The city wasn't quiet even at night. That was the difference between the wilderness and the urban sprawl-in the wild, on the moonless late nights where the owls had settled down and the wolves were slumbering, it was so quiet he could hear every slow pulse of his heart. In a city, the only pulse he could hear was the roar of people not so far away, and his own heart hammering against his chest, pressing up against his ribs, straining out.

'There was an alert today,' Matthew said. 'A riot at the border. Alfred must have gone, but I haven't heard back from him.'

'It was protestors, I assume?' His voice had a strange tone to it.

'I'm not sure. What makes you think that?'

'I used to know some revolutionaries,' Francis said. 'I am still one of them, really.'

'Really?' Matthew couldn't help his excitement. 'Against the Stasi? Like the freedom fighters?'

'Indeed.' Francis nodded towards the Wall. 'Some of them would try to pull that down, believe me. As dangerous as it would be for them.'

'Oh, that sounds…' Matthew wanted to say terrifying, but he didn't want Francis to think he was a coward. 'Incredible.'

'You think so?' Francis smiled and reached up and fixed a stray strand of his hair, like it was the most natural thing to do, like it didn't set his heart racing even more. 'It terrified me. Every time I set out to paint the walls or sabotage a weapons truck, I thought I would die.'

Matthew cupped his hand with his own. 'Then why did you do it?'

'Because it was the right thing. Anything worth fighting for should terrify you, but you keep going because it is worth it. Because the thought of the world without doing that scares you even more. That's how you know it's what you should do.' Francis tilted his head closer. 'Love and war are not so different. If you fall truly in love with someone, if you fight for what you believe in, it scares you, it entrances you, it is dangerous and wonderful and every time you know what you must do, even if it will kill you. And you do it anyways.'

'How many times have you done that? Fought for a cause like that?' He hesitated. 'Or fallen in love like that?'

'Only once,' Francis whispered. 'And you only do once.'

He let go of his hand. His brilliant blue eyes were soft and shadowed and impossibly deep with sadness.

'Even if it kills you,' he said softly.

'You're in the West now,' Matthew said, feeling strangely empty without his warmth, dark and hollow with the need to be closer. 'The Stasi can't hurt you.'

'It's not the Stasi I worry about now.' Francis smiled and set the pace again, leading them down the street. Matthew hurried to catch up and didn't ask any more questions. Inquiring more about love would only reveal his hopeless affections.

'I heard there was an artist at one of the military camps today.' Francis glanced at him. 'Was he at yours?'

'No, the British one. I wish he had come to ours, though. After the Americans left, all we could do was wait. Do you know why he was there?'

'I have my suspicions, but no matter.' Francis chuckled. 'His name is Feliciano Vargas. He's a friend of mine.'

'Vargas? Alfred bought one of his paintings! He's very good,' Matthew complimented.

'I'll pass it onto him.' Francis looked pleased. Matthew nodded, idly stretching out one of his arms, and his shirt rode up around his midriff, showing off his horrid scar from being charged by an moose. He pulled it back down, flushing red. Francis was watching, his eyes taking a long time to move up to his face.

'Did someone hurt you?' he asked, his voice nearly dangerous underneath a careful calm.

'No, no-' Matthew pretended to laugh, cursing Alfred for making him wear mismatched clothing. 'It was a moose.'

Francis blinked, his fearsome expression falling away in an instant. 'A moose?'

'Yes, one of the big bull ones. His rack must have been eighteen points.' Matthew illustrated the width with his hands. 'I thought I could scare him off from my cabin. I think I was-only a little bit-drunk, and overestimated myself, because he charged. This isn't from his antlers, of course, it's from when I dived to get out of his way.' He tried and failed again to fasten his shirt.

'Oh. I thought…' Francis shook his head. 'I'm glad nobody tried to hurt you. How big was the moose? I've seen a deer, I believe. Are moose the size of horses?'

Matthew stifled a laugh. 'Bigger.'

Francis looked mildly distressed. 'How much bigger?'

Matthew gestured, stretching up on the balls of his feet. 'Their shoulders go up to here.'

Francis' expression of sheer terror made him giggle, and he tried to muffle himself. 'Oh, I'm sorry, you're just-oh, Francis!'

'In France,' Francis said, in a very determinedly calm voice, 'we do not have monsters.'

'Then I guess I'll have to visit you instead of the other way around,' Matthew said, grinning before he realized. His good humour vanished, replaced by chilling fear. 'I'm sorry, I-'

'What are you sorry for?' Francis sounded affectedly casual, even though his eyes snapped with nervous, fierce energy. He was at a loss for words, mouth dry. Francis smiled slow and bright. 'I don't mind, Matthew.'

He had to look away then, because his heart was threatening to beat right through his rib cage and give itself up to Francis.

'I normally tell people it's a battle wound,' he said. 'Well, I would, if anyone asked. I don't show it around. Alfred took my good shirt, and this one doesn't fit.' He was sure his ears were furiously red, and he was rambling nonsense.

'I'll buy you a new one,' Francis offered. If it was possible, his blush deepened.

'You don't have to.'

