Warning: If you are triggered by or sensitive to descriptions of anxiety, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts, and/or self-harm, please consider that before continuing on with the chapter.

Chapter 2: The End of the Beginning is not the Beginning of the End


It was world conference day today. Those days were hard. First of all, running into Russia would be absolutely inevitable, a thought which made Gilbert and the scars on his back cringe. Those scars on his back, for once, had not been self-inflicted.

Then, it was all the people. Sure, Gilbert had spent most of his God-given life being lonely as a fly on the wall, but actually getting out there and, well, trying to make himself not lonely anymore was hard. Very hard. Far, far harder than it should have been.

Thirdly, Gilbert still, after all this time, hadn't told anyone of his homosexual desires, for he still hated himself for them. Gilbert still couldn't accept or tolerate or even pretend to ignore his internalized hatred of his own gender preferences, and no one, absolutely no one, could know that he liked men. Gilbert felt disgusting; he felt like a freak. Yet, the urge to tell someone, anyone, ate away at his very being so ferociously that Gilbert knew not how much longer he could keep all this a secret.

Finally, no one, absolutely no one, could know that Gilbert had a self-harm habit. Well, at this point it'd become more than a habit. It'd become some sort of sick way of trying to make up for everything he had and hadn't done, a habit which bordered on an addiction to the pain. Gilbert feared that if anyone got to close to him they'd find out, and they'd find out about his homosexual desires, and he'd be even more a freak than he already was in the eyes of the world.

Yes, Gilbert really, truly, one-hundred-percent saw himself as a complete and utter freak. An abomination.

"Oh God! I'm sorry!"

In an instant, papers went flying to the ground, and Gilbert's shirt had suddenly gotten a dousing of coffee.

Gilbert almost let out a string of cuss words - cuss words that were meant more for himself than for the person who had inadvertently run into him - when he looked up. In his line of sight he saw the most gorgeous man he could ever have dreamed of laying eyes upon.

Gilbert, no.

But it was too late. His homosexual thoughts were flying every which way, dancing around him and taunting him and even giving him the audacity to think about flirting with this guy standing front of him. However difficult, Gilbert bit his tongue so that he didn't accidentally gush to this random man how cute and adorable and, frankly, beautiful Gilbert found him.

"No, no, it was my fault, really." Gilbert smiled. He didn't have the fight in him to be arrogant today; he was just so, so tired.

"Ah, shucks, don't worry about it." There the man went again, being all adorable.

"What's your name, anyway?" Gilbert asked. Now that he thought about it, the man in front of him seemed like a nation he should've have been able to ascribe a name to, but somehow he couldn't. It was as if this man had just five minutes ago dropped from heaven itself.

"Canada, but some people call me Matthew." So perfect and sweet was Matthew's melodious voice.

Gilbert's heart skipped a beat.

Gilbert, no.

His face went red.

Oh, God, Gilbert! Stop that! Stop thinking about that!

Gilbert sighed when he thought about how many times he'd have to nick himself in order to give penance to such dastardly thoughts.

Fuck. Gilbert. Bad, bad Gilbert.

Matthew is the most gorgeous man on earth, and Gilbert just had to run into him.

Goddammit, Gilbert. Goddammit!

"The name's Gilbert; the pleasure is all mine." Gilbert and Matthew shook hands.

Gilbert smirked in order to exude the confidence that he didn't have, "I am the awesome Prussia!"

No, Gilbert. You're a complete and utter disgrace.


"So, Gilbert," Matthew began. Sweetly, quietly, gently, he spoke. "We've been kind of talking a lot lately. You want to grab coffee or something? Maybe hang out later?"

Gilbert said yes almost too quickly, and he mentally slapped himself for that.

However, Matthew didn't seem to notice, only replying with a, "Great! Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere you want."

"Which time?"

"I should be free tomorrow."

