The romantic onslaught had developed quickly, had evolved from a sweet peck on the lips goodnight to an ardent kiss and curious, wandering hands.

"Please Francis... S'il vous plaît..."

Matthew's helpless pleading went unheard as Francis' lips continued to roam at their slow pace over his jawline; then his lips, then his collar. Tears stung the rims of his eyes and clung to his lashes, threatening to spill over. Francis was so teasing with his touches, so teasing, and Matthew felt as though he was drowning in unbearable need for more than just simple pleasing.

"F-Francis...!"

"Why are you in such a rush, darling? We have all the time in the world to enjoy ourselves." As though to prove his point, Francis' fingers traced over his thighs and drew meaningless patterns, stealing a gasp from Matthew's swollen lips.

"I know we have time, b-but..." Francis' amused tone was the final straw and Matthew's tears of frustration finally fell. He had been waiting for so long for Francis' touch and yet the Frenchman was purposely baiting him with fleeting touches that did nothing but further spark him. He was desperate for any bit of contact, reduced to whining, pitiful whimpers, and Francis' elusive touches were doing nothing to relieve him. Those touches were only stringing him along, making him squirm in utter need and desperation. So when Francis leant in to capture his lips heatedly, Matthew didn't think twice before easily submitting, surrendering everything he had to offer to the Frenchman.

It was thrilling, almost shamefully so, but he didn't care, tangling his fingers in Francis' golden locks and moaning softly as he was greedily claimed. He was ravaged, taken and stolen until there was nothing left to give and his lips were delightfully swollen, pink and flushed and bruised from passion.

Francis' astounding patience seemed to finally come to an end as he pushed Matthew into the bed sheets, fingers working deftly to unclasp the buttons and buckles of his infantry uniform. Francis leant forward, pressing their foreheads together and brushing a docile kiss onto the tip of Matthew's nose.

"You are beautiful, Mathieu," he murmured sweetly, fingertips lightly trailing down Matthew's chest. Francis' lips came closer, stopping just beside his ear and licking the shell tantalisingly. "I want you so much..."

It took every fibre of Matthew's being not to moan or let out a pleasured gasp of relief when Francis' fingers finally crept lower and oh yes...

"It's time to wake up, sir."

"Eh?"

Matthew awoke in a fluster of confusion and heady lust, sitting up abruptly enough to nearly vomit. He ignored the aching of his nether regions, instead facing his subordinate's wide-eyed gaze with a sick twist in his stomach and heavy flush. Oh maple, it was a dream, and of all dreams to be woken from... Much to his mortification, it was painfully obvious what type of dream it had been, and despite how he attempted to clench his legs together in humiliation, the evidence was blatantly there.

"T-Thank you, Private. I'll be ready shortly. You're dismissed."

The uniformed officer left with an odd expression, muttering to himself beneath his breath. Red-faced and ashamed, Matthew fell back against his thin pillow and suppressed a low, self-pitying groan. It had been nothing more than a dream, a tortuously thrilling dream... And a pathetic one at that. He hadn't seen Francis in four long years, hadn't caught word of his existence until two days prior, and yet he was the star of the first wet dream he had had in several years.

But he couldn't fight the loopy, dreamy smile threatening to break across his lips. As highly unrealistic and illogical as that dream had been, it had also been a deliciously satisfying one, and he had no regrets whatsoever. Every man on base was sure to have such a dream at one point or another, and although he was held to a higher degree than others, he still had carnal desires and needs...

Crawling out of his bunk with that same silly grin on his face, visualising Francis whispering sweet nothings in his ear and undulating tenderly over him, Matthew fumbled with his uniform and prepared for what would be another long day. As much as he would like to lay on his bunk and dream the day away, he had things to do, and he would make certain that images of a blue-eyed, flawlessly French male would not distract him from his work or the mission at hand.

.

The London weather had always been dreary, but on that particular morning, it was ridiculously cold. Not even the layer of uniform and overcoat could protect Matthew from the bitter chill, and the painful chattering of his teeth reminded him of why he preferred spring.

Walking down the dreary lane unescorted, dangerous as it was, he was left alone to the privacy of his thoughts and analysis of London without the accompanying members of his regiment. A lot had changed since his first visit in the winter of '39 when he had enlisted in the ranks, and he was sad to see that the change was not for the better, but for the worse.

