Stands a Chance
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“Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead.”
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Post by Holy Roman Empire on Dec 17, 2013 20:40:29 GMT -6
"A wounded deer leaps highest, I've heard the hunter tell; 'Tis but the ecstasy of death, And then the brake is still." -Emily Dickinson
He was drowning, and it wasn't from the water. The rain that had strangely begun to fall had hardly affected Augustus. He hardly noticed it, even as the lights flickered out and the water started to send a chilling tone across the floor. He didn’t even seem to notice when the water was surrounding him. It didn't matter much anyway. Nothing really did. Nothing, nothing at all. Italy. He had found him, so why did it have to be like that? It couldn't be true- no darkness could put out that shining star’s light, right? Nothing! They were tied together so surely that Augustus had never quite died, right? It couldn't be! It didn't make sense! He stared blankly at the space where he had been, wishing, hoping, knowing it was impossible that what he wanted would be there. Italy. Of all the things to happen, a storm began, and the lights went out, almost as though nature itself knew the abomination that was before it, almost as if Heaven itself knew that this wasn’t supposed to happen and was trying to hide it from existence. Of all the things to happen… Italy. How was he supposed to deal with finding him, then losing him again? He couldn’t! He couldn't, and he couldn't, and he couldn’t! To put it plainly, he didn't notice when it started to rain. He didn't care to. He didn't think he had to, not after everything that had happened. He had lost him, and worse yet, he had lost him. Italy couldn't be dead. He couldn't be! It didn't matter if that made them both ghosts, and it never would, because if Italy was dead then Augustus would have failed, and if he had failed who was he? Who was he- hah! Wasn't that the question to have answered? Who was he, anyway? A dead quasi-empire? His territory still existed, sure, but there was a different man of Germanic lineage that represented it. It wasn't even Prussia anymore! Since when did his white-haired loudmouth of a brother allow someone else to rule over his territory? And Italy was dead. Augustus had spent quite some time in complete hysterics. Italy was dead. Dead! He didn't deserve that, no one did. Dead. Dead! That was so impossible, so hysterically awful, that as soon as he managed to lose Italy it all flew up and crashed down again upon him. Things tended to do that when they hung over his head. He could keep them up there for only but so long before it fell down again upon him. Dead. DEAD. Maybe he wasn’t ignoring the water so much but trying to drown in it. He certainly deserved it for what had happened in his absence. Something in Italy was broken, and it was plainly visible to Augustus, and anything broken in the Italian broke Augustus too. If he hadn’t lost Italy, he would have been following him, desperately trying to do the impossible and become Orpheus, become the guide. That was what he had tried to do, right? That was how he ended up on the second floor when the water receded a little, somewhat wet and very upset, still choking out sobs. How long it had been, he didn't know, but he only had one real option: find what he had lost again. That was all he could do. He had become separated from Italy, and that was all that mattered, finding him again. That seemed to be all that he could do, really- hope to find it. Hope. Hah. It was hysterically caustic, burning through him and leaving the bitter taste of lye in his mouth. Something doesn’t have to be acidic to be caustic at all, after all. It can be its exact opposite. Seeing Italy? That should have been the opposite of acid, but the opposite of acid can be just as strong and just as deadly. He shook himself off, every bitter feeling in his heart dead center on the surface, even as he pushed them back. He would just try his best not to run into anyone before finding Italy and never letting go again. No one could say he wasn't determined, especially when it was all for Italy. Italy. Thus decided, he stood up completely, shaking that bitter, shaking face away into hard determination. (But it hurts.) Then, he wrote in his head a plan. He had learned the hard way once that organization could save lives, and it made everything much easier. To his slight dismay and slight surprise, his plan only had three items- maybe that was a good thing, though: 1. Get up and search. 2. Don't run in to anyone. 3. Find Italy.Simplicity could work, though. He couldn’t lose himself in what he was doing, after all. He had to keep in mind why he was doing it. There was only one name on his mind as he flew through the ceiling to where there was light and he could see, and that name was a bomb in his mind, soon to go off. That name, I imagine, isn't hard to guess. Italy…{{OOC: Sorry that this took so long. I was having issues with this... Actually, this still has issues. I don't like it much. It's really overdue, though, so here you go!}}
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Post by Deleted on Dec 29, 2013 22:11:52 GMT -6
There was no mistaking that Francis heard crying. It might have been a trick played on his ears, to mess with him and to reel him into something - no, surely it was. He heard it, thought he heard it, but that didn't mean it was real. It was a muffled sound, choked and distant. Its voice seemed to be faint, which was likely owed to its unknown distance from him. It was vaguely familiar and sounded as if it belonged to someone young. That dwindled the number of nations in question - but did not eliminate the possibility that it was some ghoul waiting to trap him. One of those ghouls that appeared as a child, which only made its entire being much more haunting.
