Have you guys ever had a nagging idea that kicked and screamed until you wrote it out and then you just go "whatisthisIdonteven"? Because that happens to me a lot. Also, I've noticed an increase in my writing about sex. My friend says its because I'm repressed. My response? Damn right. XD Also, my new favorite topic to write about is the US/UK/CAN dynamic. Fuck yeah.

This is what happens when I listen to that one song from Requiem for a Dream over and over and over. And over.

Also, I only vaguely cared about accuracy in this. And, half of the stuff I write is headcanon reconciled with what I know is canon along with history. I just come up with situations and try to figure out reactions. As much as I like a good romantic, comedic romp, I'm more drawn to serious, angsty nonsense. Like this. Enjoy, my lovelies.

Warnings: language, sexual situations, OOC-ness, fail, probably inaccuracy, slash

Pairing: UK/Can, US/Can

Disclaimer: Be glad I don't own Hetalia.

"I didn't know you still smoked." Arthur said casually, leaning against the doorframe. The glass sliding door was all the way open and sounds of the London night filtered in unaided. The sky is cloudless but there's a hazy cover of smog just barely visible over the bright lights and, distantly, the Englishman can hear his neighbors in the flat over shouting and cheering over the weak sound of a rugby match.

Matthew is leaning against the metal railing, head tilted back as he brought the cigarette to his lips, eyes fluttering shut as he inhaled. He smiles, without pleasure, at the other's words—because how could Arthur know? Tilting his head, he opens his eyes and stares straight at Arthur, casually letting the pale gray smoke drift out the corner of his mouth, the barest of grins on his face.

Arthur frowns because that's the same way Francis smokes whenever someone is watching him and sometimes Matthew's actions are too French for his liking.

But then Matthew coughs on the next drag and the Englishman swears the licentious bastard is laughing somewhere and saying, "And that is his English side, cher."

"Not usually these." The Canadian admits, indigo eyes watering, reluctantly grinding the smoldering end of the cigarette onto the balcony, and leaving a sooty scrape on the metal. "I've been weaning myself off since 1946." He chuckles, continuing shyly. "Its not as cool as it used to be."

Arthur sighs, crossing his arms. Part of him wants to demand what possessed the boy to catch the last flight to Heathrow from Toronto without so much as a fair warning. Showing up on his doorstep, with only his wallet and cell phone and passport, Matthew was the last person Arthur expected to see.

After spending much of his childhood in England until his Confederation (mostly so Arthur could keep an eye on the boy and make sure he…behaved), Matthew made up for lost time by pointedly not coming to the Isles (even a stopover was too much for him sometimes).

(But he eventually let him go. He couldn't defend the boy forever, even if he wanted to.)

But Matthew has always been frustrating unreadable. Even during the war, Arthur recalls only a brief instance that the blond may have cried.

(It was dark that night and Matthew was speaking too softly for him to be sure.)

Matthew, though unbearably kind at times and painfully honest when prompted, rarely lost his cool. An anger as frigid as his winter coupled with a tendency to avoid conflict and decades of bottled bitterness was a bad combination, which, thankfully, was balanced by the boy's inherent affability.

Arthur never claimed to be a good father, a decent guardian. He couldn't keep track of his numerous colonies' names. When they left, it wasn't always a clean break. He wasn't kind or patient by nature. He was quite used to, by the time he rose to an Empire, getting what he wanted—at whatever cost. He was never fond of losing and could hold a grudge. What made it worse—as India pointed out to him, angrily, in post-coital honesty—was that he hid his bad under a genteel veneer.

(But he fought like hell to keep his colonies. Sometimes. Didn't that count for anything?)

Arthur was ashamed of some things, regretted others—even if he wouldn't change a damn thing. But sometimes, when he was with Matthew and the boy was smiling that mysterious half-smile of his, he liked to think that he didn't irreparably ruin everything he touched.

"Did you fight with your brother?" He asked, not used to coddling another nation by beating around the bush.

Matthew sighed, leaning back and resting his elbows on the railing. "Of course not."

"I wasn't born yesterday, boy."

"It wasn't so much as a fight as it was me not being there when he tried to visit."

Arthur stared, a bit uncomprehendingly at the younger nation who was studiously avoiding his gaze. "…I hope it wasn't an official visit." He smiled crookedly, then amused. "Do I need to broker peace?"

Matthew laughed. "I don't think you'd be very good at it." He replied. "That's supposed to be my strength but here I am."

