AN: I wrote most of this in the middle of the night on a whim and the rest of it several months later...I hope the disconnect isn't too bad. Francis is gorgeous and Rudyard Kipling's my childhood.
The wildest of all the wild animals was the Cat. He walked by himself, and all places were alike to him.
-Rudyard Kipling
Francis Bonnefoy is cat-like. With his smug self-satisfaction, a peculiar form of elegance and grace in his tread, lazy eyes that belie a certain cunning sharpness…it's not that he doesn't notice the stares directed at him wherever he goes; he simply doesn't care. He deserves them, after all. He is magnificent, a lion in human form, and he struts like one, too. He walks as if he owns all that lies before him: arrogant, basking in the admiration, the glory of being the most beautiful, the most noticed, the most wanted—
—and there is the root of the matter, because above all else, Francis is proud.
Arthur hates it. He hates the way Francis narrows those dark blue eyes when they speak—as if Arthur is entirely below his notice, a mere plaything in his presence. He hates his indolent drawl, the condescension absolutely dripping in his tone, all but saying Arthur should feel grateful that he's even talking to him. He hates how fickle he is—lover after lover slyly stalked, pounced upon, toyed with, and devoured like helpless, stupid little mice. And he hates the purr in his voice when he makes his salacious remarks, the we both know you can't resist me that he so effortlessly pulls off with every flick of his hair, every flutter of those ridiculously long eyelashes, every twist of the hips and secretive little smile.
He hates that it always makes his heart beat just a little bit faster.
More than that, he hates that it always works. He hates falling into bed with this gorgeous man, giving him what he wants, listening to his mewls of pleasure and feeling manicured nails knead and scratch at his back—hates it when Francis curls up against his back as they finish, practically oozing contentment. Curled 'r's and whiskers in the crook of his neck, promises of constancy from a capricious love.
The cat is always gone by the next morning, chasing after his next whim, his next prey. Arthur lies on his bed feeling like he's been clawed open collarbone to hip.
It makes no difference. For in the end, though he may have a home and a place by the fire, Francis will walk by himself. Haughty, arrogant, catlike. And this, Arthur hates most of all.