{Un} L'État, C'est Moi

[silencetoreason]

Characters: France and you!
Setting: Dorm room 3-14, Floor 101 (the hanging gardens), the staircase between floors 97 and 100, the elevators, and Floor 1 (the cafeteria). Backdated slightly to before people started disappearing because of the event.
Format: Starting with action, but I'll match you.
Summary: One fabulous, frantic Frenchman wakes up in the Tower, and has a look around.
Warnings: France is a flirtatious guy, so be aware of that when tagging. Also, a fair amount of sometimes Google translated French. Other than that, nothing, but I'll update if needed.

3-14

Impossible! What a cruel joke! How terrible!

[These are the things that can be heard in dorm room 3-14, where a rather distressed-looking Frenchman is sitting, one hand on his violet collar, the other on his welcome notes. France is no stranger to waking up in strange places with no recollection of how he got there, but the situation he's in today is much weirder than what he's used to. The sleep paralysis was disconcerting, for one thing, and the catsuit and collar are different, too. The more France reads, the more upset he gets, until he's shouting so loudly that the entire floor may well hear him.]

Sacre bleu, this is not funny at all..!

Floor 101

[Once France calms down and changes into normal clothes, he starts to explore his new surroundings, however tentatively. He creeps down the stairs, and when he steps on the glowing stair that transports him to floor 101, he's left momentarily breathless for a variety of reasons. The first and most obvious reason is because he's never been teleported like that before, and the shock of it leaves him bent over and gripping his knees for a few minutes after it happens.

The second reason is because, when he gathers his bearings and looks around, he finds that the floor is absolutely beautiful.]

Mon dieu... [He wanders slowly around the hanging gardens, taking in every detail. His voice is set at a low mutter, as if he's afraid that speaking too loudly will disrupt the fragile beauty of the place.] I can't believe it. How could this..?

[And he trails off, taking in the sights in silence.]

Staircase between floors 97 and 100

[France continues making his way down the Tower ever-so-slowly, until he finally comes upon floor 97 - i.e., the floor covered in gigantic monsters. As soon as he sees them, he does what the gallant people of France are known for.

He turns around and starts to run like hell.

France stumbles up the stairs, taking them two, three at a time, trying not to slip and fall as he goes. Anyone coming down the stairs will have to risk running into a terrified newbie.]

Elevators

[So, once he makes it back up to the dorm levels, France decides that taking the elevator will probably be best. This doesn't mean that he's prepared for how slowly it moves, nor how long it takes to get to the cafeteria where the welcome notes have instructed him to eat a bowl of oatmeal. He leans against the wall and sighs heavily, seeming so inconvenienced that one might wonder if he's laying it on thick on purpose.

He turns to the person he's standing closest to in an attempt to strike up some boredom-eradicating conversation.]

I haven't even been here for a day yet, and already, je vous jure, I am sick of it. What a horrendously inhospitable place, don't you think?

Cafeteria

[Finally, France makes it to the cafeteria. He's prodding at his oatmeal with his spoon, shoulders slumped over, looking as if he's undergoing the worst punishment in the world. He mumbles to himself, stirring the oatmeal around to avoid having to put it in his mouth.]

Disgusting food... So bare, so plain! How do they expect me to 'be happy here' when they cannot even serve a decent meal? [He reluctantly puts a spoonful in his mouth, swallows it with difficulty, and winces.] Like English food, augh...

Comments

[keepscalm]

[France's tangent fans the fire under the anger that's already simmering in England's chest. His words are reminiscent of what Tohko had tried to tell him back in January, except she had actually been right, and she wasn't someone he would consider himself close to. He will not stand for being called crazy, after all the shit he's dealt with, by the one person who knows him better than anyone else.

The other nation's words pour the gasoline. And his attempt to lay hands on England strikes the match.

He draws his fist back and lets loose, completely intent on laying into France's jaw with one hell of a right hook.]

[silencetoreason]

[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.]

this conversation took a wrong turn off the champs-élysées somewhere

[keepscalm]

[He hadn't really intended to start all this, he was just so angry and France wasn't listening to him, but it's not looking like he's in any more of a listening mood now than he was before England hit him.

