It is the autumn of 1942.

Arthur Kirkland is the 26 years old owner of a small bookstore in Paris. He has sand-coloured hair, freckled cheeks, boyish features and a pair of thick eyebrows, which cast a shadow over the only part of his face that he is actually fond of – his sharp green eyes. In his rare moments of self-appreciation, which he has once during a bright, sunny morning, his eyes remind him of the forests and hills and wild heaths of his homeland.

Arthur is British, but has been living in France since he was a child of about eight. By now, Paris is his home. He speaks perfect French, with a natural, authentic accent, but stutters and loses words when he tries to hold a complicated conversation in English. His parents are divorced; his father lives in the city, and Arthur visits him once a week. His mother lives over the Channel, in England.

Arthur has run this certain bookstore for about four years now. He shares the business with a partner, who runs a similar store at another neighborhood in Paris. In addition to the shop, Arthur rents an apartment on the second floor of the building. Money is tight, now, with the war going on, but he manages to live, and constantly reminds himself of how lucky he is to have a job and a roof to sleep under at all.

France is under Nazi occupation, and it has been for two years. Whenever a figure in military uniform steps into the bookstore with a stomping of heavy boots, Arthur's pulse quickens. He fights to keep his breathing normal and his expression pleasant and blank until the German officer leaves. For despite him being, in appearance, a law abiding citizen, he guards a dangerous secret. He fears – and this is a fear that haunts him, hanging in the back of his mind every moment he's awake – for the life of the young man who lives in his attic, in a hideout large enough for one person to sit or lay down in, but not to stand.

Every evening, when Arthur returns home, he locks the door, makes sure that all the blinds are shut down, and climbs up to the attic. The only window there is blocked by a large piece of cardboard. Arthur heads to a big wardrobe that covers half of the wall opposite from the door. He knocks on the side of it and says, "It's me." Then, he pushes the wardrobe aside; it screeches quietly as it moves across the floor. As soon as it's fully exposed, the hidden door in the wooden wall is opened from the inside. The young man pulls himself, with much difficulty, out. "Welcome back, Arthur," he whispers and stretches, throwing his arms wide open, then reaches down to touch his toes. "I was just getting lonely."

A few months earlier.

It is the second day of the mass arrest that will later come to be called the Vel' d'Hiv Roundup. At evening, when Arthur is having his dinner, a frantic knocking comes to his door. He freezes, then slowly rises from his table. "Who's there?"

"It's me," says a soft, familiar feminine voice, and Arthur, letting out a sigh of relief, hurries to open the door.

Lucille stands in the doorway with a young man leaning against her shoulder, half-conscious, dishevelled, and frightened. She doesn't have to explain anything. Arthur knows what's been going on around the country these past two days. He glances over their shoulders, and seeing that the street is empty, steps back. "Come in," he whispers. "Quick."

They seat the young man down and offer him food and water, which he silently accepts. Lucille tries speaking to him in a soft, comforting manner, to which he responds with a tired, faint shadow of a smile. "Thank you," he croaks, then repeats the same raspy words, looking at Arthur with glazed eyes.

Later that night, when the young man is asleep on a mattress up in the attic, Lucille and Arthur sit down to discuss his fate.

"They took his family," she whispers. "His poor old parents and little brother, who's only about sixteen. He was lucky; wasn't home when the Germans came for him, and he never wears the yellow badge. He heard the commotion in the streets, so he hid in the back of some alley until it had all calmed down. By the time he made it to his family's house they were all gone and the house was a mess. I found him there… His parents are my neighbours, you see. I've only met him a few times before, though – saw him climbing the stairs when he came to visit, you know…"

"How old is he?"

"I don't know, twenty-two? Maybe twenty-three?"

They both glance at the young man's limp figure. Even in his sleep he seems restless, constantly shifting, eyes frantically moving behind his eyelids. He is, Arthur notices almost with surprise, quite outstandingly beautiful, with a sharp jaw, a straight nose and thin, arched eyebrows. As he stirs in his sleep, his golden hair spreads around his head like a halo, like a roof painting of angels in the castle of Versailles.

Arthur sighs. "What are we going to do with him, Lucille?"

