This is based on Unfaithful by Rhianna which I think I must have listened to a while back while either RPing FrUK or writing it. Either way, I thought it suited them. The title is meant to be read with the chapter title so that it says "Don't Want to Be A Murderer."
Warning: Suicide. Um, I'm not clued up firsthand and I didn't really research much because... well, the second chapter will show why exactly and I'll explain more then, I think, but... Yeah, this is all from my imagination and I apologise so much if people get offended by it. After writing this first part, I don't think I'd really like to read up on it too much. I'm certainly not saying that anything that happens in this story can cause people to harm themselves nor that these sorts of reasons are the only ones but...
Oh, also, for some reason, there's a lot more swearing in this story than I usually have. Not entirely sure how that one works out...
As quietly as he could, Francis slipped from the bed. He had managed to lull the young woman to sleep even though it was only early evening. However, he could not stay, not here, not any longer. There was something he had to fix.
After he had gathered his clothes, he carefully stepped out of the room and got dressed in the bathroom. Examining himself in the mirror, he washed off the lipstick marks. His hair was a mess and he was thankful that he always carried a compact brush in his pocket. Running it through his hair quickly, he tried to recall how he had left that morning. A ponytail, he decided, and quickly tied it up with a band he found lying around – it looked similar to those he owned.
He would just have to hope the smells wouldn't linger after a trip on the Tube.
Silent as the grave, Francis left the flat in the centre of London and hurried to the nearby station. He wrinkled his nose at the smells. This city was not as beautiful as Paris but he had stayed here for an important reason.
It didn't take long for him to arrive home. The light in the living room was on. That was good – it meant he hadn't attempted to cook. Perhaps he had been held up, too. Maybe his excuse would be accepted.
"You're late," came his voice. Francis was still removing his coat and shoes and did not look at him. "Where have you been?"
Finally, Francis steeled himself. Would they continue to fight, like they had that morning? Or would they pretend that it hadn't happened? With a sigh, he looked up at his boyfriend, flashing him an apologetic smile. "Oui. There was a mix-up and I had to fix it, chéri."
"Oh," said Arthur, grimacing. "I had a bit of overtime myself. Would you like to cook or go out for dinner?"
"Cooking would save money?" asked Francis, tilting his head.
Arthur stared at him, his toxic eyes boring into Francis. "Hm. Yes, I suppose so. Shall I leave you to it?"
"It would help," Francis said, hesitantly. Was this the start of another fight?
"Okay. I want to get back to what I was watching, anyway."
"And what is that?" Francis inquired as he moved past Arthur and headed to the kitchen.
"I'm preparing for the start of the new series of Doctor Who."
Francis grimaced. That was all he would talk about for the next few weeks, he knew. "Oh." He turned to face Arthur who was facing him, staring at him. They gazed at each other for a few moments. Francis was surprised that he was getting off Scott-free. A smile spread across his face and he reached for his precious boyfriend. Arthur, surprisingly, complied and they embraced. They kissed, quick and chaste before Arthur finally pulled away.
"Right. Hurry up with dinner, will you? I'm starving."
"You should have ate when you noticed I would not be home in time," admonished Francis. Waving a hand dismissively, Arthur turned and walked off, closing the door to the room behind him.
Left alone, Francis stared at it. He could never predict Arthur's reactions after he had been 'mysteriously' missing for a few hours. Sometimes the Brit would yell and scream at him, forcing him to leave. At others, he cried and sobbed, unable to look at Francis until they went to bed – there, Francis's comforting would calm him. Recently, more and more, Arthur would ignore it completely. What was going through his head?
In the kitchen, Francis decided to make a simple pot au feu. It required less steps and he was exhausted from the fighting, his work and the sex. He paused in his preparations at the thought.
Although he seemed like a playboy, he truly adored Arthur. He told the smaller man that he loved him often enough. And, on those occasions that Arthur deigned to say it back, it made his heart leap around his chest and a warm feeling come over him for several hours.
However... There were the arguments. When they had gotten together, Arthur had been swept away by his charm and Francis had been too busy marvelling at his beauty. They had not discovered their true personalities. And the truth was that they clashed.
Inevitably, arguments had cropped up. Then, one night, a horrible fight occurred – they both lashed out at each other and Arthur had uttered three words which shocked and worried Francis. 'I hate you.' The latter had hurried from the house. To be terribly honest with himself, he was scared to lose him before he truly got to know him in every way. After making up, Francis had vowed to never fight with his lover again.
