#dc comics#batman#dc#bruce wayne#tim drake#dc universe#batfamily#dick grayson#batfam#dc fanart
seen from Uruguay
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seen from Iraq
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Sigh. I used some mouse-fu and made a shapesona. That's supposed to be a beret but I don't know how well that translated lol.
oh I immediately got beret! They're so cute!! The eyes really read in that Gravity Falls style, too.
28 and 6
28. Have you played any South Park games? Which ones?
I’ve played south park rally on an emulator (yes it’s as bad as people say it is) and I’ve played stick of truth on steam. the only reason I haven’t played the fractured but whole is because my dumb computer can’t handle it without horrible slowdown and I currently can’t afford a console version TvT
6. Any characters you feel you can relate to?
weird as it is, I relate to tweek on a pretty Personal level, both as an ADHD sufferer who takes amphetamine stimulant medication (which is similar in chemical structure to the meth this poor kid’s dad is giving him) and as a person who can get excessively paranoid/distressed over the most weird and arbitrary things. my heart really goes out to him
A Blind Man’s Quest [Fanfiction]
Summary: England loses his sight due to a failed spell, but, too proud to ask for help, struggles on his own. France, of course, will have none of that.
Author's note: Okay. This is kinda written for FrUK New Year's gift exchange, for azumeowth on tumblr, whose prompt was France taking care of blind England. In the end, I chose another prompt to fulfil, but because I posted it late, I promised to compensate by fulfilling another of her prompts as well. Actually, this was my original choice. (And yeah, I'm aware that it's been a while since the New Year. Oops.)
A Blind Man's Quest
When England first opens his eyes early in the morning, it's so dark that he concludes it must still be night, and goes back to sleep. When he awakes for the second time to the horrible ringing of his old-fashioned alarm clock and finds everything to be just as dark as earlier – pitch black, even – he sleepily realises that something must be off. He manages to silence his cursed alarm clock (he cursed it himself after it once failed to wake him and he missed an important meeting) with an automatised swing of his arm and then rubs his eyes to clear his vision. It doesn't help – the blackness is still there – so he blinks a couple of times and squints into darkness, only to find that he can't distinguish even the lines of his own hand when he waves it before his face.
Something twists in his gut in an unpleasant foreboding way and he reaches for his mobile phone, which lies obediently on his night stand beside the humiliated alarm clock. Even if the world had gone black, if the sun had disappeared, light should show in the dark, and so he blindly presses the buttons of his phone. Nothing. England feels his hands starting to shake as he randomly continues pressing the buttons – maybe the battery is dead, maybe – but then he apparently manages to take a photo on his phone, because he hears the sound of a shutter that the device makes, so the phone must be functioning – and he can't see it.
The realisation hits his face like a bucketful of cold water, and all sleepiness scattering away. It is not world that has gone dark. It is him who has gone blind.
England has been injured countless times during his long history. In fact, in life of a nation there hardly ever was (and, for same nations, is) a day without wounds, bruises, or, at the very least, minimal colds due to wars, conflicts, or bad economy. England himself has suffered broken bones, horrible infections, burns, and raw wounds ripping him in half, and all that is familiar, all that he knows how to deal with. But this, this blindness, now, is utterly new to him; never before in his whole existence has England lost his ability to see, he has always been able to rely on his eyes even when his body had given in, even when he had to lie helpless and motionless with his solar plexus crushed nearly into his spine, or when he lay two long days on the street with his body burned beyond recognition. But this, not seeing, is frightening on a whole new level he has never experienced before.
England draws in a shuddering breath in an attempt to calm himself. What could have caused this loss of sight? As far as he knows, his country is running just like before, no new troubles with economy, no accidents with his royal family, no attacks on his land, so what is it? He has done nothing out of the ordinary, nothing -
Oh. Oh, fuck.
England covers his face with his hands, rubs his eyes, tears at his hair, rubs his eyes again as he remembers. Of course. He knew, knew that the spell was risky but he had decided to try it nonetheless three days earlier. It had been written in clear, perfectly understandable Old English that the spell might have unwanted side effects... but it never occurred to him that it could affect his sight.
The damn spell didn't even work. So how, pray tell, is it fair that its side effect does?
The surrounding silence suddenly crashes on England and he scrambles into a sitting position in his bed, entirely at loss. “I'm blind,” he states aloud, to hear something, anything. He must do something – but what? What can he even do? He is – blind, for Pete's sake, what is there that he can do? “Don't panic,” he snaps at himself, but quite in vain. No, he absolutely must do something, he will go mad otherwise. He must... he must find whether his blindness will fade away by itself over time, or if he needs to perform magic to rid himself of it. Both options are equally likely. It was probably explained in the spell book, yes, he can almost picture the words in him mind... Oh, why didn't he read that part more carefully? Where did he even leave that book, in the basement or did he take it to his library? He needs to find it, yes, and -
But there is no way that he could find any book in his current state. Hell, even if he did find the right tome, there's absolutely no fucking chance of him being able to read it.
England slowly covers himself with his duvet again.
And promptly throws it aside. Fuck, he is the fucking England, he will not lie in his bed and despair because of a small drawback such as this. He will find a solution. He always has before.
However, his resolution wavers a little when he stands up. He knows his house, he has lived decades in it and could navigate through his rooms with his eyes closed – or so he thought before. But now he realises that it isn't so easy; suddenly, images of all his previous homes return into his mind quite out of the blue and blend with the image of his current house so that he's not sure of anything any more, and it's illogical, because he hasn't thought of his previous homes for ages. And still, now that his eyes betray him, his muscle memory brings up old rooms and corridors and stairways, confusing him.
England shakes his head and takes a step forward, then another, sways, almost falls, then moves again until his fingers brush a wall and he collapses against it in relief. He is breathing heavily and even though he must have taken perhaps six or seven steps at most, he feels as though he has just run a marathon. “Damn you, get a grip of yourself,” he mutters to himself under his breath and tries to stop his mind from flying back in time, to the long, pitch black underground tunnels, where he stumbled in darkness in the very same way as now, waiting for the sound of air alarm to cease and feeling the bombs in his skin, in his bones -
“Enough!” The sound of his own voice startles him enough to pull him out of the memories of which he thought he had got over long ago. Shame of his own weakness produces a flush on his cheeks and he forces himself on the move again. “Bathroom,” he grumbles aloud. “You are fucking England, you conquered half the world, so you can find your way to your own sodding bathroom, for fuck's sake!”