"I will contact the others," she says, "they'll find a place for him to hide." By the others, Arthur knows, she means her friends from the resistance.

"But until then?" Arthur demands, although he already knows what she was going to ask for.

"Let him stay here," she looks at him, silently begging him with her eyes. "Please. I remember you once showed me the hideout over there…" she motions towards the wardrobe. "Just for a few days, Arthur. I don't have any place for him, I don't live alone and I don't trust my roommate not to tell…"

"I don't know, Lucille," Arthur's mouth twists. "It's going to be very, very dangerous…"

"I know," she says, sounding desperate. "I know I'm not supposed to ask you to risk your life for someone you don't even know–"

Arthur nods.

"–but you are the only person in this city that I can really trust, Arthur…"

"Why do you even care for him?"

"It's the right thing to do," she shakes her head. "I just can't stand the thought that he'll be… starved, tortured, killed, whatever they do to his people… And his parents were such a pleasant couple, so kind and…"

"Tsk." Arthur looks away from her pleading eyes. "Fine, I'll let him stay until you figure out where to move him. But please, do it fast."

The young man sleeps for the whole night and halfway through the next day; when he finally wakes up, it is, by chance, during one of the times Arthur comes up to check on him. His eyes flutter open and he sits up slowly in his place. For a moment his eyes are hazy, and a dream-like, bright smile floats over his lips; then, little by little, as he remembers where he is and all that's happened, his smile fades. His eyes are a light sky blue, Arthur can now see, in the morning sun that comes through the window.

The next time Arthur climbs up, carrying a tray of breakfast for his unexpected guest, the young man is standing by the window, tapping his fingers against the windowsill in a frantic rhythm, his expression clouded. He turns as Arthur enters, and smiles faintly. "Bonjour," comes the soft, all-too-familiar greeting. "I don't know how to… thank you properly, for letting me stay."

Arthur doesn't reply. I'm not doing this because of you, he thinks, It's just that my old friend asked me for a favour... He makes his way to the young man's side and holds out the tray. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Better than yesterday." The young man glances surprisedly at the tray, then takes it carefully in his fidgety hands. "Thank you."

That morning ends up being quite busy and filled with necessary actions, on Arthur's side. He provides the young man with clean clothes. Luckily, they are more or less the same size. He opts to block the window, in case someone looks up at it, with a piece of cardboard that he tapes to its inner side. He pushes the wardrobe aside, exposing the secret door in the wall, and cleans the hideout from all the dust that it had gathered in years. The young man watches him, wide eyed, while finishing his breakfast.

"I'm not opening up my shop this morning," Arthur says matter-of-factly, "I wanted to make sure you… recover. But in the afternoon I'll have to go back to work. You'll have to stay in hiding – I don't want them breaking in when I'm gone, as we know they might do, and finding you here…"

The young man nods at his words. "I won't make a sound," he promises. He puts down the tray beside his mattress; the empty cup of coffee, with the brown stain in its bottom, is placed exactly in the middle of the empty plate. He gets to his feet, walks to where Arthur stands and peeks into the hideout. It is small, dark, and smells of dampness.

"May I ask your name?" the young man questions, as he runs his fingers over the peeling wood of the hideout's roof. Each plank is separated from its counterparts by tiny, languid slits – and through those cracks, the sky can be seen.

"It's Arthur," Arthur replies, somewhat surprised. "And yours?"

"Francis."

In the days that follow, as Arthur waits for a message from Lucille, he and Francis fall into a strange, careful routine.

Arthur, as always, sleeps in his room on the second floor, and Francis sleeps on the mattress in the attic. They share breakfast up there; Arthur brings, as he always does, pastries from the bakery and coffee from the coffee shop down the street. He also leaves Francis something for lunch, since he never closes the store at noon, and doesn't want to start doing so– it would be too suspicious. After he closes up the shop at evening, he comes back and frees Francis from the niche behind the wardrobe, for it's almost impossible to open it from the inside. When he's home, Arthur convinces himself, it's alright for Francis to be out. If anyone knocks, he'll be there to get him quickly back into the hideout.

