Notes: A few readers asked for it, and honestly, I had left that particular issue unresolved because I already had a half-idea to explore it later, so here is the sequel of Overheated.
To new readers: I don't think that having read Overheated first is strictly necessary, but you might miss a few points if you haven't. Feel free to ask if anything is unclear.

Now, moving to this story: as you might have guessed from the summary, it's going to include some violence in the beginning. I don't think it's graphic, but then again, I'm not really sure about what can be considered graphic or not. Consider yourself warned.

As usual, there are no romantic connotations.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, nor do I get any profit for writing this. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, credits for the cover art go to kenlo (pixiv id=2892327).

Chapter 1

'A few steps. It's just a few steps. You can make it.'

Canada gritted his teeth against the pain, forcing his throbbing limbs to move. He stumbled, leaning against the wall.

When he rounded the corner, the boy was rewarded with the blurred image of his door's room. The view almost brought tears to his eyes – yet, it still looked miles away.

'Just a few steps,' he repeated in his mind, the endless litany that had accompanied his trek.

Matthew shifted his weight. His injured ankle screamed in pain, black spots filled his vision. Everything felt oddly detached, unreal. His ears were ringing. In the last, still logical corner of his mind, Matthew knew that he was about to faint.

But he couldn't afford it.

Bracing himself against the wall, Matthew kept limping forward, his good arm wrapped around his midsection and pain flaring up in every inch of his body at each movement.

Finally, after what felt like centuries, Matthew found himself slumping against the door. When he reached forward, the smooth, cold metal of the handle felt as soft as silk, the most welcome sensation he could ever imagine.

'That's it. Almost done.'

Leaning his weight against the door, the boy managed to open it and stumbled inside, mentally blessing the modern movement-sensitive lighting of the room. The big bed against the opposite wall welcomed him, the soft mattress gently rearranging itself around him when Matthew all but let himself fall on it. The movement jarred his injured ribs, eliciting a small moan from his lips as the pain spiked up.

Matthew wanted nothing more than let himself sink into the oblivion of unconsciousness, but he was aware that he couldn't afford it. Not yet.

Holding back another pained moan, the boy managed to force himself to a sitting position and kicked off his shoes, whimpering when a stab of pain went through his right ankle. Even without bending closer, he could see that it had swollen at least three times its size, the skin almost completely covered in red and deep purple patches. Hopefully, it wasn't broken, but there was no way he could rule out at least a bad sprain.

'Ice. I need some ice.'

Matthew didn't know where to find it, not without calling the hotel staff, which was the last thing he wanted – he should have some popsicles in the fridge-bar, though. Alfred had put his sugary treats there to hide them from Arthur, who was trying to force him to follow a more balanced diet…

At the thought of his brother, a sudden wave of anger surged in Matthew's chest – but he shouldn't worry about that.

With painful slowness, the boy managed to drag himself to the fridge and take out the popsicles before wrapping them around his ankle. Each movement had to be deliberately slow, every time he shifted, pain flared up in different parts of his abused body. He felt dizzy and nauseous, black spots dancing in his field of vision, but he gritted his teeth and managed to complete his task.

When Matthew finally raised his head, his bruised, beaten face looked back at him from the mirror. The ugly bruise that was starting to blossom over his left cheekbone looked even more vivid under the artificial light, his skin waxen. The right half of his face was almost completely encrusted by the blood coming from a gash on his temple, and thin ribbons of red coming from his nostrils and split lips completed the grotesque picture.

Matthew looked about as horrible as he felt.

A small, pitiful whine seeped through his lips as the boy lay down on the bed, curling up on himself to try to alleviate at least a bit the excruciating pain in his abdomen. He turned his head, automatically searching for Kumajiro's support before he remembered leaving his familiar home. He was alone. Matthew knew that it was better that way, Kumajiro wouldn't be of much help, yet, the boy found himself mourning his bear's absence, the soft, warm weight that would curl against his body, the rough tongue licking his wounds.

A lone tear slid down Matthew's cheek.

'Why me? Why always me?'

He was overreacting, and he knew that. He had had far worse than some broken bones… yet, for some reason, the way everything hurt felt unbearable. Matthew blamed it on the concussion he was sure he was sporting. Or on the hand, usually so friendly and welcoming, that had administered with cruel precision the bruises that littered his aching body.

A small, pathetic whimper bubbled up Matthew's throat. He wanted at the same time to yell and cry, but he didn't have enough strength left for either action.

'Fuck you, Al. Can't you be nice at least for once? Why can't you see what you're doing to me?!'

