Francis began to follow Arthur. Nearly everywhere he went as well. Into cafés, into streets, into his own pink apartment. And he did this so well that Arthur did not even notice.
Yes, the Englishman would return to Francis' home and they would speak and make love as they always did. Nothing had changed through those delicate green eyes. Nothing what-so-ever. To him Francis even began to look slightly healthier, simply because he was no longer being so ignored.
But there could be nothing further from the truth.
Francis Bonfeuille was losing his goddamn mind, if he had not lost it already.
Most of his days were spent obsessing over that author. When he was not chasing him all about Paris, he was sitting in his parlor, drawing the man. Painting his image all over the walls. And each one got both better and worse. There were more colors, more vibrant emotion, more passion poured into those paints. But goodness, if they were not frightening at the same time.
Dear Francis was fraying at the edges and he was doing it to himself.
The day before Arthur's promised visit to his American companion, the poet made his arrival at the door step of that ludicrous Frenchman, who was upstairs trying to sleep. The guest did not bother with knocking, as he was simply welcome, and made his way to that chamber filled with pregnant thought and a mad insomniac.
"Hello, Francis."
Oh, how the roles had changed. Now the one who used to have the hallucinations was waiting on the one who was making his own. Francis had become sick. And it was making poor Arthur exhausted, despite the fact it had only been two weeks since this lunacy began.
"Hello, Arthur." That body shifted beneath the covers, making room for the intruder to lie down.
"How have you been?"
"Tired."
"Are you still acting?"
"Oui."
Nothing more was said, and Arthur lifted his side of the covers and took a spot against that worn mattress. It was the same spot he always took. The same spot with his indent left from so many nights of use.
No time was wasted; Francis wrapped his body right around the poor insect who had wandered too deeply into his web. And that mouth began to work at his neck, gently sucking and creating another bruise that would need to be covered up when the victim left.
Arthur's flesh was sore.
But asking the exhausted creature to cease only seemed to be cruel.
If Arthur was required to be a pacifier, he would be a pacifier.
Think of everything this man has done for you.
Have you forgotten?
So, the chew toy remained, allowing his darling to do all the things he adored doing. Francis devoured that hide, kissed the most sensitive parts of that corpse, spread those tired cheeks and claimed that shell once more. Because he had to establish for the fourth time this week that Arthur belonged to him. Then Francis finished and laid unconscious for hours, with Arthur's back adhered to his chest. No. He was unable to move. Nothing would save him from this unhealthy bond of theirs.
Tomorrow was considered. It was always considered, but goddamn it was heavy today.
Tomorrow, Arthur would see Alfred.
And tomorrow, more of those terrible problems would be sorted out.
What a mess.
What a conundrum.
What was a poor man to do?