DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
THE CALL OF THE WILD
RENEGADES
TWO
Francis dodged a fury of hand-thrown projectiles as he ran for the trees, covering his retreat. His pursuers chased him to the edge, then cursed loudly in defeat, yelling insults that penetrated the dense forest. But Francis didn't care; he had escaped. He grinned in self-congratulations as he followed the familiar trek back to his campsite. It was located deep in the forest, in a small cave upwind of the Standing Stones, which stood on a hill surrounded by the trees. He had been camped there for nearly a month, waiting for the Island clans to gather for the Summer Solstice. It had been an indecisive battle for Francis, who secretly disliked the Islanders, but he couldn't return to the Mainland; not if he wanted to live. It had been over a year since he escaped, and almost that long since he had sought refuge with the Islanders. But being an outsider, a Mainlander who barely spoke the native language(s), he had been unwelcome, even at fifteen-years-old. He was sixteen now, an adult by clan-law, and knew that the older he got the less willing the clans would be to adopt him. His only chance was to reconnect with his mate, the Omega he had met and mated eight months ago. The one he had fled from afterward, afraid of the consequences.
It had been an accident. He had been stealing food from the family; he hadn't intended to stumble upon the Omega in Heat. Nor had he intended to spend the next forty-eight hours consumed by him and mating him, but that's what had happened. He had never seen an Omega in Heat before—most were kept safely away in private rooms—and had been helpless to the sudden urge that overpowered him. Only when the sweet Heat-induced spell had broken did Francis realize his mistake. He had ran. Before the Omega had woken he had left, afraid of being found. It was illegal for couples to mate without the blessing of the Clan Leader, or one of his pack representatives (such a stupid law, he thought), the punishment for which was severe. At first, he had thought it would hurt his chances of integrating into a clan if someone found out he had broken the law, but the more he was rejected and chased off, the more he realized that being mated to a clan-member was the only way they would let him stay.
"Stupid, suspicious, inbred Islanders," he grumbled.
Now, finding and accepting that Omega as his mate was his only hope.
Francis reached the cave and ducked inside. He had tried to make it as comfortable as possible, but he didn't own much, so it was barren. He pushed his hood back and dropped the sack he had stolen on a makeshift bed of wool, emptying the contents. A half-dozen scones spilled out and Francis groaned. "Blah!" he spat. He had been hoping for something tastier. "How can they consider this food?" He inspected a fist-sized pastry, trying to convince himself that he wasn't hungry enough to eat it, but his stomach growled loudly in protest. I wish I could hunt, he thought, taking a martyr-like bite. He was a good hunter, fast and able, but it was illegal to hunt within a ten-mile radius of the sacred Standing Stones because of the ceremony (another stupid law). He could have just ignored the law and hunted small game, but he could not risk being caught. If he was accused of poaching on consecrated ground, the clans would never accept him. If he wanted to belong, he had to play by their rules—stupid or otherwise. So he sighed in resignation and ate the scones, root vegetables, and salted fish he had stolen, while dreaming of the day he could once again cook for himself.
I hate this place, he thought of the Isles. I just want to go home.
If he was home, he would be readying for the traditional coming-of-age ceremony, since he was now sixteen-years-old. He would officially be presented as an adult and choose an Omega-mate to be pair-bonded with. Because of his high status (ex-status now), he would have been able to choose whomever he had wanted and nobody would have refused him. He had been—still am!—a very eligible Alpha.
I would've chosen the prettiest Omega, he daydreamed as he chewed (and chewed and chewed—gods, this is awful!). I would've been a very good mate to him. I would've taken good care of him, protected him, spoiled him. He would've wanted for nothing, not with my high status. We would've been the envy of everyone. And our pups—he smiled longingly—our pups would've been the most beautiful pups in the whole clan.
Instead, Francis was stuck searching for the young Omega he had accidentally mated, because his survival now depended on it. It wasn't how he had pictured his future, but at least the Omega hadn't been unattractive. In fact, if anything about his daydream came true, it was the look of the green-eyed Omega. I've never seen such striking eyes before, he remembered. Nor such a beautiful, delicate-boned face. And body. Francis shivered in desire as he pictured the Omega's delicious body, so thin, yet so unexpectedly durable. If nothing else, at least he's gorgeous, he consoled himself, pretending that he hadn't felt totally bereft since leaving the Omega; pretending that he didn't ache for the Omega's touch, the feel of his body; pretending that he didn't dream each night of kissing every single freckle, leaving visible marks so that everyone would know whom he belonged to.
