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        * This is actually a rewrite of my old fanfiction, Forced Friendship, which I originally wrote in around late 2022-2023. 😭 

I recently republished the old chapters of it again for a friend,,

        * The concept of this fanfiction is the same as Forced Friendship, as countryhumans are government experiments created post Cold War, around 1990-1992. However the plot of this fanfiction is somewhat different.

        * This is NOT 100% historically or politically accurate. However most political relations, and pre/during Cold War historical events are still accurate.

        * Don't take heavy inspo ! Thanks 😊

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🇺🇸 𓏵 🇨🇦   . !  ₊˚ʚ♡ɞ˚₊

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        * Although this is a caname fic, there's more to the story than just caname. It's mostly America focused. Also they're not siblings aghhh ,,

        * This is mostly angst, there's little fluff, and I don't really plan on writing smut here.

        * There may be sensitive topics, that are mentioned here. If you don't like things like that, don't read! I won't give warnings for every individual chapter. 

        * If there are any spelling errors, I apologize since I mostly only write for fun. Feel free to correct me if you notice anything.

        *Also GOV/countryname simply means the government of a country! I won't be putting real politicians here, for obvious reasons, and because it's much easier that way. 😇 

        *This takes place around the years of 2006–2008. To clear up any confusion!

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀—THE THREE GROUPS OF COUNTRYHUMANS. 𓆩♡𓆪

𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི 1990 . (Late)

 • The first countryhumans to ever be made. These countryhumans were inspirations for many of those that were created after them.

• Includes only: America, France, UK, Germany, India, Russia, China, Japan.

𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི 1991.

• The second countryhumans to ever be made. These countryhumans were often inspired in design, or creation by the first countryhumans.

• Includes: Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Italy, Nordic countries, Belgium, Switzerland, etc,,

𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི 1992 . (and beyond)

 • The last countryhumans to ever be made. These countryhumans were inspired in design or creation by both the first and second countryhumans. MAJORITY of countryhumans are in this group.

• Includes: Bangladesh, Pakistan, South Korea, North Korea, UAE, Saudi Arabia, etc. 

    ˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Notes: 

Canada's creation was inspired by America's, which is a reason why America resents him. 

Countryhumans bleed oil, not human blood !

guys this is so corny I wrote most of this at 1 AM ish STOPP it's okay,,, I'll get over the corniness and actually try to continue maybe 

Also, 

INSPIRED ≠ RELATED. That wouldn't make much sense anyway, they are government made experiments, not human beings! However, they are programmed to feel the same emotions a human does.

Additionally, the first chapters may not make too much sense, however they will later on! 😊 

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Chapter Text

        The face of a liar.

America couldn't recognize the one who stared back at him.

His hair is messy, his eyes a cold—tired light blue, and his suit unkempt, adorned with a strange rose that he couldn't recall ever placing there. It didn't feel right—his head pounding in infuriating pain.

America swears it wasn't him—the one who stares back at him through the mirror. He feels dizzy, his surroundings feeling surreal.

"I will save you from your death,
everything will be different."

The voice isn't his own, yet it sounded like it purposely imitated the way he sounds. The words were far too sweet to be his, sickenly sweet. He splashes water onto his face, his hands feel numb, he feels sick, pathetic. America adjusts his suit, closes his eyes, then opens them to give another look to the one before him.

Perhaps he woke up on the wrong side of bed; maybe it was only a headache. He places a hand on his cheek, his cheek is cold like one of a corpse.

Nothing felt right.

Everything was familiar to America, the same bathroom mirror, the same room, the same clothes. Yet it felt strange—as if none of it was really his own

"I promise."

America fixes his hair, and he finally steps out of the bathroom.

He reaches into his pocket, and finds something that catches his eye. A ripped envelope, stained with thick black oil, with the Canadian flag imprinted on it. He slowly slips out the paper inside, an invitation.

He didn't remember ever having it.
He didn't remember being given such an envelope—and he didn't remember ever opening it.

The blood red lining of the paper of the invitation shimmers slightly in the light above him, America silently reads the words written on it.

New Years. 2007. Ottawa, Canada.

