When Matthew woke up, Francis was tucked into his arms. He looked exhausted, less polished, the man hidden behind the poet. Matthew loved all of him. He was touched more than be could express that Francis would let him see this part of him.

When he touched him, Francis startled awake, starved fingers closing around his wrist. The irrational panic in his gaze faded and he let go.

'Sorry, dear. It seems my body still remembers the East.'

'I'll help make new memories,' Matthew blurted out, and nearly buried himself back into the pillows in embarrassment. Francis laughed, a delighted and delightful sound.

'I'll take you up on that.'

Still, their lives weighed on them both. Awake, Francis' shoulders slumped and he sighed, looking out to the blue hour of the city. A smile twitched around his mouth.

'We slept the day away.'

'That's okay.'

'Is it? Did you have drill?'

'I don't care.' Matthew rolled his bare legs out of the blankets, working the night from his muscles, staring out into the brightly cluttered room, far away. Francis made a soft sound of appreciation when he stretched his shoulders, and his face heated. 'One day, nobody will ever wake up with a gun in their hands again. No more drill. No more war.'

'I hope,' Francis whispered. 'The new weapons, the atom bombs your friend Alfred flies...I worry that there's no way to return from those.'

Francis had voiced the fear Matthew had been hiding for all too long. The quiet curled between them, knowing, understanding. They didn't have to say it.

'He wouldn't do it,' Matthew said. 'Alfred. He couldn't destroy a city like that. He's too much the hero type.'

'Alfred wasn't the one who decided our fates at the border,' Francis reminded him gently. Matthew hated thinking of the night with the tanks.

'That was cowardice. Besides, there was no command to attack.'

'That was bravery, my dearest.' His voice sharpened. 'I may be familiar with Alfred's sort of heroism. American heroism. But your kind of bravery is yours. I know you, Matthew, and even if they had ordered, you would have held your fire.'

Matthew finally turned back to him and allowed Francis to hold him, listening to the rapid flutter of his heart.

'You shouldn't let me think those things,' he murmured, throat too thick with fear and love to be louder. 'We don't need another trial for me being a pacifist.'

Francis scoffed. 'I say you should let them. They wasted you on tanks and guns.'

He smiled. 'Tell me what you think I should be for.'

Francis curled his hair through his fingers, combing out the knots. Some were stubborn. Matthew knew his hair was completely unkempt. 'Don't tempt me. You'd be a wonderful artist. If you let me, I'd invite you to run into that world of words and breaking ideas with me.'

'Do it,' he challenged. Francis seemed like he would for a moment, but he bit the words back and looked away.

'I should be warning you away from it. You shouldn't have two starving artists in one family. Who'll be able to pay for the food?'

Matthew laughed, disappointment and excitement at the word family warring within him. 'How about after all of this? I could show people the way Canada is supposed to look- up in the wilderness, awed and waiting, aware of how huge everything is, aware of how you are part of it.'

'Matthew,' he scolded affectionately. 'How can I resist when you say things like that?' He kissed his cheek, and Matthew grinned. 'Oh, don't smirk at me that way, you know what it does to me. Fine, after this, I'll teach you what I know.'

'Tell me what it does,' Matthew insisted, pushing him back onto the bed and kissing his neck. 'I promise I'm good at learning.'

'You'll be the death of me,' Francis sighed, smiling, and pulled him down to show him.

0o0o0o

He had to return to base eventually. Francis insisted.

Most people had a way of overlooking him to see Alfred instead. It had frustrated Matthew for years, but now more than ever he wished he could take some of the spotlight away from his friend. Alfred never showed up at drill unless it was to fly his bomber, and when it was done he retreated back to his room or out into the city. It was better than Matthew had expected.

He'd expected him thrown out and jailed.

Instead, people treated him like a damaged bird, cautious and soothing, completely and utterly taken with their great ruse that it was Arthur's fault. That was what hurt Alfred more than anything, Matthew could see it. He thought he would have gotten tired of trying to fix Alfred after all this time, but this was different. This wasn't the Alfred he knew.

He knocked on his door and Alfred threw it open, eyes wild, face flushed with drink.

'Mattie?' he asked, the word slurred and soft. Matthew shushed him and handed him a chocolate bar.

'You forgot your ration.'

'I didn't-'

Matthew silenced him with a look, glancing back to make sure the hallway was empty. 'Why don't you open it now?'

Alfred turned it over and tore off the paper stuck to the bottom, devouring the words. He looked up, and for the first time since the trial there was a hint of hope there.

'Arthur,' he whispered. 'This says- this says I can-'

'Not so loud. Yes, it does.'

Alfred lunged for him and embraced him roughly. Matthew winced and tried to push him off, complaining, but secretly he felt better than anything. Alfred thanked him profusely and slammed the door, looking like himself again. Matthew didn't even mind he'd lost his chocolate ration out of it.

Alfred ran down the street later that night, electric and proud again. A weight lifted off his shoulders.

'I'm proud of you.'

