Canada awoke that morning with buzzing in his head. He felt as if he was standing in a crowd of people who were all trying to talk to him at the same time. He thought he was going to suffocate under the roar and it was making him want to scream. He just had to focus and then his mind would clear, and it did. He stood from his bed and rubbed his bear's ears. "It seems like something is stirring up the people, Kumajiro."

"Who," the bear looked up from his spot on Canada's bed.

Canada laughed a bit, "I'm Canada. I feed you."

"Oh, right," the little bear then promptly fell back asleep.

Canada found this very strange, not the fact that his bear was sleeping, but the fact that his bear acknowledged him after he said who he was. He chose to ignore it and stretched his aching limbs; they felt heavier today. He walked towards his closet and looked at all the hoodies that filled it. He roughly pushed those aside and pulled his uniform from the back.

"If people are going to remember me, they're going to remember someone imposing, not some lazy kid," he then dressed, grabbed the ratty garments from his closet, and promptly threw them out the window.

"Bye-bye clothes," he waved to the worn shirts as they fell to the ground. He then clapped his hands and went to make breakfast.

When he got downstairs he headed straight for the kitchen and pulled out the things to make pancakes. Canada hummed while he worked but instead of a simple melody this tune was quick and spastic. He poured the ingredients together, mixed them, and had circles of batter cooking in the pan in what seemed like record time.

He was still humming and had just plated his pancakes when a knock sounded at his door. Wondering who would be visiting him at this hour, he scurried down the hallway that would lead him to his front door. When he opened the door he looked around to find no one actually standing there. He was about to close the door when something on the ground caught his eye. On his doorstep sat an innocent looking package. Finding this package strange but not threatening he picked it up and went into his house, closing the door on the glittering outside.

He sat the package on his kitchen table and regarded it while he ate his slightly cold pancakes. The package was simple. It was covered in brown paper and tied with twine, but one thing did tip Canada off as to who the sender was: the paper was covered in drawings of sunflowers.

Canada finished his breakfast, washed the dishes, then sat back down at his table to stare at the package some more. Finally deciding that just looking at the box was going to get him nowhere; he dragged it in front of him, untied the strings and carefully removed the paper.

When he opened the box he saw a note lying on top of wispy pink paper. He lifted the note from the box and the words scrawled on the parchment knocked him into confusion.

Dear Matvey,

I suspect there to be hard times ahead of us. This has brought me great joy over the years and my hopes are that it will do the same for you.

Make me proud,

Ivan

"What is he talking about? What is he giving me," Canada pushed aside the paper in the box and pulled out a well-worn, cream scarf. He nearly choked when the full magnitude of the gift hit him. "This can't be what I think it is! This can't be Ivan's scarf! This has to be his most prized possession, there's no way he'd just give it to me, but if so, why?"

Canada sat at his kitchen table in an almost panic for nearly ten minutes before the doorbell interrupted him. Finally giving up, he wrapped the scarf around his neck in case Russia was at the door, pocketed an icepick laying on his counter in case it was a burglar (who rang the doorbell) and went to see who was calling to be let in his house. When he reached the door he saw that it was neither Russia nor a polite burglar. It was much worse. It was America. When he caught sight of Canada he started grinning like the idiot he was.

"Hey, dude! Whoa, you look different! Did you lose weight? No, wait, you gained weight. No, you dyed your hair! No you didn't. I don't know what you did," America's tangent was already giving Canada a headache.

"Alfred, shut up. I haven't changed anything. Thus I have no idea what you are talking about," Canada was not in the mood for America's ramblings today.

America was now standing on his doorstep pointing at him. "That! That's what's different! Dude, you're acting like Arty!"

Canada concluded that America must have consumed way too much coffee on his journey and thus should not be allowed into his house should he get overly excited and end up breaking something.

"Alfred, why don't we go for walk? It's rare for the snow to be this fresh and the cool air is nice."

He was met with whining, "But it's cold and wet and stuff. Do you really want to walk through that?"

Canada groaned, "Yes I do," he leaned back into the house for a moment. "Kumajiro, I'm going for a walk! Now, let's go, Alfred."

He left the house without locking his door and grabbed his brother's arm to get him to walk through the frozen water that covered the ground, "Geeze, Matt. Think you could ease up on the grip?" America was trying to shake his wrist from Canada's fist. A very red mark was starting to develop on the American's appendage.

"Sorry, Alfred," Canada released his brother's arm sheepishly when they reached the tree line. "I guess I'm just excited to get out of the house."

America looked at him oddly, "Geeze, Matt, chill. It's just snow," he paused for a moment then giggled. "Hehe, chill...snow. I'm a genius."

"No, what you are, is a nuisance," Canada shook his head and trudged on in front of his brother through the forest. He stopped when he reached the clearing he was looking for. America appeared not long after. He found his brother, with his eyes closed and head tilted back, breathing in the fresh air and enjoying the cold. It was then that he saw something oddly familiar preventing Canada's neck from being on full display.

"Matt…where'd you get that scarf," America was incredibly hesitant with his question and started to internally panic.

"Huh," Canada opened his eyes and looked down at the scarf. "Ivan gave it to me."

