The Corpse of Value [England][HalloweenEvent2]

[Deleted]

Door number two it was. As he and the other nations were drawn in to open their designated doors, it was clear that this gathering was not for a ballroom dance. That was disappointing. Francis had little desire to open the door before him, or to know what was behind all of the doors that the others were opening. Did any of them stop to check that they might be trapped in the ballroom of all places now? Their could be creatures of all sorts hiding behind these doors, determined to turn this ballroom gathering into a bloodbath. His mouth twitched to a grimace at that idea and he decided that he would keep his eyes ahead.

Cautious steps brought him closer to the mystery door. One of his hands laid on his rapier to pull it free - if anything, that blade always served as a small comfort for him - and the other hand extended to wrap hesitant fingers around the doorknob. He pulled it open, using his eyes before he would try and step inside. A scope around the room showed no immediate thread. There was no dark figure in there waiting for him, so that was one starting relief. He opened the door wider, cursing the creak of its hinges, and moved closer. Naturally, there were shadows that swallowed each corner of the room - but rather than paying attention to that, his eyes were drawn instead to the pedestal standing perfectly at center.

In a whim he let go of the door, keeping it open as he immersed himself inside the room, crossing what distance there was to reach that pedestal. A compass and nothing else lay on its flat surface, looking to be genuine and functioning upon first impression. If all of those other doors hadn't contained the same prize, then perhaps this one was unique and meant to be picked up by its finder - so hopefully he should not have to worry so much about traps. He picked the compass up, lifting it closer to his face to inspect it. It had been so long since he's had one of these. They've lost importance now that there is technology in their place, but it was a relief to have one here of all places. He tapped gently at the glass, turning the device to ensure that the arrow knows where North is. Being aware of which direction was where didn't seem too significant right now, but perhaps it would be of better use to him outside.

He turned to check that the door hadn't closed on him, quickly exiting out of it and back to the main ballroom. There were no longer fifteen other nations in the room, that was for sure. Whatever was happening in the other rooms did not all seem to incite happy reactions. Francis decided not to investigate, holding his compass as if it were a treasure to go heading out the main door.

[England]

As useless as a carved pumpkin seemed to be for him, Arthur wasn't the type to be wasteful. He took the thing up in his arms off it's pedestal to carry it from the room. The glow emitting from its jagged teeth and eyes illuminated the way for him, chasing away the press of shadows that were too deep for his liking. If anything, the Jack-O'-Lantern would provide something to chat to once he'd spirited it back to his current bunker. The thing was almost too large for him to manage. Arthur's face was tense with effort as he kept trying to bounce the pumpkin up higher in his grip to avoid dropping it.

It seemed wise to distance himself as quickly as possible from the ballroom. While there was plenty of opportunities to reconnect with allies, too many of them gathered together seemed to lure trouble. He wanted no part in that. And Arthur had been distracted enough by the spectacle that he had not even taken the time to see who else might have been present in that space to begin with. There might not have even been a friendly face in that crowd.

The Englishman turned around the corner of the corridor as he began hurriedly retracing his steps back in the direction of the Gentleman's Parlour, as he had designated it in his own mind. His forward momentum halted on the spot as Arthur nearly collided with a body traveling in the other direction. He juggled the burdensome weight of the pumpkin for as long as he could before his grip slipped entirely and the thing went tumbling down with a decisive 'splat!' on the floor.

Arthur frowned down at his fallen friend. It really would have made for good company. He could have talked to it openly without having to worry about it having any contrary opinions -- or so he hoped. His head snapped up with scathing words sharpening themselves on the tip of his tongue, quieting when he recognized who it was he had almost crashed into. Arthur's face went slack with disbelief to find Francis there filling the space directly in front of him.

His throat didn't want to operate. It seemed in league with his tongue that had swollen up in his mouth. When he did finally get them operable, his voice leaked out of him in a low-voiced gasp that suited his surprise with this reunion. "You didn't... I had feared you drowned in the deluge. Or am I...? Is this a hallucination brought on by that room and that strangely generous gift?"

He didn't want to jinx it. Arthur believed that at any second, this would dissolve into an illusion, and that the image of Francis would vanish right in front of his eyes like a treacherous mirage. His arm lifted from where it remained suspended, emptied of the weight of that pumpkin, to bring his hand further out. The Englishman's fingers twitched in the air, halting as they reached out to grip upon the sleeve of the Frenchman's clothes to test for himself the reality of its presence.

Once he was sure it was valid, Arthur's grip clutched tight to it; a tether to keep Francis from disappearing. He was embarrassed by the fact he was trembling beyond that unshakeable hold on that fabric. Arthur wasn't sure if he should be relieved, angry, or overjoyed. The result was a mixture of all those emotions that shook him to his core. "I was worried about you. You damned bearded fiend! I nearly took ill with concern that you'd gone and drowned like a common prat, and here you are fine as can be!"

[Deleted]

That near head-on collision startled him as much as it seemed to startle the other body - though most of that was owed to the sudden drop of heavy weight nearby their feet. He might have taken interest in it if it weren't for the face presented there before him. His swift walking had come to a full halt, hands hovering as if they hadn't any idea what to do with themselves now. He had a considerably more valuable gift in his possession, though its worth was temporarily dulled in comparison to Arthur's presence. He noticed the man's shift in expression, which most notably meant that he was about to go off about whatever he felt like going off on this time - fittingly in this situation, Francis was usually the blunt of it either way.

And for once, that had him grinning. He waited for those nasty words or whether Arthur's reaction would change once the realization dawned upon him. He listened to the man speak - in a voice contrary to what he was almost expecting to hear - and realized how this felt to reflect on the situation they had been in earlier. The first time he ran into Arthur, he couldn't believe whether he was real or not either. That reunion was just about as powerful as this one felt. He wanted to throw himself upon the man in his own glee for seeing him alive, but he kept himself collected.

After having survived all of that, he felt this a better time than any to prove himself strong and unscathed. Maybe enough to show off for the Englishman.

The tight vice of Arthur's hand on his clothes was overwhelming, only making him want to keep the man comforted. "I am not an 'allucination," he murmured, aware of how unstable those hands were as they clutched him. "I promise you I didn't allow any water to drag me down yet."

He went to move forward just as Arthur finished his speaking, which brought to his attention the mass of pumpkin that barred his way. He glanced down at it, making a sound of discontent before pushing it aside with the curve of his boot. That enabled him to fully close the distance between himself and Arthur, an opportunity of which he took advantage. His hands lifted to close themselves around the Englishman's cheek, pulling his face close so that he could seal their lips together. The kiss was sound and lasted long enough for both of them to confirm that they had each other once more.

That smile of his was ever so apparent after he'd pulled back from that affection He didn't let go of Arthur's cheeks, peering warmly into green eyes just as he continued to speak - his words confident and alive in their tone. Even if he had to force that out, he did want to make sure he could reassure the other man and relieve him of his worries.

"I'm sorry you were so worried. We made it quite far wizout letting anyzing separate us, didn't we? Just as we promised. I feared I would wake up wizout you and, voila - I was as worried as you are." He straightened, releasing the man's face after one last stroke to his cheek. "I look better zan I could be looking right now, oui? I toughed it zrough everyzing in zat flood, zough I suppose zis 'ere is not too fitting on me." One of his hands then gestured to the cut on his head, hidden behind locks of dried hair.

