I can never thank you readers enough for reading my story. Same goes for my reviewers, favoriters (I know it's not a word) and alter persons. It's all thanks to you guys I have 6,376 hits, 56 favorites WOWWWWW, and 82 alerts.

Do I like bragging about my stories?

Oh yes.

...

Sorry XD

So, anyways, I'm headin' over to Vegas for a family thingie. Not too happy 'bout that. My grandmother is so mean to me! Her presence can melt snow! And I love snow...So before I fall asleep sitting up here, thinking about how I'm going to beg my dad to bring us to Caesar's palace just so we can see it and I can say "Hey, I know you get this a lot...but did the real Caesar actually live here?" XD I am a nerd.

So: lotta Franada in this chapter, literally. Sorta takes a break on our troubled couple for a bit, right? Also, I'm falling asleep as I'm typing, so sorry if it sounds like crap. That's mine own fault. But anyways, I own no one but I own the plot and idea. :3 So, read on and enjoy~!

Chapter 6:

Truth

Matthew Williams was in love with a demon.

He didn't know how it had happen, or when during the short amount of time he had been in Hell. He just knew that he dreaded even the thought of being separated from him. He who cared for him so dearly, who cherished every moment they had together, who made sure he wasn't in pain when he entered him and sent them both on waves of pleasure, who made sure he was always reminded that he was the most beautiful person ever created. And Matthew could care less that he was (supposedly, by his demon lover's two closet friends) the Demon King of Perverts, otherwise known as Francis Bonnefoy. Francis was so kind and nice to him, and he stated once that he had seen Matthew grow into something beautiful before his death during World War II. It was almost scary: the demon seemed to know a lot about the angel, who had only been harmed when he had taken the trials. Francis knew every sickness, every birthday, every time someone would mistake him for his half-brother, every time he would look at himself in the mirror and wonder if he was any sort of good-looking. The Son of the Dark seemed to know him like he was him.

Apparently, somehow, Francis had once been an angel like Matthew, pure and a virgin (after death). His death was one that was quite ridiculous: had been killed by a silly cold that he hadn't taken care of after the Eiffel Tower was built and had watched the young Canadian since his birth in the mid-1920s. However, his charms and romantic needs got the best of him, and a flirt with too many higher-ranked angels and a single disobey sent him down and falling from grace and alone, banished from Heaven and stuck in the beginning of the 1900s onwards, never again to roam in the haven again. However, another angel followed him, literally: Antonio Carriedo, a kind and tomato-loving Spanish male who apparently was continuously happy, and had also gotten himself into the same situation. Like Francis, he too had watched over someone, a Lovino Vargas, and had fallen in love with him as Francis had with Matthew. The two fallen angels, with nowhere to go, wandered the streets of Paris and Madrid and other highly populated cities of Europe, hoping to find their two loves that they had watched, but not succeeding. And then, in the early-1900s, when they also nearly got killed in the assassination of Franz Ferdinand and his wife, that's when they met Gilbert Beilschmidt, a Prussian demon ("not German", he had said upon their first meeting and them hearing his accent) that was watching the event unfold. He promised them they could once again see the two they had fallen for if they forgot their statuses and changed sides, and the next thing they knew, their haloes and wings had gone, replaced with horns, batwings and a long pointed tail, and the trio was inseparable. From then on, they caused mayhem in cities and towns on the Surface, and Francis and Antonio still looked, but failed to find their crushes until now, after years and years of having given up.

And Matthew didn't mind that he had been supposedly stalked when he was still living. At times, he watched the living thrive and survive, feeling a surge of pride at them. Nonetheless, when Francis had told him his story, the angel had actually gotten himself into hysterics, wondering how this had happened to him, but when the Frenchman confessed his feelings for him, that was all it took for the Guardian to find the demon above him, kissing him and pressing into him. And it was the most exhilarating experience he had ever undergone.

The previous night, the two had been at it once again, tearing at each other with lips and hands and teeth and wings, not wanting sleep to overcome them if this was all a dream. Matthew feared he would be back in Heaven, with his polar bear he couldn't name pawing at him and the other animals he had taken care of. And his fears were confirmed to be false when he woke up in the arms of his beloved, just like he had been promised. Francis had said that he would be here when he awoke, and there he was, beside him, sleeping peacefully, a demonic angel in the glow the unusual blood red sky gave through the window. The Canadian sat himself up slightly, and placed a kiss on the side of his mouth. The Frenchman shuffled around in his sleep and sighed, a smile upon his features. The aforementioned male grinned, and carefully eased himself out of the hold and to the small yet very convenient and reliable kitchen.

