Truth is a fickle thing. Little of it will be found here. (~3.3K words.)
Info
Content Warning: Implied sex, violence, mild gore
Written by CamaradeAlbabar and
doctrinator
Art by doctrinator
(3.3K words)
คำเตือน ⤴
เปลวเพลิงใกล้มอดลุกโชนเพื่อต่อชีวิตของตน แผ่นกระจกร้าวขู่จะแตกออกในเวลาใดก็ได้ แมลงวันกำลังกินซากที่เหลืออยู่ของศพ แมงมุมกำลังพันเหยื่อของมันเอาไว้ เสียงกรึบเปียกๆของแมลงที่กำลังดิ้นหนีอยู่ ซึ่งได้ถูกขยี้ลงใต้ฝ่ารองเท้า แว่นตาคู่หนึ่งที่ถูกวางไว้บนเสื้อผ้าที่กองทิ้งไว้ ดวงตาสีฟ้าราวน้ำแข็งที่ไร้ซึ่งความปราณี และหมัดที่เปื้อนไปด้วยเลือด บางสิ่งที่ผิดบาปได้ยั่งลึกลงไปในทั้งสอง และพวกเขาก็รู้มันดี
ฌอร์ฌ บอนโนต์ได้กำราบนูแวล-ฟลองดร์ไว้ใต้แทบเท้า ยกเว้นก็เพียงแค่ชายคนหนึ่ง ชายที่เขาพลาดพลั้งครั้งใหญ่ด้วยการปล่อยให้หลุดรอด หลุดรอดผ่านช่องเปิดในประตูของเขาในยามราตรีมืดค่ำ ที่ซึ่งทุกๆสิ่งได้กระจ่าง ที่ซึ่งสุขารมณ์และความบริสุทธิ์ไม่หลงเหลือความแตกต่างใดๆ บางสิ่งที่แย่กว่ากามวิปริต บางสิ่งที่วิปลาสกว่า เลวร้ายกว่าหลายขุม ที่แม้กระทั่งในโลกที่คุณธรรมเป็นเพียงคำแนะนำ มันก็ผิดมหันต์ราวการถ้ำมอง พวกเขารู้ และก็ไม่ได้ใส่ใจ
What Georges Bonnot does best is lie. To others, yes—it was the very foundation of that desperate village, a group of starving people fed on lies. But most of all, to himself. He dared not glance at the warm body beside him—the heaving ribcage that breathed fragility when his fingers glided over them, fingers covered in blood and viscera. It was the evidence of his weakness, or rather, his genuine self, behind the carefully constructed, nigh-impenetrable bulwark. Truth is a fickle thing. Little of it will be found here.
(A ribcage—how ironically named, when he’d never felt freer ensnared in one. Though, granted, it isn’t his own.)
He can’t say his name, he can’t press his cracked lips to the golden skin, he can’t stop wanting. He’ll never stop wanting. Everything, all to himself.
⏮
.ecneliS
?rof noisserpxe laicaf taht s’tahW .uoy ta kool ,drol doog hO
.ecneliS
?retfa htab a uoy ruop ll'I dna ,tsafkaerb ruoy tae emoc uoy t'nod yhW ?hm ,rehtegot yad lufituaeb siht trats su teL
.ecneliS
.erom elttil a deb ni gniyats ekil leef uoy ekil skool ,evol ym era uoy ereht hO
…
❚❚
These past few weeks had been rougher than what Bonnot had expected, or rather, accepted to acknowledge. The first year seemed so full of promises for the Gouverneur. A people, bent by his iron will, nurtured by his paternal benevolent rule. He envisioned his realm as an organic body, each villager constituting a part of an organ, the sum of all striving towards an harmonious and orderly new society, a civilization birthed from Existence’s lawless afterthought. And in the center of it all, Frank was the beating heart of the village and Bonnot its brain.
Frank was passion. He was desire. He was rejuvenation. He was the Ideal Man, the One that all should be striving to be, far from the weak and the frail that composed the failing body of Nouvelle-Flandre, a sick and coughing village, rot spreading throughout its essence, its soil, their souls. If Frank, only one man in a flock of frail sheep, couldn’t cure the village of its ills, he could surely soothe its mind and bring it the most degenerate of pleasures. This was the tacit contract between the Gouverneur and his Messenger.
