So, it snowed today. Bloody hell, it's so annoying... I keep getting conflicted. I love snow, but it's just irritating me right now. It's not settling completely and it's mostly slippery ice and slush (over which I ninja my way and nobody notices me slip), a poor excuse for snow. It's two degrees celsius and will continue to decrease throughout the week and snow more on Thursday... As you can guess, there's a huge hype about the snow, since we don't get it here in England often. We had a bit of an issue with it last February, but only for about a week. So now, it's all over the news, everybody's talking about it, and I'd like to jam a snowball full of knives down their throats...
Subsequently, due to my excessively PMS-y attitude, I'll be writing England with even more of a temper than usual. Possibly even more nostalgic, too... Bringing out the extremes today, aren't we, Gosan?
Originally, I was going to have Germany and England run into one another by a bus stop or inside of a quaint little café to reminisce (I'm a football/soccer fan, you see, and so their Christmas matches result in a strange feeling of complacency and contentment. No, I'm not a Germany/England fan... I just find their relationship intriguing. It's because I'm masochistic and sadistic.), but then I decided to be predictable and incorporate America into this spur of the moment little oneshot.
Tsk... If it had snowed last week, I'd have had a reason to be sick... and yet, it just happened. How did I get sick last week anyway? I'm still coughing, but it's not bad. But I just can't help but wonder where I picked up the cold... Not sure if it was a virus... Hmm... (I think I think too much.)
Let's just get on with it, hm? And, as always, don't worry - I haven't abandoned or forgotten any of my ongoing fics, so there's nothing to concern yourself with in regards to that. Thus, onwards we go... Also, please refrain from asking me how snow inspired whatever this turned out to be. XD;
O-o-O-o-O
Withered bluebells(1) drooped wearily in a dirty vase, cracked and pieced together haphazardly. The bright periwinkle (No, violet. Actually, purple. Not periwinkle. What colour was that again?) stood out starkly against the bland off-white vase and vinyl polymer floor, and their weak scent was dominated by the stench of chemicals drifting through the room like unperceivable smog (but somehow they still managed to vaguely invade his senses). They were evidently dying, but they were the only source of colour in the bland room, and so he stared at them, drinking in the royal purple, even if it was decaying into a repulsive brown.
He occasionally worried he would forget colours and have his dreams revert back to greyscale film snippets with poignant symphonies. There was a constant orchestra playing in his mind and filling the excruciating silence, but he couldn't tell who the composer was. Moonlight Sonata blurred with the Manfred Symphony and the numbers of symphonies and the names of composers just fell apart and scrambled together incorrectly. He recalled his old acquaintance, Roderich, having played some wonderful music on the piano and his brother, Gilbert, competing with him on the violin. He listened to both of them, and it was as if he was gifted and priviledged enough to listen to a concert with a furiously passionate Chopin and a strangely melancholy Vivaldi competing for first place.(2)
But he didn't often hear real music anymore. The music in this place consisted of terrified screams, strangled moans and suffocated gasps when people were aroused from nightmares or were pulled from the thoughts that drowned them so easily. Sometimes, he hummed or sang to himself, tunes off-key and lyrics mostly made up or nonsensical to anyone else but him. He enjoyed resorting to speaking in other languages so that nobody would understand him, and he refused to translate. He liked to play with people's minds, confuse them, fool them, and then stupify them. He craved control. He loathed surprises, and so he had perfected a schedule. He had demanded a watch and, after much deliberation and breakdowns on his part, the nurses had given in and provided him with a cheap one. He checked the time frequently and performed certain tasks at regular intervals, always wishing for the same regime as the day prior.
However, his feelings remained... inconsistent, in spite of his perfect schedule. He was exceedingly neurotic, but he couldn't remedy it. He was aware of his diagnosis, but he adamantly refused to believe it. He was absolutely fine, for goodness sake. Nobody was constant in their feelings, and sometimes people lost it. He found it downright confusing and absolutely pointless to try and help somebody who was just a waste of time. But when he had informed the ridiculous employees of that, they just stared at him ruefully with forlorn frowns on their faces. Goddamn it, he abhorred pity. It made him both figuratively and literally sick, but the latter was his own fault. God, how he hated emotions. That's why he wanted to die - he would cease to feel anything. He would be asleep forever and rot away into nothing, just like the flowers. The only difference death had to being asleep was that it lacked nightmares.
