“I was hoping you could ah, forvigness me?” he tried.
“Not like I can kick you out - it just conveniently happens to be a snowing outside, and it’s too late to walk anywhere.” Mathieu said dryly. “And I am so utterly pleased that you have decided to invade my house and spend all your time listening to music. You realize tomorrow I will expect some breakfast, don’t you?”
Ivan sat up again, head tilted perplexedly at him. He was leaning on one arm, delightedly smirking.
“If I am spend night, of course Лапочка.” He reached out, uncertainly towards the smaller man. If this was what Alfred was fighting against so passionately, Mathieu might just have to admit defeat. This was too comfortable, too familiar to let go of. He rolled up his sleeves and lay down on his bed, stretching against the worn quilt.
“Well if you’re willing my toaster’s name is Abigail everything she cooks turns brown and I hate marmalade so don’t even try. Arthur tried for years, never once got met to like the stuff.”
The Russian seemed to relax now that he had his approval for barging in; he too leaned onto his back and stared at Mathieu’s shoulder, watching him roll a join expertly. The fire lapped at them pleasently, it's heat making them drowsy and subdue.
“I will try, if it pleases you.” Ivan said, “it is not like Alfred is making you happy, da?”
“It’s not that - he’s only a little, well look he’s family, right? So you put up with all of their antics because underneath all that crazy, is your family and once they get their head on right, it’ll be okay.” The words spilled out like he had been holding them in; except he hadn’t. What made it so easy to say this to Ivan, his supposed enemy? Maybe it was the fire, the light just hit the Russian perfectly in the hollows of his neck, across his mouth and glittering off bright eyes.
“Лапочка, I am not of understanding -- Perhaps you say again?” Ivan raised his head, trying to look innocent and just shy of succeeding.
“Ah, sorry. It’s nothing important.” Mathieu lit the paper in his hands. “You could teach me Russian - if I keep assuming everyone speaks English I’ll turn into Al.” He passed it over to his guest, and moved further up the bed to the pillows.
“Нет, Нет, that is too hard.” He waved the suggestion away, smoke circling the air above him. “Much faster for English, da? Besides, you would never use it. Much handy for me to learn English better.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I mean, I’d use it around you, wouldn’t I? And you’re here often. It, um, doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.” He fingered some of the threads, pretending their pattern was more interesting than the man only a foot away.
Re: Russia/Canada "One Morning" 5/?
anonymous
April 5 2009, 11:43:52 UTC
Oh hell yes, more Russia/Canada is always welcome with me, and I'm thoroughly enjoying your portrayal of everyone and your take on their relationship so far. Please keep it up! *F5F5F5*
“It, um, doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.” He whispered after a moment’s silence.
Ivan didn’t even answer, just slide up further and closer until Matt had nowhere to look but the strong planes and angles of his neck and shoulders. He was close, now, so close that he could feel the nearness of his body heat, pulling him forward helplessly, the soothing smell of his snowy ash and a bit of something that was uniquely his. He was so close, but it felt like there was another impossible distance to cross.
Impossible distances were their specialty though, and when Ivan’s hand touched his neck a long shudder ran throughout Mathieu’s body.
“I am wanting of what I should not want.” Ivan said in a husky, fraught whisper. Was he holding in, or holding back? He leaned in until the aroma of his hair and skin flooded through him, the top of his shirt grazed against Mathieu’s shoulder. His nose brushed the Russian’s cheek, warmed by the hand fluttered over his pulse point.
“But it’s yours to want, to have.” His mouth moved against the paler man’s cheek. Inside his subterranean tomb, under flailing light Mathieu gave in to the deep and sincere feelings that were welling, building ever since he first spotted the other man. There is no cure for instinct. Crusades may rage against it fierce and white, but all in vain, like waves crashing uselessly against the vaulted high rocks.
Their mouths met and everything was quiet now, the world hushed. It was slow and wonderful, Ivan’s mouth so warm and easy against his. Mathieu thought of Ivan’s lower lip, the teasing and sometimes mocking curve of it, and tried to memorise its taste.
