Chapter Text
“Euh, hello. My name is Francis Bonnefoy, and I’m the very proud papa of two twin boys, Alfred and Matthew, both 9 years old.”
Through his tablet, Arthur Kirkland was reviewing a submission video from a potential client as he was driven around London. A bedraggled man smiled sheepishly up at him through the screen, with his long blond hair tied back in a low ponytail - typical tired parent appearance.
“I work full time as a confectioner here in Seattle, so the boys are usually in after-care programs at school until I can pick them up. But when we’re all home… it can get a little chaotic.”
“DAAAAAAAD!!!!!”
The video panned from Francis on a couch to a young boy positively bouncing off the walls of a modest home. He was missing one of his front teeth and banging a foam baseball bat repeatedly against the floor as he yelled out.
“DAD! DAD! DAD! DAD! DAD!”
Francis was in the kitchen the next room over, stirring a pot on the stove with another boy clinging to his waist, face buried in his father’s side.
He called back gently. “Alfred, mon petit monstre, could you please just-”
“NOOOOOOOO!!!! You gotta be here NOW!!” Alfred interrupted, punctuating his demand with a solid whack of the bat against the wall, rattling some picture frames with the force.
Francis from the past sighs, abandoning the pot and turning the stove off. “Okay, okay, Papa’s coming-”
“Noooooo, Papaaaaaa!” The boy clinging to him began whining, looking up at his father with teary eyes.
Francis pet the boy’s wavy hair gently, “Matthew I’m still right here, I just need to check on your brother-”
“Nooooo!!!” Matthew’s soft cry quickly turned into a wail, grabbing onto Francis even harder and seemingly painfully judging by the wince and soft grunt his father made.
“Ah no, no, don’t cry mon chou. We’ll both go together okay?” Francis cooed down to the crying boy, dragging himself and Matthew - now clinging tightly to his leg - out of the kitchen to presumably check on Alfred.
The footage moved back to Francis’ solo interview on the couch. Arthur could certainly understand the man’s exhausted posture after witnessing how his boys acted.
“Alfred is certainly the more adventurous of the two, he’s always getting into something and raising hell wherever he can.” Francis spoke fondly of his little hellion, “He’s an independent boy and he completely loses his mind whenever I tell him no. I’m ashamed to admit it, but the only way I can get him to behave is to bribe him with sweets.”
“Alfred Jones Bonnefoy! What have I told you about running down the stairs?!” Francis now yelled across the house from the living room, panting and out of breath from running around.
“I’m a cowboy!!” Alfred was indeed dressed in a little hat and vest and carried twin toy pistols, proud as can be as he raced away from his father.
“Non! You are a reckless little boy who is going to smash his head open! Now get back here!” Francis continued the chase, but Alfred remained out of reach, laughing and smiling as he ran across furniture and swung around hallways.
“Ha ha ha ha! Only for a rodeo cake!” He hollered back.
“Mon dieu, FINE! Come sit at the counter and Papa will get you a cake.”
Immediately Alfred stopped running away and bolted to a barstool in the kitchen. He even folded his hands while he waited with a big grin. Francis dragged himself into the kitchen behind the boy and sure enough, handed him a small chocolate cake to devour. Arthur shook his head in disbelief at the complete 180 of young Alfred, who clearly knew he had his ‘papa’ wrapped around his finger.
“Matthew on the other hand is a very shy little boy, he never wants to be far from me and he’s very soft spoken.” Francis’ tired voice spoke up again from the tablet. “I wish he could share some of his brother’s curious spirit, but the poor thing just wails as soon as I move away from him. I think he says my name more than any other word.”
“Papa, carry me.”
“Papa.”
“Papa.”
“Papa!”
A montage of young Matthew begging for Francis at different times of the day spanned the tablet. Now this one, this one understood what puppy dog eyes were and used them viciously. In every shot, Matthew was on the brink of tears that completely vanished as soon as he was in Francis’ arms or wrapped around his legs.
Francis on the couch let out a deep sigh, curling in on himself slightly and no longer looking into the camera as he had been. “Bedtime is a nightmare for me.” He spoke softly. “Alfred gets spooked by ghost stories and monsters and Matthew cries for me all night long. Hearing them both cry out for me just breaks my heart, especially after their mother left us so abruptly. I just can’t stand the thought of them believing I would abandon them as well. I always end up cracking and let both of them sleep with me instead, which means I haven’t gotten a solid rest in… probably a year.”
He straightened up again, obviously miserable and scared and feeling utterly helpless, but he faced the camera with determination and pride shining in his light blue eyes.