Tsk, the nightmares. He had once succumb to them and allowed them to control him, resulting in the voices. But he could tune them out like white noise now, since he had lived with them for so long. He just numbed to everything eventually, and he was glad, because when he remembered spending nights sobbing and shaking and trying to hold himself together as he allowed burning hot or freezing cold water to tear at his skin, he shivered in disgust. He had been so weak... No wonder they had frequently mentioned the anxiety - he really had been a personification of the word 'nervous', along with other synonyms.
They still brought it up, but he was never so terrified anymore... He used to be petrified of everything: of waking up, of moving, wondering what was lurking behind doors and corners. Now, he welcomed fear. He would love to experience that same life-threatening terror because he would feel alive. He could confirm his existence because right now, he just couldn't feel anything. He couldn't feel the words carved into his skin, or the previous scars that were jagged and left his skin feeling uneven and bumpy, or the burns, or the fucking feelings. He craved agony. He wanted to writhe in pain and scream for mercy but not mean it, because he'd be so glad he could feel it. He wanted to be used and abused like some easily dispensable drug, like his past lovers.
(But they weren't lovers, were they? The word 'lovers' assumed that there was affection and compassion in the relationship, but he was blatently deluded. There was just lust and the intention to have him for the physical pleasure and the control. God-fucking-damn it, the other person always had control.)
He didn't wear a straitjacket. Hardly anyone here did. Only those who had absolutely no control over their actions, and they were in another area. So he wore solely long sleeved jumpers over t-shirts, along with bands to support organisations - such as Children In Need, the RSPCA, Make Poverty History - although his friend often rolled his crimson eyes (He had a thing for contact lenses, although he insisted they were real.) and said, "Artie, man, we know your arms look like chopped up steak. There's no point in trying to hide it" to which Arthur responded by asking if he could find no better simile.
Arthur didn't have many friends. But he had known Gilbert since they were very young and, whilst they got into their fair share of trouble and scuffles, they often helped the other out. They had been through practically everything together and, in spite of the fact that they were both dissociative, and Arthur was reclusive whilst the German was outgoing, they were virtually inseparable. Insults and taunts were frequently thrown without thought that used to hurt and still stung a bit, but they knew their limits... even if they didn't keep to them. They always sat together at meal times, although they didn't always eat. Food made Gilbert feel sick, whilst Arthur just hated the thought of eating. And yet, they disliked the thought of the other wasting away, so they often forced each other. Once, the albino had gone so far as to take a large bite of god knows what, grabbed his friend by the neck, and shoved their lips together in what appeared to be (and practically was) a spontaneous, passionate, angry, bruising kiss.
Needless to say, Arthur had slapped him, and then thrown him on the table and punched him, to which Gilbert responded by grabbing the Brit with his legs and slamming him down too, pinning him down and threatening to spit in his eye unless he helped him sneak alcohol in that night.
Yes, they were close friends.
Transfixed by the flowers, Arthur didn't pay attention as the door to his room (his cell, his prison) flew open and a figure slipped inside. However, he was pulled from his nostalgic, conflicted reverie, the memories ceasing immediately like an old film as somebody announced their presence. Loudly. Had he mention how much he hated noise? He ignored the dialogue the other had initiated, and stood to slam a hand over the other person's mouth, glaring icy daggers as cornflower blue eyes smiled down at him, obviously having anticipated the reaction. His glare darkened considerably. Arthur didn't want to be predictable. People could use that to their advantage.
"Hey, babe," the other person said, their annoying voice muffled through his chilly fingertips, and he retracted them when he felt the warm breath ghosting across them. How disgusting... So much bacteria was transferred that way. He rubbed his hand on the other person's shirt, hoping that he hadn't devoured repulsive junk food and dropped it down his clothing today. As he brushed his hand jerkily over the I Love London cotton, another appendage snuck up to grasp it, threading their fingers together carefully. Arthur froze, staring at the intertwined hands fixedly. "How're you doing?"
