Fanfic - Canada - "Inside Joke"
Hetalia Kink_meme fill:
The nations decide to mess with Canada and pretend to forget who he is at some point, because he's easy to tease.
How long have they been doing this? Who knows. They don't do it all the time, just sometimes so they can giggle about it behind his back. After all, we see England, France, Prussia, America and Kumajirou acknowledge who he is without reminder at various points (because, yes, Kumajirou's in on it, too.) Even the part about him being America? Yeah. Messing with him.
Comedy fic or serious fic are both appreciated.
BONUS: Canada finds out about it somehow, whether he hears someone laughing about it or someone tells him directly.
This was actually a little hard for me to write, because I don't really think the characters in this series are that collectively, inherently douchebaggish, but I liked the twist.
~~~
Canada thought he was just hard to notice, but reality is far more damning.
~~~
“Where’s Canada?” He heard Germany ask, could just picture him looking at his watch as he said it. Canada had heard his name before rounding the corner. The vocalization froze him in place, and he pressed his back against the wall to listen even though he wasn’t sure why instinct dictated it. Only when America spoke did he realize something was very wrong.
“Who?” America’s boisterous voice carried well into the hallway, followed by a laugh. “God, that never stops being funny.”
Canada’s skin prickled and the room suddenly felt much colder. Some sick thing curled into his stomach, nested there next to the surprise he was feeling. Whatever he was listening to, it was something he wasn’t supposed to hear.
He heard a low, rich chuckle. France. “You truly are vindictive. I wonder how long you plan to encourage this behavior?”
America snorted. “Jeez, it’s not a big deal. Everyone’s done it. Besides, I don’t think he really cares.”
Right. America was his brother. America should know.
“You may all do whatever you like. But I can’t help but think the only reason you all insist is that the lie has become reality, and to call it off would mean revealing yourselves.” He chuckled again. “Nobody may keep up a collective untruth forever. Somebody slips up. As deeply enticing as it is to pull as many people in as possible, the harder it gets to maintain.”
Germany made a sound. “It’s unprofessional to discuss this.”
Canada saw brief glimpses behind his closed eyes- Cuba constantly mistaking him for his brother, much of Europe not knowing his name, meetings that started without him, Russia sitting on him- and the reality was suffocating. The air around him felt so cold that it was making his throat ache. He raised a hand to loosen the tie he’d so painstakingly straightened in the mirror of his car that morning, thinking today was they day they would notice.
Every word was like a knife.
America was laughing again. “France, you say that like he can’t take a joke. It’s no big deal if he finds out.”
Et tu, Brute?
Canada felt heavy against the wall. It was as hard to believe as the falseness was his actuality. He’d grown so accustomed to the idea that he was just so…invisible, hard to notice, that it was hard to blame anyone for their transgressions. That was just the way he was.
But it wasn’t him. It was them.
In that very moment, he thought about walking in there like a storm trooper and demanding to know why they’d treated him like some huge global joke for so long. He could have stoked the anger and hurt into a rage and shown them how much damage they’d done. He wondered what their apologies would be like. He wondered if any of them could maintain it now that he knew, wondered if they would feel guilty and ask for his forgiveness. Canada wasn’t even sure he would forgive them, and for once, that would be his prerogative.
He didn’t, of course. He straightened his tie, made sure he didn’t look flustered, and entered the room with a smile on his face.
America hesitated for a moment, but the blank stare he put on his face cued the others, and within an instant the rest of the G8 feigned ignorance. Canada took his seat quickly, busied himself with his briefcase to keep from looking at them, anything to keep from meeting their eyes and letting them know that he knew. He listened patiently, quietly as others spoke. That was okay; he wasn’t sure he could have spoken today if he had been on the speaker’s list.
He noticed that nobody looked at him, almost as if they had settled so comfortably into the idea of his pretended absence that…somewhere it had transformed into genuine disregard.
Stab. Twist.
