Inspired by zombie apocalypse sex Mel had me write 8D USA/CAN
Light pours down over them, over the baked highway, over the abandoned cars sizzling in the sunlight. They walk slowly, Canada leaning in close, taking America's hand in his own. They're way too far from his lands, he can't think properly, his people are too far away and he feels a bit see through, a bit lightheaded, but America tugs him along, insists there's a stronghold ahead, he just knows it.
And it does appear, like a shimmering palace, from the wasteland that was once Texas. People guide them in, exclaiming over their wasted bodies, pressing water and food into their hands.
Once they feel restored, buoyed by the people around them and the nourishment in their hands, they notice it's such a mix here. America's head bobs upwards, focuses on a group of Americans to the side and he brushes Canada's hand to let him know before he rises to meet them.
Canada takes a deep breath, feeling the mix of Mexican, Brazilian, American, Cuban--and wait--wait a moment.
His head strains to keep up with his senses and he sees the girl by the fireplace, red hair made more flaming by the firelight, and he knows. He rises from his seat, walks closer, smiles at her. She's not gorgeous, just strong willed and stubbornly Canadian in the heart of America. He would have felt her miles away had he not been so dead on his feet.
Greeting, pleasantries exchanged--"Oh I'm from Canada as well, just following my American down here, hoping to find some people"-- then seats taken and quiet reminscing. She's one of his finest, he feels, and it's hard not to feel at ease around his people.
"I miss Vancouver, it's such a long ways away..." She wistfully pushes her hair back, smiling at him and he nods agreement. The fires are dimming, and soon it will be nightfall, and he's lured into a sense of security here in this fortress. So he barely thinks before he speaks.
"I'm the nation of Canada." He says quietly and she raises an eyebrow. Heat stroke maybe? But as she moves to give him a polite little suggestion that he's not quite all there, his eyes raise.
Blue-purple, like glaciers and snow at twilight, like the flowers on the praries, and behind them she sees hundreds of years stretch out, from the first vikings, to burning, to wars of the world, to finding a nation in a zombie mad world, holding him close, seeking out anything real in this madness. She sees his entire nationhood stretching out behind his eyes and she drops his gaze.
Silence settles over them and it lasts a long time, until America presses against his back, arms draping over his chest in a reassuring possessiveness, tracing the line of their border through his clothes.
"Is he..." Her eyes gaze up at America, but avoid his gaze, afraid of what she'll see. Canada laughs and raises his hand to pet America's hair, tilting his head to smile at him.
"He is. Another one. America in fact." Canada says softly and America's sharp gaze almost warns him not to continue but Canada shrugs, she's one of his, she can handle the truth.
"Are you two..." She bites her lip, not sure how to ask if they are close, intimate, involved as they appear. It's not as if the two nations were...that close right? Canadians hate Americans, Americans ignore Canadians. But these two, draped over each other, they seem like one nation.
"Children of a common mother." Canada whispers.
"Brethren dwelling together in unity." America replies.
"May these gates never be closed." She says, watching them intently and then tilts her head.
"Are you brothers?"
"...Yes and no. We've been together like siblings all our lives, but..." America struggles to explain.
"We're not related. Just close. Twined. Dependent." Canada tries to explain but the woman doesn't quite get it but neither did England or France or anyone.
"...Why..if so many of your people are zombies..." She looks likes she's trying to figure out what she's even asking but Canada leans forward to tap her forehead.
"We are nations. Defined by the people who call themselves ours. Canadien. You call yourself Canadian, and as long as there are enough of you, of the Canadians left, I exist. I am not defined by the population of my lands at large, but by the people who call me home."
"...So as long as we're still alive..."
"So am I."
And it does appear, like a shimmering palace, from the wasteland that was once Texas. People guide them in, exclaiming over their wasted bodies, pressing water and food into their hands.
Once they feel restored, buoyed by the people around them and the nourishment in their hands, they notice it's such a mix here. America's head bobs upwards, focuses on a group of Americans to the side and he brushes Canada's hand to let him know before he rises to meet them.
Canada takes a deep breath, feeling the mix of Mexican, Brazilian, American, Cuban--and wait--wait a moment.
His head strains to keep up with his senses and he sees the girl by the fireplace, red hair made more flaming by the firelight, and he knows. He rises from his seat, walks closer, smiles at her. She's not gorgeous, just strong willed and stubbornly Canadian in the heart of America. He would have felt her miles away had he not been so dead on his feet.
Greeting, pleasantries exchanged--"Oh I'm from Canada as well, just following my American down here, hoping to find some people"-- then seats taken and quiet reminscing. She's one of his finest, he feels, and it's hard not to feel at ease around his people.
"I miss Vancouver, it's such a long ways away..." She wistfully pushes her hair back, smiling at him and he nods agreement. The fires are dimming, and soon it will be nightfall, and he's lured into a sense of security here in this fortress. So he barely thinks before he speaks.
"I'm the nation of Canada." He says quietly and she raises an eyebrow. Heat stroke maybe? But as she moves to give him a polite little suggestion that he's not quite all there, his eyes raise.
Blue-purple, like glaciers and snow at twilight, like the flowers on the praries, and behind them she sees hundreds of years stretch out, from the first vikings, to burning, to wars of the world, to finding a nation in a zombie mad world, holding him close, seeking out anything real in this madness. She sees his entire nationhood stretching out behind his eyes and she drops his gaze.
Silence settles over them and it lasts a long time, until America presses against his back, arms draping over his chest in a reassuring possessiveness, tracing the line of their border through his clothes.
"Is he..." Her eyes gaze up at America, but avoid his gaze, afraid of what she'll see. Canada laughs and raises his hand to pet America's hair, tilting his head to smile at him.
"He is. Another one. America in fact." Canada says softly and America's sharp gaze almost warns him not to continue but Canada shrugs, she's one of his, she can handle the truth.
"Are you two..." She bites her lip, not sure how to ask if they are close, intimate, involved as they appear. It's not as if the two nations were...that close right? Canadians hate Americans, Americans ignore Canadians. But these two, draped over each other, they seem like one nation.
"Children of a common mother." Canada whispers.
"Brethren dwelling together in unity." America replies.
"May these gates never be closed." She says, watching them intently and then tilts her head.
"Are you brothers?"
"...Yes and no. We've been together like siblings all our lives, but..." America struggles to explain.
"We're not related. Just close. Twined. Dependent." Canada tries to explain but the woman doesn't quite get it but neither did England or France or anyone.
"...Why..if so many of your people are zombies..." She looks likes she's trying to figure out what she's even asking but Canada leans forward to tap her forehead.
"We are nations. Defined by the people who call themselves ours. Canadien. You call yourself Canadian, and as long as there are enough of you, of the Canadians left, I exist. I am not defined by the population of my lands at large, but by the people who call me home."
"...So as long as we're still alive..."
"So am I."