Why Life's a Joke 1/2 [Fanfiction]
Title: Why Life's a JokeAuthor: marinoa
Rating: T
Characters / Pairing: England, France, FrUK
Sumary: Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy are simply trying to live their respective lives, but apparently someone up there has decided not to make it easy for them. FrUK, oneshot, AU.
or
How Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy Got Acquainted with One Another
The car wreck most definitely was not Arthur's fault.
To begin with, just using the term 'car wreck' was plain exaggeration. More suitable expression would be a 'silly mishap', or a 'tiny accident' at most, and even those expressions were stretching it. That was because, first, the mishap had happened on a remote road somewhere in the countryside where hardly anyone ever even drove, universal damage thus being practically zero; and second, only a nitpicker would say that a couple of scratches on a car were the end of the world. Funnily though, the other counterpart of the incident seemed to differ from Arthur's opinion - apparently he was one of the said idiots.
“Putain idiot, ce que l'enfer pensiez-vous?” the driver, a young man, yelled as he emerged from his damaged Citroën like an angry wasp of its nest.
And that was the third and the biggest reason why the whole thing was not Arthur's fault: it had happened in France. So how on earth would Arthur, pray tell, be the one to blame if the whole nation had no idea of on which side of the road they should really be driving? The accident was not Arthur's fault and so he would claim until the Judgement Day - end of the matter.
“There's no need to be yelling like that,” he retorted instead - in English, of course. He had not lived in France long enough to be using the language on daily basis; he only deigned to switch to French if English wasn't understood (not that his French was always quite understood, either).
“Anglais?” The French driver scoffed, his piercing blue eyes shooting icicles at Arthur. “Of course, that explains this perfectly.”
Clearly, this particular Frenchman was definitely of the worst kind. “Excuse me?” Arthur asked, anger instantly flaring within him. Had the driver been a little politer, the Englishman might have considered admitting that he might have turned on a wrong lane, but this Frenchman was visibly asking for it.
“I do understand if you Englishmen want to flee your pathetic rainy little island,” the man continued in his disgustingly French accent, his arms flailing around as he vented, “but stay out of the cultured world until you learn how civilised people drive, sil'vous plait!”
“What?” Arthur couldn't believe his ears. That fucker had some nerve! “That's pretty insolent, coming from a slimy frog like yourself!”
“At least I can drive! Look at my car now!”
“What's there to look at? Yes, it's a bit scratched. Is it my fault that you don't know on which side of the road you should drive?”
“A bit scratched, you say? Merde, my front door is practically inside the car now!”
“Quit acting as if the world just ended and be happy that the scratch is on the passenger's side!”
“Oh, I am very happy indeed,” the Frenchman uttered venomously through his gritted teeth. Arthur could see that his fists were trembling in suppressed anger. “And if you decline your guiltiness in the matter and refuse to pay for the damage, we are taking this to the police.”
That was how Arthur Kirkland first met Francis Bonnefoy.
xXx
France is all love and sunshine, they said - you will love it and it will love you. Oh right, love must be fucking miserable if that's what this is.
Perhaps in summer there was sunshine and love, but in the darkest month of winter, there certainly wasn't. It was cold, either raining or snowing, the roads were slippery, the people wore grumpy expressions on their faces whenever they were out (Arthur's own grumpy face was just one among the others), and it felt like sun was a distant myth, if even that. True, in England, the weather wasn't much better, but at least it would be in England and thus perfectly normal and cosy. But this was France, which was marketed as the nest of sunshine and love, so Arthur should get his money back for an awful weather like that.
As his demands were not exactly taken seriously, he settled for the second best option: a bottle of wine to keep him company and help him imagine that it was English ice on which he slipped every now and then.
The local grocery shop was on a verge of closing when Arthur hurried in for his precious wine, and it appeared he wasn't the only one on such a mission; the wine shelf was crowded with last-minute purchasers. Apparently even frogs couldn't tolerate their own country without alcohol, the Englishman noted with grim satisfaction. Now, should he have some red or white wine, or go for some whisky? Settling for some red wine (perhaps the French climate was messing with his head), Arthur pushed himself into the crowd with his deliberate elbow technique.
When the bottle of choice was safe in his gloved hands and he turned to leave, something caught his foot and he stumbled. Fortunately he managed to keep his balance - but the bottle slipped from his hands and crashed on the floor.
Or maybe not quite on the floor - it landed partly on someone's foot. Arthur saw in slow motion how the glass bottle broke and the red liquid splashed around, decorating the white trousers of the unlucky victim of the accident in red. Well, blimey. Arthur heard the man yelp and raised his eyes to his face - and froze.
“Merde! Regarder où vous allez! Vous avez ruiné mon pantalon!”
Fuck it, Arthur thought. I should have taken the whiskey.
It was the man from the little car accident a fortnight or so ago. When the Englishman raised his eyes to the Frenchman's face, the man, too, froze for a second in recognition. “You!” he then cried in both disbelief and anger. “Well now this makes sense! First you ruin my car, then you ruin my expensive trousers! Have you decided to make my life miserable, or is it just how you Englishmen are?”
“I have no interest in your miserable life whatsoever, it isn't even worth ruining!” Arthur countered, embarrassment turning into irritation. Once again, he would have apologised... had this man not overreacted again. But no, this Frenchie could apparently bring the worst out of him. “How about you quit coming in my way all the time?”
“Coming in your way? Do you think I'm doing this on purpose?”
“You seem to enjoy yelling and whining so much that I wouldn't be surprised.”
The situation might have escalated into an outright fistfight, but that was when the two men were interrupted by a worker of the shop.
“Monsieur, excuse me, but you need to pay for the broken bottle.”
“And my trousers,” the fucking frog muttered.
“I don't give a shit about your trousers, it was an accident,” Arthur snapped at him; he wasn't in a particularly good mood at the moment. It wasn't that he had money to waste on every broken bottle or ruined trousers every day.
In the end he paid for the lost wine, for whiskey he decided to have instead and grudgingly also for the wine of the whiny Frenchman to make him shut up.
Yes, Arthur definitely hated France.
xXx
Marianne was doing it on purpose, he knew. She was bitter and angry at Francis, and took every little chance to get revenge on him for breaking up with her. Francis knew she wasn't particularly sad about them not being together any more, it was just her pride that had been wounded because he had broken up with her before she had mustered enough determination to do so herself. And now she was making him pay for it.
It had been almost two months since Marianne had moved out, but she had been decidedly slow in taking her stuff away just to spite Francis, and, just like now, she used him to carry some things for her. “Oh, Francis, could you please bring me the box with my books? It appears I need them now and my brother can't help with it right now so could you carry them to my place?” And Francis, not one to leave a lady in distress (despite knowing perfectly well what she was up to - but he would not let it be said that he was a fucker when it came to partners or ex-partners), was to humour her. Too bad Marianne knew that his car was still being repaired, so he had to use public transportation to get to her apartment, which was a shitty job when carrying a heavy box of heavy books. Besides, the ground was slippery, so carrying heavy things was a bit tricky.
Getting off the bus with some trouble but surprisingly gracefully nonetheless, Francis started towards the block-of-flats where Marianne had moved. It wasn't that house, not that either, it should be right...
“Damn her...” Francis muttered as he saw a staircase, too long for his liking, going down to the inner yard, where the entrance to the building was. That woman was evil. For a fleeting moment Francis entertained a thought of sending the box with books down the stairs on their own accord and letting Marianne pick them up by herself, but then a man walking ahead of him turned to go down the stairs, and so Marianne was saved the trouble; Francis didn't want to knock anyone off with the heavy box, did he? So, with a heavy sigh, the Frenchman took a better hold of his burden and went after the man.
Hold on a second... Francis frowned. Was there something familiar about that man? Due to his winter attire, it was hard to tell, and he had his back towards the Frenchman anyway.
And then the inevitable happened.
It was an accident; Francis took yet one step down, but treacherous winter had left a particularly icy cover right where he was about to set his foot. The moment he put his whole weight on it, he slipped and his feet gave away beneath the extra weight of books. Francis had quick reflexes and managed to prevent himself from falling by grabbing the railing, but the heavy box started sliding down the stairs, accelerating into faster speed. “Faire attention!” Francis shouted to the man, but apparently he didn't hear him, so the Frenchman could only watch how the box with books hit the man in lower calves, mid-step. The impact threw the unfortunate man out of balance and made him fall backwards on top of the box, accompanied by a surprised yelp. Fortunately, he didn't hit his head, but he seemed to have landed on his wrist in an attempt to stop himself from falling.
“Merde,” Francis cursed, running down the stairs to check on the man. “Êtes-vous blessé? Je suis désolé!”
“Bloody hell,” the man cursed to himself and Francis froze on his tracks. That voice, it couldn't be..?
The man looked around and saw Francis. Suddenly his green orbs fuelled up with angry recognition. “You?”
Francis stood wordless, staring down at the already familiar Englishman. How on earth did he keep bumping into that man everywhere he went?
The Englishman yanked small earphones out of his ears - so that's why he hadn't heard Francis' warning - and glared at the Frenchman with fiery eyes. “You!” he repeated in rather visible rage. “If this is your way of getting back at me for your car, you, you sodding-!”
Francis found his voice again - that man was not to yell at him! “I wouldn't descend that low, monsieur,” he retorted coldly. “This was purely an accident. I slipped.”
“Oh right, so you just slipped,” the Englishman mimicked in a very annoying manner and winced, holding his wrist. Francis saw him tentatively wiggling his fingers and felt a pang of guilt; the Englishman was intolerable, yes, but the Frenchman didn't want to be responsible for any broken bones. Reluctantly, he reached his hand to the Englishman. “Here.”
“Fuck off.”
Francis' eyebrow twitched. He was trying to be nice there! “You make me wish I had knocked you off with the box on purpose,” he informed the man sweetly. “Now would you be so kind as to get off my box, I need to take it somewhere.”
Grumbling, the Englishman did get up, and Francis couldn't help noticing how he was shy of his right hand. Oh well, he could move his fingers just fine earlier, so it couldn't be that bad... could it? “Be my guest,” the man muttered venomously. “Just be sure to stay away from me, you frog bastard.”
“Then stop getting in my way, rosbif,” Francis retorted, quoting the Englishman's own words from the last time they had met.
“I live here, so you do all the staying away!”
Great, so the insolent Englishman lived so near Marianne? “With more pleasure than you can imagine,” Francis snapped in reply, taking the box in his arms again. Fortunately tape had kept it from opening even during its ride down the stairs - otherwise the grumpy Englishman would have been put to collect the books himself, hurt wrists or no.
The Englishman turned without another word and marched to the block-of-flats on their right, soon disappearing into the building. Francis entered the opposite building, to Marianne.
Wonderful. Now Francis had two reasons to avoid that particular neighbourhood.
xXx
In general, Francis Bonnefoy enjoyed his life. He was young and healthy, he had a good job with a nice pay, a perfect house in a friendly neighbourhood in his smallish town, some very good friends, and while life had called his two best friends back to their respective countries - one to Spain and one to Germany - they still kept in touch and were closer than ever. Francis had everything he could ask for, and he was happy. Everything was near perfect.
Everything, except for one damned Englishman, who had apparently taken it his mission to pop up when least expected and ruin Francis' days. He had done so almost thrice already (yes, fine, Francis did admit that the third time had been his own fault, but it didn't count), so it was only natural and expected that the rosbif would strike again.
That's why, when the lift suddenly jerked to an abrupt stop, Francis' eyes immediately flew on a certain man, who just happened to be in the very same lift with him.
Francis had no idea how the Englishman had done it, but it was definitely his doing. All had gone well and smoothly - Francis had stepped into an empty lift in the local shopping centre, but when it stopped on the next floor to get more people in, just who walked in with a crowd if not the Frenchman's very own nemesis? Their eyes had locked almost instantly after the doors closed, and after that there was no escape; they were forced to share the ride until the lift would reach its destination a couple of floors above. Which it never would, as Francis was to realise when suddenly, with no apparent reason, the lift simply stopped between the third and the fourth floor.
As soon as the Frenchman realised what had had happened, he shot a murderous glare at the green-eyed Englishman - to find that the man had done exactly the same. “You,” the Englishman's eyes seemed to message, though Francis couldn't see what right he had to complain; after all, it was clearly the Englishman who attracted all bad luck. Francis countered that glare with all his might, the pointedly looked away. Had there not been other people in the lift with them, he might have (would have) made some sort of remark of the Englishman's clear ability of ruining other people's lives, but as they were not alone, the Frenchman was too tactful to open his mouth.
Other people trapped in the lift, of course, had no such reasons to remain silent. Exclamations in French immediately filled the small cabin.
“What is this?”
“I don't have time for this now..!”
“That's it! I'm going on a strike if-”
“What is the cause of this?”
On hearing the last question, Francis couldn't restrain himself. “Maybe some of us have a habit of causing accidents,” was what slipped through his lips, and he cast an innocent look at the Englishman standing in the other corner of the cabin. He saw those thin lips tighten and marked the narrowing of those emerald eyes, and smirked triumphantly. His comment earned him some polite but cheerless laughter, but suddenly the Englishman's voice rose above the empty laughter.
“Or maybe some of us have a habit of attracting accidents.”
Others chuckled politely at his utterance, too, but not Francis. He was too awe-struck.
He didn't know why it struck him so hard that the Englishman could speak French - and not even that bad French, either, despite his stiff accent - but it was weird to hear him speak the language. Maybe it was because so far, Francis had only heard him speak English, or perhaps because he didn't expect native English-speakers knowing any other languages but their own. Whatever it was, surprise prevented the Frenchman from coming up with another retort, and he remained quiet, only glaring at his nemesis. The Englishman instead visibly averted his eyes as much as possible, not adding anything to the general conversation in the lift.
That was before the lifted jerked slightly up and then down an inch or three. Everyone in the cabin was taken by surprise and therefore had trouble keeping their balance during such antics of the lift. Some of the people yelped - and there was one particular yelp that caught everyone's attention over the others.
“Fuck!”
Fuck. Plain, clear, and a very English word. Francis saw how nearly all in the cabin looked around to see which one of them was the foreigner... the English outsider. Francis found that sort of hilarious and smugly fixed his eyes on the Englishman. See? he said with his eyes, I'm not the only one who thinks you guilty.
But he was more right than what he had thought. One elderly woman waved her cane at the frowning Englishman. “Are you English?” she asked, ironically, in French. “Did you do this?”
The Englishman straightened proudly his posture and looked defiantly at the old woman. “Yes, I'm English,” he answered, and again, in French. But this time it seemed that he was making his English accent as plain to hear as possible. Francis frowned. “But it is rather silly to suspect me guilty for this. As if I would sabotage a lift that I'm in myself.”
The old woman was relentless. “Then who do you claim did this, if not you?” she demanded. Francis tried to hide his amusement, and he saw some of the other people smiling as well. Old people sure were entertaining sometimes.
The Englishman rolled his eyes. “Umm, I don't know, perhaps it's an accident?” He looked at the woman. “Or perhaps someone went on a strike again, as you French people tend to do,” he added bitingly.
The elderly woman gasped, and Francis noted that his fellow French passengers in the lift dropped their smiles. Whoops, the Englishman was taking it to the dangerous waters. Good, maybe it would teach him a lesson.
Before anyone else could utter a word, the Englishman continued, nailing his eyes on Francis'. “Or maybe someone here tries to make me seem guilty.”
Oh, so? The insolent little-
“And why would anyone do that?” the old woman snapped.
The Englishman was now clearly on the defensive. He saw that everyone was now listening to their conversation - and that he was alone on his side. “Perhaps to compensate for...” the man cut himself off, apparently realising that he had been about to say something that French people would not like to hear. At least that's how Francis interpreted his sudden hesitation. The Englishman swallowed and began again, “Perhaps someone here holds a grudge against me.”
“And for a reason,” Francis heard himself mutter. He hadn't meant for it to come out loud, but judging of the faces around him, he indeed had spoken out.
“Has this man offended you?” the old woman asked him angrily, waving her cane at the Englishman again.
“Hiding behind an old woman's skirts, are you?” the Englishman asked mockingly, switching to English. Francis frowned. This man... this man!
“I'm hiding nowhere,” he uttered, switching to English as well without even noticing it. “And you'd better watch your mouth.”
“First you nearly break my wrist, and now you are threatening me?”
“I'm not threatening you, you imbecile!” Francis snapped. “I'm just saying that there are a lot of people present that you might in fact insult!”
“And how is that not a threat?”
“And stop whining about your wrist! Have you forgotten what you did to my car? I only recently got it back, finally repaired! And you ruined my trousers with wine!”
“Well excuse me-”
“Can you deny it?” Francis shot. “Are you cursed or something? Or have you cursed me?”
“I wish I had!” Fury flamed in the bright green eyes of the Englishman. “This is why I hate the French, you always-”
He cut himself off, apparently realising that he had said a bit too much. Francis looked around; every pair of eyes was now on the Englishman, and none of them had a friendly look in them.
“We what?” one dark-haired man demanded in English, visibly angered by the insolent Englishman.
“I- I mean-”
“Yes, you mean what?” the young man's girlfriend joined in. Francis started unwillingly pitying the Englishman - he was clearly realising that he was in a lift with a bunch of angry Frenchmen with no way to escape. The old woman waved her cane threateningly towards the Englishman.
“I'm starting to believe that it indeed is your fault that this lift stopped,” the dark-haired Frenchman uttered to the Englishman.
“And I'm starting to think that you are even more idiotic than what I had previously thought.”
Well, at least the Englishman stood his ground. Even though it was rather stupid at the moment. The atmosphere in the lift was starting to intensify, and Francis didn't really look forward to possible fist fights in so cramped a space with people he didn't know.
“You will pay for what you just said!” The dark-haired Frenchman seemed to really lose his temper (not that Francis could blame him) and stepped towards the Englishman. Okay, that was enough.
“Just let it be,” Francis said, placing his hand on the man's shoulder. He had a look of a thug in his eyes, and Francis didn't like that.
“Why are you defending him?” the man demanded angrily.
Francis held up his hands, appalled that such a thought had even crossed the man's mind. “I'm not defending anyone, I'm simply suggesting we avoid any fights here.”
“Didn't you hear what he said?” The man had now switched to French.
“Jacques, stop,” his girlfriend tried to soothe him, but he shrugged her hand off.
“Don't let his words provoke you,” Francis returned, starting to get exasperated. “You are just proving yourself to be the idiot that he says you are.”
“Are you a Frenchman or a pussy?” the man introduced as Jacques demanded. “Do I need to beat you up as well?” And he made a motion to punch Francis.
“Hey!” the Englishman exclaimed angrily.
“Jacques, calm down!” his girlfriend yelled.
At that point, others joined the quarrel, too.
“I do not like your language, young man,” the elderly lady said sharply, pointing her cane now at the dark-haired man as a couple of other men made to position themselves between this Jacques and Francis.
“He is right,” someone said, gesturing to Francis. “There is nothing to fight about.”
“We should calm down. This lift is just getting on our nerves, that's all.”
And so, Jacques was calmed and Arthur was forgotten by all except Francis. The Englishman had his back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest in a protective manner, and he kept warily eyeing everyone from under his huge eyebrows. Before Francis even knew it, he found himself walking to the Englishman's side.
“What do you want,” the Englishman asked him in English when he leant his back against the wall beside him. Francis looked at him with a frown. “You know, I very nearly got punched because of you,” he said.
“That's your own fault. Keep out of other people's business.”
“It's a little bit hard in a space like this.”
“Besides, you were the one who started this all by throwing your accusations at me in the first place.”
Francis considered it for a moment and came to the conclusion that the Englishman was actually right, at least partly. “But you nearly got yourself into a fight only because you couldn't shut your mouth when you should have,” he pointed out.
“And I repeat, you did exactly the same by joining in.”
“He was going to beat you up.”
The Englishman gave him an odd, questionable look, and Francis realised how his words must have sounded. “I mean,” he quickly added, “that I just wanted to prevent a fight. Everyone would have been dragged in eventually in such a tiny space.”
“Right.”
“Yeah.”
“You know,” Francis said slowly, more merely thinking aloud than intentionally talking to the Englishman, “We were quite close to being on the same side at the end.”
The green-eyed blond beside him shifted his weight from one leg to another and huffed. Francis got a feeling that he was fumbling for words, and realised that he himself had no idea how to continue the conversation (if it could be called that).
That was when the lift jerked and started moving again, saving the two men from a threatening awkward silence. Several people started to cheer, and in half a minute the lift stopped on the right floor and the doors opened normally.
Both Francis and the Englishman exited the lift silently, avoiding each other's gazes and doing a good job at pretending that the other didn't exist.
xXx
He was there, again. Couldn't a fortnight pass without chance throwing the grumpy Englishman in Francis' way? Or maybe it wasn't chance, maybe it was fate. Maybe it was some twisted way of Lady Fate enjoying herself. Maybe Francis was destined to spend the rest of his life being forced to endure frowns and obscenities of a certain angry Englishman.
This time, it happened in a grocery store. And, mind you, in a grocery store that wasn't even anywhere near the Englishman's apartment - so what was he doing there? He had no right to be shopping in Francis' corner store.
They had glimpsed one another at the same time. The Englishman had nearly dropped the carton of milk he had been holding, and Francis had been very close to bumping into another customer. Neither of them had uttered a word, and both did their best to pretend the other was not there. Francis had turned around and taken a different route to the shelf with spices, leaving the Englishman to his milk, determined to finish his shopping quickly. The Frenchman didn't need much, thank the Lord, so it would take only one minute for him to be out of the store and safe from the Englishman's curse. Besides, his date was waiting for him at the door, and Francis would rather die than ruin his chances with her by letting her see that he was plagued by an English curse.
He had already chosen the wine, now all he needed was cinnamon. Stealing a glance around the aisle to make sure he was safe, Francis quickly grabbed the first package of the sweet spice and headed for the cash desk. The queue was short, and Francis saw his date through the glass door of the shop - apparently she had gone out to wait.
Several people joined the queue behind the Frenchman, and a quick glance showed that the Englishman was among them, separated from Francis by only four or five people. He was clearly avoiding looking at the Frenchman, and Francis resolved for the same strategy. If he couldn't see the Englishman, perhaps he wouldn't be there.
The queue moved quickly, and it was his turn to pay. The cashier gave him a charming smile and announced the price of his purchases. Francis returned the smile and reached for his back pocked, where he had stuffed the note of twenty Euros, but as his fingers fumbled in the pocket, the note kept escaping him. Frowning, Francis tried his other pocket - to find it empty, as well. Non, it wasn't possible... He had stuffed the note in his pocket before leaving home, he surely had, so where was it now? Puzzled and growing embarrassed, Francis looked around to see if he had dropped the money on the floor, but saw nothing of the blue note.
“I had it right here in the pocket,” he muttered, half as an explanation to the waiting cashier and the queuing people, half to assure himself. Damn it, why did leave his wallet at home?
“Francis?” He raised his eyes to see his date entering the shop.
“One minute,” he told her hastily. “I'll be right outside.” Damn him if he would ever ask his date to pay for anything!
“I'll be waiting in the car, I need to call someone,” she answered and left, leaving Francis relieved that she would not be witnessing his moment of shame.
“I'm sorry,” he began saying to the cashier, but then he heard a quiet 'ahem' behind himself. He turned around to see none other than his nemesis the Englishman. Of course! So that's why he had lost his money - it was the Englishman's doing. “What do you want?” he angrily asked the short-haired blond in English.
The forest-green eyes of the said blond met his glare, but instead of saying anything to Francis, the Englishman stretched his hand to the cashier, passing something over to her. “Here,” he said to her, and then, without looking at Francis, added to the Frenchman, “You can keep the change.”
“What?” Francis turned to look at the cashier again and saw her counting the change for him. He turned to look at the Englishman again, but he had already resumed his previous place in the queue and returned to avoiding Francis' eyes.
“Here,” the cashier said, giving him the change from a twenty-Euro note. “Next please.”
And so Francis found himself standing behind the cash desk, more dumbfounded than ever, some coins in one of his hands and his purchases in the other. What had just happened? The Englishman, the Englishman, his sworn nemesis, had helped him out? Really? Unsure of what to do, Francis just stood there, trying to catch the Englishman's eyes to at least thank him, but the green-eyed blond kept pointedly looking elsewhere. Fine, Francis said to himself, then I will wait here for you. But he wasn't even sure himself why exactly he wanted to wait for the Englishman. To thank him, sure, but...
the door to the shop opened and Alexandrie, his date for the night, peeked in. “Oh, you are ready,” she said cheerily. “Come then, there is a beautiful sunset outside!”
That was when the green eyes finally turned to Francis, but before the Frenchman could even nod to the Englishman, Alexandrie grabbed his arm and dragged him out, starting to talk about photographing beautiful scenarios.
Francis didn't hear her. He got a weird feeling that something irreversible had happened, that he had somehow come to a turning point of something, but of what, he couldn't say. The feeling was somewhat disturbing, and he couldn't shrug it off for the rest of the evening.
xXx
Part 2