Sing Sung Songs [9/?]
anonymous
February 27 2010, 20:44:32 UTC
He’s somehow sitting between France and England, and while he doesn’t mind sitting by France or… England. He’d rather if he could sit by America. Between America and England. But it could not be helped could it? With their relationship now, a “strong bond” based not only on culture, heritage, language, support. The “Special Relationship” that their bosses over the years, decades have had them maintain and strengthen… America wasn’t going to let go of hard work, and England wasn’t one to refuse it either.
They sit in relative silence until France asks him something about Kumajiro, and Canada wants to reply fine, same as always only Kumajiro yesterday had eaten all his saltine crackers when he’d not been feeling well and that was quite irritating so they’d gotten into an argument and one of them had been kicked out of the house only Canada does not quite recall because at the end of the day they’d come back together and had hot cocoa even when Kumajiro had asked “Who?” as Canada gave him his mug, ah really. France not looking like he’d rather not have asked (he really had been listening, sympathetic noises, suggestive comments) and peers over Canada’s shoulder momentarily to see if England is eavesdropping but he’s not, he’s whispering they know, now that their conversation is no longer.
And turn into eavesdroppers themselves.
Least try, but whatever England has said he’s finished, and the only thing they know is the pained expression on America’s face, there in what could have been no more than five seconds because right after they hear something like a stifled sob.
It turns into a wail.
“Stupid America!”
France sighs, “It always turns out like this.”
When he drank with America, regardless of whom else he was also with. America chuckles, almost embarrassed, expression back into that almost constant happy-go-lucky, he slips from the stool where he’d sat and places hands on England’s shoulders, trying to be reassuring, England quiets down.
“I think I’ll take him home.”
Pain.
Pain is what Canada feels to the hitch in his chest, his heart thumping deliberate and slow at where America’s hands are, at how he helps England to his feet, slings one of the older nation’s arms over his shoulders. Cheerfully, carefully. With such gentleness bile rises up in Canada’s throat and forms a lump there.
And just as France are bidding the two goodbye (“I’ll have you pay me back later,” glancing at the many empty glasses, England’d not just refilled one. Bringing attention to Canada how fast England had drunk all that alcohol down or rather how long in actuality he’d been talking to France) Canada can’t help but say, in the slurred silence of farewell see you later, what was perhaps in his loudest voice.
“Why?”
America pauses in step, looks over his and England’s shoulder who’s having not so much a difficult time with coordination as the word being just a word and incomprehensible. This only furthers the pain in Canada’s chest, why did America have to- why did his brother have to-
“Why can’t France take England home? Their houses are closer to each other you know!”
America is too simple to make a smart remark on how stupid it is in saying the obvious as he often says the obvious himself, and looks at Canada almost seriously, rarely does Canada drop formalities. France looks surprised as well.
Canada turns sharply to France, “You can do it right France? You can take England to his house instead of America right?”
France gapes, more taken aback by Canada’s sudden urgency than anything, “I suppose….”
They sit in relative silence until France asks him something about Kumajiro, and Canada wants to reply fine, same as always only Kumajiro yesterday had eaten all his saltine crackers when he’d not been feeling well and that was quite irritating so they’d gotten into an argument and one of them had been kicked out of the house only Canada does not quite recall because at the end of the day they’d come back together and had hot cocoa even when Kumajiro had asked “Who?” as Canada gave him his mug, ah really. France not looking like he’d rather not have asked (he really had been listening, sympathetic noises, suggestive comments) and peers over Canada’s shoulder momentarily to see if England is eavesdropping but he’s not, he’s whispering they know, now that their conversation is no longer.
And turn into eavesdroppers themselves.
Least try, but whatever England has said he’s finished, and the only thing they know is the pained expression on America’s face, there in what could have been no more than five seconds because right after they hear something like a stifled sob.
It turns into a wail.
“Stupid America!”
France sighs, “It always turns out like this.”
When he drank with America, regardless of whom else he was also with.
America chuckles, almost embarrassed, expression back into that almost constant happy-go-lucky, he slips from the stool where he’d sat and places hands on England’s shoulders, trying to be reassuring, England quiets down.
“I think I’ll take him home.”
Pain.
Pain is what Canada feels to the hitch in his chest, his heart thumping deliberate and slow at where America’s hands are, at how he helps England to his feet, slings one of the older nation’s arms over his shoulders. Cheerfully, carefully. With such gentleness bile rises up in Canada’s throat and forms a lump there.
And just as France are bidding the two goodbye (“I’ll have you pay me back later,” glancing at the many empty glasses, England’d not just refilled one. Bringing attention to Canada how fast England had drunk all that alcohol down or rather how long in actuality he’d been talking to France) Canada can’t help but say, in the slurred silence of farewell see you later, what was perhaps in his loudest voice.
“Why?”
America pauses in step, looks over his and England’s shoulder who’s having not so much a difficult time with coordination as the word being just a word and incomprehensible. This only furthers the pain in Canada’s chest, why did America have to- why did his brother have to-
“Why can’t France take England home? Their houses are closer to each other you know!”
America is too simple to make a smart remark on how stupid it is in saying the obvious as he often says the obvious himself, and looks at Canada almost seriously, rarely does Canada drop formalities. France looks surprised as well.
Canada turns sharply to France, “You can do it right France? You can take England to his house instead of America right?”
France gapes, more taken aback by Canada’s sudden urgency than anything, “I suppose….”
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