The world didn't fade into focus that morning so much as it rammed America in the face. One moment he was minding his own business, content to lounge in the warm indent he had made in the bed, and the next the alarm clock was shrieking like a banshee. His hand automatically shot out from under the sheets and slapped in the general direction of the noise. The alarm stopped its shrill call at roughly the same time it went crashing to the floor. America considered that a success.
America's hands retreated to the toasty confines of the sheet before snaking out like tendrils, looking for something to wrap around. Mainly Russia. But there was nothing to be found except for another body-shaped indent, not nearly as warm as America's. America burbled his displeasure sleepily and sat up, his body nearly folding in on itself as every nerve screamed for more sleep.
"I would never have taken you for a late riser," came Russia's voice, cutting through the drowsy haze of America's mind.
America forced his eyes open, rubbed at them, and burbled again when he found that to be no solution to his blurred vision. "Glasses," he croaked, holding out his hand expectantly. Their familiar weight was pressed into his palm. The features of the room sharpened when he put them on, and he saw Russian standing at his bedside.
"Good morning," Russia said, leaning in for a quick kiss. His breath had the fresh smell of mint lingering on it.
"I bet you've been up since the crack of dawn," America said around a yawn.
"Even earlier."
"You're a machine."
Russia laughed sweetly and let his breath tickle against America's cheek. America smiled and gave a full-bodied stretch. The chilly air of the room was bringing him back around, fending off the groggy edges of his mind.
And then he remembered what day it was and what was to come. He nearly sprung out of bed at the thought.
"What time is it?" he hissed. "Are we gonna be late? Man, I bet we will be. And it'll be my fault, I swear." He swung his legs over the bed, sliding to his feet. His hands went to rub at his eyes a second time.
"It is eight, we are not going to be late, and because we will not be late it cannot be your fault."
"When should we head out?"
"Half-past nine."
"Oh. Good." America's muscles relaxed, his nerves unwinding. "I will, uh, take a shower. Or something." America never had been good from going from dramatic to calm in all of five seconds. There was always an awkward gap that squeezed its way between the two.
"A wise choice," Russia said. Judging from the dampness of his own hair, America figured he'd had a very similar idea not too long ago.
America slunk off in a hurry to the bathroom, taking half the bed sheets with him to battle against the morning chill of the room. He dropped them outside the bathroom and crept in. The room already carried a humid heat, the mirror and solitary window clouded with steam. "Good Morning" had been written on the mirror. America drew a heart under it before taking his hand and buffing away the majority of the fog.
America turned the faucets of the shower on, taking his time to dress down as he waited for the water to heat. He stepped into the tub when the mirror had started to fog again, a smile curling along his lips as he was greeted by a pleasant spray of water, his body giving a happy shiver in response.
As he stood under the shower head, enjoying the rivulets that ran across his skin, America thought about the future. That was the kind of thing he did in the shower. The best ideas and plans came together while he scrubbed his hair or was falling asleep. It was the way things worked in his world.
Somewhere between shampooing and conditioning (all while taking great care not to touch the sore spot on his scalp), America got to thinking about the future. Also, zombies. To America, the two were intertwined. He imaged a zombie apocalypse, and those he could spend it with.
Russia would be good at fighting zombies. He had that fire in him, not to mention he was built like a tank. A really handsome tank that America liked to kiss and touch. He'd already proven again and again to have a talent for violence of a near indiscriminate sort. It wasn't the best kind, but Russia would certainly see the zombie apocalypse through.
But say America went back to the life he lived before, well, he'd be lucky if anyone would so much as look at him. Canada might help him out when the zombies attacked, but beyond the almost frightening amount of skill he had with an axe, he kind of seemed like a softie.
England would try to use magic. His useless, no good magic that wasn't actually magic. No amount of wand-waving and funny-colored 'potions' proved anything beyond the fact that England had a fanciful imagination. The single instance of magic America had ever witnessed from him was how he could make any kind of alcohol vanish, but America knew where it went.
Yet there was that one time, when America was still knee-high to a butter bean and England had pretended to steal his nose. Except there wasn't much pretending because one second America was quite in control of his nose and then the next it was located in England's hand.
To relieve the trauma of the event, America chalked it up to a fever dream.
A knocking at the door brought America round from his thoughts of magic and noses and the upcoming, undead-inspired Armageddon.
"What is it?" he sing-songed.
The door cracked open a fraction of an inch.
"I do not mean to be rude, but you seem to be taking quite some time to bathe," came Russia's voice, inquisitive and light.
"Oh, yeah. Sorry 'bout that. Just thinking about zombies."
There was a deafening silence, broken only by the words, "I see."
The door closed, America blushed, and conditioner got in his eyes. America quickly finished scrubbing himself down. He was all too aware of how little thinking he'd gotten done while washing up. The single concrete thing he'd settled upon was that Russia would be a good zombie-fighter. Technically, that made him the safest to stick with, too.
America twisted the shower knobs and stepped out of the shower, dripping water onto the bathroom mat. He pulled a fluffy towel from the rack and set to drying himself off. He tried not to dwell on Russia's reaction to what he'd been thinking about. It hadn't necessarily been a negative one, but it hadn't been positive either. Depressingly neutral, America decided.
