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!
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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