It was Prussia's fault, he'd later say with a laugh.
They'd all welcomed the distraction when America and Canada had walked into a horribly dull world meeting with matching suits and (mostly) matching hairstyles. When the twins had plopped down in front of England they'd drawn the attention of at least half of the meeting hall.
"Who's who?" The one on the right (very obviously America), had asked, barely holding himself still.
England couldn't help but smile.
He'd always taken comfort in the twin's inabilities to fool him. In how different the two boys were.
It made him rest easy at night.
"You should think of a better game to play. This is too obvious," France had said, leaning forward across the table to examine the two of them. "Although I do have to complement both of you. I believe you might have the hair almost right."
The one on the left had frowned. "I told you," he'd said, looking over at his twin.
The one on the right had worn a matching frown. "Well, maybe for you guys, but I bet the others don't think it's that easy." He'd crossed his arms and leaned back away from France's hand, which had been poking at his carefully gelled hair.
"Are you kidding?" Prussia had laughed, appearing at their side. "Even at normal volume your voice still goes all the way across the room." He'd sat himself on top of the table, and addressed the one on the left. "And you're so quiet I bet I wouldn't be able to hear you from the podium."
"My voice is just fine," the twins had said, though one had been noticeably louder than the other.
Laughter had burst out from the small audience that had gathered. Prussia had glanced up at his audience with a smirk, then addressed the twins again. "Face it. You're as different as night and day, one of you is a braying jackass and the other a little mouse. Bet he even talked you into this, huh?" He'd reached out and patted Canada on the shoulder. The action had been met with twin glares.
"Aww, come on. Don't give me those looks. I don't mean anything by it. But it's the truth isn't it?" He'd asked.
England had watched the twins during this, waiting for the inevitable outburst from America. It had never came, despite the fact that he'd been obviously forcing himself to stay quiet, practically shaking with the effort.
Perhaps that had been warning enough.
"I feel like we're in the parent trap or something," America said, sitting behind Canada in the mirror. "Thank God I'm not gonna have to actually try to be you or anything."
"Not all the time at least," Canada sighed. If he was perfectly honest he couldn't see it actually working for any amount of time. But it was worth trying. He was used to being underestimated, dismissed, but something about the last meeting had bothered him. "I happen to like my hair this length you know," he said, holding the pair of scissor out to his brother with uncertainty.
America nodded "Yeah, but I can't grow my hair out that much in two months time." He reached out to his brother's hair, the soft curls falling between his fingers. "This way we start at the same length and just see how long it gets."
"What color are we going with?" Canada asked, turning to stare analytically at his brother's eyes. "And are we getting rid of the glasses again?"
"I hate contacts."
"You'll get used to them."
America nodded. Since they'd come up with their plan he'd been trying to let Canada take the lead more often. It was getting easier, though he wasn't certain as to why exactly. "But we keep the glasses."
Canada nodded, before stilling his head. He said nothing as his brother began to cut.
Across the ocean a single crack appeared in a wax covered glass jar.
"You're being too loud. Again."
"Like you're any better at this. It's no wonder no one ever hears you."
"At least I'm not obnoxious."
"Better than being forgettable."
Two doors slammed, rattling the walls.
They had fought before, fought often, but not like they had in the past week or so. Everything felt exaggerated, as if there was something feeding into their reactions, trying to build a wall between the two of them.
It made them all the more determined.
Two doors opened. Two apologetic glances.
"Let's try that again."
The jar, sitting in a dark cellar in a home outside of London, cracked once again.
He'd found the boys in the upper reaches of his North American claim, long before they had any business existing as colonies, small things, curled around each other, looking up at him in curiosity. The forest around them was unnaturally still.
Years spent among the fae had left him cautious and perfectly willing to listen to his own forebodings, but something about the way the two had smiled at him had caught him off guard. He'd found himself bringing them back to his camp, one on each arm
Ever since he was young, Canada would often wake up from dreams with the vague confusion about what he was. Not who, but what. The dreams themselves were blurry messes, nothing remembered, seemingly nothing to remember, but he was always left feeling strangely disconnected and small.
So small.
And it never really went away, even as his lands expanded, even as he became the second largest country on the earth. He felt small and not all there.
It frightened him.
He wondered sometimes if his brother felt like that too, wondered if maybe that's the reason America had kept moving west, reaching for more and more.
What frightened him more was the realization one morning that it was slowly easing.
