The England Experiment

What did we do last time?

Francis could hear Arthur's thin breathing across the room.

There was a beat. A tap... tap... tap... tap. Guard's footprints ringing on the stone floors. And the feeling of his own cold finger, counting the seconds. 

Seven, eight, nine, ten. Don't move a muscle. An SS guard walked past the cell door slowly, the taps of his black boots becoming thuds. After all this time Francis still felt his heart stop in his chest, and his breath leave his throat as he pretended to sleep soundly on the cold, hard, floor. As soon as the soldier was directly opposite the cell, he began to count the steps. 

One, two, three, four, five... 

Not nearly enough. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve... Francis didn't dare open an eye, squeezing them closed and counting the steps in his head. 

Eighteen, nineteen... they were so far away now, just taps again. Just wait until...

Twenty-four, twenty-five. 

Francis reached out, stretching his shaking hand into the dark. And they found their mark.

His hand closed around Arthur's, reaching from the cell opposite him. Both of their fingers were ice cold from the winter's night, bloody and calloused, but at those moments the touch felt so warm, and Francis bit his lip to stop the tears coming to his eyes.  He felt Arthur squeeze it weakly, and he smiled a little, gripping his hand. A moment passed and Arthur shuffled his fingers around, placing them gently on Francis' palm. He began to pencil letters onto the skin, and Francis closed his eyes to feel them out.

B- L- O- O- Francis smiled and tapped Arthur's hand, letting him know he had got the word. They couldn't even see each other in the dark cells, but Francis could hear Arthur's angry tone, mixed with the sly smile towards the Frenchman as he spelled out the letters. 

"Bloody Germans. Another shitty day of this and I'll go right off and die." Francis rolled his eyes, but stretched out, lacing his fingers between Arthur's and rubbing his thumb gently across the side of his hand. Arthur wriggled free after a moment, etching out more letters on his hand. 

Y- O-

"You alright?" 

Without a moment's notice Arthur's fingers were dead cold, limp in his hands. He could hear the rain beating down on the stone floors of the cell and his throat hurt, aching as he contained sobs; desperately trying to get Arthur to wake up, a trickle of sickly blood running down his brow and sliding over Arthur's lips. He pinched the man's hand, begging for him to wake up before that never-ending tap tap tap of the soldier's boots got any closer. His tears blended into the rain but those footfalls never stopped, the tap tap tap tap seeming to tap tap tap right in his ears, right inside his head-

 Francis startled awake with a scream, eyes wide and drenched in a cold sweat. Ripping the covers off, he scrambled from the white sheets and stumbled to the window, throwing it open wide to gulp in the cold, midnight air. Trying to not be sick was one thing, he clamped a shaking hand over his mouth and breathed deeply, steadying his racing heart. However, as the roaring in his ears stopped and the quiet of the night crept back in, he could hear it again.

Tap, Tap, Tap, Tap.

Trying not to panic he opened his eyes and shook his head, pulling his blonde hair back and clearing his head. But it went on, no matter how much he tried to think of other things, hum a different song, the counted footfalls of the guards rang in his ears. Tears welled in his blue eyes and Francis gripped the window ledge, not realising he was biting his cheek until the metallic pang of warm blood ran over his tongue. What the hell? he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. I thought this was over year ago, I got over it, I got over it-

"Arthur..." he whispered, turning back into the room, tasting bile in his mouth. England lay on  a pile of thick blankets beside the bed, Francis insisting he be in the same room as someone in case something happened and he was alone. His watering eyes glanced over his sleeping figure, the stained bandages covering his back. And the outstretched hand leaning against the bed. 

Francis' blood froze, looking to see Arthur's other hand on the floor, his thin fingers drumming into the wood. 

Tap, Tap, Tap, Tap. 

With a cry he stumbled across the room. "Arthur. Arthur please, stop, Mon Dieu wake up..."

Francis fell to his knees and snatched Arthur's hand from the ground, holding it to his beating heart as he sobbed, the tapping finally ceased. England's eyes fluttered open and he jumped up, gasping, and noticed Francis; the tight grip on his hand biting into his pale skin. 

"You alright?" he whispered carefully, and tears dropped onto his arm as Francis' shoulders shook. 

"Y-you were- were tapping, and I had a- a dream of- of... of when..." Arthur pulled Francis in with his other hand, holding him tightly and letting his head fall onto his shoulder. 

"Sorry." he breathed after a while, and Francis let out a long sigh. 

"Angleterre?" he said softly, getting a questioning hum in answer. "What did we do?" 

There was a small silence.

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked. 

"Last time. What did we do." he was glad Arthur couldn't see his face as he pressed his forehead into his shoulder, the tears rolling over his cheeks. 

"How did we manage to forget about all of it?" 

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Hello! 

Sorry if these few (and the next few) chapters are painful, but hey why write fluff when you can write trauma :D

I haven't been active and lost some serious motivation for a while, but here is the next chapter! I never expected this story to get over 1k views and I want to say a massive thanks to every single person, even if you don't really care it's massive to have that support. 

Over this quarantine I'll try to get more written for you people I promise, so thank you, stay inside where its safe and remember to drink water!

Side note: Mon Dieu means my god.