Carrion
The Zombie apocalypse. This shit could only happen in movies. Yet here they are. Had been, maybe. Smut, necro, fruk. Watch out it's grose. Vaguely inspired from what I remember of the first season of the walking dead and various zombie-filled things.
Shit I listened to:
— Evergreen, Ben Howard
— Returning, Gustavo Santaolalla
— Alela Diane, Take Us Back
— The Mercy of The Living, Bear McCreary
— Carrion, Kevin Sherwood
— Every Elena Siegman song ever made
— The Last Of Us' whole OST
Resume: Truth is stranger than fiction.
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"I am what men love more than life
Fear more than death or mortal strife
What dead men have and rich require
I'm what contented men desire"
— Abracadravre, Elena Siegman
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The mouth was warm and tight around him. Arthur let out a soft moan, digging his hand into the heavy, silky mass of blonde hair. Eyes closed to enjoy the soft sensations, Arthur let his head fall back, mouth dry and watery at the same time. There was nothing like what he was experiencing now; it was like getting water after spending five weeks stranded on an island. Like tasting chocolate for the first time. His hand tightened, he groaned. God.
The tent's atmosphere was sticky and humid, there had been rain during the night. They were almost flooded when they had awoken. He felt wet, blankets sticking to his skin with sweat. Francis' hair was stuck to his face with the heavy air around them, wet on his back and shoulders. His eyes were closed, and for the first time, he noticed how long his eyelashes were. There was something also girly about them, Arthur felt his mouth open, watching them flutter. His own eyes fell shut at a particular movement of the other's throat.
When his eyes opened again, there was no nice feelings. No silky mouth and tight lips wrapped around his cock. Just the suffocating heat of summer, the humidity of a tent… oh no, they didn't have the tent anymore. That had been… about a month ago. They had succeeded to find a lot of food, and some hungry group had exchanged their motorhome for it. It wasn't much. Not too big, two beds and more if the table was set down. It was a monster for gas and it hadn't been such a great idea, but they could always steal it from worst scavengers, exchange some deer meat for some gas from the others. Arthur felt his boxers were wet with cum, and turned around to see Francis was thankfully in the other bed.
He didn't quite see himself explaining to Francis he had had a wet dream about him while sleeping next to the man. Besides the obvious implications, he didn't quite feel like getting mocked for weeks after. This wasn't like getting caught masturbating… he had moaned his name in his sleep, slurred it and… Arthur himself wasn't ready to face his feelings too much. Francis was… well, Francis was one of a kind. Beauty and brains. Someone who had such a wide, warm heart. That man never ceased to amaze him, as annoying as he was.
Slipping to the ground from the bed over the driver seat, the Briton walked to the small bathroom, picking some water from a tank on a cloth and washed himself. It felt stupid. His thighs were stained, and he smelled like shit. There was better to do with water than to wash, and he hoped they would find a clean river soon. One that wouldn't be filled with corpses and worst.
Oh, how the world had changed in so little time. How long had it been? A year? A year and a half, even, maybe? It had been long enough for Arthur not to count too much. It had only been rumours from the south. Rumours of these poorer people becoming sick. Feverish. Dying. Before they awoke, hours before they would be embalmed to bite and spread the virus. The world had changed. Most were changed. Everyone was, in fact. If one wasn't a zombie, he would be a scavenger, and dreadful survivor like them. It had brought out the worst in each of them.
Arthur remembered Francis' little sister. A tiny girl girl, who had just entered high school, who shared her brother's appearance, the same eyes, skin and hair. They had left her in the tent for an hour at best—Francis had been twitchy and scared all the time they had searched for food. When they had come back, their camp had been wrecked. The food gone, the fire put out and his own tent a loss. But it was nothing next to what they had seen: the poor girl, gutted and disfigured. A man had ripped through her, stabbed her multiple times. Her panties were on her ankles, her breasts bruised. The way Francis had cried and screamed still sometimes woke him at night, and often, he would find Francis in panic, awaken by nightmares of seeing his little sister, coming back from the dead, skin ashen as she'd reach for him.
Frankly, no one could blame him. Arthur still remembered the scene more vividly than he wanted. Sometimes, he too, would dream of it. But with Francis instead of her, laying on the ground, eyes white and the face of a dead man where his once was.
The young man walked to him, watching him in the back bedroom as he slept. Francis was peaceful in his sleep, so peaceful Arthur almost wanted to slip in the blankets to watch him some more, snuggle against his back like he dreamed to. Slip his fingers into his. It was a high school crush, something he was almost ashamed to feel for the other man in such difficult times. He felt like a boy seeking warmth and love, wondered daily if this wasn't just because Francis was… well, the only constant in his life beside the dead, the zombies and blood-thirsty scavengers who were everywhere in the towns.
