Dormez Vous? Chapter 10
The morning sunshine crept over the houses and baked the dirt roads, hitting every crevice of shadow and ridding the world of the obsidian dark that had ruled the world only hours ago. Jeanne crouched in the shade of an old, crooked tree, her cerulean eyes bright and sharp, watching intently. Yesterday she had been a spy – following Auguste Bonnefoy around all day in an attempt to learn the whereabouts of Francis – and today, well, she wasn't sure exactly what she was anymore. One thing was for sure, and that was that she had gotten an earful of information she wasn't sure she wanted to know. Poor Francis... She thought; she had practically had a heart attack when she heard Daniel Kirkland speak to Auguste about his son in such a way...and Auguste not denying it. You just want your son back, so you can have something to bury your cock in. Yes, that was what he said. Jeanne shuddered at the memory.
Besides that, Jeanne had learned something almost as formidable: Francis had ran away, and not only that, but with Arthur! This intrigued her greatly. Certainly, it must have been a spur of the moment thing! She told herself. Otherwise Francis would have invited me to come along. In her mind, she felt Francis did truly like her, in a way, and she didn't think he would intentionally abandon her. Anyways, she couldn't blame him for wanting to flee as soon as he got the opportunity, especially since it seemed Daniel's accusations were likely true. If it were me, I would have ran away a long time ago.
The house had not stirred. Jeanne had been waiting since the moon first began to descend, and the sun started to rise, for Auguste Bonnefoy to emerge from his home. She was afraid. He was a noble – what if he paid the authorities to search for Francis, or got hounds to sniff him out, even? She would not be surprised. He was a despicable – no, revolting – man. Does that mean...committing such acts along with him...does that make Francis an abomination as well? The thought crossed Jeanne's mind unexpectedly, filling her up with wonder, but she forced it from her head. No matter what sins Francis committed, he was, truly, a good boy at heart – Jeanne was sure of it – and she should not, and could not, hate him for something that...really wasn't his fault.
The sight of movement at the front door drew Jeanne out of her thoughts and back to her senses. Holding as still as a rock planted in the earth, she waited, and sure enough, Auguste Bonnefoy emerged from the house and came down the front porch. He was dressed up in a rustic orange tunic, with light, silvery tights beneath it, and nice, leather shoes. The man's dirty blonde hair was combed back even, and he looked surprisingly respectable. This is one of the first times I've actually seen him capture the look of a noble. Jeanne supposed.
Coughing, Auguste looked around himself in an absentminded way, then moved away from his home, and began strolling down the dusty dirt road. He kicked the tips of his feet at the dirt when he walked, in a way that reminded Jeanne very much of Francis himself. He's heading for town. Jeanne realized instantly. Rising to her feet, she stalked forwards, keeping a good distance behind him, but following all the same. She made sure to sneak slightly nearby something – like bushes, or a stray tree – at all times, in case she needed to leap behind one and hide at any moment. She was a sly thief, and that was what made her so quiet. But today, I am not a thief. She thought coldly. Nor am I a spy. Today...I am Francis' brave warrior.
XXXX
"Pfffft, look at him!" Gilbert chuckled, one amongst the crowd of curious eyes that were surrounding the still-sleeping Francis at the moment. The others gathered around included Antonio, Arthur, and Ludwig, who had taken an interest in the stranger asleep in their home once he'd woken up (the two brothers, Lovino and Feliciano, were still snoring loudly beside one another). "What do you think he's dreaming of?" Gilbert asked loudly, his red eyes glimmering with curiosity.
"None of your business, you nosy weirdo white-head." Arthur responded contemptuously, crossing his arms with a pouting look upon his face. For some reason, he felt the urge to protect the boy who lay on the floor – he had, after all, come this far with him; he was the only one Arthur felt he could trust at the moment. "Stop looking at him." He grumbled sourly, letting his sharp green eyes stab into each one of the boys in turn: Gilbert, Ludwig, Antonio. The memory of waking up beside Francis made Arthur fluster slightly, but, luckily, he had opened his eyes before anyone else, and was able to clamber out of the other boy's tightly-grasping arms before anybody saw. However, now they were all making fun of Francis, it seemed.
