Alfred acts. It backfires.
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"Late night we sing up songs, we sing 'em slow take 'em last long.
Sparks grow to wild fly, two birds loving on wire.
Late night we talk in our sleep, joke about the things that we usually keep.
Never been crazy like this, check my eyes and tell me what it is.
I'm sick for you and there's nothing I can do."
— Jesse Wood, "Sparks"
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Arthur doesn't feel very much his for too long.
It is like Arthur and Francis are joined at the hip. They barely ever leave one another, speaking in hushed tones over tousled bedsheets, hands joined, as if they know they are watched. Alfred hoped his little stunt would have pushed them apart: it seems Arthur doesn't mind his "lover" obviously, shamelessly groping him during auscultation—not that Francis could have, of course, done so without taking his shirt off, at least, or touching him.
Alfred doesn't care. Any gentle touches he sees as disgusting, clawed hands gripping his brother. The man's orders to have Arthur stay in his room with as little stress as possible is just a way to devour him more. Arthur's fever get sometimes so high he can hear Francis sob against his neck, probably for anyone who would have walked in, or of joy, as he has gained another soul. Perhaps devils cry when their prey dies – he would have to find another, after all. The other man is too far gone to hear at all.
It should be him holding Arthur like this in these hard moments. Him praising his brother to eat, him who should give him medication. Francis is just a devil trying to keep its favourite prey alive. He cries only for a lost meal.
There's not much he can do, still. Francis has shut himself with Arthur in the young man's room and naïve guards won't even let him in, even when they are brothers.
He needs Francis to heal his brother, too.
So he plans. Eventually, he will be able to get rid of this vile demon.
He just has to be patient.
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It takes until spring for Arthur's health to become stable once again. After weeks of watch, staying up, listening to the young industrial's feverish babbles, it pays off for Francis. His prey is healthy once again, recovering the weight he's loss to such an extended infection. Alfred hears now, that what his brother has been suffering is pneumonia.
Just a side-effect of the incubus' magic draining him, he thinks. Arthur has been weak enough to catch a cold, which then simply became worst due to the terrible weather of the winter. The boy wonders if a demon's presence between their walls has cause them to face such a rude winter. Spring is well-established now, with flowers blooming in the gardens, right under his brother's window.
Francis and him cuddle during the day, pressed against one another, hands joined, thinking no one can see them in the cover of the young master's bedroom, watching the roses of the garden, the elaborate fountain's water reaching almost as high as the room's balcony. Alfred gags when he sees them make love in the daylight, Arthur's boyish form nestled in Francis' hairy arms, his stronger frame against the frail, wiry one of his brother, glowing the pale light of dawn.
Arthur seems invigorated by the sex, requesting it with laughs, mocking the devil's lack of enthusiasm – he's so old, after all. Could it be a trick to his mind? Or is it simply a poison left in bite-marks, like a vampire would have sucked the blood out of the tiny punctures, a drug making him dependant on the feeling of his soul being slowly sucked out of him? It could even be both, he thinks, gritting his teeth.
The last few days, Arthur has been able to take work full-time again, and seems less tired than he used to be after supervising the factories' production. Alfred decides of a plan, putting it to work, hopeful that everything would go smoothly. He leaves a note in Francis' office, just minutes he comes inside to look at his paper before leaving to sneak in Arthur's bedroom, carefully imitating Arthur's handwriting, gagging through every words.
"Francis,
Please, come join me by the fountain.
Some fresh air would both do us some good.
Love, Arthur."
Arthur is always very straight-forward in his notes. No need to overcrowd a tiny bit of paper with loving words – they could be found by such an imprudence. He can allow himself the signature, to add the word love, still. He and Francis, after all, are such good friends and never part from one another. The servants will just think these two chums are going on a little walk outside, joined by the hip like a Siamese twins, welded together by friendship.
Or dark magic, Alfred thinks with a scoff.
Hiding in the hallway, he sees him, walking nonchalantly, whistling to himself. He grumbles something in French about being hungry – and he will be for long, Alfred thinks, grinning, seeing him come back outside, a light in his blue eyes. Alfred rushes to the garden from the nearest door, hiding in the darkness of the cedar hedges and flowers. The fountain is just a feet away, just under Arthur's bedroom. The window pours light all over the alley, yet, not until the fountain, stopping only a feet before it.
