Several days passed by in quick succession, wasted in what seemed to be idle nothingness between the meetings of what had been the original purpose of Matthew's trip to London and long evenings pleasantly wasted with a certain member of the French Intelligence. Already Matthew's mission was boiling down to a close end, and in a matter of days he would be back in a trench, just as he had so bitterly desired when he first stepped onto English soil nearly two weeks earlier.

Yet when he found himself curled beside Francis beside the fireplace of his flat or held close during their explorations of the city, he realised that he wasn't ready to leave. One week and five days had already slipped by out of the two weeks that he was to spend in London, and the only thing he wanted was to remain beside Francis, where it was safe and warm, and where the artillery efforts of the Germans couldn't get him, nor the bombings from the bomber planes that would fly overhead. Francis didn't know that he would be leaving in a matter of days, and Matthew didn't have the heart to tell him, not after how much they had done to rekindle the same exact relationship they had had years earlier. It was a painful reminder of their circumstances in the summer of 1938 when he left Paris for Canada, and if he hadn't wanted to leave back then when all was right in their world and the prospect of war was but a possibility, he wanted to leave now even less, knowing that he would be returning to a world comprised of bullet rounds and death. It was also a world without Francis there every minute of every day until sundown, when he had to return to his base, and he couldn't even begin to imagine surviving without the company of someone he had known for so very long.

Sighing morbidly, Matthew lifted his gaze away from the fireplace and turned toward Francis, stealing glances at his attractive face and committing each of his features to his memory. The small, neat scar above his eyebrow, the line of his thin lips, the way dark, thick eyelashes fringed nearly-opalescent, beautifully piercing blue eyes. He wanted each of those details committed to his memory for the weeks to come, when he could do nothing but think about them in his trench longingly, think of the way Francis would lean into his touch or the way he would sometimes catch the Frenchman staring at him as though he was the most valuable object to have ever crossed his path.

His heart sank even further down, down past the soles of his feet and right through the floorboards. He would miss the man.

But it was more than Francis' attractive face that he would miss. It would be years before he could feel fingers tenderly grazing down his back to soothe the parts that ached, or see dulled periwinkle blue eyes blink open sleepily after a long, languid afternoon nap. He wouldn't waste days away by walking down the streets of London with his hand caught in the other's when no one was looking, nor would he spend hours upon hours dancing to unplayed music and arguing over interpretations of novels he hadn't read in years. Days, months, and years would slip by him just like they did before, and he would be alone again once he was back in the line of action. He had discovered companionship and affection just when it would be taken away from him by distance and war, and he would have nothing left to remember Francis by but memories that could always disappear.

Francis' face suddenly loomed in front of his, dragging his from his miserable reverie. Long strands of thin, wavy blond hair dangled over his face, tickling his nose and dusting against lips briefly. He wore a heavy frown that made something in Matthew's chest twinge painfully, and that revealed the thin, premature lines around his eyes.

"S'il te plaît, je ne puis endurer un moment plus de ceci, Mathieu. I have been talking to you for the past forty years and you haven't heard a word I said!"

"I'm sorry. What were you saying? I'm just...really out of it. My thoughts were elsewhere. Although I'm sure you already noticed that, since you're so perceptive."

"It's absolutely obvious. At least to me, because I know you like the back of my hand." Smug and contented by his relatively feeble apology, Francis waved a hand dismissively and dipped his face against the flat, hard plane of Matthew's clavicle, seemingly undisturbed by the way his nose pressed against the bony surface at what had to be an uncomfortable angle. To Matthew, the warmth was comforting. "You think too much. That is your problem."

Spindly fingers tapped his temple; the pad of his thumb smoothed over the spot. "Always absorbed in what goes on in that pretty head of yours, never paying attention beyond the required... Sometimes you have to take a moment to feel, or to pay attention to the amazing French lovers laying beside you."