The decrepit buildings that lined the streets and the burnt skeletons of bombed buildings served as a sad reminder of the night raids and Blitz two years prior. With a pang of grief, Matthew remembered his horror when he learnt about the cruelty of the Luftwaffe, remembered the indescribable sorrow he had felt when imagining the fear and loss of the Londoners at the time. They still suffered even then, two years later, and Matthew was well-aware of the stiff, tense atmosphere that wouldn't disappear until long after the end of the war.

Walking dejectedly past building after building, he came to a slow halt beside what looked to be an abandoned apartment complex. Brushing his fingertips over the rusted knocker and looking over the chipped red paint, he could only imagine the life of the family that had once lived in that building.

It could have been a small family, with young children and loving parents. The father could have had to go to war, and they could have all been left behind, left to struggle and fend for themselves during the years of hardship. Then came the day they received the fateful telegram that everyone dreaded, the one Matthew feared receiving about his very own brother. Whatever the story of the family was, they shared a common misery with each family that suffered a loss in the war. All was fair in love and war, and Matthew found that the saddest, most confounding part of all was that there was absolutely nothing fair about it.

From somewhere in the distance, a familiar voice called out for him, but Matthew ignored it with a deep frown. Nothing in war was fair. It wasn't fair for people to die, when everything in life was ephemeral to begin with. It wasn't just for people to suffer at the hands of others, or for country to turn on country alike, and it most certainly wasn't fair to be forced into living in fear of strangers and telegrams. It was upsetting and disgusting and incomprehensible and, above all, it was infuriating.

Turning away from the door in sudden frustration, unable to stand looking at it for a second longer, Matthew exhaled angrily... And found himself standing only centimetres away from Francis. The anger flooded from his system as abruptly as it had entered, and he gazed in pure shock at the star of his erotic dream. Where he had come from and when he had arrived was beyond him, but with the Frenchman standing there in front of him, he didn't press for any questions – he simply couldn't, not when images of his dream were flashing through his mind and Francis was watching him with that perfect, confused, flawless expression of his. From where he stood, Matthew could see each handsome detail of his smiling face; the thin crease between his eyebrows, the golden stubble that dusted his jaw, the smooth curve of his slightly chapped lips... It all made Matthew's head spin.

"W-When did you get here?"

"It is customary to say hello before asking questions, Mathieu," Francis chided easily, his eyes lit with amusement. That expression did more to Matthew than it had the right to, bringing colour to his cheeks and setting his heartbeat off to pound erratically in his chest.

A brief image from the dream came to mind and Matthew felt the heat flash through his entire body, flooding into his cheeks and areas less innocent. With a sheepish grin, he apologised. "You're right, of course. Hello, Francis."

"Hello, darling. To answer your earlier question, I arrived just a moment before you turned. What are you doing here? This building is terribly dirty." Spoken in perfect French, Francis made it clear which language he was in the mood for speaking – which suited Matthew just fine; he couldn't imagine a more seductive, beautiful language than that of the language of love, and he couldn't be happier to speak French with someone like Francis.

Offering a weak smile, the Canadian shrugged indifferently. "I was just walking around. Then I saw the building and...well, you know how I am. I became sidetracked." Peeking out from beneath his eyelashes, Matthew tilted his head to the side in confusion. "I find it funny that you coincidentally found me here. Would you happen to have been looking for me?"

"Of course I was looking for you, I said we would meet in the morning! I said that two days ago, actually, but did you really forget about me that easily?"

"Of course I didn't..!" Matthew didn't quite catch on to the tease, taking the accusation by literal meaning. Alarmed by the mere suggestion, he laced his fingers between Francis' without a second thought. When the Frenchman's fingers twitched and curled around his firmly, Matthew blushed hotly.

"I-I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking..."

"Do not worry about it, darling. It helps protect against the cold, doesn't it?" Francis winked coyly, and despite the odds, it was comforting.

"It really does help... But it wouldn't look right, eh?" Reluctantly, Matthew slipped his hand out of Francis' grasp and instantly mourned the loss of warmth and pressure against his palm.

