The Center Cannot Hold (1/?)
anonymous
November 28 2009, 08:03:17 UTC
Not the original potential!anon, though I do hope they post as well, since, from the sounds of it, I'm going in a different direction with thisNot the original potential!anon, though I do hope they post as well, since, from the sounds of it, I'm going in a different direction with this
Dimly, Canada registers that it is raining and cold. It’s a strange thing to feel, because he’s felt worse, weathered so much more in the recent weeks, months, years previous. He’s marched through fields of snow, draped the pristine white cloak of blizzards across his back like armor, crossed rivers that burned with the frigid water of dark winter nights, and still, somehow, the stiffness of his hands, the awkward lock of his finger on the trigger of his rifle, has never felt so pronounced.
Canada had never expected staring down England would have left him feeling so frozen.
“I’m not backing down, England,” he manages past his blue-tinged lips and the knot forming in his throat, voice louder and stronger than it has been in his entire life. He revels in the smooth calm of it, the power, and wishes he could take that strength and force it inward. “And you have no way out of here.”
England stands mere yards away, almost hazy in the blur of rain pouring from the sky, a drop of red water among a sea of scarlet coats. His gloved hands, stained with the mud of the ground and the blood of Canada’s countrymen and his own, tighten on his rifle. Canada cannot quite make out the expression on his face, but he can picture the stern bowing of his brows, the tension coiling tight behind his green eyes.
“You can have your bloody freedom,” England growls out, furious and spiteful and the click of the safety being released, “but I’m not letting you take him with you. America is still mine.”
Something startlingly hot and not-quite-rage stirs in his chest, and Canada subconsciously takes a step closer, straightens his aim. “Not anymore, England,” he says, fighting to keep his voice level. The mere thought of England continuing to claim Alfred as his own leaves him furious. “I won’t let you keep him!”
“You have no say in the matter!” England says in a near shout, and maybe it’s just the rain or his drenched hair dripping mudbloodwater into his eyes, but Canada almost thinks the lines of his body are drawn so taut they tremble. “He belongs to me, Canada.” Canada, not Matthew, probably not Matthew ever again, and his heart swells and falls in the same breath. “Winning your freedom doesn’t mean he won his.”
And he can’t see England clearly at all, surely he can’t, because that twist of his lips is wrong on his face, something that England -England, who would knit him warmer clothes and read him stories when he couldn’t sleep and who loved he and America more than the world, it seemed-could never contort to without breaking first.
But that’s why he decided to take matters into his own hands in the first place, isn’t it? England stopped being Arthur, crumbled into some foreign creature parading in his big brother’s skin. He pressured their people with taxes and laws, tethering them down with all he could, until America couldn’t take it anymore.
Canada almost didn’t believe it, when America drew up arms against the man he idolized. And when England crushed the rebellion underfoot, shot Alfred’s spirit down and burned his twin’s Declaration before his sallow, gaunt face, Canada could only watch as so many of the men Alfred held dear were walked to the gallows. Those final sparks snuffing out in his brother’s eyes ignited something in Canada that day, and he’d be damned if he couldn’t repay America back for the strength to see this through.
Canada releases the safety on his rifle without hesitation, finger heavy and slippery-stiff on the trigger. “Don’t make me shoot you, England,” he warns, and even though his voice trembles and he may not be aiming between gem-cold eyes, he is utterly serious. “I don’t want to, but I will if that’s what it will take.”
The Center Cannot Hold (2/?)
anonymous
November 28 2009, 08:06:07 UTC
Green eyes look into his own, piercing, searching him and his determination, calculating and frightening in their shadowed familiarity. He almost stops breathing when England drops his rifle to the ground, head bowed and fisted hands quivering at his sides.
There’s a whooshing in his chest, and his heart leaps, because finally -finally!- after so much fighting, so many lives lost, so much red-stained snow and hastily-dug graves and hopeless nights of prayer, it’s over, finally, finally over.
And then Canada hears him speak.
“Then shoot me.”
