So...remember when I mentioned those "whatisthisidonteven" fics I had stored up? Yeah, this is one...and its been haunting my dreams since I wrote it. And, frankly, I'm a horrible person for even writing this. So I'm going to blame 30 seconds to mars (have you seen Hurricane? Holy fuck.) and my recent discovery of a bdsm club at college (...they had whips at their club table...and ball gags...-whimper-). Oh and that whole Wikileaks nonsense (ASSANGE -shakes fist-)

Warnings: OOC-ness, fail, fail, cross-dressing, slash, language

Pairings: USCan, kind of UK/Can

Disclaimer: Thank the powers that be that I don't own Hetalia.

It starts out about as innocently as anything starts between he and Alfred. They were sitting on the couch, at opposite ends because Matthew had kicked Alfred away the moment the Habs lost. The superpower had begun to cheer obnoxiously, his tone distinctly Bostonian, and Matthew just glowered at him.

Seriously, he knew he couldn't put any faith in the Leafs but he thought he could trust his Canadiens not to fuck up. But they did and he really, really wants to punch something.

(Judging by the way his neighbor is shouting in rapid Quebecois, he knows he's not the only one.)

"How do you like me now?" Alfred snickers, eyes gleaming behind Texas, reaching over and pinching his brother's side hard.

Matthew slaps at his hand, his cheeks a furious shade of scarlet and eyes frigid. "Go fuck yourself." He snarls, curling further into the arm of the couch. "Tabarnak." He adds, for good measure.

Alfred is just smiling at him; his head tilted curiously as he studies the defensive curve of the northern nation's back. "I think you've lost your 'oomph' bro." He teases, almost relishing the way the Canadian visibly bristles. "First Russia, now this…"

"I think you're forgetting who handed you your ass on a silver medal." Matthew bites back.

"Who?" Alfred asks carelessly, shrugging and turning his attention back to the wide-screen television set. His arm is thrown casually over the back of the chesterfield, fingers drumming against the leather, his legs stretched out and spread apart like he owns the entire fucking room.

And Matthew really, really wants to just walk out on his arrogant, selfish, stupid, fat brother.

But they're in Montreal, in Matthew's apartment and he's sure as hell not going to leave Alfred—who still feels the trill of that Manifest Destiny nonsense in his blood—alone on his land.

And Matthew's too polite to tell his brother to get out.

So instead he huffs and goes back to imagining how his walls would look painted with the blood of Bruins' fans.

"So…about our bet." Alfred continues casually.

Oh right that.

Regret slams into him, leaving Matthew to groan, tilting his head back against the back of the couch. Eyes shut, he sighs in defeat. "What do you want?"

"You in a dress."

It's at that point that Matthew's eyes shoot open and he gives his brother an incredulous look.

But Alfred merely smiles at him, all innocence and sunshine. "You agreed, Mattie. Whatever I want."

Matthew grits in teeth. Unfortunately, in a moment of extreme stupidity on his part, he had allowed an open-ended bet. The last time he had let Alfred "do whatever", the violet-eyed nation had to show up at France's door in only a trench coat.

He had barely made it out with his vital regions in tact.

Of course, the time before that, when he won, Alfred had to tattoo "Canada's bitch" across his lower back.

(Its still there.)

There's a long stretch of silence and finally, the Canadian concedes, "Just no pictures."

"I look stupid." Matthew mutters, pointedly not looking at his reflection.

"Well, yeah you do." Alfred rolls his eyes and steps forward, so his chest is pressed against his neighbor's back. He reaches around and grasps the other's chin with his forefinger and thumb and forces him to look up. "We're not done yet, so it's okay."

Matthew closes his eyes.

"Just look." Is the exasperated response. "Please?"

And look he does. "Never has my masculinity been so obvious." He murmurs dryly, almost smirking when he realizes that he doesn't look like a girl but like a boy wearing a dress. "And you think I have girly features."

"You do." Alfred insists, blue eyes sparkling. "Just a little makeover and—"

"Fuck. No."