He parted his lips, fingers reaching up to the blonde hair, telling him yes, please, more. The Russian’s hand was at his neck, tilting him back that crucial fraction more, deeper, trying to swallow every sound he made, drink the noises down and keep them. His other hand was toying with his shirt, tripping over the buttons, desperate to feel the skin underneath.
When the shirt slide off one of his shoulders, Ivan tore his mouth away.
“Sorry. Извините, I’m sorry.” Ivan gasped.
“What?” said Mathieu.
His chest was sore, maybe for not breathing. The blonde man looked like he was barely containing himself, trying to be gentle and failing and afraid he’d terrify the Canadian away, for good. All he saw was a curved shoulders rising and falling with each pant, mouth in the dim light like a knife wound, ripe and full. He rested his head against Ivan’s, avoiding kissing him again. It seemed like such an achievement.
“It’s okay.” He soothed, finally lying back against the pillow and sliding the burnt-out joint away from the Russian’s hands. Ivan followed him, drawn to the sliver of open skin, teething at the jugular and collar.
“I am sorry - Mathieu, I shouldn’t, never should have-“Mathieu touched his lips, silencing him, calming him.
“It’s nothing.” He said, tender. “I-I know. We aren’t supposed to be- well. With Alfred around, the way things used to be, I’m not sure it can happen.” His hands were fluttering down the other’s clothes, too much clothes, why was he wearing all this still? “I’d like to try though. He doesn’t quite understand, you know, the cold, how much you need someone.”
Ivan’s head slide against his shoulder with Mathieu’s hand still resting in the hair. When he spoke the sound carried into Mathieu’s chest, making his heart skip oddly.
“It is hard, little one, to make another understand. I am feeling your brother understands not your silence, and as such cannot understand your words.”
Ivan traced the indentation line of Mathieu spine with his fingertip, all the way to the waist of the pants, just above the small of his back. He slid his fingers down to touch the skin there, tender and thin and mindlessly hot. Again and again, he traced that hidden skin, curve like a bowl to lick from. He could barely concentrate on words with that hand there.
“And what about you? D’you think you understand silence?” he said, hushed. “You and me, we were always good friends, right? “
The wandering hand found his belt loop, pulling him closer, gravity taking her toll again. Above their heads stretched a deep night, uninterrupted by street lamps or power lines.
“When I am not here, it is all I can hear, it is all I am thinking of,” Ivan promises, this time looking him in the eye. Tugging off Ivan’s shirt gave way to smooth skin so he tossed it somewhere, who knows where, caring only to get closer to the skin. Mathieu only wanted to contain this, save himself from giving in entirely. The pleasure of yielding like this was unknown to him, not a surrender but an agreement.
“There’s this place, you know, where you first saw me - Alfred said it was too cold, the forests too dark. And the trees make every step so faint; you could spend your whole life walking it and never touch the same land twice. It’s something we share, it stretches all the way back to when our lands were connected. We used to be one. We’re still like that, yes? You’ll be with me, won’t you?” He made frantic work of the other’s pants, sliding them hastily away for more warm skin. The back of Ivan’s knee, a long salt plane stretched up the thigh, he drew it closer. “Yes, yes, da” A mantra of yes and yes again until the word was always on the Russian’s breath. Mathieu had to close his eyes and tugged at Ivan’s hair, drawing him closer to kiss the damp side of his face. The hair pulling should’ve eased the urgency, but it was intensifying the belly-deep desire and made fumbling with his jeans a melting blur. Mathieu’s fingers tripped down the taunt, quivering stomach and further, curling deeper to touch Ivan, hot and heavy in his palm.
This isn’t the first time he’s done this but it was so different, really, nothing was the same. The foreskin slid under his hand like a bud unfurling, the hint of head beneath that, sweet and dark, was too intimate for him to watch. Past the surface Ivan’s hands wandered still, deeper into him with his fingers, reaching into a warm tunnel, curling around it. He kept pushing further, the glide of wetness, the dip and crevice with each run of his hands. The Russian words were soothing like Ivan always talked but the tone had changed, and he was moving, the words nonsense again because he was pushing up further and moving deeper and caught Ivan’s mouth in a kiss long, hot, frantic and never once broken. He heard the voice call out dimly, an echo of a name across vast wilderness, finally breaking to the surface to sigh without a sound.
