Author's Note: This was written as a response to a request for kayladchristine on tumblr. If you'd like to make a request, please feel free to PM or submit an idea through my tumblr account. Enjoy!

A is for Agreement:

He's dead. In fact, he's so dead that he may as well not even show his face in the house anymore because his fate is already sealed. He should go out into the yard and start digging his grave to save his family the trouble of paying someone else to do it. He doesn't need a fancy funeral or flowers, everyone in the neighborhood will know what happened, and soon he'll just be a name that's tossed around the dinner table to scare little children.

Remember Alfred? One night, his father simply had enough of his nonsense and skinned his hide. That's why you shouldn't stay out past curfew, kids.

He thinks there's still a chance he'll be able to sneak in and avoid a lecture until morning, but those hopes are shattered when he walks up the driveway and sees Dad sitting on the porch in the looming twilight, a mug of tea in his lap.

"Alfred."

He certainly doesn't sound cheery, and Alfred can't stop goosebumps from appearing on his arms as a result of his father's stern tone. He doesn't know how the man does it—how he is able to get a person to tremble in their boots with just a single word. His voice carries well through the hush of nightfall, and the shadows on his face make him seem all the more intimidating. He's illuminated somewhat by the light that's on in the living room, but the stark contrast gives the whole scene a very film noir feel, and Alfred is tempted to turn around and spend the rest of his life out on the street.

Dad clears his throat and stands from his wooden chair, tea already set aside. He doesn't say anything. He just waits for Alfred's approach, and as the teen makes his walk of shame to the front door, he crosses his arms and scowls. The expression on his face is a mix of disappointment, anger, and worry, but there's a certain kind of calmness about him too, and that's what scares Alfred the most.

"Come here," he says when Alfred inches his way to the front door.

"Dad, I'm—"

The man holds a hand up to stop him and beckons him over again, stance taut and unwavering.

Alfred stands before him and bows his head, and even though he is already a few centimeters taller than the man, he still feels like a boy who barely reaches his father's knee. He is so dead. He is minced meat. He will be the stuffing for their Thanksgiving turkey this year.

"I believe we had an agreement this morning. Look at me when I speak to you."

With great hesitance, Alfred lifts his head and meets his father's gaze. He tries not to squirm and resists the urge to turn away.

"What did you tell me this morning?"

"That I would be home by nine," he sighs.

"And what time is it now?"

"I-I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No, sir."

Dad takes his phone out of his pocket and holds it up. The light makes Alfred's eyes sting.

"What time is it?" his father asks him again, flaunting the glowing numbers in front of his face.

"Twelve-thirty."

"So you broke our agreement, correct?"

Alfred bites his lower lip. He hates it when he's questioned like this. He'd prefer being yelled at and grounded, but his father is the type of man who typically hammers his point home with rhetoric. "Yes."

"What else did you tell me this morning?"

"I don't remember."

Dad pauses to quirk an eyebrow at him and then says, "You told me you were old enough to spend the day out with your friends and that I could trust you because you're nearly an adult, yes?"

"Yeah…"

"Do you think you have earned my trust tonight?"

"No."

"Alfred, what do you think happens when an adult doesn't keep up their end of an agreement?"

He really wants to go to bed, but he knows he won't be let off the hook that easily. He came home late, big deal. All of his friends break their curfews more often than he does, and he doesn't understand why his dad has to be so nitpicky about it. Even Papa isn't as strict.

"They face consequences?"

Dad clicks his tongue and the frown on his face deepens. "Yes, but when you're an adult, those consequences can be very serious. They can include losing a job or facing legal repercussions in court. Who wants to hire someone who can't adhere to their contract? I won't always be around to ground you, Alfred. There's a reason for discipline. There's a reason I'm standing here right now and expressing my disappointment in you. It's because I want you to grow up to become a responsible young adult. When you say you're going to do something, it's your obligation to follow through with it, whether you like it or not."

"I know, Dad."

"Then prove it to me," his father challenges him. "And if you start acting like an adult, then I'll be more inclined to treat you like one. While you are living in this house, you are expected to follow the rules that your father and I have set. Do I make myself clear?"

Someday, he'll appreciate these lectures. Today is not that day.

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

Dad uncrosses his arms and lets them fall to his sides. It's a good sign. "You'll have plenty of opportunities to make it up to me. We'll discuss your punishment tomorrow. Now, go to bed, and don't wake your brother."

Alfred nods his head and opens the front door, but he knows he can't enter the house without getting something else off of his chest. "Dad? I didn't mean to make you stay up and worry."

Dad softens his eyes and puts a hand on his shoulder. "I know you didn't."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No," Dad assures him, "but I did expect more from you."