A squeak escaped Ludwig's mouth, and he glanced towards Gilbert with shining, attention-seeking eyes. "Look," He peeped excitedly. "he's going to do it again!" It was as if none of them had heard a word Arthur had said, and Gilbert chuckled at his little brother, and ruffled his hair, making Arthur's fury burn even hotter inside of him.
"Aahnn...ah...n-non...nnnygghh..." In his sleep, Francis whimpered and moaned, his lips twitching into an open-mouthed frown, and his eyebrows squishing into his forehead with horror. Whining, he squirmed, then threw his left arm across his face defensively, and loudly cried out. "Arrêtez-vous s'il vous plaît!" Arthur noticed that perspiration was forming upon his forehead, and his breathing was becoming increasingly heavier, and heavier.
Feeling someone's eyes upon him, Arthur turned his head slightly to meet gazes with Antonio. The boy was staring down at him with a troubled frown; his arms were crossed in front of him, and his fingernails were scraping at his opposite elbows absentmindedly. "Do you speak French?" He inquired quietly, his dark green eyes shimmering like crystal.
Flustering, Arthur replied snappishly, "N-no, of course not!...I only know a song." His last sentence came out barely a whisper, and he almost regretted saying it. The haunting melody seemed to repeat itself over and over again in his head, causing him to shiver slightly at the memory. Frère Jaques, Frère Jaques, Dormez-Vous? Dormez Vous? Arthur's sharp green eyes flickered down to Francis, who was cowering in on himself and making soft sobbing noises. Making a pouting face, he looked towards Antonio, wondering if the older boy would wake his friend up. However, Antonio only returned Arthur a look of curiosity, and Arthur lost hope in him. I'll have to do this myself. He thought sourly, kneeling upon the cold ground beside where Francis lay.
The Frenchman's hands clenched tightly upon the tattered blankets he had drawn close around his frame. "Ҫa fait mal! Père..." He gasped sharply, biting his lower lip so fiercely that he drained all the blood from it, leaving it a pasty white color. His hands shook with fear, and tears flashed in the corners of his eyes, making Arthur wonder what he was dreaming about.
"What are you doing?" Asked Ludwig in a demanding way, his hands planted firmly on each hip. Although younger, he was already taller than Arthur, and this annoyed him completely. "Don't wake him up." The child pouted, sticking out his lip unhappily. "It's entertaining to watch him sleep."
"Shut up." Arthur replied back to him fearlessly, twisting his mouth into a menacing grimace of defiance. "He's my friend, not yours." Ignoring Ludwig's troubled face, and Gilbert's laughing one, Arthur turned his attention back to Francis. The boy was shuddering, and squeaking out more not understandable words. Why can't you dream in English? Arthur wondered with annoyance, although he still pitied the boy. Cautiously, he reached out his hand, and laid it upon Francis' shaking shoulder. "Oi. Francis. Wake up." He commanded, shifting his hand back and forth a little. Francis, in response, cried out quite audibly, and shrank into a little ball. Sometimes I have nightmares that Allister turns into a monster, and comes and eats me when I'm sleeping. Arthur thought to himself. Are you dreaming about monsters? He wondered, remembering how Francis had been petrified of the dark. Arthur had, after all, decided to sleep next to him for that very reason...but then Francis decided not to wake up in the morning, the lazy dolt. "Francis!" Arthur said loudly, leaning over said person and poking his finger into his forehead. "Wake up, Francis!" He snapped.
Seeming smug at Arthur's failed attempts to awaken his friend, Ludwig gave him a large, wet grin. "Heh. See? He wants to sleep." He stated in that annoying accent of his. Well, Francis had an accent too, but Arthur thought Ludwig's and Gilbert's were more annoying.
"Let him sleep, Arthur-man." Gilbert told him with a chuckle. "You can come with me and Antonio to start making breakfast, want to?"
