Notes: I don't know if anybody remembers this story… I'm sorry for taking so long! I had said that the epilogue would take some time, but I never meant so much. Unfortunately, real life has been quite hectic and this short conclusion was very hard to write. I hope I gave it justice.

One a more positive note, I truly have to thank you for all your wonderful support, it meant so much that I cannot put it into words… thank you!

Warnings: This chapter deals with death (of minor characters, but it's still present) and the first stages of mourning.

Epilogue

The day everything ended was quite anticlimactic, all things considered. It was a normal day of November, just after Arthur's first mid-terms, with the sun still casting warmth from the bright, cloudless sky. Arthur's mind was miles away from any disaster.

When he heard the metallic voice call him from the interphone, what made his stomach plummet was anxiety for the mid-terms, and as he departed from Vlad's questioning gaze with a weak smile all his mind could focus on was his academic career. He couldn't recall doing anything so wrong to require a vocal call, he had studied as much as he could and he hadn't plagiarized anything, yet fear crawled up his churning stomach. Could his college days be over even before they had properly begun?

Arthur kept mulling over the cause of the call the entire way to the office, his feet automatically carrying him. By the time he got to his destination, his throat was so dry that he could barely swallow, and his stomach clenched shut. He truly hoped he wasn't going to throw up in front of whoever was waiting for him…

Arthur froze as walked through the door, welcomed by an unexpected sight: Massimo Vargas was standing inside the office, his features schooled in a grim expression.

What the hell is going on here?

"I swear that whatever Lovino did, I had nothing to do with it!" Arthur blurted out, raising his hands, "I have no idea of what happened!"

Had Lovino finally snapped and attacked one of the boys ogling at Felicia? Complaining about them had grown into his favourite conversation topic lately, and for how much Arthur and Vlad had always dismissed his violent proclamations, he did have an intense protective streak…

A glint of confusion went through Mr Vargas's eyes, making his feature lose their tension for a brief moment.

"What? What did Lovi… Never mind. No, it's not that. Please, Arthur, take a seat."

Mr Vargas gestured to a chair at the table in front of him.

Arthur tried to swallow around the lump in his throat as he obeyed, his back rigid with tension.

"Did… did I do something wrong?" he asked tentatively, clenching his hands to prevent them from shaking.

The sorrowful look Mr Vargas addressed him made his skin crawl with uneasiness.

"No, Arthur, you didn't do anything wrong," Mr Vargas stated in an unnaturally sweet voice that made Arthur's chest clench.

Why was he there, then? His brain refused to analyse the implications.

Mr Vargas sighed before he resumed talking.

"There is no good way to say it, Arthur… but we just received a call from the hospital. Your parents were involved in an accident."

Arthur's heart stopped beating as everything froze.

"No," he stated, staring straight at Mr Vargas. His ears were ringing. "No, this isn't true."

He almost expected Mr Vargas's lips to suddenly curl into a grin, the man to shake his head as he admitted that he had been trying to fool him – and what kind of twisted, cruel joke was that, anyway? Who could…

The sombre, sorrowful look never left Mr Vargas's eyes, the truth etched in the deep lines of his face.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," he said gently, his eyes bright with genuine participation.

"No," Arthur repeated weakly. "No, it isn't true."

His ears were ringing, his words came out muffled.

Mr Vargas reached out to place a warm, heavy hand on his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Arthur. You know that they were in a storehouse looking for some furniture, right? Some equipment hadn't been fixed well, it tumbled down and..." there was a catch in Mr Vargas's voice. "Five people were caught right under. Your parents were among them."

Arthur felt the muscles of his neck move as he nodded. He knew that his mother and George were looking for new furniture, they wanted to renew a corner of the attic and make it into a study… In some twisted, cruel way, Mr Vargas's words sounded perfectly plausible, but his brain couldn't process them. It couldn't be true.

"Alfred and Matthew?" he asked weakly, trying to shake himself.

His little brothers would be at school. They needed to know. And at the same time, they didn't.

"I've already called their school to say you're picking them up," Mr Vargas declared, "I'll drive you there, you can explain them before going to the hospital. Arthur…"

Arthur shook away the hand. The compassion was making his stomach churn, he didn't want it.

"We should go get them," he stated, jerking up. His head was spinning.

Mr Vargas looked at him with pity.

