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“Hey, Matt, c’mon,” America says, tugging on his neighbor’s hand. “Let’s sneak away for a little bit, huh?”
Canada turns to him with a raised eyebrow, although the corners of his lips twitch. “You’re okay with leaving Arthur and Gilbert and their drinking games in your backyard unsupervised?” They can hear the two nations bickering over their beers, and America turns to them with a grimace.
He’s not really okay with it, not after the Roof Incident of 1997, but—
“It won’t be for long. Just a few minutes.” He twines their fingers together, and Canada doesn’t pull away; he lets himself be led away from the party, stopping only when America pauses to lift the latch on his back gate.
“Where are we going?”
“I want ice cream,” America replies, grinning.
And there isn’t any of that left at home? I saw you eat at least two rocket pops.”
“First of all,” America says with a huff, “rocket pops aren’t ice cream. Secondly, of course there’s ice cream at home! Who do you take me for? But thirdly, and most importantly—don’t laugh, Mattie!—most importantly, Miss Daisy’s is the best ice cream parlor in town, and it’s right on Main Street, only a couple of blocks away, and since it’s the Fourth of July, all of the special founding father ice cream specials are available! It’s an opportunity we cannot refuse!”
Canada’s laughing harder now, and he tucks his face into America’s shoulder, giggling helplessly. “So serious about ice cream, Al,” he says with a grin. “Ditching your own birthday party for it and everything.”
America shrugs, but his own grin hasn’t dimmed. “The best ice cream parlor in town,” he reminds Canada.
As they walk, the voices of the other nations grow more and more muffled, till there is nothing but silence.
Or, Canada thinks—not silence, exactly. It is more of a distant humming, a buzz of voices letting them know that people are here, celebrating, and it’s not just the nations at America’s house. His neighbors are celebrating, too, and they can occasionally hear bursts of laughter or of patriotic music. A few blocks over, some are setting firecrackers off in anticipation of the town’s bigger show.
It’s a good night, he muses; a good night for birthdays and for ice cream, and Canada is happy to let America dragging him along.
“I was worried it’d rain tonight,” America tells him, echoing Canada’s own thoughts. He swings their hands idly between them, and turns to smile at him, streetlights reflecting in his glasses. “But it’s not even that humid.”
The summers here are often humid, Canada knows. He prefers to keep his summertime visits to New Jersey confined to the shore, where the sea breeze cools the air, but America had chosen to have his birthday at one of the state’s smaller northern towns because he likes the old colonial charm and its quintessential American Main Street.
There’d even been a parade and a reading of the Declaration of Independence by a man dressed as Thomas Jefferson.
“It’s hot though,” Canada says, drawing his attention back to the conversation.
America laughs. “It’s summer. Of course it’s hot.”
“I guess it does mean it’s good for ice cream,” Canada continues. “Just to cool us down and all.”
“Exactly my thinking,” America replies.
They fall quiet as they continue walking, and it’s a comfortable sort of silence. For a nation who seems to have infinite energy and is always moving, always involved in something, America makes surprisingly little small talk. He’s straightforward enough to find it pointless, but Canada knows that it’s mainly because neither of them feel the need to constantly speak when they’re together.
Their understanding of one another goes deeper than words, is connected to all of the things they share between them: their heritage, their people, their cultures—different in so many ways, but alike in plenty of others—
No, America and Canada don’t need words.
A cacophony of voices raises as they near the bustling Main Street, and Canada lets America guide him through the crowds of people laughing and talking together.
It’s busier than he expected, for a holiday, but as America cheerfully explains, “It’s practically a block party; the shops are selling food for cheap, and it’s close to the park where they’re shooting the fireworks off!”
The line for ice cream is long, but Canada plays peekaboo with an infant in a stroller and laughs while America lets a pair of Girl Scouts standing behind them teach him cat’s cradle. It makes the waiting pass quickly, and soon he’s paying for their cones—”It’s your birthday, Al; my treat.”— and then letting himself be led back into the crowd.
“We’re not going back to yours?” He asks when America takes his hand again, tugging him away.
“What, and let the other see our special ice cream? No way!”
That’s fair enough, Canada muses, because the others would surely want to know why they weren’t invited along, so Canada doesn’t protest. He suspects that America had wanted to get away from them for a little while anyway.
He loves hanging out with the others of their kind, those who understand what it means to be nations, but they’re exhausting, too.
“It’s almost time for the fireworks, anyway,” America continues. “I wanna get a good spot on the hill. It’s best from there.”
They can see the fireworks from America’s backyard, as well, but Canada is happy to spend this time alone with him, to keep him to himself for a little while longer.
So Canada says, “Sounds good to me, Al. Lead on,” and doesn’t bring up the other nations again.
America settles them in the grass on the hill, flopping back and throwing his arms out wide and somehow managing not to spill his ice cream everywhere. Canada can’t emulate that, so he sits down carefully and licks the melted ice cream from his knuckles.
Around them, America’s people sing the national anthem, and closes his eyes tight, as if watching them would bring him to tears. Then, there’s a beat of silence before the first of the fireworks shoot into the sky.
When Canada turns to look at America’s face lit all green and gold, he finds the other nation already watching him and smiling. There’s chocolate sauce staining his lips.
“Hey, Alfred,” he breathes, leaning down over him to kiss the sweetness from his mouth. “Happy birthday.”