Author's Note: Thanks again to the anon who submitted this request! Here's the last part (and most of you knew where I was going with this, haha)!

It's some time into the night when Matthew registers the cool solitude of the darkness that has now taken over the living room. Dad and Papa are peeling him off the couch and setting him upright, urging him to use his legs even though they're jelly underneath his weight. The world is still off-kilter, leaning on a sharp axis that makes him want to be sick.

"Come now, Matthew. Let's get you into bed so you can have a proper rest," Dad coaxes, escorting him toward the stairs.

Matthew doesn't think he's ever been this disoriented and groggy before. Papa is bracing his left side while Dad has a grip on his right, and somehow, although it's like a three-legged race, they manage to get him safely up the stairs and into his bedroom.

"That's it," Dad commends, lowering him into his bed with great care. "We'll let you sleep now. Should you need anything at all during the night, just give us a shout."

"Ugh," Matthew responds, feeling as though he's hovering a few inches above the bed. Everything feels all—floaty, but is that even a real word? Hah… Floaty.

"Arthur, we can't leave him alone like this. He could fall out of bed without realizing it," Papa remarks worriedly, tracing his fingers over Matthew's forehead and trying to see beyond his delirious gaze.

"He won't. I'll stay with him until he falls asleep again."

Matthew parts his chapped lips and manages to mumble, "I'm fine, guys."

The gauze has been removed from his mouth without him knowing. He must've stopped bleeding.

Dad and Papa each take their turns giving him a dubious look, not believing a single word he says. They tuck him in once more, fluff his pillows, and wish him a goodnight, though it's unlikely to be anything of the sort.

"Stay in bed until we say you can do otherwise," Dad instructs, picking lint off of Matthew's comforter.

"Okay…"

"Go back to sleep, mon lapin."

Matthew's brain doesn't need convincing. He rolls over onto his side, curls his knees up to his chest, and drifts off almost instantly, thinking of all of the funny words that might describe how he feels right now. One moment he feels light as a feather, and, in the next, it's like the atmosphere is pressing hard against his face, oppressive and hot. He dreams of clouds and stars and being trapped in an infinite galaxy with infinite doors leading to infinite destinations. He pulls one door open, sees a tree of knowledge and takes a bite of an apple, only to discover he's lost all his teeth. He drops the apple and screams but no one is around to hear.

So, this is what it's like to be hungover.

Matthew wakes up with a profound headache, and he's surprised his skull hasn't exploded and broken into little bits and pieces yet. This is exactly why he doesn't go to college parties—they're too hardcore for his body to handle. He'll leave the wild night life to the students who have built up their tolerance for such things.

He's also nauseous. It's only a small discomfort, but combined with the headache and the renewed throbbing of his mouth, it's enough to make him wholeheartedly miserable. The pain circulating around his teeth is constant, and as he stares up the ceiling, he debates whether or not he'd be justified in waking Dad and Papa up. It's only six o'clock in the morning, and he's fairly sure Papa has work today even though Dad has taken the day off.

He tests each of his limbs in turn and decides to be a little rebellious by trying to stand on his own again. Surely, the meds have worn off by now if he's in pain again. He holds onto the corner of his desk just to be safe, and staggers onto his feet. A few seconds pass, and miraculously, he's not dizzy or loopy in the slightest.

He makes it out into the hallway and realizes he's pretty thirsty and could go for a drink of water. Now that his legs are back to their normal state, he ventures down the stairs successfully and reaches the kitchen. Some cold water is enough to make the pain in his mouth marginally less agonizing, and he sits down by the table and takes a deep breath, listening to the singing birds outside and the children in the neighborhood getting ready to leave for school.

Speaking of school, he's going to have to get the lecture notes from someone for his English composition class. The last thing he wants is for his GPA to suffer because of some stupid wisdom teeth.

He yawns and considers the possibility of going back to bed for another few hours. This whole predicament has been messing with his sleep cycle, but he doesn't think he'll be able to doze off again with the amount of pain sloshing around his gums.

He rises from the table, starts heading back upstairs, and, abruptly, he stumbles and has to lean against the wall, feeling shaky and unstable again. Maybe the medicine didn't fully wear off after all.

"Matthew?" Dad asks, catching him lurking in the hallway. He's sluggish himself and squinting against the early morning sunlight. "What are you doing out of bed?"

"Good morning," Matthew replies with a strained smile, face hurting. "I was just getting a drink of water."

The stern look in Dad's eyes makes him feel small. "You should have called me."