Startled, he looks up to see England, smirking visage and amusement in his eyes. “W-what?”
“If I heard correctly, you said you would shoot me, if that’s what it would take for me to hand over Alfred, correct?” England repeats, one prominent eyebrow raised in questioning challenge. At Canada’s stiff-necked affirmative, he continues. “Well, you have my troops cornered, but I’d sooner die then lose Alfred to you. So do it. Shoot me.”
Canada swallows shallowly, tongue heavy-thick in his mouth. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing but broken breath comes out.
Surely England must be lying.
“Come now, Canada,” England goads, only he doesn’t sound quite so amused as he had previous, “You’re your own country now, right? And you started this war. So finish it.” England fixes his eyes firmly on Canada’s flickering gaze, refuses to allow him even momentary escape. “Take your freedom and your brother by force.”
Frigid-stiff hands clench, dig into the rifle until the numbness of the cold burns away. He hisses out a breath that curls, soft white vapor, and disperses into the air.
Shoot me.”
And maybe it’s the way England can look him so confidently in the eye, the way he doesn’t even blink as Canada adjusts himself and lines up his shot, the way his lips twist up and down in the shuddering air, but a long-familiar fire ignites itself in his gut, smokes out his insecurities and leaves his blood boiling beneath his skin. England doesn’t think he can do it. England thinks he’s bluffing. England doesn’t think he’s strong enough to do it.
But Canada’s fought in every battle of this war. He’s watched his countrymen suffer hunger and fear over the future as taxes and other abuses grew higher and higher, until desperation turned them to weaponry and whatever revolutionaries his brother still had to offer him. He watched his capital get ravaged, watched his people get shot and his buildings and towns burned to the ground.
He’s also watched them fight back with everything they had, watched England’s expression grow more and more enraged the longer Canada’s Revolution drew on, watched the foundation of an Empire’s confidence become rattled…and he knows, as surely as he knows that he has earned his freedom, that if it takes shooting England to prove himself- his strength and his determination both- he will.
Canada pulls back the trigger.
A shot rings out moments after he’s been tackled, caught completely unawares, from the side. The near silence is punctured with a resounding bang that Canada can feel drumdrumdrumming deep inside his gut, pounding through his body, even as it meets harshly with the muddy ground.
Canada’s heart stands still, frozen by anxiety and a feverish need to see, to know. For a fractional moment, Canada has the time to look up, dazed and disoriented, breath struggling to regain entry to his lungs, at England. The man stands, grasping at his right arm, the sleeve of which is slowly being stained a darker red. For a man who has just been shot, he looks startlingly pleased.
He chokes on an exhale, and he cannot tell if the twist in his gut is from relief or disappointment.
The Center Cannot Hold (3/?)
anonymous
November 28 2009, 08:09:16 UTC
Before he can even try to decipher the feeling, his rifle is grabbed, whiteredbrown gloves tugging, wrestling it out of his grip and tossing it to the side. Instinctively, Canada lashes out. He lands la solid kick in the man’s side that sends him rolling off his back, lending Canada enough time to scramble up, hands-and-knees-to-feet and whirl about to meet the gaze of painfully familiar blue eyes.
Suddenly, the expression on England’s face makes sense.
“Alfred?” Canada asks, nonplussed. He recognizes the face, of course, knows the coloration almost more than his own, the tanned skin and golden hair and eyes like two stolen fragments of summer sky. But that familiarity seems shadow-like next to the equally familiar redcoat his twin has donned.
“Yeah, Matt,” he answers with a wry grin. He stands, and Canada can only draw breath and watch the scarlet fabric flutter around stained white pants, feeling short of breath and caught between screaming and tears. He’s worked so hard, fought with all of his strength, at the expense of his citizens, to free himself and America, and he’s…
He shakes his head, not in denial so much as in…disappointment? No. Disappointment wouldn’t throb this fiercely, wouldn’t make his chest seem to small and utterly empty all at once.
