The pale light and the rough fabric of the couch under his back made a sort of art in themselves, written with Francis' crooning accent, telling him beautiful and dearest like it was fact and they were people who didn't love between being soldiers for hopeless causes and soon-to-be casualties.

'You told me about your home,' Francis said, between touching his collarbone and the skin showing between his shirt and the waistband of his boxers, sliding his uniform off like a butterfly from the chrysalis. 'I think I would like to go there. Somewhere safe.'

'You said there were monsters there.' He shivered as Francis brushed a fingertip across his scar.

'I would brave them if you wanted.' His voice dropped, and he slowly unbuttoned the pale lavender shirt. Matthew wanted to touch him back, but his head was so full of smoke and Francis' voice that all he could do was hold on.

'You're brave,' he finally said.

'Really?' Even with the pearly light making his face nothing more than planes and shadows, he could see the sad surprise. 'I want to be somewhere safe. Danger isn't the drug for me like it is for my friends.'

'There's nothing wrong with that.'

'I know that. The world might not for a while.' He brushed back his hair, eyes staring into a different time. 'Artists like me- avant-garde, that's what we're called, aren't supposed to love for more than a night. That's what one told me. Something about focusing on our art.'

Isn't this art, Matthew wanted to say, about how they moved together. Francis seemed to understand, and amusement flicked through his shining eyes for a second.

'This is better,' he whispered, and finally the shirt was off and his skin tingled.

'Keep talking,' he pleaded back. When Francis wasn't speaking, the memories of the tanks hung heavier and darker. He allowed him to take off his clothes and whispered reassurance against his neck.

'Beautiful, Matthew, my dearest. You're safe. You're safe.'

The light silvered Francis' hair and the curve of his spine, the arch of his back and the clink of the jar of cream, and Matthew felt everything as if Francis was working him open instead, rattling through his body and forcing the breath from his lungs.

'Francis, oh.'

'Shh,' Francis soothed again, balanced over him, eyes wide and hair mussed. Matthew could feel unshed tears collecting in his throat, prickling at his eyes, and made an incoherent plead, one hand in his hair and one digging into his hip. His body was burning. He knew he should loosen his grip, but if he did, he might fall apart right then.

Francis kissed him, deep and slow, whispering endearments until Matthew was wavering on the edge, and finally sunk down on him.

'You are a masterpiece,' he said, and every catch in his voice pushed him closer. 'Perfect.'

Matthew heard himself cry out again, love you or you're the perfect one. He twisted to try to hide his face, knowing tears streaked down his cheeks, and Francis guided him back, meeting him in a kiss. There was a scar over his solar plexus, and below that, a harsh mark that looked like a bullet wound. Matthew couldn't take his eyes off them. They were so wrong, for his Francis to have been hurt so badly.

'You deserve to be safe,' he said. His grip was tight enough to leave bruises, and he wanted to kiss them, kiss the scars and promise him a better world.

'Matthew.' His movement slowed, and he caressed his face, pain written where it shouldn't be. 'I wish. I wish.'

Before he could say anything more, Francis started moving again, and he forgot speaking and thinking and the world outside them for a while longer.

0o0o0o

Alfred wasn't there when he got back to base. All he could think of was the blur and liquid heat of that morning hour in the apartment and a final kiss on his cheek. His uniform was too tight and stiff now that he knew what Francis felt like against him. For some people, they got drunk on danger, but for him, it was skin on skin and their names twining.

He couldn't feel the crush of people around him or hear the shouts. He stumbled back upstairs and tried to sleep, but he only woke up with a longing for safety, his home in Canada or Francis, and always running from the rumble of tanks. Finally, he buried himself in math and numbers, and his brain was quiet.

Not everything was made up of the equations he knew. People were cruel and hateful without reason, but they could be just as wonderful and strange and amazing. What were the chances, written out in astrological time, that Francis and him would have been this? If humans were equations that built themselves from everything that happened to them, how did it happen that they worked out so perfectly?

He wasn't an artist, but he wanted to make a mark on the world to show it how he felt for a snapshot second. The charcoal lines were clumsy, but he kept trying until he'd drawn the moon cresting over the roofs of the art gallery the way it had looked the first night, and slowly began to fill the spaces of shadow with numbers. It was geometric and natural at the same time, and he felt light after the lines were on the paper instead of swirling in his head.

Only then did he strip out of his clothes and wrap himself in his blankets to sleep, sore and longing still, but sated. He would see Francis again, and the world was still breathing, not at war yet. He would continue, and there would be more of how he'd had last night. He held out his hands, amazed, clearly remembering how Francis' skin had felt.

It was a few weeks until the hanging peace shattered.

Shouting outside shook him awake, and he threw on his uniform and opened the door, frowning. Men crowded the hallway, cursing at each other and with red faces.

'Fucking queers,' one of them spat. Matthew's blood ran cold. His words felt like dust on his tongue, and his limbs like wet sand. One of the men noticed him, and glared, lips pulling back from his teeth.

'You got something to say?'

'What happened?' Matthew asked. His own voice sounded alien and scratchy. One of the men had a bloody nose that had run down his jaw. His fuzzy head registered that some of them had British uniforms instead.

'Jones.' The one with a broken nose spat out some blood. 'The pilot. We were just having a friendly conversation and he decides to jump in on us.'

'Really?' Matthew's heart was pounding and his nails dug into the wood. What had Alfred done?

'It's because of Arthur,' one of the men in British uniform snarled, wiping at his black eye. 'Should have known he was one of those. Wait until command finds out.'

Alfred. That stupid, lovestruck, loud man. He'd be lucky if he made it through the next few days without getting thrown into jail.

