Scarlet Path, my darling Germany, DeiDeiArtistic, silverstream27, 1silentmouse, The Voices Talk To Me, Goldpen, Valeada, Catsdon'tcry, .dawn, CyanideHappiness, SafetyScissors, NewBlueTrue, A huge Franada fan, Yagurt, , ilovesmilingfools, Niks565, CommanderApple, GoreHetare, DulcetRipple, Lady Queria and 25 to heroplz; thank you all for your reviews, which encourage, question our parentage and teach me Spanish all at once. Much love, guys.
A huge Franada fan, to answer your question: Because she's the only one I can imagine picking up after Francis and then smacking him over the head with his own canvas.
Um. This was supposed to be beta'd (SafetyScissors, I love you) but I just never got around to sending this hit.

Please note how many sexual thoughts Matthew has. Then count Francis'.

=oOo=

"Matthew For-The-Love-Of-Fuck-Man-What-Is-Your-Middle-Name? Williams! I am your brother. You're supposed to tell me before you prostitute yourself!"

A familiar mix of anger, frustration and embarrassment was heating his cheek. It was impossible not to be around Alfred Jones without feeling that emotion. But they were technically blood brothers, if only by half, so smacking the American across the back of the head in public wasn't totally out of the question. Or, it wouldn't be if Alfred wasn't in Louisiana State University and on a laptop screen which just happened to be in the middle of a coffee shop. On full volume.

There were many times in his life when Matt had wanted to crawl into a hole and die, and mostly, they were Al's fault, but no time more so that now.

"Alfred," he hissed though gritted teeth as he turned the speaker volume right down, "I'm in public."

The American on his screen gesticulated wildly, obviously still ranting about the Canadian's descent into whoredom. Matthew sighed. This hadn't been one of his better ideas, but Alfred did deserve to know, he supposed. He told Matt everything after all; it was only fair that Matt do the same.

Mattie: Al, I turned the speakers off. You're going to have to type.

Hro4eva: fuk u matt! :[

Hro4eva: o wait, ur nu john wl do tht! XD

Mattie: For fuck's sake, Alfred, he's a painter. I'm posing for a painting. There will be no fucking. He's going to be fully clothed.

Hro4eva: is he gnna paint u like 1 of his french girls~? ;-*

Mattie: Funny you should say that, actually. He's French.

Hro4eva: Dude. u do no tht u hv no sns of humor, rite?

Mattie: Right. And you can't spell for shit. Remind me what you're studying again?

Hro4eva: Civil Engineering an u no it. beta than gynecology.

Mattie: Diagnostic Cytology, you ass.

Hro4eva: still sounds gross

Mattie: Fine. But when you get skin cancer, don't expect me to make the diagnosis.

Hro4eva: U no im 2 awsum 4 that.

Mattie: I am not even going to dignify that with a response.

Hro4eva: Good. Because we need to get back on topic. Why are you doing this?

Shit. When Alfred started typing in proper English, it was a sure sign that he was using his Hero Voice and was building up to a lecture the likes of which no one has or wants to see.

Mattie: Because I need the money, Al. School is not cheap. This guy is rolling in it and he's offered to pay me through the nose to stand naked for a few hours.

Hro4eva: How do you know you can trust him?

Mattie: I don't. I'm going on blind faith here. I've checked him out on line, and he seems to be an insane millionaire with a paintbrush, but that's about as much as I can come up with. His stuff is good, though.

Hro4eva: I'm worried about you. How long are you going for? It's this afternoon, right?

Mattie: Yeah. Three-hour session. And I've got hockey before that. I'm going to be wiped.

Hro4eva: u pussy matt. ur gna b stndin still. hw hrd cn it b?

Mattie: Like you could ever stand dead still for any length of time. And it's fucking hard.

Hro4eva: thts wat she said ;)

Mattie: FFS Alfred.

Hro4eva: u no, 3 hrs is a looooooong tym. He cud ttly raep u an shit.

Matthew looked at the words Hro4eva is typing in italics at the bottom of the screen. He could see his brother, tongue between his teeth as he focused on the keyboard, no doubt composing some new cautionary tale that would astound the Canadian with both its inventiveness and falsity.

Mattie: Bye, Al. Chat soon.

He could see Alfred's face as the words appeared on his screen, eyebrows knitted together, his lips forming the words 'mother fucker!' before the screen went blank and the blond in the café sighed, running his hands over his face. That had been an eventful conversation. Emotionally drained, mind shying away from the valid points Alfred had made, he packed up his laptop and picked up his kit, all ready to go to practise and work off his worries.

