Sympathique Part 2/?
Title: Sympathique
Genre: Drama/Romance
Characters: France (Francis Bonnefoy), England (Arthur Kirkland), Canada (Matthew Williams), America (Alfred F. Jones) and various others
Pairing(s): FrUK
Rating: T
Warnings: AU, strong language, use of human names, sexual situations and an extremely sarcastic Brit
Summary: Francis and Arthur have known each other since they were eleven years old. At the best of times, they can’t stand to be in the same room as each other. However a cruel twist of fate and a life-changing phone call turn their world upside down as the two have to team up to be parents to two orphaned children.
In this chapter: Arthur goes to find out what's wrong with Francis.
Notes: Each chapter will alternate between narrators. The previous chapter was Francis, this chapter will be Arthur and the story will continue in this fashion.
I haven’t seen nor heard from Francis for three days. I can’t help but wonder if he’s finally decided to leave me alone or not. I won’t be surprised if he has.
Francis Bonnefoy has been my friend since I was eleven years old. He was a prat then, and he still is now. If I was going out with a girl, he would turn up and make them swoon. If I was going out with a boy, he’d suck them off behind the bicycle sheds. Francis is quite simply the bane of my life. He’s always mucked me about and I’m convinced that we’re only still friends so that he can shag me.
He always belittles my appearance and makes me feel as if I’m about three inches tall. It’s unkind and uncalled for (most of the time). We’ve even been reduced to physically fighting one another in the street before, over some girl from the Seychelles. I can’t remember her bloody name for the life of me now…
Lord knows why I’m standing outside of the flats that he lives in; in bloody Brixton, for Christ’s sake. I don’t feel bad, of course. The twat had it coming. I just don’t want him to be lying on his floor, having choked on his own vomit. That would be awkward to explain to his parents, considering that I can’t speak the blasted language. I can just imagine it:
“Bonjore, Bonnefoys.”
“Quoi? C’est un Anglais,” they would roll their eyes.
“Votruh garson est… uh…”
“Oui?”
“Ill est… dead?”
“Parle en Français!”
“Look, your son is dead, you silly French bastard and you would know if you spoke a more sensible language!”
It wouldn’t be fun. And thinking about it more logically, it would probably be up to his friends to explain what had happened to his parents. I would still be to blame, though.
I have to wait a minute or so before Antonio answers, his voice distorted on the microphone. It crackles.
“Hello?” his accent is thick, Spanish. Francis always calls him a ‘Latin lover’ for some ridiculous reason. Although I’m almost certain that it’s because they have exchanged sexual favours for one another before. I don’t like to think about it.
“It’s Arthur. I was wondering if -”
“¡Gracias! I am glad you are here,” he interrupts. “Come up. Please.” And he buzzes me in.
I frown and begin to make my way up the many flights of stairs to their flat. The lift is still broken, just like it has been for the past year. When I reach their floor, Gilbert is waiting for me in the hall. He doesn’t look as mischievous as he usually does, instead he looks rather sombre.
“He’s in there,” the German nods at the open door. No cutting quip? I’m surprised. Something must have happened. Maybe his girlfriend has broken up with him again?
Their flat is messy, as is to be expected with these three. The curtains are drawn shut; the living area is a mess, strewn with clothes and dirty glasses and plates. And the kitchen is sordid - which is yet another indication that something is wrong; that and the fact that Francis is sat in the middle of the open-plan room, staring blankly out of the window.
“Francis?” I begin to approach him. He looks as though he’s barely slept. His eyes are blood-shot and he hasn’t shaved at all (which, although he usually has light stubble is not anything like what he looks like now). There are several empty bottles surrounding him. It looks like Francis has had anything alcoholic that he can drink. Perhaps that’s why Gilbert looks so forlorn. I can see some beer cans lying around.
He doesn’t answer me and I assume that he’s just ignoring me.
“Francis?” I repeat again, crouching in front of him. Antonio leaves and goes into his bedroom, looking upset. Francis is expressionless for some time until he grins at me as though he has only just noticed that I’m there. It’s a broken smile.
