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“Ew, no.”
“Alfred…” the President sighed, dropping the long stemmed lily back onto the table. The room was littered with hundreds of flowers of different shades, sizes, and colors. It smelled like a greenhouse and, frankly, the President was growing restless. This had to be close to the fiftieth flower that Alfred had rejected. “Come on, now, what’s wrong with this one?”
The United States of America crossed his arms in a huff, tilting his chair back on two legs. “It’s a lily, dude. Lilies are… I dunno, boss, not very manly.”
The President rubbed his eyes. “Alfred, it’s a flower. There’s no such thing as a ‘manly’ flower.”
“Venus flytraps are pretty manly.”
“We are not allowing the national floral emblem of the United States of America to be a Venus flytrap.”
“Aw, boss, you’re no fun.”
The President sighed, resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. “I believe the national floral emblem of France is a lily. It’s not an unusual flower to—”
“You want me to share a flower with France!?” Alfred looked scandalized, letting his chair crash back to the ground and the President glowered at him. As far as he knew, no one else had had this much trouble getting their nations to settle on a flower.
“Fine. We won’t choose the lily.” He tossed the flower onto the gigantic reject pile. It hit the top and rolled off, landing sadly on the carpet.
“This is stupid,” Alfred complained for perhaps the billionth time that evening. “Why do I even need a dumb floral emblem anyway?”
“Because—”
“I’m a nation and nations have emblem and it’ll promote national unity or whatever,” Alfred mimicked, slumping back down into his seat.
“No need to be snippy, Alfred,” the President muttered, glancing at his watch. He sighed and stood. “It’s growing late. We’ll finish this tomorrow. Just… please, Alfred, try and come up with a flower that means something to you tonight.”
He crossed the room and paused, hand on the doorknob. “I’ll be expecting an answer by tomorrow morning,” he said in that voice that meant absolutely zero argument. “If you don’t pick anything, I’m making it a lily.”
Alfred waited until he heard his boss leave the room before he dropped his head to the table with a groan. A floral emblem… how the hell was he supposed to pick a flower of all things that “meant something to him” by tomorrow? The most he ever even thought about flowers was whenever he’d have to stop his more rambunctious states from racing through those rosebushes that England had planted around his Virginia house way back in—
America squeezed his eyes shut, keeping his head firmly on the table as his heart skipped a beat before picking up speed, loud in the quiet room.
England had a floral emblem, Alfred was sure. It was the kind of thing Arthur would do, have all his emblems deep and meaningful and perfect.
Alfred sat up abruptly and stood, knocking into the table and sending a few more flowers to the ground. He ignored them, heading for the desk and jiggling the mouse, waking up the computer.
A quick google search later and Alfred was staring at hundreds and hundreds of pictures of roses, of all colors and kinds.
Roses. Of course.
Alfred licked his lips, scrolling through the page and thinking about the rosebushes in Virginia. Those things were crazy resilient – Virginia got a decent amount of rain every year and England had nearly had a heart attack, years ago, when he’d dropped by the house and spotted some kind of flower disease on them.
Alfred smirked, remembering. Arthur had shouted abuse at him for nearly an hour, all the while gently snipping away at bits of the roses, hands totally opposite of the words spilling out of his mouth. He hadn’t even noticed when Alfred had vanished back into the house, only looking up when he’d returned with a glass of lemonade. Arthur had looked surprised, the beginnings of a smile crossing his face as he wiped sweat away from his brow, reaching for the glass with gloved hands still caked in dirt.
The smile faded a bit and Alfred glanced at the google page again. He clicked a picture at random and it hyperlinked to Wikipedia.
The Tudor rose (sometimes called the Union rose) is the traditional floral heraldic emblem of England and takes its name and origins from the Tudor dynasty.
“That doesn’t look like a rose,” Alfred mumbled, skimming the article. There wasn’t much there, just some old English history that America quickly lost interest in, head buzzing with names and dates of people who’d died before he’d ever existed. He backed up to the results page again and examined the pictures.
Some of the roses had thorns, nasty sharp-looking scythes lying in wait beneath the petals for anyone stupid enough to grab it by the stem.
With a twist of his stomach, Alfred suddenly remembered another instance where England had inexplicably been on his property, stubbornly caring for those stupid rosebushes. Alfred frowned, worrying at his lower lip. He’d been teasing Arthur about the flowers – seriously, who was this into gardening? – and now that he thought about it again, Arthur had looked more than a little hurt.
For the first time, Alfred wondered why the hell England was so concerned about those bushes.
He’d grabbed one once – sliced himself pretty bad on the thorns too. Alfred’s not even sure why he’d been digging around in the rosebushes. Maybe he’d dropped something off his porch. Did it matter? He’d shown up at the next world meeting a few days later bitching about the roses and waving his bandaged hand in England’s face.
Arthur had looked mildly horrified, reaching for his hand and turning it over in his, examining Alfred’s admittedly shitty bandaging job. Because typically heroes didn’t need Band-Aids, but damn, those roses had fucking hurt.
Alfred thought about Arthur, and the way he’d held his hand in both of his and felt heat prickle up the back of his neck.
“This is stupid,” he muttered, jabbing the monitor off with a vicious poke and standing up, stomping around the desk and across the room towards the door, ignoring the gigantic pile of flowers staring judgmentally back at him.
Cheeks on fire, Alfred was halfway out of the room, hand on the door and foot in the hall when he stopped.
“Damn it,” America burst out, ignoring the startled aide standing frozen in the hallway and turned back around, slamming the door behind him.
