Notes: This is the first story I've ever published. It basically has no plot whatsoever, I only wanted to write a fluffy piece about America and Canada. It also has no romantic connotation, seeing that America and Canada are brothers.

It was meant to be a one-shot, but it ended up being much longer than intended, so I decided to split it into three parts.

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to its creator Hidekaz Himaruya, and credits for the cover art go to kenlo (pixiv id=2892327)

Chapter 1

Matthew Williams's day couldn't possibly get any worse.

Actually, it wasn't only that day – the whole month had been positively horrible for the poor representative of Canada.

First of all, it was summer. And Matthew didn't exactly like summer.

Oh, it wasn't like Canada never got any warm, nor even unbearably hot summers, unlike some idiot seemed to be firmly convinced of, but Matthew himself had never been fond of the heat.

There was no doubt in his mind that winter was a far better season: the crisp, cool air that seemed to cleanse his lungs at each breath, the way every exhalation condensed into a small, white puff, the slippery ice that forced people to carefully measure each step, the sensation of the soft, fresh snow under the soles of his boots – not to mention the fact that it was easy to cover up if it got too cold, but in the heat? The only option was to suck it up, take refuge in a building with air conditioning, and pray for the heatwave to pass soon.

That summer had been so far particularly taxing for Canada: it was far hotter than usual, and it was lasting a lot longer than it would have been possible to put up with. And, following the relentless heat, fires had started developing in the forests. Thankfully, none of them had managed to reach any town or city so far, but Canada was strongly connected to his land, and the devastation, while not unbearable, was taking its toll on his body, leaving him constantly tired and achy.

Then, there had been a row of World Conferences, which Canada was still wondering why he had even bothered to attend: as usual, he had been ignored most of the time, sat on by Russia, beaten up by Cuba because he had mistaken him for America (he had apologized afterwards, but the bruises hadn't completely faded yet), and even England and France had managed to forget about him a few times. It wasn't even like the conferences had been useful at something, like solving at least one of the issues they had been summoned for. No, all they had achieved had been arguing with each other and getting on everybody's nerves. The only concrete result of that hellish week had been that Matthew had fallen dramatically behind with his own country's paperwork, which was the reason he had barely gotten any sleep or food in the last ten days.

Then, that idiot brother of his had decided that he needed to get involved.

Oh, it had been quite nice at first: when Alfred had called to ask him if he wanted to hang out (more like demanded him to do it, actually), Matthew had been overjoyed. It wasn't every day that America remembered he existed, let alone had some spare time for him. Which was why he had gladly pulled out an all-nighter to finish off his paperwork, then had headed towards the house they shared on the border after a quick shower, without even bothering with breakfast.

Things had started going downhill from there.

Matthew should have realized something was horribly wrong the second his brother had started dragging him to his private jet, without offering any explanation or even listening to his questions.

When they had finally landed in Texas, the nightmare had started.

The thing was: Texas wasn't hot. Hot wasn't strong enough to describe that kind of climate, the way the sun beat inclemently on Matthew's skin, making rivulets of sweat run down his back, his forehead, basically any surface on his body, the way each breath he took was only a stagnant, heavy gasp of moisture that left him with the feeling of not getting enough air, the heat that made him feel dizzy and heavy. It was like stepping into the deepest pit of hell.

Of course, America felt nothing of that. Heedless of his brother's complaints ("Come on, Mattie, stop being a wuss, it's only a little hot!") he had dragged him around under the scorching sun, apparently convinced that nothing could cheer up Matthew more than a ride in the prairies.

Now, there was nothing really wrong with that. Matthew loved riding, and the horses Alfred had rented were sweet and agreeable, but. Matthew loved riding, yes. In the woods. In places that were nicely shadowed by the trees, not in the middle of the. Freaking. Desert.

Clearly, Alfred hadn't heard him when he had tried to complain, or suggest that they searched for less exposed paths. No, his wonderful older brother had just gone on with his plans with single-minded determination, all while enthusiastically blabbering about something (how great his politics were, how great his teams were… Matthew had tuned him out after a while, too focused on trying not to collapse while leading his horse).

Finally, Alfred had decided that he was hungry, so they had returned the horses and stopped for a late lunch. At that point, Matthew had been ready to throw himself at the asphalt – or better yet, the floor of a nice, cool café or burger joint or restaurant or whatever, honestly, as long as the air conditioning was on.

Pity that Alfred had decided that such a great sunny day would be wasted indoors, so he had elected to eat outside, dragging Matthew with him. The Canadian didn't even have the strength to complain anymore.

Which was why he was now slumped against his chair, with his t-shirt damp with sweat and stuck to the seat, while Alfred slurped down his hamburgers, rambling on and on about something. Matthew hummed along, pretending he was listening.

A greasy hamburger sat untouched in the plate in front of him. Matthew hadn't even tried a bite. His head was pounding along with his heartbeat, and his stomach churned with waves of nausea. Even the mere sight of food was enough to make the bile rise to the back of his throat.

