OLD GENERATION FIC: "In Three Days" - Saint-Just/Robespierre - Rated R
Is it good? It's a bit silly, but the letter is nice. It makes it sound more realistic, and I still enjoy Robespierre's uneasy characterisation towards sudden sex.
Title: In Three Days…
Author: Maelicia
Rated: R, coz it’s really a PWP
Word Count: 987.
Summary: Saint-Just is back from a mission. He grew a moustache. It annoys Maxime, but he still lets himself being pushed over a desk, because it’s hot. (Yes, the whole point of this fic is really… profound. *coughs*) Also features a letter I had randomly written long ago and that I could finally fit in a fic. If you want the French version of it, I put it at the end (coz I wrote it first in French, the two versions are quite similar, anyway).
(P.S. I’m aware of it; the title really, really, really sucks - I just gave up trying to find a reasonable one.)
In Three Days…
~ By Maelicia
He had not seen him for weeks. The last letter he had received had arrived a few days before. There had been only one sentence: “I will see you in three days - Saint-Just.” This sentence, hastily scribbled, betrayed many feelings, similar to those he had expressed in his previous letter, except the latter was much longer and the style was very different - assuredly thought over and prepared thoroughly. Robespierre smiled as he recalled the words he had each memorised before burning such a… compromising letter.
“The absence of your presence torments me, since in fact it is I who is absent. I should refrain from detailing those feelings which are, no doubt, futile, but I keep the certainty that you might suffer them yourself, sometimes. Yet, my heart and my reason seem so marvellously harmonious these days, exactly like a couple of new spouses.”
So much longing they shared…
“I believe I must repeat; these thoughts torment me. Even with this letter which you wrote to me and which I hold so respectfully between my fingers. I believe I might be smelling the particular perfume of your ink, the one which dirties your hands so often.”
Saint-Just’s fingers tightened their grasp on the older man’s waist, crushing him against the edge of the desk with a push of his enthusiastic hips. Maxime smoothed his friend’s long hair, caressing lightly his cheeks. The young man gripped the fingertips between his lips, tasting the lingering of this very ink he had spoken of. Robespierre sighed.
“I can also perceive the soft atmosphere of your landlord’s home. All of it on this simple and precious parchment. What is this more exotic perfume of which I dare imagine the origin? I breathe it when I approach this letter with my visage. Would you have eaten oranges? They seem to be your second perfume.”
He had precisely eaten one before Saint-Just had walked in his room. He wondered how much Antoine truly appreciated the taste, now that his tongue was pushing deeply inside his mouth. Saint-Just’s kisses were always so intense and frenzied when they had missed each other for very long - Robespierre’s lips could be bruised for a rather long time the next day.
“It will be so difficult to burn this letter. I must caress it a last time. Only one.
Yet it is necessary.
When it is the right time, burn mine. Last time, you forgot. Read it many times, if it seems too difficult for you, and remember my words. They might bring you joy. Or less solitude.
Don’t be afraid, mon ami; burn it.
Je t’embrasse…
Saint-Just.”
And oh, how his present actions were complying with his past words!… This time, however, the kiss seemed to be twice more bruising, or rather, scratching; Saint-Just had apparently decided to grace his delicate features with an unnecessary moustache. Maxime recalled how, before he had left, the younger man had suggested he ought to grow himself a moustache. Did he sincerely wish to appear to be a mature man for the requirements of a time of war? Obviously, Robespierre concluded, but it was quite ludicrous. Saint-Just still looked like an adolescent - an adolescent with a moustache, which had barely grew anyway. It was awkward, as much as the kissing now was.
Precisely when he thought it could not be any worse, Antoine decided to finally undo Maxime’s cravat - his fingers had been clinging to it for already a while, seemingly fighting with the bow - and to torment the exposed and fragile skin of the neck. The sensation was naturally mesmerising, yet still quite chafing and thus irritating.
“Saint-Just?” he muttered, with the typical difficulties he always felt in such situation.
“Mmm?”
“Would you prefer to shave before we go any furt-”
“Later.”
Maxime could have sworn the young man was grinning when he interrupted him. He could not see him - since Saint-Just was occupied nibbling at the skin right under his jaw bone, next to his left ear - but he knew. This was rather upsetting.
“But perhaps…” Robespierre insisted.
Antoine stopped and stared into his friend’s green eyes. He was indeed smiling in his usual fashion - devious angel. He leisurely trailed a finger on Maxime’s face, lining the edge of his cheeks and lips.
“Are you scared I might not be clean enough after all this time spent on a military camp?”
Maxime frowned; sometimes he did wonder if his friend practised such bizarre questions before asking. “Non, bien sûr que n-” He could not finish his objection. Saint-Just’s right hand had reached under his unbuttoned waistcoat, pulling up his shirt, sliding up on the warm chest to a small, hard nipple fervently awaiting to be pinched. “Oh, Antoine…” he gasped.
