kingdom hearts | la belle dame sans merci
Kingdom Hearts | Axel/Roxas | 1900 words | AU | unbeta'd.
Once upon a time, there was a
grand lady who ordered the world at large to write her Axel/Roxas french snark kink. A
humble bohemian complied, and, seeking to garner her mistress' favour, posted two variations on a theme. Along came a
queen, who, as luck would have it, took a fancy to one story, and demanded more. Some time has passed since then, but today it is the queen's birthday, and the humble bohemian seeks to mark the date, even with something small, until she can organize a present which is slightly more, ah, respectable. Kekeke.
tl;dr version: I write terrible, horrible epic AUs, yet cannot find it in myself to stop. Have no idea where this is going, but would like to find out. This is, quite possibly, chapter one in a series.
Dedicated to Her Majesty kokanshu, with apologies and a happy birthday.
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
The first time Axel met Roxas-and shit, doesn't that sound like a chick flick title? Disgusting, really-he was sitting in a patisserie, eating éclairs. He'd heard that was what people did in France, and so far had not been disillusioned. It was a good size, too; not huge, like those monstrous glazed penises sprawling across the adverts he'd seen at the airport, trying to glamorize French cuisine. The tip was just large enough to fit comfortably in his mouth.
Mmm. Sticky-warm.
Roxas had sat at a nearby table, blindingly conspicuous in a three-piece suit, tailored and suave except for the black-and-white chequered fedora which looked like an artefact from the Zoot Suit Riots of 40s LA. It was tilted artfully on his head, for all the world an Escher drawing which had lost its way home. He was the definition of petite, unlike Axel, whose gangly legs always knocked uncomfortably in any aisle or cab. Blond hair, blue eyes; a stylishly derisive expression.
He was talking on the phone in loquacious English, and openly watching Axel.
"No, no, half-wit; have you drowned in your own trou de cul? Oh, look at this, look; now you have made me swear in French. How despicable is that? I shall be in a foul mood all day: I, who sullied the French language by speaking it to an Englishman. No, worse-an American; you who have no respect for patois; you who are forever stealing words and raping their true meaning with your malodorous slang, ever since you left that wretched pile of merde that is Britain. Your intelligence is meagre. Your speech is reprehensible. You are shameful, squalid beings, singularly obese, wallowing in your own stupidity and contaminating other nations with your horrible affliction. Your customs are ridiculous, and your personal hygiene beyond contempt. Now go and register the cargo. Adieu."
He shut his phone with a snap, still staring right at Axel, unfazed. Axel gazed back thoughtfully, lips loosely enveloping a vanilla-glazed éclair.
After a moment he seemed to reach a decision; then, very slowly, he bit down. The tip of the pastry tore away, flooding his mouth with a burst of cream. He sucked slightly, mouth smearing sticky-sweet, and licked his lips; swallowed.
Roxas' throat worked in tandem with his: Adam's apple bobbing tightly, lips parting like an open rosebud. His mouth, now unoccupied by reprimands, sucked in a long breath; slow, almost appreciative.
They stared at each other for another moment, unblinking. Whipped cream smeared Axel's lips with messy white.
Then, abruptly, he broke eye contact: gesturing for the waitress and some napkins, signalling a check, loudly apologizing for his poor French; after all, he was just a good old American boy, doncha know?
He left without a backward glance, running his tongue over the lingering taste of vanilla cream and privately vilifying all Frenchmen with their stupid chequered hats. To an intrepid tourist, it was common knowledge that French pastries were all enormous dicks. He just hadn't been expecting the same to apply to the people, as well.
*
The second time Axel met Roxas was in a café, again, which was both slightly suspicious and no less cliché that it had been at first.
It was Tuesday, museum day, and the Louvre opened with that great dignity typical of very old buildings built in the nth century which house small nations of pigeons in their rafters. It was flanked by a brasserie, a patisserie, and a bouchon, because looking at Art is an exhausting affair and in Paris, the refreshments needed to sound even more intimidating than the high art. Axel, armed with scepticism and a crinkled tourist's map, decided to pay a visit.
