DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

SNOW WHITE, BLOOD RED

NINE

GILBERT

I resist the pull of the wolf as I chase Matthew around the garden, dodging snowballs and delighting in the excited sound of his laugh. It's a grey, snowy day, but Matthew has been stuck in the cottage for too long and today Arthur finally gives him permission to leave and run and play. In fact, he says: "Go—go run, you've got too much energy!" and shoos him out the door. Matthew glories in this freedom and hollers a fake howl as I race after him, tearing a path through the knee-deep snow. I let him stay just out of reach, even though we both know I could catch him if I wanted to. It's more amusing to pretend that he can outrun me. (Me, ha!) It's more charming to watch his clumsy, panicked lunges, his arms wheeling for balance. Antonio would call his frolicking cute, and I can't help but agree. Matthew's enjoyment is contagious. It's been a long, long time since I've played like a pup; a long time since I've played at all. But I find myself laughing as we run and a happy growl rolls past my lips.

When I notice him tiring, I leap and tackle him around the waist. I drag him down into the snow and crawl over him, effortlessly fighting his meager struggles until he stills in feigned surrender. He lies on his back and stares mischievously up at me, his cheeks rosy and his breath coming in fast, visible puffs. His heart is pounding hard, but in a good way, and he has fat snowflakes in his eyelashes. His lips are red and ripe and the sweetest sounds spill out of them. I want to kiss him.

I lean down, but he presses a hand to my mouth to stop me. I cock my head and pout, and he smiles because he can feel it. I smile, too, and kiss the inside of his gloved hand.

"Gilbert—Gil, stop!" he laughs, trying to pull back in retreat.

I tug his glove off and press my lips to his skin as he wriggles and laughs. I kiss his wrist—feel his pulse—then his palm and his fingers, teasing him with my teeth—

"Ouch!" he yelps.

I flinch and release him. The play goes out of me when I see the blood.

"It's okay," Matthew says. He forces a relaxed expression for my benefit, but I know I've hurt him by the way he cradles his hand. "It's not your fault," he assures me, but then he leaves the garden and goes inside.

You bit him?" Antonio looks horrified. "You bit your mate?"

"It was an accident!" I argue, feeling worse because of the disappointment on his face. Wait—why do I even care what he thinks of me? When did I start needing his approval? "I was just playing! It was just a little nip!"

Antonio shakes his head. "How many times do we have to tell you? Humans are delicate. Their skin isn't as tough as ours, it breaks and bruises really easily. You have to be careful when you're playing with Matt. You have to be gentle when you touch him. Always."

"So, what? I can't ever..." I chew on my bottom lip. I want to say mate him, but instead I say: "...kiss him?"

"You can kiss him," Antonio says. "And you can mate him—with permission," he quickly adds. "You can put your mouth and your tongue on him, but not your teeth, Gil. Never your teeth."

I nod, secretly relieved. "Don't tell Francis, okay?"

Antonio points a warning finger at me. "Don't ever bite Matt again." Then his face relaxes into a smile and he opens his hand.

I take it and we shake, a gesture I've become familiar with.

"I won't," I say earnestly, "I promise."

MATTHEW

Don't tell Francis, okay?" I plead as Arthur cleans and bandages my finger.

He gives me a disapproving look, then shakes his head in exasperation. "Bloody wolf bit you," he mutters.

"It was an accident," I say, pulling my sleeve down to cover my fingertips.

Arthur shoots me another skeptical glance as he puts his medical supplies away. He does it mechanically—he doesn't even need to look to know where everything goes. He's been doing it for a long time, and our family makes sure he gets a lot of practice. He and Francis have been taking care of us for as long as I can remember.

"Art?" I ask, after the silence has stretched into a full reprimand. "How did you and Francis meet?"

Arthur pauses, then closes the cupboard and faces me. "Why the sudden interest?"

I cock an eyebrow at him to imply the recent influx of wolves in my life. "It's just, he's always been with us." I shrug. "I can't remember him ever not being with us, but I don't actually know how you met. I keep wondering how it is I never knew he was a wolf. I mean, if Francis was ever anything like Gilbert..."