With a towel proudly wrapped around his waist, America strutted back into the main room. The armoire that had previously hidden a TV had its doors open, and Russia looked away from the screen to glance at America. There was a remote dangling in one hand, and he used it to gesture at the TV.
America gave the glowing screen his full attention. The scene was reminiscent of a nuclear wasteland, downed power lines on every street, each building a rusty red. There was some moving─ no, shambling─ down the middle of a cracked road. It moaned, and America's heart soared.
"Is this a zombie movie?" he asked excitedly.
Russia hummed warmly in answer, and America had to suppress the squeal that threatened to leave him. "Best. Morning. Ever." America grinned and clapped and danced on the balls of his feet. He was nice and clean, a zombie flick was on, and the room smelled like coffee.
He stopped dancing and gave the air a tentative sniff. "You smell that?"
"I thought you might like breakfast once you were out of the shower."
America's head swiveled with the speed and precision of an owl's, his body turning belatedly to follow. The beds had been separated, returned to their original positions. The night stands and lamps were the same. Everything was as it had been, save for a missing alarm clock and the appearance of two cups of coffee along with a few pastries.
"For me?" America said. "You shouldn't have." He padded over and grabbed a cup of coffee, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath in. "You're the best, big guy."
"The best what?" Russia prompted, making his way to America's side. He idly picked up a pastry and nibbled on it. His stomach growled appreciatively.
"The best everything, of course."
Strictly speaking, America almost never ate before meetings. His stomach was usually too twisted and knotted to make much sense of food. It was only during lunch break, when his senses had calmed and whatever jabs that were going to be made had been said, did he feel well enough to eat.
But for Russia, America could manage a bite or two. He had no qualms with gulping down the coffee though, and made quick work of his cup. When he caught Russia watching him out of the corner of his eye, America shyly smiled against the mouth of his coffee.
"Sorry," he said, "couldn't help myself."
Russia smiled kindly. "Both cups are for you."
"You are officially beyond the best. F'real."
America sighed happily as he tossed the first cup in the miniature bin in the corner. He took a bite out of a croissant, chewing thoughtfully.
"Does this make you happy?" Russia said after a quiet moment. He gestured to the coffee, the food, and then the TV.
"Huh?" America followed Russia's hands as they moved. "No duh this stuff makes me happy. I mean, it wouldn't be half as fun if I didn't have someone to share it with─" He winked at Russia. "But yeah, I like it lots."
A silent relief shone in Russia's eyes, and America liked the look of it, so he went on.
"We should do this all the time, y'know? Watch some scary movies, get all cuddly under the blankets, and munch on some popcorn."
Russia nodded. America grinned. He had to keep Russia thinking that he wasn't going to bail on him, that being able to see England and Canada and everyone else wouldn't change a thing between them. If Russia thought otherwise, he might have a few tricks up his sleeve to keep America in the hotel room. And America wasn't going to let that happen. He laid it on thick.
"Shoot, we could sit and watch paint dry and I'd still be happy. I'd be happy because I was with you." America gave Russia's chest a friendly prod.
"Ah, America, you are truly too kind to me." Russia scuffed a bare foot against the floor, and America watched it with all the intensity of a hawk. "But we must really get ready to go soon."
Hook, line, sinker.
"I'll be good to go in a jiffy," America chirped. "I'll dry my hair, and─ and put some clothes on." America put his hands on his towel, checked to make sure it was still firmly wrapped about him.
Russia looked down at himself, his state of dress only marginally better than America's. "That would be wise."
America set his drink down and scurried off to the bathroom, but when he went to shut the door with a flick of his wrist, he found it resisted him. He looked over his shoulder to find that Russia had wedged himself between the door and the frame.
"I need to dry my hair," was Russia's excuse.
"Well so do I," America countered, backing up against the counter as Russia squeezed past him. It was a tight fit, and America found himself nearly sitting in the sink to make it work. He was pretty sure there was more than enough room for the Russia to get by him, but Russia seemed intent on acting as though they were stuck in a shoe box.
Stupid Russia, with his broad shoulders and wide chest taking up most of America's view. He was strong and sturdy, with a frame that invoked feelings of both safety and intimidation. It kind of made America's blood leap and shiver all at once. Stupid Russia indeed. Being all hunky and what have you. People like Russia weren't supposed to be dreamboats, but the world was a confusing place.
A hot blast of air and the roar of the hair dryer hit America in the face, and he squawked in response.
"Are you thinking about zombies again?" Russia asked.
"I─ Yes. That is exactly what I am thinking about," America said quickly
"I did not know one could blush while thinking about zombies," Russia teased.
America folded his arms across his chest, which was quite a feat with how Russia had pressed up against him. "I wasn't blushing. I was getting worked up." America ducked his head against the hot air and let Russia fluff his hair.
What the heck was this, the Shoe Box Salon? But for all his flustered feelings, America had to admit it was nice. He'd always liked being pampered, and Russia had a knack for that sort of thing. He always made it seem like America was the only one in the world, the single person he cared anything for.
