So I've finally finished my exams, and I thought 'hey, why not post a celebratory fic?' So I did. Wrote this all in one night, which is pretty amazing for me. Anyways, have at it. It's the first of a two-shot (I already have the second part finished, but it just flows better as two separate chapters).
I've also never written anything of this genre, so I don't know if it's any good.
But yeah, enjoy, review, tell me how I did. Hope you like it.
Warnings: Dark Themes, Swearing, and the like.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
America blew past the greeters and receptionist, rushing to the elevator doors, and desperately pressed the 'up' button.
"Come on…" he whispered frantically after a few seconds, jamming his thumb once again on the red button. "What the fuck is taking so long…"
A mother quickly guided her child away from where America was standing, shooting the blonde a dirty look.
America didn't blame her. He knew he probably looked a mess.
He pressed the button again, losing what little patience he had left. Stepping back, he ran a trembling hand through his hair, glancing upwards at the floor display panel.
It blinked mockingly back at him.
Floor 14.
"God DAMNIT," he yelled in frustration, slamming his fist into the elevator doors. He needed to get up there now. He didn't have time for this.
The smooth, metal doors buckled under the force of the hit.
He could hear the hotel receptionist calling for security.
"Fuck," America gritted out between clenched teeth. He took one last glance at the elevator before dashing to the stairwell on his left, pushing past a young couple and wrenching open the heavy, white door.
He ignored the yells from the receptionist and security guards, focusing only on the steps before him. Nothing else mattered. He had to get up there.
Someone was waiting for him.
He took the steps two at a time, glancing up every now then to check what floor he was on.
3.
7.
12.
He needed to get to floor 18.
That's where he was.
America had gotten the call early this morning. He had still been sleeping, and the ringing of his cell phone had woken him up.
Half asleep, he had answered the call with a groggy "Hello?".
The voice on the other end had been quiet and controlled, replying with a simple "Hi Al, it's me."
He should have immediately recognized who it was.
He should have instantly heard the pain and hurt in the voice.
He should have answered with anything but "And who are you?"
He had realized his mistake when the voice on the other end let out a broken, desperate laugh, a hint of hysteria seeping through. "I-It's Canada, Al." There was a shallow, dejected breath. "I'm sorry, I s-should have known you wouldn't have me under c-caller ID."
America had wanted to reply that he actually did have the northern nation's number programmed into his phone – he had just forgotten to check the display – but the other had continued before he could talk.
"L-Look, I'm sorry," Canada had said, chocking on the words, "I know you probably don't c-care, but I needed to talk to someone before I… before I…"
America stumbled on his way up the steps, catching himself on the rail. He only paused for a moment – the memory of the phone call replaying in his mind – before continuing upwards.
He remembered with agonizing clarity how he had frozen at the Canadian's words. The pain and desperation in the northern nation's voice had been excruciatingly clear. America had waited, barely breathing, for the nation to continue, but all he had heard was a muffled gasp. He had clenched the phone tight in his hand before finally speaking.
"Before you what, Mattie?" he had asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
There was more broken laughter, then the sound of someone moving around. "Does it really even matter anymore?" Canada had asked, voice distant and cynical. "What's the point of even trying?"
Then, so silently America almost missed it, "I wonder if this is high enough?"
America rounded the corner, checking what floor he was on as he continued up the steps.
Floor 17.
Almost there.
"High enough for what, Mattie?" he had asked, dread seeping into his bones.
But Canada had stopped listening, and all America could hear were loud gusts of wind.
"Mattie?" he had called, desperation creeping into his voice. "Matt? You still there? Matthew?"
Then, finally, "It could all end here, couldn't it?" Canada's voice was detached, uncaring, and America had suddenly realized what was going on.
"No. Matt," he had said, trying to sound commanding, but his voice came out as a gasp. "Matt, don't you dare. Don't do this."
Silence.
"Fuck it Matthew, TALK TO ME," he had yelled into the phone, desperate for some kind of reply.
"You don't understand, Al," Canada had finally said, "I'm ready for it to end. I can't take it anymore."
"Stop saying that, Matt," he had commanded, already out the door. "Just don't do anything until I get there, ok? Tell me where you are and I'll be right there."
"Why Al? So you can be the hero?"
"God damn it, Matthew," America had pleaded into the phone. "Please, just tell me where you are."
Canada had given him a hotel, floor, and room number, and then before America could say anything else, the line was disconnected.
He ran down the hall, checking room numbers as he went.
1809… 1811… 1815…
1817.
That was it. This was the room.
This is where Canada was waiting.
Waiting only because America had asked him to. But Canada didn't want to wait.
He was ready to jump.
And America wasn't going to let that happen.
And ta da. Part two will be up in a day or so. So tell me if you like it, I'd love to know.