Canada stood outside the door, watching the clock on his phone. He'd been there for five minutes already, but it wasn't quite time. As soon as the hour changed, he rang the doorbell. Moments later, the door creaked open and a kind smile greeted him and welcomed him in from the damp outside. Canada thanked him and handed off his coat, removing his wet runners and walking after the Briton into the kitchen. The inviting and warm smell of tea surrounded him as he opened the door. The eyes lurked on him a moment more before they moved to the kitchen. The room was sweet with the scent of pastry, England appearing to be quite at home in his plush sweater vest and looser slacks. The two exchanged friendly banter for a short time before an oven timer went off, the elder pulling some scones from the oven.
"I wasn't aware you baked." He said this mostly jokingly, but still interested in the apparent new hobby of the man, as well as the fact that the hobby indeed smelled and looked edible.
"Oh hardly, Matthew." England chuckled. "I've been home merely an hour. I already had these from the store. I read somewhere that baking them again with a bit of butter makes them absolutely delectable." He rambled on briefly about his scones as he sided them with raspberries from the fridge and put some water on to boil. Canada smiled to himself as he sorted out a bag of veggies he had bought, along with some fresh salmon. He sliced up the filets and prepped the glaze as England prepared and offered Canada a cup of rose tea and a scone.
"Don't you think it's a bit late for tea?"
"I missed tea time for the conference. Better late than never."
"Isn't it four o' clock or something? You could've had it while you were waiting."
England shook his head and sighed. "There was far too much to do, and far too little time to do it." He stirred his amber drink pensively for a moment before appearing to come to a conclusion somewhere deep within the woodwork. "Besides, Matthew. I'd much rather spend it in your company." Canada took a bite of scone as he worked, it was certainly good. The warmth of the stove made the soft patter of rain on the window distant, the gentle ticking of wall clock a welcome sound in the peaceful room. They conversed wordlessly, a mutual understanding saying all that needed to be said. A placid state of being that neither could ever admit to longing for, yet both most definitely did. It was only interrupted by the clacking of plates as Canada dished up the food in due time.
"Thank you." He graciously accepted the meal and continued to eat it only when Canada had taken his seat. "Matthew? Why on Earth did you want to come over tonight? Not that I'm regretting it of course…" He took another bite of the glazed salmon.
"You seemed lonely."
England appeared to pause for a moment. "Whatever do you mean by that?" Though he still ate, those green eyes rested on him, though seeming gentle in nature, were almost arduous to maintain a gaze with. He could help but stumble over his words at the sudden intensity of the man's gaze. It was… Unsettling. Something wasn't quite right about it. About him.
"I don't know."
"Right."
And just like that, the room returned to peace, though the air somewhat cooler than it had been before. The smaller nation's gaze melted to one of concern, any semblance of the defensive nature melting away with the icy tension. They continued to eat, England's gaze settling on him once more as Canada came to finish his plate.
"Are you quite alright? You look pale." He reached out and touched Canada's forehead, his fingertips familiarly calloused from his long dead years of seamanship and fieldwork. Canada nodded, ducking out from under the thin fingers. "Do you need to lay down? I have a spare bedroom, Matthew. Jet-lag is dreadful, I know."
"That might be it, yeah. It's fine Arthur. It's been a lot of fun, we really need to do this more often. I can sleep in the hotel room." He stood up and took his dishes to the sink.
"Well, my door is always open to you, Matthew. Swing by whenever you like, you hear? No, it's fine. I'll take care of these." Canada was stopped before he could begin to help clear the rest of the table. "You made the food. The least I can do is clean up the place, my place." Matthew sighed and yawned. He hadn't realized how tired he was until England had brought it up. It would be best to rest himself.
"Alright, Arthur. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Of course, Matthew. I hope the weather is kind to you." It didn't appear that it would be such, the dark clouds hanging low in the air. A storm was brewing between the brief periods of downpour. "Perhaps you'll be able to outspeed it if you try hard enough." Canada nodded and watched the grim skies. He pulled his coat on over his shoulders and squished into his run-down shoes, not bothering to untie the laces. He couldn't help but chuckle at the expression of sheer distaste on England's sharper features. "You and your brother, honestly. You'd think I'd raised you with a bit more decency." The man sighed and shook his head with a reminiscing smile.
