The night of the hunter

Chapter seven

The following days went by faster than Francis had expected, and soon he found a week to be a very short time. Because, there were only seven days in a week, and each day was limited to twenty-four hours, too big part of which had to be wasted on sleeping. And there were simply too many things in Paris that Francis wanted to show Arthur.

Fortunately there also were many things that he already had introduced the Englishman. First he had taken him to Notre Dame, and Arthur had loved it, even though he had mumbled something about the spirit of the place being different from churches in England. He had also been oddly interested in old graves on the graveyard around the church; he had walked among them, examining them curiously. That had reminded Francis of Arthur's own loss, but when he had carefully brought the topic up, the Englishman had only snapped at him and repeated that it all had happened long time ago and was nothing for the Frenchman to ask about. That, of course, had got Francis unwillingly even more curious; if the tragedy had happened that far in the past, why would the Englishman still be reacting so furiously about it? There had to be something more about it, and that something was affecting Arthur in a detrimental way.

However, Notre Dame wasn't the only place where Francis took Arthur to. For the first two days he had introduced the Englishman some of the most popular, gorgeous sights to prove him why Paris was better than London, but then he had come to the conclusion that it wasn't just the magnificent façades and great art galleries that made Paris Paris. No, the soul of his city was in small, secret streets, cosy cafés and beautiful parks, and of course in the people. So, Francis had decided to take his guest deeper, under the surface, where ordinary tourists couldn't see.

It wasn't until the Frenchman had taken Arthur to a beautiful rose garden, when he had realized that when he wanted to show the Englishman something, he wasn't doing so for the sake of the game. He was doing so to see the green eyes light up in the same way as they had done in the rose garden. Because Francis had never before seen Arthur's face melt into a soft, happy expression, as it had when the Englishman had wandered among the roses, scented them and caressed the red petals gently. From that day on, Francis had developed a habit of adding a rose to the breakfast he made Arthur every morning.

The two men didn't spend much time at Francis' house; only mornings and evenings. Mornings were just fine; the Frenchman would always wake up a little earlier to prepare breakfast, and soon Arthur would appear to the kitchen, drawn by the delicious scent of the food. He was always fully dressed, but with his hair being a total mess and eyes hardly even open, he looked, and probably was, still half asleep. In mornings they didn't speak much, if anything, unless Francis just briefly explained his plans for the day.

The evenings, however, didn't feel quite as comfortable for Francis as the mornings. Every night, after they came back home, they were tired and willing to relax, so Francis would open a bottle of wine and pour some into two glasses. Then they would sit in the living-room, slowly drinking their wine, sometimes talking a little, sometimes sitting in silence. During those evenings they actually learned to know each other better, since they were too tired to switch insults after doing so through the whole day. Arthur, for example, had learned that Francis was an owner of a wine farm and loved being in peaceful countryside, and the Frenchman in turn found out the Englishman to be interested in supernatural phenomena. Those peaceful evenings were just what was needed after a long day, very relaxing and pleasant... Perhaps a little too much. Because when both body and mind were relaxed, the thoughts had a tendency to slip where they shouldn't. Francis blamed the wine for taking his thoughts to dangerous waters. In other words, to Arthur. And that was the thing that made evenings a little uncomfortable for the Frenchman.

Arthur was accommodated in the guest-room that was in the same corridor as Francis' bedroom, right opposite to it to be precise. And every time the two men parted to enter their own rooms, the Frenchman was more and more tempted to grab the Englishman's hand, drag him into his room and have his way with him through the whole night and late into the morning. Francis hadn't expected those thoughts; they came secretly, slowly sneaking into his mind and staying deep there, not letting him be. Sure, he had been joking about getting Arthur into his bed, but he hadn't been serious. Not too serious. Or, at least it should be the Englishman who would come to him, unable to resist his charm. And yet, when Francis was lying in his bed he couldn't stop his thoughts from sneaking into Arthur's room, into Arthur's covers. And that felt rather disruptive, because the Frenchman wasn't used to losing control over himself; it was something other people had problems with, but not him, never him. One complicated Englishman was definitely not a reason to start now. And yet, yet...

