The bed still smells like cedar wood and open sky. As America runs his fingers down the neatly tucked blankets, he wonders tiredly how he could've forgotten that it's planting season for the saplings. But then, it's been a long time since he's had to think about saplings.
"I'm sleeping in your bed, Canada," he tells the empty room. He takes the lack of protest as a positive sign.
Not that he doubts his own welcome.
Fuck, I'm so sick of meetings. A part of America is full of desperate hope that no one will think to look for him this far up north. His cell, its screen dark, is buried in the pocket of his jacket. He's not looking forward to turning it back on and viewing the state of his voicemail, but it's worth it for a few hours of quiet. Beautiful, simple quiet. No oil spills, no political tug of war—just America's own thoughts, muddled and cranky from the long month, and the dark-eyed juncos twittering outside the window.
Okay, and Canada. Wherever the hell he is.
America yanks off his boots, too bone-weary to see straight, and collapses into bed without bothering to undress. The sunshine's a little too strong against his face. He pulls the blankets (next best thing to having you wrapped around me) up over his head and closes his eyes.
He sleeps hard, but real good.
He wakes soft, but real good, too.
Twilight fills the room, coaxing back the dim butter yellow of the bedside lamp from where it tries to touch. America can hear crickets; they're so loud that he almost doesn't catch the damp, in-and-out whisper of Canada's breathing. He smiles on reflex, and realizes in a sort of drowsy, belated way that his cheek is resting on his brother's thigh. The bed now clings to the scent of sap and sawdust.
Canada's fingers pull through his hair: once, three times, eight. Every once in a while, they lift away to turn the page of the book that he's holding. America can see him reading it, mouth pursed in thought, without needing to turn his head at all.
They are silent. They remain pressed close, as they always have.
America wishes he could bottle moments like these—keep them somewhere safe, somewhere he can pull them out again and study them. Sometimes America thinks his whole existence as a nation is defined by the things that have nothing to do with being a nation at all.
"Your boss called," Canada murmurs at last.
America picks at the denim of his jeans. "Yeah… I figured he would."
"You played hooky."
"I took an extended lunch break."
"Huh," is all that Canada has to say about it. He rubs the back of America's neck, right under his skull. America inhales deeply and pushes back into his grip. Those fingers know every bone in his spinal chord, every vertebrae, just as thoroughly as America's mapped the matching ones in Canada.
He doesn't open his eyes when Canada bends and kisses him; in the dark of their land, in the warm comfort of their room, holes are stitched together and memories unbent from their mangled frames. Their place is a slow, unhurried place to be, so they take all the time in the world.
(And in that place, America thinks: There you are.)