It was dark and cold by the time they had lost the mob.
Alfred finds himself panting and crying, Francis' grip on his arm firm and tight. The teen's long, bony fingers are wrapped around Alfred's wrist like a tight leash, no intent of ever letting it loose, to let Alfred's limb breathe.
"Francis…Francis…" The boy pants out, tears streaking the sides of his face, almost dried for how long he had been crying, his throat hoarse from the duration he had screamed the first time they ran.
He turns his head momentarily back, hoping to see some light or to hear any more of the shouts and screams that gave chase to them, hungry for their blood to soak the plaza red.
"Not now, keep running."The teenager huffs distractedly, his tone cold and scolding.
The boy gets tugged hard for his troubles, but he persists, "We left Arthur."
It took Francis a while longer to answer that the child had thought that he wasn't heard to begin with until he says, swallowing, "They already got him. If we want to live-" he pauses to a complete halt, almost choking on his own words.
Alfred blinks when the teen's steps start to slow into a walk and Alfred manages to finally catch up, walking beside the older. He glances up into the teen's face and notices how red and wet the other's eyes were as well, just like his.
Francis swallows again, throat bobbing before he continues where he left off, "We run."
Alfred, young as he was, could not do anything else but reply, his free hands rubbing his eyes clean as he cries anew, walking along the other, "But Arthur…"
"…Arthur…"
"Arthur."
Alfred groans out, arms stretching until they successfully feel something warm. It stiffens in his hold as Alfred drags it close to his chest, inhaling deep as his nose touch the soft strands of hair. It smells like rain and dirt and Alfred finds it all the more pleasant when it stank with sweat and his own come.
Then it trembles as Alfred lets his fingers comb through the soft, silky locks and that was when Alfred finally decided to open his eyes, dark and tired.
"Stop squirming." It grunts when Alfred's grip on its hair tightens, pulling some strands off the scalp.
He wraps both of his arms tight around its torso, to keep it still as he turns his eyes towards the windows, slightly ajar to let some of the moonlight pass through the night prior. With some of what seems like sunlight leaking out the opening, Alfred assumes that the sun has now risen.
He clicks his tongue. He's not supposed to stay for too long but apparently, he had slept throughout the night.
Slowly, he rises, peering down at the witch's bare form next to him. He observes in disappointment that the bruises and teeth marks he left on its pale body were all gone, like he had never touched him to begin with. The only proof that remained were the dried blood staining the sheets below them, a shade of an ugly brown and the bits of caked blood on the witch's body, most clustered on his neck, where Alfred continued to assault all night with his teeth, flat and firm, aggressively persistent to bury themselves into the soft, pale skin.
The witch's eyes were closed, its breathing relaxed and normal unlike how Alfred had expected it to be, meaning that the other is asleep still. It never stopped to faze the hunter how the witch had remained to be such a heavy sleeper after all the things Alfred had done to the other that would definitely make a person more attentive to their own surroundings.
It's stupidity, he thinks. The witch has no clue on how to survive, is what he had come to, with its ability to continuously regenerate every wound and injury as well as to revive its own body without the need to will itself to do so. It works like a programmed machine.
Once it dies, the only possible action left to do is to revive itself.
The body next to his trembles once again and Alfred runs his palms along the witch's body, from his back up to the nape of his neck, noting how cold the skin is. The witch is chilled to the bone, is the reason why it had been trembling and squirming to begin with. Alfred's little punishment was uncalled for, a part of his brain thinks but another part rebukes that such thing doesn't matter because witches are less than humans.
They don't deserve to be treated as one.
Alfred wasn't supposed to be sleeping with it as much as he does. One time during the binding was enough, it wasn't even supposed to be consensual of all things. It all breaks down to domination. Asserting your power over the weaker one, announcing the loss of their freedom.
He shakes his head, blurring out the muddled thoughts in his head. He runs a hand through his hair to mess them up, silently wondering if he's still got time left to meet with Francis to go out hunting together later this afternoon.
The trek out the woods will be difficult-not as much as before, but it's still difficult on an average day.
He pulls a thin blanket over the witch's body, thinking that it would probably do little for the chill, the house being unbearably cold at nights if the witch forgot to put fire in the fireplace in his tiny common room. Alfred wonders if the witch ever owned something thick, like wool for himself. Someone with all skin and bones like this one doesn't seem likely to survive in the cold.
