Tearcatcher
France, implied France/England
T / angst, implied sex & mentioned incest
If Francis had learned one thing from being the world's whore, it was that the other nations rarely came for paissonate, no-strings-attached, one night quickies.
God, it was raining again. This wasn't London, was it? The disgruntled Frenchman gave a sigh and turned away from the window to stare at the remains of yesterday's dinner; the half-empty glasses of flat champagne, with their fingerprints and lip-marks, corrected him mockingly. It had been not so long ago.
If Francis had learned one thing from being the world's whore, it was that the other nations rarely came for passionate, no-strings-attached, one night quickies. No, what the romantic male was most used for was not his body, but for his warmth, cooking, and uncanny skill to make anyone feel like they were loved. They didn't want sex, they wanted to feel important. A candle-lit meal, looking into those deep blue eyes and being told they were beautiful, special. That's all they wanted from him.
He got them straight from the tragedy; the breakup, the abuse, the rape, the mental breakdowns, the injustice, rejection, loneliness... Sad people called him at three a.m., sobbing; "c-could I stay at your place?" He would always agree. When they showed up at his door he'd have out wine and roses, and they'd eat and cry, eat and cry, until they were full and he knew all the details. He'd give them the kind, useless advice of an aunt; "You're better off without him;" and compliment them until they fell flat into his arms. No seduction was required. He just had to give them one glimpse of a light at the end of the tunnel and - POOF! they were in love for a night or so. Off to bed.
At least there was bed. But oh, how he'd have to baby them, coax them into it! All they would want was gentle, passionate love, that he'd give them, of course - for a while. They'd eventually give in to more, of course. They all gave in. They wanted a bit of that from him too, though they'd rarely admit it. A chance to go too far. They wanted to stretch their limits and then regret it. It gave them an excuse.
After a few days, they'd leave as abruptly as they came, with a scribbled good bye note and a refusal to make eye contact at the next few world meetings. A few would write a letter a few months later, apologizing and inviting him to lunch someday; but most didn't. He'd seen them all come through his door at some point. Even his own family, children and brothers, would show up with these same exact intentions. They just mingled them with shame and pretended not to have them. It happened anyway. None of them ever said no.
They'd be back with their lovers in a week. Make amends with their abusers and rapists. Find peace within themselves. Start to fight back, move on, or look around them; they'd all heal rapidly and leave him behind. Until the next great catastrophe.
Francis stepped outside his door, onto the stop. The rain poured off the edge of his canopy like a waterfall, the sodium streetlights shining uselessly in the cloudy, dim light. The streets were empty other than another young man, sitting across the street in misery. He wore a tuxedo and had no umbrella, leaving his blond hair plastered to the sides of his pasty face. The Frenchman knew him well.
"Already back, mon cheri?" he called out, and the other man tersely nodded.
One thing about these stormy weather lovers? They always came back to him, wanting a little more of the same. It was the only perk of his kind of love. He promised himself that maybe someday he'd make one of the frequent fliers his and his alone, and finally quit this lonely business.
"Well, come on in then. You need to dry off, oui?"
Maybe someday. But today, he had yet another broken heart to mend.