Author's Notes: IMPORTANT! MUST READ!
Oh man, I've been wondering about how to say this to all of you in a less alarming manner, but since I fail in that department, I guess I'll just have to go straight to the point. ;_;
Well…in short, I have to move to stay with my aunt due to some troubles back home, and on top of that, there's something wrong with my computer. –is on friend's computer atm–
I was planning on putting a temporary hiatus on this story until I sort things out with the moving and stuff, and figure out how long I'm gonna be staying at my aunt's, but since my computer is, well, no longer with me, even if (by some odd chance) things resolve quickly, I won't be able to do much, especially since my aunt's place is pretty far from where most of my friends and school are so I can't even use theirs.
What that also means is that, being further away, I'll have even less time to work on anything due to the time it takes for commuting there and back.
…Poo…;_______;
However, I'm gonna try to see if I can still work on this story going back to the old fashion way of writing in a notebook, but I really can't promise anything 'cause all my files are on my computer, and I don't have much internet time to check on things (the only thing I can do is leech off on my aunt's computer for internet, which she needs for work), and I REALLY don't wanna make quality sacrifices 'cause it'll probably piss y'all off even more than not updating, so…AAARRRRGGHH—AKJSDLKAJEFKWAEIORASK—……
BUT if by some mere stroke of luck I DO manage to get some things down, my friend volunteered to type it down and post it for me, so cross your fingers! –hearts–
I'm extremely sorry for making you guys wait for I-don't-even-know-how-long, BUT! I am definitely keeping this story alive because I've never worked on anything this long before and I plan to, with all my heart, keep it going and persevere. Thank you, everyone who's ever reviewed, favourited, helped me with French/Russian, subscribed, and read this story, so, SO much 'cause all of you cheer me up more than you can imagine, and have made me feel so much more accomplished than I really am.
I really love you guys! –is in sappy mode– ;________;
But there's still good news amongst all this bad! ;)
Luckily enough, I printed most of this chapter out on paper 'cause I wanted to work on it during lunch time (and boring classes –cough, cough–), so I'm still able to present you with this update! :D Hurray—!
Please enjoy, my darlings!
Remember who loves you~~ –points to self–
And also remember, YOU WILL DEFINITELY BE HEARING FROM ME AGAIN! :D
Ok, now I shut up to give you the chapter. ;p
–Many hearts–
Oh by the way, I have NOT forgotten about the 500-reviews thanks special! And, erm, if I happened to forget about mentioning it: YES! There IS a 500-reviews thanks special! XD
…Though it might end up being some-other-number-reviews thanks special depending on when I'm able to return…But I'll definitely have it ready! And I think y'all will like it, or at least I hope. ;)
Anyways, I'm really shutting up now.
Happy reading! : )
~o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o~
"So, what'd we miss?"
Alfred plopped down onto his cushion, and plucked a sushi from one of the plates, dropping it into his mouth.
"We were just discussing why the records are missing, aru," Yao explained, "And we came to the conclusion that they must've been destroyed for prevention purposes, like the enchantment placed over the shrine grounds that was stopping Francis from seeing too much."
"Awww, man! So what are we gonna do?" The American pouted.
"Forgive me for interrupting," Kiku joined the conversation, leaning forward a little and eyes catching Matthew's, "I have been wondering, Matthew-san, what were you doing exactly at the mansion two nights ago?"
All eyes turned to the Canadian, who became instantly embarrassed and uncomfortable.
"…I—I was…I was…" Looking down at his fidgeting hands in his lap, he said in a small voice: "…Before that…I should apologize to all of you, eh…?" He bit his lips; "I'm-I'm sorry for my impulsive actions…I promise—I really promise this time, that I won't do it again…"
"No worries, Mattie," Alfred was quick to chirp up, giving a wave, "We all got away in the end alive; that's all that matters now." He had a large grin on his face; thankfully he swallowed his mouthful of food before giving it.
"You know we can't blame you, aru," Yao wore a comforting smile.
"All of you have risked your lives to solve this case; to that I, as with the rest of my family, am eternally grateful for, so how can I place blame on anyone?" Kiku, with a respectable bow, was the next to speak; "Please accept my most humble of thanks, even more so for the fact that you have decided to continue with the investigations after all that's happened." Straightening up from the bow, Kiku gave Matthew a kind smile. "There is nothing to forgive, Matthew-san."
Matthew immediately flushed red.
"-I-I—That's—I'm—I don't deserve—" Flustered, he stuttered.
"Awwwwwwww~~ I never thought you had it in ya t'be so sweet!" Alfred, with a toothy grin, pulled the Japanese man beside him into a half hug, wrapping an arm tightly around the slimmer one's shoulders. Kiku stiffened, eyes growing round, and red stained his pale cheeks.
"A-Alfred-san—"
"But you know," The forward American leaned back a little, though his arm remained where it was, "If you really wanna thank us, you should get us a van!"
The shorter man blinked in confusion amongst general discomfort at how his personal space was being invaded; "…A-A van…?"
"Alfred, aru!" Yao face-palmed, "I told you—there's more than one "Honda" in Japan, aru!"
But the excited blonde didn't hear him, and chattered on:
"Yeah! I mean, it's probably not gonna be hard for you, right? You can just sneak one out from the factory or whatever and ship it to America, yeah? Or, even better! Just gimme a document or something so we can just pick one right up from a branch in New York when we get back!"
It didn't take Kiku long to pick up the misunderstanding, and, hiding chuckles, he gave a quick nod; "I will see what I can do."
"Kiku!" Yao huffed, "Don't encourage him!"
Alfred made a face and stuck his tongue out cheekily at the Chinese man, who stilled in disbelieving shock, mouth hanging open and an eyebrow jerking.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, but…" Mei cut in tentatively, "…Shouldn't we get back on track?"
The four men in the room blinked, sheepishly embarrassed, and laughed before settling back to what they were talking about before.
Alfred cleared his throat, and motioned towards Matthew; "So uh…Mattie, what were you doing at the mansion?"
