Alfred's Hangover Cure Part 1

"Ah, mon ange is getting so pretty," Francis purred, fingers tightening on the snapshots Alfred had brought him.  He flipped through the stack, chuckling under his breath.  "Très beau.  Just like his papa, of course."

"Nah," Alfred laughed.  "Mattie's nothing like you." He was a lot less hairy, for one.  And, well, the eyes were different, too.

Though to be honest, Alfred didn't actually know what Francis's eyes looked like, despite the fact he was having a conversation with him right now.  He forced himself to make eye contact with the older nation, taking in the blue of his eyes, before growing bored and looking away again.  Just as expected, Francis's eyes were completely unremarkable, and wholly forgettable.  Sure, maybe Arthur disagreed with that, but Arthur also believed in unicorns (and flying mint bunnies, whatever the hell that was—though it sounded delicious), so his judgment on the Frenchman's attractiveness really couldn't be trusted.

Besides, it wasn't as though Arthur would ever actually say something like that out loud.  And ultimately, Alfred really didn't care about the on-again-off-again love life of his father figures.

Now Mattie, he had extraordinary eyes.  He'd certainly gotten the prettiest ones in the family.  Violet and thick lashed and absolutely…smart, Alfred decided.  That would be the best word to describe Matthew's eyes.  The younger sibling managed to look both naïve and serene, as well as observant and intellectual.

Maybe it was because he was so often overlooked that Matthew seemed to analyze and remember (excluding his polar bear's name) everything.

"Nothing like me?" Francis pouted, hand placed on his hip.  "Ah, I suppose I am more—what's the word—charismatic than Mathieu."

"I guess," Alfred frowned, hands unconsciously balling into fists.  He was beginning to regret bringing Francis pictures of his brother (especially since he'd taken them without Mattie's knowledge, let alone permission).

"And I am a good deal more," Francis paused, as though translating the appropriate word into English, "Masculine."

Masculine?  Alfred's frown deepened, his muscles tensing all the more.

"What is wrong, chaton?" Francis stepped closer, his smile growing more lewd.  "You look so tense.  Perhaps I should give you a massage, hmm?"

"You're not even manly," Alfred muttered, running his fingers through his hair as he tried to understand why Francis would have thrown in that masculinity comment.

"What does that have to do with—ah, you're still thinking about mon ange." Francis stroked his chin, considering how Alfred could possibly be blown away by this simple fact.  "Mathieu is very…well, he's clearly very pretty, non?"

Alfred could feel his cheeks start to heat up, though he wasn't entirely sure why he was reacting so strongly to these words.  "I…um…I've never really noticed," That was actually a lie.  But it wasn't as though he constantly fixated on his brother's appearance.  It wasn't his fault that while the rest of him was fully capable of invisibility, Matthew's eyes had that awful habit of fixating themselves in his mind.

And his lips, too.  They were just so plump and pink, and the way he licked them whenever he was sorting through paperwork at the meetings was absolutely fascinating.

Oh yeah.  And he had really nice skin, too.  And a great body.  And his hair just framed his heart shaped face absolutely perfectly.

But Alfred really didn't think about that sort of thing very often.

"I mean, I guess he's not ugly or anything…" Alfred really had never referred to his brother as "pretty".  Except for his eyes, of course.

Because girls were pretty!  Not men, and certainly not brothers.

Francis looked at Alfred strangely, before he smiled once more.  "Oui.  Definitely not ugly."

Alfred had been so caught up in his conversation with Francis that he hadn't noticed the smaller man walk over to them, glancing at the pictures in Francis's hand with interest.  "Who is she?" Arthur asked, tone neutral for once, as opposed to irritated.

"She?" Alfred glanced at the Briton, unsure how to feel about the mistake.

"Yes," Arthur's voice sharpened in annoyance, before he pulled the pictures away from Francis, looking over them slowly.  "Did you manage to get a girlfriend?" Green eyes surveyed Alfred for a few moments, before flickering back the pictures, shaking his head.  "No, of course not, she's much too pretty for you."

"That's not my girlfriend," Alfred managed to stammer out, his cheeks completely red now.  "That's my brother!"

"What?" Arthur looked confused for a moment (probably forgetting Alfred even had a brother) before realization dawned on him, his face turning redder even than the American's.