Francis shook his head. It wouldn't be long. He had traveled to the Standing Stones knowing that every pack on the Isles would be meeting there soon, which meant his Omega as well.
My Omega—? he wondered. He didn't dislike the possessive pronoun. In fact, he rather preferred it.
I'll find you. He didn't even know the Omega's name, but it didn't matter. It wouldn't change a thing. Francis was nothing if not a survivor. I'll find you and own you. I'll mate you so well you'll beg me to keep you. You'll be mine soon. Even if I have to lie, I'll make you fall in love with me. And then we'll live happily-fucking-ever-after.
Because that's what he needed; that's what he wanted. And Francis Bonnefoi always got what he wanted.
The next day, Francis forced himself to rise early and stumble half-blindly to the river, where he plunged into the cold water. It sent a horrible, bone-chilling shiver through his entire body, but he scrubbed viciously at his reddening skin. He hated to be unclean. By the time he crawled out, he was covered in goose-bumps. "Gah!" He shook himself off and finger-combed his shoulder-long curls. Why is it so fucking cold here? It's almost July! It was the dampness, he knew. The mornings were cool and foggy, or soaked if it had rained. Or was still raining, like today. The sky was cloudy and customarily stone-grey, and a light drizzle was falling. Francis sighed and returned to the cave, where he tugged on his last decent shirt. It smelled of wood-smoke, but at least it was dry. His clothes were faded and weathered; he had been recycling the same articles for over a year. I need new clothes. I look like a fucking vagabond. He pulled his curls back into a blue ribbon, which was sadly the nicest thing he owned. Then he sauntered off to the Standing Stones to make a good first—no; second—no; third impression.
The Islanders seemed unperturbed by the rain. Francis dodged dozens of tents and fire-pits and young pups, who laughed and chased each other around the decorated campsites. Despite the festival's peace-keeping undertones, the clans remained segregated. No Alpha had erected his family's tent within ten feet of a rival clan-member. Francis lost himself in the crowd, half of whom were happily—or abrasively—drunk. As he wandered aimlessly, stealing treats and confusing people by smiling at them (they, wondering which clan he belonged to), he searched for his green-eyed Omega. He tried to track him by scent, but it was hard. There were too many barriers, mostly Alpha-like; the Omegas' scents were pale in comparison. Then there were the scents of the festival itself: herbs, spices, and smoked-food. Half of these people smell like sweat and beer, he thought unkindly, and the other half smell like scotch and cider. There were dozens of pups who smelled like sweet-milk; and lots of unmated youths who smelled like hormones. As such, it was high-noon before he finally found the scent he was looking for.
It wasn't his Omega's scent, but the scent of his blood-relatives. Alphas. Francis found them camped on the edge of a circle of silver birch trees, engulfed in a heated argument. Two little redheads were snarling at each other, each trying to break free of their older brothers to attack the other. They looked too similar to be anything but twins. "Liam!" one growled, kicking and clawing at nothing, while the other yelled: "Pat!" and bared his teeth in displeasure. The older brothers struggled to hold back the wriggling pups while they snarled threats at the twins and at each other.
They're just one big happy family, Francis thought sarcastically.
He didn't see his Omega, nor did he smell his presence. In fact, he couldn't distinguish his Omega's scent on anything. It made him wonder if he was wrong and if this wasn't actually his Omega's family. Gods, I hope it's not, he thought, surveying the fierce dysfunction. One of the twin's sank his teeth into his brother's forearm, causing such an angry growl to erupt from the eldest that even Francis flinched. It wasn't until he turned to leave, readying to search elsewhere, that he spotted his green-eyed Omega emerging from the forest.