Yes, it had to be the wine.

Francis was sitting at the table in his living-room, fingers idly playing with a box on the table. Perhaps he should drink less wine to get rid of the disturbing thoughts invading his mind, but, on the other hand, there were only two days (and one night in between) left of Arthur's visit in Paris, and after that was the pause week in their game, so there shouldn't be any problems the Frenchman wouldn't be able to deal with.

Except, if the Englishman wouldn't hurry, they would be late for the masquerade.

Impatiently tapping the table with his fingers, Francis glanced upstairs, waiting for Arthur to come down. It was the second last night in Paris, and the Frenchman had thought that a masquerade would be a good choice for it. Though Arthur didn't know it was a masquerade they were going; Francis wanted to surprise him. It hadn't been planned, however; Francis had just accidentally spotted a very nice mask in a boutique and instantly it had reminded him of the Englishman. So, he had bought the mask. And what would one do with a mask if not wearing it somewhere such masquerade?

Steps in the stairway got the Frenchman's attention, and he turned to see the Englishman coming down, dressed in black, only having one emerald brooch on else black suit highlighting his green eyes. Francis stood up, smiling at him. "Finally," he said, openly eyeing his guest from head to toe as he walked closer to him. "Not bad, mon cher, not bad."

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest in a protective manner. "Hmh. You ready?"

"Just a minute." The Frenchman gestured the Englishman to come closer. "There is something missing."

"And that would be?" Arthur scoffed, but took few more steps towards his host.

Francis opened the box lying on the table and took out a black mask with dark green embroidery. "This," he said proudly, satisfied at the slightly stunned expression on the Englishman's face.

"A... mask?"

"As you can see."

"Why would I need it at the ball?"

"Because it's a masquerade, not ordinary ball."

Arthur didn't say anything, just glared at the Frenchman and the mask in his hands. Francis tilted his head, smiling slightly. "What's wrong? You don't like it?"

"No, it's... gorgeous, but." The Englishman shrugged. "I didn't expect the ball to be a masquerade."

"What difference does it make? I can't see any problems about it, you have the mask and all."

"Well I can't see you wearing a mask," Arthur stated. "Do you have a spare one if you let me use this?"

"I see you misunderstood," Francis chuckled in reply. "Consider this as a gift for you. I have a mask of my own, don't worry." He noticed a small blush sneaking up the Englishman's face and smiled, walking behind him to put on his mask. "Let me help you with this."

"I can put that bloody thing on myself!" Arthur protested, turning to face Francis, but the Frenchman ignored his words and placed the mask on his face, holding it on with his both hands on each side of Arthur's head.

"What are you-" the Englishman sputtered, trying to jerk away from the touch but failing.

Francis looked slightly down, into the green eyes behind the mask and nodded approvingly. "Perfect," he hummed to himself. "Now, don't put up a show, Arthur. Turn around so I can tie the laces."

Arthur snorted and did as was told.

"Hold this thing so it won't fall," the Frenchman instructed him, and when the Englishman raised his hands to hold on the mask, Francis slid his hands to the nape of his neck and took the velvety laces. But, instead of tying them right away, he ran his fingers down the them. There was something in the situation, something in having Arthur so defenceless right before him, that made a sudden urge to tie those smooth laces around the Englishman's neck instead of his head hit Francis. Not to strangle him, not too tight... Just enough to make Arthur look at him with his fascinating, wide open eyes, just to pull him closer without him being able to resist or escape...

"What's taking you so long, frog?" Arthur's sharp voice, maybe with the smallest hint of nervousness in it, cut through the images running through Francis' mind. Vaguely wondering if the Englishman had somehow sensed his mood, the Frenchman hummed calmly and tied the laces behind his head. "Si impatient... I was just thinking what kind of bow to make."

"It doesn't matter that much."

"We are in Paris, Arthur," Francis reminded the Englishman, patting his shoulder once being done with the laces. "Here, people pay attention to details."

"Whatever." Arthur stepped away from the Frenchman. "Are we going or what?"

