On the subject of England's behaviour, I want to make sure that everyone understands that cold, distant behaviour like this can be very normal with rape cases. If he seems oddly out of character, there is a precise reason for it. Everything I've wrote is thought about and calculated.
There are going to be a lot of hints in this chapter (indeed, all of the chapters) that you very much need to pay stern attention to. Every little mention could mean something further down in the story. This is how it always goes, with my fics.
Chapter Five: Abandoned, Brainwashed, Exploited
Since the Englishman's wrists were still hurting, Alfred had taken it upon himself to feed Arthur while he recovered. The loaded fork was still hanging in the air, food getting colder by the second, as he watched the other man sit there with his mouth sealed shut in protest.
"Not hungry," Arthur replied solidly and then flinched, as if he was about to lift his hand to bat Alfred's fork away but lost the willpower to - or the pain stopped him from moving an inch.
Alfred glanced down at the heavily bandaged hands, stomach lurching slightly when he remembered how he caught Arthur after his bath with his nails digging into his skin and scratching those wrists of his as if he wanted to claw off the already chaffed skin. He supposed he could understand - it was a reminder of whatever had happened - but to go that far for some simple rope burns was extortionate.
"Yeah, says you who probably hasn't eaten in, like, three days or somethin'!" Alfred argued back at him, waving the fork near Arthur's lips to try encouraging him. He had made one of Arthur's favourite dishes - Shepherd's pie - for crying out loud! Usually he would wolf this stuff down. "Look, Artie, I know you went through something rough, but you need to eat. I won't forgive myself if you waste away into some little stick insect! C'mon, just take three or four bites. I'll stop pestering you then."
"I said 'no', Alfred," Arthur mumbled in repetition. Alfred shook his head, certainly not conceding to that. Did Arthur think he could get away with starving himself in grief when he was around? Damn it, he had finished his own portion already, and Arthur had not taken a single bite.
"Like hell are you gettin' away with that!" The American stressed at the older Brit, slamming the fork back down onto Arthur's thoroughly neglected plate. He was worried, actually, that if he forced Arthur to eat then the Brit might end up throwing it all up behind his back. It was risky, but he needed Arthur to swallow and keep it in. "Let's go, space cadet. You can survive having one or two munches of food in y-"
Alfred looked up like a deer in headlights when the doorbell rang. Arthur, who was already partially motionless in refusal to react to Alfred's prompts, froze completely; moss green eyes lighting up and staring at Alfred as if in betrayal. A small part of Alfred knew that the other blond was probably right. He should not realistically be advertised to the public, especially other nations, but in Alfred's desperation it could not be helped.
He was doing this for him, after all. He needed this.
"Be right back, sweetie." Alfred said, winking at Arthur charismatically as he rose to his feet. A hand laid on top of Arthur's reassuringly, causing them to look at each other in the eyes, and the American sneakily directed his hand to lay atop the metal fork. Nodding intently, Alfred let go and headed to the door.
"Alfred!" Matthew called as he swallowed his brother in a large, engulfing hug. Burying his head in Alfred's shoulder, the older brother finally gave Alfred the reassurance he had so despondently needed.
"Mattie, oh my God, I'm so glad you're here." He breathed, before chuckling awkwardly as if it was an attempt to regain strength that he had lost. The Canadian, when he remembered him, was the most comforting person in the world. Kind words, enthusiasm for recovery, hugs a-plenty; Matthew was everything he needed right now.
A cough behind them and their fraternal embrace made Alfred look up and grin at Matthew's accompaniment.
"Hey Francis," He greeted, giving a slight wave of the fingers to acknowledge his presence. It paled in comparison to how Alfred usually was; big smiles and overjoyed bear hugs. As Matthew privately noted, whatever had happened caused a big toll on the American. Just as he feared.
