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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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?"

"... Before the blackout incident... Madeline, Canada, has been asking on the tower network if anyone has seen her..." She trailed off and swallowed hard, feeling a failure. America was more England's child than hers', but France still regarded the girl as her sibling/child... And with England not there to protect their once-colonies, France felt it was her duty to care for both of them.

Some protector she was.

She glanced up and gave England a wan smile. "Ah, but Alfred is still around... He protected Madeline and Amelia during the blackout."

Edited 2011-09-11 06:50 (UTC)

Seeing France so melancholy -- over America, no less, a person they both held dear -- was making England's heart ache a little (but only a little, of course, considering he takes great care to keep it encased in stone). He was glad to hear that the America of his world was fine, but that still left France to her misery. Someone less socially inept as England might have offered some physical gesture of comfort, but as it was, England only really had his words.

So he used them. "...come now," he began, his voice some semblance of gentle. "If your America is anything like mine, then that child can lift a car with one hand and has the stamina of youth on her side." ...and then he gave a resigned sigh. "And -- I never said this, by the way -- America is intelligent when he wants to be. I'd imagine your...Amelia is similar."

He fidgeted with his hands for a moment before lacing them together to hold behind his back, clearing his throat. "...so, you needn't fret so terribly. I'm sure she shall be fine."

The attempted comforting words made her smile, this England's supposed stoic exterior about as opaque as her own England's. It was... familiar, and in this horribly unfamiliar tower, it was a blessing. "That is sweet of you to say, merci beaucoup." She stepped forward and leaned up a bit to kiss his cheek in thanks, quickly stepping back out of his personal space, lest he react as violently as the female England would have.

She acted as if she hadn't done anything, laughing quietly as she smoothed the cover of the book in her hands. "No doubt she'll whinge about there not being a McDonald's if- when she get's back."

England seemed to tense a little out of reflex when she stepped forward, but he didn't stop her advancing. He did sputter a little in indignity when she kissed him, color pooling darkly in his cheeks. None of it actually sounded angry, though, fortunately for France.

"I-- well," he finally got out, averting his eyes with a small "ahem". "You're-- you're welcome, I suppose." He was too softhearted sometimes, honestly.

England couldn't help but make a face at that (even if McDonald's wasn't really that bad, it was just the quantity that America consumed which was disgusting). "Well, it'll do both Americas some good to not be able to eat that rubbish for a little while," he remarked flippantly, attempting to keep in good humor (as good as his got, anyways) for France's sake.

Yes, she decided. She liked Arthur flustered as much as she liked his female half in the same state. Adorable~

"Well, at least they manage to stay fit despite all that... 'food'. Though, I always attributed Amelia's slim physiques to taking my advice on weight-loss~" That is, the kind that involved exercising in bed. Vigorously. The comment was accompanied with one of her rather suggestive smirks, lest England should take the 'advice' in any other way.

Edited 2011-09-12 05:33 (UTC)

England was wonderfully oblivious to France's opinion on his reaction, which was really for the best, as he had himself almost completely composed by the time she started to speak again.

Of course, her smirk shot all his hard work down the drain, and his face flared up again at the implications. "I--" A few atrociously ungraceful syllables based on no coherent sentence left him, because that was America she was talking about, and his brain couldn't even process that in any situation with any bit of reason, much less give him something intelligent to say about it.

"--I-I can't say I've ever thought about it," was what he eventually managed to spit out, shifting awkwardly on his feet and trying futilely to hide his crimson face.

She covered her mouth to stifle her chuckles and pet his red cheek gently, delighting in the feel of embarassedly hot flesh under her hand. "There there, put it out of your mind if it disturbs you so, mon cher~"

She was officially attached to this easily flustered creature, poor thing. Her new side-mission in this tower was to make sure he was flushed red as much as possible.

Edited 2011-09-12 06:41 (UTC)

Wasn't half the trouble of disturbing things the fact that they lingered with you so? But no, no, he was absolutely not going to think of America in that regard, because that just-- he merely refused to.

He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "No thanks to you," he grumbled with no real malice, though it certainly was an idea that was going to stick with him whether he wanted it to or not. Goddamnit.

She smiled sweetly at him. "If it makes you feel better, Amelia is quite a pretty girl. Very well-endowed." Her fingers tapped along the book, and her smile turned more genuine. "I think you'll like her, if you get to meet her."

That definitely did not make him feel better. That made it quite a bit worse, actually. His brain was stuck enough on the idea of sexualizing a male America, he didn't need a(n apparently well-endowed) female America in the equation too.

"I--" God, why was he still thinking about this? He raised a hand to adjust the collar of his shirt, clearing his throat. "I'm sure she's-- every bit as delightful as Alfred," he sputtered out, the sarcasm quite a bit less effective with how shaky his voice was.

She chose to ignore the sarcasm and chirped, "She really is! Dresses well for her figure too, all short skirts and low-cut, stomach exposing tops~"

She then frowns and sighs a bit forlornly, glancing down at her chest. "Even I can't measure up to her for size, but oh well. I can at least admire hers' with a hint of envy."

Oh god what was France saying? This was what he got for giving any France of any universe any leeway; give them an inch and they'll take a mile. He was sure his brain was close to short-circuiting itself by this point, so he tried to veer it far, far away from the topic of America.

Even if that meant steering it to a topic that was almost as awkward. "I-I assure you that you look just fine," England complimented hurriedly, even though he wasn't looking anywhere near Francisca when he said it. He was sure nearly all the blood in his body had gone to his face by then. But even complimenting France (even if, granted, it was a France he didn't hate) was better than thinking of America in a miniskirt, at least when it came to his sanity.