Um...hi? This is my first first attempt at writing hetalia without a prompt and my first time publishing it. I couldn't really get the idea out of my head, so yeah. Hopefully its not too bad (because this is my first time writing in a while--- thank you Olympics XD).

Pairings: USxCanada (kinda sorta)

Warnings: Some language, weirdness

Disclaimer: Totally don't own Hetalia.

They were going to have a rematch.

The arena was alive with the ecstatic screams and stomping of hundreds of red-clad spectators, thrumming with adrenaline and patriotism, thirsting for redemption, a chance to regain their pride. They wanted to take on the United States. And they wanted to win, to crush them and leave them in a pile along with Germany, Russia, and Slovakia.

Sunday couldn't come fast enough.

Alfred's lips curved upwards and his glasses glinted under the harsh lights.

They were going to have a rematch.

Standing up in a row below and to the side of his, Matthew stood, cheering along with his people. Even from this distance, this angle, Alfred could make out even the most minute details of his brother (that scar above his eyebrow from when he had played hockey without a helmet and Alfred had accidently smacked him with his stick). His eyes were so bright, glimmering blue and purple behind his glasses (like they did when Alfred cornered him after their last match, except they were less angry now) and he was laughing and even over the thundering din, Alfred could hear that joyful laugh, carefree and relieved, even as Matthew tilted his head back, blond hair falling away from his face (and Alfred wanted to tangle his fingers in those shiny tresses). He could make out the faint tear-tracks that appeared on his cheeks (that were as soft as they looked) after Slovakia's second goal, because they were so, so close and to lose it now…

(Matthew had clenched his hands so tightly during those last minutes his knuckles had turned an almost grotesque shade of white and Alfred had wanted to press kisses along each one.)

Decked in a jersey identical to that of his team, Matthew, rosy with pleasure (almost as red as whenever Alfred would hold his bony wrists above his head and nip the underside of his jaw, pushing the other back against the cold, unforgiving metal), was bursting with the energy of his people.

And Alfred just admired the other man. From the slender column of his neck to his broad shoulders to the almost arrogant way his chin was held in the air, there was no spot overlooked by his cobalt eyes.

They were going to have a rematch.

Matthew grinned and pushed back a few curls that had swung into his face as he rushed out of the building. He was going to face his brother and, this time, his team would come out victorious.

His smile darkened. Hockey was his. It was his pride and joy. Nothing helped take the stress away from a long week, the irritation of being overlooked and mistaken for America. Whenever he felt down, hockey was one way he coped. He loved hockey.

And he wasn't about to lose again.

He refused to lose and he knew his boys felt the same. He could see it every time their sticks tucked the puck, whenever they checked an opposing player, each time they looked up at the raucous audience and caught sight of their flag. They wanted to win.

Canada wanted to win.

And it frustrated him whenever he saw his brother's cavalier attitude.

"Hey, Mattie! Did you see Miller out there? Isn't he awesome?!"

"Hey, bro. That was a good game! Hey, wouldn't it be awesome if you managed to stay in and we had a rematch for the gold?"

"It's alright, man. You played your best."

And each time there was that infuriating, condescending smirk. Alfred just loved to shove his victories in his face. Every accolade, every slight success was brought up and dangled mockingly in front of Matthew and he hated it. His brother loved winning and he loved to compete and he loved the medal/trophy/presents that came with victory. Even if he they weren't a prize, he'd take it anyways.

A sport is a sport is a game.

Matthew clenched his jaw. Somewhere, behind the sting of last Sunday's loss, he knew he was being unfair. But he didn't want to care about that. Not when he could still feel those lips burning against his collar, those teeth pressing against his shoulder, those calloused hands clenching his hips, blunt fingernails digging into his skin…

"Hey Matt!" Alfred grinned at his brother from where he was sprawled on the dark leather couch. "'Bout time you got back. I'm starving."

Matthew briefly contemplated calling the police and then thought better of it. Alfred would probably call Arthur to bail him out and then Arthur would bitch at him for having Alfred arrested.

"How did you get in? And get past the security system?"

"I have a spare key to all of your apartments." Alfred said off-handedly as though it was obvious.

'Can you never leave me alone?' Matthew thought. "But the security system?"

"The day you got independence. Really, Matt, you should choose a password that is more difficult to figure out."

"I didn't think it was something people would figure out, let alone remember." Matthew said dryly.

"I remembered." Alfred said softly, blues eyes soft and strange.

"Al?" His brother was acting strange and it was making Matthew uncomfortable. His brother was the last person he wanted to be alone with.

"What took you so long, anyways?" Alfred asked, idly scratching his shirt-clad stomach. "Celebrating your victory? Smoke a few cigars?"

Matthew controlled the snarl that threatened to burst from his lips.

Alfred smiled innocently and Matt knew he was anything but.

"It was kinda close there at the end, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but we pulled through." Matthew smiled tightly, choosing not to comment on the intentional jab. "And, for your information, it takes a lot of work to keep the Olympics running smoothly. But working longer hours isn't a big deal."

Alfred grunted in agreement, more interested in studying his younger brother from his spot.

Matthew, hating the man in front of him, sighed, "Look, Al, I'm tired. It was a long day. You're probably tired—"

"I'm not."

"---so I think you should go." Matthew said firmly.

Alfred smiled.

Matthew didn't. "Please, Alfred." He hated the way his voice trembled. "Just go."

"Russia would've done the same, you know. Slovakia too. Probably not Germany because he's got Italy."

"You have no right—"

"Would you have let them?" Alfred asked harshly. Maybe he was out of line, maybe he had no right, but damn it Matt was his even if he didn't acknowledge it.

"Stop perverting hockey."

"I won."

"You're a piss-poor winner."

"Am not."

"Get out." Matthew is shaking with anger now, and through the haze of fury he can hear Kumajirou toddle out from the kitchen having sensed his master's distress. The bear growls lowly, the rumbling in his chest seamlessly merging with the roaring in Matthew's ears. "And give me the key you used."

Alfred looks hurt and Matthew wants to scream at him. 'You're hurt? You bastard, what about me?'

Alfred stands slowly and drops a key onto the coffee table. Walking, slowly, confidently, he passes by Matthew. Kumajirou places himself between the two nations and glares up at Alfred.

Alfred might actually be nervous. But he still looks directly in his brother's eyes and says, "We have a rematch. But the outcome will be the same."

"No. This time, you will lose." Matthew vows and Alfred smiles affectionately at him.

"Sure, bro, sure."

Sunday can't come fast enough.

Seriously, IDK WTF I WROTE. Yes, Alfred was weird and OC and stuff. I'm just so excited for Sunday's hockey game and still pissed from the last US-Canada game and thus, this fic was born.

GO FOR THE GOLD CANADA