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Antonin Carěme grinned to himself as he entered his kitchen, grabbing a nearby apple and tossing it in the air for good measure. He knew he should be stressed to an unholy degree, with the coronation just hours away, and with the newfound information he had received, nearly pissing with rage as well. Yet, all Antonin felt was calm- eerily so. Amidst all the chaos, this sole moment to catch his breath was exactly what he needed- and her.
“Agathe?” He inquired, a Cheshire cat smirk instinctively forming on his face as he sauntered further into the kitchen, keeping his eyes peeled.
“Agathe?” Antonin pressed again after receiving no answer.
Yet again, only silence greeted him.
He huffed, trying to ignore the growing sense of alarm swirling in his heart.
“Come on, you know there’s no place in this galley I don’t know.” He teased, trying to coax the sous-chef from the shadows.
However, his smile faded as the only voice that he heard was his own.
Suddenly, Antonin heard the faintest “Tsk, tsk.”
He thought quickly and lunged for a nearby fillet knife.
“Now, I thought the kitchen was where manners are most sacred.” That all too familiar voice leered as it stepped into Antonin’s full view.
Antonin did not even attempt to try to hide the snarl that erupted in the base of his throat.
“Fouche.” He growled.
The Minister of Police just smiled.
“Monsieur Carême.” He returned cooly.
Antonin rolled his eyes and attempted to push past the silver-haired official.
“It’s a big day coming up if you don’t mind.” He snarked after Fouche refused to budge
Fouche tilted his head, as if he was amused, but nodded, a mock “Ah” forming on his lips.
“Right, of course. The coronation, am I right? How… patriotic of you. Especially after everything.”
Antonin kept his mouth quiet, refusing to give into Fouche’s mind games.
“Sure, now, if you don’t mind, there's someone I’m looking for.” He finally stated, his irritation growing stronger by the second.
At that moment, Fouche stepped closer to him, his eyes roving over Antonin as if he were a shark sizing up his prey.
“You still won’t give up Talleyrand, the man who murdered your father? My, if only Bailly could see you now- I do believe he would die a second time.” The pony tailed man taunted.
Antonin snarled, his hand instinctively slamming against the table behind him.
“No matter, I figured you would be stubborn. You are a complicated man- I don’t know anyone else who would have grown to care for his father’s killer.”
“It was you that pressed the trigger, no?” Antonin retorted though he felt his stomach churning.
Fouche smirked in response.
“I figured you’d be just as stubborn as your dear old man. So, I brought my gift.”
Antonin furrowed his brows before an unsettling possibility grasped at him.
“Where’s Agathe?” He blurted, his heart beating like a July thunderstorm.
Fouche chuckled and snapped his fingers.
What followed next brought an immediate frost in Antonin’s veins.
“No.” He whimpered automatically.
Fouche’s grin grew wider.
“I must say, your treasured sous-chef put up quite the fight. Fortunately, she was no match for my men in the end.”
Antonin’s chest rose in increasing anger as he took in the sight of her.
Agathe looked up at him, her deep brown eyes filled with something that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life. The feeling only grew worse as he processed the dried-up blood on her lower lip, hued by a not-so-gentle bruise. It was enough to make him severely regret eating that apple. Then, he noticed the top button of her dress was undone.
At that moment, all logic had no choice but to fly from his brain.
“Get your fucking hands off her!” He growled at the man who was holding her- no doubt one of Fouche’s top goons.
“Tsk, tsk- you’re still so hot-headed. I wonder what our dear Henriette would think if she knew that our petit- -merle was covered in the scent of you? It’s how we figured out the connection between the pair of you was more than professional. That, and you weren’t exactly discreet kissing her in the open market. How fortunate that one of my men told me about this special… companionship.”
“I swear to God if you’ve touched her…” Antonin threatened. However, he knew it was of little use as he felt his head spin as Agathe remained quiet.
Antonin knew that she hadn’t screamed, nor would she. She was too proud for that. Still, bile rose in his own throat as his imagination whirled at what Fouche and his men could have done to her- and what they might do.
