CHAPTER 3
A/N – Hello my dear readers! I know this update is long overdue, however I'm much relieved that I managed to ease the fics workload significantly lately, so I will be able to dedicate myself more to this project. As you may or may not anticipate, things are getting really dark beginning with this chapter, so there, I said it!
Warnings: violence, character death, dark non-con.
Chapter 3 soundtrack:
Ang Laga De - Full Song - Goliyon Ki Rasleela Ram-leela
Apocalytica – Path feat. Sandra Nasic (remix)
Apocalyptica – Hope
Kuroshitsuji – Never More
Korn - System
He refused to think of it, yet bits of the disturbing dream stubbornly came back, in obnoxious flashes. Light green eyes took in absentmindedly the bleak city sight beyond the window, bathed in pale late autumn light. Under the black, thick fabric of his uniform coat, buttoned tightly all the way up to his neck, Arthur shivered, the much-too-vivid memory of that man's touch plaguing his skin.
"Arthur!"
The detective turned, finally shaken out of his daze and suddenly becoming aware of the frown on his own face as Alfred looked at him a bit puzzled. He forced a more neutral expression, hoping to avoid any questions which could not be answered, except with more lies. "Yes?"
The younger sighed, relaxing. "I was just saying that yesterday… well… Mrs. Zwingli has finally agreed to let me take Lilly for a walk in the park on Sunday, after church." A slight blush was on his sun-kissed cheeks as he spoke, gaze dropping almost immediately to his plate, but happy grin lingering nevertheless.
"Oh well, now that's definitely… some progress, I suppose," the Englishman observed, mustering a small smile in turn as he reached for the steaming cup of tea the landlady had just poured. He murmured a quick 'thank you' while nodding to the kind Mrs. Briggs and struggling as to what else to say under the circumstances. "… and Lilly Zwingli is a fine young lady." Damn, he could have at least shown some enthusiasm at the news, the boy had had his eyes on her for a while now. Now poor Alfred would think he was being discouraging, or worse, disapproving of this.
Sure enough, the other constable's good humor seemed to dissolve suddenly, and he started to toy nervously with his napkin. There, now he'd done it! Arthur sipped on his own tea tensely, not knowing what to say to make it better. He wasn't normally that awkward, but now he was just so tired.
"You know, I felt encouraged when the Frenchman said that, well, if I work hard enough and fight hard enough I will find happiness," Alfred said, fidgeting. "But then, last night, after I spoke with Mrs. Zwingli and saw Lilly, I was thinking of him again…"
The green-eyed blond scowled, irritation spiking up upon the mention of the dreadful man who had even begun plaguing his dreams. "Now why would you think of that frog?! We got what we wanted from him – for what is worth… or isn't – but aside from that there's no point in dwelling upon the subject." He breathed in, trying to keep annoyance from seeping too much into his tone. "Besides, you'd do well to think of happier things than of somebody living in a filthy opium den, especially now."
The American blinked, shrugging helplessly as his mouth pursed into a grimace. "I know, but… Arthur, have you ever thought what it would be like… to be that kind of man, you know, the kind ladies always seem to swoon over?"
"No, I can't say that I have."
"I just can't help thinking that if Lilly were ever to meet the Frenchman, she would find me awfully plain and dull in comparison," Alfred confessed morosely. "That if she doesn't find me plain and dull as it is…"
The detective put his cup down and discreetly pinched the bridge of his nose. So this was it, then! The poor boy now thought of himself less because of that ridiculous clown. Involuntarily, his fingers found their way under his sleeve and he pushed it up a bit, exposing the bitten wrist. Arthur flinched slightly, as if his flesh still remembered that sharp pain, but the pale skin was flawless, unmarred. Oh, for God's sake, it had been only a bloody dream!
"Nonsense! I'm sure that Miss Zwingli is a sensible young woman, and she would never be wooed by such a character," he said at length. "Besides, whatever charms the man possesses will be quickly lost to opium. He will wither and age long before his time, just like everyone else given to this appalling vice."
Alfred raised his head and smiled a bit. "You're right, I guess… We shall speak of it no more."
Sleeping in that awful den and implicitly inhaling the opium smoke as he did must have caused him to hallucinate the previous night, Arthur decided as they left the house for the day's work. It must have been the mixture of fever and wicked drug which had made the dream appear so vivid too, the Englishman told himself, for once grateful to be outside in the cold but for once refreshing late autumn air, however harmful it was for his fragile health.