"Sounds good." Matthew smiled a smile that was like marigolds and sunflowers and warmth and sunshine and all things good.

Gilbert, on the other hand, felt like he was falling into a trap, for he was not supposed to desire so badly Matthew's friendship. He wasn't supposed to desire Matthew's romantic love.

Tomorrow came, somehow, even though Gilbert had somewhat wished that it wouldn't come, because then he wouldn't have to face beautiful Matthew and his own dastardly, repulsive, sinful homosexual thoughts. But also somehow, Gilbert had dragged himself to the coffee shop he and Matthew had agreed upon.

Now he was here, standing in front of a cafe he'd never been to and wanting to drop dead on the spot.

He found Matthew sitting at a table, his hair bouncing as soft, delicate curls; Matthew looked like perfection. Absolute perfection. It made Gilbert felt stupid for wearing the same clothes as yesterday, but doing laundry is hard when you're feeling sad all the time, dammit. Gilbert at this point wore the same sweater and jeans day after day after day, much to West's dismay, but under the false guise of laziness, no one really suspected anything.

Every day Gilbert wore a red sweater and black pants, because red and black hide blood well in case he hadn't bandaged himself up enough.

In all honesty, though, despite how hard Gilbert tried to keep his secrets, he almost wanted for someone to find out. He wanted for someone to expose him, to stop him from cutting himself and hating himself and loathing himself, to hold his hand and tell him that everything would be alright, but after all this time, after all this time of slipping underneath everyone's radar, Gilbert was not hopeful that someone would notice.

He was not ready for someone to notice.

When Gilbert approached Matthew and sat down across from him, his attention immediately snapped back to the blonde-haired nation in front of him.

Matthew looked fucking gorgeous. Fucking beautiful. Matthew's the most beautiful fucking person in the entire world.

Just to add to Gilbert's fighting feelings, Matthew wasn't wearing the suit Gilbert always saw him in; no, Matthew just had to be a damn tease and wear pants and a maple leaf sweater that looked really, really, really well on him.

"You look nice," Gilbert complimented, although he was unsure as to whether Matthew would take such a comment as flirting or not.

Matthew just smiled again and replied with a, "Thank-you."

Gilbert couldn't even remember what they ordered, much less what type of coffee each of them got, but he could remember this warm, buzzing feeling within his chest that he tried to shoe away. However, his sinful hopes and feelings wouldn't budge an inch.

"So, what do you like to do in your free time?" Matthew asked, innocently enough.

Gilbert opened his mouth in reply, and he almost blabbed his secret and spilled everything with a, "Oh, well, the only thing I do in my free time is clean my bedroom, cry myself to sleep, and sit in the bathtub and cut myself with a razor-blade. I work out sometimes, too, but that's because people might get suspicious if I drop muscle mass and actually ask me if I'm doing alright."

But he didn't. He just grinned and proclaimed, "I just spent all my free-time being awesome!"

Matthew giggled. "That sounds awesome."

"You bet!" No, it's not awesome. Being awesome isn't awesome; being awesome is being lonely.

"But enough about the awesome moi," Gilbert started, the false smile that didn't quite reach his eyes stretching all across his face. "I want to hear something about you."

Thank God he'd been able to change the topic of conversation, for Gilbert couldn't stand talking about himself. It was like talking about his own worst enemy, because Gilbert's worst enemy was Gilbert himself. If not just depressing, there wasn't anything interesting about him, not anything at all, unless you wanted to count self-destructive tendencies and self-imposed isolation.

"Oh, um, I'm not that exciting," Matthew giggled. He sounded nervous.

That made Gilbert nervous. He had done something wrong? Gilbert couldn't help but wonder that; he'd spent so much time being lonely that he'd completely forgotten how to socialize.

"Come on! From what I've heard, you're not boring!" Gilbert pushed on. Anything, anything, so that he didn't have to talk about himself and his issues.

"I don't know," Matthew shrugged.

