Hetalia does not belong to me. Neither do any of the countries mentioned. Get back to me after 'World Domination Phase 3' is complete.
* Quick note: a section written in italics represents inner dialogue or a memory.
Tired of Waiting
"Ah, I was thinking."
"That's shocking," he teased. "What were you thinking about?"
Prussia grinned and it was three parts mischievous to two parts roguish.
"You."
"Me?" Canada pointed to himself.
"You. Naked on a silver platter."
"Naked?"
"Of course."
"Well then..." Canada seemed both shocked and flattered.
"I mean... Don't misunderstand. I'm a pervert but I like you just as much with your clothes on. Maybe even more!"
Canada tilted his head to the side and narrowed his gaze. Prussia realized that he might be putting his foot into his mouth.
"Ummm... What I mean is..." He stumbled over the words to explain what he had in fact been thinking about and not a lie. He was too used to puffing himself up but it seemed as if an honest answer might get him further with Canada. "You're cute and sweet and still manage to have one hell of a mean streak that no one else seems to notice. And you're kind. And you put up with me, which, let's face it, is rare."
Canada continued to watch him with an even and thoughtful stare as he rambled.
"Which is to say, you're incredibly patient. And you smell nice! Not that that has much to do with anything…"
Prussia wanted to cover his mouth and impede the stream of nonsense that seemed to dash from his mind to his mouth without notice. The embarrassment was unbearable.
"But what I mean," Prussia wished that honesty was not so difficult, "is that I like you, a lot, and that I have for a couple of decades."
Oh.
Oh, that just sort of slipped out. He wondered if he meant it. He had been watching Canada for a couple of decades... Perhaps it had not with the best of intentions, but he had been watching him.
Canada bent his neck so that the fringe of his hair covered his face but not before Prussia could see the sheepish grin and flushed cheeks. Prussia bent at the waist and glanced up in an attempt to better see him. The blush had reached the tips of his ears and he was biting on his bottom lip with absentminded bashfulness. Canada held one hand against the heat of cheeks and used the other hand to push Prussia away.
"Hey, Birdie?"
Canada continued to stare at the floor in such a pointed fashion as to ignore Prussia. When Prussia tried to step closer he turned the other direction.
"… Embarrassing," Canada mumbled.
"What? I didn't quite catch that."
"You're embarrassing me!" Canada crossed his arms over his chest and pouted.
Canada had somehow managed to swing from aggressive to teasing to embarrassed and back again. Prussia was beginning to believe that there was someone else in the world as unhinged as he was.
And that suited him just fine.
Canada tucked a loose strand of blonde behind his ear and continued to stare at the granite tiles in defiance.
Canada pushed Prussia towards the conference room with a promise to follow in a moment and disappeared into the washroom. There were seven minutes left of their respite and Canada needed the time to himself.
He leaned against the counter and studied his reflection in the mirror hanging there. His cheeks were flushed several shades darker than their usual pink hue.
He grimaced and splashed cold water on his face from the sink.
It was useless to hope that Prussia might remember his promise after one hundred and forty five years.
But he could not help but to hope.
Whether or not he remembered was another issue altogether. Despite the fact that nations could not easily separate minutes from weeks, he could still tell that this was happening too quickly.
He had planned on teasing him a bit after keeping him waiting for so long. He was supposed to be a new toy and a cure for his mild boredom. Instead he found himself desperately entangled with the other nation in the matter of a couple hours. He had spent more time with Prussia this morning than he had had occasion to the last five years combined and he was infatuated with the banter and the flirting and the laughter.
It had been a rather long time since anyone had paid him notice and he was revelling in the attention.
Canada sighed and threaded his fingers through his unmanageable tresses in an effort to tame them. His reflection seemed to be a little too truthful. He seemed sad and a little lonely.
Was it worth it to hope and chance the inevitable broken heart?
"Gah!"
Canada slapped himself on each cheek to suppress the depressing and pessimistic thoughts running rampant through his mind. The effort only served to dye his cheeks another shade darker.
It was no use to agonize over what was, what is, and what might be. Life was a dance and even if you did not know all of the steps, it was possible to make them up as you went. So he would make it up as he went and hope for the best.
Because he sure as hell had no idea what he was doing.
