The sky cracks and rumbles, and the lighting jolts Canada out of his sleep. The wind and rain are loud and constant against his window and he's spared only a moment before he hears the thump of bare feet running across hardwood. He subconsciously traces the sound up the stairs and down the hall to his door, where America bursts in.
His eyes are wide and he's missing his glasses. His hair is sticking up on one side and he only manages a cursory "There was a storm and I thought you might be-" before thunder shatters over them again. America jumps and dives into the bed, body tucked into itself tight and nestled under Canada's arm. Canada lets out a small "oof" when his brother barrels into him.
The thunder tapers off and America picks his head up slightly. He looks so much younger when he's frightened and without the shield of his glasses, and Canada thinks to himself that he must look the same way at times.
"The storm woke me up," America says, and Canada knows it's a lie. "A-and I just