Chapter 10: Left Wanting More

Saturday, November 9th, 1991 - 46 Days until Christmas

It's been a tense few days in this small house situated in the Canadian wilderness. Clearly there is history here. I've known ever since we first met how I've made him feel. He has always been flustered around me, shy little voice barely even managing to create a full sentence without wavering. I remember how the simple act of kissing his hand would make him blush like he had a fever, or how just a wink would cause him to look down and bite his lip. Of course I felt the same, stealing as many glances as I could, finding any reason to talk to him, trying to learn English and perfect my French. One could imagine how my being away for nearly sixty years impacted the incredibly slow progress we had made ever since I started wooing him in 1776.

So, now, I'm incredibly sick. And him being the kind, sweet young man he is offered to help me learn how to be healthy again. But it isn't like I've forgotten our history. And I'm sure he hasn't either. I feel a bit giddy around him, which is an emotion I haven't felt in a long time. I notice the way he blushes when I smile at him, or the alluring look he will throw my way.

He was taking my pulse yesterday and just the touch of his fingertips to my wrist sent little waves through me. It was such an intimate moment, the tension was thick enough to cut, I could see it in his eyes when he looked up at me. His pupils dilated as he told me my heart beat was too fast at rest. I couldn't bring myself to tell him he was making me nervous, but I'm sure he was able to see that I was. Anything could have happened in that moment, I so desperately wanted something to happen. But eventually his hand left my wrist and he turned away to write something down.

I'm rather sleepless today, thinking about all this didn't make for a good night's rest. Perhaps I can start my day a little early, get Canada out of my mind for a bit.

Аs I walk into the quaint living room, I see Canada sitting in one of the armchairs, face in his hands, glasses on the lamp stand near him. It looks like a private moment, so I try quietly exiting the room but he notices my presence before I can do so.

"Oh, Gilbert," he begins, wiping his eyes discreetly before looking up at me, "you're up early."

"I am, aren't I. . . Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm perfectly fine, just sitting down." His voice is a little shaky as he puts his glasses back on. I walk over to him and sit in the chair beside him.

"I really appreciate all that you are doing for me. Really. Your selflessness amazes me. . . But if something is bothering you, I hope you know that you can always talk to me." I offer. I really don't want to overstep any boundaries here but, I was unconscious for six days, I know he had to do things to me that make this relationship a bit more intimate.

"Thank you but really, I'm fine. . .Um. . . If you will excuse me, I have some things to take care of." He says politely before standing and walking off toward the bedrooms.

Clearly something is bothering him, but is it my place to ask? I mean, we have been living together for a while, maybe it wouldn't be too rude of me to try and follow up. I slowly walk over to his bedroom door and hesitantly knock. I'm nervous, thinking about how if I did this to Russia I would probably get beat senseless.

He opens the door and leans in the doorway a bit.

"Are you alright?" He asks.

"Yeah, I'm perfectly fine I'm just worried about you. I know you said you were fine but. . ." I trail off as he crosses his arms and sighs.

"It's really nothing to be worried about," he says softly, "but we can talk about it if you want."

I'm so surprised by his reaction that I remain silent for a couple of moments before taking him up on his offer. He lets me into his room and a chill runs through my body, causing me to shiver. It is unbelievably cold in here. The bed looks rather plush and is decorated with solid white sheets, pillows, and blankets. He sits on the side of it and I take a seat next to him.

"Since you will be living with me for a while longer it's only fair I tell you that I can be a bit. . . down, at times. It doesn't necessarily mean something is bothering me, but I may be a little lethargic or emotional."

"I hope you know that despite everything that is going on with me at the moment, I'm here for you if you need it. You're important to me, Matthew." I offer.

"What?" He asks, looking at me with wide lavender eyes. A wave of anxiety crashes through me as I lean away.

"I, uh, said you were important?" I say meekly.

"Did you just call me Matthew?"

"That is your name. . . Isn't it?" Oh no. Did I call him by the wrong name?

I watch his pupils dilate considerably as he gives me this incredulous look.

"No-nobody ever remembers, how did you remember that?"

"How could I forget?"

