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.
Francis will remember only blurry fragments of the rest of the night. He’ll remember a soothing voice, clambering into a taxi, and throwing up on the streets after they exited it with the same soft hands holding back his hair. He’ll remember being tired down to his element and yet being unable to sleep due to the the burning at the back of his throat from the vomit, the rocking in his head, the spinning of the room, the acid in his stomach, the unfamiliarity of the apartment in which he had been led. The most prominent passing memory he will remember is being shown to a chair, being sat in front of a mirror, as someone shaved his shaggy face and draped a towel over his shoulders and cut off all his hair. He’ll remember holding the blond wisps that fell between his fingers and thinking that they felt somewhat like feathers.
He’ll remember taking a glass of water, and finally falling on the couch and closing his eyes to a merciful, dreamless sleep.
-
It was at the crack of dawn when Francis awoke, something that hasn’t happened for years. He had no hangover, he never got them, but he was extremely disoriented. For a moment, he thought that he was back at Arthur’s, for he imagined the sound of the humming heater, the running water as Arthur was getting ready for work, the songs of the early flying risers — and for a moment, he was transported back months ago when things had been alright.
Francis got up slowly. He blinked his eyes blearily and looked around — the apartment was devoid of any furniture — and saw that he was still in his previous night’s clothes.
Chel took at least an hour to shower every morning, and Francis decided to take the opportunity to make her breakfast. He shuffled around her kitchen slowly, his hands moving with familiar practice. He knew all of Chel’s favourite foods and how she liked to take her morning coffee. He knew that because they’d spent more than one night together before, because she was his one big guilty spot that was always on his conscience, because they were alike in a million more ways than he and Arthur will ever be. That if Matthew was right and there existed an infinite number of universes, and if Matthew was wrong and Francis and Arthur were not together in every one of them, then in that one where they are not Francis would be in love with Chel and they would be living together, happily married, HIV-free with two and a half children conceived in love by their own means. That, at least, is what Francis believed.
Chel’s kitchen was hardly something that could be counted as a kitchen. There were no utensils, and the plates were dirty, and there was hardly any food in the refrigerator, so Francis has to make do with what he had. He noticed that there was, lying on the kitchen counter against the wall, a single photograph, and he picked it up. Chel’s never looked happier in it. She’s with a man, fair haired and blue-eyed with a five-o’-clock shadow. She has a baby cradled in her arms, and she’s not looking at the camera — the man is, though. The baby, Francis could tell, had her father’s eyes. The picture looks like it’s been folded and unfolded several times, its edges crinkled and water-worn.
If Francis didn’t know any better, he would have called her pathetic.
He didn’t know how to feel now that he was here. Sure, deep inside him he knew that he didn’t blame Chel — but that was on the assumption that he’d never have to see her again. Now that he was in her apartment, she was entirely at his mercy — he could raid her things, steal whatever money she had, completely stab her in the back (figuratively). He wondered if he should.
Francis ran a hand through his short hair and set the picture down. He put the eggs and toast on the kitchen table and grabbed a napkin and wrote something on it quickly with pen. He left it neatly folded next to the plate of food, and managed to slip out the door quietly just as he heard the shower turn off.
Finding his way out of the apartment and walking through the cold streets, Francis wondered, truly wondered, if he forgave Chel. He looked back only once, and managed to see her standing at her bedroom window with the curtains drawn, watching him back. They gave each other a small wave, and the way the French morning sun hit her small and skinny frame makes her look rather beautiful.
He knows, with some peace of mind as he turns a corner, that he has.
-
One month later
-
In the room, the dreaded clock ticked.
It’s a bit hard to come out of a bad habit you’ve submitted to that you’ve been repressing yourself from for years, Francis thought quietly as he exhaled, watching the smoke come off the end of the cigarette and disappear in the atmosphere. He wondered if he should call someone – anyone, really – to help him sort this out.
He turned his head, looking to the little girl on the edge of his bed. She was sitting there stoically with an emotionless look in her eyes that met his own with startling precision. Her hands were folded in her lap, her head tilted downward a bit, her lips moving ever so slightly with no sound coming out of them. Her dress was in tatters; it would have been pure white only it was stained with tracks of mud and dirt and here and there a patch of dried blood. There were twigs in her blonde hair and her arms were so thin that her bones were visible and her elbows were jutting outward.
Francis took another inhale, never taking his eyes off the girl, as he mulled over his thoughts. He had become even better the past few weeks. He was still drinking, still smoking all the time, still eating unhealthily — but strangely enough, he had been improving. Maybe his body was just becoming used to all these coping methods and that those methods were actually helping him recover rather than hindering him. It didn’t matter. Francis no longer felt sick anymore; he had made a full recovery. He even stopped taking his medications.
There was just this one problem: the little girl, who had been following him around for the longest time.
Whenever he turned around, there she’d be, sitting quietly with her hands clasped and a giant smile plastered in a V-shape on her face, although her brows were furrowed and it looked like she was deeply frowning at the same time. The edges of her lips were always moving, even though she was grinning a tight-lipped grin. She never spoke to him, never looked away from him, and never did anything other than go wherever he went.
Francis was, to say the least, a little troubled by her. There was just something disturbing about her presence – it might have been her freakish face, or the way she followed him around the streets in a bloody dress and nobody seemed to pay attention. Perhaps she’s always been here. Perhaps he just didn’t know it.
