It took me a long time to remember to cross-post this from my LJ. Haha, sorry...
Ishmael - One Day in Quebec, an Interlude
Genre: family
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Canada, France
Warnings: Compressed colonial history timeline, (Canada being kinda emo)
Part: 5/?
Disclaimer: Do not own. Characters only bear resemblance to living counterparts or other people through extreme coincidence. Characters' views do not represent my own.
Summary: He just wants France to explain why he has to let him go. Set between Quebec and Alouette.
Notes: It took me a long time to get this even close to how I wanted it, and I'm still not totally sure about it, but this has been languishing on my hard drive for a long time now and I thought I'd post it as a weird kind of celebration for finishing my Canadian History exam today. I still feel that this timeline pretty central to why Canada is still divided between French and English, so I wanted to devote some time to it. Hope you're not too disappointed.
Also, most of this was written to "Le Reel des Soucoupes Volantes" (The Flying Saucer Reel), as performed by La Bottine Souriante (a French-Canadian band with more energy and rhythm than they know what to do with) - which does not match the tone at all.
... So I think I totally discovered Al's favourite traditional dance?
*is shot*
-
He tried to be quiet as he shut the door behind him. The house was still, the burnt orange of sunset lending a sullen gleam to the bare wood on the hallway floor. No one was in the kitchen. The front parlour was empty. Canada padded quietly down the hallway, shushing the white bear who wandered out of dining room to greet him with a curious, "Who?"
"Where's France?" he said softly, kneeling to run anxious fingers through the bear's fur.
"Out," the bear told him. "Looking for someone." A hopeful expression in his black button eyes. "Food?"
Canada patted his head, a little concerned. "Of course." He stood, and padded to the back door. Across the yard was the smokehouse, where Canada knew that thick slabs of venison, brought in by some of the hunters, were curing.
It wasn't like France to disappear without making sure that one of his charges, furred and four-legged or otherwise, was not adequately taken care of. He wondered where he could have gone to. Not to the walls, surely? Would he have been seen, then, coming back from the river? And the ships! Oh, no - what if France had seen the ships? He must have been able to, the city walls were the highest thing for miles. Standing on the ramparts, one could see up and down the river, and clear to the other side, the horizon stretching wide underneath the treetops.
Canada was going to be in so much trouble if France guessed that Canada had gone down to the banks to meet the English. He couldn't even imagine what France would do. He'd never truly made France angry before. And in this state (a burden, a burden), who knew what might happen?
He was sitting curled up under the table, hugging the little white bear half in his lap as he growled and chewed on the half-cured strip of meat when he heard the door click open, slow footsteps in the hall.
Canada sat quiet under the table, and tightened his grip on the bear, feeling his heart slide up into his throat and begin thrumming there. His breath shook in spite of himself.
"Merde." A thump, sounding as though it was from against the door. "Where is that boy?" There was anxiety in his voice, and Canada wanted nothing more than to run out and fling himself into France's arms, to bury his face in soft hair that smelled of rosewater and hug him tightly, promising not to wander off without telling him again. He wanted nothing more than to lash out, and ask him why, why he was forced to this point, why France, who was supposed to love him, was not going to fight for him. Wasn't England supposed to be the bad guy, here? Why was the bad guy trying to do something good for him, and why was the good guy willing to just let him go as though none of this mattered?
Canada took a deep breath, and squeezed the bear involuntarily tighter as the footsteps moved towards the dining room.
"Who?" said the bear, sounding annoyed, voice loud. Canada's heart seemed to stop beating for a minute, and then he could see France's feet in their elegant knee-high boots in the doorway. They were moving towards him.
"Canada?" France said, and then there was relief in his voice as he dropped to his knees, one hand still on the table to steady himself as he reached forward and caressed Canada's cheek. His fingers were cold. "Oh, thank goodness. You were nowhere to be found, I was so worried, pet, don't you dare scare me like that again! Don't you know that England and his men are prowling around, just waiting to capture you? Ah, my God! To think I could have lost you so easily to Old Eyebrows. Now - come here, give France a hug -?"
Canada buried his face in the bear's fur, and didn't respond.
"Canada, it's all right. Come out from under the table, love."
Canada's throat was tight. "N-no."
A pause. France's voice was all patience. "I'm not angry with you, if you are afraid of that. I'm just glad you're all right. Come here, darling, please?"
"You don't have to comfort me," Canada said into the bear's fuzzy back. "I'm fine. Don't feel obligated."
"Whatever are you talking about? Where is the obligation in loving one's little brother?" France's voice developed an uneasy, bewildered edge. The hand on his cheek stilled. "Canada, are you mad at me?"
"Yes."
France withdrew. Canada didn't look up even as he heard him settle into a different position on the floor. "Would you like to tell me why?" he said, finally.
You're just looking for ways to sign me over to England, Canada wanted to say. You like St. Lucia and Saint-Domingue and everyone else better than me. I'm sorry I'm only snow and trees and rocks. I'm sorry I don't have bright warm tropical beaches and sugar and coconut and bananas. Don't you think I'd be warm if I could, for you?
