A/N: Heh, heh... Hi guys. *hiding behind computer* PLEASE DON'T KILL ME FOR TAKING THIS LONG TO UPDATE! The only excuse I have is that my computer got a virus and the file was somehow locked for editing so it was a bitch to finish this...
Yeah. Thank you, Guest, for giving me a reality check. To tell the truth, I completely forgot this fic existed. . I apologize profusely, although I will not promise fast updates in the future because they just don't seem to happen when it's me writing them, lol.
To make up for that, this chapter turned out a lot more romantic that I'd planned, with some FrUKy hotness in the middle and... well, I'm not giving away anymore. Anyway. Enjoy. Please don't murder me for le cliff hanger, if you haven't already speared my head on a stick for taking this long to update.
At first he thought he'd blacked out, but suddenly a voice cut through the ringing, claustrophobic darkness.
"Francis?"
Alfred sounded shaken, and Arthur shut his eyes against the sheer wall of black that was pressing in on him from all sides, making him want to curl into a ball. He should be used to it by now, after countless times of this happening, but it still made his body start quivering. He hated the Dark hours.
"Oui?" Francis's voice replied urgently, but Arthur barely heard it.
Only now was he really aware of the agony now searing through his shoulder and knees, trying to ignore the warm stickiness seeping into his trousers and the slight, metallic scent of blood that was filling the air. He gritted his teeth against it, inhaling sharply as he tried to get off of his knees and only succeeded in sending a jolt of pain through the wounds.
"Whoa, whoa, easy," Alfred murmured in his ear as though calming a skittish animal, gently taking him by the shoulders to lift him to his feet, but even that simple touch made a shock of agony explode in his shoulder and shoot into his ribs and arm. Arthur tried not to cry out in pain, but a muffled yelp escaped his throat anyway, and Alfred abruptly let go of that shoulder. He helped the wincing Arthur up from the ground, another set of hands taking over once he was on his feet—these were warmer and softer than Alfred's, and ten times more gentle.
"Francis, you bloody wanker," Arthur gasped weakly, glassy tears of excruciating pain and sweeping, glorious relief slipping down his cheeks. He reached up with his good arm to pull the Frenchman close to him, pressing his face to the warm, strong chest, feeling what he could not see. Francis's breathing was deep and even, his heartbeat strong and body steady. His shirt was wrinkled and there was a small tear near the collar, but somehow he still managed to smell of that wonderful, rich rosy scent. His arms around Arthur were warm as he helped the Briton to what Arthur assumed was someplace not in the middle of the floor, feeling his way, careful not to let the wounded Brit bump into any obstacles. Arthur's body was trembling as he clung to Francis for support.
"Y-you were supposed to cover me so I could get away," he whispered, nearly choking on the words. Francis's warm hand came up to stroke his face as he felt himself being carefully lain down and the Frenchman bending over him. His body was warm.
"I know, cher," he breathed. Arthur could hear both his comforting cooing and the regret buried beneath it all. "Je suis désole..."
"S-so why didn't you?" Arthur tried to spit, but it came out sounding strained as he tried to move so the searing throb in his shoulder would let up. It didn't.
Francis was still stroking his jaw gently, and now his other hand was tracing gentle, calming patterns in Arthur's chest. "Another one of the Reds found me and chased me into the forest, mon ami."
Both of them knew that ami was a lie. But no one else knew about their secret times together, so the word would have to suffice.
"I wanted to go back out after you, but there were only two minutes left to termination. I had to find my way back here. I told Alfred as soon as I got here, and he went to find you. I would've come myself, but you know he's much faster than me."
"Faster than me, too," Arthur muttered under his breath. He was starting to hear the others moving around through the ringing in his ears, and Francis's warm accent. It wouldn't be much longer before Gilbert would get their lights glowing again; they didn't have much time.
He slid an arm around Francis's neck and pulled him down for a kiss.
Francis kissed back hard, still tracing those patterns into Arthur's chest—and as soon as he'd pulled away, Arthur realized what Francis had been writing into his skin this entire time:
I love you.
"Je t'aime aussi," Arthur whispered back.
He just had time to withdraw his arm from around Francis's neck before the green glow of their lights came back, and Francis was forced to pull away.
The maze around them was still lit by the dim green glow of their lights—a lethal risk, were they to be seen, but necessary for these pitch-dark, stiflingly black Dark hours—and stalagmites and stalactites spiked the ceiling and floor like teeth in the jaws of some enormous beast. The quiet, cool sound of water dripping was the only one to be heard, and Arthur shivered; the air here in the caves was cold, even despite the number of people sitting here in this small space.
