[fanfiction] Brotherhood
Title: Brotherhood
Author: didgeridoodle
Rating: PG-13 for slight swearing and small mentions of gore.
Genre: General/Angst
Characters: Canada, America, minor appearances of England, and mentions of Australia
Word Count: 3,023
Notes: Country names used, usage of unorthodox chronology (time skips), and written for the big competition over at hetalia_contest
Summary: As certain events in Canada's life pass, he notices that he is always swathed in America's shadow every time. He doesn't know if he should resent his twin brother. Or himself, for that matter.
----
When he first met America, Canada can’t help but feel jealous.
His brother emerges from the doorway with wide blue eyes. Canada notices the tiny squeak of astonishment in America’s voice, the way he patters (no, bounces) towards him with unbridled vigor, the unabashed confidence that radiates off of him. It is all so, so, entrancing. Charming.
Although America bluntly remarks that they have the same face, Canada feels that it is not true. He can spot the difference a mile away.
It’s like staring into those strange mirrors in the local carnival where England used to take him. You recognize your own reflection on the curvy glassy surface, and yet, something is undoubtedly off. When Canada smiles into the mirror, his fat, jiggly counterpart grins back.
Canada observes that that reflection still has the same sad, purple eyes as he has; the similar timid lips that curl to form a small, unnoticeable smile; the exact feeble arms that are perpetually latched on to Kumajirou; the uncanny way he shrivels back and stutters behind his pet polar bear when called.
It is all the same.
“I’m hungry, England. Get me something to eat!”
However, there is nothing remotely humorous about this reflection. Canada sees the same bright eyes, the same caramel blond hair, and the same handsome, boyish, round face - but he couldn’t be more different.
When Canada smiles, America laughs. When Canada grimaces, America bawls his heart out. When Canada jumps, America soars.
His brother is an unusual one, indeed.
Canada does not know of any reflections that outshone their counterparts.
----
When he sees England carving that chest of handmade wooden soldiers, Canada can’t help but feel jealous.
For hours on end, he hears England work tediously in his room, chipping away blocks of basswood one at a time. From the crack at the door, Canada sees England’s eyebrows furrowed in concentration - chisel and mallet at hand - painstakingly carving each toy soldier with a sparkle in his eyes that Canada couldn’t quite place.
(England never looks at him that way.)
Canada thinks that the sight is far, far more beautiful than anything he has ever seen.
Mustering the little courage that he has, he sets foot in England’s study, his bare feet sliding over the plush carpet.
He eyes the wooden army decked in vermillion and prussian blue. Every one of them seems to have a different expression - some have curt frowns; others have defiant and stalwart grins, their little bodies forever frozen in a majestic posture of a true and obedient soldier.
“England,” he begins. His guardian suddenly jolts at the sound of his voice. He hasn’t even heard him come in, from the looks of it. “What are those for?”
Canada shyly points a finger to the parade of basswood soldiers.
England looks at him with a content expression. From the soft orange glow of the lantern, Canada notes the fatigue lingering in England’s eyes, and the soft trembling of his bandaged fingers from misdirected pummels of the mallet; it looks like he had been at it for several nights now.
“It’s a present for America,” he says. “His birthday’s coming in a month.”
Canada looks up to England with curious eyes, his heart executing a full somersault. His birthday comes three days earlier than his brother’s. That can only mean his present is already done! There is only one way to find out what it is, of course.
Canada’s meek voice hitches in his throat, curiosity getting the better of him.
“Do you have a present for me, too, England?”
England visibly shivers at the question. As if right on cue, the grandfather clock on the corner signals the arrival of midnight with a metallic resounding peal. And another one. Another one. Seconds pass by.
Canada feels his heart sink lower and lower into his gut as the chimes continued their imposing and reverberating thrum. England finally regains his posture at the last note.
“O-of course, Canada!” he stutters. “You wanted to go see the local carnival again, didn’t you?” England avoids his gaze. “We’ll spend the day there.”
Canada feels time stop - his vision whirls; his heart pounds irrationally. England’s answer isn’t the one Canada was expecting. It is infinitely better than nothing, of course, Canada decides.