Canada tore his gaze from his reflection to the windowpane set high in the brick wall. He could see the leaves flutter in the wind. It was obvious that he had spent too long indoors, despite the disastrous visit to the garden, if he had been reduced to giving himself motivational speeches in the washroom. He must have cabin fever.
Or perhaps he was lovesick. He wondered which was worse.
One of the washroom stalls opened with the creaking whimper of hinges in need of oil.
He had forgotten to check if he was alone.
The Netherlands met his gaze and held it for a second longer than was comfortable. Canada swallowed and it sounded too loud to his ears. He was somewhat intimidated by the intense stare.
The Netherlands blinked once, twice, and seemed to snap out of it. He muttered under his breath and stepped towards the sink to wash his hands.
Maybe he was high?
He watched Canada in the mirror as he busied himself with the soap and Canada could see that his eyes were clear of bloodshot, though that did not necessarily mean anything with him. He could be popping pills in broad daylight and no one would ever notice.
No, this was different. This was not the result of tablets or grass.
He switched off the running water after a lifetime and twisted towards Canada.
"Prussia tried to kiss you," he said as he leant his hip against the counter. It was not a question.
Canada felt his breath hitch.
"How did you find out?"
The Netherlands shrugged his shoulders without answering him. He instead sauntered forward and pressed one of his still wet fingers against his lips with an odd, detached fascination. He followed the contours of his lips and Canada shivered at the contact.
"Lars?"
His fingers were cold.
"Yes?"
"What are you doing?"
"I'm jealous and drowning in memories," he laughed. Canada quirked an eyebrow and frowned, but otherwise remained still within his grasp. The two of them had been through hell and back together, but that had never meant that Canada had any idea what was going through his mind.
It was all quite strange.
This morning had involved more contact with the other countries than he was used to. He was usually the one who would reach out for their attention or watch them from a distance. No one had ever been cruel to him but it felt as if the nations treated him with a tactic sort of estrangement most of the time.
This morning it felt as if the nations followed his every move. It was slightly unnerving.
The Netherlands looked as if he would add some sort of explanation but he was interrupted when France slammed the door open with thespian flare and flounced into the washroom. His steps faltered upon seeing The Netherlands with his finger still pressed against his lips.
France seemed torn between disapproval and longing.
He must have decided on disapproval because he clucked his tongue and waggled his own finger.
"Now, now, Lars. You should know better."
The Netherlands grumbled but obligingly took three steps backwards. The two nations stared each other down while Canada looked on in confusion. It seemed that their conversation needed no words.
Strange.
The Netherlands scowled and France offered him a strained little smile. The Netherlands grumbled again before turning on his heel and storming out of the washroom. He paused at the entrance to smile at Canada and reassure him. The smile was brilliant and Canada found himself lost in memories of his own.
And then he was gone.
And Canada was left alone in the washroom with France.
He might make it out alive if he left now.
"Aha. Ha. Ha... 'ello?" Canada was still confused from earlier and it seemed that his survival instincts were a bit sluggish. France hummed and draped himself over Canada.
"Bonjour," he purred and Canada could feel the headache building. If dealing with Denmark was an exercise in patience, then dealing with France was grounds for sainthood.
"What was that about?"
France hummed again and twirled his fingers through Canada's tresses.
"Francis…"
"Oh, fine," France pouted and tugged on a strand a little harder than needed. "You're no fun. It was just a friendly disagreement; nothing more. You can think of it as foreplay."
"I'd really rather not."
"Suit yourself."
Canada twisted to glare at France but he ignored the glare and instead kissed his cheek with a wink. Canada wrote him off as a lost cause and ducked his head in defeat. France took this as permission to continue twirling his hair around his fingers. The two of them remained in that position in what could be considered companionable silence for less than a minute before France predictably broke it.
"Matthieu, I heard the most outlandish rumour that you and dearest Gilbert were... How do you say... Kissing."
Canada started in surprise.
"Alright, what the... That just happened! And there was no... How would...?"
"Ah, a little bird told me."
Canada rolled his eyes in exasperation and sudden understanding.
"You mean that you were peeking."
"… Perhaps."
Canada sighed as France slipped his hands from his hair and trailed them further down his chest. His fingers caressed each button of his shirt and came to a fascinated halt at the zipper of his pants.
"What are you doing?"
"You can think of it as foreplay."
"I'd really rather not. Why were you following us?"
"I simply could not help myself! You know me, I am…"
"… A gossiping whore?" Canada interrupted.