The day was bright and cold, garlanded with open-shuttered windows and music from the street buskers. The metro proved to be a quick affair, user-friendly despite being exclusively in French and full of stray cats. Everybody in Paris seemed to be hurrying somewhere, whether they actually knew their way around or not. He stepped on the train, and ten minutes later stepped off, resplendent in ratty jeans and a courier bag which had seen so many better days it could rightfully be considered antediluvian.
Around him, Paris spiralled up in minarets and street signs. Before him sprawled the Palais-Royal-Musée du Louvre, all grey-shingled, exuding foreign hauteur. It was haughty, and immense, and completely besieged by tiny rococo cherubim with little to no modesty. Axel walked through the halls and up flights of stairs, wide-eyed and bemused. Art enthusiasts seemed to take it for granted, which could have signified refinement or just extreme lechery. Everything was sunlit, pale like marble, glinting from frames of gold and bronze. The atmosphere breathed snobbery.
Eventually his eyes got used to the sight of young naked boys curving around pillars or sprawling on the floor, but it took a while and three or four times of walking into walls. For an institution supposedly presenting all of Western civilization's aesthetic triumphs, there was an awful lot of nudity and gore. Not that Axel minded particularly, but it really was very French. He guessed America had too much censorship to allow for high art, or maybe the Europeans were just as sex-obsessed as everyone said. He walked through galleries, watching people hum and haw, listening to music. His playlist stuck exclusively to Iggy Pop and Molly Hatchett, which felt more appropriate than it should have, considering.
Being an art critic was hard. Axel gave in and called it a day after spending over an hour contemplating the artistic merit of Psyche's marble-hewn backside, finally coming to the conclusion that they just didn't make bitches like that anymore. Thus enlightened, he tried to leave, only to discover that the exit doors were exactly as elusive as French women were not. There were so many windows-surely one wasn't expected to jump? But he could see only corridors, twisting this way and that, uniformly sun-washed and anonymous.
"What the," he muttered, jogging down a staircase only to find himself in a gallery he thought he'd left two floors up. People were still standing around, humming and hawing, and seemed unconcerned by the fact they were apparently trapped in a time warp that formed their very own pocket of limbo. "Okay, who the fuck divided by zero?"
His playlist shifted from punk rock to techno, telling him to run to the cities of the future, thereupon to take what he can and bring it back home. Axel looked around at the priceless masterpieces and felt honestly, viciously tempted. Those European architects had probably thought they were being so clever, curse their bones.
He tried to find the front hall and instead found the Mona Lisa. Seventeen times. In a row.
*
It was afternoon when he finally escaped to the culinary outback for some peace of mind and a cuppa, thoroughly exhausted and vowing never again to touch haut culture, backsides or no. Of course, in Paris they called their caffeine café au lait, which proved to be a very expensive name, because the bastards tried to hoover his wallet over two fucking ounces of cream. After the Louvre, Axel was not willing to take this sort of abuse lying down.
"What?" he said, and nailed the barrista with a stare, eyebrows climbing to new heights of I-beg-your-pardon lethality, signalling danger, danger! "How much is that for a cup of coffee?"
The barrista tried repeating himself-in French, ineffectively, which gave Axel the satisfaction of loudly cutting him off mid-sentence, "No, see, you can kiss my capitalistic ass before I pay you this shitting-"
"Sir!" The barrista said, disarmed by savage tourists and shying from Axel's hair as if terrified it would launch itself at him in some display of deadly American battle technology. He spoke English as if the words were vomit in his mouth. "Payment after service. You take ze drink now, yes? Please take it."
"Huh," Axel said, and eyed the coffee, sitting innocuously on the counter. It was getting lukewarm, and he was desperate. "Well, we'll see. I'm not paying for this liquid feces, just so you know." The barrista waved him away, still grimacing, and Axel figured he'd settle for this truce, at least until he recovered from the Louvre experience. He had not yet begun to fight.
Temporarily sated, he slunk off to a window seat, grumbling at the amorality of bistros everywhere. The entire café was discreetly staring, which was less satisfying than it normally would've been, given they were all probably rooting for the barrista.
At least the view was nice-old buildings, layers and layers of them like the backdrop of a stage, covered in ivy or laundry or graffiti peace signs. It was peaceful, in a bustling, urban sort of way-a mix of old and new history all draped over each other without care, animated by chanson music and the rumble of street cars. There was a reason he chose Europe to wander in, even if they were all nymphomaniac thieves and fashion-retarded scoundrels. It was an amazing day. The sun peeked out from behind the fleecy clouds and dazzled the glass window. Axel leaned back and basked slightly.