America stayed unusually still as he let Russia dry his hair, his thoughts muddled and lazy as he enjoyed the attention. By the end of the sessions his hair was dry and well-managed, tamed by Russia's hand and the blow dryer. Heck, Russia hadn't even bothered to blow-dry his own hair in the end and it looked stupendous. All sleek and shiny and totally touchable.
America touched it. Russia made a loving noise in the back of his throat, one that made America's heart ache with a delightful pain. He wrapped his arms around Russia's neck, his nose nuzzling against the crook.
"This is gonna be awesome," America said. "I just know it."
If America had known how completely un-awesome the coming day would prove, he would have dived right back under the covers.
The short walk to the conference building was uneventful, the weather was agreeable, and America had to admit he looked stellar. Maybe not as stellar as Russia, what with his pinstripe suit with its fancy double-breasts and smart leather shoes, but America was sure Russia used some sort of Russian gypsy magic (which was possibly real, unlike England's magic) to look so good. It was the sole explanation he could come up with.
But Russia's good looks did nothing to calm America's nerves as they loitered in the lobby. The jolt of cold excitement that had shot down America's spine the moment he stepped through the revolving glass door had decided to crawl into his chest, lodging itself next to his heart.
Seeing everyone again wasn't going to be fun. He knew their eyes would be on him, vigilant and cold, trying to figure him out before he so much as opened his mouth to speak. They'd circle him like vultures, pecking and snapping to get whatever information they could, stripping him to the bone in minutes, harping on him for more.
It made his stomach a bit queasy thinking about it, made his lips tingle with a certain numbness he couldn't shake. The instant he heard the door swinging again, it rattled against the back of his throat, and his limbs gave an involuntary jerk. His eyes snapped to the door in time to see China emerging from them.
America's blood froze, and he stared openly.
China, with his jet black hair pulled back into a ponytail as slick as his suit, noticed him immediately. Their eyes locked as China walked by, not the slightest stumble in his step. America's automatic smile kicked in, thin and forced but trying.
China didn't smile back. Not that it bothered America. China never smiled at anything unless it was cute, tiny, or regarded cooking. Mainly cooking Chinese food, at that. But the way he looked at America did bother him. It slid up and down his body, raking across him. It was flat and impersonal, and it made America shudder all over.
Russia's arm slipped around America's waist as China looked away, striding towards the endless corridor flanked with doors. America was all too happy to huddle up against Russia, corralling them both into a cramped space that existed between an aquarium and a fake plant.
"Okay," America said. "One down." A bazillion more to go. He leaned against Russia for support. "Are we─ are we supposed to hide this?" He gestured to the arm Russia had around him.
"China is not stupid, but neither does he gossip."
"You don't think he'll tell anyone he saw us together?"
"As I said, he does not gossip."
"Fine, but how are we supposed to do this? I don't have a clue. Are we supposed to go in together? Or should I wait a few minutes? What if they don't let me in?" The dread building in America's throat made it hard to speak, but he rattled out his questions nonetheless.
"Shh," Russia soothed, running a hand along America's back in calm, even strokes. "Be yourself. That is all you need to do."
America balked. He wasn't even sure who he was anymore, hadn't been sure ever since he decided to stay with Russia. He'd gone from something free-spirited and wily to something that preferred to curl up under the covers with Russia, or hold Russia's hand, or simply be near Russia.
It was all about Russia these days.
But sitting in that meeting room, his knees tucked under the desk as his toes wriggled and his hands wrung, would not be about Russia. It would be about America. America and everyone else in the room, which was bound to be too many.
He'd be the center of attention, and not at all in the way he'd always liked. That wasn't going to work for him. At all. Why rock the boat now when he was more than content to stay at Russia's side? Never mind his promise to England to show up. England had broken lots of promises, so it'd be like karma.
All he had to do was get Russia on his side.
"Russia," America said, "what say we blow this popsicle stand?"
Russia's reaction was minimal at best, nothing but a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "Do you not feel this will be as 'awesome' as you hoped?"
"Basically, yeah. I mean, c'mon. I haven't seen anyone in forever and things are all hunky-dory. It's not like people don't tend to skip out on occasion."
"'Skipping out' several months in a row can cause concern."
Russia wasn't buying it. America decided to press harder. He quickly calculated the different things Russia liked, or wanted. There wasn't much to go on; he was a man of simple needs and pleasures. Needs and pleasures. That was where he could pin Russia down.
America took a deep breath, help it as he counted to ten, and exhaled slowly. He steeled his nerves and clenched his fists. Desperate times called for desperate measures. "Hey, Russia?" he said.
"Yes, America?"
"We could go back to the hotel room." America pressed his body flush against Russia's. He tried to concentrate on Russia, his strong build and welcoming form, and pretty much anything that was not related to what he was about to do. "Think about it. Just the two of us, warm and snuggly and alone─" He let his hand drift along Russia's chest, picking impishly at a button. "Maybe even have a bit of fun."
