Memory's Requiem (Locked to France and Canada)

It is the middle of the French Revolution, and François Bonnefoy has nowhere left to run. With the rebels killing nobles every which way-for the littlest provocation or for no reason whatsoever- and with nowhere to flee to, he can only do one thing, especially on this night. It is All Hallow's Eve, after all, and he simply must celebrate. It is a holiday, after all, war or not.

So the ballroom in his mansion is packed, the doors open to anyone who would want to celebrate such a fine evening. All are welcome, of course, but that means little when the nobility must hide and the peasants rule the streets.

A ball of fools, then. A Gala of Poor. All the guests, unless well-disguised, were peasants. The poorest of the poor, risen to grandeur through the spilled blood of their overlords. And that was fine- it was a party, so social status meant little. He wanted to have a good time.

Of course, the fact that he had nothing to hide from, had no fear of dying, perhaps had something to do with it. He was, after all, immortal. He couldn't be killed, even if he wanted to be. Being the spawn of demons had benefits and... its downsides. He always felt cold. So, so cold and empty. But perhaps this party could bring a little warmth to his body, bring life to his hollow eyes and make his skin flush with vitality.

So he wove through the dancing couples, smiling and nodding happily to the guests. Vibrant costumes, brilliant indigo and crimson, were splashes of color against the corner of his vision. Lovely.

Not watching where he was going, however, was perhaps a foolish move. He walked right into someone, stumbling back with a sharp exhalation.

Matthew Williams wasn't sure why he'd decided to attend the gala. It was open to any who might find it amusing or entertaining, but he did not usually humour the nobles in their balls. In a time of war like this, he should be helping those in need. The weak, sick, hungry and wounded needed his assistance. Despite this, he was nearing the limit of his power for the week. He could only do so much for so many people. It was the only thing he wanted to do in this type of horrific war--assist those in need--but even a Seraph, sent to help humans, has to regain strength. If Matthew died now, how could he continue to help the weak?

There was nothing more than a spur-of-the-moment whim that drove him to walk gingerly up the front steps of the imposing Bonnefoy mansion. He'd heard of the lord Bonnefoy through word-of-mouth--his escapades with young men and women being the main topic--but the timid young man had never seen him in person. He'd never felt a desire to go near this mansion after the first time he'd walked past it several months before. As soon as he stepped in front of the gates on his way to church, he'd felt a large weight on his body. Pressure consumed his form, and the divine being had not once felt such evil before in his life. Since that day, he made a point to avoid the mansion.

Tonight, the weight of maliciousness in the air seemed to be present all around Paris. Stepping towards the mansion gave Matthew no ill thought, and he wondered if he'd been mistaken about the sheer force of evil that he'd experienced so long ago. He nervously ran a hand through his silken blonde hair and straightened his posture before entering the threshold of the Bonnefoy mansion. Working his way through crowds of people, he managed to reach the ballroom. His gentle eyes darted around, taking in the sight of the graceful chaos that was dancing.

A smile was brought to his face, but his habit of meekly looking at his feet as he walked gave him no excuse to collide with another person. Immediately, Matthew looked up, ignoring the pain in his arm and chest to start spewing apologies. "J-je.... Je suis désolé! Je suis désolé! E-Excusez-moi, monsieur!" Through his blubbering, his face had been dusted a soft pink, and his eyes watered lightly. Could he last four seconds amongst humans without making a complete fool of himself? This man was obviously not just anyone--his expensive clothes attested to that.

Matthew took a moment to really look at the man he had been so rude to, and almost had to swallow, biting his lip. He was beautiful. Pale, lovely skin--flawless, too; no scars or blemishes--rested on a sharp facial structure, with piercing blue eyes and golden hair. Matthew stared for a moment before returning to his groveling, his humility preventing him from being at all assertive. "J-Je suis tellement désolé, monsieur...."

"C'est bien, ne vous inquiétez pas. Je ne regardais pas où j'allais." He immediately responded, a hand reaching out to help steady the shorter man. He gave him a sweeping, cursory glance that barely took him in. Shabby clothes, slumped posture, quiet demeanor. A peasant! He was so flustered, so upset! And he should be, who was this peasant to be walking right into-

Oh. Oh.

For a few moments, there was nothing he could do but stare.

The boy- because now he could see that he was just a boy, not a man- was lovely, with long, silken hair that curled. It was as gold as the buttons on his jacket, flaxen and soft-looking. His face was smooth, unblemished with no facial hair to speak of. High cheekbones, arching and prominent. And, set above them, beautiful and captivating...

Wide, sparkling violet eyes. They were full of emotion, embarrassment and humiliation and something that could only be described as warmth. His eyes were full of life, of something light and gorgeous. He couldn't look away, couldn't tear his eyes away from that violet gaze. Enraptured. There was no other word for it.

