Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

August 28, 1939

Matthew Williams scurried through the hallways of the Louvre, his heart beating erratically in his chest, his palms clammy. For the past two days, all around him, men and women hurried to strip the beautiful, old walls of their art, removing the fragile canvases from their frames and packing them carefully into crates. The halls now looked like graveyards for art; on the floor were empty frames leaning against walls marked with white chalk X's, indicating the previous occupant of that space.

The Denon wing, the hall Matthew was currently rushing through, and the hall that was normally crowded with visitors during open hours, was eerily quiet. Even though the wing was active, workers removed the art in hushed conversation as if in reverence. It made Matthew's stomach turn. However, the new burst of sweat at the back of his neck came from a concerning message that had just been delivered.

Matthew had been called to the director's office. Jacques Jaujard, director of the National Museums and the Louvre evacuation, had been making last minute adjustments and confirmations when Matthew entered. Various assistants and curators bustled about the office, a flurry of paperwork and rapid French, and Matthew squeezed between them to reach Jaujard.

"Pardon," Matthew began. "You called, sir?"

Jaujard looked up at him. "Matthew, yes. As you know, we are preparing for departure."

Matthew did know. He'd been anxiously waiting for this moment for two days. "Yes, sir, though I don't know which convoy I'm on."

Jaujard nodded and slid a sheet of paper across his desk. It was a copy of the Lablanche convoy orders. "Since you are Duval's assistant, you will be with him and the Lablanche convoy. That is where you're assigned until further notice."

Matthew scanned the document. He'd been assistant to the curator, Laurent Duval, for two years now. It was a sad day that the Louvre needed to take this action but Matthew firmly believed that the culture and history within these walls were worth more than several of his lives. Considering where he was about to go, for only the Lord knew how long, Matthew couldn't think of anyone he'd rather spend this exile with.

"You'll be heading out at six, so take the next hour to prepare yourself," Jaujard finished.

It was already five in the morning. Matthew wondered when he last ate. He nodded to the unruffled man. "Merci, Monsieur."

"Bon courage, Monsieur Williams."

.

Château de Lablanche, three hours west of Paris, was a large, beautiful château. The white stone walls that gave it its name gleamed in the sun, the lawns that stretched from the gate to the front of the mansion were impeccably green, and bright, healthy red roses bloomed generously on bushes hugging the walls.

Matthew would have felt as giddy as a tourist visiting the centuries old château, but current circumstances kept him from seeing the elegant fortress as anything more than a hideout. Despite the twilight sun, unaware that a dark war was brewing, a cloud of anxiety and uncertainty hovered over the small caravan driving up the château's driveway – and it grew by the hour.

They'd driven through Lablanche a half hour earlier, their whole crew diverting curious eyes and townspeople's questions. Everyone wanted to know what they were transporting, what were those box-shaped things strapped to multiple trucks under tarps? Matthew was given strict orders to remain silent about their cargo.

"Voici," Matthew heard his companion, his supervisor, his colleague say. Yes, here they were. As the leader of their convoy, Laurent Duval stopped the truck, exited, and signaled to the other drivers to stop and begin unloading the cargo. Matthew took a handful of precious seconds to close his eyes where he sat. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the arduous task ahead. Then, with his mind back on track, he slid from the passenger side and joined Duval at the back where they opened the hatch of their truck.

Wooden crates, stamped only with the letters MN, Musées Nationaux, were packed tightly in the truck. With the help of Duval and other crew members, Matthew withdrew each crate and hefted them into the château's open doors. Men and women who worked at the château, footmen to gardeners, maids to cooks, helped direct traffic and stationed themselves in the château to oversee the unloading.

Matthew didn't have time to stop and take in the interior of the splendid mansion. They needed to unload the trucks as quickly as possible, send them back to Paris, and properly situate the crates in the château.

Château de Lablanche was their hideaway. It would be Matthew's new home indefinitely. He, Duval, and twenty other crew members would share residence with their precious cargo – hundreds of pieces of priceless art evacuated that day from Paris.

While military combat was inevitable with the war breaking to the east, Matthew was flung into a different war. He pledged his service to protecting world history, human achievement, and the art of cultures that would otherwise have been lost to modern humanity.

Matthew Williams, Canadian born, did not know how long they would fight for the Louvre and its art. He did not know how long the war would keep him away from his home in Paris. His mind could only handle one thing at a time, and he was focused on unloading the crates. Men and women's voices carried from inside the mansion, directing crates to the basement, the sitting rooms, or the hallways. They worked all through the night, long after the trucks had been sent back to the city; determining the best locations for certain crates and making sure each piece of art survived the trip unscathed.

Some of the maids on staff brought trays of water, bread, and cheese. Matthew had barely noticed them, or whether he accepted food or water, during that time. He worked alongside Duval, checking each crate and marking each piece's condition off on the forms. Low, tentative conversation buzzed around them in the grand salon. It was a shame that such a fine room was to be virtually unusable. The many crates littered and stacked across the room made entertaining, let alone simply sitting, there impossible. It was a shame, but Matthew knew better than to be distracted. He could easily go through each room of the château and think of what a shame it was that it couldn't be enjoyed the way it was meant to. Thinking like that would derail him.

"Matthew, have you eaten?" he suddenly heard Duval ask him through his muddled thoughts.

Matthew pushed his glasses up his nose as he glanced up at Duval. "Hmm? Oh. I think I had some bread and cheese."

"That was hours ago. Lunch will be called in a few moments. Come eat."

Lunch? Matthew jogged his brain and counted back the hours. Yes, they'd arrived in the evening the previous day. It was already noon. Matthew hadn't had more than an hour's rest at a time in three days.

Lunch was served in the dining room. A grand dining table, fifteen feet long, was more than enough room for Matthew, Duval, and the twenty other crew members to sit down to a properly prepared meal. It was also Matthew's first full meal in days.

"Enjoy a full meal while we can," one of the men said. "I should think we'll be rationed soon."

The lunch may have been simple by the château's standards, but it was plentiful by Matthew's. Three courses filled his stomach: a salad that Matthew hadn't had so fresh in ages, soup that delighted on his tongue, and a main course of smoked salmon and vinaigrette crêpes. He sipped on a small glass of white wine that succeeded in mellowing out his frazzled mind.

It was then that the table conversation transitioned from Louvre and war topics in favor of the château itself.

"Will the duke be visiting?" someone asked Duval.

Duval nodded. "I received confirmation that the duke will be arriving within the week. He's to remain here with us."

The man grumbled. "Another mouth to feed and another room to spare."

Duval slanted the man a look. "Be grateful that he lent us his château. It's one of the biggest depots Jaujard acquired. You know how important this location is."

The other man made reluctant noises of acceptance around a mouthful of food.

"Who is the duke again?" Matthew asked Duval in his own hushed tone.

"The Duc de Lablanche, Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy," Duval said.

The name caused a rise in the volume of chatter. "Sounds like a frou-frou to me," Matthew heard someone say.

"It doesn't matter what he's like," Duval said in a leveled tone. "He has graciously offered his services to the Louvre and I will not hear of ill remarks against him."

The deprecating comments had ceased for the time and Matthew felt relaxed. Duval was a friendly man, but he was also stern when he needed to be and his air of authority was never violated. Secretly, he wished he could be more like Duval. Matthew himself was so soft-spoken, and while it worked for his particular job – giving off a pleasant air while guiding tours and speaking in a tone that complemented the sanctity of the Louvre – it wasn't so useful for commanding attention and authority during times of strife. That was his brother's specialty, he thought wryly. He would remain Duval's quiet, efficient assistant.

After most everyone had finished eating, and casual conversation struck up around him, the effects of the meal filling his belly finally pulled on his eyelids. He was nodding off, and Duval noticed.

"When was the last time you slept?" he inquired lowly to Matthew.

Matthew massaged his eyes behind his glasses. "For more than an hour? The night before Jaujard made the orders."

"Mon dieu, Matthew, you'll collapse from exhaustion."

"But we've got more work to do," he replied, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.

"You won't be of much use in a heap on the floor. We're taking shifts now. You and the others head upstairs. The maids will lead you to your bedroom. Sleep, and when you wake up come find me."

Matthew would have protested, but Duval's insistence and his own exhaustion conceded. Matthew and a handful of the others stood from the table and met a group of maids in the hallway.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," a petite young woman said to him. She inclined her head in a respectful bow. The girl looked barely out of her teens, younger than Matthew's twenty-three years at least, but she was quite pretty; she had a neat blonde bob and youthful green eyes. A bow was tied immaculately in her hair. "Venez avec moi, s'il vous plaît. I will show you to your room."

"Merci," Matthew said and followed the girl up the foyer's center staircase.

Some of the men were to be bunked together. There were only three women on their crew so all three shared one of the larger apartments. Matthew noticed that no one followed him as his roommate.

The maid brought him to a room at the end of the hall, a door on the left, which when opened revealed a bedroom smaller than Matthew had anticipated. It might have been a nursery once upon a time. However, Matthew wasn't in a place to complain and frankly didn't care. As long as he had a mattress and a door that shut. The maid told him where he could find the toilet and washroom and provided him with towels. His suitcase was already present, sat at the foot of the luxuriously covered double bed.

"Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle," he said finally. "Comment vous appelez-vous?"

The girl looked almost shocked to be asked such a question, but righted herself quickly. "Lili, Monsieur. Ring the bell here if you need anything." She bowed her head once more and left Matthew to his peace.

He was alone. No roommate. At least for the night. Though the château was indeed large, with over a dozen guest rooms.

Matthew took one of the hand towels Lili provided and set off down the hall to the toilet and washroom. After a splash of water to his face, running cool, wet fingers through dark blond hair, he retreated to his new bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. He felt like he could fall asleep instantly there on top of the duvet. He couldn't hear a thing outside his bedroom and the quiet was missed and welcome.

The conversation over lunch floated through his semi-conscious dreams, one name standing out: the duke, Francis Bonnefoy. Matthew's dream thoughts wondered lazily about him. His colleagues had made jibes at the duke but that didn't mean they were true. He wondered what kind of man Monsieur Bonnefoy was. Was he an art lover? Simply a patriot? Perhaps he was a distinguished gentleman with nothing more to do in his old age than offer his nearly empty home in service of the Louvre.

Whatever kind of man he was, Matthew didn't care much. He thanked him for the bed and the food and promptly fell asleep.

In fact, no one bothered to wake him. No one bothered him for a whole day.

Matthew woke with a start to the sound of car horns blaring through the panes of his window. He blinked in the darkness and saw that it was night, or early morning, he didn't know which. He rubbed his eyes and slid his glasses on. The clock on the mantle showed 10:35. It was night.

Another car horn and raised shouts permeated from the outside and Matthew threw himself out of bed with a speeding pulse and raced to the window. Was it the police? Poachers?

With dread, Matthew wondered if it was the Germans. Were they already here?

"Merde," he breathed harshly and ran from the bedroom.

.

When Matthew raced down the staircase of the foyer that night, only one word was screaming through his head: Germans. They'd found them already. They were going to take the art.

He blazed past Lili making her way up the staircase, not hearing her incredulous exclamations of "Monsieur Williams!"

He charged out the double doors and spotted Duval waving his hands and shouting at a man whose silhouette was backlit by the truck's headlights. Matthew wanted to shout at Duval to stop accosting German soldiers when the sound of his bare feet skidding on the gravel alerted Duval.

He swung his head around and raised an eyebrow at Matthew.

"Is something the matter, Matthew?" he asked.

Matthew panted, severely perplexed. "W-what's going on?"

Duval sighed in exasperation. "This bâtard almost ruined priceless art," he said, indicating toward the man standing across from him, his arms crossed.

The man shifted away from the truck's headlights and Matthew saw that he was not, in fact, a German soldier. He was just a truck driver.

"And I said to you," the man spat, "that I can't control the road conditions or impediments."

This incited another heated argument between Duval, the man, and other workers huddled in front of the truck.

"Hey," Matthew began, raising his voice. Though having just woken up, combined with near-debilitating panic and his naturally soft voice, meant he had to clear his throat and repeat himself. "Hey!" The other men finally ceased arguing and looked to Matthew expectantly.

"Shut up, all of you," he said, catching his breath. "You nearly gave me a heart attack, blaring the horn like that. Now if you're done fighting like children we can get the crates into the house before we really are in danger."

The corner of Duval's lip quirked up. He then shot a glare at the truck driver. "You heard him. Unload the truck already."

The other man grumbled under his breath as the convoy team began transporting the crates.

"Matthew, are you alright?" Duval asked him off to the side.

He ran a hand through his hair. It was starting to curl around his chin and at the back of his neck, and because of his fright stuck there in a cold sweat. "I'm fine. I only just thought the Germans had found us is all. I'm perfect."

Duval studied him amusedly for a moment before breaking into laughter and clapping him on the shoulder. "Ah, Williams. I don't mean to make fun of you," he said, noting Matthew's glare. Duval's expression sobered and in a lower tone he asked, "Really, are you doing okay? You slept for over 24 hours."

Matthew scratched the back of his head, his eyes widening in mild amazement. "Did I? Well, I really haven't slept in days."

"No worries, Matthew. We did little except check the cargo and eat. I heard you got a bedroom to yourself."

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Maybe that's why I slept so long."

"Then you'll be able to take the next shift. Some of the boys are heading up to sleep."

Matthew nodded. "Of course, just tell me what I need to do."

"It's mostly keeping lookout, making sure the crates stay dry down in the basement and all that. We'll be having dinner at one, breakfast at six, then shift change at lunch."

Matthew nodded once more and began to follow Duval into the house. Duval stopped him suddenly with an amused grin on his face. "You might want to put some shoes on first."

Matthew looked down at his bare feet dusty from the gravel and laughed. "Yeah, good idea."

"Meet me in the grand salon when you're ready."

Duval headed back inside the house, moving down the hall away from the stairs. Matthew climbed up and took the chance to change his clothes and refresh himself in the washroom before heading down. He met Lili on the stairs again.

"Lili, bonsoir."

Lili looked up, as if startled by the greeting directed at her. "Bonsoir, Monsieur. Are you finding everything you need?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Have you rested yet?"

Lili nodded quickly. "I have, Monsieur, don't worry about me. I was just heading up for the night. One of the other maids can help you if you need it."

Matthew nodded. "I'm sorry to keep you. Good night."

"Bonne nuit, Monsieur."

"Please, just Matthew is fine."

Lili was about to object, out of pride and duty he was sure, but instead she gave a small smile and nodded. She resumed her climb to the servants' quarters and Matthew continued to the grand salon.

He entered to find Duval speaking with a man, a man in unidentifiable military clothing and a gun strapped to his back. Both turned their heads at Matthew's entrance. The new man looked strikingly similar to Lili, and the question was ready to fire at the tip of Matthew's tongue when Duval spoke first.

"Matthew, this is Mr. Zwingli, our head of security. He also knows the duke and has worked for him before, so he is very knowledgeable about the château. Mr. Zwingli, my assistant, Matthew Williams."

They shook hands and any questions he had for Mr. Zwingli died on his tongue with the way the man leveled a steady glare at him.

"I take security very seriously Mr. Williams," Zwingli said. "For the sake of the Louvre and the sake of Monsieur Bonnefoy. You have my trust."

Matthew swallowed and nodded. On closer inspection, Matthew was sure Zwingli and Lili were related. They had the same eyes, and the same hair. Granted, Lili's was neater and obviously styled. Zwingli's was like a messier, boyish version of hers. Perhaps he'd ask Lili. Later.

Matthew's job that night was to inspect every crate the workers brought in from the recent convoy with Duval and the others. Since the château staff had all retired for the night, it was relatively empty and quiet in the rest of the house. Matthew thought it peaceful. He was able to talk with the others about all topics, ranging from the war to sports.

"Hockey?" one of his fellow workers questioned.

Matthew laughed and said, "I played on a team in Montreal before I moved to Paris. I miss it."

"Maybe we can find a pond frozen over in the winter," the man jeered.

Matthew smirked. "You'll have a face full of puck and your pants filled with frozen pond scum."

Duval laughed. "I'm on his team."

"You play?" Matthew asked.

"Not once."

Matthew chuckled. "We'll see, then."

They worked like that into the morning. As the sun crested over the treetops, the château came alive again. The staff began bustling about, doing as much cleaning as they could around the Louvre workers.

At six, breakfast was served. Lili came to Matthew and Duval with a tray. Breakfast was a light affair: toast with strawberry preserves, a soft-boiled egg, and a glass of juice.

"Lili, can I ask a question?" Matthew said when Duval had shifted away.

"What is it?" she replied.

He bit his lip before taking the plunge. "Are you and Mr. Zwingli related?" Her eyebrows rose and Matthew hurried to add, "I'm sorry if it's personal, you don't have to answer."

Lili shook her head. "No, not at all, Monsieur. He's my older brother," she said frankly. Matthew suspected as much. "Vash helped me get this job. He knows Monsieur Bonnefoy well." She stopped. "I'm sorry, it's not my place to say more."

"I understand." Matthew gulped the last of his juice and returned his plate to her tray. "Thank you, Lili."

"You're welcome, Monsieur Mathieu."

"I told you that you could just call me Matthew."

Lili gave him an uncertain smile. "It would be disrespectful to the Château to address you so casually."

"Why? We're both working here for the time being. I'm no one special."

Again, Lili shook her head with a sigh, then a smile. "Alright, Mathieu. Remember to join the others for lunch. Good day."

Matthew gave her a smile on her way out. It was nice to have a new friend in this unfamiliar place. Hours later, Zwingli entered the room, gun strapped to his back and a handgun at his waist.

He approached Matthew and said, "Mr. Williams. A word."

Matthew stepped aside with him and felt the urge to look away from his intense glare. The power in his glare made his smaller stature no less intimidating. "Is something the matter?" he asked.

"You have been talking with Lili," he began. "I will warn you right now; she is my little sister and I'm protective of her. We will be at war any day now and the last thing she needs is to be wrapped up in it. Do not think about getting involved."

He sure got to the point fast, Matthew thought dryly. "I'm sorry, sir, if it seemed that way. Your sister is just a friend to me. I have no other intentions." Zwingli's frown never wavered. "I promise."

"Fine," he said at last. "Keep that promise."

Zwingli left the room and Matthew heard Duval chuckling behind him.

"So, Zwingli gave you the warning too?"

"Huh?" Matthew blinked.

"He's warned everyone who glances at her a little too long. Don't take it personally."

"She's really just a friend."

Duval clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him around to the crates. "Don't worry, Williams. We're all practically married to the art anyway, right?"

Matthew laughed. "Right. Can't let La Jaconde know of my escapades."

Duval gave another laugh and shook his arm. "Damn right. Speaking of which, Jaujard called earlier. He said that her current location isn't fit to keep her. We'll be getting her soon."

Matthew's jaw dropped. "Mona Lisa? Here?"

"Yes, but don't tell anyone else yet. I don't want a frenzy to reach outside ears."

"Of course."

Duval gave his shoulder one last pat and they resumed work until lunch.

Lunch was similar to the one Matthew remembered from the other day. Three simple courses, light banter, and half of the crew retired upstairs for a shift change with the men and women waking up from their night's rest. Duval told Matthew to go upstairs too, but he shook his head.

"I slept for a whole day. I'll switch at the 10:00 shift."

Duval cocked a brow and glanced down at Matthew's plate. "At least have another serving. You eat like a bird."

