A Frog at the Ball [Arthur and Francis]

Oh, yes. Another royal gala that Francis had to attend. This had been the third one this week. He was near certain that this one was going to be horrendous. After all, it was British. The other two that the Frenchman had gone to were both held by members of the French aristocracy. They were a grand time, but that wasn't surprising; the French always had the best affairs. At least, according to Francis.

He had prepared himself for royal wedding. After all, Francis was always taught to dress your best, even when you are not feeling it. Appearance was everything. The theme of the gala supposedly had something to do with midnight, so the Frenchman had to wear white to stand out against the presumably dark background. After all, if Francis had anything, it was flashiness. After putting on his best white clothes, he contemplated wearing the matching hat. There were pros and cons, of course. The hat completed the look, but it also covered his luscious hair. After what seemed to be forever, he sighed exasperatedly and threw the hat to the side. It wouldn't do. He adjusted the collar to his coat, sizing himself up. Yes, he looked quite dashing. The Frenchman was wearing a pearl white outfit, with a sky blue cravat. The details of the outfit were in gold and blue, and the fit was perfect for his body. It was definitely exuberant enough to court a fine young British lady.

It took no effort for him to travel to the Royal Palace. He had purposely left slightly later than he was supposed to, just to arrive fashionably late. By the time he had gotten there, everybody was already seated at their according tables. He glanced around, taking in his surroundings. Excellent. Most of the girls seemed easy. The men? Not much different from the dear Brit Francis knew. He would just simply avoid them. Francis had looked at the seating plan beforehand, but only searched for his name specifically. He had no clue who he was assigned to sit with, and was almost devastated to see that one table full of pretty girls did not have an empty seat. As he walked up to his seat, he was aware of the whispers and looks he was getting. But who could help themselves? He was just so gorgeous, and his derrière looked amazing.

When he finally snapped out of his fantasy and approached his table, he realised who he was sitting with. A few young, pretty girls. They looked easy to seduce. And oh, oh. That man whom he loved so dearly, but also loathed so deeply. Arthur. He was not quite so easy to seduce. The Frenchman had tried numerous times, each to no success. He cocked an eyebrow for a greeting, and sat down right beside the Brit.

"C'est ironique. Je n'ai pas pensé que je vous voie ici."

Francis winked and took Arthur's hand, giving it a kiss. Oh, how he knew Arthur loathed it when Francis did that. It was the only reason why Francis even bothered to do such a thing. He turned to the table and fixed his cravat, nodding at all of the ladies. "Bonsoir. Hello. It is a blessing to meet such belles. I hope to get to speak to you all." Francis smirked, making use of his natural charm. He quirked his eyebrow once more, and leaned against his elbow.

On second thought, galas weren't a special hell for Arthur Kirkland. No, Francis Bonnefois was. There was no being in the world Arthur loathed more than that pompous, pretentious, ostentatious, egotistical, self-involved buffoon. The man positively oozed slime, much like a frog might. Only, this slime was well-disguised with cologne and expensive clothes. Was Arthur the only one that could see what a repulsive human being he was? Apparently.

His upper lip curled in disgust. Of all the things to wear to a themed ball he chose the one outfit that stuck out like a sore thumb. Why, it didn't even match the theme at all! The clothes were practically blinding and Arthur had to look away often if he wanted to keep his eye sight (and sanity). His own forest green Justaucorps coat was much more befitting, the hilt of a decorative sword poking out at his hip. He was sure he looked as if he had invented class. Francis just looked plain silly (despite the fact that the Frenchman could seemingly pull it off).

There were many other details Arthur continued to nitpick and slight inwardly, but they were trivial, mainly a matter of resentment, and hardly worth mentioning.

The Briton nearly snorted as Francis deigned to speak to him, in French nonetheless. Such a loathsome language, hardly a diplomatic tongue. To Arthur, French was the language of coquettish whores hellbent on seducing you and taking your money. It was the language of deadbeat poets spending their days (and nights) in smokey coffee houses high on opiates. French was a cruel beauty: pretty sounding, but harsh in reality. Not to mention its tone was so nasally.

The girls at the table tittered at the French, swooning and giggling to their friends. All of their fans immediately went up and they began to divulge secrets in poorly-muffled whispers. It was all a gambit for attention. None of those girls wanted to keep their attraction to the flamboyant Frenchman a secret. Their noise would invite interest, as desired (and the frog would be all too pleased to give it to them). Arthur had to restraint himself from rolling his eyes. He did, after all, have a reputation to uphold. It wouldn't do for a Prince to display such unbecoming behaviors at a public event.

