American Revolution
The first time Canada sees Prussia, he aims a gun at his head.
Not that Prussia notices, of course, as he sits unperturbed on his horse, giving instruction to the young America beside him.
Canada is hidden up in a tree a few hundred yards away, musket at the ready. The colony is barely pubescent in size, yet his army coat is slung over a high branch where it will not be spotted by any rebel. Violet eyes that had filled with pride when England noted how well the red of the still-too-large coat looked on him, now take in the deep blue uniform of his enemy. Just as England had described, white hair too short to be a wig pokes out from under the man's hat, making him all too easy to identify.
"Prussia," the child mumbles under his breath as if he needs to confirm it to himself. This is the man he has decided he hates, this stranger who came across land and sea to help tear his family apart.
And why? America's revolution had nothing to do with some German kingdom, he had no reason to be here! France could be forgiven, since he never missed a chance to fuck with England (even if doing so had, not ten years ago, cost him the very child who now wore his rival's uniform opposite him on the battlefield). But this Prussia had no place here and Canada directed all of his anger and confusion about this mess between his brother and parent against this pale man. And god, he was pale. Ghostlike, England had said (or did he just think that up now?). Canada doubts anyone so sickly looking could be as tough as his guardian had claimed. No, he could take care of this interloper himself. Perhaps then America would see reason and come home.
The young blonde's trigger finger tenses in anticipation as he lines up his shot. The only reason England had even let him near a battlefield was because of his skill with a musket. From 300 yards he could shoot a hole through the center of a china saucer (much to England's dismay when he realized it was his good tea set being used as target practice), a human head would be no problem.
There is a flash of red before a shot rings out across the valley.
Canada's back slams against the tree from recoil he had forgotten to brace for. Prussia's horse rears up and its rider falls hard to the ground as shouts fill the air. Rebel soldiers scan the tree line for the source of the shot as said source grabs his coat and jumps down to earth, taking off back to the British camp.
"Mr. Prussia!" America cries at his teacher's side, face full of worry as the albino lets out a low groan. Gingerly the nation forces himself up, retrieving his hat that had landed a few feet away.
"Aw man!" He lets out a mournful little whine as he examines the felt to find a sizable bullet hole in the brim.
In minutes, Canada is back in the tent he shared with England. The colony drops his gun onto the floor and himself onto his cot, panting heavily. His heart pounds in his chest so fiercely the little blonde thinks it might burst, and it has little to do with running.
A soft whimper escapes the boy before being muffled into his pillow. His face is as red as his coat. As red as those eyes. Oh god, those eyes! So bright he could see them across that distance. The man had turned his head and those bright red rubies made his stomach flip just as he pulled the trigger.
His stomach flips again just remembering those eyes and he curls up tightly on his cot. For some reason England's voice is in his head. "I say, lad, that red suits you perfectly."
A/N: Just a short drabble in place of the next chapter of Shell Shock.