Goldpen, 1silentmouse, Catsdon'tcry, DeiDeiArtistic, Tala and Madee-Chan! I love you all!

Pure Morning - Placebo

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A friend in needs a friend indeed,
A friend who'll tease is better ,
Our thoughts compressed,
Which makes us blessed,
And makes for stormy weather,

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Of all the solutions to the current situation Francis could have possibly come up with, storming out was the most childish. But the most satisfying. He didn't like lying, most certainly not to Matthieu, so saying no wasn't really an option. He wanted the relief of finally saying yes, but he honestly didn't want it to be under this kind of circumstance. He wanted it to be sweet and flowery; all those things that fawning women sought in those trashy romance novels. He didn't want it to be demanded of him in his own kitchenette.

That was humiliating.

Of course he was attracted to him. Who wouldn't be? And not just attracted to him, oh no; that would be too easy. No, he was in full-blown, heartbreaking, unrequited love with him.

Such a fucking moron.

He walked down the road until he reached his favourite café, sad down and ordered his favourite mocha, adding too much sugar because coffee was bitter, and today it felt as though syrup would taste like acorns on his tongue.

A man in a wheel-chair rolled-up to him.

"Don't do it," he said, his voice touched with an accent Francis couldn't be bothered to place.

"What are you talking about?" he muttered darkly, stabbing the heart some pathetic, love struck girl had drawn in the foam of his coffee with a spoon.

"You look like you're about to jump off a bridge. I'm telling you; don't do it."

"Why do you care?" he said, swishing the spoon around so that there was only a mess of beige milk froth. His serving girl looked disappointed.

"I've been there. Life is worth living, trust me," Francis looked up properly. The man would have been tall, but both his legs were cut-off mid-thigh, the fabric of his trousers tucked neatly underneath them.

"Is it really?" the Frenchman asked quietly, asking for both himself and this green-eyed stranger.

"Yup. I've got my girl back home, and as soon as I get back, we're going to get married. I can't walk, but I'm alive and she says she'll still take me." He grinned a little, his face lighting up when he spoke about his girl back home.

"Lucky you. Mon amour n'est pas partagé."

"Pardon?"

"I have a friend that's been staying with me. They just figured out that I'm in love with them and I walked out. There. Unlike you, the person I have back home is not so willing to have me, I think."

The wheel-chair-bound man shook his head, "You think? You mean you don't know?"

"Non," Francis admitted reluctantly.

"Then ask her!"

"Him."

"Oh."

"Oui."

"Is he. . . ?" He asked, looking uncomfortable.

"Yes. He'd just broken up with his boyfriend and I was helping him get over a drug habit. "

"Just ask him how he feels about you," the paraplegic sighed, "What's the worst that could happen?"

"He could say no?" Francis suggested as though the answer was as obvious as the fact that, yes, the sky was blue.

"What if you never ask and he would have said yes?" the other man countered.

Francis contemplated that. What if Matthieu said yes? What if he got his soppy, romantic first date? What if he got a goodnight kiss? To hold his hand? A glimpse of that same stupid smile he always wore when playing his favourite sport?

Bliss.

"Fine, I'll ask him. Can I get you a coffee or anything? I feel like I owe you." The Frenchman sighed, beckoning a waitress. She looked expectantly at the two of them, but the man in the wheelchair shook his head.

"I have a Vet's meeting, but I'll be here next week if you really feel like it," he smiled grimly.

"Vet? As in Veteran? If you don't mind me asking, is that how. . . ?" Francis asked, looking pointedly at the remnants of his legs.

"Ja. The car I was driving went over a mine. A friend of mine pulled me out. He's a hero," he called over his shoulder as he propelled himself from the shop.

"Indeed," Francis murmured, paying for his coffee and leaving, he hadn't even gotten his name.

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"Shit," Matthew said, running clawed fingers through his hair. Shit, I scared him off. I didn't mean.

