The shrill barks of an alarm clock cut short a peaceful dream, and Matthew could do nought but groan in reply.

After slapping his hand around his nightstand blindly for a few sad-to-witness seconds, he shut the machine off, making a crack louder than its earlier cries as he stretched and sighed contentedly. He then noted that his fiance was not at his side and patted the other's pillow before leaving the bed.

The blond rubbed the lingering sleep from his eyes cutely with a noiseless yawn as he made his way down the flight of stairs to the kitchen. He shivered as he placed his nude forearms on the chilly granite counter after putting the kettle on for his morning tea, threatening to slump down onto the frozen surface and fall asleep again before righting himself and smacking his cheeks. While he waited for the whistle's cue, he tidied up a bit, returning some sundry spices to their racks and putting a few boxes of cookies back on their shelves (his partner had scolded him a few times for having so many sweets, but the Canadian would just shrug in answer, saying that "his metabolism would make up for it anyway", which would earn him a displeased shake of the head and a "But it won't stop diabetes!"; Matthew always enjoyed those little lovers' quarrels, and remembered that one with fondness, sneaking a Jammy Dodger from its box before putting it away as if out of spite). He returned to his stool at the island with a napkin laden with a plastic container chock-full of maple tarts from the fridge as the kettle had just begun to hiss in anticipation.

Suddenly, he felt two broad hands pat his shoulders and a tingling sensation crawl down his spine as a man whispered into the shell of his ear, "That much sugar that early in the morning? Really?"

Matthew almost choked from the gasp he sounded in surprise, muttering a flurry of sacres under his breath and turning on the spot to face the man behind him, visage ruddy from his violent fit.

The eyes staring at him with a twinkle of mischief were of a sharp crimson, though they were currently muted by his amusement. His stark-white hair was getting a bit long as his bangs were beginning to cover up his barely-there eyebrows, but it still framed his pale, handsome face quite well. A devious smirk graced his features, and his thin lips then changed shape to press featherlight kisses on Matthew's soft jawline.

The blond giggled quietly from being tickled from the minute touches, leaning his head into the other's cheek in a catlike fashion as the white-haired man moved to the crook of the Canadian's neck.

"Such a foul mouth, ah?" he murmured playfully in reference to his earlier cussing. "You could be putting it to much better use. Such a waste."

Matthew chuckled. "Easy, tiger," he said as his fiance nipped gently at his throat. He cupped his partner's cheek with one hand, running his thumb underneath his eye. After a minute or so, Matthew tapped his upper back as a signal for him to get off. The blond smiled lovingly and planted a gentle peck on his forehead, taking in the inviting smell of his musk before asking, "Late night at work, Gil?"

"Yeah," he said, tiredness more prominent in his voice. "D'you mind if I take a nap? I'm exhausted."

"Of course not!" Matthew replied. "Tea?" The kettle began to whistle as if encouraging him, but Gilbert shook his head.

"Nein, ich bin in Ordnung," he sighed. He nuzzled the blond's nose with his own before going upstairs rather languidly, like he was being weighed down by some invisible force. The blond rose and turned the stove-top off. Before he could pour the water for his drink, he heard the man enquire from the landing, "Oh, how'd it go with that kid?"

"He didn't say yes or no," he recounted, stirring the sugar and milk into his tea, "but he was gonna think about it."

"Prima!" he said groggily before going to the master bedroom, presumably flopping down onto the mattress with enough strength to make a huge thump. Matthew noted how he spoke more German when he was tired and smirked to himself while taking a sip of his drink.

When he had finished his breakfast and loaded the dishwasher, the Canadian went to his bedroom to get changed for work. He had just started putting on his pants when he felt something touch his behind. He rolled his eyes before turning and, lo and behold, Gilbert had roused from his slumber, a simper plastered on his face that shimmered in the faint light from the window. He swatted the hand away with neither anger nor force, mirroring the other's expression. "Not now, connard."

"Hey!" he replied, scandalized. "You don't need to be rude to me for being myself."

"Well, 'yourself' is quite a horny little bugger. You don't need to have learned French just because you're with me," he said flatly.

He chuckled and got up to put his arms around his lover's waist. "I did it so I would know what you were saying to me in bed."

Matthew giggled. "Get off, I'm gonna fall down!" It ended up being more of a precaution than an instruction, as they did just that moments later. They quickly erupted into raucous laughter. When it finally ceased and they entered an air pleasantly silent, Matthew looked up, crown pressed to the German's muscled chest, and Gilbert's gaze turned down in answer. The couple's lips touched softly and they muttered words of love in each other's native tongues. The white-haired man returned his strong arms to his sides, giving him an opportunity to rise, which he quickly yet reluctantly seized after putting his pants on properly so as to not tumble over again.

