towerofanimus | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Characters: England and all you ~~positively insufferable~~ wonderful people!
Setting: Floor Three
Format: Starting with prose/paragraph/whatever you want to call it, but I'll match.
Summary: Apparently the Shakespeare collections he brought with him aren't enough -- actually finding the library in this godawful place was a small blessing.
Warnings: Language, most likely, gosh England that's so improper (also mild suggestive themes, courtesy of him and fem!France)

The kingdom breathed a minor sigh as he turned the page, away from the inquiries of comedians and further into the tale of one 'Cesario'. A stack of books flanked each side of the open copy of Twelfth Night on the table; one stack for the books he had finished (currently, about three), and a stack for the ones that had not yet been opened.

Getting down to this floor had been a nightmare. England didn't mind stairs -- he was no lazy American, after all -- but this was just ludicrous. The place was a scientific disaster and a magical marvel. He was less disturbed by the physical impossibility than he was by the chance of hostile supernatural figures lingering about. It didn't take a mage adept to realize that a place like this could easily have them, just by looking at the way the tower defied physics and logic.

But at least he'd suffered no loss of limb nor any encounters with anyone he'd rather not meet with on the way down here. And, thus far, he'd had no significant disturbances.

Now all he needed to do was just stop thinking about the damn building and relax enough to enjoy what he was reading.

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America didn't spend a lot of time in the library, except to check the network. That was actually what he was trying to do, except he did get distracted by the comic books. And, carrying a huge stack of them, it didn't even occur to him to check for errant book piles.

That would be why he trips over one of them and ends up sprawled out on the floor amidst novels and comic books.

The library was the last place England would expect to be disturbed (even though, to be quite honest, he'd gotten used to being disturbed in every kind of place). He really should have been a little more on his guard, but you live and you learn.

Which hopefully England would after he fittingly jumps in his chair at the sound of someone falling, losing his page in Twelfth Night to turn and look towards the source of the noise.

And then promptly go wide-eyed when he realizes what that source is. He should be more exasperated. He really, really should. But remembering that mysterious note's claim that his world had been "destroyed", something in him is happy that not all of it had been.

"Who left all these books here?" America whined, ignoring that this was a library, and if books were going to be anywhere this was the best place for them, scrambling to his feet and looking around.

Oh, if it was England, that made sense. Wait, England? America stares back--after months assuming the other nation had died or something, actually seeing him here is a bit of a shock.

If England had realized sooner that what he was doing was indeed staring, he wouldn't have done it for so long, as staring is very rude and he wouldn't want to stare at America anyways.

Even though he does for quite a while before his speech functions click back into place. He bristles, clipping out the response, "It's a library. You should have been watching where you were going." After that, he scoffs, looking away to reprimand a little more quietly, "Not that one shouldn't always look where they're going, particularly if they're as prone to making spectacles of themselves as you are."

"Most people put the books on the shelves or on tables or something," America said, turning to gather his comic books up as if there was nothing weird at all about suddenly seeing England here and nothing in particular he wanted to say to him. "Anyway, what do you need all these books for?"

In all fairness, England had put the books on the table before. He just moved them after he almost knocked them over with his elbow. Not that he was going to regale America with such an embarrassing occurrence.

"How you managed to trip over them is a marvel regardless," he continued with a haughty sniff. "They were well enough out of the way." And now they were all scattered amongst that graphic novel rubbish. He rolled his eyes, reluctantly setting Twelfth Night aside and slipping out of his chair so he could collect the Shakespeare assortment.

"I'm planning to read them, just the same as you plan to do with all of those silly little picture books, I imagine." He settled on his knees and leaned over to grab Hamlet, gingerly flipping through the book for damage before setting it aside. "If you can even consider those material for reading, anyways."

"They're more interesting than these old things," America said, accidentally-on-purpose knocking one of the books farther away with his foot just to make things somewhat more difficult for England.

"Where've you been, anyway? Were you just sitting here the whole time?"

England scowled over at America, shoving ineffectually at the offending foot before he leaned even further to grab the displaced novel. "They're uncultured and juvenile," he countered with a bit more bite than his previous digs, mostly for the book-kicking stunt. "So, a perfect fit for you, at any rate."

The query prompted a slight glare. "Oh? You took note of my absence?" the former empire jeered while he stacked a few more books. "If you're that curious, I just arrived at this place not too long ago. This is the first time I've come to the library." The next comment was delivered in a grumble, mostly to himself, "Bloody weird place..."

"Well it's been like three months," America muttered, gathering comics with a bit more vigor, because they were certainly proper reading material and at least three times better than England's books. "You're not some weird England, are you?"

