So. Story two. Canada gets high. And yes, this story makes no sense. Its crack for a reason guys. Also, bad beta-ing and I don't own hetalia or anything. Also, if you think that Canada is ooc in this fic, well, that's nice. I don't really care. See, im so sick of Canada fics where he all like 'oh, look at me, im waif little canada, a girl with a winkle. I don't do anything remotely bad and I love everyone!' because they were fun at first. But now they are just not fun.

Maybe in a week or two I will go back to uke Canada, but right now im in badass Canada mode and im looking to fuck some Russian.

Metaphorically of course. *shifty eyes*

It's good to be home.

I drop into the beanbag beneath my window and sigh, kicking off my shoes and pulling off my tie. The relief is almost orgasmic.

I'm not made for these meetings, I'm sure of it. I'm just not. To much stress and arguing and being ignored… all I want is for everyone to get along! Is that so goddamned hard? Apparently so. And we all know why, right?

Americas a pigheaded toss with ADD and too much power. England is a jerk with a carrot thrust far up his ass. France is a sleaze, Germany is a pervert and Italy is a fucking idiot. And then there is Russia. A creep if there ever was one. With his dopey smile and bigass scarf. Why the scarf, man? Even in summer?

'Hey, look everyone, ima big scary motherfucker with a scarf ima strangle yo' ass with.'

No, that was a poor impression. He would never say that.

And no, I am being harsh. I love those guys, really. It's just that sometimes, I just… I just…

I sigh and poke around my beanbag, looking for the zipper.

Found it, right there under my ass.

The zipper is broken, the whole thing held together with a series of safety pins. There is a perpetual flow of beanbag beans of course, puddleing on the floor beneath, but it isn't to bad. Besides, I have better things to do than fix it up myself. It is a convenient place to store things I want to keep hidden purely because no-one would ever suspect that I would keep stuff in a broken sleeping bag, right? What's the point, it's broken?


So I dig around in there for a bit, pulling out a stack of letters, some tatty mills and boon paper backs and a few dog eared issues of badpuppy… even, for some reason, a couple of copies of hustler. These, however, are NOT what I am looking for. I toss them aside and stick my hand back in the beanbag, searching.

"hah." I smile to myself when I find it, a small case about the size of a digital camera. "Feeling kind of light, eh?" I ask the tin, not really expecting a reply.


We will see what is talking to me in an hour.

Sure enough, the tin is almost empty. Worrying that, actually. Apparently I have been so stressed that my casual use has escalated to regular, weekly indulgences.

I make a note to cease this pattern as I extract a lighter, a packet of maple syrup flavoured rolling paper ('juicy jays' isn't my favourite, but it is easiest to get so whatever) and a small portion of pot, twisting it up into a joint with practiced ease. Before lighting, I stick the tin back in its place and get comfortable in my beanbag. A new leakage of beans, I nudge them underneath with my foot and let myself go limp, joint resting loosely between my lips.

Fuck. My. Life. Right?

I light the thing lazily and toss the lighter on my desk behind me. A roll of grey smoke immediately snakes from the end, and before it could escape I pull it in shallowly. The stuff takes a little to get used to, and I will have to start slowly. Little mouthfuls, becoming deeper mouthfuls, becoming little breaths that eventually become deep draws of silver clouds of relief. At first, the ashy unpleasant taste completely overwhelms the paper; I cough a little but soldier on.

After about three minutes, I begin to relax, getting into a rhythm. A pleasant feeling, rather like being swaddled in cotton and rocked by a warm tide, over takes me. I close my eyes and draw again. And again. And again.

That is enough for now, I decide, setting the still smouldering joint on my windowsill and allowing myself to completely blob in my beanbag. The warm golden light of evening is pouring through my windows, casting squares of rich sweet light onto my plain cream walls. I gaze at the light for a while, captivated by the swirling, fluctuating tones contained in the bronzed hue, the shiver of sunshine splattered all over my walls.

I smile and begin twirling my hair.

Fuck I love my hair!

It's so long and soft and wavy… like silk. And it feels so good between my fingers. I fiddle with it absent mindedly, gaping at the light sliding across my wall and tugging, occasionally letting my eyelids flicker shut. I swear I feel my lashes flutter on my cheeks. They are real long, actually. I must remember to never wear mascara 'cause they would smear it all over my glasses.