Smiling ruefully, Francis nodded. "Probably not. But it will be right someday. I dream of the day when love will not be frowned upon." Sighing sadly, he spread his hands out in a helpless gesture. "There is nothing with can do but wait until that day comes. But perhaps you would like to accompany me for late morning drinks?"

"I'd love to..." Saying no to Francis went beyond an inability, it was an impossibility.

"Merveilleux! There is a lounge nearby that doesn't have too bad a liquor collection," Francis mused, one hand coming up to stroke his stubble in consideration. "And then at night there is a wonderful cabaret show. Lovely singers, each and every one of them."

"I-I don't think I'd be able to see the show since we're not allowed off the base at night, but I wouldn't mind having a drink right now."

"You are staying at a base? I was wondering about your accommodations... What a pity. You always seemed to enjoy the performances in Paris." Francis twisted his lips to the side, looking very much disappointed before waving a hand dismissively. "But let us go out for the drinks, and you can tell me all about your strict little base once we are seated and with drink."

"That doesn't sound bad at all. After you, you know the way."

Inching closer to Francis, just enough for their elbows to brush together innocuously with each step, Matthew tucked the stray locks off his face and gazed at the other's clean profile. A strong jaw, straight nose, lovely eyelashes... It felt as though he hadn't been able to stop thinking about Francis since stumbling upon him by their twist of fate, although he found himself thinking of more than just his bewildering good looks.

The distance between them had left room for growth and experience during their time apart. Already several things had changed, from the innocent adoration he had once felt toward Francis, to the infatuation he simply couldn't fight. He had also changed in different ways: while Francis remained the charming, seductive man he had always been, Matthew himself had morphed from a shy adolescent stumbling through the process of puberty to a shy man stumbling through the process of adulthood.

But regardless of the change and regardless of the growth, Francis remained the intimate person he had always been – which was perhaps what drew Matthew toward him the most.

"You're awfully quiet, Mathieu."

When Matthew blinked, the sight of the sidewalk below his feet zoomed into his line of vision, taking him by surprise. He could have sworn he was staring at him...

"I'm sorry. I'm being rude, aren't I?"

"Do not be sorry, you were simply lost in thought." Francis casually looped his arm around Matthew's shoulder and winked surreptitiously. "We are just friends trying to keep warm, yes?"

"We're only friends? Oh darling, I could have sworn we were more." Francis must have missed the impish sarcasm lacing Matthew's voice: almost immediately, the mischievous light was extinguished from his eyes and replaced by a passionate smoulder.

"We can be so much more than just friends, Matthew. I'm simply waiting for you to be ready."

The intimacy in the simple words sent a cold shiver down Matthew's spine. Francis wanted him. Francis was waiting for him. It was everything he had wanted without knowing, but it was too fast and too soon, and it just couldn't be. The way Francis was gazing at him expectantly with that same intensity sparked a desire in Matthew's veins he didn't know could exist. Everything was a large, pleasant blur, tangled and warm and confused... But it was just far too soon, far too much to wrap his head around.

With much regret and self-loathing, Matthew looked toward the ground and shook his head slowly.

"I was just joking, Francis. I really shouldn't have been, it was a joke in bad taste. I'm sorry."

He could pinpoint the exact moment Francis made the connection– his expression of hurt and disappointment couldn't be disguised by nonchalance.

"I see... In that case, forget what I just said. The lounge is up ahead, Mathieu."

"Francis, I was joking, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't like to become more than just friends sometime. I mean that."

The words came tumbling past his lips before Matthew could even consider what he was saying. But he must have said the right thing, because moments later he found himself enveloped in Francis' warm embrace. The pleated texture of Francis' winter coat brushed pleasantly against his cheek and the scent of fresh lilacs invaded his nostrils wonderfully; he didn't want to let go.

"We can start again. It will be different this time, and it will work."

Nodding against Francis' chest and secretly indulging in the heat his body gave off, Matthew distanced himself away enough to speak and walk.

"It will. The past doesn't matter anymore... So, uh, how about those drinks? Do you think they have any tea? I'm so cold..."

"Mathieu. You are in London, of course they have tea. They have more tea than they do water, these crazy Englishman."

