Work Text:
The bathroom mirror was completely fogged up, leaving only a blurry, ghostly outline of Matthew Williams’s reflection. He aggressively wiped a clear circle away with the side of his hand, staring back at the faint, purple-blue circles under his eyes with absolute disdain.
It was another world meeting day. Fantastic.
Matthew squeezed a dollop of toothpaste onto his brush and began to scrub, his thoughts immediately twisting into a knot of irritation at what the afternoon would inevitably bring. His family will be there. Alfred, Arthur, Francis, and himself. He spat into the sink and rinsed, watching the white foam swirl down the drain, wishing he could wash his relation to them away just as easily.
God, I am so sick of them, Matthew thought, a bitter, biting resentment settling heavily in his chest. He was supposed to love them. He was supposed to appreciate Francis’s suffocating, dramatic affection, Arthur’s endless, hypocritical lecturing, and Alfred’s obnoxious, self-centered presence. They were his "family," but Bon sang, he absolutely loathed the idea of sitting in the same room as them today. It was exhausting. It was a never-ending battle of suffocating egos, a screaming match where the air got sucked right out of the room before he could even speak. They were loud, arrogant, and entirely blind to anyone but themselves.
Of course, he would never say that to their faces. He was too well-behaved for that. “Could you all just shut your pathetic mouths for five minutes?” Matthew muttered under his breath, his tone dripping with a quiet, venomous sarcasm as he tested how the harsh words felt on his tongue. A cold, dark smile touched his lips. He knew it was better to keep that thought buried. If he ever actually said it out loud, they would probably just look around the room confused, completely oblivious, and ask who whispered.
Stepping into the shower, the hot water hit his shoulders, but it did little to melt away the building anger of the morning.
He leaned his head against the tile, letting the water run over his hair, his mind turning incredibly cynical about how the meeting would go today. The exact same pathetic script as always, he thought, his jaw clenching. Alfred would slam his hands on the table like a toddler, suggest something entirely idiotic involving a giant superhero, and Arthur would instantly jump up to scream at him like a miserable old man. Francis would chime in with some snide, arrogant comment about English taste, and Germany’s veins would look like they were about to pop out of his forehead trying to play babysitter to a room full of clowns.
And what about Canada? Matthew reached for the shampoo, squeezing the bottle a little too hard. He already knew his own humiliating routine. He would try to raise his hand like a good little diplomat. He would try to introduce a perfectly reasonable, thoroughly researched policy on environmental trade. And Germany, or maybe even his own narcissistic twin brother, would blink, look right through his chair, and ask, "Wait, who's this guy? When did he get here?"
It didn't just prick at his pride anymore. It made him furious. He was sick of being a ghost to the people who were supposed to know him best.
But as he turned off the faucet and stepped out, snapping a towel around his waist, Matthew had to swallow the bitter pill of his own reality. Despite how much he despised their arrogance and how much the looming threat of being completely invisible enraged him, he still looked forward to the meetings. He hated himself for it. He grabbed his comb, aggressively working through the damp tangles of his hair, forcing his stubborn, gravity-defying curl into its proper place. Because as much as they infuriate me, it gets lonely in Ottawa, he admitted bitterly to himself. It is a big, beautiful country, but it was a quiet, isolating one. The world meetings were chaotic and filled with people he wanted to shake by the shoulders, but it was the only time he got to be around others. To Matthew, it was a frustrating reminder that he was part of the world. Even if they chose to ignore him, he saw every single one of their flaws, and there was a strange, spiteful comfort in just being in the room to watch them make fools of themselves.
Down in the kitchen, the hardwood floorboards were cold against his bare feet. A heavy, white furry mass was already waiting expectantly by the refrigerator, aggravating him before the day had even truly begun.
"Hungry, big guy?" Matthew asked, his voice a flat, unamused murmur as he reached into the cupboard for a can of salmon.
The polar bear blinked up at him, his dark eyes completely vacant. "Who are you?"
Matthew let out a sharp, annoyed sigh, slamming the lid down and dumping the fish into the bowl. "I'm Canada. I'm Matthew. Your owner. The guy who buys your food every single day."
Kumajirou didn’t answer, already happily digging into his breakfast. Matthew found a dark, twisted comfort in the bear's reliability–at least his pet was consistent in his ignorance, unlike his family who only noticed him when they needed a scapegoat.
