Skullover, Catsdon'tcry, Polttava Pyromaani , Tala, compa16 and DeiDeiArtistic, thank you all so much!

The lyrics to O Canada in the previous chapter are purposefully incorrect. ^_^

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The bathwater was scalding hot, but it faded the pain and stiffness fade from his muscles and bones in the same way the treadmill had, though the water didn't manage to clear his head in quite the same way; it left him drained and fuzzy-headed, but not in pain. Not desperate to escape his body.

Matthew was therefore somewhat grateful that his French host had worked his sideways logic and convinced the tired Canuck that it would be a good idea to have some company in the bathroom. Now that he was submerged in this magical water it was quite nice to have someone scrubbing his back, because he certainly didn't have the energy to do it.

Francis rubbed the sudsy washcloth in small circles over Matthew's back, removing layers of grime and senselessly collected filth to reveal the soft, pale skin beneath. It was marred here and there by a few beauty spots; angel kisses, he liked to call them.

The young man seemed to be under some kind of Epsom-salt bath induced spell, and pliantly let Francis tilt his head back and pour water over his thickly matted hair. With a mixture of attraction and curiosity, he watched the look of absolute peace on the boy's face as the warmth of the water washed away his aches and pains. He knew just how good those few minutes of freedom, of normality, felt.

Decanting a generous measure of pink, rose-scented mercury into his cupped palm, he worked it through his fingers and then worked his fingers through Matthieu's hair, lathering the shampoo. Gently he massaged his scalp, nimble fingers prying dirt from the strands and working out the mess of knots.

"Where do you live, chou?" He asked, working on a particularly difficult rat's tail, muck and soap coating his hands a dirty grey, foam speckling his jeans as he sat on the edge of the bathtub, the smooth arch of the other man's back stretched far too tightly over his bones.

"A little ways off campus, I split the rent with Carlos," he replied sleepily, lulled into a happy daydream by the steady rhythm on his head, enjoying the feeling of not being forgotten.

Francis smiled kindly, "Non, cher, I meant your address."

"Oh, right," he muttered the address and sank back into his bath-induced happy-bubble. The place wasn't very far away, which was good. On to phase two;

"Would you like to stay with me? I know about withdrawal, so I can help you, and it would be easier to stay clean, if you will excuse my little joke," he smiled again, pushing lightly on the boy's forehead so that he could rinse the slime from his hair. The fresh stream of water purged the filth from the locks, which to Francis's surprise were a beautiful, natural red-gold; strawberry-blonde, as opposed to the straw-blonde he had expected.

"I don't know you at all," he said, half turning around to face his host, logic finally having reared its ugly head through the layers of murk that shrouded his brain.

"And yet you let me wash you," Francis countered, squeezing facial soap onto a clean washcloth.

"I-" Matthew paused, "call me stupid, but I trust you. Alright, I suppose I'll stay with you," he conceded.

"Tres bien. I shall fetch your things this afternoon then. Come; turn this way so I can clean your face."

Obediently, the Canadian turned, and the Frenchman gently rubbed the dirt from his face, brushing past the veil of grime to reveal more of the same soft skin, this time dusted with pale freckles, barely visible against the skin. His nose was slightly crooked, the mark of being broken and not set fast enough, there was a faint white scar over his right cheekbone and his lips bore the slightest signs of being split in quite a few places. The older man wondered how many fights he could have gotten himself into. He worked carefully around the eyes, which were large, and an unusual shade of blue, almost purple, for a second, when Matthew tilted his head, he could have sworn that the blue flashed violet. There were two little divots on either side of his nose where a pair of spectacles must have sat. He had seen those earlier, and would have to ask Antonia about them. Speaking of;

"You wouldn't mind staying with Antonia while I get your belongings?" Francis asked, not trusting Matthew on his own just yet. The younger man drew back cautiously, pulling away from the warm cloth that was now working its way over his shoulders and down his chest.

"She isn't going to try and sell me anything, is she?" he asked, half hopeful, half afraid. The benevolent smile that graced the Frenchman's features never faltered as he continued his duties, skating quickly and efficiently over certain areas he would definitely have preferred to linger on, but thought better of it.

"She would not dare."

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Though the house itself wasn't a great distance from Francis's residence, the neighbourhood was drastically different; the homes were ramshackle and largely derelict. The gardens either ran amok or had dust eddies spinning across their sandy bowls.

The Frenchman knocked on the door, and on receiving no response, pressed the buzzer, though he highly doubted its functionality. After a few impatient moments' wait, a large, tan-skinned man opened the door, obviously stoned, a beer in one hand and a spliff in the other.

