The duel [2/3]
anonymous
March 16 2009, 07:43:09 UTC
When they got to the clearing, another argument ensued, this one about the type of weapon they were going to use.
“Only a pantywaist or a Frenchman would not use a pistol for a duel,” Arthur said.
“And only a sissy coward would hide behind that sort of brute weaponry instead of using his true strength as a man,” Francis shot back.
“Fine! I’ll best you with anything you throw at me!” Arthur shouted, lifting his duelling sword and taking stance.
“I doubt that. En garde!” Francis cried.
As the two men clashed, the sound of steel hitting steel filling the small clearing, Al sauntered over to where Matthew was nibbling on his Danish fretfully. (It was an eight dollar pastry. He wasn’t about to leave it behind.)
“Don’t worry,” Al attempted to reassure the other man. “They’ve done this dozens of times. They won’t hurt each other.”
“Really?” Matthew asked, looking up at him.
“Most probably,” Al replied with a nod.
Matt frowned, this answer not quite the one he wanted, but feeling slightly better nonetheless.
“So. You and Francis, huh?” Al ventured finally.
“Uh… yeah. Is that okay?” Matthew asked nervously.
Al shrugged. “Whatever. I’m not dating him.” He gave Matthew an accessing look. “Would you break up with him if I’d said ‘no’?”
Matthew bit his lip and looked at the Danish in his hands. “No,” he answered honestly. “But I’d try not to flaunt it too much while you’re around.”
“At least I wait until they are old enough to sign their own charter,” Francis goaded, using his advantage to back Arthur into a retreat. Arthur managed to duck under one of Francis’ more wild swings and came up behind him.
Matthew began to relax. Al was right. They were really good at duelling. He finished his Danish.
“So, you guys done it yet?” Al asked with a grin.
Matthew’s ears instantly went aflame. “Alfred!” he exclaimed quietly.
Al’s grin just widened. “So that’s a yes.”
With a slightly embarrassed grin, Matthew nodded.
“And you haven’t won a war since Napoleon, who lost to me by the way.” Arthur swung low towards Francis’ thighs, but the Frenchman parried with a clang
“What position do you usually play?” Al inquired.
“Well,” Matthew tapped his chin thoughtfully, “we do like to switch it up, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that Francis more than usually comes out on top. He just has so much more experience, y’know?” A slightly cheeky smile broke over his face. “I did get to tie him up once. That was fun.”
“Oh, I wish,” Al said wistfully. “Art’s pretty vanilla when it comes to anything like that.”
“You wouldn’t know romance if it came up and bit you in the Wimbledons, cochon.”
Al frowned. “Did Francis just call Art a pickle?”
Matthew laughed. “No, cornichon is pickle. Cochon is pig.” Out of the blue, Matthew started blushing.
“What? What is it?”
“Nothing,” Matthew mumbled, then laughed. “You mentioning pickles just reminded me of something.”
“Something kinky?” Al grinned. “Matt, I had no idea.”
“You know Francis,” Matthew commented dryly. “Just give him a bottle of KY and his imagination.”
“Have you ever tried Astroglide?”
“No, why?”
“Oh, way better. You could park an SUV in a tictac box.”
“Oh, thanks, I’ll look into that.”
“You just wish your piddly little ferris wheel had half the grandeur of the London Eye.”
Matthew hid a grin when Al rolled his eyes.
“You are just jealous that the best changes to your country came after Charlemagne,” Francis told Arthur arrogantly. Arthur gave a roar of fury and charged. Francis attempted to keep up, but was soon suffering under the onslaught.
“You’re a drunken lecher with absolutely no fashion sense,” Arthur said, his voice ringing in triumph, emphasising every point with a swipe of his sword. “You’re a hedonistic bastard who’s always in need of saving and yet can’t seem to keep his excesses in check enough to prevent anything. And guess what?"
"What?" Francis growled.
Arthur sniffed at him distainfully. "I. Have. Better. Cheese!” With that final point, his sword struck true into Francis’ shoulder, who gave a cry, dropping to his knees, his sword falling from his hand as his other one clapped to his wound after Arthur pulled back.
