pax americana

—

Canada and America live through the last century's calamities together, and they know in their hearts that pax americana will never break. Canada/America. Gift fic for sadie_dandelion (over on LJ), thank you for donating for help_japan!

—

january 1930

The winter wind bites at the cuts and bruises on their arms, laughs in disgust at their decade of mistakes, stupidity, and indecision. And so they sit at the base of the bridge, torn clothing hanging desperately onto their skin, their last bit of dignity and pride. They press into each other for warmth, fingers digging into each other's sleeves, clammy, feverish, and cold.

"I can't breathe," America says, even though they're outside, and there's fresh air everywhere. The hoarseness of his voice worries Canada, scares him, because their lands are connected, one and inseparable, and-

"I can't," America whispers, and he grabs blindly at the earth they're sitting on. His hands lock onto a fistful of dust and he spits out, "Matt - I hate this - I hate this - but I - "

He shoves the dirt into his mouth, chokes it down with nervous energy. The grime and dust mix with his saliva, turn into slime, and work their way down his throat. Then America grabs onto Canada's emaciated wrists, and his entire body heaves back and forth as he coughs.

"How did we come to this?" he whispers, face pressed against Canada's skin, "Dust for dinner - since when did we become a bunch of barbarians?"

And when Canada kisses him, that's all he can taste - the dirt, the dust, the parched, dry throat of his southern neighbor. He's not much better, really, because he'd eaten dust in the morning too, choked on it as he lay alone in his prairelands. He'd felt himself sinking then, falling into the depths of the earth, and he'd wondered if a nation could drown in dust.

And disappear.

"Alfred," he says, cradling his neighbor's head in his hands, "I swear, tomorrow I'll find food, and we can stop."

But America just laughs, a series of short, painful coughs, and intones, "Tomorrow, isn't that what we always promise ourselves?"

Because they're hungry now, because they need nutrients now, and even if they can barely breathe anymore, even if spend half their days drowning each other in the water, trying to get rid of the dust in their ears, the sand in their eyes, everything that they'd done...

Survival, it was all for that.

—

june 1936

They're running away.

Just the two of them, together with their suitcases, dusty suspenders and their grimy, dirt-covered hands. They can't work the earth anymore, can't plow the dirt like they used to, and there's nothing for them here, nothing but barren wasteland.

"Do you feel," America says as they sprint through the dust, "like - like your stomach is on fire?"

Canada doesn't answer - he's too busy running, too busy evading the trajectory of the dust storm. He doesn't notice the way America slows down, and it barely registers when America's hand slips from his own. And so he turns, confused, then horrified, because America - America is on the ground, clutching his midsection in frustration. The storm of sand is behind them, catching up, and they should be afraid, deathly afraid. Canada reaches for America's hand and tries to pull the nation up.

"Come on, Al, you can't stop now, you can't just give in."

He feels America's forehead, and America gasps. "Your hand, Matt - it's burning."

"No," Canada protests, "It's your forehead that's burning - you've got a fever - look, we don't have time for this. I know this is hard - but if we can get to the nearest town, maybe we can find you a physician, but if we stay out here, there's no chance, absolutely none."

"Matthew, your hand..."

Canada looks down at his own hands, realizes that the skin - it's peeling off - the burns, oh god, the burns.

"We're not going to come out of this one alive, are we?" America asks, and Canada wonders if he's going to break down in hysterical laughter, because no, he doesn't think they will. He knows he's being fatalistic, but this might as well be their last stand, because they're melting into the dust, cracked lips and parched throats and all.

They hold each other then, pressing their sweat-soaked skin against each other, united under the unrelenting heat. And Canada takes off America's shirt for him, rips off the tattered shreds still clinging onto Alfred's body.

"If this is the end," he whispers, unbuttoning his own shirt, "we might as well make the best of it."

In the middle of the sweltering heat storm, they lose themselves in each other's embrace.

—

september 1939

It's a miracle that they're still alive. Despite their emaciated bodies and feverish minds, they can still see the world - feel it, touch it on occasion.

Canada sees it first - it's just a short note in the mail, and even though England tells him he's fine, he's perfect, in a week Canada finds himself at war with Germany. A bonafide member of the allies. He doesn't know if he should feel proud or -

England makes the trip across the Atlantic. He does his best to look happy when he sees Canada - "Thank you," he breathes, clutching his walking stick, "Thank you for your support, Matthew." There is a pained look on England's face, but Canada supposes war can do that to anyone. (And he's seen it all before, they've all seen it, so he can't understand why Europe is up in arms again.)