“I’m… frankly I’m exhausted. Matthew refuses to be put down, and while I’m trying to keep him calm, Alfred is running amok! I love my boys dearly but I can’t keep being pulled in two directions like this, and I’m worried about the effect my… coddling has on them. I need help. Please, Monsieur Kirkland, I need your guidance.”
Arthur clicked the video off swiftly. “Well that is just unacceptable behavior. I mean this poor man has one child fused to his hip, and the other tearing the home apart! Neither of them are acting their ages; how on Earth is he expected to manage by himself?”
His driver readjusted the rearview mirror to look directly at Arthur. “Oh? Will we be stopping across the pond this time, sir?”
Arthur primly adjusted his necktie and crossed his legs. “Yes, Lukas, I believe we will. I’ll have Mathias send the appropriate paperwork.”
“It’s interesting, sir. You haven’t commented on what Monsieur Bonnefoy is doing wrong.” His driver’s deep blue eyes bored into Arthur from the mirror questioningly.
“Well, I-” Arthur stammered, not noticing the slip from his usual observations. He cleared his throat roughly, shifting his gaze to the window instead of Lukas’s mirror. “He’s a single father, he needs support before he can handle critiques.”
Lukas, like the mysterious bastard he was, merely shrugged from the driver’s seat and began their route to the airport.
Arthur knocked his gloved hand against a cheerfully red painted door. It swung open to reveal Alfred, missing tooth still prominently displayed.
Arthur wasn’t too shocked that the curious little boy had opened the door before his father could. He leaned down to his height to look him in the eyes.
“Hello there, darling. My name is Arthur, but you can call me ‘Artie’. Can you fetch your daddy for me?”
Alfred just stared back with wide eyes only made wider by his glasses. He slowly nodded and turned back into the home, keeping a cautious hand on the door and not letting Arthur inside. Arthur inwardly approved of the stranger-danger awareness.
“Dad! The pirate’s here!!”
“Already?!” A man’s voice squeaked from deeper inside.
Arthur looked down at his mossy green tweed suit and polished shoes. Pirate?
Before he could question the strange nickname, Francis appeared in the doorway with a hand around Alfred’s shoulders and unsurprisingly, Matthew holding the end of his shirt.
“Thank you, mon cher. Come on, let’s let him in.”
Francis gently pulled Alfred away from the door and Arthur crossed the threshold. He stuck a hand out to his newest client. “Hello, I’m Arthur Kirkland. Pleased to meet you.”
Francis looked at his leather-clad hand as if it was a gift from an angel. He grasped it tightly with his own and gave a determined shake. “It is such a relief to meet with you sir, I- I just don’t-” He took a deep, centering breath, “Thank you for being here.”
Arthur smiled back at him. This was always his favorite part, being able to be there for someone in need. “You’re quite welcome.”
He was gifted with a beautiful smile from his client. Warm and bashful and oh, so handsome as it spread across Francis’ tired face.
Arthur quickly broke eye contact and cleared his throat.
“Well Monsieur Bonnefoy, I’d like to start today off simple. Just go about your day like normal, and I’ll be here to observe and collect some footage on cameras we’ll set up around the house. Then tomorrow morning, after the boys are at school, I’ll be back to discuss a plan to help bring some more order to your home. Is that agreeable to you?” He droned, recentering himself as he fell back into the same script he said to every client.
The charming smile remained - to Arthur’s slight annoyance - but Francis straightened up from his slightly hunched position and tucked a stay piece of hair behind his ear. “Yes, of course. Please, come to the kitchen, we were just about to have breakfast.”
“BREAKFAST!!”
As if it were the magic word, Alfred shot off like a bullet towards the kitchen, dragging Matthew off Francis’ shirt and along with him. Francis fluidly tucked his pale blue dress shirt back into his pants and fished a hair tie out of his front pocket to secure his long hair back into its usual low-pony as he followed hurricane Alfred.
Arthur took a note of the boys’ food motivation and fell in line behind Francis, silent as a shadow.
Alfred and Matthew quickly took their positions at the two barstools by the kitchen counter. Francis swept over to a well-worn striped apron hanging on the pantry door and tossed it on. He spun dramatically to face his boys, hands on his hips and chin out - like a high-demand performer who knew exactly how good they were.
“Alright boys, what’ll it be today?”
“BACON!”
“Pancakes!”
Alfred and Matthew both exclaimed cheerfully at Francis. The blond man nodded to himself with his eyes closed, as if debating on if he knew how to make his children's requests. Arthur smiled softly at the theatrics of it all.