"Are you sure, Arthur? Do you want a glass of water, at least? I know that you can't be all right, but are you sure you're… fine enough to face that?"

Arthur was fine. He wasn't feeling anything.

"I need to go get Alfred and Matthew," he repeated, dumbly.

He couldn't let anybody else give them the news, he knew them better than anybody else… he needed to see them.

Mr Vargas squeezed his shoulder one last time before straightening up, the pity in his eyes so intense that Arthur couldn't bear to look at him.

The next minutes passed in a blur. Before he knew it, Arthur found himself in the passenger's seat of Mr Vargas's car, looking out of the window. Mr Vargas didn't try to talk again, and Arthur was grateful for that.

George is dead. Mum is dead.

The words didn't sound real. How could they be dead? He had said goodbye that morning, his mother had laughed at him because he was forgetting his breakfast… she couldn't be dead.

Green meadows ran with them next to the windows, birds flew in the blue, cloudless sky that promised nothing but a gorgeous day. The brightness almost seemed to mock Arthur, to taunt him. Everything was so peaceful, basked in the warmth of the sun… It couldn't be true.

Arthur was startled when Mr Vargas pulled the car to a stop, violently jerking him back to reality. The campus was twenty minutes out of the city, but somehow, they were already back.

"Arthur, are you sure you want to do this? I can talk to your brothers if you want," Mr Vargas offered, his voice nauseatingly sweet.

"No, I need to be the one talking to them," Arthur stated, getting out of the car.

He couldn't feel his legs, he was almost floating.

How could he even begin to say that?

"Matthew, Alfred, there was an accident and our parents are dead."

That was too harsh. Unreal. Arthur himself couldn't still believe those words, he felt nothing but numbness.

At the same time, Alfred and Matthew were his responsibility. He couldn't force it on somebody else's shoulders.

Arthur shook his head and looked around, trying to shake off the ringing in his ears. They were in front of the high school. Alfred first, then. Nausea blossomed across Arthur's stomach at the thought of Alfred's smiling face – he had managed to recover after Émilie's death, he didn't deserve that, how could he ever…

But he had no choice. Arthur automatically walked the steps into the school, numbness spreading into his entire body. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor, forced himself to notice the cracked lines around the tiles so he wouldn't have to think.

Alfred's voice finally forced him to raise his head.

"Artie? What the hell is going on?" Alarm was written in his younger brother's widened eyes and defensive posture. "They… Why did they take me out of class and bring Mattie here?"

Only after those words, Arthur noticed the slight frame that was cowering being Alfred, fidgeting on his feet as he stared at Arthur with scared lilac eyes.

Arthur shook his head, trying to swallow to bring relief to his parched throat. His head was spinning mercilessly.

"It's Mum and Dad," he heard himself say, "There… there has been an accident."

Arthur could only watch as the expression on Alfred's face changed – incredulity, fear, and then absolute horror.

"No…" he whispered, violently shaking his head. "No, this isn't true, this isn't…" a broken sob bubbled up his throat.

The sound finally tore Arthur out of his trance. Setting aside his feelings, he closed the space between himself and his younger brother and embraced him. Alfred collapsed in his arms with a wail, shaking and sobbing. There was nothing Arthur could do aside from hugging him.

And Matthew… Arthur raised his head to find him paralyzed, his eyes wide on his wan face.

When Arthur opened his arm towards him, Matthew followed wordlessly and clung to his side. He didn't cry, but he was trembling as bad as Alfred. Or maybe Arthur was trembling as well, he couldn't tell.

Everything felt blurry from then on, suspended between reality and a dream. Arthur was partially aware of following Mr Vargas into a car, with his brothers clinging to him. Alfred was still sobbing, Arthur tightened his hold around him, but his mind was elsewhere.

He talked with a sombre-looking police officer and the doctors, but didn't remember what he was saying, everything felt hollow and disconnected. A dream. Aila's and George's bodies in the morgue – Arthur heard himself confirm their identity in an empty, robotic voice, but they weren't real bodies. They were just mannequins, Arthur was going to wake up at home in his bed and laugh about this horrifying dream with his mother.

But he never did.

It was only once Arthur walked into the empty house with his brothers and Alfred's small whisper of "What now?" reached his ears that reality finally hit Arthur like a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless.

