[Fanfiction] Floriography: The Language of Flowers (4.5/?; America × England)

Jul 11, 2010 22:17


I was gonna make this longer, but I got hit by a bus.

Title: Floriography: The Language of Flowers (4.5/?)
Disclaimer: Hetalia is not my creation.
Pairing: America × England
Rating: PG-13: Because England likes to swear, and so does Tony.
Summary: Last time, Canada and America planned to go to visit the injured England. But only Canada arrived! So where the hell is America?

1: Dogwood; 2: Honeysuckle; 3. Roses and Irises; 4. The Truest Language (1); (2); Interlude: Anniversary; (3); (4)

4. The Truest Language (4.5)

For the longest time, after his independence, England always sends America a bunch of buttercups for his ‘birthday’. America received them with barely contained eagerness, seeing it as a sign of England’s softening heart. It wasn’t until much, much later that he found out what those flowers meant. The next time England sent him buttercups, America threw them into the face of the man delivering them. England didn’t send him flowers for a long, long time after that.

-----

July 2, early afternoon, Washington, DC

“Are you going to play the fucking game with me?”

Lying in his bed, America continued to stare at his ceiling, not bothering to glance at Tony when he replied, “No. You go ahead, Tony. Happy birthday, man. Enjoy the game.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” This time America lifted his head to stare at Tony. His alien friend stood by his door, holding the disc for the game in one hand, “Are you fucking okay? You’ve been stuck in that bed the fucking moment you got here.”

America waved him off, making shooing motions with his hand, managing a wan smile. “I’m fine. Just a little tired and sleepy. I haven’t got any Z’s yet, and I still have stuff to do.” Tony let out a derisive snort, muttering about humans and their odd habits, and then got out of his room in slow, pitter-patter of steps. America watched him go before flopping back on his bed.

He should be heading for the airport now, to England. He should have gone with Canada, but he got a call from his boss, who wanted him to look over a few things before he went to Camp David to be with his family to celebrate his daughter’s birthday early (she and Alfred shared the same birthday, isn’t that just awesome?) and so got delayed.

Truth be told, he was glad for his boss’s interruption. It gave him time to pause and think about things. And I do think, he asserts to himself, I think about a lot of things all the time.

Like if he should really go and visit England. Now that the initial panic over England’s injury has passed, he didn’t think that it would be such a good idea to drop by anymore. Considering how the old man reacted when he saw him in Canada’s place, it would be better for him to stay away. For all he knows his appearance there could just make England more depressed, or more likely, angry.

(But then again when has that ever stopped him from visiting England when he wanted to?)

America wasn’t stupid. He knew how England was when the time for his birthday came ‘round. He told him so himself, hadn’t he? Every year, America sends an invitation to England for his birthday party. Every year, England says no. Sometimes he does turn up, but never stays for long. Most of the time, he never comes, and just sends his gifts through Canada or France or Australia or Portugal. He always calls though, drunk as a lord and ranting about how ungrateful America is. And he’s always acted this way, without fail. Like it was all America’s fault, like England was the only one that was wronged and heartbroken.

(Which was just fucking unfair to America, just like it was unfair that England goes to Canada’s birthday parties every year, and stays there for a half a day; he’s never done that for America, even after all these years, after all they’ve been through. The longest he’s stayed in his birthday party was below an hour.)

And now, on top of this, England has some sort of ‘mid-life crisis’ on how and with whom America’s spending his time with.

Well. It was certainly a unique situation when the words fucked up are considered inadequate to describe it.

Who the hell did England think he was, anyway? He wasn’t under England’s rule anymore; he could be with whomever he pleased, whether England liked it or not (ha, funny how he was thinking of this on the day he separated from England). And as if England even enjoys the time he spends with America in the first place; most of the time they were just arguing and fighting, with -

-well, that wasn’t strictly true. There were times they actually got along and supported each other (and not just through government policies) throughout the years after his revolution. Sometimes it could be through something as huge and important and earth-shaking as war, or seemingly insignificant things such as tastes in music and art or literature or fashion.

To be honest, theirs have never been an easy relationship, will probably never be-both of them are too headstrong to fully agree on everything-but England, in one way or another, has always been there for him, not just as a country, but as England, as the guy who raised him and cared for him, his older brother, his friend, a constant in this ever-changing world.

He sighed, heartsick. “Stupid England,” he muttered under his breath. “What the fuck am I going to do with you?”

You need to say something about, well, whatever you feel for England. This can’t go on forever. You have to make things a bit clear for him.

Oh hell, no. America shook his head violently, remembering what Canada told him last night. Shut up, Canada voice! Not listening, not listening.