"Guess not." The two exchanged a chuckle and Canada opened the door, only to be met with a chilled wind, damp air, and a lack of a car. "Aw rats, I forgot. I need a cab."
"Not at all, love. I'll take you back." He turned to see that England was already pulling a dress coat over his attire and picking his keys off of their respective hook. "The cabs will run you straight into traffic in weather like this."
"Thank you, Arthur."
His eyes snapped open and watched the room spin for a moment. Where was he? The cement was cold and stiffening, his muscles and bones aching for use. Thunder rolled on outside, the dim pipes seeming to shake with the heavenly crashes. What happened? He could hardly remember. He hissed as dried blood ripped his pant leg from his skin. Was he tied up? He shimmied his wrists in the ropes, it had been a long time since he could remember being in a situation like this. Which World War was it again? The first or the second? It didn't matter. He quickly recognized the knot and slowly began to work his hands out of it. An eternity passed before he managed to loosen the cinch, another eternity or so passing him by until he finally managed to loose his hands from his bonds. He struggled to stand, his leg all but groaning as he pulled himself up on the exposed pipes. Good God, where was he? He limped out of the furnace room. Was this his house? Yes. He made his way to the stairs by memory, not wanting to waste time or energy finding the light switch. Nineteen stairs exactly. Nineteen painful stairs to drag his leg up. As soon as he reached the door, he threw it open.
The warm light washed over him, flooding his eyes all too quickly. He shut them for a moment to readjust his senses. What happened? Why was he brought home? He slowly opened his eyes again to see a man standing before him.
"You took your time. Making me wait, no less." A strong foot planted itself against his chest and abruptly drove him back down the stairs in a less than graceful fashion. The man took to the first step and slammed the door behind him, plunging them both into darkness. "Of course I should have expected a man like yourself to be able to slip bonds, but I had really hoped to find you awake in ropes. Would have made this far easier to deal with."
He scurried back on the floor, trying to regain his footing as the calm, deadly sound of dress shoes on wood slowly descended towards him in the pitch.
"Who are you?" He pulled himself up a wall and slowly traced around the outside, not making a sound after he posed his question. Storage was on the other side, and so were a pair of old hedge clippers, an snarky unconventional gift from France. Well, perhaps not as unconventional as they might seem.
"I'm England."
Now that right there was a lie. He was England. He kept his mouth shut, not wanting to give away his position, but he needed to keep him talking. From the sound of it, he was on the other side of the dark room, equally silent in his footsteps if he was moving at all.
"No, you're not."
"Try me, love."
A firm hand grabbed at his collar and slammed him against the wall, winding him as he was thrown to the floor in an all too familiar turn of events.
"Found you! You never learn, do you?"
It took him longer than he had hoped to recover from it, but once he had he scrambled out from under him and made a run for the storage room, knowing full well that his perpetrator would think he was going for the stairs. As soon as he passed them he stopped and stalked silently to the ajar door of the room, sliding on inside and feeling around for the shears, a blade, anything. Where did he keep his old cutlass? Oh right, above his bed. How useful.
"I'm getting impatient, Arthur. Come along and behave yourself." That was much too close for his liking. He finally grabbed the handle of something and pulled it off its shelf as silently as he could. France's stupid gift had come through. He slowly made his way out of the room towards the main cellar, leg aching for a break, beginning to bleed once more. He held the shears as steadily as he could in front of him, forcing his hands not to shake from the cold and nerves and coursed through him. "Arthur, it would do you well to cooperate." He thrusted the shears forwards into the dark, sinking them into something by the feel of it. Yet there was no sound, nor could he pull them back.
"God damn it-"
"Such foul language." The hot breath poured across his ear, the man keeping a firm grip on his blade. "I'll let it slide for the gift, however." He could almost hear that twisted smile. He could almost feel it. He took a wild punch, managing land a hit and shoving the perpetrator off of him. Where were the stairs? He kept a finger on the wall as he attempted to find them, disoriented by the adrenaline and pain. The shears metallic ring sounded as they were stabbed into the wall not six inches behind him. The stairs. He ran up and threw open the door, blinding himself with the light. He quickly shut it again as the man trudged up the steps behind him, shears in one hand with a grin plastered on his face. He pulled the nearby coffee table against it, jamming the handle. His breathing more laboured than he could ever remember it being, but he wasn't going to rest until every piece of furniture was up against this door.