Part One:
A/N: A very happy birthday to LifeInABox66! I'm sincerely hoping this fic is adequate It's largely based on a long, long discussion we've had/ are having about France, England, and how they seem to reach the same ends through entirely opposing means, irrespective of their actual intentions: in this case, getting attention. Comedy, with a dash of poignancy: in which France learns that he knows everything and nothing, all at once...
Part two shall be up extremely soon :D
In which it begins:
It is possible to be so unutterably irritating that one is able to drive those who know them into fits of rage simply by existing.
France decides this in a fit of childish petulance inspired by the fact that England has greeted him not with a scoff or a dirty look, or even a shout, but with a curt nod, and a brief glance in his direction.
In front of everyone, at a world meeting.
It's positively embarrassing to be treated so respectfully, with such cool lack of animosity. To be ignored, in a broader sense of the term. England must, of course, be doing it on purpose. Having a tantrum of some description. Of course, a tantrum was so like England, an unutterably childish behaviour. So very unlike France himself, albeit mostly due to the fact that France has more grace, originality, and flair than to act in such a manner (when he throws a fit, he does so with style). And, so, being the picture of loveliness, maturity and calm that France is, he initially opts to ignore England straight back.
Mostly.
With the exception of a few minor slip-ups, France thinks he pulls off the mimicry of England quite well. He is sure to be as bright, gorgeous and vivacious as usual, if not moreso, and barely spares a glance in England's direction. England is sure to be melting in horror at the thought of being so thoroughly ignored by the great France, and France will still pay him no mind. For he is devilishly handsome, charmingly brilliant, and he has never needed the attention of some pathetic little English-
"France," says Germany from the head of the conference table; and his voice does that weird quivering thing that happens a moment or two before Germany starts shrieking so loudly the walls bleed, "If you are so intent on capturing Mr. England's attention- perhaps you would like to call his name, rather than sprawl yourself across the table in his direction?"
"Huh?" Oh...propriety.
It gnaws at him- not that he would ever say as much- for the rest of the day that England doesn't react to their exchange. He is shifting through his papers instead.
In which the haunted bathroom offers sound(less) advice... and Spain is decidedly unhelpful.
He is sure to behave as though he is completely unaffected by England's behaviour; with the exception of a brief (hour long) stint sobbing into Spain's chest after the meeting, who offers France a stream of words that would contain little immediately apparent usefulness to anyone, ever, ("People give me the silent treatment all the time, man. I just let it blow over- I don't really know why... Come to think of it, I don't really know why people stop doing it either, it's like they just kind of forget that I still don't know what's going on, and start screaming and screaming about compromising his Catholicism and tomatoes and -ohmygod!") before he is distracted by a passing squirrel.
Unwilling to liken his acquaintance with England to the spectacle of unsurpassed obliviousness and one-sided romantic rage that was Spain's relationship with Romano, France opts to seek advice from a source closer to, and less liable to giggle delightedly upon the death of (Spain was not one to hold a grudge, unless he was holding a grudge of course) the problem at hand.
The entire morning's events stun him because he knows England. There's no two ways about the fact: he understands precisely what makes his (nemesis and) neighbour tick. Always has, always shall. But this; this is new. And he knows he won't rest properly until he finds some answers. As for the location of the answers, he's not entirely sure why he's started here; but at least he's started somewhere...
And perhaps this somewhere is precisely the right place to begin. For America, as America is wont to do, has a habit of causing England to behave in all manners of strange ways. England is never more fascinating than when America has caused him to do something completely unexpected.
Not that France would ever say as much on this topic, either.
"Here, this place looks deserted enough," says America, pulling the door shut behind him, "So, dude, how can the hero help today?" and France was sure he hears the sparkle from America's glasses, the glint of his teeth, and feels exasperation rising within him like a great wave. Perhaps this is a bad idea.
He also notes that America is sure to press himself firmly against the opposite wall and eye all of the available exits. The bathroom of America's hotel room is spacious enough, but with France, one is never willing to take risks in an enclosed area. France finds he has to reign in the leer that automatically crosses his features.
"U-um, excuse me..."
"He is ignoring me." France begins, eyeing America as though he holds all the answers (poorly articulated answers, but answers nonetheless).
"England? Oh, yeah. He does that."
"Not to me." France insists vehemently.
"Guys. I'm... I'm kind of..."
"This never happens. This never happens because I'm... me. I am far too vivacious to go unnoticed!"
"If I knew what that word meant, I'd probably agree." Says America, producing a doughnut from his jacket pocket and wolfing it down in the most undignified manner possible. France wrinkles his nose in disgust, "Dude, must suck to be you right now."
"Naked."
America is decidedly unhelpful, France thinks, and tries to ignore the crumbs now littering the floor. "I just don't understand it." he clarifies, "Never have I been treated in such a fashion! And, as his, er, most and least favourite former charge, I presumed, however incorrectly, you have some understanding of what goes on in that charming little head of his."
"Yeah! Of course I know him! Just like I know how to fix this, because I'm a total hero like that!" America mumbles through the last of his doughnut.
"Do go on?" France queries. It is likely because his mind is otherwise occupied, but there is just something about this hero act that sucks the energy out of those around America today. He can almost feel a void in the atmosphere where he stands, roughly America's size.
America glances from one side of the bathroom to the other, appearing to search for something. "Um," he says at length.
"I'm...I'm still naked."
"Yes?" says France.
"OH. Oh. Heh, I don't know." America responds sheepishly, and quite unaware of France's swift, but thankfully brief temptation to claw his eyes out. His scoff of irritation echoes clearly in the bathroom. Funny. He hadn't noticed an echo before.
