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.
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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