Francis' stomach fluttered and he swallowed dryly in nervous eagerness. Paralyzed, he watched his Omega's meandering advance, eyes going to the swagger of his narrow hips. A woven basket bobbed as he walked, skinny arm flung over the top. He looked good, better even than in Francis' memory despite the unstylish rags he wore. He was a perfect rose among weeds. But he looked tired. He kept his gaze downcast and his wheat-blonde head bowed, not in submission but in defense. It wasn't the innocent seduction that he had greeted Francis with before. There was no invitation in his posture, only tension. There was nothing remotely friendly about his arched shoulders, or the way he deliberately avoided anyone who came too close to him, to suggest he would be receptive to Francis' flirtation, or even acknowledge his presence. But the instant he saw the Mainlander, he froze, and his eyes went wide in shock.
In disbelief.
In—horror?
He stopped so fast that he dropped the basket. Then his lips formed a single, silent word: No.
Overeager, Francis took a step forward. It was reflex. The desire to protect and comfort his frightened Omega was strong. It was pure instinct. The need to touch him, even more so. But it was the wrong thing to do. He had barely blurted: "Attendez!" before the Omega—his Omega—was hurrying back to his brothers, skinny arms wrapped tightly around his midsection, looking suddenly ill. The basket and its contents lay needlessly forgotten in the grass. Francis followed him, his hand outstretched. "S'il vous plâit—!" he called, but the Omega—his Omega—pushed fitfully past his Alpha-brothers into their lopsided tent and disappeared.
Francis stared, dumbfounded. He had expected his Omega to be surprised, of course, especially since Francis had left him without a word, but he hadn't expected him to be afraid.
Is he afraid of me? Francis felt like he had been punched. The Omega's unflattering reaction left him winded and confused. I thought he liked me. I thought he wanted me. Why else would he have let me—
"Did you want something?" barked an unfriendly voice.
The Alphas had stopped arguing and were staring at him guardedly in suspicion, trying to decide which clan he belonged to. The thick brogue pulled Francis out of his shock. Briefly, he pictured himself charging past the four Alphas and forcing himself into the tent where his Omega was hiding, but, apt at self-preservation, he discarded the thought. Four Alpha-brothers. Of course it had to be four Alpha-brothers. Two of which looked rather dangerous, both big and hot-tempered. Even the young twins glared at him. So, instead of a suicide-charge, Francis simply shook his head and backed off, making a mental note of the campsite's location so that he could return later.
Because I'm not leaving, he decided, eyeing the tent's flap. Not now that I've found you. I need you.
But more than that—
I want you.
Arthur tried to hug his knees, but his abdomen was too big, so he sat awkwardly on a pile of sleeping-rolls. He tried to fight the panic-attack creeping through him, but it was useless. Even as he muttered reassurances to himself, he could feel his chest tighten and tears flood his eyes. Why is he here? he thought, rocking slightly back-and-forth. He hugged his middle tighter, rubbing vigorously in an attempt to calm himself. His unborn pup must have sensed the change in his heartbeat, because it kicked back in defiance. Arthur winced. Why? Why—? He can't be here! He can't know! I thought I'd never see him again, but now he's here! Oh, gods! He can't know!
"Art?" Scott called.
"A-aye!" he replied, high-pitched. "I-I-I—I'm fine!"
Quickly, he readjusted the lay of his garments as Scott entered.
"Ah, fuck. Are you having a panic-attack?" He sighed deeply, then sat down and wrapped an arm around the shivering Omega's shoulders, drawing him close. "It's okay, little brother. I'm here. Just relax. It's okay," he repeated, squeezing Arthur's bicep thoughtlessly hard. Arthur felt it bruise, but he didn't care. What he cared about was Scott's proximity. The Alpha was dangerously close to discovering his secret, yet Arthur felt his body respond habitually, glad for the comfort of Scott's fraternal ministrations. He leant in and rested his forehead on his brother's broad shoulder and breathed in his familiar musk scent, listening to Scott's gravelly, mildly annoyed voice as he talked.
"What's wrong?" he asked when Arthur had finally calmed. "Was it that Alpha lurking about? That blue-eyed one with the pretty face?" He chuckled. "I wouldn't worry about him. He didn't look capable of much, too posh. Fuck, if it weren't for the scruff"—he rubbed his own chin in example—"I'd have thought he was an Omega," he teased.
When Arthur failed to reply, Scott's nonchalant tone changed, becoming a low and protective growl.
"Art? Did that Alpha do something to you? Did he approach you? Scare you? Did he touch you?"
Arthur swallowed a relapse of panic and, mustering his battered pride, severed contact with Scott.