"Mon cher, you look simply dreadful." Francis commented, nudging Matthew slightly out of the way so that he could give the American a short embrace as well - like they were long time friends rather than on and off allies. He glanced inside of the house over Alfred's shoulder, as if looking for something. "Where is Angleterre, mon ami?"
Alfred barked a forced laugh. He shook his head and pulled out of the Frenchman's grip. "Figures. The Brit gets hurt and the French guy wants to see the damage, huh? I thought you guys were supposed to be better now."
"Better, yes. In government only, I do fear." Francis said in a so-so manner, waving his hand dismissively. "Although as of now, I am genuinely concerned for our Arthur's well-being."
"...Yeah, 'kay, he's inside." Alfred conceded with a sigh. Stepping back inside, he spread the door wide enough to be inviting and ushered them into his home. Inside, the atmosphere was tense and eerily quiet. Both of the North American's held their breaths. "Just in—Just in here."
Alfred walked through to the living room, where he had been trying to coax Arthur into eating in more comfort than he would find on his rigid dining room chairs. It absolutely had not worked at all, though he guessed Arthur was not in quite as much pain. That was a plus. The Englishman himself had been just as despondent and distant as before, only slightly fresher with the tell-tale smell of a newly cleaned body clinging to him. Fragrant a man as ever - Arthur always found a way to be unique and alluring to him, even in the worse of circumstances.
The silence he was greeted with shocked him. Arthur was nowhere in the room; silverware (or cutlery, mind) abandoned over the top of his otherwise untouched plate of food, sofa cushions slightly dishevelled as if the Brit had fled it in a hurry. Alfred looked on in disbelief. How could Arthur have moved so quickly? His hips were of questionable condition, and he could barely hold himself upright properly. The idea of him having crawled or dragged himself away came to mind, and the thought scared him. Even if he was capable of doing such a thing... then... why?
It was Francis's awkward cough that made him remember he had company and realise that he had been standing with a slack expression, jaw half-dropped and entirely gobsmacked. Alfred turned to the others and gave a haphazard grin, casually scratching the back of his head. "Y-Yeaah... I'll be right back, okay? You guys wait right here!"
With that, Alfred promptly took off - almost running inside his house as he when off into one of the connecting rooms, intent on finding the whereabouts of the injured man. Nobody suddenly disappeared like Arthur did. High on heck; where was he?
"Arthur?" The frantic American's voice called, desperate to find the other man. It was not even Arthur's home, and he had managed to hide himself so well. He did not understand this at all; he had looked through most of the rooms, both upstairs and downstairs, along with every dark corner. Hell, he was even beginning to check the larger cupboards in case he had stowed inside. God knows why. He did not have a clue for what Arthur was doing at all.
Finally, when he was about to lose hope and return back to Matthew and Francis, Alfred saw movement in the backyard ('Garden', as Arthur liked to say) that piqued his attention. He left the pantry he was checking - briefly internally panicking over how low the supplies were - and rushed outside, realising that the door had been unlocked. The key that was attached to a chain on the door frame had been knocked out of its holding bracket, now swinging around with tattle-tales of recent use.
Alfred's yard, garden, whatever, was a beautiful little accomplishment of land. It was roughly half the size of regular yards back in the US of A - more long-ways and narrow than overbearingly wide and short - but it was prim, sweet and proper. Since he usually was at home rather than spending his time in Europe, he had given Arthur the keys to it a long while back so he could come by and do some gardening whenever the mood came - and, God, with the work the Brit had done, the mood certainly did come too.
He could not possibly name all of the flowers attached to just one of his freshly painted light brown fences, apart from the absolute obvious. Alfred remembered when he was little that Arthur would sit him down and talk to him about every flower that they crossed on their past venture across his lands while he was still childish and colonised. Arthur seemed to know everything to him; the names of individual plant species, what medicines they were used for, what the flowers meant. It was an inward but otherwise unspoken passion of the Brit's. He used to explain to him about what each meant to him on a personal level as well. When Arthur communicated with him about why the Tudor rose was his national flower, above all the other species that decorated the British Isles with impenetrable beauty, the American was moved so much that he adopted the same type as his own.
