Series: « L'histoire française », 20 historical Francis Bonnefoy drabbles. Written for lj/hetachallenge. Find my table at lj/coeurgryffondor.
L'histoire française
Blood
"Mary was quite beautiful," Francis whispers, a hand falling across Antonio's cheek. "It was a pity she died young."
"She left a son," the Spaniard replies, the dance continuing around them. The nations are paid little attention; Antonio is a favorite of the queen and so allowed to do as he wishes. Francis will, in the later reports, have never been here but instead out in London where he had been instructed to go. "There is something to say for that."
Francis shrugs. "Perhaps then we can say she lived a full life?"
"Perhaps," and they spin in a slow revolution. "You know this marriage makes us, once more, blood in a way," his companion observes. Francis smiles.
"We were always more than blood but greater than lovers Antoine." His friend smirks at those words.
"Is that so?" He steps in closer, their bodies barely touching, and Francis's aches for more. "Why not remind of it then?"
Years have passed and yet he loves him; Antonio was always different somehow from the rest, kinder, gentler, but still vicious. A survivor, Francis thinks, he's a survivor capable of doing whatever it takes.
He presses a kiss to the back of one of those Spanish shoulder blades, the man beneath him shifting to press up into the French body. Despite the cold they are warm in the bed, curtains drawn and sheets slipping from their naked frames. The man beneath him moans and it excites Francis like nothing else.
"I hear," he teasingly whispers to his lover, "that you are set to be married?"
"Umm." The man moans and Francis isn't sure if it's in agreement or from the way he's moving against the Spanish ass; frankly he doesn't care.
"The Austrian, oui?"
"Umm."
"He is very pretty." The Frenchman continues moving against Antonio, teasing French hands down his sides. "Do you think he is pretty Antoine?"
"Ahh!" The Spaniard's mouth is open in a gasp against the pillow, his hands balling up the soft sheets in ecstasy as those hands go over his hips.
Strong arms turn the man over, lust-filled green eyes meeting deep blue ones in defiance. "Oh Antoine, are you starting to go soft on me?" Francis teases, one hand snaking down to pump the hard member between them. The response is a strangled garble of sounds, including oui, si, non, Francisco, and something dedicated to the Virgin Mary; Francis loves it when the Spaniard's like this.
Lips crush together as if two armies meeting on the battle field, neither willing to give first but both aware that the war will end in union. They roll on the mattress, Antonio now on top, hands touching the French body while Francis sucks on that spot on his neck that the Spaniard's always loved. When they roll back the Frenchman blazes a trail of kisses down the Spanish body until hands still his shoulders, kissing at the man's tight stomach.
"Francisco," Antonio manages. He raises an eyebrow in response to tell him to continue. "No matter what happens, I will always love you more than Rodrigo."
"Oh," the man smirks, kissing a tense muscle, "I do not doubt it."
They look happy from across the room, Antonio smiling like the idiot he is at his husband. Yet Roderich smiles back, kissing the Spaniard that Francis knows will one day return to him though today is not that day.
Because they are blood, and cannot escape one another.