a part III. Uhh... I took Canada's glasses to be Quebec. Or something.
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America was asleep, as he had been for about two hours. Once the gameboy’s batteries had run out, he dug a half-bag of potato chips out from under his bed, finished them off, and climbed between the sheets. Since then, Canada had spent his time calling other Nations he’d known wouldn’t have been at the meeting —Taiwan, who’d tried to hang herself last week, so was under observation like Japan; Southern Ireland, who never went anywhere she knew England would be; Sealand, who never got invited to anything; and Cuba, who he thought would have been too disgusted with America to even be in the same room with him. When Canada had tried to talk to him, though, Cuba yelled at him for being America and hung up.
Canada had never known doing nothing could be so exhausting. By then, his cell had nearly run out of power. He set the phone down on the nightstand by Texas, and took off Quebec and put them on the nightstand, too, and climbed into bed. Immediately, America got up, took his pillow, and lay down on the floor, quickly enough for Canada to realize that America had never actually been asleep at all.
“Come back to bed,” said Canada.
“I’m fine here,” said America.
“No, you aren’t,” said Canada, throwing back the comforter to make space. America sat up, picked up the pillow, and paused.
“There’s more than enough room for both of us,” said Canada. Without looking at his brother once, America put the pillow back on the bed and climbed in, curling up, facing the wall. At the hem of his shirt, Canada could see the beginnings of a bruise. Lightly, he pulled the fabric away to see where it ended, but couldn’t find
America winced.
“Have you been to a doctor?” asked Canada, tugging again at the shirt, trying to get him to roll over, but America didn’t budge.
“No.”
Canada let go of the shirt.
“I could have gone if I wanted to,” said America. Canada put a hand on America’s stomach, but instead of coaxing him closer as he’d intended, America curled up tighter.
“That… that’s what’s so great. I could go if I wanted to. There’s no waiting list or anything.”
“You’re mumbling into your pillow, America.”
“It’s not a socialist system… I could if I wanted…”
“Talk to me, not your pillow.”
“But… I don’t… want to…”
Canada pulled America, forcing him onto his back. America just let out a sharp gasp, but nothing more, as Canada tugged at the shirt, trying to find where that goddamned bruise ended. It had to end somewhere, after all. As he searched for it over America’s stomach, he heard a strangled sound.
It was America, choking on nothing, eyes frozen to the ceiling. Slowly, Canada pulled the shirt back over America’s stomach and took back his hands. Perhaps he didn’t need to find where that bruise ended after all.
“I-I’m sorry, I—”
But Canada was interrupted by America’s laughter. America laughed hard enough to wake the President’s daughters, and Canada, for the life of him, could not understand why.
Afterward Part III
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America was asleep, as he had been for about two hours. Once the gameboy’s batteries had run out, he dug a half-bag of potato chips out from under his bed, finished them off, and climbed between the sheets. Since then, Canada had spent his time calling other Nations he’d known wouldn’t have been at the meeting —Taiwan, who’d tried to hang herself last week, so was under observation like Japan; Southern Ireland, who never went anywhere she knew England would be; Sealand, who never got invited to anything; and Cuba, who he thought would have been too disgusted with America to even be in the same room with him. When Canada had tried to talk to him, though, Cuba yelled at him for being America and hung up.
Canada had never known doing nothing could be so exhausting. By then, his cell had nearly run out of power. He set the phone down on the nightstand by Texas, and took off Quebec and put them on the nightstand, too, and climbed into bed. Immediately, America got up, took his pillow, and lay down on the floor, quickly enough for Canada to realize that America had never actually been asleep at all.
“Come back to bed,” said Canada.
“I’m fine here,” said America.
“No, you aren’t,” said Canada, throwing back the comforter to make space. America sat up, picked up the pillow, and paused.
“There’s more than enough room for both of us,” said Canada. Without looking at his brother once, America put the pillow back on the bed and climbed in, curling up, facing the wall. At the hem of his shirt, Canada could see the beginnings of a bruise. Lightly, he pulled the fabric away to see where it ended, but couldn’t find
America winced.
“Have you been to a doctor?” asked Canada, tugging again at the shirt, trying to get him to roll over, but America didn’t budge.
“No.”
Canada let go of the shirt.
“I could have gone if I wanted to,” said America. Canada put a hand on America’s stomach, but instead of coaxing him closer as he’d intended, America curled up tighter.
“That… that’s what’s so great. I could go if I wanted to. There’s no waiting list or anything.”
“You’re mumbling into your pillow, America.”
“It’s not a socialist system… I could if I wanted…”
“Talk to me, not your pillow.”
“But… I don’t… want to…”
Canada pulled America, forcing him onto his back. America just let out a sharp gasp, but nothing more, as Canada tugged at the shirt, trying to find where that goddamned bruise ended. It had to end somewhere, after all. As he searched for it over America’s stomach, he heard a strangled sound.
It was America, choking on nothing, eyes frozen to the ceiling. Slowly, Canada pulled the shirt back over America’s stomach and took back his hands. Perhaps he didn’t need to find where that bruise ended after all.
“I-I’m sorry, I—”
But Canada was interrupted by America’s laughter. America laughed hard enough to wake the President’s daughters, and Canada, for the life of him, could not understand why.