Matthew stuttered protests but Duval hailed a server and Matthew was faced with another slice of quiche. He could eat more, though he usually didn't. However, he didn't want to disrespect the house or the chef. After lunch was cleared the group returned to working, inspecting crates, maneuvering pieces to the best locations, and doing paperwork for the Louvre.

Something light was in the air that day and by the late afternoon the company was all in good spirits. Some of the men would say they were enjoying as much war-free time as possible, but even Matthew decided to join in once the château's wine cellar had been discovered.

Trust the duke to keep the good stuff. As the sun lowered behind the trees ringing the property, Matthew and the others laughed, danced, and sang with the assistance of aged wine. Some of the men pulled the maids into their arms, laughing, as they danced with them, though Lili wasn't in tonight's company. Perhaps that was a good thing. Zwingli simply rolled his eyes from the sidelines. The few women in their crew danced with Matthew in turns. They were colleagues, and Matthew enjoyed the little fête.

The late night shift change descended and Duval sobered himself enough to announce it. He himself staggered up the stairs to bed and Matthew followed soon after.

He could still hear the laughter and gaiety from downstairs. The upstairs hallways were more dimly lit which only made Matthew sleepier. He made it to the end of the hall and stumbled over the corner of the rug, and into the bedroom on the right. The door had looked the same.

His heavily buzzed brain didn't pick out the fact that this bedroom was greatly larger than his own. He didn't notice that the canopy bed could have fit six men comfortably, he didn't notice the settee and armchairs in front of the grand fireplace, and he didn't notice the doors leading to a private bathroom and dressing room.

Matthew clumsily stripped down to his underwear and flopped onto the most luxurious bed he'd ever lain on. He managed to get his glasses onto the side table before the alcohol threw him into deep sleep.

.

A slight headache woke him in the morning. Hazy sunlight slipped through the cracks of his eyes and Matthew rolled away from the window with a groan.

Everything happened too fast for Matthew's hung over brain.

Through blurry vision, an odd, human shaped outline caught his eye. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked up at what was certainly a person. The person was standing over Matthew.

"Merde!" Matthew shrieked and threw himself back. His legs were tragically tangled in the silky sheets and he rolled back and off the edge of the bed. He landed on his hip and shoulder and ground out, "Fils de pute!"

"Excusez-moi?"

Matthew froze, a cold sweat breaking on his skin. He stopped to take stock of where he was. This wasn't his assigned bedroom. What happened the night before? He stumbled down the hallway and… took the door to the right. He didn't know what was in this room at the time – he figured it was another bedroom. But this bedroom was ten times as nice as his little room. That must mean…

Matthew slowly peeked over the edge of the bed. A man stood at the other side, where Matthew had woken up. He wore an immaculate, dark suit, his hands clasped behind his back. His chin was raised confidently and his blue eyes questioned Matthew. Shoulder length blond hair was tied loosely back with a sky blue ribbon and it gleamed bright and golden.

Matthew stood slowly. "Um… bonjour, Monsieur."

"Bonjour," the man said slowly, cautiously.

Matthew wished for merciful death once he realized two things: the first being that, even in his slightly unfocused vision, the man was beautiful; and the second…

I just swore like a degenerate in front of the man who may or may not be the duke.

Chapter Text

The silk sheet was still twisted around his legs, immobilizing him. Matthew felt his ears go hot, realizing what had just come out of his mouth moments ago.

"Ah, I apologize. I- I didn't mean to call you a… well, never mind." Matthew looked down.

He was in his underwear.

He quickly grabbed his clothes, yanked the sheet away from his legs, and haphazardly threw on his shirt and trousers. "I'm terribly sorry, sir. I- The hallway was dark last night. I must have entered the wrong room." It was half-truth.

If Matthew had been paying attention more and flushing less, he would have seen the small, amused smile curling at the duke's lips. In any case, he grabbed the rest of his things and bolted for the door.

And promptly smacked into the wall.

The man chuckled behind him and Matthew turned to see a blurry figure approaching him. The duke stopped just before him and Matthew wished he could phase through the wall, away from his noble gaze. "Are these yours, Monsieur…"

"Williams," he squeaked. "O-oui, merci." He took his glasses from the duke's gloved hand and slipped them on. Matthew flinched. His face was closer than he thought. He could see the deep sapphire irises, the long nose, and the carefully maintained growth at his chin. "Um. Good day, sir," he said at last and bounded across the hall and into his bedroom.

Matthew fell against the door and groaned. Had he just slept in the duke's bedroom? And had the duke appeared over him that morning? Matthew wouldn't leave this room, he decided. He'd stay here and be a lookout from his window.

Minute by minute his nerves settled and he berated himself for the foolish thinking. He just needed to clean himself up and continue his job. He glanced at a mirror over his mantle and frowned at the state his hair was in.

What a great first impression he'd given the duke. Half naked and disheveled.

Matthew dressed and descended the stairs, looking for the crew. It was between breakfast and lunch so workers were spread about the grounds. Matthew hunted down Duval and found him in the grand salon with others.

"Please give me a job to do right now," Matthew whispered intently.

"What?"

"Anything, please."

Duval looked over Matthew's shoulder and he grinned. "Ah, Monsieur Bonnefoy!"

Matthew's heart pounded at the name. He turned to see the immaculate form of the duke entering the room, walking with grace and elegance. Was he imagining the little smirk he sent Matthew's way?

Duval shook hands with the duke and he introduced him to Matthew. "This is the Duc de Lablanche, Francis Bonnefoy. I don't think you've met yet."

Bonnefoy smiled at him. "Non, you must have been hiding away somewhere."

Duval didn't pick up on the inside joke, but Matthew could have sunk into the ground.

Matthew swallowed and greeted him. "Matthew Williams," he said, shaking the duke's white-gloved hand.

"He's my assistant," Duval explained. "And a very diligent worker."

"Good to know you won't be sleeping on the job then."

Alright, now he was just playing with him. Matthew narrowed his eyes by the tiniest fraction but Francis remained unperturbed. He turned to face the room and spread his arms out.

"Ah, it's… different to see my grand salon filled with crates instead of partygoers."

"We apologize, Monsieur," Duval said. "You'll have it back when the threat of war is gone."

Francis shook his head, tendrils of blond hair swaying. "Nothing to apologize for. As long as France's art is safe you do what you must."

"Thank you," Duval said with an inclination of his head.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy," Zwingli said from the doorway of the salon.

"Zwingli! Mon frère!" Francis said, his face alight with a friendly humor.

"If you're not busy, I need to go over the security plans with you," Zwingli replied, as serious as ever.

"Of course." Francis turned to them. "Please, continue as you were. Monsieur Duval," he nodded gracefully. He shifted that amused gaze to Matthew and in return Matthew could do no more than dumbly quirk his lips up in what he hoped was a smile. "Monsieur Williams."

Francis left the room with a flourish, his arm coming around Zwingli's shoulders as they walked out.

One of Matthew's coworkers mumbled under his breath, "What did I tell you? He's a frou-frou , alright."

Duval shot a warning glare at him but the man simply shrugged and returned to his work.

He sure was something. Matthew breathed a sigh of relief, glad that it seemed no one knew of the mistake Matthew made the night before, or his embarrassment this morning. He'd never hear the end of it if the others knew.

After the lunch shift change, Matthew was working alongside Duval when one of the workers burst into the salon. He approached Duval and gave him a sealed letter. It was from Jaujard in Paris.

Matthew watched Duval open it there and begin to read, remaining quiet until Duval spoke again.

"Things are progressing quickly. And not in a positive direction," he said. "It won't be long now before war is declared."

Matthew swallowed a lump in his throat. His hands felt clammy but his mind focused on their task.

"Any more news from the Louvre?" he asked Duval.

Duval folded the letter and shoved it into his back pocket. "Jaujard is sending one last convoy to Lablanche. She's on it. They'll be arriving late tonight." He gave a reassuring smile to Matthew. "Come, we'll need to make space for the new arrivals."

Matthew began to wonder what the impending war meant for them, but he quickly dispelled those thoughts. Nothing official had been declared yet, he shouldn't worry over that. He needed to be focused on his job. Their next load of cargo would be some of the most important yet. His job was to protect centuries-old, priceless art. It was more than that, it was history. Again, he silently thanked Francis Bonnefoy for his dedication to the country's beloved belongings. He hoped it'd be enough.

.

September 3, 1939

Matthew's hands shook with awe and fear. In all honesty, they'd been shaking for over a day, and understandably so; the Mona Lisa was in their possession and she currently inhabited the space under Matthew's bed.

How was he even supposed to sleep at night knowing the most priceless artifact, the most important piece of history lie under him while he slept? As he lie in bed, he could almost feel her secretive gaze burning into his back. So he'd flip onto his stomach, but then he felt awkward lying over her like that, her little smirk right below him. On his side, it as easier to ignore the weight of duty placed upon him. He could gaze out the window until the moonlight and the breezes lulled him to sleep.

He'd get an hour's worth of sleep until he was jerked awake. It was like that feeling of falling combined with remembering a forgotten thing. His mind told him he couldn't lower his guard for one moment, and so kept him awake.

Duval and the others had ultimately decided on Matthew's room as the hiding place for La Jaconde. After all, his bedroom was a single room at the end of the hall, away from the grand salon. In case of robberies or Germans they'd at least have time to move her away without suspicion.

Matthew agreed to their plan, seeing the logic, but he didn't take into account the mental repercussions.

It was five in the morning on that day, the 3rd. The light of dawn stretched over the trees and Matthew gave up trying to sleep. He changed his clothes, washed his face, cast a protective glance at the crate under his bed, and sought out something downstairs to distract him.

Matthew approached Duval in the foyer. Duval turned on him with wide eyes.

"Matthew, you look terrible, my friend."

He cringed. "Thank you, Laurent."

Duval shook his head. "I'm sorry, but have you looked at yourself today? You have been sleeping, right?"

Matthew glanced to the side, where the large mirror hung over an entryway table. He hadn't, in fact, noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the slump to his shoulders, and the unruliness of his hair, which he'd tried to tame. "Well," Matthew began. He didn't know what to say.

Duval sighed. "I put too much responsibility on you. You're worrying yourself sick about her aren't you?"

Matthew was quick to deny it. "No, no, I'm… I'm fine. I'm getting used to it."

"We can move her if it's too much for you. There are other safe locations in this house."

Matthew smiled. "I'll be fine."

"Okay," he replied, exhaling a breath. "Breakfast is soon. Relax until then."

Two loud woofs punctuated the statement and both men turned to find Kuma lumbering toward them.

Duval's expression was neutral, Matthew's was delighted.

He knelt and the huge, white dog bathed his face in licks and snuffles. Matthew laughed and ruffled his thick coat, jingling the pure silver ID tag attached to an artisan leather collar.

Kuma was Francis Bonnefoy's dog. When he first met the dog Matthew truly wondered if it really was Francis's. He wouldn't have pegged the guy with a dog the size of a small horse and the thickest white coat, drooping jowls and sober, characteristic eyes. Granted he was fit for his size and his coat as healthy as money could buy.

Kuma had taken a sudden, but welcome attachment to Matthew. Matthew didn't mind in the slightest.

"Where's your owner, huh Kuma?" he said, ruffling the dog's ears.

He received hot panting breaths in his face as a reply.

"Why don't you take him for a walk around the grounds? It'll be a good distraction." Duval's voice came from behind.

Matthew stood and brushed off his pants. "That sounds nice. Send someone for me if you need me."

Duval simply smiled and waved them off.

Matthew scratched Kuma behind the ears and he followed Matthew loyally out the front doors. The tiniest sliver of dawn was breaking through the trees and the early morning mist felt cool on his skin. Kuma tromped beside him, sniffing the grass.

Matthew meandered around the property, never having been able to really see it until now. He'd been so occupied by the art, and then he only saw the grand salon, the dining room, and his bedroom.

Kuma wandered around him, never straying more than fifteen feet, lumbering from one side to the other in search of scents to sniff. Matthew watched the sky lighten as the sun rose. His mind was perfectly at ease.

Kuma sniffed around the base of an old oak and Matthew dropped himself beside it, gazing upwards into the canopy. The air was warming and combined with the exercise it was lulling Matthew to sleep. He succumbed to it, stretching out on his back, hands folded across his stomach, ankles crossed.

Kuma huffed and curled himself at Matthew's head, resting his muzzle on his shoulder. Matthew smiled and smoothed the top of Kuma's head before falling asleep to the dog's steady breathing and the sounds of nature around him.

.

How long Matthew had been asleep, he didn't know. All he knew was that he woke to footsteps crunching the grass and the brighter light of mid to late morning.

Matthew blinked and rubbed his eyes, blearily noting Kuma's excited wagging.

The newcomer was Francis Bonnefoy, and Matthew quickly sat up, twisting a kink out of his back.

"Look at you, silly dog," Francis said when he approached them. "Lying about like some common hound."

There was no real chastisement in his words and Matthew laughed. "He found me earlier so I took him for a walk."

To Matthew's surprise, Francis sat down next to him on the grass and welcomed the snuffling nose of his dog into his arms.

Matthew watched them and Francis noticed.

"Didn't expect to see someone like me with this kind of dog, did you?" he asked with a knowing glint in his eye.

Matthew laughed and scratched the back of his head. "Not really, no. What breed is he?"

"Great Pyrenees," Francis answered. "A poodle would probably fit the image better, right?"

Matthew tried to imagine it. "Now that I'm seeing it, I couldn't picture you with any other kind."

Francis cooed praises to Kuma, who accepted the words and scratches with a blissful smile. "I originally got him thinking he would make a good guard dog. It wasn't long before I realized that Kuma would sooner snuggle the enemy to death rather than attack him."

Matthew snickered, thinking the same. He then voiced a question that had been on his mind. "His name though, Kuma. It's not French."

"No. That is a short, but fairly interesting story," Francis began. "A few years ago a friend of mine, japonais, was visiting. Monsieur Honda's father had dealings in Lyon and he came as an assistant. Since I had inherited the château by that time I was scheduled to arrange some things with them too. The three of us had lunch and when Monsieur Honda's father stepped out for a business call, we spent the rest of the day touring the city. The dog came in rather unexpectedly." He paused to stroke Kuma, who had settled himself between the two men. "A breeder was in town, showing Kuma's litter in a little pet store. I must admit I have a weakness for the soft and fluffy, as I came out with this lazy thing. An unplanned purchase, but one of the best I've ever made. My friend told me he looked like a little bear. A kuma, he said.

"It fit remarkably well, and there you have it."

"You have friends all over the place, don't you?" Matthew inquired. He'd never known anyone from as far away as Japan.

Francis shrugged. "It comes with the territory."

Matthew bowed his head and picked at dirt underneath his nails. "This might sound stupid," he said. "But why are you talking to me, Monsieur Bonnefoy?"

"Stupid," Francis repeated, as if contemplating it. "Because it is a beautiful morning," he sighed. "Because my dog has a hidden troublesome streak. Because my house is no longer quiet. And because we're equals now."

Matthew lifted his face and Francis was watching him with soft blue eyes and a gentle upturn to his lips.

"Equals." Matthew held his gaze.

"War tends to do that."

"You're sure that there will be war?"

"I know that the country is already facing food shortages, that men are gearing to fight above and below ground, figuratively speaking."

Matthew exhaled and his shoulders slumped, his gaze falling to his limp hands. "That means the art is still in danger," he mumbled to himself.

"But Matthew," Francis said gently and Matthew glanced up at him, his patient face knowingly pleased. "I'm also talking to you because I find you stimulating company. I have a house full of people, more people than I have ever had at one time, but I see a friend in you. If you'd like."

Matthew wordlessly nodded, secretly immensely relieved to hear him say that. It's not that Duval and his coworkers weren't enough, but getting to know Francis would be something new to distract him with through this impending ordeal. "I'd be… honored."

Francis grinned. "No need to speak of honor, Mathieu. We are friends now, remember?"

He couldn't help it. Matthew grinned back. "Right."

Francis shifted on the grass, making to stand. Before he did, he clasped Matthew's shoulder in his hand. Matthew stared at it, and then his face.

"One last thing," Francis said. " 'Monsieur Bonnefoy' is a little too formal, don't you think?"

Matthew chuckled. "I guess so, Francis."

Francis grinned and squeezed his shoulder before letting go. He finally stood and whistled for Kuma. "Lunch should be served soon, let's go," he called over his shoulder.

Matthew stood as well and paused. He could still feel the ghost of Francis's hand on his shoulder.

It was still warm.

.

That night Matthew stood in his bedroom, staring at the space underneath the bed. The space where the Mona Lisa slept. He wanted to get in bed, but he didn't. He didn't think he could sleep any better than the night before and wondered how many sleepless nights were ahead of him. But it was late, and he needed to try to sleep.

His bedroom door was suddenly nosed open by Kuma's furry mug. The dog trotted in like he owned the place, which in a weird way, Matthew thought, he sort of did. Kuma bypassed him in favor of jumping onto the bed, turning in circles, and finally laying himself down with a huff.

Matthew stared at him, then at the door. He peeked out the door, wondering if Francis was close behind. The hallway was dimly lit, and empty. Matthew turned back to Kuma, whose droopy eyes flickered back and forth over his face.

Matthew sighed and resigned himself to sharing the bed with Kuma. He lifted his undershirt over his head and changed into his pajama pants before sliding in under the covers. Curling around Kuma's body he could instantly feel the dog's warmth. Kuma himself shifted once Matthew was done, turning so his head was near Matthew's.

"Do you sleep with Francis?" Matthew quietly asked, smiling at the way the dog's eyes blissfully squinted shut. He stroked his smooth head for a peaceful few moments. He missed the smell of a dog. When Matthew closed his eyes, he breathed in the scent of dog and was brought back to his youth and his childhood pet.

Matthew fell asleep promptly, breathing in sync with Kuma.

.

Matthew was woken from dreamless sleep by his bedroom door swinging open and light footsteps on the carpet. He blinked his eyes open and saw Lili from over Kuma's back.

"I'm sorry to wake you like this, Matthew," she said, inclining her head in a small bow, "but Monsieur Duval requires your presence in the dining room."

Matthew pushed himself up and knit his brows. "Duval? What time is it?"

"Five-forty, monsieur. He wanted to make an announcement at breakfast."

He slid on his glasses and Lili's anxious eyes told him that she knew something. "Alright. Thank you, Lili."

She nodded again and closed the door behind her as she left. Matthew rubbed his face and withdrew a new set of clothes from the armoire. Kuma lifted his head and wagged his tail across the bedspread. After he finger-combed his hair back, he beckoned to Kuma.

"Let's go, boy."

The dog jumped from the bed and followed Matthew down the hall, the stairs, and into the dining room where his other coworkers were filing in and sitting. Duval and Francis stood at the head of the table, in front of the buffet. Francis spared his dog a quick glance but held Matthew's gaze. Matthew's eyes darted between him and Duval as he took his usual seat.

The hushed chatter fell silent and Duval cleared his throat.

"Coworkers, colleagues," he began. "This morning is no different than every morning we've spent at Château de Lablanche and our job remains the same as yesterday. However, the stakes have risen significantly. France and Great Britain have declared war on Germany."

Voices immediately swelled in the room; protests, useless threats to enemies far away, disbelief between coworkers. Matthew remained silent, a lump in his throat.

Duval raised his voice to quiet the uproar. "Our job remains to protect the art by any means. Jaujard is still in Paris and we still receive our orders from him. No matter what happens, we have a duty to art, to France, to history."