This was no time to please however, at least not to the terms Bonnot had agreed to. In this single frozen instant, Bonnot could sense a mounting tension in the air between him and his guest for the night, not one he was used to and wanting to expect each night in his lair, not this bestial brawl he was impatiently awaiting for, made true by an arcane, implicit agreement between the two. There, what he understood as his firm grasp onto his creature slipped. He could claw at the skin of his prey, plunge his hands through the ribcage and not find his beating heart. There was no anger in the eyes of his Frank, at least yet, only apprehension and a pinch of frustration. For Bonnot, there was still time to take back control of the situation, feign interest before eating him away.
Date: 15th of Nivôse, Year ii
Gouverneur,
I write to you about the quarterly report on the harvests of Nouvelle-Flandre. Here is what has been accounted for, and brought by the laborers:
- 756 kg of potatoes. Of those, 663 kg were deemed edible;
- 381 kg of parsnip. Of those, 299 kg were deemed edible;
- 455 kg of topinambour. Of those, 322 kg were deemed edible;
- 520 kg of wheat. Of those, 311 kg were deemed edible;
- 11 kg of carrots. Of those, all are inedible;
- 15 l of milk.
Based on the quantity of food, I fear that some level of rationing is going to be necessary for the safety of this village. I have already tasked my fellows to devise a relatively sufficient meal, to be served once per day. It should comprise a hundred grams or so of potatoes, 35 grams of parsnip, 50 grams of topinambour and two slices of bread. You should expect a negative response to this plan, Gouverneur, the people are already spreading rumors that this is all due to that old lady in the isolated house.
What? Of course. Yes, I hear you, Bonnot replies. A hand ghosts over the young man’s nape. Rough, calloused fingertips, worn with age and exertion, so unimaginably gentle now as they trace downwards. There is the lightest of tensions when his fingers get hooked on the collar of Frank’s shirt. They change course, a palm gets added to the mix, and Bonnot’s now lightly massaging his shoulder underneath the material. An electrifying fuzz. Goosebumps chasing his touch. Bonnot looks at Frank without seeing.
Whatever words are being said by Frank are lost on Bonnot as he drags his hands across his skin. Frank’s shirt is unbuttoned, so Bonnot lets his hand wander down his back. It’s smooth, unlike Bonnot’s—ugly and aged, marked with the fading scars of the past. A ruined canvas. With more pronounced breaths, and a steady drum in his chest, Bonnot’s hand searches for something—a connection, maybe.
Frank speaks again, reading out the written report, and Bonnot leans in closer, not to hear, but to see. He watches the movement of his lips when he speaks, absent-mindedly nodding along. He watches the blurry silhouette of his profile, as the light illuminates its outline like a halo. In his dreams, the man’s face appears clearly to him, untethered by his disgraced condition, his encroaching blindness.
What a joke. He’d always been blind, one way or another. No helping it.
In his dreams, they’re somewhere else, because they know they don’t belong here. Bonnot is clawing at his dearest's skin as if the world will drag him away the second they break contact. When he holds him, it’s to swallow him whole, to possess his body and spirit as his own. The seasons have cycled countless times and the two remain, in each other's arms, still. All is still. Nothing gets answered. The atoms are intact, the bonds unbroken. When he screams with all of the might in his lungs, it’s silent.
Georges. Hey, are you even listening? Georges!
And he wants so badly to scream.
▶
A tiny house, stuck in time, a modest construction made of stone and wood. In here, you would have found traces of love in its purest shape. Flowers collected from the nearby wood, a fireplace, frames in which painted portraits would have been placed, a lifetime collection of paraphernalia. In its bed would have laid two men, Bonnot and Frank. Both would have been awake, but not for too long; both would have overslept, not having to care and anguish over the hopeless fate of an entire village. Bonnot would have taken the initiative to cook a hearty meal for the other, a loving gesture that would have become part of their routine of notes of attention, all full of love and care for each other.
