Ontario [5/?]
anonymous
December 1 2009, 17:36:01 UTC
“How did you escape?”
“I trailed behind,” Russia says, shutting the door and locking it behind them. “No one followed us.”
“Good.”
They spare any further words, moving at the same time; Francis wraps his arms around Ivan’s neck at the same time he feels Ivan’s arms wrap around his waist. And underneath that gentleness he feels strength being held back, the urge to crush and own. Francis tightens his own grip, but Ivan’s remains slack and loose as their faces tilt to one another and they kiss.
Ivan’s tongue pauses at Francis’s lips, shy, uncertain, and Francis just chuckles and opens his mouth further, inviting Ivan in. Holding his tongue there with gentle teeth and sheer will until Ivan stops trying to draw back and away, until Ivan’s hands come up to tangle in his hair, gentle fistfuls of gold poking out between fingers.
“Ah - Dieu, Ivan - ah, what do you want me to -”\
Ivan gasps, tilting his head. “Just - hold you,” Ivan murmurs, voice husky and restrained. “Just wanna hold you.”
“All right.” Kiss. “All right.”
They ease out of their intense kiss with many smaller ones, peppering and letting their lips touch and smack gently against one another until they are separated by breath and by gaze. They let that boundary stay between them - for now, just for now.
Francis breaks the silence first with a chuckle at Ivan’s bemused face. “Do you remember the first time we kissed like that?” he asks, a hand coming up to keep Ivan’s eyes fixed on his.
“1720,” Ivan breathes back, letting his eyelashes flutter as he remembers. “Peter the Great….”
“He asked me to be a French tutor for you when you began to open up to the rest of Europe, if I recall,” Francis murmurs, letting his own eyelids fall shut a little as he begins to remember himself - how elegant Ivan looked, even then, much softer and shyer than many of the other Nations he’d known. “You were fascinating.”
“To look at?” Ivan asks, his voice empty of judgment and accusation.
“Oui, mon cher.” Francis reaches up, drawing a fingertip down the curve of Ivan’s nose. “But not just that. You were eager to learn and to listen - to accept what I had to teach.”
“But things changed, didn’t they?” Ivan asked. “I mean…after you….”
Francis swallows. Ivan does him a kindness, in not naming that dreaded, dark time of his history, those years when he watched his royal family and their children get torn apart in the name of the people.
Even so, the memories make the madness at the edge of his mind stir and prowl, waiting to reach out and grab him.
Ivan tightens his hug, hiding his face once more in the curve of Francis’s neck. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice small and humble. “I’m sorry, Francis.”
Francis opens his mouth, but finds he cannot speak against the tense tendrils coiling through and lacing his bloodstream. He needs. He’s not sure what, or how. He just needs.
And Ivan sees that he needs, and when he kisses Francis’s mouth, Francis knows that Ivan will give him something to fill that need.
Ivan kisses his jaw and down his neck as one hand fiddles with the buttons of Francis’s shirt; he turns them so that Francis stands pressed back against the wall, fingers pressing and curling into the polished linoleum.
“Ivan -” he says, and hates that his voice breaks, high and scared.
“Shh.”
Ivan’s hand comes down to cup him through his trousers, continuing to kiss the place on his neck where the blood beats full and strong. Francis gasps, bucking up into that hand, and gives himself permission to lose himself in an intensity that overrides the puppet-string nerves that jerk and twitch his body. ___
They never do make it to dinner.
But that’s okay, because they’re not really that hungry anyway. Not in a physical sense. And if they do get hungry, maybe they can find a way to sneak out together later, fingers laced together, and find a nice coffee shop that sells good biscotti and espresso.
The novelty makes Francis’s toes curl, but his eyes stay fixed on the coat in his hands, the needle going in and out as he fixes the lining on Ivan’s coat. He leans in to breathe its scent in, deep and metallic, a breath of winter that lacks in cold.
