The Empowerment of Canada

by LandSeaSkyWriter

Summary:

After America's sudden trade war, Canada breaks down. But despite what the world may think, he's not one to stay down for long.

Or, Canada makes an effort to get noticed. But putting yourself out there can come with consequences that even he, who had watched the world for so long, could not have anticipated. As his relationship with America comes to a head, he must better understand his identity, his country, and the state of the world as he knows it... before it all comes crashing down around him.

Notes:

This fic mentions the tariffs that American president Trump placed on Canadian and other trade. It doesn't go extensively into detail, but the whole sentiment of the fic is generally anti-Trump. Sorry if that offends you!

Chapter 1: Molson

Summary:

Six bottles of beer and an army knife do not solve your problems, but even a "perfect" person can sometimes fall back on old habits. Canada demonstrates this.

Canada was frozen. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It had been a quiet day, but this broke through his collected state of mind. It was almost too unprecedented to be real.

“Hello? Canada? What will you do about this?”

“I-I…” he whispered, voice shaking. “Tell Tru-Trudeau t-to imply retaliatory t-tariffs…”

“When?”

“N-near future. Can I please have a moment? I’m so sorry.”

“Of course, Canada,” the man said, then hung up. Canada blew out a breath, lying prone on the couch, telephone still in the vise grip of his left hand. All of his citizens knew him so well. Better than his own brother knew him. Tariffs? He actually imposed tariffs?

“Hey, are you okay?” Kuma’s high voice piped up from the floor. Canada looked down at the fluffy white bear.

“Yeah, of co-” he choked slightly on his own saliva. “-urse I am, Kumakeiki.”

“I’m hungry,” the bear demanded. He stopped whining when he realized that Canada was staring into space, his eyes full of tears. “Hello?”

“Oh! I’ll feed you. I’m sorry.” Canada’s tears dripped over onto his cheeks, but he was up off the couch and shambling into the kitchen before Kuma could see more. Fish-flavoured pellets clattered into the bowl. Once the bear was feeding, his owner stumbled up the stairs and closed the door to his room. He slumped to the red-and-white carpeted floor, gripping his hair in his hands. Trudeau would help him deal with this. It would all be okay. America was still his brother. The thoughts weren’t enough to soothe him. Exasperated, he wiped away his tears and got up to rummage through his minifridge. He desperately threw things aside until he got to what he was looking for. A cold bottle of Molson. “That’s it, thank god.”

Canada knew this was an inappropriate way to drink, splayed out on his carpet with limbs askew, a chilled bottle held fast to his lips as he gulped the beer down. He barely gave himself time to breathe before squinting his eyes shut and opening his mouth again to suck the rest of it down. He ripped the bottle away from his mouth, gasping for air, a strange, cold tingling feeling percolating through all his extremities. He knew just one bottle was not enough to do anything, at only 5% ABV. So against his better judgement, he cracked the next one open and drank it down in the same fashion. Gulp. America was his brother. Gulp. But America had started a trade war. Gulp. America’s clothes looked too loose, was he okay? Gulp. But America had called him the fifty-first state, therefore he didn’t deserve Canada’s pity. Nobody deserved Canada's pity– oh god, but he pitied everyone, he pitied himself, he wanted to be dead.

Canada threw aside the second bottle, feeling slightly nauseated, but then decided to go through with a third. It went down faster and more comfortably. He splashed some on the rug, but didn’t care as the cold beer ran down his face. He realized his tears were mixing with it, creating a stain that would probably never be washed out. But he didn’t care. The third bottle was cast aside.

Fourth? Could he even handle a fourth? He never drank like this. It wasn’t right for him, his mind whispered, but then the thought of America flashed through his now-spinning head. He gulped back a fourth, and this one seemed to take twice as long as the third, the taste like rye bread hitting the back of his nose and stealing his breath as the beer choked him, running in rivulets down his neck and chin and cheeks. Before he knew what had happened, he had downed a fifth and then– was it sixth now?– with some difficulty. This time he was done, he thought as he dropped the bottle with a clink against the others and drew his hand unsteadily across his mouth.

Canada’s thoughts had turned into slurred French. He was done this time. After some time, steadily growing more intoxicated as the minutes ticked by (he'd always been quite the lightweight), he lifted his head slightly, and the door swam into focus. He struggled to prop himself up enough to reach the handle, staggering under the sudden weight of gravity. He managed to make it down the stairs. His vision swum like an uncoordinated child in a deep end. He registered his pet bear running to meet him from the kitchen, then he fell over hard onto the rug, and started to laugh uncontrollably.

