'There's no other choice,' America reminded himself as he sat at the table, staring at the parchment that lay between him and his brother. The fateful little paper that would bind their countries together. The paper that would solve all their problems.
'Theoretically.' Canada's conscience added.
"No one else knows. It's not too late for you to back out," Canada said consolingly, but he only won a stifled sob from America. "I won't think any less of you," he breathed, almost as if it was an afterthought.
"They all know. They're all here, even. Can't you see them?"
"Oh." Canada's gaze swept around the room.
England was suppressing tears, France biting his lip so hard Canada could see the blood well up around the teeth. Hungary was trying to soothe Sealand, who Canada knew shouldn't have even been there. The young nation was crying quietly into Hungary's breast. She hugged him gently. Canada knew Hungary had been through a lot in her life too.
What he didn't know was that she felt guilty. She felt as if she had been brought to court for crimes she had committed, things she knew she had done. Why couldn't they join the way she and Austria had? She fathomed a glance at her former husband, who was looking on with a steely gaze and a lip like France's, torn and bleeding from biting it. Hungary could tell he was trying to stay strong.
America looked at England. "I'm sorry. I guess I never was a hero after all. I guess… I failed you."
That was England's breaking point. The tears finally came, dripping placidly down his cheeks. "You shouldn't, please, America, no good can come of this." And then the nation just kept babbling about America's childhood—even recalling Canada's existence at the time—going so far as to talk about the Revolution, and how even then he hadn't failed.
Canada's eyes fixed themselves on France. France screwed up in mentoring. Canada had been left to his own devices when he should have been taught. He should have been… so much more.
When fury should have been ignited, anger, defiance, set aflame, Canada felt something completely different.
Love.
France didn't even wait for Canada to speak. He just cried and whispered Canadian French, something Canada didn't even know his older brother had taken the time to learn.
Canada got up and hugged France and England for the last time and picked up the quill with a quivering hand.
M… A… T… T… H…
Sealand sobbed again, and Canada stopped writing. Hungary had taken to comforting him like a small child, but her eyes were also glistening with unfallen tears. Canada couldn't bring himself to be strong, couldn't smile, and could do nothing. He gnawed his lip again and finished his name in script.
America stared at the paper once more. His brother had… dotted the i's with tiny hearts. Was this his final stand, a laugh in the face of death? Or was it a simple blotch of ink that he was taking too much to heart?
America, too, picked his quill up with uncertainty. It was made from a handsome feather; dark grey, speckled in places. He glanced at the quill that Canada hadn't remembered to return to the inkwell.
Eagle. So his was made of a feather from not just any bird, but a common loon. Canada's bird. The symbols their superiors had chosen to use broke his heart.
But how could his heart possibly break if it wasn't even whole to start with?