Francis placed his hands squarely on the sharp angles of Matthew's jutting hips, squeezing with just the pads of his fingertips and pursing his lips to the side. "Take it from me, as a philosopher. The mind is a volatile thing, my little bird, so escape it when you can. Whether it plagues you with memories, or whether it makes you wither away with sad thoughts... All it takes is a little touch to make it all–" He paused, touching his nose to the lieutenant's and pressing his lips against the soft, heavy curve of Matthew's lower lip. "Disappear."

"I don't think that kiss was quite enough, Francis. The thoughts are still there," Matthew whispered teasingly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he gave a smile that didn't belie any of his underlying unease. He laughed through his upset and flicked the tip of Francis' nose with an attempted smile that caused his cheeks to ache. "The thoughts are still there, darling. Very romantic, but I think you might have to try a little bit harder than we could always head to get a drink or two. I'm too sober for today."

"Give me five minutes and I can make all your thoughts go away, Mathieu, I can positively blow your mind and teach you things you haven't even heard of." Francis' eyes sparkled with promise and intent, salaciously twinkling beneath their heavy fringe of dark gold lashes. "Five minutes, ange."

"Oh Francis, you tempt me so. Buy me a drink, and you'll have far more than just five minutes." With a saccharine grin, Matthew rolled away from his stunned partner and stood languidly. "Let's go for a drink or two, eh?"

.

"I never would have taken you to be the type to drink away their sorrows," Francis declared with an arched eyebrow and amused, toothy grin as two large, frothy mugs of English ale were placed onto the bar counter in front of them. The filthy, stained bar stool that he was sitting on squeaked uncomfortably loudly as he shifted to face Matthew. "In fact, I could have sworn that you were an innocent novice, entirely unaware of the world of liquor."

"I can't even begin to see why you insist on my innocence. I'm not that inexperienced in the real world, however much it may pain you to realise that. Really now, do you truly think that I haven't drank at all, not once, in my twenty-one years of living?"

Without even flinching in response to Matthew's biting, scathing, even sarcastic, tone, Francis returned the snarky grin that had been given to him. "It merely surprises me that you are such a bold man now, considering the fact that a few years ago you had to sleep with a stuffed bear in order to sleep at all!"

"Leave Kumjari alone, I was far away from home for the first time!"

Matthew's fists, however lightly or jokingly they may have been pounding against his shoulder, had more give to them than what had been expected, and Francis lifted his own stein of ale to his lips to hide a wince. "I'm pretty sure that wasn't his name, birdie. Although then again, you did change it often. What happened to that bear?"

The Canadian lieutenant smirked deviously, leaning in and cupping a hand around his mouth, as though to shield it from the nonexistent gazes around them. "Do you really want to know what happened to him?"

Francis nodded, though entirely bewildered.

"I still carry Kuma with me, everywhere I go. He's even here with me right now, and you haven't noticed."

Francis tilted his head in confusion, and Matthew's sly grin grew even broader. He pulled back the heavy overcoat he wore to reveal the familiar green-brown of his uniform, exposing the shoulder that was most decorated with the small patches of his regiment.

"Nobody else notices him either. I'm surprised, I would think he's pretty obvious."

Francis looked over every visible inch of Matthew's uniform without comprehension, until he noticed the small set of decorations along his upper arms, just below the curve of his shoulder. The small patch of soft white felt suddenly seemed to stand out like a shining beacon amidst the neat patches of military decoration, and Francis began to chuckle. To the unknowing eye, the patch would be invisible. But after being pointed out, it was the only thing Francis could see.

"No, don't tell me..."

"He's always on my shoulder. He's been there since the second I got this uniform."

"That is ridiculously childish and cute. But it is truly something you would do, I should have expected something like that. But that is not made from the original bear, or is it?"

"No, he's back home. Unless the dogs managed to get to him, although I doubt they did." It took several minutes, but eventually, Matthew's cheeks flooded with colour and he began to fidget in his seat with a distinct air of mortification. "I shouldn't have told you, that's so embarrassing. I can fight in a great war, but I can't sleep without a bear, eh?"