Past memories... they were always so sweet, so quaint back then. Weren't they, Arthur?
Apart from the colourful mantle shrouding the majority of his garden, there was fresh green grass stretching all the way until almost the end; blades so short that it was obvious that Arthur had been around just before he came back to Europe. Then, right there at the end, there were two cherry blossom trees cascading shadows over the bottom of his garden which resided above a small, man-made stream that he suspected Arthur had dug out himself; ripples of rocks stacked one atop the other to create a fountain of sorts, water collected at the base of his stream and no doubt pumped back up to the top. It was always soothing to listen to that water trickle whenever he had a problem, and he wondered if privately, Arthur did the same.
He was not surprised, now that he considered it, to see Arthur stowed away at the end of his garden - though it was the demeanour that broke his heart the most. The cherry blossom trees were weeping orange and crumpled leaves, as if they were dying - petals having long gone since the early Spring. Since the season was Fall, or Autumn to Arthur's mind, he knew they were just shedding their useless parts in readiness for the cold tang of Winter, but it still hit him. Especially when he looked upon Arthur. Arthur, who was hunched over and kneeling; shuddering with his head in his hands.
For but a second, Alfred glanced back at the rest of the house, feeling like he was leaving Matthew and Francis too long alone. But that matter less to him. If it came to Arthur, they could wait. Slowly, he approached, heartstrings tugging as he noticed that the shudders were more like sobs than anything else. Sobs that raked his whole body. He did not even seem to realise that he was coming till a hand rested on his shoulder, making the smaller man flinch and look up with beautifully green eyes - dead green eyes - wide as dinner plates. His face was blotchy with tears.
That struck him.
Arthur did not cry often. Three times in the whole of their history together had Alfred seen the Briton cry before, and this was now the fourth. Two of those were from the last two days. It only occurred to him now that there could be a possibility that Arthur, his loving, tender Arthur, might be too lost to recover.
"I-I should have...nn—known...!" He bawled, rubbing the shedding tears away with the back of his hand. The smaller bodied man leant into the warm, encompassing arms; trembling too much to hold himself standing any longer. Soft murmurs and apologies were breathed against his wet cheeks, and lips touched the crown of his head so delicately that he, despite everything, felt like royalty.
"...Shh, Arthur. I know. I know... we could all see it happening." The handsome, American-accented voice chimed, as his hands ran through the mane of dirty blond hair, lovingly and comfortingly. "I-If I had known he would... oh, Arthur. I would have told you. I would have saved you from getting hurt like this."
"I-I lo-loved him, Alfred. I love him...! I-I still do…"
"Francis, umm… I don't think my brother will like it much if you wander around his house." Matthew spoke tentatively as Francis left the living room, peering up the staircase.
"Nonsense, Matthew. I am sure he will want as much help as he can get to find Arthur. Though I am surprised; I thought he was in bad condition – it must take a lot of willpower for him to crawl away from us!" Francis laughed. "It's as if he is trying to escape, non?"
"Er, yeah, I don't think that's true." The Canadian said point blank. He let out a long, considering mumble before he sighed and conceded, leaving Francis to do what he wished. "Fine, you go look upstairs. But I swear Al's already checked up there! I'm staying right here, alright? Where Alfred told us to be… you're going to ignore me again aren't y—Oh come on, let me finish complaining at least…!"
By the time that Matthew looked up again, Francis had already disappeared up the stairs and beyond the landing. Rolling his eyes pitifully, he retired back into the living room like a good brother, muttering something about 'one day' and 'miss me'.
While on the first floor up, Francis pushed open a few of the doors to examine the contents; eyes searching vigorously. He entered Alfred's bedroom, spinning around to take in the scenery. A walk-in cupboard, en-suite, modern styled bed, boastful American flag hung up on display – generally not very swagger and more typical of a lad of Alfred's physical age. Comic books were scattered over the top of the chest of drawers and a television on the desk was hooked up to an Xbox. Trust the American to play games in bed.