Since he had first gotten there, Francis would rise in the late afternoon (seeming to be one of his habits) and proceeded to make them something delicious to eat. Somehow, he knew Matthew's favorites, and was so far doing an excellent job and making it wonderful and perfect in every way he could. Now, the latter figured he owed his "master" (yet they hardly acted like slave and owner) something for being so hospitable to him while he was staying in the Frenchman's cozy alcove-like home. Plus, he was French-Canadian; that had to count for something, right?

Matthew had thrown a bathrobe that barely slipped past his arms (his angel garment had been dirtied quite a few times, especially last night…which reminded him, he should go clean that in a minute) and he had started gathering ingredients what he hoped would be a good enough breakfast for the gourmet demon. He always wanted to make sure someone was pleased, one way or another, and whether or not they recognized him. As long as they were both happy and well, than the Canadian was fine.

"Oh~? Wat is zis? Did someone sneak off from bed?"

A warm pair of arms snaked around his waist and hugged him, not too tight but not too careful. Matthew smiled and chuckled, and leaned his head back so their lips could connect sweetly. "I thought I'd make you something," he mumbled against his mouth, and Francis laughed quietly.

"You do not 'ave to do zat, mon amour. You are not a slave to me; you are my love;" he placed a kiss to his neck, "and you will always be mon amour if zings go ze way we planned."

The angel smiled and connected their lips again, moving his arms to around his neck and pulling the face closer. Francis' hands wandered over and pressed his hips against his lover's, eliciting a moan from him. Matthew, only having the robe, rubbed their lower halves against each other, and the Frenchman chuckled.

"Désolé, amour, but we 'ave business to take care of."

"The business can wait." His fingers fumbled with the fashionable pair of pants (who knew that even demons wanted to look good while they tried to kill you?) that was on the other's waist. "You have some other business to deal with." The demon only laughed.

"Oh do I~?" He pressed their foreheads together, staring with his bright red eyes into the Canadian's violet and sending chills down the said male's back. "Well zen, maybe I should take care of it."

"Oui, s'il vous plait!" Matthew sighed as his neck was suddenly assaulted with a needy mouth, sucking and nipping before smoothing over the patch of skin. The two fell against the counter and to the ground, the robe and other articles of clothing discarded behind the dark-haired male hastily.

The duo didn't leave the cozy little adobe until two hours later, after they had screamed out their pleasures to the Surface and beyond and been spent.

Twice.

Maybe even three.

Definitely-maybe three.

Almost a fourth time, but then they remembered there were others waiting for them to get done with any real business they had to do. Francis had an important duty (to the demons, at least) that was only necessary when there was going to be an invasion of some sort. He was the one that went around to tell the others where, who and why they were attacking the specific area, the orders given to that demon (what (s)he was supposed to), and what would happen after the invasion. And in about a few days' time, they would once again be traveling to the Surface and taking more lives, destroying homes and ravishing cities and countries. And Matthew found himself more worried for the safety of his lover than anything else.

"Beau cher, I am stronger zan you zink I am," he had told him just a day ago when the angel had first discovered he would be leaving for a few days coming up. "I can take perfect care of myself, amour." But despite the fact that the two had then gone into an amazing snogging session, the Canadian couldn't send the worry away.

After cleaning their mess up and making themselves presentable, the duo left the house and were off. Judging by the fact that Alfred was the closest home to him, Francis would travel to him first, jumping off the cliff his adobe stood on and swooping around to then pick his love up from the drop-off. When they had first arrived, Matthew had scraped his wings back, dislocating them slightly and pulling a few feathers. They had already been put into their proper places, but they were still sore and only able to perform minimal movements without getting harmed. Plus, he adored the feeling of being carried.

