Friends and foes
It wasn't like Arthur had an hangover, no. Just, a furious cattle was stomping over and over his neurons, horning into his skull, insane protagonist of a mad corrida. Pressing the pillow to the sides of his head wasn't really helping - apparently, you can't push goose-feathers in your ears, no matter how hard you punch - which eventually got him to roll out of bed with a hoarse lion-like groan. Staggering to the bathroom, hitting only occasionally the frames of his doors or his wobbling furniture, he found a solid ceramic shoulder in his sink, firmly screwed and glued and stuck to the wall - or at least, it should be, after all the duck-tape and paste and epoxy he and Alfred had poured on, upon and behind it in a failed attempt to do some manual work around the house.
There, after a moment of rest spent mostly in the unnecessary effort to catch his perfectly even breath, Arthur's hands rummaged through the drawers hidden in the mirror-wall, searching thoroughly by handling, turning over, disarranging their content till there they were! He eventually found his hangover-pills, his real happy-pills, those big fat white bulgy cowboys, ready to tame the bulls mooing in his brains.
He popped a couple down, perfectly aware of the immediate need to drink, 'cause the bastards sure where helpful, but damn if you forgot to chug half-a-gallon of water after swallowing a couple! Gulping a good pint from the pearly stream flowing out his right tap, Arthur carelessly allowed that controlled rain to leak down the sides of his mouth, pooling right at the base of his chin, where it could easily trail down his tensed neck onto his torso and down again until there was nothing but a small drop of the previous ceaseless river.
Founding himself quite fond of the thought, Arthur splashed some water on his face, drying with wet hands his doused skin before reaching out for a towel. Being it too distant, he had to straighten himself up, inevitably catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror-wall. A wave of disgust, too similar to the nausea you get when sick and about to vomit, dashed across his body, pooling right in the depths of his stomach. His body, so scrawny, so deformed, repelled him. It wasn't its weakness - His body'd never really been weak - but the frailness which permeated its fibers, the stubborn rigidity of his composure, the strive painted on his face. He felt hatred oozing out of those pores, hatred and sadness and scars and loneliness carving his mud-statuary figure. In front of himself there was no man, but wet sand and thick, viscous clot.
With his arm spread to the front, he could easily spot the brownish cuts where he'd put more pressure, the old faint ones, the new purplish wounds, the red ribbons sprawled across his forearm, only halfway to his wrists, only a blow away from his tendons. There is something confusing in self-harm, it is the fresh breath of pure air you need after being stuck underwater for too long and yet, it makes you realise seaweed's still dragging you to the bottom. Cutting is not the problem. Maybe Francis should know - Maybe Francis already knows. He's always known.
Arthur inspects once again the sand-man in the mirror. He's not too bad, if you look really closely. Not too bad - No disfiguring sign on his face, no serious handicap or maimed limb, no burn of any sort, no large war-wound, no brain-tumor deforming his skull. Nothing, but the grumpy cranky old Mr Arthur Kirkland. Yet, there is something different, this is not the Arthur of the day before, not the Mr. Kirkland of two days ago. This Arthur smiles when on the display of his phone that blessed name, Francis, appears, and he smiles whole-heartedly and this glee is pure and genuine and spontaneous and new to the cells of his body, this energy radiating from the inside, lighting up his face, dizzying and twirling his intestines in a confused and frantic dance – and he likes it. The wonderful surprise of a good-morning, Ah! he missed this sensation of serene awkwardness. Arthur reads, carefreely giggling like a school-girl, for he's never felt this good in such a long time.
"Good morning, mon ange :* "
The refreshing French sun was hammering Francis' forehead just not rudely enough for him to wake up, when Belle suddenly slammed the entrance-door just cruelly enough for him to jump and shout "I didn't cheat on you, I swear!"