That lasted a week. When another argument began to brew, Francis rushed from the house. Drowning his sorrows in a nearby bar, a local girl had caught his eye. They began flirting and, before long, he had been slipping from a stranger's house. He had returned home to find Arthur waiting up, worried. They apologised and made up.
And, for some reason, that method – running from the fight before it had truly begun and hooking up with another for a one night stand – kept their relationship from tearing at the seams. In fact, somehow, it had seemed they were getting closer. Francis had been happy, even if the strain of keeping it a secret was troubling.
After a few months, though, that changed and Arthur began to notice. Or he would stay up, irritated, and begin the fight once again. They were beginning to crack. Francis was unsure of what to do – now that it had became a habit, he found it hard to stop. Yet, he knew this was hurting Arthur. He didn't want that. The only things he could think of doing were confessing everything and surviving the inevitable fallout or run from Arthur and let him live to his fullest without him.
Both were unappealing.
Now, suddenly, Arthur had stopped caring. Francis couldn't quite work out what he was doing. He already thought that his boyfriend knew or suspected what he got up to when he disappeared. Had Arthur given up? It hurt to think on – that would mean he had given up on him. Francis didn't want that. Perhaps he should try harder.
He took a deep breath and focussed on the food. Cooking was a reposing task for him and he needed to be calm when he confronted his boyfriend with the meal.
Why was it that, every morning – or thereabouts – they had an argument?
Francis had run away again, unable to face Arthur's anger. So, once again, he was in a woman's bed. But it was getting late. If he didn't leave now, Arthur would attempt to cook dinner.
"Where are you going?"
Freezing in the act of getting out of bed, Francis glanced over his shoulder. Where had he managed to find this one? She was beautiful; her long, brown hair fanned around her as she propped herself up on an elbow. The flower containing the mass of her hair had been cast aside in their fun. Her smile was soft and played on her mouth with amusement – that mouth had been put to good use. She had a striking figure: thin yet curvy. And her eyes... They weren't as bright as Arthur's but the green in them had caught his attention, reminded him of his boyfriend enough for him to flirt with her.
"I thought that a belle femme like you, chère, would no doubt have a boyfriend," he explained, smoothly. "We would not want to be caught when he returns home."
"You are very observant, Monsieur Bonnefoy," said the woman with a giggle. "But you will be in even more trouble if your own partner was to smell my perfume on you."
Francis raised an eyebrow. This woman was clever. "What are you suggesting?"
"Will you accompany me to the shower?" she asked, sitting up and letting the bedsheets fall to her waist.
He didn't want to be rude. And the shower would definitely help in the long run. Though, that would make him awfully late...
The woman was struggling with the drawer in her bedside cabinet. Francis watched as she finally wrenched it open and reached in. She turned to him with a condom in hand. Ah, so, that was what she wanted in the shower...
Biting his lip, Francis looked away. He didn't want another round. Going home was more preferable. His thoughts turned to Arthur once again and he could almost see his disappointment as he fucked a woman in the shower. The guilt he tried so hard to hide and push down returned. Why was he here? What would this achieve? He sighed: this was beginning to get complicated.
As he ran a hand through his hair, Francis glanced back at the woman who was no longer holding the condom out. She frowned at him and Francis had the horrible feeling that she knew about his relationship problems. With a sigh, she waved him away.
"Go on. Use the shower on your own."
Surprised, Francis blinked at her. "Are you sure, chère?"
"Yes. Go, before I change my mind."
Francis was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He gathered up his clothes and made his way to the bathroom.
"Where the fuck were you?" demanded Arthur as soon as he entered the house. The Englishman was standing with his arms crossed, glaring at him. "I've tried calling – you didn't answer."
"You did?" asked Francis, though he knew and had ignored them. "I must have had my phone on silent. Désolé, chéri." He stepped forward and pecked Arthur on the cheek but his boyfriend swiftly pushed him away.
"Where. Were. You?!" he snarled.
"Work again. More overtime, I am afraid."
"Why? What was so important it couldn't wait until tomorrow!"
Francis felt relieved. Arthur was back to normal. He could fix this. "Amoureux," he said, gently, "it was some last minute things needed for tomorrow. They could not wait."