"Get some rest, alright? Use your day off to get caught up with some sleep." Matthew leaned in to rest his rosy lips on the other's cheek and murmured, "Cos you won't be getting any tonight." He pecked the corner of his lips and left the room, winking over his shoulder as he did and taking a mental photograph of his lover's expression to save it for later.

The badgering cries of a young child cut short a pleasant dream, and Matthew could do nought but groan in reply.

Though he did love his job, he certainly found it boring when there was no interesting exposés going on or artists in town to do signings and tours. The clientele was extremely cookie-cutter: a few single mothers with tired eyes hoping for some tranquillity in the vibrant colours before them that did nought but be the template for their children's doodles on the living room walls; tourists who were more interested in the perfect shot than the content of that which they shouldn't have been taking photos of in the first place; unruly youngsters pouting until they could return to their glowing screens, finding ignorance 'cooler' than a greater understanding of the world in which they resided. None of them seemed to share his passion for the arts, which was one of the main reasons he chose to manage the gallery in the first place.

Despite this, he put on a happy face as he greeted a group which seemed to meet the third category (one of them could not meet his eyes for more than a few moments as Matthew gave him his ticket, though the Canadian said nothing).

Just as he had finished wiping his glasses of nonexistent grime to occupy his hands, he saw someone who truly stood out from the rest of the crowd.

He did occasionally see a self-proclaimed 'hipster' every now and again, and they did have a tendency to dress eclectically and have a bit of scruff on their necks with unkempt hair to match- 'devil-may-care', he supposed would be the term. He obviously had no issue with them whatsoever: they were respectful; asked thoughtful, relevant questions while possessing a cultured knowledge of the arts; and even offered their help every once in a while. However, he did recognize this one in particular, as he strode up towards the desk while his trench-coat did the janitor's job.

"Ivan?" he asked, though it wasn't so much a question as an expression of surprise.

"Hey," he whispered, smiling sheepishly. It was then that Matthew noticed that he was a bit twitchy. His snowy face turned a bit pink as he fidgeted before asking, "Can I use your bathroom?"

The blond smirked. "Do you have any other business here or did you come just for that?" he enquired, unable to stop himself from using a pun.

"N-no, I wanted to talk to you, too," he replied. He whined childishly. "Please?"

"Of course," he reassured. He texted one of his coworkers to ask her to work at the front for a little while. When she replied saying that she would do it and arrived shortly after, the two quickly made their way to the men's washroom.

Matthew leaned against the wall next to the door awkwardly, greeting a few passers-by who recognized him until Ivan jogged out while muttering a hurried 'spasiba' under his breath. The Canadian fought a smile and eventually lost the battle. "What?" he asked, not appreciating that he wasn't in on the joke.

His friend pointed at his groin a few times (not enthusiastically to not attract unwanted attention) and the Russian just cocked his head in answer. Matthew rolled his eyes, still laughing, and stage-whispered, "Your fly's down. God, you look creepy enough with that flasher's coat on."

Ivan's visage turned a bright shade of crimson and he quickly remedied the issue while stammering incoherently. "Stop laughing!" he said when he was done, having closed his thighs somewhat unconsciously. "And I'll have you know that this is certainly not a 'flasher's coat.'"

"Yeah, whatever you say, Catherine Tramell," he chided, still smirking. Matthew paused for a moment before asking, "So, why did you decide to visit? Have you changed your mind?"

"I'm still not really sure," he replied, looking at his beat-up shoes as if embarrassed.

The Canadian patted him on the back reassuringly. "It's alright. I'm not going to force you into anything you don't want to do." He smiled amicably. "Do you want to look around while you're here?"

"A-ah, don't I have to pay?"

"It's fine, don't worry about it," he said, waving his hands dismissively. Matthew guided him to a nearby room that was displaying random pieces which had been generously donated by their respective artists. The Russian's eyes darted quickly from place to place, taking it all in.

"It's nice," he muttered indifferently. He furrowed his barely-there eyebrows while looking at some of the works. Admittedly, Matthew had no clue what the hell half of them were supposed to be, but he put them up to be polite; that, and maybe someone would eventually figure them out. Ivan wasn't that person.