"Good morning, Princess! Will you drag your wiggling ass to the bathroom or do I have to kick it out of bed myself?" Belle shouted from the corridor. There was smell of freshly-baked croissants in the air and the gurgling of the coffee-machine filling the rare crumbles of silence left here and there by the usual noise of morning traffic, the usual mumbling of his precious half-awoken Paris. Involountarily, Francis suspected Hélène, the pretty girl owning the bakery right on the other side of the street, the big bread-shop with the windows facing the main entrance of the block of flats, might have seen them bickering the day before. But this was already a too complex thought for that early in the morning and he forced its evil out of his brain with a single yawn.
The daylight was too white and crude, though, and barely convinced him to sparkle a twinkle of vitality out of his dazed morning-self - in the form of a session of stretching exercises. Francis in the morning is nothing different from a cat waking up after a long nap. It's not only his hair, messier and wavier than before his grooming-ritual, but the whole of his actions: he stretches out his limbs, rolls to the side, curves his spine, tilts his head to the sides, draws long paths of shadows with his nails in the creamy duvets, arches his back till even his bum is a bundle of red muscles working-out - all counting the majestic presence of his morning-erection waving at him from below layers of fabric.
"Princess, get out of that fucking room! We're gonna be late!"
Rubbing his face in the pillow as his whole spine relaxed, Francis tried to draw away the relient slumber hovering above his pupils - without much success. He then wiggled his bottom to the side till his whole body caught the rhythm and rocked to the left, incautiously taking some blanket with him. Not caring, he twirled again till he reached the very end of his bed, now the blanket wrapped around his body, swallowing it up like a mermaid's tail. He kicked it away effortlessly, powered more by annoyance and fear of another of Belle's shrieks than by actual wish to walk out of his own room. A shallow oscillation and - he was on the floor. Fortunately, the copious amount of blankets and his somewhat-smart reflexes make him land on all-four, with his head only a few millimeters away from the corner of his night-table. Good. The amount of luck you were granted for the day has now been reduced to zero. Thank you for choosing God-is-merciful-even-at-8am, we hope you have a decent day. For further information, advice, complaints, please, do pray. We won't listen.
With the mental image of Her Holiness the Virgin Mary as God's personal secretary, Francis limped to his wardrobe, slammed it open, enjoyed the reek of cigarette coming from the clothes abandoned to the right - the neglected, worn-down ones, the clothes he feet comfortable with.. so comfortable, that they were now impregnated with his own smell and the stinky smoke of those terrible cigarettes he gulped like wine. His eyes arrowed to the side, where he carefully selected a pair of black jeans, not too thigh, not particularly baggy either – but just about the right size that would make Arthur go red with jealousy.
Is Arthur even jealous, though? Francis wondered as he picked up a bright-pink turtleneck sweatshirt. He felt fancy, he felt indeed very gay. As if there was any difference between the Straight Me and the Gay Me, he assured himself as he tip-toed to his night-table to fetch his mobile and choose a pair of clean underpants from the drawers below - It wasn't too bad last night, he thought absentmindedly on smirking at his friend between his legs. Not bad at all.
"Francis!"
"I'm in the bathroom!"
"Like hell you are! C'me on, I don't wanna leave Feli alone with the girls!"
"The girls alone with Feli, you mean!" They chuckled, those two children. It's always like that, when they spend a night together. Not really sharing a bed, but offering each other shelter, giving each other warmth for a couple of hours before resting. They wake up, the first (usually Belle) buys some croissants or madeleines for breakfast, starts the coffee-machine and boils some milk, shouting at the other to be quick, for being alone in the morning can be worse than being alone at night - and they have breakfast, gossip and chat and sip their coffee so heart-wrenchingly slowly, because every minute together is to be treasured, every minute not-alone is to be treasured.
Yet, there is something different today. Francis is not in a hurry, he takes the time of his life to get ready. Even if everything happens so mechanically, he eventually follows the path of his own thoughts today - and he's sure they won't lead him on the wrong path, because Arthur's guarding his happiness now. Or so he likes to believe. Belle's growing sad in the kitchen, but he can't spare but a few thoughts for her - he doesn't even have the necessary sense of guilt to comb his hair more quickly or to refuse a good-morning text to his lover - even if it takes a lot of thinking to find the right words to send to Arthur. Not only a man, Arthur.
