Feel the Fear (6/6)
Title: Feel the Fear (6/6)
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): (In this part) Canada, England, Prussia, Scotland, Wales, background weans
Pairing(s): Prussia/Canada
Warnings: None
Date: 2nd and 3rd April, 2009; London, England
Word Count: 2,558
Summary: Part Six: Another G-20 summit, and Canada attempts to seize the day again. He has a Plan this time, however.
____________________________________________________________________
Part One; Part Two; Part Three; Part Four; Part Five
France’s arrival prompted demands that they rearrange themselves from England, who made a great deal of noise about the need for a bigger table to accommodate their expanded party, hitherto undetected cold draughts, and their insupportable proximity to the gents’.
It was abundantly clear, nevertheless, that the real problem lay in the fact that there was only a single free chair at their current location - one which would thus have a fifty-fifty chance of being claimed by France - and it was situated next to England.
“If we all squeezed together, I’m sure we’d manage to find room for an extra chair,” France said, in a low, throaty tone that somehow made the simple statement sound like an innuendo.
England certainly reacted as though it had been meant as one; his top lip lifting into its usual curl of revulsion. “You can do whatever the fuck you like,” he snarled. “I’m moving.”
Without waiting for any kind of response, he grabbed hold of his glass and jacket, and stomped off to install himself the nearest free table which, although admittedly larger, was even nearer to the men’s toilets.
For a moment, no-one else seemed fully committed to either staying put or else following England’s lead. Eyes darted between France and England, feet were shuffled, and Canada tipped his weight forward, muscles tensing as he prepared to shift himself on an instant’s notice.
Finally, Wales groaned resignedly, and, looking faintly disappointed in his own actions, gathered his things together and stood up.
His reluctant decision served as a catalyst for everyone else to leap to their feet and head towards England, who looked very smug, evidently feeling as though he had won some sort of unspoken competition against France.
After all the jostling and jockeying position had finished, Canada found himself wedged between a mock-Tudor pillar on his left hand side, and France - who had followed his own advice and squeezed in so tightly that he and Canada might as well be sharing the same chair - on his right.
“I can always move if you’d like, mon cher,” France said in an undertone as he nestled yet closer.
Canada almost told him yes, as things were beginning to take a turn towards the claustrophobic, but the meaningful nod France gave towards Prussia suggested that Canada’s physical comfort wasn’t forefront in his mind.
Canada flushed. “Thanks, but I’m okay here, Francis.”
Perhaps a while later, once he’d had time to think up a suitable opener - something that was just the right mix of clever, memorable, and maybe even slightly flirtatious if he could find the nerve for it - he’d try to approach Prussia again, but until then, he’d prefer to stay where he was. In retrospect, he should probably have prepared for the eventuality that the maple syrup wouldn’t have the desired effect and made a contingency plan from the start instead of putting all his eggs in one sticky basket.
“I think you should -”
France’s words cut short with an abrupt jolt when Scotland reached over from the next seat along and clasped his shoulder.
He glared down at the encroaching hand as though it was some manner of disgusting, slimy creature that was in danger of leaving mucous trails all over his shirt, and then said icily, “What do you want?”
Scotland seemed impervious to the poisonous look that France then turned on his person as a whole. In fact, his fingers dug a little deeper, securing his hold. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked. “I don’t suppose the wine here’s up to much, but it’s probably still better than whatever they’ve been serving you at the hotel.”
“I’m quite happy to wait until the next round.”
“Are you sure? Nobody seems to have made much progress with the last one; you could be waiting ages.”
Scotland’s gaze had clearly skipped straight over Canada’s mostly empty glass when he was making that assessment, but Canada was loath to correct him. Quite apart from not caring to draw Scotland’s notice unduly, now that he was dangerously close at hand once more, he didn’t want to break the rhythm of the argument Scotland and France very quickly fell into. Scotland remained just as stubborn in his insistence as France did in his refusal, setting up a cycle that seemed as though it could just run in perpetuity if left free from outside interference.
Canada certainly had no intention of providing any, because while France was distracted, he could devote himself to restrategising.
As it turned out, Canada had plenty of time to work on another plan of attack, because, through rounds three and most of four, Scotland and Wales held court with such tenacious volubility that even those of their party who might have wanted to struggled to get a word in edgewise.
