[Fic: Hetalia] Flower of Romance
Title: Flower of Romance
Word Count: ~1000
Characters: England, France
Rating: PG
Summary: All of the shopkeeper's clients appreciated his efforts except for one man. [AU]
Notes: For what_the_fruk's challenge cycle 06: Rose and Apron. Unbeta-ed so, edits please?
The flower shop was a tiny establishment built with clay red bricks, nestled between an upscale shoes and accessory boutique, and a chain clothing store headquartered in Spain. Most people who walked along the block missed the shop as if it were not there at all, so overshadowed by the spotlight and glamour of its neighbor stores. The few people who noticed the quaint shop often ventured inside and found the young twenty-something year old owner, sitting at the wooden counter, a clothed elbow resting on the chipped green paint, and a mop of messy blond hair propped by a hand calloused from gardening.
There was hardly any room for someone to walk up to the counter, but those who did were often greeted by sparkling green eyes and a friendly grin from the man sporting the hunter green apron. The owner would always find the perfect bouquet for any occasion and carefully arrange it for the man whose wife just birthed a beautiful daughter named Tanya, for the woman who was congratulating her friend for becoming a professional pianist, to the man visiting a cemetery for holocaust victims, even the family that special ordered it once a year for the lunar new year. The man was an artisan, and he was proud of his work. All his clients appreciated his efforts and thought his arrangements were breathtaking; all except for one man.
The first time he made a bouquet of roses for the man with the wavy blond hair and jewel blue eyes, the client gave him a condescending smile as he placed a 50 note on the counter.
"This is too plain; make it more vibrant next time."
He handed the man his change and nodded politely. "Of course. Thank you for your patronage."
The customer grinned in a manner of self assurance before he nodded at the shopkeeper and left. Once left alone, the man behind the counter grimaced because he hated people critiquing him, but he still made note of the request in case the man ever patronized his shop again.
*
The next time he made a bouquet of roses for that same man, he made sure to nestle the dozen in baby's breath, sprigs of fern before he wrapped the lot with fuchsia tissue paper and a baby pink bow. He presented the bouquet to the man who raised an eyebrow at the fluffy bouquet.
"Garish," he said before he paid giving the man a look. "Do you not understand the meaning of subtlety?"
The twenty-something year old owner glared, "You said it was too plain last time."
"Then I suppose you ought to find a middle ground, mon ami."
The infuriating man disappeared with a twinkle of the bell hanging on the door and the owner nearly tore off his apron before he threw it uselessly at the door.
"Fucking French Bastard," he swore at the garden gnome by the door, as if the statue offended him. After a moment he scowled and lifted the counter to retrieve his apron by the door. He untangled the strap that had fallen on the gnome and scoffed. "Don't give me that look."
*
The next time the owner made a bouquet of roses for the Frenchman, he left out most of the fern and used baby’s breath to pepper the red bundle with white. He wrapped it in coffee brown paper and tied a black ribbon on it all.
The client took one look and asked, "Did you need to throw out the baby’s breath? I can hardly see the roses."
The owner chucked the bouquet at the customer and snapped, "All right, I've had it with you! If you don't like it, you can buy your bleedin' roses elsewhere because I don't need a fuckin' wanker of a customer critiquing my work every single time."
The Frenchman clicked his tongue and placed his money on the counter before he turned around and left. The owner picked up the bills on the counter and threw it harmlessly at the closed door where it fell next to the tomato red hat wearing garden gnome.
The man scowled at the statue and brushed his fingers through his dirty blond hair in frustration. "I know I shouldn't have done that, but that man is a right prat."
The gnome stared back, unblinking with its smirk hidden by its beard. Sighing, the man ducked under the counter and picked up the money on the floor.
*
The next time the wavy haired man walked into the shop, the shopkeeper just returned to the shop front from lunch. The shopkeeper blinked blankly at the man as he slipped the neck of his green apron over his head and tied it in the back.
He bit the inside of his lip and frowned, "I don't believe you placed an order for today."
"No, I did not place an order for today," the man agreed, shooting the owner a placating smile that made it difficult to be upset. "I stopped by today to apologise; I never intended to insult you."
The owner sighed and ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier. "I should not have lost my temper."
The man across the counter gave him a smarmy grin as he said, "I accept your apology."
"I never apologised," the shopkeeper said, to which the Frenchman shrugged. The Frenchman looked around at the cramped displays and stopped to inspect the vase of lilies. After a minute, the shopkeeper said, "You know, I've never liked roses."
The Frenchman looked at him and raised an eyebrow in question.
"They're too obviously beautiful," the man went on to explain, tucking his hands into the front pocket of his apron. "When people look at roses, they know it's lovely. But the fact is, they're boring. I've always liked lilies better."
"Roses are the flowers of romance."
"But the flower of romance isn't a rose."
The Frenchman was quiet for a moment as he let the words sink. After a minute he said, "I never asked for your name."
