{Author's Note: This is my first uploaded work, so please be merciful. Fruk is my OTP, I roleplay as Arthur on Facebook. I'm not sure how this will turn out yet, but I do hope to continue. Nothing violent or sexual yet, though that will probably change in later chapters. Please let me know if you enjoy it! Thank you.}

ooo

The fourth of June, Arthur woke up feeling weak again. It was the third time this year, and each time was worse than the one before...

The first time it happened, April fourth, it was hardly noticeable. He was a little short of breath, a little dizzy if he stood to quickly. He had thought he was on the verge of a cold, and had a health tonic to flush out his system. Nothing more, that month, and his projects were completed on time.

The next time, he had felt lethargic and lightheaded, and a bit nauseated. It was truly concerning. He'd been fine, just the day before! Perhaps it was something he had eaten? He left his workshop alone that day, it would be dangerous to work with the furnace and torches in such a condition. After a visit from his sister Amelia, and a properly cooked dinner, he felt much better, and once again put it out of his mind. He was a bit late with a glass bezel, but otherwise, everything was fine.

This time... he didn't feel tired or a bit woozy. He felt enervated. Arthur could barely move. He felt cold, shivering, his fingers and toes were numb. Something was wrong and he couldn't explain it. It was as if the life had been drained from his body overnight.

It was nearly dark before he could summon the strength to get out of bed. He had to stop and rest several times on the way down the stairs, and had to go through several cups of tea before his stomach could handle solid food.

Arthur was struggling through a leftover scone with jam, when he caught sight of his reflection in the little glass whale sitting on his kitchen table. The man looking back at him was terribly pale, almost white. Even his lips. He looked so fragile, like glass, blown too thin and allowed to cool too quickly. His hands were shaking, his steps unsteady, he could hardly even speak.

What was it? What was happening to him?!

For the last three months, every fourth day, his health had plummeted with no discernible cause. No obvious illness, no injury... no curses, if the charm his nordic friend had made was working.

Witchcraft aside, what could be the cause? Cholera? Consumption? No cough or fever, no vomiting... Polio? Oh, dear God, what a nightmare... Arthur made up his mind to visit a doctor as soon as he was able. He would have to put his work aside, for the moment, and hope he had saved enough to cover his treatment...

ooo

The third evening of July, Francis woke up starving. He was surprised he slept as long as he did, in fact, he felt as though he hadn't been fed in over a week! A quick bite of bread and butter helps, somewhat... it makes him feel full, takes away the immediate need, but it doesn't satisfy.

Since he met that pigheaded, outrageous, insufferable, rude, foolhardy and incomprehensible man, nothing and no one else really has.

He's no soldier. Francis has had Generals who died with a frightened whimper in his hands. He's not a priest. They fell, pleading for forgiveness and salvation. Not a scholar, or a politician, or a doctor. Not even an inventor, or really anyone noteworthy. Just a glassworker. With a terrible, bad attitude. And gorgeous, perfect green eyes, like poison. And an unforgettable taste.

The first time they met, in April, he followed him home and played the lost traveler, caught in the rain. Once invited inside, he had planned to keep things simple. He cornered the man, fixed him with his stare, and took control. Francis uncovered his long, slender neck, and broke his skin. That first taste was incredible, rich and strong, invigorating and sweet... and then he hit him.

He HIT him! It wasn't supposed to be possible, he should have been submissive and quiet after Francis' dominating gaze. But the man had picked up a glass figurine and smashed it against his head, eyes still glazed over and unresponsive. He had been so stunned, he left immediately, and still found bits of glass in his hair days later. Absolutely unforgivable! He should have killed him! Even if he was defending himself... and didn't seem aware of what he'd done... and had no memory of any of it... shit. As furious as he was, his little girl would have been so disappointed in him.

She had a soft spot for animals, humans included.

By May, Francis thought he had forgotten. He fed on whoever he chose, saw the sights with Madeline, found a favorite gentleman's club, all of London was his, and he was beginning to fall in love with the city. Until he found himself face to face with that man again.

He seemed to find Francis familiar, so he pretended they had met before and invited him for a drink. Spoke with him. Learned his name. Arthur. Surely, another taste couldn't hurt... as long as he kept him away from small glass objects! As it was, even drunk and entranced, Arthur tried to push him away. Futile, but still so strange! He took more than he needed that night. It was intoxicating.

June third was the first night that Francis went out and deliberately searched for Arthur. He'd been looking, all month, for someone to take his place. The flavor was too addictive. Nothing like it. But when he found him, it seemed that something of his last two visits had remained in his memory... fear and anger.

Arthur had recognized him, standing outside his house, and slammed the door in his face. Of course, he walked in anyway, and then began the tirade of insults and threats, along with book after book thrown at him, and then more insults for damaging his books with his 'stupid face'. Francis could have just taken what he came for, but by the time he realized what had happened, he was already yelling and screaming back at him. The things they said to each other! Lesser men would have already resorted to murder! And then they ran out of things to shout. And it seemed so absurd, the entire ordeal. There he stood, arguing with his dinner, as if what he had to say mattered. He should have been ANGRY! He should have been MURDEROUS! He should have torn Arthur to pieces! He couldn't remember a night with more lively entertainment.

Arthur wanted to know why. Why he was standing there in the middle of the night, screaming and fighting and bickering with a strange intruder, when he could have just called for the police. Francis didn't know just how to answer that. It was easier to charm him a third time, and have his meal.

It was much harder to stop before he killed him.

Now, a month later, Francis has made a decision. Not a single thing in all of London worth eating, except Arthur. He hasn't quite figured out what he's going to do, but... perhaps the first step should be convincing his prey to submit willingly...