Unfulfilled [Fanfiction] 1/2
Title: Unfulfilled
Author: marinoa
Rating: M (to be sure)
Characters/Pairings: France, England, Russia, a bit of Belarus. Sort of FrUK and a bit of RuUK
Warnings: Character death :(
Summary: Sometimes two people are destined to meet one another. But sometimes even that can't make them truly meet. And so Francis Bonnefoy will never meet Arthur Kirkland alive. AU.
Note: Sorry for the appearance of the post - again. I seem to have some kind of a problem with LJ. Anyway, I'm too tired to fight with it, so try to cope with this one. Also, the post was too large so it's in two parts here, sorry.
Unfulfilled 1/2
Step, step,
step. Halt - silence.
Francis Bonnefoy,
a self-respecting Frenchman, had never been of the paranoid kind. He
hardly ever felt uneasy even alone in remote areas, and nothing had
ever given him any reason to start feeling otherwise.
Which was why it
was so weird that Francis, soon after moving into a small English
town by the Atlantic coast, had started feeling cold shivers running
up and down his spine whenever he showed himself outside his smallish
house.
Step. Step,
step, step.
It wasn’t that
he was afraid, no. It was just the creepy feeling of somebody’s
eyes on him, of somebody’s presence somewhere nearby. As if he was
being followed.
What made it even
creepier was the fact that the feeling of being followed wasn’t
there all the time when Francis was out. It wasn’t some
constantly nagging paranoia, which would have proven the whole
feeling to be just silly nonsense. But no, since the nervous tickling
hit Francis at random times, he slowly started to believe that
somebody was truly following him every now and then.
Step, step,
step.
And yet the steps
echoing on the street were undeniably Francis’ own, and only his.
Step, step,
step.
Or were they? He
couldn’t tell.
“Silly man,”
he muttered to himself when heading home one evening. “You have
lived here for over a month. Why start developing paranoia now, when
there was nothing wrong with the place in the beginning? Well,
nothing wrong save for the utter English-ness, but...”
Another point
that made the whole matter feel so real was that when Francis had
first moved into the town, he had found it only charming and
pleasant, not disturbing in any sense. The unexpected paranoia had
first appeared after two or three weeks since his arrival.
Step, step,
step.
A logical
explanation could be that the odd feeling had something to do with an
article Francis had read in the local newspaper a couple of weeks
earlier. Apparently some young man had gone missing, leaving not a
trace behind. But then again, it had even been written in the article
that there hardly was anything suspicious about the disappearing; the
man was known to have had very bad relations with his family, and he
had talked openly of leaving the town for good. This was confirmed by
the man’s family, acquaintances and boyfriend, so probably the man
had really just ran off as he had threatened. But what if... Despite
the town being perhaps the most peaceful place in whole England,
there was a possibility that the man hadn’t ‘disappeared’ of
his own will. That’s why the police was looking into the matter,
and that was also why Francis felt slightly restless. If the missing
man had been murdered or captured or something of the sort, the
offender might still be somewhere in town, looking for a next
suitable pray. Like for someone like Francis, for instance.
Or maybe the
Frenchman was just being silly and exaggerated the whole situation.
Maybe Francis had simply got a secret admirer, who was too shy to
show himself and that’s why constantly followed him from afar...
Wait, no, that was almost creepier than hiding murderers.
Step, step,
step. Step step step step step - open, close, lock. Safe.
Francis leant
against his door, breathing deep. You silly man, he scolded
himself. You are letting your imagination run wild, that’s
all there is to it. Satisfied
with such a logical explanation, Francis sighed and took off his
jacket, preparing himself for a relaxing evening with a good French
film and a glass of wine.
Nonetheless, he decided to make sure his door was properly locked.
Twice.
xXx
Arthur
Kirkland, unknowingly to himself, had signed his own death sentence
the moment he had laid his eyes on the Frenchman new in their town.
Or perhaps, more accurately, his fate had been sealed further in the
past, when he had started dating Ivan Braginski. Whichever
it was, he would never know, but he would never know of his death,
either, not until the very last moment when he finally saw it coming.
Yet,
from the moment when Arthur started seeing Ivan Braginski to the very
last second, the Englishman had never been unhappy with the Russian.
Perhaps he hadn't been particularly happy, either, but Ivan had
always treated him well and with respect like a true Russian
gentleman, and Arthur had been comfortable around him. However, there
hadn't been any great sparks of love, ever, on either side of the
couple; Arthur and Ivan's relationship was based more than anything
on the fact that neither of them truly felt like they belonged in the
peaceful, smallish town and its habitants. They both were black
sheep, in a way, and thus them drifting into a relationship together
had only been natural. If dating Ivan Brakinski had ever felt like a
bad idea to Arthur, it was only because of the Russian's younger
sister, who seemed honestly speaking mental from time to time.
Since
life in
the town offered variation
from little
to none,
the appearance of one
Frenchman shook Arthur's world utterly
and unconditionally.
