Scheming Weasel (Or, The Title That Failed)
Rating: M for Mature, due to FOUL LANGUAGE, some weird imagery, fail and not-AIDS.
Summary: It's Valentine's Day and strange things are afoot at Canada's house. Ludwig ponders a lot. Gilbert is making something weird in the kitchen. And Matthew is… plotting deviously?
Note: written for the LJ community prussiaxcanada's Valentine's exchange. Freaking late as hell to post this here, but oh well. Whatever. Also: slightly dark!Canada, use of human names... er. Yes. Somehow I sense that I've missed a typo somewhere, so if you find any, feel free to point it out. (And grammar mistakes, etc., as well.)
And for the record: written months ago, and it remains my first-ever voyage into writing Hetalia. Forgive the blatant OOC and whatever else, plox.
ETA: Edited for massive French!fail. Even though I have an Oxford English-French mini dictionary on my desk for this very reason, I STILL manage to fart it all up. Thanks to orangepencils for pointing out that massive error.
Mein Gott, that Matthew Williams was a terribly odd little thing. So much so, in fact, that Ludwig still had not devised a proper method of interaction with the man, at least not to his satisfaction. Using "He's the enemy" was no longer an option, as those particular wars were long over, and he couldn't reasonably excuse himself by blaming the Canadian's invisibility effect during Summit meetings. Not when he had dinner at the man's house once or twice a week, and definitely not when he'd been having dinner there once or twice a week for over a year, anyway. At this point he ought to be able to begin (hell, even keep) a conversation going with the shorter blonde without awkwardness, but all he could really manage was a stiff, overly cordial quietude that left Ludwig highly uncomfortable with himself.
Matthew Williams lived in a house that was a tad too modest for the neighbourhood in which it was located. Unlike Francis, Arthur and Alfred – all of whom had disgustingly impressive homes – Matthew seemed content with a little white picket fence at the front, a bland pathway made of a stone he didn't recognize leading to a front porch with a weather-worn overhang. It was only two stories, with two bedrooms and study, and two bathrooms. There was no basement; although Gilbert said something about a cold cellar and Matthew complained about the squirrel infestation they'd had in the miniscule attic. The paint on the outside was peeling a little, and the home was tiny compared to those on either side of it. Or so it seemed to passers by: the front of the house was as unassuming as the back was a masterpiece in gardening.
As for the inside of the house… Ludwig was at a loss. He'd never seen anything quite like it before, yet he recognized his brother's handiwork in nearly everything Ludwig laid his eyes on. By all rights, none of the present patterns or colours should have worked together at all: weird assortments of reds, browns, greens and oranges with a dominating amount of blacks and silvers. Wallpaper and paint came together on the walls in a freakish display that for some ungodly reason seemed to work, and the German found himself fascinated by the whorls of red and white in the pitch-black colour of the handrails going up the carpeted stairs, matching the baseboards along the walls. If he wasn't careful he found himself distracted by the ceiling, which, regardless of where you were in the house, depicted all sorts of… interesting… things.
Ludwig couldn't help but be impressed by the murals, although he privately thought that the subject matter wasn't exactly appropriate for a home that occasionally invited youths (that Sealand kid) in. He thought it quite clever, too, in a uniquely Canadian, passive-aggressive way: Matthew was oft forgotten by the others, and Gilbert was no longer a nation at all, yet rather than waste their breaths it seemed a great deal more fun to subtly remind visitors of their presence and past victories by painting them all over the ceilings. The huge German could remember the day Arthur and Alfred discovered this new development: Alfred had stormed from the house in a rage, roaring about capitals and the burning thereof. But what truly surprised him was that the Canadian had not included the defeat of Nazi Germany – in the place of that victory was a happy scene of Canadian soldiers toasting a crowd of Germans, who were applauding their newly-gained independence from the United Kingdom.
There was, however, a rather small but highly grotesque section of ceiling containing Adolf Hitler's severed head being impaled by a spear as a large bear humped his left ear. Ludwig couldn't find the courage to ask which of the two had put it there, and neither Matthew nor Gilbert offered it up of their own accord.
Most of the carpeting was white, a fact, which, at first, horrified Ludwig. How the hell was it so clean? He wondered. Gilbert was an absolute pig and yet the carpets were pristine! HOW? The question burned within him but he never could bring himself to ask it. He also wanted to ask why the sofas and armchairs and other furniture were a cream-colour instead of mimicking the theme on the walls, but it occurred to him later that if they were anything but, they would most likely throw everything else off. They wouldn't match the white carpets if they were white – that would be too much white, yes of course, too much of one thing on the floor. And if they were any of the colours on the walls, they'd blend in to the walls and that wouldn't do, either. They had to stand out somewhat. Accentuate the rest of the house, or whatever.
Thinking about this sort of thing made him feel positively gay. He was a soldier, a warrior for god's sake; he was not some wretched home décor specialist!
Damn you, Martha Stewart! Ludwig thought viciously.
And then there was the stuff Matthew owned – most of what was in the house had been there long before Gilbert moved in. Naked anthropomorphic elephant statues copulating with one another, odd assortments of dragon, unicorn and figurines of things Ludwig had never heard of before. (What was a Sasquatch, anyway? And what did the Canadian mean by "I hope the foot fetishists never find him"?) A large number of books, more than the man could count, adorned mahogany shelves situated in every room. Some paintings that were no doubt Gilbert's idea – a riff on the American Gothic painting, only with Pikachu and Sarah Palin, and another that apparently was supposed to be The Scream – only the figure within it looked suspiciously like Ivan Braginski.