"I'm Arthur."
"Francis."
Word Count: ~1000
Characters: England, France
Rating: PG
Summary: All of the shopkeeper's clients appreciated his efforts except for one man. [AU]
Notes: For what_the_fruk's challenge cycle 06: Rose and Apron. Unbeta-ed so, edits please?
The flower shop was a tiny establishment built with clay red bricks, nestled between an upscale shoes and accessory boutique, and a chain clothing store headquartered in Spain. Most people who walked along the block missed the shop as if it were not there at all, so overshadowed by the spotlight and glamour of its neighbor stores. The few people who noticed the quaint shop often ventured inside and found the young twenty-something year old owner, sitting at the wooden counter, a clothed elbow resting on the chipped green paint, and a mop of messy blond hair propped by a hand calloused from gardening.
There was hardly any room for someone to walk up to the counter, but those who did were often greeted by sparkling green eyes and a friendly grin from the man sporting the hunter green apron. The owner would always find the perfect bouquet for any occasion and carefully arrange it for the man whose wife just birthed a beautiful daughter named Tanya, for the woman who was congratulating her friend for becoming a professional pianist, to the man visiting a cemetery for holocaust victims, even the family that special ordered it once a year for the lunar new year. The man was an artisan, and he was proud of his work. All his clients appreciated his efforts and thought his arrangements were breathtaking; all except for one man.
The first time he made a bouquet of roses for the man with the wavy blond hair and jewel blue eyes, the client gave him a condescending smile as he placed a 50 note on the counter.
"This is too plain; make it more vibrant next time."
He handed the man his change and nodded politely. "Of course. Thank you for your patronage."
The customer grinned in a manner of self assurance before he nodded at the shopkeeper and left. Once left alone, the man behind the counter grimaced because he hated people critiquing him, but he still made note of the request in case the man ever patronized his shop again.
*
The next time he made a bouquet of roses for that same man, he made sure to nestle the dozen in baby's breath, sprigs of fern before he wrapped the lot with fuchsia tissue paper and a baby pink bow. He presented the bouquet to the man who raised an eyebrow at the fluffy bouquet.
"Garish," he said before he paid giving the man a look. "Do you not understand the meaning of subtlety?"
The twenty-something year old owner glared, "You said it was too plain last time."
"Then I suppose you ought to find a middle ground, mon ami."
The infuriating man disappeared with a twinkle of the bell hanging on the door and the owner nearly tore off his apron before he threw it uselessly at the door.
"Fucking French Bastard," he swore at the garden gnome by the door, as if the statue offended him. After a moment he scowled and lifted the counter to retrieve his apron by the door. He untangled the strap that had fallen on the gnome and scoffed. "Don't give me that look."
*
The next time the owner made a bouquet of roses for the Frenchman, he left out most of the fern and used baby’s breath to pepper the red bundle with white. He wrapped it in coffee brown paper and tied a black ribbon on it all.
The client took one look and asked, "Did you need to throw out the baby’s breath? I can hardly see the roses."
The owner chucked the bouquet at the customer and snapped, "All right, I've had it with you! If you don't like it, you can buy your bleedin' roses elsewhere because I don't need a fuckin' wanker of a customer critiquing my work every single time."
The Frenchman clicked his tongue and placed his money on the counter before he turned around and left. The owner picked up the bills on the counter and threw it harmlessly at the closed door where it fell next to the tomato red hat wearing garden gnome.
The man scowled at the statue and brushed his fingers through his dirty blond hair in frustration. "I know I shouldn't have done that, but that man is a right prat."
The gnome stared back, unblinking with its smirk hidden by its beard. Sighing, the man ducked under the counter and picked up the money on the floor.
*
The next time the wavy haired man walked into the shop, the shopkeeper just returned to the shop front from lunch. The shopkeeper blinked blankly at the man as he slipped the neck of his green apron over his head and tied it in the back.
He bit the inside of his lip and frowned, "I don't believe you placed an order for today."
"No, I did not place an order for today," the man agreed, shooting the owner a placating smile that made it difficult to be upset. "I stopped by today to apologise; I never intended to insult you."
The owner sighed and ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier. "I should not have lost my temper."
The man across the counter gave him a smarmy grin as he said, "I accept your apology."
"I never apologised," the shopkeeper said, to which the Frenchman shrugged. The Frenchman looked around at the cramped displays and stopped to inspect the vase of lilies. After a minute, the shopkeeper said, "You know, I've never liked roses."
The Frenchman looked at him and raised an eyebrow in question.
"They're too obviously beautiful," the man went on to explain, tucking his hands into the front pocket of his apron. "When people look at roses, they know it's lovely. But the fact is, they're boring. I've always liked lilies better."
"Roses are the flowers of romance."
"But the flower of romance isn't a rose."
The Frenchman was quiet for a moment as he let the words sink. After a minute he said, "I never asked for your name."
"I'm Arthur."
"Francis."