The Canadian, rubbing his nose, starting explaining in a soft voice: "Well, I—I had a dream…" Noting everyone looking at him expectantly, he tried hard to remember all the details; "I was…in the well at the mansion, and I heard construction going on around me. I think I was—I think I was in the spirit's memories, or-or something like that…
"There was something covering the mouth of the well; that was what kept the spirit inside, but it got moved by the construction workers. I remember thinking that, as the spirit, how I was finally freed, which was when I woke up and realized that that was probably what released the spirit. I thought I probably should let you guys know about it right away and—well…you know the rest, eh…?" His voice faded off as he looked back and forth between the faces in front of him.
"So if we find that well cover, we'd be able to know what we're dealing with?" Alfred asked the question in everyone's mind.
"We should be able to find out what enchantment was used at least," Yao's eyes held a thoughtful look; "After Francis gets better, he should give the well a look, aru; he might be able to get some information." When a murmur of agreement replied to his suggestion, he turned to Matthew once more; "Did you notice anything else significant?"
"Not anything we don't already know I'm afraid…" The Canadian furrowed his eyebrows in deep concentration; "He was…a soldier of some sort for sure, from quite a long time ago too judging by how long he'd waited, sealed inside the well; he can't go under the sun…and he believes that there's an invasion…like…in wars, you know." He scratched the back of his head. "I—I actually had another dream before this one…I didn't think it was important at the time but…I guess it was important…" Giving a weak laugh, he quickly continued:
"Something that I remember from the first dream is that he believes that he was betrayed by people who he trusted, though I'm not sure who they were…"
"So…He's a soldier who died in a war or something?" Alfred asked, popping another sushi into his mouth.
"I doubt he was only a soldier," Kiku spoke up, voice pensive and even; "From his attire, I am certain that he was of a high standing. As deteriorated and muddy his clothing and armour were, I could see much attention to details; they were definitely very carefully made."
"So…A general who died in a war?" Alfred offered again helpfully, chewing a mouthful.
"Usually hauntings involving wars do not have such…malevolent intentions though…" Yao shook his head slightly; "Usually the place haunted simply replays events over and over again, and the spirits are usually in a trance-like state, fighting each other in a war never-ending until they are cleansed and guided to move on. But that's not what we have on our hands." He made small gestures as he sorted through what they know so far:
"There's only one spirit, and many orbs which run away as soon as he gets near…there's also a complicated, powerful enchantment cast over the grounds with very careful precautions to keep the spirit from running rampant. The priest Francis saw would not waste so much energy doing something like that if it were just a warrior who's lost on his way to the afterlife." Pausing, he uttered another thought: "And what about the well, aru? It has definite significance if Matthew keeps on having dreams about it."
"So it didn't die in a war…" Alfred concluded; "Then what's it doing wearing armour and holding a sword?"
"I…I don't know, aru…" Yao bit his lips, frowning in confusion.
A thoughtful silence settled in the room.
"…Um…" Matthew tentatively broke it, looking around to his team mates, "I think…I think I found the well cover on the night when I was there…"
Four pairs of eyes shot towards him, all wide with surprise.
"…Really?" Alfred sat up higher in his seat, expression the most dramatic.
"Yeah," The Canadian nodded, "I was trying to climb over the wall to get out of the mansion grounds…" At that he gave slightly embarrassed laughter, "So I was moving rocks to prop myself up, which was when I found this big stone slab shaped like a turtle. It looked about the right size for the well, so I thought—"
To his great shock, Yao was the one who made a loud exclaim of joy, dark eyes glittering along with a sharp gasp. The Chinese man grabbed onto his hands: "Matthew! That's great, aru! This is—This is an incredible find! Not only will we know what enchantment was used to keep the spirit sealed, we might be able to use the original lid to seal it away once again!"
The blonde blinked rapidly, unused to such a reaction from Yao.
Alfred maybe…
"Th-That's great indeed, eh!" He replied.
"We will go back to the mansion in the afternoon, and might even wrap up the case by tomorrow, aru!" Yao was, needless to say, relieved and excited that the case was finally moving along.
"Phew! Finally some good news!" Alfred shook his head in almost disbelief, laughing a little.
"It truly is great news," Kiku smiled. A small shimmer appeared in his usually reserved, dark eyes as a little pink adorned his cheeks.
As happy as he was that everyone was happy, Matthew couldn't help but feel like this wasn't enough.
"I—I'm really glad that we're finally going somewhere too, eh?" He said, almost grimacing at how he was going to possibly break the good mood; "But…Just sealing it inside the well…that doesn't really solve the problem, does it…? I mean…That's what the priest did, right? And…well…look at where we are now…" He sunk deeper into his seats when everyone looked over at him, feeling horrible that he was the one to break it to them.
"That is true, aru," Yao seemed to have calmed down a little from his moment, blinking his dark eyes. However, he wasn't as down as the Canadian expected him to be: "That is true, but it's still a great way to temporarily keep things under control and give us more time." He smiled a little reassuringly at Matthew's still worried expression; "I believe there definitely is a right ritual to cleanse the mansion grounds, but we still need more information. This is a strange case, aru; we need to be very certain of the situation before we attempt an exorcism so people won't get hurt. On the meanwhile, sealing the spirit back into the well would be great to keep the supernatural occurrences at bay."
Nodding, the Canadian made a small hum of agreement.
It would at least keep things safe for the next little while.
Deciding that it was better to talk about things in more detail after they paid another visit to the mansion, the team settled into a light chat. Matthew was not entirely attentive to the conversation, though he kept a polite smile on his face and nodded every once in a while. His mind was preoccupied by thoughts about Francis.
I hope he'll feel better soon…
~o0o0o0o0o~
Francis rarely dreamt real dreams.
Most he encountered in slumber were hazy, flimsy visions of what his hands touched when he wore no gloves, or swirls of moving images telling of lives he'd seen because of his ability – those usually floated about at the back of his consciousness.
There was hardly anyone aside from perhaps Alfred and Ivan, who were with him during his worst times, that knew and understood the full extent of his power, which was more of an affliction than anything else. He remembered every single person he'd ever gotten in direct contact with, as well as what flashed in front of his eyes when he touched them. It was inevitable, and was as if he had people living inside his head, or rather, manifestations of them stuck in time at the exact moment his fingers brushed against theirs.
He trained himself religiously when he decided, after the death of his father, to learn how to properly control what he had always considered a curse, since physical intimacy is extremely important to him. At one point in his life, towards the end of his teenage years, he managed to achieve complete reign over his "gift", though, after a few years of abusing and exploiting it, had willingly let that control slip a little.