"He wasn't," Arthur says, sitting down beside me. "Maybe he would've been in a different circumstance, but when I found him he was trapped."

"In a cage?"

"No, in his own body."

ARTHUR

11 YEARS AGO

I'm picking wild cranberries when I hear it, the quiet whine of a dog. But there are no dogs this deep in the forest, not without a human companion. At first I think it must be lost, so I follow the noise. The forest is dark and dense, but I'm not afraid of it. I know every rock, every leaf, and every creature that calls this forest home. I know what heals and what kills, and I know my place in the world's natural order. The faeries have blessed me with gifts that keep me safe.

This is why I don't panic when I see him. A wolf in human-skin.

He looks like a youth—like me, but prettier than me. His naked body is long and golden and he has curly hair that spills over his shoulders, hiding his face. He's lying on his stomach.

I poke him with a stick, but he only groans. He's weak and starving.

I kneel down cautiously and brush the hair off his face, revealing a strong, angular jaw and dehydrated lips. His nose twitches and his eyelids quiver, and then his lips recede enough to show his teeth, but his growl is strangled.

What happened to you? I wonder. He doesn't have any external injuries, but something is wrong. A wolf would never choose to stay in his weaker form, especially when in distress; no creature would. So, it's not a question of why doesn't he change, but why can't he?

He lifts his head a little and opens his eyes, which are as blue as gemstones. "Don't..." he wheezes in warning.

For a moment I think I'll grant his wish and leave him alone to starve, but it's a rather brief moment. I'm not a charitable being. The faeries don't reward or revere charity like humans do, but they do like riddles. And what is a riddle but an unsolved challenge? I see the wolf and I see how he can benefit me, so I tug off my travelling cloak and drape it over his nudity. I don't know how I'm going to carry him back to the cottage, but I know that I'm going to help him. I'm too greedy not to—too curious. His body is saturated in faerie magic and I want to know why.

"I'm going to help you," I say, slipping my arms around his torso. He's very heavy. I drop him and he growls.

"Go away," he begs. "Leave me alone!"

I ignore him and try again.

FRANCIS

My head is pounding. It hurts to open my eyes, but I do. I'm lying on my back on a bed of hay and staring up into the weathered rafters of a wooden tower. It's covered in cobwebs and bird nests and animal scat, and it smells like mildew and wood-rot, an unpleasing scent. And it's drafty. The wind whistles through cracks in the domed roof, but at least it protects me from the rain pouring outside. At least I'm not as cold as I could be, which is an even more unpleasing thought than the smell. As long as I lived as a wolf I was never burdened by the cold, but now I can feel it. I can feel it in my bones the way humans do, and I don't like it. Nor do I like the drumming in my head, or the painful tickle in my throat. I cough—again, again, again—and then water is being fed into my mouth and his hand is anchored on my hot forehead.

The boy sitting next to me has a gentle touch and the greenest eyes I've ever seen. He holds the water skin to my lips until I've drank my fill, then wipes my chin.

He says: "Don't fight it."

"What?" I growl, affronted that this skinny human-child would dare to give me orders. Doesn't he know what I am? I try to shift forms, but a piercing pain shoots through my body and my head screams in protest.

"That," he says as I whimper. The look on his face is not afraid and not impressed. "Don't try to shift forms. Don't fight the faerie charm, it'll only hurt you."

I tense at his mention of the fey. "Who are you?" I demand. "How do you know about the dark magic?"

"It's not dark magic," he lectures. "It's natural. Dark magic is unnatural. Just because the faeries use natural magic for dark purposes doesn't make the magic dark."

I frown, then scowl. I don't like this boy—pretty as he is. He smells like the fey and speaks too casually about them, almost fondly.

"You're a changeling," I deduce, shying away from his gentle—poisonous—touch. It's such a shame that the prettiest things in life are always the most dangerous, but beauty like this boy's comes at a cost, and I will not be lured into another fey trap no matter how tempting the bait. In proof I bare my teeth, sharp even in my human-form, but the boy is not intimidated.

