[Dịch][EN][T][Spirou et Fantasio] Say tomorrow doesn't come

Thảo luận trong 'Fanfiction' bắt đầu bởi antirrhinea001, 3/10/23.

  1. antirrhinea001

    antirrhinea001 Metal

    Tham gia ngày:
    Bài viết:
    Nghề nghiệp:
    Thủ thư
    Nơi ở:
    Pherae, Lycia, Đại lục Elibe

    Say tomorrow doesn't come​

    Author: poupon
    Length: Oneshot
    Fandom: Spirou et Fantasio
    Relationships: Spirou/Fantasio
    Genre: Romance, Fluff & Angst, Slice of Life
    Rating: T
    Disclaimer: Spirou et Fantasio thuộc bản quyền của Robert Velter và Le Journal de Spirou. Fanfic Say tomorrow doesn't come thuộc về Phú và Ant. Mình chẳng sở hữu gì ngoài bản dịch này.
    Bản dịch đã có sự cho phép của Phú và Ant. Vui lòng đừng đem đi nơi khác.
    Translator note: Cảm ơn Phú rất nhiều vì đã cho phép Len dịch đứa con tinh thần của Phú và Ant sang tiếng Anh, cũng như đã luôn ủng hộ Len để hoàn thành bản dịch này.
    Tặng sinh nhật Fantasio. Mừng sinh nhật anh bạn già; anh chưa chết sớm vậy đâu, ráng lên.
    Archive: Tác phẩm gốc - AO3 bản dịch - Twitter - Pillowfort

    Fantasio woke up just as it was getting dark. In this corner of Belgium, the streetlights should have been on since five o'clock in the afternoon, like steadfast pillars supporting the sky as dark clouds were waiting to swoop overhead. The atmosphere was gloomy and oppressive, with only the yellow light stretching forever, through thick layers of clouds, the drizzling rain, and the gaps between the cement walls and skyscrapers to land on their rotten wooden windowsill.

    Fantasio lay in the corner of the house, the blanket pulled up to his neck, squinting at the flickering light on the floor. The ground was pitch black, his only pair of precious Oxfords were scattered in the middle of the room, their toes were still soaked from the rain when he stood in line last night to buy discounted canned goods at the supermarket three streets away. The wind had blown the window open, rushing into the room like waves of marching soldiers with freezing spears, ready to skewer Fantasio to death on his narrow bed. On the other side of the house, scrap papers and manuscripts were flying, spinning, and rustling everywhere. Fantasio thought about getting up and cleaning up before the wind blew them all out onto the street. They no longer had the budget to spend on pen and paper, to the point where he suspected that at some point, they would have to write on the wall to make sure they had food on the table twice a day. Or sell some of their belongings, he thought idly, even though they had nothing worth even five euros left.

    In November, they spent all their money writing about suspected mayoral vote fraud, but it didn't go anywhere. Spirou got beaten up, broke two teeth, and lisped for a week (he also let those thugs feed on only porridge for half a year with a few cracked bones – he would not have broken any teeth had he not bothered to shield Fantasio's lanky and weak body).

    The problem was that after they'd put in all that effort, spent all their savings on bribing guardsmen, paid fines for illegal break-ins, spent a bunch on medicine and an outfit that didn't look too shabby so that Fantasio could interview the mayor (who was still a bright candidate at that time) without his bodyguards throwing him out on the street like a beggar as soon as he showed his face, in the end, no editorial office dared to print their article.

    “Don't you understand?” A friend at a small local newspaper pulled Fantasio aside after they were rejected again for being 'not convincing enough', 'not having enough evidence', 'slander' and 'nonsense', “He's not just a mayoral candidate – he's got a whole family behind him, and cops, lawyers, and a public relations team that manipulates every newspaper that dares to do business in this city,” his friend huffed, rubbing his sweat-soaked glasses on his sleeve, “He didn't even have time to remember your faces before the guys below him took turns grinding us to pieces. I beg you, please stop.”

    "Stop?" Fantasio almost jumped. White smoke seemed to come out of his ears as he gritted his teeth and grabbed his friend's collar as if he wanted to eat him alive, his eyes sparkling with anger, “Stop?! We've come to this and you're telling me to stop?"

    “What if we hadn’t?” His friend also hissed, “You think you're the only one who can dig this up? You think you're such a genius that you're about to win a Pulitzer? You think doing that was very noble and heroic, huh?” He stared at Fantasio, his eyes like burning iron as he removed his hand from his collar and growled loudly. “You were not the first to love this city, to fight for this city, Fantasio. And you won't be the last to die with it, either.”

