I've been wanting to write some Canada/America brotherly love for the longest time. Because there are so cute. And I've also wanted to write stoner!Canada and America. Today's 420, so I got inspired to write~

I'm sorry if Mattie's OC, this is my first time writing him...just pretend it's because he's high, okay? :D

Enjoy!

"Mattie!" Alfred pounded on his brother's door, grinning at the prospect of seeing his twin.

"Yo, Mattie! Come on! Open up! It's freezin' out here!"

It was true, too. Alfred couldn't believe that Canada was still cold, even in the middle of April. Alfred was surprised he hadn't seen any penguins on the road driving over here.

"Maaaattie! Come on! I know you're in there! You're the one who invited me over anyway!"

Yes, for once, Alfred hadn't invited himself over to his brother's house. He now stood in front of the moderate suburban house in Ottawa, a small backpack slung over one shoulder. He'd only really packed the essentials. After all, Mattie's house was so close, and Alfred had left so many of his things there over the years that he was sure he'd be covered if he forgot something important.

He cocked his head, ear close to the door as he heard the sounds of music coming from within his brother's house.

"Mattie?"

He expected his brother to be listening to Justin Bieber or Celine Dion or some Canadian crap like that. But the music coming from within Matthew's house was very familiar. It had kind of a mysterious and timeless sound, light on the bass but heavy on twangy guitar. It sounded almost like—

Alfred instantly felt dread rise up in the pit of his stomach.

But before he could decide whether it was better to flee to his car or not, the door swung open to reveal a very disheveled-looking Canada. Alfred, taken aback by his twin's sudden appearance, greeted him with a short wave and an instant smile.

"Hey, bro, what's up? What are you— " Suddenly, Alfred's nose and mouth was hit with a wash of something.

Something very familiar, if only because of the fact that he smelled it on his brother and all over his house every time he came to visit.

Matthew's eyes were red-rimmed and a little watery, and he seemed unsteady on his feet, but none of that stopped a wide, almost sleepy grin on his face.

"Hey Al. How's it going?" His brother's smile seemed almost devious.

"Mattie?" His voice was little more than an indignant squeak, "Are you h-h— "

He couldn't even say the damn word. His southern regions churned.

He took a step back, considering just turning around and getting the hell out of there.

"M-Maybe I should go, this isn't a good time— "

But he felt something grab his wrist and he was tugged forward with a lot more force than he was expecting. He yelped as Matthew pulled him over the threshold into the house that smelled heavily of—

Alfred opened his mouth in protest as he saw Matthew shut and lock the door, but was cut off when his brother threw a long arm over his shoulders.

"Al, seriously. You really need to relax sometimes."

Alfred stiffened as his brother's breath ghosted over his face.

"Mattie, seriously? It's like, eleven in the morning or something." Matthew simply shrugged.

" S'four-twenty somewhere, isn't it?"

Alfred tried to pull away from his brother and make it away uncorrupted, but the truth was, Matthew was pretty much just as strong as he was. He just hid it most of the time because that's the kind of meek person he is. At least when he's sober. But Alfred knew that a high Mattie didn't exactly believe in restraint.

Being in the house that smelled both pleasant and sick at the same time was making Alfred extremely uncomfortable. He tried to pry off Mattie's grip while looking at his brother with a gaze that he hoped was intimidating.

"Why the hell did you invite me over if you're just going to do— that?"

It wasn't that Alfred was scared— of course, heroic people like him never get scared— nor was it that Alfred hadn't done it before. He had experimented back in the 60s, it helped him relax and get through the stress Vietnam, the protests, three major assassinations, and everything else that plagued the "Decade from Hell." But then his government had declared the "War on Drugs," back in the 80s, and he'd stopped. But of course, he'd never really gotten over it, that feeling—

His stomach tightened in protest— of course the Bible Belt would be acting up over this.

"Al," Matthew spoke up, squeezing Alfred's shoulder. The Canadian was always more touchy when he was stoned. "Everyone needs to take a break, eh? S'why I invited you here in th' first place. Y'just need to," He waggled his fingers in the air, "Like, get all your mind and soul and stuff together."

Alfred had no idea exactly what his brother meant, but knew, at least, what he was trying to say. Matthew knew exactly how rough things had been lately. Barely a day passed by that Alfred wouldn't call his brother and end up boring him with each stressful detail.

It should be okay, right? It was still illegal in his country, but California had decriminalized it recently. So that made it at least a little okay. Right?

Matthew could sense his brother's internal struggle, and grabbed his arm.