The words felt all too familiar to America, it's almost as if he's seen these words before.
His hands almost shook, 2007. Of course, it's 2007, after all it was near the end of the year of 2006. Or was it even 2006?
America felt as though he couldn't even remember.

The same invitation, with blood red lining, the same—he's overthinking it.

America sighs, crumpling up the invitation in his hands, as he narrows his light blue eyes. He wouldn't dare bother to go to a loser's party, a waste of his valuable presence.

America would go to Europe to celebrate New Years, as he usually did. He would drink with the UK and Germany, dance with France, see Switzerland's latest nerdy idea, and perhaps—

A knock.

America stiffens, the invitation crumpled up tightly in his fist. He grits his teeth, and then slowly a small forced smile creeps up his lips.

"Enter,"  America says solemnly, he didn't have to turn around to know who it was. The one he swore his loyalty to—they changed every few years.

"America," He steps towards America, as America turns around.

America clears his voice, keeping the smile plastered on it.

"Hello GOV/USA." America replies, glancing back at the other. The crumpled invitation he was holding stuck in his sweaty palm, he planned to toss it out.

"I wanted to tell you, the EU—oh? What's that you're holding, America?" GOV/USA interrupts himself, noticing America's clenched fist which firmly held the crumpled paper of the invitation.

"Oh this?" America lets out a forced chuckle, slowly loosening his fist. "It's... an odd new years invitation from GOV/Canada that I found somewhere."

America didn't even remember where he got it from. He didn't remember it being in his pocket, he didn't remember opening it, and he didn't remember being given it.
How peculiar, someone was most definitely playing some sort of twisted prank on him.

GOV/USA peeks at it in curiosity, as if he was making his mind up about something. "Oh, well that's excellent! You'll be going there for New Years."

America's stomach drops, he stammers out. "But the European—"

"Well it's always good to have changes from time to time. I'm sure it'll be great." GOV/USA chuckles.

America's expression falls as GOV/USA leaves the room. His grip tightens on the envelope with blood-coloured lining, the envelope looked rather old, not recent—but the date on it said otherwise.

2007. December 31st.

It wasn't old, but it looked as if it was left in his pocket for an entire year. The envelope was dusty, ripped, even stained with little drops of—blood like oil.

Some prank.

He longs to go to Europe, the extravagant dishes, and meeting with people who were almost as great as he was.

He turns to the mirror in his room, glancing at the stranger who grins back at him. He swears the rose on his suit was never there—his eyes, a dead-like blue—his room never felt so unwelcoming.

"I know you're still alive."

He couldn't remember.

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The face of a saviour.

America gets off the plane, the cold, icy air instantly hits his face. He grits his teeth, shoving his hands into his pockets lousily. The snowflakes felt as if the thorns of a rose were squeezed along his chest.

He was here in Ottawa.

Nothing was right.

He reaches the doorknob, and hesitantly presses on it. He shouldn't be here, he should be in Europe. America almost scowls as he hears the doorknob turn from the other side, his great presence was beyond these inferiors.

The one who is on the other side's green eyes widen—it was Canada.

"America? What are you doing here; you weren't—invited?"

Canada says, in his usual soft spoken manner. His words are laced with confusion, as it mimics the expression on his face.

America burns with anger at this, and he shoves the envelope into Canada's face.

"Of course I was invited! I didn't even want to come here." He scowls, pushing his way inside.

Canada closes the door behind him in hesitance—giving nervous glances to the other countryhumans present—Netherlands, Finland, Australia, and New Zealand. He gently picks up the invitation America threw at him, and his eyes narrow at it.

It looked—absolutely disgusting. As if it was months, no, a year old. The envelope was ripped, stained with oil, and it felt rough to touch.

America grins at Canada's expression, finding amusement in it. He then turns to face the other countryhumans, keeping the sly grin on his face.

"Hello my inferiors,"America casually greets, as he then sits much further from the other countryhumans. He groans in annoyance, longing for the scent of the party in Europe.
The party that he should have gone to.
The party that he always went to, the party where he truly belonged.

