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“Go left, my dude! Left!”
Prussia gestured wildly to the screen. He bounced up and down on his heels, so that the sofa cushions creaked beneath him, and soon – with the sheer force of his movements – the sofa itself rocked back and forth, back and forth, until Canada feared it would topple backward. The voice was so loud that it hurt his ears. It made him jump, with such a sharp reaction that it was a wonder his character did not veer dramatically right instead of left. He sighed.
It was hard enough to concentrate in such a high-pressure game, as the other countries could get . . . well . . . competitive. The headphones with their numerous voices did little to tune out Prussia, who was now jamming on imaginary buttons on an imaginary controller, and his backseat playing was beginning to take its toll. He would look to the screen, then to Canada. He would look to the screen, and then to Canada. The wide-eyed and paled expression would have been cute at any other time, but it was again ruined by the childlike scream:
“Nein, not like that!”
Prussia abruptly leaned across the sofa. It was a large three-seat piece, made from the finest Italian leather, and – in his little ‘fortress’ of pillows and blankets – Canada sat wrapped up snugly in his own comfortable space. The many layers made it harder to keep the controller out of reach, as Prussia clamoured over him and tried to force the controller from his hand . . . ‘I can do it!’, ‘let me show you!’ . . . someone stamped on the floor upstairs, yelling at them to keep it down, but Prussia continued to try and wrest the controller from his hands.
“M-Maple!” Canada blushed. “W-Will you stop backseat playing?”
“You aren’t playing right! Go faster.”
“I – I’m playing just fine, see! Just let me do it my way.”
Canada elbowed Prussia back to his place. Prussia groaned and threw his hands upward, in a gesture that seemed to say: ‘Why, God? Why?’ He then dropped his hands loudly upon his lap, before lunging across the lounge and grabbing at a handheld console, and – sprinting back and diving at the sofa – landed with a huge bang on the cushions. The sofa nearly toppled, stopped only by a dining table some ways behind, and crashed back onto all fours again. Canada screamed. Germany banged again with loud threats, but Prussia continued.
He leaned against the tall arms of the sofa, and stretched out his legs as far as possible. A pair of socked feet landed on Canada’s back and the back of the sofa, so that his legs were spread in a way that was almost obscene, and he reclined with the handheld console over his head. A childish part of Canada hoped that he would drop the console onto his face, but instead he held it with the air of a pro, even as he adjusted his headset and microphone in turn. Prussia shouted:
“Fine, but I’m backing you up!”
“I don’t need any back-up.”
“You always need back-up,” said Prussia. “You’re like America’s hat, yeah? Speaking of which, how come you’re all the way over here without your brother? I thought you guys were inseparable, like sausages and bread buns . . . not a euphemism, by the way.” He paused and added with a wiggle of his eyebrows: “Unless you want it to be a euphemism, ja?”
Canada elbowed his shin hard.
“Ouch! Okay, okay. Look, I’m already loaded into the game. You’re ‘hasta la pasta’, right?” Prussia looked to the screen and back. “Well, I’m ‘Captain Awesome’. I’ve played this game so much that I’m – like – the best of every single person ever in existence! We’ll ace this!”
Canada responded with a simple ‘uh-huh’. He mashed the buttons with the chaos of a new player, and hunched forward with his eyes locked on the screen, and – back aching from the bad posture – he tensed until wrists ached and fingers burned. Prussia, meanwhile, was much laxer in posture. He hit the buttons in unique patterns and rhythms, while looking often away from his screen, and would even lean left or strain upward, as if he could somehow see beyond the screen and passed the limitations of his character by moving in real-life. It was adorable.
A player died on Canada’s screen, which stole a laugh from Prussia. It seemed – although Canada had no real proof – that he was stealing glances at the big screen to see where other players were located, and using that to plan his next moves and keep out of sight. The player that died was named ‘rose de vie’, and Canada made a reasonable guess as their identity: France. It was backed up by the high-pitched scream, followed by a stream of accented English:
‘I called for a time-out! You do not attack a man on a time-out.’