“Chéri, breakfast is served!” Not a single answer would come from Frank, but Bonnot wouldn’t immediately take notice of this uncharacteristic silence. Rather, Bonnot would contemplate this place he could have finally called a home. With a content smile, he would have then placed himself at his kitchen’s window, and stared at the horizon. Ignoring the static sky, remaining oh so blue, oh so cloudless, oh so sunless and yet still full of light, he would have marveled at the magnificent nature around their property: the flowers would have been blooming, the grass would have been greener than in Nouvelle-Flandre, the forest full of the most succulent fruits, their personal garden more fertile than anything he had seen in this god-forsaken settlement. It would have been there that Bonnot would have accepted that his betrayal of his people was worth the happy days he would have spent ‘til death would have done him and Frank apart.
…
"Oh there you are my love, looks like you feel like staying in bed a little more."
Silence.
"Let us start this beautiful day together, mh? Why don't you come eat your breakfast, and I'll pour you a bath after?"
Silence.
"Oh good lord, look at you. What's that facial expression for?"
Silence.
Still in his thoughts, Bonnot would have realized that Frank had still not arrived for his breakfast. It would have gone cold, and a slight tinge of worry would have interrupted his peace of mind. Bonnot would have thought back to the upbeat energy of Frank, his self-assured demeanor, his gregariousness, a true man of the people! His muteness would have contrasted, which would have brought Bonnot to visit him in their marital chambers.
When he would have entered the room, a figure would have stood in the corner next to Frank's stoic corpse, holding a camera. Its lens would stare at Bonnot, frozen in place, taken by the realization that something was wrong. What exactly, Bonnot wouldn’t have known at that moment, but a fracture had occurred in this reality.
The vibrant colours of its surroundings would turn paler by the minute, mold would manifest itself on the plate he had cooked for the love of his life. His vision would suddenly turn blurry, not noticing that it had been clear all this time, as if some miracle of life had cured him of his degrading, disgusting impairment. A piercing buzz would overwhelm his senses. He’d fall back against a wall, only for all four walls of his house to fall apart and reveal that he stands in the middle of a theater. Opposite to him, hundreds of figures, all with cameras pointed at him, would applaud him for his tearful performance.
There, in a panic, Bonnot would rush to the bedroom’s door, all that would remain of the room, only to see a pair of glasses laying on the hallway just outside of the bedroom. And he would remember the choice that he made years ago, the pursuit of passion rather than of self-preservation, the pursuit of this illusion of control over his own desires, over him. And then, realising that this figment of imagination was collapsing on his own, that all those years of joy were a lie, he would feel his numbed face with his hands, and see that his nose would be bleeding. And he would remember more of what he had done.
Perhaps this fiction could have become their truth. But in Nouvelle-Flandre, dreams are meant to be quashed and thrown to the pigs, who will then be made into a day's worth of nutrition for the laborers, and then into fertilizer for the fields.
⟲
Frank abruptly stands up from his seat, now level with Bonnot. Bonnot snaps out of his daze and withdraws his hand. Frank says that he’s serious, that he should listen to what he really has to say.
Frank speaks of the compromised state of the village, of the residents—people who come to starve and die and not know any better. Says he’s tired of the lying and playing pretend. Says he wants to go somewhere far away, somewhere they won’t be suffocated or bogged down with obligations, just him and Bonnot. The words rush by Bonnot in a flurry and his jaw clenches.
You know we can’t. Bonnot glares at him.
Frank asks him why.
You know why. Breach of contract. We have an arrangeme—
Laughter almost escapes Frank. He begins to mock Bonnot: ‘Breach of contract’, he says! It’s always about the contract, the arrangements, the deals—this is why I’m so sick of it all, you know? Look at me, I’m Mr. Gouverneur, and you have to listen to me, and you have to follow my contract or you die; and if you don’t, you die anyway… Sorry. Fuck. I just—I don’t want to die here.
Frank buries his face in his hands. Instinctively, Bonnot reaches out to hold him, but stumbles back when Frank shoves him away.
Be honest with me for once, says Frank, looking up at him, what is it you really want?