But something compelled him to seek it out. It was better to arrive and find that it is only a ghost, rather than consider he might have just left behind a real child in despair.
France's mind had been temporarily steered away from what he had just gone through with Indonesia. He continued to bear with him the rapier he used to finish her off; it was held down by his waist with its tip raised at the ready. He was at the foot of the grand second floor stairwell, having descended only when he knew it was safe to. Thankfully the floodwater had made its departure - and good riddance to it. He still had to curse its poor timeliness.
The noise was most certainly coming from up those stairs, on the second floor where he had recently been. It must have been terrible coincidence that he missed the chance to run into someone - but that was no matter. France was no longer as desperate to find company as he had been at the start. Those choked sobs ceased sooner than he expected, and that prompted him to remain still; keep his ground. He listened from where he was at the base of the stairwell, eyebrows pinched in mild confusion. Still he hadn't found any reason not to seek whoever - or whatever - that was.
Francis took in a breath, realizing how chilled the inside air felt after the flood. At least it had less of a dead touch to it, as if the water had cleansed everything somehow. The Frenchman then urged himself to climb those steps, slowly and steadily, aware that he might need to rush if he does happen to find someone.
Black robes were difficult to see in the dark corridor, especially when the color seemed to be... off. Faded. There was a splash of pale tone to that mesh of color, which was compiled together in a small stature. This was someone young, someone whose familiarity was rising beyond what Francis had heard of his voice. Before Francis could clarify, the boy - as an entity? - was rising. Francis was awestruck to see him dissipate through the ceiling, as if it were tangible.
So it was a ghost. A ghost who had taken on the appearance of someone Francis never thought he would see here, here of all places. "W-wait--" he called, late and with an odd twinge in his heart.
He was swift as he moved down the hall and up the next grand stairwell, eyes alert to see if he could spot that figure again up here.
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Stands a Chance
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“Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead.”
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Post by Holy Roman Empire on Jan 17, 2014 7:31:19 GMT -6
"W-wait--" The voice was familiar, thought Augustus, and that alone was enough to make him pause. It was not really the good kind of familiar, though it was certainly a voice he'd not forgotten. He didn't turn around yet, though, intending to continue on. He needed to search. Maybe he would go look at the graveyard? That would tell him something, at least, though what exactly it would tell him had yet to be said. Maybe it would allow him to deny that it had ever happened? Or maybe he'd find something important there, something that could help Italy. Funny, he wouldn't have listened to the rumors of the other ghosts before, but now he found himself with no choice, and that was making him more likely than ever to try strange things.
But that voice behind him- he had recognized it, and it had asked him to stop. Augustus didn't want to deal with the man at the moment, though! He had never had a high opinion of France, though to be fair France probably had a similar opinion of him. They had just never gotten along. He had no idea if they would have in a different life, one where they weren't affected by the politics of the Nation they were (he doubted it, but still...), but they had fought more times than Augustus cared to count. No, he shouldn't stop, he shouldn't turn around. He had to continue looking for him! He couldn't stop for the annoying man, he wouldn't, he didn't have the energy to talk to anyone at the moment. Don't turn around, don't look.
The flood, though, was worrying to Augustus, once he thought of it from a certain perspective. How did France get down here in those waters? Did he see anyone else? He was with Prussia often enough, so maybe he knew where Gilbert was? If Gilbert was okay? Suddenly, it hit Augustus that he had barely thought of him or Roderich or Elizabeta or anyone else in a while. Italy had taken over his thoughts. Now, though, that Gilbert had reappeared in Augustus's head, he suddenly remembered that the rest of his family was here and in danger as well, and that he had no idea where any one of them might be. France- he might know. He might know where his albino brother was. He might also know where anyone else was, really, and that was when Augustus suddenly realized that he had to turn around, if only for a moment, if only to ask about Gilbert.
