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It had been a week. Just seven days before, he'd woken up in an unfamiliar place, with an unfamiliar man and a frankly terrifying cake beside him and no idea how any of it had happened.
Of course, considering Francis' previous history awakening in strange situations with no idea of the preceding evening's activities, things could have been much, much worse.
Whatever comfort that thought gave him--and it had been, oddly, in a greatly twisted way--had faded the instant he made his way back home to find Camilla perched on the stoop, grey eyes twinkling and just barely able to keep from giggling at him. Slowly, with a patience that belied the sheer irritation that he had to play this game with her, at this time--because she couldn't let go of a piece of information straight away, not now, not ever--he'd teased out what she knew.
Welcome home, cheri. I suppose it's too much to hope you'll stop being so tiresome about it now, isn't it?
What do you mean, what do I mean? You and that boy, you know. The English one, the one who looks scared all the time. David? David Posner?
You can't remember? Oh, cheri. Take a look at his neck, then, and you'll remember soon enough.
He'd almost run off right then to see if she'd been telling the truth, or if this was yet another of her cruel amusements, another attempt to push poor François into rabbity panic. In the end, he'd waited--walked into the rec room a few days later, saw the unmistakable purple mottling on Posner's neck, awkwardly stammered out an excuse before retreating hurriedly. Hardly his finest moment, and enough to make him avoid the other young man for the rest of the week.
He knew he couldn't keep avoiding Posner forever--nor did he wish to--and for that reason, he found himself walking up the path to the young man's hut. He stopped in front of the door, took a breath, and knocked, hesitantly.
"Posner? Are you here?"
Of course, considering Francis' previous history awakening in strange situations with no idea of the preceding evening's activities, things could have been much, much worse.
Whatever comfort that thought gave him--and it had been, oddly, in a greatly twisted way--had faded the instant he made his way back home to find Camilla perched on the stoop, grey eyes twinkling and just barely able to keep from giggling at him. Slowly, with a patience that belied the sheer irritation that he had to play this game with her, at this time--because she couldn't let go of a piece of information straight away, not now, not ever--he'd teased out what she knew.
Welcome home, cheri. I suppose it's too much to hope you'll stop being so tiresome about it now, isn't it?
What do you mean, what do I mean? You and that boy, you know. The English one, the one who looks scared all the time. David? David Posner?
You can't remember? Oh, cheri. Take a look at his neck, then, and you'll remember soon enough.
He'd almost run off right then to see if she'd been telling the truth, or if this was yet another of her cruel amusements, another attempt to push poor François into rabbity panic. In the end, he'd waited--walked into the rec room a few days later, saw the unmistakable purple mottling on Posner's neck, awkwardly stammered out an excuse before retreating hurriedly. Hardly his finest moment, and enough to make him avoid the other young man for the rest of the week.
He knew he couldn't keep avoiding Posner forever--nor did he wish to--and for that reason, he found himself walking up the path to the young man's hut. He stopped in front of the door, took a breath, and knocked, hesitantly.
"Posner? Are you here?"
Truthplot: Camilla (dated June 11)
Jun. 23rd, 2011 12:50 amIt took Francis a few hours to ascertain that something was truly, gravely wrong. In fairness, he should have seen it sooner--he had been going on with much greater honesty about his interest in a certain island blond, and Camilla had seemed altogether crueler and more out of sorts--but those things could well have been the result of anything, or nothing, at all.
What happened at lunch, though, was the most worrisome of all. It had started with a passing comment, something someone had said about the woods back wherever they'd come from, perhaps; he'd forgotten now exactly what had triggered it. What he couldn't forget--may never be able to forget--was his reaction, the sudden compelling urge to speak. "I don't feel comfortable in the forest, not since we--" Not since we killed that farmer, he'd meant to say. Not since we committed our first murder.
He must have looked a sight, running panicked from the kitchen with a hand clamped over his mouth, but run he did, until he reached the safety of his room.
And in his room is where he'd stayed, alone and fretful for the duration of the afternoon. He didn't know where Camilla had run off to, but as the hours passed and she still failed to return, he found himself getting more and more concerned--that she had been as afflicted with this strange bout of compulsive honesty as he; that she'd gone to the police to confess all; that soon he'd hear the sound of official boots on the stair, the jingle of handcuffs.
"Where the hell have you been?" he hissed at her when Camilla finally deigned to reappear, moving to shut the door behind her almost immediately after the girl had crossed the threshold. "I don't know what's going on, but I think something happened to me."
What happened at lunch, though, was the most worrisome of all. It had started with a passing comment, something someone had said about the woods back wherever they'd come from, perhaps; he'd forgotten now exactly what had triggered it. What he couldn't forget--may never be able to forget--was his reaction, the sudden compelling urge to speak. "I don't feel comfortable in the forest, not since we--" Not since we killed that farmer, he'd meant to say. Not since we committed our first murder.
He must have looked a sight, running panicked from the kitchen with a hand clamped over his mouth, but run he did, until he reached the safety of his room.
And in his room is where he'd stayed, alone and fretful for the duration of the afternoon. He didn't know where Camilla had run off to, but as the hours passed and she still failed to return, he found himself getting more and more concerned--that she had been as afflicted with this strange bout of compulsive honesty as he; that she'd gone to the police to confess all; that soon he'd hear the sound of official boots on the stair, the jingle of handcuffs.
"Where the hell have you been?" he hissed at her when Camilla finally deigned to reappear, moving to shut the door behind her almost immediately after the girl had crossed the threshold. "I don't know what's going on, but I think something happened to me."
