[The punch hits with enough force to send France falling back against the table. He flails out with one hand, just barely catching himself (and this time he thinks that the oatmeal really does topple over, but he doesn't raise his head to check), while his other arm flies up to cover his mouth.
He feels a wetness against his skin instantly. When he drags his forearm over his lips, it comes away streaked with blood.]
--Tu connard-!
[France is in no mood to sit and argue after taking a punch. Propelled mostly by instinct, the sting in his jaw dulled by adrenaline coursing through his veins, France pushes away from the table and leaps at England with every intention of tackling him to the ground.]
no subject
He feels a wetness against his skin instantly. When he drags his forearm over his lips, it comes away streaked with blood.]
--Tu connard-!
[France is in no mood to sit and argue after taking a punch. Propelled mostly by instinct, the sting in his jaw dulled by adrenaline coursing through his veins, France pushes away from the table and leaps at England with every intention of tackling him to the ground.]