Author's Note moved to the end.
6. escape
Antonio always greets people with a big hug. It is a bit disorienting to people who are not used to it, or him, but Francis welcomes it as a relief from the burden of the weight in his jacket.
"Francis! Long time no see, amigo!" Antonio says, his tongue slipping back into the Spanish he grew up with.
"You, too, Tony," Francis says warmly, embracing his warm friend.
"What? No hug for the awesomer of your best friends?" A silver-haired head pops up behind from behind Antonio, a smirk that Francis has seen millions of times on his face.
"I've missed you too, Gilbert," Francis laughs as he hugs his other good friend from high school.
"Come on in, Frannie," Tony says, ushering the Frenchman inside. They walk inside, talking and laughing, Francis smacking Antonio's ass once. The apartment opens out into a small living area, where there's a bar connecting the room to the kitchen. Gilbert and Francis seat themselves on the steel-gray stools in front of the bar while Antonio bounces behind it.
"So, amigos," Tony says, rubbing his hands together. "I went to Italy to learn to be a barista!"
Gilbert laughs. "You? A barista?"
The Spaniard looks hurt. "Yes, really! But you can check out what I can do now!"
And out of nowhere, he takes coffee, laden with creamy foam, pours it into two cream-colored mugs and somehow, using a toothpick, shapes the cream into a heart, green eyes narrowed in concentration. Francis can't process how Antonio does it, but he admires the Spaniard's newfound focus and concentration. Tony, as Francis remembers, has always been somewhat of an airhead, so to see him like this was new and interesting.
"Latte art?" says Gilbert, peering into the cups. "That's pretty awesome."
"I hand-brewed it myself," says Tony proudly. He pushes the mugs across the bar towards his friends.
Both Francis and Gilbert take deep swigs of the coffee. It's delicious. Francis can taste the cream and sweetness with the slight-bitter edge that still made it coffee. He looks down into his cup and sees that he's nearly drunk half of it already.
"Antonio, you need to make me coffee every single day," he remarks to his friend, and they all laugh.
"This is good stuff," says Gilbert, tossing the rest of the coffee like a shot. "I want some more."
Tony beams.
"So what else did you do in Italy?" Francis asks.
"Weeeeell," says Antonio, dragging out the word. "I met these two Italian boys—one of them is really cute! And the other one is cute too! I think he said he knew you…? His name was Feliciano."
"Feliciano Vargas?" Francis exclaims. "Yeah, he goes to Parsons with me!"
They laugh some more. Antonio takes out his iPhone from his pocket and flips through the pictures. "Here," he says, showing them the screen. "This is Lovino! He's really cute, right?"
The picture shows Antonio with a auburn-haired boy, an odd hair curl sticking up from the front of his head. Antonio is laughing, like always, the carefree Spaniard that Francis remembers from high school, but in contrast, Lovino is looking murderously into the camera with golden eyes, his mouth growling curses into the lens. His hand is on the verge of flipping the photographer off.
"Yeah… He's really cute," says Gilbert dryly, and Francis laughs. Antonio blushes.
"Are they brothers?" Francis says over his coffee.
"Yeah, they are. Their grandfather lives in Italy so every year they visit." Antonio flips through the pictures until he comes to another photo: a relatively older man with stubble like Francis's and curly brown hair. He has his arms around Feliciano and Lovino and is grinning goofily into the camera.
"Are you sure that's their grandfather?" Gilbert squints at the picture.
"I was doubtful, too, but I didn't question it." Antonio shrugs.
A phone rings. It's a song that's catchy and a little overplayed, not to mention maybe a year or so old.
"Baby, I like it…."
Francis and Gilbert exchange looks. "Enrique Iglesias?" say both of them dubiously.
Antonio grins. "C'mon guys. Have a little respect, will ya?" He checks the monitor briefly. "Oh… well I gotta take this." HE walks off towards one of the bedrooms.
As soon as the door closes, Gilbert turns his red-violet eyes on Francis.
"Give it to me," the Prussian says in a low, uncharacteristically deadly voice.
