Different
Title: Different
Author: starrdust411
Rating: PG
Pairings: one sided PruCan, mildly implied FrUK
Warning: Gender Bending, Implied Slash
Summary: Canada has a hard time adjusting to a recent change in his life. (De-anon from the hetalia_kink meme.)
It was his boss's fault. He had been the one to come up with the idea and he'd approached Canada about it as casually as one asking for an opinion on the weather. For him it wasn't a big deal, because from one day to the next it wouldn't affect him anymore than a pebble being tossed in a river would affect the flow of the stream. For Canada, however, it was a big deal, a very big deal and he just didn't understand how his boss couldn't see that.
Looking at his reflection in the mirror he sighed, knowing that in many ways this was also his own fault, because he hadn't tried to explain why such a suggestion wasn't exactly appealing to him. Canada had never wanted to change. He liked himself just fine, despite how unremarkable others might find him. He liked his nose, his eyes, his lips, and everything from the neck down just fine the way it was. It was fine, it was functional, it was familiar and his and Canada could not comprehend why someone would ask him to change it.
Yet someone had, his boss had, and suddenly the face staring back at him in the mirror -- while eerily familiar -- was not his own.
In many ways, it wasn't really a big issue for beings like him. Other countries had gone through the change before, some several times, and they had all survived it. It had happened to America twice, once in the ninteen twenties and then again in the sixties; England only once, but it had lasted for nearly a century and had been before Canada was even his colony; and France many many times. Canada had been lucky, had managed to avoid it all together until now.
Until now...
Perhaps that was the most upsetting part, because until his boss had approached him with the suggestion he had felt safe, as if this sort of thing couldn't harm him because he had just kept dodging it for so long. He supposed that whatever luck he had been blessed with had simply run out.
He frowned at the thought and watched as his lips, now much fuller than they had been before, turned downward into a gesture that looked like more of a pout than a scowl. It was still strange to look so different yet so similar. After all, most things were the same: his hair was still the usual shade of dark blond and his eyes were still the same soft violet-blue (and he still needed his glasses, wasn't that a shame?), but that was about it. The rest of him had... shifted over night -- the night after he had officially agreed to undergo the change -- and it was hard to wake up the next morning and find a whole new body wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed.
Smaller and softer, that's what he had become. Everything about him was smaller and softer. He had lost some height and now stood a few inches shorter, and his hair had gotten longer, falling just below his shoulder blade where it sat in even looser waves. His hands were still roughed and callused, but his fingers were a bit shorter and thinner and his feet had become so small that when he put on his shoes he felt unbalanced and ready to trip over himself. His face... well he had never had a very hard, masculine face, but his features were certainly softer and more delicate than before. (Heart shaped is what France had called him, but Canada didn't know if that was the right term.) And then there was his body. That was the biggest change of all and the one that he absolutely could not get used to. Going to bed with a flat chest and narrow hips only to wake up with full breasts and curvy thighs had been...
His head twinged at the memory of running his hands over his new developments with such a strong sense of horror that his fingers had actually trembled. That had been the last time he had touched himself, had looked at himself, and every day after that Canada had dressed and undressed quickly and made sure to look only at the walls when he was underneath the shower's spray. He couldn't stand this body. The face was difficult enough to deal with, but the body...
The sound of a fist pounding against his front door cut through the air and Canada felt himself shrink into the folds of his oversized clothes. Answering the door wasn't a favorite activity for him anymore and Canada was tempted to call out to Mr. Kumajiro and ask him to see to it for him, but he decided against it, because his voice had changed too and he didn't like hearing it.
Another knock reached his ears, just seconds before the door bell rang, and Canada found that his own inherent politeness simply would not allow him to simply leave a visitor standing on his doorsteps. He managed to pull himself away from the bathroom mirror that he had been gazing forlornly into for the better part of the afternoon and shuffled his way towards the front of the house (shuffling was now the only way that Canada was able to walk without tripping over his shoes).
Canada wasn't at all surprised when he found America standing on the other side of the door, although the box he was carrying in his arms was more than a bit unexpected.
"I brought you some stuff," America said by way of an explanation as he allowed himself into the living room. Canada watched as he carried the box, large and old with a few dented corners and strips of tape slapped to its sides -- towards the coffee table, where he set it down with a heavy thud. "I found it all in my attic and I figured you might need them more than me."
"What is it?" Canada asked as he shuffled his way back into the living room, but the moment America opened the cardboard flaps Canada caught of glimpse of something soft and laced and it all became quite obvious.
"I think we're about the same size," America commented, speaking more to himself than Canada as he pulled out an old shirt that had gone quite dingy and smelled like cobwebs. He held it in front of himself, then flipped the shirt around and held it against Canada's chest. "It looks like it'd fit you."
"It's really... old," Canada commented as he took the shirt, blouse, shirt in his hands and fingered the fabric that still felt soft if a bit gritty. He gently folded it into a small square and put it aside before taking a seat next to America on his couch.
"Well, duh!" America laughed as he continued to rummage around the box pulling out random odds and ends and lining them up along the chairs and coffee table. "I haven't been a chick since, like, sixty eight!"
Canada nodded and watched as America unpacked a box of hair clips, a matching brush and comb, and a pair of sunglasses and the sight of it all brought back memories of those distant days when America had been forced to go from his brother to his sister. As a girl, woman?, girl America hadn't been very different than his normal self. He had still been quite loud and forceful and self assured. The only difference that Canada could recall was that America had developed a fondness for hot dogs and began using words like "equality," "suffrage," and "womankind" quite often and would loudly declare England a "chauvinistic patriarch" during world meetings.
"Have you bought yourself one of these yet?" America asked, his question drawing Canada's mind back to the present, yet when he turned to look at him Canada suddenly wished he were miles away. His whole face burned bright red as he stared at the simple, white bra that America was currently holding in his hands and Canada knew from the way that his brother was staring at him that he wanted him to take it.
"N-not exactly," he admitted as he reluctantly took the bra in his own hands. The material was quite soft and smooth and Canada frowned as his fingers brushed against what seemed to be something rather hard lining the cups. He shuddered at the thought that this was the first time that he was holding a bra and that it had belonged to his own brother. His frown soon deepened as a strange scent caught his nose. "Why does it smell like smoke?"
America laughed, a fond sort of look crossing his features at the question. "Oh man, I used to roast these things like marshmallows back in the sixties," he chuckled. "They burn a lot faster than you'd think." He allowed himself a few more seconds of laugher, before clearing his throat and turning his attention back to Canada. "So you still haven't gotten a bra yet? Dude, you've been a chick for like, what, a month now?"
"Three weeks," Canada nearly groaned, because this had easily been the longest few days of his life.
"Oh, dude, that means you're going to be getting your period soon."
"Get out of my house," he snapped, because even though Canada understood that in his own strange way America was only trying to be helpful, he also knew that discussing per... men...that was something he was not ready for.
"I'm just saying, you gotta be ready, cause the first time sucks," America said, speaking in that authoritative tone he always used whenever he actually knew about something. "I mean, it feels like someone took a baseball bat and pulverized your guts."
"Stop."
"And it doesn't stop at just the first day. It lasts a freakin' week."
"Please stop."
"And the blood!"
"Alfred! Shut up!" Canada cried, and he really did start to cry as he clasped his hands over his ears in order to block out anything else. The tears were hot and pricked at his eyes and Canada felt his face burn with embarrassment at the knowledge that he had just lost control like that.
"Hey, Mattie don't cry," America insisted and even with his eyes squeezed shut Canada could still tell that America had shifted closer to him. "I know this is hard, but you gotta know about these things."
