You know, you guys were going to get a sweet US/Can story about playing in the snow inspired by the news of the snowstorm that is now terrorizing Alfred. XD (SNOWPOCALYPSE -dances happily- Snow days in college? Fucking A!) But, then a few days ago (as I was drafting this amid the threats of the blizzard), there was a strip published with America and France and the Statue of Liberty. ...-goes to break something for no reason- So, of course because I love Canada, I was filled with righteous fury and then great sadness. So I decided to write UK/Can instead because I've written three US/Can fics recently and once 'Want You to Want Me' is done, most of my UK/Can will be one-shots (since 'Insatiable' won't be very long and 'Lose My Head' is just becoming a pain in the ass).

Also, none of the US/Can things I was writing were panning out correctly. -sighed- I've got a light-hearted and one more angsty and both are being bitchy, so...they're in time-out on my laptop. And, why, you might ask, am I writing an angsty UK/Can oneshot? Mostly because I'm starting to think I write a very forgiving view of the England-Canada dynamic. Well, honestly, I could sit here and write stories about what a shit father Arthur was. I already have two ideas for rape fics, one ending well and one ending poorly. Will I write them? -shrugs- Doubt it. Point is, I have sufficient reason to not support France/Canada. US/Can gives me a headache sometimes when I watch the news and we're freaking out about becoming Canada because of the healthcare and blah blah blah whatever. And this leaves England (and Netherlands and Cuba but I don't have a decent grasp on them). I like UK/Can and I'm still playing with it. I don't think Arthur was a bad father because he can't remember Matthew's name (which is, I think, the only indicator we have of their relationship in the strips).

To be honest, for all I write pairings, I don't actually like them. I don't like FrUK or USUK or even or . Or AustriaxHungaryxPrussia or any combo of those three. If it weren't for Canada, I wouldn't even be writing Hetalia. Lol.

Oh shit, long author's note is long. Well, whatever, its cool. Enjoy the story my lovelies!

Warning: language, slash, OOCness, potential fail, dubcon (not explicit)

Pairing: UK/Can

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

Matthew awoke to the gentle sensation of someone playing with his hair. Not quite ready to open his eyes, the blond lay there for a moment, eyelids twitching faintly, still skirting on the edge of consciousness. It was caught in this plane between lethargy and growing alertness that the nation finally accepted his wakefulness and his eyes fluttered open, slightly hooded because of the sharp sunlight that filtered in through the wide windows of the hotel suite.

"Good morning pet." Arthur murmured, propped up on one elbow and watching the wakening nation with a quiet sort of fascination. His other hand was busy alternating between outright stroking Matthew's blond waves and playing with curls that stubbornly stuck out against the white pillows, twisting them around his fingers before releasing them. His hand slowly migrated from the tangle of wheat-colored tresses, his fingertips tracing over unblemished skin and thumb brushing the shell of his ear and rough palm cradling the curve of his jaw. "Sleep well?"

Dumbly, Matthew only nodded, not yet at terms with the current situation. He didn't break gaze with the Englishman, studying him with violet eyes, lying flat on his back with only his head turned to look at the other. His sandy-hair sticking up in every which direction, the mop of hair resembled more of a bird's nest than ever and, in the pale yellow sunlight, Matthew could see the slight crook to Arthur's nose (from when Francis broke it by slamming the other's face into shore of St. Lucia over and over). The sheet pools around the other's narrow waist, just at the dip of his hips and he's nude. The myriad of scars on his chest, some healed while others remain fleshy and pink, intertwine—a burn overlaps the thin slivers of knife wounds while a smattering of gunshot wounds are visible even under a dusting of coarse dirty-blond hair. Arthur, always a fan of silence, does not stop his ministrations and, if anything, takes a more active role by scooting closer so he can glide his hand down his Adam's apple and the column of Matthew's neck and down his chest, nails leaving pinkish lines against pale skin. When Arthur's fingers pet the skin just above his hipbone, skirting the edge of the white hotel sheet, Matthew grabs his hand and squeezes it (feeling the jagged bit on the other's thumb where a sliver of skin was simply lost—most likely slit off in a sword fight). He licks his lips, pretending that his cheeks don't heat up when bright emerald eyes trace his lips and he only leans away when Arthur presses closer.

