Author's note: Here's part two (the finale) of this little short story. Thanks again to kayladchristine on Tumblr for the request. If you'd like to submit a request, I'm always open to new ideas on my blog, Mandelene Fics.
War is easy to think about for the person who isn't doing any of the fighting or planning. If Canada had just been a governor of some province, he wouldn't have to consider the minutiae involved in figuring out what preparations to make and how many lives may be on the line. He wouldn't have to think about sending his men out to battle on a front he doesn't really want to put them on. How can he be expected to treat his people like pawns, maneuvering them whichever way he pleases without giving them a say in the matter?
It's all very agonizing and frustrating, to say the least. The night he returns from his impromptu visit to Boston, he lies in bed and stares at the ceiling for three hours straight, mind reeling and eyes burning with thousands of visions of what the outcomes of this fighting might be. He sees America, broken and bloody. He sees France, calling out to him to join his side. He sees England with expectant eyes, waiting for him to do what he promised he would. How would England punish him if he backed out now?
He doesn't get any sleep. Instead, he paces back and forth in his bedroom until the sun rises, blinking his exhausted eyes and feeling numb all over, as if someone has stolen his ability to feel emotions. Someone has sucked out his soul, leaving him in an empty shell. He isn't himself anymore.
"Mon lapin, you were always so clever."
Now he's hearing voices. He turns around and half of his brain thinks he'll see France while the other half knows he's hallucinating. If England were here right now, he'd be fussing over him and lecturing about the importance of getting a good night of rest in order to perform at one's best. He'd be talking to him as if he were still a little boy, unable to make rational decisions for himself and needing an elder's guidance.
Is that how America feels? Does he feel belittled by England at times as well? Is that a justifiable reason to revolt when the majority of his brother's population is actually still loyal to the Crown?
He has so many questions and too few answers. Maybe he is too young to take care of himself. At times, it seems as though he doesn't know anything about the world—at least not the important stuff. If he were in America's shoes and had somehow successfully revolted, would he be able to govern himself? Probably not. Honestly, sometimes Canada surprises himself when he remembers to buy enough food to last him for two weeks and can keep the house reasonably clean and tidy.
It isn't well until the morning that he's able to function enough to brew himself a cup of tea and force some breakfast down his throat. He'd hoped having something in his stomach would make him feel less hollow, but no such luck.
He can't go on like this. He has to do something. Sitting around and dreading the inevitable isn't going to improve his situation.
He abandons the remainder of his tea and stows himself away in his small study, where his tiny mahogany desk is waiting for him, cleared and organized. It's not the first time he's sought refuge in this room, and he has a feeling this won't be the last either.
He slides into his desk chair, slaps a fresh piece of parchment in front of him and gets to work on drafting a letter to France, fingers shaking so hard he almost knocks over his inkwell a few times in the process. He shouldn't be contacting the man without getting England's approval first, and it's quite possible this idea will backfire, but he's feeling bold enough to be a little rebellious himself.
Dear Francis—
Too informal. They're not on such familial terms anymore.
Francis Bonnefoy—
Former imperialist whom I occasionally cared for
He crumples up the entire piece of parchment, bangs his head lightly against his desk, and groans. He can't find any of the right words to use. Everything sounds awkward and insincere at best. The previous boldness coursing through his veins vanishes, and he glares at the ruined letter, feeling terrible for almost colluding with France while simultaneously hating himself for ignoring France since the break in their political ties occurred. He should've reached out at some point to assure the man that although things have been rocky, he still appreciates the Frenchman for raising him into the young man he now is.
Damn America. Damn America a hundred times over for putting him through this agony. Damn him for being selfish. Damn him for his convictions. Damn him for wanting to be free.
Damn him for not knowing when to surrender.
No one's sure who fired the first shot, and Canada doesn't care to know, quite honestly.
It is official now—they are at war.
That is to say, Canada, as an extension of the British Empire, is at war with America just as much as England is. England's men and his men are one and the same. They wear the same uniforms, follow the same orders, share the same camps and forts, and the thought still makes Canada uneasy. He has found that the best way to deal with this revelation is to pretend he's ignorant. After the Battles of Lexington and Concord, he vows to stay away from all news related to the war. If there's something crucial he needs to know, England will make sure to contact him. Otherwise, he goes about his business as usual, trying to retain a sense of normalcy in his life as his soldiers are trained along England's and are sent on marches down south.
