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and that was called love (Marie Antoinette)
Title: and that was called love
Pairing: Marie Antoinette/Louis XVI. Yup.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,186
Summary: A series of tentative steps to something like falling.
Author's Note: Yeah, I have no idea. None. My brain was just like, 'Write this!' and I responded, quite incredulously, 'But it's Marie Antoinette fanfiction! That's cracked!' and my brain was like, 'Nope, sorry, you're writin' it.' And so I was doomed.
I guess it's sort of like historical fiction! Only, picture Kirsten Dunst and Jason Schwartzman. And maybe a Go Go's song in the background.
You were famous, your heart was a legend
You told me again you preferred handsome men,
But for me, you would make an exception.
-Leonard Cohen, 'Chelsea Hotel #2'
He doesn’t like her dogs much – small, excitable, yapping little things that nip affectionately at his heels and make him nervous. He prefers the hunting hounds; solid and devout, what a dog ought to be like.
He doesn’t tell her this, of course, but he can’t help jumping a little each time one of them barks. Unfortunately, her favourite seems to take a particular liking to him.
“Ohh, Schnitzy! Get off. Leave poor Louis alone,” she coos, scooping the dog up into her arms like an infant. Her gaze shifts, then, to him.
“Don’t be so nervous!” she instructs good-naturedly, reaching out to rest a hand on his arm. His heart pounds relentlessly against his ribcage. “He likes you.”
“He’s very loud,” he remarks, awkwardly, stupidly. Not for the first time, he decides she must think him an unbearable fool.
“Go on,” she cajoles, undaunted. “Scratch behind his ears. He likes it when you do that.”
He stares into the dog’s beady eyes. It seems to consider him back, cocking its head to the side. She watches him with a cheerful sort of expectancy all the while, knowing perfectly well that he’ll acquiesce. She doesn’t seem to think twice about the fact that the whole world would shift to fall at her feet.
He swallows hard and reaches out, tentatively scratches behind its ears. The dog lets out a happy, squeaking sigh and closes its eyes.
She beams at him. “You see?”
--
For her fifteenth birthday, he pulls her aside and presents her with a key he crafted. It has no corresponding lock, but it’s fine work, holding a certain intricate beauty he’s proud of. There are things he wishes he could say, silly, charming things that could be pulled off effortlessly with a touch of gallantry – “here’s the key to my heart; treat it carefully, mind you.”
“This is for you,” is all he can say, cheeks burning. The brushing of their fingers as it passes hands nearly undoes him.
“Oh,” she says with surprise, staring down at it. She doesn’t succeed in masking her bewilderment as she meets his eyes again. “Thank you.”
The key is placed into a drawer and forgotten; he checks sometimes, and sure enough, it’s there, collecting dust.
--
He’s a very light sleeper. She hogs the blankets, kicks and mumbles and sighs. It’s a frequent occurrence that he’ll wake from a half-formed dream to her cold feet against his leg. More often than not she’s snuggled against him.
She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. It terrifies him. Awake, she is overwhelming, with her smiles and her easy grace, the way she weaves herself into the world around her without the slightest concern. She seems foreign and incomprehensible, intriguing, but God, so above him. He is idiotic, doddering, and he never feels it more acutely than when he stands beside her.
Asleep, she’s no less lovely – but imperfect, too, with her hair messy and her nightdress slipping down one shoulder. She mutters something about strawberries and he smiles a little, liking the steady weight of her against him. In these moments, he is, for some reason, able to believe that she’s his wife after all.
Feeling impossibly brave, he reaches over to smooth a lock of her hair. His fingers graze her cheek. She doesn’t wake, but leans closer into him, just a little.
--
She drinks too much one night and pulls him by the hand outside, happily oblivious to the dozens of eyes and merciless whispers that follow them. The music and laughter resume in their absence – he can hear it dimly from the balcony where they stand – but still, the inevitability that they’re being talked about at this very instant eats away at him.
“What?” he demands, a little shortly.
She seems to consider him a moment; the champagne has turned her movements loose and hazy, the way she is when he dreams of her sometimes. She opens her mouth, then closes it.
“Nothing,” she says, with sudden decisiveness. She steps forward and away from him, her hands curling over the railing. “It’s a gorgeous night, isn’t it?”
He follows her gaze, fleetingly, to the sky. The stars seem to wink at him.
“We should go back inside,” he insists, taking a few steps toward the door.
“You do think I’m pretty, don’t you?” she demands all at once, immediately ceasing his ability to breathe.
He turns back to find her looking at him. She even frowns prettily, but there is an unabashed desperation in her eyes, a sadness, that nearly makes him sick with guilt.
“Of course,” he mumbles.
