Beware of fluff...


The large house was quiet but for the rhythmic sound Ivan's fists made as they collided with the punching bag and Natalia's shrill voice as she 'advised' him about his technique. Neither of those was music to Katyusha's ears.

"Those punches are getting sloppier by the minute," Natalia noted, "get your mind back on track, brother! You can't just space out like that during a fight!"

"I don't want to fight," Ivan replied, panting and continuing his assault on the punching back, "I am doing this to avoid a fight. My clever sister told me that it was better to vent my frustration on an inanimate object. I think she called it a preemptive strike against my dark side. Very American vocabulary, by the way. I do not approve of that."

"I would never use such a term!" Natalia objected.

"I wasn't talking about you. You are my pretty sister. Katyusha over there is my clever sister."

Both women looked at him in surprise. Their relationship with their brother was not always easy; and Ivan rarely handed out compliments like that. Something was definitely off; even Natalia in her flustered, blushing excitement could see that.

"You are not fooling me", she declared, "You never say nice things to me unless you want something, Wanja… and I think what you want right now is to divert my attention from the fact that you have been acting out of character for over a week now. One might even say out of your mind."

Katyusha silently applauded her sister for coming to that conclusion. Maybe she had underestimated Natalia…

"She is right, you know", she gently told her brother, "You try so hard to hide your true feelings from us, Wanja, but without success. We both know you well and it is obvious that you are very unhappy. I think even your anger might be a mask you use to cover your misery. Misery is weakness to you, right? You are ashamed of feeling this way."

"You are too clever for your own good, Katyusha," Ivan growled.

"Maybe." Katyusha shrugged. "But you, Wanja, are not acting very clever right now. I think it's time for you to admit defeat."

"Russia, defeated by a punching bag? Never!" Ivan replied with mock horror, giving the bag a final hard smack.

"That is not what I meant and you know it. Love is like war. You've lost wars before. You know what it feels like."

"Bad."

"And how do you feel right now?"

"… bad."

"Exactly."

"Well he can't very well go ahead and declare war on the entire world, can he?" Natalia cut in sarcastically. "Not that most of the others wouldn't deserve it, but one has to stay reasonable. He can't even declare war on Arthur alone without the other Europeans and that loathsome American rushing in to 'help'. The world is so interconnected these days that one is denied the simple pleasures of a good old-fashioned war. It's a real pity."

"That's a surprisingly reasonable observation coming from you, Natalia," Katyusha noted, "but I think you missed my point. I did not suggest that Ivan should go to war."

"I'd like to, though," Ivan said mournfully, "a war would be infinitely more pleasurable than hitting inanimate objects."

"You should seriously reconsider your definition of appropriate leisure activities," Katyusha scolded him. "Wars are much too costly to be taken lightly. They are bad for your economy, for your people, for the state of international relations."

"I don't really care about international relations, Katyusha. Everybody hates me, anyway."

"That's not true!" Natalia protested. "I don't hate you! I love you. You are my favorite person in the world."

Neither Ivan nor Katyusha seemed particularly impressed by this ardent declaration of affection, though. Ivan just ignored it out of habit – after all, Natalia declared her undying love for him about twice a week. Katyusha, on the other hand, waved it away with a negligent gesture. "Stop whining," she told her brother quite firmly, "it doesn't suit you and makes you look like a big baby. You've been hiding and sulking for more than a week now, and I feel that's quite enough. Did you even go to meet your new president?"

"What for?" Ivan shrugged. "The new president is actually the old one and I already know him fairly well. And Putin knows how things work. He doesn't need or want me to look over his shoulder and I'm not particularly keen on doing it either. As long as he doesn't bother me, we get along quite well without talking to each other."

"And what about Syria? You do know that there's a major crisis down there, don't you?"

"So…? Let Lavrov deal with it. That's what we have a foreign minister for, isn't it?"

"Wanja, you are beginning to make me cross," Katyusha said, frowning. "You need to take care of this problem now. It's impeding your ability to run your country."

Ivan took off his gloves and threw them to the ground, clearly frustrated. "And what do you suggest I do…?"

Katyusha gave him a long look. "Well, that should be obviously. You need to go to Ottawa."

"What?"

"Wanja…", his sister said, her voice a bit more gentle, "You are miserable. And the only person who can get you out of your misery is currently staying in Ottawa."