Slowly, he sighed and turned back towards France, blinking for a moment when he took in just how haggard France looked. The fact that he had allowed himself to look like that spoke loudly of how much hardship he had been through in the past however-long-it-had-been (Augustus wasn't entirely sure, as the sun always seemed to be set on this manor, and his sense of time had been a bit skewed for a long time now). France, even in battle, had always been annoyingly immaculate in appearance. Even now, haggard as he looked, France still managed to appear elegantly so. Augustus probably didn't look very good, either. He would imagine that his eyes were rather red. Unlike him, though, France was also rather wet. Apparently he must have been caught up in the flood earlier.
(France, at least, could feel the water, and Augustus wished slightly that he could as well.)
After a moment, the boy realized that he must be staring, and he looked down for a moment and took a brief breath. He didn't want to deal with the man, he didn't, but if France knew where Gilbert was it would be worth it, right? He composed himself for a moment before looking up and finally speaking, his tone flat, though there was an odd quiver behind it.
"France," he said. He didn't say anything else by way of introduction- he neither needed nor wanted to. They had been enemies long enough to know each other on sight, surely, and also enemies long enough that introductions would be annoying and pointless. "Have you seen my brother?"
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Post by Deleted on Jan 24, 2014 17:18:50 GMT -6
Upon reaching the correct floor, the only view of the figure he had was of his back. But the dark robes and what he wore - to this day - on his head was proof enough that this ghost was exactly who he'd imagined it to be. Imagined didn't quite seem to be the correct word any longer, because the old and no longer existent territory really was there, wasn't he? He wasn't alive, but he was aware and capable enough of responding to the French nation's single request. Since Augustus's back was turned, he couldn't tell what was going on through his mind. It pained him to think of any such thing, but the boy's hesitance was probably owed to his reluctance to turn and speak to Francis.
Holy Roman Empire certainly was one of the last people he expected to find in the Manor. Francis wasn't looking for anyone who had made an appearance long ago in his past - only because it had been a while since he thought of any of them. He preferred keeping thoughts like those at bay unless it was necessary for them to resurface. Here he was far too concerned with looking for those nations he most often saw at meetings, before this entire nightmarish mess occurred to all of them.
As he neared closer to Augustus, he couldn't hold back any of the old images that came to mind. He had never thought highly of the young boy, no, and that certainly explained why he wasn't too enthralled to find him now. Francis was finding himself bewildered, wondering why he had even pursued the other in the first place. Something had not stopped him from continuing on as he was now - perhaps because he knew Holy Roman Empire would have something to say to him. Anything, hopefully. How long had he been here and what did he find out so far?
It was equally unsettling that Augustus had been staring at him since deciding to turn. Francis paused once he reached a close enough distance to the boy that he wouldn't have to raise his voice across the corridor. It was clear to see on the other's expression that something had upset him; it was worn and possessed evidence of him having been as emotionally wrecked by the Manor as everyone else.
The voice was even more chilling to hear up close. He thought he had been gone a long time ago... but something had possessed the boy to end up here as well. Francis did not even supply a response to that greeting. Meeting face-to-face seemed suitable enough. "Have you seen my brother?" he was asked. Thankfully, Gilbert had been one friendly familiar face Francis encountered so far; though he hadn't expected to think of him since that moment.
"I, ah.. I saw 'im briefly in ze smoking parlor," came his short response. It dawned on him that Prussia was not the only person Augustus must have had in mind. There was one good thing that could come out of their encounter - information on Italy. Francis had not seen him once so far, and he was one of many that he had previously been fretting over. He was expectant while eyeing Augustus, even as a wave of envy came crashing down on him. There was someone else looking for the nation whom he considered to be his brother, and he might have even seen him beforehand. Presently, Francis hadn't any idea on the Italian's condition. "But you're not only looking for Gilbert. You're looking for Italy too, aren't you? Please tell me if you 'ave seen 'im..?"
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Stands a Chance
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“Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead.”
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Post by Holy Roman Empire on Jan 27, 2014 5:06:12 GMT -6
Relief danced briefly across the young ghost’s face as Augustus heard the news: Prussia had been seen, alive. That was one good thing, at least, in this stupid Manor that floated in decades and decades of bad things. Not that he had been here that long, or at least, he didn’t think he had; rather, the bad things that had happened were worth decades and decades of good things, no, were worn centuries. It shouldn’t have happened for centuries, the things happening here! None of these countries were actively dying, so none of them should be so weak and broken. Even the man in front of him was weak and broken.
