Chapter Text
Anonymous asked: Me again. Corsican stars.
In Corsica, Frobisher managed to shame Rufus with his linguistic skills.
Pretty, fluid words slid like a song from his tongue in the same inexplicable way he teased vibrant little character pieces from nothing but a badly tuned Steinway, with his lithe and dancing fingers. Rufus was dumb and uncomfortable by his side, smiling cringingly under the sparkling eyes of Corsican girls, aching from the fact that he didn’t know what his friend was saying to make them twinkle so.
His strange envy was distorted and indecipherable. The girls didn’t appeal to him and he’d come to terms with that a long time ago. He had not come to terms with the fact that Frobisher did appeal to him. Perhaps he ought to, for he was burning inside for his ignorance of what poetry his friend was bestowing upon them. He had never found Frobisher more fascinating than he did that day. Actually, his fascination had been swelling since the day they had met and, four years later, had reached a point of tremendous surplus. He wasn’t certain what he ought to do with this intensity of intrigue. All he seemed able to settle himself with was sticking to his friend’s side and watching his never-constant, expressive features with eyes that weren’t doing a fantastic job of hiding their wonder.
Contentment came with being dragged away. He was more than happy to be out of the company of the doting girls. Robert continued to fire snippets of français at him, taking delight in his lack of comprehension.
They slumped together in the chilled sand, and the sounds of the village at night were distantly vibrant. Far more stars peppered the Corsican skies than the skies at home, and beneath these twinkling embellishments, Rufus watched his friend with stupidly awed eyes. Frobisher’s own eyes fluttered as he lay on his back and watched a gorgeous, navy-black night float above him.
Speaking almost wordlessly, they lay, right arm touching left, breathing softly.
Rufus thought nothing of their hands curling together, but when he turned his head, Robert caught his lips with a seemingly thoughtless impulsiveness, and his breath became caged in his chest for a few rapid, fluttering seconds.
Couldn’t speak. Wanted to, but something told him to shut up and sit tight because as much as his mind screeched at him to end this before he got entangled in the enticing, all-consuming danger that was Robert Frobisher, the rest of him knew that this was it and he wouldn’t feel this again and this was something that he had no choice but to cling to. No choice.
He let go, and the ghost of lips against lips became a kiss; tenuously gorgeous, as languid as the slow-crashing waves that crept up the damp sand of the shore, a transcendental collaboration of Rufus’ fear scattering in the wind and Robert’s self-confidence and ever-present desire creeping into him and eating him alive with ridiculous passion.
He ignored the screeching parts of his mind. Law-abiding, logical Rufus Sixsmith was consumed, and happy to be so. Under the Corsican stars was a deliciously dangerous place to be, but there was never a question as to whether he’d trade the enigma of Robert Frobisher for anything in the world.
When their lips teased apart from one another, Frobisher whispered to him in French with a delectable smirk. Rufus was content to be ignorant.