Author's note: Check profile for updates.
I know fondue is Swiss in origin; I don't care. There was so much of in the Latin Quarters it may as well have been coming out of people's ears so I had to write something with it. Plus I can't imagine Basch in place of Ludwig here. Lutz might be standoffish, but I'd give Francis three words before he found a Swiss gun pointed at him.
Also I realize typing this up Ludwig is very familiar in it, but I've always been working on a Ludwig-centric story I'm too bashful to post for months now. He is one of my favorites. If you guys like them maybe I'll write a longer piece with these two. Goodness knows I don't post enough. :| Poker face.
das Fondue
"Of all the restaurants," Francis sighs, settling back in his seat. The booth's wood gives them some privacy, a German hand stroking a French thigh beneath the table. "You find the one with fondue."
"I like fondue," Ludwig says in a mixture of indignation and amusement. "Cheese, chocolate-"
"Beer?"
The German grins like a small child about to make mischief. "Beer."
By the time the food comes the waitress is unfazed by the making out. Under one of Ludwig's large arms Francis closes his eyes, eating the food he's fed slowly between demanding kisses that find his lips. It's a testament to how relaxed Ludwig is (and how much beer he's drunk) that he's doing this in public.
Fingers brush hair from his forehead. "More?" a German voice asks; Francis shakes his head. He lets his fingers slide under Ludwig's shirt to feel the hard muscle beneath, the tips of his fingers playing with the little hair that forms a line down the torso to under German pants. Ludwig's shutter signals to Francis that the other is aware of what his frisky French lover wants for dessert.
When Francis wakes Ludwig is pushing a room service cart to the end of the hotel bed.
"More fondue?" he asks as he crawls to the edge, not bothering to pull a sheet with him to cover his body.
"Chocolate," Ludwig says proudly.
"German chocolate?" Francis teases.
"Of course!"
Lounging on the bed Ludwig allows himself to be fed instead this time. Francis likes day like these where the German nation is both characteristically and uncharacteristically Ludwig: he can still be stand-offish with Francis, very proper and distant and angry, but once the pressure is gone, the day over, Lutz comes out to play. In some ways he reminds the Frenchman of his brother, the glint Gilbert would sometimes get in his eyes, the subtle smugness and confidence. It drives Francis crazy.
After a while arms pull Francis to the bed, Lutz's lips finding his in a now-sweet kiss. Francis lets his hands roam, tracing the lines of muscles beneath them and making his own lines as well.
"You taste of fondue," he whispers.
"You smell of sex," Lutz retorts.
"Both your fault."
"Good," and Francis finds himself being rolled back onto the bed, sighing contently.