The meeting had gone badly.

Canada emerged from the room, eyes narrowed in disappointment and frustration. Why did his brother have to be such an annoying prick sometimes? Why couldn't they just cooperate? Why did no-one notice him? Why did people always think he was his brother? And how the hell had he run out of maple syrup?

He hadn't really had a bad day. It had been more of a bad week. He was just sick of everything. Nothing got done, and no-one seemed to care, nor was anyone doing anything about it. Canada tried. He really did. But no-one ever noticed. It was like he faded into the background. He closed his eyes, clenched his fist, and took a deep breath. Calm down. You can get maple syrup on the way back. It's okay.

"Hey, Canada!"

Canada looked around at France, peering over the heads of other countries, trying to make his way toward him. It was almost customary for him to leave the meeting with France. They liked to discuss what happened before going their different ways. The slightly taller European country ruffled his hair affectionately. "I called out like, three times! For once I'm the one not being noticed, huh?" he said, grinning.

Any other week, Canada might have laughed. Instead, he glowered at France, wrapping his plaid scarf around his neck. France raised an eyebrow. "Did you run out of maple syrup?"

"Wha- how did you know?!"

France shrugged. "You only get really grumpy when you don't have the stuff. But seriously, are you okay?"

Canada paused, then sighed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "No, not really. America's just being a..."

"Dick? Arse?"

Canada rolled his eyes. Only you, France. "I was going to say pain."

"Oh. Same thing, really."

"Not quite."

"Depending on the context," he pressed. "In this context, they're similar."

"Whenever you use those words, the context is kind of ambiguous," Canada teased.

France looked crestfallen. "Ouch. That was harsh."

Canada sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. I just wish people would stop mistaking me for the douche sometimes." He felt a rant coming on, and he didn't feel like holding it back, so he waved his hands as he spoke. "I mean, why do they even do that? We're completely different. Sure, we look similar, but no more similar than I don't know, Switzerland and Poland."

"They do look similar," France mused, frowning. "Really similar."

"And our personalities! He's so, I don't know...extroverted. And arrogant. And overbearing. And ignorant."

France nodded, patting his shoulder sympathetically. "Look on the bright side. At least you're not being mistaken for England."

But the Canadian wasn't listening. "And his sense of pride! He thinks he's God's gift to planet earth, and his political system is perfect, and Americans are the greatest people in the world. Americans are practically the only people who bug Canadians! Well, some Canadians. This Canadian. And can you believe, today, he actually had the nerve to-"

"You're not that different, actually. In other ways."

Canada broke off, surprised. "Pardon?"

"I mean, you do look kind of similar. Your people have the same sort of racial background. And accents. And literacy rate. And life expectancy. Clothes. Cultures. Religion. Government. Individualism."

"But-"

"Especially in English Canada and the U.S. North," he added, placing his hands in this pockets. He paused, glancing over at his fellow nation. He looked stunned, not quite sure how to respond. France placed a hand on Canada's shoulder. "Maybe it wouldn't have been better not to say anything, non? Again...how long has it been since you had maple syrup?"

Canada blinked, glancing up at the roof. "Fifteen hours."

France nodded, and handed him a small wad of notes. "Go buy some. Don't kill your brother - sometimes I'm quite fond of him. Call tomorrow if you still feel like venting, okay?"

Canada sighed. "Thanks. I will."

"See you, petit feuille d'érable!"

Canada nodded, calling out a soft reply as France moved off. He wasn't addressed by any other nations as people proceeded to exit the building, so he didn't say a word as he left himself. His eyes were narrowed, and he couldn't stop thinking about what France had said.

Am I really that similar to America?

It felt good to be in possession of maple syrup again. Canada was in a considerably better mood as he made his way home, with a shopping bag from 7/11 in hand. As soon as he got home, he would have to make tea, of coffee, or pancakes, or something, purely so he has an excuse to have some at midnight.

He liked walking home, especially at night. There weren't many people around, and the lights looked fantastic, piercing the dark skies, with red and yellow reflections dancing on the slightly wet, once snow-laden pavement.

He paused when he heard crying.

He glanced around, scanning the streets, at first finding nothing, until his eyes were drawn to a young girl, hunched over, shivering. She looked around sixteen, maybe a little older, with thick, long, wavy brown hair. She really wasn't dressed appropriately for this weather, wearing only thongs, jeans, and a white tank top, a towel wrapped around her. The red strap of a swimming costume was visible on her shoulder, and a black sports bag lay beside her.

He found his feet taking him toward her before he could think. She glanced up, her posture stiff, fearful, but Canada knelt down a few feet away from her. "It's okay. I don't want to hurt you. Are you okay?"

She nodded, her eyes wide, shaking violently from the cold. "F-f-f-f-fine. Thanks."

Canada raised an eyebrow. "Not cold?"

She opened her mouth to reply, then sneezed. Before she could respond properly, Canada started to take off his own jacket. The girl held out her shaking hand. "N-no, you don't have to-"

"It's fine. I'm used to this weather."

She didn't protest as he draped the jacket over her shoulders, though she looked guilty. "I-I'm fine, r-r-really."

Canada looked at her slightly sternly. Being Canada, that meant a lot of emphasis must be placed on 'slightly'. "No, you're not. Do you have somewhere to stay?"

She wrapped the jacket around her, pushing her arms through the sleeves. "I w-wouldn't be here if I did, would I?" she stammered, then sneezed again.

"Do you want to come to my apartment for the night?"

"I-" she broke off, glancing around, the look in her eyes suspicious. "How do I know you're n-not..." She twisted her fingers together. "It's not that...you seem really nice, I don't want to offend you b-but..."

