#cigarettesinrain

Something sparkles in Jacques' eyes: mischief, blood thirst, jolity, all three. He slings his arm over vin's shoulders and says, "what a shame, what a shame! I was so looking forward to the coffee service. I need a pick-me-up. Perhaps we should go find some for ourselves? I know a nice place on this sunny little corner. I trained their pâtissier myself."

Vin huffed out a laugh! Could his amusement still be described as dry if he wasn't able to contain it? Jacques had this very annoying trait where he was able to make him laugh even, when he wanted to cuss and turn himself right around back to bed. His golden eyes scanned the other's face for any sign of tampering, interference...

♕▬ The sky was covered in a canopy of darkened clouds swollen with rain droplets that threatened to fall any second; it was a sign of an otherwise dreary day had it not been for the perfusive giggling that echoed through the hallways of the palace. 

Marguerite danced and skipped about the rooms in her gown like the Russian ballerinas she had seen countless times on her frivolous visits to the ballroom. She hummed along to a song that only played within her head, spinning and twirling like the queen’s children after they had their share of sweets. 

Her humming stopped with a wide grin as she caught the familiar figure of Jacques, and she hopped towards him as if to invite him onto her imaginary stage. 

“Ah, Jacques, what a lovely day, isn’t it?” She laughed, skipping around him in a circle. She ended her recital with a twirl and a curtsy to him, her dress floating to her sides like a pink cloud that simply hovered over her legs. She gives him a playful look as she straightened her back and gleefully cupped her hands in front of her. The grin was still present and bright on her face, contrasting with the bleakness of the weather that shown behind her outside of the great glass windows that overlooked the garden.

〚 ❀ 〛The muffled sound of heavy rain slamming against the colored glass window was the only thing keeping Leon grounded. Even now, decades into his term as a colony, he found the sound of so many voices, so many languages and accents that altogether created a cacophony of noise incredibly overwhelming. He attempted to focus his attention to the window next to him, as the din of the rain was the only sound he found familiar. 

It had become customary for Arthur to drag him to these European gatherings, and Leon was no fool; he knew perfectly well why he was there. He was being paraded around as a trophy, just another prize added to Arthur’s seemingly growing collection, and Leon’s thoughts on the matter were hardly regarded. It wasn’t like he expected him to care, but he hoped the irritable face he put on would deter him from future obligations like this.

Jacques heaved a deep sigh, folding his newspaper and setting it on the breakfast table. “Soup metaphor? Is your soup particularly thick, Antonio? If anything, I would assume it has to do with a sauce, or maybe a particularly saucy stew.” He tapped the table. “Are you a stew, or a soup man?”

“I’ve never served a thin gazpacho in my life, so I am appalled that- that you would question my thickness at all!”

The last time Antonio served a gazpacho was ten years ago, if his memory serves him right, but he isn’t capable of taking a question as anything but an insult. The way his chest puffs up you would think that he were a gastronomy snob, but he’s just a man who likes to think that he has the best of everything to offer the world...

To Jacques, 

   Mon vieux, ma moitié, how long it has been since I have seen your face! The weather today reminded me of you, which prompted me to fetch my pen and paper with haste! Even now, as I hear the sound of the heavy rain smack against my window pane with such fervor, I feel as though I am speaking directly to you, in person, looking into those cold, cold eyes. 

   I long for the flavor of your lips, those terrible lips that leave a taste in my mouth similar to that of our chef’s canelé! Oh, they are so often burnt; I find myself often spending more time picking blackened specs off of them than eating them! I have to even wonder how he became a royal chef to begin with! Was it your doing, perhaps? Did you know I would miss you? 

   Ah, and your words. I miss the sound of your voice the most, and the way your turns of phrases felt more sharp than broken glass... But, perhaps the sound of the horses in the stable make a suitable replacement for the time being. I pet one of her highness’s favorite horses the other day; his face was so long, I’m almost surprised that it alone wasn’t inspiration enough to write to you as I do now! 

   Do write back soon, my love. You’ve been gone from me for far too long. 

- With utmost pleasure,