"Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides."

- André Malraux -


.: 10. Secrets are only the Start :.


Arthur stared blankly at the ambassador, surprise passing by his expression for only a fraction of a second before he recovered. But that was already enough for Francis to know that he had hit the mark. Arthur could see it in the Frenchman's eyes that the man clearly thought he had already won.

Well, Arthur was never one to give up so easily.

Stepping backward, Elizabeth averted her gaze to the ground, her grip around the parasol tightening. She looked close to tears as she trembled with confusion and offense—which was, in reality, Arthur shaking with nervousness and fear.

"I-I don't know what y-you are trying to d-do, monsieur," she stammered agitatedly. "I take offense a-at your absurd implications!"

Francis was unfazed as he returned his hand to his side without attempting to touch her once again. He would allow Elizabeth—or the actor underneath—one small victory, in exchange for the much larger prize that was surely his for the taking.

"Zere is no point in lying to me, mon chéri." Francis's lips curled into a sinister smile. "You are so naive, much like a certain Marquess we both know."

Elizabeth clenched her hands around the handle of her parasol so hard that her knuckles shone white. She whirled around and began to walk back to the estate, disregarding the fact that it was an atrocious break of manners to do so. This was ridiculous, what the ambassador was implying, and she would treat it as such.

"I highly r-resent your insinuations, monsieur! And I think it best if you just—"

Francis reached out and caught Elizabeth by one of the ruffles of her skirt and, not all that gently, pulled her back.

"I may be kind to women, but I treat men with a different regard... Arthur."

The actor froze. If this whole conversation had not seized his attention before, then this new development definitely did the job.

Francis knew his name. The frog knew his name. Arthur's mind whizzed past possibility upon possibility as the outcomes of this situation, and none of them were favorable. How in the world did Francis know? Had Alfred set this up somehow? Had this plan just been some extravagant scheme of a bored aristocrat, toying with the mind of an "average" citizen?

Arthur swallowed inaudibly. There was no way he'd believe that. What Alfred showed him was real, wasn't it? Arthur couldn't have possibly fallen... well, he couldn't possibly have been friends with someone that was lying this whole time, could he? Doubts swam around his mind, but Arthur pushed them angrily aside. Leave it to a Frenchman to ruin his carefully structured and fragile life so far. But no matter what the ambassador did, he would not get in the way of Arthur's relationship with his lov—employer.

Elizabeth's mind was shoved off as Arthur completely took over control once again. He would be acting as Elizabeth now, rather than being her, a key difference for the actor. This type of acting was harder on his mental processes, but it also gave him complete control.

And Arthur was getting desperate.

Turning around slowly, the actor tried his best to glare—daintily—at the Frenchman. The resulting look only served to make Francis laugh. The ambassador's eyes gleamed as he leaned in.

"I believe zis means victory, mon moineau anglais."

The actor cleared his throat, and he kept his voice in Elizabeth's intonations as he spoke, "I don't know what you think you've won, monsieur, for you have just lost all of my affections."

That only made Francis laugh all the more as he looked at his prize in triumph. Arthur despised that belittling gaze almost as much as he hated the nasally words that came with it.

"I have won you, mon petite."

"Ma petite," Arthur corrected. "And you are overstepping your bounds by countless measures, monsieur. I suggest you leave while you are still in my mediocre graces."

With those words, the actor turned once again and began to walk back. Francis couldn't prove anything unless he were to physically check certain areas—and even for that creep, such actions in public would be too much. Thus, all Arthur had to do was continue walking, breathe calmly, stick to his act, be confident, and then all would be—

"It's either I win, Arthur, or dear little Alfred loses."

What?

The actor involuntarily stopped. His mind seized to function for a moment as it struggled to register what Francis was saying. It was a threat. A blatant, out-in-the-open threat. If Arthur walked away now, then Alfred would be in trouble. It didn't matter what trouble, or in what way. If Alfred was in any danger, then Arthur had to try to stop it. There wasn't even a question as to whether or not that was the case anymore.

Arthur simply had to.

"I see I have your attention now, non?" Francis laughed lightly, sending shivers down Arthur's spine.

Ambassador Bonnefoy didn't like being terrorizing, if he were to be honest. He enjoyed playing games, outsmarting his opponents, and in general being the master of all things romance and war—but he didn't enjoy being mean, especially to unfortunate victims like Arthur, who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

However, the ambassador's relationship with the Marquess of Devonshire was a special exception. The remorse that the Frenchman felt for causing the events that were about to occur from hereon out was buried by the bitterness he still felt toward Alfred. Revenge was a necessity for him, though it had been so long since this enmity had started that Francis had sometimes almost even forgotten what that revenge was even more. Almost.

They hated each other, though occasionally, a little bit of their past relationship would show through all the darkness. It would be a little blossoming flower amidst the constant bloody warfare, but then it would be trampled underfoot just as quickly as it had come. The both of them had an unspoken agreement to ignore the ghost of the past whenever it chose to appear, and in exchange, they would always try their absolute best to hurt each other. That was just the way it was, and no one questioned the natural order. Love, sex, hate, and battle—they were merely synonyms for the same set of feelings.

Arthur was merely caught up in the wrong war.

"Well, Arthur," Francis purred when the actor did not reply. "Do you give up your silly charade?"

The actor's mind raced through a slew of possible responses, but all he could see in the long run was trouble and wasted time if he decided to keep up this role. Arthur didn't know what Francis was capable of, but he also didn't want to find out. He'd had an ominous premonition looming over his mind from the moment he had met the ambassador in what seemed to be years and years ago. And now he was far from joyous to find out that he had indeed been correct.

The actor bit his lip. Was the game really up? Perhaps it would be smarter to move on, find out what Francis wanted, then deal with it accordingly. There was so much Arthur wanted to ask the ambassador. Just what did Francis know about Arthur and these plans? And more importantly, what was he hoping to get out of this disagreeable situation? Maybe Arthur could handle this—and Alfred would never have to worry.

Alfred never needed to know.

Arthur lowered his parasol and slowly turned around. He swallowed inaudibly and took a silent deep breath. Looking up, bright green eyes met frosty blue ones, and the temperature differences brewed an oncoming storm.

The actor cleared his throat to rid himself of Elizabeth's sickening voice. "Well, Francis, at least start by telling me this: how do you know my name?"

Francis's cheshire grin widened with smugness, and his eyes twinkled predatorily. At last, this was where the real fun would begin.


Alfred whistled a light tune as he wandered down one of the corridors in his manor. Hands in his pockets, there was a certain spring to his step as he made his way to the kitchen to check on Tino, who was preparing a few special dishes for the the night's dinner.

Fortunately, the relationship between Alfred and his employees had retuned to normal over the past week, if only by Arthur's bridging presence. Alfred had become immediately less irritable and pitiful the moment the actor returned, and for that, the manor staff learned to like the already kind and polite actor all the more. Thanks to that green-eyed angel, Alfred could feel confident as he walked happily toward the kitchen, and Tino would feel fulfilled and satisfied in cooking dishes of his own invention, rather than of Alfred's insane requests (who had ever heard of deep-frying thinly sliced potato, anyway?).

Today was the day that marked exactly three months since Arthur and Alfred had met on that rainy day, and Alfred wanted to celebrate it in style. Call him a sentimental soul, but he wanted to remember as many days with Arthur as possible, even if the actor would clearly think it stupid and a waste of time.

Being in love with a person who despised him—well, his personal beliefs on sexuality and romance, at least, not to mention his social class—was tough on Alfred. Well, being in love at all was already difficult, but Arthur just made it almost impossible.

Almost.

Even though Alfred had suffered at first, and though he still had the occasional nightmare and sleepless nights, things were getting vastly better. They were getting more and more comfortable with each other once again, and though their relationship would never move beyond friendship, Alfred lamented, he at least gradually came to reconcile himself with that melancholy idea quite well. He didn't need a lover if that lover wasn't Arthur. And since it would never be Arthur, Alfred realized he simply would never need a lover at all. After the ordeals of this past June, Alfred knew that merely being together with Arthur would be enough for his happiness.

