Let's be Smashing Mythbusters

I tell myself that any fic that starts off with song lyrics can be two things: it'll be a great parody, or it'll be an author attempting to sound greater than they really are. Plenty of authors, fanfic and published, will reference song lyrics or a song to set the mood for their story. I have no issue with this; the issue is finding a proper song/poem/whatever which accurately describes the feeling and story. Oftentimes, authors will reference songs which have no relation to their works at hand and end up giving them a veneer of 'Look-at-me, I'm smart'. So I'm back in the French side of things thanks to Google translate. I'll be revisiting a story I reviewed before, earned a snarky one-sentence response for, and which will be showcased here. Let's be Mythbusters.

He looked up from the papers on the desk when he heard footsteps behind the door. Light steps - feline steps, he would later learn, from someone who used to move silently - but who did not try to be discreet. Not the heavy step of the guards; rather that of a man who believes he has eliminated them all, to be alone. The handle had turned slowly ...

This paragraph opens with Arno meeting Napoleon in-game, in the Tuileries palace in 1792. It's not bad at all, but as with another Arno fics where he's paired with another man, any promise of good writing promptly swirls the drain.

Arno Dorian was a mystery. This meeting had been only the first stone of the edifice of enigmas which it represented. Always higher walls, where each answer opened the door to new questions. The rapid realization that the man, more than a soldier, was a murderer had certainly given him some pride, but only so that he understood soon after, with delay, that he was not just a simple mercenary.

This is another good paragraph. It captures Arno's personality well, and it sets the mood and his characterization. Napoleon cannot deduce his mystery, and Arno always manages to stay one step ahead. Again, not bad at all - but this is not the focus of the fic.

As he briefly explained the matter to him, Arno, his gaze constantly sweeping the surroundings, nodded from time to time to show him that he was listening. Always on the alert, waiting for something, like walking on hot coals. Even dancing there with infinite grace. Napoleon could not hide that the boy interested him more and more. What kind of man has a feline hidden under his skin? 

I'll tick the box for 'good characterization' for now, even though it is temporary. With these stories, Arno remaining in-character doesn't last long, and he promptly devolves into a hot mess of contradiction.

 "I would like to understand,"said Arno slowly, "what role you played and still play exactly in this great masquerade of revolution. The people seem to be indifferent to you, but the Royalists hardly tempt you ..."

"I still have no firm convictions. I come from Corsica; many of these gentlemen of the Court would think of me, by this simple fact, as uneducated in political science. (Arno wasn't sure if he had tried to hide the cynicism behind his words, but he did hear it, loud and clear, just as he saw the contemptuous grin on his pruned face .) If there is one thing I am sure of, it is that the King is a mollasson, an idiot if he thinks he deserves France. And the people are even more silly if they believe they can govern there alone. "

It's true Napoleon did make remarks like these. He had said if Louis XVI had mounted his house and taken control of the National Guard, showing himself to be a force to be reckoned with, he would have kept his crown. At this point, Arno is just meeting Napoleon. What I don't understand is that Arno, being the voracious news consumer he is, hasn't heard of a Corsican general serving in France's army. He and Robespierre had quite the rivalry. The author of this fic, I should add, is French. So how much she knows of her own history will be put to the test.

Arno's voice was flawlessly controlled, and only allowed relative circumspection. An impenetrable face, perfectly impenetrable, too much to make believe that the conversation had no importance in his eyes. Napoleon clenched his teeth. He could see that the other was constantly hiding, but it had been several months now and he still did not know how to go beyond this observation. How, once the armor is discovered, cause a breach. 

I'll tick the box. Another good paragraph.

"I certainly don't have that pretension," he replied finally. But it seems to me that France and History made an appointment a long time ago; perhaps even since Louis XIV, his kingdom built on considerable expenses, and the misery of his people. We are approaching this meeting very quickly. And I think that more than any other, you should understand the desire to be part of this great process, Mr. Dorian. Although I still do not understand what role you play, you in this mess." 

It is known Napoleon was a man who saw himself being a great future leader - he did have a thing for fortune telling, after all. It is misguided to say, at this time, Napoleon wasn't pretentious - he really did have high aspirations, and you can see it in-game.