Although the idea was tempting, Arthur had never in his life been told he was a good cook. In fact, he wasn't allowed to touch food, and if he tried, Eily would be after him with a wooden spoon before he could say 'unicorn'. "No thank you." He told Gilbert instead. Feeling pressured, he quickly made the decision that he had to wake Francis up. How do you wake somebody up, who doesn't want to wake up? Arthur inquired to himself. He thought about how his siblings used to wake him up. When he was younger, Dylan used to jump on him. Eily sometimes smacked him on the top of his head. Allister just yelled. But then, if he dug way far back into his memory, Arthur could remember how someone else used to wake him up. Mum... Shutting his eyes momentarily, Arthur allowed himself to be lost in the memory, and to compose himself all at once. Somehow, he knew that these boys were going to make fun of him for this, but, hearing Francis crying into his blanket made him realize he was willing to pay that price. Sighing, Arthur opened his eyes. "It's time to get up, Francis." He murmured softly, leaning forwards and wrapping his short arms around Francis' thin neck. "Wake up, dear." He said quietly, imitating his mother's voice – after all the time she had been gone, he thought he had forgotten it – and, ignoring the feelings of eyes upon his back, he gave Francis a gentle squeeze, and lay his face beside his ear. "Come on. Get up..." Heat made his whole face turn beet red. I feel so stupid. This is stupid! It's never going to work! He thought with embarrassment, almost resorting to smacking Francis in the face.
"M-mère..?" Francis' ragged breathing calmed, and his arms tangled themselves around Arthur (the latter tried to pull away but found himself unable). Sighing with bliss, Francis tugged Arthur close upon his chest, squeezing the breathe out of him. Arthur felt his tears soaking into his head and made a squeaking noise of displeasure. Slowly, Francis opened his eyes; he seemed shocked when he did. "Ah!" He spat out, ashamed, and quickly released Arthur from his crushing grip. "Oh...I'm sorry." He covered up quickly. "I'm so sorry." He looked around for a bit, scrubbing the liquid from his eyes in a rushed way, and then glanced up at the three staring boys. "I'm sorry." He repeated, pushing Arthur away gently and rising to his feet. "S-sorry...I...sorry." He seemed confused at what to say, and his whole body seemed to turn bright red. His hands clenched into fists, and then unclenched again, and he stared at his feet, unable to meet anyone's eyes. Arthur watched him from where he sat on the floor, waiting for Gilbert or Antonio, or even Ludwig, to make a smug remark about how Arthur woke him up.
"Hey, are you okay?" Gilbert asked in a concerned way, much to Arthur's surprise. His red eyes were deep with feeling, more than Arthur had ever seen him have before, and he reached out towards Francis, laying his hand on his shoulder. "Hey? Francis?"
The addressed person flinched away, his light blonde hair swaying as he did so. Francis let those sunshine-colored strands fall over his face, concealing his eyes, and part of his nose. "I'm fine." He said, remaining motionless, and then, he raised his head. Everyone practically blanched when they saw that he was smiling kindly and happily, as if nothing had happened. "Forgive me for sleeping in." He chuckled. "So...what are we having for breakfast? That is, if the two over there ever get up." He added upon observing Feliciano and Lovino still snoozing in the corner.
All at once, everyone started laughing (with the exception of Arthur, who was giving everyone hateful death-glares). "Man, you really scared us!" Gilbert exclaimed, clapping his hand against Francis' back heartily. "We're having whatever we have!" He giggled. "And if we don't have anything, we'll have whatever we steal!" Francis nodded dumbly, laughing along with him, and flashing him a white-toothed smile.
Crossing his arms, Arthur remained where he sat on the floor. 'I'm fine.' He repeated Francis' words in his head, only made them sound whiny and mocking. Oh yes, I'm Francis Bonnefoy, and I'm perfect! Gritting his teeth, he looked away from all of them. Liar.
"Are you hungry, little one?" A voice asked quietly, and Arthur felt the presence of a familiar green gaze. Antonio was smiling down at him, and offering his hand to help him back to his feet, but Arthur quickly turned it down.
"I'm fine." Arthur spat.
XXXX
Once he reached town, Auguste headed straight for the church. Jeanne looked on in distaste, her lip curled up at the man. He did not even pause when he passed the 'police station', which was really a run-down old building full of baton-carrying mercenaries, but, when she stopped to think about it, it made sense. The church held a lot of authority – much more than the actual 'authority' – in town. In fact, the church was what paid people to 'keep the peace' amongst pedestrians. It was quite a common thing for churches to be corrupted, and, Jeanne knew, their town's church was no exception. If Auguste could bust out enough coins, the priest would give him most anything he desired.
