[Would you rather he called you oi, French bastard ?
England's face is, as one might expect, scrunched into a sour expression.]
Years ago I could rightly take that as a challenge to a duel of some sort. [No, he doesn't bother getting up from his chair, but it's not as though he'll stop France from sitting on his bed or on the floor. There's a sense of mutual space-sharing that comes with lifelong rivalry and unspoken friendship.
Plus, England is much too tired and drunk and miserable to react with vitriol. Doesn't mean he won't still be prickly, awkward and fumbling though.]
A-and--nobody's going to steal me. What's that even mean? [He's just blowing hot air, Francis.
England settles his chin into his hand and stares out the window, unsure of what to say next. In some twisted sense he hopes France will ask or something, not that it's his business, not that he wants to talk to someone, anyone about--well, not just anyone--him losing his son for the second time.
Because it's not a big deal, as that fat idiot might say.
After all, people disappear from the city all the time.
So why worry?
Haha.
Ha.
Ha.]
... Not that it matters what it means. [Thus proving he was only blowing off steam. It's their usual banter, but England's mind is elsewhere.
That is, until he snaps out of it and retrieves a box of sweet and sour chicken and rice. He'd had a lot of it already, but there's still quite a bit left and his appetite is lacking. Still staring out the window, England offers it in France's direction.]
The food.
[He needs the company, but his pride won't let him admit it; but God, even a sign that he's done things right would be enough to keep him going.]
lkdjflakjsdlfaksdjlf SMASHING!!
England's face is, as one might expect, scrunched into a sour expression.]
Years ago I could rightly take that as a challenge to a duel of some sort. [No, he doesn't bother getting up from his chair, but it's not as though he'll stop France from sitting on his bed or on the floor. There's a sense of mutual space-sharing that comes with lifelong rivalry and unspoken friendship.
Plus, England is much too tired and drunk and miserable to react with vitriol. Doesn't mean he won't still be prickly, awkward and fumbling though.]
A-and--nobody's going to steal me. What's that even mean? [He's just blowing hot air, Francis.
England settles his chin into his hand and stares out the window, unsure of what to say next. In some twisted sense he hopes France will ask or something, not that it's his business, not that he wants to talk to someone, anyone about--well, not just anyone--him losing his son for the second time.
Because it's not a big deal, as that fat idiot might say.
After all, people disappear from the city all the time.
So why worry?
Haha.
Ha.
Ha.]
... Not that it matters what it means. [Thus proving he was only blowing off steam. It's their usual banter, but England's mind is elsewhere.
That is, until he snaps out of it and retrieves a box of sweet and sour chicken and rice. He'd had a lot of it already, but there's still quite a bit left and his appetite is lacking. Still staring out the window, England offers it in France's direction.]
The food.
[He needs the company, but his pride won't let him admit it; but God, even a sign that he's done things right would be enough to keep him going.]