Um... first real fanfic. Like multi chapter one. This is possibly going to fail horribly, but I have faith in the fact that I have eaten a bunch of fruit and fruit gives me strength.
Enjoy.
XXX
I sit stiffly, barely breathing, doing my best to not crumble and scream. The pain is agonizing; it thrums through my veins, just as thick and prevalent as the blood that has been spilt so carelessly throughout the land.
My land.
My hand rests lightly on the brow of the boy in front of me. He sleeps peacefully and his breathing is strong and deep. The steady rhythm of his breath is the only thing that makes me willing to subject myself to such agony. While I suffer, he may rest and his body can heal itself. I love this boy as one may love their own child. Possibly more. Not all parents were willing to bear the complete burden of their children, but then again, how many children were willing to bear the pain of their elders?
It was wasted, obviously, since as I sat at Manitoba's bedside, I was taking the brunt of his pain, while he only had a mild discomfort. Nevertheless, the thought warmed my heart and I felt a sudden rush of affection for my province. I started to reluctantly stroke his forehead. I winced as the pain intensified, but I only continued to brush my fingers softly against him, now tracing the slight curve of his jaw. The more I touched him, the less he felt. The easiest way to describe the process would be me simply 'absorbing' the pain. Provinces could take attacks that were placed upon their land instead of the country themselves. I always expressed my thoughts on this to them; that it was wrong. I told them all - Ontario, Alberta, Quebec, Yukon, all of them - that the pain was mine, not theirs. I made a distinct point to never take an attack for me. Ever. Nations can be cruel and they don't care for the suffering of the enemy; if anything, just how much pain they could dish out without being considered as lost a case as Russia. And yet, despite my efforts, one of my children lay before me, in a coma.
His eyes flutter and I stop, waiting with baited breath to see if my young soldier will wake up.
But nothing. He merely shifts slightly, leaning into my hand and I hold back a hiss at the white hot flash that courses through me. My first instinct is to withdraw my hand and let Manitoba feel the consequences of not heeding my warnings, but he sighs and seems much more content. I can handle the pain. For three days, I've handled it just fine. The only thing that could possibly move me from this spot was the threat of dissolution or the chance to sick Kumajawa on those German bastards.
The heartless deviants had decided not only to invade my country, but also to use lethal tear gas on my soldiers. The Battle of Somme had left me with new scars, Manitoba has had his first taste of war, and I want to cry. My people are being killed and blinded, while they plunder and rejoice their victory, and nothing else has ever filled me with such loathing or rage. Except maybe for when America burnt York, but that hadn't affected any of my provinces.
I didn't want to be part of this fucking war. This ugly, terrible, deadly war. The Great War, or what others call it, World War One. They say is like there will be several. I'd pray not, but if prayers were worth anything, wouldn't the child in front of me be safe, alive, and healthy? That's what he is. A child.
Technically, I'm still British. My provinces, territories, and I were forced into a war while America and his states remain neutral. My blood freezes when I think of how England takes; that's all he does, and all I do is give and fight. My men, my money, my supplies, he takes them and doesn't spare me a wayward glance. Quebec and Ontario hate him, and I can see my other children are slowly turning against him too. Sometimes, I want to fight England, but then I see how the Netherlands or the Ukraine look at me, like I'm some kind of savoir, and I can't. Through the blood and scars I have also gotten glory, no matter how little. I only hope people will recognize my children and give them glory, when we defeat the Germans.
Because the Germans will lose this war. And so much more. I knew that for sure. My wrath wouldn't - no, couldn't be avoided.
I know they will fall eventually. But I hope (really, I'm much to old to be hoping anymore) that eventually was sooner than later. I almost pity Germany and Prussia in their ignorance. They thought they could win. It was literally the Axis against the world.
They saw England as a crumbling empire; a skeleton soon to break. Yet my former caretaker rose from the ashes, ready to fight with steel lining his heart along with his blade.