It is bloody. There's no other way around it. When England returns from Massachusetts and drops by for a short stay, Canada is forced to witness the consequences of the fighting. England comes into his house with lacerations crisscrossing his arms and torso, a limp in his right leg, and a shoulder swollen to double the size it should be.
Canada himself has sustained a few small injuries as a side-effect of his men dying and being injured on their marches, but aside from a few bruises here and there, he has been managing fine for now.
If England's looking worse for wear, he doesn't want to imagine what America looks like.
To his credit, England is taking all of this well, or at least, he's pretending to. When he half-walks, half-staggers into the kitchen, he does so with the same obstinate air Canada has witnessed him display for years now, as though the recent fighting is nothing but a small skirmish that he expects should subside within the next day or two.
Canada offers to tend to the man's wounds only to be barked at dismissively with back-to-back responses like "No, no don't trouble yourself, honestly," and "I'm fine—all of this fussing is making my head ache." So, he makes some obligatory tea, sets out a tray of pastries, and leaves a roll of bandages on the table—a gentle invitation for England to take advantage of them should he finally admit to himself that he's not as fine as he wants to seem.
But it isn't the physical injuries that seem to have caused England the most grief. Rather, something deeper, more intimate, seems to be bothering him. He's picked up a number of nervous tics, like tapping his foot to fill silence and wringing his hands during conversation. He doesn't appear to realize these small changes in behavior, and Canada isn't going to point them out because it would be rude.
Canada tries to act as natural as possible, but he hasn't mastered the art of stoicism like his mentor has just yet. He tries to discuss England's trip here, and during this exchange, he accidentally mentions France, jokingly asking whether or not the man has been trying to get under his skin again. He normally jokes about France around England, but these aren't normal times.
England sucks in a breath as though he's been slapped and snarls, "That frog should know to stay on the other side of the Atlantic. He's using America's naivety to try to re-establish a foothold here, but his efforts are in vain. He can find himself a different continent to colonize."
"You don't think he cares about America?" Canada asks, and his heart sinks as soon as the words leave his mouth. He's just triggered a landmine.
"Of course not!" England shouts, whisking himself up and onto his unsteady feet. "It's yet further evidence that America is too young and irresponsible to care for himself! He is swayed by the empty words and promises of other nations too easily! If I weren't here to protect him—!" he cuts himself off, frown deepening.
Except England isn't protecting America anymore. He's hurting him.
Canada stares silently at the man, waiting for him to finish his thought or do something, but he just stands there, stiff with anger and anguish. "Have you spoken to America since… you know?"
"There's nothing to say until he surrenders."
And Canada has a feeling America won't be surrendering anytime soon.
On an unusually warm evening in early July, just as Canada is getting ready to turn in for the night, someone nearly knocks his front door off its hinges.
His first reaction is one of paralyzing fear—someone has broken in. Well, let them take his belongings. It's not as though he has anything of value in the house. What he's really scared of is the thought of being attacked, and while he can't technically die, a good blow to the head might leave him unconscious for a number of days, and the recovery certainly wouldn't be pleasant.
He bites his lower lip and debates whether or not he should grab the musket he keeps stored in the basement, but how would he get to the basement? Would the intruder see him? Would it be worth it to make a run for it?
In the midst of his deliberating, the door to his bedroom comes flying open, and Canada lets out an involuntary yell, startled. Time seems to slow down, and he swears his life flashes before his eyes until he finally catches sight of the robber.
And it appears the intruder isn't a robber at all, unless England is interested in seizing his silverware and china sets.
"Why are you howling like a banshee?" England demands, stomping inside. His face is a plethora of reds and purples, evidence of his outrage.
Canada opens and closes his mouth, strange little squeaks catching themselves on his lips as he tries to reply. Why is the man angry with him anyway? "I-I didn't expect a visit from you."
England holds out a document as way of explanation, and it looks like official business.
Heart still traumatized, Canada carefully takes the document and frowns at it. It must be pretty important if it was enough to make England burst into his house unannounced—something he would never do if he were worried about remaining gentlemanly.
"IN CONGRESS, JULY 4, 1776
The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America
When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."
Canada's chest contracts painfully as he reads on. This isn't good. This is America's way of asserting he will fight for as long as he must and intends to be as difficult and uncompromising as possible. It's him telling England to go and toss himself overboard for all he cares.
