Head-canon note: Australia is cousin to the North American Bros.

--

12/31/09, 11:55 pm

The party had somehow managed to calm down long enough to move over to America's house for New Year's Eve, via a plane provided by the U.S. Air Force (because he was America, dammit, and he could get a plane if he wanted to!) Thousands of people crowded the streets of New York City, and this year, a huddled mess of Nations watched the New Year's Eve ball drop with them. America stood at the front of the crowd, conversing with everyone around him; the Americans seemed drawn to him.

England adjusted his earmuffs; they really couldn't keep any sound out at all. At least at home he could turn down the volume at five in the morning; here he was falling asleep where he stood, half-soaked by the rain and snow, being squished on all sides by people he either didn't know or didn't particularly want to spend New Year's Eve with (or both), and to top it all off, it was almost deafeningly loud.

He looked over at America, who had his arms around his brother and their cousin, singing along to the last musical guest of the night. The three had been almost inseparable the last week, even going so far as to wait outside the bathroom for one another. It was more than a little annoying. Then again, one of them had been sending him daily roses, so they were probably entitled to causing some annoyance. The last week's worth of roses had been delivered particularly creatively. One had been stuck in an empty bottle in the kitchen, one left on his seat on the plane, one tied to his suitcase, and so on.

The performance ended, and the countdown began.

As loud as the crowd was, America's voice seemed to rise above the rest, as if he had all of the voices of millions of Americans all shouting out through him. England turned away, and watched the New Year's Ball descend slowly. He counted out the last few seconds, "Five… four… three… two… one…"

…And was tackled by three men and a rose. "Happy New Year, England!"

"Get off of me!" He grabbed the rose out of the hand shoved in front of his face and pushed himself out of the group hug he was being subjected to. "It's 2010 in this time zone, and I'm going back to the hotel to get some sleep." England shoved his way through the crowd, pulling his hat down over his face. He was sure he was blushing; his face couldn't be that warm in this freezing weather otherwise, even in a crowd like this.

America watched England try to squeeze his way through the crowd. Canada poked at his arm and asked, "So this is the last year, eh?"

"Yeah."

"Have you figured out what you're going to do with the last rose?"

America knew precisely what he would do with the last rose. He had it all planned out, and even had a backup plan. But he wasn't about to spoil his "how we started dating" story. Besides, he still had a few problems to work out; namely, how sleeping flowers would react to time zone changes. "Not yet." He hated lying to his own brother, but that was a surprise he didn't want to spoil. Not yet.

America tuned out the cheers around him. He's been through enough New Year's Rockin' Eve Celebrations; it was easy enough my now.

I'm going to tell him this year. No more chickening out. Heroes don't chicken out!

--

2/14/10

So how's this Valentine's Day for you? I think France is going to try to pay you a visit. Lock your doors.

So I heard that you took all of the thumbtacks out of your map. I don't understand why. It's not like you figured out who I am. I can tell. You're not that good of an actor. Are you giving up on figuring it out? Not that I have a problem with it, it's great for me, but you're not the kind of person to give up unless there's no possible way to succeed.

Do you not want to know?

That was just it. England didn't want to know who was sending him roses. He didn't know why he had ever started the damn elimination anyway. He was already down to three. That was too close. And, of course, of all people, America had to be one of them.

America. Why America?

Damn it, England thought, I want it to be America. I'm a terrible liar, and a terrible actor. It's not even a best out of three. If I was wrong, and it's someone else, someone I've already disregarded, I… I'd feel let down. Why America?

--

4/3/10

After day 700 being Christmas Eve, day 800 feels anticlimactic. April third? …I got nothing.

--

7/12/10

OK, it's day 900. Getting close to the end.

Before, I thought that the end of the rose-sending couldn't get here fast enough. Now, I feel like it's going by so fast I can't even stop to think about my next letter to you. Can I get a pause button or something? Maybe I'm just getting old.

"Feeling old comes more gradually than that."

"You would know. Hah!" Sealand poked England in the middle of his forehead, then ran off laughing.

"Hey! I'm not that old!" England tried to argue.

"Beg to differ!" Sealand waved back at him and then kept running.

--

9/1/10

So how do you think the Potters will do at Hogwarts this year?

I've been reading your literature. Not just Harry Potter, I've been reading the old stuff too. Shakespeare is a funny man. No, really. He is. I can't believe I haven't read any of this before. I think I know where all of your imaginary friends come from.

I did start with Potter, though. I have to admit it.

"Everyone starts with Potter."