“Canadia? Canadia? Hello?” the bear chirped worriedly.

“A– ‘Allo,” he wheezed back, then kept laughing, soaked in his own tears and beer. They’d never love him. He knew this deep in his mind. They’d never ever love him and he knew so. When he met with America, soon, he’d be polite and civil like always, wouldn’t he? It gave him chills to think of all the times when he could have said how he truly felt, but never could. Never would. It gave him chills to think of all the times when he really thought America could have still been his brother, when he kneeled with him in Arlington to pay respects after WWII and Vietnam, seeing the tears streaming down his twin's tan face. He had taken off his glasses and wiped those blue eyes, usually bright and clouded by the future but this time dark with the clarity of now.

The phone rang, startling Canada out of his laughing fit. Merde. What would he do now? He was intoxicated, part of his mind knew. He was definitely unfit to be on the phone. Only, he was also the country of Canada, so it was probably too important of a phone call to ignore. He slowly drew himself to his feet and stumbled over to the phone.

“'Allo?” he slurred into the receiver. He’d have to speak more carefully. Why couldn’t his mouth do what it was supposed to do? English, Canada, English.

“Hey,” the voice on the other end said. Canada froze. It was America’s voice.

“Leave me alone, America,” he mumbled bitterly.

“I-I’m sorry, bro, but I can’t do that. My new boss is glaring daggers at me across the whole room.” He said the last part in a whisper.

“Why sho-should I care?” Canada stammered. “Just go ‘way, ya hoser.”

“Canada, are you high? You sound weird,” America said.

“None of your *hic* b-business,” Canada growled.

“Listen, I’m really sorry about this whole thing. You’re one of my closest allies, and I didn’t really want a trade war… please, Canada, you have to help me out. Just don’t retaliate, at least for now, please? I know that Mexico is getting involved, and I-I just… I don’t feel in control right now,” he whimpered.

“Ye-yeah, I am your closest ally, ‘Merica. I share a stupid border w’you,” Canada mumbled. “Don’t mean I wanna help you. You put taxes on us? Well, I-I already asked Tru–*hc*–deau to s-send some back.” He heard America groan.

“Canada, why do you sound high? Tell me right now, man, c’mon. I’m your bro. You’re my bro. We’re bros. I care about you.” America knew this sounded insensitive, considering he’d just put tariffs on Canada. But he was the hero… right?

“No you don’t! It’s your f-fault. You don’t care about me,” Canada sniffed. “No–*hic*–body does.”

“Aw, come on, dude. Don’t say–” he was cut off by a bang and then the start of the dial tone. Canada had hung up. America stared at the phone for a few seconds, then slumped against the table and pinched his brow. “God damn it. So, Trump... are you sure this is a good idea…?”

“It would be really something if they could be our 51st state. Look,” Trump said. “This is going to be Trudeau’s new flag of Canada; it’s going to be great.” He held out his phone, which had a picture of… a white surrender flag. Of course.

America turned away with a set jaw, straightening his itchy tie and going back to his paperwork. Trump laughed to himself as he scrolled through more memes.

Meanwhile, Canada had stumbled up to his room. He had another idea. It probably wasn’t the best while intoxicated, but he didn’t care. If he hit a vein, too bad for him. He’d have to fix it like everything else screwed up with his country. He pulled out his valuable army knife from a drawer, one of his most prized possessions. He’d gotten it as a gift after WWII from Britain. He rolled up his sleeve and slowly, with bated breath and wide eyes, pressed down and slid it across his wrist. It left behind a shallow cut that welled up with beads of jewel-bright blood. The pain was enough to temporarily sober him up. Canada made a few more, doing it slowly, sensually, smiling in relief and satisfaction as the sensation trickled through his nerves. It was as good as jacking off. He then wiped off the knife with two fingers, licked them, and deftly (for just downing six bottles of beer) snapped it shut. Then, he staggered to his bed and flopped onto it, pulling down his sleeve.

Canada didn’t bother with cleaning or dressing the wounds, because they weren’t that serious. He had never been one to enjoy the deep, sharp pain of really cutting oneself. He always cut lightly, because that was what he liked– a small pain. Like a sunburn or a scrape, the feeling of a slight twinge afterward, when touched or just lying there, was just enough to make him calm, slow down his heart, make him want to smile even if his country was being attacked. He wasn’t trying to mutilate himself at all. He usually just made a small cut or scratch that would heal quickly. Canada’s fingers ghosted over the cuts, which had now formed raised bumps of irritation.

