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Void spirals through Francis’s mind from the moment he was able to lay eyes on anything in the room. Pain races through his whole body while he sinks into the rock-solid mattress, and he doesn’t even dare to move a muscle; he can’t even feel anything below his right thigh. His blood runs as he stretches his back and sits up. His eyes betray him, as it blurs every ounce of light he sees–which is not much at all, really. Fuck, this whole room looks monotone.
He struggles to collect any recent puzzle pieces. How he was put into this room, why his body holds an unreasonable torture, and even who the names of these nurses had somehow escaped out of his memory in his unconsciousness. He flinches as he lays his cold hands on his face to reveal the bandages wrapped around the crown of his head, traces them as they reach down the side of his brow, before he feels the damp skin on his cheeks. Has he been crying? Though, that question was put aside once he noticed his right leg–or rather, lack of right leg.
Right, he’d lost his leg during the war. As much as he resists the reminder, he recalls the event by its every detail and remembers every tinge of pain. He wonders how much he could’ve assisted Alfred had he never stepped on that landmine, especially after what he’s gone through during Normandy-
He is flashed by a light shining by the door, followed by a hollow “Francis?”
He escapes his head and turns towards the light before acknowledging that the nurses had left–Marianne and Clairéne, those were their names. The figure was facing the dark, enough to paint its face in shadows. It stood motionless, until it lifted its hand towards the light switch.
The sharp white lights stung Francis’s eyes like hands force-closing them. He managed to adapt and open them slowly, laying eyes on the now clear figure.
“Sorry,” Arthur muttered, flipping only one switch off so that the room is only dim-lighted–a relief for Francis’s vision. He approaches him slowly before setting down a steaming cup–which Francis could doubtlessly guess was tea - and pulling a nearby chair.
“I brought you tea.” Bingo. “It’s still steaming hot, though, so be careful.” He adds as he sits.
A storm of words pool in Francis’s head, though none were spoken. His whole body is stiff, even turning his head was a pain; his gaze drifted towards the knot tied with his pant, which was followed by Arthur’s.
Arthur was never amazing at comforting, he didn’t know what was appropriate to say about that unbearable event. He recalls in his own head–which was not any better than Francis’s side of the story - and lightly shudders.
“I’m sorry,” it didn’t manage to get a reaction out of the patient, but it was better than nothing. “About that.”
“This world is so fucking sick.” Francis mutters, his voice raspy and low, under the layers of his tresses. They veiled almost his entire face to the point where you wouldn’t know he said that–Arthur thought it was the voices in his head.
The temptation to hold Francis’s hand was strong enough to move Arthur’s towards it, not strong enough to actually hold it. He pathetically held on a dangling piece of blanket.
“It’s just how it is.” Francis’s responsive silence was enough for Arthur to immediately regret those words. Jesus, Arthur, what are you, heartless??? Were plastered on every wall he could find in his mind. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that-” he honestly didn’t know what he meant at all.
“You have nothing to apologize for, Arthur,” the Frenchman turns his head towards him, blue eyes locking in green. Arthur knew he wouldn’t see Francis’s bright, animated eyes for a while, but something stirred in his stomach the moment he saw the eyes of a dead, soulless body on Francis. He just knew, under those sheets, he would see nothing lively.
Arthur buries his face in his hands, letting out a deep sigh. “You’re right,” He sinks his head lower, hands running through his hair. “This world is fucked up.” he mutters, the sound burried under his clothes.
Francis isn’t very fond of these conversations, always so complicated. Yes, he knows the world is fucked up, he’s seen it and felt it, the last thing he needs is a constant reminder. Though, he did start the conversation–which makes things more complicated. He flips through possible starters to lead this to a different path, but all were weak–turns out probably several consecutive days without water has also made his speech dry.
“I’m glad you look better than I do.” he raises.
Arthur responds with silence. He slowly lifts his head to face Francis “Matt’s not doing any better, though,”. He crosses his arms “His plane got absolutely wrecked to pieces.”
“What?”
“Yeah, Alfred said it was hit by a missile and crashed down,” He leaned back against his chair. “Lad lost a plane and broke a right arm,”
Francis nods silently. He wasn’t wishing injuries on anybody, but the thought of not being the only one crippled after the horrors of war felt somewhat comfortable–like he wasn’t alone.
“They’re actually coming here,” Arthur raises before thinking that might be too loud–as the sound bounces off the walls of the medic room so easily–and softens his voice. “Alfred and Matt.”
Francis glances at the Brit, eyes carrying intrigue. Arthur notices and nods–in reassurance. “Matthew had to help the soldiers prepare to go home and Alfred had to deal with Ludwig’s papers, so they couldn’t come here right away.”
“Papers?” Ludwig’s papers? Since he woke up he’d thought of two things–one, the war was still ongoing; two, at least Germany’s war was still ongoing on the Eastern front. He’s spent days in this building, isolated from the war entirely–no news was given to him at all, especially none about Germany’s- loss? victory??
“Yeah,” Arthur turned around and dug through his bag, before pulling out a black box–a quite big black box, he would say–and handing it to Francis.
Francis made no thought as he opened the box–pretty easy to open, the lid just slid right off. By now, the sun was already halfway past the horizon, as rays of bright gold paint over the fabric of red, white and blue–it was his flag.
“France is free?” he asked, his voice carrying both intrigue and weariness.
“Yes.” He nods, before bursting out into a playful chuckle. “Yes, France, you’re free.”
He turns towards the sound, then back to the box. “Is the war over?”
The Englishman nods softly. “Yes.”
“The entire thing?”
“Yes, the entire thing.” And from that, Francis’s headache was welcomed. He ducks his head so he wouldn’t have to lift his hand up too much to stroke his head.
“Sorry, I know it’s a lot to process.” Arthur replies to the gesture, before drifting his vision onto the cup on the table with less steam than he’s last seen it.
“Drink your tea,” he pushes the cup towards the patient slowly “Before it gets cold.”
Francis glances towards the cup–he wasn’t probably looking at the cup, Arthur thought as he gazed into his eyes–foggy and distant.
Arthur lets out a long silence before tilting his head, asking “Shall I leave you alone?”.
Francis unknowingly nods, his face indifferent, his gaze unmoved. As much as he liked the company, he does need time–a lot of time–to think about all Arthur’s told him. The piercing sun shines on the side of his face and all on his body–revealing the unsightly cut off leg even more than he’d like. He escapes his own twilight zone as soon as he hears footsteps getting fainter.
“Arthur,”
The man–already by the door frame–turned towards his name.
“Thanks,” he says, hoping his voice carried gratitude but instead sounding exhausted–which wouldn’t be wrong saying he was. “For keeping me up to date.” He follows.
Arthur lightly smiles in response, He hadn’t only been the first person to spill the news to Francis, but also the one who kept checking up on him for the past few days; he was the one who’d brought and took care of him in the first place–dragging him from the trenches all the way to the medic center. He’d tell him that story the next time he sees Francis–which would be unknown. “Don’t mention it.”