Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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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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