Ontario [3/?]
anonymous
November 29 2009, 18:37:18 UTC
France works with quick, efficient movements, curling and uncurling his fingers as needed; he has but five fingers on each hand, and yet he feels as though they are more like spider-legs than the flesh-and-bone of human hands.
He does not say a word as Russia’s organic, human scent draws closer and stronger. He does not speak as Russia rests his head on France’s shoulder.
It takes about ten minutes to sew the hole shut - not hidden, of course, and not really all repaired, but enough that Russia will be able to make it through the next three days without being embarrassed. “Is that all right?” France asks, smoothing a hand over the stitches after he knots off the thread, biting off the excess with his teeth.
“Yes. That will be fine, I think.”
A larger hand comes to rest over France’s before he can respond.
“You have such lovely hands, Francis.” Russia lifts them from the coat, bringing them to his mouth. “So slim and graceful…and warm.” Breath fans over fingertips, lips barely touching the pointer finger. “So unlike my own.”
Lips touch the tips of fingers, and things break.
Francis wends his free hand around to the back of Ivan’s neck and lets tenderness make him boneless, lets gravity pull them both down onto the comfortable cushions of the mattress. Francis slings his legs over Ivan’s thighs, the coat still sprawled out over his lap, and kisses. Just kisses, and lets the world around them drip away into a pleasant melt.
Something pricks at the back of Francis’s skull, and his eyes flutter open to gaze into slits of purple, focused and intense. Ivan blinks, the motion startled and quick, and pulls away; Francis whines, trying to coax him back with his tongue and soft eyes. But Russia lets them rest face-to-face, still close, sharing breath and gaze. So that’s all right.
“Three days,” Ivan whispers, his voice so small and sad that Francis has to reach up, pull Ivan into the crook of his neck. “Three more days just like this…like it’s always been. Like it never will be again.”
Francis smoothes his hands over Russia’s hair - so soft, so much like the first snowfall that sticks to the cold ground. “Do not think of that right now, mon cher,” Francis murmurs, sliding into little French endearments without even seeming to realize it. “Please. We are blessed with the moments we have right now. Let’s not waste it.”
Ivan doesn’t respond for a moment. “Ivan?”
“The Italies,” Ivan murmurs into the crook of Francis’s neck.
“What?”
“My boss…he wants a closer relationship with the Italies.” And there’s implication in that voice - implication that he’s trying to hide in Francis’s neck. With a sigh and a shake of the head, Francis tilts his head up so that their eyes meet, fluttering lashes and shy stares.
“What about you?” Ivan murmurs, and his voice sounds tight and jealous - the very sound of a lover who knows his beloved is drifting away and that there is nothing he can do about it.
Francis sighs, shakes his head, and rests the tips of his fingers on Ivan’s cheek. “Right now, I have twenty minutes until our meeting,” he whispers, spreading his fingers so that he can trace down Ivan’s jaw. “And that means that the only person I want to get closer to is right here in front of me, while I still have the time to cherish them.”
Ivan trembles underneath his fingertips, and when he moves forward in a sudden surge to kiss Francis with a raw desperation, Francis only circles his arms around Ivan’s shoulders and pulls him even closer, touching, tasting.
Remembering.
Francis takes the coat as they kiss, lifting it to drape over their heads and shoulders with some small allowance for air.
Ivan gets the message and softens his kisses as he relaxes against Francis’s body, as they take this small oasis of time to themselves to just feel and touch. ___
They are the last ones into the meeting room - almost late, in fact. The only tenderness Francis has time to show Ivan before they enter is the way his hands smooth rumpled hair, so that there is no more trace of their intimacy as they walk into the meeting room.
He does not say a word as Russia’s organic, human scent draws closer and stronger. He does not speak as Russia rests his head on France’s shoulder.
It takes about ten minutes to sew the hole shut - not hidden, of course, and not really all repaired, but enough that Russia will be able to make it through the next three days without being embarrassed. “Is that all right?” France asks, smoothing a hand over the stitches after he knots off the thread, biting off the excess with his teeth.
“Yes. That will be fine, I think.”
A larger hand comes to rest over France’s before he can respond.
“You have such lovely hands, Francis.” Russia lifts them from the coat, bringing them to his mouth. “So slim and graceful…and warm.” Breath fans over fingertips, lips barely touching the pointer finger. “So unlike my own.”
Lips touch the tips of fingers, and things break.
Francis wends his free hand around to the back of Ivan’s neck and lets tenderness make him boneless, lets gravity pull them both down onto the comfortable cushions of the mattress. Francis slings his legs over Ivan’s thighs, the coat still sprawled out over his lap, and kisses. Just kisses, and lets the world around them drip away into a pleasant melt.
Something pricks at the back of Francis’s skull, and his eyes flutter open to gaze into slits of purple, focused and intense. Ivan blinks, the motion startled and quick, and pulls away; Francis whines, trying to coax him back with his tongue and soft eyes. But Russia lets them rest face-to-face, still close, sharing breath and gaze. So that’s all right.
“Three days,” Ivan whispers, his voice so small and sad that Francis has to reach up, pull Ivan into the crook of his neck. “Three more days just like this…like it’s always been. Like it never will be again.”
Francis smoothes his hands over Russia’s hair - so soft, so much like the first snowfall that sticks to the cold ground. “Do not think of that right now, mon cher,” Francis murmurs, sliding into little French endearments without even seeming to realize it. “Please. We are blessed with the moments we have right now. Let’s not waste it.”
Ivan doesn’t respond for a moment. “Ivan?”
“The Italies,” Ivan murmurs into the crook of Francis’s neck.
“What?”
“My boss…he wants a closer relationship with the Italies.” And there’s implication in that voice - implication that he’s trying to hide in Francis’s neck. With a sigh and a shake of the head, Francis tilts his head up so that their eyes meet, fluttering lashes and shy stares.
“What about you?” Ivan murmurs, and his voice sounds tight and jealous - the very sound of a lover who knows his beloved is drifting away and that there is nothing he can do about it.
Francis sighs, shakes his head, and rests the tips of his fingers on Ivan’s cheek. “Right now, I have twenty minutes until our meeting,” he whispers, spreading his fingers so that he can trace down Ivan’s jaw. “And that means that the only person I want to get closer to is right here in front of me, while I still have the time to cherish them.”
Ivan trembles underneath his fingertips, and when he moves forward in a sudden surge to kiss Francis with a raw desperation, Francis only circles his arms around Ivan’s shoulders and pulls him even closer, touching, tasting.
Remembering.
Francis takes the coat as they kiss, lifting it to drape over their heads and shoulders with some small allowance for air.
Ivan gets the message and softens his kisses as he relaxes against Francis’s body, as they take this small oasis of time to themselves to just feel and touch.
___
They are the last ones into the meeting room - almost late, in fact. The only tenderness Francis has time to show Ivan before they enter is the way his hands smooth rumpled hair, so that there is no more trace of their intimacy as they walk into the meeting room.
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