Cautiously, Canada looks up from the document and ventures to look over at England, who has been seething this entire time, breaths labored from the effort of having to keep some semblance of his composure.
Why is he being shown this? What does England expect him to do? Does he think he can talk America out of this? That'll be near impossible.
He hands America's latest act of rebellion back to England and sighs. Is it selfish to be tired of being the mediator between England and America? He wants to be able to say he wholeheartedly vows to do everything to mitigate the tension between them, but honestly, this is something Canada can't fix. He can't help England in the way the man wants him to. England wants some kind of magic settlement or compromise, and he still doesn't seem to accept that this problem runs deeper than some silly taxes.
He begins to formulate a way to break the news to the man that he needs to start looking at this from a more strategic perspective than one of personal ties, but suddenly, England drops the declaration, lets it float harmlessly from his hands down to the floor, and strides forward to hug Canada, clutching him tightly.
Canada feels his muscles seize up in response and chides himself for being so insensitive. Of course England doesn't want to hear about military planning at a time like this. Of course he didn't come here to rant and fume. He came here for some kind of closure—to find solace, or at the very least, to talk to someone who might understand and sympathize with him.
England's rage morphs into sorrow, and his breath hitches as he sighs against Canada's shoulder.
And finally, Canada knows what to say.
"I'm sorry, England."
When the fighting is brought to New York, it's an unequivocal victory for the Crown.
Canada should be happy. It means they're one step closer to bringing an end to this madness once and for all, but somehow, as he looks out at the burning city from one of England's world-renown ships, leaning over the edge and watching the water lap at the shoreline, all he feels is remorse.
He asks for England's permission to walk around the city for a bit, and though England is confused by his motives, he allows him to momentarily leave the ship and survey the damage. If all goes as planned, England will be rebuilding these collapsed homes and buildings within a few years' time.
It's by complete chance that he stumbles into America. His brother is helping some of the Patriots retreat when he sees him, and America has to do a double-take to be certain he's looking at who he thinks he's looking at.
"Canada," he says hoarsely, voice a wisp of what it used to be. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised to see you here. Having a good time?"
Canada scowls and wants to tell America to give up because of course he's not having a good time doing this, but something about the confrontational tone America is using makes him back down, and he merely watches as the young man grabs another soldier's shoulder and hefts him up off the burning ground.
And with that, America turns away and doesn't say anything else. Canada considers going after him, and as he's reaching a hand out to pull him closer, a nest of light blond hair attracts his attention.
"France," Canada mumbles, hands trembling. It's been so long. Too, too, long. He sprints over to him at once, barely resisting the immense urge he has to hug the man. It wouldn't be appropriate to embrace him now. They're at war.
But they used to be family and that must still mean something, right?
France is hurriedly speaking to another man in French when he cranes his neck around to meet Canada's eyes.
Canada isn't sure how he wants the man to respond—maybe with a cheerful "Mathieu!" or "I've missed you," or "I'm relieved to see England's cooking hasn't harmed you yet."
But France gives him a scornful sidelong glance, continues to murmur something under his breath, and sweeps away, refusing to pay him any mind.
Canada bites his tongue and stays planted to the same spot for a long while, eyes watering from emotion and the billows of black smoke still rising from some of the surrounding rooftops. How could France pretend not to recognize him and treat him so coldly after all they'd been through together? Doesn't he understand that he doesn't want to be fighting these battles? He's doing it because he doesn't have a choice—because he's England's now, and not because he wants anyone hurt. Why can't France see it through his view?
Soundlessly, he marches back to the ship, hands curled into quivering fists as he boards. He intends to go retreat to some secluded part of the ship, so he can be alone for as long as time will permit, but England notices something isn't right upon his return, and asks, "Are you all right, lad?"
So this is what it feels like, then. This is what it's like to be handed a declaration of independence. This is how it hurts.
And he knows, in that moment, that he will stop America, regardless of the sacrifice it'll take.
"I'm fine," he replies, getting better at this whole stoicism notion. "We have a lot of work to do."
Seven years since the first bullet was fired, and still, there isn't an end in sight, but the political discourse in Europe has changed, and with that the monarchy has found itself distracted with other matters. America stops being a priority, and there is hushed talk of looking eastward to Asia—of abandoning this fruitless war for greater prospects. England never admits to these rumors and whisperings directly, but he must have borne witness to them at some point because his demeanor darkens. He is not ready to let go, although everyone else is.