"Come on, bro. Just don't worry about it." He yanked his brother along to the couch, catching Alfred off balance with that weird stoner strength of his. Alfred looked about: the Canadian's living room had been transformed into a mess that rivaled the most raggedy of college dorm rooms. The couch was covered in thick blankets, as was a large mattress that the Canadian had pulled off of one of the beds, which was now sitting to the left of a large TV. The coffee table was covered in thin papers and small plastic bags, as well as opened bags of chips, empty cans of Mr. Pibb, and the remnants of what must have been a plate of pizza rolls. Alfred could hardly believe that Matthew could be as messy as him.

Matthew pulled his brother onto the couch, arm still heavy around his shoulder. Alfred glanced at his brother, who smiled again.

Well, it would be nice to just not think about anything for a few hours, Alfred mused. Besides, him and his twin hardly ever had any time to just hang out.

What with the stress of the past few weeks, narrowly avoiding the government shutdown and all— he supposed he could stand to relax a little bit—

Alfred watched as Matthew began to roll out a few additional papers. The American licked his dry lips.

Alright, fine. Screw the culture war.

Alfred was grateful his brother at least had the decency to roll joints— considering he obviously knew Alfred would be coming, the sneaky bastard— because for the life of him Alfred could not figure out how bongs worked. Of course his brother had no such problems: Matthew actually had quite a vast collection, including one that looked as if it was made from what appeared to be a old musket, circa maybe early nineteenth century—

"Here," Matthew grabbed onto Alfred's wrist. The American winced, once again reminded of his brother's magical stoned super strength. But before he could voice his pain he felt the end of the joint press into his lips until they parted.

It was a lot like smoking a cigarette. Even if Alfred had quit smoking after the Second World War, the muscle memory was still there. He took the joint from Matthew and took in a long drag, already feeling soothed from the mere touch and familiarity. He exhaled, the plumes of smoke floating up to join the haze that covered Matthew's ceiling. He vaguely wondered if this was the reason his brother had never had smoke detectors installed in his house.

His brother had lit up again, and was now fiddling with the speakers attached to his mp3 player. Alfred let out a light chuckle, shedding his coat and shoes until he was left in only a T-shirt and a pair of ratty jeans. His twin sure knew how to set the mood.

Alfred lay back into the couch and closed his eyes, and let the familiar haze sink in. Next to him, he heard Matthew let out a contented exhale, followed by a breathy, high pitched laugh.

The twangy, exotic chords of a new song from Matthew's mp3 player soon filled the room, a song that Alfred— the obsessive fan that he once was and still is, though he wouldn't admit it— recognized immediately as a late Beatles standard.

Alfred could only snicker as he thought of Arthur. He would love to see the look on the stuffy Brit's face if he saw his two sons now, stoned out of their minds and listening to the Beatles. It would blow his mind.

Speaking of blowing minds—

Alfred was shocked that he'd never realized how fucking orgasmic the guitar riff in "Smoke on the Water" was. He soon found himself lazily windmilling an air guitar while he and Mattie sang along, half of the lyrics garbled because neither of them knew what they were.

Of course, after about a half hour of half singing, half mumbling his way through rock N roll history and wishing he had brought his copy of Rock Band, Alfred realized something. He was starving. Not like it was new to him to be hungry, but this was different.

"Mattie?" He called to his brother, who was casually strumming along to Jefferson Airplane next to him. He cracked one red rimmed eye at his twin.

"Wass'p Al?"

Alfred pushed himself up from the couch, or at least tried to. His brother giggled and got up, helping his twin. Alfred frowned. How come his brother got to keep his awesome strength, when all of Alfred's always seemed to disappear?

Pot was like his Kryptonite or something.

"Hungry, Al?" His brother grinned knowingly.

"Oh fuck yes, Mattie."

Alfred would kill himself if he let a trip to Canada pass without eating some of Mattie's pancakes.

Both would later remark on how miraculous it was that they didn't burn themselves.

While Matthew was lazily pushing around the malformed pancakes on the skillet, Alfred began to dig through the Canadian's fridge, pulling out the thick jugs of maple syrup as well as anything else sugary his stoned brain could think of. In a few moments, Matthew had to deal with his brother's attempt to sprinkle anything he could find into the pancake batter, including bacon and Jolly Ranchers. Eventually, Alfred got bored and started to pick up the half-cooked pancakes with his bare hands, earning him a slap with a spatula from his brother. Eventually, Matthew gave up and decided to try to order them a pizza, leaving the aborted pancakes for Alfred to consume.

But Matthew for the life of him could not remember the number for the pizza place. Alfred then declared that he was going to make his own pizza, but after almost burning himself on the overheated oven, he decided to simply take an extra large pancake and layer it with maple and chocolate syrup, along with a variety of "toppings" that included multicolored mini marshmallows and handfuls of M & Ms.