The streets became filthier and less crowded as the two constables advanced towards their destination, the fog from the Thames growing ever thicker as they drew closer to the banks. They walked quickly, yet trying not to appear to be in too much hurry and thus cause any suspicion. The detective really hoped that the Frenchman had not sent them on some wild goose chase (or else he swore that he would find a way to cause some sort of inconvenience for that ridiculous clairvoyant frog!), especially since he'd had to call for several men to back him and Alfred up in case it turned to be something.
Soon they found themselves at the indicated location – a rather large but decrepit looking brick building near the water. Arthur pulled out the piece of paper from his pocket and scowled again at the flamboyant handwriting, before looking up at the house, thoughtfully assessing the chipping paint of the wooden door with a crooked brass knob. One of the windows on the first floor was broken and covered with wooden planks from the inside, while the other donned a ragged curtain.
"Who exactly are we supposed to find here?"
The question made the green-eyed blond snap out of his musings, turning to face his colleague. "Oh… right. Dr. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo," he replied. "Apparently some illegally immigrated doctor, he has no papers, or so the Frenchman has gathered. He lives here in hiding, together with his lover. They might be dangerous."
"What, you think the lady is one of those-"
"There is no lady," the Englishman cut the younger off dryly. "The frog says that the doctor's lover is a man."
Alfred blinked. "Wha- another man?! But h-how-"
"It's not important, Alfred! Now come." The detective rolled his eyes, once more irritated by the importance his friend seemed to give to whatever bollocks the Frenchman had delivered. After all, it was the man's job to produce fantastic details meant to make fools gape in awe and fill his pockets. Thus, it was all the more unfortunate that they had to rely on his information. Bloody frog!
Fighting back the ever growing reluctance, he went up the front steps and, unable to locate any doorbell, knocked firmly at the door. As expected, even after a while there was no answer, no footsteps seeming to approach the door from the inside. Sighing, the blond motioned for one of the backup policemen to come forth and pick the lock with a special tool. He reckoned it was somewhat more prudent than simply breaking the door and barging in, since they didn't know what to expect. After the man had finished his work on the lock, he pushed the door open slowly, eliciting a faint creak.
"Step back and wait here," Arthur ordered, stepping past the policeman and into the dark hallway and motioning for the American to follow quietly. He blinked, taking in the obscurity, hand digging instantly into his pocket for the handkerchief. The all too familiar scent of death was lingering in the stale air, making it hard to breathe.
His stomach cringed – God, he only hoped they weren't going to just find yet another body and no leads! Green eyes swept warily over the peeling wallpaper on the walls and the dirty floor, bearing the mark of countless muddy footprints, eventually coming to rest upon the frame of a door opening somewhere to the left, which allowed some light to pour in. Gripping his truncheon tightly (it was a handy weapon able to do enough damage in case of need), Arthur took a forced breath through the thin cloth and walked carefully down the hallway, keeping his steps as light as possible.
It was too quiet – the type of ominous silence which would usually fall when a noise stopped abruptly – and the detective instinctively intuited that there was someone in there, hidden, now lying in wait. The smell got worse the closer he got to the door and the blond shuddered in anticipated disgust, secretly wishing he could pause and indulge, however briefly, in the comfort of his scotch flask.
"Arthur, do you think-"
The younger constable's question was cut short when something rolled down on the floor, out of the room and into the hallway, right in front of them, with a startling sound. It was just a larger bottle cork. Alfred snorted, but the green-eyed blond swore under his breath. Whoever it was, this was a sign that they wanted a fight.
"Bastardo, come out and fight, if you have the guts!" a voice shouted suddenly. "I hope you do, we'll have something to munch on, later!" it added, followed by a bloodcurdling laughter.
Swearing some more, Arthur put the handkerchief aside and motioned for the policeman who was waiting outside by the door to walk in with the rest of the men. "Get ready," he told his friend. The next second he barged into the room, tense like a bow and taking it in one glance in search of potential attackers, but saw no one. Instead, his gaze was distracted by the gruesome remains lying on display on the wooden table which occupied the center of the room, which had turned out to be a kitchen of sorts. Again a doll-like face with a silk ribbon tied around the neck captured his gaze, except now the eyes were open, staring back at him empty, forever caught in a frozen fright. Again there was hardly any blood anywhere - as if it had been carefully drained from the corpse before hacking it to pieces – and the memory of that awful dream returned brusquely, causing Arthur to falter as his knees went weak.
Right then, with a loud thud, a dark-haired man jumped from somewhere onto the table, hovering crouched above the remains like a predator over his meal, dark-green eyes glinting with malice and a feral grin on his face. Gasping, the Englishman drew back into the hallway, bumping into the other constable. But the man pursued, launching forward in one jump with incredible speed, avoiding the blond's attempted blow and throwing a side punch which had the detective's head successfully collide with the hard wooden frame.