But the scariest thing was, he couldn’t tell if she was real or not.
Francis finally made a decision.
He needed help.
-
Francis stood up to move and was shaken slightly when he saw the girl immediately jump up to follow him. He shivered, bundling himself up in his coat and stamping out his cigarette. Every day the girl’s presence grew more ominous – for the past few days he woke to find her just two feet away from his face, staring at him, her dress a little bloodier.
He strode out onto the street, trembling all the while as he heard the tap-tap-tap of prim shoes behind him. When he looked back, there she was, smiling with her lips twisted in a way physically impossible for anyone else and frowning with her eyes; he rubbed at his own and continued on.
When he reached a public phone booth, he immediately tried to shut out the girl so that he could have at least a little bit of privacy, but she ended up appearing directly next to him. She was only up to his elbow in height but she seemed more than threatening standing a foot away from him. Francis shuddered again and reached up to punch in the numbers, doing his best to ignore his company, trying not to panic.
Would she know that he was calling for help — that he was going to find someone to get rid of her? What would she do to him if she did?
“Hello?”
“Matthieu?”
“Francis?” Francis could hear the incredulity in his brother’s voice. “Is that you?”
“Yes, yes –”
“It’s you? Seriously — seriously?”
A rush of air passed out of Francis’ lungs. “It’s me, Matthieu,” he breathed.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to us?” cried his brother. “I called Antonio and he said that you disappeared off the face of the earth for months. And Gilbert – he had no idea either, and Arthur – well, Arthur, he – he didn’t pick up. Everyone – everyone else has been so worried. Where have you been?”
“Matthieu,” Francis said, breath quickening as he continued to look at the girl. He was starting to feel claustrophobic – she took up all of the space here, and he was backed in a corner as he watched her shuffle towards him with terrifying speed, inch by inch by inch. She’d never – never tried to get so close to him before in all the time that Francis has seen her – she’s always kept her distance. What was changing now? “It’s good to hear your voice again,” he said, trying to keep his voice from cracking, because it truly was.
“Francis, what’s going on? What happened to you? You sound sick.”
“I – I don’t know. I’m seeing things, I think. I just, I wanted to call –”
“You’re seeing things?”
“Probably a ghost,” Francis nodded his head.
“Have you been drinking?” came the accusing tone.
“I – yes, but it’s nothing like that.”
“Are you stoned?”
“I – no! I’m clean. I just – I think, I think I’m seeing things.”
Heavy silence pervaded the line. “Why did you call me?”
The girl was but a few inches from him now, though she didn’t move any farther than that. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I cut myself off from everyone, but it’s harder with you and Arthur. I need help,” he shrugged his shoulders feebly. “Matthieu, I don’t know where my life is going anymore. I haven’t spoken to a single soul for months, and I’ve been drinking and smoking and I think I’m ill – really ill — even though I don’t feel ill… I’m not sleeping. I’m not taking my medication. And I’m seeing things, things I shouldn’t be seeing. I don’t think I can take any of this anymore,” he finished, his voice having risen the entire time until it sounded so panicked that it made him feel like hyperventilating.
“I think I’ll come visit you,” said Matthieu softly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you earlier. I – I didn’t know how bad it was. I suspected, that since Arthur wasn’t picking up either, that you were with him.”
Francis nodded, again and again, though Matthieu couldn’t see.
“Antonio mentioned a fight, though, and so I thought, I thought you two were simply coping in your own ways.”
Yes? You think?
“I’ll take care of you – don’t worry.”
But I’m mad, Matthieu. I’m mad.
“We’ll get through this together, alright? This — this whole Arthur thing. Is that what all this is about, Arthur?”
Do you remember the last time I called you, on Christmas Eve?
“Francis?”
Francis cleared his throat. “Christmas Eve,” he repeated, throat hoarse.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“You’re…you’re…” Depressed? Sick? A lunatic?
“To be honest?” Francis said, twisting his finger around the cord. “I’m losing my grip on reality,” he joked weakly. “I thought I could do this but I can’t. I can’t, Matthieu.”
“Right. Right, okay. Right. Okay. Who are you staying with?”
“An old couple. Here –” Francis gave his address, and tried to calm himself down. “You’ll be over soon, right?” he asked hopefully.
“Well, maybe you should come stay with us instead,” Matthieu said slowly.
“Us?”
“Alfred and I. We’d be glad to have you. We have an extra room and everything. It’s just, we can help you better if you’re here.”
“I can’t,” choked Francis, watching the girl’s smile stretch and widen.
“I can’t leave,” he said again, and then laughed and laughed and laughed.
He meant that he didn’t want to burden Matthieu or Alfred. He meant that he didn’t want his little brother to see how far he’s fallen, how bad he is, to see him wander around in his house in a vegetative state. He meant that he didn’t want to be around Alfred, the stranger whom he hardly knew, and just needed to be with Matthieu. He meant that he was losing his mind, that he couldn’t tell the difference between reality and fiction anymore and he wasn’t really sure if the girl was just a reflection of his mind or not and he wasn’t really sure why he’s never really questioned that until now. He meant that if he tried to escape he was sure she would hunt him down and kill him, because that was just the vibe she was giving him now.
