All was quiet for a month after.

To Matthew, it was suspicious. But only slightly.

He was too wrapped up in work, Alfred, work, Alfred to pick up on the subtleties. It was also December and the pressure of the forthcoming holidays sent his brain into a tizzy. What am I going to get Papa? What about Alfred?

Francis already had the kitchen gadgets he wanted, otherwise he stayed pretty traditional when it came to cooking and his personal style was so particular. He supposed what he really wanted to give him was a vacation, perhaps back to Paris to visit some extended family, but that would eat too much out of his holiday budget.

Alfred wasn't picky when it came to gifts, which made Matthew's job that much more frustrating. There was that new video game on a holiday release that Alfred wanted. Then there was a sleek, titanium wristwatch he saw in a high-end catalog that he thought would suit him. But then he thought a leather banded watch might suit him better. Was that too much for a two-month old relationship? Would Alfred feel awkward? But it would look so good on him.

"Earth to Mattie," Alfred's voice faded in. He poked the space between Matthew's eyebrows. "You get this cute little wrinkle when you're thinking."

Matthew swatted his hand away and tried to look annoyed. "It's not cute."

Alfred chuckled. They were on the tube, Alfred's arm wrapped around Matthew's shoulders. It was one of their coinciding days off work and they were going on a date to the ice rink.

"What's up?" Alfred asked.

Matthew pouted at nothing in particular. "What do you want for Christmas?" he responded, watching Alfred's face fall blank.

"Christmas?" He repeated, the smallest bit of panic bursting in his eyes. Now that was cute, Matthew thought. "Uh, you? Forever and always?"

He actually had to laugh. "Thanks for that heartfelt honesty, Al, but it wasn't a test."

Alfred squeezed him closer. "Are you really worried about what to get me?"

"I just want some kind of idea."

"Matt, I'd be happy with a Hershey bar and your maple-drowned pancakes. But since I can't get one of those, I'd settle for some Grade-A maple."

Matthew nudged him with his shoulder. He should have figured that food would triumph over all with Alfred. "You don't 'settle' for maple syrup."

Alfred flashed a wicked grin. "I wasn't talking about syrup," he said before nipping Matthew's ear.

Matthew scrunched his shoulders, and his effort to keep from laughing aloud produced a snort. He skittered away from Alfred's taking advantage of one of his tickle spots when the train pulled into their station. He stood and hauled Alfred from the seat and hand-in-hand they walked to the rink.

At the skate rental counter, Alfred peered beyond the little shack to watch the rink with bright eyes. "It's been years since I've skated," he said.

"Me too," Matthew agreed.

"Didn't you play hockey in college?"

Matthew raised a brow. "Hockey is different than just skating."

Alfred swallowed and Matthew looped their arms, tugging an anxious Alfred to the benches to lace up.

"I trust you won't fall on your ass?" Matthew teased, stepping onto the ice first.

Alfred scoffed and, full of bravado, managed not to wobble too much. "I'm not that inept, thank you."

Still, he clutched Matthew's hands and Matthew felt a burst of pride and something fuzzy and warm in his chest. He held Alfred's hands, skating backwards as Alfred got used to the movements.

"In Montreal," he began, smiling with the memory, "hockey rinks would pop up around the city in the winters. We'd get a group of us to play, or join in other's matches. There was always food after, whether it was noon or midnight. Those were some of my favorite times. Playing with friends or total strangers. I never could get Papa to even step foot on the ice," he laughed.

"I think if I'd been around the ice more I would have tried it," Alfred pondered, eyes on his feet. "I think I tried almost every sport growing up."

Matthew squeezed his hands, a reminder to keep Alfred's eyes off the ground. But then there was that issue of Alfred gazing right into Matthew's.

"I went to university in London, you know, and we moved here from the U.S. in the summer between first and second year. The last thing I did was play on the intermural football team."

Matthew thought that he'd liked to have seen that. Alfred in a jersey. And shorts. A little shiny with sweat.

"Whoa, watch out," Alfred moved his hands up to secure Matthew's shoulders. He'd almost run into someone behind him.

