"You put maple syrup in your coffee?" Cuba laughed. Canada rolled his eyes.
"We're getting waffles ala mode. A bit more sugar's not going to kill me," Canada replied. Cuba snorted, but Canada saw him survey the coffeeshop appreciatively. It was small and cozy; they weren't the only ones there, but they were in a corner by the window. Canada glanced outside at the snowy streets; Cuba couldn't handle the snow, but he always seemed to find a reason to come up north despite that.
"I like this place," Cuba said. "Do you come here often?" He froze, then covered his face. "Ay, that came out wrong. I mean—"
"All the time," Canada smiled. "They know that I like a bit of quiet before my first cup of coffee in the morning."
"Oh, sorry," Cuba said, running a hand through his dreds. "It's already eleven in Cuba."
"And it's barely eight in Vancouver," Canada said, draining his mug. "I think I might ask for a donut to dunk into my coffee."
They chatted over coffee, then donuts (and more coffee), then waffles ala mode (and even more coffee). They kept chatting after Canada had paid the bill.
"You've got a bit of powdered sugar just—" Cuba reached across the table and ran one thumb across Canada's cheek, "—there. Got it."
"Oh," Canada said. Cuba's expression was soft, and there was something about it that—no. Canada's heart pounded, and suddenly he found himself on his feet. "Look at the time, eh. It's almost noon, and I haven't even given you a tour of the town. I'm sorry."
Before Cuba could reply, Canada was halfway to the door, not sure why he was blushing so hard.
Canada shifted the groceries to his other hand, flexing the one that'd been holding them. He was just about to apologize (again) for his car breaking down when Cuba caught sight of the bus turning the corner toward the stop at the end of the street.
"I'll get him to wait!" Cuba shouted, taking off for the bus stop. Canada leapt after him.
"Wait—" Canada shouted, but it was too late; Cuba's shoes didn't have enough traction on the ice. He skittered across an icy patch on the sidewalk and tipped toward the busy road beside them. The groceries fell from Canada's hands as he lunged to catch Cuba. Cuba was significantly heavier than Canada, especially with the three or four layers of sweaters and jackets he was wearing, but Canada dug in his heels and kept him from tumbling into the street. Finally, he yanked Cuba back to safety, mittens tangled together, noses barely an inch apart.
They stayed like that for a moment, white puffs of air fogging up Canada's glasses. Cuba shifted, and Canada leapt back.
"That was close, eh!" Canada said, noticing that his voice had risen several octaves. He stumbled backwards, looking around for the groceries that had rolled out of the bag. Cuba dropped down to grab them, too, and their hands met again over a stray carton of ice cream.
"Maybe it's too cold for ice cream," Canada stammered.
"Matt," Cuba said, and his voice was low and serious. Canada peered at him over his glasses, and Cuba's expression made his stomach flood with butterflies. "You just saved my life."
"It would hardly have killed…" Canada began, then trailed off, blushing and looking away. "I'll call a cab, eh?"
"Matt—" Cuba began, but Canada was already pulling out his phone, wishing his face would just cool down already.
"Snow has its good points, too," Canada grinned, smoothing the melon-sized ball of snow in front of him.
"I thought you just made three of these and stacked them," Cuba frowned, tilting his head as he examined his lopsided snowman and glanced at Canada's. "Yours is a lot more elaborate."
"Come give me a hand, then," Canada replied, carving a nose out of the snow for his snow person. Cuba knelt beside him. "You can give him dreds just like yours."
They worked together until Canada noticed that Cuba's hands were barely bending.
"You'd better not get frostbite," Canada said, biting his lip. "Here," he took Cuba's gloved hand and rubbed it between his own. Cuba sighed with relief.
"You're good with your hands," Cuba said. After a moment, his eyes went wide. "But I don't mean—it's just your sculpting and now the rubbing—I mean, the massaging—your hands are. They're good hands. I mean. Ay, what do I mean?" Cuba covered his face with his free hand—unfortunately forgetting that his glove was still dusted with snow. He yelped, and Canada didn't quite hold in his laughter.
"Oh, snow in the face is funny, huh?" Cuba said, with a predatory grin. Canada grinned back.
"Preemptive strike!" he shouted, lobbing a handful of snow at Cuba and leaping to his feet to dart away.
"Get back here!" Cuba laughed, and Canada flung another snowball at him in response. Their conversation devolved into a series of war cries and yelps and laughter. Canada tried not to think too much about the tenderness in Cuba's smile as they called it quits and dusted each other off before piling back into Canada's (newly fixed) car.
