Okay, I wrote this during the Olympics, then forgot to clean it up so I could post it. That's my only excuse.

Disclaimer: If I owned Hetalia, I wouldn't be writing fanfic for it.

Hidden between the other dignitaries, I watched the opening ceremonies of the Vancouver Olympics. Although I had seen and heard bits and pieces over the weeks leading up to the Games, watching everything put together... it was simply breathtaking. The lights, the music and dancing...

I began to remember those small memories I had forgotten for so long.

It was probably the music.

Matthew had disappeared earlier, and try as he might, Arthur hadn't been able to find the young man. Even Alfred had been stumped when he had been asked where his twin was. Defeated, he had finally returned to Matthew's large house in Ottawa, where he and several other nations were staying before they returned to their own countries. In the entranceway, he had found Matthew's large red winter jacket, emblazoned with a white CANADA across the front, already in the coat closet.

Which was why Arthur found himself dragging Alfred along in a search for their young host. All he had wanted was to congratulate Matthew on his wonderful job with the Olympics and thank him for his hospitality, and how could he do that if the boy was nowhere to be found? Alfred was coming simply because he couldn't be trusted to thank Matthew himself.

The two quickly scoured the more modern areas and soon found themselves making their way down the less-used corridors. Thin layers of dust coated the tops of frames containing old paintings, photographs and newspaper clippings. The floor itself was relatively clean, considering the last time someone had walked here may have been centuries ago. Nothing less than expected of Matthew. Arthur felt bad trespassing in what may have been a private section of the enormous building, but he was determined to find his former charge.

"Sheesh, this house is even bigger than mine!" Alfred's voice cut through the dusty air. "How does Matt not get lost in this? ...Why are you shushing me? Nobody's around to hear."

Arthur suppressed a groan and hurried to keep up with the taller American.

While Alfred poked around in some other hallway, Arthur took one short, dead-end corridor. The walls here lacked any decoration, and in some places the bare floor had long drag marks engraved in it despite apparent efforts to repair them. Quick glances into the rooms showed them to be storage rooms, filled with old boxes with faded labels, and large objects draped in heavy cloth. Everywhere lay large amounts of dust, as if Matthew had given up on keeping the area clean. The entire corridor was obviously neglected. Every nation has a place like these, Arthur mused. A place where we store those memories that we cannot bear to look at but can never forget. I suppose even someone like Matthew would have memories to bury and hide.

He reached the last few doors but didn't even bother touching the knobs. The very last door, partially hidden by a doorframe which all the others lacked, stood ajar. Gently, he pushed the ancient wood aside, ignoring the protest of old hinges, and peered in.

Light glowed steadily from a pair of old incandescent bulbs, softened by a film of dust. Old wooden crates and cardboard boxes lined the back of the room, and in a corner in front of them stood an old unlit lamp. In the center sat an old couch and a pair of chairs. The patterns were obscured by large pieces of brightly coloured fabrics, slightly faded and worn but still charming, several different tartans in mixes of reds, blues, greens, and yellows. At the foot of one of the chairs lay an object obscured by the black box and layers of dark red tartan it sat in. Several other small boxes full of papers lay in a heap on the floor, surrounding a young blond man wearing a red sweatshirt busy going through the contents of one box.

"Matthew, what in blazes are you doing?"

The blond jumped and spun around as best he could without standing. Seeing Arthur, he visibly relaxed and turned back to the box. "I... I'm not sure, really..."

"Look at this mess! Where did you get this stuff, anyway?" Arthur waved his arms at the haphazard piles filling the room. "What... what the hell is it?"

Matthew shrugged. "I was just... thinking... about it, I mean, all of this. It's... important, even if I can't remember why." He carefully removed a small wooden box, peered inside, and placed it gently to one side, balanced on the piles of tartan. Arthur carefully knelt beside the old fabrics, gently fingering the edges of a soft golden corner.

"That one's Saskatchewan."

Matthew's soft voice made Arthur blink. "It's all official tartan," the boy continued softly. "There's one for each province and territory except Nunavut."

"Really?"

Matthew nodded and reached over to the piles of well-loved weaves. Pulling out the gold Saskatchewan tartan, he murmured, "Gold for the endless wheat fields, is what he said." Arthur wasn't sure if he was referring to the pattern's creator or to the nation's young charge. He didn't have time to ask, as the tartan had been folded and another gathered up.

"Prince Edward Island. Green for the grass, and red for the earth in which it sprouts..."

Arthur listened in mute wonder, as his former colony, usually so silent, carefully detailed the origins and symbolism behind each and every careful pattern with a knowledge and quiet confidence he so rarely showed. "..and the silver in the Cape Breton tartan, for the steel. This one was designed by a woman named Elizabeth Grant... and Quebec, his colours from his coat of arms..."

Finally each different pattern was explained and folded away. Twelve different patterns lay stacked in three neat piles, but something else caught Arthur's eye. "What about that one?" he asked, indicating the large black box, overflowing with the deep red tartan. Matthew paused, and then stepped over to it carefully. Kneeling, he gently rubbed the old fabric between his fingers.

"This one... is mine."

Arthur just waited patiently.

"Like Quebec's, it's not official. But... it's called the Maple Leaf tartan."

The older nation was not surprised.

