Catsdon'tcry, KajiMori, DeiDeoArtistic, Goldpen, EmoChickOfDeath, Skullover, gouketsuwarai; you're all utter stars!
So my mouse just fucked itself up the back end, so I'm using my tablet (small mercies)
This song isn't really about drugs, but it does carry an important message for this chapter, and I'm probably going to be using quite a few Placebo songs. Not all of them are French.
Protège moi – Placebo.
~====o)0(o====~
C'est le malaise du moment
L'épidémie qui s'étend
La fête est finie on descend
Les pensées qui glacent la raison
Paupières baissées, visage gris
Surgissent les fantômes de notre lit
On ouvre le loquet de la grille
Du taudis qu'on appelle maison
~====o)0(o====~
Matthew woke the next morning, bleary and disorientated after three hours of sleep, to find a naked Francis face down on his crotch.
Suddenly very much awake and very much aware of the fact that there was an attractive Frenchman with his face pressed into the fly of his jeans, Matt began easing himself upright and out from under his host. Whom he was now hosting. On the H. S. S. Matthew Williams. Damn.
That said, it wasn't that the Canadian particularly minded Francis' face –mouth especially – staying exactly where it was. If fact, he really quite liked the idea. A lot. But he wasn't entirely sure where the elder blonde stood on sucking his dick, so it was probably better if he removed him from the, ahem, problem that even if he had not directly caused, he was certainly exacerbating.
Which sounded like masturbating.
Which was something Matt really wanted to do right now.
Carefully sliding off the futon – which was rapidly becoming more slept-on than Francis' bed, Matthew made his way towards the bathroom in order to, well, you know. Ride the moose.
~====o)0(o====~
The pair of them had fallen into an easy domesticity that could easily have been mistaken for marriage by an outside observer. Now that Matt was getting better; he was sleeping for more than an hour a night and he managed to keep most of his food down, though he still didn't eat all that much, Francis was happy to leave him alone. But only once he had checked and erased all harmful contacts from his phone.
Not that Matt minded all that much. Francis was a great guy; he took care of him and he didn't complain about it. In turn, the Canadian did his damndest not to impose too much upon his hospitality.
It honestly, really, did bother Matt that he was intruding on Francis' accustomed lifestyle, much though he may disapprove of it. He wished that there was some way to give him what he wanted – or needed? – Without bringing in some outside floozy. Or himself. As attracted as he was to the Frenchman, Matthew wasn't entirely sure about the other's sexuality – he had mentioned that he had slept with men, but what did that really mean? – and he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to get involved with a personality as addictive as Francis'; it would be hard to get away from him, and he didn't want to be a needy ex when the other was clearly in a much healthier place.
But a couple of things changed this morning.
Matthieu had gotten up earlier than Francis, for a start. This was odd, because even though Matt was a morning person, Francis was a crack-of-buttfuck-dawn person, and was generally the first person in the entire apartment block to be awake, let alone any single apartment.
That was unusual.
What was downright queer, in more than one sense of the word, was when Franci waltzed into the kitchen still half asleep – he had slept in his own bed the night before – and kissed Matt on the cheek with a smile and then yawned out the words,
"Good morning, chouchou."
"Morning, Francis," the Canuck returned his greeting dazedly, "Are you alright? You don't really seem like yourself this morning."
"Hmmm?" Another yawn, this time accompanied by a spine-popping stretch that lifted the hem of a comfortable grey t-shirt enough to expose a slice of midriff that would have gone well with a side of ice cream and chocolate sauce, "Oui, pourquoi?"
"You just seem a bit off."
"Ah," Francis stretched again, and it was only when the curtain of shirt came down gain that Matt could drag his eyes back to his face, "I just had a bad dream last night. It always unsettles me."
The Canadian nodded slowly, passing his host a plate of French toast before serving himself.
"Merci, chou," he said, chewing appreciatively on the fried bread, eyeing the syrup that his ward poured over his; Matthieu did have quite the sweet tooth, "aren't we being a little ambitious?"
"I had a craving," to put something French into his mouth, even if it was only in name, "and I thought since you weren't up yet, I could do something nice for you; you've been so good to me."