Canada knows England's not really here to see him.

"Matthew, where is your brother?" England asks, "I checked his house last night, and he hasn't been - hasn't been home. I know his land is large, but - "

"Actually, he's here."

England looks confused, and Canada supposes it shouldn't be surprising that no one knows about America and him. The world was too busy the last decade - too busy suffering, looking out for their own fate. No one would pay attention to the two of them, alone in that damn desert wasteland, praying for the rain to fall.

And so Canada leads England to the garden, where America sits, silent under the shade of the tree.

America sees England and immediately stands, looking defensive.

"What do you want?" he asks, narrowing his eyes.

England knows he shouldn't make demands, because America, despite everything, is still a sensitive child, but he can't help himself, because he needs help, because he's not going to sacrifice everything just to fight a war -

"I need your help," he says, lowering his gaze and feeling pathetic for doing so. (And to a former colony, no less!)

"Please don't tell me Europe's in another war," America snaps, backing away, "Did you bastards learn nothing from that last one? The trenches - the goddamn trenches, and here you are again, asking me for help."

"Alfred," Canada tries to intervene - because they shouldn't fight, family shouldn't fight.

America ignores him. "Don't talk to me about help, England, not when I did help last time and you fools refused to listen. I told you your little quest for vengeance against Germany was gonna backfire, but did you listen to me? Nope, it was all about how stupid I was, how I was young and naive and didn't know the next thing about war."

"You were naive," England snaps, "Alfred - you didn't even join the damn thing you proposed! How could you possibly expect - "

But America ignores him and turns to Canada instead. "Matt - did you - did you join this idiot? I mean, I know you actually like him, but, well..."

Canada closes his eyes, nods.

America sighs.

—

november 1939

They sit together, hands sticky from ice cream, and backs damp from sweat. It was probably the last time they would get to enjoy ice cream together - a final treat before Canada departed for war, departed to defend European shores from Axis hands.

"Stop looking at mine," Canada grumbles, casting America's wayward eyes a wary glance, "You've already had three cones."

America smiles ruefully. "Yeah, well, I gotta stock up, you know. Who knows what'll happen in a few years - what if there's another - another - depression?"

Canada closes his eyes, sinking his lips into the ice cream.

"Let's hope not," he says, because if the last decade repeated itself, their intestines would rot into desert sand, crumbling like wildflowers beneath the bitter wind, and they would shout confessions to the night sky, but not a man would hear their cries. It was always just the two of them, forever bound to their land, for better or for worse -

"Do you think," America asks, "we'll get invaded by...say, Japan? I mean, obviously Germany and Italy are gonna be pretty busy handling England and Russia, so that just leaves Japan on the Pacific front, right? If he actually gets some weird idea about - "

"I thought you didn't care about the war."

"'Course I don't," America grumbles, suddenly defensive, "I'm just saying, hypothetically, if you or I get attacked by Japan, we should be prepared, and not let the guy take us by chance. We could...or I mean, I could get you whatever you need - weapons or aircraft or - something. I just...I can't believe you're leaving already, I mean, I..."

"Yeah," Canada whispers, pulling America closer. He leaves his fingers stranded in his brother's hair and then he leans down, letting their lips brush. "Is this supposed to be my farewell gift or something?"

America chuckles, placing his sticky hands around Canada's shoulder. "You'd better come back alive, Matt, or else I'm gonna have to kick Germany's ass."

Canada was about to mention that he could've just joined the war from the beginning, because then they wouldn't be here bidding each other farewell at all, but then it hits him - and he should feel so wrong for feeling joy at the matter - because America was only willing to enter the war if he was in danger, sacrifices would be made for the two of them, but not for England, not for...

America's looking at him, grinning.

"If you need anything, Matt, just ask."

—

january 1942

It looks like a scene out of a zombie apocalypse movie - one man, caked in dried blood and mud, embracing another, clean-cut and freshly-shaven.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you here," Canada says, smiling.

America just laughs. "Yeah, I'll admit I was a bit slow. You can't blame me now, I'm here, aren't I? And I'm not gonna stop until those bastards learn their lesson."

They needed fresh hands, a new perspective, and America was perfect for that.

—

Every year, it's a new uniform, but the same old, same old.

He won't join the war, and America's given up on trying to convince him. Instead, he's alone again, off to battle again - freshly pressed uniform adorning his shoulders, medals still shining from the last one.

