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He didn’t want to meet him.
He even barred the front entrance for good measure. Not that it did him any good, considering their penchant for squirming into his life incessantly. It’s not enough to keep them out, but at least, his citizens left him alone.
Living alone is a new prospect, a beginning to his life that he never saw coming. He can remember Augustine’s voice, how strong it seemed, bent on neutrality until the dreaded question rises before it breaks. The worst part is that Augustine isn’t even close, hadn’t even got to see the line of fighting that broke out near the border, but the oldest city just knows. That’s not even factoring in Pensacola and her frantic hands, pressing in, questions flying, words ineffective in the face of total apathy.
He is a lot of things, but the one thing he is not is emotionless.
If things went bad, everyone will know.
He can hide a lot of things, but he doesn’t think that this can just be swept under the floorboards. That he can simply ignore what happened, as if a smile would fix open wounds. So he doesn’t even try, having sunk into a rut that he sees no end from. He still sees it, under his eyelids in the dead of night. The result laid out in front of him, crimson stained and guiled eyes.
Even if it has been years.
There’s a knock on the door. Polite, sharp. Three times, a sort of hidden tune underneath.
He does not stir. Content to lounge in the depths of comfort, he ignores whoever wastes their time trying to get his attention, limbs practically lead underneath still sheets. He shuts his eyes, sinking back into the darkness, and tries to not drown in the silence. It’s more difficult than one might think; the very thoughts themselves are shackles against his body, dragging and dragging.
It’s even more difficult when he hears someone calling his name.
“Florida?” It’s a strong voice, gruff, but considering. The concern is audible, even if it’s muffled between wood and plaster and how many rooms distancing him from the door. “Are you there?”
(Weird. He does not know how to be ‘Florida’. There’s an insistence that this isn’t his name deep down. But it is now.)
Unfortunately, Florida already knows who it belongs to. Georgia.
It’s a bit relieving, if he’s honest, because it means that he doesn’t have to deal with him just yet. Because that’s what Georgia’s here for, isn’t it? On his behalf? Why else would a neighbour of his just show up uninvited or without any prior announcement? Much less someone like him.
Well, whatever it is, it’s just not good.
So, obviously, the answer is just to stay silent. Like this.
“I know you’re in there. I can still sense you inside, y’know.”
Okay, damn. Perhaps not. But he still doesn’t want to get up and Georgia has to know that, right? Everyone talks, news spreads even when he wishes ill on those who speak. Maybe if he keeps ignoring Georgia would he take pity and leave.
There’s a crash at the door.
Maybe not.
He barely has enough time or energy to lift his head when his bedroom door swings open to reveal the cutting figure of Georgia stepping through the threshold. Now, Georgia was probably more of the kinder ones he could potentially deal with right now, but it doesn’t excuse the fact that Florida just does not want to deal with the future, nor its consequences. There isn’t much that would make him change his mind about that.
“Now, now, up and at ‘em.” Georgia putters around the area first, idly cleaning up the scattered papers and bleeding quill pens. Fine, let him dilly-dally. He stands by Florida’s side sooner or later, very much feeling the heavy and expectant stare boring into his body. Florida ignores it. It doesn’t take long before the sheets are ripped from his body, leaving Florida into the elements without reprieve.
“Why?” Florida hisses through the chill, glaring up at the man who had apparently decided he’d slept long enough. Georgia doesn’t even flinch, and does a fantastic job in not giving in and rolling his eyes. Prick.
“You’re a part of our territory now,” Georgia states, not unkindly, though Florida is about two seconds away from strangling him for such a reminder. “We need a representative to help us know the on-goings around here. And it means everything that might and could happen.”
“Can’t you get anyone else?” Florida flops down on the bed, too tired to lift his head to meet Georgia’s mildly stern face anymore. The ceiling has been a better friend to him anyway. “I barely qualify. Not to mention, I’m not in the mood.” His voice bitters on this tongue, squeezing his shut in hopes the memory doesn’t flood his mind once more. It doesn’t work. Nothing does.
Georgia, for his part, does not react. At least, Florida thinks he doesn’t.
There’s a long sigh that comes afterwards. “I know it’s… rough, right now.” A pause lingers here, and perhaps it’s because Georgia actually winces from the understatement. “But we really do need the territory’s representative to come forward to be our liaison.”
“...Didn’t you appoint the governor to the area?” Florida asks, opening his eyes to a half-lidded stare at the middle-distance. He ignores the fact that he’s indulging Georgia and his reasons for being here, which only invites Georgia to stay longer to get the answers they want.
If he could just know why he’s being bothered, then maybe he can just shirk the responsibilities. Because he’s just a territory. There’s no reason to be here.
They ripped any decision from his nail-torn hands anyway.
In his periphery, he finds Georgia leaning back on his heels, arms crossing. It seems he’s getting serious. “We did. It’s one of the first things we set up when we acquired you. But we can’t rely only on him, he doesn’t have the same feel for our lands like we do. Even you know this.”