I have to go in there. Jeanne thought to herself, straightening up and puffing out her chest in a heroic way. It had been a very long time since Jeanne had last entered a Catholic church – the last time she had been inside one was when she was a small child – and although she was one for adventures, Jeanne was slightly afraid the people inside may reject her. She knew it was impossible, but the thought of them being able to see through her soul and into her deep and most sinful thoughts made her skin crawl. What if they do not allow me in because of my clothes? She wondered, glancing down at herself. Her tattered, peasant-boy clothes seemed to peer back at her in response.
So lost was she in her troubled thoughts, that Jeanne almost missed seeing Auguste enter the front of the Church. It was a really magnificent place – a grand, white structure, with carved marble statues in the front of it, and large steeples poking the belly of the blue sky. No one tried to stop Auguste from entering, and some friendly-looking women in black robes bobbed their heads to him as he entered. If I act like I belong, they should let me in. Jeanne told herself, recalling the one time, so long ago, when she had gone into the very same church... The memory was fuzzy, but she could remember there being many benches, and a man yelling down at her brother and her, and people murmuring all around. Churches are supposed to protect people. She thought absentmindedly, recollecting words said to her in the past. This will be cake. Jeanne put on a confident smile, and walked up to the church as if she had been doing it all her life.
As she began stepping through the door, which had been propped open with some sort of stone carving, one of the black-robed women gave her a look. Her dark, gray eyes glinted beneath her hood, and she said, slowly and emotionless, "Are you lost, little boy? Are you hungry?" Her breath smelled of crushed lavender, which wasn't a bad thing, but Jeanne wrinkled her nose all the same.
Faltering a bit in her confidence, Jeanne shook her head. Do I really look that masculine? She asked herself, finding it amusing that this stranger fancied her a boy. "No, ma'am," Jeanne replied, mustering up the deepest-sounding voice she could. "I'm just here to see the, ah..." What was that man called again... For a moment she struggled with herself, teeth scratching over each other. "The priest! Yeah." She gasped, finally remembering. "Um...Father said he could...save me!"
"Oh, you poor soul..." The woman sighed, wetness slick inside the bottoms of her dull-colored eyes. She tilted her head to the side a bit, revealing that she had soft, light-brown hair beneath her black hood. "Go inside, then." She nodded, ushering Jeanne into the church with flicking fingertips. "May you be blessed." She called, smiling bitter-sweetly at Jeanne, and making little crow's feet appear beneath her eyes.
Flustering, Jeanne bowed slightly. "Y-yes, miss..." She stammered, unsure and a bit frightened in this new environment she had been placed in. Turning, she quickly ran away from the entrance, feeling her short, dirty hair bounce against the back of her neck as she did so. When she paused to observe her surroundings, Jeanne was in a strange room, like the one from her memory. Many clean, wooden benches were lined up in perfect rows, all facing a single pulpit in the front of the room. Ah, I remember this. She thought vaguely. The man who yelled at everyone stands up there..and we sit down here, and listen, and say we are sorry, and say that we love everything. A smile almost fell upon her mouth at the thought of that, but then she remembered why she was at the church in the first place, and her mouth twisted back into a serious line. Where is that Auguste...? She asked, looking around the room and seeking him with bright, curious eyes.
She spotted Auguste in the corner of the room, standing in a dimly lit hallway off to the side. His lips were moving quickly as he conversed, and a short, frail looking man dressed in a green robe. A shiver went though Jeanne's body at the sight of him – but surely, this was not the same man from her childhood – and slowly, she crept forwards, dodging between the pale brown benches for cover. Her heart seemed to be pounding like a drum in her chest, and she swallowed repeatedly, as if to silence it. When she got close enough to hear what the pair were saying, Jeanne crouched behind the nearest bench, and strained her ears to listen. Sweat was dampening her skin by now, but she ignored it, and the urge to itch at it, and sat as still as possible.