“Bonne soir, mon amour,” he slurs. I grimace as his breath reaches my nostrils which flare at the heavy scent of alcohol. “Have some wine.” He looks to his side and then pouts melodramatically. “Oh, it seems that we do not have anymore. Whoops,” he guffaws. “I must have drunk all of it.”
This is so odd for me. I have never seen Francis so drunk before. Had the situation been different, I would have laughed.
“I can see that,” I hesitantly place a hand on his shoulder. “Francis, what happened?” I try to ask him as slowly as I can. He just laughs again before falling silent. “Francis?” I prompt, but I wait (patiently, might I add) and receive nothing. I have to resort to breaking into my awful French. “Etez-voo bee-an?”
Suddenly, he’s in tears. His entire body shakes as he begins to bawl, clutching at his golden hair. Shit, is my French that bad? Belatedly I realise that he is muttering under his breath in French, but not about my atrocious bastardisation of it. I’m not sure what to do. I haven’t ever seen a fully grown man cry before, let alone Francis. Despite loathing him utterly and hopelessly, the way that he is crying it making my stomach churn. I want to make him smile, to make him happy.
“Ma soeur,” he sobs. “Elle est mort. Elle est mort! Ma souer!”
Oh God…
All I can do is slide my arm around his shoulders to hold him. He doesn’t lean into the touch, in fact he barely reacts. He just keeps crying.
My chest feels tight. I don’t know what to say. I never know what to bloody say. This infuriating, perplexing man always leaves me bewildered and unprepared for whatever he might come out with. We sit there, somewhat awkward, as Francis tries to control himself. He’s dribbling on to my leg from his howls of grief.
“I’m sorry,” I say at last, uselessly watching the back of his head as he shakes. He needs a bath, I think absently. His hair is dirty and sticking to his face, slick with grease and sweat (and probably wine). He reeks of booze, too.
I rise to my feet and try to pull him up with me but he acts as a dead weight. I huff, letting go.
“Je ne veux pas de se déplacer,” he wails, fiercely struggling away from me. He’s comparable to a child.
“Fine,” I grit my teeth, barely concealing my nerves. I have no idea of how to stop him from weeping and it’s killing me. “I’m going to run you a bath.”
Gilbert has buggered off and left me to deal with this, I note sourly.
“Je ne veux pas prendre un bain!”
“Well, tough tits!” I shout in return as I storm off to the bathroom, to run the water. I don’t bother to check if it’s hot or cold. He’s too drunk to care anyway. When I return, he has somehow managed to find his way to the kitchen, fumbling through the drawers. He pulls out a carving knife. I leap over to him and snatch it away.
“Mon cauteau - ”
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?!” I squawk. I throw the knife back into the drawer, slam it shut and stand in the way so that he cannot get to it.
“I was going to make you some dinner… you have not eaten?” he’s almost incoherent, barely able to annunciate but at least he’s speaking English again now.
Looking into his eyes, I can tell that he’s lying. He looks dead, dormant. There’s next to nothing in those stunning blue eyes. He is barely recognisable. His sky-blue eyes look straight back at me, and for a moment I’m breathless. Oh Francis. I reach out and cup his cheek in my palm. I dare not think about what he was contemplating to do with that knife.
“I’m sorry,” I utter. He looks away from me, avoiding my gaze.
“Il y a un enfant…” he sniffles pathetically.
My heart skips a beat.
“A child? Yours?” I ask fearfully.
“Non, Marianne’s.” I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief. He continues: “Marianne had a child. I have said that I will look after him…” I can’t tell if he’s thinking fondly of the child or if it’s just the alcohol clouding his eyes. At least he isn’t grappling with me to get to the knife.
“Which is all the more reason why you have to be strong,” I hesitate and then tentatively lean forward and press a kiss to his forehead. His skin is slick with sweat. It feels disgusting on my lips, like I’ve French-kissed a plate of goose-fat. I keep my complaints to myself.
He nods eventually and I take his hand, leading him away from the cluttered kitchen to the bathroom. He can barely walk in a straight line and it takes a lot of effort on my part to keep him both upright and going in the right direction.
“Je me douche,” he says and I tut.
“You’ll fall over and hurt yourself.”
