Part One- The End
Breathing heavily, Canada presses himself up against the wall, listening.
Nothing. Good.
Cautiously, he peeks around the corner.
"No…" He stares, horrified. No. No this can't be happening there's been some mistake that's not him it can't be this isn't happening where's Spain he was supposed to be here why isn't anyone here this isn't happening it's not it can't be I'm seeing things this can't be happening not now not to me no no no no NO!
He takes a step forward.
"H-Holland?" He asks hesitantly. He's closer to him now, there's no denying the identity of the man sprawled against the wall of the maze like some discarded toy, no matter how desperately he wants to.
Dull amber eyes open slowly, painfully.
"Canada…"
As he speaks Canada can see the jagged tear across his throat. It makes him sick. He kneels in front of his friend, trying to find words, but they don't come.
"No time for goodbyes, konijnte." He whispers, "If you want t' get out alive… you hafta run…"
"No. No I won't." He shakes his head, blinking the tears out of his eyes. "You can't die Holland! I-I need you, you can't leave me, not here, not like this! Please!" He's not even trying to hide his sobs now, as he wraps his arms around the older nation and buries his face in the blood soaked scarf.
"I'm sorry. Mejn leifde, I'm so sorry."
"No. Please." He sobs. He can't seem to stop repeating himself now, like a broken record.
Canada draws back slightly, wiping the blood off his cheek. Holland's eyes are half closed now, unfocused.
"Please. Lars." Holland's human name feels rough and strange on his tongue, foreign. "Lars." He whispers as he kisses the dying nation. He tastes like copper and salt, blood and tears.
And fear.
He tastes like that, too.
He tries to ignore it.
He tries to ignore the last breath on his cheek, he tries to ignore the way Holland's lips go slack against his own, tries to ignore the sudden yawning emptiness inside his chest.
He tries to ignore these things.
But he can't.
Realization worms its way into his mind, despite his best efforts to keep it out. It's like black oil, seeping into everything and leaving it sluggish and suffocated. He doesn't even have the willpower to panic as he hears heavy steps approaching. All he can do is wrap his arms tighter around Holland, as if by some miracle he might come back, if only Canada were to hold him close enough.
It's the Thing, of course. It stands in the middle of the corridor and stares at him balefully with eyes like smoked glass.
He rises and faces it, feeling very small and lost standing there in an unfamiliar, terrifying place, covered in his lover's blood. He wipes the back of his hand under his eye, smearing blood and tears across his cheek.
"What do you even want?" He asks, his voice shaking, "Why are you doing this to us?"
The Thing doesn't respond.
"Why?" he screams, "Why?"
It moves towards him. He stands his ground, his whole body shaking now.
Because, something whispers, it makes me happy.
