Chapter 2:

It took quite some time for Russia noticed the silence coming from behind him. He turned when he did, puzzled, and quickly realized that the boy was gone. Seeming to have disappeared off the face of the planet earth, or—a much more reasonable notion—been left behind. He hesitated a moment before starting to retrace his steps, wondering if it was really worth it to go looking for the boy. He was just a human after all, just another human… but Ivan really didn't want to be stuck thinking about the boy—freezing, alone, dying, as he himself had been many times before—while he tried to go to sleep. It wasn't hard to find the Canadian, an unmoving bundle of darkness in the pure snow. With a soft frown, Russia crouched down beside him.

His flawless skin was nearly colorless and his lips and eyelids—he had quite long eyelashes under the crust of frost—had a pale, bluish blush. Tendrils of honey golden hair lay across his brow. He really was quite a pretty boy, with a stubborn jaw, soft, high cheekbones, high, proud brows and a straight, noble nose.

Ivan lifted him up into his arms, propping him on one upraised knee, and tugged a glove off with his teeth to reach for a pulse beneath his chin. His frown deepened briefly as no movement met his fingertips, was he dead? He adjusted his touch slightly, probing with cold fingertips, searching… nothing. He felt once again, on the other side, still no pulse. He was definitely dead. Nonetheless, Ivan felt again, feeling strangely guilty that the boy had died when he had said he would help him. Ivan may not have liked many people, but he kept his promises, and he had the oddest feeling that one had been broken. Then a few moments later, as he sighed heavily in disappointment—fingers still pressed lightly to Matthew's cold skin—movement fluttered under his fingers.

He startled, blinking in bewilderment. Alive? It seemed almost impossible, but there it was, faint and erratic, like that of a frightened bird before it leveled out. But he had been- the only way he could be back was if he was-… if he was a country? Ivan's brow furrowed—not quite a frown, but certainly a troubled look—and stared hard at the young man.

Not dead then, and a country to…

He wasn't familiar. Russia couldn't remember having seen him before now, not at all. He ran through a mental list of countries from the world summit, not until after he had run through the list several times without success did he finally remember America's brother, Canada. Now that he looked closer there were many similarities between them, but not enough to make them indistinguishable from one another. Still… the resemblance was startling. Was it possible they were twins?

What was Canada, brother of America, —for now that he thought about it; it was blindingly obvious who he was—doing in Mother Russia?

For some reason not one thought of what he could do to him passed through Ivan's mind as he pondered what he was going to do with him. It had been so long since Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia had lived with him—he couldn't include Katyusha or Nataliya. For, no matter how much the latter might have wished otherwise, they were his sisters and he had never treated them the same as any of the others. The things he had done, and could do, with someone who couldn't die from the abuse were forgotten, overridden by a strange sense of righteousness at the thought of his sisters.

He withdrew, and as he did his hand brushed Matthew's shirt and stopped short. What had he done to turn his clothing to ice? He remembered suddenly how close he had been to the ocean when Ivan had found him, and winced. Had he been in the ocean? At this time of year? He must have been in agony from the cold! Ivan shook his head, supporting Matthew's back and unzipped the boy's hoodie. Not much good against a winter's day in Russia. He pulled that, and the long sleeved shirt beneath it, off of his body, baring a milky white, toned chest marred by several scars—knife, bullet, shrapnel, he could see scars from all of these and more.

Ivan paid them only a moments notice before beginning to unlace the Canadian's boots, pulling them off and unbuttoning the buttons on his pants. He tanked these off as well; revealing a pair of close fitting, partially dry leggings, which he left on the young man's wiry frame. He straightened up and began to deftly unbutton his own, long, beige greatcoat. He gathered Matthew into the warm space, holding him in place firmly and buttoning the jacket to the neck, closing the Canadian inside to keep the snow off and the warmth in. A slight shudder ran through him. He could feel the shivering cold of the younger nation's frame through his shirt. He was freezing. Slowly, slowly, his trembling ceased, and the cold pressure of his body turned to heat.

Russia smiled, feeling very satisfied and charitable. It felt surprisingly good to help someone instead of beating them senseless—though that had proved satisfying as well. It felt almost… warm. He stood, —hitching the Canadian higher under his coat— turned his back on the path and continued on towards home, stepping in the deep furrow his passing had created before.

Behind him Matthew's frozen clothing lay in the softly falling storm of feathery flakes, already covered in a fine, lacey powdering of pure white powder.

Soon they would be gone from sight, enveloped in deadly cold.

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I sincerely apologize for the horrible quality that this story was in. I am rewriting it! Because, quite honestly, I found myself gagging while reading over the old version. Blegh! What was I thinking making Matthew so girly? He's a man, Damn it! *Fumes* Please forgive me!

*grovels*

Je suis désolé! Désolé!

-Sai