Even Francis admitted to himself he'd never been the best at trying to be a parent. Why did they think giving Francis, of all the people, responsibility over another human being was a good idea? He had loved the boy but god knows Francis had no clue on how to suddenly be a father at first. (Despite his reputation, he'd always been very, very careful. So if little Matthew did somehow have cousins floating around somewhere, Francis was not aware of it.)

He'd…he'd tried! Francis had attempted to justify to himself at first. He'd taught Matt French and told him stories and went along with Matt's silly little imagination. When Matt was so small and cute and still a girl in the little dresses and so, so shy, Francis had coaxed him out from hiding behind his polar bear toy and spoke with him. What is your name, little one? He'd said gently, cooing at that sweet little face peeking out from behind fluffy white ears. (He'd known his niece's name, of course, but he wanted to hear it from the child himself.)

Little Matilda had not replied, just blinked those big, soft eyes that looked almost violet in the right light. At the time he had thought it was just the shyness that held the darling back and so he'd been undeterred. She will be a heartbreaker when she grows up, he had thought, smiling.Uncle Francis will be chasing away those boys after her before we know it!

Well, he'd been half-right. Matthew didn't always notice, but Francis had not gotten his infamous romantic reputation for nothing. Such poor self-esteem when boys and girls always liked to make big cow eyes at him! Francis had usually went out of his way to check they were safe for little Matt and more often than not they were more than willing to follow Francis home instead.

Not good enough, he would think of those ones. Matthew deserves someone who wants him more than someone who would go for the first stranger who chatted them up.

It was not entirely unselfish of him, but this was a good arrangement for everyone, no?

Little one, Francis had begun again in French. My name is Francis. I'm your uncle, did you know?

He had gazed expectantly at Matilda, and then politeness drilled in from birth must have finally overcame any reluctance born of shyness.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're saying." That little mouth had admitted, and Francis was shocked. How could this beeeeee? He wailed internally. Yes, the child had been born and raised in Canada – but, but, his mother, Francis' sister, was a perfectly good Frenchwoman! She should have taught him their beautiful language even if the child was forced to speak English in public. He had not expected too much given an upbringing in a primarily English speaking province – but to not even understand French meant that his sister had not been telling bedtime stories in French at home, or singing French lullabies to him. Had she completely abandoned the boy's heritage?

No! This would not do! He had decided on, firmly. His English, admittedly, was not that good because he hadn't seen the point of learning the language properly in school. Why should he need to? He had never planned on leaving France back then. Back then he had thought that if Anglophones were going to be arrogant enough to come to France without knowing a word of French, why should he have to make the effort to learn good English for their laziness?

He had learnt some, admittedly. He might find the monolingual English speakers annoying at times, but that didn't matter so much if you could shut them up in bed! He had smirked. Seducing them with only body language was possible, but more effort than it was worth.

And so he had only learn enough English to pass by in a basic conversation. (This was not counting the necessary amounts he had learnt to send people to his bed, but he'd learn that in as many languages as he could. What? He was not ashamed of his sexuality or libido. It was all perfectly natural, and he was not a prude like the Americans.)

Not good (and probably not appropriate) enough for him to be able to talk with little Matilda properly. "Hello, little one," he had attempted again. "My name is Francis. I'm you…" he fumbled for the words. "Your…mama's…sister?" Francis tried.

Matilda had giggled. "Are you a girl?"

Best not to mention the crossdressing, his sister would murder him in his sleep. She wasn't quite as open in her views as he was, and she liked to physically try and prevent him from being able to ever have children. Francis smiled despite himself. "Ah…no. I am a man."

"Oh. So you're my uncle?"

It sounded like the right word. "Yes, uncle. Last time I saw you, you are only a little baby!"

Matilda's eyes had widened to a huge degree. Francis wondered how wide was safe before the little one's eyes fell out completely. "Really? Wow. I don't remember being that small. How come I never met you afterwards?"

Ah, yes. These last few years he'd been finishing his degree in the arts and hadn't really found the time to fly over to Canada to visit his sister's family. Then there was Jeanne, his lovely Jeanne, but she'd died and he'd sought the comfort of men for a while because feminine curves just reminded him of a girl who'd martyred herself because her cause always came first (and never, ever Francis.)

I may be a little disillusioned.

He said instead: "I was home in France, finishing school."

"School?! But you're so old-!" The child said, startled, before covering her mouth in embarrassment at how rude that was.

Francis laughed somewhat bitterly, leaning back. "I'm only twenty-four, little one. I mean university, school for adults. I am nineteen when my sister has you, and I thought that I could make a difference in France." And fuck what his sister thinks, she's barely called him in the last five years and only to tell him how she disapproves of his ways. So he continued: "And me and my…" girlfriend, lover, fiancée? "…Friend," he finished lamely, "We are angry at the injustice in the world and we are fighting in France for what we think is right. But we are getting arrested and my friend is getting executed by the government for treason."