Duval exhaled, having calmed the group. "Don't let this distract you. We're fighting a different kind of war here, and as long as we have Duke Bonnefoy's support, we will continue like always."

Francis nodded. "The château is not immune to the world; already the country is being rationed. But as long as you work under this roof, I promise you will not want for basic comforts."

Sincerity shimmered in his eyes, and Matthew instinctively moved his hand to stroke Kuma's head, who sat dutifully beside him. Matthew caught Francis's eye and he gave him a small, sad smile.

Francis excused himself and the hushed room resumed the acts of gathering food, albeit more somberly.

Matthew stared down at his fingers stroking through Kuma's fur. The dog panted happily.

A clink and the sound of someone sliding into place next to him. A plate of food now sat in front of him and Duval next to him.

"Eat up, Matthew," he said.

He ate robotically, only able to finish a portion before pushing the plate away and standing up. "I'm sorry," he said. "I need some air."

Kuma followed him, needing no command, and Matthew walked out of the house.

He sat at the base of the stone steps, watching the light grow on the horizon. Kuma sat next to him, tail wagging, princely and smiling. Matthew sighed and ruffled his fur, laughing into the soft white. To be as carefree as a dog.

"It's too beautiful of a morning for such news, hmm?"

Matthew looked up. "Mo– Francis."

Francis hummed, his hands held nobly behind his back.

"I was only a child during the Great War," he said, taking a seat next to Matthew. "And even then I didn't fully understand. My maman and I spent a lot of time in Switzerland, with the Zwingli family–that is how I came to know Vash. Their family was in security, and friends of my father. It was a safe place for us."

Matthew found himself listening intently, hands moving absently over Kuma's fur.

"Then the war was over and I grew up learning how to be my father's successor. I'm not much of a fan of war," he said, chuckling under his breath. "I'm afraid I'm more of a coward than a fighter. But I have to put on a brave face for everyone. I've got a full house to provide for."

Matthew thought it was pretty brave of him to admit that to an acquaintance like himself. He swallowed and forced himself to say what even he wasn't so sure of. "We'll be okay."

Francis smiled. "We'll be okay," he repeated, affirmed. He turned to Matthew. "Would you like to take a walk?"

Kuma's wagging increased in excitement at the word. Matthew nodded, standing to join Francis. "I would."

Chapter Text

June 3^rd, 1940

            Nine months into war. Life was bleaker than at any point in the last two decades. May was not a particularly fortunate month. The Germans were pushing forward in late May, and in early June the country was holding its breath in tragic anticipation of the seizure of Paris. Bombs fell around Paris on that day, the 3^rd.

            Bombs also fell worryingly close to various château depots around the valley. The threat of Germans finding the châteaux was a higher and higher possibility. Matthew slept soundly less and less as the months had worn on.

            Now that the Germans and their bombs were closer, Jaujard had issued further evacuation of the Louvre’s highest priority art. Matthew spent days with his crew dashing about Lablanche, collecting the works deemed most important and sending them farther south on new convoys. The initial evacuation from Paris had been planned over a period of ten years. The second evacuation was an earnestly slapdash effort to keep as much safe as they could.

            With every piece that left Lablanche, the grip of panic grew tighter around Matthew’s heart. They were already experiencing the negatives war brought on – food shortages, constant anxiety, lowered morale. The fit and able men who worked for Monsieur Bonnefoy had begun leaving to join the army, or fall into the ranks of the growing Resistance. The maids that were left took up all the extra work, and murmured between themselves about their fates.

            Even Francis questioned it.

            “Our ways of life were already changing before this war,” he said to Matthew one night. “This world has no use for grand, numerously staffed estates anymore.”

            Matthew swirled the rest of his wine in the glass. They were careful to ration even Francis’s cellar.

            “I don’t think there’s no more use for it,” he said. “I think Lablanche will always be here. It’s history, it’s a part of this town.”

            Francis smiled. “You have a unique point of view, Mathieu.”

            Matthew shrugged. “I’m a historian.”

            Francis looked fondly into the distance, sighing. “Lablanche has been in my family since the time of Francis the first.”

            “So what does that make you? Francis the twentieth?”

            He laughed, laying his glittering blue gaze on him. “No actually, I am the one and only.”

            Matthew nudged his shoulder and drained the rest of his wine.

June 20^th, 1940

            News of the Germans’ arrival into Paris on the 14^th – the raising of the Nazi flags along the rue de Rivoli and the commandeering of the French navy headquarters and various hotels – settled like a sickness in Matthew’s gut. Even the first members of the Gestapo had arrived. As the days wore on, the thought that they would be found buzzed in his brain like a sixth-sense. He didn’t know when they would come, but they were coming. He could feel it, and he had no clue of what would happen when they did. He could only feel immensely relieved that La Joconde was moved further south and, as far as they knew, still safe.

            Amongst their team, everyone had different methods of dealing with the daily struggles, the constant anxiety. Francis opened his library to them all, and many could be found borrowing a new book nearly every week. It was an effective form of escape, Matthew thought, but not his preference. Matthew’s routine involved Kuma and daily walks around the property. By now he’d seen every inch of land, knew the grounds as well as Francis did.

            They talked a lot about it, and they spent much time doing just that – talking. Never in his life did Matthew think he would be friends with a duke.

            But Francis wasn’t there that day. Matthew had become like a second father to Kuma, and the dog’s presence help soothe his mind.

Matthew left the house in the afternoon, while Kuma was napping in the grand salon, beginning his usual route around the château grounds. He’d practically worn a path through the grass and the trees, it was the way he always went.

            He didn’t allow himself to think about anything, letting himself instead be amongst the quiet.

            Francis had been gone three days. He’d been gone longer before, but at that moment, Matthew found himself missing him more than at any other time. Perhaps it was his company he missed, his conversation. He was such an easy person to be around. Perhaps he was just worried for him. Matthew worried a lot nowadays, and the thought that Francis could be captured, even killed, was almost constantly on his mind.

 .

            Matthew stood with his face tilted to the sky. The same sky that shooting stars and bombs fell from. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until a deep, barking voice startled him.

            He swung around and was faced with three men in dark military uniforms. Two were holding rifles aimed straight at him. The third stood between them, hands linked behind his back.

            The man in the center spoke again. Germans. Matthew felt his heart drop to his feet. He could do nothing but stand rooted to the ground in fear.

            It turned out that he didn’t need to move himself. The gunmen came forward anyway; one yanking his arms behind his back until his shoulders sang out in pain, the other shoving the end of the gun under his chin. Matthew swallowed, his pulse racing in his throat.

            The gunman in front of him began barking questions, but Matthew couldn’t understand. He stuttered that much, saying over and over in French that he didn’t speak German.

            The third man, who had been watching with blasé nonchalance, spoke to the man. He ended the man’s relentless questions, but the gun remained trained on Matthew.

            “Did you come from the château, just up ahead?” he asked.

            There was no point lying when they seemed to know about the château already. “Yes.”

            “And what are you doing?”

            “Just taking a walk.”

            Matthew choked when the man raised the gun higher.

            “I’m just taking a walk,” he repeated, voice catching.

            The man Matthew decided to call their officer made a humming noise. “It’s a little thoughtless to take a simple stroll at a time like this, no?”

            Matthew decided not to answer.

            The officer said something to the gunmen and the man behind Matthew started pushing him toward the road. It was a wonder that Matthew’s legs were working.

            The men led him around the trees to a group of vehicles, two cars bearing the Nazi symbol and a canvas covered supply truck. The gunmen hauled him unceremoniously into the back of the truck, onto the bench, the gun shoved into his back between his shoulder blades.

            His arms were still wrenched behind him but Matthew dared not make a sound. He only counted to five as he inhaled, and exhaled. The rumbling of the truck on the gravel wasn’t helping the pain.

            Finally, the truck stopped and the soldier hauled him back out, pushing him up the driveway of the château. Matthew could see Duval, Zwingli, and some of the other men already pouring out the doors. Zwingli had a hand on the pistol at his waist. For once, the automatic was not strapped to his back and Matthew’s pulse raced with dread.

            They waited in shock and worry at the base of the stairs while the drivers of the cars parked and signaled to the leader. The German officer then nodded to the soldiers in the same way as before, and the two men on either side of Matthew held their rifles aimed casually at him.

            His legs were shaking. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep standing.

            “What is the meaning of this?” Duval demanded.

            The officer said, “Is this your boy?”

            “Yes, and I would appreciate it if you release him this instant.”

            The officer ignored that request. “I have orders to put Château de Lablanche under German supervision.”

            “Whose orders?”

            “Those of my commander, Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel.”

            Duval’s brow creased, thinking. “And what are your orders, exactly?”

            The officer straightened his shoulders. “France, and Paris, are now under German authority, I am sure you know. German soldiers are already stationed at Chambord.” The name of the Louvre’s largest depot site caused Duval’s eyes to sharpen. “The Louvre’s evacuation plans are not secret. Our intention is not to take the art away from the château, merely to protect it, for now,” he added with a half-smile.

            “We are protecting it now,” Duval replied. The officer stepped closer to him, and Matthew prayed Duval wouldn’t get them into more of a mess than they already were.

            “Think of it as a little extra security,” the officer said, his true meaning bleeding through. He turned around and walked back to his soldiers.

            “Wait a minute,” Duval said suddenly, and Matthew internally implored him not to speak out against the men. “I’ve had no reports from Paris about this. You can’t assert yourself here without proof.”

            “You will have proof enough in time,” he said icily.

            “That is not–”

            Matthew needed him to stop talking. “Laurent, don’t–” but the wind was promptly knocked out of him when his kidney took a blow from the stock of one of the soldier’s guns.

            “I suggest you keep a tighter leash on your boys,” the officer added after Matthew had ceased gasping and regained breath.

            But Duval kept going, and Matthew was too absorbed in the shock of pain to tell him to quit already. When he’d been struck, Duval and Zwingli, and a handful of the men who came out with them all started raising their voices.

            Matthew didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if there was anything for him to do. His mind was racing a mile a minute, his torso was seizing with pain, and dread flooded him.

None of mattered, evidently. Metal struck Matthew’s head next and his legs finally gave out, the gravel grinding into his knees. He felt his glasses fall off his face, a crunch, and then all the roaring sounds around him ceased, like the volume on the radio being cut.

.

            When Matthew woke the first thing he was aware of was the stabbing pain in his side. And then the back of his head. He groaned, and a weight shifted itself next to him on the… bed – he was in bed.

            Matthew scrubbed a hand over his eyes and blinked them open. Without his glasses, though, the figure was slightly blurry. But the unmistakable tail of blond hair told him who his visitor was.

            “Francis,” he started, trying to sit up. That action hurt more than lying still did.

            “Don’t sit up,” Francis said. “I am sure you’re in pain.”

            “It doesn’t hurt that much,” he lied. Matthew groped around the side table for his glasses.

            “They were broken, in the scuffle,” Francis supplied. “I’m sorry.”

            Matthew was saddened, and annoyed, at the thought that his only pair of glasses was now trash. Instead of dwelling on it, he said, “You heard what happened?”

            Francis hung his head. “I feel horrible, Mathieu. I returned in time to help Duval settle the agreements with the Germans, but I was still too late to keep you from being hurt.”

            Matthew swallowed. “You don’t know that – that you could have stopped it.”

            “I could have tried.”

            He looked down at his hands, picking at his nails. “They were right though. It’s not safe anymore to go traipsing about the grounds. I should have known better.”

            “You are no more at fault than they had any right to barge in as they did. No blaming yourself, I won’t have it.”

            Matthew chuckled. “Oui, Monsieur.”

            The pain kept reminding him of what happened, and the more he thought about it, the more Matthew was less angry, or scared. He was mostly embarrassed that he’d fainted at the feet of German soldiers. In his defense, he’d been perpetually exhausted, frazzled, and concerned for Francis, which was why he went on the walk in the first place. Add on the stress of being captured, being held at gunpoint, and the shocks to his body when the soldier struck him, twice. He supposed he didn’t have to feel embarrassed then. But Francis had come back soon after…

            “What time is it?” he asked.

            “Dinner time, as a matter of fact.”

            Matthew tried to pull his legs out from under the covers. He had to move slowly, due to the pain. “I’ll come.”

            Francis put a hand on his shoulder. “You should stay here. I will bring you a tray.”

            Matthew shook his head. “I feel useless sitting in bed. I’ll just come down to dinner.”

            So he stood anyway, and Francis’s arm slid around him to help him stand and support his weight, and Matthew was glad for it, especially since he’d probably trip down the stairs without him.

            “Mathieu.”

            “Yes?”

            “I promise I will keep something like this from happening again.”

            He wanted to say that it was impossible to control such an unstable thing, impossible to control them, but Matthew only smiled to himself, feeling better once again now that Francis was back.

Chapter Text

It was nearing the end of Day 3 without his glasses. Everything looked like blurry blobs. Matthew hardly touched anything, didn’t dare touch anything that resembled the crates.

            He never left the inside of the house. The Germans were here to stay, stationed at the entryway to the château. Matthew still had a bruise on his lower back, and it hurt whenever he twisted too much. He’d already been humiliated in front of them once, it didn’t matter if the soldiers were different each day – he was already too wary of them.

            Lili kept him company much of the time. They hadn’t had as much time to talk in recent months. He was glad for her friendship. And it seemed each day that passed gave him more reason to appreciate Francis’s.

            Matthew finished his modest dinner – they were growing more and more modest each week – and he stroked his fingers through Kuma’s fur. Sitting dutifully beside him, Kuma walked with him as Matthew left the room and approached the stairs.

            No matter how much he strove to pay attention, his foot still caught on the lip of the first step.

            “Shit,” he hissed low, falling forward. Two hands secured him at his elbow, pulled him upright. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

            “It was nothing,” Francis said, amusement tingeing his voice.

            “Francis, where did you come from?”

            “From the shadows, lurking.”

            Matthew scoffed. “You’re good at lurking like Kuma makes a good seeing-eye dog.”

            Francis laughed. “Another flaw to add to his list.”

            Kuma panted from where Matthew recognized his shape standing at the top of the stairs.

            Francis kept a hold of his arm as they climbed.

            “I should tell you that you have an appointment tomorrow morning,” Francis said.

            “What do you mean?”

            He could hear the smile in his voice when Francis said, “We’re going into town. The doctor will make you a new pair of glasses.”

            Matthew’s jaw dropped. “Francis… that’s too much.”

            “It’s too much to be able to see so you can do your job?”

            He bit his lip, knowing when he was beat. “But Francis, it must be expensive, especially at a time like this.”

            “Mathieu, you cannot see well enough to do any of your work, and you’ll only hurt yourself more.” Matthew pouted. “I am able to get you new glasses, and so I shall.”

            Honestly, it was a blessing. “Thank you,” he whispered.

            “Think nothing of it.” They stopped in front of Matthew’s door. “I will see you tomorrow.”

            Kuma strolled into his room. “I suppose he’s with me tonight.”

            Francis chuckled. “I’ll give him the chance to redeem himself. Bonne nuit.”

            “Bonne nuit.”

            He closed the door behind him, leaned against it and sighed out a breath.

.

            “How are we getting into town?”

            “In my car, naturally.”

            Matthew swallowed. That meant they’d have to pass the German soldiers.

            “There is no need to worry. They’ve already inspected the car. Their only orders are to make sure none of the art goes out.”

            He shifted on his feet and jerked forward when Francis started walking ahead. They were taking his open-top car – Matthew really couldn’t hide from them now. He buckled himself in and saw the soldiers’ blurry figures ahead on the driveway.

            “Nothing to worry about,” Francis reassured. They approached the soldiers and he said pleasantly, “We’ll be back this afternoon.”

            The Germans said not a word, but Matthew could faintly see them nod. Finally they were past the gates and Matthew could breathe a little easier.

            “See? All is well.”

            “What about when we come back?”

            “They’ll do another inspection, but no more than that. It was one of our terms, Mathieu, for compromising on their being stationed here.”

            Matthew’s concern for their own well-being lessened, but the entire ride he couldn’t help but think about how much gasoline they’d be using – it was expensive now, Matthew didn’t care how much money Francis had – and how much he’d be spending on his glasses. How much were they risking making this trip? All for Matthew? He was grateful, honestly, but he could also be entirely too selfless, he knew it.

            Francis sung along with the radio like a war wasn’t happening around them. Matthew wished he could have his outlook on life. The air was filled with summer, so Matthew tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and let the sun warm his skin.

            Despite living so close to the town, he hardly went. His job required constant guarding and examining. A painting’s condition could change at the drop of a hat. If the temperature changed by even two degrees the art could be at risk. His days were filled with typing up reports on the condition of the artworks, writing to museum personnel in Paris and across the valley, and then doing the process over and over. He’d almost forgotten what the town looked like.

            The town appeared as if they weren’t at war, but Matthew knew it was only a façade. Buying luxuries wasn’t an option anymore for the townspeople. Food was starting to climb in price. But those were things he tried not to think about. Right now, he only allowed himself to feel the sun on his face, warming his hair, and let Francis drive.

            At some point, Matthew opened his eyes and glanced at him.

            He’d been watching him. Francis turned his eyes to the road.

            “What?” Matthew questioned.

            Francis didn’t say anything for a minute, then he said, “Nothing.”

            Matthew looked ahead.

            “You looked peaceful, is all,” Francis said.

            Matthew sighed. “I guess we haven’t had a lot of peace lately.”

            “Maybe not,” he replied. “But we deserve it every now and then.”

            “The problem is getting it,” Matthew said to the road beside them.

            Francis parked in front of a storefront that bore the name of the local ophthalmologist. Glasses in fashionable frames were displayed in the window.

            Matthew followed him inside. A bell rung over the door and a man entered from another room.

            “Monsieur Bonnefoy,” the doctor greeted with a smile and nod. “Welcome. You must be Monsieur Williams,” he said to Matthew.

            “I am.”

            “Good, let us not waste time then.”

            The doctor proved to be efficient and quick. He examined Matthew’s eyes, wrote him a prescription, and told him he’d have them ready in a few hours time.

            “Really?” Matthew said, surprised.

            He smiled. “Business is slower these days, I’d be happy to get these to you right away.”

            “We will take a walk around then,” Francis said.

            “Come back by three,” he said. “I should be finished then.”

            Francis nodded and Matthew followed him out the door.

            “We have four hours. What are we going to do?”

            Francis smiled. “I can give you a tour of the town. We will grab something to eat at noon.”

            The tour turned out to be no more than a meander around unfamiliar ground, since Matthew couldn’t see anything clearly. He walked close to Francis, using him as a guide. Francis didn’t take his arm this time – only to steer him in a direction.

            “Mathieu,” he began. “Talk to me about something that doesn’t have to do with this stupid war.”

            He laughed. “Alright. But I don’t know what to say, I’ve already told you a lot of things.”

            “There has to be something you haven’t told me yet,” he said, and Matthew could hear him smiling.

            He made a show of thinking about it. One thought popped into his mind. “I haven’t told you this yet, but I have a brother.”

            He could also hear Francis’s surprise.

            “Really? I’ve asked about your family before though.”

            “I mentioned my mother and father. I didn’t mention my brother.”

            Francis said, hesitantly, “Is it okay to ask?”

            Fondness touched Matthew’s memory, his voice when he said, “Yes. His name is Alfred. He’s a year younger than me. He moved to New York around the time I moved to Paris. The last I heard, he’d joined the air force. I didn’t mention him before because I didn’t want to jinx him.”

            Matthew knew the last bit was going to prompt sensitivity.

