Title:Floriography: The Language of Flowers (2)
Disclaimer: Hetalia is not my creation.
Pairing: America × England
Rating: PG-13: SO MUCH FLUFF. *is embarrassed*
Author's notes:I forgot to mention these drabbles, while loosely interconnected, aren't arranged in any chronological order or anything.

2. Honeysuckle

"Hey, England, England! Hey Englaaaaaa~nd!"

"What is it, America?" Arthur snaps for the umpteenth time for the day, looking up from his book with an irritated scowl. It is summer in his land and it is a scorcher, the kind that usually leaves him parched with thirst and a blinding migraine, and he is trying to have some peace and quiet in the cool shade of his garden, but the blasted American (who came here uninvited, again) isn't letting him, and kept on bothering him with his antics and takes all his attention away from what he should be doing, which is trying to relax his poor, fraying, overheated nerves. "What do you want?"

England's eyes go wide when without a another word, America, looms over him, arm seeming to reach above his head, and then, before England could react, he plunks something on his head that slips down to his brow.

"What the bloody hell—" he moves to snatch it off him, but abruptly stops when his fingers close over leaves and stems and…flowers? He turns to America, who is grinning like a loon, blue eyes bright with mischief, making a thumbs-up with both hands.

England yanks the damn thing off, unmindful of America's protests ("Aww! Don't be so mean, England!" "Belt up, America. And who told you you can go about defacing my plants?"). It is a head wreath made out of honeysuckle stems wound around each other to form a ring. America must have gotten the flowers from the one wrapped around the trunk of the ancient hazel tree not far from where they were.

"Idiot. What do you think I am, a girl?" he grumbles out, trying hard not to blush, but he could already feel the blood rushing to his cheeks, warming his cheeks. He inwardly curses his complexion and his own vast knowledge for this indignity. America, oblivious idiot that he is, probably wouldn't understand the true reason why England is blushing.

"Don't take it off! It looks awesome on you! And I worked so hard to make it!" America whines, and he takes the wreath from England's hands, and places it on England's head again, more firmly this time. "Makes you look like one of your pretty imaginary fairy princess."

England's squawk of irritation and protest is interrupted when America suddenly leans closer and kisses him on his open mouth, tongue darting out to tease him, chapped lips pressing gently but firmly against his, and England could taste the sweet nectar of honeysuckle in him. It does not help that in the heat, the honeysuckle's fragrance is strong, and for a moment, it makes England's head reel.

England grips America's arm, resists and tries to break contact by pulling away, but then America cups the nape on his neck and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss, and that makes England close his eyes, and he gives in and kisses America back.

Notes:

Honeysuckles stand for the bonds of love, and for devotion and fidelity. In a way, it means, "Let me bind you—be my captive." :) Wikipedia says: "The hazel and the honeysuckle signify the two fated lovers Tristan and Isolde in Marie de France's Chevrefoil." In another source: "King Marc buries them together [Tristan and Isolde], and hazel and honeysuckle plants spring from the ground over their hearts and twine together over their grave."

The nectar of most honeysuckle plants are edible, and apparently tastes sweet.