Prompt: Heart
Characters: Canada, America
Notes: Because it's Canada Day. :)
Canada had fallen asleep with his clothes from earlier that day still on—dark straight-leg khakis, white button-down that had been ironed but still had wrinkles on the sleeves, maple-leaf tie—and America found it pretty damn cute.
He'd probably never tell Canada that. But still.
America had left their shared hotel room (a way to save money as their economies struggled to stabilize) once he'd heard the first few notes of the Hockey Night in Canada theme. He did not want to be in the same room as his brother when the Leafs and the Canadiens were playing each other.
The young nation had taken his laptop with him. Just to make sure. He'd hurried toward the lobby just as Canada had grabbed one of his many hockey sticks out of nowhere. Then, he'd gotten some shitty hotel coffee and a handful of hazelnut creamers and sat down beside one of the rain-speckled windows.
The plan, had any of his officials or the other nations come by, had been to say he was working on his presentation for tomorrow.
In reality, America had been catching up on his bookmarked list of funny YouTube videos: one with a man falling for nine seconds while trying to shovel snow, one with a hillbilly yelling at some hick named Clyde, quite a few with animals running into doors. Never mind that his side-splitting guffaws and tears in his eyes were a dead giveaway that he was, in fact, not exactly working. (The deficit wasn't that funny, one of his diplomats thought as he walked by his country and shook his head in slight despair.)
He was halfway through watching a spoof of last year's first Republican and Democratic debates when England, raindrops dropping down the edge of his nose from the late-night Vancouver thunderstorms, walked into the lobby for a hot cup of tea and found him half-hysterical and incoherent.
"Go to bed, you nitwit."
America was about to reply that he didn't want to go to bed at boring old lady times like England, but then Prussia and Spain sauntered into the lobby with France sitting on their shoulders and waving a wine bottle around, and America thought he'd be better off heading back to the room after all. How long could a hockey game go on?
And then he found Canada curled up on his bed, clutching his hockey stick in one hand, breathing softly, the silver frames of his glasses tangled in his golden hair and two of his fingers just brushing the floor.
America took several pictures first. Even if he hadn't wanted them for himself, he knew France would kill him if he didn't get some snapshots of his son bedraggled and cuddled up in the middle of a world that was suddenly quiet and still.
Outside of the frame were America's gentle smile and softened gaze.
As he sat down on his bed, one elbow on his left knee, America watched his brother's chest rise and fall. Canada never moved much in his sleep. America, on the other hand, kicked and snored and spread his limbs out across all four corners of the bed. And while Canada would up slowly in the morning, rubbed his eyes, and stared ahead for a moment right after waking up, America would yawn and stretch and groan loudly enough to wake up the entire hall.
One quiet, one loud. They'd always been like that.
Canada stayed quiet, America knew, because he was listening. He was listening to all the things people were saying with their words and all the things they weren't saying with their bodies. He was listening to what they needed. And then he'd stay quiet as he created a way to give it to them. He'd given his people education and health care, but his hidden warmth had extended to the crowds of foreigners who stumbled onto his land empty, frightened.
He'd welcomed them.
As quiet and invisible as he often seemed to be, Canada had an incredible ability to befriend anyone. America admired that. He admired that his brother had few enemies. He admired that many people resolved to move to Canada if anything went wrong in their homelands. Now that was a place where peace and good sense prevailed, they all thought.
America knew they were right. Like any nation, his brother wasn't perfect. He could be a downright mess at times. But he had plenty of calm and happiness to share. And he'd share it if he noticed that someone was trying to find the words to ask.
Even his messes were weirdly beautiful, America thought as Canada's glasses slipped out of his hair and onto the floor. He picked them up and folded them on the nightstand. Then he grabbed Canada's purple blanket from the back of the desk chair and tucked it around his brother with a smile.
He took another picture before turning out the lights and going to bed himself.