Work Text:
June 15, 2021
Brussels, Belgium
Matthew Williams leans back in his chair, staring over the rooftops of the Belgian city, his bright purple eyes latched onto the burning summer sky. He sips slowly on the glass of wine in his hand, ignoring the soft, respectable chatter of the other personifications sitting around the table of the rooftop bar. The Canadian blinks slowly, taking in the pleasant sight before letting his gaze shift to the Dutchman at his side. He smiles faintly as he notes how the man’s hair glows in the golden light of the setting sun, his bright eyes catching the light of the string lights strung up overhead. His dark green eyes glimmer like a forest lake reflecting a summer’s sky of stars.
Andries van Rijn leans forward, resting an elbow on the table, resting his chin and mouth against a broad, sturdy hand as he stares at the German across the table with a piercing gaze, humming softly as he nods along with the line of thought the man trots out. His gaze shifts to Matthew ever so briefly, his expression unmoving, but something in his eyes softens as he does. “Are you okay?” he asks in soft French.
Matthew’s gaze slips from the sunset to his partner. “Yeah,” he whispers, momentarily glancing at Marije van Rijn, the Belgian woman eyeing him knowingly.
“He’s taking in the view,” Noé Saint Laurent huffs from his place at Matthew’s right hand.
Matthew turns sharply, scowling at the Luxembourger, knowing very well that the teen is not talking about the sunset. Despite this, Noé laughs, unbothered by his friend’s glare. His eyes are a similar shade to Andries’, but they are somehow infinitely warmer and infinitely kinder.
Ludwig stops mid-sentence, finally realizing he has lost half of his audience, causing the Belgian and Frenchman on either side of him to turn to Matthew with intrigue. “Anyway,” the German sighs, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms across his button-up, clearly at the very least tipsy, for his bright blue eyes are slightly foggy with a degree of indifference that rarely crosses the man’s face. “I’m just glad you two thought to invite us to stay out here for another day. It’s certainly nice to catch a break.”
Francis raises an eyebrow in silent agreement before tipping his wine glass back, lowering it again, staring into it with even foggier eyes than Ludwig. He leans back, rolling the sleeves of his button-up, his form held by a tightly fitting waistcoat.
Matthew smiles faintly. “It was my pleasure,” he breathes, sitting up a little straighter despite his deep-rooted instinct to shrink into himself under the German’s stare. “I’m just honored that you didn’t mind sticking around to hang out with us. It’s not common that I get invited to Europe, so I thought I’d try to make the most of it.” He glances up at Andries as the man leans back with an exhale, turning his head to stare off over the horizon.
“We’d gladly stick around for you!” Francis exclaims. “It’s always a delight to see you!”
“Truly,” Noé adds brightly. “It’s been exhausting running around for the government. God knows we’ve all needed a break.”
Marije leans forward, scooting a half-full glass of wine aside as she squints at her younger brother, her curled hair tumbling forward over the shoulder of her dark purple blazer. “Don’t you have time off coming up soon?”
“I do,” Noé replies plainly. “I’m heading to San Marino.”
The Belgian tilts her head, crystal earrings tossing against her hair as she squints at the teen with bright green eyes nearly identical to his own. “Why?”
“Because Matteo Vargas is a good friend of mine, and it’s refreshing to be around people who you truly relate to,” Noé replies without flinching.
The woman does not respond to this, but she stares at the young man with clear conflict in her eyes.
“What do you have in common with Vargas of all people?” Andries asks softly.
Noé looks up at his older brother, rather unbothered.
“That Vargas specifically?” Ludwig adds with earnest intrigue. His better judgment to leave the situation alone has been thoroughly drowned out by the long evening of alcohol.
“We are small, wealthy, tucked into the stories and histories of the larger nations around us.” Noé shrugs. “He’s a good guy to have in your corner.”
Andries nods ever so slightly. “Interesting.”
Noé’s gaze slips over Marije’s face as she studies him, clearly determined to sort out if there is something he is not telling them.