He bit his tongue abruptly, realizing too late that he had spread his game in front of him. (His interrogation revealed. His caution in the gutter.) But Arno didn't just turn his head.

"Oh, me," he said slowly, "I'm just trying to avoid too much breakage ..."

As if the ellipsis could satisfactorily close a discussion, he moved closer to the ledge and without taking his eyes off the horizon, jumped; seemed to take flight - and disappeared. 

If this story was based on banter, I think I'd love it. But, re-reading it, I know this will take a steep dive into idiot territory. Just have to hunker down and wait for it.

It was no longer possible to play it solo.

He had thought that the other would find him in an unusual place; in the evening, in a posh lounge; during the day, between two corridors; hardly arrived, always soon gone.

He did not expect to find him in the middle of the night in his bedroom. 

Here's where it gets juicy. We're now in 1796, two years after the death of Élise, and when Napoleon married Josephine. While it's an adequate window to get over mourning, in Arno's case it would be quite difficult for him. And Napoleon is married to a woman he is infatuated with. An affair, let alone a same-sex one, enters the realm of ridiculousness.

Napoleon felt, without knowing why, brutally touched by his ghostly presence.

"So you're back," said Arno, and after a year and a half of silence, it was a very poor start. Bonaparte, perhaps because he had been afraid, was suddenly furious.

"You say that. How ironic," he spat. "Can we find out where you went missing?"

The assumption here is that Napoleon is angry because he owes Arno something; that he has to repay a debt. What that is is left up in the air. The other assumption is that Napoleon is angry because Arno did not bother to contact him. I don't see why this is an issue. Neither are expected to remain in constant contact, and they were exceptionally busy men.

"Come on, Bonaparte, what fly bit you?" His voice was calm, but the soldier felt he had disturbed something under the flawless blanket. After more than a year, he had forgotten this old desire, this stupid and proud challenge, to discover the secrets, to open the breach. "I didn't let you down. While you were traveling in France - you have become someone of importance, my friend, the whole of Paris is talking about you - I was quietly prowling in the capital. You are the one who did not use my services."

"I expected a return, you know. This is how we work, I think. But you didn't come back. You no longer found our exchanges at your height? My information was not reliable enough, perhaps," he replied dryly. 

If Bonaparte is getting angry because of unread letters...well, who cares? He admits it's difficult to find Arno on his own because he's so elusive, and if Arno wants to be found, he will be. Napoleon is getting upset over a situation he knows Arno thrives in. Wouldn't it be better for said exchanges to be based on business, rather than pleasure?

"I'm moved, I didn't think you cared so much about me," Arno said, and his voice had grown cold to make an iceberg turn pale. But please, if you hold it against me, tell me why you came back to me, Commander . "

Bonaparte took a step back and, abruptly exasperated (surprised?) By this confession of weakness, refused to lose more ground.

"You avoid the question; You can't explain what you're doing there either," he said as a last resort. 

I think this whole story avoids basic questions. It's already been answered Arno is elusive and prefers to meet people on his own terms. Napoleon respects that. Suddenly he doesn't, and Arno is expected to be at his beck and call? Sounds pretty possessive.

This, finally, seemed to shake Arno's confidence. His massive and silent body, his feline body picked up and ready to pounce lost in a second all his momentum; and only the man remained, hesitant and surrounded by shadows. He adjusted his hood and allowed himself a look outside, towards the fires that a street light igniter was burning in the street. Napoleon was still at the door. It seemed that Arno was alone in this large, empty room. 

This is really the only paragraph I like during this debate.

"It's not that I don't trust your information, Bonaparte. But I prefer to feel like I'm talking to people because I like them, not because I use them. "

His voice cut the air, a knife in soft butter. Then a dry laugh. "Only, you see that, it seems that I like you a little. He took three steps toward the window. "I came back because doing you a service makes me pass the time. If everyone had your filthy pride, Bonaparte, we wouldn't do it - we don't do much today. If you still want my services-" 

Arno is confessing he does what he does because he's bored. OK, I can roll with that. He gives his services to help others, to redeem himself, whatever. He's got a mind which needs to be occupied. However, as said before, both of these guys were incredibly busy. I don't understand this catfight at all.

