America's hands clenched to fists at his sides and he quickly looks down, hearing the nation's roaring laughter.
"See, America? All the nations agree with me—you need to loose weight!" England, the instigator of the tormenting, says happily. His throat rumbles with laughter as he says it, hand on his stomach.
The American looks down at his gloved hands. What had he ever done to deserve all this? He wasn't fat at all, and he knew it. Just because he ate a lot didn't mean he wasn't going to work it off! He spent countless hours jogging and at the gym every week! Plus, he had a high metabolism! It wasn't his fault! And who cares if he was fat? He liked he was, why was it any of their business?! It wasn't. So why were they commenting on it?
"Honestly, have you ever heard of a salad?"
"I bet he uses bacon as band-aids!"
"Fatass!"
"And such an idiot, too! I bet he doesn't even comprehend what we're saying!"
The room roars with laughter, some clapping America on the back or staring at him pityingly, as if he were a poor, lost idiot. Not one face in the room was sympathetic or angry, nobody looked even remotely upset by the words their colleagues and enemies were spouting.
America feels tears stinging his eyes. Not here, he thinks, standing up. A wave of sadness crashes over him, slamming right into his heart and sending icy daggers into it. He felt like a defenseless, innocent puppy getting a spiked boot slammed into it's side. To think that people could be so cruel to him, people who had once adored, loved, and supported him... To think that England, who had once vowed to never hurt him in any way, was the one who had started all the hurt in the first place... It broke him in a way that he couldn't fully understand. Why couldn't the nations see that he wasn't so stupid and fat, that he had a brain and a heart, and feelings. Why couldn't they see that he was a person who wanted love and happiness just as much as everyone else? Why couldn't they just understand?
And worst of all, nobody even so much as made a sound. He was utterly alone. Nobody was coming to his aid, nobody was here to save the American who had been left defenseless from the verbal abuse. The nation's words pricked at his skin like needles, making him want to get rid of it completely. He couldn't stand the feeling; he couldn't stand not being comfortable in his own skin, as the person he was. Why were they making him feel so bad? Why did they see the need to do this to him? He knew he was loud and obnoxious, but could trying to make your voice heard really be so annoying that it brought people to the point where they had to share how much they hated him, how insignificant and useless he was?
Suddenly, America can't stand it. He slams his fist so hard down on the table it shakes. "You guys are all jerks!" He exclaims, voice cracking on the last word.
Tears brim in his blue eyes and spill over. The American whips around, hiding his face. Then, sniffling, he sprints to the doors, throws them open, and makes his escape. Every nation in the room is frozen, staring at the door. They hear his feet pounding against the wood floor as he runs, and the distant sound of sniffling. Everyone in the room is suddenly hit with the full-force of what they had just said, England feeling the worst of all. It was just honest, good-natured joking, why had he let it get so out of hand?
America runs straight out of the building and immediately, cold air rushes around him. He breathes out deeply and looks down at a puddle from an earlier rain. His cheeks are flushed, glasses fogged, and eyes full of tears. He frowns and steps into the puddle, making his reflection waver and morph. America walks over to a bench and sits before the water calms and he sees his reflection again.
With a heavy sigh, he drops his face in his hands. He had to calm down. He had to just... Go back in there, act like nothing had happened. Pretend their hurtful comments didn't matter, that they hadn't just seen him cry over it. America suddenly felt embarrassed and childish, having a tantrum and then running out of the building. He's about to stand up when a voice breaks him from the thought.
"Al...?" A soft, concerned voice asks. Canada.
"O-Oh. Hey, M-Mattie." The American sniffles and looks away.
"Al?" The Canadian asks. "Are you cold?" He asks, looking around. America's shoulders were shaking from the freezing atmosphere, right? And he was stuttering because his teeth were chattering. Right?
"N-No, I'm f-fine... I-I gotta go." America starts to stand up, but his neighbor to the north grabs his wrist and forces him down onto the bench.
"You're crying." Canada's face darkens and he grabs Alfred's chin, forcing his twin to look at him. "What happened?"
