(Con. 2)

Kane resisted the urge to grab him, to pull him in, to dance that tune with the Spy, his fingers straining against steel strings.  The idea of breaking his present to him, the almost sensual feel that came with the personal touches, the florishes of notes that intersperced the main notes, like the conversations that they had, some notes grinding lower for him, higher for the Spy. 

“Spah,” Kane said, his voice thick and syrupy, “you can fiddle like the best of them.”  The notes faded as the song finished, his hands conspiciously numb.  Renard blinked, the last wisps of smoke trailed away, his eyes clearing as he saw Kane, his face impossibly close.  He flinched, unsure to why he was there, the closeness that Kane had willingly put himself into was unsettling.  Gloved fingers touched at the back of his neck, insistently pulling the Spy indubitably closer, his sudden lack of control was pleasant.  They embraced both physically and mentally, the slow intertwining of limbs as the violin hung in hands that wrapped the Australian, the Australian revelling in his Frenchman

~~

End

<3 omg pls i’m typing from my grave ;___;

14.02.12
9
#mael #writing #kane #renard #stuff for me #wweeehhhh #submission