He moves slowly, one hand constantly following the wall, but he finds his bathroom eventually. Encouraged by this small victory, he feels his way downstairs and into the kitchen. Tea. He needs to make some tea. Now, England may have had many houses to confuse him in the state of blindness, but nothing can ever make him forget how to prepare his tea. After some clumsy fumbling on the counter he finds the kettle, fills it with water and places on the stove. He finds a cup and decides to settle for teabags this time.
“See?” he says to himself later, when he sits down at the kitchen table with a hot teacup in his hands. “You can manage.” Yes, he can manage. If he could prepare his tea, he can also prepare something small to eat – he will manage, until the blindness comes undone – and it will come undone, because England refuses to think of the other possibility.
And so he sits at his kitchen table, drinks his tea, and listens how the clock ticks away the time that he can't see.
xXx
The phone rings.
England pointedly ignores it. He knows perfectly well why somebody is calling him, and he also has a pretty good guess of who that somebody might be; there is a world meeting starting, one that England should attend, and the caller is either America, who has noticed that there is one voice less telling him to shut up, and now wants to know why England can skip meetings if he cannot, or then it's France, who wants England at the meeting only for his own personal entertainment, the selfish frog. Anyway, whoever it is phoning him is only a sadistic Nation who wants him to suffer the same dull meeting as the rest of them. This being the case, England sees absolutely no reason to give the caller the satisfaction of him answering. He cannot attend the meeting anyway, not in his current state, so he stubbornly sits on his sofa until the ringing stops.
It is the afternoon of the third day of England's blindness – he is able to keep track of time thanks to the radio – and nothing has changed. His sight has not returned, and in the course of the previous days he had realised that managing by himself is not at all as easy as it first appeared. He hasn't exited his house at all, and all he has been eating is poorly made sandwiches and biscuits, but he's already running out of them, even though he has had barely any appetite. He needs help, the rational part of his mind is perfectly aware of it, but when had rationality prevailed in the world? It is pride that now dictates England's decisions, and he would much rather be hanged by the neck than allow other Nations to see him in his pitiful state. Besides, who could he even ask for help? England knows that there's not a Nation who wouldn't rejoice of his plight and possibly exploit the situation all they can, laugh at him and spread the word, or, at the very least, shrug in indifference and attend their own problems. Even if someone agreed to help, they would probably do so for a possible profit, expecting something in return. England, if anyone, knows how the Nations are.
On a second note, perhaps he should have answered his phone after all; the last thing he needs now is to have his fellow Nations getting suspicious and deciding to check on what he's up to.
As if on a clue, the phone rings again – it's his landline phone, since the battery of his mobile phone died the day before and he couldn't find the charger. England jumps, then scrambles up and feels his way to the phone. Better get it over and done with.
“Hello?” he says into the receiver, making sure to sound as he always does – cool and composed and indifferent.
“Bonjour, Angleterre,” a familiar voice assaults his ears. France, England thinks and reflexively grimaces.
“What do you want?” he asks irritably.
“What do I want?” Somehow France manages to sound haughty and surprised at the same time. “Ah, I see. Years have finally caught up with you, and you are developing dementia. Well, the inevitable must happen sooner or later, I suppose, and judging by your uptight behaviour, old age has been knocking on your door a good while now, so -”
“France,” England growls through his gritted teeth. “What. Do. You. Want?” It is funny, but as soon as he hears his arch enemy's voice, everything else, even the blindness, slips away from his mind, and the familiarity of the irritation is oddly comforting.
“I want to know why you are answering your home phone when you are supposed to be in Brussels, which, as far as I know, is not your home,” France immediately answers, still haughtily, yet with a hint of something else in his voice, too, if England entertains his imagination. “There is a meeting about to begin here, England dear, a meeting at which you are very much expected.”
England snorts. “I have more important matters to attend than your circus in Brussels,” he retorts with all the haughtiness of a pirate that he once was.
“Indeed? So do we all, I must inform you. This should not come to you as news, but the world does not, in fact, rotate around you.”
“Doesn't mean that I should abandon everything to hurry to every meeting we have.”
“May I ask then what is so important that you cannot spare a day for the welfare of the world?” France asks calmly. “Or even keeps you from informing us about your absence?”
“That is not your concern, France,” England snaps and immediately berates himself for not thinking of any plausible excuse beforehand.
“Must I then conclude that you are skipping our meeting in favour of some trivial matter?”
“If that will make you shut up and let me be, yes.”
“Curious,” France states nonchalantly. “Oh, by the way – you might want to charge your mobile phone, as it was quite unresponsive when some of us tried calling to it earlier.”
“Of course. Goodbye.”
“Also,” France continues carelessly, as if England hadn't spoken, “Some of us were mildly concerned on realising that you are not attending us today. Someone – I can't remember who, really, and I told them it was silly anyway – well, someone was wondering if you caught cold again, or something, because it really isn't like you to skip meetings without a notice, such a work maniac as you are.”
“I'm fine,” England snarls in response. “Very kind of that someone, but it isn't their business, either. Thank you, bye.”
“Of course, England, of course, I shall pass this information forward. Adieu, take care, and so on. I'd love to chat with you longer, but unfortunately there is a meeting starting, so I really must cut this pleasure short.”
England slams the receiver down on it's place with all the power he can use without breaking the device (that's what he loves in old landline telephones – one may hang up on someone quite expressively). Except that his aim isn't at its best at the moment, and the receiver lands on the table instead of its rightful place. England snarls a loud curse and, hearing France's curious Angleterre? on the other end of the line, hangs up properly this time. Fuck his blindness. Fuck France. It's disturbingly annoying that the frog would inquire after him only to hear why he's slipping off his duties, not because he'd be genuinely concerned... or anything. Not that England wants him to be, mind you – it is simply a notion. England has always been better off by himself, anyway, and he values peace and his own time more than those endless hours of bickering with France. Besides, England doesn't have time for the frog; even when blind, he has important business to attend to and he will attend it immediately, thank you very much.
After eight or so busy hours of tying little knots in knitting wool, three firm knocks stir England from his tranquillity. He frowns at the door, as the telly informs him that it's about eight o'clock, and no one in their right mind would disturb anyone at that hour. Something whispers to him that he doesn't really want to open the door, and so he lets it be and returns to his important task.
He successfully ignores the first two sets of knocks, by which time he already has a gist of who it might be (which is even more a reason not to let him in), and surprisingly, the knocking stops. The relief, however, is short-lived, as the intruder inserts a key in the lock and turns it with an ominous click. England curses and scrambles up from his sofa, hastily feeling his way to the hall and the front door. With any luck, he'll be just on time to slam the door to that bastard's bearded face...