"I got a paper cut..." America lies.
His brother scrutinizes him, violet eyes narrowed and full of fire. "That's a lie."
His heart starts breaking as America shakes his head. America never cried, and if he did, he didn't lie about it. He must be really embarrassed... That made Canada even angrier. America didn't have anything to be embarrassed about. He was perfect, in Canada's opinion. Maybe that was just because Canada was in love with America, but it didn't matter. Nobody was allowed to make America cry, and now they were going to pay for it. Canada loved America like a boyfriend as well as a brother. And nobody picked on his boyfriend, or his brother.
America averts his eyes and starts playing with his thumbs. "It is n-not a lie. I do not lie, I am very honest and I just got a paper cut on my left finger and it hurt so—"
"Al. You're not looking me in the eyes, you spoke without any contractions, you went into way too much detail, and you won't stop fidgeting. Those are all telltale signs of lying, and I know you are. You were never a good liar anyway. Now tell me what happened."
America frowns. "It's fine. I'm fine." He mutters, wiping away his tears. "I'm over it."
"You're just saying that."
"No I'm not!"
"Al, this is stupid! Just tell me what you did!" Canada blurts.
America's eyes go wide and he stares at the Canadian, the hurt striking him harder than ever. "What did I do?" He asks, staring at his brother.
Canada realizes his mistake. "Al, I didn't mean—"
"You wanna know what I did, Matt?! I took it like a freaking wimp! I stood there! That's it! I didn't say anything, I didn't even open my mouth, I was silent and wimpy and I ran out crying!" America yells, jumping off the bench. "You did mean it! Everyone does! I thought maybe you would be able to help, but it turns out you're just as bad as them!"
"No, Al! It was just a slip of the tongue, I know you didn't do anything—"
America's eyes well up behind his glasses again. "You're just as much of a jerk as everyone else." He says.
"No, Al, I'm not! I didn't mean to say that, okay?! Why do you always overreact?!"
"Oh, so now I overreact, too? I'm so sorry, Matt! Sorry that I ever thought you actually cared about me!"
Canada lets out a frustrated, angry groan. "You always take everything I say the wrong way! You're always so—so—"
America stares at him, arms folded across his chest. "So what?" He asks.
"So stupid! You can never just accept anything, you have to make a huge deal and blow things way out of proportion! You're an over-dramatic idiot!" Matthew hollers, throwing his hands up in the air. "I was trying to help you, damn it! But no! You can't accept that, can you?! You can't deal with anyone trying to help you because you have such a huge ego! You're such an idiot!"
His American companion freezes, eyes widening. His pink lips quiver and he whips around, away from his brother. His words strangled, he manages to mutter "Well, fuck you too," before sprinting through puddles and towards his hotel room.
Matthew stands there in a puddle for the next ten minutes, trying to think of an excuse for his harsh words. He knew there wasn't one. He had been frustrated, sure, but that was not an excuse for calling America an idiot. Repeatedly. Especially when America had already admitted what had happened. And, to top it off, when the American had said himself he was crying because they were calling him names. God damn it. I fuck up everything, don't I? Canada thinks, looking down at his reflection. What now?
Two hours later, a red and puffy-eyed America is sitting on his hotel room couch, tissues splayed out all over the white furniture, wrapped in blankets, and wearing baggy sweat clothes. He's watching a documentary on bullying and can't stop crying his eyes out, watching all the sad kids being called fat, ugly, stupid, etc., just like he was. He hated that he was making himself feel worse, but he couldn't help it. He was pretty sure that it was just a habit for people to watch depressing things when they were sad.
Shoving another spoonful of half-melted strawberry ice-cream into his mouth, he finally turns the TV off and wipes at his eyes. With a long, shaky sigh, he starts to clean up the mess he had made. Throwing all of his tissues into the trash and shoving the ice-cream into the mini fridge, he then pulls on another baggy jacket. Just as he plops down on the couch, there's a knock at his hotel room door. He ignores it, hoping it will go away. It's silent for a moment. Then, the knocking comes again, louder this time.