There is, as with all wars, a breaking point. When word spreads that General Cornwallis and his men are captured during the Siege of Yorktown, the talk of negotiation becomes stronger than ever before, until finally, England can't pretend he isn't listening anymore. He is given orders by the Crown to strike a deal—to come up with a treaty, which is the last thing he wants to do.
It means he is forced to meet with America face-to-face. Over half a decade of shouting vulgarities at one another has led up to this moment. Now they must force themselves to be civil.
The meeting takes place in Paris, and Canada's presence is requested at the event. He isn't surprised to also see France in the meeting room as they arrive. The whole crew is back together again—two imperialists and their former/current colonies. They gather around a large table, all wearing calculated faces that try not to betray any emotions.
America looks a little ragged—one of his arms is in a sling, and his hairline is slightly singed, but they look like heroic battle wounds as opposed to unfortunate injuries. Though Canada isn't able to explain why, he feels like America exudes more strength than ever before, despite not being at his top form.
England and France work out most of the details of the treaty, since they have been at war with one another enough times to know the routine of how these situations tend to get resolved. They talk to each other with such neutral voices that Canada has to watch in awe. It doesn't seem like England and France have been old adversaries at all.
"Is there anything you'd like to add, Canada?" England suddenly asks, snapping him out of his thoughts.
"Oh, err—" Canada fumbles, just now realizing that he hasn't been paying attention for the last fifteen minutes or so. "No, I think everything's in order."
"Very well. I suppose that's it, then."
England won't even look in America's general direction. He has his gaze pointedly on the treaty sitting innocently between them.
"You sure you don't want to request your independence, too, Canada?" America teases, and England looks like he's just been force-fed a lemon—it's too soon.
Canada isn't sure if he should respond, and so he doesn't.
Thankfully, England continues, ignoring the crude interruption. He signs the treaty, watches America scribble his signature as well, and then they all stand up and leave the room, staying out of each other's way. Canada can't stand it. The ice between them is too thick.
Acting on a spurt of courage, he grabs America's shoulder, and says, "Our relations don't have to change."
England turns around to look at them and frowns in disapproval, but he doesn't interject.
"That's nice of you to say. We'll see," America says ambiguously, bounding out of the room after France, and Canada swears he sees France smile for a split second before they round the corner and disappear.
"Are you okay?" he asks England once they're alone again.
"No," England says, dropping any previous façade. "Are you okay?"
"No."
"I see… Canada, should you wish to speak to a certain frog or your brother, you may do so, but I'd prefer not to know, so don't allow me to find out."
Canada nods. "I understand."
"Now, if you don't mind too horribly, I'm off to have a pint… or two… or twelve."
1812
When Canada sought to mend his relationship with America, this is not what he had in mind.
The nerve! America is pressing his luck. One successful revolution and suddenly he's acting like he's the greatest power in the world and can start his own empire.
Canada lets England know about America's plot to annex Canadian territory right away, and England's first reaction is to laugh. This is not a laughing matter!
What does America think he's doing? Liberating him? Well, he doesn't need any liberating—he's fine where he is!
He doesn't feel even the smallest bit guilty when he and England set his southern neighbor's "White House" ablaze for trying his own hand at colonization. He can walk right along and find someone else to invade!
For reasons that elude Canada, England isn't as upset as he thought he would be. Rather, he treats the entire military campaign with a light air and is able to get America to stand down with a treaty that basically ensures that everything will return back to the way it was as long as America promises not to attempt annexation again. If his brother weren't so deeply in debt already, maybe he wouldn't have agreed to put down his guns so easily.
Canada wants some answers, and thus, he interrogates England during his next visit, wondering what has changed between the man and America while he wasn't looking.
"He's only trying to assert himself. He does not pose any actual threat, aside from him being young and idiotic," England assures. "He will not make another attempt to attack you, so you mustn't worry."
"How can you know that?"
"Because he is still establishing himself as a sovereign nation and has hundreds of other matters to tend to at the moment, aside from finding new ways to inflate his ego."
England has a soft spot for America even now. That much is clear—but Canada can't decide whether that's a good or bad thing.
1861
"We're setting off for Washington first thing in the morning."
"Oh, I didn't know there was a meeting," Canada says, searching through his black leather planner to see if he'd written the date down and forgotten, or whether he never wrote it down in the first place.
"This isn't a planned visit," England explains.