Oh yeah my glasses.

I take them off and place them carefully, carefully, on top of the porn magazines that are lying on my floor for some specific reason I can't quite remember.

Meh, who cares? I turn my eyes back to the ceiling and keep on combing my hair. The evening is still waltzing around my room. I wonder idly how I lived before this moment, never really admiring the awesomeness of light. Heh, awesomeness. That is such an Alfred word…

Oh god Alfred. Don't even get me started on that fapper. Always calling me Maddie, you know that? Fucked if I know why, I mean, Maddie is a girls name, right? And my name isn't Maddie. Which is why it's so dumb.

What is my name, anyway? isn't it like, Andrew or something?

No, I'm pretty sure there's an 'M' in there.

Hm. Interesting.

I make a mental note to ask Alfred next time I see him.

Oh yeah, Alfred. Don't even get me started on that fapper.

Unable to remember exactly what it is about him I dislike so much, I try to think of a nice little Ballard to sum up my feelings. 'Cause that's what people do when they have feelings, write a song about them.

"Alfie…" I sung my brothers name softly under my breath. "oh, Alfie, cant you see, I'm in misery…" good tune. Man, I must be like, a musical genius or something. Fancy that, Andrew Dillon, (that was my name right? Well, it is now.) Secret songwriter… where is there a pen and paper on which to record my genius? On the desk. Dang, can't be bothered getting up. "We made a start, now we're apart… something something me…something something something, I sit and wonder why-ai-ai-ai… oh why, you're a jerk, oh Alfie…"

I giggle in delight and snuggle down further in my beanbag. Good beanbag too. All squishy and shit. I once sat on this beanbag at Arthurs and it was all like "hey, get off me!"

And I was like "but papa you invited me to sit on your lap during meetings!"

And the beanbag was like "oh, apologies Matthieu, I mistook you for your brother. Please do sit." And I did and it was as bony as all hell and it kept smelling my hair.

It was fuckin' weird man.

I frown a little and reach for my joint. For some reason, my arm feels real heavy, and the distance between my hand and the window sill is like… big. I can't reach, and that sucked dick.

"Hey… Mary Mary Mary…" I squirm a little backward in my beanbag, stretching my weirdly jiggly arm back to grab the smoke. Shit this is strong. Good stuff. Have to buy more sometime. Good idea. Nice Idea.

Once again, my genius is showing.

And so are my ninja skills too, because I have somehow managed to grab the windowsill.

"Hi, Mary…" I greet my joint when I have it in my hands. "I missed you. You in the mood for some loving?" of course it is, right? Everything needs love. Everything wants to feel a tongue on them, sucking them. Fuck, a blow would be good right now. Actually, a blow would be good anytime.

I make a mental note to ask Alfred later. He knew everything, right?

I poke out my tongue and lick the unlit end of my joint, (see, even stoned I am genius enough to not lick the hot end!) running my tongue around and flicking a little, teasing the thing real good.

"Do you like that?" I run my fingers along it and I'm sure it exhales a delighted little puff of smoke. My lips purse, I take a deep suck and grey floods my brain briefly, before dissolving into a deeper, richer warmth. It feels kinda funny, buzzing around in my skull. When I exhale, I realise that I am emitting smoke too. Like a joint when it comes. Which mine totally just did. There is just one teeny difference between having a joint-style orgasm and a people style orgasm. People style orgasms are a lot more satisfying.

"I just lost my virginity to a joint." I state flatly, waving my hand about uncaringly. "Fuck my life right? Oh my God." I flop backward and have another go. Finally, I am tasting the maple syrup papers. They taste awesome, man. Like God would taste, if he had a flavour. Seriously, if God tasted like this all the angels would be licking his feet all day long. It'd be so awesome. So fucking awesome!

Holy shit, words can't even express how amazing that would be.

"What do you think?" I ask Mary-Jane, who is only about half her original size now. "If God had a flavour? Do I know anyone who knows God so good? Maybe I should ask them." I think for a moment. "I'm pretty sure Italy might know. 'Cause he knows the pope. And the pope is a pretty cool guy to know when it comes to Godly matters." I set down Mary Jane and dig around in my pockets for my cell phone. The battery is almost dead. Sad that. I decide I don't care eventually though, and key through my phonebook until I find Italia. Seeing his picture makes me giggle. He is such a short guy…not to good at the fighting but totally good at art and stuff like that.