            “Do you think he will…”

            “Be over here?” Matthew finished. “Who can tell?” He sighed out. “We wrote each other, before we evacuated Paris. I haven’t talk to him since – not because we’re not close… we just agreed that it would be easier for both our minds to focus on our work, without constantly waiting for a letter. I don’t think he’d be able to find me anyway. When all this is over… then we’ll find each other again.”

            Francis was watching him as he spoke. He remained quiet for a time after, the only sound their footsteps on the cobblestone.

            “I hope you can see each other soon, then.”

            “Me too.”

            Another minute passed in silence before Francis suggested lunch. They went to one of the few cafes still open. Matthew pouted when he couldn’t read the menu, and then he pouted at Francis when he laughed at him. So he let Francis order for the both of them, and they entertained more talk for an hour. One thing Matthew insisted on was paying for their meals. Francis tried to deny him, but Matthew was adamant. If Francis was buying his glasses, Matthew could at least pay for the food.

            Sometime later they returned to the doctor’s and he proudly proclaimed that Matthew’s glasses were ready. He brought him a pair almost identical to his previous pair in shape.

            Francis took them from the doctor. “Ah, they look fantastic, merci,” he said to the doctor.

            Matthew flinched when Francis slipped the frames onto his face, his fingertips tickling his temples.

            Francis’s face came into focus, at last, and Matthew blinked. He was grinning.

            The doctor gave him a hand mirror, and Matthew’s jaw almost dropped open when he saw himself. The glasses were the right shape, but the frames were obviously different, obviously a designer brand, thus obviously expensive.

            “Francis. These are more than you needed to spend.”

            He kept smiling, the demon, and he only said, “Thank you again, doctor, have a good day!”

            He left the shop and Matthew had to run after him.

            “Francis!”

            “Yes?”

            “Don’t play oblivious. These frames must have cost a lot.”

            “And?”

            Matthew was flabbergasted. “And? You didn’t need to do that.”

            “I wanted to, Mathieu.”

            “But why?”

            “Because you are my friend.”

            “But…” he stuttered, no longer able to think of another argument. Francis could be so… Francis sometimes.

            “We should head back to Lablanche, no?”

            He opened the door to his car and slid in, so casually. Matthew huffed and got into the passenger side. It felt nice to see the world clearly again. Three days was enough for him, he couldn’t imagine going longer.

            They were driving up to the gates when Matthew finally said quietly, “Thank you, Francis.”

            Francis smiled. “You are welcome.”

            He could see the German soldiers standing guard ahead, and his gaze fell to his hands.

            The Germans waited for them to exit the car and they kept it for inspection as Francis and Matthew walked the rest of the way to the house.

            Inside the grand salon, Duval spotted them, grinned, and said, “Now, don’t you look smart!”

            Matthew laughed shyly. “I look like I can finally do work around here.”

            “Yes, Matthew, it was all your fault and I was going to fire you.”

            Even Francis laughed.

            He rolled his eyes. “The both of you are terrible.” Matthew walked off to check in with one of his colleagues about any work to be done. Another passing by stopped beside him.

            “Bonnefoy got those for you, did he?”

            Matthew glanced up. “Yes.”

            The other man looked him over. Matthew couldn’t make out his tone.

            “Isn’t that special,” the man said.

            He furrowed his brow, but the man was already walking away.

            “Don’t mind him,” his colleague told him. “They look great.”

            Matthew couldn’t help but think that wasn’t what he’d meant. He’d been a little afraid of it, in all honesty. At this point, Francis’s money was precious. It heated the house to keep the paintings dry from the winter wet. It fed the whole crew so that they could keep doing their jobs. It provided their basic needs, their assurance at the château. Matthew didn’t know how much he had exactly, but in his opinion the excess he spent on his glasses could have bought a week’s worth of meals. And now the others in the house were misunderstanding Francis’s intention.

            He didn’t want to be seen as spoiled, when so many had to go without. He didn’t want special treatment.

            After dinner, Matthew looked for Francis. He found him in his study, pouring himself cognac from a decanter.

            Francis turned and smiled when Matthew came in. “Ah, come in. Would you like some?”

            “No, thank you.”

            Matthew stood awkwardly by the door while Francis took a seat.

            “What is it, Mathieu?”

            He twisted his fingers and said, “Francis, I’m not ungrateful for what you did for me. But there’s one more thing I need to say.”

            “It’s been settled,” he said. “It was my gift to you.”

            “That’s exactly what I want to talk about. I’d really appreciate it if this were the last gift. Some people think I was given special treatment. I don’t want to create an antagonistic atmosphere.”

            Francis didn’t say anything.

            Matthew couldn’t look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, Francis, I really mean it in the best way…”

            “I understand.” When he looked back, Francis had that easy smile on his face. “I am sorry if I caused you discomfort.”

            Matthew gave a small smile. “It’s okay.”

            Francis held up his glass. “Are you sure you don’t want any?” He grinned. “It’s not a gift if I’m drinking too.”

            Matthew laughed, glad that everything was at ease once again. “Why not?”

.

August 25^th, 1940

            Matthew and Lili were in town together. The sky was a light blue, the air warm with the settled summer. He wore his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of his summer trousers. Lili wore a light pink dress and a plain brimmed hat adorned with a ribbon keeping her hair down. Matthew tilted his face to the sun as they walked through the shops in Lablanche proper.

            Lili steered them into a bookshop, one she frequented on her days off, she’d told him. A little bell rang upon entry and the shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper mustache and a newsboy cap, greeted her with a smile.

            “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lili!”

            Lili smiled back at him. “Bonjour,” she replied politely.

            Matthew had been slightly anxious about going into town. He worried about the questions people might ask. While they were in town, they kept themselves as modest as possible and never mentioned the château. Most of the townspeople knew they were from the château anyway, but he preferred not to bring attention to themselves. There usually wasn’t any real reason to be in town; food was bought by and delivered to the château, their work was there, and the outbreak of the war lessened their desires and abilities to explore. But despite all this, there were one or two occasions when Matthew relished going into town.

            It was Lili who had suggested the trip to the local bookstore. Both had the day off from their duties, and they agreed upon a short trip away from the grounds while the château was running smoothly.

            They browsed the shelves, remarking on favorite genres or authors. Lili had confessed a fondness for the romantic likes of Jane Austen. Matthew’s interest in romances tended more toward the 19^th century dramas of revolution and adventure.

            Matthew had tried to read at least something from Francis’s impressive library. These days, Matthew couldn’t bring himself to relax enough to read anything.

            Lili didn’t seem to be affected as Matthew was. She happily browsed the bookstore, deciding between two volumes to purchase with money she’d saved up. He absently thumbed through some volumes of poetry, but slid them back onto the shelves, trailing his fingers along the spines as he walked.

            “Mademoiselle Lili is a regular here,” came a voice from the side. Matthew jumped and found the shop owner leaning casually on his counter, speaking low to him. “At least, she was before this war, you understand.”

            “Oh,” Matthew replied. “Was she.”

            “She’s a really sweet girl,” he said.

Matthew smiled awkwardly. “Ah, yes, she is.”

            The man looked him up and down. He smiled like they shared a secret. “Haven’t seen her with anybody yet. It’ll be hard with all this going on, but do good by her now.”

            Oh. Matthew opened his mouth to speak but at that moment Lili was beside him, placing a book on the counter for purchase.

            The man sent one last wink Matthew’s way and made light chatter with Lili while he finished the transaction. Matthew could feel his ears burning even as they walked out of the shop.

            Lili smiled at her book and tucked it into her bag.

            “Ah, Lili, I think that shop owner thought we were… sweethearts.”

            Lili looked surprised, but then she giggled behind a hand. “Goodness, we probably do look like that.”

            “I think we’ve given the gossip wheel another spin,” he said, chuckling himself. True, since the start of the summer, after his outing with Francis, Matthew had tried to shake off the unease with the German soldiers by distracting himself with the town. And it was Lili who accompanied him more often than not.

            “All that aside,” she began, “thank you for coming with me. I’ve only ever come into town with Vash. The townspeople certainly know him.”

            “It’s my pleasure,” he assured her. “Why don’t we head back?”

            Lili agreed and they returned to the car, driving the short way back to the château. Thought Matthew still wasn’t completely comfortable around the soldiers, he’d gotten used to these customary inspections each time they left and came back. He didn’t need to say anything, in fact, which suited him fine.

            Today would not be like all the others, to Matthew’s horror.

            They approached the gates and Matthew could hear the sound of shouts and heavy crunches of wooden crates being forcefully opened and knocked around. There weren’t any soldiers stationed the gates. They were left open and Matthew saw supply trucks littering the driveway.

            His heart began pounding as he jerked the car to a stop. “Lili, be careful,” he said, running up the steps into the house.

            Right before his eyes a German soldier snapped the lid off a crate with a crowbar and began shuffling through the canvases inside.

            Fear of the men left him completely. Fear for the art took over and made him react.

            “Hey! Stop that!” he yelled tearing the box away from the soldier. “You have no right to touch these things!”

            Other soldiers pushed him to the side like an insignificant child and resumed what Matthew realized was pilfering.

            “Don’t touch those!” he yelled, attempting to get in their way, separating them from the boxes again.

            The sound of the hammer clicking on many handguns made him tense immediately.

            “Matthew!” came Duval’s voice as he hurried into the room. “Put your guns down!”

            “Laurent, what’s going on?”

            The soldiers, disinterested in him, returned to their rummaging once more. Duval grabbed his arm and pulled him into the hall. Germans were everywhere, carrying boxes outside to the trucks, handling the artworks in all the wrong ways. Matthew’s eyes swept around the place in a panic, not knowing what to do, not knowing what was happening.

            “Matthew, listen to me. Nobody knew this was going to happen.”

            “What is going on?”

            Anger and desolation colored Duval’s gaze. “I just received a copy of some document claiming seizure of certain works for ‘safeguarding.’”

            Matthew’s heart wouldn’t slow down. “Seizure? On whose order?”

            “Otto Abetz. The German ambassador based in Paris. Word is he’s absolutely gluttonous for art.”

            One hundred ways to rationalize what he was hearing ran through his mind. “But… he has no military authority.”

            Duval sighed. “He got himself military authority. Keitel issued a directive that came from Hitler himself. They claim they’re here to inspect the artworks and anything they deem inappropriately stored is going back to Paris.”

            Matthew couldn’t believe this. All their hard work, all their blood, sweat, and tears…

            “No… no, they can’t,” he repeated. “I won’t let them!”

            Duval was too slow to grab him. Matthew was charging at the soldiers again, determined to save anything he could, even if it meant putting his life at risk.

            The soldiers were losing patience with him. With mean faces and hands on their guns, they were going to deal with Matthew no matter what he did, but he didn’t care.

            “Please, we don’t need to draw weapons now,” Francis said, coming between Matthew and the soldiers in one swoop. “We have no intention of arguing.”

            Francis was the one to grab Matthew by the arm this time and start hauling him away.

            He struggled in Francis’s grip, trying to pull his arm away, still hell-bent on protecting what he could.

            “Mathieu!”

            Francis was stronger than he looked. He couldn’t get away from him, and every step they took away from the salon the more he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think clearly.

            Finally, a door slammed and his back collided with it, Francis’s hands gripping his arms.

            “Mathieu, listen to me!”

            He looked at Francis, really saw him. He’d never seen him this angry. Those blue eyes that felt so warm turned to steel, and Matthew took a breath. They were in the silence of Francis’s study.

            “Francis… I–”

            “There are some things we cannot save, no matter what we do. But I will be damned if I let you, or anyone else, be hurt again.”

            Matthew could feel his energy waning. His shoulders slumped, a lump welled in his throat and his eyes were hot.

            “But… they’re taking… thousands worth of–”

            “No painting in the world is worth more than your life, Mathieu.”

            All at once, Francis’s gaze softened, like he too had exhausted himself. He pulled him forward, wrapped his arms around Matthew.

            He didn’t know how much he needed it until Francis was there, and he smelled like clean cotton and lavender. His own arms slowly hooked around him, and he could finally feel peace settling in his mind.

            Francis held him back, his grip lighter this time, and Matthew almost wished he hadn’t moved away.

            He swallowed, pushing the lump down. “Francis…”

            There was a knock on the door at his back, and he jumped.

            “Monsieur Bonnefoy? Matthew? Is everything alright?”

            Francis’s hands fell away from his arms and Matthew stepped to the side. Francis opened it, putting up a smile.

            Duval’s gaze flickered sadly between them. “They’re leaving now,” he said. “We’re going to hold a meeting, to regroup.”

            “Certainly.”

            “Matthew? Are you alright?”

            “I will be,” Matthew said. “Laurent. I’m really sorry.”

            Duval gave a gentle smile. “Your heart knows no bounds, Matthew. Nobody was hurt, that’s all that matters.”

            Matthew caught Francis’s eye. He couldn’t tell exactly what he saw there. Fondness? But then Francis looked away, toward the hall, and Matthew forced himself to leave the room with the two. A tiny part of him still wished he could have done something to prevent the thefts. The larger part of him still remembered how comfortable it felt, embracing Francis.

            You don’t realize you want something until you taste it.

Chapter Text

December 12^th, 1941

Matthew was only halfway through his checklist when Duval called everybody to the dining room for a meeting. He looked grim, when Matthew entered. But then, everyone had been feeling grim lately. He took a seat and waited.

            Francis came in last, stood next to Duval.

            Duval took a deep breath. “A few days ago, I reported to you that the Japanese bombed an American naval base. The United States declared war on Japan.” He paused. “Just yesterday, Hitler declared war on America.”

            Matthew’s stomach turned.

            “The United States has therefore declared war on Germany.”

            As soon as he said it, Francis’s gaze found Matthew’s. Matthew felt like he could throw up. He didn’t hear what anyone said after that, his only thought was that there was now a strong chance his brother would end up in Europe, and who knew what would happen then. This is what he was praying wouldn’t happen. This is what he feared.

            The room was emptying out, but Francis stayed.

            Duval, too – he put a hand on his shoulder. “Matthew? Are you alright?”

            “Laurent, you go ahead. I will talk to him,” Francis said.

            Duval nodded and left the room. Francis took the chair beside him. Matthew’s hands lay limp in his lap. Francis curled his hand over his wrist, a comforting gesture.

            “Mathieu?”

            “I don’t know what to say.”

            “You don’t need to say anything.”

            He swallowed. “Part of me wants to believe that things will start getting better with the Americans here.” Matthew’s eyes were on their hands, so close together. “But if it means that Alfred…”

            Matthew couldn’t finish the thought. He couldn’t think like that. He shifted his hand those few centimeters until Francis’s warm palm was against his. Matthew curled his fingers around his hand, holding on.

            “It will probably be very hard,” Francis said, “to not think about him now. But it might be the best thing.”

            Matthew elected not to reply. He didn’t know what else to say. Francis was right – it was hard not to think about Alfred. Was he flying over already?

            No! Stop it, he chastised himself.

            “Mathieu.”

            Matthew’s heart skipped. He used to think it did so because he’d been surprised out of his thoughts, but as time went on he began to think it was for a new reason – one he couldn’t put a name to.

            “Yes?” he replied coolly.

            “The outside world may be unpredictable, and sometimes frightening, but at least we’re here, all of us, together.”

            Matthew smiled. “You always know what to say. How do you do it?”

            Francis returned the smile. “Foolish optimism.”

.

July 17^th, 1942

The outside world had indeed proved to be frightening. Francis had assured him that they would all be together, they would be fine, but even that sentiment was dashed come the dawn of 1942.

            Within the month after the U.S. declaration of war, three of Matthew’s colleagues at Lablanche – one a curator – left the château. They were Jewish, and they were fleeing the country. Nearly a year and a half prior, in late 1940, the Vichy government had revoked the citizenship of thousands of French Jews in the zone libre. It had only been Step One.

            The Louvre lost more than their three colleagues at Lablanche to the anti-Semite laws passed by the Vichy government, which, among other specifications, declared that Jews could not be employed in civil service – including the national museums. But Jaujard had done everything he could to keep as many Jewish staff in their positions as possible.

            That day, July 17^th, they had received news from Paris that, under Vichy and German order, thousands of Jews were rounded up over two days. Where they were taken, nobody knew.

            The first half of that year loomed heavily over their heads. Lablanche had only lost three, not counting the ones who had been long gone fighting, but Matthew felt their absences like ghosts wandering the halls. He was sure others felt the same. But their ghosts weren’t the only ones he was feeling lately.

            To his growing concern, as the months wore on, Francis was starting to feel more and more like a ghost. The only difference was that he remained. He’d grown listless to a degree that completely unsuited him. His mind always seemed to be elsewhere. When they were in the same room together, he’d find Francis watching him with something akin to tired forlornness. And under those eyes were circles that proved how many nights he went sleepless.

            Matthew’s concern culminated in an intervention of sorts.

            Summer used to feel like a time for fun, Matthew mused as he casually searched the house for Francis. They didn’t have a lot to be cheerful about lately.

            “Francis,” Matthew said, finding him upstairs in his bedroom, his head in his hand and reading over some document. Kuma lay at his feet.

            Francis folded the paper right away, pushing his loose hair back with his hand. “Mathieu, I didn’t expect to see you.”

            “Would you like to take a walk?”

            Francis looked so tired, and it made him sad. There was more growth at his chin than usual, and Francis usually minded his appearance well.

            “Please?”

            Francis managed a smile. He was good at that – smiling as if nothing was bothering him.

            He, and the dog, followed Matthew down the stairs and out the doors. He followed him across the lawn that had grown knee high from negligence. He followed Matthew to his tree, luckily far from the gates where the German soldiers were.

            Matthew sat down at the base of the trunk and looked up at Francis. He patted the ground next to him.

“Sit.”

Francis sat. They were shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out to the side of the house in silence. Kuma sniffed around before curling up next to them.

“Francis. Talk to me.”

“There is so much to talk about. Where do I begin?”

Matthew rested his head against the trunk. “That’s up to you.”

There was another pause. Matthew could hear some men conversing outside near the building.

“You know,” Francis began, “When all this started, it was easy to say that it wouldn’t get the better of me. I have a responsibility to you, to all of you. I promised I wouldn’t slack on that responsibility, but…”

Matthew’s head turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”

Francis sighed. “To put it simply, Mathieu, I’ve done what I never wanted to have to do. And I can’t sleep, because I’m conflicted, morally, over it.”

“Francis.”

“The only reason we’ve all been able to keep eating relatively well is because I’ve been buying off the black market.”

Matthew blinked, unable to find words right away.

“Almost everything – food, wood for the bedroom fires, the things we all use in our day-to-day lives… but what other choice do I have? There is no way to get those things anymore. People are going hungry outside this little sanctuary, but everyone under my roof is my priority.”

He stopped talking when Matthew gripped his hand. His heart was beating fast from what he’d heard.

“How long?” he asked.

“Since January.”

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

“You had more important things to deal with.”

“That’s not true. Everything is important now. We’re all supposed to be in this together. We – I – could have helped.”

Francis smiled. “There is nothing to help. It was all on me.”

Exasperated, Matthew said, “I don’t mean it like that. I could have helped you, Francis.”

Francis then turned his head, and held Matthew’s gaze. His eyes were darkened in the shade, and they flickered over his face. Matthew found himself holding his breath.

And then Francis spoke. “I once told you that there are some things that we cannot protect no matter what we do. I am still going to do everything I can to protect those here, but–” he said quickly, anticipating Matthew’s remark, “I will do it knowing that I have you, among others, on my side.”