His right hand cups my cheek as his eyes lower to my lips. I must have said the right thing, because the next thing I know I'm lying on my back with him on top of me, kissing me like it's the last thing he'll ever do. It feels incredible, like a dream I've always yearned for now finally reality. How could I have possibly known that this young, North American nation could ever make me feel like this? His hand gripping my waist like that is having dire consequences, and his lips. Oh, his lips. . .

For a man that is seldom seen outside the Canadian wilderness he sure does kiss like he invented it. I can hardly keep up, hardly process all the feelings coursing through my body.

I open my legs a little more so he can fit comfortable in between them. My action brings our hips flush together and I groan at the friction. The need to lace my fingers into his silky looking hair washes over me and my left hand leaves his hip to do just that. He breaks the kiss.

"Uhh, no, no, please don't touch my hair." He moans out, pulling my hand away.

"Sorry, sorry, I had no idea that was your-"

"It's fine. It's okay, I just don't like how it feels." He reassures, affectionately cupping my cheek again.

"Okay." I say while looking down. He gently takes my lips once more and in no time we are back where we were, kissing passionately while desperately feeling each other up.

I feel like a teenager again, sneaking out into the forest to kiss and touch Holy Rome. Of course doing this with Canada is absolutely amazing, but it leaves me wanting more. The last time he kissed me I was left wanting more.

I switch our positions and take a second to look down at him. His lips are red and swollen from our kissing, eyes glossy and dilated. He looks so pretty. So incredibly pretty, what is he doing with me?

His forbidden dirty blonde hair is splayed out over the pillow, curls looking so soft.

"What?" He asks softly. I smile and answer his question by giving attention to his neck, kissing, sucking, and dragging my lips across it.

"Mmm, that feels so good." He says breathlessly, body arching into mine.

His hands grip my hips as he writhes beneath me, absolutely euphoric by what I'm doing to him. I can feel him harden completely against my leg and I take things a little further by trialing a hand down his body, passed his belt and straight to his cock.

"Ahh! Wait wait," He says, taking my hand off of him, "we shouldn't."

I roll off of him and onto my back beside him, stifling a sigh. If he isn't ready he isn't ready, I won't push him.

"Okay. . ." I say while looking at the obvious bulge in his pants, threatening to break through.

"I didn't mean to jump your bones like that, I'm so sorry. No one calls me by my name, especially when it's to tell me I'm worth something and I just, I don't know, got a little overwhelmed."

"It's okay. I don't mind."

"Still," he says while sitting up, "It's unbecoming of me. . ." I watch him stand up and take a deep breath. "We need more wood for the fireplace, so I'll go do that. . ." He gives me a look I can't read then leaves the room.

I throw an arm over my eyes as the sun begins to shine into them. Of course I respect his boundaries and wishes, I just wish they weren't so mixed. I really want to know what he's thinking. . . Damn broken eyes.

November 10th, 1991

"Alfred I-. . . but. . . Ugh, I guess. . . Fine, okay, you win. . ." As I walk into the kitchen I notice Canada leaning against the counter, phone against his face. "Oh stop, it's always a competition with you. . .Mhm, sure. . .I'm not being sassy, don't make me change my mind. . . Okay, okay, bye." He hangs up the phone and sighs heavily. I give him an amused look, he smiles lightly in return.

"How did you sleep?" He asks.

"Well. How about you?"

"Good enough. . . So, I just got off the phone with America. He is an hour out from here and told me he was visiting. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind. This is your house." I say.

"I know, I just want to make sure you're comfortable." He says while putting a hand on my arm and squeezing gently. His lavender gaze sends a chill down my spine as a random memory of Russia pushing me against the kitchen counter and having his way with me crosses my mind.

"You're looking so much better." He says before his hand falls away and he leaves the kitchen.

I lean back against the counter, staring down at the tiled floor.

"Hmm, I don't think so." Russia comments.

"What?" I ask, while looking around. Nothing.

"I remember how you used to look, used to act. Why, you're nothing but an emaciated little husk of your former self. You've already lived your glory days, you'll never experience that high again."

I shake my head and take a deep breath. I'm alone in this room, no one else is here. Just me. Just me.

I turn the sink on and hold my hand under the cold water. This'll help keep me grounded.