Matthew turned to see Francis waiting, smoking by one of the shops, and his heart swelled. He wanted to run to him right then, but resisted. The light in his eyes said he knew exactly what was happening.

'I had to.' It had been harder to arrange it with Jett this time, but it was worth it.

'I'm glad. Arthur has been…' His expression darkened as he looked down at the cheap cigarette, and ground it out. 'I hope he'll be okay. He may be a terrible cook and utterly insufferable, but this isn't something anyone should ever have to go through.'

When Francis began to walk, Matthew was already in step, perfectly synchronized.

'How did you get him the message to him?'

'Slipped it to him in a chocolate bar.' He nudged Francis playfully. 'I lost my ration.'

'Well, we can't have that, can we?' Francis abruptly turned right, leading them down a cramped set of alleys. 'How do you feel about some music tonight? The chocolate is with my compliments. As everything should be.'

'You flirt,' Matthew said, rolling his eyes.

'Your flirt,' Francis corrected, eyes flicking over with a shadow of uncertainty. Matthew had to pull him closer and kiss him in the moonlight, breathing in the sweet scent of his hair. He wanted to sink into all of that, the broken pieces and the gentleness.

'And I'm yours.'

'My maple leaf.' Francis reluctantly pulled away and pushed open the doors. Music and lights spilled out and drew them both in.

Matthew was surprised to see so many other uniforms there, but they were the muted French colours instead.

'I've never been down to the French sector before,' he said.

'Welcome to the Maison du Soldat dance floor,' Francis said, mouth at his neck. 'I promise it's better than your American bars, or God forbid, if Alfred has showed you any British places.'

'I'll trust that.' Matthew could hear the babble of voices, rough with the late night and the smoke wreathing through the air.

'Do you want me to order our drinks? My treat, of course.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Matthew said to both, excited at the prospect of impressing Francis. He waved for the bartender and ordered in fluent French.

The man stared at him. Francis stared at him for nearly five seconds before turning and placing the order again in rapid French and steering Matthew to the nearest table.

'Say something again,' he requested, looking uncharacteristically ruffled.

'Il pleut à boire debout?'

Francis looked pained. 'Where did you learn French?'

'In Canada. Because I'm Canadian.' Matthew was baffled. 'What's wrong with my French?'

'Your accent.' Francis groaned, dropping his head into his hands. 'Will you be angry at me if I call it…'

Matthew could feel himself beginning to smile. 'Go on, Francis. Tell me what's wrong with my accent, s'il vous plaît.'

'Matthew.'

'Se calmer le pompon.'

The bartender passed them their drinks, giving one last glance at Matthew before hurrying away. Matthew was doing his level best not to burst out laughing. He took a long drink to avoid it, hoping he wouldn't spit it out.

'You are very, very lucky you are so attractive,' Francis said. Matthew snorted, barely managing to swallow his drink in time, and then he couldn't stop laughing until his sides ached and he was breathless with tears clumped in his eyelashes, grinning wildly up at Francis. He was flushed, but his drink was untouched.

'I know,' Matthew said shamelessly, beyond surprised at himself. The heat and the music and the relief of a light at the end of the tunnel brought it out of him, but most of all it was Francis, his Francis, his clever hands and the way he kissed like he was born to do it and the wondering art of him. He downed more of his drink, head buzzing.

'Matthew,' he began, hands twisting together.

'I love you,' he interrupted suddenly. 'You know that, right? I hope I didn't interrupt you too much. I'm sorry. But not for loving you.'

Francis shook his head and traced his face adoringly, bringing him closer.

'I was going to ask if I could kiss you.'

'That's good,' Matthew agreed. He was lax already; Francis had to support him when they kissed. Heat jumped along his skin, chasing away the last of his amusement and replacing it with a deep craving.

'Do you want to dance with me?' Francis asked, as close to shy as he'd ever seen.

'Always.'

Francis helped him up. Matthew was aware of his long, lanky body, the muscles that hadn't filled in yet. He was just as aware of Francis, and how beautiful he looked, how he always looked so good. Perfect.

'I don't know if I'll be any good,' he warned him, resting his head on his shoulder as a new song began. He had to bend slightly for it to be comfortable.

'That doesn't matter.' Francis brushed at his hair. 'I just...I want to dance with you.'

'I want to be with you,' Matthew confessed, the words almost lost. He knew Francis heard them. That was all that mattered.

The song was low and soft, the melody so subtle Matthew almost didn't notice. It was a song for closeness and crooning, and that is what Francis did.

'Blue moon, you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own…'

They didn't need rules for dancing. It was only them that mattered, in this wide glittering space. Matthew could feel every detail of Francis' hip under his palm, the steady press of poet's hands on the small of his back.

'I love you so much,' Francis said. Matthew leaned up and met him in another kiss.

They danced through the song and the next, always touching no matter the rhythm, until Matthew's head was so pleasantly blurred and heavy, his body warm and prickling, that Francis had to help him back to their seats.

'Oh, Matthew.' He kissed his forehead. 'My dearest.'