They started experimenting with sharing phone calls, starting with a few words here and there, but slowly adding time, seeing how long one could believably pose as the other. Inevitably, it turned into a contest, each forcing longer times and more difficult calls onto the other.
There had, of course, been a few unfortunate incidents, and they'd quickly made a list of people who were off limits, nevertheless Canada was caught be surprise one morning when the phone rang and America stood there in front of it, staring at the display and letting it ring. His face had turned several shades lighter within just a few seconds.
Canada nudged his brother out of the way, noting with a frown the way America's coffee mug nearly slipped out of his fingers, and glanced at the screen. He sent his brother a confused look, picked up the phone, and answered with a loud, "Hey Arthur, what can the hero do for ya?" He managed a solid five minutes before loudly laughing and hanging up. By that time his brother looked mostly back to normal.
America stared at him, slack jawed. "Holy shit, you're good."
Canada shook his head and flopped down onto the couch. "That was hell. And why'd you freeze like that? "
America sat for a moment, thinking, running his finger along the edge of the mug, scraping it little along a chip. It was something to do with a dream, but all he could remember was a bright flash of green carried along a wave of fear. He'd woken up in the middle of the night, gasping, unable to even remember why he was so afraid in the first place.
"Al?"
"I don't know." He smiled at Canada. "You hadn't tried this on Arthur yet. Figured I had to give you a nudge or something."
Canada smiled back, despite not believing a word his brother was saying. "Well," he said, reaching over and grabbing America's mug, "Next time Francis calls it's your turn." He took a sip of coffee and made a face. Black coffee. Strong black coffee. "Ugh. How do you drink this stuff?"
"Go make your own pot then," America said, sticking his tongue out.
"After tasting that stuff? No thanks. Arthur left some tea here, right?" asked Canada as he walked towards the kitchen.
He didn't see America's shudder as a strange herby flavor flooded his mouth, or the way he pulled himself further up onto the couch and curled around his mug.
He noticed anyway.
Ruin, all is ruin.
The earth and sky meet in a melting silvery expanse. Shards of a mirror stab the firmament and blood rains down on them all, burning flesh and pulling the air straight out of their lungs as the mists rise up in response.
The forest around him bursts into flames. Birds cry loud and long as the color red dances in two sets of eyes that see as one.
He'd blinked, coming back to himself and looked across the campfire at the two boys playing with his compass.
They'd looked up at him and smiled.
He'd shivered despite the fire's warmth.
It stopped bothering America when Canada turned down the thermostat. Ordinarily he'd complain bitterly, whining until his brother either told him to stuff it or gave in, typically one following the other.
He told himself he was just being more accommodating, more considerate. He ignored the fact that it had just stopped registering as too cold.
When they ran into one of Canada's citizens, and America knew her (Kathy Johnson, 27, afraid of snakes, x-ray technician, decided to become one after she broke her ar-) just for a split second, he told himself she must have lived in the states at one point.
When he felt a tornado travel into Saskatchewan from Montana and tracked the system as it moved across Canada's prairies, he tensed at the pinpricks of lightening and whirling wind, feeling dizzy and a little sick because it wasn't his.
But it was.
There was a precipice in front of them. They were both certain. Some step that neither of them had made before that was frightening and familiar at the same time.
Like the temptation to jump when standing on a cliff, it seemed insane, suicidal.
That didn't make it any less tempting.
Neither said anything to the other, not realizing that the object binding them for over 300 years had already shattered. And that it was, after that point, not a matter of stepping off the ledge, but letting the landslide take them.
Canada was distracted, working on semi-overdue report when America walked up to him and asked a question. He responded without thought. The fact that he'd used Spanish didn't automatically register.
"I didn't think it would actually work," America said, his mouth suddenly dry. They stared at each other for a moment, then he turned and walked out of the room towards the kitchen, trying to ignore the horrible tug he felt as he moved away from his brother.
Canada stood, his fists clenched. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked, once again in Spanish. He blinked, cursed purposefully in French and followed America. "Fix this!"
America was standing at the sink, staring down at a glass of water. "Fix what? You've got Spanish speakers," he said, as if that explained everything.
"No!" Canada cried. "That wasn't- I didn't know it like that before! I shouldn't know it like that."
America sat the glass down, wincing as it cracked against the counter, and turned. "Matt-"
But Canada was bending forward and holding his stomach, tugging at his t-shirt with clenched fists.
