...August 1944…

It was Alfred who found him first. Barely alive, hair shorn off, wrist broken from the chains that had held him captive, covered in blood from the gunshot he had taken to the head when the Germans fled, his once-fine clothes torn and ruined. In short, he was broken.

Alfred had looked sick as he released him and carried him away. "Somewhere safe." he had heard him say, but hadn't been aware enough to realize exactly where. Away from the Paris townhouse that had become his prison. Alfred never left him. Instead, he had sent one of his own men away to find someone, he hadn't realized who until they arrived.

Arthur. Arthur and Matthew, actually. But Arthur was there, alive, no thanks to him. "France," he gasped when he saw him. He rushed forward. Francis stared, seeing him, but not acknowledging him. "France," he repeated, placing his hands on his shoulders.

But it wasn't Arthur that he saw. It was the German soldiers. His tormentors. He screamed and thrashed like he was being held down again.

"Dude, you're hurting him!" Alfred pulled Arthur away, and his screams turned to sobbing.

"Papa?" Matthew knelt in front of him, gently reaching for his uninjured hand, but he flinched away.

...1945...

He could hear them laughing. Could feel their hands on him. Feel the panic rising in his throat. He wouldn't give them the pleasure of hearing him cry.

Francis bit his tongue, hard enough to bleed, to keep himself from screaming. He gasped, trying to catch his breath as he looked around the room. It was dark, but blessedly unfamiliar. He choked on the bile rising in his throat, barely making it to the toilet before he retched. He gasped, clawing at his shirt collar, tears streaming down his face now that he knew he was alone.

He looked up to find his reflection staring back at him. He looked awful. His still horribly short hair a mess, dark circles, almost like bruises under his eyes from a lack of sleep. He could still feel their cold hands on him. He wrestled his shirt off, scratching at his skin, trying to make the feeling go away.

He turned the shower on as hot as it would go before stripping the rest of his clothes off, exposing his emaciated body and all his horrible scars, and stepped under the stream of scalding water, hoping to wash himself clean.

Arthur would always remember how Francis looked the first time he saw him after the war. He looked like he had been through hell. But Arthur felt like he had never seen anything better. Because Francis was alive. Alive, but as he soon realized, not whole.

Now, here they were in New York for a meeting only a year later. Francis was in the room next to Arthur's, and Arthur couldn't help but wonder if he was sleeping, because he didn't look like he was. The walls were too thin, so Arthur heard all too well when Francis started coughing, and then when the shower started.

Almost an hour later, with still no sound other than the running water, Arthur got up. He left his own room and knocked on the door next to his. When he tried the door, he was surprised to find it unlocked. "Francis?" he called as he stepped in. The bathroom door wasn't quite closed, light spilling through the crack. "Francis?" he called again, tapping on the door before stepping in. The room was clouded with steam, and almost covered by the sound of the water, he could now hear Francis sobbing.

"Francis?" he asked again, this time louder. The Frenchman immediately fell silent, the water turning off a moment later.

Francis slowly peeked around the curtain, "What are you doing here?" he was so quiet he sounded more like Matthew than himself.

Arthur stared at him, his skin was red from the heat, and as Arthur's gaze fell to his arms he noticed the deep scratches there. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out.

"England?"

"You're hurting yourself."

"England, please leave. I'd like to be alone."

Arthur nodded. "I'm going to be right outside." Francis disappeared behind the curtain again and the water turned back on. Arthur stepped out, leaning against the wall next to the door and sinking to the floor. He stared up at the ceiling.

The image of Francis was stuck in his head, along with two of the words he had used. Please, he had asked, begged actually, for Arthur to leave. No demanding or snide comments. And he had called him England. England. Not Angleterre, or Eyebrows, or even Arthur. This wasn't the same Francis he knew before the war. This one was broken and hurting.

Francis ducked behind the curtain, hoping that Arthur really would be gone when he re-emerged, and turned the water back on, cold this time. He was hoping to wash away the shame letting Arthur see him had brought. It made sense, he had just come to stare, use any humiliating thing he saw against him. It was no different from how it was before.

Silent tears poured down his face. He should have locked the door, but it hadn't been allowed when he was a prisoner, and thus became a habit. Now Arthur knew. Knew how weak he really was. He had tried, really, but couldn't even protect himself, let alone Arthur.

He didn't deserve him. Not his love (if, by some miracle, there was any), not his pity. Not when he hadn't been able to help him during the blitz. Not when Emma and Feliks and Arthur and Ludwig and Gilbert and everyone else had it worse than he did. He was pathetic. Useless and pathetic. He should have died.

Arthur was still waiting outside the door when the water turned off again. When Francis emerged a minute later, wrapped up in a bathrobe, the two froze, staring at each other.

Arthur wanted to speak. There was so much he wanted to say. Are you eating? Are you sleeping? You're safe now. I know how you feel. You're not alone. You never were.

But instead it was Francis who broke the silence first, "The meeting starts in an hour, England, you should get dressed."

Mutely, Arthur nodded and left, not wanting to stay where he wasn't wanted. He heard the lock click behind him and turned to stare at it, wishing it would open again. He shook his head, Francis had no reason to want to see him. He rested his hand against the wood, "I couldn't protect you. I'm sorry.

Francis had locked the door behind Arthur, but his hand froze on the knob, ready to fling the door open and call Arthur back. He rested his forehead against the door, "I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm not strong enough."

surprise! It's back! This time with some insight to why Francis is the way he is, from back when Arthur fell in love with him