A massive thankyou to everyone who has reviewed or subscribed to this story, it really does mean so much to me. Thanks also for putting up with the huge wait between the first chapter and this one: I've been ill, had masses of tests, and seriously injured my wrist. It's healing, but slowly. As always, I apologise for any spelling or grammar mistakes. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers.

The swimming pool café was small, grubby and almost deserted, the only other customers a tired-looking young mother with a screaming toddler. Gilbert glanced around the room, taking in the torn plastic chair covers, the faded posters on the walls advertising clubs that had long since finished and the teenager behind the desk with badly dyed black hair and too much eyeliner.

Then his eyes landed on Matthew, who was stood at the counter with a faint blush darkening his cheeks, hands rummaging through his pockets. Gilbert hid a smile and idly rubbed his name into the dust that coated the table. Admittedly this wasn't the sort of establishment he'd imagined when the boy had suggested a drink, but to be honest the German teenager wasn't that fussy. As long as someone else was paying, of course.

Speaking of which, Matthew seemed to be having some trouble. After a few seconds, beginning to get impatient, Gilbert stood up and wandered over to him. The problem was immediately obvious. The boy was pulling notes out of his pockets with a sort of quiet desperation, but none of them were English.

Gilbert squinted at the foreign money and read the word, "Canada," at the top. He looked at Matthew's embarrassed expression. Canadian, huh? Well, that explained the accent.

In the next few seconds, a historical event took place. Gilbert Beilschmidt, notorious scrounger, who took money out of his friend's pockets and his brother's bedroom, reached into his pocket and tugged out a crumpled five-pound note, which he placed on the counter. Matthew gave him a flustered but grateful smile and picked up the tray on with their drinks were balanced. "Thanks," he said quietly, "I haven't got round to changing my money yet." Gilbert shrugged and muttered, "It doesn't matter."

Then he paused, shell-shocked, and reached up to tug a lock of white hair down in front of his eyes. It looked like his. He felt his chest, his face, his crotch… yep, that was definitely his. So why on earth had he given that fiver for the food, despite having no money left for the bus home, despite Matthew having offered to pay, despite being the least generous person he knew? He peered at the other teenager. Who was this Canadian, and why was he having such a strange effect on him?

"Are you alright?" Matthew said, looking vaguely concerned. Gilbert thought back through the last few seconds, remembered how he'd practically felt himself up, and sat down as quickly as possible. "I'm fine," he said, keen to change the subject, "So, you're Canadian, huh?" The kid nodded earnestly and took a sip of his coffee. He pulled a face.

Gilbert took a gulp from his own cup. The boiling liquid rushed down his throat, scalding the tender flesh, and before he could stop himself the albino teenager had spat it out all over the table.

Matthew blinked, obviously taken aback. Then a smile crept onto his face, which soon evolved into a full-blown laugh. "I know it's bad," he said through his chuckles, "But is it really that awful?" Gilbert wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie. "It tasted like a cross between water and dog crap." He said firmly, to cover up the fact that he was more than a little embarrassed. Matthew stopped giggling and raised one eyebrow, a smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth. "So you've tasted dog crap, have you?" he asked sweetly. If anyone else had said that Gilbert would have sworn revenge and probably embarked on a massive prank plot involving water guns, hair gel and seventy-two stuffed llamas (he tended to get carried away) but for some reason, all Matthew's teasing provoked was a warm feeling in his chest.

That's weird, Gilbert thought, I'm not even wearing a vest today. Maybe the air conditioner wasn't turned on. Actually, judging by the state of this place, there probably was no air conditioner… Completely distracted by his own random musings, Gilbert turned around and started to inspect the café with his eyes, looking for a tell tale vent or machine. The woman with the toddler gave him a look that suggested he shouldn't be allowed out alone.

In fact, Gilbert was so distracted by the sudden warmth that had crept over his body that he didn't notice a small group of people enter the café. Matthew, however, sipping at the horrendous coffee and smiling at the albino boy's strange behaviour, did. He tensed a little as the crowd of teenagers approached their table. On of them, a tall boy with long, slightly damp blonde hair and a smirk, reached over and tapped Gilbert on the shoulder. The tanned brunette behind him with the happy green eyes gave Matthew a friendly smile.

Gilbert whirled around and blinked at Francis and Antonio. A few feet away from them, his trademark scowl currently directed at the grubby floor, Romano was standing with his arms folded. "The horror," Francis wailed, slipping into the seat beside Matthew (who surreptitiously inched away from him and his dramatically flailing arms), "Of discovering that our dear ami had deserted us!" Gilbert snorted, looking more than a little irritated, and replied, "You do it every time you see a hot girl! Or guy, for that matter. Or dog…"

Why did his friends have to be so relentlessly nosy? Why couldn't they just leave him in peace with the mysterious Canadian for one fucking minute? Francis pouted and snapped, "I only date humans, imbécile." Antonio flopped into position on the last seat at the table, and said cheerfully, "But you don't really date them. You just have sex with them!"

Matthew tried to slip away from the table unnoticed, and three pairs of eyes (one red, one green and one blue) glanced at him. He blushed, wondering how the hell he'd got himself into this situation. When Alfred had dragged him to the pool he'd expected a quiet, boring hour of watching his brother dive, not to be dragged into a conversation about sex with some random strangers.

Even if one of them was, admittedly, incredibly attractive (and kind, Matthew thought, remembering how Gilbert had paid for the drinks as if it was nothing). "Who is this, Gilbert?" the blonde one purred, shifting his chair a little closer to drape an arm around the Canadian boy's shoulder.

Gilbert glared at his friend and tried to resist the urge to punch him. "If you'd been paying more attention," he said through gritted teeth, "You would know." Francis ignored him, choosing instead to stare thoughtfully at Matthew (who was, by now, intensely uncomfortable). Meanwhile, Antonio chirped to Romano, "Come and sit down."

The Italian boy scowled at him and snapped, "With the pervert and the freak? No way, bastard." Francis tapped his chin in a way he thought made him look intelligent. "I recognise you from somewhere, chéri," he murmured.

At that moment, with impeccable timing as always, Alfred strode into the café. Matthew sank down into his seat, trying in vain to become invisible. It didn't matter, however, as his brother's eyes were firmly fixed on Gilbert's blond friend. "It's you!" Alfred gasped. Francis looked over his shoulder and winced slightly.

"Ah," he muttered, "Now I remember."

The plot thickens…

Next chapter will be longer, and hopefully not as poorly written as this one is. Please review, and any suggestions for pairings will be gratefully recieved!