AN: I had this idea for a while, so here we are! I hope you enjoy. French translations are at the bottom. Please leave a review ^^

A few minutes before the bell rang, Francis placed Matthew down on his feet. He was a big boy now - nearing the age of seven - but Francis preferred to carry him everywhere he could. Crouching down in front of him, Francis ran his hand over the soft, wheat coloured hair, chuckling in soft amusement as the unruly curl bounced back to its usual place. Leaning forward, the Frenchman pressed his lips to his son's forehead, hand cupping the back of his small head. He met the light blue eyes, which were so different from his own, carrying an almost violet tone, sharing the small smile on Matthew's lips. Ignoring the frustrated huffs from the other parents bustling by and the yells of over-excited children, Francis pulled the boy into his chest, holding him gently. "Have a good day, mon chou. Je t'aime." He combed his fingers through the light waves once more, before releasing the child.

"Je t'aime, Papa." They smiled at each other, before Matthew turned and hurried to his classroom, school bag and lunch bag in each hand. Francis stood, watching carefully until he entered the building. A hint of a smile still on his lips, he left the playground, heading to his bakery at the other end of the street. There was no doubt that his employees had already started baking. Ah, the beauties of owning a business: he could turn up whenever he liked. Well, within reason of course.

Hours passed, full of smiling regulars and new people, the smell of freshly baked French pastries and bread filling the air. The cold Canadian wind swirled in every time the door opened, the noses and cheeks of the customers a sharp pink. Light conversations were had, some English and some French. As always, the shelves were all but clear by the end of the day. The only things remaining were a few rolls and the odd croissant. Humming lightly to himself, Francis placed them in a bag, planning on taking them home. He called his goodbyes to the other workers, leaving them to close up the shop as he left to collect Matthew from school.

The walk home was full of childish chatter, quick words about lessons and a new friend called Alfred and playtime and the gross food for lunch filled Francis's ears, drawing a contented smile. He held Matthew's free hand tightly in his own, guiding him to their house. Once they turned onto the street, Matthew drew his fingers away, rushing away to pet their cat, who was perched delicately on the hood of Francis' car. Sighing a little, Francis realised he'd have to polish off the paw prints again.

Once inside, Matthew sat cheerfully at the table, sipping a cup of apple juice, a blueberry muffin in front of him on a small red plate. His little feet swung, eyes gazing out of the window. Francis busied himself with clearing up that morning's dishes, emptying Matthew's lunch bag. Lifting it, Francis frowned, attention drawn to how it was unusually heavy. He placed it on the counter, opening it.

"Mathieu."

"Yeah?"

Frowning, Francis kept his eyes on the contents of the bag. "Why did you only eat your apple today?"

"Oh. Because food makes you fat and that's bad. I don't want to be fat so I didn't eat the rest." The boy's voice was carefree, innocent. Francis' hands let go of the bag, eyes widening as his breath hitched in his throat. A silence fell as Francis found his breath, fighting to keep himself calm and his voice level.

"Who- Who told you that?"

"You did."

A small cry left Francis' throat, face falling. His hands covered his mouth, shoulders and fingers trembling. He turned to Matthew, pulling the cup out of his hands and placing it down. The guilty, shocked look on his child's face broke his heart, and tears fell from his ocean coloured eyes. Taking his son by the shoulders, he dropped to his knees, hugging him tightly. He shook with sobs, eyes screwed shut as his hands clenched Matthew's thick jumper and clamped him to his chest. He felt small hands wrap around him; a confused voice speaking in his ear, but he couldn't make out the words. The words of apology were wasted, lost in the air, as guilt and realisation flooded through Francis.

He thought he had been so careful. He thought he had hidden it so well. He had hardly noticed the fact that Matthew must have seen him through most of his own food away, barely eating more than a piece of fruit most days. He thought he had fooled everyone. He never noticed the strange looks that he got when walking down the street, concerned eyes falling on the gap between his legs and his thin frame. He had missed his friends' constant reminders for him to eat. He was sure that his illness was his own secret. He had no idea that everyone knew; he had no idea it was so obvious. In Francis' mind, the doctor's diagnosis of anorexia nervosa was an invisible label; known to no one but him. As he held the boy to his chest, memories flooded back to him.

