Prompt: Insides
Characters: America and Canada (and England is mentioned once, if anyone cares)
Notes: I promise that this fits the prompt... just in a subtle way.
"Tough / You think you got the stuff. / You're telling me and anyone you're hard enough. / You don't have to put up a fight . . . / Let me take some of the punches for you tonight." ("Sometimes You Can't Make It on Your Own," U2)
Canada knew he didn't have to knock on the door or wait for his brother to open it for him. He never had to ask permission to visit America—not on this particular occasion. As always on this evening, the front door was left unlocked, a silent welcome for the young nation and his mission. Canada never had to call ahead of time to let his brother know when he would arrive, nor when he had set foot in the house. America always knew.
Thus began their solemn vigil.
Canada pushed the door shut and locked it behind him. America had left it unlocked for him and him alone. No one else was allowed in this night. Not the constant flood of well-wishers. Not the friends who said too many words and performed too few actions. Only Canada, who had come to do just the opposite of everyone else. To comfort, not to speak. To heal through gestures and not platitudes. To place his own burdens at the door and, if only for one night, shoulder his brother's instead.
Upon walking into the kitchen, Canada found the usual plastic basin and placed it in the sink to fill with warm water. Surprised at the emptiness of the room—no stacks of dirty dishes lining the counter, no half-empty bottles of Coca-Cola strewn about the table, no pot of coffee sitting by the microwave—he frowned. Had his brother not eaten at all that day? He couldn't have been that busy, Canada knew. America of all people would have been certain to make time for food.
This was more serious than he had realized.
He hurried to fill the rest of the basin; then, once it was full of steaming but not scalding water, he ran to the bathroom and gathered up an armful of soft washcloths and soap. He poured the soap into the basin until the water was saturated with suds. Tucking the cloths under his arm, Canada hoisted the heavy basin and carried it upstairs to America's room.
He paused in front of his brother's door. It had been ten years now—a significant and, consequently, excruciating anniversary. He would be there for his brother no matter what, but… How bad was he, if he hadn't so much as eaten? Would he be suffering as much as he had the first time—or, worse, the first few days? Canada would have to take especially good care of his brother. His hands would have to be extra gentle, his voice even more soothing than usual.
He opened the door, expecting to find his brother in a catatonic state or in the middle of a feverish, restless sleep. America looked every bit as bad as his fellow nation had anticipated. His eyes only half-open, he slouched in bed with the covers (far more than he needs in this weather, Canada noticed) pulled up to his chest. He looked as if he could have passed out at any moment—and the dark circles underneath his dull blue eyes warned Canada that he probably would. His hair, horribly tousled, stuck out in every direction, as if he had put his finger in an electrical socket.
If he could, Canada would have traded places with his brother in a heartbeat. This ritual brought him as close to doing so as possible.
America's gaze flickered upward to meet his brother's. Without sitting up any straighter, he began to take his shirt off. Canada walked down the hall to the medicine cabinet. After selecting a few rolls of gauze and medical tape that he thought would work best, he returned to America's room, softly shut the door, and went to work.
Once he was at his brother's side, Canada gasped. Not because of the faded scar running down his abdomen. Not because his ribs had begun to protrude slightly. No. Canada knew that the Civil War scar rarely caused him pain, and America was still strong and muscular despite his economic problems. Those ailments were not responsible for reducing the proud nation to a damaged caricature of himself.
No, what had confined him to his bed and burdened his spirit was an open, festering wound on his chest not far from his heart. Blood ran down America's torso as Canada stared in shock and sympathy.
"Oh, Al…"
Canada's arsenal of medical supplies suddenly seemed inadequate. Very inadequate.
"Wait," he said. America looked down at his hands. His head sank further, his chin now touching his chest.
Canada returned to the medicine cabinet, his mind racing. Sure, the scar had re-opened every time, each anniversary. It had bled a little the first few times. But it had never looked as deep or as infected. The wound needed plenty of attention, Canada knew, and some antiseptic. No matter how thoroughly he searched the medicine cabinet, no matter how many bottles he overturned, he found nothing strong enough to clean the injury.
Why can't he keep anything useful in here? Canada thought. None of this is going to help do more than mask the pain or stop the bleeding.
Another idea struck him then, and he rushed to the bathroom and began searching any cabinet he could find. He had rummaged through all of them and was just about to give up when—there it was!
Canada grabbed the half-full bottle of hydrogen peroxide and grimaced.
It'll do. Definitely not ideal. I guess it's okay in a pinch like this. He rushed back to America's room. But…
America hadn't moved. Canada couldn't tell if he was even awake and breathing until he sat down on the bed next to his brother and placed a hand to his forehead.
Too hot.
Canada gestured to his brother to lie down, taking care to hide the dark brown bottle on the floor. America complied and slithered underneath the warm covers, which engulfed his entire body except for his bare torso. Canada slid one arm behind the other nation's shoulders and picked up the peroxide with his free hand. He couldn't delay any longer or somehow hide the remedy from his patient. At the sight of the bottle, America cringed. Canada grasped his hand without a word. Though weaker than usual, America's white-knuckled grip still hurt Canada's hand.
He'll make it through. He's always been strong enough.