You'd be surprised at how much power you can gain over someone if you knew every one of their life experiences and how they affected them.
It became so simple, too simple, to take advantage of their weaknesses and render them completely helpless under his influence and actions.
While he was truly sorry for what he did, he doubted most forgave him, since he kicked them out of his life without much of a last glance and left them broken as soon as his interest in them waned. He didn't know what happened to them afterwards as, at that time, he never cared to check and make sure they were alright. After all, they had no value once he became tired of them.
It was hard to say whose damage was greater: theirs, or his.
They were used for his amusement to pass time when he was bored, and often had their hearts brutally slaughtered when they found out that all they ever loved was merely a mask he put on so he could charm them into bed and go along with whatever else he fancied to do.
He was stuck with an alarmingly large number of separate, distinctly unique identities not of his own, along with their entire life-stories, lingering about at the back of his head. It used to be downright horrible around the time when he fled Europe and followed Alfred to America; he was a total mess. It was easy now to distinguish his own identity so he could be his own person, but it took such a huge effort that, during the height of his manic episodes, he could feel his life draining and slipping away from between his fingers.
One reason for allowing his ability to partially dominate his life was to simply remind him to not do the same thing again.
It was a prison he willingly stepped into.
…
Francis rarely dreamt real dreams.
His own memories rarely resurfaced to give him such things, repressed as they were and locked away like the "others" inside his mind.
However, on that day as he fell asleep, eyes closing to his little Matthieu's warm, blue eyes, a rare occurrence happened.
He dreamt of someone he didn't think he could ever face again, as broken as their relationship was.
…
…His mother was beautiful.
With hair golden like the sun and eyes a deep, sapphire blue sparkling with love and full of life, she was passionately fond of flower dresses and the idea of falling in love.
A lot of aspects of his personality, as well as those in physical appearance, he'd inherited from her, though it was unclear whether his strange "talent" came from her or not.
He wasn't very healthy as a child, mostly due to his psychic ability giving him severe headaches and rendering him restless; his childhood was pretty much a big blur, but, oddly enough, one of his clearest memories of her came from that time, when he was sitting under the shade of a tree in their vast family garden, on a day like any other, doing nothing since he couldn't go to school.
Not that he'd want to anyways.
Teachers frowned down upon his existence and always seemed to wear distasteful glares whenever he came into view, while other children ridiculed him with malice that only kids with too many privileges and insanely rich parents could have.
They didn't like him, because they didn't find his mother beautiful.
And they had every right to, because his mother had barely passed the age of maturity when she married his father, who had already been one of the richest bachelors in all of Europe for over twenty years.
A year later, they brought him into the world.
Society does not treat their kind of relationships kindly, and the same hostility and scorn were also bestowed upon their son.
Everyone believed the girl only had her eyes set on the rich man's money despite of her claims of love.
On that particular day, as he was sitting under the cool shade of his favourite tree reading one of his favourite books, he saw his mother with his father.
She was pushing the much older, sickly man around in a wheelchair, admiring the rose bushes.
Old man Bonnefoy had fallen ill but a few years into his marriage with his young wife, which caused quite an outburst of controversy since most suspected that she had poisoned him and wanted to get rid of him so she could have the wealth all to herself, being secured of her position by their legitimate child together.
As hard as the couple tried to keep young Francis sheltered, it simply did not work.
The young boy was exceptionally smart, maybe too smart for his own good, and pieced everything together easily.
Shame was not an emotion any child his age should feel on a frequent basis, neither was the wish that he could end this misery called life he did not choose to live.
On that particular day, his mother wore one of her prettiest flower dresses with a pretty little hat. Her shimmering hair, loosely tied back by pretty ribbons, was in neat curls that framed her heart-shaped face flatteringly, and she wore pinked lipstick.
It wasn't often old man Bonnefoy felt that he had enough strength in his bones to be outside, so it was understandable for her to want to look her best.
On that particular day, his father had smiled up at her and raised a shaky hand, reaching to hold hers. His thumb brushed against her pale, silky skin, eyes tender with affection and lips pulled upwards by a loving smile.
On that particular day, she cut a rose fresh from its bush, tucking it into the ribbons in her hair, and asked her husband how she looked with a shy, but equally as loving smile.
On that particular day, his father, as he opened his mouth to answer, was suddenly overcome by a frenzied coughing fit, and vomited out blood.
The blood stained her pretty flower dress, and never before had young Francis seen such an ugly, frightening expression appear on her beautiful face as a scream tore from her lips.
…
Francis rarely dreamt real dreams.
But, he didn't know why, on that particular day in Japan, he dreamt of his mother.
...
"My beautiful boy!"
She lifted him up high in the air, a bright smile on her face, and he laughed, giggles crisp and fresh like spring leaves as she swirled on her feet.
They both turned in circles, waltzing across the floor of the vast dining hall.
...
"Why do they hate me, mama…? Why do they hate me? What have I done?" He cried out, tears making big wet stains on her sleeping gown.
"I'm sorry," Her voice held sobs, "I'm sorry that I won't ever regret marrying your father." She said when he asked her why they had to suffer over something they shouldn't have to suffer for.
...
"Please, Francis, let me hold you…"
He turned away from the tall window, and his favourite book, telling of love and happily ever after, fell to the floor with a dull "thud" from his limp fingers.
Tears shone under the pale moonlight on her cheeks as she held her arms open towards him, knelt down by his father's deathbed.
Her hair was messy; loose curls clung to her face where they stuck by moisture.
There was blood on her white dress, some old and brown, some fresh and red.
He couldn't move.
He only stared, because, ever since the beginning, he knew she had always chosen his father over him.
…Chosen his father…his now dead father…over him…
...
"Francis, don't leave me too…" Her eyes held tears, as always, from behind her dark veil. It was strange seeing her like this, so odd and forlorn in an ensemble of black even though it had been years since she started wearing the colour. Pale blue orbs gazed into his, softly pleading, but he, barely a teen, gazed back evenly, expression surprisingly devoid of emotions, before turning away and climbing into the limo.
He told himself that he didn't hear her weep as more grief overcame her and made her skeleton of a frame shake like a dry, thin leaf in winter.
