Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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"Nation A [Cuba] finds Nation B [Canada] sitting outside in a torential downpour, thoroughly depressed and convinced that no one likes him. A takes B home and takes care of him with dry clothes, blankets, hot chocolate, cuddling, etc. and proves to him that someone, namely A, does love him."
At least 2nd fill. And, yes, anon is the queen of unimaginative titles.
By late evening, the steady drizzle had escalated into a dark, heavy rain. Cuba sat by his window, sipping coffee as he watched the rain tear up the dirt road into a murky soup. Cuba liked a rain like this, when it was enough to break the heat, but not enough to constitute a potentially disastrous storm. It was a pause, a break to breathe without feeling the constant humidity pressing down on him like a warm, sodden wool blanket.
That was why he was exceedingly annoyed the telephone very rudely chose that moment to start ringing. He scowled, and swore lowly in Spanish as he put down his coffee and walked over to the phone,
“¿Si?” he barked into the mouthpiece.
There was a pause that made Cuba gnash his teeth and nearly hang up in impatience. Then: “…Cuba?”
Cuba tightened his grip on the phone, as he heard America’s uncharacteristically quiet voice. “You!” he exclaimed. “What the hell are you…?”
“I’m sorry,” America said, sounding distracted. Somewhere in Cuba’s highly irritated mind, he took note that this was probably the first time that he had heard America apologize, and he didn’t even know what it was for. “I don’t mean to-“ America broke off, then tried again, “I just wanted to ask… Have you seen Canada?’
“Canada?” That threw him a little. America’s brother was supposed to be back at home, working. Why would America think he was on Cuba’s island?
“Yeah, guy with glasses, he lives just to the north of me,” America clarified.
“I know who he is,” Cuba snapped. Idiota…
“You sure you haven’t seen him?” America continued anxiously.
“No.” America’s nervousness-damn him-was infectious. Cuba shifted uneasily from foot to foot and pressed the receiver closer to his ear. “America, has anything happened to Canada?”
America was silent. Cuba could hear him breathing shakily across the line.
“America!” Cuba demanded.
“Cuba, I…” He heard America pause and swallow before continuing, “I… I did something bad to him. I didn’t mean to hurt him so badly, but… He ran away. I think he was going to stay with you. You know, you two…” he trailed off.
“You son of a bitch,” Cuba fumed. “You bastard! If you’ve hurt him! If you’ve-!“
“Just… find him, okay?”
“Don’t hang up, America!” Cuba shouted. “You-!”
But, he already heard the click and the low beep of the dial tone. Cuba slammed the phone back into its cradle and glared at it as if it had brought about all of his troubles. He wasn’t sure what America had meant by saying he had “hurt” Canada, but if the northern country was in such a state that America was repentant, it must have been awful.
Rain or no rain, he needed to find Canada now.
Tearing his raincoat off of the rack and hurriedly pulling it on, he hoped fervently that America was right-there was a first-and Canada had gone to him. Otherwise, he would have gone to France or England, and would be just like those two imperializing capitalists to take advantage of the young country.
He was out onto the main road in front of his house, before he realized that he had no idea where he was going. He forced himself to pause, breathe deeply, and think about where he would go if he were Canada. His mind slid to the last time Canada had come down to visit him, running through all of the different locations they had been. The airport, the Memorial Granma, the…
Of course. El Parque Coppelia, where they went to buy ice cream, then eat them together in the grass under the bright sunlight. Cuba wiped chocolate ice cream on Canada’s nose, then licked it off, while Canada shook with rib-cracking laughter.
Cuba ran to his car and jumped inside, hoping that his intuition was right.
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“Canada?” he called, struggling to keep his voice measured, but still audible above the rain. Nada. He tried again, slightly louder. “Canada!”
His heart jumped elatedly as he heard a low murmur in answer. He tried to pinpoint the location of the sound. “It’s Cuba, where are you Canada?”
“Here,” the tremulous voice replied.
Cuba hurried over to the source of the voice, near a stone bench surrounded by palm trees and lush ferns.
No one could have mistaken Canada for his brother at that moment. The golden-haired nation was curled up in a ball underneath the stone bench, his knees hugged to his chest. He was drenched, his sweatshirt and jeans completely soaked through. Cuba could see him shivering as his violet eyes slid upwards.
Canada forced a weak smile. “Hi, Cuba,” he murmured faintly, sniffling.
“Hola,” Cuba said uncertainly. He knelt down by the other nation and put a hand on his cheek, feeling how cold Canada's skin was.
“How-?“ Canada began in a croaky whisper.
“America called me,” Cuba provided.
“America?” Canada’s eyes widened.
Cuba nodded. “He, eh, was worried about you.”
Canada’s gaze slid back to his sneakers, and Cuba saw tears welling up in his friend’s eyes.
“¡No llore!” Cuba said in alarm. He held Canada by the shoulders and turned him around so that they were facing each other. Canada still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Canada mumbled indistinctly.
“¿Que?” When Canada didn’t look up, Cuba pushed his chin up, forcing their eyes to meet. “Canadá,” he said firmly, “I’m out here getting rained on. The least you could do is talk to me.”