"I'm all right, though."

"No, you're not. You haven't had anything to eat since the applesauce from yesterday, and I don't want you wandering about the house until you've gained some strength back," Dad reasons before putting a hand on his back and marching him back to his room. "I'll bring you up some breakfast. How's the pain on a scale of one to ten?"

Ahh, it's the question Matthew has heard a million times. It's one of the first questions all medical professionals are required to parrot at everyone. He touches one of his swollen cheeks, thinks for a moment, and says, "Seven."

Dad clicks his tongue, more out of concern than anger. "You should have woken me up. Go to bed. I'll be back soon. I'll bring some ice as well."

Knowing better than to argue with his father when it comes to issues regarding his health, Matthew surrenders and heads back to bed, doing a little bit of light reading to help him ignore the pain. However, his headache isn't doing him any favors, and soon, he has to set the book aside and merely stare at the opposite wall, hating his father more and more for doing this to him. He knows Dad meant well and just wanted to help, but God, this hurts. Being a dentist must be one of the most unrewarding jobs ever. All of your patients have to feign gratitude when in actuality, they want to scream and demand the money they spent on the insurance co-payments back.

At least it's a one-time deal. Wisdom teeth have the decency to be like chickenpox—you suffer once and try to erase them from your memory for the remainder of your life.

Not to be melodramatic or anything, but he may very well be dying. One glance at his reflection in his phone reveals that he looks like he got into a bad bar fight, and Matthew's sure if he even so much as steps out onto the driveway, the police will be around to ask him what happened.

"Breakfast is served," Dad announces brightly, pushing the door open with his foot as he walks in with a tray of food.

Well, it's not exactly food.

Matthew frowns at the bowl of mashed bananas and oatmeal that Dad offers him. This is probably what he's going to be eating every day if he ever turns eighty-five. The thought makes him cringe.

"Eat as much as you can. I know you probably don't have much of an appetite, but you need some nutrients."

Where's Papa when he needs him? He's the only one who can save him from this bland and mushy monstrosity.

Dad leaves two icepacks, a glass of water, and two pills out that he shakes out of a medicine bottle on the nightstand. "Eat as much as you can and take those pain relievers. It's ibuprofen, but if you're still in pain an hour from now, I'll give you the stronger narcotic again. Oh, and you'll need to take your antibiotic as well."

"I don't want to be drunk ever again," Matthew moans grumpily, and Dad chuckles before patting his back.

After making a commendable effort, Matthew swallows a little more than half of the pureed banana-oatmeal concoction and takes the maximum dose of ibuprofen that Dad has left out for him along with the antibiotic. He gently touches his face and realizes both of his cheeks are still swollen and gross. Everything is as sore as it was yesterday, and the pain comes in constant throbs, pounding over and over again like a pulse.

He's done nothing but rest, and yet, he's inexplicably tired. He rests his eyes for a moment, which turns into five minutes, followed by an hour. He naps for quite a while until Dad comes up again to check on him. Papa must have just left for work because he can hear the front door closing downstairs.

Matthew rolls over onto his back and groans, one hand on his stomach. The mix of medications and his frugal breakfast are not sitting well with him.

Dad feels his forehead, checks over the swelling running along his jaw, and says, "Everything is as it should be for now."

"I'm nauseous."

"That's the antibiotic, most likely. I'll bring you some sparkling water. Is there anything else I can get you?"

"A baseball bat to beat me over the head with," Matthew jokes darkly, sitting up. He's sick of being in bed. Time to migrate to the living room again. He's steadier and not as likely to trip over his own feet after having had some breakfast. He climbs down the stairs under Dad's watchful supervision and throws himself onto the middle of the couch, a little agitated with himself for being so useless and unproductive today. He has trouble convincing himself he has earned the right to be lazy for a few days.

He turns on the TV and watches the local news for a while. Dad's phone rings during the weather update, and for some reason, his father's not too happy about it.

"I told him I'd call him in fifteen minutes. Impatient as ever," Dad grumbles, pulling his cellphone out of his pocket with a long sigh before answering the call. "Yes, Alfred? I was about to—as I've already told you a dozen times, he's fine. He doesn't have much of an appetite, but that's to be expected… Yes, I know. Alfred, Matthew isn't my first patient, you don't have to—oh, of course you trust the bloody Internet forums more than a licensed professional. Everything is under control here… Yes, I gave him pain medication… Some discomfort is normal. If you won't trust my word, why don't you speak to him yourself?"

