Passport
The first time Matthew came to France was special. Francis had spent centuries dreaming of it. He'd always been the one to go visit his little boy- before he'd lost the war. And when Matthew won his freedom from Arthur, who put up such a little fight after Alfred (Francis had made sure to cut the English nation the way he'd hurt him), the Frenchman had gone immediately to Canada. His boy's accent had changed, and it took longer to converse in French, but his head had still perked when Francis had said his name: Mathieu.
So the happy man went all out when over a century latter, Matthew asked if he could be the one to visit this time, pretty please? Francis had picked all the recipes, bought all the tickets, arranged tours (English and French, whichever his boy wanted that day), and that was that. He'd been ready.
The first night Matthew slept on the couch in his sweatshirt and jacket; Francis had removed his shoes but his boy was too grown up now to carry him to his bed.
And that was fine, the Canadian had been exhausted. In the morning they had a nice big breakfast, went to the Arc de Triomphe and Eiffel Tower, before Francis suggested dinner, imagining any of the famous Parisians restaurants he had standing reservations at.
Matthew asked if they could get take-away.
And that was fine, Matthew's palette was delicate but different. Francis showed him his favorite place and they had kebab and falafel on the balcony of his apartment, watching the Eiffel Tower light up.
By the time they went to the Loire Valley Francis had figured out Matthew really liked two things: soup, and sandwiches. Restaurant reservations were cancelled for meals in cafés and brasseries and boulangeries that made the Canadian smile sheepishly.
And that was fine, they didn't have to dress up to go out every night. Matthew seemed happiest at those times, babbling in his Canadian Franglais that Francis found he liked more than he ever thought he would.
It was towards the end of the trip, down south in Nice, that Matthew finally said something.
"I know," he'd started nervously in a low voice, "you tried to make this trip special for me Francis, with places to see and go and eat, and I know it was a lot of work, all of which I'm grateful for, but Francis? We could have sat on the floor of the airport for two weeks eating candy bars, and they'd have been the best two weeks of my life, because I spent them with you."
And that was fine, as Francis kissed the young man's head and held him too tightly to his chest. In the beginning he'd wanted the trip to be special for Matthew, but by the time they said goodbye and Matthew handed the security guard his Canadian passport, it'd become special for both of them.
Francis always remembered Matthew's first time in France, and that was just fine.