Warm tears slid down Canada's cheeks. “Do you think anyone would notice if I was gone?” he murmured abjectly. “If I wasn’t a nation anymore?”
Cuba blinked in astonishment. “Of course! Dios mio, Canadá. Why would you even ask that?”
He instantly regretted his forceful tone, because Canada’s mouth wobbled and a few more tears fell from his eyes. What in the hell had America done to him?
“Nobody notices me,” he choked. “E-even… even you sometimes think I’m America.”
Cuba’s stomach twisted guiltily. As much as he tried, whenever he saw blond hair and glasses, he had the knee jerk reaction of America-imperialist-bad.
“Lo siento,” Cuba murmured comfortingly, wrapping his arms around Canada's shoulders, feeling the cold rainwater seeping through his shirt. He kissed Canada lightly on the corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry, amigo. You don’t deserve that.”
Canada sniffled, leaning into the hug. Cuba rubbed his back slowly. “I’m going to take you home now, Canadá.”
“No,” the northern nation pulled back, shaking his head. “You don’t need-“
“I’m going to take you home,” Cuba repeated. He paused and smiled gently. “I can carry you, if you like.”
Canada smiled back faintly. Cuba took this as enough of a sign to hook his hands under the other nation’s armpits and haul him to his feet. Canada leaned against Cuba’s broad chest and let himself be lead over to the car. Cuba could feel him shivering violently; he rubbed the northern nation’s shoulder briskly.
“I’m sorry, Cuba,” Canada murmured, sniffling softly. “I’m just… I’m sorry. I-”
“Canadá,” Cuba said tiredly, “if you don’t stop apologizing, I swear, I’m going to make you stop.”
Canada smiled faintly and went back to shivering against Cuba’s chest. Cuba couldn’t help frowning darkly, torn about whether or not he wanted to find out what had happened to the other county. On the one hand, he hated hearing about Canada being hurt and ignored. On the other, he had to know what was wrong to comfort him.
And beat the ever-living shit out of whoever was responsible.
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*sets up camp*
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“Anyway,” he continued, forcing his tone to stay casual as he shut the door behind them and starting tugging off his sodden jacket and boots, “you probably picked the worst time of year to show up. Months of sunny days and you pick the perfect day to give you pneumonia.”
“Sorry,” Canada mumbled, struggling with his soaked sneakers.
“Hey, what did I say about that?” Cuba knelt and started pulling off the shoes and sneakers himself. “I’m not mad.” When Canada’s feet were bare, Cuba got back to his feet and grabbed one of the other country’s hands. “Come on,” he said in a voice of forced cheerfulness, tugging Canada into his sitting room.
He sat Canada down on the most comfortable couch he had, and then leaned over to gently brush wet hair away from his forehead.
“You stay here, amigo. I’ll go get you some dry clothes.”
Canada nodded. “Thanks,” he murmured.
“De nada.” Cuba gave Canada’s shoulder one last comforting squeeze, then hurried upstairs to his bedroom. He spent a few minutes rifling through his dresser until he came up with a sweater and pair of jeans that he thought might be small enough to even slightly fit the other county.
He grabbed a towel from the bathroom as well, then went into kitchen and poured another cup of coffee for Canada, before walking back into the living room.
Canada was still sitting on the couch in the same position that Cuba had left him, looking around the room awkwardly, as if he hadn’t been here before as an invited guess many times. He was shivering, his arms curled over his chest, water dripping down his forehead and over his nose. The poor thing looked like a drowned cat, Cuba thought.
He looked up as Cuba entered and gave him a weak smile. “Hello,” he said, voice still weak, but more collected than before.
“Hola, querido” Cuba said, putting the mug of coffee down on the table. He sat down next to the other country and picked up the towel. “Close your eyes.”
“You don’t-” Canada began to protest, but Cuba managed to get the towel over his head and start scrubbing before he could finish ‘-need to.’
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“Mejor,” he said with a smile. He handed Canada the pile of clothes. “Here. I’m not sure if they’ll fit, but at least they’re dry.”
“Thank you,” Canada murmured, accepting the clothes. He picked up the sweatshirt and paused, glancing up at Cuba hesitantly. Cuba could see the tinge of embarrassment in his violet eyes, apparently despite their long relationship.
Suppressing a sigh, he reached over and pulled the wet sweatshirt up. Canada pacified and helped Cuba pull off the sodden sweatshirt and then the T-shirt underneath. Then, Cuba insisted on helping him into the tan sweater. It was almost comically huge, practically slipping off of one pale, skinny shoulder. Cuba smiled and pulled the collar up to his neck. His hands slipped down to the button of his pants.
Canada squirmed and tried to push Cuba’s hands away.
“Sh,” Cuba said comfortingly, stroking the top of Canada hand. “We’ve gotta get you out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.” Canada relaxed and let Cuba peel off his jeans, exposing his pale, skinny legs. He was wet, shaking, covered in goosebumps and red blotches. It was probably the least erotic sight of Canada in his underwear Cuba could remember.
