[Fanfiction] Floriography: The Language of Flowers (4.1/?)
Title: Floriography: The Language of Flowers (4.1)
Disclaimer: Hetalia is not my creation.
Pairing: America × England
Rating: PG-13: SO MUCH FLUFF. *is embarrassed*
Author’s notes: This is the last, and the longest of the series. This part is actually not a single ficlet anymore, to be honest, since it has, I dunno, possibly 3 to 4 parts.
Previous ficlets: 1: Dogwood; 2: Honeysuckle; 3. Roses and Irises
4. The Truest Language
Flowers are sent to do God's work in unrevealed paths, and to diffuse influence by channels that we hardly suspect. - Henry Ward Beecher
July 1
“Are you sure you aren’t staying for a few hours more?”
England pauses in the act of putting on his trench coat, and looks up to find Canada standing by the doorway that led to the sitting room, clutching his little polar bear close to him, a pleading look on his face. England’s heart aches at the sight, as it always does when Canada puts on that expression, but he steels himself (as always).
“I’ve already stayed later than I should, Canada,” England says, glancing away from Canada’s blue-eyed gaze (why did they have to be so physically alike?) and resumes putting on his coat. He should hurry. He’d miss his flight, and Canada’s other guests for his birthday party would be arriving in an hour or so, and he really wants to avoid meeting them.
“I know, and I really enjoyed the time we spent together and I’m glad you took time from your busy schedule to come down for my birthday and watch Midsummer’s with me, but England,” Canada pauses, and England could hear him take a deep breath before continuing (England inwardly groans; he knows where this would be going), “I thought you’d stay longer this time. I mean, you and him have better relations now, don’t you?”
England gives an ungentlemanly snort at that. He crouches down and puts his shoes on, sliding them easily on his sock-clad feet. “Haven’t you heard? I’ve been demoted as a special partnership.” He nearly bites his tongue at that little slip, but decides to go on as if he reveled nothing of extreme import. “Not to mention he gave that half-arsed gift to my boss, the bloody wanker. DVDs!”
“Eh, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it? He did make up for that gift when he visited you, didn’t he? And, uhm, I’m sure he didn’t really mean demo -”
“Matthew,” England cuts in, standing up and leveling Canada a glare. He does not want to be reminded of that right now, will not be compelled to talk about it, not when it still stings, still unhealed. “Must you always insist on this?”
Canada looks at him in the eye, opening his mouth as if to say something, but then he sighs and glances away. “It’s just that I feel a bit guilty about this.” This being England’s habit of coming to Canada for his birthday, and then leaving early before the other guests arrive. “It’s like we’re doing something wrong with all this sneaking.”
“I wouldn’t call it sneaking!” he protests. “He knows I come here for your birthday.”
“If him knowing makes things all right, why don’t you stay longer, then?”
“Because we both bloody well know why I don’t stay,” England snaps back. “America knows as well. My coming and leaving early makes this less awkward for the lot of us.”
“But Arthur - ”
“Also, I’m still displeased at him for that little cock up of his last April and you will cease to pursue this matter unless you want viol - ” England’s words abruptly dies on his throat when he sees Canada gaze at something past him, and then his face morphs from one of frustration to one of utter panic.
America, England first thinks, heart seizing in his chest, America is behind him and oh fuck, has he heard everything and-
Wait.
Are those hands on his arse?
“Ah, Angleterre, why must you upset sweet Matthieu so on his soirée d'anniversaire?”
England never thought he’d see the day he would be glad of France groping him. Hell must be freezing over, he thinks absently before he jabs France in the stomach with his elbow. The lavender-scented Frenchman dodged it with surprising speed, but England, anticipating this move, simply steps back a bit and proceeds to kick him in the balls with his feet, and in a split-second, much to England’s satisfaction, France was on the floor, writhing in speechless agony.
Canada gives a cry of distress and shoots England a reproachful glare before rushing over to his other father’s side to give what comfort he could to the lecherous bastard - mostly by speaking soothing French words - since there are very few things in this world that can alleviate the pain of having a steel-toed shoe slam into your vital regions.
Ah, now I’ve done it. England sighs, exasperated with himself. Now he has to really stay a bit and soothe Canada, who looks terribly unhappy. Poor lad didn’t deserve this kind of behavior from England on his birthday, no matter how annoyingly persistent he was. He kneels beside Canada, careful not to be within striking distance from any retaliatory attacks of France (or at least France had to hit Canada before he gets to England).
“Matthew.” England puts his hand on Canada’s shoulders, catching his attention. Canada turns to him, blue-violet eyes bright with unshed tears and childish resentment - eyes almost like America’s on a face quite like America’s, looking so sad and angry - and for a dizzying moment it is not Canada England sees, but his brother, and England hurts and aches all over again, and whatever words of apologies he was going to say dies in his throat, and his is cupping - Canada’s? America’s? - chin and leaning forward -
- and of course, as should have been expected, given England’s luck, that is the exact moment and scene America comes crashing into.
---
“Crashing” was the word England chose to describe America’s entrance. Because that’s what he did - not stumble or walk, but crash.
Right into England.