It was not the sort of house Ludwig expected from the Canadian, even with his brother added into the mix. He had expected the outside, certainly, but the inside was like a whirlwind had taken bits and pieces of both Gilbert and Matthew's personalities and hurled them haphazardly around. The fact that Matthew had allowed his home to look like it did indicated either one of two things, or two of two: the first being that it had already looked pretty much the same way, only without the ceiling murals and weird paintings, and secondly, that Matthew had always wanted to do something like this but had simply never had anyone to encourage (or help) him. Ludwig had listened to his brother rant enough times now to know that none of the blonde's family approved of his home style, and there had been more shouting matches than could be counted on both hands. And he had also had the misfortune of stumbling upon the young man crying into his bear's fur one too many times to cast it off as anything less than what he believed it to be.
Matthew was odd. He confused the German. A lot. There were too many factors to consider, too many facets to scrutinize and Ludwig simply could not keep up. He remembered the greenhorn during the Great War, his hesitation to kill, and how, by the time they next crossed paths, that same greenhorn had become a bloodthirsty monster. The Canadian's eyes had been a hysterical violet, and he had laughed bitterly, madly, as he lead his people forward to crash repeatedly against the German lines; how the youth's berserker force sent Ludwig's men into paroxysms of terror on sight. He remembered the desperation that drove his enemy into a ferocity that shocked the other Allies – and the Axis, as well.
He remembered, too, the way they all had to do a head count at every meeting just to ensure Matthew was there. How many times the blonde had whimpered piteously until somebody – usually either Ludwig or Alfred – realized that Ivan was sitting on him and threw the Russian off. He recalled the frustration at the Canadian's inability to raise his voice to even remotely sound commanding, thereby voiding whatever point he was trying to make. How he allowed Alfred to bellow and thump his chest for him, unable to really stand up against his more powerful sibling. How Sealand kept trying to take his place, disguising himself as the Canadian until inevitably caught by Arthur and tossed from the room.
But then, Ludwig had seen Matthew walk out of meetings in protest – an act that shouldn't have had an effect, but brought meetings to a screeching halt nonetheless as whatever it was being discussed involved Canada in such a manner as to require his input. He'd seen the youth hurl photographs at other nations to prove points, and stab his finger down onto the table, his voice becoming a venomous hiss that still barely rose above a whisper but nevertheless alerted those present to a cliff-edge they hadn't known they were nearing. And Ludwig remembered that Alfred backed down every time, face flushed and full of a confused sort of angry shame whenever Matthew turned those eyes and that voice on him during a meeting. He knew, unlike most of the other nations, the reason why Alfred always backed off; it was not an issue of respect or of brotherly love, as some of them suggested. Instead, it was fear. Wariness.
Ludwig wasn't stupid, but he didn't know exactly what scared the American so much. He, like many others, knew that the North American siblings were essentially bound at the hip; they had cross-connections and were interlaced so deeply that in times of struggle, both suffered near-equally. That didn't explain Alfred's apprehension, though. Canada may have been the second largest country in terms of landmass, the majority of that land was under-populated in comparison to the United States; Alfred could boast of a much greater population than his quiet sibling. His military was also greater, if only because he focused more on that element than his brother did. Provided Canada did something to warrant an invasion (thereby losing necessary allies and possible help), Alfred could overpower his brother easily and take whatever he wanted for himself.
But Alfred never pushed it too far. It was no secret that he wanted Matthew's natural resources, or that he wanted them badly. It was also no secret that Alfred tended to forget his place, claiming stuff that his brother had been claiming for years and trying to get away with it by the simple virtue of Alfred being a lot louder than Matthew – a concept that wasn't new at all. The most vocal get their way, and so on. And yet, there were occasions where Ludwig thought it seemed as if Alfred was in a dreamland, and he'd been awakened by Matthew's anger only to find a demon howling in his face. And so Alfred would back down, at least for a little while, and he would watch Matthew uneasily as the latter shot daggers at him from his eyes.
Such meetings ended quickly. It disturbed the other nations, to say the least.
The relationship between Matthew and Ivan was a curiosity as well. Not just to Ludwig, but everyone else. Matthew seemed to be the only person alive willing to look the Russian in the eye with neither fear or hate. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the large man's company (when he wasn't being squashed at meetings), and they had the odd tendency to get together to watch or play hockey… and ultimately end up beating one another into bloody pulps. That is, when they weren't figure skating. He had to believe that such skating helped a player's performance on the ice, but it was still incredibly weird to see a nation as seemingly kind as Matthew prancing about with a nation as intimidating as Ivan on the ice to some kind of Russian techno pop music.
Of course, the younger man's relationships in general were weird. It shouldn't have been possible to be friends with Ivan, that Cuba guy, Switzerland (whatever his real name was) and his sister (whatever her name was, Ludwig hardly dared to ask as he didn't fancy getting close enough to ask and thus, close enough to being shot in the head), as well as Katyusha and her sister. The Canadian's social circle was frighteningly eclectic, and much larger than many seemed to realize; certain nations remembered him far more easily and quickly than others, and Ludwig figured they were the ones that mattered to Matthew the most. Still, it was hard to imagine anyone being so open-minded as to place Ivan and, say, France on the same (more or less, anyway) level of consideration.
Matthew was a lot of things, too many things, and Ludwig wasn't sure if he would ever figure the kid out.
He wasn't sure if he wanted to, anyway. The guy was pretty freaking weird.
Meanwhile, elsewhere…
"Talk to corporate—LIKE A BAWSS! Approve memos—LIKE A BAWSS! FUCKIN' PROMOTE SYNERGEEEEEEEEEE!"
"Eat a bagel!" somebody else hollered from somewhere in the house.
