10 years since Façade
Canada stood in the meeting room, staring mournfully out the window, just simply remembering.
The two brothers were standing outside to the door to the meeting room, preparing to make their entrance. They had dressed for the occasion—fancy black suits, freshly pressed and ironed. Canada thought it made America look cold and unfriendly. That was of course the look they had been going for, but still; it unnerved Canada greatly.
As Canada looked at his brother, the older sibling smiled tiredly back. His face was pale, a stark change from his usual tanned features; he looked tired and drawn. Canada knew for a fact that the amiable nation had been worrying about their plan for a month, staying up late into the night, tossing and turning, wondering if what they were planning was right.
Canada knew it was. wrong And America knew it was wrong. They knew that the other countries would hate them for it...but still, it needed to be done.
America took in a deep breath, and cleared his face of his emotions. "Well…you ready, little bro?"
Canada hesitated just a second, and then responded, "Brother…" It ended as a question.
"Yeah?" He responded, not seeming to mind the random interruption. Anything to put it off a little longer.
"We're martyrs…aren't we." It wasn't a question.
The mask cracked for just a second, and mournful blue met resigned violet. "Yeah…yeah we are."
Canada bowed his head and shoved down the wave of sadness, before whipping around and kicking out strongly with one foot.
The door fell with a clang—the sound of sealed fate.
Oh, it had worked. It had definitely worked. The world's economy was better than ever; unemployment rates were at all-time low, and many 3rd world countries had benefited from the 1st world countries collaboration. Without the North American brothers, it would never have happened.
But…
Canada's head dropped, and he pressed his hands to his ears, trying to ignore the memory. The eyes. The hate filled eyes as America and Canada passed in all their glory; America his head held high and regal, Canada like a wild animal, tensed and raring for a fight. Oh how he loathed the image—oh he hated how twisted they'd had to become. It nearly made him sick.
It wasn't nearly as bad for Canada, though. Not nearly as bad.
Canada was seen as a mindless enforcer, doing only what he was told. Some countries even looked on him with sympathetic eyes—even the thought made him sick. He knew what he was doing was wrong, and he hated the fact that they had to go to such extremes to get the world back in shape. It warred within him almost every day…but at least he was treated with some kindness. He had heard that most thought that his mind had been twisted irreparably by America. Most still hated him—he shuddered—but it was better than nothing.
America, though, was looked on with such venomous animosity for suppressing them and their pride. Now Canada knew that America had planned it that way—that all the hatred would be directed towards the older sibling. However America was beginning to slowly crumble under the weight of their hatred—though the other countries couldn't see it, Canada could. He could see the way late at night America would hunch over, as though carrying the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. He would see the way America imperceptibly flinched at every insult that was thrown his way.
And only he would see the way America cried himself to sleep every night.
America was perhaps the friendliest, most fun loving nation to ever cross the threshold of the meeting room. He loved the other countries with every fiber of his being, and it was that love that had caused him to try and make life better for them. But it was slowly killing America. He was eating less and less, smiling less and less when they were alone…
Canada sighed, and slowly lowered his hands into his pockets and looked out at the window again—the one that had been smashed in a fit of rage. That had been his fault…and it had been actual rage. He had been so furious with the other countries treating them like crap for helping them (though after his mind had cleared, he had realized that he couldn't blame the others—they were very proud, and forcing them to do anything was highly insulting to them, too).
America had walked into the room, suit rumpled, and a tired look in his eyes. He had stared at the mess Canada had made of the room, sighed…and then Canada had turned on him. He had shouted at America for putting up with the other countries, for letting himself get mentally destroyed by the others…
And then America had said one thing: "It is what I deserve."
It was like the quote had once said: the end justifies the means. America had seemed to taken that statement to a whole new level.
Canada turned around to walk out of the room, done with the memories. It was nearly morning, and soon the two brothers would have to go back to their normal routine—walking around with their facades firmly in place, making sure nothing went awry.
And suddenly, there was a knife at his throat.
Canada growled, immediately donning the mask that he had used for nearly ten years. "Get off me!" For some reason, it was getting easier and easier for him to do so, unlike America, whose façade was getting worse and worse as time went on
"I don't think so. Traitor." Russia's high pitched, accented voice hissed—and suddenly, his arms were tied up behind him. A thought ran through his mind—a coup d'état —he suddenly toppled to the ground, and then he was hogtied so well he could barely move.
Canada hadn't even had time to land a blow.
"Are you sure that will hold him?" It was England's low, cool voice. He was one of America and Canada's main antagonist—he seemed to go out of his way to insult them.
"The minute it looks like he is going to escape, you must knock him out." Germany. Always silent, always glaring. "It will have to do for now—we must wait for America. Hopefully then this reign of terror can finally end."