Fuck it. Well, lying here on his back doing nothing isn’t going to solve his problems or answer any of his questions. He might as well go to England. Just a quick visit, a hi-hello-bye kind of thing, so England and Canada wouldn’t be up in his ass calling him a jerk (hey, if he objected, he could always call out England and say he’s just following his example, wouldn’t that be sweet?)

America gets up from his bed and heads to the bathroom for a quick shower and change, but before he reaches his bathroom, his cell phone rings and he automatically picks it up. “Hi! Who’s-”

“America! Where the hell are you?”

America winced. Canada could really be loud when he wanted to. “Hello to you, too, bro.”

“Where are you?” Canada repeated, as if not hearing what America said. “Don’t tell me you’re not coming because if you aren’t, I swear-”

“Cool it, man. I’m on my way there. I just had to pick a few stuff.” And deal with a bout of self-reflection.

“Oh, oh. Good,” Canada paused briefly, then added, “Bring something, eh? Like a token or gift for England?”

“Aren’t I enough?”

America didn’t have to see Canada’s face to see the disapproval on his brother’s face. “Bring flowers, America. Or a basket of fruits. Something thoughtful. No burgers like last time, OK? Or anything silly.”

“Hey, burgers are totally awesome-”

“-bye, America. See you in a few hours.” And with that Canada hung up the phone.

Grumbling about passive-aggressive brothers, America dropped his cell on the bed and headed for the bathroom. Now he had to find a gift for England as well.

He could only hope he could get it right this time. After all, his last gift hadn’t been that well received.

------

After the Twin Towers fell, when America woke from his coma, he found England by his bedside, eyes red (from lack of sleep, he claimed stubbornly; America always thought they were tears, but decided not to tease him about it, after all it wouldn’t do for him to provoke England into his Pirate mode in his current state of health) looking very disheveled, smelling strangely of mint and cinnamon, his thumb making small, comforting circles against the butterfly wing-thin skin over the pulse on his wrist as he held his hand. Their gazes met and held for a few moments, and then England entwined his fingers with his, and gave a firm squeeze. America squeezed back as hard as his weakened body could.

They didn’t let go until Canada came in, France in tow.

True to form, America and England both later denied this ever happened. Canada confessed to America much, much later that England barely left his side in those two days he was unconscious, all the while telling him stories and jokes as if America could hear him, and sometimes England sang to him, snatches of old lullabies he used when he and Canada were children to calm them to sleep, and, unexpectedly, pop or rock tunes.

“Son amour etait féroce à voir,” was all France told him, a strange, fond smile on his face as he spoke. England made a choking noise beside him, but didn’t comment further.

(What France and Canada didn’t tell him was that the night before he woke up, they accidentally overheard England singing The Star-Spangled Banner to him like some sort of strange lullaby, almost as if it was a spell of old, his voice surprisingly soft and soothing and hypnotic. America found out about it months later, in a drunken confession from England. He never told England he knew.)

The day after he woke up, England left to go back to his country, but not before giving him a bouquet of white lilies and roses, their delicate scent brightening the antiseptic-soaked room. They stayed in his room until he was well enough to be discharged, and oddly, never showed any sign of wilting.

TBC

Notes:

I-I don’t know if this makes sense anymore. /bricked

My thanks to kupodesu for helping me with the French! ♥

“He wasn’t under England’s rule anymore; he could be with whomever he pleased, whether England liked it or not (ha, funny how he was thinking of this on the day he separated from England).” - July 2 is when, according to Wikipedia, “the legal separation of the American colonies from Great Britain occurred . . . when the Second Continental Congress voted to approve a resolution of independence that had been proposed in June by Richard Henry Lee.”

It is also the day of the Roswell Crash (and hence Tony’s ‘birthday’).

Malia Obama’s birthday is July 4. She turned 12 this year. Last year, in 2009 (which when this fic is set), she and 24 friends celebrated her birthday over at Camp David.

Of course, the part where England sings America a lullaby is from an entry in TV Tropes (I’ve been waiting forever to use it): “If nations are people and anthems are their lullabies, then here was Mother England singing to her grieving American child.”

Buttercups stand for childishness and ingratitude. Yeah England is a jerk, a huge jerk for sending those flowers. It was France who told Alfred what they meant, if you’re curious.

White roses, like white lilies, signify purity and innocence and sympathy. An online site for the white rose says: “the white rose holds a great significance during the War of the Roses which took place in England . It was said that the white rose signifies death to those who betray their word. This ties the meaning of the white rose to loyalty and trust as well.” Interpret that as you will.

If you can guess why England smelled of cinnamon or mint, you win the Internets.

Next part

america x england, floriography, hetalia, fail mel is fail, fanfiction, writing

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