‘Hey, at least you played a great game!’ This voice was America. ‘Good luck in the next round, alright? I’ll let you on my team. You’ll have a better chance at winning, then; you want to ally yourself with one of the pros and not a total noob like . . . cough . . . you know who.’
‘You wanker!’ Britain screamed. ‘I was playing this game before you were born!’
‘Yet you can’t even keep a frog alive? Bummer.’
‘Oh, that’s it! I’m going to teabag the shit out of you campers!’
‘Save it for the bedroom,’ muttered France.
The two Anglo-speakers quickly turned on France, before screaming out in perfect unison: ‘besides, I don’t like him like that!’, ‘you don’t?’, ‘what do you mean you don’t?’ The argument that followed was between England and America, with the former more and more depressive and the latter more and more frustrated, but both equally as impatient and rude as each other. It was getting louder and louder, with both talking over one another, and France simply laughed and goaded them, so that he was soon dragged back into the fray as well, until Prussia screamed out:
“Oh my God! Can we just mute them idioten?”
“Er, I can try,” mumbled Canada. “I – I’ve never played before. I only came here to borrow a cookbook from Italy, b-but then he forgot I was coming and asked me to wait in the lounge, a-and he went to ask Germany where it was and then never came back . . .”
“Huh, why’d they always forget ya? You’re not exactly forgettable!”
“Th-That’s good of you to say . . .”
A blush crept over Canada. He chanced a glance to Prussia, who must have sensed his gaze, and he looked over his screen with a raised eyebrow, before – catching the blush – he blushed in turn and hastily lifted his console high to block his face. He mumbled a few things in German, while Canada rushed out an apology that switched between French and English, but soon both fell into an awkward silence. They chanced glances to one another. A few times one noticed the other, which brought smiles all around, until the argument between America and Britain brought them back to the present. The noise was quickly stopped dead by an obnoxious and obvious cough.
‘Will you Anglos stop whining?’ Germany snapped. ‘If I hear a single more curse word from either of you, I will report you to the server admin! There are rules to combat. If you had even read your terms and conditions, to which you had to agree before play, then –’
‘SUCK MY BALLS, POTATO-EATER!’
‘Alright, that’s it! I am reporting you as we speak, Romano!’
A soft sigh was the only reaction from Japan.
‘Oh yeah!’ Romano screamed. ‘You’re going DOWN this time!’
‘I will tell Spain about this, if I must!’ Germany paused, but the silence was broken by maniacal laughter from Romano. Germany yelled: ‘D-Don’t you dare try to tea-bag my corpse! I told you not to do that . . . stop. Stop that! Is – Is that a mod? You can’t make that gesture at me! Look, I don’t know what “testa di cazzo” means, but if you ever want to play here again -’
Prussia groaned. He muttered something about ‘PC being better’, and made complaints in German about being unable to mute on handheld or television, before grabbing a prime location to provide cover for Canada. It was a good strategy, as Canada was able to unleash a burst of fire from behind a wall and take out at least three other countries: Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia. They continued further into the map, before a socked foot came and poked at his cheek. Canada swatted it away. It returned. The foot was familiar . . . intimate . . . he blushed.
“Want me to order pizza?” Prussia asked.
“P-Pizza?” Canada furrowed his brow. “I – I thought you’d eat something more . . . German. I always dreamt of visiting the Christmas markets, seeing the Berlin wall, maybe walking around the old castles and cathedrals . . . I don’t know. A pizza just seems anti-climatic for a visit.”
“You want a real German climax? You can have a bite of my wurst!”
