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Mar 30, 2018 8:02:52 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 30, 2018 8:02:52 GMT -5
He wasn't sure if he was supposed to be angry or sad or hurt or what, but he did know that he was having trouble coming to terms with...everything. It was like everything was being taken away, like he wasn't allowed to keep one thing. For such a brief period of time, he thought that maybe, just maybe, once they managed to recover - everything would be okay.
All he really remembered was the blood and the empty feeling in his chest. There had been no body found but the sheer amount of blood had promised that there was no point in hoping. Alphonse Fournier was proclaimed dead and he did not find that he could grieve. He wanted to - he wanted so desperately to leave France and let Edgard take Paris without a fight, but when it came down to it - he had to pick up the pieces. There was a reason he was the Underboss, and it wasn't just because he was the eldest biological child. He had been raised and trained for this, it had been inevitable that Alphonse would die one day - but that was the key. One day. It wasn't supposed to be so soon.
"I'm telling you, man," the man's breath was hitched and his French was rough and littered with random English as he could not quite find the words in his pain. "I don't know anything about Garreau."
Camille hummed low in his throat and leaned back in his seat, tilting his head back. The clock on the wall behind him ticked quietly, and he studied it for a moment. Ah, it's already that late? he wondered, blinking owlishly at it. He didn't have time to mess around anymore - he'd barely gotten a wink of sleep and he had to clean up for the...he swallowed thickly. For the funeral.
Even now, it didn't feel real. Time felt like it was passing too slowly - had it really been two weeks? It felt like it had been months, and even now, he didn't feel...sad. He didn't have time for being sad. There was a sort of emptiness that had settled, and he'd gotten used to it. No tears had been shed; but sleep had been lost, and he supposed that he finally understand losing someone important. Of course, he'd lost people in the past; but not in such rapid succession. He'd lost so much family and though many remained, he had to weed out the traitors. The liars. The cheats.
With his own hands, he'd killed - slaughtered - men and women alike, had ensured that the safety of what remained of the Fournier family would remain intact. He stood up from his chair and heard the man whimper as he picked up his knife. It was a small knife, serrated at the edges. It had made many wounds in this man and it would give him the finishing blow.
"That doesn't change the fact that you've had contact with him," he said, in his soft, quiet voice. He was not the sort of man that people feared; he was kind of face and gentle in voice, and he was small enough to be nonthreatening. In the past week, he had become fearsome - a fierce force who slit the throats of and harmed those who dared step a toe out of line. "And you have harmed my family, my friend. You have gotten off lightly."
Before a response could be given, he took the man's hair in his hand and pushed his head down, moving to stand behind the chair he was sat in. He drew the knife along the man's throat in a harsh, quick motion. The struggle was brief before he let go and threw the knife onto the metal table. He walked to the already-bloodstained sink and turned the water on, running his hands underneath it. For the first time, he took notice of what a mess he was; his shirt was no longer tucked, the first few buttons had been undone and droplets of blood splattered over it. His arms had been covered in blood from his hands to his elbows. What a messy ordeal - had he really been at this all night? He was surprised that the man hadn't died in the interrogation.
"I'll call Sinclair," said a voice at the door. Camille tensed and turned his head, only to see that it was none other than Noe.
"You do that."
"The funeral's at nine."
"I know."
Noe stared at him for a moment before he glanced to the body of the man. "Did he say anything?"
"No," finished with washing his hands for now, he found his gloves and pulled them on. Then, he grabbed his suit jacket and pulled that on, too. It would suffice for getting to his apartment. "He was in contact with whatever little empire Edgard has made for himself. He didn't know anything about him, otherwise."
A low hum suggested that Noe was unsure of what to say. Camille moved past him and headed up the steps, and the sound of the heavy door closing told him that his friend was following. It didn't take the taller man long to catch up with him, but he continued to walk without looking back. He needed to get back to his apartment - it was early enough that very few people would be out, he supposed. Less risk of being harmed.
"So," even with everything that had happened, it seemed that their bond stayed strong. Noe was completely fine with the way that he acted - perhaps it was the bond they had always shared. Regardless, Camille simply raised an eyebrow and waited for him to continue. "I took it upon myself to get you a new suit. Because you seem to be in the habit of ruining everything you wear."
