Series: « L'histoire française », 20 historical Francis Bonnefoy drabbles. Written for lj/hetachallenge. Find my table at lj/coeurgryffondor.
Author's note: Saint Barthélemy spent about a century as a Swedish colony after they bought it from the French before selling it back.
L'histoire française
Frozen
The Swede's skin is incredible in the morning light streaming through the window, the man naked as he looks out over his new island. His skin is literally as pale as snow though Francis knows the frozen chill of winter is nothing compared to the burning heat and passion the northern kingdom possesses.
"Berwald," Francis pouts, "come back to bed. I need you." He rolls his tan body over atop the sheets of the large bed to prove his point.
Green eyes like the sea take him in, hungry for more, so Francis rolls over again, this time sticking his ass in the air and moaning into the pillow as a hand slips between his legs to stroke himself.
"Need you so bad," he moans. The bed dips as Berwald kneels on its edge, grabbing his hips and pulling Francis to him.
"Hmm?" the man hums in his ear, his hand slipping down to stroke the Frenchman. "Tell me more about this need of yours." The Swedish accent on French words makes Francis shiver with excitement.
They walk the streets along the coast, Berwald magnificent in his island clothes: a light creme chemise and stockings, deep blue breeches. His cravat is untied around his neck in a very ungentlemanly manner; Francis loves it, slipping his hand into Berwald's.
"She will be a free port," the taller kingdom says, pointing towards ships docked. "For all the nations to use." Francis watches the way Berwald's lips move, how the sun glints off his glasses, the pink tint of his Scandinavian skin.
"Let's go to bed," the French kingdom announces. His companion turns his face down towards him, blank as always. "You burn me up, my ice king." At those words Berwald smiles, just a little.
As the Swede settles into bed Francis asks, "How is your mistress?" He means the Finnish boy, Timo.
Berwald sighs. "He is as he has always been. Why?"
Francis shrugs. "The world is changing, and quickly. It is very exciting." The 1770s had brought him much adventure, and Francis still has hopes that the second half of the 1780s would bring him more.
"Perhaps." The giant of a man moves across the bed until he's on top of Francis, lips dragging all along the French neck and jaw. "Perhaps we can find something exciting in this room as well."
He wraps his arms around Berwald's neck and practically purrs.
Today the man is as cold as ice, back stiff as he finishes packing. Francis watches with a heavy heart. "Berwald, be reasonable," he begs.
"'m always reasonable."
"I know you too have many lovers."
"Only one at a time."
"I love you, Berwald Oxenstierna."
At that the man stands, his back straight, before turning to look at him with empty eyes. Francis feels his insides freeze, stunned that someone like Berwald could be so loving and yet so cruel. How many years had they been lovers? Had they shared their secrets? What Francis felt for him was genuine, like he felt for no other.
"Made a promise, long ago," the Swede says coolly, "to never fall in love with a whore." With that he leaves.