Like it had happened before, and like he knew it always would, twelve year old Francis felt the balled up fist of his stepfather's into the back of his ribs. He let out the smallest whimper but wouldn't go beyond there. He would always be punished worse if he made it too obvious that something stirring was occurring to their neighbors. As the back of his head was throbbing in pain from the drunken man pulling at his hair, he closed his eyes shut, as if to try and escape from the abuse. It never worked.
He felt another hand to his ribs and whimpered more pathetically then before, but didn't stir or cause a fuss. Before he could apologize, he was pulled into a bedroom by his stepfather's grasp on his hair. He heard the door slam as he opened his eyes and noticed the light green walls and the familiar blue unmade bed sheets. It was his bedroom.
"I told you, you couldn't eat until you finished your chores." His slurred raspy voice was whispered in Francis's ear, as he was sat down on his own bed by the man. The drunken stepfather let go of his hair and grabbed his shirt color. "I've told you, haven't I?"
Francis just nodded. His blue eyes began to well up in fear. Sure, the man had been angry before, but he never saw him this angry. Nothing like this before, though he was more scared of what was to come to him.
"And how long? How long have I told you?"
Francis licked his full lips in fear before answering. "Since I was six." He whispered frightened.
His stepfather narrowed his eyes and grabbed his hair again, not pulling as hard as before. "And you could only eat until after you're finished, right?" He asked and the boy nodded. Suddenly, the rage in his face became even more real and furious as he gripped his hair harder and pushed his head to the bedpost. "Then why the fuck did I catch you eating the biscuits?" He yelled, but toned his voice down carefully, as not to cause a stir.
The brunette boy held his head were it had collided with the wooden bedpost and began sobbing harder. "I-I…" He began explaining but was so rudely interrupted but his stepfather.
"What!"
"I thought I finished them!" He cried and buried his face in his arms, scared for another slap.
"You didn't take out the trash!" His stepfather's drunken fury ended up in hitting him in the stomach grabbing his wrists, holding them down on the bed. "You ungrateful little fuck. Do you have any idea what I do for you, and what I teach you? Do you even know how lucky you are to have me?" He sat on the bed next to the boy's body, now sprawling the brunette's legs on the sheets. "You are never going to eat in this household again. Not like you need to. A boy your age needs to learn to thrive. You have been fed too much anyway. You gluttonous little brat." He paused for a moment, as if to think and then grabbed suddenly changed the grasp of both of his hands on both wrists, to one strong hand holding both still above the boy's head. "I'll teach you a fucking lesson."
With his free hand, he began undoing his belt. He saw Francis look in fear and then close his eyes, again as if to hide. A small smirk arose on the man's face as he noticed the hurt in the boy's expression. He undid his pants and then moved to the boy, undoing his and pulling both his pants and his undershorts off quickly. Then, almost with no problem, he undid every button on both of their shirts, but kept them on their shoulders. "I'll teach you a lesson." He repeated softly and raspier then before.
Opening his blue eyes was going to be a mistake, but Francis was so curious as to what was going to happen, but that did not change the fact that he didn't want it. He could imagine the worst, and that scared him most of all. As he indulged in his vision, he watched his stepfather move closer to him and plant his mouth on his lips. A small pitiful whimper arose in his throat as he felt the man's hot tongue graze over his teeth.
What was happening to the boy was something he had never encountered. As almost a teenage boy, the innocence of sex was something not heavily enforced but the physicality of the situation was a process he had never faced. And he wasn't sure what to expect.
Drunkenly, the man moved away and slurred in the boy's ear, "You're going to fucking get it now," and pulled off his own clothes, lying on top of the brunette with as much force as possible.
"D-don't hurt me, Daddy." Francis whispered courageously and forced his eyes close when he felt the man's mouth on his chest.
His stepfather snickered before muttering, "Hurt you?" He kissed his stepson's neck, sucking on the skin to create a darkened red mark just above his collar bone, then moved his lips back to his ear. "Oh I'm going to do so much worse…"
Jean Descole woke up in a cold sweat, blue eyes forced open in fear. He looked around the room, and didn't see any familiar blue sheets and green walls. A sudden impulse of relief and discontentment, forced him to sit up in his bed, his hands buried in his hair. His heavy breathing began to strain his chest and cause an anxious burn in his lungs. He needed to calm down.