“Monsieur Carême, I told you I am not a monster. Ah, you’ve noticed the button. It was merely an inspection, and as I said, you’ve got quite the defiant one. No wonder you are so inclined towards her.” Fouche sneered.
Antonin sighed, shutting his eyes.
Before he knew it, memories started to play in his head like a cinematograph.
He could almost taste it again, the feel of Agathe’s caramel-toned thighs pressing against his alabaster ones, the taste of strawberry creme on her lips, her soft smile, and the sensation that Antonin had never experienced before until that moment, in that carriage.
Slowly but surely, his searing red rage became replaced with a calm ocean blue- and an unshakable clarity.
Thus, his eyes flew open and he fixed his gaze on Fouche.
“What do you want?” He demanded.
“As if you don’t already know.”
“No, Antonin, don’t!” Agathe suddenly cried, struggling against her captor.
It took every ounce of self-control his father had taught Antonin as Agathe received a resounding slap in retaliation for her intervention.
Antonin balled his fists, his nails digging into his palms as Fouche stepped dangerously close to the dark-haired girl.
“Such a pretty face- for a négre, that is. Truly, the most exquisite merle- it’d be such a pity to have to ruin it.” Fouche leered as he produced a blade, deftly pressing it against Agathe’s cheek.
“FOUCHE!” Antonin quickly screeched.
There was a pause as he slowly turned towards the emerald-eyed chef.
“All right. I’ll tell you everything- but let her go. Talleyrand is planning the party, but it’s not for what you think it is. There is an…objet de resistance that he intends to find and take for his own. The Pearl of Corsica, if you’re familiar.”
Fouche snorted.
“A mere fable.”
Antonin nodded, starting to find his footing once more.
“No, not a fable. It’s true. The meal is a distraction. If you don’t believe me, really look into that withered ugly small- dicked soul of yours and ask why would I lie? You said yourself Talleyrand executed my father.”
Antonin stated, praying that his words would work.
“Thank you, young Carême. All right, I will keep my word- but not without a little insurance.”
Before Antonin could intervene, there was a sharp cry from Agathe as Fouche and the other man let her go, but not before swiftly cutting the top of her chest, bright crimson pooling from the left side of her.
“AGATHE!” Antonin yelped as he quickly caught her in his arms as Fouche shoved her, the bloody knife clanging to the ground.
“Inspect? Oh, I’ll show you something to inspect all right, you enculé!” Antonin snarled, his arms wrapping protectively against the small of Agathe’s back.
Fouche merely laughed as he began to depart from the kitchen.
“Oh, I’m sure you will.” He jeered before fading completely from sight.
Antonin exhaled, before turning his attention back to Agathe.
“Jesus, I’m so sorry, mon Agathe, mon ange, mon amour. Est-ce que tu vas bien? Stupid question, God, I…”
He trailed off as he found his hands tracing her body, her face, desperately trying to see what more damage had been inflicted.
Agathe just nodded, before quickly wincing.
“Merde, you’re bleeding. Of course, that fucker knew exactly the precision- deadly but not deadly enough. Here.” Antonin rambled as he haphazardly searched for anything to stop the bleeding, his own hands quickly becoming stained red.
Finally, he found a white rag and was poised to press it against her wound.
Agathe’s hand locked on his, then she shook her head.
“Antonin…” She murmured her voice barely a whisper.
“Please. I love you.” Antonin begged, and he didn’t need a mirror to see the desperation, and the longing in his eyes. He felt it as well, as a stray burning tear fell down his cheek.
Agathe smiled wearily, and nodded, her hands falling to her side.
“Je t'aime aussi, mon idiot.” She managed to tease gently.
Antonin grinned, his tears drying as he focused on tending to her injury.
Eventually, it slowed down just enough.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” He murmured, deftly sweeping Agathe into his arms. She was a good meter shorter than him and he found himself pressing fervent kisses into her hair as he held her as tightly as possible.
“I’m sorry, Antonin,” Agathe murmured against his chest.
“Sh...” He replied, his hands rubbing her back tenderly as he supplied more kisses to her forehead.
