Unfulfilled [Fanfiction] 2/2
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:The second part of the story!
Unfulfilled 2/2
Tick, tick,
tick.
The clock hands went on and on, continued going in a never-ending
circle. Francis had already lost count how many times they had made a
full circle.
He hadn't left his house since the incident on the docks. First it
was because he was frightened to death, but then he had started to
think. He had dug out all the local newspapers he had, and read
through them all, trying to mark any mention of the disappeared young
man.
Arthur Kirkland, that was his name. And he hadn't run away, as the
newspaper had suggested at first. Arthur Kirkland was dead.
Now, Francis Bonnefoy had never believed in ghosts. There had never
been room for such things in his busy, satisfying life, and he had
never given them much thought. But now... now the issue required some
serious reconsidering. There were only two options: it was either
that Francis was truly losing his mind, or then ghosts did exist, and
he had seen one.
No matter how frightening the latter option was, the first one was
even more dreadful, and that's why, however reluctantly, Francis
chose to believe that existence of a ghost wasn't truly impossible.
When he had reached that conclusion, he started replaying his surreal
experiences which might have included the ghost.
First, there was this feeling of being constantly followed.
Second, the cold fingers on the docks.
Third, the reflection in the shop window.
And fourth, the appearance of the ghost himself, on the docks again.
Plus, Francis remembered the discussion with his boss from the other
day, about Arthur Kirkland - that the man had asked for him in the
bakery before his disappearance.
The more Francis thought about it, the more he started to feel that
the ghost wanted to somehow speak with him, and the more he also
started to feel that he was somehow oddly connected with it.
After coming to that conclusion, Francis' fear seemed to decrease
considerably. It was odd, but Francis felt that even if the people in
the town chose to treat him as a stranger and a foreigner who would
never be one of them, the ghost acknowledged his presence and even
wanted something of him, o him, and no one else in the town.
It almost felt like the true purpose for moving into the town was
meeting that ghost.
Or better said, meeting Arthur Kirkland. Who just happened to be now
dead.
But what did the ghost - Arthur - want of him? That Francis would
have to find out.
And so, resolved to solve the matter once and for all, the Frenchman
collected all the courage he could muster and stepped out of his
house. He drew a deep breath of chilly evening air to calm his
rapidly beating heart, and headed towards the docks, where he
supposed was the best chance of meeting the ghost again.
He just hoped that he hadn't driven Arthur away the last time he had
shown himself to Francis.
xXx
Arthur had been looking for the Frenchman for the whole day, ever
since his 'break up' with Ivan in the morning, but of no avail.
The Frenchman hadn't been in the town centre - not on the docks,
not in the bakery, not in any of the shops and boutiques. Arthur had
even asked for the Frenchman in the bakery, for he had seen him
entering it a couple of times (yet he had never been there whenever
Arthur had tried to reach him), but once again, the owner of the
bakery just shrugged and said it was the Frenchman's day off.
After the whole day of result-less searching, Arthur, exhausted,
decided to try again the following day, and started walking towards
his own home. His family's house stood almost at the edge of the
town; it was one of the last houses before fields and, further, a
forest.
But before he reached his home, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
Starting slightly, he turned to see Natalia's sullen eyes staring
into his.
“Huh,” he said, both surprised and slightly annoyed. “What do
you want?”
“You broke my brother's heart,” she hissed in reply, hatred
flaring in her eyes.
“That's not exactly true,” Arthur started, but the girl didn't
let him finish. “Then why has he been so sad since you left this
morning?”
Arthur's massive eyebrow twitched. He wasn't answerable to this girl,
not even if she was a sister of his past sort-of-a-boyfriend, and he
also told her that.
Anger flashed in Natalia's eyes when she heard him. “Even if you
weren't answerable to me,” she hissed, “you are to my brother.”
“Everything is clear and settled between us.”
“Come and see him.”
“We talked in the morning.”
“Come and see him,” she insisted.
Arthur sighed. He wasn't in the best of moods - he was hungry,
tired and still somehow shaken due to recent events - but he knew
that the quickest way to rid himself of Natalia was to agree to her
demand and be done about it. Arthur didn't doubt that Ivan was sad,
but he also knew that the Russian wasn't sad mainly because of the
end of their relationship - Ivan couldn't feel truly happy so long
as he remained outside the borders of his own country. He had left
too much to his homeland when he had had to leave it.
“Come,” Natalia demanded again and tugged at his sleeve. Arthur
shook her hand off, but turned to follow her nonetheless.
“Did Ivan send for me?” he asked as they walked.
“No.”
Thought so. Of course brother-obsessed Natalia would act on
her own when it wasn't needed.
The Braginskis lived closer to the town centre, nearer to the docks,
and Arthur and Natalia had chosen a short cut through narrow, hardly
used alleys. Heavy clouds covered the sky, wind blew wildly and
chilly, carrying a smell of rain. Arthur tried to wrap his leather
jacked more tightly around himself, hoping the meeting with Ivan
would be brief. It was late already, late an cold, and there
was nothing much he wanted to discuss with the Russian at the moment.
In all honesty, he suspected that Ivan felt the same, and all was
just Natalia's overreacting.
He soon discovered that he was more right than, if looking back, he
would ever want to be.