"What's that guy's problem?" Australia asks with slight annoyance in his tone, peering back at the others.

"I don't know. I guess we should leave him to himself, eh?" Canada answers back quietly, sneaking glances with the Australian.

America hears them—but ignores their comments. They didn't feel real to him, they felt off, as if all of this was staged and they were all the actors.

His headache from the morning hasn't gone—in fact, it felt as though it's gotten worse.

America hears the other countryhumans talking amongst themselves, but he looks out the window into the night sky.

The moon shines brightly, and it smiles at him, as if it knew something he didn't.
But really the moon had no light, it depended on the great sun for its life. The sun was rather bright and brutish, but it was blinded by its own light. The moon reaches out for him, and the sun doesn't see him.

America peeks back at the others—they didn't feel real, except—no.

He knew.
Canada knew.

America didn't know what, he didn't feel that Canada knew either.
But Canada was real,

America stares back at the other, with hatred—understanding—sovereignty.

America stands up, his luminous, sunlike golden halo glowing behind his head. He was the most beautiful countryhuman—self proclaimed. The one with the most glory, and the one with the highest vigor.

"This party sucks ass, someone get me a drink." He boasts loudly, yawning for emphasis as the others around him fall into silence.

"Are there even drinks here? Knowing the Canuck—the best he has is probably water." America mocks, looking at Canada with challenge in his eyes.

Canada replies politely, ignoring America's blunt mocking. "I don't drink myself, but there's wine in the fridge that I can get you."

"Of course you don't drink, you're such a little goody two shoes, aren't ya sweetheart." America continues his blunt mocking, as Canada ignores him to get the wine. Canada's perturbing calmness annoyed America to no end.

"Quit being an asshole, America." Netherlands replies, to which America rolls his eyes at.

"I am not being an asshole, I am simply superior to all of you mongrels." He says with pure arrogance coating his words, as his lips curl up into a grin.

Canada returns with a glass of wine, holding it out to America, offering it in a polite gesture.

"Here you go."

America snatches it, looking into the exquisite blood-red wine that stains the glass's purity.

The sun hung above in the blood-red liquid, and America swears he could see the Earth being mirrored in red, with the moon nowhere in sight.

He drinks.

Tick, tick, tick.

The blabbering of the actors grows louder in his ears.

Tick, tick, tick.

The tender touch—the scent of roses on a graveyard.

Tick, tick, tick.

"I promise that I will be your saviour.
That I will have a change in heart."

Tick, tick, tick.

"Happy New Years! It's midnight." Australia enthusiastically announces, and suddenly the wine glass wasn't in America's grasp any longer.

The glass shatters loudly, and the remaining wine in it adds to the shards on the ground.
No one speaks, no one flinches, no one reacts, as if they all expected this to happen.
But in the corner of America's eye, he can see the Canadian displaying a show of slight emotion—nervousness.

"I'll clean it up." Canada finally breaks the silence, leaving to get a dustpan and a broom.

America stares down into the glass shards on the ground.

America's fractured face glares back up at him, meeting his gaze. There were dozens of him, none of them being familiar to his comfort. The blood-red wine was splayed across a few of the reflections of him on the glass shards, his hands didn't feel so clean anymore.

Everything feels frozen in place—the cries of the clock being the only proof of the passing of time.

Canada comes back with a dustpan and broom, and he sweeps up the mess quietly.

America catches a glimpse of Canada's reflection in the shards of glass, along with his tired pitiful expression.

He was the only other one who was real.

The moon outside shines brightly, but it wouldn't be out for much longer.
The sun would rise soon, brighter and more prominent—its presence burning through the rest of the sky.

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The face of a coffin.

Streaks of the daylight scatter onto the papers on the wooden desk.  A certain envelope falls off the ledge, and Canada rushes to catch it into his grasp.

It was an invitation.

A clean, untouched invitation letter with a dark red border, that was written to be sent to the US, from GOV/Canada. Canada's mouth falls slightly agape, as he observes the letter under his grasp more carefully. GOV/Canada must have forgotten to send the invitation to America, which is why it remains here alongside the other papers on the desk.

New Years. 2007. Ottawa, Canada.
To the US.