“That’s all I ask,” Matthew said.

Francis smiled again, and it seemed lighter with this weight off his shoulders. He shifted then, moving away from the trunk, and strands of his hair caught in the bark detached when he laid down, his head in Matthew’s lap.

Matthew stared down at him, his eyes closed, and his lips turned up slightly in peace.

“I think I will rest my eyes for a bit,” Francis said, crossing his ankles and linking his hands over his middle.

He said nothing after that, and Matthew was experiencing a mild bout of internal turmoil. Where was he supposed to put his hands? What was he supposed to do? Perhaps he didn’t need to do anything, but since words didn’t seem to be necessary, he had to decide something.

So despite the nervousness, and the conflictions he had felt growing for months now, Matthew gently touched Francis’s hair. He curled his fingers in it carefully, as if any sudden movement would make Francis move.

Francis had no reaction – he could have been asleep for all Matthew knew.

He’d been doing this more and more often; little unexpected acts that Matthew didn’t know how to interpret. But he didn’t altogether dislike them, and that was what had him conflicted. Francis was a friend, a very close friend. He cared about him, and whenever they talked like this together he felt relieved of the stress the world caused for that time being.

Somehow it didn’t seem enough, but it would have to be.

.

One month later

Word was spreading. Word was spreading of ever-heightening Resistance activity in Paris, in the hills, and in depots all across the valley. After initial occupation, Matthew had known that Resistance groups were already forming, but there hadn’t been activity at Lablanche – at least not right away. Even that was starting to change.

            Many conversations had turned to hushed whispers over time, eyes glancing around skeptically before heads came together in secret. Matthew did not involve himself in the talk that had been growing since the beginning of the year. He was already made nervous by the German soldiers and their constant searches of the château, he wasn’t about to put himself at more risk.

            However, his blasé attitude toward the growing Resistance would be faced one night. From his bedroom window, a movement in the grass caught his eye. Matthew carefully peeked out and saw two of their staff members moving swiftly to the dark woods at the rear of the château.

            Matthew would have ignored them, he should have, but he couldn’t help thinking that whatever it was his colleagues were doing was going to threaten their safety. Matthew slipped his shoes on, and Kuma stirred from where he lay on the floor.

            “Shh,” Matthew quieted him. “I’m sorry, boy, you need to stay here.” Kuma whined softly as Matthew closed the door, leaving the dog inside his room.

            It was the dead of night, he and Francis had parted for the evening only an hour ago, but Matthew was back down the hall and creeping silently to the rear doors.

            He didn’t know what to do, exactly. He waited for a few minutes there at the doors, but then he slipped outside, waiting in the dark for signs of his colleagues. When even a few minutes there didn’t produce the men, Matthew bit his lip and ventured out toward the trees. He got just to the edge of the trees when he saw the men returning, a small crate carried by handles between them.

            “Matthew,” they said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

            “What are you doing?” Matthew whispered back.

            They hesitated, unsure what to say, but then one of them said, “Retrieving a drop.”

            Matthew’s eyes roved over the box. “And what’s in the drop?”

            “Newspapers, from Paris.”

            He could feel his pulse quickening. “Resistance papers?”

            They nodded.

            “How long have you been doing this?”

            “We’ve been getting them weekly for three months now. There’s a publication network in the Louvre, and we get airdrops from the Allies.”

            He shouldn’t have followed them, he shouldn’t have followed them.

            “Matthew, this needs to be kept secret.”

            “Of course,” he shot back. “If the Germans find them we’re all dead. How are you hiding them anyway?”

            “We burn them.”

            “We need to head back, let’s go.”

            The men continued on, Matthew reluctantly helping them heft the box up the stairs, just as Francis threw the doors open.

            “Francis,” Matthew exclaimed, his pulse hammering.

            “Mathieu… everybody get inside now.”

            They brought the box inside, the lights stayed off, and Francis almost immediately pulled Matthew into another room.

            He had both Matthew’s arms in his hands, and his eyes looked him over anxiously.

            “Mathieu, what were you doing?”

            “I saw them leave, and I wanted to know what they were doing,” Matthew said. Francis seemed so worried, it rather surprised him.

            “What they are doing is dangerous,” Francis replied. “Please tell me you’re not a part of them.”

            “Wait, you know they’re Resistance members?”

            Francis exhaled. “Yes, I do. I found out shortly after the airdrops started coming in.”

            And he hadn’t told him? Sure, Matthew had an inkling that something was going on, but to know that so many of his colleagues were involved, and Francis knew it all this time…

            “Why haven’t you said anything?” he asked. “You’re allowing them to put the château at risk?”

            Confliction entered Francis’s eyes. “I know it is a risk, and I would much rather the risk not be here, but… they are countrymen. We all want the same thing, and if they choose to get involved in that way, I cannot bring myself to stop them.”

            “Francis, are you…?”

            “No,” he said seriously. “I am not involved, actively. I let them receive airdrops here, I let them carry on, as long as word does not reach the Germans. I can do no more.” He smiled weakly. “I am a coward, remember? I am too afraid of what would happen should we be found out.”

            Matthew clutched his shirtsleeves. “Francis, don’t say it like that. Cowardice doesn’t exist at times like these. It’s action, or survival. And nothing about either method is shameful. You do so much just to keep us all safe and cared for. You cannot call avoiding risky behavior cowardice.”

            Francis tugged him forward into the second embrace he’d ever given him. Matthew found himself holding on, the tension spilling from the conversation making him respond instinctually.

            “Just confirm one thing for me,” Francis said, his words close to his ear. “Tell me you are not part of them.”

            Matthew swallowed. “No, I’m not.” But what if he had been? How would Francis feel? Matthew couldn’t even say how he would feel.

            He heard Francis breathe out a, “Dieu merci.”

            Francis let him go, and Matthew almost, almost curled his fingers into his shirt to stop him. He shook off the feeling for now.

            “Francis, how did you know I’d gone?”

            “Kuma was scratching at your door. I hadn’t gone to sleep yet, and when I found you gone from the room… I confess I had quite a fright.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “It’s okay. Nothing happened. Right?”

            Matthew nodded. “Nothing happened.”

            “That is all I need to know then.” Francis backed away, holding the door open. “Come, let us go back upstairs. We will handle this tomorrow.”

            Matthew followed him up the dark steps and down the hall to where they split off to their separate rooms. Matthew looked back before entering his room, and Francis met his gaze.

            “Goodnight, Mathieu.”

            “Goodnight,” he whispered through a tight throat. Francis smiled and then disappeared into his bedroom.

            Matthew shut his door behind him, heart pounding.

            He was starting to think he was in trouble, and he couldn’t say, with all honesty, that it was a sort of trouble he didn’t want to be in.

Chapter Text

The year of 1943, on the whole, saw the gradual rise in Resistance activity. Matthew knew this, despite his adamancy about staying out of it. Once he’d found out about his colleagues, he began to see it everywhere, more often. But he averted his eyes and pretended that he hadn’t. Matthew might have risked his life more than once now for the art, but he drew the line, so to speak, at risking a sizable portion of the Louvre’s collection to found boxes of Resistance newspapers.

            He wondered if he should have said something in the beginning, but the more he thought on it, the more he aligned with Francis. In the end, they all wanted the same thing, and he knew these men. So Matthew continually prayed that they wouldn’t be found out. He played with Kuma, blissful, unaware Kuma, and as for Francis…

            Well.

            Although the Resistance activity of that year caused little tremors to constantly keep them on their toes, waiting in dread for the earthquake, Matthew marked that year as him fearing his own personal earthquake. If he thought he’d started to be in trouble a year ago, he was now in deep trouble. And it began in January.

            In January, in the dead of winter, Matthew caught flu. The house was able to continue running its heating, thanks to Francis’s money and money granted from the Louvre, but he didn’t feel it.

            One morning he woke up and stumbled to the water closet, and promptly vomited. His whole body ached, his whole body shivered, he couldn’t stand straight or else he’d vomit again. His eyes burned and so he clamped them shut, turning his face to the cold floor tiles, his shuddering breaths echoing faintly in the small room.

            He wasn’t paying attention to time, he only had enough strength to curl himself up on the floor of the bathroom and try not to vomit again.

            At some point, Lili found him.

            “Mathieu!” he heard her soft voice exclaim. “Are you ill?”

            He tried to nod, but she got the idea from the body-wracking shivers.

            “It’ll be fine,” she said. “I will get the Messieurs.”

            He heard her retreat fast down the hall, and a brief moment later many hands were scooping him up.

            The movement jostled his stomach and he just managed to hang himself over the edge of the bowl again before vomiting a second time. It was more a dry heave, since he’d already emptied his fairly empty stomach.

            Gentle fingers combed his sweaty hair back.

            This time, the floor fell away and he was cradled in someone’s arms. Someone who smelled like clean lavender.

            He heard Duval speaking softly, guiding his carrier through the room. Matthew was sat on his bed, and for the sake of his lightheadedness, he lay down and curled into the fetal position once more. The covers were pulled over his shoulder but he was still cold.

            His fingers crept out from underneath and caught Francis’s sleeve before he could leave.

            “Please,” he managed.

            “I will be downstairs later,” Francis said, likely to Duval.

            His bedroom door closed behind his exit and then Francis’s weight was sinking into the mattress next to Matthew.

            In fact he’d laid himself down with him to where Matthew could burrow into Francis’s chest with his warmth radiating into him, making him shiver less. Francis’s warm hands rubbed circles into his back and Matthew, already exhausted, drifted to sleep.

            He woke to Francis’s scent, but the weight of his body was missing. Lest he risk vomiting again, Matthew slowly opened his eyes and saw a blanket laid over him, pulled up to his nose. That’s what smelled of Francis, like his lavender scent, but also the deeper musk of cologne. It was still Francis. He didn’t shiver so much anymore. Matthew fell back asleep.

            Matthew woke again to a fire crackling in his bedroom hearth. He’d thought the air felt warmer. Someone was also there, clinking silverware and dishes.

            “Francis?” he said weakly.

            “No, its me, Lili,” she said.

            “Lili.”

            “How are you feeling?”

            “I don’t think I’ll throw up again.”

            “A little better then.”

            She sat herself lightly on the bed next to him and dabbed his forehead with a cool towel. He still couldn’t so much as keep his eyes open for long.

            “Do you think you can eat?” she asked. “I brought broth, and some bread to dip.”

            His stomach did feel that caving emptiness from throwing up its entire contents, on top of not having eaten in… how ever long it had been.

            “Will you try?”

            “I’ll try,” he whispered.

            She helped him slowly sit up. She propped pillows behind him. His head fell back against the headboard, stabilized at least. Vaguely, he could see steam rising from the bowl of broth.

            She tore a chunk of bread into small pieces, dipped it into the broth, and brought it to his mouth.

            “It might be a little hot.”

            He was glad the broth softened the bread even more – just chewing tired him. Once he was sure it wouldn’t immediately come back up, he ate more, piece by piece. He managed to take a couple sips of broth before he stopped her.

            “No more,” he said, a slight groan in his voice. “Nauseous.”

            “It’s okay.” Some clinking of dishware and her skirt rustling.

            “Thank you, Lili.”

            She kissed his clammy cheek. “Sleep some more.”

            She took her tray and left. Matthew slid down and curled up with his blanket – Francis’s blanket.

            Matthew drifted in the place between consciousness and unconsciousness, his mind loose, never able to hold onto one stream of coherent thought. Every once in a while, Francis’s name would pass through his mind, and with it a random accompanying thought.

            Francis. He always smells good.

            Francis. He’s always warm.

            Francis. The way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

            Matthew barely registered the dip in the mattress, but he did acknowledge the fingertips that stroked through his hair. Instinctually, he nuzzled into the hand. He wasn’t in a place for rational thought, and so in a sleepy haze he whispered, “Francis.”

            “Sleep, mon cher. Get better soon.”

.

            Matthew was back to functioning in a matter of days. Lili did exceptionally in nursing him back to health and she was a good caretaker – stubborn but gentle. There was a fire in his room at all times and he was gradually able to eat more and more.

            Who he didn’t see a lot of was Francis. Granted, much of the time he was sleeping or too out of it to even bother noticing, but he found it a little odd considering how close they’d become.

            And he could have sworn Francis was there in the beginning…

            His fingers through his hair…

            Curling up around him…

            But Matthew’s mind couldn’t even figure out how many days had passed, let alone whether Francis really was there or not.

            The next time Lili came with food, he asked her what time it was. The curtains had been drawn the whole time he was sick.

            “It is seven-o-clock,” she answered. “In the evening. How are you feeling?” She asked that every time she came in. At least he always had something positive to report.

            “Much better.”

            “Good.”

            They went through their little routine where Lili helped him eat, and this time there was minimal stomach discomfort.

            Matthew took a breath and pushed his hand through his hair. He cringed. Days of sweat and oil practically slicked his hair. He felt gross everywhere, and wanted nothing more than a bath.

            “Do you need help?” Lili asked.

            “Maybe only getting there,” he responded, slightly embarrassed.

            He was able to walk by himself, though Lili walked beside him. His body only felt the last remnants of sickness aches, which he hoped would melt away in the bath.

            Lili bustled about, setting him clean clothes on a chair in the corner, gathering soap, and running the water for him. She laid a bath towel over the radiator and left him to his devices.

            His joints felt stiff as he undressed, and as he lowered himself, he sighed at the hot water soothing his sore muscles. He lay there a while, until the water’s warmth started to fade. He washed his hair last, submerging and holding his breath. It felt like a cocoon of warmth, drifting as easily as his mind was drifting.

            Matthew dried, dressed, and shuffled back to his bedroom.

            Lili was in the process of putting clean sheets on the bed, and so he grabbed Francis’s blanket from the heap of bedcovers on the floor. He wrapped it around himself and curled up on the armchair in front of the fire.

            “Would you like tea?” she asked.

            “Yes, please.” She began to leave. “Lili? Thank you.”

            She smiled. “Of course.”

            Once she was gone, his mind, as it was wont to do, drifted to Francis. He wished he were there with him, to talk to him. Matthew wondered what he was up to, what the whole team had been up to while he was indisposed. His memory could only reconstruct brief moments where Francis’s fingers slid through his hair, rubbed his back, where his arms had held him. There was no point in agonizing over them now.

            “You’re up,” came his voice from the doorway.

            Matthew looked over, his heart jumping. He managed a smile and said, “In a way.”

            Francis was holding the tray of tea things and he brought it to the table in front of Matthew, fixing his cup and putting it on the side table next to the armchair.

            “Lili said you are feeling much better.”

            Matthew watched him, looking for anything unusual. He didn’t catch anything right away.

            “I am,” he said. “I’m not queasy anymore. The bath helped with the aches.”

            “Good.”

            “Francis?”

            “Yes?”

            Matthew pulled the blanket tighter around him. “Did you give me this blanket?”

            Francis paused, but then he said, “I did.”

            “I knew it,” Matthew said, smiling into the soft fabric. “It’s because it smells like you.”

            Francis glanced over with an amused tilt to his brow.

            “I mean, you have a very… recognizable scent. I knew it right away… is all.”

            He chuckled and sat himself on the arm of the chair. Matthew could lean his head against him if he wanted. He certainly felt the urge.

            “Francis, can I ask you a question?”

            “Of course.”

            “It was you and Laurent that helped me, right?”

            “Yes.”

            “Thank you for that.”

            He shook his head and laughed softly. “You thank me for the oddest things.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “If you want to thank someone, thank Kuma.”

            “Kuma? Why him?”

            “He ran down and fetched Lili, who came and got us.”

            He’d forgotten Kuma was with him at the time. He’d been too busy trying not to vomit on the expensive rugs.

            “Mathieu,” he said on a sigh. “I only wish I were able to get medicine, to make it a little more bearable for you.”

            The warmth of the blanket and the fire was tugging him back into drowsiness. His head fell against Francis’s side. His hair was drying in curls that tickled the corners of his eyes.

            “You did enough,” Matthew said.

            Francis whispered so softly, Matthew wasn’t sure if he meant for him to hear it. “I want to do more.”

            He was too tired to comment.

.

            Matthew didn’t get sick again after the episode in January. He never was one to get sick, and that winter flu was a rare doozy. After he’d fully recovered he continued work as usual, knowing that the Nazis were getting restless, the Resistance activity was bleeding into the hills and valleys from its epicenter in Paris, and his heart was growing more and more full.

            He couldn’t help it. Francis was the first person he sought in the morning, and the last person he saw before retiring to bed. He had to remind himself not to stare so long, to fight the urges to put his arms around him. He had to remind himself not to appear too obvious. The château may have been big, but their shared living space was small.

            Sometimes he wondered how it was that he managed to strike up such a friendship with Francis. What drew Francis to him, of all the people there? When Matthew looked around, hardly anybody on his team, beside Duval, regularly spoke to him. Sometimes they barely spoke to him. He was still an otherworldly, unapproachable being to them.

            Matthew knew Francis well by this point. He was far from unapproachable. In fact, as the months went on he felt more like he belonged with Francis’s household – Lili, Vash, among others – more than his own team. Kuma even cared for him in a way he didn’t care for anyone else in the house.

            But what could Matthew do? He told no one, he kept his feelings which he’d now accepted to himself. He wished they lived in a different time – no war, no hindrances. Matthew had realized all of this, yet he was still hesitant to use the L word. If he used it, there was no going back, and he couldn’t do that to himself, not yet.

            Especially since there were two people involved in these feelings, and Matthew had no way of knowing what was in Francis’s mind. Matthew felt all these things, but it meant nothing. What were the odds? It was a dangerous thing to be presumptuous about. The fact was that Francis was a naturally flirty personality. He’d managed to get into Matthew’s heart anyway.

            Spring, summer passed. Autumn entered with its woodsy chill and Matthew remembered when autumn meant warm drinks in friendly company, kicking up leaves and pulling out the scarves, enjoying bountiful harvest meals.

            When Matthew saw the piles of leaves outside, all he saw was another year of bleak death. People continued to go cold and hungry.

            Up until that October, the National Museums and the Kunstschutz had kept a careful protocol that prohibited any German, civil or military, from entering any art depot without authorization. That all changed in early October when German officials declared that, because of unrest in regards to Resistance activity, the depots would become open to thorough searches for Resistance supplies.

            It was like the time the soldiers took away crates of art, but even more haphazard.

            Mid-October, Matthew was in the room that served as Duval’s office. The phone rang and he picked up.

            “Laurent?”

            “No, this is Matthew Williams.”

            “Mathieu, this is Jacques, in Paris. I don’t have time to wait for Laurent, so I need you to forward a message.”

            His skin pricked with anxiety. “Of course.”

            “Nazis will be coming to Lablanche to root out any signs of organized Resistance. I urge you to dispose, or hide, whatever materials you have on the premises now. I have tried to block this decree but I am powerless at the moment. Do you understand?”

            His heart was beating fast. “Yes, sir. I will tell Laurent.”

            “Good. I will be in touch soon. Take care.”

            The conversation ended, Matthew hung up the phone, and he steeled himself. He found Duval, relayed the message, and Duval’s expression darkened.

            “We have no time to lose,” he said.

            They addressed the crew, and quickly went about taking the crates of Resistance leaflets into the forest, or into the burning hearths. As Matthew had not involved himself in their activity, he was shocked to learn that Lablanche harbored unauthorized weapons and munitions, in addition to the newspapers.