He was just starting to enjoy himself when something behind him moved. It was only a flash of muted colour on the windowpane, but it drew his eye; he focused on the reflection and saw, mirrored in the glass, the most terrifying hat in the world.
Again.
"Your coffee, sir," a gratuitous cleavage in high heels and a waitress' apron appeared just as he turned around, and demanded his immediate attention by virtue of sheer zaftig. With a delicate click of crockery, a stylized cup was placed on his table, along with a large plate bearing an artistically-arranged pastry.
"I didn't order this."
"Compliments of ze gentlemen at ze fifth table," said the cleavage with a heavy French accent, and Axel dutifully turned to look, feeling the dread blossom in his heart. Through the forest of lace ruffles that constituted mandatory employee dress, he espied table number five-and there it was all right: Escher's delusional foray into the world of headgear, and donning it, a familiar blue-eyed French gentleman.
He narrowed his eyes. The Frenchman smirked.
"Er, thanks," he said to the cleavage, because it was bad form to shoot the messenger and English profanities were sort of international. It bobbed a curtsey and left, leaving Axel, his order, and an anonymous benefactor who was looking disgustingly smug.
The Frenchman looked exactly the same in all the ways that mattered; expensive suit, expensive hairstyle, rosebud mouth and a recherché demeanour. His eyes were the same quizzical shade of azure, and they were staring at Axel with something halfway between laughter and avarice. He didn't want to-he really didn't-but Axel looked down at his gift. The plate was large and spotless, extravagantly sprinkled with cinnamon and dashes of syrup. In the middle of it was a large, cream-filled éclair.
He looked up again. The Frenchman raised an eyebrow.
"Fuck this shit," Axel said, very loudly and clearly, then shot a one-fingered salute at the barrista, got up, and left without bothering to pay.
Now, see, that was a mistake. Because the third time Axel and Roxas met was in a prison cell of the nearest police station, awaiting transport to the American Embassy to stand trial on charges of public misbehaviour and petty theft.
All characters © their respective owners; I claim no right nor profit.
Once upon a time, there was a
grand lady who ordered the world at large to write her Axel/Roxas french snark kink. A
humble bohemian complied, and, seeking to garner her mistress' favour, posted two variations on a theme. Along came a
queen, who, as luck would have it, took a fancy to one story, and demanded more. Some time has passed since then, but today it is the queen's birthday, and the humble bohemian seeks to mark the date, even with something small, until she can organize a present which is slightly more, ah, respectable. Kekeke.
tl;dr version: I write terrible, horrible epic AUs, yet cannot find it in myself to stop. Have no idea where this is going, but would like to find out. This is, quite possibly, chapter one in a series.
Dedicated to Her Majesty kokanshu, with apologies and a happy birthday.
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
The first time Axel met Roxas-and shit, doesn't that sound like a chick flick title? Disgusting, really-he was sitting in a patisserie, eating éclairs. He'd heard that was what people did in France, and so far had not been disillusioned. It was a good size, too; not huge, like those monstrous glazed penises sprawling across the adverts he'd seen at the airport, trying to glamorize French cuisine. The tip was just large enough to fit comfortably in his mouth.
Mmm. Sticky-warm.
Roxas had sat at a nearby table, blindingly conspicuous in a three-piece suit, tailored and suave except for the black-and-white chequered fedora which looked like an artefact from the Zoot Suit Riots of 40s LA. It was tilted artfully on his head, for all the world an Escher drawing which had lost its way home. He was the definition of petite, unlike Axel, whose gangly legs always knocked uncomfortably in any aisle or cab. Blond hair, blue eyes; a stylishly derisive expression.
He was talking on the phone in loquacious English, and openly watching Axel.
"No, no, half-wit; have you drowned in your own trou de cul? Oh, look at this, look; now you have made me swear in French. How despicable is that? I shall be in a foul mood all day: I, who sullied the French language by speaking it to an Englishman. No, worse-an American; you who have no respect for patois; you who are forever stealing words and raping their true meaning with your malodorous slang, ever since you left that wretched pile of merde that is Britain. Your intelligence is meagre. Your speech is reprehensible. You are shameful, squalid beings, singularly obese, wallowing in your own stupidity and contaminating other nations with your horrible affliction. Your customs are ridiculous, and your personal hygiene beyond contempt. Now go and register the cargo. Adieu."