Well, one thing was certain. Matthew wanted to yell at his brother. He had never been that angry… no, it wasn't true, he had. Numerous times before.

The boy pictured in his mind his brother's dumb, smiling face. So arrogant, so unaware… Matthew wanted to shake Alfred, to force him to rest his eyes on every single dark bruise decorating his younger brother's pale body, to answer for all the pain he was feeling…

And suddenly, another picture wormed its way into Matthew's mind. His brother's face, waxen, his eyes widened in horror. The trembling of the older nation's hands, his shoulders hunched over. 'Oh, Mattie, I'm so sorry, I don't know how you can forgive me I'm sorry…'

The truth was, Alfred had never meant to hurt him. He was often too careless, arrogant, never thinking of the consequences of his actions, but he rarely – if ever – meant any harm. And Matthew knew that. He should know, it was his brother he was talking about.

'He has to wake up, dammit! He can't just go on this way!'

It would have been so easy to blame everything on America. Matthew was angry enough that he could do so. Or was he?

Alfred had cried so much when he had realized that he had hurt him. Matthew couldn't forget the anguish sculpted in his features, his eyes – so bright, so expressive. So earnestly crushed by guilt.

A part of Matthew wanted to think that Alfred had no right to feel sorry for himself. He was the one at fault after all, and Matthew was the one hurting. So, so much. And yet… in spite of his aching head and the dizziness that merged all his thought in a muffled spinning, Matthew knew that he couldn't blame his brother. Not entirely, at least.

Deep down, Matthew knew that he was the one at fault. America was more than ready to accept the consequences of his actions – what fault had he if Canada was so bland that everybody forgot about him, mistaking him for his older brother? Had his brother any responsibility in the fact that Matthew was so utterly pathetic that all he could do was stutter while violent hands and feet kept reaching for every part of his weak body?

No matter how hurt and confused he was, Matthew couldn't deny that it wasn't his brother's fault. And making him feel so bad for it… Matthew couldn't do that. He had withheld the truth once before, not standing to see Alfred blame himself for his injuries.

This time… this time was no different. For how much a part of Matthew wanted to lash out at Alfred, he couldn't hurt his brother another time. He couldn't.

The boy curled up tighter on himself, gasping at the pain that went through his ribs.

'I can't blame Alfred. I can't. It's not his fault, I can't blame Alfred.'

The litany accompanied Matthew until his battered body took pity on him, and his consciousness was swallowed by darkness.

Three hours earlier

The night was completely silent, the stillness of the air barely disturbed by the roaring of a car in the distance. Matthew found himself smiling, his eyes entranced by a bunch of light-coloured flowers that seemed to glow under the faint moonlight filtering through the clouds. Witnessing that peaceful scene, one would never imagine the ruckus that was going on inside. There was something to say about modern insulation, that was to admit.

Matthew sighed. He didn't feel like going back inside, but it was quite late, and the following day was going to be full. Ignored or not, it would be just rude to fall asleep during a meeting… After stealing a last glance to the peaceful view, Canada resolutely turned his back to the balcony and opened the glass door, sliding inside the building.

He had been expecting noises and screams, instead, his ears were met by an eerie silence. Matthew stopped, blinking. The hallway was completely empty, only lit by the faint green glow of the emergency lights.

I must have stayed outside for longer than I thought.

Surprising, maybe, but not too much. Matthew wasn't exactly at the peak of awareness, at that moment. After the fifth day of the conference, and consequently four nights of little to no sleep, his patience and nerves were starting to wear thin… the young personification had truly needed a moment of calm, away from the screams and insults. When he had realized that somebody had spiked the punch with vodka, Matthew had decided that it was high time for a retreat, if he didn't want to get caught in some quarrel between drunk nations. They were never pleasant.

Shaking his head at the thought, Matthew started making his way through the hallway. Everybody had to be already asleep, or passed out… next morning was going to be fun.

'Maybe I should go and check on Francis,' Matthew thought suddenly, but immediately after, he recalled seeing the man trying to drag away an extremely drunk Prussia before he destroyed yet another chandelier. Right, Francis drank only high-quality wine, he wouldn't be affected by the punch. For once, the man's snobbishness was going to help. The corner of Matthew's lips curled into a slight smile.

He didn't need to check on Arthur, either, he was drunk out of his mind, but Alfred was taking care of him. Matthew recalled his very pissed off older brother dragging away their former caretaker while simultaneously trying to prevent him from stripping naked. Maybe it could be a good bonding opportunity, Matthew was tired of their constant bickering… or maybe not, but at least, Arthur would know that Alfred cared enough not to let him make a fool of himself in public.

