blink and you'll miss it (2a/?)
anonymous
August 16 2010, 03:34:12 UTC
In Paris, in a cluster of suburbs within driving distance of the Élysée Palace, there is a house huddled close together with the others.
Just past the front door lies the entrance hall. The shale tile is faded, cracks appearing in the cement that holds it together. The mirror to the left needs polishing, and one could gather a handful from dust that collects in the glass ashtray.
To the left, there is a coat closet, the off-white paint chipped and peeling in places. At shoulder-height, there is a single smear of rusty, ugly red almost faded to brown. If one squints, they might be able to make out fingerprints.
But nobody is there to see. No one knocks on the door, and no one answers.
deux.
When the elevator doors slide closed, Francis allows himself a moment to breathe and press the back of his head against the elevator. “You made it, Francis,” he tells himself, and chuckles.
To let it sink in, he brings to mind little things from the ride here; a sign pointing towards a restaurant, the songs on the Edith Piaf CD in his car. Not once did he blink and wonder why he’s standing in the bathroom, staring at his own reflection. Not once did he find fresh cuts on his arm that he can’t remember making.
(Not once did he look back on the years of his life between 1942 ad 1945 and wonder what he did and said beyond the few clear, sharp memories he has of London’s streets as he stands in them with Arthur.)
Francis grins as the elevator doors slide open and present Francis with a red-and-gold carpet and white walls. Francis smiles at the cream-colored doors and their polished gold knockers; his back is straight and his heart beats a bit faster.
“I won’t tell you I love you, kiss or hug you….
Francis smiles as he hears and feels Alfred’s off-beat voice vibrating in the ground. His smile widens as he opens the crack in the door a little wider.
Wind blows in through the open window, ruffling the rose-print linen curtains. Alfred dances about the room, shirtless, his jeans hanging low on his hips and his stars-and-stripes tie slapping against his skin as he sways and sings into his invisible microphone. Francis takes in his shut eyelids, the way his Adam’s apple bobs with each off-key note he sings.
“ - ’cause I’m just bluffin with my muffin. I’m not lying, I’m just stunnin’ -”
“With your love glue-gunning, non?”
Francis holds back his laughter as Alfred’s entire body freezes, his eyes flying open as his mouth opens and closes. Francis allows himself a smile instead, making his way over Alfred’s laptop and hitting the pause button with a click of the mouse. “Working hard, mon cher?” Francis asks, quirking an eyebrow over his shoulder.
“Um,” Alfred replies. And Francis’s body warms remembers one reason why he loves Alfred shirtless, watching a ripe red blush bloom on Alfred’s neck, over his shoulders and down his chest. “I, uh -”
Francis feels his body tingling, and his throat starts bubbling with little endearments and innuendos that would make Alfred chuckle. He lets those tingles carry him to Alfred in less than three steps. His smile fades, and he lets his eyelids lower to half-mast as his fingers latch in Alfred’s tie. “Less bluffing, then,” Francis purrs, pulling him closer. “More stunning.”
“Oh fuck yes,” Alfred breathes, and in the span of a laugh Francis finds himself on his back, pinned to the bed as Alfred runs his hands over Francis’s white shirt, cupping his hips as he nuzzles Francis’s hair. “Jesus Christ, I’ve missed you,” he murmurs into Francis’s ear.
Francis smiles and doesn’t say a word, just reaches up to cup the back of Alfred’s head. “I’ve missed you, too,” Francis whispers into the skin on Alfred’s jaw, bunching light-soft hair beneath his fingertips as he licks that little spot, tasting salt and a little Old Spice.
Francis pauses, and he feels Alfred do the same. He feels thumbs rubbing at his hips, and even when he closes his eyes he can feel the light and warmth just behind his eyelids. And just for a moment, Francis imagines that he is in love, that it’s just them and no one else.
blink and you'll miss it (2b/?)
anonymous
August 16 2010, 03:36:04 UTC
His eyes fly open when he feels Alfred’s hands move fast, pinning his wrists to the bed. Francis opens his mouth, but Alfred gobbles up his half-formed words, opening his own lips and shoving his tongue against Francis’s.
A drawing flashes in front of his eyes of Arthur looking into Alfred’s eyes, leaning in, kissing him even as he violates the nation he raised.
(And something else presses its way into Francis’s mouth, hard and bitter and all the way to his throat and he can’t breathe, can’t do anything but shut his eyes and go far away -)
Francis’s body spasms, arches, reacts. He blinks, only to find Alfred on his back, staring up with big, bemused eyes, lips parted and eyebrows arching up in confusion and hurt. Francis wonders when he started panting, but finds he can’t stop sucking air down.
“Francis?” Alfred asks, and Francis’s gut twists at the hurt in that voice. “Francis are you -”
I hurt him, Francis thinks, he’s hurting because of me - I can’t - I’m so sorry I’ll kiss it better Alfred just don’t look so hurt -
Fog settles over Francis’s mind, and he feels himself separate, shift. His panic beats at his body; it goes ignored as Francis bends down and presses his lips to Alfred’s. He kisses Alfred, his hands spreading across Alfred’s ribs and chest to undo his tie and fling it away.
“Oh,” Alfred gasps when their lips part, his voice a high, breathless note of want as his hips twitch up against Francis’s thigh. “Fran - Francis, can I -.”
Francis’s fingers tweak a nipple, and his lips attach to Alfred’s neck as he throws his head back. Francis kisses down Alfred’s neck - just the way he likes it, with rough little nips and licks to bruise the skin. Alfred loves that, so Francis gives it to him, gives him undone jeans and a hand on his hard cock, tightening his fingers to try and stem the trembling.
Knowing what Alfred likes makes it easier to drift and ignore the part of his mind that wants to fall apart and scream. The sex seems to speed up without even going faster; Francis only catches glimpses of what his body’s doing.
Blink, and he’s tonguing the crook of Alfred’s elbow.
Blink, and he kisses curve of Alfred’s anklebone, his jeans hanging off the left side of the bed. His open mouth moves up to the thigh, his tongue tasting coarse hair and skin.
Blink, and Francis finds his lips pressed to Alfred’s hipbone; his eyes flick up to find Alfred staring down at him, eyes hazy with lust, lips parted and nostrils flared as he breathes in and out. Something in Francis starts to thrill when he realizes that Alfred’s cock is twitching against his fingers, that he’s giving Alfred pleasure -
His panic flares up again, and suddenly there’s SLUT in black on Alfred’s chest and he’s sobbing and confused and begging just like he was, just like when they carved the gamma into his flesh -
“Francis, wait -”
It happens so quick. One moment, he’s taking Alfred into his mouth.
Blink, and he’s sitting up, coughing, forcing his throat to loosen up as Alfred rubs his back and shushes him. His eyes squeeze shut and his gut recoils and he can’t stop shaking.
“’m - sorry,” Francis says, his voice forced and wobbly with restrained bile. “Sorry,” he says again, and hopes that Alfred thinks the crack in his voice is from a gag reflex he conquered long ago.
“Hey, hey, shh,” Alfred coos, pulling Francis into the crook of his neck a running his free hand up and down Francis’s back. “You’re okay, baby, you’re okay.”
And the panic inside Francis flutters up again. Such a failure, it whispers, shame on you when Alfred needs you most.
“Let me take care of you,” Alfred whispers, and Francis tenses when he feels fingers ghosting over his cock.
Francis hears Alfred yelp, feels his hands pinning him to the bed, but he doesn’t really see anything as he sears Alfred’s mouth with a hot kiss, swallowing down Alfred’s moan. It doesn’t even feel bad anymore - just a little numb. He can’t sense the temperature of the lube on his fingers and hopes that Alfred’s cry is one of pleasure. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, he chants in his head.
blink and you'll miss it (2c/?)
anonymous
August 16 2010, 03:40:40 UTC
Fuck me tenderly. Here's the actual 2c.
Fingers writhe beneath his shirt, and Francis starts back with a yelp. For a split-second he senses blue eyes on him, hurt and confused. “…The shirt stays on,” Francis says. “That hasn’t changed.”
“O-okay,” Alfred says as Francis climbs out of his pants and slicks himself up with lube. “Francis, are you sure you’re -”
“I’m fine,” Francis replies, hoping his voice sounds more cheerful than he feels as he presses Alfred back into the bed. “I’m just fine,” he murmurs, and feels Alfred sigh against his lips as he slides inside, slow and steady. Alfred’s warmth bleeds through the linen of Francis’s shirt, squeezes around Francis’s cock. Francis pushes himself away, hands braced on either side of Alfred’s head. He holds himself up on trembling arms as he gulps down air like cold, clear water.