-
Early the next morning, the President of the United States stood with his hand on the doorknob to the room, staring resignedly at the closed door. Was he really ready for another couple of hours fighting with Alfred over choosing a national flower?
Quickly, before he could change his mind and go find some paperwork or maybe a meeting to attend, he shoved the door open and found… nothing. Every single flower was gone. The table had been swept clean, the chairs pushed in, and the rug vacuumed.
The President sighed irritably, feeling his blood pressure spike. He’d expressly told the staff to leave this room alone last night, which left exactly one person who could have cleaned everything up.
“Damn it, Alfred, I told you to just pick a damn flower,” the President grouched to himself, poking his head into yet another empty room. “Where the hell are you?”
Finally, after an hour of searching and frustrated grumbling, the President returned to the Oval Office in a terrible mood. He pushed the door open a little harder than necessary, stalking towards his desk. He was going to get that man to pick a flower if it was the last thing he—
He stopped abruptly in the middle of the room and stared. On his desk, across his keyboard lay a single red rose.
The President crossed behind his desk and picked up the rose, minding the thorns and twirled it in his fingers. Beneath the rose was a note, written in hasty scrawled letters.
There. Happy?
The President smiled.
-
Later that evening, America lay sprawled on his couch, bathed in the light of his TV, lost in a memory where the sun’s light was reflected at him in a pair of bright green eyes crinkled with affection.
The phone on the side table interrupted both his daydream and Miami Vice and he groaned, leaning over to grab it.
“Go for Alfred,” he mumbled, settling back into his couch and grabbing the remote.
“Evening, America. Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”
America sat bolt upright and jabbed the mute button on his remote. “Uh, hey, hi, England,” he checked his clock and did some quick math. “Isn’t it, like, midnight in London?”
“Well, I’m stateside, actually.”
“What? Why?” America glanced at the clock again, already standing up before he realized he had nowhere to go. He sat back down again, perching on the edge of his couch.
“Don’t tell me you forgot we’re supposed to be meeting up tomorrow morning.” England sounded annoyed and Alfred winced. In light of the whole flower thing, he’d totally forgotten.
“Oh, uh, yeah, no, of course I remembered.”
England sighed, the noise like a rush of sudden static over the phone and Alfred pressed his lips together.
“Well, in any case,” England hesitated, cleared his throat. “I heard you picked a floral emblem.”
America’s heart turned to stone and all the blood in his body rushed for his cheeks. “I, uh…”
“Frankly, I’m surprised you picked anything at all. I was convinced you’d find it ‘un-manly’ to choose a flower, of all things, that meant something to you. Well, I suppose I’ve been wrong before. What did you decide on, anyway?”
America looked up to the ceiling, closing his eyes briefly. “I, uh, well, about that—”
“Tell me it wasn’t a lily.”
“Uh, no.”
There was a beat of silence before Arthur said, sounding impatient, “Well?”
“Well, what?” Alfred played dumb and could practically feel Arthur’s frustration down the line.
“What did you pick?”
Alfred twisted the phone chord in his fingers. “Why does it matter? It’s just a stupid flower!”
“I’m just curious, you tosser, I certainly don’t care which—”
“Rose.”
“—stupid flower you decided was important enough to… wait, what?”
Alfred forced himself to sit back on his couch, putting his feet up on the table. “I picked a rose. ‘Cause, you know, roses are, uh, badass. All sharp and… stuff.”
Arthur was silent on the other end for five long seconds.
“Dude?”
“I—” There was the sound of a throat clearing. “I think that’s a very good choice.”
Heat prickled down Alfred’s neck and he sat forward abruptly. “Me too. I mean, obviously. I picked it and heroes are never wrong, after all!”
“Obviously.”
It sounded like England was smiling. At least, Alfred hoped he was smiling.
“So, uh, what’re you doin’? Right now?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, who else, dude?” Alfred reached for the remote, flipping the television off. “Wanna hang out? Or, uh, something?”
“Or something? Alfred, it’s practically the middle of the night.”
Alfred thought back to a sun-drenched afternoon and straw-hat with a ribbon and dirt-encrusted gardening gloves and straightened his back. “Dinner?”
The silence on the other end sounded suspiciously stunned and Alfred caught himself curling the phone cord around his pointer finger. He shook his hand, dislodging the cord, and almost missed England’s reply.
“I suppose I could eat… I don’t have anything with me, or I could cook you something spec—”
“That’s ok, dude, totally ok!” Alfred yelped, standing up. “I wanna take you out, anyway.”
“You… want to take me out?” England’s voice cracked on the last word, the noise twisting the pit of Alfred’s stomach.
And for some reason, standing there with the cord of his phone clutched in one fist, Alfred’s answer felt very important. Like whatever he said could make or break something vital. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what exactly it was, but it tasted like the memory of sunshine, warmth in his chest, and the smell of roses.
“Yeah, Ig, I think I do.”
And maybe it was the uncharacteristic hush in his voice, but Arthur didn’t say a word about the nickname for the first time in practically forever.
“Well, then.”
England’s voice was faint, like he couldn’t quite believe the conversation he was having, and Alfred itched to talk, to shatter the fragile silence, but he opened his mouth and the words stuck in his throat because suddenly he had the world’s best idea. An idea worthy of a hero.
“Here, I’ll meet you at your hotel, where are you staying?” Alfred grabbed for the notepad he kept next to the phone and scribbled the address, mind a million miles away, because he was pretty sure the florist next to the little grocery store on the corner was open late.
And roses, dude.
Arthur’s sunburned cheeks flashed into his memory and Alfred grinned.
It all came back to roses.