They trotted out a litany of old stories that Canada had heard so many times before that he could practically recite them by heart; ones that leant quite heavily towards the most embarrassing aspects of England’s life from their earliest shared childhood right on up to the present day.
England seethed, then protested, and ultimately threatened bodily harm, but even he could not disrupt the flow of his brothers’ words for longer than it took for Scotland to tell him to, ‘Calm down, and pull the stick out of your arse whilst you’re at it’.
Watching this unusually loquacious demonstration - in his experience, Scotland especially tended to be stoic almost to the point of unresponsiveness - Canada began to think that Scotland and Wales might be lonely.
Not lacking for company, per se, as England had told him that they have plenty of human friends, but for the sort of bond that they could only forge with their own kind. That sense of overlapping, if not precisely shared, history and experience, and although Prussia was far from being a new acquaintance of theirs, he was at least a novel addition to their circle.
If they were hoping to inspire him to become a permanent one, their efforts would appear to be counterintuitive, as Prussia also hadn’t been given chance to contribute anything to the conversation for well over half an hour.
On the other hand, he had laughed in all the right places (and, to be fair, all the wrong ones, too), and so hard that he’d looked in danger of choking at one point.
Canada applied himself to remembering a suitably amusing story about England that hadn’t already been recounted in exhaustive and excruciating detail.
Unfortunately, he still hadn’t managed to come up with one by the time round five presented him with a lucky break.
It was, apparently, France’s turn to buy, and when he left for the bar, Scotland mumbled some barely intelligible explanation or other, then immediately dashed off after him.
All Canada had to do was to move into Scotland’s now empty seat and he would be right next to Prussia; in prime interacting range. Prussia’s head was bent over his phone, but he didn’t appear particularly engrossed in the screen, just a little bored and looking for something to occupy himself with for the moment.
Canada could be that thing.
He could, if only he’d managed to come up with anything worth saying during the few hours he’d spent musing on the subject, off and on. As it stood, he didn’t think he had any chance of competing with Bejewelled 2 for Prussia’s attention.
At times like these, he often wondered if he’d even be in this sort of predicament if he’d stayed with France. Perhaps then, he wouldn’t have to worry about doing or saying the right thing now, because he might have grown up to be the sort of person who told Prussia all about the sexual possibilities inherent to maple syrup two days ago.
But he had instead spent most of his formative years under the guardianship of three nations with the combined emotional availability of a potted plant, and so certain social situations still filled him with a paralysing sort of dull horror.
With that thought, his eyes strayed towards the bar, where Scotland and France were waiting for the rest of their order to be filled. One of Scotland’s hands was splayed across the small of France’s back, his head angled towards his ear as he said something that was apparently scandalous enough to make even France blush.
Despite his scorn towards anything that betrayed the faintest hint of sentimentality, Scotland was nonetheless able to make that sort of connection - indeed, Canada could not imagine him approaching such things with anything other than the blunt forthrightness he displayed everywhere else in his life - and Wales, if England was to believed, hadn’t been single for more than six months together since the eighties.
With such evidence, Canada couldn’t help but think that he was just making excuses for himself for considering blaming his upbringing for his reticence, and, besides, he was no closer to putting his finger on exactly what was holding him back than he had been twenty years ago.
Obviously, Prussia was much more worldly and experienced than him, but the worst reaction he could possibly have was still just turning Canada down. It would hurt, no doubt, but Canada knew from experience that that sort of pain would likely fade much more quickly than its initial acuteness suggested.
As the last couple of decades had taught him, the frustration of chances missed due to his own cowardice lasted far longer, and its ache ran far deeper.
He wasn’t going to allow himself to add another few months between meetings to that tally, he was going to…
… Spend the next ten minutes in the bathroom, apparently, drying out his pants, because Scotland slammed a bottle of beer down in front of him so hard that half of its contents overflowed and ended up in Canada’s lap.
He didn’t consider his recent conviction any less solid for wanting to postpone it until he no longer looked as though he’d had an unfortunate toileting accident.
He was sure even France would do the same.
As Australia had bought everyone double whiskey chasers to go along with their beers, things became slightly muddled after his round.
