Usually, ice-cream was something Mathew reserved for his beach-side bitching sessions with Carlos. It was a habit of his, enjoying certain indulgences only with certain people. By the modern age, Mathew had managed to associate a vice with all of his friends.

For Romano, there was red wine. When he hung out with Lars, they were most often in Amsterdam's red-light district. Belle and Belgian chocolate went hand-in-hand. Exceptions came in the form of the Commonwealth nations, who were too close to family, and his siblings to the South. They had their own category entirely.

(France and England still thought he was a colony, so nothing scandalous ever happened with either of them.

…Unless you counted dragging him into their wars. However, Mathew did his best not to be petty.)

The others in Mathew's life didn't require associations. They came and went, leaving the usual bruises and bite-marks. Prussia – in the break between the first and second World Wars, and once more, briefly, after the Wall fell – heralded by gunfire and leaving much the same. Ukraine, a little before and a little after Prussia. Denmark, just as recently as last year. China, in the fifties, coming with smiles and tea and leaving with recognition.

Mathew had long become used to that, the way they (nations, humans; there wasn't much of a difference, really) came and went. England had once remarked, rather drunkenly, that it was his talent. To be able to love and let go at the drop of a hat, as though whatever had passed between he and another was little more than a sunrise: enjoyable, perhaps beautiful, but never personal.

(Mathew had refrained from mentioning that all talents took practice. That, as a colony, he'd never been so easily removed. That, sometimes, his talent inspired nightmares where someone stole away all the caring bits of his heart - made them disappear the same way his rosary and Latin prayer book had gone missing the first week he'd lived with England and a then-colonial America. He'd never bothered to replace either, careful to push the empire who'd been the villain in all of his bedtime stories up to that point. Nowadays, Mathew couldn't help but think that that had been his first bit of practice.)

Mathew had smiled at Arthur, lips not the least bit tense, and Arthur had downed the rest of his drink. In the end, the Englishman had wound up too drunk to remember what century they were in. Sensing danger, Mathew had called a cab and ensured that his former empire (invader) made it home in one piece, ending the night. He'd left for his hotel thirty minutes later, head muddled with old thoughts that hadn't been helped by the (shitty) whiskey he'd indulged in once Arthur was out of his hair. However, it had only been a few days past July fourth. Arthur couldn't be held accountable for anything he did until at least the twentieth, and so Mathew had convinced himself that nothing said that night mattered.

(Still, there was a reason he associated friends with vices. It made it easier, in the night. Just like associating those rosary beads and pretty Latin words with silly childhood things had made it easier some two hundred years ago.)

Today, however, those careful associations had been tweaked slightly. While Mathew did indeed have an ice cream cone in hand, he was far from the Cuban sunshine he usually enjoyed them under. Also, the texture was off – far creamier than he was used to – and no one near him was ranting about his brother (quite possibly the most unique bit of the whole experience).

Not that his current company didn't have comment or two, Mathew thought, and cast a covert glance at his companion. A foot taller, at minimum, than any other nation Mathew knew, Ivan Braginski was happily munching on his own chocolate cone. Distantly, Mathew wished he could see Ivan's eyes, now closed in a rare show of bliss. The trick to reading Ivan, Mathew had found, were those eyes. It was why Ivan closed them when he went full-on creepy. Smothering a sigh, Mathew looked away. What a shame they were hidden. At this point, Mathew could have used the reference.

In all of Mathew's years of careful observation and association, the representation of Russia had eternally been the outlier. Dangerous, sophisticated, and a dedicated actor, Mathew couldn't help but respect the man. Through ruin and rapture, Ivan had managed to hold himself together better than most nations Mathew knew, and against arguably harsher odds. There were certainly cracks here and there – his ever-present pipe's threat of violence and the vodka dependency were the biggest ones – but never once had Mathew seen him crumble in public like Arthur or lose his temper like Germany.

