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Francis was going to die.
Well, sort of. He knew that he was dying— the amount of blood flowing from his stomach had proved that. Every time he tried to breathe, his breath hitched, and it just turned into a heap of coughs that wracked his entire body.
Unsurprisingly, this did not help the wound go away. But stifling the coughs just made his throat scream with agony. He could barely speak, not that he really tried to say anything.
He was alone, and had been the whole night, save for the asshat who’d brought a gun on campus and panicked when they saw a tall person in a trenchcoat and a large scarf moving towards them.
Honestly, he really should have thought about the whole trenchcoat thing before going for a walk.
Alone.
At night.
Yeah, definitely should have rethought that.
Another sharp pain from his side caused him to wince, and his thoughts shifted back to the more pressing matter at hand; the fact that he was dying.
Usually, his mind would be swimming; ache in his side, entire body shaking, coughs scratching at his throat— there could be hundreds, if not thousands of different conditions he was afflicted by. If it weren’t for the fact that he had gotten shot and that he was currently bleeding, he probably would have checked himself into the emergency room.
(Who was he kidding, he probably would have had Richard do it for him.)
Another cough escaped his lips, a small, pained groan following it. His hands instinctively flew to his side, and his hands came away bloodied and slick.
There was no doubt about it, not this time.
He was dying.
And if he didn’t act fast, he would be dying alone.
With another small groan, he started moving forward, trudging through the snow. He knew where Richard’s apartment was, though he hadn’t been over as much as he’d have liked to be. He didn’t know why he didn’t go to the hospital. It’d be too much of a fuss, too much for everyone else to deal with.
And besides, he’d killed two people. Well— helped kill two people. It wasn’t just him. Hell, it wasn’t even his idea!
But he couldn’t really justify it. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he tried to ignore it, to push it down, it was true.
Francis had assisted in two murders. He deserved what he got.
He found himself in front of Richard’s doorway far sooner than he’d liked. He wasn’t entirely sure why he went to Richard, rather than Henry or Charles.
He just needed to feel wanted, despite how unlikely the possibility of anyone doing that was.
…
So why the fuck did he come here?
…
because Richard was a better kisser than Charles.
Though the statement was true, he couldn’t help but scoff aloud at the absurdity of the thought.
There was no time to debate that now. He quickly fumbled to button his coat, hiding the bloodied stains on his shirt. He quickly raised a hand to knock, wincing as the motion caused his side to flare with pain.
Ow, everything hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt—
“…Francis?”
He could have sobbed with relief at the sight of Richard opening the door. He managed to give a small nod, and though his lips parted, he was unable to speak. A small exhale escaped his lips. Nothing more.
Please let me in.
Richard, bless him, stepped out of the way, allowing Francis to step (-more like stumble, really. he prayed Richard wouldn’t mention it-) into his room.
Richard raised an eyebrow.
“What’s going on?” he asked, voice tinged with a hint of disdain. “You’re not usually up so late.”
He huffed. “Yes I am,” he mumbled, “it’s a long story, I just…”
He trailed off. Gods, what could he even say? That he’d been hurt? No, Richard would insist on taking him to the hospital.
Maybe. Probably.
He could only hope the other cared that much.
Should he just admit it? Hey, I’m dying, I really just wanted to be around someone, even though it’s really stupid, and I just wanted to feel needed but nobody really needs me anyway so I came to you instead hoping you’d kiss it better?
“Francis?” Richard’s voice cut through his thoughts like a well sharpened knife, the almost harsh tone ringing through the room (and his head) with almost an echo. There was an odd undertone to his voice— was that concern? Francis’s eyes trailed over his face— his eyes were soft, eyebrows furrowed slightly— yes, he was concerned.
Richard Papen was worried about him.
Gods, that just made things worse. And better.
Fuck.
“I-..” Francis couldn’t speak. Gods, why couldn’t he speak? Why was his throat even more dry? Why couldn’t he just say it?
