a totter'd weed of small worth held

[pixietea.livejournal.com]

Characters: England and all of you!
Setting: Floor fifteen, the workshop or floor thirteen, the cathedral.
Format: Starting prose. Have action? Will match!
Summary: Everyone has different ways of dealing with stress. England's chief outlets are consumption of tea, and a seam well-sewn.
Warnings: None yet (aside from England having girly hobbies and me writing tl;dr), though as always, most likely language later.

Floor 15;;

The nation heaved a sigh as he smoothed the fabric out over the work table. It was nice to have woken up one morning and not felt the pull of hopelessness that had kept him buried beneath the covers for the past month -- to actually have stood up out of the weight that had been dragging him down. He had motivation to do things again.

The problem was, he didn't know what to do. Some things didn't even feel right to be doing. In the back of his mind, he kept wondering if the surgery victims were back to normal too; that was a niggling enough thing to be worrying about without him being antsy all the time.

He stared blankly at the uncut fabric, unsure of what to make of it. A shirt was too much measurement and precision than he felt he could deal with at the moment (though he did make note of the possibility for a later pastime and reminded himself to look around the workshop for a sewing machine). And heaven knows he had enough pocket squares lying around (at home, anyways, but they were probably destroyed with the rest of the world now).

Well, he needed to do something with this cloth. So, England reached for the ruler and pencil he had previously put aside, and set to measuring and cutting out a perfect square.

Floor 13;;
He sat somewhere just off the left of the center in the rows of pews, trying to hide himself somewhere inconsequential amongst the invisible masses where none could place him as out of the ordinary. He was alone, of course, but that didn't stop him from feeling like he was being watched-- judged, even.

England could count on one hand how many damns he truly gave about what strangers thought of him. Still, he preferred not to be distracted by scorn while he was trying to make himself relax.

The kingdom pulled the poppy-orange thread taut through the white fabric stretched by his embroidery hoop. His mind was still leaden with thoughts of October's experiments, evident in the way his normally deft fingers were sluggish and lazy with his stitching. Still, he devoted the majority of his attentions to his needlepoint. After a whole month of doing nothing but lie around and feel sorry for everything, he needed to be productive in some aspect.

Comments

[eastern-awsum.livejournal.com]

"Barely. Only reason I'm still around is because of Berlin... and Mattie was kind enough to rename one of his regions New Prussia." Gilbert sighed. He hated taking charity, but now there was nothing left but to pity him. He'd wagered it all to save his brother and unite the German states and he'd lost it all.

He'd fought until he just couldn't physically anymore and only then he had the rug ripped out from under his feet with his dissolution. Now it was merely a waiting game, at times his limbs would become so transparent he could barely make out the tips of his fingers and others he seemed as solid as before. How long would it last? Likely not long seeing as how quickly the world was changing and people forgetting his name.

"Heh. Seems when you get old all people do is pity you or hate you or both."

[pixietea.livejournal.com]

His stitching slowed to a gradual stop so that he could look at Prussia as he spoke this time. For all his being an insufferable, boorish bastard, England respected Prussia's strength. And he'd quickly discovered that the Germanic nation could be insightful when he wanted to. He knew better than to feel sorry for Prussia, but he did reserve a degree of sympathy for the other man.

"Isn't that the truth," England scoffed lightly, slumping a little against the back support of the pew preceding a weary sigh. "The price of wisdom and experience, I suppose."

[eastern-awsum.livejournal.com]

"Wisdom and experience? Experience I've got, hell, I had enough enemies back in the day and I still do. Can't say anything without someone getting their fucking panties in a goddamn knot. I doubt they'd say anything about me for wisdom, they'd say West got whatever I had," he gestures to the church around them. "Two thousand years people were shitting their drawers when they heard about me coming. Now, most humans, people who were my own don't even know who I am. They think I'm just a subpart of Russia" It made the hair on the back of Gil's neck stand on end to be associated with that bastard, even if Koingsberg had been renamed Kalingrad.

"Fuck, try to do right by someone and they fucking give you the axe."

[pixietea.livejournal.com]

"As they say such a lack of eloquence, 'nice guys finish last'," England quipped bitterly. He didn't think it was true in all cases, but making yourself vulnerable to manipulation like that was almost a guarantee that you would get yourself screwed over. Someone would take advantage of your vulnerability, and then there would only be you left to pick up the pieces.

He wasn't sure what to say to Prussia -- Prussia was too old, too jaded for most of his advice to really sink in -- as even England himself wasn't in such a bad position that his country was dissolved altogether. All he could really offer was a dry sense of humor and vague kinship, not that he'd fess up to the latter.

[eastern-awsum.livejournal.com]

"Yeah, should be 'If you don't kiss ass you finish last'," Prussia grumbled and simmered in his seat. He was angry and depressed, upset at everything that had happened and how he felt like he'd once again lost himself.

Prussia sighed and looked at England for a moment and smirked, "You're alright England."

[pixietea.livejournal.com]

England gave a short breath of a laugh in agreement at Prussia's retort. He knotted the thread of his current stitch and snapped off the end, the elegant shape of a Tudor rose now completely outlined on the square of cloth bound by the hoop.

He sequentially furrowed his eyebrows and then raised one in bemusement as he looked at Prussia. Strange, he didn't usually get compliments on his company unless he was hammered, as far as he could remember.

Despite being evidently a little taken off-guard, England tried not to look too surprised. "Shocking, isn't it?" he returned once he found his composure again. "I could say the same for you, as well, in less simplified terms."

He didn't want to outright say that Prussia was alright, so his roundabout compliment would have to do.

[eastern-awsum.livejournal.com]

"Awww, come on, I'm not your favourite person to talk to, really?" It was sarcasm but with humour in it. At this time he glanced at the tudor rose and smirked before reaching over and tapping the edge of the loop. "That family gave you hell. You still stitching their roses?" he raised an eyebrow and moved his hand back to the aged wood of the pew ahead of him.

"Then again, I still have black eagles stitched into most of my things," he mumbled to himself and was drawn back into himself for a moment or two. Red eyes looking at the rose before he pulled himself back. "The irony there would be if you stitched a white rose beside it."