Slow Dancing in a Burning Room (Francis) - COMPLETE

[Nicoleta]

Everything was dipped in grandeur, from the intricate tapestries to the embedded regalia on ever pieces of fine china. The marbled floor reflected the beautiful, waltzing figures that weaved around other couples. There was a timeless air in the majesty of the golden ballroom. Silken drapes hung upon pillars and walls, falling down in a cascade of red ripples and folds. There was a lot of chatter, some in a language she could not recognize. A lot of clankering--of a wine glass or two tipping against each other as a notion of wishing the other well. Everyone had a facade on--a mask of sorts. How detailed and embellished they were really revealed his or her personality. Nicoleta entered the splendor as a belladonna--all dressed in black. Her mask was chic, lacy, and had some diamonds on the corner. At best, it was probably one of the most humble masks around since it lacked plumes of feathers. However, the way she strode in made her seem anything but humble. The way she strut in--there was a grace in the swagger. A certain flare and sense of confidence that followed her wake. Though she chose not to stop to take a gander at any bystanders. No--she was here for a reason. Best not to waste time with any side-missions and dalliances. To start it off. Nicoleta stood by the refreshments table and granted herself a glass of wine. A small sip to the lips and she felt the heat travel down her throat already. A sigh. Her hazel eyes traveled around this time to gauge the situation at hand. A flash of blonde hair. Nicoleta raised a brow. Blonde hair was not a rare thing to see--but this was a color she recognized. There was a knot in her chest. The curiosity was overwhelming her. She pressed the glass against her lip, leaving a mark of red lipstick as she approached this man. With a smile, she greeted in a low, sensuous voice, "Hello there."

made by FLOU of OTE.

[Deleted]

"You see, I'm not a man I am the king of illusion At heart, may I be forgiven, I am the king, the king of fools"

Nothing wasn’t draped in some sort of grand color. Red, silver, gold; it all shimmered, and there was no end to the glaring brightness of the contents of the intricate magnificence of the ballroom. Everywhere he looked, everywhere he stepped, everywhere he listened – there was inescapable, alluring beauty.

Elegance. Grace. Brilliance.

All were required here. It seemed simple enough – or more so ridiculously complex it was undeniably simple. It was one of the times where only what was outside truly mattered, and what was inside remained inside. A typical social gathering of the wealthy to cherish their opulence and glorious beauty in what they possessed.

Francis remembered them well enough. And he wished he didn’t. How out of character it seemed for him to dislike such events! Truly, one would think he would revel in the luxury and pure radiance that emanated throughout the entire room; as the way it would appear to a normal onlooker. But balls and banquets were not true beauty – no, not at all. Such dramatic parties were overwhelmingly obnoxious, all a masquerade to see who could outshine them all and flaunt his so-called “beauty” to impress the other participants and strive for the adoring applause when it was all over.

In this scenario, he actually preferred the extravagant masks. That way, at least some of the beauty was bound to come from within since nobody knew each other’s identities. It gave him hope – false hope for the most part, but hope nonetheless.

All of it was detestable, and Francis wanted to just leave. He was dreading his poorly made decision to agree to come to the masquerade ball. He resisted the urge to touch his royal blue mask that easily covered the top half of his face, leaving his lips open to the world and read with ease. Plumes of matching feathers, prim and quite proper, embellished the left side of the mask, and perfectly coordinated with his royal blue coat and trousers, gold threads running along the ends to make a nice, intricate border. It was dazzling, and he rather liked it – it was a shame he didn’t like the occasion it was meant for.

A somewhat weary exhale escaped his lips, and he moved to hopefully towards the refreshments table. He would most certainly prefer a bottle of wine at this current time, as he would rather be slightly inebriated if he was to endure the ball for the entire evening. But he didn’t even have the chance to approach the fine glasses.

”Hello there.”

Oh, it seemed someone was interested in him. What horrible timing.

He suppressed a tired sigh, and composed a light (although faux) smile upon his face, and turned to the speaker. The voice was feminine, but that was all he could discern from simply hearing two words. The woman was clothed entirely in black – strangely plain, but clearly standing out against her shimmering surroundings. Her mask was similar to his; only shielding the top half of her face, but lacking obnoxious feathers like his, instead only bearing a few gleaming diamonds in the corner. Again, it was simple, but at the same time, anything but. She held herself with an air of dignity – yet she seemed usually relaxed. The mysterious woman seemed to be full of contradictions.

