Catsdon'tcry, Skullover, Goldpen, compa16, DeiDeiArtistic, Tala and KajiMori! My dear, dear lovelies! Thank you ^^

Oh my holy hallelujah guys! Sorry this has taken me so long. TTwTT

Song: Mr. Brownstone – Guns N' Roses

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I used to do a little but a little wouldn't do it
So a little got more and more
I just keep trying to get a little better
Said a little better than before

We been dancing with Mr. Brownstone
He's been knocking
He won't leave me alone
No, no, no, he won't leave me alone

Shoved it in the bindle and I shot it in the middle
And it, it drove me out of my mind
I should've known better, said I wish I never met her said I,
I leave it all behind

~====o)0(o====~

The nights were too long. Each one stretched out into a fitful eternity as Matthew lay there, starting sometimes at the ceiling, sometimes out the window. Eventually the blue-black ours would end, slowly being faded away by the cold grey light, and he would turn to Francis, who often fell asleep besides him, and watch the way light crawled over his face. If the Frenchman knew, he probably wouldn't sleep there anymore, but it wasn't as though the Canadian had anything else to do.

After Francis had stretched and got up, they would fall into the little routine that they had set up, almost without a word. Matt would run on the treadmill and Francis would make breakfast. It was usually something small and simple; Matt could barely handle that, let alone anything rich or greasy.

It had been about two weeks since Joan's birthday, and neither of them had really said anything to each other. One was naked, one was clothed. Matt stayed home while Francis went to work.

It was a fairly peaceable agreement.

"Francis?" Matthew had asked, sticking his head around the bathroom door frame. By the sickly parlour of his face and the sounds that had only just stopped emanating from the tiled room – it occurred to the Frenchman that the acoustics in there were really quite good – that he had just finished throwing up.

"Oui?"

"I hate to ask, but do you have a spare toothbrush? Mine's given up the ghost," he grimaced embarrassedly; he hated imposing upon Francis when he had done so much for him already.

"Yes, of course, cher," Francis laughed, walking to the bathroom and opening a cupboard bellow the sink. Inside were piles, stacks, towers, even, of toothbrushes in assorted colours, "Pick your colour," he smiled.

Matt stared at the dental hygiene equipment; all of them still in their wrappers. Hesitantly, he picked up a red toothbrush, "Ah, thanks," he muttered, uncertainly, "Why. . .?"

"The toothbrushes?" his French host smiled, "I generally have a lot of friends over."

"Friends?" he asked, nonplussed, "But then why don't they bring their own?"

"Not that kind of friends, cher," Francis said kindly, a patronising little smirk playing about him mouth.

"Oh."

"Oui."

The Canadian looked down at the red toothbrush in his hand. It looked like embarrassment and humiliation. It looked like sex. He had always felt a little like he was intruding on Francis' life, and now he knew he was imposing.

"I became accustomed to certain . . . Lifestyle, shall we say, in Paris and much like cocaine, it's hard to give up; though less detrimental to my health, I should think. I like sex," He shrugged nonchalantly.

Again, all Matt could say was,

"Oh."

~====o)0(o====~

"Matthieu, I'm home," Francis called, tossing a set of keys onto the countertop and running a hand through his hair. It had been an unpleasant day to say the least. Though he did suppose that if the poor girl couldn't pay her bills on time then neither could he. But still, why the hedge clippers?

"Matthieu?" he called again, more softly, wondering if he was asleep; he had been getting more sleep of late, which was a good thing, although sometimes when Francis thought the other was asleep, he would turn around and find those indigo eyes wide and staring vacantly into space.

There was no one in the bathroom. There was no one in the bedroom. There was no one in his lounge-stroke-kitchen.

There was no one in his tiny apartment.

"Matthieu?" he said into the resounding silence.

Had he done something wrong? Had he gone back to Carlos? What had happened? He was doing so well. Had he given in?

Even when you don't need it, you'll always want it more than anything. More than living, or breathing. That feeling, that craving wrapped itself around your nervous system and set in its claws. It never left. He could still feel it now. The desire, stronger than any lust, to feel that angelic high. That invincible buzz.

Francis shook his head. No. that couldn't be it. He was stronger than that. They both were.

He was disappointed, not in Matthieu, but in himself for ever having believed in him at all.

He was just some druggie from the streets. What had he been thinking? Taking in a stranger.

He was probably rabid.

He was sitting on the floor, his back against the futon.

He was a failure.

He wanted a pop.

He could feel blood streaming from his nose, but he didn't care. He would kill to do a line right now.

Blood on his shirt, in his beard.

Merde.

Wine.

~====o)0(o====~

The key scraped in the lock, and Francis looked up darkly at the blond figure swimming blurrily towards him.

"Francis? Are you o-" the older man flung his arms around his neck.

"You left!" he slurred moodily, burnt sienna flakes of blood wafting from around his mouth as he spoke.

"Yeah, I went down to the sports grounds to play hockey, I left you a note . . ." He trailed off in confusion.

Now it was Francis' turn to say,

"Oh."

"…Stupid of me, because I've got bruises on my bruises now… Lots of fun. … again."

He wondered when his head had fallen against Matt's leg. When had they sat down?

"…are you?"

"Non. Demandez-moi encore une fois quand je suis sobre." He muttered unsteadily.

Shaking his head indulgently, the Canadian fished a cell phone from his host's pocket.

"Antonia, hi, it's Matt- What? Antonia, please, slow down, I don't speak Spanish! Ok, fine. He was-? That's, well- I played some sport. No, that's not a code for anything. I left him a note! Now? He's drunk and passed out on my lap. He gets what when he's-? Ah!" Gingerly he removed the Frenchman's hand, "Yes. Grabby. I got it. I'll see you in the morning. Thanks, I appreciate it. Bye."

He hung up the phone, looking down at Francis' drink flushed face and a new dribble of blood.

"I need to keep you away from the booze in future," he murmured, pulling a tissue from the box on the coffee table and wiping his nose, that was a nice thought, he smiled, using his other hand to stop the semi-conscious and totally naked Francis from molesting him.

~====o)0(o====~

I hope you enjoy it!

Someone tell me if the French is off? Speaking of, I still need to go back and fix the last to chaps. O_O

~RutheLa