I am a horrible person who is incapable of completing things that need to be done. But, in my defense, this idea just wouldn't leave me alone. I just wanted some nice Arthur/Matthew. I hope this pleases someone as much as it pleased me to write it.

Warnings: attempted seductions, sexual content, slash, OOC-ness, language, fail

pairing: one-sided Matthew/Arthur, eventual Arthur/Matthew/Arthur

Matthew isn't quite sure at exactly what point he realized he was head over heels in love with his former guardian. But if forced to choose a certain moment, he'd have to say that it was at the last World Conference.

He had been looking for Arthur, intent on wringing out the details of the Queen's upcoming visit. The Northern nation had been a little flustered since the beginning of the conference and Gilbert ambushing him to try and finagle some maple syrup throughout the morning had only further riled him. After Alfred had accidently sat on him during one of his unfortunate moments of invisibility and then blamed him for showing off his Super Awesome Invisibility Powers (yes, because it was entirely Matthew's fault he tended to disappear from sight on a daily basis and it had nothing to do with the fact Alfred's head was so far shoved up his own ass that he couldn't see anything beyond the walls of his large intestine), it was safe to say that Matthew was in a foul mood.

He had already punched Denmark in the kidney for mentioning the Arctic (that jerk was gonna be pissing blood for at least a week, much to Matthew's glee) and even Russia gave him wide berth when he stormed past the large nation in the hallway.

Finally, the irate blond found his former guardian in the kitchen. The sandy-haired man was standing next to a teakettle, dressed in neatly pressed grey suit, tapping his patent leather shoes impatiently. The older nation's prominent brows were knit together and his sharp eyes were focused on the kettle.

"Wankers don't even know how to make a proper cup of tea." The Brit glowered. "Try to pass off that piss as Earl Grey. Earl Grey my arse."

He had yet to notice his former colony, more focused on glaring at the kettle as though his gaze—which held all the ferocity that the British Empire and a disgruntled Englishman could possess—would make the kettle boil.

Matthew cleared his throat, temper churning in his chest. He knew better than to think that Arthur would've noticed his entrance, but it still annoyed him nonetheless.

I made him tea for centuries, Matthew noted bitterly. But, schooling his features into something softer and more polite than his current expression (which, truly, was something closer to the scowl he wore during a hockey face-off), the nation of Canada cleared his throat.

Instantly, Arthur's posture straightened and he turned to face whoever had interrupted his tea making. But his every-ready frown—the one that told people that just because his knees creaked when he stood and he was an avid knitter, he could still box your ears and make you cry for your mother as he trounced your pansy ass—softened when he saw the blond standing there.

"Oh, hello my boy." He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Then, after a closer examination of Matthew, a vaguely concerned look flitted across his face. "Why, Matthew. You look like a right mess. You could use a cup of tea." And then he turned around, busying himself with pulling out another cup.

"I'm not Alfred, I'm Matthew!" Matthew snapped, automatically. Then he processed what Arthur actually said and a pretty pink blush blossomed on his cheeks when Arthur turned around and raised a furry eyebrow.

"Yes, you are Matthew." He said dryly. "And you still take three spoonfuls of sugar, yes?"

Wordlessly, Matthew just nodded. He thought about asking why and how Arthur remembered him this time and didn't accidently confuse himself with his brother.

He actually knew who I was, Matthew thought, completely bewildered.

"Of course I do, you silly sod." The green-eyed man snorted. "Now be a dear and get some biscuits and we'll have ourselves a proper teatime."

Somewhat dazed, Matthew complied.

When he set the plate of cookies down and Arthur handed him a steaming cup of tea, an affectionate smile on his face, Matthew felt something warm and tingling sprout in his chest and he spent the rest of the conference watching the other nation with wide violet eyes.

Of course, after that, he promptly dismissed the weird feeling as indigestion from the amount of poutine he consumed the night before (Alexandre—or Quebec as he demanded to be called when he was sulking—had made enough to feed an army and started to cry and accuse Matthew of not loving him when the nation only ate two servings). And then he put the incident out of his mind.

But at the G20 Summit, in the midst of his stress-filled near breakdowns, he had suffered the strange sensation again when he rounded a corner and jerked to a halt when he overheard Arthur saying, "Excellent work, Matthew. You always make me proud."

"I'm not Matthew, you limey bastard." Steven had growled. "Its Australia."

There was a beat of silence, before Arthur replied. "Maybe if you were more like Matthew, I'd visit more."

"I don't want you to visit more!"

And the rest of the conversation Matthew tuned out because he was too busy dealing with the giddiness and warmth that bubbled in his stomach. He was so distracted by the new feelings that he almost didn't notice Steven rounding the corner and flailing to the side to avoid hitting his host.

"Crikey, Matt." The man muttered. "Don't creep around like that, mate. You're already easy to miss."

"Sorry." Matthew said, the apology coming easily to him. "I guess I was just surprised. I thought I was the only one Arthur forgot."

His cousin just stared at him incredulously. "You pulling my leg, mate? That bloke adores you. He's always calling me and Z 'Matthew' or telling us what a darling you were." Steven grumbled, no real anger in his words. "We don't even look alike, crazy old man."

And that weird feeling exploded and Matthew had to excuse himself, one hand pressed to his warm face.