Francis took a polite sip of bland ale and shrugged in casual understanding. "Don't be ridiculous, we both know what that little bear means to you. I cannot leave home without a paintbrush or stick of charcoal; you cannot leave your home that bear. Or rather, without a piece of that bear. Stop moving, you're going to break the chair."

"Bonne nuit, Mathieu! Tomorrow I will take you back to Paris; it would have been a shame for you to visit my beautiful France without visiting Marseille!" Francis was buttoning up the collar of his nightshirt when he entered the single bedroom of the hotel suite that had been rented for the occasion.

Matthew was sitting in bed, and the second he stepped into the room, he hastily pulled the plush blankets up to his chin. "Thanks for bringing me, I never would have thought of visiting here. It's really pretty, just like the rest of France. Goodnight."

It was all rushed out quickly and breathlessly, and Francis winked.

"I can leave the room again for a few minutes, if you need them." It took a minute before Matthew's cheeks lit dangerously. "Oh my god, no, I wasn't doing that, I wouldn't do that here... I mean, I don't do th–"

"Now now, Mathieu, it is nothing to be ashamed of. It is perfectly natural, and I could always lend you a hand, of course!"

"I swear, I wasn't!" Matthew looked near-tears with embarrassment. With a small wail, he brought out something from under the blankets and Francis watched with disappointment as the lump in his lap vanished. "His name is Kumajirou. I get really scared of travelling without him... Oh god, this is so embarrassing. But my brother gave him to me when we were little and still lived together. So... So he's my security blanket, and you better not laugh at me!"

Matthew was suddenly defiant, and Francis let out a chuckle then. "Don't be silly, I think it's quite charming of you to be so childish. You're precious. Now, if you don't need me to leave the room and that bear was the only lump under the sheets, scoot over. I am tired and we head for the road early tomorrow."

Francis was startled out of his memory by the sound of Matthew's empty stein clinking against the varnish-covered countertop. He was less than a third through his own glass, and Matthew was already receiving a second fill.

"You went through that pretty quickly. Is there a vice I do not know about?" Francis watched Matthew take a steady drink from his heavy mug, tsking his disapproval. "You are going to become a drunkard."

"Oh hush, you ought to have seen me in Amsterdam." Matthew wiped his upper lip with his fingertips. "This stuff isn't really as strong as what they have in good old Holland. The Dutch are rather insane, although they do poison themselves with the good brews. My old friend Ned could probably go through four mugs of this stuff without blinking."

"He sounds like a rather bad influence, and you're quite impressionable. That is undoubtedly where you learned to drink in such a way. Maybe it's a good thing that you're far away from him, mm?"

"He's no worse than you are, darling, and yet here you are." The lieutenant flicked his tongue against the rim of the stein and delivered a wink jauntily. "You make for better company though. He was always serious and quiet, and really quite intimidating. I thought he was an utter arse when I first met him."

"Oh, is that so? What did you think of me when we first met?"

Matthew leant in, his fingertips dancing over the smooth skin of Francis' hand, which lay pressed flat against the cool countertop. He hummed thoughtfully, pursing his lips to the side and revealing the small dimple in his left cheek. "You intrigued me. So contradictory, multifaceted. You're not painted in shades of black and white like Ned, you're filled with so many different colours and hues, painted in tones I didn't even know exist. One moment you were sliding a hand down my thigh, the next you were spewing philosophy and running off to paint. I didn't even know where to begin with understanding you, and after a while, I simply gave up. You can't understand brilliant masterpieces or the mind of those who painted them, you can only admire them from afar and hope to grow closer."

A hot flush fell over his cheeks, staining them a brilliant vermillion. "I'll stop now."

Francis felt his own cheeks redden, and a heavy, warm feeling pooled at the pit of his stomach. It had become more and more familiar with every passing day in Matthew's presence, but it never failed to send a dulcet little shiver of something he distantly recognised tingling down his spine.