But he had to. The boy was clearly terrified, grovelling. Scared of what he could do to him, what he could have his butler do. Throwing him out on the streets would be a far more gentle fate than what nobles had done to those who offended them. He could have him arrested, arrange for him to meet with Mademoiselle Guillotine.

He would not, of course. No, he would not punish this boy for the mere offense of running into him. "Vous êtes pas blessés?" He inquired, not releasing the boy's shoulder. It was firm, strong under his hand. The boy was clearly not as slight as he appeared.

Though he was delightfully slim, almost frail. So small, almost starved-looking. A frail angel, weak and gorgeous.

Too gorgeous. He would not be letting this one slip away, at least not until he learned his name.

Matthew didn't know what to think when he was asked if he was all right. Of course he wasn't injured--not physically, anyway. Inside, he was having a slight meltdown. How was he supposed to compensate for his foolishness? Surely, he was indebted to this man for having such a lack in manners. "N-non," he said quietly, looking away so as not to offend the beautiful man before him any longer by meeting his eyes as though they were equals, "J-je ne.... je ne suis pas blessé, mon bon monsieur...." He bowed his head slightly, terrified of the possible consequences for this mishap. If he were to be put to death, what would happen when he continued to live?! He would cause more pain than he could ever hope to diminish with his power!

Nervously, he swallowed and glanced up into those wonderfully blue eyes. "E-et toi?" The feel of that cool hand on his shoulder steadied him, made him less anxious. Surely, if this man were repulsed by his poverty, he would not touch him for such a long period of time. Perhaps he was to be treated with mercy, this once. Matthew deeply wished for this to be the case.

"Je ne suis pas blessé, petit ange." The nickname fit well, he assumed. He was lovely, dazzling and too precious. An angel was what he looked like; an angel he would call him."Quel est votre nom, mon petit?" He inquired, not releasing his grip on the boy. He would not be able to jerk away, to run, without someone noticing. Trapped, but not maliciously so. Not yet, at least.

He did not like how the boy rarely met his eyes. "Il est généralement considéré comme impoli de ne pour répondre aux yeux de votre hôte..." He murmured, his other hand drifting to almost cup the boy's cheek. Such soft skin, begging to be touched. To be stroked, gently kissed and marveled at.

To be bitten, fiercely; to be marked and claimed.

Oh, how he wanted to claim this boy as his. Back him into a dark corner, kiss him and touch him until he was a shivering mess of consent. And then take him, there against the wall. Do it slowly, gently at first. And then release his inner monster, shove and-

He would have a problem on his hands if he continued to fantasize. His trousers- though elaborately flared and decorated as they were- were not made to hide certain parts of his anatomy when...

Well, he would just not think of that quite yet.

The grip on his shoulder was almost comforting. Those immense blue eyes gazed into him, seeming to almost reach into his very mind and pick apart his thoughts. As his name was asked, Matthew blushed and raised a hand to fiddle with a strand of his hair. "Je m'appelle Mathieu. Mathieu Williams. J-je suis du Québec, donc mon accent est mauvais...." He glanced at the man's coat, gleaming with the reflection of the light against golden buttons. "E-et toi, s'il vous plaît? Qu'est-ce votre nom?"

At the mention of rudeness, Matthew only looked at his feet in shame. "J-je suis tellement désolé! S'il vous plaît, monsieur, pardonnez-moi! Je suis désolé!" He didn't want to be rude. He was a mere peasant to this man, no matter how much divine presence he had in this world. He was inferior to this blonde Frenchman, and he must act accordingly. "Je ne devrais pas te regarder. Je ne suis rien. Je suis un paysan." He forced himself to look into those wonderful oceans, breathing softly and lightly.

This man was not used to being disobeyed. That much was obvious. Matthew could even sense some hint of malice in his core. Well-guarded, as most evil was. To him, it was no different than any other human being. Matthew noticed that there were far too many locks and gates around this man's evilness to be normal. Perhaps he had committed a crime recently? Matthew stared into the taller male's eyes, trying to discern what he could possibly be hiding.

He started to shift uncomfortably, trying to escape the pressure on his shoulder. He was not trying to get away, only to change the position of the hand so his shoulder wouldn't start to hurt. "Ah.... M-m-monsieur.... mon épaule...." He looked up pitifully at the man, wishing he would just move his hand.

"Je suis désolé." He murmured, releasing him immediately. He did not, however, step away. The way the boy looked at him- violet-blue eyes staring into his own, was curious. He'd never met such a probing gaze, not since he'd faced Lucifer in his fiery Hell and sworn himself to his service. There was no lying to a gaze like that, no hiding anything.

Luckily, only nonmortals- and strong ones, at that- could ever get more than a hint of what he was.