“Canada got the sixth one in.” England counted along on his fingers. “Then Wales got the seventh. And the eighth. We seem to have missed you out completely,” he finished, glowering at Scotland.
Scotland shrugged. “Gilbert hasn’t bought one, either.”
England countered that, although that might be true, that didn’t let Scotland off the hook and he’d have to chisel his wallet open at some point, regardless, which led Scotland to point out that the same could be said of Prussia. England’s subsequent retort was unnecessarily vituperative - especially considering that he’d not taken more than a sip or two from the pint he already had, and so was not exactly in dire need of another - Scotland’s answer yet more insulting, and they were soon shouting at each other so loudly that neither of them heard Prussia announce that he was going to the bar.
The beer-soaked-pants incident might have ruined Canada’s previous chance of catching a moment alone with Prussia, but he wasn’t going to let this one pass him by
“I’m going to go and help him carry the drinks,” he said.
No-one paid him the slightest bit of attention, either.
The pub had filled up considerably over the course of the evening - the elderly regulars being supplemented by an influx of business people around six, and then a wave of students later on - and the crowd clustered around the bar was so dense that Prussia seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty making his presence known to the barman, despite all of his exaggerated attempts at catching his eye.
He spared a moment to glance towards Canada when he joined him, but nothing more than that; seemingly happy to stand together in silence whilst they waited for the incredibly tall, incredibly broad man ahead of them to move and open up an unbroken line of sight to the bar.
Canada, however, was acutely aware of both time and opportunity sliding away from him.
“Tonight’s been fun, right?” he forced himself to say. “We should do it again some time.”
“Yeah,” Prussia said vaguely, his gaze fixed on the tall man’s hands. He seemed to be trying to pay for his drink solely using spare change, and the act of counting out the coins was a long and laborious one.
Heartened by the agreement - half-hearted though it might have been - Canada grasped hold of his newly-discovered courage, firm in both hands, and said, “I really wanted to talk to you tonight, but I haven’t had much of a chance. Maybe it would be easier if, next time, it’s just the two of us.”
Prussia offers him an equally offhand, “Okay,” in reply.
It was precisely the answer Canada had longed for, but given in entirely the wrong way. He couldn’t let himself be content with it, because it was very clear where that would doubtless lead. Prussia was distracted, likely not really hearing him even if he was listening, and so, to spare himself a future full of potential confusion and embarrassment, Canada clarified, “I’m asking you out on a date.”
The effect on Prussia was instantaneous. He looked as though the internal soundtrack of his thoughts had come to a sudden, screeching halt, leaving behind nothing but a whistling void in their place. His face, save the shocked rounding of his eyes, was wiped completely blank of expression.
Eventually, he scraped together the wherewithal to wheeze out, “Seriously?”
The disbelief in his voice was so humiliatingly thick that Canada was on the verge trying to save face by telling him that: ‘Actually, we do celebrate April Fool’s Day in Canada, but we do it two days later. Great joke, right?’, before Scotland’s loud yell of horrified and wordless rage interrupted him.
Looking back towards their table, he could see Scotland leaning against the wall beside, shoulders hunched and head bowed down low. Judging by his decidedly drenched appearance, and the empty glass clutched in England’s hand, England had finally been pushed to breaking point and poured the remains of his beer over the top of Scotland’s head.
“That’s it,” England snarled. “I’ve had more than enough of this shit. I’m leaving.”
Canada sighed, because it seemed unlikely that the poor excuse for a moment he had managed to cobble together before would keep from falling apart at the seams after that. “I guess we’re probably going to end up having to go now, too.”
“Sure,” Prussia said. He was still staring rather dazedly at nothing in particular when Canada turned back towards him. “Sure, we can go on a date if you want, kid.”
“Oh.” Canada wouldn’t be surprised if he looked just as stunned as Prussia. To his own ears, he certainly sounded as though he was. “Oh, that’s… That’s great, Gilbert. Thanks. Maybe we could meet up after the next G-8 meeting or something?”
Prussia’s nod wasn't overly enthusiastic, it was small and a little unsure, but there was no mistaking it for anything other than agreement.
Canada smiled happily, regardless, because it seemed as though France had been right, after all.