"Well, if that's the case, I'll come back tomorrow. It's getting late, and you're not the only man in my life. "Was it a smile that pierced his voice?

If there was a smile, it had disappeared the next moment, because Arno said calmly: "By the way, Commander. I admit our wrongs to both of you, yours as well as mine, and I owe you an apology. But don't try to speak to me like that again. You could well become King of France tomorrow morning, if he wanted to kill you, you wouldn't even hear me approach. " 

I'm glad Arno has become 'gay' so to speak, unless he's referring to de Sade. And why is he apologizing when nothing was done wrong? Did I miss something here? Was something said? I don't know. I don't care.

When Arno declared bluntly to him "I don't understand you", Napoleon said to himself that life was sometimes ironic, and hesitated between laughing and tearing his hair out. It was the next day in the early evening, and the day gave way to the night. The rue Chantereine melted into a somewhat blue darkness, frogs croaking, lounging in the marshy district; and the two men, leaning side by side at the window without looking at each other, had just spoken of the date of departure of Commander Bonaparte for Italy, and of the practical details concerning his wife. Both had so far very well pretended to have forgotten the altercation of the day before. 

The feeling is mutual. I should also mention that of all the historical research this author, she focused on there being frogs in this particular area of France. I wish I was joking.

"Ah yes ?" he said lightly. "I don't, however, feel like the most secret man in this room."

The sentence, calculated, made Arno frown. But he did not answer. Any discussion with him was a labyrinth, and Napoleon had the impression of advancing in tiny steps, placing one pawn after another on a huge chessboard. Arno did not leave him the slightest opening. 

Like I said. Were this just banter, I'd love it.

"You do not contact me for months," continued the killer. "Then you have to be away for Italy - I didn't congratulate you on this promotion, by the way - and it is me that you are thinking of. It is to believe, and I believe it a little, Bonaparte, that you do not worry about your wife."

Napoleon suddenly stiffened.

"I love Josephine passionately, Arno," he said in a tone a little too sharp, a little too tender (in him the voice of his brother repeated, old catchphrase, you will always have weak points, no matter what point you want to put the mind before the heart ). "I hope I don't understand where you're coming from."

Why are these two bitching about not contacting each other? Arno would've known Napoleon was away on his military campaigns. It would've taken months for their letters to reach each other. This is a non-issue and could be solved by pointing out that letters take time to deliver, especially in a time where instant messaging and FedEx didn't exist.

This banter is uncalled for. And don't lie, Napoleon. You want the Assassin to Ram Ranch you.

"Excuse me. I honestly thought ... I mean, flattered that I am, I find it hard to understand that you really trust me for the care of your wife. So I told myself ... that a lack of confidence is not particularly annoying, in case you were not bothered that something happened to your wife."

"Why would I want to hurt Josephine?"

"You know very well the reputation that your wife has in Paris."

Josephine's affair with Hippolyte Charles did commence in 1796. Napoleon was enraged, as well he should've been.

May I ask also why Arno is stuttering all of a sudden?

Napoleon smiles. A bitter and disillusioned smile, and at the same time almost mocking. Arno wondered for a few seconds exactly what this grin meant, before Napoleon laughed frankly; a little squeaky.

"The Parisian gossips amuse me ... they imagine that I know nothing about Joséphine's deceptions. Besides, it's not like she did it behind my back. If I wanted her to the point of having her murdered, I wouldn't have married her, that's all."

Damn, taking infidelity like a champ. The woman you were infatuated with and wrote love letters to cheating on you? No Big Deal. You've got a hunky assassin to take her place.

Arno's hood was still snug, but leaning against the window, the city lights lit them from below. They brought to light this proud chin which he had only glimpsed, and his mouth, and a sort of pout of incomprehension. "You seem to blame him, however. Certainly not to the point of murdering him ... but you blame him."

"You blame me? The biggest salons talk about its connections. Some date from before our marriage. I am well aware of this, and I undoubtedly know more about it than some of the salt makers."

"Why marry her, then?" Arno exclaimed suddenly with anger and a kind of naivety that surprised him.