It didn't take very long to get to Alfred; just about two minutes (the Mountain of the Three Fates was gigantic), but when they discovered the demon, they were surprised to find out that he wasn't alone. In fact, the angel's eyes went wide as they crouched down beside the collection of boulders, watching the American demon carefully clean a blushing, blond angel. The Canadian looked at his lover, whose eyebrows were raised in shock. "That's…," he began, and the Frenchman nodded. "But…why?"

"Eh, you remember Ludwig and Feliciano, non?" He began, and continued when his lover nodded. "Well, Alfred is za same as Ludwig. See? You can see it just by looking at 'im."

Matthew looked closer, and he could just make out the noticeable comparisons. Where Francis had eyes as scarlet as a rose after a refreshing rain, Alfred's eyes were similar to…well, as if someone had taken the color red and drained it until it could be mistaken for a dark, dark, pink. There was nothing that could be compared to them. No color, no shade, no flower, nothing. It was almost as if they were white outlined with red from far away. Up close, however, you could most likely make out the tint they had to them.

Arthur Kirkland, on the other hand, as the shell used the water to push the suds away from his body and down his front, could have been mistaken for a doll that had been manhandled several times. Bruises laced decorations on his body, neck harmed and body seeming too weak and lazy to move. The Canadian couldn't help but stare and wonder what had happened to him. He knew the Brit was a fighter when he wanted to be, but how did he allow himself to get so mangled and feeble? Even Feliciano and Lovino looked healthier, and they refused to fight anything, no matter what it was, including their rounds in the trials. They, like (apparently) Arthur, Yao, and Matthew, were still "too angelic" to be considered "worthy" enough. Those who were the opposite hadn't been seen in quite a few days. For instance, Elizabeta Héderváry had just gone off about two days ago, and so far hasn't come back, as had a few others that he hadn't known, but had been taken. It was surprising, to say the least. Where did they go, and why?

"Hey, Beautiful, did you know that demons have specks of vampire blood in them?" Alfred stated, some of his conversation with the Englishman now being invaded on.

Arthur hummed as a response, a habit of his that showed he was either disturbed or was musing on an appropriate answer. It seemed like both was happening. "Is that so?" He replied in a steady voice, head turned back slightly as his wings bristled at the touch the demon gave them.

"Mhm~!" His tone of voice suggested he was quite proud of what he was stating. "It's why our fangs are so sharp. Did you know that?"

A smile graced the Englishman's lips ever so slightly, barely even up. "No, of course not."

"Wow, you angels really don't know much about us, do you, Dainty Angel?"

His cheeks flamed brightly, and Matthew couldn't help but stifle a laugh. Arthur was always so flattered by comments that he was given. "N-no, of course not. I'm not very surprised though; most angels never study demons."

"Seriously?" A look of surprise crossed his face. "Wow. Demons know a lot about angels. That's so weird~, ahahahaha~!" He ran some more water down his back once again, careful as to not harm the sensitive wings. Arthur was silent, most likely thinking what was just shared. Matthew sniffed a bit, and glanced over at Francis, who had started to stand before he floated up on one of the tallest boulders and perch himself there, both legs and arms crossed.

"Well, well, it seems like Alfred finally found an amant~," he teased as the Canadian sat himself down beside him gently. The two in the water looked up, Arthur's large eyebrows furrowing in confusion at who was there, not recognizing the demon, but Alfred laughed noisily as soon as he recognized both voice and face.

"And Francis found a new toy to sex up," he said back, looking at Matthew tauntingly. The latter furrowed his eyebrows in anger. The Frenchman, luckily, scoffed in offense.

"Mathieu is not a toy, 'e's perfect!" He glanced back so that he could cup the Canadian's face with gentleness, pecking along it. He laughed as his demonic lover pulled away, snuggling nose into cheek. "Plus, 'e 'as blood of ze French, so it is obvious 'ow 'e is so gorgeous." Francis snickered, smirking as he glimpsed at the other duo. "Unlike zat English pig you were obsessing over wen you first found 'im."

"Hey, Beautiful is not a pig!" When Francis had said Alfred is easy to rile up, he wasn't kidding. There were times, apparently, when he would get so mad, he'd defend his cause no matter what. For instance, upon hearing the insult of his somewhat slave, he had enough cluelessness to stand up and let his naked, sculptured body glimmer in the dim light of the burgundy sky, everything shown and nothing covered. Matthew looked away in embarrassment, and Arthur gasped in amazement before his cheeks flamed in deep color and he averted his eyes. "He's amazing and gorgeous and mine, so even if you did touch him he still belongs to me." The Englishman stuttered in shock, face burning even more than before.