Every sensible habitant of the town was already in their own, warm
home by that hour, so there was no one to see how a pretty, slender
yet strong Russian girl suddenly hurled herself at a young,
unsuspecting man, surprising him enough to tackle him into an
abandoned warehouse. No one was there to see her draw out two knives,
or to hear him yelping as they were thrust deep into him in darkness.
Not a soul knew of struggling and a doomed fight, and when it all
ended, there was only one bloodied person to witness Arthur
Kirkland's last breath.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the town, Francis Bonnefoy went to
bed and dreamt of Paris and roses and a pair of emerald, laughing
eyes. In the morning, when he woke up, the dream was forever
forgotten.
xXx
He was already there when Francis neared the docks. It was a sunny
day for a change - the Frenchman dared not wait until dark - but
Arthur Kirkland was on the spot nonetheless, standing at the end of a
platform and gazing to the sea. People were passing by, chatting
about this and that and basically living their lives, none of them
aware of the lonely, unseen figure among them. None, but Francis.
His back was facing the Frenchman, but Francis still had the
uncomfortable feeling that the ghost was fully aware of his presence.
His suspicions were confirmed when Arthur Kirkland turned to look at
him even before Francis' hesitant foot touched the platform. It
wasn't easy, walking towards the terrifying, sad figure &ndash a
ghost or heaven's sake! ndash; especially if you just
started believing in such creatures only a day or two earlier.
Francis didn't dare look at the figure directly, not when he felt his
heavy gaze upon himself, but the more he neared the ghost, the
greater an urge he got to meet the his eyes. Only few feet away from
him, Francis finally mustered enough courage to do so. And when he
did, his breath got caught in his throat.
The form of Arthur Kirkland was entirely transparent... save for his
strikingly green, no emerald yes. It was a shock to see so
bright a colour in otherwise almost invisible figure, and Francis had
to stop to draw a deep breath and assure himself that it was too late
to back off now. But those eyes, dear Lord, thos eyes...Francis
couldn't tear himself free from the hold of those fascinating, sad
orbs. He felt being drawn into them, felt like he was falling,
swirling, twirling, flying, flying... He felt as if he had known the
owner of those eyes for a lifetime, or that at least h should
have known him, should have been allowed to meet him, and an
overwhelming rush of unspeakable ruefulness washed over him with such
force that he almost lost his footing, and the eye contact with the
ghost unlocked. Francis gasped for air, distraught, but not really
afraid any more.
Arthur hadn't moved from his spot, he merely watched the Frenchman
from where he stood, and waited. When Francis was finally able to get
himself more or less back in hand, he didn't hesitate any longer.
With several brisk steps he stood right before the ghost, and met his
green look again.
“Who are you?” he demanded hoarsely, his voice low.
The ghost did not reply and Francis remembered that he already knew
the answer to his question. At least the superficial answer.
“Arthur Kirkland,” he pronounced, never taking his blue eyes off
Arthur's. Something moved in the eyes of the English ghost at that,
but otherwise he gave no reaction.
They stood like that for quite a while, then, face to face. Francis
tried to come to the terms with the fact that he was speaking to a
ghost, and calm his storming feelings and thoughts, and Arthur... Who
knew.
“What...” Breathless, and half fearing, half craving for an
answer, Francis had to restart his question. “What do you want of
me?”
At that, the ghost of Arthur Kirkland finally reacted. He took a step
- no, not really a step, not quite floating, just like last time -
backward, away from the Frenchman, then turned around and took more
of his odd steps. He stopped and turned to Francis. Like the
Frenchman remembered him doing last time he had seen him, the ghost
raised both his arms in silent invitation to follow.
This time, Francis obliged.
No one paid them - or him - any attention as they walked through
the town, the Frenchman following the ghost. It was surreal, and
quite difficult to comprehend that he was the only one who even saw
Arthur Kirkland. How could somebody not? Those green eyes were far
too radiant to be unseen!
Arthur led him to the part of the town which Francis had not yet
explored; it had always looked rather repugnant to him with its
narrow, dark and smelling alleys. Even now, in the bright sunlight,
the alley was practically empty of people, and rays of sun didn't
quite seem to reach its dark corners... Or maybe it was just the
Frenchman's own imagination's doing. Either way, as he followed the
ghost, a foreboding feeling started creeping up Francis' spine. He
tried to recall everything he had heard about ghosts, and this is
what came to his mind: ghosts were born of feelings such as regret
and vindictiveness... and if they wanted to find peace for their
earthen remnants. These ideas weren't really lifting the Frenchman's
spirits, but he couldn't back off any more. Not even when the ghost
of Arthur finally stopped at a decayed little house. A nauseating
smell attack Francis' sense of smell and he tried not to gag. Arthur
was looking at him again with his sad eyes, and when the Frenchman
met his heavy gaze, he suddenl knew hat was inside.
Covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief Francis backed away a
few steps to lean against the opposite building. He couldn't go
inside. He didn't want to go there, and he didn't want to see. But
then he saw Arthur's ghost hanging his head and entering the small
building through the closed (but apparently broken) door. Seeing that
happening Francis was struck with an unnameable sensation - there
was a body inside, there was Arthur's body inside (or what was left
of it), the murdered young man's body. Life had ended abruptly for
the Englishman, before he and Francis had even had a chance to meet,
and it was beyond imagination to understand what the ghost, the soul
of Arthur, had to be feeling when he had to look at his own corpse
rotting o nothing. However disgusting and horrifying it would
be for Francis to go in there and see the corpse, it would be nothing
compared to the ghost's feelings (and he had feelings, Francis knew
it - the never ending sadness in those green eyes was a proof of
that).