For his own breakfast, Matthew kept it simple. He poured a glass of orange juice and made a tall stack of fluffy pancakes, drowning them in a generous, rich layer of authentic maple syrup. Real syrup, he thought with a smug, judgmental smirk, not the chemical, high-fructose corn syrup trash Alfred pours over everything like a child. He ate quickly, his eyes tracking the clock on the microwave. The meeting was set for 1:00 PM, and he refused to give them a reason to criticize him for being late.
Heading back to his bedroom, Matthew opened his wardrobe with a sharp jerk. He pulled out a crisp, white button-down shirt, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders and fastening the buttons one by one. Next came the tie, then his pressed trousers, and finally, his red uniform jacket. He smoothed down the lapels, checking his reflection one last time. Slipping his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, he adjusted them until the world came into sharp, unforgiving focus.
He grabbed his briefcase, checking inside to make sure his notes were perfectly organized. They were flawless. Not that any of those idiots will actually read them, he reminded himself bitterly, but a proper nation stays prepared, unlike my brother.
"I'm leaving, Kumajirou," Matthew snapped, grabbing his keys off the counter.
The bear looked up from his empty bowl, licking his chops. "Who?"
"Canada," Matthew muttered under his breath, his voice laced with annoyance as he opened the front door and stepped out into the crisp afternoon air. "Just Canada."
He pulled the door shut behind him with a firm click, took a deep, angry breath, and prepared himself to face his insufferable family.
༄˖°..ೃ࿔
The drive to the conference center was short, which was the only tolerable part of Matthew’s morning. On most world meeting days, he was a chaotic, irritated mess, usually running late because he had inevitably forgotten to set his alarm to the correct timezone. Today, however, the roads were clear, and his clock had actually cooperated.
He pulled his car into the parking lot, turned off the engine, and just sat there for a few minutes. Through the windshield, he watched the early arrivals filter out of their vehicles and head toward the entrance. He saw the sharp, familiar silhouettes of other nations—some laughing, some already arguing. Matthew gripped the steering wheel, his jaw clenching as he stared at them. Look at them, he thought bitterly. So loud, so self-absorbed. They don't even care who is watching. He took a deep, steadying breath, forcing himself to calm down. Just walk in. Don't let them get under your skin today. You have every right to be here.
With a final, sharp nod to his reflection in the rearview mirror, he stepped out into the crisp air and headed for the doors.
The building itself was a massive, imposing structure of modern architecture—all towering glass panels, polished concrete, and brushed steel. It felt clinical, cold, and entirely fitting for the fake politics that happened inside. As Matthew walked down the grand, high-ceilinged hallway, the sheer scale of the place usually made him feel small, but today it just annoyed him. He passed well-known nations who walked with a distinct, unshakeable confidence that bordered on arrogance. He brushed past the elegant, laughing form of France, ignoring the urge to roll his eyes. He nodded politely to a stern-faced Switzerland and practically gritted his teeth as a boisterous group of South American nations walked by, completely looking through him. To them, he was just another blur in the background. Idiots, he thought, his chest tightening with resentment. Keep walking. See if I care.
Navigating the labyrinth of hallways, Matthew finally found the main meeting room. He slipped inside, grateful that it was still mostly empty, and found his designated spot. He placed his briefcase down, aggressively setting up his notepad, his freshly sharpened pencils, and his meticulously organized documents.
When he looked up at the clock, he realized he still had plenty of time before the conference would actually begin. His hands felt a little restless, so he decided to head over to the break room to get away from the growing noise of the early arrivals.
The break room was large and well-stocked, featuring a massive, high-end espresso and coffee machine, rows of snacks, a refrigerator, and anything else a tired diplomat might need to survive a six-hour argument. Matthew approached the coffee machine, set up a mug, and slammed the brew button. As the dark liquid began to trickle down, the rhythmic, dripping sound left him alone with his own thoughts for a little too long.
His mind began to wander back to his invisibility, the anger fading into a familiar, heavy ache. Why do I even bother setting up early? he thought, staring blankly at the machine, his resentment souring into a deep, sinking loneliness. Alfred’s just going to talk over me anyway. Arthur will ignore my hand. I could probably sit in the back row and no one would notice. The thoughts began to weigh heavily on his chest, a dark, suffocating feeling that clouded his vision. He didn't even notice the coffee machine beep, signaling that it had finished brewing.
Blinking out of his trance, Matthew blindly grabbed his piping hot mug and turned around, his mind still entirely consumed by the heavy thoughts. He wasn't paying attention to where he was going. He took three steps out into the hallway, his eyes cast downward.
Smack.
