DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

BIRDSONG

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names & relationships.

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

CANADA — Matthew Jones-Williams

AMERICA — Alfred Jones-Williams

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt

SPAIN — Antonio Fernàndez Carriedo

ROMANO — Lovino Vargas

ITALY — Feliciano Vargas

GERMANY — Ludwig Beilschmidt

HUNGARY — Elizabeta Hédervàry

AUSTRIA — Roderich Edelstein

NORWAY — Bjørn Thomassen

DENMARK — Mikkel Densen

CHINA — Wang Yao

JAPAN — Honda Kiku

SWEDEN — Berwald Oxenstierna

FINLAND — Tino Väinämöinen

LITHUANIA — Toris Laurinaitis

POLAND — Feliks Lukasiewicz

NETHERLANDS — Lars van den Berg

BELGIUM — Laura van den Berg

TURKEY — Sadik Adnan

GREECE — Heracles Karpusi

ESTONIA — Eduard von Bock

LATVIA — Raivis Galante

RUSSIA — Ivan Braginsky

ICELAND — Sigurður Thomassen

HONG KONG — Li Xiao Chun

ONE

MATTHEW

AN UNKNOWN LOCATION

Matt awoke with violent start. Churning water crashed against the porthole as the boat rocked, and bullets of rain lashed loudly on the metallic rooftop. He shifted to avoid a leak. He could hear sailors' voices and heavy boots stomping on the weathered deck outside, and he could smell fish and brine, stale cigarettes, and rusted metal. Wearily he blinked and surveyed the dark cargo-hold, which imprisoned he and Al. Al's wheat-blonde head was lying in Matt's lap, fast-asleep. Matt wanted to touch him to calm his own anxiety; to prove that the last twenty-four hours hadn't been a dream, a nightmare, but he couldn't. His hands—white, willowy hands they called dangerous—were shackled in irons behind his back.

"Al," he whispered, but Al's drug-induced sleep was deep.

I'm scared. Matt felt small in the cargo-hold. He had been scared since last week, since he and Al had been attacked on the streets. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the thief's lifeless face...

NORTH AMERICA

ONE WEEK AGO

The thief grabbed Matt and held a knife to his throat. It was late, and the boys should not have been alone on the grey streets. It was dangerous. The overpopulated city had fallen onto hard-times, the worst of times: war and recession feeding into depression. The poverty-stricken grey streets were cold, starving, and desperate. The thief was wild-eyed and malnourished. Matt felt his hot breath, his teeth rotting. The man locked eyes with Al, who stared back, paralysed with adolescent fear.

"No, please don't!" he panicked.

The thief grinned. "You're both high-borns, worth a fortune in the Black Trade," he growled. "Finding buyers for you will be so fucking easy, such pretty faces." His fingers ghosted over Matt's cheek; Matt shivered. Then the thief gestured to Al. "If you don't want to see his blood"—he jostled Matt—"then you'll come quietly and you won't scream."

Matt's heart palpitated. He felt his body go cold. Please don't hurt us. Please, I don't want to die!

"Run, Al!" he gasped, a tear rolling down his cheek (freezing on his cheek). "Run!"

Matt wasn't expecting the thief to lunge, but that's what he did. He must have been afraid that Al would take Matt's advice. The man took a long-legged step and reached for Al, and instinctively Matt grabbed his temples. The thief yelled in outrage, then pain. Matt dug his fingernails in, clawing at him, trying to force him off. The knife cut into Matt's collarbone and he cried-out, but did not let go. Then Al tackled the thief to the ground. A searing-hot electrical surge shocked Matt as he crawled free. The thief screamed as Al punched him, leaving not bruises but scorches. In his fury, Al yelled: "Stupid! Fucking! Bastard!" with every punch until Matt pulled him off. Al flinched and only then did Matt realize his shaking hands were frosted, so cold they burned. He looked into Al's scared blue eyes as his brother's hands crackled with electricity. Then, simultaneously, they looked at the thief who was lying face-down.