So, though dreading what was awaiting him, the Frenchman pressed the
handkerchief more tightly against his face and, shaking and
shuddering, reached to push the wooden door open.
It was dark inside, but dirty, occasionally broken windows provided
enough light to locate the ghost in the middle of an empty room,
standing above something that looked like... looked like... that
was...
Francis stumbled backwards and retched violently, falling to his
knees. Then he retched again, until nothing came out any more,
nothing but tearing, shuddering gasps and gags and tears. Arthur
Kirkland watched him, sadly as always, and when Francis dared look
back again - at the ghost, not the corpse - he couldn't help
wondering how someone so young and good-looking could turn into
something so revolting.
There before the Frenchman's eyes the ghost suddenly faded away, and
panic struck Francis. “Arthur?” he shouted, desperately looking
for the ghost. “Arthur!” Terror filling him, he got to his feet
and rushed out of the building, running and running and running to
never stop again.
xXx
Apparently only the sky had enough decency to weep at Arthur
Kirkland's funeral. No one looked happy though, no one was smiling,
but none of the few people attending the young Englishman's simple
burial ceremony was shedding any tears.
Francis wasn't crying, either. And really, why would he? He had never
known the man. He hadn't even talked with him.... well, save for his
ghost, and even then only a couple of short sentences. And yet,
dry-eyed or not, he felt as though he was the saddest one of those
present.
Francis didn't know anybody at the funeral, he didn't recall seeing
anyone at the town. Yet the three men, who were now each in turn
tossing a handful of dirt into the grave, looked like they could be
Arthur's brothers (all had the same kind of eyebrows Francis had seen
on the ghost's face). An elderly couple might have been his parents -
or maybe not, because they didn't really look like mourning parents
with their frozen, stern expressions. The rest were probably friends
or acquaintances. And yet no one looked like they had just lost a
friend. No one seemed to have a same kind of deep, desperate feeling
of loss inside as Francis, a stranger, did.
The lack of tears bothered the Frenchman Too distant. Too cold,
had nobody here trul love im?
The priest shut his Bible and gave his audience a look that announced
the ceremony to be over. The coffin with a corpse inside was in the
grave, everybody - including Francis - had thrown some dirt on
it, the words of power of hope even in the deepest grief had been
spoken. One by one, or in small groups, the people left the open
grave with its new habitant. All but two.
“There he now lies.”
Francis started on hearing the voice and turned around to see a tall
man with a long scarf wrapped around his neck. There was something
familiar about the man, and suddenly Francis remembered catching him
staring at him, Francis, when the Frenchman had seen Arthur
Kirkland's reflection in his own. Shudders ran down his spine.
The man walked past him to stand right at the grave. He crouched to
take a handful of dirt and dropped it into the grave, like everybody
else had done earlier. Then he just stood there, letting the drizzle
wet his face instead of tears. Francis watched his back, his slightly
slumped, large shoulders, his ashen hair sticking to his head, and
waited.
“He wanted to get out,” The man spoke again after some silence.
He had a heavy Russian accent, Francis noted. “He wanted to get
out, and that's where he ended up.”
Something clenched in the Frenchman's heart. He hadn't talked about
Arthur with anyone, and no one had talked about the young man to him,
either. No one had spoken to him at the funeral, no one had inquired
what business he might have there. No one but this Russian. And in
his voice Francis heard the grief he hadn't really seen on anybody
else's face. Saying nothing, he took a couple of steps to stand on
the Russian's side; the man clearly wanted to talk about Arthur, and
that was precisely what Francis needed, too. He wanted to hear of
this young, mysterious man, learn something about him, hear someone
speak of him like he had been a real, living person, not only a
dream.
“He was the closest person to me in this whole town,” the Russian
said. “And I was to him. At least I think so.”
Francis shifted uncomfortably. Had this man seen Arthur's ghost, too?
The Russian turned to face the Frenchman and offered his hand. “Ivan
Braginski.”
“Francis Bonnefoy.”
They shook hands. Violet eyes locked into Francis, boring deep into
him.
“Well.” Francis withdrew his hand, uneasy. “You were friends?”
Ivan Braginski shrugged. “Somehow, I guess.” Then he added, “We
were dating, sort of.”
“Oh.” Francis couldn't tell why his heart had dropped at that, so
he tried to ignore the feeling. “I'm sorry for your loss.”
“I would have lost him anyway. Not this way, though.”
Francis had no idea what to reply to that, so he remained silent.
“You two never met.” For some unknown reason, Braginski's tone
was sad when he said so.
“No.&rdquo Except for his ghost and his rotten corpse, but neither
is an appealing way to meet a person.
“He tried to.”
“What?”
Ivan's pale violet eyes bore into Francis' again. “He tried to.”
Francis' mouth went dry. Arthur had tried to meet him when he had
still been alive? Oh yes, now he recalled his boss mentioning that
the Englishman had once asked for him... But he didn't dare ask Ivan,
why.
