even when I told him to. He took me to the hospital, got me help, and told my job that I was sick. It wasn’t a lie. After I was discharged and returned home, he punched me in the face so hard it knocked me right off my feet. He lived with us for four months after that and I’ve never loved him more.”

Francis’ voice was small and his eyes were wet. “I never knew…” he said in distress.

“Of course you didn’t, because I didn’t want you to. The boys don’t know either and I never want them to.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, but I’m still sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, Arthur. Not truly. I’m sorry you’ve been unhappy for so long, that you didn’t feel like you mattered. I’m sorry you ever felt so unloved.”

“I love you, Francis.”

“I love you, too. I’ll always love you, Arthur. I really do think that we were meant to find each other, meant to have Alfred and Mathieu, and meant to be a part of each other’s lives.”

“Like platonic soulmates?”

“Yes,” Francis laughed softly, “exactly like that. Love isn’t worthless just because it’s not romantic. You’re a father, you should know that.”

“I do know, I just… I never thought I’d have to do it all alone.”

“You’re not alone.”

“You know what I mean.” Arthur looked at him, open and honest and terrified. “I thought I’d always have you, or that I’d find someone else, but… I think I’m just too broken.”

“No, you’re not. And you won’t be alone forever, you’ve got too much in you to give. You’ll find someone who loves you and who makes you happy. I really believe that.”

“Pft,” Arthur exhaled a half-laugh, half-scoff. “At least one of us does.”

“Arthur,” said Francis, taking his hands, “you being here with us—in fucking Florida—just proves how much you’re trying, and I’m sorry if it doesn’t seem like I’m trying just as hard, because I am. This isn’t easy for me either. I feel like I’m walking a tightrope all the time and if I relax for even a moment I’ll fall, but… it’s worth it. I want you in my life.”

“I’m trying, Francis. I really am. But I see you with them and sometimes I just—”

“I know, believe me I do. Because Gil and Toni feel just as threatened by you.”

“What? No, they don’t. What about me is so threatening?”

“Your money, your status, your looks, the fact that you’re the father of my children, my ex-husband. And God, you are such a smart-ass because you are so goddamn smart. Take your pick, Arthur. You’ve got a lot to offer.”

Arthur felt his face get hot. “I… I guess, but…”

“And…” Francis pressed, squeezing Arthur’s hands, “…someone very special and very lucky is going to see all of that someday and he’s going to love you like I love Gil and Toni. Do you believe that?”

“No.”

“Well, then it’ll be a surprise. Now come on,” said Francis, letting go. “I shudder to think what mischief those three are letting our children get into.”

“My money’s on Antonio. I don’t trust him.”

“Him or João,” said Francis, but Arthur shook his head.

“João is a good man.”

The next morning, Arthur was walking down to meet Gilbert and the boys for breakfast when he overheard Antonio and João’s voices in the corridor, neither of whom was as quiet as he thought.

“Oh, come on, you can’t even admit that he’s attractive?” said João’s jaunty lilt.

“No, I refuse,” Antonio replied. “And I judge you for thinking he is.”

“Now you’re just being petty. Consider him objectively.”

“I’d rather not objectify my sworn enemy.”

“Arthur’s not your enemy, Toni.”

“My rival, then.”

“You’re married to Francis in everything but law. You’re wearing a wedding ring. There’s no rivalry.”

“So, what is Arthur then?”

“Smokin’ hot,” João purred, making Antonio pretend to gag and Arthur stop so abruptly his stomach did a somersault.

João was still laughing when, a moment later, he rounded the corner and came face-to-face with Arthur and his whole handsome face went fire-engine red.

“O-Oh! Hi! Arthur, hi! I mean—good morning!”

“Good morning,” Arthur smiled bashfully. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes! Yes, I did!” said João, too loud and alert. “Did you?”

“Yes, it was fine. Are you going down to breakfast?”

“Yes, we are! Please, join us!”

“I’d love to.”

“You’re great—I mean, it’s great—! That you’re joining us. For breakfast. I love breakfast,” said João.

“I think I’m going to be sick for real,” said Antonio.

“Fuck-off, Antonio,” said João and Arthur together.

On their last day at Disney World, five parents ran themselves ragged on the whim of two sugar-high six-year-olds, who wanted to do “everything!” one more time.