Alas, as it often happens, England is quite out of luck. By the time he reaches the front door, it has already been shut – leaving the intruder on the wrong side of it, namely, inside. England hears how a paper bag is placed on the floor and a jacket it hung on the hook, and those few seconds are what he has to brace himself for the inevitable and obtain a disinterest expression, directing his eyes to where he senses the intruder to be. The familiar scent of cologne confirms his earlier suspicions, and so England crosses his arms and hopes that his eyes appear normal despite blindness.
There is a stubborn silence, until France finally speaks. “Bonjour Angleterre.”
“Bonjour France,” England imitates in his best French. “Fancy seeing you here. Now if only you turned around and left, it would be even better.”
France deigns to scoff condescendingly and England hears the paper bag ruffling again. “I got you these,” the Frenchman says, “and I want them put to use under my direct supervision.”
England doesn't know what these are, but he has known his arch enemy for a millennium, so he has a pretty good guess; France always uses that extra superior tone when food is concerned. The mere thought is enough to water England's mouth, seeing that he hasn't eaten anything proper since he lost his sight, but he is determined not to give in. He will not let France know and then exploit his sorry state.
“Not so fast,” he snaps, positioning himself to block the hallway. “I recall saying that I'm busy today. Don't you know what time it is? And that aside – how did you even get in?”
“What do you mean how? I used a key.”
England bristles. “I'm not a fool, France, so stop treating me like one.”
“Are you not?” France asks dryly, but complies nonetheless. “I used your spare key, if you must know, and, I might add, you've hidden it in a very obvious place. A flowerbed, England? Really?”
“Really, and now that that's clear, piss off.”
“I will not,” France states calmly. “It's eight o'clock in the evening; whatever 'business' you might have had (which I doubt you even had) can wait until tomorrow. I demand an explanation.”
For a fraction of a second, England is stunned by such insolence. “A what? Not bloody likely. Get out!” It is highly disturbing that he cannot see France, his position, gestures, and, most importantly, face – he doesn't know where to concentrate his eyes, and it makes him nervous not seeing the potential threatening movements from France's side. France, on the contrary, can scrutinise England all he likes, and the thought isn't reassuring.
“Non,” France says. “Not until you explain yourself.”
“What do you want me to explain?” England cries out in frustration, throwing his arms in the air.
“Would you please move aside and let me in?”
“No fucking way, you twit.”
“England.”
“What?”
“Is it really so hard to even look at me?”
England's palms begin sweating. “As a matter of fact -”
“You told me not to treat you like a fool. Then why do you treat me like one? I'm neither blind nor deaf, England, I can easily see that something is amiss and I want to know what it is.”
“Mind your own business, frog,” England hisses, suddenly feeling extremely threatened. He must drive France out, and the sooner the better.
“Look at me,” France says suddenly, and England can practically hear his frown. He feels a pang of panic and swiftly turns around, gesturing towards his kitchen. “Fine, take your damn bag there and do what you want with it,” he retorts and slightly clumsily strides to his living-room. Damn it, damn it, damn it! He is doomed, it is only a matter of time now before France will know, and – and he mustn't know, not see England like this!
France obediently takes his paper bag to kitchen, but shortly he's in England's living-room, plopping down on the sofa beside him and, no doubt, staring at England. “So,” he says, “What's wrong?”
England makes a show of purposefully looking in the opposite direction. “What makes you think something is wrong?” He asks indifferently.
“Other than your suspicious behaviour, the utter chaos in your kitchen, and the fact that judging by your appearance, you haven't had a shower for several days, only the fact that your eyes look like you're high on something,” France explains in that annoying calm tone. “Besides, knowing what a workaholic you are, I really want to know what could be more important than a world meeting. Surely not creating your own Gordian Knot here?”
England doesn't answer, mostly because he can't think of anything to say in his defence, and so he merely snorts in vain hope that France will take the hint and leave. France doesn't.
“England. Please tell me you didn't spend the entire day doing this.”
“I don't know what you are talking about,” England says haughtily.
“It really would be helpful if you told me what's the matter,” France utters, and England hears exasperation in his voice.
“Nothing is the matter.”
“Then why do you keep avoiding looking at me?”
“Is that unusual?” England bites sarcastically.
France grows quiet, and for a blessed moment England thinks that he's giving up and leaving. The moment is short-lived, of course, and suddenly there are cold fingers gripping his chin. The touch is entirely unexpected and England actually flinches from it, but France doesn't let go. Before England can retort anything he turns England's face towards himself. It is too late that England reacts appropriately – by slapping the hand away – and the damage is already done.
“England, are you seriously on something?” France's voice is stern this time and he grabs rather forcefully England's shoulders and gives them a firm shake. “Answer me, you imbecilic fool of a nation! What have you done to yourself? Your eyes -” He abruptly cuts himself off.
England sits still and waits. One of France's hands disappears from his shoulder and he hears the Frenchman inhaling slowly. “You cannot see.”
It is a statement, not a question, and hearing someone else say that sinks England's heart in his chest. “Really?” he asks, biting his teeth together to keep himself in check. “Tell me something I didn't know.”
“Oh, England,” France says softly, and then stays quiet for a good while, almost making England think that he's not there any more, were it not for his characteristic scent and one hand still resting on his shoulder.
“When..?”
“Three days ago.”
“How?”
England hesitates for just a moment before answering. “A side effect of a failed spell,” he finally admits.
To his great surprise France doesn't laugh like he usually does when England talks about magic. Instead, he manages to come up with a question. “Will it pass? Can you, how to say, make it away? With your... magic?”
England crosses his arms across his chest. He will need help in finding the answer to France's question, but everything in him screams against it. And yet, he doesn't have a choice.
“I cannot say,” he mumbles, fighting to keep himself stoic. “It's written in the spell book.”
“Oh,” France says. “Well. Let me- which book?”
xXx
Somehow – England isn't quite sure of how it happens – somehow France ends up staying at his place to 'see that he won't starve himself to death now that his terrible cooking skills are combined with blindness'. With England's instructions, France managed to find the right spell book and mumble aloud the passages concerning the side effect so that England had got the information he needed: his blindness would wear off with time, though whether it would take a week or a month, he would just have to see.