"I have sweaters."
"You can't wear a sweater, Mill. That's not how this works."
Camille shrugged as they entered the apartment building, half-jogging up the stairs before the old woman checking her mail turned around. Noe followed with a sort-of giggle. It was the nervous sort; like he wasn't sure whether he was allowed to speak more or not. He ignored him and instead pulled his keys from his back pocket, opening his apartment door and walking in without much of a thought for the one following behind. From the sound of the door shutting, he made it in.
As he'd been told, there was a suit in its cover hung up against the door of his bedroom. Camille ignored it and walked through to his bathroom. He heard Noe crash on his couch, and ignored it.
The clothes that he was wearing would probably need to be burned, so he threw them aside and stepped under the already-hot water of his shower. He hated showers, truth be told; he hated being alone with his thoughts, hated knowing that this was where he often reflected on everything. He didn't dare close his eyes and instead tried to lose himself in the motions. Still-healing wounds on his torso reminded him that he was not entirely unscathed, but they didn't hurt much anymore. They would be fully-healed within a few days. They weren't that deep, and he had other things to worry about.
Once he was done, he wrapped a towel around his waist and glanced to the time. I'm cutting it fine, he thought, walking right through to his room - taking the suit with him. He dressed relatively quickly, took a moment to find a plain black silk vest (harder than he'd thought), before he checked himself in the mirror. Though neatly-groomed, he realised that he looked tired. Faint shadows under his eyes that told the world that he wasn't catching up on sleep, a still-healing cut on his upper lip from a scuffle with one of the men he'd had to catch, and, with some surprise, he realised that his beard was a little longer than usual, even if well-kept. He absently patted his cheek.
"You do look awful," his friend smiled from the doorway, eyebrows raised. "No offence, Millie, but have you actually been sleeping? Y'know, besides the nap on the way over to your weird basement?"
"It's not a weird basement, I've had it for years."
"That makes it weirder," Noe wrinkled his nose in mild disgust. "Why do you have a torture chamber?"
"I didn't," Camille's words were soft. "It used to be where I'd go if I needed somewhere away from the world. It was a very quiet, very peaceful place."
Noe frowned but didn't respond, instead tilting his head back. Neither spoke as Camille pushed past him and headed to the door, slipping his shoes on. At this rate, they'd barely get to the funeral on time. He didn't like being late. He'd just been preoccupied with other things. He slipped on his shoes and left the apartment, and heard the annoyed hey of Noe as he realised he was being left behind. It wasn't until he was nearly at the last floor that Noe came jogging behind him, long legs having caused him to catch up easily. Neither spoke as they left and headed to Noe's car. In an unspoken agreement, Noe passed the keys to Camille.
"If we're late, your mum is going to kill you herself."
Camille made a sound of agreement as he got behind the wheel and waited until Noe was in the car before he pulled out of the parking lot and began to drive. His fingers drummed idly against the steering wheel and he glanced a little too frequently to the rearview mirror, a frown on his face. It was a comfortable sort of silence that they held between themselves, the sort that they often had.
"Who's going?" asked Noe after a while, as they grew closure to where they were supposed to meet the family.
"Aside from my actual family?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Whoever was close to him."
"You didn't check?"
"I've been busy."
Noe frowned as he got out of the car after Camille, following like a lost puppy. "What have you been doing? Sitting in your basement," there was a sound of annoyance from Camille, "doing nothing? I'll be right back, I have the overwhelming urge to go nowhere near your family until none of them will look at me."
"You're not responsible for this," his heart wasn't quite in the reassurance. "No-one's angry at you, Noe. You're as much a victim as this family is. Your father's dead too."
"And my brother has literally ruined everything."
Camille shrugged and glanced at him from the corner of his eye, before he began to approach the rest of the family. It was hard to remember that he wasn't the Underboss anymore; he was the Godfather, no matter how young he was. He adjusted his tie idly and realised, with no amount of surprise, that Noe had left his side. That meant that he was more alone than he thought. Awesome, he thought, a little more bitterly than he would've liked. He did not smile. Truth be told, he hadn't even wanted to come; a funeral felt like a final thing, like it was confirmation.