Or so he hoped.

The Marquess entered the kitchen quietly, tiptoeing around the tall cabinets of priceless tableware. He leaned against one of the taller ones, knowing he had to be careful. Peeking around the side, Alfred couldn't help the small smile that manifested upon his lips. He should have taken offense at how much his staff underestimated the breadth of his knowledge regarding matters of his own estate, but Alfred was simply glad that his head guard and head chef had finally found their special someone. Places to practice such "unmentionable" love in society were few and far between, and the Marquess was all too happy to make his own estate such a location. He was glad leave Berwald and Tino be.

However, he would also be happy too if there was food on the table for when Arthur returned from the Edelstein estate for dinner. Thus, regrettably, Alfred had to bang hard on the door with his fist, breaking apart the two lovebirds.

The Marquess made some scuffling noises, pretending to struggle with something in order to give the two time to gather themselves. He could almost imagine Tino hurriedly buttoning up the collar of Berwald's uniform, as the guard gave his lover one last, quick kiss before making himself scarce.

They would be absolutely horrified if they knew that Alfred was privy to such activities, and so for good measure, Alfred even called out, as if he had just entered, "Tino! How is the tart coming along?"

"W-wonderfully, sir—er, Alfred!" the cook replied with his heavily rolling "r"s. Even after all of these years, the poor chef had still never gotten out of the habit of referencing Alfred with more honor than the Marquess liked—or thought he deserved, for that matter. Alfred knew he was a lazy Marquess, and to be honest, he didn't really care. He just also didn't want to lie to his employees either, and have them make him out to be something greater than he was. If there was one thing Alfred had learnt very well from his past, it was that he never seized to disappoint people's expectations. (That, and never fall in love again, but he could see how well that lesson was going.)

"Great to hear! And the rest?" The Marquess estimated that this had been enough time for Berwald to disappear out one of the other doors to the kitchen, and so he rounded the corner into the main cooking area.

The air was a mixture of light, sweet smells and heavy, savory aromas. Hands in his pockets, Alfred took a deep, fulfilling breath, closing his eyes to give his nose the sensational spotlight (that, and also to give Tino a moment to get that endearing blush off of his cheeks "before Master Jones became suspicious").

"You are a fantastic cook, Tino!" Alfred praised, opening his eyes once again and observing the dishes that were already completed, lying amongst the mess that was the yet-to-be-finished creations. The three central tables looked like the aftermath of an especially gory and grueling battle, in which the potato army had been close to a victory with its secret tomato cavalry, only to be outwitted at last by mint, bread, cheese, and a touch of sizzling oil. It was, to say the least, an inspiring sight to behold.

The cook blushed a deep red and murmured a few notes of thanks for the praise. Tino noticed that his employer was being far more lively and charming than usual, and, like all the other staff, he accounted that to Arthur's return. The cook smiled whenever he thought about the two of them; they seemed to be such good friends—but was it bad that the cook often lamented that they weren't more than that? Such thoughts had no place in the eye of the public, and so Tino kept them to himself, knowing it was highly unlikely no matter how he looked at it. It was nevertheless still a dream—because then, maybe the could also feel more free about his own relationship as well.

Alfred walked around and asked a few questions about various cold tarts, fruit compotes, roast meats, and everything else besides, which then Tino tried his best to answer. Alfred was seldom ever this curious in the process of cooking, and Tino was more than happy to oblige him in this rare situation.

"Pardon my question, sir, but is the dinner tonight something special?"

Tino had been requested to cook a few very specific dishes from his vast repertoire, which he was happy to do, but such requests only came when Alfred was feeling especially depressed, or when there was an event happening. It wasn't his place to question orders, but perhaps if he knew, he could tailor the dishes' nuances to better suit the occasion. Plus, as an aside, it also puzzled Tino that he wasn't cooking enough food to warrant a party, but surely two people could not down so much in one evening.

Alfred looked up from his examination of an especially exquisite looking miniature swan made of fluffed cream and bread, his eyes shining with surprise that the usually quiet cook was actually asking. But on this occasion, Alfred was joyous enough to answer anything.

With a small, fond smile, the Marquess replied, "No. It's just dinner as always." And that wasn't a lie. To Arthur, who didn't keep track of days and dates, especially unimportant ones like those between himself and his employer, this would be like any other dinner. And at the point where Arthur asked about the abundance of vittles for the evening, Alfred would just smile and lie that he had accidentally requested too much food for lunch, and that this was merely reconstituted leftovers. No one ever needed to see his utterly pathetic sentimentality but himself.

Tino, ever innocently gullible, nodded as he took Alfred at his word and moved on to answer more of the Marquess's eager questions. At this point in his life, any remorse Alfred felt for his easy little lies had long disappeared. It had been harder when he was young, but by now, if Alfred was unhappy with lying, then that'd be the equivalent of being unhappy with the sheer meaning of his life—and the Marquess didn't want to revisit those dark times, especially now that he had Arthur's sweet smile to live for.

With a satisfied nod, the Marquess complimented Tino once again on a job well done, gave him some encouraging words, and then informed the cook that he could take the next weekend off. Alfred explained that he and Arthur would be out and about, though in truth, it was more that he wanted to try his own hand at cooking for the actor himself. Maybe they could do it together, like lovers.

Like the loving couple that they would never be.

The other reason, however, was that Alfred also knew that next weekend marked the three year anniversary of Tino and Berwald's relationship. Alfred was aware of everything that occurred in his household, and he was never so cruel as to deny them that special day together. He really was a sentimental fool.

The tune Alfred had been whistling before—a snatch of some lullaby he remembered from long ago from an unknown place—escaped past his lips once again and embraced the open air. Tonight was going to be fantastic, if only because Alfred would be able to have a "normal" dinner with the ignorant actor. Any meal was treasured, but this one would be particularly special. Unforgettable even.

Alfred could already feel it.


Arthur had excused himself from the Edelstein estate in perfect actor form. He had regained control of Elizabeth, completely pushing aside her confused thoughts as he perfectly imitated her voice to tell the Count and Countess that he would be leaving—to Francis's "chateau."

Not surprisingly, that startled the pair of aristocrats, who immediately gave Arthur probing and questioning looks which they disguised expertly as concern for Elizabeth instead. He knew what they were saying: this wasn't part of any plan; this was dangerous territory.

He knew and he agreed, but he unfortunately had no choice.

Thus, Arthur simply smiled back and reaffirmed that this was what he wanted—as Elizabeth, of course—and that he was sure he'd be fine in the ambassador's "gentle and sweet hospitality" (it was all the actor could do not to break his parasol in half at this point, his simple smile breaking and cracking at the edges).

Any woman spending time alone with another man at his estate was already cause for alarm. But this was Elizabeth—this was Arthur—and their little contrivance (well, not so little now) called for such scandalous actions at least to be had with Alfred, if with anyone. Thus, as their conversation progressed, both Count and Countess increased the severity of the warning looks they sent Arthur's way, all the while trying to hide it from the gently smiling Frenchman lurking behind him. And as Arthur repeatedly refuted their worries, that fact saddened him the most: the Count and Countess didn't have to try so hard to hide anything, if they so desired.

The ambassador already knew.

Francis Bonnefoy had revealed his trump card, and now it was just up to Arthur to go and make a deal with the devil—another blue-eyed devil, different from the one that had been haunting Arthur's every waking moment thus far. And Arthur was willing to bet a hefty sum that the devil he knew was far better (kinder, gentler, braver, manlier, sweeter) than the devil he did not—not that there was much of a choice to be had. It wasn't as if Arthur wanted another devil to join the hell that was his everyday life.

After the exchange of a few more worried words between "Elizabeth" and her "guardians," the Count and Countless relented with extreme reluctance.

Elizaveta put a motherly hand on Arthur's shoulder and smiled, "Enjoy yourself, then, dear."