They fell into awkward silence.

Matthew took a sip of his coffee, and Gilbert a bite of his pastry.

Gilbert almost threw up, but he pushed his discomfort and the bite of confection down. It should have tasted good, but as of late Gilbert found food completely and absolutely revolting and only ate so that West wouldn't get concerned. The last, last, last thing Gilbert wanted to possibly do was to get his brother concerned for him. West had so much to do, so much paperwork to sign, so many world conventions to attend, while Gilbert just spent his time free-loading off his younger brother.

Gilbert felt his chest tighten. He felt like a failure.

The rest of the short lunch passed by without either saying a word, and when the waiter came with the tab, Matthew had insisted on paying. Gilbert had tried to argue, but it was no use. The Canadian seemed so dead-set on being polite that it was almost astonishing.

"Well, thanks for the lunch," Gilbert said after the longest while. He had to say something, anything, because even though he didn't know how to express it, he felt so damn grateful that Canada had even taken the time of day to get coffee with him.

Matthew smiled at him, again. Again, his smile was perfect, and that made Gilbert feel imperfect.

"Thank-you, too. You know, you're the first person in forever who hasn't mistaken me for America," Canada replied as they were standing up to leave.

"Really?" Gilbert asked, quite shocked. "Sure, you two look kind of alike, but I think that it's pretty easy to tell the difference."

Matthew smiled again, but this time it was sad. "Oh, it's not a big deal, really."

They fell into silence again.

"I should go; need to make sure that Alfred isn't running around being the asshole of the world." Matthew chuckled dryly, his attempt at humor falling flat, but Gilbert laughed anyway.

"Yeah." But Gilbert didn't want for Matthew to go.

Then, Matthew was gone, out the door just like that, and Gilbert felt lonely again.


Gilbert didn't know why going to Canada's house was supposed to be so nerve-wracking.

Palms sweaty and mind in a state of tizzy, Gilbert felt so, so silly for being so scared. It wasn't as if Canada's polar bear would grow fangs and bite Gilbert's head off, or Canada was going to shoe Gilbert away directly after he came in, or the world was going to end in five seconds.

Somehow, though, as Gilbert walked through the ice and snow and the own fear within his heart, he wondered if judgement day would be coming upon him and him only.

As Gilbert approached the door to his friend's home, his hand froze.

He stood there for only God knows how long, legs locked and hands refusing to move in front of Canada's door. Out of context, Gilbert would've been sure that he was about to enter the gates of hell, and he had to remind himself that Canada was - is - nice and accepting and not an asshole like Russia.

Fucking Russia.

Gilbert's self-harm habit had really manifested into something real, real horrible and bad and destructive after being forced into the Soviet Union, and even after the fall of the Berlin Wall he still had nightmares about it. About Russia. About all those fucking people dying. About him not being able to do a damn thing.

He didn't know when, but after standing there for what seemed like forever, somehow, someway, almost as if God had snapped a finger, Gilbert's hand whipped up to the side of Canada's door and, regarding the button as if one wrong move would trigger World War III, Gilbert gingerly and hesitantly pressed the doorbell.

The ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong! that screamed from the other side of the door nearly made Gilbert jump and wail out of pure and utter fright. Why, oh why, oh why in the bloody fucking damn hell did doorbells have to be so loud and sound like a gong and behave like a war buzzer?

Gilbert half expected for the door to come exploding open and for one of Russia's military tanks to come barreling out. Gilbert slammed his eyes closed, slapped his hands over his ears, and knelt his head down to pray, his anticipation as high as the fucking sky for him to be smashed by a plane or gunned down by the KGB or locked in a cellar for six months by Russia himself.

However, danger never came. Gilbert tilted his head back up and unplugged his ears and slowly, slowly, slowly opened his eyes, and he saw Canada standing right there, an expression of mild confusion on his face.

Immediately, Gilbert's face turned red.

