Flower Girl |A Hetalia Fic|

Flower Girl

Italy:

            "Who are you?" the man asks, auburn hair falling into his amber eyes as he finally looks up.  He didn't want to know if this child was an orphan or not.  Didn't want to know what this child has suffered through.

            "I am your sanity," the child replies.  She holds a bouquet of flowers in her arms.

            "You are?" the personification of Italy asks.

            "I am."  She reaches, plucking a familiar flower from her bouquet.  She places the stylized lily in his limp fingers.  Three petals on top with three on the bottom.  He liked the colors staring back.  They were bright.

            Three.

            He wonders where his friends are.

            Weren't they a trio?

            Who were they?

            No.  Wait.  They are.  Not they were.

            Tears start to blind him

            Small, frail hands grip his.  The child smiles a soft smile at him.  "I am your sanity," she repeats, folding his fingers around the stem.  "I am the one who tells you to grip the future.  I'm here to tell you that everything will be okay."

France:

            "Who are you?" the man asks, his blonde hair sticking out from his ponytail.  Blue eyes blink slowly at the child.  He wonders how a girl such as this is wandering streets such as this.  Her bare feet are muddied and cut.  They may even be infected.  Bags are under her eyes as she blinks back.

            "I am your sanity," the child replies.  She is holding a bouquet of flowers in her arms.

            "You are?" the personification of France asks.

            "I am."  Her voice is strong.  France reaches out his hand, wanting to feel the warmth of the girl's grip.  She presses the flower into his dirty palm.  The iris is a brilliant blue.  As if it was the same color of the sky before smoke marred it.  Or the sea before blood flooded it.

            He reaches for something to give back.  Something.  Anything.  Whatever is left.

            He pulls out a destroyed rose.  The petals withered and dry.  The red beauty of it having long faded.  Though, after what had happened, red is not something he can look at easily.

            The girl pushes his broken flower away.  "It's okay," she whispers.  "I don't need anything."  Her warm, small, frail hands close his fingers around the iris.  He brings up his country's flower to his nose and takes a whiff.

            It is the sky and the sea.

            "I'm your sanity," she repeats.  She gives him a smile and he is in awe of the fact that she can smile at all.  "I am the one who tells you to grip the future.  I'm here to tell you that everything will be okay."

Russia:

            "Who are you?" the man asks, wondering if she was looking at the snow atop his beige-blond hair.  His smile is fake on his childish face, his violet eyes as cold as the snow atop his head.

            "I am your sanity," the child replies.  There are a few flowers in her arms.

            "You are?" the personification of Russia asks because he is sure he did not have such a thing.  What a stupid, stupid child.