His arms were bound behind his back with handcuffs, which in turn were chained to the old-fashioned water heater that sat against the wall beneath the window. His feet were shackled together as well, and a length of chain ran between the chain of his shackles and the chain of his handcuffs, effectively hog-tying him. He had a cloth gag shoved between his teeth.
His body shuddered violently as coldness racked through his body. It seeped up through the wooden floor boards, soaking into him and freezing the metal. He was sure he would have frost burns on his wrists; his jeans separated the shackles from the cold metal, thus saving his legs from the same fate.
From his position on the floor, he could see nothing but a door that led out into the hallway, and a pipe with a faucet on the end that leaned against the wall a little over a yard from the door. It was Russia's favorite weapon, one that he carried with him at all times. The implied threat was obvious, and the Canadian shivered in fear.
He glanced around the room in vain, unwilling to accept that he was well and truly trapped. He shifted his legs, but that pulled on his arms and made the chains that bound him clank together. The sound was probably not very loud, but he didn't want to take the chance of Russia hearing him and paying him a little visit.
He sighed and stared at the door, refusing to budge his eyes to the left four feet to see the length of battered iron. He started chewing on the cloth gag, hoping to separate the fibers. A free mouth wouldn't get him any closer to freedom, but it would mean that he was less bound that he was at the moment.
The house creaked as it settled, and Matthew froze at the sound. Wide purple eyes stared at the door, fear and panic constricting his throat as he hoped against hope that Russia would not come through the door.
The varnished door knob rattled a bit, and the Canadian bit back a gasp. He hastily shut his eyes in the pretense of sleep, once more hoping that the Russian would leave him be.
The door opened, and it took every ounce of acting Matthew had to not flinch. He heard boots, soft and sure, walk across the room and come to a stop near his head.
"Comrade Matvey?" the deep voice asked, a cold boot gently nudging his face. "Wake up, Matvey." The boot moved to his shoulder and started shaking him.
"Comrade Matvey!" Matthew woke with a gasp and a large Russian looming over him, impatience in his eyes. Sweat dotted his forehead, and Matthew's stomach gurgled ominously. The ever present headache flared to life behind his eyes, as if it were waiting for him to awaken to curse him with pain.
"Yes? Is everything all right?" His voice was hoarse. Had he been screaming?
"You were making a lot of noise, Comrade," Russia said.
"Oh! I'm sorry," Matthew gasped. "I was just having a bad dream."
The Russian nodded before sitting down on the edge of the bed. An awkward silence hung heavy between them until Russia said, "It is customary to speak of them, da?"
Matthew stared at him. He was looking patiently at the Canadian, eyes lit with a bit of concern and...was that humor? He narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
"I can't remember it," he lied. Matthew doubted that Russia wished to hear about himself tying his guests up and leaving them in a cold room. He didn't want to give the Russian any ideas, after all.
Besides, it would cause worry and concern because it would be believed that the Canadian didn't trust Russia.
"I'm sorry for bothering you," he said, twisting the thick blanket that covered him.
"It is fine," Russia said. Dark eyes regarded him for a moment before he added, "No doubt, you wish to return to sleep, da?"
"Um, well, yes." He severely doubted he would be getting any more rest tonight, but he refused to tell the Russian that. It could be taken as a weakness, and that was one of several things you didn't show a super power like Ivan Braginski. He smiled somewhat shakily at Russia, and the chilling smile that was returned sent shivers of fear down Matthew's back.
The door thumped shut, and the Canadian slumped back into the extravagant bedding with a sigh. This wasn't going so well. He forced his thoughts to the day before, hoping to ignore his stomach that turned with nerves and sickness.
Yesterday when he got off the plane, the Russian was there to pick him up. He had his hands shoved into his pockets and a scowl on his face. The scarf was hanging loosely, and it fluttered every time the automatic doors behind him opened. Matthew swallowed nervously before getting his baggage and heading over.
He felt like complete and utter shit. He doubted his ability to pretend everything was normal, and the doubt grew stronger as the Russian took in his appearance. For a moment, they had stood there in very awkward silence. Fortunately, the Russian hadn't said anything, but led him outside to the car that had been left on, the heater running. Canada was concerned when he found the car too warm, and hoped that the larger Country didn't notice the sweat that sprung on his forehead.
Talks were to start today. He sighed again and sat up, reaching for his phone. Four in the morning. Not bad at all. Matthew knew that he would be able to stay alert for the majority of the day, and knowing Russia, the talks would be held in the morning. That would leave him the afternoon to sight see and get out of the house.
He checked his phone again. Four oh seven. This was going to be a long morning.
The talks, it turned out, were going to be delayed. Russia's boss wouldn't be able to make it that day, and he needed to be there. But, Ivan smirked, it's not like the boss knew that Canada was here. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Or, in this case, foul up his plans to "befriend" Canada.
He looked over at the frail man that stood in front of his stove, making pancakes. The Country was a pancake fanatic. But if his nose wasn't lying to him, these would be very good pancakes. Ivan rolled his eyes at himself.