Gilbert felt so fucking embarrassed that a fucking doorbell had nearly been the cause of another meltdown. Yes, another meltdown.

He had no idea what in hell was going on with him, but occasionally - okay, maybe not occasionally, more like several times a week - Gilbert would just feel himself shut down. He'd be floating floating, floating, but not in a good way, almost as if he'd left his body, almost as if he had died. He'd feel like he was dying, like he was spiraling down, down, down, into unbridled panic that couldn't be stopped. It was like an elemental force of nature. Nothing could slow it down, and nothing could stop the rising anxiety and the panic and the hyperventilation, but, also like a hurricane, it'd go as quickly and as suddenly as it had come.

Gilbert saw these panics through the lenses of embarrassment and shame and plain mortification. He felt that he'd been put on the spot, that Canada's eyes were peering down and judging him, and it took all he had within him to not just run away and to the hills and back home to cry his eyes out and cut.

The itch in Gilbert's arm was hardly imaginary. It'd been just yesterday, but he wanted to cut again. Subconsciously, Gilbert brushed the fabric over his arm. He felt the scabs and pain and self-hatred underneath them, and he bit his lip and hoped to God and to high hell that Matthew didn't have x-ray vision. No one, especially Matthew, could know that he self-harmed.

Gilbert felt like a freak for doing so. Just like his homosexual thoughts and desires, Gilbert felt so, so alone, as if he was the only person in the entire world going through such things, and it only came round with more cutting, more negative thoughts, more self-hate.

A deep, burning pit of despise for himself laid in Gilbert's belly, and the smoke and flames of self-dislike rose to Gilbert's throat and head and slowly suffocated him.

Gilbert looked up, up to Canada, and he half-anticipated for Canada to have already run away, to have already run away from this freak and abomination. But no, Matthew just stood there, his hands still on the doorknob and moist, slightly pink lips parted just so.

"Gil, you alright?" Canada asked. Gilbert blinked in surprised. Matthew didn't sound disgusted in the least. Just . . . Concerned.

"Yeah, yeah, awesome me's alright." Gilbert internally cringed. He sounded so weak, so helpless, so pathetic.

"Oh, come in! Come in!" Canada insisted as he stepped aside. "It's got to be freezing outside!"

Gilbert did as told, and he stepped out from the chill of winter and into the warmth inside of Canada's house.

Immediately upon entering, Gilbert was hit with a gust of warm, then with a whiff of lemon, cinnamon, and a slew of unidentified but pleasant spices.

"Wait." Gilbert stopped upon smelling the scents inside Matthew's house. He took a few steps back, and he must have looked absolutely ridiculous. However, while he had no concern over his own safety or well-being, Gilbird's was at the top of his priorities. "I'm really sorry, but a lot of scented air-fresheners and candles are really bad for birds." Gilbert nudged Gilbird, who was perched on his shoulder, just slightly for emphasis.

"Oh, I should have told you," Canada giggled, his face now slightly flushed with red because the door hadn't been closed yet and was letting in the cold. "I'm just boiling some lemons and spices on the stove. That should be fine for birds."

Gilbert breathed a sigh of relief and finally closed the door behind him. He felt safe now, somehow. Maybe it was how warm Matthew's home was, or maybe because the other nation had taken the time to consider Gilbird's needs, or maybe it was just Matthew there, standing in front of Gilbert with his beautiful hair curls and soft smile and calming hands over Gilbert's shoulder.

Matthew went into his kitchen, so Gilbert followed. They were now at the stove, where the lemons and spices were boiling away, and Matthew reached his hand to the gas supply.

"I'm just going to turn this off," Matthew told Gilbert.

Once that was in order, and with the house still smelling like Christmas, Gilbert and Matthew sat down on Matthew's couch.

Gilbert leaned his head back and sighed. Matthew's couch was so soft. And warm. And welcoming. Just like Matthew. Gilbert closed his eyes and reopened one, and he saw Matthew leaning close and smiling.