Both were silent for some time, then, thinking He and Arthur had
been dating. But what did he mean by saying that he would have lost
him anyway? Arthur had tried to meet me. What did the Russian know
about me? Had Arthur known me? Why, why, why had he tried to reach
me? Why, why, why, why, why? And now I will never know. Never know
why. Why? Why? Why?
Suddenly the Russian covered his face with both his hands. “It was
my sister.”
Francis was confused. “Who was?”
“Arthur,” Ivan Braginski said. “It was my little sister who
killed him. My own blood.”
The Frenchman's vision flashed white. For a fraction of a second he
wanted to push the Russian down into the open grave and fill it, to
have him suffocate and die and rot there together with Arthur. But
the moment of madness left Francis as quickly as it had come, and
sense returned to his mind. But his body started to shake, and he
shoved his fists into the pockets of his black jacket.
“Why?” He forced the question out through his teeth with effort.
Ivan told him why. He told him how possessive Natalia Braginski had
always been over her big brother, how she had always despised
everyone who tried to 'take him away' from her. She had tolerated
Arthur, because the Englishman had seemed to make Ivan less sad, but
when he had broken up with the Russian, Natalia had thought that
Arthur had destroyed her brother by betraying him, abandoning him.
She had wanted revenge. When Francis had found the corpse and
informed the police about it, all the traces had led to the young
Russian girl: her blood on Arthur's fingers (he had managed to
scratch her neck raw), her long, ashen hairs found at the place of
crime. Having been caught, the girl didn't deny anything - she had
done all for his brother's sake and regretted nothing. Soon she had
been diagnosed mentally unstable and was sent to a mental institution
of criminals in another town. All this would come out in the local
newspaper in a couple of days.
“I was planning to return to Russia,” Ivan said in a chocked
voice. “But now my sister is locked here for life, and Arthur... I
can't leave any more. Not when this all ended like it did. I owe to
him. And to her, despite what she did. She is my blood after all.”
Francis didn't say anything for a long time, but finally he felt
obliged to confess, “It was me who found the body.”
“I'm sorry,” Ivan said.
“This... isn't your fault.”
“I'm sorry fo you.” Ivan looked at him again with his
sad, pale violet eyes and shook his head. “I need to go. It was a
pleasure meeting you, Francis Bonnefoy. Perhaps we can keep in touch
if you will stay in this town.”
If I will stay in this town..? rancis thought as he watched
the Russian walking away. How could he not stay? Just like Ivan had
said, how could he leave now when Arthur Kirkland was buried in this
soil?
“You tried to catch me,” Francis spoke into the air, raising his
eyes to the clouded sky above. “To meet with me. I didn't even know
of your existence. And when I finally learnt of you, you were already
dead.”
The drizzle started to turn into a real rain, but it weren't only
raindrops that run down the Frenchman's cheeks. He wiped his face
with his hand, shocked and at the same time oddly relieved to be
finally crying. His mind was only coming to realise the fact that
Arthur Kirkland had been a real, living person, someone with a life,
with a social circle (however small). Now he was dead, dead before
they had the chance to meet, to get to know one another, to...
“I can't get rid of the feeling that we were meant to meet one
another,” the Frenchman half sobbed, half whispered into the air.
“Is this some kind of a prank fate decided to pull on us? We were
supposed to meet!” The last sentence came out as a yell, as a
bitter, angry, devastated cry.
Something cold brushed the side of Francis' face - something else
than rain, something else than wind. Eyes snapping open, the
Frenchman saw the already familiar bright but sad emerald eyes
looking at him, saw the fading figure of a man he never got the
chance to love, felt the touch of his cold fingers on his face.
“I'm
sorry,” he whispered through his tears. “I'm sorry for not
knowing of you when you were alive, of not being there when you were
looking for me.” He reached with his own hand, gently and carefully
trying to touch Arthur's face, but his fingers slipped right through
it. Arthur Kirkland was out of his reach, would always be. “We were
supposed to meet,” Francis repeated, the sadness of the ghost and
his own despair weighting his heart down. “But not like this. Not
like this Alive.”
He
tried to touch the ghost again, but in vain. “Why?” he whispered,
expressing with that one word all the confusion, all the strange but
strong feelings storming within him. “Why?”
Arthur Kirkland did not reply, as he never had. Instead he leant
forward and briefly placed his lips right on the lips of the
Frenchman. His emerald eyes captured Francis' sapphire ones, and that
one look revealed more than thousand words could ever have revealed.
For the shortest second he felt as though their souls had met,
touched, understood, but then the moment was gone and Arthur Kirkland
smiled. Francis blinked, but Arthur was already gone and the
Frenchman was left alone at the open grave.
His hand rose to brush his lips where Arthur's cold lips had touched
his. Arthur's lips had been cold, but the still lingering feeling of
them was warmer than a kiss from a sun could ever be.
“Goodbye,” he whispered, turned around and walked away from the
grave.
Francis Bonnefoy never left the small English town by the sea after
that. He never grew to love it, nor did it ever love him, but he was
tied to it by a man buried in its soil. Francis kept visiting that
grave regularly for the rest of his life - meeting Arthur Kirkland,
or his ghost, had moved something deep within the Frenchman, and that
something never stopped moving as long as he was alive.
But
he
never sa Arthur's
ghost again.
