Commitment
The Bad Touch Trio had always considered themselves eternal bachelors. They loved the single life and all that it brought-men and women of all walks of life, endless drinks, and freedom from responsibility. They heard what responsibility sounded like from Sweden and Finland, and it did not sound like fun. At all.
But things had somehow...changed over the past few years. Prussia never really did know which one of them changed first-was it Spain or was it France?-but something about their lives had become rather different. France and England were in one of their "let's fuck each other instead of kill each other" phases. But the phase never really seemed to pass, as it had in all the previous years, and suddenly he found himself and Antonio helping Francis pack things into cardboard boxes (the other nation yelling all the while "Be careful, Gilbert, that's an original Monet!" and other such remarks) and somehow he had never moved out. And Antonio's relationship had changed around the same time; true, he and Romano didn't flaunt it as much as Arthur and Francis did, but they hadn't had as much practice. Give them a few centuries and he was sure they'd catch up. It started off with innocent things; toothbrushes left behind in each other's bathrooms, cannolis and churros exchanged in Tupperware, early (or twice as often, late) morning coffees, one with steamed milk and the other with cinnamon sticks.
And suddenly Gilbert found himself the only one still out at bars at three in the morning, trying (and usually succeeding) to drink everyone else under the table, with a boy or a girl clinging to his arm on the taxi ride home, screaming into the night; the only one waking up the next morning to a roiling stomach and pounding head and Bloody Marys, puking out his guts in the toilet while the shower in the other bathroom ran noisily.
He wished he could put a pinpoint on when that had become their new routine; when he started hearing tales of how adorable Arthur looked when he dozed off reading poetry or how sweet Lovino could be when someone actually took care of him the way he deserved to be taken care of rather than tales of the wildly kinky sex they'd had the weekend before. There was still sex, but of the boring, vanilla kind, and he usually didn't want to hear about it. He'd have to face these people at work at some point in the near future.
Worst of all was the way that France and Spain just would not stop with their coaxing. If he heard one more
"Gilbert, what about that pretty brunette guy you brought over last weekend? Was there something there?"
or
"Prussia, what do you think of Hungary's new dress? She looks nicest in green, don't you think?"
then he was going to scream. He was happy, dammit, he was happy single and free.
But still not as happy as he might have been had he had someone to actually go drinking with. Statistics proved that drinking was approximately 400.5% more fun with drinking buddies than without. (No, Yong Soo, statistics were not invented in Korea. He was going to strangle him one day, he really was. He was sure he'd find someone to help him-if worst came to worst, he could always ask England. Dude was always up for some murder, provoked or unprovoked.)
So he was doing a poll of all the available nations that met his "drinking buddy requirements."
1. Must be single
2. Must be awesome-although not as awesome as me
3. Must have high alcohol tolerance
Condition number two led his thoughts straight to Denmark and America, who also fulfilled condition number three. However, Denmark was currently shacked up in some polyamorous arrangement with Belgium and Iceland. He didn't really want to know the specifics of that relationship. And America was in a relationship with Kiku. It was on the casual side, sure, but it was still a relationship. There went those two.
Russia definitely fit both conditions 1 and 3-no one except Belarus was crazy enough to want to date him, and the man drank vodka like water-but condition number 2 was a complete flop.
One of the Irelands might work, or Scotland or Whales (Wails?); they were always up for a trip to the pub, and they were a fun lot. However, Ireland's economy was shot to shit, and she usually skipped meetings to try and deal with her domestic problems more effectively. And the other three usually didn't attend meetings or visit continental Europe much, leaving the running of the UK to their brother and preferring their own company to that of others.
Shit, he was out of ideas. Tiredly, he picked up the phone and pressed the first contact on the list.
"'Sup brah?" Great. One of the countries he'd already crossed off the list. Oh well. Might as well ask America if he knew anyone who might want to come drinking with him.
"America! Know anyone who might want to go drinking with the awesome me?"
The nation on the other end of the line paused for a second.
"Denmark?"
"Spending the night with Belgium and Iceland."
"Blergh. I don't even want to think about that one."
"Me neither."
