Alfred was gone for the second day in a row, leaving his flight crew without their leader, and leaving Matthew behind to clean up.

This has been happening more and more. First Alfred was going on about a plan to get past the Wall, and yesterday he came back at two in the morning without his jacket. Matthew had to fix things every time. He wasn't even supposed to be helping the bombers run drill. He was a tank gunner, comfortable and safe on the ground, not mad enough to be suspended in the wide open air with this many Soviet guns waiting for even a wingtip to stray into their airspace. Flying was all well and good during peace, he assumed, not that he'd ever really known peace. The only familiar things were the weariness of fighting, the shining silver bomber roaring, and his math textbook open and hidden from all but his sight underneath the controls.

If Matthew was being honest, he didn't want to be a soldier. War and uniform never held the same allure to him as other people. Alfred lived and breathed to fly and fight, but Matthew dreamed of his numbers and his comfortable home back in Canada. He dreamed of being a professor again, where he could help instead of hurt, but those were only dreams as long as he stayed in Berlin.

The bomber was now in holding pattern over the airport, and Alfred was still on radio silence. Hot rage was clouding metallic under Matthew's tongue and in his teeth, all the way down to his stomach. Alfred thought he could run off and do whatever he wanted and never stopped to think about what other people might want. He just flashed his shiny smile and people let him go. It wasn't fair. Matthew snapped his book shut and stormed off the plane the moment it touched down.

Alfred had told him about the kinds of girls here, and how some of them would invite you home if you paid. Matthew hadn't felt the same pull other soldiers had, but it was worth a try. It would clear his head.

Unfortunately, he got lost.

The backstreets were quieter, the cobblestones rough under his feet. Matthew could see the lights flashing by the Wall. Storm clouds were gathering, and with the coming twilight, the streets were darker. Matthew ducked through the nearest shop, resigning himself to ask for directions to the closest bar instead.

The moment he stepped inside, all he saw was colour, neon orange and pink and yellow and green and what seemed like hundreds more colours splattered across the wall in an explosive display. He'd stumbled into an art gallery. Despite himself, Matthew stepped forward in awe, taking in the sights.

'Lost, mon cher?' someone asked from beside him. Matthew whirled, and found himself eye-to-eye with someone who was very possibly the most gorgeous person he'd ever seen. His eyes shone.

'My name is Francis Bonnefoy,' he said, extending a hand. Matthew, still dumbstruck, took it and let his hand be shaken. Francis' eyes roamed up and down his body, clearly appraising. His blue eyes met again and he smiled, looking approving of what he'd found.

Matthew's tongue didn't seem to be working, but he wouldn't have told Francis to stop staring even if he could.

'The strong and silent type, are you?' Francis gently touched his lapel, where he'd pinned a maple leaf. 'I don't mind that.'

'Matthew Williams,' he blurted, aware of all the places he was still growing, too awkward and young-bird stumbling to be compared with Francis. 'Well, my friend calls me Mattie, and other people call me Matt.'

'They desecrate your name!' Francis exclaimed. 'Do they not know of Matthew Henson, Matthew C. Perry, the saint Matthew himself?' He lifted Matthew's fingers to his lips, his kiss barely brushing against the knuckles. Matthew's breath stuck in his throat. 'I will treasure it.'

Francis lowered their joined hands far too soon, and Matthew's tongue felt slow and thick. Francis continued.

'Well, Soldier Williams. Where are you stationed? Or is it a secret?' Francis' eyes sparkled with amusement. Matthew couldn't remember if his base was a secret or not and did not care. Francis could be a spy for all he knew, but as long as he kept standing here and holding his hand-he hadn't let go and Matthew was a bit dizzy-he'd tell him everything.

'Just that way, up the street, and I think I'm lost because I wanted to go to the…' Matthew blinked slowly, trying to remember. 'The bar?'

'Well, what good fortune you found my humble abode instead,' Francis said, gesturing to the gallery. He nodded to a nearby canvas, on which the lines of a poem were arranged in the shape of a chickadee. Softer colours accented the edges to enhance the image, and it felt like a breath of the wilderness in the loudly coloured room. 'I am a poet in the style of Apollinaire. Do you like my work?'

'I love it,' Matthew said instantly. Francis chuckled, and it sounded like a melody.

'You haven't even read it yet.'

