"What's wrong?" Alfred asked gently, watching Arthur lean against the cupboard doors.

Arthur sighed, shifting agitatedly. He moved to the counter top and pushed himself up onto the side. "Nothing."

"Oh come on. It's got to be something otherwise you wouldn't be moping."

"I am not moping."

"You are too moping."

"It's nothing important," Arthur persisted, filling the kettle with water and setting it down to boil. Automatically, Alfred picked to cups from the cupboard Arthur had moved away from.

"If it's upsetting you…"

When Arthur didn't reply, Alfred shrugged and moved to set the cups down next to him, getting out an almost empty jar of instant coffee and an until recently unused box of tea bags.

"We have all day."

"You are so stubborn."

"I'm just brilliant like that."

Apparently Arthur didn't have an eloquent enough retort for that, so for a few minutes silence lingered.

"Your cousin has… worried me."

Internally, Alfred translated the word 'worried' to 'frightened' and frowned. From what he knew of Arthur, and by this stage he knew him quite well, this was uncharacteristic.

"Why? And Gilbert isn't my cousin, Mattie-"

"I don't mean that idiot. I mean Matthew."

Alfred turned his head to look at Arthur, who was staring straight ahead. The morning's sunlight was streaming onto Alfred's face and making it hard to see, but he could imagine out the dark blur of Arthur's expression from his tight posture. He stepped out of the sun to stand opposite Arthur, voicing his confusion.

"Matthew?"

Arthur looked out of the window, wings unfurling away from his back, spreading out and the tips catching the light. Like the rest of Arthur, they were looking the strongest and healthiest they had in days. His wings had always been the most captivating part of Arthur, second only to his eyes, but now they were all the more so.

Realising his awe was probably exactly what Arthur did not want, Alfred tore his gaze away from the wings and to find Arthur's eyes. The angel had turned back to face him, his eyes a warm glow of satisfaction.

Feeling his lips turn up into an unsure smile, Alfred held his gaze as Arthur replied.

"After he touched my wings, your cousin didn't look me in the eyes again. Even when he stopped touching, he was still staring. He couldn't see past them. He couldn't see me, just like Francis. Except, to his credit I suppose, he could at least leave my wings alone…"

"I…don't understand," Alfred said softly.

"He only saw the wings. Gilbert didn't see anything at all, but Matthew just saw the wings. You…" Arthur trailed off, smiling slightly and looking awkward in a way that made Alfred want to wrap his arms around him and never let go.

"You see everything. The wings, sure, but my body, my face … Everything. You see me."

Alfred knew the smile on his face was goofy, probably only added too by the blush he could feel heating his cheeks. "That's because all of you is amazing," he replied gently.

A thought occurred, and his smile faded. "Why does that fri- worry you?"

Arthur touched one of his wings briefly, the unhappy expression Alfred had been expecting clouding his face at the same time as a burning drive to have it gone swept through Alfred.

"What… What if it's only you?" Arthur said softly, tone a mix of desperation and the need not to offend. "What if there's nobody else? What if I can't ever leave your house, even when I can fly again? There's nowhere else for me to go, and what if you're the only one who will ever see me as human?"

"It doesn't matter," Alfred said fiercely. "You can stay here, and I'll stay with you-"

"You can't just put your life on hold, Alfred, I won't let you. Without more company than me, you'll be miserable and you know it."

About to protest, Alfred was cut off as Arthur spoke again. "And Alfred, I don't want to stay here forever. I don't want this to be another prison, self-inflicted because I'm frightened of everyone outside. I-" his voice cracked. "I want to stay with you, but I want to be able to live too. We'll both wither and die if we never leave. I don't want that to happen to me, and I can't let it happen to you. But if nobody can see me past my wings, if the world reacts like Francis, what do I do?"

Arthur's eyes were dry and he was completely still; Francis' stone statue, having walked across the country to sit in Alfred's kitchen and look at him with such searching, contained helplessness.

"We'll figure it out. We will," Alfred said, too loudly in the silent kitchen.

But Arthur let out a gush of pent up air, and smiled, slightly, sadly, then slid off the counter top, displacing the stagnant air with that simple movement. "Okay."

They lasted one more day before they ran out of food.

Both of them ignored it till three in the afternoon. They were both in Alfred's living room, Alfred on the sofa and Arthur the chair. At least, that was the seating arrangement until Arthur picked himself up and moved to sit on the sofa next to Alfred, swinging his legs up to stretch them over Alfred's lap.

"Um," Alfred said intelligently, his only coherent thought being wondering where he was supposed to put his hands. "What?"

"I can't see from over there," Arthur said simply and Alfred didn't argue. Cautiously, he glanced at the angel, who was looking intently at the television screen, then followed his gaze, keeping his hands loosely where they were.

"Hey!" he let out an indignant yelp as the channel changed. He hadn't noticed the remote being taken from his hand.

He turned to glare at Arthur, the angel tilting his head to meet his gaze with an innocent grin. The television was now showing a part of a history documentary on some obscure topic.

"You're joking," Alfred moaned, "We're not watching this."

"We are, actually," Arthur said contentedly, leaning back on the arm rest comfortably.