"Because, and I hope not to tell you, Arno, affairs of the heart are never simple."

I still don't understand why Arno is throwing a tantrum here. Is it because he's jealous? But he likely knew Napoleon adored Josephine. If anything he would've mentioned how cool Josephine was towards Napoleon and how infidelity was to be expected. He would've cautioned Napoleon not to take it so hard, speaking from the heart. But this, though? This smacks of typical gay jealousy.

Arno's fist clenched in a spasm, a gesture that he had probably wanted discreet but that Napoleon did not miss. Street light, chin, mouth, nails sunk into the palm; he thought he was touching something, before the hands relaxed.

"Please don't tell me anything about it. I don't know if you remember, the catacombs where you had accompanied me ... I was dating this girl - I already told you about it I think - Élise ."

A name ; a desperation while sobriety. A swallow, like an aborted gulp of air, and Arno fell silent. The member vaguely remembered a woman whom he had ardently brought up when they first met several years ago. Just by the way he had pronounced the name, Bonaparte knew she was dead. He closed his eyes and decided, here and now, that his fascination would not cross the threshold of this ghost. 

Here is where the Élise Red Herring gets brought in: despite proclaiming his love for her, and how hard it is for him to let her memory go, Arno promptly turns around and fucks the nearest man he can find. While I can acknowledge there's a thing called grief sex, Arno isn't the sort of character to do that. He's showing sign of jealousy here, and it's jealousy of unrequited same-sex love. All this while he mourns Élise still. I see it a lot, and it never fails to irritate me.

"So you understand my dilemma," he launched, putting his two elbows on the window with the impression of having cut off the silence. "Joséphine is not ideal, far from it. But I love her, and I knew what to expect when I married her, it's more than enough. Women are like great battles. Even if you lose, you might as well know it in advance."

"You speak of it as a lost cause," replied Arno in a somewhat hoarse voice.

"You know," replied Napoleon, very low, "you can find beauty in a rout."

Again, historically, Napoleon was very pissed off Josephine cheated on him. If the author wanted to really sell me this pairing, she'd have it so Arno is the one counselling Napoleon on his rage, telling him to give it another shot. In this story Napoleon has a 'meh' attitude, which more or less says he's fine with being cucked.

A silence.

"Do you consider everything from the point of view of a soldier? asked Arno, turning to him. "Men - are they battles, too?"

Napoleon was silent for a few seconds; he was not sure he understood the question. "Simpler to win, I hope," he finally replied.

"I see," murmured Arno, but so low that Napoleon, turning his head towards him, thought he had dreamed it. Eyes piercing, the killer held his gaze for a few seconds. Then plunged him back towards the night which climbed along the walls. 

The 'men are easier to win' will definitely have a larger impact later in the story. You get hints if you look deeper into the story.

Arno looked up and a real smile animated his full lips. It's crazy how easy it was to read, when he let his face open like this. He made a small mocking chin movement, the one that said I should take it off for your beautiful eyes? and instead said slowly, "Think about what I told you. See you soon, my friend. " 

See what I mean? Acting flirtatious when there is a minor spat. As said before, Napoleon didn't take Josephine's cheating lightly: he revenge cheated on her to prove a point. In this case, despite being married, and despite Arno not a paragraph before talking about his sweet, deceased redhead, is being flirtatious. Wew, lad.

He thought of Josephine, with that body that all of Paris seemed to want to tear herself away from; his laugh a little too strong a little too lively, which had long raised in him an irrational tenderness (even if he finally felt his affection turn into boredom, and thought it is not too soon ).

Women - how to define them, how to explain a woman without using the wrong idea words . Josephine. Desired, with his pretty and a bit silly smile - but he was unfair, he noted with the anger of the one who discovers himself hypocritical, it was he who had shown himself silly at the time, he, hero of the taking of Toulon and yet immeasurably stupid .

I've noticed in slash stories whenever a female character or love interest, especially in the case of a historical character, are always denigrated, be it openly or subtly. While I totally understand Napoleon's passionate distaste of Josephine and her infidelity, they are viewed as barricades in the way of these same-sex romances. They have to be written out or made as villains.

