[Sweethearts Week] Valentine's Day, One Fic
When it came down to it, England always felt he had difficulty expressing what he felt. Well, he supposed that wasn’t strictly true. He had no trouble expressing anger, irritation, rage, disdain or scorn, sarcasm . . . and so on. It was . . . softer feelings that he struggled with. He always had.
And that was the problem facing him. Being in a . . . relationship, as he was at the . . . moment, expressing only his more negative emotions wasn’t at all the way to go about things. He had to express how he . . . how he really felt, which was not at all negative.
But he’d never been any good at that, not really. And that . . . it worried him. For how was America meant to know how England felt for him if he never expressed it? England had learned that America wasn’t exactly adept at intuiting England’s unexpressed feelings . . . considering all the years it had taken for them to establish a relationship in the first place, he supposed one would have thought that would be obvious to him.
And, considering that particular aspect of their relationship, perhaps . . . perhaps America really did have no idea how England felt about him. And, as Saint Valentine’s Day was approaching, it was the right time of year to make a gesture, one would think.
But he never knew what to do when things like this came up. He knew he should do something, certainly-America was always very . . . dramatic when it came to that sort of thing. Flowers, chocolates, gigantic gestures, kisses in public, all that lot. Very affectionate, very generous, and it made England feel very . . . warm and . . . well. Loved.
He felt that . . . he wanted to make America feel the same way. And he did his best, he really did, but whenever it came to it the words seemed to dry up in his throat, and he’d feel his cheeks burning, and . . . well, he wouldn’t be able to get the words out, would he? He felt like an utter prat because of it, but there you had it.
But America was always so excited leading up until Valentine’s Day, and he did try his best to conceal his disappointment when England didn’t do anything, or ruined the day with an acerbic comment, or some such thing, but damn it all, England was tired of seeing his glowing face fall, the excited light leave his blue eyes, just because he’d done something wrong. And certainly that didn’t happen every year, and England always gave him a perfectly lovely card-but whenever it came to writing in it, he could never manage anything more than the short and perfunctory, or the utterly banal, and-
He just thought America deserved better, that was all. He was England’s overbearing, idiotic . . . ray of sunshine, and he deserved to know it.
He just had no bloody notion of how to handle it. But he knew one thing for certain. He wasn’t going to go through another Valentine’s Day and leave America disappointed at the end of it, one way or another, even if to hear France tell it he’d have to perform a bloody striptease to accomplish it. Not that America . . . only cared about that sort of thing, and he certainly hadn’t been desperate enough to ask France for his advice, it had just . . . come up once, while he was talking to him. By complete chance, that was all.
England spent the entire month of January fretting over it, trying to think of something he could do, something that would leave him tongue-tied and crimson in the face and utterly goddamned useless at the end of the day, but it was February 2nd by the time it came to him.
The meanings of flowers had once been something he’d put quite a lot of store in. Not to any . . . great extent, he supposed, but it had been . . . well, yes, they had meant something rather romantic, and he had put a certain amount of stock in it, and it had meant something to him. But flowers . . . flowers were certainly romantic, even in America’s Hollywood-soaked notions, and that . . . that might be a way for him to . . . send a message, to show America how he really felt. Without bollocksing the whole thing up, that was.
As soon as England hit upon the plan, he started work on it. He didn't want to give himself the time to talk himself out of it, or realize how terrible an idea it no doubt was. No, he had to do something, and Valentine’s Day was fast approaching, and it was better than trying to bake the man a cake.
He chose the flowers carefully. A bouquet of roses, he thought. Roses were certainly romantic, and they were the national flowers of both their nations, so there was that, too (he still remembered how he’d felt when he’d realized America had chosen the rose as well, how confusing the sudden rush of emotions had been, wrenching his heart in too many directions at once to count, and how foolish he’d felt for it-most likely the idiot just hadn’t been able to think of anything else, he’d told himself). Most traditional was red, for passionate love, and he was certain America would have been happy with that alone, but it wasn’t a very deep expression of how he felt for America. How he felt was a million different things all at once, deep and tempestuous like the sea, but bright and warm as a summer’s day, and lapsing into poetry was idiotic. But he added in white roses, because how he felt for America was pure, in a way, certainly not simply . . . passionate. How he’d always felt for him. And because white roses were innocent and sweet and a bit . . . not sad, but wistful, and he always felt that. And he added orange roses, because they spoke of the brightness, the sunshine of America’s personality, his presence in his life, and pink ones, for happiness and . . . romance, admiration and sweetness. And he added pansies, because he’d thought about this for bloody ages.
And he was certain America wouldn’t gather the meaning from it at all, whatsoever, so he . . . added a card. The message was stilting, and awkward, but it explained as best he could what he’d meant by it all. And he didn’t let himself throw it out, though as soon as he’d looked at it and read the message over, he’d wanted to.
He was to meet America at his house to start, and then they were to head to the cinema. That was America all over, anyway. Hollywood romance, and all that. America met him at the door, and took his hand, and squeezed. “Hey, England,” he said, and his voice was warm, eager, his cheeks flushing as he looked over at England and said, “you look nice!”