Their interaction is careful and polite. Francis, at first, is quiet and distant, and walks around like he fears any wrong step might break something precious. After a day or two, he seems to stir from his state of shock, even if not completely shake it off; he begins asking questions, in a natural, friendly manner that Arthur is not sure if he finds pleasant or inappropriate. "There's a bookstore downstairs, right?" he asks. "Is it yours?"

Arthur nods.

"What is it called?"

"Trésors D'encre," Arthur replies, slightly embarrassed, for after four years he still feels as if the name he chose may be a tad too pretentious.

Francis repeats the name with a thoughtful expression. "Ink treasures," he tilts his head. "It's very nice. Like something out of a storybook."

During the evening, Arthur brings the radio up and fiddles with the buttons until he catches up to the wave of the BBC broadcast. Since it's now forbidden, he plays it on the lowest volume. Some of the words Francis does not understand, so Arthur translates for him. They always talk in low, hushed voices.

"Are you English, Arthur?" Francis asks, absently tapping his fingers on the floor when the line goes off and static noises sound.

"I am."

"You must have been here for quite some time, then," Francis guesses, "to be able to speak French with such a perfect accent."

"Yes, I was a child when we moved here. In fact, I don't feel very British at all…" Arthur winces. "And I can understand English better than I can speak it. I hope one day to live in Britain for a year or a few, to perfect my English, get to know where I came from…"

"It must be hard," Francis whispers. "I'm sure you'll be able to do that. One day, I'll go there too…"

"Maybe soon," Arthur offers hopefully. "Lucille and her friends in the resistance are going to find a place for you to hide, and maybe a way for you to get out of the country. Maybe they'll even get you to England."

"Maybe…" Francis' smile fades at the mention of his escape. For a moment, he seems to lose himself in thought and the air fills with the static humming of the radio transmitter.

"You know?" Francis blurts out, all of a sudden. "My mother's been saying for a very long time that we should leave. She said it was becoming dangerous for us here. But the rest of us just couldn't believe France would betray us. We believed it will all be over in a few months..."

The line goes back on, and so do the stern English voices. Francis falls eerily quiet. Arthur feels sudden empathy for him. He flicks the radio switch off and the room goes silent. "It's not your fault." he says.

Francis pulls his knees to his chest. "I don't know," he mumbles. "I could have said: you are right, let's leave, to Britain, to America, or let's go to Israel – we've always thought about it. We could all have been safe and well, somewhere far away from here–"

"You did what any person in your situation would have, no one can blame you, and you shouldn't either," Arthur proclaims heatedly. "Nothing of this madness is your fucking fault, do you hear me? So don't you blame yourself."

"It's just so hard," Francis lets out a frail response. He buries his face in his knees, and his voice comes out broken and muffled from behind the curtain of his golden locks. "I spend too much time thinking – I wouldn't even know if they died. They could all be gone by now."

This must be, Arthur thinks, the most heartbreaking sight he's ever seen. Nothing seems right; everything is unfair.

One other evening, when the BBC broadcast ends and music starts playing, Arthur reaches to turn the radio off. Francis holds his hand and stops him. "Don't," he whispers. "Listen, Arthur." His eyes are shining. "Listen."

Arthur frowns. Faint piano notes reach his ears. It sounds like a simple, stern melody – Arthur leans closer to the radio, for he can barely hear – and just then, at once, the music bursts, wild and dark, a storm of notes rising and falling. Arthur's eyes widen and he presses a hand to his mouth. The music is ever changing – one moment it's rain beating down on roof tiles on a stormy night, the next it's water softly trickling down leaves on the sunny morning that follows.

"Chopin," Francis hums. He's doing that thing with his hands again; tap-tapping his fingers with inhuman speed. "Étude Op. 25, No. 11. It's called 'Winter Wind.'"

Arthur watches his hands fly. "You play piano," he realises.

Francis smiles sadly. "I do."

Arthur closes his eyes and listens. It's July, yet he can hear the winter winds howling.

Francis' only pastime during his long hours in the hideout is reading. Arthur brings him books from the store every day. Somehow, in almost every book, Francis finds a character that, he claims, resembles Arthur, and makes sure to explain exactly why.

"You're a bit like Edward Rochester," he declares, quite out of the blue. "From Jane Eyre."

