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Holidays are a strange thing for a nation.
Friendship, family— those concepts don't quite translate the same way for beings like him. For nations, things like that are just echoes of the real thing, something they can only really half-understand.
Like most nations, Canada was born alone. He popped into existence, quite suddenly, in a quiet stretch of the wilderness, with only a polar bear to keep him company. No mother. No father. No siblings— at least, not in the way that humans have them. England had a hand in raising him, sure, but it's not as if they ever lived together, and recent tensions with America had made it painfully clear just how shallow "brotherhood" could be when it wasn't written in blood.
Still, when the holidays come around... who else does he have?
There are only a handful of days where it makes sense to spend time with his own people. For most others, the other nations are all he has. So, he'll spend his Christmas's in Europe, his Halloween's in Japan, and his Easter's in Mexico.
He spends all his Thanksgivings alone.
It's not like he has much of a choice. The only other nation that celebrates is America, and it's not even on the same day.
"Not that it matters," he mutters, scrolling idly through his contacts. "It's not like we're talking right now, anyway. Stupid America and his stupid boss and his stupid tariffs and his stupid face."
A muffled voice interrupts him from the floor, "Who?"
Canada glances down. "Oh— Kumajirou," he says softly, reaching down to scratch the fur behind the bear's ears. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you. Just talking to myself."
"Burger man again?" Kumajirou asks, blinking sleepily.
Canada winces, but doesn't answer right away.
After a moment, he says, "I was thinking... maybe I should invite France and England over. I mean, I'd hate for all that turkey to go to waste."
He'd gotten up early to prepare it, filling it with stuffing he'd made the night before, and rubbing the skin with butter and fresh thyme from his garden. The smell of it fills the kitchen now, warm and comforting. He's sure they'd appreciate the effort, possibly even enjoy the chance to spend some time together.
Still, he doesn't call them. Just sits there, oven humming quietly in the background, as he stares at the names in his contact list, thumb hovering idly over the call button but never pressing down.
Suddenly, there's a knock on the door.
He jerks up, startled at the noise, and immediately drops his phone on his face.
"Ow—!"
Kumajirou stirs, but doesn't open his eyes, "Okay?"
"No," Canada mutters, rubbing his forehead, "Someone's at the door."
He stands, brushing imaginary crumbs off his hoodie as he trudges over, still rubbing at his face. The knock comes again, two quick raps against wood.
He opens the door, and his face falls immediately.
America is standing awkwardly on the porch, wind tousling his hair, cheeks flushed from the cold. He's bundled in a hoodie under a too-thin jacket, holding a Wal-Mart bag in one gloved hand.
"So, uh..." America coughs into his fist and offers a small, uneasy smile, "Happy Thanksgiving. I brought apple pie."
He lifts the bag slightly, as a peace offering.
Canada looks down at the bag, and then back at him, and there's a hear beat of silence where they're both just staring at each other.
Then, without a word, he shuts the door in his face.
There's shuffling, then a muffled voice through the door, "Okay. I can tell you're still mad at me."
Canada grits his teeth, pressing his forehead gently against the wood. "...What are you even doing here?" he asks, voice low and steady.
A pause.
"...It's Thanksgiving."
"Thanksgiving," Canada echoes, rolling his eyes. His fingers tighten briefly on the doorknob before he opens it again.
America perks up a little when the door swings back, a cautious smile growing on his face.
"You've never spent Thanksgiving with me before," Canada says flatly.
America shrugs, shifting from foot to foot like the cold just caught up with him. "You've never invited me."
Canada raises an eyebrow, "Well I don't remember inviting you this year either."
America winces, holding up both hands in front of him in a placating gesture, "Okay. Fair enough... but do you really want to be alone on Thanksgiving?"
Canada considers slamming the door in his face again. Or at the very least, telling him to go home.
But then he thinks about the turkey still roasting in the oven. The pie he didn't bother baking, because he knew he'd be the only one here to eat it. The way the house always feels too quiet on this day in particular.
He thinks about every Thanksgiving he's spent alone— about the years he told himself it didn't matter, that he didn't need anyone around to enjoy it.
And then he looks at America again, standing there shivering on his porch, wind cutting through that flimsy jacket, snow starting to gather in his hair.
Canada sighs, long and tired.
"Fine," he says, stepping back, "But this is just a Christmas Truce."
America blinks. "Christmas? Don't tell me you celebrate that in October too."