"Oh, did something happen?"
"Yes, but it'd be better if we discuss this along the way."
"This doesn't have anything to do with America's civil war, does it? He specifically told me he doesn't want any foreign powers getting involved."
"No—I mean yes. It concerns the war, but not in the way you think."
Canada narrows his eyes in suspicion. Whatever England's up to, he doesn't want to be dragged into it.
After suffering through an arduous trip with very few stops to rest, Canada greets Washington D.C. with a famished belly and a killer migraine. America had better have made hotel accommodations because—wait.
They're not at the White House or a conference building. Instead, they're standing in front of America's home.
"England, what's going on?"
"Come," England retorts sharply, knocking on the front door before Canada can continue protesting.
The door swings open, but it isn't America who greets them. It's France.
"How is he?" England asks at once, and France steps aside to let them in.
"See for yourself, Angleterre."
The three of them gather in the living room, where a very sick America is recumbent on the sofa, moaning and groaning nonsense to himself.
"America?" England asks, crouching down beside the young man. "Can you hear me?"
America peels his bloodshot eyes open, mumbles something, and reaches out to grab ahold of England's hand.
Looking at America lying immobile and pale, Canada sees England is right—America is oh so very young. Too young to make it through a gruesome civil war like this unscathed.
The worry on England's face is clearer than ever before, and Canada has to withhold a smile. Once a caretaker, always a caretaker.
England pushes back America's hair and whispers something to him.
"E-England," America responds brokenly.
"I'm right here."
"W-Why?"
"Why not?"
America grins softly and coughs, rattling his entire body. "Stay?"
"I'll stay for a little while," England promises quietly as he pets America's hand. "You should sleep. This'll all be over soon enough."
Just then, someone touches Canada's shoulder, and he realizes France is motioning for him to leave the living room with him. France steps out into the foyer, and Canada obligingly trails after him, heart pounding because this is the first one-to-one interaction he's had with the man in nearly a century.
"I thought those two deserved some privacy, non? Their situation is complicated even now," France says when he has deemed them to be far enough away from the ensuing drama. "It is good to see them talking to one another again. I thought Angleterre was intolerable before, but ever since America left, he's been a constant pain in my side."
Canada manages a half-smile and says, "Yeah, I think they might still be able to work things out. They're finally talking to each other."
"Oui, just as we are," France agrees, scrutinizing Canada up-and-down. "How have you been?"
"Why do you suddenly want to know?"
"Oh, Canada, that was a bit cold of you. I didn't expect that kind of reply."
"Well, what do you want me to say?" Canada asks, more than a little peeved. "You don't send me any letters and pretend not to know me for so many years, and now you want to know what I'm up to?"
France glowers and puts both of his hands on either of Canada's shoulders, squeezing them tightly. "It was too hard for me, mon lapin. After losing you, I couldn't bring myself to look you in the eyes, and then when the war came—well, I wasn't able to come to terms with you fighting on Angleterre's side. I was embarrassed and hurt, but you have every right to be angry with me. I understand."
"No," Canada growls, "you don't understand. You don't know what it's like to wake up every morning and wonder if the man who raised you still thinks about you or cares about whether or not you're okay."
"Perhaps not, but I did wake up every morning and wonder if the boy I raised still thought about me or cared whether or not I was okay," France supplies, blue eyes shimmering with regret. "Has Angleterre been taking good care of you at least?"
"I've been fine."
France nods. "That man is many things, but he wouldn't purposefully mistreat a child—not that you're a child anymore, but you were when we were separated."
"I thought about you each day."
"As did I."
Canada sighs and hangs his head, trying to decide whether he's relieved or still angry.
"Canada, if Amerique and Angleterre can begin to stitch up old wounds, then we might be able to do the same."
Canada scoffs. "England will go right back to pretending to hate America as soon as he's recovered. There won't be a reconciliation."
"Not a public reconciliation, but a private one, I'm sure," France amends, letting his hands fall away from Canada's shoulders. "What do you say?"
All this time of waiting for a response or an acknowledgement of some sort, and now that he's finally got it, he's not sure whether he's ready to forgive and forget. Forgive, maybe. Forget, not so much.
"A-All right," Canada mumbles, shaking France's hand before the man drags him into a hug. "Just one thing, France."
"Oui?"
"Don't make me fight in any more wars against you."