Naturally, France wasn't content with leaving England on his own. First he demanded that England would go to France with him so that he wouldn't have to cope alone, but the possibility was out of the question for England – it was bad enough that he needed help at all, he would not allow anyone make him even more dependable by taking him from his familiar surroundings. On hearing that, France declared that he'd stay at England's then until the Englishman could see again. That was out of the question as well, if asked England, but France got his will through in this. Well, having someone to cook for him isn't such a bad idea for someone who has been living on dry toast for three days, but the problem is that it's... France.
England knows, better than anyone, how France is. Everyone knows. The man will never let an opportunity to molest someone slip through his fingers, and he will take advantage of every situation he can. Especially when it's about England. There may have been times in the past when the two of them have ended up naked together, and, quite incidentally, in the same bed too, with the same intentions, and, frankly, that has happened more than England cares to remember. They have always taken what they need from each other, and that's why there's no reason for England to expect anything else of France now. The Frenchman is helping him only in hopes of easy sex at the very least, perhaps even to collect blackmail material to use against England later. He stays because he sees some profit in it, and England will have none of that.
He makes his position clear immediately on realising that he will not be able to rid himself of his uninvited guest until he can see again. “Do you understand?” he demands firmly. “No groping or otherwise touching inappropriately. No taking pictures for any purposes. No -”
“England,” France cuts him off, “Contrary to popular belief, I do not take advantage of disabled people. Or anyone unwilling, really. I had hoped that it would be clear by now.”
There is an angry note in France's voice and it makes England uncomfortable. “You've taken advantage of me before,” he mutters sullenly.
“Should I remind you that we haven't touched each other for fifty years at least?” France asks dryly. “Or wait, no, you must mean those times when you crawled half-drunk in my bed and I slept in a guest room... in my own house? Or maybe you refer to those parts in our history when we were at war and trying to kill one another? You are right, it's all me.”
England retorts something illegible and deliberately flees the scene.
xXx
Surprisingly, France stays true to his word. Although England expects a surprise attack, it never comes – France behaves in a most gentlemanly manner, never once even attempting groping England, not even hinting at anything lewd. On the first day he cleans the kitchen and prepares dinner, and then he serves it to England without any perverted allusions to food play. He doesn't even try to feed England, but sits across the table instead, eating his own food and making idle conversation as if nothing was amiss, as if they did that every day. However, they do not, and that's why England finds the abnormally normal situation so odd and unsettling.
After dinner France ushers England to take a shower – but, after making sure that the bathroom is as safe as possible, he leaves England there – alone.
“What, not going to insist that we shower together?” England can't help biting, because this considerate France leaves him completely at loss.
France sighs irritably. “And here I thought we already established this, Angleterre,” he says. “Now, I'll close the door, but leave it unlocked just in case.”
England nearly laughs at these words in relief – this is the France he knows, this is familiar. “In case you'd like to take a peek?” he asks sarcastically, because that's what he does best.
“In case of emergency,” France says coldly and leaves. England hears the bathroom door closing and shudders, but then shrugs it off and turns the water on.
The final shock comes after showering, when France prepares England's bedroom for him – and then retreats to the guest room without so much as even once commenting how cold and lonely his bed is or how he needs to sleep beside England to ensure that he'll be fine during the night. No, he simply wishes England good night and walks away.
The clock ticks away the hours, but England lies awake in his bed, duvet drawn to his chin, and tries to comprehend.
xXx
For nations who have been at each other's throats for the greater part of their history, it is startling how easily they fall into coexisting. And not even coexisting, but actually living together. From all that England can gather, France has made himself quite at home and moves about the house as if it was his own, particularly using the kitchen as if he had been cooking there all his life; he prepares breakfast, lunch and dinner, sometimes bakes some sugary treats, and even takes care of the groceries, partly because England still refuses to go out and partly because France doesn't trust such a task for the Englishman.
At first, England feels conscious about the fact that he is not entirely alone in his own house, but then, after a few days, he becomes used to France shuffling about, taking care of his own work and doing his things. It certainly feels odd, even after a few days, but at least now it's not quite so unsettling as it was before – it's actually comforting, feeling another person's presence around, taking care of everything. England still doesn't know why France does it, why he isn't asking for anything in return, but he supposes that France will bring it up later, one way or another.
Except that he doesn't. England does.
It's been five days since France arbitrarily accommodated himself at England's house. Every day at dinner England expects France to finally bring up a way for England to repay the Frenchman's efforts, like assisting him economically, or agreeing to fulfil his dirty fantasies for one night, but no, France asks for none of this. As a matter of fact, he asks for nothing at all, doesn't even drop little hints such as 'oh I wish someone would help me out of this and that'. And he still hasn't harassed England – oh, what is he saying, France hasn't as much as touched him aside of occasional moments where a hand on England's shoulder was necessary to prevent the Englishman from hitting a wall. Not that England misses his touch, heavens no, it's just all plain weird.
And so, on the fifth evening, when they are both in England's living-room, England finally brings the topic up to put himself at ease, since Francis isn't evidently going to do so.
“So,” he begins, taking a businesslike sip from his teacup.
“Hm?” France, occupying another armchair, considerately turns down the volume of the telly.
“I think it's time we discussed what you... expect from this whole deal.”
“Pardon?”
England rolls his eyes. “I'm talking about your profit from the situation. I thought we would be past pretending at this point.”
“My profit?” France repeats coldly.
“Yes, your profit,” England snaps at him, tired of games. “You've been practically pampering me for five sodding days, so tell me, what do you want in return?”
He doesn't have to see France to sense the Frenchman's anger; even with blinded eyes England can picture the disapproval in the thin line of France's lips, the tension in his jaw, and icicles in his eyes.
“England.”
England shifts uncomfortably. “What.”
France doesn't answer, but instead turns up the volume of the television.
“What?” England repeats, now truly asking. France's silence can hardly mean anything good, and it unsettles the Englishman.
“This discussion is ended.”
“It's most certainly not! You can't just avoid every uncomfortable topic!”
“Avoid?” Silence crushes upon England as France quite suddenly switches off the telly and drops the remote control on the coffee table. No, wait... There's no silence after all, no, because England hears France's heavy but controlled breathing, and, surprisingly, it's just as loud as his words would have been. France doesn't continue yet, he is probably fighting to keep his head cool if his tone was anything to judge by, and when he continues, England can practically feel the north wind storm through his home.
“Are you sure that it's me avoiding an uncomfortable topic here, England? Or do you think someone else in this room might be purposefully ignoring something?”
