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Canada tried his best not to fidget. He wasn’t used to such fancy clothes (why did he have to wear so many layers to appear “decent”?), and they itched at his skin and made him too hot. His cheeks were flushed and his neck was sweating, but he stared at his plate politely, too terrified to say a word.
This was an important dinner, with France and diplomats, members of the court, all prepared to see their newest colony. Papa had told him that he was like a new, important jewel, very valuable and very special to all of these people and he was chided about being on his best behavior. But he was not used to France’s summers, this clothing he was forced to wear and he felt like he was growing dizzy in his seat, too hot and too itchy. The windows were open, but that seemed to make things worse, as far as he was concerned.
“Are you alright, Mathieu?” France asked, concerned, from across the table.
Canada nodded his head, which felt too heavy on his tiny shoulders, and replied, “Yes, Pa—Francis,” with drooping eyes. When he realized that everyone was looking at him, he looked down at his plate again, embarrassed, and wondered if they noticed his stumble. No matter how he felt about Papa in public, with humans, he wasn’t supposed to call him that, for fear that they might get the wrong idea about their nation.
“Are you not hungry?” France gestured to the beautiful food in front of them (and it truly was beautiful, all the plates seemed to shine, all the food looked gloriously plump and filling) and how Canada’s plate was still mostly full because he was just picking at it. Feeling like he was being rude, Canada shook his head, and determined to eat more. He tried to ignore the questioning gazes of the other ladies and gentlemen and he hoped that he wasn’t offending them with his picky eating.
He was so hot though, it felt like sandpaper was going down his throat and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to eat much more of it. He was so parched and so sweaty.
He tried not to bring attention to himself as he reached for a crystal glass that was filled with water (set aside specially for him because he could not drink wine like the adults—he was too unused to it), but with a brief spell of dizziness his childish hands knocked into it and the glass fell to the floor with a loud clatter, breaking into many pieces.
There was silence in the room and Canada felt his face grow red.
(He had wanted to cry then and there.)
“I’m sorry!” he gasped. He knew the glass must have been expensive and now all of these people were going to judge him and Papa because he didn’t know how to hold a glass correctly. He felt little and stupid like he was failing at a game that was too difficult for him and he panicked and got out of his chair to pick up the pieces. He didn’t hear Papa shout,
“Mathieu!” before also getting out of his chair, as he tried desperately to pick up the broken shards. But then his hand hit one of the pieces of glass, cutting into his palm, and he said one of those words he had heard Papa say when Papa was angry and didn’t know he was there.
It was like the entire room stilled. Canada heard a woman gasp and he felt shame slowly filling him, but he wasn’t quite sure why, but then he felt warm arms around him, lifting him to Papa’s chest, and he burst into tears as Papa led them out of the room.
He had messed up. He knew it. Now Papa was going to be angry at him, and send him back home for good and never want anything to do with him ever again. He could deal with a room full of strangers not liking him, but he never wanted to lose France.
He kept sobbing, even as Papa carried him into a room and set him down on a plush bed. He looked at his lap miserably as Papa got some strips of cloth from an armoire and looked at him.
“Oh, Mathieu, this cut is not so bad. Please do not cry so,” he said sadly as he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe Canada’s tears. That wasn’t what Canada was expecting to hear and it only made him cry harder.
“B-but I broke the glass!” He sniffled, “And-and offended everybody!”
“Oh, the glass is replaceable, my darling, but you are not!” France said seriously, and looked into Canada’s eyes. He began to wrap the injured hand, and asked,
“Were you worried that I was going to be angry?”
Canada nodded and looked at his feet, still feeling shameful.
“It was just an accident, my darling. I could not be angry at that.”
“B-but—”
“And yes, you did offend some people, but they will get over it. My concern is with you, okay?”
Canada simply nodded, still feeling morose, and France touched his cheek tenderly.
“I told you before; you are precious to me and there’s nothing that could change that,” he said, but then his slight smile turned into a frown and he put his hand over top Canada’s forehead.
“Darling, are you ill? You are burning up.”
He began to feel other places on Canada’s face before tearing off his layers of sweaty clothing and leaving him standing in his underwear. Then he put Canada in bed and proceeded to go mother hen over him, bringing a cool wash cloth to put over his face. By the time he was done, Canada was snugly under the covers and France was sitting beside him, stroking his sweat-licked hair.
“Why did you not say you were sick? I wouldn’t have made you come to the dinner if that was the case.”
“I thought it was important…”
“It was, but not enough to compromise your health.”
Canada didn’t say anything to that, but then a thought occurred to him.
“Shouldn’t you be down there? Don’t get in trouble because of me!”
France chuckled and kissed him on his forehead. “I will explain to the guests that you are ill and they will understand. It is fine.”
They lapsed into peaceful silence and when Canada started to drift a little, he heard France ask, “By the way, my darling, where did you learn that word?”
“From you, Papa,” he muttered sleepily and he finally fell asleep to the beautiful sound of France’s raucous laughter.