“C'est bien. You’ll just go to sleep now,” he mumbled to himself. He was already halfway there from the hypnotic feeling of the knife. It caressed him, unlike the beer, which had assaulted him. And Canada descended into a void of shapes and colours that would be forgotten come morning.

Notes:

Renovation complete! Isn't it so much nicer now that I've spaced it out? Who knew Ao3 line breaks and paragraphs operate using code you can literally write? It's lovely!

Chapter 2: Turnaround

Summary:

Canada gets himself together, gets out of the house, and gets on the bus. He just needs to get himself a little further, doesn't he?

Canada woke up in a completely different state of mind. The sun was an offense. The bear tugging his hand was an offense. His pounding head was an offense. Then he remembered– America was an offense, despite not actually being with him. He groaned and checked his watch to see what time it was… ten thirty. He shot out of bed, wincing slightly when his arm rubbed against the blankets. He stopped grimacing for a moment to admire the neat rows of scratches on the skin, then stumbled out of the room.
Canada chugged two aspirin with a glass of water to kill the headache, then washed his face and put on a nice, previously ironed suit. It was time to look presentable. It was time to take action. Last night had been a fluke; embarrassing, really. He banged his hands on the counter a few times to ground himself and stared into his own violet eyes. This, he decided, would be the start of a new Canada. He wouldn't be a pushover anymore. He'd stop whining about giving the others a "what for"– he'd actually show them.
He made himself some pancakes and washed them down with fresh coffee. Kumajiro hopped up onto the table and he petted the white fur.
"Hey, Canadia, you scared me last night. Are you okay?"
No, he wasn't okay. The tariffs- America- still hung over his mind like a dark cloud. But he smiled and nodded. "Yeah, Kumasakiro. I'm all good." He cleared away the dishes, approvingly examined the scratches on his arm again, and left the house.
The sidewalk was slick from frost. Canada didn't carefully tiptoe past the slush like usual– he stamped through it, getting icy water all over his nice leather boots- though it made him wince a bit to do so. He didn't care. He had gotten over falling apart over every little thing people might judge him for. He was just angry now. His anger swept like a dark cloud with him onto the bus, where he sat down across from an old man. The guy heard Canada huff as he sat down, looked up, and saw the scowl on his face.
"Work not treatin' you well?" he asked bluntly. Canada, surprised, lost the scowl.
"Er, yeah, I suppose," he said.
"Coworkers sometimes," the man said. "I once had one who tried to get me fired."
Canada narrowed his eyes. "Wow. That's awful."
"Yep," the man sighed. "What's your trouble?"
"It's…" Canada had the sudden urge to tell the truth. "It's not really about work. It's those tariffs from the US."
"Tariffs? Hold on, I don't think I heard about any…" the man pulled out his phone and Canada's stomach churned. Of course. The news had come just yesterday to him late at night. The general public, the news, they had probably only just caught on. "Oh, here… my goodness." He'd found a news site, no doubt.
"Yeah, it's… bad…"
"This is awful. I didn't even know. You're really on top of the news, aren't you?"
"I guess you could say that." The man had a look in his eye Canada didn't like.
"Hell, you look like a college student!"
"I am," he lied.
"Our youth are really catching up to us. I mean, man. This is terrible." The man sighed deeply. "Thanks for telling me. What's your name, by the way?"
"Matthew. It's Matthew," Canada replied, suddenly anxious to get out of this conversation. His stop was coming up too. He pulled the signal cord. Before getting up from his seat, he turned back towards the man. "And thank you. You made me feel a bit better."
"No problem."
Matthew got off the bus, and Canada jogged down off the road. His poor, innocent citizens hadn't- damn it- they hadn't done anything wrong. The man had been so amiable, so conversational, so lovely- just like the country he lived in. And yet he was a victim of this awful tyranny. It wasn't fair. It wasn't working. The rules of the world had been turned upside down and the helping, the good relations, the niceness just wasn't working anymore.
Canada straightened his tie, cleared the distress from his face, and stepped forward. He'd reached the building, and his meeting started in twenty minutes.

Notes:

Next chapter is the meeting.

Chapter 3: Silence Except For One

Summary:

The meeting.

Notes:

I apologise that it took so long to write this chapter. I had a finished product which was unfortunately deleted, and it took a while to find the motivation to start again. Hope you enjoy.

Yes, Canada was late even though he had twenty minutes to prepare. This is because he was rehearsing what to say.

