I am so sorry. This is extremely late, and I feel horrible. I will admit, I've been struggling with how to transmit my ideas for this story into words, if that makes any sense. The good news is that my midterms are coming to a close soon. The bad news is that finals are just around the corner. Such is Uni life. Anywho, I spent a few days in Boston back in August, and I just wanted to say: to all you Bostonians out there, this Canuck fell in love with your city.
Win, lose, tie. Habs x Bruins fan 'till I die.
Best NHL rivalry there is, in my humble opinion.
(I'm also a huge Hawks fan, just sayin'. Blame Toews and Crawford for that.)
…
Mikkel Køhler – The name I liked best for Denmark (because I find the popular fandom name for Denmark, 'Matthias', is too similar to Canada's name, Matthew). Its English equivalent would be 'Michael'.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Hetalia or otherwise. As simple as that.
To the lovely LadyRaven83: Thank you so sososo much for your patience. My goodness, you're awesome. I hope this meets your expectations.
To all: Please, enjoy!
Canadian Hygge
It was a smidge over 1 PM when Matthew awoke. His meeting was in less than three hours, yet he could not bring himself to care.
At least, not when a certain sinfully-good-looking Dane lay next to him in his bed.
Their night – or technically, their very early morning – had been torrid, to say the least. Mikkel had made good on his promise, and had left the Canuck blissfully satiated… and stiff as a rake. And well, if he really wanted to be Canadian about it: stiff as a hockey player after a grueling 2-hour practice (you know the ones, in which the coach makes you do skating drills and laps around the ice nonstop, for at least an hour?).
That was but a minor detail, though. He could live with the soreness of their 'lovemaking' – the Dane was adamant on calling it that, no matter how rough they sometimes got – if it was always going to be as breathtakingly good.
For the time being, he let his eyes roam freely over the still-sleeping Danish nation by his side. Mikkel was honestly quite exquisite once he remained still long enough for one to get a good look at him. The former Viking was, in fact, seriously well built: strong arms, large shoulders, muscular thighs, and a ridiculously sculpted torso, amongst other defining traits.
…It was funny how they had ended up being more than just friends, he thought. From the beginning – it had started in the late '60s, if Matthew remembered correctly – Mikkel had actively pursued him, and besieged him with letters, emails and (as the years progressed) text messages until he had caved and finally agreed to a date.
The axe-wielding blond, as frightening as he may have seemed to most, had been nothing but a perfect gentleman from beginning to end – not that Matthew really cared, but it admittedly felt nice to have someone be so solicitous about his well-being.
Simply put, from thereon, their relationship had only progressed.
And now, here they were; soon, they would be celebrating their tenth month anniversary as an official couple. Just like that.
Life truly was a master in terms of steering you towards the most unexpected of roads.
Movement next to him drew him away from his pleasant recollections. Looking up from where his eyes had landed on a random spot on the bedsheets, he noticed Denmark beginning to stir.
"Morning, Mike."
With a low grumble, the other blond sunk his face into his pillow, clearly stuck teeter-tottering between slumber and wakefulness.
"For the record, the lingering image in my mind of you playing pool last night is stunning. You looked good doing it, with those lovely sunlit-sky blue hues of yours assessing your next move, calculative with just that whisper of competitiveness. In a single word: captivating. You have a way of demanding my attention without the need to speak, and you do it well even if you find yourself to be unaware of it."
"Hmm," Denmark blinked slowly, ridding himself of the last few remnants of sleep as his lips quirked into a small, pleased smile, "You're quite the charmer in the morning, aren'tcha?"
"So it seems. Though, you're quite the charm-lover if it manages to actually wake you up." As he said this, Matthew was absentmindedly finger-combing his hair, picking at the knots and tangles that had formed over the previous few hours, only to freeze when he noticed the way Denmark was staring at him.
The look was intense, to say the least – as if those morning-sky blue irises were swallowing him hole with their sheer splendor, mesmerizing.
"Not necessarily," he began slowly, shrugging. "I just like hearing your voice, especially when you're using it to compliment me. Call it a lure."
'…A Siren's song, is what it is. Why is it that you bewitch me so?'
The Canadian's left eye twitched. "You're so weird."
To that, Mikkel smirked, "I'll take that as a compliment, Williams."
Huffing, Matthew threw the remaining bedsheets (some of the layers had fallen over the course of their 'lovemaking', and they had both been too lazy to do anything about it) off him, and got to his feet. "Stop calling me by my last name. No other nation does that."
"But I like your last name."
"You like everything about me, as far as I can tell."