His body most likely dies from the cold, Alfred thinks cruelly.
He drags the blanket over the witch's shoulders, hears him release a breath of relief at that that Alfred pointedly ignores as he slowly gets up from the bed, careful to shake the witch awake. He shuffles on the floor for a good minute, looking for his discarded clothes scattered along with the witch's-all crumpled and ruined unlike his.
He shrugs them all on and prepares for the door, not until he spares the witch's slumbering form a last glance before he leaves the little house to go back home, his hands ready to reach for his weapons anytime, prepared for any random woodland—supernatural or not-creature to jump at him and aim for his neck.
It had happened far too many times for him to stay lax in such a place.
First was the unicorn, its horn sharp as it charged into him, head-first. Luckily for Alfred, it was plain stupid. Whined and stomped its foot on the ground until the earth broke underneath its stomps, obviously giving Alfred time to prepare himself for the upcoming assault. Its big mistake before it met his sharp blade.
He could've shot it in the head and be done with it without much effort, but he thinks the witch needs some reminding that he cannot easily be killed. Directly or otherwise.
He remembers dumping that head on the witch's feet not a few days ago, as a greeting.
The reaction it incited did not bore him in the very least.
His cries followed him up to the witch's bed, until he's raped and beaten into unconsciousness.
As Alfred had expected, Francis has left without him.
He came into the older man's room to find it locked and void of his presence. He went down to check the innkeeper and to hear that Francis had left as early as the sun's rise, barely had time to tell the innkeeper of his whereabouts as he dumps a generous sum of coins on the counter, asking for an extension for his stay as he all but hurries on his way out to the door.
Something about the witch being a sun-eater, the innkeeper tells Alfred.
"He also sounds angry about you," They add, giving Alfred an apologetic look.
Alfred closes his eyes when the innkeeper's hand, old and heavy, lands on the top of his head, messing his hair as they peer up at him, their eyes dark and heavy as they say, "He'll forgive you, I can tell."
You don't know him.
Francis is a liar.
He's not that kind of guy.
There are a lot of things he can say to the innkeeper right now, about Francis' character. About how unforgiving the man is, that the way he berates and scolds and pulls at Alfred's ears isn't endearing, that he's not the best parental figure out there and that Alfred is all but terrified of what Francis will be once he returns from what most likely will be a successful hunt in a few hours' time but he keeps his tongue in place. He winces at the counter, his eyes squinting and it makes the innkeeper chuckle, thinking of his expression as endearing. It reminds them of their grandson, who went to another town a few years ago to get married, they once told him and it shows when they all but pulled out a sweet from their pocket, wrapped in a cloth.
"Here, take it." They smile at him.
Alfred stares at the sweet on their palm, round and dotted with chocolate. He smiles gratefully at them before gingerly taking it.
The innkeeper smiles when he takes a bite and tells him to go back to his room for a while. Rest.
"I think I will," Alfred replies.
The sweet settles unpleasantly in the pit of his stomach, heavily and toxic.
Alfred wakes to the sound of soft raps on his door.
Behind it, reveals Francis, an unpleasant look on his face and Alfred couldn't help but cautiously use the door between them as a shield as he looks the man over.
He's all cleaned up, no visible injuries on his person for Alfred to take notice of.
He winces, rubbing the back of his head. "How did it go?"
"Well." Francis drones. He sounded like he'd rather talk about anything but the hunt right now. Alfred winces at his own horrible mistake.
"You want to…" He pulls out the door, providing Francis a view of his neat room. "…get in?"
He swallows when Francis' stare never left his face, his expression in deep thought.
"Where have you been?"
"A friend." Alfred's swift reply.
"You don't have friends." Was the swifter reply from his guardian, who crosses his arms, his foot in the verge of tapping impatiently on the floor.
"Søren's a friend."
Francis levels him with a blank stare. "I just talked to him on my way here, my boy, and he told me he never saw you last night. So, I'll ask again, where have you been?"
Alfred looks away, his eyes focused on the irregularities on the floor, like the cracks and strange little marks of metal skidding on the concrete. Who knew they looked so interesting?
"Alfred." Alfred flinches at Francis' dry tone. He sounded exhausted but despite that, he doesn't seem to plan to end the conversation any soon. Slowly, he looks up to meet the eyes of his guardian, who, to his surprise, does not look in any way upset with him as he previously had made it look like when Alfred opened the door for him for the first time tonight.