"...whatever it takes, just as long as my son is back." Auguste was saying, his tone full of mock worry and concern. Jeanne straightened up against the back of the bench, straining to hear as clearly as she possibly could.
A short, snorted laugh came from the green-robed priest. "A missing child," He chuckled, and Jeanne could almost see him in her mind, with his face twisted into a look of disapproval, and his head shaking back and forth almost teasingly. "He could not have gone far. Francis is only eleven, no?" He made that horrendous snorting-laugh noise again, and it made Jeanne feel as if her skin was covered by thousands of tiny, hairy spiders. "You will get your son back. I'll send some men to do it."
The sound of clothing shuffling suggested Auguste was moving about nervously, as if he had the urge to say something, and he did, finally. "I wish to go myself, as well." He murmured, sounding unsure of himself, and for a moment, Jeanne pitied him. It really must be hard, she figured, speaking to such a menacing-looking, and influential man. However, Auguste added something else, something, slightly strange. Speaking louder, he told the priest. "I don't want those men to get to my son before I, and try to do any-."
"Auguste." The green-robed priest cut him off, in a way that sounding like a threat. The nobleman fell silent automatically, like a trained dog might, and Jeanne clenched her fists at her sides, scenting treachery about this whole meeting. The sound of fabric shuffling echoed throughout the room once again, but this time it was the green priest moving. By the noise of it, he had come closer to Auguste – the latter was quiet, and for a second Jeanne fancied the priest was strangling him – but then, the priest said, in a saucy, flat tone, "Sometimes, it takes more than gold to pay a man."
Mon Dieu... Jeanne had to cover her hands over her mouth to keep herself from gasping, and she felt her chest rise and fall more rapidly than it had before. Sweat poured down her forehead and stuck to her fingertips, and her eyes felt sore and strained for some reason. She shifted her legs uncomfortably, wishing to be invisible. Brother, he... She began dragging herself away from the bench she hid behind, her face the color of egg whites. Sometimes it takes more than gold...sometimes it takes more than gold...more than...gold... The words repeated in her mind, and she wished dreadfully to escape them.
"I know, Father." Auguste responded coolly, although there was a slight tweak of emotion inside his voice. He had nothing else to say after that, and it seemed as if he were desperately trying to remain calm. "But I..." His words came out quieter than a whisper, and Jeanne didn't know if she had actually heard them, or imagined them.
"I'll have them start with the next town over." The green-robed priest said monotonously, although Jeanne imagined his voice as a hammer, chipping against weak walls of stone. "Go if you must, but you will not go with the men I send."
The sound of coins clinking echoed within Jeanne's ears as she shakily got to her feet and ducked behind the next bench over. "Yes, Father." Auguste's voice rang dully and morosely in her ears. Jeanne reached another bench, further away from them as he spoke.
They're done talking, oh god, let me escape, let me escape... Jeanne's face was completely red, and her clothing was drenched with sweat. Adrenaline pounded inside her heart, and made tears come to her cerulean eyes. She heard more coins clicking, and money jangling, and hoped that the exchange of money between Francis and Auguste would give her enough time to escape. Making a last minute, rash decision, Jeanne stiffed up, and sprinted towards the door. As she was exiting it, she failed to see the stone stature holding the door open, and she slammed her toe right upon it, and fell. Her body flew through the air momentarily, then crashed against the stone steps, and slid down each one after the other. Pain made her cry out, and blood came out of her mouth when she opened it.
"Oh, my dear, are you okay!" One of the hooded women asked, looming over her with a concerned look in her eyes. The other women soon gathered around, crooning and whispering comforting words, and soon soft, wrinkled hands were all over Jeanne, tugging at her and lifting her back to her feet.
Once she was standing, Jeanne was overcome by an awful feeling of dizziness and nausea. Her knees were scraped and bloodied, and her hands were cut as well. It hurt, but it was nothing to cry over...except the pounding inside her skull was making it difficult for her not to, and Jeanne had to twist her face up as tight as she could, and make a 'sss' noise to keep from weeping.
"Oh, what happened?"
