When Matthew woke up, his glasses were still on his face. He pulled them off and rubbed the sleep from his eyes in front of the mirror, taking in his spiked hair and wide eyes. Francis had felt like a dream, a ethereal, misty memory that might disappear in the sunlight. It seemed impossible that someone like Francis had been interested him. He touched the side of his face, remembering Francis' smile and his invitation to return.

Matthew sighed, knowing he would return to the art studio later, ducked his head under the water, and started getting ready for drill. Someone had taken his good shirt.

0o0o0o

For once, Alfred had showed up to drill, even though he'd grinned all the way through it. He was still as brilliant as ever in training, however, and with that sun-bright smile that made even his officers' glares soften, he was let off with a reprimand. It was hopelessly unfair, but Matthew had resigned himself long ago to everyone's orbits getting caught in Alfred's magnetism.

He sat down next to Matthew in the late morning at the nearby bar, nearly vibrating with excitement. He was still dressed in those ridiculous tight jeans and what Matthew recognized as his shirt. He moved over to let him sit down.

'You look happy.'

'I met this soldier again, this Brit. His name is Arthur Kirkland.' He beamed again and took Matthew's drink. Matthew silently reminded himself to make Alfred pay the tab.

Matthew remembered the name. 'Francis said he liked you. What happened with him?'

'He got me into the East,' Alfred said promptly.

Matthew stared at him, horrified. 'Alfred, you-you snuck into the East? You're going to start a war!'

'Nobody saw me! I was wearing civilian clothes. I took your shirt.' He looked down, as if only realizing he was still wearing it. 'Can I…?'

Matthew groaned and buried his face in his hands. He would need a new shirt for tonight. 'Keep it. How did Arthur agree to this?'

'He was drunk.' Alfred took a gulp and squinted into his drink. 'This isn't bourbon. Who poured this?'

'That's because it's mine,' Matthew said, but he had already ordered another and passed his mostly depleted drink across the mahogany.

'Here, you can have this one.'

'Thank you,' Matthew said. His sarcasm was lost on Alfred. He downed the shot and stood up, his whole body alight like a live wire.

'And I'm seeing him again today, so I should be going soon because I was late last time since I had to find your shirts.' Alfred grinned down at him, digging in his pocket for money. He tossed a few bills on the counter and was gone again, just a flash of lightning shattering the peace before he vanished.

Matthew decided to order another drink, a shot of bourbon, on Alfred's credit. It was only fair. Besides, with the way he'd spoken about Arthur, Matthew didn't expect him back soon.

0o0o0o

Leaving camp was a breath of fresh air. Matthew didn't realize how much he truly craved the quiet until he was away from the fireworks and shouting. Even so, he looked terrible, because Alfred had taken his one formal shirt, and his good pair of trousers didn't match his other collared shirt. The only good thing was that he'd pinned his maple leaf charm back onto his lapel.

He couldn't do anything about it now, he supposed, even though it made him wince as if he was a nervous teenager again, going out to the drive-in movies along with Alfred with his suntanned interchangeable girlfriends who he never paid attention to, and him with his, who he supposed he never paid much attention to, either.

But he wasn't going to the drive-in movies, and Alfred wasn't here, and there were certainly no girls, tanned or otherwise. There would be only him and Francis and the poetry, and that made his heart quicken like the girls never had. Matthew touched his face again to find himself smiling, laughed because Berlin was wild and bright at night, like the northern lights if it had teeth and steel and war and a harder, sharper, more dangerous kind of beauty in it, and ran the rest of the way to the art studio.

Francis was waiting outside for him, smoking a cigarette. Matthew had never thought much about smoking before, but the way Francis smiled at him-genuinely, brightly-around the ember and the bourbon made him bold, or curious at the very least.

'Matthew,' Francis greeted, taking the cigarette out and making as if to stub it out. Matthew took his hand before he did, his heart still pounding in his throat, and took the thin, still-smoking ember from his hands. He didn't do it smoothly, and his nerves made his hands shake, but he did it. Francis raised an eyebrow at him, interest sparking in those blue eyes, and that interest was what made Matthew want to be more than he'd ever been before.

'Do you want it?' Francis asked, with a low purr in his voice that made Matthew shiver. He lifted the smoke to his lips and breathed in slowly, trying to let the smoke settle and bracing himself for the acrid aftertaste, but it was surprisingly good, and he couldn't stop his eyes widening.

Francis' expression broke into a smile.

'They're French, of course. I won't touch any of the horrid ones the Red Army prefers.' But his smile slid back into intensity, and he leaned subtly forward, placing a hand on Matthew's cheek. 'You are always full of surprises, my dearest.'

He moved instinctively to disagree and say it was Alfred who was the thunder and lightning between them, but a look in Francis' eyes silenced the thoughts. Matthew pulled the cigarette away and the smoke curled up between them. Francis' mouth curled the same way, and the hand on his cheek shifted, guiding him closer, so close he could smell the mixture of sweet smoke and soap on Francis' skin. It was strangely intoxicating.

