APH // Love me, Love me not // USUK
Title: Love me, Love me not
Rating: PG
Genre: General
Characters/Pairings: America, England , USUK if you wish
Summary: America wants to know if England loves him
Words: 1115
Notes: Historical inaccuracies? Nondescript time period because American history confuses the crap out of me. Un-beta’d.
Written for hetalia_contest; theme:flower
England drummed his fingers impatiently on the dining room table. Judging from the position of the sun, it was past noon and a sense of unease began to stir in the back of his mind. America might have been unruly sometimes but he was rarely ever late for his meals.
After waiting another five minutes, he decided to search for the boy himself. Mentally going through the list of America’s favoured haunts, a feeling in his gut told him to search the field of flowers to the west of the house. He swiftly made his way over. It was easy to see why America favoured such places; the beauty of the New World never failed to take away England’s breath. He surveyed the sea of orange and yellow and to his immense relief, spied a familiar mop of golden hair. America was just sitting in the middle of the field, unusually quiet and still for such a lively boy. He quickly approached the child, brows furrowing as his worries grew upon seeing America's face. He was wearing the look that England knew meant that he was trying not to cry. Crouching down next to him, England ran a hand through America’s hair in hopes of soothing him.
"What's wrong America?" England asked in a gentle voice he saved only for his charge. America just sniffled slightly in response before revealing to England what he had grasped in his hand...a petal-less flower? He stared at it in a perplexed manner before drawing a conclusion.
"Now, now, there are plenty more flowers to pick if..." but he was obviously mistaken as America cut him off, shaking his head violently. England waited patiently for the boy to speak up and explain himself, rubbing soothing circles on his back in the meantime.
Eventually, America controlled his sniffles and spoke up, "Canada s-said..." , his voice faltered for a second before he took a deep breath and continued in his usual confident way, "You can check if someone loves you by picking the petals off the flower and saying a chant and it tells you if someone loves you or not but England it said that you don't love me and that's not true right because England loves me the most but the flower said you didn't and Canada said it was true even if it sounds stupid and now I know it's not true and doesn't work because you DON'T hate me do you England,” America was starting to sound hysterical at this point, “but what if it is true and England you don't hate me right? Right?!"
England took a moment to process that before chuckling softly. America never ceased to surprise him, he thought as he looked upon the boy fondly. America stared up at England in an adorably confused manner as though prompting him to explain.
"You don't have to worry about that," England said, before adding slightly with a sneer, "It is French after all."
This didn’t seem to placate him the slightest. "B-But what if it's true?!"
England paused as he thought of a better way to approach the subject. Although he himself had never believed in these sorts of games, it was clearly important to him. "You said that when you did it you didn't believe that it would work?"
"Yes..." America pouted at that, as though England had accused him of doing something wrong.
"Well, it only works if you believe." That seemed like a reasonable enough explanation. At least, that was how the Sight operated too.
"Oh!" America scrambled out of England's hold to pick a new flower. England waited patiently for America to finish the game, observing his look of intense concentration with a tender smile. He much preferred being here with America rather than back over in Europe. He tried vainly to stop the absurd poetic thoughts that kept entering his mind without much success. You are my sun, warm and bright, my treasured halcyon days…thankfully, a cry of delight interrupted his thoughts.
"England! You really do love me!" America ran back to England, grinning broadly and hugged him around the waist. England picked him up and gave him a quick peck on the forehead, mentally brushing off the last of his strange thoughts.
"Of course I do. You don’t need silly flowers to tell you that."
“Mmm…I’ll only use them if I need to check then!”
England only chuckled in response before acquiescing. “If you must.” Together, they headed back towards the house.
---
America stared blankly at the opposite wall. There was nothing particularly special about this room, just - the sound of laughter, the smell of burning food, the hugs, the warmth, the smiles, the memories - a plain and ordinary kitchen. He was independent now and the situation still felt mostly surreal. It was strange, he had been fighting for this moment for years and yet, there was no feelings of joy. All there was was a strange sense of emptiness that was slowly being filled with something else. He understood what it meant to cut himself off from the British empire but still…
He loves me.
Independence. Was this what they meant by a bitter-sweet farewell?
He loves me not.
Every time he closed his eyes, that scene would appear vividly in his mind as though forever imprinted. England’s defeated figure as he crumpled in front of America. His twisted almost painfully.
He loves me.
He wondered for the umpteenth time if England hated him now. A bitter laugh escaped his lips. Of course, he would definitely have been hated. His eyes trailed from the wall to the vase on the table. It was a simple vase, not the ornate kind that England seemed to favour. He stared lifelessly at the arrangement of flowers on the table, though one caught his eye. Slowly, he reached out to grasp it.
He loves me not.
Hazy memories began to surface as he gazed at the golden petals of the marigold. Gently touching the petals, he recalled one in particular, a half-hearted smile making itself on his face.
He loves me.
Slowly, he plucked the petals, one-by-one, repeating an almost forgotten chant.
He loves me not.
Reaching the last petal, he uttered the words with a sense of disbelief. He stared at the petal as though it held some secret that he had yet to comprehend.
He loves me.
Then, as though a dam had broken, his tears began to flow unrestrained. Sobs wracked his body as he fell to his knees. He clutched the final petal to his chest as though it were a lifeline; praying, wishing and hoping beyond all hopes that it was true.