It was a normal day - no work, only a sunny, idle Saturday noon at
the docks with Ivan. The Russian was sitting on a quayside, his feet
splashing in the water, and Arthur leant against his side, half
napping, half watching people on the market place come and go.
“Look,” Ivan said suddenly, tapping Arthur's arm. “I don't
think I have seen that man before.”
Since newcomers were almost unheard of in the town, and Arthur had
nothing better to do, he turned his head to look. “Where?”
“Over there, talking in his phone outside the bakery. The blond
man. Do you see?”
Arthur
looked where Ivan pointed to and saw the man. And when he did, his
heart just stopped beating and he felt like someone had struck him on
the head with some heavy object. Suddenly he couldn't breath, and all
sounds around him disappeared. His vision was restricted to see only
the man pointed to him by Ivan, and for a moment he couldn't think of
anything at all.
Arthur
had always been somewhat cynical and believed himself to be as
unromantic as it was possible to be. He didn't believe in love at
first glance - hell, he didn't even believe in love to
begin with, and yet, as a jape of fate, he experienced something that
writers and poets love to express in their writing, and what every
little girl dreams of at night. He didn't know what it was, though,
not yet; all he knew was that the blond man at the bakery had somehow
struck him so hard that he didn't know what was what any more, and
that they were destined to meet.
“Arthur?” Ivan's voice was concerned, but Arthur had hard times
registering it. “Arthur, are you alright?”
The man at the bakery left, unaware of his effect on a certain
Englishman, and Ivan's voice got through the dizzy mind. Arthur shook
his head, shaken and confused. “Yeah,” he said. “I- I think I
just got a sunstroke.”
The statement wasn't even far from truth; the man with the golden
hair and heavenly blue eyes couldn't be anything less than
incarnation of the sun itself.
xXx
Francis decided that he hated his new home town.
It
was everything he found unpleasant and boring: people treated him
with distant courtesy or were openly rude, and Francis knew he was
referred to as 'the foreigner'. The town itself was too quiet, too -
plain and boring, dull as its habitants. The only person who treated
Francis nicely was his new boss, the owner of the town bakery, and
even he - an aged man - kept his distance. In
one word, there was nothing to the Frenchman in this cursed village,
and he cursed his sister for advising him to move there 'to get some
rest' after his busy journalist life.
The
only thing that Francis liked about the town were the docks. Or, more
precisely, he didn't particularly like
them - he just found himself being drawn to them for whatever
reason. Soft singing of the waves hitting the platform and the few
boats around was calming, and if Francis closed his eyes and let his
imagination run, he could imagine that water was trying to say
something to him. He could also imagine that wind - there was
always wind by the sea - reached to caress him as it went by.
Francis shivered slightly; the wind was chilly and it almost felt as
if cold fingers lightly brushed the side of his face, gently and
carefully but oh
so cold...
Francis'
eyes snapped open and he inhaled sharply. That had most certainly not
been mere wind, for sure his face had just been touched, it must have
been, it felt so real, the wind wasn't as cold as the something
brushing his face had been, but, it wasn't possible, there was no one
around, his imagination was merely doing tricks on him, Francis
calm down, you fool.
His
heart beating unnaturally fast, Francis quickly turned and left the
docks. Dear Lord, I must be going crazy,
he thought, this terrible village is making me crazy.
It wasn't even evening yet, and yet Francis once again felt like he
were being followed.
Step step
step, the sound of his steps,
and his steps only, was driving him mad. “Calm down, you idiot,”
Francis repeatedly urged
himself, counting seconds to reach his own door. “Calm down, you
are feeding your own paranoia. There is nothing there. There is
nothing there.”
To prove his point to himself, Francis abruptly stopped and looked in
a shop window which he happened to stand by. It was an ordinary daily
goods store and it was still open, there were some people inside. His
breathing slowing down little by little, Francis looked into the eyes
of his own reflection. “See?” he said, quietly, not to rouse any
suspicions of passers-by. “Nothing's wrong.”
The emerald green eyes of his reflection met his own blue ones.
Francis' heart froze in his chest and he found himself rooted to the
ground, muted by sudden flash of terror. He stood still, staring at
his blue-eyed reflection, and-
His
blue-eyed reflection. His own
reflection.
He
drew in a shaky breath. What..?
His
knees felt weak, so he placed his hands on the glass and leant
against it, shuddering. What on earth was happening? Was he just
imagining? Of course he was, what else could it be but imagination?
And yet... But no. No.
It was just his own silly imagination. The paranoia he had been
feeling for the past days was affecting his mind, so his
subconsciousness came up with imaginary... things. That had to be it.
Had to be. Otherwise
Francis should start to worry about his sanity.
He left the window, intending to get home where no such sensations
plagued him, but as he walked, he happened to glance back.
A man stood there, a real, large man with ashen hair and a scarf
loosely wrapped about his neck although it wasn't even that cold yet.
He stood there and stared at Francis, hands in his pockets.
As soon as Francis got behind a corner, out of the weird man's eyes,
he ran.