Dad huffs and holds out his phone to Matthew, as exasperated as he always is when he's stuck trying to reason with Alfred.

Matthew takes the phone away before Dad gets inconsolably irate, and manages a soft, "Hey, Al."

"Mattie, my dude! How're ya feeling? I saw the pic you sent, and I already yelled at Dad first thing in the morning. He says you'll be okay in a couple more days, but that's what he's supposed to say."

"He's right, Al, I'm fine."

"No, you're not. I can hear it in your voice, bro. You're still feelin' cruddy, but no worries, I'm getting on my flight in a little bit, and I'll be there as soon as—"

"What?" Matthew cuts him off, taken aback. "You don't have to do that, Alfred. Honestly, I just need to sleep this off and—"

"Nuh-uh, don't try to talk me out of it now. I'm on my way, so hang tight, 'kay? Your big bro is coming to the rescue."

"We're the same age."

"Nah, I'm definitely a few minutes older than you. Rest up and don't let Dad come near you until I get there, okay?"

Matthew laughs weakly and rolls his eyes. "He's taking good care of me, I promise."

"Yeah, well, he can't be trusted sometimes. You know how it is. Let me talk to Dad again for a second," Alfred commands, and Matthew hands the phone back to Dad with a wan look, holding his breath as he waits for how his father is going to respond to this new development.

"You're what? Oh, I see, so when your papa and I politely ask you to come and visit us for the weekend every now and then, you claim you don't have time and have to study, but now your schedule is suddenly clear?" Dad fumes, but the ire in his voice has sufficiently been diffused. Matthew can tell there's a part of his father that's proud of Alfred for being so overdramatic and protective. "All right... In that case, do you need me to pick you up from the airport?"

"No!" Matthew hears Alfred shout urgently in response. "Don't leave Mattie's side. I'll get a cab."

"Very well, my boy. Have a safe trip and call me as soon as you land, am I understood?"

The conversation ends there, and when Dad puts his cellphone down, he mumbles under his breath about how he'll never understand today's youth. Still, there's a hint of a smile on his face because he hasn't seen Alfred in months, and though he tries his hardest to seem all tough and resistant about the boy being gone, Matthew knows Dad has missed him terribly. Their family unit isn't the same without Alfred, and it's about time they had a reunion, no matter how brief.

Content with how things are shaping up, Matthew binge watches an entire season of some mystery/thriller show and lets time pass him by, eager for his mouth to finally pull itself together and function like a mouth is supposed to. He nibbles on some more applesauce and spoons a small bowl of chicken broth between his lips for lunch, humming in relief at the soothing sensation that the mildly warm soup brings to his inflamed gums. Meanwhile, Dad deals with a few household chores before settling into an armchair to read. He glances over at Matthew every few minutes, assessing his condition from afar before directing his attention back to his book.

"Soon it'll be twenty-four hours since the procedure, and you'll be able to start rinsing your mouth with warm saltwater every six hours," Dad says from behind his novel, turning over a page.

"Why so often?" Matthew asks feebly. His father wants too much from him.

"We need to keep the area clean, and it'll help the swelling go down," Dad explains, checking his watch.

"Can I brush my teeth, too? My mouth feels gross."

"Not yet, all right? Let's give it a bit more time. I don't want you disturbing the clots or else you'll start bleeding again and prolong the recovery."

"Ugh, spare me the details, please."

"My apologies," Dad smiles sympathetically. "I often forget that tooth extraction isn't a commonplace discussion to have."

Matthew turns back to his TV show, and when the clock on the wall reveals that it's already after four in the afternoon a little while later, he gets ushered into the bathroom and gently rinses his mouth with the help the aforementioned tall glass of saltwater. Dad watches to make sure he does it right, and although the taste of the overly salty water is a bit nauseating at first, Matthew adjusts to it pretty quickly, and it isn't as bad as he thought it might be. Admittedly, it calms some of the soreness and pain, and Matthew's mouth feels a little cleaner and better overall.

It's almost dinnertime when they're interrupted by a pounding knock on the door, and Dad rushes to answer it, revealing a grinning, jovial Alfred standing on the doorstep with a small bag of luggage.

"Hey, old man," Alfred greets Dad cheekily, snickering when his shoulder gets swatted as a result.

Dad frowns up at him because, my goodness, when did Alfred get so tall? He pulls the young man into a stiff hug, and Alfred laughs into Dad's shoulder and asks, "Did ya miss me?"