"Fine. Pussy out." The superpower says dismissively. "Like papa, like son."

That was a low blow.

"I'm going to shove these stilettos up your ass."

"As long as you pucker up first." Alfred teases, holding up a shiny tube and twisting it so Matthew can see the frosty pink of the lipstick.

Matthew wishes he could find fault in the entire process, but there's something comforting about the way Alfred runs his fingers through his blond hair, picking out the curls and twisting the wheat-colored ringlets around his finger. His gun-calloused fingers are rough and warm against Matthew's scalp and the blond tries very hard not to squirm as the other drags the sweet-smelling gel through his locks.

For once all of Alfred's attention is focused on him and oh how long it's been since such was the case. His brother's cobalt eyes never drift and he bites his lower lip in concentration as he, essentially, dolls Matthew up.

Matthew just sits there, a living doll, as Alfred smiles at him and rolls the pantyhose up his leg, his broad hands sliding up his now smooth calves and thighs. He doesn't move when the other blond zips up the dress, blue eyes following the zipper's trail keenly. He can't find it in him to kick Alfred in the jaw when the other mouths at the arch of his foot before slipping on a pair of devastating black heels.

He won't deny that the entire dare is a blow to his manhood—that his brother seems to find so much pleasure in seeing him in drag, in playing dress up. It's almost demeaning and Matthew can feel the flickers of outrage lying in wait in the pit of his stomach. But the explosion never comes because Matthew barely has enough time to stare at his new reflection when Alfred is already kissing him, smearing the pink across his lips and sliding up the silk of his dress and groaning when Matthew digs his newly manicured nails into the superpower's biceps to push him away.

"Knew it." Alfred whispers, a smug smile creeping across his face. He reaches out, dragging his knuckles across the curve of Matthew's cheek.

There's something close to adoration in his face and Matthew suddenly can't get the bitter taste out of his mouth.

Then the explosion comes.

"Matthew! Mattie please!" Alfred is pounding on the door, a wad of tissues pressed against his nose to stem the bleeding. "Let me just explain!"

"You're a pervert and a jerk and I hate you!" Matthew snarls, clawing his hair out of its neat twist and scattering bobby pins across his carpet. "You're a cruel, self-centered, manipulative bastard! You think you're so much better than Russia but you're just as bad! Get out of my house!" He pulls the dress over his head and crumples up the expensive fabric and throws it at the wall, kicking off his shoes as he does so. The pantyhose come next and Matthew doesn't even care that he rips it off, the thin fabric ruining easily. "How…how…dare you?" He growls, knocking off the cosmetics and perfumes that now litter his dresser and only feeling hollow when they hit the carpet in a muffled thump.

Matthew's rage disappears quickly because he's never actually stayed furious for long before he swallows the anger and bottles it away because its not something he particularly likes to feel. He slumps against the oak of the dresser and breathes heavily, forehead lolling against the smooth surface.

"How could you?" He whispers, eyes screwed shut.

"I'm sorry, okay?" Alfred's leaning against the door, his forearm holding him up. "I just didn't think you'd agree to it." He huffs, blowing his errant cowlick out of his face. "How long have we been together Mattie? Just us? And you won't even let me see you naked. You won't let me touch you."

"Oh get over it." Matthew snaps. "Like you don't have your dick in every other part of the world."

"Is it so hard to believe I only want you?" the other nation retorts, the urge to just break down the door almost unbearable.

Because its not fair that he has to sit on his hands because one wrong move and Matthew will fly back to Daddy and stew in moral outrage. Because Matthew has a fucking chip on his shoulder and doesn't trust Alfred even though they have the longest undefended border and Alfred would welcome his brother with open arms if he ever actually came down South.

Matthew doesn't respond so Alfred takes the opportunity to explain his case before his brother can get his second wind.

"I just want you, Matthew. I want to take care of you and show you how much I love you. But you always have this goddamn wall I have to scale. You'll pretend everything is fine and dandy in front of the rest of the world but then you push me away in private? Whether you want to believe it or not, I'm always thinking of you and no matter how much you criticize what I do, I only want the best." He pauses, tastes silver on his tongue and continues, softer, "Can't you do a little something for me?"