The sound of the doorbell makes me jump and I turn the water off. A few moments later Canada reappears to answer the door.

"Canada! Dude, it's so good to see you." I hear America say as I step out of the kitchen and into the living room.

"Nice to see you too, America. . . You're holding me too tight."

"Oh, sorry," America lets him go, "a little over excited."

"I can tell. . . Here, take a seat. I'll make some tea." Canada gives me a weary look before going into the kitchen. My gaze falls back to America who sits across from me, leaning back in the seat and crossing his legs. They don't look as similar to each other as they once did back when they were European colonies. It's clear that America took after England and Canada after France. His face is shaped similarly to England's and his eyebrows are slightly darker than his natural hair color as well, but his face is flawless unlike England's which is absolutely covered in freckles.

"You're looking better, how have you been?" America asks me, pulling me out of my thoughts.

"Thanks to your brother I'm doing pretty good. He's great at what he does."

"Yeah, he is the best. Probably because he spends all his time locked away here and has nothing better to do but read medical books." There is laughter in his voice as he says this but I don't find the situation very funny.

"Do you ever check up on him?" I chance asking.

"Of course I do. . . Or at least I try to, he does an amazing job оf thwarting my attempts to spend time with him. That's why I showed up rather unexpectedly today, can't really say no if I'm already here."

I'm surprised to learn that Canada actively avoids America, I would have thought the other way around.

"Hm. . . He just seems rather lonely." I comment.

"He may very well be, I can't imagine how he stays sane isolated out here all the time, but I can't really force him to be social. . . Though, I think you being here is good for him. I'm pretty sure that's why France suggested that he help take care of you while you heal."

I can't help but smile a bit at his statement. I truly hope that my presence here is doing him good like it is me. My eyes happen to fall on America's wrist where his sleeve has ridden up a bit. He has a painful looking blue and purple bruise almost completely around his wrist.

"What happened?" I ask.

"What? Oh, this. . . Nothing really." He says while pulling his sleeve down.

I furrow my eyebrows slightly as I remember the large bruise around Felicia's bicep.

"That's not from Germany, is it?" I really, really hope to God it's not from him.

"No, no, of course not. He's a sweetheart, and anyway he wouldn't be strong enough to do that to me. . . If you really want to know, it was Russia."

My eyes widen and my heart sinks.

"He was. . . able to do that? To you?" I guess my voice sounded rather fearful, because America immediately jumps to reassuring me.

"Yeah but I'm okay, really, he's nothing to worry about. I was kind of being an asshole so I deserved it."

Canada reappears and sets the tea down on the coffee table. He sits right next to me and I can't help but let out a sigh of relief.

"So, how's Germany?" Canada asks.

"He's doing okay, considering. Really heartbroken."

"Did Italy break-up with him?" I ask. America nods while pouring the tea.

"Yeah. She wrote a note and France gave it to me to give to him. France said she couldn't bear telling him in person."

"So how is Italy?" Canada asks.

"She seems fine, honestly. They are processing this in completely different ways. He can hardly get out of bed and she seems content living it up with France. . . Though, Germany let me read the note and if any of it is true, she is hurting a lot as well."

"Hmm, that's so sad." Canada comments.

We sit in silence for a while before America speaks up.

"How are you two doing?"

"We are fine." Canada answers for us.

"How fine? Like just okay, or like really good." He says with a bit of a drawl.

"Stop, you've been spending too much time with France."

"You and I both know that you took after her waaaay more than I did." America laughs. I look at Canada as he blushes.

"That is not true, I do no-"

"It totally is, Matthew. You can't fight me on this one."

Canada just smiles and shakes his head.

"Alright, fine, I take after her more, which means I'm better looking as well."

"You are prettier than me, I'll give you that." America laughs.

Their banter is adorable to say the least. It's wonderful to see Canada blush and smile like that. If he is so happy around America, why does he actively avoid him? America said that France suggested I live here cause it would do both of us good, that means both America and France know how lonely and isolated Canada is. . . Does he do this to himself? If so, why?

America stays over for quite a while, long after the sun has gone down. Once he leaves, Canada sighs and leans against the wall.

"You have a very cute relationship with him." I comment. He smiles wearily at me.