Sometimes, Mathew thought that it was this respect that stepped in his way when he tried to sort Ivan into one of his categories. Other times, Mathew merely blamed himself.

By all rights, he should call Ivan a friend. Though they were quiet about it, for obvious (Alfred-related) reasons, they spent quite a bit of time together. Enough time that Prussia – the longest-lived of Mathew's 'others' – hadn't been able to take it. Just weeks after they'd restarted their relationship, Prussia had told him point blank that if Mathew didn't 'drop the Russian fucker,' Prussia (then Gilbert, or Gil, on the more affectionate nights) would leave. Mathew hadn't appreciated the tone or the ultimatum (he'd had enough of foreign nations telling him what to do with his life, thanks), and told him that he'd better start packing then.

What followed had been one hell of a fight, concluding with Gilbert becoming Prussia once more in Mathew's mind. While he'd picked the bits of his heart out of the carpet, Mathew had sent off a notice to his boss that he actually would be accepting China's invitation for tea. Three days later, when stories of Prussia's having slept with half of Europe surfaced, he'd managed to only feel a little stung.

Ironically, Ivan had shown up at Mathew's place on the eve of that surprise, vodka in hand. They'd spent the night drinking and discussing how utterly insane everyone with an above-negative climate was. It had definitely been one of his better post-break-up nights.

Unfortunately, it had also been one that had scared Mathew terribly.

He and Prussia hadn't told anyone they'd been together. So close to the Wars, their relationship was terribly taboo and they'd wanted to avoid the fallout.

So, how had Ivan known Mathew would need a pick-me-up after the rumours started spreading?

Mathew had asked, bluntly, because while he could be just as subtle as any other catty former-French colony, he was still Alfred's brother.

Ivan had grinned, body relaxed into Mathew's overstuffed couch, and said, "I could see it in your eyes, da?"

That was the night Mathew had started to distance himself from Ivan. The reason why it was Mathew's fault they weren't friends, or confidants, or 'others'. Not because of Prussia, his brother, or any other nation, but because Ivan had scared Mathew more with that one sentence than anything else possibly could.

Ever since he'd been small, Mathew had always been the one to read people. To pick them apart and see how they ticked, all while cloaked nicely in his invisibility. He'd learned the technique from France, of all people, and refined it to suit his nature, using England and America as a rating system. No one had ever tried to read him before, and certainly not successfully. To know that Ivan had been able to see him so clearly had shaken Mathew to the point where he'd been forced to distance himself from, arguably, one of his favourite people.

It had made Mathew miserable to be around, and miserable with himself. So, after years of purposely organizing work-related meetings to coincide with the times he usually spent with Ivan, Mathew had given in and agreed to meet him for ice cream following this year's World Meeting, held in Moscow.

Moscow. Beautiful, despite its history. Or, possibly, because of it. Certainly the city looked lovely in the snowy twilight, the cold biting at Mathew's face as he finished his ice cream. Nearly as lovely as the nation who represented it, sitting just a hand's length away. Mathew couldn't help but eye that space warily.

Would it be so bad, he wondered, to let one person in? Other nations definitely weren't so careful; so conscious of their words, their tone, their voice, their emotions. Mathew imagined himself taking Ivan's gloved hand, what words he might speak to try and change their relationship into something he might like better.

"Matvei has been awfully quiet, da?" The words were a questioning hum articulated. Mathew hid a flinch with years of skill.

"I like the quiet," Mathew replied, leaving the you know that already to their history together.

"Twenty years of quiet?"

Mathew let his expression show this time, a quick wince. He wasn't quite sure why. To show he was listening, maybe? He swallowed. Thus were the dangers of Ivan's presence.

Regardless, it was time to throw off his safety blanket.

"Maybe we should continue this at the hotel," He offered softly, drawing himself to his feet. "My room or yours?" He was nearly certain Ivan lived in St. Petersburg still. There was no way he would suffer the four-hour train trip back and forth for seven days if he could avoid it.