Those almost-violet eyes were alarmed but not traumatised, but it finally seems to have vanished those reservations about speaking with Francis. "That's terrible! Isn't there anything you can do to save your friend?"

Did he say it wrong? It's easy to get words mixed up. What was past tense in English, again? He shook his head. "No, she is already dead. But Uncle Francis is not a criminal, so they let me go."

Putting on his most cheerful face for his niece's sake, he added: "But I am over it now. She is years gone. And now I am in Canada to see a cute girl like you!"

Matilda was entirely unconvinced. Such a perceptive child, he thought, regretfully.

"You're still sad." She whispered.

He had tensed. Francis couldn't argue that, so he said nothing. What can he say to a child who's managed to pierce through to the truth? When so many had taken one look at the way he went straight back to flirting, and smiling and laughing and thought: This is a man who said he wanted to marry her and yet unrepentantly turned away from her memory when her coffin had not even hit the ground?

He knew the way it looked, but what could he have done? He might be the type to shed tears easily, or become overly emotional over the smallest of things – but nobody truly minded that because of how obvious of a performance it was.

True grief, well.

Seeing a grown man sob and howl and curse everything that had happened and their mother - that sort of thing made people very uncomfortable, and Francis could not deal with that. He prided himself on his social skills, and being able to make entire rooms comfortable with him immediately (even if only comfortable in their knowledge that they could dismiss him as little more than a huge flirt.)

So he'd dealt with it in the only way he knew how and pretended nothing had ever happened, taking comfort and protection in the warm bodies that stood between him and the truth.

But the child is right, and it has been years.

"…Yes." Francis admitted. "You're correct. But maybe I will tell you the story another time, no?"

Little Matilda inched closer, and Francis mentally pat himself on the back for small victories. "Okay. I'm sorry about your loss."

What an adorable little girl. How had his confident sister managed to have such a shy little baby? he wondered. Perhaps his brother-in-law had mostly raised her? That would explain why she knew nothing of French. Do you? he asked in French, half to himself. Do you understand anything of what I'm saying?

Apparently not, from her confused gaze.

"Alright." Francis sighed. "I need to teach you French, because I don't know how I'm going to tell you the story in English…"

Francis' eyes had crinkled in mirth as Matilda perked up.

He'd taught little Matthew well, he was proud to say. So quick to learn! Such a sweet and polite child!

That was years and years ago, of course. He'd hoped that Matt had kept it up while he was gone, but with no one else to speak French to since Francis and his sister were gone from his life he would not be surprised if Matt had forgotten everything from disuse.

C'est la vie, he thought darkly. These things happen.

Still, he wondered.

He decided to casually slip into French mid-sentence to see if Matthew would notice.

"Mattheeeeeew!" He called out while Matt is preparing breakfast for them both. (Pancakes, he is amused to note. Just like when he was small!)"Matthew! Where are the toilets in your apartment?"

From the other room, Matt shouted: "Give me a sec and I'll show you!"

Francis continued, quickly. "I'm surprised you can have a place this big when," - he switched gears mentally, with some difficulty, to French – you're working for that ugly English man who probably doesn't pay you enough.

Francis heard the kitchen fan turn off suddenly, then: "Pa-FRANCIS! That was completely uncalled for!" from a horrified Matthew. "I know you don't like Arthur, but he's been good to me. I don't believe this." Matthew continued angrily as he storms into the living room. It's a striking change from the shrinking violet who would never confront who had wronged him directly. That didn't mean Matt didn't get his revenge in other ways, Francis thought, wincing. He was willing to bet Matthew could still be a darling passive-aggressive brat.

"What's gotten into you?" Matthew said, distressed, and Francis couldn't take it anymore. I'm sorry, Matthew, I didn't mean it, I was just testing you! he confessed. I had to know – if you remembered anything of the French I taught you. And I had to know you knew exactly what I was saying and not making a good guess.

Matthew calmed down only slightly. And you had to do it by insulting me and Arthur?

And god, he knew he was supposed to be feeling guilty and apologetic but he couldn't help but feel thrilled and triumphant that Matthew has kept something of Francis even after all these years. Even if Matthew's accent was now that of Canadian French instead of the Parisian he'd taught Matt and sounded kind of funny.

I'm sorry? I'm glad he did look after you after I left, even if I dislike him. Though you must admit his eyebrows are like giant caterpillars crawling all over his face-

Matt gave him a look.

What? Do you want me to lie and say they don't?

Francis saw rather than heard the quiet sigh. "I guess that's as good as I'll get from you. And," Matt continued, snorting, with the air of one teasing a good friend, "he does kinda look like caterpillars are eating his face."

When Francis beamed unrepentantly, Matt rolled his eyes. "P- Francis, I swear I'll never understand you. You made me interrupt pancakes for this? Sacrilege!" He cried, in mock affront. "Shoo! Out with you, blasphemous creature which have dareth interrupt the sacred ritual of pancake-making!"

Matt pouted as Francis laughed so hard he knocked over Matt's CD collection.