    Fantasio exhaled, suddenly stunned, as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown in his face.

    “So you’ve given up?” After a while, he asked. The journalist friend stared at him, pursing his lips.

    "That's right. There are many things in this world more valuable than the truth,” His friend lowered his eyes, rubbing the old deep scar on his wrist that Fantasio had asked about but had never heard the story behind. No one has ever heard of it. “Give up, Fantasio. The outcome of this election was decided long before the first vote hit the bottom of the ballot box. Even if you expose this now, you won't be able to make any changes. There are too many ways to turn a piece of concrete evidence into a pile of wastepaper. All you have now is a pile of wastepaper.”

    There was a moment of silence, and then his friend sighed and wiped his glasses again, fatigue etched on his face like a wrinkle in time, his dark eyes heavy. If Fantasio had stopped now, he would have become the same person: exhausted like a dead fire, with no wind that could rekindle it. He would lose hope either way. Every passing day would be the same as the day before, as he would author the same stories, say the same predetermined things, and be a mouthpiece for those he hates, for those he once ran away from.

    He clenched his fist. There won't be any future like that.

    “Let's stop here. I can provide you with a job in our editorial office. The salary is not much, but it will be enough for you to have three meals a day and heat to get through this winter."

    “To write travel guides for folks who would never buy this newspaper? Or review third-rate restaurants down the street?” Fantasio looked back, his chin tight. “Once the tip of your pen wears out, you will never be able to sharpen it again. Sorry, but I can't do it. If we stay silent, then who will speak up?”

    In the end, they couldn't speak up. Even if they had already tried – Fantasio and Spirou split up to run around large and small newsrooms, even considering spending their own money to print leaflets. In the end, they still couldn't grab a speaker. They could only scream into the closed space between their four walls, as if talking to themselves, for themselves, reminding themselves not to stop, even though no one else would hear them.

    “One day, boys,” Fantasio said to Spirou one evening in late December with Spip perched on his shoulders, waving his spoon eloquently as if giving a speech, even with a mouth full of canned beans, “One day, we will win. We will free the press! We will become the vanguard!! We will be the voice of the people!!! And no capitalist pig will be able to silence us anymore!”

    “Don't talk while you're eating.” Spirou clicked his tongue, "You spit beans all over me."

    Fantasio scowled and glared at him, then kept his mouth shut. Spirou looked at him with his chin in his hand, eyes narrowed, and mouth curved into a smile. Fantasio remembers liking the scene. Spirou sat across from him, looking up at him, his red hair flowing and brown eyes behind his eyelashes looking at him intently, dreamily, as if thinking about something very far away, but seemed lost in that moment, in Fantasio’s presence. It made him feel incredibly important as if for just a moment, he was the whole world.

    And Fantasio had always wanted to be the world.

    But that was two months ago. Now, a month and a half after the resounding and deceitful victory of their respected mayor, Fantasio still lay huddled on the tiny bed in the corner of the apartment they had no money to pay rent for and shivered in the cold thanks to the gas heater they didn't have money to pay for.

    He put a hand on his forehead, trying to rub the headache away, groaned softly, and then let out a series of coughs that seemed like he wanted to spit out his lungs. No number of blankets could keep Fantasio's slender body warm in this cold February in the heart of Brussels. Even though he didn't admit it and no matter how hard he tried, his constitution was far inferior to that of Spirou. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, drank tea with handmade porcelain cups, and ate with pure silver spoons and forks. He should have dressed in luxurious and flashy outfits, sat in lavish rooms hung with paintings of famous artists from the last century, smoked cigarettes, and discussed politics with men wearing leather shoes and slicked hair. He was born in that world, in order to become like them. But Fantasio wanted to become the whole world.

    Turn tail? Stop? Fantasio snorted, thinking to himself, over my dead body. One day all of you will know the truth.

    One day he will stand before them, smashing their faces with his articles, with his achievements. And this case will be the first ticket for him to board the train straight towards his desired destination. If only he could find a way to publish it, find an editorial crazy enough to publish it.

    He looked at the pile of manuscripts scattered in the corner, exhaled, and tried to gather all his remaining strength to get up and clean up. He had read it over and over again until he knew it by heart, so losing the manuscript wasn't a big deal, but Fantasio hated having to buy paper and ink in this cold, rainy weather.