So maybe England's communication methods are a little outdated. At least he gave it the old college try.

He tries to backpedal but he doesn't get far enough away to avoid being taken down. His arms immediately fly up to shield his face, as that's the part of his body that he needs to talk and he won't be doing any talking if he's getting a mouthful of hairy Frenchman fist.]

Fucking hell—! [He sounds pissed but breathless all at once. The fall seems to have taken some of the wind he planned to use for yelling.]

it did, gomen about everything

[silencetoreason]

[Once they're both on the ground, France rears up, one fist full of England's shirt, the other raised and ready. But, just like England earlier, France gives pause instead of striking. It could be the look on England's face, or the fact that he still has so many questions that will remain unanswered if England's teeth get knocked out or his jaw gets swollen shut during their scuffle, but France doesn't punch him.

He still looks pretty pissed, though. He huffs, sending a stray strand of hair flittering away from his mouth. Blood pools between his lips, and there's a streak of it going across his cheek, which is now starting to sport a big, ugly bruise. For a few seconds, his fist just hovers in the air awkwardly, but slowly, France lowers it. He keeps his fingers tangled up in England's shirt.]

...Do you know what today is, England? The date.

[The question seems to come out of nowhere, all things considered, but it's an important one. Though his brows are still knit in frustration and he's tense all over, it doesn't sound condescending at all. France honestly needs to know how England will answer this.]

[keepscalm]

[England is goddamned determined to keep his face intact, if nothing else. (Conversation aside, he won't be able to hide it from people if it's his face that gets injured, and the last thing he needs to do is worry the few people that give a damn about him even further.) He braces himself for impact when he sees France move to clock him one, squeezing his eyes shut and tensing his arms. Nothing he's seen in the Tower thus far compares to how downright surreal it is when absolutely nothing happens.

He cracks an eye open to peer at France through the gap between his arms, and though he doesn't say anything, the look in his eyes is clearly asking are you insane? It's hard enough to keep track of the date when you're a week off work on vacation, much less when you've been uprooted from everything you know for going on two years.

England lowers his arms slightly to get a better look at France. The longer he looks, the more uncomfortable he feels, like this stupid question is actually important somehow. He tries to fidget, but that's a little hard when the furry bastard is sitting on him.

He hasn't had his collar check-up yet, so he knows it isn't the 13th, at least. When he finally answers, his tone is wary, his statement hesitant.] ...it's April.

[He tries not to be too transparent about the fact that he doesn't know the exact date, or the fact that it's really bothering him that he doesn't know the exact date.]

[silencetoreason]

[France raises an eyebrow, and for a moment, he looks almost offended. That offense gives way to the barest hint of worry, but it disappears as abruptly as it had appeared. He lets out a breathy laugh that sends more of his bangs away from his mouth, his shoulders shaking a little bit.

He relaxes his hand on England's shirt, but when he starts to tremble, he pushes up and off of him. He sits on the floor, leaning back against the cafeteria seat closest to him.]

Right. [He rolls his shoulders and puts a hand to his head.] I hope you haven't forgotten what today is, mon ami.

[Because if he has, France will have to ask him why he doesn't know the date. And if France has to remind him of the anniversary of a day that once seemed so significant to them, so unbelievably important that France swore to himself he would never forget it (because, over a hundred short years ago, the very idea of an agreement between the two of them would have been more than just laughable), then...

Then it means something really is wrong.

And France just wants this whole unfunny joke to be over with, already.]

[keepscalm]

[England sits up as soon as he's allowed, scooting back to give himself a little more space should France change his mind about the whole punching thing. He stares at France with open suspicion; the more France looks at him and talks at him like he's just made some grave mistake he's not admitting to makes England want to hit him again (and simultaneously tell him to stop acting like his mum, for chrissake's).

He's defensive as the words come rushing out of his mouth, but for their anger, they lack direction. He feels like he needs to defend himself, but he doesn't know from what.] Look, I don't know what the date is! I have better things to do than carve a tally on my bedpost for every day in this prison! [Not that he could do that even if he wanted to. The bedframes are metal.]