It wasn't until the Dream that he realized that maybe his feelings for Arthur were less familial and platonic and more romantic.

Because its not normal to wake up with sticky and damp boxers after a very vivid dream in which your Father nation is dressed like a pirate and you like a wench and he has you bent over the portside wall of a pirate vessel and is jerking you off to "God Save the Queen".

And, while it is true that family relations among nations is any but the mortal definition of normal (or morally sound), but there is a line somewhere buried beneath the crazy and Matthew is fairly sure he and that dream crossed it and never looked back.

However, just like he was taught (by Arthur, no less), he shoves away the dream and the weird feelings, bottling them and then forgetting the jar on a top shelf, and proceeds to keep a stiff upper lip and not a stiff, up-pointing dick.

But his self-control is slowly whittled away with each progressing dream he has (because his subconscious hates him).

And after a particular explicit dream which he'd rather not recount but will admit that he woke up moaning "Rule Britannia", Matthew is gravely concerned and realizes he is attracted to his former colonizer and that, despite popular belief, he is not the normal one in his family.

He's probably only still the innocent one because Alfred and Francis are sluts (by their own admission) and Arthur steadfastly holds masturbation marathons while Matthew at least waits until the third date to round third base.

So after that explicit dream, he does what any desperate boy does when he's faced with a seemingly hopeless crush and rampant hormones and realizes that he can't run to his parents (because one parent is the hopeless crush and the other parent will probably flip shit because he hates the other parent sometimes and secretly wanted to sex-up his son himself).

He goes to big brother.

Matthew goes to Alfred's house.

When Alfred stumbles out of his room, blond hair mussed and blue eyes squinting in the harsh lights of the kitchen and sees Matthew standing at the stove, wearing a frilly Canucks apron, flipping pancakes even as he is surrounded by towering stacks of the breakfast food with teary violet eyes, he blinks blearily and, in a sleep thick voice, asks, "Something wrong, bro?"

"I want to lick whipped cream off Arthur's eyebrows and beg him to bend me over his knee and spank me." Matthew babbles.

Alfred just blinked slowly, chancing a look at the time on the stove.

11 am.

Way to early to deal with his baby brother's daddy issues and forthcoming mental collapse, but Alfred's the goddamn hero and an awesome big brother so he trudges over to the coffee maker, stopping to ruffle Matthew's curling hair.

"You're lucky you're cute." The American muttered.

The grateful smile Matthew gives him is worth him sacrificing his first day off in a longtime.

After Alfred chugs five cups of coffee and Matthew has narrated the whole story to him (including the wet dreams), the blue-eyed nation just leans back in his chair and says, in all seriousness. "And they think you're the normal one?"

"I know." Matthew moaned, burying his face into his hands.

"You want our dad." Alfred said in awe. "Like, you want him in all his tweed and eyebrow-y glory bending you over and just pound—"


"Sorry, sorry." The blond held his hands up in a placating manner. "But, I guess it's not that strange. I mean, you're still so hopelessly tied up in his apron strings. Didn't you still sleep with him until you were 120?"

"That was a stupid rumor Steven started!" Matthew defended heatedly.

Alfred looked skeptical. "Okay, sure. But, seriously, bro. I thought you'd lust after France. Not Grumpy McEyebrowPants. I thought you had better taste. You nailed Ukraine didn't you?" The other nation sighed. "But you choose Arthur to fall in love with? Duuude."

Matthew, trapped in a cyclone of self-pity and 'Dear Lord I'd rather have Arthur instead of Katyusha', just sniffed sadly.

"I came to you because I didn't know what else to do." Matthew began, lips curving into a pout. He sniffled, looking up at Alfred with distraught eyes. "But you're just teasing me."

Alfred's somewhat obnoxious smile began to slip as worry overtook his face. "Hey, hey Mattie. Don't make that face. Of course I'll help you." A somewhat manically cheerful grin rose on his face. "I'll help you seduce Iggy." He laughed loudly. "And before you know it, you two will be newlyweds and humping like rabbits in the janitor's closets during meetings." The older nation slapped the table decisively and darted away, leaving Matthew with the image of him and Arthur going at it like rabbits.

When Alfred came back, he had an armful of magazines. With an exuberant "Voila", the blond let the publications tumble onto the table, their glossy covers staring up and mocking Matthew.

'How to get your man'

'How to pleasure your man'

'Win him over by winter'

Reading over the titles, Matthew suddenly began to wonder if coming to Alfred was the smart thing to do.

When Alfred grabbed a magazine and gestured for Matthew to do the same, before flipping through the thin pages intently and with more concentration than what he displayed during important meetings, Matthew was kind of starting to think that maybe he should've just stayed home and suffered in silence.

Okay, here is my idea. In the strips, Arthur confuses Matt for Alfred once or twice. But he's immediately sorry. I like to think that because Arthur had so many brats over the years, he can't keep the names straight. Alfred, though, was one of the first to get away and is usually the first to annoy the fuck out of Arthur. That is why Arthur tends to confuse Matthew for him (that and they do look alike). But if no one corrected Arthur, he would then guess Matthew. But he also confuses other people for Matthew? Honestly, I just can't understand how one can always forget someone that close.

Next chapter? Shenanigans, people, crazy shenanigans.

So, worth continuing? (Yes, other stuff will get updated soon. -sobs- There's not enough time in the day!)