“The Italian peninsula is beautiful in the warmer seasons,” Ludwig agrees, taking another sip of wine, loose strands of hair flopping forward over his forehead, tossing in the summer breeze.
“You will disappear to Italy any chance you get,” Francis laughs, glancing at the German at his side.
“Yeah? And? At least I have a consistent nation to run off to.”
Marije, Matthew, and Noé let out shouts of laughter as Andries struggles to stifle his vague huff of amusement, closing his eyes.
“Oh, shut up,” Francis hisses. He turns sharply to Andries, loose strands of his dirty blond hair sliding forward out of his ponytail. “You can’t laugh! You’re just as bad as me!”
“Oh, I know,” the Dutchman mutters. “And to think I was once wrapped up in your nonsense…” He shakes his head, his gaze falling dim.
“Forget it,” Marije urges. “You’re onto better things now.”
Andries turns to Matthew, smiling faintly. “You don’t need to tell me that.”
Matthew’s face burns ever so slightly as he looks up at the Dutchman. Despite this, he sits up, tipping his glass back, finishing off his wine. He sets it down again, smiling up at the man. “I’m the best thing that you’ve ever had.”
“I… actually think so, too,” Marije chimes. “You two are rather unconventional, but your dynamic works far better than a lot of other couples I’ve seen through the centuries.”
“You never saw people over the centuries,” Francis prods, glancing at her. “You little recluse.”
She turns, glaring at him.
“Your body count is like… What? One?”
Ludwig glances at the man. “You shouldn’t be collecting romantic partners.”
“Okay, but she’s only slept with Silva,” Francis presses.
“You cannot know that,” Marije hisses.
“Bonnefoy, you might want to stop talking if you want to walk out of here in one piece,” Andries mutters.
“You are being rather unkind,” Ludwig agrees, glancing at the man.
“You need to learn when you need to stop running your mouth.”
Matthew glances at Marije, watching the vulnerability burn in her eyes.
Francis sighs, leaning back, “I guess I can agree with her. You two do compliment each other very well.” He redirects his gaze to Matthew and Andries.
“How so?” Andries asks, not particularly yearning for the Frenchman to expand on the thought, but if it distracts from the humiliation Francis is determined to bring upon his younger sister, it is worth it.
“Well, I mean, you two are polar opposites.”
Matthew’s gaze narrows as his breath catches in his chest. He glances at Noé, who returns his concerned stare. The Luxembourger sits up, folding his hands in front of his face, his brow furrowing, his distressed expression half-hidden behind his curtain of hair.
“Andries is… you know… Andries,” Francis laughs. “And then you”—he motions at Matthew—“are his polar opposite.”
Matthew tilts his head, peering at the Frenchman through wire-frame glasses, clenching his jaw. He takes a sharp breath as Andries hooks his foot around his ankle. He looks up in mild shock, finding the Dutchman’s beady gaze fixed on Francis’ face.
“You soften him up a little,” Francis continues, not catching Matthew’s discomfort in the slightest. “You are the sweetness to his bitterness.”
The Canadian meets his gaze. “You think so?”
Noé tilts his head, his hair tossing out of his face as his eyes glimmer with the kind of harsh, impatient stare one might see in Andries’ eyes. He offers no thoughts on the subject, knowing better than to prod at a conversation being spearheaded by Francis. After a moment, he takes a deep breath. “Do you think relationships amongst our kind work best when the people involved are—as you put it—polar opposites?” He cannot shut Francis down, but at the very least, he can guide the conversation away from the Canadian, who is evidently growing increasingly flustered.
Francis’ bright eyes shift to the Luxembourger. “It tends to go that way! Take Ludwig and Feliciano, for example! You couldn’t possibly find two people amongst our kind who are more unalike! For another example, look at Køhler and look at how he manages to get along with Bondevik!”
“I wouldn’t say they get along,” Ludwig inserts.
“They have a very strong relationship built on centuries of trust,” Noé looks up, granting Francis the point. “They bicker, but they get along in the ways it matters.”
