Paint it Another Colour

Chapter 8

I know I used Mathieu as 2p Canada's name in the other book, but it's so confusing when they have a part together, so I'm going to refer to him as James.

***

Matthew sat at the traffic light, glaring at the red beam. So far, he'd hit every single red in Paris. It was a good job he wasn't expected anywhere on time, or he'd be later than late the way he was currently going. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and glanced at the cars screaming past him. Was it just him, or were these lights on for longer than normal? He'd been caught by these lights at least once a fortnight, whenever he went to visit Francis, and every single time, they were on for a minute exactly. Over a century of timing them proved that, yet now, it was nearing to two minutes.

Maybe they knew he was in a bad mood.

He growled and stared harder at them, hoping they would change. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of another car drawing up alongside his. It was red, the same as his own. He spared a fleeting glance for it and then looked back at the road, wishing he hadn't.

Next to him, was James. He looked exactly the same as Matthew remembered, the same as him really. The blonde hair in a short ponytail that looked as though it was going to come loose any second, the sunglasses even though it was reasonably dark, the red plaid shirt and the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Memories sliced Matthew's brain and he shook his head, determined to rid himself of them. The movement caught James' attention and he glanced over, back at the road and then looked back, staring. A small smirk appeared on his face and he gestured to the back seat of the car, where his hockey stick lay across the seat, the barbed wire still wrapped crudely around it.

Matthew glanced back at his. It was just a hockey stick. Not a weapon, unless you were on the ice, unless you were in the middle of a game. Then it was a weapon, not a tool. He didn't want to have to use it again. After last time, he'd almost cried at the amount of blood on it. If he looked closely, he could still see the stains of some of that blood.

He wondered if James remembered that, the way he'd turned savage when he'd hit Kumajirou, when he'd bashed in the side of his head. Maybe the mark was still there. He was pretty sure he still had a scar from where Kuro had killed him.

No. He definitely remembered - they both did, and something told him he was in a bigger hurry to forget it.

The light switched to green and he stamped on the pedal, the car lurching forwards away from James'. He didn't know if it was just sheer fluke that they'd both stopped at the same light, or if James had known. If he'd have known, he'd know where he was going too, so speeding ahead of him in an attempt to get away wasn't going to get himself anywhere, but it sure got him further away from his counterpart, and that was what mattered.

Going at a speed he was usually uncomfortable with got him to Francis' only five minutes later. He pressed the bell and stood for a second on the doorstep, waiting anxiously. Being out in the open, even though the possibility of James actually have following him was pretty slim in his opinion.

After a couple of minutes, he became aware Francis still hadn't answered. It was a reasonably new place he lived in, a large block of fancy appartements, his being on the top floor with a view over the Paris skyline, the Eiffel Tower within throwing distance. He was always in. Admittedly, he fell asleep during the day a lot, but he was a light sleeper. The slightest disturbance in the wind could wake him up. There was no way he was asleep, or else where. It was late on Saturday. He barely moved on Saturdays.

Matthew frowned and glanced down at the lock. One of the screws was missing and the handle looked a little jaunty. Carefully, he pushed and found it swung open almost straight away. It was silent beyond the door, and carried on being silent as he ran up to Francis' apparement, his footsteps on the wooden stairs being the only noise.

The door to the appartement mirrored that of the door to the building, except it was swung back on it's hinges, a dent in the wall behind it as though it had been thrown back with force.

"Francis?"

Matthew pushed the door too slightly, not wanting it to be open, feelign too exposed. He wandered down the passage, mentally noting the closed doors to the bathroom and bedrooms off it.

He came out into the living room at the end. It was trashed.

He'd never seen anything like it. The sofas had been overturned, muddy footprints covering each one, the blanket that was usually thrown over one of them ripped to shreds. The glass coffee table lay in shards everywhere, the blue pot that had been on it shattered in between the transparent pieces. There was a hole through the centre of the television and the photos had slices through the middle, some had the pictures actually cut out of them, some were just missing or possibly lying in shards along with the table and vase. The balcony door was thrown open, curtains flying backwards into the wind dramatically, the table and chairs outside shoved to one side. On the balcony floor was the remnants of a glass and the traces of a dark stain that covered most of the book next to it, a knife punged through the cover.

"Francis?"

Matthew flew back down the passage and threw open every single door in the appartement. Maybe he was still here. Maybe he had hidden. Maybe they hadn't found him. Maybe he was okay really.

There was no one there. The place was deserted.

"What a pity." Matthew whipped round to find the door open again. James stood in the entrance, leaning heavily on his hockey stick and frowning in a mocking way. "Seems the place is a little trashed, don't you think. It's almost as though something happened like... I don't know... someone got attacked wouldn't you think?"

***

Francis woke in a cold, dark place. It was empty... well... the part that he could see was. There was a thin beam of light that illuminated the place he was slouched. Beyond that beam of light he couldn't see, but the room seemed to go on for a while. The floor was stone and to one side was covered in a thin, sickly yellow coloured hay. Somewhere, he could hear a steady dripping of water, then it splashing on the stone, showering it with droplets. He couldn't see it though. He could barely see anything.

He went to stand up and crumpled almost straight away, with holding a yelp of pain. From the weak light, he could see his leg, bent at an angle he was sure it shouldn't be at, and definitely not in moving condition. Then there was the problem of his hands. As he moved to get a better look at his leg, there was a rustling of metal behind him. That was when he noticed that chains. Somehow, he hadn't done before. Somehow, he'd failed to notice the shiny, grey around his wrists and neck. He wasn't getting out of here anytime soon.

In the darkness, something moved.

***

Dun, dun XD I'm evil