They were far from any now. The roads were already filled with cracks with the winter, and Arthur turned around to watch from the window, wanting to make sure they weren't seen by anyone. Or anything, as it was the likelier outcome. A lone zombie wouldn't be too bad, but even two would definitely be a problem. Alert ones even more. Hopefully the sun would have dried any of those lost enough to come up here.
The road was clear on miles on end, the hot sun of summer making the horizon blurry. The day would be warm. Turning to the water tank in the small kitchenette of the RV, Arthur poured himself a tall glass of water, and closed his eyes.
There were no sounds at all.
It almost sounded as if they were alone in the world.
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The day was warmer than it had rights to be by the afternoon. Arthur felt like he was dying, but they were rationing water. It was painful to think only a year before, it was coming right from the tap, pure and perhaps only slightly altered with bacteria that would cause sickness only with a lifetime of it. Who knew, really? Arthur had fell ill even after boiling the rivers' water before, but he guessed he had a somewhat weak stomach to begin with. Francis was driving, eyes closed as he enjoyed the air conditioning, window down to let wind come to his face.
They were miles from any town. Stuck inside a peaceful silence that Arthur didn't mind. He preferred it this way after his dream; he would notice Francis' lovely lips every now and then, the lazy smile he had in any circumstances. The way his blonde eyelashes fell over his perfect blue eyes. Arthur felt like a gross, enamoured teenage boy. It was more embarrassing as the day advanced, the only interesting things on the road being cattle bones, lone farms falling into desuetude, their windows broken by survivors looking for food and goods.
Towns were rare and dangerous. If the resources were scarce on the road, it felt better to move. Come in a town, smuggle some gas and leave again, than to stay in one place. The corpses couldn't outrun a car, and finding guns was somewhat rare. Everyone had seen one of those movies once or twice, hadn't they? They had all ran to gun shops while they lasted. Arthur wasn't sure he had seen more than the glock they had. Or… his bow.
If there was a nerdy part of him he was thankful for, it was his experience in LARP-ing and using a bow. The many years of it had made him quite a confirmed marksman and the silence of the shot was worth any gun. Francis seemed to like using the handgun better, but wasn't much of a shot. They preferred staying away from troubles, and they hadn't ran in much skirmish anyway. Perhaps once after they had found what seemed to be an abandoned town, and met a few bandits there. Nothing too bad. They had done more running than shooting.
Arthur intended it to stay that way. He didn't want to die. One day, the dead had to die out, after all. He had watched them from the rooftops, noticed they never ate one another. After a while of limping around, they seemed to fall and wheeze a moment. Maybe one day they would die out. He hoped.
"You were doing a lot of noises this morning," Francis mentioned.
Arthur felt his heart stop. Fuck, had he known all along?
"Uh, yeah. Bad sleep," he mumbled. Please buy this stupid excuse, he thought to himself, feeling an old taste of bashful panic rise in him.
Francis gave a gently smile, and patted his shoulder. "A nightmare? We all get those."
This damn, stupid understanding smile. Arthur wanted to bite it off his lips sometimes, but he felt thankful for it now. Using it to his advantage, he nodded, and leaned against the headrest with a groan, putting his booted feet on the dash. "Yeah. Guess we do. Hard times are what they are." Everyone had lost someone. Arthur guessed he sometimes dreamed of his brothers as one of them. One of the dead. Especially Peter, the youngest one, who had such a bright smile and he had never paid enough attention to. He wondered where he was now, the house had been empty… the lines had been cut.
Probably that they would never find each other again now. Maybe it was better this way. Not knowing was painful, he it was better than to be aware his brother was more than probably one of these monsters now. They had once been human, but Arthur wasn't stupid enough to hesitate to kill them with a bullet right in the head. He had seen others who had hesitated.
They weren't there to talk now.
Once this would all be over, he wanted to be there. Wanted to be there to talk. To see what, he often wondered? What would there be left once this would be over? Arthur didn't knew. Maybe it was better not to know. Perhaps one day it would become better. It felt too difficult to be too pessimistic, and Arthur needed the hope that things would get better somehow.
"I had one tonight, in fact," Francis said, apparently wanting to keep the conversation alive. He watched the road, apparently lost in his own thoughts for a moment. They usually wouldn't share their dreams and such. Arthur wasn't exactly sure why. Dreams were personal, after all… He rarely shared his, Francis often did so, more often when they were good dreams. Dreams of hanging out at a mall, like normal people. Going to the restaurant together, like normal people. Taking a walk through a beautiful park, like normal people. Dreaming as if the world was normal again had such an odd feeling, a little as if like was the nightmare and not the other way. It felt bitter and cold.
