Work Text:
Father's Day begins normally.
Which is why Alfred realizes something is wrong.
"Dad."
Arthur looks up from his book. "What."
"What day is it tomorrow?" Alfred asks.
Arthur narrows his eyes, stating, "...Sunday."
Alfred turns to Matthew.
"We forgot Father's Day." Alfred almost screams.
Panic.
Matthew turns pale.
Francis is called.
Francis does nothing to help. He just laughs.
Then comes the brainstorming.
"What about a tea set?" Matthew asks, knowing of the man's love for tea.
"He has twenty." Francis responds.
"A sword?" Matthew suggests.
"He has more swords than tea sets." Francis says, shaking his head.
"A swan?" Alfred pitches in.
"A swan is not a gift." Matthew counters.
"C'mon! Anything is a gift!" He groans.
Meanwhile, Arthur becomes increasingly concerned because every time he enters a room, the conversation stops abruptly.
At one point he hears Alfred say:
"No, the swan is PLAN B."
And decides whatever it is isn't worth figuring it out.
The three spend the afternoon trying to figure out what Arthur would actually want.
The problem is that Arthur never asks for anything. Like, ever.
Whenever they try to buy him gifts, he says he doesn't need them.
Eventually someone suggests checking Arthur's study.
Just a quick check.
Not snooping.
Definitely not snooping.
Alfred and Francis immediately agree.
The three enter Arthur's study.
At first they find nothing useful.
Books.
Uncompleted paperwork. A lot of it.
A tea set.
Another tea set.
Then Matthew opens a drawer.
Inside are old Father's Day cards.
Every single one they've ever made.
Crayon drawings, handmade crafts, construction paper cards, the lot.
A terrible drawing Alfred made when he was little.
A card Matthew made that has crooked handwriting.
Everything.
Arthur kept everything.
The room falls silent.
Suddenly the tea set seems stupid.
The sword seems stupid.
The swan definitely seems stupid. (Alfred is still convinced it was a good idea, though. Maybe next year.)
So they spend the rest of the afternoon making a scrapbook.
Photos, old cards, memories.
Notes written in the margins.
The whole thing is messy and uneven. It's perfect! Well, perfect to THEIR standards.
That evening they hand it to Arthur.
Arthur looks at them with a quirked brow. "Why does this feel like a trap?"
"It isn't." The twins say in unison.
He opens it anyway.
The room grows quiet, the only sound the flipping of the paper pages.
Arthur pauses when he reaches one of the old drawings.
Then another.
Then a photo from years ago.
Then a handwritten note on the very last page.
"Thank you for always being there." It reads.
Arthur doesn't say anything for a moment. Or, well, he hasn't said anything in quite a bit.
They notice he's reading slower.
Matthew notices he's smiling.
Alfred notices he's gone completely red.
Francis notices nothing.
"It's not that good," Arthur mutters.
None of them really believe him.
Arthur closes the scrapbook.
Then opens it again.
And starts from the beginning.
Nobody points out the shine in his eyes. (They all realize, however.)
Nobody mentions that he spends the rest of the evening holding the scrapbook on his lap.
And nobody ever tells him they know exactly where he keeps it afterward.
Right beside all the other handmade Father's Day gifts.
Happy Father's Day, Arthur.