And the way Alfred says it makes him feel like Matthew hasn't bent over backwards to keep the peace between them and keep the power keg from exploding and the guilt is palpable and Matthew hates the way the fight leaves his body.

"Please?"

Matthew doesn't really want to do this but he can't lie and argue that he doesn't enjoy the way Alfred pampers him. With each request, Alfred presents him with a gift.

A leather mini for a night at the club.

A little black dress for a dinner with the neighbors.

A designer cocktail dress for a high society function.

No one has realized that the charming, all-American with the move star grin is actually waltzing with the boy-next-door who ignores the way his dress flutters around his knees. All they see is a young woman, ice princess pale with an equally frigid demeanor—tall and athletic with enough grace to put all the other socialites to shame (because both Arthur and Francis heaped etiquette lessons on the little New World savage. Just in case.). Apparently all those years in Hollywood had left Alfred with enough costume know-how to trick even the sharpest eyes.

He doesn't wear his glasses during these times—not that he really needs to but his province has always felt left out. His voice is wispy and he doesn't speak more than he needs to. He also doesn't push away the protective arm Alfred keeps around his waist.

After each event, Matthew lets Alfred take him to bed and is pliant, moving with the other's body in the darkness and its really, really nice to just be taken care of and loved (and Matthew didn't even realize how much he missed it).

Matthew acquiesces without fight after the first few times because it is too tiring to keep fighting Alfred on such a petty issue. But it is when Matthew cannot find his Canucks jersey in the maze of skirts and blouses in his closet, that the northern nation decides enough is enough.

If this whole cross-dressing thing was a way for Matthew to prove that he didn't mean to make his brother suffer Love's grip, then Matthew would just show Alfred that he wants his near twin to be happy (even if its not love, its always been something close enough).

So he doesn't wait for Alfred's word. Instead he calls his brother, tells him to meet him at a club when the other is in town for a World Conference.

Then he clumsily applies the make-up, zips up the dress, and shaves his legs—all while consoling himself with the knowledge that this should be the last time.

He doesn't look perfect but he looks good, nonetheless, and he leaves, ignoring Kumjirou's quiet "Who?" that echoes behind him before he shuts the door.

Matthew waits in the club, anxiously tracing the rim of his glass with his forefinger. He waits for that familiar blond head to come through the door and he nearly chokes on his tongue when he sees more familiar faces behind Alfred.

"Crisse." He hisses, thankful that he chose a booth in a shadowy corner. His errant curl has been smoothed back into his hair and he's confident that no one should recognize him because they never do, honestly.

Thankfully, the group moves towards the bar, facing away from the younger nation. Matthew lets out a sigh of relief and loosens his grip on his drink before he shatters the glass. Surreptitiously, he pulls out his cell phone (from the silver clutch Alfred gifted him with in honor of a corporate luncheon) and texts his better or for worse brother.

Alfred doesn't even pause in his conversation with Brazil.

So Matthew waits and sends another text.

Alfred is joking with Japan.

Matthew waits some more, orders another two drinks, downs the shots, and texts him again.

Alfred has his arm around Mexico and is whispering something into her ear as the dark-haired beauty giggles.

Matthew is seething, violet eyes dark.

Finally, he pulls out his cell phone again, types one last message, and drops a pile of money on the table and stands up.

"Next time give the heels to Mexico." Is the message that waits patiently behind the other unopened messages.

Matthew storms out of the club, feeling incredibly stupid and used and abandoned—and he's felt all these things before and that's not really new but this time he could see what would happen and he still believed his charismatic brother.

He's so caught up in his self-loathing thoughts that he doesn't see the person in front of him until he slams into their shoulder. He curses quietly and apologizes, violet eyes flicking up just long enough to see the thick eyebrows and his stomach plummets.

"It's quite alright, love." Arthur says with a gentle smile. When he notices the way the blond doesn't meet his eyes, he asks, still using that same soft voice, "Are you alright?"

