Author's Note: This story was requested by kayladchristine on my Tumblr. It'll probably be two or three chapters in length. I hope you guys enjoy it!


England is coming to visit.

It's been a while since Canada has seen the man. In fact, he can't quite recall the last time he was able to speak to him in person rather than by letter. Has it been two years or three? Keeping track of the passing days is hard sometimes, especially when he's alone in the house so very often nowadays, sitting in the rickety chair in the living room, reading at great length to fill the time.

There isn't much to do other than housework. England deals with the nitty gritty details of maintaining the colonies and regulating his trade relations. Aside from the occasional local matter he is allowed to tend to, Canada is essentially free to spend his days however he so wishes. He used to take trips down to Boston to see America whenever the boredom became too much to bear, but now, he isn't even able to do that, given the political tension. He misses his brother more than he can fully express, but something gives him the feeling America doesn't want to be bothered right now, not unless Canada promises to pledge his allegiance to his cause, which Canada refuses to do. He knows where his loyalties lie, and because of this, he's cut off all contact with America until this whole rebellion gets sorted out. It is best to let England and America work out the problem without his intervention.

England used to visit frequently, back before Canada knew how to read or tie a knot—back when he'd needed a mentor in his life to guide him. But things weren't easy even in those days. The first transition years from being under French rule and then under English rule were painful, perhaps not physically, but certainly emotionally. France had been the first person to fit the role of a father figure, teaching him the ins-and-outs of daily life and how to cook for himself, keep a garden from wilting, and connect with his people by walking through town and getting to know everyone, forcing him to break out of his shell just the slightest bit.

He'd been attached to France.

And so, when the Seven Years War came to a close, and it was suddenly declared that he was going to be torn away from the first familial bond he'd ever formed, he didn't take the news very well. He'd cried and cried, and then cried some more. Begged France not to leave—to take him with him. Promised he'd follow him to the other side of the world and do anything just to stay by his side. France understood him. He'd given him haircuts and read him stories by the fireplace on cold nights. He held him when he was scared. He always knew how to fix any problem over a good meal. He could make Canada feel like he was the most important person in the world.

But then, England had changed all of that. Canada had expected a foreboding and wild-eyed man with perpetually tousled hair and a short temper to be his new mentor, and while those definitions remain somewhat accurate, Canada has realized these first impressions were misleading. Though the Englishman's cooking is notoriously horrible, and he can't cut hair to save his life, he's not all that menacing. Granted, England can be irate and impossible to tolerate when he's in a sour mood, but he has rarely acted this way in Canada's presence. They have very quickly been able to warm up to one another, sharing a natural, friendly, diplomatic relationship. Canada has learned that if he simply follows England's instructions and doesn't cause him any trouble, the man will act graciously toward him in return, and so, although they will never have the same love between them that Canada feels he'd shared with France, they're still capable of feeling some fondness for one another, if not for one profound obstacle that occasionally stands in their way.

America.

Try as he might, Canada knows he will never compare to America in England's eyes. Somehow, despite the fact that America is everything but obedient and often makes England absolutely furious, he'll still always be first in England's heart. Canada is doomed to live in his shadow. He is the afterthought. The second-best child. The one who is there to put out the fires America sets and to fix the wounds his brother has left England with.

That isn't to say England doesn't care about him at all. He does, or at least, Canada thinks he does, but it's not the same kind of care. He knows the difference because the way England looks at America is the way France used to look at him, and Canada knows he will never be able to attain that kind of level of affection again.

He isn't jealous of his brother. He has accepted the reality of the situation and understands this is the way things must be, and he truly wants the best for him. He wants him to be loved by someone. It just hurts him when he sees America not appreciating that love because Canada knows what it's like to lose it. In this way, he can sympathize with England. Oftentimes, Canada has to wonder if America even cares about England at all. Surely, he must?

He cleans the whole house and makes sure it's in impeccable shape for the man's arrival.