Funny. Augustus may not have liked France, but he’d never thought of him as weak and had always been puzzled by the modern idea of them French being the first to surrender, being the sort that never won wars, because in Augustus’s experience France had been a difficult foe. and yet, here, in this situation, weak suddenly came to mind for the man in front of him. Strength did too, in an odd oxymoron sort of way. The man had been weakened by his ordeal, the man was full of strength in surviving it. For a moment, Augustus felt a glimmer of grudging respect, as well as thankfulness, for this strong weak man had brought him news that he needed.
”Thank you,” he said quietly, before looking away. He had to wonder if that was the only time he could remember saying that to France. Actually, yes, it was- he could think of no other time at the moment that he would have even bothered thinking those words towards him. He wouldn’t normally say thank you to the man who had led to his death, after all, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and in a place such as the Manor, everyone was an ally. If said ally could tell you about the whereabouts of a brother who you had yet to find and had reason to believe could have died, the ally was one that should be kept, no matter what sort of bad blood there was.
Even if there was nothing but bad, bad blood, bad blood and the enormity of dissolution and death.
But then, before he could do anything about it, France continued, and all of the good thoughts, the thoughts that maybe he would come out of this okay, ””But you're not only looking for Gilbert. You're looking for Italy too, aren't you? Please tell me if you 'ave seen ‘im..?”
For a moment, instincts, pure and simple, tried to wrench control of Augustus’s emotions, centuries of distrust telling him to hide, hide, hide the weakness, hide the pure despair that was wrenching its way onto his face because he had, he had seen Italy, but he hadn’t seen him how he had wanted to see him, hadn’t at all. He tried to hide it, but there was something that both he and France probably knew equally: Augustus had never been good at hiding his emotions. Instead of something reigned in, every bit of the despair and terror finally crashed down back onto Augustus's face. A tear, another, he tried not to but he started to cry again. He looked away. France shouldn't see this. He didn't deserve to- no, Augustus couldn't hear his enemy to see this.
What could he say? He knew that it had, perhaps, been France to tell Italy of his death, so how had France done it? It would have been easier for France, though: "I have defeated my enemy," he would have said. He wouldn't have had the weight of emotions upon emotions upon emotions bearing down on him as he did. He wouldn't have had to say "I loved him, and he is-"
He couldn't do it! How was Augustus supposed to say "I saw my one true love's ghost? I lost him again? I am scared, I am desperate, and he cannot be dead! He cannot!" How could he say that without wrenching a sword into his own heart, tearing it in until a gaping black hole was left in the middle, because he couldn't be dead- HE COULDN'T! Not Italia, no, please not Italia... What could he say when he could barely admit it to himself, when he had been gasping for water as one might gasp for air, begging it to just drown him so his body could feel as his heart did? How, how, how...
His tears were still there, and he whispered to himself, "No. I cannot..." He swallowed, and looked up, and pretended his face wasn't a pretty picture of despair and anguish and everything within those meanings. He sucked in a breath. He breathed it out. He didn't feel the air. He told himself he couldn't. He knew he couldn't.
A numbing agent.
So he convinced himself that he could not feel the words slip from once-more tear-stained lips. He convinced himself he could feel nothing as he said his words- quiet, desperate, dangerous, forlorn, broken.
"I- I- I have... I have seen I- Italy..."
His face told a fuller, truer, desolate story.
{{Note: You don't have to reply as ridiculously fast as I just did, so feel no pressure. HREmuse is just really loud of late.}}
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Post by Deleted on Feb 17, 2014 15:55:16 GMT -6
He was thanked, and he hadn't been expecting to hear that. The single word loomed in his mind until he realized why - of course, Prussia must still be close to the boy as well, and he wondered what his fellow friend would have thought of his appearance here - and that must have been relieving to hear. Despite having been the bearer of that good information, he responded to that gratitude with just a vague shrug of his shoulders. Finding Gilbert and Antonio both had been a better highlight of his experience so far, and he nearly regretted having to part from them. But now that the image of Feliciano was in memory as well, the others were pushed aside.