Wave to your father, boy, kiss your mother goodbye, don't you ever forget you had dreams boy, because you can't dream now, in this jungle, mud up to your knees, crawled up to your chest, it's gonna bury your soul.

—

april 1968

England's knocks are perfunctory - three sharp raps and nothing more; France's are wild - five to eight taps with no beat of any sort. Australia likes to substitute his feet for his hands, and New Zealand just rings the doorbell.

America does none of those things.

And so Canada walks in one night to see his brother curled up on his couch, eyes trained on the television screen.

"Alfred?" he asks - because shouldn't America be at war? At war, always at war, and armed - today an UZI, tomorrow an AK-47, and next week, who knows? There'd been no rest, because once Korea was well-split and done for, he'd gone after Vietnam, eyes trained on Russia all the while. And the two of them - Russia and America - they had danced like madmen around a bonfire, deadly weapons scattered across the floor like landmines.

"Al - wh-what are you doing here? The war - you're supposed to be - "

America reaches for another beer can, pops it open and takes a swig.

"I'm a conscientious objector, Mattie."

—

may 1970

"We have a problem," Canada says one day.

"What, your boss hates me or some shit? 'Cause - 'cause I'm a bad influence, right? I mean-I'm horrible-I sleep like an elephant, I snore-"

"That's not the problem, Al. You-you're not a conscientious objector - or at least that's not your official status. Think about it - you actually fought in Vietnam, right? So you're a deserter, and if you ever step back across the border, they'll have you arrested - "

"Fuck them then."

"Alfred - "

America throws an empty beer can to the floor, crushes it under his boots.

"Fuck them - do you have any idea how much my people hate the fucking war now? They can call me whatever they like - a deserter, a traitor, a rebel, the man - why should I give a damn? They won't arrest me. They won't dare."

—

October 1971

America spends the rest of the Vietnam War sitting on Canada's couch. Occasionally, he gets up on Canada's insistence, because the gash on his side is bleeding into the handrest, or because his hallucinations were getting far too loud to handle. He refuses to leave for meetings, citing migraines and general ire.

"I hear voices in my head," he'd said, "There's this one guy, he keeps on asking me - 'Where's your innocence, boy, where'd it go, did you drop it in that corner, with your clothes, your hair, your napalm, your guns and drums and drums and guns?' - I can't stand the bastard."

But then the nations - after braving a cruel winter in Moscow - had an international consensus that their next meeting place had to be warm, and they'd eventually settled on Orlando, Florida. Canada realized that America had to attend this time, and it was up him to do the convincing.

"I can't go the meeting like this - I - look at me, Matt!"

Canada looks, and somewhere in the back of his mind a dozen or so psychiatric disorders flashed through - the ones those little four letter acronyms and doctors in their pristine white suits were always prompt to mention. They'd been through this again and again for the last three months; the night before a meeting, America would somehow convince him it was best if he pretended to be America, while the real America wasted away on his couch. Then he would come home to a sea of beer bottles, with a drunk and drowsy America hiding behind them, clinging on to the television set for dear life.

""Alfred, you're the host to this meeting - how could you possibly not go? Besides, it's your home turf, no one's going to - "

"That's not going to change a damn thing! I can't possibly go out there - they'll think I'm crazy, not that they don't already! I just can't - Russia will laugh, everyone will laugh. Matt - I can barely function, and you know it! The last few months, they were - "

America stops, staring at the tickets in Canada's hands.

"Are those - "

"Yes."

America stares at them, silent.

"I know you wanted to see it - it'll be fun. What do you call it again - the 'happiest place on earth'? Please Al, I wanted to go with you."

Canada reaches forward and grabs America's hands, puts them between his own. They're clammy and cold, but he knows America is no corpse, and by god he'll bring out his real brother, the one that persevered in the Depression, the one he'd met in that battlefield in Vichy France -

"Please, Alfred," he whispers, tightening his grip.

America looks up at him and says with a tired smile, "You've never been to Disneyland, huh, Mattie?"

Then he stands, grinning. "Come on, we better get the next plane over there - or we'll miss out on the fun."

—

march 2003

He refuses to join the war, and the bitter words tumble forth from America's throat. It's starting to become a cycle, Canada thinks.

"You don't care about me," America screams, "What if I get attacked again, what if I get invaded? If you gave a fuck, you'd be in there, on my side."