"I cannot possibly deserve that praise," he murmured, tracing the rim of his mug with his fingertip. "But you can charm any artist, that much is certain."

Receiving a bright smile in response, one that was quickly replaced by a petulant pout in a fleeting moment of crash-bang-crash emotions, Matthew's brows furrowed into a determined line. "I'm really only interested in charming one artist."

"I think you should make your intentions clear with that lucky artist. I'm sure he would positively melt with happiness."

"Do you really think so?"

"I truly do, darling. He would be an idiot if he did not."

"I've always been scared to tell him. I've been dying to."

"All it takes is one little minute, my love."

Matthew's lips parted and his chest rose in a splintered inhale, eyes slipping upward to meet his gaze with a fragile, hesitant vulnerability Francis wanted to nurse and protect, to cradle and sooth away. But he couldn't keep Francis' gaze, nor did he say the four little words that he desperately needed to hear. That artist is you.

Dawning disappointment fell heavily over him when the silence continued, but Matthew cleared his throat and the tip of his foot nudged Francis' ankle.

"Maybe I will, someday. I'm just waiting for the right moment and hoping it won't have to wait until after the war. I like him, so very much."

Then Francis realised that if the little inklings of hope that were bouncing around in his ribcage were wrong, he had much to be jealous of. It was a worrying, troubling prospect that out him entirely at unease, insecure with his own standings for the first time since his adolescence, and he didn't like it a single bit. He had made the mistake several years earlier of not properly expressing his feelings for Matthew, and allowing him to slip away from between his fingertips like a strand of fine, silken hair. Making the same mistake twice was simply out of the question.

But before he could open his mouth to let out so much as a single word, Matthew nearly fell off his stool with a sudden jolt, his half-emptied stein clinking loudly on the bar counter as he struggled to regain his composure.

Matthew wiped away a bead of dewy condensation from his mug of ale after taking a long draught, turning in his seat to fully face Francis, eyes suddenly wide and glittering with excitement, although just minutes earlier they had been bright with an emotion Francis couldn't put his finger on.

"Do you think we can stay out the entire night? I just remembered that I have a week's pass to explore London!"

"A week's pass? I'm sorry, my little bird, I don't entirely understand."

"I'm free from the base and not required to return at nightfall. Our mission is almost over and since we'll be lea...l-learning about English culture while the final ends are tied up, we have a week's pass."

Francis didn't find anything questionable with Matthew's explanation despite the telltale crack and rise in inflection, and his eyes sparkled as he contemplated his turbulent thoughts, tapping a finger against the slight stubble on his chin.

"We can see the cabaret that I wanted to take you to! You can also sleep at my studio; you are not getting the true London experience if you sleep at your base, am I right? Although truly, this idea of an English culture is a joke. If you want something interesting to learn about, you should all head to my darling Paris. Perhaps now though, now that you have time to spend freely as you like, I can finally paint you!"

"I don't know about that painting..."

The Canadian's sweet grin became shy, and he rubbed the side of his nose where tiny freckles lay. The small gesture reminded Francis of how much he wanted to kiss and count each one, and, if given the opportunity, to paint each one.

Matthew raised his stein slightly, tilted in his direction. His cheeks were lovely, flushed, and his eyes sparkled brilliantly in the dim room. "A toast to week passes?"

"A toast!"

.

After Matthew's fourth refill on ale, Francis lost track of just how much he had to drink.

Francis mulled over his glass of white wine, the drink he had switched to after no longer being able to bear English ale, occasionally stealing glances over at his partner and harbouring an enamoured smile to himself.