"Antonio, crush them!" the voice shrieked again, before the sound of broken glass was heard and a second man sought to escape through the window.
"Hold it right there! Stop him!"
Drawing a shaky breath, Arthur barely registered that he'd collapsed onto the ground and made an effort to sit up, watching as his attacker, who had pushed past him and Alfred and had started up the stairs, pursued by the American, turned around brusquely and got a hold of the younger constable, one hand viciously closing around the blue-eyed blond's neck despite the other's attempt to fight him.
Good God, that monster was killing him! The detective's fingers found their way around the pistol as he hastily pulled it out and took aim, but his hand was shaking too badly. He fired anyway and luckily the man appeared to be frightened, because he released his prey – but not before throwing such a powerful punch that Alfred was sent flying into the wainscot and tumbled down all the way to the bottom of the stairs.
Somehow, spurred by the adrenaline surge, the Englishman found himself on his feet again and he rushed after the man up the stairs, determined not to let the bastard escape him. It seemed that the suspect was no longer willing to put up a fight, now faced with a gun, but he sought to run and Arthur would not allow it. The man nearly ripped open the door at the top of the stairs, dashing out, and the green-eyed blond saw that it led outside, to a narrow wooden bridge made to link the house to another. The boards creaked dangerously under the man's feet as he rushed across, making him slow down and grip the railing.
Arthur didn't hesitate – he wasn't quick enough to catch up and this one was too strong to be successfully engaged in close combat – he took aim and fired twice, the first bullet hitting the man's leg and making him stumble, while the other pierced his shoulder blade. Most likely it wasn't a mortal wound, but the policeman didn't actually care. He'd been found with yet another body, hovering about it like the predator that he was, a madman driven by diabolical bloodlust.
Several other shots resounded somewhere in the distance, while the blond slumped to the ground, panting hard and leaning against one of the small poles sustaining the fragile railing. A violent coughing fit shook his exhausted body, forcing his eyes closed as he allowed himself to draw his breath for a bit. The man lay nearby, face down on the boards, panting and moaning in pain but unable to move, to crawl away as the constable slammed his boot into his side spitefully, hardly resisting the temptation to kick him into the murky water below and watch him drown like the beast that he was.
Dr. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo had been apprehended – indeed this was the name of the beast he'd injured – while his companion, some unidentified fellow the doctor had called 'Lovino' in his erratic cries, had been shot dead by the other policemen after attempting to flee. The case seemed to have been solved for now – thanks to the ridiculous fortuneteller no less – but Arthur would not think of it. No, he should have been resting, except…
His eyelids dropped shut heavily as the constable slowly folded his handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket, but the image of the rosy stain on the immaculate cloth continued to linger, as inescapable and inevitable as any other death sentence. His chest still heaved a bit after the cough had eventually subsided, aching and feeling sinisterly hollow. Arthur sat there helpless, eyes still closed and arms slowly rising to hug himself tightly as a soft sob left his lips. So, this was it, beyond doubt - he was going to… Well.
He'd put some money aside in the course of time, so at least the burial expenses would be covered. A bitter smile made its way on the blond's lips at the sudden thought of acquiring a fancy resting place. Well, not fancy per say, but fairly decent. He wondered what type of coffin wood was in fashion these days – oak, maple, poplar? Walnut didn't look half bad, was it expensive? Maybe he should actually go through the trouble of finding out the details. Maybe there was some assuredness to be found in one knowing with relative precision when they would leave this world.
"Arthur, what are you doing?"
The voice nearly startled the detective – he'd been so caught up in his grim (but nevertheless quite practical, he figured) thoughts that he'd failed to notice his younger friend enter the room entirely. But now Alfred stood in front of him, a worried scowl on his youthful face, baby-blue eyes clouded with concern.
"You left the dinner table so abruptly and scared poor Mrs. Briggs! She's worried about you! God, you're so pale and look so worn… " The American knelt by the bedside and pressed his palm against Arthur's forehead before the other could even think of moving. "Look, you have a fever too!"
The green-eyed blond looked up at him at last, lips pressed and gulping as he realized that it was the time for the truth to be said. And it was going to break the poor boy's heart.
"Arthur, I've been thinking, you know…" Alfred said, sitting down next to his friend awkwardly but gripping both his hands in his almost with urgency. "Y-You can't go on working like that, it's obvious that you're exerting yourself far more than you should and… and… I have a small inheritance left from my mother, I-I could take care of you-"
"Absolutely not!"