The girl started to make gesturing motions with her hands, as if she was telling Francis to hand over the phone. He did, trying to still it in his hand, as he passed it over. He squeezed his eyes shut.
When had it come to this? How had it come to this? He dropped the phone in her palm.
It fell right through and clattered against the glass wall.
Francis felt relief course through him for a single moment. She wasn’t real.
Francis then felt terror follow right after. She wasn’t real.
“Francis? Hello? Hello?” came the voice from the phone as Francis slammed open the booth door and ran.
-
The demon-child was gone. Standing here, on this familiar old bridge, Francis could almost think rationally; he could not for the life of him remember her much at all anymore. Had she just been a hallucination he’d been conjuring all this time? When had she first appeared, how did she become such a regular presence in his life? Was this kind of thing normal for people with HIV? Or even depression?
Francis was panting, leaning his elbows on the railing with his head thrown back so that it hung over the expanse of water. He had ran like a madman through the streets, pushing past strangers and knocking over carts and strollers, ran without a single glance back to see if the demon-child was still following him, ran purposelessly and without destination with Matthieu’s final words echoing in his skull. Now he felt as though his lungs were being ripped out of his chest; it hurt to breathe, and he had to take great huge gasping breaths in order to fill himself with heavenly air. Night had already fallen.
There was nobody else on the bridge except for him and a few passing cars, and thank God for that. In the distance, a bugle told Francis that there were a few small ships headed towards the bridge, and on either side of him Paris was slowing putting herself to sleep. All her lights were being lit like small, flickering candles, and Francis thought that she was beautiful illuminated like this at nighttime.
The Mirabeau bridge was one of thirty-seven bridges built over the Seine River located in Paris, and it was far from one of the most beautiful. In fact, it was the disgusting yellow-green colour of sulphur and it was old as dirt. And compared to some bridges like the Pont des Arts or the Pont de l’Archvêché, considered some of the greatest romantic spots in the city, or the Pont Alexandre III that was lined with its gorgeous lamps, the Mirabeau bridge could hardly match up.
But Francis had grown to adore this bridge, he and Arthur both. After all, it was here where they’d commonly met up whenever they could spare some free time in the busy days of attending college since they were studying completely different majors and didn’t have a single class with each other. It’d been here where Arthur had stood in jeans frayed at the fringe and wet from the knees down, where he had chatted with Francis amiably about how much he wanted to bash his 18th century French literature teacher’s head in with a burnt scone and Francis had listened contently thinking about how much he loved the guy. It’d been here where they’d fought numerous times, even broke up once, but reconciled again.
Sometimes when they met Francis would bring flowers. He didn’t really know where Arthur put them, but he had faith that they weren’t thrown away upon parting because he knew that the Brit was a romantic at heart. He could still remember the first time Arthur brought him flowers for a change, and he had made the fatal mistake of making fun of him for it. Since then, Arthur had never repeated the gesture. Francis had suspected that the other just scared easily; a marriage and some years later he could easily reaffirm that thought.
In the present, Francis turned around so that he was facing the river and tapped his fingernails on the railing. It was still mid-winter and he was poorly dressed and he’d been running around all day. His short hair had become stiff and cold, snow frozen on the tips, and his ears and neck were chilled to the bone as they were completely unprotected. He shivered, teeth chattering, bare hands red as though he’d been burnt severely.
Francis was not worried that he’d catch a cold, because he was still certain that he was getting better and his immune system was no longer ‘weak’. Was that even possible? Recovering from HIV without outside help? It must be, because it was happening to him. He was grateful, entirely so. Once he was better he would find Arthur again, and they’d somehow make do and get back together.
It was so easy to imagine, so easy to forget that they’d already tried and nothing had worked and it’d been such a terribly long time since the two had last spoken. Here on the bridge, it was so easy to forget everything. It was easy to forget why he even cared in the first place. Arthur, Matthieu, Antoine, Gilbert — all were lost cases, people whose faces he could hardly summon or remember. The whole plan was laid out in plain view in front of him, and there was nothing to add. All that really mattered were the memories he and Arthur had created here together long ago; in those memories, Arthur loved him still. All he had to do was let go.
The Frenchman yawned tiredly. From here he could see the Eiffel Tower in all its glory, lit up with a thousand lights that made it appear on fire. He blinked lazily at it. It almost startled him to realize how long ago the demon-child had left him be; he’d been here for hours already. Somehow, he imagined the bridge protecting him, keeping him safe. Here, he could be completely content. He was almost euphoric; he could no longer feel the cold, only warmth seeping through his veins and heating his fingers. It was like his first trip to DisneyWorld when he was six or seven years old, cradled in the arms of his mother as they both watched the fireworks above Cinderella’s castle. Nothing wrong could have happened to him then.
The colours of the lights were beginning to blend in with each other; Francis blinked a few times, wondering why his vision was going blurry, but the colours wouldn’t go away. He felt an inexplicable feeling crawl up the base of his spine, and he was suddenly very hot, very giddy inside.
Here, he was sure he was free, away from his guilt and his demons and his haunts. Here, he could enshroud himself in the past forever, in a time before Arthur had become something utterly unobtainable. All he could think of was DisneyWorld and his mother, and then he was fast forwarding through his life and watching all his memories play themselves out as easily and as real as though he was watching television.
