Title: Man, What a Way to Find out You're Really Gay

Characters: Canada, Cuba

Rating/Warnings: T, for boy love, and swearing.

Notes: Something I whipped out while I was bored in Japan, so I don't claim that it has any quality to it. Also, it's another one of those High School AUs, so don't get your hopes up too high. Oh, and if you find any errors in my conventions, please don't hesitate to point them out. I tend to make plenty of typos. Anyway, enjoy~


Above, the sun blazed especially pure, as if determined to warm the blue skies with its bright rays. Summer was here, and the earth wished to show it off by donning warm weather. School had ended scant minutes before hand, signaling the end of my days as a sophomore and my first official moments as a junior. It was good to have finally gotten to a level where I wouldn't be considered the underdog, but I was going to miss some of the seniors who had graduated. For example, our hockey team just wouldn't be quite the same without Russia, the tall kid who had a ridiculous amount of strength but the creepiest smile, and I would really miss seeing China, who sometimes hung out with me at lunch. But there wasn't much I could do worrying over it now. I turned my attention back to the ice cream cone I held between my fingers.

A bark of amused laughter distracted me from the sweet sticky dairy I had put my energy into consuming. After pausing to keep my glasses from falling off my nose and shake the blond hair out of my eyes, I looked up.

The man sitting next to me had deep brown skin, just a few shades darker than someone who spent every possible moment in the sun, and thick black hair that he restrained back via dreadlocks and a sturdy pony tail. At the moment, his chestnut eyes were squeezed shut in merriment, and his mouth was wide with joy, showing a flash of white teeth.

I could remember the first time I had seen that smile—two years ago—on the first day of my freshman year. There had been a good several hundred of us, ripe for bullying, crowded around the main doors as we waited for some sort of weird orientation planned for our first day. I been standing off to the side, a little too intimidated to dig my way into the crowd but still curious enough to look for people I knew. Then I felt a rough hand grab my shoulder. Surprised, my thoughts were left askew and my balance teetering.

"America, you bastard," the growl was deep, much like a dog at an intruder, or a superhero at his mortal enemy.

"I…um…I'm not America," I quickly sputtered out. Always, ALWAYS, people were mistaking me for my twin brother, and that was not alright with me. I was well aware of the fact that we shared the same face, hair color, eye color, and both wore glasses, but we were completely different people! If you saw the two of us—one standing on top of a table and shouting while the other quietly reading a book, I sure as hell wasn't the guy on the table.

I had never seen the man who was glaring at me before, with his dark hair and angry red shirt, and he had probably never seen me before. He just wasn't aware of that last fact.

"You sure as hell look like him," He shot back.

"Well no duh, we're twins stupid!" Is what I wanted to snap back, but instead a simple, "He's my brother," came out. "He's standing over there with all those people."

Following my finger, the dark skinned man glanced at my brother with narrowed eyes. "Tch. Figures he's with friends. It would be impossible to finish our fight now."

"I think that he does that on purpose actually," I mused aloud. "He always likes to be with people he can 'help,' so he can be the 'hero.' " I paused to roll my eyes.

"Psh, a fat lot of help he is," the stranger grumbled, still looking America's way. "And his attitude gets on my nerves."

"Agreed, he doesn't know when to lay off."

This got the stranger to turn and look at me. His eyes widened, as if he had just witnessed the second coming of Christ. "You don't like him?"

"Well, he's my brother, so I have to like him, but…" I paused to sigh. "I really sometimes wonder how it is that we're related at all. I mean, he's so noisy, and he always gets into fights…"

"And he never shuts up," The dark skinned man added in.

I nodded and continued, "And he doesn't understand the concept of personal space, or accepting others' beliefs, or not touching—"

"—The belongings of others." He finished. Our eyes met and I watched as my smile was mirrored by his own white teeth. "I'm Cuba." He held out his hand again, only this time, it was in the extension of something precious.

"Canada."

And thus, a beautiful friendship was born.

Back to the present, I looked up quickly, surprised by his laughter. "W-what?"

"You have ice cream on your nose," he explained, before breaking out into another fit of chuckles as I went cross-eyed trying to locate said dairy. His last laughs died away as he watched me unsuccessfully wipe the sticky stuff from my nose. "Here, let me help." There was something different in his eyes, as he leaned towards me with an atmosphere that was almost commanding. At first I wanted to reel back, spooked by this new persona, but it left with the speed it occurred, leaving behind a soft glow in his eyes, and I felt myself being drawn in.

Our faces were hovering close to each other like two polar molecules when Cuba reached out to complete a hydrogen bond with his very pink tongue, licking all traces of the ice cream swiftly from my nose.

Normally, I would have laughed, or just made a disgusted face, but just then I felt a jolt through my body. His tongue had sent a wave through me like static electricity, and I flinched away.

I could feel heat surging through my body—courtesy of Cuba's touch—and my mind went on overdrive trying to figure out just what was going on. My stomach wouldn't stop tingling, and my cheeks were flushed. "W-what…Cuba…?" I finally managed to stutter, half wishing I could get more complex sentences out, half wishing I could identify this feeling.