Matthew collided head-on with a solid, unyielding wall of a chest. The impact sent the hot coffee sloshing violently out of the mug, splashing all over Matthew’s crisp shirt and soaking into the front of the person he had bumped into.
"Ah! Maudit!" Matthew’s bitter facade completely shattered as he instantly freaked out, yelping loudly as the searing heat of the liquid burned through his clothes. He stumbled backward, dropping his mug, which shattered against the tile floor.
It was Germany.
Ludwig had been caught completely off guard. He hadn't been paying attention either, his mind fiercely locked in his own inner thoughts. I cannot believe Gilbert, Germany thought irritably, his jaw clenched as he remembered the text message his brother had sent him just minutes prior. How does he manage to lose his passport at the airport every single time? I have to manage an entire European coalition, and I am still babysitting my own—
Suddenly, a force hit him, followed by a shock of burning liquid soaking right through his uniform shirt.
Germany flinched at the sharp bite of the heat, hissing through his teeth. Verdammt! It stung, but decades of military discipline instantly kicked in. He didn't care about the stain–his immediate, dominant instinct was to ensure that whoever had run into him wasn't badly hurt.
He looked down, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he took in the flustered figure before him. America? Ludwig thought, his brain automatically registering the sandy hair and the glasses. No... too pathetic looking. America would be laughing or yelling. Germany blinked, adjusting his vision. Ah. Canada. Matthew.
"Are you alright?" Germany asked, his deep, booming voice naturally carrying a tone of strict authority, though he tried to soften it. "Did the liquid burn your skin?"
But Matthew wasn't listening. His earlier anger at the world completely vanished, replaced by a state of absolute, sheer panic. His eyes were wide behind his glasses as he looked at the massive wet stain on his own chest, and then at the identical, steaming stain right over Germany's heart. Oh my god, Matthew’s internal monologue screamed, completely spiraling into terror. I just spilled boiling coffee on Germany. The definition of efficiency and discipline. He looks like he could snap me in two with his bare hands. He’s going to declare war on me. Or worse, he’s going to make me clean his boots. Honestly, with those arms, he could probably make me his bitch... wait, what am I thinking? Stop it, Matthew, focus!
Matthew quickly snapped out of his bizarre, unprofessional trance, his face flushing a bright, embarrassed red. He realized Germany was actually talking to him, and the towering nation was extending a large, gloved hand toward him to help him steady his footing.
Trembling, Matthew took the offer, using the grip to firmly stand on his own two feet. The sheer intimidating presence of the man usually made him angry, but right now, the unexpected kindness was making his heart do weird, fluttering things instead. He immediately yanked his hand back, bowing his head frantically.
"I am so, so sorry, Germany! I wasn't looking where I was going, I-I was completely distracted, and now your uniform is ruined, and I can pay for the dry cleaning, or I can find some napkins right now, I am incredibly sorry!" Matthew apologized repeatedly, his voice cracking slightly as the words tumbled out in a panicked, desperate rush.
Germany sighed, looking down at his ruined shirt, then back at the trembling Canadian. He held up a hand to stop the torrent of apologies. "Es ist gut, Canada. It is just coffee. I have a spare uniform in my locker. Ensure you put some cold water on your own burns."
With a stiff, professional nod, Germany brushed past him, his heavy boots echoing down the corridor as he walked away to change.
Matthew was left standing alone in the hallway, staring at the puddle of coffee and shattered ceramic at his feet. His sharp, bitter anger from the morning was completely gone, replaced by a profound, sinking wave of humiliation and a strange, terrifying warmth in his chest that made him feel completely horrible about what he had just done.
Matthew scrambled back into the break room to yank a massive fistful of paper towels from the dispenser, practically tearing the holder off the wall in his haste. He rushed back out to the hallway and dropped to his knees, frantically scrubbing at the brown puddle on the linoleum. He carefully swept the sharp, broken shards of ceramic into a neat pile, his hands trembling violently.
He was absolutely furious with himself.
What is wrong with you? Matthew screamed at himself internally, wiping the floor with aggressive, angry strokes. You stupid, careless idiot. You finally manage to arrive early for once, and what do you do? You completely humiliate yourself before the meeting even starts. Anyone else in Germany’s position—especially given the crushing pressure of managing an entire global conference—would have ripped into him. They would have rightfully lost their mind at the clumsy ghost who just ruined their uniform. But Germany hadn't yelled. He had just looked down, calmly checked to see if Matthew was burned, and brushed it off.
The fact that Germany had been so incredibly decent about it only made Matthew hate his own stupidity even more.