He groans. "Son of a bitch," he groans, shoving him himself off the couch and shuffling to the door. He wipes at his eyes and shrugs his sweatshirt to cover his shoulders, then adjusts his sweat pants, trying to make himself look at least halfway decent. He knew he still looked horrible, but that didn't stop him from fixing his tousled hair.
America opens the heavy, white door with blank, angry eyes and a frown. "What?" He asks irritably. He raises his eyebrows, seeing Germany, Italy, Japan, England, Russia, France, China, and Canada standing outside his door, all holding flowers. His eyes drop back into their angry glare after a moment. "Go away." He says, slamming the door.
Or, at least, trying to. Canada jams his foot in it, preventing the American from shutting it. A small wince on his face is the only indication of pain.
"Al." He says. "I'm sorry."
"I don't care anymore. Whatever. I'm over it." America says, shoving his foot away.
"No you're not, your eyes are all red. You've obviously been crying." England says, stepping forward. "Look, lad, I didn't realize that what I was saying was hurting your feelings. I'm very sorry." England says, holding out a bouquet of daises. "I honestly thought it was just good fun. But I won't do that anymore, okay?"
America looks down at them for a moment. "Thanks..." He says, hesitantly taking the bouquet.
"I'm sorry, America-kun." Japan says, handing his to the blonde. It's lilacs.
"You didn't even say anything, though..." America says.
"Exactly. I didn't stand up for you." Japan says, looking ashamed with himself. He pats America's hand lightly before taking a step back.
"Ve~ Me too! Even though I wasn't actually there!" Italy says, handing America his bouquet of carnations. "I'm sorry, America!"
"Thanks, Ita..." America says with a smile.
"Er—I'm deeply sorry." Germany says, handing the American a bouquet of tiger lilies.
America is pink now. "It's no problem..." He mumbles.
"Da, I feel very bad to make you cry, comrade." Russia says with a sincere smile. He hands America a single large sunflower.
"It's okay..."
"Me too-aru!" China says, handing America one of the biggest bouquets yet, all multicolored marigolds.
"D-Don't worry about it..."
"Oui, I did not mean to cause you any harm, mon amour~" France purrs, reaching out to kiss America's hand. Canada elbows him in the rib cage, growling lowly. America pays no mind, too distracted by all the flowers he had in his arms. France adds his petunias to the pile and then pulls back, rubbing his side with a grimace.
America looks down at the flowers, tomato-faced. "It's cool, guys. Don't worry about it." He says in a light tone.
Canada watches as all the nations file out nervously. He wondered what America was going to say, how he was going to react to the shitty apology he had planned.
Instead of words, America simply stares at him with a blank and bored expression. "Bye." He says after a moment, moving to shut the door. Canada steps inside his hotel room, staring straight at the American. Nervously trying to decide what he should say next, he didn't notice how uncomfortable his stare might be making his brother.
"I'm sorry, Matt!" America says without warning. "I was just—I was all upset because I didn't like them picking on me and I'm really sensitive about that kind of stuff! I thought you would make fun of me, which is so stupid, I know, 'cuz you've never made fun of me, ever! Anyway, I'm really sorry and I didn't ever mean to make you upset or anything like that! I just—I really am stupid!"
Matthew stares at his brother in disbelief. "Did you honestly just apologize for something that wasn't your fault at all?" He asks, holding out the roses. "I was a huge, idiotic jerk, not you. I knew you were upset and I knew you were sensitive about things, yet I brought them up and made you cry. I was way out of line, not you." The Canadian takes a few steps closer, taking America's hand in his and squeezing it. "You're not stupid, either. You're great, Al. Perfect. And I'm a huge asshole, I know. Can you forgive me anyway?"
America stares at him, then nods. "'Course..." He says.
The Canadian pulls him into a hug. "You're not stupid, okay? At all."
America nods, hugging his twin back. "Thanks, Mattie."
"I love you, Al."
"I love you too."
Canada's arms tighten around America, drinking in the moment. The feel of his hands on America's back, how America's arms wrapped around him and his hands rested on his waist, how his fingers curled around the edges of his red maple leaf sweatshirt.
