England, America decided, was potentially the most problematic possible receptacle of a love declaration.
Sure, sure, this kind of declaration was never simple and all, but when the person (or country, as it was the case) in question suffers from and almost pathological aversion from anything even remotely French, the situation tends to worsen in an exponential way. Say whatever you want about France – most of it will be true anyways – but almost all great romantic ideas seem to have come from him.
First, he thought of sending flowers. Tradition demanded a bouquet of red roses, twelve of them, without any leaves or thorns. Just that configured, at least, three very big problems. Granted, England liked roses, quite a bit actually. But his favorite roses were the yellow ones with red tips, the ones he had taken to calling Tudor. It was also necessary to consider proportions: twelve tiny little flowers might be enough for a tween little boy who's all shy and stuff, but the greatest nation in the world trying to express the entire myriad of loves he felt for the one who has always been the only constant in his life simply required more. Last, but in no way less important, was the fact that leaves and thorns are vital in a rose. They don't diminish its beauty, rather they tell a story, and make the beauty of the flower less vain and more real.
Then, he thought of chocolates. They release endorphins, endorphins make people happy, everybody likes being happy; ergo, everyone should like chocolate, right? Well, as brilliant as that logic was, the great problem here is that trying to win someone's heart through their stomach only works if this someone has a magic little thing called taste.
Definitely, that was not the case.
No, chocolates would never work. In culinary terms, all England really cared about was bad food and tea – America, logically, knew as much about either thing as he knew how to tell apart Latin-American countries.
There was still the possibility of using poetry, but… honestly, where do you find the guts to give poetry to the country which The Beatles came from? It would be like giving a pet kitten to Greece or anything in that level. Of course there were poets in America, and some pretty good ones, at that; but, truth be told, it was not one of them to sing that all you need is love.
This entire complex thinking process lasted quite a few months, of course. Not as much because it was an important decision and all that, but more because England was absolutely frustrating and thinking of something that was completely invulnerable to any cruel English comment was very tedious.
His absence didn't go by unnoticed. There was no way not to notice the calm, the silence, the peace; it had been quite a few months since anything extremely valuable and ancient was irreparably broken into thousands of little pieces in the United Kingdom's house. Thus, as soon as he got a break from his bosses, the nation decided to cross the pond and see just what was going on with the youngest. He'd never spend more than one or two weeks without trying to force him into watching some silly comedy movie or eating something covered in fat.
But that could be explained by him being kneeling in the middle of his yard up to his elbows in dirt, England surmised.
"Don't you have enough rose bushes already?"
There was dirt on his face too, England noticed, including in his glasses. Somehow. He smiled and nodded.
"Oh, I had none of this color yet."
He looked around them. Red, white, yellow, lavender, pink, burgundy, orange. Hm. America got up, drying the sweat on his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.
"Well, my garden isn't going anywhere. Would you like to come in?"
It was a few hours later, sitting on a velvety couch and watching Across the Universe, that England connected the dots. The smell of burnt tea leaves. The American actors chanting All my loving. Everything.
"Y' know," he started, taking one of the hands with dirt beneath the fingernails, "you could have just said something, instead of taking months trying to think of anything."
America smiled. "But what would be the fun in that, Iggy?"
Smiling as well, he pressed a quick kiss across the other one's lips. "Not supposed to be fun, git."
"Love you too, old man."
Two weeks later, the bi-color roses had taken over the garden.