He told himself that he didn't see her completely collapse by the door to the mansion he never called home, thin hands covering her once beautiful face as more tears tormented her once bright eyes.
He left the Bonnefoy estates for the first time since his father's death, to not return for years to come.
...
"…Francis, is it really you…?" He was taller than her by then, but he couldn't be entirely sure, because her back was bent at a painful angle, forcing her torso to curl into itself.
Blue eyes peered up into his own, the two pairs so similar yet so different.
He noticed with a startle at how much the sparkle he remembered seeing as a child in those eyes had dimmed. It was almost nonexistent.
There were many wrinkles on her face; they were very faint, almost unseen, but to him, they were as if deep creases etched into stone.
He could see every one of them, and they were revolting.
He had become as much of a selfish, self-centered, narcissistic, vain bastard a man could be.
Wearing only clothes with price tags higher than a month's income of a regular salary man, he held back a disgusted grimace only because it was unattractive.
With an exaggerated flare of a movement, flinging perfectly waved blond hair as if strands of pure, golden silk in the air, he told her a brief overview of how he'd been living for the past few years away from home, how well he was doing, and how much he was enjoying his life to its utmost fullest. He never allowed her any room for questions or time between his sentences to beg him to stay with her at home.
He left her nothing but a stack of skin products, because to be his mother – he told her with a sickeningly sweet smile on his beautiful features that left countless enslaved under his porcelain charm, in a voice dripping with honey and poison – he couldn't have her walking around looking like a corpse with a rotten apple for a face.
As he sauntered away, basking in his own wit and dark humour, he heard her angry shout amongst the eruptive sounds of all the bottles and cans of expensive cream and lotion being thrown off the table and to the ground, followed by a scream of anguished fury claiming him to be no son of hers.
He had laughed.
...
It was, again, years later that he next saw her, and it was only because he wanted to, again, show her just how well-off he was.
"Congratulations." She had only said, her voice was as emotionless and nonchalant as it could be.
She didn't even turn to face him, watering the rose bushes without a care in the world and wearing a flower dress she hadn't worn for years. She actually looked much younger than the last time he saw her, and he wondered if she picked up the bottles and cans of expensive cream and lotion she shoved to the floor after he had left.
His acceptance letter to one of the most prestigious universities in the world lay discarded on the muddy ground, as was his heart.
He still hadn't realized his mistake, and how much he'd hurt her for someone as sweet as her to exhibit such painful indifference to her own son.
He snatched up his acceptance letter, gloves of the richest silk catching muddy stains, lips pressed together tightly and eyes flashing angrily.
He didn't say any goodbyes as he walked away, leaving her to her roses.
He thought he saw the corners of her lips quirking upwards into a condescending, haughty smirk, though in truth, they quivered with suppressed sadness as her eyes followed his form, growing smaller and smaller, until he disappeared into his expensive car.
...
He honestly didn't expect her to still be there when he stumbled in through the door, another number of years later, completely drenched from head to toe by a violent thunderstorm uncharacteristic of the region the Bonnefoy estates was in. She didn't say anything, as if the hollow emptiness of the mansion had stolen all worldly attachments from her. Her face was pale as marble, almost completely white like the fancy sleeping gown she wore hidden under a wine-coloured sleeping robe.
Loneliness had been her companion for too long, and she had learnt to accept it.
She almost felt annoyed that her lonesome life was disrupted by his appearance, though none of that showed on her face or in her shiny, pale eyes.
He held onto her arms, and fell to his knees. Clutching her thin limbs, he cried, burying his head against her cool body and tears staining her sleeping gown as he had done so many years ago when he was a child.
But she seemed to be unable to understand why he had returned, why he was bothering to visit when he didn't have anything to boast about.
…Even after he said that he was leaving for America for good and never coming back.
"But Francis," She finally spoke after his wailing cries calmed down to raspy, silent sobs, expression genuinely confused, "…This hasn't been your home for years."
He didn't know why he was so stunned, why the statement was like a malicious stab to the chest, looking at her as if she had just slapped him.
Because…
…Wasn't it… true…?
He had never considered the massive mansion to be his home, so why did he come back?
Why did he keep coming back?
He couldn't answer, hands slowly unraveling around her arms, fingers unclenching and losing their desperate strength.
…And why did she stay there?
Why did she keep on staying there?
His hands dropped to the cold floor, and he remained kneeling, staring forward blankly as tears slowly slid down his cheeks like pearls without a string.
…Why did it seem as though…she was waiting for someone…?
…
~o0o~
"…Francis…"
~o0o~
He handed his passport and boarding pass to the pretty flight attendant at the gate desk, vaguely aware of Alfred chattering excitedly about America and Ivan, not quite listening and nuzzling into his scarf, standing beside him, moments before finally stepping onto the plane.
He was escaping…He was finally escaping.
~o0o~
"…Francis…?"
~o0o~
But as he walked into the passenger boarding bridge, he felt his feet slow down to a halt. His friends kept going onwards, unaware that he had stopped. He felt something akin to intuition willing him to turn around for a last glance at the airport, and he could do nothing but comply.
Compelled by the urge, he turned. And as he took a final look of the last of his home he would closely see, he suddenly thought he saw a familiar shimmer of golden locks of hair.
His eyes widened.
It couldn't be…!
"…Francis?" He heard Alfred call, but it was merely a buzz at the back of his head.
He tried to catch it again, to see the familiar sight once more.
"Francis?"
~o0o~
"-Francis—"
~o0o~
"-You alright?"
But, as much as he tried, he couldn't catch another glimpse of it as people behind him pushed him to continue walking forward and into the cabin of the airplane.
He could do nothing but obey.
He was too tired and weak to fight anything.
~o0o~
"I brought—"
~o0o~
It was probably his imagination.
…It couldn't possibly be anything but his imagination…
~o0o~
"-your lunch, eh?"
…
"…Francis?"
There was a gentle nudge on his shoulder, and he was brought back to awareness.
The dream left him, dissipating like a puff of smoke, and he opened his eyes.
Matthew's face hovered above his, blue eyes bright and clear, but worried, accentuated by a slight furrow of his eyebrows. At the corners of his eyes, he could see a tray of food set down beside the Canadian.
He gave a small smile; "Bonjour."
