FrUk will always be my Hetalia OTP, but the concept of FrancexBulgaria intrigues me. And this particulsr plot bunny

I dunno whether I'll make it in a multi-fic, or a series of drabbles. I have a few other things I have on my head and we'll see.

Discl.: All rights go to their respective owners ^.^

Kinda short though I think it's the best length for it :D

Falling Roses

May, 21st century

If out there, on Earth, existed a Heaven, then it would've been in the centre of Bulgaria. Just a little, blessed piece of heaven, situated between a great mountain and the vast plains of a wide river. It was a little valley, whose fragrance of green and lost tales, brought about serenity unknown anywhere else. Everything became exceptionally beautiful when in May the roses finally opened their petals and spread their lovely essences, truly worth the fame for one of the best roses in the world.

Bulgaria loved coming here. It was one of the quieter places where he could run away from his bosses who were too busy thinking up who to blame because of another bunch of money disappearing, too blind to see their country's state. It was… refreshing.

But, on a side note, it felt strange when there was almost no one with him. It wasn't like it used to be, with the songs and the flirting between the girls and boys, and so on. Now his only companions were the falling rose petals.

In that a position was he found. Usually no one could find him if he wanted to hide. After all he'd managed to hide himself from his people's hearts for 5 centuries when he was under the Ottoman empire's rule. And France had found him.

Aleksander clearly remembered that man and his enviable beauty. He remembered when he wanted to be like that country and imitated him up to the point he's use French words without actually knowing their meaning. It had taken time and a slap from a genius for him to reawaken. And, even now, respect still remained without the need of mindless following.

The lovely-blue eyes were gazing a little longingly at the vast expanse of rotting beauty as if it was something worth looking at. Among the pink petals, flying in the wind, he looked striking, like an angel with a halo of winds and flowers. Those thin fingers were touching each blossom carefully, testing every single one of them. His skin was white, without a single drop of sweat on it, looking softer than the petals.

A few words from the language of his streets came to his tongue, wishing him to let them out, but Bulgaria kicked them back in his multi-personality mind.

His eyes followed every little movement France made. He watched as the other nation slowly, but surely came to him, probing and testing the roses, delicately breathing their scent, searching for the best one. The closer he came, the more beautiful he looked. Each of his steps was filled with grace and something that could only be defined as French.

His bowed head raised and the most pervert nation on the Earth shot him a flirtatious smile, casually picked up the rose he'd deemed perfect and smelled it. His eyes were either watching the other nation or the vast expanse of roses.

"Ils sont beaux."