The invitation to America was never sent.

Chapter Text

        The blooming of a rotten rose, abruptly against his feet.

 Panic.

—his hands tremble as he holds the other’s limp body in his arms. Gently running his hands through the other’s soft hair. 

The floor felt cold and hard—made of unforgiving wood.

It’s cold, and the air reeks of oblivion. The sound of an engine screeches outside, it sounded deathly familiar.

America jolts up, sweat covering his palms. He was met with nothing but the touch of the dark, the sun hasn’t risen from its slumber yet.

He rubs his eyes, then glances to the alarm clock sitting on his nightstand.

2:40 AM.

January 3rd, 2007.

It’s been two days since the party.

It’s been two days since everything’s felt wrong.

America 

…knew he wasn’t in the right place.

He tosses the blanket off his body, putting his face in his hands.

The mirror that sits behind him catches his eye, a mocking reflection of an exhausted stranger glimpses back at him.

He didn’t remember who he was supposed to be.

America feels the urge to punch the other—he was perfect. The best countryhuman ever to be created, one of the first.

And the one behind the mirror wasn’t as glorious as he was. 

Lame.

America strides out the door, taking long quiet steps. The lights were still on, by now everything should have been turned off. His light blue eyes narrow at the bright lights that came from downstairs, piercing his vision.

“It’s almost been two decades.”

 A strange man’s voice booms from downstairs, America freezes, he didn’t recognize the voice.

“…I agree, I believe it’s the right time. The people deserve better technology, maybe less human, more loyal.”

GOV/USA—he was having a meeting with another man America didn't know of.  

But why? 

GOV/USA took him to every meeting, he was the one and only true personification of the US. He not only represented the government, but also his citizens—he was its pride.

America bit his tongue, sitting on the edge of the stairs, staying careful enough to avoid making a single squeak. The stairs felt like a chess board, with America as its last standing king.

“America’s been showing signs of regression. He’s been acting strange, I think it’s right to make new replacements, after all, the people of our country deserve a great new years gift.”

GOV/USA chuckles, the clinking of a glass.

“Yes, other leaders of countries have been planning the same.” The man replies, America feels that he offers GOV/USA a smile.

America’s stomach twists, but he holds himself from bursting into the room with his own anger. Replacements? He didn’t need a replacement, he is far superior to any other version of him that could ever be made.

“They’ll all be much better by the end of the month.” The man continues.

America figures that he couldn’t stay in this house any longer.

He warily walks back up the stairs, gritting his teeth. Suddenly the air around him felt much, much warmer—making sweat sprint down his forehead. 

The hallway is an endless spiral, twisted into shapes that warp the ground below him. The floors were a board of black and white checkers, with every tile he steps on being a move leading to the failure of winning.

“You were always too late.”

America flinches, turning to the voice that spoke into oblivion, only to see nothing but a reflection of what should be himself in the mirror. 

But he didn’t recognize him, and he never did.

America palms the doorknob quickly, and he swears that it had a heartbeat of its own. It looks just like his—his room’s door, his room—but it wasn’t his. He twists the doorknob open with a sickening squelch. He hears footsteps up the stairs, and hurriedly rushes into the room that he was supposed to be familiar with.

The ticks of the clock gradually come to an end, it freezes itself—with no proof time was passing other than America. 

He rests his head on a pillow made of stone, wrapping himself with a blanket of sandpaper.

over and over.

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The light that comes within a vase of ceramic flowers.

He shoves the key in harshly, his eyes narrowing at the cool air outside.

The cold air pierces his hands, as he silently pleads for the door to open. 

The door hesitantly creaks open, and for a brief moment—he felt proud. Of course only he of all countries could master such a scandalous way away, because he truly was superior to them all. 

America almost chuckles, quietly closing the door and he flings the key into the unwelcoming, swallowing ground.

“Of course, I did it.” He says into the empty space, with an audience who looks at him with pure admiration.

He places a firm shaking hand onto the nervous plane below him—reeking of the smell of dewy oil.

America pulls open the unwelcoming door of the plane, the plane trembles at his great presence. 