Afterwards it made no sense to fuss about anything. Mathieu tended to roll away, sensible enough, everyone had to sleep. He was surprised that this had changed, too, and he was possessed by the wondering urge to keep touching, not sure how but resting against Ivan’s chest, moving from his neck to his stomach. This one.
This one.
The fire barely cast a light now, turning the sheets into amber ridges and hollows, nestled against the places of his body not shadowed by Ivan around him. In the silence the Russian started to speak, not in English, finally finding words he needed to say, carrying on until momentum had him pouring everything out.
His voice was soft, like he was trying to keep Mathieu asleep. He recognized one part, and it was enough to bring him out of his haze. ‘Я тебя люблю .’ Over and over again, Я тебя люблю , Я тебя люблю .
Mathieu touched his cheek, eyes still shut, and agreed with him. “Я тебя люблю.” He whispered, falling into sleep, missing the tender look Ivan gave above him. Mathieu wasn’t worried, he knew the man would be there in the morning.
~~
Mathieu woke up earlier than Ivan or Alfred, because he always did, when he learned to get up just before the sun and that habit never left him. It was a new sensation to feel Ivan’s light fine hair against his shoulder, and he wished he didn’t have to move at all.
And besides now - he needed a plan, something to tell Alfred. Something that might make it less than horrible to have breakfast this morning especially considering how many drinks his brother had last night.
Alfred said he would have to choose one or the other, but diplomacy through other means was all Mathieu knew; making things work that shouldn’t was what he did, and he knew nothing had to change. For either of them.
Mathieu moved slowly so as not to wake Ivan, which was easy enough since every cell in his body protested leaving the warm bed. He couldn’t even glance over his shoulder in case his resolve broke. He wrapped himself in a large, flannel shirt; not his own but the scent comforted him, along with the pants. His slippers were in the kitchen and so he started to make coffee in an almost dreamlike trance.
Re: Russia/Canada "One Morning" 10/10
anonymous
April 5 2009, 21:24:51 UTC
It was abruptly broken when Alfred nearly fell down the stairs, collapsing onto a kitchen chair. Matt came within an inch of tipping coffee down his front.
“Sorry about that, Al. I guess I shouldn’t have let you drink that much.”
“Hng, you are damn right you shouldn’t have. Christ, what was in that whiskey.” Al palmed at his eyes, trying to focus. The sunny mid-morning light probably wasn’t helping any, but it did make things more serene.
“Are you making pancakes? Pancakes are pretty tasty. No dude, I just had such a nightmare last night.” Alfred was helping himself to the coffee, pouring in way too much cream.
“Oh? What, like Belarus was coming after you?” He teased.
“Very funny, you know she’s a psycho. No man, I had this nightmare that Ivan came and he was going to take you away from me, and there was nothing I could do.” Even if he tried to play it off like it was nothing, Mathieu knew being alone was something Al couldn’t handle well. It was just really hard not to laugh.
“That’s ridiculous. You know at least geographically I’m still going to be stuck here.” He wasn’t going to make pancakes, but he’d started now so why stop. “And Alfred I know it’s hard for you to understand, but it doesn’t have to be an all or nothing solution. There’s no reason why I can’t get along with him and you, it’s not betrayal.”
“I know, I know, but Matty, the guy has like, no soul. He’s just a maniac looking to take over your land!” Al said.
“Funny, that sound strikingly similar to someone else I know. Maybe you two have more in common than you think.” Matt said, turning his back on his brother to whisk the batter.
“That’s not even funny Matt, seriously, that guy is bad news, I wouldn- I would. If I.” he gibbered, and Mathieu knew that meant one thing; Ivan had come downstairs, forgetting entirely that his brother was here.
The two powerhouse nations stared at each other, both confused and slightly appalled. Of course Alfred spoke first.
“Uh - Matt. Um. What is he doing here?” Al never once took his eyes of the Russian.
“He came over last night, after you passed out. It was too late for him to go home so he…stayed the night.” No need to surprise Alfred, just gloss over the details.
“Okay but why is he wearing your sweater, and why are you wearing a shirt that’s too big?” They kept staring. It was just a different sort of staring. Mathieu’s hands started to shake.
