This is more of a drabble than anything else, but there was nothing else to say. It was inspired by the song 'I'm Yours' by The Script, which is a fairly fitting song for Prussia, I think.

I'm Yours

"… What are you doing?"

Canada smiled at him, softly, so softly, and continued to trace the lines around his eyes, the wrinkles around his mouth. He carded his fingers through his thinning hair and kissed his forehead.

"Nothing..."

Prussia looked up at him, sitting on the carpet and tucked between his legs. He raised an eyebrow.

"Bullshit," he said decisively, and Canada chuckled lightly, shaking his head. He ran his fingertips over his cheekbones, too sharp, and his lips, chapped and scarred and twisted. His nose, broken and bent too many times.

But when Canada stared at him like that, well…

He felt safe and warm and protected. He felt precious. Important. Canada stared at him, through him, without flinching. He had seen him at his weakest, at his most vulnerable, and embraced him.

"I'm just feeling… Sentimental."

Canada wrapped his arms around his shoulders, leaning forward in the armchair and kissing the top of his head, the curves of his ears, the back of his neck.

"You're barely three thousand years old, that's too young for… This. This nonsense." Prussia grumbled into the sleeves of his sweater as he manhandled him, but he still allowed it. He had never been able to say 'no' to him. "Saccharine, that's what it is. Gross."

"Oh, shush," Canada clucked his tongue affectionately. His eyes twinkled with fondness, and wisdom, and gentle humour. "You like it. Don't lie."

"Fat chance…"

He wound his arms and legs around Canada, petulant and ill tempered, but Canada just laughed. He started plaiting small sections of his hair, until half of his head was covered in short, one inch braids that stuck up in all directions. He giggled at his own handiwork.

They sat like that for a long time, until the ache of sitting on the carpet crept through his joints and settled in his hips. It spread like fire, throbbing and burning, and it must have shown on his face because Canada carefully untangled his hair and pushed himself up. He tottered to the other side of the den and brought back his, ugh, walker.

"I don't want it," Prussia muttered. Canada bent down stiffly and kissed him on the cheek, on the lips. "It's stupid."

"I know," he said tenderly as he guided his hands to the cold metal and plastic. Prussia used it to pull himself forward. He hated, hated, that he needed help, but instead of lecturing him, or assuring him, Canada just accepted his frustration as exactly that. Frustration. He never took the complaints to heart, but he listened and nodded his head and tried to understand.

And Prussia loved him even more for it. After five hundred years, he had thought that he could not possibly love Canada anymore than he already did, and every day, Canada proved him wrong. Every day, he found another reason to love him.

And that was worth growing old, as long as he was growing older with him. Together, forever.

"Let's make pancakes. And take a nap. And snuggle."

"We did that yesterday, and the day before," Canada smiled, "and the day before that."

Prussia raised his withered hand to his lips and kissed the wedding band on his finger, scratched and worn and discoloured. He had never seen anything more beautiful.

"Let's do it today, and tomorrow too. It's a date!"

"Mmm, well, you had me at 'pancakes'."

Prussia smirked.

"You had me at 'hello'."

And after five hundred years, he still knew how to make Canada blush.

Author's Notes:

I've been stuck in a low for about two weeks now, and I apologize for that. I've been a bit 'elsewhere'. But I'm trying to claw my way back. This chapter is not long but it was difficult to write, to find the motivation and willpower. I can't promise I'll be back immediately, but I am trying.

Also, old people in love. Is there anything more touching? It is hard to find that tenderness, that patience, anywhere else.