'You truly have no idea, do you Matthew? Such an innocent little thing…'
"Exactly! You're one smart cookie, Williams."
Rolling his eyes, the North American suppressed a laugh – the Dane could be so endearingly silly – and left the bedroom, direction: the kitchen.
"Hey! Where ya goin'? No morning kiss for the grand King of Scandinavia and former Viking-extraordinaire?" was yelled from inside the room, where the Dane still lay, spikes of blond hair mussed and arms reminiscent of the cross on his flag with how they were spread out on the mattress.
"The Kalmar Union ended, what, 500 years ago? And according to Sweden, you were a major ass back then," shot the North American from the kitchen, adding, "Not that you aren't still an ass now," under his breath.
Fully awake at last, the Dane ditched the bed to instead join Matthew's side by the stovetop but a moment later. Scratching his nape, he inquired, "Whattaya mean Sweden said that? It's his fault I had to get a little… aggressive. He's the one that kept rebelling."
Hidden behind his bangs, Matthew let loose an eyeroll. "Yeah, 'cause you were an ass."
"Tch. And when, exactly, did Berwald let you on to this obviously distasteful sentiment regarding me?"
"After one of our hockey games a couple' months back. I tell him shit about Al, and he tells me shit about you. It's a beautiful arrangement we got going, don't you think?" The words were meant to be jeering, taunting.
The European sniffed in displeasure, arms crossed over his chest and right hip arched against a small stretch of kitchen counter. "One of your hockey games, huh? Y'know, it's kinda sad that you play with him more than me, considering you're my partner, and not his."
'You are mine, right? Tell me you are, lille havfrue. Tell me that, just like my folklore, just like my statue of her, you would trade in your legs, your voice, the only world you have ever known, out of love for me. I would.'
In response, Matthew stopped what he had been doing – preparing pancake batter, what else? – to round on the quietly seething Dane.
Oh, how he loathed when Mikkel got overly possessive like this. As of late, it had gotten to the point where it was getting worse with each passing day. Little snide remarks, comments said in passing, looks that failed to hide bitter contempt whenever the name of another nation was mentioned: these things were slowly, but surely, adding onto each other. One of these days, Matthew knew, they were bound to build up to their apex.
"Yeah? Well I don't think so. It just so happens that he's a worthy opponent. More so than even my brother. Unlike you, who could barely skate, let alone stick-handle."
The Dane was taken aback by the ice in the other's tone, before bouncing back with a flirtatious grin and eyebrow wiggle. "So untrue! I can handle big man-sticks very well, you oughtta know."
Cheeks reddening despite himself, Matthew flipped him the bird, and, a little more roughly than usual, proceeded to shove the bowl of unfinished pancake mix into the fridge. The Dane's ability to ping-pong so seamlessly between emotions nearly always caught him off guard, made his head spin, even after having known the former for so long. "Make your own breakfast. I'm going for a walk."
Snickering, Denmark goaded, "In your pyjamas? The ones with the little beavers on them, no less?"
After having demonstrated the one-fingered salute for the second time that morning, Matthew failed to notice the sad smile being sent his way as he slammed his front door shut.
CENTURY 21 EXPOSITION
Seattle, Washington, USA
End of April, 1962
"…And this is where the tour ends for today, bro. So, whattaya think so far?" America's eyes gleamed with barely restrained anticipation. He was proud of what his people had come up with for this year's World Fair, and was unafraid to show it.
"It's something, Al. Really something." Matthew could only gawk at the exhibitions all around him, at the towering Space Needle a little ways away. It was nothing short of phenomenal, as per the American's usual; one could not expect less of the fabulous US of A.
"Well thank you kindly," the Southerner winked, pure satisfaction surfacing through his eyes, before shamefaced apology took its place. "Listen, I know I promised a full rundown of the Fair grounds, but I unfortunately have a few last-minute things I gotta take care of before I'm somewhat off the hook. How 'bout you go explore what's left on your own, and I'll catch up later? 'S that okay?"
Matthew smiled reassuringly, shooing his brother away with a fond chuckle. Secretly, he was too amazed at his surroundings to feel any real disappointment. Besides, he had expected Alfred to leave; these types of events oftentimes required lots of preparation and time.
"Alright, alright, I get it. I could tell you can't wait to get rid of me already. Yeesh! Don't need to be so obviously impatient about it," Alfred teased. "So, I'm off. See you later, Mattie. And thanks for coming!" he shouted the last part with a hurried wave as he ran off, leaving the Northerner to watch after his retreating figure.
His brother now out of sight, Canada turned on himself only to bump into a firm body immediately after.
