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The Leclerc house had been suspiciously quiet all afternoon. Too quiet. Charles glanced up from his notebook, coffee in hand, feeling that familiar prickle of unease. Silence with Arthur around never meant anything good.
Sure enough, the sound of a tiny clatter from the garage confirmed it. Charles set down his mug and padded down the hall, already bracing himself for what he’d find.
There he was. Arthur, precariously balanced on a wobbly stool, tiny hands stretched high toward the shelf where Charles kept his old helmets and spare tools. Tongue sticking out, brows furrowed in concentration, completely oblivious to how dangerous he looked.
“Arthur.”
The single word, low and steady, was enough to freeze him mid-reach. His head snapped around, eyes wide, stool wobbling dangerously.
Charles was at his side in an instant, steadying the stool before Arthur could topple. He sighed, lifting him down and setting him on the floor. His hands lingered at his shoulders, just enough to steady him.
“Qu’est-ce que tu fais? You can’t climb like that, Arthur. You could’ve fallen—hurt yourself badly.”
Arthur’s usual cheeky grin disappeared, replaced by a small, nervous pout. He fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, voice tiny: “…s-sorry… Charlie…”
Charles blinked. That soft, whiny tone—so different from the little menace he usually was—made his chest tighten. He crouched to Arthur’s level, letting his arms wrap loosely around his little brother.
“I’m not angry, mon petit. But you scared me, hm? I don’t want to see you hurt.” His voice softened, dropping into a calm murmur. “I need you to listen when I say something is dangerous.”
Arthur’s lip trembled. His little arms wrapped around Charles’ waist, pressing himself close. “M’sorry… didn’t mean to, Charliiii…” The drawn-out, pouty lilt tugged at Charles’ heart. He couldn’t help but run his hand through Arthur’s hair.
Charles let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Petit monstre… even when you’re a menace, you’re still my little brother.”
Arthur nuzzled into him, tiny fingers clutching the fabric of Charles’ shirt. “…Stay here?” he whispered.
“Of course, always,” Charles murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his hair. He lifted him easily, guiding him toward the living room. “Couch it is. No more climbing shelves, d’accord? You stay where I can see you.”
Arthur curled into him as they reached the sofa, already half-draped across Charles’ lap. Charles tucked a blanket over them, adjusting it so Arthur was completely wrapped up, little thumb sneaking to his mouth in habit.
“You give me heart attacks sometimes, mon petit frère,” Charles murmured, brushing his hand over Arthur’s back in gentle circles.
Arthur giggled softly, muffled against Charles’ chest. “…S’orry, Charlie…”
“You’re forgiven,” Charles whispered back, tugging him closer. “Toujours. You’ll always be forgiven.”
Arthur’s eyelids drooped, body sinking into Charles’ side. Every whiny little “Charlie…” and pouty “Charliiii” melted away into sleepy sighs as he settled against his big brother. Charles held him like he never planned to let go, rocking him slightly, content and exasperated all at once.
The afternoon passed in quiet comfort. Charles stroked Arthur’s hair, kissed his forehead, murmured “grand frère’s got you” every so often as Arthur clung to him like a tiny, soft shadow. Even when Arthur whimpered or whispered “Charliiii” in his sleep, Charles stayed right there, the gentle, steady anchor his little brother needed.
Finally, Arthur’s breathing evened, his mischievous energy fully spent, leaving only the sweet warmth of being safe in Charles’ arms. And for Charles, that was more than enough.
—
By the time Charles decided it was time to move to the bedroom, Arthur was already half-asleep in his lap, soft little snores escaping his lips, thumb now fully in his mouth. Charles couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his own lips.
“Alright, petit monstre,” he murmured, shifting carefully so Arthur stayed nestled against him. “Time for bed.”
Arthur stirred, eyelids fluttering open, looking up at him with big, drowsy eyes. “…Bed… Charlie?” he mumbled, voice tiny and whiny.
“Yes, ThuThurrr,” Charles said softly, letting the drawn-out lilt of his brother’s favorite nickname soothe him. “Grand frère’s got you. I’ll carry you, okay?”
Arthur let out a content little sigh, wrapping his arms around Charles’ neck, clinging like he never wanted to let go. Charles lifted him easily, holding him securely against his chest. The room was dim, the soft hum of the evening outside pressing against the quiet inside.
When they reached the bedroom, Arthur instantly climbed onto the bed, but not in the way of a normal little brother. He curled up against the pillows, patting the blanket with tiny hands as if testing it before pressing himself down. Charles followed, kneeling beside him, and draped the blanket gently over Arthur’s small frame.
“Stay still, d’accord?” Charles murmured. “I’ll make sure you’re all tucked in.”
Arthur whined softly, “Charlie… brush hair…” His thumb popped back into his mouth mid-sentence.
Charles chuckled quietly, picking up the brush from the nightstand. “Of course, petit frère.” He started brushing slowly, careful to avoid tangles, running his fingers through Arthur’s soft hair between strokes. Arthur nuzzled closer, small contented noises escaping him, pressing his cheek into Charles’ hand.
“You’re all tangled,” Charles murmured, brushing more gently now, “but grand frère’s got you. Doesn’t matter.”
Arthur let out a sleepy little hum, tugging the blanket closer to his chin. “Charlie… stay?”
Charles kissed the top of his head, whispering, “Always. I’ll stay as long as you need me.” He stayed kneeling there, brushing, running his hands over Arthur’s shoulders, murmuring soft nonsense to keep him calm. Arthur’s eyelids drooped fully, the last bit of mischief gone, replaced by the quiet comfort of being cared for.
Minutes passed. Arthur’s thumb fell from his mouth, his breathing evening out as sleep took him completely. Charles finally leaned back slightly, still keeping a hand resting lightly on Arthur’s back. He smiled softly, watching the rise and fall of his little brother’s chest.
“You’re safe, petit monstre,” he whispered, voice barely audible in the quiet room. “Grand frère’s here. Always.”
For a long while, Charles just stayed there, letting the stillness settle over them, holding his little brother in a gentle, protective cocoon. Outside, the world carried on, but inside that little room, all that mattered was this—the warmth, the trust, and the quiet bond of an older brother and his regressed little brother.
And as sleep finally claimed Charles too, he kept Arthur close, murmuring one last time: “Bonne nuit, ThuThur… I love you, petit frère.”
