France stared at the bouquet of roses in his hands. They were dazzlingly red, fresh from being cut off their bush and now, in his hands, they waited to wither. He had picked out the finest ones as a gift for someone but he had been a moment too late. Now she was laid on her bed, a white cloth covering her aged face.
He had been away for a mere month due to business and before they had parted, France had promised to bring her the reddest rose he could find so that it would accessorize her hair, something that she had shyly said was unfit for her age. Before they had parted, before the man had taken to the cobblestones, she reached out for his shoulders and gave it a light tap. He turned, smiling, and waited for her to speak.
“Youth has favored you and blessed you, Francis. Unlike it has to me,” she had said and he felt his heart stir.
“Youth is not always what is outside,” France replied before taking her wrinkly hands into his and rubbed the back with his thumb as he stared into her deep, light blue eyes.
“I don’t have much time left –” she began to say but Francis had shushed her.
“You will be eternal for as long as you remain in my memory,” France said, with all sincerity he could give, and placed a light kiss on her hand. “And that would be forever.”
The smile she gave him did not reach her eyes but they parted as well; him to his quarters down the dirt road, her to the warmness of her abode.
Now, he was still staring at the bouquet of red rose in his hands. In front of him, on the grass, was a single red rose. The best one he had picked out while on his way. Its purpose was lost now as the owner of the hair it would adorn was gone from the world.
A rustle between the trees made him look up and he saw a boy stumble out.
“Mon petite chenille,” France breathed out and his voice cracked a bit from not being used. The boy grew flustered at the nickname and stormed towards him.
“I’m not your bloody caterpillar, you sodding frog!”
England, who had been the one emerging from the bushes, was a boy with thick eyebrows and messy dirt blond hair. He was elated, silently, to see that the boy was growing fast. Only a month ago the boy was but a toddler of a figure. He knew the aging of nations were different from humans and it was quickly getting apparent that England was expanding, getting powerful.
“What’s a rose doing here?” the boy asked curiously, stopping so suddenly from his tirade of ill-words. France was silent as England picked up the single rose and turned it in his hand. His emerald green eyes were suddenly on the Frenchman, seeking and waiting for an answer.
“Hey, Angleterre,” France began to say, licking his dry lips. The boy looked at him questioningly. “Have you ever felt loss from one of the humans?”
The way England bristled as if France had all but slapped him nearly made the man chuckle. The Brit wanted to cut him off, retort indignantly but when the blue eyes were cast down to the roses in his lap, things seemed to fall into place.
“You fell in love,” the boy said almost accusingly.
“I did not,” France bit back, defensively. “It was a misplaced affection. I never even slept with her.”
England looked like he had more to say about the matter but, for once, he remained quiet. France watched as the boy turned the flower in his hand. When the green eyes looked back at him, it was not with disdain or disgust but a bit of wonder. His eyes were also not trained on the Frenchman. Not properly, at least. It was staring at France’s hair - or more accurately, his left ear.
“Angleterre?” France said softly but it succeeded in snapping out the English boy from his staring.
“You’re always a weird one,” England grumbled but his attention was on the rose in his hand. He took out a pocketknife, cut the rose into two, much to the man’s pleasure, and threw away the lower part of the stem. “Falling in love with your human. You know they won’t last long. You know they’re going to make you sad anyway. Yet you can’t help it.”
France was a bit startled to hear the sadness in the boy’s voice. England had probably gone through an episode like his before. As the boy continued, he carefully sliced off the thorns from the rose “Your heart wrenches when you have to wave goodbye to them and whether you see them again or not, it eats you inside. Their sadness resound in you because they are…”
When the Brit trailed away, France looked up into those bright emerald green eyes, still full of youth yet already tinted by pain.
“…a part of you, in the end,” England finished. He breathed out a sigh before stepping closer, leaning down, and carefully placed the rose onto the left ear of the Frenchman.
He had been away for a mere month due to business and before they had parted, France had promised to bring her the reddest rose he could find so that it would accessorize her hair, something that she had shyly said was unfit for her age. Before they had parted, before the man had taken to the cobblestones, she reached out for his shoulders and gave it a light tap. He turned, smiling, and waited for her to speak.
“Youth has favored you and blessed you, Francis. Unlike it has to me,” she had said and he felt his heart stir.
“Youth is not always what is outside,” France replied before taking her wrinkly hands into his and rubbed the back with his thumb as he stared into her deep, light blue eyes.
“I don’t have much time left –” she began to say but Francis had shushed her.
“You will be eternal for as long as you remain in my memory,” France said, with all sincerity he could give, and placed a light kiss on her hand. “And that would be forever.”
The smile she gave him did not reach her eyes but they parted as well; him to his quarters down the dirt road, her to the warmness of her abode.
Now, he was still staring at the bouquet of red rose in his hands. In front of him, on the grass, was a single red rose. The best one he had picked out while on his way. Its purpose was lost now as the owner of the hair it would adorn was gone from the world.
A rustle between the trees made him look up and he saw a boy stumble out.