Francis sighed. "Ah, oui, I did. Too unexciting, zough. 'e didn't even moan. Mathieu, 'owever…." The Canadian blushed deeply, remembering what the two had done exactly during their time in the dark. He didn't want to ever forget that, mainly for one reason….

B-but no one else needed to know that, of course.

"That's so gross!" The American scrunched his face up in disgust.

"You would 'ave done za same zing to your petit Anglais," the clothed demon retorted back as he stood up and landed near the edge of the lake.

Alfred huffed and crossed his arms. "Why are you even here?"

A simper crossed the Son of the Dark's lips, deep red eyes glistening in a teasing matter. "Wanting to get back down business? Can't we talk like good amis?"

"You're wasting my time with my Gorgeous Englishman, so hurry up."

Francis scoffed with a roll of his eyes, but nonetheless started for the American's cave-made-home. "Fine, fine, Alfred. You younger demons are so demanding." He glanced back at Matthew as he continued walking, the demon with the lighter iris color tugging on the clothes that covered below his waist. "We won't be long, Mathieu. But be careful; I don't want you catching anyzing anglais. Besides," he gave a wink to the Canadian, "I already unpurified you enough."

The angel chuckled quietly as the two left, and glanced over at the Englishman still sitting in the water with a dazed look still plastered on the unclothed Guardian's face. "Hello," Matthew greeted kindly, plopping down beside his friend gently. Arthur glanced up at him, but otherwise made no movement to get out of the water, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast once again, hands pooled in front of his private region protectively. Sensing he wasn't going to answer, the caramel blond decided to try a different approach. "So, how are you coping down here?"

"I suggest you stop being so formal and tell me why we're here," he demanded in a soft voice, emerald eyes gazing at the clothed male. To Arthur, Matthew probably looked like a saint right now. He didn't blame him; if he were as lost and as physically wounded as the Brit, he would have done the same. He gave a firm nod, but his voice trembled slightly nonetheless.

"A-alright then. What do you want to know?"

He shuffled closer to him, checking to see if anyone was around to hear him. "Why have the demons taken us from Heaven? Wot's our purpose here?"

The Canadian sheepishly raised his shoulders as if he were drawing back from a fight. He remembered asking that question just a few days ago; pretty long stoy. "U-uhm, well…s-see…." How did Francis say it again? He could recall the information being rather valuable and useful to answer the question.

Ah~, wy, cher? Zat is too obvious: to ravish your petite body onto mine and make you beg for me.

…

Th-that didn't quite help. Strange how he could remember something as perverted as that being uttered, but could barely pull even a word from the night they had answered each other's questions? Seemed ironic, almost.

Matthew gave a small smile in remembrance, but it vanished from his face quickly. "Years ago, apparently there was a little dispute between God and…y-you know…Satan…," he uttered the name as if he had a gun pressed against his forehead, "that ended up into a big war. So, to prepare for it, they decided to make loyal followers for their sides out of the closest materials they could find: clouds and feathers for angels, and rocks and leather for demons. At the time, their only purpose was to defend their home and fight the other side, but eventually, the angels started to develop into kinder, less war-crazy beings. While the demons got stronger physically, angels became stronger mentally, their brains and intelligence matching the Sons of the Dark's brawns and powers. But…something happened that sort of changed a few things."

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows, asking with his eyes for him to continue. The Canadian gulped and blushed, looking away for a bit.

"Well…a lot of angels started to disappear around the same time this was happening, and the demons were growing stronger. Eventually, our side was so low on numbers that we suspected the Sons had something to do with it."

"And? Were they responsible?" Matthew frowned, and looked down. The shaggy blonde's face showed understanding, and he bowed his head. "O-oh…."

"Yeah…and, basically, history's been repeating itself for nearly a century."

"A century?" His eyebrows raised in shock. "How did no one know about this?"

"No one's told. It's been kept a secret for years. I just found out recently." It was true; Francis had given him an amazingly long explanation about the war, saying that no demons held secrets from their "boss", and vice versa.

