Slow Dancing in a Burning Room (Francis) - COMPLETE

[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 rejection of the former endearment made him bite his tongue. Francis had told himself he would no longer use it after that day; it had been reserved specially for just Veronica. He thought he would never use it again. His fingers were becoming numb from cutting off the blood circulation by gripping his glass so hard. He had to remind himself to be delicate; it could break easily if he applied anymore pressure, consciously or not.

Calm, cool, and collected had always been the words that could describe Veronica. She was never phased by anything -- indeed, her distant exterior had been a wall between them. Francis had tried to persuade her to open her doors for him, and just when he had thought he had finally been able to open it so it was only ajar, she had left.

Gone, just like that.

He had waited. Waited for a long time with open arms, for her to come back and fill the empty space, until he realized it was hopeless. She wasn't going to return. His arms grew weary of waiting for her familiar embrace, thin arms wrapping around his waist like they were lovers again. So he had given up.

And now, years later, Veronica waltzed her way into his life again. He had never thought he would be able to see her after all this time -- she had not changed, it seemed. Longing began to bubble up in his chest, to reach out and kiss those lips and say welcome home, but he suppressed it. No. That was their past; this was their future.

"I did," she admitted, and Francis exhaled. It had been their dream, to go together --

"For a week and then I well… couldn't keep her."

He paused, breath caught thickly in his throat. They were no longer talking about the same thing; no, Veronica was describing something else. It was not about the city of Madeline anymore.

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

"Quoi?" Francis finally managed to shove the word ungraciously out. He was frozen, only able to stare and grip his glass, as Veronica revealed a photograph, covering her mouth like one might with a fan. The image was hidden from his view, and he felt sick.

“Here’s your chance.”

No. No. It wasn't possible. Francis would have known if he had been a father for all these years -- he would have known. They had always been careful, they used the appropriate methods... It wasn't possible. It just couldn't be.

His world was crashing down around him. The universe he had so delicately constructed with his new life in London after fleeing France and his engagement -- he had been naive. Too hopeful, too optimistic, too in love. That was it, wasn't it? This was too cruel of a joke, even for the woman he once loved.

"What," he bit out as his French accent became more prominent as he grew more and more distressed, recovering his ability to speak English, "are you trying to say? It is not possible that we could have had a child, Veronica. We could not have."

electric has gangnam style

[Nicoleta]

Concealed by the photo, her grin stretched flat. Just as she thought--he didn't understand until now. Although she had predicted it, his transition back to shock didn't please her. It made her emotions flip inside, all over again. It was a monster, just biding its time, ready to break her stillness.

While frowning, Nicoleta lowered the photo, her arm dropping to the side. His denial made her feel sick with anger. Francis was a civilian, who had a normal life and a normal family. He was a normal man, held back by no barbed wires. He had not seen the slick face of death graze over his eyes, the cutting decision to have your life hung on a thin thread. No, no--she was angry that he had the damn privilege to question what was plainly presented in front of him, that he still had the notion that the hard, cold reality could be altered by a simple line of denial.

There was jealousy. No matter how many times she had cried for a gentler truth, it was never given to her. The condition of denial was mechanized to buffer time, to slowly let reality seep through the fissures of the mind. She had to swallow it, to accept it, and to act. Instantaneously. It was always life or death. Do, or die. Accept, or refuse. Nothing can linger in between.

"You don't think I'm lying, do you?" Nicoleta asked pointedly. "I'm not."

I was in pain for nine months and I delivered her all by myself, you fuck. It's possible, it was damn possible.

He'll have to swallow the truth, even if it'll bleed his throat raw. (This was why... she had always preferred to lying over honesty). Wishing she had a smoke, Nicoleta clenched the vine of the wineglass.

"We fucked, and in some recklessness, you got me pregnant." Her breath felt like lead from the surge of energy. "Your little blood is running around here in London, and London is a big, big city."

Nicoleta gave another wayward glance out at the view of the cityscape. She relaxed her shoulders. All of the sudden, her temper became the slightest blotch of fear. Silence fell on her as she watched the bustling nothingness, as goosebumps peppered up her arms.

"I'm not going to force you to do anything," she murmured, setting the photo on the flat surface of the rail. Nicoleta placed the wineglass on the photo. "But you should find her before it's too late."

[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"

His words were disbelieving, defiant, but not accusing her of being a liar. They were far from it. But they were hardened, steeling themselves to be prepared for anything that might be flung his way. Francis knew Veronica to be a very clever woman -- he had admired her and her thinking, although at times a bit dreary and pessimistic -- it had been beautiful. Something he could understand, something he could emphasize with, something who was somebody simply there with him.

