Author's Note: Here's the last little part of this fic. I hope you enjoyed it, and Happy Christmas Eve if you celebrate Christmas!

Arthur has a newfound appreciation for teachers.

If he has to read one more poorly structured and grammatically incorrect assignment regarding Theodore Roosevelt's presidency, the neurons in his brain may disintegrate. Of course, while he himself was never the most motivated student among his peers (especially during his adolescence), he doesn't remember his own grammar ever being this dreadful.

He drops the red pen Alfred granted him on the kitchen table and gets up to brew some more tea—he's on his fourth cup now—because if he doesn't caffeinate himself, he's never going to get through the remainder of these papers.

He imagines the frustration he feels while reading the prose of these thirteen-year-olds isn't unlike how most people might feel if they were asked to read The British Journal of Ophthalmology—it may as well be written in another language.

Alfred doesn't get paid enough for this, clearly.

It's semi-bizarre for Arthur to have to picture Alfred at the head of a classroom of impressionable pre-teens, flourishing a piece of chalk and dishing out inspirational words of wisdom. In many ways, Arthur still sees him as a child, much to Alfred's chagrin. It took twenty-two painstaking years to raise the boys, and, though they may not have realized it yet, they have a lot of growing up left to do. The only difference now is that they'll be doing the rest of this growing up on their own, for the most part.

Arthur thought that once his children turned into adults, he'd be elated, and while it is rewarding to see them start to fly out of the nest in order to begin their own lives, he also feels a great loss for all of the time that has passed. Where has it gone? What happened to the family trips, the mornings spent having breakfast together, the lectures given past curfew, and the days when Alfred and Matthew still needed him and Francis? It's been hard to accept that soon enough, he and Francis will not be the most important people in the boy's lives. They will likely have families of their own—children of their own—and Arthur and Francis will inevitably get put on the backburner until old age takes them away from this world.

He misses being depended on, and he wonders if Francis feels the same way.

"Dad!"

He rolls his aching wrist in small circles to rid himself of his carpal tunnel syndrome from grading papers for hours and smiles. Okay, so maybe the boys aren't entirely independent just yet. Alfred still lives under his and Francis's roof, Matthew needs help paying for law school, and it's likely going to take them both a few more years before they can fully support themselves. That means the nest isn't completely empty, and Arthur can content himself with knowing that he's still needed, not as much as he once was, but enough to make him feel less abandoned.

"One moment!" he calls back to Alfred, counting the number of papers he still has to at least skim—twelve. That's twelve too many.

"Daaaaaad!"

"Coming!"

He happily leaves the stack of papers and climbs up the stairs to Alfred's room, where the boy is still lying in bed, acting as though it's the end of the world.

"Daaaaaaad."

"I'm here," Arthur sighs as he reaches the doorway. "What is it?"

"My eyes itch and burn like crazy."

"I'll bring you some eye drops that should help with the pain. Also, you might feel better if you got out of bed and walked around for a bit instead of focusing on the discomfort."

Alfred frowns and glares at him, but it only serves to make him look more pathetic, considering he still has his eye shields on. "You're being so insensitive."

"Perhaps, but you're being dramatic."

"No, I'm not. You have a bad bedside manner. You should work on that."

"Oh, if I'm doing such a poor job, I suppose you don't need my help after all. I'll just be on my way, then—"

"Wait!"

Arthur smirks, stops mid-step, and raises his brows at the boy. If only his students could see him now. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry. I need you or else my eyes will fall out of my head or something and who's gonna help me? I can't trust Papa or even Mattie. They'll just panic and let me die."

Hearing his name being mentioned, Matthew strolls down the hallway and stops beside Arthur, joining the conversation. "What'd I miss?"

"Your brother is being a difficult patient, that's all," Arthur says, and as he's speaking, he notices how bloodshot Alfred's eyes have become—they're itchy because they're dry. He'll need to bring some lubricating drops along with the antibiotics. While he gets some amusement out of teasing Alfred for being over-the-top about all of this, he acknowledges that at least some of the boy's complaints are legitimate, and he's obviously not going to feel completely well until another day or two.

"Typical," Matthew says. "Come on, Al. Wanna go play some chess?"

Intent on staying sullen, Alfred grumbles, "I hate chess."

"Well, what else are you gonna do for the rest of the day? Stay up here and feel sorry for yourself?"

"Hey! You're just as insensitive as Dad. Now, I know where you get it from."

But with a little more persuading on Matthew's part, Alfred gets out of bed and agrees to go down to the living room to play chess. As Matthew sets up the board, Arthur gets Alfred to lie down on the couch for a moment to give him several eye drops, and they must work because Alfred stops complaining about the pain in his eyes a few minutes later and gets more invested in his game against Matthew.

And once Arthur's sure Alfred is being sufficiently entertained, he goes back to the kitchen to have his tea and finish reading those hideous papers. For reasons beyond him, he doesn't have the strength to give any student lower than a C plus, even though he knows a good third of them deserve a D or F. Maybe it's because deep, deep, deep down, he's concerned that if he gives the students such low grades, one or two of them are bound to cry, and well, damn it all to hell, but he doesn't want that on his conscience. Maybe Alfred has more willpower than he does in that regard.

When he finally finishes grading everything, he neatly organizes the papers alphabetically and places the pile on the coffee table in the living room, where the boys are on their third round of chess. Naturally, it seems as though Matthew has been winning thus far.

Alfred glances at the papers and grins. "Thanks, Dad. You didn't have to do all of that. I appreciate it, though."

"Don't mention it."

