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cyniquedapollon · 7 years

Text

So!!! Despite this being so, so late (exam stress took over me, I’m sorry!!) I’m finally happy enough with how this fic turned out to upload it. I’ve spent a lot of time perfecting it, so I hope you enjoy it @leo-library !!

Title: Define living

Pairing: FrUK (France x England) (Past USUK mentioned)

Theme: Culture shock

About: Francis has spent all his life in Lavardin, as small French village with only 200 residents. When he turns 24, he’s desperate for a change, and moves to London on a whim. How wrong could this possibly go?

Warnings: Minor character death

Word count: 5,895

Lavardin, France

June 1997

Dream

driːm

noun

1. a series of thoughts, images, and sensations occurring in a person’s mind during sleep.

“I had a recurrent dream about falling from great heights.

synonyms: fantasy, nightmare

2. a cherished aspiration, ambition, or ideal.

"I fulfilled a childhood dream when I became champion”

synonyms: ambition, aspiration, hope

When Francis Bonnefoy was 5 years old, he told his mother that when he was older, he was going to run away with the circus. He would be the trapeze artist, he stated, and everybody would clap for him as he leapt from one end of the circus tent to another, spinning and twirling with ease. He would wear ribbons, which would be blue, because blue is mummy’s favourite, and they would fly behind him, delicate as butterfly wings, a symbol of his skill to the audience below. He would be beautiful, he said. So beautiful, in fact, that somewhere in the audience, a little boy would look up in awe, and tell his mother that he wanted to be just as beautiful as him one day. That’s a nice dream, dear, his mother had cooed, ruffling his blonde curls, before ushering him out of the kitchen, so that she could continue cutting the carrots for dinner. Francis, being the stubborn child that he oftentimes was, stayed awake that evening, until he could hear the familiar noise of his mother in the shower, before leaving his room in search of supplies. He couldn’t find ribbon, so he instead had to settle for some thread he found in his mothers sewing box. It wasn’t the same, but he didn’t allow it to stop him from pushing the door into the back garden open, climbing up one of their apple trees, and attempting to leap to the branch of another nearby. When recounting this story later on in life, he always used the word attempt, for while it was a valiant attempt for a boy his age, his hand didn’t even manage to touch the branch he was aiming for before he landed on the ground with a thud and a cry. His mother had rushed out, her hair still dripping water, having practically leapt out of the shower at the sound of her son crying, to find Francis in a heap of tears between the two trees. His hair was full of dirt, and he near screamed when she tried to check his arm. Gently, she had picked him up and taken him inside; trying to think of what she was to do.

Francis had never left Lavardin before the incident of the two trees (a nickname lovingly given to it by his mother). There was no reason for him to; the town, having only 200 inhabitants, was one built on tradition and friendships – people had no desire to go elsewhere. But with his crying not seeming to cease, and his arm already bruising, his mother had had no choice but to call an ambulance to take them to the nearest hospital. The ambulance itself took nearly an hour to arrive, due to the difficult dirt road that lead to the small village, but with no car and the idea of a three kilometre bike ride out of the question, all his mother was able to do was sing gently to Francis, and try to distract him from the ever growing purple mark on his arm. The arrival of the ambulance caused chaos as it was – nothing much interesting ever happened in Lavardin, so the call for external aid had nearly all 200 residents swarmed around their house; the ‘more respectful’ ones choosing to just watch over the event through a gap in their curtains.

Francis essentially blocked out the whole experience at the hospital; the bright lights, the overly friendly nurses and the X-Ray left him overwhelmed, and by the time the cast was put on his arm, he was virtually asleep, exhausted from almost nonstop crying. Over time, the memories of how his mother had slept worriedly by his bedside all night hazed, the face of the nurse who checked over him loyally that night blurring in his mind. What Francis could clearly recall, however, even 20 years on, was the view he had seen from the window of the café his mother had taken him to for breakfast the next morning. He had seen the bustle of a busy high street - he heard the loudness of music played through speakers, saw the vibrant colours of graffiti on walls and the rush of morning traffic, men in smart suits and women in bright dresses, a life he could hardly imagine. And that morning, Francis made a vow.

He was going to leave Lavardin.

Orphan

ˈɔːf(ə)n

noun

1. A child whose parents are dead.

“he was left an orphan as a small boy”

2. The first line of a paragraph set as the last line of a page or column, considered undesirable.

When Francis was 18, he begged his mother for the opportunity to attend university in Paris. Paris, he had claimed, was the only way he would get anywhere in the world of art. She had laughed at first, assuming he was joking – few people from their home town even went to university, most boys working on the land once they turned 18, and even the few of those who were determined enough to go had to travel near 50 kilometres just to reach the nearest one, much too far a distance for the inhabitants of such a small village. For teenagers in Lavardin, university was simply a nice idea.

In 18 years, Francis had never argued with his mother. It could be said, that in those hours that they spent in dispute over his wish to leave for Paris, they made up for the missed years. Francis wanted more than anything to leave, to have a chance at life, and couldn’t understand why his mother opposed it so much. He was 18, an adult, and what could she do about it anyway? He watched her face crumple, watched tears fall down her face, watched as his own mother cried because of him, and froze. He had never seen his mother cry, and certainly did not want the first time he saw it to be because of him. He dropped the subject entirely.

When Francis was 22, his mother died. A woman prone to illness all her life, a winters chill was all it took to knock her off of her feet; before Francis even had chance to grasp the word ‘terminal’, she had been swept away as autumn leaves often are to the wind. He had held her hand as she died, fighting back the urge to cry, to scream, to do something to comfort her. In the end, he settled for singing, gently, the same way she had when he broke his arm. He sang to her all night, until the sun began to rise, and her hand lost its warmth. He didn’t stop singing to her, in fact, until his song turned to keening, pain struck gasps all that was left of him by the time a neighbour found him.

‘Life goes on’ is a phrase mostly used for spilling red wine on a white carpet, or breaking a favourite mug – not for coping with the death of your mother. But for Francis, the phrase didn’t have meaning until that day. His mother was dead. His village was still the same. The flowers in the gardens were still pink, the trees still held apples, the paths were still rough and covered in dirt, and the hill on the outskirts still stood tall, as it had for Francis’ whole life,

The view from the hill was one Francis had always enjoyed. He had first climbed in when he was 6, days after having his cast removed, to the annoyance of his overly-cautious mother. Since then, it had proved to be a maker of memories; he had oftentimes escaped to the hill to smoke as a teenager, or to paint when nothing else inspired him - he had even had his first kiss there when he turned 16. And it felt almost fitting, that the hill he had his ‘firsts’ on would be where he felt his first feelings of grief, screaming at the sky, at a God he had almost lost faith in, that it wasn’t fair, that none of this was fair.