"Ironic to see the Prince at his parents' gala?" He clicked his tongue, lifting his glass and swallowing a mouthful of ice water. What he really needed right now was brandy. "What sort of fantasy land do you live in, I wonder, your Grace?" His smile held no warmth or pleasantness, clearly forced.

The smile immediately dropped as Francis kissed the back of his hand. Surely Arthur spotted a mocking spark in the eyes that dared to glance up at him. With his usual scowl, he withdrew his hand. He longed to smack the Frenchman across one of his chiseled cheeks, but held back. Remember your reputation, Arthur, he chided himself. Mother and Father would not be happy. He swallowed back at bitter remark and let his eyes narrow instead, sitting back and remaining silent.

"You say you hope to speak to all these lovely young ladies, and yet, you're doing so as you talk," he drawled, sending a charming (fake) smile towards the girls at the opposite side of the round table. "Perhaps you haven't fully grasped the full concept of English. I'm surprised your tutor never taught you proper grammar." His smile transformed into a smirk as his gaze shifted to Francis, challenging him.




(From my understanding, 'Your Grace' is a proper way to address a Duke)

Oh, yes. How Francis loved seeing the Briton's expressions to his clothing. It was as if he did not know fashion at all. But then again, it was seemingly popular in Britain to wear the most mundane, boring clothes. They're always clad in the same style, like boring little lemmings. They would always do the same as the other, never straying from the norm. Just look at Arthur! His own doublet was a horrible, disgusting dark green colour. Mind you; it did make his eyes look mesmerizing, but it was simply revolting to look at. If Francis had sneezed on Arthur's jacket, one wouldn't even be able to differentiate the phlegm from it. He decided to avert his gaze from it for the rest of the night, in hopes of not throwing up something of a similar colour.

The aristocrat was well aware of how his language affected the ladies at the table. In fact, he spoke in his native tongue on purpose. French was a dignified language, capable of persuading many of what needed to be done. With its seductive tone, how could it not be called the language of love? Whenever the person with whom Francis is courting does not speak French fluently, it is not hard to get them on their knees if he simply speaks a few foreign phrases in the tongue.
Often when at English affairs, Francis would speak in French. It didn't seem to matter what he said, just as long as it was in the beautiful language. He could talk about something as simple as the weather, and still have ladies swooning over him and his voice.

As soon as the Prince started speaking, oh, did Francis remember why he hated doing so with him. His voice was so pompous and uptight. His tone was simply horrendous. It was if Arthur thought he knew everything in the world, and looked down upon Francis. Then again, most people of the British royalty sounded like that without trying. At Arthur's remark, he simply rolled his eyes and sighed longingly, wishing for Arthur to comprehend what he was saying for once. "Non, Votre Altesse. I meant at this table. Were you the one that made the arrangements?" The Frenchman shook out his hair, and chuckled. "A land very different from this one, indeed. Do you not remember what your own Royaume is like?"

By then, many of the eyes in the room had already swept past him. They had sized him up, judged him, whispered about him, lusted for him, and moved on. As Francis looked around the ballroom, he met the eyes of many girls, even meeting the eyes of some of the men, with whom quickly looked the other way. Oh, yes. Did Francis already of know how he had stolen the spotlight of the room. It was just as planned. As his eyes strayed back to the table, sweeping past each of the women, he winked at one of them. They were easy indeed.

Francis simply loved it when Arthur attempted to outwit him. He always challenged anything the Duke said, and it was simply endearing. "Mais oui, Arthur. Très bien. What I meant was to speak to them individually, and finding of what they like. They already look like they 'ave many interesting features." Francis sideglanced at the girls, smirking as if he had already won them. He sat up straight as a man, presumably a butler of some sort, filled up the wine glass sitting in front of him. "Merci. Thank you." Francis lifted the wine glass and took a sip, careful to restrain himself from making a face at the disgusting English wine. He quirked an eyebrow at Arthur, raising his nose to the air in thought whilst trying to down the drink. "I am surprised your tutor did not teach you of what grammar really is, Votre Altesse. It is the language structure, not euuh.. synonymes, oui?"

The Frenchman let out a low chuckle, raising the wine glass to his lips once again. Two could play at this game, and Francis was just as capable of being a smartass as Arthur was.

