Title: Cold
Pairing: Realized but unrequited America - Canada
Warnings: Weirdness, mentions of sex, possibly disturbing imagery (but probably not)
Notes: This started off as an Alfred has the Sight story and became this. I have no clue how, it just did. Canada is way OOC here, but at least he's neither moe not Manada.
...:X:...
He sees them out of the corner of his eyes, tall awful things, slimy evil things. He hates them he hates them, but they're all there is. There is nothing else, there is nothing but cold and evil here, and he hates it.
He just hates being alone more.
...:X:...
Lonely, that's what he is. The evil things are still lurking, but he keeps them away with whispers and pleas, they don't come close. There is nothing to come close.
That is why when another comes he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to act. The man is cold, coldcoldcold and he makes his skin crawl, makes him want to crawl away, but he doesn't, because he knows, he knows the man can make it better.
"I will make a deal with you," he booms, voice colder than the lands.
He nods, because yesyesyes this is what he needs, "I want it gone," he pleads because he hates them more than he hates being alone.
"You want me to take your Sight?"
"Yes, please."
"What will you give me?"
"Anything, anything, please."
"Anything?" The man pauses, "then that is what I shall take," he says, and the world goes black.
…:X:...
Alfred laughs as the blond man picks him up, throwing him into the air. Alfred likes this man better than the other, better than the dark one with his feral, cruel smiles and the brown haired one with his wandering hands.
Arthur is his name, and he has the prettiest green eyes Alfred has ever seen. He says so too and Arthur gives him a happy grin and kisses his cheek.
"Thank you lad," he says, and Alfred snuggles closer to his warmth.
…:X:...
There is a man who Alfred likes, but Arthur does not. His name is Francis and when he comes to visit one night and Arthur doesn't yell or attack him Alfred knows something must be going on.
"Why are you here?" He asks innocently, the man gives him a small grin.
"Because there is a question Arthur and I need you to answer," Francis replies and Alfred's chest swells with importance and pride.
Arthur chuckles at this and picks his little body up so he's face to face with both of them. "We, Francis and I, were wondering about your northern areas," Arthur explains and Alfred looks at him a little blankly.
"Why?" He asks, little nose wrinkled in confusion, Arthur and Francis share a look, and Francis responds.
"Just for curiosities sake," he says, and Alfred shrugs.
"They aren't mine," he says simply, missing the anticipatory looks which flash across the European's faces, "but," he pauses, something is niggling the back of his mind, "but it's a bad place."
…:X:...
When Alfred meets Matthew he falls in love immediately. Matthew is quiet, very quiet and he's solemn and he listens to everything Alfred has to say as if it's the most important thing in the world. For a child like Alfred, this is the best gift ever.
"Mattie," Alfred says softly one day, leaning against his silent counterpart, "I love you." Matthew shifts to look at Alfred, fine brows drawn together before he nods and leans against Alfred again. Alfred is used to this, Matthew never speaks, and so he smiles.
…:X:...
Alfred wanders his streets wordlessly, regarding the scorched White House with detached interest. It smells like smoke and hate and Alfred almost sort of likes it. He remembers, with a dark fondness, Matthew's burning city. Matthew burning, burning hothothot. But not.
Matthew has always been cold.
…:X:...
"I love you," one boy mutters into the others hair. Matthew doesn't say anything, but he closes his eyes, lips tugging into a frown. Alfred nuzzles his neck, Texas digging into the pale skin and Alfred allows his grip to tighten.
He feels frustration, because Matthew never says it back, never even acknowledges it's been said. "Matt," he says again, "say something." Matthew is silent, violet eyes still closed before he shifts, pulling away.
"I know."
…:X:...
"Red is your colour," Alfred tells Matthew, watching York burn. At his feet, Matthew is silent, face smooth despite the burns blossoming across pale skin. Alfred watches the city some more, and then looks down at his brother. "I love you." Matthew just looks at him, and Alfred looks back, telling himself that Matthew's eyes are shining with tears, even though he knows Matthew has only ever shone with ice.
…:X:...
"What deal did you make, comrad?" Russia asks Matthew one evening as they regard the remains of the Wall. Matthew looks blankly, more so than usual, at the larger man. He doesn't understand.
"What do you mean," he says, voice whisper soft, snow soft.
"The General, how do you keep him at bay?"
Matthew just blinks, ignoring the shambling, rotting creature which clawed at the wall uselessly, invisible to most which hovered on the corner of his vision. "I didn't give him anything," he says flatly, walking away from the creature and from Russia. Russia follows, a childish smirk on his face.
"I see."
…:X:...
Alfred steps onto the Alaskan soil, feeling dread build up in his stomach. The night is dark and cold and lonely and Alfred doesn't even have to move before he's there.
"Was my price too steep?" he asks, voice cold and cruel and Alfred pauses before answering.
"I don't understand what that price was," he finally admits, and cold laughter envelopes him.
"You said you would pay anything, so I took your everything."
…:X:...
Matthew's house is warm, with plush carpets and a fire place and a soft sofa and Alfred thinks it looks all wrong, like a lie, so he pins Matthew to the soft carpet, tearing clothes and smearing kisses. Matthew, for his part, responds, though only minimally, only moving the amount necessary to make him an actual participant in whatever this is.
Alfred continues to smear kisses and drag bites and clutch and scratch, giving birth to bruises and cuts until it all ends in a cacophony of silence, just their heavy breathing and the crackling of the fire to fill the silence.
Alfred sits and looks at Matthew, with his bitten lip and bruises on his hip, violent red marks littered across the pale skin and he swallows, suddenly gentle as he traces the fine jaw.
"I hate you," he whispers, and the lie burns as strong as the fire in the background does and Matthew's cold, thin fingers come up, simply touching Alfred stronger, warmer but much more hesitant ones.
"I know," Matthew responds, voice level, but his eyes shine on. Alfred swallows the bitter taste in his mouth at that and tries to summon a black flicker to the corner of his eye or the whisper of something terrible to his ears.
The silence doesn't give in to the unspoken plea, and echoes on.
...:X:...
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