"He's dead," whispered Matt, staring from his icy hands to the corpse. "We killed him."

PRESENT

Matt struggled futilely against the restrictive shackles. The iron sucked the power from his body, neutralizing it. Matt didn't know what it was or how he had obtained such extraordinary abilities, but he did know it was very dangerous. I'm dangerous, he thought sadly. That's why they came for us—forced entry into the family's rich house and stole the boys, drugged them, and stuffed them into the cargo-hold of a ship—to take us away. But to where?

Matt feared the city jails. He didn't want to be locked up. He didn't want to be labeled as a murderer and left to the abuse of criminals twice his age. He was still young and tender-hearted, not a fighter at his core. The thief had been right in guessing them high-born: spoiled, pampered, well-fed children from a privileged family. They had never tasted a day of hardship in all their fifteen years. Even now, Matt could smell the scented-soap in his curls and feel the soft, starched cleanliness of his fine clothes. Is this my punishment, he wondered absently, for living in luxury while everyone else starved? On the streets people had always called out to he and Al (whenever they were permitted to leave the estate—escorted, of course), crying for charity and throwing themselves upon the mercy of the two naive boys. They always looked so sad and forlorn, so innocent in their suffering, but Matt wasn't stupid. They hated us. Without even knowing us, they hated us because we had what they wanted: money, status, and high-born blood. And we didn't work for it. We didn't earn it. We didn't have to suffer to survive. Every glare, every cruel-spirited whisper stung. So much so that he and Al had left the safety of the estate late one night and journeyed into the city's poorhouse, pockets jingling with riches they intended to donate.

It was foolish, Matt thought in retrospect. And now, because of our stupidity, a man is dead and we'll never see home again.

Several hours expired before a duo of armoured guards opened a narrow trapdoor. One descended the creaking stairs and grabbed Al's forearm, shaking him awake. Al gasped and reflexively fought the restraint, and then panicked when he found his hands shackled uselessly. To compensate, he spit a string of the ripest, vilest curses Matt had ever heard.

"Stop that!" snapped the guard, throwing his fist into Al's jaw to silence him. The force of the blow sent the boy backwards into Matt. "You brats have no idea who you're dealing with," he threatened. "If you don't want to rot in jail for murder, in a padded-fucking-cell, then you'll come quietly."

Apprehensively, Matt kept close to Al as the guards led them above-deck. It was foggy, but Matt could see the harbour's cutting shadow and a vast mountain-range rising like a behemoth. They were manhandled onto a long dock and then marched up several stone steps before they reached a gondola suspended by a cable that disappeared up into the mist. They sat inside as the operator eased the gondola into a climb, sandwiched between the two guardsmen, who both carried rifles. No. Rifle ammunition didn't glow blue. Matt swallowed nervously and pressed closer to Al's bigger body; Al, who was glaring maliciously at the operator sitting opposite him. It took a long time because the gondola's pace was slow and lumbering, but finally they reached the mountain's summit. They were taken to a great fortress fenced in iron. The sigil on the gates looked like a redesigned Celtic knot. More like a spider's web, Matt thought. Into the grounds they were marched, shackles jangling. It was dark. Leafless branches reached out like gnarled fingers. Al tensed. He secretly disliked spooks (was afraid of it), and the towering fortress resembled the quintessential picture of a haunted house. However, it's roof was caged like an aviary's dome.

A tall, spider-thin figure wearing a mask was waiting for them inside. He called himself simply the Doctor.

"Who are you? What do you want with us?" Al demanded bravely. "We haven't—" done anything wrong. But that wasn't true. They had killed a man. "What is this place?" he asked instead.