"You look cute like that," Matthew commented.

The heat rose to Gilbert's face even before Matthew had finished.

No, Matthew. I'm not cute; you're the cute one.

Also, I suck.

"What do you want to do?" Gilbert questioned. He couldn't think of anything, for he didn't really do anything another than eat, sleep, clean, workout, cry, and cut. Gilbert's life was now boring. It was so, so dull, if not painful, and suddenly Gilbert could feel himself turn self-conscious because of how little he'd been doing lately.

"Video games?" Matthew asked.

Gilbert nodded almost too fast. Something, anything, to not just sit there in a puddle of his own thoughts.

Matthew stood up to turn on and pull out the gaming console, and soon the both of them were sprawled on the couch, frantically pressing buttons as Gilbert lost again and again to Matthew, much to his embarrassment. When Gilbert said that he didn't really do anything other than eat, sleep, clean, workout, cry, and cut, he meant it. He didn't go out, or even drink anymore because hangovers made him even more miserable, or play video games, or watch movies, or go over to anyone's, anyone's, house.

The last time he could remember going to another person's house was when he'd been made out to live in Russia's house, and Gilbert had to force himself to stop thinking about that and just enjoy Matthew's company.

"I lost again, dammit!" Gilbert threw the controller down, although he made sure to throw it onto the couch so that he didn't actually damage it. He didn't want to damage anything, or hurt anything, or even be a bother. No, no, no, he'd been so much of a failure that the least he could do was to not burden his friend.

Matthew didn't say anything, probably because there was nothing polite to say about Gilbert's almost spectacular losing streak, and the man just laughed slowly, gently, cutely.

Gilbert's cheeks flushed again, and indignantly he turned away and crossed his arms.

"You want to do something else?" Matthew asked between giggles. He leaned in close to Gilbert, and Gilbert could feel himself tense.

Why did Matthew have to tempt him so? Matthew's chin was on his shoulder now, and the heat in Gilbert's face only intensified.

Alas, Gilbert pushed his desires, and wants, and his own self down.

No, Gilbert.

Matthew doesn't deserve your devious, sinful feelings.

Keep them to yourself.

Gilbert just shrugged. "Dunno."

"Hungry."

Gilbert and Matthew jumped slightly and abruptly drew apart, and even though Gilbert wouldn't admit it, he felt a loss now that Matthew wasn't touching him anymore.

"Kuma?" Matthew turned to Kumajiro, who had now stood up on the couch and was facing both Gilbert and Matthew, the bear's expression blank and his hand on his stomach.

"Hungry," Kumajiro repeated.

"Well, let's get you something to eat." Canada scooped Kumajiro up into his arms, and he turned his head towards Gilbert. "Hey, Gilbert, are you hungry, too?"

Gilbert shook his head no.

"Really? It's seven in the evening, though, and you came here at one. Are you sure?" Gilbert felt like shrinking because Canada sounded so worried.

Wait.

Gilbert swung his head around and looked at the clock on the wall, and sure enough, it was seven thirty. In the evening. Gilbert had been here for six. Hours. Six. Fucking. Hours.

"Holy shit," Gilbert muttered underneath his breath. He wasn't used to time flying by like this. Usually, every second, every moment that had passed was slow, too slow, even excruciatingly so. This was different. The feeling of time going by quickly was new to him, and now that Gilbert thought about it, he'd really, really enjoyed his time at Canada's house. Gilbert was comfortable, and he felt safe, and Canada's house smelled so nice, and Gilbird like it, too.

Gilbert looked back at Canada, who now stared at him intently, eyes wide and curious.

"Gil?"

Canada's word had snapped Gilbert out of it, and Gilbert, after a strange, fuzzy feeling had melted his heart away, found himself back in reality.

"Oh, um." Gilbert sat on the couch, cross-legged and feeling helpless. Canada already stood up with Kumajiro in his arms.