Matthew, despite having downed copious amounts of alcohol, remained remarkably intelligible and coherent with his thoughts; his cheeks were rosy and his eyes were large and nearly childlike in their clinquant eagerness, but he wasn't a bumbling, disconcerted drunk quite yet. However, Matthew wasn't a particularly shy and reserved person either, not around Francis, and least especially when his inhibitions were entirely thrown to the wind. Whatever it was that typically held him in check on a regular basis seemed to have vanished along bit by bit with each swig of ale that slipped past his lips, made obvious by the way he was nearly draped onto the bar countertop, jabbing a finger violently in the air and arguing passionately with the bartender.

"–which is why humans will always be tossed into war! Even Tolstoy said that we won't stop having wars until we're all vegetarians, or some crap like that about slaughterhouses and man killing man. Although then again, Darwin did say that the strongest man is the one that will evolve, really. Then Nietzsche, that clever, cynical arse, was right! He said that the twentieth century will be the bloodiest of all, because God is dead and we have killed him with science and technology. Do you think he was a psychic? I do, 'cause I have seen a lot of blood."

"I don't know about that, kid, but I know that you're totally pissed. Sober up, you're making a scene."

"Francis, he called me pissed. I'm not upset!"

"Oh my dear...Petit fleur, I don't understand how someone can possibly be so very endearing, charming when in such a state. That is not what he meant, little drunkard. Mon dieu, tu est véritablement joli. Has anyone ever informed you of this before?"

"Let me think."

Matthew's gaze became dreamy, albeit slightly blank, and Francis knew his mind was elsewhere. After several minutes of the same, sweetly empty stare, he became impatient and rather envious. He had expected a yes, but not to such an extent.

Jealously, he tapped a nail on the varnished countertop and the lieutenant jolted with a blink of golden eyelashes and a sheepish grin.

"Sorry. I spaced out a bit, didn't I?"

"Only as far out as Venus."

Matthew began to snicker into his drink, those snickers steadily rising into a series of mirthful giggles and snorts that he couldn't quite control. Francis' jealously dissipated and his eyebrows arched in amusement, more so toward Matthew's spectacle than what he had actually said.

With a small chuckle of his own, he shook his head pityingly. "You really are completely and utterly drunk. Pissed, as these vulgar Englishmen would say. I am not surprised, you've had so much to drink already."

"I'm not drunk." Pouting heavily, Matthew draped his upper body onto the countertop, giving an attractive view with questionable deliberateness. His chin was cupped in the palm of his hand, and his available fingers were slowly tapping against the smooth bar top, although he lifted four. "Only a lightweight would be drunk after three drinks."

"Mathieu, you are close to having had more than six drinks. You cannot even count properly!"

"That is a lie from the devil himself!" Matthew crowed, adamantly stabbing his finger into the air with his declaration and earning several startled glares from both the man behind the counter and the other daytime patrons of the small, seedy joint toward the outskirts of the town.

"Oh, is it a lie? Because from where I am sitting, it looks as though you are swaying, and now you are scooting closer and almost in my lap and— why, hello there."

"You talk too much sometimes, Francis. It's the vice of every philosopher." Matthew placed a fingertip on Francis' lower lip. His voice came off as a coo, and Francis was willing to bet that his sudden confidence was purely inspired by the streams of alcohol flooding through his veins. "I like to talk sometimes too, you know. But I can't do that when you're always talking, since interrupting someone is rude."

"Well, Mathieu–"

"Shh. See, talking again already."

With a smug, dopey grin, Matthew leant forward to plant a kiss on Francis' cheek, though once his lips landed, they didn't pull away. Instead, they trailed along his cheekbone before settling just below his temple.

Francis remained glued in his seat, entirely at a loss for what to do or what he could possibly say, if anything, when Matthew was so delightfully plastered against him. His hands clumsily slid down to support Matthew's precarious balancing by the hips, although once his hands were there, he didn't mind indulging a feel. And much to his surprise, Matthew backed into his touch with a shuddery sigh falling from his pretty lips.

"God Francis, I've been dreaming so much about you," he whispered, scrabbling and groping blindly along the countertop in search of his drink. He promptly sloshed half its content onto the cheaply varnished top, and another bit onto the collar of his uniform when he messily attempted to drink.