"It hasn't always been that way. . . I'm glad it is now."

". . .If you don't mind me asking," I say while approaching him, "why don't you have him over more?"

"Well, he's busy, you know? Constantly in Europe doing superpower things. . . I don't want to bother him, and besides, you're here right now so I'm not very alone anymore."

The smile his statement causes me to have falters as a wave of dizziness crashes over me. I only sway for a second or two before he catches me and helps me stay upright.

"What are you feeling?" He asks.

"I'm just dizzy is all." I answer, resting against his chest.

"Would you like me to help you to bed?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

"Of course."

With a strong arm wrapped around my waist he begins to help me walk over toward the hall until the strength in my legs give out. The world around me starts to go black and distant as I feel him pick me up off the ground.

The pain is so great it almost numbs me. I don't think I've ever prayed so hard for death. For a moment I thought maybe I was leaving this body, but as I open my eyes I see that I have only been lifted off the ground. The air is filled with a gracious silence, the temperature favorable. Despite everything that had just happened, today would have been a beautiful day. Children would have ran through the streets, playing and laughing, singing songs. People would have found any excuse to be outside, admiring the perfect sky, the sound of the birds, the green of the grass that was once here. Now it's just silence, only broken by the soft crunch of the ground underneath boots.

"Are you cold?" Russia asks.

". . . What?" I manage somehow.

"I can feel you shaking. . . We don't have that much longer, just stay awake."

". . . You did this to me. . . Just leave me." I choke out, trying to move, trying to push myself out of his arms.

"Dying is easy. You don't get that luxury." I'm so tired, tired of keeping my eyes open, tired of speaking, tired of living. "Hey, wake up, don't close your eyes." He says, shaking me gently.

He lets go of my legs, allowing me to stand for myself, but keeps an arm wrapped around my waist. A black car pulls up before us and he opens the back door. I close my eyes again, feeling the world slip out from under me. The next time I open them I'm laying in his lap, being driven somewhere. His lavender eyes look down at me as he starts undoing the coat I have on. He presses a thick cloth to my stomach and I wince.

"Let me bleed out." I whisper. He doesn't answer me, just continues to treat my severe wounds as best he can in this setting.

As the drive spans on my senses slowly begin returning to me, adrenaline running out. The numbing pain turns into something much more acute and my heart begins to pick up. My breathing turns into painful gasps as I writhe in agony. He tries to keep me still, holding onto my arms and pushing me down.

The pain is so horrible I can't even think properly, I can't pay attention to what he says to me, where we are. At some point he covers my mouth to silence my agony, I've never prayed so hard to die.

The only thing that I register is him moving me out of the car, causing me even more pain as he presses into my bruises. A few people help place me on something cold before rushing me somewhere. English words start flying over me but I'm so besides myself in absolute suffering that I cannot understand any of it. I can hardly feel the hands touching me, undressing me and cleaning the blood and dirt away. I find it getting harder and harder to breathe until my lungs simply will no longer fill with air. Panic is an understatement. I have never been so afraid. The pressure in my chest is great as my body begins to burn. Why can a body feel so much pain at once? Why am I still alive to feel every bit of it? A sharp feeling pierces my chest and suddenly I can breathe again. My tired body falls still and a feeling of euphoria crashes through me. I've never prayed so hard to die.

I open my eyes, the pain subsided only enough to allow me to take in a few other things. Bandages cover my chest and stomach, my left arm, my right thigh. As I try to shift I find that my wrists and legs are bound to the bed, allowing for only a little bit of movement. I look around the room again, recognizing medical supplies, the bag of fluids above me. . . I look to the IV in my arm and an escape plan formulates. Extending my right arm allows for me to move the IV line on top of my arm so I can reach over and bite it. With some coaxing and a countdown, I pull on it, taking the needle out of my arm. It takes a few moments but I'm able to move the line through my mouth until I have the needle in between my teeth. The muscles in my stomach are absolutely obliterated and scream at me when I so much as try to shift. To make my repositioning easier I use my legs to slide myself down the bed a bit and bring my wrist as close as I can to my mouth. Unfortunately, I need to use my stomach to get the rest of the way there. Another small peptalk ensues in my mind before I gather the determination needed to work through the pain. I bring my mouth to my wrist and insert the needle into the lock of the cuff. It takes a few moments before I finally find purchase and unlock it. With my right hand free I take the needle from my mouth and unlock my left wrist. I use my arms to help me sit up so I can reach over and begin undoing my legs. Just as I free them from the bed the door opens and Canada walks in. He gasps and quickly closes the door behind him. Shit.