"It doesn't have a name because it doesn't officially exist, but we call it The Aviary," said the Doctor calmly. "I am its Keeper, and what I want with you, Alfred, is to cultivate your unique talent. Having done that, I'll sell you both to the highest bidder, and, frankly, couldn't care less what they do with you after that. In this place, I train weapons. I we take those like yourselves and transform them into spies, assassins, soldiers, and bodyguards—whatever the client desires; whatever your talents permit. These are very unpredictable times and people are very afraid. Rich, powerful people. The world is in upheaval, in a state of transition, and there are those who are willing to pay anything to ensure their position in the emerging world. People like you are invaluable to this purpose.

"You are what it called Magi," he said, stating a fact with no more pomp than if he had said: You are human. "Magi have the ability to wield the world's natural energy. To interact with it through the five senses and to weaponize its power. In layman's terms, you have the ability to perform magic. However, you cannot do it alone. It would be too dangerous, too unstable. Magic requires a great deal of study and discipline and no small amount of control, which is why every Magi needs a Magnus."

That said, he snapped his finger abrasively and two blonde men stepped forward.

They were both young—twenty, twenty-one—and attractive. The first man looked aristocratic, with long ash-blonde curls pulled back into a blue silk ribbon like eighteenth-century nobility. He had an artistic face, long-fingered hands, and blue eyes that rivaled sapphires for beauty. His movements were swift and graceful, and his expression was nonchalant as he approached. Upon seeing the twins, however, a grin tugged at his shapely lips. The second man was several inches shorter than his companion, thin as a willow-bough, and equally as sharp. He had wheat-blonde hair and a fey-like face that was pale and freckled. His features were too mature to be considered effeminate, yet there was a delicateness about him that existed in stark contrast to the glaring suspicion in his fierce Lincoln-green eyes. He didn't look strong, but nor would Matt have intentionally picked a fight with him. Both men looked proud and self-confident and—durable. Unlike the blue-eyed man, the green-eyed man didn't smile, and Matt honestly didn't know which of the two greetings he preferred.

"Francis and Arthur," the Doctor introduced them, "meet your two new Magi, Alfred and Matthew." Gently, he pushed the twins forward. Matt stumbled; Al growled. "I'll leave them both to your... expertise," he smiled, though his tone was not suggestive of a compliment. "You both know the drill, after all.

"This is your last chance," he added quietly, speaking deliberately to the Magnus. "For your sakes, I sincerely hope you can bond."

ALFRED

Al screamed and fought when the guards pried he and Matt apart. "No! Mattie! Let go of him! Let go of my brother, you fuckers!" He growled in angry protest, throwing his body from side-to-side as he kicked out, hands still shackled. "Mattie! Please, don't hurt him!" he begged the blue-eyed Frenchman, who took Matt's bicep in escort. "He's not—"

"That's enough!" snapped the green-eyed Englishman, grabbing Al's shoulder. "Stop making a bloody scene, you're embarrassing yourself. You're fifteen, old enough to know better," he chastised. "But apparently still too young to care," he deadpanned when Al lashed-out. Sighing, he dismissed the guards, who, trusting the Magnus' judgement, happily retired. (Al had given one a black-eye and another a split-lip. "He's your problem now," they said in retreat.)

Arthur half-dragged Al from the entrance hall. Al kept his eyes on Francis and Matt, who were close behind. They stepped into an old elevator, which groaned as it climbed. The air was thick with tension and nobody spoke. Not until FLOOR 7 glowed yellow and the doors reopened. Francis said: "Bonne chance," as Arthur dragged Al out.

"Mattie!" Al yelled. He lunged for the doors, but Arthur grabbed his ear and tugged it hard in a reprimanding way. Al flinched.

"Bloody-hell, you've got a lot of energy," Arthur complained. "Calm down. I'm not trying to hurt you."