"Sorry, Sorry." He was smiling with that face that didn't quite make it into a smile, or at least, not his smile—the one he had shown me earlier. This one was fake somehow.

" 's okay…" I murmured quickly, and I glanced down at my ice cream for a moment before looking back up at his face. He had returned to his own personal bubble, and was rolling his ice cream cone between his fingers with a dull disinterested look on his face.

God, He was weirding me out.

He had been acting so strange the last couple of weeks. Something must have dawned on him, because he was like a small animal struck by lightning: fizzled and completely out of it half the time. Sighs would escape his lips more commonly than breath would come in, and sometimes when he didn't think I was looking, he would stare me down, his eyes ghosted with that same dreamy look they'd had not seconds before. When even ice cream (which had been my treat) failed to cheer him up, it was time to get seriously worried.

I straightened in his direction, making my interest more apparent. "Cuba… you seem down… Is everything okay?"

"Hmm?" He looked up at me, dazed, as if he had been swimming in a dark hole and someone had just now pulled him up, leaving his eyes unaccustomed to the new brightness; he reeled for a moment before responding. "Everything's cool." The words were automatic—fake.

"You sure?" I hated to pry, but unless I did so, Cuba would never tell me anything. He was "too manly for feelings" or something akin to that rubbish.

"Really, I'm fine."

"…I guess so. You just… don't look like yourself." As usual, my words were a fluffed version of my thoughts, like medicine after it's been sweetened up with corn syrup—only in this case, the potency wasn't the same.

"Look, it doesn't matter!" He stood up angrily, with a rough growl in his voice. His uneaten ice cream was tossed violently in a nearby trash receptacle; Gods, whatever was bothering him HAD to be big.

"It matters to me!" Please, please, please, let there be an exclamation mark at the end of that outburst, because, honestly, it really did matter. Cuba was my best friend. He deserved the level of dedication an exclamation mark indicated at the very least.

"It shouldn't," He spat back quickly.

"And why not, eh?" I looked back at him with what I hoped were angry eyes and a hurt expression. Damn, I really needed to work at being less passive.

"Do you really want to know?" His voice had grown low, the type of angry that was dangerous.

"Of course!" Before anything else could be said, he was right next to me, like a silent hawk swooping down on his prey without warning. He seized my shoulders roughly, and I flinched away, afraid he would hit me.

I did not expect his attack to be aimed at my lips.

The kiss was rough, passionate, and possessive. Anything that had been in my mind previously had vanished completely and all I could think about was him: his sturdy hands gripping my shoulders; his hot lips touching mine; his tongue penetrating my mouth. The feeling overwhelmed me with a sticky wave of red—my cheeks hot. I was so blown away by this new truth that I wasn't even able to kiss him back. But I wanted to.

I had always thought of him just as my best friend, but now, suddenly, his tongue rolled against mine, beckoning me to melt into him and become his. All the awkward moments, butterfly stomachs, and flushed cheeks suddenly made sense. This had been going on all along, and I just hadn't been aware.

Man, what a way to find out that you're really gay.

There was nothing wrong with being gay, I knew. I mean, my brother (despite his claims of being "bi") was all over his boyfriend, England, and I had accidentally walked in on them a couple of times. Practically everyone at school was aware of it—America's favorite spot to make out being the corner between the math hall and the science building, much to England's dismay—and all of the radical homophobes had been silenced by his fists. It also helped that the school had a big GSA club, and a whole bunch of tolerant students. So it wasn't like it was dangerous to be gay or anything.

And honestly, I couldn't see why I hadn't realized it before. Cuba was rather attractive, and he always looked out for me, listening to me whine about my teachers constantly forgetting my existence. He was just a good guy. I wouldn't mind being more than his best friend.

But before I could put these thoughts into action, he was pulling back. I floundered, confused, as his hands, his lips, his presence, weren't there anymore. He left me gaping like a fish out of water, my mouth hanging open, my ice cream lying face down on the pavement.

"I like you. I've liked you for such a long time." He was talking, my brain registered that, but I couldn't muster the strength to look up at him. It was as if the kiss had drained all my batteries, and my whole body had gone numb—like the black screen of a broken monitor.

"I hated liking you. You're my best friend, to like you was to betray your trust. But I can't resist. You're just so..." I could see his hand coming forward, as if intent on leaving soft touches on my cheek. It was yanked backwards moments later, Cuba quickly chiding himself.

"I'm such a fag, falling in love with my best friend."

"Cuba…!" Damn this passive nature. Damn this inability to think. Damn me for not being able to stop this barrage of words he shot at himself, but I was left stone still, like a worker expected to move a giant boulder even though his machinery is broken.

"I'm sorry, Canada, so sorry. I didn't want to ruin our friendship this way. It was only two years, but it was a solid two years."

"You're wrong!" I wanted to scream. "You didn't ruin anything!" But I couldn't. I was left sitting as he walked away, frozen.