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Night had fallen over the streets of France hours ago. A pale yellowish light from the flickering street lamps was the only source of luminescence.
It was dark and Arthur did not know where he was.
There was a sick, ugly feeling inside of him. His lungs felt inefficient, his breathing normally paced and deep enough but somehow struggling to provide him with air.
He'd gotten lost on the way from the meeting room to the hotel he was staying at. His phone had died, he couldn't read the street signs and it was late enough that barely any people were out.
The sun had already been down.
He was sure they must be nearing morning.
Cold air nipped at his fingers and nose, he regretted the decision to forgo gloves.
He was tired.
He couldn't stop walking.
There was something following him, he was sure of it. He hadn't been able to catch even a glimpse of it but he knew it was there.
He could feel it.
Stalking him.
Watching him.
He didn't dare to look over his shoulders, he was sure that letting the thing notice that he knew it was there would result in something bad.
He felt like crying, but he couldn't. He had to stay calm. He couldn't let anything about his expression falter, he couldn't mess up his body language.
He had to look unbothered and confident.
A car rode by.
He swallowed, tried to stick to the shadows. Had he seen that car before? Was it looking for him?
He should've read the license plate.
He breathed in, tried to remain steady.
He just had to make it till day light.
Surely it couldn't be that much longer?
The tiles of the sidewalk were slightly uneven. Certain portions of it higher or lower, he kept his eyes on it, scared that something might be trying to trick him into looking up.
Had there even been an actual car?
He'd heard the noise and saw the light of one. But that could've been faked.
All he could hear now was his breathing and his footsteps.
He tried making sure the sound of footsteps matched up with his own. He couldn't tell whether it was normal or slightly off.
How close was it?
He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat. Stay normal. Don't let it know you know it's there. Act normal. Don't let it see your fear.
How far had he wandered by now? He didn't know how to get back to the meeting building. His route had been a bunch of impulsive back alleys and sudden turns in his attempts to lose the thing following him.
He didn't know where he was.
Probably not anywhere near his hotel.
Maybe it was for the better. There could be something waiting for him in his hotel room, it wasn't safe.
He kept walking.
Don't stop. Don't look around. Look normal. Don't look behind you. Keep your eyes down.
He risked a glance into the window of a building he was passing, trying to check the reflection to see if he could catch whatever was following him.
It was too dark. He couldn't see anything.
He felt like he was going to throw up.
There was a restless buzz in his bones, he could hear his own pulse.
His breath hitched and he had to force himself to have it remain a steady rhythm.
The pavement seemed to be pulsing slightly, as if the ground had lungs.
He tore his eyes away immediately. Looked up, went around the first corner he passed.
He came to a sudden stop.
There was a wall in front of him.
A dead end.
His breathing picked up against his own wills. He could feel his hands trembling inside of his pockets. He clenched his jaw to prevent his teeth from clattering.
A dead end. It was a dead end.
A dark alley way, only a few meters deep.
He couldn't turn back around.
He couldn't go forward.
He was trapped.
The edges of his vision seemed to darken, the wall in front of him blurring slightly.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't even twitch a finger, sure that if he did anything, literally anything at all, that would somehow signal to the thing that it could do whatever it was following him for.
His breathing was shallow, he stood there, frozen. Dread filled his body.
He could hardly think.
Panic was building up inside him, anxiety turning to something worse.
He swallowed. Tried to think of anything at all that could help him here.
He couldn't move.
He could not move.
He couldn't try to run, the only way out was backwards and that was where the thing was. He couldn't scream, it would be on him much faster than anyone could come to his aid.
His phone was dead.
And even if it wasn't, he'd have to move to send anyone a text.
The walls seemed to be closing in on him, making him feel claustrophobic. He felt trapped, he could feel the space around him becoming smaller and smaller. It reminded him of small damp dungeon rooms, dark and cold.
He felt oddly distant from his body. He wasn't sure if he could move even if he wanted to.
His mind felt like a separate thing from his physical vessel.
He could feel his connection to England, a faint thing considering he was outside his borders, but still there. He tried to focus in on that sensation, just to distract himself from the terror his body was experiencing.
Countries didn't feel fear. Land didn't feel afraid wandering french streets after dark.
It was Arthur experiencing those things. He didn't need to be Arthur, didn't need to be that terrified human shell. England didn't fear.
England didn't fear.
It wasn't his fear.
He was calm, he was collected. He could feel the physical symptoms of terror and anxiety in his body, but they weren't truly his.
This wasn't his body. His body was kilometres away, separated from this landmass by a stretch of sea.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He'd faced much worse than this. Hadn't he?