“How about bacon and pancakes… with fruit salad on the side, hmm?” Francis offered, “We can use strawberries, and bananas, and-”
The boys rudely interrupted their father’s suggestion.
“No, Dad! We don’t want fruit.” Alfred spat the word ‘fruit’ like it personally offended him.
“Yeah, Papa. Just pancakes!” Matthew whined.
Francis’ act faltered, winning smile cracking slightly at their refusal. “But just last week you both went through three packs of blueberries! You don’t want any fruit at all with breakfast?” He pouted, eyes silently begging them to accept.
“No fruit! No fruit! No fruit!”
They were chanting now. Both smiling, Arthur noted, and clearly thinking this was all a great big game, but chanting demands at their father nonetheless. Rather loudly, in his opinion.
Francis gave a heavy sigh, but twirled around dutifully towards the stovetop, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Fine, fine, mon petit princes want pancakes and bacon and no fruit. I hear you.”
And here was the first issue: Francis was incapable of saying ‘no’ to his children. If they knew they could get whatever they want at mealtimes, it could prove to be quite unhealthy down the road. Not to mention all the other ways this spoiling would enable bad behavior.
They would absolutely be talking about this tomorrow, Arthur thought as he glanced at the camera that would cover this room.
The Bonnefoy family’s day moved relatively smoothly after Alfred and Matthew had devoured their breakfasts. Arthur noticed that Alfred was just as rambunctious as the demo video portrayed him to be. The young boy would run and yell and grab all his toys out of his room just to throw them all over the house and not play with any of them.
It was when he was in the middle of examining a shiny soccer ball that the next calamity of the day ensued.
“Mattie c’mere!” He demanded from the living room.
Matthew was still in the kitchen, now clung loosely to Francis’ left leg as he watched his father begin to prepare lunch. His blond curls waved in a curtain around his face as he shook his head at his brother, “I don’t want to.”
Alfred, evidently, was used to this initial response, but did not want to accept it. “MATTIEEEEE!” He whined, roughly throwing the ball against the floor.
A frustrated pout crossed the quiet boy’s face, “I don’t wanna!” Matthew repeated harshly.
“You’re such a baby!”
“I am not! I just don’t want to go over there!” The boy’s voice grew louder in response, but he remained firmly attached to Francis.
“Baby! Baby! Baby! Why don’t you go take a nap in your crib cause you’re such a little baby?” Alfred sneered, storming out of the living room and into the kitchen to his brother; soccer ball fully abandoned.
Francis frowned at the display occurring at his feet. “Alfred, please, stop teasing your brother.”
The boy threw his hands up in frustration with a very dramatic sigh, “But he’s so LAME, Dad!” He groaned.
“Alfred!” Francis quickly chastised, “We do not talk about each other like that! Apologize now!”
“Why should I? It’s true! I thought you wanted us to be honest!” Alfred sounded genuinely hurt by his father’s order.
“Alfred Jones don’t make me-“
“Fine! Just stay with Matthew the BABY! I’m going outside!” With a final huff of anger, Alfred stomped away towards the backyard, punting the soccer ball outside and slamming the door behind him. Though the patio door was closed, his frustrated screech could still be heard by everyone in the house.
Arthur found it curious that Matthew didn’t try to retaliate once he had Francis’ backing, as was more common among young sibling fights. Especially considering that Matthew had a mirrored expression of anger on his face that Alfred had.
Francis allowed himself a tired sigh before he turned to address his son. He carded a hand through Matthew's longer hair gently, “Do you want to go outside with your brother, Matthew?”
Almost glowing from the physical attention he was getting, Matthew happily shoved his face into his father’s side as he was pet. “Uh uh.”
Francis smiled tightly, returning to his task. “I figured.” He muttered.
Arthur said nothing from his position at the kitchen table, but from his perspective, he could see how Alfred might be feeling isolated from his family. And if that related in any way to his own experiences as a lad, he didn’t think about it too hard.
After Alfred angrily kicked the ball around for a little while, Francis piled up the sandwiches he’d made and took them and Matthew to the back porch. Arthur thought for a moment the boy would refuse the food out of spite, but with a fresh sandwich in hand and a promise from his Papa to watch him try and make 10 goals in a row, Alfred’s little gapped smile was shining once more.
The family ate together outside, Now that they were all doing the same activity, Matthew didn’t seem to feel the need to cling to Francis, and was happily munching on his lunch next to his twin. The boys got into a minor scuffle over who looked better with who’s glasses (it was a tie, seeing as they had the same face), but it seemed that mealtimes at least were not a source of conflict for the Bonnefoy’s. At least, once the boys had put their orders in with the chef (i.e. Francis).
