Les Feuilles Mortes is a song by Andrea Bocelli, and although it isn't from the WW2 era, it will be incorporated into this fic :-)

Pairing : Francis Bonnefoy/Matthew Williams (France/Canada)

Summary : WW2 AU. Canadian Infantry Division Lieutenant Matthew Williams never expected to be remembered. French Intelligence Officer Francis Bonnefoy always had a great memory, and would never forget the shy Canadian who had stolen his heart just before the war.

Spring, 1937

The scent of freshly baked pastries and strong coffee assaulted Matthew's nose the second he stepped into the small Parisian cafe. The sweet, melodic voice of Edith Piaf wafted through the air in waves alongside the delectable aromas, and the all-around busy chatter of daily life was a pleasant hum in the background as he made his way to an empty table. It was easy to disappear in the crowded room, and yet Matthew appreciated the warm, fuzzy ambiance he wouldn't find in his native Canada. The muted voices, the sound of plates dropping somewhere far-off in the kitchen, the sound of vehicles zooming by on the crowded Parisian streets... None of those betrayed the rising fears of the continent, the rising fears and predictions of an upcoming war. The cafe was an escape, a safe haven in the troubled world, and Matthew couldn't be more content sitting in the village cafe, nursing a mug of freshly-brewed coffee. But even the most comforting of sanctuaries could be penetrated by the fear of the outside world. The murmurs around him began to increase in volume, voices steadily rising with every comment, until he could no longer avoid listening to what the people were whispering.

"...I hear he's becoming obsessed with power..."

"...Did you hear about the new ban?"

"...This can't lead to any good, I'm telling you..."

"...I hate to admit it, but history repeats itself...You don't think it will happen again, do you?"

"Un secondé guerre mondial?"

"This talk of war is most unsettling, non?"

The sound of a delicately accented voice directly addressing him snapped Matthew from his eavesdropping daze with a jump of fright. Hot coffee spilled onto his lap, and yet he could only gape silently at the stranger who had the audacity to sit at his table, without permission. The blond, accented stranger continued to speak, his tapered and gracious fingers absently toying with a ribbon he held in his hands.

"It is all you hear these days; 'Hitler this, and war that.' Worse than what happening is what the people are doing, spreading the rumours. All this negative talk can do nothing but bad, do you not agree?"

"I agree, it's quite true... But who are you? I don't mean to sound rude, and I'm terribly sorry if I do, but you just appeared at my table and scared me a little-" One slender finger effectively silenced Matthew, and a charming, if slightly sheepish, smile was offered. Matthew distantly noticed the stranger had a dimple.

"You do not sound rude at all, cher. It is my fault; I did not introduce myself properly." You didn't introduce yourself at all, Matthew wanted to correct, but instead he remained silent. Internally ashamed of even thinking the hasty retort, Matthew carefully shook a slender-fingered hand when it was offered to him. Hands so smooth, so perfect...

"But it is better late than never, I like to think. I am Francis Bonnefoy, artist extraordinaire, at your service! And what is your name, beau?"

Eyes from surrounding tables were drawn to both himself and Francis, and Matthew desperately wanted nothing but to hide beneath the table. In a much softer tone than the one Francis had used, Matthew soundlessly gave his name. When Francis continued to look at him expectantly, he came to the annoying realisation that he had spoken too weakly to be heard.

"I'm Matthew Williams. I'm not really extraordinary at anything, though...So I'm just Matt."

"Mathieu. What a beautiful name, darling, befitting for such a truly beautiful person! And everybody has a talent, dear Mathieu, it just takes time and experimenting to discover it."

The kind smile that was given put him at ease, and Matthew offered his own shy smile in return.

"You seem to have a philosophy for everything, Monsieur Bonnefoy."

"Non, non, non- please, call me Francis. I insist. And I do have a philosophy for many things; but art and philosophy are closely linked together, are they not? Everything is linked together in one delicate way or another - art is the visual form of philosophy and poetry, very much in the same way music is the audial form of art."