They took a few more turns around the rink before turning in their skates and huddling together at a table near the shack selling hot cocoa. Alfred bought both their drinks, Matthew's with extra marshmallows.

"Here I brought you on a date and you totally show me up with your skills," he said.

Matthew snickered. "If you wanted to show off so badly, you came to the wrong place."

Alfred harrumphed and folded Matthew into his arms. Matthew leaned forward into the embrace, pressing a kiss to his jaw, at the hollow below his ear. His skin was a bit chilled.

"Thank you, Al," he said, resting his cheek on Alfred's shoulder. "You skated very nicely."

Alfred smiled. "I'm glad I didn't disappoint."

"Never."

Alfred, the little sneak that he was, took the opportunity to quickly snatch a kiss from Matthew.

Alfred moaned pathetically, his head throbbing.

"Mattie, my head's throbbing," he complained through nasal congestion.

"I gave you ibuprofen only ten minutes ago. It'll kick in."

"I want beef stew."

"I already called your dad too."

"You did?"

"Yes, Al, an hour ago."

Alfred shivered under his blanket and burrowed his face into Matthew's abdomen. He lay with his head in his lap, dozing in and out while Matthew's fingers brushed his temple. He tried to sniff through his plugged nose, but the congestion wouldn't move.

Three precise knocks on the door sounded and Matthew made to get up. Alfred groaned even louder and clutched the hem of his shirt.

"Al, I need to let your dad in."

Reluctantly, Alfred let go of Matthew, wishing he hadn't had him call Arthur.

"Hi, Arthur," he heard Matthew say. "Thanks for this, he was whining all afternoon."

"Hey," Alfred weakly protested from the couch.

Footsteps neared Alfred's couch and then his dad was hovering over his face. "Christ, Alfred, what did you do? Swim in the Thames?"

"We went ice skating last night," Matthew supplied. "Doofus didn't wear a scarf or gloves or anything."

Arthur made a noise of understanding. "Not the first time he's done that."

"I'm dying and all you two can do is criticize me."

"You've just got a head cold," Matthew said, but returned to the couch so Alfred could nuzzle into his side again.

"Well, as long as you're not dying I brought the stew you asked for," Arthur said.

"Beef stew?" Alfred perked up and made a big production of sitting up.

"Stew without the beef," Arthur corrected. "Extra veg. You shouldn't tackle chunks of meat while you're sick."

Alfred groaned but no one listened.

"Also, Francis made this for you," he said, and Alfred didn't see the way Matthew's eyebrow shot up. "He said it was split pea soup."

"Papa used to make that for me all the time."

Alfred blinked, concentrating on the blurry Tupperware in front of him. "I can't see it." Matthew slid his glasses onto his face. "Oh, it looks good."

"Yes, well," Arthur glanced around and busied himself with procuring a bowl and spoon from the small kitchen. "Let me just heat this up for you and I'll leave you be."

Alfred soon had a steaming bowl of his father's beef(less) stew and he dug in with as much relish as a sick man could muster.

Finally, Arthur mussed his hair. He'd done that whenever Alfred was sick for as long as he could remember. "Make sure he doesn't strain himself," Arthur told Matthew.

Matthew laughed. "The only thing he'll be straining is my patience." Alfred was too hungry to protest.

Though after Arthur left, and his bowl was empty, he rewrapped himself in the blanket and cuddled up to Matthew. Matthew situated them so that he was curled into his chest and his arms around Alfred added that little extra warmth he was looking for.

When Matthew's fingers combed gently through his hair, he asked, "Am I annoying you?"

His fingers never paused. "No, Al, you're not."

"I don't want to get you sick though."

"I haven't gotten sick in years. I'll be okay."

"Okay."

"Do you want me to get you anything else?"

"No," he said quickly, keeping Matthew from moving. "Don't go anywhere."

Alfred felt lips press a kiss to the top of his head. "I won't, Al."

He was dozing, and falling fast as his muscles relaxed. "I'm gonna take a nap now," he mumbled.

"I'll be here."

It was nearing 10 when Arthur returned to Francis's flat. Francis was at the kitchen table, reading a book. He looked up when Arthur came in and draped his coat over the back of one of the chairs.