"Hmm?" it spoke, until Matthew looked up, violet eyes meeting ice blue along the way. "Hey, I know you! You're America's brother."
Matthew, much to his embarrassment, could not withhold the twinge of joy he felt at being recognized so quickly. "Greetings to you, Denmark. A pleasure we meet. I trust you have been well?"
Said Danish nation laughed heartedly before admonishing, "Aww c'mon, enough with the formalities, America's brother. I thought we were better friends than that!" Here, he paused, careful not to let his voice crack, "By the way, what country are you again?"
And as the North American dutifully answered "I'm Canada," Mikkel silently thought 'I know.'
A lie, of sorts. A little white lie. A semi-lie. He was lying. Of course he knew who Matthew was! …Not that the younger country needed to know that. As painful as it was for Mikkel to admit, Matthew was hardly recognized by any of the other personifications save a handful of exceptions, and as far as international relationships went, Danish-Canadian relations were not and had never been all that prominent. Admitting he knew who Matthew was would mean letting on to how much of a creeper Mikkel felt himself to be, and that was not how he intended to become closer to the gorgeous North American his eyes were currently locked on. Already that he had been following the North American brothers all morning, patiently waiting for the moment to strike. Urgh! Why did he have to be so awkward? This had never happened with anyone else!
At least, until one Matthew Williams, that is.
All in due time, he thought. Time. Both he and Matthew had plenty of that. For now, he had to play the part. He had to wait.
(And while he waited, he might as well convince himself that what he was doing was definitely NOT creepy, dammit! It would not do to have Canada perceive him as such.)
EXPO 67
Montreal, Quebec, Canada
End of April, 1967
"Monsieur, Monsieur! Pouvez-vous étamper mon passeport?" a child's voice urged impatiently, wanting to head toward the next exhibit as quickly as possible – but first she needed the stamp attesting she had just visited the Canada Pavilion!
"Allons, Mimi, qu'est-ce qu'on dit?"
"Euh… ah, oui! S'il-vous-plaît!"
Having just finished directing some American tourists on where to go, Matthew spun on himself, and smiled at the obviously-eager little girl (Mireille Desmers, age 6, he knew) and then to the woman (Mireille's young mother, Manon Desmers-Laplante, only 22 years of age) standing beside her. "J'vous en prie, pas besoin de m'vousvoyer, voyons! J'suis trop jeune pour ça!" he joked, all the while taking the booklet little Mireille was handing him to stamp it. "Tiens, ma cocotte. Maintenant, allez vous amuser! Merci d'être venues, en passant!"
Excitedly, Mireille studied the fresh stamp she had just received – an inverted pyramid representing the Katimavik, with a bold-lettered CANADA inked underneath – and promptly cheered. Her mother, trying in vain not to smile at her daughter's antics, took her hand and lead her to the next Pavilion.
Before they disappeared amongst the sea of visitors, however, Mireille turned to wave farewell. With a large smile that highlighted her missing front teeth, she yelled, "Merci, Monsieur Canada. T'es l'meilleur!"
A single eyebrow raised in amusement, Manon shook her head, chuckling. She thought it best not to ask any questions; the man was stationed at the Canada Pavilion, after all.
From where he stood, Matthew hid his own chuckles behind the back of his hand. The children of his land had always had the uncanny ability of knowing who he was even without having ever met him. They lost this gift once adulthood was reached, naturally, but the fact that they recognized him at one point in their lives never failed to put a smile on Matthew's face.
Just as the North American began wondering if this also occurred with the children of other nations, his thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. Blinking in surprise, Canada turned on himself and smiled at who he saw.
All five Scandinavians returned the smile (well, at least, if what Sweden was trying to pull off could be counted as such). Even Iceland and Norway, who normally schooled their facial expressions to be neutral, seemed genuinely delighted to see him.
"Matthew!" Finland enveloped him in a warm hug. "This is amazing! There are so many people. They're even saying this will be the most successful World's Fair to date! You must be so proud."
Blushing from being complimented so candidly, the Canadian managed a quiet "Thanks."
With a laugh, the Finn released the younger nation, but remained close. "Mind if we take a look at your Pavilion?" he gestured to the imposing building to their right. "We figured it were only polite we do so, considering you're the host country. Besides," he winked, "all five of us have been hearing such good things, we can't help but be curious."
"Oh, of course! Uhm, here, I've got some pamphlets if it could be of any help."
Finland was quick to stop the Canadian as he fumbled through his pockets. "No, no, that won't be necessary."