“A-Al. It’s er. No big deal.”
Ivan’s face broke out into a faint, but true smile. “Da, Mathieu was being as good friend and gave me something to sleep in.”
“Yes, absolutely right, and this old thing? Ahaha, Francis left it here, I just picked it up.” He poured batter onto the pan, trying to be as nonchalant as he could. Alfred looked unconvinced, and nearly hissed when Ivan sat himself down at the table as well.
“What? It is not polite for guest to refuse food. Mathieu cook very well.”
Alfred stood up abruptly, chair swaying precariously on its two back legs.
“On second thought Matt I think I’m gonna sleep off the worst of my hangover. Just - leave some leftovers for me.” Al said, bolting from the kitchen and back upstairs.
Mathieu handed Ivan some coffee, and sat down across from him.
“So I thought you were going to make me breakfast - Abigail is still awaiting you.” He said, over the rim. Ivan smiled again, this one brighter and more real.
“Da. Perhaps tomorrow then.” He sounded ridiculously happy. Only, being this happy didn't seem so ridiculous any more.
Re: Russia/Canada "One Morning" 10/10
anonymous
April 6 2009, 05:36:40 UTC
WQ3RH2938RFBNIUEWBFIWBFQOEI OMG I THINK I LOVE YOU.
This is hot. And sweet. And pretty interesting take on the characters. (is requesternon of the other prompt below, btw, and has been stalking this thread and couldn't be happier over this <3)
Re: Russia/Canada "One Morning" 10/10
anonymous
April 6 2009, 22:18:16 UTC
I do believe I know writer!anon! When I was reading this halfway I started to wonder if it was you that wrote it, so I checked your journal and it was you.
Anyhow...this is completely top-notch. The way that you described even the simpliest of actions, it was relaxing and emotional and amazing. I think I'm gonna need to re-read this soon. I adore this fic~
Also the image of Matthew smoking up a joint beside Ivan amused me massively for some reason.
Re: Russia/Canada "One Morning" 10/10
anonymous
April 6 2009, 22:34:50 UTC
hey man checking the journal is cheating! Ahah it doesn't help that I was also, conviently, bloody obvious.
I'm glad you liked it, this is like...the first or second time I've ever written, and I know there are one or two mistakes because I didn't proofread any of it but. Hopefully it was passable for the OP - I just got sick of seeing great rec's being unfilled because everyone's too buys reccing something themself.
FFFT. YOU KNOW HE WOULD. HE'S QUIETLY REBELLIOUS LIKE THAT.
“I was hoping you could ah, forvigness me?” he tried.
“Not like I can kick you out - it just conveniently happens to be a snowing outside, and it’s too late to walk anywhere.” Mathieu said dryly. “And I am so utterly pleased that you have decided to invade my house and spend all your time listening to music. You realize tomorrow I will expect some breakfast, don’t you?”
Ivan sat up again, head tilted perplexedly at him. He was leaning on one arm, delightedly smirking.
“If I am spend night, of course Лапочка.” He reached out, uncertainly towards the smaller man. If this was what Alfred was fighting against so passionately, Mathieu might just have to admit defeat. This was too comfortable, too familiar to let go of. He rolled up his sleeves and lay down on his bed, stretching against the worn quilt.
“Well if you’re willing my toaster’s name is Abigail everything she cooks turns brown and I hate marmalade so don’t even try. Arthur tried for years, never once got met to like the stuff.”
The Russian seemed to relax now that he had his approval for barging in; he too leaned onto his back and stared at Mathieu’s shoulder, watching him roll a join expertly. The fire lapped at them pleasently, it's heat making them drowsy and subdue.
“I will try, if it pleases you.” Ivan said, “it is not like Alfred is making you happy, da?”
“It’s not that - he’s only a little, well look he’s family, right? So you put up with all of their antics because underneath all that crazy, is your family and once they get their head on right, it’ll be okay.” The words spilled out like he had been holding them in; except he hadn’t. What made it so easy to say this to Ivan, his supposed enemy? Maybe it was the fire, the light just hit the Russian perfectly in the hollows of his neck, across his mouth and glittering off bright eyes.