Canada laughs because in some cosmic way he can almost find it humorous. Of course, after everything, all his struggle, Alfred, so often everything Canada’s not, would be wearing red, and because he’s not going to let this wring a sob from him.
“Why?”
His twin envelops him in a fierce embrace which he does not return but does not bother trying to fight off. If he closes his eyes and ignores the feeling of the cloth against his cheek -much finer quality than that which he’s managed to make- he can pretend that he’s won for the both of them, that America’s just grateful, and not about to deliver some hollow excuse.
“You’d regret it,” he answers.
It takes a minute for Canada to register that America is referring to his attempt at shooting England, and hits him, hard, across his arm. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
America sighs quietly, a washed out version of his former self. “I’m not ready for independence, Matt,” America murmurs into his hair. His hands, fanned out across his back, give a spasm which America quickly controls. “I… Once I lost, I realized it wasn’t my time yet. I…I’m not ready.”
“But I won, Al,” Canada says, and he knows it probably sounds like a whine, or something equally sniveling, but God, he’s losing half of what he’s fought for. “I won for the both of us.”
America shakes his head, and his bangs brush Canada’s cheek, soft and light. “You won for you, Matt,” America hesitates before bring up a hand to pet his hair, “and I’m happy for you. You fought so hard.” He pulls back enough to look at him, serious and strength latent beneath a blue that has lost a generous amount of its luster. “But I’m not you. I’ll win my independence when the time comes.”
And he sounds so confident, so sure that he will, that Canada almost forgets to feel angry with him for abandoning him.
Gah, oh man, so tired. Started writing after hours of Black Friday shopping ;_; Probably rattled with mistakes, but I need sleep! Hope you enjoyed the first segment, and hope the scene it didn’t end too abruptly
Re: The Center Cannot Hold (3/?)
anonymous
January 6 2010, 09:48:45 UTC
Oh geez, anon, this fill is so intriguing. Normally, I dislike "what-ifs" regarding Canada's bid for independence, since I actually find the way it turned out in real life to be admirable (in a terribly civilized sort of way). This story, however, got me thinking about the dynamics between early Canada and America and what it would have taken to incite a rebellion up here as well.
The pacing, including the scene ending, seems fine to me, and I like that you'd been keeping both Matthew and Alfred quite in character despite the circumstances.
If you ever want to come back to this, authoranon, more would be great.
Dimly, Canada registers that it is raining and cold. It’s a strange thing to feel, because he’s felt worse, weathered so much more in the recent weeks, months, years previous. He’s marched through fields of snow, draped the pristine white cloak of blizzards across his back like armor, crossed rivers that burned with the frigid water of dark winter nights, and still, somehow, the stiffness of his hands, the awkward lock of his finger on the trigger of his rifle, has never felt so pronounced.
Canada had never expected staring down England would have left him feeling so frozen.
“I’m not backing down, England,” he manages past his blue-tinged lips and the knot forming in his throat, voice louder and stronger than it has been in his entire life. He revels in the smooth calm of it, the power, and wishes he could take that strength and force it inward. “And you have no way out of here.”
England stands mere yards away, almost hazy in the blur of rain pouring from the sky, a drop of red water among a sea of scarlet coats. His gloved hands, stained with the mud of the ground and the blood of Canada’s countrymen and his own, tighten on his rifle. Canada cannot quite make out the expression on his face, but he can picture the stern bowing of his brows, the tension coiling tight behind his green eyes.
“You can have your bloody freedom,” England growls out, furious and spiteful and the click of the safety being released, “but I’m not letting you take him with you. America is still mine.”
Something startlingly hot and not-quite-rage stirs in his chest, and Canada subconsciously takes a step closer, straightens his aim. “Not anymore, England,” he says, fighting to keep his voice level. The mere thought of England continuing to claim Alfred as his own leaves him furious. “I won’t let you keep him!”
“You have no say in the matter!” England says in a near shout, and maybe it’s just the rain or his drenched hair dripping mudbloodwater into his eyes, but Canada almost thinks the lines of his body are drawn so taut they tremble. “He belongs to me, Canada.” Canada, not Matthew, probably not Matthew ever again, and his heart swells and falls in the same breath. “Winning your freedom doesn’t mean he won his.”