“Laurinaitis and Łukasiewicz are another polarized duo,” Francis continues. “Laurinaitis is the personification of anxiety first and Lithuania second. Łukasiewicz, on the other hand, is probably one of the most brazen, carefree men you’ll find in our continent.”
“Oxensteirna and Väinämöinen are another duo in this trend,” Ludwig adds, leaning back, crossing his arms. His eyes light up. “Oh! And Lovino and Antonio! How could we forget about how that makes no sense! Every duo has the bitter one and the soft one.”
“Yeah!” Francis agrees. He points at Andries. “You’re the bitter one”—he then motions at Matthew—“and you’re the soft one!”
Noé leans forward, finally finding his thread, his gaze settling on Ludwig. “Francis pointed out that you and Feliciano are very different, but for your argument to track, between you and Feliciano, who is the bitter one, and who is the soft one?”
Ludwig tilts his head, his expression clearing. “I don’t know.”
Noé sits back moderately satisfied.
“I don’t know if one of us is necessarily bitter… I mean… we both have our moments—our ups and downs—but I certainly wouldn’t say it’s Feli…” He leans forward, crossing his arms on the table. “But I wouldn’t say it’s me either.”
Francis tilts his head. “Well—”
“Nuh-uh,” Ludwig cuts him off. “I am nowhere close to the likes of Andries, Lovino, Oxensteirna, or Bondevik. I’m not the bitter one.”
“So you admit that Francis’ logic doesn’t really track,” Noé presses.
“Yeah,” Ludwig sighs.
Andries takes this moment of silence to push himself out of his seat, taking his coat off the back of the chair.
“Leaving so soon?” Marije asks, knowing damn well that the man is attempting an escape more than a departure.
Andries stares at her before nodding ever so slightly. He glances down at Matthew. “We have a flight out early in the morning, which means—”
“We need to be getting to bed,” Matthew latches onto the constructed situation. Their flight leaves in the late afternoon; the Dutchman is trying to get them out of dodge of Francis’ continued jabs and insults.
Noé’s brow furrows as he watches Andries bend over, whispering something to Marije in soft Dutch. He stands up a bit straighter, staring down at her apprehensively as she nods confidently.
“Weet je het zeker?” he breathes.
“Ja.” She nods, her bright eyes determined. “Do what you need to,” she returns to French, picking up her glass of wine, turning back to the remaining three men. “Just because they have to go to bed like the old men they are doesn’t mean that our night is over.”
Andries motions for the Canadian to lead the way back inside. Matthew presses a hand to his abdomen, keeping his gaze low, his vision fogging as he rapidly loses himself and his composure.
“Love, you are walking way too fast,” Andries whispers, jogging to keep up with him despite his already long strides.
“I don’t fucking care,” Matthew breathes, pushing open the door that leads back into the empty high-rise restaurant.
“I’m sorry, Matthew. I didn’t mean to incur Francis’ wrath. I just needed to get Marije’s name out of his mouth.”
“I know,” Matthew breathes as Andries loops an arm under his, leading him along.
“Don’t let them get to your head,” Andries pleads.
“I’m not,” the Canadian breathes, his gaze fixed on the elevator.
Andries glances at the man doubtfully, knowing very well that the man is lost in his head by the way he studies his feet, his soft, airy hair falling forward into his eyes. Andries hits the call button of the elevator as they slow beside the door.
The elevator chimes immediately, the doors sliding open.
Andries steps into the elevator, turning to watch the Canadian drag himself in after him. He stares at him with worry, immediately cursing as the Canadian sinks to the floor with a long, low cry of distress. As the doors close behind them, Andries hits the button for the second floor, crouching down, every ounce of his facade lowering. “Hey, hey, hey, hey— Not yet, love,” he pleads, his usually harsh, cold eyes warm and wet with despair. “Matthew, I know you’re upset, but please, can this wait until we get back to the room at the very least?”