He swallows Alfred’s moan as he swallows and holds his entire body away from Alfred as his arms tremble and he sucks down air like water. His hips twitch, and he starts to thrust.
Alfred leans up and paints sloppy, saliva-laden words all over Francis’s cheek. But Francis can’t hear him, can’t hear anything over the pulse of his own hips in and out of Alfred. He’s memorized how Alfred moves when they fuck, knows that an extra little roll of his hips while he’s buried to the hilt will make Alfred choke and his eyelashes flutter.
“Francis,” Alfred all but sobs, and strong fingers lace themselves in Francis’s hair to drag him down for a kiss. Francis moves his lips so he kisses the side of Alfred’s mouth instead, and then twists his wrist just so on Alfred’s cock.
And in the moments when blood beats fastest and moans come loudest, Francis’s breath catches as he sees a split-second image of a tear-streaked face stained with drying white and black marker shouting guilty guilty GUILTY -
Alfred squeezes around his cock, and Francis unravels and winks out of existence for the span of a second. When his senses come back, he realizes he’s slipped out of Alfred and pressed his face into the pillow. His chest and belly feel sticky with Alfred’s come; warm air ghosts over his left ear, filled with just the hint of a chuckle.
“Francis…” Alfred starts, and Francis feels his muscles tense. “Francis, wait, it’s not -”
Francis flinches and fists the sheets in his hands. He rolls off of Alfred and onto his back, staring up at the canopy and the spiderweb of cracks in the ceiling. With a sigh, his eyes slide shut, and he rolls onto his side, tucking a hand underneath his head.
Francis almost flips around again with a punch at the ready when strong arms wrap around him from behind and tug his back into a chest warmed by inner fire. One hand comes up to rub at Francis’s elbow, and the other reaches down to massage Francis’s belly.
“Cripes, you’re tense,” Alfred murmurs, and Francis feels the corner of a smile on his cheek as Alfred nuzzles the side of his face and rubs against his stubble. “Thanks for inviting me early. I think we both need this vacation.”
“Mm,” Francis says in reply, and gives thanks to his throat for drawing the single out into something satisfied and syrupy. His afterglow is catching up to him; everything seems soft and comfortable, the cool air conditioning in sharp contrast with soft sheets and shared heat. The afternoon light filters through the blinds, breaking sunlight into sharp, bright slivers that scatter all over the floor. Everything else in the room - the metal posts on the bed, the mahogany dresser, even the canopy over the bed - seems to catch that glow and hold it in a soft sheen.
Francis’s eyes flutter as Alfred’s fingers slow down. It’s funny, he thinks, how everything seems so much clearer on the cusp of sleep. ___
Francis wakes, but he does not open his eyes. It must be night; it’s pitch black on the inside of his eyelids. Francis draws a breath in through parted lips and tries to lick his lips.
His thoughts stutter to a halt when his tongue stays flat and motionless inside his mouth. His hands won’t come up to rub at his eyes. Nothing in his body will obey his brain. His wrists feel heavy and his skin melted, stuck.
blink and you'll miss it (2d/?)
anonymous
August 16 2010, 03:42:31 UTC
His heart rate skyrockets when he hears footsteps. No, not footsteps. Boots walking around the room, on concrete. Clothes rustling and falling to the ground. More walking.
The soldier is taking his time, Francis realizes with a jolt. He knows Francis is helpless, immobile, and he’s enjoying it.
Francis tries to move again, his heart slamming fists against his ribcage. His mouth. An eyelid. Anything get me out of here get me out -
Leather hands fist in his hair, and a voice speaks from somewhere just below his sternum as something presses against his mouth:
“Stop crying, stand straight, and act like the Nation you are for your people’s sake.”
And then he feels his mouth filling, his throat closing, he can’t breathe, can’t -
“NO -”
His body releases him; Francis sits up with a yelp and widened eyes, looking around the room with an arm raised. Oxygen flows to his brain, and he realizes he’s in a room with a plush carpet and desks and bright afternoon sunlight filtering in. There are no fingers in his hair, nothing blocking his windpipe. He’s safe. He’s all right.
Francis turns his head to find Alfred fast asleep. His strong arms hug the pillow, and a little bit of drool dribbles from the side of his mouth. Their shoulders are not quite touching, but close enough that Francis feels their warmth.
Francis sighs, reaching up and trying to smooth Alfred’s cowlick down into something like order. He gives up on the third try, sighing and stretching as he swings his legs over the bed. He shivers in the air-conditioning, drawing his shirt closer over his body as he goes into the bathroom..
There are bits of shaving cream littered all over the sink. Alfred didn’t put the cap on his toothpaste, didn’t even bother to rinse off his toothbrush. Francis thinks he should shudder at the thought that it’s been this way since last night, but he’s too tired to do anything but smile and shake his head.
His teeth taste disgusting, Francis decides as he runs his tongue over the top row. Francis tiptoes his way to his bag, thankful that he had the foresight to drop it near the bathroom, and roots around until he feels the old, familiar leather of his toilet kit on his fingertips. Back in the bathroom, he starts humming his national anthem as he unzips the bag and tips it over.
His hum dies a swift, painless death in his throat when he sees the straight razor fall out first, its polished ivory handle glinting in the harsh bathroom light.
“When did I pack you?” Francis murmurs, and the air feels like pudding again as he reaches down and touches his fingertips to the roses carved into the ivory. The material feels smooth and elegant underneath his fingertips, cool and gentle.
Francis picks the razor up, and somewhere in his mind he hears himself begging to stop as he flicks his wrist and lets the razor fall free, bouncing against the stabilizer. It’s been a long time since he’s actually shaved, he realizes. The blade still shines against the light, free of shaving cream or bits of blond hair.
It really has been a long time since he shaved.
His hands go to his shirt; he unbuttons it and lets it fall away from his body, pooling on the floor behind him.
He remembers that Alfred saw him shirtless only once, had touched his shoulder and asked him to talk all about his battle scars with wide, bright eyes.
Francis runs his fingers over the scars and scratches on his arms and almost laughs to himself. Battle scars, he thinks, and his fingertips tingle as they remember every razor and knife he’s held against the skin of his arms.
His fingers stop when they reach the shoulder of his left arm. Without looking, his fingertips trace the circle, follow the gamma symbol tucked inside of it. He squints his eyes at his own reflection and tries to remember when he got it. Maybe the second or third night after Petain signed the armistice with Germany -
Francis squeezes his eyes and shakes his head.
He looks down at his hand to find one long, deep slash right across the gamma symbol. Beads of blood seep out and grow, joining together to run down his arm.
blink and you'll miss it (2e/?)
anonymous
August 16 2010, 03:43:23 UTC
Francis swallows as his mind starts to race. When did I - how - what - he thinks, but his body seems to move on its own, drawing one, and then two more cuts across the Milice’s precious coat of arms. Just one more cut, he promises himself, just one more -
A glint of light against the sink catches his attention. Francis blinks, lowering his arm and razor as he tears his eyes away from his reflection to get a better.
It’s a chain, he realizes. A thin, slinky thing that winds around in a haphazard circle towards a pendant. Francis sets aside his razor and picks it up, his eyes drawn down towards the pendant. A cross, he realizes after a moment. A cross, with one smaller vertical line just above a longer one.
“This is your coat of arms,” he hears de Gaulle tell him through layers and layers of decades. “This is proof that you will always be free.”
And beneath that voice, Francis glimpses a sunny day and the back of a girl’s head with long, tied-back brown hair. God told me what you are, he hears her say, so do not despair, for I will fight to free you from your bonds.
Francis squeezes his eyes shut and presses the cross to his chest. It’s hard to breathe this chilly air, to stay still within this tiny bathroom. He leaves, hoping a wider space will make him feel better; his eyes go straight to the armchair to find a thick, warm-looking quilt sitting there.
Alfred’s picnic quilt, Francis thinks, walking over and running his hand over the fabric. He sighs a little, feeling the red-white-blue pattern of stars and stripes under his fingertips. They’ve eaten on it, stargazed on it, and Francis remembers one or two times where he pushed Alfred back and seared kisses all over that beautiful face -
Francis’s gut twists, and he makes his way over to the suitcase. His clean hand flings clothes this way and that, until he finds suitably dark clothes. His white dress shirt lies forgotten on the bathroom floor as he pulls on a long-sleeved black cotton shirt. ___
Something changes once Francis steps out into the crisp, late afternoon air.
The sun hangs golden in a cloudless sky, reflects off the lake and shows every little piece of algae, every ripple left by a water strider. A weeping willow hangs its branches down, a bit of inviting shade in an endless field of green grass.