Russia went stiff, and not in the way that America was hoping.
"America," Russia said, "that is not how 'fun' works." His hand went to rest against America's forehead, checking for a temperature. He sighed when he found no hint of fever.
America looked up to see Russia's expression, a mix of weariness and something that bordered on disappointment. America shied away. "I─ I'm sorry," he said. "That was dumb. I didn't really even mean it. I don't─ I mean─"
America's lips kept moving, but the words stopped coming. His eyes locked onto his shoes. When he felt Russia's fingers under his chin, carefully trying to tilt his chin up, he grudgingly allowed it. He avoided looking at Russia's eyes as much as he could. They were round and deep and sad. America was sure that last part was his fault.
"America, look at me."
America made a disgruntled noise.
"Please."
America stared at the spot between Russia's eyes.
"Would you like to go back to the hotel?"
"Yeah."
"Then that is all you need to say." Russia pulled America into a hug, planting a kiss atop his head before whispering into his hair, "There is no need to bribe me. But─" He drew back and gave America's hair a single stoke. "─we will need to discuss having 'fun'."
America blanched. Was Russia saying they were going to have a talk about the birds and the bees? It was weird enough when he'd gotten one from England. The worst part of it all being that he'd already been told how it all worked, both from young friends and local drunks, but it wasn't as though he could tell England to wrap up his stammering speech because it was too late.
And America was over two-hundred years old. You wouldn't give a sex talk to some old geezer in a retirement home, so why should America have to suffer through one? But there was that uncertain ground regarding his relationship with Russia. He wouldn't mind getting that all settled and smoothed out. He was quite sure he wanted more, but it was hard to weasel that past the guilt of such an idea, let alone let such a request slip past his lips.
"Okay," America said, leaning heavily into Russia. "That sounds good to me."
Russia's grip went from tender to tight at the sound of a throat being cleared behind them. America jumped, hunched his shoulders with a surprised tension, and let out a startled noise. He wriggled slightly in Russia's arms, trying to see who had interrupted them.
He caught the flash of morning light off glasses, the pretty, coy smile he'd never been able to master. The one that Canada was terribly, terribly talented at. The one he pulled whenever he was interrupting something he shouldn't, and needed a front to pull it off.
"Hey, bro," America said.
"Ah, Canada, such a pleasure to see you," Russia said. The harmonics of his voice indicated the complete opposite.
"Good to see you two. If it wouldn't be too much, would you mind if I had a word with America?" Canada asked, with that false meekness he had perfected over the years. America had the puppy-dog eyes. Canada had the puppy-dog voice.
The first thing America realised was that Canada didn't want 'a word' with him. He wanted a full-blown session of words. Enough words to fill a hundred encyclopedias. In other words, a lot of words. The moment he was within arm's reach of Canada, there'd be the usual assurance that Russia shouldn't wait up, to move along for a bit.
Returning to the hotel room wasn't going to happen. Not with Canada in the picture now. Canada's 'word' with America would turn into a short stroll, which in turn would become a drink, which would metamorphose into a meal. He was tricky like that. Always one for subtleties, Canada was the one who lured people into situations, whereas America would simply hound on them (with a smile, of course) until they gave in. America suspected Canada might be the evil twin. Just not super-evil.
Evil or not, Canada was definitely not going to be cool with Russia hanging around while he talked to America. But having walked in on Russia and America holding onto one another, he was sure to have his suspicions. If America was going to have to part with Russia, he was going to do it with pizazz, make a show of it that neither of them would expect.
"That's fine," America said sweetly, turning back to Russia. "I'm gonna run off with Canada for a bit. But remember," he added, when he saw the concerned flash in Russia's eyes. "That I love you lots."
It was Russia's turn to give a jump. America grinned.
"And that's the truth of it. I love you more than infinity." He attacked Russia with kisses, peppering them on his cheeks, forehead, and lips.
It felt good to get the words out. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting on them, but it'd taken Poland's insistence to make him confront the fact. He was ready to embrace it now, let the whole world know.
Well, except for England. He could stay in the dark.
Russia's fingers traced along America's jaw, the pads soft and caring as they moved. They rose to touch America's lips, lovingly tracing their outline. Russia's smile, while small and shy, was so warm it could melt icebergs. America scolded himself inwardly at the comparison. He was getting so sappy these days. Love was doing him in.
"I love you too," Russia said. He leaned in, letting their foreheads touch. "I love you too," he said again, softer this time.
America gave Russia one last kiss. "I'll see you at lunch, okay?"
Russia's appearance was not one of agreement, but reluctant acceptance. "Remember, America," he said softly. "You will always be mine. No one can ever change that."
America's cheeks colored, and he felt the warm rush of blood through his veins. He smiled crookedly, a goofy twist of his lips and flash of white teeth. He was being charmed like a snake and didn't mind one bit.
"I'll keep that in mind, big guy," America said as he pulled away, taking a moment to straighten Russia's lapels, a last grab for contact before Canada's hands were gently guiding him away.