"You raised him longer than I did," Francis laughed.  "Why do you have such trouble remembering mon ange?"

"I-I knew it was Matthew, of course!" Arthur shoved the pictures back into Francis's grip.  "He just…he looked different, that's all."

"He always looks like that," Alfred couldn't help but point out.

"Oui.  He looks very much like a female, does he not?"

Arthur looked like he'd argue for a moment, before sighing.  "Well, he is quite feminine."

"Wait, are you guys saying Mattie's girly?"  Alfred couldn't believe what he was hearing, that they'd say these things about his wide-eyed brother.  Hadn't they ever seen the way Matt played hockey?  That was terrifyingly masculine!  Seriously, they ought to call him Manada, because that was some hardcore shit.  Way manlier than that pussy soccer crap his European allies were so fond of.

"He's just too…well, pretty, for lack of a better word," Arthur rolled his eyes as he noticed Alfred's troubled expression.  "Oh, come now, you've noticed it as well."

"Everyone has," Francis added, before amending, "Everyone who notices him, at least."

Alfred wasn't sure why, but this information troubled him.  Why was everyone ogling his brother?  And even though he knew Matthew was still a mostly forgotten individual in meetings and everything, he couldn't help but see that people were starting to take notice of his younger brother.  What with the Olympics and all, and just for the sheer fact that he was somewhat attractive.

Very attractive, actually.  Not just as a nation (because Canada was definitely scenic, and it still pissed Alfred off that his brother had the better view of Niagara Falls), but as a person.  Damn.  But Alfred really didn't notice, honest!  He didn't think about these things at all.

And he really had never thought of Matthew as feminine.  He really needed to understand how a thought like this could come up.

And all this thinking just happened to make him hungry.  Might as well kill two stones with one bird or whatever.

"Merci for the pictures, Amerique!" Francis called as Alfred ran off, pulling his phone out of his pocket and already planning his Dollar Menu possibilities.

- - -

In the great forgotten nation of Canada, Matthew was staring at the fragmented frame of his glasses.

"Maple," He groaned, the left lens completely busted out, while a large crack dug into the right side.  He set them back down, before falling back on his bed and rubbing his forehead.

"Dios mio, I'm so hungover," Matthew tensed, glancing to his left at the blurred shape of another man in his bed.

Ah, right, he'd gotten drunk with Cuba last night.  Somehow his glasses must have gotten broken in the process.

The process of what, exactly?  Oh…no.  No, they couldn't have—but they were both in bed together, and Matthew's shirt was missing, and the blankets seemed particularly disarrayed.  No!  Not with Cuba!  How drunk must he have been to…?  Oh, this wasn't looking good at all.

"You okay?" The bed shifted, Cuba moving closer to the Canadian.

"O-oui," Matthew whispered, pulling the blankets over his head.  He couldn't see anyway, so the dark was almost comforting.

"Hey, sorry about last night," Matthew heard him laugh, and noticed the heavy cigar scent clinging to his sheets.  "I really, uh, thought you were America."

"H-huh?" Thought he was America?  And then…did that with him?  At least, Matthew was assuming that's what had happened.  Oh god, he'd gone and lost his virginity to his best friend, and not only didn't remember it himself, but Cuba had thought he was with his brother.  Which part of this was the most degrading?

"I still think it was a little uncalled for that you used your hockey stick on me, though."

"What?" Matthew had to look at Cuba then, eyes large despite the fact he couldn't see anything.  "W-what…what happened last night?" He spoke quietly, afraid of offending his friend more than anything else.

So few people noticed the Canadian that he couldn't risk losing any of them by being rude.  Even if he and Cuba had potentially had hockey stick-centric sex last night.  This was just so utterly embarrassing.

Cuba laughed, Matthew surprised as the larger male ruffled his hair.  "You were shitfaced.  I'm not surprised you don't remember."  Matthew held his breath as he waited for his friend to explain.  "We got in a fight." Matthew had never been more relieved to hear about violence in all his life.  Thank god.  Though it was a little sad that he was so influenced by France that he'd immediately thought of sex the moment he'd noticed the broken glasses and the Cuban in his bed.  "Actually," Cuba added, "You kinda kicked by ass."

"Me?" Matthew never fought back, though.  Good lord, he really must have been wasted.