There was growing up in Marseille with Matthieu and meeting the jade-eyed boy on the shores of the Mediterranean and there was meeting his half-sister for the first time and growing to love her. There was playing dress-up in girl’s clothes and wondering if there was something wrong with him; there was realizing that he was a little different than other people but that was alright. There was the jade-eyed boy coming to see him in his dreams again and again until there came a point where Francis couldn’t distinguish between the words he had actually heard come from the boy’s mouth and the words he had imagined hearing in those nightly visits.
There was moving away to the city of lights to live out his dream when he turned eighteen, looking down to see Matthieu still a head shorter than him clutching at his bag and begging him not to leave right before he boarded the plane because if he was leaving then he would be running away and leaving Matthieu mother-less and brother-less. There was meeting Antoine and Gilbert and getting drunk for the first time and failing his first test in a subject he believed he was a genius in and crying alone on the bathroom floor after a party, gutting his wrists like he would a fish and watching the blood drip down the bathtub and smear the whiteness away.
There was meeting the jade-eyed boy in reality once more. It wasn’t love at first sight, it couldn’t be because they’d already seen each other before, but the boy didn’t remember him and that had broken his heart. But then there was finding himself when he wooed the other anyway, growing more confident and self-assured and daring and flirtatious and there was storing away the memory of his mother’s death back in the hidden realms of his mind and reuniting with Matthieu. There was growing to love his work and growing to love this city and growing to love this bridge, this spot, and growing addicted to loving a certain kind of pain and happiness that came and went with loving Arthur.
There was hurt there, and there was joy, and Francis had always adored a good measure of both. This he could deal with, this he could find the measure of his worth from, this he could use to discover more of himself. What he was dealing with now — the almost constant sadness and the consuming depth of his inner monsters and the madness that he felt was slowly taking over his brain by conjuring him images of certain white-dressed little girls to haunt his wake — that, that he could die for, but never live with.
Francis hummed the Mirabeau song, but he could hardly hear it over the hollowness in his ears. He continued to hum it regardless, thinking about what it had taken him to get here, about what he had gone through and what he had had to deal with. About being fastened, rather accidentally, to his love for Arthur, and forgetting himself in consequence. That had been a fatal mistake he would regret even more so than Chel. But then again, now that he thought about it, he no longer regretted Chel; he only regretted that things had gone the way they did.
But you have a choice even now, you know, said a voice Francis imagined belonged to the little demon girl, only it was sweet and kind and didn’t sound like it could pass through such a filthy mouth. He looked around for the girl, but realized he couldn’t see a thing anymore. The scope of his sight had turned rather lurid, which was frightening because now it seemed as though the colours were turning on him. The cold was once again returning to his limbs, and that shocked him as much as the colours did. He had somehow managed to pull himself out of reality for a single moment in the coldness and engage himself in the past, but now the present was returning once more and he didn’t — he didn’t want that.
You still have a choice, laughed the voice. Francis Bonnefoy, you always had the choice.
That’s right, mused Francis. I can choose to escape. There was always an escape route. I’ve just forgotten it. For it is so strange, Francis mused, that we should enter a world built upon the failure of its inhabitants and yet struggle every day to cling to it anyway because we imagine it to be our only salvation. That there isn’t anything yonder, that all that lies in the abyss is the unknown and the unknown is always worse than the known. That death is the coward’s way out.
But Francis didn’t see it that way; at least not anymore. Because he had been falling and falling the moment he met Arthur and he had finally hit rock bottom. This was his rock bottom. He would take the unknown, if it provided even the slimmest of a chance that it was better than the hell he was living now.
He had never considered this ending before, not when he had been kicked out of the apartment, not when he had found out he had a sickness that would quickly destroy him, not when he had drowned himself in alcohol and woken up with patches in his memory. And not even when the demon-girl showed up. Although she disturbed him, she brought along some measure of solace and peace that comforted him as well because her presence meant that he was already going mad, and insane men were not bothered by the same things that sane men were. Death was not the coward’s way out. It was his only way out, and he was nothing but brave to endeavour it, because if he couldn’t make the attempt then he’d be forced to live with the repercussions, and he’d already lived the repercussions and he’d suffered. And this, this was his salvation.
Francis was hardly realizing what he was doing when he gripped the railings tight and threw his legs over it. With just the release of his clenched hands, he could plummet straight into the river and be done with it all. He took a deep breath; the colours and the cold and the wind was harassing him even more now, as if they were chanting Do it, do it, do it! And Francis released the breath he was holding.
There was a gentle tap on his shoulder. Through the vivid patches of yellow and searing white, Francis discerned the shape of the demon-girl. So she’d finally caught up to him, he thought with some relief. Hello, he wanted to say. He thought the girl looked a little oddly like someone he knew. It was a subtle observation, something he’d never noticed before — and especially shouldn’t now considering how he could hardly even see. He squinted his eyes against the biting chill, looking a little harder. Oh, he realized finally, and smiled. Mother is not a pretty sight to look at in her youth.
The demon-child smiled, and pushed him hard. Francis’ hands released their hold, and the water below rushed up to meet him as he fell once again.
Words cannot express how much I want someone to rescue Francis and put him to bed and make sure he eats and takes his pills and just, just nurses him and lets him know he doesn't have to face all this alone any more. I can't wait to see what happens next, what Matthew's reaction will be to Francis' attempted suicide and the state his brother's in, and whether he'll tell Antonio, Gilbert and Arthur and how they'll react.