But as he picked up the last piece of the shattered mug, his mind took an unexpected, dangerous turn. He paused, a paper towel clutched tightly in his fist, as he pictured Germany’s towering frame standing over him. He remembered the heavy, stretching fabric across those broad shoulders, and the deep, rumbling tone of strict authority that had suddenly softened just for him. A man that commanding, that uncompromisingly disciplined, showing a flash of genuine, protective care to him?
A sudden, intense jolt of heat zapped straight down Matthew's spine. His face burned a sudden, deep crimson as his thoughts took a sharp, agonizingly unprofessional turn. Oh, god. Curse Francis and his perverted, corrupting influence! Matthew thought, burying his face in his hands as his imagination immediately began running wild.
He could practically hear his adoptive father’s voice lecturing him about the 'hidden passion of a stoic man.' The sheer contrast between Germany’s terrifying outer shell and that brief, protective warmth made Matthew's heart race a little faster than it ever should have for a coworker. He was furious at himself for being so pathetic. Someone gives him the bare minimum amount of respect and safety, and suddenly he's having scandalous thoughts on the floor of a public hallway.
A sudden wave of genuine excitement pooled in his stomach before he could stop it. Realizing exactly where his brain was going, Matthew gasped quietly and quickly crossed his legs, pulling his red jacket down tightly to cover himself up in absolute, sheer mortification.
Stop it! Stop it right now, Matthew! he scolded himself, his teeth grinding in self-directed anger. He hated how easy he was. He hated how a single act of kindness from a terrifyingly attractive European nation could completely dismantle his dignity.
Taking a few deep, rattling breaths, he desperately forced the blush to recede, desperately praying that no one would walk by and see him having a full-blown crisis over a spilled cup of coffee.
༄˖°..ೃ࿔
Germany marched back into the conference hall, sliding into his seat with mere seconds to spare. He had managed to find a clean uniform in his locker, but it was an older set. Over the past few months, he had put on a significant amount of lean muscle weight through a grueling new training regimen. As a result, the fabric stretched taut across his chest and shoulders, the seams feeling uncomfortably tight every time he leaned forward.
Still, Germany pushed the discomfort aside. He sat perfectly straight, cleared his throat, and slammed his gavel onto the wooden podium to bring the chaotic room to a sudden halt.
"The meeting will now come to order," Germany announced, his deep voice cutting through the noise.
For the next two hours, the assembly went almost entirely according to plan. Germany kept everything running in a smooth, orderly manner, ruthlessly shutting down Alfred's ridiculous tangents and firmly ignoring Francis and Arthur's petty bickering. It was standard procedure.
The only thing out of the ordinary was Germany's own focus.
Throughout the presentations, Germany found himself sneaking constant, subtle glances toward the middle rows. His gaze would naturally sweep across the room to check on the delegations, technically looking past Canada to focus on the nations sitting nearby. There was supposed to be nothing of interest in that particular chair. Yet, strangely, Germany's eyes began to linger on Matthew for just a fraction of a second longer than he anticipated.
Germany watched him quietly take notes. Canada wasn't bad looking at all, Germany realized, observing the soft curve of the younger nation's jaw and the neat way his hair framed his face. He was just usually not much to look at because he deliberately kept a low profile. His personality was notoriously meek, a quiet presence that easily went unnoticed in a room full of screaming superpowers.
But now, after their sudden collision in the hallway, Germany couldn't help himself. He found his mind drifting away from the trade reports, wondering more and more about the quiet Canadian. He wondered what Matthew was thinking behind those glasses, and why someone with such a vast, powerful territory carried himself like a ghost.
༄˖°..ೃ࿔
Down in his seat, Matthew's pen was flying across his legal pad so fast the tip practically threatened to tear through the paper. He didn't even know what he was writing anymore–his hand was just moving on pure, panicked instinct.
He knew. He absolutely knew Germany was staring at him.
Every time Ludwig’s sharp, analytical gaze swept across the middle rows, Matthew felt a literal jolt of electricity zap straight down his spine. It did not help with his humiliating excitement at all. In fact, it was making everything a hundred times worse. Matthew’s heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, and a persistent, dangerous heat kept blooming in his lower stomach, refusing to die down.
Oh my god, oh my god, please stop looking over here, Matthew’s internal monologue screamed in utter frenzy, his eyes glued to his notepad while his face burned a spectacular, unmistakable shade of scarlet. He was absolutely furious with himself for reacting this way, but the secondary wave of intense annoyance was directed entirely at the man at the podium.