"What?" Francis can feel his heart beating faster, jumping around his chest in panic. "W-what are you talking about?"
"You know what I'm talking about," says Gilbert. "Give. It. To. Me."
"I don't know," pleads Francis. "Q-qu'est-ce que tu veux?"
"Are you telling me you don't know?" Crimson eyes bore into blue. "Of course you know. C'mon, Francis. Work with me here."
"I don't know what you want!" Francis is nearly screaming now, scared of his friend, scared of the weight in his jacket that had disappeared suddenly, scared of his friend suddenly understanding the French that had slipped out of his mouth. He doesn't want to admit it, but he is scared.
"Well, maybe, this can tell you!" Gilbert pulls a gun out of his boot. The barrel points at Francis, so close that if Francis tried to look down the black hole his eyes would cross painfully. The nearness of the metal sends shivers down Francis's back.
"Come on, now, Francis," says his old friend. "Where is it?"
"P-p-put the gun down, please," Francis begs. "Please… don't shoot me… I'm your friend…"
Gilbert locks his scarlet eyes on Francis. The mischief that Francis remembers so well from his years in high school, the joking arrogance, the playfulness that lies underneath—all of it is gone, replaced by ice. Francis feels as if he is looking at a stranger, and when Gilbert opens his mouth, he is right.
"Francis," the Prussian says. "I'm not your friend anymore."
Francis can feel the tickling in his eyelids; it means that tears will come rushing down his cheeks soon. "Gilbert… please…."
There is a blur so fast that before Francis can blink, the gun is past, and there is a stinging in Francis's cheek.
"Tell me where it is!" the Prussian roars. He jabs the gun at Francis's forehead.
The cold metal seems to stir something in Francis's memory. His body memory. His muscles respond like they ever have before.
His hands—they act on their own—snap up to the gun at his forehead, and Francis hears a sharp crack, as Gilbert howls in pain. The Frenchman's mind can't process what's going on, and it is only when Francis looks down and sees Gilbert's arm sticking out at an odd angle that he understands what happened. A split second later, before Francis can think any more, his other arm swings itself up into Gilbert's jaw, while the other one catches the gun that Gilbert has dropped.
There's a small click and a creak in the background, Francis barely registers it as his hand points the gun at Gilbert, his best friend from high school. Francis tries to tell his hand to stop, but it is already too late. His vision warps, everything becoming clearer and brighter.
His finger squeezes the trigger once, twice. Three times.
And Gilbert falls. Francis sees every detail of it, every second, as the pale Prussian, empty of life, falls.
"Francis…." The usually light, happy voice that Francis knows well shatters the silence. The Frenchman, shaking horribly, turns towards his friend. Antonio stands in the doorway of the apartment's bedroom, tears already beginning to fall down his tanned cheeks.
Still trembling, Francis falls too.
He fades to black.
x-x
Francis woke up slowly this time around. He had more sense now. He couldn't figure out where he was if it overwhelmed him and came at him all at once.
It was relatively the same from last time he'd woken up in a painful sitting position. The room was still relatively dark, but there was still light leaking in from a bulb hanging from the ceiling, so Francis could still see where he was. It was dank and dim, with concrete walls and floor, dirt everywhere. Francis still felt awful: cold goosebumps running up his arms and legs; a horrible throbbing in his wrists, which were still bound by duct tape; a severe fatigue weighing his head down. His back felt wet, and he realized he must have been sweating during his dream.
No. Not a dream. Memory.
Francis knew who he was now. He finally understood.
Now if he could get out of here. He wiggled his wrists reluctantly—he was still tired—to find that he couldn't rip the tape. They'd put on more tape while he was asleep.
Merde. He slumped forward. Je souhaite… Je souhaite…
A door opened suddenly in front of him. He hadn't noticed it before. All the same, he, with great effort, lifted his head to see who it was.
His heart nearly stopped. Salt water ran down his cheeks in relief, and before he knew it, the word slipped out of his mouth.