What a stupid question it was. He raised his eyes to scowl condescendingly at the taller man, pursing his lips and letting a small huff of frustration escape his nose. Much to his displeasure, it sounded more like an anguished sigh than a sound of annoyance. Bugger all. And now the fool was staring down at him despondently, eyes swimming with regret, and Arthur couldn't stand it. He hated other people being unhappy, even if it was inevitable. He would gladly accept all the world's ailments - sicknesses, pains, regrets - if it meant helping others. He wished he could somehow steal the dejection in the other man's heart and take it as his own, so that, if he felt something, he could leave this place... He could make it so the other man was optimistic and jubilant as he used to be when Arthur was stubborn and irritable and only pretending not to care.
"That bad, huh?" the American murmured softly, voice sympathetic and caring but that's not what Arthur wanted. He didn't want understanding or kindhearted, he wanted him to get pissed off and tired of his difficult, mind-numbingly boring, stuffy, pathetic persona and storm out and leave him -
(What a liar he was. Of course he didn't want the jovial man to leave him. After having isolated himself all his life, that insufferable idiot was one of the very few people who had, unfortunately, cracked his shell and got past the deceptive mask and shield he constantly held. Stupid, stupid, stupid. They were both stupid. He shouldn't have let the other in, and the other shouldn't have tried. Please stop caring about me. I don't deserve it. I can't feel a thing. I'm winter.)
"It's snowing today," he said suddenly, and Arthur glanced up, expression still bland and dull, but something inside of him sparked at that. He recalled his mixed reactions when it had snowed before he had been abducted by this fucking place. He felt the camera start, flickering sepia toned images of him growling and grumbling about the cold, and then his friends dragging him outside to make snowmen, snow angels, have snowball fights and develop pneumonia. An image of the idiotic American wrapping himself around Arthur materialised in his mind, pressing their cheeks together and grinning stupidly whilst the Brit flushed and flailed and Gilbert, the obnoxious bastard, just took photos along with Kiku and Elizaveta and other nameless silhouettes of people from yester-year. "Do you remember the last time it snowed?" he continued, unperturbed by the silence. He beamed, smile radiating warmth and hope and damn it, you idiot, stop trying to help me. "Heh, I couldn't believe you hadn't been on a sledge... You got so scared! But I held onto you," he stated proudly, flashing his teeth as his eyes sparkled. Arthur blinked. "I never let you go," the other man mumbled, suddenly serious. His voice was soft and almost inaudible, having resorted to practically a whisper. He squeezed Arthur's hand and then lifted his other hand to rub his cheek fondly. "And I never will," he promised.
Arthur stared blanky, his only response being his eyes fluttering and his hand twitching in the other's grasp. Why? his mind screamed desperately, helpless and fearful, even if he didn't feel it. Why do you want to make yourself miserable by being near somebody so broken? He licked his dry lips, almost grimacing at how chapped they felt, and momentarily allowed his tongue to probe testingly at the cuts on his lips, revelling in the metallic, rusty taste of dried blood. "Picking up shards of glass," he whispered hoarsely, continuing on from his thought, "will only leave you hurt too."
The fool stared at him, eyes slightly wider than usual, evidently astonished. Whether it was due to Arthur's effort to speak (as he rarely spoke, only ever doing so when the idiot left. His mind repeatedly pleaded don't leave don't leave don't leave me like a mantra whilst a simple one-syllable bye left his lips.) or because of the words he had spoken, he wasn't sure. But then, the personification of sunshine smiled, softly, bittersweet, but open and honest. "I'd rather lose part of myself than all of the person I love," he replied, once more shocking Arthur into silence. What an idiot. He was supposed to be clueless and unintelligent, but his cheerful persona didn't detract from the underlying wisdom or profound musings underneath it all. The hidden depth the foolish man secretly held concerned Arthur. He wasn't sure of what he was capable of, and he was never prepared for anything he said.
