CHAPTER SEVEN: Canada and America's Troublesome Relationship

Adolescence plowed into Canada and America like a book to the face, putting all sorts of weird ideas about their own superiority and invincibility in their heads. Canada was able to successfully keep his delusions of grandeur under wraps, but America had no such skills and was fast becoming impressed with himself. Equally quickly, Canada was finding many of his brother's quirks to be tiresome. "Must you be so loud? I'm trying to study, eh?" The northern country glared at his twin, who was humming to himself loudly as he swept the floor.

"Sorry, dude. Just gracing the room with some sweet tunes!" Smiling, he hummed almost silently, which placated Canada, though he still caught snippets of song every now and again. After he was finished with the housework, America bounded up to his brother and clapped him on the back, causing him to spit out the mouthful of tea he'd just imbibed. "It's so gorgeous outside…what do you say we play some ball?"

"Ball?" Canada wiped up the tea with a washcloth, irritated. The tea had soaked into the pages of the novel he was deep into.

"Yeah! I'm tired of being stuck in the house."

Canada looked wistfully at his book, then at his brother's excited face, and sighed internally. I guess an hour of exercise would do me good after all. "S-sure," he agreed. America whooped and ran to get the equipment he'd recently bought from nearby villagers.

The pair moved outside into the sunshine. America presented his brother with a glove, made of a soft, supple leather. "Here. I had them make you one as well." The northern nation took it, touched by his brother's generosity, and turned it over in his hands to admire the fine needlework. "It's a glove for playing ball," America explained, pulling his own on. "I found that sometimes the ball hurts your hand when you catch it, or sometimes your hand gets sweaty and you lose grip of the ball. This glove, even thought it's only a prototype, helps with both of those problems."

"You really put thought into this thing, eh? I'm impressed."

America beamed. "Yeah! And it cost less to get two made, so you totally don't have to pay me back for it."

"Oh." Canada's flattered expression dropped and he looked far less favorably at his new glove. His change in countenance did not deter America from jogging backward and calling out a warning before launching a ball through the air. Canada hadn't the time to prepare and had only time to look around, panicked, before he was struck on the shoulder by the ball. "OW!" He yelled, clutching the stinging skin. "Hey! I wasn't ready yet!"

"Well, get ready faster! Throw the ball back!" Canada glared towards the place where America stood. He threw the ball back and watched as his brother caught it with ease. "Dude, you throw so weakly."

Canada opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by the ball striking his other shoulder. "Ouch! Alfred! Stop throwing the ball so hard! And wait until I'm ready!" He threw the ball back again.

"Alright, ya pansy, are you ready now?"

Glove raised, Canada nodded. "Yes." He readied himself and gritted his teeth. The ball whistled through the air. He positioned his glove, but it was to no avail. The ball slammed into his stomach. "Dammit…Alfred…" he wheezed, doubling over and dropping his glove. That hurt! Slowly he straightened, anger growing as the pain faded. He picked up the ball again, tossed it up and down a few times, then chucked it as hard as he could at America's head.

"Heh-hey!" America cheered. "You're getting the hang of it!" He raised his own glove and caught the ball easily right before it connected with his temple. Canada stared, panting, then threw down his glove and stalked back into the house. "Where are you going, bro?" America called after him. "Alright, that's cool! I'll stay here and keep practicing!"

The only reply was the slamming of the front door.

oOoOo

Such events were not uncommon in those days. America had discovered with glee his athletic prowess and happily challenged his brother to all sorts of races involving running, swimming, rock climbing, and other physical activities. Canada, being more delicate of limb and quieter of spirit, was systematically overpowered in every athletic match imaginable except skating and finding discreet hiding places. Years of spying with France had taught him how to divine excellent locations and methods of concealment.

As was the case with playing ball, Canada quickly grew disenchanted with the idea of competing with his twin in anything athletic and instead focused on comforting, homey pursuits like reading, gardening, and cooking. Kumajirou was forever a willing taster of any and all new recipes Canada tried. America, on the other hand, had no sense of taste, thanks to England, and was an unreliable judge.

Just when Canada was beginning to suspect that there was truly nothing useful at all about his brother, America surprised him. The quieter country had gone out for a walk one night when he came across an unfamiliar presence. A tanned, tall man with dark curly hair was sneaking through the woods, taking notes on his surroundings. He stopped when he saw Canada, wonder in his eyes. "Hola. Are you a country too, amigo? I didn't realize there were two of you."

By "two of you," Canada figured he was talking about his brother. "Oh, do you know Alfred?"

"You could say that." The man looked Canada up and down. Something in the new country's air made Canada uncomfortable. Knowing that America was nearby, he backed up, intending to head back to the house. "Oi, where are you going?" The strange man leaned against a tree. "Why don't you come back to my house? We could get to know each other."

Canada swallowed hard and turned away. "I'd really rather not," he explained weakly.