'I'm going downstairs to eat,' Matthew said jerkily, locked his door, and stumbled away from the knot of men, still growling at their wounds. He checked the field before leaving with some ridiculous half-formed plan to find Alfred in the city and bring him back.

He stopped at the art gallery, but the Thunderbird was gone and Francis wasn't there. He asked around if anyone had seen him, but nobody knew. He hoped he hadn't run off to the East again, and the thought added another weight in his stomach.

He sat down in one bar after half an hour, fuming and stressed, his Army jacket bunched under his arm. Someone grabbed his shoulder.

'You're safe?'

'What?' Matthew snapped, annoyed. The man let go suddenly.

'You're not Alfred, are you?'

'I'm Matthew,' he said. 'I know, we look alike.'

'Sorry, man.' He sat down beside him, and Matthew jumped back at the bruise that was swelling on his face.

'What happened to you?'

'Bar fight.' He tapped the multicoloured bruise with what might have been pride. It was hard to tell from behind the black eye. 'Alfred and Arthur helped us out.'

'Against a few men in British and American uniforms?' Matthew asked cautiously. 'They just came back to my camp bloodied up.'

'We did a number on them, damn right.' He beamed. 'My name's Jett.'

'It's nice to meet you, Jett,' he said honestly. He was impressed. 'Do you know where Alfred went?'

'He ran off. Probably for the better.'

'That's the problem.' Matthew sighed and set down his jacket, waving for a drink. 'Everyone knows- everyone thinks he's got...preferences now.'

'Lay off it,' Jett snorted. 'He'd give Kirkland the world, and you know it. You're that way, too, aren't you?'

Matthew nearly spat out his drink. 'How do you-'

'You get a knack for it after a bit,' Jett bragged. He nodded to a soldier at the other end of the bar, who casually raised his glass without looking over. 'He's mine.'

'Oh.' Matthew ducked back into his collar, not meeting Jett's bright forest-green eyes. 'I am...like you. But the problem is that Alfred's been reported for it by those men you fought!'

Jett grimaced. 'Shit. What's your penalty?'

'Five years in jail,' Matthew said humourlessly. 'I need help.'

Jett stared into his glass for a moment before pushing it away. The man at the end stood up and followed them out.

'Kiwi,' Jett introduced briefly, brushing a hand through his curly hair, and then tilting his head towards Matthew. 'Meet Matt. He's Alfred's friend.'

'What happened?' Kiwi asked.

'Alfred's going to be jailed.'

Kiwi glanced at Jett for a moment. They seemed to come to an agreement.

'It's our fault the fight started,' Jett said. 'Well, mostly my fault. Matt, I'm sorry.'

'What do I need to do?' Matthew demanded, eyes stinging.

'You need to keep yourself from going the same way,' Jett said sternly. 'You're not going to like it, and neither is Alfred, but you need to make sure he doesn't see Arthur anymore.'

For a moment, all he could see was the look in Alfred's eyes when he'd talked about Arthur, so hopeful. He couldn't ruin that.

'I'm sorry, Mattie.'

'Don't call me Mattie,' he mumbled. His eyes stung, but his voice didn't shake. 'Alfred calls me that.'

'I'm sorry.' He did sound sorry, but there was no room for compromise in his voice. 'You know what you have to do.'

Matthew just turned around and left, trudging through the streets. It wasn't Jett or Kiwi's faults, it was the world that felt wrong.

0o0o0o

He was drunk when he finally found Alfred, drunk in the way he almost never was, head aching like slush and the dirty water collecting in the gutters, and all the numbers that hummed in his head fell to pieces. It wasn't his fault, wasn't his goddamn responsibility to take care of Alfred and walk him through being careful with his affections.

It wasn't Alfred's fault, either. He was just built for loud, brash love, but it felt good and vindictive to see him sitting on the curb and let himself think this is all because of you, even if some of the things he'd caused were anything but bad.

'Alfred, you fucking idiot,' he snarled, stalking over to him.

'Matt? What happened?'

'You did.' He struggled to find an explanation in his hazy head. 'You can't see Arthur anymore.'

His eyes blazed and he surged to his feet, looking as dangerous as Matthew had ever seen.

'What? Matt, what goddamn right do you have-'

'Don't get angry with me,' Matthew roared back, too many months of anger and frustration spilling out of him. This is all your fault, he could have said. He stepped towards him and Alfred shrank for the first time he'd seen, shoulders curling inwards inside his jacket, looking away. Matthew should have felt worse about it. He didn't, just watched him warily.

'You fought some men in a bar.'

'They were saying what they shouldn't have,' he muttered.

'I know. Believe me.' Matthew felt far too tired now, his anger leached away. As angry as he was, he hated hurting his friend, and hated other people hurting him even more. 'They reported you, Alfie. You need to go back to base.'

'No,' Alfred said, an edge of panic in his voice. His eyes were wild, unseeing. Matthew had seen it in animals just before they died, and just like he had to the bloodied deer and trapped foxes in his forests, he tried to soothe him.

'I'm sorry.'

Alfred retreated from the touch, wrapping himself tighter in his jacket. Matthew understood that. 'Does Arthur know?'

He couldn't answer for a moment, words stuck in his throat. He didn't want to be the person who hurt Alfred like this, and lowered his voice to the quiet tone he used for downed birds.

'He will.'

He left Alfred huddled on the step outside the art gallery. He couldn't face Francis now, not when the implications and promise of a trial with no winner still lay like oil on his tongue. He lost count of how many more drinks and bars it was until he saw Jett and Kiwi again. They said nothing. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done, but they helped him home in quiet, bitter solidarity.

0o0o0o

:: Spontaneous speeches