"You sure you don't want to eat something?" Canada repeated.

"I mean, I might stay for dinner. That. That'd be nice," Gilbert began with himself feeling quite very flustered. Then he added, almost frantically, "If you don't mind, that is!"

"Of course I don't mind." There Canada went. Again. Smiling that perfect, warm, lovely smile of his. Being polite, so polite, and nicer to Gilbert than what he deserved.

"Alright! Sounds awesome!" Gilbert gently scooped Gilbird out of his hair and put him down on one of the sofa's pillows. Gilbert tacked on in explanation, just in case he'd confused Matthew, "Birds aren't supposed to be in the kitchen with you when you're cooking. It's bad for their breathing."

"It's so adorable that you know so much about birds," Canada said, his voice holding what Gilbert could only tell was interest.

"Really? I dunno; I'm kind of boring, really," Gilbert replied, face continuing to redden by the second. The embarrassment over how much his face had been turning red only made him more, well, red. Gilbert looked off to the side and kicked an imaginary rock, and he honestly felt like a silly junior high school girl talking to her crush.

"I think you're interesting." Canada smiled.

Gilbert looked up at Canada, and he almost cried when he realized that he couldn't even remember the last person who'd smiled at him and really, really, truly, positively meant it.


They'd known each other for over a year now, and while Gilbert still refused himself the relief of telling Matthew about, well, about everything, about all his desires and unhealthy coping habits and internalized self-hatred, Gilbert was the happiest he could ever remember being when around Matthew.

He hadn't felt this way since he'd fallen in love in Hungary, and for that, he feared with all his heart that it'd get broken again.

Still, at this point, Gilbert and Matthew spent so much of their time together.

They clicked, slowly at first, but once their comfort around the other person had grown, their friendship was almost instant. They'd eat pancakes together, and Matthew's pancakes were the only food since forever that didn't make Gilbert want to vomit.

Lately West had been questioning why Gilbert had so quickly developed a liking to pancakes, and no matter now many times Gilbert told West that he liked pancakes because Matthew's pancakes were the absolute best, West could never seem to remember Canada's name. In fact, strange thing was, that no one remembered Canada's name, not even his own bear.

At first Gilbert thought that he was going crazy, him borderline convincing himself that such a warm and lovely presence that was so kind and nice and gentle to him couldn't have existed, and perhaps Canada was something his fucked up mind had made up just to cope with the world. However, France of all people had quelled his worries when he'd told Gilbert that for one reason or another, even though Canada actually exists and is actually quite powerful and wealthy and engages frequently within world affairs, no one notices Matthew.

The idea in itself was and is . . . strange. But Gilbert notices Matthew, and Matthew notices him.

Gilbert had no idea how Canada managed to stay so happy and even content when barely anyone could do so much as see him, but at least this content nature of his friend was exactly what Gilbert needed to have the motivation to keep on living.

He and Matthew would also cook together, and play with Kuma and Gilbird together, and ride bikes together, and eat ice cream together, and sleep over at each other's houses, and somehow Gilbert had moved into Matthew's house at some point along the road, and do every conceivable thing anyone could ever hope to possibly think of together. Even paperwork. And Gilbert hated, and still hates, paperwork.

But, he had all the free time in the world, so he could at least help his friend file tax returns every once in a while. So. Many. Damn. Tax. Returns. Gilbert remembered the days when taxing everyone required an infinitely less number of dead trees and bureaucracy, the days when censuses didn't have to be carried out with millions upon millions of people to count. Well, everyone also died of the plague back then, so Gilbert supposed that exchanging plague for bureaucratic cluster-fucks was better than, you know, millions still dying from plague. Gilbert shuttered. More dead bodies he'd witness when he'd been a nation; he didn't want to think about that.