'It doesn't matter. It's yours, and so I already love it.'

For a second, Matthew thought he'd gone too far. Francis raised an eyebrow, a faint pink suffusing his cheeks. His face was open for a second, astonished, expressive, and Matthew felt a pull deep in his chest.

'You are too kind, Matthew,' he said finally, his eyes dropping to the ground. He straightened again a second later, his smile back. 'May I accompany you to the bar?'

'Yes, please.'

Francis walked close to him, their hands brushing together. Matthew subtly pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming, and when he wasn't, asked himself how he was so lucky.

'Tell me more about being a soldier, Matthew,' Francis invited. Matthew chuckled uncertainly.

'Are you sure? It's not like they say it is. I'm not a pilot. There's no glorious fights.'

'I think we both know that war is not glorious,' Francis said solemnly. Perhaps it was the look in his eyes that moved Matthew, but he found himself talking.

'I'm a tank gunner. Alfred is on a bomber.'

Francis frowned. 'Alfred? The American?'

His heart sunk. Of course Francis knew Alfred, and so he'd know that Alfred was loud and bright and wonderful, and Matthew was not. 'Yes.'

Francis' brow smoothed. 'Oh, mon Dieu, your friend Alfred is a blessing. Thanks to him, for once Arthur is out of my hair.'

Matthew blinked in surprise and tried to get his thoughts back on track. 'You don't prefer I talk about him?'

'I want to know about you.'

He'd never talked so much about himself before. 'I...I'm in the American sector, too, on their reinforcements.'

'I imagine Berlin is a far ways from America,' Francis teased.

'I'm from Canada, really. I live almost up near the territories, where everything is wild and you can see nothing but the northern lights and the water and the mountains for miles…' Matthew stopped. 'Sorry, you don't want to hear about that.'

'Matthew. Do not doubt yourself, go on. You look...so much happier when you imagine those places.' He placed a hand on Matthew's shoulder. 'Why did you come here, if you were so happy there, my dear maple leaf?'

'Because...because I can stop the war, somehow. I can stop war from hurting those I care for if I am here to keep it contained. I can be peaceful, even as a soldier. Can't I?' His throat felt thick, but he would not think about the terror of war too deeply here, when all his emotion was already too close to the surface.

'Oh, Matthew. Of course.' Francis looked oddly tender. 'Matthew, my dear boy. You are so...how would I put it in English? Gentle. You are gentle.'

Matthew could only nod. Francis' hand shifted against his shoulder and brushed against his cheek, and the air felt charged. It would be easy to be closer.

Francis looked down and pulled away suddenly, a sharp breath drawing up through his chest and pulling back through his shoulders. Matthew swayed on his feet, mind still stuck in the faint scent of Francis' hair.

'Shall we drink?' he asked. And then, in a rush. 'You are old enough to drink?'

'I'm twenty-one,' Matthew said in confusion. 'Why? How old are you? I thought the drinking age here was lower than that.'

'Oh. Twenty-one, that is good,' Francis said, sounding more than relieved. 'I am-am twenty-five. The drinking age here is less, yes, which Gilbert was ever so glad about back when his brother was still young enough to agree to come out with us-but it is of no importance! Come in.'

Francis insisted on buying his first drink, even though Matthew said he had money. He realized belatedly that he'd forgotten all about his earlier plan for clearing his head. His head was dizzy with more than his drink, which he barely noticed, and absolutely free of thoughts of Alfred. The words twenty-five still spun around in his head, and he toyed with them lazily, wondering how Francis seemed so much more experienced with so few years.

'Who is Arthur?' he asked. 'Is he your friend?'

Francis grimaced. 'Mon Dieu, you think I would be friends with someone as irritating as that? And with gigantic eyebrows, too. It is my duty, nay, my service to interrupt on the daily his reading of that ridiculous, ancient poetry book, otherwise he gets drunk and starts reciting it on top of tables while shirtless.' Francis smiled over the rim of his glass. 'I keep people from having to see that. I know you won't be the same kind of drunk.'

Matthew hadn't even gotten through half his glass and his heart was already fluttering. 'Are you sure about that?'

'You're very elegant,' Francis said. 'Why is a boy such as you a soldier?'