They spoke only when they were out of the building, the streets full of bustling people, a cacophony of noises and an avalanche of smell. The sky was clear and bright, the sun beating down on them with stark rays. America sighed and looked at Canada out of the corner of his eye, and found Canada was doing the same.
"Knowing you like I do," Canada started.
"And you do," America added.
"You haven't eaten breakfast yet."
Canada knew him too well, America thought wryly. "Actually, I shook things up this morning. Had a donut and everything─"
He couldn't get any further than that, not with how Canada's arms were suddenly around him, his entire weight resting on America and bogging him down. It'd been so long since anyone but Russia had hugged him it took America a moment to figure out exactly what was going on.
America imagined Canada's hugs were exactly like the kind he used to give himself at night back when he had no one to come home to. America had grown foreign to the sensation, and found his arms were awkward and gangly when he tried to return it.
"I miss you," Canada said, his voice a mumble.
"C'mon, bro, I miss you too. But chill out, it's not like this is the last time you'll see me."
"It's not?"
America's heart broke.
"Of course it's not, man. We're gonna have loads of time together. All day, every day."
Canada's pulled away and quirked an eyebrow. "You know I love you, but that's a bit much."
"Okay, okay. We won't have to be together that much."
Canada laughed lightly, his loose curls bobbing as he did so. "Let's get breakfast."
The restaurant they decided on was deceitfully large, considering the unassuming front it had. Tables filled the main room, lining the walls, and were tucked in all corners. Canada requested "something private", which led to them being seated in a shadowy, almost skeevy looking booth, but it was out of the way.
America made a big to-do about putting his napkin in his lap. He straightened and smoothed, adjusted and moved, did all in his power to prolong any king of necessary exchanging of words. Canada had his serious face on now. The one with the set, stony gaze and the thin lips. It was a face that got answers, and America wasn't handing those puppies out willy-nilly.
When the waiter came by, America mumbled that he wanted water. Canada ordered orange juice. America promptly busied himself afterward by sticking his nose in the menu, murmuring the items as he saw them, taking in not a single word. He peeked over the top of the list of appetizers when he heard the clink of glasses being set down.
"We'll both have pancakes," Canada said to their waiter.
America's shield was taken from him as the waiter obediently bustled off.
"Maybe I don't want pancakes," America said, tracing his finger along the rim of his glass.
"You want pancakes."
It was true. America wanted pancakes. Whenever him and Canada went out to eat on their own, whether they be emerging from a theater to find that day had turned to night, or simply looking for someplace still open after staying at the bar too long, pancakes would be eaten. It was a ritual that had never been named or discussed, a ritual that simply was.
"Yeah. I want pancakes," America admitted. He fiddled with his silverware, prodding his knife with his fork before going after his spoon.
"How long have you been with him?"
America clanged his fork against his glass. "Long enough."
Canada looked nonplussed. "Since when have you even liked him? A year ago you couldn't so much as stand the way he cleared his throat."
"No, Canada. He seriously made the most annoying noise when he did that. And he did it in purpose, too. Like, imagine a rhinoceros laughing and throwing up at the same time. That is what he used to sound like."
"America, he sounds like anyone else when he clears his throat."
"But he used to do it all stupid-like to annoy me, I swear."
"Okay, never mind. Never mind, America. This isn't about whatever the Hell kind of noises Russia supposedly makes to annoy you."
"Fine," America huffed. "He doesn't make them anymore, anyway."
Canada stared into his orange juice as though he were trying to read the pulp as portents. America watched lazily, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. This wasn't going as well as he had hoped it would. He'd been expecting an easy back and forth, warm, shallow conversation, but Canada was cutting to the quick.
"Does he ever hit you?" Canada blurted.
America squawked, scoffed, and stood up all at once, his palms flat on the table as he helped himself up. "You have got to be kidding me. I didn't sign up for this."
Canada was on his feet a second later, his hands making placating motions, his face etched with an uneasy concern. "Wait a second, America. I didn't say he was, I'm just making sure. And considering how many knock-down drag-out fights you two have had, I have a right to be suspicious."
America stayed standing, but made no move to leave. It was true that Russia and America had exchanged blows many a time. They'd found themselves up against walls, rolling on the floor, or having plain old brawls in the middle of the street. Their bitter back and forth did have a way of leading to physical exchanges, and not the nice kind.
"He hasn't laid a finger on me since we got together," America huffed. They'd both had their more violent moments, but Canada didn't need to know that. He wouldn't understand.
"Alright then, I just wanted to make sure." Canada sat down slowly, as though expecting America to bolt if he moved too suddenly.
"Heck, I wouldn't ask that kind of thing if Russia was your boyfriend," America said, taking his seat with a fair deal of hesitation.
"That's because you'd assume he was beating me."
America laughed hollowly. "Sounds about right."
Silence bloomed between them, thick yet somehow empty, halting all conversation. America rubbed at the back of his neck. He couldn't recall the last time things with Canada were so awkward. He sensed Canada's questions hanging in the air, encroaching, battling the silence. America countered their approach by asking a few himself.