"Hey," he moved forward quickly, reaching out to Canada and trying desperately to get a look at his face. "You okay? Okay, yeah, dumb question." Canada remained silent, save for the audibly tense breathing. "Matt? Mattie?" Fear flooded his system when his brother's knees gave out, pulling both of them to the floor as America made to grab him.
"Is it at least both ways?" Canada asked suddenly, before America could say a word. His voice was rough, and he still refused to look up.
America squeezed his eyes shut, at the sudden inrush of knowledge. Not just information. Knowledge. Words and songs and histories. As clear and familiar as breathing.
"What is this?" He spoke a language he had no right to, the words falling off his tongue before he could even think.
"Dënesųłiné," Canada whispered, breathing out sharply. "Guess my test worked," he continued, even as he found himself too distracted to give it much thought. Things he'd only gotten tastes of before suddenly came at him in a flood. Humid shoreline. Desert heat. The burn of flowing lava. The thrumming heartbeat of cities he didn't even know existed. Billions of people he'd never thought to reach towards because they were never his. And oh, how strange it seemed, to be wrapped around his own body, pressing a nose into the crown of his own head and-
Suddenly everything snapped back.
Mostly.
"Oh God, that's trippy," Canada heard his brother say.
He knew better than to nod, but the longer they knelt there the more normal things began to feel. Not the past normal. A new one. Or maybe an old one. He didn't know.
He stood, after he felt less like throwing up, and walked back into the living room. He didn't realize until he sat down on the couch that America was still with him, holding onto him for dear life.
It was typically impossible to shove America away when he got that clingy, but Canada found that he didn't really want to. The very thought of it sounded horrible. It normally felt right to be pressed together side by side. It always had really. But this… this was something different.
Like finding something, someone, he didn't even realize he'd lost.
"This is-"
"Weird," said America, as he leaned his head over onto Canada shoulder.
"Good," Canada said, surprising even himself. "I was going to say good."
America shrugged, with a laugh, "Not like we share a brain." Then he paused, looking up at Canada with a worried glance. "We don't do we?" he whispered.
They sat there for a moment, neither making a sound.
"I don't think so," Canada whispered back. "Not if we don't want to," he added. He wasn't certain how he knew that, but it felt right.
America nodded, satisfied, and leaned in closer to his brother, melting into the bright warmth he could sense when he closed his eyes and feeling his brother melting into him.
They stayed like that for the rest of the day, borders pressing and melding, testing and giving. They explored new territory, blind to the rest of the world.
He'd stayed awake that night, or at least he'd thought he had, but one moment he'd been staring at the fire and the next he'd been opening his eyes to the morning light. He'd thought he'd heard a set of giggles floating through the trees, but the boys had disappeared
One night as they lay with arms and ankles intertwined, America woke with a cry, shaking.
He clutched onto his twin, breathing in his scent, his aura, his very existence.
"Al?" Canada whispered. "What's wrong?"
"It's nothing," America said, even as he realized his face was wet.
'Stupid', he felt, rather than heard, his brother say.
Canada scooted closer, reaching towards America. He swept his hand across his brother's neck, and shivered as the images filtered in without warning.
Standing in the middle of the forest, the trees above blocking out the sun.
Spiders suddenly crawling from the shadows and moving towards him, climbing his legs and torso and encircling his neck and somehow tightening and tightening, and tightening.
A creeping tickling as more climbed up his face and into his mouth and-
America gasped, bringing his hands up in a panic.
"Sorry," Canada said, grabbing America's hands, refusing to flinch from their possible strength, desperate to calm his brother, to calm himself. "Sorry."
America just shook his head and pushed himself closer to Canada, burrowing into the blankets despite the summer heat.
He'd seen them again occasionally, sometimes noticing their faces peaking out from bushes, other times hearing a rustle behind him, only to turn around in time to catch… nothing. Every time accompanied by that strange aura, too strong for something that young. The visions never left him for long. He'd found himself more than eager to return home.
"Where's other me?" America had asked England when he was very small.
"What?" England had looked at him, confused… feigning confusion America now realized. "Don't be silly. You're the only you there is."
America knew better now.
He'd found himself never able to completely leave the new world.
The boys had visited him in his sleep, joined by millions of screams raised as one.
His world burned while he slept.
Twin grins and a giant bloom, red and grey, against the sky.
The fae had given him two options.
"Should we call them?" Canada asked.