Vash had twisted his shoulder back into place, and its stabbing agony had finally faded to a dull ache, though his entire arm was still incredibly weak and it hurt to bend. His knees had been bandaged with what cloth they had, to stop the bleeding, but not much more could be done other than making sure the fresh scab didn't split when he straightened them.
No one spoke. Arthur knew from the desperately heavy feeling in the air that everyone was just as exhausted as he was. He leaned back against a pleasant hollow in the synthetic stone behind him, watching the others in silence.
Gilbert sat in a corner behind a screen of stalagmites, tinkering with his latest gadget to help them survive in the maze, and for once even he didn't have anything to say. He carefully kept his elbows away from where Roderich had fallen asleep with his head in the Prussian's lap. As Arthur watched, one of his gloved hands strayed from the screwdriver handle and came to rest in Roderich's matted brown hair for a moment. The Austrian stirred a little, before falling back asleep in Gilbert's lap.
Elizaveta sat next to Katyusha, and a little ways from them sulked the ever-creepy Naytalia. The former two were murmuring quietly to each other, motioning with their hands as though having a conversation, while Vash snored quietly against the wall, arms protectively around the younger sister asleep on his chest. The Vargas twins were curled in a heap, but that didn't stop Arthur from seeing the tear streaks all down Lovino's face; Antonio had been infected today.
Alfred and Matthew lay together quietly, the American's arms protectively holding Matthew close to him. They were both asleep now; but Arthur's heart ached with loneliness at the memory of seeing them touching each other's faces, running fingers through hair and over skin. Francis sat just across from him, not ten feet away—but he felt like the Frenchman was on the other side of the world.
Francis.
Arthur made the mistake of looking at him, locking their eyes by accident—and then, no matter how he tried, he couldn't tear himself away from the beautiful, cerulean-blue orbs locked with his own. They held so much emotion; Arthur wondered if his eyes ever did that. Gave everything away, and let himself be so open and vulnerable to Francis's gaze. The blue was all-consuming, and so impossibly deep.
Francis was lonely too.
"I'll be back," Arthur said abruptly, climbing carefully to his feet and wincing as he tried to carefully stretch his legs without breaking the wounds on his knees open again. A wave of pain throbbed through his shoulder, but it ebbed in a moment and slipped back into the dull ache of the past few hours.
Gilbert looked up, slightly alarmed. "Your lights can't be turned off; what if you're s—"
"Just a few minutes," Arthur muttered, turning for the entrance of the cave. "I need to get out of here."
He didn't give Gilbert time to question it. He wouldn't go beyond the caverns, after all, and wouldn't stay out for more than a few minutes. No Reds would see him; after all, they didn't even come out during the Dark hours. Their lights didn't work; and that left them in the impenetrable darkness, groping out for each other in desperation. Arthur knew. The first few times, before Gil had figured out how to turn their lights on again, had always had the Greens doing the same.
Stepping just clear of the cave, he groaned softly as he straightened up fully and rolled out the kink in his neck.
When he tried to reach up with the bad shoulder, it cracked painfully and the muscles felt odd and rubbery—weak. He winced and let it fall to his side, to lean back against the synthetic stone behind him, wishing he had a cigarette. God knew he could do with a smoke right now; the punk streak in his veins was clawing its way out, as it often did when he was edgy or in pain. And right now, he was both.
Arthur whirled around when a tiny crunch of rock underfoot from behind him made him jump, but found himself staring into Francis's blue eyes again. Damn, he was so skittish. Francis took his hand wordlessly and carefully led him a small distance away, so they couldn't be seen by the others.
"Merde, I miss you," he whispered, pulling the Briton into a close hug. Arthur hugged back as tightly as he could.
"Miss you too," Arthur muttered, before throwing his good arm around Francis's neck and smashing their mouths together. The Frenchman moaned softly and kissed back hungrily, pushing Arthur against a tree behind them and sliding his tongue into his mouth. Arthur arched upwards and allowed himself to revel in their melding heartbeats, feeling Francis's chest already pounding against his own, breaths harsh through his nose and thoughts slipping away. And now that damn Frenchman's hands were roaming, sliding downward, forcing him to moan. Arthur shot him a glare when he pulled away and yanked him down for another kiss.
Snap.
Both of them froze.
Arthur's ears were suddenly ringing with the deafening silence. "Did you hear that?" he breathed against Francis's mouth, knowing the Frenchman would understand just from the movement of his lips, not daring to move anything else.
"Oui," Francis breathed back, almost inaudibly, before kissing him again and letting their lips part with a soft sound. He leaned in to Arthur's ear, arms still around his waist, and carefully breathed with another kiss, "Act like we didn't."
