[Fanfic] My Name Is Canada
Mar. 25th, 2010 12:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blood_wingedTitle: My Name Is Canada
Genre: Drama/Angst
Characters: Canada
Rating/Warnings: Character death. PG.
Summary: 400 word shortfic.
Matthew had had enough.
The bursting into tears in the last World Conference meeting had been the last straw. Nobody had noticed except for Cuba, who had cast him concerned looks from the other side of the room but had said nothing. He had left before anyone could speak to him, before anyone could mistake him for Alfred and try to yell at him for something that wasn’t his fault, before Ivan could find him and start going on about that flag again.
He had gone home, and broken out the bottle of gin that he kept around the house for when Arthur visited. Such visits were rare, and becoming rarer. If it wasn’t enough that his own brother forgot he existed, the man who practically raised him had to do a double take every time they spoke, a moment needed to take in the colour of the eyes (violet, not blue), and the stray hair curling from his crown that Alfred, in the moments where he realised that Matthew was there, affectionately referred to as an ‘antenna’.
“I’m Canada.” He was so sick of saying it. So, so very tired of being passed over, ignored, invisible. He gave, and gave, and gave, and all for nothing. Nobody would miss him.
Matthew wasn’t much of a drinker. The first gulp of gin burned a fiery path down to his stomach and made him gag. He shook it off, and swallowed another mouthful, then another, until his throat felt numb and a subtle, tingling warmth was spreading through his body. He closed his eyes, and scratched his hairline with the muzzle of his gun. The Canadian knew that he existed. He knew that his nation existed. He hated that the rest of the world only noticed him when they wanted something from him. It wasn’t as if he just sat there. It wasn’t as if he never did anything. A choked sob worked its way out of his throat and he flinched, surprised by the sound, fingers trembling as he pressed the gun to the side of his head. He bit his lip, squeezed his eyes shut. Something warm and wet tracked down his cheek. A small polar bear looked at him from the other side of the room.
“Who are you?”
Matthew smiled. He pulled the trigger. The empty gin bottle dropped to the floor and rolled, clinking lightly against the skirting board.
Perhaps now they’d notice him.
Genre: Drama/Angst
Characters: Canada
Rating/Warnings: Character death. PG.
Summary: 400 word shortfic.
*****
Matthew had had enough.
The bursting into tears in the last World Conference meeting had been the last straw. Nobody had noticed except for Cuba, who had cast him concerned looks from the other side of the room but had said nothing. He had left before anyone could speak to him, before anyone could mistake him for Alfred and try to yell at him for something that wasn’t his fault, before Ivan could find him and start going on about that flag again.
He had gone home, and broken out the bottle of gin that he kept around the house for when Arthur visited. Such visits were rare, and becoming rarer. If it wasn’t enough that his own brother forgot he existed, the man who practically raised him had to do a double take every time they spoke, a moment needed to take in the colour of the eyes (violet, not blue), and the stray hair curling from his crown that Alfred, in the moments where he realised that Matthew was there, affectionately referred to as an ‘antenna’.
“I’m Canada.” He was so sick of saying it. So, so very tired of being passed over, ignored, invisible. He gave, and gave, and gave, and all for nothing. Nobody would miss him.
Matthew wasn’t much of a drinker. The first gulp of gin burned a fiery path down to his stomach and made him gag. He shook it off, and swallowed another mouthful, then another, until his throat felt numb and a subtle, tingling warmth was spreading through his body. He closed his eyes, and scratched his hairline with the muzzle of his gun. The Canadian knew that he existed. He knew that his nation existed. He hated that the rest of the world only noticed him when they wanted something from him. It wasn’t as if he just sat there. It wasn’t as if he never did anything. A choked sob worked its way out of his throat and he flinched, surprised by the sound, fingers trembling as he pressed the gun to the side of his head. He bit his lip, squeezed his eyes shut. Something warm and wet tracked down his cheek. A small polar bear looked at him from the other side of the room.
“Who are you?”
Matthew smiled. He pulled the trigger. The empty gin bottle dropped to the floor and rolled, clinking lightly against the skirting board.
Perhaps now they’d notice him.