France always appeared weak but only those closest to him knew that that was just a ruse to fool those dumb enough to fall for it. He's coy and playful, but while you laugh at him, he stabs a dagger through your back. I like to think I get my slyness from him.
America was a paradox. Booming and loud, but many assumed that he was more bark than bite. It was humorous to think how they blanched when Al declared war with an unholy glint in his sky blues. He'd die for his people, something that turned him into a time bomb of sorts, and nothing enraged him more than their deaths, lawful or otherwise.
Russia is mad. Who could deny such claims? It was foolish, not tactful to wish he would stay out of the war. Besides, how could Ivan ever pass up the chance to use that lead pipe of his?
I was a little confused when it came to China. He was much to old, much to wise, for me to ever dream of reading him. Someone as ancient as he, I regarded cautiously. But he remains strong, and though I don't agree with all of his ideals, I look to him when I want to know how the build a lasting country. I refuse to fall, and if anyone knows how to stand its the Immortal himself.
I don't think anyone ever thought of me. But that's fine. Scotland (the uncle who often took care of me when Arthur forgot) tells me that I'm the most dangerous kind of killer. The kind you don't see coming. I like to think my cruelness is kept to a minimum, but with soldiers known as 'shock troops' because of how ferocious they are, and how just hearing their steady march can have any German shaking in their boots, I believe I am sometimes the topic of older Nations when they discuss who might turn out like Russia. I try to hope that not being bothered by the blood is just the side affect of being a nation, that nothing is wrong when I can still say red is my favorite color in the midst of war. That when I thrust my bayonet into another man's chest, I shiver in disgust, not pleasure. But even off the battlefield I always relish how Germany makes it a point to avoid me at meetings, while Prussia just glares and proclaims loudly that nothing scares him.
It's an almost dream; so close yet so far away. It's easy to read them, albeit I used to struggle with Germany. He was once so composed, but the blowback of being a ruthless killer makes him like an open book.
That's what I do. I read people. Judge them. Learn from mistakes that aren't mine. I'm invisible and somewhat invincible at the same time. No one be really talks to me much besides my provinces and Al. But he's a paradox. Sometimes he cares, other times he just wants someone to whine too, and at worst treats me like his 51st state.
We never talk about it, but it's an unspoken rule that none of the provinces are to stay in the same room as Al for long. Because with Al comes America, and it will be a bitter, cold, cold, day in Hell before I let any of my children be annexed. I'm not paranoid. The War of 1812 proved that long ago.
It's harsh but reasonable of me not to trust any other Nations. I was alone before my family, but now that I have them it didn't take long to realize I'd fight till my last breath to keep them.
Francis truly knew my displeasure only once, and that was when he gave Quebec silly (yet painful) ideas of independence. I occasionally get headaches from the Separatists.
My mind is clouded with disgust as I think of more and more reasons to not trust others. But that is all I can do. Think. I'm the invisible Nation. My job is to listen, jot down weaknesses in meetings instead of notes, not plan war but prepare and try to prevent it. In real life, I will smile politely at you and offer you my umbrella in the rain, but remember where you live, just in case. As far as I can tell, the only other person who uses these tactics are Switzerland, except he loathes to give out favors.
Just one thing I've 'noticed' about him.
My brother says that I need to stand up for myself with fists, but the lashing of words can leave scars where physical cannot. We are immortal. Pain will fade, but humiliation and emotions can linger and fester under the skin, where no one can see your torment but yourself. It is the ultimate feeling of being alone.
"Canada?" I am brought out of my passive-aggressive filled haze to see Manitoba, sitting up in his sterile white bed, now my hand clutched tightly in his. His hands are soft and not worn or calloused at all, despite his talent for a gun. Not as good as Switzerland or I, but he has impeccable aim. I'm always telling him how proud I am of him.
"Hey, Daniel," I say softly, using his human name. "You've been out for awhile. How you feeling, trooper?" My voice is quiet. It always is, but my provinces assure me that it is soothing to them, not annoying.