Arthur laughed lightly and had the delicacy to even blush with pleasure. This was an event in which Elizabeth was supposed to be taking her relationship to heights, after all, though it would be in a completely different direction than anyone would have expected, including Arthur himself. He cringed as he pretended to swoon with excitement at the scandalous prospect of journeying to a suitor's home.

"I will, ma'am," he replied, nodding lightly. "Please let the cook know that I most likely won't be needing dinner." Inform Alfred, please. But don't tell him where I am.

"Surely you don't plan on being gone that long?" the Count interjected, his "r"s and "d"s weighed with worry, his eyebrows creased together. "Be careful, 'oney. You know how people talk." You know this is going to get back to Alfred one way or another. He won't be pleased.

Both the Count and Countess knew of the Marquess's strong dislike for the ambassador (they had been there to see its history unfold, though they knew not of any of the deeper and darker details). But they knew that Alfred was not going to take anything lightly, especially when there was even an inkling that Francis could be involved.

"I cannot yet tell, sir. Monsieur Bonnefoy is so unpredictable in his charms, but I will be sure to keep your words in mind." I trust you to make up something plausible. Arthur gagged at the double meaning of his words; Francis was unpredictable indeed, the sly bastard.

"Please do, Elizabeth," the Countess continued, "I hope you have a wonderful time." I very much hope you know what you're doing.

Elizaveta leaned in and gave Arthur a hug, giving the actor a chance to whisper quite confidently, "I will."

I know exactly what I'm doing.

That right there was possibly the biggest lie he had ever told.


The carriage ride to Le Chateau was likely some of the most uncomfortable minutes Arthur had ever spent in silence. Francis was content with simply sitting back and leering in smug triumph, while Arthur stared out the window from his dark prison, wanting to be anywhere else but there—perhaps even in actual prison, instead.

The irritating silence gave Arthur plenty of time to gather his thoughts, though he found that there actually wasn't much to gather at all. Everything made sense. Alfred was Arthur's friend—just his friend, his mind was kind enough to point out—and now that Francis had revealed his deeper knowledge about their scheme, it was simply Arthur's duty, as a friend, to protect the Marquess. It was simply what friends did for each other.

Right?

The young actor hadn't even questioned handing himself over to Francis when the man had mentioned Alfred's name before. There had been no extra thought to doubt the intelligence of admitting his own guilty role in this crime of deception, or of willingly playing right into the hands of an obviously crafty Frenchman who seemed to be bent on stirring up trouble. There had been absolutely no hesitation whatsoever, and when the ambassador had refused to answer any questions outside the lavish comforts of his own home, Arthur had almost unquestioningly agreed to come here with him as well.

This was clearly a large development from when their partnership had first began, Arthur reflected. He couldn't help a small, wry in ward chuckle as he thought about the time when Elizabeth had initially began her unexpected pursuit of the Frenchman. At the time, Arthur had thought it to be Alfred's duty to protect him and handle all the problems, simply because the man had all the money and the power between the two of them.

But then a real relationship had begun to flourish. Arthur had—without even realizing it, until now—worked to change Elizabeth into someone far less tolerable as time went on. He actively tried to make her weaker, stupider, simpler, and far more inferior—merely because he had been, he realized now, jealous. Alfred had been giving Elizabeth all the attention, and Arthur had thought that unfair. His heart had been indignant at the situation long before his mind had even realized it. And thus, the initially bright, intelligent, and skilled Elizabeth soon fell in prowess and appeal, all because Arthur wanted Alfred's warm gaze all to himself. There wasn't even a point in denying that anymore, so long had it been since Arthur had realized his opinions on this relationship. And though he didn't know how he felt about them yet, he was getting used to it, at least.

It was nevertheless ironically funny to remember a time when Arthur was still emotionally removed from the situation, a time when he had had the naiveté to think that he wouldn't be pulled into Alfred's life anymore than a usual employee would, a time when he had believed that any problems that arose would be Alfred's and Alfred's alone—and now how things have reversed!

Arthur realized he actually wanted to be here, doing the problem solving in Alfred's stead. Well, it wasn't like he desired to be stuck with this nasally toned frog, but he was... almost glad to be here, if it meant Alfred would be safe in return. That feeling of kindness surprised the actor, and yet it also didn't. Alfred had somewhere along the line become someone very important to Arthur, and that thought, once upon a time quite terrifying, was now the only comfort Arthur had for company as he sped off into more terrifying unknowns.

How things have changed indeed.

It wasn't until Arthur had sat himself stiffly down on an armchair at Francis's strong insistence (and it was either there or the bed), that the actor finally broke the silence. There was still much to discuss, it seemed, and Arthur didn't want to miss dinner. It wasn't like dinner was something special, the actor reminded himself, but he had realized with surprise that morning that today was a sort of three month anniversary of the day he met Alfred. Well, it was technically a mensiversary, if they were actually going by correct Latin roots. Whatever it was, Arthur was sure that Alfred wouldn't have remembered anyway, busy and absentminded as the idiot always was... but then again, that was part of his charm. And it was only in thinking of Alfred and the silly sentimental importance if this otherwise insignificant date that Arthur was able to face the terror that was Ambassador Bonnefoy with remotely any confidence.

Clearing his throat, Arthur got straight to business. "So how is it that you know my name, frog?" The actor was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. Even under great pressure and stress, Arthur's countless hours of acting paid off.

"I didn't know we were at the endearing nicknames already, ma petite," Francis purred from his perch on the bed, only a few feet away from Arthur himself. The ambassador was busy undressing from his jacket, and Arthur hoped to God that that was as far as the man would get, though he wasn't sure if God was still even listening. Surely He would prevent the existence of two men, devils in their own opposite ways, from controlling Arthur's every waking moment?

"Call me that again and I'll flay your tongue," Arthur threatened, his eyes narrowing as they burned with an almost glowing fire.

Francis chuckled an infuriatingly demeaning laugh, causing Arthur's grimace to harden. The Frenchman wiped away a year of mirth before replying, "I think someone has forgotten his place, non?" He smirked lasciviously and pulled at his tie. "Should I remind you?"

Arthur opened his mouth for a smart retort, but then Francis's threat on Alfred reappeared in his mind and his mouth promptly shut once again. Letting out a slight grunt of frustration at the fact that Francis was right, Arthur only crossed his arms—looking comically manly in Elizabeth's dress—and glared.

"Just answer my questions, Francis," he spat.

"Somehow I feel like that's the reverse of what should happen, mon chéri," Francis stated indifferently. "However, just because you are so special, I shall make an exception." Francis leaned over, closing the distance between him and the bedside chair. "I know you by your eyes, Arthur Kirkland," the ambassador whispered, the corner of his lip curling into a dark, secretive smile.

Arthur let said eyes widen ever so slightly in surprise. That wasn't the answer he expected; he had always thought his eyes were nothing special (though Alfred would very much beg to differ), and as such, they shouldn't have been recognizable.

"My eyes?" the actor prompted, half curious half suspicious.

"Oui," Francis replied, shrugging off his jacket, "Your beautiful eyes, mon petite. When I first met you at the Bennington Ball so long ago, zere was somesing about you zat seemed familiar. It was not in the way you spoke, or walked, or carried yourself, for you are a wonderful actor." Arthur felt pleased at the compliment, despite the situation in which it was received.

"But zat was it," Francis continued, "acting."

His eyes lit up, clearly excited by his own intelligence and skills of deduction. Arthur wanted to punch the man right in the mouth, and the only thing that kept Francis's boasting remotely tolerable was the fact that he was also revealing information without too much prompting as well. Otherwise, Arthur was sure his twitching fingers would have gone for the shot by now.

"Zen when I saw you first dance with Alfred, things started to come togezer." Francis raised one eyebrow. "You are an actor, so where have I seen you before?" Asking rhetorical questions seemed to make the crafty Frenchman happy, which was the only reason Arthur bit back a sarcastic retort.

"Alfred's little project of a playhouse, of course," Francis continued, clearly wrapped up in his own gloating by now. "We used to go there together years ago, but he has never barred my admittance, so I still drop by from time to time. I do love the theatre, after all."