"Hmph," said Arthur and turned, heading for the living room. Francis followed along, wondering if Arthur had ate. That was answered by the containers lying on the coffee table. Noticing his gaze, Arthur said, "I picked up something to eat on the way home. Yours is cold. You can put it in the microwave unless you're too snobbish to eat something cooked like that."
Frowning at the accusation, Francis decided to ignore the hurtful comment. "Merci, chéri." He gathered up the containers still full and took them to the kitchen where he put everything onto a plate and popped it in the offending appliance. Once he had set the timer, he returned and settled on the couch next to his boyfriend. Arthur had picked up the book he had been reading and was using it to hide from Francis.
When had this become so difficult? Francis bit his lip to hold in a sigh and breathed heavily through his nose instead. He didn't expect that to draw Arthur from the world he had retreated into but the man looked up, concern flashing across his face.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Just tired," Francis replied. He was. Hiding from Arthur was made all the more difficult when he, in turn, hid from him. What were they running from?
"Are you sure? Are you sure there's nothing bothering you?" demanded Arthur.
Francis's eyebrows furrowed. His boyfriend didn't sound concerned at all. What was he up to? "Non."
"Hmph! Well, I think you should be making more of a fuss about your overtime. They can't keep making you work so much." With that being said, Arthur returned to his book. However, after a few seconds of watching him, Francis could see that he was waiting for a particular response. He was tense, clenching his fingers around his book.
"I cannot-" Francis began.
"Why?!" shouted Arthur, all of a sudden. Francis was taken aback and recoiled in the face of Arthur's wrath. "Why can't you tell them to stick it?! Why do you-? Why can't you-?!" Arthur took a deep breath. "Forgive me. Forget I said anything."
But Francis could tell that something was bugging Arthur. Was this the beginning of the end? Rather concerned, Francis wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist and pulled him closer. "Je t'aime, Arthur," he whispered into his ear. Kissing him just below, Francis's grip tightened. "What is wrong?"
Arthur turned to him and they gazed at each other, worry and fear in both their eyes. Then, instead of responding, Arthur launched himself at Francis, pressing his lips to his, tangling his hand in his hair. Francis held him close with one arm as the other trailed up Arthur's side to the back of his neck. This was not the communication that Francis had been hoping for but it was better than nothing.
The Chinese food was quite forgotten.
"Aw, do you have to go?" whined the girl. Thinking that he would much rather be with girls who didn't complain, he nodded. "But I want you to stay," said the blonde with a pout. Her mischievous green eyes blinked up at him. "Come on; stay!"
Shaking his head, Francis slipped from under the covers. "I have some things I must do. Désolé."
"Donc dire!" she exclaimed but she did little more than roll onto her back and stretch her arms above her head. "Well, I suppose this saves trouble when my brother returns."
"Oui. Maintenant, excusez-moi."
And with that, once more, he hurried from a woman's house after cleaning himself up. Once he had travelled on the Tube again, Francis reached his home. This time, he knew Arthur would not be there to meet him: his work always had half days on a Friday and he was home earlier than normal. Thankfully, this helped them a little for Francis could always get home before Arthur and prepare their evening meal. He wondered what he should make for dinner as he inserted his key to the lock and turned.
It didn't budge.
Frowning, Francis tried again. Had one or the other of them forgotten to lock the door? Turning the handle, Francis was surprised to find it unlocked and was further shocked to find Arthur's coat, scarf and shoes in their place. Why was he home so early? Was he ill? Had something happened?
Quickly, Francis stripped himself of his outer layers and hurried into the house proper. It didn't take long to find his boyfriend. He was in the living room, sitting on their couch, staring at the mobile phone in his hands.
"Arthur?" asked Francis, perching beside him. The poor man looked shocked. He hoped it was good news. But Arthur didn't respond, only twitching to show he had heard. "Arthur? Why are you home so early?"
"I... I'm working from home today."
"Quoi?" That was definitely odd. The publishing house Arthur worked in, though small, was strict on its rules. One of them was to never take a manuscript home. How could Arthur have worked in the study?
"They're... refurbishing... the office."
"Really? Will it be in colours you like?"
He shook his head in response, still staring at the phone. Francis was beginning to get a bit spooked. "They're down-sizing," he whispered, finally, so quiet that Francis had to hold his breath to hear him. "It won't be long before they start laying people off. Francis, they might... I might lose this job."