~====o)0(o====~

The grating scrunch of his rubber-soled running shoes on the gravel driveway was a pale mockery of the scrape of skates on ice, the slick, rough cutting sound of the blades against the smooth, unforgiving frozen wasteland of the rink. The deep huff of his breath was only a faded copy of how panted gasps condensed in the chilled air of the rink. It had been a hard session, breath burning in his lungs and muscles of his legs aching pleasantly. Air always seemed cooler, fresher after a good match or practise. Matthew often felt that he was supposed to be on ice. It was where he felt the most at ease. Whereas on terra firma his lanky limbs would on occasion twist around something – sometimes one of their kin – and cause him to trip or fumble, on ice he was perfectly balanced, perfectly orientated. On ice he moved with speed, grace and skill. On dry land he – on dry land the strap of his bag broke, tipping his kit and sticks over Francis' front steps in a chaotic pile reminiscent of a child's game of pick-up sticks.

"Mother-fucking, cock-sucking sonofa whoring bi-" the frustrated Canadian began.

"Not talking about me, I hope?" Francis asked lightly, eyes raking hungrily over the young man on his doorstep. His hair, too pale to be considered red and too dark to be blond, was catching the syrup-gold of the early evening light, his face the cool shadows. The tips were still damp from some kind of washing, clumping into thin rat's tails that looked as though they'd been dipped in sepia instead of water. There was a faint flush of exertion in his cheeks, which was fast being overshadowed by a wash of embarrassment at being caught so. It was sweet to think that in a contradiction to his angelic face, his muse had such a filthy mouth. Sugared profanities flowing wine-rich from those cupid's lips and in such dulcet intonation that it barely seemed foul at all, simply a passionate recitation of poetry and nonsense. Matthew could be speaking Hebrew for all the Frenchman cared, as long as he got to paint him.

"Oh," Matthew muttered, abashed, "Er, no. I was talking to my bag. It broke," he added, unnecessarily as he gestured to the glorious mess of hockey paraphernalia. He couldn't take his eyes off of the man before him, backlit by what appeared to be a wall of glass that overlooked a pool and the setting sun, Francis' own hair was catching the light, spinning it into strands of glowing white-gold that tumbled carelessly from the elastic band that held it back to frame the sharp angles of his face. Was he standing there on purpose? Did he know that the clear blue of his eyes was reflected in the pool? That his hair was aflame in the setting sun? Or, like a cat, did he instinctively and subconsciously position himself for maximum visual impact? Either way, he was quite stunning. The Frenchman's elegantly dishevelled appearance of earlier that weak had been drastically altered in four days. The grey he had been wearing solidly had been exchanged for a plain white dress shirt and a well-cut pair of beige slacks, an ensemble that was covered in a rainbow of colours in a quantity any canvas would be envious of. There was a brush tucked behind each ear and though wings of pale blond fell to frame his face, the back was pulled into a high ponytail. Despite what appeared to be Francis' best efforts, there was a cascade of downy hairs pulling away from their restraint and falling in slow motion to rest against the Frenchman's lightly tanned neck.

Matthew wondered as he ripped his eyeballs from the entrancing spectacle of Francis leaning against the doorframe and began to gather up his things, why it was that his new 'boss' of sorts had to be so god damn gorgeous when he also had an alarming amount of potential to be nine different kinds of freak-show. Internally cursing himself, he didn't notice the elder man on the ground beside him until their shoulders bumped. Francis was fingering his tatty old kit bag with a look almost akin to disgust. So maybe there were holes in the stiff, waxy material, and maybe it reeked of sweat, but that was what a kit bag was supposed to do. Besides, the thing was dog-eared and old. Matthew couldn't bring himself to replace the stained red bag, much though it needed it. He'd have to now, though, that strap was completely shot. Disapproving French mutterings and murmurings dripped in coarse abandon from the other's lips as he stuck a paint-stained finger through a hole and wiggled it in a sharp, jabbing, come-hither motion that was about as sexual as road-kill, and yet under the shadowy cloak of innocence lay the mirrored motions of those experienced fingers tenderly caressing a lover, readying him or her or simply bringing the person to completion with his hands.

A shudder caressed the Canadian's spine at that vague, flickering thought. Surely such talented, dexterous fingers could be applied to other aspects of his life, couldn't they? After a moment of stillness, he shoved assorted kit back into the broken bag with more care than the action suggested. The cessation of movement was necessary to forcibly derail that train of thought. That speeding mental locomotive's destination could only be guessed at but it had needed to be pushed from its tracks before it got to Matthew-didn't-want-to-know where.