    The cold from the concrete floor made him shiver as if he were stepping on ice. Fantasio thought about buying a shag carpet, then sighed because they didn't even have money to eat. He groped for a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his coat hanging at the foot of the bed, one of the rare luxuries he could still afford without having to listen to Spirou's nagging. One was because he would die faster without cigarettes than without air, and two was because smoking prevented the cold.

    Fantasio clenched the lit cigarette filter between his molars, rubbed his hands together, and coughed madly as he shuffled over and stooped to pick up the paper. Then he made the fatal mistake of standing up too quickly, and dizziness came like a flood.

    For a moment, all that stood before Fantasio's eyes was a blurry white color, as if in that split second his brain suddenly melted, and his eyeballs suddenly could no longer recognize anything else. His ears were ringing, his eardrums were buzzing as if two thousand bees were flapping their wings at the same time, and Fantasio felt a terrible urge to cough, but his throat was clogged despite itching all the way to the bottom of his lungs.

    It wasn't until the world spun around and he fell to the ground that the coldness of the floor pressing against his forehead made him suddenly realize how high his fever was. Bile rose in his throat, Fantasio felt hungry and nauseous at the same time. His chest hit the floor so hard that Fantasio thought he must have broken several of his slender ribs. It's highly possible, especially since he didn't have enough flesh on his body to withstand the impact.

    For a moment, he could only lie there, whining like a stray dog caught in a pile of messy papers. And that was also the first scene Spirou saw when he entered the room.

    “Fantasio?!” The young man was both surprised and frightened as he quickly lifted his feet and ran to his side to help him up, throwing his shirt, hat, and paper bag full of cough medicine to the ground, his hands rough and cold. Fantasio shivered, the hair on the back of his neck stood up when that familiar hand wrapped around the back of his neck, supporting his heavy head as if it was about to hit the floor at any moment. Spip jumped down from Spirou's shoulder and circled Fantasio, screaming. “Oh my god, you're burning up!”

    “Tell me something I don’t know,” Fantasio curled his lips and sneered, even though his body was ready to lose consciousness within five seconds.

    Spirou frowned, scooped Fantasio up (which wasn't difficult given their contrasting physiques; Fantasio was as light as the pack of cigarettes he kept in his pocket) and carried him to bed. “Get me a glass of water,” leaning his head back on the pillow, Fantasio exhaled and mumbled, “and come here and lie down. Have you just come back from Antarctica? You’re as cold as a corpse.”

    "If we both get sick, who will feed you porridge?" Spirou grumbled, tucked him in tightly, and took Fantasio's coat from the foot of the bed to cover it. He hurriedly closed the open window as the old thing was banging against its hinges with every gust of wind. He tightened the latch to make sure it wouldn't pop out again and carefully picked up his shirt from the floor to close the gap in the door. Then, he pulled one of the two chairs next to the dining table to block the window before picking up the cough medicine.

    Spip stood at the head of the bed looking at Fantasio, seemingly worried, and Fantasio looked at Spirou, coughing every now and then.

    “I want to eat meat,” Fantasio said suddenly.

    "No money," Spirou glared at him, turning on the stove to heat water for Fantasio.

    “It's been months since we’ve eaten meat,” Fantasio sighed, “I'll have to buy as much meat as I want until this is over.” He began listing from stewed meat to honey-grilled pork chops, from steak with wine sauce to smoked ham hock – only shutting up when Spirou returned to the bed with a cup of hot water. He rose slightly, wrapped his hands around the tin cup with red paint spatters, took a sip, and then sighed with pleasure.

    As soon as he put his hand down, Spirou poured a spoon full of cough medicine and brought it to his mouth. Fantasio obediently opened his mouth and swallowed, and then Spirou gave him another spoonful, and another. After tightening the lid of the bottle and putting the medicine on the bedside table, he patted Fantasio's cheeks with dry, warm palms. Fantasio shouted softly, glaring at Spirou, but he pushed him into the blanket.

    "Sleep. I’ll wake you up after I’m done with the porridge.”

    Fantasio rubbed his cheeks, his skin red, his freckles scattered. “I'm sick and you still want to cause trouble?!”

    “You still get up even though you know you're sick? You didn’t even bother to block the window?”

    “Who knew it would pop open?! This place is about to be abandoned anyway. When I have money, I'll rent a room at the Ritz."