"It started out nice. We were in the forest. In the tent." Francis looked at the road, one arm slouched over the steering wheel, the other imperceptibly gripping the gear shift. "It was a nice morning. The sun was just filtering through the leaves… it felt sleepy and peaceful. I liked it." There was another pause. They had all the time in the world to talk, and he noticed Francis' eyes drifting toward the gas meter to make sure they still had enough. "It was so peaceful. You know, like when you awake at night and you… go to the window to see it is all still outside your home." Oh. "Like it used to be, you know?" Francis took a joking tone, turning to him with a smile before he turned to the road again. Another silence, and he started again, a long sigh getting outside of him. "I checked on you and… your face looked odd. So I opened your sleeping bag. And inside there was..."
Another pause. Arthur watched him. Francis' mouth was hanging softly open, his eyes numb, staring at the road without expression for a moment. There was no reasons to push him to talk, and Arthur waited, patiently. The Frenchman swallowed, and tapped his fingers to the tattered leather of the wheel. "Your stomach was open. Covered in maggots. They were eating you, your heart… the smell was horrible, they were all wriggling so much. I woke myself up, it was… maybe three in the morning." He stopped again, but this time Arthur felt slightly uncomfortable, and sat up straight, wanting to give the Frenchman some kind of comfort, to tell him he was still there. Nightmares felt so real recently, and it probably was because they could become real at any moment. "I checked on you. You were still there. You had a funny face in your sleep." There was a smile on Francis' lips. A real one. If his eyes weren't as bright, his lips showed some kind of relief.
Arthur scoffed. "Taking every occasions to laugh at me, I see."
"Do you mind?" There was mischief in his voice. "I think you like it."
"You can dream, froggy." Arthur laughed in turn, a little dryly, and cleared his throat, avoiding to talk of his wet dream, and thoroughly hoped Francis had indeed not noticed him. "I dreamed I dyed my hair, last night. It was funny." A year ago, he had been in university, studying English literature, and had been planning to extend it to literature in general once he would be done. Languages too, perhaps. Francis had been in a fashion school. "It was a nice, corpse innards-green. I loved it." He missed being fully punk. He still had his piercings, or well, most of them. The virus didn't seem to spread through such things, and Arthur felt his lip ring dreamily. His eyebrow rings had broken somehow. Some had unscrewed themselves.
"If we find some dye we could try. It would feel nice. To do… something normal. Break our routine a little."
Arthur smiled at Francis' words. "I could dye yours."
Francis made a sounds as if he had stepped in something disgusting, and watched him with a comically upset face. "My beautiful hair? Arthur, please, keep dreaming. I'm not going to ruin my wonderful hair just so you can play to the hair dresser."
"Eh, you got no balls. That's why you don't want to."
"Oh yes?" Francis said, eyes becoming more velvety. "Want some proof that I do?"
Oh yes. He wanted. He didn't mind to have proof blindfolded. Falling silent for an half second that felt like a whole eternity, Arthur scoffed and shook his head. "What proof? You can't give any so stop trying, princess."
"You are right. I am a beautiful princess. Thank you for agreeing."
The banter routine they had fell into almost felt normal now. Arthur wondered if it was weird to feel like it was all just a normal day when he had seen a few cars down the road. One even had its windows painted red, someone's corpse fallen next to it, a revolver fallen from the man's palm. It was a normal sight now. So many had given up like this. Many had brought their families with them. Looking back to Francis, Arthur preferred not to answer and turned to the window again. There was a town in sight. Perhaps they could restock in food and resources there.
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The town was nearly empty. Arthur wasn't even sure where they were, but it was small. At best, it had once housed a dozen thousands, maybe a little less. Shops with broken windows and many cars littered through the roads. The time had made it so there was more than enough space to go through every of them, as others had pushed them over before. They definitely weren't the only ones going around in an old, large caravan either. They had seen more than one group of survivors in one of those immense, coach-size cars. Theirs was smaller than that, just two usual beds and nothing else.
Most of the town was decrepit. The paint seemed to be almost flaking off the walls, most big fast food chain signboards were either flickering or off, many were broken either by the time or the climate. Maybe some of the scavengers. They hadn't seen them yet; the darkest part of the survivors, those who didn't mind to kill and steal to survive. Not that Arthur had never stolen anything… he simply usually never told Francis of his escapades.