"And don't you dare have a single sip of that thing, Mattie, you're still underage!" Alfred had yelled before getting out of the room. Annoying, but that meant he cared. And that he remembered Matthew's age, which was quite surprising on its own.

All in all, that conference was turning out to be better than Matthew would have ever dared to expect. Yes, his brother was is usual overly loud and rambunctious self, and he had spent most of the time trying to talk over the others to make his 'heroic ideas' heard, but he hadn't completely forgotten about Canada. He had insisted for his younger brother to sit next to him, and even if he had promptly forgotten about him afterwards, there were still advantages in that position. For one, Russia wouldn't sit a mile from America, which meant that Matthew wouldn't be squashed by the nation's considerable weight. In addition to that, both Francis and Arthur had looked at him and greeted him. Even Italy had greeted him in passing, the previous day… a small smile tugged at the boy's lips. Maybe tomorrow he would even manage to say something, he had some idea that he thought could be useful. It was quite unlikely, but he was feeling hopeful.

Matthew was so engrossed in his pleasant thoughts that he didn't pay any attention to where he was going, his feet automatically retracing the steps he had gotten himself acquainted with over the last five days. He was trying in his head the way he could open his speech the following day, when, rounding a corner, his eyes fell on a big, dark shape next to the stairs, leaning heavily over the railings.

Matthew stopped short, squinting to focus his vision on the dimly lit corridor. A moment later, he recognized the tanned skin and long hair, combed in dreads.

"Hey, Cuba," he greeted, hurrying close to the older nation.

Matthew could immediately tell that there was something wrong – the man's head was down, but his hair was in disarray, and he was leaning far too heavily against the railing, as if he didn't have enough strength to keep himself upright.

Drunk, most likely.

Matthew didn't remember seeing Cuba at the after-dinner, but the man had most likely been there. And he had probably drunk some of the punch. As far as Matthew knew, Cuba had quite a high alcohol tolerance, but, judging from everybody's reaction, that thing had been strong.

"How are you feeling? Do you think you can walk? You should get back to your room…" Matthew fretted, gently laying a hand on the man's shoulder.

Cuba shook his head, mumbling something unintelligible.

Matthew's eyebrow furrowed.

'This is worse than I had thought… Will I have to carry him?'

He was strong, but Cuba was heavy, he could easily make the boy lose his balance if he started squirming too much… but it looked like there wasn't much choice.

"Come on, let me help you."

Matthew reached for Cuba's hand, meaning wrap the man's arm around his shoulder. Cuba finally reacted at the movement, raising his head.

"America…" he growled.

Matthew sighed. Of course Cuba wasn't going to recognize him if he were drunk. Not when he still got mistaken when he was sober, even if more and more rarely… The task of dragging the man to a room had suddenly become ten times more difficult.

"No, it's me, Canada. Come on, you shouldn't stay he—"

Pain exploded in Matthew's left cheekbone as something hard connected with it. The boy found himself falling to the ground, he barely had the time to brace himself for the impact. He immediately brought a hand to his aching face, shakily pushing himself off the floor. The blow had been strong enough to leave his ears ringing, bright white spots were dancing in front of his eyes.

"What the hell, C—"

Matthew wasn't left the time to complete the sentence.

"America, you fucking bastard!"

With surprising agility for one that hadn't been able to stay on his feet a few moments earlier, Cuba pouched at the younger nation. Before he had had time to regain his bearings, Canada felt himself being violently shoved backwards – just towards the flight of stairs.

The boy cried out, half in surprise and half in complaint, as he frantically tried to regain his footing, but Cuba's blow had been too strong, and Matthew was still dazed from the previous hit. He landed awkwardly on the edge of a step with his right leg, which wasn't strong enough to support all his weight. Accompanied by a sharp snap and a wave of agony that surged from his ankle and spread over the whole limb, Matthew's leg buckled under him. The boy couldn't restrain a pained howl as his body rolled down the flight of stairs, the sharp edges of the steps digging into his soft skin, until he finally landed in a heap at the bottom.

For some long, interminable instants, Matthew could only lie there, gasping, his whole body enveloped by agony.

Finally, the boy's mind started to clear up enough to let him make an inventory of his possible injuries. Matthew squinted, trying to clear his vision from the dark edges that had started swallowing it. His head was hurting horribly from the impact with the edge of a step, he could feel something wet roll down his temple. Blood. A concussion, most likely. 'Great, just what I needed.' The rest of his body was throbbing in various places, his stomach churning in response to the pain. Matthew knew that he was going to wake up covered in black and blue bruises the following day. And his right leg – oh, his leg. When Matthew tried to move it, the rush of pain was so bad that he felt like puking. An agonized moan seeped through his lips. Oh, there was no way he was going to get up. And his head was spinning so bad…

The sound of heavy footsteps reverberating in the silence brought the boy back to reality.