Sometimes seizing the day was definitely worth it.
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): (In this part) Canada, England, Prussia, Scotland, Wales, background weans
Pairing(s): Prussia/Canada
Warnings: None
Date: 2nd and 3rd April, 2009; London, England
Word Count: 2,558
Summary: Part Six: Another G-20 summit, and Canada attempts to seize the day again. He has a Plan this time, however.
____________________________________________________________________
Part One; Part Two; Part Three; Part Four; Part Five
France’s arrival prompted demands that they rearrange themselves from England, who made a great deal of noise about the need for a bigger table to accommodate their expanded party, hitherto undetected cold draughts, and their insupportable proximity to the gents’.
It was abundantly clear, nevertheless, that the real problem lay in the fact that there was only a single free chair at their current location - one which would thus have a fifty-fifty chance of being claimed by France - and it was situated next to England.
“If we all squeezed together, I’m sure we’d manage to find room for an extra chair,” France said, in a low, throaty tone that somehow made the simple statement sound like an innuendo.
England certainly reacted as though it had been meant as one; his top lip lifting into its usual curl of revulsion. “You can do whatever the fuck you like,” he snarled. “I’m moving.”
Without waiting for any kind of response, he grabbed hold of his glass and jacket, and stomped off to install himself the nearest free table which, although admittedly larger, was even nearer to the men’s toilets.
For a moment, no-one else seemed fully committed to either staying put or else following England’s lead. Eyes darted between France and England, feet were shuffled, and Canada tipped his weight forward, muscles tensing as he prepared to shift himself on an instant’s notice.
Finally, Wales groaned resignedly, and, looking faintly disappointed in his own actions, gathered his things together and stood up.
His reluctant decision served as a catalyst for everyone else to leap to their feet and head towards England, who looked very smug, evidently feeling as though he had won some sort of unspoken competition against France.
After all the jostling and jockeying position had finished, Canada found himself wedged between a mock-Tudor pillar on his left hand side, and France - who had followed his own advice and squeezed in so tightly that he and Canada might as well be sharing the same chair - on his right.
“I can always move if you’d like, mon cher,” France said in an undertone as he nestled yet closer.
Canada almost told him yes, as things were beginning to take a turn towards the claustrophobic, but the meaningful nod France gave towards Prussia suggested that Canada’s physical comfort wasn’t forefront in his mind.
Canada flushed. “Thanks, but I’m okay here, Francis.”
Perhaps a while later, once he’d had time to think up a suitable opener - something that was just the right mix of clever, memorable, and maybe even slightly flirtatious if he could find the nerve for it - he’d try to approach Prussia again, but until then, he’d prefer to stay where he was. In retrospect, he should probably have prepared for the eventuality that the maple syrup wouldn’t have the desired effect and made a contingency plan from the start instead of putting all his eggs in one sticky basket.
“I think you should -”
France’s words cut short with an abrupt jolt when Scotland reached over from the next seat along and clasped his shoulder.
He glared down at the encroaching hand as though it was some manner of disgusting, slimy creature that was in danger of leaving mucous trails all over his shirt, and then said icily, “What do you want?”
Scotland seemed impervious to the poisonous look that France then turned on his person as a whole. In fact, his fingers dug a little deeper, securing his hold. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked. “I don’t suppose the wine here’s up to much, but it’s probably still better than whatever they’ve been serving you at the hotel.”
“I’m quite happy to wait until the next round.”
“Are you sure? Nobody seems to have made much progress with the last one; you could be waiting ages.”
Scotland’s gaze had clearly skipped straight over Canada’s mostly empty glass when he was making that assessment, but Canada was loath to correct him. Quite apart from not caring to draw Scotland’s notice unduly, now that he was dangerously close at hand once more, he didn’t want to break the rhythm of the argument Scotland and France very quickly fell into. Scotland remained just as stubborn in his insistence as France did in his refusal, setting up a cycle that seemed as though it could just run in perpetuity if left free from outside interference.
Canada certainly had no intention of providing any, because while France was distracted, he could devote himself to restrategising.
As it turned out, Canada had plenty of time to work on another plan of attack, because, through rounds three and most of four, Scotland and Wales held court with such tenacious volubility that even those of their party who might have wanted to struggled to get a word in edgewise.
