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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Bonnefoy. Bonnefoy. Of course. Just his wonderful luck. He would never speak to anything French ever again if they were all going to be incarnations of the frog in some way.

Trying to at least give her the benefit of the doubt (which was really hard because this was still France after all), he nodded. He attempted to keep his voice cordial, if not a bit shaken. "That's correct, yes."

He reigned in the reflex to chime in 'of course you would be the one reading smut out loud in a library'.

Well, great. She didn't shift from foot to foot or flee, even if she wanted to. She tried to keep her voice bright as she asked with a smile, "Well, this is awkward - Do you hate France as much as my Anglettere despises me?"

.... She clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. In a small strangled voice she muttered, "Merde."

...well, if there was ever an awkward question to answer. It felt almost akin to being asked by someone's sibling if you hated their brother or sister, except much, much worse.

And god, if that was the best simile he could come up with, he must really be flustered. He bit his lip, face colored slightly in embarrassment, as he crossed his arms and averted his eyes. "Can't stand him," he answered honestly.

"And you?" prompted the kingdom shortly following that. "Do you have such dislike for this other England that the bleeding pilchard does for me?"

His reaction was as adorable as the female England's would have been, France thought, just a bit hysterically. "... Dieu, I need a drink."

She paused at his question and tapped her fingers thoughtfully on the bookcover. How to answer this... Honestly or the way she should as France?

Well, this wasn't her England, so... Truth.

"... I'll tell you because you aren't her, and I'll trust you not to tell her if you meet," she began, banishing the potential of her England never appearing. "I don't hate her, but she'll never know." She then grinned cheekily and put a finger to her lips. "Our secret."

"You aren't the only one," agreed England in a mumble, not sure if he was addressing the other-France or himself.

He chanced a look back at her when she started to speak, stifling his embarrassment in favor of courtesy. "Oh please," he started, with a brand of sarcasm that had a little less bite than he normally utilized when dealing with France. "I'm hardly a gossip."

...though that did make him wonder just a little about his own France. The thought of the frog not detesting him was downright creepy. "...well." He unfolded his arms, clearing his throat again. "As I...suppose you've not yet given me any reason to dislike you..." He set a hand lightly on his stomach and gave a cordial bow from the waist. "You may call me Arthur Kirkland, if you so desire. It's...a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Not that he ever thought he'd say that to anything French outside of diplomatic niceties.

"If I find any, I'll share if you're nice," she murmured absently.

She smiled at his response and the gentlemanly bow. Well, what do you know? Something English capable of showing manners. "The pleasure's mine... Arthur."

... She can't resist the urge now. She lifted the book with a cheeky smile. "So... How do you feel of America's 'works'? To your taste or non?"

England straightened from his bow after the introduction was reciprocated, even managing to offer something that kind of resembled a smile.

Until she had to bring up the book, anyways.

He flushed darkly and sputtered without success for a few moments before finally getting out anything coherent. "A-absolutely not! I don't like anything of America's, especially not his...his...works of that nature!"

Not that he actually read R-rated American romances, of course.

Ah, there's a reaction she's familiar with, especially when accompanied with that blush. Her smile grew and she covered her mouth to try to hide it. "But have you read some at least? Surely to formulate a just opnion, you have to read it first, oui?"

She holds the book a bit closer to Arthur's face, a blatant challenge.

He really needed to learn how to prioritize what he argued. England wondered if he would ever learn to deny the big picture first.

"I've read American 'literature', and have rarely found quality in any of it," he retorted a bit too quickly. "It only makes sense to assume that the...romances would be just as awful."

And then, remembering something, he made a quick amendment: "You proved my theory well enough, reading that trash out loud."

"I only read a short excerpt." Her smile grew and she gave up hiding it, opting to instead tap the book on England's chest.

"Care to read the whole book? Who knows, perhaps the plot is worthwile?"

"It was enough," asserted England, face still considerably red. "Quality literature should be good throughout."

He peered down at the book with a mildly indignant expression, lip curling slightly at the corner as if it disgusted him to be touched by it. "I would rather not, thank you. You're welcome to it, if you'd like."

Her smile grew and she flipped the book open again to the riveting passage she'd been reading, scanning the page before commenting with an amused voice, "The male protagonist is English you know. I wonder if all of your men use such language~?"

He bristled, shoulders tensing up at the suggestion. A France by any other name, he supposed. He willed his face to stop feeling so hot as he vehemently denied, "We most certainly do not! D-don't suggest such a ridiculous generalization!"

Ah, English through and through. She smiled innocently and dropped her arm with the book. "I was just curious of your childrens' habits compared to how they are... romanticized." She ducked her head, pretending at modesty. "I apologize if I offended you."

"Calling that 'romanticized' is an insult to all things legitimately romantic," he huffed, words still coming out a bit hastily. England sniffed with indignity, folding his arms over his chest. "A strange enough thing to be curious about," he had to add, but it was followed by a sigh and a resigned, "It's alright."