Why don't you stop beating around the bush and tell me, if it's so bloody important?

[England regrets the words almost as soon as he says them, but he needs France to stop acting like he knows something that England doesn't. Obviously he can't explain himself (or apologise, ha) if he doesn't even know what this is about, so there's no point playing these stupid games and assuming he's going to magically get his bearings from a few fucking hints.

Obviously there's something wrong here on France's end and England has no idea what it is. That's weird, and he won't stand for it.]

[silencetoreason]

[Oh, god. Oh God up in Heaven, England is serious. France supposes he knew it deep down, but he's still having trouble accepting it. After all, it's so much easier to go through life pretending that all your misfortunes are just jokes to be laughed off.

But France doesn't much feel like laughing right now.]

A day in April that's important to us-- Honestly.

[Despite how strangely empty he's feeling, France does manage to force out a laugh. He steels himself to continue on the train of thought he'd been riding before he was so rudely interrupted by England's fist. For nations, there are countless days of note in any given month, so many that it's impossible to keep track of them all - it can almost be forgiven. But one that happened only 109 brief years ago, and one that France was sure he'd been teasing England about over the phone not too long ago?

A smile lingers on France's lips, playing there like he's amused by all of this, but the rapidly-growing concern in his eyes offsets it by a bit. His tone betrays no strong emotion one way or another when he next speaks, mere words that he forces out as best he can.]

England, today is the Entente Cordiale.

[keepscalm]

['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.]

[silencetoreason]

Neither are you.

[The words linger between them for a good long moment, which France spends thinking. He's seen a lot of strange things in this Tower so far, and encountered people he never expected to see. For some reason, though, when it comes to England, France feels like he should have at least had that one constant. An anchor; something to keep him grounded, no matter where he is.

England has always been one of the only things in France's life that he could always count on never to change much. Ever since they were little kids, their formula of mutual antagonism has more or less stayed the same - one of them would get on the other's case for something, the other would give some scathing response, and they'd fight until they both felt better. They've each had their off days, of course, where they'd act meaner or nicer than usual for whatever reason, as was to be expected in beings that were over a thousand years old each. But in all their lives, France had never felt like their relationship had shaken as much as it has today.

...Except, perhaps, for 109 years ago, when he and England signed that treaty and put an end to their hitherto near-constant wars.

And France has to put a hand over his mouth to keep himself from laughing too loudly, because the irony of it all is just too brilliant.]

[keepscalm]

[He wants to raise a brow at France's non-verbal outburst, but honestly, he'd laugh too if he weren't apparently coming apart at the seams. It takes something special for a nation to forget their own history, and he doesn't even have the antics of the administrators to blame for it, this time.

He doesn't want to think that he's changed. He won't accept it. It has always been one of his talents not to change if he didn't want to, and to think that he might have done so without even realising is unnerving to an existential degree.

So instead he says:] Serious as the plague. [And considering both of them are two of the few people that can say they've lived through the plague...

God, he really does feel like shit. While "friend" is a bit of a stretch in any attempt to classify France, shared history isn't something they take lightly, and the Entente is one of the rare positive things they have between them. He'd be offended in France's position, too.

Of course, he still hasn't let go of France implying he's crazy, but that's a bit more on a personal level.]

[silencetoreason]

[France raises his head, a bit of a smile still playing on his lips, but it fades when he sees the look on England's face. He heaves a deep sigh, setting his arms on his knees.]

Désolé. Let's get off this dirty floor.

[He gets up with a tiny groan, dusting himself off. He glances over at England, but doesn't offer him his hand. Perhaps it's a false assumption, but he thinks that England fancies himself as having too much pride to accept help from a Frenchman.

So instead, he takes to wiping away as much blood from his face as he can. He can still taste it in his mouth, and he prods his tongue around his cheek, wincing when he finds the spot he had inadvertently bit open.]

...You should be happy. [He flashes England a look that's half a smile, half a glare.] Your right hook has not changed, at least.

[Implying that there's quite a bit about him that has changed... Oops.]