A/N Written as a pinch-hit for lj user tophatviolet for usxuk's 2013 secret santa exchange! :) it was a lot of fun working with the prompts, but I finally settled on Arthur and Alfred working in a greenhouse with one another! Also a quick thankyou to my partner in crime, juju, for the handholding and the enabling and the can-do attitude!

first fic in new fandoms are always the hardest to write ;n; hi hetalia(/usuk) fandom! :)

The campus has a greenhouse. Not a proper one like the nurseries seen downtown – the kind that houses all those weird gerbil-plants his mom likes to buy. It's nice, though, reminiscent of an upgraded tool-shed with glass panels and high ceilings.

Of course, Alfred hadn't even known there was a greenhouse or garden or anything dealing with plant-life on campus until Antonio mentioned it in their nutrition class.

He'd been tiptoeing over the hunger-line and into starvation-mode somewhere during his ten a.m. lecture. Probably around the time the documentary started showcasing various nutritious foods that had even Alfred's mouth watering. But he had chem lab during the lunch period, and his apartment's "Emergency Snack Supply" had long been emptied out.

Alfred's concentration in the class fell from slight-interest to no-fucks-given in a matter of seconds. His stomach spoke louder than his professor's voice and the spacey woman's words flowing from overhead speakers. Attending lectures while battling hunger sucked, but having to wait until that afternoon to borrow money from Yao sucked even more for Alfred.

(Plus, the vending machine in West Hall always eats his money.)

So when Antonio whispered something about the campus greenhouse, the figurative light bulb flickered to life. He'd grow his own food, just like in his Sims game; it couldn't be that hard.

Alfred's not really sure how to go about planting.

He had managed to scrounge up a few seeds after chem lab. He thinks they may be tomato seeds, or at least Gilbert assured him of this. He had sworn they came from Feliciano, and Gil had never given him reason to doubt him before (harmless pranks with Francis and Antonio notwithstanding, of course).

All he needs to do now is find a suitable spot to plant them. Amid all these flowers. He whistles because, damn, there are a lot of flowers here; large and small, colorful and well-tended, beautiful. A sneaky voice in the back of his mind, sounding suspiciously of Gilbert, says that maybe he should pick a few for his mom – mother's day being around the corner and all. Alfred inches closer to a few pink blossoms.

"Hullo!" chirps a voice near the back of the greenhouse, and Alfred startles. He nearly topples backward, intent on playing innocent just in case the newcomer suspects him of flower-theft. He's not sure if that's a real crime or not, but he'd rather not find out.

A mop of shaggy blond hair peeks around the corner, and Alfred would recognize those eyebrows anywhere. His lips tug at the corners while the boy opposite him loses his smile.

"Hiya Art!"

"Alfred," Arthur says. There's a carefulness in his voice, as though he's suspicious. Alfred feels that the best course of action to appease Arthur means smiling bigger and broader. So he does. Arthur, if anything, just looks more wary though – or constipated, Alfred decides. "Why are you here?"

"Gonna plant some tomatoes." Alfred thrusts his hands out, seeds cupped in his sweaty palms.

Arthur splutters. "W-why?"

Why? Alfred pauses, smile slipping from his mouth as he stares back, confused. "Because food?" he offers because, he thinks, really why the fuck else would anyone plant vegetables.

Arthur crosses his arms, and it's not the least bit intimidating when he has dirt smudged across the bridge of his nose and flower petals accessorizing his always-chaotic hair. Besides, Alfred prides himself in his immunity to the (in)famous Kirkland Glare.

"You aren't a member of the gardening committee," Arthur says.

"Nope," Alfred says proudly, rocking on his feet. "Didn't even know there was one. How many members ya got?"

Arthur's cheeks flush, and Alfred grins because it'd always been fun to rile Arthur up in the past when they'd roomed together. "A-ah, that is." Arthur pauses and clears his throat; his gaze flickers, not down, but Alfred can tell he's not looking directly at him anymore. "There is only myself, so far."

"Well, how 'bout I join? Then you'll have more members and I can plant my food. Win-win situation! Whaddya say, Artie?"

He watches Arthur open and close his mouth, eyebrows furrowed, and Alfred entertains the thought of Arthur actually asking him to leave. It wouldn't be the first time one of them asked the other for space, and it probably won't be the last time either. Still, though, Alfred's stomach aches with hunger pains and he'd like to spend some time with his estranged friend. He'd rather Arthur tell him to stay; not that he'll let him know that.

Finally, "fine," Arthur huffs and spins on his heels, grumbling about "insufferable gits" and hissing creative curses that Alfred's never heard before.