He does, and it’s the worst. Even if the people, the natives and the immigrants, could reliably report on the events that unfurl across these lands—there is no chance that they can find every little detail before it disappears. Even if his cities are more reliable, that they can cross-reference and trade information, they don’t have the ability to coalesce where they want to. They just can’t know everything in this state.
They need that from him. He doesn’t want to do this.
“I’d rather you not bother me,” Florida finally admits. Because despite all these reasons, Florida doesn’t want to find the logic and agree to help—because nothing ever good came from dealing with any other people other than himself. “Leave me alone.”
With that Florida turns over and tries to melt into nothingness. It doesn’t work—he’s used to disappointments. He doesn’t expect Georgia to be happy, nobody ever is dealing with him, but maybe there will be reprieve with his sort of luck.
It doesn’t happen.
Florida yelps as he falls off the edge of the bed, having been promptly thrown off by rough hands. He skitters to his feet, rolling with the impact, a half-snarl rising to his throat.
Georgia remains unimpressed. Even as he crosses his arms. Supposedly. Florida sees the way his eyes glint even through his impassive façade, the weird shape of conviction that makes him falter ever-so-slightly. Still, if Georgia really thinks he can just drag him to Washington D.C., he has another thing coming.
“I know you’re hurting,” Georgia says, almost casual, “I know things aren’t the same anymore—”
“It never will be,” Florida mutters.
Georgia continues, but whether he heard Florida or not is unknown, “but you need to find a way forward. Everyone needs to rebuild. Your people have already done it, but will you?”
Florida hides his teeth with a decisive snap, barely holding himself back from doing something he could regret. Georgia really knows how to punch where the wound still bleeds. But he’s right. He knows that his cities have recovered, both physically and mentally, and has in fact left him alone as per his wishes. Augustine watches with tired eyes, and Pensacola passes him updated notes like it’s nothing.
After so many years, maybe it is.
He still sees it, though. That’s enough for hatred to steep.
Florida breathes in and out, lowering his shoulders, and relaxing his fingers so they no longer dig into his palm. He looks back from where his vision drifts, to Georgia and his understanding expression.
Too open.
As soon as Georgia steps towards him, Florida bolts for the door.
Descending the stairs in a flurry, he runs through all the rooms that have too much space and not enough memory, he slams the door open and rushes to the forest. His magic is weak nowadays, frayed ends still not dealt with, the ringing connection too frail to connect back into the land. If he could snap his existence to the distant shores, to where even Spain had once housed him, then maybe…
His thoughts rattle through his skull when he gets unceremoniously slammed into the ground.
Instinct raises hellfire; Florida doesn’t hesitate to scratch and bite, not minding the yelp of pain above his head, not when there’s an arm wrapped around his throat that digs with every second. He wiggles, flailing almost, making it so it’s not worth capturing him, to be discarded with scoff and an eyeroll. He’s done it before, he’ll do it again. Biting, scratching, kicking, knocking his head backwards until his skull smashes against hard bone.
Instead, Georgia, with the strength of a state, doesn’t let go. He feels his body get hauled up, the arm an unrelenting iron shackle around his throat, a new hand that threads into his hair and pulls, hair pulled at the scalp until there’s nothing left to do but obey.
He doesn’t. He doesn’t even register the words fluttering in the air, muffled to his ears, that it almost feels like he’s being waterboarded instead of being dragged along to someone else’s strings. Definite scolding, of loathsome promises of punishment.
Whatever. He’s heard it all before.
Something shifts in the air. It cuts through the meaningless words, wraps itself around them like a feather's touch. Florida feels the pull of it—magic pinpointed beyond the horizon, to be pulled north and away from his lands.
He doesn’t even get to say mierda before he feels the warp of teleportation.
His hands slam on a table. Dark wood; mahogany. He’s gasping for air, lungs shuddering from exertion. His arms barely keep himself upright but he refuses to let them shake. When he looks up, he finds too many eyes and not enough shadow. Faces—States—that bore into his soul, and finds nothing strange places he has never seen before. Northern forests, winter's frostbite, the jagged rock that cross the mountain face. Everything and nothing he can recognise.
He shoves himself back, even when his feet feel like lead and his head spins from faint nausea.
Then, he finds him.
A well-dressed man stands at the head of the table, directly opposite from where he first landed. Obsidian eyes, the same piercing shade that makes even plants recoil. Scattered papers line the space around him, sunlight filtering through the curtains of the grand window. He could feel it, the utter strangeness of no longer being in your lands anymore, no beaches, no swamplands, now pinned by the very man that holds a country’s administrations together.
Florida’s in the lion’s den. Courtesy of the presence behind him—where Georgia stands. Even he is quiet.
The man ahead dares to speak, cutting through the heavy silence in one simple stroke.
Congress.
“Finally. You’re here.”