He slides inside and takes the metal crowbar he brought along with him.

He smashes the tracking piece, with an aggressive movement that severely lacks any precision.

It shatters into a million pieces, each so alike yet so different.

His breaths in the air feel as though roses grew in his lungs, the thorns piercing them into submission.

The shards show a reflection of someone else, a punishing green tint over their form.

America grinds his feet into the shards of the tracker, crushing the inferior whose eyes stare back at him with fear.

He sits down onto the throne that only he deserves.

America firmly places his hesitant hands onto the lever, he pulls with his own proudness.

The nation lacks much needed experience in flying a plane, but someone as acclaimed as he was could manage such a measly task. 

”Don’t come back for me.”

The air says to him, America glances back at the tracker with the reflection of the stranger with slight unease.

America flies into the dark blood oil covered sky of astray, 

the moon stares down at him with hopeful resignation. 

He flies away north—he doesn’t know where. But somewhere that was in the north, at least that’s what the compass shows to him.

The stars in the sky mock him for something he didn’t know of, smiling with a false sense of pity.

America seethes in what is supposed to be his own body, the stars should admire him—not mock him in such a humiliating way.

He didn’t need such disgusting pity. 

He was one of the first, one of the best, one of the most talented, powerful, attractive, humble, charismatic, and greatest countryhuman ever to be made.

The sky turns an unforgiving blood red, the wind blows envious thorns, and the trees beneath him turn into arrows pointing at him with—fear.

America isn’t afraid, the stars were—the arrows were.

His hands tremble proudly, as he grabs the lever with a jolt.

The plane falls hastily onto the snow covered terrain below, what appears to be a small abandoned wooden cabin sits further into the horizon.

America gets off his exhausted seat, stepping over the shards of the former tracker of the plane.

He gradually slides open the door of the plane, and steps onto the snow-covered ground.

His teeth clatter slightly, as the snow crunches with each step he takes. He sees his breath stabbing the air around him, as he steps closer to the cabin. The cold air bitterly pokes him as he makes his way through the snowflakes of hell.

Footsteps.

America’s head perks up immediately, he flinches—and he then instinctively pulls out his gun.

Someone else was here.

His breathing grows heavier, and the snow shakes under his form.

“Show yourself, you lunatic little mongrel.” America exclaims loudly into the distance, his hands freezing into stone—no, rather into gold. After all, that’s the minimum of someone his level would deserve.

“I will not hesitate to shoot.” He adds, as he inches closer to the sound of forbidden movement. 

He pulls the trigger of the gun, slick with sweat and hate, sending a warning message to the other.

He walks closer and closer, reaching the cabin

The cabin’s wood reeks of the taste of metal and the sound of smoke. The cabin holds itself with unease, as its wooden floors cry out in its creaks.

America’s breaths suddenly feel as if they were weighing him down. 

He turns his head at every sound, keeping his gun close to his body. The floor sinks down the further he steps into the pile of wood resembling a cabin.

“America?”

America immediately shoots at the direction of the voice, in a forceful motion that lacks much of any accuracy. He then walks closer, the floor closes on his feet.

He plods towards the voice, each step bites his feet.

America narrows his cold blue eyes when he faces the other’s back. The other wore a white thick fur hat, and a mask that covered most of his face. Some of his curly white streaked hair peaks out from below his hat. 

It looks familiar to America, but he lacks trust in anything right now—he hears the fast heartbeats of a clock that doesn’t exist. Each tick slams into him gently like a shard of burning ice.

America grabs his inferior by the neck, and presses the gun hard against the other’s head. The gun shakes aggressively in his hand, and he presses it even further into the guy’s head.

The one who wore the white fur hat seems oddly calm, he didn’t dare to squeak out a single sound. America feels the other’s icy breath touch him in a quivering manner.

“If you move, I’ll shoot.” America states coldly, his hand spasms on the gun he holds against the other’s head. The heartbeats of clock thump louder, and the floors cry in harder desperation. 

“Remove the mask. Now.” He demands, his hands close further on the other’s throat as his hands move onto the trigger with confident trembling.