Not that it mattered anyway. Arthur had always been cynical. Survival of the fittest. The stronger one would win. Whatever seemed to fit, whatever idiom they could say, the highway was mostly empty, and Francis strolled through the town slowly, looking around to try to spot anywhere they could find something. The eerie calm of the place did nothing to ease his nerves, and Arthur picked his bow and a couple of arrows. The large form of a mall appeared, and they slid inside the parking, getting as close to the large glass doors as they could. If there was anywhere they could find food, it was there. It was fairly big; perhaps they could find a few pounds worth of disgusting canned food.
They locked the truck. They didn't find it in themselves to say a word. Arthur wasn't quite sure what to say—speaking would have brought attention on them. It wasn't as if the noise of the truck wouldn't bring every of these bandits around. He clutched the keys as they walked inside. It was dark, but the ceiling had thankfully caved in at the centre area. There was water on the ground and most tiles were broken. Carefully stepping around, Arthur stared as Francis picked his gun up. Better safe than sorry. Better to shoot someone innocent than to be the first one shot.
Swallowing, Arthur noticed the clothes left there in a hurry, knocked over either by scavengers or people fleeing. Most were damps. Pink and blue children clothes. He touched their dusty sleeves and smiled as he stared around the mall. Francis placed one hand on his shoulder, pointing to a supermarket on the end of the corridor. Somehow, its bright red, electric letters on top of the large, broken doors were still lit. One flickered, and Arthur followed, picking a red flannel shirt from a mannequin to wear over his worn, almost threadbare band shirt. It smelled like shit, but so did he. Maybe they could find a river later to wash themselves and their clothes. Being naked together had stopped being a taboo long ago.
Plus, Francis was… very, very attractive. He had a beautiful face. A lovely pair of lips. A nice, strong jaw. A slender body that belonged to a Greek statue, he assumed. There was something very… feminine about him, barely noticed, just from the corner of the eyes. And his eyes. And his hair. Even in the dark, they had a healthy, shiny glow. His was coarse, butter blonde, looking more like straw than anything else. He was pale like some emo kid, burned in the sun. There were freckles over his nose, more on his shoulders. Francis said it was cute, his brothers had always teased him for it.
The supermarket had been raided before, probably more than once. The cash registers had been hit with clubs beyond repair, and Arthur almost slipped on a can of food, bare of a label, as they stepped in. Most lights were gone, but the windows helped with light somewhat. Everything was as calm and eerie silent as the damn apocalypse could be. The Briton had troubles not to imagine them in some kind of apocalypse movie and turned to Francis who stared at the signs hung over the alleys. Rice and pastas were something they searched for how easy it was to make, and Arthur followed without questions. The alley of shampoo was a first stop, and Arthur laughed as Francis found a bottle of unopened, green Manic Panic and put it in the bag as well with a few bottle of shampoo. They laughed, giggle liked two kids.
Francis was the cook, and he had little troubles to admit that it was very nice this way. The man had some kind of talent; even with food that was quick to make, he could sometimes make them a feast for two. Canned food, some wild chicken they had killed on what was left of a farm… Francis was honestly a better cook than anyone else he had met before.
A light flickered and Arthur stared up at the sound. The smell of rotting food was strong, and he covered his nose. The pasta alley hadn't been so raided, and they quickly found a few bags of everything they needed. Some more canned shit as Francis mumbled, leaning down to find what he wanted to take. It was almost all gone. The tablets were almost bare. Walking away, Arthur whispered, "I'll go see if there's cookies left."
Francis made a sound of approval. If there had been one of these fuckers, they would have smelled or heard him before. They weren't quite discreet, to say the least. Even the calm ones usually became very active once they smelled flesh, and the Briton simply scrolled through the alleys, looking at the signs with weariness. It felt routinely. Inspect a shop. Come out alive. Go back in the truck. Steal some gas. Carry on to wherever it seemed calm enough to sleep. Drive to the next town. Rinse and repeat. It wasn't that he wanted bone-chilling, action-movie, slow-motion action like a Resident Evil movie. He didn't have such a big death wish.
But Arthur wished for change. It had been a year or so, and the only zombies he had seen were half dead, starving ones. Most of these hadn't been doing very good. People were becoming slowly more adept at living like this—the ones who were left, at least. Survival of the fittest, they said. He had always thought, with a, he admitted, over-sized ego, that he would survive nicely in the zombie apocalypse. The genre had little secrets for a geek like him. Plus, zombies were just stupid. They could be fooled by a balloon rolling in the wind.