"No," he lied, wiping his wet cheeks as he stood. He pretended to fix his shirt, embarrassed by his outburst. Then he forced a weak smile to prove he was fine, dismissing Scott's concern.
"It's fine. I'm fine. I've never seen that Alpha before in my life."
Arthur stayed embarrassingly close to Scott and Owen for the rest of the day, only half-heartedly joining the spirited festivities. He barely drank, but he ate everything he could get his hands on, feeding his pup all the treats he had been denied for months. He kept a wary eye out for the Mainlander, who was lurking in the crowd, never far; whom had so recklessly approached him before. Maybe the clan-laws were different wherever he came from, but on the Isles it was considered suspicious behaviour to approach a stranger so casually without an introduction, especially an unclaimed Omega. That, and wandering uninvited onto an Alpha's territory, even a temporary campsite, was a good way to get oneself attacked.
Bloody foreigner, Arthur thought, spotting the blue-eyed Alpha in the throng. He was even better looking than what Arthur remembered, which wasn't to discredit Arthur's memory (though he had been submerged in a Heat-induced stupor). Arthur wanted to think badly of the cocky Alpha, but his own vanity prevented it. Oh, he's gorgeous! Scott was right: the foreigner was a trim Alpha with Omega-like beauty, sparkly-eyed and gold-skinned; an excellent specimen of their race. And what he lacked in size he more than made up for in attitude. There was nothing in his sanguine confidence to suggest that he was anything less than a prize. And the clans' Omegas seemed to agree. Those who didn't flock to him—pretending to bump him, or suddenly lose their balance as they passed, apologizing coyly when he caught them—whispered to their friends and siblings, giggling and blushing when the Alpha looked at them. Bloody clan-whelp,Arthur glared at him. But he felt a flush of envy rise in his cheeks whenever the Alpha deigned the Omegas with his beautiful smile. Arthur blamed his reaction on hormones. He was carrying the Alpha's pup, after all; not that the Alpha knew. Arthur was so very afraid of him discovering that fact, which is why he had ran. But now, watching the clans' Omegas drool over the handsome foreigner, he wished that he could tell everyone. It would give him exclusive rights to the blue-eyed Mainlander and nobody would be able to dispute his claim.
Arthur shook his head. He hated how possessive he felt. When the Alpha suddenly caught his eye and smiled at him, Arthur deliberately turned away.
At least he's not trying to approach me, he thought, in relief and disappointment.
As long as Arthur stayed close to his older brothers, he felt safe. Scott and Owen were his shields.
Owen didn't seem perturbed by his brother clinging to his side, but Scott was getting annoyed. He made no attempt to lower his voice when he criticized Arthur's apparent insecurity. He had always believed in tough-love and facing one's fears head-on, and he made a note to draw unwanted attention to Arthur, who was trying hard to remain anonymous. Even so, Scott never left Arthur's side. He and Owen both seemed to misinterpret Arthur's social anxiety for trepidation. Now that he was of-age he was eligible to mate and be pair-bonded, which meant that everywhere he went unclaimed Alphas were sizing him up. It was an uncomfortable experience. He felt like he was on display. The Alphas' eyes looked hungry, especially the young and eager ones. Arthur had to restrain himself from clutching at his abdomen, instinctively wanting to protect his unborn pup every time an Alpha got too close.
Is it because I'm pregnant? he wondered. Is that why they're all so interested in me, because they can sense that I'm fertile? It was a disconcerting revelation. The Alphas couldn't smell his pregnancy because of the potion, but perhaps they could instinctively sense it? That would explain why they keep looking at me like that. Intentionally, he shied away from a particularly vocal group.
"It's because they like your looks, Art," said Owen when he noticed Arthur's confusion. "They think you're pretty."
"I'm not," Arthur denied.
Owen cocked an eyebrow. "Why do you think that? Is it because that's what Scott tells you? He's just teasing you, Art, trying to toughen you up. But even he can see that you're a very attractive Omega, freckles and all. Don't be so shy," he advised. Gently, he lifted Arthur's chin. "Come on, little brother, head up. Be proud. Let them all gawk at what they can't have."
