A.N. Happy birthday Canada and America... I adore MapleTea, but... This is more how I see their canon relationship working, if that makes sense. A little birthday drabble for the two boys. And, yes, this is our answerphone machine message... Just, with the family surname, not Kirkland. Virtual cookies for whomever can tell me the relevance of the two numbers towards the bottom of the piece.
This year, Britain promised, he would remember. The tickets for his flight had been booked long before Christmas, and the gifts were almost complete. He sat by the fireplace, in an old, wing-backed chair. His chair as made of leather, and he sat adding the decorative details to the item he was making. The pale pink fabric was held carefully in his left hand, whilst nimble fingers bent a piece of craft wire into the shape of glasses. He used small stitches to attatch them to the doll.
He cut the thread, as the phone rang. He ignored it for a while, humming to himself, as the answerphone cut in.
"Welcome to space-ship Kirkland," he had used a voice synthesiser to give a robot replying to the speaker – effective against almost all cold callers, "we are away from the bridge at the moment, so please leave a message with the automatic targeting system and somebody may return your call."
The machine beeped, as the old nation chuckled.
"Hey, Iggy! I know you're there!"
The European groaned, tieing of his thread and glaring at the phone.
"Pick up the phone, old man!"
A few seconds of peace whilst Britain swore under his breath.
"Guess you're shopping or something... Anyway, don't forget my party! I'll expect you there to celebrate the day I kicked you out! Oh, and bring non-edible gifts, 'cause your cookuing stinks."
The line cut off as Britain pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. One drink wouldn't hurt, right?
One drink turned to another and another. Morning came and went, as did afternoon and evening. His flight left without him, but he did not realise. The door was knocked on, and ignored. The phone rang and he did not hear. He locked the door to his room, and slept. Then drank, then slept, then drank...
He finally left on the 5th of July, as another message was left - this one asking where he had been. The dreaded event was over; he was free for another year.
Nursing a terrible headache and stumbling slightly, he made his way downstairs.
Bleary eyes widened as he came to the front door. A fully packed suitcase sat next to it, a violet eyed doll, complete with red hoodie and blonde hair, stared up at him from behind wires shaped like glasses, head flopping sadly to one side.
Quickly he ran into the street, asking the locals for the date - he was too late. Always too late...
The doll was placed in a red box, and tied with white ribbon. The ticket went in, too. He sealed it with a kiss, pushing it onto a shelf. The entire room was filled with such selves, all filled with red boxes and white ribbons - in every box, a doll. 146 boxes, to be precise. Then, there were dolls not in boxes, numbering 104 - these ones smaller than the others, and yellowed with age.
"Happy late birthday, Canada." The nation whispered, hanging his head in shame and leaving the room of gifts for another year.
There was always next year - always next year...