They laid there as the stars and moonlight faded blue. Matthew hummed a slow song, staring up at the ceiling.

'You knew just what I was there for, you heard me saying a prayer for…'

Francis rolled over to kiss him, mapping the lines of his shoulders and torso. He had scars, though not as many as him. He paused over his ribs, flattening his hand to feel the steady, reassuring thump of his heart against the palm.

'Are you okay?' he asked. Matthew stopped humming and moved as if to nod before he caught himself.

'As much as I can be.' His hands found Francis' hair, making coils around his fingers. 'There was...there was a boy there, in the East. A Red Army soldier.'

Francis had seen them when he lived in the East. The starving boys with hollow cheeks, eyes dull with the weight of a war and their futures.

'Is that why they caught you?'

Matthew froze, and Francis' stomach twisted. His bruises were still dark and so much of his skin was mottled with them. They had hurt him so badly, broken something inside, and Francis was helpless to do anything but hold him and try to promise it would be okay.

'I think so,' he said, voice wavering. 'I think- I didn't think, Francis, that's it. I had to help him. I have to help but I don't know how.'

'You can't save the entire world,' Francis said gently. 'Saving those you love is enough for now, is it not?'

'Yes. No. I don't know anymore.' Matthew's body was tense and bent as a bowstring, yet the hands weaving braids in his hair were gentle. 'I'm not a hero.'

'You're a hero to me.' Francis kissed one of his bruises. 'Even if you don't see it in yourself. You save me.'

He laughed, soft and wondering, turning his head to wipe away tears. 'You're such an artist. I wish I was, too. I'm so scared of this, Francis, and I wish I wasn't.' He let go of his hair and took a deep, shuddering breath, body shivering beneath him. 'What's wrong with me?'

'Nothing is wrong with you.' Francis shifted to lay beside him and guide his body against his chest, gathering all his hidden strength and gentleness close. The only thing wrong was the world that had broken Matthew this way. He kissed another bruise, careful of the cut just below it. 'This is not your fault.'

Matthew breathed out and his body slackened, the anguish on his face hidden somewhere else, in that deep sorrow he tried to hide so often. 'Tell me something about you,' he said.

Francis wanted to help him, wanted to heal him. He'd willingly take up the fight again, the way he had in the East, if it was for him. He would do anything, seeing those ugly bruises on him. But Matthew needed his own time to heal.

'Like what?'

'Tell me...tell me the night the Wall came up. The night you came to the West.' He shifted, pain flickering momentarily through his shadowed, gentle expression. 'I've heard about it, but I've never talked to someone who was there about it.'

Francis closed his eyes for the memory, bracing himself for the ugly words and the hate and fear and Gilbert-

'I told you about Gilbert,' he started hesitantly. Matthew nodded. Francis could barely say his name. His friend, his best friend, a filthy traitor, the eagle of their resistance. Staring at him across the Wall, eyes bright as blood. 'He's the reason I'm here, he's…' Gilbert was everything to him and Antonio.

'When did it start between you?' Matthew asked. Francis laughed.

'Far too long ago. A little village in Spain when we were too young to know any better.' He shook it away. 'Him and Antonio and I thought we were invincible here. Bravery is a terrible drug,' he added, knowing all too well how much he drank of it. 'When the Stasi started, it was all too easy to join with others who had too much fire and not enough to love, and we fought.'

They had fought and they had raged and thought there was nothing left to lose. It was impossible to think of Gilbert leaving them, impossible as losing sight or a limb or the colour blue. They were everything.

'Francis?'

He blinked himself awake. 'Gilbert...is a selfish man. A brilliant, deadly, selfish man. He kept trying to convince Antonio and I that the Soviets would do something, and we didn't listen. So he took it upon himself to find out.'

Something is going to happen, Gilbert had insisted, eyes feverish bright, leaning across the table to him. I'm going to save us, Francis, I'll save everyone. When I find out what happens, I promise you and Antonio and Ludwig will all be safe, and that's enough for me-

'The price for knowing of the Berlin Wall was the people of the resistance,' he whispered. 'We thought he was dead. I thought he had died chasing his city dreams, and I expected that.' He turned away for a moment, trying to breathe through the sudden choking weight of tears.

'And he wasn't?'

'I wish,' Francis spat, and suddenly shook his head. 'No, I don't mean that. I just wish he was...different. That he hadn't come back in Soviet colours to warn Antonio.'

Francis knew he was lying to himself even now. Gilbert wouldn't have been himself without his wildness and loyalty. Gilbert had saved him. Saving a few people had been enough for him, but it would have never been enough for Francis. It still wasn't. Nothing was enough except Matthew.

'You're right,' he said, gasping through the sudden tears, kissing Matthew's hair. His arms came up to hold him, tracing circles on his back. 'About wanting to save everyone. I understand, I do.'

Matthew leaned up to kiss his hair. 'I'm sorry.'

'It's not your fault for all of this.'

'Someday it'll be better. Even Gilbert. He's got to be.' Matthew laid his head against his chest, soft violet eyes so open and unsullied. Francis didn't know if there was any better to Gilbert than this, or if the only things inside of him were war and Prussian blue.