"But nevermind zat. I've found us a compass just now.. Where were you 'eaded in such a 'urry?"

[England]

Francis had clearly built up an immunity to the Englishman's ranting nature. The fact that he countered his complaints with a grin left Arthur's internal wheels spinning. What he didn't know was that this behaviour from the Frenchman was precisely what he needed to calm the turbulent nature of his current emotions. Having Francis so calm left Arthur wondering if perhaps he were too keyed up by this reunion; it might not have been as significant to the older man as it was to him.

There's so much to tell you, He thought to himself as he gazed into dancing blue eyes, fearful that his own experiences might show through that link. I killed Germany. I suffered in the company of my brothers. I very nearly died, and all on the way back here to you.

Naturally, he kept those comments to himself. How could he possibly articulate to Francis how much he had experienced when they had only been a short time apart? There was no guarantee that the Frenchman would believe him. He likely already seemed half mad from his rambling in these last few minutes. Worse yet to consider how Francis might respond if he heard the full story. Being rejected would devastate him.

He was spared from swimming in his guilt when the Frenchman approached him, the man's lips silencing the rest of his concerns. Arthur changed the grasp he had on fabric to spread his fingers in a gentler clutch, face upturned and mouth pressing strong into that kiss. His energy was entirely too restless even in the growing calm that descended over him from the affection. Like a battery too full surging to release the excess. He fed that through their kiss until the trembling of his hands had finally stopped, fingers once again steadied.

That peace came just in time since Francis was parting from him with a smile that made Arthur's heart leap with a surge of joy. Reunited. Finally. And what a road back it had been so far. His hands rose to take a careful hold on the Frenchman's head shortly after his face was released, guiding the angle of it to view the cut that Francis indicated on his scalp. "It doesn't look all that bad. I could clean it if it bothers you. There's a place where I have been going -- a safe place, thus far."

Arthur looked down to the compass in the clutch of a palm. It did seem like such a thing should be valuable when this place was so adept at confusing them all. Could they use it to find a way out? He slid his hands down from the Frenchman's head to touch upon his shoulders to deliver a firm, grateful squeeze. "You're a right sight luckier than myself. All I ended up with was this pumpkin. I suppose it might be useful if I can harvest it for food. Do you want to return with me to my little safe haven?"

He was suddenly eager to show Francis how much he had transformed the Parlour to make it comfortable. Just the fire that he kept constantly lit would be an improvement over the dark, dreary corridor they currently stood in. Arthur forced his hands away from the Frenchman's shoulder to stoop and pick up his own prize from the floor. Surprisingly, despite having been dropped, the thing still retained that menacing smile. It was struggled around to fit awkwardly in one arm. His other reached to form a secure link with the Frenchman's. If another force of nature came to sweep them apart then he was determined to keep that connection.

"And while we're on our way there, you can tell me all what you've been keeping yourself occupied with in my absence."

[Deleted]

Having not moved an inch from Arthur's vicinity, even after they parted from each other, it was clear to see through that close connection of eyes that Arthur had a heaping weight of something on his shoulder. As heavy a burden, or several burdens, that he had himself. From what he knew so far, weeks could have passed since they saw one another last. They could have gone through a number of trials that all ended miraculously in life - as if they were unconsciously destined to stay alive for this reunion to happen.

He had a number of things that he was less self-conscious to share, but his priority was seeing to it that Arthur had calmed from that brief swell of anger. The other's tone seemed to have thankfully relaxed, and Francis tensed to feel those fingers so close to where that wound been opened; but they were no longer trembling and that was another sign to relieve him. Cleaning his wound did sound like a right idea, but even he could hold his well-being aside if only just to pay attention to the more important matters at hand; everything Arthur had to say.

He angled his head back into a more suitable position, hearing himself scoff at the mention of a safe zone. "I did not find you in any promising room like zat. I must 'ave been in all ze wrong places." He wished he had known that at the start of this, provided with reassurance that Arthur had found somewhere safe - even if he had not been destined to stay there as well, it would have freed him of one particularly overbearing worry.

The cool touch of the compass had already warmed in the clutch of Francis's skin, held onto solely for its useful potential. He thought he had been faring fine without one so far, but perhaps now he would be more likely to remember where things were and from where he had come. He was even further relieved to see he had not ended up with something like a questionable item of food - the thought of that made his nose crinkle a little. "You're going to trust a source of food like zat?" he muttered, briefly deterring himself from that more important matter he was supposed to be paying attention to. The touch of Arthur's hand making contact with his reminded him of how better an idea it sounded to be away with the other nation, and so his eyes swept upward to hold steadily with Arthur's.

"Of course," he responded quickly and with a more promising tone, finding the same smile he had shone before. That proved difficult now that his thoughts were back on track, sorting through just everything he had gone through on his way here - it was hard to believe that any of that could have happened in a short time. Even so, he had such a strong desire to ramble about every emotion he had just surged through that he would have no problem accepting that request.

He held onto Arthur's hand with equal strength, making for the exit just as he had been intending before their collision. He tried to keep his voice low, while assuring himself that Arthur was the only one who could hear him speak right now. "I must 'ave bumped into somezing while underwater. I almost didn't even notice it until now. But zen I ran into zis wretched.." his hands gestured in search of the correct description, "..multi-headed d-dog creature, I don't know. At anozer time, I was forced to some different room where my only exit was to kill ze ozer party. Zat's 'ow zey made it seem. I wasn't ready to go, Arthur, so Indonésie... Nesia is gone, stabbed straight zrough ze 'eart. Zey wanted to make a monster of me or somezing. Zey treat our past as if our losses and our wars were light, and zen zey offered me wine and I smashed zeir damn mirror." A long pause followed after that particular incident was reflected on, and then he tried hesitantly to continue on a lighter note, "...but my luck is not all ze worst, oui? I ran into my family. M-Matthieu seems to be doing alright, just so you are aware."

[England]

"I'm sorry. I should have sent you a signal somehow. To let you know where I could be found. I didn't think to do so because it ended so poorly for me the last time I tried it." Arthur said quietly, the tone of his voice pregnant with pained feelings. His hand tightened around the Frenchman's tight enough that it might have caused the other pain. He wasn't aware of it enough to judge his strength. "My brothers were drawn to my message when I attempted that and it did not end well. I would have thought here in this place they could be my allies or at least behave as kin. Unfortunately it's the same old hatred of me that they choose to cling to even in this dark place."

That was all he cared to say on the matter. Getting into the particulars of that reunion would cloud his joy over this one. He would need to spare Francis the usual moodiness if they were going to proceed without trouble. As tempting as it was to rant and rail to the Frenchman over the attitudes of his brothers, Arthur believed that Francis already knew the extent to which the Englishman was disliked by them. He had never attempted to hide his despair over that hopeless situation, nor did he advertise it. Yet Francis had a keener understanding of him than anyone else in this world. His grip went slack on the man's hand, the pads of his fingers massaging apologetic circles into the abused flesh. "I might not eat it, no. For all I know it could be infested by harmful vermin. Prussia had a harrowing experience thanks to one. An adventure that I was reluctantly dragged into against my better judgment. It seemed wrong to turn my back upon him, you know? Here, we must all be wise about making allies for the sake of our survival. And avoid those who would see us dead for the wrongs of our past. The forces behind this house of horrors appear to crave our deaths as it is."

