Author: chromatic_coma @ animusia
Character(s)/Pairing(s): America -> France -> Canada
Genre: Romance, Angst
Warnings: Love Triangle, Lack of Plot
Summary: Canada can no longer stand to look at himself in a mirror, and he doesn't even know who he blames for it.
Notes: For hetalia_contest 's contest, using several of the prompts: 'idealist' 'cooking' 'the sky is falling' 'the spider and the fly' 'hands' 'mirror' and 'sky' (wow)
In This Tangled Web
The field was quiet; the smell of wheat was heavy and lingering in the air, getting caught in the wind as it ran through his hair.
Even though the air was chilled, Canada wasn’t. Side-by-side he was pressed to America, their fingers intertwined in the middle.
“When I was a kid, I thought the sky was made of paint.”
“Just look at it. It’s so smooth, and just, you know. Like, I feel like if I reach high enough, I can run my fingers through it.” And America tried, swishing his hand up in the air childishly and laughing.
And then he turned to look at Canada, eyes somehow brighter and bolder than the expanse above them, twinkling with his smile. Suddenly, Canada felt dizzy.
“Do you get it?”
“Y-yeah.” He nodded, biting his bottom lip a little. America stared at him a moment longer. When he turned away, he let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.
“Admit it; you didn’t think it made any sense.”
“No, really, I understand!”
America looked taken aback by his brother’s boldness; Canada had the decency to turn a pretty shade of red.
“What about you? What do you think the sky is made of?”
“Ah.” America mused, and Canada couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. There were a few more moments of silence before America spoke again.
“Don’t you ever have to worry about the sky breaking that way?”
“Don’t you have to worry about it dripping?”
America laughed. “That’s rain, dude.”
“Touché.” Canada murmured. “And, sometimes…”
“Just like Chicken Little. Very cute.” America ruffled his brother’s hair with his free hand, the other still full of his twin’s.
Canada pouted, and America pressed a gentle peck on his protruded lip.
“Don’t you worry. If the sky ever does decide to fall, I’ll protect you.”
“Yup. I’ll save everyone else, of course, but I’ll be extra super sure to save you, and you’ll be so happy you’ll kiss me.”
Canada chuckled halfheartedly to hide the thumping of his heart, the little red organ threatening to push its way out of his chest.
“Sure, America. Sure…”
“Ow, damn…” He muttered sharply between clenched teeth, knife falling from his hands as he gripped his bloody fingers. Biting his lip, he found the dishtowel on the countertop, and wrapped it around the cut. Soon enough, the white cloth was red spotted, and Canada started feeling dizzy.
But before the lightheadedness caused him to drift off, Canada felt a pair of warm arms wrap around him, and thin, nimble fingers pressed the towel harder over his wound.
France ‘tsked’ in Canada’s ear, and maybe a little too close to his ear at that, but Canada could not afford to be bothered by it when his head was becoming so murky.
“Canada? Canada, regarde-moi, s’il te plait!” France sounded a bit frantic, as far as he could tell. Still, when Canada did manage to turn around, he barely made out the concern in France’s eyes before everything went black.
He knew the reasons why America pursued him so steadfastly, and it was not to do with love. Well, not love for him, exactly.
When Canada awoke some mornings, he would stumble into the bathroom still half asleep and tiredly splash cold water onto his face. Then he would catch sight of himself in the mirror…
France. The way his curly hair would fall in a sleep-tousled mess, the barest hints of 5 o’clock shadow on his chin, his bright eyes bare to the world without the bulkiness of glasses masking them; he looked just like a younger France.
And then he would look closer, closer, until his nose was nearly but not-quite pressed to the dry glass, and the violet of his tired eyes would serve as the first and only sharp contrast between a nineteen year old Canada and a nineteen year old France.
America had been fucked by a nineteen year old France before, hadn’t he?
Canada shook his head sharply, snapping his mind back to the present. He was quick to fumble with his glasses, sliding them on but refusing to meet his reflection in the glass. His eyes scanned the walls of the room, reaching for his toothbrush, but he was quickly distracted.
A fly was tangled up in a spider web. Canada froze, watching almost helplessly as the creature struggled in his confines, only to have the spider come out of hiding and attack her breakfast.
A quick fist and the web was destroyed, only blood on his skin and two twitching carcasses to show it had ever been there. Canada stared only for a moment at the gore, before washing it off with a grimace.
“Good morning to you, too."
I really love writing dark fics, but this made me feel really bad for Canada. Now I have to write something to make it up to him...