“Mon petite chenille,” France breathed out and his voice cracked a bit from not being used. The boy grew flustered at the nickname and stormed towards him.
“I’m not your bloody caterpillar, you sodding frog!”
England, who had been the one emerging from the bushes, was a boy with thick eyebrows and messy dirt blond hair. He was elated, silently, to see that the boy was growing fast. Only a month ago the boy was but a toddler of a figure. He knew the aging of nations were different from humans and it was quickly getting apparent that England was expanding, getting powerful.
“What’s a rose doing here?” the boy asked curiously, stopping so suddenly from his tirade of ill-words. France was silent as England picked up the single rose and turned it in his hand. His emerald green eyes were suddenly on the Frenchman, seeking and waiting for an answer.
“Hey, Angleterre,” France began to say, licking his dry lips. The boy looked at him questioningly. “Have you ever felt loss from one of the humans?”
The way England bristled as if France had all but slapped him nearly made the man chuckle. The Brit wanted to cut him off, retort indignantly but when the blue eyes were cast down to the roses in his lap, things seemed to fall into place.
“You fell in love,” the boy said almost accusingly.
“I did not,” France bit back, defensively. “It was a misplaced affection. I never even slept with her.”
England looked like he had more to say about the matter but, for once, he remained quiet. France watched as the boy turned the flower in his hand. When the green eyes looked back at him, it was not with disdain or disgust but a bit of wonder. His eyes were also not trained on the Frenchman. Not properly, at least. It was staring at France’s hair - or more accurately, his left ear.
“Angleterre?” France said softly but it succeeded in snapping out the English boy from his staring.
“You’re always a weird one,” England grumbled but his attention was on the rose in his hand. He took out a pocketknife, cut the rose into two, much to the man’s pleasure, and threw away the lower part of the stem. “Falling in love with your human. You know they won’t last long. You know they’re going to make you sad anyway. Yet you can’t help it.”
France was a bit startled to hear the sadness in the boy’s voice. England had probably gone through an episode like his before. As the boy continued, he carefully sliced off the thorns from the rose “Your heart wrenches when you have to wave goodbye to them and whether you see them again or not, it eats you inside. Their sadness resound in you because they are…”
When the Brit trailed away, France looked up into those bright emerald green eyes, still full of youth yet already tinted by pain.
“…a part of you, in the end,” England finished. He breathed out a sigh before stepping closer, leaning down, and carefully placed the rose onto the left ear of the Frenchman.
France was speechless, having not been expecting that gesture of all things. Although he was staring at the boy’s solemn face, England had found more interest in examining the blood red rose.
“Angleterre?” the taller man said again, snapping the boy. It resulted in a very violent reaction. England had backed up a good five inches, his face a deep shade of red, his mouth stuttering incomprehensible nonsense and his hands waving frantically around. It was so comical that France felt a tug on the side of his lips.
“It wasn’t – don’t think – I was – no – it – Don’t laugh, you bloody frog!” England stammered angrily before he turned away and folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t think I did it to amuse you!”
“Then why, mon cher?” France said, a hint of his playfulness returning back.
“Roses. Beautiful ones like that…shouldn’t be wasted lying sympathetically,” the Brit boy reasoned indignantly before turning away and running for the trees.
France was left, a bit confused but oddly content, and he stared at the bouquet in his hands. What the boy said was true.
And so, France stood up, dusting his tunic before making his way to his old acquaintance’s house. After all, as promised, she would always remain youthful and alive within his memory.
----
Haha. wtf. I fail so much at writing nowadays.
Mon petite chenille(France) - My little caterpillar
Angleterre(France) - England
Mon cher(France) - dear
It's not historically accurate and the timeline runs a bit due to France's...er...tunic. I just wanted to give oneshots a try~ Yeah, well. It was fun.
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.
.
.
.
.
Still high on FIFA, btw
“Angleterre?” the taller man said again, snapping the boy. It resulted in a very violent reaction. England had backed up a good five inches, his face a deep shade of red, his mouth stuttering incomprehensible nonsense and his hands waving frantically around. It was so comical that France felt a tug on the side of his lips.
“It wasn’t – don’t think – I was – no – it – Don’t laugh, you bloody frog!” England stammered angrily before he turned away and folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t think I did it to amuse you!”
“Then why, mon cher?” France said, a hint of his playfulness returning back.
“Roses. Beautiful ones like that…shouldn’t be wasted lying sympathetically,” the Brit boy reasoned indignantly before turning away and running for the trees.
France was left, a bit confused but oddly content, and he stared at the bouquet in his hands. What the boy said was true.
And so, France stood up, dusting his tunic before making his way to his old acquaintance’s house. After all, as promised, she would always remain youthful and alive within his memory.
----
Haha. wtf. I fail so much at writing nowadays.
Mon petite chenille(France) - My little caterpillar
Angleterre(France) - England
Mon cher(France) - dear
It's not historically accurate and the timeline runs a bit due to France's...er...tunic. I just wanted to give oneshots a try~ Yeah, well. It was fun.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Still high on FIFA, btw
