"The book said that you just lay on your stomach," Canada said. His unfortunately unconfident voice attempted to be as comforting as possible in the wake of what probably would never be admitted to be a very skeptical look. Canada was uncomfortable, hurt, and trounced by the fact that, even after being together for a good while, he would still be given something like that; but he'd expected it.
That's why they were doing this, Canada had decided.
Prussia covered up any real emotion with an over-used grin. "We'll have a lot more fun with this if I'm on my back…"
"Please?" Canada asked. He pointed to the instructions for emphasis. "The book says…"
"Okay, okay," Prussia said. He went out of his way to demonstrate his indigence as he laid down on the bed.
It exposed Prussia's back to the night air, and the intricate lacing of scars that came with it. His entire, brutal, history was written on his body; every partition, every bit of gained and removed territory, the cuts of a million treaties, wrapped around and ticked off the years like rings on a tree. Prussia knew each one by heart, no matter how much he'd prefer not to.
He became exceedingly uncomfortable when they were touched, and with the way his shoulders tensed there was no exception right then. Canada kneaded at the tight muscles, but there was little progress.
Canada's thumbs circled on a thick mark, an indentation along the shoulder blades that were still more pronounced than they should have been. He moved down into the marks of where rope had dug into his flesh from Denmark, where swords and arrows had pierced him in innumerable battles with the French, Austrians, and English. Canada wondered which ones had been caused by him; he was sure there were at least a few.
A little lower and there was a mark which undoubtedly belonged to Russia, as it wasn't hard at all to make out the faucet. He wondered if this was what the dreams with babbled Russian were about. Or, maybe it was another one. There was one which reached from his spine to his navel that looked like it could be more than a bit memorable.
"Am I doing alright?" Canada asked as his thumbs circled around on the lower back.
"It'd be better if you weren't tracing those again," Prussia said, his tone flat within the pillow his face was buried in.
"N-no, I'm not doing anything like that," Canada told him. He grabbed a little bit more oil and began to rub it as per the instructions. Having been caught, his eyes did the exploring his hands were no longer at liberty to. His eyes fell into the piercings of arrows, swords, and bullets. They followed the thick, bulging scars that wrapped around his torso from sacrificing land to Poland. They trickled upon marks that Hungary would be quick (and rather proud) to claim.
800 years of combat were visible, even if old pictures said that the scars were fading as those who still acknowledged him forgot, and he forgot along with them. As his physical body shrank, as his old scars shrank with it, that he was still capable of making new wounds was a source of pride.
Canada dodged a mark surrounded by the kind of tender, red flesh that Prussia cherished. He brushed over the symbols for Prussia's dissolution (he had no idea which one), and finally began to feel the wiry muscle relax at his touch.
He had his own scars, almost all coming from America's over-eager attempts at marriage and camaraderie. They were small and old, though, as England and France had absorbed most of the blows aimed at him. Unmarred skin was exotic amongst countries. However, when Canada saw so much of his own in the mirror every day there was little thrill.
But there was a single bit of it on Prussia, and that was beautiful. A tiny rhombus-like patch just above the tip of his shoulder blade, and Canada swirled his thumb on it. "What's this?"
Prussia answered him with a location's name that was obscured by the pillow and a thick accent. Canada retained none of it, but he leaned down and kissed the spot anyway. He smiled as he hovered above it; his lips glistened with a generous coating of oil.
"That part will be mine, then."
Just as quickly as the words had left his mouth, the muscle was tense again. Just like that, the fact that Canada was straddling his hips had become unbearably restrictive; and Prussia forced himself away from it.
The look he gave as he threw his shirt on was cold. It was as accusatory, dangerous, and pathetic as a prey animal; and just as unforgiving. The oil glued the fabric to his back, and made a grey blob which did no justice to the intricacy underneath.
"Prussia, look… I-I didn't mean to…"
He probably would have stumbled his way through dozens more apologies, which he would have meant even if he didn't understand them. He reached out to make contact, hopefully to pass the remorse that way, but Prussia dodged out of reach.
"It's fine," he said. "West is being a bitch about getting some paperwork done, I'm gonna go shut him up." His eyes were clearly looking through Canada to someone that wasn't in the room, and probably something that hadn't happened for at least decades. Prussia gave this specter glances that were somehow simultaneously apologetic and defiant.
"Oh... okay," Canada said. "I'll see you later, then."
Prussia gave only the attempt at a grunt for a reply before he turned and left the room, and then the house. Canada watched the greasy, gray smear as it disappeared over the ridge. He watched a little more before he realized he might never see it again, and put his head in his arms in defeat.
Which of the scars had it been that had triggered… whatever had been?
Was it the splattering of buckshot, or the incisions lined with surgical staples, or the thick, raised ones…?
Or did it not need to leave a visible mark at all?
If Prussia ever came back, Canada made a mental note that he would ask. On both of those, though, that was a very big 'if'.