"I was stood up." Matthew admits, thinking he'll never speak about this day again (because who would he tell?) and begins to move away, intent on escaping the dim club.

When he finally leaves the stuffy warmth of the building, he breathes in the cool night air and blinks rapidly, staring straight ahead.

He wants to kick the metal drums lining the street but he's always prided himself on being clean.

Also, he knows that girls do not kick things and curse. But he knows he can't force down his anger nor does he want to, so he does what he saw another girl do in the mall when her boyfriend broke up with her over smoothies.

He bursts into tears, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, not caring if his mascara smears or runs or whatever it does when wet.

And it feels good, just crying. It's not something he did often because Francis was never around that much to give him reason to cry. Only later did he understand that the Frenchman had given him plenty of reason to cry, but by then he was with Arthur who was unmoved by waterworks and, frankly, he found less reason to do so. Then the Great War hardened him and the tears never came as decades passed.

But now they come out and Matthew isn't even sure if he's crying because he realized that he's really not as dear to Alfred as the superpower's honeyed words had led him to believe or because he actually did care more for Alfred than he cared to believe or if because he realizes that he chipped a nail after spending an hour trying to paint them fire-engine red.

"Can I flag down a taxi for you, at least?" A British voice asks from behind him and Matthew freezes.

And, already more fragile than he wants to be and more susceptible to self-loathing at the moment, Matthew can't help but think his former guardian is only being kind because he thinks it's a young woman in pain and he's (now) a gentleman. He thinks that if Arthur knew it was Matthew, he wouldn't even be here because Arthur has stopped being that protective hover ever since the 80s (and Matthew shouldn't feel bad because he earned his independence, damn it).

So he says, voice trembling, "I'm fine."

But Arthur is already flagging down a cab and Matthew stares down at his feet, absently noticing a scuff on the toe of his shoe.

And then he bursts into tears again because apparently all that time in woman's clothes has made his identity crisis a little more pronounced.

Arthur looks over his shoulder, just as the taxi arrives, emerald eyes concerned. Wordlessly, he pulls the sobbing nation into the car by the crook of his arm, respectfully looking away when Matthew's dress rides up to reveal milky thighs.

"Just take us to anywhere that serves tea and is open late." The Brit orders and when the driver raises a skeptical eyebrow, the Englishman shoves a wad of cash at him and snaps, "Get on with it, wanker."

Then, he hands Matthew a handkerchief, a stylized K monogrammed in the corner with a Tudor rose.

Matthew takes the proffered handkerchief but quietly says, "It'll get dirty."

"Then it'll get dirty." Arthur says, the corners of his lips quirking upwards.

Soon Matthew finds himself in a tiny, crammed coffee shop, sitting at a plastic table when Arthur slides a chipped mug with warm, sweet-smelling tea towards him. The steam curls up from the dark liquid and Matthew wraps his hands around the mug and still tries to avoid eye contact.

"He must've been something special to make you cry like that." Arthur begins, sipping from his mug. "But he's a git to even make you cry."

"Its my fault." Matthew says softly, fingers pressed into the warmth of the mug. "I trusted him."

He knows he should probably leave before the former Empire discovers it's him, but he feels like he shouldn't let this chance slip through his fingers.

"Don't be daft. You shouldn't blame yourself."

"I always let him do these things." The blond continues, the beginnings of a headache throbbing behind his eyes. "It used to be easier…to make him listen…to make him take me seriously…I can make him cry. But…I feel like I have no choice." Matthew admits, not really drinking his tea but taking solace in its heat. "He's the only one who's always there…he always…well, usually, he pays attention to me."

"I pay attention to you, Matthew." Arthur says quietly.

The Canadian, blood running cold, glances up at his former guardian.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" the sandy-haired man continues.

Matthew's mouth opens and shuts a few times and finally, he chokes out, "…W-what?"

"Granted, its easy to mistake you for Alfred but do you really think I'm not here if you need me?" He smiles then, lifting the mug to his lips, adding affectionately, "You sod."