Francis smirked when he saw the expression on Arthur's face. "Are you surprised, sweet moineau?" He leaned in and conspiratorially lowered his voice. "Alfred had many secrets, Arthur. I know him far better than you, and I bet that makes you"—Francis ran a finger along Arthur's arm—"jealous."

Arthur slapped Francis's hand away and shot as far backwards into the chair as he could, which actually was only about an inch and a half. Maybe this was why Francis had placed him here; Arthur had nowhere to which he could escape.

"I am not!" Arthur growled, though as he said those words, he already knew it was a lie. He was jealous, incredibly jealous. But beyond that, Arthur was sad and bitter. Chances were, Francis was right. There were many things Arthur still didn't know about Alfred, like why why his mother seemed nonexistent, or why he kept falling back into an American accent at seemingly random times. Francis probably knew those answers, and that only made him more appealing as boxing practice at the moment.

Francis merely watched on with amusement as he gave the actor time to check his anger, enjoying the emotions that were manifesting on Arthur's expression despite his best attempts to hide them. Some emotions were simply far too strong to withhold.

Arthur fumed for a few minutes in silence before he finally settled a little bit more comfortably into his chair, as well as anyone could when his chair might as well had been made of extra sharpened needles.

"You're saying you've known all this time?" Arthur questioned, pushing beyond Francis's insufferable taunting. "And you still pursued Elizabeth?"

Francis laughed and began to unbutton his waistcoat, an action which Arthur watched carefully and suspiciously, as if Francis was a starved tiger Arthur was clutching a pile of fresh meat that the man had yet to notice. But it was only a matter of time.

"Well, you cannot expect me to fancy women, Arthur." You can't expect Alfred to either, Francis added with amusement. That had been the main cause for the ambassador's interest in this whole affair in the first place.

Francis had become suspicious the moment Alfred willingly announced his plans for wedlock, and upon seeing his love interest, the ambassador immediately knew that there would be more to Elizabeth than first met the eye. With that conjecture already in place, and suspicion already brewing with each new turn, discovering the rest was child's play.

Arthur stared at Francis as the ambassador's words sunk in. Surely you cannot expect me... to fancy... women... The actor's eyes widened in alarm. It couldn't be—

"You're— you're one of those?"

The terrifying part wasn't even the discovery that Francis had "opposing" inclinations, no. Not at all. The terrifying part was that this newfound discovery caused Arthur to hate Francis less. The actor wanted to feel scorn and derision, to sneer and scoff, but he couldn't. Despite his best attempts to fight it, this development actually made Francis relatable.

And that was petrifying on so many counts, least of all being the reason why Francis was suddenly seen in a warmer light.

"You mean I love men with a burning passion? Sodomy is my hobby?" Francis asked passively, in the same tone Alfred often used to talk about mundane politics. The jarring difference between tone and subject made it even harder for Arthur to comprehend the meaning behind what Francis was saying. He struggled through the disconnect as Francis continued, "If so, then oui." The Frenchman shrugged. "Surprising?"

Arthur was still staring, and when he opened his mouth, he had completely, one hundred percent, intended to say something entirely different than what had actually come out.

"... Is Alfred, too?"

His voice sounded so curious, timid, and—hopeful? Arthur blushed in mild shock and great dismay, but before he could correct himself, Francis was already mid-reply.

The ambassador chuckled lightly and winked. "You will just 'ave to ask him yourself, mon chéri. I do not like to speak of the romantic lives of other men when they are not present in my bedroom as well."

The vest was now off, and Francis was on to his collar and tie. Arthur swallowed, trying to fight down the slew of emotions that incessantly attacked him in torrents, all the while dealing with the trauma of the wave of new and shocking information about both others and himself. This was far too much to take in during one evening, especially as his mind, above the raucous din of everything else, was constantly warning him to run. Run. Run home. To Hertfordshire and away from these insane aristocrats. Away from everyone. Away from Alfred. Run.

Run. And never look back.

"Are you well, mon petite?" Francis asked, with an expression that was a far cry from genuine concern. "You look like you are about to faint."

And indeed Arthur felt that way, as he struggled for air as much as he struggled for words. He willed his mind to focus back in on Alfred and his smiling face, his boisterous personality, his soothing voice. And after a few minutes of silence, Arthur finally trusted himself to speak once again.

Trying to put up a strong front, the actor was determined to return to the matter at hand. The faster he could find out what Francis was going to do from hereon out, the faster he could escape. That meant the faster he could see Alfred again, and the faster he could—

Ask Alfred? The question of Alfred's sexuality now maddeningly swam around the actor's head without even a pause for breath, and through all of his curiosity, Arthur still felt that lingering hope. Hope for what, he did not want to think about, although he had a vague idea he already knew.

It was disturbing.

"... Well, what do you plan on doing? You don't fancy Elizabeth, so..." Arthur averted his eyes to the wall behind Francis. "Do you fancy me?" His voice came out small, though it was still a fierce combination of curiosity, disgust, and hatred.

Francis had the grace to look surprised. He hadn't thought that the actor would have been comfortable enough to ask such logical questions when he was still obviously in some emotional distress. Francis had expected a plea for mercy, a desperation for a good bargain, and perhaps even a few tears for good measure. Arthur Kirkland was stronger than the ambassador had thought.

Francis frowned; he really did think it a pity that this brilliant and stout-hearted actor had to be the one caught up in the mess that was his relationship with Alfred. Such talents and skill were, sadly, about to be trampled under the cavalry that accompanied Francis's thirst for recompense, however. And knowing how hard Alfred was going to fight back, it was only a matter of time before these shining eyes would be broken and weary of life.

What a pity.

Thus, it was out of respect—and not out of any regret for the future harm he would soon cause—that the Frenchman temporarily paused his insufferable flirtation and actually gave a serious thought then a serious answer to Arthur's question.

"Non, mon chéri," he replied gently. If Arthur had looked up then, he would have seen Francis's almost melancholy smile. "Je ne t'aime pas."

Arthur, however, did not look up, and in not doing so, he missed one of the rare times the Frenchman ever showed a sense of humanity. But as fast as that forlorn expression and serious moment came, it was gone.

"Does that disappoint your hopes?" Francis asked, back to his old self as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Arthur scowled, still struggling with focus. Staring at a single spot on the rug quite intently, the actor was finally able to formulate a reply. If he ignored all of Francis's teasing, perhaps the man would get bored and stop. Arthur could only hope.

"If you are not after me, then what so you plan on doing hence forth?" His voice came out a lot calmer than expected, and Arthur had rarely ever been more thankful for his acting prowess than he was at that moment.

"Just because I am not after your 'eart does not mean I am not after your body, sweet moineau," Francis murmured, eyes glinting. Alfred had latched onto quite a handsome thing, hadn't he? The two of them had never been good at sharing, which was the reason they had quarreled in the first place, but there was no reason they couldn't change things now.

Actually, if Alfred didn't want to share, which Francis was quite sure he didn't, then that would be even more magnificent. The point here was to hurt Alfred, much like Alfred had hurt him long ago, whether Arthur cooperated or not.

"I don't have time for your farcical antics, Francis," Arthur intoned, cheeks reddening from anger. Definitely from anger, and not from the question of Alfred's sexual preference, which still ran distractingly rampant in his mind. Arthur really didn't want to be late for this obviously unimportant dinner.

"Get to your point."

Francis chuckled. Leaning over once again, he shrugged nonchalantly. "It is simple, mon émeraude anglais. I want Elizabeth."

"What do you mean?"

"I want her to stop pursuing Alfred and spurn him." Francis's lips tightened to a thin line, and for a moment, he looked utterly terrifying, wrapped up in his dark wrath. "Like he deserves," the ambassador added, almost as a whisper.

Arthur crossed his arms, once again taking this news far more calmly than he thought he would. Perhaps it was because his mind kept returning to the question of Alfred and his romantic inclinations, therefore effectively squeezing out any emotional space left for anything else.

