Closure, Or Something Like It {FrUK}

Chapter 3

A/N:

Okay! The final installment! Almost two weeks late but!!! It is finished!!! Please read and tell me how you liked it.

CW: there is suggestion in the beginning and end of the rape of a minor, and discussion of said rape. Then at the end Francis thinks little baby Arthur's coming onto him, but he's not, I promise. There might also be some slurs in here, but I forget off the top of my head what they are.

Forgive me, as I didn't attempt to put any accent marks on words that are in a foreign language. So... my bad.

And lastly, Arthur and Francis are acting as though they are adults, but though they've had many experiences in their long years, they still do not understand the world entirely, and their minds are young and largely innocent and kind.

So this is what Arthur is wearing to the club: 

What Fran is wearing is, I would like to think, rather self-explanatory. So I won't offer pictures

Playlist for writing this chapter: Blackheart, by Two Steps From Hell; Everybody Wants To Rule The World by Lorde; Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons; Unpack Your Heart by Phillip Phillips; Between the Bars by Chris Garneau

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When you crawl in through the window, you didn't expect to see this. You'd heard of Albion's defeat at the hands of the Dane, but you couldn't imagine that things would progress this quickly. The boy lay curled up on dirtied, rumpled sheets, his naked shoulders lightly shaking. You can guess immediately what has transpired, even without seeing the blood on the sheets, and your chest constricts as if his fear and pain were your own. Truthfully, though, you are no stranger to this crude ritual, and so, much of your feeling is from experience.

"Oh, Albion..." You murmur quietly.

He doesn't respond. You creep over to him, sensing you've walked into something that, perhaps, you shouldn't have. Albion was always a crybaby, but this sort of reaction is expected after the small boy (surely no bigger than a seven year old) was violated in such a way.

"Albion?" You say his name again, softly, gently; you don't want to cause him undue stress after what he has been put through. You gently touch his shoulder, but he doesn't move. Now... this concerns you. You would have expected some sort of reaction... no matter how small. But... nothing.

You roll him over, and icy fear grabs your heart in an unforgiving hold. There are no tears, nothing, and he stares. He stares at everything and nothing, his eyes glazed over and lifeless. The only way you know the trauma hasn't killed him is the way his shoulders continue to shake, and how he makes the tiniest whimpers every so often.

"Albion," You croon softly. You can feel your heart breaking for him. "Albion, mon petit lapin[1], it's me, it's France."

You tuck a lock of long blond hair behind your ear - some of it must have come loose from the braid. You think he's slowly starting to respond to your prodding. He blinks once, and his eyes clear up a bit. Twice, and the green of his irises are bright, and he's looking at you alertly.

"France..." He murmurs, looking around himself, his gaze lingering particularly on the blooded sheets. His eyes widen, and he immediately scrambles to the side of the bed and heaves up the contents of his stomach. You frown, pulling his trembling body into your lap - he's really not much smaller than you, but you still think of him as a babe: that skittish, fat-cheeked little thing you met when Rome conquered Britannia.