A/N: This fic is for the Secret History by Donna Tartt- note, spoilers!
The Complications of Attraction
"Cubitum eamus?"
It's the second thing he ever says to Richard. He says it absentmindedly, carelessly looking out the window. The sun makes his hair look like fire, and it reflects off his pince-nez into Richard's eye, dangerously sharp.
"Shall we go to bed together?"
"What?" Richard asks.
"Nothing."
Francis ponders their indulgent moment for quite a while after its occurrence. Indeed, he thinks, he ponders the events surrounding the long, slow deliberate kiss he'd given Richard that night.
Deliberate. He pauses, rolling the word over his tongue. Deliberatus in Latin, σκόπιμη in Greek. Skopimi if pronounced phonetically, though he much prefers the word in Latin, this time. A derivative of libra; scales, balance...
Balance.
He knows there was a reason, other than his convenience, for his kissing Richard. He just wishes he knew what.
Francis also knows there is another reason for his drunken moments with Charles, and why he allows him to forget so easily. Unfortunately, he knows this reason all too well. It frightens Francis how willing he is to seek comfort from the desperate Charles, who wants nothing more than to paint his sister onto any face that is keen.
Keen. Originally from the Middle English, cēne, meaning brave. Francis thinks himself far from brave. He recalls the lustful mixture of whisky and tobacco; their two, distinct scents intertwining. Charles groans, again, nails latched onto Francis' brittle frame. He claws himself to Francis' face, his lips, earning a desirable moan. "I want you…" Charles whispers, and then faintly, "Camilla", and Francis smiles bitterly at the faint, dirty words that escape Charles' lips, knowing all too well he is damned, and claimed, and readily Charles' bitch anytime he wants.
They'd fucked after he'd kissed Richard. Francis really had laughed at how proud Charles' had been, after everything, after Bunny, to simply ask for sex. There had even been foreplay.
He's not jealous of Camilla, he decides. They look so alike Francis often wonders if Charles secretly wishes to fuck himself. At least when it's him, Charles has the dignity to pretend it never occurred. Francis himself, in between biting insults to Charles amnesia, is vigilant. But when it's Charles' and his darling twin sister, Francis never stops Bunny's taunts. He may not be jealous, but he's certainly not tolerant.
That's not to say he doesn't care for Camilla, the darling. He just despises what Charles does to her. And yes, he thinks, it's Charles' doing. If anyone, Francis knows best how manipulative he can be. But Francis never pretends that it's more than it is, unlike Charles, who has himself believing Camilla and he are in love.
He scoffs to himself. With every breath, they all become less and less appealing. Camilla wasn't even competing for Charles. After Bunny's murder, Charles' visits had been more frequent, and it was obviously due to Camilla's increasingly regular rejections. It became somewhat noticeable; her movements, her speech, where she sat in class, still eager to please their beloved Julian. But Camilla and Charles rarely interacted the way they used to, before Bunny. On occasion, Francis would catch Henry, staring the way he does. That blank, drifting stare, watching Camilla with a subtle smile, and it was a peculiar sight. Of course, it was Henry, and no matter how hard Francis tried, it was useless to attempt to decipher him.
Francis couldn't help but notice Charles' obvious descent. He'd brought the bottle with him last time, empty, mostly, but he was nice enough to force it into Francis' hands before shoving himself into the apartment and, in between sobs, dropping himself onto the couch.
"The whore!"
Shortly after the words had been shrieked, the bottle was out of his hands, and crumpling sharply on the floor, into shards that would be collected much later, after Francis was done with the wreck in front him.
When Francis fell onto the rumpled sheets less than an hour later, panting and soaring in the wake of the afterglow, he knew that that was the closest he was going to get. Even with Charles crawling into his bed, Francis knew he'd never win.
"You idiot", he had said, chuckling, "Do you know your shirt's on inside-out?"
He'd already put his cup down. Something flashed across Richard's eyes; Francis noticed a sharp prick of shock, but then the man before him was laughing, a tired, drunken laugh, swaying dangerously near the alcohol cabinet.
"Come on, Francis", he murmured, turning away. "Give me a break."
"It's fun." Francis leaned forward. "I promise you."
Replaying the memory over now, he realises how desperate he had sounded when those words raced out of his mouth. Words. That's all they were, but they had the potential to change everything that would occur.
That time in the boat, when Richard was flailing about with the oar, and Francis had moved in, caressing his cheek, the look Richard gave him was so aghast he had started to laugh.
"No?"
"No." Richard had sighed in relief.
And with one word their relationship had returned to its norm.