The detective instantly regretted the harshness of his tone as the other's face fell and shook his head, giving a reassuring squeeze to the warm fingers holding his. "Alfred, please! I mean, thank you, but please, don't even think of it!" he murmured, looking away. "That is your money and by God you will need it for yourself, for your future. So please-"
"But Arthur, I have no one but you! You're more than a friend, you took care of me, you're like family to me, I love you like a brother! You have to let me help you!"
The Englishman exhaled, slowly, shakily, forcing himself to look his younger friend in the eye as he replied. "Alfred, it's consumption." He paused and bit his lower lip, as if in the process of admitting some fact he was guilty of. "It would be a waste of what your mother left you, we would only be delaying the inevitable…"
But the other shook his head, stubbornly, as his eyes filled and shone with tears. "NO! No, you can't, Arthur! You can't leave me! N-not like this! First mother and now you, it's not fair! It's not fair! Please, Arthur, please…" His voice faded into helpless sobs and unintelligible mutterings as he hugged the detective, burying his nose into his shoulder and hugging him desperately.
After the exhausting attempts to calm his younger friend and convince him to have some rest in turn, Arthur had fallen into an agitated sleep, full of nondescript nightmares dominated by the faces of the dead girls. But now he was awake again for some reason and blinked sleepily, making an effort to raise his head and throw a squinted gaze around in the semi-obscurity.
The only source of light was a small oil lamp burning in a corner of the tiny room with suffocating low ceiling and floor entirely covered by the mattress he was now lying onto. The room was separated by a ragged and rather transparent curtain from the alcove with the small cot where the Frenchman usually sat – this room probably served as his bedroom, he reckoned. But what the hell was he doing here?! No, no, it had to be one of those awful dreams again! Hell…
And once more everything was much too vivid, the smell of opium smoke and mold from the walls and old cloths was pungent, the mind-numbing, distressing darkness, the muffled sounds of the rest of the den – coughs, laughter, some occasional scream. Good God, this place was Hell, the blond thought, hauling himself up on his knees with some difficulty and then shifting to a sitting position. The cold wall against his back had him instantly wincing and leaning forward, all the more since he was only in his shirt, now creased and dirty.
Then the curtain was pulled and the accursed Frenchman crept inside, an ominous smirk onto his flawless face. Arthur instinctively pulled back, hugging himself while inwardly pondering that it was no use to ask why he was here this time. His question was about to be answered soon enough anyway.
"Petit lapin!" Francis said seriously, shaking a few loose strands away from his pale forehead. "Did you know, today is a Thursday and I usually have cravings on Thursdays. Normally I would have had them satisfied against the mattress, but you have been particularly naughty – shooting one of my pets, no less! – therefore I shall have them satisfied against that hard wall over there!" he declared.
Before Arthur could make any sense of his words, in the next moment his lanky frame lunged forward, predatorily, and one hand got the smaller blond's shoulder into an iron grip, hauling him up on his knees and slamming his back against the wall.
"What the hell?! Let me go!" the Englishman protested, wide-eyed and struggling to push the hand away, but the man was impossibly strong. Struggling turned to desperate thrashing while the other simply chuckled, tilting his head and leaning down to bite at his prey's neck, while his free hand worked to unbutton and open his shirt. Once that done, he forcefully turned the policeman around, this time shoving him face first against the wall. Arthur groaned as his cheekbone collided painfully with the cold, humid bricks and he unsuccessfully tried to amortize the impact with his hands. Mortar and crumbles dug into the heels of his palms while the other's body pressed him against the hard surface, allowing no escape.
"Sir, unhand me this instant! What-… what do you want to do?!"
This time he was graced with an answer, which the Frenchman murmured sensuously into his exposed ear. "Ah, well, what was that rather ancient expression? I believe… Fornicate Under King's Consent…?"
Green eyes widened in shock and the young man froze, his breath catching in his throat. "W-what now?"
"You heard me, constable." The man's intentions were fully clarified when Arthur's trousers and underwear were pulled down unceremoniously.
"You wouldn't dare, sir!" Hell, he had hoped for more firmness in his words, but only a choked, feeble croak came out between groans of discomfort, since now more of his naked skin was prey to the cold and rugged surface.
Francis seemed greatly amused at the other's statement, playfully nipping at the shell of his ear. "Oh, and what wouldn't I dare, petit lapin? This?"