Aila and George were gone. They were truly gone. Never again Arthur would look into his mother's eyes, never again warmth would blossom in his chest at her tender smile. Never again he would hear her complain loudly about the unrealistic demands of her boss and mimic his nasal voice. Never again he would smell the smoke rising from the kitchen as his mother tried a new recipe. Never again he would see her exchange that knowing, satisfied smirk with George.

And George… the man who had accepted him as his son without a single word of complaint. Who had patiently answered all his questions, listened to his ramblings and subtly guided him through the college applications. The man who had always cheered on his football matches, even if he didn't care for the sport and called it with a different name. The man who had shown him how much passion and hard work could lead to success, in spite of what everybody said. The man who had taught him to keep his head high and believe in himself.

Arthur had never called him 'Dad'.

The pain that washed over Arthur was so sudden and all-consuming that it turned his vision grey for a moment – but Alfred's shaky voice called him.

"Artie?"

Alfred had never stopped crying since he had heard the news, his eyes were red and puffy. Arthur found himself transfixed by the tear tracks glistening on Alfred's too pale cheeks. His brother needed him. Both his brothers did – Matthew hadn't shed a single tear yet, but his skin was waxen and his eyes had a far-away, dazed look.

Swallowing to force himself to ignore the pain piercing his chest, Arthur looked at Alfred in the eyes.

"It's going to be all right," he declared with as much conviction as he could muster. "We still have each other. We still have to go on."

He didn't believe his own words, but both his younger brothers fixed their lost eyes on him. They were so filled with trust that Arthur had to be right.

Without other words, the three of them sat down on the sofa, holding onto each other. Alfred started bawling again. Arthur wanted to follow him, but the weight in his chest was suffocating, and his eyes dry.

Arthur couldn't have said how much time had passed when some light steps against the floor startled him back to awareness.

"George?" he almost stupidly wanted to ask, a seed of hope blossoming in his chest at the sound of man's shoes against the floor.

The man who emerged from the living room, however, was a sombre-looking Francis. Arthur should have expected that – he knew that, in spite of having spent only two months in their house before finding his own apartment, Francis still had the keys in case something happened, he knew that Mr Vargas would probably call him and Francis would come… and in spite of all that, a weight dropped in his stomach.

Francis said nothing, he simply knelt in front of the three shell-shocked brothers. A small pang of appreciation made its way into Arthur's chest, barely registered under the numbness and confusion.

Francis took Matthew in his arm and held him for a bit, in silence, leaving Arthur free to adjust his hold around Alfred. The teen was too big for that, about as tall as Arthur and broader, but somehow Alfred managed to nestle his trembling body against his older brother's side as if he were still a child.

They just stayed there for a while, too tired to talk, until Francis finally broke the silence.

"There are some things to arrange. I'll do everything – that's why I'm here. You three just… relax."

His words were lame, but Arthur had no energy to retort or thank Francis for what he was doing. He simply automatically scooted over to create some space for Matthew, who obediently curled up between him and Alfred, his eyes empty and his face slack. Shocked. Arthur didn't know what to do.

In the end, Alfred was the one who spoke first.

"We should have something for dinner," he declared with a small sniffle, brushing his eyes. "Mom and Dad wouldn't want us to starve."

Arthur hadn't even realized that they had skipped lunch, his stomach was a single, coiled ball of uneasiness, but Alfred was staring expectantly at him and Matthew, his shoulders squared in spite of the way his hands were still slightly trembling.

"Of course, you're right," Arthur answered mechanically, getting up along with Matthew.

His youngest brother hadn't uttered a single word since he had received the news – but Arthur had no idea of how to fix that. Maybe, he just couldn't.

Francis had already prepared a light dinner, that Alfred ate while Matthew and Arthur couldn't bring themselves to take a single bite. Part of Arthur's brain knew that he should have forced Matthew to eat, the boy was already too thin, but he was too numb to let any word go past his lips.

Everything went on in a blur – they curled up on their parent's bed after dinner, trembling and clinging to each other. Alfred kept sniffling, his tears seeping in cold, unpleasant patches through the fabric of Arthur's pyjama. Arthur himself couldn't cry, he was too numb to feel anything.

His dreams were plagued by his mother's smile, George's laughter and dead, cold bodies in a morgue, staring at Arthur with empty eyes. He woke up feeling like he had never rested, the morning light reaching his eyes like daggers. The bright sun seemed to mock the coil of pain that had taken residence in Arthur's chest.