Francis doesn’t smile, but he feels his steps grow lighter with his heart as he makes his way over to the willow. He’s not giddy by the time he spreads the quilt out in the shade, but something is different. Stabilized. He feels the grass as he spreads out on the blanket, his fingertips just over the edge; birdsong chirps in his ears, distant and wild, and sunlight winks at him through the shifting willow branches.
Francis sucks in a deep breath, and then another. And as his body grows heavy and his eyelids slide shut, he remembers that this is what it’s like to be alive. ___
- A related symptom of RTS is self-harm. I plan on getting into Francis’s reasons later on, but people self-injure for a number of reasons. Some do it to punish themselves, while others do it because it’s the only way they can express anger or sadness, while still others do it because it helps them to dissociate/come back to reality, and still others do it because they tie in pain with sexuality.
- The Cross of Lorraine (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cross_of_Lorraine) is a heraldic cross with two horizontal lines over one vertical one. It was Jeanne d’Arc’s symbol, and it was used by the Free French in WWII as an answer to the Nazi swastika.
Comments/concrit/questions are always welcomed. Thank you very much for reading!
Re: blink and you'll miss it (chapter 2 notes)
anonymous
August 16 2010, 05:19:58 UTC
I'm already loving this fill too much for my own good. But you do portray Francis' confused mind so well... It's perfect. How it all gets mixed up in his head and he's telling himself he's trying to take care of Alfred when the gangbang never even happened and he himself is actually the one who needs help. And how he still manages to keep up the illusion that everything's alright... or well, almost manages to.
To be honest, I kind of hate it when people link to sources when it comes to mental problems. I know, it's irrational. I even find psychology interesting myself. It's just that... I don't like it when people use it on individual cases. You can't just pull out a book and point at a diagnosis like it explains everything... I don't know.
I hit myself when I want to punish myself. With a brush handle. It hurts more and leaves less marks for others to see. Cutting is more like what I do when nothing else gives me pleasure or when I need to calm myself (because it's so easy to concentrate on the knife and the skin and forget the mess of emotions for a while, and I love watching the blood pushing out and it makes me feel so calm and peaceful)... it's almost like a reward, but I try not to do it anymore because it worries my family and friends...
Ah, thank you so much! I'm glad you're enjoying it. <3
It's just that... I don't like it when people use it on individual cases. You can't just pull out a book and point at a diagnosis like it explains everything... I don't know.
Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry that it came out that way! It's just that I am very used to showing my research and sources when I write - that way, if someone says something like, "You're an idiot, that could never happen," I can counter with at least a little research. My headcanon tells me that Francis has a lot of baggage that I think helped serve as a catalyst for his current behavior, because you're right, this isn't simple. And it's not going to get any simpler from here on in.
Oh, anon. *hugs* Please believe me when I say that I know. I know what it's like. I've been cutting since tenth grade, and while I've gotten better...there's always that little trigger, that something that makes me panic - cutting's how I calmed myself down. I've been trying to move on to rubber bands - it's not the same, but it's getting there.
Writernon is delighted!
anonymous
August 17 2010, 03:18:44 UTC
Oh, that's wonderful! I was a little worried at first, since it focuses more on Francis than Alfred, but I'm glad that it's worked out for the best, and that you're enjoying the history!
blink and you'll miss it (3a/?)
anonymous
August 22 2010, 19:39:07 UTC
In Paris, there is a tired, worn-down house covered with graffiti and ravaged by rain. There is a bloody, smeared handprint in the entrance hall, and the floor is in disrepair.
If one ventures into the hall a few steps more, they’d find a sitting room to their right. The room bloats with the smell of mildew and smoke; there are cards sprawled out over a coffee table. Mice have nibbled at the loveseat cushions to make their nests; the paintings hanging on the wall are faded and cracked. On a chest just beneath a window, there’s a small bowl of potpourri. The years have browned everything in it, and one must have a good imagination to catch the scent of rose oil on the petals and leaves.
No one replaces it, because no one ever comes in.
trois.
“BOO!”
Francis’s muscles tense, his eyes flying open to look up into big blue eyes and a pair of glasses backlit by the evening sun. Alfred grins so wide and big that Francis can see almost every single on of his white teeth.
Francis doesn’t move, his face and eyes blank as he stares up into Alfred’s face. He watches Alfred’s smile fade, his eyebrows lifting up in worry. “…Hey…hey, Francis, are you -”
“Raaaaagh!” Francis booms up at him, pulling his lips back over his teeth and putting his entire voice into the roar. His roar dissolves into laughter when Alfred yelps, falling back a little bit on his hands.
“Not fair,” Alfred whines, sniffling as Francis brings a hand up to wipe away his tears of laughter. “After I decided to be nice and bring you dinner and everything, since you didn’t show up for it.”
“Oh, you brought food?” Francis asks, grinning and rolling over on his belly - and sure enough, there’s a tray with a plate of ratatouille, two wine glasses, and two forks. “May I have one of those forks, please?”
Alfred hands over one of the forks, putting the tray down between them. “Confit byaldi okay with you?” Alfred asks, taking his own fork and gesturing to the pile of eggplant in the middle of the plate.
Francis feels his eyes light up, a delighted smile startling onto his face. “You even got the name right,” Francis praises, stealing a bite away. His heart warms a little at Alfred’s returning grin, and maybe it’s because this summer evening is so beautiful, but he lets himself enjoy how it beats a little faster.
“Yeah…well, um,” Alfred murmurs, smearing his bite in some of the tomato-and-pepper sauce, “it’s - well, it’s what you call it, right? And Madame and Monsieur Durand make it every time I visit.”
Francis nods and smiles around his fork. He curls his free hand into the grass, feeling his cut throb a little. His smile fades as he thinks to the afternoon, and he feels his jaw slow down as he thinks.
“Something on your mind, Francis?” Alfred asks, cocking his head as he takes a sip of his wine.
Francis blinks. “I’m sorry.” He twirls a piece of grass in his fingers. “I mean, about earlier today when we….” Francis trails off and plucks the grass from the ground.
“What are you talking…oh. That.” Alfred stops chewing his food for a moment, and Francis gives an internal sigh of relief that his mouth is closed for once. Alfred chews a little more and swallows, his brow furrowing as he looks up at the willow tree.
“I’m glad you’re here now,” Alfred answers. “Eating and joking with me, I mean. I like it when you do that - it means you’re not thinking about someone else.”
Francis feels his cheeks warm as he ducks his head. This is ridiculous - he’s acting like a schoolgirl. He makes a note to not drink any more wine tonight before he remembers that he hasn’t even touched his glass yet. “I - I didn’t realize,” he murmurs, stealing the last piece of ratatouille instead and smiling a bit too wide. “I’m sorry, Alfred.”
“Nah, it’s okay,” Alfred says, even though the edges of his smile seem too tight and his eyes don’t crinkle as usual. “I mean, you said it yourself - you don’t want to be exclusive.”
“Mm,” Francis says, and he’s trying to pay attention, but it’s hard when Alfred’s staring at him all sweet like that, the evening light glittering in his hair. “Come here and sit with me.” He pats the empty space on the quilt for emphasis.
blink and you'll miss it (3b/?)
anonymous
August 22 2010, 19:41:35 UTC
Alfred beams at him, and Francis feels the afternoon sunshine in that smile as he rolls onto his back and lets Alfred slide in beside him. Francis shuts his eyes and just enjoys the comfortable warmth of a cooling day. The lake must be liquid gold by now, the grass waving in the wind, the clouds touched on the edges by gold.
“Francis? What’cha thinking about?”
Francis feels wriggling beside him, and he turns his head and opens his eyes to find his nose an inch away from Alfred’s. Alfred lies on his belly, his chin resting on his crossed forearms and his eyes half-mast and twinkling behind his glasses. Evening light glints off his sunglasses and eyes, even glimmering on the edges of Alfred’s grin.
Francis remembers that he should be breathing, should be thinking about what he’s doing. But in this evening towards the end of summer, he cannot help himself. “Nothing in particular,” Francis sighs out, his eyelids fluttering slowly as he moves his head and dovetails his mouth into a soft kiss.
Alfred sighs, leaning into the kiss and pressing his smile to Francis’s mouth. Laughter sparks across Francis’s throat, and he lets a few chuckles slip out for Alfred’s tongue to catch and taste. But he doesn’t move anything else except his neck and lips, teasing Alfred by moving back and forth. Waiting. Waiting for….
He strikes when Alfred rolls onto his side and props himself up on one elbow. Francis’s arms flow up to wrap around Alfred’s shoulders and roll him onto his back. With a yelp and a laugh, Alfred’s snared in a tangle of limbs, wriggling and arching up as Francis sinks back into their kisses like a hot, steaming bath. His own hands come up to scratch at Alfred’s scalp, relishing Alfred’s sighs as he trails fingertips down his neck and over his chest, all the way down to his jeans.