Gilbert cackled, enjoying both the look on his brother's face and the way his chick cheeped in tune to the Prussian's not-quite-dancing in the kitchen as he fluttered here and there, amazingly not in a panic over ruining whatever the hell it was he was making. "BOMBS THE RUSSIANS!" he yelled.
"…now you're dead!" Matthew called back slowly, laughter evident in his voice. "Anyway, whatever happened to the giant fish in the sewers? And doing it? Doesn't that come first?"
"Who cares? My Gilbird is better," Gilbert shouted. "And your bear would be more appropriate, he's the right size and a fish's scales would chafe my balls." Ludwig appeared horrified even as Matthew let out a disgusted noise. The elder – yet smaller – of the two merely shook his head and grinned in a disturbingly maniacal, and altogether 'I own the mysteries of the universe that pertain to this household' sort of way. "Oh, piffle. C'mon, bro, it's not that fucking gross."
"'Piffle'?" Ludwig deadpanned. His brother pointed to the chick.
"Little ears, and all that," said Gilbert, conveniently forgetting all the 'fucks' and 'shits' he'd been letting out. "Mustn't corrupt the youth of today, ya know?"
Ludwig twitched. "Hn. I see…" he said, although he really didn't and Gilbert knew it.
Gilbert knew he shouldn't be as amused by it all, or at least, not to the extent that he was. He just couldn't help himself. Ludwig was a lot more curious than people gave him credit for, although perhaps if they had been Gilbert they wouldn't have put as much stock into the blonde's willpower as they tended to. While the larger of the two men curtailed his interest to an acceptable level in general, this policy was not so when the subject was his sibling, or his sibling's personal life. Oh hell yeah, he denied it of course, but Gilbert knew damn well that Ludwig kept trying to go through his sock drawers. Gott only knew what he would find; let alone what he was looking for in the first place…
And the little bugger still tried to feign innocence, acting as if he always minded his own business. HAH!
Of course, Matthew was a bit of a different story. Ludwig wasn't exactly trying to hide his curiosity this time around, nor was he putting up too much of a front about his own intentions. Despite the age difference (who raised who, damn it?) it seemed as if Ludwig was in full Big Brother mode, or that he seemed to think that this new guy warranted a cockblocker. As if Gilbert couldn't fend off some measly little blonde bitch on his own, hoho, yeah right! He did not need his little – um, younger – brother who was a giant in comparison to him to protect him from soft-spoken little Canada. What-fucking-ever. He was the great Prussia! He chose to ignore the outright fact that, had their positions been reversed, Gilbert would be doing the same thing… although Feliciano wasn't as complicated as Matthew, in the sense that any ulterior motives he had, he made plain. So it was a lot different. Kind of.
The damn Canadian was rubbing off on him a little too much, though. It was Valentine's Day and he'd invited Ludwig over at Matthew's suggestion – what the fuck? As if he didn't have anything to dooooooh, wait, he didn't – the Italian was trapped at his brother's house because Lovino thought Ludwig would shove a potato up his butt. Or something. Matthew didn't want Ludwig to be so lonely… ugh. Yet Gilbert had relented, inviting his brother over even though he knew damn well it would annihilate any chance of getting laid that day as he'd hoped because his boyfriend was a damn prude.
"Kesesese~" he chortled to himself, pretending to be oblivious to Ludwig's concerned stare. The day was still salvageable. The German was sufficiently disturbed by Matthew's continuous leg crossing, small smiles, and excessive flesh display. Well, he amended, excessive for the Canadian – bare feet, rolled up sleeves and an exposed collarbone were hardly anything at all for most, but even Ludwig knew Matthew wasn't so bloody casual. It was freakish. And the blonde was smexy. Gilbert loved his boyfriend. He could turn his brother on without his brother even knowing he was turned on. Bwahahaha!
The albino had become a little more sedated in the time he'd spent living with Matthew. Not much, mind you, but enough to cause others – like Roderich – to become worried, acting skittish around him. Gilbert never could withhold the grin as he remembered such moments, being that they made him feel so much like he did back when he'd been Prussia. The blonde had been right after all… he hardly even had to do anything and people fled the scene in mortal fear of his righteous cool.
Matthew had changed, too, just a little. He tended to smirk a lot more these days, especially when he was right about something or another. It was harder to make him back down from something. Everything he did was a lot sexier, too; though Gilbert couldn't really tell if he had always swayed his hips like that when he walked or if he'd been doing it for ages and nobody noticed. Wait—America—Alfred, that pisstank little bitch, had noticed. He'd threatened Gilbert numerous times already, and the albino had caught him staring at Matthew's ass a whole bunch of others. But that stopped when Gilbert punched him in the face, so…
For some reason, Alfred had taken to smirking, too, winking and seemingly trying to silently converse with the Prussian ever since. Gilbert had no goddamn idea what the hell he was trying to convey, if anything, but he had to assume big brother approved now that the boyfriend proved he wasn't above knocking someone out for insulting his bitch's honor (or something to that effect, anyway). Alfred probably would probably have phrased it similarly, only without the "bitch" part attached. Or maybe he wouldn't, Alfred was weird so who the hell knew?
"Bruder," said Ludwig slowly. He looked uncomfortable. "Please, ah… elaborate on… that." And he pointed at the thing Gilbert happened to be decorating.
"It is delicious," said Gilbert, "Or, you know, will be once it starts getting eaten. And it's awesome. I mean, look at it!"
"Uh." Ludwig took a slow breath, "Actually. It is rather… frightening." He tapped his fingers anxiously against the table. "How do you expect him to eat it?" His eyes popped and he let out a strangled sort of choked noise when his brother made some odd gestures with his hands and tongue, "Forget it! I apologize, I shouldn't have—erm—asked!"