"You're starving," he says, trading the water skin for a bowl of meaty broth. It smells disgusting. Did he brew it himself? Poison, no doubt.

"How long have you been unable to hunt?" he asks rhetorically, shoving the brew at me. "Eat."

"Poison," I spit.

He fumes, his cheeks reddening. "It's not," he says, tethering his temper. "It's food. It'll save you from dying of hunger."

"Because it will kill me much swifter!" I argue.

He's angry now. There is fire in his eyes and bullying strength in his frail hands, no longer gentle. He tries to push a spoonful of broth against my closed lips, but spills it down my chin. It feels slimy on my skin, but I will not eat faerie food. I would rather starve than be enthralled to those unnatural things.

"I'm not a changeling," says the boy, switching tactic.

I wait for him to lower the spoon before opening my mouth to speak. "You smell like the fey."

"I lived with them for a time."

"So you're not a changeling, you're the opposite—a human-child stolen by the fey. It makes no difference if you lived with them. The magic is in you."

"Yes," he admits, though he doesn't seem ashamed. He seems proud. "I learnt from them. The faeries are the oldest beings in the world and I'm a greedy student."

Not proud—arrogant. That's what this boy is. If only he wasn't so very, very pretty. The fey like pretty things, especially children.

"Once I had learnt all they wanted to teach me, I was released."

I laugh cynically. (It hurts my throat.) "The fey do not relinquish their property without a bargain. What is it that binds you to them? What have you promised them in return for your freedom?"

"That," he says, turning his back to me, "is none of your concern."

"Wait!" I call, trying to rise. "Where are you going?"

He stops at the door and casts a look over-the-shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "If you're not going to eat then there's no point in me helping you."

"Helping me—how?"

"By removing the faerie charm, of course. But if you prefer to starve to death, by all means, go ahead. I'll be back in a fortnight to dispose of your remains. Do try not to leave a mess."

"WAIT!" I call again, louder.

He sighs and turns, a vapid smile on his freckled face. "Yes—?"

"You can remove the curse?" I ask, hating the hope in my voice. "You can free me? I won't be trapped in my human-form anymore?"

"If my remedy succeeds, then yes. The magic in your body will once again be fluid and you'll be able to shift forms at will."

"If," I repeat distrustfully. "And if you can't?"

He shrugs. "You'll be no worse off than you are now."

"Except I'll have let a fey-witch experiment on me," I growl. "And I'll be trapped in my human-form forever."

I don't know why, but his eyes soften then. So does his voice. It becomes gentle, like his hands. "It's not that bad, you know, being human. You might find you prefer it.

"I'm Arthur," he says, retreating to my bedside. He offers me his hand.

I stare at it, then lift my gaze up to his alluring green eyes. I don't want to trust him, but I also can't deny the truth of his words. Not the part about being human—how disgraceful!—but the part where he's my only hope to be cured. I don't relish being used as a test-subject for fey magic, and I don't like the unfair balance of power between us, where I feel like the prey in a hunt. But this is the reality of my pitiful situation. He's cornered me and he knows it. If I ever want to be a wolf again then I have no choice but to trust him.

"Francis," I mutter, and grudgingly take his hand.

ARTHUR

The first potion fails. And the second. And the third. And by late-autumn Francis and I are both frustrated and ready to give-up. "Why doesn't it work?" he yells, and throws a tantrum that destroys the laboratory I've painstakingly built. He has a volatile temper and is quick to anger when he doesn't get his way—spoiled in the most unconventional way. He may be wearing a man's handsome skin, but the wolf's spirit is still present in everything he does. "I don't know why it doesn't work," I tell him, but it doesn't soothe him. He doesn't want to hear that I'm doing the best I can. He doesn't see the time and effort I've invested, he only sees the lack of results, like a child. He only sees my failures.

"If you're not satisfied, then go!" I scream at him. I fling open the heavy door. "Nothing is keeping you here! If you hate me so much then just go! Go die in the woods, wolf!"