The fatigue was showing prominently on his eyes, where crows' feet seems to be showing more and more as days go by.
The sight is unfamiliar and Alfred finds himself falling prostate, his guards slowly coming apart, bit by bit as he comes closer to the other, his body no longer being shielded by the door.
Alfred begins, guilty, "I need to talk to you."
In that moment, Francis' eyes had looked different. The strange glow of his irises somewhat dims as they gaze at him, haunted. With voice so low that no one else could've heard it but his own, he says, "What have you done this time?"
Alfred winces at the flood of memory that surges through his head in that moment, all replaying at once, muted and black and white, save for the sharp flashes of red, the tears and the screams and the cries of the witch.
"They were so loud," He chokes out, then to his own surprise, tears drop as he closes his eyes, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. The image itself brought his guardian speechless, running to him in confusion to catch him as Alfred's feet buckles beneath his own weight.
He doesn't understand; the tears and the frustration and this cold air that's penetrating his veins, leaving his blood chilled down to the bone as the thoughts continue to play in his mind, blocking his vision and his reality nothing but a distant memory of the past long gone.
Then he sees the flames, the green eyes and death, everywhere around him. He cries when he feels Francis' arms wrap around him, like a ward, to keep him in the present.
But it's too late.
"It's so hot," He sobs out, his arms wrapped around Francis, his knuckles white as they grip hard on the older man's clothes. He feels his legs skid down the ground as he was slowly led down, to lie on the floor, his head on Francis' lap.
"Shh," Francis says to his ear, his cold fingers running through his hair. A hand, ice-cold, finds his and it holds him in a steady grip.
"The fire," Alfred gasps, his grip tightening until his nails, blunt and straight, buries themselves into Francis' flesh. The older doesn't react to it but instead tightens his hold more on the younger, shushing into his ears as they started to rock gently on the ground.
Francis wipes at Alfred's tears, dripping uncontrollably down his cheeks, to his collarbones.
"Who's with you?" Francis asks him, patiently waiting for an answer as he presses his lips to Alfred's forehead-a sign of comfort.
Alfred sobs but nods, blinking his eyes open but unseeing, glowing bright amidst the darkness of Alfred's room. He looks up, at the ceiling, stars reflecting on his irises as he breathes in and out, "Slowly," Francis reminds him and he nods, breathing in and out slowly this time before his jaw tenses, his mouth clenching and his teeth chattering. He's having a hard time pulling out words from his throat. Everything is suffocating, constricting.
He ends up sobbing some more.
"Alfred," Francis insists, calling his name, pulling him out of the oblivion. "Tell me who's with you."
Alfred swallows, "F…Francis…"
"Yes, you're right, I'm here. Who's the other one?" The last question slips out of Francis' tongue accidentally, pulled from habit. Despite Gilbert's presence, he supposes his question doesn't have to mean literally.
But Alfred doesn't see it that way.
"A..Arthur." Arthur, his image flashes into the back of Alfred's eyes. He sees his smile, the way his eyes crinkle underneath the sun, and the way his arms held him as a child. Protected him from all that is evil in the world.
Then he's gone. Dead.
"Arthur," Alfred cries, his tears leaking some more out of his eyes and they drip into Francis' lap. Suddenly, Alfred feels a painful pull at his chest, his lungs being squeezed, and fire exploding in his head, burning everything and leaving nothing but ashes in their wake.
"Where is he?" Alfred turns to Francis, opening his eyes: blue and glowing as they glistened in tears.
For a moment, Francis had appeared taken aback, his expression unreadable as he peers down Alfred's face with eyes that one can only see as pitiful. Carefully, he threads his fingers through Alfred's hair, ever so-soft no matter the years, like a new born babe.
His brows furrow in loss and confusion as he whispers, "Arthur's been dead for centuries, my boy."
Why is Francis asking Alfred who's with him? Basically, I gathered that to pull PTSD patients from their episodes is to keep them rooted in present, since their episodes are most likely about their past that caused to develop...well, PTSD. Not so obvious, because Francis is as expressive as bella swan in this fic, but he's totally not expecting Alfred to pick at an old scar, lol.
All in all, I find this chapter...Yeah, boring. Everything used to be too slow then I dropped the porn and everything is suddenly too fast. Like real life.