"So," he drew the word out, feeling awkward, hesitant, "Should we start? Where do you want me?"

On the front steps, where anyone could walk up the long, unfenced driveway and catch us? On the plush carpet of your entrance hall? Up against the wall where we could knock down the sober black-and-white photos of tree-lined streets and people in the rain? On my back on the kitchen table? On my hands and knees halfway up the staircase?

Hopefully the Frenchman would excuse his dirty thoughts for nerves.

"Just through here," was the serene, unsuspecting answer as Francis made an elegant, vague gesture to the space behind him, stepping aside to allow the Canadian through with his bags. For some reason this picture of a young man hefting the cumbersome bag seemed right, the right strain of muscle and stretch of skin, and the artist made a point to ask Matthew to pose lifting something at some point – if he had to kidnap him in order to get him to come again. For some reason he could picture that, a little chloroform on a rag, the strong body of this charmingly honest angel floored. His face peaceful and his hair waving gently across the floor like seaweed on a beach. A mermaid! He should do a study with water when it was a little warmer.

"You don't do things halfway, do you?" asked an incredulous Matthew as he walked through to the next room. There were curtains, veritable swathes, of plush, deep rose red velvet hanging on and over a daybed, covering it in rich folds and shadows. It looked like someone had taken a stage curtain and thrown it over the staircase and its surrounds, creating a cosy, sensual nook for painting.

Facing this nook, there were three, very large, rather intimidating primed canvases. They were arranged in a semicircle. Each easel had a table besides it, one with things on it. A sheet of glass, an assortment of tubes in varying degrees of filth and stain, and a wide range of neat brushes were arranged in orderly rows – a stark contrast to the scattered heap of oils – were set out, along with a few rags and what looks suspiciously like a child's paint-pot filled with green ooze.

"If it's done halfway, then surely it's not done?" the Frenchman smiled absently, picking up tubes of paint and holding them up to his eyes and then looking intently at his model, judging the colours he would use, and then the highlights and lowlights. "Whenever you're ready," he said, glancing up and selecting his brushes. Something big and loose to work in the basics – detail could be tweaked once those were done.

He'd done this a load of times in front of assorted men and women, but as a group, not as a one-on-one thing, and there was something terrifyingly intimate about shedding his clothes, even though Francis wasn't really watching. Matthew felt almost as though he was undressing before his first lover. Nervous tremors shook his hands as he toed off his shoes and kicked out of his jeans. The jacket was shrugged off and his shirt pulled over his head. A cursory tug at his boxers and socks and he was completely bare – save his glasses. As he reached up to take them off, a large hand grabbed his. The movement was gentle, but rather sudden, giving the Canadian a start. In his tension, he had forgotten where he was,

"Leave them," he said gently, tugging insistently on Matt's arm until he dropped it. The younger man relented, obviously Monsieur Bonnefoy liked a challenge, and that suited him just fine.

~====o)0(o====~

Monsieur Bonnefoy was a sneaky bastard, Matthew decided, his back arched and curved, one arm gripping the back of his neck a little harshly. Every muscle in his body was straining unpleasantly against the pose and the dull ache of his hockey practise had become distinctly more pronounced in the time he had been standing, sitting and lying. Twenty minutes each. That wasn't such a big thing, he could stand for twenty minutes when required, but there was something uncomfortable about this that had nothing to do with the physical.

It wasn't that Francis' eyes were caressing his body, drinking in every detail of him and him alone. It wasn't that it was just them two, locked in a frozen dance, the Frenchman moving about Matthew, who presently had his back to his employer. It was, irritatingly enough, because he was wearing his glasses. They felt like a last, wholly inadequate line of defence between his body and the man painting him, and Matthew wished that he could properly hide behind them at the same time as he wished he could just pull them off and face Francis. For the first time since he had started this job, he felt actually naked and the vulnerability of that was not something he was at all happy about.

Sweat beaded at his temple and rolled down his face, dripping onto his chest and working its way down like rain on a window pane. Francis' brush leapt at the opportunity, the strained crease of his forehead, the slightly pouting frown and the way his teeth sunk into his lower lip – still chapped, that needed fixing. The tremble of those strong muscles, the sweat that glistened on his skin, both the back that faced him and the front that was reflected in the carefully positioned mirror, they were so beautiful. No mortal could have birthed him. Matthieu was surely the child of seraphim.