"I never thought of it that way...But it's true. It's quite brilliant, really."

"Ah, you flatter me. It makes me happy to hear you do agree with me though, cher. It is rare to find one with such a keen understanding. But tell me, and forgive for being so straightforward- you are not from here, am I correct? Your French is flawless, but yet you do not strike me as a local." Perched daintily on the iron-wrought chair with a look of piqued interest, Francis appeared both entirely at ease and utterly enthralled. Matthew couldn't resist talking to someone who seemed so genuinely captivated.

"I'm from Canada. I grew up in Montreal and learned French during my summers in Quebec."

"And why are you here, little Canadian?"

Matthew found himself becoming strangely accustomed to the terms of endearment and familiarity that he had found odd only moments before: Francis simply seemed to be the type of person to use them without a qualm or second thought. Perhaps he spoke to everyone with them.

"Because I study cultural anthropology, I qualified for the studying abroad programme at my school. Some of my classmates chose to study in London, but I personally chose to study in France."

"And I am glad that you did! It was fate that brought you to Paris, darling, and it is fate that brought me to you!"

Matthew's cheeks flushed as hot as the coffee in his mug. "O-Oh...That's a little far-fetched, don't you think? W-We did just meet, after all..." It was also unnervingly forward. How did he seem so sure that he was...?

"But how could it be otherwise? We were destined to be together, Mathieu!"

"But you don't know anything about me! And what if I'm not...you know. I mean, not that there is anything wrong with that, if you are! You just seem to assume that I am as well!"

With honeyed, soft-looking locks, eyes the shade of melted glaciers, and a strong jaw lined with slight, scruffy stubble, Matthew knew that even without his preferences he would have found Francis an attractive male. And that accent, so lilting and rich...The flush that tinted his cheeks was a giveaway to the train of his thought, if the sly, considerate smile that teased the corners of Francis' lips was anything to go by.

"Petit, nobody is judging you here. I share in your preferences." Beneath the table, a hand gently caressed Matthew's knee. "And I would never deny someone as charming as yourself."

An innocent touch slowly gave way to a more intimate stroke, and Matthew's lids slowly fluttered shut as the hand slipped one inch higher on his knee, then another and another. It was so sinfully wrong, he couldn't possibly indulge...

"Besides. No straight male would get so excited by the simple touch of another man's hand on his own, by a handshake. And no straight male would allow himself to be touched in the way I am touching you."

Francis' hands were rubbing patterns onto the flat of his thigh, his fingers skilled in their touch and utterly pleasing, but with that, Matthew bolted. He visibly jumped and trembled in his seat, persistently pushing away Francis' hands, and tearing at the kerchief he kept perpetually in his pocket with bitten-down nails.

"N-No! You may be right about my inclinations, but I won't go weak at the knees for just anybody, a stranger!" Even when exasperated, Matthew's voice rose no higher than the sound of the average voice. "I may be quiet and a little timid...But I still have my dignity, and how dare you simply come forward to pick on me like that!"

"Oh Mathieu, you sweet, beautiful little thing. I had my reasons to think that you are indeed like me before, but now I have no doubts." A hand came to lightly rest upon Matthew's, his touch cool and almost soothing despite his infuriating advances.

"I am sorry if I made you feel put on the spot darling, but I just simply had to know whether or not you do share in my preferences. I assure you that although I would never turn down a quickly attained night of passion, it was nothing of the sort this time. This was a bit of a...test, if you will. But I am sincerely sorry."

"You could have asked, I would have told the truth..."

"Ah, but you could have also told a lie! There is no response more natural than that of the body or of panic, Mathieu. I could have gone about a different way, I suppose, but there is nothing that can be done to change the past, only the future. So in that case, can I see you again?"