The five brothers found a decent place to sit for the nightly ceremony, which began at sundown. It was right in front of the roaring fire, just outside of the circle of Standing Stones. Arthur sat in the middle, enjoying a skewer of spiced venison. Scott had already commented on his increased appetite—"Slow down, Art, or you'll get fat!"—but he said it with a teasing grin. Even Arthur had to laugh at the irony as he licked his fingers. For once, his brothers were all in good spirits simultaneously. Scott and Owen were happily drunk, and the twins had found friends to play games with. Arthur watched the traditional offerings and performances, which included feats of strength and agility, and the dances, which he always declined to join. (Scott shooed off a terribly persistent Alpha who tried to pull Arthur up.) He was actually starting to enjoy himself, watching the clan-members take loyalty oaths, until Liam's high-pitched cry cut through the din.
Scott leapt to his feet as if he had been scorched and pushed through the gathering crowd. Arthur exchanged a worried look with Owen as they both stood for a better view. Standing on his toes, Arthur could see Liam crouched on the ground, clutching his left shoulder. His lip was upturned, trying to be brave, but he whimpered in pain. Patrick stood over his twin, yelling and growling at the Alpha-pup whom he accused of inflicting the damage. Like an attack-dog, Patrick lunged suddenly at him, his fists beating furiously in angry retaliation. The other pack's pup fought back just as energetically until his Alpha-father pulled him back.
"Pat, stop it!" Scott ordered, grabbing Patrick around the belly.
Patrick yelled and cursed, spitting as he did. "He did it on purpose! I saw him!" he screeched.
Owen sighed. "I'd better go over. Scott looks ready to lunge at that pup's Alpha-father. Wait here, Art."
Arthur grabbed Owen's sleeve. "I'll come with you. I can help."
"No," Owen said, prying off Arthur's fingers. "If it turns into a brawl, I don't want you anywhere near it. Just wait here. I'll be back in a minute."
As soon as Owen left, the blue-eyed foreigner sat down, like Arthur knew he would.
Quickly, Arthur shimmied to the left, his posture tensing. "Get away from me," he warned. The Alpha looked hurt, but he ignored the display of vulnerability. Instead he turned sideways, crossed his skinny arms, and showed the Alpha his back. The message was clear, but, predictably, the foreigner was either too arrogant or too dense to take the hint.
"I'm Francis," he said cheerfully.
"I don't care," Arthur replied coldly. "Leave me alone."
Arthur could feel Francis' body coiling closer, leaning around him to try and see his face. "Can I at least know your name?" he asked. He spoke English with an elegant accent, which somehow made every mispronunciation of his tongue sound exotic. His voice was sinuous, like his gestures. But the Omega trusted neither, too certain it was all an elaborate act. "S'il vous plâit?" he smiled enticingly, his fingers inching closer to Arthur. "We are mates—"
"No, we're not," Arthur said sternly.
Agitated, he leapt to his feet. Smoothly, Francis followed.
"Look," Arthur raised his hands, as if he thought that Francis might pounce, "I want nothing to do with you, so just leave me alone."
A spark, like white-lightening, flashed in Francis' blue eyes, but it was quickly masked. Arthur almost missed it. But he didn't, and it scared him. The Mainlander was a stranger, charming smile or not. He glanced at his brothers, too far away to be any comfort.
Francis inhaled deeply. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said, though it would have been more believable if his fists weren't clenched; if his smooth voice wasn't strained. (He wasn't good at hiding his feelings. His handsome face was too expressive, revealing his frustration.) "I just want to know your name."
"No," Arthur refused, at the same time Owen called:
"Arthur—?"
Arthur cursed at the sudden triumph plastered to Francis' face. "Arthur," he repeated seductively, licking his lips before Owen reached them. Arthur glared daggers at him, warning him to keep quiet, but the Alpha only smirked.
Bloody-hell, he's infuriating! he internally seethed. His pup kicked in reply, which Arthur took as agreement.
"Is everything okay, Art?" Owen asked, glancing between he and Francis.
"Fine," said Arthur stiffly. Without breaking eye-contact with Francis, he stepped back into Owen's shadow. "But I'm tired. Take me back to the tent."
Francis watched Arthur go with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he was gorgeous and spirited. On the other hand, he was a nasty little shrew in serious need of some manners.
Who does he think he is mouthing off to me like that? he thought, spiteful and self-important. He ought to be begging me to claim him. No one else will want him when they learn he's already been mated.