Matthew shakes his head, burying his face in his hands.
“Matthew—”
“I’m done. I’m so fucking done,” the Canadian gasps, trembling, his hair tumbling forward over his hands.
Andries tilts his head, settling on the floor properly, draping his coat across his lap. “I know.” He takes Matthew’s hands, forcing him to look up at him.
Tears speckle the Canadian’s glasses as Andries pulls him to his feet with one hand, picking his coat up with his other. “Andries, you don’t understand,” he croaks.
“I think I do—”
“For the entirety of my life—”
“Matthew,” Andries pleads, taking the man’s hand as the elevator door slides open. He fights his wallet out of the pocket of his slacks with his free hand, trying his best not to drop his coat in the process. He manages to fight his key card out of the wallet.
The Canadian shakes his head, keeping his gaze low, doing his best to breathe in deep. He trots after the man, blinking in distant thought. “God,” he breathes weakly.
“I know,” Andries repeats as they slow beside a closed hotel room door. He scans the card, fighting open the door, tossing his coat, wallet, and card onto the console table perched by the wall.
Matthew closes the door behind himself, falling against it, closing his eyes as Andries turns around. He can feel the Dutchman’s anticipatory stare, shaking his head. He gasps in faint shock as Andries pulls him away from the door, pulling him into a tight embrace.
The Dutchman turns around so that he leans back against the door. “Talk to me,” Andries mutters.
Matthew takes a deep breath. “I am tired of it all,” he croaks. He turns around, shaking himself out of the Dutchman’s hold. “I wish that…” He pauses, clearing his throat, his figure barely visible in the dim light that bleeds into the entryway from the bedside lamps.
Andries crosses his arms, remaining in the shadows of the entryway, silently watching the man.
“I wish people knew me for who I am… and that they didn’t just… approximate me by my relationship with everyone else! What if I’m not quiet and mellow to contrast Alfred’s loud and brazen?! What if I'm not chatty and soft to contrast your stern silence?! What if I’m a man in my own right?!”
Andries stares at his partner, vaguely able to make his face out in the relative darkness.
“I know who I am! I am not nice! I am not quiet! I’m just fucking…” He turns ever so slightly, throwing an arm above his head. “Ignored!” He steps forward, planting a hand against his chest, the Canadian flag pinned to the lapel of his coat shining in the dim light. “I know I’m here! I know I’m talking! Why is no one listening?!”
The Dutchman does not offer any answer in the face of this, letting his partner ramble.
“Who the fuck does Francis think he is to misrepresent me so grossly?! He is the closest thing I have to a father! He is one of the only people who knows me, but he doesn't… know me! It’s fucking…” He runs his hand back through his hair, pushing it out of his face as he closes his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks. He shoves his hands up under his glasses as he lets a cry of defeat.
“Matthew,” Andries inserts at last.
The Canadian tears his glasses off his face, throwing them backward across the room. They hit the currents with a soft thud before hitting the carpet below. “It’s fucking humiliating!” he just about screams, staring at Andries, his gaze empty and not all that focused. “How many wars have I fought?! How many battles have I stood on the front lines of?! You can’t tell me that it all meant absolutely nothing! You can’t tell me that I’m still no one at the end of it all! I’ve fought, and I’ve cried, and I’ve bled for everything I have! Why am I not allowed to be a man in my own right?”
Andries blinks, his brow furrowed as he watches the man turn around, marching further into the room, sliding his suit coat off his shoulders.
“Say something.” Matthew shakes his head as he chokes his weak plea. He looks up, his hair tossing backward out of his face. “Am I insane?”
Andries pushes himself off the door. “You aren’t crazy.”
“Then what’s wrong with everyone else?! What did I do to deserve this?!” He plants his hand against his chest as he leans forward. “What didn’t I do to earn everyone else’s basic respect?!”
“When you were young— When you and Alfred were young,” Andries begins slowly, keeping his gaze low as he recalls the distant past. “Alfred was louder than you ever were. That’s no secret. He was needier.” He dares to look up. “He was bolder.”
