Francis "Good but Questionable" Bonnefoy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
amant) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
asgardmeridiem2012-05-29 11:28 am
amant) wrote in asgardmeridiem2012-05-29 11:28 am
Entry tags:
[closed] dead man walking
Who: amant & unionjackass
What: See that soft filter lense? That dim lighting? Smells like a soap opera, too.
When: backdated to day 88, evening
Where: Hel. Art's room.
Rating: PG/PG-13
[ If you're a traveler stuck in Hel, the sight is probably a normal one. There's a rather fit looking blond male with a knack for being well-dressed no matter the durress of his hamper. He's usually composed to the point of appearing fashionably aloof when he's here, too. That would be The Usual. Unfortunately for himself and the gent whose room he's two seconds from barging in to the situation is unfamilar.
Arthur had been short, but there was no vagueness in his message. America had disappeared from Asgard. The timing was questionable as well, though Francis wasn't quite aware--hadn't been paying mind to lessons on the network regarding certain fights for independence, so he'd be in for a surprise. If Arthur was in a talking mood. He knocked--look how nice he is]
Arthur, let me in. [He resists saying 'It's your favorite Frenchman' for the moment-- He just likes his teeth fully intact]
amant & unionjackass What: See that soft filter lense? That dim lighting? Smells like a soap opera, too.
When: backdated to day 88, evening
Where: Hel. Art's room.
Rating: PG/PG-13
[ If you're a traveler stuck in Hel, the sight is probably a normal one. There's a rather fit looking blond male with a knack for being well-dressed no matter the durress of his hamper. He's usually composed to the point of appearing fashionably aloof when he's here, too. That would be The Usual. Unfortunately for himself and the gent whose room he's two seconds from barging in to the situation is unfamilar.
Arthur had been short, but there was no vagueness in his message. America had disappeared from Asgard. The timing was questionable as well, though Francis wasn't quite aware--hadn't been paying mind to lessons on the network regarding certain fights for independence, so he'd be in for a surprise. If Arthur was in a talking mood. He knocked--look how nice he is]
Arthur, let me in. [He resists saying 'It's your favorite Frenchman' for the moment-- He just likes his teeth fully intact]
no subject
The knock startles him from his position at his desk. Rather than be useless, he's decided to tally up his earnings and consider applying somewhere for a proper job. Surely his talents could be used for something where he'd earn decent pay. England's pen falls from his hand with a clatter and he abruptly sits upright, freezing even after the Frenchman announces himself.
Honestly? England hadn't expected him to listen to his message. An odd, backhanded invitation to take some of the extra food he had that he honestly didn't want; it had a poignant end to it though, and when he remembers exactly what he'd said and why that stupid, intolerable Frenchman decided to come knocking.
Damn that stupid lousy good friend.
England grits his teeth, then takes a breath. His cheeks are only slightly flushed from intoxication; inhibitions partly in tact. Everything feels fuzzy, but the longer he stays awake without drinking another drop, the more sober he'll be.
Damn sobriety. Damn it all.
But he won't let these circumstances bring him down. If nothing else, this evening and America's absence have reminded him--as might a good slap to the face--that he's England, and he ought to keep his chin up, feet firmly on the ground, and his head firmly on his shoulders. He's too damn good for this, you see; even if he'd attempt punching a hole through something if he still had his strength--but that would accomplish nothing at home, nor here, and at least at home he wouldn't break his hand.
So, only a few moments after the Frog had spoken, England simply leans back in his chair and has a good stretch, rolling his shoulders. With a glance at his flying bunny friend and George, both of whom are nestled together atop a pile of clothes--Winston's perch is empty, it being so late--he wrinkles his nose, not wanting to deal with this now.
But he had sent the message, even if it is France that's come knocking. There's no real reason to turn him away and, most importantly, England won't allow the man to see him cancel a meeting out of... weakness.
Hah.]
Door's open, Frog.
BLAGHGHGGHAGHGHGHH
You need to stop leaving your door open, someone may steal you one of these days.
[Fran is keeping his tone light for now. No need to yell. The scent of the room makes him wrinkle his nose and he has to stop himself from telling Arthur that he reeks of alcohol the closer he gets to the desk. Peering over his shoulder, he simply raised a brow at the tabs]
Are... you accounting? At this hour? [You caught him off guard. BT] You need a better distraction than that, mon ami.
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.]
damn it, Nigel.