Francis was still there, with the breakfast ready and coaxing Arthur and Matthew to eat.

For how deeply grateful Arthur was for Francis's presence, however, he couldn't leave everything to him. When Matthew dashed to the bathroom, expelling a breakfast he had barely eaten, Arthur was the one who held him and consoled him, trying to ignore the way his own stomach churned. He was the one who stopped Alfred from eating the fifth pastry, knowing far too well that no food was going to fill that gaping hole, and instead held him when he burst again into tears.

Francis could take care of the technicalities – but Alfred and Matthew had always been Arthur's responsibility, and now that Aila and George were… gone (Arthur still couldn't bring himself to use the word 'dead', it had an inflexion of finality he couldn't accept yet) he needed even more to take care of them.

Alfred, somehow, still managed to find the strength to muster weak smiles.

"It's hard, but we have to be happy," he would say, cradling Matthew and pressing his lips to his little brother's hairline. "Mom and Dad would want us to be happy – no matter how much it hurts."

Arthur was grounded by that display of strength, because Alfred's eyes searched his ones as he uttered those words. His hopeful attitude could only get as far, he was still only fourteen years old and he needed the guidance of an adult. At eighteen, Arthur wasn't sure he could have called himself that, but he surely wasn't going to let his brothers down.

Matthew and Alfred weren't the only ones requiring his attention, however, and there was another task that couldn't be left to Francis.

Arthur barely remembered the phone call, he couldn't recall a single word he had said, but his older brothers showed up the following day, in the afternoon, after having taken the first plane they could catch.

There wasn't space for words – after one look at Alistair's grief-stricken face, Arthur collapsed in his arms. For the first time since the previous afternoon, he let the sorrow festering in his chest explode into loud sobs and tears streaming from his eyes as he abandoned himself to stronger arms holding him.

The respite only lasted for a moment.

Alfred and Matthew had been attracted by the noise and were hovering behind him, identical lost expressions reflected in their wide eyes. Arthur was immediately reminded that they had rarely seen their – but it felt more like his – older brothers, they couldn't draw comfort from them. He straightened up and quickly swept the tears away from his face with his fist before stepping back from Alistair's embrace to reach them.

Alistair stiffened as a flash of hurt surprise went through his eyes, but he didn't protest. A small spark of gratitude blossomed in Arthur's chest at that.

Only after everybody had tiredly settled into the living room, they realized that Francis had slipped away unseen, leaving behind a fridge stocked with food and a note that reminded to call him, were they to need anything at all. The physical proof of how much he had done once again made Arthur's chest clench at the realization of how he had misjudged Francis, but it wasn't the right time to fix that.

With Francis settling every small matter and Arthur's older brothers home, there was only one thing left to prepare, but merely thinking about the word made Arthur's skin crawl with uneasiness. In spite of that, it had to be done.

Without any fussing and only some other tears from Alfred, the funeral was set for three days later. The hardest part, however, had yet to come.

When they all sat down in a circle inside the living room the atmosphere was suffocating and almost dream-like, Arthur's brain was filled with wool, unfocused. A sharp intake of breath coming from Alfred's mouth brought him back to reality.

"How does even one write a eulogy?" the boy asked, his voice trembling slightly. "I mean…"

Nobody had an answer for him. In the end, Dylan was the one who broke the heavy silence.

"Artie is the one who has a good way with words. He should do it."

Arthur's stomach dropped.

"Me?"

He wasn't ready, but five pairs of eyes were fixed on him. He took the pen with trembling hands and stared at the stack of white paper in the middle of the circle.

Old eulogies filled his mind, not last the one he had heard about Émilie – people talking about the way their loved ones had brightened their lives, of how strong and generous they had been – but everything seemed reductive. How could he encapsulate in some dry words his mother's determination and gentleness, the glint in her eyes, the way her thin lips curved into that half-smile that seemed to know everything?

For long, interminable moments Arthur kept still, the pen hovering over that pitiful piece of paper.

Once again, Alfred was the one who talked.

