A/N: Let me start by saying that yes, this is based off of Jeffrey Dahmer and his killings, to a point. Some events are similar and some are not. And yes, I'm a sick person that likes JeffxSteven (if both were still alive), but no, I'm actually not a fan of Jeffrey Dahmer, I just really liked his first victim, Steven Hicks. Apparently, Jeff felt more remorseful for killing Steven than any of his other victims. (And yes, he killed someone with the same name afterward. ) So that's what inspired me to write a FrUK fic like this.

It's not clear whether Steven was going to his girlfriend's house, going to hang with friends, or going to a concert the day Dahmer picked him up. In this fic, "he" is going to his girlfriend's house, who's name is "Veronique". To avoid confusion, I'll simply tell you that Veronique is Seychelles. Also, it's not clear if Jeff and Steven did anything sexual. If they did, it was consensual.

Quotes from Dahmer on Hicks before I begin:

"I was in college that day, thinking about Hicks. I was drinking and in a weepy sort of mood, and I cried about that."
"...the victim wanted to leave. Jeff states that he wanted the victim to stay." ~Detective Dennis Murphy
"I'd rather be talking about anything else in the world right now."
"...you don't forget your first one."

XxxxX

Dallying on the phone with my sweetheart was something I did almost every day. The time always seemed to pass by so fast, yet I couldn't find a better joy those days. We talked about silly things, such as giving each other the sun, the moon, and all sorts of things that we couldn't even touch. It was because of our inability to drive that we had to keep each other company over such a tacky device, but every now and then, we did manage to find rides to each others homes. The simple pleasure of seeing her for even a little while was enough for me, and she had told me it was enough for her as well.

I wouldn't say that we were in love, because both of us had some pretty little thing on the side. Of course, I was not connected to this person like I was connected to my dear Veronique. In fact, I wasn't connected to any of my other little friends as much as I was to her. Maybe it was because of her wonderfully mocha skin that she proudly exposed with those tiny Seychellois dresses, or the hair that I wouldn't hesitate to pat. Well, in summary, she was gorgeous, but I couldn't fall in love with her. Veronique was far too possessive over me, too demanding, but for the sake of making myself believe that I was doing something with my life, I went along with her.

"So Francis, you'll come over since it's my birthday tomorrow right?" Veronique sounded nervous at the question, possibly thinking that I'd tell her that I was doing something else for her birthday, "I mean, I told my folks that you might be coming over so they're cleaning the house like crazy. I'd feel horrible if their hard work was wasted."

Hearing her list every reason why I wouldn't care to come, I rolled my eyes with a slight smile and stopped her from speaking. "I'll have to find a ride but I'll end up coming." Instantly, I began to think of anyone who wasn't busy for her special day, "I'll start calling around for a ride, d'accord mon petit chou?"

I heard her squeal in delight and praise me for simply speaking my native language. She would tell me many times how she found French enchanting and how I should only use it around her when I felt that she deserved to hear 'such an amazing language'. I never thought that she deserved anything really, but I loved my language and decided to speak it to her when she felt that she deserved to hear it. When were those times? When she was about to become more excited than a pack of kids receiving free toys and candy. "Francis, thank you so freaking much! You don't have to rush to come over! Just come when you can!"

That meant that she would be waiting for me all day, and when I finally arrive at her home, she would break down in tears and ask me why I didn't get there sooner. So after a drawn out goodbye, we ended our call, and I dialed the number of my dear friend, Antonio. Long and unsuccessful call short; he would not be able to take me to Veronique's house. Neither would Gilbert, who happened to be hanging out with Antonio when I called.

The next phone calls I made were also unsuccessful, and the only thing I could think of was taking a bus. Disgust came over me, thinking of those horrid people on the bus, who now do not seem so bad compared to some people I have met.