Indeed, the pumpkin was becoming a burdensome weight in his arm. Francis's words were wise, and Arthur finally heeded them by dropping the thing once more to the ground. It likely wouldn't prove anywhere near as useful as a compass, after all. He rubbed his arm against his jacket in a scraping motion to chase away a lingering sensation of it being soiled by unpleasant residue. There would be a portrait staring at them within the safety of his sanctuary. Having a staring pumpkin would double the discomfort. He absently shoved at its face with the heel of his shoe to bowl its gaze away from them both. Already forgetting about the item, the Englishman quickened their pace with the grip he maintained on Francis's hand.

"A multi-headed dog? Ah, I have not encountered that creature yet. I've glimpsed so many others here that it's hard to keep them sorted. And the ghosts, yes. Spirits flood this place as much as the water did, thick enough to choke all the space out of the room in some parts. I can't even venture down a corridor or two here without being elbow deep in ghosts. You're lucky that you can't see them, Francis. You'd feel as crowded as I do." He had begun rambling again, prattling on about the topic to avoid getting too deep into subjects that might render his emotions unstable once more.

The bullets went so deep when they struck Ludwig. Blood bloomed out like roses, dark and damning.

His rambling words petered out into silence. A brooding frown took the place of his relieved expression, distant even while walking beside Francis. He walked the path back towards the Men's Parlour without needing to check his course; he'd become so used to it by now that it was becoming habit, so that any path would lead him back to his destination. Instead, his gaze was miles away from where they were together, as remote as his thoughts. Arthur didn't think that Francis would deride him for his actions with Germany. He himself had confessed to the slaughter of Indonesia for his survival. It wasn't a confession that Arthur felt he could make just yet. Maybe once they had settled together by the warmth of the fire, safe in one another's company, where the Englishman could bar the door against any force that might pull Francis from him.

His head snapped up when Matthew was mentioned, returned to the present by the mention of the Canadian. "He is well? That is relieving to hear. Alfred was also faring well when we crossed paths. It's frustrating to me that I can't be there to look after them when there's so much danger about. Oh, I am sure they are both very capable of surviving without having an old man hovering worriedly nearby them. I can't help being protective of them. Nor can I avoid being protective of you. Even if you have been doing well on your own. And are a better swimmer. You could tell me one thousand times that you'll manage through all of this without me, Francis, without it doing any good. It wouldn't change that instinct in me."

The door to the parlour was in sight. He checked around them to see if any menace might have followed them on their trek back to safety. When it seemed that all was clear, Arthur reached his empty hand for the doorknob to open the door for them. His head was still turning left to right to watch for any glimpse of a monster that might happen upon them in their retreat to that safe haven. "Hurry inside. Feel free to make yourself comfortable."

Arthur had not been lying about his safe haven. He had done much to make the room as comfortable as he could aside from the unavoidable stare of the portrait on the wall. The fire was likely the most inviting element of the room, warming it and casting a glow that softened the harshness of the Manor's darkness. Bedding had been gathered in front of the hearth, wrinkled from his risked attempts to sleep. Around that space Arthur had fashioned himself a security system of thin strings woven from remnants of fabric, and rudimentary bits of metal that quietly chimed just from the door being opened. This was the place that the Englishman had put his faith into. And so far it had been the only place where Arthur felt he had a chance to weather through all of this.

He pushed at Francis to get the man into the room, muscling in behind him to shut the door. A nearby chair was wedged beneath the doorknob as a means of defense. The Englishman wasn't taking chances. "You could sleep here if you wanted. I don't have anything for food but there's that comfort at the very least. You're safe here. At least as safe as I can make you. What do you think of my little sanctuary? Not as lavish as you're used to, is it?"

[Deleted]

To hear of Arthur's familial matters was a familiar song and dance. His eyes had risen to observe Arthur's expression as he mentioned it, a silent look that reached out with its own sympathy. In that short duration of time he could assume that there were unspoken words still resting on the Englishman's tongue, but Francis wouldn't need to hear them to imagine how the rest of the event must have unfolded. The Manor was a new environment in which a majority of them had never encountered until now. Havoc stood waiting on its toes and each mortal life here was in danger, but it didn't seem to Francis that all things had changed. In regards to his own family story, he nearly felt guilty. It tasted bittersweet and of salty tears, but it was still a slightly more optimistic story to tell.

He was aware of the pressure that closed around his hand, feeling each shift of Arthur's grip. The contact was warm and better accepted now that the flame of Francis's anger had dwindled down, amplifying the soreness of Francis's bones there; but a complaint did not once cross his mind. If anything, he was distracted at that moment by the mere image of Arthur and Gilbert making each other's company - an alliance that went potentially smoother than Arthur with all of his brothers. Worry struck that the Prussian seemed to have been encumbered by something so harmful, but he had to smile. Whatever else had happened, Prussia seemed to have recovered for their own encounter. "It feels wrong enough that we've all 'ad to abandon our company at some point," he muttered, "even if it isn't our intention. If we were all in one place already, zis might go much better."

Oddly enough, it did feel better for him to alert Arthur of the Canadian's well-being. Even if it would take their minds off of other matters for a period of time, it was still evident to Francis that the other man must have been holding back extra details of his experience so far. The amount of time that had passed between them felt warped and dazed. Not that he quite wanted to push the Englishman, but he felt the need to know whether anything else had happened. He figured things wouldn't all be kept from him by the time they were truly alone, but another bothersome, scratching curiosity burrowed in Francis whether he was the only one to have gone through... that. Maybe he was not the only one to have killed another so far, but forcibly..?

He listened quietly while serving as a second pair of eyes for Arthur's scoping. Less certain as to where they were headed, his body and the pace of his steps remained close to the Englishman's side, even while his mind was keen on residing elsewhere. Nothing menacing was in sight, as far as he could tell. That alone reminded him of Arthur's previous comment regarding what he could see. It was probably better that Francis remained ignorant to any unseen ghoul that lurked nearby, but even that thought made him want to shudder. "Alfred, too? Bon, now I only wonder if zose two 'ave found each ozer so far. Zey would be inseparable. I 'ave 'ope zat Alfred's strength will keep 'im togezer, and Matthieu 'as zat in 'im as well."

Releasing Arthur's hand, his arms hugged one another at the elbows as he made his way inside. It filled with a warmth much like that which he felt when with Indonesia, which was not particularly calming on his nerves this time around - but the flickering orange glow already proved itself better than any darkness. The presence of the portrait made itself obvious, not any less unnerving than it had been the first time Francis met it.

"Oh, right, I 'ave been in 'ere," he started, inching closer to the makeshift bed that waited in front of the fireplace. "I'm not sure if you would 'ave already found it zen." Needless to say he accepted that offer to make himself comfortable, and with an exert of troubled breath, he lowered himself down onto already wrinkled material. He had grown so used to feeling tense wherever he went that it was odd to think otherwise - the opportunity to relax here was open, but not so easily taken. His shoulders lowered, head turned again to check over one.

