Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia

Author's Notes

Thoughts/ Flashbacks

Notes/ Letters

"Talking"

Simple enough, no?

So I love PruCan, but I also love RusCan, so here we go. I'm going to write a highschool fic. Yeah. It's one of those. I'm not particularly interested or invested in this story, so if you want an update, you'll probably have to review. I saw probably, because if I'm bored, I might update anyway. But I'd appreciate reviews, since I'm kind of busy and I have another story to write. If this has popular reception, then it'll shoot up on my priorities list.

Let the show begin.

Prologue-

Matthew cringed. He stumbled backwards, hitting the lockers with enough force to dent the cheap metal. He slid to the ground, his glasses askew, his wide blue eyes full of terror. "Leave me alone, please," he begged. "Just leave me alone. Just today, please-" But he saw the look in that albino's eyes and he knew it was going to happen. He knew that right now, the same thing was going to happen, the same thing that happened every day and would continue happening. His vision blurred as tears clouded his eyes.

Matthew stared at his family. They seemed so happy without him. His father and his papa sitting at the dinner table, all of them laughing at something witty Alfred had said.

"Aw look, little faggot's crying! What's the problem, you dumb Canuck?"

His papa looked up, his wide blue eyes merry with laughter. Then widening as he noticed his son. "Oh, bonjour, Matthieu! Come join us, mon fils."

Canuck.

Why did they have to make it sound so derogatory? He was proud of being Canadian.

"So how are you? How was your day?" Francis asked avidly.

Matthew stared at him.

"Fine."

But his answer was overlapped by Alfred's enthusiastic, "So today, I was talking to-"

A clenched fist rammed into his face. His head slammed against the locker. White spots flashed across his sight and he tasted metal. Liquid metal. Hot metallic blood.

He'd bitten his tongue.

He didn't reply after that. And no one bothered to ask him anything else. Instead, Alfred began a story about whatever funny thing had happened to him earlier.

Same as always.

No one noticed him. Even while he was at the table, he was ignored. Alfred just stood out. And he... didn't.

The pain. The inside, the outside.

His skin throbbing, fire erupting, the screaming.

His own screaming.

He was screaming.

Everyone else was laughing.

Or taunting him.

Not unless he was being a bully magnet. Not unless someone was feeling pathetic and useless and felt like making themselves feel bigger and better than someone.

And he was always that someone.

No, he wasn't even someone. He wasn't even a person.

"Oh shit, it's a teacher! Run for it, Gil!"

"What about-?"

"He's not going to squeal. He knows if he does, he's dead meat."

"Well he kind of looks like it right now-"

Matthew stood up gingerly.

He left the table.

No one looked up.

Matthew scrambled up, ignoring the throbbing pain stabbing his skin with every movement.

He left.

Opening the door slowly. Hoping that they'd look up, just look up, just look at him!

Just once.

Even just a little glance.

He darted outside, into the courtyard. He ran hectically, not caring where he was going, just focusing on hiding.

But he shouldn't have tried so hard.

Nothing. No reaction.

He didn't have to hide because people didn't see him anyways.

It was freezing cold outside.

He'd gone out without a coat. Or shoes. Or anything but his shirt and jeans.

But he welcomed the freezing, biting cold wind and snow, pressing and sticking to his skin.

He tripped over a root. He fell hard against the tree's trunk. His head tilted upward and he cried up at the heavens, eyes tightly shut, at the snow-covered tree branches.

Blood running down his pale face, the deep color standing out on the pale, tear-stained skin.

Blood and tears ran down his face.

He was unaware of the violet eyes watching him curiously from across the courtyard.

He stumbled through the snow, his bare feet freezing.

They felt like they were burning.

A fire so cold it hurt.

An ice so cold it burned.

Like his feelings.

Like his loneliness.

When he finally cried himself to sleep against the tree, he didn't hear the little chuckle.

He didn't hear the soft, contented sigh.

"You're very lonely, da?"

"You know it's very cold."

Matthew heard the words. But he was too numb to really listen to the words.

When he woke up, he was freezing.

He went inside.

Scrubbed his face clean of blood.

He stumbled against a building.

"This is very dangerous, Matvey."

That caught the Canadian's attention.

For a crazy moment, he thought he heard his name. Or a strange version of his name. But his name nonetheless.

Still, the name Matthew was common.

He couldn't count how many times someone would call his name in the hallway and he'd look up hopefully, only to look down disappointedly as he was shoved aside for a more important person, a person who claimed the name Matthew, not someone who's name could only be remembered by its owner. Sometimes even its owner forgot his own name. But at one point, when no one used your name for you, then you forgot you went by the name. Sometimes, you could forget yourself.

"Nice face, ugly."

Matthew didn't look up, his eyes focusing determinedly in the sink. Staring at the blood-red water swirling down the drain.

"You know, you were ugly before I rearranged your face for you. Maybe if I work harder next time there will be some improvement-"

It was like that question. If a tree falls and no one's around to here it, does it make a noise?

If no one saw him or heard him, then did he exist?

Because when you were alone, it could get hard to remember you exist at all.

"It is very cold, Matvey. You are not in the right state of mind. Please stop walking. Please wait for me, Matvey. Please stop running."

For the Canadian had started running now.

He knew that tone of voice.

A soft, calming and soothing voice. The voice of a lover, calling to another lover.

Someone who cared for another person.

He couldn't bear to hear that tone of voice saying his name.

It was torture knowing he'd never hear it directed at him.

He tried to get away from it.

"You should thank me."

Matthew ignored the albino.

But a hand seized both shoulders and spun him around.

The albino pressed himself uncomfortably close, his nose a good three inches from Matthew's nose. His hips pinned Matthew to the bathroom sink and Gilbert planted both hands on either side of the boy.

"You exist in my eyes. You exist to me, Matthew. I see you."

"Matvey!"

And suddenly, two arms encircled his waist.

"Matvey! I'm talking to you!"

Someone... could actually see him?