The night of the hunter

Chapter ten

"Good morning, miss Braginsky."

Natalia glared.

"Perhaps you remember me. My name is Edelstein, I work in the same company as mister Kirkland."

Natalia glared. But this time the man didn't stir; he merely fixed the glasses on his nose.

"Hm. Well, anyway. There are some important papers Mr. Kirkland promised to deliver me, but lately I haven't been able to reach him. So, I was wondering if you, miss, could get me those papers. Since you are working for him."

"No." Did the man think she was completely stupid?

"Of course I never considered bothering you for free." The man took a small, silvery knife out of his pocket. "Please accept this as a refund for your efforts."

Natalia glared. She remembered perfectly well what her dear brother had said about suspicious offers such this one. And he had told her to always stay loyal. "No."

"In that case," the man said slowly, "if I tell you where Gilbert Beilschmidt, the man who your brother likes to spend time with, lives, will you get me what I want?"

xXx

Half past four.

Arthur glared at the offending clock. He should check if it was broken; for sure it was being slow. Because Arthur was sure it had been at least half an hour since he had last checked the time, not ten minutes like the stupid clock insisted.

Well. He could as well arrange his messy desk; he still had more that two hours before Francis would come.

Arthur sighed, idly following the patterns in his wooden desk with his finger. It was the break week, and he was going to have dinner with Francis. Out, in a restaurant. It wasn't part of the game... Then what exactly was it for?

Oh yes, the papers. He had to arrange the papers.

And yet, the game would end in only two weeks. Arthur had got hardly any names to his list in Paris, not mentioning addresses. The game hadn't actually even been in his mind that much.

For some ridiculous and unlikely odd reason, Francis had.

The papers. Focus a little, Arthur!

Arthur groaned, slumping down at his desk, and buried his head in his arms. This is madness...

Ticking of the clock was driving the Englishman to the edges of his sanity. He had nothing particular to do until the time Francis would get him, and so he had to spend his time doing a little this and a bit of that, and all in all, he got nothing done. Once a knock on his door interrupted his dawdling, but it had only been Natalia, coming to finish the cleaning that Francis had interrupted the previous day. Arthur was too busy with pretending he wasn't disappointed at all when the comer hadn't been Francis to be displeased with the fact that he would have to pay the Russian girl some extra for coming on two days in a row.

Finally Arthur got frustrated with himself and grabbed a random book from his bookshelf and settled down on his sofa. Books and tea; all he needed to calm down. Though now, for once, he didn't feel like making tea.

Arthur glanced at the book cover and frowned; Pride And Prejudice. That particular Jane Austen's novel was not quite what Arthur would have liked to read that moment, but already being comfortably on his sofa, he could as well go through the novel for the second time. Just to kill time.

Arthur had just got to the page 76, when he heard a knock on his door. The Englishman frowned; did Francis really have to appear right when Elisabeth was having an interesting debate with Mr. Darcy? Almost calling Natalia to open the door, Arthur remembered that the girl had left already left some time ago, and got up, sighing and tossing the book on the table.

"What took you so- Good evening, sir." Arthur's tone changed in a fraction of a second as he realised that the puzzled man standing behind his door was not the French wanker, but, judging of his outfit, a post officer.

"Good evening, sir. I'm sorry, sir," the young man, almost just a boy, stuttered, handing a white envelope to the Englishman. "This is for mister Arthur Kirkland."

"Oh," Arthur said. "I am him. Thank you." He took the envelope and after telling goodbyes, closed the door. He examined the envelope and noted that the handwriting was small and neat, the letters being precisely in one line. Arthur took a look at the sender; Kiku Honda.

"I had almost forgotten about his..." he muttered to himself, walking back to his living room fully intending to read the letter right away. But again, before he got to open the envelop, he was interrupted by someone at his door again.

A quick glance at the clock revealed that it was five past seven. Arthur threw the letter on the table beside the book and walked to the door. This time it had to be Francis.

"You are late," he uttered, pushing the door open and trying to appear as indifferent as possible, as if his heartbeat hadn't just quickened.

Francis arched his eyebrow and gave a sly smile. "That's only because you keep me waiting," he said slowly, reaching out and bringing the Englishman's hand to his lips, giving it a chaste kiss without breaking the eye-contact.