Groaning, Alfred dropped his head back on the cushions behind him. "I hate you."

"Liar," Arthur said, but the reply was a second too hesitant, and Alfred pulled his head back up to look at Arthur, who was now focusing on the remote control in his hands. Just like that, the atmosphere went from relaxed to serious.

"So…" Alfred said slowly. "We're out of food."

"Mhm," Arthur acknowledged, pulling his legs back to sit up straight and hold his knees to his chest; Alfred found himself missing the warmth across his lap.

For a few seconds they both looked at each other. Clearly neither of them wanted to state the obvious.

"You're going to have to go out some time, Alfred," Arthur said eventually. "You'll have to go back to work eventually, you can't keep playing sick. You're life's going to catch up with you, even if Francis doesn't first."

Alfred let out a frustrated noise. "Okay. The nearest store's not that far away. It won't take long," he said, standing up. Arthur didn't say anything, watching him pull on his shoes and jacket.

"Your keys are in your room," he said when Alfred paused, looking about.

"Right," Alfred responded. He got his keys, and then stopped by the door.

"Don't drag it out, Alfred," Arthur said with a reassuring smile. "It'll be fine."

"Yeah… I know." He tried to sound convinced, for whose benefit he wasn't sure, and quickly let himself out. The door clicked locked behind him.

When he let himself back inside the building an hour later, carrying three shopping bags worth of food with more left in his car, Francis was waiting for him. When he looked back on this moment, agonised over it, Alfred would wish he'd kept calm. Walked over to Francis, or waited for him to come closer, acted as if nothing was wrong and tried to talk his way out of it. Done anything but what he did.

But, obviously, he did the first thing he could think of. He followed his instincts and, just like a hero on a screen fleeing from a rolling boulder, he dropped all three bags and ran.

"Alfred!"

One of his neighbours flattened himself against the wall as Alfred shot up the stairs, bypassing the lift with its closed doors, and taking the steps two at a time, throwing his body forwards. He was on the first floor by the time Francis had sprinted to the foot of the stairs, but the distance between them had shrunk by the time they reached the third, and then Alfred tripped, tripped over his own feet like an idiot, and Francis barely faltered as he caught up, choosing to half side-step and half jump over Alfred as he shakily tried to force himself upright, the palms of his hands skinned and knees throbbing.

Without thinking, Alfred stuck out an arm to grab Francis' foot as it shot past. The Frenchman crashed down, but righted himself faster than Alfred had, twisting round and kicking Alfred in the face.

Reeling, Alfred kept his grip on Francis' ankle and used it to pull himself forward, but let go reflexively and rolled to one side to avoid the next kick. Scrabbling backwards, Francis tried to both stand up and get away from Alfred simultaneously, before twisting round and starting to rise. Just on his feet, Alfred launched forward to knock the Frenchman back to the ground.

"Francis! Francis-!"

He didn't move fast enough to dodge Francis' punch, didn't want to retaliate, and in his pain and indecision was thrown back. The Frenchman was on his feet in moments, running down the corridor to Alfred's door, to where Arthur was.

Francis paused, fumbling with the key that Alfred had given him when he'd first moved, because Francis had been his friend, his cousin, and before he could put it into the lock Alfred slammed into him, knocking him sideways. With barely time to brace himself in front of the door before Francis lurched back at him, Alfred let out a yelp of pain as his head snapped back to hit the wood of the door. For a second his mind was blank, dizzy, with one thought spiralling through it.

Oh, God, don't let Arthur have heard.

If Arthur had heard, he'd open the door, he'd come out because he wouldn't be able to listen to Alfred get hurt while he was hiding.

The door yanked open behind him and he and Francis over balanced and went crashing towards the floor, and in the mess of hands and arms- one at his neck, two in Francis collar, gripping his arm and pulling him away- there was the powerful pulse of beating wings.

The hand at his throat dropped away as Arthur let out a purely animal snarl, white teeth flashing like a knife in the dark, and threw himself at Francis, sending the both of them into a wall. Outside in the corridor, someone was shouting, feet were thundering up the stairs.

Arthur screamed, a birds scream, more terrible than anything Alfred had ever heard because he hadn't thought any creature could make a sound like that, as a handful of white feathers were ripped away at Francis' touch. For a moment, a brief moment, Francis looked horrified, ashamed, at his grotesque vandalism of such unique art, and it was so inhumane that Alfred, on one knee, massaging his throat, flinched as he tried to stand.

Arthur, crying, stepped back. His right hand was at his injured wing, his left held alternating between violently brushing away the unintended tears of pain. He stilled, backed up outside, onto the fire escape, and balled both hands into fists.

For a heartbeat all three of them were still, Alfred watching Francis and Arthur stare at each other across the few feet of distance between them, paused in the act of pushing himself up. Arthur's green eyes flicked over to him for the barest of seconds, meeting sky blue, and in that moment Alfred knew exactly what he was going to do.

"Arthur, don't-!"

Arthur turned at the same time as Francis started forward, hands on the metal rail that he'd been pressed against, hands quickly replaced by his bare feet, and then he jumped.