Someone else was talking, but Jeanne was too irritated by her carelessness to care. Folding her arms and rubbing her hands against her elbows, Jeanne sucked in a breath and stepped down the last step. "Are you okay?" The voice asked again, and, finally, Jeanne turned her head. Her eyes widened with shock as she did so. "Are you hurt...Jeanne?" The priest in the green robe asked, his mouth a small 'o' of false sadness. His hand stretched forwards then, and he flashed her a crooked toothed smile. "Here, come inside, let me help you with those injuries..." He snickered, a shadow crossing through his pitch-colored eyes as he grabbed for her clothing.
Leaping back at just the right moment, Jeanne exclaimed, "Non!" Her eyes flashed with defiance, and she spat a big, red glob of phlegm, right upon the green-robed priest's shoes. Gasps erupted around her, and it seemed as if the whole world suddenly became her enemy. "Stay away from me..." Jeanne hissed through her teeth, backing a few steps from the group of black-clothed women and the priest she hated so very much. So it is you, still, here. Anger flared inside her chest, but she could not release it; she was very much outnumbered.
"What's going on?" A familiar voice asked, and Auguste emerged from the church, his golden hair shimmering neatly in the morning sunlight. When he caught sight of Jeanne he gave her a polite smile, and tipped his head, but upon seeing her scabs and bloodied lip, he frowned. "Did you fall?" He asked.
Be brave. Courage swarmed Jeanne's chest like a flock of locust, making her soul swell up on the inside to the point of bursting. She focused on her hatred for the green-robed priest, and her hatred towards Auguste, and shut her eyes. Darkness swam behind her lids, accented by a slight rustic orange, which was a result of the sun catching them. When she opened her eyes, she looked threatening, like a lion about to pounce on it's prey. "I know what you've done." She snarled, to both of them at once. Not stopping to see their reactions, Jeanne turned and fled, dashing down the dirt road as fast as her feet could carry her. Her heart leaped to her throat and her lungs expanded and deflated rapidly. Without fear, there is no courage. She told herself.
As her feet carried her away from the white-washed church, Jeanne thought she heard the green-robed priest say, "She is beyond help...the only way to save her now, is death."
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The strange mush that Gilbert called food tasted flavorless and cold; Francis wondered if the gruel tasted the same to everyone else as well, or if it was only him. He sighed, picking at it with the tips of his fingers. Gilbert had even gotten out 'the silverware', which were battered wooden bowls, for them, and still, he was not hungry. Perhaps it had been the dream that had shaken his senses. He hadn't spoken, or even looked at Arthur since he first woke up, and emotions of pride and shame made him continue to not do so.
"What's the matter, Francis, are you not hungry?" Gilbert asked, nudging the other boy's shoulder curiously. It seemed, by the look on his face, that he was a bit offended at Francis for not enjoying his food, and he leaned slightly over him, red eyes flashing like blood rubies. "Is it okay?" He prodded, poking his finger against Francis' ear as if to prompt an answer.
Sighing, Francis raised the bowl closer to his mouth. "Yeah...it's good." He said, then took a gulp of the stuff. It tasted...well, really it didn't taste like anything. Still, it made him feel a bit sick for some reason, and he wondered what exactly Gilbert had put into his brilliant concoction.
"This food is dirt!" Ludwig squeaked loudly, crossing his arms in front of him. "I want to eat something made of meat, like a man!" Sniffling, he shoved his own bowl away from him, and gave Gilbert a defiant, pouting face.
"You want meat every night, you sniveling twit!" Gilbert moaned, leaving Francis for his brother, and engaging in a rather long, pointless argument with him about food. Feliciano and Lovino were quick to join in, on Ludwig's side, which made Gilbert all the more flustered as his food was insulted from three different mouths.
Eventually, Francis lost interest in the fight, and, downing the rest of Gilbert's 'special food', he set the bowl on the battered, dust-covered table, and walked out of the room. He felt like he needed to be outside, because his lungs were slowly crumbling up inside of him, and his heart was constricting into a knot – it was so hard to breathe. Biting his lip, Francis gave one last glance around the room, then went to the door. Antonio spotted him leaving, but seemed to understand, and only looked away as Francis slipped out the door and into the happy, morning sunlight.