It's raining when England finally comes marching onto the porch in waterlogged boots and soggy clothes, abandoning his carriage in the torrential downpour behind him. He seems to be carrying his despondence with him lately, bringing clouds wherever he goes.

Canada doesn't waste any time in taking his coat and getting him settled in. He offers him a set of dry clothes to wear and puts an extra log in the fireplace, doing his best to dutifully ensure he's done everything he can to help. After half an hour or so of drying off and regaining his composure, England is finally able to properly greet him with a stiff hug and small talk.

"You've grown since I've last seen you, my boy," England murmurs, sounding both pleased and not by this revelation. "I trust you've been doing well? No trouble in town?"

Canada knows what he really wants to ask is if there have been any signs of revolution lately. "Everything's been fine."

"I'm glad to hear it. It's so wonderful to see you. I wish I could have checked in sooner, but certain matters have been taking up all of my time," England laments, perching himself on one of Canada's worn, velvet armchairs.

"Mmm, I can imagine," Canada replies softly, careful not to say too much because perhaps England doesn't want to talk about the impending revolution in the nation next door. America has always been a sensitive topic with him.

However, it seems like today is a good day to talk about it, since England seems to need someone to vent his frustrations to. He brings up the topic himself by saying, "Oh, Canada, I don't suppose you have any idea when this silly phase of defiance your brother has been displaying will finally come to an end? Has he spoken to you lately?"

"No, I'm sorry. I haven't spoken to him."

"Ahh, it's all right. There's no need to trouble yourself with it anyway—that's my responsibility."

"Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, lad."

Canada sets the kettle on and returns to the living room once he's done, resuming his place in a chair opposite England. "Have the recent negotiations helped?"

"I'm afraid not. The boy is set on being incorrigible. I don't know what to do with him, quite honestly, and I don't want this to have to result in military force—it would be terrible—but he isn't leaving me with any choice. If he wants a war, perhaps it's high time he learned exactly what war entails."

At that, Canada feels a jitter run through his hands and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. If England chooses to force America into compliance, it will be devastating for everyone involved, and there's no way America would stand a chance against such well-trained soldiers and the most powerful navy in the world. For a moment, he feels a sting of fear run through his heart for his brother.

"There must be some other way."

England frowns, runs a weary hand over his face and says, "I will try my best to find an alternative, but should those alternatives fail, I may require your assistance, Canada. I have a dozen other issues cropping up in Europe at the moment, and I can't be in so many places at once."

Canada purses his lips and says, sheepishly, "You have my full support, England. I'll do whatever has to be done."

"Thank you, my boy. You've no idea how reassuring that is to hear. America seems to have forgotten his place and his duty to the Crown, and if I may, I'd like to ask you to make an attempt at reasoning with him. Perhaps you will be able to influence him to step down. If he puts an end to this now, I shall be more forgiving, and we can put this behind us."

"As much as I'd like to think America would listen to me, England, I doubt he will, but I'll try," Canada whispers back, haltingly. He is conflicted. He shouldn't have to choose between his brother and the empire. He's not sure he's ready to make that kind of decision. He has sworn his loyalty to England and intends to stay true to his word, but he doesn't want to hurt America—doesn't want to even consider what might happen if he has to raise a gun at his men.

And yet, it seems that's a choice he will soon have to make anyway.


When he reaches Boston, America is there to greet him with sunshine and smiles. He's like a grasshopper jumping back and forth in front of Canada's field of view, chattering on and on about how things are looking up, and how he's never been so optimistic about the future.

"You've been tucked away up north too long, brother," America accuses with a beaming grin, but Canada can sense the underlying unease in his words. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten all about me! You weren't responding to my letters, and I wasn't sure how to find out if you were okay."

"I'm fine. I'm sorry for making you worry," Canada replies, not sure what else to say. He's here with an agenda in mind, of course. He needs to get America to reconsider his stance, and right now, that seems like it's going to be an insurmountable task. "I just… I knew you have plenty to deal with right now, and I didn't want to add to your problems."

