Ivan had been dealing with Francis' sleeping problems for years.
The thin fists clutching to his shirt, the quiet whimpers and whines as the smaller man in his arms squirmed, a wet spot on the front of his shirt every morning from where the Frenchman's tears- or the sweating brought on by night terrors- had soaked through. And every night, a big hand would remain rubbing against Francis' back, gently shushing him by pressing a soft kiss to the temple. Even if Francis had that happy façade, around everyone, he knew how deeply it hurt. They were the same, in that way. Words didn't phase them until they were alone. Well… together.
And in the mornings, when Francis was cooking breakfast, hips giving the occasional sway, Ivan didn't ask.
It was the nights of meetings where it was the worst, though. When Francis couldn't breathe, could barely speak but still tried. When he was practically choking, and all Ivan could do was wait. The more he tried to help those nights, the worse it got. It took even longer to figure that out. Multiple instances where he made it worse, then tried to fix that and made it worse…and worse…. until he got a broken nose. He slowly backed off after that, figured out when he could help, when he couldn't.
It was one of those nights again.
The prisoner was practically thrown into the cold cement room, still struggling. Definitely a country. Any regular man would have been unconscious after that earlier beating. His lip was busted, long hair in ratty knots, shirt torn. Beneath each fabric rip was a bleeding cut from where their weapons had dug in to pale skin, lightly sprinkled with blonde hairs.
Even if he struggled in front of them, he was growing weak. The moment they were gone, the soldiers had left the room, Francis' body slumped and he breathed heavily, quickly, nearly gasping for each breath. His face had been a furious red, and now it slowly lightened, until he was white as a sheet and the cut on his cheek- the one that went from his jaw to his hairline- was much more obvious as it dribbled crimson.
His tongue ran around is dry mouth once, twice, and that's when he noticed one of his teeth was loose. The wet, familiar feeling of blood on the back of his neck notified him that the kick to his head had, in fact, broke skin. But before he could calculate how long he could stay awake? He passed out.