"I don't want to know," Canada groaned. "I don't want to learn about how fast a bra burns or how much a period sucks. I just want to be me again."
"You're still you."
"I don't feel like me," he countered as he reluctantly allowed his hands to slip from his ears to his lap.
"It gets easier," America promised him and Canada just couldn't see how that was true.
==
"You look beautiful."
Canada felt his face flush and his shoulder slump, a gesture that he saw mimicked by his own reflection as he stared into the floor length fitting room mirror. He didn't feel beautiful and his lumpy, misshapen body certainly didn't appear very beautiful to him, not in the blue polka dotted blouse and white pleated skirt that France had picked out for him.
It must have been two weeks after America had come by and dropped off his box of feminine wonders that France had shown up at his door. America had told France about his little melt down, Canada knew it even without France ever making mention of the incident, because every time France looked at him it was with a reassuring smile and a patient gleam in his eyes. Canada supposed he should have appreciated it, because America had voluntarily talked to France for him and that alone was something to be in awe of, and really, it was nice to be remembered, noticed, but given his current situation Canada simply couldn't take any pleasure from it.
France had found him wearing some of America's old clothes, the ones that Canada had deemed not too girly and not too skimpy to wear, and had frowned in immediate disapproval. He did Canada's hair, showed him how "nice" it could look when it was styled instead of just pulled back with a rubber band, and insisted that his face looked absolutely "darling" when framed with pigtails. He took away most of Canada's old clothes, told him that he simply could not wear them anymore because they made him look like a "hobo" and that he had to get used to dressing like a woman for the time being.
He had just been trying to help, that's what Canada had told himself over and over again as France raided his closet and wardrobe for all the things that must go, because France was someone who believed that looking good meant feeling good and he probably thought that Canada would feel better once he saw how "pretty" he could be. If anything it only made Canada feel worse, because all these outfits that France had picked out for him emphasized all the new curves of his body and seeing his now narrow waist and wide hips displayed in front of him made Canada want to find a blanket or a beach towel and wrap it around himself.
"Yes, quite beautiful," France insisted as he took a step closer towards Canada's side. He was staring at Canada's reflection too, but his gaze was more approving than Canada's and when he ran his hand against him it was merely to smooth out the wrinkles in the blouse. "You have such an adorable figure," he went on as he moved on to adjust Canada's skirt. It was almost as if he were reading Canada's thoughts and saying all the things he didn't want to hear. "Such nice curves. And look how narrow your waist is! Beautiful. Just like me."
Canada remembered France as a woman. One of his earliest memories had been of a female France finding him in the wilderness. For a time Canada had called France "Maman" and he would enjoy nothing more than to play with the folds of France's skirt until he fell asleep in his lap. It was only a few years later that France returned to his male form, and Canada had been confused to say the least, calling him "Maman-Papa" for a time before giving up such nicknames all together.
But France had been a beautiful woman, very beautiful with a long swan like neck and wicked lips that always seemed to curl up mischievously whenever he smiled. His skin was so much softer as a woman and he always smelled like a field of flowers in bloom and Canada knew that was all France, because he enjoyed bathing himself in spicy perfumes. His hair was still blond and wavy when he was female, but some time during the nineties, while in his feminine state, France had decided to become a brunette and somehow the change had made him all the more alluring (especially to England, who had seemed downright disappointed when France became a man again the very next fall).
Canada wasn't any of those things. He wasn't beautiful or alluring and he didn't have a swan like neck or a wicked smile. He was... awkward. As awkward and uncomfortable as a young man forced into a skirt for the first time could be.
"I don't think..." Canada began, but quickly stopped himself. He had already rejected the last few outfits that France had selected on the grounds that he didn't think they suited him and Canada was certain he couldn't use that excuse again. He fumbled for a moment, looking at the girl staring back at him in the mirror before, reluctantly, looking down at his body in the hopes of finding some sort of way out. He found it in the form of the price tag dangling off of the cuff of his sleeve and quickly pulled it towards him. He felt a great sense of relief wash over him at the sight of the numbers that were dangerously close to the triple digits. "I don't think I can afford this. This whole store is way too pricey, eh?"
"Well then I will buy it for you," France insisted as he continued to hold Canada in place between the door and the mirror. It was painful and frustrating and Canada wished that there was some way he could communicate to France, short of having a nervous breakdown in the middle of the women's changing room, that forcing him to look at his female body wasn't helping him at all. Instead of saying anything Canada merely allowed his eyes to drift lower and lower until he was staring past the folds of his skirt to the dingy cotton socks covering his pathetically small feet. "This outfit looks too good on you to just pass it up, and look..." France's words trailed off a bit as he turned towards the still surprisingly massive pile of clothes he had gathered for Canada to try on and pulled out a navy blue blazer. He motioned for Canada to raise his arms and forced the jacket around his body in the same manner as when he had dressed him as a child. "It works perfectly with professional attire. You could wear it to meetings too."
Canada had to admit that he liked this outfit better, but only because the jacket had a somewhat masculine quality and the heavier fabric helped to minimize the size of his chest. Still, the fact that it was a woman's jacket and that he was wearing women's clothes in a women's store gnawed at the pit of his stomach.
"Now, let us try on something else," France suggested as he pulled out a dress that was loose and fluttery with a floral print decorating every stitch of fabric. "This one really brings out the color of your eyes."
"I don't..." Canada began again, but interrupted himself with a reluctant sigh. "Couldn't we try on something that well... isn't a dress? Or a skirt?"
"Do not worry, I have some pants for you," France said with a laugh as he grabbed a pair of shorts that looked quite strange to Canada, because they seemed far too tight and were hemmed in such a strange manner. "And we will not be trying on clothes for long. I have to get you some new shoes too."
"What's wrong with my shoes?" Canada asked as he glanced over towards the pair of beaten up old tennis shoes tucked into the corner of the fitting room.
"Ma douce, you cannot go around wearing your old over sized sneakers. You will trip and break your neck."
"What about the shoes America gave me?" he muttered as he shuffled his sock coated feet against the floor's thin carpet.
"Fashion, much like time, must move forward," France noted as he frowned distastefully at the very idea of America's ratty old sandals and even more dogged shoes. "And America was never one to take care of her things. His things."
Canada cringed at France's slip up, because he suddenly realized that in no time at all everyone would be referring to him with feminine pronouns and soon he would learn to accept it.
He cried.
===
"You should feel grateful," England was saying as he leaned back against his stiff metal chair. It was a bright day, the air was crisp and the sun was beaming down on them in just the right way, and really it was the perfect afternoon to sit outside and enjoy a cup of tea. And Canada would have appreciated it if it weren't for the fact that England was currently forcing him to sit through a discussion of what had become his least favorite subject. "It was different in my day. They treated you like a ghost, as if you didn't even exist. Not like today. You won't run into that sort of problem."
Canada took a sip of his tea and used it to help him swallow the bitterness swelling in the back of his throat. England was trying, he knew that much, and Canada also knew that England's little visit wasn't brought on by some random whim, but rather by France who had likely contacted England after the incident in the dressing room. It wasn't like France to just hand Canada off to England, but Canada supposed that he was just trying to change tactics since his method of emotional support wasn't working. Not that England was the greatest person to turn to in times like this.
"I... well, that hasn't really been a problem," Canada admitted, because he hadn't bothered to leave home these past few months unless it was an absolute emergency (or one of his "relatives" dragged him out) and his boss was generous enough to give him the time off in order to adjust.
But Canada was starting to feel certain that he would never fully adjust to this new body and was considering ways that he could perform his work without having to leave his home. After all, everything was so computer driven, surely his boss could just send him his work via emails and did he really need to attend world meetings when his presence was just going to be ignored anyway?