'You're so gentle,' he murmured, amazed as always. Matthew's mouth quirked slightly, sad and lovely.

'That's why we're like this, isn't it? Why I'm going on leave?'

'When are you leaving?' Francis pushed away thoughts of his past. The only thing that mattered right now was his dearest Matthew.

'Soon. They'll let me go quicker than usual. A broken soldier isn't worth much to them.' He gestured to himself, touching the mess of cuts on his face with a weak wince.

'You're not broken.'

Matthew shrugged, shoulders slumping as he looked away. 'I'm a pacifist and love too easily and the idea of a war against those boys who barely have food makes me sick. I'm broken to them.' His eyelashes fluttered. 'I feel broken.'

'You're perfect to me,' Francis said sternly. Matthew blinked up at him and shyly, wonderfully smiled.

'Thank you.' He turned to kiss his shoulder.

'You deserve to hear that every day.' Francis swallowed back a pang of want at the touch of a kiss to his skin. 'You should…you should rest more.'

'It's my last night here, Francis.' He sat up, holding out his arms with a flicker of soft want and humour in his eyes. 'I think I can handle a proper goodbye, if you want that.'

He did, he'd always wanted him so much.

'I do.' He hesitated over his clothes, worried that there would be more bruises.

'It's okay,' Matthew said. 'I meant what I said. I'd rather be yours than the army's. I know you'll be gentle.'

Francis kissed him, properly, lingering and slow. A kiss goodbye.

'You deserved better,' he said softly. He deserved a city of artists better than Francis.

'I have you. That's more than enough.' Matthew guided him down on the bed and they whispered their final goodbyes, learned each other's bodies one last time in the bed under the maple leaf poetry. The end of the moonlight painted the room blue.

Francis had always trusted too easily, but Matthew was something and someone he could always trust. He was good in a way that deserved the world.

'Is this okay?' Matthew asked, pressing soft kisses to his collarbone as he worked him open. Francis nodded, trying to hold onto his shoulders where bruises didn't show. His skin was a patchwork of colour, and he wished, wished it was with paint rather than blood, as all too many things were.

'It's fine,' he assured him. Matthew laughed softly and kissed the wrist hovering by his shoulder.

'You're not going to hurt me. It's okay.' His body arched over him, painted by the dawning lights. 'I trust you so much, Francis.'

'I love you,' he whispered as they finally connected, Matthew's body shuddering softly. He wound fingers in his soft hair, wincing at the blood there. 'I love you so much.'

'I love you too.' Matthew's hands traced his body, warm and shaking and gentle. 'My poet.'

'My maple leaf.' Francis tilted his head up as Matthew kissed his neck, working a pale bruise into the skin. It tingled, and he wanted it, he wished he could take his pain and sadness.

'I'm yours,' Matthew panted against his skin, his movements erratic and devoted. Francis held him closer and promised impossible things that Matthew made him wish for.

'I'll see you again,' he said. 'I promise, I promise. In a better world.'

Matthew met him in a deep kiss, whispering je t'aime, je t'aime until they both finished, shuddering in each other's arms, floating with love, love, love.

It was a while later that they could finally work up the energy and will to extricate themselves from each other and clean off. Francis winced at seeing the line of claw marks on Matthew's shoulders, but he just laughed. All the worry in his face was gone for now. Francis wanted this to be forever, this warmth and gentleness and afterglow.

'I don't mind.' He tucked the blankets closer. 'If you wanted...do you want to see me again?'

'Of course I do!' Francis exclaimed. Matthew blushed, looking delighted.

'Do you want me to visit France with you so you can avoid the moose?' He teased. His sweet and genuine teasing made Francis' heart ache in love.

'That would be nice. I do want to see your home, though. The wilds. Even if there's monsters.'

'I'll protect you, don't worry.' Matthew rolled over to wrapped arms around him and bent so he could set his head on Francis' shoulder. His hair brushed his cheek and Francis could smell his soap and sweat, and wondered how ridiculously wonderful it was that it made him love this even more.

'My dearest,' he breathed. Matthew nuzzled against his collarbone.

'I'll get you the address of my work. I move around a lot,' he apologized. His ears were endearingly pink. 'I've got it written down on a…'

'On a what?'

'You're going to laugh,' he accused warmly. Francis gasped, barely able to contain his smile.

'I would never!'

'Fine.' Matthew kissed his cheek and reached into the nightstand, fumbling for a moment over the jar of cream they'd been using until he came up with a key ring. He unclipped something that looked like a tiny white bear.

'Is that it?' Francis asked delightedly.

'His name is Kuma…' He stopped to turn the bear over and squint. 'Kumajirou. I've had him for years and I still can't remember.' He handed him carefully to Francis, his blush creeping across his face. 'He's from my work, it's printed on the bottom. There's an address. Take good care of him, okay?'

'With my life,' Francis promised. He accepted the tiny bear, stroking a finger over the soft head before going to put him safely in a pocket of his trousers.