He realizes he's holding Arthur's hand against himself and he releases it abruptly, realization like a gunshot, already tumbling off the bed and dragging the sheets with him, wrapping them hurriedly around his waist because not a single article of his clothing is abandoned on the ground.

Arthur must've seen his confusion because the Englishman sighs, idly grabbing a pillow and shielding his morning wood from his former charge's view now that the sheets are being used as an impromptu skirt, and says, "You were already naked when I came to get you and your clothes weren't to be seen. Alfred was already crashed out." He snorted disdainfully. "You lot can't hold your liquor."

"I'm sorry." Matthew mutters, the apology the only thing he can think of saying without completely losing his shit. He briefly glances at Arthur, catching sight of the perfect imprint of teeth on the other's shoulder, and his face ignites and he averts his eyes.

Arthur just grins rakishly, fingers rubbing at the spot in memory. "No need to apologize, Matthew love. I rather enjoyed it."

Matthew is a little mortified—correction, he is very mortified. Waking up in bed, naked and realizing that your ass hurts and oh maple, with the man who essentially raised you will do that to anyone and Matthew is fairly certain that they were nowhere near the road to sex so why the hell are they both naked and, crisse, how did he not notice the bruising around his nipple?

"You're quite sensitive there." Arthur explains, his previous good humor rapidly disintegrating, thus making him his usual dour self. He frowns. "I realize you might be rather troubled by this, Matthew, but—"

"What?"

"What?"

Both nations stare at each other, Arthur waiting for Matthew to continue and Matthew flabbergasted.

"You know my name." Matthew says in wonder, chest seizing and hurting, realizing that he's been called by the correct name now twice.

Arthur's eyes narrow, but the faint coloring on his cheeks betray his embarrassment. "Of course I do, you silly sod." He sputters, trying to bluster his way past the obvious fact that for years Matthew has always first been 'Alfred' then 'Canada'.

"No, no you don't." the younger nation stresses, his knuckles white from the way he's gripping the sheets. "You don't." He repeats, inching towards the door. "That's how it has always been." Matthew's voice twists plaintively, almost, and his bemusement would be adorable if he didn't look like someone had swept the rug from under his feet forcing him to fall backwards down a flight of stairs. "I love you, you mistake me for Alfred, I try to make you love me while you don't notice a damn thing, and then you apologize and I forgive you and we have tea!" His voice is nearing hysterical and his knees are shaking and his back is to the door now. "We don't fuck!" the Northern nation snarls, reaching back and grasping for the door handle. "I was drunk. What's your excuse?" He queries harshly, jerking the door open and leaving, not caring for an answer.

Arthur doesn't have many friends. He has even fewer people who know him extraordinarily well.

This is why Matthew is special.

He's a private person, an island honestly. He's always been too gruff, too arrogant, too quick to bend the rules to succeed in attracting people to him. Granted, he's never been lonely—he was an Empire, mind you. He can talk to people. He can deal with people.

He can convince and trick and manipulate and charm with the best of them.

But when it comes down to the people he cares a whit about, he might as well be a deaf mute. It's horrible, watching someone walk away (and so many have walked away from him) and be unable to cry out, beg them to come back, to say the words that would make them stay.

(For the longest time, he gave Matthew reason to stay without having to ever tell the truth. He used every trick and word to keep the boy close to him, to convince the boy to die for him.)

His Commonwealth joke he has the emotional range of a teaspoon. But, really, his emotions churn like the sea (that's why he feels so at home riding the waves—he was borne of the sea).

He's just an emotionally retarded twit and his sheer ineptitude is shoved into his face the moment Matthew practically flees from his room and he just sits there, like a pillock, and watches one of the best things in his life disappear.

(What has he done?)

Arthur stares at the door, the sudden empty quiet of the room bearing down on him.