Once prompted to give his own opinion, he released a short scoff. "Sleep, did you say? I am surprised you would allow me to again. Sleep does not sound as appealing as it did ze last time." He was trying as well as he could to sink into the thought of safety. To lower his guard, finally, and feel more like a nation than an object of prey. "I bet zis place looked lavish before its abandon. If I could just imagine it as it used to be, and pretend zat zat portrait over zere 'as my face on it, I will manage." His teasing was hardly convincing. The quality of the room mattered little to him now, and he was content as long as he and Arthur were to remain here in better fortune than what had last fallen upon them.

[England]

The room around him finally felt a little more like home. At least a paltry illusion of it. Arthur remained leaning back against the door to watch Francis, emotions closed off from his eyes while they tracked the Frenchman's movements. It was just the two of them, dusty furniture and a fire. Not so different from those few nights back home when they had felt brave enough to share company without requiring political pretense. A knot that had taken up secure residence in the Englishman's heart was unraveling in the face of the relief of having Francis in this sanctuary.

Here. Finally, here and safe with me at last. And woe to Heaven or Hell should either try to claim you from me again.

Arthur remained ever the outward picture of composure when he left the door. He removed his hat, then his jacket, to place them upon the arm of one of the chairs he had pulled close to the fire's warmth. Then he went stepping onto the material of that scavenged bedding to settle upon his knees beside Francis. He'd promised the man that he'd inspect the wound the Frenchman had suffered during their time apart. The light here was strongest. "I'm sure those two boys will be just fine. They have the best of us inside them, really. Now hold still."

His left hand took a gentle yet firm grip on Francis's chin to hold it. He urged the man's head to a tilt where the injury was most visible to the fire's light. Arthur petted his fingers cautiously through the blood-matted strands of gold that were in the way of his view, tucking away those locks of hair. The Englishman's eyes puckered in the corners, narrowed enough that the skin crinkled in the phantom traces of crow's feet that were threatening to stamp that mark of time upon Arthur's boyish face. He probed at the edge's of the wound with the ball of his thumb. That likely caused the Frenchman discomfort and Arthur tightened his grip on Francis's chin to prevent the man from jerking away from the inspection if he tried.

"You're lucky. It looks shallow. Perhaps just a surface abrasion. It wouldn't hurt to disinfect it with alcohol -- if you want to tolerate the sting that's going to cause." Arthur knew that Francis had an impressive tolerance for pain when he needed it. Contrary to that was the fact that the Frenchman didn't strike him as the type to actively seek out pain if it could be avoided. At least the worst of his concerns had passed. The initial sight of that blood in Francis's hair had disturbed him. Even still the presence of it bothered Arthur, since he was so used to Francis keeping it all so flawless.

He kept his hands on the man's head, using that grip now to turn the Frenchman's head once more, this time to press a kiss on his mouth. With no witnesses except the staring eyes of that portrait he felt bolder with expressing his affection. Francis brought out honesty in him, for better or worse. "I'm sorry that we were separated. And that you were hurt. And that you had to kill Indonesia." Arthur let his hands slide to drop from the man's skull, falling limp upon his folded knees as he made his own quiet confession. "They pitted me against Germany. I shot Ludwig. Shot him dead. He was so honourable about it all. And I murdered him to save myself."

Arthur looked away from Francis, eyes on the fire instead to spare any sign of judgement from the Frenchman. He'd been so self-recriminating since the incident that he didn't want to see it reflected in the eyes of his former rival. The Englishman's fingers rubbed their skin in steady nervous friction on the fabric of his trousers as he released a shaken sigh. "I hate this place. And it is making me hate myself. I try to tell myself that in these situations, my decisions to save my own hide is natural. Though I still can't shake the feeling that by saving my own life I am simultaneously damning myself. How do you make peace with it?"

His face was still turned to the fire even as a sliver of green peeked from the corner to view Francis. It was a habit he'd had in their childhood days when Arthur was too shy to face the older nation directly. He was seeking a signal from the Frenchman that things were still okay even if he had just confessed to murdering someone they both knew. The island nation had long ago gained his own confidence to judge these things for himself; that didn't mean he didn't still harbour doubts in himself on many occasions. Arthur held his breath while he waited, hanging on any word that Francis might say.

[Deleted]

The salvation of Francis's little wound was, surprisingly without any reluctance, trusted in the hands of Arthur. His chin did not jerk away from the pressure of the Englishman's fingers, compliant enough that he allowed his head to be angled as Arthur saw fit. The conversation they had been sharing regarding Alfred and Matthew fell to silence, replaced by the crackle of radiant fire beside them and Francis's decision not to make another remark - he was well aware that both of them could speak endlessly about beloved members of the family if ever started on the idea. Growing sick and restless with worry would do them little good, so it was best to leave it at heartening statements like both of those boys will be just fine.

Being told to "hold still" usually prompted stubborn behavior, but this was another instance in which Francis wasn't soured by Arthur's handling of him. Blue irises had swept aside to watch where Arthur's fingers were touching, aware of the feathery and cautious manner with which they moved. It was decidedly better that he couldn't see the blood that had stained those blond strands of hair, though that wasn't currently what was being pictured in Francis's mind. Instead he found himself imagining smaller fingers working their way through his hair, cautious and in a mesh of admiration and envy. The distant, youthful memories were hard to escape here, weren't they? They had been returning to him ever since his first reunion with Arthur. Of course, it was generally Francis who played the role of doctoring up a young England's wounds or even just his hair - at least until they both grew older.

Viewing Arthur's face again, the semblance of his younger visage was not completely gone; centuries of time and pained aging had only proven themselves dominating enough that it was far more difficult to reminisce over those past times. Francis's silence persisted, his gaze alternating between watching Arthur's features, noting the studiousness of his expression and the crinkle of the corner of his eyes, to watching the fire at their side. With their proximity as close as it was, this probably wasn't the best moment to be caught staring at him.

Only then did Arthur's thumb decide to press down, triggering a brief twinge of resurfacing pain to Francis's temple. His discomfort was signaled by a puff of breath, his head recoiling without any chance of departing Arthur's tightened grip. "You're lucky. It looks shallow. Perhaps just a surface abrasion. It wouldn't hurt to disinfect it with alcohol -- if you want to tolerate the sting that's going to cause." Francis's eyes met the other emerald pair, reluctantly considering this offer. "If I'm going to get some diseased infection now, zen oui, please." Although, the tone of his response offered that he wasn't overly impatient, nor urging that Arthur went and obtained the alcohol right this minute - the warmth of the fire and the air of this sanctuary over all was too relieving to want to leave so soon. Obtaining alcohol seemed a lengthy walk, unless there were some available closer by.

He didn't think to question why Arthur's hands were still holding him, though a kiss was not precisely what he expected to happen next. It reminded him of his own bold gesture earlier, and he certainly hadn't any reason to reject another one now. Francis pressed forward to return it for however shortly it lasted, feeling a rise of elation which was then mellowed by Arthur's next words.