"This is stupid, Artie," he declared, scooting closer to Arthur. "A laptop would be better, we could make corrections at least! I mean, we aren't going to get everything right on the first try, there's so much to say… because we should say everything, right? What made Mom and Dad good people, but also what made them unique. What made us happy. Like, I don't know, do you remember that time Mom forgot the rice and burned down everything, and there was such a thick smoke everywhere… and Artie, do you remember? Nobody could breathe, and you almost threw Mattie out of the door because he shouldn't be breathing that, and Dad came in with the fire extinguisher because he thought there had been a malfunction or something… and instead, it was only rice. The entire house smelled of smoke for like a week, but we couldn't stop laughing about it and Mom was banished from the kitchen without supervision…"

Alfred's voice trailed off in a broken sound that was something between a sob and a laugher, but before Arthur could do anything, a burst of sharp laughter coming from Connor's mouth made him freeze.

"Mum did that? Are you for real? Oh God… Ali, did you hear that? And she had the nerve to scold us for overcooking a bit of pasta, I swear…"

Before Arthur could understand what was going on they had all burst into laughter and they couldn't stop. He couldn't stop, either. It wasn't even funny, and at the same time it was, Arthur laughed until he was completely breathless and his sides ached. At some point, the laughter had turned into fat tears streaming down his face. He was hiccupping, and he couldn't tell anymore if he was laughing or crying, or both of them.

They spent the entire night like that, sitting in circle as Alfred's laptop (that had quickly replaced the stack of paper) went from hand to hand, the word count slowly raising as they reminisced all they could about Aila and George, the sound of hysterical laughter and loud sobs rising in the silence of the night.

Even Matthew cried, first curled against Arthur's side and later sandwiched between him and Alfred, soft sobs that pierced Arthur's heart like knives – but for the first time, his eyes looked focused, and his lips found the strength to curl into a minute smile.

In the beginning, the ache in Arthur's chest was unbearable, but it slowly faded into an almost pleasant numbness along with the tears. It wasn't acceptance yet – but it was starting to get better, in a strange way that involved Alistair almost choking on his own spit and Connor howling with laughter as Dylan rolled his eyes and patted their older brother's back. Even better were Alfred and Matthew trembling with barely suppressed giggles against him.

In the end, it wasn't a single person who read the eulogy, the six of them stood next to each other as they passed the microphone, crying and laughing as they retold their parents' quirks and what they had left them.

Alfred was the last one to talk, standing with his shoulders squared and a glint of confidence in his eyes in spite of the tears running down his cheeks.

"I know that this is unconventional, to some of you it might even look disrespectful," he said, his steady voice filling the room. "But we won't stop smiling. We have mourned, and we will continue mourning, but we won't let ourselves be dragged down, because this isn't what our parents would have wanted. Our parents cared for us more than can be possibly put into words, and because of this, they would have wanted us to do our best to go on with our lives and be happy. And this is what we will do. We won't remember George Jones and Aila Kirkland as cold, white bodies in a morgue, but we will remember them as they used to be – as lively people, as humans, with their flaws and with their virtues. We'll keep our heads high and we won't stop smiling, because this is the best way to honour their memory."

Arthur's chest almost burst with pride as he clamped a hand over Alfred's shoulder, simultaneously wrapping his other arm around Matthew. Arthur would never have Alfred's confidence, but he could help him not to lose it.

For the first time since he had heard the news, Arthur dared to believe that they were going to be all right.

Alfred's smile and the knowledge that he had to be the one supporting it gave Arthur enough strength to get through the entire reception, smiling at guests instead of wishing they would leave early. He didn't know all of them, but the presence of some people – Vlad, Lovino, Felicia, Mr Vargas… – left some warmth in his chest.

Hours later, when all the guests aside from relatives had left, Arthur found himself exhausted and empty, with his head slightly throbbing, but it wasn't a completely unpleasant sensation.

He rested for a moment against a wall, sighing as he closed his eyes. When he raised his lids again, he was surprised to meet Alistair's blue eyes in front of him.

"Artie, we need to have a talk," his brother said, his voice oddly serious.

Arthur nodded, mourning the moment of respite as he straightened up. There was an odd glint in Alistair's eyes, but Arthur was too numb to contemplate what it may mean.

"I'm listening. So?"

Alistair took a deep breath.

"I know that you're studying here, so I guess you'll want to stay… but you need a bit of a break. You should come home for a while."

England.

The mere thought of the place made Arthur's heart almost burst with yearning. It had been so long since he had walked through the street of London, breathed its humid air…

"That would be nice," he sighed, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "But it's not the moment. I think that Alfred and Matthew need to stay home, for now, they have school and they've already missed almost a week… we could do it this summer, though. Maybe we could all come, I think they would love it, the last time was three years ago…"

Alistair didn't return his smile.