"Sourcils," he whispered. "Sourcils…"
Arthur Kirkland frowned, his thick eyebrows turned down. Francis nearly laughed—the Brit was so cute when he was cranky—if not for the finger that Arthur placed over his lips. Then he jerked his head towards a corner of the room.
Francis could see a black circle with a small red light blinking on and off, on and off. A bug. Francis was being bugged. He sealed his lips shut and nodded briefly at Arthur.
The Brit slipped inside, and began working quickly, using a Swiss Army Knife to saw off the layers of duct tape around Francis's wrists and the coils of wire around Francis's ankles. He was nearly halfway through when the door burst open and a group of men ran in, with huge, shoulder-mounted guns pointed at Arthur and Francis. One of them stepped out of the shadows, his boots thumping heavily on the floor.
"Arthur Kirkland," said Jager, his green eyes full of mockery. He took a long drag from his cigarette. "Long time… no see."
"Ah, yes, Jager," replied Arthur with the same amount of sincerity. "Still can't kick that smoking habit, I see."
The Dutchman dropped his cigarette and stomped on it. "Oh, fuck off. You know what we're here for. Not to reminisce about the old days."
Arthur smirked. "I see you haven't changed a bit since those 'old days,' Jager."
"Just give it up, Kirkland," snarled a burly man with dark skin the color of black coffee. Francis could see that a cross had been shaved on the side of his short curly hair.
Arthur put a hand to his heart. "Awww," he cooed mockingly. "How adorable."
"Shut up, Kirkland!" yelled Jager. "God, I forgot what a downright cocky pain in the ass you are."
"You don't know any pain in the ass till you've seen this." Arthur's leg whipped towards Jager's crotch, causing the Dutchman to keel over in pain. A swift blow to the head knocked the Dutchman out. The rest of the men started towards Arthur, but the Brit only ducked and slipped out of the crowd, causing them to trip into each other. After that it was a blur of limbs, Arthur almost dancing, twisting and turning, hitting the men brutally with his fists as he went.
When they were all collapsed on the ground, Arthur dusted off his pants and took out his SAK out again hacking away at the wires and tape that still bound Francis.
"Why are you so bloody useless?" he muttered darkly, as the last of the wires snapped apart.
"You know karate?" was all Francis could manage.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "That was Krav Maga.* Get it right."
His knife sliced through the tape, and Francis jumped up—he didn't have much choice, actually, since Arthur was dragging him—and ran at the door.
His head felt light, and it didn't help that all the hallways were all the same: a maze of metal and beams and concrete. Francis didn't know where he was going, and he was lucky that Arthur did. He wasn't focused on anything except for the fact that his hand. His hand, holding Arthur's, their slim fingers interlocked, their sweaty palms pressed against each other….
Francis couldn't hold it in any longer. "Arthur," he said faintly. "I think—"
"You'll have to tell me later!" snapped the Brit. "This is a really bloody bad time!"
"Yes, it is," said a familiar smooth voice.
They stopped so suddenly Francis nearly knocked Arthur over. Kiku stood in front of them, in the no-man's land between light and shadow, a gun in his hand.
"K-Kiku?" Arthur whispered. Francis noted that the Brit sounded a bit strangled.
"Yes, Arthur," said the Japanese man. The corner of his mouth twitched. "I'm afraid that you dropped in at a bad time."
They panted, their breaths echoing in the empty halls. Francis was horribly out of shape; there was a horrible empty coldness in his chest. Arthur just seemed to be angry.
Kiku raised the gun until the barrel was pointed towards them. "I'm afraid I cannot let allow you to leave here after breaking in like this. And I'm afraid I cannot allow you to leave with him." His dark brown eyes flickered over to Francis.
The Frenchman swallowed. That's the second time someone has given me that look and referred to me by that title. Him. What is going on here?
Arthur laughed. "You think you can stop me? Oh, Kiku. Don't make fun of me."
Kiku shook his head slowly. "I'm not, Arthur. I am just following orders."
