Title: A Thorn Is A Thorn
Author's note: For the Spring Franada com challenge: 76-While gardening roses with France, Canada accidentally lands in a patch of them. Cue fluffy first-aid. I always meant to claim it, but I got swamped with stuff.
Part of Mel's birthday package.
It was a warm day, and they had gotten out late. Cooler was best for planting, France always said. They'd spent the warmest part of the day in humid greenhouses, looking for just the right new acquisitions to France's rose garden. It'd almost been like a date, going arm in arm and looking over little rosebuds of every color imaginable.
France never did anything halfway, and he never looked bad while doing it. Even now, his distressed jeans looked the better for their rips and stains. His oversized white dress shirt had the top three buttons undone, and even his boots and gloves were the expensive kind you had to order in, and probably designer at that.
Canada had the hose nearby, and was spraying over France's precious flowers with one of the heads that turned the force into a gentle rain. He'd already carried over the mulch that France was putting in with the latest acquisition for France's beloved garden.
A thought came over him. Back in the day, he'd have thought it a wicked thought and probably had to say his rosary for it. He switched settings to something a little harder, and aimed it straight at France. France let out a girlish shriek as the cold water hit him. It plastered the white shirt to his body, turning the material nigh transparent in the process. The cold water left his nipples hard, and rosy just visible beneath the wet cloth.
"Oh, so you're declaring war now?" France said. "Well war it is!"
He grabbed up the other hose and began to spray Canada back with the cold water, making his own ratty white t-shirt cling to his skin. Canada laughed, and stepped back from the assault. He had forgotten about the watering can, the one with the hole that still needed to be patched. He found himself stumbling, and then stepping into nothing.
He landed hard straight into France's beloved roses. Right away, he felt thorns digging into his skin.
"Are you okay?" France called. He held out his hand. Canada flinched as he took it. The thorns dug deeper into him as he was lifted into the flowerbed. A cursory glance back saw that he had left an imprint on the soft ground. The roses looked a little smushed and ragged. Canada looked down, a little ashamed to have marred France's beloved roses.
"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to–"
France bent down and examined him.
"They will be fine. They're hardy flowers, d'ccord? I've seen your brother and Angleterre do worse to them and they turned out no worse for the wear," France said.
"Yeah..." Canada said. He still had to swallow down guilt as France began to check him. He had only helped tend France's gardens for a few years now. Twenty at the very most. It might have been cheesy, but he honestly felt affectionate towards the flowers he and France had adopted and raised together. He'd never spoken a word of it, afraid that America would tease him mercilessly, but it hurt to think he'd ruined the flowers that he'd tried so hard to grow with France–like he'd dropped his little leafy sons and daughters on their heads. So to speak.
"But it is you I'm worried about. Ah, those are some nasty thorns there," France said. He turned Canada's arm and pulled out a particularly bad thorn which had lodged itself in. Canada barely made a peep all this time. It hurt, yes, but it felt nice as well to have France fussing over him. Even if it had been his fault.
"Ahh, this won't do. They're all over," Francis said. "We best go in. I was just finishing with the last flower anyways."
Canada nodded. "Okay..."
France motioned him in. "You go in. I'll clean up and meet you in a moment."
Canada pulled the shirt over his head at the doorway, and kicked off his jeans until he was in nothing but his wet blue boxers. He wasn't about to push his luck by tracking mud all over France's wood floors. He bundled them up and took them towards the laundry room, depositing them in an empty laundry basket.
When he returned, France was stripped down to nothing. Of course, France went commando. In his hands were a pair of tweezers. He beckoned Canada to follow him and Canada did, straight into the bathroom. France motioned for him to step into the glass-box of the shower, and Canada did after removing his glasses and setting them on the white marble counter. After that, he bent down and seated himself against the sturdy wall. France pulled out one, two, then three more thorns and clicked his tongue. "You're covered with them."
"Tell me about it," Canada sighed. He tried to smile, but it came out flat, and turned into a flinch as France pulled out another of the thorns.
After he was done, France climbed in, pulled down the showerhead and washed him off. The lingering dirt fell away, and the cuts and scrapes stung slightly. He washed himself off too, to his dirty knees and the smears of dirt that working in the garden had left. It was just a quick warmth, a gentle downpour from the showerhead before France turned it off and patted them both dry.
"There, now you we're clean," France said. He moved over then, and pulled down a little first aid kit. Canada watched him as he moved. His strong legs, his taut ass and slim back. He could watch France all day.
"Like what you see?" France teased. He put his free hand that wasn't burdened with the bandages on his hips and swivelled them seductively.
"Always," Canada said, with just the slightest flush at getting caught.
France smiled and bent down, kissing each cut and scrape as he first applied peroxide, which bubbled and stung and then patted it dry so he could apply the bandages.
The whole process didn't take more than ten minutes. After that, they both walked naked to the bedroom, like they were preparing for a holiday bloodbath.
"I'm amazed at your self control," Canada admitted as he pulled on a fresh, new shirt with a Canadiens logo on it.
France chuckled. "I don't want to get my new sheets bloodstained."
Canada laughed too, though it was strained.
"I tease, I tease," France said. He brushed across Canada's shoulder admiringly. "You were never much into pain–I did not think you'd want sex in the shower when it stung so badly, and if I took you in the bed, your bandages might come free and scrape you something terrible."
He walked over to the bed, not bothering to put anything on because he was France, and France was naked more often than not whether sex was involved, or it was a simply a hot day and he felt like taking all his clothes off and lounging with nothing on.
France patted the bed beside him and Canada laid down and allowed himself to be snuggled close.
"Besides," France said sleepily. "This is good too. Long days like dates in greenhouses, water fights and taking care of the children..."
"The children?" Canada asked.
"You didn't know? It's what I call the roses," France said.
"Y-you too, eh?" Canada said. It spilled out before he could catch himself. France just smile lazily and ran his fingers through Canada's still damp hair.
"Yes, me too."