Outside, the wind howls with ferocity that both America and Canada had grown accustomed for years now. It rattles the the windows, and Canada sighs as he rolls over onto his back and stares at the high ceilings of the log house America has somewhere within the mountains of Montana. Every fifty years, he'll change states, to keep his identity private from any potential prying eyes, despite the nearest neighbor being an hour or so, drive away. The nearest city might even be four hours.
He says that he prefers Montana over most of his states, in the north, at least. California will trump all. America had explained that the mountains that loomed over him made him feel freer, the prairies of Minnesota and North Dakota held something else to them that he's not quite sure if he hates them because Russia seems to like the long, drawn out fields and the cluster cities that aren't quite big, but they're not small. Washington is home for him, both Capital and State, that it feels too much like work. And Canada has to wonder why America even cares about what Russia thinks, and then remembers, with blur, about how America drunkenly babbled on about his feelings for the other.
That became a testament to how poorly the American could even hold his alcohol, but Canada tried to wave it off as because the drinking age is higher and America's physical age isn't quite there, and the Prohibition era may have something to do with it too.
Canada doesn't blame him, for preferring the mountains. His own were beautiful, his own made him feel more at ease than Alberta or Ontario, or anywhere else. Canada loves his people, no doubt he does, he'd for his people until his dying breath. They come before anyone else, just as any country would protect their own people.
He sits up, sighing. Tonight, it's hard to sleep. He slips out of bed, and out of the small bedroom. From the living room, he can hear the soft crackling of fire and out of curiosity, heads there. He isn't at all surprised to find America sitting in the living room, glass of whiskey and staring off into space.
Canada knows that expression, he gets the same way too. Crossing the room, and sitting down next to America, he's barely even given a glance. The ice clinks against each other and Canada automatically wraps his arm around his brothers shoulders.
"Drink?"
"Yeah. I could use one." America pulls out of his grasp, sets his glass down on the coffee table in front of them and heads into the kitchen.
"We could just pass the bottle back and forth."
"That would be good too."
"I'm not looking forward to England coming tomorrow."
"Yeah, same here."
America hands him the glass and sits down when Canada accepts it. "Can we be kids again?"
"God, I wish."
"At least then, things seemed easier. We didn't have very many worries."
"Except our people dying out."
"Yeah, except that." Time ticks by slowly and they drink in silence. The holidays suck sometimes. They're both melancholic, they're both clinging to a time that's already come and gone. "The nightmares are bad again."
"I think they will be for awhile."
"I just want to be normal."
"Yeah, so do I."
They fall silent, because there's nothing to say. America can't force himself to be cheerful when he drinks, and they're both like England when they drink. Sentimental and sad. Nostalgic and honest. It's late when they finish the entire bottle.
Canada retires himself to bed sometime after that, while America decides to stay up a little while longer. When he wakes up, it's late afternoon and he hears a noise in the kitchen. It dawns on him that England and France may have already arrived.
Next to him is a snoring America, in a deep sleep and he wonders when America crawled into bed with him.
He lays back down and squeezes his eyes shut. It's like they're kids again, and for awhile longer, maybe he can pretend they're children again. At least, until England comes to bother them.