He hated how he could remember those particular events like they had happened yesterday. Especially that one. The day his innocence was stolen was as clear to him as a picture. All his life he had tried to forget, but something, usually a dream, always brought the memory back. That evil man, forcing him into starvation and rigorous training and chores, and worst of all, forcing himself on him.
He looked up slightly, trying to see familiar remnants of that particular house so he could get the image of being at his old house away. He was gone. His stepfather was long gone. He was safe at home, in his own bed. Why couldn't he help but feel so insecure.
"Olivier?" He heard from behind his seated position and felt a hand on his back. "What's going on?"
Jean licked his lips again and turned to the familiar face. An uneasy expression was strewn upon the attractive face as he realized he probably seemed a little suspicious. He gave a half smile to the handsome man as he watched him sit up next to him, and shook his head. "Nothing." He answered and felt a hand around his waist. "Just a nightmare." He said in a hushed tone and lifted a hand to his bedmate's brown hair, running his fingers though the locks.
"Care to talk about it?"
Jean shrugged. "What's there to talk about?" He smiled before planting a kiss on his lips. In return, he received a similar, devious smile. "Just a dream." He kissed the man's lips again, but this time led them to a laying position. He wasn't sure if sex would be the right answer for an uncomfortable occasion such as one like this, but he decided at least it was safe. So, what the hell.
After a passionate session, the two eventually departed from the other's grasp, and Jean went to sleep with no nightmares afterwards.
..
Jean woke up with a start when he realized he was alone in his bed. Before he could even think of where his partner could have gone off too, he decided to take a shower and get dressed, which is exactly what he did.
When he departed his bedroom, the last thing he wanted to do was muster up the will power to make himself coffee and cut an apple into pieces for breakfast. He walked into the kitchen to find the handsome man standing with two cups of coffee ready for the start of the day.
"Alexander, you are amazing." Jean commented and greeted him with a kiss, taking one of the cups off his hands.
"I know." He smirked and leaned up against the counter. "I thought I had a couple of minutes left before work, so I'd make a pot. I didn't think you'd wake up so early."
"You know me." Jean took a sip of his coffee and leaned against the counter next to him. "My sleeping patterns can be so unpredictable."
Alexander let out a small laugh. "Yeah, like everything else with you." He joked, placing a hand on his shoulder. "So what is the plan for Olivier, today?"
Jean smiled wider at his the sound of his pseudonym and shrugged. "I'm meeting my friend Hershel for coffee."
The other man gave a perplexed look but still kept it comical and joking. "When am I going to meet him?" He asked and set his cup down. "I hear all these stories about you and your friends but I haven't met any of them yet. So, when will I meet them?"
Sipping his coffee, Descole shrugged. "Good question." He set his cup down and kissed the man's lips after a snicker. "I've got to go, though. I'm going to be late." Looking at the clock, he realized at the rate he was going, all his plans were going to overlap. How stressful.
Alexander nodded. "I need to get to work anyway." He kissed him again. "Meet you back here for dinner?"
Jean shrugged. "I don't know, it's a busy day. How about you go ahead and eat without me and I'll meet you back for bed."
The other brunette nodded and walked him out the door, the both of them leaving to fulfill the plans of the day.
..
Jean walked up to the coffee table outside the café where he saw his friend, clad in gentlemanly clothes and a top hat. The usual. "Sorry I'm late-ish." He apologized, holding a red apple in hand and sitting across the table from his friend.
Hershel smiled and shook his head. "Francis, if there is one thing I've learned about you all these years, it's to never expect anything in particular from you."
Descole nodded and rested his head in his arms. "That's a wise decision." He took a smile bite of the apple he grasped and looked up at his friend. "How's life?" He asked nonchalantly, watching him eat a piece of toast and sip a glass of tea.
"Fine." He answered and looked at his disheveled friend. "I think I should be asking you. You look like you haven't had a good night's sleep in weeks, and I mean that in the best possible way."
Jean smiled. "There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for that." He took another bite, chewed and swallowed before going on. "Because it's true."
Professor Layton was about to ask why, when he realized his childhood friend was eating nothing but an apple, when there was a wide choice of foods on the menu. "Aren't you going to order anything?"
Jean shook his head. "I'm good with my apple."