"Okay, dudes! The world conference can convene!" America crowed. England sighed and massaged his forehead. America's voice grated on his nerves as he rambled on and on, and besides, the idiot had probably only learned the word "convene" for this purpose. England wanted to smash his head repeatedly on the table (his own or America's, it didn't matter), but instead found himself adopting a trick he'd become increasingly reliant on. He slipped into his own mind. 

In there, he'd go on tirades against America, spitting sharp criticism at an adoring, rapt audience of creatures. The bastard would always get a colourful tongue-lashing he very much deserved (but was never there to hear). France was another popular subject, or other nations who'd irked England that day. Sometimes when he was done, he'd make the faceless listeners whisper to each other about how eloquent he was, how much they agreed with him.

It was sad, really, how much England had come to rely on imagination to console him. He'd once been fearsome, up high on his horse with nothing to stop him, and now? Now he'd long fallen off into the mud. He'd been left there in the swamp like a discarded old shoe, content with the banal existence of watching the (very attentive, perfect audience of) bees and flies swarm overhead. To pull himself out and take more command of the discussion was a strength he wasn't sure he had anymore. 

Suddenly, the door opened, its whoosh across the carpet yanking England out of his fantasy world. He blinked up at the door as a man entered– his well-polished shoe stepped across the threshold, slim and elegant hands straightening a tie. He was thin, with a shy face framed by wavy blond hair. His violet eyes darted swiftly across the assembled faces as he straightened his round glasses. "Hello," he said in a soft voice. It carried across the now-silent room. "Sorry I'm late." He softly stepped down the stairs into the conference room, strode across the carpet and sat down next to England. 

England shook off his surprise and cocked his head at the man, who had started to get out a notebook and pen from his bag in silence. He looked familiar, which made England considerably confused. "I-I'm sorry, who are you, sir? This is a private meeting," he stammered indignantly.

The man stopped busying himself with the papers, sitting silent for a few moments, then slammed his hands on the table with a bang that made everyone jump a little in their seats. He stood up and slowly turned to face England with a funny light in his eyes. "Sorry," he said in that pleasant, almost feminine voice. "You don't know who I am?" 

"N- well, no," England gulped.

"Well then, I'll tell you just who I am. And all of you-" he sliced his hand through the air in a motion indicating the table's occupants- "had better listen." There was dead silence, except for Italy, who was whimpering in fear. 

"My name is Canada. I'm the second largest country in the world, after you, Russia," the man snarled. Russia raised his eyebrows. "I produce 6 percent of the world's oil. I fought in both world wars. I'm north of you, America. That's not even your name, though, is it? I'm part of America too. I am your son, England," he spat. England shrunk back, feeling pure terror as Canada's eyes bored straight through him. "Next time, when I walk into a room, you will treat me with respect and remember me as you do all other nations." 

Of course, England thought. How could he have forgotten Canada? His quiet, less important son. He knew the land well, yes, but… the nation behind it always had slipped his mind. Canada looked away from him and sat down once more, beginning to arrange his papers in a neat pile on the desk. After a few tense moments of silence, Germany cleared his throat. "Er… we very much apologise, Canada. We will make sure this doesn't happen again." 

"Good," said Canada shortly. He sounded exhausted from his unusual outburst and a bit awkward, but still had that dark glint in his eyes. 

This shocked silence couldn't last forever. They were all thinking it. "Um, so, okay, dudes," started America a bit nervously. "Where was I… oh right, aliens. Yeah, so they're totally rigging our elections. Not mine, though, because my president is the best in the whole- uh, yeah, dude?" Canada had cleared his throat and raised his hand quietly, cutting America off. 

"If I might interject, USA," he said in a cool and professional tone. "You talk a lot at these meetings. Maybe one of us should get a beat to sneak in some rational thought every once in a while." 

England was transfixed by the change in Canada. This– what was this? He knew one thing for now: it was either the best or the worst thing to happen to him in a long time. Canada opened his mouth, brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, and began to speak.

Chapter 4: A What For

Summary:

Words: Canada finds out what happens when he finally uses them.

On fire. That was the only way to describe Canada, both literally and figuratively. Sweat dripped down his face from heat nobody else could feel; his hands trembled as he gestured in the air and his skin felt like it could melt off at any moment. But he was enjoying himself. He was finally getting to speak, and how! The other nations listened with nary a whisper or contradiction. Even Germany had taken to furiously scribbling down Canada's words when the initial shock of them wore off. He'd talked about the country's state, his people, his economy, his imports and exports, his relations, with passion. He'd taken questions and answered them with fiery wit and grace. He'd given a speech on the importance of peace in this polarised time. He'd done it all without a tremble in his voice, a pause or a misstep. It was incredible, he dimly thought in the back of his mind. I'm doing this. I really am. I didn't even write any of this. 

