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A Cat Who Writes ([personal profile] acatwhowrites) wrote2013-03-06 05:39 pm

Cuddle Puddle

title: Cuddle Puddle
players: Alfred F. Jones/America, Matthew Williams/Canada, Kumajirou
word count: 1,300
rating: PG
warnings: minor language
summary: America doesn't want to get out of bed, not even for food. Compromises need to be met. Meaning Canada relents, and America gets his way.
a/n: Written for a AmeCan Secret Santa on Tumblr.

“America. . . America. Time to wake up, dude.” Canada pulled the cord to open the shades and shook the lump of bed clothes piled in the middle of the large guest bed. “America. Alfred, c’mon; I’m making breakfast, and you are not going to eat in bed and get crumbs all over.”

The lump mumbled something, shifted, and settled again.

Canada sighed and rolled his eyes, returning to his modest kitchen. His cabin had all the comforts of home—sans wi-fi, cable TV, and cell phone service—and he had invited his border brother up to the Great White North for some hunting and fishing.

America had been thrilled. His own winter weather was less than pleasant, running hot and cold each day with storms hitting one coast and fires burning up the other. “And Christmas just isn’t Christmas without actual snow, you know?” He had yet to adjust to the constant cold, however, and complained about it until Canada would lead him into the snow, where he’d inevitably instigate a snowball fight.

“Kumataro, at least wait until I’ve cooked the pancakes!” He hefted the small bear from the countertop, removing the bowl of batter from its paws.

“But I’m hungry!” a tinny voice replied.

“You’ll live a few minutes longer. . .” Canada settled his friend on the floor beside the stove and lit a burner beneath a long iron skillet.

“Who are you?” Kumajirou tugged at his pantleg, begging for a bit of food.

Canada didn’t reply. He’d been through the same song and dance since the bear came to him as a cub. He couldn’t remember the bear’s name more often than not; the bear couldn’t remember his. They enjoy one another’s generally quiet company; things played out nicely.

Sliding the first couple of cooked pancakes onto a paper plate, Canada poured a bit of syrup and powdered sugar over them and set the plate on the floor for Kumajirou, who didn’t thank him and began to devour the food before the nation even took his hand from the plate.

“Ungrateful little. . .” Canada muttered to himself and turned back to the stove, finishing another batch of pancakes in little time and returning to the guest room.

America hadn’t moved from bed since Canada left. Setting a plate of hot pancakes and syrup on the nightstand, Canada dug around the tucked cocoon for a hem and pulled—hard.

“Hey!” America sprawled out on the mattress, grabbing blindly for his warm blankets, but Canada held them up over his head.

“I told you to get up.”

“Dude, come on,” America whined. “It’s freezing in here! Not all of us are made for the cold, you know.”

“Alaska doesn’t complain—”

Kumajirou waddled into the room unnoticed, licking leftover syrup from his snout, and climbed onto the mattress to curl up in the warm spot America had abandoned in search of his blankets.

“Because most of Alaska lives on the warmer coastline,” America grouched, standing on his knees and pulling Canada forward by the waist. Logic said that if he couldn’t have his blanket, he’d have the next warmest thing.

Alfred!” Canada landed awkwardly on top of the southern nation, relinquishing his hold to stop his fall with his hands before he slammed onto his guest. The blankets dropped around them like a tent, and America wrapped his arms around Canada’s chest tightly, forcing them together with a triumphant mumble of gratitude for the added warmth. “Hang on—If you’re going to hang onto me like this, at least let me lay properly. My legs are hanging off, here.”

“Your bear is hogging the bed,” America said into his neck.

“Just push him away. He’ll move.” Canada reached up, groping blindly until his hand met resistance, and pushed.

Without protest, Kumajirou stood up, and the nations took the opportunity to situate themselves against the oak headboard. America scooted further down the mattress, staying flush against Canada’s side with the blankets tucked around him so only his head remained in the open air of the guest room. Kumajirou burrowed beneath the blankets and curled up against his back.

“Better?” Canada asked.

“Mmhm. . . toasty. Your bear’s heating my butt.”

“So glad for that,” Canada muttered. He reached over to the plate on the bedside table, tapping America’s head to keep him awake. “Don’t fall asleep again! I made you breakfast; eat it before it gets cold.”

“I don’t wanna bring my hands out to the cold!” America whined. “And they’re probably cold already, anyway. Lookit that, the syrup’s not moving.”

“Syrup should not move on its own, regardless of temperature, and they are too still warm. Stop complaining, or don’t eat.”

America scowled at him, indignant that Canada had no sympathy for his delicate constitution. He brightened a little, however, when he suggested, “How about you just feed me? That way I can stay warm, and you can stop bitching?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. . .”

“Please?” America bounced his shoulder against Canada’s arm. “C’mon, Mattie, gimme a break!"

Canada rolled his eyes. “Dude, no. Stop being a child and just sit up and eat.”

“But it’s cold!” He drew out the last syllable in a high whine, kicking his feet a bit before burrowing deeper into his blankets and drawing crossing his legs like a pretzel, lying on his back with one thigh resting on Canada’s knee.

It took all of ten seconds—just long enough for Canada to huff a long-suffering sigh—for America to know he’d have his way. He usually did. One way or another, things went his way, particularly with his close neighbour. He knew he could only push so far until the other nation snapped, however; Canada had a tendency to let bygones be bygones until a certain point, when his reserve of patience would run out and annoyance overflowed in a long ranting tirade of every single thing America had done wrong since their infancy.

Those few times had been enough to make him cry shameful tears.

The northern nation cut into the pancakes, staring crossly at the crumbs that stuck to the syrup-coated fork. “If I find any crumbles in these sheets, later. . .” He let America’s imagination complete his threat.

“I promise not to make a mess if you promise not to miss my mouth. I’d rather not get my nose hairs plastered to my nostrils by syrup.” America opened his mouth like an expectant baby bird.

“Just for that, I’m eating the first bite.” Canada shovelled the forkful of pancakes into his own mouth, smiling when America gawked and dropped his knee against Canada’s knee.


“Second bite’s mine, too.” He leaned over to avoid the sudden appearance of one of America’s muscular arms, thrust out from his blankets. Canada held the plate and fork out of reach over their heads.

America grasped his wrist. “Stop eating my food!”

“Food I slaved over a hot stove to make for your lazy ass. Tell me that’s fair.”

“This isn’t about fairness; it’s about being a good host and not dicking around with a man’s appetite.” Canada relented, lowering the food to balance the plate on his chest and offering America the fork to feed himself.

Canada settled against the pillow, not exactly pleased but content enough to be used as a table. Kumajirou rolled over, paws pushing against America’s back in his slumber. “I was thinking we could do some fishing today. Northern Pike, walleye, perch. . .”

America paused his eating to chew thoughtfully. Around a mouthful of pancakes, he replied, “Or we could just stay inside and hibernate.”

No matter how much he protested, after America set the plate and fork on the table and laid up against him with his legs wound around Canada’s and arm flopped over his chest, Canada stayed in the guest room and dozed in the comfortable embrace until evening, when he kicked America out of bed to help him make dinner.

doodle by me