For all those times you stood by me.
It was that time of the year again. It would the third, although it felt as though one hundred years had been ripped off forcibly from his lifespan; but that was a joke. To a nation, centuries could pass, and they would grow no older.
Canada shifted atop the cool leather of the red loveseat, his indigo eyes focused and unfocused on the blaring television program that incessantly insisted on the authenticity of a five-second, put-it-together fishing rod. He had been sitting there for quite some time now. The minutes had long passed since the cheerful voice of the television host echoed in and through his mind; he could no longer comprehend what exactly it was that was being advertised now. He blinked once now, twice, pallid eyelids seemingly paler than that of their usual complexion. Feet firmly on the floor, the male suddenly stood up in a flash of movement, earning a small yelp from the polar bear that had been snoozing atop his lap, seemingly oblivious to the tension that was hung high and tight in the house.
It had been like that for a week now.
He glanced at his watch briefly: seven PM. It was just about time then; he would have to rush if he wanted to make it there before the closing times. Shrugging on his beige parka, his emotionless indigo hues alighted upon the bear's form, still unmoving, unsure – just as he was. With a small sigh, he bent down and scooped the creature up upon his shoulders, where it then nestled around his neck as though a panda to its bamboo tree – where it watched, stationary, unnerved at the queerer-than-normal silence.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
You were my strength when I was weak.
They had promised – the countries, in general at a certain assembly – that the war, called the Trench War, would be the last shock that the international world would experience, but they were wrong. There was no other plausible reason why, now, he lay close to a clump of dirt that had been strategically dug up, the bodies of soldiers sprawled around him in a sort of upturned cemetery. Canada panted up against the cold wall of artificiality, the rifle laying parallel to his left arm. Dressed in the robes covered in far too much blood to ever be able to uncover its original colours, he grasped his right arm with a shock, his breathing growing more and more erratic each second.
They said there would be no more killing.
He spared a glance at the wounded appendage; now was not the time to succumb to cowardice. He was still a nation, after all. But the deep breath he allowed for his lungs could not have prepared him for the brutal discovery his eyes gazed at, horrified. The elbow was bent at an odd angle, at the likes of which should never be humanly possible. For a moment, before he gritted his teeth and turned his eyes away preferring to be ignorant, he had spotted a flash of white – a flash of bone. In this condition, he would make easy prey, and the men he had brought with him had already succumbed to eternal sleep.
All he could do now was wait out his turn, he thought resignedly.
It was clearly audible, that sound of trampling feet, as the German army advanced on their Blitzkrieg agenda; it was for his direction they ran. There were no such thoughts as regret in his mind, except perhaps a curious nudging that, really, he had to die in such a brutal place? They grew closer with each second as he clamped his eyes shut, awaiting the inevitable… before something exploded.
It was an earth-shattering tremble, and the loud noise was such an obstruction to his ears that he had been forced to push his right ear against the sallow dirt, his left hand clamping over his other. It was followed by a bout of silence, save for his pounding heart that refused to calm itself down. It was a few seconds too long, he had ascertained, and he slowly plucked one eye open after the other, jaw slowly falling open at the sight that now rested before him.
No, there were still a multitude of sights: cannons, more guns, men, and more death. But the only one he could certainly focus on was the half-grinning, half-frowning blonde that stood atop the hill where he had his back towards, crouched over slightly in a protective manner, whose attention was to him, and to him alone. His blonde locks were slightly matted with the dirt from his previous battles, and he wished he could swoop up and pat them away; they were unworthy to dirt the face of the one most precious to him.
"Yo, bra', the hero has arrived."
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
The rain came in torrents, he could obviously see, as he listlessly drove the parka's hood up his head. Kumajirou, much like its master, was an avid reader of the atmosphere, and had thus intentionally kept its silence. It did not protest when Canada stepped outside, armed with nothing more than his overused parka and his tattered umbrella that looked as shattered as the blonde felt, internally and externally.
The moment he left the comfort of the house, the seemingly harmless rain attacked him with raging fury, hell-bent on destroying the remains of his pathetic excuse for an umbrella. He only shrugged, knowing what it was that he must do for that day, despite his heart's protest at his never-ending excuse of masochism. He knew the well way enough, yes. It wasn't as though this was his first time carrying this "chore" through. The bakery was just a few blocks down from his home; it was just as well that the personification of the nation had some positive attributes going for him. It was only one of the few.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
You were my voice when I couldn't speak.
It was one of those rare days when his sibling had time in his busy schedule of being the "asshole of the world" to grace him with his presence. Such a thing always had his heart skipping a beat; why would he, one of the greatest superpowers, ever spare a glance towards the invisible nation? It was no question then, that he had promptly accepted the invitation to a nearby festival being held in Alberta: the Calgary Stampede.
