YES, YA JAMMY BASTARD, I FINALLY COMPLETED YA. No, seriously, I'd originally thought I'd finish this fic in one sitting, but only a dozen days and nearly four times the intended wordcount later did I finally find a stopping place. Christin' hell, I barely even want to look at this thing any more.
Plot bunny spawned from seeing this fanart of pala's - palalife. tumblr. com/ post/ 2785008882/ need-something-fluffy (eliminated the spaces) - before it grew and took on a life of its own. And ended up becoming the setup for a foursome/potential fivesome. What the hell, my brain.
I'm still not sure I balanced the characters and the relationships well enough. I hope I did? Comments would be much appreciated, thank you.
The latest conference had so far been very strange.
It had begun with the gifts, scattered throughout the hotel and meeting rooms they were using. All little things, each tagged with its intended recipient's name and easily found, and though they weren't all necessarily thoughtful, it was obvious whomever was sending them had at least been thinking of them. Not a single country attending the conference had been left out of the gifting, and though some of them had received more than others, it was obvious that equal effort had been put into each.
On the third day of the conference, it escalated to little notes, in plain white envelopes adorned only - again - with a name. Typed, not handwritten, and the names on the front had all been carefully cut from newspapers - there were no clues to be found there.
Russia had so far received nearly a dozen of them, simple things like candy or thoughtful packages and missives both. 'Russia,' one of his notes had said. 'Thanks for being there. You make things less lonely.'
Another said, 'To Russia: The world's getting smaller every day. A phone call and a plane ride's all that separates us. I don't have to be one with you to be your friend.'
Tea cakes.
A very small bottle of vodka. ('Travel-sized. Like shampoo bottles, only with alcohol.')
'The sun will be out tomorrow!'
And once, when Russia had opened his luggage, he had found a perfectly-dried sunflower in a sealed glass jar, and the words, 'For Russia, a little brightness wherever you go.'
He had removed it from his suitcase, gently, and then eyed his room as though it would reveal the intruder.
That had been the point Russia began searching out the identity of the mystery giver in earnest, his idle watching of his fellow nations and their location kicking into full-blown surveillance.
...
England figured things out like this:
After days of badgering, the fairies circled his head twice before cackling out, "Not telling, can't tell!"
It was the 'can't tell' that clued him in. There were only so many whose secrets the fairies would care to keep, and only one was attending the conference. It was as good as admission in his mind, and though he didn't know why the nation would do all this, it was just like the boy to be so considerate.
"You lovely child," England muttered fondly, his feet already carrying him out the door.
...
America was asleep in the conference room when Canada finally found him.
"Oh, America."
There were things about him only America knew, that he'd shared with the other nation in the dark of nights. They'd come a long way from their colonial days, when it was just them huddled under the covers, alone on that vast continent they called theirs because England could suck sometimes and so could France. They'd come a long way since then, and had become strong nations in their own right. But some nights when either of them needed it, they still managed to find a bed to get into together, twining their hands and bringing their heads close and whispering hopes and fears and secrets against each other's skins until the sun rose.
The door opened while Canada watched the sleeping nation, and though he straightened, he didn't turn around. He could guess what it looked like, him standing over a slumbering America, his hands fiddling with the white stock envelope they'd all grown familiar with this past week. After all, from this angle, whomever had entered wouldn't be able to see the name on the front, or the fact the envelope was already opened.
He'd gotten more attention this conference from people wanting to see what he'd received from the mystery sender than he'd gotten since maybe the Olympics, and it'd been nice and fulfilling and also somewhat annoying.
"Ah, it is Canada, yes?"
Russia. He could deal with Russia. "Yes. Did you need something?"
"I would like very much to see the card in your hand."
And Canada didn't need to think long before giving it over.
There were secrets in that note, yes, but they were small secrets, silly secrets in the grand scheme of things. Giving the note over might mean keeping his twin's smile from getting that much wider, that much more brittle.
And the confusion on Russia's face when he handed the note to the nation was gratifying. He had to get his kicks from somewhere.
"So, you are not..." Russia said, after a moment.
"Nope."
Russia's gaze shifted to America, who was snuffling away scant inches from scrawled-on speech notes. Oh good, he'd made the leap of logic. "Then America is-"
"Yup!" And yeah, Canada could see why America thought baiting Russia was fun. "He can be subtle when he wants to, you know." And sneaky. And considerate. And if there were one thing that were both wonderful and frustrating about America, it was that the nation nearly always meant well.
A strange look crossed Russia's face, before he turned heel and stalked out. "There is something I must do," Canada heard him muttering, before the larger nation disappeared from view completely.