And he can’t see England clearly at all, surely he can’t, because that twist of his lips is wrong on his face, something that England -England, who would knit him warmer clothes and read him stories when he couldn’t sleep and who loved he and America more than the world, it seemed-could never contort to without breaking first.
But that’s why he decided to take matters into his own hands in the first place, isn’t it? England stopped being Arthur, crumbled into some foreign creature parading in his big brother’s skin. He pressured their people with taxes and laws, tethering them down with all he could, until America couldn’t take it anymore.
Canada almost didn’t believe it, when America drew up arms against the man he idolized. And when England crushed the rebellion underfoot, shot Alfred’s spirit down and burned his twin’s Declaration before his sallow, gaunt face, Canada could only watch as so many of the men Alfred held dear were walked to the gallows. Those final sparks snuffing out in his brother’s eyes ignited something in Canada that day, and he’d be damned if he couldn’t repay America back for the strength to see this through.
Canada releases the safety on his rifle without hesitation, finger heavy and slippery-stiff on the trigger. “Don’t make me shoot you, England,” he warns, and even though his voice trembles and he may not be aiming between gem-cold eyes, he is utterly serious. “I don’t want to, but I will if that’s what it will take.”
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Green eyes look into his own, piercing, searching him and his determination, calculating and frightening in their shadowed familiarity. He almost stops breathing when England drops his rifle to the ground, head bowed and fisted hands quivering at his sides.
There’s a whooshing in his chest, and his heart leaps, because finally -finally!- after so much fighting, so many lives lost, so much red-stained snow and hastily-dug graves and hopeless nights of prayer, it’s over, finally, finally over.
And then Canada hears him speak.
“Then shoot me.”
Startled, he looks up to see England, smirking visage and amusement in his eyes. “W-what?”
“If I heard correctly, you said you would shoot me, if that’s what it would take for me to hand over Alfred, correct?” England repeats, one prominent eyebrow raised in questioning challenge. At Canada’s stiff-necked affirmative, he continues. “Well, you have my troops cornered, but I’d sooner die then lose Alfred to you. So do it. Shoot me.”
Canada swallows shallowly, tongue heavy-thick in his mouth. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing but broken breath comes out.
Surely England must be lying.
“Come now, Canada,” England goads, only he doesn’t sound quite so amused as he had previous, “You’re your own country now, right? And you started this war. So finish it.” England fixes his eyes firmly on Canada’s flickering gaze, refuses to allow him even momentary escape. “Take your freedom and your brother by force.”
Frigid-stiff hands clench, dig into the rifle until the numbness of the cold burns away. He hisses out a breath that curls, soft white vapor, and disperses into the air.
Shoot me.”
And maybe it’s the way England can look him so confidently in the eye, the way he doesn’t even blink as Canada adjusts himself and lines up his shot, the way his lips twist up and down in the shuddering air, but a long-familiar fire ignites itself in his gut, smokes out his insecurities and leaves his blood boiling beneath his skin. England doesn’t think he can do it. England thinks he’s bluffing. England doesn’t think he’s strong enough to do it.
But Canada’s fought in every battle of this war. He’s watched his countrymen suffer hunger and fear over the future as taxes and other abuses grew higher and higher, until desperation turned them to weaponry and whatever revolutionaries his brother still had to offer him. He watched his capital get ravaged, watched his people get shot and his buildings and towns burned to the ground.
He’s also watched them fight back with everything they had, watched England’s expression grow more and more enraged the longer Canada’s Revolution drew on, watched the foundation of an Empire’s confidence become rattled…and he knows, as surely as he knows that he has earned his freedom, that if it takes shooting England to prove himself- his strength and his determination both- he will.
Canada pulls back the trigger.