Canada grabbed the pair of jeans and pulled them on over his bare legs. Even buttoned and zipped up, they hung so loosely around his stomach that he could probably fit another Canada in there.
Fully dressed, Canada slumped back in the sofa and shut his eyes. Cuba slid back onto the sofa and pulled Canada into his arms. He pressed the coffee into Canada's hands, holding the still freezing fingers to the warm mug.
“Now,” he whispered against Canada’s ear. “Do you want to tell what happened, Canadá?”
Canada was quiet, curling closer to Cuba’s body. Cuba let go of the mug and wrapped an arm around Canada’s shoulder. “Por favor, Canada, you can talk to me.”
“It’s nothing,” Canada said finally. “I just had a fight with America. That’s all.”
Cuba sighed. “Querido, I found you more than two thousand kilometers away from home, sitting out in the pouring rain. That’s not` all.” Cuba kissed the side of Canada’s forehead. “Please tell me.”
Canada took a deep shuddering breath and clutched his coffee cup tighter. “Okay,” he said faintly. “I-This morning America showed up at my house.”
Captcha: prussian connec. I don't think so, captcha.
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America had been dogging Canada for days and weeks and months to join the national missile defense program. He was starting to fall into desperation mode, which was making Canada increasingly uncomfortable.
The other nation followed him, grabbing Canada’s arm and wheeling him around. “Come on, Canada, this is important.” Canada could hear a note of anger starting to creep into his voice and expression.
“But, America,” Canada tried to reason with his brother, “this could cost billions of dollars, and we don’t even know if it’ll work.”
“It’ll work.”
“How do you know-?”
“You don’t have any right to talk!” America shot. His grip on Canada's arm tightened painfully. “You wouldn’t even help me when I was under attack.”
The invasion again, Canada realized with a sinking heart. “America, we talked about this. I don’t think-”
“Do you even care about my national security?" America demanded. He grabbed Canada by his shoulders and shook him for emphasis. “I need to be defended!"
Now, Canada was starting to get scared. America seemed to instantly turn paranoid whenever national security came up. Canada didn’t blame him after what had happened, but it still was frightening to see what happened to his brother; he suddenly stopped being happy, confident, dopey America and became something dangerous. "But, Am-" Canada began.
"They're coming after me!"
"No one's coming after you!” he said, trying to be reassuring as he rubbed America’s hand. “You're safe, you-ow!" America slammed him into the doorjamb. Canada squirmed and struggled, but America just tightened his grip.
"None of us are safe," he hissed. Something had changed. America wasn’t just bothering Canada about the defense system anymore. His eyes shone madly. "Not ever again."
Canada could feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. "Please, America, I can't. It’s just not feasible. I’m sorry."
Anger flashed into America's eyes again. He pulled back then slammed Canada's head against the wall. The northern nation cried out, seeing stars swim at the corners of his vision. America held him in a crushing grip, pushing his face very close to Canada's.
"Do you think I couldn't crush you anytime I wanted to, Canada?" he growled, pushing him harder. "You're lucky I've kept you around this long. Because, no one would notice if you were gone. You're… useless! Just a stupid mass of snow…"
Canada could feel tears making hot tracks down his cheeks, now, as shame warred with genuine fear at the sudden escalation,
America continued, "Without me you’re nothing. Without my army, my trade, you would have been invaded a hundred times by now. You wouldn’t even be a country. Understand?"
Canada couldn’t make himself say anything. America shook him violently, making his head hit the wall again. "Understand?!"
"Yes!" Canada shouted. The unshed tears in his eyes made his chest burn and he struggled to choke out, “I understand. I'm nothing, I'm nothing…"
America expression was slightly amazed, as if wasn't sure where he was or what he was doing. He finally released Canada, stepping back as the other nation slowly slid to the floor.
"I'm nothing…" Canada repeated. He knew that it was true. He was invisible to everyone; they hardly knew his name. America was right when he said that no one would care if Canada were wiped off of the earth. He could feel tears burning at the back of his throat. “I'm nothing…”
He didn’t look up as America turned and left.
Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing…
AN: I based Americ's breakdown here on the rise in anti-Canadianism in the US after Canada wouldn't join the Iraq War. Particularly, the Ann Coulter, Tucker Carlson meanness (here--> http://mediamatters.org/research/200412010011 if morbid curiosity compels you). Why must I always write the worst parts of my poor nation-tan?!
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As an aside, I don't really think the anti-Canadianism spread all that far beyond Ann Cuntler and her(its?) ilk. I mean, at least no one ever mentioned hating Canada in NJ...(then again most of NJ was against the war, so...) In fact, I went on vacation there shortly after all that
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I can see that. I agree that most people kept their heads. I'm going on my own head!canon that America must have some tiny, dark little bit of his personality that's Coulter-based. Hopefully only a little bit.
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Anyone who listens and BELIEVES Ann Coulter or Tucker Carlson is deluding themselves. I won't go on to bash America because, aside from a few idiots that I pray will never get into power, the country, the people are strong, proud and beautiful. I hope the future graces you with less tragedy and your people's voices are never smothered by bullies like these two fools.
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Right on, anon!
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