The man grabbed his arm roughly, stopping him. "Oh, come on! You're a cutie! I bet even Romano would like you! Look, your face turns tomato-red too! Come live at my house!" He pulled harder, dragging Canada with him.

"N-no, let me go," Canada cried, vainly tugging at his trapped arm. "S-stop!"

"Inglés won't miss you. Come with me."

"I don't belong to England…I belong to France….please stop!"

"You don't belong to Fránces anymore. I heard you were Inglés's colony now," the man explained, a little confused. "But you're going to be mine soon, so it really doesn't matter."

Sticks and dead leaves cracked and crunched below their feet as Canada strained to free himself. He was becoming more and more panicked as confusion and desperation set in. "W-what? That's not true! ALFRED!" He yelled, twisting around. "ALFRED!"

The dark man chuckled. "I can't wait to see Inglés's face tomorrow. I haven't messed this badly with him since we were pirates." He jerked Canada's arm, almost causing the teen to fall over. "He can't hear you, querido. You might as well stop yelling."

America had, however, heard the cries for help and presently came barreling through the underbrush. "MATT!" He spotted his distressed twin and doubled his pace. "What the…Spain! Let go of my brother!"

Spain stopped, assessed his new foe, and continued on his way. "No."

America pulled from a rucksack the musket England had given him, and pointed the weapon at Spain's head. "Let. Him. Go."

Again, Spain halted. The appearance of the gun was unexpected and his eyes did not leave the weapon as he dropped his victim's arm. "Okay. I'm leaving. Don't do anything hasty." America motioned with the barrel and Spain obligingly backed away. Breathing hard, Canada stepped behind his brother.

America refused to lower his gun until Spain had completely disappeared, at which point he sighed and relaxed. "You know, I should really learn to actually shoot this thing," he remarked, dropping the gun back into his bag.

"Y-you didn't know how to…?" Canada clutched a tree for support, feeling weak again.

"Naw. I've never learned," replied America. "Come on. I'll take you back home." He shouldered his pack and, with a last look towards where Spain had disappeared, turned and walked away.

Canada followed slowly at first, but heard a sound in the woods and so hurried to catch up to his brother. The two walked together silently. "Th-thanks back there, Alfred," Canada offered after a while. "I wasn't sure if you were going to come." He chuckled softly, nervously, torn between gratefulness and anger at his twin's lack of preparedness.

"That's stupid." America had been puzzling over where might be a good place to learn to shoot his gun, but now frowned at his brother instead. "I'll always be there for you." Privately annoyed that his train of thought had been interrupted, he restarted his mental search of the surrounding grounds.

Canada brushed his soft hair out of his eyes and straightened his clothes, which had become mussed during the struggle. He had become suddenly self-conscious and was eager to appear as composed as possible. "I should be able to defend myself," he admitted, guilty.

The southern nation abandoned his thoughts again and laughed. "Come on, Mattie. We both know that's not going to happen." Canada tried to protest, but was guffawed into red-faced humility. "You're not a fighter. I decided a long time ago that I was going to protect you. And that's okay." He added the last part hastily, looking sidelong at his brother to make sure he hadn't made things worse.

The Canadian's expression was unreadable. He stared ahead, brows knit and lips pressed together. Finally, to America's relief, he shrugged. "I-I guess you're right. And…I guess I don't mind that so much." He looked over at his sibling's smiling face and thought back to the days when he would have taken his hand and been comforted by his closeness. Somehow, now, that door seemed shut. They were too old for such things. But to just walk with you is nice, too, he thought, putting his hands in his pockets.

oOoOo

It wasn't until the next morning that Canada remembered what Spain had said. "Alfred, I was thinking…what was Spain talking about last night when he said that I was England's colony?" The thought had come to him right as he had woken up, and he hurried to wake his brother and hear the truth. "He was talking nonsense, right? Alfred?"

America stirred sleepily and tugged at his covers, pulling them down from his face. "What's that?" Slowly he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and scratched his neck.

"Spain. Last night. He…he said that I was England's colony. I just…I wanted to know what he was talking about." Canada wasn't expecting America's back to stiffen and his eyes to harden, but they did. Fear crept up his back as he noted the shadow that seemed to fall over his brother. "Alfred?"

"He was right, Matt," America replied, not looking at him. "The villages got news two days ago. You've been signed as Arthur's new colony." He laid back down and surrounded himself with blankets again, staring at the wall.

"W-what?" Canada was aghast. "But…what about Francis? Why? Didn't he…did he not…did I do something wrong?" He gripped the post of America's bed tightly, physically shaken.

America turned his head and noticed his brother's distress. "What?"

"It's just…I mean…did he…get tired of me? Was I…a bad little brother?"

"No, no, Matt, listen," America was sitting up again, reaching for his twin. "It wasn't like that at all. Really. Arthur decided he wanted you too…there was a fight and everything; it's not your fault."

Canada's eyes widened even more. "Is Francis hurt?"

