. It was about two hours after Alfred and Arthur, (for lack of a better term), had sex that Francis showed up to see how Arthur was doing. He smirked slightly as he saw the two boys lying together, their bodies intertwined beneath a thick blanket, sleeping peacefully. They were both sideways, Arthur's back to Alfred's chest. Alfred had his arms around Arthur's waist, holding Arthur against himself.
Francis had to admit it; the sight was downright adorable! He almost laughed that strange, creepy, ohonhonhonhon laugh, but forced the odd chortle to lie dormant in his throat. He watched the couple sleep for a few more minutes until he realized that he had other business to take care of. Becoming intangible and phasing through walls, Francis made his way outside. In the parking lot of the apartment complex, he looked upwards.
He studied the pin points of light, the stars, that flickered silver and gold in the dark navy blue sky, as well as the bright, silver, rounded moon that gleamed and seemed to smile at Francis. Francis smiled up at the stars, although sadly. Oh, mon cher, he thought to himself. I miss you so much. The thought was toward the woman he loved, Arthur's mother. She probably didn't know his thoughts, however. She was beyond the stars, resting eternally in the place the living called Heaven and the dead and wandering called Paradise Lost.
Francis sighed and turned his attention back towards the ground, to the area before him. The ragged, gravelly roads to so many unfamiliar places stretched out before him, their ends unseen. Francis willed his body to move upward, as he always did to be able to fly, and took off, soaring through the air. As he was still intangible, the air went right through him and he felt nothing.
After a few minutes, he arrived at his predetermined destination: the lonely mansion where Allistor Kirkland still lived. He slowly brought himself down onto the sidewalk in front of the mansion, studying the large house. He did not study it for long, knowing that he was really supposed to be checking on Allistor, as was another part of Arthur's Mother's duties that Francis had taken.
As soon as Francis entered the house, he saw smoke. The smoke was suffocating, all encompassing, and terrible. Allistor seemed to smoke one cigarette per minute. Francis made his way through the smoke only to find Allistor on the couch, his eyes blank and watching the TV, a cigarette dangling precariously from his left hand and a bottle of beer gripped tightly in his right hand. His knuckles were white and the palm of his hand numb from grasping at the cold bottle.
Francis wrinkled his nose, feeling disgust and pity for the boy. He had lost his mother and father in a short time, and he still didn't know the cause of the fire that had burned down only their house. Allistor still wondered how, exactly, Arthur had survived the fire. Allistor blamed Arthur for the fire, his younger brother being the only one left alive to blame, besides himself. And Allistor could not blame himself, would not blame himself, because he felt he had no part in the fire.
Francis had been present at a few of the beatings Arthur received around Allistor. The beatings were particularly bad when Allistor discovered Arthur sneaking in and getting supplies from the house. He punched him, slapped him, verbally abused him, anything he wanted, all to get the anger at loosing his family out. And Arthur took it because he knew it was his fault and felt he deserved it.
Francis always wished that he could tell Arthur that he didn't deserve those injuries, had been so blinded by anger that he didn't realize what he was doing when he had destroyed the house and his family. But he knew that nothing would alleviate Arthur's guilt.
After watching the bleary eyed Allistor for a few minutes, Francis left, once more lifting into the air and flying onto the next part of his business, which was looking after his own family and friends.
Francis didn't actually have a family to speak of anymore, but he considered the country of France, his home country, to be his family. He visited the country whenever possible and never thought about how he was able to get there so fast. He knew it was simply one of the perks of being dead. It was still in the wee hours of the night when Francis got to his home country. He always went to Paris, watching the city of lights in all it's splendor.
Even though it was late, many people bustled around the place, laughing and talking. He loved to watch them. They were so alive, their hearts still beating quickly in their chests, their flesh still able to feel the soft winds that whistled past them, their lungs still taking in the air that surrounded them. And Francis loved seeing the life of this place and the intense contrast it provided to his deathly self.
After a while, Francis left, beginning the short journey to see his friends. In life, he'd had only two real friends, both of which currently lived in different countries and had lost touch after his death.
His friend, Antonio, lived in Spain. Antonio was currently single, although Francis often got to see him pine after his love interest, a constantly raging Italian boy by the name of Lovino. Francis could tell that Lovino liked Antonio, as well, but he kept trying to convince himself that he had no need of Antonio, that the Spaniard was just a bastard and would hurt him if given the chance.
Francis was powerless to do a thing, only able to watch them and see the script that played out as time passed. Antonio was currently asleep, his hair mussed and his mouth wide open. A line of drool trailed down his cheek. Francis rolled his eyes and smiled. That was Antonio; always a deep sleeper and one to murder anyone who attempted to awaken him before noon.
Francis was about to leave Antonio's home when he noticed someone walk into the room quietly. He smiled broadly. It was Lovino, his face redder than a tomato, coming in to check on the sleep Spaniard, it seemed. Francis was a bit surprised to see the boy until he remembered that Lovino had recently taken residence in Antonio's home, renting out a room. Lovino shuffled over to Antonio and watched him for a moment. Then, he pulled the covers up further on Antonio. Cautiously, he sat at Antonio's bed side and grasped the Spaniard's hand, intertwining his own fingers with Antonio's, seemingly trying to see what it felt like to hold hands with the Spaniard. The trial did not work, however; Antonio's hand remained limp as Lovino tried to intertwine their fingers.