For a terrible moment, he plummeted, dropping out of sight (out of mind). Francis shouted, something, and Alfred must have said something, and what felt like the entirety of the other occupants of the building finally reached his partly open door. It swung open to let the first of the panicked neighbours in, just a blur of white rocketed up through the empty space.

Alfred must have ran to get out onto the escape, but he wasn't aware of ever moving, of anything in the world that ever had been or would be, of anything but the sight of Arthur, his angel, soaring in the air for a wingspan of time, before he disappeared.

It was dark and cold the night of Arthur's departure. The blanket on his shoulders kept him from feeling the worst of the wind, but nothing could help the chill flowing in Alfred's blood.

The neighbours had been kind enough. They'd taken Francis, forcibly out of Alfred's apartment, to do who-knows-what, take him home or to a police station, Alfred didn't care. He was gone, and the rest could be dealt with when he didn't feel so empty.

He remembered eating, too, but not precisely what. The woman on the floor above him had treated him for the cuts and bruises he'd not realised that Francis had given him out in the corridor and the grazes on his palms. She'd told the couple that lived opposite he shouldn't be left on his own for too long tonight, as he'd refused to go to hospital, and had organised a rota for them to check in on him every hour. So far he hadn't spoken to any of them, except for brief, reflexive thank you's.

Alfred was aware, on some level, that he was disturbing them. They didn't know the full story after all, just that someone had followed him into the apartment building and given him these soon-to-be scars and the dark bruise languidly spreading over his eye and cheek. He had a right to be shell-shocked, but not this stunned and silent, surely. What was the motivation for his assailant, he could hear them wondering, the turning cogs in their heads almost audible to him, Alfred straining his ears as he was. Listening for the voice of one specific thought did things like that to you.

They probably thought Francis had been a runner, or something, that Alfred had shady dealings at odds with his bright smile and easy-demeanour. It could be forgiven of them, really; he wasn't acting anything like he usually did. Perhaps it was fair for his neighbours to think the Alfred they knew was a façade.

It didn't matter, anyway. No doubt that it would bother him later, when his frozen thoughts thawed out and he started to function again. But for now, nothing concerned him but the black sky outside and the fictional silhouette of white soaring across it.

Someone came in at four am, the last person due to check in on him before morning. The man asked Alfred if he thought he could get some sleep. Even as he gave his monotonous reply, Alfred didn't take his eyes off the spot where Arthur had disappeared from. The man had made an unpleased hum, doubtful and unsure as to what he could do. He'd said something, briefly, about speaking to the police again tomorrow, and gone back to his own life the floor below.

Alfred may have fallen asleep though, because at some point he became aware of the glow of morning flow slowly into the room and it didn't seem as though hours had passed in its coming.

Either he had fallen asleep, he thought, the first words to puzzle their way through his mind for hours, and woken up to morning, or he was still asleep and dreaming of the white-washed glow of oranges and pinks.

Someone was climbing the fire escape, Alfred realised as he listened to the scrape of metal against metal as the rusting structure took someone's weight. He sunk his chin onto his arms as he waited, watching the empty space.

He must have blinked, or be more tired, or dreaming than he thought, because when Arthur appeared it was almost as if he'd materialised from nowhere.

"Hi," Arthur said softly, moving forward, looking at him like Alfred was an easily startled bird that would disappear in a flutter of wings if he moved too fast or spoke too loud.

"Hi," Alfred replied, and he had to say it again because the first greeting was lost in choked relief and a sigh.

Arthur stopped just before him, and gently dropped to his knees, green eyes locked in Alfred's scrutiny. As he descended, the rush of air displaced his feathers and some were left hanging where Arthur had been, before they drifted downward.

One landed in his hair and Alfred stretched slowly, unfurling himself, to reach it. He held it before his eyes, inspecting it, before lifting his gaze up to Arthur, a slow cheeky smile spreading across his face.

"Are you moulting?"

The noise Arthur made as a mix up of amusement, disbelief and fondness. "Moulting? Really?"

Alfred grinned and let the feather go as he ran his eyes over Arthur's wings. They weren't threadbare, rather, they were like a thin veil of a skeleton, stretching out their full span, pure white and delicate. As if any movement, any choice now, could scatter them.

Tiling his head to one side in a gesture becoming familiar, Arthur raised a questioning eyebrow. Alfred stared at him.

"Arthur?" he said with low urgency.

"What?" was the alarmed response, Arthur lifting a hand to touch Alfred's cheek, searching his eyes.

"I've never realised this before- your eyebrows are huge."

Arthur stared. Alfred stared back at him.

When Arthur laughed, he didn't so much lighten as become infinitely more real and solid, so much closer and more touchable; it convinced Alfred that he couldn't be dreaming and that the world he saw was real. When he laughed, Arthur's shoulders shook and the rest of his feathers fell away like old dreams in the wake of something bigger, something better.

"All of heaven and earth, Alfred Jones, and I fall in love with you."

"All of heaven and earth," Alfred agreed, as they knelt before each other, white angels feathers scattered around them. "And all there is is you."

Opening lyrics are from the song Les Yeux au Ciel, from the french film Les Chanson's d'Amour.