Perhaps.

"Well, I'm afraid I can't give you Elizabeth," Arthur murmured, achieving an almost businesslike facade as his brain gradually became accustomed to receiving surprises, as odd as that concept was. Fancy that, surprises were no longer surprising.

"Then I'm afraid we have a problem."

"What would you want with her, if you do not love her, and"—Arthur frowned, shifting confusedly—"you do not love me?" It was still very odd to reference himself as an object of romantic interest for a man, both because of the concept itself and because of the persistent and nagging feeling that Arthur got every time he brought it up. There was a man with whom that would be very nice, wasn't there?

Not. Thinking. About it.

Francis moved his hand treacherously close to the hem of his pants, and Arthur had to physically clamp his mouth shut in order to prevent him from crying out in horror at the implications of what could happen from here on out. It was hitting him in waves, the possibility that he was in a room, alone, with a man bent on some wicked revenge. A man who was quite used to being alone in rooms with another man—if not other men—doing things that Arthur couldn't even begin to fathom.

"Oh I don't want her," Francis murmured, his eyes almost shining with regret. "She is a beauty, of course but I am..." Incapable of loving two people... "I am desirous of Alfred's pain."

The reminder of the stakes served to clear Arthur's mind, if only just a little. He had to focus at the moment, deal with Francis, get this out of the way, and then he could break down and panic all he wanted later, in the comfort of his bedroom back home—

Home? The Jones Estate? Was that really— yes. Yes it was. Well, what a comforting discovery.

Arthur couldn't wait to go home, and Francis was standing the way between him and a good meal by Alfred's side. Little to nothing would stop Arthur from spending this frivolously special day with Alfred, ambassadors and Frenchmen be damned.

"Well, I am not desirous of Alfred's pain. I will not give you Elizabeth."

There we go. That was the strength that Arthur wanted his voice to hold. His strength was finally here, and, unsurprisingly, it came in the form of thinking about Alfred. That Marquess somehow found his own way to light up Arthur's life no matter what it was that the actor was doing. What a dementedly romantic thought, surely spun from the very depths of the torturous pit of Hell that was his life.

Francis tsked. His eyes narrowed challengingly as his lips curled into a sinister smile. "It only takes one word from me, Arthur. One word from one of the most important political leaders in society at the moment and your plan will fall to ruin." His smile widened as he leaned over, his face nary a foot away from Arthur's. "Alfred will fall to ruin."

Arthur's heart was beating quite rapidly, and he could hear a slight buzzing in his ears. Francis was right. He was so right. He was too right. But Arthur was stubborn. There hadto be a way he could solve this without ruining Alfred's carefully devised plan.

"But we— I haven't— we've barely even—"

"And do you think society would believe you? Let me tell you ze story about how two men made 'istory by being hung for one of ze most admirable—albeit idiotic—scandals to grace zis period of peace. A Marquess and his..."—Francis raised his eyebrow—"catamite."

Arthur, enraged and highly embarrassed, opened his mouth to reply, but Francis placed a halting finger there before any words could come out.

"But," the ambassador murmured, a new glint in his eye. Arthur was still completely frozen in his tense form, but his mind nevertheless stopped long enough in its boisterous rant and rage to actually listen.

"But," Francis repeated, "I am feeling a little kindly toward you, mon petite." That little bit of pity he still felt for ruining the life of such a marvelous actor still hung about, and it gave Francis just the slightest bit of motivation to change his plan. By only a little bit. It was nice to keep things interesting and unpredictable, after all.

Arthur's eyes narrowed, but he listened nevertheless, resisting the overwhelming temptation to bite of Francis's finger right where it lay, resting possessively on Arthur's soft lips.

"What if I said that Alfred could have Elizabeth?"

The actor and ambassador locked eyes for a long, drawn out moment. Arthur searched for any sign of deceit and trickery, but all he could find was a passive amusement. Was this just a game to Francis? Did all aristocrats besides Alfred, the Count and the Countess have such boring existences that they actively sought out the interesting lives of others to mock and abuse?

What a bunch of currish, dastardly, hell-born fustilarians. Shakespeare always did have a nice way with words.

The Frenchman slowly lowered his finger, though his hand came to rest on Arthur's forearm instead. The actor tried to turn away, but the ambassador tightened his grip, demanding attention—and an answer. Giving up his efforts to wrench away from that surprisingly strong hold, Arthur set his lips into a tight grimace. He had to admit that he was intrigued.

"I'm listening."

"Agree to it," Francis challenged, curious as to just how smart or desperate this actor was. There was always a delicate balance between love and logic, and finding that line meant that the ambassador could bend and break it to his will. Alfred had found Francis's long ago and vice versa, and ever since then, those lines had long been deformed, marred, and twisted, each at the hands of the other.

Arthur shook his head. "That's ridiculous. You cannot expect me to agree to something I know nothing about. I demand you tell me what it is first."

And it was ridiculous. Arthur was never one to go for ideas straight off the bat, mainly because he knew by now that there was always something worse that could happen in every situation. It had been merely been depression due to a rainy afternoon, then Arthur met Alfred and quit his job and his life definitely took a turn for the worse. Arthur had been having nightmares back at home in Hertfordshire, Alfred then showed up at his door and add to the stress. Two blue-eyed devils had entered Arthur's life, bent on making it hell in their own ways, then God just had to go and forsake him as well. Alfred had started off as a distant employer, then he had gradually evolved into being a friend. And now he had morphed into...

A love interest.

Arthur was... in love.

It hit him like a shotgun wound straight to the chest, like being slammed into the wall with the weight of the world pushing behind him, like being knocked out cold by a wide and blunt hammer. The pain, surprise, happiness, and horror all came hand in hand. And before most of it could even sink in, Francis had begun to speak, his lips curling up in triumph at last. He understood those facial expressions on Arthur's face all too well.

"If I give Alfred Elizabeth, and let you continue with your silly little plan, then in return, I get... you, Arthur." Francis chuckled, running his hand up Arthur's lacy sleeve.

Arthur stared, and he could honestly say that he had never stared longer and harder than he had then. Too many emotions and thoughts were slamming into him all at once, and it was difficult to find any meaning amidst the train wreck that currently occupied his mind. Too many casualties and damages to count.

"W-what?" He didn't even care that his voice trembled, his eyes blankly searching Francis's own for something—anything—that he could latch onto to drag him out of the torrential whirlpool of his thoughts.

Francis obviously found this distress quite entertaining, as he laughed and trailed his hand slowly more and more upward, until finally, it was resting on Arthur's cheek once again, gently though firmly in place.

"I get you to do whatever I want," Francis murmured, "and Alfred can walk free with Elizabeth by his side. Unharmed." Francis guessed that Alfred would probably be even more harmed this way, if his hunches were correct, as they most often were. And what deliciousness that would be, for Alfred to finally get a taste of what it felt like to be a spurned lover. To suffer at the hands of a one-sided love that he would not be able to fix.

It was about time.

Francis stood up from his position on the bed, keeping his hand on Arthur's face. He leaned in even closer, so that now their noses were only a few inches apart.

"What do you say? Will you give yourself for Alfred's suffering?"

Alfred. Amidst the howling and violent winds that wreaked havoc on his mind, Arthur could make sense of that one word very well. It was the name of someone special. Someone so dear to his heart that he hadn't even known there was such a well-hidden place for Alfred to latch himself onto until now.

The name sounded like sunlight, warm and forgiving. It sounded like spring, fresh and magnificent. It sounded like everything good: home, tea, crumpets, blankets, cats, music, family, friends, relaxation, lazy mornings, freshly baked bread to greet you when you return back from a long day of work.

In short, it sounded like love.

Alfred's happiness hinged on Arthur's strength of will, and there was no possibility of Arthur letting him down. Not now. Not ever.

"Yes," Arthur murmured, more fiercely than he had ever said any other word. It even surprised Francis, who let his own eyes widen ever so slightly in shock as he pulled back just a little, involuntarily affected by the strength behind the actor's voice. "Yes. I will."