From there, the conversation erupted. It burbled and flowed beautifully, as though the years of silent pain no longer existed, and their awkward tension simply vanished. Matthew found himself laughing in response to Francis' witty comments, and in turn found Francis stealing looks of adoration each time he offered his own shy commentary. All was as it used to be before the great schism, and Matthew almost regretted arriving at the lounge, where their voices had to be lowered and stolen glances much more furtive.

The seats beside the counter were conveniently empty. Francis was quick to lead Matthew toward them, shooing away rivals to the seats and drumming his fingers onto the polished counter to capture the bartender's attention. The bartender wiping down the glasses behind the counter looked unexpectedly dainty, petite and fragile. He certainly didn't appear to be strong enough to manage a cabaret lounge, yet then again, people had often said Matthew didn't look strong enough to lead an infantry division.

The look directed their way was positively murderous, and Matthew pinched Francis beneath the counter to keep him from drumming his fingers. Francis was entirely oblivious, and he instantly turned what he believed to be a charming smile the bartender's way.

"Do you have any French wine? I know we are in tough times, but there is no reason to suffer through a bottle of English grape juice!"

With a mock shudder that may have very well been genuine, Francis flashed a beckoning, flirtatious smile, despite what he had said earlier during their walk to the lounge. Matthew felt the first unruly stirrings of jealously in his stomach, much to his annoyance, but much to his surprise, the bartender remained impassive, perhaps even colder than before.

"I shouldn't bother serving you after that. But you've caught me in a charitable mood, and your friend here seems to know how to keep quiet. To answer your question, I have a bottle of Bordeaux in the cellar."

Francis looked just as surprised by the reaction as Matthew felt, and he dramatically clapped a hand to his chest to mask his shock. "Oh, my bushy-browed friend, how you injure me so! Here I was, trying to start a conversation on the finery of wine, but yet you dismiss me. However, I will resign. Two glasses of Bordeaux, s'il te plaît. I hope it was a good year." Francis sniffed haughtily, and despite his affinity toward the blond, Matthew found himself snorting quietly. His dramatic flare would never disappear, war be damned.

"Could I... Would you happen to have tea?"

The Briton turned a brilliantly emerald gaze Matthew's way. Those eyes were a beautiful colour... But they held so much pain and grief that Matthew could nearly feel it from one look alone. He couldn't possibly begin to imagine the pain he must have suffered through to make him so bitter... The intensity in those verdant eyes was nearly enough to draw attention away from his large eyebrows. But not quite.

A small, rebellious smile managed its way onto the Englishman's face, and he delivered a slight sneer in Francis' direction.

"Two glasses of wine for you, frog? Someone certainly needs to get a grip." Francis appeared entirely bewildered by the sudden hint of spirit, but before he could retort, the blond already had his back turned and was marching toward the cellar.

"Some people are so rude these days."

Matthew laughed openly, which only made the pout Francis wore more prominent.

"It is true, Mathieu!"

"Well, to be fair you did insult his country's wine..."

"Only because English wine is nothing more than watered down grape juice." Smug was the smirk Francis wore. "Everybody knows the English have no taste, darling."

"Oh hush, Francis. That's not very nice."

"Truth is not always n–"

"Here are your drinks. Oh, and feel free to leave the second you finish," the Briton spat without warning, surprising Matthew and Francis with both his quick return and verbal explosion. The angry outburst had been so out of place, entirely unprecedented, and it seemed as though every person in the establishment had heard. The elvish blond spun on his heel without another word, throwing back a dirty glare and running up a set of stairs Matthew hadn't even noticed. He was gone just as suddenly as he had appeared, and from their position at the counter, loud sobs were audible.

"Do not take it to heart. He is suffering, just as everyone else is." Francis' voice quietly stated the truth, lowly enough to keep the blond from hearing upstairs. "It is clear he is not coping well with his loss, whomever it may be."

"I suppose you're right. It's just a bit surprising all the same, and it's never any easier to see someone so sad."

"Just let the fact that you will never be broken comfort you, Mathieu," Francis murmured, his hand entangling with Matthew's beneath the countertop. "You will never feel such pain from my behalf, and that is a solemn vow."

"That's a pretty big promise to make, isn't it?" Matthew lifted the cup of tea to his lips, refusing to meet Francis' earnest gaze or respond to the subtle strokes on his palm. "I mean, I'm not doubting you of course, but this is war. You can hurt me without even thinking about it."

