T for blood and darkish themes. I own a dog. Who barks at the mailman who comes EVERY SINGLE DAY. I do not own Hetalia.
Sometimes Mattie wonders if America knew what he broke. Sometimes. Not often. There are more pressing matters. His country for one. His lack of sleep for another.
He wonders now. Which makes sense. He's in a meeting with the American and also England, though they aren't talking about anything important or rather anything that's going to get done. But it is oddly fitting, this meeting.
England whose heart America broke.
Canada whose heart America burnt.
America's apartment is comfortable. Not too decorative but, clean and spacious. A plate of steak and mashed potatoes lays before each of them on the polished table with a glass of California wine beside it.
Canada takes a sip. Despite his French roots, he doesn't like wine; it tends to be too bitter for his taste. This wine however manages to be sickeningly sweet. He picks up a steak knife and his forks. He cuts carefully. The steak is fine.
His two colleagues are ignoring him- again. A few months ago he would care, sulk, resent them. He's done resenting. Now he's in his own little world.
It's not time yet but, Mattie can't stop imagining his steak knife puncturing the pink flesh of his American twin. And the blood gushing out. America's life trickling down right before his eyes.
America whose heart Canada will stab.
"So yeah," America concludes, his overly loud voice echoing through the large room,"China wants me to visit him to talk about my debt."
"How long will you be gone?" England asks his usual bored expression pasted on his face.
"A week,"America says, sighing, 'I'm leaving tomorrow."
Canada's head shoots up.
The plan would be ruined.
Keeping his cool he took a sip of the red wine. England stands up and clears his plate. "Well this has been fun but, I have to go now," the Brit says, excusing himself.
"Alright then, bye," America says opening his front door. England grabs his coat and leaves into the big city.
Canada holds the steak knife in his right hand, fingering the handle. His original plan involved a gun, something he didn't have right now. He knew he couldn't overpower America with a mere knife but, with the element of surprise Canada could win.
The door shuts.
"I'm going to go wash up. I'll be out in a few," his brother calls out.
"Yeah, okay!" Canada calls out trying hard to contain his excitement.
This was it.
He makes his way through the hallway careful to keep quiet. Just outside the bathroom he grips the knife ready to attack. Thump thump. His heart is pounding, surely loud enough for his brother to hear. America is just finishing washing his hands and leaves no hint that he knows Canada is there. He turns off the faucet and reaches for the towel. Canada rushes in, using the momentum to his advantage he pushes the blade through the cotton, blue t-shirt between America's shoulder blades. America straightens up to full height and yelps in response. The knife isn't too deep in but, just enough that bright red blood gushes out. Canada twists the knife clock wise. America howls.
…..
Suddenly the knife clatters to the tile floor. Canada's arm is pushed to his back and a sickening snap rings out as the bone is split in two. He screams, now aware of the tall, threatening figure hovering over his shoulder.
"What the hell was that Canada?!"
He gathers himself. Trying to show no fear. "If you hadn't scheduled a meeting with China-"
"What are you talking about?" his twin interrupts. Canada pauses. Was his brother that stupid?
"You just told Britain about it ten minutes ago!" he accuses, annoyed. America swivels him around so that they are face to face.
The superpower is clearly afraid. His eyes are wide in shock, his skin a ghastly white and his breathe comes out in shaky gasps. Small puddles of crimson blood lay on the floor and more blood is dripping from his back. Still he keeps his composure and speaks slowly as if he thinks Canada won't understand.
"Britain called in sick. He didn't come today."
Silence. Ear deafening silence.
God, he was crazy.
America lets go backing up a few steps. "'S okay," he says gently like he's calming a small child," I'm-I'm going to call your boss..." He runs out of the bathroom locking the door behind him. Outside the Canadian can hear him pant.
Canada slumps to the ground. His right arm burns and is twisted in an odd direction. The fore arm is swollen and badly bruised and will take at least a week, with his nation immunity, to heal. He grabs a magazine from the bin next to the toilet as well as two toothbrushes from the sink and floss.
He wraps the magazine lengthwise around his arm. Ignoring the pain, he puts the two toothbrushes on each side and ties it all, tightly with floss. It would make a decent splint until somebody arrived. The long forgotten knife was still on the floor covered in the red substance. It didn't matter anymore. Canada's plan had been ruined. His right arm was useless and there was no way he could over power his despised brother with his left arm for the amount of time needed to kill a nation.
A few minutes later EMT's come cautious of the figure on the bathroom floor glaring at them. A woman paramedic bends down to his level.
"Don't worry," she coos, gently slipping the needle into his arm, administrating the sedatives.
Canada wakes up in a white room. The scent of anesthetic reeks. His arm is in a cast and the rest of his body is restrained. He gets a sneaky suspicion where he is. A young nurse, no more than thirty, is at his side fixing his pillow and checking his vitals.
"Hello," She greets quietly.
"Where am I?" he asks groggily.
"The hospital, silly."
"Which part of the hospital?!" he snaps. Quietly, almost so that he couldn't hear, she answers.
"The mental ward."
Canada supposes he is lucky. He's in a government hospital so they know of his status as a nation. America nor his leader press charges and the thing is kept under wrap. There will be no prison nor lawsuits as long as Canada agrees to stay in the mental ward, where he will receive therapy and treatment, until the doctors deem him mentally fit. Canada thinks he'd be far luckier if he was home free with one less sibling.
England is his first visitor. He stands close to the his bed and holds his hand. England keeps him informed of what's happening in the world from the current wars to the economic state. He also tells him about how the other nations don't know what happened, thinking the Canadian is merely sick.
Did anyone notice he was gone?
Britain stays for an hour or two. Then he excuses himself walking through the doorway. Right before leaving he adds one final tidbit.
"America's doing fine in case, in case you were wondering. The knife nicked his lung but, he's doing alright." England closes the door leaving the patient alone.
About a month later, there is little change in his mental state. The doctors are not surprised having predicted it would be a long drawn out process anyway.
Visitors are infrequent. Typically being England, with news, or France being concerned. He had just finished his lunch when the door opens again. He cranes his neck to see who it is. America hangs awkwardly half in and half out, of the hospital room. His arms are folded and pressed to his chest like a hug. The beginnings of dark circles lay under each dull blue eye.
"Hello," he greets, his voice much quieter than the Canadian remembers. He doesn't respond, instead watching the American like a king at a gladiator fight, a grin on his face. This could be very entertaining.
Besides. A question has not been asked yet.
Go ahead, he coaxes, I dare you, ask me why.
"So." America begins.
Canada waits.
"Just- I'm curious. Wh-" The American pauses. And he smiles. Not a real one, a small, insecure
smile. "Just- try to get better and stuff. Is the medicine making you feel good at all?"
No answer. The Canadian just stares at him like he's trying to put a name to a face.
"Oh well. Okay," America responds,"I'm going to leave now. Y' know. Work." He laughs nervously. Closing the door behind him he walks briskly and eagerly down the hall.
Canada wonders if he, himself, knows exactly what he broke.
A/N: I wrote a snapped Canada fic. Why. I normally don't like them. Yet, I'm really proud of this for some odd reason.
About this story: Well the tense was odd. I'm used to past tense so I constantly had to rewrite bits of it to make it sound better. BUT, I do love the present tense and I feel like it adds to the mood.
Anyway, basically I wanted to subvert things I think are over used in snapped fiction. Particularly ones with Canada in it. I was unsure whether or not to post it but, even if people don't like it at least I'll get some advice. Besides maybe people will like it. So yeah. Thank you so much for reading! (Even if you don't review it's an honor).