He ran until his chest was burning, but he didn't stop until he was
at his own door.
What is
happening here, he thought as he
frantically tried to open a bottle of wine once he reached his
kitchen. What is happening in this village? I must be going
crazy. This village drives me crazy. Lord help me, I'm going
insane...
xXx
Arthur had always wanted to leave his home town, had wanted since he
had turned nine.
He had always wanted to get away from his bloody insane family, with
his mother gone, his father drinking himself to oblivion and abusing
whoever he got his hands on by the way, and his brothers who had
inherited his father's habits, only they didn't need alcohol to be
abusive. The only reason why Arthur hadn't left yet was the sad fact
that he had nowhere else to go. He wanted to study in a university to
become a journalist or maybe a doctor, or maybe even a lawyer -
frankly, anything would do as long as he was away from this blasted
town. But for university he needed money, and so far he hadn't been
able to land himself a job outside his town.
That was before. But then Arthur had caught a glimpse of the new
Frenchman (Ivan had heard him speaking French once, hence the
conclusion), and everything had turned upside down.
It
wasn't that Arthur had changed his mind about leaving, heavens, no.
It
was just that he felt as if this new man had somehow tied Arthur to
himself, and if the Frenchman was going to stay, so was Arthur. It
wasn't a question of choice - it
was fate's decision. Arthur hated how foolish it all sounded - that
he and the man were destined to be together, although Arthur had only
seen him once and the Frenchman wasn't even aware of Arthur's
existence - but the Englishman had obtained a good piece of
knowledge concerning things not generally understood by most people.
That's why he knew better than to fight it when he realised there was
a string attaching his heart to the Frenchman's.
Yet however he tried, he never managed to meet the man again, not
even see him, and it frustrated him to no end; being tormented by
someone who didn't even know you were there was truly annoying. But
every time Arthur tried to approach him, something hindered him: when
he tried to cross the road, several cars passed him and meanwhile the
Frenchman had got out of sight; or then the man managed to disappear
in a crowd; or then he simply was nowhere to be seen.
Aside
that, what also gave him headache was the fact that he would have to
tell Ivan. It grieved him to
leave the sad Russian alone, but
when one
found his soulmate there was
nothing to be done about it. Ivan would understand. He would be sad,
but he would understand. Arthur knew he would.
xXx
Francis' boss clicked his tongue and put the newspaper aside. Francis
gave him a questioning look while making sure that everything was in
order and the bakery could be closed for the day.
“Have
you read the newspaper yet, Francis?” bakery owner asked, and as
Francis shook his head, continued, “Have you heard of that young
man who disappeared a while ago? Yes. Well, the police hasn't found
any trace of him in any nearby town or city. No one has seen him. So
now the police is suspecting that that poor lad would have been
killed. Either here or nearby. Or then he has committed suicide.”
Chills ran up and down Francis' spine. “Why?”
“One can never know with young people. He had always been an odd
one. And he was always hanging out with one Russian, just as odd as
the lad himself. Might be they had a lovers' quarrel and the Russian
killed him. That's what they do, you know. The poor lad never knew
how to choose his company.” The owner looked at Francis funnily,
and added, “You know, once he came here to ask for you, but it was
your free day.”
Suddenly blood ran cold in the Frenchman's veins. “He... he did?”
“Just as I said. Did you know him?”
“Not at all.”
Francis took the local newspaper, opened the right pages and stared
at it for a moment. Then he gave the paper back to his boss. “Well,”
he said. “I believe it's time for me to go home. I will see you
tomorrow.”
But
Francis didn't go home. For some unknown reason he was drawn to the
docks again, so he went there instead. His mind was empty, empty save
for the image of a photo in the newspaper where the article of the
'poor lad' had been. He had seen that face before. He had seen those
eyes before. He had
seen them reflected in the shop window not many days earlier, and the
thought frightened him so much that he, paradoxically, felt calm in
some strange way, or numb
with fear at the very least.
Rain
clouds covered the sky. Hardly any people chose to go out at that
time in the evening, especially with a promise of rain, so when
Francis got to the docks, he saw no one around. It made
him somewhat nervous, but he
found himself unable to leave just yet. The sound of waves was
relaxing, and the wind, though strong and cold, didn't seem
unfriendly. Francis shivered when he remembered the cold fingers he
had felt in the wind the other day, and then he shivered again
because he truly
was alone and there was not a soul around.
Every now and then a car would pass nearby, but aside that and the
sound of wind and waves, there was only silence to keep him company.
“Why
am I so nervous?” Francis muttered to himself, slightly annoyed at
such childish behaviour. “I should be relieved instead.” He truly
should, because he had just got a rational explanation to his
paranoia: with all the talk of a possible murder, it was no wonder
that Francis was anxious. Even more so, because he was in a new,
unfamiliar town, where didn't know anybody yet. That's why he kept
imagining touches in the wind or reflections of missing people -
his mind was merely overreacting due to its anxious state. “Don't
feed your own fears,” he whispered to assure himself, just like his
father used to do when Francis had had nightmares as a child.