"So…is that wot's going to happen to us?" Arthur's eyes had widened in fright, staring at Matthew and likely wishing for some sort of understanding between them. Luckily, the Canadian understood perfectly and gave a nearly inaudible whimper.

"I-I don't know, I don't hope so. A-and at the same time…," he glanced over at Alfred's small home, "I-I-I would love to become one, only because it means I'd stay with Francis." For the past few days, he'd find himself thinking over what would happen if he ever got back home. Would he be able to live? Would he be different? What would happen to them? What if it turned out Francis was just playing a game with him?

Stop thinking about it! You know he loves you like you love him! Why are you worrying so much over it? Francis would never leave you; he honors the ground you walk on as if he were the one being a slave. He's treated you like royalty, made sure you weren't hurting, commented you in the most beautiful of ways. What more is there to ask of, and where does the worry have room to stay? You're just making yourself anxious; Francis won't leave you. He'll cradle you and hold you close and never leave.

Upon the mention of staying here, probably just because he was in love, the Brit glared at him in astonishment. "Y-you want to stay?" He managed to stammer out, a look of horror on his face. The barely injured one gulped silently, and nodded. He was expecting this storm to come out soon.

"I-I fell in love with a demon," Matthew admitted, feeling a flutter spin inside his stomach and a warmness fill his heart, mouth rising in a smile. "And he loves me, I can tell."

The look on the green-eyed angel's face showed he was mortified at the words pouring from his companion's lips. "You can't love him, Matthew."

"W…what?" Eyebrows furrowed, he couldn't help but glance up in surprise at the words.

Arthur nibbled on his lip, looking around nervously. "Matthew, you can't fall in love with a demon. It's against the rules. Don't you remember?"

"Yes and I don't care." Usually, he was soft spoken, quiet and kind to others; but this time was an exception. This time, a sensitive spot had been struck. "Look, I know how you like to play by the rules, but I can't control my heart because of something someone else said. I'm in love, Arthur, whether you're able to see that or not. And I'm happy with how things turned out, because I discovered, that when you're in love everything is wrong unless you're with that special person that you dream of eternities with." The Brit started to speak. "No, Arthur, and I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings…but I fell in love with someone when we arrived here, and even though you had a tough time with Alfred, that doesn't mean everyone else did."

"Matthew hear me out-"

"Arthur, please." He gave his friend a light smile. "It's just a waste."

"Bonjour once again, you two beautiful creatures~! We are finally done wiz our meeting, ange. Are you ready to leave?"

A pair of arms wrapped neatly around the Canadian, before a mouth made contact to his neck and lightly began to peck it and drag gentle kisses on its surface. Matthew, forgetting their discussion, giggled joyfully at the action, at every curve the hand had made or touched. If he could, he would stay there in that ever-so-comforting hold, the strong protection and the gentle brush of lips. There was no doubt in his mind he was heel-over-wings for Francis Bonnefoy. "I'm ready to leave," he nodded, and smiled once last time at Arthur. He was just confused at them; he had never had experience with love; he didn't know much about it. And by the looks of it, as the duo finally left, as Matthew glanced back to see Arthur sheepishly glance away with the brightest of blushes, it seemed as if the Englishman was in some denial of his own. Poor Arthur. His heart must be aching in confusion.

"Somezing wrong, cher? You seem a bit too silent." He nuzzled his lover's neck with a sigh, reveling in the friction it caused as they walked on to the neck house. Matthew gave a gentle smile.

"I'm fine, Francis; just a bit guilty." The French demon raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "Arthur's in denial of his love for Alfred."

The Son of the Dark exhaled, twirling a lock of the angel's hair around his finger. "I noticed; Alfred chatted lively about him, but he said Arzur 'asn't come to terms wiz it just yet."

"He's not being very accepting of it, either. Ever since I met him, he's been a rule follower. He wants to be perfect."

"Zat's boring." A peck slid against his chin, leading to his cheeks. "I'm glad I was made a Frenchman." Peck. "Ozerwise;" Peck; "I would not know how to love you."

"Yes you would." This time, it was his turn to give a kiss. "I love you no matter who you are."

Anyone passing by would have to igore the smell, or blush in embarrassment at the sultry moans issued.