"The four colours symbolize the four seasons, or more specifically, the colours of maple leaves during those four seasons. The green for the new buds of spring, the gold for the end of summer, the red for frost in fall and the brown for the fallen leaves in winter. The endless cycle of seasons..." Matthew glanced up at his father-figure, and Arthur was shocked by the depth and wisdom in his intense violet eyes.

"And joining them..." Matthew unwrapped the contents of the box from the last few layers of tartan, his every word sounding distant and poetic. "...is the people, and their treasures. Song, and dance, and laughter, will be the guiding path through the changing years."

In his hands, old and delicate but still well-loved, lay a beautifully-made fiddle. "Do you know what this is?"

Arthur nodded slowly, still caught up in the sheer emotion radiating from the young nation. Matthew suddenly smiled, softly, all trace of his quiet determination gone. "Sorry about that. I guess... I guess I got caught up in the moment, but-"

"Can you play it?"

Matthew blinked, uncertainty spreading across his face. "I-I used to be able to, but, but I wasn't very good... and it was a long time ago...!"

Arthur took Matthew's hands and placed them carefully, one on the fiddle and one on the bow. "I was at the opening ceremonies. If your people have not forgotten, I am sure you will remember some of your former skill." Matthew blinked again, flushing at the obvious praise coming from Arthur, of all people! Green eyes stared intensely at Matthew, an unreadable expression on his face. Arthur crooked a small smile. "I want to hear you~"

...Did Arthur just sing that?

Netherlands wandered down the hallway of the old house. He wanted to congratulate Matthew on his amazing job with the opening ceremonies (and possibly tell his old friend that no way was he going to let him have all the glory on Canadian soil), but Alfred had gotten to their young host first, and Netherlands had, obviously, lost him. And now, he was wandering like a snoop down the dustiest hallways in the usually clean house, trying to ignore the slightly noticeable sounds coming from right behind him. He wondered vaguely how he, Matthew, and Katyusha had ended up such close friends, as the Ukrainian nation tried desperately to keep up with the taller male while still keeping as quiet as possible. Nearing the end of the hall, he perked up at the sound of voices coming from an open room.

"Are you drunk?"

"No, but I don't think I'm sober."

Katyusha glanced up at her close friend, mouthing the name, "Arthur!" Netherlands peeked carefully into the room and blinked, surprised by what he saw.

Arthur sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by boxes and fabrics, staring at the figure settling nervously on the couch. Matthew clutched an old, carefully-tended fiddle, carefully tweaking the knobs in a final tuning adjustment. Neither of the room's occupants noticed the two silently watching from the hall. "All right," the Canadian murmured in embarrassment, "but if it's bad, you asked for it."

Matthew lifted the old instrument to his shoulder, laid the bow on the strings, and paused. Taking a deep breath, he drew a long, fluttering note, and then another, before pausing in deep concentration. His fingers pressed into place on the strings.

The notes that began to fill the air seemed almost magical. Although rather slow at first, they began to speed up, enveloping their audience with a beautiful captivation. As the dust was stirred up by the tapping of Matthew's foot, the light from the setting sun streaming through the lone window caught it in a blaze of red and gold. The rays of dying light flickered and danced as the bow flew across the fiddle, swirling in a burst of song and fire. Matthew sat, eyes closed, as his hand drew the bow back and forth, as his fingers flickered across the strings, as his foot danced among the cloud of sparks that was the sun-drenched dust. When the rousing melody finally drew to a close, the four of them simply stayed where they were, enjoying the moment of breathless silence which follows when someone decides to show another one of their most precious treasures in such an unbelievably beautiful way.

"Hey, Matt, I'm hungry!"

Heads snapped up and around, staring at the unwanted disturbance.

"Not that that was bad or anything, but I'm not gonna wait much longer!" Alfred bounced into the room, hauling Arthur to his feet. "C'mon, hurry it up already!"

Arthur glared daggers at the American, who remained oblivious to it. Matthew glanced at Netherlands and Katyusha, turning rather pink but smiling slightly. Kat smiled back and gave him a thumbs up before moving to allow Arthur to push Alfred out the door.

"Go ahead, Alfred, I'm going to help Matthew clean up a bit. You go find somewhere we can eat, and I mean somewhere good, not your blasted McDonalds!" Arthur shot one final look at the younger man's retreating back before going back into the room. The four just shared a look, before bursting out in delighted laughter.

"Matthew, you should play more often!"

Notes: Everything about the tartans is true. Elizabeth Grant was my great-grandmother, so we have heaps of Cape Breton tartan in our basement, and when my nana gave me a blanket of hand-woven tartan, I immediately became interested. (It turned out to be Prince Edward Island tartan.) Adding that to the excellent fiddling during the Olympics, another interest of mine, and this was born. It's extremely late, I know, but it's better late than never, and I only just got around to proofreading and finishing it up.

The song I imagine Matthew was playing is a song called The Pleasures of Home Medley, by The Cottars, one of their older songs. I uploaded it onto Youtube, but since the album isn't on iTunes or anything, I don't know how long it'll last. .com/watch?v=_Ir2G7qDHwU

England is drunk, but not enough to be in depressed-mode. Or maybe that was negated by the effect of the pretty ceremonies?

If there's anything I need to fix, just let me know.