They trotted out a litany of old stories that Canada had heard so many times before that he could practically recite them by heart; ones that leant quite heavily towards the most embarrassing aspects of England’s life from their earliest shared childhood right on up to the present day.
England seethed, then protested, and ultimately threatened bodily harm, but even he could not disrupt the flow of his brothers’ words for longer than it took for Scotland to tell him to, ‘Calm down, and pull the stick out of your arse whilst you’re at it’.
Watching this unusually loquacious demonstration - in his experience, Scotland especially tended to be stoic almost to the point of unresponsiveness - Canada began to think that Scotland and Wales might be lonely.
Not lacking for company, per se, as England had told him that they have plenty of human friends, but for the sort of bond that they could only forge with their own kind. That sense of overlapping, if not precisely shared, history and experience, and although Prussia was far from being a new acquaintance of theirs, he was at least a novel addition to their circle.
If they were hoping to inspire him to become a permanent one, their efforts would appear to be counterintuitive, as Prussia also hadn’t been given chance to contribute anything to the conversation for well over half an hour.
On the other hand, he had laughed in all the right places (and, to be fair, all the wrong ones, too), and so hard that he’d looked in danger of choking at one point.
Canada applied himself to remembering a suitably amusing story about England that hadn’t already been recounted in exhaustive and excruciating detail.
Unfortunately, he still hadn’t managed to come up with one by the time round five presented him with a lucky break.
It was, apparently, France’s turn to buy, and when he left for the bar, Scotland mumbled some barely intelligible explanation or other, then immediately dashed off after him.
All Canada had to do was to move into Scotland’s now empty seat and he would be right next to Prussia; in prime interacting range. Prussia’s head was bent over his phone, but he didn’t appear particularly engrossed in the screen, just a little bored and looking for something to occupy himself with for the moment.
Canada could be that thing.
He could, if only he’d managed to come up with anything worth saying during the few hours he’d spent musing on the subject, off and on. As it stood, he didn’t think he had any chance of competing with Bejewelled 2 for Prussia’s attention.
At times like these, he often wondered if he’d even be in this sort of predicament if he’d stayed with France. Perhaps then, he wouldn’t have to worry about doing or saying the right thing now, because he might have grown up to be the sort of person who told Prussia all about the sexual possibilities inherent to maple syrup two days ago.
But he had instead spent most of his formative years under the guardianship of three nations with the combined emotional availability of a potted plant, and so certain social situations still filled him with a paralysing sort of dull horror.
With that thought, his eyes strayed towards the bar, where Scotland and France were waiting for the rest of their order to be filled. One of Scotland’s hands was splayed across the small of France’s back, his head angled towards his ear as he said something that was apparently scandalous enough to make even France blush.
Despite his scorn towards anything that betrayed the faintest hint of sentimentality, Scotland was nonetheless able to make that sort of connection - indeed, Canada could not imagine him approaching such things with anything other than the blunt forthrightness he displayed everywhere else in his life - and Wales, if England was to believed, hadn’t been single for more than six months together since the eighties.
With such evidence, Canada couldn’t help but think that he was just making excuses for himself for considering blaming his upbringing for his reticence, and, besides, he was no closer to putting his finger on exactly what was holding him back than he had been twenty years ago.
Obviously, Prussia was much more worldly and experienced than him, but the worst reaction he could possibly have was still just turning Canada down. It would hurt, no doubt, but Canada knew from experience that that sort of pain would likely fade much more quickly than its initial acuteness suggested.
As the last couple of decades had taught him, the frustration of chances missed due to his own cowardice lasted far longer, and its ache ran far deeper.
He wasn’t going to allow himself to add another few months between meetings to that tally, he was going to…
… Spend the next ten minutes in the bathroom, apparently, drying out his pants, because Scotland slammed a bottle of beer down in front of him so hard that half of its contents overflowed and ended up in Canada’s lap.
He didn’t consider his recent conviction any less solid for wanting to postpone it until he no longer looked as though he’d had an unfortunate toileting accident.
He was sure even France would do the same.
As Australia had bought everyone double whiskey chasers to go along with their beers, things became slightly muddled after his round.