X
Requiescat
in pace.
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:The second part of the story!
Unfulfilled 2/2
Tick, tick,
tick.
The clock hands went on and on, continued going in a never-ending
circle. Francis had already lost count how many times they had made a
full circle.
He hadn't left his house since the incident on the docks. First it
was because he was frightened to death, but then he had started to
think. He had dug out all the local newspapers he had, and read
through them all, trying to mark any mention of the disappeared young
man.
Arthur Kirkland, that was his name. And he hadn't run away, as the
newspaper had suggested at first. Arthur Kirkland was dead.
Now, Francis Bonnefoy had never believed in ghosts. There had never
been room for such things in his busy, satisfying life, and he had
never given them much thought. But now... now the issue required some
serious reconsidering. There were only two options: it was either
that Francis was truly losing his mind, or then ghosts did exist, and
he had seen one.
No matter how frightening the latter option was, the first one was
even more dreadful, and that's why, however reluctantly, Francis
chose to believe that existence of a ghost wasn't truly impossible.
When he had reached that conclusion, he started replaying his surreal
experiences which might have included the ghost.
First, there was this feeling of being constantly followed.
Second, the cold fingers on the docks.
Third, the reflection in the shop window.
And fourth, the appearance of the ghost himself, on the docks again.
Plus, Francis remembered the discussion with his boss from the other
day, about Arthur Kirkland - that the man had asked for him in the
bakery before his disappearance.
The more Francis thought about it, the more he started to feel that
the ghost wanted to somehow speak with him, and the more he also
started to feel that he was somehow oddly connected with it.
After coming to that conclusion, Francis' fear seemed to decrease
considerably. It was odd, but Francis felt that even if the people in
the town chose to treat him as a stranger and a foreigner who would
never be one of them, the ghost acknowledged his presence and even
wanted something of him, o him, and no one else in the town.
It almost felt like the true purpose for moving into the town was
meeting that ghost.
Or better said, meeting Arthur Kirkland. Who just happened to be now
dead.
But what did the ghost - Arthur - want of him? That Francis would
have to find out.
And so, resolved to solve the matter once and for all, the Frenchman
collected all the courage he could muster and stepped out of his
house. He drew a deep breath of chilly evening air to calm his
rapidly beating heart, and headed towards the docks, where he
supposed was the best chance of meeting the ghost again.
He just hoped that he hadn't driven Arthur away the last time he had
shown himself to Francis.
xXx
Arthur had been looking for the Frenchman for the whole day, ever
since his 'break up' with Ivan in the morning, but of no avail.
The Frenchman hadn't been in the town centre - not on the docks,
not in the bakery, not in any of the shops and boutiques. Arthur had
even asked for the Frenchman in the bakery, for he had seen him
entering it a couple of times (yet he had never been there whenever
Arthur had tried to reach him), but once again, the owner of the
bakery just shrugged and said it was the Frenchman's day off.
After the whole day of result-less searching, Arthur, exhausted,
decided to try again the following day, and started walking towards
his own home. His family's house stood almost at the edge of the
town; it was one of the last houses before fields and, further, a
forest.
But before he reached his home, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
Starting slightly, he turned to see Natalia's sullen eyes staring
into his.
“Huh,” he said, both surprised and slightly annoyed. “What do
you want?”
“You broke my brother's heart,” she hissed in reply, hatred
flaring in her eyes.
“That's not exactly true,” Arthur started, but the girl didn't
let him finish. “Then why has he been so sad since you left this
morning?”
Arthur's massive eyebrow twitched. He wasn't answerable to this girl,
not even if she was a sister of his past sort-of-a-boyfriend, and he
also told her that.
Anger flashed in Natalia's eyes when she heard him. “Even if you
weren't answerable to me,” she hissed, “you are to my brother.”
“Everything is clear and settled between us.”
“Come and see him.”
“We talked in the morning.”
“Come and see him,” she insisted.
Arthur sighed. He wasn't in the best of moods - he was hungry,
tired and still somehow shaken due to recent events - but he knew
that the quickest way to rid himself of Natalia was to agree to her
demand and be done about it. Arthur didn't doubt that Ivan was sad,
but he also knew that the Russian wasn't sad mainly because of the
end of their relationship - Ivan couldn't feel truly happy so long
as he remained outside the borders of his own country. He had left
too much to his homeland when he had had to leave it.
“Come,” Natalia demanded again and tugged at his sleeve. Arthur
shook her hand off, but turned to follow her nonetheless.
“Did Ivan send for me?” he asked as they walked.
“No.”
Thought so. Of course brother-obsessed Natalia would act on
her own when it wasn't needed.
The Braginskis lived closer to the town centre, nearer to the docks,
and Arthur and Natalia had chosen a short cut through narrow, hardly
used alleys. Heavy clouds covered the sky, wind blew wildly and
chilly, carrying a smell of rain. Arthur tried to wrap his leather
jacked more tightly around himself, hoping the meeting with Ivan
would be brief. It was late already, late an cold, and there
was nothing much he wanted to discuss with the Russian at the moment.
In all honesty, he suspected that Ivan felt the same, and all was
just Natalia's overreacting.
He soon discovered that he was more right than, if looking back, he
would ever want to be.