He keeps telling himself that.
(It's better than nothing.)
(It's better than nothing.)
He knows that. But still, a tiny, tiny part of him wants (craves) a present like that. A tangible piece of England’s love and attention that he can cuddle and treasure for the rest of his life.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
Canada feels that he isn’t good enough to warrant such an effort.
(America is very lucky.)
At that moment, Canada wants nothing more than to evaporate on the spot. He doesn’t want England to see him cry. (Don’tcrydon’tcrydon’tcry.) His mentor will just think worse of him.
“Thank you, England,” he murmurs, struggling to keep the crackling of his voice at bay. He silently retreats back to his room.
And when he sees England work again on America’s present, his fist unintentionally clamps on the paper he’s been hiding behind his back all this time.
Through watery eyes, Canada surveys that piece of paper he worked hard on. Amidst the crumples, he can still see his, England’s, America’s, and Australia’s beaming faces, clumsily drawn in front of a colorful caricature of England’s house.
It is supposed to be a family portrait of them. A present for England on his birthday today. Even though France would have frowned upon such a crudely drawn piece of art, it is still the thought that would have counted.
Now, Canada is not sure whether to give it to him or not.
He decides on the latter.
The cartoony smiles vanish into jagged frowns when Canada rolls the paper carefully into one big ball. And as the would-be present lands inside the rubbish bin, Canada’s face and remaining resolve crumples, too, in a cascade of brackish tears.
It is supposed to be a picture of his family. Canada doesn’t really feel like he has one right now.
----
When America gains his independence, Canada can’t help but feel jealous.
Canada abhors violence. Despite the fact that red remains to be his favorite color, it becomes most unsettling and disturbing when he sees it on the battlefield.
That’s why he shirks back from the war and doesn’t let himself get involved. This has to be the only occasion where Canada is grateful that he remains unnoticed.
However, when America starts to retaliate from England’s supposed iron grip, Canada earns himself a front row ticket to the bloodshed.
He sees the battle unfold before his eyes. He wants to clench them shut but he just can’t. He still hears the strangled cries of people when bullets pepper their body, the splurge of blood when knives and blades find their way into delicate flesh - it is all too surreal. The earth sloshes under his boots with blood and tears and cries for death. The horizon is forever crimson.
Canada does not know if the blood had already permanently stained his vision with a carnal scarlet, or if the days had just become shorter and shorter with the passage of time.
And before Canada knows it, he witnesses the final confrontation between America and England.
His brother’s eyes are still alive with a fiery will that he has never seen before. Canada isn’t surprised. Nothing can dampen his brother’s stubbornness. Truly, America has an iron will; he refuses to take ‘no’ for an answer.
(America has been always the stronger of the two of them.)
Canada grips his musket with wet and shaking hands. (Please, please; don’t let it come to this.) He is glad that is raining.
No one will notice him cry when everything goes wrong and his family ultimately rips itself apart.
Canada gasps when he sees England lower his weapon. He stands helplessly when England slumps on his knees, and confesses (cries) that he is unable to shoot America.
Canada does not blame England. America is the child he never had.
(America is the brother Canada never had.)
The sweet memories prove to be a great burden to bear, and the key to England’s own undoing in this battle.
Canada wonders what is going on in America’s mind when he orders his troops to fall back. Perhaps it is just a humane act of pity - after all, life need not be wasted in such a situation.
And maybe something else, too.
America looks back and meets Canada’s gaze for the first time in forever. Canada is surprised to see sadness, longing, in his brother.
Yet, despite all that has happened, America smiles. It is definitely not the vindictive, cheeky grin of a victor that Canada expects him to sport. Instead, it is a more humbled and reserved one. The type that exudes a silent, untold apology for the things he has done. Or will do, whether to him or to England.
It is so America.
He turns his back on them and leaves them in the rain.
Canada now wants to believe that everything will be all right. America finally got what he wanted - he is the winner, after all. Even though England’s pride and heart are severely broken, there will always be time to heal, Canada believes.
Then again, Canada wonders if he, too, can orchestrate his own war for independence. It will be edifying, standing on his own two feet.