"Actually," Norway, who had been quiet until then, spoke up, "we were hoping you would show us around. Who better to guide us through the Canadian Pavilion than Canada himself?"
Said Canadian blinked, violet eyes wide. "Eh? M-me?"
With an impatient huff, Iceland grabbed Matthew's arm and began pulling him towards the entrance. "Yes, you. Have some confidence in yourself, you'll do fine."
Linking himself with the North American's remaining arm, Finland added encouragingly, "I'm sure you will be teaching us lots of wonderful things about your country. Ah, how exciting! This is going to be so much fun."
Behind the trio, the remaining three Nordics followed without a word.
Internally, both Sweden and Norway were thinking along the same wavelength: Denmark was being alarmingly quiet.
THAT EVENING, PRESENT DAY
"Oh hey, you're finally back." Denmark awkwardly rubbed his neck, looking to the ceiling as if for answers on how to continue the conversation he had just begun. "So, uh... whatcha eating there?"
It turned out that a 'walk' had meant spending the day as far from the Dane as possible – and ignoring every single one of the latter's worried text messages, to boot. The Canadian had only briefly come back to change for his meeting with his boss. Even there, he had entered the home so quietly Mikkel had not even known he had been there if not for the beaver-print pyjamas thrown askew on the bedroom floor.
Canada had obviously intended to spend as little time in the same general vicinity as him as he could manage.
Back to the situation at hand, said Canadian nation spared him a glance, a single blond eyebrow raised as if to say 'Seriously? That's the best you could come up with?', before snapping, "Pomegranate. Came straight from the gorgeous state of California, too."
The European frowned, vexed. "Ok, now you're just pushing it. That passive-aggressive thing you got going on isn't helping a thing, y'know."
"Oh? First Sweden, and now America, eh? I'm sorry. I didn't know I wasn't permitted to compliment my own twin in my own house anymore. But hey, what you say goes, right? Your way, everyday."
The Dane's frown only intensified. Why was Canada being so hostile? Peace-keeper his Danish ass! "Matthew, what the hell are you going on about? That's not the case, and you know it." Okay, so maybe that was all a lie and he did have an idea as to why the Canadian was acting so coldly, but he figured the best course of action was to deny everything while simultaneously playing dumb.
Ignoring the other, Canada plucked another plump, colorful aril from the pomegranate. He took his time to chew and drink its juices and simply savor its flavor before spitting it out.
All that was left from the ruby-like seed was its crunchy white interior, a skeleton, a carcass that would soon be left to rot amongst its brethren in the local compost bin he tended to use – because not only was it beneficial to the environment, but he liked encouraging his citizens.
Putting the probable cause behind his lover's current annoyance on the backburner for the time being, Mikkel changed the subject, "Why do you keep spitting those out? It's the best part!"
Matthew stripped the crowned fruit of more of its arils, barely glancing over the curious Dane. "Gets stuck in my teeth," he finally answered, shrugging.
"So?"
The Canadian internally sighed. Just when he thought he could talk to Mikkel without having to overexplain everything…. "It's bothersome."
The European blinked. "Oh." He then smiled sheepishly, scratching his cheek, "Yeah, I guess I get where you're coming from. It is pretty annoying."
"Mhmm," Matthew mumbled in agreement, before spitting again.
A somewhat peaceful silence took place over the next almost-minute, until it was broken by Denmark.
"Anyways, to get back to what we were just talking about –" distraction time was over, now for damage control, "I don't mind if you compliment America. His country is beautiful." 'But you think I'm more beautiful, right?' "And I don't mind your hockey matches with Sverige either." Lies, lies, lies, and he knew it. "I would just prefer if I got to play with you more, 's all. If you and I played more, it would give me good practice. And, well, who knows? Maybe I have the potential to become a hockey powerhouse like Russia?" 'That way, maybe you wouldn't feel as inclined to play with anyone else but me.'
Canada blinked, eyes globular for but a fraction of a second before they narrowed dangerously. "Bullshit! I know you better than you think, Mikkel. So, don't try pulling a fast one on me. You're a bitter, royally pissed off, jealous mess inside, aren't you? It's so obvious. Your voice goes a pitch higher when you lie, like you're trying not to self-detonate or something."
Mikkel turned away, eyes glaring daggers at the ceramic tiles of the dining room as he muttered incoherently under his breath. Well, damage control was a bust. Time for the ugly truth. "…Fine. Say I am jealous? What are you going to do about it?"
Seeing where this was going from a mile away, Matthew immediately retorted, "I am not terminating any of my relations with the other nations just to appease your inner brat. It's up to you to just grow a pair, and either deal with it or keep your frankly unwanted opinions on the matter to yourself."