A fallen seraph, perhaps, because surely no angel could look so utterly delicious in his nudity. It occurred to Francis that Matthew knew how to use his body. Those coiled layers of muscle and sinew were perfectly controlled, held immobile by an iron will. Was this beautiful man used to flaunting his body so bravely before others? And yet in this setting he seemed ill at ease? Ah, but that had been Francis' plan from the beginning – to see Matthew confidant was one thing, but to see him feel weak? It was amazing which parts of his body he would try to hide in order to make himself feel safer. The twist of his hips, the duck of his head. The contradictory softness of his strong stomach and the smooth skin and the bunched tension in his back, all of these things added up to a most edible physique. Quick, definite strokes of pale colour and broad washes began to fill in the structure of the Canadians body, darkening the shadows and leaving the places where light caressed his skin almost completely bare. The Frenchman checked his watch. Three poses, twenty minutes each; the first hour was up.

"Time for a break, I think," he said, wiping his hands on a rag and doing the same for his brushes, "Would you like some coffee?" please come naked, so that I can see the way you move as you walk, the little gestures you make as you usually would, but let me see all of you. Don't hide yourself away from me. "Can I get you a robe?"

"Yes and yes," Matt grinned tiredly, stretching his stiff arm and rubbing the muscles over his ribs that had tensed for the last twenty minutes. They protested as his fingers gently prodded and rubbed, undoing knots before relaxing and stretching his legs out, unaware of the Frenchman's disappointment. He would usually have brought his own robe, but he'd been so nervous. Matthew wasn't going to lie, he'd been shit-scared. First private job, first time working with a professional, and then there had been Alfred's earlier comments about rape and kidnap and that had kind of made him fear for his life. But Francis seemed fine, and he only had two hours left. Hopefully there would be another break, because he didn't think he could last for another round like that. His body was already protesting. Maybe the next session shouldn't be after hockey? Wait- he was already considering the next session? They weren't even done with this one yet! And furthermore, did he even want there to be another session when he was feeling quite this …uncomfortable?

Well, yeah. The Frenchman seemed nice enough, he hadn't made any untoward comments or gestures – he'd been remarkably professional about everything. And if he was getting paid for it, so much the better. Francis returned with a silk bathrobe in an inky shade of midnight blue. Okay. Did it have to be silk? Did it? Apparently. Shrugging on the 'garment' Matthew followed his beconing employer to a large, chrome encrusted kitchen.

"Please, sit down, rest, you must be exhausted. That was a very difficult pose you made for me, thank you," there was a ringing sincerity in the Frenchman's voice as he smiled at the Canadian and busied himself with the trappings of coffee.

"Well, you seemed to enjoy- um, that doesn't quite sound right – you seemed to appreciate it, and that's my job, so…" he jittered, fingers tapping stiffly against the cold marble of the countertop. Francis laughed. The sound was low and rich as the coffee he was making. And Matthew couldn't help but blush, eyes boring a hole through the stone. In this flimsy – too small – robe, he felt even more exposed than he had when he was completely naked.

"I told you, your body is amazing. I'm quite honoured that you agreed to pose for me," Francis tossed a brilliant smile over his shoulder to the man at his breakfast bar, only causing the blood to rise faster in his cheeks. The coffee was soon enough brewed and set before him, the painter taking a seat by his side on one of the long-legged barstools. Matthew chose to let the comment pass, taking a sip of the dark, caffeine rich liquid, a happy sigh passing his lips.

"So, Francis Jacques de Bonnefoy?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow at the elder man, turning so that he was facing him. The aforementioned Frenchman couldn't help but run his eyes appreciatively over the Canadian. The blue of the silk contrasted wonderfully with the pale tone of his skin, the neck open over that wonderfully firm chest. Francis was struck by the desire to lean over and lick the sweat off of that skin. Of course, that would probably be unethical, as he was intending to pay for Matthew's services. Not to mention that the boy was of unknown sexual orientation and availability. Though he very much doubted that any partner would let a body that they had claimed as their own be seen by the masses. Especially one that looked like that. Not without leaving a few prominent marks of possession. There were a few faded bruises on his muses skin, but none in the size or shape that indicated a love-bite.

"Oui, Matthieu Arnault Williams?" he answered with an equally superior expression on his face.

"Wait," another delightful frown of concentration carved its lines into the canvas of his Canadien's face, "My own brother doesn't even know what my second name is. How do you?"

"It was on your student registry forms," a careless, one-shouldered shrug. It had been a fairly simple matter to lay hands on them, though universities aren't supposed to give out information about their students to anyone who happens along. Even if they are pretending to be a concerned uncle wanting to see how his nephew is doing in school….