Every sensible habitant of the town was already in their own, warm
home by that hour, so there was no one to see how a pretty, slender
yet strong Russian girl suddenly hurled herself at a young,
unsuspecting man, surprising him enough to tackle him into an
abandoned warehouse. No one was there to see her draw out two knives,
or to hear him yelping as they were thrust deep into him in darkness.
Not a soul knew of struggling and a doomed fight, and when it all
ended, there was only one bloodied person to witness Arthur
Kirkland's last breath.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the town, Francis Bonnefoy went to
bed and dreamt of Paris and roses and a pair of emerald, laughing
eyes. In the morning, when he woke up, the dream was forever
forgotten.
xXx
He was already there when Francis neared the docks. It was a sunny
day for a change - the Frenchman dared not wait until dark - but
Arthur Kirkland was on the spot nonetheless, standing at the end of a
platform and gazing to the sea. People were passing by, chatting
about this and that and basically living their lives, none of them
aware of the lonely, unseen figure among them. None, but Francis.
His back was facing the Frenchman, but Francis still had the
uncomfortable feeling that the ghost was fully aware of his presence.
His suspicions were confirmed when Arthur Kirkland turned to look at
him even before Francis' hesitant foot touched the platform. It
wasn't easy, walking towards the terrifying, sad figure &ndash a
ghost or heaven's sake! ndash; especially if you just
started believing in such creatures only a day or two earlier.
Francis didn't dare look at the figure directly, not when he felt his
heavy gaze upon himself, but the more he neared the ghost, the
greater an urge he got to meet the his eyes. Only few feet away from
him, Francis finally mustered enough courage to do so. And when he
did, his breath got caught in his throat.
The form of Arthur Kirkland was entirely transparent... save for his
strikingly green, no emerald yes. It was a shock to see so
bright a colour in otherwise almost invisible figure, and Francis had
to stop to draw a deep breath and assure himself that it was too late
to back off now. But those eyes, dear Lord, thos eyes...Francis
couldn't tear himself free from the hold of those fascinating, sad
orbs. He felt being drawn into them, felt like he was falling,
swirling, twirling, flying, flying... He felt as if he had known the
owner of those eyes for a lifetime, or that at least h should
have known him, should have been allowed to meet him, and an
overwhelming rush of unspeakable ruefulness washed over him with such
force that he almost lost his footing, and the eye contact with the
ghost unlocked. Francis gasped for air, distraught, but not really
afraid any more.
Arthur hadn't moved from his spot, he merely watched the Frenchman
from where he stood, and waited. When Francis was finally able to get
himself more or less back in hand, he didn't hesitate any longer.
With several brisk steps he stood right before the ghost, and met his
green look again.
“Who are you?” he demanded hoarsely, his voice low.
The ghost did not reply and Francis remembered that he already knew
the answer to his question. At least the superficial answer.
“Arthur Kirkland,” he pronounced, never taking his blue eyes off
Arthur's. Something moved in the eyes of the English ghost at that,
but otherwise he gave no reaction.
They stood like that for quite a while, then, face to face. Francis
tried to come to the terms with the fact that he was speaking to a
ghost, and calm his storming feelings and thoughts, and Arthur... Who
knew.
“What...” Breathless, and half fearing, half craving for an
answer, Francis had to restart his question. “What do you want of
me?”
At that, the ghost of Arthur Kirkland finally reacted. He took a step
- no, not really a step, not quite floating, just like last time -
backward, away from the Frenchman, then turned around and took more
of his odd steps. He stopped and turned to Francis. Like the
Frenchman remembered him doing last time he had seen him, the ghost
raised both his arms in silent invitation to follow.
This time, Francis obliged.
No one paid them - or him - any attention as they walked through
the town, the Frenchman following the ghost. It was surreal, and
quite difficult to comprehend that he was the only one who even saw
Arthur Kirkland. How could somebody not? Those green eyes were far
too radiant to be unseen!
Arthur led him to the part of the town which Francis had not yet
explored; it had always looked rather repugnant to him with its
narrow, dark and smelling alleys. Even now, in the bright sunlight,
the alley was practically empty of people, and rays of sun didn't
quite seem to reach its dark corners... Or maybe it was just the
Frenchman's own imagination's doing. Either way, as he followed the
ghost, a foreboding feeling started creeping up Francis' spine. He
tried to recall everything he had heard about ghosts, and this is
what came to his mind: ghosts were born of feelings such as regret
and vindictiveness... and if they wanted to find peace for their
earthen remnants. These ideas weren't really lifting the Frenchman's
spirits, but he couldn't back off any more. Not even when the ghost
of Arthur finally stopped at a decayed little house. A nauseating
smell attack Francis' sense of smell and he tried not to gag. Arthur
was looking at him again with his sad eyes, and when the Frenchman
met his heavy gaze, he suddenl knew hat was inside.
Covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief Francis backed away a
few steps to lean against the opposite building. He couldn't go
inside. He didn't want to go there, and he didn't want to see. But
then he saw Arthur's ghost hanging his head and entering the small
building through the closed (but apparently broken) door. Seeing that
happening Francis was struck with an unnameable sensation - there
was a body inside, there was Arthur's body inside (or what was left
of it), the murdered young man's body. Life had ended abruptly for
the Englishman, before he and Francis had even had a chance to meet,
and it was beyond imagination to understand what the ghost, the soul
of Arthur, had to be feeling when he had to look at his own corpse
rotting o nothing. However disgusting and horrifying it would
be for Francis to go in there and see the corpse, it would be nothing
compared to the ghost's feelings (and he had feelings, Francis knew
it - the never ending sadness in those green eyes was a proof of
that).