Matthew is almost heartbreaking beautiful in the moonlight.

Arthur doesn't ask Matthew how long he plans to stay. Honestly, he likes having the boy around—he always has.

Their relationship was strained for some time. Matthew never quite forgave him for sending his people away or undermining his attempts at creating an identity.

(Don't blame him for the boy's identity crisis. He tried to fix it. He tried to make him British.)

Or how Arthur ignored him and his problems until even the English in Canada grew restless.

(He let the boy keep that bastard's language and religion. How many times did he look for the child and find him at morning mass, a rosary tangled in his fingers and Latin on his lips? And how many times did Arthur drag him out, in front of man and God? Not once.)

Or how Arthur never quite said it aloud but believed that Matthew would never be like Alfred. Still siding with Alfred on Alaska, despite Matthew's objections.

(It was after World War I that the Brit knew Matthew had something Alfred didn't and he never underestimated the blond's worth after that.)

And sometimes Matthew sought him out, still struggling with the lasting affects of the mass migration of Loyalists to his borders. To be forced to adore the man you want to hate is and vice versa is something Matthew has had to deal with since his inception.

(Arthur is indebted to the leaders who kept Matthew from falling to pieces.)

Arthur, for all his faults and forgetfulness, is and has always been inordinately fond of the boy. Matthew was always there, just a warmth at his side, and comforting like a cup of tea. Even when that wasn't a mutual feeling, Matthew was always the one he could count on for loyalty.

(Until Suez. But even Arthur isn't so proud of that time.)

So when Matthew comes to him, at midnight on the fifth day of his stay, and curls up next to the Englishman in bed and whispers, "Touch me."

Arthur doesn't even put up a token hesitance because he always thought that Matthew has never wanted him (but Arthur didn't want him, he wouldn't have fought so hard to keep him happy). He doesn't even care what prompted it.

Arthur usually gave in, one way or another, when Matthew was concerned.

(Why does no one believe it when he says he loves the boy?)

Arthur finishes laughably early because he actually hasn't been with anyone in a long while and there are few things as beautiful as the True North, but to his credit Matthew doesn't laugh. Instead, he rolls the two of them over so he's straddling Arthur and looking down at him with a teasing smile before leaning down and coaxing the flustered nation into a sweet kiss.

Running broad palms up the nation's pale sides, feeling the tremble of ribs, Arthur shifts and then wraps his arms around the blond and pulls him closer so their chests are flush against each other.

"You don't know how much I adore you." Arthur whispers against bruised lips, green eyes bright. "You wouldn't believe me, either, love."

Matthew says nothing, his breath a little labored and cheeks pink. "Convince me." He pleads quietly, rolling his hips and earning a gasp from the rapidly recuperating nation below him. "Make me want to believe you."

Arthur knows one night isn't enough to change the past, to believe so is nonsense, pure and simple.

But Matthew is still sleeping and his head is on the older nation's chest and his messy curls brushing against his cheek.

Matthew is still there and Arthur likes to believe it means something.

Mathew still doesn't mention going home, but eventually revealing that he'll stay until the conference in Vienna.

That's a week away.

In that time, the two of them leave no surface in the apartment untouched in their, at the risk of sounding crude but what the hell, sudden sexcapade. One time, Matthew even visits him in his office in the Palace of Westminster during lunch and they shag on his desk.

Arthur doesn't question it because Matthew seems to be in better spirits than when he arrived.

The problems start, as they tend to, when Alfred arrives unannounced.

Its Sunday morning, they leave for the conference that evening. Coming out of the loo, Arthur hears a desperate pounding on the door and a distinctly American voice ordering him to "Open the fuck up!"

"Git." Arthur snarls, swinging open the door and glaring at the superpower. "I didn't invite you."

Alfred gives him an unimpressed look. "Special relationship, special rules." He says primly, blue eyes determined. "And I'm not staying—because you're gross—I'm only here to see if you've seen Matthew?"

"Matthew—"

"Yeah, Mattie." The blond nation looks annoyed. "Christ, Artie. He's about yay high" he explains, holding his hand up to his head, "and he smells like maple syrup. Usually he has a bear but apparently he left the little guy in his capital and his Boss won't tell me anything and I haven't seen him in forever and I think he's mad, do you know if he's mad?" All the words rush out, tumbling together, and Arthur is thankful he's had decades of dealing with this twit to decipher his bastardization of English.