She makes a sudden move in his direction – to reach for him, perhaps. “Then why—”
“They’ll be missing us inside, don’t you think?” he quickly interrupts, and sets off without waiting for an answer. She doesn’t follow.
--
When it does happen, it is fumbling and uncertain on both their parts, but she smiles against his mouth; there is a well-meaning mischief to her hands, to the curves of her shoulders and the clutch of her thighs. She makes a sound like laughing when she comes; it shapes into his name.
--
She returns from the country different; older, maybe, or less inclined to shine. He pretends not to notice. He has no idea how he might respond, otherwise, and doesn’t presume to think he could offer any great comfort.
Still, when she climbs into bed one night, he reaches for her hand.
“You were missed while you were away,” he informs her awkwardly, and then, though it still feels frightening to be so bold, he clarifies, quieter, “I missed you.”
A smile softens her face, but it seems sad. She murmurs his name and lifts a hand to touch his face. He turns to kiss her palm.
--
The whole world seems to erupt around them; she is deemed decadent and soulless. Worry sinks so deep into his bones that he feels old, ancient, and in the face of a thousand missteps and injustices, the only thing he knows for certain is that he wants so badly to protect her.
She laughs it off when she can, the awful things that are written and whispered, but he takes note of how she fades.
He takes to telling her he loves her, something he has always felt and seldom spoken. To his surprise, the words come more easily over time. In them, he finds a strange relief.
--
He is to face the guillotine in the morning. The night dwindles away, measured in the steady breaths of the children as they sleep. She leans against him, murmuring of unimportant things that belong to another life.
“I must have looked at it hundreds of times on the way to meet you,” she remembers fondly, tracing thoughtless circles against the back of his hand. “Your kind eyes.”
He smiles slightly. “You must have been disappointed.”
She looks up.
“Not for a second,” she insists gently.
She twines her fingers, firm, with his, as though her grip alone is enough to keep him by her side.
Pairing: Marie Antoinette/Louis XVI. Yup.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,186
Summary: A series of tentative steps to something like falling.
Author's Note: Yeah, I have no idea. None. My brain was just like, 'Write this!' and I responded, quite incredulously, 'But it's Marie Antoinette fanfiction! That's cracked!' and my brain was like, 'Nope, sorry, you're writin' it.' And so I was doomed.
I guess it's sort of like historical fiction! Only, picture Kirsten Dunst and Jason Schwartzman. And maybe a Go Go's song in the background.
You were famous, your heart was a legend
You told me again you preferred handsome men,
But for me, you would make an exception.
-Leonard Cohen, 'Chelsea Hotel #2'
He doesn’t like her dogs much – small, excitable, yapping little things that nip affectionately at his heels and make him nervous. He prefers the hunting hounds; solid and devout, what a dog ought to be like.
He doesn’t tell her this, of course, but he can’t help jumping a little each time one of them barks. Unfortunately, her favourite seems to take a particular liking to him.
“Ohh, Schnitzy! Get off. Leave poor Louis alone,” she coos, scooping the dog up into her arms like an infant. Her gaze shifts, then, to him.
“Don’t be so nervous!” she instructs good-naturedly, reaching out to rest a hand on his arm. His heart pounds relentlessly against his ribcage. “He likes you.”
“He’s very loud,” he remarks, awkwardly, stupidly. Not for the first time, he decides she must think him an unbearable fool.
“Go on,” she cajoles, undaunted. “Scratch behind his ears. He likes it when you do that.”
He stares into the dog’s beady eyes. It seems to consider him back, cocking its head to the side. She watches him with a cheerful sort of expectancy all the while, knowing perfectly well that he’ll acquiesce. She doesn’t seem to think twice about the fact that the whole world would shift to fall at her feet.
He swallows hard and reaches out, tentatively scratches behind its ears. The dog lets out a happy, squeaking sigh and closes its eyes.
She beams at him. “You see?”
--
For her fifteenth birthday, he pulls her aside and presents her with a key he crafted. It has no corresponding lock, but it’s fine work, holding a certain intricate beauty he’s proud of. There are things he wishes he could say, silly, charming things that could be pulled off effortlessly with a touch of gallantry – “here’s the key to my heart; treat it carefully, mind you.”
“This is for you,” is all he can say, cheeks burning. The brushing of their fingers as it passes hands nearly undoes him.
“Oh,” she says with surprise, staring down at it. She doesn’t succeed in masking her bewilderment as she meets his eyes again. “Thank you.”
The key is placed into a drawer and forgotten; he checks sometimes, and sure enough, it’s there, collecting dust.
--
He’s a very light sleeper. She hogs the blankets, kicks and mumbles and sighs. It’s a frequent occurrence that he’ll wake from a half-formed dream to her cold feet against his leg. More often than not she’s snuggled against him.