Francis seemed to have an endless source of unknowing wisdom, always followed by an inquisition of some sort. And although still slightly hurt and befuddled by his 'test,' Matthew couldn't help but nod slowly. "If that's what you'd like, I-I wouldn't mind...And I am a bit sorry for panicking for a moment there. It was your fault, but it's all in the past, eh?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say it's my entire fault...but of course it is in the past! And I would like nothing more than to see you again, mon cheri. That way we can change both our futures, yes?"

Scribbling down an address onto a napkin with a pen Matthew hadn't noticed was there, Francis lifted his hands in an apologetic gesture.

"I do wish I could stay here even longer with you,darling, but I have an appointment with a woman who insists I paint her a landscape. The duty of an artist calls me!"

Matthew blinked in surprise as an unexpected kiss was dusted onto his cheek by soft lips. "I will see you again sometime, Mathieu! Do stop by whenever you wish! In fact, I demand it, darling. Will you see me tomorrow?"

Before Matthew could utter a single word in response, Francis was gone.

Silently studying the slip of paper handed to him, the small heart drawn in the corner not going by unnoticed, Matthew tried to memorise the address jotted down in a neat scrawl. Francis was entirely absurd, asking a stranger to see him again...

But the French were, after all, an eccentric people.

.

Autumn, 1943

The night air was colder than Matthew remembered it to be. Winter scarf draped lovingly around his shoulders above his infantry uniform and mittens covering his wounded hands, Matthew bore resemblance to the innocent young man he used to be, despite emanating the authoritative air he had developed after years of bitter fighting.

Those same years of bitter fighting had aged him well beyond what it should have, marking the skin beneath his eyes a tired, bruised shade of plum and placing creases of worry between his brows on his otherwise-youthful face. His hands, once skilful and talented when holding a hockey stick, were ruined by a blast of shrapnel. He was tired of the fighting, he was tired of the constant battles that promised death. He was tired of becoming well-acquainted with another infantry man, only to find his corpse buried beneath the rubble of a destroyed town, and most importantly, he was tired of being scared and alone on the battlefield.

The entrance to the inconspicuously grey building he was seeking went by nearly unnoticed, until one of the men accompanying Matthew cleared his throat and gestured avidly toward the steel door. Matthew cleared his throat and muttered an apology under his breath before making his way toward the steely door and fiddling with the lock.

Opening the door would have been an easier task if his hands were to have remained unscarred from battle, but as it was, clutching the door handle was made difficult by the thick, bloodied gauze wrapped tightly around his appendage. A noise of frustration sounded in the confines of Matthew's throat before it could be helped, and one of his men stepped forward without the requirement of a command to open the door.

Once inside the bleak building, warm air engulfed Matthew's figure and restored the colour to his face, painting the tip of his nose a cheery shade of pink that stood out in stark contrast to the white walls and grimy floors. A solitary woman stood behind the desk in the room. Matthew could make out the distinguishable figure of a Luger tucked into the fold of her black skirt. A thinly drawn brow was raised in question, and her clipped British accent ricocheted off the walls when she spoke in an irritated voice. "What is your business here?"

Despite his months of fighting, Matthew couldn't for the life of him keep the quiver from his tone or make eye contact with the accusing blue gaze. "It's always the darkest before daybreak."

Matthew recited the crucial line with an unwavering gaze, straightening before the woman's acknowledging glare and attempting to look more confident than he felt. "Lieutenant Matthew Williams, 1st Canadian Infantry Division. I'm here with a few members of my regiment to meet with the Fr-"

"Our Intelligence is waiting for you in the first room to the left. Down that hallway."

"O-Oh. Thank you, miss." As they walked past the reception desk, Matthew felt the woman's scowl burning into his shoulders and repressed a flinch. It did not matter how long he had been fighting or how many campaigns he had taken part in, ordinary people made him nervous.

"Lieutenant, it's this way," one of his men whispered, the distinguishable accent of Ottawa prominent in his voice. Matthew's face flooded with embarrassment once he realised he had walked past the indicated room thoughtlessly.

"Of course. Sorry about that."