"But I… I can't just go there…" he faltered.

"Oh? Why not?"

"Because…" Ivan shrugged helplessly.

"You're an idiot, brother," Natalia scoffed, "I really don't get what you see in this boy; but for once, Katyusha is right. You need to deal with this."

"You want me to get together with Matthew?" Ivan sounded baffled.

Natalia smiled. It looked a little pained, but it was nonetheless surprising. She reached up to brush her fingers across Ivan's cheek, but pulled them back when he flinched. "I know that you will always return to me. This infatuation of yours will quickly wear off and then you will get bored of the boy. I can afford to be generous, because I love you and I know that no one will ever manage to take you away from me."

Katyusha rolled her eyes, but made sure that her sister would not see it.

She truly is mad; and she cannot see that this time, everything is different. But at least she is not trying to make things difficult for our brother.

"Go to Ottawa, Wanja," she said wearily. "And good luck. You may need it."


Matthew lay awake listening to the howling of the snowstorm outside. It had descended upon Ottawa late that afternoon and was now amusing itself by rattling with the shutters and piping down the chimney.

Staring at the wood-paneled ceiling, Matthew remembered many similar stormy nights. As a child he had never been afraid of storms… but Alfred had been, and maybe still was. Back in those days, Alfred had frequently crawled into bed with him, hiding beneath the covers. For a self-proclaimed hero, Alfred was surprisingly easy to frighten.

A small smile grazed his lips as he thought of his silly brother, but it disappeared quickly when his thoughts returned to the present.

Alfred had called him 17 times over the course of the past week, left five messages ranging from worried to outraged, and – according to Matthew's puzzled and somewhat amused ambassador in Washington – had summoned the unsuspecting Russian ambassador for an 'interview' that had culminated in a shouting match. During the course of said interview, the poor Russian diplomat had been declared persona non grata. According to his Canadian colleague, he was now on the way back to Moscow.

Matthew had briefly considered sending a written apology. When you got right down to it, he was responsible for bringing the wrath of the very impersonation of America down upon the innocent diplomat. However, his own ambassador had convinced him that such a note would have seemed oddly out of place. Nations did not apologize, the ambassador had insisted. A nation's government might consider an apology as a last resort, and only if there was no other, more dignified way to get out of the affair, but a nation did not apologize.

Matthew shrugged. So no letter to the Russian ex-ambassador. Oh well. He would just have to ask Ivan to convey the expression of his deepest sympathy, or whatever it was you said in such cases.

Damn.

Asking Ivan to do anything for him? That was so not going to happen. At least not anytime soon. Maybe Matthew was a bit naïve sometimes, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one.

He had not received the slightest acknowledgement of his existence from Ivan since he had left Tokyo; and much less spoken to him. It seemed that Ivan had chosen to conveniently forget about the embarrassing incident and the other person involved. And considering that Matthew was very easy to ignore, it probably didn't even cost him too much of an effort.

I guess I should be glad it went over that smoothly. It could have ended a lot worse.

But he didn't feel glad. He felt horrible.

In the heat of the moment he had not realized how much Ivan's words, those three short words, meant to him. Now he knew; and he desperately wanted to hear them again. One simple sentence, but oh-so powerful.

Not to mention the fact that his unruly mind supplied him with a steady stream of fantasies about what might have transpired had Arthur not interrupted them. Highly unhelpful, especially since Matthew was already embarrassed enough about his attraction to Ivan without admitting that he was physically yearning for the Russian. Maybe Gilbert was right – Ivan came with dangerous side-effects. One of them being R-rated thoughts that induced sudden trips to the bathroom or other private locations.

My life sucks, Matthew decided. Since it was obvious that he wasn't going to fall asleep anytime soon, he decided to go downstairs and have a cup of tea. He would have gone for a walk, but a look out of the window quickly convinced him that it was a much better idea to stay inside. The snowstorm didn't look as if it was planning on going away anytime soon.

Sighing, Matthew slipped on a pair of woolen socks and made his way downstairs. He was slowly descending from second to first floor, when an unexpected sound startled him.