"Cuba, what the hell…" he mumbled, trying to ignore the dizziness and pain and roll over to face the older nation.

He succeeded only halfway, he wasn't even on his side when Cuba's shadow fell on him as the man bent over him.

For a moment, Matthew was sure that Cuba had realized his mistake and was going to help him up, but the illusion was quickly shattered when the nation's large fingers closed over the fabric of Matthew's shirt. The boy barely caught a glimpse of Cuba's frowning face as he was none too gently hauled to his feet. The older man's hot breath blew in Matthew's face, invading his nostril with a sickly pungent scent – alcohol. Matthew barely had the time process the information, a slight twist of fear in a corner of his mind, before he was slammed against the wall, and any rational thought faded.

Winded by the blow, Matthew didn't even have the strength to cry out. A strangled gasp seeped through his lips at the sudden spike of pain that shot through his leg and head, intensifying the churning in his stomach. It was far too clear that Cuba was still thinking he was America.

Trying to suppress a cough and ignore the ringing in his ears, Canada forced himself to pry his eyes open and talk, looking squarely at the wavering face in front of him.

"C—Cuba, please…"

His faint plead was cut short by a violent blow to his stomach. Matthew gasped at the wave of agony that washed over him, his lips open in a silent scream. He would have doubled over, but Cuba's hand kept him pressed against the wall, digging into his neck.

"You had it coming, you fucking bastard!"

Almost blinded by the pain, Matthew could do nothing as the enraged nation drove his fist against his stomach, again and again, without giving him a single moment of respite.

When Cuba finally loosened the hold on his neck, the boy crumbled to the ground, curling up on himself. He sputtered and coughed, desperately trying to regain his breath, his arms pressed against his stomach. He felt like he had been trampled by a hoard of elephants, the pain radiating from his stomach to engulf his whole body, his muscles writhing in agony. It was almost too much to bear, Matthew feared that he was on the verge of passing out – and the ringing in his ears and waves of nausea that were washing over him certainly seemed to validate his theory. A corner of the boy's dazed mind vaguely complimented himself on not eating lunch nor dinner, or any food ingested would have been a puddle on the floor – then, the reality of the situation hit Matthew like a ton of bricks.

Cuba was beating him up. Again. But this time was different, worse. With his rage amplified by his drunken state, the nation wasn't pulling any blow – there was no telling where he would stop. If he would stop at all. His mind felt so muddled that he could barely think, a ringing was drowning out any rational thought, but Matthew knew that he had to do something. If only he could make Cuba realize his mistake…

Forcing his eyes open, Matthew tried to ignore the dark edges around his vision and focus on the blurry figure that was standing in front of him, apparently contemplating his trembling frame.

"C—cuba…" Matthew's voice was even lower than usual, nothing but a feeble moan, but he forced himself to go on. "P—please, stop, I…"

He saw Cuba lift his foot, and his brain screamed at his limbs to move, but for some reason, they didn't seem to cooperate. Before Matthew could even move an inch, Cuba's foot crashed heavily against his unprotected side, making his body twitch in agony.

"Don't try to beg, America!"

Matthew couldn't have done it anyway, the blow had left him completely winded, he could hardly draw a breath – he couldn't even cry out, in spite of the agonizing pain. He tried to raise his arms in a pathetic attempt to protect himself, but his left shoulder twitched in protest – dislocated, maybe. Or broken. He couldn't tell through the haze of pain that seemed to block any rational thought.

Cuba didn't leave the boy time to do anything else. With an enraged growl, the man kicked him again on his already aching stomach, a flash of white agony that engulfed all of Matthew's senses for a moment. But Cuba didn't stop. His kicks kept reaching every part of Matthew's body, getting progressively stronger and stronger.

All the while, the man was spluttering slurred insults mixed with growls, but Matthew couldn't make out his words, he could hardly hear anything above the intense ringing in his ears, only fragments of what the enraged nation was yelling. "Bastard," seemed to be prevalent. Along with "America", "you fucker", and "you're gonna fucking cry". But there was something wrong. And not only in how heavy the blows were – there was something wrong in the way Cuba was speaking.

Through the haze of pain, it took Matthew embarrassingly long to realize that the man was starting to slur his sentences. 'Drunk', he suddenly remembered. And in spite of that, Matthew didn't feel any better. The pain wasn't going away, Cuba was still hitting him – still insulting him with a name that wasn't even his. Cuba, who was supposed to be his friend. Whose blows didn't show any sign of slowing down.

