http://creme-master.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
creme-master.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
towerofanimus2011-10-25 11:33 am
creme-master.livejournal.com) wrote in towerofanimus2011-10-25 11:33 am
Entry tags:
Let the good times roll.
Characters: Francis and YOU.
Setting: Dormitories [1-10], Floor 13
Format: EITHER
Summary: In which Francis is a hermit and a lost man.
Warnings: Possible → mentions of surgery/flashbacks, looming possibility of character death thanks to event specifics. Definite → heavy despair
Dormitory 1-10
The triumphant return to regular life as he knew it was neither bombastic nor rewarding. In fact, it was immediately after being reintroduced to the main floors of the Tower that the once grandiose man had holed himself away with no intent of socialization. Francis had always partaken in the mantra of ‘eat, drink, and be merry’ to the best of his abilities. To say that he was stinted would have been laughable.
‘Eat’ and ‘drink’ were automatically nixed without the necessary organs though try as his brain might to keep up with over a millennium of deeply rooted habit. The knowledge that he harbored something grotesque – and that he appeared in comparison malformed – kept him from being anything outside of contemplatively glum. Whatever it was, he spent the majority of his time tucked away out of sight where he wasn’t reminded of who he had been forced to become or able to slip up and hurt someone he loved.
Before he had been taken away Francis had plotted out the Tower as he saw fit, blocking off floors completely that were dangerous. Now, even those places he had gone to stay sane had quietly surrendered to join the rest. He had these four walls, at least…
Floor 13: Cathedral
This was not a sanctuary for Francis.
For a time, even before his stay at the Tower, his faith had dwindled. Anyone that had seen the things he saw and experienced all he had would have a difficult time proving to themselves that their God was a merciful being. As the years melted against one another Francis had gone from devout and fearful to a skeptical romantic; it was fine for others and the concept novel, but wholly unrealistic. Despite that, he still believed in hell. He thought that he had seen every shade of hell on earth there was.
There had been a moment... one wavering moment that he had prayed to whatever would listen to him… for death or salvation; he may have intertwined the concepts. The collars had kept on their task and had left him hollower than he had been before with not a lick of mercy from above. There had been no mercy for anyone, not even a child. Faith had done nothing but lead them in to calamity and yet…
Here he was, seated at the back of the Tower’s elaborate Cathedral, doing what he could to justify being here. It was quiet. It reminded him of the Gothic architecture back home. People would not bother him even if they noticed him huddled in the corner by his lonesome; they had their own grief to deal with. And it went on.
Truth be told there was that shameless hope that the one thing that could hear him now would, that for once there would be some sort of divine intervention. He wanted to be moved if only one time; he wanted to be proven wrong.
He’d been here for hours undisturbed and the only thing he could be moved by was despair. The anger and loathing had passed. The denial now as well. No matter how difficult the trial Francis had been annoyingly resilient – he had, after all, survived for a very long time and through many a dilemma. He had pushed through. He had, if anything, himself.
Francis had never mourned the man he was. In fact, he was quite unapologetic.
He mourned now, nothing but a shell of the person he used to hold so much pride in. For once he didn’t feel like France. Didn’t feel like anything. He was detached, a man bound up and bowed at the back of some nameless place of worship grasping for straws and finding nothing. It was a strange realization - to feel so unimportant, so mortal for once; it hit the man hard and he hated it as he'd hated those that took him and God Himeself. There was nothing he could do but press his face to the back of the pew in front of him, fingers tight on the wood as the tears finally came.
Francis was alone, forced or not, and it was a bitter pill to swallow.
Setting: Dormitories [1-10], Floor 13
Format: EITHER
Summary: In which Francis is a hermit and a lost man.
Warnings: Possible → mentions of surgery/flashbacks, looming possibility of character death thanks to event specifics. Definite → heavy despair
Dormitory 1-10
The triumphant return to regular life as he knew it was neither bombastic nor rewarding. In fact, it was immediately after being reintroduced to the main floors of the Tower that the once grandiose man had holed himself away with no intent of socialization. Francis had always partaken in the mantra of ‘eat, drink, and be merry’ to the best of his abilities. To say that he was stinted would have been laughable.
‘Eat’ and ‘drink’ were automatically nixed without the necessary organs though try as his brain might to keep up with over a millennium of deeply rooted habit. The knowledge that he harbored something grotesque – and that he appeared in comparison malformed – kept him from being anything outside of contemplatively glum. Whatever it was, he spent the majority of his time tucked away out of sight where he wasn’t reminded of who he had been forced to become or able to slip up and hurt someone he loved.
Before he had been taken away Francis had plotted out the Tower as he saw fit, blocking off floors completely that were dangerous. Now, even those places he had gone to stay sane had quietly surrendered to join the rest. He had these four walls, at least…
Floor 13: Cathedral
This was not a sanctuary for Francis.
