Francis didn’t know how long he stood there, battling the pounding in his head and wondering what the hell had just transpired. There was that faint musing he kept repeating to himself, the one that told him he’d almost committed the same crime he once lost his entire life over — that he was so close, that he had gone in way too far. But it was difficult to listen to that thought when he was feeling as whoozy as he was, so he just concentrated on standing still and commanding the earth to stop moving.
It wasn’t until later, as he watched drunk men pile themselves out of the bar with his alcohol-laced mind, that some of the significance of what he could have done finally hit him a bit — although it was still a struggle to put what exactly he had done in words. It wasn’t because of Arthur that he’d pulled away from the woman because he no longer cared about Arthur and what Arthur thought — of course not. It was because there was a very real, very dangerous chance he could have passed on his HIV to another.
He had a responsibility now, in a way. And he’d let himself go for a moment. More than a moment.
It would only be fair, though, to repay what the universe owed him. If someone asked for your jacket, you give it to him but demand for him to pay interest. If someone slapped you in the face, you tackle him to the ground and pound his nose into the pavement. That was just the way the world worked.
He wondered if this was how Chel felt.
“Fucking hell!” Francis swore suddenly, smashing his fist against the brick. “FUCK!” He cursed again and again as he alternated between kicking and hitting the wall over and over and over, kicking until he could feel his feet throb with pain and punching until he could see the skin over his knuckles split and drool blood down his arms. He felt the frustration in his body, the arousal that was there again like it’d always been there, the hollowness in his chest as he realized that there was just him now because he couldn’t even accept physical comfort the way he used to.
“Fuck,” Francis whispered, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.
He fell to gross sobbing as he slid down and crumpled to the ground, curling into a tight mass of whimpering flesh. He couldn’t remember how long he knelt there, pounding his forehead against the cement until dirt and blood dribbled into his eyes and mixed with his salty tears. He felt insane, madly out of control, heedless of the movements his own body was forcing upon him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried as hard as this — had it been when Arthur left? How about ten years back, when he first heard of his mother’s suicide just as he was preparing to leave Marseille for school? How about even further back, when he had learned that he was never to see the boy with the jade-coloured eyes ever again because that boy was leaving, going home to the other side of the world on the other side of the Channel? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember.
-
Francis suddenly felt warm hands running over his scalp. He looked up through swimming eyes to see a beautiful young woman, all wavy brown-haired and bright-gentle-eyed, with a smile that could win thousands. There were ribbons in her hair and her skin was a gentle brown-coconut coloured, her short blue jacket the shade of the royal night blue skies of France’s countrysides. The stranger took his hands in hers, her fingers closing over his, helping him up as he continued to cry into his own chest.
The Genius Next Door [4j/7]
It wasn’t until later, as he watched drunk men pile themselves out of the bar with his alcohol-laced mind, that some of the significance of what he could have done finally hit him a bit — although it was still a struggle to put what exactly he had done in words. It wasn’t because of Arthur that he’d pulled away from the woman because he no longer cared about Arthur and what Arthur thought — of course not. It was because there was a very real, very dangerous chance he could have passed on his HIV to another.
He had a responsibility now, in a way. And he’d let himself go for a moment. More than a moment.
It would only be fair, though, to repay what the universe owed him. If someone asked for your jacket, you give it to him but demand for him to pay interest. If someone slapped you in the face, you tackle him to the ground and pound his nose into the pavement. That was just the way the world worked.
He wondered if this was how Chel felt.
“Fucking hell!” Francis swore suddenly, smashing his fist against the brick. “FUCK!” He cursed again and again as he alternated between kicking and hitting the wall over and over and over, kicking until he could feel his feet throb with pain and punching until he could see the skin over his knuckles split and drool blood down his arms. He felt the frustration in his body, the arousal that was there again like it’d always been there, the hollowness in his chest as he realized that there was just him now because he couldn’t even accept physical comfort the way he used to.
“Fuck,” Francis whispered, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.
He fell to gross sobbing as he slid down and crumpled to the ground, curling into a tight mass of whimpering flesh. He couldn’t remember how long he knelt there, pounding his forehead against the cement until dirt and blood dribbled into his eyes and mixed with his salty tears. He felt insane, madly out of control, heedless of the movements his own body was forcing upon him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried as hard as this — had it been when Arthur left? How about ten years back, when he first heard of his mother’s suicide just as he was preparing to leave Marseille for school? How about even further back, when he had learned that he was never to see the boy with the jade-coloured eyes ever again because that boy was leaving, going home to the other side of the world on the other side of the Channel? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember.
-
Francis suddenly felt warm hands running over his scalp. He looked up through swimming eyes to see a beautiful young woman, all wavy brown-haired and bright-gentle-eyed, with a smile that could win thousands. There were ribbons in her hair and her skin was a gentle brown-coconut coloured, her short blue jacket the shade of the royal night blue skies of France’s countrysides. The stranger took his hands in hers, her fingers closing over his, helping him up as he continued to cry into his own chest.