francia | [Post 020] Text/Action for Goldenrod City

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[Post 020] Text/Action for Goldenrod City

France has lived for a long time.

It's a difficult truth to express. Age is completely relative for him, whose body ages so minutely a human lifetime wouldn't notice. He isn't even entirely sure of how many years have passed before his eyes, not exactly, not anymore than he can be certain of how he came to be. Those early years, when Paris was still fields and forests, are lost even to him; at best, they are half-remembered visions that might have been imagined from stories told in his youth.

And even that "youth" is a relative term. He does a lot to make himself look older. The stubble only started growing during the later 1800's, and he clings to it, this tiny marker that he is older, that the world has changed from when he was innocent and young and, at times, utterly insane. He wants so badly to believe that yes, I, too, grew up, that yes, I, too, have the capacity to change, that it's alright (or it will be, one day).

But it isn't alright, not really.

France has always lived without regrets.

Maybe it's because he's lived so long; maybe it's because he's arrogant; or maybe it's even because this is just how France is. He couldn't be himself if he harbored regrets, if he let them fester inside of his heart, poisoning, curdling, rotting against his ribcage until the only thing that would be left would be a tattered and putrid shell. And so he doesn't regret, won't let himself, because such an existence wouldn't be beautiful, wouldn't be French.

Instead, he wishes. Wishes are full of all sorts of things, of dreams and love and humanity. Wishes can be bitter, too, but not poisonous like regrets, so France wishes for many things. Sometimes, he wishes for food, for shelter, for water, for warmth, for cold. But, more often, he wishes for simpler things. He wishes for friends, for lovers, for family and children and something to hold and cherish as his own.

Because these are the things he calls beautiful.

France was never good at it, the loosing people thing. Out of all the Nation's he's ever met, he's really exceptionally bad at it. As a Nation, it's normal to outlive all other living things. It's too painful to have to grieve the death of each human, to watch so many people and creatures and things pass out of their lives. This is why France tries his best not to get too attached to anything or anyone.

But France loves.

If there is anything France is guilty of, then it would be love, and attachment is essential to love. It creates the threads that bind a person to another, weaving inbetween and blossoming out of the cracks, like ivy running up the sides of a brick house. Each memory, each touch, each sound or smell or sensation that is associated with another being; that is a thread, that is an attachment, that is love, and that is what France does:

He loves.

He leans against a street lamp, humming to himself, the heel of his left boot beating time against the metal base, his head tilted up to watch the street lamp's bright, unchanging light. Every now and then, he makes to move and then settles back against the lamp post, going back to humming the same song over and over, not really thinking about it.

I promised I would stay...

He closes his eyes after a while, closes them and laughs, unevenly, under and over his own breath. The volume gradually builds, and he's not entirely sure if he's laughing or choking or screaming, not anymore, not now, not ever because the world has gone mad, and this is where love has brought him, to this place where the sidewalk ends.

I stayed.

A handful of hundreds of years ago, when he was still young and unattached, he might have been able to adjust to this place and not just survive. The world had seemed wider then, or more simple, at least in an roundabout sort of way. France isn't sure when things changed. Maybe it was when gas became the order of the day, or when total warfare was no longer a theory, or when he looked up and saw a man in a balloon soaring up
up
and up
into the sky.

Canada's things are still there, parts and pieces scattered about the hotel room.

France doesn't know what to do with them.

Maybe he'll have Marianne burn them and destroy all traces of the boy and the memories of what they shared, or, maybe, he'll hold onto them and act like maybe Canada will come back one day, some day, and let his self-deception grow further.

Or, maybe, he'll open the wine bottle in the fridge and drink it all down, drown it all out. He'll make tonight easier and tomorrow harder, when he has to remember, has to hurt, and has do something at the same time.

Or, maybe, he'll just sit among all these pieces
all these little memories that he loves
strewn out and around the room,
tossed around and held close,
knees against his chest,
hands in his hair,
and just
cry

[Public Text]

Canada's gone. Sometime in the night. He wasn't kidnapped. I would have heard him. I would have known. He's gone.

[Private Text to Envy]

Can you stay over tonight?

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It’s late. Not late by his standards, but late enough for the sky to have darkened, for other people – normal people – to stay indoors and settle down, read a book or watch TV and then, in a matter of hours, sleep.

Cooper doesn’t sleep well. He doesn’t sleep well, and he’s restless. It’s a bad combination for an over-active mind, but it’s something he’s dealt with for years now. Being in Johto helps just as much as it doesn’t, and despite everything, he feels that little has changed in him.

What’s changed around him, on the other hand ... Goldenrod is nothing like San Francisco, despite the similarities. And walking the streets of the city with an unfamiliar moon overhead (he can’t find the same craters in it as he could back home) he’s struck by the notion of fate.

He’s not sure if he believes in such a phenomenon, but some things seem too incredible to count for anything else. Chance is only coincidence by another name. The line between a simple coincidence and fate or interference is blurry at best, but it’s nothing he wants to pay too much attention to in this particular moment.

