twistedsheets10: (flowers_england)
[personal profile] twistedsheets10

Title: When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d (Side story to Floriography: The Truest Language)
Disclaimer: Hetalia is not my creation.
Pairing: America × England
Word count: 1500
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The last time America gave England flowers. This was mentioned in Chapter 4.6 of Floriography, and I ah, expanded it here.

1: Dogwood; 2: Honeysuckle; 3. Roses and Irises; 4. The Truest Language (1); (2); Interlude: Anniversary; (3); (4); (5); (6)

America is standing in front the large window, dressed in his best clothes, his whole body thrumming with excitement and impatience as he watches the carriage and its accompanying carts below being unloaded of its goods, precious, valuable things, like spices and sugar and clothes and tea, but not quite as precious as the sandy-haired man with thick brows in a dark red coat who was stepping out of the carriage, and then strode towards the front door with purposeful grace.

“Remember, America,” Canada whispers to him, fingers tugging his sleeve warningly, “don’t ru–”

ENGLAND!” America bolts from Canada’s grasp, and ran across the hallway in full, unrestrained speed, and then slid down the winding grand staircase with a whoop. He landed with a solid thump, and then ran again to England, deftly dodging people and leaping over chests, boxes and sacks. England has barely a heartbeat to notice America before the boy threw himself at him.

England nearly topples to the ground from the force of America’s enthusiasm, but manages to hold his ground. He awkwardly wraps an arm around America, and pats him on the back. “I see you are still as lively as ever.”

“England, England,” America trilled, standing on his toes and pressing close, his nose against England’s neck. England smelled of the dark earth of his land, mixed with the scent of fresh rain and salty sea and tea and something sweet, like heather honey.

(He loves the way England smells. So much that he stole one of England’s used shirts and hid it in a trunk under his bed where he keeps all his secret precious things, and took it out and clutched it close as he slept. Sometimes he even sleeps on England’s bed when the loneliness became unbearable.)

Holding England close, America felt heat flood his whole body, and made this stomach feel strange, all twisty and funny but good, and it made him want to do things he can even name but could only want. “I missed you.”

England’s grip around him tightens for a second. “It’s good to see you too, lad,” he murmurs in that quiet, but fond voice of his. He loosens his grasp and gently pulls away from America, who reluctantly let go. “Let’s have a proper look at you, then.” England holds him by the shoulders at arm’s length, and sweeps a critical gaze on his person, from his boots (polished to near mirror-like sheen) to his face (scrubbed clean until pink with health). When their eyes met, England’s lips curls into to a smile, eyes softening with undisguised warmth. His thumb idly strokes America’s cheeks. “You’ve grown so, America.”

America stands up a little straighter at that, more than a little proud. In England’s absence, America shot up like a beanstalk, tall and strong (though a little awkward and clumsy — but only sometimes!). Why, he and England were almost the same height, with the top of his head reaching England’s nose. “Soon I’ll be as tall as you!”

He frowns in confusion when England winces a bit, as if he were in pain, and drops the hand on his cheek to his side. Did I say something wrong? “Not too soon, I hope,” England mutters in a low voice. Then he seemed to shake himself and looks at America again, much more cheerful this time. “I bought you and your brother some gifts! And your favorite tea, of course.”

But I like coffee better now, was on the tip of America’s tongue, but he chose not to say it, not wanting to ruin the mood. And speaking of gifts… “I have gifts for you, too, England!”

And before England could say another word, America sprinted to the kitchens, where he kept the gift by the table. He grabbed it, rather carefully than his wont to do, and then ran back to England as fast as he could, his heart pounding, not from the running but from…nervousness. He’d been planning on giving this the moment he’d heard England was coming back. It was something he had never done before, something he’d only seen other do, and he looked forward to England’s reaction with equal parts dread and excitement.

America found England talking to Canada, who, on spotting America holding his gift, made a strange face and excused himself out of the room. America hid his gift behind his back, and approached England slowly. “England?”

England turned to face him, a look on confusion in his eyes. Swallowing back his nervousness, thrust out his gift, bowing a little as he did. “For you,” he mumbles (to his feet, it seems), not quite wanting to meet England’s eyes, “welcome back.”

“Oh.” America looks up at that, and finds himself staring at something that made warmth flood his whole body in another a dizzying rush. England’s eyes were wide and very, very green, and there was a wonderful blush on his cheeks. His lips were parted slightly, pink and shiny. He looked at the bouquet with something akin to wonder, and takes it very carefully into his arms, hesitating for the very briefest of moments.

“Lilacs, America? From the garden?” England asks in a strange voice, as if there was something stuck in his throat.

“Yes.” There is a bunch of lilac bushes in America’s house, so enormous they nearly cover a whole wall and doorway (Someone, America doesn’t remember who, gave the first plants to him and England as gift, and England, together with America, promptly planted it.) When they bloom a few months into spring, thick sprays of purple, white, and mauve flowers burst forth, bewitching the air with their sweet perfume. “Do you like them?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” England says. There is a tiny smile on his lips, and a strange bright sheen to his eyes. “They’re very lovely. Thank you, my dear lad. I–”

Then America kissed him on the lips.

(For as long as he lived, America would swear he only intended to kiss England on the cheek. But somehow — maybe England moved in the last moment, maybe he did, or maybe the ground shifted or something — he ended up kissing England on his lips.)

England pulls back sharply, almost causing America to stumble and fall had he not regained his balance in time. “America, what–” England begins to stay, looking at America with a look of confusion, pupils blown wide open, “–what was that for? Lad, what–”

America could have said, “I didn’t mean to kiss you on your lips, only on the cheek, I’m sorry,” but he didn’t think he should; he didn’t feel as if he did something wrong. What should he be sorry about, even? “I wanted to welcome you back, that’s all,” America manages to say, licking his lips, and God, he swore he could taste England on them, bitter tea and sweet rain. He clamps down that thought and bites his lips, looking both petulant and remorseful at the same time. “I saw a friend greet someone special to him, and I thought I could–” America paused and looked at England, whose blush still hasn’t receded. “Are you mad?”

“I–” England takes a breath, and when he speaks again his voice and expression is calm, with a touch of sternness, face no longer quite so flushed. “I am not angry at you, America. Perhaps a little surprised though.” He reaches out to America and ruffles his hair, adding ruefully, “The next time you see something you don’t quite understand, don’t be so quick to copy it.”

He looks at America critically, frowning. “Remember this: Gentlemen do not go about kissing other gentlemen, never mind whatever those loose Continentals do. I do hope France and Spain haven’t been visiting you. They’re horrible influences.”

England smiles that fond smile of his that somehow now irritates America. He wasn’t such an impressionable child! “You can get in all sorts of trouble with that sort of forward attitude. If there’s anything you’d like to know, I am here to answer to teach you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, England.”

He nods approvingly. “There’s a good lad. Now, shall we have dinner? I could cook if you like?”

America forces himself to smile at that.


That night, as America lay on his bed, he could not stop thinking about what happened.

The kiss only lasted a heartbeat, but it sent a jolt up America’s spine unlike anything he ever felt. And he liked it.

And he wanted more.


This was supposed to be part of the last chapter to The Truest Language, but it got too long. Eh. And I decided to sneak it in Sweethearts Week, ohohoho. Purple lilacs symbolize first love or the first emotions of love. The title is from a poem by American poet Walt Whitman.

America is about uh, thirteen to fourteen in physical age here.

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July 2012


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