Bedtime was a different beast altogether.
“Alright boys, it’s time for bed. You have school tomorrow.” Francis pointedly looked at the two lumps nestled next to him on the couch. The movie they’d all been watching played its credits on the living room television, and the clock read 8:45 PM.
“But I’m not tired.” The lump to his left protested.
“Yes, you are, Alfred. You can barely keep your eyes open.” Francis chuckled, stretching languidly and starting to get up.
“I’m not! I wanna play baseball!” Alfred flung the blanket off himself - and Francis and half of Matthew - and scrambled into his father’s lap with an enormous pout.
Francis ruffled Alfred’s short hair, surprisingly not falling for the act, “We can play baseball tomorrow, mon petit monstre, but it’s time for bed now.”
Arthur raised a brow when Alfred began to cling to Francis, much like Matthew would.
“No no no no-“ The boy repeated, softly rubbing his head against Francis’ chest as he clung to his father’s neck.
“Oh ho, you think I cannot still drag your butt in there?” With a grunt of effort, Francis stood from the couch, holding Alfred in one arm as he continued to latch onto his neck. “Come on Matthew, you too.” He looked pointedly to the lump still curled up on the sofa. Matthew popped his head out from the blanket he’d re-covered himself with, puppy eyes out once more.
“Ah, don’t you even start. You need to sleep in your own room tonight, mon chou.” Francis tutted. Sensing he wasn’t going to get his way this time, Matthew dutifully began walking upstairs to his shared bedroom, Francis close behind and Arthur following at a respectful distance.
He dropped Alfred like a sack of potatoes on his superhero-themed bedsheets, which got a small squeal of laughter out of the boy. Matthew crawled under his lavender duvet without protest, calmly putting his glasses on a small nightstand and burrowing into his blankets like a little rabbit.
Once Alfred was tucked into his bed, tightly, Francis stepped back with a small smile and leaned against the door frame. Not that he had any doubt, but by the expression on the man’s face alone, Arthur could tell that Francis was completely smitten with paternal love for his children. The two twin boys sleepily watching him back were clearly the most treasured things in the man’s life.
“I’ll see you in the morning, I love you both very much.” He whispered, resting a finger on the lightswitch. “Goodnight, mon fils.”
“Goodnight, Papa.”
“Night, Dad.”
Francis slowly shut the door and made his way back downstairs. Despite the peacefulness he’d just witnessed, Arthur could see clear tension building in the other man’s shoulders as he tidied the house from the day’s activities. The two adults enjoyed perhaps 10 minutes of silence as Francis cleaned until the atmosphere was shattered by a bloodcurdling scream.
“AAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!”
That would explain the tension, Arthur thought, as Francis didn’t so much as flinch at the sound, but his shoulders finally dropped. A door upstairs slammed open, and the rapid thumping of small feet coming down the stairs announced Alfred’s presence seconds before he barrelled full force into his father.
“PAPAAAA!! PAPA HELP ME!!!” He sobbed, trembling.
Had he not been well acquainted with the distinct volume difference between the boys, Arthur almost could have mistaken Alfred for Matthew; his behavior was a perfect imitation of his brother during the daytime. It also seemed (adorably) that when he was frightened, Alfred would call Francis ‘Papa’, likely an old habit brought back out in his terror.
Alfred wiped his teary eyes on Francis’ oversized t-shirt. “It was a ghost! A ghost!!” He insisted.
Francis loosely wrapped an arm around his son and knelt to the ground, comforting yet firm when he spoke. “Alfred, how many times have we been over this? There are no such things as ghosts, mon petit monstre, it’s just your imagination.” He soothed.
“No! I saw it!!” Alfred stamped his foot, frowning up at his father. However, unlike the earlier tantrum, his anger faded rather quickly. A genuinely miserable expression broke across the young boy’s face as fat tears escaped his light blue eyes. “I’m scared, Papa!” His voice wobbled as he tried to speak through the anguish.
Francis’ eyes widened, instantly wrapping Alfred in a much tighter hug and kissing the top of his head as he cried into his shirt. “Okay, okay. Papa will stay with you until you fall asleep, how about that?”
“Okay… but you have to hold my hand.” Alfred’s muffled voice spoke from Francis’ chest.
“I can do that.” He agreed softly.
With a quick inhale of air, Alfred looked up at Francis, dragging his small chin up his shirt rather than stepping away from his father’s hold. “And you have to check the doors! And the bed!” He desperately insisted.
Francis nodded tiredly, “Yes, Alfred, I know the routine.”