A shot rings out moments after he’s been tackled, caught completely unawares, from the side. The near silence is punctured with a resounding bang that Canada can feel drumdrumdrumming deep inside his gut, pounding through his body, even as it meets harshly with the muddy ground.
Canada’s heart stands still, frozen by anxiety and a feverish need to see, to know. For a fractional moment, Canada has the time to look up, dazed and disoriented, breath struggling to regain entry to his lungs, at England. The man stands, grasping at his right arm, the sleeve of which is slowly being stained a darker red. For a man who has just been shot, he looks startlingly pleased.
He chokes on an exhale, and he cannot tell if the twist in his gut is from relief or disappointment.
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Before he can even try to decipher the feeling, his rifle is grabbed, whiteredbrown gloves tugging, wrestling it out of his grip and tossing it to the side. Instinctively, Canada lashes out. He lands la solid kick in the man’s side that sends him rolling off his back, lending Canada enough time to scramble up, hands-and-knees-to-feet and whirl about to meet the gaze of painfully familiar blue eyes.
Suddenly, the expression on England’s face makes sense.
“Alfred?” Canada asks, nonplussed. He recognizes the face, of course, knows the coloration almost more than his own, the tanned skin and golden hair and eyes like two stolen fragments of summer sky. But that familiarity seems shadow-like next to the equally familiar redcoat his twin has donned.
“Yeah, Matt,” he answers with a wry grin. He stands, and Canada can only draw breath and watch the scarlet fabric flutter around stained white pants, feeling short of breath and caught between screaming and tears. He’s worked so hard, fought with all of his strength, at the expense of his citizens, to free himself and America, and he’s…
He shakes his head, not in denial so much as in…disappointment? No. Disappointment wouldn’t throb this fiercely, wouldn’t make his chest seem to small and utterly empty all at once.
Canada laughs because in some cosmic way he can almost find it humorous. Of course, after everything, all his struggle, Alfred, so often everything Canada’s not, would be wearing red, and because he’s not going to let this wring a sob from him.
“Why?”
His twin envelops him in a fierce embrace which he does not return but does not bother trying to fight off. If he closes his eyes and ignores the feeling of the cloth against his cheek -much finer quality than that which he’s managed to make- he can pretend that he’s won for the both of them, that America’s just grateful, and not about to deliver some hollow excuse.
“You’d regret it,” he answers.
It takes a minute for Canada to register that America is referring to his attempt at shooting England, and hits him, hard, across his arm. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
America sighs quietly, a washed out version of his former self. “I’m not ready for independence, Matt,” America murmurs into his hair. His hands, fanned out across his back, give a spasm which America quickly controls. “I… Once I lost, I realized it wasn’t my time yet. I…I’m not ready.”
“But I won, Al,” Canada says, and he knows it probably sounds like a whine, or something equally sniveling, but God, he’s losing half of what he’s fought for. “I won for the both of us.”
America shakes his head, and his bangs brush Canada’s cheek, soft and light. “You won for you, Matt,” America hesitates before bring up a hand to pet his hair, “and I’m happy for you. You fought so hard.” He pulls back enough to look at him, serious and strength latent beneath a blue that has lost a generous amount of its luster. “But I’m not you. I’ll win my independence when the time comes.”
And he sounds so confident, so sure that he will, that Canada almost forgets to feel angry with him for abandoning him.
Gah, oh man, so tired. Started writing after hours of Black Friday shopping ;_; Probably rattled with mistakes, but I need sleep! Hope you enjoyed the first segment, and hope the scene it didn’t end too abruptly
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I very much enjoyed this first segment, writer!anon and I am very much eager to read more *_*
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GAAAH~ Can't wait to see where you go with this now~!
America refusing independence~! Ohh~ This is awesome!!
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Poor Mattie...
Hmmm. Would the AnonWriter be interested in writing a sequal to this, perhaps? I would love to read how things turned out.
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The pacing, including the scene ending, seems fine to me, and I like that you'd been keeping both Matthew and Alfred quite in character despite the circumstances.
If you ever want to come back to this, authoranon, more would be great.
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