"You are always eating apples." Hershel raised an eyebrow quizzically. Francis was a puzzle for him to solve all on his own.
"I like apples. What's wrong with apples?" He let out a laugh and his blue eyes wandered downwards. That was the same answer he always gave when he asked about his food choice. What's wrong with apples?
"You finished your chores?" Francis could remember the sound of his stepfather asking venomously. He saw him sitting on the couch drinking tea, and staring at him judgmentally.
"Yes, sir." He answered and stood innocently, waiting for the call that led him to freedom. The words that allowed him to eat.
Instead, his stepfather narrowed his eyes. "Are you hungry?" In his voice remained the poison, but the boy overlooked it either way.
"Ever so much." Francis answered and placed his hands behind his back.
The man nodded and stood up, studying his stepson with his eyes. "You have a recital this month." He pointed out and crossed his arms. "In front of a huge audience. Aren't you afraid you're going to slip up?"
Francis breathed inward puzzled. He did not want to talk about ballet, he was six years old. He was a hungry growing boy and he wanted to know if it was okay to indulge in what the fridge had to offer. At this point, he began to hate his new father even more. Before him, his mom would leave to work and he could eat whatever and whenever he wanted. He didn't need permission. He disliked this new rule. "I'm very confident in myself." He mumbled. He had a heard his dance instructor use that language once, so he decided to mimic. Maybe, if he sounded more intelligent, he could have dinner.
His stepfather raised an eyebrow. "You may have confidence stored up, but your skills are lacking greatly." He lowered himself to the young boy's level. "Do you want to be a good dancer?"
"Only the best, sir." Which was true. At this point in his life, his dream was to be a professional ballet dancer, like his instructor. His idol.
His father nodded. "Well then, I guess I'm going to see to it that you achieve this dream. You are going to need to practice more." He told him and began walking back to his seat.
Francis stood dumbfounded, still waiting for the word of food.
"Go on, practice."
Francis looked downwards uneasily. "Um, I'm hungry, sir."
His father looked up confused and stood up in front of him. "You're hungry now? Are you?"
The blue eyed boy nodded.
His father snickered and nodded back. He crossed his arms and sighed, while thinking. He looked up and then back down, and shook his head at the boy. "Well, that's too bad. You're going to have to be perfect if you want to keep this skill." Francis was obviously confused but said nothing. "From now on, you cannot eat any type of food without my permission. You can stay here and practice for another couple of hours and then have an apple when your mother gets home."
Francis stood baffled for a moment before taking in the command. When it finally hit him, his eyes began to well up. "B-but, sir, I really wanted to eat dinner."
Before a tear even shed, the back of his stepfather's hand forcefully collided with the side of his face and caught him off guard. The boy fell to the floor and held his cheek in pain as a tear fell to his chin.
"That wasn't very graceful was it?" His father mumbled and let out a snicker. "You do not get to eat until you learn the true meaning of grace. You will do as I say." He lifted the boy up to his feet by his collar and sat back in his chair. "Now, dance, or I'll have to make you do it forcefully. And if you tell your mother anything about what happened here, she'll be so upset with you, she might disown you like your father. So keep your mouth shut and dance."
"Cisi?" Hershel broke his friends daydreaming but snapping his fingers in front of his face. "What's wrong?"
Jean looked up confused and shook his head. "Nothing." He took another bite of his apple hastily and forced a smile through the terrible memory.
The man across the table raised an eyebrow at the statement. "You're crying." He mumbled and handed him a tissue.
The blue eyed man looked confused for a second but then touched his cheek with a dainty hand. There, indeed, was a wet streak from a tear. He took the napkin and smiled. "Hmm, odd." He stated and looked downward.
Hershel placed the tea cup that he was previously holding, down on the table top to look at his friend seriously. "Cisi, is this about your stepfather?"
Jean opened his mouth and closed it at the question. How could he answer that? Of course it was, but he wasn't about to tell Hershel about it. Hershel, who was his enemy and he didn't even know it. He clenched his teeth and looked downward at his hands. "I've got to go." He mumbled and stood up.
"Francis, no you don't. It's been years, we can talk about this—"
"I've got to meet Bradley for lunch."
"Who's Bradley? I thought you were dating an Alexander."
"He's the other one. I've got to go."
"Did you ever consider having an actual stable relationship with just one person?"