Rating: PG
Genre: General
Characters/Pairings: America, England , USUK if you wish
Summary: America wants to know if England loves him
Words: 1115
Notes: Historical inaccuracies? Nondescript time period because American history confuses the crap out of me. Un-beta’d.
Written for hetalia_contest; theme:flower
England drummed his fingers impatiently on the dining room table. Judging from the position of the sun, it was past noon and a sense of unease began to stir in the back of his mind. America might have been unruly sometimes but he was rarely ever late for his meals.
After waiting another five minutes, he decided to search for the boy himself. Mentally going through the list of America’s favoured haunts, a feeling in his gut told him to search the field of flowers to the west of the house. He swiftly made his way over. It was easy to see why America favoured such places; the beauty of the New World never failed to take away England’s breath. He surveyed the sea of orange and yellow and to his immense relief, spied a familiar mop of golden hair. America was just sitting in the middle of the field, unusually quiet and still for such a lively boy. He quickly approached the child, brows furrowing as his worries grew upon seeing America's face. He was wearing the look that England knew meant that he was trying not to cry. Crouching down next to him, England ran a hand through America’s hair in hopes of soothing him.
"What's wrong America?" England asked in a gentle voice he saved only for his charge. America just sniffled slightly in response before revealing to England what he had grasped in his hand...a petal-less flower? He stared at it in a perplexed manner before drawing a conclusion.
"Now, now, there are plenty more flowers to pick if..." but he was obviously mistaken as America cut him off, shaking his head violently. England waited patiently for the boy to speak up and explain himself, rubbing soothing circles on his back in the meantime.
Eventually, America controlled his sniffles and spoke up, "Canada s-said..." , his voice faltered for a second before he took a deep breath and continued in his usual confident way, "You can check if someone loves you by picking the petals off the flower and saying a chant and it tells you if someone loves you or not but England it said that you don't love me and that's not true right because England loves me the most but the flower said you didn't and Canada said it was true even if it sounds stupid and now I know it's not true and doesn't work because you DON'T hate me do you England,” America was starting to sound hysterical at this point, “but what if it is true and England you don't hate me right? Right?!"
England took a moment to process that before chuckling softly. America never ceased to surprise him, he thought as he looked upon the boy fondly. America stared up at England in an adorably confused manner as though prompting him to explain.
"You don't have to worry about that," England said, before adding slightly with a sneer, "It is French after all."
This didn’t seem to placate him the slightest. "B-But what if it's true?!"
England paused as he thought of a better way to approach the subject. Although he himself had never believed in these sorts of games, it was clearly important to him. "You said that when you did it you didn't believe that it would work?"
"Yes..." America pouted at that, as though England had accused him of doing something wrong.
"Well, it only works if you believe." That seemed like a reasonable enough explanation. At least, that was how the Sight operated too.
"Oh!" America scrambled out of England's hold to pick a new flower. England waited patiently for America to finish the game, observing his look of intense concentration with a tender smile. He much preferred being here with America rather than back over in Europe. He tried vainly to stop the absurd poetic thoughts that kept entering his mind without much success. You are my sun, warm and bright, my treasured halcyon days…thankfully, a cry of delight interrupted his thoughts.
"England! You really do love me!" America ran back to England, grinning broadly and hugged him around the waist. England picked him up and gave him a quick peck on the forehead, mentally brushing off the last of his strange thoughts.
"Of course I do. You don’t need silly flowers to tell you that."
“Mmm…I’ll only use them if I need to check then!”
England only chuckled in response before acquiescing. “If you must.” Together, they headed back towards the house.
---
America stared blankly at the opposite wall. There was nothing particularly special about this room, just - the sound of laughter, the smell of burning food, the hugs, the warmth, the smiles, the memories - a plain and ordinary kitchen. He was independent now and the situation still felt mostly surreal. It was strange, he had been fighting for this moment for years and yet, there was no feelings of joy. All there was was a strange sense of emptiness that was slowly being filled with something else. He understood what it meant to cut himself off from the British empire but still…
He loves me.
Independence. Was this what they meant by a bitter-sweet farewell?
He loves me not.
Every time he closed his eyes, that scene would appear vividly in his mind as though forever imprinted. England’s defeated figure as he crumpled in front of America. His twisted almost painfully.
He loves me.
He wondered for the umpteenth time if England hated him now. A bitter laugh escaped his lips. Of course, he would definitely have been hated. His eyes trailed from the wall to the vase on the table. It was a simple vase, not the ornate kind that England seemed to favour. He stared lifelessly at the arrangement of flowers on the table, though one caught his eye. Slowly, he reached out to grasp it.
He loves me not.
Hazy memories began to surface as he gazed at the golden petals of the marigold. Gently touching the petals, he recalled one in particular, a half-hearted smile making itself on his face.
He loves me.
Slowly, he plucked the petals, one-by-one, repeating an almost forgotten chant.
He loves me not.
Reaching the last petal, he uttered the words with a sense of disbelief. He stared at the petal as though it held some secret that he had yet to comprehend.
He loves me.
Then, as though a dam had broken, his tears began to flow unrestrained. Sobs wracked his body as he fell to his knees. He clutched the final petal to his chest as though it were a lifeline; praying, wishing and hoping beyond all hopes that it was true.