To hurt you, to make you bleed, to remind you that I own you, so that you never have these foolish thoughts again. Silence.
He continues. A body to fuck? A pet to beat? A toy to break? You love breaking things, don’t you? And you know nothing of fixing them.
Coldly, Bonnot says that that isn't true.
There is an expression of hurt painted across Frank’s face as he continues speaking.
When you pretend everything's fine, do you know how awful it feels to realize that you think I'm that stupid?
Frank shoves him further backwards. Bonnot opens his mouth, but no words come out.
It’s like—I just—I don't understand, he says. You don’t think I matter, because you treat me—lie to me the same way you lie to them. He gestures towards somewhere outside the window.
I'm just one of them, you could replace me with another one of your pretty young things and nothing would change. So I really don’t know why you want me to stay so badly. I really don't. Tell me, why don’t you? Gouverneur, tell me.
Suddenly, his lips curl into a smile.
Oh, I know—you must be scared that everyone in this goddamn village will find out you’re a—
Frank's glasses clatter onto the floor as Bonnot strikes him in the face.
Then, the two men erupt in a heated frenzy of clambering and clawing; obscenities bounce off the walls, the old furniture rattles with each thud of a tumbling body. Nothing is beautiful about it, and yet electric sparks formed by adrenaline and spilled blood seem to ignite between the two. Some semblance of a carnal, masochistic thrill is present in this room, and the couple are unable to hide their exhilaration.
Eventually, Bonnot has both of Frank’s wrists in his grip—victory, as much is expected of a beast of his caliber. He watches Frank struggle and curse for a moment, before stopping. The blood leaking from Bonnot’s nose stains Frank’s undershirt red, but neither of them notice, their eyes fixated on one another. Bonnot weakens his grip, and Frank slowly pulls himself to his feet. He limps towards the door. Bonnot’s head feels like something has exploded inside of it.
Don’t go, Bonnot thinks. Don't go, he whispers.
Frank turns around and looks Bonnot—now knelt before him—in the eyes.
Bonnot repeats the words. Don’t go… I…
I need you.
I—
A wet organ—coughed up by Bonnot—splats onto the floor between the two men. It convulses desperately, laying in its pool of red—ah yes, the heart, so exposed now, only for his baby’s eyes. They watch the pathetic organ pulse on the cold, hard surface, and Bonnot thinks that he will die any second now. Frank smiles.
Schadenfreude.
Lips crashing, mingling, trying to fuse into one. Frank tastes the remnants of blood off of the corners of Bonnot’s mouth. Maybe he likes him like this. His true desperation on display. The simultaneous need and shame in his eyes. Yes, that’s right, Frank thinks in between kisses, you’re only here to fall apart in front of me.
Another silent scream from Bonnot—oh, how he wishes he could—
he could—
spill out the rest of his mangled guts. Say the words he means to say—put into some form of human language how badly he needs, craves, longs to hold him, have him to himself.
Speak or die? (He’d rather…)
The room is silent except for the exchanging of their heated breaths. The whisper of a command. A dwindling candlelight. Limbs entangled like snakes. The air is dangerous. Fascism is born in this room.
Telepathy. Bonnot wishes to speak without speaking:
Why must you hurt me, chéri? Nothing kills me more than the thought of you slipping away. You know I’d burn for you. At your very whim, I would kill. Damn it all. Do you remember when you cut your hand on a shard of glass, trying to clean up a mess I’d made? I’d broken that window because I was upset, but not at you. I could never be angry with you. I wanted to hold your bleeding palm to my own, let our blood coalesce, let us be a part of each other. I wouldn’t let anything in the world take you from me. I’d lick your wounds. I’d swallow your pain. Wouldn’t you like to belong to me and only me? You could have everything, I could give you everything. Don’t go. I love you.
But in his world, telepathy isn’t real.
And when it is all done, when there are no sensations left to be shared, here we are, back at the beginning. Georges Bonnot, beside the body he tainted. It’s so cold now. The bed is too small for the both of them. His mouth is dry, and there is so much to say that will never be said.
Georges Bonnot will wake up alone to his village, to his people. He knows that in the morning, betrayal will come.