"You know him better than anyone else here. Ask him yourself." Says the echo, causing pair to leap a good foot into the air.
"MOTHER OF GOD!" bellows America, as France emits a near-operatic howl of shock.
They both recoil in terror as the voice reverberates around the bathroom again, "Oh, and next time you barge into someone's hotel room. Knock." Says the voice, before a towel begins to float in mid-air.
"Where is that coming from?" America squeals. France has calmed enough to notice a third figure in the room, wrapping a towel around its waist, and offers Canada a bewildered wave in greeting, clutching his chest in shock.
White as a ghost, America wheels around to face his brother. His demeanour immediately brightening, "Jeez, man. I thought you were a ghost or something!"
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
"I'm too awesome for your face to handle is what's wrong..."
"Never mind that, mon cher" France interrupts with a broad grin at his former charge, "You made a suggestion?"
France feels a pang of guilt when Canada appears completely taken aback by the fact that someone had made direct eye contact with him, but it quickly abates. France just cannot seem to keep his eyes focused. "I was just saying that-"
"I mean, "says France suddenly, "I know nearly everything about him, I should be able to figure this out!"
"Well, that's what I was just saying, that-"
"That's it!" America slams a fist into his palm, "Why don't you just go ask him what's wrong?"
There is a prolonged sigh, "I would love; just once," says Canada, "for you people to just... not."
But he remains unheard. France has already left the room, deep in thought.
"Hey," says America at length, "A floating towel!"
In which the eyebrows have it.
The key problem with asking England about his feelings upfront is that it is an extremely awful idea. So awful, in fact, that it should never be attempted lest one wishes to find oneself the victim of sudden, decidedly irrational violence. Foolhardy and stubborn though he can be at times, France is also bright; and yet to accomplish such levels of stupidity.
And so, the question remains of what move France ought to make next. Uttering the seemingly simple "What's wrong?" to England is potentially disastrous if not immediately succeeded by the phrase 'with your face' and an Olympic-qualifying sprint in the opposite direction. More to the point, capturing England's attention for long enough to utter a question would prove difficult, what with the man being insufferably determined to ignore him. Perhaps, then, observation will be key to his understanding of England's behaviour.
It's quite an unusual feeling, he decides the next day while stepping into the conference room, one he isn't used to, having to work to engage someone. Most often, France is the temperamental one whose bosses must explain to their associates that no, it's not really their fault France has ignored them, or left mid-conversation, but do try to be a little more captivating next time, he likes that; all philosophy and eschewing practicality. (I want to hear about ideas, not numbers, France usually says in response, if you want to work for an unutterably stodgy Nation who is willing to listen to your drivel, be my guest. He lives across the Channel). And this observation ought to prove quite the learning curve, he decides.
If only he could catch England doing anything remotely interesting.
France has never considered himself to be a particularly obsessive personality (although in retrospect, the only time he ever confessed this perception of himself to an audience, said audience had briefly glanced from France himself, to England, and then positively guffawed) but he freely admits that perhaps he is taking this situation a little too seriously when he realises he has perched behind a pot plant with a pair of binoculars.
He checks his watch. England has glanced at his nails six times in the last hour, and attempted to injure America seven. Blushed furiously twelve, and hummed under his breath twice. France takes especial note of the humming. Partially out of the ordinary, he thinks, likely partaken in to fill the silences in whence England would normally be exchanging hurled insults, from the elaborate and witty (France), to the delightfully dissectible (England) and all those in between. France wouldn't dare to profess that he misses these exchanges already, but perhaps he does dramatically tear up a little when England begins to murmur the words to Phantom of the Opera under his breath.
Disregarding his emotional distress, he attempts an insult experimentally:
"Hey, Angleterre. Surely my gloriousness has not rendered you completely dumbstruck. It is so very uncharacteristic of you to remain this agreeable for so long."
No response, not even the slightest shift in body language. To be entirely fair with himself, France had not expected it to work immediately. He tests the waters again...
"Or remotely tolerable at all, come to think of it..." he adds nonchalantly, scrunching a piece of paper from his newly-acquired notebook, (he is not stalking, he is completing a thorough observation) and tosses it in England's direction.
It is precisely when the piece of paper lands in a still-unresponsive England's hair that there is an ominous shift in the temperature of the room. France couldn't help the smile that flitted across his face. Oh, he was just too easy to rile up. Opposite England, France sees Germany place a firm hand on Italy's arm, stilling his efforts to hastily produce a white flag.
He reaches for a second piece, pauses to revel in the tension in the air (of which America, babbling away obliviously, has noticed none), then says rather jovially, "Come, now, petit! You're not scared of me, are you?" and tosses another, smaller piece of paper in the air. Much to his delight, this piece sails through the space between them and rests, lightly, gracefully, and to the abject horror of absolutely everybody, on England's eyebrow.
The man is practically quivering in the effort to remain silent. One more push ought to do it.
"I don't blame the piece of paper for being attracted, you know. Your eyebrows are, ah, especially captivating today." He says, Cheshire grin, he rises from his (brilliant, if by 'brilliant' one means 'obvious') hiding place to lay an arm on the other's shoulder.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, France, cut it out!" England finally, finally, blurts out. Italy, as though loaded onto a spring, screams and flees from the room whilst Germany sighs, and rests his head on the table (presumably catching a nap before his efforts in disaster prevention were required).
"Ah, Angleterre, how I have missed you! Come, this is the part when you-"
"No."
"What?"
Here, something rather strange occurs. England pauses, and seems to collect himself, "I'm tired of fighting with y-," England says, before he is quite suddenly cut off...