Sometimes, he just wanted to drag that man's face through the mud. There was something about that delicate face, that knowing smile, those fine features and half-lidded eyes and that cultured sultry voice-
France leaned back, crossing his legs. The frog was wearing what was probably the height of fashion in Paris- fine blue fabric and lace frills and gold-washed buttons and form-fitting tights. Women would say the frog looked good in them. He thought they were ridiculous.
"Ah, Angleterre, you really must do something about your clothes. And those eyebrows….well, not everyone can be as fashionable as moi, but you can be saved yet," the frog said, taking a dainty bite of a French pastry- he didn't remember what it was called, who cared about the man's baked goods anyhow- and wiping his hands on an embroidered napkin. "Something green to go with your eyes, perhaps-"
"I did not come here to talk about clothes or fashion," he managed to say through gritted teeth. He grabbed a delicate pastry from the table between them. Bit. Chewed.
The frog smiled that smile of his that he hated. Long golden lashes would come down slightly over blue, blue eyes- the head would be lowered at that certain angle, tilted just a bit to the side- those red lips would curl, just slightly-
He looked away. The room was getting a bit uncomfortable. The heat, he told himself. The heat was doing strange things to his head. He took off his overcoat and slung it carelessly over the back of his chair. The frog's eyes followed the motion.
"Why do you visit me then?"
He refused to meet the frog's eyes. A long-fingered hand reached over the table and tilted his chin up. He looked at the frog, now standing, leaning over the table.
Too close, much too close. He tried to swallow. He knew he should turn away-
"…hm, Angleterre?"
The words were a bit lower than the frog's normal range, his mind noted during his paralysis. Still higher than his own range, but there was a certain quality in the timbre and the way those lips formed each syllable-
The frog's face was only a few inches away. He could see every single lash framing each eye. The frog's lips were parted, just a bit. He could smell roses in the air. The scent made him dizzy, he told himself. The frog knew he didn't like that swill he called perfume-
He couldn't remember who reached over first. He would swear that it was the frog, he would never have initiated something like that. But, before he knew it, the those lips were on his own and his hands were bunched up in silky golden strands, pulling that face closer, and he wouldn't have been able to remember his own name if he tried.
Husky words murmured against his ear, the sound of tearing cloth as a silk shirt got in the way, the following low chuckle, his cursing the frog's weight as he carried him to the bedroom-
He knew the way too well.
"Why did you come this time, Angleterre?" the frog asked, the next morning. He kept his eyes closed, trying to ignore the feeling of silk sheets over his body and a smooth back against his chest.
"Hm, Angleterre?" He felt the frog shift in his arms, and opened his eyes. Blue eyes were serious for a change, he noted. He couldn't stop himself from pulling the other's body closer.
"It's cold," he said. France just smiled in that knowing way of his.
You already know the answer, don't you?