For a time, even before his stay at the Tower, his faith had dwindled. Anyone that had seen the things he saw and experienced all he had would have a difficult time proving to themselves that their God was a merciful being. As the years melted against one another Francis had gone from devout and fearful to a skeptical romantic; it was fine for others and the concept novel, but wholly unrealistic. Despite that, he still believed in hell. He thought that he had seen every shade of hell on earth there was.
There had been a moment... one wavering moment that he had prayed to whatever would listen to him… for death or salvation; he may have intertwined the concepts. The collars had kept on their task and had left him hollower than he had been before with not a lick of mercy from above. There had been no mercy for anyone, not even a child. Faith had done nothing but lead them in to calamity and yet…
Here he was, seated at the back of the Tower’s elaborate Cathedral, doing what he could to justify being here. It was quiet. It reminded him of the Gothic architecture back home. People would not bother him even if they noticed him huddled in the corner by his lonesome; they had their own grief to deal with. And it went on.
Truth be told there was that shameless hope that the one thing that could hear him now would, that for once there would be some sort of divine intervention. He wanted to be moved if only one time; he wanted to be proven wrong.
He’d been here for hours undisturbed and the only thing he could be moved by was despair. The anger and loathing had passed. The denial now as well. No matter how difficult the trial Francis had been annoyingly resilient – he had, after all, survived for a very long time and through many a dilemma. He had pushed through. He had, if anything, himself.
Francis had never mourned the man he was. In fact, he was quite unapologetic.
He mourned now, nothing but a shell of the person he used to hold so much pride in. For once he didn’t feel like France. Didn’t feel like anything. He was detached, a man bound up and bowed at the back of some nameless place of worship grasping for straws and finding nothing. It was a strange realization - to feel so unimportant, so mortal for once; it hit the man hard and he hated it as he'd hated those that took him and God Himeself. There was nothing he could do but press his face to the back of the pew in front of him, fingers tight on the wood as the tears finally came.
Francis was alone, forced or not, and it was a bitter pill to swallow.
lame reply is lame.
He didn't know what brought him to the church. Safety perhaps--it certainly wasn't religion. As a country he was orthodox, had religion given back to him. But as Ivan... As Ivan he had never taken it back, instead casting it aside--God was a silly concept to him. There were no Gods for nations--perhaps for man, but not for him. And if there was, then that God was not goodwicked instead.
He saw Francis, saw who it was, stiffening. France had almost always been a friend to him. A role model for him when he was still growing, starting to see Europe for the first real time, and really, he had found at an early age he liked the Frenchman very much, fostering a crush on him, that was rather obvious. Of course, that crush had dimmed throughout time, gone away, but his enjoyment of France's company had never dimmed, never really changed.
This, this was different however. This wasn't Francis, could not be Francis. It was an imposter--a trick the tower played on him. Just like everything else. This was not his friend, nor was it the nation that he had respected. It was just a creature of the tower wearing his face. And Ivan was not happy to see that, and he slid his hand into a pocket, watching the other carefully.
;;
He hadn't seen Russia enter the cathedral. In fact, he was unaware completely thanks to the strange silence that hung over the floor. If he had known what Ivan was thinking at that moment he probably would have agreed, would have said that he was merely a ploy for whatever the tower had in store...
There he was, a blond fish out of water (and lone, in a barrel). Francis pressed his forehead harder against the pew and wiped his face off with a grimace, staying down for another moment before slowly sitting up, pushing the mussed hair off his forehead. Hands returned to the pew, thumb grazing the wood as he stared blankly ahead.
Nope. Not noticing the six foot tall, impossibly paranoid Russian.
Floor 13 - Inviting anyone to come and off her to get to Francis. :|a
She approached slowly, noting that any sounds Francis was making were silenced by the floor's strange qualities, and she could hear the muffled disembodied voices as usual. Ignoring the voices, she slid into the pew next to Francis, saw his tears and pressed close to him, hand coming up to stroke his hair gently.
no subject
Not to mention he hadn't been able to find France.
In a small way Canada was thankful for his invisibility, taking to wandering silently on floors that people didn't seem to like to lurk. Going up from the aquariums the shadow of someone coming down the stairs made Matt duck into the cathedral. He'd always felt odd in extremely religious settings, as a nation he had so many and the overly christian motifs made him glance around.
The one thing that caught his attention though was France sitting in one of the pews close to the back. From behind Matt wasn't sure if the man was praying or crying, both were equally viable for what was going on.
Without much of a thought Matt moved silently into the pew and sat down beside his former father figure, letting him have his moment before placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Ilu france, I really do. ;;;;;;
"You should be telling me where you are putting moy Frantsiya, da?" And he had on the 'I'm going to fuck your shit up' face that he only wore on a very, very rare occasion, when he was too angry to play.