"You should not be sitting up, you'll reopen your wounds." He says in a soft, slow voice.

"I'm fine," I answer in German, "I suggest you turn back around and leave."

"I cannot speak German," He starts, slowly approaching me, "but, I know you understand English."

"I prefer not to speak in English." I switch to French.

"Okay, that's fine, we don't have to speak English. . . Please, lie back down. You should not be sitting up." He answers in French.

"I'm fine," I repeat, "but you won't be if you keep coming closer." A mighty bluff considering my condition.

"I do not want to hurt you, I'm just trying to help."

"Really? You all seemed quite fine using me as you pleased, I do not trust you."

"I'm sorry, truly, please lie down." He says once more, getting too close to me. A brief, heavy moment of silence passes between us before the struggle starts. He reaches for my wrist and tries to re-cuff it but I use his weight against him and pull him down onto the bed. I am not strong enough to do anything meaningful, and am powerless against him as he successfully cuffs my right wrist back to the bed. The only thing I can think of that will get me the time I need to try and escape is kicking him as hard as I can in between his legs. But as I do so a sharp pain erupts from my stomach and a warm feeling flows down my ribs. He winces, a soft moan of pain leaving his lips, but otherwise seems unfazed.

"You shouldn't have tried to fight me." He says in a tense voice, returning to English. I look down at my stomach and notice the fresh blood seeping through my bandages.

"At least. . . Ambitious." I manage in English. He tightens the cuffs around my wrists in order to give me less movement, along with my legs, spreading them wider than I'd like. He takes a small bottle out from one of the drawers in the room and begins putting a syringe together.

"What is that?" I ask.

"It'll help keep you relaxed." He says, filling the needle with the clear liquid.

"You have already bound me, why do this?. . . No, no, get away." I try moving my arm but it's no use.

"Keep still, it'll hurt a lot worse if you keep squirming around." The last thing I want to be is unconscious or put into a drugged up stupor, who knows what will happen to me. I'm frightened of the idea. I don't like having my inhibitions and cognitive awareness taken from me.

"Please, I can't escape even if I wanted to." I quickly say in French.

He stops for a moment and looks at me.

"I'm not here to hurt you, I am only trying to help. This will make you feel so much better." His grip on my arm tightens considerably as he pushes the needle into me. The rush is almost immediate, making my mind fuzzy and my vision blurry. I can sort of understand that he is doing something in the room, but I'm not sure. His hands are warm against my stomach and it makes me mighty agreeable. I can't remember why I tried fighting so hard in the first place. Oh, look at him, he's so cute. So good at taking care of me. It's almost like he has magic, it feels great. I feel like laughing, but I'm not sure what's so funny. The world is only filled with good things. I'm sure everything will be fine. Do you think he'll still like me after this? Why, yes I do. He would never hurt me. He'll make sure the others don't hurt me. It's okay. I'll be okay.

It's okay.

"It's okay."

"Why are you laughing?"

I open my eyes and find Canada looking down at me. He's running his hand through my hair as I lie in his lap.

"Where am I?" I ask in German.

"In Canada, in my house. Do you remember what year it is?" He asks. I close my eyes and groan.

"Not 1945. . . 1991."

"That's correct."

"You were scary in 1945." I say softly, feeling incredibly woozy still.

"Was I?"

"A little. . . But all you ever did was make sure I was okay."

"It was my job, yes." I reach up and cup his cheek with my left hand.

". . . Why are you so mixed about me?" I ask.

"I'm trying to remain professional," he begins while I trail my hand down his chest and stomach, feeling the muscle underneath his shirt, "but you're making it difficult."

"Sorry. . . I guess I just really want this."

"You're delirious. Here, lie down on the pillow." He says while helping me move off of him. I want to say more to him but the tiredness that overcomes my body puts me out.