Title: petal by petal
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: France/Canada
For maplesandroses' springtime in Montreal prompt #72
I.
In the kitchen, she went through the drawers. He knew this because he had been awake for ten minutes, at the first sound of the spare key turning the lock; her fingers had fluttered across his forehead, teasing an errant curl, but never touching his skin. His glasses, she had pocketed, perhaps to return for later. On the living room couch, he slumbered on, an act well-mastered, well-rehearsed.
He wondered if she noticed.
II.
In his youth, he'd drawn her. It was nothing compared to her portraits, fashioned by more experienced artists, transient beings he'd met only with the touch of fingers to stone, etchings on a nameplate or in memoriam.
He'd drawn her, then, because he'd thought of her as his mother - the most beautiful woman in the world, and all children, didn't they draw their mothers?
When he'd lost sight of her, even then, he'd still known how to capture her likeness, but only in his mind's eye. Translated into paper, it fell short; far too rough, far less fragile. She, the only woman in his life, and he had no means of surpassing the other men in hers.
My muse, he'd written, instead, and words came, easily, when there was no competition.
III.
She cursed, less than ten feet away. The oil made a crackling sound; she turned the knob, setting the fire low. He could hear the water running, from the sink.
Her beautiful fingers, long and bony and unlike any other woman's - they were likely red and raw from the slight burn. He could very well take her fingers into his mouth, look up at her with lidded eyes, if he had more courage, more bravado, like his brother. (If she asked.) But he did not (and she did not, either).
He curled into his pillow, closer to the edge of the sofa. He watched her press her sore fingers to her face, imagined her eyes welling with tears.
He could not.
IV.
They'd talked of love, in the Place de la Bastille. The irony was not lost to him when she'd entered in a trench coat, red and worn; she'd asked, "Are you leaving me?"
"Are you ill?" He had answered, in a rare show of wit; he blamed youth, and hormones. She had laughed, a clear, loud ringing in his head; rise up to the occasion.
And yet he was struck dumb, with fear. The fear of too much love, too much unconditional devotion; the fear that her magnificence would overtake him, would swallow him whole.
Taking - she was very good at always taking and never giving anything in return.
"You should find a young girl to spend your winter with," she had said; her profiteroles, forgotten, after the initial amusement of the charade had worn off. "Stave off the chill, and be blessedly indulgent."
If there were any hesitance in his heart, he did not show it. "Arthur would disapprove."
"Yes, of course, he would," she'd said, suddenly distracted by memories he could not breach. She stroked the back of his hands, with fond tenderness, in spite of herself; outside the cafe, they must have looked like lovers, somehow.
He withdrew his hand, and drank his wine.
V.
He smelled crepes, from the kitchen. Crepes and eggs and orange juice, fresh from the grater. If there were any fault in this domesticity, he did not acknowledge it. He could taste breakfast in his mouth even before he'd seen it, the same way he could feel the satisfied clenching of his heart before he'd seen Françoise.
VI.
There was only one time in his life that he had confessed to her, had told her what years and years of accumulated restraint had prevented, and it had only ended in awkwardness, in futility.
"I," he said, and something in Françoise crumpled; her eyes turned cold, suddenly, and he could not read her.
"You do not," said Françoise. "You only think you do, but you do not."
He did not feel anger at her denial; instead, he felt humbled, but not ashamed.
"Oh, Matthew," said Françoise; her knuckles slid against the slope of his back, the trembling of his shoulders. "You love too much. Like a young boy."
He stared at his knees, no longer bare; young boys did not wear slacks, as he did, he wanted to argue. Through the gaps of his fingers, he searched for any signs of skinned knees, of bruises. There were none.
Françoise took his silence; held it close to her and treated it as consent. There were many things she did not understand about him; there were many things he could not bear to tell her. He lay, quiet, against her, suddenly more tired, more frail. She took care not to let her nails scrape against his cheek, when she touched his brow. Delicately. Hers.
"But," said Françoise, continuing, "you will always be a young boy to me, won't you?"
Ah, how cruel. How cruel and still beloved, among all things.
It took decades before he could face her, and she him, without wanting to say, I do not understand you anymore.
VII.
His cell phone rang; he heard her cross the floor, click-clack-click of heels he wondered why she bothered to wear, even just to visit. His arm poked out of the blankets she'd draped over him, to reach it.
Help Iggy came over to make breakfast why is my life like this said his screen, from Alfred, no doubt. No proper punctuation, only the desperation of a man doomed to his fate. He had to smile at that.
"You are keeping secrets from me," Françoise asked, lightly; she leaned against the doorframe, hair falling across her shoulders in waves. "Is it someone important?"
He nodded, suddenly bashful, fearful of her, again. He hid his shyness behind the distraction his cell phone had to offer him, and she did not press on for answers. Some things were too delicate to touch on, without remembering.
"How irritating," said Françoise, but her lips curled, slightly, into a smile.
Her eyes, her smile; he could not understand it, and yet, his heart. It stilled.
VIII.
nobody, not even the rain, had such small hands
- e. e. cummings