America shook his head. "No." The thought made him want to retch. He paused a moment to breathe, then continued. "I had the dream again last night."
"Me too."
The clarity that came with morning didn't take away the details of the night. Instead, pieces joined together, weaving a web that linked past and present.
The smell of burning hair and the orange glow against the night.
Rope scratching roughly against an ankle and then the cold shock of water.
Long thin fingers instead of spiders.
"I don't think it was a dream."
He'd had to.
Destroy or bind. It was the only way.
It should have been quick work. As simple as drowning kittens.
At one point he'd tried that method actually.
It had worked about as well as the others, leading to nothing but headaches, small shrieking bodies, and a slowly rising desperation.
By the seventh attempt he'd reached his limit. Had gotten sloppy.
Afterwards he'd washed his hands of the matter, literally and figuratively.
'This was his fault too'. Two hands reached towards twin scars. It wasn't the first time they noticed the hearts underneath them beating in perfect time.
The memories had compounded, each day adding on a new layer to their broken reality.
They'd decided to leave the lights on after the first night.
Neither of them felt like leaving the house, clinging to each other as they tried to reconcile the different pieces of their past and failed.
"They'll do it again." They had both thought it, but this was the first time either of them had been willing to say it out loud. "Maybe not the same way but-"
A new era was coming. The change wouldn't be overnight, but they could already feel the shift happening, the way the people in their land saw each other. Whatever happened, the other nations would notice, quickly, and wouldn't be pleased.
But they weren't children anymore.
"We'll never let them."
The magical solution was infinitely riskier unfortunately.
It was a three-fold spell: separating the two boys, erasing their memories- both of him and of each other, and binding whatever force was manifesting in them.
He'd prayed he'd done the work well enough, and left them in the wilderness, one as far north as he dared and the other as far south. Part of him had hoped, since the two were split, that nature would take care of what he couldn't.
When he'd saw the two of them again, several decades later, he'd been pleased to note that neither of them appeared to remember him in the least.
It really was providence that the conflicts between himself and France had heated up so much and so often. It had created an even greater enmity between the twins than the spell could have ever accomplished on its own.
Of course, then he'd gotten overconfident and taken Matt- Canada in addition to America.
He'd been able to tell right away that close proximity diminished the spell's effectiveness, but that hadn't mattered, certain that he could take care of any issues that arose.
Unfortunately familiarity bred complacency.
And they'd loved him.
He'd grown drunk on that power, careless.
He'd thought he could tame the beast and call it his own.
He'd been a fool.
"No one suspects the quiet ones."
"Everyone underestimates the dumb ones."
A mouth covered, silenced. "Make them forget you."
A mouth stretched wide. "Make them laugh at you."
A back forced straight. A mind ground sharp.
"Make them fear you."
A melding of warm and cold, rising and swirling and crashing.
No one expected the storm.
England froze when the doors of the meeting room opened.
The sound in the room leveled out slightly as the two walked by, nations moving subconsciously in their wake, a binary star pulling bodies in without effort, without thought, then releasing them just as quickly.
Few actually noticed the change, England realized, though a few of the more magically sensitive nations glanced towards them, and then him, nervously. China looked up, sharply, as they neared the table. His face grew pale, lips thinned, before he stood up, staring with dark eyes, and moved towards the nearest door.
A frown and a chuckle as they sat. Calm smile and sharp teeth.
England glanced about the meeting room once again, breathing in deeply as it began to compress to a pinpoint, and expand to a gray haze. Smoke filled his nose and he looked away from Ireland's hand, which was a charred black.
France turned towards him, shock clear on his face as a flood of black and crimson flowed up and over his teeth, burbling out as he gagged.
Arthur closed his eyes, reopening them to sanity once again, to a world where France was typing absentmindedly on his phone, his stubble free from sticky gore.
He breathed in, shakily, and looked up to see two sets of eyes turned towards him.
A wave of cold washed over him.
The beast watched him and smiled.
AN: Happy Halloween guys. Elements of this thing have been rattling around in my head for a while now... the warm and fuzzy parts, not the freaky horror parts. Then they came along and wanted to play too, so this happened. If you don't get the reference in the title I'd recommend reading Yeats' "The Second Coming". It's a seriously awesome and creepy poem. Well, creepy it's creepy to me at least.
Constructive feedback is so so so welcomed. I love hearing what you guys think.
Thanks for reading ^_^