His words wimpled into Arthur's mind, suggesting various implications. The Englishman shook his head slightly and yanked his hand away. "Let's get going, then." He grabbed his coat and stepped out, locking the door behind him. "I suppose you have made a reservation somewhere?"

"I have," the Frenchman said, pursing his nose. "It wasn't easy to find a suitable place. We should spend this week in Paris instead. At least we would get edible food."

"And I thought that you wanted to have a break from me," Arthur said just the tiniest bit bitingly.

"Oui." Francis gave him a coy smile, leading him to a carriage waiting for them. "From the game. So, for now, we don't have to be playing anymore."

"And yet you are doing so," Arthur muttered barely audibly while climbing into the carriage. It was true; Francis was always playing with his words and tones and little gestures that could either mean something or be simple nothings. He always left the Englishman unsure of what he really meant, the bloody git.

"Excusez-moi?" Francis took the seat opposite to Arthur's.

"Nothing."

"Aren't you being mysterious again."

"Me?" Arthur uttered a laughter. "Now look who's talking!"

"Do you find me mysterious?"

"Only ridiculously difficult to understand."

Francis gave him a slow smile. "Perhaps we should both be more open with each other, then."

Little bells in Arthur's mind instantly belted out a loud alarm. Water is getting too deep here, dive now and you'll never find the surface again, they warned, to which Arthur just huffed and took the step into the depths. Shut up; maybe I don't even want to. "Very well," he said haughtily to Francis. "Then you start."

Francis blinked at him in confusion. "Start what?"

"Being more open."

For a little moment Arthur spotted an odd gleam in the Frenchman's eyes, but then it was gone, like a ray of light disappearing into deep waters.

"We are here," Francis said after a pause, and true enough; the carriage stopped. The Frenchman got up and opened the door, jumping out on the pavement. He then turned around and extended his arm for Arthur.

"Already?" Arthur frowned at the offered hand but not wanting to make a show in public, took it and let himself be helped out. "We could have walked here."

The Frenchman shrugged and led them into the restaurant. It was a nice place, small and pleasant, just to the Englishman's liking; in fact he had been dining there more than once during the past autumn. The table Francis had booked was at the window and with few people near it, which Arthur was glad for.

A waiter was instantly inquiring their wishes for the dinner and Arthur felt contented to be able to order himself, instead Francis doing it to him like in Paris.

As the waiter was gone, the Englishman propped his chin on his hands and stared at the Frenchman. "Well?"

Blue eyes blinked at him innocently (just as innocently as they could). "Quoi?"

"Don't even try wiggling your way out of this, frog," Arthur warned, smirking. "You started with being open, so take it to the end."

The Frenchman chuckled in response and shook his head. "You are a stubborn one." He leant back on his seat and looked at the Englishman with amused face. "What do you want to know?"

It was Arthur's turn look innocent. "Nothing particular."

"Now really?"

"What reasons you have to go around kissing people?"

Francis was visibly surprised to hear such a question, and truth be told, so was the Englishman himself. As he realised what he had blurted, he could have smacked himself. Why the hell had he said that? Alright, so what if he wanted to know why why Francis had kissed that bloody woman back in Paris, but letting out such words was too idiotic for his own good.

Francis recovered from his awe. "Such as who?" he asked.

Arthur shrugged and fixed his eyes on the waiter that was approaching them with their food. "Whoever."

"Mmm," the Frenchman mused, letting the waiter place their dishes in front of them and took the brought bottle of red wine, pouring some first to Arthur, then to himself. "Interesting question. But there is no specific answer; for different people I have different reasons." He arched his eyebrow at the Englishman. "Why?"

"Just... Just." As if that had even been an answer!

"Now it's my turn," Francis hummed, smiling at Arthur. He sipped his wine and for a while he just sat there in silence, gazing at the Englishman. Arthur found that rather unnerving and focused on his food rather than the man before him. The longer Francis kept silently staring at him, the less the Englishman tasted his food.

Finally the Frenchman broke the straining silence. "Why do you like wine, Arthur?"

For a few seconds Arthur just stared at him blankly. "What the hell?"

"Just answer the question."

Not getting the point of the question, the Englishman shrugged. "I don't know. Just because. The taste?"