He leaned back to listen to them, polite, attentive, and undergoing a grip of shock to hear the name of another fallen nation. Francis wouldn't think Indonesia was any less important, no, but it was more.. startling to hear that someone as sturdy and well-known as Germany had gone around the same time. Chasing away any potential for his judgment, Francis's hands reached forward to rest affectionately atop Arthur's. "Don't let me 'ear you apologise. I 'adn't any idea zat you were going zrough ze same zing. Many of us were, if zis was ze case..." That made it haunting to think of who else could have been killed, but he didn't voice such a thing out loud. This was his time to try and lift Arthur from the hardships his mind was currently tossing at him, just as he had done before.

Francis didn't demand that Arthur looked at him again, but simply continued speaking with that connection of their hands in place - and soon enough he would catch that peek of green eyes, as childish and tentative as he would always remember. "And already you're calling yourself a monster, aren't you? Per'aps not out loud, but zat is what is in your 'ead. And it is exactly what ze place - which all of us detest, I assure you - wants us to feel." The touch of his hands atop the other man's shifted, fingers curling to grasp and squeeze those hands. "Absolutement it is natural. What nations would we be if we didn't want to fight to save ourselves and everyzing we 'ave? Not wanting to die but not wanting to kill, eizer... zere is no making peace wiz it. Zat's why zis manor is so difficult. Just.. you aren't going to say you 'ate yourself, s'il tu plait. Decisions to save ourselves are never easy."

[England]

"Hate myself? What a ludicrous notion." Arthur responded dismissively after a very pregnant pause that gave him away completely. It wasn't an honest reaction but he wasn't ready to admit otherwise. As their predicament grew steadily worse, his confidence in himself was waning. His weaknesses were overcoming his strengths. Arthur despised the face that he knew this, and knew it was precisely what their "hosts" wanted, yet was unable to do anything to halt the disintegration of his belief in himself. Tenacity could only get him so far.

No effort was made on his part to remove his hands from Francis's grasp. He let the warmth emanating through the Frenchman's skin seep in to saturate those blighted feelings until they were soothed by the balm of their connection. Arthur gazed down at their hands, mind wandering as it considered how differently they were structured. Granted, looking at Francis's fingers didn't lend the impression of strength. Too refined, too elegantly shaped, too fitting for a life of comfort. Yet these hands had matched his blow for blow in combat, supported him on the battlefield, steadied him when he'd had too much to drink, and still managed the ability to touch gently, tenderly.

The contradiction would always astound him. Reflecting on it now, perhaps that was the root of the annoyance and attraction he felt with Francis. A mystery with no answer that he had spent the better part of his existence failing to solve. Arthur prided himself on his ability to outwit puzzles; deduction with a little thought and common sense, so very Sherlockian. Here was this living, mercurial creature that was either his closest companion or his worst enemy or both in one. Very likely both, yes. And the Arthur of today had come no closer to figuring him out than when he'd first crossed paths with the blue-eyed boy from across the water.

Annoyance. Ah, yes, that was much better. He could process it easier than all these conflicted feelings. The Englishman pulled his hands free. "Well. No sense in fussing over what can't be changed. I'll try to shake my lingering regret over Ludwig's death as soon as I can. Should I encounter him again you can bet I'll be very contrite. You're right in saying that I shouldn't let myself get so down when my hand is forced. Accuse me of selfishness or heartlessness all you wish, yet if I had been the one to die instead then I might not be here with you now. I'm grateful for this chance while it lasts."

His body twisted around to further distance himself from that topic. Lingering on the discussion would only trigger the cycle of his depression again. Those feelings were compartmentalized, to be dealt with at another time, as Arthur did in every situation where it seemed safer not to face them. It was a bad habit of his that he couldn't fix. Even if stomping those emotions down into a neat little pile caused them to fester over time until they poisoned him, then so be it. He had never claimed to be the healthiest of individuals when it came to his mental stability or emotional well-being. It probably explained the anger issues.

He fished around inside his police jacket, feeling through the interior pockets until locating what he sought. A tiny metal flask, screwed tightly shut. There was no mistaking the purpose of the container or what it contained. Arthur's other bad habit of nipping at alcohol in his downtime wasn't a secret to the world. He just didn't try to advertise the fact that he was a horrid lush. Lifting the flask up beside his head to shake it he heard a satisfying slosh within. Thankfully, his trials had not left him empty-handed.

Unscrewing the lid he sniffed delicately at the open mouth of the flask, and flinched away from the potency of the smell. Strong enough to sanitize a head wound for sure. Arthur held the flask aloft, his hand stalled as the alcoholic in him protested the idea of wasting liquor on such a purpose when it would be far better spent traveling through his veins, thankyouverymuch. What are the odds of a head wound getting infected, anyway? Sure, it's about fifty-fifty. And about one hundred percent that you're going to regret not having it anymore later, Arthur, old chap. His face had scrunched itself up into one of pain, which was likely comical when it was Francis that had the wound here.

"You're right damned lucky that I care about you, France. If I can make this kind of sacrifice then it must nearly be love. Be a dear and try not to scream, hm?" Leave it to him to be the sort of man to speak those kinds of words with the vehemence of a curse. The Englishman moved quickly to not leave any spare time for Francis to elude him. His hand clamped on the side of the Frenchman's neck to steady his aim as he proceeded to tip the flask enough that the alcohol came out in a thick enough stream upon the bloodied section of hair. He restrained a sympathetic grimace because this wasn't exactly the most comfortable way to sterilize an injury in such a sensitive location.

Did it make him a bad person that he was also rather enjoying himself with this?

[Deleted]

"Hate myself? What a ludicrous notion." Francis caught Arthur with a most incredulous point of eyes, a brusque face that read displeasure without his having to say so. "If you 'adn't brought it up zen neizer would I 'ave," he did feel the need to point out, eyes lowering to share that view of their joined hands. Reminiscent thoughts had ceased for now, overcome by the solemnity of the recent morbid events. That single comment from Arthur struck impatience in Francis, thinking his attempt to console might not have gotten through - but he did not plan to press the matter.

Arthur's hands slid from under his encasement and he wondered briefly whether his skill in consolation had gone rusty. If that were the case, it seemed the Manor was frustratingly successful in pulling the Frenchman apart one by one. The mere sound of Arthur's next words were thinly laced with irritation, and he couldn't pinpoint where exactly it had come from. The Englishman's turning body was a clear signal, though Francis's heart wore oddly heavy at the impact of his response. He doubted he would have run into Ludwig if it were he who lived - although his chances of finding Arthur a second time were not something he had imagined happening, either. Francis would likely be anywhere but here, distressed and ever clouded by his worry that the Englishman was still missing.

"Fine, zere isn't much eizer of us can do to release a guilt like zat," he muttered, watching as Arthur went sifting through his jacket. "But you're grateful and zere shouldn't be anyzing wrong wiz zat." As promised, he chose not to ramble any further than that. After all, his blue-eyed focus was now drawn to the ominous silver flask, eyebrows furrowed in subtle disappointment that Arthur had obtained a solution so easily. He wasn't going to scold the man for having it, no, but--

Had he just cringed at it?! Surprise broadened over the Frenchman's face, mouth open to hurriedly scold him for that at the very least. "W-what kind of reaction is zat to somezing you're going to dump on me?" he sputtered, bothered by (and completely unsympathetic for) the discomfort that creased over Arthur's face. He had agreed to his wound being sanitized, yes. The fact that he was just about to feel its effect was making him panic, too, and that sparked an impulse to start throwing whiny protests in England's face.

