KajiMori, 1silentmouse, Goldpen, Skullover, DeiDeiArtistic, Catsdon'tcry and EmoChickOfDeath, thank you so much!
Coming Up Roses – Elliott Smith
~====o)0(o====~
I'm a junkyard full of false starts
And I don't need your permission
To bury my love
Under this bare light bulb
The moon is a sickle cell
It'll kill you in time
Your cold white brother all right in your blood
Like spun glass in sore eyes
While the moon does its division, you're buried below
And you're coming up roses everywhere you go
Red roses follow
The things that you tell yourself
They'll kill you in time
Your cold white brother alive in your blood
Spinning in the night sky
While the moon does its division, you're buried below
And you're coming up roses everywhere you go
Red roses
So you got in a kind of trouble that nobody knows
It's coming up roses everywhere you go
Red roses
~====o)0(o====~
It had been two months since Matt had peaked in his withdrawal . Sometimes the time went quickly, sometimes fast. But the slower the time was, the worse it felt.
He knew he didn't need magic powder to make the world go away, not when it was so good to breathe fresh air, to see clearly and remember. But he still wanted to. He wanted to forget past hurt and erase the promise of future pain. But that wasn't good enough.
He was noticed now, never forgotten, guiltily doted on, even.
So why did he still want heroin so badly.
He wanted a hero to swoop down and save him from his reality when he knew full well that one already had.
And Francis, well intentioned as he might be, was not helping. Of late he had been swinging between ridiculously thoughtful and downright cold; shutting Matt out completely. What the hell was his problem? Had the Canadian done something wrong? He shrugged it off with some difficulty.
But it was like trying to kick the habit all over again, the doubt that now plagued him chewed on his subconscious, his unconscious, his conscious mind. What had he done wrong?
It had to be something he had done.
~====o)0(o====~
Francis dropped his keys onto the counter, looking eagerly around the apartment for Matthieu before mentally slapping himself through the face with something heavy. It wouldn't be healthy for either of them to get involved. Matt was just getting over his addiction, Francis was still trying to sort out his life and being a drug-dealer (much though he protested it, it couldn't really be denied) and dating a druggie was one of those things that everybody, no matter how little common sense they possessed, classified as "A VERY BAD IDEA!"
So now what was he supposed to do? He couldn't help it. He was falling head over heels for that sweetly charming man and he knew it. He knew it, and he couldn't stop it. Sometimes he would just see something that would remind him, or a little thought such as 'Matthieu is going to hockey later, he'll be hungry,' made his heart soar.
Sometimes he found himself reaching for the young man without realising it, stroking a lock of hair away from his face, trying to make that one, wild curl stay in place, pushing his glasses up his nose for him. Intimate little gestures. They felt perfect, like he was extending himself in doing so.
Of course, then he would pull away. As much as he would have adored falling completely in love with the Matthew and the small kindnesses he provided, he couldn't.
They would both be hurt.
"Matthieu?" he called, carefully scouring the kitchen for notes (it turned out that the infamous vanishing one had been blown off the fridge).
"Salut, Francis," was the sighed answer, and upon investigation, Matthew was sitting on the floor of Francis' bedroom, his knees tucked under his chin.
"Chou, are you alright?" the Frenchman asked concernedly, kneeling besides his inamorato.
"Quite alright, I just," he sighed, looking up, his face wan, "I need it, you know?"
"I know," he said reassuringly, wrapping an arm about the taller man's shoulders, "I know."
~====o)0(o====~
"I have no idea how to play this game," Francis warned, poking the heavy-looking ball dubiously with his stick.
"That's fine," Matt laughed. It pained Francis to see that wide smile on his face. Matthew had never been so happy in his presence before, "I'll show you."
It was a happy afternoon. The Frenchman gradually go the gist of how the game worked, and proved reasonably adept at dribbling, even if he couldn't shoot straight to save his life.
"Look," Matt said patiently, correcting Francis' grip on the shaft of the stick, making his romantic heart flutter, "look at the angle of your stick. Look at the ball. Visualise a line from the ball to the goal, now hit the ball."
He stepped back and let the older man swing. He still missed, but it wasn't nearly as wide.
"There we go! Practise makes perfect!" the Canadian grinned, "Soon, we can play together. It'll be fun. Though ice-hockey is more my game," he shrugged happily, and Francis could only grin stupidly as the other man clapped him on the back with unusual vigour.
~====o)0(o====~
It was that fateful day, six months into Matthew's stay in Francis' apartment that changed the dynamic of their relationship. Francis had asked Matt to accompany him to a rose fair; and the Canadian had agreed.