            They acted not a moment too soon. An hour after the materials were taken care of, Nazi trucks rumbled up the driveway and soldiers poured out, barging into the house and ripping art crates open. They charged up the staircase, searched all the rooms. At least Matthew could comfort himself with the knowledge that they were only here for proof of Resistance activity. They didn’t take any art.

            However, Matthew couldn’t hide away while they were there. He stood with his back to the wall in the grand salon, trying not to feel the stabs to his heart every time a crate was torn open. Francis stood with him, and his hand wrapped around Matthew’s and squeezed. If only he had a weapon…

            But Matthew knew the last thing he needed was to confront them – again. He promised Francis he wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t risk his life like that. But it hurt to watch all the same.

.

            By the end of the year, December 1943, things were looking up. Two-and-half years ago, Hitler seemed unstoppable. But by the new year, the Russians had pushed the Germans out and the Allies won the battles in occupied Italy. The Allies also eliminated the threat from German U-boats and achieved dominance in the air.

            Hitler had laid a confident claim to the Louvre’s artworks in the beginning, but now they were grasping in last-ditch efforts.

            Allied victory seemed assured now, and Lablanche celebrated a spirited New Year’s for once, instead of dreading what hardships the new year would bring.

            The mood was light, people weren’t afraid to laugh and enjoy themselves. Not on this night. Francis even broke out some of his preciously rationed alcohol for the evening.

            And the alcohol made a good cover for Matthew’s constantly touching him. He nudged him with his shoulder, put a hand on his arm, and sat next to him on the sofa, their knees touching.

            It was as much as Matthew could hope for, and Francis made no acknowledgement of his actions. It saddened him a bit, but he was gladder that they could be together, that they could all be together, in such cheer. He’d learned to live with his unrequited feelings.

            Just before the crew gathered around the grandfather clock in the grand salon for the countdown, Francis whispered in Matthew’s ear, “Come with me.”

            Matthew followed him, he always would.

            Francis took him outside, the air felt icy and their breath came out in clouds. Matthew had only his indoor jacket on.

            He crossed his arms and shivered.

            Francis put his arm around Matthew’s shoulders, pulling him against him. Matthew’s heart raced, but then when did it not in Francis’s presence?

            “Look at the stars,” Francis said.

            He tilted his head back to see them splashed across the sky.

            “They look brighter, do they not?”

            Matthew smiled. “They do.”

            “Perhaps it is just because we have good news for once.”

            “Maybe so. I haven’t really paid attention to them in a long time.”

            “We are too busy keeping our eyes to the ground, watching for trouble. Something like watching the stars seemed too whimsical for war.”

            “You make it sound like the war will end soon.”

            “Don’t you feel it?”

            “I don’t know,” Matthew said. “I think something is happening, but we’ll still have to wait.”

            “Waiting is not so bad,” Francis said softly, a smile on his face. “We’ve been waiting since this all started.”

            “But now there’s hope.”

            “Yes. Hope.”

            “10! 9! 8!” came shouts from inside the house.

            Matthew pressed his lips together, very aware of Francis’s hand on his shoulder, his arm against his back.

            The crew continued to count down, and for one second Matthew scrambled to think of something to say. But as they reached one, and cheering erupted in the house, Matthew and Francis greeted 1944 with smiles and starry eyes aimed at one another.

            Yes, Matthew would have to continue waiting. Waiting to see his brother, waiting for liberation, waiting for the right moment to settle his heart.

            “Let us go inside,” Francis said. “I’ll get you a warm drink.”

            Dreamy, aching, Matthew replied, “Yes.”

            He followed.

Chapter Text

April 10^th, 1944

            Hope. Excitement. Fear. Anxiety.

            Those emotions and more were constantly cycling through the minds of everyone at Lablanche. The Allies began softening the Germans in France via concentrated bombing to key warehouses, bridges, roads, railroads, and more. Cut the supply off, and the Germans will have no means of defense.

            As good as the news was that the Germans were starting to thin out, the bombings meant increased risk for the art across numerous depots. Duval had written Jaujard requesting materials for building new crates to keep the art safe. The current crates in use were five years old, and wouldn’t be able to support movement in case of emergency. For a time, Matthew and the crew at Lablanche spent all their time constructing new crates, carefully transferring the artworks, and enacting further safety regulations.

            The Allied bombings were not just pushing the Germans back, they were targeting industrial sites that the Germans had taken hold of – sites that were dangerously close to Lablanche. Between April and early June, incessant bombings often shook the ground faintly, and each time Matthew held his breath, wondering if the bombs would get closer.

            They had a checklist of emergency instructions, should the bombs put the art at risk. Relocate to the basement, secure in vaulted ground floor rooms, and continue to run fire drills, now that it was more pertinent than ever.

            Happiness from hope butted up against anxiety and fear that all they’d worked for these past five years would go to waste, should errant Allied bombs hit them.

            In a short span of time, much that they feared would happen did.

            The first situation was when an Allied bomb fell shockingly close to Lablanche. Literally, the shock wave slammed into the side of the house, shattering the thinner panes of window glass.

            They’d heard the explosion, and then when the shock wave hit, Matthew’s heart nearly exploded. Everyone in the grand salon ducked automatically, shielding their heads with their arms as glass burst into the room.

            Matthew was too stunned to say anything. Duval’s instinct was to start swearing and cursing at the pilots who were thousands of feet up and away.

            “Laurent,” he managed at some point. “It’s no use, let’s clean up the glass.”

            He was still steaming, but he finally stopped and looked Matthew up and down.

            “I’m sorry,” he said. “Tensions are just running high right now.”

            “I know.”

            “Your hand is cut,” he said. A few others were cut by the glass as well. Matthew stared down at the slash over the back of his hand. He hadn’t felt it. “Let’s get everyone patched up first.”

            Lili was wrapping a bandage around his hand when Francis came in, a little breathless, a little frazzled.

            “Is everyone okay?”

            Matthew smiled. “Yes, we’re fine. Nothing was damaged, thankfully. Well, except the windows of course.”

            Had Francis even heard him? His eyes zeroed in on Matthew’s bandaged hand, but he said nothing about it.

            “Good, good. I will… I will assist with the cleanup,” was what he said.

            Later that night, when Francis and Matthew were alone for their customary conversation, about anything they were thinking at that moment, Francis picked up his hand and casually examined the bandage.

            Matthew swallowed, his pulse thrumming with his hand in Francis’s ever-gentle fingers. If he moved just a tiny amount he could lace his fingers with Francis’s. The urge, as always, was strong, but he had much practice by now in restraining himself.

.

June 6^th, 1944

            “Everyone to the grand salon!” Duval shouted. “Now!”

            People poured into the room, cramming around the radio as a hush fell over them. Broadcasting on the Resistance-operated station, the landing of Allied forces in Normandy was announced in code.

            The radio continued to play, but Matthew had heard enough. Around him were mixed reactions: celebration, wariness, people anxious about what this meant for them.

            A hand closed around his wrist and pulled him into the next room.

            “You’re thinking about your brother,” Francis said.

            “I managed to not think about him this whole time, but somehow the situation seems more dire now.”

            Francis’s hands held him by the shoulders, and Matthew exhaled the tension.

            “Think also of what is going to come. The Germans are retreating. France will be free. We will be okay.” He gave him a small smile. “You will see Alfred soon.”

            Matthew wanted to hug him. He wanted to hug him desperately.

            He shook his head, clearing his mind. “You’re right.”

            Matthew had a hard time seeing the positives, when the negatives were still a real threat. Now that the Allies were blazing through France, the retreating German forces were more violent and careless than ever.

            Through the month of June, Lablanche fended off numerous attempts at looting by stray groups of German soldiers. Matthew found himself no longer afraid of them themselves. He was more afraid for the art. It was under constant threat from bombings and looting. They were so close to the end, they could make it through.

            When the Allied landing looked favorably on German defeat, Jaujard sent messages to all the depot heads detailing instructions on what to do should military events threaten the safety of the art. As a precaution, the team built raised planks in the basement, where they would store the art in case of serious bombing and to protect in case of flooding.

            In the second evacuation, many depots close to Paris had been evacuated further south, but some, including Lablanche, Chambord, Cheverny, and Courtalain, held vast amounts of high-profile art and so were not abandoned. This now posed a problem, as Allied bombings grew in intensity explosions could be heard around Lablanche at all hours. Because at first, those depots were away from the primary roads targeted to root the Germans out, but now the secondary roads around the châteaux were targeted.

            Duval spent much of that month after D-Day in a perpetual state of stress.

            They had been spending so much time running drills and organizing safety protocol that Matthew had forgotten his own birthday.

            He wondered vaguely about his colleagues being quieter than usual on that day, July 1^st.

            Lili entered the room he was working in, alone, and said, “Mathieu, Monsieur Duval would like to see you in the dining room.”

            Matthew put down his papers and followed her.

            He entered and a chorus of “Happy Birthday!” struck him. He blinked in confusion, until he was reminded that, yes, today was his birthday.

            His colleagues all laughed at the sight of his bewilderment and they came forward to give him friendly pats and quick hugs in celebration.

            Duval clapped him on the shoulder. “I knew you were working hard, but I didn’t think you would forget!”

            Matthew laughed. “I really did though.”

            “Well take a break with work today. Victory is on the horizon, I can taste it. I will also be tasting that cake, so you better claim your piece!”

            Matthew then saw the modest, but pretty birthday cake centered on the table. Francis.

            A plate of cake was pushed into his hands and he stared at it. His stomach rumbled, the traitor. Practically everything that went into making a cake had to be bought on the black market these days. Matthew looked up and he met Francis’s gaze, leaning so casually against the doorway.

            Francis was grinning like a fool. He knew Matthew would say something.

            But Matthew waited until that night, when the effects of celebratory drinks put most everybody to sleep.

            He walked slowly into Francis’s bedroom, arms crossed.

            “Francis.”

            “Mathieu.”

            He sighed. “You don’t know the meaning of frugal, do you?”

            Francis smiled, knowing he said it without any malice. “It’s never been one of my finer points.” Francis stood from his chair. “Since you are here, I have something for you.”

            “Francis,” he bemoaned. “I have told you every year that I don’t want you to buy me anything.”

            “But I don’t listen.”

            “Stubborn,” he muttered under his breath.

            Francis laughed. “I know, I know. But I didn’t buy you anything this year.”

            Matthew cocked his head. “Then what–”

            “It is a gift, wait one moment.” Francis disappeared into his dressing room and came back with something in his hand.

            He walked up to Matthew and motioned for him to hold up his hand. He was so close Matthew could smell his cologne and the distinct scent of lavender.

            Francis held his hand open and into his palm he laid a silver pocket watch. Matthew’s lips parted slightly in awe. Finally he took it in both hands and examined the intricate carving on the lid. He popped it open and saw that it was still ticking, still in perfect condition. The inside of the lid had an engraving. Bonne foi, it read. Good faith.

            Francis chuckled. “It is a little family pun.”

            “Francis…”

            “It was my grandfather’s,” he said softly. “My grandmother gave it to him. I wanted you to have it.”

            Matthew trailed his fingertips over the grooves in the carving, down the delicate chain.

            “See, I didn’t buy you anything.”

            Matthew chuckled and forced down the lump of emotion rising in his throat. “I should have known you’d take a loophole.”

            “Do you like it?”

            “It’s… beautiful,” he breathed. “But why give me this?”

            “A good friend deserves a gift on their birthday. I was going through my things, and I thought of you.”

            I thought of you.

            Matthew clutched it to his heart. “Thank you, Francis.”

            “How do you feel? After another year?”

            “Oh gosh,” he said. “I don’t know. I feel like I can’t stop yet, there’s still so much to do, and wait for.”

            “Well, don’t forget to stop once in a while and appreciate the small things.”

            “Like your gifts?”

            Francis laughed. “You know me entirely too well. Me and my selfish ways.”

            Matthew could only shake his head. That, of course, wasn’t true, but he didn’t need to remind him now.

            “Don’t let it go to your head,” he said. “Seriously though, thank you.”

            “That and many more. You’re welcome.”

            Matthew, reluctantly, said his goodnights and crossed the hall to his bedroom. He thought about Francis’s words; how did he feel after another year, another birthday? Matthew had spent five years at Lablanche. He was twenty-eight now. He looked at himself in the mirror, trying to see if anything was different, but he couldn’t even imagine himself as he was when he’d first arrived, a young assistant curator, the outbreak of war in his young eyes. Matthew looked himself over in the mirror – same hair, though it could use a trim, same face. Perhaps he’d sharpened in those five years. He didn’t look gaunt, but he’d lost the baby fat in his cheeks, and the muscle on his body was not soft but lean from frequent handling of heavy crates.

When he crawled into bed, he curled up and held the pocket watch in his hands. He spent an hour just looking at it, turning it in his hands and memorizing every little groove, marking, and tick of the clock hands.

            It was just a pocket watch, he told himself, but it was a personal gift from Francis, the first he’d ever given him. Matthew knew it was most likely just a thoughtful gift from a friend, but for the first time in a long, long while, he imagined differently.

            For once, he allowed his drifting mind to imagine that it was Francis’s heart he cradled to his chest. He imagined that he didn’t have to hide anymore, that he could tell him how much he meant to him, all while ignoring the pain and longing that beat in his heart. The last thing he imagined before falling asleep was Francis’s arms around him, comfortable, safe, and warm.

.

            That evening of his birthday marked a period of heartache that Matthew had never known the likes of before. He kept the pocket watch on him at all times, tucked in the pocket of his pants or his jacket.

            July brought increasingly risky Resistance activity in Paris, and everybody was waiting for the moment when the city would erupt in an all-out attack. The Allies were marching ever closer to the city and Lablanche, further to the southwest, continued listening to the coded messages on the radio, while managing through their own close run-ins with bombs and soldiers.

            He knew he should have concerned himself more with these dangers, but Matthew’s plate was balancing the war and Francis. Now, more than ever, he tried his hardest to push down those feelings for the latter. Too many times he caught himself starting to reach out, his gaze lingering too long. Not now, not yet. Matthew couldn’t afford the humiliation when things were so disheveled around them.

            Apparently it was affecting his outer appearance as well. Francis asked him multiple times if there was something bothering him.

            Yes. You, he wanted to say, but of course he couldn’t. He just smiled and gave his standard reply of, “I’m just worried about the art.”

            To which Francis would always respond with a comforting gesture that only tugged on Matthew’s heart more.

            When could he tell him? Could he ever tell him? Matthew weighed these questions in his mind constantly.

            He never expected to get a little – indirect – assistance from his colleagues. He never expected that after five years he would know whether his unrequited feelings were requited.

            The date was August 24^th. His colleagues had been raptly listening to the radio and its news on the march on Paris that was to begin anytime now.

            All throughout the day they listened, and when night fell, Matthew’s head was full of coded messages, buzzing with the conversations that were happening all over the château. He need to go to bed, so he left the grand salon.

            Before he reached the staircase, a small group was huddled in one of the side rooms. The door was cracked, and the name “Bonnefoy” caught his attention. Matthew wasn’t one to eavesdrop, but when it involved Francis, he found he had to know. He stood with his back to the wall just outside the door and listened.

            “Should we tell Laurent?”

            “I don’t know, I don’t think it is that important.”

            “What do you mean? Something could happen to poor Matthew. We should at leastinform Laurent of our suspicions.”

            Something could happen to him? What were they talking about?

            “Is it that important? It sounds like we’ll be heading back to Paris soon. We’ll be gone and away from Monsieur Bonnefoy.”

            There came a frustrated huff and then, “You must see it as well as I. The duke likes Matthew. Don’t you see the way he looks at him? I knew he was a frou-frou, didn’t I say it in the beginning? I’m surprised Matthew hasn’t said anything, though he has always been sort of… preoccupied.”

            Matthew was holding his breath. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

            “Like I said, we’ll most likely be leaving soon. It doesn’t matter.”

            The other man mumbled something, but Matthew couldn’t catch it. He didn’t need to anyway.

The duke likes Matthew. Don’t you see the way he looks at him?

If his colleagues were tuning into Francis, how had Matthew missed it? Was he so… preoccupied with his own feelings that he completely missed Francis’s?

This was it. The war was ending. Who knew how much time they had left at Lablanche?

Matthew ran. He swung himself around the banister and climbed the steps two at a time. He didn’t think, he ran straight for Francis’s bedroom, the culmination of years of Matthew’s love for him welling up in his throat and behind his eyes. Love, love, love. It was the only thing he could call it.

He pushed open Francis’s door and fell against it inside. Jarred by the commotion, Francis had just slipped his blazer off and he looked at Matthew surprised and confused.

“Mathieu–”

“Francis,” Matthew started and his voice cracked. He tried to swallow and start again, needing to say what he needed to say unwavering. “Francis, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me.”

Francis’s eyes flashed concern, but he nodded. “I will. Go ahead.”

Now or never, Matthew.

“Francis, do you like me?”

Francis tilted his head to the side. “Like you? Of course I like you. You are my fr–”

“No!” His voice started shaking again but he pushed on. “I mean, do you like me? As- as a lover would?”

Francis’s eyes dimmed, his shoulders fell, knowing he was found out. He looked down and clutched his blazer in his hands.

Somberly, he said, “You’re asking me if I like men.”

“Francis, I’m not asking if you like men. I’m asking if you like me.”

He looked up then, a hint of sadness touching his blue eyes. “Yes,” he said just loud enough for him to hear. “I do. I am in love with you, I won’t lie.”

Propelled by the knowledge that his unrequited love was, in fact, requited, Matthew crossed the room more eagerly than he ever had before. His eyes stung as he slipped his hands around the back of Francis’s neck, fingers curling in his hair. Francis held Matthew with his arms tight around his waist and his back, and he could have cried tears of joy.

Matthew was kissing him then, soft, tentative, not wholly sure yet. And then Francis was kissing him back with a fervor that came from years of desire.

Lavender.

Matthew wound his arms around his neck and relished in being as close to him as he could only get in his dreams. They parted for quick breaths but there was nothing Matthew wanted more than to go on kissing him. With Francis’s hands smoothing over his sides and their lips playing at push and pull, it was better than anything Matthew’s imagination could have come up with.

At some point, he did pull away just enough to say through the heady space between them, “I’ve spent two-and-a-half years in love with you, maybe more. I never thought…”

“Neither did I,” Francis laughed. “To think, all this time trapped in our own heads.”

“I was afraid I would never be able to tell you, to know.”

Francis’s hand cradled the side of his face, his thumb brushing his cheek. Matthew leaned into it.

Francis kissed him again, so gently, so tenderly that it wrapped around Matthew’s heart and settled there with the warmth of a kindled fire.

“I don’t want to go,” Matthew whispered.

“Then don’t. Stay.”

He couldn’t possibly leave now. Matthew nodded and Francis walked him backward to the bedside, all while slowly unbuttoned his shirt. It fell to the floor, and while it was August and very warm, Matthew shivered under his fingers.

Francis discarded his own shirt and with Matthew laid back against the pillows he stroked his fingers through his hair and brought their lips together. They kissed and kissed, never really satiated, never wanting to be more than a breath apart.

For months, Matthew had to content himself with imagining the feeling of Francis’s arms, his weight, his warmth while he drifted to sleep. He didn’t have to do that now. He had Francis in his hands, aligned wonderfully with his own body, and warmer than anything he could conjure up.

Matthew fell asleep, for the first time in a long time, utterly at ease.

.

            They slept entangled the entire night, and Matthew woke early to a chorus of birds and morning pastels lightening the sky.