"That's not a proper answer, mon anglais."

"You didn't answer me properly, either!"

Francis gave him another odd look and Arthur cursed his tongue . "Why do you like wine, then?" he asked to distract the Frenchman from his previous words.

"Me?" Francis beamed at him. "Obviously because it's the drink of love."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Don't make such face. Taste it!"

Arthur rolled his eyes again but obeyed, taking his own glass and sipping the wine. "Ordinary wine," he commented.

"Ordinary," Francis scowled in disapproval. "This is from my farm."

Right, the best part of Francis: his wine farm. "Well that explains the weird taste."

"That's love!"

"I beg to differ."

Francis frowned, which didn't decrease his elegance one bit. "You think it's weird because you are unfamiliar with it. Am I right, Arthur?"

Arthur could feel his face starting to heat up. What was that frog implying? "What the fuck-"

The rest of the sentence died on his lips as he was the ocean-blue eyes darkening and getting a predatory tinge. Suddenly Francis seemed to... just burst into dark flames.

"Love, Arthur," he said frantically, staring intensely into the Englishman's eyes. "Have you ever been in love?"

"T-that's none of-"

Francis practically jumped to his feet, and, before Arthur could blink an eye, appeared behind the Englishman's chair, placing hands on its armrests. "Have you ever experienced it?" he continued passionately, and Arthur felt his breath in his hair. "Seeing only one face wherever you look. Imagining only one body no matter how many other surround you. Drowning in only that one person's eyes whenever they look at you."

Francis' voice was low and husky, leaking passion, and Arthur was more than aware of the Frenchman behind him. He was almost startled at the sudden change in the atmosphere, at the change in Francis, and was too shocked to react when skilled hands travelled to his shoulders and lips almost brushed his ear. So he just sat still, feeling blood rushing in his veins, heading to his face, and heart beating furiously.

"Yearning for only his touch, no one else's..." Francis whispered into his ear and the Englishman shuddered under his hands. He gasped as the Frenchman grabbed his chin and lifted his face up so that they were now looking at each other. Eyes widening, Arthur could do nothing but stare into the deep, deep blue eyes and his breath hitched as they lowered closer to him.

"Have you ever felt it," Francis continued, voice low and alluring, "that burning love inside you? Burning so much it almost hurts. Draining you, driving you crazy every day and hour, killing you every passing second over and over again."

Francis' hand that wasn't holding Arthur's chin slid down along his arm to his hand that was resting on the table, and grasped it. With a fierce movement he yanked the Englishman up and pulled him close to himself, chest to back, still holding his hand firmly. "And yet," He brought Arthur's hand to his lips, but instead of touching it he merely let his breath caress the knuckles. "it burns so pleasantly. The burning, sweet passion warms you inside. Gives you strength, brings you joy over every tiniest thing." Francis' hand slid down Arthur's side to his waist and pulled the Englishman as closed to himself as possible. Arthur forgot how to breath as the Frenchman's lips pressed right under his ear. "You are almost walking in the air," he whispered against his skin. "And your mind is constantly drifting away. To him."

And then, just as suddenly as he had started, Francis released Arthur and pulled away from him. Turning to face him, Arthur feared his knees would give in as he met the intense stare of the blue eyes again, and tried to capture his fastened breath. After what felt like eternity Francis turned around and took his own seat again. Arthur followed his example and and sat down, too, taking quite a big gulp of his wine – he certainly needed it. As he placed the glass back on the table, he noted Francis giving him a satisfied, questioning look. "Well?"

"That's..." Arthur cleared his throat. "That's only romantic nonsense. That's-"

"Love," Francis cut in.

"No, it's simply-"

"Love."

"Will you stop doing that?" Arthur snapped and the Frenchman laughed.

"Considering your words, you haven't experienced it," he said, lifting his own glass to his lips.

"Then..." Arthur found his almost empty plate very fascinating at the moment. "Have you ever experienced it?" Despite the wine he had just drank, Arthur's mouth felt as dry as the hottest desert.

Francis chuckled and took a sip. "Never like thi-" Arthur's eyes widened. What... had Francis said? Ignoring the sound of the Frenchman chocking on his wine, the Englishman kept his eyes on the plate. Had he just heard right? The coughing in the Frenchman's direction died. "-that. I've never experienced it like that."