"It's nothing," Francis started, but was cut off.
"No, it's not. I don't even want to think about where I'd be right now if you hadn't found me. I don't have any kind of family at all and no friends to speak of. I could be dead in a gutter right now, and you seem to be the only person on the planet who cares. That means a lot to me, and I want to do something for you in return." That was practically a parliamentary address by Matt's standards and he went a little pink. He didn't really like talking that much because usually no one listened. But Francis did.
Indeed Francis was listening. He was listening intently to Matthieu's words and trying very hard not to weave his own perverse meaning into them. Cher Matthieu wanted to do something for him? He could think of several very enjoyable things that the young Canadian could do for him, and several more things that he could do for the young Canadian.
"That is not necessary," he murmured, looking down in time to see his phone light up on the counter before it buzzed itself over the edge and towards the floor. Deftly he caught it and answered,
"Salut? Ah, Antoine!" he sighed, "Oui, cherie, I know. Today is really not a good day to- I suppose I do. Fine then," this time his sigh was heavy instead of teasing, "You know I hate his. I'll see you in half an hour. À bientôt."
He put down is phone and scarfed the rest of his toast, looking moribund.
"What's wrong?" Matt asked, picking up the plates to wash them.
"Ce n'est rien. Antonia has a job for me and I really don't feel like it. I just can't stand a lot of what she does."
"Then why do you stick around?" Matthew's only answer was a careless shrug as Francis got up and went to go get dressed.
A few minutes, when he came back out in a pair of dark jeans and a black shirt, Matt was dressed to match.
"C'est mignon, chou, but not funny at all," Francis said, shaking his head.
"I'm coming with you. For moral support. I don't want to be paid for it or anything," he added quickly, "I just don't want to let you go like this; you look like you feel like shit."
The Frenchman nodded and sighed, "If there's no helping it I suppose you can. I can't stop you. Just watch yourself."
~====o)0(o====~
In retrospect – and of course we all know about the clarity of hindsight – Francis should have quite flatly refused to go with Antonia. His night-time terror had left him drained and as stable as a salmon trying to can-can with only one fin.
It was like this, in quite possibly the worst condition to do so – that Antonia lead Francis into a coke den. The owner was cutting a tidy profit and he wasn't handing over nearly enough.
Now the reason the Spanish woman even brought her friend along at all was purely for window-dressing. Despite the fact that he was a little on the short side, had long, wavy blonde hair and always smelt faintly of roses, he was a sturdily built man and did look like he could do someone grievous bodily harm should he be called upon to do so.
The fact that he was loath to even pull out weeds because he didn't like to hurt them wasn't spoken of.
Matt didn't look quite so buff. He was still regaining the body drugs had stolen, but he was tall, and without his glasses to distract from the scars on his face, he cut a reasonably intimidating figure.
It was like this that the two men escorted Antonia into the den, flanking her. They stood resolutely as she smiled and greeted the man to whom she was about to commit a violence and walked into his office.
Antonia had it covered.
~====o)0(o====~
It was right beside him. Just sitting there. No it wasn't. It was just sugar. Or flour. Or corn flour.
Who the fuck did Francis think he was kidding?
Who leaves a plastic bank-bag of corn flour in the middle of a fucking coke den? Nobody, that's who.
It was the ultimate incentive.
That perfectly dirty gutter glitter.
And he wanted it so badly. It was there, if he just stretched out his fingertips-
A large hand came down on his wrist. It was gentle but firm and he looked up to see Matthieu shaking his head slightly.
"Get off me," Francis hiss, shaking his arm in an effort to have it released, "What do you think you're doing?"
"I'm paying you back," Matthew said with a small smile.
~====o)0(o====~
Sommes nous les jouets du destin
Souviens toi des moments divins
Planants, éclatés au matin
Et maintenant nous sommes tout seuls
Perdus les rêves de s'aimer
Le temps où on avait rien fait
Il nous reste toute une vie pour pleurer
Et maintenant nous sommes tout seuls
~====o)0(o====~
This chapter is a little longer, but not by much. This story isn't going to be going on for too much longer ^^
Lovies and hugglies.
By the way, I'm a red-head for the week ^^
~RutheLa