Still doubting the efficiency of his text, he even considers shaving his beard, something he doesn't do so very often because of his too sensitive skin. Splashing soothing creams and ammonia on your face to avoid scarring it is a curse he would not wish to his worst enemy either. He therefore postponed the torture to the following day, when Arthur would come and they'd have.. yes.. maybe.. some time for themselves. Together. Yes. Better shaving tomorrow! He promptly told himself as he sponged his body under the warm jet of water of a quick shower.
"Francis!" Belle tiredly cried once more than needed, once more than wished as he strived to put on his clothes and wear some cologne (it had taken him longer than expected to satisfy his "friend", but only Arthur was to blame for this.) and he rushed out of the bathroom, perfectly groomed, ready for this new, new in all senses, day. It is not a good day for Belle, though. Francis is not Francis. This new man, smiling happily, stinking of lavander soap and woman-perfume, this is not Francis. She's not too sure she likes him.
Buttoning up his silver-birch-hued cotton shirt, Arthur pondered a nice but not-too-sugary reply to the ever so sweet message. Here and then, between a sip and the other, he considered these very small steps of his, all heading so very cautiously towards that so longed and feared other side of the street, where pink neon-lights and flashy signs glimmered so very luminously, that you could believe they'd robbed the sky of its stars. Sighing only occasionally, he sometimes found himself posing much more femininely than necessary, with the curves of his left hip excessively exposing their barely-existent roundness. He immediately tried to correct this fatal mistake, which in social situations could bring him to unawaited and unwanted questions - open legs, manly posture, perpetous frown. This will do. Even though it seemed so unnatural, Arthur preferred to show that fictitious picture of himself, his grumpy, angry, annoyed self, than this bright and brand new self. He didn't quite know how to handle all the good fuzzy feelings in his chest still - and he was actually afraid someone would take them away. Better protect your happiness till it's there!
Not only, but a certain part of himself trembled at the possibility someone may interfere with his life more than they already did. Spending that half-an-hour every morning with his co-workers wasn't something he enjoyed particularly, but the episodic laughter those chaps managed to bring out of him and the sheer sarcasm he greeted them with - he didn't really want to lose this all, this climate of fake peacefulness, to be ostracised just because his new bed-mate wasn't a boobs-endowed semen-container with glorious lips covered in goldenfish-red lipstick. Not that all women are inflatable dolls, but seeing how it's been so far... Really, Arthur didn't think anyone with some brain and a little mascara would pick him.
Francis was.. okay, he guessed. An overly-dramatic romantic prick with a small flat in Paris, a somewhat unstable work and a deep affection for him. Francis would do. After spending a night on the phone with him, Arthur was even fairly certain he would allow his hands to glide on his body - of course, only after a couple of glasses of wine! He wasn't too sure he would do anything at all without alcohol in his veins, he sadly admitted to himself while splattering some jam on a toast on waiting for the kettle to beep, signaling water was now warm enough for his second cup of morning-tea.
A few tea leaves in the colander, a couple tea-spoons of sugar, some minutes passing whilst munching on his toast and a dash of milk to taste. Keeping track of the time limping on, he quietly sipped the beige liquid, wondering if he was ready to take the risk every relationship implied.
He took his phone, typed a quick text, swallowed the last bit of toast with a few drops of tea. Of course I am.
"Not really an angel this morning. Too much sugar in your coffee?"
Francis beamed joyfully as he read through the lines on the display, munching his croissant damped in café au lait. Belle was gossiping about some school-mates of her, a certain Sandra and Nadine who happened to be her friends, but Francis was not paying much attention - and this did not go unnoticed. The main topic of conversation did not leave the ground-level, strangely enough for them, used to discussing Phylosophy even this early in the morning, and Belle hoisted a sad and dissatisfied metaphorical flag as symbol of on-going fight and attempted cooperation with this new barrier which wasn't there before. This is what Arthur would say in the evening, explaining to Francis why she distanced herself so much since they had that phone-call.