Matthew stares at him, his bright, purple eyes somehow completely void of life.
Andries fights the chill that the Canadian’s soulless gaze sends down his spine. “You two were often seen as a package deal, especially after you ended up in Kirkland’s possession. Alfred got the hell out of there first, and you sort of… rolled with whatever happened to you. You were a pawn more than anything.”
“You act like I had a say in what happened to me,” Matthew mutters.
Andries shrugs. “I had my share of being a pawn, too. Most of us did. I don’t need to remind you about the empires that had risen and fallen in the lands I now call mine. I don’t need to remind you about the crises and events of large-scale devastation that befell me, either. We all start out quiet and passive. We all start out as pawns of the larger nations around us. Well… at least most of us do. Alfred left Kirkland in a giant, bloody affair. You remained quietly. But… to your point, you took up arms time after time. You fought countless battles. You made many tough decisions. Despite this… on the international scale, you just get lost in the context of your family. Your nation is still—by many counts of technicality—very young.” He tilts his head, weathering the man’s glare. “Your independence is relatively new,” he expands.
“I am not young; I am not new!” Matthew protests.
“But you stand in our world in new ways.”
“So I deserve this humiliation?!”
“No.”
“So what the fuck does any of this have to do with the way I’m treated here and now in the modern day?!”
Andries lowers his gaze, running his hand back through his hair, working the product out of it, letting his hair fall backward against the top of his head and tumble off to the side. “That’s where the sentiment comes from,” he begins carefully. “And once people form opinions on others—especially when our kind forms opinions on one another—those opinions are not commonly prone to change.”
Matthew clenches his jaw. “I have changed a lot since my days in the British Empire.”
“I know.”
“So why doesn’t anyone else understand that?!”
“You do have people who understand that. Did you see the way Noé reacted the moment Francis started running his mouth? Do you think your brother truly thinks so little of you? Furthermore, don’t you have countless international friends? Cuba! South Korea! You have people who know and adore you!”
Matthew lowers his gaze.
“I know you,” Andries presses, shaking his head. “Fuck Francis. He’s never been all that good at seeing situations—let alone people—for what they truly are. Everything has to get filtered through his lenses and opinions before an idea leaves his mouth.”
Matthew rubs his face before shifting a hand back through his hair.
Andries takes another careful step forward, staring at the man. “I know you, and I love you. I know you are not spineless. I know very well that you are not quiet,” he laughs softly. “You are noisy, and bitter, and you are probably a split second away from clocking Francis at any given point—”
Matthew laughs defeatedly.
“Your brother knows you, and your brother loves you. Noé knows you. Yong Soo knows you. Carlos knows you. We are all in your corner.” The Dutchman shakes his head. “And sometimes that small network of love can be worth so much more than the whole world knowing your name.”
Matthew takes a deep breath as Andries steps closer, taking his hand, he holds it tightly for a moment before bringing it to his lips, kissing it softly. “You are so much more than what other people make of you,” he whispers, keeping his gaze low.
Matthew nods, closing his eyes as he releases some of his tension. “I just wish they’d see me for all I am and not… what… makes the most sense to them.”
Andries pulls Matthew a step closer, kissing the corner of his brow. “They will.” He smiles as Matthew collapses against his shoulder, draping an arm around him. “It will take time, but you will keep growing, and you will keep fighting, and they will see you.”
Matthew shakes his head. “Why… can’t they see me now?”
“Embrace the fact that you can hide out in the background of our burning world. God knows you won’t have it forever, especially for how large and impactful your presence truly is.”
Matthew fights a sob.
Andries rests a hand against the back of the man’s head, looking up as his hair tumbles forward into his field of vision. “You are… brilliant… and you have most certainly changed the world in ways that you may never know.” He smiles, taking a deep breath. “And you will keep changing the world, and at this rate, no one can ignore you forever. Just for the time being, you are a quiet voice that moves mountains.”