The room was plain, cream coloured, devoid of furniture but still familiar. The wood was warm underneath his cheek as he stirred languidly. Arthur had been here before; it held a certain nostalgic ambience. Fingertips stretched across wood, tracing whorls peacefully until he reached one in particular. As fingertips outlined it a memory burst forth, vivid, almost suffocating him.
Cries stifled, his wrist between his teeth as he tried to silence himself. The world had narrowed to the heady sensation of being filled and firm hands on his hips. Eyes had drawn level with the floor and its memory had been burnt into him with each unsteady gasp as he'd been teased towards climax.
This was Francis's room. So where was Francis? Easing back he inspected the room, no trace of man to be found. It made him uneasy.
So he searched.
At first it was methodical, unhurried but as time passed he became more frantic. Where was Francis? What had happened? Everywhere he could remember the Frenchman ever having some interest he visited. Scouring high and low, trying to catch even a hint of his whereabouts.
In desperation he had asked Antonio and Gilbert. Their expressions had been sympathetic, sorrowful as though they knew some greater truth.
Panic had driven him to Germany's door, almost hammering it down. At length the German had invited him in, sitting him down, even going as far as to bring him tea.
"You really don't know where he is Arthur?"
There was the look again, sympathy, sorrow. What in blazes was going on? Pain settled in his chest, his heart starting to race as firmly Ludwig squeezed his shoulder.
"Ja, then I will take responsibility... this time." Lips pressed firmly together as he found Ludwig rubbing his back comfortingly. If anything it frightened him more.
"Arthur, Francis is dead. You keep… forgetting. We have tried to help but every time you do not believe it. You cry for days und then you lock yourself in Francis's house for some time. When we next see you you've forgotten again. What happened was a terrible accident Arthur, no one blames you for his death. I mean this in the best way possible but I think maybe you should seek help. It is not healthy, everyone is worried."
Violently he jerked awake, a sound that could have been made by a wounded animal dying on his lips. Beneath him the pillow was sodden and limbs were shaky. Hauling himself onto all fours he grasped his phone and somehow fumbled through his contacts until he found 'Frog Amour'. It was 3am in France but he didn't care. The phone was crushed to his ear, waiting the heart stopping rings it took to hear a sleepy French voice on the other end of the line.
Exhausted and relieved all that answered Francis were quiet sobs before Arthur hung up.