"We are. Such inpatient one, you are," Francis laughed, reaching for the box and taking out another mask, deep blue this time, for himself.

"Two minutes ago it was you who was in hurry."Arthur ran his hand through his short hair and glanced at the Frenchman. "...Thanks. For the mask."

Francis winked at him. "Whatever for you, cheri."

xXx

Arthur danced well.

Not only did he just dance well, he had a perfect control over his body and movements. He moved with the music, entwining the melody with his body, leading his partner firmly, knowing exactly what he was doing. He was stunning. Arthur's attention was on his partner, but Francis was sure that once or twice the emerald eyes behind the mask met his own blue ones. Not that he was staring, of course, he would never sink that low.

The music paused, and after bowing to his partner the Englishman walked over to Francis, who was sitting on a divan, enjoying a glass of wine. Arthur sat beside him and the Frenchman offered him some wine, not saying anything. Both men sat in silence for a while, watching people dance as the orchestra began with a new song, a beautiful piece of waltz.

Finally the Englishman broke the silence. "It's not even that hard to get people dance, even if we don't share the same language."

Of course it isn't, not when you are looking like that, Francis thought but kept it to himself. Instead, he said, "People have always found mimicry amusing."

The Englishman muttered something that the Frenchman couldn't quite hear and lifted his glass to his lips again, but then frowned. "What, it's empty already?"

The Frenchman laughed. "You just drank it too quickly."

"I was thirsty."

"Then you should have drunk water instead."

"I don't need any advice from my enemy," Arthur snorted arrogantly and half-jokingly, getting to his feet. Francis followed his example. "Now is that so?" he said slowly and Arthur's daring eyes met his own.

"Always," he uttered and turned around, starting to walk away. "I'll get myself more wine."

Francis acted without thinking. He stepped forward and placed his hand on the Englishman's shoulder, stopping him. "It is dangerous to turn your back to your enemy," he purred into his ear, sliding his hand down the Englishman's arm to grab his hand. He felt Arthur shuddering slightly and not giving him time to react, spun him around, pulling him closer.

"Wha-"

"Dance with me Arthur," Francis murmured into his ear, voice low and seducing. Not waiting for reply, he held Arthur close and looking into his enchanting eyes, the Frenchman led them to the dance floor, following the rhythm of waltz.

"F-fine then," the Englishman mumbled, as if he even had any choice at that point.

Holding Arthur hand with one hand and resting the other on the Englishman's slim waist, Francis guided them around the hall. He knew what he was doing and had no hesitation, which perhaps was the reason why this time, unlike the first time they had danced together, Arthur didn't even attempt to lead. Satisfied to finally have the Englishman in his arms after so long time and hidden desire, all the Frenchman was concentrating on was the dance and the way their bodies were touching.

Despite letting himself being led, Arthur wasn't just following Francis sheepishly; his body moved confidently, not asking the Frenchman's permission for making his steps, yet not breaking the harmony of the dance. Francis smirked in his hair, twirling them around as they made their way among other dancing couples. "It has been long time since we last danced."

"I guess."

"We didn't dance at the ball in London."

"...We didn't."

"Then it's good that mistake is corrected." The Frenchman slowed down the pace as the piece of music got closer to its end. He twirled them around one last time and halted when the music died. The two men stood still, looking at each other, neither of them showing any signs for breaking the hold. As new notes, this time tango, began to flow, Francis smiled contentedly and tilted his head. "Shall we?"

"Certainly."

As the first sharp notes after slower beginning filled the air, Francis suddenly pulled the Englishman tightly against himself, the light mood of waltz being replaced with dark passion. Tango was the dance Francis loved the most, and no other dance could fit better for dancing with Arthur. Tango allowed the Frenchman to express everything that he felt towards the other blonde, all the mixed feelings that he had yet couldn't quite name. And above else, there was the passion, the overwhelming passion that was storming inside of him and needed to be released. Oh yes, tango was just what was needed.

And hell, Arthur was good at it. Eyes flashing he answered Francis' moves with lusty passion equal to the Frenchman's.