Then again, it could be neither of these things. It could simply amount to two men on the same street in the lights and shadows of a different world, with little more between them than many shared words.

“France?”

The name is thrown carefully and lands somewhere by the blonde’s feet, for him to pick up or not.

France hurts from laughing. Or crying. Or having a minor nervous breakdown. Whatever he's doing, crouched in front of a street lamp and convulsing with awkward sounds in public. It's a suitably dramatic way to herald in the main action of a scene, but this isn't a play. France wishes it was.

He makes a motion at Cooper to show that he knows the other man is there. He giggles on himself, eyes shut and breathing unevenly to try and staunch the tears, and it's an utterly pathetic position. Perfect for the protagonist in the opera, on the verse of the final aria.

He's not entirely sure what he's thinking about anymore.

He doesn't know what to do other than approach, a hand on France's shoulder, crouching down next to him, a closeness he doesn't normally display but that isn't normally needed, either. He's concerned, he's worried, and he knows that unless the other calms down, he'll be a little scared.

"Francis", he tries. "Tell me what's happening."

And even if his voice is steady, he can't cover up the sense of urgency his tone carries, that reveals his alarm.

France leans into the touch. He likes human contact, even more when it's friendly and more so when he doesn't have to initiate it himself. He tries to answer, but the first try comes out choked and is followed by hysterical giggles. It takes him a moment to calm down enough to try again.

"Canada's gone."

He breaks off into the uneven hysterical laughter again, curling forward in his crouched position. It's not so much laughter anymore as sobbing, which may or may not be an improvement.

Cooper doesn't say anything. What can he say that France doesn't already know? So many people have disappeared and Cooper knows exactly what it feels like, to lose someone. He knows the dark place with nothing but a void and the pull it has on your conscious mind.

He changes position slightly, extending the touch to half a hug, the invitation for a full one very present. There's little else he can do right now other than say things that might as well be worthless; words he can save for later.

Edited 2011-03-10 22:54 (UTC)

France latches on to the half hug immediately, cling to the front of Cooper's clothes and resting his forehead against Cooper's chest. He stills for a moment like that, leaning there and breathing shallowly.

He laughs, no humor, just grief. "I kept my promise for once. I stayed."

And then there is no more laughter and he just cries.

Cooper hasn't been needed this way in what feels like a really long time. But he takes care to establish himself as a physical presence as much as he can, an indirect way to show that he's there and to the best of his ability, he's not leaving. He doesn't know how much it's worth in the long run, but for now, it seems to be what France needs.

He lets the other man cry, simply holding him, keeping still.

"You stayed", he says, and it's really a question, but he's not expecting an answer in the midst of all the chaos he can see in his friend.

France holds onto Cooper, sobbing in earnest. It hurts a lot, and the crying at least lets that hurt out. Not, maybe, in the way that France would have preferred; he would rather have someone to blame and then plot and fight against. But there isn't anyone or anything like that here, where he has no more control over the coming and going of people than he ever did, even less.

He's going to have to thank Cooper later somehow for allowing France to do this. After all, it's a rather compromising position for both of them, and Cooper would have every right to feel embarrassed, crouched out in public with a wailing man in his arms. France will make it up to him, most definitely.

Some time passes. Cooper doesn't say anything during that time, doesn't do anything other than listen and hold on. He's somewhat detached because it's easier that way. He feels empathy for France but keeps it at bay, careful to not break down with him. That's not what he's here for.

There is a certain point where you can't cry anymore. Once he feels France is beginning to calm down, at least enough, he draws back a little, his hands on France's shoulders and searching for his eyes.

"Is there a place we can go?" he asks, gently, voice soft. 'We' because he's not leaving the other until he knows he'll be okay. He doesn't care actually care that much about where they are, but being someplace where you feel safe, somewhere familiar, somewhere where you're in control, can do a lot to make things feel less desperate.

It takes France a while to reach that point where he can really think outside of just crying and expelling the pain. He's still leaning into Cooper, sobbing, but it's a bit slower now, and he's able to draw breathe easier.

"I should..." he swallows, breathes out with a shudder; "I should go back to my hotel."

He's not dressed for the weather at all, having just dashed out in similar disarray as he had left the hotel room in. Normally, France wouldn't be caught dead in anything less than a completely put-together outfit, but his boots are unlaced, his work uniform not at all pressed and utterly ruffled.

"I look terrible."

He doesn't answer that last comment. Looking terrible is irrelevant right now; more important is how France feels, but Cooper doesn't need to do a lot of guesswork to see that the other man is less than okay.

After another few moments, he shifts, making just enough distance between them to stand up, offering the Nation his left hand to help him up as well. His coat is creased and rumpled and a little wet and his mind is quiet.

"Do you want me to stay with you?"

The question is asked mostly out of courtesy, because he does intend to. Cooper doesn't leave people if he can help it - not anymore.

France takes a few deep breathes before getting to his feet. He's only now starting to notice the cold, and he shivers slightly, hunching in a bit to conserve body heat.