The cookie alley was a disaster. There was dried blood on the tiles. Arthur swallowed, guessing Oreos were indeed good enough for a murder. The tablets were emptied but for shitty brands. Arthur groaned, defeated as he searched through them, hoping to find at least one good thing. A diamond in the shit. Just as he leaned in to look, a scream made him jump back to his senses, and he ran to the alley he had left Francis in. He heard gunshots. Groans and moans.
"Arthur !"
How stupid did he have to be to leave just to get some damned cookies?! Running inside the alley, Arthur came just in time to see Francis shoot the monster some more. Picking arrows from his quiver, Arthur managed to shoot one just a hair past the creature's head as it tumbled down over Francis. With an angry yell, the Frenchman slammed the gun's cross on the creature's head. It produced an odd sound, and Arthur hesitated for a second, knowing there was too much chances of hitting his friend so close. Running toward him, Arthur sent a kick toward at the zombie's head.
The undead flew a feet away, off Francis. The gun wounds piercing its chest slowed it down and made getting back up difficult. Arthur didn't even leave it the time to get up, and kicked its head as hard as he could, the steel-toe of his leather boot quickly making the skull give in. The sickening smell of decaying brain fluid filled his nostrils, and the young man turned around to vomit, more out of habit than actual respect.
It had been just a second. One stupid second. One fucking second.
How could they have not smelled him? The guy, even without his rotting grey matter out of his skull, smelled like a rotting fish display. Swallowing, Arthur turned around, seeing Francis try to pull himself together, cradling his arm weakly. The recoil of the gun had had to hurt, and he walked closer, trying to help him up. This whole outing was now a disaster and Arthur couldn't even remember what he liked so much about industrial cookies. Maybe Francis could make some if they found flour and sugar.
"Hey… fuck, are you—"
"Non !"
No? Surprised, Arthur blinked, trying to help the Frenchman some more, only to see him pull away with another sob. The view broke his heart, but he was at loss. The shock had to be playing with Francis' mind and the Briton kneeled down. "Francis, it's okay. It's dead. We'll just…"
"It's not okay! Arthur, it's not okay..."
"Stop being a baby," Arthur groaned, teeth gritted, annoyed at Francis' constant avoidance. What was up with the damn frog anyway? Did he think acting like a damsel in distress so much would gain him anything? His patience was quickly tested, but when Francis looked back to him, Arthur could see a real distress in his eyes.
"It's not going to be okay," he said again, lower lip quivering softly.
And Arthur noticed again how he was cradling his forearm. How blood was dripping on his fingers, a stark contrast against the peachy skin.
And his world crumbled in a second.
"I'm sorry, Arthur, I— when it fell on me… I didn't have the time to react I just…"
A clear, half-moon bite mark was there, just on his wrist.
Just one fucking second.
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They didn't talk. They had picked their food, and had went back in the truck. Arthur had bandaged him up, watching the glaring, gaping wound angrily. He had drove until they were far enough off the town to stop for the night. Francis had cooked. It had tasted like ashes. Arthur wondered if his taste buds had stopped at the same time his brain had. It had felt routine-like again, but they were both devastated, going through their activities like ghosts. Arthur couldn't believe the same man who was smiling this morning was the on there, scared, eyes haggard and lower lip trembling softly. He had paled, and looked sickly. The shock must have been more to it than anything else.
What could they do? Maybe it wasn't too bad. Maybe it needed blood. Had he been bleeding from the mouth? Arthur knew it was drool, but the irony of their situation was too great. All this for fucking cookies.
And he didn't even have one bloody fucking cookie.
They hadn't spoke for hours and the silence was too heavy. They sat in the bedroom at the back, against one another, a little like when Francis' sister had been murdered. Francis seemed to be lost in his own thoughts and Arthur didn't feel like pulling him away from it. There had to be a cure he told himself, almost delirious with his own deny. Fate couldn't be so cruel. This couldn't be happening.
Francis leaned against him and looked up, swallowing hard. "I wasted all the bullets on him," he said.
No. Did he think they were going to have to… Arthur couldn't wrap his head around the idea and shook his head, hissing through gritted teeth, "We're not going to fucking kill you, you hear? Francis we… I…" Waiting seemed suicidal, but Arthur didn't feel like using any kind of logic. He felt unable to reason, and shook his head again, standing up to bang on the ball. "We're just… we're going to…" He didn't knew. "We should wait."
"Until what?" Francis said, laughing, but there was no happiness in it. Only defeat. There was nothing more they could do. "Until I jump to your face and rip out your throat? Then what? We can be… friends after death until someone puts a bullet in both of us? How romantic would that be uh?"
