acatwhowrites: (Changjo♡love)
A Cat Who Writes ([personal profile] acatwhowrites) wrote2011-11-05 09:19 pm

Orchard Magic

title: Orchard Magic
players: Arthur Kirkland/England, Francis Bonnefoy/France
word count: 410
rating: PG
summary: Francis gets a little help when it's time to harvest his grapes.
a/n: doomlizard posted a prompt on what_the_fruk that I liked. ~**Autumn Magic**~*~

No, not the smells of autum and the wonderful friendship of apple picking. Magic that can only be done in the fall.

I took artistic license, again, but it's still relevant. Grapes are harvested in the northern hemisphere in later summer/early fall. I consider it a fall fruit, though, and this particular species of grape I mention was hit by a disease that nearly wiped out the entire crop. So it's autumn magic; Arthur brought back Francis' crop and livelihood. [I do wonder what they do when not growing grapes. . .]

Also, I don't think you're supposed to eat wine grapes, but I do anyway. I actually kind of prefer them.

Francis pulled a grape from the vine, popping it into his mouth. It’s skin split under light pressure from his teeth, releasing sweet juice onto his tongue. “Mmmm,” he hummed happily. “C’est bien.”

A light breeze blew through the grape vines of the Bonefoy orchard, carrying the smell of crushed grapes and cut grass. It ruffled the loose hair that fell along either side of Francis’ face, catching in some curly offshoots of vine.

“What are you so happy about, frog?” a small voice asked beside his ear.

He jumped, startled, but recovered fast and looked to his left. A little man, dressed in brown slacks, white button-up shirt, and dark tie, sat primly on his shoulder with his arms crossed and a frown on his face. He couldn’t see them without turning his neck painfully far, but Francis knew the opalescent golden wings on the man’s back quivered in the slightest breeze and helped him remain perched on the Frenchman’s shoulder.

“Bonjour, Arthur. I am just admiring the taste of my grapes. This year is sure to be another successful harvest.”

“Don’t you mean my grapes? I’m the one who makes them grow and gives them their great flavour.” Arthur’s wings fluttered in annoyance.

For one of such tiny stature, he surely makes his opinion known. Francis smiled crookedly and shrugs, apologising when the fairy nearly lost his perch. “I suppose you are right. It’s thanks to you this orchard has done so well after such bad luck over the years. I truly thank you, Arthur.”

A light blush coloured Arthur’s cheeks and the tips of his pointed ears that he tried to hide with a cough and rub of his nose. “Yes, well. . .” He abruptly took flight and alighted on one of the higher wires the grape cordons clung to, barely disturbing them with his light weight. Tiptoeing among the sleeping leaves and insects, he selected a perfectly round, deeply tinted blue-black Étraire de la Dui grape and pulled it from its vine. It was about the size of his head and somewhat heavy in his tiny hands. He smelled it briefly, admiring its sweet scent, before looking at Francis and holding it out to him. “Here. This is a good one.”

Even the leaves around Arthur turned scarlet when Francis leaned forward and took the grape from Arthur’s hands with his lips. The Frenchman beamed and touched Arthur’s cheek fondly with his fingertip. “Merci beaucoup.”

“. . .You’re welcome.”