"So, uh, how are you doin' these days? Like, you look good and all." America stared at his nails as he spoke. Canada really was looking good. Before he'd seemed like someone who wasn't always there, never completely participating in conversation or debate. From the way he moved and spoke, he seemed to have grown into himself.
"Things are okay," Canada said. "It's different, being in the spotlight."
America's ears perked. "Stepped up to the plate, eh?"
Canada's eyes widened. "Don't you know?"
America shook his head. "Can't say I've been keeping up with current events. It's kind of nice, actually. No more worrying about who pissed off who, no late nights spent staring at the ceiling trying to figure out how to fix things I can't change to begin with." America played with a sugar packet. "This must be what being a person is like."
Canada watched with disinterest as their waiter set down two plates stacked with pancakes. His lips were drawn into a tight line, the light in his eyes glimmering, thinking. He dutifully thanked their waiter for the food before he started to drench his plate with syrup.
"Do you even want to know what's going on?"
America's knife and forked clinked loudly as he cut his pancakes into tiny pieces. "Not really. Russia takes care of all that junk for me. And─ and I'm sure if anything was really bad he'd tell me. Or you'd tell me." He speared his pancake. "You would, right?"
Canada raised his fork to his mouth. Then he put it down. He tried again, but his mouth had no interest in eating.
"What the Hell is going on?" he said. "Did you hear what he said to you when we were leaving? He said you were his and no one could change that. I'm not sure you understand this but you fall into the category of 'no one.' Russia is not someone you can go on a few dates with and then decide it's not going to work out."
"Russia isn't a fling, Canada. We're in love, in case I need to tell you again. And it's not like it is in all the movies and books, where he brings me flowers and chocolates and takes me out to eat at nice places. It's better than that. He keeps my feet warm in bed and cares about my opinion and doesn't yell at me when I touch his stuff."
"And what do you give him in return? Free reign of your life?"
America's cheeks burned hotly with embarrassment. "Thanks for being so supportive. It's nice you can be happy for me."
Canada pinched the bridge of his nose. "England doesn't know, does he?"
"Nope." America pointed his fork at Canada. "And you're not going to tell him."
"I never agreed to that."
America leveled a hard stare at Canada. "Listen to me, okay?"
"I'm listening."
"Do you have any idea how happy Russia makes me?"
"Not very?"
"Canada," America hissed, "I'm not gonna talk to you if you're going to be like this."
"Alright, alright. I'm sure he makes you think you're happy."
America ignored Canada's intricately dismissive wording. "Do you think I would be happy if England found out?"
"No."
"So do you want to make me sad?"
"What─ no. America, stop that. Of course I don't want you to be sad."
"But I will be if you tell on me. I'll be sad and it'll be your fault. I swear it'll be your fault. I will personally blame you for my lack of happiness and never talk to you again. Ever. Not even once in a million years."
Canada buried his face in his hands with an exasperated sigh. "You're impossible."
"Also," America added casually, "snitches get stitches."
Canada blinked, tilting his head to one side. He held the pose for a moment before busting into a fit of snorting giggles. "America, you're about as threatening as a basket of bunnies. And we're not in prison."
America shrank back in his seat. "Are you gonna tell him or not? Because I am totally heading for Splitsville if you are."
"England won't hear a word about it from me," Canada said. "He's always been one to shoot the messenger." His features turned somber. "When you see him, try not to rile him up. He's not taking the changes all that well."
"The surprise of the century," America joked, trying not to dwell on what Canada said. 'When you see him,' not 'if you see him.' He was expecting America to keep his promise.
"America, I'm being serious. You know he gets in his moods, so don't make it worse."
"I'll be on my best behavior," America said confidently. He was getting good at lying. He'd be on his best behavior, but he wouldn't be setting a foot near England.
Canada turned his attention back to his half-eaten breakfast, soaking bits of pancake thoroughly, but never actually doing anything more with them. America followed his example, pushing food around his plate that he had no intention of eating.
America flinched when he felt Canada's fingertips brush the side of his face, his vision blurring as Canada carefully removed his glasses. The world turned to a disconcerting blur, but America said nothing. He knew what was coming, the next step in another unvoiced ritual.
Right on cue, the world shifted back into focus as Canada replaced the glasses. America blinked a few times, watching as Canada sat back in his seat. He'd switched their glasses. America's frames, black and sleek and thin, looked unfamiliar on Canada's face.
America imagined he must look a little out of place now as well. Canada's frames had always been on the chunkier side, following the idea of performance more than the path of fashion. They were straightforward and did what was expected of them, not unlike Canada.
They'd switched glasses before. During tumultuous times that were weighted with strife and fighting, it was a secret exchange, like wearing one another's clothes. It had held a certain comfort in the past. But America saw it for what it really was, a way for Canada to ensure he'd see America again. He was trying to snare America into visiting with him soon, knowing full well that they'd eventually have to give back their glasses.
America wasn't going to fall for it. He'd have to whip together a decent excuse for refusing the trade and get his glasses back. The wheels of his mind set to spinning, carefully crafting reasons why he couldn't be parted with his glasses, something not altogether ridiculous.