"Artie, about that…" for the first time, Arthur noticed the tension in his brother's stance. "Matthew and Alfred… you're aware that you're only eighteen, right?"

Arthur straightened up as well, his blood running cold in his vein.

"I'm of age, Alistair," he declared, looking at his brother straight in the eyes.

Alistair shook his head.

"You're eighteen. You are of age, but you're too young to take care of a couple of children. Matthew and Alfred should go with their aunt. I've already talked with her and she agrees. And so does her husband. It will be difficult in the beginning, I'm not trying to pretend it won't, but it's for the best."

Alistair's words reached Arthur like a punch. For a moment he could only gape at his brother, breathless, as his brain tried to grasp the concept.

"This is ridiculous!" he burst in the end, clenching his fists. "Alfred doesn't even know a word of French! And you want to ship them to Paris, like some stray animals? I didn't take you for such a coward. Matthew and Alfred belong here and I'll take care of them. They're my little brothers! I won't wash my hands from this responsibility, do you hear me, you bloody w—"

"Arthur!"

Alistair grabbed his shoulders, almost shaking him. Arthur flinched, almost expecting a blow – but it never came. Instead, Alistair lowered his head and took a deep breath.

When raised his eyes, the intensity of their stare froze Arthur's tongue.

"Arthur, listen to me," Alistair said in the softest voice Arthur had ever heard come out of his lips. "I know that you love Alfred and Matthew, and I know that you want to take care of them. But you're hardly more than a child yourself. And children can't take care of other children. Believe me, I know."

Arthur's heart leapt in his throat, but Alistair didn't leave him the opportunity to retort.

"After Dad died… After Dad died, I tried so hard to take the lead. I tried to help Mum looking after you little ones – I would look after Connie and Dyl, make sure that they were dressing right and that they did their homework and all that small stuff, but especially, I tried to look after you. You were just two, and you shouldn't have grown up without a father, so I tried to be a substitute. But look at where it brought us: I wasn't anywhere near mature enough to be a parent, I ended up being overly stern and making you hate me. And at least we still had a mother…"

Arthur had never seen Alistair look so vulnerable, his earnest eyes made his chest clench almost as much as his words. That was the last thing he had ever expected coming out of Alistair's mouth. Arthur swallowed around a lump in his throat.

"Ali…"

Alistair stopped him, his lips curling into a wry smile.

"No, don't deny it. I know that you hated me. Hell, maybe you still do – and I would be the last person to blame you, really. No matter my intentions, I was a total ass. But this is the point, Artie. You mean well, but there's no way for you to be able to take care of Alfred and Matthew. They need adults, like their aunt and uncle."

Arthur raised his hand to grab his brother's arm, a strange hollowness spreading inside him.

"But this is different," he said, locking eyes with Alistair. "You were just fourteen, just a child yourself. I'm eighteen, instead. I know that I'm young, but it's not fourteen. And you also had to try to raise me from a scratch, but Alfred and Matthew already had parents for most of their lives. Besides, I was two. It's completely different, Alfred and Matthew are older, they're more reasonable. We can work this out."

Alistair straightened back, wavering slightly. Arthur could read the flicker of doubt in his eyes as his own chest threatened to explode. He couldn't lose Alfred and Matthew. He had always taken care of them, so many times he had promised George and Aila to look after them… they were his responsibility.

Alistair took another deep breath, running a hand through his hair.

"Art—"

"Arthur!" Alfred's powerful voice drowned Alistair's one, making him and Arthur whirl towards the source of the noise.

Alfred was almost marching towards them, with his eyes wide and red-faced in anger, dragging a preoccupied-looking Matthew from his wrist. Behind him followed a breathless Marianne and, several steps behind her, Francis lurked at the end of the procession.

"Arthur, Aunt Marianne is saying that we have to go live with them!" Alfred said, his voice laced with indignation, as he halted to a stop next to Arthur and Alistair. "Tell her it isn't true! Mattie and I are staying here with you, you can take care of us. Tell her!"

The slight flicker of doubt that had started pressing against a corner of Arthur's mind was completely smothered by Alfred's trust-filled eyes and Matthew's timidly hopeful ones.

"Mrs Bonnefoy, this isn't negotiable," Arthur declared, straightening up to look at Marianne in the eyes. "Alfred and Matthew aren't going anywhere. I'll take care of them."