He cries a lot. But you'd cry to right, if you were stuck fucking Ludwig. I mean seriously, what kind of a name is 'Ludwig' to call out when you are having sex? Awkward! Not even hot at all. Honestly.

And then I remember that Italy's god hates gays.

Not like my cool badass maple syrup flavoured god, he is an awesome fun loving dude who loves all his guys good, even if they like dick.

The realisation that Italia's god hated him blows my mind and bums me out a little bit. I decide then that I really don't care what a god who hated gay people tasted like, so I chuck my phone onto the windowsill and sigh.

Whatever man.

It is dark outside now, I miss the company of the light on my ceiling and walls, and the dimness is making me feel way dozey.

I relax into the beanbag again, finishing up the joint and stubbing it lazily on the sole of my shoe. I am starting to get hungry, but can't be bothered getting food. I mean, the kitchen is like, downstairs. And it's so comfy here on this beanbag. Oh God this beanbag is incredible!


And it is so nice of it to lend itself to me to sit on too! I wonder what its like to be a bean bag. To be sat on carelessly by some dudes fat ass all the time. It'd suck multiple dicks. Like, more than three.

I was a chair once, if that's something that's kinda like being a beanbag. I didn't mean to be a chair, but I must have been 'cause one moment everything was fine and then the next BAMN! Something or someone fucking massive was sitting on me. And they didn't even notice! It felt bad man, being just some other piece of furniture.

I lean over and nuzzled my beanbag reverently.

"I love you." I assure it. "And I appreciate what you do for me."

Because every chair just wants to be loved.

Especially when whatever the hell is sitting on you is so goddamned heavy you could pop. And they smell like rain and freshly baked rye bread. So good you want to lick them. But you can't cause goddamnit you're a chair.

And THEN they start relaxing into you, and you realise that underneath all the bulk of clothes they are wearing is a kicking body. Like, meltingly manly and fucking orgasmic. You can feel them on top of you and you realise that their soft hair is all up in your face and their amazing broad shoulders are right in front of you and you want to feel them all up but you cant because goddamnit in a tornado of fuck, you're a motherfucking chair.

Fuck being a chair man.


This whole situation isn't helping my mood. I am supposed to think happy thoughts, right? So far, none of this had been particularly happy. Story of my life, right? Lying here alone in a world of misery and despair where no-one gives a hoot about chairs or their rights or anything important like that. Everyone should just relax man, and be young forever. Loving chairs and loving each other and just being awesome together communally and shit like that.

And I would be so good as king of this new world order. Alfred could be like, my throne.

Yeah! That's a good idea! That will put the guy in his place! Of course it will. Man oh man oh man am I smart today.

My bad mood lifts and I resume gazing at the dark ceiling, for some reason I have stopped toying with my hair. I start up again and roll my eyes lazily across the roof above. White, tiled, a little cracked and- HOLY SHIT MY ROOF IS WATCHING ME!

I scramble back in my beanbag, gawping at the face looming out of the dark gaping place the vent usually belonged. A face. A human face. Peeking at me curiously with wide eyes.

"Who are you and why are you in my roof?"

"I've been here a while, Matvey." A small smile. "I come here a lot when you do this, you just never noticed me before."

There is a rustling, the person in my vent is searching for something, obviously. I swallow.

"Ah!" he makes a happy little noise when he finds what he is looking for and shuffles some more, sticking a hand out of the vent and offering me what looked like a bottle. "Found it! So, Matvey. Would you like some vodka?"

"… uh, no. No I don't think… no."


Ceiling Russia. He watches you masterbating. Really.

Those of you who haven't seen ceiling Russia, you should google that shit nao.

Also, the preceeding fic contained drug use (duh) and should not have been read by anyone under 16, over 90, or belonging to a convent. It did not however contain sex. Of the typical variety. Sorry if the intro led you to believe it would.

Once again, I don't own hetalia or anything. I don't own Greece either. Although im flattered you think I would.