It was supposed to soothe Francis' injured pride, but the mental picture of anyone else touching his Omega, or even talking to his Omega; smiling, laughing, flirting; thinking they had any claim to him—! It fueled Francis with a possessive rage he hadn't ever felt before. It was very unlike him; he, who usually preferred fighting with words above fists. He disliked confrontation. But he couldn't help it. He glared at the surrounding Alphas, all so young and strong and eligible, suddenly seeing them all as rivals for Arthur's affection.
No, he decided, clenching his adolescent fists in determination. I won't let anyone else claim him. He's mine. And I'll prove it.
The next day, Arthur found himself the unwilling recipient of Francis' undivided attention. The Summer Games had begun, a whole day of sporting events designed to encourage friendly competition and forge inter-clan relations, but which also provided an excellent opportunity for Alphas to try to impress the Omega he was interested in. In Francis' case, that Omega was Arthur. After every event, Arthur was unfailingly presented with Francis' share of the winnings in an obvious attempt to garner the Omega's favour. It was a display of worth. And—Arthur was horrified to admit—it was working. Francis was an apt athlete and a superb hunter, who won more games than he lost. If he lost first place, he took second or third. Not only was he naturally inclined, he was swift and elegant for his age, and he looked good while participating. Arthur tried his best to look bored, but his eyes kept straying to Francis on the field, and the pile of trophies beside him kept growing.
When Francis presented Arthur with a perfect red rose, Arthur took it unhappily, and muttered: "Stop it."
Francis winked cheekily at his sullen intended and dashed off.
"It looks like someone likes you," Liam teased. Initially he had whined and complained about not being able to participate in the pups' games because of his injury (he had dislocated his shoulder), but since Francis had started lavishing Arthur with gifts and attention—Liam reaping the benefits of anything edible—the Alpha-pup found it funny to sit and spectate. "Think you'll let him mate you?"
"Sod-off." Arthur cuffed his younger brother over the head.
Liam scowled, then grinned when he noticed: "You're blushing, Art."
"No, I'm not. Shut up."
"You are! You're beet-red! Awe, do you love him?" Liam laughed. Playfully, he tried to steal the red rose from Arthur's hand, but the Omega growled and pulled back, holding the rose tenderly against his chest. Liam blinked in surprise. Then his freckled face split into a wide, impish grin, and peals of laughter escaped him.
Arthur fumed in embarrassment, clutching the rose in accusation.
Despite Liam's childish jokes, his observation was not untrue. To everyone spying on them, it really did look like Francis had chosen to claim Arthur, and by taking the gifts it looked like Arthur had accepted. Oh, bloody-hell. But even if he stopped now, it wouldn't make much of a difference. Francis had made it clear by his actions and body-language that any competition for Arthur would be quickly and brutally defeated, promising much embarrassment for the challenger. The only physical contest he had yet lost was to Scott, which didn't exactly entice many other Alphas to bother trying for Arthur's favour. They still leered at him, of course—and the Omegas glared enviously—but none tried to talk to or approach him. As far as the clans were concerned, Arthur was as good as mated.
But Arthur didn't care (much). He was now thirty-eight weeks pregnant. He had more important, urgent, things to worry about than popularity, like how he was going to survive once his pup was born. The easy solution, now that he and Francis had been reunited, was to let the Alpha claim him and then deal with the consequences of telling him the truth. Francis would have no choice but to stay with Arthur once they were officially pair-bonded. Or rather, that would have been the easy solution if Francis wasn't a lone exile with no family, no pack, and nowhere to belong. (Omegas were adopted by their Alpha's clan; it rarely went the other way.) But just for a moment, Arthur let himself forget the clans, the laws, and everything else, and simply watched Francis. He watched, beguiled, as the Alpha moved swiftly across the field, running and jumping and dodging attacks as he cornered his prey. He watched Francis' lithe muscles work smoothly beneath his golden skin, shiny blonde curls blowing in the breeze, and absently he smiled at the playful gleam in the Alpha's beautiful sapphire-blue eyes. Arthur rubbed his abdomen lovingly, sharing a private thought with his pup:
Your papa is such a good hunter. And he's so bloody handsome. I really hope you look like him, my darling. I hope you're strong and skilled and unafraid like him.
Then the victorious Francis looked directly at Arthur—
—and Arthur looked away.
