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Author's Note: De-anon from Minvasion.

RusCan wasn't something I thought I'd enjoy writing, but I liked the idea for this one. Basically, Canada is given the task of distracting Russia for various reasons. These distractions are pretty similar to dates. If you know what I mean. I would have liked to do a very long fiction with this as a chapter, because I always always wanted to do a long-slow-fic about people falling for each other.

Yeah but no.

Have a snippet of Canada finding out he actually enjoy Russia's company and also, has too much France in him.


Common Ground.


There's usually something you can appreciate with another person, no matter who they are, how different they are. There's always something in common. Always something. That's about the best explanation Canada can have to both him and Russia fist-pumping wildly and roaring along with the crowd. Usually, these "distractions" amounted to him generally getting Russia to enjoy something of his (okay, maybe Russia seemed to genuinely like the pancakes, but his first look at them was dubious and possibly dangerous) or him keeping quiet and trying to appreciate something Russia liked (though the sunflowers had smelt beautiful, looked beautiful, and amongst Russia's favourite flowers, even Russia was beautiful, brimming with sunlight and smiling with more hope and naïve faith than Canada's own brother). This was a bit different.

If there's one thing Canada was fierce about, it was hockey. There were several things actually. Once you got him talking about something, he'd give a frank, blunt assessment, absolutely no maple syrup on top of the truth. In the wars he'd really shown the world - and himself - what he could do. Not to mention burning down an overeager America's house after that nasty 1812 lark (well if you had a problem with the guy in the white house, you take it up with him, don't you, eh?). Hockey was in this list; the one that could have Canada reasonably loud, and definitely, clearly, obviously masculine.

Russia at first had been surprised by Canada's roars of delight, regardless of who seemed to be winning the match, and Canada had tried to bite back his excited snarls of adrenaline and exhilaration. It hadn't worked. Hockey worked him up like very few things.

Instead of continuing to stare at Canada as though he'd seen a ghost, Russia turned towards the pitch, asked several quiet questions about the rules, watched a little more, Canada still trying to control himself. Then surprised Canada back by leaping to his feet as a score ripped a guttural growl of approval from the crowd - and Russia.

Canada stared at Russia, and Russia glanced at him - feeling Canada's gaze, Russia had such an instinct for when people were looking at him, such an instinct for staring himself - and smiled with such guileless faith that it shook Canada to the core. It made his bones tremble and his stomach clench up; god, were there earthquakes in his cities? Because his stomach and heart were flipping like the Cirque du Soleil. Like his insides were a snowglobe and Russia's smile had shaken it all up, so a fluttery, fluffy, snowy feeling was swimming through his veins.

Canada's expression must have showed something puzzling to Russia, as Russia leaned over and whispered; "You looked so nervous; it's okay to be competitive. Bozhe moi, I am too."

Canada's lips quirked up in the slightest of smirks. "Oh really now?" Clearly he'd picked up a tantalizing lilt from France sometime in his youth, because, was he flirting? He sure sounded like it. Russia actually flushed slightly, the colour obvious on his pale skin. "How competitive are you exactly?" Canada purred.

Shit. Shit, screamed Canada's brain, and he shushed it with the vague thought that he'd deal with this new found element to his own behaviour much much later.


May your quills be ever sharp.