“Canada got the sixth one in.” England counted along on his fingers. “Then Wales got the seventh. And the eighth. We seem to have missed you out completely,” he finished, glowering at Scotland.
Scotland shrugged. “Gilbert hasn’t bought one, either.”
England countered that, although that might be true, that didn’t let Scotland off the hook and he’d have to chisel his wallet open at some point, regardless, which led Scotland to point out that the same could be said of Prussia. England’s subsequent retort was unnecessarily vituperative - especially considering that he’d not taken more than a sip or two from the pint he already had, and so was not exactly in dire need of another - Scotland’s answer yet more insulting, and they were soon shouting at each other so loudly that neither of them heard Prussia announce that he was going to the bar.
The beer-soaked-pants incident might have ruined Canada’s previous chance of catching a moment alone with Prussia, but he wasn’t going to let this one pass him by
“I’m going to go and help him carry the drinks,” he said.
No-one paid him the slightest bit of attention, either.
The pub had filled up considerably over the course of the evening - the elderly regulars being supplemented by an influx of business people around six, and then a wave of students later on - and the crowd clustered around the bar was so dense that Prussia seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty making his presence known to the barman, despite all of his exaggerated attempts at catching his eye.
He spared a moment to glance towards Canada when he joined him, but nothing more than that; seemingly happy to stand together in silence whilst they waited for the incredibly tall, incredibly broad man ahead of them to move and open up an unbroken line of sight to the bar.
Canada, however, was acutely aware of both time and opportunity sliding away from him.
“Tonight’s been fun, right?” he forced himself to say. “We should do it again some time.”
“Yeah,” Prussia said vaguely, his gaze fixed on the tall man’s hands. He seemed to be trying to pay for his drink solely using spare change, and the act of counting out the coins was a long and laborious one.
Heartened by the agreement - half-hearted though it might have been - Canada grasped hold of his newly-discovered courage, firm in both hands, and said, “I really wanted to talk to you tonight, but I haven’t had much of a chance. Maybe it would be easier if, next time, it’s just the two of us.”
Prussia offers him an equally offhand, “Okay,” in reply.
It was precisely the answer Canada had longed for, but given in entirely the wrong way. He couldn’t let himself be content with it, because it was very clear where that would doubtless lead. Prussia was distracted, likely not really hearing him even if he was listening, and so, to spare himself a future full of potential confusion and embarrassment, Canada clarified, “I’m asking you out on a date.”
The effect on Prussia was instantaneous. He looked as though the internal soundtrack of his thoughts had come to a sudden, screeching halt, leaving behind nothing but a whistling void in their place. His face, save the shocked rounding of his eyes, was wiped completely blank of expression.
Eventually, he scraped together the wherewithal to wheeze out, “Seriously?”
The disbelief in his voice was so humiliatingly thick that Canada was on the verge trying to save face by telling him that: ‘Actually, we do celebrate April Fool’s Day in Canada, but we do it two days later. Great joke, right?’, before Scotland’s loud yell of horrified and wordless rage interrupted him.
Looking back towards their table, he could see Scotland leaning against the wall beside, shoulders hunched and head bowed down low. Judging by his decidedly drenched appearance, and the empty glass clutched in England’s hand, England had finally been pushed to breaking point and poured the remains of his beer over the top of Scotland’s head.
“That’s it,” England snarled. “I’ve had more than enough of this shit. I’m leaving.”
Canada sighed, because it seemed unlikely that the poor excuse for a moment he had managed to cobble together before would keep from falling apart at the seams after that. “I guess we’re probably going to end up having to go now, too.”
“Sure,” Prussia said. He was still staring rather dazedly at nothing in particular when Canada turned back towards him. “Sure, we can go on a date if you want, kid.”
“Oh.” Canada wouldn’t be surprised if he looked just as stunned as Prussia. To his own ears, he certainly sounded as though he was. “Oh, that’s… That’s great, Gilbert. Thanks. Maybe we could meet up after the next G-8 meeting or something?”
Prussia’s nod wasn't overly enthusiastic, it was small and a little unsure, but there was no mistaking it for anything other than agreement.
Canada smiled happily, regardless, because it seemed as though France had been right, after all.
Sometimes seizing the day was definitely worth it.