The Canadian hadn't realized that he'd said most of that out loud. "Yeah," the Russian said. "I mean, I guess it's all in the eye of the beholder, and their creators put a lot of thought into them, but..." He strode over to a metallic sculpture of a shape resembling that of wings, but just barely. The piece had no title, so it was just assigned a string of numbers. "Like this one. What the hell is that?"

Matthew giggled. "I'm not sure. But at least it gets you thinking, you know?"

"Good point." He crossed his arms behind his back and began to do a silly walk, humming with a scowl on his face like a stern professor assessing his students, and the Canadian doubled over with laughter. After a minute or so of the act, Matthew said, "I can tell that you're not too happy with it. Why don't you use your stuff and spice it up?" He wiggled his eyebrows with a grin.

Ivan smiled, chuckling. "Maybe," he teased.

"Oh, come on!" the blond protested. "I swear doing this will help you. People will love your stuff, and they'll love you! I-" He cut himself short. The Russian wasn't listening, appearing to have frozen in place while looking at something Matthew couldn't see behind the other's head. Just as the Canadian had made his way to where he was standing, he had covered his open mouth with a gloved hand, eyes wide. "What is it?" the blond enquired, starting to become concerned, but he said nothing. Eventually his hand lowered and pointed at the painting before him, words trying to cloy their way from his throat but coming out in feeble, unintelligible sounds. Matthew followed his finger to see what all the fuss was about.

It was a portrait of a woman with dirty-blonde hair. She had a pleasant smile on her face, and her eyes were closed, creasing the skin near them in an almost elegant way. She donned a colourful dress that looked like traditional garb, but he wasn't sure from where.

"Kat?" he asked, saying her name in case he recognized her from somewhere else.

Ivan turned to him, tears beginning to form in his eyes. "You know her? How?"

"She's a good friend of mine," he stated. "Do you know her?"

"She's my-" he choked up, stopping his flow of speech. "My sister."

His eyebrows rose. "What?"

He turned his head to face him directly, eyes puffy, but didn't answer his question. "Where is she?" His voice was quivering. He wanted to ask him if he was alright, but he gasped instead as his shoulders were seized and a crazed look befell the man's face.

"Where is she?!" He enquired again, shaking the other's shoulders. "Please, please, I'll do anything, just tell me!" Matthew fretted for a moment before putting a hand over the Russian's lips.

"Don't yell; security will come," he said. He was lucky that the room they were in was empty. "She said she was going to Ukraine. I'm not sure if that meant that she's moving or not, but I haven't seen her in a few weeks." Ivan calmed considerably, but still looked distressed. He looked down at the tip of Matthew's finger and contorted his expression to that of a grimace. The Russian backed away from the blond, covered his face with his hands. The Canadian let his idle arm fall back to his side.

"Dammit," he hissed. Ivan strode to a section of wall with nothing on it and sat down, leaning his back against the black surface. Matthew hesitated before following him, and when he did, he continued. "I find out my sister's in Canada and this close to where I am, and the next moment, it turns out she's run off to Ukraine!" He sighed frustratedly, putting his forehead on his knees which he had tucked up to his chest.

Matthew contemplated putting his hand on Ivan's shoulder to console him, but wasn't sure if he would be comfortable with the contact. Instead, he suggested, "I could try e-mailing her again. I'll mention that I found her brother. She'd been worried about you."

His eyebrows shot up, a shimmer of hope returning to his eyes. "She was?"

Seeing that that cheered him up, he smiled sweetly. "Yeah. She said she came back to Canada the moment she found a good, steady job here. Russia wasn't treating her well, apparently."

He frowned. "I see..." His voice trailed off and he went back to staring at the floor. Matthew was about to ask if he was getting up when he unexpectedly leaned over and rested his cheek on Matthew's shoulder. The Canadian said nothing and put his hand on his upper arm opposite to him to keep him from falling over. "Thanks," he muttered after a few seconds, slightly muffled by Matthew's shirt covering most of his mouth.

"For what?" he asked.

"Being nice to me," he said. "Most people don't like talking to the homeless: they think we're crazy or something. So, thanks for considering me for this."

"I don't think anything bad about you because of your situation," he explained. "If anything, I feel bad about it. Besides, I only pick people based on their talent." He looked to the sculpture, which Ivan noticed. "Well, most of the time." They laughed for a little while at that, which made the blond happy; he seemed to feel a bit better.

"I'll do it," Ivan intoned. Matthew inclined his head to face him. "It's the only way I can repay you for helping me find my sister."

"Are you sure you want to do it?" he asked. "If it's just for that, there's no need; I'm happy to help; you don't need to do anything for me."

