(Untitled)

[pixietea]

Characters: England and all you positively insufferable wonderful people!
Setting: Floor Three
Format: Starting with prose/paragraph/whatever you want to call it, but I'll match.
Summary: Apparently the Shakespeare collections he brought with him aren't enough -- actually finding the library in this godawful place was a small blessing.
Warnings:

Comments

[pixietea]

England was a person that very much valued quiet in a library. Libraries are places of research, learning, and knowledge, and should be treated with hushed respect. Not to say that he rejected all conversation in libraries, of course, especially if it pertained to literature; but it should be done in a non-invasive manner.

Reading aloud was a case-by-case basis. A read-aloud for children was alright. Whispering to oneself was alright.

Reading what was no less than full-blown smut out loud, even in a mumble? Not alright.

He didn't even pay the voice much attention until it started to laugh, but the second he tuned in to the first sentence, he found the rest impossible to ignore. England's face flushed with color, and he closed Twelfth Night with a prominent snap, rising from his chair to step briskly over to the bookcase and glare around the other side from the end of it.

"Do you mind, miss?" he queried in a low, but still evidently irritated voice.

[pixietea]

England himself had to restrain a less than savory reaction at her apology in French. Though the only reason he suppressed it was because she was actually apologizing.

He cleared his throat, doing his very best to forget exactly what he heard this woman reading. He was a gentleman, after all, even if those words were absolutely vulgar and she was French. "It's-- it's quite alright," was the reply, stumbled lightly upon when it was voiced. "Just...keep it to yourself, I suppose."

Honestly, France's people sometimes...it wasn't even well-written, for heaven's sake.

[pixietea]

England looked to the book with what he hoped was a polite sort of disinterest when she indicated it, until her gratuitous French actually reached the processing center of his brain.

"Amérique" and "Angleterre".

Amérique and Angleterre.

He blanched pretty visibly, considerable brows arching high over widened eyes. "I..." This wasn't possible. Except it really was. Which was why he finally said in a bit of a nervous voice, "Miss, if you don't terribly mind, could I ask your name?"

[pixietea]

Bonnefoy. Bonnefoy. Of course. Just his wonderful luck. He would never speak to anything French ever again if they were all going to be incarnations of the frog in some way.

Trying to at least give her the benefit of the doubt (which was really hard because this was still France after all), he nodded. He attempted to keep his voice cordial, if not a bit shaken. "That's correct, yes."

He reigned in the reflex to chime in 'of course you would be the one reading smut out loud in a library'.

[pixietea]

...well, if there was ever an awkward question to answer. It felt almost akin to being asked by someone's sibling if you hated their brother or sister, except much, much worse.

And god, if that was the best simile he could come up with, he must really be flustered. He bit his lip, face colored slightly in embarrassment, as he crossed his arms and averted his eyes. "Can't stand him," he answered honestly.

"And you?" prompted the kingdom shortly following that. "Do you have such dislike for this other England that the bleeding pilchard does for me?"

[pixietea]

"You aren't the only one," agreed England in a mumble, not sure if he was addressing the other-France or himself.

He chanced a look back at her when she started to speak, stifling his embarrassment in favor of courtesy. "Oh please," he started, with a brand of sarcasm that had a little less bite than he normally utilized when dealing with France. "I'm hardly a gossip."

...though that did make him wonder just a little about his own France. The thought of the frog not detesting him was downright creepy. "...well." He unfolded his arms, clearing his throat again. "As I...suppose you've not yet given me any reason to dislike you..." He set a hand lightly on his stomach and gave a cordial bow from the waist. "You may call me Arthur Kirkland, if you so desire. It's...a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Not that he ever thought he'd say that to anything French outside of diplomatic niceties.

[pixietea]

England straightened from his bow after the introduction was reciprocated, even managing to offer something that kind of resembled a smile.

Until she had to bring up the book, anyways.

He flushed darkly and sputtered without success for a few moments before finally getting out anything coherent. "A-absolutely not! I don't like anything of America's, especially not his...his...works of that nature!"

Not that he actually read R-rated American romances, of course.

[pixietea]

He really needed to learn how to prioritize what he argued. England wondered if he would ever learn to deny the big picture first.

"I've read American 'literature', and have rarely found quality in any of it," he retorted a bit too quickly. "It only makes sense to assume that the...romances would be just as awful."

And then, remembering something, he made a quick amendment: "You proved my theory well enough, reading that trash out loud."