A few moments later, England stumbled in, Canada's name already at the tip of his tongue.
"Oh, for God's sake, no, the gifter's not me, and no, it's not what it looks like."
England stared. "What what looks like? Never mind that, if it's not you, then who?" Canada was sure the question was meant to be rhetorical, but he jerked a thumb in America's direction anyway and watched as England's mouth dropped open. Of all things though, "But he's never believed in fairies!" was about the last protest he'd ever expected England to give.
To be honest, that was because Canada didn't get what that had to do with anything.
But something seemed to have drained out of England with that last exclamation, as the nation walked to the nearest seat and collapsed onto it. England wasn't looking at Canada when he asked, "You're sure?" his attention focused instead on what he was pulling from his pockets.
A handkerchief and several notes, followed by a unicorn charm. The trinkets, England lay aside; the notes, he methodically removed from their envelopes and smoothed open.
Canada shrugged as he joined his former caretaker at the table. The gifts, he'd seen before, but England had fiercely protected the contents of the notes and he couldn't help but be curious. "He's not as good at hiding things from me as he thinks he is," he replied to England, before gesturing at the notes. "May I... may I read them?" It was more for politeness's sake that he asked; it would have been an easy thing to read over England's shoulder.
(He had done that with America's and thought little more of it. Now he found himself furiously revisiting gifts and words alike, replaying America's expressions. The uncharacteristic lack of complaints at getting so few gifts compared to the rest of them - for he loved America, but America just was that kind of person. 'Buck up, there's better days yet,' and America's wry smile, where they'd cuddled after and came up with more and more silly plans for dealing with the economy. The toy balance scale beside America's place card, America's amused look as though there'd been an inside joke there.
There really had been one, hadn't there? He just wasn't sure what it was.)
England's response was absentminded; "Hmm? Oh, yes, go ahead," the nation too focused on trying to find any new hidden meanings now he knew their sender. The notes already looked slightly well-worn at the creases, in the manner of having been unfolded and refolded many times.
So Canada peered over to see what had England's notable brows so furrowed.
'That you still believe in magic is a more precious thing than you know. Never lose that.'
'You're not alone.'
And-
'there are places I remember all my life'
A blink, two. There was something about the wording of the last... "Is he..." Canada stopped to reread the last note. "Is he quoting The Beatles at you?"
In response, England groaned, running his hand over his face. "That's what I want to know. If he is, I have to wonder at the sentiment, knowing the rest of the song."
They both turned to eye the nation sleeping across from them. As if sensing their gazes - and always a restless sleeper besides - America tried to roll over, was blocked by the table, and settled again with a particularly loud snore. Canada couldn't help the fond smile.
After a moment, he began speaking again, voice tentative, cautious. "You know," he said, "you're special to him. I mean, not just in state affairs."
"Hmph, not that special, I assure you," England replied, waving the words away. "In any case, I was under the impression you and he are-"
"Oh, we are." Now, Canada pondered how to frame his next words properly, to drive his point home to England. He wasn't even sure he should be saying such things, except that he was beginning to believe speaking up would be more beneficial than holding silent. "You're also special to him," he decided on. "You're special to me."
"Gghk," said England, eloquently, and proceeded to lose all coherency entirely.
As though he hadn't just knocked England's brain offline, Canada continued on. "We've talked about it. I mean, if you were ever interested of course. Ah, that is, you and Russia." And then, under his breath, too soft for England to register in his state of mind, "And France too, maybe."
"Nnguh?"
"...England, are you all right?"
"Mmmm, McDonalds."
It took embarrassingly long for either of them to realise that had come from America- and that America had begun to stir.
America was a slow waker when his sleep schedule had been disrupted, and that had been all too often lately, if the fact he'd fallen asleep at the conference room table were any testament. His arms sent papers scattering as they leveraged him off the table; his glasses, shoved up in sleep, now rested half-skewed on his forehead. Once he'd raised his head enough it wasn't in danger of slumping back down, his gaze swung toward the door.
It was then that England and Canada heard the footsteps, soft against the carpeted hallways. Soon after, Russia emerged from the dim beyond the entrance with, surely enough, a familiar paper bag in hand. Like a lodestone to true north, America's head lifted higher to properly take in the fast food goodness coming closer and closer.
When Russia reached America's side, he knocked the bag against America's temple.
"Russia?" It came out pretty coherent, all considered.
"I have brought you greasy capitalist junk."
"Delicious greasy capitalist junk," America countered, before staring blearily at Russia. "But why're ya bringin' me McDs?"
Russia frowned and pulled away the bag. "You don't want it?"