"I might have. I've got to go." He answered stoic and gracefully made his way around the other tables and chairs to the streets, all while looking downwards to hide his tears.
..
"Am I late?" Jean walked up to a table where a strong and handsome man sat with a half-smile strewn on his face sat. He clenched his teeth puzzled.
Bradley shook his head and stood up next to him. "I'm early, you're on time." He then pulled the chair out for Jean to sit in, which he did thankfully. "How are you, Claude?"
Descole bit his bottom and breathed outwards. "Stressed because I thought I was late." I was too busy crying in my car, trying to repress memories of my past, he thought but forced a smile anyway. "But I'm feeling better. How are you?"
The blonde man shrugged and rested his head in his hand. "I'm tired. Last night I stayed at the studio until twelve last night, teaching the rookies how to Effacé Devant correctly and then this morning, I woke up at five to play football with my mates. Quite the last twenty-four hours."
"Sounds like it." Jean, holding another apple looked the man in the eyes and waited for a response from him, when he didn't get one, he decided he would go on. He knew this man almost like the back of his hand, sleeping with someone for a year would do that to you. "I never could understand you. It goes from leaping and Plié-ing to kicking a little ball around and forcing tackling people. You're a character."
Bradley shrugged and shook his head. "I could say the same for you."
Jean shrugged back. "I shan't deny that."
"Oh, here." The blonde man's train of thought went off its original path and he placed a hand on a box next to him. "I got you an apple pie." He pressed the box to his side of the table. "Just for you."
Descole smiled wider looking incredulous. "You got me a pie?"
"Well I couldn't bake you one." Bradley laughed and sipped a cup of coffee. "You and I both know my kitchen skills are horrendous."
Jean laughed and rested his head in hands. "Well, thank you all the same."
"I knew how much you liked apples, I thought you'd enjoy it."'
"I shall." He lied and sighed outwards. He couldn't tell him the truth about his own eating habits, for he didn't want to hurt his feelings, but he knew he wasn't going to eat it. "Hmm, I'm tired. Let's get your food and get out of here."
Bradley laughed and did as commanded. He ordered his food for take away and Descole drove them both back to Bradley's house.
Eager as anytime as he was with the blonde, he grabbed his shirt and pulled him into his bedroom, kissing his lips passionately. He closed the bedroom door behind them and pressed their bodies close, keeping them locked at the mouth. Bradley didn't reject anything he was given and brought both of them into the bed.
After a heated session, Jean leaned against the man, kissing his chest lightly. By now, he had forgotten any memory of his stepfather and enjoyed his time with his work partner.
"So how's work?" Bradley finally asked after a couple of minutes of lying and panting on each other.
The brunette sighed lightly. "It's very…numerical."
Bradley laughed. "Science is numerical, Claude." He stated and kissed the man's forehead in response. "How come you don't dance anymore?" He let out unexpectedly.
Dance was the way that Jean and Bradley had met, and he had met him as Claude. They had worked in the same world renowned production of the ballet Cinderella with a prestigious London troupe of dancers. Which, ironically was the last ballet Jean had performed and the first that Bradley saw him dance in. Jean said nothing.
"You're really talented. Everyone's said it, you know. You could be famous." Bradley looked at him in the eyes and shook his head. "Why don't you milk your effortless talent?"
Jean bit his bottom lip and shook his head. "I've been too focused on my studies." He said and breathed outwards again, not sure if that statement was true or not.
Bradley nodded. "Well, next month is the auditions for Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty." He watched Jean roll his eyes before continuing on. "C'mon, Claude. I'm trying out."
The brunette kissed his lips and smiled at him. "I'm not quite the ballerina, as you." He joked and felt a light smack on his arm, to which he responded with a laugh. "Honestly, though, I don't think dance is my hitch."
Suddenly Bradley sat up looking disgusted. "What are you talking about?" He watched his bedmate sink farther into the bed, comfortably. "You are the best dancer I've ever known. And I've been dancing since I was three. I've known a lot of dancers."
"Meh,"
"Seriously, Claude. Try out with me. It'll be really easy and both of us know all the moves by heart. And if you make it, you don't have to agree to be in it, but I think it would be worth at least trying out."
Jean sighed and placed his arms under his head. "Fine." He finally gave in and shook his head. "Fine, I'll audition."