He paused only to listen to Arthur's cynical claim and warning. Francis's face paled and he would have said something else if it weren't for that hasty handiwork - the steadiness of the other man's hold was indeed successful in shutting the Frenchman up, and any guarantee that he wouldn't scream was just barely made. Cool liquid made contact with his wound, and the stinging, burning pain that bloomed was instant.

His jaws clamped down to muffle the cry he made, eyes squeezed shut while he waited for the sensation to pass. In the meantime his hands had thrown themselves down to clutch Arthur's thighs, fingers digging and squeezing clothed flesh in a feeble attempt to cope with that twinging pain.

"Z-zere is more alco'ol in ze kitchen to drink, you absolute brat," he hissed in a weak insult. On the inside, he was grateful that Arthur had sacrificed what little alcohol he had on his person. That, however, did not mean there wasn't any alcohol left in the rest of the building - and there wasn't any keeping Francis from chiding Arthur for his stubborn decision. Tears clung to lashes when his eyes opened, his hands slowly relaxing. His temple felt effectively numbed. A drink of alcohol would have been wonderful just about then.

"B-but you're going to 'ave to wait to go get it," he added in a dulled voice, meeting Arthur's stare with a huff. "Zere still isn't any reason to go rushing out of 'ere yet, oui..?"

[England]

As a matter of principle, Arthur tended to ignore most of what Francis had to say. It wasn't a habit he could fully help; a lifetime of practicing it for the sake of peace made it second nature to tune out the little unimportant bits that the Frenchman had to offer. This wasn't working for him currently, and therefore hung on every word Francis said in case it offered insight into how the man was feeling, what he had been through, and if there was any additional distress for Arthur to fret on. Being chided for his reluctance to waste his personal stash of spirits didn't faze him.

Hearing the accusation that he was a brat, though, did cause him to cock an eyebrow loftily at the older man. Arthur soldiered through whatever pain the nails digging into his thighs through the fabric of his trousers brought. He was wrought with discomfort so regularly that it barely registered on his scale of pain tolerance. The Englishman did not release Francis's head right away. He had to make certain that the alcohol had performed its task. A studious look showed far less blood, no sign of infection, and nothing which might indicate the Frenchman had been contaminated by anything too foul. "Oh, hush. Don't act like such a big baby. You've had worse than this for me to patch up, handled with considerable more grace."

His words likely seemed harsher than intended. Having Francis reacting to the pain of that wound disturbed him. Echoes of Prussia's fate flitted through his mind as he contemplated the chances of whether or not the Frenchman would suffer the same outcome. Hearing mention of the kitchen, Arthur's head shook firmly. "I wouldn't dare to touch anything in that kitchen. I trust nothing here except for myself and what I can verify as safe with my own two hands. If I put my faith too much in anything beyond that then there's a good chance it'll cost me my life." Green eyes dragged themselves thoughtfully over the Frenchman's form. "You could be an illusion too, conjured here by my desperate mind. Though if that were true and you were a false image, you'd probably complain a little less."

Arthur screwed the lid of his flask back on. He gave it a couple shakes to listen for any sloshing sound that would indicate some of it had been spared. No such fortune. The Englishman sighed woefully as he tucked it into his pocket again. "I have no desire to leave this room for any reason. Everything I want -- save for the guarantee that our boys are safe -- is right here. If I can keep you safe and comfortable within this small nest of sanity, I'd prefer not to budge at all."

Scooting around, the Englishman altered his position to fit close to the Frenchman's side. It was far warmer than it had been out in the tomb they had huddled in before; the fire was going strong and would continue to do so until Arthur stopped tending to it. He brought his hand up to rest against the blade of Francis's shoulder, resting there to lend his warmth to the man as well, to seek another binding chain of touch. Arthur rubbed at that spot in the hopes that it'd distract from the likely lingering sting on the Frenchman's scalp.

"I truly despise this place. That's childish to say but in many ways this situation has made me feel like a child again -- and I have little that I miss from those old, dark days. If I can keep you at my side -- no, with you at my side -- then I believe I can get through this alright. Does that make me sound childish, being such an old man and yet feeling like I need you to manage?" His wry smile turned aside to Francis, chin lowering to brush quick contact with the man's shoulder as he braced himself for whatever remarks that question earned him.

[Deleted]

Harsh words did not incite a notable reaction from him. Arthur's tone of voice wasn't uncommon to hear. His hands had completely retracted from the man's legs and he decided that the weight of those words on his shoulders were nothing that couldn't be brushed off. His similar disdain for them sounded only in another sigh of released breath. There was an underlying defeat in which he couldn't find reason to defend himself against Arthur's claim - that Francis had endured tougher injuries than this. The Manor was as grueling a fusion of physical and mental pain as any battlefield. He might have sat through countless hours of stitching and wrapping and disinfecting, numbed by the images and sounds of combat. Enough centuries were spent in turmoil to know what fellow nations were capable of, and disasters such as floods weren't anything they couldn't pull through. Only monsters had the advantage of stumping these well versed fighters - they hadn't ever countered such beings before. Unlike the battlefield, nations here stood entirely on their own, each an army of one fighting against a haze; the enemies are unseen, capricious, banded together in unknown numbers. Perhaps the Manor did have its differences.

"Usually you'd be doing everyone a favor by saying you won't touch anyzing in ze kitchen," he spoke in teasing, subtly rebuking Arthur for having belittled his pain as big baby behavior. "In zese circumstances, I do suppose dying of starvation or thirst would be one of ze degrading ways to go. We'll 'ave to make do wiz what ze kitchen supplies us at some point." That wasn't enough to change Francis's mind about leaving, no; their time in this sanctuary would last. Things seemed safe enough, though Francis's words were perhaps a reluctant reminder that such factors as hunger would come to nag at them. When Arthur's eyes returned from their sizing him up, he took on his own softly scolding stare. "Zat again? Just as you were in ze courtyard, Arthur. We've embraced and kissed enough zat it would almost 'urt to 'ear you zink I'm fake."

His mind had let go of any such notions a while ago. Those thoughts were of the last things he'd want toiling his mind now. His voice had expressed mock pouting, quieted now as he observed Arthur's reaction to an emptied flask. Tsk. He couldn't say that he felt total apathy - already had the Frenchman felt a longing for alcohol. Most knew first-hand that its effects smother the troubled mind of a nation, strangling and dismissing bad thoughts to the back of the mind. One couldn't know whether that would work with something as heavy as the Manor, but it felt worth trying.

The pain in his temple had been drowned. As far as he knew, there wasn't any promise that Arthur would be doing that again, nor that his injury would have to be roughly tended to at all - it felt surreal to think, but the only thing left in store for them was an evening of comfort. The chair at the door remained in position, free of noise or disturbances from the other side. The painting of the man, hopefully, had not moved. The fire was ever lively, countering the mood that dripped from both nations - they were exhausted, a state which was yet to stop them from delivering playful and snippy words to one another.