"Okay...what about Ireland? Or Scotland? No one can hold liquor like them-they even outdrank Ivan."
"Alarming statistic, that is. Remind me to bet on them the next time they show up to a World Meeting, if they ever do-"
"Will do."
"-still, no use, they're still on those godforsaken islands of theirs."
"Ah. That is a problem. What about your brother? He appreciates beer as much as you do. Also, don't you usually drink with France and Spain?"
Of all the times for an American to be perceptive.
"Nah, they're out with their significant others. I didn't want to run the risk of puking all over them. And West is shacked up with Feli again, and he's boring as fuck to drink with. Unless you get him really plastered, not even the possibility of a good story there."
Another moment's pause.
"What about Canada?"
"Who?"
"Dude, you remember Mattie! I totally introduced you last world meeting-"
"I'm only joking, Alfred. As much as England seems to think so, he's not invisible."
"Cool. You'll like Mattie, he likes beer too. Do you have his number, or do you want me to give it to you?"
"Nah, I've got it. Thanks dude!"
"No problem, bro. See ya around."
Prussia considered shouting "Awesome me out!" but the line had already gone dead by the time he decided in favour for. Missed opportunity. Typing furiously, he sent out a text to Matthew: going out drinking 2nite, wanna come?
sorry, who is this?
prussia. gilbert.
oh. sure, i guess. when/where are we meeting?
Score! Drinking buddy mission complete!
outside ur place. 10pm. b there or b square.
Prussia didn't remember most of that first night of drinking. He did recall that Jager was involved at some point, as were Jello shots. He also remembered that Matthew had liked his beer, and he'd tried Canada's Molson and found it decent. And a stripper who called herself Strawberry and wore nothing but a pink thong and body glitter. Other than that...the night was a blur.
What he did remember was the next morning. He woke as he always did on a Sunday morning, with a mouth like sawdust and a stomach that felt like he'd spent the evening on the deck of one of Spain's old pirate ships after swallowing half the sea in saltwater first. He had mercifully long ago mastered the art of sprinting for the bathroom at breakneck speed with his eyes closed. When he'd finished retching up the remnants of the poison from last night, he stumbled into the kitchen, somehow even paler than usual with dark circles beneath his eyes. Rather than a pretty blonde frying eggs on the stovetop or an even prettier boy with bloodshot eyes popping pills at the kitchen table, he found Canada reading the paper on the sofa. When Prussia stumbled into the room, he set the paper down on his lap and jerked his head towards the table, which is laden with some kind of foodstuff.
"I made pancakes," he says, and Gilbert feels his morning growing that much better.
"Where have you been all my life?" he mumbles, and Canada actually grins.
"Just above West Bumblefuck, Maine-if you hit the North Pole, you've gone too far."
Prussia can't help it-even if it will make his headache that much worse-he laughs, and helps himself to pancakes with melted butter and extra syrup.
And thus begins their strange drinking friendship. Once or twice a week, they'd head out to a bar or club together and drown their grievances and joys alike in liquor. Although Matt (not Mattie, the other country insisted) was a quiet person, he was also delightfully snarky, and he was a welcome present in Prussia's flat (no, he did not live in his brother's basement-he had a perfectly respectable 2 bedroom in Berlin). And if either of them noticed Canada's stuff starting to creep into Prussia's, they neglected to mention it.
It started off small at first-just once, Canada forgot his toothbrush at Gilbert's after a spectacularly lengthy weekend of drinking and leaves it there 'in case of emergencies.' Then he starts helping Gilbert strip and make the guest bed because he feels like the sheets are 'too used' after he's slept in them a few times.
"I mean, what if you have a real guest over or something?" Gilbert isn't really sure when Matt stopped being a real guest-he thinks it was maybe after Matthew's maple leaf coffee mug found a place next to France's and Spain's; it's slightly in front of theirs, actually. Or it might have been just before he bookmarks the hockey channel on the TV so Matthew doesn't have to spend forever searching for the channel when he comes over. It might have been when he admitted to liking Molsons almost as much as he liked his own Spatens. He thinks if he had to pinpoint it, it might have been between when they start leaving post-it notes around the house for each other, prompting them to "buy bread!" "change the bathroom towels!" "it's your turn to ask Germany for the notes from this month's meeting." and when Matthew starts cooking him poutine and wurst casserole nearly every evening fresh instead of leaving servings to be reheated in the fridge for the week. It's a strange flavour combination, but it's their favourite anyway.
