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( you will accept France / Vietnam as your OTP .. .. accept it .. .. .. >;D )
023. Curious
France is a lucky man with a smile that is like syrup to a fly; Vietnam is determined not to drown in him, but he shows up at her door long after Indochina is a thing of the past. He brings her huge, fragrant flowers, lilies and roses and others, foreign and beautiful. They are like little jewels in her lonely home; when she herself isn't looking she buries her face in them and inhales traces of a good life.
One day he arrives with nothing, nothing but nice clothes on his back and the grin of a time-worn charmer. She opens the door only a crack, afraid that he's about to invade again; she's had enough of that, enough to last a nation's lifetime, but mostly she's having a bad day and doesn't want to be bothered.
"What do you want?" She speaks in her accent of French, smiles a little at his wince. He was the one who taught her, after all, almost forced her native words straight out of her mouth.
His reply is a laugh, low and knowing, that tugs on her frown, teases it and taunts it to head up in the opposite direction. He starts talking about the ballet;
"Sleeping Beauty, cherie, you have been wanting to see it, oui?"
Her curiosity peaks. He took her to see the base of the dance, Swan Lake, and she was like a little girl enchanted; the drama, woman like slips of beauty personified balancing on their toes; they were like her, so very strong, hidden under that exterior of grace.
He holds out a slip of paper that, when she opens the door even more, is a ticket. That smile again, those flashing majorelle eyes; she invites him in and in half an hour is ready and they go.
The dancing is beautiful, moreso than she has ever seen on stage; afterwards he offers to take her to eat and hesitantly, she accepts, because this is France and she is getting tired of eating the same thing she always has. Vietnam is careful, though, at first she doesn't give him much in the way of opportunity; she gently moves her hand, her arms away when his come to rest there, leans away from him when she feels he is going in for something more ...
and then she is drowning in him, his voice like a purr, listening to her and pouring her more wine and probably, probably taking advantage of her, but really, she doesn't much mind anymore. Outside the streets are dark like oil, lit by car lights and inside lights and they slide into the back of a taxi back to France's home.
This feels unoriginal, she must be like the many other women who have his hands over their stomachs and thighs and through their hair; but really. She is in wonder and maybe, maybe in it for something more with him. Those eyes, soft golden hair, his pale skin, like milk, but crossed with marks and burns and scars, she claims this territory as her own, and sets out to explore.
 men getting pregnant · Mon Feb 01, 2010 @ 08:06am · 0 Comments |
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