Versailles, in the twilight of winter

Snow fell silently in flakes onto the stone balustrades of the palace, while inside, only the crackling of the fire in Philippe's chambers broke the silence. Philippe, Prince of France — or what remained of him as a human being — sat on a low stool in front of the fireplace. His long tail, white with black spots like freshly fallen ash, twitched restlessly across the marble floor. The tips of his ears, covered with thick fur, twitched with every crack of the wood.

The other man stood against the wall, his hands clasped behind his back. His silhouette seemed even broader than usual — a hint of a mane outlined his neck, golden strands glowing in the darkness like a hint of his lion heritage.

"You're staring at me as if you're about to devour me," Philippe muttered without turning around. His voice sounded sleepy, almost purring, but there was something wild in his eyes as he looked over the other man's shoulder.

The other man let out a throaty laugh. "Maybe I should do that too. You've been hiding from me all day. I thought you'd fled to the mountains."

Slowly, Philippe pushed himself up from the stool, every movement elegant, supple, a big cat in human form. His bare feet padded almost silently across the cold stone tiles until he stood directly in front of the other man. The air between them crackled. The lion's scent was warm, earthy, familiar.

"I wasn't hiding. I was just... waiting." His fingers stroked the other man's chest, pausing where his heart was beating beneath his shirt.

The other man's hand closed around Philippe's wrist. No pain, just a firm grip, a promise. Their eyes locked, green against ice blue.

"For what?" the other man asked quietly.

Philippe smiled, revealing tiny, pointed feline teeth. "For you to finally stop pretending that this is... nothing."

Outside, the snow continued to fall, but inside the room it suddenly became hotter as their lips were only a breath apart.