Bradley kissed him and ran his fingers through his hair before continuing. "And when Broadway asks for you, you'll accept right?"
"No promises." He laughed and lifted his head up to kiss the man. "But I will direct them towards a talented football player I know, who also happens to be dancer."
Bradley snickered and passionately kissed him. After a few embracing moments, both of them finally drifted off to sleep.
One, two, three, four and five, six, seven, eight. Francis counted in his head on stage. He was performing a high end and expensive production of Tchaikovsky's The Nutcracker, and knew there were going to be thousands of people, all around from London and Paris and even Berlin. All around Europe. He knew he couldn't screw up. His mother and stepfather were in the front seat, as always.
Sweating from the exertion, he knew it was almost over. This was his last dance of the ballet and he couldn't screw it up. He couldn't be the little nine year old who screwed up in London's version of the world renowned production.
The lights glared in his eyes as he looked one last time for his mother. And there she was. Sitting there with a smile on her face and tears in her eyes, as always. She was always proud of her little baby. And he was doing so well. Nothing could go wrong.
Then he saw the scowl on his stepfather's face. That scowl that meant he was in for it. Had he done something wrong? Did he already trip up and not know it? The pain in his feet began to throb as he realized he was in trouble. But what did he do? What did he do wrong?
He felt a cramp in his foot arise as he was to dance towards the lead girl. On his way tip toeing to her, a pain that shot all the way up his left foot and his ankle, debilitated him for a moment and he tripped to the floor. Luckily, the little girl lead was intelligent enough to play along and help him up but in character.
Oh god, he had messed up. Thinking about how he could have messed up, he messed up. The pain was extraordinary and he just wanted the production to end.
And just like that, it did. He was backstage crying and his mother was holding him lovingly.
"Oh baby, you were so good, there's no reason to be sad." She said comfortingly and everyone eagerly and excitedly yelled as their last production was over.
"But I fell."
"You fell? Oh at the end? I thought that was part of the ballet?"
"No! And now I look ridiculous in front of all of Europe!" He cried more and his mother just held him in her arms.
And like that, it was the next morning. He had walked out to the living room, looking for his mother, but it had appeared she had already gone to work, for there was his stepfather.
"You call that grace?" He asked venomously and shook his head. "You disgust me." He walked over to Francis and smacked him in the cheek with the back of his hand. "You're never going to make it. Not ever with tripping feet like that. You need to be more weightless, like I told you. Fucking brat, sneaking biscuits all the time."
"I'm sorry, daddy." He mustered through tears and the pain. That was all he could do anyway. No matter how much he apologized it would result in the same.
And just like he predicted, he got punched in the stomach. His breath stopped as he felt the fist collide with his ribs. The pain was excruciating as he fell to the floor. Even more tears arose in his eyes. What could he do beside cry?
"From now on you get more chores." His stepfather kicked him in the back forcibly. "You'll do as I say and next time, you won't embarrass me like that." He continued kicking the boy in a painful rhythmic fashion until he felt like he had had his punishment. This would be a while.
"Yes, daddy!" This was the only thing Francis could muster in the pain of blows to his torso. He just wished it would stop.
Again, waking up in a panic, Jean Descole sat up, and looked behind him. There was Bradley sleeping soundly, not noticing a thing. He looked at the clock and it was only an hour after he had fallen asleep. He needed to get out of there.
He waited for his breathing to normalize before waking up Bradley with a kiss. "I've got to get home." He stated and smiled lightly. "I have work that needs to be done."
Groggily Bradley sighed and nodded. "I'll call you."
"No need, I'll do it first." Jean smiled and got dressed. He kissed him again before leaving the house hastily and jumping into his car.
He turned the vehicle on and drove off the property, blocks away from the house and onto the freeway, before he started sobbing again. These nightmares were going to be the death of him. They wouldn't go away. They wouldn't even lessen. Usually if he had a nightmare, it would be one not and never again for a good half a year. Now it's every other day at least.
His blue eyes kept fixated on the road when he turned on the radio to listen to music. Something to distract his mind. He needed to think of music. He loved music. He didn't love the horrible memories of his stepfather or of his childhood at all. He just needed the music.
But even then, the tears kept flowing. He drove for hours, from one end of the freeway to the next, back and forth, before finding himself still crying and in a familiar London neighborhood.
Hershel's apartment.