"I will!" he threatens, trying to squeeze sympathy out of me, but I don't take the bait.

"Fine!" I shout.

"Fine!" he snarls.

We argue so passionately one night that he does leave, and it terrifies me. I fear that he'll never come back.

But he does come back. The next morning I awake to find his blue eyes watching me from across the room. He's perched in my chair because I'm lying in his bed, my eyes red from crying. Wordlessly, I get up and wipe my face, and say: "I've got another idea." He nods in silence and surrenders himself to my tests.

Eventually, as autumn freezes and winter thaws and spring flowers grow and wilt beneath the bright summer sun, we start to admit the truth. Little by little, we come to acknowledge what we both suspected from the beginning: that my skills and knowledge are not enough to break Francis' curse. Little by little, we both stop pretending to believe in a cure.

On the Summer Solstice, I abandon my fruitless work in the tower laboratory and invite Francis to live in the cottage. There I finally introduce him to Alfred and Matthew, who are both five-years-old. I've told him a lot about my young cousins, to whom I play guardian, but he's never been in such close proximity to them before. He's smelled and spied them from a distance, but I've never let him get close. At first I'm cautious and I hover at the boys' side, afraid of the wolf showing his teeth—figuratively and literally—but it's an unnecessary worry. The wolf in Francis falls in love with the boys just as hopelessly as the man does, and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least that's one thing I needn't worry about. The blue of his eyes never lies.

It quickly becomes apparent that Alfred and Matthew are better teachers for Francis than I am, and, over the years, all three of them learn how to be proper humans together. Francis is good at mimicry and he grows with them, but it's still a long time before I'm confident enough in his act to take him into the village. He complains about having to wear clothes from head-to-toe and I realize I've made a mistake letting him walk around the cottage half-naked all the time—my fault, I know, but I like looking at him—but otherwise he's on his best behaviour. He even wears shoes! I lace Alfred and Matthew's laces and then lead us into the village, nervous about the risk I'm taking. Can he really do this? I worry. Can he pass for a human? What if he can't? They'll hunt him and burn me for witchcraft! I stay close to Francis, ready to whisper advice or whack him if necessary, but he doesn't seem to be bothered by my proximity. In fact, he gravitates toward me whenever I venture away. He glares and growls at everyone in the village, and refuses to let go of Alfred and Matthew's hands, afraid they'll get hurt, but otherwise it's a successful outing. The second time we go into the village he's better—he only growls at one person, who, frankly, deserved it. The third time is even better, as is the fourth and fifth and sixth. Francis is perceptive, he's clever, and every time he encounters a new person or place or situation he learns from it; he learns from his mistakes. Eventually, he can even converse with the villagers without me mediating. He's not the most popular person in the village—foreigners never are—but none of them believe he's anything but a born-and-bred human man.

On the second anniversary of our meeting, I tell Alfred and Matthew that it's Francis' birthday, because in a way it is. It's the day he began a new life. A wolf-less life.

The boys give him hugs and kisses and then present the gift they've crafted for him, which is a piece of very abstract art they say represents our family. Bits of dried plant and animal matter are woven together with twine and decorated with flowers. I think it's supposed to be a dream-catcher, but I'm not going to ask for fear of insulting their handiwork. Instead, I feign interest as Alfred explains:

"This is me! I'm the bear claw 'cause I'm the strongest!" he says, flexing his little muscles. Then he points to a white feather: "And that's Mattie, 'cause he sings really nice. Artie, you're the rabbit's foot, 'cause it's for good luck. And Francis," he says, crawling into the wolf's welcoming lap for the finale, "you're the fishing net that holds all of us together and protects us from breaking. See?"

Wordlessly, Francis nods.

Matthew looks up at him, wringing his small hands self-consciously. "Do you like it?"

Francis nods again, pursing his lips tightly, and pulls both boys into a fierce paternal hug. He buries his face, but I can see that he's crying—actually crying! so swollen with emotion. And even though his words say: "I love it", his eyes say: I love you.

And I'm happy.