So, though dreading what was awaiting him, the Frenchman pressed the
handkerchief more tightly against his face and, shaking and
shuddering, reached to push the wooden door open.
It was dark inside, but dirty, occasionally broken windows provided
enough light to locate the ghost in the middle of an empty room,
standing above something that looked like... looked like... that
was...
Francis stumbled backwards and retched violently, falling to his
knees. Then he retched again, until nothing came out any more,
nothing but tearing, shuddering gasps and gags and tears. Arthur
Kirkland watched him, sadly as always, and when Francis dared look
back again - at the ghost, not the corpse - he couldn't help
wondering how someone so young and good-looking could turn into
something so revolting.
There before the Frenchman's eyes the ghost suddenly faded away, and
panic struck Francis. “Arthur?” he shouted, desperately looking
for the ghost. “Arthur!” Terror filling him, he got to his feet
and rushed out of the building, running and running and running to
never stop again.
xXx
Apparently only the sky had enough decency to weep at Arthur
Kirkland's funeral. No one looked happy though, no one was smiling,
but none of the few people attending the young Englishman's simple
burial ceremony was shedding any tears.
Francis wasn't crying, either. And really, why would he? He had never
known the man. He hadn't even talked with him.... well, save for his
ghost, and even then only a couple of short sentences. And yet,
dry-eyed or not, he felt as though he was the saddest one of those
present.
Francis didn't know anybody at the funeral, he didn't recall seeing
anyone at the town. Yet the three men, who were now each in turn
tossing a handful of dirt into the grave, looked like they could be
Arthur's brothers (all had the same kind of eyebrows Francis had seen
on the ghost's face). An elderly couple might have been his parents -
or maybe not, because they didn't really look like mourning parents
with their frozen, stern expressions. The rest were probably friends
or acquaintances. And yet no one looked like they had just lost a
friend. No one seemed to have a same kind of deep, desperate feeling
of loss inside as Francis, a stranger, did.
The lack of tears bothered the Frenchman Too distant. Too cold,
had nobody here trul love im?
The priest shut his Bible and gave his audience a look that announced
the ceremony to be over. The coffin with a corpse inside was in the
grave, everybody - including Francis - had thrown some dirt on
it, the words of power of hope even in the deepest grief had been
spoken. One by one, or in small groups, the people left the open
grave with its new habitant. All but two.
“There he now lies.”
Francis started on hearing the voice and turned around to see a tall
man with a long scarf wrapped around his neck. There was something
familiar about the man, and suddenly Francis remembered catching him
staring at him, Francis, when the Frenchman had seen Arthur
Kirkland's reflection in his own. Shudders ran down his spine.
The man walked past him to stand right at the grave. He crouched to
take a handful of dirt and dropped it into the grave, like everybody
else had done earlier. Then he just stood there, letting the drizzle
wet his face instead of tears. Francis watched his back, his slightly
slumped, large shoulders, his ashen hair sticking to his head, and
waited.
“He wanted to get out,” The man spoke again after some silence.
He had a heavy Russian accent, Francis noted. “He wanted to get
out, and that's where he ended up.”
Something clenched in the Frenchman's heart. He hadn't talked about
Arthur with anyone, and no one had talked about the young man to him,
either. No one had spoken to him at the funeral, no one had inquired
what business he might have there. No one but this Russian. And in
his voice Francis heard the grief he hadn't really seen on anybody
else's face. Saying nothing, he took a couple of steps to stand on
the Russian's side; the man clearly wanted to talk about Arthur, and
that was precisely what Francis needed, too. He wanted to hear of
this young, mysterious man, learn something about him, hear someone
speak of him like he had been a real, living person, not only a
dream.
“He was the closest person to me in this whole town,” the Russian
said. “And I was to him. At least I think so.”
Francis shifted uncomfortably. Had this man seen Arthur's ghost, too?
The Russian turned to face the Frenchman and offered his hand. “Ivan
Braginski.”
“Francis Bonnefoy.”
They shook hands. Violet eyes locked into Francis, boring deep into
him.
“Well.” Francis withdrew his hand, uneasy. “You were friends?”
Ivan Braginski shrugged. “Somehow, I guess.” Then he added, “We
were dating, sort of.”
“Oh.” Francis couldn't tell why his heart had dropped at that, so
he tried to ignore the feeling. “I'm sorry for your loss.”
“I would have lost him anyway. Not this way, though.”
Francis had no idea what to reply to that, so he remained silent.
“You two never met.” For some unknown reason, Braginski's tone
was sad when he said so.
“No.&rdquo Except for his ghost and his rotten corpse, but neither
is an appealing way to meet a person.
“He tried to.”
“What?”
Ivan's pale violet eyes bore into Francis' again. “He tried to.”
Francis' mouth went dry. Arthur had tried to meet him when he had
still been alive? Oh yes, now he recalled his boss mentioning that
the Englishman had once asked for him... But he didn't dare ask Ivan,
why.
