A/N: Thanks again for people who left reviews! Keep 'em coming, they give me inspiration to continue my translation process. :)


Act VII – I've found that when you want to know the truth about someone that someone is probably the last person you should ask

~o~

Fran watches, eyes bulging from bewilderment – and this time he lets it show – how tuteur strips to his briefs, and carelessly climbs to Fran's bed. To his very own, personal, absolutely private, comfortable bed.

To be precise, the bed is a property of the Varia, but it's reserved for him for as long as he serves in the elite squad. And if there is a right for a person to hold onto, it is that of sleeping in their own bed!

It crosses his mind that Bel has somehow managed to muddle his own bed and for the sheer malice of it, has come to arrogate the younger colleague's bed, but he rules out the option immediately. First of all, there's a fair amount of spare beds in the huge headquarters of the Varia. Secondly, Bel could have invaded Fran's sleeping quarters without kissing him; he could have simply grabbed Fran by the collar, tossed him into the hallway and locked the door. Thirdly, the prince is supposed to abhor the rural bugs parasitizing in Fran more than Commander Squalo abhors idle Sundays. Even if all the vacant beds were in use or had magically disappeared, Bel's first choice should have been Mammon, not Fran.

So no, it's not the lack of beds. But the lack of something else, for sure.

Bel settles under the duvet as if he was in his own bedroom and glances at Fran. "Why are ogling there like a potheaded owl? Come on! It's already past one am."

Fran fails to move. His strained mind begins to browse options.

If this is a dream, I'd like to wake up now.

If this is an illusion, I will kick Mammon into the next week, a member of the Varia or not.

If this is a practical joke courtesy of the fake prince, I'll tattle to the commander. And Lussuria. And Xanxus. And both Vongola IX and X. And then I will call Master Mukuro and tell him I'm planning to hop on the next plane and fly back to him. There must be some sort of protocol of how gracelessly you are allowed to treat your work mates. Since this clearly meets the criteria of sexual harassment!

The thought gives him courage to speak his mind. If Bel actually thinks he can just march into Fran's room, grapple him, and invade his bed, the prince is sadly mistaken. Fran has a patience that at its best stretches to endure a room full of hyperactive, screaming kids but it too is bound to run out at some point.

"Are you seriously in such a need to get laid, Tuteur?" he snaps, sarcasm seeping into his voice, poisoning it. "The Lexus is in the garage or I'm more than willing to call a cab if you don't care for driving yourself. I'm sure the city has some easy wenches to offer. Levi might know the location of a brothel or tw–"

Bel looks at him like one looks at a spoiled kid throwing a tantrum on a supermarket floor. "Shut your trap, bullfrog."

The abrupt command leaves Fran blinking in astonishment. His tutor's rudeness has just exceeded all the tricks thus far including the time the blond lost their mission report, blamed it on Fran and literally pushed him into Xanxus' office to get crushed.

"Stop your stammering and come here. The sheets are cold and the prince is freezing."

"But why?"

Bel arranges the blankets, looking discontent. "I don't know. Maybe you didn't warm them up. But that is quite understandable, since you didn't know I was coming."

He must have been out of his mind, imagining he could have a reasonable talk with his tutor. Fran turns on his heels, heading for the door. Lussuria probably knows where they keep the spare beds.

"Hey, froggy!" Bel's voice hits his back, and Fran catches a slight alarm in it. "Where are you going?"

"To find myself a place to sleep."

"Why? You can sleep here."

"No, I can't. A certain fake prince choking in his smugness just seized my bed." He reaches the door and is about to grab the key when he hears sheets rustling and bare feet slapping against the floor.

"Fran."

When was the last time Bel actually called him by his real name? The prince only seems to use it when it's absolutely necessary; when he's talking with the others and the clarity requires it. Fran halts, waiting, inhaling deeply. Is Bel afraid he's going to hint someone, Lussuria maybe, about the secret sexual tendencies of Prince the Ripper? The thought is actually quite tempting.