Something in him wanted desperately for his father to be alive, but the sheer amount of blood that had been found at the scene told him that it was an impossible hope.
All he really remembered was the blood and the empty feeling in his chest. There had been no body found but the sheer amount of blood had promised that there was no point in hoping. Alphonse Fournier was proclaimed dead and he did not find that he could grieve. He wanted to - he wanted so desperately to leave France and let Edgard take Paris without a fight, but when it came down to it - he had to pick up the pieces. There was a reason he was the Underboss, and it wasn't just because he was the eldest biological child. He had been raised and trained for this, it had been inevitable that Alphonse would die one day - but that was the key. One day. It wasn't supposed to be so soon.
"I'm telling you, man," the man's breath was hitched and his French was rough and littered with random English as he could not quite find the words in his pain. "I don't know anything about Garreau."
Camille hummed low in his throat and leaned back in his seat, tilting his head back. The clock on the wall behind him ticked quietly, and he studied it for a moment. Ah, it's already that late? he wondered, blinking owlishly at it. He didn't have time to mess around anymore - he'd barely gotten a wink of sleep and he had to clean up for the...he swallowed thickly. For the funeral.
Even now, it didn't feel real. Time felt like it was passing too slowly - had it really been two weeks? It felt like it had been months, and even now, he didn't feel...sad. He didn't have time for being sad. There was a sort of emptiness that had settled, and he'd gotten used to it. No tears had been shed; but sleep had been lost, and he supposed that he finally understand losing someone important. Of course, he'd lost people in the past; but not in such rapid succession. He'd lost so much family and though many remained, he had to weed out the traitors. The liars. The cheats.
With his own hands, he'd killed - slaughtered - men and women alike, had ensured that the safety of what remained of the Fournier family would remain intact. He stood up from his chair and heard the man whimper as he picked up his knife. It was a small knife, serrated at the edges. It had made many wounds in this man and it would give him the finishing blow.
"That doesn't change the fact that you've had contact with him," he said, in his soft, quiet voice. He was not the sort of man that people feared; he was kind of face and gentle in voice, and he was small enough to be nonthreatening. In the past week, he had become fearsome - a fierce force who slit the throats of and harmed those who dared step a toe out of line. "And you have harmed my family, my friend. You have gotten off lightly."
Before a response could be given, he took the man's hair in his hand and pushed his head down, moving to stand behind the chair he was sat in. He drew the knife along the man's throat in a harsh, quick motion. The struggle was brief before he let go and threw the knife onto the metal table. He walked to the already-bloodstained sink and turned the water on, running his hands underneath it. For the first time, he took notice of what a mess he was; his shirt was no longer tucked, the first few buttons had been undone and droplets of blood splattered over it. His arms had been covered in blood from his hands to his elbows. What a messy ordeal - had he really been at this all night? He was surprised that the man hadn't died in the interrogation.
"I'll call Sinclair," said a voice at the door. Camille tensed and turned his head, only to see that it was none other than Noe.
"You do that."
"The funeral's at nine."
"I know."
Noe stared at him for a moment before he glanced to the body of the man. "Did he say anything?"
"No," finished with washing his hands for now, he found his gloves and pulled them on. Then, he grabbed his suit jacket and pulled that on, too. It would suffice for getting to his apartment. "He was in contact with whatever little empire Edgard has made for himself. He didn't know anything about him, otherwise."
A low hum suggested that Noe was unsure of what to say. Camille moved past him and headed up the steps, and the sound of the heavy door closing told him that his friend was following. It didn't take the taller man long to catch up with him, but he continued to walk without looking back. He needed to get back to his apartment - it was early enough that very few people would be out, he supposed. Less risk of being harmed.
"So," even with everything that had happened, it seemed that their bond stayed strong. Noe was completely fine with the way that he acted - perhaps it was the bond they had always shared. Regardless, Camille simply raised an eyebrow and waited for him to continue. "I took it upon myself to get you a new suit. Because you seem to be in the habit of ruining everything you wear."
"I have sweaters."
"You can't wear a sweater, Mill. That's not how this works."
