America sleeps as the storm clouds gather outside on the prairie.
Any minute now, thinks Canada. He watches from the only window that remains uncovered, silent as the coming tempest, the shotgun slung across his lap. The radio went out about an hour ago; he hasn't been able to raise it again. Beneath the floorboards, the small patch of Nebraska they now co-inhabit is rumbling like an animal about to snap, and Canada can feel it in his bones, the serrated edge before the drop. You think you know who you'll be fighting, but you have no idea.
There is a presence just beyond the border. It's moving fast.
Canada's ready for it.
Curled up on the sofa with their moth-eaten blankets, America sighs in his dreams. There are black, raccoon-bold circles under his eyes because he hasn't let himself rest for over seventy hours (it should have killed him, almost did). Even now, his fingers twitch and breath shudders—he can feel the invasion of what's left of his land, just like Canada can, perhaps more keenly. In all the time they've been hiding, the pain has never been this close to crippling. But he sleeps now, deep and solid (because Canada drugged him, whispered into his matted hair you need this close your eyes those eyes need closing and I will keep the watch).
Every so often, Canada reaches over and touches his face. Only touches it, fingertips to cheek, missing his smile. His life. Though it's gone, Canada feels like that's what he's protecting, somehow.
Some things belong only to them.
"C'mon," murmurs Canada, gaze fixed on the flashes of lightening as they light up the sky in the far west and north. "You aren't scared of me, eh?" Closer—not near enough to hear the boom of thunder, but within minutes yet—and a bit welcome. They've been biding their time so long. Canada has heard of the names of nations that no longer exist in the world, and he's tired, he's sore for a fight, he's ready to shake off the rust. America used to be that way until the first clash and now he shakes too often, eats too little, kisses Canada like it's his most desperate and last moment. He has this dog-kicked fear, and Canada has his anger.
(Some things only belong to—)
"Oh God," cries America, muted and lost in the black beneath Canada's hand. Canada combs his hair, says soft things. Quiets him down again.
They are only pieces of what they used to be. They are hiding out in a ruined landscape with nothing more than a few guns and a hunting knife almost too dull to be of any use. They are at their weakest.
"Shh," says Canada, cupping his brother's jaw. "It's just a little rain."
He hides a kiss in the corner of America's mouth.
(And in his mind, there is no concept, no prospect of defeat. If he doesn't entertain the idea, it isn't possible. There is only a single ending that he can allow. The storm becomes at last a dull roar coming in fast, and Canada stands to meet the Eater of Nations with his muddy boots, his taped glasses, his grim smile, and a pair of dog tags wrapped around his knuckles.)
You think you know who you're fighting—