I decided that I was going to walk to Veronique's house. She said that I could come when I could, though she was hoping that I got there sooner. I would make the long trek to her home and arrive, sweaty and beat, like a prince from a story. It was romantic, so she would forgive me for my idiotic plan, but I had to make sure I took the shortest route, so I would have to walk down by the road and pass the freeway until I reached the side door to the apartments. After the apartments, I would have to walk through the field- which would be nice since there were many shady trees on the side of it that I would be able to rest under after the first part of my trek. After the field, I'd have to make my way through the next city, pass the plaza, maybe get a drink, and then I would be in Veronique's neighborhood. I had told myself that it would be easy if I didn't think about it much.

Figuring that I should rest for the next day, I went to bed after making dinner for myself. The grain baguette and penne pasta would provide a generous amount of energy for me. I wished that I made something more extravagant, but if I stayed up for a long time, I'd feel sluggish.

In the morning, I woke to the annoying chirping of birds outside of my window. I quickly prepared myself for the day, taking a shower, cleaning myself up and such. I slipped on the most comfortable clothes and shoes that didn't look like rags, but then again, nothing in my house looked like rags. Not even the rags looked like rags.

Before I left for my long journey, I took two bottles of water and a towel since it was almost unbearably hot outside. This didn't stop me, I was determined to walk all the way to Veronique's house whether it took me all day and all night. After I locked my door, I stretched out my legs and arms and set off with the most resolute look on my face and a cocky smile as I would have guessed it was.

About an hour had passed by when I made it to the road, which was pretty good since I was almost at the freeway. But I was tired and covered in more sweat than I had imagined. This was not how I wanted to greet my dear Veronique, and it wasn't how I had ever wanted to be. I took off my shirt, finished the last of my second water bottle, and walked listlessly along the road. I had thought that going shirtless would be better, but the sun beat down onto my back almost as if it was trying to melt me into the ground. The cross necklace around my neck became a burning brander, and my shoulders were probably chaffing. To say that in a more pleasant way; not wearing a shirt was worse, but I felt lighter, so I didn't put it back on.

Another hour or so passed, and I was finally on the freeway, but I had enough of the heat! As I stood on the side of the freeway, holding out my thumb, a couple of things crossed my mind.

"I'm going to get picked up by a girl and possibly her friends who happens to be fascinated with my looks."

"A cute girl is going to pick me up and ask for some sexual favor, which I shall give in as long as I get to Veronique's house eventually."

"No one will pick me up. I have no shirt on."

At the time, I never thought that someone in a little 1965 Riviera would stop alongside me, roll down their window and with an English accent ask, "Where to?" I wondered who this messy-haired, Englishman was, and what caused him to stop for someone like me. I was sweaty, shirtless, and quite handsome, a combo that I thought would attract some teenage girl who had just learned how to drive. But no, this man in the car, probably a bit younger than myself so in his twenties possibly, I thought that someone like him wouldn't find any interest in someone like me...would he?

"Um, just down by the Second Plaza, the one off of Indian and Bijoutier, and I can walk from there." I'm sure he could hear the nervousness and suppressed shock in my voice as I concluded that maybe he was just picking me up from the kindness in his heart. He nodded and unlocked my door, telling himself that my destination wasn't so far. When I climbed into the car, I instantly sighed with happiness at the feeling of the man's wonderful air conditioning, "Merci monsieur!"

He narrowed his eyes and his set of English brows at me only for a second then smiled a bit. "So you're French." It wasn't a question, it was a statement, which sounded somewhat cold really, or maybe that was the air conditioner. Either way, the way he said it somewhat insulted me.

"I am, do I have to jump out of the car now?" I kind of wish I had. I would have walked away with a couple of scars and maybe a bit more, but any of that would have been better than what I received in the end I think.

A sudden look of fear decorated the man's face, and it really confused me at the time. He seemed apologetic and quickly glanced down at his feet, almost as if it was an act of a shy little girl, then looked back to me, hands gripping his steering wheel tighter. "N-No, you don't have to leave. My name is Arthur by the way, Arthur Kirkland."

He peered at me from the corner of his eyes expectantly, switching lanes and cutting off a car. "Alright, Arthur," I smirked, not knowing why we needed to exchange names if he was simply driving me somewhere. In my mind I thought I would never see him again after this, "I'm called Francis Bonnefoy."

"Can you say it in French?" he asked.