France stands up and leaves England to his cooling tea.
xXx
The following morning finds England drained and tired. He slept through the entire night, but his dreams were full of vague figures and accusations and unacknowledged truths, and so he wakes up as exhausted as when he went to bed on the previous evening. It is France's fault, as is always the case; it's the Frenchman's last words that kept plaguing England's mind the entire night.
The house is silent when England descends the stairs, one step at a time. He moves slowly and carefully, sliding his hand along the handrail for support – not because he's particularly concerned about losing his balance and falling, or losing his way, but because feeling something concrete under his palm comforts him, like an anchor to hold on to in the vast black ocean surrounding him.
Especially since he, in all probability, might encounter France.
In truth, England doesn't look forward to the inevitable meeting with the Frenchman. France's words from the night before are troubling him, and that's because England, despite himself, is not entirely oblivious and well understands the meaning behind them. In spite of having long ago mastered the art of denial, England is not stupid. He understands what France was telling him, and whether or not England is going to cross the Rubicon is up to him alone.
An aroma of fresh coffee greets England when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. He halts and inhales the scent, closing his eyes. England loathes the taste of coffee, but the truth (and a well-guarded secret) is that he if not loves, then at least enjoys the scent of it. Besides, in his head the aroma of coffee associates with languid Sunday mornings, when someone's absent humming fills the air, and time is but a word.
England follows the scent to his kitchen, pauses at the doorway, listens. No one is humming how, absently or otherwise, but he hears the clock ticking rhythmically on the wall, occasional cars passing his house outside, and maybe, if he really tries, he can hear France's light breathing.
France is standing at the kitchen counter, beside the coffee machine (which exists in England's kitchen for the sole purpose of treating his occasional coffee-drinking guests), and drinks coffee. France doesn't say anything to betray his position, though, but he has stayed over often enough for England to know his morning routines, and when there is a sound of him taking a gulp of his drink, England's presumption is confirmed.
He steps forward, placing his right hand on the counter for the sense of direction, and advances slowly, hand sliding on the counter. He doesn't know what he is doing, but he senses the Frenchman's eyes on his very skin, and if not now, whatever it is, then when?
His hand bumps into the Frenchman's on the counter, and he yanks it away from the unexpected contact, but then draws a slow breath and returns it to where it was, beside France's, fingers barely brushing. France doesn't move away, but he doesn't say anything, either. His breath tickles England's cheek.
They stand like that for several long seconds, and then England lays his right palm on top of France's on the counter. France doesn't push him away, and England releases the breath he hasn't realised that he was holding. The silence between them turns peaceful, calming, familiar, and England thinks, Yes, this is good.
It's as though time has stopped moving when they stand like that, motionless, until England senses France lifting the mug in his left hand to his lips for another sip of coffee. It's almost like England could see France, only with his other senses. The idea sticks to him, and so he decides to examine France more closely.
He places his left hand on France's chest, below the shoulder. He feels the muscles there move as France lowers his arm, feels the fabric of his shirt – the Frenchman is fully dressed already. Judging by the fabric, France is wearing one of his casual dress shirts, which he usually likes to wear with the sleeves rolled up just below the elbow. And true: when England slides his right hand up the Frenchman's forearm, his suspicion is confirmed. So, if it's a casual dress shirt, France has probably left the three utmost buttons undone, and he's surely wearing comfortable jeans with it – not too tight, but not slack enough to look baggy. The state of the buttons is quickly checked and confirmed, but England doesn't dare lowering his hand below the belt level. Besides, he's sure about the jeans anyway, he knows France's style well enough to even conclude that the Frenchman isn't planning to go out soon – he would have put his watch on if he was – so he's intending to stay. And not only is he staying, but he's also about to cook something, the fact that his hair is tied to a ponytail at the nape of his neck is a proof of that. Only France doesn't eat breakfast, usually one cup of coffee and a croissant is enough for him, so he's going to cook for -
England's stomach turns upside down at the thought and he swallows. It's all there, it has all been there just before his eyes, all this time. It crashes down on him how only one touch can tell him an entire story about France, his mood, his intentions. How come hasn't he seen it all earlier? How come has he been so blind before, and now, when his eyes have betrayed him, he can finally see it all clear? Sight – how misleading, how selective it can be, only taking note of the things it chooses while deliberately ignoring the smallest, yet the most telling details.
Through all that time France has remained silent, merely sipping his coffee now and then, and letting England feel his chest, his arms and shoulders, his back, his neck. Only when England places his both palms on the Frenchman's face does he finally speak.
“What are you doing?” he asks, and England is fascinated with the movement of his facial muscles. He splays his fingers on France's cheeks, runs them along the bridge of his nose to his eyebrows, forehead, temples. France's eyelashes tickle his palm when he blinks.
“Looking.”
England continues to feel the Frenchman's scalp, his hair. France is warm, radiates warmth, and the strong aroma of his coffee fills England's nose. For the first time in days, nay, in decades or even centuries, he truly, finally sees France in that very moment, as he is, what he is. And he is comfortable, close to him, feeling and saying nothing.
He slides his fingers to France's stubble on the jaw and lower to his neck, when he feels something odd there. He halts, returns to the junction of the jaw and the neck, feels again. There is a barely palpable line on the skin, and just beside it another one. England frowns.
“Scars.”
“Mm.”
How hasn't he noticed them before? And moreover, why are they there? France hasn't participated in vicious conflicts since the First Indochina War, and most scars disappear in a few decades... unless what caused them remains a sore spot for a Nation.
“Why haven't they healed?”
France's throat vibrates beneath England's finders when he speaks. “Some scars take long to heal.”
Something in his tone makes England's insides turn cold. “Who?”
France tilts his head and England senses his lips twist into a small smile, and suddenly he's thankful for not being able to see the Frenchman's eyes. “Why, Angleterre,” France says, “Who else?”
England's hands fall off the Frenchman as if his skin had burned him. “Why are you here?”
“Because I want to be,” France answers matter-of-factly.
England raises his hand back to France's throat, to touch the scars again. “You want to be,” he echoes quietly. “But -”
“England.” France grabs both England's hands into his own, squeezes them gently, and the tenderness in his voice nearly breaks the Englishman. “Stop.”
“But this is – I don't know what this is,” England keeps insisting, unsure of his own point. “This won't work, have you even seen us? Have you seen our history?”
France lifts the Englishman's hands to his lips, and England feels him grin against his knuckles. “Oh, but don't you know, England? Love is blind.”