"Dans le paiement pour votre crime, Mathieu, je crois que je devrai vous demander de danser avec moi." He sighed, wishing he could just touch- stroke, caress- that silky gold hair of his. "Je m'appelle François Bonnefoy. And you need not worry about your accent." He said the last part in English, fighting back his own accent.

Eavesdroppers were everywhere; in the heart of Paris, few spoke English. Hopefully, this boy would.

"Parlez-vous l'anglais?" He didn't want to be rude, though. Rudeness might scare him away, might make him flee. And then he would have to chase him, and things would only grow to be terrible if he chased the boy.

He had a bad habit of acting on his more base, animalistic instincts when he chased.

Matthew sighed, relieved to have his shoulder free of that powerful hand. He stared at the floor, cheeks burning red. The thoughts in his mind all called for him to run, to get away. He knew this instinct, this order for him to run away, was self-preservation. Unfortunately, he wasn't brave enough to adhere to the demands of his panicked mind. He knew that if he tried to escape this alluring man, something terrible would happen. He had no idea what it would be, but he knew. With this knowledge, he grew even more anxious, fidgeting slightly. Suddenly very conscious of his actions, he tried to calm himself down, but was unable to escape the sense of inevitable, impending doom.

Such was the curse of the Seraph, knowing when terrible things were to happen, yet not when or how.

Francis Bonnefoy. This man was the Francis Bonnefoy. The very same man that was asking him to dance. Here, at this party. In public. Matthew, who appeared to any mortal to be a mere peasant. Nothing to his name; cheap clothes on his back. But Matthew had a gut-based feeling that Francis Bonnefoy was no mortal. In the depths of his mind, he could tell easily that Francis was ethereal--at the very least.

At the question, Matthew nodded slowly. "Oui," he rasped, coughing politely to get rid of the breathy tone his voice had adopted so suddenly. "I speak English. Do you wish to?" His words were quiet, well-mannered and reserved. But, then again, that was no different from the usual sound his voice made.

Hesitantly, he glanced up to meet Francis' eyes again, blinking slowly and fidgeting in his place. "I.. I do not know if I will be able to dance with you," he murmured bashfully. "I'm very clumsy..." And, of course, it was true--Matthew was unable to lie--but it was also a way to escape. He felt... vulnerable. Francis made him feel picked-apart and inspected.

"I can teach you to not be clumsy." He reached out to brush a thumb over the boy's cheek, grinning rather wickedly. "It's all in the feet, oui?" His other hand closed on the boy's hip, as if to pull him closer. His blush was endearing, red and fiery in a way he sometimes wished he could flush.

"Surely you would not deny your host this favor? I have yet to dance tonight." He sighed dramatically, grin widening. After dancing came drinking, and then perhaps drunken fumbling in the hall.

Well, drunken on Mathieu's part. He couldn't become intoxicated; not anymore. But he was quite good at acting (and always had been), so he would be able to pass himself off as soundly drunk. And a drunk man could not be expected to either control or remember his actions.

And such actions he would commit! The angelic boy standing so close to him couldn't know, lest he flee. It was like charming a faerie from her hiding place, a balance of charm and implication. "You cannot be as terrible as you assume, petit ange." He squeezed his hand, fingers slipping along the boy's hip.

Good God.

Matthew instinctively leaned into the cool thumb on his cheek. A small sound that could only be described as a mewl slipped from between his lips. Suddenly, there were fingers on his hip. Eyes widening, Matthew tensed. That grip on his hip had come faster than he could see. He slowly relaxed, leaning into Francis a tiny bit after becoming more comfortable with the unexpected contact. Remembering the smooth words of the aristocrat, he nodded shyly.

Violet eyes drifted up to meet blue from underneath a curtain of thick lashes, then quickly avoided the eye contact again. "I-I... I would not wish to offend," he murmured in defeat. "If you are p-prepared and willing to be embarrassed by my graceless performance, then I have no choice but to humour you, my lord." He bowed his head and slightly tightened his soft fingers around Francis' thin ones.

Matthew's control over his voicebox was lost when that grip on his waist shifted lower and further back. Flushing a deep red, he opened his mouth to free a whimper. Instead of fleeing in shame, however, he simply bit his lip and took a few deep breaths. "I-I..." He glanced up to meet his host's eyes. "Forgive me, monsieur. That is, dare I say, a... sensitive area." He chuckled lightly before raising an eyebrow. "Terrible does not cover it, my lord."

The fact that he was flirting was not unknown to the Seraph. However, he was not afraid. Unlike the human followers of God, he was free to pursue earthly desires. He had earned the right to do the things dubbed "sins" because he had the absolute trust of God not to be corrupted. It was impossible to corrupt a Seraph. That's what the Lord said.

God was always right, so Matthew didn't fear.