Re: Ontario [5/?]
anonymous
December 2 2009, 22:09:33 UTC
I love everything about this fic. Such a sweet, sad relationship, and seeing these two in love and desperate for each other just breaks my heart. I can't wait for more.
“I trailed behind,” Russia says, shutting the door and locking it behind them. “No one followed us.”
“Good.”
They spare any further words, moving at the same time; Francis wraps his arms around Ivan’s neck at the same time he feels Ivan’s arms wrap around his waist. And underneath that gentleness he feels strength being held back, the urge to crush and own. Francis tightens his own grip, but Ivan’s remains slack and loose as their faces tilt to one another and they kiss.
Ivan’s tongue pauses at Francis’s lips, shy, uncertain, and Francis just chuckles and opens his mouth further, inviting Ivan in. Holding his tongue there with gentle teeth and sheer will until Ivan stops trying to draw back and away, until Ivan’s hands come up to tangle in his hair, gentle fistfuls of gold poking out between fingers.
“Ah - Dieu, Ivan - ah, what do you want me to -”\
Ivan gasps, tilting his head. “Just - hold you,” Ivan murmurs, voice husky and restrained. “Just wanna hold you.”
“All right.” Kiss. “All right.”
They ease out of their intense kiss with many smaller ones, peppering and letting their lips touch and smack gently against one another until they are separated by breath and by gaze. They let that boundary stay between them - for now, just for now.
Francis breaks the silence first with a chuckle at Ivan’s bemused face. “Do you remember the first time we kissed like that?” he asks, a hand coming up to keep Ivan’s eyes fixed on his.
“1720,” Ivan breathes back, letting his eyelashes flutter as he remembers. “Peter the Great….”
“He asked me to be a French tutor for you when you began to open up to the rest of Europe, if I recall,” Francis murmurs, letting his own eyelids fall shut a little as he begins to remember himself - how elegant Ivan looked, even then, much softer and shyer than many of the other Nations he’d known. “You were fascinating.”
“To look at?” Ivan asks, his voice empty of judgment and accusation.
“Oui, mon cher.” Francis reaches up, drawing a fingertip down the curve of Ivan’s nose. “But not just that. You were eager to learn and to listen - to accept what I had to teach.”
“But things changed, didn’t they?” Ivan asked. “I mean…after you….”
Francis swallows. Ivan does him a kindness, in not naming that dreaded, dark time of his history, those years when he watched his royal family and their children get torn apart in the name of the people.
Even so, the memories make the madness at the edge of his mind stir and prowl, waiting to reach out and grab him.
Ivan tightens his hug, hiding his face once more in the curve of Francis’s neck. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice small and humble. “I’m sorry, Francis.”
Francis opens his mouth, but finds he cannot speak against the tense tendrils coiling through and lacing his bloodstream. He needs. He’s not sure what, or how. He just needs.
And Ivan sees that he needs, and when he kisses Francis’s mouth, Francis knows that Ivan will give him something to fill that need.
Ivan kisses his jaw and down his neck as one hand fiddles with the buttons of Francis’s shirt; he turns them so that Francis stands pressed back against the wall, fingers pressing and curling into the polished linoleum.
“Ivan -” he says, and hates that his voice breaks, high and scared.
“Shh.”
Ivan’s hand comes down to cup him through his trousers, continuing to kiss the place on his neck where the blood beats full and strong. Francis gasps, bucking up into that hand, and gives himself permission to lose himself in an intensity that overrides the puppet-string nerves that jerk and twitch his body.
___
They never do make it to dinner.
But that’s okay, because they’re not really that hungry anyway. Not in a physical sense. And if they do get hungry, maybe they can find a way to sneak out together later, fingers laced together, and find a nice coffee shop that sells good biscotti and espresso.
The novelty makes Francis’s toes curl, but his eyes stay fixed on the coat in his hands, the needle going in and out as he fixes the lining on Ivan’s coat. He leans in to breathe its scent in, deep and metallic, a breath of winter that lacks in cold.
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