    “Yeah, right, rent a penthouse or the Presidential suite, now go to sleep.”

    Fantasio pouted, turned to face the wall, and stuck his butt at Spirou. He heard Spirou click his tongue; the bed board creaked as he stood up. He could hear Spirou’s footsteps on the floor, as he rattled in the tiny kitchen that was no less shabby than their house, then the sound of pots and pans clinking, of water gurgling from the faucet, of the gas stove igniting, of Spirou moving about – his clothes rustling, his presence heavy and radiating heat more intensely than any heater Fantasio could have imagined.

    He closed his eyes and lured himself into dreamland. Sweat still coated his forehead and he still coughed as if he wanted to spit out his lungs, but he was no longer as uncomfortable as when he woke up in the cold, deserted room. Turns out human heat can cure sickness, he clicked his tongue and contemplated idly before completely falling asleep.

    When Fantasio woke up again, it was completely dark. Spip crawled into the blanket and curled to sleep in his arms. Awakened by the stir, the red squirrel drowsily opened his eyes to look at Fantasio, then rolled over and continued to sleep. He had only slept for about two hours, but his body felt much better. The cough medicine Spirou brought back must have worked, he thought, turning to look for the other man.

    In the kitchen, Spirou stood in front of a pot of boiling porridge, one hand on his hip and the other tasting the porridge. He wore a worn red shirt and jeans, his feet bare, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, hiding muscular biceps under the old fabric. Fantasio lay still, watching him for a moment, filling his lungs with the scene before him. They didn't have money to pay the electricity bill (they were six months behind on their rent – if it weren't for the brutal weather in Brussels and the fact that the entire apartment building was so old it looked like it was about to be demolished, Fantasio and Spirou would have been swept out into the street) so they must rely on the only window in the house for light. Spirou blocked it to prevent Fantasio's illness from getting worse, however, Fantasio could only rely on the candle he lit and the fire from the kitchen to distinguish the surrounding scenery.

    The firelight cast a pleasant orange-yellow color on Spirou's face, making the boy's curls even redder, flickering like real fire. Fire flickered in Spirou's eyes, like small dancing stars. His skin was slightly covered in sweat as he wrinkled his nose and bent down to search the kitchen counter for spices.

    “The pepper is on the left,” Fantasio called out, “Third shelf, on the right corner.”

    “Finally awake?” Spirou turned his head to look at him, smiled, then turned to grab the pepper, "Just in time, get up and eat the porridge."

    Fantasio sniffled, crawled out of bed, and looked at Spirou in surprise. “Is that the smell of… meat? I thought we ran out of money?”

    “We did.”

    “What?” Fantasio looked at Spirou, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as he trembled, doubts welling up in the corners of his eyes and eyebrows. He spoke, hearing his teeth chattering. “Did you rob the butcher shop while I was sleeping?”

    “Are you crazy? I went to see if there were any end-of-day discounts, and Miss Margaret gave hers to me. She heard that you were sick so–”

    “You're always very popular with women, aren't you?” Fantasio interrupted with a frown, then opened his mouth so quickly that even the cough stuck in his throat could not stop his desire to spit it all out. He said, placing one hand on his neck to stop the itching in his throat. “When you had money and looked dashing with impeccable beard and hair, maybe the women of the whole city would have lined up to get a date with you. Maybe Miss Margaret gave you the signal to ask her out without you even knowing."

    Spirou placed the porridge bowl on the table and turned to glare at Fantasio.

    “Aren’t you gonna eat?”

    “You bring this to Miss Margaret, it's her ingredients after all.” Fantasio blurted out in defiance, “I don't understand how a meathead like you can attract women so much.”

    Spirou eyed him for a moment, raised his eyelashes in annoyance, then sighed, the tension falling from his features like rainwater flowing down the window glass, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

    He sat down next to the bed, picked up the bowl, and silently scooped a spoonful of porridge, blew it to cool and brought it to his mouth, just like how he gave him medicine. Fantasio glanced at Spirou, then opened his mouth.

    “Of course I am more popular with them than you,” he said, his voice casual and teasing. “Other than being sarcastic and aggressive towards everyone, what else can you do? In the end, it was me who handled every fight.”

    Fantasio coughed, wrapped the blanket tighter around himself, and swallowed another spoonful of porridge. “We complement each other: I have the brains; you have the brawn.”

