3. Single-Lip Kiss
The United States have always fascinated Armand in some way. It is constantly changing, the people rising with their voices against the government or worming their way around it to live their ideal life. Vaguely, it reminds him of their old world France. Louis doesn’t agree.
He believes that America will never hold a candle to France, his homeland and therefore his treasure. Or it was.
But through the smoky alleyway and past the guarded bookcase, they sit listening to the roaring jazz of the band and clopping of the dancer’s heels on stage while men and women gamble and drink in their finest dresses and not caring for the Prohibition. And Louis, sitting beside him, buzzed from the fount of the once drunk and now deceased flapper beside him, looks at him in that way that looks guilty because he always longs for him when he’s like this, and he always seems to feel bad about it.
“You’re wrong, mon cher” Armand murmurs when he reaches over and smooths back Louis’ short,gelled back hair, “I think this country will become more than just powerful in due time."
Louis’ practically pouting at that, or the product in his hair, and Armand can’t help but kiss those lips when no one is looking, cradling his companion’s head and sucking the remaining blood on his bottom lip away with a gentle little tug.