He saw Germany stand up and quickly wrapped up his speaking, feeling like he'd just run a marathon. "I recognise Germany."

"Thank you for your input, Canada." Germany looked like he knew how he was ridiculously undercutting that description. Canada had practically run the first part of the meeting. 

"You're welcome," he said awkwardly, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. 

"I'd like to offer a question," said Germany. "You said that Canada will not be weakened by the United States, and you will never become their 'fifty-first state'. How do you plan to defend yourself against attempts on your nationhood?" 

"Well, I admit I… don't know," Canada said nervously, the eyes of all nations suddenly seeming to pierce him like arrows as he stood and sweated. He quickly recovered, jumping back onto the train of words he'd been riding. "That's exactly why I need your help. On several countries, not only me, he's either placed tariffs or considering it." 

"Dude!" America laughed. "You don't understand. While you've been blabbering away the whole-ass meeting, you never got that I'm not doing this for any reason other than you would." He stood up and grinned. "I'm the hero, after all – and heroes gotta stick up for themselves, too, not just other people. Money's gonna start flowing into the U.S. of A, and all thanks to me and my president. You guys are basically dependent on me anyway, so this is better for you in the long run!" 

Canada felt something foreign, something sharp, digging its way up through his throat. It wasn't trying to make him cry, no- and it wasn't going to make him cower. He was done with those emotions, those actions and non-actions. This was anger, a glinting tool he could use against America or anyone he wanted. "With all due respect, America, I can tell you think nobody will be able to touch you. I can tell you don't have respect for us. You want to give us things, you want to save us from our 'ignorance', and reject what we have to offer." 

America grinned condescendingly. "Well, you've been irrelevant to the world until, what? An hour ago? So I don't want to hear it from you." 

"If you've forgotten, America, this is a formal meeting. You aren't allowed to verbally harass Canada," Germany neatly cut in. He gave Canada a warm smile (well, warm for Germany), then turned his cold gaze back towards America.

"Well- I didn't- dude, come on, I-" America blustered, his overconfident grin faltering. 

"No matter. I believe it's time for a small break anyhow," Germany said, shuffling his papers. America was the first to jump up from his seat and declare that he needed to heroically check if his car was locked. The moment he left the room, Canada sat down heavily in his chair. He stared at his trembling hands as he felt air cool the sweat gathered at his temples, mixing feverishly with the heat and euphoric terror that came with what he'd just done.

"Canada, are you quite alright?" England asked. Canada looked up to see a most amazing sight, one he'd dreamed of in hard times: England worried, paying attention to him, brows furrowed and slim hands anxiously picking at his collar. Canada knew, and had known for many years now, that they hardly needed to have a father-and-son relationship. They didn't live together, they weren't currently fighting in any major wars together, and Canada had been getting along all right without a father figure in the first place. But he couldn't deny how his chest ached when he remembered all of the times he hadn't been. He wanted it badly. 

"I… er, yeah," he said breathlessly. "I've just never really, uh, done that before."

"What? Public speaking?" England said with amusement. "I'm surprised. You certainly did better than I could." 

Canada flushed, sinking lower in his seat. The familiar feeling of embarrassment was coming back to take hold of him. "I don't really know about that… I was just…" 

"What's this? Who is Angleterre talking to?" France smoothly interjected, sliding onto the table between them. "Did he finally realise mon petit Canada exists?" 

"Shut your smug mouth or I'll stuff it with some of your awful boiled snails," England shot back. "I'd have reckoned you only just realised he existed as well, frog." 

"Excusez-moi? Who was ze one who was nearly pissing 'is trousers over Canada giving him a nasty look? That's right, it was you," France said, his smile growing wider with every word. Canada could hardly believe it. They were talking about him. Sure, they were being pointlessly confrontational as usual, but for once it was Canada's name that touched their tongues and dripped into the cracks of their acidic sentences like warm butter. 

"Sorry 'bout that, England," Canada said with a smile. 

"Don't be sorry at all," England said amiably. "You gave me a what for, and a sorely needed one at that. My brain was leaking out my ears from paying attention to the wrong person so bloody long." 

A what for. Canada couldn't help himself but grin when he heard his own thoughts reflected in England's words. It wasn't closure- oh, far from it, when America could be hauling his pompous ass back into the building at this very moment, or past that (his heavy footsteps could be echoing in the stairwell right now as he drew closer). But at least Canada had achieved this one confirmation that he was more powerful than he knew. It didn't even matter that "so bloody long" might to England mean only the half hour or so he'd had to listen to America today, and not the few hundred years Canada had suffered from nothing short of neglect at his hands. 