This is entirely his fault, Matthew thought savagely, digging his pen into the paper. Screw him and his stupidly tight uniform. Did he seriously have to wear a shirt that basically displays his entire chest to the room? It’s completely unprofessional. He’s doing this on purpose.
From his peripheral vision, Matthew could see exactly how tight that older uniform was on Germany. The fabric was practically straining over the man’s broad chest and bulging shoulders, looking incredibly restrictive. And those cold, steel-blue eyes—whenever they lingered on Matthew for that extra, agonizing second, it didn't feel like Germany was just glancing at a coworker.
To Matthew's completely compromised, hyper-aroused mind, it felt like those intense blue eyes were ruthlessly undressing him right there in the middle of the assembly. It felt heavy. It felt deliberate.
He has absolutely no right to look at me like that, Matthew grumbled to himself, his chest tight with a mix of flustered arousal and genuine irritation. He’s the one who was nice in the hallway, he’s the one who didn’t yell, and now he’s the one staring me down like I’m a puzzle he wants to tear apart. If he would just act normal, my brain wouldn’t be melting right now!
Matthew frantically shifted in his leather chair, squeezing his knees together to desperately hide the physical evidence of his excitement. He bit his lower lip, trying to force his mind back to a professional headspace, but every time he tried to blame his own weakness, his mind looped right back to blaming Ludwig. He’s ruining my concentration. He’s ruining my notes. I hate him for making me this easy.
But every time he tried to convince himself to be angry, he would look up, only to find those piercing blue eyes locked onto him yet again, sending another wave of helpless, trembling heat rushing straight through his body.
༄˖°..ೃ࿔
The second Germany tapped his gavel to officially dismiss the meeting, Matthew didn't even wait for the echoes to fade. He snatched up his perfectly packed briefcase and practically bolted out of the room, keeping his eyes glued to the floor as he made a mad dash for the nearest restroom.
He slipped into the farthest stall, locked the door, and sank down onto the closed toilet seat.
Matthew buried his face in his hands, his breath coming in shallow, ragged pants. He was absolutely furious with himself. You total embarrassment, he scolded himself savagely, his thoughts spinning into a dark whirlwind of self-deprecating shame. What is wrong with you? He was just looking past you. You sat there for two hours turning into a flustered, useless mess because a guy wore a tight shirt. You completely imagined the whole thing. He hated how weak he was, hated how easily his dignity crumbled, and most of all, he hated that he had let his own pathetic imagination hijack his brain during a professional conference.
Suddenly, the heavy bathroom doors swung open, the echo of footsteps bouncing off the tiled walls. Matthew went completely rigid, holding his breath as two pairs of feet walked into the room.
A cheerful, animated voice instantly filled the space. It was Feliciano.
"Ah, please, Doitsu! Just a quick dinner!" Italy whined, the sound of rushing water echoing as someone turned on the sink faucet. "There is this amazing little trattoria just down the street, and they have the absolute best tortellini! You've been working so hard all afternoon! Besides, you looked so distracted during the meeting today. You kept staring off into the middle rows like you were trying to solve a math problem. Was Japan's report that confusing?"
In the dark stall, Matthew's heart stopped. He gripped the edges of the toilet seat, his knuckles turning white as he waited for the response.
"I was not distracted," Germany replied, his tone suddenly sharpening with a hint of defensive frustration. "I was... monitoring the room. It is my job to ensure everyone is paying attention."
"Veh~ if you say so! But you usually look at America when he's being loud, not at the empty chairs next to him," Italy chuckled warmly, completely oblivious to the weight of his words. "Come on, let's get food!"
"No, Feliciano," Germany sighed heavily, the sound of paper towels being ripped from the dispenser cutting through the room. "Go on ahead without me. I need to clear my head, and then I am heading straight back to my hotel to finish the budget sheets."
"Aw, fine... but you're missing out on great pasta!" Italy sighed, his footsteps fading out first.
Sitting in the dark stall, Matthew felt a cold, crushing weight drop directly into his stomach, instantly followed by a massive surge of anger directed entirely at his own foolishness. Monitoring the room, he thought bitterly, blinking back hot tears of sheer humiliation. Of course he was. He was just looking at empty chairs. He didn't even see you.
He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping his head in his hands, mentally tearing himself to shreds. How could you be so incredibly stupid, Matthew? How could you sit there and convince yourself that someone like Germany—someone powerful, strict, and important—was actually looking at you? You’re Canada. You’re invisible. You’re the guy people walk right through.