Arthur nearly choked on his water, settling for a snort instead, lest he make a fool of himself. The Frog actually thought he had set them together on purpose? It wasn't uncommon knowledge that the two held low opinions of each other. In fact, Arthur was surprised his parents actually sat them together, since they knew of his loathing for the Frenchman. He had merely supposed it was punishment of some sort, for something or other. Why would he chose to spend a hellish evening sitting next to the one man that could push his buttons in all the wrong ways?

"Me? Make sitting arrangements? Next to you?!" He laughed loudly, sending a charming smile at one of the ladies to stave off some of the cruelty to the tone. He didn't want to scare the guests, after all (or put them off from future events. His parents would have his hide). "Please, don't joke, your Grace. You're hardly good at it. What in that small fashion-obsessed brain of yours would even assume I would do such a thing? To have you sit here and steal these darling young ladies? I hardly think so."

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. A secretive, foul glance at Francis was sent to assure that he was hardly worried about the fool stealing the girls. He could have the whole lot of them, if he was so inclined. Arthur didn't give two shits about the girls. But how could he let word get out that his hatred for the Duke ran much deeper than witty remarks. He couldn't tell the man he wasn't looking forward to being humiliated all evening, or enraged, or mocked, or criticized, or belittled. That would be worse than the humiliation, enraging, mocking, criticism, and belittling all together.

"And you know, as much as I, that I've traveled all over the Kingdom. Let's not pretend you aren't aware I meant your mental state, not your physical one. Honestly, is your old age blocking your hearing already? Such a pity." He grinned mockingly for a quick second, before his eyebrows rose and he settled for looking slightly amused.

"Interesting features? Hmn. And you think I don't know English? Hardly. Were you speaking properly, it would have been best to say that you hoped to get to know them better. Using the team 'speak to' is so very vague, as I'm sure you know, since you're such a master of the English language. Don't make me out to be a fool, Bonnefois, unless you're prepared to look like one yourself."

Francis was indeed quite the sarcastic man. He was quite well aware that Arthur had nothing to do with the seating arrangements, and most definitely would not have put the two aristocrats together if he did. In fact, they probably would have been on the other side of the room if Arthur had any say.

But, Francis had to admit, Arthur was sexy when he was mad.

Francis chuckled deeply, sitting up straight. "Mais oui, Votre Altesse. You are quite the charmer, really. Making me feel so wanted 'ere. I am sure that if I tell Le Roi of this then.. Hmm." Francis flashed Arthur a sly grin, knowing that he could easily get the Prince's ass whooped. As much as he didn't want to do it, he was forced to work with the British King more often than he admitted. However, being the duke of a territory, one would be obliged to alert the King of any happenings in the territories of his kingdoms. It wasn't Arthur that he did very many deals with, it was his father. Francis was still unsure if he could even speak French around the king, even after the many years he had been doing business with him. The man was like a ticking time bomb.

"Ah, Monsieur Kirkland. I think I already 'ave." He side glanced at the aforementioned ladies, who were clearly infatuated by him. Maybe it was his accent, or his charming good looks. Either way, Francis knew that he held their hearts over Arthur. Besides, if they were to stand beside eachother, the Frenchman was taller, more elegant, better dressed, and just simply, more desirable. At least in Francis's mind.

Oh, Francis was quite looking forward to the dinner.

"Je sais, je sais. Tu pense que je ne sache pas? I live in the same one that you do. Cependant, perhaps with a bit more taste. In everything." The aristocrat flashed that cocky smile, the one that seemed to be forever plastered on his face. "Last time I remember, Votre Altesse, you are just three years younger than me. Or was it two? Hm." Francis reached up to tap his chin, looking at the ceiling. He pretended to be puzzled, but honestly couldn't care less. "So, if I am growing old, then so are you, Arthur." He winked, hoping to get some kind of reaction out of him. Arthur hardly looked old at all. In fact, it was quite the opposite. He had a childish glow to his face, radiating innocence and youth. Compared to the Frenchman, who had probably done things that Arthur had never even heard of.

"Well, excuse-moi, Arthur. I did not know that you were so rude to those that speak English as a second language. I shall make sure to tell my friends. Le Duc de Pologne... Autriche... Hm. Is that really something that your family's name wants to be known for? Elitist." The Frenchman could take everything Arthur was throwing at him, and completely twist it around, making Arthur sound horrid. He was wonderful at that, and quite happy to do it. The stupid Brit was just so aggravating.