continue reading/ discarded readings I should pick up
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Summary
England cannot count the number of times he and France have fallen into bed after battles, angry and biting and clawing and snapping. France is a destructive tendency himself, composed of a million of them - smoke and wine and sex. Somehow, when he puts his hands on England’s waist, it does not burn away the anger anymore. Somewhere along the way, maybe in the trenches or maybe afterwards, in that dark little room in Paris, France’s kisses turned sweet again, gentle along the lines of England’s jaw, his neck, his arms.
Or - France and England, 1066 to 1994.