[Fanfiction] Floriography: The Language of Flowers (4.2/?; America × England)
Title: Floriography: The Language of Flowers (4.2)
Disclaimer: Hetalia is not my creation.
Pairing: America × England
Rating: PG-13: SO MUCH FLUFF. *is embarrassed*
Author’s notes: America sulks, Canada tries to pacify him. Prussia and England get drunk together. ♥
Previous ficlets: 1: Dogwood; 2: Honeysuckle; 3. Roses and Irises; 4. The Truest Language (1)
4. The Truest Language (2)
Meanwhile, back in Canada’s house
Canada considers himself as someone reasonably intelligent. Perhaps not a genius like Japan or Estonia, but certainly his IQ is above that of, er, certain nations.
So why, he asks himself for the umpteenth time, did he get himself in situations like these?
These being, first, the godawful birthday party he just had.
The one where America spent all the time interacting with the other nations with a sunny smile on his face while simultaneously emitting a ‘don’t fuck with me, I will rip you apart’ aura. How he did it, Canada did not know, but its effect was felt in the room.
The tension in the air was so thick and palpable that even the usually oblivious North Italy noticed things were not quite alright and clung to Germany’s sleeve the whole night (much to the German’s embarrassment), curl drooping. Same thing with his older brother, who would not let go of Spain’s arm and kept muttering ‘Protect me, you bastard’ (much to the Spaniard’s delight).
Even France wasn’t groping many nations as usual (but that may be because he still hasn’t fully recovered from the blunt testicular trauma England’s steel-toed shoe inflicted on him).
The not-so-covert ‘We will talk later’ glares America kept sending him at every fucking opportunity didn’t help, either.
Why can’t I have nice things every now and then? Canada’s been looking forward to his birthday. He hadn’t been able to relax for a while, thanks to his recent political upheavals and his own economic woes. Then just when things seem to be settling down, America and his new boss came down to visit, and while he likes his brother and his new boss, having America in his house can be exhausting - and nerve wracking, too (Canada didn’t really need Russia sending out his damn plane so close to his airspace as some sort of mindfuck message to America or whatever to make things more stressful).
Well, to be fair, he did get a break of sorts a while back. He had his Tulip Festival, and Holland came over again to express his er, gratitude for deeds past, and they had…fun. “But a nation has a right to a peaceful, happy birthday, right? Even always invisible Canada, right?” Canada whispered fiercely to his polar bear, the one thing who he could count on to comfort him.
“Who?” the bear asks, titling its head.
Okay, maybe not. Fuck my life, eh.
The second situation is the one he was in right now. His birthday party had ended. Everyone had gone home (all of them moving as if the devil himself was on their heels, so eager they were to leave his house, Canada noted with bitterness) - except France, who had gone to the hospital (and no, he will not elaborate why; some things are better left unexplained and untouched, especially untouched - like little sisters with gun-totting older brothers).
Now he was alone with America. A very pissed America.
Those cowardly fucks! Canada silently rages at the other, absent, nations as he watches his twin brother lounge around in his sofa, unnervingly quiet and subdued as he flips through the channels. His stomach is heavy with dread, but he tamps down the urge to grab his hockey stick that he always kept at the nearby closet just in case.
He could tell America to leave, can’t he? After all, this was his house. But America in his current mood might not take that very well and -
“So, what did old man England get you for your birthday?”
Canada blinks, and stares at America, who was looking at him with a calm expression. “Well?” he prodded. Before Canada could answer, America cuts in, “I bet he got you something really stupid and old-fashioned.”
“He gave me flowers,” Canada snaps, twitching a little when he hears that little mocking tone in America’s voice. He glances at the bouquet on the table, a mix of white larkspur and lilies with white and dark pink tea roses, which Canada knew came from England’s garden and he knew the former Empire picked out with great thought. “He always does. And he gave me an afghan in my flag’s design and a new sweater and scarf, and then we watched A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
England likes to give Canada and to those he really, really liked - not that he would ever admit he liked any them (he’d admit to Portugal, though, but that’s because he’s Portugal) - presents he made himself. One time, just after England gave him his independence, he gave Canada a bookshelf he had crafted, complete with books written by English authors - Shakespeare, Locke, Donne, Hobbes, Conan Doyle - some of them quite old and priceless, but not quite as rare or precious as what happened next.
Knowledge is the best gift I could give you, Matthew, England had said, smiling in that rare, melancholic but affectionate way of his, eyes bright as he looked at Matthew with something he could have sworn as fierce pride. You’ve grown up enough to know to use it wisely. Canada remembers how he teared up then, and quite impulsively embraced his former Empire. For once England made no protests or denials of sentimentality, but simply held him in his arms.
“Oh. I see. That’s the play with the fairies, right? No wonder he took you to that.” Canada is jarred out of his reverie by the note of derision in America’s voice. He glares at his twin.
“He used to give you gifts like that, too, you know,” Canada points out. He remembers vividly the chest of toy soldiers, the ones he envied so much when they were children. America could not stop bragging about them, and Canada ended up crying over it so much. “He stopped giving you them after you insulted his skills for the umpteenth time.”
“He didn’t stop giving me stuff,” America throws back, looking very petulant and childish with that pout of his. “He gave me that pen holder a few months ago, which my boss is using and likes a lot, by the way.”