”Good evening, madam,” Francis greeted with a small but extravagant bow, widening his smile to become somewhat more charming. His usual accent was absent; he had decided that since it was a masquerade, he would speak without one throughout the night. ”How may I be of assistance to such a beautiful lady as yourself this lovely evening?”

electric has gangnam style

[Nicoleta]

what if I was just a painter,*
painting houses on the rich blue coast? Would you ever try to leave me for somebody who deserves you most? Cause darling I am just a painter. I'm gonna make a million dollars, cause nobody's gonna steal you, no, For diamonds & gold -------------------------------

She favored him a slight smile when he turned to greet her with his eyes. Under the grace of those familiar blue eyes, Nicoleta found herself mildly surprised that those eyes were exactly how she remembered them. The years had trimmed and tired his eyes as time had stolen his youth, yet it did not take away its vitality. She almost held her breath; his pause made her think that he recognized her. Inwardly, she almost wished he did.

How terribly rewritten would that be if fate had decided to write this out like a novel. The fleeting wish died as quickly as it came, leaving her in the sole comfort of anonymity. He seemed to have not recognized her, much to her relief. It had been around five years since their last kiss and a man of Francis' looks had probably netted many more kisses thereafter. She found the heart to be somewhat jealous, its impact as small as a needle-wound but with a sting nonetheless. Nicoleta did no justice for judging, for her own lust was a sin as black as the shadowy fabric of her midnight dress.

”Good evening, madam,” He bowed to her with a subtle strain.

His accent was not in his voice. A tittering suspicion brushed the back of her neck, causing a sensation that unconsciously provoked her to touch her nape. She smiled to cut the burden of her sudden action, masking it as a gesture of coyness. Nicoleta reassured herself that it had to be Francis. The assertion ran on little pragmatic grounds but her intuition was willing to persevere. Therefore, she was going to bet her dice that this fellow was indeed her ex-lover. Yet she had a moment of falter.

Why was she going through so much emotional toil for a shadow from the past? A shadow... that had once held her warm on her bed, one that had once showered her with morning kisses as light as rain, one that had captured her heart--.

”How may I be of assistance to such a beautiful lady as yourself this lovely evening?”

His voice brought her back. It was as if a switch was flipped. Nicoleta was no more as a new persona arose in her place. This woman only wanted to play.

"I could not help but notice that you look promising enough as good company," She replied in good-nature. "Would it be so wrong of me to ask you to accompany me for a little while, stranger?"

© cait

[Deleted]

"You see, I'm not a man I am the king of illusion At heart, may I be forgiven, I am the king, the king of fools"

As he spoke, Francis could not but help notice the little actions and movements the woman executed with a subtle air of nonchalant elegance. Normally, they would not have meant very much to him, but he found himself being drawn towards the beauty of the not so prominent details as one's physical attributes; such as the subtle hints of body language one could display what he considered a person's true nature to be - after all, it was quite uncommon for most people to consciously think about the finer messages they may be sending with just a simple gesture as running their fingers through their hair to catch a tiny fleck of dandruff and proceed to remove it.

Facial expressions, on the other hand, could easily be masked at a person's whim with little effort. Francis knew this well, seeing as he just used his own mask only a few moments ago, and in a moment of slighted paranoia, he presumed that's all this woman's exterior was. Just another superficial party attendee who had a penchant to indulge herself in the glamour and magnificence wherever it was, living a lax life of luxury and little worry because she had the whole world playing at the ends of her fingertips. But then he saw reality; remembering the wondrous simplicity of her appearance, weaving a most memorable image of how a lack of complexity could result in modest beauty with such a stunning ballroom as a beautifully contrasting backdrop, and Francis could not convey how grateful he was for the coyly posed sight before him.

"I could not help but notice that you look promising enough as good company. Would it be so wrong of me to ask you to accompany me for a little while, stranger?"