Francis
refused to question how it was possible that the first time he had
seen the face of this missing Englishman had been in a reflection in
a window - before
he saw an actual photo of the man.
A
breath of wind kissed Francis' cheek and the Frenchman turned his
face to the sea. He didn't know what he was doing there - on the
docks, in the town, or even in England, to begin with. I
should go home, back to France. There is nothing to me here. There is
nothing to keep me here. I
should have never even come.
When Francis turned around to leave the platform, he halted as
abruptly as if he had met a wall.
A
pale figure... no, a translucent
figure. Slender form. Messy short hair. Expressionless face. Serious,
sad eyes. Green eyes.
Standing there, only few steps away from the Frenchman.
Francis forgot how to move. He forgot how to run, how to speak, how
to scream. He forgot how to breath, so all he could do was merely
stand where he was and stare at this sad figure before him.
The figure observed him in silence, but Francis got the feeling that
the serious green eyes were full of unsaid words, words that needed
to be voiced, but had to be silenced for ever. Such heavy sadness
seemed to hang in the air around the figure that Francis felt his
heart sinking of its weight, so heavy it was hard to breath. He tried
to speak, to say anything, but all he managed out of his dry throat
was a pathetic wordless sound.
The figure took several steps backwards - not quite walking, not
quite floating - but it never took its eyes off the Frenchman. When
Francis didn't move, the figure raised its both hands and extended
them towards him, taking a few more steps back, eyes almost pleading.
That was when Francis found himself again. “Go away!” he shouted,
trying very hard not to lose his mind. Where just a moment earlier
his heart hadn't been working, now it started beating so rapidly that
Francis heard its drumming in his head... and surely the terrifying
figure heard it too. “Get away from me!”
The figure seemed to flinch, dropping its arms to sides. It took one
more step backwards, eyes intently on the Frenchman, looking sadder
than ever.
Francis
took it as a good sign. “Yes, get away from here, disappear! Get
away!”
And
suddenly the figure wasn't there any more. Francis remained where he
was, panting heavily and looking frantically around to see if the
frightening figure would appear again. He saw nothing, and then
finally
his feet remembered what to do.
Step step step
step step step step step step step step step step.
Francis
slammed his door firmly shut and leant against it to make sure it
truly remained so. His chest was aching from the run, and his mind
was empty and full of terrible visions at the same time. Not even
bothering to take his coat or shoes off, Francis headed straight to
his kitchen, grabbed an unopened wine bottle, opened it and drank. He
drank until he couldn't any more, and then everything faded into
darkness, sweet darkness
where no disturbing thoughts or images could reach him.
xXx
Ivan
Braginski had incredibly enticing eyes. The colour of them was pale
violet, but it changed slightly according to the Russian's current
mood. When Ivan was angry, his eyes darkened considerably, but when
he was sad or content with something, his eyes got a pale violet
shade to them - purplish
pale when content, paler shade when sad.
Arthur wasn't quite sure how the Russian's eyes looked when he was
truly happy.
But now, however, they were pale violet, paler than Arthur was used
to seeing them.
“I
understand,” Ivan
said, quietly but with a small, sad smile. “I kind of expected this
after seeing your reaction to him, and how restless you were
afterwards.”
Arthur knew that Ivan didn't love him the same way that couples
usually loved one another, but there was a special bond between the
two of them, anyway, and that bond couldn't remain how it was if and
when Arthur left. They both knew it, and they accepted it - at
least, that's what Arthur believed. They accepted it with heavy
hearts perhaps, but there was nothing they could do about it.
“You
should leave this hell hole,”
Arthur told Ivan. “You will never belong here, and you will never
find happiness here.”
“I
have been thinking of returning to Russia,” Ivan admitted, eyes
gazing into distance. Arthur knew that his heart rested only in his
homeland, and he sincerely hoped that Ivan would return there.
“Good
to hear.”
“Goodbye,
Arthur,” Ivan
said, and looked the Englishman in the eyes.
“Yeah,” Arthur replied. “Bye.”
When Arthur was leaving the house, he bumped into Natalia in the
hallway. The girl stared at him sullenly, and as a passing thought
the Englishman was momentarily happy of Ivan and his break up (if it
could be called that); now he wouldn't have to meet the creepy little
sister any more. Arthur didn't doubt that she would jump with joy as
soon as Ivan told her what had happened - she had always hated
Arthur and been overprotective of her big brother, although she was a
girl and even the younger sister, and Ivan was tall and strong and
didn't require any sort of protection. At least not the sort his
sister could provide.
Natalia didn't say anything to him, she rarely did, so Arthur said
nothing, too. However, even as he had closed the front door behind
himself he had an uneasy feeling of the girl's eyes boring into him.