He counts this a small victory. Now to grow some tomatoes and win the war.

A half hour passes in silence. Arthur tends to his little flower buds somewhere behind him – and Alfred thinks Arthur might be cooing at his flowers, but, hey, Alfred's not one to judge – while Alfred rests on his haunches in front of his own tiny area. The soil he'd patted into mounds remains motionless. He waits for the magic to happen, but so far nothing – not even the slightest hint of movement or tomato or anything. Alfred sighs and wipes his glasses with dirt-tinged fingers; it clears the fog but does little to improve his eyesight in the humid greenhouse.

"What are you doing?" asks Arthur, much closer to him than Alfred remembers.

Alfred tilts his head back, squints through the smudges, and beams at Arthur. "Waiting for my tomatoes, man."

Arthur's eyes meet his briefly. They're kind of pretty and really really green. He turns his head away from Alfred, though, instead focusing on the pansies in the distance (or were those petunias? maybe peonies? Something with a 'p' Alfred is sure).

"You will be waiting quite some time then."

"A few hours?"

Arthur blinks, and Alfred recognizes the look. It's the one Arthur always adopts when he thinks someone's being an even bigger moron than usual; Alfred has had the pleasure of being graced with this look on numerous occasions. Arthur rests one hand on his hip, his yellow gloves leaving finger-shaped stains on his white shirt. It seems alien to Alfred – seeing Arthur anything but composed, wearing his shirt loose around his hips and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It's a fresh change, and it isort of makes up for the fact that his tomatoes have yet to bloom before his eyes.

Arthur closes his eyes, exhales. Alfred imagines that he'd pinch the bridge of his nose too if not for his dirt-caked gloves – and Alfred's not going to point out the already-there dirt on Arthur's nose and cheek. "No, Alfred. It may very well take a few months."

He feels himself deflate because that wasn't anything he wanted to hear, and hearing it sucked major balls. "The game said it'd only take six hours." There is a definite whine in his voice, too, but Alfred hopes Arthur doesn't take notice.

Arthur stoops as well, his elbow barely kissing Alfred's knee. Alfred guesses that he's not having much luck with his petunia-pansy-peony garden either.

Alfred bumps his shoulder into Arthur's. "You gonna wait with me, dude?"

"Absolutely not," Arthur says. His face pinches up when he pretends to be annoyed.

Alfred pokes his cheek. "It's okay; I don't mind your company." Upon Arthur's rather unimpressed glare, Alfred says, "C'mon it's gotta get lonely in here, man."

"I am not lonely."

Alfred falls from his awkward crouch, opting instead to sit on his bottom. His thighs relax, relieved to be out of such a painful position for so long, and Alfred rubs his tired muscles. "I'd be pretty lonely in here all by myself," Alfred muses aloud. He glances up at the ceiling before chancing a look at Arthur again.

Silence settles between them, one not unlike the quietude that's fallen over them since Alfred moved out a few months back.

Frowning, Alfred prods the soil covering his little seeds. "This is kinda boring though."

"Patience never was your strong point," Arthur says, and Alfred might be hearing things or reading too much into the atmosphere between them (or not enough) but he detects the hint of a smile in Arthur's voice.

"Not at all." He laughs, finding his way onto his feet again, and before he has a chance to extend a hand to Arthur, the other is already straightening from his crouch. He watches Arthur smooth down the wrinkled hem of his shirt before saying, "I guess I'll see ya tomorrow?"

There's a slight inclination of Arthur's head. He nods. "I suppose you will."

Alfred's initial response is to hug Arthur goodbye, as he's prone to doing with Matt and his friends, but he's still unsure where he and Arthur stand these days. So he raises his hand in a tiny wave, one that Arthur returns shortly, and turns to leave.

(He's halfway to his apartment before he realizes he never ate. He barges into Matthew's dorm and whines and acts cute until his brother finally takes pity on him.)

The following days pass in a similar fashion. Alfred drops his backpack near the entryway and shouts his greeting of "yo, Art!" before sidestepping hanging flower blooms on his way to his tomato patch. Sometimes Arthur's response is a small noise of acknowledgement, and some other days Arthur might glance his way and nod. Flower petals always decorate his hair, and sometimes Alfred wonders – while having a staring contest with his tomato garden – how he manages that every day without fail.

By day five, and with no results to show for his hard work, Alfred decides that maybe he's not watering his plants enough. He upends his water bottle on the mound of dirt and watches as dry soil turns quickly to mud.

"You haven't a clue as to what you're doing," Arthur says from behind him, and Alfred wishes he'd stop sneaking up on him like that. Fuck; he's going to have a heart attack before his twenty-first birthday at this rate.