He is quiet and I can hear his breathing, still so steady. His eyes are closed, but I know if he opens them, they will be a deep brown, not quite wise, but understanding. His skin is as pale as mine. All of my children are pale, besides the territories who are dark as my sister, Seychelles. Manitoba's hair is black and curled slightly at the nape of his neck, where he'd been sweating. Alberta romantically refers to his hair color as 'raven silk' and I found myself agreeing.
For a moment I am lost on the beauty of my province, the beauty of all of my children, and a rush of love, hope, and relief washes over me. I reach out to cup a pale cheek, but when my hand is inches away, he opens his eyes and suddenly I am falling, crashing down so hard I can't breathe.
His eyes are no longer that soulful brown. Instead, they are white and opaque, not focused and looking through me. I can feel my heart beating inside my chest so hard it will jump out like Russia's (or is it even beating at all?) with a sense of this-cannot-be-happening. I try to tell myself its not what I think it is, that it's just a side affect from the tear gas, that all the pain I went through wasn't for nothing, that I wasn't too late -
"Matt, I can't see." And his voice is just as soft as mine, its a mixed blessing to me. To be able to hear him, but for Daniel to speak those words...
Ice freezes my blood completely and for a nanosecond I feel like the murderer all Nations once were. I can clearly imagine myself killing the Axis, not just the Germans, but Italians and Japanese too. I can hear them, screaming, the last question of "Who?" on their lips.
I am cold and I do not feel. I do not breathe.
"Matthew a-are you there? P-Please, talk to me, I-I can't see you!" His voice hitches and its starting to fill with hysteria and I reach forward and engulf him in my embrace, though I know that my skin is icy. I faintly recognize that the pain I feel is now emotional, and it is unbearable.
He lets out a shuddering sob, one after another, until I join him, and we are both crying silently, our bodies wracked with grief. Manitoba for his eyesight, and I for so many things being piled onto each other, the war, being forgotten, the pain of my child, the deaths of my people, being used so carelessly, being scarred, over and over again.
Between imaginary murders, tears, and madness I swear to myself that for every tear spilled, there will be Axis blood to pay for it. Your blood for our tears.
And that, is a promise because I truly am much too old for hope.
XXX
"Meeting adjourned!" Germany's voice echoes throughout the hall, and almost immediately Italy jumps him, yelling "Doitsu~ Let's get pasta!" in his overly-happy way. Other Nations snicker and wait for the charade to end, but I push my chair back, taking care not to scrape it against the floor. It's polite to wait for the hosting Nation to leave first, but Germany is obviously preoccupied and I'm uncomfortable in German territory. It's nothing bad, just a lingering caution from the war, but it bothers me nevertheless. I can slink away early since no one will see me or even seek me out after the meeting. Just a small benefit of being invisible.
The war is over, has been for years, and though my people are still awarded and praised for their bravery and valor, I, as a person, am overlooked. I don't mind as much as I use too. The less people see me, the less they bother me, and its really not healthy for anyone when I'm upset. I dream of war sometimes, but never just blood. Not anymore. And I'd prefer to keep it that way, thank you very much.
Germany and the rest of the Axis got off easy after the wars, but in return Prussia suffered. He stayed with Russia for forty years and my provinces and I find this according punishment for the loss of Manitoba's eyesight. In fact, he stands in front of me, joking with France and Spain. He doesn't quite look healthy, but the paleness is just from being an albino, most likely. The silver-haired man now wears gloves always, and I am smug to think only I and Germany are the only ones to know why.
Ironically, I was the one who took him away from Russia's home. I remember how he hung so limply on Kumacho's back; he almost looked dead, and though my heart didn't exactly bleed for him, I could never say I wished him more pain. I had strode into Russia's home and taken him. Ivan tried to fight, but he's always had a weakness for me. Two soft taps to the back of his neck and he was unconscious, lounging on the couch as if he had fallen asleep peacefully. The Allies and I all agreed that it was best I take him for two reasons; Ivan would not maim me as he might others, and it was a sort of closure. None of us had the blistering hate we once had, but only because we were reassured he got what was coming. True, it's cruel to think that way, but Daniel's blindness and the blood of our soldiers hardened our hearts like nothing else could.
