Taste
Spain is captured by French corsairs.
Once he finishes lighting the candles, he holds out the still-lit match to his brother to blow out. His expression is light, even when the Spaniard turns his head, lips pressed tightly shut and eyes avoiding contact. Francis laughs, putting out the match with a flick of the wrist. “Smile, Antonio, it suits you better.” He teases and he runs a hand through the other’s dark hair.
Antonio snarls, turning his head and trying to pull away. He struggles within his chair and curses the restraints around his wrists and ankles. “Do not touch me,” He hisses and his brother laughs beautifully in his ear. “Don’t be like that, Antonio.” Francis whispers and pulls away before Antonio can attempt to headbutt the blonde haired man.
“You,” Antonio snaps, “You have no right to tell me how to be, Francis! I can not believe-“ A strangled laugh escapes his lips and he shakes his head disapprovingly. Oh, dear Lord, he couldn’t believe that he had smiled at his brother just seconds before his ship was raided. He thought; it was his brother! There was not a reason to worry! “You are no better than Inglaterra.”
“Angleterre?” Francis asks, reaching across the table to grab a bottle of stolen, Spanish wine and a glass. “Mon frère, I am nothing like him.”
“You are a pirate!” Antonio yells. A pirate. His closest friend, one whom he had loved like a brother for centuries was a pirate. “A thief! A terrorist! A-“ He falls silent as the empty wine glass is pressed against his lips.
Smiling approvingly at the reaction, Francis speaks, “Angleterre. Aaah, Angleterre, he is. . . how to put it?” Raising the glass in the air, studying it in the candle light, he finally continues, “The way he acts, one would think he wasn’t a civilized nation at all. Always yelling, quick to fight, and the way he drinks! Of course, you already know of his faults, right, Antonio?”
His green eyes are dark, even in the candlelight as he glares at the corsair. Upper lip twisted into a snarl, he does not have to speak to answer Francis’ question. Of course he remembers Arthur and the way he wears sea salt, gunpowder, and alcohol on him as if it were a perfume. He recalls the problems the arrogant rock of a nation had caused him; targeting his merchant ships, chasing them, tormenting him at every opportunity he could get.
“What is it called?” Francis asks, “That foul drink Arthur is always drinking?” He knows the answer, he has his own bottle saved somewhere in his cabin for those particularly long sea voyages. The taste was horrible but even he had to admit that there were some times when wine simply would not do.
“Rum, Francis.” Antonio replies. Francis notes that his brother’s voice is uncharacteristically cold for the warm nation.
“Yes, rhum.” The corsair laughs, “Disgusting drink. I can’t imagine how he could drink enough to smell like it.” Francis dismisses the topic with a wave of the glass and pops the cork from the wine bottle and pouring it into the glass. Holding it out to his brother, as if in a toast, he smiles devilishly.
Antonio stares at the dark, deep red of the wine shining warmly in the dim light before looking up at his brother, rejecting the nation in front of him.
“I am different from Arthur, Antonio. I have taste.” Francis insists, raising the glass to his lips and taking a sip. Licking his lips, Francis gives a nod of approval to his brother’s wine before leaning closer to Antonio, placing the edge of the glass against the Spaniard’s lips.
“That isn’t to say that Anglterre is without taste-Arthur can’t tell what is bad but he can certainly tell you what is good .” The Frenchman explains and Antonio pulls away as far as he can into his chair. When he cannot retreat anymore, Francis takes the moment to run his hand up his brother’s chest, touching at the fine fabric of the Spanish uniform and allowing his fingers to play with the golden crucifix.
Using his index finger to tilt the Spaniard’s chin up, he leans down, pressing his lips against the other nation’s mouth. Antonio splutters at the taste of Spain’s finest wine and Francis. When the blond nation finally pulls away, Antonio’s first reaction is to spit and rid his mouth of the taste.
“Mon frère, you wouldn’t be in trouble all of the time if you were not so rich.” Francis laughs and pours himself another glass.