Canada was almost ashamed now of the scratches he was hiding up his sleeve. He didn't need those to feel worthy; he didn't even need them to feel like he existed. All it took was England's eyes laughing at him and France's eyebrows wiggling, and the three of them forming some sort of dysfunctional family in the middle of the table with everyone else in the room watching Canada. All eyes on him. He enjoyed the moment while it lasted. Of course, it wouldn't for long.

The door hissed across the carpet once more, and America jumped into the room with a gleaming grin on his face as if nothing had happened. "The hero has arrived!" 

Canada felt the heat coming back. He mopped at his brow and shuffled his papers. In a blink, France and England had moved back to their seats, smiles gone. This was a situation of urgency. Most pressing, dire matters awaited all of them now, jetzt, mùqián, à présent. 

Canada found himself praying that words wouldn't fail him this time.

Chapter 5: Sorry

Summary:

Canada, well into Carney's run as Prime Minister and running off caffeine and his newfound spotlight, gets an unexpected knock at his door. This chapter is a timeskip, as this fic sorely needed a jump into the here and now.
CW:
-Serious injury (amputation)

It was at an ungodly hour in the morning and a year later. Two a.m., to be precise. Carney was shaping up to be a decent P.M., even if he wasn't changing the tariff problem or the housing crisis in a snap. Well, at least that was better than Trump, who'd claimed to be able to change the whole United States in one day and failed to uphold his word. Carney at least didn't have any delusions of grandeur. Canada had just finished his paperwork and was sorting it into neat files to take up to the office when– 

Rap rap. 

Two slow knocks at his front door. Just enough knocking to show that someone was there; the least amount of knocks one could use. It was creepy and didn't promise good in Canada's sleep-deprived mind. He stood up, ran a hand through his hair, and made his way to the door. He peered through the peephole, but it was much too dark to see anything. He opened the door just a crack, seeing a silhouette outside. "Who's there?" he called in a voice raspy from tiredness. 

"Nnh, it's…it's 'merica," came the tremulous mumble. Canada opened the door. It was indeed America. 

"God, what the…the fuck happened to you?" America's hair was greasy and fell about his face unkempt. His clothes were wrinkled, shirt hanging off his body and only half-tucked in. Last week, during the meeting over trade, America hadn't looked this awful. Canada hadn't taken much notice anyhow, busy seething over the smug look in his brother's cold blue eyes as he stood behind his infamous president. Now, America's glasses were gone, and his eyes were red-rimmed and dark-circled. His breathing could be described as dramatic; it made his frame rise and fall noticeably with each laborious intake of air. He was cradling both hands against his chest, one completely covered by the other. Canada wasn't sure if he was imagining the blood that slicked his fingers. 

"I'm sorry," America whispered. 

"Come in," Canada said with no further hesitation, struck by this bloody apparition. He grabbed America by the shoulder and tugged him inside. America stumbled pitifully on the threshold, and Canada grasped his arm. "What happened to you?" he repeated.

"Sorry," America mumbled again. His eyes were unfocused and darted about the room. 

"That isn't–that's not an answer. Why are you here? What's going on?" Canada couldn't hide the worry that crept into his voice. 

"East. M-m' hand," America mumbled. His breathing became fast and shallow. 

"Hand? What…" Canada sat him down at the kitchen table, took his arm again. This time, he gently pulled away the clenched fingers of America's right hand to reveal the left underneath. But trembling, blood-coated fingers, despite being a very real and terrible possibility, weren't what he saw. 

"C'nda…'m sorry." 

"It's–" Canada fought the sickness rising up in his throat. "It's g-gone?" Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. "No, no, no, America, maple! Why didn't you–oh god." America's hand was gone. His left hand was just gone. A bloody stump, a flap of frayed skin hanging off and partially stuck to the mess of smeared blood. The whole job looking as if it had been done by an inexperienced Cub Scout with a hatchet. Canada hissed in a sharp breath as he turned over the red-spattered wrist. "Maple leaf… how did this happen?" 

"East…east wing." He broke into a shiver, looking away. "White house." 

"What did they do?" 

"Heh. Bulldozer. Ball room." He shivered again. Canada was becoming increasingly agitated. 