But then again, he always sees the tears, the hurting on England’s face every time he sees him. England was never the same.
Canada pushes the thought to the very back of his mind and declines. He doesn’t want to see England hurt. And he isn’t even sure if he has enough strength in the first place.
America is always, and will remain to be the strong one.
----
When they waged war on each other, Canada still remains jealous of America.
Canada notices how America’s house has bloomed in the past few decades. He is doing magnificently on his own, Canada admits. Perhaps America has already achieved heights that he can never parallel in his life.
Canada realizes that he doesn’t want to remain swathed in America’s shadow forever. His brother has to pay the price for that little dispute he caused.
This pristine structure is just the beginning. With its shimmering golden lights and ivory white parapets, it is the epitome of flawlessness and the zenith of utter majesty. It's like his brother - the person who could do nothing wrong. So, so perfect.
Canada feels himself slip into a trance that made him lose control. He doesn’t know where it came from. Maybe it is just the irrational frustration that sibilantly whispers in his subconscious. Maybe it is because he willingly sways himself into England’s commands.
(He just wants to do something. Anything.)
He is weak, after all, and he knows it. He falls prey to these kinds of things quite easily.
Canada is dimly aware of his actions. He knows that he shouldn’t be doing this atrocity, but America has to learn his lesson eventually.
The pungent, reddish liquid he pours around the perimeter is only the prelude to something far more chaotic. Frankly, he has had enough of that color. Too many painful things, dangerous things, depressing things, have been associated with it.
With the fluid strike of a match and a gentle flick of the wrist, Canada sets the White House ablaze.
England approaches him and Canada sees apathy on his guardian’s face. There is no malicious smile, nor a frown of regret. It’s a blank canvas that Canada doesn’t know what to make of.
“Good work, Canada,” he remarks succinctly. He seems satisfied, Canada thinks.
“Why are we doing this, England?”
“It’s for America’s own good,” England says. “He has to see that he isn’t as strong as he thinks he is.”
Canada is horrified when he finds himself uncontrollably yielding to England’s logic.
Canada only has a little time to admire the bright curtain of orange he created. (Did I just do this?) The hellish flames never seem to run out of steam; it continues to fizzle and cough and splutter ashen cinders and pillars of acrid smoke. Just like the majority of the city that America holds dear in his heart.
Screams for help and assistance suddenly mingles with the hot-blooded crackle of fire. An unlikely pair suddenly emerges from the black cloud, one of them staggering and barely conscious.
“Please get a hold of yourself, Sir Jones!”
The young man is pleading at his ward to remain strong. To stay alive. The caramel blond hair has never looked so horribly familiar.
(Oh, no.)
From the arms of the haggard young man, Canada sees his brother open a bleary eye. America can only gaze upon the wall of fire, the destruction of his home.
And America looks at him, too. Pain surges through Canada's heart when he spots the look of estranged betrayal on his brother’s face.
It is all too late when Canada realizes that he is still holding the kerosene casket.
His hands quiver and shake with the torment of guilt, the agony of shame. No, no, this isn’t supposed to happen! He just wanted to teach America a little lesson, that’s all. Not to hurt him. Not to execute him.
And as America loses consciousness, Canada feels utterly responsible for both.
(Don’t die, please!)
Canada feels so wretched and filthy. He is a monster for doing this to his own brother.
After what seemed like an eternity, he finally snaps out of his trance and runs to help.
----
When Canada gains his own independence, he still remains jealous of America.
He is wholly surprised when England decides to cede him.
Canada doesn’t understand the reasons.
A part of him is glad. (He has always wanted that, too, didn’t he? To follow in America’s footsteps and be a free country?) A good part of him, however, is confused. Canada has been good, wasn’t he? He meticulously obeyed England’s every whim, every command, and every flying fancy. The sudden change of heart mystifies him.
England smiles wryly. “It’s for your own good, Canada.”
He accepts the document in England’s hands with trembling fingers.
Somehow, he doesn’t believe England’s words. Canada just wants to see it as a reward for being a good boy through all these centuries. A fitting trophy for his unwavering loyalty. Then again, he already has half a mind to tear up the parchment right in front of England.