The figure standing before them was dark, dressed in gray, the only spot of color on this almost uniform being the blood-red cross on his chest which Arno immediately recognized. It seemed to him, in view of his build, that it was a woman, but the loose clothing - although tightened at the legs and wrists, for freedom of movement - did not allow us to know more. 

Thinking back on this story, I remembered there was a ridiculous Templar plot which drove me right out of the story. I snickered when I read it. This is where the dumb plot comes into play.

"If you leave these documents where they are and go, I won't chase you," said the person in front of them - a female voice as he had guessed, though grave, beautifully veiled. Arno laughed briefly. One of them would not get out of here alive, everyone knew that. Why did we always have to take him for a residue? 

Let's be clear here: Arno was lockpicking in near total silence. He didn't hear this woman freerun up the building or open the window - he only heard her close it. He apparently cannot use Eagle Vision. Bellec would like to smack you from beyond the grave, Pisspot.

The newcomer, on the other hand, didn't seem to take the news as well. At the soldier's words, her gaze had left Arno which she had fixed without blinking from the start by instinctively finding the real predator, to land on her companion. A step back, and she launched in a voice that she had probably wanted to ask: "Monsieur Bonaparte ... I didn't expect to find you in such bad company. A man of your rank -"

"Mh," interrupted Napoleon bluntly, "a national hero to kill, it's thorny, I admit that it's not very clean ... Finally, you will forgive us if we do not have this kind of scruples."

It needs to be mentioned that when you write a conflict, or a scenario involving the Big Bad, please do not make a long, drawn out dialogue. It doesn't happen in the real world. Arno had ample time to incapacitate the bitch.

His pistol flew through the air, brutally torn from his grip; the woman, having seized her chance, suddenly found herself nearly a meter away from him. He saw the brightness of a blade shine in his hands and took a step back by reflex, heard the air vibrate near his ear. Wanted to counterattack— in a second he reflected, the stabbing weapon looked long, heavy, hand-to-hand combat would disadvantage the opponent. All it took was one step forward, pushing her from the shoulder, she would be destabilized -

Le sigh. No. Napoleon clearly wasn't paying attention. This woman, trying to be sneaky, starts monologuing. Plenty of time to attack her. You monologue when your opponent is incapacitated. Napoleon literally lost his gun because he wanted to gloat.

In the sudden stillness that followed the cry of surrender, things became more discernible.

She was spread out on the floor, back to the ground, Arno's body pressed against her. One of the man's arms held her hand against the floor and stabilized them; the brunette's other arm was folded, hand up to the woman's face. At first Napoleon believed that he had gagged her, but as he approached a few steps he realized his mistake. The girl made no noise because she knew she was cornered - a blade was placed at the base of her throat, coming out of Arno's sleeve.

Arno could've done this when the woman was monologuing, just saying.

Napoleon stooped, picked up the papers and his pistol, and followed him outside. It seemed to him that he had come across an almost oblique path by chance, and was resuming a long-forgotten treasure hunt. The interest - why lie, the fascination - that he felt for Arno Dorian had gradually become something normal, as had the secrets it contained, but he now realized that his curiosity had never extinct; at most muted, its flames muffled. He still knew almost nothing, neither of its origins, nor of the end of the story concerning this Elise of which he spoke with ghosts in the voice, nor of the reason why he often surprised Arno studying it thoughtfully - but these new knowledge made him dizzy.

This is a far cry from Napoleon and Arno throwing a fit as to why they weren't sending letters to each other. There's nothing wrong with fascination - Arno is definitely a mysterious character - but we're going back and forth with emotions and none of it makes any logical sense.

"This woman, the intruder, was a Templar," said Napoleon in the tone of someone who wanted to announce something but was the only one surprised. The barrel of his gun was still smoking at the end of his arm, giving the impression that his hand was flaming. Arno who preceded him turned softly, his gaze fixed on him. Everything in his gestures cried out the ability to kill; everything in its stride cried the feline; and his way of rushing into the night,

like a bird of prey,

a raptor

How had he not understood earlier? 