Oh god, first I'm SO glad he called Matthew and FINALLY asked for help... and then he jumps off a bridge! Nooooo! Okay at least I know he HAS to survive since the fic isn't done yet. Please let it start getting better from here... Although I guess there's never an easy road up without the occasional fall...
I was glad to see a glimpse of Chel... And I was SO glad Francis didn't infect that woman in the bar, at least he's better than that.
The last scene was scarily vivid. I really hope you aren't writing from your own experience, a!a.
Thank you for your concern, anon. I've never had a suicidal experience, no. I also didn't want to - in any way - objectify or glorify suicide. I think that that in itself makes writing triggering content so difficult.
In all honesty, the only experience I did draw from to write a certain part was the one time I hadn't slept for three days due to exams and decided to take a nice walk in the middle of the night and the middle of winter for absolutely no reason at all...Yeah. Get your sleep, everyone.
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The Genius Next Door [4j/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-03 01:21 am (UTC)(link)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 [4k/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-03 01:21 am (UTC)(link)He’ll remember taking a glass of water, and finally falling on the couch and closing his eyes to a merciful, dreamless sleep.
-
It was at the crack of dawn when Francis awoke, something that hasn’t happened for years. He had no hangover, he never got them, but he was extremely disoriented. For a moment, he thought that he was back at Arthur’s, for he imagined the sound of the humming heater, the running water as Arthur was getting ready for work, the songs of the early flying risers — and for a moment, he was transported back months ago when things had been alright.
Francis got up slowly. He blinked his eyes blearily and looked around — the apartment was devoid of any furniture — and saw that he was still in his previous night’s clothes.
Chel took at least an hour to shower every morning, and Francis decided to take the opportunity to make her breakfast. He shuffled around her kitchen slowly, his hands moving with familiar practice. He knew all of Chel’s favourite foods and how she liked to take her morning coffee. He knew that because they’d spent more than one night together before, because she was his one big guilty spot that was always on his conscience, because they were alike in a million more ways than he and Arthur will ever be. That if Matthew was right and there existed an infinite number of universes, and if Matthew was wrong and Francis and Arthur were not together in every one of them, then in that one where they are not Francis would be in love with Chel and they would be living together, happily married, HIV-free with two and a half children conceived in love by their own means. That, at least, is what Francis believed.
Chel’s kitchen was hardly something that could be counted as a kitchen. There were no utensils, and the plates were dirty, and there was hardly any food in the refrigerator, so Francis has to make do with what he had. He noticed that there was, lying on the kitchen counter against the wall, a single photograph, and he picked it up. Chel’s never looked happier in it. She’s with a man, fair haired and blue-eyed with a five-o’-clock shadow. She has a baby cradled in her arms, and she’s not looking at the camera — the man is, though. The baby, Francis could tell, had her father’s eyes. The picture looks like it’s been folded and unfolded several times, its edges crinkled and water-worn.
If Francis didn’t know any better, he would have called her pathetic.
He didn’t know how to feel now that he was here. Sure, deep inside him he knew that he didn’t blame Chel — but that was on the assumption that he’d never have to see her again. Now that he was in her apartment, she was entirely at his mercy — he could raid her things, steal whatever money she had, completely stab her in the back (figuratively). He wondered if he should.
Francis ran a hand through his short hair and set the picture down. He put the eggs and toast on the kitchen table and grabbed a napkin and wrote something on it quickly with pen. He left it neatly folded next to the plate of food, and managed to slip out the door quietly just as he heard the shower turn off.
The Genius Next Door [4l/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-03 01:22 am (UTC)(link)He knows, with some peace of mind as he turns a corner, that he has.
-
One month later
-
In the room, the dreaded clock ticked.
It’s a bit hard to come out of a bad habit you’ve submitted to that you’ve been repressing yourself from for years, Francis thought quietly as he exhaled, watching the smoke come off the end of the cigarette and disappear in the atmosphere. He wondered if he should call someone – anyone, really – to help him sort this out.
He turned his head, looking to the little girl on the edge of his bed. She was sitting there stoically with an emotionless look in her eyes that met his own with startling precision. Her hands were folded in her lap, her head tilted downward a bit, her lips moving ever so slightly with no sound coming out of them. Her dress was in tatters; it would have been pure white only it was stained with tracks of mud and dirt and here and there a patch of dried blood. There were twigs in her blonde hair and her arms were so thin that her bones were visible and her elbows were jutting outward.
Francis took another inhale, never taking his eyes off the girl, as he mulled over his thoughts. He had become even better the past few weeks. He was still drinking, still smoking all the time, still eating unhealthily — but strangely enough, he had been improving. Maybe his body was just becoming used to all these coping methods and that those methods were actually helping him recover rather than hindering him. It didn’t matter. Francis no longer felt sick anymore; he had made a full recovery. He even stopped taking his medications.
There was just this one problem: the little girl, who had been following him around for the longest time.
Whenever he turned around, there she’d be, sitting quietly with her hands clasped and a giant smile plastered in a V-shape on her face, although her brows were furrowed and it looked like she was deeply frowning at the same time. The edges of her lips were always moving, even though she was grinning a tight-lipped grin. She never spoke to him, never looked away from him, and never did anything other than go wherever he went.