Francis held Arthur close, hands roaming over his body, one settling between his shoulder blades, another grasping his hand. He took a long step forward, stepping between the Englishman's legs and forcing him bend back. "On y va," he smirked at his partner, leaning over him, and then yanked him up, swirling him around. But, instead of steadying himself, Arthur made an extra turn, freeing himself of the Frenchman's grip and stepping away from him, eyes locked with the blue ones. A small yet very self-conscious smirk flickered on his lips, as if daring Francis to come and get him.

The two men encircled each other, as if waiting for the right moment to strike. Once only Arthur's eyes slipped away from the blue ones, to the Frenchman's displeasure. "There is a woman looking at you," Arthur said harshly in an almost mocking tone.

Francis saw his moment first and downright hurled himself forward, entering Arthur's personal space and closing his arms around him, but not quite touching yet. Almost like sneaking he got behind the Englishman and only then did he lay his hands on him, placing one of them on Arthur's hip and grabbing his wrist with the other, somewhat violently pulling the smaller body tight against himself. "Don't pay attention to other people when you're dancing with me," he muttered, voice low and husky, his lips almost brushing Arthur's ear.

The Englishman tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck and meeting the demand of the night-blue eyes. "Then give a reason not to," he replied darkly.

And Francis did. Both of them quickly lost themselves into the haze of music, passion and each other. Their bodies moved together, adjusting to the same rhythm as if they could read each others' minds or were just two halves of one body. At times their dance was nearly gentle, at times it was almost violent and resembled a duel. Francis didn't see or hear other people around him; all he could sense was the Englishman. Being so close to him just felt so damn right.

Those few minutes that the dance lasted felt both like a fraction of a second and eternity, but however long it really was, eventually the music reached its peak and started to slowly fade away.

Francis blinked, mind snapping back into reality. His arms were still around Arthur, whose limbs were wrapped equivalently firmly around the Frenchman, their faces close enough to feel each others' heavy breathing. For a little while they remained in their position, trying to steady their breathing and rapidly beating hearts, but as the last notes died, they broke apart.

Francis reluctantly slid his hands off the Englishman and crooked a smile. "That was not bad at all," he complimented.

"Yeah..." Arthur replied slowly, taking a step backwards. "I think there was enough dancing for me."

"It's rather hot here," Francis marked. "I'd appreciate some fresh air now. Where was the balcony?"

"There," Arthur pointed, and the two men started to make their way to the opened doors of the balcony, navigating among dancing couples.

Francis spotted a pretty, young woman, almost a girl, staring at him in a shamelessly open way. "I see there is a nestling getting familiar with banquets."

The Englishman glanced at the girl. "She shouldn't stare so openly," he snorted. "Especially when there is really nothing special to look at."

"Is that so?" the Frenchman laughed. "Her gaze tells otherwise. Can you see? She would die for a kiss from me."

Stepping out to the balcony through the open doors, Arthur didn't give the girl a second glance. "I can see," he said slowly. "Though I can't see why."

Francis let out a disbelieving sound, half amused and half appalled. "Dear Arthur," he began, going and leaning against the railing of the balcony, resting his eyes on the Englishman. "You can't be serious. Anyone who has caught a sight of me would wish to kiss me."

Arthur's annoyingly daring eyes met his. "So you really claim that you are that good a kisser, don't you?"

"And you don't believe that?"

A cold breeze made both men shiver, but neither of them moved to get back inside. Francis could hear the music coming from the hall, but it was distant, as if it belonged in a dream.

"Well," the Englishman stated. "The weaker the dog is, the louder it barks. I believe your reputation as a kisser is simply exaggerated."

"Oh?" Francis arched his eyebrow. "Then would you like to try yourself, better than speculate?"

The dare was laid between the two men. Silence between them only lasted for few seconds.

"Bring it on."