“Only a pantywaist or a Frenchman would not use a pistol for a duel,” Arthur said.
“And only a sissy coward would hide behind that sort of brute weaponry instead of using his true strength as a man,” Francis shot back.
“Fine! I’ll best you with anything you throw at me!” Arthur shouted, lifting his duelling sword and taking stance.
“I doubt that. En garde!” Francis cried.
As the two men clashed, the sound of steel hitting steel filling the small clearing, Al sauntered over to where Matthew was nibbling on his Danish fretfully. (It was an eight dollar pastry. He wasn’t about to leave it behind.)
“Don’t worry,” Al attempted to reassure the other man. “They’ve done this dozens of times. They won’t hurt each other.”
“Really?” Matthew asked, looking up at him.
“Most probably,” Al replied with a nod.
Matt frowned, this answer not quite the one he wanted, but feeling slightly better nonetheless.
“So. You and Francis, huh?” Al ventured finally.
“Uh… yeah. Is that okay?” Matthew asked nervously.
Al shrugged. “Whatever. I’m not dating him.” He gave Matthew an accessing look. “Would you break up with him if I’d said ‘no’?”
Matthew bit his lip and looked at the Danish in his hands. “No,” he answered honestly. “But I’d try not to flaunt it too much while you’re around.”
“At least I wait until they are old enough to sign their own charter,” Francis goaded, using his advantage to back Arthur into a retreat. Arthur managed to duck under one of Francis’ more wild swings and came up behind him.
Matthew began to relax. Al was right. They were really good at duelling. He finished his Danish.
“So, you guys done it yet?” Al asked with a grin.
Matthew’s ears instantly went aflame. “Alfred!” he exclaimed quietly.
Al’s grin just widened. “So that’s a yes.”
With a slightly embarrassed grin, Matthew nodded.
“And you haven’t won a war since Napoleon, who lost to me by the way.” Arthur swung low towards Francis’ thighs, but the Frenchman parried with a clang
“What position do you usually play?” Al inquired.
“Well,” Matthew tapped his chin thoughtfully, “we do like to switch it up, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that Francis more than usually comes out on top. He just has so much more experience, y’know?” A slightly cheeky smile broke over his face. “I did get to tie him up once. That was fun.”
“Oh, I wish,” Al said wistfully. “Art’s pretty vanilla when it comes to anything like that.”
“You wouldn’t know romance if it came up and bit you in the Wimbledons, cochon.”
Al frowned. “Did Francis just call Art a pickle?”
Matthew laughed. “No, cornichon is pickle. Cochon is pig.” Out of the blue, Matthew started blushing.
“What? What is it?”
“Nothing,” Matthew mumbled, then laughed. “You mentioning pickles just reminded me of something.”
“Something kinky?” Al grinned. “Matt, I had no idea.”
“You know Francis,” Matthew commented dryly. “Just give him a bottle of KY and his imagination.”
“Have you ever tried Astroglide?”
“No, why?”
“Oh, way better. You could park an SUV in a tictac box.”
“Oh, thanks, I’ll look into that.”
“You just wish your piddly little ferris wheel had half the grandeur of the London Eye.”
Matthew hid a grin when Al rolled his eyes.
“You are just jealous that the best changes to your country came after Charlemagne,” Francis told Arthur arrogantly. Arthur gave a roar of fury and charged. Francis attempted to keep up, but was soon suffering under the onslaught.
“You’re a drunken lecher with absolutely no fashion sense,” Arthur said, his voice ringing in triumph, emphasising every point with a swipe of his sword. “You’re a hedonistic bastard who’s always in need of saving and yet can’t seem to keep his excesses in check enough to prevent anything. And guess what?"
"What?" Francis growled.
Arthur sniffed at him distainfully. "I. Have. Better. Cheese!” With that final point, his sword struck true into Francis’ shoulder, who gave a cry, dropping to his knees, his sword falling from his hand as his other one clapped to his wound after Arthur pulled back.
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