"Curious," France stated firmly, frowning and continuing to fiddle with his zipper. "How poorly you think of me!"
"I wonder why," Canada laughed as he batted at France and his wandering hands. "Seriously, though, why the sudden interest?"
"Sudden? Oh, my sweet! Wherever did you get that idea?"
"Eh?"
"Yes, yes, I know. You are hopeless in matters of the heart. Not so much as Arthur or Alfred, but hopeless nonetheless."
Canada leaned back into France and pressed their bodies together.
"Oh, really? That's not the way I remember it," Canada hummed.
France swallowed and stepped back.
"Do not tempt me, you foolish child."
Canada smiled and felt as if he had won some small and insignificant battle.
"Then stop spying on me."
"I simply cannot help it," sighed France as if explaining the obvious to a misbehaving adolescent. He gestured with his hands. "It is impossible not to watch your hips when you sway. When will you learn?"
"When you start making sense, maybe?"
France strode forward again and ran his finger over the shell of his ear.
"Ah," whispered France, "this is only the beginning. Gilbert does not yet realize that he is running with scissors. Someone will challenge him and the resulting mess will be... Horrid."
"Challenge him for what?" Canada wanted to run from the washroom and out of his grasp. France was more intense than usual and it made him uncomfortable and nervous. More so than it should.
France remained quiet and ran his finger down his spine.
"Challenge him for what?" Canada repeated and France chuckled low in his throat.
"Yes, someone will challenge him for the greatest prize... Of... All..." France purred as he trailed his fingers lower and on to his backside. He pinched with cruel intentions.
Canada felt his heart come to a shuddering halt before picking up double time. He did the one thing his instincts had been begging him to do since France had first sauntered into the washroom.
He bolted.
The Netherlands leaned against washroom entrance and slid down to the tiles. He rested against his knees that were drawn up against his chest and cradled his forehead with his hands.
Shit. How come he could never forget?
He tried to protect himself from kaleidoscope of emotions coursing through him but it was no use. His hands were still wet.
He paused a moment before raising fingers to his own lips and pressing them together. His hands were shaking. He could remember the feeling of his lips both from a couple minutes ago and from a couple of decades ago and the edges of the memories were blurring together.
Canada dragged himself over the broken glass and rubble; his uniform discoloured and filthy. He was coughing harshly and soot streaked his pale skin. He flung himself to the ground at the sound of gunfire and not a second too soon as bullets lodged themselves in ruins of the city, kicking up dust.
By the time Canada had crossed the street The Netherlands had finished rolling his paper and lit the end with a match. He kept his face carefully blank, as if anything could set him off without a moment's notice. He took a slow drag as the other nation sidled up beside him and sank to the ground, unfastening the straps on his helmet. Canada kicked one leg out and kept the other bent at the knee, reaching his hand towards The Netherlands.
He snapped the fingers of his upraised hand impatiently and motioned for the joint. The Netherlands passed it over without a word and Canada took a drag, held it, before blowing the smoke severely through his lips.
"What a fucking mess," Canada growled, passing the joint back.
"You're telling me," The Netherlands laughed hollowly. He watched the end of the joint burn and listened to the pattering drum of gunfire in the distance. "How's Juliana?"
"Your princess? She's doing just fine," Canada replied quietly. "They're beautiful, you know. Your citizens are so beautiful. You should be proud."
Canada stole the joint again and took another drag.
"I know." The Netherlands sighed, running his hands over the fallen column to his left and fingering the bullet holes. Beautiful, resilient, and optimistic in the face of adversity.
Canada watched him from the corner of his eye and snuffed the burnt paper into the dirt.
"You're beautiful too, you know."
The Netherlands choked on a sound halfway between a sob and a howl. It all sounded so wrong.
"I don't feel beautiful right now. Look at my people, my cities, and my country in ruin! My flag is burning. How could I possibly be beautiful?"
He leaned his head back and gazed at the clouds trailing lazily through the blue sky. Grit and ashes rained down from the top of the buildings and he tried to convince himself that it was only the cinders that were causing his eyes to water.
He was pulled from his reverie when Canada grabbed him roughly by the front of his coat and pressed their lips together. The Netherlands kissed back desperately and threaded his fingers through the other man's hair, knocking his helmet clean off. Canada tasted like sweat, blood, and grime. There was nothing beautiful about that kiss; it was sloppy and frantic with too much teeth, but when they separated, Canada was the most wonderful creature Netherlands had ever seen.