"I would greatly appreciate it if you'd be so kind as to walk with me," he answers after a moment. "You don't have to, if you're busy. I just... I would like a little company."

He'd thought as much.

"I'm not busy," he says, and is this world, it seems he never his. He'd like to be, in many ways; things were so quiet in Johto in a way he wasn't sure how to deal with. The fact he even thought of what peace there was as something to be dealt with ... He loves Johto. It's just a little too different at times.

And of course, there's this. Strange things happening. People disappearing. He's been lucky no one significant has disappeared on him, even if he does feel a little on edge every time he notices someone he used to talk to is gone.

"Even if I was I believe I have my priorities straight. I'll stay for as long as you need me."

It is abnormally quiet in Johto, which is probably what makes France so nervous and reactive to nearly everything. He's used to life being much more fast-paced, to politics and society, and it's far too stagnant, even in Goldenrod.

He breathes out and then curls his fingers into the fabric of Cooper's left shirt sleeve, pulling close again.

"Hotel."

"Right," he agrees, and doesn't say anything else, letting France hold on as he starts leading the way. He's keeps his pace unhurried, but determined. He's calm, even if his face is a little dark as he looks ahead.

He's a good man in a crisis. He just strongly dislikes the fact that these kind of situations have to exist.

France lets Cooper lead the way. He would have probably ended up loosing interest in getting back to the Hotel if Cooper hadn't come along, would have probably gone of somewhere to avoid the place. He needs to go back, though; Romano is there, and he can't just leave the room as it is.

He tightens his hold on Cooper, sighing shakily.

"Thank you."

He gives France a look in reply, not-quite smiling but a hint of one, as if to say that there's no problem, nothing to be thanked for, and something reassuring - he hopes, anyway. He can't really shake the grimness he feels, resting on his shoulders, but he tries not to pay it much attention.

"What floor are you staying at?" he asks once they're there. He holds open the big front doors.

France has to pause for a moment, trying to remember what floor he lives on. He always forgets that for some reason. Maybe it's because he's lived in so many different places, in so many different buildings, and he doesn't make a habit of letting people know where he lives. He isn't supposed to; not as a Nation.

"Sixteenth," he answers, nodding to himself.

Sixteenth. He makes sure France is with him every step of the way when h crosses the lobby, a polite nod to the receptionist when they walk past her. The elevator is on the eleventh floor when Cooper presses the button and he takes the time waiting for it to study the other man more thoroughly.

He takes in the messy state and red eyes, but those are things he would have seen even without looking. He's looking for a trace of evil. He knows it won't be there but he still feels better when he's confirmed it for himself.

He's seen people destroyed by it. He's seen people touched by it, but this isn't evil, not the kind he had back home. It's a comfort he'll gladly take.

He puts a hand on France's shoulder. Considers asking him how he feels now, but decides to remain silent as he watches the numbers on the display above the elevator count down.

France isn't entirely sure about the sudden intensity of Cooper's gaze, but he doesn't feel like chasing the reason down now. Maybe he'll ask about it later, but, for now, he's just glad to have a bit of company, someone solid and there to hold onto and let guide him. He lets his attention drift to the elevator door.

"I wish the music would change at least," he says, somewhat petulantly. "It's so damn cheerful."

"At least it's the same."

If things started changing around him after a major change like the disappearance of a friend, Coop knows he wouldn't deal very well with it. Ding, says the elevator, and he steps into it, pulling France gently along and pressing the proper button.

"I don't like it," France grouches, but he allows Cooper to guide him out of the elevator.

His room isn't that far off down the right side of the hall, and he fishes around in his pants pockets for the key. He pauses for a moment, staring at the door like the key will magically jump from his hand and open it for him, expression sad and rather lost. Canada won't be in there. Just his things.

Cooper keeps that hand on France's shoulder and at the stop, he squeezes gently as means of encouragement. Again, though, no words. He understands the hesitation but believes that opening the door and stepping in is something France needs to do on his own.

Edited 2011-03-23 06:50 (UTC)

France glances briefly at Cooper to offer a small smile before turning back to the door. He takes a deep breath, unlocks the door, and steps inside. The hotel room is in utter chaos with objects all over the floor, the desk lamp on the ground and the trash bin overturned. Luckily there hadn't been much in it (thank God for daily maid service), but it's nothing like France's almost psychotic neatness. France navigates his way around the room to sit in the desk chair and just stare at the destruction.

Wow. Cooper can't help but be interested in the state of the room, looking it over as he closes the door behind him. He's never been here before, of course, but he imagines this definitely isn't what it normally looks like.

He never did things like that, personally. He could see how it would help relieve stress and tension, but Cooper had always been the kind to just lie down and disappear when things were too much. Thankfully, they rarely were.

He's not sure where to stand in the middle of the chaos.

"How are you feeling?" he finally asks, deeming it appropriate now. The question is soft. He wants a long answer.

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[Post 020] Text/Action for Goldenrod City

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