Tidings of a Flower
He comes every afternoon, straight after school.
Arthur's only a boy, a very young human that mustn't be more than nine years old. But he never fails to come looking for me as soon as he leaps from the bus, messy blond hair flying as he sprints to the back garden, barely listening to his mother, hanging half outside the window, berating him as she eyes his bag discarded haphazardly in the middle of the floor with disapproval. His keen emerald eyes, so bright and vivid it reminds me of the foliage that surrounds me, are immediately searching, and I can never help but play, purposely hiding from him as he gingerly moves aside a bouquet of blue periwinkles to prod cautiously at the root of a bush he thinks I might be under.
The beginning breaths of summer were filtering through the trees, thick and warm, lungs feeling like sunshine as I flitted about from leaf to crisp, trembling leaf, silent as a lover's touch in the night. I peek out from behind conveniently placed honeysuckle, listening to his nonsensical humming as he searches for me at his own comfortable pace. Finally, in a flash of sunbeams and the slightest whispering rustle of leaves, I dart up and peck him on the cheek, startling him into gloriously innocent laughter that warms parts of my heart that the summer sun air never could. He holds out a hand for me and I nestle into it comfortably, feeling the familiar creases of his palm beneath my own tiny hands as he goes about his usual routine of telling me how his day was in his fascinating accent.
As always, he starts his recount with "Today Alfred did" – Alfred being the name of an infamous classmate notoriously known for pressing my dear Arthur's buttons since they were six. And yet I never hear of Arthur avoiding this so called nuisance, or tattling to his grown-ups about Alfred. They are indeed wonderfully complex creatures, humans. Arthur's soft, vaguely posh-sounding accent brings me out of my contemplations as he mentions something vastly amusing to me.
"He won't believe me, you know. Tells me I'm a right nutter whenever I say fairies are real. But they are – look at you."
I wish I could answer, but my voice is so quiet that he wouldn't hear me even if I did. His own voice is as full of wonder as it was that first afternoon he found me, the lonely tears of a forgotten child surging out of those forest eyes like springtime showers on a warm day. Even so, I pat his heart line in sympathy, though I do not believe his endeavour will be a rewarding one. After all, not many people could even see me, let alone believe. As if Arthur can sense my pessimism – he is a special one, isn't he? – he brings me closer and murmurs, "He's an idiot, but you'll see. I'll have you two chatting in no time!"
It's at this point that his mother calls him inside for lunch, the raucous, wild laughter rising from the house nearly completely masking the woman's clipped and stiff instructions. Arthur sets me down reluctantly on an umbel of Queen Anne's Lace and straightens himself up, a soldier preparing to march himself into battle. He stares down at me with longing and whispers a hurried farewell to me as we hear his mother's voice become shriller and sharper with stress. I give a sad smile to his retreating back, waiting until the back door is shut firmly behind Arthur before I flex my wings to shake out the feeling of disuse, and flutter away to tend to the garden.
I am but a simple flower fae, and I tell myself to stop the anxious feeling welling up in my chest as the racket in the house crescendos, to stop my teeth from worrying my bottom lip when the thought of this Alfred upsetting my Arthur when he inevitably shoots down my existence enters my mind. I am not a guardian angel sent to watch over this human. I have no obligations to anyone or thing but my flowers.
And yet, I have been telling myself the same thing for three years.
It's a chilly, frosted Tuesday morning when I see a slender, late-teen Arthur – my, how the years have flown – finally bring Alfred into our garden. The bespectacled, sky-eyed boy with hair the colour of sawdust and wheat peered around the place, a curious expression fixed on his handsome features, as if he's never seen a garden before. Arthur tugs him along by the hand, aiming for the shrivelled flowerbeds that have withdrawn from winter's biting cold, to where he knows he'll find me, protecting them from that frostbitten grip.
Old habits die hard as I skitter away, behind a drooping forsythia petal to hide, when my attention is drawn to their conversation.
