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They were in Paris for an informal week of meetings hashing out some detail or another of an EU proposal. Frankly, Gabriel already could not remember exactly what they had done that day and staunchly refused to try and recall, half out of the fear that if he examined their day too closely he might find that they had spent 10 hours debating nothing, and oh, then he would be angry, he really would —

They were in Paris, and the crisp smell of the night floated through Francis' open balcony doors, bringing with it the soft rumbles of a city already curled up for the late hours, languid and sleepy. Gabriel watched the wine in his glass shiver almost imperceptibly as a car roared past on the streets below. Beside him, his brother stretched with the comfortable sigh of a man well-fed, before offering a small smile at their host.

"That was really good," he murmured, and Gabriel hummed in agreement.

Francis tilted his head in acknowledgement, absently swirling his own wine in his glass with one hand. He seemed distracted tonight, though Gabriel supposed they were all a little subdued, worn down by both the long day they had had and the long days that still lay ahead. Francis had invited the two of them to a simple dinner when he had found them lingering in the lobby after the meeting, and Gabriel, not looking forward to scrounging for takeout in the chilly Parisian night, gratefully accepted. He supposed he could have ordered room service, but who would order room service when Francis was offering to cook for them? And now, with his belly full of good food and good wine, he was debating whether he needed to return to his hotel at all.

Especially since Antonio had just dug out his phone from his pocket and, after staring at the screen with a slightly dippy expression, announced that he was going to head back. Gabriel knew what that meant; his room was right beside his brother's and — yes, two doors down from Romano's, which meant that either he was sleeping elsewhere tonight or he wasn't sleeping at all. He eyed the kitchen tiles idly. They seemed clean enough. Perhaps he could just curl up here, underneath the dining table. Certainly it would be quieter than his hotel room.

But, well. He and Francis weren't really that kind of friends (given recent developments, Gabriel wasn't sure exactly what kind friends they were), so although he was reluctant to leave, he wasn't entirely sure he could stay, either. He debated whether it was worth asking as he watched his brother get up from his seat, and after a beat, sighed and grudgingly stood up himself. Better to suffer alone than overstay his welcome and make things awkward. He should have gotten that pair of noise-cancelling earbuds Arthur had shown him the other day.

Mercifully for Gabriel's beauty sleep, Francis seemed to pick up on his woes. As they made their wandering way to the front door, Francis took advantage of a lull in the conversation to touch Gabriel's elbow with a knowing look and asked, lowly, "Do you want to stay?"

Relieved, Gabriel accepted. Antonio raised his eyebrows when he told him he won't be going back to the hotel, but was too focused on returning to his little Italian to do much more than shrug. With a few parting kisses, he left in a hurry — the only time he ever hurries, Gabriel thought a little uncharitably. But then it was just the two of them, and ah, what should he say —

"Would you like to take a bath, first?"

Gabriel blinked. Francis watched him, expression open and guarded at the same time. "I—sure. I didn't bring anything, though."

Francis shrugged. "You can use mine — I'll lend you some clothes, too. I can drive you back to pick up anything at your hotel tomorrow morning."

"That sounds good," Gabriel murmured, and then, "I'll help you clean up, first."

Francis did not stop him, so he trailed him back into the kitchen and took his post up at the sink while Francis collected the dishes on the table. With Tonio gone it was quiet between them, a little subdued. Centuries of things unsaid lingered around them like a housecat, occasionally brushing against Gabriel's legs and reminding him of their presence.

Gabriel glanced over at Francis covering their leftovers with plastic wrap at the counter, but Francis was looking elsewhere, seemingly lost in thought. Gabriel realised with a small frisson of surprise that in this lighting, he could just barely see the pale web of scars around Francis’ right eye, usually imperceptible against his fair skin or well-concealed by makeup. He had long guessed that the scars were from the Second World War, but knew it wasn’t his place to ask. Arthur probably knew, but he too said almost nothing of those years, something Gabriel often agonised over during those long nights when he lay awake, listening anxiously to Arthur toss and turn and sometimes stumble out of bed to vomit in the bathroom. During those times, Gabriel would hold him when he came back until they both fell back asleep again. He wondered if Arthur and Francis did the same for each other when they slept together, wondered if they found more comfort in each other because of the understanding they shared.

Feeling his own mood dim, he forced himself away from those thoughts. As he placed another dish on the growing pile beside him and pulled a saucepan under the scalding water, he reflected on how Francis had become noticeably quieter after the war. There were moments in meetings, even parties, where Gabriel would catch his Francis staring off into the middle distance, a nameless emotion in those timeless blue eyes. Of course, Gabriel had long known that Francis had at least one serious side to match each of his glowing smiles, though even this, Gabriel felt, he had figured out rather too late. The problem was that, even as a child, reading Francis was like trying to see through an Arctic glacier to the sea floor below. As Francis aged, the ice only got thicker and the ocean deeper. He remembered Arthur had once compared Francis’s personality to Daedalus’s Labyrinth — fathomless and ever-changing, with a will of its own that even it’s creator couldn’t quite control. It was this lack of control over his own mind, Arthur said, that drove Francis to pursue mastery over his expressions and body, the logic being that if he could not understand his own heart, at the very least no one else would be able to, either.

Gabriel scraped a dried bit of sauce from a saucepan and wondered if he and Francis had never quite gotten along because they were too similar — too afraid of being seen through by others, too afraid of themselves and what they were capable of, too afraid of being swallowed by the waves that lapped constantly at the shores of their consciousness.

He was startled from his thoughts by the feel of a warm shoulder against his. "I'll finish off here, cher, go take your bath," Francis said as he gently nudged Gabriel aside and took his place at the sink. Relieved of his task, Gabriel decided to do as bidden and made his way towards the bedrooms.

Francis' apartment was beautiful and well-appointed, with high ceilings and walls this shade shy of cream and hand-woven Persian rugs in a lovely, worn blue. Everything matched everything except for the paintings — they seemed to take on a life of their own, colours vibrant against the soft cream and caramel tones of the rest of the room. There were paintings on almost every wall, or else photos on the mantle, side table, beside the flower pot, each carefully framed and placed just so. It was not cluttered, per say — and Gabriel would know on that account, having often been accused of living in a shop of knickknacks — but it was somehow lonely. The faces and laughter and brushstrokes of all those Francis had loved were here with him, but they were also not, and there was no way to return to the time where they remained.