"Walking out on me means yes, you know!" he yelled at the door before finding his sneakers and pulling them on. He didn't know if it was a side effect of the withdrawal, or what, but he always seemed to think better when he ran.

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It had been four days, and they hadn't said a word to each other. They still went about their usual patterns, getting up, eating together, going to work, coming home relaxing, maybe playing a game, eating and sleeping. Which Francis was doing steadily less and less of now that he was sleeping in his own room regularly.

It was rare for him to remember the nightmares that shocked him from fitful slumber, sweating and sometimes sobbing – whether from terror or relief at waking he never quite knew – but that never seemed to make them any better.

They had been watching a movie together – it was a good movie, though utterly mindfucking – and Francis had zoned out, in between sleep and wakefulness. And, if anyone thought that he could think of anything else when the Canadian was sitting beside him, a thin lock of strawberry blonde tickling his lower lip, he was thinking longingly of Matthieu.

Matt was, inversely, thinking of Francis. The same thoughts he had been thinking about that man since he has flounced from the apartment like a teenage girl in a strop. He liked him. Well, that is to say that Francis liked Matthew. Matthew may have liked Francis, but the last time he had liked someone – no names mentioned, Jones – he'd had his heart chewed up, thrown up and spat on. Then stomped on, just for good measure. He wasn't sure he that he really wanted to go through all that again. They did say that the best way to get over someone was to get under someone. But Francis really was too nice of a guy to be a rebound. He'd been so good to him. What made Matt think that Francis was going to break his heart? Was he prepared to give his heart out for breaking.

Fuck that. Fuck Francis. It was two in the afternoon on a Saturday and they were watching quiet possibly the most boner-killing movie ever made by Canadians. Except maybe Splice. But it was close.

Unless you were into that kind of thing.

Which Matt seriously, seriously wasn't. It had often made him really uncomfortable that people said he and Alfred had looked like twins. Especially after watching movies like this.

The Canadian picked up the remote and switched off their pirated movie.

"I was watching that," Francis protested lightly; the first words he had spoken in days.

"No. You were watching me." Matthew corrected, watching the Frenchman squirm. Had it really been that obvious? Short answer? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Francis looked away pointedly, staring acid-spitting vipers at a potted plant, which almost seemed to wilt under his gaze.

The Canuck sighed, and shifted his position so that he was no longer sitting besides Francis, but on his lap. He hated to be so forward, it made him uncomfortable to foist himself onto his French host so blatantly, but it would appear that it was the only way to get his message through. What exactly that message was, he wasn't sure. All he knew is that he hadn't had actual sex in over six months and neither had Francis – he kind of hoped – and right now, it was on the agenda.

"Matthieu?" asked the shocked Frenchman, "What are you doing?"

"Trying to have sex with you," he felt his face burn red with embarrassment and he almost got up and walked away. Almost.

"This is wrong," Francis groaned, his hands coming to rest on the Canadian's waist and his head on his chest, "We shouldn't; you emotionally fragile. You've been hurt, and you trust me and you just got over heroin; I could upset your whole healing process by taking advantage of you like-" he broke off to hiss as Matthew ground his hips down onto his lap, "- this!"

"From where I'm sitting, it kind of looks like I'm taking advantage of you," Matt mumbled, hooking a leg around the Frenchman's waist, falling and twisting at the same time so that now Francis was above him, his hair falling sloppily, sexily, out of its tie.

"Matthieu." He breathed softly, looking down with wide eyes at the man beneath him.

Matt looked back up at him, indigo eyes searching for a response. Some kind of affirmative that made this okay. He felt a little nervous now. Scared. What if he had been wrong? What if Francis didn't like him that much? Or at all.

"If you see what you want, then take it," the Canadian whispered back hopefully, prompting his French saviour to bend down and kiss him hungrily.

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A friend in needs a friend indeed,
A friend who bleeds is better,
My friend confessed she passed the test,
And we will never sever,

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Thank you for reading, only another chapter or so left (QeffingQ, man.)

~RutheLa