P21: This is a story I wrote for my creative writing class. Just felt like posting it, especially since I left this account to rot after posting a really horrible one-shot. Currently, this story is complete, except I might add "side" stories or one-shots about it, or even AUs. Who knows.

The title, "Soldat Fugue", means "Runaway Soldier" in French. And yes, there is a reason as to why the title is in French.

Day One: Soak The Carpet

The blood soaked the carpet and stained the wall, but Lionel did not notice. All he could see was Alexandre’s dead body and out of all the thoughts that crossed his, only one stuck.

Why?

Why was Alexandre dead?

Lionel Trottier and Alexandre Larocque were best friends. For eleven years they lived together in Marseilles and were planning to live together for the rest of their lives. If either were religious, they would say that God enjoyed ruining their plans. However, Lionel and Alexandre were atheists. They never doubted that their lives would always be spent together. At least, Lionel was certain of this.

Lionel was a hardworking man who simultaneously held many part-time jobs. He worked all day and returned late in the night. In contrast, Alexandre did not hold an honest job. If anyone asked Lionel, he would claim that he did not know what was Alexandre’s job. But he knew. Alexandre was part of the mafia. Marseilles was, besides the second most populated commune in France, where the Union Corse (1) operated outside of Corsica.

Near midnight Lionel would return to their apartment tired and hungry. Alexandre, his best friend and roommate, would greet him with a cooked meal. The two would eat and talk together until one in the morning, and then retire into their bedrooms.

That day was an exception. Alexandre was turning twenty-two and Lionel planned a nice two-person birthday party. He called in sick for all of his jobs and bought the ingredients for a cake and Alexandre’s favorite dishes. His cooking was less than mediocre, but he knew his best friend would appreciate his efforts.

Five o’clock neared and Lionel made his way back home with both arms full of grocery bags. The winter wind barely affected him in his excitement. He hummed a merry tune and his steps were light as he climbed the creaking and shaking steps to the second floor of their old, rundown apartment they had chosen because of the relatively cheap rent. As the sky died, the setting sun behind him painted the sky in such a beautiful mixture of red and orange that Lionel wished he had his camera with him. His feet moved from stairs to carpeted flooring. An agonizingly short second later his mood drastically changed from cheerful to horrified.

Only a few steps away laid Alexandre’s body awkwardly leaning against their apartment door. Blood seeped from a bullet wound on his chest and pooled onto the carpet and spread outwards like a pair of broken wings. Lionel barely noticed what was happening, because suddenly he was kneeling next to Alexandre in the blood and he felt sick when he saw the red staining the once-white carpet.

Lionel reached a shaking hand toward Alexandre, but faltered when he suddenly could not breath. He choked and hastily brought a hand to his throat. Yet there was nothing wrong with his throat, Lionel realized, when his other hand moved to his eyes and felt tears. Lionel was crying. He rubbed his eyes furiously to rid the tears—because he promised Alexandre he would never cry again and he was breaking his promise, but Alexandre would make everything right by standing up and smiling at him and calling him a crybaby like he used to when they were younger—he was having trouble breathing—but the tears would not stop.

The Frenchman ignored the freely flowing tears as he reached forward to brush back Alexandre’s fringes and reveal that his best friend was breathing and this was just a sick joke. Or this was a nightmare and he would wake soon to Alexandre’s breakfast and they would eat together like they always did. His hand slackened and fell short of its destination, instead landing on Alexandre’s hand lying on his chest. Lionel unconsciously clenched his hand and cried harder. Alexandre’s hand was still warm, yet the heat was slowly leaving. Blood soaked around him, staining his pants a deep red and Lionel knew that there was too much blood for Alexandre to be alive.

Then someone was screaming and all Lionel could think about was telling the person to shut up, but they only became louder. Suddenly Lionel realized that he was screaming, and he quickly closed his mouth. He took a sharp breath and closed his eyes in frustration and squeezed Alexandre’s hand tighter.