"So he really makes you happy, eh?" Canada asked, and now it was his turn to be engrossed by the tablecloth.
"Seriously. He's a great guy, I bet you two would get along well if you tried."
"I'll pass, but thanks for the offer." Canada frowned. "If he ever gives you any flack, give me a call, okay?"
"Okay," America said dully. Canada didn't really seem to get how America felt about Russia. He was treating it like some feeble, meaningless relationship, a summer romance never meant to last. It made America wish that he was with Russia right now, with his hands resting on America's waist, his lips at America's ear as he whispered sweet words.
America kicked at the carpet beneath his seat. It was weird, being away from Russia. He'd been such a constant in America's life for the past several months that the lack of his presence was wholly unnerving. America found himself looking over his shoulder from time to time in the hopes of seeing him, or opening his mouth to pose a question or ask an opinion. But he zipped his lips when he remembered Russia was gone.
"Hey, bro?" America asked after a long pause.
"Hmm?"
"If my folks start acting up or anything, you have, like, my blessing or whatever to step in."
Canada laughed, and America cringed at the sound. It was full of discomfort, a grating scratch against his ears. "Why couldn't you have given me your 'blessing' a few years back? Would've been loads more useful then."
America froze as he took in Canada's words. A few years back? Years? The room suddenly seemed far smaller than it had before, the ceiling too low and the walls too close. The fork in his hand became unbearably heavy, and he dropped it on his plate with a clatter that rang loud as a church bell.
He tried to stand, but his kneecaps had decided to migrate south to visit with his ankles. The only thing he could move was his mouth.
"What do you mean 'a few years'? Why are you saying that?" America's voice crumpled as he spoke, his eyes growing wide, pleading with Canada for an answer. While the days and weeks and months had started to blend, roll by at an unidentifiable pace, America was sure he would've noticed had years gone by.
Canada looked alarmed, his posture straightening as he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. "I was kidding, America. Don't get so worked up over it. I─ I'll admit there are times when I've wanted to whack you upside the head, but you're my brother. You know I'm going to let you get away with what you want, even if I don't exactly approve.
"But this hiding has got to stop," Canada continued firmly. "Disappearing for half a year and not sending so much as a single postcard is plain rude. "
America's heart seized once before giving a weak flop. Relief washed over him, and his kneecaps gradually returned from their impromptu vacation. Half a year wasn't all that bad, especially compared to the prospect of going years without noticing. He let out a shaky breath and forced a smile.
"I'll be sure to mail you the second I get home."
"And call me too," Canada added, his arms folding over his chest as he sat back. "If you can call England, there's no reason not to ring me."
"I did try calling you," America said weakly. "But it went to your machine."
"Then leave a message."
"Yes, mom."
America was sure he saw Canada roll his eyes, but it was hard to tell with how the overhead lights glinted off his glasses. The waiter returned and cleared their plates and left the bill lying facedown on the table. America's leg started to jog up and down, anxious to stand, to escape.
"I'll take care of this," Canada said, snatching up the bill. "And I've got to page a colleague. You stay put, okay?"
America's head bobbed. "Sure thing, bro."
America didn't stay put long. Once Canada was out of sight, America sensed the eyes of the other patrons on his, beady and watchful, he could hear their thoughts, their musings on why he was alone. Their collective gaze bore into his bones and struck at his core.
Before he knew it he was on his feet, making a bee-line for the door. He ignored the staff's wishes that he come back soon. They didn't really mean it. Their salary made them say it.
America left the restaurant feeling more than a little lost. The street outside was gray, all sidewalks and streets with no color. People hurried by him with their heads down and their coats buttoned up to their noses. The single thing that drew America's attention was a red phone booth.
Figuring there was no better place to find Canada, America jogged over with the bouncing, loose limbs of a child. He recognized Canada immediately and bounded up to the glass, pressing his palms against it. Canada was busy placing the phone back on the hook, and had no reaction aside from a calm, drawn smile when he saw America apparently trying to phase through the phone booth.
"Didn't I tell you to stay put?" he said when he emerged from the booth. He didn't sound too upset.
"I missed you," America said sweetly. Everyone liked being missed.
"So you were bored?"
"I guess you could say that." America shoved his hands in his pockets and gave an innocent whistle. If only it were as simple as being bored.
Canada gave a short, barking laugh. "C'mon, let's head back."
He turned and started down the street, America following hot on his heels.
America had never heard of a conference being held on the third floor of a building. It seemed strange that in all the years that he'd been attending that it'd never happened, but he never questioned the logic, had hardly given it a fleeting thought until Canada directed him toward the elevator.
"Aren't you coming with?" America asked after Canada had told him the room number.
"Nah, I got some stuff to take care of down here. But hey, if you don't want to go in you can hang around in the break room up there."
America's head cocked to the side as he thought it over. He supposed that relaxing quietly would be rather nice, though it would mean he was alone, but it would be better than sitting for hours at a table, doing his best to ignore the stares of those around him. It was hard enough to handle the curious looks of strangers in a restaurant, let alone the glares of those who knew him. Plus, he'd agreed to meet Russia at lunch, whenever the heck that was. No one would be expecting him to drop in and actually attend.