Francis was, to say the least, a little troubled by her. There was just something disturbing about her presence – it might have been her freakish face, or the way she followed him around the streets in a bloody dress and nobody seemed to pay attention. Perhaps she’s always been here. Perhaps he just didn’t know it.
But the scariest thing was, he couldn’t tell if she was real or not.
Francis finally made a decision.
He needed help.
-
Francis stood up to move and was shaken slightly when he saw the girl immediately jump up to follow him. He shivered, bundling himself up in his coat and stamping out his cigarette. Every day the girl’s presence grew more ominous – for the past few days he woke to find her just two feet away from his face, staring at him, her dress a little bloodier.
He strode out onto the street, trembling all the while as he heard the tap-tap-tap of prim shoes behind him. When he looked back, there she was, smiling with her lips twisted in a way physically impossible for anyone else and frowning with her eyes; he rubbed at his own and continued on.
When he reached a public phone booth, he immediately tried to shut out the girl so that he could have at least a little bit of privacy, but she ended up appearing directly next to him. She was only up to his elbow in height but she seemed more than threatening standing a foot away from him. Francis shuddered again and reached up to punch in the numbers, doing his best to ignore his company, trying not to panic.
The Genius Next Door [4m/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-03 01:23 am (UTC)(link)“Hello?”
“Matthieu?”
“Francis?” Francis could hear the incredulity in his brother’s voice. “Is that you?”
“Yes, yes –”
“It’s you? Seriously — seriously?”
A rush of air passed out of Francis’ lungs. “It’s me, Matthieu,” he breathed.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to us?” cried his brother. “I called Antonio and he said that you disappeared off the face of the earth for months. And Gilbert – he had no idea either, and Arthur – well, Arthur, he – he didn’t pick up. Everyone – everyone else has been so worried. Where have you been?”
“Matthieu,” Francis said, breath quickening as he continued to look at the girl. He was starting to feel claustrophobic – she took up all of the space here, and he was backed in a corner as he watched her shuffle towards him with terrifying speed, inch by inch by inch. She’d never – never tried to get so close to him before in all the time that Francis has seen her – she’s always kept her distance. What was changing now? “It’s good to hear your voice again,” he said, trying to keep his voice from cracking, because it truly was.
“Francis, what’s going on? What happened to you? You sound sick.”
“I – I don’t know. I’m seeing things, I think. I just, I wanted to call –”
“You’re seeing things?”
“Probably a ghost,” Francis nodded his head.
“Have you been drinking?” came the accusing tone.
“I – yes, but it’s nothing like that.”
“Are you stoned?”
“I – no! I’m clean. I just – I think, I think I’m seeing things.”
Heavy silence pervaded the line. “Why did you call me?”
The girl was but a few inches from him now, though she didn’t move any farther than that. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I cut myself off from everyone, but it’s harder with you and Arthur. I need help,” he shrugged his shoulders feebly. “Matthieu, I don’t know where my life is going anymore. I haven’t spoken to a single soul for months, and I’ve been drinking and smoking and I think I’m ill – really ill — even though I don’t feel ill… I’m not sleeping. I’m not taking my medication. And I’m seeing things, things I shouldn’t be seeing. I don’t think I can take any of this anymore,” he finished, his voice having risen the entire time until it sounded so panicked that it made him feel like hyperventilating.
“I think I’ll come visit you,” said Matthieu softly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you earlier. I – I didn’t know how bad it was. I suspected, that since Arthur wasn’t picking up either, that you were with him.”
Francis nodded, again and again, though Matthieu couldn’t see.
“Antonio mentioned a fight, though, and so I thought, I thought you two were simply coping in your own ways.”
Yes? You think?
“I’ll take care of you – don’t worry.”
But I’m mad, Matthieu. I’m mad.
“We’ll get through this together, alright? This — this whole Arthur thing. Is that what all this is about, Arthur?”
Do you remember the last time I called you, on Christmas Eve?
“Francis?”
Francis cleared his throat. “Christmas Eve,” he repeated, throat hoarse.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“You’re…you’re…” Depressed? Sick? A lunatic?
“To be honest?” Francis said, twisting his finger around the cord. “I’m losing my grip on reality,” he joked weakly. “I thought I could do this but I can’t. I can’t, Matthieu.”
“Right. Right, okay. Right. Okay. Who are you staying with?”
“An old couple. Here –” Francis gave his address, and tried to calm himself down. “You’ll be over soon, right?” he asked hopefully.
“Well, maybe you should come stay with us instead,” Matthieu said slowly.
“Us?”
“Alfred and I. We’d be glad to have you. We have an extra room and everything. It’s just, we can help you better if you’re here.”
“I can’t,” choked Francis, watching the girl’s smile stretch and widen.
“Why not?”
“I can’t leave.”
“What do you mean, you can’t leave?”
The Genius Next Door [4n/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-03 01:24 am (UTC)(link)He meant that he didn’t want to burden Matthieu or Alfred. He meant that he didn’t want his little brother to see how far he’s fallen, how bad he is, to see him wander around in his house in a vegetative state. He meant that he didn’t want to be around Alfred, the stranger whom he hardly knew, and just needed to be with Matthieu. He meant that he was losing his mind, that he couldn’t tell the difference between reality and fiction anymore and he wasn’t really sure if the girl was just a reflection of his mind or not and he wasn’t really sure why he’s never really questioned that until now. He meant that if he tried to escape he was sure she would hunt him down and kill him, because that was just the vibe she was giving him now.