"Yeah, man.  Can't you see my black eye?" Cuba chuckled again.  "Well, I guess you can't.  Sorry 'bout that."

"'s okay," Matthew relaxed in the bed, eyes shut as the adrenaline drained from him.  Now that he didn't have to worry about potential complications in his friendship, all he had to fret over was how blurry the world appeared without his glasses.  Better to just keep his eyes closed for now.  "I have other glasses, eh."

"Want me to get them for you?"

"No thanks," Matthew didn't even consider accepting the other's help.  "Sorry about apparently kicking your ass."

"I'm more proud than angry," The bed squeaked as Cuba stood up.  "You should use that rage against your brother, huh?"

"Yeah right," Matthew smiled, eyes still shut.  "He'd snap me in half."

"I doubt it," Cuba's voice sounded soft, almost angry.  Maybe jealous.  Matthew opened his eyes, but couldn't make out the other's facial expression.

"Yes he could," He laughed.  "He's the most powerful country in the world.  He could grind me into dust."

"But he wouldn't."

Matthew fought through his blind discombobulation to comprehend the meaning of that.  Now that he thought about it, he never really had to worry about Alfred hurting him.  Granted, Alfred's use of chainsaws was a bit worrysome, and he was definitely a literal pain in the balls to play catch with, but it wasn't as though he ever expected American troops to invade his land (again, but even during that war, Alfred had been more concerned with hurting Arthur than with his brother), or even for Alfred to smack him if Matthew's snide commentary starting getting a bit too painful.

Maybe if he wasn't so thrown off with his loss of glasses, Matthew would be more capable of considering the implications of this.

"Don't worry so much about it," Cuba said, unfairly reading his worry while Matthew couldn't even properly analyze himself.  "I should get back home.  See you next week for ice cream?"

"Sounds good," Matthew murmured, a few more pleasantries exchanged (if the Canadian didn't know better, he'd think Cuba was stalling, but that was just preposterous) before his friend left.

He lay in silence for a few moments, trying to will himself back to sleep.  Just as his breathing steadied, he felt something solid and large—well, about the girth of a midsized dog—settle on his chest.

"G'morning, Kumakichi," Matthew didn't open his eyes, even as he started petting his bear's silky fur.

"Who are you?" The bear bumped his nose against Matthew's neck, making the Canadian laugh quietly at the way it tickled.

"Canada," Matthew opened his eyes, trying and failing to force the outline of his bear to become more solid.  "I guess you're hungry, eh?" He sat up, cuddling the bear to his chest as he wiggled out of bed.  The coldness of the floor was comforting, grounding him to something stable as he squinted.

"Are you okay, whoever you are?"

"I'm fine," Matthew held tighter to the bear, trying to steady himself as he walked out of the room.  Despite his blurred vision, it actually wasn't too difficult to exit his sleeping area.  His memory of his home was sufficient at guiding him through the hallway.

And then he reached the stairs.

Matthew bit his bottom lip as he tried to assure himself of the boundaries.  Kumajirou's squirming certainly wasn't helping things.

"Please, Kuma," Matthew held onto him with one hand, stroking his ears reassuringly with the other.  "Just relax, okay?"

"You're the one who needs to relax," The bear countered, arching his neck to encourage the other's petting.  "Your heartbeats are giving me a headache."

Matthew hadn't realized his heart was pounding, and felt guilty.  After all, bears had better hearing than humans, right?

Or maybe that was dogs.

"Sorry, Kumanaji."

"It's okay." The bear did settle down, thankfully.  "Who are you again?"

Matthew sighed, fumbling as he reached for the hand rail.  "Canada," He answered, lifting his left foot to hover over the first step, before lowering himself successfully.  Yes!  He was that much closer to the main floor, and that much closer to his spare glasses, which were hopefully in the downstairs bathroom, if he remembered correctly.  And with his vision restored, he'd be able to eat some pancakes, which would certainly rid him of his headache completely.  Matthew never had hangovers for very long anyway.  It must have been all the maple in his diet.

Or, you know, his inhumanly high alcohol tolerance.  He stepped down a few more steps, gaining a careful rhythm.  Unlike those stereotypes Alfred liked to push about him, Matthew really didn't drink that often.  He was strictly a social drinker.