"Bonjour," His little Matthieu smiled back, worry lessening. He leaned down further, and gave a small peck on the lips to the one lying down. "How are you feeling, eh?"
Francis didn't reply right away. He took a moment, and noticed that the world didn't swirl anymore.
"I am feeling wonderful, Matthieu…much better now that you are here." His voice was a soft whisper as he turned his eyes back to meet the other blonde's. The tone of his voice was gentle, earnest; his eyes shimmered in a lazy manner, much more focused. He reached up with one of his hands, and lightly brushed away a few fallen strands of soft hair from the younger male's face, before cupping it loosely around his warm cheek.
"I feel as though I haven't seen you for a very long time, mon petit chéri…"
Matthew lifted a hand, and wrapped it around his; it was warm, and soft.
"…Je t'aime tant, Matthieu…"
His smile did not drop, but it left his slowly eyes.
"…What am I going to do without you…?"
A confused, concerned expression appeared on Matthew's face; blinking, he slowly shook his head.
"You…You are never going to be without me, Francis," He said. Trying to ease the saddening atmosphere, he gave a small wink along with a cheerful, teasing grin that lifted the corners of his lips; "I'm afraid you're going to be stuck with me for the next little while." He nuzzled into Francis' hand, and could almost imagine that no fabrics came between his cheeks and the palm.
"…I would love to be stuck with you forever…" The Frenchman murmured pensively, eyes never dropping its rather intense gaze.
Matthew, eyes growing slightly wider, felt his cheeks grow hot, and wondered if the other man could feel it. His heart fluttered; he could hear it beating, but he didn't really mind, because he thought that he rather liked the sound if it were Francis making it skip like that.
"F-Francis—"
Francis' eyes suddenly shifted, and they rested on a place a little lower than his face.
At the Frenchman's changing expression – darkening with worry and dropping from a more or less peaceful one – it didn't take him long to figure out just what it was that the older male saw.
With his other available hand, Matthew hastily tried to do up the last button of his shirt, one that was left undone, exposing parts of his neck.
"Non, mon ange…"
However, a whisper stopped him.
He didn't move at first, hesitant, but gradually, his fingers unwrapped around the collars. The hand lowered, little by little, before returning to its previous spot, limp and unmoving.
Francis' hand gave a small jerk, and, slowly and gently, began to move downwards from the Canadian's cheek. Brushing aside fabrics hindering the full view of his little Matthieu's beautiful, graceful neck, he took a look, and couldn't stop a small, sharp gasp from leaving his lips.
His perfectly arched eyebrows furrowed, and tilted upwards, creating creases between them, but he didn't notice, because what he saw, what was supposed to be creamy, soft skin was now blemished by bruises, and it was more than enough to make him forget about not making unpleasant expressions.
It wasn't the first time he saw them of course; he'd known about them since at the hospital, but still, they made his heart ache.
He hadn't had the chance to ask about them, but he couldn't hold his questions in any longer.
"…What happened, Matthieu?"
Matthew looked down at the Frenchman, whose attention was still on the darkened marks around his neck, which were vaguely reminiscent of strong fingers mercilessly squeezing around his neck. The same fingers that caused them were currently tracing them, touch so light that they only left slight tickling sensations.
Matthew bit his lips, and considered his options.
He could tell Francis what happened, which would no doubt make him upset and overwrought with guilt, or he could lie about it and avoid all of that, especially since he didn't have to worry about Alfred or the others telling, since no one seemed to be keen on dwelling on what happened on that night at the mansion.
Francis' hand was dropping bit by bit away from the bruises; it was then Matthew noticed that he never raised his eyes so they could look at each other, and that his mouth was firmly shut, jaws biting and muscles tense.
It was then that it occurred to the Canadian that perhaps his lover already knew, or had a good guess, and that the only purpose behind his question of "what happened" was to confirm that suspicion.
Matthew looked down.
There was no point in either of the options he was considering moments before.
A heavy silence settled, hanging in the air between them. It felt strange, and foreign, since this was something completely new.
…This kind of silence had never made its way known between them before.
"…Matthieu," Francis began, eyes still not meeting his lover's; "Matthieu, I—"
"-No, Francis," Matthew gave his head a small, curt shake; "I know what you want to say, but please don't say it, because it's not true."
The longer-haired blonde tried to protest, eyes flickering, but firm stare on his caretaker's face stopped him.
"…It's not true…" The younger man's voice was barely a breath, dissipating in the air before it even fully formed. "It's not true…Because—…"
Matthew bit his lips to cut off his incoming sentences.
…Because it wasn't your fault at all.
The bruises itched, and he plastered on a small, strained smile.
…Because it was my fault…
It was mine...
…Everything that happened on that night was due to my carelessness.
Francis' hand, the one that was, several moments before, wrapped around his cheek, was almost completely lowered, but he reached forward and caught it before it could fall on top of the comforter. Guiding it upwards, he didn't stop until he could once again nuzzle his cheek against its palm.
"Matthieu—" The Frenchman was still frowning slightly, not ready to let this topic rest, but something else stopped him.
Turning his head, Matthew imitated what he often did to him, and gave the inside of his gloved hand a firm peck.
It was reassuring, and infinitely sweet. However, as loving a gesture as it was, Francis couldn't help but feel that there was an obvious note of finality alongside it.
Why didn't his little Matthieu allow him to apologize?
Why was his little Matthieu avoiding this subject? Or running away from it even?
He wanted to press on, to at least make the Canadian understand that he needed to make it up to him. Because there was nothing else he could do but apologize for what happened that led to the existence of those hideous bruises that had no business being on his lover's skin.
But something stopped him, because something wasn't right.
He couldn't figure out what it was, but it was as if…it was as if his little Matthieu didn't want to acknowledge their existence at all, and that if no words were ever mentioned again about them, whatever thoughts or emotional side effects caused by how they came to be will fade away with them.
Looking into his little Matthieu's eyes, memories from what happened back at the hospital resurfaced. A lot of the things that his young lover said troubled him greatly, or at least as much as his current physical condition allowed.
"Just like Papa! J-Just like Papa—!"
Why did his little Matthieu say that…?
What did they mean?
Francis opened his mouth, words of inquiry seconds from leaving his lips, but Matthew must've caught onto the look, for he immediately interrupted them.