'Breathe out,' Francis instructed, and Matthew obeyed, too dizzy and longing to do anything but listen to his accent. The smoke settled in his hair. Francis took the cigarette back, and breathed deeply, his eyes never leaving Matthew's, and they shared the rest until the ember was burning down to their fingers and Matthew was so punch-drunk on the scent of his hair that he felt faint.

Francis carefully ground the ember underfoot and took his hand.

'I made you something,' he said. Matthew blinked into the moonlight, feeling every slight roughness in those artist's hands.

'Why?' The word slipped out innocently. Francis turned to him, on this backstreet near the Wall, and Matthew wanted nothing but this.

'Because an artist is compelled to describe beauty.' He chuckled. 'It is the only thing we can all agree upon. Would you like to see?' And there, ever the questioning, hesitant glimpse of emotion that Matthew adored.

'I'd love to.'

Francis led him inside, past his usual station and the bright mural, past a painting of a soldier with shining blue eyes, to a small back room. The place was lit by a skylight instead of the sharp electric lights, and the silvery blue moonlight illuminated scarlet and pumpkin and sunshine woven into words, autumn in the unspoiled places of Canada that Matthew loved so much. He couldn't even speak, only gaze, taking in the shape of the flame-coloured maple leaf still pinned to his lapel.

'You can go closer,' Francis said with a hint of amusement. Matthew came closer in awe. He hovered above the vibrant red with trembling fingertips, afraid to disturb the perfection of curled letters swooping in graceful loops, like bird flight. 'What does this all mean?'

Francis shifted closer, his warm, solid chest pressing against his back. His hair tickled against Matthew's shoulder. 'The name of this poem is Trouvaille. It means a lucky find, a diamond in the rough. I thought it suited you.' He looked up, uncertainty showing in flashes again. 'Do you like it?'

'I love it.'

Francis smiled, all edges smoothed away by the rainwater-soft light. 'You praise me as if you are not the artwork I try to describe,' he said softly. 'I am but your Michelangelo, and you, my dearest, are my David.'

Matthew never imagined himself a giant slayer, and the thought of him alone against the looming force of threatening war was too much. He would leave the heroism to Alfred. But these personal battles won, these moments treasured with Francis, made him feel like just as eternal and immortalized.

'Then I give myself to you,' he said. Even if he was not elegant or refined like Francis, he wanted to tell him what it felt like that this was something that could never be broken down into his calculations and he loved it all the more for that. His heart was pounding. 'Do you know what I feel?' he breathed, quietly.

Francis turned him to face. 'Man or woman, I might tell you how I love you, but cannot, and might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot, and might tell that pining that I have, that pulse of my nights and days…' He trailed off, eyes locked on his. 'Poetry, my dearest, is the way we find to describe the indescribable when words fail us in times such as love and war.'

Matthew felt the world draw in. Francis' hand was in his hair, pulling him closer, closer.

'And which time is this?'

Francis' smile lit up the dark. 'Oh, Matthew, it is surely a tragedy. It is both.'

They were close, close, until Francis stepped back abruptly. Matthew was disoriented and nearly growled with frustration. He had wanted this, Francis had said the word love.

'Not always.' He could not imagine this a tragedy.

Francis' smile was soft and sad. 'No. Not always. But always, there is hurt.' He led Matthew away from the skylight room and back into the street, where he glanced towards the East. 'I would know.'

'Did you love someone?' Matthew felt a twinge of anger at the thought. Maybe that was why Francis had stepped away.

'I have loved many,' Francis said with a glance sideways. 'But I had two friends there. Best friends. One of them insisted on staying in the East. The other...I thought the other was dead until rather recently.' His expression twisted. 'It turns out he was a traitor instead. I prefer to think of him as dead.'

Matthew was unsure about the abrupt change of subject. 'What do you mean by insisted? He couldn't have known, the Wall was a surprise to everyone.'

'The traitor knew,' Francis said. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he jutted it out. 'He sold people who trusted him to find out. I heard-I heard not even his brother knew he was still alive until he arrived back in our lives the night before the barbed wire came up. He still lives here now, you know. Gilbert's brother.'

The name registered. 'You mentioned Gilbert yesterday!'

'Yes. Gilbert Beilschmidt.' Francis looked lost for a moment.

'Why did he become a traitor?' Matthew asked softly. Francis' expression hardened.

'Because he is a dog to those in power and thinks it protects him.' He sighed, and shook his head. 'I am sorry. I do not want to trouble you with my past. It is of no importance now. He is in the East, and I am in the West. Which I am glad for, if you are here.'

'Are you sure?' Matthew asked.

'Very. Would you like to walk? I would have asked you yesterday, but you were still in your uniform. I don't want to disturb your duty.' He smiled.

Matthew was glad to be away from the subject of Gilbert. He agreed.

0o0o0o

:: Ink doodles on aged pages