Napoleon IRL was involved in secret societies. It's likely he knew what the Assassin Brotherhood was, but decided not to dwell on it too much. He worked with Arno before, and knew what Arno's skills were. Why is he acting surprised now? A guy with a hood, a strange symbol, and a strange blade going around killing people and disappearing without a trace? That's not a mercenary. That's an assassin. Duh.

And to say that he had taken him for a simple mercenary.

"You're an assassin, then."

Arno no doubt felt the capital of the word, for his pace slowed imperceptibly.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," he replied, and Napoleon was surprised to discover that his tone was less irritated than equal. Would it change anything?

Again, pretty sure Napoleon already knew. Even Robespierre was aware of the Brotherhood.

"Everything depends. What would happen if you were ordered to kill me one day?"

This time Arno stopped frankly. When he turned to face him, there was an implicit charge on his face; seems to say, of course, you were forced to open hostilities directly. But Arno Dorian was a good boy. So instead of retorting with acidity, he replied slowly:

"You would see me sorry. " 

Would he? I'm sure Arno would regret it, but he'd do his duty. Especially since Napoleon did become a dictator and invade other nations later in his life.

A shiver ran through Napoleon's fingers, an old remnant of arrogance linked to something deeper. He was about to say something when Arno continued, "And it wouldn't happen. I would be incapable of killing you; they would probably send someone other than me. " 

An Assassin has to be indiscriminate in who he kills. If killing Napoleon would save millions, Arno would do it. He'd feel strongly over it, sure. But he is an Assassin.

The conversation was almost intimate. Evening was falling at full speed. New Years had ringed all the bells in Paris the day before, and Notre-Dame in particular had given it to heart. Joséphine was absent, having preferred to celebrate Christmas with her family; Bonaparte wondered how long they could hide that there was water in the gas between them. A candle was burning in the corner of the room, and he hesitated for a moment to light others, but the atmosphere was too comfortable to move. 

Napoleon has said, earlier in this story, he is fully aware of her infidelity and even knows the name of her lovers. If he is referring to his love for Arno, well, that's another case.

"She must have been quite a woman for you to take an interest in her," he said slowly, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

Around them the evening settled down, enveloped every inch on which she could put her hand, covered - without filling anything. Arno Dorian, blue coat with dark eyes, scar across his nose, stood in his chair as if in the center of the world. Calm. Ready to let it swallow overnight.

(There's Arno, his skeletons in the closet, the unexplained urge to follow him)

Arno already told Napoleon about Élise, and he probably would have deduced that she had died because of Arno's sullen nature replacing his sarcastic one. No matter. Arno never cared about Élise and seldom does in these fics. She gets in the way.

"It's not to brag, but I think I'm only interested in interesting people."

There was something in his voice that Napoleon was afraid not to dare to analyze. The soldier's hands itched. He wanted to skin them against the wall.

(Arno on the roads of Toulon and Vienne, the absence of pain, the heavy smell of blood.)

"Lord, he said in a light tone so as not to expose myself too much, could I be interesting?"

To be fair, no, Napoleon. You're not that interesting. Least not in this story. You let a chick kick a gun out of your hands because you were gloating, remember.

Arno looks up, thick look; slow ; palpable. His voice is low, a bit hoarse. His hands don't shake. "Oh," he said in what stretches in a century or a quarter of a second, but you are fascinating , Bonaparte. "

When he leans towards him the other waits for him. The kiss is radically blindly recklessly beautifully irrevocable. They kiss, his hands are on Arno's shirt and it seems to him that a mad heat emanates from the fabric (it comes from his own fingers). The Assassin's hands are close to his thighs, on his thighs - with a grip that must be his, he clings to his hair and grazes the rough fabric of the hood which threatens to fall - this damned hood, he wants to tear it off and tear it apart, his eyes , it wants— 

Like most stories, this romance came from literally nowhere. Where was the chemistry? The banter, I admit, was great, but the 'Ugh, you didn't answer my letters!' threw me off. Add in the 'I love my wife, but I like getting fucked, too', and it's a real doozy. You can't go from bitch fights to passionate romance without some kind of reconciliation. The author assumes most will ignore this, and to be pair most will - they see the M/M rating and they'll forgo all reasoning.