Impatience was settling in like a creature on its haunches, set to pounce on some prey. Francis could feel himself growing restless the further he had to wait, almost wanting to tear away from Augustus just to go and find Italy himself, or save himself from hearing an answer he didn't want to endure. Either way, this would hang on him until his departure from the Manor - if ever that happens. It could just as well be something he'll never even figure out. But while he had potential information standing here in front of him, he would have to force himself to remain there. His breathing held steady, his eyes even more studious as they rested upon Augustus's lowered face. His ghostly aura made him look so much purer, as strange as that was. The composition that Augustus seemed to have been holding all this time withered away once more. Tears were absolutely not a good sign.
A bundle of emotion was struggling to unravel on Francis as well - terrible anticipation, fear, sorrow, disappointment... and then he could have sworn he heard the boy say he can't. Francis's desire to move appeared again. He wanted to grasp the boy's shoulders to make sure he wouldn't leave before getting that answer out, but he was wary about having to touch him - so Francis's hands remained at his sides, fingers just slightly twitching. Come on, yes you can. That voice within Francis's head was impatient as well, but he had to give some consideration for this situation. Augustus always cared for his Italy, yes, yes... if something had happened to Italy, it would hurt him as much as it would hurt Francis. But there was that envy wishing that wasn't so. Italy belonged to him just as well, and he wouldn't allow any secrets to be kept from him about the Italian.
The despair upon Augustus's face told enough, as much as the boy willed it otherwise - but he didn't want to jump to conclusions. That was the more painful option, and this wasn't what he needed now. He was now ignoring that desire to flee, for he now felt rooted to the spot. "Just--"
"I- I- I have... I have seen I- Italy..." Augustus spoke up this time, just before Francis could press him again. He found himself staring at that broken expression once more, his mouth slightly ajar, heart at a quick pace. Now it was his turn to take a breath, finally turning one hand up to pass it over his face. He wanted to be careful, and to show some inkling of care and sympathy, but his temper had been so recently tampered with that it proved more difficult to keep himself calm. "I-is zat it? 'e's alive? Did 'e see you as well?" He tried to dance around the word dead, but already it seemed it was lurking heavily upon them both.
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Post by Holy Roman Empire on Mar 17, 2014 13:34:46 GMT -6
Don't make him face it.
He'd already admitted that he'd seen him, now go away France, because he didn't like you and he doesn't like you and he doesn't want you to be the one who makes him say it out loud. Because even if he's trying to accept it and hoping he can fix it somehow because even if Veneziano is... Well, Augustus didn't think it was possible that Italy was gone, it couldn't be, they weren't in that much trouble and he knew that Italy couldn't have been feeling it, because it is simply something you know will happen, it is simply something that you feel for months before...
Augustus really hated that he was standing in front of France right now, because the man didn't make it easy for him to deny things like death, seeing that the Nation in front of him had directly lead to his own. But that was an idea. Try making himself angry, because he could always get angry at France if he tried hard enough- they'd never liked each other, see? He could make himself angry instead of terrified, and upset, and panicking because he didn't understand how these things were possible and he was scared of the foreboding feeling that had accumulated slowly, a feeling that wasn't just worry for his family, his former territories, Prussia, Austria, Italy, Germany, but the strangest feeling that he himself was somehow at risk- and he shouldn't even worry about that because Italy should be his main focus, because everything that could have happened to Augustus had already happened and shouldn't ever happen to Italy!
He was getting upset again, and that wasn't the point! The point was that he needed to get not-upset again, and try very hard not to actually face it, he couldn't actually face it, don't make him face it!
But France didn't really even give him time. He was impatient. Augustus probably would have done the same thing, honestly, but he wasn't patient at the moment and he wasn't emotionally stable at the moment and as soon as France asked he simply froze and looked down, crying again (he didn't want to cry in front of France, but he couldn't stop and just stop asking, please just stop asking), and both halves of France's question hurt, and he wanted to just be angry but it wasn't working very well... Had Italy seen him as well? Would Augustus had allowed him not to, after all of those years of just chasing and hoping, would he have allowed it? Why did France keep on asking? Shut up, shut up-
He continued to refuse to speak for a moment, because if he was going to collapse in front of someone, let it be Rodreich or Gilbert or Elizabetta or someone who had seen it all before and wouldn't care and who would show some sympathy, not France, not him. He wasn't ready to say anything yet, for when he did everything would fall apart.