His heart froze. America! His brother would come to this room, see him tied up like this…the sight would destroy him. Because no matter what America did, there was always the underlying, 'I must keep my brother safe from harm. If I do this, will he be in danger?'
Canada hated that protective instinct, always had. He could take care of himself, and over the ten years this endeavor had made him much tougher. However America still insisted on seeing him as the younger, more emotional one. The sentiment was naïve, yes, but…sometimes, though he would never admit it, it made him happy. It made it seem like everything was as it was before, that none of the other countries hated him, that everything was the same…
He can't see me like this. I need to keep this from him.
Canada began straining against the restraints, trying not to catch the attention of the others. They were still discussing everything—what they would do after they were finally free of the tyrant (those liars—they were allowed to do anything they liked, as long as they got their work done!), what the world would be like after this was all over…
We gave everything to you. Rage caused the ropes to creak, and his teeth to grit.
And then, Yong Soo ran in, a nervous expression on his face. He sent one terrified look at Canada, before saying quietly, "America is coming!" Then he looked around one more time, before darting away. He was a little nervous of Canada because of something that had happened a while ago—Yong Soo had been very annoying, and Canada had growled at him with such anger it nearly made the Asian nation cry.
Canada's heart stopped. No. His struggling became more desperate. No!
England nodded grimly to Germany while Russia took out his pipe, stroking it gently. England settled himself on Canada's back, and the younger nation froze at the feeling of cold metal on his neck. Germany and Russia stood on either side of the two grimly, preparing for the powerful nation to enter.
"I don't know if you're still in there, Canada…" He froze at the sound of England's voice, which was barely more than a whisper. "But I swear, I will do anything in my power to save you."
Canada didn't respond, just pressed his face into the hard ground when he heard the light footsteps of his brother. Canada didn't want to see America's reaction when he saw that the younger nation had been captured.
The footsteps got closer—they were practically cheerful. It seemed like America was having a good day today—Canada whimpered and pressed his face deeper into the floor, ignoring England's air of confusion. It was the first one he'd had in the longest time…today of all days!
"Canada!" The light, happy cheerful voice called, and it nearly split Canada in two. He sounded so happy and…this would tear him apart. It made Canada want to cry. He could feel the shift of confusion when England heard the voice—America hadn't sounded like that in ten years. "Little bro~! We should go get Denny's…" The footsteps rounded the corner. The voice trailed off. Canada's heart plummeted in his chest.
A second later—a second too late—the façade was back in place. But if Canada had looked up, he knew he would have seen the heart-stopping agony in America's eyes at the sight of his little brother being threatened. "What is the meaning of this?" There was a barely undertone of nervousness in America's chilly, normally emotionless voice.
There was a moment of dead silence as the other three recovered, probably staring at America in confusion—and then England shook himself, and pressed the knife closer to Canada's throat. "This is exactly what it looks like. A coup—you surrender, and we'll let your brother go."
America let out what was supposed to be an apathetic bark of laughter—but it came out as a choked, strangled sound. "You can't kill him."
"Have you ever heard of the Titan Prometheus?"
There was a nearly audible hitch in America's breath, and Canada's heart froze. The trickster Titan, who was chained to a rock…vultures came and ate part of him every day, only for that part to grow back, day after day…the agony continued for years…
"I'm sure you know what will happen if you say no." Russia's calm and cruel voice murmured—and finally, Canada could take it no more. He looked up, straight into America's face.
The country's mask was only half there, exposing the anguish of the rest of him. His posture, usually impeccable in public, was slightly slumped. His eyes were defeated and sad, making him look older than ever—and there was also fear. For his brother. He looked dull and lifeless and…sad. Canada knew that this was it—there was no way America would be able to come back after something like this.
Canada smiled slightly, to show that he was fine, though he knew it wouldn't do anything. America, as he had assumed, was unconvinced.
"I surrender."
This time Canada heard the surprise—the country above him let out a quiet noise, and shifted. After a moment, England growled, "No, that's too easy. Get down on the ground."
Canada followed America with his eyes as he slowly got to the floor, sitting quietly on his knees, without protest. England jerked his head slightly, and Germany hurried forwards, Russia on his heels. Within minutes they had America tied up just like Canada. The North American nation didn't seem to care—he kept his eyes on Canada's the entire time.
"Now let him go." America said quietly, finally looking up at England. The Brit was obviously unsettled by America's behavior—he had obviously expecting a fight, a glorious battle where the rebels would come out on time. But it was hard to fight a battle when the opposing side was already defeated.
True to his word, England jerked his head towards Russia and Germany. They walked forwards, lifted Canada onto their shoulders, and began walking towards the door. Canada could keep silent no longer—he jerked in their hands, and cried out, "Brother, no!"
America looked up at him and smiled, heavy with sadness and guilt. The message was clear—this is what I deserve.