On Francis’ 24th birthday, he bought a plane ticket, destined to London. He hadn’t thought much about what he was doing the night he bought it, his actions mostly due to the bottle of red wine he had managed to drink while reading another one of his sad novels. His mother, if she was there, would have scalded him for ignoring his responsibilities in place of wine. His mother, however, was not there, nor had she been for the past 2 years. 2 years, for most, was a long time, and certainly long enough that people no longer looked at Francis with pity, or brought him flowers and food and offers to help – instead, people in his village were growing impatient with him, waiting for him to do something with himself, to help in one of the bakeries or on the land. He stared at the booking reference on the computer screen, trying to understand what he’d just done. The realisation hadn’t hit him, yet, but he was sure it would with time.

He arrived at London Heathrow at 8:15pm on Wednesday 23rd March. He hadn’t payed attention for most of the morning; he remembered hesitating as he locked the door of his house for what could be the last time in years, arriving at the airport, and the fear he felt as the plane took off, but it had gone by so quickly, he wasn’t sure wht was real and what he’d just imagined. Francis wasn’t stupid – of course, he knew London was big, and that the airport would be crowded and absolutely nothing like his home town, but he hadn’t quite anticipated the shock that ran through his body as he saw the hundreds of people all milling around, travellers like himself. He wanted to stop, to think, to ask where they were going, what their stories were, but a sudden push brought him back to earth, and in the general direction that everyone else was headed. Getting through the initial airport security was fairly easy, signs were placed everywhere, in around 10 different languages, informing those just off of planes exactly what they needed to do, where to stand and when to move. This was fine, in Francis’ eyes, because he didn’t have to think about why he was doing it, or what for, he just had to walk forward and follow instructions. He was through passport checks fairly quickly; the security guard examined it, nodding in approval at the information, before letting him through. The passport was barely a month old, having been bought specially for the purpose of his flight to London, and Francis had read up exactly what to do to get through these checks as smoothly as possible.

He thought he was prepared – but once allowed through, he found himself in the main area of the airport, where shops were located and .For the first time in his life, Francis was alone. Alone, in an airport, with no instructions on what to do, where to go, or how to live his new life. For a moment, Francis allowed himself to be excited – he was independent, finally, in a city where he could make something of himself; in a city where he could make his mother proud. Then, the realisation that he had been waiting for hit him, quite like a truck, all at once. He didn’t know how to get to his hotel, what he was going to do in London, hell, he didn’t even have a degree he could apply for a job with. He was alone, in a foreign city, with no way home or means of supporting himself.

A woman, mid 50s, had tapped him on the shoulder. She had a kind face, and blonde hair pulled into a bun, and reminded him far too much of his mother for him to want to stay talking to her for too long. Francis realised how out of place he must look, stood in an airport with the items for his new life fitting neatly into a brown leather satchel, gawking around open mouthed like a child who had finally been allowed in a sweet shop. He had no idea how he was actually meant to get to the hotel he booked himself for the night, nor where it was, and by the pity evident on this woman’s face, this was fairly obvious for those around him.

“Do you need a hand, love?” she smiled assuringly, and despite himself, Francis smiled back. Later on, stood in his hotel room, he cursed himself for nor asking for her name, some way of contacting her later on and thanking her for her help. He was quite certain that if she hadn’t called a taxi for him, he would have ended up sleeping on the floor of the airport that night. He’d only booked himself a night, planning to explore London the next day, which, now that he thought about it, was about as good an idea as punching a wasp’s nest. Francis stared at himself in the hotel mirror, and laughed. He was an idiot, he supposed, for leaving everything at the drop of a hat, but then again, he was the boy who leapt from trees and rolled down hills. Life was supposed to be an adventure, in his eyes, and London was the first chapter.

How wrong could it go anyway?

London, England.

Thursday 24th March

18:37

Experience

ɪkˈspɪərɪəns,ɛkˈspɪərɪəns

noun

1. practical contact with and observation of facts or events.

“he had learned his lesson by painful experience”

synonyms: involvement in, participation in; More

2. an event or occurrence which leaves an impression on someone.

“audition day is an enjoyable experience for any seven-year old”

synonyms: incident, occurrence, event, happening, affair, episode, encounter;

verb

1. encounter or undergo (an event or occurrence).

“the company is experiencing difficulties”

synonyms: undergo, encounter, meet, have experience of, come into contact with, run into, come across, come up against, face, be faced with, confront, be forced to contend with;

When Arthur left his office that evening, it was raining. That wasn’t anything new, of course - it was late March, and it was England, so rain was practically a guarantee. However, due to his unwavering faith in the BBC and its meteorologist, he had left his umbrella (which had, that morning, still been damp from yesterday) airing in the vestibule of his apartment, his stubbornness and reliance on basic knowledge of weather fronts had won his eternal ‘should I bring an umbrella or not because it’s rather bulky but it is March’ debate.

In hindsight, taking the umbrella would have been the wise choice. It was worse than normal rain: water was falling from the sky in sheets. Despite the walk from his office to the nearest Underground station being a mere sixty metres, Arthur’s suit was sticking to his frame, almost completely soaked, and his usually pristine hair was plastered to his scalp, droplets occasionally running into his eyes. This was not the first time the rain had ruined him after work, but though hindsight was said to be a beautiful thing, Arthur never paid it much heed - after all, his single mother kept having children, even when she said 'never again’ after his older brother, 'never again’ after him and 'never again’ after the twins (although her little golden child had stemmed the flow of babies for now). Learning from the past wasn’t something done in his family.

Getting the Tube was a mechanical process for Arthur these days. Knowing which stops were where was never an issue: if you looked into Arthur’s mind, he was sure there was a Tube map imprinted on his brain. When in the station, it was always the same: walk on the left, stand on the right, know if you’re westbound or eastbound so you aren’t gawking at a map, get in a compartment as soon as you can see space, mind the gap, stand clear of the doors, but most importantly, have your ticket or card ready to get through the barrier before you’re directly in front of it.

Unfortunately, some people did not seem to know this. He just wanted an efficient journey home: but this particular trip was being blighted by the man in front of him at the barrier he’d been funnelled to by the staff. Arthur watched this person - either a tourist or just stupid - attempt to feed his ticket into the slot on the machine, but he clearly had no idea which way up to put it in, or indeed where to take it back from. A queue of impatient, tutting Brits was growing behind Arthur, and the pressure was obviously making it worse for the confused soul at the front. Arthur was irritated, yes, but also had a little sympathy for this person who just wanted to use a subway system.

Mob rule won over Arthur though, and so his question to the stuck person was dripping with annoyance.

“Do you need a hand?”

“I…uh. If you… could help me?” came the unsure reply. When walking along the London streets, Arthur liked to play 'guess the accent’ (he’d learned recently to distinguish between Polish and Russian accents, which he thought was quite an achievement considering he grew up in England and Scotland), but he denied himself time to consider the accent that came from the man before him. Without even bothering to reply, he took the ticket from the stressed foreigner’s hand and slotted it into the machine himself, practically pushing the stranger through the gate as soon as it opened and taking his ticket himself. Arthur tapped his Oyster card against the reader and went through the barrier himself, handing the ticket back to the man as soon as he was the other side.

“Thank you very much,” relief audible even through the tourist’s accent. Arthur shrugged minutely.