Canada popped open the bottle. Slowly, he poured the clear liquid into America's wound. For a moment, nothing happened; then, America tightened his death grip on his brother's hand, smashing Canada's fingers together. The peroxide fizzed and bubbled as it made contact with America's oozing injury. Even as America clenched his teeth in pain and squeezed his eyes shut, Canada continued to rinse the scar. Almost there, he thought. A little more should be enough.
Finally, the last drops dribbled onto America's chest, fizzed for a second or two, and then disappeared into the runny mixture of blood, water, and clear pus that overflowed from the jagged edges of the wound and down America's body. Dipping a washcloth into the basin, Canada began mopping up the mess. America's grip relaxed as his brother soothed his aching muscles with experienced fingers that remembered every tender inch of skin and every painful scar, each sensitive pressure point and each ticklish spot.
Canada smiled as the frown faded from his brother's face. Once he had cleaned the blood from America's chest, he helped him sit up straight by grabbing his hands and supporting his shoulders. Canada rubbed a few circles into his back before returning his attention to the wound. He made a face at the red, inflamed skin and gingerly felt the agitated area. Still too warm, even in comparison with the rest of America's body. He knew he could do little more now that he had disinfected and rinsed the wound. America had always felt better in the morning, but then again, his condition had never been quite this serious. Canada supposed he could only hope for the best—but not until he had at least bandaged the injury.
America began to drift in and out of sleep under his brother's attentive care that neither missed nor overlooked any ailment and forgot no pain. His entire day had been filled with vivid nightmares and even more horrific memories than usual. The sight of his unwavering brother and the feel of his soft, cold hands, however, never failed to remind him that he had not been abandoned, had not been cast aside to suffer alone. Instead of fire and screams and questions, he thought of snow and whispers and answers; of peace and forgiveness and love, not war and anger and hatred. Only his brother could soothe the madness gripping his mind. Canada may have been quiet and wordless while caring for America, but his healing actions spoke louder than any jet screaming overhead.
Canada searched his medical trove until he found a thick roll of gauze and tore off two large pieces. With the quick, calculated skill of a seasoned military medic, he placed them over America's wound while tearing off several long strips of medical tape. One hand securing the already-moist gauze, he wrapped the tape around his brother's chest. Then, after scrutinizing his handiwork to make sure the bandage was neither too tight nor too lose, Canada returned the supplies to his pile on the nightstand and pushed them aside.
Time to tend to the better-hidden—and, thus, more insidious—damage.
After helping America to lie down again, Canada soaked a fresh washcloth in the basin, wrung out the excess water, and began stroking America's forehead. While humming a lullaby England used to croon to them when they were children—neither brother could remember the words, only the comforting, lilting melody that had dried many a tear and driven away any nightmare—he wiped the sweat off the other nation's brow and cheeks with slow, circular motions. By the time he had finished cleaning his neck, America had fallen asleep, his mind empty and his sleep dreamless but peaceful. Canada chuckled (didn't his brother normally wait to fall asleep until he had crawled into bed beside him?) but said nothing. Careful not to disturb America, he rose from the bed and gathered everything but the basin in his arms and left to put the supplies in the cabinet and the cloths in the laundry. Once his brother had left the room, America awoke and, dazed, glanced around the room a few times in search of his caretaker. Slowly, his mind now encumbered by both his sudden awakening and his relentless fever, America sat up. Where had his brother gone? It was already morning, wasn't it? Canada had always spent the entire night, but now there was no trace of him…
A moment later, Canada returned, though America thought an eternity had passed. America gave his brother a funny look; in response, Canada shrugged and handed America his shirt. Once he was dressed again, he moved to the other side of the bed to make room for his brother to sit beside him, as always. Canada shut the door, turned off the light, and took his place next to his brother. As was their tradition, America placed his head on his brother's lap and closed his eyes when he felt the other nation's fingers combing through his hair, smoothing every strand into place and working through each tangle.
When America began to snore (he's as loud as ever—thank goodness), Canada removed his brother's glasses and placed them on the nightstand beside a bottle of acetaminophen he had brought in case America awoke ill and in pain.
With a sigh of relief and exhaustion, Canada pulled the blankets around his brother and himself. When they awoke, it would be the twelfth. If America's scar healed as well as it always had, the nightmare would be over for another year. And then, next anniversary, Canada would be there to comfort his brother and protect him from his memories, from his injuries, from his fears. When they awoke, neither brother would speak of that night, nor of any other anniversary nights, nor of their vigil at all. Canada would get up first (America deserved to sleep in after such an awful day) and make as many stacks of pancakes as he could with the supplies in America's kitchen. After breakfast, Canada would return home—but not without enveloping his brother in a tight hug, as if to say, "You're welcome. And I'm always here. Don't try to shoulder this alone."
They were brothers, after all.
I struggled to post this in time, but I made it! 7/7/14 is my five year FF anniversary. (:
I'm not one for big personal dedications, but here goes:
To the people who welcomed me into their country this time more than 10 years ago, when I was a little girl leaving behind the only city she knew. To the neighbors who surrounded my family on 9/11 and held us close. To the classmates who took my hand and asked if I was okay, even though they didn't know what was going on, either. To the adults who laughed at my "Southern" accent. To the friends who caused me to speak a weird mix of American and Canadian English and gave me a strange accent that comes out whenever I sing. To the people who make me proud to say I grew up in Canada:
Thank you.
Our countries, our people, are truly more than friends. We are brothers.
To all my Canadian readers: this one's for you.
The next theme is "Outsides" and will feature France and Canada.