Series: « L'histoire française », 20 historical Francis Bonnefoy drabbles. Written for lj/hetachallenge. Find my table at lj/coeurgryffondor.
Author's note: Last in the series. D:
L'histoire française
Never Again
After the meeting he catches Berwald alone, a rare feat indeed. "Hey you," Francis says as casually as he can, catching the Swede on his phone off guard.
"Hey." The man blinks. "Something wrong?"
"Non non, I was just thinking we haven't talked in a while." What Francis really wants to say is, "I'm still guilty over you catching me cheating on you two centuries ago and I miss your penis and oh yeah, Arthur is mad at me."
Berwald raises his eyebrow in suspicion before finishing typing something on his phone, putting it away in his back pocket. "What were you thinking then?" the Swedish kingdom asks. The French republic smiles.
Francis adores the way Berwald swirls the red wine in the glass, how he sniffs the deep liquid before sipping it, how his eyes close in ecstasy and he seems to savor each drop. It turns Francis on to no end.
"How have you been as of late, my Northern Lion?" the Frenchman purrs, shifting ever so slightly closer to the man as they sit on his hotel room couch.
"Eh." The large man shrugs. "Better, but worst as well."
"Anything I can help with?" he tries, sipping his own wine and enjoying the weight of it on his tongue, its sweetness and tartness as it slides down his throat. He licks his lips to get every last drop, blue eyes taking in the body beside him.
Berwald drains the last of his wine, putting the glass down and leaning back nonchalantly. "Know any ways to relieve stress?" He gives himself away when he looks to Francis, something mischievous and daring in his eyes.
"Oh, I bet I can think of something to help you relax."
He leans against the balcony door, cigarette between his lips as he takes a long drag, watching ordinary people move about beneath him. From the bed his entertainment for the night stirs, Berwald rolling over and yawning, stretching his whole body. Francis quite enjoys his view.
"Hello Sleeping Beauty," he coos and Berwald smacks his lips in response, hands searching for the bedside table and his glasses.
"Thought you quit," he murmurs as he pulls on his briefs, making his way over. Francis puts out the cigarette; he knows the Swede's never liked smoking.
"You're not the only one who's been under a lot of stress," Francis points out, yet still allows himself to be wrapped up in those strong, pale arms. Berwald's lips capture his own, demanding entry into his mouth. Weakly he runs a French hand up the man's chest, groaning at the feeling of hard muscle beneath his fingertips. It was the middle of the night; they still had time for another round of sex.
Breaking the kiss Berwald sighs, his hands rubbing soothing circles absentmindedly on Francis's back. "From your alliances?" the man inquires.
"I'm sure you don't have these kinds of headaches," Francis says heavily, "what with your non-alliance policy and all."
"Never again," Berwald murmurs. "We said never again and meant it."
"Has it been worth it? For you, has it been worth it?" Because Francis has seen so many wars, so many friends, enemies, lovers, come and go and it rips at his heart, tearing his soul apart again and again. The occupations, his family, the regret: they were what defined French history. What defined him.
Eyes as deep and mesmerizing as the sea hold his gaze, Francis leaning in closer to smell sex and wine and cologne hanging around Berwald. "Easier to say you'll never fall in love, than to actually do it," the man murmurs and Francis nods, understanding how true those words are.