“No problem,” he replied, and began his brisker-than-usual walk to the platform. He thought that would be the end of it: he did a necessary good deed, and could now go home as normal to his flat and change out of his wet clothes. What he did not expect, was the man he had helped to hurry alongside him and follow him to the platform. It wouldn’t have immediately been following - it wasn’t unreasonable that the stranger had to get the same Tube as him out of the three possible options at this station. It still wasn’t following when they were both headed west. It became following when the stranger walked with him to the other end of the platform and sat next to him in the carriage when there were empty seats in it.

Great. Now there was going to be a conversation.

Stranger

ˈstreɪn(d)ʒə/Submit

noun

1. a person whom one does not know or with whom one is not familiar.

“don’t talk to strangers”

2. a person who does not know, or is not known in, a particular place or community.

“I’m a stranger in these parts”

synonyms: unknown person;

3. a person entirely unaccustomed to (a feeling, experience, or situation).

“he is no stranger to controversy”

synonyms: unaccustomed to, unfamiliar with, unused to, unacquainted with, new to, fresh to, inexperienced in, unpractised in, unversed in, unconversant with; archaicstrange to

“Harker was a stranger to self-doubt”

“Thank you, for, the, helping back there.”

“You said. And I said, you’re welcome.” There was a pause, which Arthur hoped was due to the frostiness of his tone.

“My name is Francis. You are…?” Damn. The git knew how to force Arthur to keep talking to him.

“It's… I’m Arthur.” Another pause. This one allowed the Englishman to analyse the other’s accent. The dropping of his aitches and the way he said 'fron-sis’ led Arthur to the conclusion that-

“I’m French.” Yes. Another accent guessed. The slightly sad triumph Arthur felt, however, did not overwhelm the feeling of dread that this awkward chat was still being perpetuated. It was time to use his secret foreigner-repellant weapon.

“But you just told me you were Francis.” Sarcasm may have been the lowest form of wit, yes, but it proved effective in confusing non-natives. Poor Francis just looked at Arthur, not knowing how to respond.

“Ignore me. Do you know where to get off the Tube?” Perhaps functional conversation could nip this encounter in the bud.

“Uh…well. I don't…actually have a destination.” That actually made Arthur stop and think.

“You…what?” Ugh, now he was asking the damn questions. This probably wouldn’t end any time soon.

“Well, I’m just… exploring London. I arrived, uh, only yesterday.” Francis looked a little sheepish. Arthur looked the Frenchman over, and it was only on noticing his wavy hair was damp and slightly stringy that he remembered how much of a mess he himself looked. At least, he supposed, trying to calm his sudden embarrassment at his outward appearance, he knew where he was going.

“It’s almost seven o'clock on a dark night in March. In London. And it’s pissing it down,” Francis looked mildly confused, “raining a lot. I know tourism is important but Christ, exploration isn’t a great idea right now.”

“Well, I need… an… a place to stay. Hotel. If, as you say, if it is too rainy to explore.”

“The rain probably isn’t your biggest concern. I’d be worried about getting mugged, to be honest.”

There was a pregnant pause. Arthur was hoping Francis would get out a map, or mobile phone, or something, out of the satchel Arthur hadn’t noticed he was carrying until now. But as the seconds ticked by, Arthur began to suspect the Frenchman was expecting him to do something. What, though? He supposed suggest a hotel to him - after all, it was clear he was a Londoner, and Francis might not know what hotels were around here, if he had just been following Arthur to a location unknown to him. At this precise moment, though, there was nothing Arthur could do: due to being underground, his iPhone had no Internet, and though he was a local, he wasn’t AirB&B. He summarised all this to Francis in a simpler way:

“Do you want me to find you a hotel when I have signal again?” gesturing to his phone as he spoke.

“If… if that is not an inconvenience.” Francis smiled gratefully at Arthur.

“That’s fine. My stop is in about ten minutes, so we’ll alight there.” Francis blinked a few times directly at Arthur.

“Oh. Alight means get off,” explained Arthur. He felt himself almost smile, but then stopped. This man, he reminded himself, is a total stranger. He unlocked his phone and began reading a book he had downloaded, finally doing something that even across a slight language and cultural barrier, signalled 'stop talking to me’. Francis tried to speak to Arthur a few more times, but never actually finished a first word; Arthur hoped due to the standoffish look on his face. He absently wondered if Francis felt bad. He decided he didn’t need to care.

The station announcement said 'Ealing Common’ and Arthur moved to stand, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Francis followed suit, disembarking the train with Arthur and the two heading up the escalators to street level together. Since this was no longer central London, there were significantly fewer people, and so Arthur stood back and allowed Francis to try and get through the barrier unaided. He succeeded on his second attempt, and he made a small, happy noise. Amusement was clear in Arthur’s voice as he spoke.

“Well done. That took you only a tenth of how long it did the first time.” Francis laughed a little and looked at Arthur, who again, tapped his Oyster card on the reader and walked through the barrier like it was second nature (which, Francis supposed, it probably was).

“Right. I’ll find you a hotel, then. Give me a second.” Francis nodded and murmured a 'thank you’, which Arthur waved off. He got his phone out, unlocked it and turned his data on for Safari. While waiting for a signal to appear, he noticed his battery level. 2%. Shit. Hopefully it’d last for one search and Arthur could memorise where the hotel was (there had to be one close enough - this was London, for God’s sake). He tapped in 'hotels near Ealing Common’ into the search bar and waited for a result, glancing at Francis while it loaded. The man was idly combing through his hair with his fingers, probably trying to separate the pieces the rain had split it into. An address came up on the screen, but to Arthur’s dismay, he didn’t recognise the street name. He’d have to open it in Maps and find the nearest road he recognised. He tapped the address, willing his phone to live just this once.

Of course, it didn’t. Arthur cursed again, loudly, and Francis looked up suddenly like a deer in the headlights.

“What is…the matter? Are you okay?” Francis asked.

“Fine. But…it’s dead,” motioning at his phone, “and I didn’t recognise the address of the hotel. Do you have a phone? I could call a taxi.” Francis didn’t answer for a second. The gap was long enough to say what he meant without words.

“You don’t, do you?”

“Uh. No. Non. I’m sorry.”

Arthur sighed. “Well. What the hell do I do with you now? I can’t just abandon you here.”

“You could, that’s what I would have done anyway. Gone somewhere I didn’t know.”

“Absolutely not. Since I didn’t recognise the address, that means it’s at least a mile away, and it’s still chucking it down,” Francis looked blank, “which means raining as well. You know the Inuits have a hundred words for snow? Yeah, well they just took all the British words for rain and put 'cold’ at the start of them all.” Francis grinned and Arthur laughed a little despite himself. “The point is. I’m not leaving you here when you have nowhere to go. Come with me.”

“Where are you taking me?” Arthur had already started walking towards the exit.

“My flat. We have no other choice. I can find you a hotel from there, or you can just sleep on the sofa. Whatever.” Francis ran a little to catch up with the Englishman, and paused with him in the doorway, in the face of the falling rain.

“You know what, just sleep on my sofa. You’ve disturbed my journey home, you’re going to drench my flat, and you sound like you have no idea how to survive in London. I don’t have work in the morning.”