"Come on, give me an actual answer, not just words! Of all the times to be fucking with me, this is not one! Your hand is gone–" 

"Yeah. S-sorry. Th-they…bulldozed the…they made–they're gonna…a ballroom…east wing." 

Canada listened in confusion to America's patchwork sentence. He then, with a rush of sickening heat to his head, put the pieces together in a horrifying snap. "Fuck." He ran his shaking fingers across his well-worn scalp.

"Don't s-swear. Not like you." 

"Don't swear? America, you–you play football with that hand! You… that's the hand you hold a hockey stick with! A baseball bat!" Canada knew it was more important than sports, but his mind in its distress could only think of simple things. 

"My fault." America chuckled joylessly. "'s my fault for…for being so…" 

"America, it's your White House. It's not like an old town hall that you can just knock down. This is serious. Maple." 

"Said…s-said I was sorry," America whispered. Canada's heart twisted. 

"Come on. We need to bandage this." He took America by the shoulders and helped him up the stairs to the bathroom. He sat America on the edge of the sink, causing him to suddenly giggle. 

"Haven't been up here since…since I was a little boy."

"Ssh." Canada began searching agitatedly for his first aid kit in the cabinets. He didn't know how on Earth the bleeding had stopped, but it was still an open wound; it was going to get infected. Bandages, bandages, maple hockey where did he keep the fucking bandages? He threw aside bottles of shaving cream that he rarely needed for his smooth chin, and there they were. He placed them next to America and grasped his wrist. 

"Ouch. Whah th' fuck're ya doing, bro? That's my…my appendage." America began laughing loudly at his own description. 

"Shut up." Canada turned on the tap and shoved America's arm under the running water. The pained whimpers his brother gasped out struck him to the core. Canada winced, he cringed, he opened his mouth with full intention of saying "sorry". Then closed it. He kept it closed until he'd turned off the tap, then opened it again. "I'm going to put bandages on you now." America answered with staggered breaths, blinking rapidly with tears welled up in his eyes, but moved his arm towards Canada anyways. 

Once the bandages were firmly wrapped around the stump, Canada took America by the other arm and gently guided him out of the bathroom. He pulled off America's shoes, showed him the small bed he owned and told him to sleep. America didn't answer, breaths still shaky, so Canada pressed him softly down into the mattress and covered him with blankets. America suddenly seemed to regain lucidity and blinked up at his brother. "Can'da?" 

"Yes, it's me." 

"Oh. I…I'm sorry." 

"Don't be. Just rest. I don't even know what the hell happened, but we can talk about it in the morning." 

"Wha' happened was th-they…" 

"Morning!" Canada snapped. America shrunk back, eyes wide, and began to hyperventilate again. "No, no, damn it, I didn't mean…" He placed a hand on America's arm. "It's alright. I'm not angry at you." 

"M… m'kay," America whispered. He fell silent, staring into space. Then he looked up at Canada again. "Wha's going on…w-with Carney? He b…better than Trudeau?" 

"He's alright, but I'm not talking about myself right now. You're injured, terribly injured, so much so that you can't think straight. This is not a conversation about politics." Not yet, the deal-making, tax-imposing part of his brain piped up smugly. You can use this to your advantage later. Help Carney get some real change done. Canada told it to shut up.

America soon fell asleep, clearly exhausted from going the distance up to Toronto in his addled, sliced-up state. Canada watched him, watched the way his now-skinny chest rose and fell, watched the pronounced hollows under his eyes. This situation was certainly unprecedented. It was the coming of a prophet, the outcry from a harbinger of doom. Canada didn't know what to feel, what to say, to the broken messenger before him. He leaned forward and opened his mouth again. "I'm sorry, America." 

Hot tears fell startlingly fast like rain, springing up in the corners of Canada's eyes and forcing their way down his face. He was distraught. He was losing his calm, gentlemanly composure. Maybe he needed to give someone a what for for this! He needed a good session of debate, or even a shouting match! He'd gotten relatively good at those along with everything else that came with being known. 

But no! Absolutely not; he wasn't going to let his mind fit every emotion into neat files of dressed-up, vague impressions, processed into things that could not be shouted in the rain or drowned in beer or dreamed about. Shut up with your sesquipedalian ramblings, Canada. Shut the h-e-double hockey sticks up. He was sorry. That's all. That was all there was to it. He could be sorry and the world wouldn't end. He could apologise and he would still exist. 

"I'm so sorry, America. I'm so sorry."

Notes:

Bear with me here, friends.

Chapter 6: Apparitions and Anguish

Summary:

America is gone. Canada begins to lose just a little bit of his carefully established control (again).