The other slightly squirms in his uncomfortable grip, and America grits his teeth—feeling the harsh fur hat brush against his cheek.

“Move again and I’ll fucking kill you.” 

The other stops in his movements, the volume of his breaths amplify. 

“I won’t move, but killing me isn’t to your benefit.” The other mumbles, his voice with an eerie familiar calmness that makes America’s fingers grip further onto the trigger of his gun. His feet sink deeper into the wooden floor of timeless foam.

A chessboard with pawns made of feathers—with only a losing winner.

Chapter Text

          The air screams at him, and the hard wood atones for his sins.

America’s grip on the gun against the masked figure’s head stays firm, his light blue eyes narrow as his breath drifts towards the other’s face. Beads of sweat pile onto the gun, as his grip gradually becomes tighter as he presses it harder into the other’s head.

“And who are you to command me, you absolute imbecile.” America says, and then places his hand condescendingly on the masked one’s mask—threatening to pull it off. 

“I was not commanding you, I was simply stating that it wouldn’t be beneficial to yourself to kill me.” The masked one replies calmly, and then adds on. “You can kill me if you wish, but it wouldn’t help you much anyway, America.”

America burns at his audacity, and the wood under his feet felt like it was on fire—and outside stood the blizzard of hell. He grips on the mask while holding the barrel of the gun against the pathetic one, his hand reaching for the trigger. Hollow green eyes stare back at him, as if to mock him in some way. He was so familiar—that he seemed real.

But the world is a liar, and everything around him was nothing but the heart of deceit. 

“I didn’t ask for you to come.”

The air around him mocks him too, slowly the air pulls his gun away forcefully.

America’s hands move closer to pull off the mask which lies tenderly on his face, and then with a swift motion, he slips it off harshly.

The other offers him a feeble smile of illness, and America almost freezes in his own movements. The mask clatters onto the ground, imitating the sound of a fist breaking through clear glass.

“Of course—of course, it had to be you, dammit!” America spits out, his eyes shine with the darkness of the sun. America stares back into those damned green eyes, the other was only a measly, much inferior replica of himself, one too cowardly to be blessed with its mere existence.

“Quite unfortunate, isn’t it?” Canada replies, his voice not wavering. He looks up at the other, sighing, and he lets out a small yawn. Canada sits down on the small makeshift bed he made for himself, his sleeping bag resembles the heart of a boat of steel.

“Fuck you,” America scowls, as he the situation he found himself in really sunk in. He grits his teeth, and slowly slides the gun back into his pocket—as if he still considered killing the 

Canadian. 

“You don’t really mean that.” Canada puts his head on his uncomfortable pillow, as America rests his back on a nearby wall. He solemnly gives the American a halfhearted glance in resignation, as he murmurs. “After all, right now we only have each other.”

Canada’s words hit him harder than anything else could ever do. 

America clenches his fists, his face contorting as his mouth curls downwards.

He hates how the other is right.

The blizzard outside blows in a rage of fury, making all of its surroundings bow down in surrender. 

“I will never depend on someone as absolutely pathetic as you are, in fact, I don’t need you at all.” America declares, his nails digging harshly into the palms of his hands. 

Canada lacks protest, he simply slightly shifts in his makeshift bed, turning away from facing America. “As you wish.” He closes his eyes, his white eyelashes reflecting the light of a dull candle.

America leans further against the wall, sinking down into a sitting position. He lets out a small groan of annoyance, huddling his knees close together to conserve a bit of warmth. The pipes of the cabin leak out oozing drops of thick black oil, singing a lullaby for a lasting state of sleep.

────୨ৎ────

A shaking plate decorated with painted blood red roses on the edges, and the content it holds threatens to spill. His hands grip the edges tightly, as if he was holding his life in his very hands. Shaky cold breaths spill from his mouth, as he approaches the bed with hard steps. The room fades into the void with each step he takes closer, in a futile attempt of begging of him to stop.

“You will live.”

He says, not sure if he believes the words that spill from his mouth. 

The one on the bed’s eyes was closed, a sharp object pierced him.

He leans down, taking a fork made of glass, and feeds him.