Francis cups Alfred through his jeans and sucks in a pointed, helpless gasp as Alfred’s cock swells and twitches against his palm. Jitters play across his muscles, and with a moan he tries to break his kiss with Alfred, seized by a sudden desire to nuzzle his hair and inhale the strawberry-scented shampoo that Alfred snuck out of his travel bag.
Alfred growls in response as Francis pulls away, and in a split-second teeth latch on to Francis’s lower lip and nip, hard.
Francis gasps at the pain, his eyes widening as his skin comes alive with tingles and his cock twitches in his pants. He jerks back and looks down at Alfred, wide-eyed and panting to Alfred’s confused blinks.
“F…Francis, you oka -”
Francis ducks down and swallow’s Alfred’s apology before it can slip out, to swallow it down and ride the waves crashing through his body and sending blood to his cock. With a flick of the wrist and a downward zip he undoes Alfred’s pants. “So thoughtful,” Francis murmurs, supporting the arch of Alfred’s hips as he pulls his boxers and jeans down around his thighs and skitters fingertips up the heartbeat pulsing through hard, hot flesh.
“Ohgod,” Alfred croaks out, and Francis laughs and licks those plump, blood-swollen lips as he thumbs the skin just beneath Alfred’s cockhead. Alfred’s body glows in heat, like a lighting furnace, and Francis delights in the build, pulling back just a bit so he can watch the light flare to life in Alfred’s eyes.
Alfred’s smiles leave him breathless, and Francis feels compelled to follow the arch and curl of Alfred’s powerhouse arms resting above his head, his palms up and fingers curled in. His eyes are half-mast and glistening, and his smile, oh, that smile is so wide and easy that Francis can see white teeth and dimples.
“Merde,” Francis whispers, a sharp, single cut of sound. He lets go of Alfred long enough to undo his own pants and wrap his hand around both their cocks. “Alfred, Alfred,” he says, chanting Alfred’s name like a prayer, even as every cell in his brain whispers stop it, stop it.
“Mmm,” Alfred hums in reply, and then strong arms wrap around Francis’s neck, pulling him down into a kiss.
blink and you'll miss it (3c/?)
anonymous
August 22 2010, 19:42:58 UTC
Francis’s breath catches on the lump in his throat, and his hand stutters but doesn’t stop. Strong arms cradle his shoulders as they would a child, and sunshine spreads spots of warmth on his back. The air drapes him in a blanket woven of late summer, and the heat makes scents seem stronger as he breathes in Alfred’s musk, breathes Alfred.
Every muscle in Francis’s body tenses. He gasps in a shuddering breath as his fingers clench and he comes all over Alfred’s stomach. His hand spasms in a few last, violent jerks that make Alfred grunt and curl fingers into Francis’s hair, jerking Francis’s head down into the crook of his neck as they shudder together, anchored against one another. Francis pants and forces his breathing even as the shivers slither off their bodies in easy, loose waves.
Alfred breaks the silence first; Francis feels it in his shoulders before Alfred breaks out into quiet chuckles. “I…w-wow,” he gets out between growing laughs. “That was awesome!”
The warmth and ease in Alfred’s tone that makes Francis own lips relax into a smile. He doesn’t share Alfred’s warm laughter, but he does prop himself up on one elbow and crook an eyebrow. “Was it now?” he asks, his tone a twirl of amused and intrigued. “Why?” he prods, curious and eager for feedback.
Alfred tilts his head forward a little, and Francis jerks his own head back to keep a few centimeters between them. But he can’t avoid the tip of Alfred’s nose as his eyes flutter open and shine brilliant blue up into Francis’s face. “Because you were here with me,” Alfred answers, his tone colored with shades of lazy summer afternoons. “You looked at me.”
Francis’s smile falls for a split-second as questions dance a do-si-do in his head. “I…did? Darling, I always look at you, don’t I?”
Francis’s stomach drops when Alfred doesn’t answer right away, and Francis can only watch the shadow-lace of sun and tree branches on Alfred’s face as he looks up into the sky. “It’s what I was talking about before,” Alfred answers, his thumb tracing the dip of Francis’s spine. “I mean, yeah, you look at me when we have sex, but sometimes you don’t actually…look at me,” Alfred says. Francis jolts as one of Alfred’s hands comes up to cup his face, his thumb brushing the corner of Francis’s eye. “It’s like you look at something else - like you think too hard instead of just enjoying it.”
Francis opens his mouth, but only soft breath escapes into the summer air. He inhales another breath, tries again, and fails. “Alfred,” he whispers on the third try, and he wants his voice to be smooth and easy and seductive, not trembling and held together by his will alone, dwarfed by the knowledge that he’s a poor lover to Alfred. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize -”
“It’s okay!” Alfred chirps, far too loud and cheerful as his thumb moves up to Francis’s temple and rubs the soft, tender skin. “I mean, it wouldn’t be very heroic of if I forced you to talk about it, even if I did want to save you. But, you know, if you asked to be saved, I’d totally do it. ‘Cause, um. That’s what heroes do.”
Saving, Francis thinks, and realizes how warm and relaxed he feels, his shoulder blades tensing at the thought. Is that what you’re calling it, Alfred?
“Well, I do appreciate the sentiment,” Francis says instead, and lets seduction grow around the thorn in his throat to make his voice a smooth, sensual pearl. “But we’re not exactly in need of saving, are we?”
“Depends on who you ask,” Alfred replies, still looking up into the blue, blue sky. When his eyes flick back to look at Francis, he’s not smiling.
Francis’s smile falls, too, and his fingers clench into a fist at the way Alfred’s brows furrow and his eyes search, Francis’s face. “I….”
But Alfred cuts him off with a shake of his head and a tired smirk. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I like it like this,” Alfred says, gesturing to the sky and the rippling grass around them. “I like you like this.” Alfred gestures to Francis with a shrug and lopsided, lazy smile that Francis can’t help but tuck a stray blade of grass into, even as he feels his own smile come back and his eyes crinkle up as he fights back tears.
blink and you'll miss it (3d/?)
anonymous
August 22 2010, 19:45:58 UTC
I’ll give you this, then, Francis promises, to both this Alfred in front of him and the abused, violated Alfred that hangs as a ghost-image behind Francis’s eyes. I’ll give you this if it’s what it takes to make you happy.
“We should go back in, Francis, we’ve got work to -”
Francis bends down and kisses the edge of Alfred’s mouth, tasting skin and just a hint of vinaigrette. A moan purrs through his throat as he licks the corner of his mouth. He wants to linger here, second after slow second, just tasting blackberry and skin.
But when Alfred turns his head into Francis’s mouth, he chooses to duck instead to plant a quick kiss on Alfred’s chin.
“Someday I’ll get you to kiss me on the lips outside of sex,” Alfred says, and his voice bubbles and grates in a husky murmur.
The air blows around them in a warm embrace, making Francis’s chest bubble and lighten. Sandwiched between the summer sky and Alfred’s summer smile, Francis believes with every cell in his body that all these thoughts that make him sick will go far, far away and let him stand in the sunlight. ___
The sun might shine outside; it might be rainy. But this dark hallway, this house in Paris near the Élysée Palace has no windows, just rose-colored walls and an ivory white door at the end.
Francis stands stiff, back straight, fingers curled at his side. Distant laughter and winding, silk-soft flute notes float up from behind him, their notes scratching and clawing at the gramophone needle.
And he knows this song, The Musical Offering, has even played parts of it in his own orchestras on occasion. His heart races and his fingers pulse as they recall pressing into the tone holes and teasing out the riddles hidden in the melody. His palms start to sweat as his mind races, tripping over its own cyclone of thoughts.
The door stars to open, inky blackness pawing at the crack, and Francis feels the door’s creaking all the way to his very marrow, deafening over the music as the flute gives way to the harpsichord.
Francis starts, eyes flying open, a cry trapped in his throat as he comes face-to-face with fluffy rose-colored towels and white, shiny tile.
Francis blinks once, twice, and bits and pieces of the present click and slide together. 2010. Bed and breakfast. World Meeting in four days. Right.
Francis’s teeth throb with anxiety, and his temples pulse a slow, painful drumbeat as he opens the bathroom door to find early morning sunlight sprawling over their room’s window. Alfred slumps on the bed, typing away, and from his open laptop Francis hears high, darting notes and a quickness that makes him tense up and shudder, a small sound slipping from his throat.