For the first time in a long, long time, I'm actually happy.

FRANCIS

I'm in the village when the choke of smoke hits me.

It's a distant but strong smell. In it, I scent oak and pine wood, and old paper, and drying herbs, like the kind hanging from the rafters of the cottage. I smell minerals and metal, like our big iron-cooker. I smell linens dried with lavender, the tallow of melted candles, the acid of charcoal ink. I smell the earthy lead of toy soldiers, and dyed wool saturated in a baby-sweet scent all too familiar to me.

I turn in the street and see the smoke curling skyward at the edge of the village and I know that the cottage is on fire.

I run faster than I've ever run before. I race the fire-brigade and shove bystanders out of my path as I tear toward the cottage, which is aflame. The thatched roof looks like an equinox bonfire as flames like serpents' tongues thrash in the wind, and the windows belch black smoke.

What happened? I wonder, but it's a feeble query. For months, now, I've listened to the villagers whisper the word witch when Arthur passes by. I've seen the way their eyes follow him, narrowed in suspicion, their bodies stiff in defense. I've seen the way parents retrieve children from his path, his sight, and the way shopkeepers deny the sale of goods with transparent excuses. They throw glares and insults at his back. They clutch religious pendants that look, to me, no different from pagan talismans, and seem to be for the same purpose, for they mutter prayers like charms of protection. I've known since the beginning that the villagers dislike Arthur, whom they stare at with an intense desire, then spit at in penance for their lustful thoughts. They don't trust him, even though so many beg his help in the night. They blame him for their misfortune, finding in him a target for their anger and grief and misdeeds. If a babe dies; if a crop fails; if someone assaults another—"The green-eyed witch made me do it!" they say.

One of these hateful, fearful people has set fire to the cottage.

One of these civilized men has tried to murder my pack.

The cottage is surrounded when I reach it, but no one moves to douse the fire. It's too big, too fierce. My eyes search the crowd and land on a dark-skinned man with curly hair and molten-gold eyes. Vargas is his name; I've been introduced to him before. He's the wealthiest man in the village—the alpha of his family—and one of the few friendly faces I know. He has never turned away from Arthur, nor does he now. His arms are wrapped tightly around Arthur as the green-eyed youth struggles and shouts. His hands claw like he's swimming toward the cottage, and for a moment I'm grateful to Vargas for holding him, because Arthur would run into the fire if not, but then my mind registers what my eyes do not see.

I do not see Alfred. I do not see Mathieu.

When my eyes meet Arthur's I see—not despair for his lost potions and spells, but—manic fear for the loved ones still trapped.

"Alfred! Matthew!" he wails like a banshee. Then my name, too—"Francis!"—as I charge inside.

ARTHUR

I shriek until my voice is hoarse, until I can taste blood in my mouth, but Roma Vargas does not let me go. As if from a great distance, I can hear his voice saying: "No, Arthur! You can't go in there, you'll burn! The whole cottage is about to collapse!" but I take no heed. My mind is reeling and I can think of nothing but my cousins—my boys; the lives I've been entrusted with—and I wonder why no one has rescued them. A few have tried. A few of the braver men have tried to get close to the cottage, but the flames prevent them getting in. They frighten the men: the big, strong men the villagers praise, and they turn from it with pity in their eyes and cowardice in their hearts.

"Let me go!" I yell. "I am not afraid, let me go!" but Roma doesn't listen.

Then I see him, Francis. The blue-eyed wolf whom I've come to rely on, to care for; the wolf who's become a part of my family. The only person besides my cousins who looks at me and sees only me, not a changeling or a witch, but the skinny, freckled human-boy I've always been. He's my companion, my only real friend. He's the warm, golden presence I feel deep within my soul.

He charges into the cottage and I scream.

I don't scream words. It's just a long, painful wail now, because I can feel it. I can feel myself losing him to the fire, and it's like someone is ripping out my heart.

I scream and I cry, because my family has been trapped inside for too long. My boys and my companion have been swallowed by the fire, murdered by someone else's fear.