“This one again! I love this one!” Alfred pointed at the thrill ride João had taken them on.

João looked nauseous at the mere sight of it, so Gilbert stepped in.

“I’ll go,” he said, taking Alfred and Mathieu into the queue.

“I guess we’ll just wait at the exit then,” Arthur said, already walking toward it with João and Antonio, until Francis grabbed Antonio’s hand and pulled him back.

“Tonio, let’s go into that boutique. No, no—Arthur and João you go on ahead. We won’t be long.”

“But Fran, I don’t—”

“Come on, Toni!” Francis chirped, pulling him away.

Arthur shrugged off the odd behaviour, until he glanced at João and saw the colour rise in his cheeks.

“So, um…”

“Yeah. I think we can wait for them over there.”

“Oh, right. Good. Do you want to sit, or—?”

“I don’t think there are any vacant benches, but we could sit under that tree? If you don’t mind the ground…”

“I don’t mind.”

The ride’s queue was long, but Francis and Antonio did not return. Arthur imagined Francis forcing Antonio to look at every single item in the store twice while feigning interest like a professional shopper for twenty minutes, then thirty, then forty-five…

What the heck are you doing, Francis? Arthur thought in embarrassment. That’s when he glanced sideways and caught João staring at him.

“It’s starting to rain a little.”

“Oh, here—” João stripped off his jacket, “—take mine.”

“It’s okay, I’m used to being constantly wet.”

João’s eyebrows lifted and Arthur quickly added:

“Because I’m English! The rain, you know! I’m practically bred for the rain, that’s what I meant! Not—”

João burst out laughing. Arthur buried his face in his hands.

“How about this?” he said when João’s laughter subsided. He shimmied sideways and draped the jacket over them both. “We can share.”

He didn’t know if it was the gesture or the proximity, but João’s whole body stiffened, like he was holding his breath. After a moment of uncommonly tense silence, he said:

“I’m not usually like this, you know.”

“Like, what?”

João licked his lips, then looped his arms over his knees. “I’ve always been the good boy, you know? I don’t have much experience with things like this. Being here with Toni and his two male partners, and now with you… I just never thought I’d ever do something like this.”

“I never thought I’d read something called Goodnight Narwhal every night for two years, but I did,” Arthur said.

João chuckled, but it didn’t touch his troubled eyes.

“Do you want to be here with me—?”

“Yes,” said João quickly, as if on instinct. He looked at Arthur. “Yes, I really do. Sorry,” he added sheepishly.

“For what?”

“I don’t want to complicate things…”

“João, you’re the least complicated part of this whole mess. You’re the only one I feel like I can really talk to. If not for you, I think I would’ve sulked in the hotel for a week. And I never would’ve confronted Francis.”

“I told you, Arthur, I’m your friend.”

Arthur pursed his lips. Did he dare try again? Was he reading the right signs? He took a breath, then bumped his shoulder against João’s and took a chance:

“Do you want to be more?”

João’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “What?”

Arthur shrugged, feigning calm despite the furious pounding of his heart and the crippling fear of rejection.

“I’ve kind of got a thing for men with long hair,” he smiled. “And I wouldn’t mind a distraction.”

João swallowed. “A distraction, like… sex?” he whispered.

Arthur nodded. “If you want to.”

“At Disney World—?”

“Well, I assumed we’d go back to the hotel,” Arthur chuckled awkwardly.

“Now?”
“If you want… The boys have three other parents with them, and… we are on vacation, right? Might as well enjoy ourselves a little.”

“I’ve only ever been with one man,” João blurted. “And that was… It was a while ago, and it ended badly.”

Arthur nodded, deflating. “Of course. I understand—”

“No!” Suddenly, João was facing him, leaning into Arthur’s personal-space. “I just meant, I barely know what I’m doing and I don’t want to disappoint you, because… well, it’s you and you deserve something special.”

Arthur stared at him for a moment, then his lips curled up in amused disbelief. “You’ve looked in a mirror recently, yes?”

“Well, yeah… but I’m not—”

Arthur covered João’s mouth with his hand. “Stop it, you unbelievably sexy, adorable man.”