Her voice held no trace of venom or ill-intent; only a teasing, playful invitation extended to spend his time in what seemed to be currently the most fulfilling option that he believed he would genuinely enjoy without having to plaster another lusterless smile on his face. His ephemeral moment of paranoia dissipated into the orchestra filled air with little trouble, and Francis straightened himself back up once more to hold his right arm out for her to take as a demure acceptance to her courteous invite, if she so pleased.

”Not wrong in the least,” he hummed, a warm, knowing smile with a touch of pleasant mischief playing upon his lips, ”but I must say, I greatly appreciate your timely approach. I had nearly given up all hope of finding a charismatic companion to converse with tonight.”

electric has gangnam style

[Nicoleta]

what if I was just a painter,*
painting houses on the rich blue coast? Would you ever try to leave me for somebody who deserves you most? Cause darling I am just a painter. I'm gonna make a million dollars, cause nobody's gonna steal you, no, For diamonds & gold -------------------------------

His expression lightened, his complexion almost glowing from the way he smiled. Whatever had bothered him before no longer clung to his person. Her chest swelled with pride, feeling the confidence and the swagger to resume her deceit. Though the pride came accompanied by a momentary bliss, one she had to shoulder away from. Normally, a man's smile would not affect her. It shoudn't. It was dangerous to let flow the personal emotions while pretending, for it wouldn't be much of 'pretend' at all. For a moment, she felt so ugly. 


There were so many masks underneath her skin to protect those emotions. It was forming fissures, like how dry and powdered makeup would break up in time. Yet, if she were to take a warm towel and rub those masks away, who would love her?

Graciously, she took his arm with a delicate chuckle from her throat. The man felt warm to the touch, a faint smell of roses about him. 

”Not wrong in the least,” he said, ”but I must say, I greatly appreciate your timely approach. I had nearly given up all hope of finding a charismatic companion to converse with tonight.”


Those words crowned her head with a surge of superiority. She took a sideways glanced at the ballroom ladies and their lace and the beaus of the night. It delighted her to hear that she was worth more attention than these sparkling gems of the upper class. Nicoleta liked to think that she was the winning jewel, a diamond of uncounted facets. Vainly, she had expected attention and praise. 


It was reassuring. The words of others reminded her that she still had worth.

"What a coincidence. I thought just the same." She formed an airy smile as she walked him off to the side aimlessly. "I hope you wont badger or flaunt on me your glory, lonely marital status,  wealth, or your young and successful, single son. I'm afraid I've had enough to be spared."

She looked at him and studied the side of his face. He was so close to her. The memories she had with him was now in breathing, all solid in flesh and bone. Perhaps it was the scent of him because she felt breathless and dizzy. 

Keep it together, she thought darkly. It was never real.

Her other hand clung to his arm, pulling her a bit closer to him when she felt the draft from the open balcony. The plush of her breasts rubbed against his sleeve. She was still a woman as every fiber of herself craved for control. This time, she won't mess up.

© cait

[Deleted]

"You see, I'm not a man I am the king of illusion At heart, may I be forgiven, I am the king, the king of fools"

The acceptance of his arm was already probable, considering their conversation already, but Francis still smiled with pleasure when she did. It gave him the will to continue, a gentle reminder by tapping lightly on his shoulder that he was a gentleman, charming, chivalrous, and suave, and instilled some of his confidence deep down inside of his chest.

The two of them walk, continuing on through the faux gold and over exaggerated beauty of the ballroom, and Francis thinks it feels nice to be in what he believes to be comforting company. He easily imagines the intelligent conversations they could have, philosophies and theories of the world and all of its lovely creations, and the eloquent and graceful words they could exchange in the remaking of the universe. It's all very romanticized and Francis knew this, but it was truly his specialty to see the entire Earth and its inhabitants as such.

"What a coincidence. I thought just the same. I hope you wont badger or flaunt on me your glory, lonely marital status, wealth, or your young and successful, single son. I'm afraid I've had enough to be spared."

