disclaimer: uh-uh.
dedication: Pandora radio. tl;dr.
notes1: just for the record, this is based off a poem by Jacques Prévert.
notes2: hargen blargen.
summary: "And me, I took my head in my hands and I cried." It was a difficult relationship. Really.
pairing: franceengland.
Chapter 2:
(he put milk in his cup of coffee)
I don't know what I'm doing here (again), but that's no surprise. Yet again, I'm staring to the side at his stupid red door, with his stupid vase full of roses on his dresser, and I can't help but think about how girly that is.
I must've been really drunk last night, I realize, because I don't even have any boxers on, and I usually remember to at least put those back on. But, judging from the carelessly strewn bottles of scotch and wine on the floor, we were completely hammered. I wince as I stand up and crack my back, and I feel the backlash sting of a night that involved too much friction and not enough lube.
Check the time. 12:18. When did I get to be such a late sleeper?
I pull my boxers and a T-shirt on as I walk out into his kitchen. He's making coffee again, and I raise an eyebrow at him as I sit down none too comfortably on the bar stool.
"Coffee? Again?"
He nods listlessly as he pours some milk into his cup. It's the same from last time, I notice, with a chip on the handle and smiley face drawn in permanent marker. "It's better this time," he defends, curling a piece of his already too-curly hair around his finger idly.
"It still tastes horrid anyhow, and you know it."
He swishes a sip around in his mouth, before spitting it in the sink, as if he were at a wine tasting. He makes a disgruntled type of face before staring into his slightly lighter cup of coffee.
He looks up at me from his cup before tilting his head. "Why don't you like coffee?"
"Too bitter."
"And tea isn't?" he questions with a smirk.
"Tea is more natural," I insist.
"Tea may have leaves, but coffee has beans. You can't deny that, non?"
"True," I say, shrugging my shoulders, "but when you drink coffee without food, you feel sick to your stomach and it makes you feel sick. Tea does not have the same effect."`
He shrugs and dumps his cup down the sink. "Really, I'm not quite sure why I keep making it, either."
"You're having a fit of delusion, perhaps?" I offer with a playful smile, and he smiles back at me, before kissing my neck.
"Mon chere," he murmurs to me, "I think the only delusion I'm having is you in front of me, not naked."
"Well," I say, standing up to back into the hallway, "that could easily be fixed."