ArtisticRelease

The two sat quietly in the taxi as it drove them from a short way outside of Paris to Gare du Nord so they could catch the last train from the French capital to its English counterpart. It took them about half an hour which was spent in silence. When they arrived Arthur paid the driver and retrieved the suitcase with Francis’ clothes in it and the briefcase he had brought with him, carrying both in one hand while holding Francis’ small hand in his other. He quickly purchases two tickets on the Eurostar and hurried to catch the train. Once they were seated and the suitcase safely stowed, Francis across from him with his back to the

About half an hour later the door opened and a much cleaner Francis stepped out, dressed in the new clothes, still wearing Arthur's coat over them, and hair drying around his shoulders. His skin had lost the blue tinge and the boy no longer shook so much so Arthur was relieved. "Do you feel better?" he asked softly. "Yes." "Good. Now come with me and we'll get you something to eat." He walked slowly so that Francis could limp next to him without hurting himself further. The kitchen was just as cold as the rest of the house but England was more than happy to shiver and lose feeling in his upper body if it meant that Francis could feel warm

Francis was woken by a gentle shaking and someone calling his name. "What…?" he asked drowsily and somewhat annoyed, wanting to fall back asleep. "We've almost caught up to my ship. Your crew is preparing to board mine." 'Oh how things had been reversed,' he thought. The Frenchman struggled to sit up but was pushed back down. "Where do you think you're going?" Fighting to sit up, he panted, "To get my son." "Oh no you aren't. You can't even walk with that gash in your leg. You are staying here." "And who can I blame for that?!" he demanded. Arthur frowned. That had been a low blow. "I'm not going to let you make it any worse!" "

The room was nearly silent except for the steady drone of machines but he barely noticed it. He had been sitting next to the bed, surrounded by the incessant machines, for hours and his legs had gone numb. Many nurses and doctors had come and gone through the room, making adjustments to the machines and writing on clipboards yet he paid them no mind. The man simply stared at the face of the occupant of the bed and held a pale hand tightly in his own. A hand on his shoulder made him jump and clutch his chest in surprise with his free hand. Turning quickly, eyes blazing, he was about to yell at whoever it was to leave him alone when he noticed

Francis had been laid in a wooden tub so Arthur could clean his wounds with ease. Silently he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, and set about washing the many injuries, new and old. "Why are you so quiet now?" the Frenchman asked after a while. "I'm just thinking." "About what?" He shifted to look at Arthur without putting himself in too much pain. Some of the dirty, red water spilled out of the tub to puddle on the floor that Arthur was kneeling on and staining his knickers. "Oi. Stay still," the man reprimanded him quietly though no venom was in his voice. "Desole," Francis whispered. Once again silence fell and it m

Arthur's own room, unfortunately, had not been spared. Wandering around the room he saw that paintings had been torn from the walls and his once beautiful and elegant desk had been reduced to kindling. Even his luxurious bed hadn't been spared with its sheets scattered over the room and a large tear in the middle. Strolling around to the other side in a daze, he saw a motionless figure laying on the ground. "Francis!" He snapped back to himself and hurried over to the Frenchman's side and checked to see if he was still alive. Inwardly he felt relieved when he heard ragged breathing coming from the man. Gently, he moved the man into a sitt

England knocked on the thick mahogany door to France's large, opulent manor; he hadn't heard from the other nation in a few weeks and was getting slightly worried. Normally he'd get half a dozen text messages a day and at least three calls a week but he had received none of that in so long he thought the other might be seriously injured or possibly already dead. Stamping his numb feet in the snow in an attempt to get feeling back in them, he called out, "Francis!" in an annoyed tone. He had come all this way to check on him, the least he could do was let him in. When he didn't get an answer and knocked again. "Francis, open the door! I know

Quickly Francis rolled to the side, the knife stabbing into his pillow instead of his chest. The weapon was yanked free and again it was descending upon him so he forced himself out of the way. However he was already on the edge of the spacious bed and his movement caused him to tumble to the hard wooden floor. “Stay still!” his attacker ordered. “N-Non! Jamais!” he panted back, still quite weak from his injuries. “I’m not going to lay here and let you kill me!” “I can’t let you tell him who I am! I worked too long and too hard to get here!” The man walked around the bed to stand bef

At the sound of the gunshots, Arthur ran back into the room. “FRANCIS!” he screamed, running over to him only to be caught and pulled into Alfred’s arms. “Let me go!” he yelled, tears starting to run down his face as he struggled to get loose. “He needs help!” Alfred shook his head. “No he doesn’t. He’s going to die and you’re finally going to be free of him.” A deranged smile appeared on his face and he held the Englishman tightly around the waist. “We’ll finally be able to be together without worrying about him interfering!” All Arthur could do was sta