[open] a rude awakening
Who: France andouillette, England prud_englaland
What: A troubling moment, an internal crisis.
When: Evening of April 2nd, as soon as lights kick back in.
Where: Music room, floor 2.
Warnings: Woe :/
France could only hear two very distinct sounds as he stood, back pressed against the door, outside the music room- the crumpling of paper in his hand and his own thick pulse. Which was odd, considering the proximity to a room full of musical instruments, but anything beyond the pounding headache that threatened to swallow his thoughts was too far for him to be concerned with.
Unless it was that impetuous young lady, outside the Sanctuary, who had dared to demand such a thing as… ’recognition as a "free country"’ during his absence.
Exhaling slowly and tensely, he opened and uncreased the paper, the pamphlet he had had the misfortune to tread on whilst leaving his room in the morning (for the first time in days- the power outage had left his body thinking it was night) and tried, again, to make sense of the words in the familiar sterile lettering. Dark, smudgy circles under his eyes told of long bouts of sleep the past few days - the result of staying awake for more hours than were in a day at a time - tired skin and ruffled hair, stray curls on proud display, told of its regular interruptions. Mainly from being woken by the nurses, for the administration of a sickeningly familiar medicine that made his head pound mercilessly within mere hours of the dosage.
Awake, now, and upright, he remembered why he slept for so long - to avoid the headaches that plagued the nation while he was awake. He reread the line that sent him reeling.
‘Recognition as a "free country" ’- no, not possible, not Vietna-- Indochina. Not while he was not at home. Not while he was not present to make responsible decisions. Impossible. Impossible!!
The next breath caught in his throat. France struggled to release it painlessly, tried to ignore or at least will away the intensifying migraine still seizing his head. There was always something of a shock to this kind of thing- the young ones leaving, whether they asked permission or outright flung sharp-tongued insults at him- but at least there was dignity in facing those tiny countries in person, his height against their bloodied uniforms, the difference in their accented French, and both of them knowing what they were abandoning.
This was humiliating. A sentence on a flimsy sheet was all he had to translate her intentions.
He shouldered the door behind him open, not caring for appearance (-enough not to want to be found loitering miserably in a corridor, at least), forcing his blurry eyes to at least find a bare spot. He sought one near the string section like a- like a sanctuary, tucked into a corner.
Sitting, drawing his legs in and his spine flat up against the wall, France leant his forehead onto his knees and sighed out a long, ragged breath. With it came tears, welling up and kissing his skin in warm trails. And that, in turn, only made the headache pound harder and his pulse race until he felt like he was drowning. He thought of Vietnam's voice, a warning of tropical storms, and shook in the effort it took simply to breathe.
What: A troubling moment, an internal crisis.
When: Evening of April 2nd, as soon as lights kick back in.
Where: Music room, floor 2.
Warnings: Woe :/
France could only hear two very distinct sounds as he stood, back pressed against the door, outside the music room- the crumpling of paper in his hand and his own thick pulse. Which was odd, considering the proximity to a room full of musical instruments, but anything beyond the pounding headache that threatened to swallow his thoughts was too far for him to be concerned with.
Unless it was that impetuous young lady, outside the Sanctuary, who had dared to demand such a thing as… ’recognition as a "free country"’ during his absence.
Exhaling slowly and tensely, he opened and uncreased the paper, the pamphlet he had had the misfortune to tread on whilst leaving his room in the morning (for the first time in days- the power outage had left his body thinking it was night) and tried, again, to make sense of the words in the familiar sterile lettering. Dark, smudgy circles under his eyes told of long bouts of sleep the past few days - the result of staying awake for more hours than were in a day at a time - tired skin and ruffled hair, stray curls on proud display, told of its regular interruptions. Mainly from being woken by the nurses, for the administration of a sickeningly familiar medicine that made his head pound mercilessly within mere hours of the dosage.
Awake, now, and upright, he remembered why he slept for so long - to avoid the headaches that plagued the nation while he was awake. He reread the line that sent him reeling.
‘Recognition as a "free country" ’- no, not possible, not Vietna-- Indochina. Not while he was not at home. Not while he was not present to make responsible decisions. Impossible. Impossible!!
The next breath caught in his throat. France struggled to release it painlessly, tried to ignore or at least will away the intensifying migraine still seizing his head. There was always something of a shock to this kind of thing- the young ones leaving, whether they asked permission or outright flung sharp-tongued insults at him- but at least there was dignity in facing those tiny countries in person, his height against their bloodied uniforms, the difference in their accented French, and both of them knowing what they were abandoning.
This was humiliating. A sentence on a flimsy sheet was all he had to translate her intentions.
He shouldered the door behind him open, not caring for appearance (-enough not to want to be found loitering miserably in a corridor, at least), forcing his blurry eyes to at least find a bare spot. He sought one near the string section like a- like a sanctuary, tucked into a corner.
Sitting, drawing his legs in and his spine flat up against the wall, France leant his forehead onto his knees and sighed out a long, ragged breath. With it came tears, welling up and kissing his skin in warm trails. And that, in turn, only made the headache pound harder and his pulse race until he felt like he was drowning. He thought of Vietnam's voice, a warning of tropical storms, and shook in the effort it took simply to breathe.