Francis eyed the amber bead of ale that slipped down the soft curve of Matthew's lower lip, sliding down to his chin where it was wiped away by the back of his hand carelessly. He almost missed its presence; it would have been incentive to kiss Matthew.

"What have you been dreaming about me, Mathieu?"

Matthew's eyes brightened, and Francis' hands were almost immediately swiped into the lieutenant's. They were smaller and far more callused than Francis' own, but it was more important what Matthew's hands were doing than how they felt. If anything, Francis enjoyed the rough, pleasantly tactile sensation of his hands, hardened with labour and slightly scarred from the shrapnel wound that had allowed Matthew to meet him again.

He had never thought he would owe his happiness to a shrapnel injury, that much was certain.

Matthew's hands guided Francis' own along the soft contours of his body, suggestive enough to cause his cheeks to flush, yet discreet enough to be hidden in their private corner from the judgemental gazes of onlookers.

"Mathieu," Francis warned sharply, even as his hands were guided lower to settle along the sharp jut of hipbones that were far too thin as a result of extreme rationing.

Matthew grinned all too knowingly in response, entirely aware and pleased by what he was doing. Francis had to grit his teeth to keep from yanking Matthew's face forward and sealing those flushed, thin lips to his own, and to keep from making a scene of such affection in a public setting. It wasn't as it was in their private lodgings; there they could touch and kiss freely, sharing affection in any way that they wanted, but there was nothing that could be done where cruel gazes could spot their embraces and condemn them.

Matthew clearly wasn't thinking with a reasonable mind, else he would have also realised that touching in such a manner was highly inappropriate. But although Francis was wary of any possible wandering fazes flickering in their direction, he couldn't deny he was excited to know what had been going on in Matthew's mind the entire time that he had been in London thus far; his feelings weren't unreciprocated, nor were his desires, if he were to judge by the way Matthew was gazing up at him with a nearly lustful gleam to those spectacular eyes of his.

"I've dreamt so many times about you this past week, Bonnefoy. Hell, I've dreamt about you way before, all the way back in '36!" Matthew's tongue swiped over his chapped lower lip quickly, one side of that mouth tugging upwards into a lazy, intoxicated grin. "Or was it '37? It was probably then. I don't really remember the year right now, but I sure do remember the dreams. And it was so embarrassing at the time, dreaming about your hands touching me and the rest of your body doing other things, then going out a few hours later to a theatre with you, or to your studio. It took everything I had not to kiss you whenever you would say something painfully clever, or look so serious about painting a bowl of fruit."

Snorting a bit, Matthew lowered his head and pressed his forehead to Francis', eyelashes slowly fluttering shut. Francis was alarmed to feel just how warm the lieutenant was, although his cheeks felt just as warm and he was certain the warmth could be attributed to the liquor in his system.

Matthew's hot flush didn't stop him from insistently nuzzling his cheek against Francis' shirt, nor did he stop sipping the dregs of what remained in his glass of ale.

"You're too perfect for your own good, Francis," Matthew whispered, suddenly falling still with what sounded dangerously like a sniffle. "You're clever, educated, an artist, and even handsome. I was rather mad about you from the moment you remembered who I was way back then, when I first visited you after we met. I liked you so much, and I still do. I really, really like you."

"Mathieu, my love, I think it is time we set down our glasses," Francis coaxed, reaching for Matthew's glass, even as the confused soldier touched his bifocals with a question clearly written in his confused expression.

With a tender gaze, the head of the French intelligentsia pressed a gentle kiss to the soldier's forehead and stole his hands away from his grip. Matthew's hands immediately latched on to the front of his thin sweater, and his eyelids were suddenly heavy, the crash of liquor striking at an opportune moment.