The thrill of danger fills him with adrenaline. His hands are moist, he can't stand in place. Francis finally comes out, apparently none the wiser, even with the strong light of his prey's bedroom illuminating the garden. Francis is only meters away from him, standing next to the fountain, watching it with a little smile. Alfred takes a step to the side as he checks his pocket watch – a pricy gift from Arthur.
The grass creaks under his foot, alerting the Frenchman. If he would have wanted to turn back before, now Alfred knew he was past the moment where he could ever have had. Francis frowns, taking a step back, unsure of what his lover's brother could have been doing at their little secret rendezvous, the coincidence too great to be simply just that.
"Alfred? Que fais-tu là à ce—" The Frenchman doesn't even have the time to protest. Alfred tackles him, one hand on his mouth. The taller man falls in an instant, wrestling to get him off with vigor, even trying to bite him. Alfred strikes him once, knuckles bruising on the man's cheek. Francis' nails dig in the skin of his forearm, leaving three red stripes. The demon's panicked eyes stare not at him, but at the bedroom upstairs.
His desperation only excites him further. Alfred feels elated, features twisted with a terrifying grin.
Alfred groans, struggling to overpower him, still him into submission. Hitting him once again, the demon lets out a muffled groan, becoming limp for a second. He takes the occasion, looking up for a weapon, his eyes meeting with the fountain, its pure white marble almost glowing in the dark. Francis' head meets it with too much ease, rock meeting bone with a series of sickening crunch.
Alfred doesn't remember starting to bash the man's head against the hard, polished stone. But the blood covers it, soiling even the water. Francis is limps in his hands, hardly moving, probably only because of post-mortem spasms. His face is painted red, even the hair he prides himself so much in is now soaked thoroughly, the long, blonde strands dripping blood onto the bluish grass.
Alfred thinks he should feel remorse but as he looks at Francis' corpse, the thrill of the kill only fills him once again. He's hot, sweating and panting, watching the man's hollow eyes look at nothing, his unmoving arm in the water of the fountain. Alfred wants to laugh, somehow managing to stifle it. He walks away, cleaning his bloody hands in the water, with one last look to the corpse, smiling as he leaves for Arthur's room, just to see him before going to bed.
His dearest brother as fallen asleep in bed, the light of his room still lit. Alfred closes them, blowing on a candle next to the bed, covering Arthur's sleeping body with a blanket. The young man frowns without waking, patting the empty spot next to him for Francis' warmth, snuggling closer to the nothingness. Alfred smiles, kissing him good night, on the lips, this time.
When he leaves, he makes sure to burn the note he left in the office. Wealthy, noble industrial or not, the murder of a bourgeois is nothing he wants on his brother's hands.
Now, he will be only his, Alfred thinks as he falls asleep, content.
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Francis isn't dead.
He doesn't know how.
Alfred has no ideas how the man could have survived to such dire wounds, but the man is alive, resting in a bed placed in Arthur's room. The servants, eager to escape their distraught patron's fury, have made up a story about a stalker prowling around the property, sometimes even entering. Arthur gobbled it up without a second thought, as Francis cannot even say who attacked him.
The man woke up just two days ago, confused, not quite responsive but to Arthur. A servant had found him, only minutes after Alfred had left the gruesome scene, sprawled in the garden, slowly bleeding to death, still twitching, exhaling what Alfred had hoped to be his last, few raspy breaths. The violent sobs wrecking Arthur had forced the servants to have him sit down and inhale smoke, the young man shaking from every limbs, obviously understandably completely hysterical.
Alfred seethes. Not only has his plan failed, but it fully backfired, exploding right into his face. Arthur spends all of his time with his stupid lover. The damages to his brain turned him childish, only good to be thrown into an institution to be starved to death by uncaring staff, Alfred thinks. Arthur, however, is willing to keep him around, feeding him and washing him, changing the bandages and administrating him pain-killers for the violent pains, holding him down during fit of seizures.
If Francis has become stupid and unable to form clear sentences, he seems to have not loss too much of his intelligence. The man understands when he's spoken too, and above all, remembers clearly his love for his brother, giggling at the kisses he receives, asking to be hugged innocently. Alfred scoffs – this could have been cute, if the demon hadn't been a good fifty pounds heavier than Arthur.
When Francis' head heals from the attack, he still is the same. Unable to walk properly, to hold a spoon, childish and scared by the very sight of him. Arthur assumes with a sheepish smile that it is merely the damage, asking dozens of physicians to come to his help, even engaging a renowned doctor Edelstein to help manage his own health and Francis'.