Shutting the door behind us, I turn to him. I blush, having not really considered the consequences of my actions. He sits clumsily on the side of the bath and I have to steady him to make sure that he doesn’t slip backwards into the water. He looks at me with confused, bleary eyes.
“Are you staying with m-”
“Yes,” I blurt out as to not embarrass myself further.
“Are you getting in with-”
“No.”
There’s a pause in which Francis makes a face, somewhat disappointed if not confused.
“Oh.”
“Look, just raise your arms.”
He does as he is told and I start to undress him in this fashion. At first, he isn’t very co-operative but he gradually begins to care less and less. Francis has never been known to be a prude; I’ve seen him naked enough times without asking to.
“You are surprisingly gentle tonight,” Francis comments after a long silence.
“Shut it…” I turn away and leave him to remove his underwear - there’s a line and I’m not going to cross it. I turn off the water and help him to clamber (not fall) into the bath. He lets out a satisfying sigh as he meets the warm water; luck was clearly on my side tonight. Kneeling beside the tub, I watch the way that his face relaxes. He already looks more like the pampered Francis Bonnefoy I know.
I shift again, moving to perch on the side. I use a wet sponge to gently stroke at his face and torso. The sponge moves in small circles at first but I become more confident and take longer strokes at his body. He won’t stop looking at me as I do it, either. I keep my eyes trained to his chest, trying to both avoid his gaze and prevent my own eyes from wandering.
Francis is beautiful. He has luscious locks, soft to the touch; his jaw is dusted with a light layer of stubble that is normally well maintained and trimmed short. He has these ridiculously pretty eyes, like those of a girl. They are a translucent blue, gentle in colour with flecks of violet and cyan dotted around in his iris. They are positively stunning when you look closely - not that I have done, of course… well, maybe once or twice.
His eyes are bloodshot now, red and raw from crying. His lips are swollen from being pressed aggressively to bottles. His entire face looks quite swollen actually, it looks painful. His cheeks are much more hollow and sunken in than I can remember the last time I saw him.
Oh Francis…
“What’s your nephew called?” I ask, trying to distract his drunken mind with menial questions.
“Mathieu.” His breath hitches as I pour soap on to him from a near by bottle. I don’t know what it is; I check the label - hair conditioner. Fantastic. Francis can now have shiny, thicker chest hair. Joy of all joys.
“Matthew…?” I slam the bottle back down where I found it. “That’s a nice name,” I murmur absently.
“Oui,” he agrees.
“Is he coming here?” I try to move the sponge in a constant, rhythmic pattern on his neck.
“In a week.”
Water is dropped on to him from the sponge, washing away the soap. I can hear the how anxious he sounds by his tone, alone.
“I can go with you if you’d like?” it’s a hesitant offer on my part.
“S’il vous plaît,” he smiles lazily.
“I’ll drive you up there.” I’ll have to get the time off work, but I don’t tell Francis that. He needs a friend and I will be that friend if I must.
“Arthur,” his voice is soft, and it makes me stop mid-wipe.
“Yes…?”
“Merci.”
I can feel my heart racing and my face heat up. He sounds genuinely grateful, for once. He doesn’t even sound like this when ever I lend him money (which he still owes me - it’s up to about £600 now).
“Y-you’re welcome,” I stammer, clearing my throat.
We collaboratively wash his hair. He kneads in the various shampoos that he insists upon using. Even when he’s blind drunk, he still somehow manages to care about the products he uses in his hair. God knows why. I rinse out it out for him, regardless, careful not to get the water into his eyes. He keeps complaining about something in French, about me, but I can’t shout at him when he’s like this nor can I understand a word he’s saying.
Francis stumbles out of the bath and I hastily thrust a towel at him for the sake of his dignity (which I would rather not see). He sits clumsily on the toilet seat, eyes still hollow but he isn’t as unresponsive now.
Now comes shaving. It’s a bit tricky as Francis keeps wiggling and complaining that I have shaved too much of his beard to which I tell him politely to fuck off and shave off the remainder of his beard in spite. His chin is as soft and stubble-free as a baby’s bottom; he smells of lavender and after-shave. He begins to weep melodramatically, probably just to make me feel bad.