It's a Sunday morning and Arthur stays with him in the attic; Francis reads and Arthur goes over the monthly selling lists of the bookstore. In the background the radio plays Lili Marleen, soft and nostalgic.

"What?" Arthur says absently, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards. He takes his eyes off the lists and glances over his shoulder at Francis. "The master of Thornfield? Why?"

Francis scratches his chin, where a fair stubble has started to appear. "Both of you are loners," he muses, "serious and polite and sort of miserable, but passionate about things you care for. Fiery eyes, as –"

Arthur scoffs. "They're getting worse each time, your descriptions of me," he comments amusedly. "Are you Jane then? Because you're the new inhabitant in the house?"

Francis grins at him. "I'm Jane, but pretty," he decides, "and don't tell me what happens in the end."

A French policeman and a Gestapo officer arrive a few days after the mass roundup. It's just a regular check-up, and if Arthur has nothing to hide, they say, he has nothing to fear. The policeman searches around the bookstore, and the officer asks for the keys to Arthur's apartment. Arthur hands him the key with a smile. Despite the horror that seizes him and the part of his mind that screams at him to follow the officer up the stairs, he stays in the bookstore. He has to appear as if he has nothing to hide.

The policeman does not find any illegal books, although he goes to great lengths to find some. Arthur had buried them all in the yard the morning after Francis had arrived – he didn't want any attention drawn to his store.

As minutes pass and the Gestapo officer does not come back down, Arthur becomes more and more terrified, and has to grab hold of the counter to stop his hand from shaking. What if he decides, for some reason, to check what's behind the closet – if he hears Francis breathing – if Francis thinks that it's him, Arthur, coming back–

But when the officer finally appears, he is empty-handed. He mutters something to his companion and nods at Arthur's direction. "Looks alright," he says, then gestures around at the bookshelves. "Keep up your hard work."

Then, they both leave.

"I'd never been so afraid in my whole life," Francis admits that evening, when they sit face-to-face in the attic, with the empty dishes from dinner piled at their side. "I heard him opening the wardrobe's door and searching inside. I was holding my breath for so long, I thought I was going to faint before he finally went away."

"We were lucky," Arthur agrees. He shivers at the thought of what could have happened "I had never been that afraid either."

Francis looks at him with eyes full of shame. "I'm so sorry for what you're going through," he rasps. "Soon I'll be leaving, and you won't have to worry anymore."

Arthur looks away. "I won't stop worrying about you when you're gone," he whispers. "At least when you're here I know that you're safe."

Two weeks after the night Francis arrived, Lucille knocks at Arthur's door again. She climbs to the attic, saying she wants to speak to Francis and him together. There isn't yet a safe way to get Francis out of the country, she informs them, but the resistance is working hard to find one, for him and for all the others who are currently in hiding. Despite that, they can get him immediately to one of the resistance's shelters, where other Jewish families and individuals are staying.

Something bitter swirls in Arthur's stomach. "Francis can stay here if he wants to," he finds himself saying, and both Francis and Lucille turn to look at him with stunned expressions. "He can stay for as long as it takes until you find an escape route."

Francis shakes his head. He's always so goddamn emotional, Arthur thinks, his eyes are shining that way again. "You've already done so much for me, I don't want to put you in further danger."

"I'm putting myself in danger of my own accord," Arthur frowns.

"I can't–"

"Do you want to stay? Wait – Actually," Arthur looks at Lucille, "Will he be safer at the places you are offering?"

"I…" She looks from one man to the other, seemingly wordless. "I believe those places are just in the same danger of being found as this one," she says finally.

"Alright," Arthur looks back at Francis. "Do you want to stay?"

Francis sighs. "I worry about your safety, not mine."

"Don't–" Arthur bites his lip. "Never mind, do whatever you want."

Francis shakes his head. "I want to stay," he confesses, "if you want me here."

With that, it's decided.

Summer passes sluggishly. Francis keeps on living in Arthur's attic, and little by little, they get familiar with each other. They spend mornings, evening and weekends together, surrounded by the dusty oldness of the attic, to the shivering light of lamps. They share their meals, which Arthur brings from outside (he never cooks, and Francis expresses his regret over not being able to help, since he, apparently, does). They talk and listen to the BBC broadcasts and sometimes play cards or chess. Sometimes, they both read or tend to their own businesses, sitting alongside each other in comfortable silence.

