"Mathieu, it is wonderful to see you so bright and early!"

Matthew's shy grin was more than enough to make Francis smile, and it had only been seconds since he had opened the door to see the lieutenant standing at the door. Contrary to his statement it was chilly outside, as customary to the English weather and general atmosphere in the dreary city since the break of war, yet the Canadian's presence was just enough to make the place seem a little less grey and lifeless. Almost as though sensing his very thoughts, Matthew gestured to the heavy, though old, coat he wore over his uniform.

"It's not really bright, the sun isn't out, but it's early. I left the base as soon as I woke, I hope I didn't wake you."

"Nonsense, I've been awake for a while now. Step inside, darling."

Matthew stepped inside the small studio as though he had never been inside before, or as though the entire establishment would collapse under his feet like a house of cards, or perhaps one of glass ribbons. It was a curious thing, and it wasn't until several minutes of observing dainty footsteps later that Francis realised the lieutenant had been trained to tread lightly– it had been something he himself had done when leading the Maquis, and he felt like a fool for not having come to that conclusion from the very beginning. Even when safe, Matthew felt the need to walk as though in a war zone. It was saddening.

Clearing his throat, Francis stepped away from the main room of the cramped studio and headed instead toward the small carving in the wall that constituted as a poor excuse for a kitchen. There he rummaged through the meagre items in the cabinets and pulled out the scrapes of what had been his last ration of coffee. It wasn't a quality brew, just barely rivalling the taste of hot mud, yet it was a staple of life, and to not share such a shitty delicacy was simply the unthinkable.

"Mathieu, would you prefer a mug of coffee–" Hot mud. "–or tea?" Hot water with weeds.

"Tea, please."

Matthew's murmur came from far closer than what Francis had been expecting, and a brief glance over his shoulder revealed that the lieutenant had waltzed into the kitchen on silent feet and brought himself onto the counter.

It was admirable just how much he had caught Francis off guard. He himself had to admit that kind little Matthew held the potential of a lethal enemy with those silent feet of his.

"I didn't hear you come in." It was an understatement, but Matthew seemed to think nothing of his incredible talent because he simply shrugged.

"It was lonely in your living room. Too plain and too dark, it's nothing like your flat in Paris."

"Ah, but that was my home, Mathieu. This is merely a residence."

"I don't think there's a difference, Francis."

"Of course there is a difference, how could you say such a thing?" Francis paced about the small kitchen in a fluster, eyes alight and hands moving in passionate gestures. "A home is where you live happily and spend your days in bed with a lover. A residence, my darling lieutenant, is a place that contains the bed you sleep in at night, and a shameful kitchen that holds the horrid rations you are given."

Heavy golden curls hung over wide violet eyes, eyes that were shamefully obscured by a pair of neat, fragile spectacles, and bounced along with the small peal of laughter that Matthew let out. "It really shouldn't come as a surprise to me that you have such distinct views over two words." Eyebrows were arched in amusement, and chewed-upon fingernails traced over the patterned scratches that marred the wooden countertop. "Though I can understand what you mean. I haven't felt at home anywhere in a very long time, since the start of the war. Sometimes it feels as though it will never end."

"This war will have to end sometime, Mathieu. The sceptics say otherwise, but I believe that it will. What else is there to believe in? Death is quite frankly too morbid to pray for, especially when there's still beauty in the world, however rare. And when this ugliness, this wretched thing that turns men into animals, is over, you can find a home again."

The unspoken fact that they could both very well die before the end of the war hung unspoken in the air above them. But Matthew didn't seem to mind or appear frightened, and Francis found that he didn't either. A warm, fluttery feeling made itself known in his stomach when the lieutenant reached out to grab his glass of tea and brushed his a fingertips against his hand.