"Prude," accused Gilbert. Then he looked up, a frown twisting his face as he seemed to realize something. "West—check the hall. Go make sure he's beyond the orbit of the kitchen or something! The art of filling insertion is a delicate procedure and I won't have you ripping off my awesome style."
Grudgingly – yet not without relief – Ludwig abandoned the kitchen in search of the Canadian, whom Gilbert knew would never dream of crashing the kitchen party without a damned good reason. He was being honest, at least a little; at this point he couldn't risk any distractions, even his own brother. He was almost finished with his masterpiece, so damn close and fucking up now was simply not an option. Plus, it gave him a little extra time to think about things: good things, bad things, past things and future things, and other things like how awesome Matt's butt would taste covered in whipped cream and maple syrup and if he could just get his brother to walk in on them they could have a classic Kodak moment of some sort…
Grinning, Gilbert shoved the nozzle of the cream dispenser into the small hole and began squeezing it out, thinking dirty things all the while.
Ludwig was coming to 'check on' him, Matthew knew. That was okay; he really didn't mind the man and welcomed a distraction from the massively classified folder he was reviewing. As much as it pleased him to see the sort of work ethic he specifically demanded of his men for this project, it remained a tiresome thing to scour each and every page for any element not meeting Matthew's satisfaction. There weren't too many – no, there hadn't been many at all since Gilbert had become head of the project. Everyone involved triple-checked, everyone covered their tracks and put every ounce of power (brain and otherwise) in; their best was not good enough, it was great, it was better than great and they made sure to keep it that way because the rewards were as delightful as the punishments severe.
To succeed and excel in their position was to earn the gentle hand of their nation and his praise. Keeping Canada happy meant they could be happy, and the snarling watchdog facing his fangs away from their own hands. To fail or betray their nation would cause early winter, and the savage guardian to turn on them and drive them into a self-inflicted death.
Nobody knew the project's name, but that was really because Matthew had never given it one. It was better that way. It had been Gilbert's suggestion. Matthew knew his men all liked Gilbert, or at the least, respected him, and he knew that half of why they were all so meticulous in their work was due both to fear and adoration for both of them. It pleased the Canadian, despite the tension headaches he often got as a result of reading every detail (practically down to the smallest iota of what everybody ate every morning on any given day).
Sometimes – just sometimes, when he was feeling particularly generous – Matthew felt guilty for the massive amount of lies and deceptions he was spewing forth lately. But he knew his brother Alfred lied to him all the time about things. He knew Arthur did, and Francis as well, and pretty much every nation he had ever encountered. He understood why, so he didn't hold it against them; these things, well, they weren't personal, even if the nations tended to forget that. Matthew wasn't trying to be a prick. The project wasn't a deliberate offense. He was simply preparing himself for the inevitable. His family would make him feel guilty for not telling, and then go tattle to their superiors, which would completely undermine his efforts and make the project moot. Matthew wasn't about to feel guilty for putting his own people, his charges first.
In some ways, his people were more like family to him than his own 'family' was. They had their squabbles, they never always got along, but they never forgot him.
Oh, the word would get out eventually. Neither of them was hiding anything. If you looked between the lines, you could see exactly where it all was going. He just hoped that, by the time it did, it would be too late to do anything about it.
It had come as a shock to him when Natalya, of all people, had caught on to his and Gilbert's little scheme. While Matthew had good relations with both her siblings, he hardly had any at all with Natalya herself; thus it came as a surprise to him when she showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, weaponless, and for once not radiating an aura of evil. She hadn't taken offense to not being invited in immediately, merely nodding to both men with a respectful and cordial, "Comrade Matvey, Prussia." And Matthew, after giving her a long, long look, had allowed her in.
For the rest of the night the three nations – well, two nations and one former – had sat in the kitchen drinking various beverages and just… talking. Tea, coffee, and tea spiked with vodka were repeatedly refilled as Gilbert watched them size each other up, prod further and test limits, and basically just do some kind of weird political 'I'm not touching you I just wanna see what you're all about' jig. It would have been hilarious if Natalya were not so goddamn terrifying and if Matthew wasn't… somehow also being goddamn terrifying. Something about him that night was off: he seemed, quite suddenly, to be three times his usual size and with a fuse shorter than Arthur's. He was sort of like a koala: cute to look at, but with claws of fucking doom.
"I propose to develop a relationship," Natalya finally said. "Katyusha is fond of you both. Ivan also is fond of Matvey." Her eyes locked on the Canadian's briefly. "I know what may await in your future if you keep this course," she continued, sounding annoyingly vague. "You will need alliance. We have discussed. Ivan and Katyusha also will stand by you. Therefore, so will I."
"Why send you?" Gilbert had asked bluntly. "They could've said it themselves, you know."
And Natalya rolled her eyes, "My brother thought it would be funny."
The only thing Katyusha had ever said was during a brief visit.
"We do not talk of it, Matvey. The walls – they have ears, you see?"
"Pass over the vodka, sister," Natalya's demand overrode her sister's voice, and any further discussion of the matter was pushed aside in favour of a battle between Ivan and Natalya over the remaining vodka.
Matthew knew Ivan made Gilbert uneasy, and there was a great deal of unpleasant history between them. A slow, unsteady relationship had begun to develop between them, however. The Prussian became significantly more comfortable in the Russian's presence after his sisters spoke to him, apparently deciding he no longer wanted to risk incurring Matthew's wrath… not when something delightfully freakish was going on that could potentially wreak a lot of havoc. Ivan and his sisters seemed to have come to the conclusion that, whatever was going on, being on Matthew's side of the affair was in their best interests, and if Matthew didn't want Ivan's hands groping Gilbert then the Russian would respect that. Nowadays, the two managed to joke together – albeit in a strained sort of manner – and Matthew stopped worrying about the neighbourhood being destroyed if he left them alone together.