The world around him squeezes on himself, a show of his unavailing protection.

The sun shines harshly outside, the snow reflects its light with jealous hatred. America scans the room, his fists clenched from his peculiar dream. His breaths were ragged, and his palms held balls of shameful sweat.

He sees Canada still lying down with his eyes closed, breathing quietly under his own blanket made of glass. America’s eyes narrow, and his lips curve downwards into a frown of disgust. The cabin feels as though it was a twisted sort of purgatory, with being with the Canadian as his punishment. America resents his presence, but feels relieved as Canada’s the only other one who feels real. Canada is the only other one who is real.

America grabs Canada by his curly hair, pulling the pitiful country upwards roughly. 

“Get the fuck up, sweetheart.” America commands mockingly, as Canada lets out a slight grunt in protest.

“I’m up,” Canada’s voice was hoarse, slightly pushing the American further away from himself. He rubs his eyes, and then he looks up at the other tiredly.

“…well, we can’t stay here forever. I assume that we need a plan of some sort.” Canada mumbles, as he slowly rises up. He rests his head on his hand, as the world around them grows smaller with every movement.

“We?” America scowls, looking down at Canada as an inferior, a measly little copy made of himself. He was superior, the better one, and he didn’t need the other in any form. 

And then he finds himself holding a plate, covered in only desperation. He tries to take the fork in a messy movement, to make him live. To make him live.

America squeezes his eyes shut only to open them again, and he feels the cabin floor clenching at his feet to stop him. The floor eats him alive, tearing down tenderly on his limbs—to make him live.

“Fine I,” America looks down at Canada, his eyes practically burning the other alive. “I agree, but only because it will be in my own benefit. But never think of me as equal, I will never be your equal. You were made in my image as an inferior, and I will always be far more worthier than your poignant self.”

Canada chuckles lightly, and he speaks rather coldly. “Great. I am glad you acknowledge the obvious, my superior.” He then moves to eye America, and America looks down at him as how the sun looks down at the moon.

“We cannot stay here for much longer.” Canada says, in his infuriatingly calm and well composed tone. “So I suggest, using your plane—we fly to the closest enemy country.”

“Russia,” America confirms, the name feeling bitter on his tongue. He groans, looking down at Canada with hesitance—but ultimately gives in with little alternatives. “If something happens, I’ll make sure you die first.”

The walls around him scream in agony as Canada smiles at him, his smile so sweet it made America sick. America resists the urge to strangle the other as the other stars usher him away.

America glimpses at his own reflection in a mirror that doesn’t exist, seeing a figure he refused to believe was himself. It wasn’t him, it never was.

America slams his fist into the mirror, his fist throbs as the glass cuts cruelly into his knuckles

Canada packs his own belongings, humming softly to the tune of the blizzard outside. “Let’s get going. It’s a long journey ahead of us.” he suggests, dragging his makeshift luggage boulder behind him.

“Go fuck yourself,” America glares at the other, but reluctantly follows him out into hell. 

The blizzard outside was relentless, shattering everything that came in its view. America huffs as he reaches his plane, and gets inside quickly. He peers out on the windows, only to see Canada ripping down the American flags off the plane.

“What the hell are you doing?” America demands, almost angrily at the disrespectful gesture of the Canadian.

Canada sighs, but returns back a small smile. “I am simply doing you a favour, by making the plane more unrecognizable. No need to lash out at me so foolishly.” He steps inside the plane, snow crunching loudly under his feet like bones on a plate.

America resists the urge to push him out right then and there. As much as he hated to admit, the Canuck was right. The more unrecognizable the plane was, the more likely they wouldn’t be caught.

The plane engine roars in its fight to assert control, as America sits on the pilot seat half heartedly. Canada sits on the seat next to him, resting his head in his hands.

The moon outside remains blood red, a darker red than it was on the day of new years. The pearl is stained with blood on its hands, the volume of what it took back increasing by the day. It was mocking—it taunts America who could never reach its heights.

America’s traitorous body trembles slightly, as the plane rises—and the sky seems so infinite.

The breaths of Canada beside him felt as though a clock that ticked endlessly, the numbers being worth as much as a dying dove.