"Not gonna lie Arthur, I still don't really believe-"
"Just you wait and see, she's real and it's taken me this long to get you here, so-"
"But it's fairies. I mean, seriously? I'm sorry about makin' fun 'o you for it when we were kids an' all, but you don't have to-"
"Will you just shut up and keep your bleedin' eyes open for her!"
I watch them with open amusement, moving closer every now and then for the sake of my curiosity. I hear Alfred claim that he doesn't believe, and yet at the same time I witness him follow Arthur's orders, darting eyes keen and alert, watching for the slightest twitch of small limbs, the smallest shiver of thinly crafted wings reflecting the early morning sun, anything to confirm Arthur's wild statements. I watch my human shudder in the frosty early air, and immediately straighten to reveal myself so he spends less time out here than he should, when the newcomer beats me to it.
"You cold, Artie?" Arthur scowled up at the mention of what apparently was a nickname I hadn't heard of before, and as he opens his mouth for what I assume will be a severe berating, Alfred pulls his heavy leather jacket from his own considerably taller and larger frame to drape it over Arthur's slimmer shoulders. This seems to quieten Arthur completely, and I lean forward from my perch just below their knees to watch blood flood into his face in a startlingly vivid shade. I find myself unwilling to break into what seems to be this little bubble belonging to just these two humans, fascinated with this new interaction I hadn't seen coming. I see Alfred smile gently at my all-grown-up human, my little boy who I've known for eleven years, my friend when all I've had were flowers.
"C'mon, we should get inside now, the bus'll be here any minute."
"But, we still haven't seen her…" Arthur trailed off into a disappointed silence, drawing the oversized jacket further around himself and blowing into his gloved hands.
"Hey, it's not like we can't come back," Alfred answered with a ridiculously sunny smile that rivalled summer. "You can still show me this, er…fairy of yours. If you can find her." He winked down at Arthur's frowning face, grabbing his hand and pulling him back towards the house. To my surprise, Arthur allowed himself to be lead, though he remained in quiet thoughtfulness, his gaze still transfixed on my empty flowerbed.
I drift up above the plants, insatiably inquisitive of this development, of the possibility that I may have been…not quite replaced, but certainly there was a part of Arthur that once belonged to me, that now resided with Alfred. And I couldn't bring myself to be bitter. I didn't have it in me to be spiteful of Alfred. I didn't want to force myself back in. Because Arthur looked as happy standing in the freezing morning frost, wrapped snuggly in Alfred's jacket, as he was when he looked at me.
I could have cried. I could have curled up under the warmth of a sparrow's breast and wallowed in this new sense of loss I now felt. I could have lost all hope of ever meaning anything to Arthur again, now that he had Alfred, and who would keep talking to a fairy as a teenager anyway?
I smiled. Because I knew I wasn't his guardian angel, and I never had been.
I smiled because I knew he'd finally found who was.
end
...So. This was something I had to write for my Creative Writing workshop at uni. It's only three pages, but even then it wasn't meant to be this long D: But I though, well, I actually put a little something into this, so if my class doesn't appreciate, maybe you guys will haha :) First non-smut thing I've written in years, and also first (but definitely not going to be the only) Hetalia fic. Hope you didn't find it too gross after nearly another year of inactivity~ :)
EDIT: GUYS! My class ended up really liking this! I got so many wonderfully nice compliments for it! This was, by the way, not worth any mark, this was for the critiquing part of the workshop where we analyse work that selected people have submitted and such. But it really gives me a confidence boost when people completely unfamiliar to Hetalia still understand where the story was coming from and it's just so nice, and thank you all who read without reviewing anyway, I still appreciate your time :)
MORE EDIT: Oh jeez, I forgot to mention someone! I have to credit alfjones on tumblr because she was actually the one who gave me the idea for this :) I was having trouble coming up with an idea for the workshop and she definitely helped out :) Thank you again, love~! X3