"It's just..." he began, but couldn't quite find words to explain it. Strange? Different? New? Awkward? All those words floated in and out of his mind, but none of them seemed to have the right impact for him. America had compared the situation to moving into a new house and said that he just needed to take some time to make things feel like home. Canada supposed that it was a good way to put it, except he didn't think he'd ever feel at home in this new skin. "It's been two months and nothing feels right," Canada admitted at last.
"It gets better," England assured him and despite the distant tone of his voice and the permanent scowl on his face Canada could still tell from the tenderness in his gaze that he was concerned. "The first few months are always the worst, but you learn to live with it."
Canada nodded as he grabbed a few packets of sugar off of the table and began pouring them into his cup. He stirred the grains in carefully, making sure not to bang the side of his mug, because even though it was paper (and he was drinking coffee) he knew how much such things bothered England.
He had asked France once what England had looked like as a woman and Canada hadn't been surprised by his answer. "He was very pretty," France had told him with a wistful smile before adding, "in an awkward sort of way." He'd had long hair, France had said, long and straight and it was always a bit messy around the bangs, but was usually pulled back into a sloppy braid or bun. His brows had stayed thick, and Canada assumed that there weren't many tools that he could use to tweeze or pluck back then, but his face had been sharp and graceful and his body quite slim and petite. Canada could picture England as a woman. He imagined that he had tried to be a lady just as hard as he tried to be a gentleman now and he suspected that England had been awkward in more ways than just his looks.
He supposed that the idea that England had managed to get through being trapped in a woman's body should have been comforting, but it wasn't, because all Canada's mind could fix on was the fact that England had spent the better half of a century trapped as a woman and the idea that the same could happen to him felt very real.
Canada took in a deep breath -- one that he had intended to be calming, but was instead hard and made him tremble -- and found himself gazing around the courtyard where he watched as others stared at him. Canada wasn't used to being studied because on a good day he wasn't given more than a passing glance, and really it should have been a nice little treat to have people notice him, but it only left Canada feeling quite raw and exposed under their curious gazes.
"The tea here isn't very good," England muttered into the rim of his cup, before setting it down with a heavy sigh. He pushed himself away from the table and motioned for Canada to do the same. Canada knew that the tea was probably just fine and the only thing that was bothering England at the moment was Canada's very clearly growing discomfort. They took a few steps away from the cafe and when someone, a young man in his mid-twenties perhaps, started to study Canada a bit too intensely, England wrapped an arm around him and pulled him a bit closer.
"Your new clothes do look nice," England noted as they continued their walk and Canada felt his cheeks burn.
England had been the one to insist he wear this. Not that particular outfit -- a red and gray stripped cardigan with jeans that still felt a bit too tight -- but just something that France had purchased for him and Canada suspected that America had gone behind his back and told England that he was running around in coffee stained sweat pants and an old hockey sweater that had managed to escape being tossed out by France. On the one hand Canada had to admit that it did feel nice to wear clothes that actually fit him and having shoes that matched the shape of his feet felt good and made him more secure when walking at something faster than a shuffle, but these still weren't his clothes and he missed the familiar warmth of his Canadians sweater.
Canada still managed to mutter a soft "thanks," but that didn't stop England from frowning ever so slightly. "It really does get easier, you know," England told him softly. "And really, after a while you'll start to realize that things aren't so different."
"When?" Canada said, whined really, because he had been waiting for that magical day when everything shifted and he felt okay again for two months now and it still hadn't happened. "When does it actually get better?"
"Everyone adjusts at their own pace," England said, his tone indicating that he had been a bit caught off guard by the question, but he seemed to recover quickly. "It took me a while to adjust to wearing dresses instead of trousers and squatting over chamber pots, but I did it. I came through it alive and you will too."
Tears pricked at the back of his eyes and his throat clenched so tightly that Canada had to struggle to breath. Somehow those words seemed empty in his ears and Canada just felt lost.
The sun kept shining, but rain clouds came lurking over head and water was soon sprinkling around them. Canada was glad that, for once, England had brought along an umbrella and the two walked quietly side by side underneath it.
===
Prussia had found the pills and Canada couldn't have felt more humiliated than if America had been the one to discover them.
Unlike England or France, Prussia hadn't been forced over by anyone else. He had been trying to reach Canada for a long time, through text messages and emails and phone calls in the middle of the night that made Canada wonder if he had forgotten about the whole "time zone thing" again. Naturally Canada had ignored all of his attempts to make contact because he was still determined to keep the number of people who had seen his new body to a minimum. Yet after seeing the number of unread mail in his inbox soar into the triple digits and remembering that Prussia had an unlimited data plan and nothing valuable to do with his time, Canada had finally broken down and spoken to him. Via email, because he wasn't ready for Prussia to hear his new voice either.
He had explained the situation -- because despite his intense discomfort Canada was still aware of the fact that this was a fairly mundane occurrence for beings like him -- and Prussia had taken that moment of honesty and interpreted it as an invitation to fly over and spend the next few weeks crashing on his couch. What resulted was Canada spending a great deal of time with a blanket draped over his body and speaking as quietly as possible, much to Prussia's annoyance.
Yet in a lot of ways it was nice to have Prussia around, because he didn't bother talking about Canada's new body and because they were friends. Good friends. At least, Canada felt that they were good friends. Not that he wanted to be just friends with Prussia, because Canada had been nursing a crush on him for decades and Canada longed for the day when he could swallow the lump in his throat that kept him from saying just how much he liked Prussia and hopefully he'd find out just how much Prussia liked him without feeling as if his insides had been ripped into a million little pieces. But that magical day had been pushed further away thanks to this new body and all the complications it caused, because his greatest fear now was that Prussia would only like him as a girl and then Canada would be forced to either stay a woman forever just to please him or reject Prussia all together because this wasn't at all what he wanted.
That fear wasn't important right now, however, because at the moment Prussia was standing in his bedroom holding a small plastic circle that was half filled with multicolored pills. Canada didn't know how to react, so he didn't, choosing to stand in stunned, horrified silence as he stared at Prussia's thoughtfully furrowed brow and stiff posture. His stomach lurched up to his throat before plummeting down towards his knees when -- after an immeasurably long period of tense silence -- Prussia turned to face Canada standing in the doorway.
"Are you," he began slowly as he tapped his finger along the plastic casing, "are you taking these... cause you don't wanna get pregnant?"
"No," Canada said once he regained his senses. His face turned bright red as he quickly walked across the room and snatched the pack of birth control pills out of Prussia's hands and held them in his own grasp. The idea of tucking them away in his pocket was tempting, because he felt certain that once they were hidden away the tension would slip out of the room, but something in the back of his mind told him not to, fearing that such a gesture would only help him to appear even guiltier. "No. That's not it at all."
"Then... what are they for?" he asked and Canada had to wonder if this whole situation was just as awkward for Prussia as it was for him.
"I just... I didn't... didn't want to have my per... period," Canada admitted haltingly and even though his face couldn't possible get any redder, Canada felt certain that his cheeks somehow managed as the blood churning through his face pumped so loudly that he could hear it pounding in his ears.
Prussia stared at him and another deafening silence pushed its way into the room as Canada began to wish desperately that he could somehow disappear beneath the cracks in the floorboards and hide there forever.
"I don't think that's how it works," Prussia pointed out after what seemed like an eternity had passed between them. "You see the colored pills are the active ones and the whites are the inactive ones and..."
"I don't take the white ones," Canada said simply hoping desperately that Prussia would hear the flatness of his tone and take the hint to end the conversation there.
"That doesn't seem healthy," he noted and Canada should have known better than to think that Prussia could be perceptive.