"Like in World War 1," Canada explains, already turning around, "It's a temporary stalemate for the holidays."
America presses his lips into a thin line, but nods anyway as he steps inside.
"The kitchen's over here," Canada says, heading back toward the kitchen, "The turkey's still got a few hours to go."
America lingers near the entryway, still clutching the bag as he kicks off his shoes, "It smells good so far."
"Yeah, well," Canada starts, absently pushing his hair back, "It's just the turkey. Don't expect some grand meal."
"What, no sides?" America says incredulously.
Canada glances sharply at him, "Is that a problem?"
"Well no, it's just..." America stops himself mid-sentence, the rest dying on his tongue. He exhales through his nose. "Okay, fine. No sides."
Canada sighs, running a hand through his hair again. He's already regrets answering the door. He hates snapping at people, but when it comes to him, he can't help it. America's just so... ugh.
He's being childish.
"We can make some mashed potatoes if you want," he says quietly. "Or green beans. Whatever."
America looks up, a little surprised by the offer. "...If it's not too much trouble."
"It's fine," Canada replies, already moving toward the fridge. "I've got everything here anyway."
He pauses, glancing over his shoulder. "And hand me that pie— it’s gonna turn soggy if you just let it sit out like that."
America blinks, then quickly moves to give it to him, holding the pie out with both hands.
Canada grabs it with one, popping the whole bag in the fridge, before shutting the door. He moves over to the other side of the kitchen, reaching into a cupboard to pull out a couple of potatoes. He hands them over to America, along with a peeler, and says, "It's the least you could do."
America nods, grabbing the potatoes from his hands without complaint. He settles in at a bar stool by the counter, and without saying a word, he just starts peeling, slowly and methodically.
Canada moves back to the fridge, pulling out a bag of green beans, and some onions. He dumps them on the cutting board with a soft rustle.
The two of them fall into a kind of rhythm, potato skins piling up on one side of the counter, green beans and onions skins on the other.
Under different circumstances, it might have been nice, but Canada knows this silence isn't natural. Not for America. He can feel the glances from across the counter, see the way the other nation fidgets with the peeler, shifts in his seat, opens his mouth to speak and then stop himself.
Canada doesn't acknowledge it. He just keeps chopping the tips off the green beans.
Eventually, the peeling stops. There's a pause, then a quiet voice, "Finished. What's next?"
Canada picks up a potato and slices into it, "Pot's on the hook by the stove. Fill it, I'll cut."
America gets up without argument, grabs the pot, and quickly heads over to the sink. He fills it with water, sets it on the burner, and turns on the heat. He moves a little faster than necessary, like he's bursting with an energy he can't quite contain.
Canada watches him from the corner of his eye. America rubs his palms on his jeans, even though it's nowhere near warm enough in here to be sweating. He's twitchy. Restless.
When their eyes meet, briefly, Canada doesn't look away.
America does. Instantly.
He turns back to the stove and coughs into his hand to clear his throat. "So," he says, a little to loudly, "How have you been? I mean, we haven't talked in a while."
Canada sets the knife down with a soft clack.
"My boss thinks we need to build up the military... for some reason," he says nonchalantly, "So, I’ve been working out a lot lately."
The jab is subtle, but he's sure it lands anyway.
America pretends not to feel it. "Well, whatever you've been doing, it's working. You look good, bro." He hesitates. "Has your economy been holding up? Back home, it's been kinda—"
"I know," Canada cuts in. "I watch your news."
"...Right."
Another pause
"The water's boiling," Canada says, not looking at him, "You should throw the potatoes in now."
America blinks, like he forgot what they were even doing, then nods quickly. "Right. Potatoes. Got it."
He brings the cutting board over to the stove, dumping the peeled chunks into the pot one handful at a time. The water splashes a little, but he doesn't flinch. Just stares at the way the steam curls upward like it might distract him from everything else hanging in the air.
"You want the lid on or off?" he asks.
"Off for now," Canada replies, "They'll boil over if you cover them too soon."
"Gotcha."
The silence creeps back in, heavier this time.
America clears his throat, aiming for something lighter. "So, uh... do you guys ever do sweet potato pie up here?"
"Not really," Canada says, tapping his fingers against the counter. "Pumpkin's more popular."
"Right, that tracks. I guess it's more of a Southern thing at my place anyway." He pauses, then adds, a little too casually, "Maybe you could come down to my place for my Thanksgiving? We could bake one together."