"I'm sorry," Arthur began, sitting at the table, but Francis waved him off.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "How is he?"

"He'll be fine. Matthew explained it; he caught a head cold from ice skating last night."

"Oh really? Mathieu's taking care of him then? Good."

"That he is."

Francis smiled, remembering something. "I used to worry all the time that Mathieu would get sick from playing hockey outside in the winter. Montréal is one of the coldest places I've ever been."

Arthur stood from the table and maneuvered himself around Francis's kitchen, flicking on the burner to heat the stovetop kettle. He knew in which cabinets to find mugs and the meager selection of tea Francis kept. But his cold hands wanted to wrap around something warm.

"Matthew was raised there?"

Francis nodded. "Born, too. I met his mother there and I stayed. Montréal was good to us." He laughed. "Though Mathieu picked up that horrible Québécois."

"What happened?" Arthur asked, leaning on the island counter. "To his mother?"

Francis's gaze was soft on him as he leaned his chin on his hand. "She passed when Matthew was six."

"I'm sorry."

"It was terminal, we knew it would happen." Francis smiled again. "Matthew was still young. He doesn't remember too much. He says it's never really bothered him."

"It's always been the two of you then?" Arthur asked, pouring hot water into his mug and returning to the table, across from Francis.

"Yes. And I'm thankful for every minute." Francis watched him take a sip and then asked, "Has it always been you and Alfred?"

Arthur tapped on the ceramic. "It has. I adopted him myself, when I lived in New York. He was five. It was a long, hard process but he was mine. He was like my own blood, and he's never seen me as anyone but his father."

"You're lucky in that."

Arthur nodded, a small smile coming to his lips. "I am."

Arthur was sincerely glad his son was happy. Matthew made him happy – and he knew it because it was always 'Matt this' and 'Matt that.' To think he'd found it in Francis's own son.

And then it made him think. Here he was sitting in Francis's kitchen at 10:30 at night drinking Francis's tea. In the early days, Arthur would have called their frequent house visits purely competitive banter. Arthur thought he only wanted to show up the Frenchman.

Somewhere along the line, their talk of rivalry and comebacks morphed into meeting for conversation's sake. Truthfully, Arthur hadn't had a good companion to talk with in a while and the more he talked with Francis, the more he looked forward to their next meeting.

Sitting in front of him that very night Arthur, may have, actually, admitted to liking Francis. To himself, of course. When Francis's blue eyes sparkled with the natural effervescence the man had, how could he not?

Arthur swallowed, squeezing the mug in his hands. "Thank you, Francis, for making soup for Alfred. You didn't need to."

"It was my pleasure."

"And thank you, for allowing me to use your kitchen and pantry. I'll reimburse you the cost of the food."

Francis smiled and edged forward, slipping Arthur's free hand into his own. "Nonsense. I won't have it."

Arthur didn't say anything in protest, but knew he'd slip the money under Francis's door the next day.

Arthur pulled his hand out of Francis's and stood. He washed out the mug in the sink and set it to dry on the rack. He grabbed his coat off the chair back and leisurely made his way to the front door. Francis followed him.

"Until next time, cher," Francis said, opening the door for him.

Arthur acted on impulse and brushed his lips feather-light on Francis's cheek. "Good night," he replied, and was walking away, out of the building and down the street before he let himself smile.

Francis's flat smelled like apple pie. That was Alfred's doing, though. Everyone was allowed to request a dish to be served at Christmas dinner. That afternoon Alfred and Mathieu had been in the kitchen making the dough and peeling almost a dozen apples. Everyone could request a dish, but Francis had one rule – everything must be made from scratch.

Mathieu's choice was maple meringue cookies. With every addition of maple syrup – the best London could provide – added reverently to the batter, another spoonful or two found its way into Alfred's mouth. More than a few times did the batter in the piping bag find its way dotted onto noses and fingers, then licked away with laughter and suggestive eyebrow wiggles.

Arthur made a huge shepherd's pie, their main course, and probably spent too much time at the market debating between one quality of lamb and another. And as Francis had accompanied him to the market that morning, he simply stood by and thought Arthur looked too precious giving every ingredient, every vegetable a strict physical examination.

