i need to take a break and think abt how much 2p matt will make him love himself bye.
I just,
1. 2p Matt burying his face in his hands, whispering you’re so fucking cute its unreal and just being super red and kinda angry bc his 1p is so fucking cute wtf wtf
2. 2p Matt taking 1p Matt out for dates and spoiling him and loving him and makes sure Matthew loves himself bc Matthew is great and perfect and sweet and 2p Matt buys him all the carnival snacks and wins him all the prizes
3. Kumajirou introduces 2p grumpy cool bear who loves well-behaved baby bear so much
would matt still compliment him if matthew was on the bottom? would he be like 'nice tightness, you feel nice' i feel like i have to know. matthews not a bad bottom, hes rly active in my mind. so maybe matt compliments on his hips rotation
i bet matt always tells matthew how much he enjoys having sex with him.
and he tells him in the least sexy way ever. and thanks him.
“i really enjoyed having sex with you tonight.” matt, still naked, hands on his chest, very earnest and way too chill for what just happened. “it was great.”
matthew, from under the covers, blushing and annoyed. “dont.... just....go to sleep.”
sometimes i just think matt stares at matthew, thinking how cute he is and why he’s so cute, but all he says is “what the fuck” and matthew just looks at him like “i’m sorry?”
[So I guess we all have to get back in the saddle sometime. Idk why 1p2p Canadas. Mostly I was thinking about Miss Annie’s early 2pCanada. Now, I love 2pCanada, my big gruff manly man who wears crop tops (probably), but I also kinda wanted to explore just-got-back-from-the-dead!2pCanada. Specifically, this one. So...here you go?]
It’s 4:30 am on a Tuesday and Matthew can’t sleep.
The other him—Matthew? Matt.—is downstairs. Still.
Matthew, flat on his back, staring at the expanse of his ceiling, just lies very still. His breathing doesn’t break the silence. Neither do Matt’s footsteps, but eventually Matthew hears the shut of the guest room door.
There’s no more noise after that. Maybe the snap of the door was just a courtesy.
Another half hour passes. Finally, Matthew slips out of bed and pulls sweat pants over his boxers. Then a sweatshirt. He carries his sneakers down in one hand, seeking out the quietest spots in the floor. He doesn’t even shut his door; he doesn’t want to wake Matt.
He hears the guest bedroom door open anyways, and Matthew waits for a moment before stealing out of his house and putting on his shoes in the same motion.
Maybe he can add another kilometer or two to his jog.
--
Matt looks exhausted, even with a cup of coffee, and despite his mouth being a tight line, sounds appropriately apologetic when he speaks:
“Sorry I kept you up. Jet lag, I guess.”
Matt’s mouth doesn’t curl up, doesn’t even jump even when Matthew laughs. Jet lag is a nice way to describe it, he supposes.
The sky was angry and scorched in white streaks when Matt appeared. The air had squeezed him out right onto Matthew’s roses. Thankfully, the season was drawing to a close and Arthur had already seen them. (They were his pride and joy, planted in a passive-aggressive fit while Matthew set off sparklers in the halls of Parliament.)
Everything about Matt’s arrival was unwelcome, down to his bearing (clenched fists, clenched jaw), down to the way the sky just collapsed as he stood from the ruins of Matthew’s garden (it stormed early into the morning; the lights flickered at least twice).
Matt wasn’t smiling to begin with, but his face still falls a little. Matthew swallows. There’s a familiar hardness to his eyes now.
“I’m also sorry my Al went batshit crazy, kidnapped you, and forced your Alfred to go on an inter-dimensional quest to bring you back home.” Matt takes a considering sip from his coffee, and all the unease comes rushing back to Matthew. “It’s my fault.”
He has to sit down, but his face stares back at him from across the table. Matthew leans against the counter, grips tight so he doesn’t sink to the ground reliving the churning of his body as he was swallowed and spit back out by magic powerful enough to move the fabric of dimensions.
“Is that all you came for?” Matthew asks, after a moment, after getting his breath back. Matt gives him a hollow look.
“Because…it’s okay. I mean. It’s not, but. I think if everything were switched, I’d have done the same. Al—my Al—would’ve done the same.”
“No he wouldn’t have. I was only with him for a week, but he’s good.” Matt thumbs at his heart. “Like, to the core. He wouldn’t have burned through both your countries and part of Mexico. He wouldn’t have lost his mind because he thought you died. He would’ve buried you and moved on.”
It’s supposed to be comforting, Matthew thinks. The other Alfred had left his love like black track marks across most of the continent. He had been sweet 98% of the time, sensual and flirty and so, so sad underneath it all.
The last 2% was bitter and burnt out, all too aware that his Matthew was dead and lost.
“No man left behind” was an adage for men.
Matthew was the one who dwelled on his losses, not Alfred.
--
Matt apologizes again when Matthew leaves the kitchen, bile already rising.
“He still looked for you. Without any property damage.”
It’s worse hearing it from another him.
--
He leaves Matt at home, pretending not to hear anything he says, doesn’t raise an eye at the crisp uniform Matt appears in. He slams the door behind him, right out of Matt’s hold, when he leaves.
Matt’s supposed to be him, in another world, another life. Player 2, but they should still be the same, right?
Matt will understand what Matthew is saying.
--
Matt has dinner ready, salmon plated and vegetable medley steaming, when Matthew returns.
Kumajirou is working through his own meal, languid and sprawled behind Matt’s chair.
Matt doesn’t say anything, just watches and waits behind folded hands while Matthew struggles to say something.
