Floriography: Language of Flowers 4.3b/?
anonymous
May 31 2009, 15:38:18 UTC
The second situation is the one he was in right now. His birthday party had ended. Everyone had gone home (all of them moving as if the devil himself was on their heels, so eager they were to leave his house, Canada noted with bitterness) - except France, who had gone to the hospital (and no, he will not elaborate why; some things are better left unexplained and untouched - like little sisters with gun-totting older brothers).
Now he was alone with America. A very pissed America.
Those cowardly fucks! Canada silently rages at the other, absent, nations as he watches his twin brother lounge around his sofa, unnervingly quiet and subdued as he flips through the channels. His stomach is heavy with dread, but he tamps down the urge to grab his hockey stick that he always kept at the nearby closet just in case.
He could tell America to leave, can’t he? After all, this was his house. But America in his current mood might not take that very well and-
“So, what did old man England get you for your birthday?”
Canada blinks, and stares at America, who was looking at him with a calm expression. “Well?” he prodded. Before Canada could answer, America cuts in, “I bet he got you something really stupid and old-fashioned.”
“He gave me flowers,” Canada says, jarred into speech by the note of derision in America’s voice. He glances at the bouquet on the table, a mix of white larkspur and lilies with white and dark pink tea roses. “He always does. And he gave me an afghan in my flag’s design and a new sweater, scarf and sheets and then we watched Midsummer’s.” England likes to give Canada (and people he really, really liked - not that he would ever admit he liked them) presents he made himself. One time, he gave Canada a bookshelf he made himself (complete with books written by English authors, some of them pretty old and rare).
“Oh. I see.” Canada twitches a little when he hears that little mocking tone again.
“He used to give you gifts like that, too, you know,” Canada points out. “He stopped giving you them after you insulted his skills for the umpteenth time.”
“He didn’t stop giving me stuff like that,” America throws back. “He gave me that pen holder a few months ago, which my boss is using and likes a lot, by the way.”
“And you gave him DVDs in exchange.” Canada sighs. “Honestly, America, I’m surprised England didn’t strangle you when you gave his boss that. But I guess he’s used to you being like that. You rarely appreciate England’s gifts. You don’t even wear the clothes he gives you.”
Now he was alone with America. A very pissed America.
Those cowardly fucks! Canada silently rages at the other, absent, nations as he watches his twin brother lounge around his sofa, unnervingly quiet and subdued as he flips through the channels. His stomach is heavy with dread, but he tamps down the urge to grab his hockey stick that he always kept at the nearby closet just in case.
He could tell America to leave, can’t he? After all, this was his house. But America in his current mood might not take that very well and-
“So, what did old man England get you for your birthday?”
Canada blinks, and stares at America, who was looking at him with a calm expression. “Well?” he prodded. Before Canada could answer, America cuts in, “I bet he got you something really stupid and old-fashioned.”
“He gave me flowers,” Canada says, jarred into speech by the note of derision in America’s voice. He glances at the bouquet on the table, a mix of white larkspur and lilies with white and dark pink tea roses. “He always does. And he gave me an afghan in my flag’s design and a new sweater, scarf and sheets and then we watched Midsummer’s.” England likes to give Canada (and people he really, really liked - not that he would ever admit he liked them) presents he made himself. One time, he gave Canada a bookshelf he made himself (complete with books written by English authors, some of them pretty old and rare).
“Oh. I see.” Canada twitches a little when he hears that little mocking tone again.
“He used to give you gifts like that, too, you know,” Canada points out. “He stopped giving you them after you insulted his skills for the umpteenth time.”
“He didn’t stop giving me stuff like that,” America throws back. “He gave me that pen holder a few months ago, which my boss is using and likes a lot, by the way.”
“And you gave him DVDs in exchange.” Canada sighs. “Honestly, America, I’m surprised England didn’t strangle you when you gave his boss that. But I guess he’s used to you being like that. You rarely appreciate England’s gifts. You don’t even wear the clothes he gives you.”
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