"Hola. What do you want?" he asked curtly, eyeing Francis's expensive clothes, and the Lexus in the driveway and deciding that this was perhaps not someone to be trusted.

"Are you Carlos?" he asked, wrinkling his nose against the fragrance of cannabis that poked its delirious tendrils out from the door and wafted in his face. The larger man regarded him with, if possible, even more suspicion.

"Why do you want to know?" Wouldn't anyone ever learn that answering that kind of question with a question only solidified one's guilt? The Frenchman had accompanied his Spanish friend on enough of her inquisitory outings to know when the chased found themselves caught.

"I'm here for Matthieu's-" he began tartly before his was brashly interrupted.

"Who? I don't know any Matt – Oh! Right! Mickey. Sorry man; can't help you. I don't think I've seen him since some time yesterday," look of recognition dawned across his face like the first sunrise, but his body language was still shut off. Francis, thoroughly appalled, gaped in horror at this man.

"That's because he's been with me! I found him yesterday, withdrawing after a bad hit!" The Cuban paled under his caramel tan,

"Withdrawing? From what?" he demanded, folded arms falling away from his chest in shock.

"Heroin. A friend got him into it," Carlos now looked physically ill.

"Ay. Shit. Heroin? But that was- wasn't it? I thought-" Francis pursed his lips angrily,

"Oui. That's what he said. If it helps, I don't think he bears you any ill-will. But I would be much obliged if you would let me collect his belongings. He will be staying with me now," he couldn't keep a touch of pride out of his voice as he spoke.

"Right. Of course," Carlos stepped aside, allowing Francis and his boxes into the house, and leading him to a back room that could at one point have been clean and tidy, and doubtless still was under the moderate layer of discarded clothes, pizza boxes and soiled spoons. There were burn stains on the carpet and a few powder stains. Unusually, the used needles were all in a steel-netted trash can. There were a lot of them. Various objects were scattered about the room in varying states of disrepair. Even more shocking than the mess, however, was the bear. There was a stuffed grizzly bear dangling from the wires where a light had once, swinging forlornly in a chill breeze. There was a battered hockey stick lying abandoned on the floor besides a large and scattered pile of curly synthetic stuffing. The bears seems had split and with the exception of its head, for which the wire noose was acting as a tourniquet, the entire body hung, gutted and empty in a macabre parody of a piñata.

Together the two men stood and stared at the bear with a mixture of shock and, in Francis's case, fear. Taking in a strange druggie was one thing, but a violent, strange druggie? That was a whole other ward of the psychiatric wing.

"He took the break-up pretty hard," the Cuban said heavily, as though the fact burdened him, "I warned him about that Capitalist pig. You know almost everyone thought they were brothers. Most people thought Mac was him. No one ever confused him for Mick."

"Him?" Francis asked, curious despite himself.

"Alfred F Jones."

Nothing further was said on the subject of Matthew And The Great Break Up while they packed up the man's few positions into three medium-sized boxes, though Carlos did provide a few useful and interesting facts; he was an orphan; he was a sports fanatic; he loved animals and was part of a save-the-bears organisation. He had also been in his final year of his Bachelors of Commerce degree when he was expelled. The stirrings of a plan began to form themselves in the Frenchman's mind, and he carefully stored it away for another day.

"I'm glad you're looking after him. It'd be healthy for him to be somewhere that doesn't remind him of that shit-eating son of a whore. Even if you do kinda act like you're his dad. No offence"

Francis raised an eyebrow, "None taken."

"Just don't screw around with him; Mickey is a good kid."

"So is Matthieu."

"Right. Just," he huffed out a breath that was almost visible as a chill settled into the late evening air, "Just tell him I'm sorry, okay? I don' want Mattie to think I forgot about him."

Nodding silently, Francis plonked the last box into the back seat of the Lexus, closed the door and drove off into the sunset, thinking that whatever compelled him to take this boy into his home had better have some serious positive karmic repercussions, because it was beginning to smack of more trouble than it was worth.

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Please let me know if you love/ like/ are indifferent to/ dislike or wish eternal damnation upon this fic.

Sorry that it's short and abrupt, I stopped being able to see straight around 7pm and it's now 10pm.

No one is allowed to call me a wazzock faced pillock for not updating sooner when I had writer's block on my other fic, which held up my entire production line. It is not appreciated and doesn't make me write any faster.

Advance thankies for reviews ^_^

~RutheLa