"Of course, I did," Dad says grumpily before glaring at the little pouch of belly fat Alfred has gained since the last time he visited. "You haven't been eating well, obviously. It's a wonder you're able to tie your own shoes in the morning, Alfred."

"It's not my fault the school has got a crappy meal plan," Alfred defends himself before plodding into the house and dropping his bag in the foyer. He rushes into the living room, and furrows his brows when he catches sight of Matthew stretched out over the length of the couch. Then, he swivels around and turns to Dad again. "What did you do to poor Mattie? Look at him! He's a wreck. You were supposed to fix him."

Dad shakes his head and replies, "He's all right. He'll be well enough to attend his classes on Monday."

Alfred ignores Dad and drops down to his knees by the couch, one hand buried in Matthew's hair, ruffling it. "Aww, Matt. I'm sorry, bro. It's kinda funny though—you've got a pumpkin-face."

Matthew scowls. "Who're you calling pumpkin-face?"

"The swelling should be considerably better tomorrow," Dad consoles, shooting daggers at Alfred as well.

Alfred laughs again and playfully gives Matthew a light punch to the shoulder. "No ditching class for you, Matthew. It's a good thing I came over here to help you get rid of your boredom. I've brought a cool game my roommate lent me, and we've gotta test it out, but first—Dad? You got somethin' good to eat 'round here? I'm starving, and they didn't want to feed me on the plane—something about the flight being too short or whatever."

"You're going to empty the entire refrigerator by the time you leave here," Dad gripes, but he motions for Alfred to follow him into the kitchen a moment later.

All right, so maybe Matthew has missed Alfred as well, but only the teeniest, tiniest bit. After all, Alfred can be obnoxious, loud, irritating, and a thousand other unpleasant synonyms in the thesaurus, but he has his brotherly moments, and in those moments, he can be surprisingly considerate and thoughtful. He can lighten any tense situation with a smile and a dose of humor, and that's precisely what Matthew has been missing.

Papa returns from work as the kitchen table is being set, and when he sees Alfred, his eyes light up, and he hugs him as tightly as he possibly can, going on and on about how quiet and empty the house has been without him, and, mon Dieu, when was the last time Alfred had a proper homemade meal?

"You're skin and bones, mon chou! Have they been starving you in those dorms?" Papa frets.

Dad scoffs and retorts, "Starving him? Francis, he's gained at least half a stone!"

"He's a growing man, Arthur. Don't deny him nourishment."

"See? Papa gets it," Alfred happily chimes, pleased at being fussed over. "I missed you, too, Papa."

"California is too far away from home. You need to visit more often," Papa continues, rubbing circles into Alfred's back before putting together a large plate of food for him. "Bon appetit, mon lapin."

Dad wants to keep snapping at them both, but he decides against it and goes about putting an assortment of steamed vegetables in the food processor for Matthew, creating a green mush. He puts a few heaping spoonfuls of the mixture on a plate along with some soft, extra-mashed potatoes. "See if you can manage to eat some of this, poppet."

Matthew's not looking forward to his dinner, considering it looks more like baby food than anything else, but he needs to increase his caloric intake, and so, he gives it a chance.

"How has the semester been going so far, Al?" Matthew asks in between sloth-paced bites.

"Pretty good, dude. I went to this awesome party last—" Alfred stops himself, looks innocently at Dad and Papa, and says, "I mean, I spend a lot of my time in the library now, since midterms are comin' up. My coding class is really easy, but they're makin' me take philosophy to fill my liberal arts requirement, and my professor is a tough grader. He took like fifteen points off my last paper for no reason. I'm just trying to get that solid B."

"Yeah, I always end up with at least one tough professor, too," Matthew relates. "You're still applying to that web design internship for the summer?"

"Yeah, I'm almost done. I just need one more letter of recommendation and—" Alfred pauses to flinch as he chews some broccoli, "—a copy of my transcript."

The slip-up doesn't escape Dad's notice—nothing ever escapes his notice.

"Is everything all right, Alfred?" Dad interrogates, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah, yeah, just hit a sensitive spot, is all."

"What sensitive spot? Your teeth hurt?"

"Nah, don't have a cow. It's just…"

"Yes? Go on," Dad prompts him.

"I just bit down the wrong way."

"Which means you have a toothache," Dad points out, raising an eyebrow. "I want to have a look at it after dinner."

"Dad, I'm fine, honestly."

"I'll be the judge of that."