"Francis." This wasn't what he wanted and he knew. Francis sobbed like a child, surely more panicked at the idea of his own death than he was. His head into his head, shoulders shaking softly. Laying one hand on his shoulder, Arthur watched him. There was nothing he could say to ease his pain. For a second, he felt like blurting out his love. To kiss Francis, to tell him he loved him. This would have felt like a sick joke, but everything felt like one at the very moment. "Francis… you know… it's not what I want."
"I know… I just… I want to be home." He sounded like a child away from home for too long. They were both orphans now, barely in their mid-twenties, and Arthur sat back down to hug him. There was nothing they could do but to hold each other. Maybe they could do this until the end. "I want to be home. Eat my father's cooking. See my sister come home and talk about some girl. Complain about how every girls on her volley team are bitches. I want to design cute dresses."
Arthur petted his back. He understood the feeling. There was no books he could keep. Nothing he had been able to get from his house but the clothes he had been wearing then. "I want to read a book. Study old poetry. I want… I want things to be like they were too, Francis. I… I wish they were."
"Wishing isn't going to bring our homes back," Francis said, voice monotone. And Arthur agreed. So he didn't say a word, and brought his hand up to his hair, noticing bitterly that it was as soft as it looked.
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They hadn't had seemed to agree on anything. Somehow, they had simply fell into the idea to wait it out, a little feverishly. The first day, they had stopped next to a cold river. It was colder than anything else, and Arthur guessed autumn was coming bitter. They had stopped on a low parking spot, probably for fishermen to place their tents or their cars like theirs. They had enough food to go through small roads now. They had washed, always keeping one another in sight. Francis had asked if he wanted to dye his hair.
His hair colour was thankfully light enough to be dyed without bleach. They had laughed, ignored the inevitable like children. Arthur had gotten hair dye on his neck and clothes, but to hear Francis call him a frog a princess like him could kiss had been more refreshing than water. He had hung over the idea of admitting his lover all day, but it felt like a cruel joke now that Francis was condemned. He had cut his hair too, hands a little trembling, taking more time than it should have, but it looked good. They could pretend they had a lifetime of road.
He probably had time anyway. He wasn't sure of how long it took, but by nightfall, his hair was dry and looked as green as it could get, and he was happy of the result. It had given them some shine, and Arthur thought Francis' shampoo smelled nice, blushing like a high school boy at the idea. God. He was awfully cheesy, but not a part of him cared. It was as if surviving had fallen in the background, as if naturally. They had ate, played in the water.
A little like children. They weren't adults yet, were they? He was twenty-three, Francis was twenty-six. It was hardly like being sixty. He had all his life ahead of him and yet it was snatched away. Arthur wondered how he would fair in his, as his own life, the one he had wanted, had too, been taken away from him. It wasn't even about Francis that much… he had wanted to became an English teacher, maybe. Publish a book. Care for a garden. Maybe, if possible, sleep in the same bed as Francis until one of them passed.
And they had indeed slept in the same bed. It had been risky, both knew, but the inevitable made them both a little feverish. Francis didn't want to sleep alone, but they had tied his hands and put tape on his mouth. It was better to be safe than sorry, they both knew horribly well now. Francis' body had been warm against him, his sleep as deep as Arthur knew it could get. He regretted it a little as morning came, but he had kissed his neck and shoulders. His skin was soft. His heartbeat slow, steady. He had pretended they were on a holiday, married, maybe.
It felt stupid.
It wasn't as if anyone could judge him.
When the morning shone through the blinds, Arthur had untied Francis, noticing that his state had deteriorated during the night; he was burning with a fever and he was breathing in short, painful-looking gasps. He smiled nonetheless, maybe a little delirious, and held onto his hands as Arthur told him to stay in bed, bringing him a glass of water and a cloth to put on his forehead. It was fast, and Arthur swallowed hard, unsure he felt like facing such a reality yet. Francis was delirious, and his state, ashen skin and sunken eyes gave him such a lump blocking his throat that Arthur forgot most of his basic functions.
He stayed next to Francis as they spoke all day. Spoke of before, of their lives before they met one another in school. Arthur admitted his love in a whisper, knowing Francis didn't hear. He was such a coward. The world was colourless, the sky barren of clouds, sunnier than it had been all year. And yet there was not a sound. It was as if the birds had stopped to sing, as if the river did not murmur anymore. The pain inside his heart felt unbearable, and Arthur slipped inside the bed, hugging Francis' side.
"Promise me," he said.
"Promise you what?" Arthur whispered, knowing the answer.
Francis watched him with bright blue eyes, lips dry and breath short. There was a moment where he watched his own lips, and smiled blearily. "You know."