"Wait," a soft voice calls behind him. Bel sometimes speaks in a soft tone but only to Mink and Mammon, never to Fran. There's a special voice reserved exclusively to Fran, the most contemptuous of all voices. Maybe it's because of the softness, maybe because of all the irrational events, maybe because his 17-year-old body sees any sexual activity as a far more important pursuit than a good night sleep, but Fran drops his intentions to leave, just for now. He lowers his hand and turns around, knowing he's about to meddle with one of those infamous series of events which in the morning are followed by a question: 'What the fuck have I done?'

Bel is standing in the midway of the room, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs. His clothes are bundled on the floor, the tiara is positioned on the nightstand next to Coelho's Alchemist. Fran has seen Bel half-dressed before but really not this nude and can't exactly not look. Can't avoid seeing the long muscles beneath the pale skin, the crescent-shaped birthmark on the right side of his flat stomach, the body narrowing from the shoulders towards the hips. Bel is not tall or bulky, but he's agile and dexterous, with a body designed for silent and fast movements. Fran becomes aware of his lips still tingling and burning. His body has not completely recovered from its little trip, the blood is circling a bit too fast, the pulse is throbbing in his neck, temples, and groin, and the images in his head remind him how good the blond's touch felt, how exciting and right. As wrong as it was.

Fran doesn't want to look at the bulge in the front of the black boxers. And he is not looking. His eyes just kind of… slip. But he retrieves the control quickly, lifting his gaze back to the upper regions of Bel's body. And when he does it, he sees a genuine fright on the prince's face.

He really should cherish each of those moments when something manages to break through Bel's omnipotentness and actually shake him. When was the last time it happened? When they were defending the Varia headquarters and Bel realised that his bat-shit crazy twin brother was still alive. Until that day Fran had thought a more insane person than his tutor didn't exist. It was interesting to realise he'd been mistaken.

As interesting as it is to notice he is able to evoke the same feeling in the prince.

"What?" he asks, letting the tiredness shine from his voice, to announce it's absolutely too late for practical jokes.

Bel steps closer and Fran is pondering whether he should just take off. The door is right behind him. All he needs to do is to step out of it. Of one thing he is fairly certain: tuteur will not start after him half-naked. Not because the prince possessed some sort of moral, but because his reputation of being Fran's number one hater would be ruined.

But he's not taking off. He remains where he stands, and Madonna help him, waits for the mad naked prince to walk to him. As Bel's hand rises to his shoulder, he startles but doesn't back off, and as the blond leans towards, he merely closes his eyes, because these events are so immensely beyond his reasoning he's almost curious to see how the night will evolve if he plays along.

Bel's breath is warm on his face and it makes Fran aware of the room getting a bit too chilly for his thin shirt and pyjama pants. His tutor must be freezing. Fran could take a peek to see if Bel's skin has already got goose bumps but his lids refuse to open. He can feel Bel lingering only a few centimeters away and then a warm softness lands on his lips and Fran just… allows it to happen.

Again!

Not only is he allowing it to happen, but his sensitised nerves are beginning to send commands to his muscles – move, act, nestle closer – his lips twitch against the others, his tongue snaking through them even though he doesn't remember granting it permission. As it makes its move, the other meets it the half way, intertwining with it, and Bel's Eau de Calm after Storm is floating into his nostrils. He is even able to taste it, as well as something darker, like musk, lurking behind it. The sparking in his groin tightens, building up flames, and Fran realises he's hovering on the verge of displaying his thoughts in the front of his pants if they continue their ministrations. And he's still not sure what Bel is ultimately after.

He manages to pull himself free but the blond's hand remains on his shoulder and he feels the tension radiating from the fingers. If he tried to escape, Bel would tighten his grip. "Tuteur, I swear… if this one of your stupid jokes, I'll…"

Bel's face is so close that his breath heats up Fran's lips, red spots have returned on his cheeks and the prince seems to be struggling to keep himself under control. "Does it look like I'm joking here?" The voice comes out breathless and strained, like he had his jaw locked.

