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Nails dig into my back, sharp and hard. I am being shaken by the hyperventilating body on my lap, and my left shoulder is dampening with tears.
“I can’t leave you!” Arthur yells, kicking me, and burring his crying face deeper into my shoulder. “I won’t!” His skin, hair, and features flash and change, unsure of how they should look, or which of Arthur’s people to resemble.
“Respire, shh…” [“Breathe, shh…”] I try to calm him. “Prends un moment, cher.” [“Take a moment, dear.”]
He groans quickly in response, and makes some more of those vulnerable noises hurt animals make. Arthur’s skin and hair briefly pale, his eyes cooling with them.
“On peut parler si tu arretes de paniquer. Just prends deux ou grandes respirations, mon amour.” [“We can talk if you stop panicking. Just take two or three deep breaths, my love.”]
Arthur does, and his breathing starts to get softer and slower. I gently rub circles into his back.
“Francis, j'ai peur.” [“Francis, I’m scared.”] He tilts his head up to look at me, and I see his seriousness and honesty in his eyes.
“Je sais. J'ai peur pour toi, moi aussi.” [“I know. I’m scared for you, too.”] A curtain of my honey blond hair falls past my shoulder as I tilt my head to meet his. “Tout va bien aller. Mon chou, c'est comme c'était avec Les États; ses peoples souffre, mais il sourvit. Arthur, ça sera terrifiante au debut, mais tu vas survivre.” [“You will be okay. My (*endearment*) it’s like the States; his people suffer, but he survives. Arthur, it will be terrifying at the start, but you will survive.”]
“Peut-être, mais qu’est-ce qui va arriver au mon peuple?” [“Maybe, but what about my people?”] He speaks dejectly.
“Ils vont suffrir, et ils pouriront mourir, mais come dans le passé, ils auront des enfants, et ils survivront.” [“They will suffer, and they could die, but it’s like in the past; they will have children, and they will survive”]
Arthur doesn’t respond. I would do the same; there is nothing else important to say, and perhaps an informal moment of silence is needed for those of which we speak.
We sit still like that for our moment, huddled together like we have for centuries of hardship. He solidifies into how he looks when he is with me. His nails no longer dig into my back, and he lifts a dark, pink-palmed hand to trace an old bullet graze on my shoulder. Then, along a fine, clean-cut scar across my neck.