There are other, smaller things too. Matt starts answering the phone for both of them, even when Gilbert's home. His music selection starts creeping into Prussia's own collection of German rock; Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole and Ella Fitzgerald. One evening they start dancing to it as they wash the dishes together, spinning and dancing around the kitchen until they're breathless with laughter. One day, Matt teaches him to make maple sugar candy, and Gilbert thinks that the syrup at the corner of his mouth looks awfully lickable. One night they fall asleep under the afghan on the sofa, heads on opposite armrests with Kuma-what's-its-name curled in the middle.
One morning he realises he hasn't brought anyone home since he and Matthew started drinking together.
And he realises that he and Matt don't act like they're dating, they act like a fucking married couple already.
The thought terrifies him.
He calls Francis in a panic, hardly able to get the words out. Luckily Francis-maybe it's because of years of friendship, or maybe it's his intuitive love senses working again-seems to understand just from the word "Matt" and the tone of his voice.
"You love Mathieu, don't you?"
Gilbert is nearly sobbing.
"Love? I don't love anyone. I don't love anyone but myself."
France sighs on the other end of the line.
"Gil, as much as I know you're a narcissistic individual, I know you care about other people. I know you care about Mathieu, otherwise you wouldn't have bought him that Nat King Cole record he wanted so much or tried to cook poutine for him on his birthday. You wouldn't be able to tell him apart from Alfred, either. But if you don't get over yourself and tell him, you're going to lose him. Mathieu is patient, but he can't sit around in limbo forever-and this silly fear of commitment stems from the fear that he'll leave you. Think on that, will you?"
And his friend hangs up.
It takes Gilbert another half an hour to calm down enough before he calls Matt.
"Can you come over? Right now, I mean?" he blurts out before Matt can even get a salutation in.
"Yeah, sure. Why? Something wrong?"
Yes, Gilbert desperately wants to scream, yes, because Francis thinks you might leave me and he always knows things about relationships and he's the closest thing you have to a father-well, besides England, anyway-but I'm sure he's right on this count too and I'm sorry I'm keeping you waiting but-
"No," is what he says.
"Oh, okay, I'll be over in half an hour or so, then," Matthew says.
When Matthew's car pulls up to his house, Prussia's hands are sweating and shaking. The evening starts off slow, as it usually does. They flick around channels on the TV for a while, as there isn't hockey on. Drink beer. Nothing out of the ordinary, Prussia tells himself. After he's had enough Molson to dampen his nerves significantly, he goes over to the CD player (call him outdated but there's something about a physical record of music an iPod just can't quite live up to) and pops in a favourite for both of them, "Fly Me to the Moon."
"Please dance with me," he says softly, and extends a hand to Canada, who is still lounging on the couch.
Canada gives him a look, as if to say 'You called me over to dance to Frank Sinatra?' but he gets up anyway. Prussia isn't quite sure why, but some of his old courtesies come back and he's certain Canada has caught onto the ruse. This is not the dancing of friends, it is dancing the way he danced with so many men and women of Maria Theresa's court centuries before, but none looked quite so lovely, he thought. And before he can second guess himself he leans in and kisses Matt.
It is awkward in the way that only first kisses can be. They bump noses because Canada is not expecting it, but he feels him relax into the touch of his mouth and begin to kiss him back. They are dancing a different sort of dance now, one of twined tongues and feather light touches of fingers on hipbones and firmer ones of fingers knotting into hair. It could have been that a thousand years passed before they came up, gulping for air-Gilbert didn't know. All he knew was that he felt half an empire again.
"I want to dance with you until we grow old," he whispers to Matthew.
"But we don't-" Matt starts, and then he seems to realise and his eyes grow wide-
"Exactly," Prussia finishes for him, and leans in to kiss him once more.