Briefly, Alfred flips through the assignments to check over his work. He pauses a few times and frowns, creasing his forehead in confusion. "Did you curve this or something? This kid didn't even write five sentences and you gave him a C plus."

"Ahh, yes, well…" Arthur rubs the back of his neck awkwardly and looks at the ceiling, trying to formulate a reasonable explanation. "Quality over quantity, I suppose."

"He didn't even name a single one of Theodore Roosevelt's policies…Dad, you don't have to feel bad about giving a kid a low grade. No one wants to do it, obviously, but letting them get away with giving in homework they had a week to do but probably wrote on the bus ride to school isn't going to cut it either," Alfred explains, sounding reasonable and mature suddenly. "Man, the kids would love having you as a teacher."

"I…I apologize," Arthur mumbles because what else can he say?

"Nah, don't worry about it. It's still really helpful. I'll just have Mattie correct some of the grades. He's heartless," Alfred jokes, and Matthew gives him a shove in the ribs. "He beat me twice at chess already and keeps kicking me while I'm down—won't let up enough to let me win even once. Don't let his falsely sweet face fool you, Dad. I always told you he was the bad kid of the family. He gets away with everything because no one ever suspects him of doing anything wrong, but everyone knows it's the quiet ones you've gotta watch out for."

"Watching out for the loudmouths is important, too," Matthew remarks, and this time, Alfred's the one who shoves him in retaliation.

"Puh-lease. We all know I'm the favorite, especially since I started living here again," Alfred teases.

Matthew rolls his eyes. "You wish. Distance builds fondness. I'm the favorite. Right, Dad?"

"No," Arthur says firmly, just as he always does whenever this topic of discussion comes up. "Your papa and I love you both equally."

"Lies!" Alfred accuses, "and I can prove it, too."

At that, Alfred twists his head around and shouts, "Papa! I've got a question for you!"

Francis appears a minute later, stepping out of the laundry room, hair pulled back and tied into a bun—Arthur hates it when he does that. He needs a haircut but is too emotionally-invested in his hair to let it get trimmed.

"What's your question, mon chou?"

"Who's your favorite?" Alfred asks him.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. Who's your favorite person in this house?"

Francis puts down the laundry basket in his hands, saunters forward, and wraps his arms around Arthur's waist against Arthur's will. "The person I've been married to for over two decades now."

Alfred and Matthew both make a face, unamused.

"What? It's the truth," Francis smiles, pecking Arthur's cheek. "Isn't that right, mon amour?"

Arthur slumps his shoulders and begrudgingly says, "You mean to say you don't loathe me? I'm flabbergasted."

"Watch and learn, boys," Francis emphasizes, leaning his head on Arthur's shoulder and continuing his displays of affection. "One day, you might find true love like ours."

Arthur snorts, trying not to laugh. Their love has been anything but pristine. In fact, it has taken a great deal of work to keep it from crumbling and turning into shambles.

"You know, the kids ask me all the time if I'm married and have kids of my own. I always say yes," Alfred notes. "I like letting them think I've got my life together."

"But you don't have your life together," Matthew points out, teasing his brother again.

"Well, neither do you, bro."

"You're both young. You have time," Francis assures them, releasing Arthur momentarily to initiate a group hug with the boys. "I'm so lucky to have a beautiful family, and I wouldn't change it for anything."

Did Francis have more than one glass of wine today? He's being oddly sentimental, and Arthur doesn't know whether he should do something about it or not.

"Are you feeling all right, Francis?"

"Of course! Can't I be happy to be here with all of you?" Francis asks. "Must you be so suspicious of me all of the time?"

"I'm not suspecting you of anything, I just—"

"Hush and let me hug my family," Francis huffs.

Well, that answers Arthur's question from earlier about whether or not the man misses raising the boys—he does, clearly. Otherwise, he wouldn't be trapped between the frog and the boys, enduring a hug he didn't ask for.

And when they go to bed later that night and Arthur gets shaken awake because Alfred's eyes are bothering him again, he will get up, give him his eye drops again, and remind himself that he and Francis aren't quite done with being parents just yet.

Then, he will climb back into bed and settle himself against Francis's back, and Francis will turn around and ask a one-worded question, "Okay?"

"It's okay," Arthur will reassure him.

"Alfred can see?"

"Yes, and he won't be breaking any more pairs of glasses."

"Good," Francis sighs and chuckles at the same time. "I'm glad he listened to you in the end and agreed to the surgery. You were right—it was for the best."

"I'm always right," Arthur brags, smiling, "and I'm sure Alfred knows that as well."

"…Do you think the boys would be willing to go out for breakfast tomorrow morning? It's been a while since we've all been together like this."

"I don't see why not. You're being terribly clingy toward them lately."

"You noticed?"

"It's hard not to," Arthur murmurs, and now that they're alone, he allows himself to wrap his own arms around Francis.

"They grew up in the blink of an eye."

"I daresay it was longer than that," Arthur chuckles.

"And soon, they're going to leave their papa in the dust."

"No, they won't. Don't worry, they'll still be a calling us whenever there's a problem they don't know how to fix."

Francis sighs again. "I know, but it won't be the same."

"They'll bring us grandchildren in due time, I'm sure…And the best part about grandchildren is that they won't be our children, so we can visit and leave them at our leisure. They won't be our responsibility, thank goodness."

Francis laughs and nods his head. "Don't be so quick to say they won't be your responsibility. Those hypothetical grandchildren of ours might be plagued with poor eyesight as well."

Arthur groans quietly and says, "I can already feel the inevitable migraine I'll have as a result."

"Sorry for bringing it up. Let's go to sleep," Francis apologizes with another short laugh.

"Yes, let's."

There's plenty left to look forward to.