I silence him with a kiss before he’s on his feet again.
Francis walks through the flat, having dropped his towel and not bothered to dry his hair. I charge after him, hoping that no one is around to see. Although, I remember belatedly, Antonio and Gilbert are probably used to it. I find him sprawled out on his bed. I find some underwear and pyjamas in his large wardrobe (that takes up the majority of his small bedroom) and throw them at him. He laughs and tosses them back at me before getting beneath the covers.
“You wear them,” he insists. I pull a sour face that he merely grins at in response.
“I’m staying over?” I shift awkwardly from foot to foot, trying to avoid the estranged canvases of unfinished paintings that are littering the room (which I usually complain about). It’s already past eleven o’clock and I’d rather not go out into Brixton on my own at this time of night. It’s a Friday, after all. The kids don’t have school tomorrow so they’ll be on the prowl.
“Oui,” Francis pats the space beside him in the double-bed. I don’t complain seeing as the poor sod has had such a traumatic few days. It does mean, however, that I will have to read Percy Drake’s manuscript another day.
Sighing, I turn my back to him to change, shedding my own shirt and trousers in favour of the pyjama bottoms. I purposefully leave my boxers on. When I turn around, Francis is leering. I drop the pyjama shirt on to his head, covering his face. I then roll my eyes at his squeak, trying not to smile before climbing into bed. When I make a grab for the shirt, he flings it across the room.
“Be naked with me,” he whines. I try not to laugh and take my place on the edge of the bed, far away from Francis and his conditioned chest hair. The problem is I’ve shown affection and now Francis, still dizzy with alcohol, feels as though he must replicate it. He moulds himself against me, curling his body around mine; his arms secure themselves around my waist, meaning that all escape is impossible.
“Bonne nuit, chouchou,” he settles his head behind mine, his lips brushing against my ear as he speaks. I suppress a shiver in favour of a sigh.
“Good night.”
It seems like barely five minutes before I have to get up again. Francis in the bathroom, being sick. And as much as my body screams for sleep, I somehow manage to drag myself to sit beside him, rubbing his back.
We both eventually fall asleep on the still-wet bathroom floor.
Genre: Drama/Romance
Characters: France (Francis Bonnefoy), England (Arthur Kirkland), Canada (Matthew Williams), America (Alfred F. Jones) and various others
Pairing(s): FrUK
Rating: T
Warnings: AU, strong language, use of human names, sexual situations and an extremely sarcastic Brit
Summary: Francis and Arthur have known each other since they were eleven years old. At the best of times, they can’t stand to be in the same room as each other. However a cruel twist of fate and a life-changing phone call turn their world upside down as the two have to team up to be parents to two orphaned children.
In this chapter: Arthur goes to find out what's wrong with Francis.
Notes: Each chapter will alternate between narrators. The previous chapter was Francis, this chapter will be Arthur and the story will continue in this fashion.
I haven’t seen nor heard from Francis for three days. I can’t help but wonder if he’s finally decided to leave me alone or not. I won’t be surprised if he has.
Francis Bonnefoy has been my friend since I was eleven years old. He was a prat then, and he still is now. If I was going out with a girl, he would turn up and make them swoon. If I was going out with a boy, he’d suck them off behind the bicycle sheds. Francis is quite simply the bane of my life. He’s always mucked me about and I’m convinced that we’re only still friends so that he can shag me.
He always belittles my appearance and makes me feel as if I’m about three inches tall. It’s unkind and uncalled for (most of the time). We’ve even been reduced to physically fighting one another in the street before, over some girl from the Seychelles. I can’t remember her bloody name for the life of me now…
Lord knows why I’m standing outside of the flats that he lives in; in bloody Brixton, for Christ’s sake. I don’t feel bad, of course. The twat had it coming. I just don’t want him to be lying on his floor, having choked on his own vomit. That would be awkward to explain to his parents, considering that I can’t speak the blasted language. I can just imagine it:
“Bonjore, Bonnefoys.”
“Quoi? C’est un Anglais,” they would roll their eyes.
“Votruh garson est… uh…”
“Oui?”
“Ill est… dead?”
“Parle en Français!”