“Лапочка, I am not of understanding -- Perhaps you say again?” Ivan raised his head, trying to look innocent and just shy of succeeding.
“Ah, sorry. It’s nothing important.” Mathieu lit the paper in his hands. “You could teach me Russian - if I keep assuming everyone speaks English I’ll turn into Al.” He passed it over to his guest, and moved further up the bed to the pillows.
“Нет, Нет, that is too hard.” He waved the suggestion away, smoke circling the air above him. “Much faster for English, da? Besides, you would never use it. Much handy for me to learn English better.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I mean, I’d use it around you, wouldn’t I? And you’re here often. It, um, doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.” He fingered some of the threads, pretending their pattern was more interesting than the man only a foot away.
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“It, um, doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.” He whispered after a moment’s silence.
Ivan didn’t even answer, just slide up further and closer until Matt had nowhere to look but the strong planes and angles of his neck and shoulders. He was close, now, so close that he could feel the nearness of his body heat, pulling him forward helplessly, the soothing smell of his snowy ash and a bit of something that was uniquely his. He was so close, but it felt like there was another impossible distance to cross.
Impossible distances were their specialty though, and when Ivan’s hand touched his neck a long shudder ran throughout Mathieu’s body.
“I am wanting of what I should not want.” Ivan said in a husky, fraught whisper. Was he holding in, or holding back? He leaned in until the aroma of his hair and skin flooded through him, the top of his shirt grazed against Mathieu’s shoulder. His nose brushed the Russian’s cheek, warmed by the hand fluttered over his pulse point.
“But it’s yours to want, to have.” His mouth moved against the paler man’s cheek. Inside his subterranean tomb, under flailing light Mathieu gave in to the deep and sincere feelings that were welling, building ever since he first spotted the other man. There is no cure for instinct. Crusades may rage against it fierce and white, but all in vain, like waves crashing uselessly against the vaulted high rocks.
Their mouths met and everything was quiet now, the world hushed. It was slow and wonderful, Ivan’s mouth so warm and easy against his. Mathieu thought of Ivan’s lower lip, the teasing and sometimes mocking curve of it, and tried to memorise its taste.
He parted his lips, fingers reaching up to the blonde hair, telling him yes, please, more. The Russian’s hand was at his neck, tilting him back that crucial fraction more, deeper, trying to swallow every sound he made, drink the noises down and keep them. His other hand was toying with his shirt, tripping over the buttons, desperate to feel the skin underneath.
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When the shirt slide off one of his shoulders, Ivan tore his mouth away.
“Sorry. Извините, I’m sorry.” Ivan gasped.
“What?” said Mathieu.
His chest was sore, maybe for not breathing. The blonde man looked like he was barely containing himself, trying to be gentle and failing and afraid he’d terrify the Canadian away, for good. All he saw was a curved shoulders rising and falling with each pant, mouth in the dim light like a knife wound, ripe and full. He rested his head against Ivan’s, avoiding kissing him again. It seemed like such an achievement.
“It’s okay.” He soothed, finally lying back against the pillow and sliding the burnt-out joint away from the Russian’s hands. Ivan followed him, drawn to the sliver of open skin, teething at the jugular and collar.
“I am sorry - Mathieu, I shouldn’t, never should have-“Mathieu touched his lips, silencing him, calming him.
“It’s nothing.” He said, tender. “I-I know. We aren’t supposed to be- well. With Alfred around, the way things used to be, I’m not sure it can happen.” His hands were fluttering down the other’s clothes, too much clothes, why was he wearing all this still? “I’d like to try though. He doesn’t quite understand, you know, the cold, how much you need someone.”
Ivan’s head slide against his shoulder with Mathieu’s hand still resting in the hair. When he spoke the sound carried into Mathieu’s chest, making his heart skip oddly.
“It is hard, little one, to make another understand. I am feeling your brother understands not your silence, and as such cannot understand your words.”
Ivan traced the indentation line of Mathieu spine with his fingertip, all the way to the waist of the pants, just above the small of his back. He slid his fingers down to touch the skin there, tender and thin and mindlessly hot. Again and again, he traced that hidden skin, curve like a bowl to lick from. He could barely concentrate on words with that hand there.