Gilbert was Matthew's property in the eyes of both Ivan and Natalya. Katyusha saw it differently, calling them lovers, or partners, but the truth of the matter was they were all correct.
Gilbert really was Matthew's property.
Matthew loved Gilbert, more than he ever really wanted to admit to. That made them lovers.
And Matthew had brought Gilbert into his 'inner circle', making him a partner in matters pertaining to the country.
He'd never told anyone about that part.
Admittedly, Matthew had been a bit of a bastard about it. He'd taken advantage of Gilbert when he shouldn't have, playing off the ex-nation's fears and depression more than he really needed to. It gave him more insight into the man than Gilbert would have willingly handed him at the time, and Matthew exploited that in every way he could. Always meticulously careful not to actually harm him, the Canadian nevertheless reeled the Prussian in with all the force and irresistibility of a black hole. No lies or deceptions were needed: Matthew spoke true when he said there was little choice. Ludwig couldn't provide for him anymore, and the land had begun to reject him; and there was no one else willing to host Gilbert or put up with his quirks and oddities. He had nobody to turn to. No place to call his own, no land waiting to accept him. Death was around the corner, reaching out for him every time his heart beat once more.
There was no one… except Matthew.
-Flashback-
"I can help you," Matthew said quietly to the man slumped forlornly in his chair. Gilbert made no move to indicate he had even heard the Canadian, simply continuing to breathe as other nations filed past, chatting together amicably or sending dark looks at one another. Matthew's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me, Old Prussia," he said coldly. "Or should I simply call you Mr. Beilschmidt?"
That got a reaction. Growling, Gilbert lifted his head to regard the person who had insulted him. Upon seeing Matthew – recognizing him as Canada – he lurched to his feet to glare down his nose at the slightly shorter nation. "You," he snapped, "Don't talk to me that way. Dunno who the fuck you think you are, kid, but I—"
And Matthew's voice had become even colder, tinted with deadly frostbite. "You hold no authority here now, Beilschmidt. You're no better than a worm." Gilbert's head snapped back, shock in the line of his mouth and a barely-concealed hurt swelling to the surface in the red of his eyes. Matthew sneered. "Old and soon forgotten, that is your fate if you don't simply die. You haven't got anybody, your brother's land itself rejects you now. With your reputation, it's a wonder nobody had killed you yet." Matthew's eyes were calculating, he followed Gilbert with a step forward when the other took a step back. "Your glory days are over."
Trying to turn away, Gilbert's arm found itself caught by the Canadian's surprisingly strong grip. He turned his head and Matthew hissed, "For now." Then, to Gilbert's surprise, his gaze softened and he released the man's arm to turn aside him self, casting an unreadable look towards the Prussian. "Come see me on Thursday, please, my office, at nine o'clock sharp. We can discuss the details there." Spoken in a disturbingly businesslike manner, Matthew nodded to him and walked briskly away.
Gilbert didn't know why he went – except that he was furious, and he wanted to beat the shit out of the blonde. The Canadian had insulted him, and then tried to order him about! "Come to my office, hah!" he snorted derisively. "I'll show you how over my glory days are, you brat, just watch!" And he relished in all the terrible things he would do to Matthew Williams as he stomped down the hallways, terrifying the secretaries and whatnot, until finally he got directions to the blasted Canadian's office – which was at the end of a long, lonely hallway, all by itself. It was kind of creepy.
Just to show how undisturbed he was, Gilbert kicked in the door. Or tried to, anyway; the damn thing was too heavy and rather than fly off the hinges like he hoped it would, it just swung and bashed hard against the wall. The Prussian's triumphant grin vanished when he saw Matthew's raised brows, how he sat calmly with his hands folded at his desk. For a moment they stared at each other, until Matthew waved a hand delicately at him and said, simply, "Shut the door, please."
"Blow me," Gilbert growled, but did so even as Matthew got up from his chair and closed the blinds on the windows. Gilbert caught a glimpse of some of the office workers peering round the corner before the blinds snapped shut. Matthew turned to him with an air politeness that seemed unnatural.
"Make yourself comfortable," he said.
Gilbert sneered. "Why, thank you!" he said in mock sweetness. "I'd be glad to choke your scrawny neck. It'd make me very comfy."
"Choke your chicken," Matthew abruptly snapped, losing his polite demeanor. "Or whatever you have that passes for a cock," he continued, and Gilbert felt a rage frothing up as well as a flare of respect and near-amusement. "I didn't invite you here to argue over your butthurt, Prussia. I have a proposition for you." Gilbert noted the 'Prussia' – the Canadian was addressing him the way he wanted to be addressed, so for the time being he would hear the little shit out.
"And what?" drawled the albino, plopping down in the chair opposite the desk. He sprawled there languidly, just to be an asshole. The Canadian raised an eyebrow, tossing a folder full of papers at him.
"And that," he said, leaning his hip against the desk and crossing his arms loosely over his chest. Gilbert almost didn't bother to get up and look at the folder, just to be a bigger asshole, but the words 'New Prussia' were stamped in huge, bold black letters on the front. Blinking, he snatched the folder from the carpeted floor and began to quickly rifle through it. "How many of your people took refuge here?" Matthew asked in a softer voice, and in a tone that implied it wasn't really a question Gilbert needed to answer. "Enough to sustain a community. They called it New Prussia." Gilbert looked up at him, frowning. "It's still here. They're still here."
"The hell are you getting at, kid?" he growled, standing up. Matthew looked unimpressed with him, for some reason. Gilbert tried to look scary but he must have been failing badly because the kid just wasn't shaking, or showing any of the signs he was used to seeing in the other nations when he got under their skin. No, the goddamn Canadian looked like he had the upper hand – and just didn't give a shit that he did.