“Why, uh, are you telling me this? Can’t we start walking?”

“If you can hear me over that bloody gale, love, I’ll be extremely impressed.” Arthur looked at Francis with something of a grimace before stepping out into the abysmal weather.

Know

nəʊ/

verb

1. be aware of through observation, inquiry, or information.

“most people know that CFCs can damage the ozone layer”

synonyms: be aware, realize, be conscious, have knowledge, be informed, have information;

2. have developed a relationship with (someone) through meeting and spending time with them; be familiar or friendly with.

“he knew and respected Laura”

synonyms: be acquainted with, have met, be familiar with;

Arthur and Francis practically fell through the doorway of Arthur’s apartment building together. The walk from the station had taken about five minutes, and both of them had been brutally assaulted by the rain in that time. Arthur had watched Francis desperately try to keep his satchel as dry as possible, and after shaking the water from his hands, checking it was the first thing the Frenchman did. Arthur began to climb the stairs to his flat, just wanting to get in and dry and changed. As he ascended the second flight of stairs, the flight to his floor, Francis ran up the first flight to catch up with Arthur.

“Is your stuff alright?” Arthur asked, slotting his key into the lock of his door.

“It’s fine. The bag itself, it is leather, so no water got in.”

“That’s good, yeah. Don’t want your stuff ruined as well as your plans.” Francis didn’t notice the subtle sarcasm in Arthur’s statement. Arthur didn’t suppose he would.

Arthur’s umbrella was mocking him when him and Francis stood, soaked, on the mat just inside Arthur’s flat.

“Just take your shoes off there. I’ll get you and me some towels.” Francis smiled gratefully, and Arthur headed deeper into his home to retrieve the towels. Francis stood, somewhat awkwardly, in the vestibule. But just looking around the entrance to Arthur’s house, Francis began to learn things. Arthur lived alone, clearly. There were only four pairs of shoes by the door: Francis’ own, Arthur’s work shoes, a pair of black Doc Martens and a pair of black Converse. The coat hooks on the wall held only a long, black duffel coat and a thinner black zipped jacket. He was getting a strong sense of Arthur’s favourite colour. There was a photograph on the wall, though, of Arthur and a man, holding hands at what appeared to be Disneyland. He was blond, with glasses. Arthur was smiling in a way Francis hadn’t seen in person, though he supposed he had only known Arthur for an hour at most. He wondered what had happened between Arthur and the man in the picture.

Before Francis could deduce anything else, Arthur returned with several large towels. He handed a couple to Francis wordlessly and then beckoned him into the flat. Francis followed. They went into Arthur’s bedroom.

“I was going to change my sheets anyway, so don’t worry about getting water on my bed. Do you have dry clothes in your satchel?” Francis shook his head.

“Alright. I’ll give you some pyjamas and put those straight in the wash so you can wear them tomorrow, alright?” Francis nodded. He didn’t really know what to say. Arthur sighed, before turning to his wardrobe and pulling out some tartan pyjama bottoms and a grey t-shirt. He dropped them onto the bed next to Francis, and picked up some other pyjamas from a crumpled pile in the corner.

“I’m going to get changed in the bathroom. If you’d like to shower, you can when I’m dressed, alright?” Arthur didn’t actually wait for a reply, leaving and shutting the door immediately. Francis sat down and looked around for a minute before beginning to change.

Francis emerged from Arthur’s bedroom carrying his wet clothes and walked back to the entryway, since he didn’t know which door was which here. When he got there, the door to the left of the front door was ajar and light was coming from inside, so he nudged it open. It was the kitchen, and Arthur was stood dumping spoonfuls of instant coffee into two mugs. Francis cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Oh. Hi. They fit you, then?”

“Oui, they are fine. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. Here, pass me those clothes,” and upon receiving them, Arthur put them straight into the washing machine below the counter-top. “Do you want milk in your coffee?”

“Um, yes. Yes please. Thank you.” Arthur said nothing else, and the smell of coffee permeated the room in silence.

When Arthur handed Francis a mug, the Frenchman smiled and took it gratefully. They drank for a while, stood in the kitchen in silence.

“Well, you may as well come into the living room, since you’ll be sleeping there.” Arthur led Francis through the flat to one of the two remaining unopened doors, behind which was a fairly big lounge with a dining table at one end. Arthur sat on the sofa and Francis sat next to him when Arthur patted the cushion.

“I’m going to put the TV on. Is there anything in particular you’d care to watch?” Francis shook his head. Arthur shrugged, placed his coffee on a coaster on the coffee table in front of them, took the remote from the table and switched the TV on, settling for BBC One (as of course, like always, he forgave the weather-related betrayal from that morning). They sat quietly for a while, watching Casualty. Each of them, unbeknownst to the other, was thinking hard about the situation, processing what had happened and planning what to do next.

Francis was the first to speak again. “Thank you. Thank you so much for this. I would, uh, be lost without your help.”

“I’ve told you. You’re welcome. I’m just glad you aren’t an axe murderer or a rapist, to be fair.” Francis thought for a split second about his next comment, but decided it would be fine, considering what he already knew about Arthur.

“I couldn’t be a rapist. I am a bottom.” Arthur snorted with laughter and when he looked back at Francis, he smiled. It was like the smile in the photo, thought Francis.

“And the axe murderer idea?”

“Do I look like an, um, a lumberjack?” Francis gestured to the stubble on his chin.

“Excellent points. Alright. I believe you. You’re harmless.” Arthur sank back into the sofa cushions, looking happy. Francis kept smiling at this. There was another few minutes where neither of them spoke, but it was a lot more comfortable.

The stillness was broken when Francis stood up. Arthur looked at him.

“Do you want something?” Arthur asked.

“Ah, ouais, could I have some water?”

“Sure. Come to the kitchen.” Arthur led the Frenchman into the kitchen and got a glass out of the cupboard, turning on the tap to let it run until the water went from cool to cold. When it did, he filled the glass. When the glass was full, he passed it to Francis.

“Thank you. Again,” Francis said.

“You’re welcome. Again.” Arthur smiled a little again. He had a nice smile, Francis thought. Francis put the glass, half-full, on the side.

“You can take the rest in the living room, you know.” Francis simply smiled. Arthur shrugged minutely and went to leave the kitchen. Francis took his wrist and Arthur looked round, surprised.

“Honestly. Thank you very, very much. I’d be in the cold, with, uh, without a place to stay. And the ticket machine scared me enough.”

“And honestly. You’re welcome. You made me laugh, anyone who can do that is good company.” Francis didn’t let go of Arthur’s wrist, and Arthur looked at him, slight confusion visible in his eyes.

Before Arthur knew what was happening, Francis kissed him.

“Customary greeting in France.”

“I thought… I thought a big part of it was that you didn’t actually kiss each other. And I didn’t think it was ever… proper kissing.” Arthur was slightly pink.

“Customary greeting if you like the person.” Francis smiled, and Arthur smiled back, cheeks reddening further, and the two kissed again.