Both were silent for some time, then, thinking He and Arthur had
been dating. But what did he mean by saying that he would have lost
him anyway? Arthur had tried to meet me. What did the Russian know
about me? Had Arthur known me? Why, why, why had he tried to reach
me? Why, why, why, why, why? And now I will never know. Never know
why. Why? Why? Why?
Suddenly the Russian covered his face with both his hands. “It was
my sister.”
Francis was confused. “Who was?”
“Arthur,” Ivan Braginski said. “It was my little sister who
killed him. My own blood.”
The Frenchman's vision flashed white. For a fraction of a second he
wanted to push the Russian down into the open grave and fill it, to
have him suffocate and die and rot there together with Arthur. But
the moment of madness left Francis as quickly as it had come, and
sense returned to his mind. But his body started to shake, and he
shoved his fists into the pockets of his black jacket.
“Why?” He forced the question out through his teeth with effort.
Ivan told him why. He told him how possessive Natalia Braginski had
always been over her big brother, how she had always despised
everyone who tried to 'take him away' from her. She had tolerated
Arthur, because the Englishman had seemed to make Ivan less sad, but
when he had broken up with the Russian, Natalia had thought that
Arthur had destroyed her brother by betraying him, abandoning him.
She had wanted revenge. When Francis had found the corpse and
informed the police about it, all the traces had led to the young
Russian girl: her blood on Arthur's fingers (he had managed to
scratch her neck raw), her long, ashen hairs found at the place of
crime. Having been caught, the girl didn't deny anything - she had
done all for his brother's sake and regretted nothing. Soon she had
been diagnosed mentally unstable and was sent to a mental institution
of criminals in another town. All this would come out in the local
newspaper in a couple of days.
“I was planning to return to Russia,” Ivan said in a chocked
voice. “But now my sister is locked here for life, and Arthur... I
can't leave any more. Not when this all ended like it did. I owe to
him. And to her, despite what she did. She is my blood after all.”
Francis didn't say anything for a long time, but finally he felt
obliged to confess, “It was me who found the body.”
“I'm sorry,” Ivan said.
“This... isn't your fault.”
“I'm sorry fo you.” Ivan looked at him again with his
sad, pale violet eyes and shook his head. “I need to go. It was a
pleasure meeting you, Francis Bonnefoy. Perhaps we can keep in touch
if you will stay in this town.”
If I will stay in this town..? rancis thought as he watched
the Russian walking away. How could he not stay? Just like Ivan had
said, how could he leave now when Arthur Kirkland was buried in this
soil?
“You tried to catch me,” Francis spoke into the air, raising his
eyes to the clouded sky above. “To meet with me. I didn't even know
of your existence. And when I finally learnt of you, you were already
dead.”
The drizzle started to turn into a real rain, but it weren't only
raindrops that run down the Frenchman's cheeks. He wiped his face
with his hand, shocked and at the same time oddly relieved to be
finally crying. His mind was only coming to realise the fact that
Arthur Kirkland had been a real, living person, someone with a life,
with a social circle (however small). Now he was dead, dead before
they had the chance to meet, to get to know one another, to...
“I can't get rid of the feeling that we were meant to meet one
another,” the Frenchman half sobbed, half whispered into the air.
“Is this some kind of a prank fate decided to pull on us? We were
supposed to meet!” The last sentence came out as a yell, as a
bitter, angry, devastated cry.
Something cold brushed the side of Francis' face - something else
than rain, something else than wind. Eyes snapping open, the
Frenchman saw the already familiar bright but sad emerald eyes
looking at him, saw the fading figure of a man he never got the
chance to love, felt the touch of his cold fingers on his face.
“I'm
sorry,” he whispered through his tears. “I'm sorry for not
knowing of you when you were alive, of not being there when you were
looking for me.” He reached with his own hand, gently and carefully
trying to touch Arthur's face, but his fingers slipped right through
it. Arthur Kirkland was out of his reach, would always be. “We were
supposed to meet,” Francis repeated, the sadness of the ghost and
his own despair weighting his heart down. “But not like this. Not
like this Alive.”
He
tried to touch the ghost again, but in vain. “Why?” he whispered,
expressing with that one word all the confusion, all the strange but
strong feelings storming within him. “Why?”
Arthur Kirkland did not reply, as he never had. Instead he leant
forward and briefly placed his lips right on the lips of the
Frenchman. His emerald eyes captured Francis' sapphire ones, and that
one look revealed more than thousand words could ever have revealed.
For the shortest second he felt as though their souls had met,
touched, understood, but then the moment was gone and Arthur Kirkland
smiled. Francis blinked, but Arthur was already gone and the
Frenchman was left alone at the open grave.
His hand rose to brush his lips where Arthur's cold lips had touched
his. Arthur's lips had been cold, but the still lingering feeling of
them was warmer than a kiss from a sun could ever be.
“Goodbye,” he whispered, turned around and walked away from the
grave.
Francis Bonnefoy never left the small English town by the sea after
that. He never grew to love it, nor did it ever love him, but he was
tied to it by a man buried in its soil. Francis kept visiting that
grave regularly for the rest of his life - meeting Arthur Kirkland,
or his ghost, had moved something deep within the Frenchman, and that
something never stopped moving as long as he was alive.
But
he
never sa Arthur's
ghost again.
X
Requiescat
in pace.