Francis' slender fingers gently sifted through strands of Matthew's hair, fingering his curls fondly. How he loved those golden curls, always tousled and soft to the touch... "So what are your future plans, darling? What do you wish to have in a couple of years?"

Almost immediately, Matthew's face coloured and his eyes took on a dreamy sheen. "I just want a family. Three kids, a husband, and a home in Canada." Matthew turned that lovely gaze his way and shifted slightly, looking distinctly uncomfortable and defiant. "I know I'm supposed to want other things, like a lumberjack mill or something, but I want the cozy home life. I want two little boys and a little girl, and a husband that I'll love forever."

"No darling, that's not ridiculous. That's the most wonderful thing I have ever heard."

Francis could see the sight of Matthew with his children, tiny cherubs that fell just below his knee and demanded his attention. And although Francis had always joked among friends about never settling down, never marrying or starting a family, there was nothing Francis wanted to do with Matthew than just that precisely.

.

Watching Matthew's light eyelashes flutter shut as he took a sip from the wine bottle was mesmerising. Francis could see the shy brush of his pink tongue against the rim of the bottle, the pearly enamel of his teeth, even the way the soft curve of his jaw moved when he swallowed. The fine details of his ethereally beautiful face just had to be paid attention to; it naturally drew Francis' attention away from everything in their surroundings. Nothing caught his eye as much as Matthew did, simply because everything paled in comparison to the Canadian's allure.

Matthew's large, radiant eyes flickered up to him and Francis lost himself in the indigo pools of light. Positively everything about Matthew sparkled, he marvelled, and everything about the boy radiated the aura of wholesome honesty. He had the rare, clean kind of beauty that Francis would very nearly never stumble upon, and everything about the boy drove him mad.

"Francis, you're staring," Matthew murmured shyly, lowering those lovely eyes of his. His soft lower lip was caught between his teeth, and Francis felt warmth shoot through his body in an exciting rush.

"How could I not stare at someone as absolutely ravishing as yourself?" He tried to flatter, he really did, and he was rewarded when Matthew's thin cheeks flooded with healthy colour.

But then he ruined the charmed illusion by snickering quietly. "Ravishing? Really, darling?"

"Do not make fun of me, little lumberjack! I was trying to seduce you with my words." Francis wound his arms loosely around Matthew's brittle waist and buried his nose into perfumed golden tresses. "I forgot just how big of a tease you are, little monster."

"I'm not the t-tease."

Sitting hand in hand with the beautiful boy, Francis simply shook his head and hid a smile to himself. Matthew was like a for in many ways – shy, docile and yet teasing with its presence. The precious Canadian didn't seem to realise that everything about him drove Francis mad, from his way of ducking beneath his blond curls to the way he would lower and raise his gaze from beneath a dark fringe of eyelashes.

And yet despite his mild appearance and polite mannerisms, Francis knew that Matthew wasn't always as complaisant as he appeared to be, and he knew of the snarky, smug facet to the Canadian's personality: his dry comments, observing eye and keen intuition. Matthew was a thrilling man of quiet statements and ardent arguments, and his firmly set opinions on their broad range of topics never failed to bring Francis to a new perspective.

"So, François." Matthew's nimble fingers, fingers that had once played him the French Suits of Bach, curled around his forearm in a tender grip. "What did you do in France during the years that I was gone?"

"Well, my dear, after mourning your loss for quite some time, I returned to my artwork. I created a few masterpieces that rivalled that of Claude Monet."

He laughed, a short, bubbly laugh filled with life, and shook his head from side to side. His lips were pursed in mock disapproval, and his lit eyes sparkled. "Always so vain, Francis. It'll come back to bit you in the rear someday."

"Darling, you will bring misfortune upon me!" Francis pressed a kiss to Matthew's temple and reached for the bottle of aged wine he had brought along with them. He had been saving the bottle for a special occasion, and there was no occasion more special than a cold autumn evening spent sharing a blanket with his darling Canadian lieutenant.

"Tell me again, why did you leave France?"

"You know why, darling. I simply couldn't take being part of the Maquis anymore."

"I know, sorry, but what was the final straw? What made you decide to leave?"

"For me, the final straw was watching mon ami Henri die. That, and being caught by a German while delivering a message. I had to kill a man to survive, and it was the worst feeling in the world to watch the light go from his eyes." Francis shook his head slowly, his chin brushing against the top of Matthew's head. The German's eyes dimmed, losing their gleam of both hatred and fear. "He may have been a monster, or he may have been a scared soldier. Either way, he didn't deserve to die and it is one of my biggest regrets. And by joining the Intelligence, I would never be at risk like that again, but yet I would have a purpose and be of help to our soldiers."

"I could be considered a monster," Matthew pointed out softly, closing his eyes and leaning against him for support. Although the Canadian was taller by four glorious centimetres, he still moulded perfectly against the Frenchman's chest. It was one of the things he had always loved, the easy way their bodies melded together as though created just for the other. There had once been a time when he believed that, and being the foolishly idealistic romantic that he was, he still believed that. "I've killed hundreds of people, maybe even thousands."