Living

ˈlɪvɪŋ/

noun

1. an income sufficient to live on or the means of earning it.

“she was struggling to make a living as a dancer”

synonyms: livelihood, income, source of income, means of support, means, subsistence, keep, maintenance, sustenance, nourishment, daily bread, upkeep;

2. the pursuit of a lifestyle of the specified type.

“the benefits of country living”

synonyms: way of life, lifestyle, manner of living, way of living, mode of living, life;

adjective

1. alive.

“living creatures”

synonyms: alive, live, having life;

�

#FrUK #UKfr #USUK #fruknewyears2017 #human AU #fruk fic #Francis Bonnefoy #Arthur Kirkland #Alfred F Jones #Hetalia

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hayleylovesyou2 · 7 years

Text

Bobby Died.

This morning work was cancelled after what felt like a too-long-holiday with too-much-time alone … I found the article “When An Ex Dies” (http://www.nextavenue.org/no-place-grief-ex-dies/) in my FB feed, detailing the unexpected death of an ex-husband - father of her children, remarried with a teenage son - and finding her place in the grieving process. They were no longer friends, didn’t talk much, but their lives were intimately intertwined for longer than not.

Then a google search uncovered a Hello Giggles piece on the death of an ex-boyfriend, hospitalized for 28 days before dying of heart failure, and the strange space that occupies. Once inseparable, but never married. Close with family, but that was 2 years ago. Would he have wanted her there? Was she allowed to be with his family? She had a month as he was hospitalized to wrestle these questions.

It made me think about what happens when we’re socially denied the right to our feelings. our experiences. What happens when we’re alone with our pain and not allowed to grieve.

Because more than what happens when an ex dies, I wonder.

What happens if an ex dies, and no one knows you existed. And he died quickly.

And horribly.

I used to joke “boyfriend” was a strong word, though that’s what I call him today. It’s easier. Feels true. But in the moment before Facebook, there was no “it’s complicated” to point to. Did we date? We did go “out” once or twice. Whispering in halls after class, a subtle graze on the shoulder, little secret pinch at our mutual work. After visits at 2am, or nights he didn’t go home. We knew what the other looked like without any clothes. Mostly, we wrote. Corresponded like old-fashioned pen-pals in an emerging digital age. Livejournal, Xanga, Myspace, Deviant Art, OkCupid, AIM. He was a beautiful writer, photographer, creator. He could turn a phrase in the way that sparked my heart and ignited my brain, activating my desire to create that had waned in a dead, ill-matched-to-me place. He inspired me to write as much and as well as he did. I’d churn out content in hopes for a comment, like, response. Experiment. To impress. We’d chat for hours in our separate rooms on our separate giant desktop computers about how isolating being somewhere we didn’t feel like we belonged felt, and why we stayed, our plans to get out. His brain worked the same way my brain did. Neither of us had a southern accent. We liked the same films, music, politics. In any other city or timeline - in a healthy world - this would sound eye-rollingly mundane. But in my accidental religious college I felt trapped in, landlocked in a rural corner of a rural state that was so far from what I wanted and where I wanted to be … it felt like magic to have found him. And to have found him by accident. At the last possible second. It was a psychic, emotional, intellectual connection. Bobby meant the world to me. But we didn’t date. I wasn’t his girlfriend. His friends didn’t get it, and were kept out of the loop. No one knew what I thought I knew. That my love for Bobby was true.

But I was not the love of his life.

He had a crush on a gentle British soccer player named Jenny, who he told me about … later. His blog posts, vague odes to love … we’re not about me, as I had thought. Hoped. Wondered. But his love was also unrequited, and that didn’t stop the sleepovers. Pinches. Hours crafting kinetic poetic essays on AIM.

We met on a media-arts trip to Dallas. I had seen him, but we’d never spoken. He was classically attractive - over 6ft tall, awkward and hunchy. A recently nerdy chubby boy who had no idea what effect he could have on a girl. In Georgia … at that school … I naturally assumed the worst, about a blonde boy with big steel-blue eyes. Everyone was conservative, Baptist, liked hunting, sports, and the other things that didn’t impress my bitterly equally stereotypical 90s-gothy-art heart. But we’d moved into the aughts, and the Iraq War was underway, and I’d given up on finding anyone who made me feel anything other than invisible, impossibly lonely, terrifyingly hated. So that day in Dallas, i wagered I was ½ way to L.A. And I started driving west, away. But I got a call that some of the “yearbook kids” wanted to go with me to see Margaret Cho, a show nearby I’d found, that the “newspaper” crew had all turned down. And yeah, traffic was bad. And sure, I’d left all my clothes at the hotel. So I figured we’d go see the show, THEN I’d run away. Just in time, I picked them up. And that’s when I first met Bobby, and fell.

My CD case was filled with bizarre mixes from the expiring gasp of Napster’s bastard child, and film soundtracks. And usually Cats, just to piss people off. One previous attempt at college friendship led to a girl I was driving up the mountain to mock a really dumb song by an awful band about pinball (and the wizards who sure could play it) while I tried not to beat myself to death on the steering wheel. So I fired up a “weirder” CD* - Kill Bill soundtrack I think - to defiantly be me in front of these strangers I was sure were about to offend me. (*Obviously this is hardly a weird soundtrack, but this is Georgia, 2003.)

But Bobby knew what it was, basic though now it seems. Excited. We talked about the movie enthusiastically, the first person I got to discuss it with, the whole drive there. The rest of the car was offended by Cho - half the audience walked out when she tackled Iraq - but Bobby and I easily agreed. It didn’t matter it wasn’t funny. Nothing had been funny in over 2 years. And we both found we weren’t easy to offend, at least not with rebel trappings of sex, drugs, and political whims. We parted that night with lingering eye contact, a shy smile. A plan to see a movie the next night while everyone else watched football.

I stayed. I didn’t run away to LA.

The next night, during the final Matrix film, our pinkies teased, curious and unsure, creeping back and forth around excuses to pass popcorn and fake scares, until we finally held hands. After, in the hotel, I wanted to show him something in another room. I’d never felt that kind of clean attraction, never felt it so confidently, boldly. We talked close. Then forehead to forehead. Then lips to lips. Talking, still. Giggling. We kissed.

Until a yearbook kid, jealous? perhaps? barged in and told Bobby they had all decided to leave for home, immediately, so pack up. I could come, too, but they wouldn’t wait. I had driven 4 other members of newspaper, so I ran to their rooms and desperately tried to convince them to leave. Or Bobby would stay, if one of them would trade. But of course not, disappointment reigned. I offered to leave my car. They called me selfish. Bobby left. I stayed.

Our time was short. 3 months, tops. We saw each other, touched each other, he took me to the homecoming dance as my first, proper date. We danced. He was an early adopter of the White Stripes, such a relief from a sea of Creed, and we’d talk, listen, dream. But for the crush I had on him, he didn’t have the same on me, despite our mental connection, and as I slowly (very slowly) let that settle in … I didn’t take it very well. I took it very not well. So not well I can’t really remember the next phase. Before you judge too harshly, a sad girl who blacked out when another flawed human didn’t turn into a prince, a savior, turning this story into a fairy tale. Please understand how dire it had been right before he appeared. Sometimes I think the universe sent him to me to keep me safe, from running away, to finish out a final semester in one piece. A little kindness, a booster seat. Bobby was always meant to be short lived.