Canada shook his head, because that was all he could think to do. He wasn't a fool and knew that his current actions weren't wise, but he didn't really care. After all, Canada felt certain that as a country his biology wouldn't be affected as severely as that of a normal human. Yet even though he was aware of how reckless his behavior was, the very thought of menstruating disturbed him even more than the potential risks.
"Periods aren't so bad," Prussia said in what was no doubt intended to be a helpful manner, but it only caused a shudder to course through Canada's body.
"I don't want to talk about it," Canada said quickly, but even as he screwed his eyes shut in embarrassment, a thought suddenly drifted into his mind. "How would you know anyway?"
Prussia gave him a look, a sarcastic, withering sort of look that should have said everything, but Prussia had never been one to settle for simply giving looks as answers. "I was a chick once too, duh," he said dully and Canada suddenly felt that this wasn't a conversation he wanted to have in his bathroom.
His cheeks were still quite red as he shuffled his way towards his bed, easing himself down against the springs with an audible squeak. He placed the packet of pills on the comforter beside him and didn't give them a second thought. "I didn't know that," he said weakly as he watched Prussia follow his lead and take a seat beside him on the soft mattress.
"Yeah, I put in my time," Prussia said and the mere fact that he was actually chuckling made Canada feel a bit taken aback.
"Oh... well, how... how long was it?"
"Only a year," he said with a shrug. "I was probably the worst girl ever so my bosses never asked me to do it again." Once again he laughed as he collapsed against the bed, folding his arms behind his head and gazing up at the ceiling as if he were ready to settle in for the night (although it was still mid-afternoon). "Yeah, this sorta thing, it's like hosting the Olympics. Everybody's gotta do it at least once. My brother did it; he was a chick for about three years. Hungary did it too, just after she had finally accepted being a girl if you can believe it! Italy did it, like, a hundred times." He chuckled. "Rumor has it his boss is planning to ask him to do it again."
Canada felt his stomach clenching and unclenching as Prussia spoke. A part of him felt ... relieved, somewhat. It was nice hearing that others -- outside of the group that Canada would call his family -- had gone through this little ritual and the thought made him feel a bit less humiliated over it. Yet that didn't make up for the fact that he still didn't feel at home in his own body and he wondered if there was some secret or trick to adjusting to all of this.
"How did you get through it?" Canada asked as he twisted around slightly in order to get a better look at Prussia. "I mean... it's so awkward and... and even after all this time I can barely look at myself."
Prussia shifted, easing himself up by resting his weight on his elbows. He looked at Canada for a second or two and suddenly the blush that had eased off of his cheeks kicked into high gear once more. "You look the same to me."
Canada cried and it was humiliating to sit there weeping openly in front of someone he had admired and pined after for far too many years, but Prussia didn't as much as chortle as Canada buried his face against the soft mattress beside him.
"Shit kid, everyone's different with these things," Prussia assured him as he placed a comforting hand against the small of Canada's back. "There's no secret easy way to deal with having a whole new set of parts to deal with. If there was, I swear, I'd tell you!"
"It's only been three months!" Canada sobbed, lifting his chin a few inches away from the quilt in order to keep his words from being too muffled. "I can't handle another seven. And what if they don't let me change back after a year? What if I'm stuck this way forever?"
"Well, that never really-"
"But what if it does?"
Prussia was silent for a moment and Canada had thought for certain he'd just given up on him. That was, until he felt Prussia's hands pushing against him, forcing Canada to roll onto his back. Prussia inched closer towards him, adjusting himself so that he was now hovering over Canada ever so slightly. "Nothing changes," he told him. "Nothing'll change unless you make it change. Look, yeah you're a girl now, but... but you're still a badass on the ice, you still rock the maple syrup, and you still chug beer like a champ. You're still you and that's all that matters."
Canada didn't say anything. He merely stared up at Prussia, gazing into his gleaming red eyes that were staring down at him with such intensity and concern and it was quite an alluring sight. His lips looked prefect then, pressed into a thin line as his jaw stayed stubbornly clenched and it would have been so nice to feel them pressed against him. For one horrifying moment, Canada thought for certain that Prussia had heard his thoughts, because his body seemed to dip slightly in a way that suggested he would kiss him, and Canada was quick to turn his head away before it could happen.
He couldn't kiss Prussia now. Not when he was like this.
Again Prussia seemed to read him quite clearly, because he rolled away, pressing his back against the mattress once more. Canada breathed a sigh of relief, thinking for certain that it was over, but just as that breath escaped his lips, he felt Prussia's hand wrap itself around his own. Prussia's hand was strong and rough, his fingers feeling almost like warm ropes wrapping themselves around his palm and the fact that Canada's own fingers were slim and dwarfed in that grasp soured the whole situation.
"I'm still me," Canada whispered to himself as did his best to simply enjoy the moment.
===
A giant crash from the kitchen was the last thing Canada wanted to hear when he was on his way out the door.
He had to leave for a conference, his first conference since the change, and he wasn't exactly looking forward to it. Packing had been a trail, because even after his shopping trip with France, he was still having a hard time figuring out exactly what would be appropriate for him to wear. In the end he didn't bother with packing "light," choosing instead to stuff his suitcase with as many different and various outfits as possible, but that didn't prevent the small waves of panic that would periodically plague him at the very idea of the impending event.
His heart was still churning at the idea of having so many of his fellow countries see him this way and in some ways the massive shattering that cut through the otherwise heavy silence of his home was a pleasant distraction. Pleasant, that is, until he saw what had caused it.
A vase, a decorative vase that had been given to him by France years ago, had fallen from its place on top of one of his shelves. It had been filled with marbles, soft blue marbles that had looked so nice in the stout glass container. Now his floor was a mess of glass and beads and the idea of trying to pass through the virtual minefield without crunching on broken glass or slipping and breaking his neck seemed impossible.
"What in the...? How did...?" he began, but his words kept fading and falling as his eyes swept across the floor that would have looked beautiful if it weren't for the headache throbbing behind his eyes. "Kumajiro!"
Kumajiro's guilt was obvious, because he was sitting less than a foot away, cradling a large jar of strawberry jam in his lap, a jar that had once been on the shelf next to the now destroyed vase. Not that he cared, not that he bothered to as much as lift head as Canada spoke to him.
"Mr. Kumajiro look at this mess!" he hollered and from the way that Kumajiro was staring, not at him, but the sticky red goo coating his paw, Canada felt as if he were speaking to himself. "There's glass everywhere! I have a plane to catch and now I'm going to miss it! Why do you always do stuff like this before I go out of town, eh?"
Kumajiro turned towards him then, tearing his gaze away from his paw in order to look at Canada with his beady black eyes. He blinked, his expression just as blank as ever as he cocked his head and asked. "Who are you?"
"I'm..." Canada began, but then stopped. He shut his eyes and took a breath before pressing a palm to his chest. It wasn't firm and flat, but soft and round. His voice was still much higher than it should have been and he was still standing a few inches closer to the ground than before, yet somehow, it didn't feel wrong. The moment he had stepped into the kitchen everything had felt normal and even if it had lasted for just a second, it was enough to bring tears to his eyes. He was quick to wipe them away before saying, "I'm Canada."
Kumajiro didn't give much of a response. He didn't even bother to stay to help clean his mess, but that was fine, because as Canada grabbed his broom and swept up the scattered bits of glass on the floor, he started to understand what his family had been trying to tell him. His body had changed, but he hadn't. His life wasn't different, his mind wasn't different, and the world around him wasn't different either.
When the floor looked less like an ocean of marbles and the broken glass had been properly thrown away, Canada found himself breathing a little easier. Maybe that conference wouldn't be so bad after all.