Matthew knew that he should have moved, but he was in too much pain to do so, his limbs weren't answering him, twitching in pain when he tried to shift them. A twinge of fear surged in his confused mind. He tried several times to beg for Cuba – his friend – to stop, but he could hardly breathe, and everything was muffled by the haze of pain, Matthew couldn't tell whether he had actually talked or not.

And suddenly, there was nothing but agony. A more violent kick had reached Matthew's ribcage, the boy felt the bones bend inward in a way they weren't supposed to before giving away with a snap under the weight of the foot pressing on them. Matthew tried to scream in pain, but only a strangled moan seeped thought his lips. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think – his body instinctively tried to curl into a ball to protect itself from the searing agony, but another violent kick sent him sprawled on his back.

Matthew coughed in a desperate attempt to regain his breath, the spires of agony growing more and more intense with each spasm. He had to breathe, he had to move away, he had to – everything faded into an explosion of pain as another blow reached his injured side. The boy's body couldn't take it anymore. He had no more control over his limbs or his heaving lungs.

"This is what you deserve, America…" he heard from afar, and he could almost feel something hit his body, but didn't process it as his consciousness faded into darkness.

Matthew woke up with a groan, with his head pounding and the distinct feeling that there was something wrong. When he tried to take a deep breath, a wave of agony seared through his ribcage. The boy whimpered. Oh, he did remember what was wrong, now.

Matthew opened his eyes, grimacing at the spike of pain that went through his brain. The sunrays seemed to stab his temples, increasing his headache, and his eyes took far too long to focus fully on the ceiling. He hadn't been sure the previous night, after he had woken up on the floor and managed to drag himself to his room, but now, the boy could tell it with certainty: he had a concussion. It didn't even feel like a slight one. And every single inch of his body was hurting too.

Matthew groaned. How he wished that he could just go back to sleep… but with his luck, somebody was bound to notice his absence the only time he didn't need them to.

'At least today is Saturday, and tomorrow is free… I can do it,' Matthew tried to console himself as he started bracing himself against the pain that was sure to follow.

Sitting up was just as bad as he had imagined, it took every inch of his will not to cry out. His abdomen and ribs protested violently against the movements, sending waves of pain that made Matthew's stomach lurch.

But Canada wasn't new to pain. Gritting his teeth, the boy forced himself to stay still and breathe shallowly until the pain faded to a slightly more bearable level, and his vision started to clear. Not completely – there were still blurred edges – but Matthew wasn't about to faint anymore. He would manage, if he were careful.

Gingerly, Matthew unbuttoned his shirt and took it off along with the jacket. His shoulder twitched in pain at the movement, eliciting a gasp from the boy's lips. It had been dislocated in the fall, and he had tried to set it the day before when he had woken up, but apparently, he hadn't done such a good job. The boy could move his arm, but it felt swollen and weak, and his muscles seized in pain when he tried a slightly ampler movement.

'Well, it's not like I can do any better for now. It will have to heal on its own.'

With a soft sigh, Matthew decided to leave the matter for another time and slowly turned to face the mirror. The sight that welcomed him made the boy grimace in revulsion. To put it simply, Matthew looked horrid: the blood had caked around his face and hair in a cracked, brown mask, and his left cheekbone, while thankfully not swollen, had turned to such an intense hue of purple that Matthew's own eyes faded before it. The visible skin was stark white and tight with pain, his lips bloodless.

Matthew sent mental thanks at Francis, who had given him some concealer to hide the bags under his eyes the day before – and at the same time, he grimaced at the thought of getting up and washing his face and hair. He felt almost nauseous anticipating the pain, but gritted his teeth and shelved the issue for when he would have to deal with it.

With methodical accuracy, he moved to examine his abdomen. It looked even worse than his face, almost completely covered in deep purple and black patches. His left side looked particularly bad – Matthew gingerly lifted his hand and tried to press a finger against his ribs. Even the light pressure made him double over, the pain radiating from his side so fierce that for a moment he couldn't even breathe – all his thoughts faded in an explosion of white.

When he regained his bearings, Matthew could feel hot tears pressing against his squeezed lids.

'Okay. Definitely broken. Not doing that again.'

The boy had strongly hoped that his ribs were only badly bruised, but he knew the feeling far too well. For how much he would have liked to deny it, there was no use lying to himself. Matthew tried to console himself with the knowledge that no broken bones had pierced his lungs – while every intake of breath felt like he was being stabbed, his lungs could expand without problems. That was a relief, he had experienced collapsed lungs more than a few times before and he wasn't keen on repeating the experience.

