I can't decide whether this is cute, sad, or fluffy. Meh. CONTAINS A BIT OF FRUK! ENJOY!
I peek around the corner just in time to see England opening his door. He looks down and his mouth drops open in surprise.
On his doormat is a dozen long-stemmed red roses hand picked by me. It is Valentine's Day, and as usual I have given everybody one rose anonymously.
Except England.
I have given him twelve.
As I have done for the past eighty years.
And...
And it could happen any day now.
But I might not ever know when.
I watch England bend down to scoop them up as he observes them. I bite my lip, hoping he does not toss them away.
He does not.
He brings them inside.
I smile.
But as I walk away from his house the smile slips.
Eighty years.
It could happen any day now.
The streets are decked with red and pink streamers and hearts a I walk through. The air smells of fresh chocolate and sweets. The people shove past, trying to get to work or to flower shops for last-minute gifts.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk as people jostle past, and smile at the decorations. It is nice to see these people doing something special for their loved ones.
Men and women rush about, buying gifts and chocolates and flowers for one another, calling them sweet names and checking up on family. They spread the love of family and warmth and kindness, and a beautiful overflowing passion.
It makes my heart warm.
But then it clenches as I am bumped back rudely into reality. I continue walking lonesomely through London.
Amid all these people with loved ones, there are people alone, sitting at windows and staring longingly, wanting somebody to love. To care for.
Somewhere out there is a child with no family.
Somewhere out there is a poor, sad widow.
Somewhere out there is a man, who's wife left.
Somewhere out there, somebody is alone.
I shove these thoughts away. I do not want to think of the lonely people.
But I do anyway.
Because I am lonely.
I dig into my pocket and extract the rose. The rose I keep with me at all times. I lift the it to my nose and sniff the flowery scent, but beneath it there is something putrid. It smells like dead bodies and smoke and gun powder.
I withdraw the rose from my face.
The rose is beautiful, simple. It's petals are lush and red and the stem is magnificent.
But I look closer.
The ends of the petals are frayed. They are lighter pink mixed with gray and feel papery. The stem is brittle. It reeks of battle.
It is a slowly wilting rose.
The rose is wilting now in my hands as I stare at it.
To think such an object could be tied to the life force of a nation would seem impossible.
But it's not.
I pocket the rose and continue walking. The streets of London are so busy. They make me feel sort of at home.
"Oi! France! C'mere!"
I freeze.
It is England.
He is jogging towards me, wearing a leather jacket and a shirt with the Union Jack. Skinny jeans and black boots that accent his slender form.
I turn away.
"What?"
"I j-just want to s-say," England pants, stopping and bending over, wheezing, hands clutching his knees, "Th-thank you for the roses."
I stiffen. "I do not know what you are talking about."
"Don't play s-stupid with me, Frog, I know y-you left the r-rose on my porch!" England says.
I raise an eyebrow. "You are wrong, Angleterre. I hate your guts. Why would I do such a thing?"
"How the b-bloody hell should I know?" England asks, straightening up, "You're the one that l-left them."
"You are so very stupide, jerk England," I respond coolly, "I never gave you roses."
"Don't lie, I saw you," England says accusingly, jabbing his finger into my chest, face close, "I saw you fours years ago too. And about twenty years ago. You're good at hiding from sight, but there will always be one instance in which I spot you."
"If you really did see me," I say, lip curling upwards into a sneer, "Then why the fuck do you keep the roses?"
"Because, you git..." England pauses, then says, "I know. About you."
I let the sneer fall.
"You do?"
"Yes."
There is a moment of silence between the two of us, people bustling past us, not caring. The moment is tense.
I turn away.
"Go on. Laugh. I know you are wanting to."
I am surprised when he places a hand on my shoulder.
"You git," he says softly, "Why would I laugh about that?'
I tuck a strand of stray blonde hair behind my ear. Honestly? I do not know. But I lie anyways.
"It is something you would be doing."
"Not about something like this," England murmurs, "I can't bear to laugh about it."
I turn around slowly to face him. I pull the rose from my pocket and I place it into his waiting hand, and he lifts it to his rose. He smells it, and flinches. He hands it back to me.
"Why?" He asks quietly. I curl my fingers around the rose.
"I was once a great empire, Angleterre. I used to be strong. Strong and powerful. But then something happened to me and I am no longer strong. I am...I am weak. This is the price I must pay. For everything I have ever done," I say quietly.
England looks down at the rose. I want to throw it to the ground and stomp it into sparkling dust. I want the hateful thing to fall to the floor, but my fingers do not allow it.
"That's not fair," England sighs after a while, "I don't get it. I used to be great too. But why do you get punished?"
I look down at the rose again. My hand clenches it.
"It is a long and painful story to explain. It is difficult," I look him in the eyes, "I guess you do not get punished because you are young. You learn. I..."
I do not finish my sentence. England places a hand over mine and curls his fingers around the rose as well. "If it's painful, don't think about it."
"I try not to."
We begin walking, heading in the direction of a park.
