/1938/

The sunset was fiery red and orange outside the window of Alfred's home in New Orleans. Things had been bad for him for a while, ever since the stock market crash in '20, but just recently a good friend had convinced him that he needed a little time off. At first he'd resisted fully, but then he realized he really had been working hard for quite a long while and could use some relaxation. And after a bit of thought, he decided that he wanted to take a trip to one of his places in Louisiana for a few weeks, accompanied by the very friend who had dragged him away from the craziness.

Francis crawled across the bed to where Alfred sat, looking out at the vibrant evening sky, and began to press needy kisses over his shoulder and up his neck. This caught Alfred's attention and brought him back to earth from his wandering thoughts.

"Beg your pardon, I went in my head there for a minute. But nothing can hold my attention very long when you're around, Fran. Not with those lips of yours." The young American said with a smirk and tired eyes. Francis went for the button on Alfred's grey slacks.

"Speaking of, mon amant, I'd like to put them to work." Francis told him. Alfred sat back against the headboard, folding his hands behind his head and sighing in contentedness. He half-watched as Francis undid his pants and began to tug them down, and half-zoned out in pleasant anticipation of the fun he was about to have.

Francis slid his hands up Alfred's thighs and to his hips, thumbs rubbing in circles as he pressed his lips repeatedly over Alfred's abdomen. Alfred tangled his fingers into Francis' bedhead and smiled.

"Hey, Francis," Francis looked up from what he'd been doing, which consisted of wiggling his fingers underneath the waistband of Alfred's underwear, to see a very soft look in the younger man's eyes.

"Oui, qu'est-ce que c'est?" Alfred brought his hand down to the cheek of the Frenchman who was blinking up at him.

"I love you." There was a paused as Francis processed what he'd said, and decided whether or not to answer. But his heart swelled and he placed one of his hands atop Alfred's at his face.

"Je t'adore."

And then he proceeded to wiggle Alfred's boxers off and kiss and nibble all over the man who had his heart and who's heart was his.

— — —

/1938-1939/

When Francis had to go at the end of their little excursion, Alfred waved him off and hugged him very tight. Francis wouldn't stop whispering "I'm sorry– I'm sorry, I have to go, mon amour,". Alfred tried to reassure him he understood, that especially with how hectic things were in Europe lately he appreciated that Francis came to see him at all, but Francis was still teary as he boarded the ship that'd take him home.

And so was Alfred. When he went back to his house in D.C., he found himself crying and he didn't understand why. He told himself he'd see Francis again soon enough, that there was nothing to cry over. But then it hit him. What he was upset about was not that he'd miss him, while of course that was true as well, but that he was terrified about being in love.

His heart was no longer his own, and he knew he would put Francis before himself in every way he could.

So when, less than a full year later, France was invaded by Germany, he found himself itching to head overseas.

"Your work is here, Alfred," his boss reminded him, "this isn't our war. Not to mention, it's not as if our economic trouble has vanished. Why're you so concerned about putting everyone here in danger to help out Europe?"

Because I love him. I love him and my heart is breaking that there's nothing I can do. He's suffering and I miss him and I'm scared for him. I love him, I love him, I love him.

"To help now would be our ruin, Alfred."

And still, Alfred thought, I'm willing.

— — —

/1944/

A month or so had passed since the Allied invasion of Normandy. Alfred was battered and bruised, and so was everyone else. You couldn't scarcely go an hour without hearing explosions of some kind as the heat of battle raged on nearby. His grip on his weapon tightened.

I'm on my way Francis, he thought with such solemnity that it was like a silent prayer, I'm coming for you.

— — —

When Alfred finally found Francis, who was a mere ghost of himself and so bloodied that one couldn't even make out the color of his skin or hair, the first thing he wanted to do was lift him into a hug and carry him to safety from the bunker where he'd been kept. But the years he'd spent waiting had done quite a number on him, and he even flinched and shied away from the touch of his lover. Alfred felt his heart shatter as he watched some of the French resistance who were fighting alongside the allies run to him and begin talking to their country rapidly so as to get him to stand up and get running. Francis wouldn't meet his eyes and Alfred was sinking through the floor.

I took too long, he thought, he'll never forgive me.

— — —

/1946/

Alfred was nervous all through the U.N. meeting. Not so much because of the topics discussed or anything, though that was stress-inducing too, but because he and Francis hadn't spoken but a few times since he'd found him two years before. The war was over, thankfully, but he just needed to talk to Francis.

After the meeting closed, he jogged up behind Francis and gently grabbed his arm, causing him to turn.

"Francis, I really–"

"It's okay, mon cher, you don't have to say anything. Je sais. Come stay at my home for a little while, it'll be like before." Alfred smiled tentatively, glad that Francis wasn't cold or standoffish. Why he had expected him to be, he wasn't sure, but nevertheless he was glad.

"I'd love to, but, I was just thinking we could go to my house in New Orleans." He suggested in a voice that was uncharacteristically soft for him. Francis' heart felt light as he smiled at the boy.

"Ah, d'accord. Allons-y!"