"Anyway," he continued, as if they hadn't just said anything of significant meaning. "It's snowing, and I know you not-so-secretly love the snow. So I got you a Get Out of Jail Free card," he said, winking privately, something that Arthur remembered used to vaguely amuse him. Such a childish man, he was. "I'm allowed to take you out for a few hours, so let's make the most of it. Oh! Almost forgot," he said, grinning, and pulled out a pathetic looking scarf. "I brought your scarf." He wrapped the gaudy wool around Arthur's neck carefully, making sure he didn't put it on too tight, lest the Englishman react violently. "Do you remember it?" he asked, trying to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice.
The dull, murky green eyes remained dead, and he sighed, but then Arthur mumbled, "We made it together. Two years ago. It was Christmas Eve and we were snowed in." He paused momentarily, obviously not noticing the immense pleasure growing in the other blond man's face or how the blue eyes brightened considerably. "We went on the roof and you tried to climb down. The snow was up to your waist and you couldn't move. I had to get a ladder. You got sick and I made you soup and you said it was disgusting, so I shouted at you and threw it on the floor and then we both laughed." He stopped suddenly, and glanced downwards, his long fringe obscuring his face. "And... then, you... kissed me..."
He suddenly felt a warm hand sneak under his chin, and his face was tilted up to meet bright azure eyes and a brilliant smile. "You're blushing!" the other declared happily, as if he had just been awared a lifetime supply of hamburgers, video games, and those stupid socks with reindeers on them that flashed. "You're so cute when you blush." Arthur glowered at him, willing the blood in his face to dissipate. He had to have a good blood flow everywhere but his hands and feet, didn't he? "Anyways, let's get outta here," he suddenly decided, stroking Arthur's face once more before stuffing his hand in his pocket, and allowing their joined hands to fall between them. "This place is so boring. I can't wait 'til you get out. We'll go to a theme park or something to make up for the boring blahness. Whaddaya say, Artie?"
Arthur wished the moron wouldn't smile... It made him feel weird... He turned away, shrugging his shoulders slightly, and tried not to imagine how the other man's face would fall slightly. He hated how he disappointed people, especially him...
The Brit kept his eyes glued to the linoleum floors, grimacing at the smell of chemicals and mint toothpaste, vomit and blood. He briefly glanced up at the man beside him to determine his reaction but, unfortunately, he had pocked the wrong moment to look, because blue eyes met his and he offered Arthur another one of his smiles. He looked away speedily, warmth rising in his cheeks again for whatever reason. Stupid American with his stupid smiles.
He made a strange animalistic sound as they departed from the automatic doors. A snowflake immediately landed on his nose, and he blinked in wonder before glancing up at the sky. It was pure white. Everything seemed white, but not in a disturbing way like the claustrophobia-inducing walls of his prison. It seemed... pure. Relaxed. Content. So, he watched in awe as snow cascaded slowly but steadily from the endless sky, coming to rest softly on the waiting ground.
"It's been snowing consistently for a couple of days," the American said suddenly, always having to break the silence. But Arthur found that he didn't mind it so much when it was his voice. It sort of decreased the chilling atmosphere. "Are you cold?" he asked, as if reading the Englishman's thoughts.
He shook his head, but buried his face deeper into the silly little scarf they had knitted together. It was red, white, and blue, but the stitching had crossed, there were holes, and it was uneven and loose. There was a lopsided heart stitched in red which the foolish American had attempted to do. But it was rather... sweet, really. He felt more warmth rise in his cheeks and tried to force it to move to his hands.
In spite of his assurances, an arm weaved itself around his shoulders and drew him into the side of an old bomber jacket, the leather worn in places, and also a bit torn, but Arthur had always fixed any rips. It smelt like arabica beans, aftershave, ginger spice and peppermint, but Arthur knew by now that that scent was just pure Alfred. Imperceptibly, he snuggled closer, just to inhale that tantalising, relaxing scent again and allow warmth to be transferred between their bodies as it used to.