'You better,' Matthew warned. 'I expect him back.'

'I'll treat him like royalty.' Francis got back into bed and they laid there trading kisses and promises until the morning spilled in, hot and bright, and Matthew had to go. Francis would never be ready to let him go, but he would be back with him soon, as soon as he could.

Matthew glanced down the hall and then quickly kissed him goodbye.

'I love you so much, Francis Bonnefoy,' he said.

'I love you too, my dearest maple leaf.' Their last kiss was not a goodbye. It was a promise.

He curled a hand around Kumajirou in his pocket. They would be together again, no matter what. He had found Matthew, a diamond in the rough concrete of Berlin, just as the poem he'd written for him had said. Trouvaille. They would always find each other again.

0o0o0o

Matthew went to Alfred's room again. One of the commanders had told him about his leave last night, special circumstances, catching the next flight out. He needed to talk to his friend before he was gone.

Alfred had always felt like a thunderstorm barely contained, but now it was gone. Matthew sat down, setting the spare key he'd been loaned on the table. He was worried. For a while, Alfred had felt like he was getting better, but something had happened.

'Hey, Alfie.'

Alfred started, looking up, eyes drink-hazed. 'Hey,' he mumbled, trying to focus, the ragged edge of his old smile fighting through. 'You're looking better.'

'I am better.' Matthew sat down. 'What's up?'

'Nothin',' he muttered. He was holding a photograph, and Matthew shuffled closer to see. It was a man, hair ruffled, in front of the Brandenburg Gate. A man who he'd last seen in trial.

'Arthur,' he said.

Alfred's thumb stroked across the surface, eyes faraway. 'That's him. My Arthur.'

If Matthew could only save a few people, he wanted Alfred to be one of them.

'They're sending me home,' he said. 'Wish it was you instead.'

Alfred's mouth twitched. 'Yeah. I've got a bit longer.'

'I want you to know that I appreciate you,' Matthew said. 'I know we've had a lot of differences, but...you're my friend.'

Alfred's expression finally lifted, and he threw his arms around his shoulders. His embraces were crushing as usual, but Matthew let it happen.

'Thanks, Mattie,' he said. 'I appreciate you too. Really.'

'I know.' Matthew finally pushed him off. 'You know my work address. Write if you get into any more trouble.'

Alfred suddenly grabbed for his photo again and showed him the neatly written address on the back, eyes wide and bright. 'I need a favour. I can't write to Arthur directly, I'm not risking us like that. Can you forward him my letters?'

'You're asking me to pay your cross-Atlantic postage?' Matthew asked in mock horror. 'No, I'm kidding, you know that. I'll do it but you're buying all my drinks for a month once you get out, understand?'

His shoulders slumped in relief as he copied the address down. He looked better than he had when Matthew had walked in, but something was still not right.

'Anything else you want to tell me?' he pressed. 'I promise that I'll keep a good secret once I'm five thousand kilometres away.'

Alfred's gaze dropped back to the photograph, his smile fading back. 'You don't know them, but there's…their names are Ludwig and Feliciano.'

'Feliciano Vargas? The artist?'

Alfred sat up. 'Yes. You know him?'

'Francis does. What's going on with them?'

Alfred pressed his lips together, looking pained. 'Feliciano was taken by the Stasi.'

'What? That can't- he was from the West!' Their side of the city no longer felt safe.

'Do you think they cared?' Alfred wrapped his arms around himself. 'Ludwig came to me about it. He'd do anything, anything to save him. And I agreed.'

Matthew set a hand on his arm.

'It wasn't your fault, whatever happened.'

'Yes, it was!' Alfred pulled away and started to pace, his thunderstorm energy suddenly back and twisted around him, frantic and panicked. 'If I hadn't agreed, Ludwig wouldn't have been able to do what he did. If it wasn't for me, he wouldn't have handed himself over to the East for Feliciano. I don't know why I did it. You didn't see the way Feliciano looked when I saved...when we left.'

'Ludwig gave himself to the East for him?'

'It was a prisoner exchange for his...his Feliciano. The way he talked about him was…' Alfred went still, face buried in the collar of his jacket, shoulders shaking slightly. 'Arthur. He reminded me of Arthur and what he did for me. Sacrifice for love. I hate it. I hate it so much.'

'I understand.'

'I don't want there to be any more of it,' Alfred said. He sat down again, staring out the window. 'That's not what love is.'

Matthew sat closer again. 'Is he still there?'

Alfred nodded once, eyes blank. 'I was supposed to be the hero.'

'You saved Feliciano.'

'That wasn't saving him.' Alfred leaned back and stared up to the ceiling, exhaling slow and ragged. He abruptly forced a smile. 'It's fine, it's already done. I shouldn't have told you all of that right before you left. Should be a celebration, huh?'

'Alfred,' Matthew said helplessly.

'Come on,' his friend said, taking his arm. His eyes were glassy. 'I know a good place. It's called the Cuckoo's Egg.'

0o0o0o

:: Driving along long city roads on quiet nights