The last night before winter break he said he was going to come over, then said he was coming with friends. I bribed older kids to buy me $50 worth of beer. Also picked up a party platter, so they’d like me, I was scared of his friends. It was a redemption, a chance to reconcile. But he didn’t come. I texted, he stopped replying. Called more times than socially acceptable. But at 2:30am the doorbell rang. Bobby had come! He cared! And I bounded to greet him … only it wasn’t him. It was a strung out stranger, raging, who started hitting me, tried to push his way in. I fought him off and locked the door, called 911 who told me it wasn’t real. Called Bobby, who finally answered and told me I was lying for attention, insane. My parents got me the next day. And I never returned to Georgia.

I started a new school in January. I knew it was necessary, but I was still in love with Bobby. We kept talking, blogging, calling. I was lonely and would photograph my new surroundings and send the pictures to him, for critiques. We’d set concert dates that fell apart hours beforehand. I shipped him t-shirts as surprises he never admitted receiving. I visited near spring break with a box of gifts, $100 of books and tschotskes that I individually wrapped and carefully decorated with quotes from his favorite books, songs, Jack White, films. I dropped it off at his dorm, but he said he never got it. He said it was stolen, and i was an idiot for leaving it. He had told me he’d be there, so I sat outside awhile and called, waited, asked his hallmates where he was. Said I made him look like an asshole, a bad guy, and he was done dealing with me. I still believe he had the gift, maybe threw it away without opening it in a fit, but something always felt off about his recounting of events. Later I learned he had fallen in love with a girl he followed to Honduras, and was at a concert with her that day. It was all over a then secret blog, one I found after he was gone. I was at a new school and met new people. Hurt, changing, our connection faded out. In person, I never saw him again, though sometimes I’d quietly and secretly check in.

My birthday 2006, he messaged me. First time in forever. He apologized, said he often thought of me, and hoped i was well. I cautiously wished the same. He had decided to stay in town a year after graduation to stay with his friends, I was a super-senior due to the transfer and in no rush because I had essentially started all over again. He got his first job as an AD on a small feature shooting in town and was writing again. I ran my school film committee, and was wrapping up a degree with a minor in cinema. I saw a future unfold in front of me, how Bobby would return to me, where we’d reunite, as collaborators at least, in film, in Los Angeles, CA. We chatted on FB and joked about films, pop culture, cylons. Do you remember the early days of social media? When Facebook would email you when you got a wall post or comment, but it just would just say “Bobby posted on your wall!” to send you to go and check.

And in late January 2007, I received a series of these emails saying Bobby had commented on a photo, posted on my wall. But he must have deleted them, I never saw what he said. I was newly embroiled in a tumultuous, confusing relationship and didn’t reach out to ask, though it struck me more than it should. He also seemed to be in a new relationship he was pretty into, posting vague poetry and odes to love. He posted on Valentines Weekend 2007 that he was fixing something that was long overdue. To do it right, finally. It sounded confident, optimistic, resolute.

The same Valentines Weekend of 2007, I was to go to a protest in Washington D.C., but I pulled out at the last minute. I had a feeling in my chest, a dread, an inner scream too loud to ignore, but too deep to let out. So I lied and said I had a funeral to attend on Tuesday, throwing my favorite aunt under the bus. I felt weird, dark, scared. I was convinced something bad was going to happen – it was icy, maybe there was going to be a wreck? I was low on money, I said. They were mad I flaked, and left me alone, behind.

Now you could say I saw it immediately, but it took me a full 3 days to “see.”

His post had a lot of comments, maybe everyone knew what he was talking about, or it was a quote I had missed, I speculated. I talked to my co-worker (who I ALSO had had a huge crush on) about him, told him about Bobby, how I had loved him. That they were both talented. Maybe we’d all work together some day. This was Friday.

There were an unusual number of pictures on FB about Bobby. I smiled. I loved Bobby. These were great pictures. I should ask him what he wrote on my wall.

There were an unusual amount of comments about Bobby. About Bobby being a good guy. I smiled. Bobby was a great guy. Not even weird, everyone knew it. We’d had our pain, and troubles, but I loved Bobby dearly. This was Saturday.

Then in the early AM … all my friends in Washington DC … I it. I saw the “was.” Bobby ‘was’ such a great guy.

Even then, I was like “what did Bobby do? Did he get in trouble? Is he not a good guy?”

“Bobby was a great guy, I’m shocked by the news, I don’t believe it.”

WHAT NEWS.

“Bobby was so kind, he didn’t deserve this.” Comment after comment, picture after picture, reality came into view.

Bobby had died over Valentines Weekend, 2007.

Bobby didn’t just die. He died badly.

And Bobby didn’t die in an accident, though that is what they told his aging dad.

Bobby was murdered. Brutally.

Murdered running for his life after his girlfriend, who he was naked in bed with the morning after Valentines day, was killed at close range.

Murdered by her ex, a sad man who seemed confused he couldn’t own someone, a weak man sent by the devil to take two bright, shinning lives, when he found them in her home when he showed up unannounced. So went to his car, grabbed his good-ole-boy gun, and shot them both more times than is needed to kill someone. She was in the bedroom. Bobby made it to the front lawn. I couldn’t breathe. He was gone. His Facebook status was updated in the wee am to “Bobby is dead.”

A memorial group was set up, in it’s haste called “Bobby: You Won’t Never Be Forgotten” and a girl from the car that night in Dallas kindly added me. No one knew what to do. So jokes were made.

And there was a funeral. It was Tuesday.

—-

He was my highest match on a dating site in the whole southeast for years. When we met, we were 84%. And the thing about the dating site was … they didn’t delete his profile. It stayed up almost 10 years. This year, 2016, was the year it finally disappeared. And this year … we matched at 99%. I know that is who I am with who he was, but still. 99%.

I live in LA now … and I think I live here for him. He would’ve been so much more successful than me, so much more easily. But I think I fight for him. I need to make something for him, because he couldn’t. I need to be something, someone. Because he never will.

And I think of Bobby everytime I hear Jack White. Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes it hurts too much. I had a White Stripes song in my head just last night. I guess that’s part of what triggered this today. It’s so easy to get laughed at, getting emotional at songs from a band who are currently pretty basic and passé. Wanting to tell, but think no one cares?

What do you do when you loved someone who died, and you’re not allowed to love them?

I don’t know if Bobby wants my love, or appreciates it, or it matters to him in death. If he’d want me to keep talking about him, or pretending like I have a right to a piece of him. But based on the last time we really talked, I hope he would understand. And appreciate. And that this love … though not a reciprocated romantic love … was still valuable.

Because I will always deeply love Bobby. And in 6 weeks, he’ll have been gone 10 years.

I don’t want to be trapped by the past. Caught up in pain. This year I want to honor Bobby in a positive way … by making something for him. To honor him.