Alfred wills his heartbeat to slow, palm to his chest. He grits out: "Dude, you need a cowbell or something. Fu-uck." When he calms down (not that he was really scared or anything, c'mon, this is Arthur – one of the least scary guys he knows!), Alfred chirps, "nope," to Arthur's previous statement.

Arthur sighs. "You are utterly hopeless," he says on a sigh, but he proceeds to take up his usual squatting position next to Alfred.

Alfred watches Arthur watch the dripping muddy waterfall; maybe he used too much water there. He bumps Arthur's shoulder with his own. "Guess I'm gonna have to start all over." He laughs, a bit embarrassed by his mistake. "Huh."

"Yes."

Alfred puffs his cheeks. He glances away from his tomatoes and back toward Arthur, who's watching him with that curious look on his face again – as though he were seeing Alfred for the first time.

Alfred smiles, unsure. He stands and brushes off his pants; this time, when he offers his hand, Arthur accepts the gesture and rises as well.

"I should continue working," Arthur says, words punctuated with a slight sweeping motion toward the back of the greenhouse. "I'm afraid you won't accomplish much with this." Alfred rubs the back of his head, sheepish and feeling all those fluttery nerves pick up in his chest. He catches the tiny smile on Arthur's lips before it vanishes completely again, back to business and no-nonsense. "No sense in you staying any longer than –"

Alfred interrupts. "Maybe I can help out with some things?" It's not like he has anything else to do, you see. All his other friends are studying for exams or (in the case of Antonio, Gilbert, and Francis) are tearing up the town. "Heavy lifting, or watering?"

Arthur's eyes grow wide, brows lift beneath his fringe, and mouth drops with protests on his tongue. "No thank you, Alfred. You're more destructive than helpful." Alfred finds himself deflating with the rejection. It wasn't his intention to drown the tomatoes; it just sort of happened and became beyond his control. He hears Arthur clear his throat. "I suppose you may as well stay so that I may teach you proper gardening technique. Heaven knows we do not need a repeat of today's performance."

"Sure thing, Artie!" Alfred says, swinging an arm around Arthur's shoulder. "Let's get started. But how 'bout a snack first?"

Days slip by and Alfred forgets to restart his tomato gardening efforts in favor of helping Arthur maintain the too-lively weeds popping up here and there.

"This is so boring, Artie," Alfred whines, feeling the ache in his thighs and back from bending and crouching over and over. "Can't we, I dunno, take a break? Eat?" His stomach rumbles to further emphasize his desire to maybe grab a burger or two at the local chain restaurant a block away.

When he receives no response, not even a huff or an insult, Alfred cranes his head around to peer in the direction where he knows Arthur to have been. He finds him admiring the new blossoms sprouting up, baby blooms of red roses. Arthur cups one between his palms, and Alfred moves closer to observe but the sounds of his sneakers on the floor alert Arthur of his presence. Arthur blinks at him, petals yet again caught in his hair, and Alfred stops a foot short of the other.

"Hm? Oh, Alfred. What is it?"

Alfred stuffs his hands in his pockets. He fingers the gum wrapper and unopened peppermint left from this morning. "You really like the roses, huh," Alfred observes. Arthur's right hand drifts from the bloom.

Arthur tenses. Alfred can see the line of his body straighten through the thin fabric of his shirt, muscles tightening. There's redness creeping up his neckline, and Alfred considers the temperature within the greenhouse. Lately, it's been getting warmer. "Not as much as Francis, I assure you," Arthur replies, practically spitting out Francis' name – and Alfred's never known whether their relationship was better or worse than the one Arthur shared with Francis.

"I like 'em," Alfred says for lack of anything else to say. It's strange because, honestly, he's gone throughout his life always being told shut up but now words are lost on him. The heat must be getting to him, too.

"Yes, well."

Alfred reaches up and brushes the pink petals from Arthur's fringe. When he blinks, they seem to catch on his lashes; it's been bothering Alfred for a while now. He steps back after he's satisfied he's removed all petals, and Arthur reaches up to touch the tips of his hair, a seemingly absentminded gesture if the confused look on his face is anything to go by.

"You're kinduva mess." Alfred steps back again when Arthur makes to swat him. It's taken him a few weeks to relearn the Arthur Kirkland Survival Guide basics, and even if his reflexes are a bit rusty when it comes to Arthur's punches, he's scraped by without too much damage (to his person and to his pride). "Like a bird nest."

Arthur rolls his eyes; he does begin to pat at his hair, though. "A warning before you invade my personal space would be nice." He plays at being annoyed, but the barely-there upturn of his lips gives him away.