"Look, Alfred, I just don't think - "

"Why can't you trust me? That's all I ask, damn it! All I ask! How is this relationship supposed to work if we can't trust each other?"

Canada almost throws the paperweight in his hand at him. Of course he trusts America, but that doesn't mean he's going to go blindly charging into a war, without a care in the world. Spare me, he wants to say, spare me from your invasion-happy rhetoric and your inane lies, because you should never take me for a fool.

He doesn't know what to feel when he sees England and America in battle gear, out in the desert, working together. He wonders if he should be worried - bitter - jealous, but then he remembers Vietnam, and he feels a certain calm. America will come back, with words of regret hanging on his lips.

Someday, America will be back and he'll beg for forgiveness.

—

august 2007

Canada can't believe America's singing that song. Of course, the nation doesn't exactly expect to be overheard, he's alone in his room, belting out the lyrics to a computer screen with a can of orange juice by his side.

"We got a shepherd's sling and five stones in our hand and the battle of 1812 lives in our hearts - "

He tries hard not to laugh: had America even listened to the lyrics? Perhaps he's drunk - maybe there is no orange juice in that can, and it'sjust a jar of tequila -

"We got a good 15 years left till the United We Stand murals on West Broadway finally fade and we wave good-bye to such sad, childish refrains."

"You want me to invade you that much, eh?" Canada asks, almost beside himself with amusement.

"Wha - " America turns around in alarm. "Wh-What the hell are you doing here?"

Canada just grins. "I can oblige, you know - with the invasion part. Cross the 49th parallel, destroy Pax Americana, reignite the flames of 1812, the works." He waves his hands in the air.

America crosses his arms and huffs indignantly. "Oh yeah? You and what army?"

Canada's grin elapses into a challenging smile, and he locks his arms around America's neck, leans over and kisses him, lets his tongue explore the depths of America's mouth. He quickly proves he doesn't actually need an army to get the two of them in bed, their clothing discarded carelessly to the floor, naked bodies pressed against each other in the dark.

"You shouldn't hate yourself," Canada says eventually, his head resting comfortably on America's chest.

"What the hell are you talking about? Of course I don't hate myself."

"Then what was that all about? Don't tell me you sang a Propagandhi song for kicks and giggles - I know you, Alfred, and you wouldn't - "

"Shut up."

"Alfred, look, I know your people are - "

"What the fuck would you know about my people?"

And they lie there, tense and terrified, because America is too afraid to speak the truth, and Canada is tired of hearing lies.

Then, a haunted whisper -

"I hate myself, alright? I fucking hate myself. I hate what I've done, the shit I've started, the fact that my people can't agree on anything anymore. The fact that they're always talking about migrating north or south or anywhere as long as it's faraway from me. That they drew a goddamn map that carved me up and gave half my states to you."

He shoves Canada off him, leaps off the bed, and reaches for his clothing.

"The whole damn world hates me," he screeches, tears streaming down his cheeks, "Are you happy now? Are you fucking happy?"

—

november 2008

He could hear a thousand voices in his ears, cheering, crying, laughing. A pleasant change from the years of derogatory comments and outright anger, because they loved him now - and they loved his boss as though he were their own. The world's eyes were on him, proud, excited, because it takes a village to raise a child, and they'd done it right after all.

So he definitely shouldn't be doing this. He definitely shouldn't be walking - walking - through the Detroit-Windsor tunnel, but it felt good, and that was all that mattered, right? And besides, even if Canada had already heard the news a million times, seen the pictures of his soon-to-be new boss plastered on every news channel - this was still something he wanted to say in person.

Then he sees his neighbor - lover -on the opposite lane - on foot - and oh gods, they're both crazy - it's no wonder all the cars next to them have been rolling down their windows, yelling, honking, crying foul - because they're absolutely crazy. Who disrupts traffic and walks down a highway?

The cars slow around them, bleating their much-abused horns, and the painted flags in their peripheral vision blend together into one.

"It's-it's okay to be me again," America says, lips tugging upward in a half-smile.

Canada wraps his arms around him, pulls him into an embrace. "I'm glad you're back," he whispers, and that's all America needs to hear.

They weave through the speeding cars together, hand in hand, giddy with excitement. And when they see the light at the end of the tunnel - they stand there, together. Because they're -

United, at last.

—

june 2009

England likes to arrive early. It gives him ample time to prepare for the onslaught of meeting insanity, and he gets to decorate their board with pictures of his fellow nations. Today, however, he hears voices coming from the designated meeting room, and as he walks closer, the voices change to song.