After the "pizza" was demolished, and Alfred had shared with his brother all of his world saving ideas that the other countries "weren't cool enough to know," the twins moved back into the living room. Alfred was in process of licking the remnants of the sticky maple syrup off his fingers, arms, and face. Alfred was naturally a messy eater, but when he was stoned, he was a disaster. Matthew hair was still sticky and sugary-stiff from where his gluttonous twin had ruffled his hair in what should have been an affectionate, brotherly gesture.

Matthew settled back onto the couch and stretched out, while his brother plopped down on the floor, causing his new Iphone that was miraculously still sitting in his pocket to pop out and scatter on the floor. Alfred stared blankly at if for a second, a brilliant idea forming in his head. He picked it up and clumsily turned it on, scrolling through his contacts. Matthew cocked his head and prodded his brother's shoulder with his toe.

"What are you doing?"

Alfred pressed a finger to his lips, making a "shushing" sound.

"Making a call." He pressed the phone to his ear.

"To who?" Matthew snickered, "Callin' your boyfriend?"

Alfred uncrossed his legs and smacked his brother's shin.

"Hey, shut up fer a sec, Mattie."

The line crackled, and a deep, Russian-accented voice came through.

"Privyet?"

Alfred's grin split his face in two.

"Hey! Hey Ivan, hey how are you!"

"Alfred?"

"Yeah, dude, it's me! What's up?"

Ivan was quiet for a moment.

"Nothing is 'up.' Why are you calling me?"

Alfred cocked his head, trying to think of why he had called Ivan, but came up with nothing. But Alfred just liked to hear his voice. When he heard that Russian tenor, he imagined Ivan was here, with Alfred on the floor, shedding his coat to reveal those cut, thick pectorals, then crossing down to his perfect abs and then—

"Hey, Ivan, I don't think I've ever told you this, but you got a really, really big cock, dude."

"…"

"Ivan?"

"что ?"

"Hey! I thought you'd hung up on me for a second there."

"Америка , are you drunk?"

Alfred let out a high pitched laugh directly into the phone's speakers.

"Nope! You're kinda close though. Maybe."

"I see." Russia was being remarkably calm. Wasn't he excited at all that he super-awesome boyfriend had just called him? And told him he had a super-sized dick, at that?

"Anyway, so Ivan I'm totally hanging at Mattie's house right now, and I think you should totally come 'cause you can totally see Alaska from your house right?" Alfred giggled at his joke. He was so amazingly clever.

"Nyet, I do not think that is wise, little one. As you may or may not be aware, there are some of us who have to work."

"But Ivaaaaan! Don't you want to see your super amazing boyfriend? Don't ya wanna fuck me?"

"I am going to hang up now."

Alfred hoped Ivan could see his pout somehow. Behind him, Matthew was barely containing his snickers.

"Okay, okay. Fine. Love you, asshole!"

He pressed a thick, sloppy kiss to his phone's screen, effectively ending the call.

Matthew was shaking his head and smirking from his slouched position on the couch. He poked Alfred in the head with his foot.

"You are such a fag."

"Am not!" He threw the phone at his brother's head with the force of a Major League pitch or so he thought, thinking it would break his twin's skull, but it ended up landing harmlessly on the cushion next to the Canadian.

"Your aim sucks."

He heard Alfred grumble something that sounded suspiciously like "bacon-loving bastard."

Stuffing his phone, which now sported a large, wet lip mark, back into his pocket, Alfred crawled back onto the couch, laying on his back and hugging one of the overstuffed pillows to his chest. Matthew blinked a few times, staring at his brother, who began to close his eyes. It was kind of nice to just spend time with his brother like this. Why couldn't Al do this more often?

"You're country is so backwards, Al." The American snorted.

"Says the guy whose people drink milk out of fucking plastic bags. Don't be an asshole."

"It's true, dude! You're terrible when it comes to social stuff. Your health care sucks. You haven't legalized anything, y'still don't have gay marriage— "

Alfred crossed his arms and creased his face into a dazed pout.

"Hey! We came close with California. For both of those things! And there's Massachusetts! So I'm not that bad. And California decriminalized pot anyway!"

"You should spend some more time in California then, Al."

Alfred sat up, facing his brother, arms still crossed.

"Shut up. It's still not legal."

Matthew grinned.

"You could always get a med card. I doubt you'd have much trouble getting one. You being you and all."

Alfred looked shocked, which, on his dazed face, just made him look extremely confused.

"Shut up! That dishonest. Heroes can't be dishonest! And I'm still conflicted 'bout it anyway."

Matthew shrugged.

