Rubato [Austria/France]
Title: Rubato
Author: thoughtscrime
Pairing: Austria/France
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Short, no real dialog, imagination needed to progress beyond the beginning of the bedroom?
Description: Courtship in the modern age where there is no alliances or politics needed, only romance and understanding - even if the courtship itself is a battle of sorts.
For prussianegoist for her birthdayyyy~
It wasn’t that he was unromantic - far from it, actually. Austria had been well-known throughout history for marriages of politics and prestige, and while perhaps this did not lead others to think the people of the empire had any inclinations toward romance, the man who embodied it could understand well enough the virtues of such things.
France, perhaps, was the only one who knew this and betrayed the understanding in secret sidelong smiles in public, in private. Was he not purportedly the nation of love? Surely, then, it was his proclivity to know such things and to exploit them at will - even if this press toward a movement was nothing more than those smiles, those slight shifts in eyes while saying nothing of any too-long gaze from the Austrian or any change in breath when the Frenchman stood too close or brushed against his coat, his cravat a little too casually.
There would be romance. Too many conversations that were almost there but not quite, hints and near-innuendo that perhaps would have had any other man in a nearby closet fighting to keep control of his own voice had led the musician to strategize. Perhaps his body was not meant for war, but for a time he was a great empire - his mind was built well enough for the planning of battles of any sort. And so there would be romance, even if the simple, cliched request for dinner had been given with a slightly stern face and met with a raised eyebrow and the small quirk of pink lips, shining slightly and smelling of strawberries. The agreement was set; the battle would be engaged.
The date held roses and candlelight and wine. Either side feinted, each parried, and the end of the night brought nothing more than a kiss from Austrian lips to a French hand (soft despite calluses, despite faint scars) and the smallest brush against fingers and a “good night” in the blonde’s own language - it was easy enough to remember. The musician’s people had been so enamoured with French ways, once upon a time.
Months passed in the same manner (excruciatingly slow, rife with wishes both refused to fulfill, trying to force the other’s loss before they both would gain) and wordlessly with a meeting of sapphires against amethysts a truce was called in tryst - the war would be a draw. Nothing was lost. Everything was gained. Neither could remember upon future recollections who placed the first kiss upon lips and who followed with a second until neither could breathe, and neither’s hand left the other’s even when words returned, even when Why haven’t we done this before? was met with We have, long ago, surely you remember, and the agreement over the benefits of courting.
They spoke over coffee and cakes, hands still intertwined (both elegant; Austria wondered if France would play music with him sometime, France wondered why he had never asked before). When they parted, the press of fingers against fingers still lay upon skin, perhaps paving a path deeper.
Author: thoughtscrime
Pairing: Austria/France
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Short, no real dialog, imagination needed to progress beyond the beginning of the bedroom?
Description: Courtship in the modern age where there is no alliances or politics needed, only romance and understanding - even if the courtship itself is a battle of sorts.
For prussianegoist for her birthdayyyy~
It wasn’t that he was unromantic - far from it, actually. Austria had been well-known throughout history for marriages of politics and prestige, and while perhaps this did not lead others to think the people of the empire had any inclinations toward romance, the man who embodied it could understand well enough the virtues of such things.
France, perhaps, was the only one who knew this and betrayed the understanding in secret sidelong smiles in public, in private. Was he not purportedly the nation of love? Surely, then, it was his proclivity to know such things and to exploit them at will - even if this press toward a movement was nothing more than those smiles, those slight shifts in eyes while saying nothing of any too-long gaze from the Austrian or any change in breath when the Frenchman stood too close or brushed against his coat, his cravat a little too casually.
There would be romance. Too many conversations that were almost there but not quite, hints and near-innuendo that perhaps would have had any other man in a nearby closet fighting to keep control of his own voice had led the musician to strategize. Perhaps his body was not meant for war, but for a time he was a great empire - his mind was built well enough for the planning of battles of any sort. And so there would be romance, even if the simple, cliched request for dinner had been given with a slightly stern face and met with a raised eyebrow and the small quirk of pink lips, shining slightly and smelling of strawberries. The agreement was set; the battle would be engaged.
The date held roses and candlelight and wine. Either side feinted, each parried, and the end of the night brought nothing more than a kiss from Austrian lips to a French hand (soft despite calluses, despite faint scars) and the smallest brush against fingers and a “good night” in the blonde’s own language - it was easy enough to remember. The musician’s people had been so enamoured with French ways, once upon a time.
Months passed in the same manner (excruciatingly slow, rife with wishes both refused to fulfill, trying to force the other’s loss before they both would gain) and wordlessly with a meeting of sapphires against amethysts a truce was called in tryst - the war would be a draw. Nothing was lost. Everything was gained. Neither could remember upon future recollections who placed the first kiss upon lips and who followed with a second until neither could breathe, and neither’s hand left the other’s even when words returned, even when Why haven’t we done this before? was met with We have, long ago, surely you remember, and the agreement over the benefits of courting.
They spoke over coffee and cakes, hands still intertwined (both elegant; Austria wondered if France would play music with him sometime, France wondered why he had never asked before). When they parted, the press of fingers against fingers still lay upon skin, perhaps paving a path deeper.