"Matt?"
"Hmmmm?"
"You'll always make sure I'm okay, right? And take care of me if I need it?"
The Canadian pulls back, taking the blonde's face in his hands. "Always, Al." He says, staring into his blue eyes. "I'll always make sure you're okay."
America buries his face in Canada's chest, breathing him in deeply. "You always smell like maple syrup," he muses with a soft smile. "I love it so much." America chuckles.
Canada blushes lightly, and then rests his head on top of America's. "Al?"
"Yeah?"
"I really, really love you."
"I love you too."
"No, I mean I... Really love you."
"I really love you too." The pblivious American replies lightly. "Like, a lot..."
"N-No, Al, you're not getting it. I... I love you."
"For the last time, Matt, I love you too!" America says, pulling back and straightening out to his full height, gaining a inch or two on his brother. "Like... Like enough to do this."
He grabs his Canada's face in his hands, pressing his lips to the older's gently. Canada responds immediately, grabbing the back of America's neck and forcing him to dip lower, deepening the kiss. Americas smiles into it and Canada smiles back. They break away.
"That was an enthusiastic response." America says with a grin.
"Do you even know how long I've been waiting for you?"
"Do you know how long I've been wanting to do that?"
Matthew cocks his head to the side. "Probably like a week."
"More like a month." America says, grinning again.
"Compared to how long I've waited, that's like a half of a second. I've been waiting for years, Alfred Jones. You obviously cannot take a hint."
"Damn. Whoops. Well, I doubt you think about me as much as I've been thinking of you."
"I don't know, ten years gives people a lot of time to think..." Canada grins, wrapping his arms around America's neck and keeping him close.
"Yeah, well, I've been up all night for the past night, thinking about you. And when I do sleep, I have mushy-gushy romantic dreams about you. Beat that."
"Try having ten years of that." Matthew says teasingly. "You'll never win, Al. I've got nine years and eleven months more experience with the love bug. You couldn't top that if you tried."
"Yu-huh." Alfred replies with thoughtful glance. "I write you notes all the time, and then I crumple them up and throw them away. They could fill a whole room."
"Mine could fill a few mansions."
"Yeah? Well, have you ever written me a song?"
"A billion."
"Hmmm... But have you ever had such vivid daydreams you thought they were real?"
"Twice a day for ten years."
America frowns. "Well, how about—"
"Give it up, Al. I've been in love with you for longer."
America sighs. "Fine, you win. But only 'cause you're way too cute." He says with a smile.
"You're such a god damn flirt." Canada replies with a lopsided grin.
"You know you love it."
"You sure?"
"Positive." America says, "And I also know you like it when people tickle you."
"What? No I don't." Canada says. Then, a sudden realization hits him like a ton of bricks. He tries to escape, but it's too late. The tickle monster is upon him. America's hands move up and down his sides, fingers tip-tapping at his waist. Matthew's giggle turns into full-out, side-killing laughter. "S-S-Stop!" He says in between laughs, gasping for breath as he falls onto the ground, America jumping after him.
"What's the magic word~?"
"A-A-Al! AHAHAHAHAHHAAHA!"
America stops, letting Canada catch his breath. "I didn't even know you were ticklish, Mattie."
Canada gasps on the ground, red-faced. "D-Damn you..."
America smiles and leans forward, capturing Matthew's lips in a kiss. When they pull apart a minute or so later, Canada's smile fades.
"I'm still sorry about being such a dick earlier today."
"You can make it up to me by watching this new movie with me, how about that?"
"Another horror movie?"
"What else?"
"I don't know, something that doesn't scar you?"
"Maybe I just pretend I'm scarred so you'll cuddle with me and sing me lullabies until I fall asleep."
"Liar. Those movies scare the fuck out of you and you know it."
America grins and punches Canada's arm playfully, then stands up and plops down on the couch. He grabs the remote and starts the movie with the click of a button. Canada sits down next to him, and the two cuddle on the couch, the TV on mute, and asleep in each other's arms.