He watched lazily, stretched out languidly like a sated cat, as the other blond crawled over him, bright eyes somehow highlighted in the moonlight, and he reached up to remove the glasses. A tanned hand wove around his wrist, and the unspoken don't lingered in the air. Arthur scrutinised the other, eyes flickering over the flushed but determined face, and pulled his arm back as he fell down onto the scarlet satin sheets. Alfred followed after, slowly lowering himself over the waiting man, and allowed his heated breath to flutter over his lips with the promise of more.
Arthur felt an impatient little whine escape from his throat involuntarily, and flushed in embarrassment when a low chuckle slipped from the warm lips of the man with blue eyes. He let his lower lip jut out slightly, torn between being downright sulky and partially alluring. Amused but enthralled, Alfred leaned forward to close the minimal gap between them, their lips moulding together like broken puzzle pieces.
"...thur? Arthur?"
He glanced up, wide-eyed, at the concerned face of the same man from his vision. His expression didn't change in the slightest, but he knew he was steadily turning a vulgar red. The worried frown melted from Alfred's face and transformed into that bloody blinding smile, relieved, slightly befuddled and a mixture of numerous other emotions. The contradictory man had the emotional capacity of a teaspoon(3), and yet he probably felt the most... Confusing American.
He noticed that he was sitting down, his hands on Alfred's shoulders and clutching at them, his fingers white and trembling. The American was knelt before him, face flushed, but mostly from the cold. His weird cowlick (that he insisted wasn't because of gel; his hair was naturally gravity defying) stuck up determinedly, and the rest of his hair was covered in flakes of snow. "You okay there, Artie?" he enquired, sincerity lacing his tone as he regarded Arthur.
He licked his lips, blinking in confusion and taking in breaths of air inconsistently as if he was only just learning how to breathe. Shallow, deep, gasp, shuddering breath. His brows laced together and he shut his eyes, feeling strangely dizzy. He could hear Alfred's voiced reverberating in his head, jumbling together with all of his other thoughts, and it was making him bewildered and it was making his head hurt, so-
Lips together, unified, needy. I can't breathe, please help me- but don't-
"I'm not a china doll, you idiot," he found himself blurting out without thinking about it, suddenly realising he was gasping for breath and lying on top of Alfred who was embedded within the snow, looking extremely lost. "Don't... treat me... like one...?" he added, tone questioning, as if surprised by his own voice. He sounded... alive. He wasn't mumbling or mute, he was... actually speaking. He could hear himself and he could hear the wind; voices shouting and laughing; cars screeching and their horns honking in the distance. He could feel the cold leather of Alfred's jacket beneath his fingertips, and moved his hand to feel the fabric of his thin shirt, his frosty skin and trembling lips. He could feel it...?
He could hear something else, a strange, slightly hysterical and somewhat elated sound of garbled, slurred laughter, and the tingles from his lips told him that it was him. He closed his lips and slipped a hand over his mouth, nipping at his skin harshly with his teeth and wincing, and now his arms were burning and he felt his legs ache. He collapsed against Alfred, clinging to him again, eyes screwed shut as he gasped and writhed, the self-inflicted injuries littering his flesh suddenly pulsating in rivulets of agonising heat. Then, hands that he couldn't determine the temperature of were cupping his face, and desperate, needy, hopeful lips slid against his own. It was prolonged but hardly passionate, just lips without invading one another's mouths or battling for dominance and for once he didn't care that he had no control.
"Al...fred," he said slowly, as if testing the word, and the lingering aftertaste it left on his tongue. He licked his lips and gripped Alfred tighter, his hands absolutely white with the pressure he was applying, and his untrimmed nails dug into the coat uncaringly. "Alfred... I can... feel..."
Suddenly, he was hoisted up, the world spinning momentarily, and Alfred was hugging him, embracing him, holding him as if he were terrified of ever letting go. Uncertainly, he wrapped his stinging arms around the American, moving to bury his face in the (his) idiot's shoulder, only for his lips to be captured in a long, impoverished, clumsy, loving kiss.