He couldn't help but chuckle at her words, thoroughly amused, as they neared the open balcony – much like one of the fairy tale scenes, flawless and perfect and white, bathing in the beautiful moonlight. Shakespeare's tragedy, Romeo and Juliet, appeared into his mind quite unsurprisingly; and Francis thought of star-crossed lovers, impulsive decisions, and of the consequence of such rash choices and the death that ensues for the tediously delicate sake of true love. He had always believed that yes, while most of the entire play was tragic, the ending was the most. Romeo and Juliet had just barely missed each other, just barely – but when she awoke, Juliet followed her love to the awaiting doors of Death only moments after he entered anyways. She wanted to be with him, couldn't live without him, and Francis supposed that it was all very romantic for two to die for the sake of the other – yet there was a hesitant lull tugging down on his heart.

“Of course not. I've tired of hearing the same all my life, and as a gentleman, I would never impose on another.” He was certainly aware when she began to casually caress his arm with her chest, but he didn't particularly mind her desire for control of the situation. Francis would gladly hand it over to her if she just so happened to ask, but probably would regardless if she did or didn't. He glanced over to the tables filled with intricately and meticulously designed wine glances. ”Would you fancy a glass of wine?”

electric has gangnam style

[Nicoleta]

That's what they are, she thought, they are all gentlemen. They would never impose.

Nicoleta took a sideways glance at the other men in the area, their statures towering over women like vultures. Somehow, it amused her, yet at the same time, it made her feel slightly sympathetic. She was in a living feasting zone, and she could only imagine what scandals, infidelity, and deceit would occur behind the masks of embellished anonymity. Then again, who was she to judge; for, she was playing the game too. This time, however, she was not the prey.

She changed her mind again. For some reason, she always had the mindless habit of thinking she was still in some kind of espionage mission from the past. Fooling men and women off of their innocence, kissing dices for a sweet midnight lover, taking away what would never belong to her, Nicoleta would claim, if she were to let word of her secretive life, that those were moments of tantalizing excitement. Therefore, she missed it, but that life did not leave without a parting gift.

The gift happened to be a sense of security, normalcy.

Presently, in this shard of time, Nicoleta was just a normal woman who was going backwards in life, backwards, to be arm-in-arm with a lover from the distant past. Disdaining the brashness from her youth, she inwardly vowed to never feel like this about anyone ever again. There was just no time to go backwards.

Just this time, she told herself, fix what you stupidly couldn't fix.

"I would love wine," Nicoleta replied. As she waited for him to pour a glass, she released his arm to give them a little more comfortable conversational length between them. "Where are you from? I feel as if you have a hidden accent behind that velvet voice."

[Deleted]

"You see, I'm not a man I am the king of illusion At heart, may I be forgiven, I am the king, the king of fools"

With the release of his arm, Francis was given the liberty to pour the red wine with more ease than previously how he would have been awkwardly restricted before. He offered her another smile in her direction in gratitude for freeing him instead of remaining clinging desperately to him like he was the only lifeline stranded deep in the middle of the ocean; the only hope to save them from drowning when they had merely forgotten how to swim on their own. He knew it wasn't healthy for either party's benefit, and Francis gave his best efforts to prevent the situation from escalating to extremes -- but sometimes it was out of his control, and life continued on.

He chuckled at her question, focused on his task. It took only a moment to contemplate whether or not he should cease hiding the truth. But it was a masquerade; everyone was a stranger here, and Francis had nothing to fear -- this much he was confident of, but the familiar tinge of paranoia strummed lowly in his chest and he chose to ignore it.

"You have a good ear, madame. I was not going to reveal it, but I am of the beautiful nation of France; the land of love." He offered one of the delicate glasses to her with another smile. Francis was proud of his country and its reputation of romance -- although he was not currently proud of its leader. "Please, pardon me for my attempts of secrecy, but I thought it would be more entertaining if someone as observational as you could discern it, hm?"

Taking a sip of his own wine -- it wasn't the best he's ever had, but certainly not the worst -- he didn't look away from his companion. "Might I ask where you are from? London seems to be a residency for many who desire to spread their wings for the first time for a taste of freedom."

It was a bit more blunt than he would usually prefer to present himself as to a stranger, but he honeyed his words and it was a tentative probe of curiosity. Innocent intentions was all it was, and Francis had merely given the other a simple chance to say where she was from if not London; which honestly seemed rare now, to find a native London dweller. Many people he had met within the past few years were from all over, although that wasn't very strange considering London was one of the capital cities of the world.