Humming to himself, Francis moved towards the chest of drawers and opened each drawer in turn. Underwear, socks, vest-tops, small items of clothing; he very almost became disinterested in it until he heard a none-too-familiar rolling and a clunk. It sounded metallic. He glanced at the doorway to check for certain that nobody was there, before pushing a few articles of clothing out of the way.
What he saw made his eyes light up. Slowly, a dark smile reached his lips, stretching them crookedly. "…My, my, Alfred. Surely you should know that this is breaking your dear Arthur's laws. What a curious man you are…"
"…Hey," Alfred said in the most charming, calmed manner that he could, trying to bring the poor Brit out of his shell a little. He gently rubbed the man's back, hoping the gesture would help him. Though he noted, with horror, that Arthur's eyes were even more unseeing than before – like the person who owned them had just discovered one further loss. "Arthur, is everything okay?"
"…T-They… they're not talking to me," Arthur breathed huskily, voice still broken like knifes were in his throat and slashing his vocal chords. The Briton shuddered, looking over at the tumbling waterfall of the stream and the dying leaves falling into the water pooling below instead of him. His eyes flickered as if searching for something. "When I need them the very most, they're n-not talking to me."
"Who, Arthur?" Alfred asked, looking down at the smaller man with concern. He twisted slightly to rummage in his pocket to see if he had any tissues anywhere. "Who's not talking to you?"
Arthur was noticeably silent, as if he was keeping the identity a secret in his own interests; though Alfred, inwardly, already knew who – or what – he was referring to. It was not like Arthur had never told him stories about the fairies he knew before, members of the seelie and unseelie courts. They were like his support system to bring him up when he was down the most. Honestly, in Alfred's opinion, he thought that they were something his mind created – an illusion from when Arthur was a child, just to stop him from being all alone.
"…Listen, Arthur. We've got to go back inside," Alfred murmured, reaching out to lightly stroke the back of Arthur's head, rugged dirty blond hair getting caught in his fingers; knotted by the gentle breeze taking over the yard and beyond. "We've got visitors."
"I know." Arthur whispered quietly. While his voice was animated, the rest of his body looked totally lifeless apart from the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. The nation suddenly shivered, enough for Alfred to flinch in surprise, and huddled his arms around himself. Something in him must have snapped. "I know, I know, I KNOW!"
"W-Woah, woah, woah!" Alfred called, holding his hands up defensively against the Briton now sobbing even harder and shaking so badly that the American was afraid to touch him in case he lashed out. Was this really worth the fuss for a few missing fairies? He could not understand it at all. "Arthur, chill, dude. Chill! No need to shout—Damn, it's just a few fireflies that are too cowardly to show their faces! They'll pop up again. There's no point having a fit about it—Come on, Matthew and Francis are waiting for us!"
"You don't understand!" Arthur scathed, spinning around and glaring at the American with more intensity in his eyes than Alfred had ever remembered seeing. He looked vulnerable, so easily breakable – like a little sculpture made out of glass – yet the face he showed looked like he could kill if he wanted to. Something negative - upset, shock, or fear – was bubbling inside of him. "You'll never understand, will you? N-Never! Do you hear me? Never!"
"Arthur! God's sakes, man. Listen to yourself!" Alfred continued, fighting in the face of danger. Even he could tell it was probably a bad idea to snap back against a possibly critically broken person; but he was not going to stand for this. He was going to try all he could to get it into Arthur's head that this was not the right behaviour. All he was trying to do was to help! "It's our friends, Arthur! You can't just sit here lamenting over how some flies have not turned up. Come on, you're coming inside with me!"