'Conscription. I'm a mathematics professor at one of the universities. I'd rather be back there. I'm only here for three months, and then I'm on leave.' He hesitated, looking up at where Francis was watching interestedly. 'I'd looked forward to that until tonight.'

'Don't say someone as small as me has changed your mind,' Francis purred. Matthew just laughed in disbelief and turned back to his drink. Francis shifted closer. 'Really. Tell me.'

'You're a poet,' Matthew said in poor explanation. He couldn't tell Francis he was fascinating with lovely eyes. 'I've never met a poet before.'

'Do you truly like my humble work so much?' Francis asked. 'You'd make an excellent poet. It takes your certain kind of gentleness to hold the world in words the way the old poets did. I do not have that gentleness. I fight with my words against war and injustice.'

It sounded breathtaking. 'Like a hero?' He asked. The phrase reminded him of Alfred, and he frowned.

'No, I would like to be more a...partisan, they called them. A revolutionary.' Francis nodded in satisfaction. 'A revolutionary. There are always new battles to fight for justice, and I write to remind people that we are all equal.'

'That sounds amazing.' The memory of Alfred still held with him, though, and Francis was a paladin with his words, someone glorious and far better suited to someone else. Matthew sighed, resigning himself to letting Francis go. He would treasure the memory of this night, nestled into his heart beside his memories and nights by the lakes and mountains, but it would not happen again. He wrapped his hands tightly against the cold glass of his empty drink and took a deep breath. 'I...I should go soon. And you know, with your fighting, you might really like Alfred better than me-'

'Matthew,' Francis said firmly. 'Do not doubt yourself, my dearest. You are not Alfred. I find you much more likeable, and I'm sure other people do, as well. Arthur has bad taste and should not be considered.' His voice was far too reassuring and certain, and Matthew could swoon for how it was all focused on him.

'Me?' Matthew laughed unsteadily. He untwisted the glass in his hands and offered it back. 'The people love me. I think it's because I'm not American. But you-'

'I would only want you, my maple leaf soldier.' Francis touched Matthew's lapel, where the leaf was bright red against the dark fabric of the uniform. His eyes were intense. 'Will you do me the favour of walking back to the gallery with me?'

Matthew couldn't resist him. His unspoken protests still fluttering in his throat, he silently got up and followed Francis out into a street where the ends of a cloudburst were draining from the sky.

The moonlight slid down around them through the new gap in the clouds, and Francis hummed a few slow, crooning lines from one of those Elvis songs Alfred kept playing. It didn't sound half as bad in his voice. Slowly, Matthew began to relax. He was peaceful in the quiet when they were outside the museum, sleepy and empty of thought.

'Thank you for tonight,' Francis said, taking his hand again. 'My dearest, could I ask you one final favour? Come back tomorrow, the same time.'

'To see me?' Matthew asked.

'I want to see you, yes, but I am not so selfish as to simply call you out to satisfy myself. I will make it worth your while.' Francis looked up hopefully. Matthew would have agreed to just seeing him, and nodded. He felt like he should be chivalrous, to do something charming and be as polished as Francis, but he didn't know how, and his eyes were like the bluest of lakes in the far-off mountains. He knelt, pulled Francis' hand to his lips, and kissed the knuckles, feeling the slight roughness of the skin there.

'Of course.'

Francis looked down at him in surprise, and slowly squeezed his hand.

'You are...very, very interesting, Matthew,' he said. 'You mystify me in the best way.'

Matthew should stand, but he stayed kneeling. Francis' other hand caressed his hair. 'Nobody has ever said that about me.'

'Then they're fools. All of them. You are fascinating.'

Matthew was fluttering, light as the leaves fallen from trees in blazing scraps of orange. He stood, buzzing down to his bones.

'I will be back tomorrow,' he promised lowly, squeezed his hand a final time, and left.

He didn't remember how he got back to base, only that he shocked awake standing in the apartment hall, staring at Alfred, who was dripping wet, wearing his missing jacket over civilian clothes, and smiling so widely it was nearly blinding.

'Oh my God, Mattie, you would not believe the night I just had,' he whispered in awe. Matthew blinked blurrily.

'I bet I had better,' he murmured, turned the corner to his rooms, and was asleep before he hit the pillow.

0o0o0o

Blue moon

You saw me standing alone

Without a dream in my heart

Without a love of my own

-Blue Moon

:: Unconscious doodles on notes