"…Well…You should eat your lunch before it gets cold, eh?" Dropping the gloved hand, he reached over to help him sit up.
Francis blinked, and for long moments, only stared.
His questions were dangling on the edge with equal chances of falling to either side of the fence.
In the end, he muffled a sigh, and decided to drop the subject.
He moved his hand, and held onto the smaller one offering help.
Surprisingly, it turned out that help really wasn't needed after all – he wobbled a little, but managed to push himself upright quite easily, especially compared to how he was a few hours ago.
There was only one bowl of noodles on the tray. Francis gave his hair a comb with his fingers, and quirked his head to the side; "Have you eaten already, mon amour?"
Matthew nodded, carefully taking the tray and giving it to him as he spoke a "Merci".
"We had something different, but the head cook said this will be better for you, something about it being milder or something…" The Canadian trailed off, nodding at the thanks; "Be careful; the lady that gave it to me said it's still hot."
The Frenchman nodded, and placed the tray on top of a pillow he put on his lap for insulation, also propping the bowl higher. Taking a spoonful of the soup, he tentatively took a small sip.
"Hmmmmm…" The hum was soft, and a low mumble; "It is lovely, but she is right – it burned my tongue a little." He gave a small chuckle.
The strawberry blond head tilted up with a sharp jerk as something about its owner's demeanor changed.
"Do you want me to blow it?"
Matthew's suddenly bright, round eyes sparkled as he offered helpfully, leaning forward a little. All of the previous gloom forgotten, he remembered that from his childhood of watching TV shows, mothers always blew on the soup before giving it to their children to eat if it was hot.
He also remembered blowing his own soup for himself and pretending that he was his own mother.
He very much liked blowing soup; it made him feel important somehow, and very accomplished.
Francis looked surprised, still and looking back at him with lips very slightly apart. They stared at each other for a few silent moments, and the Canadian started to feel his cheeks flush darker by each and every one of them.
"S-Sorry," He sat back and lowered his head, embarrassed, "That was—That was a strange thing to say, wasn't it…?" He gave a weak huffed laugh.
"Non; non, pas du tout," The Frenchman shook his head; "I—I just…have never—…What I mean to say, Matthieu, is that no one…no one really…has ever blown my soup for me." With a habitual swirl of his wrist, he tucked his hair behind one of his ears, and looked rather sheepish.
"…Really?" It was Matthew's turn to look surprised, head tilting up; "No one?"
Another shake of head answered.
"Not even your mom when you were sick?" The strawberry blonde looked unconvinced, "You know, when you were a child?"
There was a pause as something the Canadian couldn't quite decipher flashed across the ocean blue eyes gazing into his. But it was too quick, and was gone before he could take a second look at it.
"…I suppose ma mère does not blow." Francis chuckled, amused and a little in disbelief at the rather strange topic of their conversation, though he did nothing to stop it from going further.
Here they were, two grown men, talking about soup blowing…
His little Matthieu is just full of cute little quirks!
"Now, that's not right, eh!" Matthew pursed his lips and huffed, "Everyone should get their soup blown at least once in their lives!" He didn't know where that came from, but it left his lips before he could stop it.
Ocean blue eyes grew rounder; "…Is that so…?" Amusement began to make its way known in Francis' voice.
"Oui!" The strawberry blonde nodded enthusiastically, the wayward curl on the top of his head bobbing up and down. "Do you want me to blow it for you then?"
"…Oh," Francis gave a few blinks, "Alors…certainement! Please, by all means mon petit, blow away!" Chuckling more, he waved at the bowl of steaming noodles with a "go ahead" gesture.
"Great!" Matthew took the tray along with the pillow, and set them down on his own lap after crossing his legs. "I will have you know-" Scooping up a spoonful and looking up at the taller man, a proud smile appeared on his face, "-that I am a very good blower!"
There was a flicker in Francis' eyes as an awfully pleased and tickled smirk began to leer across his face; "…Ah oui~~?" Voice too sensuous for talking about blowing soup, he gave a deep hum, the sound resonating inside his chest in a sensual rumble. "Perhaps I should ask you to blow for me more often."
The Canadian, holding the spoon close to his lips with one hand, abruptly stopped in his careful blowing and met the Frenchman's glittering eyes with a stare.
"…I know what you're thinking about Francis." His little Matthieu said in a tone frighteningly similar to a certain British man's, and Francis laughed.
"Oh Matthieu! Tu es très mignon, mon petit chaton!"
Matthew's face quickly grew as red as a tomato as he pouted, silencing the laughing Frenchman by sticking the spoon into the opened mouth. The older male spluttered a little, more surprised than startled, and complied in swallowing down the soup.
Here he was trying to make the situation endearing, and the other man just had to go about his merry French way and drop little suggestive comments.
"Somehow I think you're going to be just fine, eh."
When Francis started chuckling again, he stuck another spoonful of soup into his mouth.
~o0o0o0o0o~
After much soup-blowing and trying to eat slippery noodles with very mediocre chopstick skills as fast as possible, Francis, with slower steps than usual but keeping upright by himself, joined the team in the dining room with Matthew.
"Francis!" Alfred greeted with a big wave though they were only a few steps away, "You're better now!"
"Oui," The Frenchman shook his head a little and chuckled at the enthusiastic greeting, "Mon petit Matthieu told me that you need my service this afternoon, so I thought I should get out of bed to share my beautiful presence with you." With an exaggerated flip of his silky, golden hair, he successfully distracted the others in the room with his dazzling antics from noticing his breath of relief as he sat down.
He was still tired. His limbs felt heavy, and his mind was still a bit fuzzy. However, he knew that if he were to do anything for the day, it was to go back to the mansion with his team and check out this stone turtle his little Matthieu found.
"You shouldn't push yourself, aru," Yao seemed to have caught his discreet breath of relief.
"Yeah, I mean, you looked pretty out of it in the morning." Alfred gave a small frown, starting to worry as well.
"If I don't push myself, we won't be able to move on in the case;" He gave a reassuring smile, glad to have good friends; "I am touched by your concern, mes amis, and I thank you sincerely, but I think I can afford a small trip to the mansion without falling over. Besides, if I do, I have mon petit Matthieu's arms to catch me, so it wouldn't be all that bad~" He gave a quick wink to the Canadian beside him, who mumbled a "Don't drag me into this, eh…" but reached over, slender fingers lacing around his.