"Have you read Les Miserables?" Arthur asks one evening. He had just let Francis out from the hideout, and the latter is now hopping from foot to foot to shake away the numbness.

Francis rolls his eyes. "Of course." He waves both arms in circles, first forward, then backwards. His face wears a confused expression when he tries to spin each of his arms in a different direction.

"You look like a human windmill," Arthur laughs. "It's ridiculous."

"Thanks. What about Les Mis?" Francis asks, fondly shortening the name.

"Well, this time I have a character that resembles you," Arthur announces triumphantly.

"Yes?" Francis raises an elegant eyebrow. "Let me guess." He begins walking enthusiastically from one side of the room to the other and back, to get the blood flowing. "Enjolras?"

Arthur sighs. "How did you know?"

"Come on. His physical description could fit me perfectly, don't you think? What was it? 'long fair lashes, blue eyes, hair flying in the wind, rosy cheeks, pure lips, and exquisite teeth–'"

"The best thing about you, Francis, is how modest you are–"

Francis laughs. "If you didn't think so, you wouldn't have said I resembled him, am I right? Though, of course," he stops and looks thoughtful, "it is also said that he looks like a seventeen-year-old girl, and you could have possibly meant that."

Arthur snorts. "A bit too much facial hair."

"I was actually thinking," Francis intones, and presses a hand to his chest dramatically, "about asking for a razor, Arthur… But now I'm not going to."

Arthur bursts out laughing again. "I'll bring you a razor," he promises. "If you're going to leave that beard, at least trim it to look respectable."

"I always look respectable – I mean, thank you." Francis finishes his stretches and leans against the wall by Arthur's side.

"Who am I in Les Miserables?" Arthur questions curiously.

Francis bites his lip. "Well I could say old Gillenormand–"

"Fuck you."

"–But why not Grantaire? Then, we get to die together."

Arthur considers it. "Pretty grim."

Francis points at the blocked window. "Our life is grim."

"Eh...Let's not talk about that," Arthur says quickly. A short quiet falls, then he adds: "Grantaire could work. There was a time in my life when I wasn't that far from being his sort of drunken cynic. And I still don't have any beliefs to speak of."

"But," Francis looks at him, "you know, Arthur, when Enjolras accused Grantaire of not believing in anything, he replied, 'I believe in you.' Then, the only thing you believe in should be–"

"Well," Arthur cuts him off skeptically. "Don't go flattering yourself so much now."

It amazes Arthur how life goes on outside. He finds it absurd how, at first glance, when walking the streets of Paris, it seems as if the war never existed. Stores and cafés are open and filled with chattering folks, laughing children cross the road on their way to school, and worried white-collar workers check their watches as they wait for their bus. All of them float in their own made-up bubble, blinding themselves from the sights of Nazi flags hanging from walls, from soldiers in foreign uniforms marching in small groups, from closed, wrecked stores whose owners were arrested and taken away. German propaganda is everywhere; the main message is 'collaboration'. The French and German cultures, so they claim, are not only harmonious, but complementary to each other. There are glowing articles about the monuments of Paris, its places of interest, its hotels, cafés, nightclubs, bread, cheese, women. The Germans are planning to make Paris into a place of recreation and relaxation for themselves in their vision of New Europe. They want to make sure that the Parisian culture flourishes as it had before the occupation, and so writers, artists, film creators and musicians are encouraged.

Arthur thinks about a certain musician that now has to remain quiet at all times, and at once, the whole pretence of peace and cultural bloom makes him want to vomit. He thinks of Francis' stories of the months before the arrests. He was banned from playing on stages, from entering music schools and competitions. Even attending others' concerts became illegal; he would go anyway, refusing to wear the yellow badge identifying him as the menace he obviously was for the public, wearing a cross instead, for the slim chance it would fool those who suspected him. His appearance, with the blue eyes and the blond hair, helped him make his way into concert halls unnoticed. But sometimes it worked against him; people recognised him for the rising star he was before the war. When he was caught he was forced to pay a fine, arrested for a week or simply beaten up and left lying in a pool of his own blood in a back alley. There are several scars over his body from such incidents; one of them is a line on his chin were his beard does not grow, like a scorched forest glade.

