[ Past ] The Day It Rained Tears ( Francis )

[Ivan Petrovich Braginsky]

Contrary to popular belief, Ivan wasn't a fan of his job. In fact, one could even say he loathed it at times, to the point his skin crawled and mood grew sour just from the mere thought of having to wake up to another day of committing crimes. Drugs, blood and smoke filled his days, whether directly or through the orders he gave to his underlings and quite frankly, he was sick of it. And yet, he couldn't very well quit, now could he? His job was part of him, and it was essential in realizing his dream. He'd chosen this path himself, not because he'd enjoyed it, but because it promised him the power and wealth he needed to change what had to be changed.

But even knowledge of that fact, of the necessity of the work he did, was hardly enough to completely drown his disdain towards it - especially on days like this; days when he had to commit murder.

And, as if knowing what was to come, London was crying.

The skies had opened a few hours ago by now, heavens pushing downwards rain the city was famous for. The downpour beating down on the Russian's shoulders and drenching his long, black coat was relentless and cold, and Ivan couldn't take a single step without hearing the splash of a soaked shoe breaking the surface of what seemed to be a miniature river forming on the sidewalk. He had walked underneath the abuse of droplets for no more than half an hour, and yet he already felt wt to the bone. He still remembered his first months in the city, years ago Oh, the weather had caught him by such surprise. Nowadays, Ivan could almost say he was used to it; its cold touch had stopped sending shivers up his spine, and there were days when he even welcomed the droplets as refreshing.

But not today.

Today, the rain felt like a punishment for a crime he'd yet to commit.

The weight of Ivan's gun, a gun that would soon find itself used, was heavier than usual, almost painfully so. Its cold, steely surface froze his fingers underneath the confines of his jacket, and yet the Russian couldn't stop his fingertps from playing with the barrel as he walked, nervous and wishing his destination never came.

Alas.

Blinking open his eyes and squinting to make out the address of the house in front of him, Ivan took a step closer, mind cold and heart forced to calm. This was it, this was the house of the Frenchman whose only crime had been to happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. If only the man had been a few minutes late when waking up, if only he'd taken a slightly longer shower that morning, maybe he wouldn't have found himself walking past a crime scene with the culprit still there.

Alas.

Ivan brought his steps up the stairs and stopped only when the door stood right in front of him. Francis Bonnefoy. Today, he read the name from a name plate. Tomorrow, it would be written on the man's grave.

The Russian brought his hand upwards to place a knock on the man's door, his grip on the silenced gun tightening. The Frenchman's first reaction upon the door opening would dictate the nature of his death. If the man started to scream or attempt to close the door, he would force his way inside and shoot at once. If not, if the man did not recognize him as the culprit, he would introduce himself as a stranger wanting shelter from the rain - and walk inside when invited. Find out how much the man had seen. Drink coffee if offered, and then bid his farewells with a bullet.

Either way, he'd be the only one exiting the house alive tonight.

A heavy sigh and Ivan knocked, his gloved hand quickly sliding back into his pocket, hood falling lower to cover what little was visible of his face from underneath his coat.

[Deleted]

"a falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes"

At long last, Francis's house was finally tidy.

He had spent the day doing some spontaneous spring cleaning, dusting, spraying, wiping, and vacuuming. The desire for some productivity on the rainy weekend day had crept up on him, and it had been quite a while since he had last attempted to clean up his home a little. Before, there had been thin layers of dust sprinkled across the furniture; now, the surfaces gleamed in the light, shiny and appearing to be as good as new.

Freshening up the place gave it a nice atmosphere. Tranquil and serene, his cherished record player softly filling the air with an old classic record Francis had been given a gift to as a long time ago -- sometime before he had left France. Nostalgia trickled through his vision in the form of memories of his old friends, family, the life he left behind for London -- it was times like these, upon the discovery of little trinkets and fond pieces of the past that spurred his longing for what he ran away from into an active role.

He preferred not to think about his history; particularly the people he never said good-bye to. Sometimes he thought about his father, the man who presided over the Republic of France. Francis supposed he deserved the position after all of the work he had done throughout his entire life, but he didn't envy him. Reynold Bonnefoy was responsible for millions of people, responsible for the famous country of love, and responsible for all of its beauty.

He did a fine job too, it seemed. The French citizens seemed to be placated, if the polls were truly accurate. Francis kept up with the political news regarding France -- and the world in general -- still, despite having left at least three years ago now. It was no longer his direct responsibility since he was the son of the French president, but he couldn't help but still thinking it was -- no, he had an obligation as a citizen to the world to keep up to date with international news.

His thoughts varied from France and his childhood to his current life here in London. He liked it decently enough; the people were certainly intriguing, and the places to explore in the expansive city were potentially endless. The accents were also particularly nice to listen to; he had always been partial to British accents, although he might not want to admit it.

The only extreme con that Francis wasn't always fond of -- besides the never ending stench of the streets -- was the weather. It was so fickle, although it often chose to remain either rainy or settle for a grey cloudiness, refusing to part the clouds to let the sun shine through. A nice day was a rarity, which was a shame. Although the rain could be perfectly lovely in itself, the beauty of the day was seemingly dependent on whether it sprinkled, poured, or drizzled. Francis never quite knew what to expect, but he had learned when he first arrived that he should typically be equipped with an umbrella under any and all circumstances -- if only to be prepared and salvage his clothes for the day.

He glanced out the window, examining the day's apparent forecast. A stormy grey as usual; the rain heavily hurling towards the drenched ground in a torrential downpour. It was horrific weather. This was one of the worst days of the season by far. It would be a pity if anyone at all would be caught in the rain when it was like this--

Just so it happened, there was a knock at his door.

Francis blinked, before hurrying over to open it to see a very tall and large man. He wore a hood, which hung over his face making it difficult to make out any expressions and his body was wrapped in a very big coat. A scarf was present, wrapped snugly around his neck and effectively doing its duty of protecting the normally exposed area of skin. There was no umbrella. In any other scenario, the attire would most certainly appear suspicious; however, the weather was particularly ugly today, and Francis did not blame this man one bit.

"Oh, dear!" Francis gasped, instinctively opening the door wider to allow the other to come in. He moved aside to make room, concerned. His clothes were entirely drenched, he was sopping wet. Hopefully he hadn't already caught a cold. "Are you alright? Please, come in and feel free to get warm and dry yourself off!”

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