The Frenchman hadn't fully expected the answer he had got, and was pleasantly surprised. "Well then," he said, stepping closer to the Englishman, so that they stood chest to chest. For a moment neither of them moved, saying nothing. Francis found it to be actually slightly awkward; while he really wanted to kiss Arthur, he hadn't thought it would happen like this. Probably for the first time he wasn't quite sure how to go on, especially when the Englishman was looking at him like that, nervous and waiting and-

Francis placed his fingers under Arthur's chin to lift his face for a better access for a kiss and leaned forward. He pressed their lips together, first tentatively, then firmly, running his tongue along the Englishman's lips, coaxing him to part them. Francis tasted the faint flavour of wine in Arthur's mouth, and just as he thought how good it felt to be finally kissing him, the Englishman started to kiss back. That was when the Frenchman's mind went blank. He draped his arm around Arthur's waist, pulling him closer, and slid his other hand to support the Englishman's back. Arthur let out a quiet, breathless moan and responded by wrapping his arms around Francis' neck in order to deepen the kiss. The Frenchman groaned lowly and pushed him against the railing of the balcony, which forced the Englishman to arch his back, slightly leaning backwards over the railing.

The need to breath finally forced Francis to pull away. Well that was a kiss; the Frenchman's heart was beating furiously and he was panting, not remembering when he had felt that burning sensation last.

He released his partner, stepping back to both give and gain some space between them. While he wanted to get closer again, to proceed to something more than a kiss, at the same time he felt the need to get some distance to clear his head and figure out the stormy feelings inside of him.

Arthur was still leaning against the railing, his chest billowing up and down with his quick breathing. His lips were still slightly parted, and he looked dazed and unmistakeably flushed. Francis flashed him a smile. "Well, Arthur, may I hear your opinion?"

"It..." Arthur detached himself of the railing and fixed his tie, clearing his throat and avoiding the Frenchman's eyes. "It was... slightly over the average."

"Slightly?" Francis repeated but didn't push any further; this time there was no doubt how he had affected the Englishman. Arthur had enjoyed the kiss just as much as the Frenchman. A sly, contented smirk appeared to play on his lips. "Now really?"

"Yes," Arthur assured, busying himself with watching the view the balcony had on a dark, nocturnal park. "I... think I'll get myself some wine." With that, the Englishman hurried past Francis and back inside.

"Of course Arthur," Francis murmured to himself, watching how Arthur's back disappeared into the crowd.

Another cold breeze travelled over the Frenchman and he shivered, missing the warmth of the Englishman's body. He leaned against the railing, gazing into the night. Now, what he had felt... Francis couldn't remember if he had ever felt anything as strong and shocking as he had felt that night, first when dancing with Arthur and then when kissing him. The Frenchman frowned. It was bothering him; had it been just the kiss thrilling him, or actually the fact that it had been Arthur? He had to know. In order to save his sanity, he had to know if he was seriously developing feelings for a rude, grumpy Englishman.

Francis turned around, looking back into the hall and wondering if he should follow Arthur's example and get himself some wine. Then something crimson caught his sight and he saw a gorgeous woman, well on her thirties, looking at him through the window. The woman winked at him, and the Frenchman recognised his old friend, a well-known temptress who had taught him some of his tricks he used when seducing people. He smiled, and she entered the balcony.

"Good evening, madame Alexandrie," Francis said, kissing her hand.

"Long time no seen, Francis," she replied, smiling warmly. "How have you been? I was a bit surprised not to see you at Marianne's ball last week."

Francis laughed airily. "Believe it or not, madame, I was in England."

"Oh," she grinned knowingly. "Had it something to do with that charming little Englishman you were kissing just a moment ago?"

The Frenchman chuckled. "There is nothing that can avoid your eyes." He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. "Oui, it had."

"You sound bothered."

Francis looked at her, the woman whom he considered both his friend and teacher and whom he respected a lot, and laughed nervously. "I suppose." He shook his head. Well, there was his chance to figure out the mess in his mind. "Say, madame, may I kiss you?"

She laughed warm-heartedly. "Poor boy, what has happened to you?" Eyes glinting sympathetically she shifted before him. "Go ahead."

Francis did as was told. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her deeply. Madame Alexandrie was an experienced kisser – that's how she had gained her reputation in the first place. But her kiss didn't set Francis on fire, no matter how good it was. Not knowing whether he should feel happy or appalled, the Frenchman pulled away. "Hm."