“Look, your son is dead, you silly French bastard and you would know if you spoke a more sensible language!”
It wouldn’t be fun. And thinking about it more logically, it would probably be up to his friends to explain what had happened to his parents. I would still be to blame, though.
I have to wait a minute or so before Antonio answers, his voice distorted on the microphone. It crackles.
“Hello?” his accent is thick, Spanish. Francis always calls him a ‘Latin lover’ for some ridiculous reason. Although I’m almost certain that it’s because they have exchanged sexual favours for one another before. I don’t like to think about it.
“It’s Arthur. I was wondering if -”
“¡Gracias! I am glad you are here,” he interrupts. “Come up. Please.” And he buzzes me in.
I frown and begin to make my way up the many flights of stairs to their flat. The lift is still broken, just like it has been for the past year. When I reach their floor, Gilbert is waiting for me in the hall. He doesn’t look as mischievous as he usually does, instead he looks rather sombre.
“He’s in there,” the German nods at the open door. No cutting quip? I’m surprised. Something must have happened. Maybe his girlfriend has broken up with him again?
Their flat is messy, as is to be expected with these three. The curtains are drawn shut; the living area is a mess, strewn with clothes and dirty glasses and plates. And the kitchen is sordid - which is yet another indication that something is wrong; that and the fact that Francis is sat in the middle of the open-plan room, staring blankly out of the window.
“Francis?” I begin to approach him. He looks as though he’s barely slept. His eyes are blood-shot and he hasn’t shaved at all (which, although he usually has light stubble is not anything like what he looks like now). There are several empty bottles surrounding him. It looks like Francis has had anything alcoholic that he can drink. Perhaps that’s why Gilbert looks so forlorn. I can see some beer cans lying around.
He doesn’t answer me and I assume that he’s just ignoring me.
“Francis?” I repeat again, crouching in front of him. Antonio leaves and goes into his bedroom, looking upset. Francis is expressionless for some time until he grins at me as though he has only just noticed that I’m there. It’s a broken smile.
“Bonne soir, mon amour,” he slurs. I grimace as his breath reaches my nostrils which flare at the heavy scent of alcohol. “Have some wine.” He looks to his side and then pouts melodramatically. “Oh, it seems that we do not have anymore. Whoops,” he guffaws. “I must have drunk all of it.”
This is so odd for me. I have never seen Francis so drunk before. Had the situation been different, I would have laughed.
“I can see that,” I hesitantly place a hand on his shoulder. “Francis, what happened?” I try to ask him as slowly as I can. He just laughs again before falling silent. “Francis?” I prompt, but I wait (patiently, might I add) and receive nothing. I have to resort to breaking into my awful French. “Etez-voo bee-an?”
Suddenly, he’s in tears. His entire body shakes as he begins to bawl, clutching at his golden hair. Shit, is my French that bad? Belatedly I realise that he is muttering under his breath in French, but not about my atrocious bastardisation of it. I’m not sure what to do. I haven’t ever seen a fully grown man cry before, let alone Francis. Despite loathing him utterly and hopelessly, the way that he is crying it making my stomach churn. I want to make him smile, to make him happy.
“Ma soeur,” he sobs. “Elle est mort. Elle est mort! Ma souer!”
Oh God…
All I can do is slide my arm around his shoulders to hold him. He doesn’t lean into the touch, in fact he barely reacts. He just keeps crying.
My chest feels tight. I don’t know what to say. I never know what to bloody say. This infuriating, perplexing man always leaves me bewildered and unprepared for whatever he might come out with. We sit there, somewhat awkward, as Francis tries to control himself. He’s dribbling on to my leg from his howls of grief.
“I’m sorry,” I say at last, uselessly watching the back of his head as he shakes. He needs a bath, I think absently. His hair is dirty and sticking to his face, slick with grease and sweat (and probably wine). He reeks of booze, too.
I rise to my feet and try to pull him up with me but he acts as a dead weight. I huff, letting go.
“Je ne veux pas de se déplacer,” he wails, fiercely struggling away from me. He’s comparable to a child.
“Fine,” I grit my teeth, barely concealing my nerves. I have no idea of how to stop him from weeping and it’s killing me. “I’m going to run you a bath.”