Time floats by, passes by the shop-windows and through the oak-leaves, under ladies' skirts whilst twirling around their heels and as it goes they drive to their working place, an abandoned asylum just outside Paris, where there is a wonderful, majestic 100 square meters room all for them to exploit. Francis loved the smell of burnt lime of those lonely walls, he adored it from the very first moment he had stepped into the run-down mansion on the hill.
Belle parked right under a dead cherry-tree, struck by a lightning some days before and diagnosticated inevitably dead by the gardener of the village nearby. Somehow, a part of her felt like that cherry-tree. With one last glance, she bid fare-well to her natural self and reached Francis, who was already turning down the handle of the enormous door to enter the perfect location where their art would become reality.
"It was about time! Where have you been, you lazy bums?" Feliciano's voice resounded in the immense room, tingling against every brick, vast and grand and loud like an oceanic tide. "What a nice groom have we here, don't you think, girls?" He observed quite too nastily for Francis' taste, squinting his eyes whilst walking in his peculiar oblique manner towards his face. At the sound of the models' laughter, Francis' smile bloomed to show, inflaming and brightening his face. He felt amazingly, why hiding it, then? Why hiding the light hint of blush on his cheeks at those long-forgotten compliments?
"You look lovely today, boss!", "You're so charming, M. Bonnefoy!", "If only you were less scruffy..".. No, wait. The last one wasn't so nice. Who..?
"You could've at least tried to shave off those hairs from your face, Mr. Perfection." Belle stingily added. "I guess it can't be helped though.." Sighing, she walked off with her PC, starting it as soon as she found a chair where to sit. "Okay, Feli. Let's start."
Feliciano then clapped his hands and his shrill but loud voice bumped against every surface: "Alright, girls! Now tell me: What are you?" Silence crumbled as the models took their positions. "PIGS! Nothing more than dead pigs hanging from the hooks! What are you? CARCASSES! Cows dismembered for our fun! What are you? DEAD! You are dead, our wicked animals, AND WE KILLED YOU!" He stopped wandering around just to shout again: "And now I shall ask anew: WHAT. ARE. YOU?"
Oinks and moos echoed in the room, the models offering a sick morbid show to all of them. Feliciano then proceeded to select those he reputed were better in character and sent them to the dressing room, where Francis awaited. There, they would receive instructions about their role, be dressed and painted. When all the necessary staff had been sent to Francis, Belle and Feliciano, with the help of the spared victims, started building the scene, moving the lights and the drapes in order for it to resemble a slaughterhouse, hiding in strategic places the security cables.
It all seemed to proceed well, if only Francis hadn't noticed that Feliciano and Belle kept murmuring to each other, Feli looking particularly concerned. After having taken the necessary pictures, he decided to discover what their whispering was all about. It surprisingly came out that they needed a new model for the future shots, but none of the presents was suitable enough to convey the message. Being the dead-line so close, they needed to find a scrawny guy who would pass for being in his 30s – yet all they had were either muscular gym-addicted or sharp trim emotionless ghosts.
The issue kept them wondering and silent even at lunch, when Feliciano suddently broke out with "Were have you been lately, Franz?" Feli had a thing for mispronouncing names. Not that his Italian-stained French was that delightful to Francis' ears – hippity-hoppity as it was, bouncing and rolling, with no accent in the right place. He just liked exaggerating. Fortunately, Feli worked for them only occasionally, having a job as director of photography for the national television. He was totally unable to organise anything, but when it came to lights and colours, he was an absolute genious. As Francis needed someone to train Belle and to help him, Feliciano just asked to have a word in what to do – normally, he would just obey orders and requests, whereas with Francis he could be 90% free to choose how to create his own setting. "Give me a paintbrush and I'll show you the world", he used to say.