“And what about you? D’you think you understand silence?” he said, hushed. “You and me, we were always good friends, right? “
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The wandering hand found his belt loop, pulling him closer, gravity taking her toll again. Above their heads stretched a deep night, uninterrupted by street lamps or power lines.
“When I am not here, it is all I can hear, it is all I am thinking of,” Ivan promises, this time looking him in the eye. Tugging off Ivan’s shirt gave way to smooth skin so he tossed it somewhere, who knows where, caring only to get closer to the skin. Mathieu only wanted to contain this, save himself from giving in entirely. The pleasure of yielding like this was unknown to him, not a surrender but an agreement.
“There’s this place, you know, where you first saw me - Alfred said it was too cold, the forests too dark. And the trees make every step so faint; you could spend your whole life walking it and never touch the same land twice. It’s something we share, it stretches all the way back to when our lands were connected. We used to be one. We’re still like that, yes? You’ll be with me, won’t you?” He made frantic work of the other’s pants, sliding them hastily away for more warm skin. The back of Ivan’s knee, a long salt plane stretched up the thigh, he drew it closer.
“Yes, yes, da” A mantra of yes and yes again until the word was always on the Russian’s breath. Mathieu had to close his eyes and tugged at Ivan’s hair, drawing him closer to kiss the damp side of his face. The hair pulling should’ve eased the urgency, but it was intensifying the belly-deep desire and made fumbling with his jeans a melting blur. Mathieu’s fingers tripped down the taunt, quivering stomach and further, curling deeper to touch Ivan, hot and heavy in his palm.
This isn’t the first time he’s done this but it was so different, really, nothing was the same. The foreskin slid under his hand like a bud unfurling, the hint of head beneath that, sweet and dark, was too intimate for him to watch. Past the surface Ivan’s hands wandered still, deeper into him with his fingers, reaching into a warm tunnel, curling around it. He kept pushing further, the glide of wetness, the dip and crevice with each run of his hands. The Russian words were soothing like Ivan always talked but the tone had changed, and he was moving, the words nonsense again because he was pushing up further and moving deeper and caught Ivan’s mouth in a kiss long, hot, frantic and never once broken. He heard the voice call out dimly, an echo of a name across vast wilderness, finally breaking to the surface to sigh without a sound.
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Afterwards it made no sense to fuss about anything. Mathieu tended to roll away, sensible enough, everyone had to sleep. He was surprised that this had changed, too, and he was possessed by the wondering urge to keep touching, not sure how but resting against Ivan’s chest, moving from his neck to his stomach. This one.
This one.
The fire barely cast a light now, turning the sheets into amber ridges and hollows, nestled against the places of his body not shadowed by Ivan around him. In the silence the Russian started to speak, not in English, finally finding words he needed to say, carrying on until momentum had him pouring everything out.
His voice was soft, like he was trying to keep Mathieu asleep. He recognized one part, and it was enough to bring him out of his haze. ‘Я тебя люблю .’ Over and over again, Я тебя люблю , Я тебя люблю .
Mathieu touched his cheek, eyes still shut, and agreed with him. “Я тебя люблю.” He whispered, falling into sleep, missing the tender look Ivan gave above him. Mathieu wasn’t worried, he knew the man would be there in the morning.
~~
Mathieu woke up earlier than Ivan or Alfred, because he always did, when he learned to get up just before the sun and that habit never left him. It was a new sensation to feel Ivan’s light fine hair against his shoulder, and he wished he didn’t have to move at all.
And besides now - he needed a plan, something to tell Alfred. Something that might make it less than horrible to have breakfast this morning especially considering how many drinks his brother had last night.
Alfred said he would have to choose one or the other, but diplomacy through other means was all Mathieu knew; making things work that shouldn’t was what he did, and he knew nothing had to change. For either of them.
Mathieu moved slowly so as not to wake Ivan, which was easy enough since every cell in his body protested leaving the warm bed. He couldn’t even glance over his shoulder in case his resolve broke. He wrapped himself in a large, flannel shirt; not his own but the scent comforted him, along with the pants. His slippers were in the kitchen and so he started to make coffee in an almost dreamlike trance.