And then Matthew gave a wistful sigh, smiling an absent smile that bordered on the line of bittersweet. His hand hadn't moved. "Do you know what I really miss, even more than home? I really miss your collection of records. I can't think of anything that sounds better than sitting against a chaise longue and listening to Guy Lombardo. Vera Lynn is wonderful, and Edith Piaf is incomparable, but I miss the sweetest music this side of heaven*..."

"I personally think the sweetest music this side of heaven is the sound of your voice, dearest." Francis batted his eyelashes in dripping excess, laughing freely and dodging Matthew's embarrassed attempt to hit his shoulder.

"Oh shush, you're awful." But despite his words, Matthew let out a small burble of laughter and hid his face in his hands.

Francis covered Matthew's hands with his own and pulled them away from his face, giving them a little squeeze and delivering a wink. "Perhaps I'm awful, but it's something you simply adore, I know it. And don't cover your face, mon doux, it's far too attractive to hide!"

Matthew's thin, smooth cheeks were flushed with excitement and another emotion Francis could see in his eyes but couldn't identify. "Do you have someone waiting for you to come home, Mathieu? A romantic interest," he specified, already knowing what it was that he was hoping to hear before the words even left his mouth.

Lovely eyes blinked once, twice, before Matthew caught on to what was being asked of him and chuckled a bit condescendingly. "No, not that way. My mom is waiting for me to return, but there aren't many men like us back home."

"What a shame." Humming under his breath and clicking his tongue, Francis dotingly tucked locks of chin-length, wavy blond hair behind a pink ear. His hair was just as soft as it looked, not nearly as dirty as someone would expect under the circumstances, and Francis twirled one curl around his index finger. It was a shame, for all those who would never receive the affection of Matthew. But for him, it was the beginning of possible future opportunities.

"Is there someone...waiting for you?"

"Not anymore."

Matthew flinched; Francis could feel the slight recoil of his body. "I'm sorry to hear that, Francis. I didn't know..."

"She was a dear friend, Mathieu, fighting for a free France right beside me. Her village was set on fire by the Nazis. She never made it out." Francis smiled tiredly, crooked and poignant. "It is the way of war, darling. You lose dear friends amidst the chaos and can only move faster, work harder."

"It rather sucks when you have to do it alone," Matthew murmured, squeezing Francis' palm gently.

"We aren't so alone now though, are we?"

The lieutenant's face broke loose into a smile. "No, I guess we're not."

.

"Ugh, I don't see how anybody likes those things."

Waving a hand before his face, Matthew wrinkled his nose in distaste toward the cigarette held between Francis' worn fingers. "I don't know why I thought to mention my ration supply of those."

"You saw my suffering and longing for cigarettes, and your kind little heart demanded that you take the immediate course of action."

That kind little heart had disappeared during battle and allowed Matthew to become an admirable, decorated soldier, but Francis didn't need to know that. Leaning lightly against the deteriorated rail that looked entirely unable to support even a dry leaf, Matthew looked out to the nearly empty English street and determinedly ignored the odour of the cigarette beside him. "The streets are really empty today. I wonder what this city looked like before the war..."

"It wasn't an ugly sight, though not nearly as beautiful as Paris. I visited here with two close friends many years ago. A drunken Christmas celebration in the town square that resulted in one night in a cell, I remember that night," Francis hummed, flicking aside the butt of his cigarette and taking a step closer toward the railing. Matthew felt the sneaky warmth of the former resistance leader's arm settle around his shoulders. "It was much nicer back then. But still, nothing compares to France."

"I don't know, Francis, I've been to Italy before and it's quite the competition for best scenery," Matthew quipped, lowering his gaze coyly and masking a smirk. And because he knew the man beside him well enough, he didn't ask about the night that had somehow ended in an arrest. He didn't need to know. Beside him, Francis scoffed and gave his shoulders a squeeze.

"I must have clearly had one smoke too many, Mathieu, it seems to have gotten to my brain. I believe I heard you say that Italy rivals France's beauty? Please darling, don't make me laugh. Your sense of humour is atrocious."

"You just can't stand the thought of Italy being more beautiful than your beloved France!"