And since he wasn't anywhere near as social as, say, Francis or Alfred (or a regular human being; such was the curse of invisibility), Matthew only consumed alcohol maybe once every three or four months.

Sure, he tended to drink a lot whenever he got the opportunity, but so what?  That was all part of socialization, really.  Being a nation, he didn't have to worry about liver damage anyway, so what was the point of inhibition?

Kumajirou jumped out of his arms just as Matthew's foot caught on the t-shirt he must have thrown off during his drunken stupor (and left on the stairs, like an asshole).  The bear scampered away as Matthew waved his arms around in desperate circles, feet cushioned by nothing but air as he tumbled down the remaining steps.  His body crunched into the steps, face smashing onto the linoleum floor at the bottom.

The world continued to swim around him even after he'd landed, the pain beginning to fall down on him in tremors of agony.  Matthew whimpered, placing his hands on the ground and pushing himself up into a sitting position, hugging his legs to his chest as he tried to process the pain.

Good thing he was almost downstairs already or that could have really hurt.  His attempt at optimism did nothing to ebb the pain, however, as he rested his head on the back wall.  Kumajirou started to lick his cheek, nudging him with his paw.

"I'll go get you an ice pack, whatever your name is." The bear said after a moment, his nails clicking in the floor as he walked off.

"Thank you," Matthew murmured as the bear left, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, but refusing to fall.  Sure, he put himself through agony whenever he played hockey (or played catch with Alfred), but falling down the stairs seriously sucked.

And it was making his ears ring, too, which was seriously annoying.

The polar bear came in a few seconds later, not carrying an ice pack, but Matthew's cell phone.  He spit it into his lap, making the Canadian wince both at the loudness of the ringtone and at the slobbery goo of polar bear spit.  "Thank you, Kumateru," Matthew wiped off the phone, glancing at the front to try to make out the name of who was calling, before realizing he couldn't see.  He sighed, flipping it open.  "Hello?"

"Mattie!  Took you long enough.  You weren't sleeping, were ya?"

His brother's voice wasn't particularly annoying in tone, but its volume certainly did nothing to help his headache.  Matthew sighed.  "No, I'm awake."

"Good.  Because you Canadians sleep a lot."

When did that become a stereotype?  What the hell was wrong with Americans—or rather, what the hell was wrong with Alfred?  Matthew gritted his teeth, but couldn't bring himself to say anything.

"So, bro, what're you doin' today?"

"Nothing really," Matthew squirmed against the floor, disheartened by the splitting pain traveling up his spine at the simplest of movements.  "Probably going to give Kumanami a bat—"

"Wow, exciting, awesome.  Listen, you wanna go out for some McBreakfast or something?"

Jerk!  Matthew couldn't even answer, though that didn't stop Alfred from continuing on.

"They do have McDonald's in Canada, right?  I'll pay, Mattie, don't worry."

"Of course there's McDonald's up here," Idiot.  "Their pancakes are nasty, Al.  I don't really want—"

"Oh, good, because I'm pretty sure they don't serve breakfast after eleven anyway.  Big Macs it is!  I'm pulling up to your driveway right now, Mattie.  This'll be fun."

"Wait, Al, I'm not interested in—" But Alfred had already hung up.  Matthew cursed under his breath (then again, almost everything he said was under his breath), scratching his nails on the wall as he forced himself to stand up.  The joints of his legs popped loudly, bringing another round of pain (and profanity) to the Canadian, who reached for the shirt which had tripped him and fluttered down with him.

Because if he was being dragged out of the house, it would probably be best if he wasn't topless.  He threw the shirt over his head, combing his hair out with his fingertips as he limped towards the bathroom.  Better find those glasses before Alfred came bursting in.

But of course, this was Matthew's life.  How could anyone expect him to experience even the smallest of miracles?  The door sprang open, Alfred running into the house and grabbing his brother around the stomach, twirling him around in a harsh hug.

"Ready to go, Mattie?" Alfred panted against his ear, the feeling making Matthew blush.

"I-I…a-actually, I need to—"

"I told you, I'm payin'.  You don't need your wallet."

"N-no, I just need to get my—"

"Don't worry about a thing.  The hero's got it all under control."

And with that, Matthew found himself dragged out the door, into his brother's Mustang convertible (AKA the midlife crisis mobile) and scrambling to locate his seatbelt as the American sped down the Canadian roads.