The cottage collapses and I fall to my knees.

No human man could survive it—

—but a wolf can, and it's a wolf I see emerge from the wreckage.

He's a big tawny wolf, and he's carrying the boys in a bed-sheet, which hangs like a hammock from his maw. I rip myself free of Roma Vargas, who is too stunned to react, and run to meet them. The wolf's fair coat is singed and the pads of his paws leave bloody prints as he walks, but his eyes are blue and beautiful and human. I crash to a stop in front of him and throw my arms around his neck, embracing the wolf and man I've come to love. Gently he licks the tears off my face.

"Alfred, Matthew," I worry, seeing the unconscious boys, who are badly hurt. The wolf whimpers at my side.

"I can save them," I tell him, at the same time telling myself. The raw burns on their skin, the smoke in their lungs—I can breathe life into them. I can breathe my life into them.

"Francis," I say, a quiver in my voice; tears on my cheeks. "Take care of them."

His blue eyes widen a fraction, but it's too late. I've already raised up my hands, summoning the faerie magic that lives inside of me. "Sleep!" I say loudly, commanding the villagers—everyone within a mile—to drop into a deep, forgetful slumber. Then I place a hand over Alfred's heart, and a hand over Matthew's, and I can feel the cold hands of death creeping over them, and I push it back. I utter words I've learnt but never said and feel the unnatural magic of resurrection blossom within me, letting the warmth of my body, my life, flow into them and paying for the return of their lives with mine. It doesn't take long before a chill takes me and my strength weakens. My vision goes blurry and my head feels heavy as I sway, unable to keep myself upright, and my hands slip from the boys' beating hearts as I fall down, down, down into darkness.

I awake, unexpectedly, weeks later in the arms of the wolf, who has taken his human-form to guard me.

He smiles down at me, his lips soft and parted; his cornflower-blue eyes tender and beautiful; and his hands gentle but firm, holding me, protecting me like he protected my boys. He's pale and wan, like he hasn't eaten or slept. And he's crying again. Tears, silver in the starlight, roll silently down his unshaved cheeks. He's so sensitive, this wolf.

My wolf.

My mate.

My Francis.

MATTHEW

PRESENT

I listen to Arthur's story in its entirety before speaking. But I don't ask about he and Francis. My cousin isn't someone who lingers. He's told me his tale, now it's finished. Instead, I ask:

"Al says it's because of a faerie spell that I feel the way I do about Gilbert. Is that true?"

Arthur retrieves two teacups from the shelf, where mine and Al's decrepit eleven-year-old gift to Francis still hangs. I don't remember the fire that destroyed it. I don't remember everything—our house, our things—coming back to life. No one does. Arthur places the teacups between us on the table and pours boiled water, steeped with herbs.

"No," he answers, the aromatic steam rising. "There's nothing intoxicating in a wolf's bite." The impish twist of his lips reveals his amusement. "I'm afraid you've got no one to blame for your feelings but yourself. Never-mind what Alfred says. He's just scared."

"Scared?" I repeat in surprise. "Of what?"

"He's scared because everything in his life has suddenly changed, and we both know how well Alfred deals with change," he says sarcastically. Then he softens. "He's scared because he believes his brother is in love with a wolf.

"Am I wrong?" he asks when I don't reply.

"No," I confess. I can feel myself blushing. "I mean, I don't think so. I... I don't know. I don't deny that I have feelings for Gilbert," I admit, cupping the teacup in both hands. "I can't deny it. But it's all happening so fast. I don't want to call it love yet, even if that's what it is. Do you think... is that okay?"

"Of course it is. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. You can call it whatever you want, or never name it at all. It's your decision, pet."

I nod, but it's hesitant. And it's because of Gilbert. "He's just so impatient," I say, a little worried. "What if he won't wait?"

"He will," Arthur says blithely, unhelpful.

"But what if he wants—"

"He'll wait, Matthew," he repeats, firmer. "Trust me, he loves you deeply. And, better yet, he's finally starting to understand you."