Canada turned crimson. He slowly turned his head, with wide eyes and mouth fumbling over half-formed words, until – with a loud cry – he snatched at a pillow and struck over and over at Prussia, with surprising force that could have put a more military country to shame. Prussia lifted his console in an awkward attempt to both keep playing and defend himself from the blows, but the odd few broke through his defences and struck him about the chest. He cried out: ‘hey, hey, stop’! Canada continued to strike, as he stuttered out in a high-pitched voice:
“You – You pervert!”
“Hey, what’s wrong!” Prussia struggled to multi-task. “I just offered you some wurst! I like to contribute where I can, and Ludwig always loved when I made him food as a kid. He’d say that I was the best at making dinners! Way better than stuffy old Austria.” He spat out his tongue. “Anyway, I wanted to make you sautéed wurst with bacon and apple sauerkraut!”
“O-Oh . . . oh! You mean . . . you weren’t -? I thought -!”
“Wait, what did you think I was suggesting, bro?”
Canada said nothing. He simply flushed even redder than before, if at all possible, and threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender, with the controller barely staying in his hand. Prussia simply lowered his console, so that he could look at Canada with a quirk of the eyebrow, and – tilting his head – pursed his lips deep in thought. Canada squeaked. He quickly curled in on himself, before pressing his chin to his knees, and stared hard at the screen, while trying to ignore the various comments and retorts from their friends on the shared server. Instead, he yelped out:
“L-Look, Russia is taking the lead!”
Prussia paled. He rapidly blinked, as if fluttering away a few stray eyelashes, before letting out his usual laugh at an unusual cadence. Prussia moved his character irregularly, sometimes towards the Russian controlled avatar and sometimes away, and finally settled on moving well away and taking out other players in other locations. It left Canada to creep closer and hide, even as he tried to move out into the open, but the buttons stuck and hidden he remained. Russia said:
‘Quit your whining. If you complain too much about kill steals, I’ll just end the game here!’
‘Like hell you will!’ Romano screamed. ‘Ain’t no one stealing victory from me!’
A grenade struck at Russia. The graphics were surprisingly bloody considering the game rating, and Romano burst out into rather maniacal laughter, as he screamed out: ‘aint’ no one beating me, you vodka-drinking slut-baby’! Canada was too busy trying to understand the insult, when Prussia whooped and ran over to tea-bag the corpse with wild abandon. He sighed, but smiled despite himself, and bit his tongue to hold back laughter, as the chat feature raged onward.
‘That is cheating, I believe,’ mumbled Russia.
“Hey, grenade launchers are part of the game!” Prussia yelled. “If you don’t like, don’t play!”
“Alright!” Canada shouted. “It’s us versus Romano!”
‘Wait?’ Romano said. ‘Canada is playing? Oh well, I can take on America’s lackey any day!’
Canada puffed out his cheeks. It seemed he was forgotten again, despite being one of the top ranking players in the game, and – with thumbs mashing the buttons – he leaned forward in his spot and fixed his eyes hard on the screen. Prussia dropped his feet onto his back. The weight was pretty intense, considering he was made of pure muscle, but there was no time to drop his concentration and so he rapidly struck and aimed and angled in his fight to the death.
He barely heard as Germany entered the lounge, with a large mug of beer in one hand and a plate filled with sandwiches in the other, but he vaguely heard a muttered complaint: ‘I come down to watch one football match and he has commandeered the television again’. Germany took a seat in an armchair near them, while Italy ran in and placed a kiss to Germany’s cheek, before he darted back out towards the kitchen with a loudly sung song, and yet none of this broke Canada’s concentration, as he cursed and yelled down his microphone. Germany asked with a sigh:
“Is this game still going on?”
“Yeah, West!” Prussia laughed. “You should have joined our team! We’re kicking ass!”
“You and Romano?” Germany hummed. “Yes, well, he’s not really a good sport. He often turns on you at the last moment, as he refuses to share victories, and he will kill his teammates. I would run, if I were you . . . he’s aiming his grenade launcher at you as we speak.”