"I always have time for you, Canada. You're not adding any problems. You couldn't if you tried! You're too damned nice, I swear."

Canada smiles awkwardly as something splits apart in his chest. He has a feeling America won't think he's such a swell individual when he finds out the real reason for his visit. Best to be subtle and wait for the right moment to bring up the topic. They can discuss is over tea tonight, but at the moment, he should listen to America's merry banter and let the ice between them melt.

"England sure has been a pain in the neck, and it seems he has everyone keeping tabs on me. I can't seem to be able to take a stroll outside anymore without one of his darned redcoats reporting the news back to him. As you can see, they've pretty much occupied the place after what happened at the harbor. It's going to take some work to get them scrambling away from here. I'm guessing England knows about our meeting?"

There's no reason to lie. "Yes."

"Hmm, that's not surprising. I wish we could have a little privacy, Canada. That way, I could take you around the city and be a better host, but I really can't bring myself to stay on the streets for too long with all of these pairs of eyes on my back at all times. I hope you don't mind staying inside for most of the day?" America asks with a deep frown.

"That's fine. I don't mind at all."

"See? I told you—too nice."

They shuffle through the front door of America's house (which in reality still belongs to England), and Canada has to raise one of his brows when he sees two redcoats stationed directly in the front yard, stone-faced and pretending not to pay them any mind. England really is surveilling America to a new extreme.

"I don't have any tea around, for obvious reasons, but would you care to try some coffee?" America asks, not acknowledging the soldiers. He merely steps inside, shuts the door firmly, and locks it behind them.

"Yes, that sounds great."

As America bustles off to the kitchen, Canada takes the chance to take a good look at how much the house has changed. It's definitely dustier, and all of the curtains have been drawn over the windows, blocking out the sunlight and leaving all of the rooms in a state of languid darkness aside from the dim flicker of some candles America has lit. The quietude is unsettling, and Canada decides to follow America into the kitchen, feeling uncomfortable.

"I know why you're here," America states as soon as he reaches the doorway, back turned.

Canada bites his lip. "You do?"

"England thinks he can send you here as his messenger. Well, it's not going to work. I told him I'm done with his tyrannical rule. There's going to be a war, and nothing can change that now."

"It doesn't have to be this way," Canada hurriedly cuts in, anxious to get his point across. "England said he was willing to negotiate. He even offered to give your people the representation they wanted. You just have to take the offer now before this escalates any further."

"The time for negotiation has ended, and I've made that clear to England. He's got a lot of nerve trying to get my own brother to coerce me, but you don't know any better, and it isn't your fault. You're just following orders," America huffs, gaze darkening.

"I'm not England's puppet. I can make my own choices," Canada suddenly snaps back, stunning himself with his own courage. Something about America suggesting he's just a helpless, little colony has rubbed him the wrong way. "But if this does end in war, I…. I will side with him."

"Then you're nothing but another shameless redcoat," America hisses, and the venom in his words makes Canada's chest ache again.

"You're making a mistake. This is a fight you can't win. You're being reckless and stupid, America."

America seems to wear those adjectives as a badge of honor, grinning slyly as he pours them each a cup of coffee with meticulous care. "Is that so? You really believe that?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, I can't wait to prove you wrong then."

"England has been as lenient as he can be, and you're starting a riot over nothing!"

America shakes his head and laughs, taking a sip of his coffee. "We're different people, Canada. It's funny—sometimes I wake up and look at my reflection and think you're staring back at me, and yet, we're nothing alike. I hope once all of this is over, we can work something out, and I can help you see a life for yourself outside of the British Empire."

"How can you be so certain you're going to win?" Canada rasps, losing fervor.

America lowers his head with a sad smile and shrugs his shoulders. "How can I believe anything else?"

"It doesn't bother you that you're hurting England? How can you not care about how he feels after all of the years he's raised you?"

"The same way you stopped caring about France. I've outgrown England. I'm ready to move on," America retorts smoothly.

