There was a tapping on his window, but Matthew was too far gone to do anything except twitch in his sleep. A shadow slowly eased the window open, careful not to disturb the couple of inches of snow on the outside sill in the process. Long, gray-blonde tresses lifted slightly in the breeze, and the owner of the hair cursed in her mind. She glanced over at the sleeping bundle that was the Canadian, making sure he was still asleep, before she crept into the house.
She softly shut the window before simply standing there, a rough canvas bag over her shoulder, shivering. She glanced once more at Matthew before creeping to his closet and hiding within its depths, keeping what little clothes the Canadian had in front of her. She settled down on the floor, and pulled the bag off of her shoulder. Digging around inside it, she brought out some cheese and bread.
As she munched on her late night dinner, Natalia smiled in the darkness.
Ivan woke up early, the dawn sun's searing light inching along his bedspread. He rubbed his face and shoved fingers through his hair, preparing himself for the cold dash to the bathroom for his daily shower.
Cold air rose from the floor to meet his bare feet and, with barely a sound, he ran for his bathroom and the rug that lay on the floor. He turned the hot water on full blast, allowing the roar to clear and relax his mind. Violet eyes lost focus as his thoughts turned inward, comparing his work and free time today.
He stepped into the shower and pulled the glass door shut. The recurring thought of the Canadian's health took up residence in his mind, and he frowned. In the two weeks he'd been staying at Ivan's house, he had gotten considerably better.
But he didn't want Canada's health to get too much better. That would defeat the whole purpose of him coming over. No, he figured that the fragile and well-intentioned Canadian was due for some guilt.
He suppressed a grin as he got out and dried off. He was examining himself in the foggy mirror, once more shoving fingers through his now-wet hair, when he saw something flicker in his peripheral vision.
Unease flooded his system and he hurriedly pulled his towel about his waist, shielding him. He glanced nervously around the spacious bathroom before stalking to his bedroom to get dressed, making sure to put on his boxers under the towel, ensuring that there wouldn't be exposure.
After dressing and shrugging on his scarf, he bounded downstairs. Smelling the familiar scent of maple tinged pancakes, he grinned; it seemed that the guilt tripping could begin.
Shoving all but the most stern expression from his face, Ivan made sure to sneak into his kitchen and slam a cupboard door, taking glee in the startled jump that Canada made. The little squeaking shriek was a bonus, one that he simultaneously enjoyed and hated.
"Where is my vodka, Comrade Matvey?" he asked, letting danger and malice drip from his tongue.
"I-I don't know, Russia," he said quietly. Ivan had to strain to hear him. "Wherever you put it last, I suppose." Everything about the smaller man was nervous, from the twining of his fingers around the spatula in his hands to the slightly shaking glasses on his face that reflected the sunlight right into the Russian's eyes.
"The last place I saw it, Comrade, was here," he said pointedly, a finger indicating the cupboard that he had just slammed. "Seeing as it is not there, and you have been the only person that has been here, it is more than likely that you have moved it. So, I am forced to repeat myself: Where is my vodka?"
Canada was quaking, now. He was chattering like a scared rodent, and Ivan cherished that sound. It was a sound he had heard often and each time he got a Country to utter it, he basked in accomplishment.
"I couldn't tell you," Canada said, visually gathering his courage and stilling his hands, if not the slight shivering of his body.
The Russian was taken a bit aback. The only time he had really seen the quiet Country stand up for himself was when he was facing off against his obnoxious brother and France. And even then, it was as if he expected them to ignore him.
But not now. There was something different about the Country.
Maybe he should have taken the smaller man down a notch a touch sooner.
"Comrade," he started, "You must think me a lush."
"W-what?"
"What with me storming down here and demanding alcohol. I feel terrible, Matvey, I really do. How could I have forgotten that you still have that stomach flu? And yet here you are, cooking breakfast!" The fake sincerity was easy to pull off, Ivan thought with an inward smirk.
"I-it's no big deal," Canada blustered. "Just some pancakes."
"Still, though, it means a great deal to me. Most Countries are either frightened senseless around me or they run away."
Canada gave a tilted smile before turning pack to the burning pancake. Ivan heard him mutter something about "Kuraijuma" but was unsure as to what he was saying.
"It's not really a big deal," the Canadian said, pouring the last of the batter into the skillet and rinsing out the glass bowl the liquid had been it before watching the cooking food intently, watching for the bubbles that were starting to rise. "Really, it's the least I can do for someone who just randomly invited me over to talk."
The not-so-subtle jab was taken with some surprise and disgruntle-ment. Ivan mentally scratched his chin before readjusting his scarf and running ideas through his head.
The mental time bomb he had just planted wouldn't go off for a while. Maybe it was time to bring his boss into it.
With a curt nod of thanks, he grabbed his plate of pancakes, the syrup and a glass of water up to his study. After locking the door securely, he grinned unpleasantly and plopped the food and what not on his desk before picking up the phone and calling Mr. Harper.