"As if I'd believe that!" Al spat. "You're working for that freaky Doctor, kidnapping people—"

"Do you think I came here of my own volition?" Arthur snapped back. "Do you think I wasn't kidnapped just like you? Except that I didn't have a twin-brother to comfort me. I was left completely alone. Rest assured that it was fucking terrifying, you spoiled little..." He closed his mouth; pursed his lips. Al watched him inhale as he tried to curb his temper. "Look, I know that you're feeling... overwhelmed," Arthur said delicately, "but this is your life now, Alfred. The sooner you accept it, the sooner you'll feel better. I'm not your enemy, I'm your Magnus—"

"I don't even know what that means!"

"—it's my job to look after you," Arthur continued, as if Al hadn't spoken. "If you'll let me, I'll help you. But I won't tolerate childish tantrums, understand?" He stopped suddenly in front of a door and turned the knob. "This is my apartment, your home now," he said, trying to be accommodating.

It was a boxy two-room suite: a bedroom and kitchenette-lounge, with a washroom on the left. There was a window, but the blinds were closed. It was a tidy, near-empty room favouring functionality over aesthetics. It looked like a student's flat. "I've lived here for a long time," Arthur continued as Al surveyed the apartment. "If you have any questions, please ask me. That's what I'm here for. I'll be your mentor as well as your master—Magnus," he quickly corrected. Al eyed him suspiciously. "I know you don't want to believe me," Arthur said, "but this arrangement is for both of our benefit."

Feigning confidence, Arthur took a key from his trouser pocket and circled behind Al. A lock clicked and Al soon felt the shackles fall from his wrists. He felt an immediate surge of energy coarse through his body, as if he had been suffocating and could once again breathe. The Englishman took a step back, holding the shackles as he eyed his charge warily. "I hope that we can get along—?"

Al felt electricity prick his eager fingertips. In reply, he said: "Fuck you."

MATTHEW

This is my apartment," said Francis. He stepped tentatively inside and spread his arms in welcome. "It isn't lavish, but it's comfortable. I've tried to make it as pleasant as possible. It's your home now, so... please don't feel like a stranger. I've waited for a long time to have a roommate, well... a Magi," he confessed as Matt studied the small, two-room apartment. It was lacking in furniture, but not style. It was suave—mature, Matt thought, and then felt rather childish for thinking so. "I really hope that we're a good fit," said Francis, flexing his long fingers; over-eager or anxious, Matt didn't know. "You must be afraid. You're so young. I felt the same when they first brought me here. I didn't know why they wanted me or where I was being taken. They didn't tell me anything at all. At least I wasn't alone. I had a friend, my foster-brother. But now, of course, I wish they hadn't taken him... Pardon, I'm rambling," he realized. "It's just... I know how you must be feeling and, well... I don't want you to be afraid of me. I'll admit, the Birdcage—that's what we call the Aviary—isn't a very nice place to be, but I'll take care of you if you let me."

Like a helpless new pet, Matt thought, feeling belittled.

In good-faith, Francis extended his hand. Matt cocked a pale-blonde eyebrow in disbelief. The Frenchman looked momentarily crestfallen until he remembered Matt's shackles. "Oh, pardon!" Chuckling absentmindedly—nervously?—he fished for the key, which he inserted into the lock. The irons released and Matt inadvertently gasped. "Merde!" Francis cursed in shock. "They locked these much too tightly," he said as Matt massaged his chafed wrists. "Here, let me—"

Matt flinched and retreated, avoiding Francis. No, don't touch me! He glared at the Frenchman, feeling cold: ice frosted his skin in threat. Don't come any closer, I don't want your help. I want to find Al.

I want to go home.

ARTHUR

Arthur managed to force Al into an unflattering pair of yellow rubber-gloves. He wouldn't put the boy back in shackles unless it was absolutely necessary. Not unless he tries to attack me again. He glared at the blue-eyed boy, who glared defiantly back. Al was sitting on the settee; Arthur was standing by the window. He would have liked to increase the distance between he and the unpredictable Magi, but the apartment's size didn't let him. God, I hate this place, Arthur thought, not for the first time. It had been seven years since the Doctor had ordered his capture. He had spent the first two years stuck with Francis, and the last five intermittently alone as he waited for a Magi to bond—over and over and over again. The space hadn't seemed like such an inconvenience until Al stepped inside. Now, the suite felt too small.