With his other hand, Saint-Just seized one of his friend’s wrists and, passing a knee between the older man’s legs, pushed him down over the desk, holding him still. He approached his wet lips from Robespierre’s ear. As he whispered, his tongue audaciously touched the lobe, “I still smell and taste like only Mars would.”
Comme seulement Mars.
Maxime shut his eyes, shivering. He felt he was suddenly floating above the ground - which wasn’t entirely false, since his feet were no longer reaching the wooden floor, spread on his own desk, careless of the papers covering it. He could hear those breathtaking words again… except now that he thought of it; did Mars have a moustache? Robespierre guessed it was not the right time to ponder and debate an iconography issue which could be easier answered by David - not that it was the right time to think of him either anyway. Nevertheless, when he was turned to face the desk and felt his breeches being pulled down, Maxime concluded that, much later, he might be able to shave this bothering facial hair himself… when his friend would be far too exhausted to pursue any combat.
~ The End.
Author’s Note: And yes; I know that this is another sort-of-war-related fic. Except this time, it was a Roman reference, not a Spartan one :P
French version of the letter:
« L'absence de ta présence me tourmente, car en fait, c'est moi qui suis absent. Je devrais m’abstenir de détailler ces sentiments sans doute futiles, mais j’ai la certitude que tu les souffres parfois toi-même. Mon cœur et ma raison semblent pourtant si merveilleusement harmonieux, ces temps-ci, comme un couple de nouveaux époux.
Je crois devoir répéter; ces pensées me tourmentent. Même avec cette lettre que tu m’as écrite et que je tiens si respectueusement entre mes doigts. Je crois sentir l’odeur particulière de ton encre, celle qui tache si souvent tes mains, et aussi la douce atmosphère du foyer de tes logeurs. Tout ceci sur ce simple et précieux parchemin. Quel est donc ce parfum exotique dont j’ose imaginer l’origine? Je le respire lorsque j’approche cette lettre de mon visage. Aurais-tu mangé des oranges? Elles semblent être ton second parfum.
Il me sera si difficile de brûler cette lettre. Je me dois de la caresser une dernière fois. Rien qu’une seule.
C’est pourtant nécessaire.
Brûle la mienne à ton tour. La dernière fois, tu avais oublié. Lis la plusieurs fois, si ça te semble trop difficile, et retiens mes mots. Ils t’apporteront peut-être de la joie. Ou moins de solitude.
N’aie point peur, mon ami; brûle-la.
Je t’embrasse…
Saint-Just. »
Title: In Three Days…
Author: Maelicia
Rated: R, coz it’s really a PWP
Word Count: 987.
Summary: Saint-Just is back from a mission. He grew a moustache. It annoys Maxime, but he still lets himself being pushed over a desk, because it’s hot. (Yes, the whole point of this fic is really… profound. *coughs*) Also features a letter I had randomly written long ago and that I could finally fit in a fic. If you want the French version of it, I put it at the end (coz I wrote it first in French, the two versions are quite similar, anyway).
(P.S. I’m aware of it; the title really, really, really sucks - I just gave up trying to find a reasonable one.)
In Three Days…
~ By Maelicia
He had not seen him for weeks. The last letter he had received had arrived a few days before. There had been only one sentence: “I will see you in three days - Saint-Just.” This sentence, hastily scribbled, betrayed many feelings, similar to those he had expressed in his previous letter, except the latter was much longer and the style was very different - assuredly thought over and prepared thoroughly. Robespierre smiled as he recalled the words he had each memorised before burning such a… compromising letter.
“The absence of your presence torments me, since in fact it is I who is absent. I should refrain from detailing those feelings which are, no doubt, futile, but I keep the certainty that you might suffer them yourself, sometimes. Yet, my heart and my reason seem so marvellously harmonious these days, exactly like a couple of new spouses.”
So much longing they shared…
“I believe I must repeat; these thoughts torment me. Even with this letter which you wrote to me and which I hold so respectfully between my fingers. I believe I might be smelling the particular perfume of your ink, the one which dirties your hands so often.”
Saint-Just’s fingers tightened their grasp on the older man’s waist, crushing him against the edge of the desk with a push of his enthusiastic hips. Maxime smoothed his friend’s long hair, caressing lightly his cheeks. The young man gripped the fingertips between his lips, tasting the lingering of this very ink he had spoken of. Robespierre sighed.
“I can also perceive the soft atmosphere of your landlord’s home. All of it on this simple and precious parchment. What is this more exotic perfume of which I dare imagine the origin? I breathe it when I approach this letter with my visage. Would you have eaten oranges? They seem to be your second perfume.”
He had precisely eaten one before Saint-Just had walked in his room. He wondered how much Antoine truly appreciated the taste, now that his tongue was pushing deeply inside his mouth. Saint-Just’s kisses were always so intense and frenzied when they had missed each other for very long - Robespierre’s lips could be bruised for a rather long time the next day.