A brief pause. Arthur scoffed slightly. "Then I'm very sorry about this, old friend."
His arm whipped into action again, knocking the gun out of Kiku's hand, while his fingers gripped the Japanese man's wrist tightly and bent it back severely. Francis cringed at the sharp crack, while Kiku only looked on Arthur with unreadable eyes.
The Brit smirked. "To make it all the more real, Kiku," he said simply, and then looked at Francis, who had a confused look on his face.
"Come on, frog," Arthur snapped. "I don't want to have to beat up any more people. It really takes a toll on you if you do it too much."
And like he did on that day in Antonio's apartment, Francis followed Arthur out the door.
xx
They were back again on the lonely highway. A glance at the dashboard clock told Francis it was half past midnight. He was dead tired, and he was still suffering from a splitting migraine, but thoughts were running inside his head. Too many of them, crashing and clamoring, overflowing in his brain. The images were too loud and demanding for Francis to be able to sleep.
Focus. He told himself that over and over. It wasn't working. Francis had never had that gift, to concentrate long on one thing. If only it was his art—then he could work on it for hours and not notice the time flying by.
But Arthur… Francis wondered how the Brit always seemed to show up whenever Francis needed him. The day at Antonio's apartment—how did Arthur know to come for him? Francis remembered Arthur saying he had to leave. Leave, why? And why take Francis with him? Why the danger? Why was Francis in danger in the first place? He rubbed his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. He felt like he was putting together a puzzle without a guide picture. He didn't even feel like he had all the pieces. Something was missing. It didn't help that his migraine was getting worse and worse.
And on top of all that, Francis couldn't ignore his growing attraction for Arthur. He could feel it in his memories, both the ones from before the incident at Antonio's and the ones after. Especially the ones after. But the before… Francis closed his eyes and remembered how they fought—squabbles about whether Francis could paint his roommate; about who would cook dinner that night; about the small sticky notes that Francis decorated their apartment with every day; about the mess in the room that doubled as Francis's studio and bedroom; about their beverage of choice—Arthur hated coffee and drank tea, Francis only drank coffee and ignored tea to spite Arthur. The name-calling. Francis smiled to himself. For Arthur, it was a variety of names: "lapin," "cheri," and Francis's favorite, "sourcils." Arthur often called Francis more offending terms, "frog" being one of the more polite ones.
And then the past couple days. Arthur, in leather jacket and skinny jeans with a gun, piercing green stare and smooth voice. Arthur with a smile so beautiful it hurt, laughing with his old friend about the old days. The night at Mathias's pub, when the shooting started and Arthur threw himself over Francis to protect him. Risking his life. Bleeding like hell in the backseat of the SUV just so Francis would be safe.
The memories made Francis's chest ache faintly. He wished Arthur wouldn't treat him so coldly. He wished there was none of… the gun and threatening stuff to get in the way. He felt that it only caused everyone more pain, Arthur especially. So what if he was a romantic? He needed it. If there was anything he fully believed in, it was love.
"Francis, weren't you going to say something in the hallway?" Arthur's tired but sharp voice cut into the Frenchman's thoughts.
Francis didn't say anything for a moment. "Arthur," he managed. "I think…"
"Yes?"
A pause. The wind howled as the car sped along on the road.
Arthur shifted slightly in his seat. "Francis?"
Francis shook his head quickly. "Never mind." He wasn't willing to admit to Arthur anything that he'd been thinking.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah… I forgot what I was going to say."
"All right then."
A/N: Wow. I am no good at writing action scenes. On the upside, I finally broke my thousand-word-count streak :D
Chapter 1 = 1,000 or so words
Chapter 2 = 2,000 or so words
Chapter 3 = 3,000 or so words
Chapter 4 = 4,000 or so words
Chapter 5 = 5,000 or so words
Chapter 6 = 3,000 or so words :D
*Krav Maga is a type of martial art developed for the Israeli military/special forces. It involves a lot of hitting with the fists and lots of targeting vital points. Basically, it's "knock out your opponent as fast as you can."
Good fun. ~