[Fanfiction] Floriography: The Language of Flowers
Title: Floriography: The Language of Flowers
Disclaimer: Hetalia is not my creation.
Pairing: America × England
Rating: PG-13: SO MUCH FLUFF. *is embarrassed*
Author’s notes: A series of sort of interconnected America × England drabbles for the kink meme on flowers and their meanings. De-anoning even though this is sort of unfinished, because this is turning out much longer than I thought. WAT.
1. Dogwood
In the wilder patch of America’s garden, there is a particular shrub that he is very fond of, partly because when he first saw it, it was almost the same size as he was, and because his friends, especially the birds, love to feed on its red berries.
He also likes it because it helps him know when England comes and goes.
“Chaucer called it the whipple-tree, but I believe nowadays they call it dogwood,” replies England when America asked what its name was when they were having tea beside it in the garden one morning after he arrived after months of being away. The shrub is covered in pretty white blooms, as it always is when England arrives.
America doesn’t know Chaucer and wants to ask who he is, but that would mean England talking about someone else other than himself or America, and he didn’t want that. He and England only have very little time to spend together, and America does not intend to waste it. So he asks, instead, “Why is it called dogwood? It doesn’t look anything like a dog.”
“They used the wood for hilts of daggers,” England explains, “so they called it dagwood. As time went on, however, dagwood changed to dogwood, as it is sometimes the nature of spoken words to shift in time.”
Wow. England has answers for everything. “Do you have them at your place too?”
England nods. “Other than hilts, they’re made into arrows or shuttles for looms. Some even make preserves from the berries.”
It’s America’s turn to nod. “My friends think the berries are delicious.” Especially the little birds and the raccoons and squirrels and bunnies.
England laughs and says, “Is that so?” then sweeps him into the warmth of his arms, and smiles at him, and that makes America happy, but not as much as when England tucks his chin on his shoulder, kisses his hair, and whispers in the softest, gruffest of voices, “I’ve missed you.”
--
When the dogwood’s leaves and twigs turn a bloody red, he knows it was time for England to go.
America also knows it is an unbecoming action at his age, but he still clings on the edges of England’s clothes as he leaves, although he knows from experience that it never works. His world is colder without England, and much, much more lonely.
England gives him a small sad smile, and strokes his hair with a soothing hand. “Hush. Don’t worry, I’ll come back. I always do, don’t I?” England crouches so that they’re eye to eye, green on blue. “I know you feel lonely, but you still have to keep doing your best and grow strong. Even when I’m not here. Will you promise me that, America?”
America fights back his tears. England wants him to be strong and brave, and crying now would be showing weakness. “Yes. I promise.”
--
England does not come back for a long time. But America continues to wait. That is all he could do.
America is rarely in the garden nowadays, as he spends more of his time with his people or working and reading, learning new things. Does this because he wants to, and because he wants to be strong, so when England comes back (and he will), he would be so proud of America.
--
One time he does pass by the garden, he nearly slammed into the trunk of the tree.
Tree, not shrub, because the dammed thing towered over him now, and he’d gotten pretty tall. Its stem had turned into a trunk almost as wide as him, its twigs into spreading branches that covered the sky and sun.
Absently, he remembers England telling him the wood was used for some sort of weapon, and he wonders if it can be used to make muskets. He should ask England, when he comes back.
He looks up at the blossoming tree, smiling wistfully to himself. He wishes England would come back soon so he could see his tree-and him.
England would be so surprised to see how tall they both had grown.
--
In winter the tree is bare except for snow, and America knows he should chop it down, use it for firewood, his soldiers are freezing, and he is so very cold and he is still at war with England, and he hurts and he just wants this to end, to be free, and he should chop the damn tree down, but he couldn’t.
--
“Well, at least you’ve been properly taking care of this place,” England remarks as he walks down the hall. “I was afraid you’d ruined it, or filled it with these useless junk of yours.”
“Hey, I kinda like those useless junk you’re talking about,” America grouses at England, but his heart isn’t really in it. He was too occupied being…happy to properly insult his former ‘guardian’.
It is the first time England steps foot in America’s house after all these years. America has to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing when he remembers the look England had a few hours ago, when, in a strange whim, he invited him over to his place (but not before America hid all the stuff England gave him that would make him think he was a sentimental idiot or whatever yesterday). It also took a lot of persuasion to get him to accept it, with England saying he’s only going so he could be sure America did right with the place, and nothing more.
Now, even with England ranting in front of him about the changes he made, how the carpet is hideous and the furniture does not match, America still can’t believe England is in his house again; it only seems like yesterday that America thought this would never happen, that England would always hate him, and that England would always stay away.
(What he doesn’t know is that England is also feels the same, but would rather die than admit it.)
When they reach the garden, the first thing England notices is the dogwood tree. It isn’t hard to miss it, as it is one of the biggest things there, and in full florescence, its blossoms carpeting the grass and shrubs beneath it in velvety white.
“Ah, so this one is still here, then? It’s grown so tall!”
England is standing underneath it, his head tilted up, staring at the profusion of white blooms above with half-lidded eyes, as if remembering something. Then he opens them, and shifts his bright emerald gaze to America, and there is a slight smile on his face that made America suddenly feel warm all over, stomach fluttering. “We used to have tea near here, didn’t we?”
We used to. England used to smile at him like that, before his independence. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “we did.”
When England has left hours later and he is alone again in his house, America makes a mental note to put a bench and a table under the dogwood tree, so when England visits him again, they could have their snacks (tea for England and coffee for him) there.
As they did before, and, America promises to himself, as they will always.
Notes:
Floriography is another term to refer to the language of flowers. While meanings have been attached to flowers long, long ago, it became a huge fad in the Victorian era, where it became a discreet and tasteful way to convey one’s feelings to another.
Dogwood means endurance. It also means love undiminished by adversity *winks*. The American dogwood, known also as the flowering dogwood, is also the state flower and tree of Virginia. I like to think America lived in Virginia when he was young.
*runs and hides*