Author: starrdust411
Rating: PG
Pairings: one sided PruCan, mildly implied FrUK
Warning: Gender Bending, Implied Slash
Summary: Canada has a hard time adjusting to a recent change in his life. (De-anon from the hetalia_kink meme.)
It was his boss's fault. He had been the one to come up with the idea and he'd approached Canada about it as casually as one asking for an opinion on the weather. For him it wasn't a big deal, because from one day to the next it wouldn't affect him anymore than a pebble being tossed in a river would affect the flow of the stream. For Canada, however, it was a big deal, a very big deal and he just didn't understand how his boss couldn't see that.
Looking at his reflection in the mirror he sighed, knowing that in many ways this was also his own fault, because he hadn't tried to explain why such a suggestion wasn't exactly appealing to him. Canada had never wanted to change. He liked himself just fine, despite how unremarkable others might find him. He liked his nose, his eyes, his lips, and everything from the neck down just fine the way it was. It was fine, it was functional, it was familiar and his and Canada could not comprehend why someone would ask him to change it.
Yet someone had, his boss had, and suddenly the face staring back at him in the mirror -- while eerily familiar -- was not his own.
In many ways, it wasn't really a big issue for beings like him. Other countries had gone through the change before, some several times, and they had all survived it. It had happened to America twice, once in the ninteen twenties and then again in the sixties; England only once, but it had lasted for nearly a century and had been before Canada was even his colony; and France many many times. Canada had been lucky, had managed to avoid it all together until now.
Until now...
Perhaps that was the most upsetting part, because until his boss had approached him with the suggestion he had felt safe, as if this sort of thing couldn't harm him because he had just kept dodging it for so long. He supposed that whatever luck he had been blessed with had simply run out.
He frowned at the thought and watched as his lips, now much fuller than they had been before, turned downward into a gesture that looked like more of a pout than a scowl. It was still strange to look so different yet so similar. After all, most things were the same: his hair was still the usual shade of dark blond and his eyes were still the same soft violet-blue (and he still needed his glasses, wasn't that a shame?), but that was about it. The rest of him had... shifted over night -- the night after he had officially agreed to undergo the change -- and it was hard to wake up the next morning and find a whole new body wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed.
Smaller and softer, that's what he had become. Everything about him was smaller and softer. He had lost some height and now stood a few inches shorter, and his hair had gotten longer, falling just below his shoulder blade where it sat in even looser waves. His hands were still roughed and callused, but his fingers were a bit shorter and thinner and his feet had become so small that when he put on his shoes he felt unbalanced and ready to trip over himself. His face... well he had never had a very hard, masculine face, but his features were certainly softer and more delicate than before. (Heart shaped is what France had called him, but Canada didn't know if that was the right term.) And then there was his body. That was the biggest change of all and the one that he absolutely could not get used to. Going to bed with a flat chest and narrow hips only to wake up with full breasts and curvy thighs had been...
His head twinged at the memory of running his hands over his new developments with such a strong sense of horror that his fingers had actually trembled. That had been the last time he had touched himself, had looked at himself, and every day after that Canada had dressed and undressed quickly and made sure to look only at the walls when he was underneath the shower's spray. He couldn't stand this body. The face was difficult enough to deal with, but the body...
The sound of a fist pounding against his front door cut through the air and Canada felt himself shrink into the folds of his oversized clothes. Answering the door wasn't a favorite activity for him anymore and Canada was tempted to call out to Mr. Kumajiro and ask him to see to it for him, but he decided against it, because his voice had changed too and he didn't like hearing it.
Another knock reached his ears, just seconds before the door bell rang, and Canada found that his own inherent politeness simply would not allow him to simply leave a visitor standing on his doorsteps. He managed to pull himself away from the bathroom mirror that he had been gazing forlornly into for the better part of the afternoon and shuffled his way towards the front of the house (shuffling was now the only way that Canada was able to walk without tripping over his shoes).
Canada wasn't at all surprised when he found America standing on the other side of the door, although the box he was carrying in his arms was more than a bit unexpected.
"I brought you some stuff," America said by way of an explanation as he allowed himself into the living room. Canada watched as he carried the box, large and old with a few dented corners and strips of tape slapped to its sides -- towards the coffee table, where he set it down with a heavy thud. "I found it all in my attic and I figured you might need them more than me."
"What is it?" Canada asked as he shuffled his way back into the living room, but the moment America opened the cardboard flaps Canada caught of glimpse of something soft and laced and it all became quite obvious.
"I think we're about the same size," America commented, speaking more to himself than Canada as he pulled out an old shirt that had gone quite dingy and smelled like cobwebs. He held it in front of himself, then flipped the shirt around and held it against Canada's chest. "It looks like it'd fit you."
"It's really... old," Canada commented as he took the shirt, blouse, shirt in his hands and fingered the fabric that still felt soft if a bit gritty. He gently folded it into a small square and put it aside before taking a seat next to America on his couch.
"Well, duh!" America laughed as he continued to rummage around the box pulling out random odds and ends and lining them up along the chairs and coffee table. "I haven't been a chick since, like, sixty eight!"
Canada nodded and watched as America unpacked a box of hair clips, a matching brush and comb, and a pair of sunglasses and the sight of it all brought back memories of those distant days when America had been forced to go from his brother to his sister. As a girl, woman?, girl America hadn't been very different than his normal self. He had still been quite loud and forceful and self assured. The only difference that Canada could recall was that America had developed a fondness for hot dogs and began using words like "equality," "suffrage," and "womankind" quite often and would loudly declare England a "chauvinistic patriarch" during world meetings.
"Have you bought yourself one of these yet?" America asked, his question drawing Canada's mind back to the present, yet when he turned to look at him Canada suddenly wished he were miles away. His whole face burned bright red as he stared at the simple, white bra that America was currently holding in his hands and Canada knew from the way that his brother was staring at him that he wanted him to take it.
"N-not exactly," he admitted as he reluctantly took the bra in his own hands. The material was quite soft and smooth and Canada frowned as his fingers brushed against what seemed to be something rather hard lining the cups. He shuddered at the thought that this was the first time that he was holding a bra and that it had belonged to his own brother. His frown soon deepened as a strange scent caught his nose. "Why does it smell like smoke?"
America laughed, a fond sort of look crossing his features at the question. "Oh man, I used to roast these things like marshmallows back in the sixties," he chuckled. "They burn a lot faster than you'd think." He allowed himself a few more seconds of laugher, before clearing his throat and turning his attention back to Canada. "So you still haven't gotten a bra yet? Dude, you've been a chick for like, what, a month now?"
"Three weeks," Canada nearly groaned, because this had easily been the longest few days of his life.
"Oh, dude, that means you're going to be getting your period soon."
"Get out of my house," he snapped, because even though Canada understood that in his own strange way America was only trying to be helpful, he also knew that discussing per... men...that was something he was not ready for.
"I'm just saying, you gotta be ready, cause the first time sucks," America said, speaking in that authoritative tone he always used whenever he actually knew about something. "I mean, it feels like someone took a baseball bat and pulverized your guts."
"Stop."
"And it doesn't stop at just the first day. It lasts a freakin' week."
"Please stop."
"And the blood!"
"Alfred! Shut up!" Canada cried, and he really did start to cry as he clasped his hands over his ears in order to block out anything else. The tears were hot and pricked at his eyes and Canada felt his face burn with embarrassment at the knowledge that he had just lost control like that.
"Hey, Mattie don't cry," America insisted and even with his eyes squeezed shut Canada could still tell that America had shifted closer to him. "I know this is hard, but you gotta know about these things."
