If the term 'cold feet' could have applied to a man in a room full of vampires, it would definitely have been in use a few hours after Mr. Kirkland made the decision to attempt to subject himself to Francois Bonnefoy. Attempt, because he was failing. Miserably.
The tables had turned drastically; whereas he once sought to hunt and kill any vampires, armed with holy water, salt and a silver stake, he now had to figure out how to draw the vampire to him, because every time he planned to get closer to his muse, the more he was compromised by the others in the room.
So Arthur Kirkland did what Arthur Kirkland could do best when anxious; he drank, and drank, and pretended not to notice the threatening pose of a particular aristocrat sat at a piano. He absolutely would not fuck with that. The man looked ready to ravage him from at least thirty paces away, let alone if he got any closer. And his eyes were a burning, accusative, interrogative shade of violent violet.
Arthur knocked back another glass of absinthe, his pockets - and his head - feeling lighter than a feather. He was three sheets to the wind, and then some more, attempting to maintain what dignity he had left by taking a somewhat ridiculous stride over a large puddle on his way out through the door, although his heel landed in the back of it, and he felt the water coating the back of his ankle.
He thought nothing of it, until the water just... well. Just stayed there. It was only when he drunkenly swerved himself, holding onto a wall to steady himself to take a look, that he realised he had not stepped in a puddle of water, but a puddle of blood.
"Oh, dear Christ." He cursed, now a little sober than before with his sudden shock.
He looked back up, towards the door, but there was no such pool at the entrance, now. Part of Arthur's drunk mind went wild as his too-vivid imagination was suddenly let off its hook. Thoughts and ideas of 'perhaps it's a trap' and 'perhaps they left the blood there specifically for me to step in so that they could track my scent like sharks tracking bleeding prey in the sea.' It was enough to make his insides curdle.
"Mm, it would seem that way, wouldn't it?"
Arthur almost choked on his spittle when the sight of another person leant against the wall came into view. Another person who just so happened to have a very thick, French accent, and had - like the barmaid - invaded his thoughts. The Englishman placed a hand over his heart, backing against the wall on instinct.
"Or..." A head of golden hair focused in Arthur's blurred vision, "Per'aps you're just clumsy and stepped in an equally as clumsy vampire's breakfast. Likely one of those stupid fledglings."
His first thought wasn't to scream, or to run away. No, the first thought that entered Arthur's mind was,
"Breakfast? Isn't it a bit late for that? Sun will be up in a few."
He felt those deep, forget-me-not blue eyes imprinting themselves on his soul.
"You 'ave stepped in vomit, mon ami."
"...Oh." He grimaced, inwardly shaking with fear, but forcing himself to be calm and composed in front of the vampire. There was nothing that would make them want to bite him more than if he began acting as their natural prey would. "Well, I suppose I'll be needing a new pair of socks." He slurred, though attempted to lighten the mood.
Francois, apparently, found his excuse of a joke funny.
"I assume I need no introduction." He hummed, once his chuckles had faded. His voice was cloying, deep and rich, every syllable uttered in a silken, mellifluous lilt. It was rather different to his own, rough, Londoner's husk.
"You're Francois Bonnefoy. How could I mistake those eyes and that hair?" Arthur responded, his language intended to be flattering, despite his unassuming tone.
"And you... Englishman? Who might you be? I heard your train of thought from my spot on the chaise. You 'ave a beautiful mind."
He couldn't help but be a little starstruck. This man, Francois, must have been a powerful vampire, to have heard him from such a distance. It only heightened his admittedly very dangerous curiosity. And to have him compliment his thoughts... A beautiful mind? Arthur was tickled pink, his body tingling with a happy sort of warmth. He couldn't bring himself to tell Francois to stay out of his head, as he had the Hungarian woman.
"Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland." He reached out, with a firm hand.
Francois, once more, found him amusing, and indulged him, taking his warm hand with a cool, slender one, his grip gentle at first, before Arthur began to feel the true power behind the vampire's grip. Arthur sighed, shakily, adrenaline rushing through him, his pulse elevating.
I've never been this close to a vampire before.
"No?" The Frenchman once more replied to his thoughts, "Well, in that case, Monsieur Kirkland, I am honoured to be... your first."
Arthur suddenly understood the Hungarian's exasperation, and why the woman would be somewhat suspicious and weary of Francois. The look in those permanently dilated pupils - the deadened eyes of a nocturnal hunter - the Romantic fashion in which he spoke, the way he leant in and took in the view of his subject before his gaze settled intently upon the lips and neck... It stirred something within Arthur that he long thought to be 'cured'.
Oh, dear.
The Frenchman smirked, "Alas, you are a man... But a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet."
He thought of the flowers he had sent his arranged 'sweetheart', courtesy of his parents. Then he considered Francois. He considered exploring his 'sins'. Sobering a little more, he turned his green eyes to the vampire's, in the darkened alleyway. If he wanted to experience a vampire fully, to be able to write a compelling narrative, Francois seemed like a perfect opportunity. He kept his thoughts to himself, for a moment, blocking him out, before saying, slowly,
"Just how much would you be willing to show me?" Arthur asked, bravely. This move would either be incredibly stupid, or ingenious. Life was a game of chess, and Arthur had just confronted the Queen.
Francois was silent, his lithe body leant against the bricked wall, eyes gazing at him calculatingly.
"I shall accept whatever you ask of me," He responded, finally, "Although, we must arrange a price." He added, quickly.
"What sort of price?" Arthur asked, although he had a feeling that he knew what the answer was.
"I shall tell you everything, if you feed and shelter me."