He's not dead, but somehow, knowing that doesn't make him feel any better.

B is for Budget:

Eleven hundred dollars and forty cents—that's how much money Matthew has saved from working at the aquarium over the summer. It's approximately the cost of a roundtrip plane ticket to Europe. Or, it covers about 4.5% of his estimated college tuition and fees forone year if he decides to study out of state. That drops down to 1.1% if he considers all four years. Of course, that's the cost of an average, middle-tier out-of-state school. If he wants to aim higher, the cost skyrockets.

In short, his savings are nothing more than lunch money.

Loans are inevitable, and Matthew knows he'll be straddled with some serious debt after college. It makes more sense for him to study in-state, or better yet, to attend a school that he can just commute to every day. There's always the option of not going to college at all, but he doesn't think his parents will approve.

"Matthew, mon lapin. What are you up to? It's time for dinner."

He shoves his calculator to the side and stuffs his face into his pillow. "Nothing, Papa. I was just thinking."

"What were you thinking about?"

He feels the mattress dip, and soon, Papa's hands are rubbing his arms. He really doesn't want to talk about his future as a mule for the state, but his father is insistent, and so, he relents like he always does.

"College."

"You should worry about finishing high school first. You have another year to go."

"Exactly, Papa. That's not a lot of time," Matthew explains to him, trying not to sulk. Why does college have to cost an arm and a leg these days? "It's right around the corner, and it's really expensive."

"There are plenty of schools in the city that aren't so expensive."

"But what if I want to dorm?"

Papa shrugs his shoulders and pats his back. "That's your choice. You're going to be the one to choose what school you attend."

"Yeah, but it's not really my choice, since you and Dad are going to be helping me pay for it."

"We will support you no matter what you decide to do."

Matthew huffs in frustration and pounds a fist into his pillow. "No, that's not what you're supposed to say."

He can hear Papa's airy chuckle as he asks, "What am I supposed to say, then?"

"That you're going to make me go to the most affordable school you can find."

"I won't say that."

"Well, someone has to pick for me because I can't do it myself! I don't know what I want to do with my life! I don't want to end up without a job and stuck with thousands of dollars of debt. I'll be all alone, and the government will take everything I own including my soul and—"

Papa pulls him up and into a hug, quite amused by his hysterics. "Calm down, Mathieu. You don't have to know what you want to do yet, and even if things don't turn out the way you want them to, your father and I will be beside you. You're not alone."

"B-But…"

"Shh," Papa whispers before coaxing him to stand. "Let's have dinner. You'll feel better with some food in your stomach. There's no need for you to worry about things in advance."

"But you always tell me to plan ahead!" Matthew reminds him as he's piloted into the kitchen. "If I don't get into a good school, then I won't get a good job and—"

Papa rolls his eyes and looks to Dad for help when they reach the table. "Arthur, tell our son that we love him no matter what the name of the school on his degree is."

Dad has just finished chiding Alfred for stealing a piece of zucchini from the cooling stir-fry on the stove when he shifts his attention to them. "Matthew, we love you no matter the name of the school on your degree."

"You guys don't understand," Matthew says in defeat, plonking himself into a chair.

"Ah, yes, because we've never been in your shoes," Papa murmurs with dry sarcasm. "I don't see Alfred concerning himself with college."

At that, Alfred cranes his head around to look at Papa and laughs. "I don't think about that kinda stuff. College is too bourgeois for me anyway. It's a giant business, and I'm above it."

Dad gives the boy a sturdy swat on his backside and says, "You're going to be washing the dishes in this house until you're of retirement age in that case, because unless you're working or pursuing higher education, I'm not going to keep a roof over your ungrateful head."

"Aww, Dad, I was just kidding!" Alfred whines, rubbing the sore spot. "Jeez… Don't have a cow."

"I don't want to hear another peep out of you, and will you stop eating? Papa will serve you a plate in a minute!"

Matthew blows a strand of hair out of his face and cradles his chin in his palm.

He's doomed.

C is for College Essay:

"Hmm, 'why would you be a good candidate for our school?'" Alfred reads aloud from one of his many college applications. He's sitting on the living room couch with his feet on the coffee table and his computer perched on his lap. Man, he's having a blast boasting about all of his minor academic achievements. He doesn't mind writing a bunch of essays if they're all about him. "I would be an excellent addition to your educational institution thanks to my strong leadership qualities. I'm president and founder of the Superhero Club at my school. I am conversant in three languages, and…"

He pauses for a moment to think. He's a pretty great guy, and there's only so much he can write. After all, the limit caps off at seven hundred words, and he's not sure he'll be able to condense everything to fit that restriction.