Am I still not good enough for you? Francis thought as he was named the undisputed champion of his age-group. He had hoped that Arthur was watching his victory. He had made a show of it on purpose to try and impress the bored-looking Omega, but when he glanced over Arthur's eyes were downcast. Francis felt his confidence deflate; the bite of insecurity hurt his pride. Just look at me! he silently begged. Just look at how hard I'm trying to win you. Look at the favour I've shown you, you ungrateful little—
"—your clan?" said the Hunt's Leader.
Francis blinked. "Pardon?"
The burly, grey-eyed Alpha frowned. "Your clan, pup. You've won the hunt"—the most prestigious event—"so you get to choose which pack gets the reward." (The reward being the hunt's generous spoils.) "Which pack is yours?"
"Uh..." Francis paused. He glanced to Arthur and back, and said: "Just give it to them." He pointed.
"The Kirkland family? You want to give the whole reward to one family?" The Hunt's Leader gaped in shock.
Francis realized too late the boldness of his statement. The hunt's spoils was intended to feed a whole pack; gifting it to one family was uncommonly generous. But he couldn't revoke the gift without admitting to ignorance, so he committed to it with feigned confidence.
"Yes," he said, his head held regally high.
The Hunt's Leader shook his head, impressed by Francis' brazenness. "Well if that doesn't get his attention, nothing will. Good luck, pup." He clapped Francis' shoulder in comradeship and then left to tell the Kirkland brothers the good news, that they would not be going hungry anytime soon.
Francis didn't wait to see Arthur's reaction. He had exhausted himself trying to impress the stubborn Omega, and he didn't think he could stand it if Arthur refused to accept the reward, or, worse, if he glared coldly at Francis in reply. Instead, he headed back to his secret encampment, ready for a bath and a nap, but he had barely re-entered the forest when he suddenly heard his name.
"Francis, wait!" Arthur called, jogging to catch up.
He was flushed and winded when he reached Francis, who had stopped to wait for him. They were just inside the forest, out of sight of the busy field. Arthur gasped in exertion. Not much of an athlete, are you?Francis thought, feeling tender and protective. Arthur's hand was pressed to his chest. His clothes were in disarray and bunched at his stomach, which made him appear rounder than he was. Francis waited patiently for the Omega to catch his breath, making no move to touch him, even though he wanted to. Finally, Arthur said:
"Why?"
Francis stared. "Why what?"
"Why did you favour my family with your whole reward?" The Omega's tone was a curious blend of suspicion and incredulity. "Do you even know what it's worth? It could feed you all summer. I know that you don't have a home, not anymore," he elaborated. A shred of sympathy leaked into his tone, but his words still stabbed painfully at the lost Alpha. Besides, his green eyes were still full of distrust. "Why did you just give your best chance at survival to me?"
A dozen flirtatious remarks filtered through Francis' mind, but he ignored them and bravely chose the truth.
"Because you're my Omega-mate and I want to take care of you," he said.
Arthur paused, taken aback. His face even softened, making him look even lovelier. He still carried the red rose, Francis noticed. My Island rose.Then Arthur seemed to comprehend Francis' word-choice, and he said sternly:
"We are not mates. Just because we mated last year does not mean either one of us chose the other to pair-bond with."
"Well," said Francis, squaring his posture formally, "I'm choosing you now. Will you accept?"
Arthur was silent for a long time. So long it made Francis nervous. The Omega looked torn, yet thoughtful. He was considering it. His lips were pursed and his eyes were hooded. Again, Francis fought the annoying urge to go to him. When Arthur finally did speak his voice revealed the emotion that his face did not. It was soft, but unyielding:
"No, I refuse." His green eyes shone with unshed tears. "I can't be your mate, so please just leave me alone."
Francis felt his stomach drop in disappointment and disbelief. Why? Why the fuck not? He wanted to argue. He wanted to grab Arthur and shake him, and yell: Look at us, we're perfect together! But he swallowed it, favouring his dignity. Francis Bonnefoi did not beg.
"Fine," he said evenly, and turned away.
"Take the reward," Arthur called, his voice choked. "It's yours, you earned it—"
"No, just keep it," Francis growled. "I hate your food anyway."
Then he was gone, stalking off through the dark, dense forest back into exile.