She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. It terrifies him. Awake, she is overwhelming, with her smiles and her easy grace, the way she weaves herself into the world around her without the slightest concern. She seems foreign and incomprehensible, intriguing, but God, so above him. He is idiotic, doddering, and he never feels it more acutely than when he stands beside her.
Asleep, she’s no less lovely – but imperfect, too, with her hair messy and her nightdress slipping down one shoulder. She mutters something about strawberries and he smiles a little, liking the steady weight of her against him. In these moments, he is, for some reason, able to believe that she’s his wife after all.
Feeling impossibly brave, he reaches over to smooth a lock of her hair. His fingers graze her cheek. She doesn’t wake, but leans closer into him, just a little.
--
She drinks too much one night and pulls him by the hand outside, happily oblivious to the dozens of eyes and merciless whispers that follow them. The music and laughter resume in their absence – he can hear it dimly from the balcony where they stand – but still, the inevitability that they’re being talked about at this very instant eats away at him.
“What?” he demands, a little shortly.
She seems to consider him a moment; the champagne has turned her movements loose and hazy, the way she is when he dreams of her sometimes. She opens her mouth, then closes it.
“Nothing,” she says, with sudden decisiveness. She steps forward and away from him, her hands curling over the railing. “It’s a gorgeous night, isn’t it?”
He follows her gaze, fleetingly, to the sky. The stars seem to wink at him.
“We should go back inside,” he insists, taking a few steps toward the door.
“You do think I’m pretty, don’t you?” she demands all at once, immediately ceasing his ability to breathe.
He turns back to find her looking at him. She even frowns prettily, but there is an unabashed desperation in her eyes, a sadness, that nearly makes him sick with guilt.
“Of course,” he mumbles.
She makes a sudden move in his direction – to reach for him, perhaps. “Then why—”
“They’ll be missing us inside, don’t you think?” he quickly interrupts, and sets off without waiting for an answer. She doesn’t follow.
--
When it does happen, it is fumbling and uncertain on both their parts, but she smiles against his mouth; there is a well-meaning mischief to her hands, to the curves of her shoulders and the clutch of her thighs. She makes a sound like laughing when she comes; it shapes into his name.
--
She returns from the country different; older, maybe, or less inclined to shine. He pretends not to notice. He has no idea how he might respond, otherwise, and doesn’t presume to think he could offer any great comfort.
Still, when she climbs into bed one night, he reaches for her hand.
“You were missed while you were away,” he informs her awkwardly, and then, though it still feels frightening to be so bold, he clarifies, quieter, “I missed you.”
A smile softens her face, but it seems sad. She murmurs his name and lifts a hand to touch his face. He turns to kiss her palm.
--
The whole world seems to erupt around them; she is deemed decadent and soulless. Worry sinks so deep into his bones that he feels old, ancient, and in the face of a thousand missteps and injustices, the only thing he knows for certain is that he wants so badly to protect her.
She laughs it off when she can, the awful things that are written and whispered, but he takes note of how she fades.
He takes to telling her he loves her, something he has always felt and seldom spoken. To his surprise, the words come more easily over time. In them, he finds a strange relief.
--
He is to face the guillotine in the morning. The night dwindles away, measured in the steady breaths of the children as they sleep. She leans against him, murmuring of unimportant things that belong to another life.
“I must have looked at it hundreds of times on the way to meet you,” she remembers fondly, tracing thoughtless circles against the back of his hand. “Your kind eyes.”
He smiles slightly. “You must have been disappointed.”
She looks up.
“Not for a second,” she insists gently.
She twines her fingers, firm, with his, as though her grip alone is enough to keep him by her side.
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And, yes, I was so relieved when I read that on Wikipedia! Because while those scenes made for some extra-pretty Kirsten Dunst, it didn't make up for the fact that COUNT FERSEN WAS LAME AND NOT LOUIS XVI.
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I don't know what to say. Oh, really lovely. It's beautifully written, flows perfectly, and I'm going to go watch the movie again.
♥
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I love it. Of course, I do like most things you write, as long as they're in a fandom I can understand. xD
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And thaaaaank you. :)
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Lovely fanfiction.
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The movie's way pretty. Get on that, miss!
And thank you for reading. :D
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Darnit. Now I wanna watch the movie again.
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But I'd totally write Tudor fanfiction (Henry/Catherine of Aragon! Henry/Anne Boleyn! Katherine Parr/Thomas Seymour!) so I might be a freak.
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But I'd totally write Tudor fanfiction
You do realize that I kinda need you to now, right?
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Lovely job with the fic - I really felt the romance between them.
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So I'll say this now: THIS IS AMAZING! I have a very very large, very very soft spot for these two and you've captured this beautiful desperation and awkwardness. I think this is fantastic.