“But what about—”

“João.” Arthur met João’s gaze, green for green, and whispered: “Do you want to fuck me?”

“Yes.”

“Francis,” said Arthur when they returned. “I’m feeling overheated in this humidity, it might be an oncoming migraine. I’m feeling faint and dizzy, so João is taking me back to the hotel.”

“Can’t you go back on your own—Ow!” Antonio yelped when Francis trod on his foot.

“Of course, Arthur. I hope you feel better soon.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will.”

Are you really sure about this? What about Fran—”

Arthur ignored the question and pulled João into his hotel room. “Do you want to talk about my ex-husband right now, or do you want to have sex?”

“Sex. Definitely sex, but—”

“João, you’re the one who told me to move on. So, I’m moving on and I’m taking you with me.”

“I know, but I want to make sure you’re sure about this. It’s sudden and you’re feeling a lot right now and… I just don’t want to be taking advantage of you.”

Arthur gave João a look that made the Portuguese man blush.

“I just don’t want you to regret it tomorrow. Are you going to regret it—?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Arthur answered honestly. He placed his hands on João’s shoulders and felt the man’s warm hands come to rest on his hips, sending a shiver of aching anticipation up his spine; sending a shock of pleasure right to his groin. “But I know that I want you now.”

João swallowed and his jade-green eyes darkened with lust. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Good. Because I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment I met you, Arthur Kirkland. Can I kiss you, now?”

“You can do more than kiss me.” Arthur leant up so that his lips whispered against João’s. “You can show me what good Catholic boys are made of.”

João needed no further coaxing. He kissed and kissed Arthur until Arthur’s legs hit the bedframe and they fell down upon it, gasping and grasping and groping each other like two uncoordinated teenagers. Arthur tugged the tie out of João’s hair and ran his fingers through it, while João’s careful hands ran down the length of Arthur’s body with worshipful desire.

“I’ve—wanted—to ask—for a while—” said João between kisses. He dragged his lips across Arthur’s jaw to his neck and nibbled the Englishman’s inked skin. “How many tattoos do you have?”

“My tattoos?” Arthur grinned. “Why don’t you count them?”

So, João did. Slowly, tenderly, he stripped the Englishman of his clothing, piece by piece, and counted each tattoo with a kiss as he bent lower and lower: “One… two… three… four…

“God, you’re beautiful…” he breathed when Arthur was lying naked beneath him. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I want—Oh. I’m sorry,” he said in earnest, sitting up. “We can stop if—”

“No,” said Arthur, wiping the tears off of his cheeks in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, it’s just… been a long time since anyone’s said that to me.”

“If you’re not ready—”

“No, I am. I really fucking am, João. Don’t stop.”

Don’t ever stop being you, you wonderful, beautiful man.

Sweet kisses and caresses soon heated into tongues and teeth and Arthur sucking vigorously between João’s legs. “Ah, Arthur—!” Swift and shaking, his whole body jerked suddenly and his cock emptied into Arthur’s mouth.

“Oh, God—I’m sorry! I told you, it’s been a while—!”

Arthur swallowed and wiped his mouth, suppressing his amusement as he climbed atop João to straddle his hips. “Do I make you feel that good?” he asked.

João nodded, flushed and bright-eyed and breathing hard. “F-F-Fuck, yes. Thank-you, Arthur. That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”

Arthur brushed a lock of sweaty hair off of João’s face. “Oh, darling,” he smiled wickedly, “we’re just getting started…”

João didn’t leave Arthur’s hotel room until eight o’clock that night, when the boys would soon be returning for bed.

“I should go back to my room and shower. I’m covered in… well, yeah.”

Arthur gave him a lingering kiss in goodnight, but hadn’t closed the door yet when he heard Gilbert’s startled voice.

“Oh, Gilbert, hi,” said João, coming face-to-face in the corridor. He looked at the German, then guiltily back at Arthur’s door. His dark skin was flushed and bruised in places, his clothes were wrinkled and unbuttoned, and his hair was a tangled halo around his head. “I was just, um—”

“No!” said Gilbert, pointing a stern finger at him. “Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

“You’re not going to tell Toni, are you—?”

“No. Nope,” Gilbert said as João followed him down the corridor. “Not getting involved in whatever that is. When you tell Toni and Fran you fucked Arthur, I wasn’t here. You didn’t see me. I didn’t see anything, got it?”