He dresses him each morning, making sure to bring him outside, to the dining room. A servant is asked to watch over him during reception, that Spanish man he had always been so friendly with. After all, the servants said he was so good with children. Alfred proposes his help, thinking it would be so simple to just inject him with a mortal dose of morphine, but Arthur refuses.
"Oh, Alfred," he says, sounding so desolate he regrets to have asked, "I'm sorry, dear, he's still scared of you… this is so odd. You need to have fun too, during these nights."
He barely sees Arthur anymore. The man locks himself inside his room with his walking, giggling corpse, rarely attending his own receptions, if only to rush back upstairs and soothe his useless demon if he just had a nightmare.
Alfred's jealousy is an ever-growing monster. He refuses to even see his brother most of the time – Arthur is, anyway, most of the time, welded to his retarded baby, feeding and cleaning him just like a toddler would need to be. Arthur simply doesn't have any time for him, Arthur only has time for his stupid incubus, he only has time to care for him.
Just saying the name fills him with rage. Punching the nearest object, Alfred watches as the flower pot crumbles as it touches the floor, water and porcelain flying to every corners. He calls a maid to clean, catching her as she's about to leave, closing the door in front of her, an inviting smile on his lips. "Miss," he says, hearing the click of the door, leaving them both in silence. "Perhaps you'd enjoy coming with me to the gardens. It's been quite lonely for me, recently… I would sure enjoy the company of a lovely wench like you."
He leads her away into the gardens, even into the woods. She's pretty, smiling and giggly, following him with puppy-like thrusts right after he announces how perturbed and grievous he is of what happened to his brother's best friend. The compassion he fakes makes her cling to him, as if trying to comfort him, like any stupid woman would have. Alfred smirks, takes her hand and kisses her softly.
To be favored by a Lord like Alfred is an hopeless chance for her, he knows, and uses to his advantage. Easily, he pushes her against a tree, bunching her skirts up and takes her without waiting. She squeals, holding onto his strong shoulders with a wonderful moan. Holding the wench's wrists above her head, he thrusts into her, eyes closed, imagining Arthur there with him, calling his name in a whorish voice like hers.
He spills inside and pulls away, uncaring for her pleasure, pulling his pants up without even a look for her. When the wench tries to hug him, as she thinks post-coital bliss should be spent, he guesses with a scoff, not even sparing her a single glance.
Timidly, she asks, "My… My Lord, you have come inside me…"
"Yes. Is there a problem?"
"N, no, sir, but… you are not without knowing—"
"That you could get pregnant?" Alfred chuckles, feeling somehow glad his brother is no woman. Like this, he couldn't get his stupid incubus' child, which would surely suck all life out of him. Maybe this is what the incubus wants to do, taking his brother so often… is so stupid that he cannot recognize man from woman? Alfred wouldn't be surprised. The idiot always had had the intelligence of a caged bird, watching itself in its tiny mirror. "Yes. I do know that."
She gives him a mousy, timid smile.
He returns with a wide one, showing his straight, perfect teeth. "Don't worry, sweetheart. You don't have to think about that. You won't get pregnant."
"Really? But Sir, how?"
Such a dumb little doe. Smiling wider than ever, Alfred easily pushed her to the ground, sitting on her body, knees weighing on her weak forearms. The girl fought, but as he joined his hands around her neck, she could not even let out a scream. The excitement and shivers from his last attempts were back, filling him with both adrenaline and joy. To clearly see life dwindle from her pretty green eyes, the intricate hairdo ruined, blonde strands falling around her as she trashed.
Eventually, she stopped, limp and unmoving, eyes half-lidded and mouth still open. Dead. Alfred stood up, watching the blue marks on her neck and palmed his half-hard cock. The sight of her glassy eyes, body sprawled there… Alfred thought of Arthur, smiling wide.
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Alfred wakes in the night, troubled by the dream of his brother moaning under him. The room is empty but for him, and, as if on instinct, he pats the bed beside him, just to see if it really was indeed just a dream. There is no one next to him, warm or cold, but there are noises. Standing up, he walks to the portrait, guided by the conspicuous noises. Was the incubus back on his feet during the night? Was he faking to be diminished by his attack, just to slip right under his nose and gain even more of Arthur's sympathy and time?
Alfred moves the portrait to the desk, sitting on it to be on a comfortable height, closing one eye to watch through the hole. A gasp escapes him instantly; he has to cover his mouth, too shocked to even form a thought. Of course, the two of them were having sex – what else were they ever doing? Recently, Arthur has been sleeping with one eye open to make sure his friend hasn't been missing anything, insisting to be the one to take care of him, still. They haven't had sex for days now, Francis' state not allowing for anything to happen.