Now all Arthur had to do was to finally manage meeting the root of
everything - the mysterious Frenchman. He didn't know if the man
would feel the same as he did, but he had to find it out if he wanted
to achieve any sort of peace.
xXx
Author: marinoa
Rating: M (to be sure)
Characters/Pairings: France, England, Russia, a bit of Belarus. Sort of FrUK and a bit of RuUK
Warnings: Character death :(
Summary: Sometimes two people are destined to meet one another. But sometimes even that can't make them truly meet. And so Francis Bonnefoy will never meet Arthur Kirkland alive. AU.
Note: Sorry for the appearance of the post - again. I seem to have some kind of a problem with LJ. Anyway, I'm too tired to fight with it, so try to cope with this one. Also, the post was too large so it's in two parts here, sorry.
Unfulfilled 1/2
Step, step,
step. Halt - silence.
Francis Bonnefoy,
a self-respecting Frenchman, had never been of the paranoid kind. He
hardly ever felt uneasy even alone in remote areas, and nothing had
ever given him any reason to start feeling otherwise.
Which was why it
was so weird that Francis, soon after moving into a small English
town by the Atlantic coast, had started feeling cold shivers running
up and down his spine whenever he showed himself outside his smallish
house.
Step. Step,
step, step.
It wasn’t that
he was afraid, no. It was just the creepy feeling of somebody’s
eyes on him, of somebody’s presence somewhere nearby. As if he was
being followed.
What made it even
creepier was the fact that the feeling of being followed wasn’t
there all the time when Francis was out. It wasn’t some
constantly nagging paranoia, which would have proven the whole
feeling to be just silly nonsense. But no, since the nervous tickling
hit Francis at random times, he slowly started to believe that
somebody was truly following him every now and then.
Step, step,
step.
And yet the steps
echoing on the street were undeniably Francis’ own, and only his.
Step, step,
step.
Or were they? He
couldn’t tell.
“Silly man,”
he muttered to himself when heading home one evening. “You have
lived here for over a month. Why start developing paranoia now, when
there was nothing wrong with the place in the beginning? Well,
nothing wrong save for the utter English-ness, but...”
Another point
that made the whole matter feel so real was that when Francis had
first moved into the town, he had found it only charming and
pleasant, not disturbing in any sense. The unexpected paranoia had
first appeared after two or three weeks since his arrival.
Step, step,
step.
A logical
explanation could be that the odd feeling had something to do with an
article Francis had read in the local newspaper a couple of weeks
earlier. Apparently some young man had gone missing, leaving not a
trace behind. But then again, it had even been written in the article
that there hardly was anything suspicious about the disappearing; the
man was known to have had very bad relations with his family, and he
had talked openly of leaving the town for good. This was confirmed by
the man’s family, acquaintances and boyfriend, so probably the man
had really just ran off as he had threatened. But what if... Despite
the town being perhaps the most peaceful place in whole England,
there was a possibility that the man hadn’t ‘disappeared’ of
his own will. That’s why the police was looking into the matter,
and that was also why Francis felt slightly restless. If the missing
man had been murdered or captured or something of the sort, the
offender might still be somewhere in town, looking for a next
suitable pray. Like for someone like Francis, for instance.
Or maybe the
Frenchman was just being silly and exaggerated the whole situation.
Maybe Francis had simply got a secret admirer, who was too shy to
show himself and that’s why constantly followed him from afar...
Wait, no, that was almost creepier than hiding murderers.
Step, step,
step. Step step step step step - open, close, lock. Safe.
Francis leant
against his door, breathing deep. You silly man, he scolded
himself. You are letting your imagination run wild, that’s
all there is to it. Satisfied
with such a logical explanation, Francis sighed and took off his
jacket, preparing himself for a relaxing evening with a good French
film and a glass of wine.
Nonetheless, he decided to make sure his door was properly locked.
Twice.
xXx
Arthur
Kirkland, unknowingly to himself, had signed his own death sentence
the moment he had laid his eyes on the Frenchman new in their town.
Or perhaps, more accurately, his fate had been sealed further in the
past, when he had started dating Ivan Braginski. Whichever
it was, he would never know, but he would never know of his death,
either, not until the very last moment when he finally saw it coming.
Yet,
from the moment when Arthur started seeing Ivan Braginski to the very
last second, the Englishman had never been unhappy with the Russian.
Perhaps he hadn't been particularly happy, either, but Ivan had
always treated him well and with respect like a true Russian
gentleman, and Arthur had been comfortable around him. However, there
hadn't been any great sparks of love, ever, on either side of the
couple; Arthur and Ivan's relationship was based more than anything
on the fact that neither of them truly felt like they belonged in the
peaceful, smallish town and its habitants. They both were black
sheep, in a way, and thus them drifting into a relationship together
had only been natural. If dating Ivan Brakinski had ever felt like a
bad idea to Arthur, it was only because of the Russian's younger
sister, who seemed honestly speaking mental from time to time.
Since
life in
the town offered variation
from little
to none,
the appearance of one
Frenchman shook Arthur's world utterly
and unconditionally.