Perhaps, he concedes, he should count his blessings. Matthew hadn't tried to suffocate him with his own pillow yet. Because, once the Canadian learned that Arthur had purposely taken him and led him to his bed under the guise of transporting Matthew back to his own hotel room, he could expect to be sniped even before he made it out of the conference.

He still feels like an arse.

"This is why I don't drink." Matthew mutters, storming down the hallway and punching the elevator button. "This is why I get high." He punched the button a few more times, restraining his self from kicking the large oak table with a decorative vase of faux-flowers. He shivered, idly rubbing his bicep and looking around, praying that no nation would be up this early.

"Note to self." He says sourly, giving a dirty look to the elevator when still doesn't arrive. "Don't get drunk with Alfred ever again. Hoser drinks like a frat boy and has the tolerance of a five year old girl."

Of course, he, on the other hand, had sex with Arthur and couldn't even remember what the fuck happened to lead to that point. Or what he said. Or how it felt.

Matthew blanched.

"Like that even matters!" He whisper shrieked, hand coming up to tangle in his sleep-ruffled hair. He slumped against the wall, the ivy wallpaper coarse under his bare skin, and groaned. "Why couldn't it have been Will? Or even Javier? I don't have complicated histories of dependence and angst and subordination with either of them?" the francophone sulked. "Or even Francis. At least he remembers my name."

His standards were tearfully low at the moment. But, truly, anyone would've been better than Arthur.

This was worse than the time he woke up in bed with one of his Bosses.

"Shouldn't you have walk-of-shamed to your own room?" Alfred asked, an annoyingly cheerful grin on his face and no trace of the hangover he should, by all the means, be suffering (though, Matthew should be suffering too but both have been blessed with quick recovery rates). Then, briefly sobering, he added, "Though, technically, we should have banged last night so why you're coming back, I really—"

"You're so vulgar." Matthew scolded, shouldering past his brother and making a beeline for his clothes. He knelt down and gathered up the abandoned powder blue dress shirt and gray pants. "We drank here?" He asked, holding his clothes to his chest and wishing he were holding Kumakichi instead.

"Yeah." Alfred shrugged, already yawning and making his way to the kitchenette to make coffee. He scratched his chest and Matthew finally noticed that his brother was wearing his boxers.

"Those are mine." He pointed out, a little annoyed (because stealing his cotton boxers was one thing but those were the nice crimson silk ones he wore when he won the gold medal match at the last Olympics).

"Finders keepers." The superpower responded with a smug grin. "Besides, shouldn't you be more pissed I have your best hockey players."

Matthew's face darkened and the temperature in the room plummeted. Alfred laughed awkwardly, carding his fingers through his hair.

"Stupid thing to say?" He offered, the bubbling of the coffee maker getting louder behind him.

"One of the stupidest." Matthew retorted, already making his way into Alfred's room. "I'm showering." He called out curtly.

"I'll order breakfast!" Alfred shouted. "Don't bitch at me if they don't have real maple syrup straight from the tit of the Mother Maple Tree in your backyard."

When Matthew finally exits the bathroom, the food is already there and Alfred is shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth in between mouthfuls of bacon.

Wearing a pair of clean boxers (see how Alfred likes it when he can't find his lucky shamrock boxers), the blond uncovers the only plate that hasn't been touched and finds three incredibly sad pancakes with a melting ball of butter slipping off the edge. He stares at them and Alfred is watching him.

"Are you going to cry?" His near twin asks him, blue eyes teasing. "Are those an insult to flapjacks everywhere?"

Matthew just shakes his head. "I'll eat these abominations." He reaches for the tiny jar of syrup. "They have no place on this Earth." He continues solemnly, drowning the flat pancakes with the syrup and taking a seat next to Alfred around the coffee table of the room.

"For the sake of mankind?" Alfred asks, dead serious.

The Canadian nodded, balancing the plate on his lap as he neatly slices the pancakes into pieces and swirl them in the syrup. "I'm taking one for the team." He takes a deep breath, taking a forkful of syrup-slathered pancake to his mouth and eating it.