England yanks one of his hands free and whacks the Frenchman on the head. “Fuck you! I'm serious, you sodding git.”
“So am I. Stop turning to history to find excuses for failures that might never come true. Past is past, England, leave it there. Here is now. We are now.”
“It's not that easy.”
“It could be.”
“I...” England's fingers curl around France's. “I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to accept sincere affection – I don't know what to do with it or where to put it. Nor do I know how to... how to express it myself. I need time to come to terms with it, France. With this all.”
France smiles. “There is always time for beings like us, England.”
“Actually...” England begins, but France stops him with a hand on his mouth. “Shush! No more realistic nonsense. I'd rather you sat down and waited while I make you some breakfast, and afterwards we can occupy our time how we best see fit.”
England finds no objections to that and complies. “France?” he asks.
“Mm?”
“What kind of trousers are you wearing?”
“Trousers? Why?”
“Just asking.”
“I see. Light blue jeans, if you must know. The slack-ish ones.”
England hums in response, his picture of France's attire now complete and confirmed. He was right, wasn't he?
Well then, he muses while an omelette hisses on the pan and France is putting the kettle on, perhaps it might work between us, after all.
X
Telephone Round 1 Order!
Thank you to everyone who signed up for this! I dunno how it’ll work out, but it’ll be an interesting game to try! If you need a reminder of the instructions, please look HERE, tho I re-explained it below.
Here is the order and the day you’ll need to receive your prompt and fulfill your action. If you cannot work with that day, PLEASE let me know and I’ll swap things around.
The key is to finish your action ASAP (which is why only a simple doodle or a few sentences are required), because the next person is depending on your contribution as their prompt. All contributions should be submitted to prumanoweek so they can send it to the next person. no posting your piece before the end of the game!
ORDER
1) Sunday Aug 16: fujoshi-channohoneydays receives a simple descriptive sentence to doodle 2)Monday Aug 17: reiugazaki receives the picture from #1 and writes a description of it. 3) Tuesday Aug 18: allinavicecream doodles based on sentence from #2 4) Wed Aug 19: flowercrownnorge receives the doodle from #3 to describe 5) Thurs Aug 20: one-cup-a-day receives the sentences from #4 to doodle 6) Friday Aug 21: azumeowth receives the doodle from #5 to describe 7) Saturday Aug 22: prumanoweek posts all the doodles and sentences (with appropriate sources) in order all at once and we see how the original sentence changed over the week!
Azumeowth - writer, if any spots are available. If not, then I'll just eagerly await what people come up with. :3c
Added!! Thank you so much!! :3
The Curious Incident of The Missing Persian [Fanfiction]
Summary: One day, Arthur sees a Persian cat on the street. The next day, he sees a poster of a missing Persian cat. AU
Author's note: Wow, hello. Finally posting, hopelessly late. I'm sorry. So sorry. This is written for FrUK New Year's gift exchange, for azumeowth on tumblr, whose prompt was a human AU where Arthur finds Francis' lost Persian cat. I finished writing this at 3:30 am, so forgive me, I haven't proofread this yet. Anyway, I hope you like it!
The Curious Incident of The Missing Persian
“Sorry,” Arthur says when he bumps into somebody, and moves on without looking up. The somebody shrugs and goes his own way. The incident is instantly forgotten.
xXx
It is early autumn, and even sunny a day for once, when Arthur first encounters the cat. He's strolling down the street and doesn't particularly look around, because he's late and his boss is going to kill him, and he has too many articles to edit to enjoy the leisure of death. And so it happens that Arthur Kirkland hurries along the one-way driveway and minds solely his own business, namely, the watch on his wrist. But it also happens that having eyes only for too hasty clock hands may have some rather predictable consequences, which is the reason why the world suddenly flips and Arthur finds himself sprawled face-first on the dirty pavement. He blinks, baffled, instinctively looking around to ensure that no one saw his embarrassing dive, and that is when he notices the cat.
There are no people around to have witnessed Arthur's disgraceful fall, but the white, long-furred cat looks at the Englishman with enough scorn in its sapphire eyes for ten passers-by. It sits elegantly near a trash bin and glares at Arthur so condescendingly that the Englishman can't help blushing and scrambles up on his feet. He is still late, but now his suit is dirty and he's laughed at by a bloody cat, too. An exceptionally good day, it is. Arthur shoots a glare at the stupid cat and hurries to work.
His boss merely laughs at him when he finally arrives in his office, sweaty and dirty and angry.
xXx
The second time when Arthur sees the cat is on the following day around the noon, when he's on his way to a grocery store and in no hurry at all. The cat sits on the same spot as it sat the day before, and its surprisingly white fur catches Arthur's attention as he passes. He stops and gives a glare to the blasted animal. “I remember you,” he threatens.
The cat makes no answer.
“You are not a stray cat,” Arthur then tells it, and receives another haughty look in response.
“You are annoying. Why don't you have a collar?”
The cat turns him its back and lies down, ignoring him completely.
“Fine,” Arthur snorts and continues his way. He isn't much of a cat expert, but even he recognises a Persian cat when he sees one, and those cats are usually pretty expensive; they don't simply wander around on the streets like that. This cat is probably lost, but he didn't glimpse a collar on its neck, so there's no way he could help it anyway.
It is at the grocery store that he sees the cat staring at him again. Not in flesh, though – he catches a poster announcing of a lost pet on the noticeboard when he's packing his purchases. There's no mistake of it being the same animal on the poster and on the street: the same blue eyes (don't cats usually have yellow eyes or something?), the same strikingly white fur, the same haughty scowl. Below the photo is the contact information: Francis Bonnefoy, phone number, email. Poor old sod, probably freaking out all around the city over his lost cat.
Arthur glances around, and as no one is paying him any attention, snatches the poster from the wall and stuffs it in his shopping bag along with the groceries. He needs to be sure.
When Arthur returns, the cat is still sleeping where he last saw it. However, its ears twitch as soon as the Englishman stops within a couple of metres from it, and it slowly opens its eyes to glare at him accusingly. Arthur counters with a glare of his own and fishes the poster out of his bag.
“Is this you?” he asks aloud, then quickly looks around to be sure that no one sees him talking to a bloody cat.
The cat begins licking its paws.
“A two-year-old female Persian,” Arthur reads from the poster. “Could be you.” He fixes his eyes on the disinterested cat. “Are you female?”