            Francis’s nose was tucked into the crook of his neck and he could feel his soft breaths over his collarbones.

            As Matthew lay in absolute peace, he thought of how this could be every morning for them. At this time of day, it was easy to imagine that it was only the two of them in this big house.

            Matthew, very lightly, traced a pattern over Francis’s shoulder. Francis shifted and then he was pressing slow, lazy kisses to the side of his neck. His lips inched up, pressing to the underside of his jaw, over his cheekbone, over his closed eyes, and finally to the corner of his lips.

            “I thought you were asleep,” Matthew said softly, the same corner of his lips that Francis kissed lifting in a half-smile.

            “Not anymore.”

            Matthew turned his head on the pillow, coming forehead-to-forehead. He breathed in deeply.

            “Good morning,” he said.

            “Good morning, cher.”

            A moment of silence passed, perhaps one was waiting for the other, but then their lips came together once more as natural as ever, in a sleepy, warm succession of kisses. Matthew didn’t think he’d ever tire of kissing him.

            But as the morning grew brighter, he knew their time together in that bed, unconcerned with anything outside the boundaries of the sheets, had to end. For now.

            “I should go,” Matthew whispered, though it pained him to do so.

            Francis scrunched his nose and Matthew smiled. It was cute.

            “Don’t,” Francis practically whined.

            “I need to, before the early-risers start moving about.”

            They both knew what that meant, and so Francis relinquished his hold on him. Reluctantly, Matthew sat up and stretched his shoulders.

            “Where have I seen this before?” Francis asked. “You, in only your underwear, in my bed.”

            Matthew laughed. “You sure were enjoying my embarrassment, weren’t you?”

            “I couldn’t help it. You were so adorable. Tousled, blind, and panicking.”

            “I wasn’t blind, only impaired.” Matthew reached for his glasses on the side table and once they were on he glanced back at Francis.

            He was lying back with all the satisfaction of a well-fed cat, in his silk pajama pants and his own shining, tousled hair.

            Matthew continued dressing, and only when he was done did Francis climb off the bed and slide his fingers through his hair, claiming his lips for what seemed the hundredth time.

            “And now we have to act like nothing happened,” Matthew said.

            “Don’t sound so sad. This is not a goodbye, after all.”

            “I know.”

            Francis kissed him one last time before letting him go, and so that he wouldn’t convince himself to stay, Matthew exited the room quietly. The hallway was still empty and so he quickly closed himself in his bedroom.

            Kuma lifted his head from where he lay on the bed and Matthew could have sworn he were giving him a look, like he’d been a teenager caught by his parent. He had to laugh.

            “I’m sorry, Kuma,” he said, kissing the dog’s head. “But I couldn’t invite you last night.”

            Kuma huffed and laid his head back down. As it was still early in the morning, Matthew climbed in next to him, fully clothed, and stroked his fur as he fell asleep with a smile on his face.

.

            Matthew went back downstairs that day at his usual time. Francis stayed upstairs a while longer, which wasn’t unusual for him, and it made Matthew feel a little better about not being found out.

            Most of the day, everyone was occupied with the radio. Calls to action were now incessant and that day, August 25^th, was cause for celebration. The Allies and the Resistance groups had liberated Paris. The Germans were defeated, a great many already being driven out eastward.

            Paris was no longer under German occupation, and they could feel the end of France’s troubles on the horizon. Matthew met Francis’s gaze across the room, and his eyes were shining with tears of joy. His colleagues all clapped each other on the back and embraced one another between them, and Matthew wanted so much to wrap his arms around Francis and cry from happiness with him. For the moment, he settled for hugging Kuma, who barked in response to the whoops and cheers.

            That night when Matthew fell back onto Francis’s bed, grinning and unable to contain his joy, he didn’t think at all about the pockets of war left in France, the as yet uncertain future that lay ahead of them, nor the fact that he and Francis still had to keep what they had a secret.

            Francis grinned down at him and Matthew dragged him down into a long, breathless kiss.

.

            Two weeks later, Matthew would be surprised again.

            With the news that there were less and less Germans left threatening France, there began talks of fixing up the Louvre for the return of the art. It was easier said than done, of course.

            In order for the art to go back into the Louvre, there needed to be assured climate control in the building, and reconstruction to what was damaged in explosions. That itself would take awhile. Paris was still without many resources; coal was next to impossible to find in the city, and enough of the precious stock left needed to be allocated to priorities likes transportation. There couldn’t be enough to heat all the rooms in the Louvre, not yet. Until conditions in the city improved, the art would stay in their depots.

            Even so, the crew at Lablanche greeted a visit from a brand new type of team.

            Duval looked out the window in the grand salon one day and said aloud, “What is that?”

            Matthew looked out and saw a little liaison plane flying low over Lablanche. It was headed straight for the château, in fact. Duval, Matthew, Francis, and the others stood on the porch as they watched a British plane land on the expanse of lawn.

            Two people emerged. One wearing a standard military helmet, though his uniform was basic and unidentifiable. The other wore a leather aviator helmet and goggles.

            They descended the steps to meet them, when suddenly the pilot pulled his goggles and helmet off and shouted, “Mattie?”

            Matthew felt it like a punch to the gut, he was alerted instantly to that American voice that could only be…

            “Alfred?”

            “Mattie!” he laughed and ran across the lawn.

            It was like being hit by a brick wall, Alfred’s arms wrapped so tightly around him but he didn’t care. Tears were already spilling.

            “Oh god, Al, is it really you?” he asked, voice trembling as he squeezed his brother back, sincerely hoping he wasn’t dreaming.

            “Of course it’s me,” Alfred replied in the same watery shakiness.

            “I was so scared you’d… that you were…”

            Alfred laughed and ruffled his hair. “I’m invincible.” Matthew couldn’t stop the tears now. That was what he always told him, ever since they were kids. I’m invincible.

            “I never thought I’d see you here. What are you doing here?”

            “I never thought I’d see you here, way out in this fancy mansion!” Alfred took in the château behind them. “You been living like a king or something, Mattie?”

            Matthew rolled his eyes, wiping away the tears. “Hardly. Answer the question.”

            “Oh, right.” Alfred detached himself and held an arm out to the man with him. “This here is Mister Arthur Kirkland, most noted art historian in England. He’s one of the guys on the MFAA, and I think we’re here to assess the state of the Louvre’s art, am I right, Artie?”

            The man shot him a baleful glare and Matthew laughed, knowing what dealing with Alfred was like.

            “Nice to meet you, Mr. Kirkland,” Matthew greeted, shaking his hand.

            “Pleasure, as well,” he replied. “I take it you’re related?”

            “Yessir,” Alfred said, hooking an arm around Matthew’s shoulders. “Matt’s the best brother on God’s green Earth.”

            “I’m your only brother.”
            “Which makes you the best.”

            Matthew shook his head and turned to find Duval, Francis, and the others watching amusedly.

            “Al, Mr. Kirkland, allow me to introduce the man you’re probably looking for. Laurent Duval, curator of Italian Renaissance. And this is the duke of Lablanche, Francis Bonnefoy.”

            They exchanged greetings and Alfred whistled.

            “A duke right in front of my eyes. Enchanté, monsieur!”

            He really hadn’t been using his French, Matthew thought, stifling a laugh.

            “I speak English,” Francis said, charming smile on his face. “Let us keep it to that.”

            “Fair enough.”

            “Shall we go in and discuss?”

            “Please, let’s,” Arthur said.

            Inside, Francis ferried the brothers into another room. “You two catch up,” he said to Matthew. “We’ll fill you in on the details later.”

            “Thank you, Francis.”

            He gave Matthew a smile, and then left the room.

            “My French isn’t what it used to be, I don’t know what he said just now.”

            “He said we could take this time to catch up. I’ll get the details later.”

            “Oh, okay.” Alfred sat back on the sofa. “You’re a curator with that Duval guy, right? It’s been a few years, I’m sorry.”

            “No, Al, it’s fine. But yes, assistant curator.” Matthew sat next to him. “It has been a while, huh.”

            Alfred heaved a deep sigh. “Five long years,” he said, his tone going serious. “I almost thought I’d have been blown to smithereens by now.”

            “Al, stop it. I’ve been worried sick this whole time about you. When the U.S. declared war I wondered whether you were here yet or not, if you were okay.”

            “Nah, I didn’t come over right away.” All joking had been put aside, and Alfred was just looking at him again, in the same way that Matthew took him in like he still couldn’t believe he was here. “I was worried about you to, you know. I knew you were working in the Louvre when the war started, and I had no idea if you were in Paris this whole time or not…”

            “It wasn’t exactly a picnic out here either, but I admit we did have it better than most people.”

            Lili entered then with a tray of tea for them, which she placed on the table.

            When she was gone, Alfred said, “She’s cute.”

            Matthew smiled. “Don’t even think about it, trust me.”

            “Whoa, you’ve got sugar? Nobody has sugar.”

            “It’s a complicated story. Just enjoy the tea.”

            Alfred fixed himself a cup and took a sip, wincing. “You know, I still haven’t really gotten used to tea. Artie yelled at me last week for brewing it wrong.”

            Of course he would. “What are you doing with the MFAA anyway?”

            “Ah, that’s a simple story. I was meant to go into regular service, but I happened to be at the right place at the right time, and I was recruited to pilot for them and accompany as transport. Arthur’s been my partner for better part of the year, I’d say. It looks like he doesn’t like me very much but we wouldn’t be working together if that were the case.”

            “Good. I was so worried.”

            Alfred playfully hit him and they laughed together. It felt like old times, when they were younger and things like war didn’t exist. Arthur was given his own bedroom that night but Alfred insisted on sharing with Matthew.

            “Your room is so big!”

            “It’s not that big, compared to other rooms.”

            “Still.” Alfred made himself comfortable on the bed. “I’ve never had anything as nice as this.”

            Matthew sat next to him, and his voice lowered when he asked, “Did you see Mom and Dad at all?” He was referring to their tombstones, laid side-by-side in a cemetery outside New York City.

            “Just once. Before I left. I brought them flowers, and told them I was worried about you, but I knew you’d be okay.”

            “You weren’t worried for yourself?”

            “I suppose I was, but I was still in New York. You’re the one that was already here. I’m glad you weren’t taken by any Krauts.”

            Matthew smiled. “There were a couple close calls, but we’ve got a good team.”

            “What are you going to do now? It sounds like the next step is taking everything back to Paris.”

            “We can’t do that yet. Paris is still so low on necessary resources. Everything will stay here until it’s ready.”

            “Including you?”

            “Yeah, I guess so.”

            “That’s good. I think it’s safer out here.”

            “Nowhere is guaranteed to be safer than anywhere else.”

            “Let me be concerned for you!”

            Matthew laughed and Alfred’s head fell onto his shoulder. He snuggled there, and made an odd noise.

            “You’re kind of skinny, Matt.”

            “Food shortages will do that to you, Al.”

            His voice was beginning to fall drowsy when he said, “I’ll go hunt a bear for you. A big bear. Lots of meat.”

            “Alright.”

            “Love you, Mattie.”

            “I love you too, Al.”

            Alfred fell asleep, and so Matthew removed his glasses and slid down, pulling the covers over them. In under a month, Matthew got everything he could have wanted – first Francis, and now he had his brother back. It was the best month since the start of the war.

.

            The MFAA kept in periodic check, which mean that Alfred was in and out of Lablanche. Matthew would have spent those next few months in a returned state of worry, but now that they could keep in touch he wasn’t so much, luckily.

            A large part of it had to do with Francis. If Matthew didn’t have Francis, he didn’t know what he’d do. True, the only time they had to themselves was during the night, when everyone else slept, but it was enough and Matthew couldn’t ask for more because he never thought they’d be able to spend time like this anyway.

            Francis was often the first person he saw in the morning. He’d slip into the room and gather the strength he needed for the day from Francis’s kiss. At the end of the day, when all was quiet in the house, Matthew would lay with him, tangled together, and know that for at least a few hours he wouldn’t be alone.

            His heart was sustained in that way, but time would soon test it. War was not technically over yet, as much as it seemed like it was in Matthew’s immediate sphere. Sometimes, it took a hard reminder.

            It was December 26^th, and that morning Matthew was packing a small suitcase. It lay on his bed as he folded clothes into it.

            “Are you sure you will be okay?”

            Francis had walked in. Matthew stopped packing and turned.

            He smiled. “Yes, Francis. I promise.”

            “That is not something you can easily promise.”

            “There haven’t been any bombings in a while.”

            “I’m sorry. It’s only that you haven’t left in five years and…”

            “That may be so, but the Germans are gone. I’ll be with Laurent, and Alfred. We’re only speaking to Jaujard– I mean, to Salles.” Georges Salles, the man who Jaujard had passed the helm of the Musées Nationaux to in October. Matthew was still getting used to imagining a different man, who he hadn’t met yet, in Jaujard’s place.

            “We are still officially at war, though.” This he said quietly, and Matthew moved forward, slipped his hands into Francis’s, and leant his forehead to his.

            “It’s only one night,” he said. “We’ll be fine.”

            “I wish I could be as confident as you.”

            Matthew smiled and he was about to reply, but Kuma pushed his way between them, thumping Francis with his tail and putting his paws on Matthew.

            He laughed, ruffling him.

            “It seems I am not the only one who will miss you.”

            “You’ll have each other at least.”

            At last, Francis laughed.

            Alfred popped in just then, eliminating any chance Matthew had at giving Francis a kiss.

            “Come on, Mattie, the car is waiting.”

            He closed his suitcase and took it with him, passing Francis and leaving him with a soft smile.

            Outside, the car was ready, Arthur in the driver’s seat. Alfred hopped in, but Matthew cast one last look back toward the window up in the corner. Francis was leaning against the sill and he gave Matthew a soft smile back.

.

            “Is it sad? To see Paris like this after what it was like before?”

            Matthew looked down at his shoes as they wandered.

            “Yes. I won’t lie,” he answered his brother.

            Alfred sighed. “Who knew that the first time I’d get to see Paris was during war.”

            “She’ll get back on her feet,” Matthew said with a smile for him. “She always does.”

            “Maybe when that happens I’ll come back – to see you, to take a vacation after all this.”

            “That sounds great, Al.”

            Alfred slung his arm over his shoulder. “I’m glad I found you, Matt.”

            “Me too.”

            They were walking through the Tuileries Garden, close to the main building where they’d gotten out of the meeting with Salles. It’d gone late, and Duval, wanting a quick word with Salles before finishing for the night, told Matthew he could leave early. Alfred had been waiting around nearby, and Matthew suggested a little tour of the grounds.

            “It’s dark, I know, but I don’t feel tired yet,” he’d said.

            “Neither do I, let’s go,” Alfred had replied enthusiastically.

            They weren’t worried about the time either, as they were booked in the neighboring hotel for the night.

            Now as they wandered, heading nowhere on no schedule, Matthew looked around at the ghostly empty garden and imagined the day it would be filled again.

            “You two are still out here?” he heard Duval shout as he came up the path.

            Matthew chuckled. “We’ll head in soon, don’t worry.”

            “I’m surprised, after such a long day–”

            “Planes.”

            Matthew and Duval looked at Alfred, whose head was tilted back to the night sky. His brow was furrowed and Matthew’s copied him in worry.

            “Al, what is it?”

            And then they heard the telltale whistle of bombs falling right overhead.

            “Move!” Alfred yelled, tightening his arm around Matthew and yanking him across the garden, Duval following close behind.

            Matthew’s heart pounded heavily, stopped all at once when the bomb struck the pathway beside them. Matthew threw his arm over his eyes, though the blast knocked him off his feet. Sharp rocks scratched at him and his ears rang. He could still hear a second bomb falling nearby in the garden.

            He was breathing harshly, no longer able to feel Alfred next to him. His limbs were aching after the fall and he slowly pushed himself up, looking around. People started to emerge from buildings and their voices were tinny.

            “Matt! Where are you?” Alfred shouted through groans and grunts of pain. Matthew swung himself around and Alfred was on his hands and knees, his hand covering his eyes. He was bleeding from various places where his skin was unprotected.

            “I’m right here,” he coughed, crawling to his side. On his knees, he took Alfred’s face between his hands. “Al, are you okay?”

            “Yeah… Yeah, I’m…” He was obviously in pain, his eyes squeezed shut and swearing. “Matt are you okay?”

            “I’m fine. Just a few cuts. Al, what’s wrong? Is it your eyes?”

            Alfred groaned again in pain and finally rasped, “Yes… fuck, the explosion. It hurts.”

            Matthew looked around helplessly. “It’s okay, we’re going to get help. Where’s Laurent?”

            Patches of grass were burning around them, and a chunk of the stone wall was blown out. Matthew searched for Laurent, hearing nothing from him.

            Finally, he saw him, lying unconscious amongst rubble and debris.

            “Oh God, Laurent’s down.”

            “See if he’s breathing,” Alfred said.

            Matthew was nervous leaving Alfred alone, but he made his way to Laurent and checked his breathing, his pulse.

            “He’s still alive,” Matthew called.

            People, from outside and inside the Louvre and nearby buildings poured into the garden, shouting for medics, a hospital, anything.

            Matthew was running on pure adrenaline and tunnel vision. Alfred leant on him as they stood. People were around them now, ushering them in a direction. Matthew only continued to ask Alfred if he was hurt anywhere else, what happened to him.

            One moment they were outside and the next they were indoors, people moving about, fussing over them. Matthew didn’t register any of their movements, barely even their touching them with disinfectants and bandages. He held Alfred while tears streaked down his cheeks, burned from the blast.

            “Mattie, don’t leave me,” he said again and again.

            “No, Al, I won’t. I promise, I won’t.”

            At some point the sun began to rise outside the window. Matthew’s gaze lay on Alfred, unfocused. Laurent had been taken to a hospital. It was just the two of them.

            He had bandages wrapped around his arms, on his face, his clothes were dirty and rumpled. Alfred looked worse for wear though. Where Matthew had cuts, he had gashes. His whole left forearm was wrapped, burned from the explosion.

            Another was wrapped around his head, covering his eyes like a mask.

            Matthew had only been able to sleep a couple hours. Medics were in and out of the room all night. When they asked if Matthew was okay, he’d just say, “I’m fine.”

            At one point he asked someone where they were. The reply was that they were in a room in the main building that had been converted into an infirmary of sorts.

            All was quiet now, however, and Matthew’s mind started wandering. The first person whose image appeared was Francis.

            Shit. Francis probably knew about the bombs from radio broadcasts. Was he worried? What was going to happen?

            Matthew got up and entered the hall.

            “Excuse me,” he said to the first person he could find. “Where is a telephone?”

            Matthew was taken into another room, a nondescript office with a telephone on the desk.

            Thankfully, the man left him to it, and Matthew shut the door. He waited for the call to go through to the château and his heart pounded when it was Francis’s voice saying, “This is Bonnefoy.”

            “Francis. It’s me.”

            Like a floodgate had opened, he rushed, “Mathieu? Is everything okay? We heard about the– Please tell me you’re okay.”

            Technically, Matthew was fine, but then he also wasn’t. What should he say? He opted for the truth.

            “I’m not hurt much. But Alfred, and Laurent, are.” His voice choked up. “I’m– I’m sorry, I think I’m still in shock.”

            “Oh, Mathieu, I am so sorry. I have been beside myself… is there anything I can do? I can send for you right away–”

            “Francis, I need to stay in Paris,” he said, feeling his stomach roll. “I need to stay with Al until he’s better. And then Laurent…”

            Francis didn’t say anything right away, but then he said, “I understand. You do what you need to do.”

