['A day in April that's important to us—' Fuck, what happens in April? Saint George's Day, but that's not until after the 13th, which he's established hasn't come yet, and France isn't likely to give a damn about his national day anyway unless it involves drinking or making a general mess of England's house. It's definitely not April Fool's Day, as much as England is beginning to hope it were.
Before he can finish piecing it together, France helpfully provides him with the answer he's wracking his brain for.
He stares at the other nation, his eyes wide and unblinking with a kind of awe that doesn't have the most positive of connotations. The Entente. Of course. Obviously. And yet— he'd forgotten. Not that it would have been important if France hadn't serendipitously been dropped into the Tower, but he can't remember it last year, and that's bothering him a little more.
He'd been so intent on not having to face what happened to that France. What he saw still makes him sick to think of, and it makes him sicker to think that he avoided it. France had just been so unlike himself, and it reminded England too much of everything else at home he'd lost, to the point where he'd tried not to think about any anniversary that they were mutually supposed to give a damn about.
England draws his knees up slightly, folding one arm across them and using the other to support his bowed head.] Hell. You're not kidding.
[There's a certain amount of distant disbelief in his words that suggests he's stunned at himself for not realising.]
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Before he can finish piecing it together, France helpfully provides him with the answer he's wracking his brain for.
He stares at the other nation, his eyes wide and unblinking with a kind of awe that doesn't have the most positive of connotations. The Entente. Of course. Obviously. And yet— he'd forgotten. Not that it would have been important if France hadn't serendipitously been dropped into the Tower, but he can't remember it last year, and that's bothering him a little more.
He'd been so intent on not having to face what happened to that France. What he saw still makes him sick to think of, and it makes him sicker to think that he avoided it. France had just been so unlike himself, and it reminded England too much of everything else at home he'd lost, to the point where he'd tried not to think about any anniversary that they were mutually supposed to give a damn about.
England draws his knees up slightly, folding one arm across them and using the other to support his bowed head.] Hell. You're not kidding.
[There's a certain amount of distant disbelief in his words that suggests he's stunned at himself for not realising.]