Just as I was almost to the door, my phone rang, its quiet ringtone of the Canadian anthem making me flinch. Without thinking, I answered, not checking the collar I.D.
"PAPA!" A female voice shrieks in my ear, "MAKE THOMAS STOP!'" I look down in horror in hopes it's not who I think it is. My heart sinks. Quebec, my quick-tempered French province.
"Marcelle," I whisper, knowing without a doubt that she could hear me, "it's not the best time."
"BUT PAPA, THOMAS IS-"
"Mon fils, who is it you are on the phone with? Perhaps a lady friend?" Again, to my horror, I look to find Francis smirking perversely in front of me. Spain and Prussia are on the other side of the room, but look at us curiously. A quick glance around proves that many others are staring. So much for a quiet escape.
"Papa, it's only Quebec," I answer softly, knowing he won't hear me. And if he does, ignore me. A difference between him and my real family.
"Nonsense! I know the voice of my granddaughter, and that's the voice of a lady!"
"Papa? Is Grandfather there?" She begins to wail. "Oh, Grandfather! Please tell Papa to get these imbeciles to shut up! They plague me with stories of murder, surely unfit for a young lady such as myself! You just said so!" Now the entire hall stares at us and I feel myself flush lightly.
"Marcy, please-" But I am cut off once again by Francis, as he snatches the phone and wails with her. "Mon lapin! What have these heathens done to you? I tell Mattheiu so very often how you need to come spend time with your dear Grandfather! I assure you, cher, however you are being treated will change drastically in the Country of L'Amour!" I can barely hold myself back from snapping at my 'father' as he tries to entice Quebec into becoming one with France. But I am filled with pride at my girl's answer.
"Non, non! I am perfectly happy with Papa, he is wonderful at cooking and he's teaching me, why don't you come over for dinner sometime? Anyways, just tell Papa he must save me from these beasts of brothers! And my sisters, those traitors, just laugh! Sadists, the lot of them!" It's amusing to hear Marcelle rant; her French accent starts to thicken, but she gets as loud as America and uses the grammar of England.
"Hey! Stop telling Frannie a bunch of lies, we all know you like it when children cry! And where's Matt? I thought you called him!" Ontario cut in, obviously annoyed. I groaned. I didn't want to have a family meeting over the phone in Germany, of all places.
"I did, you fool! But Grandfather's there too!" Thomas grunts and I hear them shift around as if scuffling.
"Calm down, wench, it was just a question. Hey Matt, are you at a meeting? Tell Alfred I need my snowboard back, I know he's just using it to pick up chicks when he comes to Canada. And that shit ain't cool."
"Do NOT call me a such repulsive names! I am a perfectly respectable lady and please tell that Yankee brother of yours, Papa, that he needs to stay out of my province! I do not appreciate his crude French jokes, nor do I consider them as flirting." I turn an even brighter red and glare at my 'Yankee brother' who is now grinning sheepishly at me. Francis looks horrified.
"Do you hear that, England? Your son has been terrorizing my petite granddaughter! I've told you again and again, put him on a leash!" It seemed that Arthur, too, had migrated over to the conversation. I could hear various snickers around the room, laughing at the foolish family moment.
"Don't you yell at me, you daft frog! Alfred is not my responsibility anymore, and you should know that, considering you helped the bloody git! And I'll have you know Marcelle is just as much my granddaughter as she is yours!"
"Dude, I'm not terrorizing her, and Iggy, are you seriously still hung up on that? Smell the burgers, it's over." Arthur sniffs and Al (God knows where he came from...) turns to me. "What's wrong with me visiting my niece? Nothing, you guys are just hating on me. Right, Mattie?" I give him an icy look and he steps back a little. He'd best stay away from Quebec.