"No darling, stop that." Francis couldn't keep himself from scolding, drawing back slightly and ignoring Matthew's whine of dismay. "You are not a monster. You are saving lives at the needed expense of others, which is heroic." Matthew tilted his face to the side and scowled the impossible little frown he always wore. It was the precious expression of a child attempting to be a man, and Francis gently cupped a pretty cheek in the palm of his hand. "Would you like for me to sing to you as I used to?"

"Yes. Please sing to me."

"I will sing a song that reminds me of you. Do you know what I always think of when I remember our old days together? I always think of the autumn leaves, darling. They started falling right after you left me."

Francis stood by the window yet again, doing nothing but staring out at the world from within the confines of his own home. It was there that he was safe from heartache and loss, and it was there that he had kept himself for the past several weeks. The inklings of red and gold that dusted the Parisian ground held his attention the most – they teased him with their bold colours, fluttering by his window and carrying in the gentle breezes. It was all that he had seen for days on end, and it was all that he would see for several days more.

He would always think of the autumn leaves when he thought of that one splendid year several years ago. Those streaks of red and gold had haunted him during the days he spent at the window when he mourned, taunting him as they drifted by in their coloured glory.

"I always thought of warm tea and old books. Poetry, pastries, evening cabaret... We always shared those things at our café." Francis shared in the reminiscing smile Matthew wore, fondly recalling those afternoons spent in the luxurious silence of their own company.

"We did, darling. We shared so much, from our love of Tolstoy to our political dissent. But you can never love someone as much as you can miss them, and because I missed you for so long, I will always think of the red and gold that drifted by my window while I waited in my depression."

"C'est une chanson

Qui nous resemble

To tu m'aimais

Et je t'aimais..."

Singing the song he had composed and rewritten several times during his period of strife was oddly completing, filling him with the sensation of having completed something that should have been finished several years ago.

"Nous vivions tous

Les deux ensemble

Toi qui m'aimais

Moi qui t'aimais..."

There was something bittersweet about singing the song he had created for Matthew right in front of him; it was he who had broken his heart that autumn several years ago, yet he was there to fix it and fill him with the hope that perhaps things could be as they once were...perhaps even better.

"Mais la vie sépare

Ceux qui s'aiment

Tout doucement

Sans faire de bruit

Et la mer efface sur le sable

Le pas des amants désunis."

.

It's a song

That we resemble

You, you loved me

And I loved you

The low, husky timbre of Francis voice sent a body wracking shiver down Matthew's spine. He had forgotten just how much of a thrill Francis' singing was, the way it brought colour to his cheeks from excitement and made him want to rupture with a delighted grin.

We lived together

Both of us

You who loved me

I who loved you

But although it did made his veins feel as though they were burning with molten lava, there was something oddly sorrowful about the song Francis was singing. It made him want to lie down and mourn, or to clutch the Frenchman close and refuse to let go. The lament in his tone was like nothing he had ever heard before, and when he paused to understand what was being sang to him, tears collected at his lashes.

But life separated

Those who loved

Very gently

Without making a sound

And the sea erased under the sand

The footprints of the separated lovers

"That's so sad..."

It was only sad because he knew it could very well happen to him – he could disappear without a trace, and whatever footsteps he may have left behind would vanish beneath a wave. Matthew didn't even stop to recognise that the song spoke of heartbreak and goodbyes; to him it spoke of the finality of life itself. It was a terrifying prospect, being placed in a state of indefinite invisibility and becoming nothing more than a long-forgotten corpse in the ground, and Matthew couldn't keep the quiver from his voice when he was struck by the sudden notion. "Promise me that you won't let me disappear."

"Of course I won't let you disappear, where would you go?" Matthew could hear the confusion in Francis' tone, knew that he wasn't making sense with his sudden demands, but he didn't apologise. He was right to be afraid, because he could very well die and never be heard from again. The quiet voice of reason in the back of his mind shouted for him to rationalise and realise his reaction wasn't what it needed to be, but that voice was drowned out by the paranoia that years of war had instilled into him. An ominous coil formed in the pit of his stomach, clenching and unfurling with every treacherous thought flickering through Matthew's mind.

I could die.

I'll just disappear.

It'll be like I never existed.

He wanted to sit down and possibly cry out his sudden fear. Death had always seemed inevitable with his position in the war, but he had never stopped to think about the world moving on past his death. He had taken for granted his ephemeral existence, hadn't taken into perspective the fact that that one day he would be nothing but another body in the ground, another human to be classified as a man of his era – he would be nameless, unrecognised, forgotten. The realisation was hitting hard, very much like an angry blow to the abdomen, and Matthew abruptly needed to be alone, needed time to curl in on himself atop his bunk at the base, or better yet, back in his native Canada.

But he knew that he couldn't simply leave Francis behind without an explanation – and his dawning realisations were not subject matter he wanted to discuss. So, forcing a grateful smile, Matthew leant in and brushed his lips over Francis' cheekbone. "Thank you for singing to me. It was sad and beautiful."