As usual, the sibling had dressed for the occasion – too much, if one asked him – and he was donning a large cowboy hat, boots and pants, grinning every which way at the marvels that the small, yet diverse, festival was bringing for him. It hadn't been ten minutes into their sibling date before the other had ditched him in favour of a Whack-a-Mole display, and he had been left to his own devices, grumbling and shaking his head sadly as once again, he was forgotten.
He'd then found some entertainment by a nearby stall. It had one of those games where one was given three plastic rings, and had to loop them around green, identical bottles set in a rectangular box. Excited with childish abandon, he had much too easily – to his surprise – landed all three, earning the applause of nearby passer-by… and the scowl of a very angry, hustled-looking man. Said man had refused to award him the prize, accusing him of having cheated somehow, perhaps rigged the display beforehand. He had desperately apologized, stuttering over the simple words of "I'm sorry", but the stocky gentleman had refused to let it go. The man's voice grew in decibel, throwing all sorts of accusatory curses at the Canadian, blaming him for the loss of his money and prizes at the account of cheating. He could feel his own self-esteem shrinking and shrinking, and he clamped his eyes shut, reddening, his polar bear the only sort of solace he could find. It would have only taken one more hurtful word for him to break down, tears attempting to stream down his cheeks in sorrow.
A warm finger grazed his cheek, wiping away the hot tears that flowed from his puffy orbs, momentarily catching him off-guard.
"Hey, ya' big lummox, leave him alone! He didn't do anything to you, so get a burger and just chill, will ya'?"
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
The lights of the bakery grew brighter and brighter, welcoming as hushed lights seeped through the open windows. The bell rang as the soaked-to-the-bone Canada stepped in, shaking his head like a dog to rid himself of some of the water droplets that clung desperately to his hair. He hung the tattered red and white umbrella by the doorstep, before patting down his boots and walking like one of the undead towards the store manager.
The manager was the loud sort of man – reminding him bitterly of a certain sibling – but not to the degree of his rash obnoxiousness. The two had been acquainted for a while now to notice his pattern of shopping; today, Canada would desire some flour, a large sack of it straight from the mill. As soon as he stepped up to the cashier, the manager had grunted that it was already on its way to his house, to spare him the trouble of lugging it all the way through the rain. But unbeknownst to him, the rain had the soothing effect that he desired. However, he was unable to pipe up a word of protest – as was usual – and he nodded thanks before leaving the establishment.
The rain attacked him once more as he made his way towards his next destination: the grocery store.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
You were my eyes when I couldn't see.
It was no use; he was hopelessly lost. The devilish trees smirked at him from every which direction, their brutish branches reaching for him, threatening to drag him into a never-ending abyss of despair. The child panted in desperation, clutching the lifeline that was bear towards his chest. His clothes were ragged and he looked absolutely dishevelled, head swinging back and forth in a panic as he searched his unfamiliar surroundings.
He should have been used to this place by now; he had lived here for far too long. He berated himself internally, scolding his lack of direction. But he had not only forgotten; he had also underestimated the power of night time. Only the moon hung up in the skies today; no stars were there to shed comfort on his apparent unease and dread. Barely visible were the yellow sunflowers that littered the backyard of a forest of England's home, and the red roses had already sunk in the darkness. Even more invisible was the uprooted plant that tripped him straight across the knees, causing him to fall to the ground with a loud grunt, sprawled on the cold surface of the forest floor, Kumajirou thrown out of his grasp.
The pain that set in had been unreal, and tears mingled on his face with the clumps of dirt that hung on his pale skin. There was no hope for him to be found, he knew. England had been out that day, and as invisible as he was, there would no search parties until after he had died of starvation, or from the merciless chill in the air. He would also die from the pain of loneliness, with not even a guardian, much less his polar bear to grasp to his chest, as he would chant to himself that it would be alright. But today, everything would not be alright, and his vision clouded as he looked straight forward from where he had sprawled. A glowing something approached him, but before he was able to comprehend what it had been exactly, he had blacked out, his ears being the last to cease their function.
"Ew, you're all dirty. England's not going to be very happy, you know!"
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
The bags of groceries hung limply in one hand, the other supporting the umbrella. His tasks for that day had been completed, but he felt no more accomplished than he had been when he first took leave of his house. But it was just as well; why there would ever be such a sudden change in luck and karma was above him, and he was perfectly content to wallow in the low self-esteem that always seemed to trail him in every which corner.
All that was left was to go back home, but not before a pit stop. Just the mere thought of it caused his heart to squirm uncomfortably.
Canada trod down the sidewalk to his house, taking the long way back. With each step, it seemed as if the weight of his body grew heavier and heavier, up to the point where he could no longer lift himself up. A tree nearby served the temporary purpose of shading him from the rain, but its healing hands were such limited things. There, he set the bags down, standing and facing the tree, head bowed as though in reverence.