His stomach was coiled in pain, the muscles throbbing painfully and protesting at each movement. Matthew knew that he wasn't going to attempt eating any time soon, and from how dark the bruises looked and how every light touch ignited sparks of agony, he could tell that there was probably some internal bruising. No bleeding, however. It had been more than a few hours since he had been beaten up, and Matthew knew that he would have felt it by now, and it would have been infinitely worse than how he was feeling. The searing agony of internal bleeding and gastric acids spreading through his abdominal cavity wasn't something he was going to ever forget, not experiencing it again was a blessing.

Matthew frowned at the pale reflection in the mirror.

"Stop whining," he hissed out loud, "You've had worse. You're not a little colony anymore, what kind of nation are you, if you cannot even handle a little beating?"

Except it hadn't been so little, and Matthew looked anything but all right. And it wasn't fair that he had to feel like that when it wasn't even…

"Stop the pity parade," he growled again.

It wasn't his fault, and at the same time, it was. America would have defended himself, in the same situation. Alfred… Matthew couldn't deny that he was angry at him. He felt betrayed, hurt by his brother's nonchalant arrogance and obliviousness. But those were only feelings.

'I made a promise. I cannot blame Al, it's not really his fault. He would feel so awful…'

Alfred wouldn't know anything. He must not even realize that Matthew was injured in the first place. And Canada was good at making himself unnoticed, at blending into his surroundings, wasn't he?

The resolution gave Matthew enough strength to stand from his bed and start preparing himself for the day, ignoring the way the muscles of his stomach coiled in agony and the waves of pain that washed over his body at each movement. Putting the weight on his injured ankle made him almost cry out and stumble, which in turn made his injured ribs grate against each other, but when the roaring in his ears receded to a faint ringing and his vision started to clear, Matthew managed to find some sort of precarious balance. Moving around wasn't easy, limping made his ribs shift awkwardly and his stomach roll in pain, but he could manage not to faint. Barely, but that was what truly counted.

Half an hour later, Matthew had managed to make himself presentable. His face and hair had been washed, a band-aid was hidden behind his bangs and the bruise decently covered by foundation. Three tablets of Tylenol extra strength were hopefully going to dull the pain at least a bit – it wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. Hopefully, it was going to be enough for Alfred (and anybody else, but Alfred was his main concern) not to notice anything.

Feeling somewhat proud of his accomplishment, Matthew finally left his room and headed for the conference hall with almost thirty minutes to spare. He was lucky to be so early, it meant that nobody would see him as he stumbled along the corridors, often leaning heavily against the wall. The boy thanked every God whose name he knew for the presence of an elevator, he would have never managed to climb down the stairs.

When he finally reached the designed room and sank on his chair, Matthew was so dizzy that he could barely think, blurred edges threatened to swallow his vision and the throbbing muscles of his stomach were rolling with waves of nausea, but if he breathed shallowly and stayed slightly hunched over, with his arms pressed against his middle, he could manage not to faint. That would be enough.

Little by little, other nations started filling the room. None of them noticed Canada – but they barely spoke to each other, either. They were all shuffling along, pale and slightly unsteady on their feet, squinting at the too bright lights. Matthew suddenly realized that most of them were hungover. Not being noticed would be even easier.

And for some reason, the thought wasn't as pleasant as it should have been. Cuba had just staggered into the room, looking paler than Matthew had ever seen him, his hair still slightly in disarray and his steps unsteady. He looked better than unmoving lump Matthew had left at the bottom of the stairs the previous night (or early in the morning? He honestly couldn't tell) but not by much. He had changed his clothes however, he must have woken up at some point and gotten back to his room. Matthew wondered what Cuba had thought upon finding himself passed out on the floor, if he remembered something about what had happened. It didn't look like so, he didn't spare a single glance at Canada.

Matthew knew that the other nation hadn't meant to hurt him. He knew that Cuba had troubles controlling his temper, and the alcohol had only increased his anger. He knew that Cuba was actually fond of him, they were friends, the older nation had even started misplacing him less and less over the years… Matthew hadn't expected him to do that again after that summer. And he knew that Cuba probably wouldn't have, if it hadn't been for the alcohol numbing his thoughts. He knew that. But somehow, it still hurt. Was he really that insignificant?

Matthew's mood only worsened when his brother finally showed up. America almost tore open the door, announcing his presence with a dazzling smile and a loud voice that made the hungover nations collectively groan in pain. His steps were confident, his shoulders squared. In moments like that, Canada understood perfectly why nobody seemed to consider him before his older brother. How could they? It wasn't even Alfred's fault. America was just like that, he was so strong and lively, he didn't let himself be put down by anything.