Feliciano was closer to Germany than Matthew could ever hope to be. Italy was charming, vibrant, attractive, and genuinely fun to be around. He brought light into a room, whereas Matthew just blended into the wallpaper. Matthew cursed himself for letting his ridiculous, desperate hopes get up over something so painfully unrealistic. He felt pathetic for being so starved for attention that a basic glance from a coworker had turned him into a pining, anxious wreck.
He listened to the heavy bathroom doors swing open and click shut once more as Germany finally left, leaving Matthew completely alone in the quiet, sterile room, drowning in an intense wave of self-hatred and heavy, lonely thoughts.
After a few minutes of intense self-deprecation, Matthew finally forced himself to unlock the stall door, wash his face with freezing cold water, and leave the building. The grand hallway was mostly empty now, the bustling crowds of nations having cleared out to find dinner. He clutched his briefcase tightly against his chest like a shield, desperate to escape into the safety of his car.
His quick getaway was abruptly cut short the moment he stepped through the glass exit doors.
There, sitting on a concrete bench just outside the building under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, was Germany. Ludwig had unbuttoned the top collar of his tight uniform jacket, his head tilted back slightly as he smoked a cigarette. The wisps of white smoke curled upward into the cool evening air, catching the light.
Matthew froze on the pavement, his breath catching in his throat. He couldn't help but stare for a long, vulnerable second before his mind slammed back into reality.
As if sensing his presence, Germany turned his head. His sharp blue eyes cut through the dim light, locking directly onto Matthew. Instead of looking through him, Germany’s stoic expression softened, and he flashed Matthew a small, genuine smile, accompanied by a polite wave of his hand.
Suddenly, a massive surge of anger flared up in Matthew's chest, right alongside his usual blush. How dare he? Matthew thought bitterly, his jaw clenching as he stared back. How dare he smile and wave at me now after making me feel like a complete fool all afternoon? He’s the one who was nice in the hallway, he’s the one who kept staring, and now he’s acting like we have some sort of secret connection when he was just 'monitoring the room.' I am so sick of being played with.
Matthew raised his hand to give a stiff, unamused nod, fully intending to keep walking and ignore the gesture.
But then, Germany did something entirely unexpected. He dropped his cigarette, crushed it beneath his heavy boot, and actually stood up from the bench. He didn't just nod and let Matthew pass–he began walking directly toward him.
Matthew’s heart did a violent, panicked flip in his chest, his angry thoughts instantly scattering like leaves in the wind.
Germany stopped just a few feet away, his towering frame casting a long shadow over Matthew under the streetlamp. Up close, the older uniform looked even tighter across his broad shoulders, but Germany didn't look commanding or intimidating right now. Instead, he looked... remarkably tense. He cleared his throat loudly, his hand coming up to nervously adjust his already unbuttoned collar.
"Canada," Germany started, his deep voice carrying a strange, hesitant edge that Matthew had never heard before. "I... I wanted to speak with you before you left. Regarding the meeting today."
Matthew blinked, utterly caught off guard. His defensive anger completely evaporated, replaced by a wave of sheer confusion. "The... the meeting?" he squeaked, his voice cracking slightly.
"Ja," Germany said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looked down at Matthew, then cracked his knuckles, looking uncharacteristically flustered. "Your... your environmental trade proposal. The notes you brought. I noticed you were writing quite frantically throughout the assembly. I wanted to apologize if the... noise from the other delegations made it difficult for you to present your ideas. It was a very unruly session today. More so than usual."
Matthew stared at him, his mouth opening slightly. Germany wasn't being strict. He wasn't being authoritative. He was being incredibly awkward. The towering, military-minded nation was practically fidgeting, his sharp blue eyes darting to the side as he struggled to find the right words.
"Oh," Matthew murmured, the last traces of his frustration completely melting away under the sheer shock of Germany’s unexpected niceness. "No, it's... it's fine. I'm used to the noise. Alfred and Arthur always... you know."
"Still," Germany countered quickly, taking a small step closer before instantly stiffening, as if realizing he was invading Matthew's space. He cleared his throat again, a faint, dark flush creeping up his own neck. "It is not an excuse for poor leadership on my part. I should have ensured the middle rows had proper floor time. Your input is... valuable, Matthew. I do not wish for your reports to go unnoticed."
Hearing his human name come out of Germany’s mouth in that soft, awkward tone sent a terrifyingly warm jolt of excitement straight down Matthew's spine. He completely forgot to be angry at himself or at the world. All he could focus on was the fact that Germany—the most disciplined nation in the world—was standing right here, acting just as nervous and flustered as he was, just to make sure Canada felt heard.