He took another step forward, and damn it, he stumbled again. Richard caught him this time, grip tight on his forearms.
“Francis,” he repeated, firmer this time. “What is going on? Are you okay?”
That question was enough to break the dam. In an instant, Francis was pulling Richard to him, wrapping his arms around him tight and burying his face in the crook of his neck. He took a soft, shaky breath, inhaling his scent. He smelled of wine and sweat and drugs— he couldn’t even tell what kind anymore— probably coke, and maybe a sleeping pill, given how late it was— but gods it was great and it was everything he needed in that fleeting, desperate moment.
Richard tensed under the touch— of course he did, why wouldn’t he, Francis was being weird.
But then Richard’s arms came up to hug him back, gently pulling his shaking form against his chest.
Oh.
He felt his legs falter beneath him, but he forced himself to stay standing, using Richard to pull himself up to stand tall.
“Don’t let go,” he choked out, and wow he had never heard himself sound so weak. He felt exposed, vulnerable— like he was being laid bare, everything inside visible for Richard to see, to judge. Because of course he’d judge— everyone would.
Richard, for his part, didn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightened on Francis.
“Breathe,” he commanded softly, voice more gentle than he’d ever heard before. It was like he knew how serious this was, though Francis hadn’t told him. “It’ll pass.”
Oh.
Oh.
Francis almost laughed— he wished he was having an anxiety attack right now.
Francis pulled back. His eyes were wet with tears that he didn’t bother hiding. He could feel his bottom lip tremble with each pained exhale, because ow his side felt like it was on fire.
“Francis,” Richard whispered, for what must have been the fifth time, though his voice was far softer. He didn’t say anything else, but the way his eyebrows crept up his forehead prompted him to say more. To explain.
“I-…” his voice cracked— gods, he needed to get it together. His hand, still slick with blood— his blood, blood that was still gushing from his stomach— slid up to cup Richard’s cheek. His other hand did the same, until Richard’s face was cradled between his palms.
His eyes widened— gods, what beautiful eyes— but unlike Charles, he didn’t pull back.
Francis took a deep breath, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“I need you.”
The words came out a whisper, a confession nobody else could hear but them, meant for Richard’s ears alone.
Richard didn’t respond, not verbally. He just nodded slightly.
But he didn’t pull away, and that was all the permission Francis needed to smash their lips together. A small noise of surprise— not un pleasant surprise, Francis noted— escaped Richard’s lips, but then he was kissing back, one hand resting on Francis’s hip (on the uninjured side, thank goodness) and the other sliding up to rest in Francis’s hair.
If dying was what it took to get this— this feeling of warmth, of being cared for, he’d die a million times over every day.
When he finally pulled away— damn the human urge to breathe— he couldn’t pull his gaze away from Richard; his flushed face, his shoulders heaving as he tried to catch his breaths.
His cheeks, red with Francis’s blood.
“What was that for?” He exhaled, his voice breathy and soft.
He shrugged, then winced. He quickly pulled Richard back to him in an attempt to hide it, burying his face in the crook of his neck as a small, pathetic whine of pain escaped him.
“Needed you,” he choked out, voice hoarse from coughing. “Needed this.”
Richard chuckled weakly.
“I gathered,” he said slowly, voice almost mocking, but not really.
His legs faltered again, and this time, he couldn’t stay up. He fell to his knees, hitting the ground with a thud, letting out a pained cry as his side screamed.
“Francis?”
Gods, could he say anything but his name? He needed to be able to breathe, and the concerned hitch in his words did not help.
Neither did the blood staining his jacket.
Richard glanced down at Francis for a moment before he was sitting next to him, slowly unbuttoning his jacket and sliding it off his shoulders. His eyes grew wide, a sick kind of horror filling them as he saw the blood oozing from the wound.
Francis chuckled weakly.
“Guess you found out.”