"No, it's not just that." He paused. "I want to work with you." The skin by his eyes creased as he smiled- in that sense, he did resemble his sister. Matthew smiled back.

"And I you." His gaze returned to the painting. "I'd been meaning to ask: What happened that separated you two? From the way she would act about it, it seemed like it wasn't just you two leaving the nest and parting ways."

He took a breath before answering. "Well, not long after my youngest sister was born, my parents moved to Canada for the 'better life' everyone always talked about. We stayed here for many years, and we were happy! But the problem is, even with their new jobs, we were still poor. My dad ended up receiving a work opportunity in Moscow, but they only had enough money saved up for plane tickets for four people." He sighed. "My youngest sister, Natalia, was too young to be left here on her own, and Katyusha was pregnant. So I volunteered to stay."

"Was her partner named Eduard?" he enquired.

"Yeah, how do you know that?"

"He's the one who gave me the painting. They still write, so I suppose she's fine. I could ask him to mention it in his next letter to her instead; she always preferred that over e-mail."

He breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad she's alright." He lifted his head and eventually himself, and Matthew followed suit.

"Well, I should get home now," the blond said, scratching his forearm sheepishly. Just before he could say his farewells, Ivan extended a hand to him, smiling.

"Alright. I look forward to working with you," he chirped. Matthew reciprocated the gesture.

"When would you be available for prep?" he asked.

He shrugged. "Any time is fine." He looked like he was gonna burst, and he breathed out quickly, shaking his head just slightly. "Sorry, I'm just so excited."

Matthew giggled at his behaviour. "I'm glad you're happy about it!" There was a pleasant silence before the Canadian asked, "Do you want me to drive you back? It's cold out."

"Ah, sure!"

They walked into the driveway, shoving their hands into their respective coat pockets and inclining their faces into their scarves. When they got in the car, Matthew immediately turned on the heating. The voyage was silent except for the quiet din of the radio, but it was not unpleasant.

Ivan bowed his head in thanks as he exited the vehicle (the blond found his confusion about the door being locked cute, but quickly remedied the issue). Out of politeness, Matthew got out and patted him amicably on the shoulder. "Take care. See you."

"You, too."

Matthew pulled into his driveway about ten minutes later, and was surprised to find that the lights in the house were all turned off. Is he home? Matthew wondered. He understood that the man worked long hours, but it certainly cut short their time together. He was hoping that he'd come home before he went to bed, at least.

When he went into the living room and turned on the lights in the mudroom, he saw a note on the table. He picked it up and adjusted his glasses. The handwriting was Gilbert's.

Sorry, dear! Late night again. I hope I'll be back by tomorrow afternoon.

Love you,

Gil

Matthew tutted, frustrated, and put the paper back where it was before. He shrugged his jacket off and hung it off the top of the closet door to dry. Without warning, he felt strong arms wrap around his waist. He had just begun to struggle when the assailant grabbed the note and flipped it over.

Just kidding.

The unknown person sneezed cutely off to the side, which was one of Gilbert's odd habits. He looked behind him and saw a white head of hair. He smirked as his partner's head turned around.

"Hey," Matthew said.

Gil kissed him on the lips. "Hey."

The blond giggled seductively and lifted the man bridal-style in a great feat of strength. "Let's go to bed, ah?" he murmured into his ear.

The German nodded, looking almost scared as he was tossed onto the sheets.

It had been a good day.

Translation Notes:

German:

Nein, ich bin in Ordnung. - No, it's alright.

Prima! - Wonderful!

French:

connard - jerk, asshole (used lightly here)

Russian:

spasiba - спасибо - thanks

Thanks for reading!

Sorry for the long wait, but it should be expected with school and all. Exam season's right around the corner, too (but I have fairly easy courses this semester). Hopefully I'll be able to update more quickly later.

So, yup, it's no surprise that Matthew's with Gil. I figured it was pretty obvious given the German in the notebook last chapter. There won't be many more fluff scenes for that pairing, so don't worry! (there's a reason that I'm doing it, by the way)

Catherine Tramell is a character in the film Basic Instinct played by Sharon Stone. The movie's famous for a part where she crosses her legs and you can see up her skirt. I couldn't think of any other famous flashers: sorry!

Also, for those who don't know, Eduard is Estonia's human name. Estonia was originally going to be used elsewhere, but I figure it doesn't matter (I couldn't think of any other ships for Ukraine without characters who will be involved later).

Sacres are Quebecois French curses which mainly involve the use of words with Christian themes.

Again, thanks so much for your patience and have a happy new year!