"Ha! That is not the case, I simply prefer to avoid hearing such untrue blasphemy and impossible notions!"

"You know that it's perfectly possible," Matthew accused, twisting his body as Francis stepped closer toward him and held him pressed against the railing. "You just don't want to admit it."

"You are purposely trying to be a little...a little jerk."

Matthew tangled his fingers in long, soft tresses. "And if that's the truth?"

Francis clicked his tongue in disapproval and leaned in. "If that is the case, then you are not the darling little Canadian you appear to be."

"Maybe appearances are deceiving, darling."

"I have absolutely no doubt that they are, you are terrible to me," Francis grumbled, touching the tip of his nose to Matthew's and sliding his hands down his smooth sides. Matthew shivered, those hands sliding too close to one particular place, and Francis must have immediately noticed, because his hands stilled and an amused smile twitched at the corners of his lips. "I can see you still have a weak spot." His hands moved just above the curve of his hips. "It just so happens that you are in a very dangerous position, darling. If I were you, I would try to play nice."

"I'll do no such thing, I don't have a weak spot!"

The moment Francis' thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of his sides, however, he let out a noise of dismayed laughter, arching his back and attempting to draw himself away. "I raise my white flags, just don't...d-don't tickle me!"

"It's too late, I'm rather enjoying my victory." Smug, Francis dipped his fingers against Matthew's waist again and listened to the loud snort the lieutenant tried to cover with a hand. His expression, indignant yet fearful, was truly precious. He couldn't help but press a small kiss to the tip of his pert nose. "I now withdraw my offence. I'm rather worried about the colour of your cheeks, such an unnatural rouge."

"Mm."

Matthew didn't seem to mind the way the railing was digging into his back, or the fact that Francis was close enough to press his lips to his own, or to any other part of his beautiful face that he wanted to kiss. And he wanted to kiss every part of his face; he wanted to kiss his cheekbones and the freckles that dusted over them, and the fuller curve of his lower lip. He wanted to kiss the tip of his nose again, and to kiss the premature, permanent wrinkle that lingered faintly between his brows.

He was vaguely aware of the fact that he was staring and that Matthew's cheeks were becoming hot under his unblinking eye, but he couldn't bring himself to look away until Matthew whined quietly and ducked his head against his collarbone. Then he was focused on the entirely different sensation of touch, most especially against such a sensitive area, and the amusement that the lieutenant still couldn't bring himself to look someone in the eyes for more than two seconds.

"I can see that you are still as timid as always, Mathieu."

"I'm not timid, you were just staring at me! For someone who calls me rude when I stare, you certainly tend to do it a lot." It was loose grumbling, but Matthew's fingers remained knitted in his hair. When Francis pressed a small kiss to the top of Matthew's ducked head, those fingers tightened and he knew he hadn't gotten away with it.

"If it bothers you that much, then I will simply stop admiring your trés belle visage and mourn at night for the lost opportunities to look upon beauty."

Matthew straightened again and Francis immediately resented the two inches in height that the Canadian lieutenant held over him. They simply weren't fair, and Francis tugged on the lapels of his uniform to bring Matthew lower. Pretty eyelashes fluttered in surprise, before a small grin announced its presence on his face. "You don't like being shorter."

"Hush darling, you speak far too much."

But still, Matthew dipped down to press a kiss to his nose in the same way Francis had kissed his earlier, and Francis couldn't keep his mouth from falling slightly slack. Matthew appeared incredibly pleased.

"It's such a pity that you think so. After all, you were the one who always told me to speak my mind."

*Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians played "the sweetest music this side of heaven." Vera Lynn, however, arguably has the sweetest female voice of the era. And of course, Glenn Miller and his orchestra will always be incredible as well.

I apologise for having taken so long to update, it was a little hard getting back into the swing of writing, and if I'm to be honest, I'm still really disappointed with this chapter. The next chapter will most certainly be up sooner.