The girl started to make gesturing motions with her hands, as if she was telling Francis to hand over the phone. He did, trying to still it in his hand, as he passed it over. He squeezed his eyes shut.
When had it come to this? How had it come to this? He dropped the phone in her palm.
It fell right through and clattered against the glass wall.
Francis felt relief course through him for a single moment. She wasn’t real.
Francis then felt terror follow right after. She wasn’t real.
“Francis? Hello? Hello?” came the voice from the phone as Francis slammed open the booth door and ran.
-
The demon-child was gone. Standing here, on this familiar old bridge, Francis could almost think rationally; he could not for the life of him remember her much at all anymore. Had she just been a hallucination he’d been conjuring all this time? When had she first appeared, how did she become such a regular presence in his life? Was this kind of thing normal for people with HIV? Or even depression?
Francis was panting, leaning his elbows on the railing with his head thrown back so that it hung over the expanse of water. He had ran like a madman through the streets, pushing past strangers and knocking over carts and strollers, ran without a single glance back to see if the demon-child was still following him, ran purposelessly and without destination with Matthieu’s final words echoing in his skull. Now he felt as though his lungs were being ripped out of his chest; it hurt to breathe, and he had to take great huge gasping breaths in order to fill himself with heavenly air. Night had already fallen.
There was nobody else on the bridge except for him and a few passing cars, and thank God for that. In the distance, a bugle told Francis that there were a few small ships headed towards the bridge, and on either side of him Paris was slowing putting herself to sleep. All her lights were being lit like small, flickering candles, and Francis thought that she was beautiful illuminated like this at nighttime.
The Mirabeau bridge was one of thirty-seven bridges built over the Seine River located in Paris, and it was far from one of the most beautiful. In fact, it was the disgusting yellow-green colour of sulphur and it was old as dirt. And compared to some bridges like the Pont des Arts or the Pont de l’Archvêché, considered some of the greatest romantic spots in the city, or the Pont Alexandre III that was lined with its gorgeous lamps, the Mirabeau bridge could hardly match up.
But Francis had grown to adore this bridge, he and Arthur both. After all, it was here where they’d commonly met up whenever they could spare some free time in the busy days of attending college since they were studying completely different majors and didn’t have a single class with each other. It’d been here where Arthur had stood in jeans frayed at the fringe and wet from the knees down, where he had chatted with Francis amiably about how much he wanted to bash his 18th century French literature teacher’s head in with a burnt scone and Francis had listened contently thinking about how much he loved the guy. It’d been here where they’d fought numerous times, even broke up once, but reconciled again.
The Genius Next Door [4o/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-03 01:26 am (UTC)(link)In the present, Francis turned around so that he was facing the river and tapped his fingernails on the railing. It was still mid-winter and he was poorly dressed and he’d been running around all day. His short hair had become stiff and cold, snow frozen on the tips, and his ears and neck were chilled to the bone as they were completely unprotected. He shivered, teeth chattering, bare hands red as though he’d been burnt severely.
Francis was not worried that he’d catch a cold, because he was still certain that he was getting better and his immune system was no longer ‘weak’. Was that even possible? Recovering from HIV without outside help? It must be, because it was happening to him. He was grateful, entirely so. Once he was better he would find Arthur again, and they’d somehow make do and get back together.
It was so easy to imagine, so easy to forget that they’d already tried and nothing had worked and it’d been such a terribly long time since the two had last spoken. Here on the bridge, it was so easy to forget everything. It was easy to forget why he even cared in the first place. Arthur, Matthieu, Antoine, Gilbert — all were lost cases, people whose faces he could hardly summon or remember. The whole plan was laid out in plain view in front of him, and there was nothing to add. All that really mattered were the memories he and Arthur had created here together long ago; in those memories, Arthur loved him still. All he had to do was let go.
The Frenchman yawned tiredly. From here he could see the Eiffel Tower in all its glory, lit up with a thousand lights that made it appear on fire. He blinked lazily at it. It almost startled him to realize how long ago the demon-child had left him be; he’d been here for hours already. Somehow, he imagined the bridge protecting him, keeping him safe. Here, he could be completely content. He was almost euphoric; he could no longer feel the cold, only warmth seeping through his veins and heating his fingers. It was like his first trip to DisneyWorld when he was six or seven years old, cradled in the arms of his mother as they both watched the fireworks above Cinderella’s castle. Nothing wrong could have happened to him then.
The colours of the lights were beginning to blend in with each other; Francis blinked a few times, wondering why his vision was going blurry, but the colours wouldn’t go away. He felt an inexplicable feeling crawl up the base of his spine, and he was suddenly very hot, very giddy inside.
Here, he was sure he was free, away from his guilt and his demons and his haunts. Here, he could enshroud himself in the past forever, in a time before Arthur had become something utterly unobtainable. All he could think of was DisneyWorld and his mother, and then he was fast forwarding through his life and watching all his memories play themselves out as easily and as real as though he was watching television.