Canada sighs, low and slow. "Actually, I'd rather not visit your house right now, if it's all the same to you."
"Okay..." America hesitates, floundering, "Well, what if I came back here again?"
Canada snorts, "What, you'd come all the way back here just to have another awkward dinner with me?"
"I don't think it's been that bad," America lies, then, quieter and more honestly, "I don't like being alone for the holidays either."
Canada bites his cheek, looking away for a second. "Is that why you came over today? You think I'm lonely?"
"Well, that's why you let me in, isn't it?"
Canada freezes, unable to deny it. There's no point. Of course he is.
The thing about being a nation is that you're constantly being swayed by the emotions of your people. A holiday like Thanksgiving, one so firmly rooted in family and togetherness, it stirs something in him. He woke up today with a craving for turkey, and a deep pit in his chest longing for connection.
America's probably the only other person that would understand that.
He doesn't answer the question. Instead, he says "You can come over for your Thanksgiving too."
America lights up, bright and immediate, a big toothy grin spreading across his face.
"Oh thank God," he says, and the next thing Canada knows, he's being pulled into a crushing bear hug, "I thought you were going to be mad at me forever."
Canada splutters, caught between surprise and indignation as he tries to shove him off. "Hey— don't get cocky. I am still mad at you."
America pulls back slightly, still smiling, "Too late, you just admitted you still like me. You want me around."
Canada rubs at his temples, exasperated, "Honestly, I— I don't understand what gives you this kind of confidence. This is exactly your problem, you know. You never think—"
"I'm so glad," America interrupts, his voice suddenly quieter, softer, as he pulls him back into the hug. His hands tighten around Canada, "You know..." he says, trailing off, "I can put up with everyone else hating me, but not you."
Canada freezes.
His hands dangle awkwardly at his sides, as America nuzzles further into the crook of his neck. For a little while, neither of them moves. The kitchen hums softly around them, the faint sound of bubbling water in a pot. Then he feels it, just along his collar, there's the faintest trace of dampness seeping through the fabric.
His breath hitches. There's a sharp, unwelcome pang in his chest. He sighs, long and quite irritated at himself for his own weakness, before lifting one hand up to press gently between America's shoulder blades.
"There, there," he says, rubbing his back in slow, uneven circles, "I don't hate you."
America sniffles beneath him, "I know."
"Then why are you crying?"
"I'm not."
"America..."
"They're happy tears," he says, pulling back just enough to meet Canada's eyes, "I'm just... thankful. To have you around."
The pang comes back, sharper this time, and his tongue suddenly feels out of place in his mouth. He pushes the feeling down, letting his hand drop back to his side, "I know you keep ignoring this part, but I am still mad at you."
"I know," America pouts, leaning in just an inch closer, "Is there anything I could do to make you less mad at me?"
He's breathing softly, close enough that Canada can smell the cinnamon and coffee on him. He probably grabbed some doughnuts on the way over.
Canada's eyes flicker down to his lips before he can stop himself. He regrets it as soon as he does.
Because America definitely notices.
"Oh," America says, blinking. He pulls back slightly, trying to cover it with a crooked smile. "Thanksgiving's really messing with your head, huh?"
Canada blushes, but doesn't look away, "I don't know what you mean."
America lets out a short, nervous laugh, "No, no, I get it. I mean, the heightened feelings, the holiday mood, the... loneliness. It can kind of mess with your judgement, right?"
"Hmm," Canada hums, slow and thoughtful, running his tongue along his bottom lip, "Oh, yeah. For sure. Definitely."
America swallows, unconsciously mirroring the motion. "I—" he starts, then falters, "You're still mad at me, right?"
Canada takes a step forward, "Livid."
America glances down at the small space between them, "You, uh, don't seem like it."
"No?"
He reaches out and lets his fingers trail lightly up America's arm.
"I mean, unless you're just hiding it really well," America laughs weakly, the hairs on his arms standing on end.
"I'm mad at you," Canada confirms. His voice is calm, but there's a tightness to it, "Do you know why I'm mad at you?"
America takes a step back, bumping into the counter, "Um. The tariffs?"
"No," Canada says, snaking his other hand around America's waist to box him in place, "It's because you only ever think about yourself."
"That's not—"
"I think about you a lot you know," Canada interrupts, "I watch your movies, I follow your politics, my military trains with yours, and yet—" His hand presses up against America's chest now, fingers splayed, warm and steady, "I don't think the feeling is mutual. Your boss threatens me for months, and it's not even a blip on your radar. You act like it's a joke."