Alfred looks up, eyes wide and mouth agape as he clicks a button and halts the music. “Ah - haha, guess I got caught up in my work. I don’t usually listen to that kind of stuff.” Alfred grins, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Francis says nothing and musters up enough strength to kiss Alfred’s cheekbone when he comes over. He smiles a bit as their lips play a game of chase over their faces and Alfred curls his fingers into Francis’s flannel night shirt. “Gonna get this off you one day, too,” Alfred murmurs in a voice warm and husky with a smile.
Francis smiles, because wiser lovers have said the same thing so many times before, and he leans up to peck a kiss onto Alfred’s nose. “Go shower,” he says, and moves his left hand away when Alfred moves to take it in his own, keeping his fingers carefully tucked in towards his palm as Alfred’s fingertips brush the back of his hand.
Alfred’s face falls, but Francis takes two steps back before Alfred can try again. They stand in a stalemate for a few seconds; Alfred breaks it with a sigh and a shake of his head, Their gazes don’t break until Alfred shuts the door behind him, punctuating silence with a quiet snick of the bathroom lock.
Francis breathes out and, with trembling hands, draws his shirt down his arms.
The new cuts are light; Francis traces criss-crossing scars, the fresh red that probably bled into his black flannel last night.
Just past the front door lies the entrance hall. The shale tile is faded, cracks appearing in the cement that holds it together. The mirror to the left needs polishing, and one could gather a handful from dust that collects in the glass ashtray.
To the left, there is a coat closet, the off-white paint chipped and peeling in places. At shoulder-height, there is a single smear of rusty, ugly red almost faded to brown. If one squints, they might be able to make out fingerprints.
But nobody is there to see. No one knocks on the door, and no one answers.
deux.
When the elevator doors slide closed, Francis allows himself a moment to breathe and press the back of his head against the elevator. “You made it, Francis,” he tells himself, and chuckles.
To let it sink in, he brings to mind little things from the ride here; a sign pointing towards a restaurant, the songs on the Edith Piaf CD in his car. Not once did he blink and wonder why he’s standing in the bathroom, staring at his own reflection. Not once did he find fresh cuts on his arm that he can’t remember making.
(Not once did he look back on the years of his life between 1942 ad 1945 and wonder what he did and said beyond the few clear, sharp memories he has of London’s streets as he stands in them with Arthur.)
Francis grins as the elevator doors slide open and present Francis with a red-and-gold carpet and white walls. Francis smiles at the cream-colored doors and their polished gold knockers; his back is straight and his heart beats a bit faster.
“I won’t tell you I love you, kiss or hug you….
Francis smiles as he hears and feels Alfred’s off-beat voice vibrating in the ground. His smile widens as he opens the crack in the door a little wider.
Wind blows in through the open window, ruffling the rose-print linen curtains. Alfred dances about the room, shirtless, his jeans hanging low on his hips and his stars-and-stripes tie slapping against his skin as he sways and sings into his invisible microphone. Francis takes in his shut eyelids, the way his Adam’s apple bobs with each off-key note he sings.
“ - ’cause I’m just bluffin with my muffin. I’m not lying, I’m just stunnin’ -”
“With your love glue-gunning, non?”
Francis holds back his laughter as Alfred’s entire body freezes, his eyes flying open as his mouth opens and closes. Francis allows himself a smile instead, making his way over Alfred’s laptop and hitting the pause button with a click of the mouse. “Working hard, mon cher?” Francis asks, quirking an eyebrow over his shoulder.
“Um,” Alfred replies. And Francis’s body warms remembers one reason why he loves Alfred shirtless, watching a ripe red blush bloom on Alfred’s neck, over his shoulders and down his chest. “I, uh -”
Francis feels his body tingling, and his throat starts bubbling with little endearments and innuendos that would make Alfred chuckle. He lets those tingles carry him to Alfred in less than three steps. His smile fades, and he lets his eyelids lower to half-mast as his fingers latch in Alfred’s tie. “Less bluffing, then,” Francis purrs, pulling him closer. “More stunning.”
“Oh fuck yes,” Alfred breathes, and in the span of a laugh Francis finds himself on his back, pinned to the bed as Alfred runs his hands over Francis’s white shirt, cupping his hips as he nuzzles Francis’s hair. “Jesus Christ, I’ve missed you,” he murmurs into Francis’s ear.
Francis smiles and doesn’t say a word, just reaches up to cup the back of Alfred’s head. “I’ve missed you, too,” Francis whispers into the skin on Alfred’s jaw, bunching light-soft hair beneath his fingertips as he licks that little spot, tasting salt and a little Old Spice.
Francis pauses, and he feels Alfred do the same. He feels thumbs rubbing at his hips, and even when he closes his eyes he can feel the light and warmth just behind his eyelids. And just for a moment, Francis imagines that he is in love, that it’s just them and no one else.
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A drawing flashes in front of his eyes of Arthur looking into Alfred’s eyes, leaning in, kissing him even as he violates the nation he raised.
(And something else presses its way into Francis’s mouth, hard and bitter and all the way to his throat and he can’t breathe, can’t do anything but shut his eyes and go far away -)
Francis’s body spasms, arches, reacts. He blinks, only to find Alfred on his back, staring up with big, bemused eyes, lips parted and eyebrows arching up in confusion and hurt. Francis wonders when he started panting, but finds he can’t stop sucking air down.
“Francis?” Alfred asks, and Francis’s gut twists at the hurt in that voice. “Francis are you -”
I hurt him, Francis thinks, he’s hurting because of me - I can’t - I’m so sorry I’ll kiss it better Alfred just don’t look so hurt -
Fog settles over Francis’s mind, and he feels himself separate, shift. His panic beats at his body; it goes ignored as Francis bends down and presses his lips to Alfred’s. He kisses Alfred, his hands spreading across Alfred’s ribs and chest to undo his tie and fling it away.
“Oh,” Alfred gasps when their lips part, his voice a high, breathless note of want as his hips twitch up against Francis’s thigh. “Fran - Francis, can I -.”
Francis’s fingers tweak a nipple, and his lips attach to Alfred’s neck as he throws his head back. Francis kisses down Alfred’s neck - just the way he likes it, with rough little nips and licks to bruise the skin. Alfred loves that, so Francis gives it to him, gives him undone jeans and a hand on his hard cock, tightening his fingers to try and stem the trembling.
Knowing what Alfred likes makes it easier to drift and ignore the part of his mind that wants to fall apart and scream. The sex seems to speed up without even going faster; Francis only catches glimpses of what his body’s doing.
Blink, and he’s tonguing the crook of Alfred’s elbow.
Blink, and he kisses curve of Alfred’s anklebone, his jeans hanging off the left side of the bed. His open mouth moves up to the thigh, his tongue tasting coarse hair and skin.
Blink, and Francis finds his lips pressed to Alfred’s hipbone; his eyes flick up to find Alfred staring down at him, eyes hazy with lust, lips parted and nostrils flared as he breathes in and out. Something in Francis starts to thrill when he realizes that Alfred’s cock is twitching against his fingers, that he’s giving Alfred pleasure -
His panic flares up again, and suddenly there’s SLUT in black on Alfred’s chest and he’s sobbing and confused and begging just like he was, just like when they carved the gamma into his flesh -
“Francis, wait -”
It happens so quick. One moment, he’s taking Alfred into his mouth.
Blink, and he’s sitting up, coughing, forcing his throat to loosen up as Alfred rubs his back and shushes him. His eyes squeeze shut and his gut recoils and he can’t stop shaking.
“’m - sorry,” Francis says, his voice forced and wobbly with restrained bile. “Sorry,” he says again, and hopes that Alfred thinks the crack in his voice is from a gag reflex he conquered long ago.
“Hey, hey, shh,” Alfred coos, pulling Francis into the crook of his neck a running his free hand up and down Francis’s back. “You’re okay, baby, you’re okay.”
And the panic inside Francis flutters up again. Such a failure, it whispers, shame on you when Alfred needs you most.
“Let me take care of you,” Alfred whispers, and Francis tenses when he feels fingers ghosting over his cock.
Francis hears Alfred yelp, feels his hands pinning him to the bed, but he doesn’t really see anything as he sears Alfred’s mouth with a hot kiss, swallowing down Alfred’s moan. It doesn’t even feel bad anymore - just a little numb. He can’t sense the temperature of the lube on his fingers and hopes that Alfred’s cry is one of pleasure. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, he chants in his head.
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Fingers writhe beneath his shirt, and Francis starts back with a yelp. For a split-second he senses blue eyes on him, hurt and confused. “…The shirt stays on,” Francis says. “That hasn’t changed.”