Canada diverted his gaze from his plate, pressing a hand to his stomach as if it could somehow quell the uneasiness. It didn't, but it was worth a try.

He had tried to tell Alfred he wasn't feeling all right, he didn't feel like eating, but his brother had ignored him, as usual.

'Well, there is no way I'm going to eat this greasy stuff,' Canada said to himself, surly. Normally, he would have at least tried to take a bite, to please Alfred if anything, but at that moment, he was one hundred percent sure that the action would have resulted in him throwing up.

(A part of his mind, growing with irritation, couldn't help but think that America would have deserved him vomiting, preferably on his new, priced shoes. That would teach his brother to drag him around. But Matthew was also quite sure that throwing up wouldn't have sat right with his headache, so it was probably better if he avoided it.)

Alfred took the last hamburger (the sixth? How on earth did he eat so much?) from his plate.

Matthew knew it was his chance.

Nonchalantly, grimacing a bit when his fingers touched a greasy drop of sauce, he took his brother's plate and swapped it with his one.

Alfred didn't realize it. Of course he didn't.

Without stopping or slowing down for a second, some minutes later America grabbed his brother's hamburger and tore a big chunk of greasy meat, making a few pieces of salad and sauce drop on his plate.

Matthew watched with sick fascination as the older nation wolfed down his meal, taking another bite before even swallowing the previous one. Small crumbles of bread, meat and salad rained down on his plate. Alfred's face was smeared with grease and ketchup, but he either didn't notice or didn't mind. Matthew was more keen to believe in the first option.

All the while, America kept talking, giving Canada a front view of the half-eaten food in his mouth. Another wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

Matthew wrapped his arms around his abdomen and curled on himself with a moan, tearing his eyes away from the disgusting display in front of him.

His gaze caught the blurry image of a young waitress coming toward their table. It was so hot that her form seemed to waver in front of his eyes, Matthew had to squint to get a decent look.

The young woman – now Canada could see her, she was the youngest of the waitresses, no older than twenty – stopped in front of their table, her face flushed from the heat. She still managed a weak smile as she placed a glass in front of him.

"Here is your drink," she said.

Matthew stared quizzically at the glass. When had he… Oh, he remembered now. He had ordered a glass of icy coke, but in his haste to eat, Alfred had knocked it on the floor before Matthew could take a single sip.

Canada turned to thank the girl, but she was already gone, hurrying to get back to the air conditioning. He couldn't blame her.

Sighing, Matthew idly spun the glass in his hands. The iced beverage felt blissfully cool to the contact, but actually drinking it? That had seemed nice when he had ordered it, he recalled being so horribly thirsty, but right then, with his head pounding and his stomach churning, Canada couldn't bring himself to take a single sip.

The boy placed it back on the table and collapsed against the chair, groaning softly.

He was feeling awful. And God, why was it so hot? It was like he was about to catch fire, even breathing was a struggle. At least, Matthew realized dimly, he had stopped sweating buckets, but he didn't actually feel any better.

"Hey, aren't you going to drink that?"

Blinking to clear his vision from the black spots that had started claiming it, Canada slowly raised his head, but he wasn't fast enough.

With a fluid motion, Alfred tore the glass from his weak hold and gulped down its content. Canada could only stare as his brother gave a loud belch and relaxed against the chair, patting his stomach with a satisfied, dumb smile painted on his face. He stayed still for a moment before grabbing a couple of tissues to wipe out the mess around his mouth, his expression never changing.

Matthew gritted his teeth as a wave of irritation threatened to overwhelm him. Yes, he hadn't been intentioned to drink that coke, but America couldn't just… Oh, who was he trying to fool? Of course Alfred could take the drink from him without bothering to wait for an answer. He was America, after all.

"Nice meal, wasn't it?"

And there it was again. That dumb smile on his brother's face.

No, it hadn't been a nice meal. In fact, it had been outright awful, Matthew was feeling awful, but America wasn't going to listen.

Patience. Just be patient, soon, you are going to be able to get home.

It was proving to be surprisingly difficult, with the way his head was throbbing.

"Well then!" Alfred went on, not even bothering to check if his brother was actually listening. "What should we do now?"

Matthew pecked up a little.

America was actually asking him?

"Al, I—"

"Mmh, let me think…"

Oh, of course he wasn't. When were America's questions not rhetorical?

"Oh, I know!"

Alfred's face lit up with excitement.

Matthew tried to swallow, but his throat was parched.

"Al…" he croaked pitifully.

The soft sound was completely ignored.

"We should play baseball!"

Canada paled at his brother's words.

Oh God, no. Not this. Everything but this.

Being dragged around under the sun, being forced to sit outside as America pigged down on his meal, was something he could deal with, but baseball? No, he couldn't. There was no way he was going to able to endure a whole session of his brother basically using him as a punching bag. Hell, America had managed to break one of his ribs the last time! And Canada had been healthy back then, not barely able to stand.

