Russia was looking at him. Again. Matthew resisted the urge to acknowledge him and instead stayed focused on the television in the living room. He had been invited to watch a movie with the large Country, and was now comfortably wrapped in a blanket, a steaming mug of what he hoped was potato soup in hand.
Miraculously, his stomach wasn't acting up as much today. The smell of food didn't send him reeling for the bathroom, but he still couldn't eat. Which was a shame, because the soup smelled delicious.
Gunshots from the movie sounded, drawing his attention back to the screen. But even this action film couldn't hold his attention for long, and he soon found his mind wandering once more.
He'd been staying at Russia's house for about a week, now. The Russian's boss was sick with a cold, and had been unable to make it for talks. When he asked Russia what the talks were to be about, all he would say was, "A merger."
A merger of what? Matthew was under no illusions about Russia. The Country still wished for everyone to become one with him, willingly or not. A merger suggested that he wanted Canada to become part of him, but if that was the case, why not talk to Mr. Harper? It's not like Matthew could take any actions by himself. Surely Russia knew that.
But, on the other hand, he didn't want to stress too badly about it. He was relaxed, more so than he ever could be back at home. He always had to be ready for Al. His brother would often come over and harass him; guilt-tripping him until he "played" with him. Or, even worse, his brother would sic Cuba on him when the two Countries weren't happy with each other. This happened more than he was willing to admit, even to himself.
But this past week, while cold, had been wonderful. Russia was a tad stiff towards him, but that was only to be expected. Just as it was expected for the larger Country to scare the shit out of him on a nearly constant basis.
But they shared good times, as well. The hockey game, for one. The movie. More often than not, though, Matthew would read a book in front of the lit fireplace and a blanket around him in the study, while Russia would work on his laptop.
They were nice, relaxing times. They were working miracles on his health, although he still felt very unwell most times.
Russia glanced at the smaller man sitting in his living room. He had relaxed over the course of the week, which was good news. He still wouldn't eat, which wasn't so good. But occasionally Ivan had seen him take some sort of pills; supplements, he supposed. The Canadian wouldn't be able to survive on those for long.
There was something seriously wrong with him. According to the research Ivan had looked for on the internet, Canada was either dying or has a slight flu. Needless to say, it wasn't very helpful.
Ivan glanced back at the television screen. What could cause these symptoms? Sickness? Was there something going on with his land? He knew of the border raids, but a little thing like that shouldn't cause this massive onslaught of illness.
Stress? He glanced over at Canada, gauging him. He had seemed rather stressed at the beginning of the week, but who wouldn't after being delayed for thirty-six hours before meeting one of the scariest men in the world?
He knew he was scary, and he often used that to his advantage. But surely his appearance wouldn't have caused the amount of stress that his symptoms were suggesting he was under.
Ivan snuck another glance, watched as Canada took a sniff of his soup. He still wouldn't eat.
This was worrying, yet at the same time a boon of sorts. If that idiot America knew that his brother was sick there was no doubt the "hero" would let his brother leave the continent. As far as he knew, Canada's phone hadn't rung once. Which meant that no one knew where he was or how he was doing.
He watched as the smaller man took another sniff of soup, the movie enthralling him.
"It is not poisoned," Ivan pointed out, frowning slightly. Canada started at his voice, which had been unintentionally loud.
"O-oh, I know that," Canada stuttered, grinning.
"Then eat."
The Canadian looked down as if considering before glancing back up at Ivan.
"I seem to have some sort of stomach virus," he said, eyes darting to the left. The Russian narrowed his eyes. "A slight headache and an upset stomach, nothing serious. But I don't want to waste your hard work in case I get sick."
"If you are sure," Ivan said slowly. At the Canadian's quick nod, they both turned back to the movie. Ivan noticed that the Canadian was a lot less relaxed now.
After the movie had ended, Canada snuck to his room, unwilling to spend more time with the overly observant Russian.
He'd just about had a heart attack when Russia told him to eat. He'd been so tempted to take a sip of the soup. He probably could have handled a few bites of it, but when he had glanced down to take a bite, the urge to not eat was great.
Too great for him to not obey.
So, he had said something about a flu, or a stomach virus, and they had both gone back to the movie.
But he was careful to not let his guard down again, and had set the mug of now-cold soup on the floor beside his chair. He wished even now that Kumajirou was with him, simply because he would have eaten it.
Canada stared at the bed spread that he was sitting on, and berated himself. He should be asking for help, right?
No. No one had to know.
But, he needed to get better. If not for himself, then for his country.
What did the country care? Even if he died, which was highly unlikely, he would just come back. After all, it's not like the country Canada had died, just its personification.
But they needed him, right?
He shook his head of his confusing and conflicting thoughts and laid down on his bed, the softness easing the mild ache in his back and shoulders.
He drifted off to a light sleep, curling up in his slumber into a ball. Sweat dripped down his temple and face even as he shivered with cold. A clank against his window almost woke him, and he jerked, but the nap was to last and he settled into REM sleep.
A pair of jealously glowing eyes glared at him through the window, and it started snowing.
The next morning dawned, sparkling off of the snow that had fallen the night before. It hurt Matthew's eyes and he had to squint to see out of his window. His head was a tangle of curls that he tried to brush out as he stood at the cold glass.
The Canadian put his comb down on the sill, and the glint of something other than snow caught his eye. There on the ground was a ladder, frosted and laying pathetically on its side next to the house beneath his window.