Eventually, he manages, “What do you want from me?”
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
--
Matt tells him about his Arthur’s quiet, tearful anger, his mama’s icy displeasure, Alfred’s radio silence. The international community over there isn’t sure how to handle Canada anymore, not when they’re all still dealing with the fallout of Alfred losing his fucking mind. The United Nations, now permanently headquartered in Geneva (and welcomed by a much friendlier Switzerland, which Matthew finds strangest; Switzerland doesn’t seem like Switzerland if he refuses to shoot on sight), just doesn’t know what to do with any of them. So they put everything on pause.
“No one’s ever done it before,” Matt muses. Then, as an afterthought, “Or maybe they never came back.”
Matthew’s been accused of being a bleeding heart over the years, so of course he lets Matt stay.
But the world Matt weaved over dinner settles heavy into him that night.
Sometimes he’s been forgotten, but Matthew’s never been alone.
--
Matt haunts his house, soundless across the wood, soundless when he settles onto the sofa. He watches whatever Matthew wants, looking bored even when Matthew’s on the balls of his feet, laptop crushed to his chest as he watches Carey Price make save after save.
“I don’t really watch hockey,” Matt admits when Matthew asks him if the Canadiens have a better record in his world. “I wouldn’t know.”
Matthew tears away from the game to stare at Matt. He misses the puck that finally edges past Price, but maybe its for the better because now he knows there’s a version of him that doesn’t feel weightless remembering the Summit Series.
Matt looks away, mouth twisting. “You don’t know anything, Matthew.”
--
Matt sometimes goes to Parliament with him. He’s stone-faced in front of the ministers, like a monument (and he sort of is, with his uniform and height and sharp cheeks and sharp nose and sharp mouth—he looks like he was cut out of stone) and just as formal.
In response, by contrast, Matthew’s smile feels easier, more carefree. He makes it so, in response to his Prime Minister’s questioning looks. He overcompensates. He’s sweeter than Matt as much as he can be.
The Governor General frowns at his casual, noncommittal responses, but Matthew assures them all that he has everything under control and leaves them with a promise to have lunch later.
Matt marches alongside him, nothing soft in his demeanor.
“This isn’t a fort,” Matthew whispers, flinching when Matt turns that unforgiving look on him. “You don’t have to impress anyone. I’m just saying.”
When he looks back at Matt, the other is frowning.
--
Alfred shows up, as he sometimes does, and the sheer delight on his face makes Matthew’s coffee curdle in his mouth. With a scowl, he just tosses the rest of his double-double into the sink while Matt’s low voice warms around him.
The pair of them starts talking, and Matthew flees to his boss’s house. There’s always a plate for him there.
(He tries not to feel guilty. Matt came back into the world right at election time.)
--
Alfred clucks his tongue at him, when Matthew returns with a pile of Tupperware and a sheepish smile.
“Work,” he shrugs, in a what-can-you-do voice that probably fools no one. “My boss’s wife makes really good lasagna. And cookies.”
Matt nods, “I bet.” And he eats.
--
“I’m not trying to take your Alfred. Or your life. So you can stop thinking any of that.”
Matt’s in a crop top, and Matthew can’t help but stare at the softness of his stomach even with that muscle. Matt’s thick, built like a brick house. Sturdy. So he looks absurd in a red cut-off, fingering at the furling edges. Matthew recognizes the shirt as the one he wore a few days ago, so Matt must’ve taken a pair of scissors to it just now.
Belatedly, Matthew realizes he’s only in boxers and he rushes to get his jeans back on. Matt just glances down at his legs and unhurriedly looks up only after Matthew’s buttoned them.
“You’re the only one who’s sticking around, and you don’t owe me a damn thing. I just want to be with you. That’s it.” He gestures at himself, at his bare stomach. “Alfred says I look like a thug. I can’t help it.”
Matthew swallows hard. “You don’t. You look like…you look like me. It’s weirder than when it was with Al. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
After a pause, they both say it again. At the same time.
This time Matt actually laughs first, more of a push of breath than anything but its there. The smile’s there.
--
Al and Alfred are sensitive spots, more like bruises bone-deep. Matthew thinks, if Matt has anything in common with him, its how they feel about their brother to the south. Matthew’s done a lot to piss Alfred off, but he’s never run away to the wilds of the Yukon to die. The furthest he’s ever gone is to his cabin, but Alfred has a key and sometimes they go together.
Matt doesn’t talk about it, but the regret is clear and deep, and Matt’s drowning in it.
Matthew doesn’t mention that this is still running.
--
“You should go back,” Matthew says quietly, coming downstairs and finding Matt at the window. He’s leaning on his forearm, on the wall by the glass, looking out at the street.
“Deal with my shit?”
“Yeah.”
Matt says nothing. He turns, just looks at Matthew. He still looks exhausted, but then Matt concedes a small, wry smile. “Yeah, okay. Maybe you’re right.”
(As he passes, he grabs Matthew’s elbow, leans in and says, “I’m not excusing him or anything, but I knew from the moment I saw you why Al took you in the first place. It’s not just because he missed me.”
Matthew inhales his next few words, maybe blushes even. Maybe Matt does, too.)
i don’t know why, but i had this terrible idea for 1p2p canadas where Matthew is a werewolf and Matt is his human boyfriend and Matt reads way too much teen wolf fanfiction so he casually mentions having matthew’s pups and making mating comments and matthew is like “that’s not how it works that’s not how any of this works” because matt brings it up all the time
but matthew is sort of into it (way into it but he won’t say)