Gilbert has buggered off and left me to deal with this, I note sourly.
“Je ne veux pas prendre un bain!”
“Well, tough tits!” I shout in return as I storm off to the bathroom, to run the water. I don’t bother to check if it’s hot or cold. He’s too drunk to care anyway. When I return, he has somehow managed to find his way to the kitchen, fumbling through the drawers. He pulls out a carving knife. I leap over to him and snatch it away.
“Mon cauteau - ”
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?!” I squawk. I throw the knife back into the drawer, slam it shut and stand in the way so that he cannot get to it.
“I was going to make you some dinner… you have not eaten?” he’s almost incoherent, barely able to annunciate but at least he’s speaking English again now.
Looking into his eyes, I can tell that he’s lying. He looks dead, dormant. There’s next to nothing in those stunning blue eyes. He is barely recognisable. His sky-blue eyes look straight back at me, and for a moment I’m breathless. Oh Francis. I reach out and cup his cheek in my palm. I dare not think about what he was contemplating to do with that knife.
“I’m sorry,” I utter. He looks away from me, avoiding my gaze.
“Il y a un enfant…” he sniffles pathetically.
My heart skips a beat.
“A child? Yours?” I ask fearfully.
“Non, Marianne’s.” I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief. He continues: “Marianne had a child. I have said that I will look after him…” I can’t tell if he’s thinking fondly of the child or if it’s just the alcohol clouding his eyes. At least he isn’t grappling with me to get to the knife.
“Which is all the more reason why you have to be strong,” I hesitate and then tentatively lean forward and press a kiss to his forehead. His skin is slick with sweat. It feels disgusting on my lips, like I’ve French-kissed a plate of goose-fat. I keep my complaints to myself.
He nods eventually and I take his hand, leading him away from the cluttered kitchen to the bathroom. He can barely walk in a straight line and it takes a lot of effort on my part to keep him both upright and going in the right direction.
“Je me douche,” he says and I tut.
“You’ll fall over and hurt yourself.”
Shutting the door behind us, I turn to him. I blush, having not really considered the consequences of my actions. He sits clumsily on the side of the bath and I have to steady him to make sure that he doesn’t slip backwards into the water. He looks at me with confused, bleary eyes.
“Are you staying with m-”
“Yes,” I blurt out as to not embarrass myself further.
“Are you getting in with-”
“No.”
There’s a pause in which Francis makes a face, somewhat disappointed if not confused.
“Oh.”
“Look, just raise your arms.”
He does as he is told and I start to undress him in this fashion. At first, he isn’t very co-operative but he gradually begins to care less and less. Francis has never been known to be a prude; I’ve seen him naked enough times without asking to.
“You are surprisingly gentle tonight,” Francis comments after a long silence.
“Shut it…” I turn away and leave him to remove his underwear - there’s a line and I’m not going to cross it. I turn off the water and help him to clamber (not fall) into the bath. He lets out a satisfying sigh as he meets the warm water; luck was clearly on my side tonight. Kneeling beside the tub, I watch the way that his face relaxes. He already looks more like the pampered Francis Bonnefoy I know.
I shift again, moving to perch on the side. I use a wet sponge to gently stroke at his face and torso. The sponge moves in small circles at first but I become more confident and take longer strokes at his body. He won’t stop looking at me as I do it, either. I keep my eyes trained to his chest, trying to both avoid his gaze and prevent my own eyes from wandering.
Francis is beautiful. He has luscious locks, soft to the touch; his jaw is dusted with a light layer of stubble that is normally well maintained and trimmed short. He has these ridiculously pretty eyes, like those of a girl. They are a translucent blue, gentle in colour with flecks of violet and cyan dotted around in his iris. They are positively stunning when you look closely - not that I have done, of course… well, maybe once or twice.
His eyes are bloodshot now, red and raw from crying. His lips are swollen from being pressed aggressively to bottles. His entire face looks quite swollen actually, it looks painful. His cheeks are much more hollow and sunken in than I can remember the last time I saw him.
Oh Francis…
“What’s your nephew called?” I ask, trying to distract his drunken mind with menial questions.