The blond man swept his son up into his arms for the second time that night, slowly walking him upstairs and back to his room. Matthew was sitting upright in his bed as well, no doubt woken up by Alfred’s screaming. Arthur observed as Francis opened the closet and walked inside, shoved his upper body under both beds, and checked behind the door for ghosts.
Now cleared as spectre-free, Francis grabbed a plush pillow from a pile on a reading chair and settled down on the bedroom floor. Alfred slipped his hand into his, mumbled an exhausted ‘goodnight, Papa’, and shut his eyes.
Francis caught Arthur’s ever-vigilent bottle green eyes at the door with the same sheepish smile from his video. Arthur waved him off, he didn’t mind staying late, it was part of day one. The French man began to mouth some sort of an apology but was distracted by a second small hand reaching out for him from the other end of the room.
“Papa, will you hold my hand too?” Matthew’s tired voice asked.
Attention now on his other son, Francis shifted his legs around to sit more in the middle of the floor and offered his unoccupied hand. “Of course, mon chou. Reach over.”
Matthew closed his eyes in turn with a small smile. The clock in their room read 9:45, and it would read 11:30 when Francis could finally free himself and leave the bedroom. He extracted himself with the grace of a master thief evading museum security, joining Arthur and delicately shutting the door with a sigh of relief.
“Thank you for your time today, Mr. Kirkland.” He whispered, “Be honest with me please, am I a lost cause?”
Arthur stared at a father who had just sat still as a statue for over an hour to comfort his child. Francis’ blue eyes seemed duller now, countless late nights and stresses written across his face clear as day. Handling both Alfred and Matthew all by himself was clearly taking a toll on the man, and he seemed the type to let it fully destroy him before either boy suffered. The system wasn’t working, but it was certainly not beyond repair.
Arthur opened his mouth to say as such, but rather than his English accent coming from his lips, a second terrified scream rang out from the boys’ bedroom.
“AAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!!!”
The dullness threatened to fully envelop once-sparkling blue eyes; Francis dropped his head and audibly groaned in exhaustion. “Mon dieu…”
“PAPAAAAAA!! IT CAME BACK!!” Alfred’s screeching voice reverberated through the wood.
Arthur cooly stepped back as the door swung open, avoiding the certain broken nose he would have been sporting had he not moved.
Alfred was back in his father’s arms and crying, refusing to be led back into his room despite Francis’ pleas. “Papa! Just let me sleep with you, please! You’re the only one who keeps the ghosts away!” The boy begged.
Francis was clearly at a loss for what to do besides give in. The late hour was likely not doing him any favors either; Arthur was reminded that Francis claimed this had been going on almost nightly for a year now. He nodded and ruffled Alfred’s hair. “Get your pillow and blanket, mon cher. Just for tonight.”
“Thank you, Papa! Thank you thank you thank you-“ He babbled.
“That’s not fair!” Matthew was out of bed now, and pouting by the doorframe. “I don’t wanna sleep alone! What if- what if the ghost comes again?” A slight tremble in his voice promised a long night of tears if he was left by himself.
Francis rubbed at the bridge of his nose, obviously at his breaking point. “Come along then Matthew, get your things.” He murmured.
At their father’s approval, both boys darted back into their room, returning with comforters and pillows trailing behind them. Matthew made a beeline for the right side of the large bed taking up the majority of the bedroom, while Alfred valiantly grabbed the back of Francis’ striped pajama pants and tried to drag him inside along with them. He made his father stumble back a few feet before Francis caught himself at the entrance to the room.
He gripped the doorframe tightly as he struggled to remain outside and keep his pants up, “I’m really sorry about this, Mr. Kirkland. I had -gh hoped to see you out myself but…”
Arthur shook his head. “No need, I’m quite familiar with situations such as these.” He offered the man a small smile, hopefully not as pity-filled as he felt, “And please, call me Arthur.”
A twinkle of light returned to Francis’ expression and he bowed his head gratefully. “Thank you, Arthur. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow morning for our discussion, yes?”
“You will. Goodnight, Monsieur Bonnefoy.”
“Francis. I insist.” The man teased.
Arthur chalked the resulting fluttering behind his rib cage up to tiredness, the sweetness of Francis’ efforts with his children, and the stereotypical charm of the French.
He coughed quietly, swiveling around to the staircase. “Right then. Goodnight, Francis.”
Arthur took one last lap around the house, making sure each camera was functioning properly and listening to the family’s quiet voices begin to wind down from upstairs before taking his leave. Day one had been successful, now he just had to formulate a strategy.