Well, as long as he didn't include England. Canada was sure to tell England that America had shown his face at least, and that would probably keep him satisfied for a bit.
As the elevator doors slid open, America turned to say his goodbyes. Instead of something warm and heartfelt he blurted, "I need my glasses back."
"Why?"
"I can't see with these," America lied through his teeth.
"America, our prescriptions are the same."
"Not anymore," America insisted. "Everything is all dumb and blurry with these."
"Well your glasses work fine for me."
"You callin' me a liar?"
"Yeah."
America nudged the toe of shoe against the carpet. Canada knew that America was in on the game and wasn't going to give in easily. America contemplated simply snatching them off Canada's face, but that could cause quite the commotion, not to mention some hard feelings.
"If you didn't want to trade, you should have said so," Canada said as he took off his glasses and handed them over.
America sputtered, his lips forming a few garbled words of thanks and surprise. He traded glasses with Canada, his fingers fumbling and fast. With his own glasses returning to his face, America's courage mounted. He'd get through the next few hours alright. Sure he didn't have Russia with him, but he'd manage.
"I guess this is goodbye, then," Canada said, adjusting his glasses. His expression unusually broody, giving him the appearance of a sullen child. But then his eyes lit up, or at least America thought they did. The light was gone in a flash, too quick for him to mention it.
Instead, America gave a shrug. "We'll see each other again before you know it."
Canada smiled. "I get the feeling we will."
America managed a smile to match Canada's as he stepped into the waiting elevator. "See y'later, alligator."
"Good luck, silly duck."
"We're so dumb," America said as he punched the button for floor two.
"Tell me about it." Canada gave a solitary wave while the elevator doors slid shut.
America leaned against the back of the elevator once it gave a smooth jolt upward, closing his eyes as he felt himself slowly ascending the building. He'd have to be sure to write to Canada. His brother seemed to be his ally, or at least he would be until he found out what exactly had transpired. Not that America had any intention of telling him, or even spending more time with him.
Canada was always the smart one. He picked up on the more subtle nuances of behavior and speech, had the ability to understand the big picture using only the minor details. One wrong word or move and he'd be on red alert, gleaning bits and pieces of what went unsaid and putting them together to solve the puzzle of what was truly happening. It'd be only a matter of time before he noticed the person America had become.
Or rather, the person America was becoming. Somewhere along the way, between inventing new board games and spending every night in Russia's bed, Russia had taken America and smashed him. Had turned America into a thousand little pieces.
And now Russia was putting him back together one painstaking piece at a time, creating something new from the old. Recycling him, almost. But the process wasn't complete. There were still parts of America that wanted to return to the past, parts of him that longed for blue summer skies, warm breezes, and to return to his home back in the States.
And yet there were the parts that called Russia home, and yearned for snow and cold evenings spent by the fireside. It was impossible to reconcile who he had been and what Russia was making him. Something would have to give, and give soon.
There was a low ding as the elevator reached the second story, and America opened to eyes, though he kept them trained on the floor. The doors slid open painfully slow, and he watched as another pair of shoes entered, well-polished and shiny as anything.
They stood in his way, and America's brow furrowed as he heard buttons being pushed and the doors closing again. The shoes went nowhere, content to stand before him, closer than was comfortable for America. He raised his head a fraction, careful to keep his face blank and unreadable. Poker faces were made for elevators, after all.
Whoever had joined him was a snazzy dresser, albeit one that liked to stand too close. His slacks were pressed and unlined, held up by a fine belt. There was a pager clipped to the belt, and America wondered if this was Canada's supposed 'colleague.'
Unable to help himself, America looked up to sate his own curiosity. His eyes moved from the pager to the man's crispy shirt and fine golden cufflinks. The man's build was stout, compact almost, and rather wiry. Then he reached the face. The face with those cat-green eyes and heavy, bristly brows.
America's lips went numb, cold pinpricks dancing along his scalp as he registered who he was looking at. His hand gripped the wall's railing and all his blood drained to his feet.
"Hello, lad," England said, his smile strangely feral, and Canada's warning that England wasn't quite well lately echoed in his head.
"Hello," America said back.
Today was going to be a long day.
A/N:
-Really Russia, you don't take America for a late riser? I bet that boy could sleep in til three and still hit the snooze button.
-Has anyone else ever noticed that when you really dislike someone, you dislike the stupidest little things? Like how they breath, clear their throat, use their utensils. So bogus.
-Oh Canada, you enabler.
-'Sup England.
-There will be an epilogue down the road for this story. One that is stupidly long (isn't everything I write stupidly long?) and yeah. I would say more but I can't until the end of the next chapter since that would spoil things.
-I'm going to be moving this weekend so I might be without internet for a bit. What does this mean? Well, it means the next chapter might take longer to churn out than before. Or it could mean I write it faster with no pretty internet to distract me.
EDIT:
-Amazing fanart for the last scene in this chapter has been drawn by Beyond-The-Winter and can be found here!: yourwaywarddestiny . deviantart . com/#/d399l0l