The new room they entered wasn't any better than the last; it just as austere and miserable as the welcoming room. Cold, unseeing faces stared at the walls and the silence in the room was crushing. Matthew could hear the rustle of his uniform, could hear the sound of his breathing... He hated it. A serious-faced man waited at the head of the oblong table, wordlessly extending a hand for Matthew to shake once within arm's reach.

"Our connection is running a bit late. He shouldn't be long." Ignoring all pleasantries, the stoic male cut straight to the chase and gestured for Matthew and the regiment to take a seat. Matthew nodded curtly but didn't respond.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a butter knife. Matthew sat silently and stared at the hands in his lap. They were the reason he was in that room, the reason he wasn't stationed in Sicily and fighting alongside his division. Matthew flinched in discomfort as his fingers twitched and pain seared through the rest of his palm. It would be a long while until he could fight in campaigns...Until then, he would have to settle for attaining information from the French.

"Sir, it appears our connection has arrived."

Lifting his head and turning his gaze to the door, Matthew waited expectantly for someone to walk into the room. The connection would be French... The next few moments seemed too coincidental, too precise to be anything less than predictable.

Matthew felt the colour drain from his face as a well-known person walked through the door. "Francis?"

The Frenchman looked up in question before his expression melted into that of confusion. "Mathieu?"

.

Francis was stunned. When Matthew had left four years prior, he was sure it was the last time he would ever see his sweet Canadian. And yet there he was, standing before him in the uniform of his regiment with the same bewildered, charming expression he had seen countless times before. Matthew had grown, he could see that much. He had developed from soft-hearted, cherubic-faced young man of nineteen to a handsome, strapping young lad of twenty three, if he remembered his birthday correctly.

Rounded, pink lips twisted in surprise, and Matthew had never looked more innocent or juvenile than he did right then and there. "Y-You!"

His voice hadn't changed. Still soft, breathy...utterly delectable. It was as endearing as the rest of him. Francis allowed himself the first smile he had delivered in weeks. "Mathieu. It has been a long while."

Matthew looked as though he wanted to cry. But when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly steady. "It's quite the surprise to see you again... But we have business to attend to."

"Indeed." Taking a deep breath, Francis turned to acknowledge the others in the room. "As you all know, this war has been ongoing for several years now. Unfortunately, there seems to be no end to this war any time soon. But we have been making progress.

"In August, two important events happened. The Ploesti fields were bombed by the Americans and Operation Husky was successfully conducted. Both were extremely important, most especially taking over Sicily. That puts us in an advantageous position. Italy was invaded and forced to sign an armistice in September, and word came that the Danes were secretly sending their Jews to Sweden by boat. Earlier this month, we caught wind that the Anti-German resistance in Italy is increasing. There were explosions in Milan: whether our connection to the Italian Resistenza was involved in the staging of this is unknown. All the same, the Italians are helping and doing their best. Most recently we heard that the Germans are preparing for an air raid in Italy; where in Italy, we do not know yet..."

Going over the events of the last few months, Francis realised the situation wasn't all too dire at all. Perhaps there really was a chance for the world.

.

Once the meeting was over, Matthew remained locked in his seat. The men accompanying began to shuffle out of the room, as did the members of the Intelligence, until the room was empty. The only person who remained was Francis- he could hear the fluttery sounds of the other gathering his papers, shifting every so often and pacing... Then all at once the noises stopped.

"I have not seen you in a very long time, Mathieu."

"Four years. Time flies, doesn't it?"

"On silver wings, it is ridiculous."

Francis had quiet footsteps; Matthew could barely hear them when he walked. But he could feel when the other was close enough to touch, could see the faint glow of pale blond hair out of the corner of his eye. If he closed his eyes and breathed slowly, he could detect the faint scent Francis always carried about him, the palest scent of lilacs and rosé wine.

"I had wondered about you," Francis offered as he settled into the seat beside him, long legs stretching out before him and crossing neatly at the ankles, hands settling patiently in his lap. "I had wondered how you were faring after you left."