“What? No, that’s Canada and he’s –”
The screen on the handheld console turned black. A huge ‘bleeding’ sign appeared on the device, which read quite simply: ‘Game Over’. Prussia stared down with wide eyes, as he dropped his hands – and console – onto his lap, and let out a strangely high-pitched ‘uh’ sound, which brought a sad smile to Canada’s lips and a wince to his features. The ‘death’ of his best friend played out on the screen in front of him, as the game continued. He could see himself tea-bagging Prussia, even though his fingers were no longer touching the controller. Germany said:
“I told you Romano does not play fair.”
Prussia pulled his legs away from Canada. He leaned forward on his palms, with his eyes big like a puppy-dog, and – with a trembling lip – appeared a fraction of his age, so much so that it hurt like a physical blow to the stomach. Canada flinched, before he tossed his controller onto the floor, and stared down at it like it had personally burned him . . . the character continued to move, the game continued to play, and ‘Hasta la Pasta’ was almost the winner. Prussia grabbed a cushion and whacked Canada over his head, tilting his glasses, as he whined out:
“Why’d you kill me?”
“I – I didn’t! I was trying to aim at the tree and –”
“Wait, you thought you were playing?” Germany sighed, before he sipped his beer. “Well, that explains a lot. Feliciano died very early into the game; he panics and forgets which buttons to press, so he ends up either rage-quitting or unable to properly play. He must have left his controller here, but the game lets you pick a player to watch while you wait for a new round.”
“W-Wait, so I was –”
“He must have chosen to watch his brother, as a show of support. I suppose you picked up the controller, mashed buttons, and saw the player respond, but . . . you weren’t actually playing, Canada. You were simply watching Romano play and thinking it was you.”
Canada buried his head in his hands. A low and pitiable groan escaped him, as he heard America laugh at him from his headset, and somewhere France mumbled weak words of consolation, even as Romano screamed out: ‘ain’t no one playing like Romano except Romano’! He tried to hide his reddened face, but Prussia slid over and threw an arm around him. It was warm and intimate, and it was sincere and familiar, and his laughter was gentle unlike that of America. He leant his head against Canada’s, before he chirped in the world’s happiest voice:
“Dude, don’t worry! I’ll kick his ass next time and get vengeance for us both.”
‘Ha! Suck my cock, you stateless wannabe country!’
Prussia scowled. The glare he sent to the screen was dark enough to send a shiver through Canada, while his hold upon the younger country was just a little too tight to be comfortable, and – without warning – he grabbed at the handheld controller and tried to throw it at the screen . . . the screen that showed ‘Hasta la Pasta’ as the number one player. It replayed the image of Romano tea-bagging Prussia on a loop, as if the clip were purposely chosen for this moment, and luckily Canada snatched the console from Prussia just before it was thrown. Prussia screamed:
“You cheating, back-stabbing, baby-dicked, flea-ridden -!”
Italy came in just in time to hear the final word. It was something so filthy that it transcended all language barriers, and had both Canada and Italy blushing like schoolgirls, until Italy – with a nervous chuckle – turned tail and sprinted back inside the kitchen. Germany simply pinched the bridge of his nose and mumbled: ‘moron’. Canada, however, smiled to see the animated and expressive features of Prussia, and a little giddy that someone had defended him and played with him . . . even if they were actually playing with someone else. He continued to smile, even as he quickly pressed a chaste kiss to Prussia’s cheek, and asked in a rushed whisper:
“Want to play versus each other instead?”
He grabbed the controller and switched to a two-person mode, and carefully handed back the handheld console to Prussia, who stared open-mouthed and with flushed cheeks at Canada. A finger stroked at the point where lips met skin, as if seeking to somehow prove that the kiss were real, and soon he took the console and beamed so bright that it brought tears to both sets of eyes. He kissed Canada in return. It was so quick that Canada barely felt it, but there it was . . . a kiss! Prussia quickly looked back to the screen, with a peaceful and contented expression, and chimed:
“Two-player sounds great!”