France releases him from the hug and says, "I'll have to discuss that with Angleterre, but I think we can work something out."
"Good."
"Will you be available to have lunch sometime?" France asks, and it's a little odd to witness him acting so formal toward him. It's something they'll have to work on remedying.
"Sure, of course. I'd really like that."
Their unplanned visit ends up lasting two weeks—just long enough for America to be able to stand up on his own two feet as there is a lull in the fighting for a few days. Although Canada had thought that after 1812, he would've lost all compassion for his brother, this visit has taught him otherwise. Even though America is a complete fool and doesn't care about anyone but himself on most days, Canada must admit he still feels some kind of magnetic bond that keeps him from holding a grudge.
"Canadia, old buddy! It's good to see you!" America says in a booming voice as he rises from bed and braces some of his weight on England.
"It's Canada," Canada corrects him. Is America still delirious and dazed, or does he genuinely not remember his name? Neither option is very good.
America smirks in an antagonizing way and now Canada knows he's messing with him. The realization doesn't make things any better—he's still just as annoyed.
"Yeah, sure, if that's what you wanna call yourself now. How's England been treating you? Do you need your handy, dandy brother's help?" America asks, cocking his head to the side.
"I think you ought to be helping yourself first," England cuts in with a growl, tugging America's sweaty shirt off before shoving his arms through the sleeves of a clean one. "It's a miracle you're still conscious, considering how poorly you've been caring for yourself."
America smiles a teeny-tiny smile and murmurs, "Careful, England, your soft side is showing. You'd better take care of that, or I'll start thinking you actually care whether or not I'm dead or alive."
In retaliation for the cheeky remark, England releases his grip on America and lets him fall gracelessly back onto his bed.
"Agh… That's more like the England I know," America winks in between winces.
So this is how it's going to be between them from now on—constant passive-aggressiveness until the end of time. Canada can live with that. It's better than ignoring one another.
"Hey, England, you mind letting me talk to Canada alone for a minute? I promise not to hurt him or his feelings," America requests, and although England is dubious at first, he must believe that America is injured enough not to pull any tricks because he nods his head and sweeps out of the bedroom, stating he'll be back in fifteen minutes to ensure that the young man really isn't up to anything.
Being alone in a room with America is like riding an unpredictable horse. One doesn't know what the man's next move is going to be or what's going on inside his head. He could be the most welcoming and friendly creature to walk the planet, or he could be a fierce enemy with a dark agenda. One minute they could be galloping happily along, and in the next minute, Canada could be lying in a heap on the ground with a bruised self-esteem.
"It's good to see you're holding up all right," America begins slowly, leaning back against the headboard of his bed. "Better than me, that's for sure… Look, I know things have been strange lately, and we haven't had the best feelings toward one another lately, but I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being a really terrible brother, and well, I guess this whole civil war going on right now is me getting what I deserve."
Canada's mouth moves before his mind can process anything. "Stop. Don't say that. Nobody deserves this."
"Still as nice as always, huh?" America chuckles at him. "You don't have to deny it. I put you through some hard situations, and if you don't accept my apology, I get it, but I wanted to put it out there, you know?"
"Thank you."
America scratches the back of his neck nervously and laughs, "Yeah, sure thing…"
"And I accept your apology, America."
"Really?"
"Yeah, you once said during the Revolution that you thought someday we might be able to put everything behind us and you'd show me a life beyond the British Empire, and while I'm not trying to achieve the latter, I… I miss having my dumb brother around."
"Hey, who're you calling dumb?" America huffs, but a second later, he's laughing warmly again. "God, don't get all sappy on me, but I've missed you, too, okay? Don't make me say it twice. Just get over here and let me hug you. Hurry up before England gets back."
Canada rolls his eyes but cautiously winds his arms around his brother's shoulder for a brief, second-long hug. They don't want to be caught being too affectionate. How embarrassing would that be?
"When I'm able to get around again, we should get together like we used to and catch up."
"Yeah, we should."
"Do me a favor and make sure England's not trying to cook anything for me, please? I don't think my stomach would be able to handle it if he is," America jokes, giving Canada a small punch in the shoulder.
"Don't worry, France won't let him near the kitchen."
"One small, happy family, huh?"
"You could say that," Canada agrees as he makes his way out, a fuzzy feeling bunching up in his chest. This is nice. This is good.
Better to have a dysfunctional family than none at all, and Canada's sure there's still hope for them yet.