(Please don't leave me again, my love-)
"Look," he whispered suddenly, breathless, flustered. (And good God there are too many feelings right now and I don't know how to-) "There's ambrosia growing here..." he whispered in amazement, carefully picking the swaying flower out of the heavy layer of snow. He inspected it focusedly for a moment, and then determinedly held it out, almost hitting Alfred.
Blue eyes blinked. So, so, blue and so beautiful. How had he been so impassive towards the colours lurking within that expressed freedom, the freedom Arthur needed- "You want me to take it?"
He frowned. Oblivious idiot, why else would he have shoved the flower at him? "Do you know what it means?" he demanded quietly after he placed it into Alfred's waiting palm. His fingers closed around it protectively, and he glanced from the very much alive petals to Arthur's smouldering (but still only half-alive) emerald eyes. He shook his head. He expected Arthur to scoff or snort derisively and make an insulting remark, but that was the old Arthur. This one didn't even blink. He still wasn't completely there. But maybe someday, he could be... (He's feeling, he's alive, he's still Arthur. I still love the broken Arthur too.) "Ambrosia," the fragile but not delicate, broken but not dead, Arthur but not Arthur whispered, "means 'your love is reciprocated'."
He blushed, and Alfred smiled. He tentatively grasped Arthur's hand again and, after a long moment of thought, the Englishman allowed their fingers to intertwine. Several minutes past as they stood there, watching the snow and enjoying each other's presence, minds drifting in and out, before Arthur tugged on Alfred's hand. The latter turned, opening his mouth to question after the Brit's well-being, and froze when he was sent a reproachful, wary, but ever-so-slightly hopeful smile.
x.o.x.o
Pink camellias, red crysanthemums, daisies, white heather, and red and white roses (4) were strewn across the room. The scent of diverse flowers was overpowering, and Arthur almost swooned at the stark contrast of the smells chemicals and flowers - it was so different and so welcome. He vowed to have an extensive garden in the near future, full of all of these flowers and so many more like gardenias and-
"What's this, Arthur...?" a voice whispered, full of awe, slight trepidation, but sounding touched despite the bewilderment. He turned around and slipped his arms around his fiancé's slouched but slightly tense shoulders, brushing their lips together.
"Freshly ironed socks," he answered bluntly, a hint of sarcasm lacing his tone. Whilst he still didn't have as much of a grasp on it as he had done in the past, he was learning to insert the cynical tone into his words.
Alfred rolled his eyes, but they were slightly crinkled at the edges. "Shucks, Artie, d'you have to ruin the mood? You sure can be romantic, but then you have to go and ruin it by pointing out my stupidity," he murmured sulkily, lips tingling at the feeling of Arthur's breath brushing them.
"So you admit it then. Your stupidity," he mumbled, eyes half-mast as they flickered from his eyes to his mouth and back again.
"Is now really the time for friendly banter?" whispered the impatient American, his voice bordering on whining, and Arthur breathed out a small chuckle.
"You're the one wasting time with needless words," he replied with an impish little smirk, and so he was guided through the array of flowers and onto the bed, the soft, silky sheets sending vibes of pleasure through his hands. It was so smooth... He loved feeling things. It was horrible being numb, hopeless, like he wasn't alive but he was conscious, under constant anaesthesia. But now, gasping and moaning (and Alfred, oh god, Alfred, please, get the bloody fucking hell on with it or I don't know what I'll do-), writhing in a disconcerting mixture of pain and pleasure (How can I be feeling so much?), their lips and bodies dancing together, eyes meeting and fluttering in between, he could feel again. All of the times he intentionally hurt himself or tried to go further seemed not-quite-but-almost sort of... ludicrous. Sometimes, he still wanted to drag a blade across his skin and revel in the momentary agony and the lingering sting; watch, entranced, as crimson slipped down his white flesh and dripped onto the floor (Because the stains prove I was there. The scars prove I was alive. The pain proves I am alive.), but now... those cornflower blue eyes, strong warm hands, grating wind chime congested laugh, lingering voice (Not the other voices in my head beyond the white noise but a real one, a real voice - his-)... Those were the things that made him feel alive. Made him want to feel alive...