Before the superpower can get his second wind or before Arthur can start a shouting match, a soft voice says "Hey Al."

Both nations freeze. Alfred is staring at Matthew, who is standing a ways behind Arthur wearing only the long shirt of the Englishman's plaid pajama set. Arthur looks over his shoulder, a little mortified at the situation but even his indignation at the breech of etiquette (good nations always wear trousers) isn't enough to stall the unfurling of lust at seeing Matthew in his clothes and showing enough pale leg to make even the hardened celibate sweat.

But Matthew is looking evenly at Alfred, arms crossed (the motion dragging the hem of the shirt teasingly against his thigh) and violet eyes cool.

"You…" Alfred begins falteringly, curling in on himself for the briefest of seconds before his expression darkens and his fists clench. "Mattie…you…you slut."

Arthur's thick eyebrows shoot up near his hairline, having never heard Alfred refer to his brother and northern neighbor with such quiet resentment.

"You couldn't have just talked to me?" Alfred continues, his eyes sparking dangerously. "You have no problem shoving all of my shortcomings and faults in my face for hours but you won't fucking sit and talk like adults for even five minutes?"

"We can talk over breakfast." Matthew says, almost snidely, more interested in rolling up the cuffs of the long sleeves than the barely restrained superpower in the doorway.

Of course, Arthur concedes, he is Alfred' s neighbor. He's had a front row view to the show that is America.

"Fuck you both." Alfred snaps.

After Alfred leaves, the flat is silent. Matthew is in the shower and Arthur is drinking tea. The earlier confrontation has left a hole in his stomach and when his recent bedmate enters the kitchen, his hair wet and curling and sticking to his nape, the Englishman speaks.

"There has always been a rumor that you and Alfred are…" He trails off, awkwardly, not sure how to proceed. It's not any of his business, truly.

"We're not." Matthew says shortly. "Though not for lack of trying."

Arthur is silent and Matthew is at the sink, his back to his former guardian.

"I'm always just his sidekick, his backup. He thinks he owns me and that I'll just bend to his whims—and sometimes I eventually do. It just makes things easier, more peaceful." He laughs bitterly. "And sometimes I think I love him and then saying yes is so simple. But his love is so poisonous. It's so easy to get sucked in and I've sacrificed so much to keep from getting swept away. He wants more and more and I'm tired of giving and giving because it's never enough." His voice plummets to a whisper. "I don't even understand."

Arthur doesn't know what to say. Instead, he stands up. "I'll make you some tea."

Arthur understands the extent of Alfred's devotion. It always comes at a price.

He realizes the extent of Alfred's love for Matthew. If the rest of the world were to fall, the American would keep Matthew alive. If the rest of the world were going to hell, Alfred would hold Matthew close. Few nations have ever been so close as the North American brothers.

It's a dangerous sort of love, suffocating and genuine and never-ending.

Arthur doesn't know how he can compete.

"Its all your fault you know." Alfred says, cornering him during break in the hallway. "You and that Frenchie." He looks as put together as always, dressed in a sharp navy suit with his flag pinned to his lapel. "Between the two of you, I don't know how he's still sane."

"And with you always at his ear, it's amazing he still exists."

Pacific blue eyes widen and the superpower looks too young. "You think I'd honestly ever let Matthew just disappear?"

"No, but you'd drive him to it."

Alfred looks like he's been slapped in the face and Arthur feels only a little guilty.

Then Alfred regroups and springs his counterattack. "He'll never love you, you know." The superpower says coldly, frowning. "You and Francis have ensured that he never will. He'll use you and he'll come back to me and that's how it'll always be, so don't expect anything more."

Arthur doesn't want to believe that Matthew is using him, doesn't see how it's possible.

Using people is something he and Francis and the rest of the world do not something someone like Matthew would do.

(Of course, the blond didn't look like someone who could hurt another man but Arthur still has nightmares of Matthew bashing a man's head in with the butt of his gun.)

"Do you take me for a fool, Matthew." He says sternly, glaring at Luxembourg until the man rolls his eyes and leaves the men's room.

Matthew is washing his hands and looks up into the mirror, meeting the Englishman's eyes. "Never." He responds, his voice somewhere between boredom and quiet mocking that he has perfected.

"You're an independent nation, lad. You're more than capable of dealing with your own issues."