Arthur's touch was warm, thankfully void of stinging pain or discomfort. It helped direct Francis's mind toward more optimistic advantages - they did finally find somewhere solitary to enjoy one another's company. Their words were solely for each other. Even if for a limited time, they had found another sliver of normalcy.  "We 'ave a blade, fire poker, your gun - we'll be fine. I will be fine. I'm flattered zat I'm one of zose zings you want. Your yearning is no different from my own, and I don't suppose zat's such a secret between us anymore."

He wished there was something to lean his head and back against. Moving away from the fire - from Arthur's company especially - did not seem ideal. The frame of the Englishman's body would have to suffice as his post. Drowsiness threatened if that soothing hand would persist, though Francis didn't make any effort to stop Arthur from rubbing. The gentlest affection felt nicer than anything else.

His head turned aside to view Arthur's angled gaze. His own comments were delivered in a softer tone, likely having forgiven the Englishman for those earlier exchanges. "I can't decide which you'd 'ate more - me calling you an old man or a child. Mm. No matter which one, I am still zere to care for you. Your poor 'eart must be fragile after everyzing zis place 'as done. You just remember times when I would dress you up and make your hair pretty, my darling, and you will be fine. Or zink of when I will 'ave to feed you and carry you to bed because your bones will be too feeble to do it yourself." The Frenchman's lips curled in amusement, an emotion which he hoped to share with the other. "Where would we be if we never needed each ozer? Zis place is dangerous, unpredictable... it is no different zan all zose ozer times we 'ave survived in each ozer's company." In an effort to make the Englishman feel even more in his youth, the Frenchman touched a kiss directly upon his nose. "We will manage."

[England]

Arthur fought to ignore the comment made about the implication of being a threat in the kitchen. They were settling into peace, and getting cross over a comment he'd heard variations of one thousand times. His irked frown expressed it enough. Francis scolding him over the remark about him being illusionary did not seem to penetrate the Englishman's mind, as green eyes were wandering about in a state of distant thought. Starving to death wasn't a fate he wanted. Arthur wished for a change that he could forget about hunger. They could stay here, safely encased, if not for that concern.

Why was it they were stuck with these human bodies? Who had decided that it must be so? A fleshy, fragile vessel to embody the heart of a nation, flawed by all these human needs. They might have enjoyed something like immortality outside of these walls yet even those benefits were no longer in their grasp. Arthur ached, his limbs were tired, and he couldn't help feeling pity for normal humans. In his childhood, hunger had not been uncommon. His first few winters as a fledgling nation had resulted in starvation. After that, he had learnt to hunt, and the animals that had flocked to him before became food to sustain him.

Returning from those deep thoughts, his cheeks went awash with colour to hear Francis state so openly about him being wanted. This was the most honest they'd been together in recent memory. Arthur was unable to define if this were due to their mutual exhaustion or if their ordeals had brought down the divisive walls that had so often kept them at a distance. He reflected on recent conversations he'd had with the other nations stumbled across in his wanderings; perhaps honesty was becoming easier for him now that there was little to lose from it. His lips parted, stalled as words pooled to the forefront of his mind, then Arthur's voice sounded quietly to the man at his side.

"No, that's not a secret anymore." Arthur's eyes directed to the Frenchman's chin, since that was deemed a neutral location. "I hate that it's in this place, in this situation, that we're coming to an understanding. I would have preferred it to be done properly; a romantic setting, a time of happiness. All of that's been ruined. And you know, you could argue that I have the option of keeping it all to myself if I wished it but I fear the opportunity not coming to us again. Not for me to be clear."

A deep breath stirred his chest. "I love you. I'm rubbish at showing it, I know, yet there you have it. You were the first person that I loved. You were the first person that showed me kindness. Maybe you're right that my heart is fragile, because I want so desperately to cling to that feeling, and to you. I want to remember those happy memories, all those good moments in our lives. Because I... I just..."

Arthur's hands raced close, forming loose fists that began to rub at a sudden spring of hot, burning tears that had filled his eyes. He had tried hard to be strong in front of the Frenchman. To not let the events he'd endured with Prussia and Germany and his brothers cloud this moment that was just for them. Ever the crybaby when the right trigger pulled, the Englishman started sniffling as that dam broke inside, his voice stammering. "This place is p-preying on my loneliness to the point that I can't stand it any longer. Let me stay with you, yes, until we're both daft old men -- even if that life consists of being in this place for an eternity. Don't leave me alone not even for a second because I can't do this without you."

His tremulous voice then darkened with an edge of sour complaint. "D-don't you try to imply that I'll be the one getting feeble first. You're the e-eldest. S-so that means your hips will give out first and I shall have to give you n-nothing except soft foods to gum upon."

[Deleted]

Silence. Intervals of silence. They awoke a natural ability between France and England - even in the most complex exchanges of emotions were they able to read each other so well. It was an unspoken language between two beings who had always found themselves bound to one another's company, allied or boiling with loathing. Occasionally did Francis's focus toss from the dulling fireplace beside them to the barricaded door just beyond Arthur's shoulder, but he hadn't neglected to owe the Englishman his attention whenever the time was right. He trusted that the man didn't take too unkindly to his cooking comment. So he had heard it in numerous events and from numerous voices, but who was ever more privileged to taunt Arthur than Francis? He couldn't help himself, though he knew when it was time to quit such immature behavior. 

In that particular silence, Francis's head tilted. It was tricky, here in the Manor - it was not the same silence which most might wish to fall sleep to. It was relieving to be freed from the sounds of the halls and dark rooms, but there was something about that silence which might still put him on edge. Those green eyes were evasive and curious to watch, spurring him to wonder what had passed through the Englishman's mind just then. He assumed that the thoughts which passed through both off their minds weren't too unalike. What else did they have to think of? The only escape from the haunting thoughts which penetrated the fragile minds of nations was to think of home, or to think of past memories - images that were far beyond their reach. The two had already done their reminiscing, and any chance of endearing conversation had already been dampened by the Manor's cruelty.

Firelight complimented that shade of color on Arthur's face. A wash of red that he would never tire of seeing on the island nation. Blue eyes flickered lower to watch as those lips parted, and Francis remained still until the Englishman was comfortable enough to begin speaking again. "Shouldn't I know better zan to tell someone to keep zeir feelings of love bottled up inside?" No, it was hypocritical of him to say. Love was as powerful and fragile an emotion as any, he knew that - but each and every nation harbored emotions that were not often heard by others. This was but one of few secrets kept from the public by the Frenchman. How many knew that a man who so openly exudes expressions of love and romance has also been so torn and lonesome on the inside? Francis never questioned that. It was debilitating not to be open about one's emotions, but in that case...

He didn't see why anyone should know that side of him. Either way, it is Arthur whose troubles Francis was valuing, not himself. Three words that parted the Englishman's lips were less familiar to Francis than those harsh words from earlier. Their effect was another thing Francis might prefer to keep inside; a radiance which showed through the curve of his smile. He did not interrupt even when Arthur paused. His expression was soft, patient, sensing the trouble that seemed to seep through to the man's surface - again did that stir Francis's natural inclination to treat Arthur as he would when they were young, but he held off on comforting him until the English nation was truly finished talking.