France put the book behind her back - out of sight, out of mind. "I know, I still find them hilarious to flip through though."

Not to mention they sometimes give her interesting ideas, but anyway.

"Does Francis give you this much trouble?"

As absurd as the notion was, England did appreciate not having to look at the book anymore -- when he glanced back to find that it was out of view, he turned his gaze fully back to France. A hue of pink still stood out on the British pallor of his cheeks, but it seemed he was finding his composure again.

"More, as it were," was the answer to that, delivered with a roll of the eyes. "I don't doubt he might have tried getting handsy with me by this point. Or otherwise propositioned me in some fashion."

And then, a scoff. "Or perhaps he would have just insulted me a great bit more, hell if I bother myself to know his preferences."

By his accounts, other-France is already much more tolerable than her male counterpart.

Well, since Francisca had only just met England, she wasn't going to jump his bones on the spot. She had some class.

And the eyebrows were deterring her, just a bit.

She smiled at Arthur's comments, a sad look entering her eyes before she quickly masked it. "Sounds like how I interact with Anglettere. I usually stop once she's slapped me across the face though."

Was that a wistful tone? Of course not.

"Have you seen Francis since you arrived?"

In retrospect, he was glad this France wasn't coming on to him. He's not used to having to turn down aggressive women -- surely Francisca was one, France and all.

As England listened to her speak, he caught an undertone of...something, in her voice. He didn't know her very well, so he couldn't quite pinpoint it, but that nameless thing filled him with quiet sympathy nonetheless.

Between his reflexive repulsion at her perversions and the weird sympathy he was feeling, England saw it wisest not to remark on her attentions to her "Angleterre". Instead, he latched on to the question, the answer to which was much easier to articulate than any show of kindness.

"Fortunately, I have not." He didn't bother to conceal the disgust in his words regarding his France. "I've spent most of my time here reading."

She chuckled at the apparent disgust and resisted the urge to reach out and pet his cheek the way she would had he been his female self. Instead, she opted for petting his shoulder. "You should, I think he's missed you."

At the mention of reading one of her eyebrows arched up. "Just reading? I mean, reading is a soothing hobby, but..." She'd get too restless from just reading.

That was a disconcerting notion. France actually desiring his company? He wouldn't entertain it for even a second if it wasn't technically coming from France...herself. He regarded her hand with mild bemusement, half expecting it to start wandering. But he didn't shrug her off, as awkwardly as he tended to receive physical contact.

"I can't say I return the sentiment, if that does happen to be the case," England claimed. "Though I'll consider it, if only to see to him squirming." He definitely didn't miss the froggy bastard, but it was almost eerie to be without him. Which wasn't something England would vocalize. But it was true.

He looked away from the other nation's hand to her face. "Mostly reading," confirmed the kingdom. "As well as sorting out both my belongings and my bearings."

She tilted her head curiously. "You arrived recently then? Though, considering how the tower keeps gaining new levels to it, it's hard to keep your bearings in check all the time..."

She crossed her arms with a sigh and added, "As such, best to keep your weapons on hand. Far too easy to run into nasty creatures here..."

"Perhaps in relation to other people in the tower, I suppose," he conceded. "Maybe two weeks ago now. It's been a little hard to keep track, I confess." Then a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he absently ran his hand over his hip, where he'd thought to tuck his pistol into his waistband and underneath his shirt.

But he made no comment about weapons, as the mention of the building's architecture finally seemed to sink in. His eyebrows furrowed. "It's been growing?" queried the Englishman with intrigue.

"Well... Yes. When I arrived, there were only four floors, and then seemingly overnight, it expanded. Now there are what, thirteen? More?" She sighed and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. "No sounds or sight of construction."

Arms crossing again, she looked to the side, suddenly appearing interested in the book spines lining the shelf. "... There's something else too. Residents come and... Go. Espagna was gone for a while, but when she returned, she said she'd apparently been in our destroyed world. Then one of my roommates disappeared, and when she reappeared, she didn't remember anything of the tower, her memories just gone."

Her hand tightened around the book and her voice lowered. "... Amelia, our America, has now gone missing..."

He didn't hide his surprise at her report. "That's...disconcerting," he commented lamely, having no more accurate word to describe how the claim made him feel. "I knew this place felt off, but I wasn't expecting to that degree..." Magical energy here just felt...weird. Not right.

Francisca had his rapt attention when she began to talk again. His throat went dry at the word 'America'.

America is missing. Not his America (and god, would he react this way if it had been?), but--

His heart pulled a little as he murmured out a quiet, "I'm sorry," voice tight where he tried to keep from sounding too emotional. He had to convince himself that just because one America was missing didn't mean they all were before he was able to continue. "When was the last time you saw her?"