Had Italy seen him? Don't ask that question! Is he alive? What do you think?
And there it was, the anger he could work up in front of this man, the anger that was easier to deal with than the despair. At least now he wouldn't be a wreck. At least now he would be able to talk without breaking, though he would probably still break a little. He growled, fists clenched, and then suddenly he spoke.
"You know me, do you not? Would I be this upset if everything was okay? Would I have let him go without seeing him? WOULD I HAVE? WHY DO YOU THINK I AM CRYING, BASTARD? I SAW HIM AND HE ASKED ME WHO I WAS AND ER WUSSTE NICHT, MICH AN ALLE! ER WUSSTE NICHT, ER LIEBT MICH! ER LIEG WEG! ER LIEF WEG UND ICH HABE IHN NICHT FANGEN, UND ER IST TOT! IST DAS, WAS SIE HÖREN WOLTEN? WARUM DENKEN SIE, ICH WEINE?" He hadn't even noticed when his words switched from English to German. He didn't really care. There were heavy tears rolling down his cheeks as his words grew even more and more harsh and shrill until he wasn't even talking anymore. He doubted France understood him, but who knew? Augustus knew French, so perhaps France knew German- though as far as he could tell Ludwig hated France just as much as Augustus did (who could blame him?), so perhaps he had never bothered.
Weird. He felt oddly calm now. It had been a long time before he had just snapped on somebody like that, and perhaps he had needed to say something, bitter anger and horrid desolation crawling out of him for once instead of simply shouting at nothing at all. He was still crying, though- why couldn't he stop crying?
Oh. Yes. That was why, but don't think about that.
He turned his head away, then his back to France. Immediately his instincts punched him, reminding him not to turn his back on his enemy. Except France couldn't actually kill him anymore, could he? After all, he already had.
"Leave," he finally muttered, though Augustus himself refused to move. He'd already blown up at the man once and certainly didn't need to do so again.
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{{Note: I don't actually know German. I made sure it was coherent translated both directions, but I'm certain it's horribly screwed up. I know at least one of you know German, so if you see mistakes, please rescue me?}}
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Post by Deleted on Apr 9, 2014 20:24:36 GMT -6
This was no longer the distant, curious weeping that had lured Francis moments ago. Moments ago when he could have passed it off as an illusion, could have told himself it was a mere false sound just echoing through his head. Could have saved himself from the weight of additional torment on his shoulders, but would he rather have been oblivious? Torment was not knowing whether his loved ones were alive. Misery was knowing that they weren't.
This was raw emotion unfolding before his eyes. Each sob rung out clearer than what he had heard earlier from Augustus, and there wasn't anything he could do now to stop it. Those questions had already been asked, likely without necessity. Rose into the air and hung there, because he couldn't tell whether or not he would ever be answered, and because this topic in its entirety would never leave Augustus and Francis alone either way. Italy is Dead, laughs the Manor in all its blunt insensitivity. Nations will be broken, but everything else will just carry on.
...That's just the thing. I don't want to think it, and neither do you. But one of us is going to have to say it. The Manor has a way of messing with and separating us, you know. Time is ruined and we can't hold ourselves to one person for so long. We'll have no choice but to let go...
Why couldn't he say anything like that out loud? It felt like Francis's mind was trying to scold him for feigning optimistic thoughts. There was nothing good left to think about this, nothing that could lessen the harshness of the situation.
Francis did quiet down again, focusing on those recurring waves of emotion. He watched Augustus steadily, hardly able to hold his own composure while faced with the boy's crying. One by one, everything in the smaller blond seemed to tick. There was no telling what Augustus was thinking, specifically, but it was evident that their tolerance of one another had not changed even for this single moment. A moment that seemed to drag, until inevitably reaching its painful end.
When Augustus's grief boiled over and erupted to anger, it did catch Francis off guard. His breath halted for a few seconds, listening as these words came storming down on him. The questions, those which he understood, struck him hard. Of course not. There wasn't any other reason for Augustus's misery right now. His eyes averted away from the boy and he hardly budged at being called bastard, mulling briefly over what Augustus provided about Feliciano's lack of remembering him - at which point the other began transitioning to an equally (perhaps much more) harsh reign of German words. Francis had little chance of understanding any of them. Even if he did remember any vague German, translation likely would have been lost in Augustus's increasingly unintelligible bellowing. And because of that, they held little value to Francis - but their meaning still seemed to bore into him. Like little needles aimed especially for his heart, and for everything that had led up to this point. And then Augustus stopped.