Germany and Russia kept walking, tightening their grip around him as he bucked and kicked angrily. "No, let me go! You don't understand!" The façade had broken. For the first time in a long time, Canada was fully himself again, and he knew that the minute he left America's life the nation would finally crumble into dust. "America!"
The door slammed in his face. The last site of his brother was a heartbroken smile.
"So, America." England knelt down so he was eye to eye with his former colony. The younger nation was staring at the floor with a dull, lifeless expression, a strange half-smile on his face. "You have been defeated by the ones you looked down upon. What do you have to say for yourself?"
The bound country just kept staring, defeated.
He's been broken completely. England shook his head and sighed, before getting up and turning away. He had work to do—tell the other rebel leaders what had transpired, and the like. He was just about to leave the room, when—
"He's going to come after me."
It was so quiet England could barely hear it—but he turned around and smirked, a wide smile crossing his face, catching America's dull eyes. This was the America he knew—never defeated, never beaten down. "We'll be ready for him. You're not getting out of here; I'll make sure of it personally—"
"No."
England pulled up short, and cocked his head at America, confused.
"If I go along with whatever you want…will you promise not to hurt him?" The pleading look in his eyes nearly made England's heart stop. "I'll resist being freed. Whatever you want. Just don't hurt him."
It took his breath away, staring down at the nation. That desperation, that…terror. Not for himself, though, for his younger brother. England remembered the way Canada beat the crap out of Russia that first day…he didn't need any protecting. But here America was, willing to give his soul away for his brother.
He could…respect that. He couldn't respect America's hypocrisy (after all, he had taken away some of the others' free will after preaching about how everyone needed to be free), but he could respect the loyalty to his family. So with a short but firm nod, England agreed to the deal. "We will do our best not to harm him."
Then America slumped to the floor, as though all the tension had loosed itself with that sentence. "Thank God." He whispered, and a small smile crossed his face.
England shifted uncomfortably, before turning away and standing at the door of the room. For some reason, he couldn't help but feel as though what they were doing was wrong—that America was not the one at fault here. But he shook off the thought—of course he was. America was the one who had repressed them for so long, made their lives a living nightmare…
Germany and Russia passed him by, and sent him a curious look—he gestured towards America, before hurriedly walking away.
He had work to do.
Many miles away, Canada had set himself up in the basement of his and America's house. America didn't know it, but Canada had secretly put a tracker under his older brother's skin. Now he was following the dot as it moved across the city, towards an airport. They were obviously planning on moving the nation to a more secure location.
Canada stroked his chin. At the moment he was ill prepared to attack a fully armed envoy—they would take him out within seconds. He would have to build up his supply of arms and followers before he even thought about reclaiming his older brother.
Besides. Canada wanted them to understand what the others had done to them—and that would take time. Time and planning.
His face suddenly split with a wide grin, lighted eerily with the soft light of the computer.
He had plenty of time.
Haha…wow. Lookie here. It's an update. Go figure. I know I haven't updated in a while, but I'm not going to make excuses for myself. Sure I was busy, sure I was distracted with writing all of my other writing project…but I was simply lazy. I was reminded about the fact that Oneshot Heaven was still active by a new reviewer, Gargoyle Alchemist. Say thank you. Sorry for the wait. Now I have apologized, and now I'm moving on.
Two people requested this one first—the sequel to Façade—so I decided, hey why not? I must say, I'm pretty pleased with the outcome. Actually, no I'm not. Argh, I don't know…I can't decide if this is really good or really bad. Or just mediocre. Unedited, so...
What I'm trying to convey here is that America is having a very hard time with this whole experience, but Canada is having a very easy time. He's normally passive aggressive, but the whole situation makes him angry…and because he's given an outlet—his mask—he's slowly becoming who he portrays. I hope that got across…and England doubts that America is all bad, too.
Anyway, I'm leaving this open at the end…because I'm planning on writing a third one. It won't be before the hiatus, I can tell you this now, but it will be called Dust. I'm not giving you any spoilers.
This is the first of 8 one shots that I will be writing and completing before I go on Major Hiatus and drop this completely. I'll open this story up again when I've finished the first book of my massive project (11 chapters, guys, and nearly finished!). But for now I'll just be writing one shots.
Now, for responses to reviews:
Vampchick2010: Thanks. I like happy endings too…makes me smile. J
Ghouti: Your concern is appreciated. Now fuck off, sunshine. ;) (Everyone else: don't be too concerned about that reaction, we're family.)
Pengirl100and2: I'm so awesome at writing because I have no life and write a lot. J Now here's a tissue and a cookie. *pats back*
Gargoyle Alchemist: Thanks for getting me to update. I'm sure my reviewers now love you.
Anyway…I'm so excited. My big book is nearly finished. The minute my sister finishes the first half I'm posting it. *giddy with excitement* But that will probably be a while…*wilts*
IceEckos12