Francis wanted him to kill him before he became one of those things. Of course he knew, he had always knew. He had always understood. It was something he could not refuse. Arthur felt like crying, and held his sobs without too much success, face distorting in pain. "Let us have some time before. Please."
Francis took his hand in his own, smiling again. It was as if the pain of other was too much for him. Francis was such that he could not take to see one in pain without giving them help. He brought his face close to his and kissed his cheek, nodding softly. He was burning, and Arthur wondered what was happening inside him. He had changed the blankets after he had smelled something not long ago in the morning. It looked like maggot's juice, leaking from his anus. Francis had vomited some a little too, but nothing inside Arthur felt the power to care about it. He had placed old towels under him, and kept one to make sure to wipe it from his nose. Francis was dying. He needed company. He too, was desperate for it.
"I understand," he said. "I always did."
Francis knew. Arthur felt so numb he didn't say anything, but laughed. Dryly, joyless. Had he missed every chances to steal a kiss during this year or so? Was he so far up in his delirium of unrequited, passionate love that he hadn't seen Francis returning it? They were over before starting. It felt like a tragedy, but Shakespeare and Sophocles could suck his cock. He hoped they burned in Hell. Watching Francis with burning, red eyes, the Frenchman laid his head against his neck.
"It's okay." It wasn't.
They didn't say anything anymore for a moment. It was calm. Arthur had hoped it would feel as peaceful. That it wouldn't hurt so much, he guessed. But the silence and Francis' raspy breath had made him cry, and he had held on the man, chest rising up and down, mouth shaking. It was cruel. He felt himself die intensely, as if struck by lightning, for hours. The sun was about to set when he felt it.
Francis had died. He had felt it before he realized Francis' chest wasn't rising up and down in almost blip-like convulsions. Laying Francis down with whimpers scratching their ways out of him. Francis was still burning with a fever. There was a foul smell on him, and Arthur petted his hair out of his face. A sound came from him, and he hoped for a second, delirious, that Francis wasn't dead yet. That he would come back, that they would argue playfully again. He understood too quickly it was just air inside of his lungs and organs, something like that. The smell was even fouler now, maybe his intestines had emptied themselves?
So it was over.
Arthur felt his mind shut down, and he hugged him close, crying softly. His sobs became cries, yells, he screamed to try to alleviate the pain. Cursed the world, hit the headboard. Francis was so still, the body that had been his didn't move at all. Arthur watched him in despair, unable to bring himself to move, shaking with cries and tears. It lasted for a long time, longer than he could think of. Against Francis' hair, he whispered he had been in love with him for years, the pain of loss making him rock the limp body, talking in sobs and hiccups because the silence was too much. The lifeless Francis. The one that had laughed at him, mocked fondly him every day about every little things. Every times he'd fail comically at something. The one who hugged him so warmly, so tightly. All gone. The one whose smile made it seem like the world couldn't be so bad after all.
The one that was too beautiful to live, Arthur thought, laughing as he laid his head over his, giggling. "You are so beautiful." So beautiful. Francis' lips were still full, plump… dry but it was okay. Arthur kissed him from the tip of his lips, before he parted them to kiss him. His mouth was still warm, but unresponsive. It tasted as bad as rotten meat. It was fine. Arthur didn't mind.
He pulled away to kiss his cheeks and ears. Francis was so warm, so pliant. Pulling the sheets away, Arthur kissed his way down his throat. It smelled foul, and he pulled the towels he had put under him away—they were stained with faeces and that odd liquid. More of it had fell from him, but Arthur didn't care. He stroked Francis' limp cock, kissing his lower lip, petting his silky blonde hair. Francis was warm. He was warm… so warm. Cold was death. Warmth was… it was life, wasn't it? The little sounds his body made were like moans.
They had to be, Arthur thought, delirious, and imagine Francis' poetry-like words against his ear. He only needed his imagination to imagine his heartbeat against his ear. Only needed his imagination to imagine the tiny, lovely moans and keens, only needed to close his eyes to imagine the taste of scented-soap against his tongue as he sucked on the head of his cock. Francis was pliant and obedient, bent in lovely ways. Arthur chuckled, watching him with amazement.
"So beautiful," he mumbled, stroking himself hard, feverish eyes watching Francis' plump ass, caressing it from his other hand. The skin was dirty, wet with sweat. "I've always loved you," he said, using some hand cream to lube himself up, and fingered Francis' wet hole. The stench was foul, but Arthur felt nothing but the excruciating madness his pain had sent him into. "I loved you since I first saw you. I thought you shone like gold. You outshone the sun and everything else. You burnt me but I asked for more." There had been nothing but the sight of golden blonde locks. Blue eyes and long lashes. Francis looked like modern royalty, regal and wonderful, smelled like spring and ambrosia. He was a walking poem, breathed songs and moaned tragedies.