But Alexandre’s hand felt weird and, oddly curious, Lionel realized that Alexandre was clutching something. He slowly pried open the cold hand and stared down in confusion at the silver pocket watch. The pocket watch was plain, with no outer design or engravings, but was misshaped from years of use. Lionel recognized the pocket watch as Alexandre’s great-grandfather’s prized possession—memento. The night their parents were murdered, the two had managed to grab only a few items before they ran away, and the pocket watch was one of them. What confused Lionel, however, was why Alexandre was holding the item. Usually the pocket watch was kept in Alexandre’s bedroom.

Lionel could not ponder on the pocket watch, however, because suddenly there was another loud noise followed by what sounded like stomping. He knew, this time, that someone else was making the noises but he had little time to register what was happening before someone was upon him, shouting at him and hitting him. Lionel stood from his kneeling position, pocketed the watch, and ran away from the person. He tripped down the stairs and slammed into another person. Only as Lionel fell to the floor and pain blossomed through his body did he realize what the person was shouting.

“Murderer! Murderer!” rang through Lionel’s ears as he passed out on the ground.

***

The young Frenchman woke what seemed to him barely a minute later. He quickly sat up in surprise and shifted to look around him. He was in a car with two strangers conversing quietly. The one who was driving was, from what Lionel could tell, approximately average height with an average build and short dirty blonde hair. The other man was short with thin, dark hair a shade darker than his own, and would twitch ever other second. Lionel shook his head and closed his eyes in confusion.

“What’s going on?” asked Lionel.

The short man turned towards the Lionel and grinned.

“The boy’s up, Castor,” said the man.

The man in the front seat peered back at Lionel through the rearview mirror. Lionel looked unkindly towards the short man when suddenly the other man pulled over the car and both men were staring at him. Lionel returned the stare towards his captors—but were they really his captors?—and took a moment to notice the blonde seemed only a few years older than him, while the other man seemed at least twenty years older and asked his question again. The two men ignored him.

“Now what?” asked the twitchy man.

Lionel watched in disturbing fascination as the man’s face jerked twice. The blonde turned harsh eyes towards his partner. The jittery man shuddered under his stare and his body convulsed for a short second. The blonde gave an exasperated sigh before rotating to stare purposely at Lionel. When the other man turned to stare at Lionel, too, except lower, Lionel realized that they were not staring at him, but at his legs. Lionel glanced down and nearly blacked out at the sight. His pants, once a light blue, were crusted over with dry blood. Lionel felt the same emotions that overcame him when he saw Alexandre covered in blood—and then Lionel realized that it was Alexandre’s blood and suddenly he felt sick. A hand solidly grabbed his shoulder and Lionel was surprised to find the blonde man staring at him with worry. Lionel felt sudden anger and quickly he forced the hand off his shoulder. Who was this stranger and what gave him the right to try to comfort him?

“I’m fine,” said Lionel.

His voice was coated in unabated anger—then he realized that Alexandre would not want him to be angry, not like this—and he calmed. There was a short-lived silence as Lionel turned his head away from the two men.

“Right,” said the blonde, “Well, we’d ask you what happened, but we can kind of tell.”

Both strangers stared deliberately at the blood on Lionel’s pants. Lionel sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, but all he could see was red. Lionel stared at the two men with anger and melancholy.

“Alexandre’s dead,” said Lionel. “I was coming home from—from buying things for his—” His voice cracked and tears threatened to fall. Lionel cleared his throat and never turned his eyes away from the two men as he continued talking. “—for his birthday, but he’s dead! He’s dead!” The Frenchman repeated the last sentence over and over again. He clenched his eyes shut to stop thinking about his best friend and bit back the tears that continued to threaten to spill. But an image rose unbidden of Alexandre’s dead body covered in blood and he quickly reopened his eyes. “I—who killed him?”

Lionel stared accusingly at the two men. For all the young Frenchmen knew, he was sitting with the men who had killed Alexandre. Could he really trust them? As his stare hardened, the two men gave each other a look Lionel could not decipher, and suddenly the car was moving again. The jittery man twitched once as he stared forward silently before mumbling something Lionel could barely hear.

“That’s what we want to know.”

Lionel felt cold and alone.

(1) The Union Corse is the French mafia.