Prussia loved Canada too much.
Too much for blond, too much for maple, too much for loopy curls and red-clad arms that ached to be filled.
By giving Canada his heart, Prussia foolishly gained Canada's heart in return. And he treasured it.
Prussia should have known better, but he was blinded by the beauty of what he had received - a beacon of quiet joy, of shy smiles and skinny ribs, to come home to. To love. To take care of.
The day he had found out that Russia was gaining his lands, and he was going to die while Russia grew bigger, Canada had cried and clung and swore that everything was going to be okay. But Prussia knew the truth; that he was going to die, and Canada's beautiful, fragile heart was going to be destroyed.
But if there was anything Prussia had learned after surviving so many battles and wars, it was that scars were strong and tight. They were ugly, but they were tougher than normal skin by far.
So he decided to save Canada's heart. If he hurt it badly enough, the damage would be replaced with scar tissue, and it would be strong enough to survive his death.
On the last night, he allowed himself to bask in Canada one last time. Lips were worshiped, skin stroked, face cradled, hair smelled, soft noises engraved in his memory forever. In the last minutes, he wrapped Canada in his arms and Canada's legs around his waist and as they moved together, his mind and heart screamed CanadaCanadaCANADA and his body screamed with release and he almost failed to carry out his plan.
But as he came, he forced his throat to scream the one word that would burn his lips, damn him to hell, and wrap Canada's heart in enough scar tissue to survive anything. Because Prussia would save Canada, even if Canada hated him for it. In fact, he was counting on Canada hating him for this. Gott, please let Canada hate him for this.
"Ah - AMERICA!"