“No, you need to know- I was in the market- I know Christmas is soon and I wanted to make something that I made as a little girl, and then I was caught and… but you didn’t? I mean it was a lie, right- Corsica’s Pearl?”
Antonin nodded.
“My clever girl. Yes, it was a ruse.”
Agathe nodded.
“Good. You know, he cares about you- Talleyrand. I know, your father but…”
Antonin pulled her closer to him then, not caring that his shirt was now soaked in Fouches’ “gift”.
“I know.” He admitted, and he inhaled as a weight he had been feeling for some time finally lifted.
Agathe smiled and circled a pattern in his collarbone. The feel of it both soothed and ignited him.
“Come.” She said, standing up.
She extended her hand and Antonin wasted no time taking it, as the duo headed to get washed up.
******
Antonin exhaled, his mind dizzy with the events that had just occurred.
Yet, they halted as she entered his room, freshly showered and clothed in an ivory-toned slip. The blood had turned to a mere scratch, red in color, and her bruised lip only added to her beauty.
“That racist fuck called you a blackbird- no, you are an angel- my angel.” Antonin proclaimed, his eyes not daring to take themselves off of her.
Agathe blushed as she inched closer to him and Antonin wondered if she could feel his own increasing blood flow- and his rapidly beating heart.
“So am I not unclean then?” She whispered.
Antonin growled, closing the distance between them as his hands wrapped around her throat.
“Jamais! Ce n'est pas possible.” Antonin murmured as he kissed down the hollow of her throat, determined to cover Fouche’s cruel work with his impassioned devotion.
Agathe smiled softly, and Antonin knew that it would make even the Devil melt- it was nothing short of divine.
“Ok then.” She replied.
Just like that, the remaining space between them closed as Antonin brought his lips to hers, that familiar taste of strawberry creme filling his senses. It was a taste that was better than any dish he could ever make, and it was a sensation he would willingly drown in.
As limbs soon became entangled in limbs, with their clothes even more rapidly getting abandoned, an epiphany dawned on the young chef.
It only grew as her body rocked against him, her breasts right in the perfect spot of his mouth as he skillfully circled his tongue against her left nipple.
He smirked mischievously as it elicited a sharp moan from her, her hands intuitively seeking his as she continued to ride his cock just as wantonly.
He let his hand wander down to her clit, and it was soon only a matter of minutes before she spilled onto him like an untethered fountain, the noises coming from her enough to make even a courtesan blush.
To Antonin, it was nothing short of heavenly as he soon felt his need pooling, and quickly flipped them over so that he was on top of her.
He stilled for a moment, as her hands wandered down her face and he drank her in, committing every inch of her to memory. It was as if he had been in jail for years, and was finally seeing the light of day.
Antonin wished he could express the emotions churning in the depths of his soul. Yet, only one phrase came to mind.
“Count the places of devotion, count the altars of despair.”
Agathe tilted her head.
“Mon cheri?”
Antonin just smiled as he engaged her in a kiss and continued his ministrations, burying himself inside of her as deep as he humanly could. Yet, this embrace was unlike any other. It was a vow, it was an oath- it was a promise he was determined to uphold.
As he felt his climax threaten to burst, his hands locked tightly with Agathe’s. And when that proverbial moment arrived, he thought back to his earlier realization.
“All the candles in the world are not enough to match the burning in my soul
and the fever in my heart. Talleyrand was right- Antonin had been too caught up in revenge and was unsuccessful because of that. What he and Fouche had failed to consider though, was the most powerful motivator of all. After a few moments of stillness, as they tried to catch their breath, Antonin rolled over and pulled Agathe close to him, her soft head snuggling tightly into his chest.
As sleep began to encompass Antonin, he exhaled with a resolve he had not known was missing.
The boy had become a man- the devil now an angel whose heart was going to make mountains quake.
“On brûlera,” He murmured.
But not with hate-. Yes, France was going to burn- but in a way, no one was ready for it. For no one would be able to stand in the way of the very thing that brought down whole civilizations and turned even the most evil men into good- love. The love that he felt for Agathe, and the miracle of miracle, the love she felt for him too.