The close, unnerving lack of distance between himself and Francis in the claustrophobic room was almost obtrusive. It was close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from Francis' skin and close enough for Matthew to smell the soft scent of his cologne, unchanged over the years. Underwhelming yet subduing... The subtle fragrance was enough to bring back nostalgic memories Matthew had thought were buried too deeply to be remembered.

"But Mathieu, it has been but a year! Surely you can stay just a bit longer?" The distraught, pleading tone Francis used twisted Matthew's stomach in knots. It was the tone Francis used when he wanted to spend the night, or when he had insisted on painting him in the nude. Matthew had never been able to say no.

But he didn't have a say in how long he would stay; his return to Canada was nonnegotiable. Despite how much it hurt, Matthew tried to offer a forced, watery smile. "I'm guessing you don't have a philosophy for this one, eh?"

Francis didn't bother masking his distress. "You can't leave. Please Mathieu, you cannot leave me!"

One tear slowly dripped down the curve of Matthew's cheek. And for once, Francis didn't wipe it away for him. "Please don't make this any harder than it needs to be... I have to leave in spring, I don't have a choice!"

The gradual smile that curved Francis' thin, bitten lips was as familiar to Matthew as the steps of his own home. "So now that I have the opportunity to ask, how have you been, Mathieu? Or is it Lieutenant Williams now?"

"I'm Lieutenant Williams to my squadron... But I can still be Mathieu, for old time's sake." For you.

It had been four years since he had last seen Francis - the brilliant smile he gave should not have been setting off Catherine wheels of excitement in his chest. But it did, and Matthew offered a shy, twitching smile of his own.

"How have you been, Francis?"

"I have been...surviving, as everybody else is trying to do."

"You look well...Do you still paint?"

The warm glow in Francis' eyes dimmed slightly, and his bright smile faded. "Unfortunately, I had to make a few sacrifices. I have not touched a paint brush in years."

"Oh...I'm sorry to hear that."

They fell into a silence Matthew wasn't sure was all too comfortable, until Francis broke it with his low, lilting voice. "It really is good to see you, Mathieu. I've missed you all these years."

"I'm sure you don't mean that," Matthew murmured, ducking his face to hide behind his curtain of golden hair by natural instinct. The pink never failed to make its way to Matthew's cheeks when in Francis' presence, but he did not need to know that.

"Why would you think that? Of course I missed you!" Francis sounded insulted, his refined voice raising and taking on a nearly indignant tone. "I was devastated when you left, I cried over you for months!"

"But Francis... You didn't want to see me on the last day, you didn't ever say goodbye..."

"Oh but cher, I did not say goodbye because bidding you adieu would have hurt too much. I preferred to think you were leaving for a quick errand, that you would come back to me later on that night like you always did. But perhaps that was worse. It set me up for disappointment when you never came back."

Francis' expression fell considerably and Matthew's heart dropped to his stomach. "Francis, I-I'm so sorry. But you knew I only had a year, and we were just friends. I never thought you would actually remember me, or miss me..."

"We were only friends?" Francis hummed hollowly with a lowered gaze, absent-mindedly gazing over Matthew's head and staring at a dirty stain on the otherwise pristine walls. "You play a cruel game, Mathieu. For the longest time I thought we could be more, at least I did before you left."

"Then I'm sorry I had you believing that."

Dejected, Matthew bit his lip to distract himself from the tears rising to the brims of his eyes. There was another brief lapse of silence before Francis' comforting hand was tilting his face up, forcing him to look into eyes that had never lost their beautiful qualities.

"Mathieu, cher, I was not looking to make you cry. It is all in the past, darling, we are past this." Francis' thumb traced the curve of his lower lash line, catching the tears that dampened the lashes there. "Please do not cry over something so old."

"I'm not crying, the tears haven't actually fallen yet," Matthew argued petulantly, gazing self-conscientiously toward the ground, the legs of the table, anywhere that was not Francis' tender face.

An exaggerated sigh met his response. "Oh Mathieu, do you see how stubborn you are? Just as stubborn as the English!"

