It's 2 am and I was in an angsty mood. I hope somebody will enjoy this very short snippet, let me know what you think!

Summary: England loathes asking for help. But for his boys, he can even swallow his pride and do that.

Truce

He hated that. He hated that situation and even more he hated him. Hated to admit that he could accomplish what Arthur couldn't, the mere thought made his skin itch and his stomach churn.

Yet, there he was. Standing on the parqueted floor in front of Francis's hotel room, with his hands clenched into fits and all his muscles so tense they felt a second from snapping.

He didn't want to do that. It wasn't fair that he had to do that. (What did Francis have that Arthur lacked? Arthur was aware he could be too stern and impatient at times, but he was trying. He should be able to help when he put himself into it. He should be able to offer comfort and words of advice, he should—)

Nevertheless, reality was reality, and Arthur wasn't so foolish as to wallow in denial. He lifted his arm and moved it towards the door.

He had a moment of hesitation then. Held his breath. A small, hopeful – stupid – part of him still latched onto the possibility he could avoid the humiliation and everything else connected to it.

But wishful thinking had never brought him anywhere.

He shook his head with determination and hit the polished wood with his knuckles before he could second-guess himself.

After that, he could do nothing but wait. One second, two seconds… the footsteps started coming then. They weren't to the door yet, maybe he could…

Too late. The door was opened to reveal Francis's perfect (fake) face.

"Good evening, Arthur. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The mocking intonation of his words complimented his smirk, his blue eyes had an unfriendly glimmer.

Acid bile reached the back of Arthur's throat, he had to clench his fists tighter to steady himself. He wanted more than anything to swear at Francis and pretend there was nothing he needed, that he had everything figured out…

But that time, he couldn't. Two pair of eyes – lilac ones heavy with sorrow and self-loathing, blue ones burning with rage and anguish – were etched into his memory. He had already failed.

Using all his willpower, Arthur looked straight into Francis's eyes.

"I don't have time for this right now," he spat out. He forced himself to ignore how heavy his tongue felt, how parched his mouth. "It's about the boys."

And oh how he hated himself right then. His skin burned with humiliation, his head was spinning. He shouldn't have been so vulnerable.

But Francis's features sobered up, any hint of mockery was washed away from his eyes as he moved to a side to invite Arthur inside his hotel room.

"Tell me what happened."

This time, his voice was gentle.

The relief that swelled up inside Arthur's chest was bittersweet, almost painful. He should have been able to solve the situation himself, should have been enough – the sharp ache of the nails digging into the skin of his palms wasn't a suitable punishment for his inadequacy – but he… wasn't.

Arthur was a failure of a caretaker. The words were bitter in his mouth as he started narrating what had transpired.

But that wasn't about him, after all. Francis could give those boys that should have been Arthur's responsibility what Arthur himself couldn't. And for how much it pained him, Arthur could give them Francis at least.

(word count: 557)

Note: I think that Francis's higher sensitivity would drive Arthur mad. Arthur suffers from self-worth issues but he does try his best for his (ex)-colonies, so seeing that Francis is better at comforting them when they're upset... I think it would be very hard to swallow for him. But he isn't stupid, so he knows that sometimes, Francis is what's needed to solve a bad/tense situation. This doesn't mean he has to like it, though.