Ivan regarded him for a moment, soft purple eyes considering Mathew in a way most people didn't bother with, before he nodded to himself. "Da, I think that is best. My room should serve us well, too, for this." His eyes flashed towards Mathew and the Canadian let out a breath, coming up beside Ivan as they started on the few blocks to the hotel. This was a concession on Ivan's part, he knew. Mathew hated it when he didn't have a clean exit strategy, and Ivan knew it. The other nation was giving Mathew the chance to make a graceful split, if he so wished.

The thought left ash in his mouth. Sighing, Mathew shrugged his gloved hands inside his jacket pockets and tried to pretend that it didn't.

The door clicked shut with a sound akin to the locking of a jail cell. Mathew stood beside it, unsure of himself in the luxurious expanse of Ivan's hotel room, while the other nation flopped gracefully onto a leather couch. Suddenly, Mathew thought that offering his room might not have been such a sacrifice on Ivan's part. Rather, it was accepting that might have been a miscalculation on Mathew's. That sometimes happened when people maneuvered with a different goal than Mathew had in mind.

Steeling himself, Mathew waited for Ivan to make the first move while he adjusted his plans.

"So," the Russian said, voice booming in the silence and jarring Mathew from his thoughts. "Tell me, why have you run from me so?"

Mathew stilled, choosing it over the slight tremble he would fall into otherwise. "I am not running –

"Please," Ivan spoke up, "I have seen rabbits flee from me with less desperation." His eyes softened, but didn't lose the edge of waiting to them, as though Ivan were playing a game Mathew had not been named party to. "Have I scared you?"

"No." Yes. "I've just been so busy lately." You were getting too close. "It should calm down soon." You know me better than my own brother; better than my family, my friends, and everyone else. "We could meet up, then." What was I supposed to do? "I should be free." I don't know if I can give you what you want.

"Matvei." And suddenly Ivan was so close, standing tall and moving ever-closer with gentle steps. He'd removed his gloves at some point, and now his fingers brushed Mathew's jaw, carefully guiding the Canadian's eyes away from the patch of floor they'd fixated on. Never had Mathew been so aware of the considerable number of inches Ivan had on him, nor just how broad the other man's shoulders were.

"For all that I have known you," – and, God, how many years was that? It seemed like they'd always known of each other, a foreign conscience on the other side of the ice, just close enough to be too far away – "I have never known you to be a liar."

Mathew closed his eyes and sucked a breath in between his teeth. It was true. Lies had never been in his weapon of choice. He thought about them too much, lost the flow and rhythm of them. They never came off as natural. Alfred had always been the better liar. However, it didn't usually matter. What Alfred could create with lies, Mathew could usually twist the truth to mimic. It was just, this time, with Ivan – always, when it involved Ivan – the truth was too dangerous. A snapping dragon in Mathew's hands, ready to melt him at the slightest provocation.

Mathew had always hated playing with fire.

And Ivan knew that, too.

He leaned close, his scarf brushing Mathew's hand, and even if his fingers hadn't still been at Mathew's jaw, Mathew wouldn't have been able to look away. Not from this man, so ancient and aching, who could rip apart worlds and destroy continents at the push of a button, but who handled Mathew with such caution. Such gentleness. As if Mathew were to be treasured, protected. As if, perhaps, they were more than what they represented.

"All I ask of you, now, however, Matvei, is the truth you keep so close."

And how could Mathew deny him?

"I- you were right." He said at last, stuttering like he hadn't since he'd first learnt English. "You did, you scared me. But not-" Mathew injected when Ivan attempted to pull back, "because of anything you did. It's just," he took a breath, "no one knows me." He said at length, shoulders sagging. "Not like you do. You see me, and you see what I try to hide, and no one has known me like that since I was a colony." He was rambling, but he didn't care. Ivan was looking at him as though Mathew had just shown him something awe-inspiring, and Mathew couldn't stop the words.