NU UH.
He doubted he could make a move for the journal and pen he had taken to carrying with him on the rare occasion he'd venture out. Sudden movements meant a bullet got lodged in his head.
Francis also couldn't speak. The one time he had attempted to speak he'd come to realize it sounded muddled; bit hard to speak when sludge blocked most of his useless airway. The toxicity would cue more of Russia's paranoia.
He couldn't tell him that he was the one that had taught him so much when he was younger. He couldn't reassure him that he was genuine in any matter, and now? Now he was frozen in place because he couldn't use his usual sweet talk to urge Ivan toward sanity.
no subject
It was even better than it had been Mathieu who had avoided the experiment that was driving the Tower's inhabitants stir crazy. Or genuinely crazy rather. Despite the boy's sanity, the floor's tricky silence had quieted his former charge's approach and he jolts under the hand. There is no racing pulse. No gasp of surprise. Just a man sitting up straight with wide eyes that relax soon after.
He can't speak, but he leans back against his touch in a silent hello, feeling the shame creep deep. There'd been a time when Francis had been more worthy of his mentor role. Now reduced to nothing, he couldn't help feeling as if his plight was letting the boy beside him down.
no subject
He is quite good at hiding though, retreating to a haven until the immediate danger passes. It's part of the reason he has spent so much time in bed. Part, not wholly true. She was there though, making sure he'd not eaten a hole through the floor and fallen through. He was lucky to have her.
The man hoped she would forgive him for the lapse of composure.
sorry it's a tl;dr tag
Time he knew had not been kind to either of them, and France he knew was a man who liked company, friends and companionship. Here within the tower Canada wondered just how alone France was and if he had fallen short in some places of trying to keep tabs on the older nation, to make sure he was okay. It wasn't Matthew's job to do this, far from it, although he still felt a small push to try to look after France despite their differences and a few grievances that Matthew still held in his heart from being left as a child to the mercy of the British Empire.
But sitting beside him France looked so fragile and beaten down, worn and exhausted with everything. It's something he's never seen from France before. Not from the exuberant, colourful man he usually is with his sharp tongue and snarky wit.
Matt doesn't say anything but gently tugs France into a hug. He knows that Francis needs it more than he does and he wasn't about to leave the man high and dry when he very obviously needed someone there.
YEAH HUH
"I was asking you simple question, you should be answering, da? I do not like when people are hurting those I care for. Especially not people who chose to wear their face," he was angry, and obviously so, pressing the gun harder into the other's skull, eyes narrowed, watching, finger on the trigger. It was obvious the Russian had snapped, had decided that this was not Francis Bonnefoy, the Republic of France, the man who had been a long time friend, and instead thought this an enemy.
Of course, the lack of words did not help.
Ain' no thaaang
Mathieu was a stronger man than most believed him, having compassion no matter the hardship and capable hands. Francis gave a quiet shudder, something that sounded like a muffled sob, and leaned in against the boy's side, clamping his eyes closed.
:T
Perhaps he was right, Ivan. Maybe he was some ploy from the Tower wearing only a face. If the Tower had kicked the Russian's paranoia to the point of jabbing the barrel of a gun against a 'former' friend's skull...
It took going against learned behavior to part hips lips and the blackness was quick to take advantage of such an opportunity, spilling thickly down a pale chin. He refused to wipe it away. If anything, he wanted the man to get his answers before blowing away that once attractive skull of his.
"Look at what the tower has done to us, mimi" The endearment is almost unintelligible and his voice is already wavering from disuse. "Perhaps you would be doing me a favor, pulling the trigger. I am a tired man. Still yours."
The sludge had fallen to the floor, singed a few messy holes clean through without a sound. He fell silent, waiting.
no subject
A broad hand moved its way into France's golden hair, giving the silky strands a pet before Matt shifted enough to try to console Francis. Matthew knew that the only thing he could offer to him was a medial comfort, a shoulder for him to cry on. He didn't even know what had happened to him to upset him so, and he had been worried. Oh he had, wandering the tower in search of Francis, inquiring about him and it all yielded the same result of it being unknown.
He held Francis, not saying a word, but letting the man find a small piece of comfort in his ex-colony that Matthew believed that Francis wouldn't find in others.
<:C
And Ivan stared, watching the Parisian, rolling the words around in his head, the paranoia still there, which meant he refused to put the gun down, refused to let the other go.
"I was not asking what you are doing to us," he replied, a tiny frown on his lips, eyes narrowed."And I was not asking to have you using his words, his voice. I am not liking that, and I am getting rid of things I am not liking, da?" He gave a smile then, though lost it soon after. There was another moment when he was quiet, watching the Parisian.
"Perhaps this is being his body? Is that why you are not being able to be answering me?"
no subject
Pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head, she fell silent, trying to be a comforting presence to him at least.