Francis had noticed a pattern, however -- people's destination for fleeing from their pasts was London. Before it had only seemed to be a peculiar observation, but now his interest was piqued to see how many truly did choose London with such (flawed) logic.

                                                                 electric has gangnam style

[Nicoleta]

"Poetic," Nicoleta complimented on his choice of description for France. He fit the 'French' type very well, and he was much more of the dreamy type compared to the steel-cut Estelle. Francis, if he hadn't changed, was the epitome of careless, soulful romantification. By that passion, he had seen beauty in things many people could not notice; it was a good and very bad of him. She would admit that she had loved him for that sweet trait, but she would also admit that she had abandoned him for that same reason too. He had seen something beautiful in something dangerous, something that could've potentially gotten him hurt. He had seen beauty in a person like her.

"France is a beautiful place with beautiful people. I was only curious and I wanted to know if I was right," she continued after taking in a reel of crimson wine, "And I was right."

In turn, he asked her for her nationality, and for a moment, she thought about lying. It felt like such a broken record whenever she had asked herself that. The thoughts about lying acted as the insipid poison in her wine, making her hold back her urges for another sip.

"I'm Romanian," she admitted vacantly, "Not much to say about it. I'm never much the type to read poetry."

Nicoleta inwardly checked herself for any lapse in thought. No, she was not drunk, or high, or injured anywhere in the head. Why, it seemed like she told the truth upon whim. It was strange, but it was a harmless slip of truth. Her identity was, after all, still concealed beneath her mask and persona. These little needles of honesty was not going to crack fissures into her stainless mask of lies.

He had probably met many Romanians. I can't be the only one.

A twist of jealousy knotted in her chest upon that thought.

"London is a great place. Many opportunities, especially for those who want to get away from the past," she gestured him to walk with her towards the balcony, "It's almost like living in a dream, where coincidences happen all the time."

[Deleted]

"You see, I'm not a man I am the king of illusion At heart, may I be forgiven, I am the king, the king of fools"

Her comment was not quite positive, but certainly not negative either, and Francis appreciated it either way. He was a man who held poetry very dear in his heart, and perhaps it was also because he had become a man who spoke in what he liked to think graceful rhymes and riddles. Of course, not everyone was so welcoming of the way he conversed, and it was nice to be able to find someone who did.

He was pleased about her observation of his beloved country of origin. It was a compliment in a sort of indirect way, but a compliment nevertheless. A woman who liked to be right -- it was not uncommon from Francis's experiences; however, this particular woman had a different air to her. There was something present that usually wasn't in most, a persona tinged a somber black with a light coating of bittersweet paint. Concealing something, just as all paint did, serving to embellish. It was familiar, reminiscent, and Francis had not been reminded of Veronica in a long, long time.

At the admittance of being from Romania, Francis smiled, and twirled his glass. He had not ever been able to visit the nation for himself, but he had heard a great deal about it, passing by now and then. As always, there were two sides on whether it was good or bad, but Francis wouldn't mind visiting Bucharest in the very least.

He held out his arm once again as an offer to escort her back to the balcony, nodding in agreement. Some may consider that he was overdoing it, but he would continue to be a gentleman -- courtesy never had an end to it, as long as he had company of any sort. She was free to reject or accept; whichever she desired, it was her choice now.

"Ah, if you will excuse me," Francis couldn't help but chuckle, eyes bright at the slight irony of her words, "that was quite poetic in itself. You have a natural talent, it seems!"

                                                                 electric has gangnam style

[Nicoleta]

There was a strange rush of electricity down her skin moments after he said that. Nicoleta made a sharp intake, gazed at her cup, and grinned warily at his words. There were times when her nerves wanted to send out energy all at once. She called it a euphoria, an unexplained chemical reaction of absolute pleasure. But the question was, was it because of him or did it happen by chance?

"I read something similar in a book." she wanted to say.

Instead, Nicoleta tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and replied, "Thank you."

This natural talent is only natural because I needed to use it to lie to you.

Words spiraled in the quagmire of her thoughts. She wanted to leave so badly, to be off and be gone from his life. The guy didn't even deserve all of this, all that happened to him. Fuck, she shouldn't even be feeling guilty or anything by that chance. The back of her head began to feel numb.