"So why do you bring me roses?" England asks, letting his hand fall.
I look up at the sky.
"I guess it is my way of doing the apologizing to you. Of saying I am sorry. Of not being a better brother figure."
A single tear runs down my cheek and falls to the ground.
England does not notice.
"'Sorry?' Well it looks like you got your head out of your ass for once," England remarks, laughing, "So how much time do you have left?"
My hand nervously closes around the rose, which is back in my pocket.
"I don't know. It could be in a few months. In a year. Five years."
A few petals crumble beneath my fingers.
"Today."
England says nothing. After a while of walking, after a while of silence, of nothing being said between us, we begin to talk.
Of nothing, really.
Reminiscing the old days.
A few good memories we shared of each other.
I feel the petals disintegrate.
My price to pay.
For a lifetime of war.
Of hardships.
Of loved ones lost.
I look at England.
He is beautiful.
His eyebrows are drawn together and his green eyes are concentrated on the ground as he talks about the times where we raised Canada and America together.
We felt like a family.
A happy family
...A family that is no longer together.
How many years has it been?
Since I lost Canada to England?
Since America revolutionized against England?
We continue to talk.
The February air is cold and we unknowingly draw closer.
I look at England again.
He really is beautiful.
I slowly turn his head my way with my finger on his chin. He is surprised.
I kiss his lips softly and he twitches, trying to pull away, trying to hit me.
I do not let him go. Not yet. I want to make this kiss a good last memory. He squirms and kicks.
I just kiss.
I pull away at last and walk from him, not looking back.
He shouts curses at me.
The petals are slowly turning into dust.
He chases after me.
I break into a run.
The flower falls from the stem.
He tears through the crowd.
"COME BACK HERE, YOU SNOBBISH TWIT!"
The stem is cracking slowly into brittle pieces.
I shove my way into the train station.
"WHAT THE HELL?"
The rose wilts.
I enter onto a train without even buying a ticket. I had somehow gotten past security.
So did England.
I look back at him as he stands angrily before me. He opens his mouth to yell but I press my lips to his and then to his forehead. I say the words softly against his skin.
"Je t'aime tougours, Angleterre."
I pull away.
He raises a hand, to hit me probably.
But he wraps his arms around my shoulders and buries his head softly into my neck.
"Why, you git?" He sobs, "Why now, when you're going to die?"
I raise a hand and run it through his hair.
"I was always going to die."
He is crying.
Over me.
I do not understand why.
He lifts his head to kiss me this time. I kiss back. My arms wrap around his waist and we are pressed together for a few seconds.
I release him.
The rose is gone.
It's ash now.
I breathe a long, drawing breath.
It is fresh and clear.
I stroke a thumb under England's eye.
He realizes it.
"No..." he says loudly, "No...!"
I smile.
"FRANCE!"
Another breath.
My last.
I was a great person.
A great empire.
Powerful.
It is gone now.
"Don't..."
I close my eyes
and I am gone.
I was a slowly wilting rose.
I bang my fist on the metal of the train and I cry.
Dammit.
I get kissed and a door opens to feelings I never realized I had.
And then he fucking disappears.
Fucking bloody typical.
I become close to somebody
and then they are gone
and I am alone again.
And the worst part is that the somebody that managed to open the door to my heart was bloody France and he fucking disappeared.
Within less than a hour that I had realized these feelings,
he's gone.
It's unfair.
He was once a great empire.
A pirate.
A soldier.
A friend.
A brother.
A father.
A lover of all.
He defended his family.
America, Canada, Italy, Romania, Spain, Romano, Seychelles, Prussia,
me.
And his payment?
He fucking disappears.
The tears are running down my face in thick streams.
I hadn't realized
how much he done for me
until now.
When he tended my wounds.
The roses he left me.
When he drives me home when I'm drunk.
How he puts up with me on America's birthday as I sob and cry and shake.
France has done these things for me.
And I have just now noticed them.
I am on my knees now and sobbing into my hands. Nobody else on the train around me seems to have noticed a man disappearing into thin air.
I cry harder.
Nobody comforts me.
It takes a few minutes, bu I eventually calm down.
I make a promise.
I will find you, France. And I will bring you back.
He is powerful.
He is strong.
He is the country of love.
He is France
and he can never truly be gone.
I wipe my face clear of tears and notice something on the ground.
It is a rose, red, fresh, and sparkling.
I pick it up and hesitantly lift it to my nose
and inhale.
It smells like flowers. Like cologne. Like a hint of chocolate. Like the inside of a new car. Like something warm.
It is lush and soft.
The train pulls to a stop and people begin exiting. I pocket the rose as I turn it leave the train, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. I feel the rose grow a little heavy in my pocket.
It smells like France.
*Je t'aime toujours, Angleterre- I'll love you forever, England
Of course the ONE one-shot I love to pieces is also the shittiest one ever for a pairing I have never written for.
Wonderful. *sarcasm*
Was this fluffy, cute, or sad? Or what else? I can't decide.
Should I continue this?
Please comment your opinions!