The night of the hunter
Francis watched as the Englishman turned his gaze from the murky sea and gave him a questionable look. The wind was messing the short, sandy hair and throwing raindrops all over the green-eyed man. Despite it all, he was idly resting against the railing of the ship taking them to France. His whole appearance was relaxed, and there was an absent look in his emerald eyes. He looked stunning.
Francis couldn't help a warm smile spreading on his lips and for a while he said nothing – just watched his Englishman, his companion, his lover. His Arthur.
Slowly Arthur returned the smile, and Francis loved the way his fascinating eyes were shining – so bright, so real. And only for him.
So he said the only words he had never said before; the only words that he had been saving, that were true. The only words even Arthur would understand in spite of his lack of knowledge in French.
The wind was singing as the green eyes widened and lit up at the same time, and Francis saw understanding washing through them. He looked at Arthur and smirked, remembering something.
"Time to start learning French, chéri?"
The sea was grey, clouds were heavy on the sky and it was raining, but neither Francis nor Arthur were cold; nothing was as marvellous and warming as a kiss shared with the one you truly loved.