He shut his phone with a snap, still staring right at Axel, unfazed. Axel gazed back thoughtfully, lips loosely enveloping a vanilla-glazed éclair.
After a moment he seemed to reach a decision; then, very slowly, he bit down. The tip of the pastry tore away, flooding his mouth with a burst of cream. He sucked slightly, mouth smearing sticky-sweet, and licked his lips; swallowed.
Roxas' throat worked in tandem with his: Adam's apple bobbing tightly, lips parting like an open rosebud. His mouth, now unoccupied by reprimands, sucked in a long breath; slow, almost appreciative.
They stared at each other for another moment, unblinking. Whipped cream smeared Axel's lips with messy white.
Then, abruptly, he broke eye contact: gesturing for the waitress and some napkins, signalling a check, loudly apologizing for his poor French; after all, he was just a good old American boy, doncha know?
He left without a backward glance, running his tongue over the lingering taste of vanilla cream and privately vilifying all Frenchmen with their stupid chequered hats. To an intrepid tourist, it was common knowledge that French pastries were all enormous dicks. He just hadn't been expecting the same to apply to the people, as well.
*
The second time Axel met Roxas was in a café, again, which was both slightly suspicious and no less cliché that it had been at first.
It was Tuesday, museum day, and the Louvre opened with that great dignity typical of very old buildings built in the nth century which house small nations of pigeons in their rafters. It was flanked by a brasserie, a patisserie, and a bouchon, because looking at Art is an exhausting affair and in Paris, the refreshments needed to sound even more intimidating than the high art. Axel, armed with scepticism and a crinkled tourist's map, decided to pay a visit.
The day was bright and cold, garlanded with open-shuttered windows and music from the street buskers. The metro proved to be a quick affair, user-friendly despite being exclusively in French and full of stray cats. Everybody in Paris seemed to be hurrying somewhere, whether they actually knew their way around or not. He stepped on the train, and ten minutes later stepped off, resplendent in ratty jeans and a courier bag which had seen so many better days it could rightfully be considered antediluvian.
Around him, Paris spiralled up in minarets and street signs. Before him sprawled the Palais-Royal-Musée du Louvre, all grey-shingled, exuding foreign hauteur. It was haughty, and immense, and completely besieged by tiny rococo cherubim with little to no modesty. Axel walked through the halls and up flights of stairs, wide-eyed and bemused. Art enthusiasts seemed to take it for granted, which could have signified refinement or just extreme lechery. Everything was sunlit, pale like marble, glinting from frames of gold and bronze. The atmosphere breathed snobbery.
Eventually his eyes got used to the sight of young naked boys curving around pillars or sprawling on the floor, but it took a while and three or four times of walking into walls. For an institution supposedly presenting all of Western civilization's aesthetic triumphs, there was an awful lot of nudity and gore. Not that Axel minded particularly, but it really was very French. He guessed America had too much censorship to allow for high art, or maybe the Europeans were just as sex-obsessed as everyone said. He walked through galleries, watching people hum and haw, listening to music. His playlist stuck exclusively to Iggy Pop and Molly Hatchett, which felt more appropriate than it should have, considering.
Being an art critic was hard. Axel gave in and called it a day after spending over an hour contemplating the artistic merit of Psyche's marble-hewn backside, finally coming to the conclusion that they just didn't make bitches like that anymore. Thus enlightened, he tried to leave, only to discover that the exit doors were exactly as elusive as French women were not. There were so many windows-surely one wasn't expected to jump? But he could see only corridors, twisting this way and that, uniformly sun-washed and anonymous.
"What the," he muttered, jogging down a staircase only to find himself in a gallery he thought he'd left two floors up. People were still standing around, humming and hawing, and seemed unconcerned by the fact they were apparently trapped in a time warp that formed their very own pocket of limbo. "Okay, who the fuck divided by zero?"
His playlist shifted from punk rock to techno, telling him to run to the cities of the future, thereupon to take what he can and bring it back home. Axel looked around at the priceless masterpieces and felt honestly, viciously tempted. Those European architects had probably thought they were being so clever, curse their bones.