Everything made sense now, especially the inconsistency. Sometimes he was noticed, sometimes he wasn’t, and he’d agonized over what factors could have made the difference.
America was animated, excitedly outlining a new plan and drew everyone’s gaze. Canada wondered if America simply enjoyed the ego trip that came with people mistaking them.
The meeting couldn’t have ended quickly enough.
Canada didn’t speak to anybody as he gathered his things and made to leave.
He was on the verge of running by the time he got out the door…
…effectively slamming into a solid, warm object lodged in his way. The other was more muscular, but Canada had momentum, causing them both to tumble onto the asphalt.
“Ow. Fuck…Uncool! Why don’t you fucking watch where you’re going and ow, God, what is that briefcase made of?”
Canada stayed on the ground for a moment, nursing pains that he couldn’t locate and staring at the nation (half-nation) he’d tripped.
Prussia’s red eyes bored into him. “Well?” He asked with entitlement. “Aren’t you going to apologize?” With frightening spring, the German launched himself onto his feet and faced the other nation. “You can start by buying me drinks.”
Shakily, Canada rose to his feet and grasped for his things. The collision had sprung the papers, they flitted helplessly across the gray abyss and slipped into night. Canada gathered what he could in his hurry and slammed it shut.
“Hey,” Prussia said with more force. “You deaf or just stupid? And don’t you dare try to pretend to be America to trick me.”
Canada looked back, panicked. Shakily, he drew his face into a smile. “What?”
“Canada,” Prussia hunched his shoulders and leaned in closer to get a better look, “I know it’s you.”
And the irony was too much.
A low laugh rang through the parking lot, only to feel swallowed by the darkness beyond the streetlamps, and it went on for a while before Canada realized it was his own voice bubbling out of him from the strain of repressing it.
“Who?” He asked with an uncertain chuckle. This was what the others were doing, right? If they were laughing at him, then he could laugh at himself.
Prussia stared at him like he’d just been hit with a flash grenade. The singular blank stare gave Canada enough time to escape.
~~~
By the time he got home, the shame of his outburst had firmly settled onto his shoulders.
He disregarded the confused stare he got from Kumojirou, was glad to be forgotten in favor of a refilled food bowl.
Pots and pans clattered in the kitchen as he settled into his element. This was a perfectly normal talent, his proficiency in the kitchen. He could live a thousand years and he would never gain the culinary talents of France or the Italy twins. A simple feat to relax a boring nation seemed fitting.
The pancake batter gave him something to do, something to keep his hands and his mind busy. He tried to stay away from the "why" repeating again and again (had he done something wrong? why did they think he deserved this?). Between the sadness and the alternative of mentally snapping, he found a comfortable, peaceful protest in cooking. He didn’t know how many he made, but he would be eating nothing but pancakes for a few days.
It wasn’t until he sat down on the couch with a stack of fried dough and ice cream for dinner that he acknowledged why he hadn’t called them out or allowed himself to get angry.
Because he wanted them to feel guilty.
What would he have done if they’d laughed at him? He was already a form of amusement to them, he didn’t think he could have handled proof that they didn’t care at all beyond some pitiless, childish prank.
He sucked in a breath to steady everything; it just choked him further. Controlled, polar bear teeth nibbled at the tips of his limp fingers like a puppy.
Canada looked down. “Were you in on it, too?” he asked, not surprised by the fact he wouldn’t have been surprised. Maybe Kumo wasn’t in on it. Maybe his oldest friend’s forgetfulness had just been the inspiration for a running gag.
“Canada?” Kumo asked. “Okay?”
He wasn’t.
Kumo crawled into his arms, and he held him there like a pillow, buried his face into the thick white fur.
He tried to pretend there were no tears. In books and movies and tv shows, men crying was always something laughable, suicidal, or womanly, none of which were appropriate and all of which felt too much like a punch line to the comedy his associates (were any of them really friends or family) had made of him.
He still wouldn’t bother to elevate himself by calling it a tragedy.