    “I have both brawn and brains – unlike you, I don't go looking for trouble with guys twice my size. Remember the time we went to the nightclub to investigate? I told you not to attract attention, you still kicked the mayor's bodyguards in the face." Spirou frowned, his hand still feeding Fantasio porridge.

    “Firstly, they touched my butt first. Secondly, it was you who kicked them in the face first, not me. I just added a few more kicks, remember? Before I could even regain my composure, you rushed in as if you just met a 10-year-long nemesis," Fantasio clicked his tongue, "If I hadn't put a stop to it, you could’ve committed murder; and before we could get any articles, we'd both be in jail for a long time, and Spip would have to eat the dew and drink the wind to survive. Who was attracting attention now?”

    “Who told you to disguise yourself as a girl? I told you to dress normally so you can easily blend in. You keep acting like we’re in a film. Since when are we spies? And where did you learn that hips-swaying style from?"

    “Who swayed? I was wearing ten-inch stilettos?! Didn't your dear Miss Margaret wear the same sort of shoes?”

    Spirou rubbed his forehead, "Please don't drag Miss Margaret into this."

    “Yeah, you're already defending her, huh,” Fantasio pouted, snorted softly in his nose, then sniffled and coughed. “How about you just move out and live with her–”

    “Fantasio!” Spirou suddenly shouted. Fantasio fell silent. For a moment they just stared at each other, Spirou pursed his lips as if to stop himself from exploding, and Fantasio frowned and glared, anger simmering in his belly.

    He knew all too well that he was being extremely unreasonable, demanding unreasonable things, and getting angry with Spirou for no reason, but Fantasio had no choice. The winter weather in Brussels was getting harsher and harsher. His tuberculosis was getting worse, and Fantasio knew he should not smoke again if he wanted to keep his lungs working; at least cigarettes could provide him with a rare warmth and a moment of mental peace.

    Over the past week, the fevers have tortured Fantasio without a moment of rest. He experienced the same routine over and over: had a fever – woke up – ate the porridge Spirou gave him – drank water – got helped by Spirou with personal hygiene – slept – and woke up with a fever again.

    Fortunately, yesterday he felt better – just a little hot, not a constant high fever – and Fantasio thought that this uninvited illness would finally go away. To celebrate, he decided to buy new food with the remaining savings (even though he could only buy end-of-day discounted food) and cook a grand meal for Spirou because of all the work he had done in the past few days.

    Then he got caught in the rain on the way home, soaked to the bone, and fell unconscious. That was a stupid decision. Before accounting for how Spirou almost punched him and stayed up all night watching him from the sickbed, from the moment he fell into a coma, Fantasio knew he was about to die. Death was like a stage curtain waiting to fall and he had reached the final act of the play, in which their article would have been the final climax, a perfect ending. Half of Fantasio felt he was completely ready, while the other felt as if he had not prepared for it at all.

    Truth be told, Fantasio's life was also full of satirical comedy. Born into a rich political capitalist family, he in turn embarked on a career to expose their wrongdoings. At least there would have been consolation if he had done it well; but he was bad, they were bad at it, as they wrote things no editorial office dared to publish. He still hasn't been able to expose the errors of any great power as he swore to himself when he took off with a suitcase full of nothing but paper and pens.

    Fantasio thought about Spirou again, whom he picked up shortly after moving to Brussels. He was still an anonymous journalist at the time (and still was now) and had just started his career. Meanwhile, Spirou was a street kid who freelanced for a living, from finding lost cats to delivering couriers, from sweeping streets to guarding hotel doors.

    They accidentally bumped into each other when he was following a food poisoning case from a large sausage company (the local government later announced that the mass vomiting and diarrhea was a result of their water source being contaminated from the rust of a large transmission pipe and had nothing to do with the sausage company itself) and stuck with each other ever since. Spirou followed him to draft articles, investigate, fight, race cars, commit illegal break-ins, and countless other crimes. One day, they would probably be cellmates. Fantasio had sincerely hoped that the day would come when they had grown old and grey and had experienced the peak of glory, but it seemed that his wish to retire in prison with Spirou was impossible.

    “Spirou, I–” He spoke after a long, suffocating silence, and stood up, holding the almost-empty bowl of porridge.

    “Go to sleep,” he said, “I'm going to wash the dishes, it'll only be ten minutes.”