"Dude, so am I. Not all my people do it or like it. But that doesn't stop me."

Alfred frowned and hugged his pillow.

"Can we not talk about this? Please?"

Matthew rolled his eyes.

"Al, this is, like, the perfect time to talk about it, y'know."

Alfred responded by burying his head into his pillow and ignoring Matthew completely, save for a muffle groan of annoyance.

"Al, come on," Matthew droned as he prodded the pillow that Alfred was hiding himself in, but Alfred shook his entire body in protest. Matthew was about to just give up being nice and yank the pillow from his brother when he suddenly thought of a much more devilish idea.

Grinning sleepily, Matthew crawled towards his brother on the couch, leaned forward, and gave a sharp tug to the stray piece of hair on Alfred's head.

Instinctively, his twin's head shot up, surprised eyes poking out of two very flushed cheeks. He clutched the pillow tight to his chest and mustered the deadliest glare that he could while stoned.

"What the fuck did you do that for?"

Matthew gave him a lopsided grin and shrugged.

"Got your attention, didn't it?"

A look of horror crossed Alfred's face as he scooted away from his brother.

"That's borderline incest, Mattie. You're a sick fuck." And before Matthew could say anything else Alfred had reburied himself in the pillow.

Mattie sighed and crawled back over to his brother, tugging at his shirt and poking at his arms

"Oh come, Al, was just kidding…"

But the American shook his head. Matthew felt a swing of sympathy for Alfred, and began to pet his hair, careful to avoid the sensitive hair.

"Hey come on. I got Nintendo. Y'wanna play?"

Matthew suddenly found himself enveloped in a hug that knocked him off the couch and onto the floor.

Alfred looked at him like an excited child. An excited, stoned, nineteen-year-old child.

"Dude! Mattie, you're the best!"

Matthew grimaced at Alfred's dead weight on his body, pushing his brother off him. Alfred scrambled away and settled himself in front of the TV, watching lazily as Matthew searched for the game system. After about ten minutes of the Canadian struggling to remember where he put it, Matthew finally pulled the clunky piece of technology out, to the American's delighted keen.

It was an old school Nintendo 64, but Alfred didn't mind. They managed to boot up a dusted copy of Super Smash Bros., shouting challenges to each other with promises of thorough ass-kickings. In the end, however, the two ended up just making their characters jump around the screen, giggling whenever one of them would steer their player off a cliff, resulting in a cartoonish wail.

Suddenly, Alfred let out a loud yawn and dropped his controller, allowing his character to walk straight into a landmine. Matthew cast a quick look to his brother before pausing the game.

Alfred had slumped forward, arms pillowed on the floor with his backside sticking comically up in air. His head was turned towards Matthew, glasses knocked about, eyes closed and mouth slowly puddling with drool.

The Canadian let out a quiet giggle at his brother's position. He prodded Alfred a few times with his feet, hoping that he could wake up long enough to drag himself to the guest bedroom. But no such luck— Alfred was out like a light.

Resigning himself to having to lug around his brother's dead weight, Matthew mashed off the game system, slipping his socked feet on the hardwood floor as he tried to rise.

Eventually, Matthew stumbled to his feet, leaning precariously over his knocked-out brother, hooking hands under Alfred armpits and dragging the sleeping American over to the mattress that Matthew had set out on the floor. He grunted as he pulled his brother's bulk onto the mattress, setting his head on a pile of blankets

The Canadian couldn't help being exhausted as well, even as he felt himself come back into sobriety. He had no idea what time it was, and frankly he didn't mind. He sighed, the breath turning into a yawn.

He felt a bloom of warmth as he looked at his brother's face. Even in his sleep, he looked calm and peaceful. Happy.

Matthew and smiled settled his head on his brother's stomach, moving up and down with the soothing rise and fall of his twin's breath.

"Moron," He snorted, resisting the urge to blow a raspberry into his Alfred's stomach, "When did you get so comfortable?"

He knew he should probably get up and make sure they that hadn't left the stove or the oven on, or that the doors and windows were locked. But honestly, his brother's stomach, still a little pudgy from the amount of food he'd eaten, was so much like a pillow that he felt himself not wanting to rise.

"Y'know," Matthew mumbled, as if Alfred could still hear him, "If the whole house burns down, it'll be your fault."

His twin's belly gurgled and rumbled in his ear. Matthew smiled sleepily and took it as a reply.

This is such crack. Oh my God. Probably because it's based off of my own experiences... :D But this was amazingly fun to write. They're so damn cute when they're high, aren't they?

And yes, more Nantucket kink. Not because I like AmeCan as a romantic pairing, but just because Mattie knows how to torture his twin.