He wants everything from him. Wants to extract everything from its being, to suck the slightest bit of shade, to pierce it up to date, to collect truths and groans intertwined. Wants to fill this thing that growls in his belly loud enough for everything to vibrate in his chest, under his throat, ready to suffocate him. Wants to be assured that Arno's incomprehensible loyalty is not a mishap. But the Assassin's hands are still against him, and when he runs prying fingers under his shirt, Arno has a sudden inspiration - honest and burning, and Bonaparte becomes a feverish mixture of haste and relief. Jaw dropped, he approaches him closer and wonders where his thirst comes from. 

I, too, am wondering where this thirsty attitude came from.

Arno lifts him up and his back crashes against the wall; embraces him more deeply, with an eagerness that seems to say finally ; moves away a little.

"I was beginning to believe that I would have to make up my mind to ask Sade for advice," he gasps - his breath is hot when he fails near his ear -, "I don't know if you measure how much I was desperate . "

His mouth rests right against his jaw - and Napoleon inhales, once, deeply, so that his brain does not collapse on itself. 

de Sade hated Napoleon, so any advice de Sade would give to Arno would be to encourage him to jump into his bed instead. If there was any desperation in Arno's countenance, I didn't see it anywhere in the story. Just a slight bitch fight over letters, some smirking after killing a random Templar chick, and now desperation for the D. OK.

Much later - when Napoleon buttoned up his shirt, put his hair in order, and put on Bonaparte's costume - he glanced at the figure at the edge of the bed. Arno is seated, his shirt collar loosely draped over his shoulder, offering a three-quarter view of his back, his profile, a bit of his side. Before he tucked his shirt in his pants, Napoleon saw a dark mark, a hematoma carefully hidden against the skin, a quickly concealed hickey, and which seemed to be an integral part of the body rather than his own work of art.

As much as I like descriptions where Arno is shirtless or semi-shirtless, getting a hematoma makes me cringe. Ouch. Talk about the Irish sunglasses treatment. Hope they used protection. Or at least lube instead of spit.

 This story ends with the author mentioning how the street Napoleon lived on had frogs. Great. I don't give a damn, especially since all other historical tidbits were ignored. One of these was Napoleon being enraged and later despondent over Josephine's infidelity. Her cheating changed his view on love. What does it say when, despite said cheating, he doesn't really view it as a bad thing and has sex with Arno instead? It speaks of recklessness, and it speaks of inconsistent characterization. The author said she was inspired by other fanfics and mentioned some of his political opinions - all fair and good, although none of them carry any weight.

With these stories, these whirlwind romances don't have any build-up. When writing said whirlwind romance, it helps to include all the passion and, most of all, the reason as to why it's a whirlwind romance. There was so little indication - aside from the 'important men in my life' comment from Arno - these two were going at it when it came to the titular (subtle) sex scene, I wondered: when did these two start liking each other?

Napoleon, for whatever reason, isn't aware Arno is an Assassin. I can roll with it either way, with him knowing or not knowing, but Napoleon struck me as a man who likely knew but never pressed on it. Despite his military campaigns and knowing Arno is a very elusive, mysterious man, they fight over not communicating or sharing letters. This is ridiculous. Both are busy, both know it, so why can't they just say, 'Hey dude, sorry I haven't written often. Been super busy. We'll catch up sometime.' This is what sane adults do. Unless a reason is given or the person absolutely ghosts the other, they should not be fighting. They are adult men, not children.

This story did indeed have some great depictions of Arno, and I'm willing to give credit where it's due. However, the whirlwind romance wasn't so much a romance than the suddenness of Cousin Eddie coming out of the house saying, 'Shitter's Full!'. It's unexpected, the plot - if there is one - is dumb, and the Templar fight could've been prevented had Arno and Napoleon paid attention.

The thing with AO3 authors, even French ones, is that when you take the time to read their stuff and point out, in detail, how it doesn't work, they will snark at you. Or delete your work. Or complain how no one reads their work. If it doesn't make sense, it doesn't make sense. Sure, there are some great moments here. It could've been a great banter fic. But the bitch fight over letters, the unexpected romance, and the cuckery makes me roll my eyes.

I don't get how adults think other adults can't notice when they go wrong. I have eyes, people. And I like using fine toothed combs.