"Je m'appelle Francis." At this point, I decided that he couldn't be so bad if he wanted me to speak French. Not many people around the area I lived liked French people or the language, so I tried not to speak it often. It wasn't a violent area, but it could be, and I had seen it become so almost over night once or twice. You could never be proud of who you were in my neighborhood, even if you really were. That's just how it was, and probably how it always would be.

Arthur chuckled and cut in front of someone else. "Beautiful language, I speak a little I suppose. Would you like to hear?" In my mind, I couldn't help but think, What a kiss ass. But really, there wasn't really anything to do that for, so I told him to go for it. "Je t'aime est cette?"

I stared at him dubiously, "What? You what?" He blinked, wondering what he said wrong. Going over his words, he repeated the line. "That's right, isn't it?" His frown assured me that he didn't know what he was saying.

"What are you trying to say exactly? In English, really." It wasn't funny. Butchering my language was not funny. Not at all. Or maybe he had a word wrong or something, but I had no idea what he could have been trying to say.

"I was asking what time it was. Je t'aime est cette? That's not right?" He looked so sincere about it too, so I couldn't help but laugh at him! He was so off that I had to forgive him even though he very well could have slaughtered the whole language with his failure. "You're laughing at me..."

With a smile and a hand on his shoulder, I shook my head. "No, I'm laughing at your mistake. You mean to say Quelle heure est il." I rustled his hair, then attempted to make it neater.

He moved his head away from my hand and sighed. "What was I saying? It had sounded so right."

"Something along the lines of 'I love you is that'. Something like that. How deep, Arthur." I watched him blush deeply and keep his eyes on the road, not wanting to look at me at all. "It's an easy mistake. Maybe I can teach you some French? I'm not in a rush." I didn't want him walking around saying that he knew French when he couldn't even ask for the time.

Arthur slowly turned to stare at me. His eyes seemed to glint, as if he was waiting on me to say something like that for the whole car ride. "Ah, today? I'm not busy or anything, but...you have some place to be, I'd rather you not waste time on me." A lie he told. He wanted me to waste all of my time on him. Wanted me to stay in that car with him for all eternity maybe. He was a loner as I soon found out, a friendless man who didn't pick up men off of the side of the road often, but he had dreamt of doing so one day I guessed, and he would keep them, keep them for as long as he could. He spoke as if he wove a web, and if you thought that you were the one weaving him in, you were wrong. Arthur was the master of words, whether you realized it before it was too late or not. And one more thing, his French was just fine, better than he let on.

Before I could realize this, I was laying beside him at his home, naked, exhausted, and a bit drunk I supposed. He was all the things I was except the latter, I figure because he couldn't trap me with his senses out of whack, so I'd expect that he wouldn't have drunken himself to a stupor. I had wondered what in the world had happened, though it was pretty obvious, chillingly obvious. I felt satisfied to say the least, and Arthur seemed so as well, yet pained. I don't know, everything was really peculiar to the point that I wanted to leave.

The Englishman turned over to me and kissed me passionately, and of course I kissed back, but I felt out of place, like I was supposed to be elsewhere, which I was supposed to be elsewhere. I broke our little connection, "Arthur, Arthur what time is it?" It was getting dark outside, so I wasn't quite sure. Or could it have been getting lighter outside? Oh gosh, I was almost panicking!

"Seven," he moaned, continuing to kiss me. I supposed that he wanted more but I needed to go. I sloppily flipped us over and sat up, away from the desperate looking man, "Arthur, I still need to get to Veronique's house."

He pouted and looped his arms around my waist. "I heard you a million times, she's going to have to bloody wait." He stared up into my eyes, most likely sensing the discomfort. He sighed and sat up with me, ducking to get his clothes, "Fine Francis, I'll take you. Just let me get dressed."