It wasn't that easy to tell, what with all the howling and wheezing of the snowstorm, but noise just than had sounded like… a knock. Somebody was knocking on his door…? At half past two in the morning? Not very likely…

But then, maybe one of his people had lost his or her way in the storm? Contrary to popular belief, not all Canadians were able to survive in the wilderness for extended periods of time. In fact, Matthew knew quite a few who were unable to find their way around their capital even with the help of a map.

It was his duty to open the door and save the poor soul from hypothermia.

Wearily, he moved towards the door, putting on as friendly and dignified an expression as he could manage (it was half past two in the morning, after all, and he was wearing pajamas). The door swung open.

Matthew stared, and instead of saving some a desperate Canadian citizen from a cold and gruesome death, he froze himself.

Because the person on his doorstep was most definitely not Canadian.

One might have gone as far as to say that he wasn't even entirely human.

"Maple, Ivan, what are you doing here?"

Um no, that had not come out the way he'd intended it to. And from the look on Ivan's face he was about to turn on his heel and march off in order to drown the rest of the night in substantial amounts of vodka.

So much for Canadian hospitality. I'm such an idiot, Matthew silently cursed himself.

"I… I'm just – er – surprised to see you." Which was the truth, and nothing but the truth; but not very helpful, either.

"Are you," Ivan said, his deep voice hoarse and rather cool.

Matthew's face flushed crimson.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, "I didn't mean to…"

"Matvey." The sudden urgency in Ivan's voice caused him to look up again. Two pairs of purple eyes met. Matthew's were filled with confusion and fear, Ivan's now lit up with relief and amusement. "You should stop talking before you tie your tongue into a bow."

The fact that Matthew was one of the few people who could actually attest to the fact that Ivan did possess a sense of humor did not mean he understood it.

"I… you… but…!"

Kissing someone was a very nice way of telling them to shut up, and Matthew silently thanked Ivan for putting him out of his misery. He vowed to actually voice his gratitude sometime later. For now, he was busy.

There wasn't much passion or technique to this kiss; it was flooded with relief as both of them realized that their fears had been unfounded.

His fingers buried into the furry softness of Ivan's coat, Matthew realized that it was actually quite cold outside. Ivan's lips felt warm, but the rest of him – as far as Matthew could tell – was pretty cold as well, and when they broke apart he saw snowflakes glistening on the pale blond hair.

"Come inside," he urged, slipping out of the embrace to hold the door open. Ivan actually took the time to take off his snow-covered boots, a gesture that Matthew found to be oddly endearing. Neither his brother nor Gilbert or Fidel would have bothered to do so.

"How did you get here in the middle of a snowstorm?"

"Uh… let's just say my pilot hates me right now," Ivan replied with a sheepish smile.

"You look like Jack Frost," Matthew noted and held out a hand to take Ivan's coat.

"We're probably related in some way or other," Ivan said drily. "Did Cuba return south?" He looked around the quiet living room.

Matthew shook his head. "No, but Fidel sleeps like a log. You could probably drop a bomb on his head and he wouldn't notice."

"I would put that to the test, but your brother does seem to get upset whenever I so much as mention the words 'Cuba' and 'bomb' in the same sentence."

"You traumatized him back in 1962," Matthew replied, grinning.

Ivan nodded.

Silence fell between them, until Matthew felt obliged to say something.

"Listen I… I feel sorry for running away."

Ivan smiled and reached out to touch his cheek.

"Do you forgive me?" Matthew whispered.

"Yes."

"Will you forgive Arthur?"

"Not anytime soon."

Matthew nodded. Fair enough. I don't think I'll forgive Arthur anytime soon, either.

He reached up to take the hand that lay cold against his cheek. "Come along. You're wet and half-frozen and I don't want you to catch a cold."

"I've seen worse storms," Ivan replied shrugging, "but it's nice that you care."

"Well… I have to confess that part of it is self-interest…"

"Oh?" A slow grin spread across Ivan's face.

Matthew blushed and resolutely drew him towards the stairs.


Matthew insisted on taking a number of cold-preventing measures; but since those led to both of them sitting sparsely clad on his bed, soft blankets draped around them, Ivan voiced no objections. He let Matthew fuss about him and towel-dry his wet hair, relishing the feeling of being loved and cared for. When he was done, Ivan's hair looked worse than Alfred's, but he was well beyond such mundane concerns.

With Matthew seated between his legs joining him in a cup of tea, the world could have come to an end for all Ivan cared.

