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

Matt had been trying and his optimism was really the only thing that was holding him up at that moment and to have Arthur shoot him down, to be blunt, hurt. Matt sighed heavily and picked up his little bear, holding the soft animal close to him.

What Matt wanted to do was cry and yell at Arthur like a child, it'd been stressful enough landing here and then having so much information pressed into his head that he was tired and fed up. Instead he gave the English man a level stare.

"Thank you for killing my last piece of optimisim England, you really do try to bring everyone down don't you?" Matt's voice was soft but it carried an edge of steel. Sharp and quick, it was thrown out before Matt could stop himself and in the quiet he felt bad but at the same time he didn't. "I... I think I'll just go before I say something that I'll regret."

England almost thought he imagined Canada lashing out at him for his pessimism, but the cold reality of it made his heart sink when the younger nation apologized. It stung as if he'd been slapped as it was, but to know that Canada actually did say it was salt in the wound.

He was quiet for a moment before lifting Othello from his unread pile, delicately slipping his finger between the pages and the cover to open it up. "You're right," he agreed distantly, his voice reverting to the practiced chill that so often came with the cold mask of indifference that he wore for the rest of the world.

He swallowed, his heart tight in his chest, as he turned the page to begin the story. "My apologies. Perhaps your time would be better spent in someone else's company after all." It hurt to be reminded of the reasons that he wasn't exactly what one would call "popular", but thankfully, England had grown very good at pretending that he didn't care.

"Arthur don't be like that. I just... it's hard okay? Optimism is the only thing I have here." he said quietly and decided it was a lost cause. His chest felt tight and he felt guilty for snapping at England.

He watched the Briton for a moment, or several wondering if he was going to say anything else to his former colony.

Regardless of whether or not it was really called for, Canada was still right. They'd implement a working solution for global warming before England would ever be known for actually trying to lift someone's spirits instead of tearing them down. It wasn't fair for him to dash Canada's hope just because England had long ago given up on it; shooting people down had merely become a reflex after a while.

"...hope away then, lad," he murmured, voice weary but sincere (if not a bit wounded, beyond the surface). "Don't allow me to stop you."

Matt stood there for a few moments quietly, he felt tears of frustration burn at the corners of his eyes. It was so impossible to talk with Arthur, nothing he could say or do was right, nothing.

"And people wonder why I have so many issues." Matt mumbled quietly to himself more of a whisper than a real voice and looked at the ceiling like something would magically tell him how to fix the situation. After finding nothing more than cobwebs the Canadian gave up.

"Sometimes... I really wish you ex-empires would stop to consider someone else's happiness other than your own for just a moment. Just because you've given up doesn't mean the rest of us have." And with that Matt blotted his eyes on his sleeve, making a conscious effort to try to walk away from England.

England really didn't see what more Canada wanted from him -- he hadn't been being sarcastic with his last statements (though he wouldn't blame Matthew if he were to assume that was the case), and he'd already gone and mucked up the conversation enough as it was. England had never been good with feelings, and Canada wasn't a child anymore; England had no idea how to go about fixing this.

Lumping him in with the likes of France and Spain (and, to a lesser extent, Turkey) was enough. His fingers tensed around the pages of the book, but he pursed his lips tightly and remained silent to the words. If that was how Matthew felt, then England wasn't going to bother correcting him. As far as he was concerned, the conversation had gone far enough.

And so, he flipped the page, hoping more to convince himself of this point than Canada.