"Your people are still here," said Matthew. He licked his lips, and Gilbert found himself staring for just an instant before they locked eyes, Matthew now looking somewhat troubled. "Have you ever heard the land sing?" he asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And all Gilbert could do was swallow. "Not for… a while," he replied, feeling something in his chest sputter violently.
Matthew smiled enigmatically. "Good. Now, remember what I said about your glory days?"
Gilbert felt a snarl twist up his face, "Yeah, you prick. They're over. Well, let me tell ya—"
"For now," Matthew interrupted, holding up one finger. Gilbert froze. "I said, 'Your glory days are over for now.'" He shifted a little, uncrossing his arms to lean more heavily on his palms, hip still pressed against the desk. Standing like that, he looked almost cocky – almost confident, a little more like Alfred than Gilbert thought was proper. Matthew smiled, and it was not a smile like Alfred's at all, even though there was a similar, deep hunger lurking in the edges of it. Matthew just hid it better. Apparently picking up on Gilbert's train of thought, Matthew said, "I know I'm probably coming off all weird and Alfred-ish, especially taking the last meeting into consideration." He wrinkled his nose. "I just didn't want anybody else picking up on it."
"O-okay," Gilbert muttered, staring at him. "Mind explaining in English? Or maybe French would be less confusing, though I can't count on your German," he rolled his eyes. "You make no fucking sense, kid." Matthew chuckled.
"Et alors? Okay. Come live with me," the blonde said bluntly, and Gilbert choked on his own spit. "I'll sign over New Prussia to you as an agreement just between us. To keep it quiet, you'll still have to follow Canadian law – but I'll do my best to make certain accommodations work. I'll let some things go provided you control yourself, don't let anything get out of hand, and most of all don't get caught." The Prussian's eyes were practically popping out of his head. "Officially, you'll be my 'assistant'. As such, you'll be required to attend Summits with me – having observed you, I'm well aware you're not the type to take notes, so any assistant-type duties will remain strictly a pretense. I have an audio recorder anyway. At no point are you to inform anyone just what your actual role is, beyond 'assisting' me – however, in the event that certain people get too pushy or know you better than to believe that horse shit, just tell them you're trying to piss me off or something."
Gawping like a fish, Gilbert shook his head and blinked at Matthew. "What the fuck? I don't want—I don't want to be your fucking underling! And I don't need your fuckin' charity!"
The dark, frosty scowl returned to Matthew's face and he abruptly stood from where he leaned on the desk, marching over to shove his face directly into Gilbert's. Red eyes met violet, Matthew's lips blasting sharp words scant inches from Gilbert's. "Quoi? It's not charity, you goober!" the blonde snapped. "Charity would imply I have nothing to lose from this venture, which certainly is not the case. I daresay far too many have mistaken me for a doormat, I'm tired of having to repeat everything I've ever said or done to prove otherwise." His eyes narrowing, the blonde continued. "Don't be stupid, Prussia. You and I both know that your chances for survival are as numerous as the Dodo. Maybe you haven't seen the looks or heard the whispers, but I have – there are a lot of nations who would love to see your rotting corpse dangling from wherever it was you screwed them over the hardest." He spat. "Hunting you down like a dog would probably be a grand sport for them."
"Fuck 'em," Gilbert muttered, but he seemed shaken. "They'll never get me! I'm too awesome. And I'm too awesome to bottom, especially you."
"Oh, really?" Each breath caused their chests to brush together, which made Gilbert feel a little bit weird – especially when Matthew began to advance on him. "You aren't my underling – you won't be." Then, Gilbert's back was against the wall and Matthew had one hand against his chest. "Maybe you should think to ask me what my damn reasons are for offering you the land before you get your balls in a knot, you retard," he whispered against the albino's lips, and Gilbert felt a familiar stirring in his lower belly. He cursed his libido soundly.
Matthew tapped his index finger against the other man's chest rhythmically, his face almost thoughtful. "I'm offering you asylum, Prussia. Those enemies? They can't get you, not here. You have a people and a spot of land already waiting for you, and a job, as well as free license to do nearly anything you please within reason. I'll overlook what I can, when I can." His smile was almost predatory. "What I want in return is fairly simple: your assistance. And I want your assistance in a small number of very, very specific areas."
"Oh?"
"Oui. I could use some help. And you…" he trailed off. "Well, if you help me, you may just get one of the things you've always wanted."
Gilbert stared at him warily. "Wassat?"
"What do you think?" Matthew asked glibly. Gilbert frowned, about to open his mouth when suddenly realization dawned on his face. He looked at Matthew again, closer this time, to confirm whatever it was his mind had supplied. The blonde smiled knowingly. "Yeah. That's where I want you, to be honest. Not right away, but soon." He raised an eyebrow inquiringly. "Does that still sound like 'underling' to you, Prussia?"
Gilbert couldn't stop the laughter bubbling up from his throat. "Kid," he said, shaking his head, "You're a piece of work, you know that? Herr Canada, Sie sind ein Arschloch." His eyes darkened. "Oh. Quit callin' me Prussia. Gilbert's fine."
"Matthew." He smiled, put out his hand. They shook.
And that sealed the deal.
End Flashback
Ludwig watched the Canadian carefully. Although his smile was genuine, it was also a tad… sinister?
"Ah, yes," he was saying. "Elizaveta. How is she doing, Ludwig? Good, I hope."
And the German knew right away that Matthew would bury his teeth into the Hungarian woman's throat if she so much as looked at Gilbert with anything other than sisterly affection. His mind suddenly conjured up an image of the smiling youth's face melting off to reveal a visage suitable for something you'd find in a Lovecraft museum, his hands becoming gnarled and sporting six-inch talons even as gore sprouted from what was maybe his mouth in a fountain of bodily fluids. Ludwig might have shuddered but he caught himself, realizing he had no one to blame but his own imagination. And it would have looked weird.