There was a thoughtful silence as Matthew contemplated the meaning behind those words. Francis had gotten a hold of his student registry forms. That meant that he knew everything about him. The course he was studying. The classes he took. His mother's maiden name. All of it. "Do I even want to know how you go your hands on those?" he asked eventually, voice weary. He was coming to realise that when it came to Francis, the unexpected was fairly par for the course.

"Probably not, mon cher," and even if you did, I would lie, "Is the coffee to your liking?"

"Yes, thank you," he murmured into his cup, feeling a little better, despite the disturbing news, the coffee happened to be exactly the way he liked it, and he wondered if that had also been on his university application. The Frenchman beamed joyously, simply happy to have pleased his muse.

~====o)0(o====~

Sleep was not something that came naturally to Francis Bonnefoy. As a child he hadn't slept much and as an adult he was no different, often staying awake until the small hours of the morning, painting because that was what he did. It brought him time until the sandman finally deigned to grant him the mercy of sleep. Not that it was much of a mercy. It was often riddled with nightmares and visions of dark terror. Worse than the nightmares were the brilliantly coloured dreams, more colour-rich and fabulous than anything he could ever dare hope to create.

So it was a surprise when he woke up spread across the cream leather of a couch, an arm thrown over his eyes and one leg hooked over the back of the furniture he was lying on. He was still in his painting clothes – that was nothing new. He couldn't count the number of times he had woken up in his painting clothes, sometimes face first in wet paint – that was always fun. It necessitated a shave, and he was rather fond of his beard.

But what had happened? Matthieu. Matthieu had posed for him and he had spent a glorious three hours drinking in his figure, from the moment he stripped –when Matthieu hadn't thought he was looking – to the moment when those hateful garments covered his skin once more and the young man hauled his goods and chattels out the front door and down the driveway. He had sat down on the couch and closed his eyes for a moment. He..

He'd fallen asleep. He'd been blessed with dreamless, nightmare-less sleep for – he checked his watch – nine hours. That was the most rest he'd gotten in one night in… It must be at least two years, and that time barely counted, because he had been under sedation.

Looking up at his canvases, he smiled fondly at the pale Canadian they reflected. Matthew, beautiful Matthieu, strong Matthieu, replicated on canvas for him and him alone. Three precious figures.

"Merci beaucoup, ma cher," he whispered, a blissful smile on his lips.

~====o)0(o====~

"Look," the little web of skin between his thumb and index finger resting on the bridge of Matthew's nose. The aforementioned fingers were pressed against his temples, trying to ward off the impending headache. His glasses were pushed up and his eyes screwed shut. In short, the picture of tired frustration, "I'm really sorry, but this is impossible. As much as I would like it to be true, there is actually no way that I don't owe the school anything."

"Well, dear," said the grandmotherly voice on the other end of the phone that was clasped to his numb ear, "You've paid off your school fees in full. And made a sizeable donation to the school library – mostly art books."

"...I would really appreciate it if you modelled for me. I will pay you whatever you ask. I will pay for your college education until it is complete. Please?"

Matthew felt his blood run cold, "When you say 'in full' you mean my tuition has been paid off for the rest of my degree, don't you?" he asked, feeling a little bit dizzy. He'd left Francis' with five-hundred dollars in his pocket and a happy Frenchman waving him out of the door. He had thought the lunatic was joking when he said that! What kind of crazy person pays for someone else's medical degree? Was that why he had looked at his student registration forms? To find out how much his classes cost? That sneaky little shit!

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean, dear," the woman's smile was audible, "There hasn't been some kind of mistake, has there?"

"No, but I need to have a word with my friend about his recklessness with money," Matt said as politely is possibly through gritted teeth. His college tuition. In full. Where the fuck had Francis gotten that kind of money? And to just throw it away on a man you just met? There had to be medication for that. Wishing the lady on the other end of the phone a pleasant day, the young Canadian hung up the phone and picked up his coat, shrugging it on. It was familiar and cool, the lining worn soft with age.

Opening the door, he barely got two steps outside before falling flat on his face in the corridor of his apartment building. There, right outside his door was a royal blue hockey bag. Good quality, well made… and it had 'WILLIAMS' printed in big white letters on the side. It looked really smart and professional. That was nice. Thanks, Francis. There was a note pinned to the fabric:

A little thank you, cher.

-F.B.

Either he was receiving messages from Facebook, or Francis Bonnefoy was a very dangerous man.