“Mathieu.” His breath hitches as I pour soap on to him from a near by bottle. I don’t know what it is; I check the label - hair conditioner. Fantastic. Francis can now have shiny, thicker chest hair. Joy of all joys.
“Matthew…?” I slam the bottle back down where I found it. “That’s a nice name,” I murmur absently.
“Oui,” he agrees.
“Is he coming here?” I try to move the sponge in a constant, rhythmic pattern on his neck.
“In a week.”
Water is dropped on to him from the sponge, washing away the soap. I can hear the how anxious he sounds by his tone, alone.
“I can go with you if you’d like?” it’s a hesitant offer on my part.
“S’il vous plaît,” he smiles lazily.
“I’ll drive you up there.” I’ll have to get the time off work, but I don’t tell Francis that. He needs a friend and I will be that friend if I must.
“Arthur,” his voice is soft, and it makes me stop mid-wipe.
“Yes…?”
“Merci.”
I can feel my heart racing and my face heat up. He sounds genuinely grateful, for once. He doesn’t even sound like this when ever I lend him money (which he still owes me - it’s up to about £600 now).
“Y-you’re welcome,” I stammer, clearing my throat.
We collaboratively wash his hair. He kneads in the various shampoos that he insists upon using. Even when he’s blind drunk, he still somehow manages to care about the products he uses in his hair. God knows why. I rinse out it out for him, regardless, careful not to get the water into his eyes. He keeps complaining about something in French, about me, but I can’t shout at him when he’s like this nor can I understand a word he’s saying.
Francis stumbles out of the bath and I hastily thrust a towel at him for the sake of his dignity (which I would rather not see). He sits clumsily on the toilet seat, eyes still hollow but he isn’t as unresponsive now.
Now comes shaving. It’s a bit tricky as Francis keeps wiggling and complaining that I have shaved too much of his beard to which I tell him politely to fuck off and shave off the remainder of his beard in spite. His chin is as soft and stubble-free as a baby’s bottom; he smells of lavender and after-shave. He begins to weep melodramatically, probably just to make me feel bad.
I silence him with a kiss before he’s on his feet again.
Francis walks through the flat, having dropped his towel and not bothered to dry his hair. I charge after him, hoping that no one is around to see. Although, I remember belatedly, Antonio and Gilbert are probably used to it. I find him sprawled out on his bed. I find some underwear and pyjamas in his large wardrobe (that takes up the majority of his small bedroom) and throw them at him. He laughs and tosses them back at me before getting beneath the covers.
“You wear them,” he insists. I pull a sour face that he merely grins at in response.
“I’m staying over?” I shift awkwardly from foot to foot, trying to avoid the estranged canvases of unfinished paintings that are littering the room (which I usually complain about). It’s already past eleven o’clock and I’d rather not go out into Brixton on my own at this time of night. It’s a Friday, after all. The kids don’t have school tomorrow so they’ll be on the prowl.
“Oui,” Francis pats the space beside him in the double-bed. I don’t complain seeing as the poor sod has had such a traumatic few days. It does mean, however, that I will have to read Percy Drake’s manuscript another day.
Sighing, I turn my back to him to change, shedding my own shirt and trousers in favour of the pyjama bottoms. I purposefully leave my boxers on. When I turn around, Francis is leering. I drop the pyjama shirt on to his head, covering his face. I then roll my eyes at his squeak, trying not to smile before climbing into bed. When I make a grab for the shirt, he flings it across the room.
“Be naked with me,” he whines. I try not to laugh and take my place on the edge of the bed, far away from Francis and his conditioned chest hair. The problem is I’ve shown affection and now Francis, still dizzy with alcohol, feels as though he must replicate it. He moulds himself against me, curling his body around mine; his arms secure themselves around my waist, meaning that all escape is impossible.
“Bonne nuit, chouchou,” he settles his head behind mine, his lips brushing against my ear as he speaks. I suppress a shiver in favour of a sigh.
“Good night.”
It seems like barely five minutes before I have to get up again. Francis in the bathroom, being sick. And as much as my body screams for sleep, I somehow manage to drag myself to sit beside him, rubbing his back.
We both eventually fall asleep on the still-wet bathroom floor.