Explaining that to the Canadian would have been fairly odd.
"Ask her yourself," Ludwig said, almost harshly. Matthew blinked in surprise. "My brother's personal life is not my business," the larger man said, deciding that he might as well cut to the chase, "But I have seen enough to recognize that people can't always let go of the past." Matthew raised a hand to cover his mouth, eyebrows lifting high on his brow.
"Not my brother's soap operas, I hope," he said with a snort. "Reality abandoned those ages ago."
"No." Ludwig wasn't as amused. Not outwardly, anyway, a small voice in his head loudly agreed with the Canadian's opinion of Alfred's television dramas. "You know what I mean. Anyway, the point stands: my brother's personal life is not my business, but I also will not sit by and permit any to harm him without fair reason." He fixed Matthew with a dark look. The younger man's face shifted into a more serious expression, one that Ludwig didn't think suited him at all. It's too bad, he thought, that all men must carry baggage. It deforms people. "What happened between Elizaveta and my brother happened in the past. It is a corpse that should remain buried. Resurrecting it will only earn you enemies."
Matthew smiled graciously. "I may have been a little too swift in my judgment of your character," he said softly. "I credited you with more manners than that, Ludwig Beilschmidt. Insulting me in my home when you are a guest? Shame on you." The German flushed lightly, surprised at the rebuff. But Matthew waved his hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter, though. Désolé. I had no intention of bringing the matter up with her, or Roderich." Violet eyes glittered dangerously behind his glasses. "I simply will not tolerate being dragged into a battle that isn't mine."
Ludwig frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I'm getting tired of Elizaveta leaving four to six messages on my answering machine every day, demanding Gilbert call her," Matthew flatly retorted. "After he told her that his relationship with me is not up for discussion. Truthfully, I am still somewhat jealous. Moot as it may be, of course, but I can't help it. They have a long history together, while I…" Trailing off briefly, the blonde took a moment to adjust his glasses and give Ludwig a hard look. "Nothing has changed since I was small, Ludwig. My existence depends on how convenient it is for them to conjure me." He shrugged at the look of bafflement on Ludwig's face. "Who remembers me except for Gilbert?"
"I do," said Ludwig, surprising the other man. "But, you can't hoard him to yourself."
"No," Matthew said agreeably. "I'm not trying to. What I am trying to do is ensure that my life runs smoothly. I don't appreciate being interrupted in my work by the telephone six times or more a day by the same person, and then have to listen to your brother rant and rave about how she won't leave him alone, and so on." He sighed. "Honestly, Ludwig, I'm not stopping him from talking to her – he chooses not to. This is bordering on harassment and I'm nearly at my wit's end."
Ludwig looked at him for a long moment. "I'll see what I can do," he said finally. "Perhaps, if it isn't coming from either of you, it will be taken less personally."
"I'd appreciate it, thank you," Matthew said, slumping in his chair.
"And this has nothing to do with what they think of your relationship?" Ludwig pressed after a moment. Matthew looked up, sighed again, and rolled his eyes.
"I'm sure," he groaned. "I can't turn around without somebody telling me that Gilbert is an odious malfunction on the face of the Earth who will corrupt me, or whatever it is they say he is this week. I'm too good for him, he smells, he has no fashion sense – something about being a white supremacist antichrist because he's albino and not human, whatever that was about. I don't even know what Elizaveta's getting at, Gilbert's ranting makes it sound like she was saying I'm not good enough for the antichrist." Growling to himself, Matthew added, "All this coming from the kind of people we hang out with who would flip shit and say the same things if I dated a banana!"
Ludwig couldn't help it: he was so startled he choked on his laughter.
It was right about then that the phone rang. Muttering to himself, Matthew reached over and picked it up. "Allo?"
"DON'T HAVE SEX!" Arthur roared through the phone, causing Matthew to almost drop it.
"Mon Dieu, rosbif! Calm yourself!" Francis' voice wavered to the startled men's ears.
"DON'T BEND OVER, MATTHEW—"
"Um, Iggy—he's not in a prison shower, so why does that matter—"
"HE NEEDS A CHAPERONE YOU PONCE FROG BASTARD!"
Matthew, who had been holding the phone as far from his ear as possible, scowled suddenly and sucked in a breath, "I DON'T NEED A CHAPERONE, ARTHUR!" he yowled into the mouthpiece, "AND WHAT THE HELL, SERIOUSLY?"
"Mattie!" Alfred bellowed joyously, "We just wanted to say Hi! And Sup?"
"Hi Al," Matthew said, only a little calmer, still holding the phone away from his ear. "Um, Gil's in the kitchen making… well, I dunno what, actually, and me and Ludwig are, uh, debating on what movie to watch." An absolute lie, of course, but nobody was in the mood to explain that Ludwig was attempting to give his brother's boyfriend a talking-to.
There was silence on the other end.
"You're alone in a room with Germany?" Alfred breathed.
"Ah! Mon cher, you must take pictures!" Francis cried, or at least, that's what Matthew and Ludwig thought he said because Arthur chose that moment to throw a fit.
"SAUSAGE DOG, BEGONE FROM MY COLONY!"
"I am not your colony anymore—" Matthew started in fury.
"Have another drink, rosbif, you're going to need it—"
"Dude! Two Krauts are better than one!"
"SHUT UP, ALFRED!" the younger screeched.
"VIOLATED, MY MATTHEW HAS BEEN—"
"Better Krauts than the Commies, Iggy-poo!"