Canada frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"

The girl's eyes darted to the pavement. "H-how do I know you're not a rapist," she said quickly, blushing.

"Oh." Canada's gaze softened, and he spread his arms. "Do I really look like a rapist to you."

She actually laughed. "No. No, not really. Just...old habits die hard."

Canada nodded. "Good. Let this be the only time you trust a stranger, but since your only other option here is hypothermia, you should probably come with me."

She still looked unsure. "But-"

"I'm not going to take advantage of you, I promise," he said earnestly.

The girl still paused. "You still haven't told me your name."

"Um...Matthew," he said quickly. He hadn't used that name in a while, but it was no struggle to remember. "Williams."

"Lydia Hollens." Her eyes were still wide, but she seemed a little more relaxed.

Canada offered her his hand, and she took it, supporting most of her weight as she got up, much to Canada's surprise. She narrowed her eyes. "You look like a Matthew."

"Really? People say I look like an Alfred." Canada was surprised at how quickly the response came.

"What? No, I can't see that."

She sneezed, and Canada started to remove his scarf to, but she refused to let him. "Y-you must be cold as it is."

"No, not really."

She cast him a grateful glance. "Alright. I'll come. How far is it?"

"About twenty minutes walk. Do you think you can manage?"

"Y-yes. I'll be fine."

They walked in silence. Canada wasn't quite sure what to say, and Lydia looked a little overwhelmed, and exhausted.

When they arrived, Canada let them in, and Lydia placed her bag by the door. She was still shivering, but her teeth weren't chattering now. "Is it okay if I have a shower?"

"Sure. I'll put on some warm food. Do you like pasta? It's not much, but it's quick to make."

"Yes. Thank you."

"Do you have clothes to change into?"

She nodded. "Well, kind of. I have underclothes, but no shirts or pants - I meant to buy some tomorrow..."

"You can borrow some of mine, if you like. Those jeans must be soaked through."

"I...okay. If you're sure."

"It's no trouble," Canada assured her, then bent down to reach into the cupboard for a saucepan.

All through the meal Lydia apologized for imposing upon him so much, but Canada insisted that it was fine. "It's nice to have someone here once in a while."

Lydia still looked guilty, awkward. "Still."

Canada shrugged. "How did you end up on the side of the street?"

Lydia hesitated. "I...um...I swim. Competitively. I came here to do it on a national level - I want to qualify for the under 16s in Beijing next year. To represent Canada."

Canada only just managed to conceal a chuckle of amusement. If she wanted to represent Canada, she'd run into the right person. "You look like a swimmer," he commented instead.

"Thanks, I guess. But today...my test, after my heat, you know, for steroids and stuff went...badly. And I didn't use them, I swear! I-" she broke off, taking a deep breath as tears started to rise. Canada patted her shoulder gently.

"It's okay. I believe you. But they didn't?"

"N-no. I think my drink was spiked last night with whatever drug. And it's so disappointing - that was one of my best times. I wish I knew whether it was thanks to whatever I took..." she shook her head, taking another deep breath. "I was disqualified."

Canada frowned. "But what about your parents? Where are they?"

"My parents...my Dad's in Toronto. I ran away, last week actually. To compete today. My Dad..." she took a deep, shaky breath. "He didn't treat me well. He..." Her gaze suddenly focused on an empty spot on the wall, and she started trembling.

Canada got out of his chair and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Lydia?"

The girl stiffened, then seemed to remember her surroundings, and relaxed. "He...he abused me. Hit me."

"Oh."

"It started after Mum died. She had cancer - she passed away two years ago. He broke down, and started-" she broke off again, falling silent, her eyes blank. Canada gave her arm a quick squeeze.

"I- sorry."

"No, don't apologize."

"Anyway, recently...my grades were dropping, since I was devoting so much time to swimming. He tried to make me stop, tried to make me stay, and focus on my studies, but...swimming's the only thing I can see myself doing with my life. And I realized I didn't have to put up with him anymore. So I ran." She grinned in satisfaction as she added, "And stole some of his money."

"I go to school with another girl in the Canadian swim team, Alex. We're good friends - she talks to the coach all the time, telling him how fast I am. But Dad wouldn't never let me sign up. Alex persuaded the coach to let me swim, if I could get there. And I did. But God, I've screwed up..."

She couldn't stop the tears this time. Placed her head in her hand, her whole body shaking, her breathing turning to uneven gasps. "Athletes who train for huge periods of time from a young age spend so much time doing it, they don't learn how to do other things. If this means I can't swim, I have no sense of direction, no career, no anything..." she broke off as another wave distress racked her body.

Canada got to his feet and guided her out of her chair. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she needed sleep, badly. "Tired?"

She sniffed, then nodded. "I'll sleep on the couch."

"No, take my bed. You need proper rest."

"I can't possibly sleep on your bed while you're on the couch! In your own house!" she argued, her voice breaking.

Nonetheless, Canada tried to usher the distraught girl into his single bed, but she pushed him away with surprising strength. "I can sleep on the couch!"

Canada raised his eyebrows. "Then I'll sleep on the floor."

"But-"

"You can have the bed, seriously!" he insisted.

Lydia stubbornly shook her head, watching helplessly as Canada went into his room and removed the doona and pillow from his bed, lying down beside the couch. Her expression slowly changed to something like amusement. "I'm still not sleeping in your bed."

Canada shrugged. "Just make sure you get some sleep. It sounds like you need it."

The swimmer nodded, and turned off the light. "Night, Matthew."

"Goodnight, Lydia."