[Austria couldn't help but crack a smile.] I think she knew. I don't think that factored into her decision. [A pause as he allows the wine to be taken from him.] Mother knows best.
[He listens, letting him trail off; he knows just as well what it is to be suffocated by duty, but that duty didn't include every manner in which they treated each other over the years. Where did it start? He couldn't say, but he knows there was no real effort to ever end it. The disdain was comfortable, one of the few things Austria was able to hold onto from his golden age, but like many other things from then, what was comfortable was not without harm. What a fool Austria had been, he muses, and when the subject shifts to the gardens, he speaks up again.] Our rivalry often made me feel young again. With so many things that changed for me, I had clung to that last remnant... I remembered the gardens, too, but never sought solace in that memory the same way, it was always easier to bicker. The calmer times were brief and already spoken for, I thought, they were too idealistic to cling to like that, but with the way I've fallen, I...
[He stops, scared of himself, just taking in the sensation of having his knee stroked like that. It's simple, and soothing, and invigorating. Looking around the park, seeing pedestrians scattered here and there in casual clothing, seeing the way even the both of them were dressed, a trembled laugh escapes him, and if it weren't for the smile it may have been mistaken for tears.] Scenery like this... some Versailles this is.
[But it's green, there's moonlight, and they're ever so close, and perhaps a little bit tipsy. The coyness of France's words are familiar from even the times he did dislike, but that wasn't present at all now. The tone warms him fully, and Austria looks straight ahead, beaming from ear to ear without his stoic inhibitions to stop him.] It's so strange to hear someone other than myself talking about being the trophy... we're both spoiled, aren't we? [He takes the toast, and it forces him to look at France directly again and when he does it feels electric.] If I'd been told to want you again after all that at least I'd have had an excuse. An excuse that wasn't Marie-Louise, all due respect to her, but an excuse that allowed me to maintain some of my pride and didn't involve making me a sniveling harlot to offer my men to a military that was beating the hell out of me--
[He's giddy. His heart is pounding, he's warm all over from either the wine or the mood between them and it only gets more intense when France suggests Austria has had him all along. There's a wave of possessiveness that washes over him from it that aches. Barely tolerating the present? That makes two of them, and Austria can't stand it anymore and kisses the man, the way he'd wanted their first kiss to be after being reunited. No polite pecks out of consideration of daylight and the sidewalk; it's night, now, and Austria clings with need. His breath had been shallow from nerves before and it caused him to pull away sooner than he'd wanted, but he sighs another helpless laugh, tears welling up.] It's always been easier to make love than to speak of it. [He leans in again, screwing his eyes shut as he resumes the kiss, and the words bubbling up inside him hurt. The arrow he'd been struck with centuries earlier had never been taken out of him, he'd healed around it and it only served as a thorn in his side; now, it's being pushed further, straining to create an exit wound. And it finds it, tears now trickling from him as soon as he manages to open his eyes.]
Je t'aime. Je t'aime beaucoup.
[It's whispered weakly, like a terrified animal, against France's lips, as if quietness might alleviate the feeling of his entire past being upturned upon speaking it. It doesn't. He clings tighter, and keeps kissing him.]
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oqgn9MNRw2A
[He listens, letting him trail off; he knows just as well what it is to be suffocated by duty, but that duty didn't include every manner in which they treated each other over the years. Where did it start? He couldn't say, but he knows there was no real effort to ever end it. The disdain was comfortable, one of the few things Austria was able to hold onto from his golden age, but like many other things from then, what was comfortable was not without harm. What a fool Austria had been, he muses, and when the subject shifts to the gardens, he speaks up again.] Our rivalry often made me feel young again. With so many things that changed for me, I had clung to that last remnant... I remembered the gardens, too, but never sought solace in that memory the same way, it was always easier to bicker. The calmer times were brief and already spoken for, I thought, they were too idealistic to cling to like that, but with the way I've fallen, I...
[He stops, scared of himself, just taking in the sensation of having his knee stroked like that. It's simple, and soothing, and invigorating. Looking around the park, seeing pedestrians scattered here and there in casual clothing, seeing the way even the both of them were dressed, a trembled laugh escapes him, and if it weren't for the smile it may have been mistaken for tears.] Scenery like this... some Versailles this is.
[But it's green, there's moonlight, and they're ever so close, and perhaps a little bit tipsy. The coyness of France's words are familiar from even the times he did dislike, but that wasn't present at all now. The tone warms him fully, and Austria looks straight ahead, beaming from ear to ear without his stoic inhibitions to stop him.] It's so strange to hear someone other than myself talking about being the trophy... we're both spoiled, aren't we? [He takes the toast, and it forces him to look at France directly again and when he does it feels electric.] If I'd been told to want you again after all that at least I'd have had an excuse. An excuse that wasn't Marie-Louise, all due respect to her, but an excuse that allowed me to maintain some of my pride and didn't involve making me a sniveling harlot to offer my men to a military that was beating the hell out of me--
[He's giddy. His heart is pounding, he's warm all over from either the wine or the mood between them and it only gets more intense when France suggests Austria has had him all along. There's a wave of possessiveness that washes over him from it that aches. Barely tolerating the present? That makes two of them, and Austria can't stand it anymore and kisses the man, the way he'd wanted their first kiss to be after being reunited. No polite pecks out of consideration of daylight and the sidewalk; it's night, now, and Austria clings with need. His breath had been shallow from nerves before and it caused him to pull away sooner than he'd wanted, but he sighs another helpless laugh, tears welling up.] It's always been easier to make love than to speak of it. [He leans in again, screwing his eyes shut as he resumes the kiss, and the words bubbling up inside him hurt. The arrow he'd been struck with centuries earlier had never been taken out of him, he'd healed around it and it only served as a thorn in his side; now, it's being pushed further, straining to create an exit wound. And it finds it, tears now trickling from him as soon as he manages to open his eyes.]
Je t'aime. Je t'aime beaucoup.
[It's whispered weakly, like a terrified animal, against France's lips, as if quietness might alleviate the feeling of his entire past being upturned upon speaking it. It doesn't. He clings tighter, and keeps kissing him.]