Francis often wonders about this incident as the point in time when he and Richard had actually become friends. It had been as if Richard had been anticipating a move on Francis' part, and the moment it had occurred and been ushered out of the way, their friendship could develop the way it was supposed to. But he also wonders if Richard's reply, that quickly spoken, "No", was merely instinctual; that in fact there had been unspoken words that could have perhaps led to Richard naked and panting. Indeed, Francis thinks, that the "No" that Richard spoke was the same "No" Charles did, every time he lacked the drunkenness needed to feign amnesia.
Something about this makes Francis smile. He knows when he kissed Richard, Richard had kissed him back. And for some peculiar reason, Francis likes this idea, a little more than the Camilla-fucking-drunken-bastard Charles had become, (or, perhaps, had always been).
Francis fingers another cherry before popping into his mouth. Richard stares blankly at the jar before his brow furrows and he says, "Why are you eating those?"
Francis pauses mid-chew. He'd been drinking with the Corcorans and was suddenly quite unsure of himself.
"I don't know." He mumbles, abruptly aware of the sickly bittersweet taste of the half-chewed cherry in his mouth. "They taste really bad."
"Throw them away."
Francis complies, struggling valiantly with the window sash before throwing the jar out the window. A part of him wants to watch it as it hits the snow below, as it splits open and its contents are collected and splatted, like entrails. Like Bunny.
"Hey." Richard mumbles, the cold air blasting his face. Francis leans on the sash and Richard rises to help him. Finally, it gives up and comes crashing down. The two of them lean toward the glass, the cherry juice splattered across the snow.
"Kind of Jean Cocteau touch, isn't it?" Francis leaves to take a bath.
Earlier, around four when he'd wondered in, Francis had watched Richard sleeping on his couch. It sounds peculiar, almost something Henry would do, in a cold fashion, but Francis had watched Richard with a subtle, drunken smile. When Richard first mumbled, Francis had thrown the blanket over him, and scavenged his cupboards for something to eat.
"Peculiar indeed…" He mumbled, spreading the shaving cream across his jaw.
He hated it, suddenly, that feeling of calm that surrounded him when Richard was near. Obviously, things hadn't been right since a few nights ago, when Francis had approached him. They hadn't spoken about it, and Richard was still rather awkward about the incident.
Incident. He doesn't know the origin of this word, but to him it sounds particularly foreign. It's sharp and biting and proper. Proper. He doesn't know the origin of this word, either.
He felt his stomach twist when the phone rang. Francis put his hand under the running water, washing off the excess shaving cream. Turning off the tap, he fumbled with the razor, asking Richard who it was.
Moments after, he slammed the receiver down, cursing. He looked up to Richard, who returned his gaze expectantly.
"Damn him. Doesn't he ever sleep?"
The two make it to Francis' car before the silence settles in. Francis knows what is coming. How could Richard possibly expect Francis to face him, when he couldn't even face himself?
"You know, Francis."
He bites his lip. He wants to be soaking right now, about to sleep. "What?"
"You know", he pauses, "I'm not really attracted to you. I mean, not that-"
The words that come next belong to Francis. Years later he wishes he could take them back. But certainly, he wasn't ready to admit that Richard was the most appealing creature he had come across. Surely, Francis knew, he'd never have the confidence to deny Charles, but Richard, well… Richard was, perhaps, the only person who had never used him. Even if Richard was not attracted to Francis, or not ready to admit it, he knew. Richard had kissed him back.
And so, the words that come next belong to Francis, and no matter how many times he looks back on this memory, he is constantly torn.
"Isn't that interesting", his tone is cold, "I'm really not attracted to you, either."
"But-"
Francis thinks for a good second that Richard sounds rather hurt. Good.
"You were there."
The first time he woke up in the middle of night, after Bunny's death, Francis thought he was dying. The fluttering heartbeat, the cold sweat, the rasping breaths escaping his lungs… And for some reason, Francis thought he deserved it.
He called Richard. Surprisingly, Richard was the first person to pop into his mind for such a situation. Henry would have raked him, calmly, telling him it was merely due to the recent events; not particularly useful for one who thinks he's about to die. He didn't dare ring the twins, certain Charles would be drunk, and since the incident at that Chinese Restaurant in Bennigton, Francis could not spend five seconds alone with Camilla without Charles close behind. And so, Richard seemed like the most reasonable choice.
He tells himself this now, when really Francis was not composed enough to consider his options. And what Francis came to realise, in between those gasping bouts, was that such a panic attack could surely not all be centred around the murder of Bunny Corcoran.
No.
For when Richard had helped him from his apartment to his car, and had waited with him in the emergency room, his condition had not subsided, but rather flared. The fluttering heartbeat, the cold sweat…
Francis knew what the condition was. But, by God, he wasn't happy about it. Unrequited love was certainly not his thing.
"Oh, shit." He buried his head in his hands. He was sure the innkeeper was going to barge in, and arrest them all. After everything, and they were to be caught like this.