Richard didn’t say anything for a long moment. When he spoke again, it was strangled and weak and wobbly and it made Francis want to sob.
“How long have you had…” he gestured weakly to the wound, “… that?”
He winced.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, his words slurring together into one long one. Idonknow. “Been a while, now.” Beenawhilnow.
Richard paled, scrambling to press his hands to Francis’s side. It didn’t help— if anything, the pressure caused another cry of pain to escape him.
“Not worth it,” he mumbled. “..’m not—“
“You are,” Richard interrupted, voice shaking. His voice was shaking. “Fuck whoever told you otherwise. You’re worth it to me.”
…
…
wow
He chuckled again, the noise strangled. It didn’t sound like him.
As long as I like you, I’m worth it, you mean.
He didn’t say that. He wanted to, but didn’t.
“No,” he managed, “I’ve lost too much blood. It’s not worth trying.”
Richard shook his head. “I have to try.”
“Richard, you don’t.” He gently grabbed Richard by the wrist, his hand staining his skin.
“Please,” he exhaled. “I want this.”
He didn’t. He really didn’t want this, not now.
But it was a bit late.
He forced a weak smile.
“Cubitum eamus?”
He remembered like it was yesterday— the way he’d been sitting, the way Richard had looked at him, carefully scrutinizing every part of him. The phrase had been a careful slip— not fully intended, but not accidental. Richard hadn’t heard it. Or maybe he had.
Maybe he just didn’t care.
“You’re asking me to go to bed? Now?” He gave a watery scoff as he gestured at Francis’s side, the noise slightly condescending. “You’re—you’re—“ he didn’t say dying, he didn’t say dying—
“—dying,” Francis cut in. “You can say it. It’s the truth.”
Richard sighed.
“Fine. You’re… dying—“ he spat the word out like a curse— “and you want to go to bed with me?”
He nodded, the movement stiff and curt.
“Yes.”
Richard scoffed again, turning his head away, opting to look at the bed.
Please, he almost begged— he was almost begging— I need this. Don’t deny me this. Not now.
“Do you need help getting there?”
Francis shifted, trying to stand, but cried out as his side protested.
No! Don’t! It seemed to say.
He did not listen.
Richard draped his around Francis’s shoulders, helping him to the bed. He bent to take his shoes off, but Richard just gently pushed him down.
“Don’t bother,” he said quietly, voice and expression carefully neutral. “Just…lay down.”
He did as told, carefully flopping back against the bed. Richard laid next to him, a few feet away. Further than he’d liked for him to be.
Slowly, deliberately, Richard reached out, grabbing the fabric of Francis’s shirt. His face was carefully smushed into Richard’s chest. He could feel the other’s heartbeat, which was beating abnormally fast. A perfect opposite to his, which he could feel slowing down.
Beat.
Beat.
Beat.
It took all of his strength, but Francis pulled back to look up at him.
Beat.
He felt his body sagging as he moved to press his lips to Richard’s.
…
Beat?
His own eyes closed, body fully relaxing as he felt Richard’s arms wrap around him.
He heard words in his ear— “you’re a good friend, Francis.”
“Friend.”
The word was enough to send him over the edge. He let out a weak chuckle, his final breaths coming soft and slow. The hot air fanned against Richard’s bloodstained face, causing the other’s eyelids to flutter.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, trying not to sound sarcastic. He had realized that Richard Papen was not a good person— he knew that, he really did.
Francis wasn’t good either— not by any means, but wow, he was a whole other level.
“Thanks,” he repeated, voice even weaker. When he spoke again, it would be final. A few more words and he would be slipping off into the darkness, letting go of the ledge he’d been hanging onto by his fingernails. That sentence rang in his head.
“You’re a good friend, Francis.”
He sighed, letting the words ring final as he spoke, going limp in Richard’s arms. A single tear slid down his cheek.
“Thanks,” he whispered again.
”You’re not.”