Canada has to take in a sharp breath to steady himself. "I never stopped caring about France. You never stop caring about the people who make you who you are, so don't try to compare our separate situations. I haven't moved on. I've just learned to adapt to change and accept it."

"Well, I won't accept things the way they are. And it's strange to hear you speak so highly of France after he has promised to aid me—should this really amount to war."

That's when Canada is sure his heart stops for a moment. He thinks America is bluffing, but he wouldn't lie about something like that. "What do you mean?"

"France is on the side of the Patriots. Whether it's just to taunt England or because he actually believes in our cause is irrelevant to me," America explains, hopping up onto the counter behind him to sit on it.

Canada knows that counter. It's where America sat in 1763, when he was just a bit smaller. England had brought Canada to Boston for the first time, and they'd found America in the garden that day, nursing a rash after he'd been exploring the woods outside the city and ran into some poison ivy. He wasn't supposed to be wandering away so far from home in the first place, but he'd managed to convince the maid he would just be going into town to run some errands. England had given him a good scolding and made him sit on this very counter before applying some kind of thick, herbal ointment over the red splotches snaking down the length of America's arms.

That was just over a decade ago. So much has changed. Back then, they were almost like a family.

"France is a sovereign nation and can side with whomever he wants," Canada mutters, but the words hurt as they roll off his tongue.

America smirks, and there's a taunting look in his eyes. "I can see I won't be able to reform you. Oh, well... I guess we don't really have anything left to talk about then. Finish your coffee, and I'll see you on your way. Send my regards to England, and let him know I'm looking forward to running into him on the battlefield. Should be exciting."

Exciting isn't exactly the best word to use in this context—more like nerve-wracking.

Canada rubs a hand over his eyes and makes one last feeble attempt at some sort of reconciliation. He looks directly into America's bright blue eyes—two endless skies—and darkly wonders why the people he grows close to always find new ways to hurt him. Is this what families are supposed to be like? The constant fighting, the rivalries and tensions, the battle to establish control—are they just part of human nature?

"America, brother, don't do this. You're shooting yourself in the foot, and I can't watch you do it."

"So don't watch."

"That's not—" Canada's words get tangled in his throat at the worst possible time.

"I appreciate the concern, but you wouldn't have to be concerned if you joined me and gave me some backing."

"You know I can't do that."

America smiles stretches too widely to be genuine. "You're never going to get ahead with that attitude, Canada. You're being loyal to a dog that's got its jaw wrapped around your hand, and even if it's not biting down hard now, it will soon enough."

There are hundreds and hundreds of eloquent arguments Canada could make in response, and yet, all of them are just out of reach. He swallows hard, dabs at a bit of sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief, and lamely says, "Well… Good luck, then."

"You, too."

Canada wants to kick himself, hard. Good luck? His brother is going to war with the mightiest empire in the world, and all he has to say is good luck? What is wrong with him? England should just hang him for treason right now. Let him be publically shamed for failing to do the one job he'd been assigned.

"Finish your coffee, and I'll see you on your way," America repeats cordially, as though none of their previous conversation ever took place.

Canada nods, face blanching. He wraps his clammy hands around the mug America hands him and wishes he didn't feel so empty inside. "C-Could you by any chance send France my regards?"

"Sure. Don't worry about it."

"Thank you."

"But I don't think England would approve. Which side are you on?"

Oh, God. He's going to either collapse or be sick. Neither of those options sound pleasant at the moment.

He takes a big swig of coffee and internally pleads for his stomach to stop roiling. The answer is obvious. He's England's colony. He represents England. He will fight on England's side. It's an easy response.

So why can't he directly say it anymore? He just stated it a few minutes ago, but that was before he knew France was involved. Things are more complicated now than they were when he first stepped into this house.

He downs the rest of the coffee, leaves America without a proper response, and hurries away, sweat rolling down his back as his stomach clenches tightly with anxiety.

He needs space to think.