Hello readers! I guess this could be considered a drabble. It was just something that was inspired in my head that I need to get written down. (I have been doing some RP lately as Canada, so it has put me in his head more.) This is not really related to any of my other Hetalia fics - though I suppose it could be on some level? I am not sure if I will expand upon this or not, but I really do like the complexity of poor Canada's relationships with people.
I hope you enjoy it.
In the morning he prepares the juice. He goes into the fields while the dew still coats the land in a delicate web of moisture, climbs the rickety ladder that rests against the aged bark of the apple tree in the orchard outside of the house. From the branches of the tree he plucks off the finest ones that are shining red under the rays of the morning sun. Some of them are getting soft with time and age on their way to eventual rot – because he knows that they will produce the sweetest flavor.
His collection is taken to the kitchen where he begins the ritual. It will take several apples to get enough juice to fill up the pitcher. He works with efficient care; crushing one after the other after the other. The work is less tidy than he would like it. His fingers become sticky after a few of the fruits are crushed. He licks them daintily clean, tasting the sweetness of it on his skin. With that taste, he remembers his earlier youth and the similar flavors that used to dominate the back of his tongue when the names of the fruits were still foreign and mysterious. Pomme, fraise, poire, raisin.
He hears the laughter before he sees him walk through the door. The mess has consumed the kitchen, though he does not fear being scolded. Instead, his hands lift proudly into the air as he smiles brightly to display the work that he has done. He is rewarded with the usual adoring chuckle as the older man takes up the pitcher and tests its quality. With a nod of satisfaction, he knows that he has done well, especially when the man plucks him off his stool and lifts him high into the air. The height momentarily alarms him and he squeals.
It is a silly action that he regrets immediately. He knows that there is no way that the man holding him would ever dare to drop him. There is power in the hands that keep him suspended, graceful though they might be. His sticky hands reach down to touch the stubble on the man's face with a certain fascination. When his father lowers him enough to press a chaste, paternal kiss onto his mouth, he tastes the sweetness of the juice between them.
In the afternoon he prepares the tea. He knows precisely how it is expected to taste. The preferred leaves are brittle as he coaxes them out of their container, mingling greens and browns littered together on the thin web of the strainer. It will take time and patience to get it correct – too long and the flavor is too strong; too quick and it is little more than colored water. He doesn't mind that it takes so much of his time. All that he wishes is that the ritual did not require him to stand idly by.
While the water in the kettle heats, it leaves him with nothing else to do but think. So he does, reflecting on how much sweeter the fruits of his childhood were than the bitter aftertaste of the tea that he will dutifully drink – and how his penance for loyalty to his new sovereign will not allow him to dress it with even a single grain of sugar to sweeten the beverage. He will take its bitterness.
Its bitterness is nowhere near as strong as what exudes from the man seated at the table. The discarded red coat still hangs near the door, still dripping with rainwater. As he carries the tray over, they say nothing to one another, though this is common between them. Despite all that they have come to share over the years, all the ties that bind their land and their people together, there is a distance that perhaps will never be conquered. So he politely pours a cup for his brooding guest.
He says nothing about the tracks of drying tears. Nor does he allow the sullen looks of the other man to bother him. It is not his fault for having a face so similar in design to his southern counterpart; he can understand, though, why it would gain such a negative response considering the fresh rebellion that had just ended poorly for the empire and master currently sitting in his parlor.
They drink together in silence. He wishes that there were something that he could say to offer comfort but knows that it would be rebuked or ignored. There was a risk in speaking: He would have welcomed the biting anger, even a scathing remark that might initially sting. What frightens him most is that he might speak, make that effort, only to find himself being ignored. So he says nothing - because there is nothing worse than to be made to feel invisible in his own home.
In the evening he prepares the coffee. Once again he is teased that he does not buy them pre-ground in the packages. No, it tastes better after he has ground them himself. The coffee will then be flavored with the satisfaction of his efforts. He uses the coffeemaker because it is insisted upon. Again, there is nothing left but to wait for it to brew, listening to the water pump through the system in wet, slurping gasps.
The aroma overpowers the kitchen as they tease each other over playing cards, while he does not question why the other man has made the trip up to his cabin. It isn't hard to guess. A glance at the calendar reminds him of the date, the anniversary of a dry September day nearly a decade ago that still resonates between their hearts and minds. He wins another hand of poker. His guest protests – true, the game might have been an invention of his people, but didn't he realize that his northern neighbor could understand the finer strategic points of how the game flowed?
He retreats to the kitchen to fetch their beverages. Two mugs are carried down from an upper cabinet – one bearing the maple leaf of his flag, the other with a ridiculous print of dinosaurs that he had purchased especially for the occasions that his neighbor even bothered to visit. As he returns to the table he carries the creamer and sugar with him. He watches with alarm as half of the contents of both containers are dumped into the prehistoric mug, wondering how on earth the coffee could even be tasted with that much foreign stuff to flavor it.
Their card game goes on well through the night. Well past the time when his guest should go home. The border is not far and the drive would be a short trip. Yet his guest lingers and he does not put up a protest. He is fine when they eventually end up sitting on the cozy cushions of his couch together. Even the weight of the man draping himself across his lap does not give him any reason for complaint. While the other man eventually dozes off to sleep, he remains awake with the charge of the coffee still running through his bloodstream, mindlessly gazing at the television screen as he flips through the channels while with his other hand he traces an absent pattern through hair the color of wheat fields.
At the Conference, he stares at them all with avid interest. He hopes that the weight of his gaze might lure their attention to him. There is nothing more that he longs for than for one of them – anyone – to reaffirm his existence, because it is becoming a foreign concept more and more each day.
Instead, the sweet argues with the bitter, and the bitter condemns the hyperactive for being an idiot once again. Their exchange of banter takes place directly over his head as he waits, silently, for some sign of acknowledgement.
It is a relief to him when his friend from far south nudges him on the shoulder to shake him out of his reverie on family long lost. He looks up to the mocha-skinned man in the vibrant shirt with a vapid smile that is more automatic than sincere. "Yes?"
"I was going to go grab something during the break. What do you want to drink?"
It wasn't a hard question. Honestly, such a decision shouldn't require any consideration. He did, however, glance back over to the trio arguing so easily nearby. There came a languid blink, before Canada smiled up at Cuba again. "I think I'll take a hot chocolate."
A/N: I am really getting into the RP thing again. I missed doing that stuff. Hey... if anyone wants to play anything with me sometime, look me up on AIM under FlyCanadaFly! Tee hee?