This is not fair, his subconscious hisses.
Guiltily, admittedly, Canada will rather go into war with England than to accept this. A part of him still wants to see England struggle and fight and bleed for him to remain as a part of the family. It makes him feel important. Worthy. Loved. That is why he is still jealous of America, even when his twin brother’s little time on the spotlight ended over a century ago.
Canada has his own twisted way of seeing things.
He scans the document with hazy, unfeeling eyes. This doesn’t matter. This is just rejection packaged in delicate, aging parchment and overly dignified font.
England isn’t letting him go. England is getting rid of him. For Canada, those are two very different things.
Canada just despises his frailty. And himself.
----
When he sees his brother now, Canada doesn’t know if he should still be jealous.
America stands on his front door, drenched in rain, tears, and God knows what else.
This can’t be his brother, Canada thinks. He remembers the America in his memories - staunch, bumbling, smiling, strong.
(This isn’t him. Can't be him.)
America’s eyes are robbed of their warmth and vigor, his body slackened with fatigue, suffering, and everything in between. He appears to have wandered out aimlessly into the rain on his own.
Canada sees the desperation and regret in his brother’s harrowed eyes. Just the tiniest bit of a cowardly desire to escape from a home that is slowly crumbling. A home that is full of unrest and discontent. The place that is slowly falling apart and nothing is working out the way America wanted it to.
(Canada refuses to call it a home, then.)
“Everybody hates me,” he whispers. It is a miracle that Canada can even hear him through the pounding rain. “Fuck, I’ve tried everything and nothing ever works out…”
From behind the glasses, Canada sees something else.
Weakness.
“… D-do you hate me, too, Canada?”
Canada remembers the first time he saw America. They have been the mismatched reflections, Canada fondly recalls. It has been such a long time ago.
Now, it breaks his heart to see that the reflections now perfectly fit each other.
As much as he resented it, Canada begins to see himself in his twin brother. He sees his own fragility, the doleful eyes that spoke volumes of shattered confidence.
It is not fitting for America. Canada wants his brother to be strong again, like in the past. Canada wants him to smile again.
Without any rational preamble, he, too, heads out in the cold rain and wraps his arms around America.
“I can’t hate you, you idiot,” Canada mutters. “We’re…”
America’s body freezes and tightens in his arms. Perhaps it’s just the shivers from the freezing rain, but Canada surely feels America’s sinewy body tremble and lean on him.
It feels as if he’s…
Canada is somewhat glad it’s raining now. No one will see him. Them.
… crying. Even though America will not boldly admit it.
Looking back at all those years, through all that they’ve been through, Canada never really hated his brother. Never had it been America’s fault.
Perhaps deep inside, Canada really just wanted to grow out of his shell.
To become just like him.
Now that he bears witness to America’s most vulnerable moments, it is now Canada’s turn to be the strong one.
And this time, Canada will not make the same mistakes again.
Not because of social obligations or any underhanded political maneuvers.
It is because they are…
Canada whispers, “… brothers, through and through.”
- END -
---
History and Trivia Corner
- Basswood (or lime, as it is more commonly known in Britain) is one of the most common types of wood used in ornamental carving, along with tupelo.
- The events that are depicted in the fourth verse originated from the Burning of Washington during the War of 1812. The British have purged and burned the public buildings in the city, including the White House. The so-called “dispute” purported by America has been the attack on York, Upper Canada. Some historians have said that this is the cause of Canada’s retaliation that manifested in the War of 1812.
- The document that England passes on to Canada in the fifth verse is the British North America Act of 1867 that is considered to be one of the major milestones that will ultimately earn Canada its freedom.
- The last scene vaguely depicts America’s condition after the fallout of the 2009 Financial Crisis. Canada was affected to a lesser degree due to its stricter banking policies.
Author's Note: Thank you very much for reading! Constructive criticism is very much appreciated, of course. If something is amiss in the spelling, grammar, and characterization departments, please don't hesitate to tell me! In fact, it's encouraged. (Thanks to ahmerst for pointing out several kinks. ♥)