"Thank you, Ludwig," Matthew managed to say, offering a small, genuinely shy smile. "That... that actually means a lot."
Germany blinked, his stoic facade cracking just enough to let a soft, relieved smile slip through. "Good. Es ist gut. Then... I will see you at the next session. Put cold water on that coffee stain."
With a stiff, almost robotic nod, Germany turned on his heel and marched toward his car, his posture perfectly straight but his quick pace giving away his lingering nerves.
Matthew stood entirely frozen on the pavement for a long moment, his face burning a spectacular shade of crimson. He didn't run to his car this time. He walked, his head spinning in a completely different, dizzying direction as he unlocked his door and climbed inside, the leather seat suddenly feeling a whole lot warmer than it had that morning.
༄˖°..ೃ࿔
Matthew’s drive home felt completely surreal. The bitter, suffocating anger that had choked him in the bathroom was entirely gone, replaced by a dizzying, lightheaded rush of adrenaline. He navigated the dark roads on pure autopilot, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. He called me Matthew, his brain repeated in a continuous, frantic loop. He didn't just look past me. He walked up to me. He apologized. He knew I was writing notes.
The sheer shock of Germany being so uncharacteristically awkward and vulnerable completely shattered Matthew's perspective, leaving him an absolute, trembling mess by the time he pulled into his driveway.
The moment he unlocked his front door and stepped into the quiet warmth of his house, he was met by the familiar, heavy white furry mass waiting at his boots. Kumajirou blinked up at him with vacant dark eyes.
"Who are you? Give me food," the bear grunted.
Matthew let out a breathless, borderline hysterical chuckle, dropping his keys onto the counter with a loud clatter. "I'm Canada, big guy. I'm Matthew. The guy whose name Germany actually remembers."
He practically floated into the kitchen, popping open a can of salmon and dumping it into the bear's bowl. He didn't have the focus or the energy for a real meal, so he quickly boiled some water and made a simple bowl of Kraft mac and cheese, the bright artificial orange noodles a stark contrast to his racing, complicated thoughts.
Sitting down at his small dining table, Matthew stirred his noodles, his chest practically bursting with the need to talk to someone. He looked over at his pet, who was already loudly inhaling his fish, and began to ramble at a mile a minute.
"I don't know what just happened, Kumajirou," Matthew gasped, leaning his chin on his hands as his face flushed a brilliant crimson all over again. "I was so mad! I was sitting in the bathroom stall, and I heard him tell Italy that he was just 'monitoring the room.' I felt like the biggest, most pathetic idiot in the world for thinking he was staring at me. I was furious at myself, and I was so annoyed at him for messing with my head! But then... when I walked out to the parking lot, he didn't just wave. He got up from his bench. He walked right up to me!"
Kumajirou paused his chewing for a split second, tilting his fish-covered snout upward to listen.
"And he was so awkward, Kuma!" Matthew whispered fiercely, gesturing frantically with his fork. "The great, terrifying Germany was fidgeting and cracking his knuckles! He apologized to me because the meeting was too loud for my trade proposal. He said my input was valuable. And then... then he called me Matthew. He used my human name in this incredibly soft, nervous voice. All my anger just entirely evaporated. I couldn't even stay mad if I wanted to! My heart was beating so fast I thought it was going to burst right out of my uniform. What does this mean? He wasn't just monitoring the room, right? A strict guy like him doesn't get that flustered just to talk about an environmental report!"
Kumajirou blinked at Matthew, looking surprisingly contemplative for a bear whose face was entirely covered in salmon grease.
"If a scary guy gets stupid and nervous around you, he likes you," Kumajirou mumbled, his deep voice muffled. "You should bring him a maple leaf next time. Or a sausage."
Before Matthew could even process the bizarrely accurate food-motivated—advice, the polar bear lowered his head right back into his bowl, completely tuning out the world to focus on his dinner.
Matthew stared down at his orange mac and cheese, a massive, helpless smile spreading across his face. His heart was still doing acrobatics in his chest, and his inner monologue was a chaotic maze of exciting, unprofessional thoughts, but for the first time in a very long time, the quiet of his Canadian home felt incredibly warm.
Matthew moved through his nightly routine, his body going through the familiar motions while his mind remained firmly stuck on the German nation. Instead of the crushing weight of depression or the usual sting of his invisibility, a dizzying, lightheaded rush of adrenaline carried him from room to room.