But the damage was already done.

"I see," Arthur said quietly, not having enough courage to look at the Frenchman. He was afraid that he would see his own reflection in the blue eyes and that was something he couldn't deal with right then. Never like this. His heartbeat increased with terrifying speed. And... What about me?

As if he didn't know. And that was why he couldn't face himself at the moment.

But had Francis mean what he had said?

To prevent himself from saying anything stupid again, Arthur gulped down the rest of the wine in his glass. But that only reminded him of the Frenchman's statement about the wine and where it had lead to, and he the Englishman fumbled with the glass, nearly dropping it.

"Are you okay?" Francis asked, poorly suppressed amusement in his voice, and suddenly burst to laughter. "My," he managed to say as Arthur shot a deadly glare at him, "Are you drunk already?"

"I am not," Arthur announced matronly and for once truthfully, patting his lips with a napkin and noting in relief that the tension in him seemed to have let up as the Frenchman had laughed. "Are you done with your food?"

"What food?" Francis snorted but nodded. "Oui. Shall we get going?"

After paying their bill, the two men got out on the street. It was late already, the sky was dark and the air was cold; autumn nights showed no mercy. But the wind was pleasantly fresh and it felt good against hot, flushed face. Arthur inhaled slowly and deeply before turning to the other blonde beside him. "Let's walk back home; I don't want to take a carriage now."

A playful smile crept on the Frenchman's lips. "Are you inviting me to your home?"

Arthur hadn't even given it a second thought. Especially in Paris they had always returned home together, and somehow the Englishman had automatically expected them to do so now, too. He opened his mouth, but closed it again and merely shrugged. "Yes."

The smirk on Francis' lips melted into a warm smile and made Arthur's heart skip a beat. "With pleasure, then."

They walked in comfortable silence, enjoying the coolness of the air. Arthur breathed deep the scent of his city and the man walking beside him, and sighed contentedly. How did that moment feel so good? Right then, Arthur couldn't wish for more. Except... He gave a quick, hopefully unnoticed glance at the Frenchman beside him. If only he knew what Francis was thinking...

They spoke hardly anything until they reached the Englishman's apartment and Arthur had let them in. Having taken off his coat, he headed straight to the kitchen, intending to make some precious, calming tea. Francis could make himself at home without his instructions.

Which was proved to be the truth. "Pride And Prejudice," Arthur heard Francis' amused voice from the living room. He walked to the door and leaned against the door frame, watching Francis comfortably positioned on his sofa with the said book in his hands. Arthur blinked. You belong into your apartment, Francis had said him, but as the Englishman now watched his guest, he got a strong feeling that Francis belonged there, too...

"You were reading this?" the said man asked curiously. Arthur nodded. The Frenchman chuckled lightly and put the book back on the table. "Comme c'est intéressant." he said, and the Englishman scowled at the language.

The Frenchman's eyes fell upon the envelope beside the book. "Ah, you have a letter here," he announced.

"Oh, right." Arthur left his place at the door frame, figuring that water could perfectly well boil without him standing there. "I had forgotten about that." He walked to the table and took the letter. "Do you mind if I read it now?"

"Not at all."

Not sitting down, Arthur opened the envelope and unfolded the yellowish piece of paper inside it. "Let's see what Kiku wants," he muttered absently.

"Kiku?" The sharp tone in Francis' voice made Arthur look at him and he almost flinched at the sudden fierce look in dark blue eyes. "Yes, him," he said, frowning a little.

"Well, do read on then." Francis leaned back on the sofa, crossing his arms and examining the Englishman. "By all means."

Vaguely wondering what the hell had gotten into the Frenchman, Arthur did so, understanding the neat handwriting without problems.

Instead he had difficulties with understanding the meaning of the words. "Oh my God," he finally barely whispered under his breath. Kiku was confessing him? Telling he had developed feelings for him? Kiku, the distant Japanese of all people? And instantly a tiny but persistent voice started crooning deep inside his mind; why was it Kiku who was confessing him?

"Oh, did he finally tell you?"

The venomous, mocking tone drew Arthur's attention back to the Frenchman. "What's with that tone?" he snapped, the other blonde's words suddenly provoking him.

