I don't. [Blunt.] I don't think they would let that happen, but if I were the one to be sent home, both of us would know. Do you think the "you" back home has forgotten, now that you're here? Every memory that France has of this place, is it suddenly gone? Do you, here, not carry the memory of being home -- you just now described my unwillingness to share wine with you. Here you didn't forget home, why would you have forgotten Lunatia, there? What it seems to be is two states of consciousness, but my lack of awareness back home proves that this one is secondary. Both can exist simultaneously, but one cannot be aware of both unless this one ceases to... update itself? [There's a fascinated wonder in his eyes as he rambles, he's had so many citizens over time that concerned themselves with the workings of the mind that this is too good. Brain candy. Objectively, at least. Subjectively? ... He takes a step back mentally, realizing how hellbent he is on the thought that... this, this could exist back home. Is Austria just... a factor in France's fever dream?
He zones out for a moment, before impulsively blurting the first thing that comes to mind that France wasn't on Lunatia for.] Tell me. Did you know I started making costumes for that merfolk friend of mine? That I've started to learn new lace techniques for them? [... The fear of a "yes" answer is evident on his face, and completely incongruous to the comment, and he realizes this as soon as it's out of his mouth.] I..I only ask to prove things have happened here that are not part of your consciousness, that I'm... real.
[Both eyebrows go up, higher than a skeptical mother, at the denial of loathing. But the word regal... it's bittersweet to hear the word applied to him, perhaps even more so to hear it from France. He's reminded of the earlier days, when both of them had their royalty, that brief alliance when he thought maybe there could be something, before France...
...the possibility that this is all part of France's mind is -- dismissed, when France comments on Austria's uptight manner. His head shakes into a frown.] Crude!! Why must you always be so crude!? [Really. They're having a nice evening.
Austria listens as the explanation is given to him, watches as the lantern is presented, finally nodding in agreement.] ...Very odd. It reminds me of those flowers from a few months ago, but no one ever told me what the colors meant [...And the reality is setting in that this is very dangerous territory. His fondness for the mind resurfaces.] You didn't read any of the others, did you? Don't tell me what they are. Otherwise the possibility for a placebo effect is too great.
[He reaches out for it with a bitter scowl, heart racing as he places his hands on it before France can have the chance to look at the color key again.
Red.
...He tries to remember what colors the flowers all changed when he was speaking with Germany. There were so many colors -- more of a mood indicator than an indication of any bond. He couldn't even begin to remember which color went with which fleeting thought, or what any of those thoughts even were to begin with. But his mind is running a mile a minute, hypotheticals making his emotions fluctuate rapidly, and the red in the lantern hasn't left. So this isn't about mood.]
...Well if violet is hatred, then red's got to be some sort of anger, too, doesn't it? Red being a component in violet, and all. Residual anger from past years, or anger that you left, no doubt.
[There's still fear in his eyes, but it's a different sort now. He's not sure he wants an answer anymore. This is too... final. If it's not some sort of gimmick. Which it probably is.]
no subject
He zones out for a moment, before impulsively blurting the first thing that comes to mind that France wasn't on Lunatia for.] Tell me. Did you know I started making costumes for that merfolk friend of mine? That I've started to learn new lace techniques for them? [... The fear of a "yes" answer is evident on his face, and completely incongruous to the comment, and he realizes this as soon as it's out of his mouth.] I..I only ask to prove things have happened here that are not part of your consciousness, that I'm... real.
[Both eyebrows go up, higher than a skeptical mother, at the denial of loathing. But the word regal... it's bittersweet to hear the word applied to him, perhaps even more so to hear it from France. He's reminded of the earlier days, when both of them had their royalty, that brief alliance when he thought maybe there could be something, before France...
...the possibility that this is all part of France's mind is -- dismissed, when France comments on Austria's uptight manner. His head shakes into a frown.] Crude!! Why must you always be so crude!? [Really. They're having a nice evening.
Austria listens as the explanation is given to him, watches as the lantern is presented, finally nodding in agreement.] ...Very odd. It reminds me of those flowers from a few months ago, but no one ever told me what the colors meant [...And the reality is setting in that this is very dangerous territory. His fondness for the mind resurfaces.] You didn't read any of the others, did you? Don't tell me what they are. Otherwise the possibility for a placebo effect is too great.
[He reaches out for it with a bitter scowl, heart racing as he places his hands on it before France can have the chance to look at the color key again.
Red.
...He tries to remember what colors the flowers all changed when he was speaking with Germany. There were so many colors -- more of a mood indicator than an indication of any bond. He couldn't even begin to remember which color went with which fleeting thought, or what any of those thoughts even were to begin with. But his mind is running a mile a minute, hypotheticals making his emotions fluctuate rapidly, and the red in the lantern hasn't left. So this isn't about mood.]
...Well if violet is hatred, then red's got to be some sort of anger, too, doesn't it? Red being a component in violet, and all. Residual anger from past years, or anger that you left, no doubt.
[There's still fear in his eyes, but it's a different sort now. He's not sure he wants an answer anymore. This is too... final. If it's not some sort of gimmick. Which it probably is.]