Arthur had undergone years of intense physical and mental training in preparation for this day, and endured test after grueling test, only to fail in compatibility every time, losing his potential partners to other Magnus.

"This is your last chance," the Doctor had said. Arthur didn't know what would happen if he failed again. The Doctor was a cryptic man, but impatient, and he didn't like fruitless investments. Not since Ivan had there been such difficulty in matching a Magnus to a Magi. The Doctor had brought in several boys to test with the Russian, but Ivan had failed to bond with anyone and his contract as a Magnus had been designated: TERMINATED. Arthur didn't know what that meant exactly, but nobody had seen the Russian since. And now, after seven years of trial-and-error, he and Francis faced the same fate. If they failed to bond with these boys, they might finally find out what happened to Ivan.

Arthur would do anything to ensure that did not happen. No matter how much this spoiled, foul-mouthed North American boy dislikes me, I have to make this work!

"Are you hungry?" he asked politely. It was no short journey from North America (or, what had become of it) to the Birdcage, and Arthur doubted that the boy had been fed. His suspicion was confirmed seconds later when, as Al opened his mouth to protest, a loud growl filled the silence. "Right," said Arthur, moving into the kitchenette. "I don't usually keep food in the apartment, but I do have scones." As he jellied a scone, he caught his reflection in the toaster-oven: blonde hair standing on-end. Embarrassed, he tried to smooth it, but residual electricity still hung in the room; static-cling made his clothes feel fuzzy. A slight crackle sounded as he touched his head, pricking his fingers. "Here," he said to Al, who was watching him suspiciously.

Al took the saucer of jellied scones without thanks. Instead, he said: "If you don't keep food in here, where do you eat? Is there a cafeteria or something?"

"Sort of. There's a dining-hall," said Arthur, sitting down on the settee arm. "You can think of the Birdcage—that's what we call this place—as a boarding-school if you like. Presently, there are twenty-three other students, most of whom have already been bonded. Everyone is twenty-five or younger, except Yao. Nobody knows how old he really is. The youngest is... well, now it's you and your brother. The Birdcage has twelve floors; we're on the seventh. Francis' room where your brother lives is on the ninth. Everyone's apartments are located from floors six to eleven. The roof is forbidden because it's not monitored. The dining-hall and the common-room are on the fifth-floor. The archives and classrooms—if you want to call them that—are on the fourth-floor. The third-floor is the ground-floor, which is where the gymnasium is. And the second-floor is located underground, where the bathhouse is. There's also a sports field outside, and a pond with a dock. The gardens are rather lovely if you like horticulture."

Al listened quietly, chewing pastry. "What's on the first-floor? Is that the basement?"

Arthur shrugged. "I don't know, nobody does. Only the Doctor knows where the entrance is."

Al swallowed. "So, if this is a school and I'm a freshman then you're a senior, right?"

"I'm twenty-years-old and I've lived here for seven years, if that makes me a senior then yes. Those of us who aren't bonded usually act as mentors to the fresh recruits. I suppose in that regard, I am rather like a school prefect," he said thoughtfully.

Al cocked an eyebrow. "Sure, whatever," he said, chewing open-mouthed. "So, I'm a magician or something? That's why I can do this?" He snapped his fingers, which produced a spark. "And you're, like, what? My spirit guide?"

"I'm hoping to be your Magnus," Arthur corrected. "It's not very scientific, but there's something in my DNA that can channel and control what lurks in yours. I'm the lightning-rod and you're the lightning itself. Does that make sense? Magnus can't cast their own spells and Magi can't control their own energy." In indication, Arthur pointed to the static making his hair stand on-end. "Magi have the ability to interact with all of the world's energy, but most have a specialty. Yours seems to be electricity. It comes naturally to you. That's what the gloves are for, just until we're bonded," he promised. "Then I'll be able to control the flow of energy."