Fran shrugs. Can't always tell it with you, can I?

Bel lets his hand slide down Fran's arm and catches his fingers. "Come on, frog. The prince is seriously freezing."

So Bel actually knows how to be gentle when he feels like it. His touch opens Fran a completely new world, and he doesn't mean sexual activities, though to tell the truth, in that field his experience is quite minimal, too. He allows the blond to escort him to the bed. Bel is suspicious, and doesn't let go of his fingers before Fran agrees to settle between the sheets. When the prince follows, Fran gets hit by an agonising feeling of falling into a trap, but he lowers his head onto a pillow, trying to banish the tension gathered in his limbs.

Okay, he's lying on the bed, like Bel wanted. Now what?

As it soon turns out, Fran needs to do nothing. The prince seems content to have got Fran next to him and completely takes over the situation. Fran feels his spine turning into an iron bar as underneath the covers the practically naked blond inches to his side and lays his fingers on Fran's bare forearm, and the warm puff ghosting his cheek tells him Bel has every intention of continuing where they were left off.

Just a minute, did he just grant the blond permission to do something he most definitely is not ready for?

How far is Bel planning to take his experiments?

Fran deems this would be a good – or actually the last – moment to ask, to make tuteur answer, but as soon as he opens his mouth the words get suffocated by a very determined pair of lips. He has already noticed how easy it is to just lose yourself in kissing, let the flow carry, and if he doesn't collect himself now, he might soon be lying under his tutor in his birthday suit.

He pulls his head back, even tries to turn it but only a hand pressed against the bare chest frees his lips. "Hey, Tuteur…"

Bel exhales, irritated. "What is it now?"

"Don't you think this is a bit… strange?"

"Well, you do have images of Pokémon in your bedding but I don't see anything else amiss here."

"Stop it," Fran commands, surprising himself with the determination lingering in his voice. "You know what I'm talking about." And in case the prince is planning to continue playing stupid, he throws a direct question. "Let's start with what you are doing in my room. What are you doing in my bed? What do you want?"

"I kind of thought our little ministrations just now would have given you some clues but apparently everything needs to be explained to you as carefully as to Levi."

"Why did you kiss me? You realise you did that, right?"

Bel huffs again and sweeps his hair back from his forehead, giving a glimpse of the frosty-blue eyes.

Fran's resistance starts wavering immediately.

He had forgotten how good-looking Bel is. Why can't the blond just have squinty pig eyes or some sort of deformation? Resisting would be so much easier if he resembled a zombie crawled from a bog hole.

"Yes, I kissed you and I would gladly continue doing just that if you've had enough of this therapy session."

"Why?"

"Why not? It's not like you're straight, right?"

Fran can't decide whether to be extremely offended or just surprised of Bel's discernment. No, he supposes he's not completely straight, he's known it for a while now. He's probably not entirely gay either, since he's caught himself checking out girls. Something in between. But Bel's words sound so assertive that they adopt an almost intrusive tone, as if the prince had just decided that Fran is interested in men and chosen to take advantage of it.

He eludes the question and slams a more relevant card on the table. "Tuteur… you hate me."

"So? I still might want to have sex with you."

Hmm, something or someone here is missing the logic.

"If you merely need to bang someone, I'd again recommend dragging your royal carcass into a brothel. Or maybe Lussuria could provide his services."

Bel shivers visibly. "That cackling drag queen is the last creature on this planet I'd take to my bed." The prince quiets, realising what he just blurted from his mouth. "No, scratch that. Levi is. But Lussuria is next to the last.