"No! I won't!" Arthur replied back, less snappishly this time. It was with relief that Alfred noticed Arthur was beginning to be more submissive again – ferocity gone now from his eyes. "I-I can't… no-not when…"
"When your hips are messed up? Yeah, I know… I'll bring you in, sweet stuff." Alfred said in a much calmer voice of his own, wandering over to the Briton and extending his arms as if expecting Arthur to simply fall into them. Arthur stared questioningly, still shivering. Alfred saw him looking back to the house, pupils thinned with some sort of emotion that he just could not tell, before looking up directly at him. "What's up, doll?"
"…N-nothing." Arthur murmured almost silently, a fresh breath on the wind. Whatever Alfred spotted that time on his face wiped away. It was like Arthur was afraid of something, then realised it was hopeless. He opened his mouth to speak again but closed it almost immediately afterwards; deciding against speech. Alfred had a feeling that Arthur wanted to tell him something, but thought twice.
"Come on, you." Alfred added with a nurturing smile, staying strong for the Brit's benefit – as well, partially, for his own. He promptly swooped over, scooping Arthur up into his arms, bridal style, and shuffling up, up, up onto his feet. "I'll get you a tissue on the way, okay?"
"So, uh, where's the French loser?" Alfred asked Matthew as he, with Arthur still collected in his arms, entered the living room and glanced around concernedly. The Canadian shrugged. Francis had taken a lot longer than he had expected him to.
"Dunno… he said he was going to check upstairs. I don't think he trusted your detective skills, though I guess he was wrong," came the reply, and the other bespectacled nation gestured loosely at Arthur. "You found him, eh?"
"Sure did. You were just checkin' out the flowers, weren't-cha, Arthur?" Alfred chirruped gladly; smiling down at the nation bundled up in his arms. His eyes were still relatively blotchy and red, but he knew that his brother could read the atmosphere well enough to tell that asking about it was likely to be a bad idea. The Englishman merely stared emotionlessly back. "…A-Alright, let's put you down, mister!"
As Arthur was put down, Matthew watched Alfred's expression closely. He knew his brother's personality probably better than anyone else, and what he saw shocked him. It was the same sort of face that he showed whenever he talked about 911 and the deaths that were caused back then. A melancholic smile on his face in order to reassure those that were hurt, an air of understanding around him, yet beneath all that there was a certain anger hidden inside – the lining of Alfred's speech was backed up with a slight hopelessness that Matthew would know anywhere. Like Alfred was judging, placing the blame on something – even if he did not know who it was.
"I think I'll let you two chat for a minute!" Alfred automatically volunteered. Seeing him eye to eye, Matthew finally noticed how tired his brother looked. He was utterly worn out – overexerting himself. He needed a rest; that much was clear as day. "I-I've gotta go find Francis… be right back, mmkay?"
Arthur looked up at Alfred, silent but wounded expression on those usually tense features. Like a rabbit that had just been shot. The American tried to ignore it as he left, bounding up the stairs.
"So… eeh." Matthew begun, completely at a loss for words. Here was Alfred and Arthur, one internally livid but trying to put on a strong face, and the other – well, even to Matthew's eyes, it looked like Arthur had simply given in. Their eyes only met for a small moment, and then Arthur was looking away again, curling in on himself. Alfred was right – the extent of what happened was horrid. Nobody would miss the bandages wrapping up his hands and arms. Whoever knew what was underneath? "…Um. Arthur, how are you dealing? I heard about the accident…"
"Why are you here?" Arthur asked coldly; enough to bring a momentary shiver down his spine. He shot down his concern and replaced it purely with scepticism.
"W-What… well, um. Alfred called me and said that he needed a hand. I'm sure that he—"
"I don't need you here, Matthew." Arthur disclosed snappishly, taking Matthew by surprise again. He was used to his speech being constantly interrupted – but not like this. Not so deliberately.