Matthew picked at his ragged gloves and still refused to meet his gaze. A joke he would have laughed at years before passed by disregarded. "You had so many lovers, so many dates that each time we would meet you had a different woman to tell me about. That's why I never thought you would actually think of me once I was gone... But I'm so sorry to hear I caused you pain, Francis. I feel terrible knowing I upset you."

A sophisticated finger prodded and pushed the corner of his downturned lips skyward. "Please Mathieu, I told you it is in the past. Everything is alright now - you came back, didn't you? Perhaps for different reasons and under different circumstances, but you came back. I am not upset anymore, dear, and you should not be either. Understood?"

Francis was astoundingly commanding, and despite having become used to being the one giving orders, Matthew nodded meekly. "Understood, sir."

Just as unexpectedly as Francis' gaze and tone became stern, it softened. "Good. It is wonderful to have you back, Mathieu."

Matthew instantly recognised the familiar pattern of Francis' touch, the hand on his cheek, the inches separating their face...

The sunlight that filtered in through the bedroom windows was warm on Matthew's cheeks, but he could only focus on the fingers crawling on his sides, stroking every inch of the flesh bared as he thrashed about on the bedsheets. A foreign, strangled sound escaped him. "Francis, stop!"

"But why, Mathieu, it is so clear you are enjoying this!" Francis was laughing, blue eyes crinkled around the corners in glee and grin absolutely radiant. Matthew squirmed beneath his persistent fingertips and arched his back to avoid the talented hands on him, tears leaking out of his half-closed eyes. Oh maple, no... Peals of his laughter resounded in the room. "F-Francis, I surrender! Stop tickling me, p-please!"

Francis wore an expression of utter amusement and his hands finally paused just above Matthew's hips. "I never would have thought you to be so ticklish, cher!"

"I-I never knew I was," Matthew admitted once he was able to catch his breath, chest rising and falling heavily and breathing ragged. His flushed cheeks reddened even further when Francis gazed at him fondly, twisting his frustratingly errant curl with an elegant finger.

One hand gently cupped the curve of Matthew's face and the other brushed away the locks framing his brow. Francis' hands were cool and pleasant on his heated flesh. The blond lowered his face and Matthew's breath caught in his throat. "Mathieu... I like you, mon cheri. I like you so, so much," Francis murmured, the tip of one finger rubbing and tracing over his lower lip. "Do you like me as well?"

When Matthew nodded dazedly, Francis closed in the space between their lips and kissed him in the warmest of ways.

Matthew tilted his face slightly to the side just as the other leaned in and Francis just barely missed his mark, grazing his cheek instead of meeting his lips. Francis looked stunned, and Matthew offered a shy, almost apologetic grin. "It'll take a bit more than that, darling. It's been four long years."

Francis' eyes sparkled, and he gave a short laugh that was just as charming as Matthew remembered it to be. Everything about him was just as charming as Matthew remembered it to be... "As I said before, you are as stubborn as those Englishmen, darling! I shall wait then, mon coeur, as I did before." Matthew found his hand in Francis' grip and the Frenchman pressed a kiss to his bandaged palm, his rough stubble tickling the tips of his fingers in a delightfully tactile manner. "I will see you tomorrow then, first thing in the morning."

Francis left with a coy wink, and Matthew was left watching his retreating figure with a blooming, heated flush spreading over every inch of his body. Hiding the smile that twitched at the corners of his lips, Matthew couldn't help but think that even in the midst of war, some things never changed.

To Be Continued...

(YouTube) /watch?v=9xd04H0rDX4

Les Feuilles Mortes Lyrics:

C'est une chanson
Qui nous resemble
To tu m'aimais
Et je t'aimais

Nous vivions tous
Les deux ensemble
Toi qui m'aimais
Moi qui t'aimais

Mais la vie sépare
Ceux qui s'aiment
Tout doucement
Sans faire de bruit
Et la mer efface sure le sable
Le pas des amants désunis