Alfred laughs when his nose scrunches up as he swallows the bit of pancake and Matthew is relieved because everything is okay. Even though his brother wants to ask—and he can see the question at the tip of his tongue—Alfred has stayed mum and Matthew could kiss him out of appreciation.

He can put one night out of mind.

"You let him walk away?" Francis frowns, making a vague fluttering gesture with his hand. "Just like that?"

"Well, I couldn't very well make him stay." Arthur huffs, squeezing the excess tea from his tea bag and placing it on the saucer. "The lad looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but there."

"You—" the Frenchman takes a long sip from his coffee, wincing at the mediocre quality, and then looks at his breakfast partner with unamused azure eyes. "—are an idiot of the highest degree. It could not be any easier for you to woo Mathieu and yet, here you are, begging me to help."

"I'm not begging." Arthur grits out, fingers tense around the handle of his teacup. "Nor am I asking."

"Good." Francis says dismissively. "Because my answer is no."

Arthur splutters, green eyes widening. "What?"

The blond just looks at him, a cold sort of fury in his eyes. And, for the briefest moment, Arthur thinks the other just might hit him because, blimey, he's seen that face before and it's never ended well. Francis leans closer over the table, elegant fingers splayed out on the varnished tabletop as he rests more of his weight on one hand.

"It has taken a long time for that boy to stop hating me and, contrary to what you all think, I do care deeply for him." His lip curls just so and Arthur is still. "So, if you think I am going to help you and give you yet another advantage for his love, then you are a bigger fool than I credit you to be."

"I thought you cared about him." Arthur said lowly, heat coming back to his fingertips and a sort of self-righteous anger rising in his chest. "Are you implying that I'm not worthy—"

"Was I implying?" Francis laughs lightly, sitting back, tossing his hair. "Forgive me, cher, for the subtlety." He glared at the Englishman. "You aren't worthy."

Willem's handwriting is thin and spidery and loopy and it almost hurts Matthew's eyes to read it. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and shifting his glasses to his forehead when his forehead throbs painfully.

"Tell me why do I have to read this?" He asks and the Dutchman chuckles lowly, reaching over and wrapping a friendly arm around the nation.

"Because you, my little peacekeeper, asked." He smiled, squeezing the other's shoulder slightly. He frowns then, suddenly, amber eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes Matthew's face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

The ashen-haired man just stared at him. Matthew squirmed.

Arthur knows he should be concentrating on South Italy's speech and not what Matthew could be doing at the moment. But even the Italian looks like he'd rather be anywhere but standing at the podium and he's casting a dirty look at his younger brother who is dozing in his seat and from here Arthur can see the way the other man's fingers clench around his note cards and the Englishman has to applaud how Romano doesn't stomp down the stairs and slap his brother awake.

Because a few decades ago he did the very thing.

Instead he sighs, staring down at his half-hearted notes. Truly, he should be paying more attention to all this talk on trade agreements and export-import restrictions but he has a half-finished doodle of a unicorn galloping across the top of his page and he has to finish drawing the hind legs.

Next to him, Christiano snorts and Arthur ignores the Portuguese man who is raising an eyebrow at the monstrous gargoyles taking flight up the side of his paper in between thick, dark, scrawled even letters in the margins of the documents they received prior to the meeting yesterday.

The dark-haired man reaches over, adding an amateurish creature of his own and Arthur just shakes his head and pushes away his hand sternly.

"You'll ruin it." The sandy-haired man scolds, trying to look stern as he furrows his brow. The other man is about to respond but a pointed cough and displeased glare from Germany silences them both and they sit back, sufficiently chastised.

So Portugal goes back to listening to South Italy's speech (which seems to be winding down, to everyone's relief but Sweden is next and no one can every really understand just what the bloody fuck he's saying but thankfully the blond passes out a transcript beforehand). And Arthur abandons his unicorn again, resting his head back against his chair and thinking about how stuffy and hot it is in the room and how nice it would be if he were back in bed with Matthew, pressed against the other's cool body. Spending the day in bed with Matthew, what a lovely thought.