"Alfred is very unhappy with you," Matthew told him.

"It's been a week; and I didn't even really hurt him." Stupid American.

"It's not that. I'm afraid, Arthur told him."

Ivan frowned. "Told him what? Oh… well… I suppose that would explain a few things. Like the message I received from my ambassador in Washington. Or rather, my former ambassador in Washington."

"I'm sorry," Matthew muttered.

"It's not your fault," Ivan said, shaking his head.

"But I feel bad about it. The poor man had nothing to do with any of this."

Ivan felt a hot surge of tenderness towards this wonderfully complex, unspoiled boy in his arms, who could get upset about an insignificant thing like that. He inclined his head and placed a soft kiss on Matthew's neck, right below his ear. "He'll live. Don't worry. I'll find another job for him… someplace warm and with palm trees and beaches; he'll appreciate that. Now, what shall we do about Alfred…?"

"I don't know," Matthew replied, sounding dejected. "He won't just stop to rant and rave, I suppose. And I'm tired of it all… of everybody telling me what I should and should not do. He has no right to order me around, and neither does Arthur. But I would like to avoid a war, if possible."

"I have what I want now. I see no reason to go to war but to protect it," Ivan stated. "As long as Alfred doesn't make any threatening moves towards you, I'm fine with the status quo."

"One could argue that you've already breached the status quo."

"It's not as if I was planning on occupying and seizing Canada or anything like that," Ivan argued.

"No…?" There was something suggestive to the way he said it.

"I'm not planning on occupying and seizing Canada; but as for conquering Matthew…" Ivan let the sentence trail off.

Matthew squirmed in his lap as he put away the teacup. It was… not an unpleasant feeling. He leant back, his upper body now flush with Ivan's. "I proclaim myself conquered," he declared, his voice soft and lilting, teasing.

"That would take a lot of fun out of it," Ivan replied, tightening his grip around Matthew's waist. "If you surrender without a fight, I will be very disappointed; and I don't handle disappointment well."

"That's because you, like all super-powers, are like a spoilt child. Alfred's the same, and so is Yao," Matthew noted, but his tone was affectionate. "But if you absolutely insist on it, I can certainly make life difficult for you. Maybe I should get a few pointers from Ludwig, since he's the current record holder in that department."

"Ludwig?" Ivan asked puzzled.

"Feliciano has been breathing down his neck for decades without ever taking that last bastion of resistance," Matthew explained.

Ivan grinned at that, admiring the imagery. "It keeps both of them from getting bored, I suppose."

"Do you think you would get bored with me?" Matthew asked anxiously.

With the only living being who is able and willing to look past my history and reputation and tempt his luck…? Certainly not. "No," he stated firmly.

"Good. I guess that means I can kiss you without risking to lose your interest…" He fidgeted until Ivan loosened his grip and allowed him to turn around – it was a bit awkward, given their current position. "Can we postpone the more dramatic acts of defiance until tomorrow?" Matthew asked. "Right now, I'm just too glad to actually have you here to put up much of a fight. I could probably pretend to be cool and impassive, but it would be hypocritical and not very convincing." He wrapped an arm around Ivan's shoulders and brought their faces very close to each other. Ivan could feel warm breath tingling on his skin. "At the risk of disappointing you," Matthew whispered, "right now, all I want is to be close to you. To kiss you, hold you and fall asleep in your arms."

But contrary to his earlier statement, Ivan didn't feel disappointed at all. Elation flooded his body, giddy happiness mingling with arousal. He would have to keep the latter simmering for the time being, but with it came an interesting realization: maybe love was the best aphrodisiac of all.

"That does sound nice," he agreed, before bringing their lips together for a long, gentle kiss. Matthew was warm, responsive, and cuddly; and Ivan sensed no trace of fear or apprehension in his actions.

He trusts me, he realized with awe. He trusts me to care for him and not to hurt him.


To declare somebody 'persona non grata' is not a very nice thing to do. It literally means that you don't want that person in your country (anymore). Usually, a state will declare a foreign diplomat 'persona non grata' if the person in question has done something utterly unacceptable (committed a serious crime, publicly called the head of government of the receiving state a tyrant and a murderer and so on) or if the receiving state finds itself at odds with the home country of the diplomat in question and feels that a public demonstration of displeasure is in order.