Francis grinned broadly at the shell-shocked American in front of him. "Is something the matter, Alfred?"
"There is," Alfred paused for a moment, "absolutely no way in the nine levels of hell that you're telling the truth."
"I assure you, mon cher, I speak naught but the truth." He turned to Matthew, who was just as flustered and embarrassed as his twin. "Is that not so, Mathieu?"
"I don't remember this one," the Canadian mumbled into his bear's fur. "I wasn't any older than Al. But yeah, he's usually pretty truthful."
"Bull." Alfred was torn between anger and mortification. "I never would have done that, and even if I did, Arthur would never put up with it."
"Put up with what?" the Englishman said curiously as he stepped into the living room.
"Arthur!" Alfred cried. "I never thought I'd be so glad to see you. You can settle whether or not Francis is telling the truth for us, right?"
Arthur seated himself in his favorite wingback chair. "Telling the truth about what?" he asked a touch more cautiously.
Alfred closed his eyes briefly, as though he was gathering his courage. "Did I really try to breastfeed from you when I was a baby?" he blurted suddenly, face going scarlet.
Arthur blinked at him, gaped at Francis, and dropped his head into his hands with a wordless groan.