“Thanks, Gilbert—”

“Who’s Gilbert? No one here, that’s for damn sure…”

Arthur couldn’t stop smiling as he closed the door.

As Gilbert and Antonio dragged a drugged Francis back onto the airplane for departure, Arthur and João took their seats together.

“Bye, Florida!” Alfred waved to the rapidly receding ground. “We’ll be back to Disney World soon!”

“Or, Paris,” said Antonio quickly. “Did you guys know there’s a Disney Land in Paris? How cool is that!”

Arthur rolled his eyes and leant back in his seat.

“I’m not much of a travel conversationalist. I’m probably going to fall asleep,” João warned.

“I don’t mind,” said Arthur truthfully. Mathieu was already curled-up on his other side, using João’s jacket as a pillow.

“Are you sure—?”

“João,” said Arthur in mock-scolding, “I’m really, very, completely sure.”

João smiled, but didn’t reply. Instead, he slumped down and laid his head unabashedly on Arthur’s shoulder, closed his eyes, and locked their fingers.

“Hey,” said Arthur softly.

“Hmm?”

“When we get back to London, would you like to have supper with me?”

“Mm hmm, I thought you’d never ask.”

Cherish the present. Hope for the future.

Arthur smiled and squeezed João’s hand.

ONE YEAR LATER

Are you always this dictatorial?” Antonio complained.

Arthur caught João’s eye and winked. “Always.”

“Have you considered an alternative career?” Gilbert offered, holding the door open for Francis. “You’d make a great lawyer.”

“Now, really, Gilbert. I’ve just got us a coveted reservation at a new restaurant,” said Arthur primly. “There’s no need to insult me.”

The party of seven were led to a private room with a long table and low lighting. The upholstery was tasteful and the menu delicious, though nerves vacated Arthur’s appetite. Antonio lifted Mathieu up to admire the view of the city from such a height, and Alfred kept switching seats and made a point of sampling everyone else’s desserts. Arthur sat at João’s side through it all, taking comfort in the other man’s calm confidence and warm reassurance while trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. The children were content and the conversation lively. For once, everyone was getting along, laughing together, and enjoying the hot July night. Then, just as the bill was being settled and everyone was getting ready to leave, Arthur and João announced their engagement.

For one heart-stopping moment it was completely, terrifyingly silent. Then:

“Oh my God, what?”

“Actually—?”

“Daddy, you and Uncle João are getting married?!”

“Are you going to live in the same house? Are you going to have another baby?!”

Gilbert was the first to collect himself. He shook Arthur’s hand and thumped João hard on the back, making the slighter man stumble. “That’s great, congratulations. Does this mean you’re finally moving-out of my house?”

Francis was next. He wiped joyful tears from his eyes and hugged them both, lingering on Arthur. “I told you so,” he said quietly, kissing his ex-husband’s cheek. “I’m so happy for you both. This is just perfect!”

“Uncle João is going to be Papa João!” Alfred cheered. And then:

“BETRAYAL!” yelled Antonio, pointing an accusing finger at his brother.

João rolled his eyes. “Toni, don’t be—”

“It was bad enough when you were just fucking him—”

Gilbert clapped his hands over Mathieu’s ears.

“—but now you’re going to marry him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I love him with my whole heart and soul and I’ve never been happier in my entire life. I can’t even imagine my life without him, now. He’s my forever,” said João, smiling fondly at Arthur, who kissed him and said: “I love you forever, too.”

“Brother, you have betrayed me for the devil incarnate.”

“Toni, that’s my fiancé you’re insulting. Your future brother-in-law.”

Arthur smiled victoriously at Antonio, who pulled at his curls in anguish before heaving a hugely dramatic, deeply defeated sigh. Then, grudgingly, he thrust out his hand.

“Ah, fuck,” he said as he and Arthur shook. “Welcome to the fucking family, Kirkland.”

THE END

THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)

Notes:

My apologies to Florida. It really is a very fun place to visit. :)

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Chapter 1: Gilbert

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Chapter 2: Francis

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Chapter 3: Antonio

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Chapter 4: Extra

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Chapter 5: João

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Chapter 6: Arthur

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