“O-okay,” Alfred says as Francis climbs out of his pants and slicks himself up with lube. “Francis, are you sure you’re -”
“I’m fine,” Francis replies, hoping his voice sounds more cheerful than he feels as he presses Alfred back into the bed. “I’m just fine,” he murmurs, and feels Alfred sigh against his lips as he slides inside, slow and steady. Alfred’s warmth bleeds through the linen of Francis’s shirt, squeezes around Francis’s cock. Francis pushes himself away, hands braced on either side of Alfred’s head. He holds himself up on trembling arms as he gulps down air like cold, clear water.
He swallows Alfred’s moan as he swallows and holds his entire body away from Alfred as his arms tremble and he sucks down air like water. His hips twitch, and he starts to thrust.
Alfred leans up and paints sloppy, saliva-laden words all over Francis’s cheek. But Francis can’t hear him, can’t hear anything over the pulse of his own hips in and out of Alfred. He’s memorized how Alfred moves when they fuck, knows that an extra little roll of his hips while he’s buried to the hilt will make Alfred choke and his eyelashes flutter.
“Francis,” Alfred all but sobs, and strong fingers lace themselves in Francis’s hair to drag him down for a kiss. Francis moves his lips so he kisses the side of Alfred’s mouth instead, and then twists his wrist just so on Alfred’s cock.
And in the moments when blood beats fastest and moans come loudest, Francis’s breath catches as he sees a split-second image of a tear-streaked face stained with drying white and black marker shouting guilty guilty GUILTY -
Alfred squeezes around his cock, and Francis unravels and winks out of existence for the span of a second. When his senses come back, he realizes he’s slipped out of Alfred and pressed his face into the pillow. His chest and belly feel sticky with Alfred’s come; warm air ghosts over his left ear, filled with just the hint of a chuckle.
“Francis…” Alfred starts, and Francis feels his muscles tense. “Francis, wait, it’s not -”
Francis flinches and fists the sheets in his hands. He rolls off of Alfred and onto his back, staring up at the canopy and the spiderweb of cracks in the ceiling. With a sigh, his eyes slide shut, and he rolls onto his side, tucking a hand underneath his head.
Francis almost flips around again with a punch at the ready when strong arms wrap around him from behind and tug his back into a chest warmed by inner fire. One hand comes up to rub at Francis’s elbow, and the other reaches down to massage Francis’s belly.
“Cripes, you’re tense,” Alfred murmurs, and Francis feels the corner of a smile on his cheek as Alfred nuzzles the side of his face and rubs against his stubble. “Thanks for inviting me early. I think we both need this vacation.”
“Mm,” Francis says in reply, and gives thanks to his throat for drawing the single out into something satisfied and syrupy. His afterglow is catching up to him; everything seems soft and comfortable, the cool air conditioning in sharp contrast with soft sheets and shared heat. The afternoon light filters through the blinds, breaking sunlight into sharp, bright slivers that scatter all over the floor. Everything else in the room - the metal posts on the bed, the mahogany dresser, even the canopy over the bed - seems to catch that glow and hold it in a soft sheen.
Francis’s eyes flutter as Alfred’s fingers slow down. It’s funny, he thinks, how everything seems so much clearer on the cusp of sleep.
___
Francis wakes, but he does not open his eyes. It must be night; it’s pitch black on the inside of his eyelids. Francis draws a breath in through parted lips and tries to lick his lips.
His thoughts stutter to a halt when his tongue stays flat and motionless inside his mouth. His hands won’t come up to rub at his eyes. Nothing in his body will obey his brain. His wrists feel heavy and his skin melted, stuck.
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The soldier is taking his time, Francis realizes with a jolt. He knows Francis is helpless, immobile, and he’s enjoying it.
Francis tries to move again, his heart slamming fists against his ribcage. His mouth. An eyelid. Anything get me out of here get me out -
Leather hands fist in his hair, and a voice speaks from somewhere just below his sternum as something presses against his mouth:
“Stop crying, stand straight, and act like the Nation you are for your people’s sake.”
And then he feels his mouth filling, his throat closing, he can’t breathe, can’t -
“NO -”
His body releases him; Francis sits up with a yelp and widened eyes, looking around the room with an arm raised. Oxygen flows to his brain, and he realizes he’s in a room with a plush carpet and desks and bright afternoon sunlight filtering in. There are no fingers in his hair, nothing blocking his windpipe. He’s safe. He’s all right.
Francis turns his head to find Alfred fast asleep. His strong arms hug the pillow, and a little bit of drool dribbles from the side of his mouth. Their shoulders are not quite touching, but close enough that Francis feels their warmth.
Francis sighs, reaching up and trying to smooth Alfred’s cowlick down into something like order. He gives up on the third try, sighing and stretching as he swings his legs over the bed. He shivers in the air-conditioning, drawing his shirt closer over his body as he goes into the bathroom..
There are bits of shaving cream littered all over the sink. Alfred didn’t put the cap on his toothpaste, didn’t even bother to rinse off his toothbrush. Francis thinks he should shudder at the thought that it’s been this way since last night, but he’s too tired to do anything but smile and shake his head.
His teeth taste disgusting, Francis decides as he runs his tongue over the top row. Francis tiptoes his way to his bag, thankful that he had the foresight to drop it near the bathroom, and roots around until he feels the old, familiar leather of his toilet kit on his fingertips. Back in the bathroom, he starts humming his national anthem as he unzips the bag and tips it over.
His hum dies a swift, painless death in his throat when he sees the straight razor fall out first, its polished ivory handle glinting in the harsh bathroom light.
“When did I pack you?” Francis murmurs, and the air feels like pudding again as he reaches down and touches his fingertips to the roses carved into the ivory. The material feels smooth and elegant underneath his fingertips, cool and gentle.
Francis picks the razor up, and somewhere in his mind he hears himself begging to stop as he flicks his wrist and lets the razor fall free, bouncing against the stabilizer. It’s been a long time since he’s actually shaved, he realizes. The blade still shines against the light, free of shaving cream or bits of blond hair.
It really has been a long time since he shaved.
His hands go to his shirt; he unbuttons it and lets it fall away from his body, pooling on the floor behind him.
He remembers that Alfred saw him shirtless only once, had touched his shoulder and asked him to talk all about his battle scars with wide, bright eyes.
Francis runs his fingers over the scars and scratches on his arms and almost laughs to himself. Battle scars, he thinks, and his fingertips tingle as they remember every razor and knife he’s held against the skin of his arms.
His fingers stop when they reach the shoulder of his left arm. Without looking, his fingertips trace the circle, follow the gamma symbol tucked inside of it. He squints his eyes at his own reflection and tries to remember when he got it. Maybe the second or third night after Petain signed the armistice with Germany -
Francis squeezes his eyes and shakes his head.
He looks down at his hand to find one long, deep slash right across the gamma symbol. Beads of blood seep out and grow, joining together to run down his arm.
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A glint of light against the sink catches his attention. Francis blinks, lowering his arm and razor as he tears his eyes away from his reflection to get a better.
It’s a chain, he realizes. A thin, slinky thing that winds around in a haphazard circle towards a pendant. Francis sets aside his razor and picks it up, his eyes drawn down towards the pendant. A cross, he realizes after a moment. A cross, with one smaller vertical line just above a longer one.
“This is your coat of arms,” he hears de Gaulle tell him through layers and layers of decades. “This is proof that you will always be free.”
And beneath that voice, Francis glimpses a sunny day and the back of a girl’s head with long, tied-back brown hair. God told me what you are, he hears her say, so do not despair, for I will fight to free you from your bonds.
Francis squeezes his eyes shut and presses the cross to his chest. It’s hard to breathe this chilly air, to stay still within this tiny bathroom. He leaves, hoping a wider space will make him feel better; his eyes go straight to the armchair to find a thick, warm-looking quilt sitting there.
Alfred’s picnic quilt, Francis thinks, walking over and running his hand over the fabric. He sighs a little, feeling the red-white-blue pattern of stars and stripes under his fingertips. They’ve eaten on it, stargazed on it, and Francis remembers one or two times where he pushed Alfred back and seared kisses all over that beautiful face -
Francis’s gut twists, and he makes his way over to the suitcase. His clean hand flings clothes this way and that, until he finds suitably dark clothes. His white dress shirt lies forgotten on the bathroom floor as he pulls on a long-sleeved black cotton shirt.
___
Something changes once Francis steps out into the crisp, late afternoon air.
The sun hangs golden in a cloudless sky, reflects off the lake and shows every little piece of algae, every ripple left by a water strider. A weeping willow hangs its branches down, a bit of inviting shade in an endless field of green grass.