The memories were too much, had been more than he could handle. It felt as though a dam broke loose within his soul, and a cry of pain echoed from his lips as he fell down to the cement sidewalk on his knees, legs spread apart in an ultimate show of despair. Black gloves covered his hands, but they could not hold back the warm tears that flowed through the cracks. Wracking sobs followed forth, and the male, for once, could care less what others thought of him. There was too much pain in his heart; it was as though an ice-cold knife had been pierced right through it, a personification of his memories having come back to haunt him. Another cry escaped from his lips, and he slid down into a laying position on the ground, his face spattered with droplets that seemed forever harsh and cruel in their assault. He curled into himself, but not before punching the ground numerous times, hearing and feeling his knuckles crack at the unexpected force. The blood could not – would not – deter him, however.
He could care less. All he had left was that feeling of pain that reminded him of his reality. That was all he had. He would always only be able to care less.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
You saw the best there was in me.
It was discouraging having a major superpower as his neighbour… or perhaps disconcerting was a more appropriate word. He had paced his office that day, after having met with England and discussing the latest news and know-hows of the new monarch. He had never quite understood why America sought to free himself from the man so much; he was highly tolerable, but at the same time, could often be repelling in his own right, especially when it came to matters of the benefit of himself – his country. Canada could blame America's rebellious nature for the violent uprising and attack of his land, but he knew much better. No matter the self-justifications he could claim and blind himself with, he knew there was one truth: he was far inferior to his twin. That was the sole reason he had never been able to break away from the older nation's stronghold: he was far too cowardly to set forth his own declaration of rights and independence.
It was only a matter of time before such a weak, insufficient country would be crushed by the cruel birds of prey that were often other nations.
It was upon his pacing that a knocking sound intruded upon his thoughts, and no sooner had he looked up to question the entry, was he met with the loud, shrill laugh of none other than his beloved brother. It was at that time that his self-esteem slowly drained down the toilet, and upon seeing the other male so free and dominant and proud, it made him feel as though he was nothing more of a shadow. Such thoughts plagued his mind as he greeted the other with nothing more than a warm smile. However, he appeared as though he was not the only one having an off day; the blue-eyed sibling's face looked purpled and bruised, as though he'd just come home from a war.
Tilting his head, he questioned the other's appearance, only to be greeted by a not-so-enthusiastic response about Afghanistan, and about how his country was suffering the effects. With not even an embarrassed look on his face, the America requested the words that made the Canadian question the man's sanity… and his own self-worth. He would have dismissed it as a joke, if it were not for the trance-like stare that he received which pierced his very soul and threatened to make him blush.
"I need your help. Will you fight with me?"
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
He now walked along the rural areas of the town, eyes kept low on the sidewalk, trusting his instinct to lead him to where he needed to go. Perhaps it was more of his masochistic urge than anything, but he felt as though if he didn't see what he needed to see tonight, it would haunt him more than if he did not. Perhaps it was just his pride… or perhaps it was more so his lingering feelings that he often allowed to cloud his mind far too often recently.
He was growing weak, and even his people suffered the slight effects of a depression.
Bags now soaked, their contents washed anew, Canada found himself in front of a large, pristine mansion, which somehow glittered and stood above all other houses in the vicinity. It towered a few stories high, but he knew – it was a disconcerting feeling in his gut – that all he needed was in the first floor window, in the dining room.
The warm light that escaped the transparent glass yielded a frigid cold that enwrapped him. Smiles were painted on his sibling's face, which matched equally with England's more subtle version – but none could argue that it was there. They seemed to share a picture-perfect easiness, with America's arm grasped around the other blonde's shoulder, holding him close as they stared at the fireplace, both eyes widened in sheer glee at each other's company… and perhaps anticipation for what was to come.
It was enough.
He turned, now trudging back to his own abode. It was enough now. He had shed the tears he would often save within himself throughout the year, knowing that when this particular date came to pass, he would easily empty up his storage of emotion. The heavy pain in his heart allowed no second thoughts; it was the agony that surpassed any ideas of doubt. If anything, the sheer sorrow once again confirmed his resounding love – no, it was not the brotherly, platonic type – and adoration for his twin. It was a love that was kept hidden but nurtured, kept silent for the sake of his brother and previous caretaker.
It was them that were meant to be together, so lovingly caressing each other in their arms. Memories that flooded him were nothing more than his imagination in overdrive. Those were brotherly acts; no more, no less.
He was meant to be alone.
But yes, for now, he must push out these thoughts from his mind. After all, tomorrow was July the Fourth. He had a cake to bake.
A/N: So... yeah, sudden muse to write this, haha. It's a songfic, if you can't tell, "Because You Loved Me" by Celine Dion featuring America and Canada. It's my first songfic, so please do let me know what you think of it, and let me know what I can do to improve.
This was meant for July 1/4 but... I think it's too depressing for a birthday fic, haha, so I decided to post it now. Also, some of you may wonder why England would be happy for the 4th, but c'mon, he's not completely heartless... right? Lmao. Right.
And anyways... that was it for my little rant. Have a good read, and leave me reviews if you wish!