Francis could handle an angry drunkard; one of his best friends often became rowdy and dangerously argumentative whilst drunk. He could handle babbling men that lost their mind and reserves to their drinks, and even emotional drinkers that sobbed after the first touch of liquor to their lips. But he couldn't handle Matthew's sweet confessions, not when he couldn't be entirely certain of their validity, nor when he couldn't act upon them with a lucid partner.

So when Matthew's head dropped onto his shoulder and his body curled in to seek warmth and comfort from the small headache that was undoubtedly beginning to pierce at his temples, Francis didn't wait for a second opportunity to leave.

"Come on, little songbird, let's go home–"

"Tweet tweet, this little canary is flying back to Italy next week."

Francis didn't understand Matthew's tired murmur; the ache settled in his chest before he fully understood what the Canadian was trying to say, but once he understood, the dull ache increased tenfold. Even so, he refused to believe what he heard, tipping Matthew's chin up to meet eye to eye.

"Matthew, what do you mean by that?"

"I'm leaving back to Italy next week."

"What?"

"We were only going to be here for a fortnight, and then they gave us a pass for the remainder of this week, and all of next week."

Matthew's flinch confirmed that Francis' voice was sharp. Francis felt the warmth of Matthew's confessions slowly drain away, replaced by the dull, phantom pain that he had felt the first time he had been left behind by the young man in his lap. Their time together had seemed too good to be true, and just as everything else he had encountered in his life, it was coming to a crumbling end.

It was a Thursday; he had three days and a full week before Matthew would be leaving him again.

"Come on Mathieu, let's get you home."

Suddenly aged and weary, Francis kept his tone soft and helped the other maintain his balance as they walked to the front door, keeping a hand on his thin hip the entire time.

Becoming upset was useless, and he could never be fully angry with Matthew to begin with. Furious, betrayed, and even hurt by the young man at times, but never angry. He simply couldn't be, not when he looked at those sad, heavily lidded eyes, or the soft downturn of his lips. Matthew was far too drunk to understand what he had admitted to, but he could still pick up on Francis' grief and respond equally with his own sadness.

The walk to Francis' pathetic studio was silent and grim, filled with longing glances and heavy sighs. More than once, Matthew bumped his nose into the soft curve of Francis' shoulder or brushed his fingertips against his palm, until Francis finally took him under an arm and held him close, the stares of the few pedestrians present be damned.

"Francis, do you like me?"

Francis' footsteps came to a slow pause. He could feel the break forming in his heart as he stood, and it took several moments of silence before he could swallow down the painful lump lodged in his throat.

"Yes, Matthew. I like you very, very much."

They continued to walk, until the flat was within eyesight, then standing before them and coaxing them in with the promise of warmth. The Canadian fumbled with his ragged mittens.

"That's good, because I kind of think I'm in love with you."

Francis held himself together until Matthew was safely tucked into his bed in the studio bedroom, face relaxed with sleep and hand curled around the pillow. When he was sure the soldier was sound asleep and wouldn't wake until morning, he finally allowed the tears to fall, crying heavily into the crook of his elbow for what he had lost in 1937, and for what he would lose the following week.

Hey guys! Wow, we're already in mid-March, and to think that I had planned this update to happen way back in January! Well, writer's block hit hard, and so did discomfort and extreme insecurity with my writing style, which I may attempt to experiment with in later chapters. In other news, I had actually originally planned to write a one-shot for Valentine's Day, but that didn't work out as I had expected. I may rewrite some of it so that it isn't as holiday-centric, so any USUK fans can look forward to that! Unlike my other USUK fic, this one actually has a relatively happy ending. So now that you know about that, let's see... This is really where the plot begins to settle in! I've been looking forward to writing this piece for a while now, which is why the last one was sort of uneventful, and I'm actually rather pleased with the ending. Anyone who started reading this fic with the thought that it would be entirely happy, I'm so very sorry. Enough with the author's notes though, I'm undoubtedly rambling by now. I hope you all stick around for the next addition, and if it's not too much of a hassle, please do leave a review!