I hope I can.

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isaidhay · 7 years

Text

This morning, after learning work was cancelled after what felt like a too-long-holiday with too-much-time spent alone, with myself, to think ... I stumbled on the article “When An Ex Dies” (http://www.nextavenue.org/no-place-grief-ex-dies/) in my FB feed, detailing the unexpected death of an ex-husband - father of her children - remarried with a teenage son - and her place in the grieving process. They were no longer friends, didn't talk much, but their lives were intimately intertwined for longer than not. A google search also uncovered a Hello Giggles piece on the death of an ex-boyfriend, hospitalized for 28 days before dying of heart failure, and the strange space that occupies. Once inseparable, but never married. Close with family, but that was 2 years ago. What is her place? Would he have wanted her there? Was she allowed the proximity to actively grieve? She had a month as he declined to tackle these questions. It made me think about what happens when we’re socially denied the right to our feelings. our experiences. What happens when we’re alone with our pain and not allowed to grieve. Because more than what happens when an ex dies, I wonder. What happens if an ex dies, and no one knows you exist. I used to joke “boyfriend” was a strong word, though that’s what I call him today. It’s easier. Feels true. But in the moment before Facebook, there was no “it’s complicated” to point to. Did we date? We did go “out” once or twice. Whispering in halls after class, a subtle graze on the shoulder, little secret pinch at our mutual work. After visits . We knew what the other looked like without any clothes, but mostly we knew how the other one thought. Mostly, we wrote. Corresponded like old-fashioned pen-pals in an emerging digital age. Livejournal, Xanga, Myspace, Deviant Art, OkCupid, AIM. He was a beautiful writer, photographer, creator. He could turn a phrase in the way that sparked my heart and ignited my brain, activating my desire to create that had waned in this dead, ill-matched place. He inspired me to write as much and as well as he did. I’d churn out content in hopes for a comment. Experiment. Try to impress him. We’d chat for hours in our separate rooms on our separate giant desktop computers about how isolating being somewhere we didn’t feel like we belonged felt, and why we stayed, our plans to get out. His brain worked the same way my brain did. Neither of us had a southern accent. We liked the same films, music, politics. In any other city or timeline - in a healthy world - this would sound eye-rollingly mundane. But in my accidental religious college I felt trapped in, landlocked in a rural corner of a rural state that was so far from what I wanted and where I wanted to be ... it felt like magic to have found him. And to have found him by accident. At the last possible second. It was a psychic, emotional, intellectual connection. Bobby meant the world to me. But we didn’t date. I wasn’t his girlfriend. His friends didn’t get it, and were kept out of the loop. No one knew what I thought I knew. That Bobby was the love of my life. But I was not the love of his. He had a crush on a gentle British soccer player named Jenny, who he told me about ... later. His blog posts, vague odes to love ... we’re not actually about me, as I had thought. But that didn’t stop the sleepovers. Pinches. Hours on AIM. We met on a media-arts trip to Dallas. I had seen him, but we’d never spoken. He was classically handsome - over 6ft tall, blonde, huge blue eyes, awkward and hunchy. A recently nerdy chubby boy who had no idea what he was about to be able to do to women. In Georgia ... at that school ... I naturally assumed the worst about my peers, more because I didn’t want to be there and I assumed they all did. Everyone was conservative, Baptist, liked hunting, sports, and the other things that didn’t impress my bitterly equally stereotypical 90s-Daria-gothy-art heart. But we’d moved into the aughts, and the Iraq War was underway, and I’d given up on finding anyone who made me feel anything other than invisible, hated, fundamentally wrong. So in Dallas, i wagered I was 1/2 way to L.A. And I started driving west, away. But I got a call that some of the year book kids wanted to go with me to see Margaret Cho, a show nearby I’d found. And traffic was bad. And I’d left all my clothes at the hotel. So I figured we’d go, THEN I’d run away. Just in time, I picked them up. And Bobby was there. My CD case was filled with bizarre mixes from the dying gasp of Napster’s bastard child, Limewire, and film soundtracks. And usually Cats, if I felt mean to my passengers. One attempt at college friendship led to a girl I was driving up the mountain to aggressively mock a really dumb song by an awful about pinball (and the wizards who sure could play it) while I tried not to beat myself to death on the steering wheel. Like, she couldn’t believe it was a song or a band existed that would play it, then requested some Creed or DC Talk. I couldn’t believe I was in a place so wrong-for-me I had to defend that ‘The Who’ existed. So I fired up a “weirder” CD - Kill Bill soundtrack I think - to defiantly be me in front of these strangers I was sure were about to offend me. But Bobby knew what it was. Excited. Agreed. We talked about the movie enthusiastically, the first person I got to discuss it with, the whole drive there. The rest of the car was offended by Cho - half the audience walked out when she spoke out against Iraq - but Bobby and I agreed with her. It didn’t matter it wasn’t funny. It seemed important. And it was really hard to offend us. We parted that night with a little smile. A plan to see a movie the next night while everyone else watched a football game. I didn’t run away to LA. The next night, during the final Matrix film, our pinkies teased each others, curious, creeping back and forth around excuses to pass popcorn and fake scares, until we finally held hands. After, in the hotel, I wanted to show him something in another room. I’d never felt that kind of clean attraction, never felt it so confidently, boldly. We talked close. Then forehead to forehead. Then we kissed. And we didn’t stop. Until a yearbook kid (I was newspaper, you see) barged in and told Bobby they had all decided they were leaving that night instead, so pack up, he was driving. I could come, too, but they wouldn’t wait. I had driven 4 other members of newspaper, so I ran to their rooms and desperately tried to convince them to leave, too. But they didn’t. I offered to leave my car. They called me selfish. Bobby left. I stayed and cried. Our time together was short. 3 months. We saw each other a lot, touched a lot, he took me to the homecoming dance as my first, proper date. He was an early adopter of the White Stripes, such a relief from a sea of Creed, and we’d talk, kiss, listen. But for the crush I had on him, he didn’t have the same on me, despite our obvious mental connection, and as I slowly (very slowly) let that settle in ... I didn’t take it very well. I took it really quite very poorly. It got really dark. And please understand how dire it had gotten right before he appeared. Sometimes I think the universe sent him to me to keep me safe, from running away, to finish out the semester at school in one piece. The last night before winter break he said he was going to come over, then said he was coming with friends. I bought a bunch of beer, because I’d been 21 a solid 6 weeks and COULD. Also picked up a party platter, so they’d like me. And waited. He didn’t come. I texted, he stopped answering. But at 2:30am the doorbell rang and I bounded to receive him ... only it wasn’t him, it was a strung out stranger who started hitting me, tried to barge in. I fought him off and locked the door. My parents got me the next day and loaded me up. I started a new school in January. No one knew I was leaving, but I was relieved to never come back ... except I was still in love with Bobby. We kept talking, blogging, AIM’ing. I was lonely and would photograph my new campus and scan the pictures to him, for critiques. He was impressed. We’d set concert dates that fell apart last minute. I shipped him t-shirts I thought he’d like, but he never admitted receiving. I visited with a box of gifts, $100 of books and