Accusation

ac·cu·sa·tion

1. An act of accusing or the state of being confused

2. A charge of wrongdoing that is made against anther person or party

Matthew paced the hotel room waiting for Francis to get back, brows furrowed and biting hard on his lip. It had been nearly 3 months that he and Francis had been dating, and he was worried that he was getting a little too attached. He hadn't admitted his love to the Frenchman yet, and was starting to be thankful that he hadn't as Alfred had come to him with some rather upsetting news.

Apparently, after the meeting, Alfred had seen Francis talking to an attracting young woman and leaving with her. He hadn't overheard much of their conversation, but he had caught something about flowers and the phrase 'love them, they're beautiful'. Matthew knew that Alfred was only trying to be helpful, but part of him wished he'd never been told. He didn't want to doubt anything about their relationship, especially now he was getting in so deep.

He had tried to put it out of his head, but just couldn't shake the thought. Would Francis really betray him like that? Matthew knew that Francis wasn't well known for being completely loyal when it came to lovers and that he'd had his fair few, but Matthew had thought there'd been a change in the older man, and had thought, or rather, hoped, that their love (Cold he say love? How could he when he know if it was unrequited or not?) had been of importance and had meant something.

"Ah, Matthieu," Came a voice from the door. Matthew turned to see Francis and smiled briefly.

"Hi, Francis," He said quietly, not making eye contact and taking a seat on the end of the bed. He didn't want to look at him. He didn't want to ask if what Alfred had seen was what it had seemed. He hoped to be proven wrong, but his common sense was telling him not to be too hopeful.

"Here you are, my dear," Francis swept over to the bed, producing a large bouquet of lilies from behind his back. Matthew looked up and gasped, taking them from him, forgetting his worries for a moment smiling in gratitude at the romantic gesture. After saying his thank yous his smile fell, and he put the flowers on the bed beside him.

"Francis, I need to ask you something and I need you to be truthful with me,"

"Of course, what is it?"

Matthew launched into Alfred's story, twisting his fingers together and wringing one hand in the other, not looking at Francis the entire time. After the story he paused for a second, before asking the inevitable question; "Are you cheating on me?"

Francis blinked several times, Matthew could feel himself welling up in the silence. After a few tense moments Francis started to laugh. Matthew's eyes widened in the confusion.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, your brother is an idiot sometimes," Francis chuckled, "I'm not cheating, Matthieu, I was buying you flowers,"

Matthew glanced at the fllowers by his side and his mouth fell open into a little 'o' of understanding. It made sense now. Stupid Alfred.

"I would never cheat on you," Francis took Matthew's hands, "I couldn't; I love you."

Matthew stared at him, before big tears started to roll down his cheeks. Francis shook his head and cupped the canadian's face, "Why are you crying?"

"Y-you love me? I thought you didn't want me a-anymore, so you'd found someone else, a-and, I was really upset, because I l-love you too, but I thought you didn't feel the same s-mmpf!" Matthew's babbling was cut off as Francis pressed his lips against his.

"Shush," Francis pulled away slightly and smiled, "You are silly, Matthieu,"

"I-I am?"

Francis nodded. "J'taime,"

Matthew smiled, "J'taime, Francis."