"And we will never, ever, ever be apart..."

"I'm like baby, baby, baby, ohh...like..baby, baby, baby, nooo..."

Then the singing abruptly stops, and he hears Canada grumble into the microphone (when had they obtained a microphone?), "That'd better be good enough for you, Alfred, because I am absolutely not dressing up as him in bed tonight."

England chokes on his saliva. Bed? Dressing up? That song, oh god, that song. What the hell were the two of them doing? And here he thought America was still stuck in that naive, everyone's-just-my-friend stage, and Canada - hell, he didn't even want to think about Canada. When had his two boys grown up? When had -

Oh, this had to be that damned frog's fault. No one else could possibly have caused it.

"But-but-" America protests, "you have the hair for it! I mean, think about it - isn't that hairstyle like one of the two staples of Canadian haircuts?"

"Two staples? And what exactly would the other one be?"

"Your pres-uh, prime minister's, duh. You know, the half-crew-cut, half-afro, half-"

England hears a muffled noise that sounded suspiciously like kissing. He prudently decides to not enter the room, because whatever state of dress they were in, he did not want to know. Later, he makes a mental note to put Canada down as that one person he could count on to shut America up.

Effectively.

—

an interlude

"Maaaatt! Tell me this is a joke."

"What are you on about now, Alfred?"

"No, seriously, have you been checking Facebook at all? NorCal had an affair with BC!"

Canada did his best to not roll his eyes. "Al. They've been together for almost a decade."

"Wait - what?"

"And at every single meeting, I have to hear Alberta complain that the two hippie potheads are trying to kick his house down again, and then BC's bragging about how she's found her soulmate down south, and none of the other provinces would ever understand her - and you, you clearly don't pay enough attention to your states."

A scowl. "That's an unfair assessment, Mattie - I just have an international presence to take care of, unlike, well, some people."

"Al, it's been nearly a decade! How exactly did you miss the news?"

—

april 2011

They were talking about the election - Canada's election this time. Or, more like, Canada was talking, trying to explain his political parties to America, and America was busy zoning out and nodding at all the right places. It was something about Harper or Ignatieff, Conservative, Liberal and - did his brother just say Pirate? They had a Pirate Party up north?

"Whoever you vote for, whatever the outcome," America says eventually, leaning up against the bed sill, "We'll always be together - I mean, we need each other, don't we?"

"More like you need my oil, right?" Canada asks, grinning as he slides under the bed covers and gets a very tantalizing view of the nation underneath.

"Oh come on," America protests, "I can get my oil anywhere."

"If you like hostile parties," Canada agrees, leaning down to plant a kiss on America's stomach, "then sure, you can."

They spend the better part of the night lying together, limbs entwined on the sweat-soaked bedsheets, because pax americana - pax americana was -

Forever.

—

notes (for linked version of notes, see my lj)

The two of them are sitting under the newly built Ambassador Bridge; it was completed in November 1929, relatively soon after Black Tuesday. The Dust Bowl hit both countries soon after, and caused a mass migration from the midwest.

1936 North American Heat Wave - record high temperatures in the summer of '36, where thousands of people died. That winter, there were record cold temperatures, and it was called the '1936 North American Cold Wave'. A really horrible year for weather.

Sept 1939 - The UK and France declared war on Germany; Canada followed suit one week later.

The Nov 1939 scene is ahistorical. Canada wanted to be higher in the priority queue at getting war supplies, so they persuaded the US by saying that defense for Canada was essentially defense for North America. This only sort of worked, and the US didn't actively give Canada a special status. Unfortunately, the US and UK spent most of WWII sidelining Canada. ;_;

Many conscientious objectors to the Vietnam War left for Canada. A couple of deserters did as well, and they were arrested when they came back to the States.

The song America chose to sing is called 'A Speculative Fiction' by Propagandhi. The lyrics reference a fictional war between Canada and the US and can be interpreted in many different ways - either as a rally cry for Canada to not act like the US or as self-criticism of Canadian nationalism. By 2007, American popular opinion was much more against the Iraq War and the nation became increasingly polarized. America is referencing the Jesusland Map, wherein Canada gets the West Coast, the Great Lakes states, and New England.

May 2, 2011 (today!) is Canada's federal election night.

British Columbia & Alberta were based off the province/territory profiles at hetanada. Northern California is based on ... well, I live here. ;)

The US imports more oil from Canada than any other nation; they are also each other's largest trading partners.