How could anyone hurt him? When the guards rounded up Enjolras, Arthur remembers, one of them said: it seems to me that I am about to shoot a flower. Yes, that is Francis – what a stone cold heart must one have to be able to pluck a flower so beautiful.

He used to play piano for hours every day, he tells Arthur. A few days ago, he asked for empty sheet music. If he can't play, at least he'll try creating. Arthur got it for him, and now Francis spends hours humming to himself, scribbling notes or just frowning intensively at nothing. He gets frustrated easily. "It's so hard to hold all the parts in your head," he groans. "I've never tried to do this before." Classical music on the radio is sweet torture; he listens with an expression that is somewhere between pained longing and enchantment. He talks a lot about music; he talks very little about his family, but Arthur knows he thinks about them just as much, as time passes and no good news arrive.

Summer ends, the war goes on, the nights grow longer, the weather colder, food becomes scarce, and the store's income drops – at a time when an extra loaf of bread is an irrational expend, no one has money to spare for books. Certain rationing tickets start to be issued. As, naturally, Arthur only receives the ticket share of one person, he has to use his savings from the past years in order to prevent Francis and him from starving. After a few weeks of denying his broke state and hoping in vain for an improvement of the economic state, he has to face the fact that something must be done. With that notion, he heads out to his weekly visit at his father's house and presents his problem. Of course, without mentioning any individual illegally staying at his place. His father frowns and says something along the lines of, "I've always said that nothing good will come out of that bookstore," then proceeds to carry out a long speech about Arthur's future, his foolish ideas, and his lack of ambition. As Arthur knows him well, he simply nods at everything his father says and slips in a "yes," "you are right," and "of course," whenever he stops to breathe. As he hopes (with much guilt), his father finishes his monologue with a "and of course I have to save you from the consequences of your actions. What do you need?"

Arthur thanks him genuinely and promises to pay him back when the financial crisis is over.

After that day, things get slightly better. Arthur doesn't tell Francis about any of it; he knows he already feels bad enough for the trouble he's causing him.

What doesn't get better, however, is the constant fear. There had been another Gestapo search in the house; this time, one of the officers got dangerously close to trying to move the wardrobe, and might have done so hadn't the other, by chance, called him to come downstairs and check whether some book he found was banned or not. The experience was just as nerve-wracking as the first, the one which occurred a few days after Francis' arrival. By now, every small sound makes them jump. The two of them find it hard to sleep; they don't mention it, but each of them can hear the other's footsteps as he wanders his room at night, troubled with pointless, endless thoughts.

They try not to get their hopes up when good news begin arriving for once. Maybe it won't last, they think. But at last, it seems clear that the war passed a turning point. At the end of October, Britain defeats Germany in El Alamein; Arthur and Francis cheer and throw their hands in the air, for a moment abandoning carefulness to the wind. It is also said that the Germans are losing at the fronts in the Soviet Union; it is now only a matter of time before the Allies win.

However, at that same time news reach Europe about the "Final Solution to the Jewish Question". There is, as the Soviet Union, the USA, and Britain confirm in a joint declaration, a plan for the extermination of the Jewish people, and hundreds of thousands have already been killed. The Allied Governments, they say, will not let those responsible for these crimes to escape their just punishment.

Francis stays pale and quiet for several days after the declaration. He's been telling himself in the past months, Arthur knows, that maybe the rumours weren't real; that humanity couldn't possibly sink to that level of madness and cruelty. But, still he holds onto the slim chance that his family had escaped, or that they are in hiding right now, just like him. He lives with the sorrow constantly bricked up at the back of his mind; it can be seen in each of his movements and heard in his voice as he hums to himself tunes that his hands remember still.

The year ends.

January arrives and the temperatures in the attic sink to the point where Francis stays cold even beneath three blankets. When at last Arthur wakes up at midnight to find it snowing outside, he makes his way up the wooden stairs, opens the screeching door to the attic and heads over to where Francis' curled figure lies. He's shivering. Arthur kneels and shakes his shoulder gently.