"No, I don't think so."

"How did England win, then?"

"I…" America wasn't sure what to say, so he told the truth. "I heard France surrendered your territory when threatened by Arthur."

"Oh." Canada released the bed post. "Is that so."

America bit his lip, uncomfortable. "That's what I heard." His brother was silent. "But…look…it's not that bad…it just means the relationships with our lands can be even closer. It'll be fun, right?"

Canada smiled limply and nodded. "Oh, yes, that's…" He took a deep breath and released it. "Nothing's really changed! I was just surprised, is all. I'm glad I found out! Thanks for telling me, I'm glad I can count on you! Oh, and I'm sorry for waking you…that was not very thoughtful of me…"

"It's fine, bro. I'll just go back to sleep."

"Good!" Canada patted America's covered feet, then left, closing the door behind himself and leaving America to his own thoughts.

America flopped back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling. He hadn't mentioned the whole deal to his brother before now because, though he wouldn't admit it himself, he had thought that he could ignore it into nonexistence. So England hadn't visited him for years and then suddenly adopted a new little brother. So what? That didn't mean anything.

Except it did. It meant that he had been replaced.

Canada caught him later that day, shooting teacups off a fence with his musket, which he had finally learned to fire. He recognized the victimized china; it was England's favorite design from his favorite company. America had, up until now, kept them safe in a special cabinet and had polished them every month, only bringing them out for holidays. Canada winced as another shot rang out and a shining cup was blasted into painted shards. Choosing to remain silent, he took a seat and watched the destruction.

Eventually America realized that Canada was behind him and turned, shame-faced, to greet him. He waited for his brother to speak up and question him, judge him, and became nervous when it did not happen. "I got tired of this stupid dishware," he explained almost angrily, feeling unreasonably nettled. "I needed something to practice my marksmanship with."

"Alright," Canada agreed mildly.

His refusal to comment on the proceedings infuriated America. "Don't just sit there and stare at me! Just because Arthur liked these dumb cups doesn't mean I did! And he left them here! I have every right to use them in any way I want to!" Canada simply blinked and leaned his head in his hand. America scowled harder. "What? What's the matter with you?"

"Why are you angry? I haven't even said anything."

"I'm not angry! I just want you to stop looking at me like I'm doing something wrong! They're just teacups!" They weren't just teacups. They were England, little pieces of England that stood in the cabinet and taunted America every time he looked at them. "I don't care that he liked them." He turned and shot again, shattering yet another cup.

"Are you hurt that England adopted me?" Canada asked softly.

America's heart flopped unpleasantly. "No, of course not. It doesn't matter to me; you're my brother anyway. Don't say weird things like that." He reloaded his gun and aimed it.

"Do you love England?"

"Yeah," America growled, closing one eye so as to aim more accurately. "he's my big brother."

Canada stirred, restless. "Do you really love him like that?"

"Huh?" America lowered his gun and ogled his brother, face scrunched up.

"I mean…are you sure you love him like a brother?"

Such a question had never entered America's mind and he found it oddly disquieting. "O-of course I do. What are you saying?"

To be honest, Canada wasn't sure what he was saying. The thought had come to him, after his morning talk with America, that something was strange about the way he felt when he thought about France. All the times they had spent together, the mornings, the evenings, the letters and the visits…these memories comforted him, made him feel safe and alive…made him miss France. He thought about all the things he liked about France. His talent. His energy. His philosophy about life. His voice, his laughter, his presence.

His body. His body was beautiful. Canada envied it, admired it. He thought…about touching it. He knew what France's skin felt like…it was soft, warm, and firm. His arms were, anyway. What did…his face feel like? His hands? The skin hidden under his shirt, the skin that only appeared when he emerged from a steaming tub, wrapped from the waist down in towels?

His own thoughts scared him and he wanted to know that he wasn't a freak, that there wasn't anything wrong with him, that these thoughts were normal and he shouldn't feel ashamed. He had never felt this way about America. Never. America was his brother and, though he loved him with his whole heart, it was completely different from his relationship with France. All this, swirling in his head, is why he pressed America so hard for an answer. "Do you think it's possible that you love him…like a man?"

America twitched and stared, horrified, at Canada, his gun almost falling from his hands. "God! No! I…no! That's revolting! I…god, Matt, he's my brother!"

Canada stood up, approaching America, who looked terrified at his coming nearer. "So…you can honestly say…you feel the same way about England that you feel about me? The same exact way?"

The two breathed hard, looking each other hard in the eyes. America's eyes widened and he resisted the temptation to take a step back from the pleading truth in Canada's face. Everything was a blur; he couldn't remember how they had started talking about this. "Y-yes, I feel the same about both of you." America mumbled, numb.

But it was a lie and suddenly, horrifyingly, he knew it.

oOoOo

I apologize for taking so long! It's so hard to find quality time to write at uni! I hope this chapter makes up for it.