Interest piqued, Matthew follows Alfred and Dad out of the kitchen and into the living room after he finishes eating. Dad has Alfred lie down on the couch, elevates his head with a throw pillow, and orders, "Open your mouth."

"No."

"Alfred," Dad growls, brandishing a penlight.

"You're gonna make it hurt."

"No, I just want to look."

"You can't make me! I'm an adult now! I don't consent to this!"

"An adult who continues to act like a child. Open your mouth."

"Noooo!"

"I won't allow you to have any of the ice cream in the freezer if you don't cooperate."

"You're so cruel!" Alfred whines, but he finally opens his mouth an inch.

"You can do better than that. Open all the way and tilt your head back."

Letting out another petulant whine, Alfred opens his mouth fully this time and mumbles, "I hate you."

"Hush," Dad chides, shining the light on Alfred's teeth with a glower. "Well, for starters, you have a cavity in one of your second molars… I know you don't want to hear this, but I can already tell that two of your wisdom teeth are growing in crooked, which is probably the source of your pain. I won't know the state of the other two until you get an x-ray done because they haven't erupted through the gums yet. However, I can tell you right now that you'll need to have at least two teeth extracted."

Dad switches off the light, and Alfred sits up, mortified. He pales and looks at Dad for a long moment before nervously rasping, "Haha, well, would you look at the time? I should head back to Cali first thing in the morning."

"Oh, no, you won't. You can go back to school after your x-ray, and you'll be getting those teeth removed as soon as spring break begins," Dad instructs.

"You want to make me miserable, huh?"

"No, I want you to be healthy."

"I don't want to have a pumpkin-face like Mattie does. Besides, he has a higher pain tolerance than I do. I might die."

Dad clicks his tongue and squeezes Alfred's shoulder for moral support. "I know, which is why you'll be getting the maximum amount of nitrous oxide and novocaine. I won't be able to bear all of your endless whining otherwise."

Matthew can't hold back the semi-smug, semi-pitying smile on his lips. So Alfred didn't get away so easily with his dental health as he initially thought. He's going to have to suffer through this as well.

Now Matthew's the one feeling protective. He touches Alfred's arm and says, "You should just get it over with. It's not that bad."

"No, no, no, absolutely-freaking no way!" Alfred exclaims, running a panicky hand through his hair. "I can't do it. I'm not coming home for spring break. I'm never walking into this house again!"

Dad lets his stern demeanor fall and opts for a more soothing one. "I knew you'd be the more difficult one to deal with, as usual. If Matthew survived, you will as well."

"No! It's not happening."

"Alfred, part of adulthood means taking care of your medical needs."

"Then I don't ever want to be an old, crusty adult! I'll go back to being a kid without any wisdom or darned wisdom teeth."

"I'm afraid that's not an option."

It's déjà vu. Just a short while ago, Matthew was lamenting his own downward spiral into adulthood.

"Papa! Dad's trying to kill me!" Alfred howls.

"I am not. It's for your own good."

"Papa, save me!"

Unfortunately, Papa proves to be of little use in this situation because he shouts back, "Listen to your father!"

"You're getting an x-ray first thing in the morning, and I'll schedule the surgery in April," Dad announces, settling the matter. Then, he goes back to tending to Matthew by giving him the next dose of his ibuprofen and antibiotic.

Matthew tries to turn the tables and attempts cheering Alfred up by distracting him with a videogame. It seems to work, and Alfred isn't as sulky anymore. Instead, he becomes pensive.

"Matt? I'm not ready to face the real world."

Matthew presses an icepack to his jaw for the umpteenth time and mutters, "Me neither."

"Really? That's a relief. I guess we can complain together then, right?"

"Right. We can always just be young and dumb forever. That's how most adults are anyway."

"Yeah, don't get old without me, 'kay?"

"I won't."

"Will you come with me when Dad breaks my mouth?"

Matthew laughs and nods comfortingly, "Of course. That's what I'm here for."

"Did it hurt a lot?"

"No. You won't feel a thing when they get taken out."

"You swear?"

"I swear."

"Can we be dumb kids for the rest of the weekend?"

Matthew places a hand on the right side of his aching jaw, sighs, and finally smiles. "Yeah, Al. We can get away with it for now."

"M'kay, good. Oh, one last thing, Matt."

"Yeah?"

"Don't ever become a dentist. I can't handle two of you in the family."

"I heard that!" Dad suddenly shouts from the laundry room.

And they both laugh like the kids they still are.