Ah yes, that was his Francis, the one he dreamed of. Only made of the finest beauty, a work of art unlike any other. Too beautiful to exist. A paradigm that could only end in pain and heartbreak.
"Fucking… ruin me," he moaned as he settled inside the warm body, feeling the liquid squish around his cock, taking the Frenchman's limp hand as he trusted in and out, pressing it to his beating heart, beginning to cry again as he watched the closed eyes, the rocking of the other's lifeless shoulders. Francis was so unresponsive. "You already ruined me. Come back. Come back and kill me. Fucking froggy. Don't… ah… don't leave the job just half finished…" He rutted like an animal, desperate, sobbing, only half hard as he leaned over, feeling no pleasure, his nose leaking over the Frenchman's face, tears streaking his greyish cheeks.
Francis was dead, he thought, finally, stopping to trust inside him, and pulled himself out, shoulders slumping, head empty. He kissed his lips. They were so dry. The world had stopped for a moment. The colours had died and so had the birds. He petted his cheeks, lip quivering. The realisation destroyed what was left of him.
"I love you."
No one answered. Arthur closed his eyes. There was nothing he could see. Nothing he imagined. Francis was gone. He too, had been, for a second. The Francis he knew and the one he dreamed of were gone. He held him, not feeling ready to move yet, cradling the Frenchman's body against his own.
"You know. I know."
.
.
.
He had used a knife to stab Francis' brain—the only way to keep the dead from coming back for more. It seemed like a waste to hurt his face and the side of the head were more solid than expected. Knowing how proud he was of it, he had tried not to dirty his hair too much with the blood. He didn't want to touch his heart, he had thought, still so grief-stricken that touching his heart seemed too much. He had washed him, washed himself at the same time, feeling like he smelled like death. Francis was dead and peaceful. Somehow he had dressed him too, managing to drag himself to act, to do something. Everything felt heavy, and Arthur spent less time crying than he did looking at the emptiness of things. Assembling some wood in the nearby forest to make a pyre that he finished by nightfall, he had watched Francis burn.
Maybe he had watched himself burn too, he thought with a mirthless chuckle.
Happiness was a myth now. A fairy he could only dream to catch. A wisp at the end of a dark, dangerous wood. There was nothing inside him now. He felt so numb. Sitting for hours in front of a pile of ashes on the metal step of the caravan, Arthur had watched the sky. The morning was pink and beautiful. What was left when everything was gone?
His brothers were probably dead. His friends too.
And now Francis was...
The world from before was gone.
The world he had grown up in, learned to love and to be loved in, was now dead. The world of his books and dreams. The world where poetry was beautiful and held meaning even it seemed to not be more than odd words. Francis seemed to have brought the good part of him in the flames. Arthur felt cold, nauseous… he felt like he would never be the one he had been before. He remembered Francis' smiles and Francis' laughs, like fleeting, stabbing pains that did nothing but add to the injury. He stayed for hours like this, watching the river flow.
He thought of throwing himself in it, wondered how it felt to drown. Arthur felt like he could do it, if he only pushed himself. Burying Francis' ashes with a small cross he tied over it, Arthur swallowed, eyes still on the bubbly, white waves of the river. He wrote his name on the cross. Mechanically, doing only what he assumed he should be doing, Arthur turned to the car again. It felt bitter to imagine what Francis would have wanted him to do, but the idea wouldn't leave his mind. This wasn't a Hollywood movie. He wouldn't meet someone else that would be as beautiful as Francis that would outshine him. He wouldn't meet someone that would heal the pain of that loss. No one could fix this wound.
Nothing could. No one was like Francis. No one was as incredibly annoying, yet as stupidly charming. No one had smiles and little words that could make things better, if only a little. No one had the same kind of gentleness, no one had such caring eyes. Arthur was alone in the world now, and it was better this way. The pain of Francis was too grand. The pain of what could have been was greater, eating his heart. The softness of his hair and lips was all he wished to feel. He watched the river again, then the car. He breathed out.
Nothing was left in the world for him, but he dragged himself in the van. Locked the cabinets. Locked the door of the bedroom in the back of the car. Sat down in the driver's seat, and drove away from the low parking, watching it from the window. Nothing had moved. Everything felt calm. And so he drove, watching the road in front of him, the road behind him. There was nothing left for him but the road. The helper's seat still had one lone stain of blood.
There were no sounds at all.
It almost sounded as if he was alone in the world.
—The End—