It was a normal day - no work, only a sunny, idle Saturday noon at
the docks with Ivan. The Russian was sitting on a quayside, his feet
splashing in the water, and Arthur leant against his side, half
napping, half watching people on the market place come and go.
“Look,” Ivan said suddenly, tapping Arthur's arm. “I don't
think I have seen that man before.”
Since newcomers were almost unheard of in the town, and Arthur had
nothing better to do, he turned his head to look. “Where?”
“Over there, talking in his phone outside the bakery. The blond
man. Do you see?”
Arthur
looked where Ivan pointed to and saw the man. And when he did, his
heart just stopped beating and he felt like someone had struck him on
the head with some heavy object. Suddenly he couldn't breath, and all
sounds around him disappeared. His vision was restricted to see only
the man pointed to him by Ivan, and for a moment he couldn't think of
anything at all.
Arthur
had always been somewhat cynical and believed himself to be as
unromantic as it was possible to be. He didn't believe in love at
first glance - hell, he didn't even believe in love to
begin with, and yet, as a jape of fate, he experienced something that
writers and poets love to express in their writing, and what every
little girl dreams of at night. He didn't know what it was, though,
not yet; all he knew was that the blond man at the bakery had somehow
struck him so hard that he didn't know what was what any more, and
that they were destined to meet.
“Arthur?” Ivan's voice was concerned, but Arthur had hard times
registering it. “Arthur, are you alright?”
The man at the bakery left, unaware of his effect on a certain
Englishman, and Ivan's voice got through the dizzy mind. Arthur shook
his head, shaken and confused. “Yeah,” he said. “I- I think I
just got a sunstroke.”
The statement wasn't even far from truth; the man with the golden
hair and heavenly blue eyes couldn't be anything less than
incarnation of the sun itself.
xXx
Francis decided that he hated his new home town.
It
was everything he found unpleasant and boring: people treated him
with distant courtesy or were openly rude, and Francis knew he was
referred to as 'the foreigner'. The town itself was too quiet, too -
plain and boring, dull as its habitants. The only person who treated
Francis nicely was his new boss, the owner of the town bakery, and
even he - an aged man - kept his distance. In
one word, there was nothing to the Frenchman in this cursed village,
and he cursed his sister for advising him to move there 'to get some
rest' after his busy journalist life.
The
only thing that Francis liked about the town were the docks. Or, more
precisely, he didn't particularly like
them - he just found himself being drawn to them for whatever
reason. Soft singing of the waves hitting the platform and the few
boats around was calming, and if Francis closed his eyes and let his
imagination run, he could imagine that water was trying to say
something to him. He could also imagine that wind - there was
always wind by the sea - reached to caress him as it went by.
Francis shivered slightly; the wind was chilly and it almost felt as
if cold fingers lightly brushed the side of his face, gently and
carefully but oh
so cold...
Francis'
eyes snapped open and he inhaled sharply. That had most certainly not
been mere wind, for sure his face had just been touched, it must have
been, it felt so real, the wind wasn't as cold as the something
brushing his face had been, but, it wasn't possible, there was no one
around, his imagination was merely doing tricks on him, Francis
calm down, you fool.
His
heart beating unnaturally fast, Francis quickly turned and left the
docks. Dear Lord, I must be going crazy,
he thought, this terrible village is making me crazy.
It wasn't even evening yet, and yet Francis once again felt like he
were being followed.
Step step
step, the sound of his steps,
and his steps only, was driving him mad. “Calm down, you idiot,”
Francis repeatedly urged
himself, counting seconds to reach his own door. “Calm down, you
are feeding your own paranoia. There is nothing there. There is
nothing there.”
To prove his point to himself, Francis abruptly stopped and looked in
a shop window which he happened to stand by. It was an ordinary daily
goods store and it was still open, there were some people inside. His
breathing slowing down little by little, Francis looked into the eyes
of his own reflection. “See?” he said, quietly, not to rouse any
suspicions of passers-by. “Nothing's wrong.”
The emerald green eyes of his reflection met his own blue ones.
Francis' heart froze in his chest and he found himself rooted to the
ground, muted by sudden flash of terror. He stood still, staring at
his blue-eyed reflection, and-
His
blue-eyed reflection. His own
reflection.
He
drew in a shaky breath. What..?
His
knees felt weak, so he placed his hands on the glass and leant
against it, shuddering. What on earth was happening? Was he just
imagining? Of course he was, what else could it be but imagination?
And yet... But no. No.
It was just his own silly imagination. The paranoia he had been
feeling for the past days was affecting his mind, so his
subconsciousness came up with imaginary... things. That had to be it.
Had to be. Otherwise
Francis should start to worry about his sanity.
He left the window, intending to get home where no such sensations
plagued him, but as he walked, he happened to glance back.
A man stood there, a real, large man with ashen hair and a scarf
loosely wrapped about his neck although it wasn't even that cold yet.
He stood there and stared at Francis, hands in his pockets.
As soon as Francis got behind a corner, out of the weird man's eyes,
he ran.