"Before," Canada said, instead, lifting his face from the little white bear's fur just far enough to see France's anxious, calm expression. He wanted to see him. He wanted to see if it would change. "You said you wouldn't leave me until I said you should."
A flicker of shock across France's face, before settling again. "Oh, darling, is that it? Did someone say something cruel to you?"
"Yes," Canada said.
"Who were they, then? What did they dare say?"
"That I was nothing but a burden," Canada said, and colour drained from France's face. He watched, distantly, and focused on the warmth of the small bear in his arms.
"Oh pet, you didn't, you didn't actually believe what my king wrote, no one really believes that, he's just not that interested in colonies, I am quite sure I can convince him to change his mind, you'll see -"
"Liar," Canada said, and the word burned on his tongue. His mouth was dry. "You wrote a reply."
France's eyes were shadowed with sadness. "Darling, it is not -"
"Don't call me that!" Canada yelled at him. "Don't call me that when you don't mean it. Just don't."
He was so cold. France's face was tight and unhappy. "Canada, I do mean it. Haven't I always been a good and loving brother to you?"
"Then why did you write that you don't want me any more?"
France closed his eyes, expelled a deep, slow breath. "I could tell you the hard truth straight out, or I could tell you the truth, watered down. I warn you, Canada - even the watered truth may be hard to take."
"I don't want to hear any more lies." Canada tensed, and glared at him. "I can take it."
"France could care less about you now," France said, and Canada felt something inside him shatter. "My king and my people want wealth and power, Canada, that's part of what an empire is all about. And you, cute as you are, hard as you've tried for us, it's just not enough. England is stronger than us, stronger than me, at the moment. He's going to take you away from me no matter what happens, and my king will let it happen. I cannot stop it, nor do I want to. I have been sick for a long time, because of this. Do you understand?" His eyes softened, and he reached out again, brushed fingers across his hot face that came away wet. "Darling, I'm so sorry. Really I am."
"I hate you," Canada said. Spat. "I hate you so much."
"I never lied about loving you, Canada."
"Of course," Canada said. His throat was so dry. His face was so wet. What was wrong with him? He'd known this from the moment he'd read the letter, known France had been sick for years before this. He'd been so stupid. "Yes, it's all clear now, I should have seen it right away. Of course it's not a lie. That's why you could care less that I'm going to end up with England, you're not even going to fight properly against him."
"Canada." France was closer, somehow, though he had to duck quite low to fit properly under the table to cup Canada's face in both hands. "Canada. Mathieu. Look at me."
Canada glared into blue eyes far too calm and tranquil for his liking. "What," he said. "What do you want from me? I tried so hard. I can't change who I am, not even for you. I'd have been warm for you, if I could have. I would have been anything else but snow and trees and rock. I'm sorry."
"Oh love," France said, and the tranquility in his eyes broke with his voice. "Love, love, don't you dare wish that. You are my little Mathieu, and I would not have it any other way. But that is the problem. If you were just Mathieu, love, and I were just Francis, I swear that nothing and nobody could take you away from me. But I am also France. And you, you are also Canada, do you not understand this? I cannot go against my people or my king. My people and my king wish to cast you off; we cannot be strong if we're trying to protect you. Francis loves you dearly, but Francis bows before France, and has no say in what happens, in the long run. What you feel, that is Mathieu, hating France. I hope it is not Mathieu hating Francis."
The white bear wriggled free of Canada's now-slack arms, and he hugged himself for a moment before hurling himself forward. France caught him, held him tightly, petting his hair and rocking him back and forth.
"I told England how to beat you," Canada said, muffled in France's shirt sleeve.
France's hand stilled on his hair for a moment, then resumed. "That's fine, pet."
"I won't forgive you."
"That's still fine." France kissed the top of his head.
"It's not fair."
"It's how it has to be, love."
It took him a long moment to realize that the hot damp feeling against his forehead meant that France didn't think it was fair either.
-
Notes:
The details of the house and yard should be mostly accurate for the time period. I hope.
I've gotten in the habit of just referring to Kumajirou as "the white bear" when writing about him from Canada's perspective. I'm kind of really fond of the theory that he's actually a spirit bear, as opposed to a polar bear, because as awesome as a pet polar bear is, so is a spirit bear, for different reasons. Anyways, that's part of the reason for the ambiguity. The other reason is that I figure if Canada doesn't even remember Kumajirou's proper name, it's probably not too likely that he remembers precisely what kind of bear Kumajirou is either. .' ... It's amazing how you can live with someone and still be such mysteries to each other.
There's not much history here that hasn't been covered in either Quebec or Alouette, except possibly the mention of the French Caribbean colonies, but that could take another series of stories all on its own. Mostly what this is is my attempt to work out some of the complexity that my mind tells me exists in nation relationships. Because of course they are nations. But they are human-form, and things that are human-form tend to have human frailties and emotions. And I'm a little enamoured of the idea that nations don't always have the same motives and desires as their human parts do.
And also, I enjoy writing heartwrenching crap sometimes. So sue me.
SBE part 3 is coming, eventually, I swear. I just need to sort me and my issues out good and proper, end the semester, and then I will be getting right to work.