He will wait, he says.
He will wait, in the coldest corners of the world, his breath clouding the air, his identity mistaken or not remembered in the first place, his hair dusted thickly with snow. He will wait until his fingers are numb and his face is stinging and his teeth chatter unstoppably and he loses all the feeling that has ever resided in his nose, his toes, his hands, his ears. He will wait until even he- even the nigh-indestructible force that he is- even he, one of the greatest, the ever-young, the immortal, until even he is curled in a ball, begging, pleading with Nature to take him, take him, still his heart and send him far away where he can't be touched and may the consequences burn forever. But he knows that even when he is at this end, when he is so close, so very close to icy blood and chilled flesh and glassy, wide eyes, he knows that this is when the fire burns brightest. This is when he remembers that, yes, he has something to live for and something to wait for, there is something other than adrenaline that makes his breathing accelerate and his heart grow wings, that yes, yes, he has a name, a soul, he is just Canada but Matthew, Matthew Williams, brother of Alfred and brother-in-law of Arthur and lover of someone sacred… the one he is waiting for.
And so he says, with no hint of remorse or anger or annoyance or any other petty emotion, that he will wait.
He will wait, he says.
And that will make all the difference.
-x-x-
It is because of the days like this that he waits.
It is because of the lovely mornings, with the sun breaking through the bay window as he cracks his eyes open to meet the smile of his most precious person and those arms tightening around his waist that that warm, smooth, honey-and-butter voice whispering "Bonjour, mon amour," and him smiling and whispering back and them just laying there for a while, basking in each other. And then they slowly get up and crepes and eggs and bacon are made and eaten as they laugh and smile and love and are loved, and then a bit later they may take a walk in the meadow or the marketplace or maybe even take a drive all the way into the City of Light and wander about doing touristy things (or even sometimes pretending to be tourists).
And that, you see, is what they have done today; he woke around ten to a loving gaze and warm arms and a gentle French voice. And they ate, crepes and eggs and bacon with fresh maple syrup, of course, and slow morning talking and laughing and smiling and loving and being loved. And then in the afternoon they went first to the market where they bought bread and cheese and tomatoes and some nice fresh ham and a bottle of local wine, and then they walked to the meadow where they had a quiet, calm, happy lunch amongst the songbirds and the flowers. And now it is evening and they sit cuddled together next to the fire, for September's last dregs are made of lukewarm days or warmish ones, like today, if, sunny, but the nights are chilly. So they are entwined and warm and snuggly under the blankets and the fire crackles, and he is content.
And he thinks this. This is why he waits. Days like today are the encouragement and the reward in one for months at a time without seeing the face of his most precious person. But they are also, it is understood, what enables him to do so; these happy, sunny, lazy days are what make him able to take it, what give him the warmth and the love and the determination to lock himself away in the isolation of the coldest, farthest reaches of the Yukon, as he does in the winter's away months, and also give him the warmth and the love and the determination to come back, to believe that something better, calmer, warmer than this waits for him if he can unlock his heart again and return to his home- his home in his cities, specifically Ottawa and Montreal, and his home here, ten miles from the last Parisian suburb, where it is quiet and the wind is gentle and at nightfall and at daybreak, like clockwork, the birds trill their gently melodies kindly to the world.
It is because of the days like this that he waits, and it is because of the days like this that he allows himself to return.
-x-x-
This feeling, he thinks, is what had started it all- and not only that, but kept it going until it is as it is now.
It started, years and years and years ago, with a simple tug and a small fluttering. By now, it has spread and grown and multiplied until every brush of skin, from an accidental bum to a trailing, lingering finger, to gentle lips as warm as anything, is so electric that it busses through his system, leaving a tingling in its wake. And sometimes, sometimes, if he is feeling romantic and they both are tender-passionate, as soulmates are, then he will insist to anyone- once he has regained the presence of mind to say it in the first place- that even the smallest touch made the Earth stand still and the stars shine just that much brighter and the poets dream and the children laugh and sing and play and he supposes this is very sappy and stereotypical of him, cliché even, and there was once a time that, had anyone told him he would feel this way, he would have found a nice, polite way to tell them they were insane. He was- has always been- sensible; he was not his brother, placing stock in such frivolous things, He was spared a phobia of the supernatural this way, but it was also terribly hard, if not impossible, for him to believe in fairytale notions of true love and Earth-shattering kisses and princes and damsels and white horses and, most of all, happily-ever-afters.