"I deal with my own issues." The other said quietly. "And you're just upset because you have always thought the best of me and Alfred pointed out that I'm actually a passive-aggressive jerk with daddy issues." He frowned. "Not like he has room to point fingers. He has complexes that haven't even been identified—"

"Matthew." His tone sounds a little more imperial now and the Canadian only slightly flinches.

"If it makes it any better, Arthur. I care more for you than most other nations. That has never changed." He has to go around Arthur to get to the hand drier.

"It doesn't." Arthur snaps, anger unfurling in his chest.

"Well, it doesn't feel so good then, does it?" The blond mutters, placing his hands under the drier.

"Come home with me Matthew." Alfred asks, taking a seat next to his near twin who is half-heartedly eating lunch. "We can forget all of this."

"We can't just forget, Al." Matthew sighs, letting his fork clank against the plate. "Just because you can pretend stuff didn't happen—"

"Fine. Then we'll work it out, whatever." The superpower says, waving his hand dismissively. His voice turns cajoling. "I just don't want to fight anymore."

"Neither do I." the northern nation admits, his gaze rising to meet Alfred's brilliant smile. Whatever outrage he had earlier, whatever fight was thrumming in his veins, it all evaporates and he's left feeling tired and lonely.

"I told you he'd come back to me." Alfred crows, sitting next to Arthur at the bar.

Arthur, who is steadfastly set on drinking until he is well past shit-faced, growls. "Piss off, wanker." He downs his shot, barely coughing when it burns down his throat.

The superpower keeps grinning, propping on elbow on the bar counter and resting his chin on his knuckles. "You lose, Iggy."

"He's not some prize to be won, you twat."

"Really? 'Cause I've seen you treat him like less."

"Don't even get me started—" Arthur warns, fingers tightening around his glass. He sort of wants to slam it into the smarmy bastard's face but he'd probably upset Matthew and his Boss. "Just get the bloody hell out of my sight." He signals the bartender to slide him down another drink. When Alfred doesn't move, he grumbles, "Sodding hell, why are you still here?"

"You know, he'd still drop everything for you if you let him." The blond admits grudgingly, scratching at a discolored spot on the wood. "I'll never understand it, but he can't let you go. Not completely."

Why Alfred tells him this, Arthur will never understand.

For all his complaints and criticisms of Matthew, Alfred has always felt a sort of unconditional love towards the Canadian. It's not necessarily returned but Alfred does a good job not thinking about that little fact.

But, there are times, when he wakes up in the middle of the night (hazy nightmares still clinging to his vision) and spies Matthew curled away from him on the bed and the subtle rejection hidden in the unconscious shift always stings. There has always been a barrier between them, one that's difficult to scale but Alfred is secure by the comfort that Matthew can never completely ignore him.

Matthew argued with Arthur for his sake because you can't just ignore your neighbor and still survive. Survive in spite of and survive because of—two things Matthew has always needed to balance. Alfred, for all he pretends, knows the distrust and acrimony Matthew has and hides away.

He's not as forgiving as he appears, but Alfred has always appreciated Matthew more than other nations.

Matthew always wondered if Arthur and Alfred knew just how damn difficult it was juggling both of their expectations and being the unfortunate buffer. He's suffered inadvertently and is still dealing with the repercussions of their combined histories. For a long time, his fate depended on those two and their mercies.

And it was a detestable time and Matthew is glad its past.

But he's still the third point on the stupid triangle.

"Just get it out of your system." Alfred says, wrapping his arms around Matthew's neck as he hangs behind him. "Play out all those incestastic fantasies you have of Mother Britannia."

"…What?" Matthew says slowly, surely having misheard the blond nation.

"Love you Matt." Alfred grins, pressing a kiss to the shocked nation's temple.

Please come back to me, he adds mentally.

"I need to figure things out." Matthew says as an explanation when Arthur opens up the door and sees the nation waiting for him. "Can I stay with you, please?"

Arthur doesn't remind the lad that, as he told him after his independence, that there would always be space for him with Arthur. Instead he lets Matthew inside, earning a meek smile in thanks.

Its sweet and impressing that Alfred didn't drag the boy back to their continent.

Arthur wonders if Alfred knows he's nowhere near as selfless as the American.

(Alfred does.)

I don't even know. I think I thought I'd try to write something with Matthew having more blame than usual. Also, I think I should just keep playing with the ACE dynamic and have one-word long titles. Yes.

...Oh. And these boys are so dumb. -shakes head-