A burning and horribly intense pain suddenly shot upwards from the base of his spine and Arthur screamed, nails digging and clawing helplessly into the bricks he was forcefully propped against. "AAAAAAAAAAARGH! LET GO OF ME YOU BLOODY FROG!" The only reply he got was another powerful thrust, mercilessly ripping at his insides, forcing more screams out of his throat. The agonizing pain had squeezed his eyes shut as he was being torn and bruised inside and out and had turned his breath into short, sharp gasps which left his lungs burning.
"Aaaaaaaahn s-stop! D-Damn you!" Another. "Please, stop!" Another. With each thrust the detective's voice lost its strength until it became a mere whimper, Arthur himself reduced to a quivering, sobbing mess. "P-please…"
"Patience, constable, I'm looking for a little something and once I find it there will be a major… shift in perspective, if I may say so," Bonnefoy promised chuckling, pulling the young man backwards into his lap and running his hands soothingly up and down his trembling, parted thighs.
He slowed his movements as the green-eyed blond's head fell back onto his shoulder, his exhausted prey now utterly subdued and no longer trying to escape his grip. Arthur was becoming almost numb with pain and horror, before a spike of hot, searing pleasure was suddenly mixed into his agony at a shift of angle and he desperately muffled a moan, biting into his lower lip until he drew blood as the other's fingers were intertwined with his against the wall.
"Just so you know, constable, that little redhead – the third one if I recall correctly - was particularly delicious," Francis said, between his own gasps as he bucked his hips upwards in a steady rhythm. "Not as delicious as you, but quite so… and since I am a good master I am in the habit of feeding my dogs the leftovers of my meals. Besides, the body was an inconvenience and I had to get rid of it, n'est-ce pas?"
What…? No, surely it had been the doctor who… The Englishman's horror clouded brain struggled to grasp the idea. "N-no… it c-cannot be… why…?" Surely, it must have been some sick joke devised by this endlessly foul and perverted man, but Arthur could ask no more, choked by violent cough and cringing as he felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.
"Why? Parce que je suis La Mort, mon petit lapin," the taller blond hummed, sliding the shirt off the policeman's shoulders and licking the pale skin of his neck. "And because I am a drinker of beauty, feeding off the very nectar of this world."
The Frenchman carefully arranged a pillow under Arthur's head and wrapped the blanket around his disheveled form. The poor bunny had passed out during his second feeding and could not be momentarily brought back to his senses. "There, mon petit lapin. Your very purity, so roughly taken, was the price for the information I gave you tonight," he whispered tenderly, pressing a light kiss onto the flushed cheek and enjoying the special warmth brought about by fever.
Next to him, Elizaveta leaned in to take a closer look at the sleeping blond. "Oh my, his lips are so beautiful." They were bitten and swollen, all the more endearing. "Can I kiss him?" She tried to lean further, but a firm hand pushed her away as Francis tsked.
"Oh, why would you want to kiss a British pipsqueak with a stick up his ass? Besides, not even I have dared touch his lips! You see, he did not give me his permission…"
The Hungarian's eyes widened, then she burst into laughter."Dear God, Monsieur Bonnefoy, aren't you the epitome of virtue! But did you – pray tell – have his permission to fuck him senseless against the wall?"
"I don't expect you to understand, but on some deep level that was consented. I know he wants me," replied the fortuneteller simply, a candid smile lingering on his lips as his fingers descended to tread through Arthur's hair.
The brunette rolled her eyes. "Modest too. You think that everyone wants you."
Francis lifted an eyebrow and sighed dramatically. "Indeed, everyone does. Even you do, ma chere Eliza, but sadly for you it is not mutual. One must be truly special for me to find them covetable." Typical words for the infuriating bastard she knew him to be at times. And even if she knew that it was impossible, it would have still been extremely entertaining if his ridiculous infatuation with the English constable brought about his doom.
Next to her Arthur shifted under the blanket and moaned softly in his troubled sleep, his lithe frame then shaken by a sudden cough which made him curl up into a tight ball.
"I know you think it's cruel of me to feast on him in this absolute and degrading manner," the blue-eyed blond said, "But do you not see, Elizaveta? He will die anyway."
To be continued
Parce que je suis La Mort, mon petit lapin – Because I am Death, my little bunny
A/N – Some medical facts about Arthur's condition: the classic symptoms of active tuberculosis infection are a chronic cough with blood-tinged sputum, fever, night sweats, and weight loss, the latter giving rise to the formerly common term for the disease, "consumption". In Europe, rates of tuberculosis began to rise in the early 1600s to a peak level in the 1800s, when it caused nearly 25% of all deaths. Tuberculosis was thought of as an incurable disease at the time.