When the boys' desserts were cooling on a rack placed on the counter and they vacated the kitchen, Arthur and Francis got to work. Francis donned his trusty apron – he never cooked without it – and Arthur simply rolled his shirtsleeves up.

Francis made a myriad of appetizers, knowing Alfred and his insatiable hunger, and sides to go with dinner.

His Brie en croûte was a big hit with Alfred.

With the television on a low buzz and Alfred and Mathieu's hushed conversations in the living room, Francis smiled. He watched Arthur hand-mash the peeled potatoes, admiring the way his forearms flexed with the effort.

Francis poured them both a glass of champagne and handed him his glass when Arthur finished the job.

Arthur huffed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Thank you," he said, taking a generous sip. "Hardest part is done. I used to be able to make homemade mash without getting winded."

Francis laughed. "You did an excellent job, cher."

Arthur smiled proudly behind the rim of his glass.

Francis made to leave the kitchen to use the bathroom but decided his bladder could wait. Alfred and Mathieu were taking full advantage of the mistletoe Francis strategically hung in the hallway – though he hadn't hung it with his son in mind, but with Arthur. Francis didn't think even a crowbar could fit between them; Mathieu's arms wound around Alfred's neck and Alfred's arms wrapped tightly around Mathieu's waist.

Francis quickly about-faced and when Arthur ventured toward the living room Francis stopped him with his hands on his shoulders.

"What are you doing? I need to ask Alfred where he put the carrots."

"You don't need to go out there, cher. The carrots are over here, I was using them for the vegetable mélange."

"Francis, what's going-"

Francis gave him a quick peck on the lips, which effectively shut Arthur up. Francis rounded the counter to grab their champagne glasses. Arthur still stood in the middle of the kitchen, visibly flushing. Francis pushed his glass into his hand, smiling.

Francis only kissed Arthur a few times now, but Arthur still flushed like a schoolgirl every time. Nobody would have guessed that Arthur was actually the one to kiss Francis first.

"Tosser," Arthur mumbled under his breath.

Matthew popped his head into the kitchen and said, "Papa, I'm going to show Alfred the rooftop."

"Have fun."

When the front door closed Arthur spun around and resumed his station at the cutting board. He was concentrating very hard on chopping the carrots into matchsticks.

Francis moved closer, only to grab the champagne bottle and refill his glass. "Would you like some more?" he asked Arthur.

"Yes, please," Arthur said.

Two more minutes passed in silence, the only sound the steady chopping of the knife.

"Francis."

"Yes, cher?"

Arthur put the knife down. Before Francis could blink, Arthur had his face in his hands and Arthur's warm lips were on his. Francis kissed him, loving the nuances that made Arthur. And when he softened under his fingertips… there. There was the Arthur that cared with all his heart.

"Is this even safe?" Alfred asked as they came to the rooftop.

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Yes, it's perfectly fine."

It was snowing. Not dry enough to stick, but watching the snow glowing in the city light made Matthew sigh. Their breath puffed out in clouds as they looked around.

Alfred straightened Matthew's scarf and rubbed his gloved hands between his own gloved hands.

Matthew laughed. "What are you doing?"

"I don't want you to freeze."

"You're the one who got sick."

"And you bundled me up nicely this time," Alfred said, turning his head in a model-esque pose to show the thick knit scarf Matthew himself had put on Alfred. "I just want to make sure your hands don't freeze." He squeezed Matthew's hands. "Your arm's don't freeze." His hands trailed up his arms. "Your ears don't freeze." His hands covered Matthew's ears like earmuffs. "And your lips don't freeze."

Matthew saw it coming, but he kissed Alfred anyway.

"You're such a dork," he said with a grin.

Alfred grinned back. "Love you too."

Yes. It was love swirling in his chest. Matthew tugged on his hand, lacing their fingers together.

"Come on, Al, let's go eat."

Holy SHIT I'm such a sap. I didn't really have a plan going into this last chapter but I didn't expect this much fluff.

Anyway, immense thanks to all the support this story has gotten and hopefully will continue to get! You're all darlings!