Alfred, grinning, stubs the toe of his sneaker against the soil-dirty ground. Arthur busies himself in patting down his hair, bright yellow gloves still encasing his hands, and the sun paints the greenhouse in the most brilliant gold. Alfred feels unexplainably happy, and his stomach lurches in an odd way. He places a hand to the center of his belly.

Warm; he asks: "So. We cool for lunch?"

"Ya think it's gonna rain?" Alfred taps tunelessly against the glass pane of a window. "It's hot as balls out there," he comments and hears a snort in response.

Arthur's watering his petunia-pansy-peony plants and humming, school-issued tie loose around his neck and sleeves rolled up – same as always, but his hands are not covered in his usual gloves. Over the course of the weeks (has it really been that long?) Alfred's realized that he's never seen Arthur happier than he has in this humid, small – if not a little cramped – greenhouse. He also, maybe a bit hopeful, thinks that their relationship has improved dramatically. No longer does Arthur try to send him away – though this may be due to Arthur's resignation over the fact he'll never have peace and quiet again; Arthur also seeks him out for help, and even spoke with him between classes once recently. The space created the day Alfred moved out of the dorms and into his apartment has slowly faded.

Alfred glances sidelong at the other. "Yo, Artie, take a break with me!"

"You aren't even in need of a break, daft twit," Arthur says, but acquiesces. There's a lack of heat in his voice – the angry kind; a warmth remains that Alfred has heard only in those moments where Arthur is tending to his blooms. "Just so you know, I am doing this only so that you will quit pestering me."

Alfred leans back on his palms and stretches out his legs. He smiles up at Arthur, unabashed, with all his teeth. "Yeah yeah whatever man just sit down." The fabric of Arthur's pants feels harsh against the bare skin of Alfred's arm when he sits close.

There's no longer a question of whether it will or won't rain. The storm clouds have swallowed the sky, leaving behind trace amounts of the blue Alfred remembers seeing this morning when he laughed off the weather forecast calling for evening rain showers. His umbrella remains unused in his closet, buried beneath winter coats, and he knows he'll be drenched by the time he reaches his apartment later on. If he leaves now, he might miss the potential rain, but.

Arthur sits beside him, arms wrapped around his legs, completely at ease with himself and with Alfred. It's a rare moment, and no one can blame him for wanting to take advantage of this. Alfred presses just the slightest bit closer, and if Arthur notices he says nothing.

The rain begins to fall.

Alfred spends the time waiting out the worst of the rain-shower doing what he does best: talking.

And the thing is, Arthur talks back – not in the politely-disinterested way in which he usually converses with Alfred (and most everyone else Alfred knows him to be acquainted with), but with honest answers laced with clever insults that Alfred's not entirely sure what mean. He thinks they might be friends again; the warm feeling bubbling in his stomach has spread like a disease to his chest now. Maybe it's that impending heart attack Mattie always warns him about, but it could be something else.

The rain continues to pelt the windows with its incessant tap tap tap, and the air smells of dirt and flowers and water and a mix of their cologne. Alfred's phone buzzes with a text from one of his friends (or maybe Matthew); it's then he realizes that it's late and he still needs to walk home and finish his chem lab homework. A glance outside confirms his suspicions that the rainfall won't be stopping or slacking anytime soon.

Arthur notices too, apparently, because the next words he says are: "you're more than welcome to stay in our dorm tonight." Not the dorm, not even my dorm.

Alfred startles. "You didn't get a new roommate?"

Arthur narrows his eyes. "No."

Alfred taps his toes together, off-time with the beat of the rain, and says, "I just kinda thought that after I left… Francis was interested."

"If Francis were to room with me, one of us would be dead," Arthur says smoothly, "and it would not be myself." The look he gives Alfred sends shivers up his spine; it's the look Arthur gets when he's up to something mischievous, and it's not one he's seen since they were underage freshmen and Arthur managed to smuggle in the booze.

Alfred breaks into a smile, and Arthur's expression eases into something softer. Something lifts between them. The urge to hurry back to an empty and lonely apartment is no longer weighing on Alfred's mind.

"The offer stands," Arthur says, voice soft, after a few moments of silence.

From the tips of Arthur's ears down the line of his neck is red, and he tugs at his collar to loosen it more. The skin of his collar is also a light rose in tint. Alfred feels his own body flush. The greenhouse feels like the warmth in summertime despite the cooling rain downing the sides of the building.

Later, they make a mad dash toward the on-campus dormitories, Alfred's right hand fumbling to hold Arthur's green umbrella above both their heads as they sprint across rain-covered walkways. In his left hand is Arthur's hand.