Arthur nodded slightly and pulled away, pressing himself flat against the tree as Francis pushed his body in front of the Briton's. "What are you doing?" Arthur whispered.
"Protecting mon amour," Francis replied with the tiniest of grins. Thankfully Arthur's groan could've been mistaken for one of pleasure.
Crack.
This time they didn't miss a beat, instead leaning in for another kiss, no longer daring to speak aloud. Arthur was shaking as he mouthed against Francis's lips, "Move."
"Non."
"You'll get infected."
"I before you."
Now Francis really kissed him, one hand behind his neck, pulling him closer and then suddenly letting go.
Crunch.
"Is it a Red?" Francis breathed.
Arthur couldn't see any glow.
"Probably," he mouthed back, before finally pulling away from the Frenchman's lips. He was shaking, adrenaline rushing in his veins once again.
Zzzing.
A gun.
Charging to shoot.
Somewhere in the dark.
Arthur kissed Francis one more time and then leapt out from beneath him.
"What the—"
Before Francis could finish his sentence, Arthur had him by the hand and was dragging him behind the tree a split second before the gunshots raked over the trunk where they'd just been standing; someone swore in Russian in the bushes—
"Ivan," Francis gasped.
"Run!" Arthur demanded as their eyes locked, not needing confirmation—he grabbed Francis's hand and the two of them burst from their hiding place, sprinting as hard as they could—Arthur fired some blind shots in their wake, knowing they wouldn't be enough—his knees were torn open and bleeding again; he could feel it running down his shins—
Still, he didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
His mind was reduced to a machine of instinct, operating only on the terror that pounded in his veins as the sounds of Ivan crashing through the synthetic underbrush behind them grew closer and closer in their own wake—
He leapt over a fallen log, Francis at his side.
Francis fell.
Arthur skidded to a halt as the Frenchman was caught in the stomach by the log, watching in horror as the dull outline of Ivan drew ever-nearer—
"Francis! Come on, you bloody frog!"
His voice sounded shrill and panicky, even to his own ears as he fought himself to stay there for the second it would take Francis to struggle to his feet. But Francis pushed himself up, nearly there, only to fall again. He looked at Arthur desperately, blue eyes shining eerily under their green lights, and suddenly pulled him back to bring their mouths together in one last kiss.
"I am a lover, not a fighter," Francis whispered. "I always called you lapin for a reason, mon beau Angleterre." He cracked a tiny smile. "There is a target around the back of the cave that will give you thirty seconds of invisibility. Use it to get back to the others."
"Bloody hell, no!" Arthur yelped, yanking away and trying to get the Frenchman to stand—Ivan was only ten feet away now, firing constantly—he ducked behind the log, knuckles white on Francis's hand—
"Go, idiot!" Francis yelled, still struggling to get to his feet and giving Arthur a shove to force their hands apart. Ivan was nearly on them now—the Briton forced himself to bound away, sprinting once again, leaving Francis behind at the mercy of Ivan—
He made the mistake of looking back a split second after he had reached and shot the target, just in time to see Francis's lights fade to red and flicker out, the look of desperation scalding him from almost half a mile away. Blue eyes glazed and disappeared into shadow as Francis succumbed to the infection.
Arthur choked on the scream in his throat.
Everyone in the cave turned, scared, as Arthur came half-skidding, half-stumbling inside, thirty seconds of invisibility just barely up and green lights flickering on again.
Roderich was no longer asleep in Gilbert's lap, and the Prussian leapt to his feet, Alfred not far behind.
"Arthur, what the hell—"
"Ivan's found us. We need a safer hiding place."
He must have looked a mess; his knees were spurting blood, his injured arm held at a strange angle because it was the only one that didn't hurt, and he was covered in dirt from the underbrush with his good hand already bruising a nasty shade of yellow from Francis holding onto it so tightly.
"What happened?" Gil asked, voice like steel. Over these past few weeks in the maze, Arthur could see where Ludwig had gotten the commanding air from. His elder brother just chose not to use it.
"I told you, Ivan found us. He's going to be here with the rest of the Reds any second, so we need to get our arses out of here!"
Arthur grabbed another gun from the floor, its green-glowing gauge showing a full charge as he shoved it into an empty holster in his vest. He didn't even stop to see the confused and frightened looks on the other nations' faces as he started back toward the cave's entrance. A hand suddenly caught his forearm from behind. He threw it off.
"And where are you going?" Alfred demanded stonily, catching him by the shoulder again. Arthur yanked away another time, chest clenching at the memory of the desperation in those blue eyes.
"To get my bloody frog back."