From the armchair across the room, Matthew snorts, hiding his face behind a novel. "You're not conversant in three languages."

"Yeah, I am, bro. I've got English, French, and Spanish under my belt."

It takes all of Matthew's willpower to keep from falling to the floor in a fit of laughter. "Alfred, you can barely speak English."

Alfred flushes with anger, and Matthew can tell the remark has left some lasting damage.

"Shut up. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Lying on your essay isn't going to do any good."

"People lie all of the time on resumes and stuff. Besides, I'm not lying. I'm just… I'm stretching the truth, okay?" Alfred retorts, sounding a bit too defensive for his liking. "I don't have to prove anything to you anyway. I'm gonna take some of the leftover ham from my sandwich and bring it to Betsy."

He snaps his laptop shut, snatches up the aforementioned food, and steps out onto the porch. Betsy is the Persian cat that's been lurking around their property, and Alfred's been feeding her for weeks now. She's a loyal friend, and Dad and Papa don't mind if he interacts with her as long as he doesn't bring her inside because Matthew's allergic.

Sure enough, he finds her exploring Dad's garden, and when she sees Alfred, she runs after him like a dog.

"Hey, girl," Alfred croons to her before dropping a piece of ham between her paws. "Eat up."

He gets a thankful meow in return followed by a contented purr as he scratches her head.

He makes a mental note to add "cat whisperer" to the list of interesting qualities on his application.

D is for Do It Yourself:

"Almost got it… Under… Over… Ouch!"

The boy is up to something, and Arthur is going figure out what that something is. He makes the journey to Alfred's room and invites himself in, brows already furrowed and lips curled with displeasure. What he sees, however, leaves him a bit more dumbfounded than he expected it would, and he braces himself on the teen's dresser as he recovers from the initial awe.

"I-Is everything all right, lad?"

Alfred looks away from the button-up shirt that's splayed across his bed and reddens. "You could've knocked!"

"Are you sewing?" Arthur gapes at his son, unsure of how to react. He presses a palm to Alfred's forehead to make sure he isn't ill because he can't think of another explanation as to why his normally rebellious child would be trying his hand at such a domestic task. It's obvious that the boy has pricked his fingers a few times already, as denoted by the thumb in his mouth. "Do you need any help?"

Alfred takes a second to appear insulted. He's been slaving away to fix this shirt for nearly two hours now, and he's going to be the one to finish the work. "No, Papa said I have to start doing more things around the house by myself, so when I saw I had a hole in my shirt, I thought I could sew it up."

"But Alfred, you don't know how to sew," Arthur reasons, taking the shirt out of the boy's grasp to judge the damage for himself. The hole is about an inch in length, and it's just below the shoulder of the right sleeve. Alfred's handiwork is quite visible, considering the stitches are a mess of loose threads and are positioned too far apart. "How about I show you how it's done first? Then, you can try to finish the rest on your own, all right?"

Alfred is reluctant, but when more blood oozes out of his punctured thumb, he agrees. He watches Arthur's demonstration carefully—how he pulls the thread nice and tight while making sure everything is well-aligned and tidy. He's much faster than Alfred is, and his fingers move with deft confidence. He patches up half of the tear and, as promised, lets Alfred handle the remainder.

Arthur observes him to make sure he doesn't stab himself again, and though it takes the boy twice the amount of time to finish, he does a fairly decent job for someone who has never touched a sewing needle before.

"You see, it's okay to ask for help sometimes," Arthur tells him when the shirt is folded and neatly stowed away in the closet.

Alfred scratches the back of his neck and frowns. "But I'm not some little kid."

"I know you're not, but that doesn't mean I expect you to know everything. Everyone needs to learn from someone else, and that's what your father and I are here for."

"I guess so… Thanks, Dad."

Arthur suffers through a shaky smile and tries to remember exactly when his boys decided they didn't need him anymore.

E is for Eighteen:

Eighteen means a lot of things. It means more freedom, but for Alfred, it's not the good kind of freedom. It's a scary kind of freedom. The freedom that says you can be tried as an adult in court, that you have to make your own medical decisions, and that you're responsible for your own mistakes. It's the freedom to vote, but also the duty to pay taxes. It's getting a credit card with your name on it but having to pay the bills that come with it. It's the freedom to get married in forty-eight of the fifty states without parental consent, and the freedom to deal with the headaches of divorce.

It's jury duty and getting drafted for the military. It's being legally obligated to do a bunch of boring stuff that you wouldn't want to do anyway, and Alfred wonders if there's a way to just be a kid forever under the law. To top it off, the one thing he can't do is drink away his sorrows, and that would've been something to look forward to at least some of the time.

"Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday dear Matthew and Al—"

"No!" Alfred cuts them off just before his parents can sentence him to a life of accountability. He didn't sign up for this. He didn't think he'd wake up one morning and poof, goodbye childhood.

The living room is decorated for the twins' joint birthday party, and this year it's just them—no extended family, friends, or neighbors. They want to spend this day together, and while Alfred admits that he originally agreed with the plan, he can see now that it was a blunder on his part. He doesn't want to have a birthday celebration at all. Turning eighteen isn't fun, he thinks. They should be crying, not laughing and having a good time!

"What's wrong, mon chou?" Papa asks him because Matthew and Arthur are still trying to get over their shock.

"I-I'm sorry. I just…" Alfred wipes a bit of sweat off of his brow with the back of his wrist and momentarily forgets how to make his lungs work. "I don't want…"

He feels like an idiot. Everyone is staring at him and not only has he embarrassed himself, but he's made it rain on Matthew's parade too. He might not be happy about his birthday, but that doesn't mean he wants Matthew to suffer along with him.

When he discovers how difficult it is to move his mouth to speak, he runs for the stairs and locks himself in his room, figuring he may as well not show his face for a couple of days. He'll celebrate his eighteenth birthday a few years from now. Why the rush?

"I don't know what's gotten into him," he hears Dad say to Papa on the other side of the door.

"Was it something we said?"

"I'll take care of this."

Dad knocks a second later, and Alfred slumps his shoulders and shrinks into himself, hoping that the man will give up. Unfortunately, he knows his father well enough to surmise that if he doesn't respond, Dad will probably take out Papa's power tools and disassemble the doorknob.

"Alfred, open this door please. I'd like to speak with you."

"I don't want to talk right now," Alfred shouts back, head pressed against his knees. He wants to be an angst-filled teenager in peace. "Come back tomorrow."

"I want to know why you stormed away and caused such a scene. Matthew is still waiting for us to slice the cake."

"Eat without me."

Dad sighs, but is surprisingly patient given the circumstances. "I'm afraid we can't do that. Why won't you eat the cake, Alfred? You've been looking forward to this day for eighteen years."

"I didn't know what I was getting myself into."

Dad doesn't say anything for a while—he's most likely dissecting what Alfred has just said, and a nagging voice in the teen's head tells him that Dad already knows what the trouble is. He's going to think he's being immature, and that he should grow up already. He's too old to be getting upset like this. He needs to become a man and face the future with open arms. He needs to get his life together and—

Except, Dad doesn't say any of that. Instead, Alfred can hear the smile in his voice as he murmurs, "You'll always be my child, Alfred, no matter whether you're eighteen or eighty-eight."

Alfred's face radiates with the heat of humiliation, and he replies somewhat sheepishly with, "You're not going to kick me out of the house just 'cause I'm an adult now?"

Dad laughs. "I might, but if you behave, I reckon I'll keep you around. Everyone has to grow old, love. It's the unfortunate reality of life, and you have plenty of growing up left to do, I'm afraid."

"But… But if I get old, then I have to do everything on my own."

"Not everything," Dad assures, voice slightly muffled by the door. "Your father and I will be around to give you a hand every now and then. Eighteen is still a very young age. We're not going to ship you off to start your own life just yet."

"Are you sure?"

Another laugh. "I'm sure. Now, come downstairs. Francis and Matthew have probably devoured the cake by now. Perhaps they've saved us a piece. And then, it's time for presents, and I have a feeling you won't want to miss that."

"Okay… Maybe I'll have my crisis later."

"Alfred, someday you'll wish you were eighteen again. Enjoy it while you can."

"I don't know if I can enjoy it. I feel like everything will be downhill from here."

When the teen unlocks the door, Dad is right there, and another chuckle works its way out of his chest.

"I'll tell you what," he says as they make their way back to the tiny party. "Tomorrow, I'll give you and Matthew some money to see the movie you've both been talking about. A day in the city would serve you well."

"Will you add in some extra cash for ice cream?"

Dad clicks his tongue and ruffles his hair. "You have high demands, but all right. Just remember to buy yourselves a proper meal as well."

"Yeah, I know. Can I also buy a lottery ticket since I'm eighteen now?"

"I suppose so. If you win, I expect you to compensate me for all of these expenses."

"Nah, why would I do that?" Alfred grins a cheeky grin. "You're not supposed to take money from kids, Dad."

"Well, thank goodness you're an adult now, hmm?"

And just like that, Alfred concedes a smile. He doesn't know how his father does it.