“It will be so difficult to burn this letter. I must caress it a last time. Only one.
Yet it is necessary.
When it is the right time, burn mine. Last time, you forgot. Read it many times, if it seems too difficult for you, and remember my words. They might bring you joy. Or less solitude.
Don’t be afraid, mon ami; burn it.
Je t’embrasse…
Saint-Just.”
And oh, how his present actions were complying with his past words!… This time, however, the kiss seemed to be twice more bruising, or rather, scratching; Saint-Just had apparently decided to grace his delicate features with an unnecessary moustache. Maxime recalled how, before he had left, the younger man had suggested he ought to grow himself a moustache. Did he sincerely wish to appear to be a mature man for the requirements of a time of war? Obviously, Robespierre concluded, but it was quite ludicrous. Saint-Just still looked like an adolescent - an adolescent with a moustache, which had barely grew anyway. It was awkward, as much as the kissing now was.
Precisely when he thought it could not be any worse, Antoine decided to finally undo Maxime’s cravat - his fingers had been clinging to it for already a while, seemingly fighting with the bow - and to torment the exposed and fragile skin of the neck. The sensation was naturally mesmerising, yet still quite chafing and thus irritating.
“Saint-Just?” he muttered, with the typical difficulties he always felt in such situation.
“Mmm?”
“Would you prefer to shave before we go any furt-”
“Later.”
Maxime could have sworn the young man was grinning when he interrupted him. He could not see him - since Saint-Just was occupied nibbling at the skin right under his jaw bone, next to his left ear - but he knew. This was rather upsetting.
“But perhaps…” Robespierre insisted.
Antoine stopped and stared into his friend’s green eyes. He was indeed smiling in his usual fashion - devious angel. He leisurely trailed a finger on Maxime’s face, lining the edge of his cheeks and lips.
“Are you scared I might not be clean enough after all this time spent on a military camp?”
Maxime frowned; sometimes he did wonder if his friend practised such bizarre questions before asking. “Non, bien sûr que n-” He could not finish his objection. Saint-Just’s right hand had reached under his unbuttoned waistcoat, pulling up his shirt, sliding up on the warm chest to a small, hard nipple fervently awaiting to be pinched. “Oh, Antoine…” he gasped.
With his other hand, Saint-Just seized one of his friend’s wrists and, passing a knee between the older man’s legs, pushed him down over the desk, holding him still. He approached his wet lips from Robespierre’s ear. As he whispered, his tongue audaciously touched the lobe, “I still smell and taste like only Mars would.”
Comme seulement Mars.
Maxime shut his eyes, shivering. He felt he was suddenly floating above the ground - which wasn’t entirely false, since his feet were no longer reaching the wooden floor, spread on his own desk, careless of the papers covering it. He could hear those breathtaking words again… except now that he thought of it; did Mars have a moustache? Robespierre guessed it was not the right time to ponder and debate an iconography issue which could be easier answered by David - not that it was the right time to think of him either anyway. Nevertheless, when he was turned to face the desk and felt his breeches being pulled down, Maxime concluded that, much later, he might be able to shave this bothering facial hair himself… when his friend would be far too exhausted to pursue any combat.
~ The End.
Author’s Note: And yes; I know that this is another sort-of-war-related fic. Except this time, it was a Roman reference, not a Spartan one :P
French version of the letter:
« L'absence de ta présence me tourmente, car en fait, c'est moi qui suis absent. Je devrais m’abstenir de détailler ces sentiments sans doute futiles, mais j’ai la certitude que tu les souffres parfois toi-même. Mon cœur et ma raison semblent pourtant si merveilleusement harmonieux, ces temps-ci, comme un couple de nouveaux époux.
Je crois devoir répéter; ces pensées me tourmentent. Même avec cette lettre que tu m’as écrite et que je tiens si respectueusement entre mes doigts. Je crois sentir l’odeur particulière de ton encre, celle qui tache si souvent tes mains, et aussi la douce atmosphère du foyer de tes logeurs. Tout ceci sur ce simple et précieux parchemin. Quel est donc ce parfum exotique dont j’ose imaginer l’origine? Je le respire lorsque j’approche cette lettre de mon visage. Aurais-tu mangé des oranges? Elles semblent être ton second parfum.
Il me sera si difficile de brûler cette lettre. Je me dois de la caresser une dernière fois. Rien qu’une seule.
C’est pourtant nécessaire.
Brûle la mienne à ton tour. La dernière fois, tu avais oublié. Lis la plusieurs fois, si ça te semble trop difficile, et retiens mes mots. Ils t’apporteront peut-être de la joie. Ou moins de solitude.
N’aie point peur, mon ami; brûle-la.
Je t’embrasse…
Saint-Just. »