America spluttered, "Ivan? Ivan? Who's I—Russia? Russia gave you a scarf? Wait, no Russia gave you his scarf? Matt…th-th-this is bad. Like really, really, really bad. Like Brussels sprouts and hot fudge bad. Russia's gonna stab you in your sleep or kidnap you or something. But have no fear Matty, you're hero will protect you with all his might! I can—"

"Shut up, Alfred," America whipped his head around to look at his brother and a cold chill ran down his spine. Canada's eyes had become intense and he was leaking an aura so evil it seemed to make the clearing visibly darken.

Canada was shaking with rage, "Since when did you protect me Alfred? You've done nothing but ignore me or try to invade my lands! I came to visit you at your house a while ago and you didn't even see me. How are you supposed to protect what you can't even see? But you see me now, don't you Alfred?"

America had honestly never seen Canada so angry or heard him speak so loudly. He had no idea what to do with a pissed off brother, so he did the only thing he could. He walked over to Canada and put his hands on his shoulders in an attempt the calm down the enraged nation. "Matty, you've got to get ahold of yourself." The other nation fidgeted a bit but America assumed he was just adjusting to the weight.

"No!" America didn't expect to have his arms violently knocked away or to have Canada lunge at him and stab something deep into his shoulder. Canada then quickly backed away with a grin that held not even a speck of sanity. As he held a bloodied ice pick (which must have been what he was fidgeting for) and swayed back and forth with specks of blood trailing up his face, Canada looked just like a killer from one of America's horror movies. And that scared the usually brave nation.

"Matty, what are you doing," America didn't want to resort to pleading, but it was all that would come to him.

Canada's mad grin never faltered, "I'm finally getting my revenge, my dear brother. It will start with your blood and end with the blood of everyone else." Canada caught America off guard as he lunged forward once again. This time the pick landed in America's stomach and was, again, quickly removed with a trail of blood. Realizing that there was no reasoning with his brother anymore, America backed up and prepared to fight. He saw his brother's eyes change as it occurred to him that America was going to start fighting back. He was now plotting the best way to take him down.

A predatory glint was in Canada's eyes as he tilted his head, came to a decision, and mocked America. "You look scared, brother. Did you not know that I was able to be strong? If I wasn't strong how could I have survived while being cut off all these years? You're so…dim…Alfred," the hand that wasn't holding the pick made lazy circles next to his head; an almost drunken parody of the universal sign for crazy.

America was learning so much about his quiet brother right now that it terrified him. The worst part was that he was sure that these words were not lies. Was he really not able to see all these things? How could a hero not see that his brother was so unstable? He was shaken from his thoughts as Canada got bored with the staring match. America tried to catch him as he charged but his reflexes were much faster. The pick tore through the sleeve of America's bomber jacket and into the soft flesh that came up in an attempt to protect his torso.

The pain was really starting to bother America and he was beginning to pant from exertion as he felt his blood seeping through his shirt. Canada was panting from trying to hold back his laughter. He rushed again, but this time America was ready. As Canada charged towards him, America summoned some of his strength and landed a punch across his jaw. Canada froze at the impact a mere foot away from his brother, so close that America could watch his eyes dart around, franticly searching for something that wasn't there. The brave nation flinched when his counterpart reached up, but steadied as the jaw he injured was cracked back in place. He heard a gasp of pain, felt his back hit the snow, and realized his mistake too late. He had let his guard down and now Canada was above him laughing a gross, distorted, painful laugh while he tried to free himself from his brother's pin. It was useless; Canada's height advantage had him trapped.

"Say goodbye, brother." Tears began roll down America's face as Canada held both of his wrists to free up one of his hands. He tried one last time to throw his brother off, but his attempt was futile. Canada raised that dreaded ice pick and continued to laugh. That laugh echoed through the woods around them and that made it more horrifying than it already was.

America was gazing straight into his brother's blown pupils, "Must you really do this, Matthew?"

"I must, brother, if I don't I'll die," then the pick came down with no remorse. America screamed as it broke through his ribcage and tore into his lung. The clearing in the woods was filled with Canada's laughter mixed with America's screams as that pick was repeatedly stabbed into the victim of the broken nation. Breaking bone, tearing flesh, and piercing organs as blood flew everywhere and painted everything near the site of the carnage red.

Suddenly there was silence and Canada still kneeled over his brother's corpse as it dyed the snow around him with the most gorgeous shade of red. He lifted himself from the ground and looked around. When did he stop laughing? When did the screams stop? He looked back but couldn't remember. The memories seemed to lack sound, only sight. All he saw was his brother's anguished face and blood. So much blood. He lifted a knuckle to his lips, licked off a smudge, and regarded himself. Such a lovely shade of red, but it's stained Russia's scarf. He stepped through the gradually widening red puddle and realized that he rather enjoyed the slushy sound it made. He froze when he heard heavy boots approaching the clearing.

Sorry for the long wait my dears. I write when I get the inspiration and sadly I've had none for a while. Add on the fact the Alfred refused to die and you have yourself a very slowly updating story. You all probably want to stab me for leaving it on a cliffhanger, but it's not that bad. I also have some good and bad news: the next chapter is going to be the last. Good because, no more waiting for updates. Bad because the story is over. Also, is anyone annoyed by the name switch when it comes to speaking and thinking?