Yet, there had been haunts of the wailing child. In the night she'd feel a phantom pain, warm like summer heat and sticky like blood. The child cried, its voice cutting through the sound of pouring rain and rolling thunder. It was only one day of her life, yet it had strained itself in form of a memory that sometimes roused her at night.

They stood, out in the open air. It smelled like rain and leaves. There were no stars tonight. Not like there have ever been many stars out in the city.

"I'm no poet." Nicoleta said. She leaned her arm on the concrete railings, and her gaze was on the distant green light on a departing airplane. The torrent of noises from the plane counted down the time she had left before her act dropped. The woman closed her eyes, thought of the child one last time, and then snorted.

"If I was a poet, I'd have better ways of saying this next bit of shit to you." Her tone was rough and chafing. Nicoleta rested her chin on the back of her hand. A frown was etched on her lips. There was a bitterness that shouldn't be directed to him. "What do you say, my love? Do you still want to hear it?"

[Deleted]

"You see, I'm not a man I am the king of illusion At heart, may I be forgiven, I am the king, the king of fools"

He hadn't been entirely paying attention to the lovely company he was currently escorting, if truth be told. Not a very gentlemanly thing to do, Francis was well aware, but he couldn't help but be preoccupied by the breathtaking scenery of the night from where the two were perched on the open balcony once more. He hadn't taken the first time to fully appreciate the pure, unadulterated beauty of the place, and it was perhaps the wine that was encouraging the improved scrutiny of the moon. He always found that he became more thoughtful -- maybe philosophical, even -- after he had a glass of wine or two.

He was drawn back in by the sudden change of such a velvety tone in her words, and he peered at her curiously. It was startling how quickly her smooth, silky voice had changed to such a abrasive and corrosive cutting edge. It hadn't been expected; Francis felt as if he had just witnessed an actress impulsively deciding to drop perfected character in the middle of a star performance. The curse word appeared as if it were a large stone that had most ungracefully cut through what were once dark, languid waves.

But it was the use of the endearment that maybe was what truly threw him off balance, shoving him right off his own pedestal into the bottomless abyss below.

"Pardon?" asked Francis, not entirely sure as to what else he could say. The woman's stark personality was all too familiar, and something lingered behind her words... It was a bitterness, potent enough to make him cringe at the ugly taste it left in his mouth. It couldn't be her -- even if it was possible, he didn't want it to be her. He didn't want this stranger for one evening to be the one he had first loved when he came upon the greased, dank streets of London. Something heavy was unceremoniously dropped in his stomach. "Might I ask as to what you are referring to? I am afraid you have lost me, my dear."

electric has gangnam style

[Nicoleta]

She craned her chin up, her sloe eyes leering at him. The corners of her lips curled up to a half-smile. Francis was had that glint of confusion in his eyes, his complexion drained of any rosen blood that hued the undertones of his flesh. He was white, as milky white as the ghost of him in her thoughts. It gave her a tingling satisfaction on her cheeks, compelling her with the desire to grin widely. Yet she didn't, locking her muscles to freeze her enigma.

The air was taut. This situation landed itself in the middle of her palms, and Francis was the song bird. Just one command, and her hands could curl and entrap the poor creature.

Still pressing her arm against the rail, Nicoleta shifted her weight to her other foot. She quieted her ego, her burning desire to rub what she knows against him as an acid. Her conscience had grown since then, and it stilled any intent for harm. After all, he was not at fault. He was not the reason why she had to leave.

The Romanian moved her hand up to reach for her mask, hesitated, and then placed it over her diamond-encrusted pendant. There was a sinking feeling in her chest. There was still a chance that Francis does not know who she is.

“Non, Rien de rien,” she murmured in a half-tune. The silken croon of Edith poured in her thoughts.

No, nothing of nothing. Picking more confidence, she looked out at the vista and let her voice burst in a sultry song. “Non, je ne regretted rien.”

I regret nothing. (But I regret everything)

The wind picked up the rattling of the leaves

“That was your favorite song,” Nicoleta said at once. She lurched deep in her memories to produce a time of when they were both together, lying down on the bed as the old record player spun. They talked about visiting Madeline together.

Madeline.

