Chapter one:
Arthur entered the house. It had been a while since he had ever moved; his apartment now long forgotten and his new house taking that special spot in his heart. It was just a house, but it meant something to him. Apparently his grandfather had died (bless his soul) in the house, and Arthur had inherited the small amount of land, even though he had never exactly met his grandfather. The Brit always thought he was a little cuckoo in the head, so visits were always overlapped with business meetings, etc. Now his grandfather was dead and he had a new house. This didn't sound bad at all- he even got to keep everything inside! He could find olden novels! One thing that Arthur really loved was the smell of old books. Yes, it sounded queer, but he didn't care—just holding the books and touching the pages made him feel as if he was a real author now.
Arthur Kirkland was a writer. Is a writer—he didn't really know. He wrote stories… but they were all rejected by large publishers, who thought his stories were mediocre, and not even a tad bit interesting. It made him grit his teeth in disgust, "Let's see /you/ try and write an award winning book, bloody wankers," the blond muttered to himself as he dragged his suitcase inside the large three story house, and despite the depressing memories, he couldn't help but smile at how… beautiful and cosy the house was. It was already like home.
Damn those stupid neighbours that had given him 'the look' when he had arrived at the doorstep of this amazing house. You don't know 'the look'? It's that look when someone just wants you to know that they are disappointed, scared, and that they don't want to interact at all. He would be lonely. He had books and tea though. That seemed enough. … Though he wouldreally like to have someone to keep him company—what was that. His eyes widened as he heard something. Gulping a little in fear, he put down his suitcase and looked around, "… Hello?"
No one answered.
"…" Shaking his head, he picked up his suitcase once more and gulped again. His mind was playing tricks on him. But of course, nothing could be in the house—maybe it was a cute kitten! Arthur flushed in embarrassment, 'You're a man, and men don't like cute things. They like… cool things…?' he shook his head and groaned. Thank god no one was here. Or they would see him… be paranoid.
The Brit sighed and dragged his suitcase up the stairs, his face scrunched up with a frown from the slight pain on his arm from taking the heavy suitcase up. Then he found his room. Well… He hoped it was, because it was just gorgeous. It was huge, and there was the most beautiful working desk—he could write without having anyone to tell him that he sucked. Sighing happily, he put down the suitcase and stretched, snuggling onto one side of the bed; it was clean! "This is so nice…" he mumbled to himself.
"… Oui, it is very nice."
What. Arthur's eyes widened and he turned his head to the side to meet another pair of eyes. On a man. Who looked much more pale than usual, and Arthur's eyes went down to scan his body. Oh god. The British man jumped off the bed in fear, screaming and covering his mouth, trembling.
The man had no legs. It was just… a misty… cloud thing. It was faded from his body. Who was—what was this man? Thing? Arthur whimpered and walked backwards, clearly afraid, and he collapsed on the floor as he whispered, "B-Bloody hell—what are you?"
The man glided closer to him, floating above the ground, hovering. Yes. Hovering. Oh god. "I'm a ghost," the other blond said, smiling fondly, "It's nice to meet you—my name is Francis Bonnefoy," he held out his pale hand.
"A GHOST?" Arthur backed away and hit the wall, it felt as if he was hyperventilating; this could not be happening. Was he like Casper? "C-C-Casper?"
The ghost, or Francis, laughed and grinned at him, "No, I'm not Casper, I already told you I was Francis. And you are…?"
"The man who owns this house, NOW GET OUT!" Arthur yelled, face pale, as a shaky finger pointed at the door.
Francis just stood there. Well, floated there.
"W-Whatever," git, you're just hallucinating! "You'll be gone in the morning, so I don't need to care about a wanker like you," Arthur huffed and crossed his arms, then stormed through the ghost.
Oh god.
That was cold. Chilly cold. His body shuddered and he almost let out a small whimper at how he felt –dare he say it? - sad. Was that strange? It was as if unhappy thoughts were running through his body—and he shuddered once more, his eyes welling up, then he pointed at the ghost, "Wh-What did you do?"
"I never told you to walk through me- you just did it yourself," the other man (ghost) said, lying on the bed and stretching, letting his eyes scan over the Brit's body as he smirked (why would he do that?) and he said, "Ghosts are ghosts because they weren't able to move on. And that's sad; so when you walk through us, you feel our pain."
"Feel… your pain?" Arthur looked horrified as he hastily wiped at his almost-tears, and he pursed his lips together, asking bluntly, "How did you die?"
The ghost rolled his eyes and muttered almost inaudibly, "Mon dieu, so rude—" then he coughed and continued, "I was shot," Francis slowly stripped his shirt off, causing Arthur's eyes to widen and his cheeks only darken slightly as he spluttered, "B-Bloody fuck—what are you doing?"
Finally, the shirt was off and Arthur's breath involuntarily hitched in shock when his eyes saw a small, yet obvious hole in the other's body. "… Why?" he mumbled softly, not exactly scared of this ghost anymore. Arthur just thought he was still a prick.
Francis slid his shirt back on, a few puffs of mist appearing while he dressed, and he shrugged, "Don't know why. Just… got shot next to the house and now my soul dwells here," the Frenchman chuckled and stared at the Brit, "You still haven't told me yourname."
"… Arthur Kirkland," he grumbled, crossing his arms, and acting as if he didn't give a rat's arse about how or why he died. But he actually did. He hadn't had an actual friend for a while—and he really wanted one. Maybe Francis could be the one! Wait. Fran… cis… "… Are you—were you French?"
"Oui."
"Well, fuck you!"
Francis looked a little confused and a little offended, but he shrugged it off—hearing the others accent just made him even surer that the other blond was British. Wonderful combination to go with French, no? "I'm sorry, I don't think fucking me will do you any good," Francis smirked and flicked his hair to the side, trying not to laugh at how the Brit's face turned even more flushed, blotches of red on his face as he spluttered again, but nothing came out.
The ghost pushed down the small emotion that he hadn't felt in a long time—pretty cute, this human.
"Well—you're just a figment of. My. Mind! A-And when I wake up, you'll be g-gone, you sodding wanker!" he stood back up and brushed the dust off of his pants, then held his nose high in the air, huffing and pointing to the door, "N-now get out!"
The ghost shrugged and nodded, "I'll see you tomorrow then, Arthur—" "GET OUT!" "Bonnenuit," and he glided through the floor and disappeared.
Buying this house was a complete mistake; Arthur thought to himself, I'm going mental already.
Authors note:
I'm done with ten chapters of this story, so I think I should actually post my story for once, so here it is! The first chapter! Hopefully you guys will like it! Favourites and reviews are all the love I need 3 (and maybe recommendations to yer friends XD /shot) hopefully you'll like it! And new chapters will be updated each Friday! Unless I didn't have the time to update, but pshhh, I WILL UPDATE. Awwyea.