The cat doesn't answer him, doesn't even look at him. Arthur glares at it for a good minute before sets his bag on the ground and slowly, carefully approaches the feline. It finally deigns to look at him, and, a little alarmed, hops up, yet doesn't run away. It gives a soft meow, eyeing Arthur warily, and suddenly the Englishman feels as though he were about to harass an innocent woman. The feeling is illogical and stupid, but makes him embarrassed anyway.
“Look,” he explains to the cat, giving an awkward cough. “We only need to do this once, then we can forget it ever happened, okay? I just need to make sure that it indeed is you on the poster.”
Swiftly, he reaches out and grabs the cat with both hands around its stomach. It's a mistake, which he understands as the cat lashes out with its paws, sinking its nails into the bare skin of his hands. Arthur yelps and barely manages to press the now furious feline against his chest to prevent it from escaping.
“Ow, you little devil, this is for your own good!” He succeeds at flipping the cat on its back and quickly checking its gender before it – or she indeed – manages to wiggle upright again on his lap, meowing and scratching his hands raw.
“Bloody hell, you!” Arthur snarls at her but doesn't let go. He captures her paws in his fists, and after some cursing, angry meowing, and failed attempts to pick up his shopping bag while maintaining a good grip on the struggling feline, the Englishman finally manages to set for the journey home. All the way people are giving him odd glances, probably considering him an animal abuser, so when by some miracle Arthur manages to get to his flat without losing neither the cat, nor his groceries, he is relieved beyond all boundaries. As soon as he kicks the front door shut behind himself he half drops the cat on the floor.
“Did you really have to make it so difficult?” he grumbles at her and slips his shoes off.
The feline gives him a sulky face, but, contrary to what Arthur believed, calms down immediately on getting her paws on the floor. At first she just stands there, sniffing the air and looking around, but then she walks further into the apartment, proceeding to calmly inspect her new surroundings.
Arthur still stands in his hall with his arms crossed, a little bit at loss. What should he do now? Should he feed the cat? She probably hasn't eaten for quite a while. Wait, oh God, what if she needs to answer the nature's call? Arthur doesn't have anything even vaguely resembling a cat toilet, but if that beast soils his apartment, he's kicking her out with two legs!
To prevent any accidents, Arthur finds a bucket, takes it to his bathroom and fetches the cat from his sofa – she found her place quickly, didn't she – and places her in the bucket. “This is the place to do it should you feel the need,” the Englishman tells her sternly. The cat gives him a calm look and graciously hops out of the bucket, resuming her previous place on the sofa. Arthur shakes his head and begins unpacking the groceries.
It isn't long until he feels something pushing against his legs and hears a rather loud meow; the rustling of the shopping bag probably alerted the hunger in the poor animal. Arthur looks down on her as she continues to meow and begins purring, all the while rubbing herself against his legs. He has never had pets, unless the little hedgehog that he once brought home as a kid counts, and frankly, he doesn't quite know what to do with them. It's not that he doesn't like cats, he actually does like them, it's just that this is somebody else's cat and he was unprepared for her arrival. It's like suddenly hearing that you've become a parent... Okay, maybe not to that extent, but unexpected nonetheless.
“Milk?” he offers to the impatient feline, because cats don't drink tea.
xXx
Arthur tries ringing to Francis Bonnefoy, several times even, but either the man's phone is broken or its battery is dead, so Arthur sends him an email instead. Madeleine, however – that is the cat's name, Arthur found it on the poster with closer observation – doesn't seem to mind in the least. In fact, after eating the cat food that Arthur specifically went to buy for her, she hopped on Arthur's sofa, padded on it back and forth to find the best spot, and finally curled into a ball. The sight is adorable enough to soften Arthur's cynical heart even despite all the white cat hairs that Madeleine shed all over his dark sofa, and he sits beside her, carefully petting her neck. The sound of soft purring fills the air, and it is then that Arthur understands why people even keep cats. There is something so serene, so soothing about caressing a soft heap of fur while listening to the calming purring and feeling its vibration with his fingertips.
xXx
Bonnefoy returns his call later that day, around the time when Arthur usually puts the kettle on and prepares himself a light snack. That is usually, but not today, because today Arthur is busy getting to know the reverse side of foster-parenting cats.
“Bonjour, this is Francis Bonnefoy calling,” a French voice blabbers on the other side of the line. “I just read your email, I understand that you found my dear Madeleine, yes?”
“Bonnefoy,” Arthur says into his phone, to make sure he got it right.
“That's right, Francis Bonnefoy, yes. How is Madeleine?”
“Your little Madevil just shit under my sofa,” Arthur informs him.
He is met with silence, during which he keeps glaring at the mentioned devil now peacefully sleeping on his sofa again, as if she hadn't just done something utterly and thoroughly disgusting.
“Well,” Bonnefoy then says. “I certainly hope you didn't feed her anything odd.”
“What?”
“May I have your address? I would very much like to take my little angel home as soon as possible.” Is Arthur only imagining, or is that man trying to stifle a chuckle on the other side of the line?
“Come and get your beast away from here,” Arthur growls into the phone and gives his address without further ado; the sooner Bonnefoy will be there, the sooner the safety of his flat is guaranteed again.
It appears that Bonnefoy lives in a different neighbourhood than Arthur, because his arrival at the Englishman's flat takes long enough for Arthur to have plenty of time to finish cleaning his floor. That is the Frenchman's point, Arthur is sure, but he isn't about to wait till the evening with shit on his floor, not even for the pleasure of forcing a Frenchman to clean it. (Because he would have forced him to clean it. Oh, he would have.) For some reason, Madeleine got distressed when Arthur moved the sofa and began cleansing the tainted area, and hid herself somewhere (for unbearable and deserved shame, hopefully).
Thus, when the doorbell rings, there's only Arthur to greet the comer.
“Arthur Kirkland, I presume?” the blond-haired man behind the door greets him with a dashing smile.
Arthur scowls at him. “Francis Bonnefoy.”
Apparently that's simply hilarious, because the Frenchman bursts into laughter. The sound of it is sincere and airy, and were Arthur less displeased with the whole situation, perhaps he would have found himself a little smiling, too. But as it happens, he isn't less displeased, and so he crosses his arms and patiently waits for this Bonnefoy to collect himself.
Eventually, the man does calm down. “I apologise for any inconvenience my Madeleine may have caused you,” he says and directs another bright smile at Arthur, who tries to dodge it with a massive frown but fails and steps aside instead to let the Frenchman in.
“Oh, she was no bother at all. Any time.”
“Glad to hear that.” Bonnefoy grins at the mild sarcasm. “She does love to visit her English friends. Speaking of her, where is she?”
