PruCan, indirectly. Written from inside Matthew's head.
"For the love of God, why Prussia? Of all people, why?"
My brother. For 200-odd years he ignores me, except to import (Cuban) cigars, and now my first real conversation with him has this inauspicious start.
"Because he notices me."
"So? I notice you."
"Sure you do, Alfred."
Gilbert's the only one who can consistently see me. We're kind of the same, both enduring world meetings in the shadow of a brother, both nations without a voice. Me because no one can hear me, and him because he's not a country anymore.
"I do notice you! So does France, sometimes."
"Sure you do. What's my name?"
"Ooh, that's easy. Canada."
"No, Alfred. What's my human name?"
"Um. . . Max?"
"No Alfred. My name is Matthew."
Gilbert never calls me by my country name. He always calls me Mattie, except when he calls me Birdie. I rarely call him Prussia. Gil or Gilbert is better, and I know that when people call him by his country name, it only reminds him of his reduced status.
"Sorry, Mattie."
"Don't call me that!"
"Yeesh, sorry."
"That's only Gilbert's nickname for me."
"He gets his own private nickname? See, this is what I'm talking about. What do you see in that Nazi?"
"Alfred. That was like 60 years ago."
"Fine. What do you see in that Commie?"
He doesn't even miss a beat.
"Alfred! He never wanted to live with Russia! You put him there! It was a really traumatic experience for him."
"Well, fine. But what kind of relationship can you possibly have long distance?"
"It's not long distance. He flies over all the time."
Really, he practically lives at my house. His brother was glad to get him out of the basement. I guess Gil makes a lot of noise or something, but he's pretty polite at my house. Well, sort of. But Germany was so glad he had an excuse to get out of the house that he bought him a private jet. It's painted yellow, like Gilbird.
"Where do you keep him?"
"Seriously? Have you seen my house?"
"But Prussia makes a mess –"
"Where are you getting this information, Alfred? Everything you say is wrong. He's polite, and nice, he doesn't make a mess, he's not a Nazi, and he most certainly is not a Commie."
"Yeah, but he sleeps around."
"He does not!"
Why on Earth does everybody think that? He's never been with more than one person at a time. And most of Europe ignores him these days.
"Yeah he does. Hungary, Austria, France, Spain, Russia . . ."
"Will you leave off about Russia? That was not consensual, and it was not a relationship."
"Well fine then. No need to get snippy, Marcus."
"Matthew, Alfred. My name is Matthew."
"Whatever. This isn't about your name. It's about your destructive choices."
"This is my relationship, Alfred. Gilbert is a wonderful man who's had a scarring past. The entirety of Europe ignores him, but he still has a strong heart, and for some reason loves me with it. I can't explain it, and I don't care to, but it's nice and wonderful, and I wish you would quit telling me what to do."
How can that presumptuous brother think he has the right to tell me what to do? Like I said, he takes no interest in me, and suddenly he's allowed to tell what to do with my personal relationships? I may be soft-spoken, but I am not a pushover. I'm my own country and my own person with my own feelings. Maple, but he is an idiot.
"Well fine, bro. But don't come crying to me if it goes downhill."
"Like you're qualified to give advice on that. Is Arthur speaking to you this week?"
"Well, no, because I told him he should send more troops to Iraq, and he said – Hey! What are you implying?"
"Nothing. Go back to your 'heroic duties.'"
About the (Cuban) cigars - as I understand, when the US was refusing to trade with Cuba for being communist, their famed Cuban cigars could be (and often were) purchased by way of Canada.