If anything, it was Matthew's fault. He was the one who didn't manage to make himself recognizable. If only he had some distinguishing feature, the others would tell him apart from America. If he talked more loudly, if he weren't such a pushover. And that was all his fault, Alfred shouldn't have to suffer for it.

Such thoughts accompanied Matthew for the entire duration of the conference. He tried to take his mind off them as he listened to Germany's speech, and Denmark's after his, but he could barely make out their words at times, their voices sounded like they were coming from far away. It was far more important that Matthew concentrated on not shifting, or he wouldn't be able to restrain at least a whimper… and to think he had been sure he could try to take part in the discussion, the previous day. Oh, how the tables had turned… Canada almost felt like laughing. Or crying. But neither was a good idea, seeing that he could barely breathe.

At least, Alfred wasn't paying any attention to him, too busy teasing a clearly hungover and snappy Arthur when he wasn't talking. Matthew couldn't really fathom how his brother could find that amusing, Arthur's normal sarcasm got almost cruel when he was in that mood… but he should be glad that Alfred was distracted, he didn't want to get his attention. And instead, his chest clenched when his brother's eyes swept over him without ever stopping.

God, I'm such a whiny baby…

Matthew's mood wasn't improved by the fact that the slight action of the painkillers faded over the morning, letting the pain in his ribs increase steadily. By midday, even a shallow breath sent spires of agony spreading all over his abdomen, Matthew had to actively restrain himself from whimpering in pain. How he wanted to just lie down…

Finally, Germany's voice tore through the light chattering that Matthew had barely noticed until then.

"I see that nobody seems to be concentrating on this talk!" Sounding more and more irritated, the nation started reprimanding everybody on how they were all adult (well, not really) and should be responsible enough ('should' was the keyword in Matthew's opinion, but Germany seemed to have a higher opinion of other nations than Matthew had) not to get completely wasted during conference time. Matthew had started losing interest in the lecture, trying to concentrate on more important things (not fainting, for example) when suddenly, Germany uttered the sweetest words the boy could have ever imagined: "…And since we aren't getting to anything, I propose we cut it short here for today. Tomorrow is a free day, you have more than enough time to recuperate. I want to see everybody alert and full of propositions on Monday."

Nobody contradicted Germany. Without a single complaint, all the other nations started gathering their papers and getting up from the chairs, the chatter rising in volume.

Matthew couldn't believe his luck. One day and a half. He wouldn't be healed by then, Cuba had clearly meant harm and those injuries would take at least a couple of weeks to fade, but he had time to come up with a plan. And his concussion would get better in the meantime, everything would be easier when his head wasn't throbbing and spinning so much.

Matthew waited for all the other nations to leave the room before attempting to get up the chair. It wasn't easy at all, every inch of his body screamed in pain at the movement and his stomach curled and turned in protest, but he was standing. And he could walk.

Well, sort of. His ankle couldn't support his weight (Matthew was strongly starting to suspect that it wasn't even simply sprained, but broken. Joy.) but he couldn't properly limp, either, when he tried, his ribs protested so violently that for a moment everything faded in a red wave of agony. He could shuffle leaning against the wall, however. If nobody noticed him…

The illusion was shattered a few feet from the elevator by a loud voice that would have been welcome in any other moment, but made Matthew's stomach coil with dread.

"Hey, Mattie!"

The boy managed to turn to see his brother reach him with long strides, his eyes bright behind the glasses and his white-toothed smile unwavering.

"We have a free afternoon, aren't you glad? I was thinking that we could get a bit of air, there should be an ancient church somewhere near, and Feli told me that the town centre is really cute! He and Lovino came here a day earlier just to see it, you know?"

It would have been a wonderful idea, had Matthew been healthy. And Alfred had immediately thought about him… how could Matthew hurt him? He had to hide everything, but it was looking more and more difficult…

"If you're not too tired, of course. Have you slept? You look kinda pale… I mean, you're always pale, but you look paler than usual…"

His brother was squinting at him, his brow furrowed in concern. Matthew mentally thanked him for providing him with the perfect excuse.

"I would really love to," he said, mustering a weak smile. "But… actually… I am quite tired. I'm sorry, I just…"

Alfred's expression softened.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about it, then," he assured earnestly, "Sleep is important. Just go to your room and have a nap, all right? I'll check on you for dinner."

The first part was okay. The second wasn't. But maybe, Matthew could pretend to be asleep when Alfred came… Would his brother wake him up to make sure he ate something?