Francis knew how hard that knowledge would be for Arthur. He adored books, perhaps loved them more than Francis, his own little worlds into which he could escape. The publishing company's offer had been a dream come true for him and he truly enjoyed working there. Being let go would be a horrible experience – especially as it was unlikely any other publishing companies would be hiring in this economic climate.
But something felt off. This could not be the reason Arthur was so subdued. He would brag about how he would be kept on. And, even if he was let go, he'd get back up again. There was no way something so small in the grand scheme of things would sadden him.
"Arthur?" he tried again, a little quieter.
"I... My mum..."
"Is she ill? Should we... go visit?" That would be a horrible thing. Although his mother loved Arthur, his father hated his gay son. It was only eclipsed by his hatred for Francis since he was gay, had 'turned his son gay' and was French.
Suddenly, Arthur raised his head, his eyes filled with unshed tears. How long had he been holding back? Francis felt as if he was staring at two lagoons on a tropical island. It took his breath away – and then he couldn't take a breath because, surely, whatever was wrong was something deadly serious.
"She... had a massive heart attack. Fran, she just dropped dead. I-I haven't spoken to her in person for years. I never got to see her after- And I wanted to- She's dead."
As his eyes widened in shock, Francis pulled Arthur to him. He could feel the poor man's body shaking, hear his sobbing, feel his tears through his shirt. What should he do? What could he say?
"I'm sure she knew you bore her no ill will. You still spoke, oui?" The only response he received was more sobbing. He waited till the tears had subsided somewhat, holding Arthur close, before speaking again. "When is-? Do you want me to accompany you?"
Arthur shook his head but didn't sit up to look at Francis. Instead, he clutched him closer. "Dad will make a scene," he mumbled into Francis's shoulder. "I don't want- Sorry."
"It's not your fault," Francis assured him, rubbing at his back. "Shall I drive you down?"
"No, it's fine. I-I'll go myself. I'll make a weekend of it-" His voice broke off in a strangled croak. Taking a breath, he said, "It's this Sunday. I'll leave tomorrow."
"Oui," said Francis. He held Arthur close for a while longer, not speaking, merely listening to his boyfriend's distress. When he heard Arthur finally breathing deeply, he knew that the distraught man was asleep. Francis gently lowered him to the couch and fetched a blanket. While his boyfriend slept, Francis decided to help in any way he could – and he could do that by packing his bags and making up a lunch for him to take.
Although Francis felt guilty for his observation, after the funeral, their arguments lessened. On the one hand, he didn't want to upset Arthur further. And, on the other, he felt that Arthur was too upset to care about most things. Anything that normally riled him went ignored or only received a shrug.
Arthur's mother had supported him in everything and continued to speak with him after he had revealed his sexual orientation. It was his mother who had encouraged his love of magic and fantasy as a child and had been overjoyed at his graduation with an degree in English and Creative Writing. When he had moved to London to start his first job, she had sobbed and held him close. Though she did not try to change his father's opinion of him and gay people in general, she tried to support Arthur from a distance.
Now she was gone and it seemed that it was hitting Arthur hardest out of all his siblings. He had bawled when he had discovered that he had inherited most of his mother's money and her precious tea set. When he had brought it home, he had put it somewhere out of the way, careful not to chip any of the cups.
Francis could only watch from a distance and provide him with soft words. However, despite the grief, Arthur seemed to be more willing to smile for him than before. They were grateful smiles but it made Francis's heart skip beats or speed up.
This continued for two weeks (during which Arthur had taken a holiday so he could go back to work with a clearer mind). Francis returned home from work on a Monday, on time for once, and noted that Arthur had gotten back before him. He thought this was strange as Arthur had had a lot of work to catch up on – surely he should still be at work?
"Arthur, I'm home!" he cried as he shucked his coat. "Where are you?"
"Livin' room," came the reply and Francis froze. Had he just heard Arthur slurring? Was there something wrong or...?
Cautiously, Francis entered the room and gaped at the sight. Several empty bottles littered the floor, and a half-full one dripped something which was staining the carpet. Full ones had rolled everywhere, too. A cardboard box had been tipped on its side and lay on the table. Papers were strewn everywhere, almost as though someone had angrily swept them away. A blonde head poked around the couch, laid on the armrest.
"Quoi...?" he asked, wondering what had happened.