"Y-Yes, but I…" The Canadian stammered, trying to recover from the initial shock of being talked to in such a concluding manner. "…You need to recover, and having more than one helper will do you good, eh! A-And I'm here for Alfred just as much as you…"
"You should not have come." Arthur scathed, shrinking back on the sofa. He glanced off elsewhere, eyes trailing around unseeingly in the air as if searching for something.
"With all due respect, Arthur—My brother is dealing worse with this than you might think. He's a ray of sunshine in the dark, our Al. Sacrifices his own feelings in need of helping fix another's." Matthew explained to him, shuffling till he was standing strong and proud for his cause against his previous caretaker. "You and he are totally disregarding the fact that he's getting miserable like this. He cares about you a lot, Arthur. And as his sibling, I care a lot about him."
He suddenly became very aware of luminous green eyes bearing up at him, view fixated and even potentially ghostly. The Englishman did not move a muscle, other than a few natural spasms in his fingertips.
"…L-Look… I'm, eh, I'm going to go see where Alfred and Francis have been!" The shyer bespectacled nation offered, awkwardly tittering as he inched towards the door. The way that Arthur's irises were following him honestly frightened him. It was like how portrait paintings often look like they are watching you from whichever angle you stand. It was haunting. "T-Talk to you in a second, okay!"
He had never known so much guilt after he bailed, exiting the living room and almost running upstairs to find the others – heart pumping drastically. The usually warm-hearted albeit loudmouthed Brit was nothing like himself; quiet, and looking like he could slaughter with intent alone. Cold, and surrounded by a constant air of distrust.
"…So…" A cough sounded and the three blonds stood awkwardly in their places. When Matthew had found the others, they were back inside of the kitchen – scrutinising the contents of Alfred's pantry. Nothing more than a few cans of food, pretty much empty. It would barely last Alfred and Arthur a week, and he and Francis were not going to stay much longer than they had to. Not when Arthur was being cold as he was, and Alfred was seeming stable enough.
"I guess the only course of action we can do is to go out and get some more. Simple, ain't it?" Alfred offered, hands on his hips and a misplaced smile resting on his face. "The two o'you can go get stuff, can't cha?"
"It's your house, Alfred. You may eat in vast volumes but you are hilariously picky as well." Francis pointed out. The American refused to eat a lot of food, against popular belief, especially when he was here in England. It was like he trusted the food no where near as far as he could throw it; as if it all was as bad as Arthur's cooking. He still avoided any aisle in a supermarket with marmite on it. Who knew what Alfred would eat on this continent? "It would be troublesome if we brought the wrong thing."
"Yeah, but… what about Arth—" Alfred tried to interject, looking partially disappointed. This is where Matthew took the opportunity to chime in.
"You should come out of the house for a little while, Alfred. Much as you would love to put on a strong face, there's no point in you trying to take care of Arthur when you're unprepared and miserable. Just have a quick break and re-organise yourself, okay?" Matthew said, giving a belittling but empathetic smile at his brother; a hand resting on his arm. Alfred frowned, letting his all-cheery façade temporarily break, before he nodded.
"…O-Okay. Just this once. But we can't all go. Who's stayin' behind?" He asked, glancing up at his brother questioningly. The Canadian shook his head and indicated to Francis.
"I'm coming with you, Al. I think we should… I dunno… talk about this." The other bespectacled blond said calmly, still casually rubbing the other's arm. He was highly aware that Francis was watching them carefully, but thought nothing of it. "I'm sure Francis can take care of Arthur for a little while."
Alfred did not look all too happy about that, and looked Francis up and down for a moment. Sighing, the Frenchman rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, as if the inspection was such a hassle to take. "Alfred, I think you know that I am perfectly capable of handling a moody Englishman – I have several times in my life, I can do it again. Now get yourself organised and go, comprendre?"
"…But what about you're history…" Alfred started, disappointed and worried tone in his voice.
"Go," Francis ushered, sticking his hands forwards and nudging Alfred towards the living room and to where Arthur was curled up in wait. "Tell him you'll be back soon, and go out to talk to your brother, why don't you?"