Charles was an idiot. Francis had established that quite early on, but now…Utterly ridiculous. Francis looked over to Richard, still reeling from shock.
Well, he'd been shot after all.
Francis realised a bit earlier than any of them what Henry was about to do. That glint in his eye, as collected as ever, only ever meant trouble.
Two flat cracks, and that scream, Camilla's scream, and Henry, gun in hand, on the floor, was all Francis really remembered in fluent detail from that night. Even with Richard shot, he was too paralysed to do anything.
Indeed, Francis thinks himself far from brave.
Years later, Francis tries to kill himself. He realises that Henry took the easy way out, and decides to follow. He'd been petrified of the thought of it, at first, had sent letters off to Camilla and Richard, and then had sat in his bath for hours until it was cold, razor in hand, staring. When he finally decided to do it, the cuts weren't as deep as he'd thought, but they'd bleed enough so that in three minutes he had passed out. He vaguely remembers the maid's screech, screaming for Priscilla, the frilly blond bitch he was about to wed.
Priscilla. He hates the name, as he hates the woman who wears it. It's flowery, and sugar coated and sickly sweet. There's nothing sweet about sugar, in the end.
Richard came to the hospital to visit him. Francis saw the horror in his eyes. Indeed, it was the same horror that had enveloped his face the first time he'd looked in the mirror since the attempt. Francis was the living dead.
The two of them talk for hours and hours, about the weather, and about cherries, and moments at Francis' house in the country. They'd touched on the subject of Henry and Julian too, and all the events that had occurred at Hampden.
Then something quite unexpected happened. Richard stood, abruptly, startling Francis.
"M-married?"
Francis nodded, explaining about his grandfather, and that lawyer. He needed the money. Richard lit his cigarette for him, and Francis blew out a plume of smoke.
"Can't you get by on your own?"
"No."
Richard looked at him, irritated. "I do."
"But you're used to it."
He paused. "Francis." Richard returned to his chair. "Francis, remember that time…?"
"Which time?" Francis mumbled, cigarette in mouth. "We had several."
"The one in the car. After the cherries."
"What of it?"
He stopped, and looked away. "Sophie and I broke up. She said I scared her, the look in my eyes."
"Oh." Francis put the cigarette in between two fingers. "Oh, Richard, I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
There was a silence between them. Francis turned his head.
"I didn't mean it."
Richard furrowed his brow. "What?"
"That time, when we were driving to search for Bunny, at that ungodly hour. I didn't mean it."
You were there. "But I was." Richard murmured. "I understand."
"No", Francis said, shaking his hand, "Dear God, no, you do not. I barely understand myself."
Another fleeting moment of silence and Richard was kissing Francis.
Sloppy, and nervous, and far too wet, and far too good for a boy who likes girls…
Yes, Francis thinks there is quite in art in kissing men. The fact that Richard managed it perfectly, nipping at all the right places, tongue and all, was outstanding.
It wasn't intense, but rather, bittersweet. Starting with his lips, Richard sent his tongue out, licking the bottom lip gently. Francis opened his lips, slightly startled, reaching upward so that his bone-white hand brushed gently at the nape of Richard's neck. Francis remembers thinking that sweet kiss would never end.
Indeed, Francis thinks, it was the best kiss in his life.
And then Richard pulls away, hesitantly, Francis' limp hand falling away from his hair, and the two look at each other, Francis' eyes wide and soft, and both in awe. Richard's breathing slows, and the moment shared between is so utterly innocent, that Francis feels his heart stop, and then flutter away and Richard doesn't look away from Francis, even when the nurse comes in.
"Mr. Abernathy! There's someone here who wants to see you!"
Francis closed his eyes, stomach twisting. "It's her." He brings the cigarette to his lips, sucking deeply in.
The nurse withdrew, and Francis turned to Richard. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Don't do it, Francis."
"I've got to."
The Black Hole, as Francis' family called her, waltzed in, all smiles. "Now, sweetie", Richard saw Francis visibly pale; almost unnoticeable considering his condition, "I thought we'd decided not to smoke." She plucked the cigarette from his lips, crushing it on the ashtray beside him. He didn't say a word as Richard and Priscilla introduced themselves.
And then, as if by magic, the conservation stopped.
The wedding ceremony was less than desirable. He shudders to think of it. But that was months ago, now.
Richard and he still talk. They meet up with Camilla every so often.
His marriage to Priscilla begs for him to attempt suicide again. There's only one thing that keeps him sane.
Richard smiles, running a hand down Francis chest. "My God…" He murmurs, reaching for a cigarette, "My God, you're good."
And Richard pulls him closer, smiles softly, and places a kiss on Francis' wet lips.
Priscilla doesn't ask questions.