“S-so do you,” England managed. “Look, here you are.” And he pressed the bouquet into America’s hands. “A-and there’s a card, as well,” he added, and shoved it into his grasp.
“Aww, England!” America said, a delighted grin spreading across his features. “You didn’t haveta-that’s so sweet-”
“Look, just-just read it, all right?” England bit out nervously. His palms were beginning to sweat, so he balled them into fists and crossed them across his chest.
“Um, okay . . .” America said, still grinning. He glanced over at England then opened the card. He scanned it quickly, biting his lower lip between his teeth as he read through the . . . admittedly rather long message. A strange expression came over his face, his eyes softening, and he looked down at the card, then up at England. His face was . . . oddly anxious, his eyes wide and lit with a rather vulnerable expression.
“Well?” England asked. And he thought his own voice was rather softer than he’d meant it to be, soft and . . . and gentle. A lover’s voice, he thought, and blushed furiously.
“D-d’you really . . . you really . . . you really mean all-they’re so pretty, England,” America stammered. He sounded oddly flustered, and to England’s horror his eyes looked rather wet. He took off his spectacles with the hand holding the card and dashed the moisture away with the edge of his hand, looking away for a moment. His jaw worked as he swallowed, thickly.
“America, what-” England burst out. “I swear, I never meant-if anything’s wrong-”
“Huh?” America burst out as if startled, and his gaze turned back to England. “Wh-whaddaya mean? I mean, of course nothing’s wrong, I . . . I . . . England, I’m just . . . I’m just touched, is-is all. Y-you really mean . . . all that? You really . . .” he took a deep breath, and said in an oddly small, trembling voice “. . . you really feel . . . all that . . . for me?”
“Of course I do,” England burst out. “I’d hardly have put it in there otherwise, would I? And given you flowers and . . . and made a date for the cinema, and all of it. I mean, really, America . . .”
He was swept into America’s arms, crushed to his chest, before he could utter another word, and America was holding him there tightly, pressing his lips soundly against his hair. “I love you, England,” he said, fiercely, and his voice was thick, as if his throat was rather tight. “I love you, I love you, I love you, you are the sweetest, craziest country I’ve ever met-”
“I wouldn’t go that-” England started, rather breathless.
“Just shut up and kiss me,” America said, laughing, and his voice sounded wet. So England did, leaning up and curling his hand around the base of America’s jaw and digging his other hand into his hair to drag his head down into the kiss.
“Happy bloody Valentine’s Day, love,” he muttered against America’s lips.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” America said, and he was smiling widely, hugely, like the sun, and he kissed England again. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”
And well, it was.
The end.
And that was the problem facing him. Being in a . . . relationship, as he was at the . . . moment, expressing only his more negative emotions wasn’t at all the way to go about things. He had to express how he . . . how he really felt, which was not at all negative.
But he’d never been any good at that, not really. And that . . . it worried him. For how was America meant to know how England felt for him if he never expressed it? England had learned that America wasn’t exactly adept at intuiting England’s unexpressed feelings . . . considering all the years it had taken for them to establish a relationship in the first place, he supposed one would have thought that would be obvious to him.
And, considering that particular aspect of their relationship, perhaps . . . perhaps America really did have no idea how England felt about him. And, as Saint Valentine’s Day was approaching, it was the right time of year to make a gesture, one would think.
But he never knew what to do when things like this came up. He knew he should do something, certainly-America was always very . . . dramatic when it came to that sort of thing. Flowers, chocolates, gigantic gestures, kisses in public, all that lot. Very affectionate, very generous, and it made England feel very . . . warm and . . . well. Loved.
He felt that . . . he wanted to make America feel the same way. And he did his best, he really did, but whenever it came to it the words seemed to dry up in his throat, and he’d feel his cheeks burning, and . . . well, he wouldn’t be able to get the words out, would he? He felt like an utter prat because of it, but there you had it.
But America was always so excited leading up until Valentine’s Day, and he did try his best to conceal his disappointment when England didn’t do anything, or ruined the day with an acerbic comment, or some such thing, but damn it all, England was tired of seeing his glowing face fall, the excited light leave his blue eyes, just because he’d done something wrong. And certainly that didn’t happen every year, and England always gave him a perfectly lovely card-but whenever it came to writing in it, he could never manage anything more than the short and perfunctory, or the utterly banal, and-
He just thought America deserved better, that was all. He was England’s overbearing, idiotic . . . ray of sunshine, and he deserved to know it.
He just had no bloody notion of how to handle it. But he knew one thing for certain. He wasn’t going to go through another Valentine’s Day and leave America disappointed at the end of it, one way or another, even if to hear France tell it he’d have to perform a bloody striptease to accomplish it. Not that America . . . only cared about that sort of thing, and he certainly hadn’t been desperate enough to ask France for his advice, it had just . . . come up once, while he was talking to him. By complete chance, that was all.