“And you gave him DVDs in exchange.” Canada sighs. Oh, how he wanted to smack his brother upside in the head when he heard about that. “Honestly, America, I’m surprised England didn’t strangle you when you gave those to his boss. But I guess he’s used to it. You rarely appreciate England’s gifts. You don’t even wear the clothes he gives you.”
----
“He whacked me in the head in private,” America said sulkily. Not to mention nearly bit my head off with his rant about proper gift-giving. He didn’t get what Arthur’s problem was. Hey, his movies were awesome (and those DVDs had many cool features and extras), and besides, it was the thought that counts, right?
“I rather doubt any thought was given to this at all,” Arthur had replied icily before stomping out of America’s office, chin held up high and an obstinate expression on his face. He didn’t speak to him the whole visit after that, except when need be or for show.
America frowned at the memory. Trust England to be such a snob.
Glaring at his twin, America adds, “And I do wear the clothes he gives me,” he pauses when he realizes what he just said, and then swiftly looks away from Canada’s searching eyes, glancing instead at the still open TV. “Just not when he could see,” he finishes in a quiet mutter.
Canada doesn’t know, couldn’t know, but pretty much every piece of clothing England has given him, scarves and sweaters and even socks and gloves and so on, he uses and keeps them as much as he could. They usually smell of lilacs or heather; America does not know why, but those scents comforts him, as is the thought that these gifts, soft and warm against his skin, fitting just snug and right (he has always wondered how England knew of his measurements, even after all these years), were made by England’s own hands.
But he does have a reputation to maintain, and he really didn’t want England to catch on just how much value he puts on these gifts he gives him so he never dares wear them when England is around, never, ever lets on how much they mean to him. America lives in fear of the day England stumbles on his little collection in the storage room - gifts and mementoes he had gathered all these years, most of them, unsurprisingly, connected to England. He’d never hear the end of it from his former guardian; England would gloat about it for days.
(But sometimes, when America looks deep inside his heart’s desires, he knows it is not the fear of England’s gloating and his own possible humiliation that holds him back, but something else he could not name, but knows all too well.)
----
July 2, London
“Shit, England, of course I fucking understand. I raised Germany, raised him and took care of him, made him what he was, who the fuck he was, and what does he do in gratitude? Me, who stood by his side no matter what! His own awesome older brother! Look at who am I now, yeah, I know I’m still awesome, but I’m like some fucking ghost.” Prussia glares at England, and then flashes his devil-may-care smile. “So yeah, I fucking hated that, even fucking hated West for a while back then, but that doesn’t mean I have a grudge against West even now.”
“Who said anything of grudges? And it’s not the same, you fucking Kraut,” England snarls back, hands curling into tight fists, body tensing. He and Prussia have been drinking and talking in England’s study for about…an hour or two now, England can’t really tell the time. All he could feel was the twisting pain in his chest and the bitter buzz and taste of the beer they were drinking. “It was Germany’s bosses that wanted that, who did that to you. Germany had no choice but to obey. America -” America wanted to break free from me himself, England almost says, but the words die on his throat, leaving behind the taste of blood and iron and bitter, bitter bile.
He doesn’t have to finish - Prussia understands well enough what he’s trying to say. The fucking Kraut just laughs, loud and mocking, his eyes red like the devil’s own. “Well, if you’ve been a better brother to him, had you fucking stopped acting like you have stick up your ass and didn’t push him so much, he wouldn’t have - ”
“Prussia,” England interrupts, sick of this, sick of a lot of things. He is drinking to forget, not - not to remember, but then he is drinking with Prussia, of all nations. He should have called Portugal instead, with his sweet wines and soothing presence. “Let’s just belt the fuck up about this and get back to drinking, could we?”
Prussia doesn’t even blink at the promise of violence in England’s narrowed eyes. He grins instead and stares at him, but just when England thinks he’s going to punch the lights out of the Kraut, he looks away and goes back to drinking.
They drink for several minutes in almost companionable silence, save for the tension between them, and England swears he could taste the sharp tang of potential bloodshed in his beer, in his tongue.
“Little brothers aren’t ours to keep, you know.” The smile on Prussia’s lips seems wistful in the dim light. “They all grow up eventually.” He gives England a mocking, appraising glance. “Hell, even you grew up, but not too much. Still a little midget.”
“Fuck you. France and I have the same height, I’ll have you know.” England leans forward, resting his head against the cool glass of the beer bottle. He closed his eyes, and wills himself not to remember that little boy with the brightest smile he had ever seen, the one he used to carry in his arms and sing to sleep, the one who is now so very tall, and so very away. “He grew up too fucking fast,” he muttered, almost to himself.
“Don’t they fucking always?”
TBC
Notes:
Yeah, Russia did sent up plane 24 hours before President Obama’s visit to Canada. Russia denies sending this plane, of course.
I had to include the Canadian Tulip Festival. In Persia, to give a red tulip was to declare your love. The black center of a tulip represents the lover’s heart, burned to a coal by love’s passion. Yellow tulips were to declare your love hopelessly and utterly.
The flowers England gave Canada is similar to this. Larkspur (or delphiniums) is the birth flower of July and stands for lightness and levity. Lilies, especially white ones, stand for purity.
Canada’s afghan would have looked like this, only better looking. In my head canon, England likes to give out handmade gifts to people he likes a lot.
Believe it or not, Midsummer Night’s Dream will be performed in July 1 in Shakespeare on the Saskatchewan this year. XD
On to part 3