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“Sorry about that, Al. I guess I shouldn’t have let you drink that much.”
“Hng, you are damn right you shouldn’t have. Christ, what was in that whiskey.” Al palmed at his eyes, trying to focus. The sunny mid-morning light probably wasn’t helping any, but it did make things more serene.
“Are you making pancakes? Pancakes are pretty tasty. No dude, I just had such a nightmare last night.” Alfred was helping himself to the coffee, pouring in way too much cream.
“Oh? What, like Belarus was coming after you?” He teased.
“Very funny, you know she’s a psycho. No man, I had this nightmare that Ivan came and he was going to take you away from me, and there was nothing I could do.” Even if he tried to play it off like it was nothing, Mathieu knew being alone was something Al couldn’t handle well. It was just really hard not to laugh.
“That’s ridiculous. You know at least geographically I’m still going to be stuck here.” He wasn’t going to make pancakes, but he’d started now so why stop. “And Alfred I know it’s hard for you to understand, but it doesn’t have to be an all or nothing solution. There’s no reason why I can’t get along with him and you, it’s not betrayal.”
“I know, I know, but Matty, the guy has like, no soul. He’s just a maniac looking to take over your land!” Al said.
“Funny, that sound strikingly similar to someone else I know. Maybe you two have more in common than you think.” Matt said, turning his back on his brother to whisk the batter.
“That’s not even funny Matt, seriously, that guy is bad news, I wouldn- I would. If I.” he gibbered, and Mathieu knew that meant one thing; Ivan had come downstairs, forgetting entirely that his brother was here.
The two powerhouse nations stared at each other, both confused and slightly appalled. Of course Alfred spoke first.
“Uh - Matt. Um. What is he doing here?” Al never once took his eyes of the Russian.
“He came over last night, after you passed out. It was too late for him to go home so he…stayed the night.” No need to surprise Alfred, just gloss over the details.
“Okay but why is he wearing your sweater, and why are you wearing a shirt that’s too big?” They kept staring. It was just a different sort of staring. Mathieu’s hands started to shake.
“A-Al. It’s er. No big deal.”
Ivan’s face broke out into a faint, but true smile. “Da, Mathieu was being as good friend and gave me something to sleep in.”
“Yes, absolutely right, and this old thing? Ahaha, Francis left it here, I just picked it up.” He poured batter onto the pan, trying to be as nonchalant as he could. Alfred looked unconvinced, and nearly hissed when Ivan sat himself down at the table as well.
“What? It is not polite for guest to refuse food. Mathieu cook very well.”
Alfred stood up abruptly, chair swaying precariously on its two back legs.
“On second thought Matt I think I’m gonna sleep off the worst of my hangover. Just - leave some leftovers for me.” Al said, bolting from the kitchen and back upstairs.
Mathieu handed Ivan some coffee, and sat down across from him.
“So I thought you were going to make me breakfast - Abigail is still awaiting you.” He said, over the rim. Ivan smiled again, this one brighter and more real.
“Da. Perhaps tomorrow then.” He sounded ridiculously happy. Only, being this happy didn't seem so ridiculous any more.
_____________________________fin_________________________________
*pantpant* I hope OP likes. <3 enjoy~~!
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This is hot. And sweet. And pretty interesting take on the characters.
(is requesternon of the other prompt below, btw, and has been stalking this thread and couldn't be happier over this <3)
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Anyhow...this is completely top-notch. The way that you described even the simpliest of actions, it was relaxing and emotional and amazing. I think I'm gonna need to re-read this soon. I adore this fic~
Also the image of Matthew smoking up a joint beside Ivan amused me massively for some reason.
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I'm glad you liked it, this is like...the first or second time I've ever written, and I know there are one or two mistakes because I didn't proofread any of it but. Hopefully it was passable for the OP - I just got sick of seeing great rec's being unfilled because everyone's too buys reccing something themself.
FFFT. YOU KNOW HE WOULD. HE'S QUIETLY REBELLIOUS LIKE THAT.
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OP is very very pleased~! I wasn't expecting someone to make such a large fill for this but I'm glad you did! :D
Thank you so much Writer!Anon! ^_^ ♥ *mwah*
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