I beamed, picking around for my clothes as well. "Merci beaucoup!" My ride remained quiet, frowning at me. "Don't worry Arthur, I'll visit a lot when I can get a ride! You can even hang with the boys and I! It's just that it's Veronique's birthday and I'd feel like a bad person if I wasn't there and-"

"I heard you the first five or so times." With a huff, he dramatically pulled on his pants and socks. I couldn't understand Arthur's pissy mood. I had told him that he could hang out with my friends and I even, and we never added anyone in our little group. He was alright with me, or so that's what I told myself at the time. I hadn't learned who this man really was yet, hadn't looked a little deeper into his actions, which I should have. He just seemed so innocent, in fact he was twenty, so three years younger than myself. I saw him as someone I'd like to have as my little brother...a little brother that I took to bed with me apparently. "Incest" aside, I had begun to view him as a little brother of some kind, and little brothers didn't do anything wrong except switch the blame on other people, so I didn't bother to observe him any closer than I had.

I finally spoke up with what I thought he wanted to hear. "Arthur, if this was any other day that wasn't Veronique's birthday then I would have stayed way longer, stayed for days even if you allowed it, but this is a special day. Well it's night now but you know what I mean." The reason he picked me up was mostly because he was lonely. His brothers and sisters had moved away just recently, and he had the house all to himself, forever. I understood, I felt the same way he did after I began to live alone and mooch rides to places off of my friends and simply walk to the places I could walk to, such as my job.

Arthur rolled his eyes and dragged me into the living room as I hopped into my pants. "I get it! Shut up let's go!" I lazily smiled at him as he rushed in the other room to get his keys. My shirt was nice and not smelly, so I thought that would be a nice thing. I turned it inside out and searched for the head hole. I heard Arthur come in as I slowly walked towards the door, still having trouble with my shirt. All the holes looked the same! I struggled to slip on my shoes first and kicked at one of our beer cans. "Ready?" I asked, taking another glance at the painting of a wailing old lady that Arthur had on his wall. I had been intrigued by it when I first came in, but then it seemed kind of creepy. Suddenly, I felt a heavy and sharp pain at the back of my head. Falling to the floor, I had a quick glimpse of Arthur, who seemed shocked. Ah, what was it? He looked regretful?

I was still and my breathing was at a shallow rattle. Despite the extreme pain at the back of my head, I was still alive...wasn't I? I was breathing at least, so I thought maybe I'd be okay. Maybe Arthur would take me to the hospital or...was this one of those famous migraines that everyone complained about? I always hated when people did so, but I thought if that was what it was then merde, people weren't complaining enough! My eyesight began going out, and I couldn't hear Arthur and his frantic murmurs which I hadn't noticed before. Well at least he was freaking out enough for me, so I thought. He took my ankles and began dragging me down the hall to the door to go outside. I would have asked him what he was doing, but I couldn't manage to speak. My head was bleeding apparently, I could feel the blood oozing out of my skull only because it was dripping down to my skin.

Arthur dragged me down the steps of his back porch, and Mon Dieu it hurt! I wanted to punch the daylights out of him, but I couldn't move, couldn't do anything. Even my breathing seemed nonexistent then, but I could feel the pain still. He pushed me under the crawl space of his house, through the spider webs that formed at the entrance. "Stay," he told me. Of course I would stay, I had no choice, but I would have liked to be taken to a hospital. Not even that was being granted to me, and it never would. I remained under that cold space, the rats, worms, and ants using my chest as their new playground, my head throbbing until I could no longer feel.

I lost everything that belonged to me; most of my senses, my dislike of certain things that only someone living could experience, and my life. I was gone, left to be some twenty-three year old with no name to himself. I wasn't famous as I had wished to be at one point or the other, I wasn't married to five beautiful girls as my fantasies had once or twice hoped for, I wasn't telling Veronique, "Happy Birthday you amazingly beautiful girl!" I was nowhere but under the house of some guy named Arthur that picked up a nobody like me from the freeway. I was dead, and I had a feeling that not a lot of people would even notice that I was gone.

A/N: Spoiler; France dies. Hur hur!

Ah, I killed him again. Whoops. Sorry I'm not the best writer, but I hope you enjoy this any way. Next chapter! Also, I'm deeply sorry if there's anything too cracky in this fic, in fact I'm sure there might be hints of it here and there, so I apologize in advance. I write crack fics, not stuff like this for the most part.