But he didn't have that anymore.

"I never said anything of the sort," he said stiffly, but now he knew she was telling the truth. She was serious. He had to accept the reality, or he would be lost in fantasy. "I am only having a difficult time comprehending."

His H's were now silent, as he became more anxious, and his accent thickened. Her tone was bitter, so bitter, and he wished he could recoil away from it. It was obvious he had pissed her off with his words. He didn't want to blame her for anything; he could not even imagine what it would be like to be pregnant, but it was so easy to. He couldn't help it. Somebody was at fault, and Francis did not want to be that person.

He watched quietly as she placed the photograph delicately on the railing of the cold balcony, following her crass words. Rough around the edges, that had always been Veronica. A true diamond in the rough, it fit eerily well. The desire to knock the glass away to the ground several floors below was present, but he resisted. He had done well so far as to not break his own; he would not go to lengths to shatter his companion's. But the need to see his daughter -- his daughter, sa fille, Madeline -- could not be ignored. He stilled his restless jittering, an effort to calm his heightened emotions. They would overflow soon if he didn't do anything, and Francis would avoid that at all costs.

"Where is she?" he asked softly, not lifting his eyes from the pinned photo. "Tell me, and I will go fetch her right now. I have already left her waiting for how long now -- four years? Five? Je veux voir Madeline, je veux voir ma fille."

electric has gangnam style

[Nicoleta]

Nicoleta chose not to reply to his defensive words. There was a taut strain in his voice as he fumbled with his sentences, the French accent growing stronger. Whenever emotions wrangled his breath, his had words often came out broken and stunted. Therefore, Francis would be a terrible liar. Nicoleta almost felt a little sorry for him; she knew very well that only liars get their way around London.

She found the heart, however, to let the silence settle in for him to recuperate. If at all, he could muster some courage. Yet, in a way, she also let moment of quiet for her own good as well. A chill wrung out of her spine, and it became a phantom heat in her abdomen. A memory, more like passing fog, began to fill her mind.

Eight months, three weeks, two days. Out of those days, Nicoleta acted as a mother for a meager week.

Now it had been--what--four years or so? She honestly had lost count, for every stride she had taken up until now had helped her forget the tallies. She had never asked to be a mother, so she had only one choice to undo it. To be frank, giving up Madeline was... in a way, one of the best decisions she had made. However, it did not go without a consequence. There were times, on the high hours of sleepless mornings, when the residues of guilt crept into her lungs.

It was nothing short of annoying more than anything else.

"Where is she?" Francis asked, breaking Nicoleta's train of thought. She glanced at him as he continued to speak. "Tell me, and I will go fetch her right now. I have already left her waiting for how long now -- four years? Five? Je veux voir Madeline, je veux voir ma fille."

So he still... he still wanted to see her.

Nicoleta wasn't shocked, she was sure. Rather, she was pleasantly surprised instead. Then, a meddlesome feeling found its way to her. It made her feel lighter, her muscles more relaxed, and her mind at ease. For the slightest moment, she was ready to love Francis again, even though she would normally ridicule his sort of behavior in others. She supposed this is what she called ‘faith’ in the humanity that had screwed her up so many times before.

Nicoleta let out a short laugh, and it came out like the chime of bells. If she could, she would've released the entirety of her mirth, but held it back for his sake. She reached a hand in her bag, dug around, and then pulled out her lipstick. There was no pen to use, and so this was going to suffice.

After she pulled off the cap of the lipstick, she twisted the bottom. A deep, maroon-purple. It was the shade of the bruises that had once spotted her skin, yet she wears that color now on her lips like a medal of honor.

"Allez chercher votre fille alors."

Once she finished writing down the address, she put away the dulled lipstick. Nicoleta held her clutch up, and held her chin high. Her lips parted, and then she turned her head away, towards the life and resplendence of the gala. 

“Find her, Francis. But never try to find me.”

(I know 0 french--except for one phrase that won't work here)

[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 way she held herself yet again changed. He wasn't looking for the detailed specifics now, but it was enough to see her tensed body language just let itself relax as it had previously been for so long. Another act, he silently accused, but the thought dissipated as he willed it away. Such pessimism would not get him anywhere, and he was much better off without it hanging over his head, nagging at every upcoming choice and decision he had to face. Uncertainties were abound, and he hardly needed more doubt to look forward to.