Francis doesn’t smile, but he feels his steps grow lighter with his heart as he makes his way over to the willow. He’s not giddy by the time he spreads the quilt out in the shade, but something is different. Stabilized. He feels the grass as he spreads out on the blanket, his fingertips just over the edge; birdsong chirps in his ears, distant and wild, and sunlight winks at him through the shifting willow branches.
Francis sucks in a deep breath, and then another. And as his body grows heavy and his eyelids slide shut, he remembers that this is what it’s like to be alive.
___
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- Song Alfred was singing was “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga.
- One of the possible symptoms of Rape Trauma Syndrome (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rape_Trauma_Syndrome) is hypersexuality, where a survivor attempts to reassert control over their sexuality. Since it is Wikipedia, please do not quote me on that - but I’ve read in other books that victims with a history of sexual abuse will often seek out sexual experiences similar to what they went through. The book Cutting (http://www.amazon.com/Cutting-Understanding-Self-Mutilation-Steven-Levenkron/dp/0393319385) had a few interesting anecdotes about it.
- A related symptom of RTS is self-harm. I plan on getting into Francis’s reasons later on, but people self-injure for a number of reasons. Some do it to punish themselves, while others do it because it’s the only way they can express anger or sadness, while still others do it because it helps them to dissociate/come back to reality, and still others do it because they tie in pain with sexuality.
- The gamma symbol was the symbol of the French Milice (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milice). Why yes, this will be important later.
- The Cross of Lorraine (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cross_of_Lorraine) is a heraldic cross with two horizontal lines over one vertical one. It was Jeanne d’Arc’s symbol, and it was used by the Free French in WWII as an answer to the Nazi swastika.
Comments/concrit/questions are always welcomed. Thank you very much for reading!
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To be honest, I kind of hate it when people link to sources when it comes to mental problems. I know, it's irrational. I even find psychology interesting myself. It's just that... I don't like it when people use it on individual cases. You can't just pull out a book and point at a diagnosis like it explains everything... I don't know.
I hit myself when I want to punish myself. With a brush handle. It hurts more and leaves less marks for others to see. Cutting is more like what I do when nothing else gives me pleasure or when I need to calm myself (because it's so easy to concentrate on the knife and the skin and forget the mess of emotions for a while, and I love watching the blood pushing out and it makes me feel so calm and peaceful)... it's almost like a reward, but I try not to do it anymore because it worries my family and friends...
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It's just that... I don't like it when people use it on individual cases. You can't just pull out a book and point at a diagnosis like it explains everything... I don't know.
Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry that it came out that way! It's just that I am very used to showing my research and sources when I write - that way, if someone says something like, "You're an idiot, that could never happen," I can counter with at least a little research. My headcanon tells me that Francis has a lot of baggage that I think helped serve as a catalyst for his current behavior, because you're right, this isn't simple. And it's not going to get any simpler from here on in.
Oh, anon. *hugs* Please believe me when I say that I know. I know what it's like. I've been cutting since tenth grade, and while I've gotten better...there's always that little trigger, that something that makes me panic - cutting's how I calmed myself down. I've been trying to move on to rubber bands - it's not the same, but it's getting there.
I wish I could hug you right now, anon.
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WHAT A WONDERFUL SURPRISE YOU HAVE GIVEN<3<3
AND IT'S BETTER THAN I THOUGHT, ANON SHOULD KNOW OP IS A HISTORY WHORE.
MARRY ME OP.
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If one ventures into the hall a few steps more, they’d find a sitting room to their right. The room bloats with the smell of mildew and smoke; there are cards sprawled out over a coffee table. Mice have nibbled at the loveseat cushions to make their nests; the paintings hanging on the wall are faded and cracked. On a chest just beneath a window, there’s a small bowl of potpourri. The years have browned everything in it, and one must have a good imagination to catch the scent of rose oil on the petals and leaves.
No one replaces it, because no one ever comes in.
trois.
“BOO!”
Francis’s muscles tense, his eyes flying open to look up into big blue eyes and a pair of glasses backlit by the evening sun. Alfred grins so wide and big that Francis can see almost every single on of his white teeth.
Francis doesn’t move, his face and eyes blank as he stares up into Alfred’s face. He watches Alfred’s smile fade, his eyebrows lifting up in worry. “…Hey…hey, Francis, are you -”
“Raaaaagh!” Francis booms up at him, pulling his lips back over his teeth and putting his entire voice into the roar. His roar dissolves into laughter when Alfred yelps, falling back a little bit on his hands.
“Not fair,” Alfred whines, sniffling as Francis brings a hand up to wipe away his tears of laughter. “After I decided to be nice and bring you dinner and everything, since you didn’t show up for it.”
“Oh, you brought food?” Francis asks, grinning and rolling over on his belly - and sure enough, there’s a tray with a plate of ratatouille, two wine glasses, and two forks. “May I have one of those forks, please?”
Alfred hands over one of the forks, putting the tray down between them. “Confit byaldi okay with you?” Alfred asks, taking his own fork and gesturing to the pile of eggplant in the middle of the plate.
Francis feels his eyes light up, a delighted smile startling onto his face. “You even got the name right,” Francis praises, stealing a bite away. His heart warms a little at Alfred’s returning grin, and maybe it’s because this summer evening is so beautiful, but he lets himself enjoy how it beats a little faster.
“Yeah…well, um,” Alfred murmurs, smearing his bite in some of the tomato-and-pepper sauce, “it’s - well, it’s what you call it, right? And Madame and Monsieur Durand make it every time I visit.”
Francis nods and smiles around his fork. He curls his free hand into the grass, feeling his cut throb a little. His smile fades as he thinks to the afternoon, and he feels his jaw slow down as he thinks.
“Something on your mind, Francis?” Alfred asks, cocking his head as he takes a sip of his wine.
Francis blinks. “I’m sorry.” He twirls a piece of grass in his fingers. “I mean, about earlier today when we….” Francis trails off and plucks the grass from the ground.
“What are you talking…oh. That.” Alfred stops chewing his food for a moment, and Francis gives an internal sigh of relief that his mouth is closed for once. Alfred chews a little more and swallows, his brow furrowing as he looks up at the willow tree.
“I’m glad you’re here now,” Alfred answers. “Eating and joking with me, I mean. I like it when you do that - it means you’re not thinking about someone else.”
Francis feels his cheeks warm as he ducks his head. This is ridiculous - he’s acting like a schoolgirl. He makes a note to not drink any more wine tonight before he remembers that he hasn’t even touched his glass yet. “I - I didn’t realize,” he murmurs, stealing the last piece of ratatouille instead and smiling a bit too wide. “I’m sorry, Alfred.”
“Nah, it’s okay,” Alfred says, even though the edges of his smile seem too tight and his eyes don’t crinkle as usual. “I mean, you said it yourself - you don’t want to be exclusive.”
“Mm,” Francis says, and he’s trying to pay attention, but it’s hard when Alfred’s staring at him all sweet like that, the evening light glittering in his hair. “Come here and sit with me.” He pats the empty space on the quilt for emphasis.
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“Francis? What’cha thinking about?”
Francis feels wriggling beside him, and he turns his head and opens his eyes to find his nose an inch away from Alfred’s. Alfred lies on his belly, his chin resting on his crossed forearms and his eyes half-mast and twinkling behind his glasses. Evening light glints off his sunglasses and eyes, even glimmering on the edges of Alfred’s grin.
Francis remembers that he should be breathing, should be thinking about what he’s doing. But in this evening towards the end of summer, he cannot help himself. “Nothing in particular,” Francis sighs out, his eyelids fluttering slowly as he moves his head and dovetails his mouth into a soft kiss.
Alfred sighs, leaning into the kiss and pressing his smile to Francis’s mouth. Laughter sparks across Francis’s throat, and he lets a few chuckles slip out for Alfred’s tongue to catch and taste. But he doesn’t move anything else except his neck and lips, teasing Alfred by moving back and forth. Waiting. Waiting for….
He strikes when Alfred rolls onto his side and props himself up on one elbow. Francis’s arms flow up to wrap around Alfred’s shoulders and roll him onto his back. With a yelp and a laugh, Alfred’s snared in a tangle of limbs, wriggling and arching up as Francis sinks back into their kisses like a hot, steaming bath. His own hands come up to scratch at Alfred’s scalp, relishing Alfred’s sighs as he trails fingertips down his neck and over his chest, all the way down to his jeans.
Francis cups Alfred through his jeans and sucks in a pointed, helpless gasp as Alfred’s cock swells and twitches against his palm. Jitters play across his muscles, and with a moan he tries to break his kiss with Alfred, seized by a sudden desire to nuzzle his hair and inhale the strawberry-scented shampoo that Alfred snuck out of his travel bag.