"Al, that's really—"

"Yes, that's perfect! I know just the right place!"

"Al, I'm sorry, but—"

"Aren't I the best big brother in the world?!"

No. No, enough was enough.

Alfred was still grinning goofily, ready to be showered with praises.

Ignoring an excruciating stab of pain that went through his skull, Matthew slammed his fist on the table. He wasn't even feeling sorry anymore.

Only then Alfred's expression changed, and he finally looked at his brother, not right through him.

"Mattie? What's wrong?" he asked, blinking owlishly.

"I don't want to play baseball, Al," said Matthew, softly but firmly. At least, he hoped. He was far too exhausted to mind his words.

"Why not?" Alfred looked confused.

Matthew could feel the last tendrils of patience slipping away.

"Do you really think I wanted to play? That I wanted to do any of the things you forced me to do today, actually?" he hissed.

He tried to sit straighter, but his head spun and his body wavered. He had to place his hands flat on the table for balance.

Alfred's expression shifted from confusion to annoyance.

"Oh come on, Mattie, that's just rude. I did this for you, ya know? I could have easily stayed home to play video games or something, or actually get some work done… you could at least show some gratitude!"

Canada almost chocked at his brother's words. His own annoyance was being swiftly replaced with cold fury. He could hardly think straight, with his head pounding and his stomach rolling, but there was something he knew with certainty.

"For me? You did this for me? Ha! Stop fooling yourself. You never do anything for somebody else, it's just you and your giant ego, at least do me a favour and admit it!"

America's eyes narrowed.

"You know what? Fuck this, you ungrateful little ass. What do you think, that I don't have anything else to do? Do you even realize how much work goes into being such a great country as I am? I had to do tons of work in advance to get this free day! And I did it only for you! You looked so glum at the last World Conference… I only wanted to cheer you up! But if that's how you answer to this… Then fine! You can just wallow in your misery, I was only trying to help!"

At that point, Matthew couldn't restrain himself any longer.

Propping himself on his hands, he jerked to his feet, ignoring the way the world swayed and blinking away the black spots that completely filled his vision at the motion.

"I can't believe you!" he hissed, "I can't believe how self-centred you can be." His voice grew in volume at each word. "To help me? Is this what you really think? Please, stop fooling yourself. You didn't really want to help me, you only wanted to feel better about yourself. Did you even try to stop and think what could have actually made me happy? I'll answer this for you: you didn't. You would have at least tried if you were actually thinking about me, but you just decided to do what you liked, and deluded yourself into thinking I would have enjoyed it, too. Texas? Fucking Texas? You know I don't like heat. Or at least, you should, but clearly you don't because you never try to look any further than your own nose. Well, I'm not going to let you drag me around this time! I'm so fucking done with this. You aren't a hero, Alfred, you are just an egocentric asshole. You never think about anybody but yourself! And I'm fucking tired of this. I'm going home, don't bother trying to help me. Thank you for nothing, you hoser!"

Without sparing another glance at his brother's petrified face, Matthew turned around and stomped away.

Sometimes, he really couldn't believe America. He was his brother and Canada loved him, most of the time, but this time he had really crossed the line. Matthew had already been having an awful time, he didn't need Alfred to get involved.

The pain in his head had grown to the point where each breath was agonizing, piercing his skull like a blade. Matthew didn't know how it was possible, but it was what he was feeling at that moment. Even breathing had gotten increasingly difficult, he dimly realized that he wasn't getting enough air, he couldn't breathe in deep enough.

The boy stumbled. His stomach was rolling, the growing nausea tugging at his last restraints, and when he tried to swallow, he realized his mouth was dry.

And who had turned on that radio? It was only statics, why didn't they change the station, the noise was making it so hard to concentrate, to think…

Canada stopped as the world teetered on its axis.

He tried to blink, but that did nothing to improve his blurry vision, nor did it send away the grey edges that were swallowing it.

Suddenly, his legs buckled under him. Matthew briefly marvelled at why he wasn't standing anymore but kneeling, then he realized he was falling, his vision going completely black.

He didn't feel his body hit the ground, nor the panicked shouts that soon followed.

(word count: 2,905)

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed this! Next part will probably come in a few days, it's already written, but I have to edit it.
(Long story short, I wrote this back in July, after I was stuck on a train without AC with a temperature of 40°C (about 104°F, for reference). I hate Trenitalia. But well, at least it gave me a creativity boost, I guess.)

English isn't my first language, so I apologize for any mistake. I'm trying my best, but I'm pretty sure I'll still miss something. Please correct me if you spotted anything wrong or some oddly-phrased sentences, one of the reasons I'm writing this is to improve my English :)

And please leave some feedback :)

12/12/2016: I corrected some (read: far too many) mistakes pointed out by SailorHikarinoMu. Thank you, you are the best! :) I really can't thank you enough :)