The Canadian was very sickly looking, he noticed. He had obviously lost weight. Weight he didn't necessarily have to begin with. The cold air that was perpetually in his house probably went straight through him. The skinny wrists that peeked out of the sleeves of the Canadian's hoodie were bony, as were the hands attached to them. His clothes were tremendously baggy on him, except where the jeans were bunched at his waist with a belt.
His face was terrible. His pale skin was almost translucent, revealing a couple of blue veins and causing the black circles under his eyes to look like a huge black smudge on his face. Cheek bones stood out clearly, the cheeks themselves hollow. His hair, usually shiny and healthy, was dry and resembled straw more than hair. It was flat, much like his eyes.
Purple eyes that held so much life and zest just a few short months ago were dull and tired looking. Blood shot through them, and if Ivan wasn't mistaken, the whites were taking on a yellowish tinge.
What gave the Russian pause was the rattling cough that Canada would let loose every once in a while. The Country's lungs sounded as if they were filled with liquid of some kind, and Ivan's thoughts shot to pneumonia. But, something told him that wasn't it. He would look into, though, just to be sure.
"Here you go," Canada said, plopping a steaming plate of cakes in front of Ivan.
"Thank you, Matvey. Will you join me?" he asked when he noticed that Canada had gone to the sink to do dishes.
"I'm not very hungry," Canada said with a slight smile. "Besides, I don't want to leave your kitchen a mess."
Deciding to drop it, Ivan dug in. If his plan were to work, he would have to act oblivious, yet concerned. It was a fine line. He didn't want the smaller man to realize that he was aware of his waning health. At least, not yet.
"This is very good," he muttered, almost against his will.
"Thanks. I absolutely love cooking pancakes. I know several different versions, as well," Canada said brightly. Russia only half listened to the words Canada spouted, describing the different types of cakes from different parts of the world.
After breakfast, and after the kitchen was sparkling thanks to the cleaning of Canada, they sat in the study. Ivan was behind his desk, "calling" his boss to see what the hold up was. Matthew sat in the over sized chair in front of the desk, courtesy of Russia. Usually, there were two normal wooden chairs for guests, but the larger man had dragged the comfy chair to the desk, ignoring Matthew's protests and glaring at him with his "child-smile" until he sat down.
The study was a large room, with an oak desk dominating most of it. Large windows with heavy cream-colored drapes were behind the desk, allowing natural light to stream into the room. The desk was practically buried under papers. There was a fireplace, currently empty, on the wall adjacent to the windowed wall. The floor was hard wood, but a thick area rug was laid on the ground. Chairs that matched the one he was currently sitting in were arranged in a semi-circle around the fireplace.
In the corner across the room from the fireplace was a smaller desk, this one made of painted plastic and metal. A laptop computer hummed on it, with a rolling chair facing outward, as if Russia had spun around on it and gotten up, not bothering to push it back in. It had a privacy screen on it, and from his angle, Matthew could see nothing but black lines that ran horizontally on the screen.
"Da, I understand," Russia said into the phone, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "We will simply reschedule." He hung up, and sighed. Matthew looked at him questioningly.
"He will not be able to make it," the large Country said. "He is snowed in, completely blocked from even going outside of his house."
"Oh, that's terrible. Does he need help getting dug out?"
"No, Matvey. He said he did not want to disturb us, and urged me to play the tour guide."
Matthew nodded and stared down at the floor. The pain in his head was a constant throb, easily ignored by now. His stomach roiled, still upset from the smell of the pancakes from that morning. He felt overly warm, but he was sure a walk outside in this weather would cool him down. Besides, the fresh air would settle his stomach. He hoped.
"As long as you don't mind," he said eventually. "I know you probably have better things to do than guide me around. I can amuse myself."
"It is, how you say, no big deal. Besides, it has been a long while since I have enjoyed my country's culture."
"All right," Matthew grinned. "Do you know if there's a hockey game that's going to be played? That could be fun."
"I am sure there is." Hockey was a brutal, bloody game. Russia loved it.
Soon after, as Russia was checking the online schedule for hockey games being played at the Rec Center, Matthew was getting ready to go.
His boots were a tad ratty, but still water proof. His coat was brand new, and wonderfully comfortable. Those paired with gloves and a scarf (with a matching hat, of course), he was ready to go.
He watched as Russia shrugged a coat over his scarf, and they left.
Ivan watched the Canadian carefully in the Center. They sat in the bleachers behind the Plexiglas wall, watching the game. Well, Canada was.
But even now, with his cheeks flushed with the biting cold of the arena, he looked terrible. Ivan shook his head, and turned his head back to the game. His thoughts were elsewhere, though. As the players glided across the ice, his thoughts were centered on the Country that was sitting next to him, wondering how he could help him. And also wondering what he could get in return.
A.N.: I'm back! So, yeah, this took a ridiculously long time to write. In between taking care of sick roomies, and then me myself getting sick, there was not much time that I wasn't doped up on meds to write. And a whole shit-ton of, well, shit, from my wonderful friend Real Life made this chapter very hard to write.
Thank you for all the reviews, follows and favorites! They made my day when I checked my email and they were piled in there, despite the fact that I hadn't updated this for what feels like forever. Please read and review, and enjoy!
P.S.: I hate pancakes. I hate writing about pancakes. Damn you, you pancake loving freak!