Alfred growls in response as Francis pulls away, and in a split-second teeth latch on to Francis’s lower lip and nip, hard.
Francis gasps at the pain, his eyes widening as his skin comes alive with tingles and his cock twitches in his pants. He jerks back and looks down at Alfred, wide-eyed and panting to Alfred’s confused blinks.
“F…Francis, you oka -”
Francis ducks down and swallow’s Alfred’s apology before it can slip out, to swallow it down and ride the waves crashing through his body and sending blood to his cock. With a flick of the wrist and a downward zip he undoes Alfred’s pants. “So thoughtful,” Francis murmurs, supporting the arch of Alfred’s hips as he pulls his boxers and jeans down around his thighs and skitters fingertips up the heartbeat pulsing through hard, hot flesh.
“Ohgod,” Alfred croaks out, and Francis laughs and licks those plump, blood-swollen lips as he thumbs the skin just beneath Alfred’s cockhead. Alfred’s body glows in heat, like a lighting furnace, and Francis delights in the build, pulling back just a bit so he can watch the light flare to life in Alfred’s eyes.
Alfred’s smiles leave him breathless, and Francis feels compelled to follow the arch and curl of Alfred’s powerhouse arms resting above his head, his palms up and fingers curled in. His eyes are half-mast and glistening, and his smile, oh, that smile is so wide and easy that Francis can see white teeth and dimples.
“Merde,” Francis whispers, a sharp, single cut of sound. He lets go of Alfred long enough to undo his own pants and wrap his hand around both their cocks. “Alfred, Alfred,” he says, chanting Alfred’s name like a prayer, even as every cell in his brain whispers stop it, stop it.
“Mmm,” Alfred hums in reply, and then strong arms wrap around Francis’s neck, pulling him down into a kiss.
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Every muscle in Francis’s body tenses. He gasps in a shuddering breath as his fingers clench and he comes all over Alfred’s stomach. His hand spasms in a few last, violent jerks that make Alfred grunt and curl fingers into Francis’s hair, jerking Francis’s head down into the crook of his neck as they shudder together, anchored against one another. Francis pants and forces his breathing even as the shivers slither off their bodies in easy, loose waves.
Alfred breaks the silence first; Francis feels it in his shoulders before Alfred breaks out into quiet chuckles. “I…w-wow,” he gets out between growing laughs. “That was awesome!”
The warmth and ease in Alfred’s tone that makes Francis own lips relax into a smile. He doesn’t share Alfred’s warm laughter, but he does prop himself up on one elbow and crook an eyebrow. “Was it now?” he asks, his tone a twirl of amused and intrigued. “Why?” he prods, curious and eager for feedback.
Alfred tilts his head forward a little, and Francis jerks his own head back to keep a few centimeters between them. But he can’t avoid the tip of Alfred’s nose as his eyes flutter open and shine brilliant blue up into Francis’s face. “Because you were here with me,” Alfred answers, his tone colored with shades of lazy summer afternoons. “You looked at me.”
Francis’s smile falls for a split-second as questions dance a do-si-do in his head. “I…did? Darling, I always look at you, don’t I?”
Francis’s stomach drops when Alfred doesn’t answer right away, and Francis can only watch the shadow-lace of sun and tree branches on Alfred’s face as he looks up into the sky. “It’s what I was talking about before,” Alfred answers, his thumb tracing the dip of Francis’s spine. “I mean, yeah, you look at me when we have sex, but sometimes you don’t actually…look at me,” Alfred says. Francis jolts as one of Alfred’s hands comes up to cup his face, his thumb brushing the corner of Francis’s eye. “It’s like you look at something else - like you think too hard instead of just enjoying it.”
Francis opens his mouth, but only soft breath escapes into the summer air. He inhales another breath, tries again, and fails. “Alfred,” he whispers on the third try, and he wants his voice to be smooth and easy and seductive, not trembling and held together by his will alone, dwarfed by the knowledge that he’s a poor lover to Alfred. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize -”
“It’s okay!” Alfred chirps, far too loud and cheerful as his thumb moves up to Francis’s temple and rubs the soft, tender skin. “I mean, it wouldn’t be very heroic of if I forced you to talk about it, even if I did want to save you. But, you know, if you asked to be saved, I’d totally do it. ‘Cause, um. That’s what heroes do.”
Saving, Francis thinks, and realizes how warm and relaxed he feels, his shoulder blades tensing at the thought. Is that what you’re calling it, Alfred?
“Well, I do appreciate the sentiment,” Francis says instead, and lets seduction grow around the thorn in his throat to make his voice a smooth, sensual pearl. “But we’re not exactly in need of saving, are we?”
“Depends on who you ask,” Alfred replies, still looking up into the blue, blue sky. When his eyes flick back to look at Francis, he’s not smiling.
Francis’s smile falls, too, and his fingers clench into a fist at the way Alfred’s brows furrow and his eyes search, Francis’s face. “I….”
But Alfred cuts him off with a shake of his head and a tired smirk. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I like it like this,” Alfred says, gesturing to the sky and the rippling grass around them. “I like you like this.” Alfred gestures to Francis with a shrug and lopsided, lazy smile that Francis can’t help but tuck a stray blade of grass into, even as he feels his own smile come back and his eyes crinkle up as he fights back tears.
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“We should go back in, Francis, we’ve got work to -”
Francis bends down and kisses the edge of Alfred’s mouth, tasting skin and just a hint of vinaigrette. A moan purrs through his throat as he licks the corner of his mouth. He wants to linger here, second after slow second, just tasting blackberry and skin.
But when Alfred turns his head into Francis’s mouth, he chooses to duck instead to plant a quick kiss on Alfred’s chin.
“Someday I’ll get you to kiss me on the lips outside of sex,” Alfred says, and his voice bubbles and grates in a husky murmur.
The air blows around them in a warm embrace, making Francis’s chest bubble and lighten. Sandwiched between the summer sky and Alfred’s summer smile, Francis believes with every cell in his body that all these thoughts that make him sick will go far, far away and let him stand in the sunlight.
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The sun might shine outside; it might be rainy. But this dark hallway, this house in Paris near the Élysée Palace has no windows, just rose-colored walls and an ivory white door at the end.
Francis stands stiff, back straight, fingers curled at his side. Distant laughter and winding, silk-soft flute notes float up from behind him, their notes scratching and clawing at the gramophone needle.
And he knows this song, The Musical Offering, has even played parts of it in his own orchestras on occasion. His heart races and his fingers pulse as they recall pressing into the tone holes and teasing out the riddles hidden in the melody. His palms start to sweat as his mind races, tripping over its own cyclone of thoughts.
The door stars to open, inky blackness pawing at the crack, and Francis feels the door’s creaking all the way to his very marrow, deafening over the music as the flute gives way to the harpsichord.
Francis starts, eyes flying open, a cry trapped in his throat as he comes face-to-face with fluffy rose-colored towels and white, shiny tile.
Francis blinks once, twice, and bits and pieces of the present click and slide together. 2010. Bed and breakfast. World Meeting in four days. Right.
Francis’s teeth throb with anxiety, and his temples pulse a slow, painful drumbeat as he opens the bathroom door to find early morning sunlight sprawling over their room’s window. Alfred slumps on the bed, typing away, and from his open laptop Francis hears high, darting notes and a quickness that makes him tense up and shudder, a small sound slipping from his throat.
Alfred looks up, eyes wide and mouth agape as he clicks a button and halts the music. “Ah - haha, guess I got caught up in my work. I don’t usually listen to that kind of stuff.” Alfred grins, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Francis says nothing and musters up enough strength to kiss Alfred’s cheekbone when he comes over. He smiles a bit as their lips play a game of chase over their faces and Alfred curls his fingers into Francis’s flannel night shirt. “Gonna get this off you one day, too,” Alfred murmurs in a voice warm and husky with a smile.
Francis smiles, because wiser lovers have said the same thing so many times before, and he leans up to peck a kiss onto Alfred’s nose. “Go shower,” he says, and moves his left hand away when Alfred moves to take it in his own, keeping his fingers carefully tucked in towards his palm as Alfred’s fingertips brush the back of his hand.
Alfred’s face falls, but Francis takes two steps back before Alfred can try again. They stand in a stalemate for a few seconds; Alfred breaks it with a sigh and a shake of his head, Their gazes don’t break until Alfred shuts the door behind him, punctuating silence with a quiet snick of the bathroom lock.
Francis breathes out and, with trembling hands, draws his shirt down his arms.
The new cuts are light; Francis traces criss-crossing scars, the fresh red that probably bled into his black flannel last night.
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