England spent the entire month of January fretting over it, trying to think of something he could do, something that would leave him tongue-tied and crimson in the face and utterly goddamned useless at the end of the day, but it was February 2nd by the time it came to him.
The meanings of flowers had once been something he’d put quite a lot of store in. Not to any . . . great extent, he supposed, but it had been . . . well, yes, they had meant something rather romantic, and he had put a certain amount of stock in it, and it had meant something to him. But flowers . . . flowers were certainly romantic, even in America’s Hollywood-soaked notions, and that . . . that might be a way for him to . . . send a message, to show America how he really felt. Without bollocksing the whole thing up, that was.
As soon as England hit upon the plan, he started work on it. He didn't want to give himself the time to talk himself out of it, or realize how terrible an idea it no doubt was. No, he had to do something, and Valentine’s Day was fast approaching, and it was better than trying to bake the man a cake.
He chose the flowers carefully. A bouquet of roses, he thought. Roses were certainly romantic, and they were the national flowers of both their nations, so there was that, too (he still remembered how he’d felt when he’d realized America had chosen the rose as well, how confusing the sudden rush of emotions had been, wrenching his heart in too many directions at once to count, and how foolish he’d felt for it-most likely the idiot just hadn’t been able to think of anything else, he’d told himself). Most traditional was red, for passionate love, and he was certain America would have been happy with that alone, but it wasn’t a very deep expression of how he felt for America. How he felt was a million different things all at once, deep and tempestuous like the sea, but bright and warm as a summer’s day, and lapsing into poetry was idiotic. But he added in white roses, because how he felt for America was pure, in a way, certainly not simply . . . passionate. How he’d always felt for him. And because white roses were innocent and sweet and a bit . . . not sad, but wistful, and he always felt that. And he added orange roses, because they spoke of the brightness, the sunshine of America’s personality, his presence in his life, and pink ones, for happiness and . . . romance, admiration and sweetness. And he added pansies, because he’d thought about this for bloody ages.
And he was certain America wouldn’t gather the meaning from it at all, whatsoever, so he . . . added a card. The message was stilting, and awkward, but it explained as best he could what he’d meant by it all. And he didn’t let himself throw it out, though as soon as he’d looked at it and read the message over, he’d wanted to.
He was to meet America at his house to start, and then they were to head to the cinema. That was America all over, anyway. Hollywood romance, and all that. America met him at the door, and took his hand, and squeezed. “Hey, England,” he said, and his voice was warm, eager, his cheeks flushing as he looked over at England and said, “you look nice!”
“S-so do you,” England managed. “Look, here you are.” And he pressed the bouquet into America’s hands. “A-and there’s a card, as well,” he added, and shoved it into his grasp.
“Aww, England!” America said, a delighted grin spreading across his features. “You didn’t haveta-that’s so sweet-”
“Look, just-just read it, all right?” England bit out nervously. His palms were beginning to sweat, so he balled them into fists and crossed them across his chest.
“Um, okay . . .” America said, still grinning. He glanced over at England then opened the card. He scanned it quickly, biting his lower lip between his teeth as he read through the . . . admittedly rather long message. A strange expression came over his face, his eyes softening, and he looked down at the card, then up at England. His face was . . . oddly anxious, his eyes wide and lit with a rather vulnerable expression.
“Well?” England asked. And he thought his own voice was rather softer than he’d meant it to be, soft and . . . and gentle. A lover’s voice, he thought, and blushed furiously.
“D-d’you really . . . you really . . . you really mean all-they’re so pretty, England,” America stammered. He sounded oddly flustered, and to England’s horror his eyes looked rather wet. He took off his spectacles with the hand holding the card and dashed the moisture away with the edge of his hand, looking away for a moment. His jaw worked as he swallowed, thickly.
“America, what-” England burst out. “I swear, I never meant-if anything’s wrong-”
“Huh?” America burst out as if startled, and his gaze turned back to England. “Wh-whaddaya mean? I mean, of course nothing’s wrong, I . . . I . . . England, I’m just . . . I’m just touched, is-is all. Y-you really mean . . . all that? You really . . .” he took a deep breath, and said in an oddly small, trembling voice “. . . you really feel . . . all that . . . for me?”
“Of course I do,” England burst out. “I’d hardly have put it in there otherwise, would I? And given you flowers and . . . and made a date for the cinema, and all of it. I mean, really, America . . .”
He was swept into America’s arms, crushed to his chest, before he could utter another word, and America was holding him there tightly, pressing his lips soundly against his hair. “I love you, England,” he said, fiercely, and his voice was thick, as if his throat was rather tight. “I love you, I love you, I love you, you are the sweetest, craziest country I’ve ever met-”
“I wouldn’t go that-” England started, rather breathless.
“Just shut up and kiss me,” America said, laughing, and his voice sounded wet. So England did, leaning up and curling his hand around the base of America’s jaw and digging his other hand into his hair to drag his head down into the kiss.
“Happy bloody Valentine’s Day, love,” he muttered against America’s lips.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” America said, and he was smiling widely, hugely, like the sun, and he kissed England again. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”
And well, it was.
The end.