--

10/19/10

England carried the candle up to his room in the dark. Of course there would be a thunderstorm today. Of course the power would get knocked out. And of course the anonymous sender would forget to send a rose today.

He spoiled me, didn't he. England set down the candle on his desk, the map behind him illuminated and looking almost eerie. He pulled out his box of thumbtacks and then stuck them right through each capital, one by one. He took great joy in stabbing through Paris, hoping the sentiment would reach France himself. He considered enchanting that particular tack to cause physical pain, then decided against it, remembering the last time he had tried to do magic during a thunderstorm.

Out of thumbtacks to mentally harm Nations with, England moved over to the window. He heard his wind chimes blowing in discord with the wind. He had never been one to care much about safety, and pushed the old window open. He stuck his head out, barely even noticing the cold October rain drenching his hair and making it stick oddly to his face. He was then met with another sound. He almost didn't recognize the tune of the song; it had been so long since he had heard it. Then a voice picked up:

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday, dear Arthur,

From your hero to you.

"You idiot!" Arthur yelled down at the man below his window. Alfred looked up, grinning. He had a portable speaker next to him, protected by a plastic sheet, but he had let himself get soaking wet. The music coming through changed suddenly. Arthur dropped his head down onto his arms to hide his smile as Alfred belted out the lyrics, seemingly attempting to become a fifth Beatle.

"You say it's your birthday! It's my birthday too, yeah! They say it's your birthday! We're gonna have a good time! I'm glad it's your birthday! Happy birthday to you!"

"I'm not going to dance with you so don't even bother asking."

"That's no way to talk to the guy that just spent over two and a half years sending a thousand roses to you."

"Well, you forgot about today."

"No I didn't!" Alfred held up the last rose, still planted in a flowerpot. Arthur could only imagine what it had taken Alfred to get the flower across the ocean, alive. "I just wanted to give it to you in person, and my flight got delayed, so I had to fly myself over here--"

"Fly yourself?"

"I know how to fly a plane, remember?"

"You flew all the way over here and landed during a thunderstorm just to give me a damned rose?"

"First you get all pissy about not getting a rose, then you get all pissy that you're getting one. Anyways, it's no big deal; I fly through thunderstorms all the time."

"That's reassuring." Arthur pulled the windows shut and ran downstairs, taking the steps two or three at a time. He flung open the door, and Alfred handed him the sleeping rose and set down the speaker before shaking out his hair like a dog on the front porch. Arthur ignored the spray hitting him in the face and pulled Alfred into a hug, leaving the flowerpot on a conveniently placed table.

"I hoped it was you."

"Really?"

"Of course 'really,' idiot. Now come in and get changed before you get sick."

--

10/20/10

The next morning, Alfred awoke to the smell of tea, coffee, and something burning. That wasn't new. What was new was that when he got down to the kitchen to attempt to rescue some breakfast, he found Arthur staring wide-eyed at a small piece of paper. Oh, he found it.

"You wrote this?" Arthur asked, in an uncharacteristically small voice.

"Nooooo, my boss wrote it."

"Say that again and I will forcibly remove you from my house."

"Sorry... did you like it?"

"Nooooo," Arthur mimicked Alfred, "My brain just broke for no reason."

"Good. It took me fucking hours to get that note to stay inside the rose."

"Idiot."

"I'm starting to think you don't really mean that."

Happy Birthday! Did you like your present? Maybe I need to say it again. I LOVE YOU. How about now? No? …Fuck you then. :D

I guess this was what Churchill meant by the "Special Relationship." If he could guess that all of our fights just meant we were totally in love with each other (I can't say it enough), and he hadn't even known us that well when he said it... I wonder what the other nations think. They knew I was sending the roses for a while…

I got the idea for sending you roses a month after my birthday in 2007 – you know, the one where you gave me the boxing glove that punched me in the face? Well, I was going to re-use the bag to move some stuff into my storage room, and I found your little note. I told Matt about it, and he said I should send you flowers for your birthday. Well, I didn't know when your birthday was, since you never told me, and Matt didn't know either, so I had to ask Francis, and then I had to tell him about the sending-you-flowers thing because he was groping me and he said I should send you roses and so then I came up with sending you a thousand roses and then personally giving you the last one on your birthday. And now here I am.

Here's something I've only done once before: I'm going to apologize. You read that right. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for royally fucking up your birthday in 1781. As much as I wanted to get away from you back then, I still loved you, and I'm so sorry that you had to lose me on that day. But you got me back on your birthday too, so I hope that makes amends enough. "Don't be sad because roses have thorns; be happy because thorns have roses." Right?

Love, Alfred