It took a mere second for the Frenchman to recover, and that gloating expression was back, this time with a vengeance.

"Yes, you will what?"

Arthur steeled his heart, thought about Alfred in order to draw on some much needed strength, and swiveled his gaze up to meet Francis's.

"I will become yours."

"C'est ça," Francis murmured. The Frenchman's lips widened until he was almost grinning in silent, maniacal triumph. His eyes darkened as they glinted with a newfound predation. Though the war was far from over, the battle had been won—and a strategically crucial one, at that. No one would ever beat Francis Bonnefoy in the game of love.

The ambassador trailed his hand away from Arthur's cheek and down to the front of his fashionable shawl.

"Well, zen. Now would be a good time to start as any," he murmured.

And with that, the knot that held that piece of cloth together became undone—the first of many for the next few hours.


Alfred slammed his fist down onto the table, something which he seemed to be doing a lot ever since he met Arthur—not by any of the actor's fault, of course. It was just that life seemed to love playing cruel tricks on Alfred, just to see him squirm. Well he wasn't squirming now; he was livid.

"You let Arthur go? Are you insane?!"

Roderich winced from his chair across the work desk from Alfred, who had, until just a second ago, been sitting down as well. But apparently the frustration made it impossible for the Marquess to sit still, and both Elizaveta and Roderich watched the irritated blond quite warily, waiting for another outburst. This wasn't the first time that question had been asked, after all. They had been sitting here for two hours already, trying their best to explain, but Alfred wouldn't listen to a word of it.

There was no way that Arthur could have gone willingly with Francis like that. This wasn't part of any plan, and it sure wasn't part of Alfred's personal agenda. Maybe he had never made it clear to Arthur that Francis was his sworn enemy, but the Marquess was sure that Arthur felt the same way about the Frenchman as well.

Alfred paced agitatedly back and forth, his feet quick and light, covering the same circular path off an on for the better half of an hour now. Roderich and Elizaveta had long given up on trying to explain, and instead simply waited to make sure that the Marquess didn't hurt himself in his fit of blind rage. Alfred had never been the most mature-minded and level-headed when it came to emotions.

The Marquess clenched his fists, wanting very badly to break something, and as such, he stayed as far as he could away from Roderich's nose. He had nothing personally against the Count—he was just angry, and Roderich was conveniently blamable for letting Arthur go.

Hadn't Arthur and Alfred shared something? Hadn't there been something there that prevented such a back-stabbing move from occurring without consultation and an agreement beforehand? No matter what Arthur had said to the Count and Countess, Alfred was almost completely sure that Arthur hadn't gone with Francis willingly. Elizabeth hadn't gone with Francis willingly either, considering that Alfred was sure that their relationship was finally moving into the next stage.

Alfred reached into his pocket and fingered his family's sapphire ring. Ever since it had come back into his possession exactly three months ago, Alfred had had every intention of giving it back to Arthur, one way or another. Even after their crazy contrivance was finished—a time which Alfred refused to think about at the moment—he had the complete plan to include this ring as a part of Arthur's final payment.

And he was going to start by asking Arth—Elizabeth—to marry him.

But that was before the girl went off cavorting with that crafty French ambassador, an act which Alfred refused to believe was voluntary. Elizabeth was obviously in love with him, and he, on the other hand, was clearly in love with Arthur. And Arthur was... well, he wasn't in love with anyone, right? That man was always focused on work, and Alfred had never even wondered if Arthur actually had a sweetheart of his own until now. They had simply been too busy, and he had been caught up in staring, a task which required all of his attention if he were ever to achieve his goal of completely memorizing Arthur from head to toe.

"Argh! How could you—"

There was a knock at the door, accompanied by the sound of labored breathing, as if the messenger had just been running. "Alfred!" the voice called shakily from the other side. "Master Kirkland is back."

By the time those words had been uttered, Alfred had already crossed the room with a few nimble steps. He grabbed the handle and yanked the door open.

"Where, Oswald? Where?" he asked hurriedly, but gave the butler no time to reply. Alfred squeezed past the wheezing man and dashed down the hall, sure that Elizaveta and Roderich could follow at their own pace. Alfred, however, needed to see Arthur now. He couldn't help but seriously worry whether or not Arthur would come back in a casket adorned with a scornful love note from Francis, curly script and all. The Marquess wouldn't put it past Francis.

He took the main staircase by leaps of three or four steps at a time, and arrived at the landing right when Arthur burst into the main entrance hall, half supported in Berwald's arms.

"Oh God," Alfred uttered, barely a whisper before he rushed over to Arthur. He gathered the drooping actor into his arms, taking over from Berwald, who asked no questions and merely left them as he stood to the side.

"Arthur, Arthur," the Marquess murmured, using one hand to turn the actor's face toward him. "Are you okay? God, what happened to you?"

The actor was no longer wearing his dress, which instead was bundled into a neat little package that was set at the foot of the door. Instead, he was wearing regular looking clothing that looked much like what Arthur tended to wear every day—except that it wasn't. Alfred could feel the expensive silk, he could recognize the cuffs and smell the soap. He would recognize any aspect of this outfit anywhere.

Arthur was dressed in Francis's clothing.

And if that wasn't cause enough for alarm, the fact that Arthur was vaguely muttering something incoherently under his breath sure was. Alfred struggled to listen, but amidst the sound of his beating heart and the shortness of his own breath, he could barely make out a thing. His own thoughts were just as jumbled, as were his feelings, but above all of that, Alfred felt the sense of immediate urgency to get Arthur to a proper bed before any questions were asked.

Roderich and Elizaveta made it to the foot of the staircase and dashed toward the Marquess, but Alfred gave them a dismissive look. He had to take care of this, and they had to understand that. He had no time to deal with them at the moment, and needless to say, he still blamed them for letting Arthur go.

With one look at Alfred's face, Roderich nodded grimly. He understood. And he also knew that if anything bad came out of this—like was looking to be the case at the moment—then his head would be held responsible, whether or not he felt that that was justifiable. Alfred usually listened to reason, but when it came to certain subjects, no logic could ever reach him. His mother, his father, Francis, and now, as it seemed, Arthur.

Thus, Roderich and Elizaveta wordlessly showed themselves out, the Countess sending worried looks Arthur's way as he continued to glance over her shoulder. But neither the Marquess nor the actor noticed, for they were already heading up the stairs to Alfred's bedroom, Arthur's weight hanging heavily on Alfred's shoulders.


Arthur groaned as he felt something warm being pulled over him. Wait. It wasn't the blanket that was warm. It was... Alfred. Alfred was sitting beside the bed, and he was barely close enough for Arthur to feel sheer comfort radiate from the man. Like a moth drawn to fire, Arthur sidled over as best as he could as he groaned from the pain between his legs.

Francis hadn't even done the deed. He had merely played around, teased, showed Arthur what it could feel like with the use of fingers instead, but Arthur still felt used and humiliated just the same. He struggled at the beginning, but upon Francis's reminder that Arthur had to do things willingly otherwise all bets were off, the actor relinquished control along with any amount of dignity he still possessed. It wasn't like there was much left, anyway, when one's profession was currently to live life as a lady and pretend to pathetically court a man with whom one really was... in love.

The actor groaned once more as he felt Alfred move around and fiddle with something beside the bed. He didn't open his eyes or look over, as he willed his mind to just forget about it. Forget about these ridiculous notions and thoughts, if only for just one evening. Arthur didn't want to think about implications, or about religion, sins, right and wrong, up and down, men and women, men and men. He just wanted to bask in Alfred's warmth and let the world melt away.

"Arthur, have you eaten?" the Marquess asked, skirting the larger matter at hand. His main priority was to make sure that Arthur was comfortable first, then ask the pressing questions later. Plus, a majestic meal had been prepared, and Alfred didn't want to let all of it go to waste. Tino had worked so hard, and though Berwald would probably tell him of what happened, and though Tino, ever amicable and nice, would understand, Alfred still knew that cooking was the man's pride and joy. It would be a waste to let such hard preparation go untasted.