He shook his head at the antics of the Russian people, who didn't put ladders in their sheds, and headed downstairs.
The coffee was already on, which meant that Russia was up and probably working. Matthew grabbed himself a mug and the sugar, and prepared his coffee.
He sat at the table and sipped his hot drink, letting it wake him up. He had slept surprisingly well, and through the night. He took a sip, and his stomach growled.
Matthew glanced down at his stomach in disbelief.
Hunger?
Could it be? His stomach rumbled again, and he couldn't help the grin that split his face. This wasn't nausea, that was for sure. This was glorious, wonderful hunger.
What better way to celebrate that with pancakes?
After rummaging around in the kitchen's cupboards for a few minutes, he found the things he needed for his breakfast of choice.
He pondered for a moment, deciding if it was worth it to risk Russia's wrath by interrupting his work. He'd found out the hard way a few days ago that you didn't bother Russia unless the building was on fire. He shrugged and started to fry the batter he had mixed, figuring that the smell would lure the larger man downstairs. A few minutes later he sat at the table with a stack of cakes and no Russian. It hadn't worked?
But...pancakes. He glanced at the steaming stack of cakes on the plate before shrugging and digging in. And in true Canadian custom, the cakes were streaked with maple. He sighed happily and dug in, deciding that if Russia wanted to eat, he would come downstairs on his own.
They were hot and buttery, and heavy on his stomach. But it was a satisfactory heaviness that made his eyes droop with contentedness.
He could only finish one pancake out of the whole stack, but that was completely understandable. After eating little to nothing for just under two months, he was surprised that he could eat as much as he did.
"Matvey?"
Matthew started, falling off of his chair. "Yes?" he squeaked. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, where they slipped from the fall.
"Did you make pancakes?"
"Oh, yes. I did. I-I hope you don't mind," Matthew answered, scrambling to his feet. "I did just steal some of your food. I'm sorry."
"It is fine, Matvey," Russia said soothingly. Unfortunately, this had the exact opposite effect on Matthew, who froze in terror and fear. "I am glad you are eating."
"Ah, yeah." The Russian moved around Matthew, towards the fridge. "It must have been a twenty-four hour bug or something."
The larger Country froze for a split second, but the Canadian didn't notice. He was too busy gathering his dishes up and sticking them in the dishwasher. The tinkle of a glass bottle bumping into another glass bottle was unmistakable, and Matthew turned from the sink to see what Russia was doing.
"Is that vodka?" he asked unwillingly. The question all but forced itself out of his mouth, and he instantly cringed.
"Da."
"But," Matthew stuttered, "It's nine in the morning!"
"And?" Russia started making his way out of the kitchen, bottle in hand. "This is the 'Water of Life' for us Russians," he continued, ignoring the small protests of the other Country. "It will take a lot more than one bottle of vodka to get me drunk."
"If you say so," Matthew said doubtfully. A Country the Russian may be, but that doesn't change the fact that the body is a human one, and therefore susceptible to anything a normal person was. Including drunkenness. Russia shot him a look before going upstairs again, his heavy boots falling heavily on the wood.
Matthew finished his dishes and stuck the leftovers in the freezer before heading towards his own room. After the heavy breakfast he had, he needed a nap.
But when he got to his room, he shivered. The window on the other side of the room was wide open, the wind pushing loose flakes of snow into a drift on the carpet.
Matthew frowned. He didn't remember leaving the window open. He was fairly certain that he hadn't touched the window at all.
No wait, he remembered. He had touched it just that morning, when he was preparing for the day. He had set his comb on the sill, his fingers brushing against the glass.
Maybe that slight movement opened it. As impossible as that sounded, he knew from experience in his own house that there were tricky windows like that. In fact, in the living room of his house, there was a window that would creak open if one looked at it wrong.
"But what to do with this snow?" he asked himself, staring at the small drift. "Shove it outside, I guess."
He grabbed his gloves from his coat's pocket and put them on to protect his hands as he scooped the ice and snow back outside.
He managed to get rid of it all in one go, and leaned out the window to brush the coldness off of his gloves. He glanced down at the ladder that was leaning against the house.
Wait, what? Matthew glanced down again, leaning farther out. The ladder was laying on its side, the rungs facing him earlier today, wasn't it? Now all he could see of it was a strip of metal from it leaning parallel to the house.
There were no footprints that he could see, not around the ladder nor leading to or from this side of the house. He frowned, but wrote it off as a figment of his imagination caused by illness and hunger.
But there was something weird about this house. He made sure to double check the window before taking his nap, unwilling to accept that he was making things up. He wasn't going crazy.
Was he?
A.N.: Another chapter! With pancakes *gag*.
First off, I must apologize. I could name off all the reasons why it has taken me forever and a day to update, but that would be boring and make me sound whiny (which I am), so I'll just say this: Real Life kicked me in my metaphorical balls. With steel-toed boots. I am still recovering, so I can't promise that the next update will be anytime soon. Within the month is the best I can promise you.
Thank you to everyone that reviewed, favorited and followed! It was amazingly awesome to open my email tonight and see my inbox spammed with alerts from FFN. You guys are awesome!
Anywho, if you enjoyed (or see a plot hole or something) please review! They give me the inspiration and the motivation to write faster, if not better.
See ya next time!