She wanted to laugh out loud. This kind of humor was going to be the death of her.

“You never got to see Madeline did you?” Her voice fell when she spoke. “She was more beautiful than how you described her."

[Deleted]

"You see, I'm not a man I am the king of illusion At heart, may I be forgiven, I am the king, the king of fools"

"Non, Rien de rien. Non, je ne regretted rien."

His heart stopped. It was her.

Francis thought it was going to jump out of his throat and he'd choke on it on its way up. He'd die then, and maybe he would be spared from the rest of this conversation. It would be painless. It'd be over.

Instead, he swallowed, and the bile threatening to come up in the place of his heart settled back down into his stomach like lead. It writhed uncomfortably, spreading its toxins to the rest of its contents, and the wine was now poisoned along with it. It was all contaminated now.

"Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait, ni le mal tout ça m'est bien égal," he continued the song, its bittersweet lyrics rolling off his tongue without another thought. It was so natural; it had been so long. Years. Years since he had last sang this song with the woman he loved.

"Veronica," whispered Francis, and he nearly let the glass of wine he held slip through his fingers -- just like he had let her all that time ago. Instead, he gripped it tightly, refusing to let it fall.

“That was your favorite song. You never got to see Madeline did you? She was more beautiful than how you described her."

"Veronia, mon chatte, I..." His voice faltered at the endearment (so long), losing the confident debonair charm he had just had only a few minutes ago. He removed his mask; it just didn't feel right to be finally conversing with her again after so long with a mask of all things on. "Madeline?" He took this moment of subject change to attempt to recompose himself as best he could, and he swallowed again. "No, I never went. I never left London."

He averted his eyes away, tearing them away from her own before trying to maintain eye contact once more. Why was this so hard? It shouldn't be. It felt wrong.

"You did, then? I trust," Francis breathed in, he could feel his heart breaking again, tearing into two, no no no, please no, no no no, I can't do this again, "she was lovely."

electric has gangnam style

[Nicoleta]

Veronica.

The name escaped his lips so tenderly, swollen with emotions and memories. It was as if he was addressing a different woman. Nicoleta could not reciprocate any of those feelings; Veronica was a lie, after all.

Her hair was long, dyed black as ink. Her form was slender, bruised purple and green. There was anger in her core, but it was masked by ambition. She had a desire to want everything; and so, she was able to get it. But to what cost?

Much, Nicoleta thought.

She breathed out a sigh, a tingle brushing down her neck. At least Francis still remembered her. That fact alone was enough consolation to ease away some nipping anxiety.

“Mon chatte, I—" he was faltering.

Francis was still the same. His heart was delicate, full of adoration and a sweetness that us uncommon in many. Pure, down to the soul, with a desire to give affection as readily as to be smothered by it—even to death, she presumed. He was such a fool, even at this age.

The least she could do was spare him from this madness, and teach him that hate was the only remedy. There could only be flames, licking to destroy, burn, and decimate. A flame is the only way to clean and close a wound.

“Don’t call me that,” she interjected softly, her voice thick and stern.

Nicoleta observed his reaction, the way he swallowed and diverted his eyes. His features displayed strain, worry, disbelief, and melancholy. There was no anger. At least, not yet, whispered a sinking feeling.

While watching him, she did not falter. Her placidness could not diminish. Nicoleta remained, leaning against the rail, with a glass of wine raised in one hand. She took a casual sip of wine and waited for him to finish his words.

“I did.” She responded. Things were going numb. “For a week and then I well… couldn't keep her.”

(You were pathetic.)

Nicoleta shook her head and then shrugged, as if it was a normal thing to do. Another sideways gaze at the city lights, she took another long and thoughtful sip of wine. It was becoming sweeter and sweeter, warmly traveling down her throat.

This is going to kill him. “Anyway, you always wanted to be a father. So I'll do you one last favor.”

She produced a photo from her purse and held it up over her lips, the blank side of the photo facing him.

This is going to kill him. This is going to kill him. It kept racing across her head. This is going to kill her too unless she can tame it. Unless she can tame a mother's sorrow and a lover's guilt, she'll be consumed by the pyre.

“Here’s your chance.”

My dear, we're slow dancing in a burning room.