For a gander at the Brit staring straight ahead. Looking more tired than he usually does -- It's an impressive feat.
There's a moment where he isn't sure where to start, or if he even should. Not that it's obvious from how they act in public but they're good at communicating non-verbally. So, maybe Art is picking up his floundering.
It's not like Arthur is the only one mourning the loss. Francis had, to Arthur's frustration, been fond of the boy like a son. There had been times when he'd used the youth's ambitions as fodder against the Brit. He was a bad man, and likewise, the man settled beside him was just as bad.
They weren't completely horrible though. It was just who they were. Consequences.
Yes, he's ignoring the food in favor for running a hand over the man's jaw and into his hair, stroking slowly. Considering, maybe. Coming to his own decision he leaned in and wrapped his arms around the Brit's narrow shoulders to hold onto him tightly, quiet for a moment]
You are not to disappear, d'accord? You disappear and I will find you and lock you in my closet and steal you myself.
[He'd meant to comment on his hair. To keep it as far from the real topic at hand; some silly comment along the lines of settling like the old days where he'd cut his hair. Good times, really.]
no subject
It's true; they can communicate in odd ways that go beyond words. It's in the look of the eyes, any near silence that might hang between them, in their body language. How else would they communicate, the two of them being terrible at doing so verbally when it came to personal things? And England feels they haven't properly spoken for the longest time. He hardly lays any blame on France. It's this damn city, cutting them off, making them blind, deaf and dumb. And as nations, they operate on a time scale far different from that of humans. Naturally, to say they're disoriented is the understatement of the last thousand years.
The floundering earns Francis a blank gaze that is only brief. England turns his eyes back toward the darkness outside the window.
Francis' touch earns a different reaction.
England flinches, crashing out of his reverie, abruptly opening his mouth to say something, certainly in protest, but--
He finds himself in France's arms. Immediately England reacts, pressing his hands to France's chest as though to push him away; but he does not. The initiation of company is... frustratingly welcome. England wants to shove the idiot away, to punch him in that smug face of his, if not simply because they're rivals, but because Francis of all people can get into his head and make a nest there; and Arthur hates feeling vulnerable.
But, being pathologically afraid of isolation, even this is the most welcome action and only France would be allowed this closeness.
He shakes his head at the Frog's words, biting back several spiteful remarks that could have arisen.]
Pervert. [Better than spiteful, okay.] Who the hell locks anyone in a closet.
... And I'll not disappear, not--not that it's your business-- But I won't. Not again.
I've no reason to. [he barks a rough laugh.] Haha! I don't need that idiot around. Iceland told him everything--Knew it was a matter of time--
And what does he do? He leaves. Leaves! Always the little ungrateful shit.
Leaving...
[no he's not trembling in anger, frustration, sadness. Nope.
Yes. Yes he is.]no subject
His hold tightens and he rocks forward slightly, mouth pressed firmly into a line. No, he didn't want to delve into that. A hand met the nape of Arthur's neck, squeezing gently. There's nothing that he can say to make it better. He knows it-- and frankly, the only thing saving him from the cold shoulder Arthur could give (and had the first time Alfred left), was the fact that Iceland had done it.]
We must not think that. Perhaps the boy contributed enough to the city's pledge and he was sent home.. It is not through someone's own volition that they leave.
[His nose scrunched--not that it was visible behind that mop of hair on Arthur's head before adding a notion, really]
It would not surprise me if they chose now to get the biggest reaction from you... The gods that is. They are not always the most compassionate, ouais?
no subject
[England shivers lightly and tries pulling away, but he immediately changes his mind and curls his hands into fists, clutching at France's shirt. With a bow of his head, England rests against the older nation and shuts his eyes.]
Ungrateful little bastard's home now telling me to fuck off. S'how it should be.
no subject
And they are toying with us for the benefit of their own. It seems as if they are as useful in this realm as they are in ours; but that does not mean you in particular are any less spectacular an example to use.
[He sighed, hands going back to his companion's shoulders. He doesn't want this for you, truly. Maybe he considers pressing his lips against England's temple. Or cheek. Wherever. Refraining, however until even he's not sure what he could do next to make anything easier for a grieving man.]
He is home where the only danger he faces is himself. [A hand strays to the fist clenching at his shirt, gingerly trying to pry those fingers loose and he sounds distant, almost whimsical when he speaks up again] Sometimes it is better to at least have the person, even if they're ungrateful and problematic. At least you have them at all.