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 [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.