“I have a plan, well, somewhat.” Canada breaks the string of silence between them, catching the American’s attention slightly. “Before I came here, I did talk to Russia, actually.” He says calmly, looking up at the American who practically seethes.

“I suspect you did not come here with a plan, so perhaps killing me wouldn’t be to your benefit, after all.” Canada adds on, and America rolls his eyes. Who did this damned guy think he even was? A fool, that’s all the Canuck really was.

“He gave me a location to meet, I originally planned on borrowing a helicopter from a military base in Montreal to meet him—but I suppose this does come as more convenient to me as well.”

America fights the urge to kill the dead man that sits so soothingly violent beside him. He then speaks, a thick coat of haughtiness covering every word that slips from his mouth.

“Russia is only a mere enemy of the state, it’s a shame that you even spoke to someone as pitiful as he.” America brushes his hair with his fingers, his face full of gloom.

“Well, Russia was quite a help. After all, I do not believe in further division between countries.” Canada replies, not even turning to look at the other country.

“Fuck you.” America bites his cheek, his control on the plane's buttons slips ever so slightly. “Always having to be a goody two shoes, right.” 

He lets out a bitter laugh, like a starving fox. The plane's buttons felt like thorns, with no meaning but to pierce and cause pain. 

The moon’s distance suddenly grew as small as the length of a needle. A needle that weaved the very stars in the sky, determining the fate of the red string.

America glances back at the other, numbers of dates clouding his vision. Yet he struggles to distinguish them, as they all seem as if they blur together.

20/000/2^2{}~+3

7^1/0^1/002

00/2/7

2/00/7J

7//02//0B

L/O/2/0

The dates got stranger and stranger and stranger, 

they held everything but they meant nothing.

America looks around them, his mind only seemingly gets messier. The numbers were nothing, nothing, nothing.

They would never mean anything to him, silly, childish dates that were impossible to ever exist in a non imagination world.

He looks over to his side.

And there lies the only real inferior, Canada. 

Canada was sleeping, his head leaning tenderly against the sleeve of the seat.

America scowls at the terribly disgusting sight, turning his focus back onto the sky. Canada must have been degenerate, for even trying to talk to America—the most preeminent country of them all.

────୨ৎ────

The sun never rises, it never will—it never will achieve the glory that it desires in the sky.

It burns with its own flames, killing the stars that the moon holds so painfully tight.

But the moon’s care only extends as a facade of dim light. 

He stares at the coffin of the other, the clock ticking infinitely beside him.

But it would be over, one day—he swears it will.

But the clock never stops, until the one in the coffin smashes it into a glass window.

But Neptune swore revenge for the unjust death of Venus.

The plane screeches into a somber landing, snow squeezing its stingy feet. 

America’s teeth slightly clatter; damn it, the Russian air was fucking freezing.

“Wake the hell up, Canuck.” America shoves Canada in an aggressive motion, pulling on his curly locks. Canada jolts up, glancing back up at the American.

“…hmm? What’s such a big deal, I wonder.” Canada replies, this guy must have been an absolute buffoon.

“We’re in the commie’s land, as you wished, my inferior.” America states simply, combing his hair to the side with his fingers—stained with iron flowers.

“America,” Canada says in an infuriating gentle tone. “Don’t be an asshole, please. You may be an asshole to me as much as you’d wish, but it wouldn’t be particularly very intelligent to pick a fight with Russia and China at this time.”

America chuckles, as he walks out of the plane boastfully. China and Russia were not worthy of his respect, regardless of what the Canadian told him. 

Grains of ashy snow fall harshly from the sky, as the wind squeezes it against America.

“Hello Russia, I am quite pleased to see you. However, on the way there’s been a slight mistake—” Canada signals in America's direction. “And I hope that it doesn’t cause further issues.”

The Russian looks as if he was a doll—he wasn’t real to America. America rolls his light blue eyes, putting his hair to the side. 

Russia was not real, he was.

not real.

and he would never be real.

Because of course, all countries deserve equal treatment, but one countryhuman surpassed them all. America, he was the one who would save them all.