towerofanimus | I was the more deceiv'd

Characters: France [AU2] open to all
Setting: Floor Eleven, night time
Format: Either is fine
Summary: Francisca's just returned from being 'home' for about a month, straight after her shaky recovery from the teddy bear event. Needless to say, she's lost it.
Warnings: potential violence, potential suicide, language.

She felt cold.

On her abrupt return to the tower after weeks of wandering the decimated streets of France alone, after weeks of feeling as if someone had cut her heart out with a rusty knife, after week of nothingness, she broke down. She'd barely had enough time to get to a bathroom to vomit whatever little her stomach had held and proceeded to fall into a state of hysterics, screaming and clawing at her skin in the empty cubicle, her nightgown soaked with sweat and bare feet kicking at the walls.

Now that she'd 'calmed' somewhat, she'd come out of the bathroom and found it was night, the tower lights dimmed and no one in the hallways. Restless, she'd made her way to the eleventh floor, needing the comfort of life after so long without that when she reached it tears had started streaming down her cheeks as she got trembling handfuls of flowers, holding the delicate blossoms to her face and inhaling the scent.

Following the sounds of running water, she stumbled to the lake, mutely staring at the phantoms that seemed to dance under the reversed rainbows in the darkened sky. Strange that she found the sight of such apparitions more comforting that frightening - her people had been dead and not even their ghosts had left whispers behind. The phantoms let her be as she stumbled into the lake, dropping several flowers in the process and letting the little blossoms float around her in the rippling water. Soon the water was to her knees and she felt some relief in the cold she could feel seeping up her legs, contrasting with the warm air around her, but it wasn't enough. She felt numb and soon she was crushing the flowers in her hands, nails digging into her palms as she began to have another panic attack, breath coming faster and louder.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Francisca nodded mutely at the question, following him closer to the shore. "Roses are the epitome of beauty. They are poetry in living form," she murmured, condensed version of the spiel she'd sometimes let loose on the few who would listen. "Their lives are short and in that they are a single flare of absolutely exquisite perfection on the long and dreary road of time." She trailed off, staring down at the water without seeing it, lost in her thoughts once more.

Ivan gave Francisca a little smile as she spoke about the roses, and while he disagreed with it--sunflowers were much better, like miniature suns on any bad day--he let her have her opinion. It was very... well, France to hear such things, and he liked that she was pretty much France in a female's body, accepted that about her. He tugged her along to the shore and up onto dry land, careful not to crush her hand in his in his haste, moving to try and help dry out her clothes at least a little, to squeeze out some of the water carefully, and then place his own coat around her shoulders. It wasn't often he was in such a position of needing to care for someone, but he found that he liked it. Maybe she would come to live in his house if he was nice enough. Maybe. If they could even get home.

"Roses are pretty, da. I am liking them too. Not as much as sunflowers, and Chamomile of course, but they are very pretty. They are very fitting for you... Ah, not because you are having short life! Nyet, but because you are very pretty too."

She didn't make any moves to dry herself, looking for all the world like a sodden china doll with her porcelain white skin and limply hanging gold hair. Her dead gaze watched mutely as Ivan wrung her clothes out for her, limbs only moving when he tugged or asked her to move them. It wasn't until his coat was settled on her own shoulders that she showed signs of life, slowly turning her head to nuzzle the high collar, inhaling the scent and finding some small trace of Russe which drew out a pained sigh of relief from her lips.

Her small hands clasped at the coat front, drawing it closed around her like a cocoon, and when she smiled up at him there was a bit of her old self in it. "You are too kind, Vanya."

Ivan didn't mind that he was doing all the work to dry the Frenchwoman--didn't mind that at all. He did enjoy getting the chance to take care of someone, even if he wasn't particularly good at it. He gave her a little smile, letting out a breath and kissing her forehead carefully, ruffling her hair a little bit, careful not to get the strands too messy.

"Kind enough, I am thinking. Being too kind would be being a bad thing..." he replied, gave her a sheepish smile--but it was nice to see she was cheering up at least a little. "We go find you more flowers now, da? To replace other ones?"

I was the more deceiv'd

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SORRY OF LATENESS TAT;

It's okay, lovely. <3