Feeling a little butthurt, Mikkel pouted, "You're so mean to me, Canada."
Said Canadian nation gaped. "I'm mean? Are we seriously having this conversation right now?"
"Well, if you weren't so chummy-chummy with literally the entire world, we wouldn't be here arguing like we currently are."
Matthew took a moment to simply breathe through his nose – in, out, in, out, let those nostrils flare – before calmly speaking, "This is ridiculous. We're centuries old and all we've managed to accomplish in each other's presence today is fight like children." He looked to the still-pouting Dane. "Truce?"
Feeling he would turn into some kind of a lesser man should he continue to pester his Canadian love, Mikkel conceded, "Truce." Ever faithful to his infamously volatile personality, he winked roguishly, "Ya know… technically you're still my slave until midnight. Wanna let off some steam in a more… physical way?"
Figures.
Fingers of one hand pinching the bridge of his nose in a by-then familiar moment of disbelief, he nevertheless acquiesced (albeit slowly) to his Danish counterpart's proposal.
Maybe Mikkel would make the bullshit Matthew had been subjected to over the course of the day worth it?
End of the Second Chapter – Fin du Deuxième Chapitre
Translations:
"lille havfrue" – Danish for "little mermaid"
"Monsieur, Monsieur! Pouvez-vous étamper mon passeport?" – French for "Mister, Mister, can you stamp my passport?"
"Allons, Mimi, qu'est-ce qu'on dit?" – French for "Now Mimi, what do we say?"
"Euh… ah, oui! S'il-vous-plaît!" – French for "Uhm… oh, yeah! Please!"
"J'vous en prie, pas besoin de m'vousvoyer, voyons! J'suis trop jeune pour ça!" – 'Quebec' French for "Please, no need to vousvoyer me! I'm too young for that!" 'Vousvoyer' is not something that I can translate into English. You know how in English, we have: I, you, he/she/it, we, you, they? Well in French, we have: je, tu, il/elle/on, nous, vous, ils/elles/eux. 'Vousvoyer' means to refer to someone as 'vous' (which is more formal, and polite) rather than 'tu' (which is informal, and thus less polite). To put it simply, I don't know about other French-speaking places in the world, but in in the Canadian province of Quebec (which is predominantly French-speaking), children are usually taught to call adults (especially the elderly, and figures of authority such as teachers) 'vous', since it's considered to be respectful. One would use 'tu' when speaking to a friend, a family member (depending on the family in question), or someone that is younger. Honestly, 'vousvoyer' is complicated even for myself, because it really depends on a bunch of different factors. Some people don't like being called 'vous' because it makes them feel old or whatnot, so you have to adapt accordingly. Either way, the take home message is that if you're speaking French to someone you just met, and you want to be polite, use 'vous'. The worst that could happen is that they'll ask you to use 'tu' instead.
"Tiens, ma cocotte. Maintenant, allez vous amuser! Merci d'être venues, en passant!" – French for "Here you go, ma cocotte. Now, go have fun! Thank you for coming, by the way!" Again, I don't know about France or other French-speaking parts of the world, but in Quebec, adults may refer to a girl as 'ma cocotte' and a boy as 'mon coco'. It's an endearing term, a pet name of sorts, and I'm sorry to say, but… it's not something one can necessarily translate into English. 'Noix de coco' is French for coconut, but that doesn't mean we Quebecers call children coconuts by using this endearment! From what I know, 'cocotte/coco' is just one of the numerous cutesy ways we call children by, 's all. Like calling a child 'sweet pea', or something.
"Merci, Monsieur Canada. T'es l'meilleur!" – French for "Thank you, Mister Canada. You're the best!"
Some historical information:
According to the research I've done on Expo 67, the Canadian Pavilion (which was in the shape of a large inverted pyramid) was called the Katimavik. It's the Inuit word for "Gathering Place".
I strongly encourage you look up Expo 67, as it was a defining moment in Canadian history. This year marks its 50th anniversary, and many Canadians, particularly Montrealers, look back to it with fondness. To this day, all that is really left from 50 years ago are the American Pavilion (which, despite surviving a major fire, has been converted into the Montreal Biosphere), and the French Pavilion (which has since become the Montreal Casino, haha). Also, I recently learned that the rustic décor of Alpenhaus (which is a Swiss restaurant in the downtown area of Montreal that serves fondues and other Alpine European specialties) was much inspired by the Swiss Pavilion.
Thank you for reading! I've already started chapter 3. Hopefully, it won't take another few months to complete.
With love,
~SailorHikarinoMu