"I was at a friend's house, we decided to watch the match together and I ended up staying a day longer." Belle eyed the both carefully, munching on her sandwich as the conversation excluded her definetly. Suddently, she felt incredibly uneasy.
"And what's he like, Fran?"
Francis munched the last bit of his lunch, padded his mouth with the napkin and while reaching for his water-bottle replied: "Very nice, kinda bony, blondish, tall as I am."
Feli sipped on his own water, exclaiming: "It would amaze me if you didn't take a picture of him to show us! Or- I'm sure he has a Facebook profile.." Before Francis could say anything, he had already fished out his phone and entered Francis' Facebook, tapping to skim through his friends, reading out loud their names. "Which one?" he asked after a few.
Arthur owned a Facebook. He hardly ever opened it, but he owned one, his profile created as a bet. He never quite resolved on how it worked and deemed it "fuckin' technology, I'll learn how to use you someday". His main purpose was to see what his collegues were up to and to hear from Francis or Ludwig from time to time, but he wasn't much of an addicted. The photos he was tagged in were mostly taken by his co-workers during the occasional birthdays celebrated in the smoking area outside or in front of the vending machines, with champagne in their hands and sometimes a cigarette in the other. Pictures of himself, almost none, but his three profile pictures. Francis took them all: One on their last trip to Brighton years before, another at his wedding, the last one on their Christmas together when he had just recovered. His current profile showed the Christmas photo, with him wearing his jacket and hand-knitted scarf, trembling, red, pale, smiling.
This was the picture Feliciano immediately noticed and beaming, added: "Tell me it's this guy!" Francis was almost forced to agree, having to bear the sequent excited stream of words which abruptly came to an end with the order: "Invite him over! We need him!" In no time, Francis was forced to reply to Arthur's last text with a mellifluous "What time shall I pick you up tomorrow? I can't wait to see you!"
Unfortunately, when Francis eventually answered, Arthur found himself already cornered by that snake undercover that Lily was. She had followed him during the pause, spying on him as he brewed his tea and as soon as he had poured some hot water in his cup, she hopped out of her hidden spot behind the wall to lurk upon him with her sweetest smile plastered on her face.
No explanation needed when she quietly but sternly required him to walk her to the security room, having she "something important" to show. Vash was not in the building, she informed, but he would be back in no time had she called him. Arthur knew it was better not to contradict Miss Zwingli. Had she asked for the moon, the moon would be hers.
Still, this was something more than the moon itself for Arthur. What Lily put her hands on was a video-tape of him and Francis, the video recorded by the security camera in the bathroom. God, you have no mercy. Arthur mentally commented as she displayed it clearly on one of the many televisions in the room. Fortunately, she had had the tact to shoo the staff members away granting them a long pause. She's the boss' sister. Better obey. But Arthur would've strangled her and destroyed the video without hesitation.
However, he did not have the guts. "What do you want me to do?" He mindlessly asked. This unexpected twist gave Lily the power to do anything to him. Nobody had to know – and having Lily knowing was already one person too many.
"Ludwig knows nothing about the video. Yet, he suspects there must be something going on between you and the dear Monsieur Bonnefoy. Vash does not care, but if Ludwig ever asked, he'd hunt you down mercilessly. Everybody chats behind your back, but this is nothing new for you, isn't it? I won't push the rumors any further, but do not give them reasons to intensify their murmuring. Do not care. Neither they care, people just want to talk and you coming out would quench their thirst for gossips." Lily swirled around to face Arthur, her hands now trailing up his shirt. Her forearms slid up his chest, nestling around his neck. Her body was dramatically close. Her face was dramatically close. "I'm just a weak little girl, tiny and defenseless, Mr. Kirkland. And as all little Princesses, all I need to grant my wishes is a good, lovingly, unexpected fairy."
End Ch. 21
The Author is sorry for having kept you all waiting. This Chapter was extremely painful to write, seen that my computer cancelled it multiple times and that personal events kept me away from her PC.
It was an author's choice to switch to English entirely.
Reviews are appreciated!