"I dooooo," followed immediately, accompanied with grabby hand motions. "But it's you! There's gotta be a catch with you!"
Russia dug into his coat pockets then, to pull out the dried sunflower he'd been carrying everywhere with him. He placed it in front of America with surprising gentleness; it was obvious he treasured the item. Watching the scene, England shot Canada a confused look, and the younger nation just shrugged back, with little clue what Russia was up to himself.
Meanwhile, though, all of Russia's attention was focused on America. If it had not been, he might have missed the slight widening of America's eyes before America ducked down and began poking the jar.
"What's up with the flower? I mean, it's kinda cool and all, but I didn't know you liked girly stuff."
But he had caught it, and it made him smile. America's reactions were fascinating, in a way that made him want to push.
"That is funny," he said. "After all, Canada told me you gave me this. Ah, but maybe it went to the wrong person? That would be sad, yes? It's so nice... Or maybe Canada was lying to me?" Russia swerved suddenly to face Canada then, much to Canada's alarm. "Canada, you wouldn't lie to me, would you?"
"I-"
"Hey, stop picking on him!"
"America." Canada's voice froze America mid-stare down with Russia. Canada waited until he was certain he had America's attention before continuing. "The Ursa Major thing was something only you knew about."
Cheeks flush, breath stuttered out, America looked like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
...
Oh, fuck, America thought, and then for good measure, mentally swore again. Oh, fuck, he'd messed up.
That was... that was unfair, too, ganging up on him like that, and yeah, maybe he hadn't done anything wrong to admit to (except breaking into a couple of rooms, but it was for good! not evil!), but it was still making him admit he'd sent flowers. To Russia. And sappy notes to all of them - which was totally sensitive and not manly and stuff - that no one would ever let him live down. Really, of all the people that had to have figured it out, it was them? At least France didn't know. Yet.
And then England had to go and chime in with, "So you did send everything. How did you get the fairies to keep mum? They've never bothered for you before," and he couldn't help it, even more blood flooded his cheeks before he could calm himself down at all.
The scent of cooling cheeseburger was still distracting him too.
"Can I eat first?" he asked. He was not about to forego a (delicious!) excuse to stall.
Maybe it was a little silly doing a fistpump when Russia handed over the bag though.
He'd barely stuffed in the last mouthful when England repeated the question. Just because he could, he made sure to chew extra slowly before he swallowed, garnering a raised brow and an exasperated sigh from the man. It was constant, reliable, that reaction; when England didn't do that was when he knew something was wrong.
Neither it nor the cheeseburger made the fairy thing any less embarrassing though.
"Well?"
"Uhhh..."
Tap, tap, tap, went England's foot. America ducked his head down. "Isetoutmilkandaskedthemnotto?"
"...I beg your pardon, I didn't quite catch that."
"Well, I didn't really think they were real! But y'know, better be safe than sorry and stuff so I did research anyway and then asked them not to." Crossing his arms and- not pouting, scowling, he dared any of them to say something about it. It was just that England somehow always seemed to know things and claim the fairies had told him. America had yet to successfully plan a surprise birthday party for England because of it, even! So it was a completely logical and scientific course of action.
It was either that or construct an Unidentified Mysterious Animal Repeller, but that would have been unwieldy to carry around. (Still, he had been seriously considering it at the start.)
No laughter came though, no smug 'I told you so's. Instead, England was giving him the pure, genuine smile he'd rarely seen since he was a colony, and Russia looked amused but... not at his expense.
And Canada. Canada was scrambling over the table to him and hugging him, and he let himself melt into the embrace.
"Oh America," Canada was saying. "Why?"
He tried to deflect with "What do you mean?" but Canada's dark look had him slumping in defeat. He was tired, anyway, not that he would have admitted that outside of his brain. "I just felt like it?"
"America."
"And maybe I thought it'd be nice if someone did that for me. -Ow!" Wincing, he rubbed at where Canada had just smacked him. "Dude, what was that for?"
Canada fixed him with an incredulous glance, before grabbing him by both ears and dragging his head so they were right in each other's faces. The other nation's mouth had thinned into a strained line; America found himself tempted to try to lick it to relaxation if it wouldn't have made Canada fume even more. "You..." Gently, Canada knocked America's forehead against his own. "You're stupidly idealistic, you're loud even when you shouldn't be, you'll rush ahead as long as you think you're right, and you don't think to talk to me."
"But that's so unheroic!" That was a completely unfair accusation anyway. He had thought about it! After all, they shared so much else already. It just hadn't even really been anything, only a small case of the economic slump that he could deal with on his own. Canada didn't look happy about his protest though, so he gave in with rolled eyes, raising his hands in submission. "...Okay, okay, talk to Canada when I'm feeling depressed, got it. Even if it's stupid and totally not a big deal."