"Yeah, that's true." Alfred gave a curt nod. Shooting up rather suddenly and startling some, he punched in the air with a tight fist and announced:
"Alright! It's about time we put a stop to this evil in the name of justice and all that's good in the world!" Striking what he thought was a heroic pose, he was oblivious to the muffled laughter of amusement from his audience and Yao's humoured shake of head; "I say we start heading over now so we'd have plenty of time. Who's with me?" With a bright grin, he looked over his team, the hand of his uninjured arm high in the air.
"Me!" Matthew, just to humour the American, raised his hand as if in school and called out excitedly.
"Awesome spirit, Mattie!" The standing blonde gave a thumb-up towards him.
The next person to raise their hand was Kiku, who spoke much more calmly; "I agree with you, Alfred-san."
"'Course you do!" Alfred spoke confidently but appreciatively, the big grin brightening even more on his face, if that were possible.
In disbelief that he was actually doing this, Francis held up a hand as well.
"I can't believe we're doing this, aru…" Yao voiced his exact thought, putting his hand in the air after him.
There was a silence, and Mei, jumping a little, suddenly realized that Alfred was looking expectantly at her with wide eyes.
"…B-But I—I'm not really a part of the team…" Cheeks tinting pink, she said, voice soft and meek.
"Of course you are! You saved our asses two nights ago with getting the car and picking us up, you know," Gratitude made its way known in the American's vibrant blue eyes.
Mei stole a look at Kiku, who wore a faint, but warm smile for her. Nibbling her lips, she blinked her round, sparkling eyes, and shyly raised a pale, small hand in the air.
"Awesome!" The standing blonde cheered, very much pleased. "Now that we're all set," The hero swung his arm and pointed at the door with his index finger, "To the mansion we go!"
Matthew once again marveled at how the energetic man could make anything seem like they were going to the amusement park.
~o0o0o0o0o~
Yao sighed, a hand tracing the fading carved designs on the back of the stone slab turtle.
It took longer than usual to walk to the mansion, as Francis was still a little under the weather, though he insisted to not take the car since it'd weaken him even more. Once they got to the mansion, Matthew immediately guided the team around the building to the little pile of rocks he pushed over on that memorable night.
Everyone gathered around, all standing except for Francis, who took a seat on one of the rocks, watching Yao anxiously, especially since the Chinese man's hopeful expression fell.
"…It's not use, aru…this particular enchantment wasn't meant to last after the lid was lifted off from the well; the only thing this turtle can do now is to act as decoration."
Alfred groaned and gave a frustrated shout that sounded suspiciously like a string of curse words mixed together. He wore an angry pout, though he didn't seem to realize it, and kicked one of the rocks close to his feet.
The rather large rock did not move an inch while his toes burst into pain.
"OW! –Ow ow ow ow!" Hopping on one foot, he hissed.
Everyone cast an eye towards the spectacle.
"Are you okay, aru?" Yao asked, slightly worried, though very much unimpressed.
"…Uhhh…yeah…" The American gingerly put his still throbbing foot back onto the ground and rubbed his nose, sheepish and embarrassed.
Once everyone's attention returned to the stone turtle, Kiku voiced out a suggestion:
"Since we have the original lid, would it be possible to recast the spell?"
"It'd be wonderful if it were, aru…" Yao stood up from his squatting position in front of the stone slab, "But once it's been used, we can't use it again. It's similar to how you can only strike and light a match once."
"Well, can't we just carve another turtle then?" Alfred said.
"It's not just carving it, aru," Yao turned and sat down on the turtle, patting its head absentmindedly, "You have to understand that this was made probably hundreds of years ago, when there were many mountains completely unpopulated by humans, where spiritual beings roamed freely. Rocks, especially harvested from places like that, have certain powers, or are, for the lack of a better word, blessed, and alive. And we need to find one that's naturally weathered or eroded to approximately the right size for the well too, since cracking a big rock in half would no doubt kill its potential powers. It's getting harder and harder to find such rocks since there are pretty much human settlements everywhere nowadays, aru, and spiritual beings enjoy peace, so they hide away."
"Rocks can be alive?" Matthew looked amazed, listening intently and with fascination.
"Not alive as how we perceive it, aru," Yao explained patiently, "Many things that we might think are alive might be dead in the spiritual sense. Everything in nature has its power, such as trees. But not all trees have that power, such as ones dug up with their roots torn before getting moved to be planted somewhere else. That is not natural, aru, which is why many trees in cities do not have that power. Rocks are a bit different, but ones from sacred grounds or hidden forests breathe, and can talk to each other, aru."
"Ain't this great…we need a breathing rock…" Alfred grumbled under his breath.
"So I guess carving another turtle's pretty much out of the question, eh…" Matthew sighed; he was hoping that he at least got something out of that frightful night, but it seemed that that hope was to be extinguished.
"But that doesn't mean we can't find anything out from this discovery," Yao, as if sensing the Canadian's fallen spirit, said quickly, "Though it might be hard to find rocks like this one, it isn't impossible. We should still keep it as an option, aru; I can probably figure out the exact ritual used on this stone lid after some careful research, but it might take some time since the carvings are faded."
There was a heavy silence while the other team members all stared at the stone turtle dejectedly.
"…Don't feel disheartened," The dark-haired man gave an encouraging smile, "It will be a hassle, but better than nothing, aru."
"Yao is right," Francis spoke with a slight nod, pushing himself onto surprisingly steady feet, and stood up; "We shouldn't be intimidated by obstacles, oui?" Gently tugging off his gloves, his ocean blue eyes held a look of concentration as they caught sight of the well, "Perhaps I should test my luck today."
Alfred perked up, and looked quite hopeful and optimistic despite of his earlier statement.
"You're right! We still have magic fingers!" He exclaimed and laughed a little in genuine happiness, reaching over and patting Francis on the back.
The Frenchman didn't look like he enjoyed being called "magic fingers" (not only was it ridiculous but also not very suitable for his ability), but chose not to comment, shaking his head exasperatedly, a faint smile on his lips.
The team moved on from the pile of rocks. Surrounding the well in a manner that was almost a little intimidating, they all peered down half expecting to see the spirit suspended in water inside it.