Why could he still not move?
He considered drawing France's attention to him. He was in France's territory, it shouldn't be that hard.
But what if it noticed him trying to contact France?
Or what if France didn't come?
Or what if he did and just laughed at him and mocked him for being afraid? What if he didn't believe him? The things stalking him never let themselves be seen by other people. What if France just laughed and then left him here alone in the dark again?
But what else could he do?
At least if he was home he'd be able to just make the jump to a safe place or person.
Oh god, he wished he could just make the jump to some higher up government official right now and seek out shelter with them. They were always so good at making him feel safer when these things happened.
He was sure they had actual plans or something worked out behind his back for these situations, their responses seemed just a bit too practiced at times. They always seemed to know exactly what to do and say.
But he didn't really care, since it had only been of benefit to him, even if he was a bit bewildered on why he wasn't included in the making of those plans.
But he wasn't in England.
Arthur wasn't in England and he couldn't just jump to the nearest source of safety. There were no sources of safety.
He was in France.
He was alone.
He was cornered, trapped in this narrow stretch of sidewalk.
Wait here until morning and just hope it doesn't make a move on him? Or try and call for France?
Both were horrible options.
His mouth felt dry.
Do nothing or call France.
There was no guarantee that the thing wouldn't eventually get bored of just watching him standing there and make a move even without Arthur provoking it.
Take that risk?
Should he?
How much longer until dawn?
He didn't know how late it was. He'd been wandering in the dark for what felt like hours.
It was autumn, nights lasted long.
He decided to just bite the bullet, his consciousness searching that network of allyship connections, finding the headache inducing knot of threads that formed the EU. He quickly found France's in the mess, currently shining brighter than everyone else's.
He tugged on the thing to catch his attention, followed quickly by a shaky, disjointed distress signal.
His mind felt too blurred to send trough actually words, so he just dumped a bunch of sensation, emotions and half formed thoughts into the connection and hoped it was comprehensive enough.
Between one moment and the next, he was there.
France stood right in front of him, wearing an expression England couldn't quite place.
His mouth was moving, forming words, rapid fire french that England couldn't even begin to translate.
He felt the wall keeping his body away from his feelings breaking down, seeing himself fall into sobs, stumbling forward to latch onto France.
He cried into the other's chest, arms wrapped tight around him.
The sheer relief he felt, having someone else there, was overwhelming. The thing wouldn't dare touch him now, warded of by the presence of another being. Even if that being was the frog.
"Ah-?! Angleterre?" France froze up for a moment, something England barely took note off.
He just tightened his hold on the other. Afraid he would leave.
He didn't want to be left here alone.
"Why are you not in your room." France muttered, his muscles untensing. "How did you even get here? This is not even the right city."
England didn't dignify France with a response, fatigue finally catching up to him now that he was no in active danger. He could barely keep himself upright.
France sighed, adjusting his posture to better support England. He muttered another something in French.
England scowled, annoyed at his own inability to understand what France was saying.
Suddenly, an arm hooked around his legs and he was sweeped of his feed, being princess carried by France.
He yelped in surprise, a red flush rising to his cheeks. "What do you think you're doing?! Put me down!" Despite his protests, he didn't try to squirm out of France's grip.
His legs were tired after all that walking, okay? It's not that he liked being carried.
France raised a brow at him. "You are shaking so much it feels like a miracle you have not yet collapsed, mon Angleterre."
England could feel the flush on his face worsening. "I'm not shaking." He scoffed. "You're imagining things."
"Sure" France rolled his eyes, adjusting his hold just a little bit before he simply started walking. "And clouds are made of cotton candy."
England severely missed the time period when it had been acceptable to simply stab France whenever he was being annoying.
Not that anything beside his lack of a knife or sword on hand was actually stopping him.
Actually, he could still punch the twat. No equipment needed for that.
France must've been able to somehow spot the plotting expression on his face. "Do not even think about it." He warned, eyes narrowing at England. "I am trying to help you here."
England huffed, averting his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about. I wasn't thinking of anything."
"Sure you weren't."
They fell into a mutual silence.
England pulled his coat a bit tighter over his body. It was cold.
France must be feeling even colder, he wasn't wearing a coat at all.
His breath fogged up before his face.
His body felt all sore now, he was tired.
He closed his eyes, the side of his head pressed up against France's chest. The sound of the other's heartbeat was strangely reassuring.
France didn't ask him why he'd called for help.
England was glad. He didn't know how he'd explain it without sounding crazy.
He was glad France had come for him.