Chapter Text
Matthew had been warned about the heat.
He had read about it, heard Cuba joke about it, even nodded along when people told him 'you’ll get used to it'. Still, none of that truly prepared him for the way the sun pressed down on him now, heavy and relentless, as if the air itself was heavier than him.
He stood under the shade of a palm tree, hat pulled low over his face, already regretting every extra layer of clothing he had put on that morning. Sweat clung uncomfortably to his back, and his glasses kept sliding down his nose.
“This is… a lot,” he muttered, fanning himself weakly with a brochure he’d picked up earlier.
A few steps ahead, Cuba glanced back at him, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose. “You say that like it’s the sun’s fault,” he replied. “This is a nice day.”
Canada blinked at him. “You call this nice?” Canada asked shocked.
Cuba grinned. “Perfect, actually.”
Canada sighed, shoulders slumping as he took another step forward, boots crunching softly against the pavement. He loved traveling with Cuba, he loved the way he moved through familiar streets with ease, loved how alive he looked here. But right now, all Canada could think about was snow. Quiet, Cold, Soft snow.
Cuba had always liked the cold.
From a distance.
Standing in the middle of it, however, was a completely different experience.
He exhaled slowly, watching his breath cloud in front of him for the fifth time in a row, jaw tight as the wind cut straight through his jacket. The streets were quiet, almost too quiet, blanketed in white and grey, and the sky looked like it hadn’t seen the sun in days.
“This is not normal,” he muttered, rubbing his hands together in a failed attempt to warm them. “No place should hurt to breathe.”
A few steps ahead, Canada paused and turned back, scarf pulled up to his nose, eyes calm behind his glasses. “It’s actually a pretty mild day,” he said. “The wind’s not that bad.”
Cuba stared at him. Slowly. Disbelieving.
“You’re joking.”
Canada tilted his head, genuinely confused. “I’m not.”
Cuba let out a short laugh, half incredulous, half offended. “Man, my fingers feel like they’re about to fall off.”
Canada hesitated, then reached out without thinking, gently taking Cuba’s gloved hands in his own. They were cold. Colder than he’d expected.
“You didn’t tell me you’d get this cold,” Canada said softly.
“I did,” Cuba replied, teeth chattering just slightly now. “You just said I’d ‘get used to it.’”
Canada winced. “Okay… yeah. That one’s on me.”
Cuba huffed, squeezing his hands once before pulling them back, shoulders hunched. He loved Canada. He really did. But right now, he would’ve traded all this snow for a single patch of sun.