"But—!"
"No buts, Ameriqué! If your brother expects you to speak to him then you two shall! It is for your own benefit, so go on and go out – I will take care of our petit lapin here, so take your time. In fact, go have a meal, relax, and work the tension out of these shoulders! Mon dieu!" Francis complained, pushing him towards the entrance for the living room while Matthew walked behind, nodding in agreement.
"It'll just be a few hours, Al. It'll be good for you, and Francis is right. You are horribly tense, so I'm going to remedy that. Got it, eh?" Matthew chirruped, giving a stronger smile now. Finally, Alfred slumped his shoulders and sighed heftily; taking a moment to adjust the position of his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
"…Fine. I'll come out with you. But I'm not tense or anythin'! This is how heroes roll, damned be it. I'm only going to stop you worryin', got that?" Alfred mumbled under his breath, still trying to convince the other two that he would rather be here. It was correct in some degree, but in reality Alfred would rather be anywhere else. Anywhere where he could fool himself into not remembering that there was a broken Englishman – the broken man he loved – lying in wait at home. "A'ight… let's get this over with."
Arthur knew that something odd was going on when all three of his fellow blonds piled into the living room with their eyes fixated on him, as if he was a rapid cat that they were going to attempt to capture; afraid of any movement of his. He stared back, looking up at Alfred in particular. Those large forest green orbs of his refused to stray anywhere near the left and to the back, where he was standing. But he could still detect that hawk-like stare through the apex of his eye. Matthew and Alfred both did not see it, since they were in front… but the way he was looking at him.
Why was he here? Why did Alfred invite him over? Did he invite him over in the first place? It was because Matthew was here, wasn't it? But why did Alfred bring anyone around anyway? It would have been better if it was just them. If only Alfred was the one that saw him like this. What if the world already knew? Already knew that he was damaged goods, injured, dirty, fucked? He could not handle it. The accusing eyes. The knowledgeable looks. How could he? How could he—How could he…?
"Hey, Arthur… we're um." Alfred started, and Arthur narrowed his glance slightly in reaction. The unsteadiness of his voice scared him. Instantly he was beginning to mistrust, ironically accusing the other as well. Was he going to leave him? Pass him on to his brother like pass-the-parcel? Reject him, have nothing more to do with him, leave him and scrap him off like dirt on his shoe. How dare he do this to him? How, how, how?
"We're just going to go out and get more food for us in the week, okay? So I can hang back and take care for you as much as I can. Is that alright? It'll be just for t'day. Got it?" Alfred cooed quietly, reaching out and stroking a few strands of ruffled blond hair out of the Englishman's eyes while he simultaneously knelt in front of him on the sofa. He visibly relaxed in relief.
"…You're… leaving me alone?" Arthur asked him, blinking and noting as Alfred flinched slightly as if wounded by his words. Good. You made me feel guilty, regret, doubt. He swallowed and shook the thought out of his head, squeezing his eyes closed and taking a big breath; fingertips twitching slightly.
"No. No, no. I wouldn't leave you alone, baby doll." Alfred said in a nurturing tone, smiling weakly for his sake. "Mattie and I are gonna go out, and I'll leave you in Francis's capable hands – okay?"
British eyes flew open again, and he knew that they went so wide and scared that it disarmed the North American nations by the way Matthew inched backwards and Alfred looked even more internally injured than before. The American must have noticed that his breathing patterns changed – hyperventilating now, sucking breath after breath faster and faster as if building for a climax – because he shushed him and gently rubbed his chest.
"It's fine, Arthur—I won't be gone for long. I promise you, 'kay? I promise." Alfred mumbled to him, and Arthur remembered wondering why the Hell he did not question his reaction. Maybe he knew that he depended on him and wanted to get away from him, but felt too guilty. Yes, that must be it. He would leave him in a heartbeat if he could, wouldn't he?