Matthew had been a few months old when Francis' wife died, leaving him with his precious son, his petit trésor. He had protected Matthew with everything he had, perhaps babying him a little, but he had failed. He had failed to protect him from the worst influence in his life: his father. He had failed to prevent the toxic words falling from his mouth, infecting Matthew's mind. He had failed in keeping his own thoughts, feelings and mindset to himself. He was a terrible father. How many times had Matthew heard Francis criticise food and himself? How many times had he seen Francis weighing himself over and over again, hoping to see a smaller number? How many times had he heard Francis making himself sick, forcing whatever he could out of himself? It was a miracle that it had only just affected him.

Come to think of it, Matthew had been picking up Francis' little habits for a long time. He cut the fat off his meat, leaving it to the side. He drank a full glass of water before every meal, and chewed at least twenty times before swallowing, counting on his fingers - just like Francis did. He often copied Francis' habit of insisting on eating more vegetables than anything else. He mimicked Francis' joy when clothes were too big - though on a growing boy like Matthew, that was hardly ever. The only difference was how healthy Matthew looked in comparison to Francis. Matthew's skin and hair glowed in a way that Francis' no longer did. Matthew's eyes sparkled like diamonds, while Francis' had a faint glimmer at best. Matthew's cheeks had a rosy tint, a bounce in his step and a softness around his face, like Francis' did.

Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Francis pulled out of the long, desperately loving embrace. He looked into Matthew's eyes, a hand cupping his cheek. His lower lip trembled, thumb brushing across the soft skin. "Matthew, I was wrong, okay? Don't believe me when I say that. You're beautiful - absolutely beautiful." His voice shook, thick from the crying, tears still streaming down his face. Little fingers brushed them away, sadness in the boy's bright eyes.

"But you're never wrong, Papa." Matthew's voice was quiet, as if he didn't quite know what to say. Francis shook his head, catching the boy's hand with his own. He kissed his fingertips lightly, holding his hand.

"Not this time, mon lapin. Papa's... Papa's ill. Not like the flu or a cold, but he thinks a bit wrong when he comes to food." He ran his thumb over Matthew's fingers, other hand petting his hair gently as he tried to explain what was wrong. "Papa thinks that food is bad, but it's not, okay? It's great, especially for little boys like you." He gently tickled his stomach, dropping the boy's hand, a watery smile spreading over his face as the other giggled. He stood, lifting Matthew, before sitting in his chair and placing him on his lap. He held him close, arms around his small torso, rocking him gently.

"Then why don't you go to the doctor? They'll make you better." Threading his arms around Francis' neck, Matthew lay his head on his shoulder, hiding his face in his father's long hair. Francis sighed, gently running his hands through his hair.

"I went to the doctor. They're not always very good at treating what I have. Besides, I have to look after you." How was he supposed to get the proper treatment when he had a business to run and a child to care for? He patted Matthew's back, leaning him up. "Come on, now. Eat your muffin for me, oui? Good boy." He watched as the child nodded, small fingers breaking off a chunk of muffin. He looked at it, before holding it up to Francis' lips, a pleading look in his eye.

"Eat it."

Francis looked at the cake, then to his son. Slowly, he parted his lips, allowing Matthew to place the food inside his mouth. He chewed slowly, watching delight spread over the Canadian boy's features. He swallowed, before smiling. Matthew nodded gleefully, turning back to finish the muffin. Occasionally, he lifted a piece to Francis, almost forcing him to eat it. Not wanting to make the situation worse, Francis obeyed, shoving away all of the usual negative thoughts and feelings that plagued him when he ate.

He needed to be healthy and happy. For Matthew.

He would get better if it killed him. His son needed him, and he needed his son.

Mon chou - My cabbage (pet name)

Je t'aime - I love you

Papa - Father (not a translation but hey)

Petit tresor - little treasure

Mon lapin - my rabbit (pet name)