"It's just, Ivan, I – I am not seen so often. The thought of someone noticing me like you do, it's like someone taking that bit of me away, and I don't even think I'm whole as I am now." He directed his eyes back to Ivan, trying to read him but finding he couldn't, his own mind too fogged to observe the ticks of another's.

"Ivan," he wound up saying, "half of me is invisible and I don't know how to deal with what you'll find there. I don't know if I'm capable of giving you – giving you what you want." Of giving us what we want, of giving you me.

Then there was silence, and Mathew was actually a little grateful for it. He didn't think he'd be able to hear any words over his hammering heart anyway.

"Matvei." Oh, God, the sympathy in those eyes was enough to kill him. Ivan took his hands, and Mathew kicked himself for having not removed his gloves. "I would never ask you for this if I was not aware of what it meant, to you and to me." A hand reached up to brush a lock of hair behind his ear. "I would not ask you to rush into this, to force yourself." A kiss, so very gentle, so very different from what Mathew knew of romance and affection, was pressed to his forehead. He looked up, surprised, and was caught in Ivan's eyes. "All I ask of you is to let me be close to you, no matter what that may entail."

Mathew felt something in him break. Whether it was the release of the small, young sound that stole past his lips, or maybe the beginning of the tremors in his shoulders, he did not know. Then, he was reaching up on his tip toes to steal a kiss, or maybe just give one, because Mathew was shit with words tonight.

Ivan caught him eagerly, hands ghosting up Mathew's arms until one rested at the small of his back and the other tangled in his hair, cradling his head. Mathew clutched a fistful of Ivan's jacket, pulling himself close, his free hand at Ivan's shoulder. Lips Mathew had romanticized for ages met his, cool and searing, heating steadily as Ivan took control, and suddenly Mathew tasted chocolate ice cream. Smiling, Mathew pulled back, breathless. He let his head fall gently against Ivan's shoulder.

"Twenty years, we could have had that," he mused, "if only I hadn't been such a coward."

Ivan's arms tightened around him, pulling Mathew flush against his chest. "Nyet, Matvei, you were well within your rights. If anything, I should have pushed harder, but… I think it did us good, those years, da? It gave us time. Time to make sure that we wanted this."

Mathew shook his head. "I wanted it every day for twenty years. I just, I didn't know if I should." Could.

Ivan smiled again, sweetly, and Mathew felt himself smile in response. "Well, now you have it, da? No more sadness."

Any other day, Mathew would have been willing to contest that. He was a planner, a strategist. There were a thousand reasons why this was a terrible idea rising to his lips, trying to push past his teeth, on the knife's edge of his tongue. But, today… today, he had Ivan, in his arms and on his tongue, pushing the worries back. Today, Mathew was alright. It was alright that he loved a man who wouldn't forget his name or his achievements for the price of remembering his mistakes and his weaknesses. It was okay. Strange, but okay. Good, fantastic, enchanting, really.

And for the days when it wasn't, for the days when he panicked – well. Ivan had promised to be there, so solemn and so sweet. Now, it was Mathew's job to scrounge up the trust to meet that promise.

They connected again, amethyst eyes meeting wintry violet, and when they touched Mathew once more tasted chocolate. He tasted snow and tundra and a thousand years of peace and love and violence, and pushed back with himself, everything that he could remember that he was and he thought –

He thought yes. Yes, this could work. I can love this man, if he can give me the time to find what I've forgotten, and the desire to keep remembering it. If he can do that, then…

Then maybe, Mathew thought, grinning as Ivan pulled at the gloves still on his hands, I have found the person I can finally associate with a virtue.

Well, okay. Here goes another attempt at writing Hetalia. This is cross-posted at AO3, but I actually think this is the better version. One of these days, I'll learn to stop editing everything for months and months after writing, but unfortunately, that day is not today.

Also, thanks to TheVastEmptiness for betaing! I don't know what I'd do without you!

Sincerely,

BlackRoseGirl666