"Did it solve your problem?" madame asked, smiling like a mother smiles to her child when proud of them.

Francis shook his head again. "Yes... Yes, I think so. Unfortunately," he muttered, sighing. "Merci."

"No problem. It was good to see you again, Francis." She laughed, her deep voice familiar and comforting. Turning around, she winked at him before returning back inside, saying casually, " Good luck with him."

Francis bowed his head to her, already deep in his thoughts. So. It was because of Arthur. Absolutely wonderful.

Francis stayed on the balcony for a little while more, but as Arthur didn't show up, he went back inside to look for him, wondering if the Englishman had been caught in a bottle of wine or something.

The thought wasn't actually that far from the truth; when Francis spotted the Englishman, he was sitting on a divan, accompanied by a only half-empty glass of wine. Arthur was swirling the red liquid in in the glass, not bothering to react when the Frenchman sat beside him.

"Wine sure is a fascinating thing."

The only reply Francis got was a grunt. The Frenchman arched his eyebrow at the change in Arthur's mood. "My," he said, "Why so sour?"

The Englishman didn't move his eyes off the wine. "Got a headache," he said blankly.

Francis frowned. "That's too bad. And that wine for sure is not going to help-"

"Would you just mind your own sodding business?" Arthur interrupted him angrily, emptying his glass with one easy movement. Francis clicked his tongue, still frowning, now a little worriedly. "As polite as always, I can see." He stood up, looking down at the negative appearance of the Englishman. "Well let's go home, shall we? There is no point in sticking here if you are not feeling well."

"oh, don't let me spoil your night, Mr. bloody Bonnefoy," Arthur spat sarcastically. "Go ahead. Dance. Have your fucking fun. Just let me be."

"No need to be such melodramatic, cher," Francis uttered calmly. He grabbed Arthur's upper arm, pulling the swearing Englishman up. "Let's go. Do you need help?"

"Like hell I need!" Arthur yanked his arm of Francis' grip and started to stride towards the exit.

"If your head hurts so much, I could kiss it better," the Frenchman suggested half-jokingly, catching up with the Englishman, who turned to him so suddenly that Francis was happy the glass was already empty. The green eyes flashed with anger that surprised the Frenchman.

"Just let me be!" Arthur snapped at him. "Go and fucking kiss every bloody idiot here, you already had a good start!"

"But that would leave only you," Francis stated, grinning and making himself a mental note that Arthur was a monster when suffering from headache. "Now, yelling won't ease your pain, cheri."

Arthur sputtered curses under his breath and fell silent after that. During the whole way back to the Frenchman's house he said nothing, and Francis didn't bother him. If he had dared, he would have made a comment of how cute Arthur looked when sulking, but in the end, Francis considered his life too precious to be risked.

When they finally got back to Francis' home and the Frenchman had let them in, Arthur quickly headed to the stairs leading up to his room. At the stairs, however, he halted. As Francis was taking his mask off, he noticed the Englishman turning to him as if wanting to say something. The Frenchman looked at him questioningly, but Arthur seemed to choose to remain silent after all, and continued his way up. Francis smiled to himself.

"Bonne nuit, mon Anglais," he called after the distancing Englishman, and as the blonde glanced back, Francis blew him a kiss and winked.

"Whatever," Arthur muttered barely audibly and disappeared up.

Hearing the door of the Englishman's room shutting, Francis went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine – he hadn't had too many at the masquerade. He sat down on his sofa and stared into his glass, unsatisfied with himself.

There was no point in denying the fact that Arthur was growing into something more than a mere rival to Francis, and it felt thrilling. But. It meant that Francis was losing his own game, which thought he didn't like.

He didn't like it at all.

X

AN: Okay, I give up. These chapters grow longer than I had expected. =_= Also, I do hope the minimal French I use in this fic is correct (translated by google translator)...

Sorry, you'll have to wait for a while for the next chapter.

~X~

"To love and win is the best thing, to love and lose, the next best."

- William M. Thackeray