"Franny!" shouted Arthur. "Come drink!" With that, he tipped a bottle upside down above his head, missing his mouth for the most part. Francis hurried forward as Arthur began to choke on the alcohol.
"How long have you been drinking?" he demanded when he reached him. Quickly, he took the bottle away and tried to sit the drunkard up. Arthur awkwardly flailed and sat up straight. When he did, he almost toppled over the other way but Francis gripped his shoulder tightly and steadied him. "How long?" he asked again, shaking him slightly. Arthur's head lolled and he blinked unfocussed eyes.
"Um..." He held up a hand and began to count. "One, two, three... Lotsa hours!" Giggling, he patted Francis's face. "Since this morning."
"Why?!" exclaimed Francis, flabbergasted. "What about your work?"
"Work-Work don't need me," snarled Arthur, his face suddenly darkening. "They don't want me there any more." Once again, he giggled. "I'm goin' t'send them hate mail – with monkey shit in it!" At that, he started to laugh hysterically, clutching his stomach and slipping from Francis's grasp to lie on his side. He kicked his legs, his high pitched laughter making Francis wince.
Biting his lip, Francis carefully and gently stroked his partner's hair. So he had been fired. He hadn't expected him to spiral down to this level. Where was the determined man he had met in the pub that night a few years ago?
With a long-suffering sigh, he stood up. "Come along, you. Bedtime."
"Don't wanna!" wailed Arthur. "Gimme more," he added, sitting up – rather shakily – to reach for a bottle of what appeared to be tequila.
"There will be more in bed," Francis tried.
"But I only wan' you in bed," mumbled Arthur, though he was so loud in his drunken state that Francis heard him and blushed slightly. He was ever so cute when he was being honest. "Will you be in bed?"
"Of course," agreed Francis, glancing at the mess he would have to clean up. Waiting till Arthur had passed out would probably be for the best. "Come on." Francis pulled Arthur to his feet and helped him to the bedroom. When they reached it, Arthur began to undress, using the bed to balance. Francis watched, hovering around him, trying to help. Arthur pushed him away, though, until, finally, he was wearing only his boxers.
After collapsing onto the bed, Arthur reached out to Francis with both hands. "C'mon," he slurred, gesturing for Francis to lie with him. Sighing, Francis removed his suit jacket and tie before getting onto the bed next to him. He wrapped his arms around his distraught boyfriend and held him close as he began to drunkenly whisper into his ear. "You always need to be in m'bed, 'kay? 'Cause I need you. You're not allowed to leave, 'kay? Don't leave, please, God, please, Fran. What... do I do now?" As he began to sob, Francis rubbed at his back and, soon, his soothing gestures had lulled Arthur to sleep. When he realised this, Francis got up, tucked Arthur in and left his boyfriend to his sleep.
There was a living room to clean and he was hungry...
Over the next few weeks, Arthur's mood worsened. Mostly, he was frustrated when he couldn't find work in the fields he had chosen. Then he couldn't find work at all, what with the current economic climate – a lot of other people with more suitable experience kept being hired instead. Half of the time, Francis would find him pulling at his hair.
And the rest of the time...
"What fucking time do you call this?!" snapped Arthur as soon as he entered.
Tiredly, Francis sighed and looked up. He had been held up in work because of a mistake that took a good few hours fixing – he had certainly not been in someone else's bed. For once. "I already sent you a message, mon bonbon."
"Yes, but you never told me you'd be so late! I made dinner and now it's ruined because the timings were all off!" Arthur's face was scrunched up and he looked livid. His hands were fists at his side and he appeared tense.
"Désolé, I was not sure-"
"Lies! You're lying!" Arthur pointed at him accusingly.
Francis's heart stopped. Did he know? Had he found out? "What... do you mean?" he asked, hesitantly.
"You-You just-!" For a second, Arthur froze then he dropped his hand and seemed to droop.
"Chéri?"
"It doesn't matter any more. Just... We need food. Dinner."
"Arthur, what's-?"
"Nothing's wrong!" he yelled, suddenly, causing Francis to flinch.
This was getting ridiculous. Francis narrowed his eyes. "There is clearly something wrong. I want you to tell me."
"No."
"Arthur."
"I'm not- It's fine, I'm just-"
"It is not fine!" Francis interrupted, getting more worked up as the conversation went on. "S'il vous plaît, dites-moi ce qui est faux!"