"Well... Commander Squalo?" Fran offers tentatively. Shouldn't be a matter of looks. The Varia's second-in-command could any day quit his job as a sword man and earn his living by strutting down the catwalks in Milan fashion shows and posing for the Men's Vogue, Homme, and other magazines that value the male beauty. If he doesn't want to become a lead vocalist of a German metal band, that is.

Bel is staring at him. "Squalo is straighter than Chuck Norris. Besides, what makes you think the prince would settle for whoever crosses his path?"

"Eh… for example the fact that you've implied of me being a stinking sewer rat which brain capacity barely manages to control the basic bodily functions." Fran realises he's subconsciously sinking into the pillow. Weird to be talking with tuteur when they're so close their breaths mix and he's able to see every pore on the pale cheeks.

"Pfft, the prince was just pissed off then."

"So does that mean I'm not a filthy rodent?"

"No."

"I'm not?"

"No, it doesn't mean that!"

"Wow, this is, like, the cleverest attempt of being hit on I've ever been exposed to." Possibly the only one, too, but that Fran can't say for sure. After all, he has a tendency to misunderstand people's advances.

"I'm not trying to hit on you," Bel remarks.

Fran has a tendency to misunderstand but this time he's understood loud and clear. "What the hell are we doing here then?"

Bel's hand that's been lying on his forearm starts to move, brushing slowly up and down the naked skin. "Well, we're just fooling around a little."

The prince can fool around just with himself, for all Fran cares. He doesn't want to become known among the Varia – nor in the eyes of his Master – as a person who jumped to bed with his deranged tutor immediately when the chance presented itself. He bravely tries to ignore the tickling fingertips but can already feel nerve impulses setting off, travelling around his body, giving him goose bumps and causing involuntary twitching.

His tutor has the edge. Bel is far more experienced; he is able to identify Fran's reactions, to adapt and encourage them. As soon as Fran starts to squirm, the prince takes full advantage of it, obtruding his personal space… well, okay, so that's already happened ages ago, but Bel edges so close to his side that his bare stomach touches Fran's arm. The sneaky fingers are back on the hem of his shirt and the lips are fumbling the corner of his mouth. A new kiss suffocates Fran's protests.

There's something primitively alluring in a touch of a naked skin. Something obliging. Even though Fran is terrified to the point of his heart trying to shatter his ribs, he finds himself clinging onto the strong, warm body, arching his back to glue himself against it. He only needs to give in for a second, and the blond is already removing his shirt, bundling it under his arms and sneaking a hand behind his back to lift him. Fran exhales when the shirt messes his hair as it gets pulled over his head, feeling suddenly very self-conscious.

He's never thought to look particularly interesting; he's always been a tad underweight and puberty hasn't really built up his muscles. Compared to Bel's compact frame he's downright scrawny. Not to even mention the fact that he doesn't know any tricks or moves or whatever people do in bed. Does Bel realise he's not going to find anything that could be described as seductive, charming or sexy in this room? Maybe excluding himself.

So far the prince doesn't seem to care. His fingers are fiddling Fran's sides, passing on his abdomen, stopping to play with the tiny nub on Fran's chest. The lips move onto his neck, sucking and drawing moist paths, and Fran squeezes his eyes shut as the feeling becomes too intensive, too… foreign. Blood is bustling in his veins, thronging in narrow passages and an excessive amount of the heat is gathered below his navel.

Bel smiles against his neck, when Fran's lets out a squeak and without warning the hand that's been caressing his chest moves to the waistline of his pants, peeking under it and something hard is rubbing against his hip and…

..and this is definitely proceeding too fast!

For the umpteenth time at that night Fran pulls himself off, crawling further on the bed. His mind is staggering inside his skull like a junkie burgled in a storage room of a pharmacy, his pulse is climbing up his windpipe and the heat harassing his groin has emerged to a full flame. How is it possible for a person to be horrified and aroused at the same time?

"Hey, I didn't permit you to do anything!"

"Shishi, the prince didn't ask."