After a while of silent staring, Francis cleared his throat, feeling a little awkward as it felt like something a certain Brit would do, and took a look around.
Meeting many pairs of eyes, some nervous, some anticipating, he gave a small nod:
"I think it would be safer if you could each take a step back, in case what happened on the night at the mansion reoccurs," Talking about his unexpected possession, his voice was strangely casual as if speaking of the weather.
After many fleeting glances, one by one, the rest of the team stepped back – all except for one.
Matthew looked up, unmoving from his spot right beside him.
There was definitely apprehension, if not slight fear, at what could possibly happen swimming inside his little Matthieu's clear, watery blue eyes. But, at the same time, there was also determination and certainty.
The Canadian bit his lips; his fingers fiddled with his sleeves nervously. However, as he gazed up into ocean-blue eyes, he never felt surer in his life that right beside Francis was where he was supposed to be.
"I'll be right here, Francis," He gave a timid, but supportive smile, "I'm supposed to catch you if you fall, eh?"
The Frenchman's expression changed little; there was only a slight widening of the eyes.
His expression changed little, but many emotions burst forth with such an intensity in the shinning, ocean-blue orbs that they made the younger blonde's heart flutter.
After a few brief moments of seeing words unspoken, a warm smile of love blossomed onto Francis' handsome face. Eyes shimmering captivatingly, his gaze was gentle but beaming of affection.
Tilting his face slightly sideways, he leaned forward, and met Matthew's soft, pink lips in a firm kiss.
It was slightly awkward as he could not use his hand to pull the shorter man closer, but then again, it wasn't really needed, since his kiss was returned with equal passion.
And then they parted; it felt too fast.
Neither was satisfied, but there were things that must be done.
Giving one last thankful smile to his little Matthieu, Francis turned to face the well, and, without waiting for any longer, pressed a hand on top of the stone surface.
His eyes squeezed close as an eruption of screaming memories and past lives slammed into his mind; he would've cried out and shook like a thin leaf out of anguish if he hadn't been so accustomed to it.
He barely winced.
Flipping through events and episodes like pages of a book; he frowned in confusion.
He had thought that only the warrior spirit lived in the well, but there were a vast number of souls trapped inside.
It felt as though they were all somehow connected to a—to a—
…Web…?
He was closing in on the center; he could almost feel it if he could just delve a little deeper.
It was almost at his finger tips, but there was resistance.
He pushed.
He shouldn't have.
An abrupt cry of pain jolted everyone into a jump as the Frenchman gave a violent shudder and wrenched his hand back, eyes flying open in alarm.
"Francis?" Matthew inquired in a soft, but urgent tone, "Is something wrong?"
The taller man stared at his hand blankly.
"…Francis?"
With a slight shake of head, Francis pulled himself out of deep contemplation, and brushed that hand through his hair, sighing.
"Ne t'inquiètes pas, mon coeur." He whispered, giving a reassuring smile mixed with apology the strawberry blonde beside him, and explained; "I was careless and too hasty. I will try again."
"Don't—Don't push yourself, eh?" His little Matthieu still looked just as worried, "…Please…?" He said in a small voice, large, round eyes as if sparkling crystals under gently furrowed eyebrows.
His heart ached a little; the last thing he wanted was his carelessness causing unnecessary stress for his lover.
So he gave the brightest smile of surety he could muster, though what he really wanted to do was to pull the adorable young man into a tight embrace of comfort.
"…Bien sûr, pour toi, mon amour."
He had to forcefully tear his eyes away from his little Matthieu's, since he had quickly become mesmerized by them, and reached his hand out once more.
This time, he did not push insistently, but allowed himself to drift down, trying to block out the many life-stories screeching past his ears and clutching onto him, begging to be heard.
After what felt like an eternity of sinking deeper and deeper into the dark, shuffling through layers and layers of different memories, he reached the bottom, and found what he was looking for.
Without hesitation, he strode forward and grasped onto it, and, immediately, his mind was caught in the current of an aggressive whirlpool of pain, loss, torment, and brutality of war against the fragile mentality of a wounded man.
~o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o~
Translations: (If wrong, please correct! It might take me a while to get to it, but please do let me know!)
…Je t'aime tant, Matthieu… – …I love you so much, Matthieu... (provided by radioactive edelweiss – thanks darling! :D)
Non; non, pas du tout – No; no, not at all
ma mère – my mother
certainement – certainly
Oh Matthieu! Tu es très mignon, mon petit chaton! – Oh Matthieu! You are so cute, my little kitten!
Ne t'inquiètes pas – Do not worry
…Bien sûr, pour toi, mon amour. – …Of course, for you, my love.
Ending Notes: I wish Kiku could give me a van. XD
So, what do you think? Hopefully the supernatural explanation bits made sense. I tried to make it as understandable as I could, but since…well…I'm pretty much just making everything up out of thin air, so it's kinda hard sometimes 'cause I kinda don't even know what I'm talking about after a while. LOL
I still hope everything makes sense though! :O
At last, some things about Francis' past have been revealed! Hopefully that gets rid of some of the fog shrouding his character for you guys. ;)
Sorry if the sudden arrival of soup-blowing feels abrupt and out-of-place. I just thought that with all the gloom from most of that big section, those two could use a cute moment to mediate things.
I wish I had Matthew to blow soup for me…;_;
Parts of Yao's "Everything in nature has its power" spiel are inspired/taken from Ghost Hunt. If you have seen the series you'd probably know which parts I mean, if you haven't…what are you waiting for? WATCH EEEET—! :D
Well, this is all I have…sorry there couldn't be more; I haven't had many chances for writing these days. Have I ever mentioned that I can't wait till summer? I wish it were summer right now! …And that summer will never leave!
Omg wouldn't it be awesome if it were always summer vacation? XD
Anyways, I'll try my best to find as many chances as I can to be on the computer so I can reply to you guys and work on the story! I shouldn't ignore my poor friend anymore, who's been extremely kind to bear with me while I hog and neglect her for her computer. So I will talk to you another time (which will hopefully be soon), my darlings! :D
BIG MUAHS AND YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU FOREVER—!
I bid you a good farewell for now, and remember, I WILL BE BACK!
This is Feux Follets, checking out! –salutes–