"Shut up! Don't pretend you care about me! Fuck off!"
"I do care about-"
"Well, if you do, get out and leave me alone!"
Silence descended, only broken by Arthur's harsh breathing. A look of pain was clear on his face and Francis wanted nothing more than to scoop him up into his arms. It had been a hard few weeks and kept getting worse. But, when he saw Arthur flinch as he stepped forward, he couldn't stand another, worse argument.
He fled.
"Francis!" called a woman as he left his work to return home: he hoped today Arthur's mood was better. Blinking, he turned and his eyes widened as he recognised the woman. Her long black hair flew behind her in a long plait tied with red ribbons. A tanned hand waved at him as she hurried over. He knew that she came from some sort of island nation and knew French but he couldn't recall her name.
"Ah, bonjour," he said with a smile, though several horrible scenarios were running through his head.
"Oh, I was so worried I would never see you again! We never exchanged numbers and-"
"Would you like to walk with me?" asked Francis, hurriedly, glancing round at his colleagues who were staring as they passed. "We could go to the Gardens."
"Ooh, that sounds lovely!" exclaimed the woman.
And that was how Francis found himself in the Botanic Gardens. He had come here often with Arthur. It was the one place they never fought, they could just be happy together in a comfortable silence. Sometimes Arthur even allowed him to hold his hand. Their favourite place was the rose pergola, its beauty and tranquillity washing over them.
On the way there, the woman had chattered on. Luckily, she happened to be the kind of woman who named themselves in their ramblings, saying things like, "So I said to myself, 'Michelle, you must find this guy if you can't get him out of your head!'"
As they entered the Gardens, Arthur chose to message him and ask if he would like to go for a walk. Francis responded by saying that he would be spending time in the office again because of paperwork. His boyfriend seemed to accept this and told him that he would see him later.
When they finally reached the pergola, Francis turned to Michelle and made a quick inspection of her face. Her eyes weren't green and, for some reason, Francis felt disappointed in himself. There was something hypnotic about green eyes. Why had he settled for these?
"Michelle, chère, why are you here?"
The woman looked up at him with a wide smile on her face. "Silly! Because I love you! And I know you love me; you told me that often enough on the night we met. And I have found you again. It is fate!"
Francis hated these sorts of situations and sighed. He was growing tired of them and himself – what had he been thinking? "I am afraid you are quite mistaken."
"Eh?"
"I..." He sighed again before taking a deep breath. There was no way out of this and he didn't know how to let her down gently. "I do not love you."
"Eh?" The poor woman looked so bewildered. Francis wished he hadn't gotten himself into this situation. From now on, he should stop this playboy attitude. "What do you mean?" she continued as he pondered on his future.
He steeled himself for what was about to come. "I... lied when I said I loved you. Désolé. I did not mean to hurt you."
Expecting her to make a scene, he waited patiently. She studied his face and, after a while of him cringing, she gave a nod as if she was satisfied. "Is there someone else?" she suddenly asked.
Startled, he blinked but his thoughts immediately turned to Arthur and he smiled softly. "Oui."
"Ah." Michelle shrugged, seemingly nonplussed. "Then you owe me a dinner."
"Quoi?"
"Don't you remember?" she demanded. When Francis sent her a puzzled look, she sighed. "I see how it is. You picked me up in a bar. I tried to resist you when you wanted to come to mine but you said you would take me on a proper date. I asked if it would be a dinner. You said yes. I want my free food."
"Oh. Er, I am late as it-"
"It can wait," Michelle interrupted, glaring.
Feeling it was only fair on the poor woman – who he was beginning to suspect had only stopped him on a whim and for a free dinner – he nodded. "Oui."
Taking her to a nearby French restaurant, he really did treat her to a dinner and a proper date. It was frustrating that he felt trapped by her – for some reason Arthur had called him in the middle of their main course. Although he was wondering what he needed to call him for, Francis let it ring out. Let him believe he was too busy and could not answer or hear it...
When he finally reached his home, he was surprised to find Alfred banging on the door, Kiku hovering nearby. Perhaps Arthur had gone out for a walk, forgetting he had guests coming.
"Stop that," he said as he reached them. "You will break our door."
"Maybe I need to!" cried Alfred. The two men turned to look at him. They appeared worried and panicked.