A spasm of pain crossed Francis' expression and he released Matthew's hand. "That is very blunt."

"It's very true."

"That it is." He took a sip of the red Bordeaux, tracing the rim of his glass absently. "I suppose that I can say the same about you. Perhaps it is best for promises to not be made."

"Maybe. But you would promise again, wouldn't you?"

Francis laughed quietly. "Yes, I would. You know me so well, Mathieu."

Only because I like you, like you so much. "I guess I do, François."

Francis inhaled sharply. "It has been a long time since you have called me that."

Matthew cracked a nervous grin and tugged on the errant curl that always hovered above his brow. "Maybe it's time for me to start again? You still call me Mathieu, not Mattie or Matt like Alfred, so I thought I could call you that again."

"There is nothing I like more than hearing you say my name like that. Absolutely nothing." Francis reached out to lightly touch the curve of Matthew's cheek with his fingertips, stopping just short of actually touching the flesh. He snatched his hand back quickly and placed it on his knee. "You mentioned Alfred. How is he?"

"In that case, I'll start using it more often, François." Francis gave a smitten look, but Matthew was already past the topic and peering down at his cup with crumpled eyebrows. "I haven't heard from Al in a long time. He signed up to be a pilot the second he learnt about the war, spent a few months going through the training process, and finally went overseas. The last I heard from him was about eight months ago when he arrived to a base in London. I haven't heard from him since, and he's not here. I.. I-I'm really scared of getting one of the telegrams. We haven't talked face to face in ages, living in different countries and all, but he's still my brother. He's an idiot for trying to be a hero all the time."

"Aren't you trying to be a hero by fighting in this war too?"

Matthew blinked twice. He had never thought about it that way. Slowly, he shook his head. "No. I'm not trying to be a hero. I'm just trying to do the right thing, and maybe for once I'll be remembered for something."

"There need to be more people like you in the world, darling. You see, there are the gorgeous women, the handsome men–" Matthew arched a brow. "–But there are very few people with such genuine kindness and looks. It makes you special."

"I-I wouldn't know about special, but..." Matthew's lips twitched and Francis immediately caught the tiny gesture.

"You know are special, you little crêpe, just smile already."

His smile finally broke through and he bit down on his lower lip to keep from laughing. "Be quiet. I'm entitled to a little self-pride too, you know."

"You are entitled to more than just a little self-pride Mathieu. Very few people can do what you do, and even less can do it while remaining the person they had always been. You have not changed despite what war has made you do, darling, and you deserve much more than what you give yourself."

Matthew felt colour flood into his cheeks and a chill run down his spine. "I haven't done anything extraordinary though... I don't really command anybody, since the Generals and Colonels are the ones who usually do that, so I help just make decisions for the battalions from time to time. Being called a Lieutenant is really more of a title for me than anything else. I just belong to my infantry division and fight like everybody else. There are people who do much more than what I do, and they're better people."

"Oh you silly little thing, that is more than what some people do in their lifetime. You are out there fighting for others, being a good leader and soldier, and it is a selfless task. I don't care about the others. You are my wartime hero."

"Really Francis, you flatter me... But thank you." Matthew chanced a look around the empty room and quickly pecked Francis' cheek, blushing hotly as he did so. "If that's not inspiring, I don't know what is."

"Perhaps one of Churchill's speeches. They are magnificent. And do you want to know what I don't know? Why the word Colonel is pronounced the way it is." Francis knit his eyebrows together, looking the image of confusion. "It is a stupid pronunciation."

"Oh, that's an easy one. It's pronounced that way because until around the mid-sixteen hundreds people would use the word Coronel. We just carried on the tradition of how it sounds."

"I am at a loss for words. I certainly did not know that. But I still think it is rather silly."

"I think so too. I don't like saying the word, so I avoid the Colonels on base."

There was a brief, sweet pause in the conversation, one Matthew thought to be comfortable, where he sipped his tea and Francis his wine. But Francis must have felt the silence to be uncomfortable, because after only a moment of it he cleared his throat and tapped a fingernail on the aged wood of the counter.

