hetaliasunshine | [FIC FILL] HERALD OF SPRING

TITLE: Herald of spring
AUTHOR/ARTIST:

aschenvogel
RECIPIENT: sc (anonymous)
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Russia, America
RATING: k/g
SUMMARY: Russia observes the onset of spring at America's house.

"Why not?" the other nation asked warmly. "It stays my flower, of course! It’s growing in my garden! But I suppose, if you like it that much, just go ahead and name it."

He stared at the flower. The flower stared back. Cheekily and dauntlessly it stretched its head through the last remains of snow and showed off its red petals. He almost expected it to wilt, should he reach for it. That was why he refrained from doing so – bad experiences with native flora left him wary.

"It ain’t gonna start talking, you know?"

It was with difficulty that he was able to break away from the plant and look at America, who, clad in a thick scarf and with reddened eyes behind his glasses, had come to stand beside him on the porch. The last days and the up and down at the stock market had etched themselves deeply into his youthful face. Russia fetched a bottle with glassy liquor from the depths of his coat. He offered it to the other nation. "Here. Helps."

America wrinkled his nose and crossed his arms. "As if I needed that. I’m way too awesome for stuff like that." He sat down slowly next to him. "And besides, there’s no way it’s for free with you."

The corners of Russia’s mouth twitched upwards. "No."

The first leaves of the trees rustled quietly. Suddenly, a bird began singing above them and both of them looked up at the same time. They observed the small sparrow jumping from branch to branch.

"It’s just way too cold for spring." The sparrow flew away and Russia sent America a questioning look. The other nation gestured towards the single patches of snow on the grass. "Today’s spring dawning. And there’s still snow." He quickly returned his hand to the place between his knees where he kept it warm.

Russia thought about that for a second, head slightly tilted. Cold? The grass was almost too brightly green. It was not quiet, but there was life surrounding them. The wood of the porch was warm under his big hands. And the snow might not be gone, but it was melting. The flowers just shook it off. He stretched his legs an inch away from his body, his boots drawing deep lines into the soft earth. In there, small blades of grass craned their tips towards the sun – appearing somewhat manhandled but proud.

America next to him drew his head deeper into his scarf and shivered. "I need coffee." He jumped up and ran back to his house. His steps were too vibrant to support his whining. America was like his spring, Russia thought – he moaned about the cold, but it never managed to get hold of him completely. It always gave chase to his heels and clung to his trousers’ hems and yet he shook it off with natural strength and ease.

He slowly turned his head back to the red flower. It was still watching him. It was persistent.

When America returned with two steaming cups of coffee and handed one to him, he took it without sparing him a glance. He would not drink it. It was warm, but it was American, after all. "You know," the other nation said and ran a hand through his thick, blond hair. "You could always dig it out and take it with you. If you like it that much, I mean."

"No," Russia answered stoically.

"I have more. And more will be coming." He grinned. "My entire garden will be full of flowers!"

"No. "

"Whatever." Swallowing and a deep, content sigh. America licked his lips and set his cup aside.

There was silence, once again. That was how they worked. They sat next to each other and stayed quiet because they would not pretend to have much in common. America was a bad liar and Russia did not bother. Of course America could talk a lot - but only about himself. Thank God that he - over the course of time - had learned that Russia just was not interested – not that the occasional boasting did not occur once in a while.

"What’s its name?" the Eastern nation asked after some time. Blonde eyebrows rose. America glanced from him to the flower and back again. And again. And again. Then he drew up his shoulders. "Ain’t got a clue. Do I look like France to you? If you’re interested in that kind of stuff, ask him. It’s just some kind of flower."

“What kind?” he persisted. America faltered, frowning. He eyed the flower. Squinted. "… A red flower. A rose?"

Russia’s knowledge of flowers was scarce but he was quite sure that roses looked different. He sighed. America just laughed loudly and shrugged. "Who cares!"

A new wind blew through the garden. The grass moved from right to left, rustling, and the small flower leaned with it into every direction. The wind also caught America’s hair and ruffled it. The Western nation buried his face deeper into his scarf and grasped his coffee cup more tightly.

"Definitely too cold," he grumbled and slurped loudly from his cup. Then he leaned forward and nudged the flower. It quivered. "Looks pretty awesome. It’s growing in my garden after all!" He puffed his chest and grinned at Russia. "Why don’t you name it?"

Silence. Then, "Me?" Russia’s fingers grasped the pipe in his lap more tightly.

"Why not?" the other nation asked warmly. "It stays my flower, of course! It’s growing in my garden! But I suppose, if you like it that much, just go ahead and name it."

Russia was at a loss. He glanced from America to the small, red flower at his feet. Very slowly and cautiously he leaned forward as if he could scare it off. A long second passed in doubt. Then he stretched out his hand and touched the bright petals. He froze.

Nothing happened.

Blinking. Once. Twice. Then he quickly drew back his fingers and stared at the plant intently. It looked the same as before. The corners of his mouth twitched. "Then it’s новое начало." ("A new beginning.")

The flower seemed to grow a few inches with pride.

America laughed and shrugged off-handedly. "Whatever. For God’s sake, my toes are freezing off. Let’s go inside." He grasped Russia’s sleeve and, with inhuman force for someone sick, just dragged him along as he took off towards the house. For a mere second Russia resisted, freed his sleeve and glanced back at the – at his – flower growing between his bootprints. Then, already coming from inside the house, America’s voice yanked him out of his thoughts. "C’mon! There’s pancakes!" And after a short pause, "You just don’t let pancakes wait!"

The great Eastern nation turned away, a last sigh on his lips, and followed the wet footprints on the porch into the warm house.