He tried to find the front hall and instead found the Mona Lisa. Seventeen times. In a row.
*
It was afternoon when he finally escaped to the culinary outback for some peace of mind and a cuppa, thoroughly exhausted and vowing never again to touch haut culture, backsides or no. Of course, in Paris they called their caffeine café au lait, which proved to be a very expensive name, because the bastards tried to hoover his wallet over two fucking ounces of cream. After the Louvre, Axel was not willing to take this sort of abuse lying down.
"What?" he said, and nailed the barrista with a stare, eyebrows climbing to new heights of I-beg-your-pardon lethality, signalling danger, danger! "How much is that for a cup of coffee?"
The barrista tried repeating himself-in French, ineffectively, which gave Axel the satisfaction of loudly cutting him off mid-sentence, "No, see, you can kiss my capitalistic ass before I pay you this shitting-"
"Sir!" The barrista said, disarmed by savage tourists and shying from Axel's hair as if terrified it would launch itself at him in some display of deadly American battle technology. He spoke English as if the words were vomit in his mouth. "Payment after service. You take ze drink now, yes? Please take it."
"Huh," Axel said, and eyed the coffee, sitting innocuously on the counter. It was getting lukewarm, and he was desperate. "Well, we'll see. I'm not paying for this liquid feces, just so you know." The barrista waved him away, still grimacing, and Axel figured he'd settle for this truce, at least until he recovered from the Louvre experience. He had not yet begun to fight.
Temporarily sated, he slunk off to a window seat, grumbling at the amorality of bistros everywhere. The entire café was discreetly staring, which was less satisfying than it normally would've been, given they were all probably rooting for the barrista.
At least the view was nice-old buildings, layers and layers of them like the backdrop of a stage, covered in ivy or laundry or graffiti peace signs. It was peaceful, in a bustling, urban sort of way-a mix of old and new history all draped over each other without care, animated by chanson music and the rumble of street cars. There was a reason he chose Europe to wander in, even if they were all nymphomaniac thieves and fashion-retarded scoundrels. It was an amazing day. The sun peeked out from behind the fleecy clouds and dazzled the glass window. Axel leaned back and basked slightly.
He was just starting to enjoy himself when something behind him moved. It was only a flash of muted colour on the windowpane, but it drew his eye; he focused on the reflection and saw, mirrored in the glass, the most terrifying hat in the world.
Again.
"Your coffee, sir," a gratuitous cleavage in high heels and a waitress' apron appeared just as he turned around, and demanded his immediate attention by virtue of sheer zaftig. With a delicate click of crockery, a stylized cup was placed on his table, along with a large plate bearing an artistically-arranged pastry.
"I didn't order this."
"Compliments of ze gentlemen at ze fifth table," said the cleavage with a heavy French accent, and Axel dutifully turned to look, feeling the dread blossom in his heart. Through the forest of lace ruffles that constituted mandatory employee dress, he espied table number five-and there it was all right: Escher's delusional foray into the world of headgear, and donning it, a familiar blue-eyed French gentleman.
He narrowed his eyes. The Frenchman smirked.
"Er, thanks," he said to the cleavage, because it was bad form to shoot the messenger and English profanities were sort of international. It bobbed a curtsey and left, leaving Axel, his order, and an anonymous benefactor who was looking disgustingly smug.
The Frenchman looked exactly the same in all the ways that mattered; expensive suit, expensive hairstyle, rosebud mouth and a recherché demeanour. His eyes were the same quizzical shade of azure, and they were staring at Axel with something halfway between laughter and avarice. He didn't want to-he really didn't-but Axel looked down at his gift. The plate was large and spotless, extravagantly sprinkled with cinnamon and dashes of syrup. In the middle of it was a large, cream-filled éclair.
He looked up again. The Frenchman raised an eyebrow.
"Fuck this shit," Axel said, very loudly and clearly, then shot a one-fingered salute at the barrista, got up, and left without bothering to pay.
Now, see, that was a mistake. Because the third time Axel and Roxas met was in a prison cell of the nearest police station, awaiting transport to the American Embassy to stand trial on charges of public misbehaviour and petty theft.
All characters © their respective owners; I claim no right nor profit.