The Italian gave up after a few moments and got up gently, leaving the room. Francis felt happy, as well as a little bit ashamed at having witnessed such a private occurrence. And to think that Antonio wouldn't even know about it in the morning! Oh, the injustice of romance! Francis despaired internally just to think of it.
To prevent himself from meddling in the lives of these still living beings, whom he was not allowed to interfere with, he left, going from Spain to Germany. In Germany, his other friend, Gilbert, lived. This friend was albino and highly egocentric. With his crimson eyes and pale white skin and hair, he often shouted about being 'zhe awesomest in zhe vorld!'
Gilbert also always had a little yellow bird on his head, affectionately, (as well as selfishly), referred to as Gilbird. Upon entering Gilbert's home, he saw both owner and pet slept, the bird atop Gilbert's head. Both were snoring slightly. Gilbert was sprawled out over his covers, shirtless. He wore socks and boxers as pajamas. Francis sighed and smiled, shaking his head. Gilbert was a restless sleeper and tossed and turned much of the night, Francis knew, especially after Francis' death.
He visited Gilbert as often as possible. Out of his friends, Gilbert had taken Francis' death the worst. He had stayed, locked away in his room for a week, only leaving to get water and small morsels of food. After a while, however, Gilbert had gotten better. Over the past year, he'd even begun his old habit of going out and drinking almost nightly.
Francis noticed that his drinking was more out of sorrow than enjoyment, however, and bemoaned this fact. Even so, he was happy that at least his friend was socializing. The greatest help in this time had been from both Gilbert's brother, Ludwig, and one of his best friends since childhood, Elizabeta, a Hungarian woman who wielded frying pans as weapons of mass destruction. Elizabeta had been influential in dragging him from the depths of depression. She had gotten him to laugh and actually have fun again, and for that, Francis was grateful.
However, he knew and saw things that others did not. Through those months that Elizabeta had been helping him, Gilbert had slowly been falling in love with her. Elizabeta herself, however, was still confused on the matter that was her feelings towards him. She felt strongly, although she wasn't sure if she thought of him as a friend or more. Either way, something was bound to happen between the pair. And explosion would occur, and whatever fate had planned would play out, whether or not the outcome meant happiness or grief and regret.
Francis left Gilbert's house moments later, weighed down by the sheer sadness of what could happen to Gilbert in the coming days. As he left the house, besides Gilbert, another thought weighed on his mind. He had to pay a visit to a certain organization, known to some as The Black Cloaks. Arthur's mother had been a part of them and their black magic. Now, they wanted her son. His level of power was immense, they knew, and if they had him, they could do as they pleased, (meaning that they could take over the world, as they'd always wanted to).
It was Francis job to make sure Arthur never ever joined these evil people.
Francis made his way to The Black Cloaks' headquarters, and at his arrival, stayed completely invisible. He tiptoed around the compound, a huge building located underground, always dark, or at the very least, dim. In the main room of the compound, a large room with a throne of black metal in the center and tapestries of the history of black magic on the surrounding circular walls, was the head of The Black Cloaks. He paced back and forth, his own black cloak wrapped tightly around himself. The man's eyes were wide and an insane smiled curled at his lips. The leader had obviously lost his mind.
Francis got closer, to hear whatever the man was muttering. "Kirkland, Kirkland, Kirkland," the man repeated continuously, a chant of insanity. The sound made Francis feel as though he was being frozen in place. He was frightened beyond comprehension. Francis knew what this meant and knew that he had to leave, to warn Alfred and Arthur about what was to occur. “Mon dieu, Oriel Kirkland,” Francis murmured, whispering Arthur’s Mother’s name. “What have you left me to deal with? Zhis ees horrible!” He flew out of the compound just as the leader of The Black Cloaks' voice rang out, strong and unobstructed by the walls of the compound, spreading to the ears of all that were in that underground lair.
"BRING ME ARTHUR KIRKLAND RIGHT NOW!"
A/N: OH. MY. CHEESUS. 14 LIKES AND 16 FAVORITES?! I LOVE YOU HUMANS. Mein gott I actually didn't think anyone would like this AT ALL. But people do, so I'm happy. I really like my stories getting out there and people reading them. If my stories can entertain and make at least one person happier, then I'm very happy and I feel I've done my job. That's why I write, to make people feel better or to inspire them or just so people know of other worlds and can escape normality for just a while. Anyway, yeah. This chapter was all about Francis and his unfinished business and the things he knows. I randomly thought of this chapter in my idea-creating-room; AKA, the shower. So um yeah. Hopefully I can carry out the plot as I want it to be carried out. MANY MORE MAGICAL THINGS WILL HAPPEN. Wow this started out as being a sort of realistic thing but it's turned into a kinda fantastical thing. I'm going to stop rambling now. Adios! Have a wonderful day/week/month/life/etc!