"Darling, if you reward me a bit more each time, I do believe I would serenade you!" Slyly, Francis' hand crept lower down his back, although blue eyes studied his face inquisitively. "But is something the matter?"

"No, everything is fine. I think I just had one sip of wine too many." Matthew offered what he hoped to be a reassuring smile, although he was sure that his smile had more closely resembled a puckered grimace.

"Alright darling, if you do insist." Although uncertainty flickered through Francis' gaze, he didn't ask any questions, and for that Matthew was grateful. Francis sometimes passed the boundaries of personal space and intruded into conversations unknowingly, but Frenchman knew when not to speak.

.

"Darling... Did I say something that upset you? You have been very quiet for a long while now."

Francis' brow was knit with concern for his morose partner. He had been silent since claiming that they should walk beneath the old wooden bridge, and when Matthew was upset, he would suppress his turmoil until he reached the point of no return. Francis very dearly wanted to avoid that.

"No, Francis. Everything has been great, really." Matthew's soft voice barely registered, and it sounded forlorn. He attempted to smile a smile that didn't come near to reaching his eyes, and something in Francis' chest dropped. All at once, the only thing he wanted to do was fix the sadness in those violet eyes he loved so much.

"Come here, darling. I have come to the realisation that not everything in the city is dead, and that perhaps there is something we could find in these small woods."

Filled with misgiving, wary trepidation, and a sudden adventurous exploit, Francis gave a slight tug on the hand in his hold and wandered toward the deadening thicket beside the bridge they sat beneath. The trees were shedding their autumnal leaves of red and gold, and Francis made a grand show of kicking them up into the air. Intrigue began to slowly spark in Matthew's eyes, and before Francis knew it, he was kicking at the leaves on the ground too.

"We must look utterly mad!"

"To whom; the bugs in the soil? There's nobody here!"

Francis laughed openly, feeling his pulse quicken in excitement. It had been years since he had last felt so airy and at peace, because although adrenaline had pounded through his system during his years as a Maquis leader, nothing could compare to the feeling of being free to laugh without consequence.

Not a single leaf went without feeling the brunt of their kicks, and by the time they collapsed onto the ground in a tired heap, they both wore the matching grins of men well-satisfied.

"That was really, really fun," Matthew admitted breathlessly, his thin cheeks flushed crimson and forehead glistening with droplets of dewy perspiration. He looked happy again, and that was all Francis had wanted to see.

"I am glad you enjoyed it, Mathieu. Although we must have looked utterly mad, non?"

"Oh hush, you know we would have looked insane to anybody if they were to have seen us." He rolled over against Francis' chest and draped a delicate, uninjured hand atop it. "But believe me when I say I would do it again in a heartbeat."

Francis felt the soft curve of Matthew's cheek protruding into his arm, and he smiled for the umpteenth time that day. "I would too, darling. I'd forsake my reputation as a sane man if it were the cost of making you happy." He pressed a kiss to the Canadian's forehead and waved a finger in warning. "I do, however, have my boundaries, cœur."

"Of course you do, Francis."

Matthew's voice was thick with sleepiness, and when Francis lifted his gaze to the sky, the darker glow of twilight greeted him.

"It is time for you to return to your strict little base," he pointed out quietly, touching Matthew's stray curl for the last time that night.

The lieutenant stirred and sat up slowly. Golden locks, stained with dirt and sweat, hung over his face, but Francis could see that he didn't want to leave. He didn't want Matthew to leave either.

"Meet me tomorrow in front of the pub at noon." Matthew stood quickly once he realised the darkness was ascending, and he cast a remorseful glance down at Francis. "I don't want to leave, François... Will you meet me tomorrow?"

"Of course, darling. I will be there bright and early."

Before Matthew could turn and run back to his military base, Francis stood and pulled him close.

"Je t'adore, tresore," he whispered, closing his eyes. There was the brief sensation of warmth against his lips and the sound of rustling leaves underfoot, and when he opened his eyes again, Matthew was gone.

.

May, 1936

"So, how do you know when you're in love?"

"That, Gilbert, is easy. You know you are in love when you are willing to do anything for that person, when you are willing to put everything on the line to make them smile. It is when you are willing to die for them, because life without that person wouldn't be a life at all. And most importantly, it is feeling like the most lucky man alive when in their presence."

"And, Antonio, do not forget this: love comes in many stages. There is infatuation and adoration, and there is lust and love. Sometimes it could even start as hatred and develop into love, because both are feelings of passion and there is a very fine line that separates them. And you know it is true love if it survives through all of those things."

Hi guys, quick little author's note! While I want to thank everyone who has reviewed my work up to current standing (Wow, thank you so, so much!), I just wanted to encourage a little bit of feedback. Although the encouraging remarks are really the best, I'm hoping that perhaps I can receive some opinion and critique on things such as dialogue, writing style, interactions, etc. This is, after all, my first published work, and through your opinions I can grow and become a better writer. So that being said, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the little peek at Francis' perspective, and hopefully I've persuaded you to leave a review :-)

**tresore – treasure