The morning came and America had gone. Canada wondered if he had been an apparition. He had no way to determine whether America's visit had even been real, since his brother had left nothing at all behind–no clothes, no bandages, not a single strand of hair. When Canada woke, he'd been surprised to see that the bed was empty and cold. He'd jumped up, called out, but was met with nothing. Just the familiar press of silent, stuffy air on his ears. The sky had cleared during the night, the blanket of grey clouds whisked away and replaced by meek fluffy streaks that caught the pink sunrise. Canada watched the doves on the power line stretch their wings. Then he turned and crept downstairs, the unease building in his chest. 

            "America?" Even his voice was quiet, wavering in a way he hadn't allowed it to for months. The landing and the stairs were spotless, and so was the kitchen. He opened the front door, shuddering when the morning chill swept under his sleeves. His socks stuck to the wet ground as he made his way to the driveway. It was bare save for his own red electric car, but he noticed that something was amiss. The ground was marked with black skids that turned in a quick circle out of the driveway. Canada's eyes widened and he ran to the street, though he knew it would make no difference. America had gone, whether by the winds of ghostly energy or by the hands of formidable men in black suits. Canada stood, helpless, running a hand through his wavy hair and fixing his gaze down the street as if he could bring America back through the powers of his mind alone. You're not a miracle worker, his mind sighed, and he turned dejectedly back towards the house. 

He tried to pour his guilt out with the milk over a bowl of maple cereal and ate quickly, filling his mind with thoughts of work and reassurances. America had been taken by his boss, no doubt. It was not within Canada's power to get him back, and definitely not his responsibility. He'd cared for America out of the kindness of his own heart; there was only so much that could do. But no matter how much his thoughts tried to reassure him, they couldn't cover the hole that America's sudden appearance and disappearance had smashed in his fragile life. He could feel the undercurrent of fear thrumming beneath his skin as he washed his face, shaved, brushed his teeth and pulled on a fresh suit. The box of bandages still stood open on the counter. Canada felt sick when he saw smears of blood on the smooth tiles. His brother was out there, hurt out there. They'd only continue to cut away at him until nothing of the America everyone had known was left. First his White House and his hand, then what? 

That was how Canada found himself on the floor again. He was not splayed out like before. This time, he crushed himself into a small boulder with his hands desperately gripping his knees. His breaths came fast. It felt like he was tipping over a waterfall, everything spilling out of his mouth and eyes in desperation. His brother and his country screamed behind his closed eyes, two babies in a river. White hot, wheeling patterns spun on his retinas as he dug in his fingers. The rest of the minutes and hours passed like quicksilver. The day: sucked down the drain, vanished in the echoing cavern of his agony, of what-is-this-world-coming-to? and other unanswerable questions.

            That was how it could have been. But instead, Canada stayed calm and upright. He attended meetings that day: six, to be precise. He took notes and kept his tie straight. He did not apologise to anyone save for the occasional small child he jostled on the street. His sleeves pulled at the cuts underneath, but he pushed through with barely a thought to it. He was definitely not thinking about America. 

            Canada got home and immediately felt like nothing had changed. The workday was a blur; he might as well have been at home the entire time. His thoughts had been preoccupied with work, yes, but also with America. It was impossible to just cast his brother out of his mind, he realised. He needed the proper release. He grabbed his little pocket knife and sliced until he could breathe easily again. There was just so much drama and idiocy and shifting of money and power that he just had to find a space in the middle, didn't he? Oil pipeline paperwork and mind-melting meetings about ice-melting heatings, and juggling the Liberals, Conservatives, Greens, and god knows who would throw themselves at him next. Some angry man had stopped him outside the meeting hall and spat in his face about how the Liberals were "living it up" while Canadians just had to sit with their "broken promises, man, all broken!". Canada had just given a tight smile and attempted to placate the man: "Sir, it's not my responsibility. Sir, I'm not the right person to complain to. Sir, excuse me, please." 

If he only knew.

And then there was America: the last straw on the camel's ever-buckling back, the worry that had plagued him for the whole day whether he had consciously noticed or not. The truth that Canada would never admit was that he did end up on the floor at the end of everything, after those six meetings and pretending--his knife a violin bow he could drag across the strings of his skin to soothe his aching nerves when curling up in a breathless ball wasn't enough. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't be strong enough. Not for himself, not for America (who could be anywhere, he realised for the twentieth time with a lurch of the stomach), and not for his country.

God, what was he going to do?

Notes:

Bit short, but I have finals and can't write all that much. Next chapter: within the next two months.