Smoke

Away from the fires and crowds, Francis pulled the hood of his cloak further over his head, hiding his face. He had slipped into the country, unnoticed, disguised. He had come to watch the English filth kill her. He had come to watch them burn her. He had come to mourn her. Jeanne.

She had seen him, and started praying, eyes smiling and kind. Do not blame yourself. And he hadn't been able to watch any more than that. He couldn't watch them light the wood beneath her small feet, couldn't watch as her hair charred and her pretty peach skin burned away. He couldn't bare it.

Like a coward, he had turned and run.

The stone of the building was cold against his back. He looked towards the sky, a clear sunny blue. There was smoke stretching from the direction he had run. Wispy hands come to grab him, drag him back, make him face reality.

He heard foot steps, rounding the corner, but couldn't be bothered to move, couldn't be bothered to draw another breath, couldn't be bothered to do anything but walk into the English channel and drown. Smoke was strangling him.

"Francis." It wasn't a question. He knew the voice. He couldn't be bothered to boil over with anguish, with hatred, with anger. He wanted to break down and cry. He hurt. Everywhere hurt. His heart clenched painfully in his chest, dry and shriveled. Silence created gravity between them.

"Did you hate her so much, Arthur?" he whispered. He didn't look up. He didn't move. He was held down by smoke. But the same smoke kept him from running. The same smoke kept him from crying. The same smoke choked off his sight. He was no longer anyone, anything, himself. Just smoke.

"Francis, I–..." Arthur took a step towards him, hand reaching out to touch his arm before he thought better of it, the well meaning gesture withdrawn. He looked away, ashamed. His green eyes darkening with emotions that he didn't quite understand. He didn't hate Jeanne. Not.... hate.... He just wanted her dead. He just wanted her out of his way.

"Was she taking the one thing you wanted for yourself? Is that why?" Francis looked up at him, eyes wet and blank. Arthur felt sickened. He was so thin. So fragile. Disgustingly beautiful. Still marked with scars and bruises he had put there himself. He was only a shadow of his former self, only a wisp of smoke.

Francis let out a harsh bark of laughter, sharp and stinging, regarding him with contempt. Then his eyes were back to the skies, watching the smoke drift up and away, wanted to reach up and drift too. Wanted to float away and never return. Maybe go to where Jeanne was.

"Was that the reason you killed her? Because she was stealing me from you." Arthur bit his lip, fists clenching at his sides, face turning red. She was. She was taking him, stealing him. And he couldn't have that. Couldn't have it! "I was never yours, Arthur. You're delusional. Insane."

Arthur stamped his foot impatiently. "I couldn't help it! I hated her! You're mine! No one else's! Mine alone! I wasn't about to give you to some ignorant little girl who couldn't begin to understand you, what you need –!"

"And what do I need, Arthur?" Francis hissed, glaring at him, eyes crystal clear, yet still filled with smoke. "Enlighten me. What do I need? You, who say you love me so much, tell me what it is that I need." He took one careful step forward, as dangerous as a stalking tiger, eyes narrowed.

Arthur's face fell into an affronted expression, looking away. Me. I'm all you need. He didn't answer, just bit his lip, nails digging into the meat of his palm. Francis would understand someday. Someday, he would be his. Soon.

Francis stepped back and snorted in disgust and irritation, looking him up and down. "You're pathetic." He turned on his heel swiftly. It didn't matter, Arthur still noticed his slight limp anyway. And he was gone again, disappearing towards the channel like smoke.

You're pathetic.

Owari