There are a lot of things Matthew could say now, but he's never been able to fully express himself to Arthur despite all the years he spent with the man.

So, instead, he just says, "You remembered my name."

Matthew finds himself wrapped in Arthur's trench coat as they return to the hotel. The taxi ride back is silent with Matthew staring out the window and Arthur staring at Matthew.

The silence, not really tense but not exactly comfortable, continues as the two sneak back into the lobby of the hotel. Arthur receives shouts of congratulations from some former colonies as he and Matthew make their way to the elevator.

Arthur blushes high on his cheeks but Matthew just walks faster, ignoring the catcalls from drunken nations. Once they reach the elevator and are safely inside, Arthur asks, "Do you want to be alone?" just as Matthew says, "Can I sleep with you?"

Another silence reigns for a full minute as Matthew realizes what he blurts out and Arthur is stunned.

"I…I'm sharing with Alfred." The Canadian nation mumbles, looking away.

"I'll kick Brazil out. He'll understand." Arthur responds, overcoming his surprise.

"I mean you don't have to…" Matthew protests. "Its okay, I should be able to handle this like a grown nation and I'm not a colony anymore—"

"Matthew." Arthur interrupts sternly and suddenly Matthew is at least a century younger and has been caught sneaking in from a midnight meeting with the daughter of the baker. "There's no harm in it."

And that is how Matthew finds himself in Arthur's hotel room, standing barefoot in his sequined dress as the older nation moves about the room, searching for a spare pair of pajamas.

"Only have a single pair." Arthur says apologetically, holding out the set.

Matthew only grabs the top and smiles a little, "Just give me a pair of boxers and I'll be okay."

Then he disappears to use the shower.

Matthew viciously scrubs the cosmetics off his face and washes out the product from his hair, not caring when strands of hair are tugged out as he shampoos roughly. He lets his damp hair hang in front of his eyes as he trudges out of the bathroom, dressed in Arthur's plaid pajama top and cotton boxer briefs.

He hesitates for a moment, wondering if all this is really okay, when Arthur pulls up the covers of his bed and says, "Chivvy along, pet."

So he crawls into the bed, barely glancing at the second unmade bed in the room, a little annoyed by the way his bare legs brush against the white sheets. He plops his head onto the pillow and Arthur draws the blanket up to his shoulders. The Englishman himself is sitting up, reading a leather-bound novel in the lamplight, the myriad of old scars and marks of history bare and illuminated on his chest.

Matthew watches the man, his violet eyes peering over the curve of his pillow. Arthur is engrossed in the book, his long fingers tracing the edge of the page before turning it noiselessly.

"Shall I read to you, pet?" Arthur asks, his evergreen eyes not once leaving the page. "Its Tennyson."

"No thank you." Matthew mutters, not wanting to impose any more than he has.

But Arthur just snuffs some air through his nose, and, in a clear voice, begins, "Half a league, half a league,"

And the younger nation quietly listens as his former guardian relives that fateful burst of madness of that day.

When Arthur finishes, Matthew is near sleep and blackness skirts the edges of his vision.

But before slumber drags him away, the violet-eyed nation murmurs, "I think you're the only one who hasn't tried to change me."

Arthur doesn't respond immediately, but he reaches out and brushes back some still wet curls from the nation's forehead. "That's because I love you." He says, voice hushed.

Remember when I said I was back on the USCan wagon? Well, I'm also on the "Lets mess around with the US, UK, Canada dynamic and see what happens" wagon. I'll say this (because I am an explanation whore) that, as much as I love America (Alfred, you crazy bastard you), I think he's an asshole. He's a good guy, just an asshole at the core. Why? -shrug- Because he's an awkward little thing who knows better but doesn't always give a damn. With Canada, I feel like I regressed with him as a character. But that doesn't mean I have him down to pat. I don't think I'll ever understand him or England, for that matter. I barely even understand America. I guess thats why I feel the need to type up stories, just so I can experiment with them.

That and I love Canada and I love seeing him with UK and US.

So...I'm just gonna awkwardly stand here and wait for criticism...