Satisfied, lethargic, content and comforted, they curled up together, limbs tangling and hair tickling each other. "So," Alfred murmured softly into blond hair that smelt of strawberry-scented shampoo, old books, tea leaves and burnt something, "are you gonna tell me what all those flowers mean? I know red roses mean romance. Or love."
Arthur sighed, shaking his head as if he had explained it before even though he hadn't. Like they had been together for more years than they were alive. "When flowers are put together, the meaning can change." He paused, burying his face into Alfred's shoulder, and mumbling shyly against it: "Red and white roses together mean unity..." He thread his fingers through Alfred's, and the American squeezed it. "Pink camellias mean... I... long for you..." He cleared his throat. "Daisies are for innocence, loyal love, purity, romance and gentleness." He stopped.
"...And red crysanthemums?" Alfred probed, interest piqued now that the other had lapsed into silence.
"Goodnight, Alfred," Arthur said.
"Wha-? No, tell me what they mean, Artie!"
"Then find out for yourself if you're so interested."
"Tell me nowww!"
"No. Goodnight."
"You suck."
"...I l...l-lo... I lo..."
Alfred's features softened, and he nuzzled into the other man. "I love you too," he said, and Arthur nodded.
x.o.x.o
Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.
1) Bluebells mean everlasting love and constancy. (As well as other things such as humility and gratitude, but it was primarily the sappy 'everlasting love' that made me use bluebells. By the way, just because they were wilting didn't mean they lost their meaning!)
2) Vivaldi is a famous violinist. Well, supposedly. I realise that not many people seem to know that person. Eheh... But, basically, I was stating that both Austria and Prussia were bloody brilliant with their respective instruments. Also, I love picturing Prussia as a violinist...
3) Hehe, I had to throw a Harry Potter reference in there. Oh, nostalgia. How you haunt me...
4) Red crysanthemums mean 'I love you too'. Tsk, silly Arthur, he could say 'Your love is reciprocated' but not the simple form of it. They're the same! But then again, he was still rather out of touch with his feelings when he informed Alfred of the meaning of ambrosia. And Arthur nodded at the end to confirm that Alfred was correct in saying that because that's what the flower means. XD (I get like Arthur when I try to say 'I love you'... guh...)
Arthur explained the meanings of the other flowers. :) I just imagine him being in tune with floriography, especially because he loves gardening and it just appears to fit his character. I love flowers and knowing their meanings... I can imagine that I'd only ever be giving daffodils to people... -smiles bitterly-
I have too much fun describing senses... You see, when I depict smells, I keep thinking of when Hermione was explaining a potion and saying what Ron smells like. It was a love potion. -giggles- Uwaa, so cute... /slapped
They are rather... OOC... in here, admittedly. This is an AU, and Al's supposed to be a bit of a vulnerable, sunshine-y lost puppy who hides his bad feelings, and Arthur... maa, you can sort of establish his character for yourself. He and Gilbert were in a psychiatric hospital. I'll allow you guys to guess what they were suffering from. It'll be interesting.
Originally, it was just going to be your regular oh no one of them got fever and now they're sick I guess the other has to take care of him ensue kawaii scenes from which we may fangirl over and so on and so forth, but then it... turned into... yeah, as stated before - whatever this is. I'm not too sure. But it did snow today... Everyone is really excited, but I'm torn. I like the snow a lot and I think it's beautiful, but... meh, I'm not sure. I'm indecisive about everything. And out of touch with my feelings.
The television is playing a song going sun, sun, sun... How inappropriate. -throws a spear at it-
You know, thanks to Japan... I tend to speak in a form that I wouldn't used to. As in, sometimes, I speak as if one would when reading a translated manga... I'm not sure if you'll understand what I mean by that. I tend to hedge a lot... That's even more unclear, isn't it? Hedging is a linguistic technique you utilise to be polite, so when you say, "I'll think about it," or "I'll consider it," even if you really mean "no." That's hedging. You are welcome for the lesson, no need to thank me. (Insert your regular self-depreciating comments here.)
I've rambled enough... I hope you enjoyed this little thing which I'm not sure what to call. As always, thank you ever so much for reading. And, what are your favourite flowers?