And even if he could get it up, would the diminished, stupid man understand anything that was happening? If he enjoyed sex before, Alfred wondered if the man would like it now, when his idea of affection seemed to have reverted to kisses and hugs – both of which Arthur was more than willing to dispense. Even if he would want to have sex, the man's movements are too choppy now, he'd be unable to aim and imprecise.
Arthur seems to have found a way to pleasure him, still, taking note of the demon's injuries and inability to do much but be black hole for both their energy and money; he's bouncing on his cock, legs folded under him, hands around the incubus' face, one of them petting his hair tenderly. Alfred gags at the sight, convinced his brother is painfully manipulated, boiling as he hears his throaty, breathless moans.
The demon has a permanent frown, calling to Arthur in babbles, holding on to his wrists tightly. Arthur needs to carefully time his movements, sometimes stopping entirely to make sure the man's cock doesn't slip out of him. "It's alright, love," he whispers, languidly fucking himself on him, eyes closing sometimes to enjoy the feeling of the slow, tender penetration. "I love you, I love you, I love you," he repeats, a sob in his voice.
"Arthur," Francis croaks, the word coming out oddly from him. Alfred frowns – it's the first time he actually hears him say a real word. He sounds oddly distressed… the boy grins, recognizing the emotion without trouble. The wench he's fucked earlier this week had the same cry in her throat, calling for her as he choked her.
He's glad to hear him suffer at first – it soon changes to anger and despite, he scoffs as he stares to them. Arthur is moving up on him, and the asshole doesn't even look half hard. Wasn't he happy to be buried there before? Alfred wishes he could spit on him. He's taking Arthur just like he wishes, making love to him when he's supposed to love him, and he's making such a face? Isn't he supposed to love this? What an imbecile.
With rage, he returns to bed, pleasuring himself with the eagerness of a teenager in love, Arthur's pleasure-filled face imprinted behind his eyelids.
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Alfred pulls away from the hole before he can see Arthur lift himself off, crying silently, earning himself a worried gaze from Francis' teary eyes. The man doesn't understand, but Arthur knows. Francis is confused, reaching to him with a jumbled sentence, the word undisguisable from each other, apparently just as distressed from the sexual touches as he is to see him cry like this, a hand over his mouth, face contorted with sobs.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, pulling the doctor's clothes up, fingers nimble from the lack of sleep and exhaustion. It's been days since the last time he slept on both ears, always on high alert, always waiting for Francis to convulse. He still doesn't know who has hurt him. It hurts to be helpless to avenge him, to always need help to lift him up, to clean him… it also hurts to see Francis so diminished, apparently not so aware of his condition.
But it's still Francis, he thinks, seeing his smile as he weakly reaches up to wipe his cheeks, awkwardly drying his tears, giggling as he smiles. Smiles are good, he knows. Tears are not, he knows, too. "I'm alright," Arthur assures, pulling Francis close, mouth hovering next to his lips before he kisses his forehead, Francis pulling him down to peck his mouth with a mischievous smile that looks so much like the annoying, infuriating Frenchman he knows that he wants to pull him close and let him kiss all of his worries and pains away.
Yet he knows, of course, the Francis who was the one to carry him and treat him is gone. The one who's healed him all winter won't come back – he will never be the same. Love is about accepting and never giving up… Arthur holds him close, Francis eventually falling asleep against him, slumbering peacefully against his shoulder, just like a little child, loosely holding him. So what if Francis is childish and throws tantrum like a baby, crying and yelling when servants try to make him eat something he doesn't like? So what if Francis wets himself and soils the bed like a toddler? So what if Francis can't ever read him poetry and sing him to sleep? So what if he can't be sexually satisfied from him again?
Arthur knows Francis would be there holding him. He would be there, cleaning him, singing lullabies to him. Francis would be there. Arthur knows and he won't let him down. He'll be there to reassure him when he needs to be medicated, he'll be there to kiss the nightmares away. Kissing Francis' temple, Arthur feels peaceful, if sorrowful, watching Francis sleeping, a calm, great strength filling him. He'd love him anyway. He would.
"Despite everything, it's still him," he whispers against his forehead, eyes closing, still smelling the same sweet scent in his hair. His fingertips still feeling the same softness on his skin. His body still giving the same warmth.
It would always be Francis.
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Feel free to comment: it is the writer's pay. This story has been cross-posted on AO3.