Francis and him alone. Dear Lord, Francis being with him, alone. In Alfred's house. What if he… what if he did it again? What if he raped him again? Oh, oh no. Francis was going to… he was going to get hurt again. No, no, no.
But he remembered what Francis had told him after… then. Tell Alfred and he dies. Tell Alfred and he would kill him, and then come back and fuck him all over again. Over and over. Until he could barely think any more. Until everything whittled away into dust and all he could remember is those wide, dead cerulean blue eyes.
No, no, no.
"W-What about Matthew?" He asked quickly.
"He's comin' with me. Some 'Bro-time'. You'll be fine with Francis, I know you will." Alfred told him. You don't know anything. You don't know!
"I want Matth—" Arthur tried again.
"Angleterre, I do not like it any more than you do." Francis said behind the other two, and Arthur felt like a little part of him inside died. Just like Alfred might. Just like the man that he loved might. Fuck, fuck, what was he going to do. He struggled to control his breathing, doing everything he could to try act like nothing was wrong. The looks on Alfred and Matthew's faces were not suspicious, but just worried.
Damn it, he's right behind you. Turn around. Turn around! It's him, it's him. He was the one that did this. Him! Stop him, Alfred, stop him. I don't want to be alone with him. Let this stop, let it stop, stop, stop, stop!
Then a small sight, a glint, made him stop abruptly and feel honestly physically sick. He stared beyond the American and the Canadian, looking directly at Francis while the foolish brothers continued to watch him. His mouth hung slightly ajar, stunned.
Francis had pulled out the handle of a gun from his pocket; just enough so that Arthur could see the trigger – and the way that Francis's finger was flirting with it, stroking the metal, holding onto it almost lovingly as he smiled at him with such intent. Alfred and Matthew had no idea. They had no clue that Francis had a fucking gun. Where did he get it from? How did he get it past customs? …Was it… Alfred's?
"Let Alfred and Matthew go, and they will get back in a few hours. Surely you may survive that, mon cher. And they will too." Francis said, clutching the butt of the gun even tighter. Arthur's heart leapt dangerously, and he shook, knowing that although there was no emphasis on the last part of Francis's words, it was filled with intent. Distraught, destroying intent.
"…O-Okay." He found himself saying, almost soullessly. What else could he do? All Francis had to do was cock the gun and angle it at Alfred's head, and it would be all over. He could not take this. The guilt would be too much, sadness be too fulfilled. He could take anything but that. Anything but his Alfred dying. Anything, anything, anything. Even him. "F-Fine. But hurry back."
"I will, Arthur." Alfred smiled, glad to have consent. You really, really have no idea. Arthur felt like he was going to be sick, watching his face fill with relief; watching him pull away from him after hesitating. For a second, Arthur thought he would have kissed him goodbye on the cheek. He wished that he would have. He would have turned his head towards it and found his lips instead. "Take care, 'aight? Good man. Good, good… hey! Mattie! Let's go, okay?"
Arthur glanced back at Francis and saw the deep blue-violet eyes gaze back. A smile was cursing those crooked features, and Arthur felt like he was just plunged into a pool of ice; cold feeling rushing through him and goosebumps appearing on his arms. The gun had disappeared back into his pocket, and Arthur stayed silent; knowing to speak out might cost not only one, but two lives.
He remained quiet as Alfred and Matthew left, waiting till they were out of sight before he snapped and started to wheeze breaths desperately again; shuddering and trying not to cry, knowing he was going to spend the next few hours in the company of the rapist that broke him. Still, he had to do it for their lives. He had to.
Little did he know, there were no bullets in the gun.
Who does not love cliffhangers?
Would just like to send a soft shout-out to all of the people I met at the London Expo last weekend. Like Iceglisten on Deviantart, and RobinRocks (for a second time – I still can't believe we didn't know XD). Thanks for a great time, everyone. If you went and you saw an America walking around holding a lot shorter England's hand, then that was me.
Love to all. Thanks for reading~!