Now that Gilbert was no longer a nation, though, he found that he had all the time in the world. Before meeting Matthew, the sheer lack of things to do proved disastrous, as the boredom and lack of responsibility and lack of impact his life possessed just spiraled and spiraled and spiraled until Gilbert was on planet lonely.

But helping Matthew with Canada's paperwork, and babysitting Kumajiro, and cooking with Matthew, and doing practically everything with Matthew, kept Gilbert's mind busy. It gave Gilbert something he desperately needed: a cure to his boredom.

And Matthew himself had helped Gilbert, too, even though Matthew had no idea that Gilbert cut himself or that Gilbert felt empty and hollow and sad.

A little while back, Matthew, upon noticing that Gilbert didn't have anything to do, encouraged him to move on over to Canada for a while and go to college, an idea Gilbert was initially hesitant about, but six months into it, Gilbert found himself actually enjoying his history course. It wasn't much, and it only filled a part of his time, but Gilbert had something to do. He had a reason to wake up in the morning. He had something to look forward to. It helped with his socialization as well because while he hadn't made any close friends from university, he was able to talk to people again.

Also, being an ex-nation and experiencing the actual history - not that anyone on the campus actually knew that Gilbert was the ex-nation of Prussia - helped Gilbert just breeze through the course, something that might have made a human feel hollow, but, and Gilbert knows that he's lucky when he's saying this, college was kind of there just to get him out of his rut. He'd gotten his head out of the gutter, at least part of the way, and while he didn't plan to go to college forever, not even knowing if he'd sign up for the next semester, Gilbert could definitely say that going to college lifted him up, even if by just a tiny bit.

Maybe he'd get a job next or something, or try another course, Gilbert didn't know, but what he did know was that he no longer felt complete, crushing boredom for all hours of the day, and that was good enough for him.

At the moment, though, Gilbert wasn't worrying about any of that. He wasn't in college right now because they'd closed for the winter holidays, and Matthew had some time off work. Now, they were just in the snow and mucking around.

Smack!

A snowball had made its way to Gilbert's face, and Gilbert glared at Canada in false anger.

"Oh, IT'S ON!" Gilbert exclaimed. "You're not the only country who gets snow, you know!" He quickly scooped up a snowball of his own, aimed, and threw it onto Matthew's chest.

Another snowball to Gilbert's face, and Gilbert was cursing Matthew's Canadian powers.

Smack!

Whoosh!

Plunk!

Thunk!

Snowballs flew everywhere, and Gilbert and Matthew were engaged in their snowball fight to a comical extent.

Gilbert didn't know how long they'd been at it, but he was laughing all the way. Mercilessly, the two friends pelted each other with snow, and by this point, the once refined, round, glorious balls of snow that had been thrown were currently crude globs of ice. They didn't really even care about the fight in a snowball fight anymore; it was just kind of fun chucking snow at each other.

Finally, Gilbert and Matthew met the other in the middle of the snowfield, and in their shared exhaustion, they both collapsed into the snow. Their heads were right next to each other with their feet pointed at opposite directions, and Gilbert let out a pure, genuine, unrestrained laugh of complete and utter joy.

Gilbert felt happy, so, so happy.

"You're better than I thought," Matthew remarked between his bouts of panting.

Gilbert, even though he couldn't see Matthew's face that well, could still feel the Canadian's smirk.

"Yeah, and if you practice enough, you can be as awesome as me!" Gilbert bit back.

The two started laughing uncontrollably, and Matthew sat up, his soft, gentle, kind face looking over Gilbert's.

Matthew looked absolutely lovely. The way his hair fell from his face, the way his glasses fogged up, the way his lips had turned pink and his cheeks had turned red from the cold. Matthew was - is - absolutely, positively, undeniably beautiful. That day, Gilbert wanted so badly to kiss Matthew, but he resisted the urge.

Gilbert smiled. Yeah, he for sure still had a shitload of problems, but when with Matthew, he felt like the luckiest man in the world.