"I don't want to know," Canada groaned. "I don't want to learn about how fast a bra burns or how much a period sucks. I just want to be me again."
"You're still you."
"I don't feel like me," he countered as he reluctantly allowed his hands to slip from his ears to his lap.
"It gets easier," America promised him and Canada just couldn't see how that was true.
==
"You look beautiful."
Canada felt his face flush and his shoulder slump, a gesture that he saw mimicked by his own reflection as he stared into the floor length fitting room mirror. He didn't feel beautiful and his lumpy, misshapen body certainly didn't appear very beautiful to him, not in the blue polka dotted blouse and white pleated skirt that France had picked out for him.
It must have been two weeks after America had come by and dropped off his box of feminine wonders that France had shown up at his door. America had told France about his little melt down, Canada knew it even without France ever making mention of the incident, because every time France looked at him it was with a reassuring smile and a patient gleam in his eyes. Canada supposed he should have appreciated it, because America had voluntarily talked to France for him and that alone was something to be in awe of, and really, it was nice to be remembered, noticed, but given his current situation Canada simply couldn't take any pleasure from it.
France had found him wearing some of America's old clothes, the ones that Canada had deemed not too girly and not too skimpy to wear, and had frowned in immediate disapproval. He did Canada's hair, showed him how "nice" it could look when it was styled instead of just pulled back with a rubber band, and insisted that his face looked absolutely "darling" when framed with pigtails. He took away most of Canada's old clothes, told him that he simply could not wear them anymore because they made him look like a "hobo" and that he had to get used to dressing like a woman for the time being.
He had just been trying to help, that's what Canada had told himself over and over again as France raided his closet and wardrobe for all the things that must go, because France was someone who believed that looking good meant feeling good and he probably thought that Canada would feel better once he saw how "pretty" he could be. If anything it only made Canada feel worse, because all these outfits that France had picked out for him emphasized all the new curves of his body and seeing his now narrow waist and wide hips displayed in front of him made Canada want to find a blanket or a beach towel and wrap it around himself.
"Yes, quite beautiful," France insisted as he took a step closer towards Canada's side. He was staring at Canada's reflection too, but his gaze was more approving than Canada's and when he ran his hand against him it was merely to smooth out the wrinkles in the blouse. "You have such an adorable figure," he went on as he moved on to adjust Canada's skirt. It was almost as if he were reading Canada's thoughts and saying all the things he didn't want to hear. "Such nice curves. And look how narrow your waist is! Beautiful. Just like me."
Canada remembered France as a woman. One of his earliest memories had been of a female France finding him in the wilderness. For a time Canada had called France "Maman" and he would enjoy nothing more than to play with the folds of France's skirt until he fell asleep in his lap. It was only a few years later that France returned to his male form, and Canada had been confused to say the least, calling him "Maman-Papa" for a time before giving up such nicknames all together.
But France had been a beautiful woman, very beautiful with a long swan like neck and wicked lips that always seemed to curl up mischievously whenever he smiled. His skin was so much softer as a woman and he always smelled like a field of flowers in bloom and Canada knew that was all France, because he enjoyed bathing himself in spicy perfumes. His hair was still blond and wavy when he was female, but some time during the nineties, while in his feminine state, France had decided to become a brunette and somehow the change had made him all the more alluring (especially to England, who had seemed downright disappointed when France became a man again the very next fall).
Canada wasn't any of those things. He wasn't beautiful or alluring and he didn't have a swan like neck or a wicked smile. He was... awkward. As awkward and uncomfortable as a young man forced into a skirt for the first time could be.
"I don't think..." Canada began, but quickly stopped himself. He had already rejected the last few outfits that France had selected on the grounds that he didn't think they suited him and Canada was certain he couldn't use that excuse again. He fumbled for a moment, looking at the girl staring back at him in the mirror before, reluctantly, looking down at his body in the hopes of finding some sort of way out. He found it in the form of the price tag dangling off of the cuff of his sleeve and quickly pulled it towards him. He felt a great sense of relief wash over him at the sight of the numbers that were dangerously close to the triple digits. "I don't think I can afford this. This whole store is way too pricey, eh?"
"Well then I will buy it for you," France insisted as he continued to hold Canada in place between the door and the mirror. It was painful and frustrating and Canada wished that there was some way he could communicate to France, short of having a nervous breakdown in the middle of the women's changing room, that forcing him to look at his female body wasn't helping him at all. Instead of saying anything Canada merely allowed his eyes to drift lower and lower until he was staring past the folds of his skirt to the dingy cotton socks covering his pathetically small feet. "This outfit looks too good on you to just pass it up, and look..." France's words trailed off a bit as he turned towards the still surprisingly massive pile of clothes he had gathered for Canada to try on and pulled out a navy blue blazer. He motioned for Canada to raise his arms and forced the jacket around his body in the same manner as when he had dressed him as a child. "It works perfectly with professional attire. You could wear it to meetings too."
Canada had to admit that he liked this outfit better, but only because the jacket had a somewhat masculine quality and the heavier fabric helped to minimize the size of his chest. Still, the fact that it was a woman's jacket and that he was wearing women's clothes in a women's store gnawed at the pit of his stomach.
"Now, let us try on something else," France suggested as he pulled out a dress that was loose and fluttery with a floral print decorating every stitch of fabric. "This one really brings out the color of your eyes."
"I don't..." Canada began again, but interrupted himself with a reluctant sigh. "Couldn't we try on something that well... isn't a dress? Or a skirt?"
"Do not worry, I have some pants for you," France said with a laugh as he grabbed a pair of shorts that looked quite strange to Canada, because they seemed far too tight and were hemmed in such a strange manner. "And we will not be trying on clothes for long. I have to get you some new shoes too."
"What's wrong with my shoes?" Canada asked as he glanced over towards the pair of beaten up old tennis shoes tucked into the corner of the fitting room.
"Ma douce, you cannot go around wearing your old over sized sneakers. You will trip and break your neck."
"What about the shoes America gave me?" he muttered as he shuffled his sock coated feet against the floor's thin carpet.
"Fashion, much like time, must move forward," France noted as he frowned distastefully at the very idea of America's ratty old sandals and even more dogged shoes. "And America was never one to take care of her things. His things."
Canada cringed at France's slip up, because he suddenly realized that in no time at all everyone would be referring to him with feminine pronouns and soon he would learn to accept it.
He cried.
===
"You should feel grateful," England was saying as he leaned back against his stiff metal chair. It was a bright day, the air was crisp and the sun was beaming down on them in just the right way, and really it was the perfect afternoon to sit outside and enjoy a cup of tea. And Canada would have appreciated it if it weren't for the fact that England was currently forcing him to sit through a discussion of what had become his least favorite subject. "It was different in my day. They treated you like a ghost, as if you didn't even exist. Not like today. You won't run into that sort of problem."
Canada took a sip of his tea and used it to help him swallow the bitterness swelling in the back of his throat. England was trying, he knew that much, and Canada also knew that England's little visit wasn't brought on by some random whim, but rather by France who had likely contacted England after the incident in the dressing room. It wasn't like France to just hand Canada off to England, but Canada supposed that he was just trying to change tactics since his method of emotional support wasn't working. Not that England was the greatest person to turn to in times like this.
"I... well, that hasn't really been a problem," Canada admitted, because he hadn't bothered to leave home these past few months unless it was an absolute emergency (or one of his "relatives" dragged him out) and his boss was generous enough to give him the time off in order to adjust.
But Canada was starting to feel certain that he would never fully adjust to this new body and was considering ways that he could perform his work without having to leave his home. After all, everything was so computer driven, surely his boss could just send him his work via emails and did he really need to attend world meetings when his presence was just going to be ignored anyway?