"See," Canada said, tapping his fingers to The Netherlands swollen lips to prove his point, "beautiful."
He choked on another sob at the cruelty of the situation. He should be the one telling Canada that he was beautiful; he should be showering him with kindness in repayment for his sacrifices. For everything that Canada had done for him and his people since this war had stripped his country bare. Instead, here they were, covered in dirt and smeared in the blood of their comrades.
Canada smiled sadly, as if reading his mind, and picked up his helmet; fastening it securely. He then rifled through his pockets and pulled out a tube of ladies lipstick. He had probably found it abandoned in the city streets, and sure enough, The Netherlands could see a small doll, a letter, and a locket glittering in the pocket; all souvenirs of war. Canada bent over The Netherlands to reach the pockmarked column he had been distracted with earlier and steadily connected some of the wounds into the shape of the heart. The red of the lipstick stood starkly against the contrasting ash of the city around it.
Canada put the lipstick back in his pocket with the rest of his keepsakes and stared intently at The Netherlands.
"Beautiful." He said again, leaving no room for argument. And as The Netherlands gazed at the pillar with the red heart connecting the bullet holes, he could almost believe it, in spite of everything.
Canada held out his hand to Netherlands and motioned towards the end of the street, where the sound of shooting was getting closer.
"C'mon, we've got a war to win."
So The Netherlands grasped his hand and placed his trust in this saviour. He only looked back once at the red heart contrasting against the white stone, to burn the image in his mind, before turning to follow.
The door slammed open and he was abruptly pulled back to the present when it sent him sprawling across the floor. Canada tripped over him and fell in a blur of colours and curse words. He landed on top of him and managed to drive his elbow into his stomach.
Canada untangled himself to see who he had landed on before collapsing back on to him with a snort that degraded into hiccupping laughter. He rested his forehead against his chest and continued to snigger into the folds of his shirt. It was that nervous, anxious laughter that came when you could either laugh or weep at your own misfortune.
The Netherlands took a moment to consider that Canada may, in fact, be high.
Canada whimpered and dried the tears from his fit on his shirt but The Netherlands did not mind much. When Canada did push off from his chest he ended up positioning himself so that he was straddling him.
He did not seem to realize how compromising the situation was.
"Lars, you would not believe the morning I'm having!"
"I think that I can take a wild guess."
Canada bent forward to touch their foreheads together. He allowed himself a moment of quiet before pushing off of him and standing up.
Canada glanced back at the washroom with a worried chuckle.
"I'll see you soon, alright?"
The Netherlands could only hope so.
Canada bounded down the corridor and almost knocked England over in his rush. Canada muttered a disjointed string of apologies as he skidded around the corner. England stopped to watch him go before shrugging his shoulders and continuing towards the washroom.
He paused to stare at The Netherlands still sprawled across the tiles and cocked an eyebrow.
"You look like I feel;" England said as he stepped over the other nation without helping him up, "confused."
Author's Notes:
The liberation of The Netherlands occurred in the last months of WWII and was largely organized by the Canadians. My great grandfather was one of the many soldiers to assist during this operation.
Princess Juliana was spirited to Canada at the beginning of the war with her eldest daughter. It was the safest and furthest place that the United Kingdom could think to send her when The Netherlands was annexed. She raised her daughter(s) here and treated herself as any other citizen. When her next daughter, Margriet, was born in Canada, her hospital room was declared to be extraterritorial so that the princess would still be eligible for the throne. It was the only time in Canadian history that another nation's flag was flown from the Peace Tower. The royal family safely returned to The Netherlands after the war and since then, like clockwork, has sent Canada 20 000 tulip bulbs every year in appreciation. 10 000 bulbs from the royal family and 10 000 bulbs from the horticultural society. 100 000 tulips bulbs were sent the first year. The Tulip Festival was created in Ottawa in order to display these generous gifts and the blooming flowers can be found on Parliament Hill, in the parks, and scattered around the city. I attended when I was a bit younger and it was very beautiful.
The soldier with a pocket full of mementos is a common occurrence. It is well documented that soldiers will collect trinkets from those met on the campaign and the remains of trinkets when arriving too late. Most of the mementos would seem useless to anyone beside the soldier who collected them.