    He lifted his feet and tried to turn back to the kitchen, but stopped when a hand quickly reached out and grabbed the corner of his shirt. He stopped for a moment, then turned back. Fantasio sat huddled on the bed, his arms and legs dangling, folded together like logs broken into a bundle. He looked up, his blond hair wet with sweat sticking to his forehead in clumps, looking at Spirou with so much in his blue eyes and nothing at the same time. Slowly, he tightened his fist, tugging slightly. At that moment, in Spirou's eyes, Fantasio suddenly became strangely bright, like a painting that had not yet dried – bright enough to burn, as if he would absolutely not back down from anything.

    Entranced, Spirou leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. Then another kiss on the corner of the lips, on the cheek, on the slightly stubbled chin, on the edge of hair at the temple, on the forehead, on the lobe of the ear, on the corner of the eye, and again on the dry, chapped lips. Fantasio closed his eyes, slightly tilted his head to follow his movements, and only kissed back when Spirou's lips were back on his.

    They kissed slowly, softly, gently, as if trying to stifle the cough that was waiting like a sleeping beast in Fantasio's throat. Spirou put the bowl back on the table, and in a blink of an eye (in his imagination) Fantasio was lying back on the mattress, Spirou's chest pressed against his, warm, passionate. Every single one of his heartbeats under the scorching skin gradually synchronized with his through their point of contact. Fantasio felt lightheaded as if he had just drunk a bottle of cognac, and his ears could only hear Spirou's heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. Like a nameless chorus repeating over and over in his head that he was very familiar with. It soothed his insecurity, like all the times before and all the times after.

    For a moment, Fantasio thought he could just lie here, kiss Spirou, be kissed by Spirou, and listen to their hearts becoming one until the end of the world.

    It was obvious that Fantasio was a greedy man because shortly after that he felt no longer satisfied with only kisses. He tightened his arms around Spirou's back, holding him tighter, pressing their skin closer together, devouring Spirou's lips as if they were a source of water for someone who was dying of thirst. He slipped his fingers into the waistband of Spirou's jeans and tugged as if urging him. In response, one hand was still stroking Fantasio's thin and pale bright blond curls, the other ripped off the shirt hanging from his body and then quickly unbuttoned Fantasio's shirt.

    He was very thin, his chest protruding with two rows of ribs clearly visible as he leaned forward to let Spirou peel off the fabric on his body. His legs were also thin enough to be held by a hand when the trousers fell off his body.

    Truth be told, Fantasio was not an attractive man. He was skinny, haggard, and lanky; his arms and legs were limp. His clear blue eyes were often lethargic due to sleep deprivation and often scowled while looking for trouble. His blond hair was almost reflective in the sunlight – the slightly platinum color of aristocrats born into families with at least a few hundred years of history, but it was thin with the hairline receding year by year. At this rate of hair loss, smoking, and drinking, Fantasio would be completely bald in just a few years – that was if he could hold on to life for a few more years.

    His appearance was also not excellent. He was good-looking, but he was just plain good-looking. He sported a high nose, a wide forehead, and freckles spread evenly across his milky white skin – Fantasio silently listed the charms he thought he had, then idly thought about his image in Spirou's eyes, thinking to himself if it was different from the way he saw himself, and what Spirou saw in him.

    Spirou's gentle bite on his throat brought Fantasio back to reality. He placed kisses on his jawline and neck, down to his chest, then lower still, until Fantasio let out a gasp.

    “Spirou…,” He muttered, his eyes half-lidded, his slim and slender fingers digging into the man's messy red hair between his legs, the name sounded more like an exclamation than a mere name, “Spirou, say tomorrow doesn’t come…"

    “You won’t die so soon,” Spirou replied through gritted teeth in exasperation, kissing the inside of his thigh, “Focus.”

    Fantasio complied, closing his eyes and giving in, letting Spirou push him to one orgasm after another. The moment Spirou came inside him, Fantasio tightened his grip, as if wanting to melt into the other man, sharing the same heart, the same beat, the same breath.

    Perhaps they had been like that for a long time since the day Fantasio picked Spirou up on the street on a winter no less cold than this many years ago.

    Even tomorrow never comes, he thought, tears welling up in his eyes as he gently smiled, I'm lucky enough as it is.

    Say we spent our last moments staring
    at each other, hands knotted together,
    clutching the dog, watching the sky burns.
    Say, It doesn’t matter. Say, That would be
    . Say you'd still want this: us alive,
    right here, feeling lucky.

    ~ The Conditional, Ada Limón​

    Chỉnh sửa cuối: 3/10/23
    Chuatelolicon đã thả thính cho thớt.

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