The actor blinked a little and spoke, his words slurred, "Not yet, Alf... Hungry..." In truth, Arthur's voice didn't hurt, and neither did anything about him except for his waist area downward. He couldn't walk properly, not because it hurt too much, but more so because every time he did, the odd sensations of what he did—of what was done to him—came back far too vividly to bear.

But Arthur didn't want to have to explain any of it to Alfred. He didn't want the object of his admirations to know of how marred and imperfect Arthur really was, and above all, he didn't want Alfred to worry. The man seemed to have enough on his plate already, being the Duke of Devonshire's son. Arthur did not wish to add his own burdens to the already heavy ones on Alfred's shoulders.

And so he did what came naturally: he acted drunk. That should have explained things well enough.

Alfred shifted a little and murmured, "Can you sit up?"

"Nnn..." The actor buried his head into the crook between the pillow and Alfred's back, which caused the Marquess to jump in surprise.

"A-Arthur?" Alfred turned around and placed a hand on the actor's forehead. He then performed a few other perfunctory checks for various signs of illness, trying to keep his hands from straying where they shouldn't—especially when Arthur was so obviously in distress.

"What's wrong?" Alfred's voice shook, and he wasn't sure if it was from worry or rage. Perhaps it was both.

If Francis had anything to do with this—and Alfred was almost sure the ambassador had a role in causing Arthur's current state—then there would be hell to pay. All stops would come loose, and Alfred would go after that bastard once and for all, like he should have done long ago. Alfred had played it too nicely, and may the Lord help him if Francis turned out to be the culprit behind this. Actually, even the Lord wouldn't be able to help him then.

"No eating... now..." Slurring his words and acting drunk was not easy to keep up when Arthur's nose was filled with the intoxicating scent of Alfred, as his mind was filled with thoughts of the same subject—foremost of which was still that question as to what Alfred felt about love between two men. Arthur very much wanted to ask, but he also very much didn't. It was an odd and polar opposite dichotomy, much like many things in his life were, in recent times.

Alfred frowned as he could find no sign of a malady except for in Arthur's flushed—and highly arousing—appearance. Those luscious cheeks were glowing an invitingly warm shade of burgundy, and Alfred knotted his hands into his clothing in order to stop them from straying where they definitely shouldn't.

"You must eat, Arthur. It's not—"

"Went... drinking..."

Alfred stopped short. "You what? You're drunk?" In all the time that Alfred had known Arthur, he had never taken the man to be a drinker of anything but water, the occasional glass of juice, and a lot of tea. The few times Arthur had ever drunken alcohol was when he had been under great pressure, or when Alfred had forced it upon him—back when their dynamic had been so different from what it was now. Whatever it was that had caused Arthur to go drinking, it definitely couldn't have been something good.

"Uh-huh..." Arthur threw in another groan for good measure as he buried his head further down, reveling in this excuse to be able to get as close to Alfred as he wanted. God and religion be damned, this man smelled good.

"That's all the more reason for you to eat, Arthur," Alfred murmured, sounding so American to Arthur, which meant that he sounded so sexy. Each and every word that came out of the Marquess's mouth caused Arthur's hairs to raise on end, and his occasional shivering—which Alfred took to be a sign of coldness—was actually caused by Alfred's very own enchanting voice. Everything about Alfred was so... warm.

Thus, when Alfred made a move to get up in order to retrieve some food that Oswald had been kind enough to bring up from the kitchens, Arthur tightened his grip on the man's jacket. The Marquess fell backwards, completely not having expected such a move. After some tousling and confused wrangling, he found himself lying right on top of Arthur—who oddly enough, didn't seem to mind.

Alfred pushed himself up onto his arms and came face to face with the Englishman, who was... smiling? Yes. Arthur was smiling, so gently and sweetly, up at Alfred's surprised face. The Marquess immediately took it as a sign that Arthur clearly was very drunk to not be pushing Alfred away and running off like he usually did whenever there was any mention of remotely sexual activity between any two men, let alone the two of them specifically. But that, too, was something Alfred had gradually come to accept and cope with.

The Marquess attempted to pull himself up completely, but a hand at the back of his neck prevented him from moving any further upward. It took Alfred a moment to register that that was Arthur's hand, and it took Arthur a moment to register just the same as well. Maybe he really was drunk. Maybe this was all a dream and tomorrow, Arthur would wake up and find out that he was late for school. What a good discovery that would be.

But that would also mean that he had never met Alfred. He would never have discovered all of these new sides to him, and he would have continued onward with his life, perpetually filled with hatred and resentment for all aristocrats. Alfred had showed him a different world, given him a different outlook on life. So perhaps loving a man who had changed him in so many ways wasn't so bad...?

Arthur had no idea where his thoughts were headed, but in that instant, all he could really think about was how good Alfred smelled, and how warm Alfred's breath was, and how perfect the man seemed to be in almost every regard.

"Hey, Arth—"

Arthur's hand moved on its own volition, and before either of them knew it, they were kissing. It started off as one of those gentle kisses between Alfred and Elizabeth, but it quickly escalated into something steamy, passionate, and wonderful, all in the matter of a second—the time it took for Alfred to register what was happening and forcefully eject himself from the situation.

The Marquess pulled back and brought an arm up to his lips, his eyes staring at Arthur in shock. The actor's cheeks were flushed an even greater red, and he was looking at the wall, willing his eyes to stray anywhere but to Alfred's startled expression. Because that hurt.

Arthur had no idea what he had been thinking in that moment, and he sure didn't know what he was thinking now. He just knew that... that he liked it. He actually enjoyed it, and that thought, for the first time in a while, came with no strings attached. There was no guilt, no second thoughts, no self-chastising and doubt. No horror, disgust, shame, or hatred. Perhaps that was because Arthur now considered himself to be the lowest of the low after participating in such terrifying activities with Francis, but nevertheless, the fact still remained that Arthur had not only enjoyed that kiss just then, but he was also actually... welcome to it.

And it hurt to see such shock in Alfred's eyes. It hurt to see the man pull away so quickly, whereas Arthur had been so intoxicated in the moment to even pay attention to where his hands had been straying—which, to Alfred's horror, had been in the direction of the Marquess's own pants.

Alfred was shaking, and he quickly stood up and walked off to the table where all the food was set, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the ground. Arthur wordlessly let him go, and Alfred had to remind himself to be strong and not just run back over there and take advantage of Arthur in such a defenseless state. Spirits always played with the mind, and Arthur had obviously been consuming quite a bit of it, in order for him to get to such a state of lewdness and confusion that he would actually initiate a kiss with Alfred—outside the guise of Elizabeth.

Perhaps the actor was still under the impression that he was acting at the moment, his mind too far gone from the alcohol consumption. Whatever the reason was, Alfred did not want to break the integrity of their relationship by taking advantage of Arthur while the man was clearly delusional. Their time together was special, and all their moments together should be special as well, and not mistakes made out of some drunken stupor. And if that meant that Alfred would never truly ever get to kiss Arthur while the man was sober, then he was fine with that. Loving someone meant respecting his decisions, beliefs and ideas.

And Alfred loved Arthur very, very much.

"You're far beyond drunk, Arthur," Alfred murmured, picking at a few easily consumable items and piling them all onto one plate. Alfred hadn't eaten either, having wanted to wait until Arthur returned so that they could celebrate the night together, but now his apetite was all but gone.

"I dun... care..." The actor rolled over so that his back was turned toward Alfred. He wanted to look into those piercing blue eyes and search them for any shred of emotional acceptance from the man, but Arthur could still remember the shock in those eyes well enough, as if it was an image permanently burned into his own. Maybe he had already gotten his answer. Alfred was just like everybody else, and until very recently, so was Arthur. Things change, and people change, but Arthur did not expect Alfred to ever change like he himself did. That was just too much to hope for.