It was the best he was going to give.
Then a large hand clapped his shoulder from behind, followed by Russia's chin resting on the crown of his head. Damn Russia's stupid tallness that let the nation loom over him. When Russia spoke up, the nation didn't even bother directing his words to him, talking over his head to Canada instead. "You forgot to say America is also a fool who tends to smile pointlessly."
And Canada, who had now managed to squirm onto his lap, nodded mock-solemnly. "I did, didn't I?" Whose side was Canada even on, anyway? He thought Canada was his boyfriend. "America. You don't have to pretend to be happy when you're sad. After all, the first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one."
"I don't need an intervention! You guys are such jerks." And he was still not pouting by the way, thank you very much.
By now, England had joined their side of the table and was letting himself be pulled into their tight little cluster. "They do have a point despite their tone. " The look America pulled in response had the older nation chuckling.
"Like that Caesar dude said, 'Et tu, Brute?'"
"Your pronunciation is atrocious."
"That's 'cause I'm not old."
"You are a manchild instead, yes?" said Russia, with such an innocent tone of voice that were it not for the glint in his eye and the fact it was Russia...
America lifted Canada out of his lap and deposited the nation on the table, ignoring Canada's indignant squawk. "Sorry dude, but I've a nation ta tackle." And just like that, he ducked his head from underneath Russia's chin, spun his chair around, and pounced.
The two nations went down in a heap of triumphant yells and roaring laughter, as America somehow managed to work his fingers beneath Russia's suit only to find the other nation wasn't at all ticklish, but that he - upon Russia's retaliation - most certainly was. They rolled on the floor, in England's opinion looking like nothing more than two aggressive puppies; when he sighed and turned to Canada to share fond exasperation, he found the other nation grinning wildly and stalking towards the rumble instead. Neither America nor Russia noticed Canada's approach.
It was remarkably easy, England noticed, for Canada to get both the other nations pinned to the ground, distracted as they were. Seated atop America and Russia, Canada beamed smugly from his perch. "Hmm, is that Russia beneath me? And America? You know, I think it is. I suppose that means I win, doesn't it?"
"Unfair! That was totally cheating, man!"
"Not my fault you were too focused to pay attention to your surroundings," and England couldn't help it, he chuckled, warmth bursting in his chest like sunshine. The smile Canada turned to him then was sweet, the outstretched hand inviting. "Help me up?" Canada asked, and so he took the hand.
A flash of wickedness, and England was pulled down. America protested at the added weight, but Russia, who was second from the bottom, merely gave a friendly wave to the latest addition. "This is nice. We are one big pile of love."
"So much cheating."
"Live with it," Canada piped up. "We do this because we love you. Maybe this will help you remember we're all here for you. Right, guys?"
England almost said no - it wasn't the type of thing one just admitted to, after all - but then he thought of the handkerchief with its messy (but nevertheless endearing) embroidery. "That's right."
"Yes," Russia chimed in. "You are not all bad at all."
Ah geez. America was red to the roots of his hair now, and he squirmed beneath the weight of everyone in pleased embarrassment. "Aww shucks. Thanks guys."
He would have been content to stay there then, in a giant heap with the people he liked, but something niggled at the back of his mind. There was something he was forgetting... Something important...
"Shit!" America tried to sit up, but with three nations atop him, all he managed to do was rebound his head against the floor again. "I was working on my speech notes for the end!"
England, the lucky bastard on top, stared incredulously at him. "You had two nights to prepare it. The meeting is in..." A glance at the clock. "Five hours."
"Yeah, well, I was... doing stuff."
"Mmhmm."
"C'mon guys, let me up already. I learned my lesson!"
"Should we?" England asked.
Canada hummed. "The speech is sort of important... if he doesn't go off topic."
"Ah, but America always does, yes? And he can be very thick. Maybe we should make sure it is through his skull."
"Guuuuuys."
Canada stayed seated just a little longer to make his point, before shoving England off and then standing up himself. Pulling Russia up nearly made him topple again, but soon enough, America was released.
"By the way," Canada tossed out, as America stood up and made for his papers. "I told England we're hot for his and Russia's bodies."
America choked on air.
...
The day after though, when the conference had ended and Canada had flown home, Canada found a letter in his mailbox. It had no sender, and no other marking but for postage and his name and address, but nonetheless, he knew from whom it'd come.
'Few may see you, but those that do see you for who you are.
I love you.'
"Me too," he told the letter. "Love you too."
End.