He ran until his chest was burning, but he didn't stop until he was
at his own door.
What is
happening here, he thought as he
frantically tried to open a bottle of wine once he reached his
kitchen. What is happening in this village? I must be going
crazy. This village drives me crazy. Lord help me, I'm going
insane...
xXx
Arthur had always wanted to leave his home town, had wanted since he
had turned nine.
He had always wanted to get away from his bloody insane family, with
his mother gone, his father drinking himself to oblivion and abusing
whoever he got his hands on by the way, and his brothers who had
inherited his father's habits, only they didn't need alcohol to be
abusive. The only reason why Arthur hadn't left yet was the sad fact
that he had nowhere else to go. He wanted to study in a university to
become a journalist or maybe a doctor, or maybe even a lawyer -
frankly, anything would do as long as he was away from this blasted
town. But for university he needed money, and so far he hadn't been
able to land himself a job outside his town.
That was before. But then Arthur had caught a glimpse of the new
Frenchman (Ivan had heard him speaking French once, hence the
conclusion), and everything had turned upside down.
It
wasn't that Arthur had changed his mind about leaving, heavens, no.
It
was just that he felt as if this new man had somehow tied Arthur to
himself, and if the Frenchman was going to stay, so was Arthur. It
wasn't a question of choice - it
was fate's decision. Arthur hated how foolish it all sounded - that
he and the man were destined to be together, although Arthur had only
seen him once and the Frenchman wasn't even aware of Arthur's
existence - but the Englishman had obtained a good piece of
knowledge concerning things not generally understood by most people.
That's why he knew better than to fight it when he realised there was
a string attaching his heart to the Frenchman's.
Yet however he tried, he never managed to meet the man again, not
even see him, and it frustrated him to no end; being tormented by
someone who didn't even know you were there was truly annoying. But
every time Arthur tried to approach him, something hindered him: when
he tried to cross the road, several cars passed him and meanwhile the
Frenchman had got out of sight; or then the man managed to disappear
in a crowd; or then he simply was nowhere to be seen.
Aside
that, what also gave him headache was the fact that he would have to
tell Ivan. It grieved him to
leave the sad Russian alone, but
when one
found his soulmate there was
nothing to be done about it. Ivan would understand. He would be sad,
but he would understand. Arthur knew he would.
xXx
Francis' boss clicked his tongue and put the newspaper aside. Francis
gave him a questioning look while making sure that everything was in
order and the bakery could be closed for the day.
“Have
you read the newspaper yet, Francis?” bakery owner asked, and as
Francis shook his head, continued, “Have you heard of that young
man who disappeared a while ago? Yes. Well, the police hasn't found
any trace of him in any nearby town or city. No one has seen him. So
now the police is suspecting that that poor lad would have been
killed. Either here or nearby. Or then he has committed suicide.”
Chills ran up and down Francis' spine. “Why?”
“One can never know with young people. He had always been an odd
one. And he was always hanging out with one Russian, just as odd as
the lad himself. Might be they had a lovers' quarrel and the Russian
killed him. That's what they do, you know. The poor lad never knew
how to choose his company.” The owner looked at Francis funnily,
and added, “You know, once he came here to ask for you, but it was
your free day.”
Suddenly blood ran cold in the Frenchman's veins. “He... he did?”
“Just as I said. Did you know him?”
“Not at all.”
Francis took the local newspaper, opened the right pages and stared
at it for a moment. Then he gave the paper back to his boss. “Well,”
he said. “I believe it's time for me to go home. I will see you
tomorrow.”
But
Francis didn't go home. For some unknown reason he was drawn to the
docks again, so he went there instead. His mind was empty, empty save
for the image of a photo in the newspaper where the article of the
'poor lad' had been. He had seen that face before. He had seen those
eyes before. He had
seen them reflected in the shop window not many days earlier, and the
thought frightened him so much that he, paradoxically, felt calm in
some strange way, or numb
with fear at the very least.
Rain
clouds covered the sky. Hardly any people chose to go out at that
time in the evening, especially with a promise of rain, so when
Francis got to the docks, he saw no one around. It made
him somewhat nervous, but he
found himself unable to leave just yet. The sound of waves was
relaxing, and the wind, though strong and cold, didn't seem
unfriendly. Francis shivered when he remembered the cold fingers he
had felt in the wind the other day, and then he shivered again
because he truly
was alone and there was not a soul around.
Every now and then a car would pass nearby, but aside that and the
sound of wind and waves, there was only silence to keep him company.
“Why
am I so nervous?” Francis muttered to himself, slightly annoyed at
such childish behaviour. “I should be relieved instead.” He truly
should, because he had just got a rational explanation to his
paranoia: with all the talk of a possible murder, it was no wonder
that Francis was anxious. Even more so, because he was in a new,
unfamiliar town, where didn't know anybody yet. That's why he kept
imagining touches in the wind or reflections of missing people -
his mind was merely overreacting due to its anxious state. “Don't
feed your own fears,” he whispered to assure himself, just like his
father used to do when Francis had had nightmares as a child.