tschotskes that I individually wrapped and carefully decorated with quotes from his favorite books, films, songs. I delivered it, but he said he never got it. He said it was stolen, and i was an idiot for leaving it at his door. He had told me he’d be there, so I sat outside awhile and called, waited, asked his hallmates where he was. He said I made him look like an asshole, a bad guy, and he was done. I still believe he had it, maybe threw it away without opening it, but something always felt wrong. Later I learned he had fallen in love with a girl he later followed to Honduras, and was at a concert with her that day. It was all over a then secret blog. I was at a new school and met new people. Hurt, changing, our connection faded out. In person, I never saw him again, though sometimes I’d check in. My birthday 2006, he messaged me. First time in a long time. He apologized, said he thought of me often, and hoped i was well. I cautiously wished the same. He had decided to stay in town a year after graduation to stay with his friends, I was a super-senior due to the transfer and in no rush to get out, now that I could do-over college right. He got his first job as an AD on a small feature shooting in town and was writing again. I ran my school film committee, and was wrapping up a degree with a minor in screenwriting and cinema theory. I saw a future where we’d reunite, as collaborators, in LA. We chatted on FB and joked about cylons. Facebook used to email you when you got a wall post or comment, but it just would say to go check them out, not what they said. In late January 2007, I received a series of these emails saying Bobby had commented on a photo, posted on my wall. But he must have deleted them, I never saw what he said. It drove me batty. But I was newly embroiled in a tumultuous, confusing relationship and didn’t reach out to ask. It was probably nothing. He also seemed to be in a new relationship he was pretty excited about. He posted on Valentines Weekend 2007 that he was fixing something he had long longed to. To do it right, finally, put everything right. The same Valentines Weekend of 2007, I was to go to a protest in Washington D.C., but I pulled out last second. I lied and said I had a funeral to attend on Tuesday. I felt weird, dark, scared. I was convinced something bad was going to happen -- it was icy, maybe there was going to be a wreck? I was low on money, I said. They were mad, and left me. I saw it immediately, but it took me 3 days to “see” it. His post had a lot of comments on it, I saw it and speculated. I talked to my co-worker (who I ALSO had had a huge crush on) about him, told him about Bobby, how I had loved him. That they were both talented. Maybe we’d all work together some day. This was Friday. There were an unusual number of pictures on FB about Bobby. I smiled. I loved Bobby. These were great pictures. An unusual amount of comments about Bobby being a good guy. I smiled. Bobby was a great guy. Not even weird, everyone knew it. We’d had our pain, and troubles, but I loved Bobby dearly. This was Saturday. Then in the early AM ... all my friends in Washington DC ... I saw the “was.” My eyes let me see the “was.” Bobby ‘was’ a great guy. Even then, I was like “what did Bobby do? Did he get in trouble?” “Bobby was a great guy, I’m shocked and horrified by the news.” WHAT NEWS. “Bobby was so kind, he didn’t deserve this.” Bobby had died over Valentines Weekend, 2007. Bobby didn’t just die. He died badly. Very badly. And Bobby didn’t die in an accident, though that is what they told his elderly father. Bobby was murdered. Murdered running for his life after his girlfriend, who he was naked in bed with the morning after Valentines day, was also murdered. Murdered her ex, who found them in her home when he showed up unannounced, and went to his car, got a gun, and shot them both an insane number of times in cold blood. She was in the bedroom. Bobby made it to the front lawn. I couldn’t breathe. A memorial group was set up, and a girl from the car that night in Dallas kindly added me. There was a funeral. It was Tuesday. I hadn’t lied. ---- I had no one to talk to. And no real mutual friends with Bobby. The only friends who knew who I was only remembered the drama, or I assumed they would. I reached out with . They didn’t want or need me in their grief. But there was no place to put mine. I put on a shirt of his he had left at my house. A ringer T with Mr. Rogers face, smiling. It said “You’re Special.” I’d wear it under my clothes everyday like secret underwear for the next several weeks. I couldn’t figure out how it happened, but I needed to know. What I saw in my head, the placement, the timeline, didn’t make sense. That week I’d have a dream as if I was watching it in real time. I understand now. I saw how it happened. It was horrible. I attended the funeral, saw some old teachers, friends, but I was alone in it. They didn’t know how I knew Bobby, just that we had some classes together. It was nice I came, they thought. I should sit in back, the front was reserved for his close friends. It was an open casket. I tried to get near, to look at him, but I fell down. I couldn’t get near. I kept buckling. I held onto an old newspaper co-worker, from behind, and looked around her to hold myself up. She commented I was always quirky. I flashed back to him sleeping in my bed. I thought of him sleeping, naked. He looked like he was sleeping. I felt ashamed. Ashamed to see that. I couldn’t tell anyone that. Even that I knew what he looked like asleep. He was buried with a t-shirt I had bought him. It was one of his favorites. I saw new pictures of him in it. He was buried along with photos he had displayed in his room. Including the first gift I ever gave him ... I blew up a picture he took and framed it. It was with him at the end. No one new that was also a part of me, either. I don't know why he had both. If he just really liked them. Or if he also liked them because there was also something good of me. I’ll never know, and probably not, but it helps me to believe. Over 300 people attended the funeral. Everyone loved Bobby. But it was a terrible funeral - a preacher who never met him excited to scare a bunch of young faces about drugs, adultery, hell. Hymns instead of White Stripes. Cold. It had nothing to do with Bobby. His friends would later have their own memorial. I wasn't invited ... they didn’t know me, didn’t know they should. A week later, i got a heavy fever and went into a hard dream, and the pain sort of lifted. Like I was in a warm bear hug. I felt like Bobby visited me, and apologized he had to wait so long to get to me, the list was long, and that he didn’t know it would hit me like it did. But his death did hit me. It still hits me. He was my highest OKCupid match in the whole southeast for years after. When we met, we were 84%. And the thing about OkCupid was ... they didn’t delete his profile. It stayed up almost 10 years. This year, 2016, was the year it finally disappeared. And this year ... we matched at 99%. I know that is who I am with who he was, but still. 99%. I live in LA now ... and I think I live here for Bobby. He would’ve been so much more successful than me, so much more easily. But I think I fight for him. I need to make something for him, because he couldn’t. I need to be something, someone. Because he never will. And I think of Bobby everytime I hear Jack White. Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes it hurts too much. I had a White Stripes song in my head just last night. I guess that’s part of what triggered this today. What do you do when you loved someone who died, and you’re not allowed to? I don’t know if Bobby wants my love, or appreciates it, or it matters to him in death. If he’d want me to keep talking about him, or pretending like I have a right to a piece of him. But based on the last time we really talked, i hope he would understand. And appreciate. And that this love ... though not a reciprocated romantic love ... was still a valuable love. Because I will always deeply love Bobby. And in 6 weeks, he’ll have been gone 10 years. I don't want to be trapped by the past. Caught up in pain. This year I want to honor Bobby in a positive way ... by making something for him. To honor him. I hope I can do him justice.

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