Francis mutters something incomprehensible. He opens his eyes, that are still draped with fatigue, and stares at Arthur without seeing him.

"Get up," Arthur murmurs. "You can't go on sleeping here. It's too cold." He finds Francis' hand beneath the blankets; it's freezing to the touch. "Come on, get up," he repeats, and helps the tired, half-awake young man to his feet. He leads him down the stairs and into his bedroom. Arthur gets into his bed. He shifts and turns to look at Francis, who's still standing, his silhouette outlined with blue moonlight, blinking around at the room he now sees for the first time. He seems to be lost in a dream.

"What are you waiting for?" Arthur asks. "There's enough space here for two."

Francis stirs awake. He climbs into the bed and crawls underneath the blankets. For a moment they stare at each other, eyes shining in the darkness; then Arthur turns away. "Bonne nuit", he whispers.

The springs creak as Francis settles comfortably at his side. He's still shivering. "Bonne nuit," he whispers back with a shaking voice. "fais de beaux rêves."

The room goes quiet, aside from the sound of their breathing. It's warm, and Francis' trembling gradually calms down. Arthur closes his eyes. With Francis there the world seems to be perfectly at peace.

From that night on they share Arthur's bed. At first, they keep a small distance between them; in just a few days they close it. Arthur gets used to laying his head on Francis' chest and waking up with his arm around him. It can no longer be ignored; something about their relationship had changed, with neither of them noticing. Francis says things like "morning, sunshine," and "goodnight, love," and kisses him with admiring and hazy eyes, as if Arthur's the most beautiful thing in the world. Arthur plays with his hair and marvels at the softness of his skin, and when he's out, everything reminds him of Francis, whose presence at his side becomes the 'right' state of the world, the way things should always be. They build themselves a world of delicate, tangible dreams for a better future.

We are not being careful, Arthur knows, they might come at night and find us here, together. But they ignore those troubling thoughts whenever they can; nothing matters but the two of them, they make believe, they are, right now, the only two people in the world.

Some nights, after Francis falls asleep, Arthur wonders if he feels anything real for him, for Arthur, at all, whether or not he's just using him as a distraction from his pain and fear. But at the end of the day, it doesn't matter; Arthur's in love, and if Francis does not feel the same, he doesn't want to know. He prefers living on in this beautiful made-up story, just like the people of Paris with their illusions of a world where the war never happened.

"But, You know," Arthur remembers Francis saying months ago, "when Enjolras accused Grantaire of not believing in anything, he replied, 'I believe in you.'"

Arthur has come to the point where the only thing he believes in, the only thing that is worth believing in, is Francis. He used to tell himself, a while ago, that all he wants is for Francis to be happy; what a straight out lie. He wants Francis to be happy where he can see it, he wants to wake up every morning to his bright voice and smile, to see his eyes lit with sunlight that comes pouring through unblocked windows. It is not out of altruism that he helps him, no, Arthur is as selfish as one could be. A million can die if Francis gets to live on.

Like all things that are too good to be true, their time together is short. In February Lucille knocks on Arthur's door again. She brings with her a young man who presents himself as a member of L'armée Juive, a Zionist resistance movement. They sit down in the kitchen, the young resistance fighter, Lucille, Arthur and Francis, and the lad tells them that his organization is helping Jews escape through the Pyrenees to Spain. Two or three groups had already passed the border this way. Francis can join the next. They will leave at the end of the week.

Arthur and Francis spend that week like it's their last on earth, and on the last night, after even the latest partiers retire to their beds, they go out to the snow. They walk the quiet streets hand in hand and breathe in the stingingly cold air. A few people pass by them; no one gives a second glance. At hours like that everyone is cloaked in their own melancholic thoughts.

Francis swallows in the city's lights with his eyes like a blind man seeing for the first time. "When the war ends," he says as they look up at the Eiffel Tower, with its top concealed in mist, "we'll go up there together." He grins wide and confident. "And let's go to the movies and the theatre, and take a train to the country to see all the fields and tiny red-roofed houses."

"Don't forget England," Arthur plays along. He already misses him. "We'll go there, too."

"We'll go to wherever we want," Francis says. "The world is waiting."

