towerofanimus | (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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.