"It's just..." he began, but couldn't quite find words to explain it. Strange? Different? New? Awkward? All those words floated in and out of his mind, but none of them seemed to have the right impact for him. America had compared the situation to moving into a new house and said that he just needed to take some time to make things feel like home. Canada supposed that it was a good way to put it, except he didn't think he'd ever feel at home in this new skin. "It's been two months and nothing feels right," Canada admitted at last.
"It gets better," England assured him and despite the distant tone of his voice and the permanent scowl on his face Canada could still tell from the tenderness in his gaze that he was concerned. "The first few months are always the worst, but you learn to live with it."
Canada nodded as he grabbed a few packets of sugar off of the table and began pouring them into his cup. He stirred the grains in carefully, making sure not to bang the side of his mug, because even though it was paper (and he was drinking coffee) he knew how much such things bothered England.
He had asked France once what England had looked like as a woman and Canada hadn't been surprised by his answer. "He was very pretty," France had told him with a wistful smile before adding, "in an awkward sort of way." He'd had long hair, France had said, long and straight and it was always a bit messy around the bangs, but was usually pulled back into a sloppy braid or bun. His brows had stayed thick, and Canada assumed that there weren't many tools that he could use to tweeze or pluck back then, but his face had been sharp and graceful and his body quite slim and petite. Canada could picture England as a woman. He imagined that he had tried to be a lady just as hard as he tried to be a gentleman now and he suspected that England had been awkward in more ways than just his looks.
He supposed that the idea that England had managed to get through being trapped in a woman's body should have been comforting, but it wasn't, because all Canada's mind could fix on was the fact that England had spent the better half of a century trapped as a woman and the idea that the same could happen to him felt very real.
Canada took in a deep breath -- one that he had intended to be calming, but was instead hard and made him tremble -- and found himself gazing around the courtyard where he watched as others stared at him. Canada wasn't used to being studied because on a good day he wasn't given more than a passing glance, and really it should have been a nice little treat to have people notice him, but it only left Canada feeling quite raw and exposed under their curious gazes.
"The tea here isn't very good," England muttered into the rim of his cup, before setting it down with a heavy sigh. He pushed himself away from the table and motioned for Canada to do the same. Canada knew that the tea was probably just fine and the only thing that was bothering England at the moment was Canada's very clearly growing discomfort. They took a few steps away from the cafe and when someone, a young man in his mid-twenties perhaps, started to study Canada a bit too intensely, England wrapped an arm around him and pulled him a bit closer.
"Your new clothes do look nice," England noted as they continued their walk and Canada felt his cheeks burn.
England had been the one to insist he wear this. Not that particular outfit -- a red and gray stripped cardigan with jeans that still felt a bit too tight -- but just something that France had purchased for him and Canada suspected that America had gone behind his back and told England that he was running around in coffee stained sweat pants and an old hockey sweater that had managed to escape being tossed out by France. On the one hand Canada had to admit that it did feel nice to wear clothes that actually fit him and having shoes that matched the shape of his feet felt good and made him more secure when walking at something faster than a shuffle, but these still weren't his clothes and he missed the familiar warmth of his Canadians sweater.
Canada still managed to mutter a soft "thanks," but that didn't stop England from frowning ever so slightly. "It really does get easier, you know," England told him softly. "And really, after a while you'll start to realize that things aren't so different."
"When?" Canada said, whined really, because he had been waiting for that magical day when everything shifted and he felt okay again for two months now and it still hadn't happened. "When does it actually get better?"
"Everyone adjusts at their own pace," England said, his tone indicating that he had been a bit caught off guard by the question, but he seemed to recover quickly. "It took me a while to adjust to wearing dresses instead of trousers and squatting over chamber pots, but I did it. I came through it alive and you will too."
Tears pricked at the back of his eyes and his throat clenched so tightly that Canada had to struggle to breath. Somehow those words seemed empty in his ears and Canada just felt lost.
The sun kept shining, but rain clouds came lurking over head and water was soon sprinkling around them. Canada was glad that, for once, England had brought along an umbrella and the two walked quietly side by side underneath it.
===
Prussia had found the pills and Canada couldn't have felt more humiliated than if America had been the one to discover them.
Unlike England or France, Prussia hadn't been forced over by anyone else. He had been trying to reach Canada for a long time, through text messages and emails and phone calls in the middle of the night that made Canada wonder if he had forgotten about the whole "time zone thing" again. Naturally Canada had ignored all of his attempts to make contact because he was still determined to keep the number of people who had seen his new body to a minimum. Yet after seeing the number of unread mail in his inbox soar into the triple digits and remembering that Prussia had an unlimited data plan and nothing valuable to do with his time, Canada had finally broken down and spoken to him. Via email, because he wasn't ready for Prussia to hear his new voice either.
He had explained the situation -- because despite his intense discomfort Canada was still aware of the fact that this was a fairly mundane occurrence for beings like him -- and Prussia had taken that moment of honesty and interpreted it as an invitation to fly over and spend the next few weeks crashing on his couch. What resulted was Canada spending a great deal of time with a blanket draped over his body and speaking as quietly as possible, much to Prussia's annoyance.
Yet in a lot of ways it was nice to have Prussia around, because he didn't bother talking about Canada's new body and because they were friends. Good friends. At least, Canada felt that they were good friends. Not that he wanted to be just friends with Prussia, because Canada had been nursing a crush on him for decades and Canada longed for the day when he could swallow the lump in his throat that kept him from saying just how much he liked Prussia and hopefully he'd find out just how much Prussia liked him without feeling as if his insides had been ripped into a million little pieces. But that magical day had been pushed further away thanks to this new body and all the complications it caused, because his greatest fear now was that Prussia would only like him as a girl and then Canada would be forced to either stay a woman forever just to please him or reject Prussia all together because this wasn't at all what he wanted.
That fear wasn't important right now, however, because at the moment Prussia was standing in his bedroom holding a small plastic circle that was half filled with multicolored pills. Canada didn't know how to react, so he didn't, choosing to stand in stunned, horrified silence as he stared at Prussia's thoughtfully furrowed brow and stiff posture. His stomach lurched up to his throat before plummeting down towards his knees when -- after an immeasurably long period of tense silence -- Prussia turned to face Canada standing in the doorway.
"Are you," he began slowly as he tapped his finger along the plastic casing, "are you taking these... cause you don't wanna get pregnant?"
"No," Canada said once he regained his senses. His face turned bright red as he quickly walked across the room and snatched the pack of birth control pills out of Prussia's hands and held them in his own grasp. The idea of tucking them away in his pocket was tempting, because he felt certain that once they were hidden away the tension would slip out of the room, but something in the back of his mind told him not to, fearing that such a gesture would only help him to appear even guiltier. "No. That's not it at all."
"Then... what are they for?" he asked and Canada had to wonder if this whole situation was just as awkward for Prussia as it was for him.
"I just... I didn't... didn't want to have my per... period," Canada admitted haltingly and even though his face couldn't possible get any redder, Canada felt certain that his cheeks somehow managed as the blood churning through his face pumped so loudly that he could hear it pounding in his ears.
Prussia stared at him and another deafening silence pushed its way into the room as Canada began to wish desperately that he could somehow disappear beneath the cracks in the floorboards and hide there forever.
"I don't think that's how it works," Prussia pointed out after what seemed like an eternity had passed between them. "You see the colored pills are the active ones and the whites are the inactive ones and..."
"I don't take the white ones," Canada said simply hoping desperately that Prussia would hear the flatness of his tone and take the hint to end the conversation there.
"That doesn't seem healthy," he noted and Canada should have known better than to think that Prussia could be perceptive.