Once he finishes lighting the candles, he holds out the still-lit match to his brother to blow out. His expression is light, even when the Spaniard turns his head, lips pressed tightly shut and eyes avoiding contact. Francis laughs, putting out the match with a flick of the wrist. “Smile, Antonio, it suits you better.” He teases and he runs a hand through the other’s dark hair.
Antonio snarls, turning his head and trying to pull away. He struggles within his chair and curses the restraints around his wrists and ankles. “Do not touch me,” He hisses and his brother laughs beautifully in his ear. “Don’t be like that, Antonio.” Francis whispers and pulls away before Antonio can attempt to headbutt the blonde haired man.
“You,” Antonio snaps, “You have no right to tell me how to be, Francis! I can not believe-“ A strangled laugh escapes his lips and he shakes his head disapprovingly. Oh, dear Lord, he couldn’t believe that he had smiled at his brother just seconds before his ship was raided. He thought; it was his brother! There was not a reason to worry! “You are no better than Inglaterra.”
“Angleterre?” Francis asks, reaching across the table to grab a bottle of stolen, Spanish wine and a glass. “Mon frère, I am nothing like him.”
“You are a pirate!” Antonio yells. A pirate. His closest friend, one whom he had loved like a brother for centuries was a pirate. “A thief! A terrorist! A-“ He falls silent as the empty wine glass is pressed against his lips.
Smiling approvingly at the reaction, Francis speaks, “Angleterre. Aaah, Angleterre, he is. . . how to put it?” Raising the glass in the air, studying it in the candle light, he finally continues, “The way he acts, one would think he wasn’t a civilized nation at all. Always yelling, quick to fight, and the way he drinks! Of course, you already know of his faults, right, Antonio?”
His green eyes are dark, even in the candlelight as he glares at the corsair. Upper lip twisted into a snarl, he does not have to speak to answer Francis’ question. Of course he remembers Arthur and the way he wears sea salt, gunpowder, and alcohol on him as if it were a perfume. He recalls the problems the arrogant rock of a nation had caused him; targeting his merchant ships, chasing them, tormenting him at every opportunity he could get.
“What is it called?” Francis asks, “That foul drink Arthur is always drinking?” He knows the answer, he has his own bottle saved somewhere in his cabin for those particularly long sea voyages. The taste was horrible but even he had to admit that there were some times when wine simply would not do.
“Rum, Francis.” Antonio replies. Francis notes that his brother’s voice is uncharacteristically cold for the warm nation.
“Yes, rhum.” The corsair laughs, “Disgusting drink. I can’t imagine how he could drink enough to smell like it.” Francis dismisses the topic with a wave of the glass and pops the cork from the wine bottle and pouring it into the glass. Holding it out to his brother, as if in a toast, he smiles devilishly.
Antonio stares at the dark, deep red of the wine shining warmly in the dim light before looking up at his brother, rejecting the nation in front of him.
“I am different from Arthur, Antonio. I have taste.” Francis insists, raising the glass to his lips and taking a sip. Licking his lips, Francis gives a nod of approval to his brother’s wine before leaning closer to Antonio, placing the edge of the glass against the Spaniard’s lips.
“That isn’t to say that Anglterre is without taste-Arthur can’t tell what is bad but he can certainly tell you what is good .” The Frenchman explains and Antonio pulls away as far as he can into his chair. When he cannot retreat anymore, Francis takes the moment to run his hand up his brother’s chest, touching at the fine fabric of the Spanish uniform and allowing his fingers to play with the golden crucifix.
Using his index finger to tilt the Spaniard’s chin up, he leans down, pressing his lips against the other nation’s mouth. Antonio splutters at the taste of Spain’s finest wine and Francis. When the blond nation finally pulls away, Antonio’s first reaction is to spit and rid his mouth of the taste.
“Mon frère, you wouldn’t be in trouble all of the time if you were not so rich.” Francis laughs and pours himself another glass.