"I HAVE NO—Oh, piss on this," said Matthew and with a huff he slammed down the phone, effectively cutting off the voices of his family. A dark blush rose in his cheeks after he finally turned from the phone and found himself meeting the eyes of a baffled Ludwig, who appeared as though he'd just been presented with orders to strip down and give somebody a lap dance in a pool of Jell-O. Matthew tried to look dignified and failed, resigning himself to a loose shrug and apologetic smile. "Ah, désolé. I wish you, uh, hadn't heard… that." Whatever that was.
"You have my sympathies," Ludwig said honestly.
Gilbert stalked around the frame leading into the room, looking delighted with himself. "That sounded fun," he said. "Sucks I missed it, but whatever! C'mere, kid."
"All of them," Ludwig added to Matthew as his brother dragged the blonde out of the room, following closely on their heels.
"Well, that's impressive," said Matthew.
Gilbert looked expectant.
"But you have to start on it first."
Gilbert's face dropped into a pout.
"I know exactly how you expect me to eat that, and I feel I must tell you I'd be happy to do so provided you go first and I get to take pictures."
The pout vanished. "Oho, kid, you are dirtier than I thought!" he said with a purr as he gave Matthew a quick smooch. Rolling his eyes, the blonde accepted the kiss and waited with a twitch in his cheek for Gilbert to return from fetching the camera, his eyes going from the centerpiece placed ever so carefully on the kitchen island to Ludwig and back.
"Do you want to make copies, or shall I?" Ludwig whispered after a brief moment.
"If you cover the distribution thereof," Matthew returned, his face lighting up like a beacon moments later once the camera was in his hands and the third occupant of the house had climbed atop the island. Ludwig allowed himself a smile as the blonde snorted, then began to chortle and finally cackle as Gilbert pressed his lips against the lips of the life-sized chocolate bust he'd modeled after himself and began to slobber and make out with it. He even included Gilbird.
"Oh Christ, this is too much," the Prussian snickered after a minute, backing away with chocolate smeared across his mouth, chin, nose and hands. "Your turn, sweetheart."
"All right, mon cher," Matthew cooed, and Gilbert made a barfing noise.
"Not the frog," he scolded. "It makes me think of Yoda."
"Fine, fine. Baby cakes. Darling. Sexy Pants McCockmaster oh I don't know, please stop looking at me like that." Matthew tried to kiss the chocolate Gilbert but he just ended up dissolving into a fit of giggles. "Ahaha—oh gosh, this is retarded, Gil."
"I know, right? I have so much talent I amaze myself."
"Why Yoda?"
"Fucked if I know. Licker of My Awesome Balls."
"Your brother is in the room, you pervo!"
Gilbert sniffed. "And?"
Matthew sniffed too, turning his face away. He crossed his arms. "No Canadian bacon for you if you're going to be that much of a filthy pig in public."
"I have yet to begin," Gilbert intoned. He looked surprised for a moment. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry, babe, but I forgot to tell you something."
"Eh?"
A long, low fart resounded in the kitchen. "Chocolate gives me gas."
"Jesus, Gil! Merde!"
Gilbert's role in Canadian affairs was as top secret as anything could possibly be. Matthew wasn't prepared for the actions the other nations might take when they found out; the project was still months away from implementation. If something leaked now, and somebody decided to take it as a preemptive maneuver, Gilbert's defense and offense strategies could very well become worthless. God help Canada if anyone found the extra bases he and Gilbert had designed and built across the country. Especially Alfred – the thought of his brother finding out about those made him cringe in horror, because it would easily start raising tensions between both countries and ultimately cause a major dispute.
Matthew recognized from the start that Gilbert loved power. He relished being in control, of having strength to ward off anything he deemed was a threat; he had been ashamed for not having the power to destroy Ivan himself, for losing any battle he fought (regardless of its nature – in actual war, a verbal argument, or vying for the affection of Elizaveta), of being at the mercy of another. Matthew saw this, recognized it, and thought immediately of how to exploit it without it getting utterly out of hand. To his surprise, it was easier done than said.
Putting Gilbert in charge of the nation's defense – a mysterious figure that everyone answered to, and haunted the whole country in a fairly terrifying protective way – had solved one of the problems Matthew foresaw with his overall plan. It also helped to solve a problem Matthew had had for years: working together, Matthew and Gilbert had successfully (and secretly) developed a military that, once combat-ready, could rival the other nation's most powerful forces. It had taken time, and a great deal of paranoia as well as great personal risk, but the two possessed some of the greatest strategic plans the world had ever seen – stolen from other countries or conceived late at night discussing theoretical battles they knew would eventually come knocking.
With the Prussian at the forefront, Matthew wouldn't have to back down anymore. He wouldn't have to be terrified of being overrun by a greater military might. Although he utterly refused to enforce a "death-bringers" mentality to his military, preferring to keep them in a peacekeeping role, Gilbert didn't have too hard a time with incorporating that into his training manuals for the recruits. Some concessions were made, as they had to be, but Matthew could rest more easily now that he knew his people were better prepared to fend off threats.
No more pussified Canada. Alfred – hell, anybody else – would never walk over him again, or snatch what was rightfully his out from under his nose. And he would no longer have to suffer the disdain of Arthur for his supposed weakness, or Francis' mild criticisms of his cultureless identity.
Matthew and Gilbert hated the sidelines, and neither of them was content with their place in the world. They wanted visibility, albeit for different reasons. Together, they would be seen.
And God help the rest of the world if it got in their way.
THE END!
* The song being sung in the kitchen is The Lonely Island's "Like a Boss"
* Every non-English blob in here was ganked from somewhere. At least one may be recognizable to those with sharper minds than mine. Kesesesese~