Heat brought life into the child's weary, battered soul, and seemed to lift his spirits in just the slightest way. "Ah..." He purred, closing his eyes to the brightness of the sun, allowing himself to bask in its glow. It was as if thousands of tiny, hot fingers were touching his skin, and pouring warm water all over his body in benevolent gushes. I wish I could stand here forever, and be enveloped in this... He thought to himself, stretching his arms out at his sides and arching onto the tops of his feet. For a moment, his nightmare was forgotten to him, and no longer did he see the haunting image of his mother's face... What a shame you are. He chided himself once he reentered reality. Dreaming such things...here of all places... I've likely committed some sort of crime, dreaming such filthy things!...but the ending...mother...she is not filthy... He frowned, his eyes fluttering open, and stared at the cracked dirt beneath his shoes. You don't even know your mother, fool.
"Frog!" Arthur's snappish voice made Francis flinch, and he felt the little boy smack him rather hard upon his back, right between the shoulder blades.
"Ow!" He cried out, whirring around with a look of confusion in his light blue eyes. "Don't hit, Arthur!" He whined. "What was that for?" His hands remained behind him as he asked the question, rubbing the spot where he had been struck. Arthur seemed irritated by him doing so, and waited until he stopped to reply.
Stepping forwards, he planted both hands on Francis' chest and shoved. "You're a liar!" He spat, eyes ablaze like a forest fire. His lips were drawn back into some sort of growl, and his face was red beneath his eyes. "Liar!" He said again, chest huffing up and down with each breath he took.
"Liar? How am I a liar!" Francis spat back, hurt because Arthur was trying to pick a fight for him for no reason he could see. "You're the one going up and hitting people for nothing!"
Anger came into Arthur's expression at that, and he began to yell. "It wasn't for nothing! Shut up!" Wetness glistened in the corners of his emerald eyes, which Francis couldn't figure out, and his face grew even more heated with fury. The boy's shoulders began rising and falling with more and more angry. "You...I made myself look like an idiot for you, and you can't even tell me why!"
Ah...so that's what he's talking about. Francis swallowed nervously, and adjusted the fabric around his throat. A feigned look of innocence came to his face, and he tilted his head to the side a bit, smiling sweetly. "Arthur, honey, I don't know what you're talking about." He said confidentially, sure his voice did not falter as he did so. There is no way Arthur can find out... He decided firmly.
A tiny, balled fist caught Francis in the gut, sending him bowling over. "Liar." Arthur hissed, his teeth clenched vice-tight upon each other, and the tears in his eyes budding and getting bigger at a rapid pace. His fingers jabbed forwards and caught the older boy around the throat as Francis was bent over, coughing, and he tightened them ever-so-slightly. "No." He snarled, bringing his own face close to Francis', so that their eyes were locked. It seemed as if those green eyes were breaking through the wall of light blue, and diving into Francis' very soul. Squirming a bit, but not talking, Francis tried to draw away; he was completely shocked at Arthur's behavior. The littler boy let him go without a fight. "You're not fine." He chocked out, hands quivering at his sides. "I don't understand..." He exclaimed, and it was almost a wail, and he took a few steps backwards on tottering legs. "You're not fine, Francis. You're not fine."
Before Francis could say anything in reply, he turned and ran away as fast as his short legs could carry him. "Arthur, wait!" Francis yelped, still stunned. He staggered upright and went to run after his friend, but tripped over an upturned stone and fell flat on his face. The wind was knocked out of him, but, as he lay in the dirt and watched Arthur flee him, he kept calling, "Don't go off on your own! Don't...leave me by myself!"
I'm sorry this took so long to write... I was a bit distraught because my mother had a miscarriage, and I was in a dark and awful place, much like places I believe Francis visits every once in a while... Anyways, may you forgive me if the chapter is not long, or satisfactory enough, but I'm happy to say I am no longer in a too-bad of a mood, and I should be able to focus clearly on my writing now! The only downside is I begin high school in a week, and because I am in an IB program, I may receive more work than a normal high schooler would. Due to this, it may take me longer to update, so...I give you my most sincere of apologies (as i really do love writing).