Camille shrugged as they entered the apartment building, half-jogging up the stairs before the old woman checking her mail turned around. Noe followed with a sort-of giggle. It was the nervous sort; like he wasn't sure whether he was allowed to speak more or not. He ignored him and instead pulled his keys from his back pocket, opening his apartment door and walking in without much of a thought for the one following behind. From the sound of the door shutting, he made it in.
As he'd been told, there was a suit in its cover hung up against the door of his bedroom. Camille ignored it and walked through to his bathroom. He heard Noe crash on his couch, and ignored it.
The clothes that he was wearing would probably need to be burned, so he threw them aside and stepped under the already-hot water of his shower. He hated showers, truth be told; he hated being alone with his thoughts, hated knowing that this was where he often reflected on everything. He didn't dare close his eyes and instead tried to lose himself in the motions. Still-healing wounds on his torso reminded him that he was not entirely unscathed, but they didn't hurt much anymore. They would be fully-healed within a few days. They weren't that deep, and he had other things to worry about.
Once he was done, he wrapped a towel around his waist and glanced to the time. I'm cutting it fine, he thought, walking right through to his room - taking the suit with him. He dressed relatively quickly, took a moment to find a plain black silk vest (harder than he'd thought), before he checked himself in the mirror. Though neatly-groomed, he realised that he looked tired. Faint shadows under his eyes that told the world that he wasn't catching up on sleep, a still-healing cut on his upper lip from a scuffle with one of the men he'd had to catch, and, with some surprise, he realised that his beard was a little longer than usual, even if well-kept. He absently patted his cheek.
"You do look awful," his friend smiled from the doorway, eyebrows raised. "No offence, Millie, but have you actually been sleeping? Y'know, besides the nap on the way over to your weird basement?"
"It's not a weird basement, I've had it for years."
"That makes it weirder," Noe wrinkled his nose in mild disgust. "Why do you have a torture chamber?"
"I didn't," Camille's words were soft. "It used to be where I'd go if I needed somewhere away from the world. It was a very quiet, very peaceful place."
Noe frowned but didn't respond, instead tilting his head back. Neither spoke as Camille pushed past him and headed to the door, slipping his shoes on. At this rate, they'd barely get to the funeral on time. He didn't like being late. He'd just been preoccupied with other things. He slipped on his shoes and left the apartment, and heard the annoyed hey of Noe as he realised he was being left behind. It wasn't until he was nearly at the last floor that Noe came jogging behind him, long legs having caused him to catch up easily. Neither spoke as they left and headed to Noe's car. In an unspoken agreement, Noe passed the keys to Camille.
"If we're late, your mum is going to kill you herself."
Camille made a sound of agreement as he got behind the wheel and waited until Noe was in the car before he pulled out of the parking lot and began to drive. His fingers drummed idly against the steering wheel and he glanced a little too frequently to the rearview mirror, a frown on his face. It was a comfortable sort of silence that they held between themselves, the sort that they often had.
"Who's going?" asked Noe after a while, as they grew closure to where they were supposed to meet the family.
"Aside from my actual family?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Whoever was close to him."
"You didn't check?"
"I've been busy."
Noe frowned as he got out of the car after Camille, following like a lost puppy. "What have you been doing? Sitting in your basement," there was a sound of annoyance from Camille, "doing nothing? I'll be right back, I have the overwhelming urge to go nowhere near your family until none of them will look at me."
"You're not responsible for this," his heart wasn't quite in the reassurance. "No-one's angry at you, Noe. You're as much a victim as this family is. Your father's dead too."
"And my brother has literally ruined everything."
Camille shrugged and glanced at him from the corner of his eye, before he began to approach the rest of the family. It was hard to remember that he wasn't the Underboss anymore; he was the Godfather, no matter how young he was. He adjusted his tie idly and realised, with no amount of surprise, that Noe had left his side. That meant that he was more alone than he thought. Awesome, he thought, a little more bitterly than he would've liked. He did not smile. Truth be told, he hadn't even wanted to come; a funeral felt like a final thing, like it was confirmation.
Something in him wanted desperately for his father to be alive, but the sheer amount of blood that had been found at the scene told him that it was an impossible hope.