A/N: Okay, so I've got no idea why I wrote this. No one's even seen this movie. But I suppose since I spent the whole thing thinking about how gay Gregoire was with Mani, I just ended up writing about it. Hopefully, I didn't do half bad.

Gregoire slipped out of the bed, hoping the woman wouldn't notice. She was beautiful, this prostitute, but he found her disquieting. In only his underthings, he padded down the hall. Business was indeed booming at the brothel this late at night, but the upper hallway was deserted – most of the girls wiere with customers. He could hear their exaggerated moans from the surrounding rooms. The lights were on, but dim. It stank of perfume.

Mani was awake; Gregoire had known he would be. The Indian didn't sit up, but he did roll over, his dark eyes locking with Gregoire's. It was as intense a look as always it was, and full of accusations that they both knew would never be voiced. Mani had known what Gregoire was like when he'd chosen to return to France with him.

He hadn't cared. He loved him anyways.

"Sorry. I was busy keeping up appearances." Gregoire crawled onto the bed, the too-soft matress sinking under his knees.

"It more than that." Mani pushed himself up on his elbow, his face impassive, "but is alright."

Gregoire found himself wanting to apologize again, but refrained. He had nothing to be sorry for. Mani had no problems – the French wrote off his dislike of being touched as a feature of him being a 'savage'. However, Gregoire knew the prostitute was not the one Mani was concerned with. It was her, the one he cared about. He would have told Mani he cared about him more, the man who had followed him all the way to France; but now was not the time. Not between men.

So he kissed him instead.

Mani tilted his head back, making not a sound. His body was very, very warm, almost feverish from being under the blankets. Gregoire moved to push him back, to straddle him, but Mani placed a gentle yet firm hand on his chest.

"No. You always try to treat me as woman. No."

Their kisses were never the expected battle between two warriors, fighting for dominance. They both had their fill of violence elsewhere. Mani's strong body, which could be such a dangerous weapon, was still and relaxed against his. The Indian did not exactly defer, but he never fought back. This was a good thing, as Gregoire knew he probably couldn't win if Mani did decide to contest him.

Mani pulled away, pressing warm, soft kisses down the column of Gregoire's neck. He was such a gentle lover, maddeningly gentle. Even though Gregoire had only had sex about an hour before, his body was ready again. He pulled Mani full against him, moving a hand to trace down the Indian's side, where the shapely indent of a woman's waist would be. He felt only firm muscle, the inward curve very slight. Their cocks were nestled snugly together against their bellies, semi-hard and waiting. He laved his tongue across Mani's shoulder, following the lines of the tribal tattoo, continuing to slide the hand down to his backside.

As always, there was the fear of being found, the thrill it brought. Mani's fingers ghosted across his cheek, and their lips met again. The Indian smelled somehow like outside, like the wilderness. It brought Gregoire back to that first time, under the stars in New France, when the two of them had barely spoken the same language.

They made love slow and quiet. Mani was always quiet. Gregoire didn't hold back his grunts and groans of pleasure, no one would find them suspicious in this place. That was the benefit to staying in this brothel. The penance was that they could not share a room inconspicuously, as they usually could. Many nights, Gregoire would gladly trade in an hour of or so of lovemaking for a night of simple sleep with his nose buried in Mani's long, dark hair.

It was the only way he slept well at all.

His breathing was heavy as they pulled apart. He wanted nothing more than to pull Mani up against him again, feel the man's breath against his chest as it slowed in sleep.

But he knew he could not.

He had to leave now, if he waited any longer he wouldn't be able to do sat up, his fingers tracing over Mani's shoulder, again following the bold lines of the tattoo. He pulled his hand away reluctantly, rising to his feet. Their gazes locked once more, and lingered. Their eyes said it all, what they as men would not.

I love you, I love you, I'm sorry.