He was calm even while Arthur began to fragment, stubborn to break free from that disposition - of course he should wish to remain the stronger link in this situation. There were times in their past where his ignoring Arthur's emotions was effortless, though he couldn't remember a time where they had been so genuine and honest to one another. In this case, that was not so easy. The emotion that leaked from the jade-eyed nation was raw, powered by tender feelings which Francis could never disregard. 

Finally Francis moved again, both arms lifting to ensnare themselves around Arthur in an embrace. That thin body was held closely to his own, one hand touched to the back of his head in a comforting stroke. He allowed the man's head to rest against his shoulder were he still in need of venting. Francis's poor outfit had been bullied enough already; a stream of tears couldn't do any worse damage. "Everyone 'as a different way of showing it, hm? I'm simply moved zat you don't wish to ignore zose details about yourself. A lot 'appened between zat time where I was your first love and now, but still you don't allow times of 'atred and abuse to cloud 'ow you feel. We 'ave zat power to ignore all of our mis'aps and zink only of ze good memories. We've seen zat zis place 'as ze power to pull us apart, but know zat I'm never going to part from you willingly. We 'ave family to find and look after - but zat isn't anyzing we must do alone. Until ze Manor does anyzing worse, I'll be 'ere for you to look back on zose better memories and to tell you zat I love you." The tips of his fingers had sunk into blond hair, face lowered so that his voice would project softly to Arthur. "You will always be so fussy. If not feeble, you can't argue zat you won't become ze grumpy grandpapa first. Even if I require exquisite care from someone like zat, I'll still love you."

[England]

Francis's costume was a blend of scents that hinted at his journey through the Manor. The smell of the dark waters that had torn them from each other was embedded in the threads, mingled with an unmistakeable metallic trace. Blood, that either belonged to Francis or belonged to monsters that he had encountered. Arthur's eyes squeezed shut, tucking his nose closer to where he could still catch a phantom trace of the cologne the Frenchman had worn to attend the party. Beneath that was the scent he'd always associated with Francis; fertile soil, sun-kissed leaves, sea air. The Frenchman's geography of aromas as complex as a vintage wine. Were he not so keyed up he could have dozed off immersed in that sense of home.

As vehemently as Francis denied any love for the English language, he had a mastery of it. At least, in the case of Arthur, the Frenchman seemed to know exactly what to say. Those words served to calm his heart, a balm for the violence of his emotions, while the warm, gentle clasp of Francis's arms soothed the outward trembling of his body. He attributed it most to the petting of fingers through his hair. That gentle touch had always been enough to render him docile when he'd been wild. Not that he'd always received kind treatment from said fingers. Especially in instances they had yanked instead of petted, just harshly enough that Arthur's blood burned with rage or lust. He toyed with the idea that he was an instrument the Frenchman had mastered -- how else would Francis know how to push all of his buttons so effortlessly?

Arthur roused himself since there was banter to volley. It was their custom, after all, and the path back to happiness. His throat was still thick from his tears. He forced himself to swallow that lump down, voice hoarse. "You say that like I'm not already an old man, living his days wrapped in blankets, drinking tea and grumbling about the 'good old days'. Or at least that's what you and Alfred both imply. He's just more blatant about calling me an old man."

Tension from his outburst had lodged a knot directly between his shoulders. Arthur twisted an arm up above his head, knuckles rubbing at that spot to try doctoring it away himself. His weight remained leaned to the Frenchman with no effort made in putting distance between them. Nothing was here to drive a wedge between them except themselves, and Arthur had already promised not to be anything except honest. And he honestly didn't want to be any further away from Francis than he was. So long as there was warmth radiating from the Frenchman's figure, that was where he was keen to stay.

Francis did have a point in his words. They had family to find. A sigh leaked between parted lips, pregnant with reluctance. He would selfishly stall for time if given the chance. Searching for their loved ones was the proper thing to turn their attentions to and yet at the same time Arthur didn't want to have to shatter this atmosphere of peace, of love, and of companionship. Not to go trekking into the dangers awaiting them outside the door. Tentatively, he ventured a question to Francis. "So do we go now? Try to find them while things are quiet? I'm exhausted. Even so, I doubt I could sleep a wink. Or should we venture to the kitchen to find food? Honestly, I'm lacking in any direction here, so whatever it is you wish to do next, we'll do it together."

[Deleted]

After that final heartfelt word had left Francis's lips, his head inched slowly backward. Eyes were undeniably warm as they viewed a resting face, waiting in his terribly calm temperament to see whether Arthur's blubbering had decided to simmer down. The Frenchman's brand of sadism should usually find delight in Arthur's weeping, as rare an occasion as it was, especially in his presence - but he had to admit that it tugged upon delicate heartstrings to know that Arthur wept out of pure, tender emotion. But Francis wasn't one to fall victim to that same emotion, oh no. What good would either of them be, sobbing over one another like they were babies again? It sounded like a sweet idea, maybe, but Francis promised himself he'd be the stronger link in situations like these. His smile expressed subtle self-satisfaction that his words had struck Arthur in just the right way - of course he had his way with them, and of course he knew just what to tell the younger man. It was in this case that love was woven between each of those words, the very core of what Francis stood for - of course he couldn't dare to make a wrong step.

Combing fingers did not care to fuss. If the manor's events had made a tragedy of anyone's hair, it might as well have been Francis's. Bullied by dirty floodwater and perspiration, not to mention its being confined to a (once) delicately tied ribbon - it would be tangled once all was said and done. He always considered Arthur's to be a hopeless mop, untamable over centuries of fretting and fixing. The path of Francis's fingers intended only to soothe him. Whether they would mend or worsen the mess of Arthur's hair, he didn't care.

That hand on England's head paused to rest, and he listened to the hoarse voice with which Arthur spoke. It wasn't too flattering to hear, nor was the very subject that they were joking about; in this particular context, however, Francis couldn't help his amusement. His other palm patted against the Englishman's side, coinciding with a low chuckle from the man. "So you suppose zat's what an old nation does? Why is it I'm still called old, zen? I'm so active, so animated, ze 'andsomest of all. We, including Alfred, should not fuss so much about us being old, anyway. We always 'ave China to consider." There was never a wrong time for such reassurance.

His desire to maintain their close contact, and to keep Arthur's weight pressured there against him, was mutual. The tips of his fingers resumed their trek through the other's hair, grazing along in long, lazy strokes. Francis's eyes had nearly lidded by the time Arthur's next question floated in, received with a low and thoughtful hum. A compassionate mood had certainly settled among them, joined by those prominent and swarming feelings of peace and love. Time could stop simply for that moment; it was a rare gem between past and future events of the manor.

But, as in any story, a rare gem is always sought by hungry thieves. The unforeseen would always wish to come and pull them apart. Time ran short and this wasn't so easy a decision. "We will go," he murmured, retracting his hand. Although it was against their better health, he wanted to deny their right to rest - he wasn't going to risk allowing what had happened last time to occur again. "But only when we are ready. You've spent a while in zis room, non? It is safe for now? Zen I should not zink zat our time will run out so soon. I will greedily 'old onto zis moment until you are faint wiz 'unger, and zen I'll let us depart."