Thank you ever so much to; Goldpen, compa16, Cat'sdon'tcry and Tala!
I'll get back and edit the French once I get my internet back, thank you to woodbyne for posting.
And no, I shouldn't be studying.
Song: Dead Flowers – The Rolling Stones
~====o)0(o====~
When you're sitting there
In your silk-upholstered chair
Talking to some rich folks that you know
I hope you don't see me
In my ragged company
You know I could never be alone
When you're sitting back
In your rose-print Cadillac
Making bets on who's talking to you during the day
I will leave my basement room
With a needle and a spoon
And another whore to take my pain away.
~====o)0(o====~
Matthew soon discovered in his first conscious days after his withdrawal had peaked that, as a roommate, Francis was naked more often then he wasn't.
The first instance of this was when Matthew was once more trying to fall asleep. The Frenchman was preparing for bed, and he had wandered through the living room, where his charge was, to the kitchen, toothbrush in hand, in order to turn the light off. When poor Mattie, unaccustomed to such blatant nudity, flushed bright red and managed a small and embarrassed,
"Francis, you're naked."
His only response had been a casual shrug and a foamy-mouthed, "Oui, what of it?"
The second, third and forth instances happened in quick succession, Matthew running on the treadmill to placate his cramps, only to find Francis walking past him quite happily and utterly without clothes. Matthew chewing on his first full slice of toast and having Francis pop up in the buff, asking if he wanted to take a bath a bit later (that had cause a blush red enough to rival the Frenchman's nosebleeds.) Matthew bent over the toilet bowl, relieving himself of a different piece of toast, having birthday-suit bedecked Francis holding his hair back from his face and muttering soothing nonsense in French.
There had also been that encounter, and Matthew would never forget it so long as he lived, once he had resigned himself to staying with an amateur nudist, when Antonia had come to visit. The Spanish woman had waltzed serenely through the door,
"Hola, mijos!" she called, dropping her keys onto a hook.
"Antonia!" Francis had called happily, turning to face the door from where he had been helping Matt stand up. The Canadian, in an attempt to maintain some decency, had grabbed the nearest vase of roses and held it in front of the other's crotch.
The other two occupants of the room stared at him blankly for a long moment before they cracked up laughing.
"Mattie," she had gasped, "It's alright, I see Francis naked all the time; it doesn't bother me at all."
The younger man frowned, a senseless little spark of humiliation burning in his chest and lighting his cheeks.
"Oh," he muttered, walking off into the next room and closing the door. He sat down carefully on the edge of Francis's bed and sighed; resting his forehead in his palms. That had been stupid. They were friends, or going out, whatever, of course she had seen him naked. They had probably slept together. Angry at himself, he punched his knee.
~====o)0(o====~
"Désole, chou," Francis said, dispensing the evening's pills, Antonia having long since left, "I should have explained. Antonia and I are good friends. She's used to my oddities."
Matthew nodded, "Have you two ever, you know?" he asked, thoroughly ashamed at himself for even thinking to.
"Antoine and I?" he asked ruminatively, "there's a thought. But the answer to your question is no. Antoine is a devote Catholic and believes in saving herself for marriage. I am agnostic and don't believe in marriage. There alone lies a problem. Another," he walked the younger man to his futon, "is that we work together. The impact personal interference would have on a professional relationship would be," he sighed, "what is the word now? Cataract?"
"Catastrophic," Matthew corrected, "go on?"
"Yes. Catastrophic. Well. I think that second to Catholicism, the biggest problem any romantic relationship we might have would be that she firmly believes that I have at least thirteen venereal diseases."
The younger man had to laugh at that as he climbed beneath the covers, "Why on earth would she think that?"
"Well, I was a man of the night for quite some time," he answered, patting Mattie's back when he started coughing, more from surprise than any symptoms of withdrawal.
"You were a prostitute?" he asked incredulously, lying back.
"Oui. Cocaine is not cheap, and I was always told that if you are good at something you enjoy, and you can make money from it. . ." he trailed off with a leer. Matthew wrinkled his nose,
"That's a sad." He sighed.
"How so?" the Frenchman asked, inclining his head curiously.
"Selling your body to people who don't care, who just want entertainment. That's sad." Francis raised an eyebrow,
"With the way you were dressed, I would say that you were well on your way to the same situation."
Matthew remembered Ditz's hands fisting callously in his hair, and shivered.
"Are you cold?"
"No. Just," he shuddered again, "remembering."
"Memories can be terrible things," Francis said, his voice sounding of regret, "would you like me to stay with you again?"
Matthew nodded. Sleep was a rare commodity in this house, apparently. Francis claimed to suffer from dreadful nightmares, and Matthew simply found himself unable to sleep.
"Would you like me to tell you a story?" he asked, letting the younger man's head fall against his shoulder once he was settled. There was a soft hum of assent, and Francis cleared his throat.
"Once upon a time in Paris, which is without a doubt the most beautiful city in the world, there was a young man," he laughed a little, "this young man was very handsome and very charming. He was well off and popular. All the young ladies and all the other young men loved him. But one night, this young man went to a party and another charming young man gave him magic powder. He said that it would make all his problems disappear. The young man laughed, he told the other that he had no problems. The new man insisted, he told the young man that one sniff of this magic powder would transform the way he looked at the world. So the young man tried it. He fell in love with the magic powder in the same way as the young ladies and other young men were in love with him. Quickly he became consumed by the powder. He spent all his money buying it, and when he had no money, he was turned out onto the streets.
"One day, while he was leaning against a wall in a dark alley not far from a cathedral, a man approached him, and offered him money for his body. They young man accepted, and soon he had plenty of money and he could once again buy the magic powder. He was happy. He was making other people happy, people who were lonely and needed a little company.
"A few months after that, a young girl began attending extra lessons at the Cathedral. She was preparing for her confirmation. Every day she would stop and smile at the young man, and ask him how he was. He always smiled back and asked the same. They quickly became friends. One day, she started bringing him a rose, and every day after that. Some days it was white, some red, but it was always one or the other. The day before she was confirmed, the young man was taken away early, and she was mugged and killed in the dark alley where he always stood, and his white rose was painted red with her blood. In her honour, he brought a bouquet of white roses to her cremation. Her family let him burn it with her."
"What was her name?" Matthew asked quietly, his cheek resting on the smaller man's shoulder.
"Joan. Antonia found me a week later, high out of my mind," he was quiet for a long time, "I burn a white rose on her birthday every year, so she can have them, wherever she is."
"You're a good man, Francis," the younger man said, the cadence of the other's voice having lulled him into a half-sleep, and he pressed his lips into Francis's shoulder as he slipped into unconsciousness.
~====o)0(o====~
When he woke up an hour or so later, Francis was asleep, but there were tear tracks on his cheeks and there was a faint crusting of blood around his nostrils.
It was then that Matthew noticed a single, beautiful, white rose in a lone vase on the countertop.
~====o)0(o====~
Take me down little, Suzie, take me down
I know you think you're the queen of the underground
And you can send me dead flowers every morning
Send me dead flowers by the mail
Say it with dead flowers at my wedding
And I won't forget to put roses on your grave.
~====o)0(o====~
I'm not so sure about the second verse of the song, but I'll correct it on Tuesday if it's wrong. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed a depressing French bedtime story.
~RutheLa