She laughed. It was a melody that had been absent from his ears for too long now, a musical sort of composition he had let himself forget. He used to think it was the most lovely sound he had ever heard, romanticizing the bittersweet chuckle as if they belonged in some romantic novel. Now, it sounded a shade too dry, he realized; lacking the necessity of water, of life to survive. Francis felt sick, his stomach turning.

He bore witness to the unsheathing of her lipstick. That was her style, alright -- it was just as elegant as a knight wielding his sword, drawing it to protect his king. It was not nearly as noble, Francis couldn't help but think, but certainly as regal. The air of royalty had always lingered around Veronica; the way she conversed with such intelligent words, the way she strode down the streets as if she were a queen, and the way she looked at him with such commanding eyes. She was the one who held all the power.

It only took her a few moments to write down her message on the back of the photo. He watched, memories of her chosen color smeared on his own lips after they shared a kiss. A connection is what it was; the lipstick making its mark, proof of their love.

(Was it really?)

"Allez chercher votre fille alors."

"I will," was the immediate reply. Francis eyed her gingerly, gauging her tone. The last thing he wanted to do was say something else possibly offensive without thinking.

The sound of the cap being clipped back on to its rightful place was audible over the chatter of the ball behind them, and he remained silent. Stature proud -- always so proud, like a goddess -- she no longer faced him. When was the last time they had genuinely looked at each other, directly making true eye contact? It had just been a few minutes ago, hadn't it? Francis couldn't even remember anymore.

“Find her, Francis. But never try to find me.”

"Merci," he said, already moving to slip the photograph carefully out from underneath the wine glass. He turned to see her beautiful, sculpted back one more time, and he smiled. It was neither happy nor sad; it was merely acceptance. He had been an observer for long enough of Veronica's backside, and it was enough. He was tired of watching her walk away.

"Adieu, Veronica," Francis bid his final farewell to the woman he once loved. It had been four years now; four years of strangled hope, just the tiniest flickering flame that there was still something between them. It had been extinguished, much to his relief. It was over. He finally felt free.

His only regret was that it had taken him this long to let go of her.

electric has gangnam style

[Nicoleta]

She wanted to move but her feet did not budge. Nicoleta turned her head to the side, wanting to speak yet the words could not form. This was the last time they were ever going to meet.

This was thread from the past that she wanted to rive, right through the marrow. She never wanted to deal with this ever again, never wanted to see his face, or any hint of Madeline--the place and the child all alike. Never, she thought. Never again.

"One last thing." Right then, it felt like December all over again. 

"Tell the child that her mother is dead."

She has been dead for a long, long time.

Nicoleta strode forward, with steps that gradually took up the speed until she rid herself of Francis' line of sight. She cleaved through throngs of people, her eyes looked forward but was unseeing. Now, she was no one--she was not Nicoleta, Veronica, or anything. It was a small blessing that nobody got in her way when she exited the ballroom. All of that gilded splendor shit was making her sick.

As she stormed towards the cloakroom, she tore off her mask and breathed. Her head felt light, and the dizzying spell made her even more irritated. Before the counter, she kicked off her heels and began to take off her necklace. She set the set of diamonds loudly on the counter.


"These are fake," she spat as she produced a ticket from her clutch. The coat checker left, with no hesitation, to pick up the items that Nicoleta had left.

When he returned with a bundle of black and leather, he caught her in the middle of taking off her dress. He kept looking towards the side to avoid eye-contact, but when their gazes met, he fluttered multiple blinks. She cocked a grin. There were so many damn eyelashes on this kid. What could she do to have as many eyelashes as this little saucer-eyed doe?

Scantily clad in her lingerie, Nicoleta strewed the things that didn't belong to her on the checkout. "Give that back to Estelle." She said offhandedly as she pulled on her jeans. By the time she finished putting all of her clothes on, the young man silently remained with a lasting, inquisitive look. It annoyed her. He wasn't ogling her. 

Nicoleta snorted, and the dangling diamonds made a tinkling noise. "I'm keeping these. She's very welcome."

With that, she straightened her collar, grabbed her helmet, and then marched off. A flash, a light, and a smoke. The cigarette calmed her down, numbed her out, and bit away the stress. The thought of Francis became nothing more than a hazy patch in the back of her head.

While setting up her motorcycle, she looked up to observe the overhanging clouds. The cigarette fell from her lips and rolled against the cement, the flame was still alive beneath the ash. There was no prediction for rain, but she felt it rain all night. Adieu. Bonsoir.