The next morning, fighters from the resistance come to pick Francis up. With them are a few other Jews that wish to escape Occupied France; a man of about fifty, two women in their thirties, and a boy that looks seventeen at most – more or less as old as Francis' brother.

Francis doesn't carry anything with him when he leaves – just as he did when he arrived. Arthur suddenly regrets not giving him anything to remind him of himself. "Give us just a moment," he says to the leader of the group with sudden panic, "just a second, please," then he pulls Francis back inside, closes the door and kisses him with desperate fierceness. All of a sudden he's trying to memorise his face and touch, cursing himself for realising so late that he really is leaving. "Stay alive," he breathlessly pleads, "Or I don't know what I'm going to do."

Francis looks so moved that Arthur feels even worse when he nods and holds him tightly, whispering into his ear, "I'll stay alive" and "thank you for everything" and "I'll see you at the other side of the war."

Then he has to leave. The group outside is waiting and every moment that passes is dangerous for them all. Arthur stands at the doorway and watches their beaten blue car drive away. When they turn to exit the street, Arthur sees Francis waving goodbye from the window. In the next moment, he's gone.

Arthur starts feeling it then, the horrible feeling of loss, like vicious fingers clawing and scratching at his ribcage, closing around his heart.

Two weeks later, they come from the Gestapo again. This time, they move the wardrobe aside. Arthur watches them and feels the corners of his mouth quirk up with some sort of sardonic, tired grin.

"There's a door here," one of them calls out suddenly.

"You won't find anything there," Arthur bursts out, feeling the edge of a hysterical laughter in his voice.

They look at him suspiciously and order him to quiet down; then one of them slides the door open. He reaches and takes something out from the hideout. "Now, what's this…?"

Arthur freezes. What IS that?

The officer brings out a stack of papers to the light; he flips through them. "It's music," he says, sounding surprised. "And why would you hide…"

Arthur's brain stops working. "It's…" he stutters. His face is as pale as the snow on the windowsill when he croaks; "an old friend gave me that long ago; it's… Personal, and close to my heart."

"An old friend, huh?" the officer reaches the last page in the stack. "Oh, there's even a dedication." He reads out the first line with a wicked, sickening sense of joy: "My dearest, Arthur…'"

The other officer near the window clears his throat and draws the other's attention. "Leave it," he says, glancing aside at Arthur with pity. "Must be something from a past girlfriend."

The officer holding the papers shrugs. He lets them flutter to the floor like autumn leaves. "Fine. Doesn't seem to be of any clandestine nature, anyway." He wipes his hands on his coat and gets up. "Let's go."

They leave.

As soon as the door closes behind them Arthur sprints back up to the attic and gathers the pages of the hand-written sheet music.

Sonata in G-major for Arthur Kirkland, the title reads.

Arthur flips through the pages with trembling hands and finds the dedication. Francis' handwriting is messy and spidery, so different than anyone would have guessed it to be, and several lines have been erased and rewritten again. The letters become blurred, and Arthur curses and wipes tears from his eyes; then he takes in a deep, shaky breath and starts reading.

"My dearest, Arthur.

I am writing this while you're sitting within arm's reach from me, by the desk in your bedroom. It is one of those strange mornings when it's cold, and the ground is covered in snow, yet it's sunny. I've missed sunlight; I'm going to miss you more.

I am not very good with words. It is so difficult to decide what I should write down here. In two days I will be leaving. I don't know when we'll meet again. A lot might change by then. Maybe you won't wish to see me anymore. Yet, even if it is just for the memory of the times we shared, I am dedicating this piece to you. Because after all, you are the heart of it, for I had you in my mind when writing it.

I don't want these pages to be harmed as I cross the border in the Pyrenees, so I will leave them here with you. Please keep them for me until the end of the war, will you, Arthur? I will play it for you. See this as a promise of my return.

Yours,

Francis."

Author's notes:

The name is a homage to "Fiddler on the Roof," a musical by Jerry Bock, Sheldon Harnick, and Joseph Stein , based upon "Tevye and His Daughters" by Sholem Aleichem , a story about a Jewish family in Imperial Russia.

This story was Written as a gift for Tescoeverydayvalue for the 2017 FrUK gift exchange.