Canada glanced around before slipping the burnt pancake, the one he designated as his, into the trash, vowing to take it out after he worked up the nerve to ask Russia where he was to take it.
After loading and starting the dishwasher, he went to the living room and grabbed the remote. He flicked through channels, not really paying attention. Rather, he was preoccupied with his thoughts and the unusual behavior of the normally abrasive Russia.
Mix that with the feeling that there was a monster in his closet when he awoke this morning, and it made for a very jumpy Matthew. He forcibly refocused his attention to the screen and stopped at a hockey game.
While he has seen this particular game before, he couldn't help but be enthralled. The game was full of contradictions: gracefully bulky men beating the crap out of each other while balancing on a knife's edge, a wooden stick smacking the hardened rubber puck around like it was nothing (while in reality it could break your wrist), the heat of exhaustion when it was all said and done mixed with the misty breath caused by the ice and the chilled arena.
Not to mention that this game was particularly brutal. Matthew couldn't help but wince in sympathy when the away team fouled after a member hit another guy in the face, making his nose break.
Within moments of forced concentration he immersed himself in the game, allowing it to flow through him and soothe the odd feelings he had gotten from the Russian earlier.
During a timeout, Canada stood and stretched. His back, which had been bent nearly in half so he could rest his elbows on his knees, cracked. He sighed and then shivered as the cool air of Russia's home hit him. deciding that a long-sleeved t-shirt just wasn't going to keep him warm, he rushed upstairs to grab his beloved hoodie.
Eager to return to the game before the time out ended, he shuffled down the hallway of the second floor with the hoodie thrown over his head and his arms struggling to make sense of the sleeves.
Just as he got his arms through, Russia's voice thundered through the thick wooden door of his study, which Matthew had suddenly found himself outside of. He gulped and cursed his curiosity. He stepped closer to the door, and listened.
"What do you mean, Harper is not there?"
Silence.
"When do you expect him to return?"
Silence.
"Really."
Matthew was very confused, and decided to book it for the living room. Halfway down the steps, he remembered that his hoodie was still bunched at his chest, and hurriedly pulled it down.
The couch was, surprisingly, still warm from his body heat earlier. He sighed as he settled down into the softness, and returned to the game, which had restarted a while ago. He grinned as his eyelids slowly started to slide shut.
"Matvey?"
He jolted awake, eyes wide behind his skewed glasses and, more than likely, wrinkles from his hoodie on his face.
"Matvey, how are you feeling?"
The unaccustomed gentleness in the large Country threw the sleepy Matthew for a loop, but he answered automatically with a dull, "Fine."
As he woke up a bit more, he looked over the pondering Russian.
He was decked out in a soft, almost velvet-looking coat of a silver-blue color that gleamed in the low afternoon light, with a highly contrasting black silk scarf that covered his neck.
"Really?"
Really, what? Matthew racked his sleepy brain, trying to connect the seemingly random question with an earlier conversation.
"Oh, well, yes." And surprisingly, he did feel fine. A very low throbbing in his head was more than tolerable. The upset stomach was simple heartburn. He was not dizzy, and he did not have to lie. "Yes, I feel fine."
"I see."
After a tense silence, for which the Russian seemed famous for, Matthew asked, "So, what's with the get-up?"
"I was invited to my boss's for dinner. Normally, I would not bother with dressing up, but it is always a good thing to keep those closest to you on their toes, da?"
The smirk, almost playful, on the Russian's face was echoed by a grin on the Canadian's.
"That's true enough. I remember Mr. Harper all but having kittens when I let Al dress me in hemp and tie-dye." Those were... Canada got lost in though as he tried to come up with a suitable adjective. Times. Just times. Those were times that he was there and awake for.
Did he wish he wasn't?
Yes.
Will he ever be rid of the sight of he and Al dressed in purple and peace signs in his brain?
Ha.
"So, I'm taking it that I will be by myself this evening," Matthew said. The smooth scarf fluttered when the Russian nodded.
"Da. But, it will be no big deal for you. There is hockey on the television." Another playful smirk.
Matthew wasn't sure which was worse: A playful Russia or the mean, homicidal Russia.
A.N.: What is this black magic? An update almost TWO WEEKS AFTER I SAID THERE WOULD BE MORE!
I'm a terrible person, especially that this chapter is about two hundred words short of my two thousand word-a-chapter thingy. And, really, I could sit here and name off all of the things that has delayed me and my precious internet, but I won't. If you live the Nebraska area, you probably already know that snow kinda hit the fan on one side of the state, and tornadoes on the other side.
ANYWAY, please forgive me. I don't know when I will be able to steal my neighbor's internet again, so the updates are gonna be sporadic at best for a bit.
On the bright side, I'm turning 22 in five days and am getting a guinea pig sometime today. I'm ridiculously excited.
Please, please, please review. Tell me that it's amazing or tell me it's shit and I ought to be ashamed of myself. I don't care. Feedback is feedback.
And thank you, all of you, that has favorited and followed my story. It makes warm fuzzies erupt in my belly and makes me smile.
Thank you!