His heart was pounding quite enough without thinking about the way Cuba's mouth quirked when he grinned.
"It's too hot to move," Canada groaned, stretched out on their towel. He shielded his eyes against some sand kicked up by a gust of wind that somehow didn't ease the heavy heat.
"What was it that you told me when I said, 'It's too cold to move?'" Cuba said, towering over him and casting a nice pool of shade.
"'Get up already, you big baby, the hockey game is on in twenty minutes,' wasn't it?" Canada laughed. Cuba laughed, too, and slumped beside him.
"The water's cooler than the shore," he offered. Canada looked him up and down. Although Canada still had on a t-shirt, Cuba was already down to his swim trunks. He was damp from his most recent jaunt into the water, and sand stuck to his legs—Canada looked away, swallowing hard.
"I'll sunburn," Canada said. Cuba opened his mouth to speak, but Canada continued. "You'll have to help me put sunblock on my back."
Canada saw Cuba breathe in sharply, and, on sudden impulse, he pulled off his t-shirt. He looked scrawny next to Cuba, but he just rolled onto his stomach and fought down the wave of embarrassment.
"You'll have to rub aloe onto any burns that I get, too," Canada said.
"Okay," Cuba said shakily.
The sunblock was refreshingly cold, and Canada sighed, sinking into the beach towel as Cuba worked it into his skin.
"You know," he said, half surprised by the grogginess in his voice. "You're good with your hands, too."
Cuba chuckled, and Canada relaxed as the sunblock application turned into a massage.
"My legs are going to burn," Canada sighed, as the sunlight on them began to tingle. Cuba hesitated.
"Your legs?" he repeated. Canada nodded. "Should I…?"
"Yeah, sure," Canada mumbled, drifting off as Cuba began kneading his legs. "Thanks."
Canada woke to the crack of thunder above them. A wet drop smacked the back of his hand, and he jolted upright.
"Ramon?" he called, looking for Cuba, who sat up beside him.
"I must have dozed off," Cuba said, shaking his head. "Maybe you were right about it being too hot to move."
Lightning ripped across the sky further down the shore, and a torrent of rain started to fall. Cuba grabbed the towel Canada had bunched up and used as a pillow, flinging it over Canada's head just in time to shield him from the worst of it.
"My place is closer than the hotel," Cuba said, speaking loudly to be heard over the downpour. "I'll get the stuff. Go stand under that awning."
Canada stuck out his chin, holding out half of the towel. Cuba's expression softened, but he shook his head.
"I'll get there before you do!" he laughed. "Go on."
Thunder rolled across the sky, and Canada ran for the shelter with a last glance at Cuba. Cuba was right; he had their stuff packed in nearly as much time as it took Canada to get to the awning. Not long after, they were off, taking shortcuts that only Cuba knew how to find. Finally, they were on the familiar stretch of road that led to Cuba's house.
"Get under the towel," Canada insisted, holding it out again.
"I like the rain," Cuba said, barely glancing back at him. "Keep the towel."
Canada rolled his eyes. They were both in just their swim trunks; rain pelted directly against Cuba's skin, running in rivulets through his hair and down his back, rinsing the sand from his legs. Canada felt the impulse to look away again, but resisted. Cuba's thick, muscular arms flexed as he shifted their sodden belongings from one hand to the other.
Finally, they reached Cuba's house.
"What a date," Cuba sighed, dropping their beach bags by the front door. Cuba froze and turned, very slowly, to look at Canada. Finally, it all added up—the stammering, the blushing, the butterflies—and Canada cut him off before he could take it back.
"We can go on another," Canada offered. He felt himself going pink to the tips of his ears. Cuba looked at Canada for a long moment as rain pelted against the roof and thunder clapped somewhere outside. "I had a pretty good time."
"Are you sure?" Cuba asked. "I thought—you know, I figured that we could at least be friends, but—but you don't have to—"
Canada dropped the towel and strode forward, taking Cuba's hand.
"I'm sure," Canada said, looking up. Cuba leaned in, then hesitated—this time, Canada met him halfway.
* Note: This was inspired by the song that started playing when I started writing your fic: When Did You Fall by Chris Rice.
Lyrics: "Was it at the coffee shop?
Or that morning at the bus stop,
When you almost slipped, and I caught your hand?
Or the time we built the snowman?
The day at the beach, sandy and warm?
Or the night with the scary thunderstorm?
I never saw the signs.
Now we've got to make up for lost time."