Of course, for his kind that wasn't particularly surprising. One war, just one simple war, could wipe him from the face of the Earth forever- if Canada's government was evaporated, turned into something new and dangerous, if there was a split, he would cease to exist. Nations are timeless, not immortal. It has happened to Rome, once the greatest of world powers. It could easily happen to him.
And so he had been cautious and quiet, becoming near-invisible and frozen with fear as he watched others- friends acquaintances, even bitterest enemies, he watched them, watched their interrelationships, watched his brother bickerbickerbicker with Arthur but never with any serious anger, watched Russia stalk-court China, watched Greece talk easily with the normally clipped, uptight Japan, watched France…
He had watched France.
He had not been able to explain or justify it to himself, the way his gaze seemed magnetically attracted to blond waves and blue sparkle-glint eyes and the bright, flamboyant self-expression and cheerful smiles and constantly flowing endearments. He told himself this was normal: he was, after all, France's former colony, just as he was Arthur's. But you don't watch Arthur, a voice whispered from that tiny, tiny, fanciful place in the very back of his mind where he was fairly sure non-platonic emotions rested (not that he'd know, never having felt any) and he couldn't help but agree. This worried him.
But now, of course, that seemed so silly. Whatever had there been to worry about? It seemed to preposterous to him these days. He was loved; why had he needed to be nervous, why had his confession- when, that is, it finally came- been so terribly nervous and stuttered and broken? He had been met, after all, with joy and charm and j'taime, Mathieu.
That feeling, that lovely, lovely emotion that was, at the same time, terrible, which had bubbled and burned and twisted in his gut was mirrored, matched, returned, and then suddenly his darkness-locked heart, his chill mask of calm politeness, had melted, a blaze of fire brimming until they, all of them, washed out like the tide.
This feeling, he thinks, is what had started it all- and not only that, but kept it going until it is as it is now.
This feeling, he thinks, is all that matters.
-x-x-
These moments, he knows, are what keep his heart fluttering and his head light.
How is it that after years- three of them- all it takes is a glance and his name is French and he is lightheaded? It could be a comment on the weather ("Why is it always so snowy, Mathieu?") or a woman's hat ("Who on Earth, Mathieu, needs that many maple leaves?") or anything else, from the mundane to the odd- it doesn't matter and it doesn't change anything in the slightest… although j'taime, Mathieu still has a special effect.
How is it that after all this time all it takes is a little squeeze of his hand and his heart is off and away, flutter-thumping and beating its wings around his chest with inhuman speed, seemingly to hurry the blood to his cheeks even faster as it reacts to the warm-fingered grasp that lingers on his own hand, its memory more embedded in the muscle then the desire to move his fingers?
How is it that after so, so long all it takes is a simple embrace- even the most plain, platonic-seeming one, such as the ones they even still use in front of Arthur as a form of caution- to make him warm and tingly and romantic and seemingly transport him right back to the days of hormones (amplified, to each of their horrors at one time or another, for Nations) and worries and daisies with all their petals plucked off and strewn across the floor in an age-old ritual- in short, to make him a writhing bundle of teenage nerves, emotions, and chemistry all over again?
He does not know, but what he does know is that these moments are what keep his heart fluttering and his head light…
-x-x-
He loves, is loved, will love.
He laughs, causes laughter, will laugh.
He suffers, brings suffering, will suffer.
He soothes, is soothed, will soothe.
He waits, is waited for, will wait.
He feels, is felt, will feel.
He is, his most precious person is, they will be.
And that has made it all worthwhile.
-x-x-x-x-
This was the first Hetalia fic I ever finished. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get around to typing it up.
Review?
-Dawny