I look down, trying to hide my bashfulness by taking a sip of tea. "When did you fall in love with Francis?" I redirect.

Arthur straightens defensively. It's not a conversation he's comfortable having, I know. Our household is not full of verbal love because of Arthur. It's something I never would have dared ask him before Gilbert.

"I don't know," he deflects. "It happened very gradually."

"But when did you know you loved him?"

Arthur stalls by taking a long drink of tea. Then he sets the teacup down slowly, perfectly pristine, perfectly dignified, and perfectly contemplative. "The night of the fire," he says quietly, softening. "It's when I realized that you and Alfred weren't the only ones I was afraid of losing."

"I was afraid of Gilbert when I first met him," I admit, "but now? I can't imagine my life without him. Is that how you felt about Francis?"

"I was never afraid of Francis," he quips, typically self-assured.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I lift the teacup to my lips, but don't drink. It hovers there for a moment as I collect my thoughts, my feelings, trying to translate them into words.

"I'm not ready to say I'm in love with him yet." I say it to Arthur, looking timidly at Arthur, but it's myself I'm really talking to, and he's good enough to sit patiently and let me. "But I do know that I want to be with him. I feel... connected to him, like... like I would be incomplete now without him. Do you know that feeling?" I ask hopefully.

Arthur doesn't verbally confirm, but he nods.

"I want him to stay with me," I say with more confidence. "He's really sweet—to me, at least. And he makes me laugh. I feel safe with him, comfortable, because I know he's not judging me. He doesn't expect from me what the villagers do, he doesn't just assume things about me. And I know how hard he's been trying to change himself, to fit in with human society. I know it's necessary, but I hope he doesn't change too much. I like him as a wolf. I like him being so straightforward," I chuckle. "He's charming, in his own way. There's an innocence in him I didn't expect. And I... I feel really good about myself when I'm with him," I realize in surprise. "I actually like who I am when I'm with him. I'm not as afraid."

Arthur's eyes are soft in sympathy, so I quickly, lightheartedly add:

"And I don't know if you've noticed, but he's really handsome."

Arthur frowns, now. He cocks his head and scrunches his nose in feigned contemplation. "Really—?"

I'm baffled by his hesitance. "Yes, of course," I emphasize, shocked he doesn't share my opinion. "You don't think so?"

His reply is polite, but his teasing indulgence is transparent. He lifts his teacup to his lips and says smoothly: "I suppose I just prefer more conventionally attractive wolves."

"How can you say that?" I demand, laughing now. "Gilbert is gorgeous! He's so tall and... rugged." I bite my lip, thinking of the wolf's naked muscles.

"Well, I can't argue there," Arthur cedes. "He is a rather fit wolf. But strength isn't everything, and Francis," he says, like we're competing, "has many other talents."

The twinkle in his eyes and the sultry insinuation in his tone makes me cringe. "No, no—I take it back," I say pre-emptively, pointing a warning finger at him. "I'm not having this conversation with you, Art. You're talking about the man who's practically my father."

Arthur laughs. "Well, you started it," he argues. "Is it really fair that I have to sit here listening to you moon over Gilbert, but you won't let me discuss the finer merits of Francis' tongue—"

"Okay, okay, I surrender!" I say, throwing up my hands to show I'm not joking. "I take it all back! Just please stop talking about Francis' tongue!"

"What's this now?"

I turn to find Lovino smirking in the doorway, his fist half-raised to knock. He lowers it and crosses his arms, a playful twinkle in his eye.

I shrink in embarrassment, but Lovino is not bashful as he saunters in, collecting the thread of our private conversation.

"Wolves have longer tongues than humans, you know. Toni can tie a cherry stem into a knot with his," he says, and winks provocatively.

Wordless, I abandon my tea and head for the door. A sign of protest.

Lovino snickers, taking my place as Arthur calls out: "Oh, come on now, pet—tell us more about how big and strong Gilbert is and we'll tell you what it's like to have a wolf's tongue in your—"

I practically lunge for the safety of my bedroom and slam the door closed behind me. From the other side, I can hear peals of raucous laughter.