He walked over to the kitchen counter, picked up his daily prescription bottles, and took his medication for his anxiety and depression. He swallowed the pills with a quick, quiet sip of water, staring down at his reflection in the polished granite. Usually, this moment felt like a somber reminder of his inner struggles, but tonight, his reflection looked completely different. His cheeks were still dusted with a faint, stubborn pink, and his eyes were wider, brighter.
Heading into the bathroom, he squeezed a dollop of mint toothpaste onto his brush, scrubbing away the remaining taste of the Kraft dinner while staring blankly at the clean mirror. He spat, rinsed, and stripped out of his ruined red uniform jacket and stained shirt, tossing them into the laundry hamper.
Stepping into the bathroom shower, he turned the handle as far to the hot side as it would go. The steaming water beat down on his shoulders, but it did absolutely nothing to wash away the intense, fluttering heat currently pooling in his stomach. He stood there for a long time, letting the bathroom fill with thick white fog, his forehead resting gently against the cold tile as he let out a breathless laugh.
No matter what he did—whether he was rinsing the soap from his arms or pulling on a comfortable, oversized pair of fleece pajamas—Germany simply refused to leave his mind. Every time Matthew closed his eyes, he didn't see the chaotic blur of his own self-hatred. Instead, he saw those piercing steel-blue eyes softening under the streetlamp, and he heard that deep, rumbling voice stuttering over the words, “Your input is... valuable, Matthew.”
Seeking refuge from his looping, hyperactive thoughts, Matthew finally walked into his bedroom and crawled under the covers.
He let out a long, shuddering breath, looking around his bedroom to ground himself. The space was a veritable sanctuary of his national identity, overflowing with an immense, sprawling collection of maple-themed items. A heavy, hand-knitted blanket completely patterned with large, vibrant red maple leaves was draped comfortably over the foot of his bed. On his oak dresser sat a collection of beautifully carved wooden maple leaves, resting alongside rows of decorative, leaf-shaped glass bottles filled with varying shades of amber syrup. Even his curtains bore a subtle, embroidered red leaf trim along the edges, and a soft, maple-scented candle sat unlit on his desk, throwing a faint, comforting sweetness into the air.
Tonight, these symbols didn't just prove he existed to a world that ignored him. They felt like a warm embrace, echoing the strange validation he had just received from the most disciplined nation alive. Germany hadn't seen a ghost–he had seen Matthew.
His heart rate still wouldn't settle, but for once, it wasn't from fear. Needing some form of release, Matthew reached over to his nightstand and pulled his phone off the charger.
He unlocked the screen, dialed down the brightness to protect his aching eyes, and opened up his anonymous online forum. He opened his previous draft and completely tore it apart, his thumbs flying across the keyboard as he poured his frantic energy into a massive, breathless update.
I spilled boiling hot coffee on a very strict, intimidating coworker today, he wrote, the text glowing against the dark mode screen. He is usually incredibly professional and terrifying, but he was surprisingly nice about it and checked to see if I was hurt. Later during our office meeting, I swear he kept staring at me all day, and it made me feel so intensely flustered. But then I overheard him tell someone else that he was just 'monitoring the room' and ensuring everyone was paying attention. I felt like a total idiot for getting my hopes up. But tonight, when I left the building, he was sitting alone on a bench. He looked right at me, smiled, and waved. He got up from his bench and walked right up to me. He was fidgeting and cracking his knuckles, and he apologized because the meeting was too loud for my report. He told me my input was valuable, and then... he used my name. My actual name. Almost everyone forgets my name. I completely forgot how to breathe. I'm still freaking out in bed. What do I even do at the next meeting?! Am I completely losing my mind, or is there a chance he actually notices me? How do I stop overthinking this?
He hit post, a massive, giddy breath escaping his lips. As he settled back against his pillows, a heavy weight suddenly shifted at the bottom of his mattress.
Kumajirou padded into the bedroom, his large, heavy paws thudding softly against the carpet. The polar bear climbed onto the bed with a low, rumbling sigh, turning around in a circle twice before curling his massive, fluffy white body right up against Matthew’s side.
Matthew smiled widely, the residual tension in his chest completely melting into pure, comforting safety. He slid his free hand deep into the bear's thick, warm fur, scratching the spot right behind his ears. The rhythmic, steady rise and fall of Kumajirou’s breathing sent a wave of soothing, heavy warmth through the sheets. Between the cozy weight of his pet and the straining, dimming light of his phone screen, Matthew’s eyelids finally began to grow heavy. Giving up on checking for replies, he locked his phone, slipped it safely under his pillow, and let himself drift off to sleep.
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