He had agreed mainly because he thought taking Francis out of the environment I which they usually interacted would stop him being so fucking hot and cold all the time. He was getting so sick of being coddled one minute and practically shoved away the next. It was confusing, which was the last thing he needed right then.
He had got his craving mostly under control, but it still simmered in his skin. He was getting back into the swing of life again, he was doing admin work for a café down the road, he attended NA meetings and he played hockey. He liked spending time with his host. He liked his host.
A lot more than he either liked to admit or even should.
He'd just come out of a serious (seriously toxic) relationship and Francis was way too nice a guy to be a rebound.
But who said he had to be a rebound?
Matt shook his head a little, trying to tune back into the happy-flower-babble that the Frenchman was now spouting. The scent of the flowers was thick in the air, and it made the Canuck want to lean into Francis' hair and inhale, to compare the fragrance. He knew e used rose-scented shampoo (and everything else, which Matt would have laughed at if it didn't suit the other man down to the ground).
"I just need to go see a friend of mine for a second," the older man said, touching Matt's arm, "I'll be right back."
"Roses, sir?" A woman asked. She had a basket full of roses in all sorts of colours, and, Well, I'm at a rose fair. . . Maybe I should get a bunch for Francis? It seems a little gay, but so am I, and it would make a nice thank-you gift, I suppose.
He picked up a bouquet of red and white flowers, breathing in their heady scent.
"How much?" he asked, stoking the velvety petals of a deep red bloom with his fingertips.
"Forty bucks. Special offer for you, sir, because you look like you have someone in mind," she smiled, and he handed over the money.
"Give those to someone special," she cautioned, walking off.
Matt looked down at his bunch. Of the eleven, five were red, five were white and one was a hybrid of both. He smiled down at them.
~====o)0(o====~
There really is no easy way to give someone a rose, especially when you like that someone but don't know if they like you back.
So it came as a mild and welcome surprise when Francis broke the ice with, "I thought you should have this; It reminded me of you," when they got home. It was a single, long stemmed rose in an unusual shade of lavender. Matt nodded and smiled,
"I got these for you, as a sort of 'thanks for letting me crash on your couch' kind of thing," he smiled, handing over the bouquet. Francis looked down at the flowers, and his smile slipped slightly as he looked at them, at the colours and quantity.
"Merci beaucoup," he murmured, taking them off to put them into water.
Red roses; love and respect.
White roses; I am worthy of you.
Red and white; falling in love.
Eleven roses; eternal love, you are my most treasured person.
What was the likelyhood that Matthieu knew that? Absolute buggery.
"Francis, is there something wrong?" Matt asked, the elder man looked like her was shaking.
"Non. It's nothing, I'm fi-" he turned around, spilling water from the vase he was holding all down the Canadian's front.
"Merde, I'm sorry," he muttered, turning around to fetch a cloth to dry him off. By the time he turned back, Matthew had shucked his shirt and was lobbing it at the futon.
He was speaking as he faced Francis, but the older man wasn't listening. He was fighting back a blush and the resulting nosebleed.
This was the first time in months that the Frenchman had seen his crush without a shirt; Matt generally being a little shy since heroin had reduced him to what amounted to a skeleton with skin, and he had been able to wash and cloth himself for quite some time now.
He couldn't tear his eyes away from the expanse of pale skin. It looked much healthier than the last time. It had an inviting lustre about it, and flowed over muscle and bone rather than clinging to them. Squeezing his eyes shut, Francis turned back to the sink and refilled the vase; which he thankfully hadn't dropped and arranged the flowers in them, setting them on the draining board while he dealt with his nose.
"Is your nose bleeding again?" Matt asked, touching the other's shoulder lightly, only to be shrugged off quickly.
"I'm fine."
The blush. When he had taken off his shirt. The nigh-bi-polar behaviour. Getting close then backing away very quickly. Still little gestures.
Freaking out over red roses.
Red roses.
"Give those to someone special."
"You're attracted to me!" Matthew blurted out, forgetting for an instant that he wasn't going to be ignored, "That's why you act all love-y one minute and like you hate me the next. That's why you've been avoiding me and following me around! Why you keep touching me! I should have seen it sooner!"
~====o)0(o====~
Guess who loves a cliffhanger?
Francis got Mattie an Angle Face rose. A single rose means absolute devotion, and pale purple means enchantment and love at first sight. Francis knows this. Matt doesn't.
I'm trying not to make Francis girly, because he is a man. But I kind of think I'm failing.
~RutheLa