"Eat up, Arthur. Please." The Marquess walked the plate back to the bedside table and laid it there, utensils and all. He was struggling to keep his hands from wrapping around Arthur's shoulders and holding that warm, currently defenseless body close to his chest. It was only through digging his nails into his own hands, to the point of even breaking a little skin, that Alfred was able to keep his wits about him. He would not—could not—take advantage of Arthur. The actor would never forgive him, almost as much as he would never forgive himself.

"Not hungry," Arthur replied, pulling the sheets closer to himself in order to compensate for the sudden lack of warmth in his world. Alfred was barely three feet away, but that was already too far. There should be no distance. No space between them, and oh how he wished that kiss had lasted longer. And oh how he wished that he didn't wish that.

"Well, I'm leaving it here," Alfred murmured, his friendly tone completely different from his painfully longing expression, "and if you do get hungry, please eat."

The Marquess glanced at his pocket watch. It was nearing midnight, and if Arthur was currently inebriated, the best thing for him was to get some rest. Considering how drunk he must have been to have ever mistaken this situation as one under which he had to act like Elizabeth, Arthur was beyond the help of any medicine or cure that Alfred could give him for the extreme headache that he was sure to possess tomorrow.

Just sleep, water and food.

Alfred stepped backward, and Arthur involuntarily began to turn around to stop him from doing so, but he paused mid-action. Alfred didn't appreciate such gestures anyway. Did he hate it almost as much as Arthur had three months ago? Was he disgusted too? Would he never look at Arthur the same way again?

Well, of course Alfred would never look at Arthur the same way again, but that was because every day, he grew to be more and more in love. But Arthur didn't know, and as far as Alfred was concerned, Arthur never needed to know.

"I shall take my leave," Alfred began after some silence, starting to make for the door. "Make sure you—"

"Cn you... sta...?" The words were still slurred, and Alfred had trouble hearing it. When he asked for a repetition, all he got was indecipherable grumbling from the actor.

Dismissing it, Alfred went back to what he had been saying before. "Just make sure—"

"Can you stay?"

Alfred froze. Of course he could. Of course he wanted to stay. He wanted to do so much more than that. This was his bed, after all, and though he knew it well from years and years of sleeping there, it seemed like completely new territory to explore now that Arthur occupied that same space as well. But it was an area that Alfred could not cross, no matter how much he desperately desired to do so. As the sober one, he had to keep things in hand, otherwise Alfred and Arthur would both wake up with regrets tomorrow, and this friendship would be over for good. Alfred could never run that risk.

"No. I don't think that's a good idea."

The Marquess shook his head and continued to make his way to the door, the sound of each step reverberating in Arthur's heart like the drum beats before a funeral march, as if the ground trampled underneath each time was his own soul being trampled underfoot by Alfred's uncaring feet, ignorant of the actor's pain and longing.

Alfred paused at the door and turned back to look at Arthur. The actor was still laying on his side, staring straight ahead at the wall, his face red, his eyes alert even though the rest of his body showed a slack demeanor. Did Arthur ever realize how handsome he looked? Did he know that even when inebriated—a time in which people often showed their worst sides and faces—Arthur still looked perfect as he did every day? Did he know that all Alfred wanted to do was go over there, lie down beside Arthur, and fall asleep? No kissing or touching necessary. Just sleep. And that would be more than enough.

But Alfred was fine with just enough. And "just enough" meant closing this door while he would be standing on the other side.

It was amazing to think about how much energy and strength of will "just enough" took to carry out, and it was with an inaudible swallow and a strong and strict chastising from his own mind that Alfred was finally able to turn away.

"I'll send Oswald to check on you later. Good night, Arthur."

Arthur buried his nose into the pillow, the only way he could keep his eyes from straying straight toward Alfred. His words, when spoken after some silence, were muffled. Alfred asked for the actor to repeat himself once again, but Arthur merely shrugged it off, refusing to say anything else or even pay Alfred any more mind.

The Marquess sighed, feeling like he deserved such treatment anyway, for constantly being the epitome of everything Arthur seemed to dislike. Surely that was only a feat accomplishable by great skill and technique.

Alfred stepped out and closed the door behind him, deciding that whatever Arthur had said had been unimportant anyway, otherwise the actor would have repeated himself. It was likely to be something that never needed to be said, and never needed to be heard.

But Alfred was wrong. Those words were the most crucial words to ever exist for the two of them, and it hung between them, prominent in the realm of phrases that would go forever unused. They were words that came with bravery, fearlessness, hope, and determination—traits with neither person had when it came to matters that dealt with each other.

And thus, though Alfred had not heard it, and though Arthur had not repeated it and was likely to never say it again, those words were far from being unnecessary. They were the words that needed to be said most, but neither Marquess nor actor had the strength of will to do so. And at the end of the day, past all the trials and tribulations that life presented them, that—and that alone—would be their breaking point.

Good night. I love you.


References/Notes:

1. "mon moineau anglais" means "my English sparrow," and "mon émeraude anglais" means "my English emerald." I'm assuming you can understand everything else. Oh, and "c'est ça" means something along the lines of "that's it!" or "there we go!" or "that's the spirit!"

2. Fries didn't come to England until 1860, but they were quite popular in Belgium and France ever since the 1700s, and Alfred was introduced to them back when he was still on amicable terms with Francis.

3. I actually cannot figure out how to do Tino's accent, except for the heavy rolling "r" and a few "d"s thrown in there. Finnish is a tough language to textually show, so I'm sorry I just gave up in the end and dismissed it.

Author's Comments:

Wow. Hooray for writing the whole chapter, start to finish, in one sitting. Yep. Welcome to Gal's version of a Sunday, guys! Haha

That being said, I am sorry. I am actually sorry, because I've been losing inspiration, and that's why I've put this chapter off until the last minute. My mind has moved on to other USxUK tropes, and it's tough to bring it back to this one every once in a while (which is also why this chapter is far shorter and is also literally just one event, albeit, it's an important event that needs careful explanation, but still).

The reason for my wandering mind comes in the form of—yep, you guessed it—my new Assassin!Kirkland ask blog. Oh my god, the storyline we have worked out for this thing between my partner blogger and myself—you guys would love it. I think you would, at least, considering you like this one so far. It's angsty, romantic, action-filled, bloody, dark—and most of all, it's basically the duking out of two highly intelligent minds who are bent on outsmarting and outdoing one another. I mean, they go to shooting ranges together just so see who can shoot better, and they watch action movies together as they both criticize that they could do those moves far better and with more finesse than the actors could—and then, of course, they both go out to prove that they're good to their word. I mean, they're both trying to kill each other, but if one doesn't run, then the other doesn't chase—for now.

We haven't even gotten into the storyline yet in the actual blog, of course (and my partner blogger is camping, so she won't be able to reply for a bit, but I'm already excited over it). So thus, I've been thinking about Assassin!Kirkland and Hitman!Jones this whole time, which makes it hard to return to a more confused, gentler Arthur and Alfred over on this side of things.

Thus, I apologize. Forgive me please. -_-"

As a side note, as I've been talking to you guys, many of you have brought up both the Duke and Francis as characters that you either strongly hate, or are starting to like a little bit. I don't know how this chapter changed your opinion of Francis, if at all, but by the end of this fic, I want you to feel moments of sympathy and care for all the main characters! Let's see if I can actually achieve that.

Oh, and from the next chapter onward, this fic will be rated M. FrUK warning ahead (very minimally, because I hate FrUK, but it's necessary for the plot). If you can't handle some hardcore angst without a light at the end of the tunnel, then just PM me and tell me that, and I'll let you know when it's safe to come back. =]

Happy reading,
Galythia

P.S. I WILL REPLY TO THAT PILE OF PMs, I PROMISE. There are currently more than fifty sitting there, and I will reply to them all. Just please give me some time. I will catch up on all things! Somehow! (And don't let that discourage you from talking to me or dropping a review! I really enjoy talking to all of you, just as I also enjoy replying to PMs. It's just that there's a lot, and I don't have much time in a day to do much replying.)