            “I’m sorry, I am, it’s just… I can’t leave them.”

            “Mathieu. Do not worry about a thing. Someone needs to keep control here, no?”

            Matthew smiled toward the window. “Kuma will do a good job.”

            Francis laughed. “That’s my Mathieu.”

            “I will see you again, you know that right?”

            “I know. I await the day.”

            Someone knocked softly on the door and a man opened. Alfred was asking for him.

            “I need to go, Francis. Al needs me.”

            “Give him my best.”
            “I will.” Before he could hang up, Matthew stopped him. “Francis. I’ll– I’ll call you again soon.”

            He could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “I look forward to it.”

            Matthew said goodbye and hung up the line. He took a shaky breath before rising and returning swiftly to the infirmary room.

            “Al, I’m here, I’m sorry I left,” he said, taking his hand and sitting beside him.

            Alfred picked his head up, realized he couldn’t see anything anyway, and squeezed Matthew’s hand.

            “What were you doing?”

            “I called Lablanche, just to give an update.”

            “When are you going back?”

            “I’m not. Not until you’re better.”

            “But what about the art?”

            “It’s in capable hands.”

            Alfred laid his head back down and sighed. “I don’t think I can fly again after this.”

            “Al…”

            “Honestly. My vision was perfect. It won’t be now.”

            Matthew didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t get his brother’s hopes up.

            “How is Laurent doing?”

            He snapped back to attention. “Oh, I don’t know yet. I haven’t been to see him.”

            “Did he look pretty bad?”

            “He was only unconscious. I don’t know if anything else happened to him. I’ll go to the hospital later.”

            Matthew went later that afternoon, when Alfred didn’t need anything for the time being. Laurent was at a nearby hospital, and though not too much could be done due to lacking resources, they were able to do what they could.

            Laurent had been struck unconscious from the bomb explosion, and his case was similar to Alfred’s in that the heat and debris had damaged his eyes and a banadage was wrapped around them to let them heal. He was awake when Matthew visited, and he wasn’t as confident he’d be able to keep going after he got out.

            “Laurent, no. You’ll be fine, you’ll…”

            “Matthew, I can feel it. I may be blind, if not severely impaired.”

            “You don’t know that yet.”

            He said nothing right away then, only, “We’ll see.”

            Around him, two people close to him had been hurt, and he’d gotten away relatively unscathed. Was it just incredible luck that Matthew had for narrowly escaping lethal situations? He tried to imagine what Francis would think.

.

            A week later, Alfred’s eye bandage came off. He was otherwise fit as a fiddle, but finding out that the world now had a slight fuzz to it hurt him more than anything.

            The doctor told him to give it a couple days to let his healed eyes adjust, but even then nothing changed.

            “I can’t fly,” he said, dejected. Matthew sat next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and accepted Alfred’s head laid on him.

            While they figured out what to do, Matthew telephoned Francis.

            “How is everything?” Francis asked.

            Matthew swallowed the lump in his throat. “Al’s vision is damaged. He won’t be able to fly anymore. That’s put a damper on him more than the actual accident did.”

            “But that is all?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then thank goodness for that, though I’m sorry about the news.”

            “It’s okay. He’s…” invincible? “strong.”

            There was only so much Francis could say over the phone, Matthew knew. And though he should have been expecting it, he was still surprised when one of the Louvre couriers gave him a letter addressed to Alfred from Francis.

            “What is this?” Matthew mused aloud.

            “Open it!” Alfred urged.

            The letter was addressed to the both of them, in English, though its contents mostly to Alfred.

            He read it aloud, slightly embarrassed. “As Mathieu is a dear friend of mine, I would like to help in any way I can. Therefore, take this money and get yourself a good pair of glasses. I’ve included the contact for a reputable doctor in Paris. It is a gift from me, I won’t take returns.”

            Alfred chuckled. “He sure is persistent.”

            “I know.”

            His voice lowered. “It seems more real now, I’ve been in denial…”

            Matthew sighed. “You do need them now.”

            “It’s so alien to me. I’ll finally get to see what your world is like.”

            Matthew smacked him. Alfred laughed.

            Since Francis wasn’t there for him to complain to, Matthew resolved to use all the money Francis had sent them, which seemed more than they’d need anyway. The doctor prepared his prescription and let Alfred pick out his frames.

When he slipped the final product on, a pair of black horn rimmed glasses, Matthew smiled and said, “You actually look kind of intellectual.”

It was Alfred’s turn to hit him, but he looked mostly nervous as he inspected himself.

Matthew softened. “You’ll get used to them. What’s important is that you can see now.”

“I’ll have to write to Mr. Bonnefoy.”

.

            It was in mid-January when Matthew received the news.

            “Monsieur Williams,” Salles began one afternoon. “How long have you been working with Duval?”

            “Since before the war started, sir.”

            He hummed, giving Matthew a somber smile. “His condition has not improved in the way we hoped, has it?”

            “I haven’t been to see him recently, but no.”

            “I have something to tell you,” he said. “It was a decision made with Duval, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

            Matthew was at a loss to know what it could be.

            “We’ve decided to promote you. If you accept, and I hope you will, you will be our new curator of Italian Renaissance paintings.”

            His mouth fell open. “What? You– you’re giving me Laurent’s position?”

            “I am.”

            His heart was beating fast now, a thousand thoughts running through his head. “But… but I haven’t written anything since before the war, I– surely there must be more qualified scholars…”

            Salles simply smiled, as if expecting this reaction. “Matthew, my offer stands. If you’d like some time, I understand. In any case, I suggest you pay Duval a visit. He can probably explain it to you a little better.”

            And that’s what Matthew did. After speaking with Salles, he headed straight for Duval’s residence. He was staying at his cousin’s flat in Paris, due to his new disability.

            Matthew entered the flat and found Duval, seated in the small kitchen.

            “Laurent?”

            “Ah, Matthew. How have you been?”

            Matthew bit his lip. “A little confused, actually. Salles sent me.”

            He smiled. “He must have told you then.”

            Duval looked in his direction. His eyes were now slightly milkier. “Come sit.”

            Matthew sat across from him.

            Duval sighed. “You don’t realize how many things you can’t do until you’re blind.”

            Duval wasn’t completely blind. He had the slightest ability to see shapes and shadows, but the bomb explosion had affected him the worst out of all of them.

            “Laurent, I don’t understand why you chose me.”

            “To succeed me?”

            “Yes.”

            “Why shouldn’t I?”

            “Because there are more qualified historians out there, because–”

            “Matthew, let me tell you why I chose you. The fact is that you have been at my side since long before this mess. I don’t know anyone who would defend these pieces of old paint and canvas as much as I have seen you do. You have spent five years under the same roof, recording, examining, writing about these artworks almost daily. Frankly, there is no one I trust more with this collection than you, Matthew.”

            He didn’t say anything, he didn’t know if he could say anything.

            “I really hope you will accept,” Duval said. “I think, now with the war close to an end, that new, young blood will do some good, even if only in one department.”

            Matthew could only go with his gut.

            “I don’t want to keep you waiting, and I don’t want to keep the collection at Lablanche in any more limbo. I… I will accept the position.”

            Duval grinned. “I am happy to hear that. La Joconde will soon be yours. I hope you will also find your happiness.”

            Matthew wasn’t even thinking about the Mona Lisa. At the mention of happiness, Francis came to his mind, and he smiled sadly.

            “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to go see Salles again.”

            “Of course. I’ll just be here, you know,” he said with a laugh at his own expense.

            Matthew clasped his hand. “Thank you, Laurent. I’m sorry you couldn’t see her back in her place yourself.”

            “I have had my fair share of time with her,” he said with a wink.

            Matthew left, a mixture of giddiness and nervousness in his stomach. He’d have a lot more responsibility now, but it wasn’t like he’d done nothing these past five years. Duval was right. Matthew knew their collection inside and out. It was a new path for him, unexpected and not in the most ideal conditions, but he vowed to follow through for Duval, for Alfred, Francis, and the Lablanche crew, and perhaps for himself too.

.

            “Mathieu, it is good to hear from you again.”

            “Francis, I have news.”

            “Oh? I hope it is good.”

            “I suppose it is.” Matthew paused.

            “What is it then?” Francis prompted gently.

            “I’m… I’m going to be taking Laurent’s place. I’m being promoted to curator.”

            “Really?” he said in surprise. “That’s excellent, Mathieu!”

            “I’m still trying to take it all in, honestly.”

            “What a wonderful opportunity, though I’m sorry Laurent will be stepping down. How is he?”

            “He’s well, all things considered. Just not well enough to continue.”

            “He could not have chosen a better successor.”

            Matthew smiled, it was the second time he’d heard that, and he was starting to let himself believe it.

            “Francis, are… are you alone?”

            “I am.”

            Matthew tucked his legs up on the sofa. He was also alone, in his hotel room. It was a little drafty, coal distribution was still shifting around.

            “I miss you,” he said quietly. “I wish you were here.”

            How was it that he could always detect the smile in his voice?

            “I miss you too, dearly,” he replied. “I have also spent a lot of time wishing you were back. Wishing I could see you in person. But, we do what we must, right?”

            “Yes.” The smile grew on his face. “I have one more piece of news, Francis.”

            “And what is that?”

            “I will be back, soon. I have to stay a while longer, but as I’m now curator, I need to formally take stock of my collection, don’t I?”

            Francis laughed. “I should say you do! You never cease to surprise me, why didn’t you tell me before you let me get all emotional?”

            “What fun is that, then?” Matthew curled his finger in the telephone cord. “I’ll try to come as soon as possible.”

            “I look forward to it.”

            “Goodnight, Francis.”

            “Goodnight, Mathieu.”

.

March 1^st, 1945

            Alfred would have come, but he’d been called away with Arthur for the time being. MFAA work was especially sped up now, what with so much looted articles to recover in the wake of the fleeing Nazis. Though he couldn’t fly for them, they kept him on and so Alfred had been in and out of Paris the past months.

            Matthew smiled to himself as he drove through Lablanche. Sure, he loved Alfred, but he was glad to be alone.

            He’d been thinking about Francis all day. He missed him, he missed Kuma, he missed the familiar faces – Lili included.

            It was afternoon when he arrived, stopping the car in front of the entryway steps. He’d been a little sneaky – he hadn’t told anyone he was coming that day.

            His heart lifted at seeing the façade of the house. He distinctly felt like he’d come home, and it was only natural after living here for five years, right? Though he had a feeling it was in part due to a person inside who’d become like a home himself.

            Matthew opened the door and slipped in, looking around the familiar foyer. He smiled at the sight of the art crates stored as they had been before he left, knowing that their contents were now his in a whole new way.

            Lili was the first to come across him. She walked through the foyer with a stack of linen in her arms. Her eyes went wide on seeing him, and her grin brightened the room.

            Yet, always careful, she set the laundry down on a nearby table before moving to embrace him.

            “Mathieu! You never said you were coming!”

            He laughed, hugging her back. “I wanted to surprise you.”

            Always diligent, she pulled him into the grand salon, clasping his hand between hers. “Sit, sit. Let me bring you something to drink.”

            “You don’t have to, Lili–”

            “I will, just stay here, relax.”

            Shortly after she left, probably alerted by her, other crew members poked their heads in, surprised, elated, throwing handshakes and hugs at him.

            As many congratulations and celebrations as there were, there were also sympathies about Laurent’s stepping down.

            One by one, everyone had come into the grand salon to greet Matthew. All but one. Even Kuma had gotten there first, jumping on Matthew ecstatically. He kept looking around, looking toward the arched entryway for Francis.

            He wondered if Francis were here, he should have asked Lili, but finally he did appear.

            He walked in, shaking his head, a soft smile on his face. Matthew returned the sentiment.

            “You are horrible, surprising us all like this,” he said.

            “I couldn’t help it, I’m sorry,” he chuckled.

            “No, you’re not. You’re smug.”

            Matthew wanted so badly to put his arms around him, lean on him and remember his scent. He couldn’t, not yet.

            He spent the remainder of the day catching up with the crew, filling in details they missed, telling them how Paris was faring. It felt like no time at all, yet so long by the time night fell, the château went to bed, lights flicking off and rooms emptied.

            In Matthew’s bedroom at the end of the hall, he’d opened his suitcase and rearranged a few of his items. When he was done with that, he slipped out of his room and crossed to the opposite door.

            Matthew opened slowly, closing the door at his back and waiting. There was Francis preparing himself a drink, stopping once Matthew entered. Matthew’s heart swelled and his feet closed the distance, putting himself in front of Francis.

            “I’m back,” he said.

            Francis’s hand slid into his hair, cradling the nape of his neck, and Matthew closed his eyes in gentle bliss.

            “At last,” Francis said. He took Matthew’s hand in his own and held it between them, against Francis’s heart where he could feel it beating faintly.

            Matthew had missed this, he’d missed him. His time in Paris was the longest he’d spent away from Lablanche since the war started. He truly felt like he was coming home.

            He leant his forehead to Francis’s, and there it was – the light scent of lavender.

            “Francis,” he whispered. He was going to ask, but the words wouldn’t form. So instead, Matthew kissed him, lips welcoming lips, and he felt all at once the past couple months of separation mix and give way to blessed relief. In a way, this was probably Matthew’s favorite kiss; enough passion and desperation to fill the hole that had formed, but also enough gentility not to let it overtake him. He never wanted to leave.

            “Will you stay?” Francis breathed into the space between them.

            Matthew nodded. “Of course.”

            Lying in Francis’s bed again, stripped of his shirt, Matthew felt his bones sink into the mattress, comfortable and warm.

            Francis slipped his glasses off and disposed them onto the side table. He proceeded to pepper Matthew’s face with earnest kisses, and Matthew smiled when the growth at his chin tickled his skin.

            A few times he recaptured his lips with his own, devolving each time into lazy kisses. Francis dropped his head, pressing his nose into Matthew’s collarbone, and they lay tangled like they’d always done, savoring each moment they had to themselves. Because, as Matthew knew well by this point, they never knew when they’d get the chance to again.

            War was not over yet, he knew this. As such, their futures were not completely certain yet, and Matthew’s had opened up in a whole new direction. He still worried about Alfred whenever he was away and he didn’t think he’d stop until everything was over. He had a new job responsibility, one he imagined he’d hold for quite some time. He had a new love, and he didn’t think he’d ever been this happy.

            He couldn’t stay at the château forever, this he also knew, and living apart would require some strength and acceptance. However he still foresaw many a visit to Lablanche – it was secured in his heart now – and that would be enough.

            Matthew very much believed in living in the now, and with Francis’s fingers delicately stroking through his hair, nose-to-nose, warm and safe together, he couldn’t ask for a better now.

Chapter Text

June 21^st, 1945

Matthew was gathered in front of the Daru staircase with every single one of his fellow curators to watch the Winged Victory of Samothrace ascend to her position at the top of the staircase. She was wrapped in burlap, suspended with cords and cables, and it took two hours to move her up the ramp. They broke for lunch, and then she was lowered to the prow of the ship that was her base. The event was attended not only by all the Louvre curators, but curators from other museums, and the press.

            Matthew looked up at her, blessedly unharmed during her near-six years she spent away at Valençay, and felt like all the pieces were starting to fall back into place.

            They really were, in a way. June also saw the return of the Venus de Milo, and of the Mona Lisa. Matthew would never forget the moment they received La Joconde’s crate. Since she was now in his special care, he got the privilege of opening her up.

            There she was, the canvas wrapped in paper, frameless, but beautiful all the same. She was just as Matthew remembered her, those five or so years ago, when he’d been young and nervous. But when she smiled at him this time, it was like a smile of thanks, a smile of happiness at being home.

            It would be a long while before every piece returned to Paris. There were still renovations being made to various parts of the building, and coal was still at a premium. But when the Germans surrendered on May 7, days after their leader’s suicide, Matthew felt the relief like a weight off his shoulders. A couple weeks later, it was decided that the evacuated art could start their return to Paris, from all over the country. They had many of the big sculptures and paintings back, but the Louvre wouldn’t open completely for a long time.

            There were changes in Matthew’s life, as well. In early June, when his return to Paris appeared to be permanent, Matthew had sought out his old apartment. It was in a section of the city that hadn’t been bombed, luckily, but the streets were still quiet. He felt a tug in his heart as he opened the door to this place that had been more-or-less abandoned.

            He’d managed to throw sheets over the tables, the sofa. The landlord had been in and out a few times, he’d been told, but there was still a layer of dust everywhere. Matthew spent days cleaning the place, replacing rugs and ridding every nook and cranny of dust and dirt.

            It proved to be a good method of distraction from a topic that would always remain in his mind from that moment forward – Francis.

            Matthew took a break from cleaning, leaving a window open to the summer breeze. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pocket watch. He traced a fingertip over the small dent in the cover from where bomb shrapnel had hit it last December, when the bombs fell in the Tuileries. It still ticked, and in a way, to him, it was like Francis had saved him. Matthew never told him that.

            June passed. Matthew turned twenty-nine. July passed. August passed.

            He received regular letters from Alfred, who was often away with Arthur, hunting down some artwork or another. He missed him, but he was glad to know that he seemed to be doing well. Alfred promised he’d come back by Christmas.

            Matthew talked to Francis as often as he could. He told him about what was going on in Paris and at the Louvre. In July Francis had been away, visiting relatives in other parts of France, even Belgium. His calls were fewer then.

            The art kept coming, so Matthew always had something to occupy himself with, but it didn’t mean he forgot about him. Matthew was always thinking of Francis, and he was sure that he always would.

            The halls of the Louvre were still empty – empty frames leaning against the walls, waiting. Sadness panged in his heart whenever he passed them, but more than that was hope, because it was only a matter of time before they would be reunited with their canvases again. There especially wasn’t much they could do as winter approached.

            Matthew ended another day at the Louvre and began his journey home. He stopped outside his apartment, seeing the lights on inside. He didn’t remember leaving any lights on. The door handle opened easily under his hand, unlocked, and Matthew’s heart pounded. Could somebody be in there? Could they be dangerous?

            His heart then launched up to the back of his throat when he saw Francis seated in his living room, smiling at him like he hadn’t snuck in.

            “Welcome back,” Francis said.

            “Francis,” he said, choked up. “What…”

            Francis held up a key. “Did you forget you’d made me a key?”

            “That… that was so long ago… it took you long enough.”

            Matthew crossed the room, and Francis stood, opening his arms for him. They held each other tightly, and Matthew said through a watery laugh, “You’re terrible.”

            “You surprised me before, it’s only fair, cher.”

            Matthew held his gaze, never wanting to leave it, and Francis’s thumb wiped away a stray tear.

            “What are you doing here?” he asked.

            “I wanted to see you at last, of course,” Francis replied. “But, I got to thinking. Lablanche is my home, it always will be. There are people who I need to be in contact with, now that this war is over. And there is one person in particular who I want in my life. I want to see him more often than every couple months, talk to him in person, instead of over the telephone.”

            “You’re moving to Paris?”

            Francis smiled. “Slowly, but yes. I will still spend time at Lablanche, but that place is full of you, in every room. I’d rather be where the real thing is, instead of being tortured by the memories.”

            “So I torture you?”

            Francis laughed and Matthew had missed it.

            Finally, he leaned in that small amount and kissed him after months apart. Every time he did, it felt like they hadn’t been. Every time Francis kissed him it was like they were in their own world where time didn’t exist. He’d missed it so.

            Many things were still uncertain, but at least he and Francis didn’t have to be.