'My treat.' He offered his hand, and Matthew stared at it for a long moment while his dizzy brain started working again.

'Okay,' he agreed, bowled-over and lost to him. He took his hand.

0o0o0o

Francis led him to one of the stores on the glittering Ku'damm, full of wide eyes and golden light even this late at night. Matthew held tighter to his hand, every instinct in him demanding he let go and step away, but-he looked around and felt like laughing because there was so many other things to look at that he hardly felt out of place.

In the smaller shop, he dropped his hand under the guise of picking up a tie. Francis let him go, and a hot curl of shame and helplessness twisted in his gut. He wanted Francis to understand that he didn't want to, it was only that he knew what they must look like, and the jail penalty if they were assumed to be like that, and-and his head hurt even thinking about whether he wanted to be thought of that way or not.

'Matthew,' the murmur came, so soft he could have convinced himself he'd imagined it. He turned his gaze up and Francis looked at him without hate or disgust, only that smile just for him. Matthew was lost once again. Francis sat back, at a distance that could be called friendly, and gestured around.

'What's your type?'

For some reason, he found that funny, but rose and tried to find a shirt that he likes. Francis hummed softly by his side.

'Make a few choices,' he advised, picking up the sleeve of a simple white button-up in the pile of several nearly identical white button-ups. 'You can choose something colourful.'

Matthew felt his face grow hot. 'It's only that I'm used to wearing the army uniform.'

'I'm not blaming you. The armed forces have a way of crushing good fashion sense. You can see Arthur for that-but you would look good in something brighter.' Francis led him through to the back, full of loud fabric. Matthew stood bemusedly as he held up and bright yellows and piercing crimsons, tutting softly. Matthew shuffled his feet, feeling pale and washed out. Francis worked in the saturated colours, they brought him out of the world he already stood above.

'I'm not sure if this is working.'

'No, it's the clothes that are wrong. I just need to find-ah, how about this?' Francis picked up a different shirt, the collar folded and sharp, the fabric a peculiar, lovely shade. Matthew tilted his head at it, unsure if he'd call it pale blue or lavender. It was brighter than the rest of his wardrobe by far, but he wasn't opposed to it like he was the rest.

'It's lovely,' he said, astonished.

'It matches your eyes,' Francis said. Matthew's gaze flew up to him, unsure. Francis held it out. 'Do you want to try it on?'

Silently, he accepted it and ducked into the changing room. The few buttons at the collar were pearly, and the fabric was soft. It felt good on him, brave and warm, filling him with courage. He refused to ruin the feeling by looking into the mirror, and instead stepped out to meet Francis, eyes closed.

'Oh, dearest,' he heard, just a whisper, like a caught breath. A hand lingered at his neck, pulling the collar into place. 'Open your eyes.'

Matthew did, and saw awe reflected in his expression. That, more than anything, made him feel just as bright as Alfred.

'How do I look?' he asked, allowing himself to smile. Francis just turned him towards the mirror to see what was reflected-someone with the same eyes and face Matthew had been looking at for years, but with life in their wide grin and a flush spreading across their face. He stared, entranced.

'You're beautiful,' Francis said. Matthew turned to him in shock. His blue gaze held no humour, no respite. Their hands slid together.

'You shouldn't be calling me beautiful,' Matthew choked. He reached up and cupped Francis' cheek, feeling the roughness of stubble.

'Why not?'

'Because you're you,' he said. He nearly laughed-had Francis seen himself? 'You're incredible, and I'm just-'

'You are the most beautiful person I've ever met,' Francis said.

'I can't be.'

'If you can't see it, I will bring it out of you. You are a masterpiece.' His fingertips traced patterns on his wrist. Matthew was lightheaded. 'Believe me, dearest.'

He just closed his eyes and let that choking, ridiculous laugh work out of him. He couldn't believe the words, but some part of him was still lit up all over. 'Francis.'

'Matthew.' He could hear his smile. 'I will tell you until you can look into the mirror and see what I see now. Shall we go home?'

'I'd like that,' he said.

He was drifting until they were back at the gallery, every inch of him a mess of nerves and emotion.

'You're too kind to me,' he said. The weight of the shirt still made him feel good.

'Only kind enough in an unkind world.' Francis stroked back his hair. 'Do you...would you like your poem? Your friend Alfred has his, and I am not Feliciano, but…'

'I'd love it.'

Francis packed the canvas in a bag for him, humming a slow song. Matthew recognized the melody from the singer Alfred was always playing nowadays.

'Why did you buy me a shirt?' he asked. 'I love it, thank you-but why?'

'Why do you like the shirt?' Francis countered. He leaned against his work table with a smile. Matthew fumbled for an answer.

'It's...new, and feels brave.' He tried not to wince at his own poor explanation.

'Brave.' He nodded. 'Then that is reason enough. Though does an artist really need a reason? Maybe just because it makes you smile, and I love seeing you like this. My diamond in the rough.' Francis held out the bag. His eyes crinkled when he smiled. 'Will you come see me again?'

His courage swelled inside of him. 'Of course I will.'

0o0o0o

Characters helping each other develop is my favourite thing.

::Butterflies resting on concrete