It's a strange thought. To be honest, he hadn't considered Matthew in such a manner before. The boy was always good, always polite, and, above all, loyal. He had his moments of rebellion, but was placated easily enough. His only problem, only fault, was that he was a little too French for Arthur's liking but he was charming enough so it was forgiven. And, besides, he learned quickly and behaved, falling in line so beautifully in a time when Alfred had made his decision and ruined everything, so Arthur let him have his quirks.

(It had nothing to do with the way Matthew sobbed when Arthur sent his people away. It had nothing to do with the way the child—a defiant, ruddy-cheeked and too sickly—had screamed his hate for hours, for years, until Arthur looked the other way when Matthew went to Mass or sang a soft little song in French.)

Perhaps, it was only after the Great War that Arthur realized there was more to his forgotten little colony.

He just didn't pursue the notion.

And, remembering last night, the way Matthew had tumbled against him, violet eyes iridescent and loving, the moment he knocked on Alfred's door (he only wanted to remind the git that he had yet to receive a copy of the other's report). Finding himself with a warm, heavy armful of Matthew—nude, the entirety of the great White North laid out in his arms (for the first time in a long time) and a clearly passed out Alfred on the rug surrounded by bottles of wine and whisky.

Arthur doesn't realize he's been drawing poppies all over his notes until Christian elbows him, dark eyes curious, and the Englishman smiles tightly, shoving the papers into his folder with a dismissive shake of his head.

"Lets get you to bed, love." Arthur had muttered, shifting the drunken mass of nation in his arms. "Of all the irresponsible things…"

Matthew had giggled, his head lolling back as he smirked. "Please, Arthur." He snickered, spindly fingers coming up to the Brit's collar and fumbling with his tie. "Take me to bed." He purred, forgetting about the buttons and instead wrapping his arms around the other's shoulders and kissing his jaw.

"And we had sex." Matthew finished miserably, violet eyes trained on his soup. His appetite has left him and he sort of wants to drown himself in his minestrone.

Not his most illustrious death, but, really, after dying in a blaze of glory and gunfire, few methods of dying are appealing.

Willem just nods, packing more tobacco into his pipe. Lighting the pipe, he inhales deeply and breathes out, the grayish smoke curling out of the corners of his mouth. He stays quiet, just puffing on his pipe, as he regards the nation across from him with interest.

Then, he says, "He came and took you from America's room and when you woke up, you were in bed with him."

"Yeah, apparently." Matthew sighed, drumming his fingers against the white tablecloth. "Though why exactly, I'm not sure."

The Dutch nation rolls his eyes, muttering "and they call me a pervert" under his breath and rousing a curious look from the Canadian. "And how do you feel?"

Matthew gives him a flat look but Willem merely looks at him patiently so the younger nation concedes. "Resigned." He frowns. "Used. Dirty. Disgusting." His voice is trembling just so and he digs his nails into his palms, his hands becoming fists. "Pathetic. Un…" He pauses, eyes burning as his vision swims, his soup becoming blurry. "Un…" He clears his throat.

The taller nation across from him scoots over, pats his head soothingly, first stroking his temple with his fingers before the touch blossoms into his hand cradling the back of the blond nation's head. Matthew turns his head just so towards his close friend, eyes shut tight.

"He let me just leave." The blond whispers, voice thick with decades of tears and pain and bitterness that spoke to a confidence that was slowly chipped away.

Unwanted.

"You're better without him." Willem reassures him.

"I love him." Matthew admitted softly, hesitantly as though admitting so would alter the very fabric of fate. The admission hangs there, between them, and now that it's out, there's no way to take it back. "You don't know how much I wish I didn't…"

Willem thinks of a curly-haired man and says nothing, choosing instead to whisper Dutch endearments in an effort to stop his friend's trembling.

"Dollar v. Pound." Alfred announces, tossing the packet onto the table between them. "Round three, bitches."

"What are you talking about?" Arthur asks haughtily, eyebrow already twitching.

"Honestly? I don't know." The superpower shrugs, already whipping out his Blackberry and noisily pressing buttons. "And I don't really care." He pauses in his texting to look at Arthur over the top of his glasses.