Francis
refused to question how it was possible that the first time he had
seen the face of this missing Englishman had been in a reflection in
a window - before
he saw an actual photo of the man.
A
breath of wind kissed Francis' cheek and the Frenchman turned his
face to the sea. He didn't know what he was doing there - on the
docks, in the town, or even in England, to begin with. I
should go home, back to France. There is nothing to me here. There is
nothing to keep me here. I
should have never even come.
When Francis turned around to leave the platform, he halted as
abruptly as if he had met a wall.
A
pale figure... no, a translucent
figure. Slender form. Messy short hair. Expressionless face. Serious,
sad eyes. Green eyes.
Standing there, only few steps away from the Frenchman.
Francis forgot how to move. He forgot how to run, how to speak, how
to scream. He forgot how to breath, so all he could do was merely
stand where he was and stare at this sad figure before him.
The figure observed him in silence, but Francis got the feeling that
the serious green eyes were full of unsaid words, words that needed
to be voiced, but had to be silenced for ever. Such heavy sadness
seemed to hang in the air around the figure that Francis felt his
heart sinking of its weight, so heavy it was hard to breath. He tried
to speak, to say anything, but all he managed out of his dry throat
was a pathetic wordless sound.
The figure took several steps backwards - not quite walking, not
quite floating - but it never took its eyes off the Frenchman. When
Francis didn't move, the figure raised its both hands and extended
them towards him, taking a few more steps back, eyes almost pleading.
That was when Francis found himself again. “Go away!” he shouted,
trying very hard not to lose his mind. Where just a moment earlier
his heart hadn't been working, now it started beating so rapidly that
Francis heard its drumming in his head... and surely the terrifying
figure heard it too. “Get away from me!”
The figure seemed to flinch, dropping its arms to sides. It took one
more step backwards, eyes intently on the Frenchman, looking sadder
than ever.
Francis
took it as a good sign. “Yes, get away from here, disappear! Get
away!”
And
suddenly the figure wasn't there any more. Francis remained where he
was, panting heavily and looking frantically around to see if the
frightening figure would appear again. He saw nothing, and then
finally
his feet remembered what to do.
Step step step
step step step step step step step step step step.
Francis
slammed his door firmly shut and leant against it to make sure it
truly remained so. His chest was aching from the run, and his mind
was empty and full of terrible visions at the same time. Not even
bothering to take his coat or shoes off, Francis headed straight to
his kitchen, grabbed an unopened wine bottle, opened it and drank. He
drank until he couldn't any more, and then everything faded into
darkness, sweet darkness
where no disturbing thoughts or images could reach him.
xXx
Ivan
Braginski had incredibly enticing eyes. The colour of them was pale
violet, but it changed slightly according to the Russian's current
mood. When Ivan was angry, his eyes darkened considerably, but when
he was sad or content with something, his eyes got a pale violet
shade to them - purplish
pale when content, paler shade when sad.
Arthur wasn't quite sure how the Russian's eyes looked when he was
truly happy.
But now, however, they were pale violet, paler than Arthur was used
to seeing them.
“I
understand,” Ivan
said, quietly but with a small, sad smile. “I kind of expected this
after seeing your reaction to him, and how restless you were
afterwards.”
Arthur knew that Ivan didn't love him the same way that couples
usually loved one another, but there was a special bond between the
two of them, anyway, and that bond couldn't remain how it was if and
when Arthur left. They both knew it, and they accepted it - at
least, that's what Arthur believed. They accepted it with heavy
hearts perhaps, but there was nothing they could do about it.
“You
should leave this hell hole,”
Arthur told Ivan. “You will never belong here, and you will never
find happiness here.”
“I
have been thinking of returning to Russia,” Ivan admitted, eyes
gazing into distance. Arthur knew that his heart rested only in his
homeland, and he sincerely hoped that Ivan would return there.
“Good
to hear.”
“Goodbye,
Arthur,” Ivan
said, and looked the Englishman in the eyes.
“Yeah,” Arthur replied. “Bye.”
When Arthur was leaving the house, he bumped into Natalia in the
hallway. The girl stared at him sullenly, and as a passing thought
the Englishman was momentarily happy of Ivan and his break up (if it
could be called that); now he wouldn't have to meet the creepy little
sister any more. Arthur didn't doubt that she would jump with joy as
soon as Ivan told her what had happened - she had always hated
Arthur and been overprotective of her big brother, although she was a
girl and even the younger sister, and Ivan was tall and strong and
didn't require any sort of protection. At least not the sort his
sister could provide.
Natalia didn't say anything to him, she rarely did, so Arthur said
nothing, too. However, even as he had closed the front door behind
himself he had an uneasy feeling of the girl's eyes boring into him.
Now all Arthur had to do was to finally manage meeting the root of
everything - the mysterious Frenchman. He didn't know if the man
would feel the same as he did, but he had to find it out if he wanted
to achieve any sort of peace.
xXx