Fran really has no experience on the matter but he's pretty sure this is one of those situations where it's common practise to ask permission. Just so one wouldn't commit a crime. But they already are criminals. Hmm…

Bel is emitting serious frustration and inches back to Fran's side. Fran pulls himself free, worming further away, and tuteur follows him. They continue their little game until they are hovering on the edge of the bed and Fran is going to slip on the floor if he dares to move.

"I was under the impression this is usually initiated in a different way," he notes to play for some time.

"What do you mean?"

"You could, for instance, have asked me out."

"Why? That would be too slow."

Perhaps it would be. Besides, Fran is having a hard time picturing himself and his tutor on a traditional date. What would they do? Sit in a fancy restaurant, a fluttering candle, glasses of wine and fried scallops in front of them, and throw insults on each other's face?

"I don't want to go out with you," Bel continues. "I just want to fuck you."

Hot charcoals drop on Fran's cheeks and he reckons at the moment he resembles more a tomato than a frog. Thanks for your honesty, Tuteur.

He clears his throat and tries by the sheer power of his mind to force blood back to underneath layers of his skin. "I suppose I have something to say on the matter?"

"Hmpf, say it then."

Fran arranges the mishmash of his mind, pondering which arguments might most effectively break through the prince's arrogant self-confidence. He's got Gonorrhea or some other nasty STD? No, that would only present him in a bad light and Bel might turn up a condom package from a secret pocket of his clothes. He's tired? That's actually true, but on the other hand even a bat suffering from glaucoma could see his widened eyes. And Bel probably would show no compassion. His head is hurting? Haa haa.

He supposes he must tell the truth and count on it that this part of common social skills has been part of Bel's upbringing. Fran crosses his fingers, hoping that the person who's been in charge of the prince's birds and bees talk answers to the name Lussuria.

"This may come as a surprise but I… kind of haven't…" Fran gulps as his voice cracks slightly. The monotony has taken off with the first express flight and the poker face has curled up in a corner, ashamed of its master's wriggling. "I have never done it before."

He's left to struggle with his tightening throat, waiting for Bel's reaction. At least the blond doesn't immediately launch a counterargument. He's sprawled on his side, leaning on his elbow, a hand supporting his head, watching Fran. Behind the overly long fringe, the wheels seem to be turning.

"That's really no surprise," he finally states. Fran expects the prince to continue, to add that Fran is so unattractive that even sex addicts get cured just by glancing at him and that he should be thankful of the prince's unique, once-in-a-lifetime offer. But Bel is merely scratching his cheek, absent-minded. "It's about time, though, I'd say. How old were you again?"

"Seventeen."

Is he imagining things, or does a faint relief flash on tuteur's face? "Like I said, it's about time."

"Couldn't we just..?" Fran is again scouring for his lost vocabulary. His verbal abilities have totally vanished during this mad episode. "Can I think about it first?"

Bel laughs a little, mostly to himself, and finally complies. At least that's what it looks like, because he stops pushing himself against Fran and lowers his head onto the pillow, relaxing. "Think about it then, froggy. But don't think for too long."

Or?

There is no 'or'. The prince rolls onto his back and throws his arm across his forehead, a small smile resting on his lips. Fran assumes he's closed his eyes. He dares to move towards the center of the bed, on the spot Bel warmed up, and lets out a deep sigh as his muscles start unwinding and his pulse quiets down.

"The prince is still going to sleep here," a lazy voice announces from the pillow next to him.

It's not like Fran expected anything less. Most probably he's not going to get a minute of sleep himself tonight, being too busy guarding the swift fingers of his uninvited bed mate.

When the silence has stretched to a safe ten minutes, Fran gets up, tiptoes to turn off the lights and returns hesitantly to the bed. Bel is not touching him, though; the prince has taken over the other side of the bed but is also staying there, and after listening awhile for the blond's steady breathing, Fran finally lets his eyelids slide shut.


A/N: Wow, Bel really sucks at this! :D