"So we're done?" The Englishman asks, a nasty twist to his tone. "Good. I thought I'd have to spend longer dealing with your incompetency." He stands up, adjusts his suit jacket and turns on his heel. But before he reaches the door, Alfred shouts wait.

He pauses, looking slightly over his shoulder.

Alfred is looking at him, head tilted and eyes hidden by the light glinting off Texas. "Artie." He begins, a slow smile on his lips. "Since you guys always criticize me for shooting first and asking questions later, I'll be diplomatic instead of shooting you in the dick like I want to." His hand is resting at his waist and even though his body language is completely relaxed, there's an unspoken threat in the way his fingers twitch. "You and Frenchie have had your fun perverting my brother. Now, back the fuck off." He smiles sharp, like cold steel. "Remember, unless you have something nice to say, don't say a goddamn thing."

"I love you. I love you. I love you." Matthew moans, the mantra falling like prayer from his pink lips.

Arthur is almost stunned, the writhing man in his bed illuminated by the moonlight and utterly ethereal. Matthew runs his fingers across his cheeks and down the curve of his ear and Arthur turns his head, pressing a kiss in the middle of one palm. He doesn't stop there, peppering kisses down Matthew's wrist and forearm and at the crook of his elbow. The Canadian squirms, panting softly and the Englishman is at a loss of what to do.

The situation is rapidly getting out of hand.

Matthew asks him to touch him.

"Matthew."

The Canadian jerks, splashing water everywhere as he turns and sees Arthur standing in the doorway of the men's room. He stares blankly at the other, hands soaking wet.

Arthur shifts uncomfortably because his former charge is very obviously weighing his options and went indigo eyes slide over to glance at the door, the Englishman purposely blocks the exit with his body and forces Matthew to look back at him.

"I need to apologize." The sandy-haired nation begins, licking his lips and praying that the speech he carefully penned out during the afternoon meeting and memorized during Austria's speech isn't forgotten. "I—"

"I can't hear it." Matthew says quickly, shaking his head, his errant curl nearly smacking against his face. "Can't we just forget it ever happened? Please?" He's not pleading, but there's a wistful shade to his words. He's wringing his hands and looking everywhere but at the only other person in the bathroom.

And Arthur remembers a young blond who stared at him, expectantly, after losing so many of his comrades in battle. Arthur had ignored him, then, but he wouldn't make that mistake again.

"I think you need to hear me out, poppet." The older nation says firmly, not wavering even when Matthew gives him a frustrated, hurt look. He continues, "I'm not a good man and you know this, but it doesn't excuse my behavior." A bitter smile, and, "I regret a great many things. I broke my own brother's leg. I can't remember if New Zealand's gender. I can't remember Jamaica's favorite food. I can't even remember the Falkland's birthday."

Matthew is quiet. Arthur steps forward, emboldened, until he can touch Matthew. But he keeps his arms at his side.

"There are things of which I am ashamed. I killed the only woman Francis loved. I did not act in times that I should've. And I went to that frog, asking for his help in earning your forgiveness." He jokes lightly but Matthew seems unmoved, his gaze flickering to the door every so often.

But Arthur knows Matthew is strong enough to push him out of the way if he truly wants to leave.

He steps forward and Matthew steps back, his back pressed against the cold tile. Arthur cradles his face in his hands and the younger nation's hands come up to grip his wrists.

"I have taken advantage of you for years." Arthur whispers. "I have used you and walked away. I let you cry by yourself in that field, in the same spot you died, and pretended that I didn't see you among the poppies. What I did last night was wrong and I knew it. But, I don't regret it nor am I ashamed." There's a stubborn set to his jaw and an imperial impetuousness to the tilt of his head. "Because, last night I could feel your heart beat in time with mine and when you said you loved me, I knew, in that moment, that I loved you as well."

Matthew turns his head, his wheat-blond hair falling across his face as he avoids Arthur's gaze. And, quietly, he demands, "Make me believe you."

Damn, this was exhausting to write. And it doesn't help that these two are such a treasure trove of drama.

Who here believes Arthur and thinks Mattie should too?