He gave America a thoroughly questioning and somewhat unamused look when the question came. "'Some weird England'," he repeated with disbelief, before rolling his eyes and sweeping up two more novels.

It was only after passively mocking the suggestion did England realize that America was probably right to ask it. This place was probably pretty reliant on the big ball of wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff, so, maybe America had a point. That didn't stop England from scoffing before he continued, though. "I raised you from childhood, I was the largest empire in the world, we fought and won the World Wars, and now it's two thousand eleven and there are riots in my capital."

He didn't sound pleased while he said all that stuff -- and was omitting quite a few things, obviously -- but it wasn't quite sarcasm either. And neither was it when he questioned, "Sound familiar?"

America finished collecting his comics and stood up. It seemed like this England was his weird England (all Englands were weird, he just didn't want some other one). He definitely wanted it to be his England--even if he wouldn't admit that to himself.

"I guess you're the right England," America said, sounding as unconcerned as ever. "You're from the right time, too."

America's tone quickly brought the normal level of bite back to England's voice. "As if it would make a difference if I wasn't," he clipped, snatching up the last of the scattered volumes on the floor and moving them to the table. "I sincerely doubt that the change would be drastic." Which was sort of a lie. He couldn't be sure of what every incarnation of himself was like, after all. But he didn't think it would make much difference anyways, considering he wasn't exactly well-liked among the other nations.

After the works of Shakespeare were organized again, England stood as well, glancing ruefully at Twelfth Night. He wasn't even in the mood to read anymore. "Glad to see that you're alright," was grumbled out before he even realized what he was saying, and it didn't have nearly the venom to it that it should have when he said it.

He was thankful that he wasn't facing America for the slip-up. He could just pass it off that he was talking to one of his friends if all else failed; the ignorant twit couldn't see them anyways, he wouldn't know the difference.

America froze for a moment, trying to parse England's words as sarcasm even when they didn't sound like it, just because sarcasm would have been normal. Before letting the pause leak too much into the conversation, America decides to just ignore it. Even if part of him wanted to hear that.

"I heard from girl Canada there's a girl version of you," he said, instead responding to the other things England said as if he hadn't heard the second. "With pigtails. That'd be pretty weird."

England wasn't sure how to feel about America ignoring his statement. Part of him was relieved that there had been no acknowledgment -- no response at all was better than being laughed at, and at least that way he didn't have to own up to being even just a little happy that America wasn't dead.

But it would be a terrible lie to say that some other part of him, deep, deep down, hadn't sort of hoped that America would return the sentiment.

Of course, being a master of avoidance and repression, England delivered a suitable enough reply to the other nation's remarks despite his internal conflict. That reply being, naturally, "Even if I were a woman, I'd never in as many millennia wear my hair in such a fashion." Pigtails were for cute little girls. Young, innocent girls. They wouldn't suit him.

Edited 2011-09-20 23:46 (UTC)

"That's what Canada said," America said in a tone that implied he trusted her opinion far more. "Girl Canada, I mean."

He was happy to get onto this topic and off of the awkward one. Dealing with emotions, especially when it involved England... Well, that was just weird. And awkward. He didn't really know how to handle it, and he definitely didn't want to. Maybe he should have said something back, he realized belatedly, but it was just better to ignore it.

England sneered, the expression perhaps a little more bitter than he'd really intended it to be. "Well, I imagine that England has her reasons for choosing that hairstyle," replied the former empire tartly, averting his eyes to thumb along the spine of a collection of sonnets. "And I'm sure that she's absolutely delightful in every other given aspect, as well."

Not that he held anything against his apparent lady-counterpart -- he hadn't even met her, after all -- but it tasted a little sour for America to be putting his trust into these parallels so easily. Or maybe it was less that and more the lack of trust in his own world's England.

Definitely the former, he decided. It was easier that way. "And what of your counterpart, hm? I sincerely hope that she's not as boorish and obnoxious as you."

"I met her a couple times before she left," America said. "She was cool. We were gonna break out of the tower."

It would have been better if she'd been around longer. He couldn't help but hope she would come back. The other option was that she was stuck on her version of destroyed America, after all.

Of course an America by any other gender would think of such a foolish plan. Did they even realize that this tower probably existed on an entirely different plane of time and space and thus probably had its own laws of physics (or laws of whatever else it damn well pleased)?

...and yet England couldn't help but admire the spirit behind it, ludicrous and idealistic as it was. "And probably kill the both of you while you were at it," grumbled the kingdom out of obligation to shoot America down, though it was halfhearted at best.

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