"Oh, hey there, Artie!"

At Alfred's voice, Matthew turned automatically towards the slight figure that was slowly making his way through the corridor. Arthur looked horrible, his shoulders were hunched over and his hair in disarray. If his vision hadn't been wavering, Matthew was sure he could have seen a sickly pallid hue on the man's skin.

"You know, I wanted to have a walk around," Alfred went on cheerfully, "Matthew said that he couldn't come with me, so why don't you, if you're 'perfectly fine'?"

From the lightly teasing intonation of his brother's voice, Matthew was sure that his question was some sort of joke or the continuation of a previous discussion. Alfred had taken care of Arthur the previous evening, after all.

His theory was confirmed by Arthur's sputtered answer. It was something about having work to do since he was the Meeting's host, but Matthew was having troubles concentrating on his words.

Next to him, Alfred laughed good-naturedly.

"Busy, uh? Is that the British English for hungover, is it, Mattie?"

Matthew didn't know how to answer without aggravating one of his brothers.

He didn't have to. Still laughing, Alfred elbowed him in his tender left side, and everything faded in a blinding explosion of agony.

All the air left Matthew's lungs in a strangled gasp, the boy vaguely felt his knees give away under him. He couldn't breathe, his chest was heaving in agony, the pain spreading all over his body, his eyes were still open but he couldn't see anything… His hands shot out in a desperate search for support and grabbed Alfred's shirt. Matthew felt his brother's hands support his body, easing his descent. He didn't exactly fall – more likely ended up on his knees, hunched over, leaning against Alfred's strong body.

"Mattie?! Shit, Mattie, what's wrong?!" he could hear his brother call him from far away.

Shit. Shit!

Alfred shouldn't have known. Matthew wanted to answer him, but all he could do was desperately cough and gasp for breath as waves of agony and nausea spread from his abdomen to his entire body.

"Alfred, what the hell did you do to him?!" Arthur's voice had joined Alfred's, it sounded even further away, Matthew could barely hear it, above the buzzing in his ears.

"I—I didn't do anything!" his brother sounded frantic, panicked. "I just— Matthew, answer me!"

One of Alfred's hand was tapping his face, almost a slap, but gentler. A corner of Matthew's mind had the presence to be grateful that it wasn't his injured cheek.

He tightened his fingers around Alfred's shirt, desperately trying to ground himself.

"It—" he managed to wheeze before his abdomen spasmed again, making him gasp in pain.

"What, Matthew?"

Arthur's voice sounded almost stern, but the hand that landed on Matthew's head was gentle.

"Mattie?" Alfred echoed him, panicked. Still sounding far away.

Matthew swallowed painfully, trying to calm down his churning stomach. He managed to suck in a shallow breath, the ringing in his ears slowly receding.

"It wasn't Alfred's fault."

(word count: 7,165)

Notes:

End of the first chapter! I hope you liked it, even if it was just an introduction. This was extremely difficult to write, and I'm pretty sure I messed up the scene with Cuba, which was so frustrating… (the scene was perfectly formed in my mind, but writing it down? Uugh I was never satisfied, it took me forever. Still not satisfied, but I'm never satisfied of my works). Anyway, next chapter will probably be un in a week or a bit later. I'll try to be quicker, but my schedule is quite full at the moment, so I don't think it will be possible.

Since a few months ago, I'm also on tumblr! (my username there is feynavaley) Except for reblogging, I've also written some of my headcanons and they all apply to my stories, in case you're interested (points that might be of interest: how injuries and illnesses work for nations, some other general things about being a nation, and why I write Canada as the younger brother. Please read that post before leaving reviews only to complain about it, because this headcanon is based on canonical evidence and it's not something I'm going to back off from.)

IMPORTANT! Canada is using Tylenol because all the other light painkillers should be taken after eating (which he can't do at the moment) or they often result in an upset stomach, especially if you take a high dose. I thought Canada would know that. Also, the dose of Tylenol he took is too high, but he's doing that because he would actually need stronger painkillers, some opiate probably, and since he's nation he's less likely to suffer from adverse effects. DO NOT take 3 Tylenol extra strength (I hope that nobody takes medical advice from things they have read in fanfiction, but one can never be careful enough and I've heard some things that made me realize I should probably write this). 2 is fine if you're over 14 years old, 50 kg and with a bad fever (in fact, in Italy we have a formulation that has directly 1 mg of acetaminophen), but NEVER 3.

English is still not my first language, I apologize for the mistakes and oddly-phrased sentences. If you have time, I'd be really grateful if you pointed out anything wrong you found :)

Please tell me what you think!