Silence fell like a sudden blanket draped over them. It wasn't complete silence, but it felt like everything else had stopped with it.
The cracking inside was silent, too.
Francis's gaze was stuck on the floorboards now, aware that their image was beginning to blur. Tears pooled but were not accompanied by an audible sob, and the sole indicators to Francis's crumbling was that his body began to shake and his eyes were brokenly alight with disbelief. He looked up suddenly when Augustus spoke again, blinking more than once to clear the moisture from his vision. He found himself staring at the back of the boy's head this time, expression pinched in what could only look like fearful confusion, desperation or both. Leave.
He didn't have any protest to that. In fact, he hadn't anything to say at all. Everything was going on in his head, now. Memories and emotions swarmed furiously. With little chance to clear them, his head weakly shook, and he turned away. Back to back with a former enemy, and then Francis began to walk forward and away from him. It didn't matter at all where he was headed.
The knot in the Frenchman's throat persisted, and he finally raised a hand to cup it over his mouth. His cries were choked, muffled against his skin. It was getting difficult to see clearly again. Hard to think.
But his mind was already reaching far behind him. This was the Italy whose smile was worth everything in the world, the brother who sat in his lap and shared stories and art and lifted spirits with the mere sweet lilt of his voice. Francis was only one of the plethora of people, like Augustus, who would be distraught over his loss. Memories that would have felt so inviting were now deprived of color and life, a distant happiness drained by the hands of the Manor itself.
Of all the people...?
He still didn't know where he was going, no, but chances were he was going to end up collapsed on the floor somewhere. Nothing was going to matter for a while now. Nothing else.
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Post by Holy Roman Empire on May 7, 2014 6:33:15 GMT -6
Augustus kept on crying for some reason, as though his eyes and his tears refused to actually acknowledge that he wasn't as desperately sad anymore. Then again, perhaps he was just as desperately sad now as he was before. He just had enough anger mixed in that his thoughts weren't trailing in such circles anymore, and he had numbed so much to the pain that he just wasn't noticing it beyond the tears still burning into his cheeks. He could hear France's silent footsteps recede behind him. He had actually left. That was...
The terrible thing was that now Augustus realized he was alone again without anybody nearby. Not that he cared; France was worse than nobody, right? Let him burn, he heard his mind think to himself as a France with an expression Augustus had briefly seen as devastated turned his back to his enemy just as Augustus had and walked away just as Augustus wished he would. He felt more tears as he tried to comprehend why he felt so awful about these things, then. France was his enemy. Augustus didn't care what happened to him, right? But he was alone again now.
Hadn't that been what he'd wanted?
Suddenly, he heard something. It was nearly silent. France had walked a good ways away, but Augustus could swear he heard a muffled choking coming from his direction. It suddenly hit Augustus that Italy- no, he couldn't keep thinking about him, but he had to keep thinking about him- that Italy was just such a wonderful soul that he made two people, both of whom had almost always been enemies, break down in tears for him... He was still crying, and he found himself crying more now. Italy. He had to try to fix this, because Augustus had done something wrong, since Italy had run away. Why had Italy run off like that? What was he doing wrong? Why did Italy have to be-
No, but he had to stop thinking about that, lest he start sobbing again. It was better to remain in the anger at France for bringing it up in front of Augustus. He’d do that, suspend himself out of the grief that threatened to- he was gone, he was gone, what had Augustus done to make him deserve it because nothing he had done made Italy deserve it because Italy was an angel Italy did not deserve any of this Italy was- what had happened and why couldn’t Augustus have stopped it- threatened to eat him from the inside, no, was eating him from the inside. There wouldn’t be stopping it unless he could touch Italy and say sorry and see him smile instead of frown in confusion or anger or, no, that angry face that Italy had aimed at him, that hadn’t been Italy, right?
Augustus realized suddenly that he’d been running, running away from something. He was lost again in the hallway. No one was nearby, no one at all. All was silent except for the tears that continued their track down his face and the quiet sobs that sounded somewhat like a name. All would remain silent for some time yet.
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