"Actually," Quebec said in a clipped tone, "I don't think of myself as your granddaughter and certainly not that dunce's niece." England grimaces. Arthur and Quebec have never gotten along, despite my efforts. After France's performance in her province, I somehow managed to tame her hatred of English-Canadians but, unfortunately, it was redirected to the English in general. Surprisingly, England's rather good about remembering the province's birthdays, and he always tries to win over Marcy with some big present. However, this just makes the other provinces dislike him, even more so when he forgets my birthday.
I hate family politics.
"But Marcelle, I'm... Er... Um... Canada? Canada! Yes, I'm Canada's father, so that legally makes me your grandfather." Al and I both chuckle at England's desperate attempt to make peace with Marcy. It was well-known that since Arthur seemed to fail at being a brother and father, he overcompensates when it came to his 'grandchildren'. Namely, my provinces, since the states were horrible trouble makers that rampaged and rioted wherever they went. Al had no control over them whatsoever. I just tried to keep them out of my country. Except sometimes Alaska. She occasionally comes camping with us, and Erica is a very nice girl when she's not being hyper active crazy. Something all the states, in a twist of fate, inherited from Al.
"Technically, you kidnapped him when he was a child." Marcelle's voice is cold and for a moment I am slightly proud of how quick-witted she is. It's terrible when you're in an argument with her, but helpful when she's on your side.
"He used to call me father!"
"I have long forgiven Papa for any past lapses in judgement, no matter how distasteful," She snarls and there is a firm edge to her tone that makes me smug enough to take back my phone that was now in England's hands. I realize that at some point someone turned the phone on speaker and I switch it off with a dismissing wave of my hand to my so-called 'family'. Arthur and Francis grudgingly leave, one more so than the other, but Al lingers. I ignore him and address my now calmer daughter. "Marcy, what was the problem in the first place?"
"Thomas and Elliot were telling those horrid stories about the Maple Murderer." She has lost the edge to her voice and I sigh softly.
"They aren't just stories, Marcy, you know that." The Maple Murderer was a Canadian killer who roamed the battle field during WWII. He killed from high ranking officers to the lowest of soldiers, all brutal and almost animal like. The only defining trait of his was that he killed only Germans and that whoever he murdered would be left with a lone maple leaf on their body, hence the nickname. The Maple Murderer was the stuff of legends. Nobody could identify him, nobody could track him down as a deserter, and he left no evidence. He managed to sneak into enemy camps, disarm guards, kill officers and leave without a trace. German battle plans and information would be left on the desks of Canadian officers, all who couldn't say how it got there. He was somewhat of an angel to Canadian forces and a nighttime horror to Germans in the war.
"Yes, but it's strange to hear them talk about you like that." Yeah, it was me. Blood for tears. I only stopped when Prussia was sent to Russia's place and Germany was properly man handled and humiliated enough. That, and it was disgusting when I realized I had to wean Kumakura off of human flesh.
"Can you just bear with it until I get back? I don't know why they insist on reminding themselves of what a psychopath I was," I huff out. I'm aware that I'm a cruel man, but nothing stings like my own children chatting about it like it's nothing. Or even worse, using my tales of murder as bedtime stories. It's revolting yet flattering at the same time.
"See?" She whines, "That's why I hate when they bring it up. You say things about yourself that aren't true. I don't like it when you feel bad." I chuckle. I'm amazed at how they can continue to give me more and more reasons to love them. Marcy may be a bit bratty, but she has good intentions.
"Marcy, it's fine. But if it really bothers you that much, give the phone to Thomas." Al taps my shoulder. He looks impatient and give a 'hurry up' gesture with his hands. I flip him the bird and try to shoo him away. Surprisingly, he stands firm and looks over his glasses at me, his blue eyes glittering like hard stone. It wasn't often that Al actually wanted to have a conversation with me instead of just rambling while I nod my head, but I can see the signs.
'One minute' I mouth. He nods his head, eyes still hard, and I wonder who is standing in front of me so boldly. Alfred or America?