"I suppose a bit more has changed than what I had thought. I remember everything about you. I remember the ungodly number of crêpes you would eat throughout the day, the way your hair looked in the morning, and even the adorable pyjamas you would wear to bed. I remember what makes you laugh and how listening to Guy Lombardo makes you cry tears of joy. But I do not know what to say around you anymore, or perhaps around anybody. I say what I think will sound right, but then it is twisted and becomes ugly. This has never happened to me before," Francis admitted, knitting his eyebrows together and looking very much upset. "I simply don't know what to say, to you or to anybody."

Matthew blinked in surprise and nearly spilt cold tea on himself. "But nothing you said has been wrong or ugly. You speak just as poetically as you used to, we just... I guess neither of us know how to carry a conversation anymore. War does that to people, not that I ever really knew how to talk. But you don't have to say anything when you don't want to. You can be like me and be quiet." He cupped Francis' cheek with a gloved hand and smiled warmly, dismissing the possibility that he could be being watched by the sparse, nearly nonexistent lounge patrons. "You're an artist and a philosopher at heart, so you will always know what to say. And if you don't, you can always do something instead of saying it."

The confidence was slow to build in Francis' eyes, but much like a sunrise, the process was breathtaking. Coupled with the rippling light of the fireplace behind him, Francis stood out in the depressive little lounge. And although he didn't know it, Francis was thinking along the same lines.

"Perhaps... Perhaps I could paint you? I may have lost my touch because I haven't painted for several years, but what else is worth painting in this ugly world? Please Mathieu, you must let me paint you."

"I-I'm not worth painting, I really don't think–"

"Mathieu...!"

Francis began to whine, actually having the audacity to push out a petulant lower lip and draw his eyebrows together piteously. "This is the first time since the start of the war that I have had the inspiration to paint. It will be cruel of you to deny me this!"

"Stiff upper lip, François." Snickering quietly, Matthew stood and smoothed over his uniform. If the emerald-eyed bartender were to return, he wouldn't be happy to find them still there. "I think we should leave."

"Where do you want to go?" With unfair grace, Francis stood and made to move toward the exit. "Do you have to return to the base anytime soon?"

"I just have to be on base by nightfall. Is there any place you would like to go? I haven't been here in ages, so I don't know where...?"

The freezing air was quick to bite at their faces, turning Matthew's pert nose an unbecoming shade of cherry. Francis seemed unfazed by the cold, his icy blue eyes remote and unfocused as he thought of something. Just when Matthew's cheeks were turning blue and teeth at risk of clicking right off, he turned and smiled brightly. "I know where we can go. It will be warm if we bring a blanket, and I can assure you that you will enjoy the sight."

"W-Where will we get the b-blanket?"

"We can make a quick run to my little studio here in London. It is not nearly as luxurious as the one I had in Paris," Francis warned, pronouncing the name of the city like a true Parisian. "But it is not too bad considering how the country is."

"S-Sounds great, F-Francis." Despite his years in Canada, he had become accustomed to the warmth of Italy and France while serving on operations, and the cold was absolutely brutal. "But one q-question... H-How will I survive the walk to y-your apartment?"

"I will embrace away the cold," Francis said simply, doing as he stated and pulling Matthew into his warm arms. Although minimal, the added heat made a difference and Matthew buried his nose into his collar, feeling Francis' chest rumble and vibrate beneath his chin as he laughed.

"For someone so afraid of holding hands earlier, you are certainly leaping into my open arms easily."

"I'm cold, leave me alone."

"I will not take those words for their literal meaning, because then you will become sick. Don't cling so tightly darling, we could both fall. Be careful, the first step is here..."

With Francis guiding him each step of the way and holding him tenderly, they made their way over paved cobblestones and down the twisting streets of London. Francis told him stories of his exploits as a former Maquis leader and of his near capture by the Gestapo while in the French countryside.

In turn, Matthew recounted his memories of living in Berlin just before the outbreak of the war and making runs into Holland. He told him of Ned, the brave Dutchman he had met in Amsterdam, and of his friend Mike, another Lieutenant in his division. By the time they arrived to Francis' small studio, hidden smack in the centre of an old antique store and clock shop, there was nothing the other didn't know. And despite no longer being used to acting or feeling so familiar around someone, Matthew would enjoy the sentiment while it lasted very, very much.

To be continued...

Ned- Netherlands

Mike – Newfoundland