His stomach twisted as Marianne Bonnefoy approached him, her lips thinning in displeasure. The ticking of her heels against the pavement sent Arthur's heart racing, but he couldn't back off.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, "You're all children. I'm just trying to do the best for Alfred and Matthieu, don't you see that? They need real parents, not another child playing that part!"

A ball of anger surged in Arthur's chest her conceited tone. He took a step forward, placing a hand on each of his brothers' shoulders.

"With all due respect, Mrs Bonnefoy, I know that I'm still very young, and I know that the situation wouldn't be ideal. But it wouldn't be in any case – the only ideal situation would be if our parents were still alive. And unlike you, I have been living with Alfred and Matthew for the last eight years, I know how to take care of them. Do you really think that dragging them away from their home, in a city where they don't know anybody, not even the language in Alfred's case, would be the best way to let them recover from the trauma? Because I don't think so. Here, they have their friends and their setting, and Mrs Bonnefoy – I'm not a child. Matthew and Alfred are my younger brothers, and I will do my best to take care of them."

Marianne Bonnefoy was now gaping at Arthur, her perfect arched eyebrows almost reaching her hairline. She opened and closed her mouth before taking a deep breath, straightening her shoulders.

Oddly, Alistair remained silent, regarding Arthur, the children, and Marianne with an unreadable expression.

In the end, Marianne wasn't the one who talked.

"See, Maman?" said Francis, a slight smile dancing on his lips as he reached his mother. "I told you so. Believe me, I've how Arthur behaves with Alfred and Matthew, and I can tell you that he's good at dealing with them. He knows all their habits, how to take care of them… while you see them less than once a year, Maman. Do you know how to spot when Matthew is feeling overwhelmed, how to recognize if Alfred is just throwing a tantrum or if there's something serious?"

A small "Hey!" seeped through Alfred's lips at that, but any further remark was silenced by Matthew jabbing his ribs with an elbow.

"You don't, Maman. But Arthur does. It's how he said – the situation will never be ideal, but this is the best for Alfred and Matthew. Staying in a familiar place with their brother who knows them. Besides, they're not alone. I'll be always here to give a hand, and I'm sure that Mr Vargas would be on call for any need. This is the best, don't you see?"

Arthur gaped at Francis, wordless, as his mother glared at him – but her shoulders were already drooping in defeat.

"Oh, don't thank me," Francis chirped with a smirk and a wink addressed to Arthur.

For once, Arthur didn't retort. He could only tighten his hold on Alfred's and Matthew's shoulders, his heart threatening to burst as he waited for the verdict.

"Well, this was unexpected," intervened a deep, accented voice, "But I can't say it doesn't make sense. Ma moitié, he is right. If the boys truly want to stay here…"

Arthur turned around, startled. He had been so surprised by Francis's speech that he hadn't even registered Connor, Dylan, and Pierre Bonnefoy reaching the group.

"We want to stay here with Arthur!" Alfred declared loudly, folding his arms across his chest and squaring his shoulder.

At the same time, Matthew gave a small nod, pressing himself closer to Arthur's form.

Arthur took a step forward and wrapped his arms around their shoulders, offering all the presents an unwavering stare.

They were looking ahead to hard times, he was perfectly aware of that. The small respite given by the odd mood at the funeral wouldn't last. But Arthur was ready to face them. Alfred and Matthew were his responsibility, his little brothers, and he wasn't going to give them up, no matter what.

(word count: 6,026)

Notes:

Vlad is Romania
Massimo Vargas is Rome
Felicia is Fem!Italy
Alistair is Scotland
Connor is North Ireland
Dylan is Wales
Marianne is Nyo!France (Francis's mother)
Pierre Bonnefoy is an OC

English isn't my first language, I apologize for any mistake.

And here we are, at the end of this story. As I've said, this would actually be the explanation of the family situation for other ideas I have – to explain how Arthur ended up taking care of Alfred and Matthew. It was always supposed to end this way, but I hope I gave this heavy subject at least some justice.

As for other stories, they might come in the future, but I can't say when.

Anyway, I truly hope you enjoyed this! And if you did or if you have anything to say, feedback is always appreciated :)

IMPORTANT NOTE! The second instalment of this series is now up! The title is Beyond the Breaking Point, you can find it under my profile. I hope you'll like that story as well :)