I want nothing to do with both. But since when do Nations get what they want?
"Hey Matt, am I really in trouble for telling those stories? 'Cause I swear, I'll stop if you want me too, but really, you were cool as fuck back then, all ninja assassin and secret missions and shit. Not that you aren't cool now, 'cause you're a beast at hockey, and oh God, don't make me play hockey with you, pleasepleaseplease I still have the bruises from last time and oh shit why aren't you talking, speak to me Matt, please tell me you aren't gonna kill me, I'll go over to Arthur's for dinner or spend the night with Frannie, but please don't kill me, I'll leave the wench alone-"
"Tommy," I finally say,"shut up before you start crying." Because he was starting to get hysterical over nothing and I don't need him balling when I get home. Taking another look at my Southern Twin, I remember I need to be quick. "Look, I'm not mad and we can talk when I get home. Until then tell Nunavut he's in charge - and don't give me that 'but' crap - and make sure no one kills anyone else. Especially Daniel. You know what? Just take his gun away until I get home. No, I don't care if he'll shoot you because he can't shoot you if you sneak up on him. Don't call Cassel a killjoy, he's just more mature than you, and just do what I say Thomas." I hear him swallow whatever down he was going to say and I smile. "Capiche?"
"Capiche."
Alright, I'll see you when I get home, later." I don't wait for an answer and snap the phone shut.
"You baby them too much."
"Fuck you, America." I turn to my twin and start to feel my skin cool. Whenever I'm upset, I get colder. My brother gets warm when he's mad. He's sneering and if we weren't in public, I'd wipe that snide look right off his face.
"Seriously, bro. You guys still live together? That's kind of pathetic. I mean it was chill when they were kids, but how old are they now? A century and a half at least? You guys are practically dependent on each other." He shakes his head in mock sadness and I know what's triggered his sudden douche attack. That's what I call them, when Al switches to America without warning. Douche attacks. It was Nunavut's idea, actually. I try not to snicker when I think of the term.
He narrows his eyes. "Something funny?"
"Just how ironic it is n' all." I laugh harder and there is a thin layer of frost where my hand clutches the post I lean upon. I am sure that if things continue the way are, Russia will have to carry me outside, something he's done on multiple occasions when the room starts to freeze. He's the only one who can stand the cold like I can.
"Enlighten me," America snaps. I open my eyes, wipe a tear that's now a tiny icicle and decide that America is the one who brings out the cruelty in me now, instead of Germans.
"Oh nothing," I breathe carelessly, "just how you've become like England. Maybe I'm crazy, but I could swear you promised each state individually that you'd never neglect them. That you wouldn't let them drown in taxes. That they'd keep their rights, liberty, and be able to pursue happiness. You said and I quote "I will be your hero, not your downfall"." He grabs my collar and pulls me so close our noses are almost touching. I'm taller than him and I smile politely, smile down at my brother, the superpower. Steam rises into the air from where the heat of his hand barely brushes my skin. I want to run. I want us to be like we use to be, where we could be countries and brothers at the same time. But I also want to laugh at him, watch him sink in his own ashes as he burns. But this time, I won't be the one burning him. I'll watch cheerfully as he burns himself to the ground, too proud to ask for help that I'd gladly give.
I can see that he wants us to be brothers again, but that's what Al wants. America wants power and money. America is greedy and only does things for himself and his people. America is fading.
One of my laughs comes out as a choked sob and I wonder when and how the Hell we got this way. The last time we were like this, we both burned; we have identical scars on our hearts to prove how poisonous our relationship can be. I open my mouth to tell him we can be better, that we don't have to repeat our mistakes, but instead I whisper in my super soft voice that he hates "Does any of that sound familiar, bro?"
He rears back as if I've slapped him, and in a way, I have. His fist pulls back and I feel like I should smile, bare my cheek before him. Last time I did that, he knocked a couple teeth out and cracked my skull. But I don't want my head opened up so I just glare back at him, defiant in my silence. I anticipate pain when America rushes forward.