"Canada..." America's voice is small now, uncertain, "You're really sending me mixed signals here, dude."
"Let me be clearer, then." Canada leans in close, his breath brushing warm against America's ear, "You asked what would you could do to make me less angry... Do you still want to know?"
America nods, lips parted, breath shallow.
Canada doesn't hesitate. He twists his head and kisses him, firm and certain, right on the mouth.
America stiffens for a second in surprise, but only for a heartbeat. Then, his shoulder relax. His hands find Canada's sides, fingers tentative at first before settling there. He melts into it, slow and eager, like he's been waiting for this without realizing it.
Canada feels it in the way America leans into him, in the slight hitch of his breath, the way his thumbs press into Canada's hips as if to anchor himself. Warm. Familiar.
And for a moment, Canada loses himself in it. The closeness. The heat. For that one moment, he forgets every slight, every argument, every hurt.
Then, carefully, he pulls back.
Not far, just enough. Their foreheads nearly touch, breath mingling in the space between them. America's eyes flutter open, dazed and uncertain, like he's still catching up to what just happened.
Canada looks at him, really looks at him, and something cracks open inside him. He leans forward again, burying his face in the crook of America's neck.
"I want you to think of me more often," he murmurs, voice trembling against his skin. Then he starts to kiss along his throat, slow and desperate. "I'm not just some extension of you, I—" another kiss, longer this time, "I'm my own nation."
"Uh-huh," America manages, breath hitching. "Of course, Canada."
Canada's mouth hovers near his collarbone now, his breath hot and uneven. "I want you to care about me," he whispers, the words breaking halfway through, "the way I care about you. Want you to..."
He trails off, and for a long second the only sound is their breathing, the quiet rhythm of it matching the pulse under his skin.
America's voice comes low, rough-edged. "You want me to what, Canada?"
Canada swallows hard. "...want you to cry over me more."
America lets out a quiet, startled laugh, somewhere between disbelief and tenderness. "Oh, is that what set this off?"
"I liked it," Canada admits, his tone barely a breath. "I like it when you're mad at me too. When you can see me."
"I always see you," America says, softly.
Canada shakes his head, the motion brushing their foreheads together. "No, you don't," he murmurs. "And I hate it. I can put up with being invisible to everyone else... but not you. We're supposed to be best friends."
"We are," America says, voice sure.
"Then act like it."
America presses forward without a word. His lips find Canada's in a sweet, eager, kiss, cupping his face with both hands. Canada responds in kind, leaning into the warmth, letting the tension of the last hours melt for just a moment under the weight of the kiss.
Then—
"Beep! Beep! Beep!"
The shriek of the fire alarm slices through the quiet like a knife. They jerk apart, startled.
Smoke coils in the air, thin and grey. Canada's eyes go wide. He rushes back toward the stove.
"Shit, the potatoes," he curses, switching off the burner and quickly moving the pot to the counter.
The pot in question is thoroughly blackened, bubbles clawing up the sides and hard pucks of black resting in the middle. America grabs a nearby towel, flapping it at the smoke alarm in a frantic rush.
Canada coughs, waving his hand in front of his face, eyes watering, "Well so much for mashed potatoes."
America chuckles, breathless, "Guess we got a bit distracted."
Canada exhales, glancing toward the stove, "Maybe we should set an alarm on the turkey."
America raises any eyebrow, a smug grin planted on his face, "Planning to get distracted again?"
A flush creeps up Canada's neck. He looks away. "Get your mind out of the gutter. I've let you derail my Thanksgiving long enough. I haven't even had time to watch Corner Gas this year."
"Corner Gas?" America echoes, head tilted in mild confusion.
Canada places a hand over his heart, mock-offended. "A Canadian classic. Which you would know, if you ever actually paid any attention to me."
America rolls his eyes, "Yeah, yeah, fine. Put it on."
"You're going to hate it," Canada says, already walking toward the living room. "It's so low-budget. Only old people watch it."
"Say less," America says, trailing after him toward the couch.
Before he can sit down, Canada reaches out and gently tugs on his sleeve.
America stops. Turns.
Canada doesn't meet his eyes, but his hand lingers. "Thank you," he says softly, "For coming over."
America's grin fades into something smaller, warmer.
"Of course," he says, "Anytime."