“Put her in the fridge while googled recipes,” Arthur says with a straight face. He is contented to catch the flash of doubt in the Frenchman's eyes before the man realises that he's joking.
“Right.” Bonnefoy casts a pointed glance around his flat and then looks directly at Arthur, as if waiting for something. It strikes the Englishman that the owner's eyes are very similar in colour to those of the pet's, and he thinks that perhaps he should say something decent to the man, like that his cat is well, or something, but then he notices how those blue eyes shift from his eyes a little higher, to his thick eyebrows, and changes his mind. Instead, he turns around to locate the cat and kick her out along with her owner.
The task, however, proves to be harder than expected. The feline is not on the sofa, nor under it, she isn't under the table, under the bed or even under the cover of the bed. At this point, Francis is beginning to cast weird glances at the Englishman, and while that's amusing in a way, Arthur is really beginning to wonder where the blasted cat has stuffed itself... and what evils she might be doing there unseen.
“Are you sure you checked behind your desk?” Francis asks him on double-checking behind sofa pillows.
“Positive,” Arthur responds and can't help adding, “My, how do you treat your cat if she's this eager to hide just on hearing your voice on the phone?”
Francis pouts at him. “No, your eyebrows must have scared her away. Do they bite?”
Arthur bristles. “No, but sometimes they eat stupid frogs alive.”
Francis responds to the insult with mirthful laughter and Arthur catches himself smiling, too. The Frenchman's eyes fix on his, and then they shift away – lower, to his mouth. “Oh, look at you, you are capable of smiling after all!” He winks. “Looks good on you.”
Arthur resists an urge to stick his tongue out – he's a grown man and a perfect gentleman besides, he will not degrade himself to such level. But for some reason he finds his mind void of any witty responses, and so he settles for a hasty suggestion. “Let's check under the sofa again.”
He walks past Francis to the sofa, but at the same time the Frenchman straightens from the floor where he was kneeling, and Arthur accidentally bumps into him.
“Sorry,” he mumbles quickly and begins dragging the sofa from the corner to have better access if the cat really is there. From the corner of his eyes, however, he notices Francis frowning at him a little. “What?”
The Frenchman shrugs and shakes his head. “Oh, nothing. Just had a funny déjà vu, is all. Need any help with that?”
Madeleine, to be a nuisance that she is, is not behind the sofa, and frustration begins to catch up with both men; they've turned the whole flat, small as it is, upside down at least thrice, and the cat is nowhere to be found.
“She's doing this on purpose,” Arthur finally grumbles and plops down on the sofa. Francis sits beside him, visibly beginning to worry. “That might be,” he admits. “But I seriously wonder. You don't happen to have any holes in your walls?”
“Of course not!”
“Simply asking...”
Arthur glances at the clock. “Er, I don't know about you, but I wouldn't mind eating something soon. Would you like a cup of tea or something?”
“Coffee would be lovely.”
Arthur wrinkles his nose. “Sorry, I've got no coffee.”
Francis stares at him, then chuckles. “An Englishman through and through, aren't you? Actually, might I use your bathroom?”
“Of course. The door in the hall.”
Francis goes and Arthur puts the kettle on, already beginning to think what to prepare, when the Frenchman calls for him.
“Arthur, come here for a second!”
Suspiciously Arthur obeys, and finds Bonnefoy standing in the middle of the floor. “Look at that,” he says and points. Arthur follows his finger with his gaze stops in his tracks.
It's Madeleine, naturally. The cat is curled up, all while fur, in the bucket that Arthur had meant to serve as her temporary toilet.
“Oh,” he says. Then, “Typical.” He had naturally looked in the bathroom as well, but the rims of the bucket hid the white fluffy heap from his gaze, and it hadn't even occurred to him that the cat might prefer a bloody bucket to any soft surface he has in his apartment. “Well. Mystery solved.”
Francis smiles fondly at his cat and crouches beside the bucket to caress her gently. “Thank you for taking care of her,” he says softly as Madeleine meows quietly at the familiar touch. “You have no idea how worried I was.”
There is something so adorable about the picture of a man and his cat before Arthur's eyes that, again, he doesn't even try to fumble for words. “Er, it was no trouble.”
Francis chuckles and looks at him playfully. “Sure, so you wouldn't mind cleaning up after Madeleine when I bring her over to say hello?”
Arthur grimaces, and Francis' hearty laughter echoes between his walls.
The Frenchman straightens up and takes his cat in his arms. She doesn't struggle, Arthur notes with a tinge of annoyance. “Why couldn't she be like that when I was brining her here?” he complains and rubs at the red, still fresh scratches on his hands. Francis notices and winces sympathetically. “Sorry about that. Madeleine doesn't usually like strangers. In fact, I'm surprised you managed to even catch her.”
“She wasn't running away,” Arthur states, shrugging.
“Right.” Francis pets the feline thoughtfully for a moment, and just when Arthur thinks it's the perfect time for him to withdraw and leave the two alone (or something), the Frenchman raises his eyes and fixes them right on Arthur's. “You know, I'd like to... I mean, you did mention earlier being hungry, and I wouldn't mind some food right now, either, and besides I'd like to pay you back somehow for your troubles.” He furrows his brows a bit and then utters a small laughter. “What I'm trying to say here is that would you perhaps like to go have dinner with me? I came by car, we could drop Madeleine home and then go to a place of your choice. What say you?”
Arthur's stomach grumbles and he crosses his arms over it in an attempt to hide the sound behind his own limbs. Both Francis and Madeleine are looking at him expectantly, each with their set of blue eyes, and Francis' laughter echoes in his mind. “Well,” he says, hoping that the growling of his belly doesn't drown his voice, “I'd. Like that.”
Francis beams at him, and Arthur offers a small smile in return.
Madeleine will never enter Arthur's flat again, but Francis, on the other hand, becomes an exceedingly frequent guest there in times to be. And if one day Arthur finds himself living with a certain cat (and a Frenchman) in his household, well, that's a secret and he doesn't know it yet.
X
It's Wyoming. I don't know why it's a perfect rectangle. I don't know if anyone knows why.
I'm actually surprised most states in America uses straight lines. Like, over here, it looks like a two years old with crayons!
azumeowth replied to your post: wolfsban respondeu a sua postagem “wai...
I don’t think there’s really an official way. It just depends on how the person wants to say it.
Makes sense =D
Thanks =D
In Portuguese I guess it is a matter of syllabic construction xD