"Quoi?" murmured Francis, frowning as he moved past them to unlock the door.
"Arthur sent us a message," explained Kiku, resting a hand on Alfred's arm to stop him from doing anything stupid.
"Oh?"
"It simply said, 'Goodbye'."
Francis froze with his key in the lock. Throwing a shocked look over his shoulder at them, he said. "That... That makes no sense."
"Dude, Artie's been real down recently," Alfred spoke up, frowning at Francis. "His mom, his job, we've not had time to spend with him, the job hunting. But, even before that... And now. Just hurry it up already and open the fucking door!" he exploded, bouncing a little.
"I-I am sure it is nothing to worry about," Francis muttered. Before everything...? Had he noticed? Quickly, with a rising panic within him, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. He hurried in. "Arthur?" he called.
"Artie, dude! Where are ya?!"
They wordlessly split up to search. Francis hurried into the living room and Kiku took the kitchen. Alfred bounded upstairs and, after only a few moments, he cried out. "Arthur! Oh, God! Someone-!" In an instant, the other two rushed upstairs. Kiku reached the bathroom first. Francis pushed his way in, though three were too many to fit. Or, rather, four were too many to fit.
Arthur lay, naked, in the bath, his eyes closed. It was full of water but that was now stained red. A sharp kitchen knife lay on the floor, a smear of blood on the tiles. As Francis stared, Alfred pulled one of Arthur's arms from the tub. They could all clearly see the deep cut.
"Jesus!" Alfred turned to Kiku. "Quick! Get some towels or something!" Dutifully, Kiku turned and began to look for a clean one. Then Alfred's eyes bore into Francis's: he had shifted so that Francis could no longer just stare at Arthur's lifeless body. "Don't just stand there!" he snapped, the fury evident. "He's still alive! Get an ambulance!"
For a few seconds, Francis could only stare, watching as Kiku pulled towels from the box they were kept in. This couldn't really be happening...
"Francis!" shouted Alfred.
That got him moving. He turned and fled the scene, almost toppling down the stairs as he tried to reach the phone in the hall. It was an old-style one, the sort with the big dial you had to turn. Arthur had been ecstatic to find it in an antique shop and managed to get it hooked up. He enjoyed using it to call his mother.
As he grabbed the receiver, he realised he had his mobile in his pocket. He could have called from the room. It seemed his body had decided he needed to be as far as possible from the ghastly sight. Quickly, he dialled 999, cursing the fact that he had to wait for the dial to turn back around. Then, with a strained voice, he demanded for an ambulance, for the only thing that could save Arthur.
I'm really sorry. =/
When I was writing this, towards the end, I was trying to type out the scene you would see with Arthur in the bath and- *shudders* I actually cuddled my wrists to myself. Which is why, when I belatedly realised I should have looked this up, I couldn't bring myself to. I am so sorry.
Please don't hate Francis! They both have horrible communication skills and he's only dealing with this the only way he knows how. Well, he thinks it's the only way. Idiot. ¬.¬ But, this may be just me defending him so people don't think I hate him. I may just be coming up with excuses. =/
But it all stems from my original idea from this which was them to have an argument and, well, I think I had a vague idea for him to come home to a similar scene. But it just really stopped there. However! I changed it. And now it's this. Which is probably awful.
Michelle ain't bad either! She's just super mad she let herself get duped into letting Francis in and really annoyed at him. So, when she spots him, she decides to give him a taste of his own medicine somewhat. She doesn't love him but she liked to watch him panic.
The first girl was Michelle, then Hungary and then Belgium. Just cause I thought I'd bring the actual girls in instead of creating OCs or bringing in the Nyotalia girls.
Speaking of Elizaveta, she's with Gil in this and they're having some problems. So Liz was just using Francis to get at Gil. Meanwhile, Bella was just using him for some fun.
Huh. If you look at it like that, perhaps the girls were the ones seducing a miserable, worried, hurt, frustrated Francis.
Still, not exactly a good excuse.
For some reason, I randomly had Arthur call Francis "Fran" and "Franny". I'm not sure why but that's totally gonna be his nickname that Arthur will use in my stories from now on. However! Francis never calls Arthur a shortened name because "all of him is beautiful and he doesn't want to taint that". Al still uses Artie, though.
Al and Kiku will be explained at the end of this, as will a few other things.
And I'm so sorry. =/