Instead a thick cloud of steam appears over our heads as he wraps his arms around me, his tears evaporating as bright, blazing fire meets frigid, cool ice. Seconds pass as I wait for him to pull back and tell me it's a trick, but he doesn't. All he does is look me in the eye. I realize that Al hasn't just come back; this is America, weak and confused.
"Shit, Canada," He murmurs, "how the fuck did we get like this?"
"I don't know." We're silent for a little while until my knees buckle from the combined weight of my brother and surprise. We slide down against the wall and he leans his head down on my shoulder, still whispering apologies that don't make sense. We've never done this before. We get mad and make a big to do about nothing, fight, go home, and the next day one of us shows up at the other's door with a bag of chips the size of Arthur's eyebrows and a Hallmark movie. We don't cry or say sorry or ask questions the other can't answer.
"Are we still brothers?"
"Who?" I breath out. "Canada and America or Matt and Al?" I hope his answer will tell me who I'm talking to. America and Al could be so similar it was scary.
"I think I'd give up Lady Liberty for both." I laugh. I can't help it. All this and he still has it in him to bring up patriotism.
"I'd give up the Toronto Maple Leafs for both." He whistles.
"That's commitment."
"And giving up the Statue of Liberty isn't?"
"Smart-ass." He leaned back and slapped my arm playfully.
"I learnt from the best." He smirks.
"Aw. Flattery will get you nowhere," He says, but his cheeks are flushed.
I snicker. "I was referring to Francis, actually."
"Fuck you."
"I would, but last time was kind of disappointing." His eyes widen.
"You did NOT just bring that up." His cheeks are now red with embarrassment and I can tell I'm talking to Al. America is proud of everything he does; little things like embarrassment are for Al.
"Excuse me?" Germany is standing above us, cheeks stained a light pink. I realize that we're having a heart-to-heart in his government building and laugh aloud, but he can't hear me. Al can, and he chuckles with me, but louder. Hearing Al, he seems to get a little more confidence and straightens. "My apologies if I am intruding on a personal moment, but it's time to leave." He's right. Everyone else is long gone, except for Italy, Prussia, and Japan, who is discreetly taking pictures of us. I can't see his camera, but I've read him enough to know his basic reactions. Italy is happily explaining how to make pasta to Prussia, who continues to steal glances at us, not being half as sneaky as Japan.
I grunt. "Get off me, fatass." Al stands and pulls me up with him, still laughing.
"You riding with me, tree-hugger?" I glance at Germany, shocked and horrified.
"You let him drive in your country?" Germany looks confused and both my question and my talking to him. We haven't exchanged words for almost two decades.
"Ja, what's wrong with that?" I give him an exasperated look and frown.
"If you wish to avoid the impending doom of all your highways, I'd suggest calling him a cab. Neither of us can speak a lick of German." I can speak German fluently, being multilingual and all. Al knows this and looks like he's going to speak up, so I punch his arm and gesture to the blond giant looming over us. "Go with the man. I'll take your truck and get it back to you by Friday. I know you have a dozen more at home." He grins disarmingly and my skin is once again room temperature. Before Al and Germany leave the room, (Italy and Japan in tow) he turns back.
"We gonna have a 'feelings' talk later, aren't we?" He calls, his shit-eating grin on full force.
"I'll mail you my man-card." He cackles as he is led out of the room, and for the first time in a long time the last image I have of my brother is of him laughing crazily, cornflower eyes alight with happiness, hair mussed and sticking to his head.
I am filled with hope.
"Aren't you that kid that dragged me out of Russia' place?" And then I realize I'm alone in a room with Prussia, who has managed to ignore me for about thirty years.
Maple.
XXX
Alrighty, first chapter complete! Second chapter?
Challenge accepted, like a BOSS. Ah, by the way, if anyone wants the details of what exactly happened during The War of 1812, I have a small fic to accompany this, Poison in the Fire.