"Just asking." Francis' tone was cold. "So, did he tell he loves you?"

"How the hell do you know?"

"Such a desperate crush would have been noticed even by a brainless idiot."

Irritation flamed inside the Englishman. That bloody frog was insulting both him and his friend, and even though he didn't return Kiku's feelings, Francis' attitude was pissing him off. "That is none of your fucking business, frog!" he spat angrily, glaring down at the Frenchman.

Apparently that wasn't to Francis' liking, as he stood up, too, forcing Arthur to look slightly up in order to look him in the eyes. He stepped slightly forward, but Arthur didn't back off, and they kept their eyes locked together in a wordless battle.

A high, unbelievably loud screech of the teapot in kitchen cut through the air, announcing the water to be boiling, and both men stirred, but neither of them made a move to go and get the pot off the stove. The noise covered the men's slight panting, and Arthur could tell that, just like his own, Francis blood was boiling in veins.

"What will you answer him?" The Frenchman's voice was low, dangerous, harsh, and the power of the fury in his eyes was stunning. Thrilling...

"That's to be between him and me," Arthur hissed in response, staring into the dark blue eyes, enchanted by their fierceness, enjoying their attention. God, how he loved the way those eyes surveyed him, as if attempting to dig deep into the very core of him.

"Would you really go to such a bland man?" Francis asked and Arthur was sure that sooner or later something would snap under the tension.

If nothing else, he would. His voice thick with hardly suppressed emotions, Arthur bit deep. "At least he has guts to make a move at me."

The last drop fell.

Without a single word, Francis grabbed hard his shoulders and pushed him backwards, slamming him forcefully against the wall. Before Arthur could even breath a curse, the Frenchman grabbed his chin and all but smashed their mouths together, kissing him heatedly with lips and tongue and teeth.

Arthur's breath hitched and he saw only stars around him. For whole two seconds his mind couldn't proceed what was happening, but Francis' dark-passionate attack on his mouth shook the numbness away. Arthur growled, throwing his arms around the Frenchman's head and tangling his fingers in his long hair, kissing him back as forcefully as he could.

But Francis pulled away far too soon, almost instantly,pressing his lips tight against the Englishman's ear and speaking in a harsh, low voice. "Be careful what you say to men like me."

And then he was gone, turning his back and heading to the door of Arthur's apartment. Arthur clung to the wall, trying to catch his breath, but then he realised that the Frenchman was intending to leave.

Oh no, no fucking chance in hell. Without any proper thoughts, Arthur sprung forward and reached for the golden hair, grabbing a good handful of it. Growling, the Frenchman turned around and Arthur threw himself at him, attacking his mouth with his own. "Then you..." he muttered breathlessly into Francis' mouth, "be ca-areful what... what you do to men like m- memmh..."

He felt Francis hands roughly and possessively roaming around his body, earning wherever he touched small moans that Arthur tried to suppress.

"Arthur," Francis breathed between kisses. "Are you giving yourself to me?"

"And who were you calling a... a brainless idiot just a moment ago?" Arthur groaned and cursed; the stars in his vision made it hard to find the buttons on the Frenchman's shirt.

"Good," Francis murmured, laying kisses along Arthur's jawline and down to his neck, alternately sucking, biting and licking it. "Enfin, enfin." He might have said something else in French, too, but at that point Arthur didn't hear, care or understand it anyway. All he could focus on was getting as close to Francis as possible.

The still whistling teapot finally got their attention and Francis groaned, detaching himself from the Englishman and quickly stumbling into kitchen to put out the stove. When he returned back to the living room, Arthur could finally see his eyes again, his hungry eyes of a hunter.

As soon as the Frenchman set his foot into the living room, the two men were instantly at each other again, working on each other's clothes and trying to expose as much skin as possible and taste all of it. At some point they started moving towards Arthur's bedroom; either Arthur started pulling Francis there or Francis started pushing Arthur there, or perhaps both. It didn't matter.

Skin was hot against skin, touches were burning as deep as the very core of their souls. Moans and screams were cutting the darkness of the night, and soon everything disappeared into the mist of lust and want and need. Nothing more existed; only Francis, Arthur, and the night around them.

X

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions."