Only the day before Francis, in a swish of black cashmere and cigarette smoke, had brushed past me in a corridor. For a moment, as his arm touched mine, he was a creature of flesh and blood, but the next he was a hallucination again, a figment of the imagination stalking down the hallway as heedless of me as ghosts, in their shadowy rounds, are said to be heedless of the living.

A/N: Here, I've gathered a collection of what I deem to be Francis in his concealed gloom and transient love for his [desired] significant other.
tumblr: http://ohrossum.tumblr.com/post/128981200820/the-secret-history-fanmixes-francis-abernathy

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