Canada shook his head, because that was all he could think to do. He wasn't a fool and knew that his current actions weren't wise, but he didn't really care. After all, Canada felt certain that as a country his biology wouldn't be affected as severely as that of a normal human. Yet even though he was aware of how reckless his behavior was, the very thought of menstruating disturbed him even more than the potential risks.
"Periods aren't so bad," Prussia said in what was no doubt intended to be a helpful manner, but it only caused a shudder to course through Canada's body.
"I don't want to talk about it," Canada said quickly, but even as he screwed his eyes shut in embarrassment, a thought suddenly drifted into his mind. "How would you know anyway?"
Prussia gave him a look, a sarcastic, withering sort of look that should have said everything, but Prussia had never been one to settle for simply giving looks as answers. "I was a chick once too, duh," he said dully and Canada suddenly felt that this wasn't a conversation he wanted to have in his bathroom.
His cheeks were still quite red as he shuffled his way towards his bed, easing himself down against the springs with an audible squeak. He placed the packet of pills on the comforter beside him and didn't give them a second thought. "I didn't know that," he said weakly as he watched Prussia follow his lead and take a seat beside him on the soft mattress.
"Yeah, I put in my time," Prussia said and the mere fact that he was actually chuckling made Canada feel a bit taken aback.
"Oh... well, how... how long was it?"
"Only a year," he said with a shrug. "I was probably the worst girl ever so my bosses never asked me to do it again." Once again he laughed as he collapsed against the bed, folding his arms behind his head and gazing up at the ceiling as if he were ready to settle in for the night (although it was still mid-afternoon). "Yeah, this sorta thing, it's like hosting the Olympics. Everybody's gotta do it at least once. My brother did it; he was a chick for about three years. Hungary did it too, just after she had finally accepted being a girl if you can believe it! Italy did it, like, a hundred times." He chuckled. "Rumor has it his boss is planning to ask him to do it again."
Canada felt his stomach clenching and unclenching as Prussia spoke. A part of him felt ... relieved, somewhat. It was nice hearing that others -- outside of the group that Canada would call his family -- had gone through this little ritual and the thought made him feel a bit less humiliated over it. Yet that didn't make up for the fact that he still didn't feel at home in his own body and he wondered if there was some secret or trick to adjusting to all of this.
"How did you get through it?" Canada asked as he twisted around slightly in order to get a better look at Prussia. "I mean... it's so awkward and... and even after all this time I can barely look at myself."
Prussia shifted, easing himself up by resting his weight on his elbows. He looked at Canada for a second or two and suddenly the blush that had eased off of his cheeks kicked into high gear once more. "You look the same to me."
Canada cried and it was humiliating to sit there weeping openly in front of someone he had admired and pined after for far too many years, but Prussia didn't as much as chortle as Canada buried his face against the soft mattress beside him.
"Shit kid, everyone's different with these things," Prussia assured him as he placed a comforting hand against the small of Canada's back. "There's no secret easy way to deal with having a whole new set of parts to deal with. If there was, I swear, I'd tell you!"
"It's only been three months!" Canada sobbed, lifting his chin a few inches away from the quilt in order to keep his words from being too muffled. "I can't handle another seven. And what if they don't let me change back after a year? What if I'm stuck this way forever?"
"Well, that never really-"
"But what if it does?"
Prussia was silent for a moment and Canada had thought for certain he'd just given up on him. That was, until he felt Prussia's hands pushing against him, forcing Canada to roll onto his back. Prussia inched closer towards him, adjusting himself so that he was now hovering over Canada ever so slightly. "Nothing changes," he told him. "Nothing'll change unless you make it change. Look, yeah you're a girl now, but... but you're still a badass on the ice, you still rock the maple syrup, and you still chug beer like a champ. You're still you and that's all that matters."
Canada didn't say anything. He merely stared up at Prussia, gazing into his gleaming red eyes that were staring down at him with such intensity and concern and it was quite an alluring sight. His lips looked prefect then, pressed into a thin line as his jaw stayed stubbornly clenched and it would have been so nice to feel them pressed against him. For one horrifying moment, Canada thought for certain that Prussia had heard his thoughts, because his body seemed to dip slightly in a way that suggested he would kiss him, and Canada was quick to turn his head away before it could happen.
He couldn't kiss Prussia now. Not when he was like this.
Again Prussia seemed to read him quite clearly, because he rolled away, pressing his back against the mattress once more. Canada breathed a sigh of relief, thinking for certain that it was over, but just as that breath escaped his lips, he felt Prussia's hand wrap itself around his own. Prussia's hand was strong and rough, his fingers feeling almost like warm ropes wrapping themselves around his palm and the fact that Canada's own fingers were slim and dwarfed in that grasp soured the whole situation.
"I'm still me," Canada whispered to himself as did his best to simply enjoy the moment.
===
A giant crash from the kitchen was the last thing Canada wanted to hear when he was on his way out the door.
He had to leave for a conference, his first conference since the change, and he wasn't exactly looking forward to it. Packing had been a trail, because even after his shopping trip with France, he was still having a hard time figuring out exactly what would be appropriate for him to wear. In the end he didn't bother with packing "light," choosing instead to stuff his suitcase with as many different and various outfits as possible, but that didn't prevent the small waves of panic that would periodically plague him at the very idea of the impending event.
His heart was still churning at the idea of having so many of his fellow countries see him this way and in some ways the massive shattering that cut through the otherwise heavy silence of his home was a pleasant distraction. Pleasant, that is, until he saw what had caused it.
A vase, a decorative vase that had been given to him by France years ago, had fallen from its place on top of one of his shelves. It had been filled with marbles, soft blue marbles that had looked so nice in the stout glass container. Now his floor was a mess of glass and beads and the idea of trying to pass through the virtual minefield without crunching on broken glass or slipping and breaking his neck seemed impossible.
"What in the...? How did...?" he began, but his words kept fading and falling as his eyes swept across the floor that would have looked beautiful if it weren't for the headache throbbing behind his eyes. "Kumajiro!"
Kumajiro's guilt was obvious, because he was sitting less than a foot away, cradling a large jar of strawberry jam in his lap, a jar that had once been on the shelf next to the now destroyed vase. Not that he cared, not that he bothered to as much as lift head as Canada spoke to him.
"Mr. Kumajiro look at this mess!" he hollered and from the way that Kumajiro was staring, not at him, but the sticky red goo coating his paw, Canada felt as if he were speaking to himself. "There's glass everywhere! I have a plane to catch and now I'm going to miss it! Why do you always do stuff like this before I go out of town, eh?"
Kumajiro turned towards him then, tearing his gaze away from his paw in order to look at Canada with his beady black eyes. He blinked, his expression just as blank as ever as he cocked his head and asked. "Who are you?"
"I'm..." Canada began, but then stopped. He shut his eyes and took a breath before pressing a palm to his chest. It wasn't firm and flat, but soft and round. His voice was still much higher than it should have been and he was still standing a few inches closer to the ground than before, yet somehow, it didn't feel wrong. The moment he had stepped into the kitchen everything had felt normal and even if it had lasted for just a second, it was enough to bring tears to his eyes. He was quick to wipe them away before saying, "I'm Canada."
Kumajiro didn't give much of a response. He didn't even bother to stay to help clean his mess, but that was fine, because as Canada grabbed his broom and swept up the scattered bits of glass on the floor, he started to understand what his family had been trying to tell him. His body had changed, but he hadn't. His life wasn't different, his mind wasn't different, and the world around him wasn't different either.
When the floor looked less like an ocean of marbles and the broken glass had been properly thrown away, Canada found himself breathing a little easier. Maybe that conference wouldn't be so bad after all.