Al's eyes narrowed. "When you say control, does that mean cut-off? Are you going to short-circuit my magic? When you say bonded, what does that mean?"

"Before a Magnus and Magi can be linked, they must first undergo"—Arthur was careful not to say survive—"what's called the Bonding Ceremony. It's like a test. For example, if you and I are compatible with each other than an invisible, intangible link will form between us. If not then our magic will reject each other and we'll move on to a new partner."

If we're lucky.

"So, you've done this before? But that guy, the Doctor, said that this was your last chance."

Arthur pursed his lips. Al was more perceptive than he would have guessed. "Uh, yes," he replied guardedly. "I've been through the Bonding Ceremony before, six times in fact." And fortunately I survived every time. "It sounds like a lot, and it is. Once is often too much. In past years, a potential Magnus-Magi pairing were not tested unless the Doctor was positive it would work, but since the Black Trade has flourished he's become careless: too greedy. Now he wants quantity over quality. But it's not like we'll be completely unprepared for the bonding, Alfred. Every potential pair has to go through intensive training beforehand. It's a lot of teamwork drills and trust exercises. It's also why the Doctor forces us to live together." He gestured to the tiny bedroom and one bed. "Trust between partners is absolutely essential for a bond to form. It's a very... intimate thing. You need to trust me enough to let me physically manipulate you, and I need to trust that you won't kill me."

"Oh," said Al anticlimactically. He held the empty saucer in his hands and stared at the crumbs.

Arthur wanted to comfort Al's anxiety. It was a lot of information absorb (and accept) after all, but he didn't know how. In the seven years that he had been jailed in the Birdcage, he had been partnered with six people—Francis had been partnered with eight—but he hadn't been able to bond with any of them, and the final two had died. It's the Doctor's fault. He keeps partnering me with Magi I'm not compatible with, he thought resentfully. But maybe that wasn't entirely true. Maybe it was simply because Magi didn't trust him. Arthur could grudgingly admit that he wasn't the warmest of people, nor was he easy to live with. He knew this, and it's why he had tried so hard to befriend the last Magi, but it had ended badly.

I don't know what else to do. I've tried to be a good mentor. I've tried to be friendly, and kind, and helpful, but nothing works! Maybe I should just be honest, just be myself. That'll scare him, he thought in self-pity.

"So," said Al quietly. "If this works and we end up bonded, does that mean we're stuck together forever?"

Arthur didn't want to answer. He bit his lip and hesitantly said: "Yes. If we're bonded, then it's for life. We'll remain connected no matter how far apart we are, or how long we go without seeing each other." (Though, Arthur had heard rumours that separated pairs suffered horribly because of it.) "We'll be connected until we die. But," he added; Alfred had a right to know, "if we undergo the Bonding Ceremony and it fails, it's likely to kill us. I'm sorry."

Al took a deep breath. His cheeks flushed and his cornflower-blue eyes sparkled, shapely lips pursed. He was a healthy-looking boy, tall and broad-shouldered and strong. But he was only fifteen: a child, Arthur realized. And I've just told him that he's likely to die. Oh, bloody-hell.

When Al looked up at Arthur, however, all he said was: "These scones taste like shit."

FRANCIS

Francis stared at the young boy, who was shivering violently, but not from the cold. He was curled-up beneath a heavy blanket on the settee, staring absently at the floor, his arms crossed. He was a rather attractive boy: pale-blonde curls falling softly against flawless winter-white skin. He was tall with a willowy figure and soft features, but his long-lashed violet eyes looked sad. He looks so fragile, like a snowflake, Francis thought, but deceptively so. The boy possessed incredible power. Earlier, Francis felt the temperature drop at an alarming rate. Even now, he wore his coat and scarf and breathed into his hands to warm them.

Mathieu has a very cold disposition, he thought. But of course he does right now, he's scared.