Something in England’s brain must have addled by that crash, because even years from then, he cannot completely recall what exactly happened. One minute he was attempting to kiss Canada (remembering that part made England inwardly cringe and slam his head on the nearest hard surface every time. Dear God, what was he thinking then? Was he even thinking at all?), then there was a loud bang, followed by an exuberant shout of “Happy Birthday Canada!”, and then something - no, someone (a rather heavy one, too) - suddenly slams into England’s side and knocks him flat on his back on the floor.
And when England opens his eyes, his vision is spotted with blurry little glimmering dots of lights that eventually shifts and focuses to the fact that America is on top of him, Texas askew, blue eyes impossibly wide, mouth parted open. He isn’t crushing him (which was good, because if he was, England wouldn’t be able to breathe), because he had somehow managed to brace himself with his hands on the floor on both side of England’s head (which was bad, because he…sort of trapped England in this oh-so-very awkward position).
“Crap, why’d you - England?”
England wants to close his eyes again at the sound of the sudden catch in America’s voice, but he doesn’t dare, and so he is forced to watch as America’s face shifts from one of dazed confusion to utter bewilderment when he recognizes the man underneath him.
“England,” America says his name again, this time more firmly than before. Blue eyes narrow into icy slits for a moment as he regards England with a thoughtful gaze, and then he smiles that wide, idiotic grin of his. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Indeed.” England tries to ignore how close their faces (or their mouths, dear God, their mouths) are, how America’s breath is warm and brushing against his already heated skin. Shallow breaths, that’s right, old boy, shallow breaths, England tells himself, careful not to take in air too deeply. America smells of hamburgers and sweat and musk and bergamot - fuck, he hates that essence - and mandarin, the scents sharp and overwhelming in such close quarters.
England’s hands curl to into fists, letting his nails bite into the soft flesh of his palms, the pain helping him focus. “America. I have a plane to catch. Kindly get off me and let me stand.” Or I will punch the living daylights out of you, you bloody wanker, he does not add, but instead conveys through his voice.
“What, not staying for Canada’s birthday party?” England suppresses a shiver when America ignores his unspoken warning and leans closer - fuck, fuck, FUCK - his stomach clenching at America’s tone. The idiot still had a cheerful expression on his face, but his voice has lost its pleasant ring, his words flat and without inflection. It also does not help England’s situation that, as he discovers from a quick glance around, France and Canada are no longer in the room with them, leaving England alone to deal with what promises to be a very unpleasant conversation with America. “Did you just drop off a gift and said happy birthday and then you’re off? You’re such a sucky father figure, you know that? Can’t even stay for any of your kids’ birthday.”
That. Was. It. England’s temper snaps, and with a strength that took both of them by surprise, he all but throws off America, sending the younger nation stumbling back nearly halfway across the room. England quickly gets to his feet, crouching just a bit, breath in heavy, ragged pants, and finds himself locking gazes with America again.
England bolts. Doesn’t waste any more time, just runs and grabs the doorknob, flings the door open and dashes outside, into the cold open air, doesn’t stop until he is away from America, far away from the sudden overwhelming need to touch America at the sight of those blue eyes, filled with anger and sadness and resentment, so much like the eyes he had that time in the rain, so so long ago. He runs, even though his lungs are burning from the exertion, and he ignores how tight his chest feels, closes his eyes and tries not to hear the pounding of blood in his ears.
England doesn’t remember how far he ran, or how he even managed to get into a taxi and arrive at the airport - everything was a blur. Once on the plane, England takes a single shot of whiskey and one sleeping pill to knock himself out; it was the only thing he could think of that would stop him from drinking himself blind during the flight, to keep the memories at bay.
Mercifully, it works. England is soon asleep, and, as an added kindness, he does not dream.
---
East Berlin, much, much later than evening
“- FUCK YOU. DON’T YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS, YOU MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE? THE AWESOME ME NEEDS HIS SLEEP. STOP CALLING AND FUCK. OFF.”
“...and here I was thinking we’d have a little drinking party at my house. My treat, even.”
“...Shit, I knew it. You always do this when this time of the year comes by. And hell no. I’m not touching your shitty brew again after last year. I’m bringing my own over, but on your fucking tab.”
“Fine. Just get your albino ass here, you fucking Kraut. I’ve already started without you.”
“Hey, who you calling an albi-”
TBC
Notes:
Yes, we can has a Prussia. The bastard hijacked me and demanded I write him. So next part you’ll be treated to Prussia’s HELL YES I’M AWESOME advice. To England. And possibly America and Canada. IDK. I am his prisoner.
Lavander was sometimes used to mask unpleasant smells, and so has come to have a meaning of "I don't trust you." In my head!canon, England haets lavander because it reminds him of Francis, who loves the flowers.
According to Wikipedia, bergamot is used in “hoodoo rootwork,” where is used to “control or command, and for this reason is used in a variety of spells and formulas in which a practitioner might wish to subdue another person.” This is not to say Alfred practices hoodoo (although it appears that one of the early grimoires of hoodoo were made for the Pennsylvania-Dutch hexmeisters in the 1800s), but it would explain Arthur’s aversion to it. Bergamot is also used in aromatherapy to help with depression. Because of its ability to “combine an array of scents,” bergamot can be found in one-third of the perfumes produced. Hmm, given its use in hoodoo, I wonder if ability to combine scents is the only reason it’s found in so many perfumes.
I have nothing against albinos, by the way.
On to part 2