There was growing up in Marseille with Matthieu and meeting the jade-eyed boy on the shores of the Mediterranean and there was meeting his half-sister for the first time and growing to love her. There was playing dress-up in girl’s clothes and wondering if there was something wrong with him; there was realizing that he was a little different than other people but that was alright. There was the jade-eyed boy coming to see him in his dreams again and again until there came a point where Francis couldn’t distinguish between the words he had actually heard come from the boy’s mouth and the words he had imagined hearing in those nightly visits.
The Genius Next Door [4p/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-03 01:27 am (UTC)(link)There was meeting the jade-eyed boy in reality once more. It wasn’t love at first sight, it couldn’t be because they’d already seen each other before, but the boy didn’t remember him and that had broken his heart. But then there was finding himself when he wooed the other anyway, growing more confident and self-assured and daring and flirtatious and there was storing away the memory of his mother’s death back in the hidden realms of his mind and reuniting with Matthieu. There was growing to love his work and growing to love this city and growing to love this bridge, this spot, and growing addicted to loving a certain kind of pain and happiness that came and went with loving Arthur.
There was hurt there, and there was joy, and Francis had always adored a good measure of both. This he could deal with, this he could find the measure of his worth from, this he could use to discover more of himself. What he was dealing with now — the almost constant sadness and the consuming depth of his inner monsters and the madness that he felt was slowly taking over his brain by conjuring him images of certain white-dressed little girls to haunt his wake — that, that he could die for, but never live with.
Francis hummed the Mirabeau song, but he could hardly hear it over the hollowness in his ears. He continued to hum it regardless, thinking about what it had taken him to get here, about what he had gone through and what he had had to deal with. About being fastened, rather accidentally, to his love for Arthur, and forgetting himself in consequence. That had been a fatal mistake he would regret even more so than Chel. But then again, now that he thought about it, he no longer regretted Chel; he only regretted that things had gone the way they did.
But you have a choice even now, you know, said a voice Francis imagined belonged to the little demon girl, only it was sweet and kind and didn’t sound like it could pass through such a filthy mouth. He looked around for the girl, but realized he couldn’t see a thing anymore. The scope of his sight had turned rather lurid, which was frightening because now it seemed as though the colours were turning on him. The cold was once again returning to his limbs, and that shocked him as much as the colours did. He had somehow managed to pull himself out of reality for a single moment in the coldness and engage himself in the past, but now the present was returning once more and he didn’t — he didn’t want that.
You still have a choice, laughed the voice. Francis Bonnefoy, you always had the choice.
That’s right, mused Francis. I can choose to escape. There was always an escape route. I’ve just forgotten it. For it is so strange, Francis mused, that we should enter a world built upon the failure of its inhabitants and yet struggle every day to cling to it anyway because we imagine it to be our only salvation. That there isn’t anything yonder, that all that lies in the abyss is the unknown and the unknown is always worse than the known. That death is the coward’s way out.
But Francis didn’t see it that way; at least not anymore. Because he had been falling and falling the moment he met Arthur and he had finally hit rock bottom. This was his rock bottom. He would take the unknown, if it provided even the slimmest of a chance that it was better than the hell he was living now.
The Genius Next Door [4q/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-03 01:28 am (UTC)(link)Death was not the coward’s way out. It was his only way out, and he was nothing but brave to endeavour it, because if he couldn’t make the attempt then he’d be forced to live with the repercussions, and he’d already lived the repercussions and he’d suffered. And this, this was his salvation.
Francis was hardly realizing what he was doing when he gripped the railings tight and threw his legs over it. With just the release of his clenched hands, he could plummet straight into the river and be done with it all. He took a deep breath; the colours and the cold and the wind was harassing him even more now, as if they were chanting Do it, do it, do it! And Francis released the breath he was holding.
There was a gentle tap on his shoulder. Through the vivid patches of yellow and searing white, Francis discerned the shape of the demon-girl. So she’d finally caught up to him, he thought with some relief. Hello, he wanted to say.
He thought the girl looked a little oddly like someone he knew. It was a subtle observation, something he’d never noticed before — and especially shouldn’t now considering how he could hardly even see. He squinted his eyes against the biting chill, looking a little harder. Oh, he realized finally, and smiled. Mother is not a pretty sight to look at in her youth.
The demon-child smiled, and pushed him hard. Francis’ hands released their hold, and the water below rushed up to meet him as he fell once again.
Re: The Genius Next Door [4q/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-03 02:34 am (UTC)(link)Re: The Genius Next Door [4q/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-03 05:38 pm (UTC)(link)Words cannot express how much I want someone to rescue Francis and put him to bed and make sure he eats and takes his pills and just, just nurses him and lets him know he doesn't have to face all this alone any more. I can't wait to see what happens next, what Matthew's reaction will be to Francis' attempted suicide and the state his brother's in, and whether he'll tell Antonio, Gilbert and Arthur and how they'll react.
Re: The Genius Next Door [4q/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-04 05:41 pm (UTC)(link)I was glad to see a glimpse of Chel... And I was SO glad Francis didn't infect that woman in the bar, at least he's better than that.
The last scene was scarily vivid. I really hope you aren't writing from your own experience, a!a.
Re: A!A
(Anonymous) 2013-04-01 12:38 am (UTC)(link)In all honesty, the only experience I did draw from to write a certain part was the one time I hadn't slept for three days due to exams and decided to take a nice walk in the middle of the night and the middle of winter for absolutely no reason at all...Yeah. Get your sleep, everyone.