Francis wanted to comfort the boy, physically or otherwise, but not only did Matt refuse his touch, he hadn't spoken a single word. At least Al had yelled and lashed-out at Arthur. Francis didn't know how to approach this silent, standoffish boy. Matt simply ignored everything Francis said or did unless the Frenchman tried to touch him.

If I get too close, I'm liable to get frostbite.

At first, Francis had been sympathetic. Now he was just getting frustrated. He tried again:

"Mathieu," he said, his breath frosting in front of him, "I realize that you're upset, and you have every right to be, but if you don't take better care of yourself then you're going to get sick. Please let me clean your injury"—Matt's collarbone was smeared with frosted blood and his wrists were chafed raw—"or at least let me get you some antiseptic so that you can do it yourself. I know that you feel abandoned and I'm sorry, I really am. This is a terrible situation to find oneself in, believe me, I understand," he emphasized, searching the kitchenette for medicine. He returned with a bowl, cloth-bandages, and antiseptic spray, which he placed on the coffee-table in front of Matt. "But you're beginning to worry me," he admitted. "You haven't spoken a word. Are you feeling alright? I mean physically, of course. Are you sick? Tired? Hungry, perhaps? Please tell me so I can help." Cautiously, he knelt down and looked at Matt from a less threatening position. "I'm trying really hard to be an accommodating host. Why won't you let me?"

When Matt glanced at him, Francis showed him a perfectly honest smile.

"I'm sorry," the boy whispered.

"Oh, so you can speak! That's a relief," Francis said; half-joking, half-serious. He watched a timid smile curl Matt's lips, but it didn't touch his violet eyes.

As Matt took to doctoring himself, Francis continued to monologue (he disliked silence):

"It'll be such a relief when we're bonded. I won't miss this awful cold. It's not hard to guess what your magic specialty is though, is it? Oh, I know it's not your fault, you can't control it. Don't worry, it'll be the first thing we learn together. Magnus become connected to their Magi's magic," he explained, watching Matt gently dab at his collarbone. "It's possible that we'll become connected in other ways, too: physically and emotionally. It's not common, but some bonded pairs can even feel what their partner is feeling, like joy, grief, pain, pleasure..." He stopped, then coughed to clear his throat. "Anyway, I've been waiting seven years for a Magi and you're my last chance, so I really want us to be friends. Is that alright?"

Matt stopped and stared hesitantly up at the earnest Frenchman, but Francis couldn't read his expression. It was void of emotion, somewhat unnerving. Softly, Matt said: "I'm sorry, but all I want is to go home."

Francis felt disappointment seize him. He wouldn't have felt more rejected if Matt had slapped him.

"Well, Mathieu," he licked his lips, avoiding eye-contact, "in the weeks to come, I sincerely hope you change your mind." Because I'm not letting you go, Mathieu. You're my very last chance to become a true Magnus. I won't end up like Ivan. Whatever the Russian's fate, Francis was sure it was ugly. I wish you would cooperate with me, but if I have to force you, seduce you, then I will. It had worked before—eight times, in fact. But he hadn't been magically compatible with any of the others. Looking now at Matt, however, he could feel that something was different. This boy is exceptionally powerful. This is who I'm meant to be with.

Considerately, he retreated into the bedroom, giving Matt space. If you want to play hard-to-get, that's fine. I'm not afraid of a challenge. You'll need me eventually, and when that day comes I'll be waiting for you with open arms. I'll be the best damn partner you've ever had. It benefited them both, after all. The Doctor would never release Matt, and he would never find a better partner than Francis (in Francis' thinking). It's for your own good, he thought, catching a glimpse of Matt. The blanket slipped off his shoulders and pooled on the floor, revealing a very frightened, shivering boy. Like it or not, we're stuck together, darling. But don't worry. I know how this game works: you're mine to protect, Mathieu. And I will protect you, I promise.

I'm not going to die in this cage, and neither are you.