A/N: This is pretty much a drabble. I don't know what else to call it. But Hetalia is my current obsession (and not one that's likely to change), and this reflects that obsession. I wrote this during the bathroom break halfway through a psychology class. It may continue if the whim strikes me, it may not. Either way, please do enjoy.
It wasn't the first time. Matthew had long since lost track of all these meetings, these secret rendezvous after G-8 summits. It was vital that no one else know. No one else would understand.
It was just so lonely. There were only so many of them, the Arctic nations, and the others all had someone: Sweden and Finland, Norway and Denmark, even Iceland and Greenland. But not Canada. Canada was alone.
So was Russia.
Yes, Russia had his sisters, and the Baltics, but they were annoyances, toys. Distractions. Not one of them could be a lover. They could never understand how difficult it was to embody such a huge nation, how the millions and millions of diverse people and ideas clamoring within your borders could make it hard to even remember your name sometimes, how goddamn lonely it could be, surrounded by a crowd of faces who didn't care at all.
They discovered each other almost by accident when Ukraine declared her independence. Canada had recognized her almost immediately, and the next morning, Russia was waiting outside Matthew's door, waiting to meet this upstart young nation who dared assist his family in leaving him.
By the time he left the next morning, they were on a first-name basis, and Matthew could barely stand long enough to make pancakes.
It was understood that their relationship was a secret. Matthew's family, especially America, would never approve, and Belarus would likely try to kill the Canadian for coming between her and her "future husband." So when the other nations were aroud, they didn't interact. Matthew was still invisible, and Ivan was still a terrifying specter in the corner. The secrecy was worth it, though. Anything was worth a break from the awful solitude.
And the sex wasn't bad, either.
Who am I kidding? Matthew wondered, pressed against the table in an empty conference room, a talented Russian tongue lapping at his dripping cock. Ivan could give France a run for his money. The sex is amaz - "God, Ivan!" His thoughts scattered, his length engulfed in Russia's mouth.
"Shhhhh..." Ivan released him, leaning up to press a deceptively gentle kiss to Matthew's lips. "Matvey must be quiet, да? We don't want anyone to hear you screaming Russia's name."
At that moment, someone ran past the door in the hallway outside, calling out for, "Marty!"
"You locked the door, didn't you, eh?"
"да. Of course." Lips trailed down his jaw to his throat, nipping at his jugular. "But still. We cannot be too careful."
"Well, then..." Matthew bit back a moan when a tongue slid along his collarbone, just under edge of his button-down shirt. "W-we should hurry, shouldn't we?" Ivan just hummed in response, his thick hands ghosting over the blonde's throbbing erection, and Matthew growled. "D-dammit, just fuck me already!"
The Russian chuckled. "Your wish is my command, Matvey." With a flick of his wrist, Canada's pants were on the floor, and two spit-slicked fingers were pressed to his entrance. "Ready?" he asked, flashing a sweet grin.
Matthew cursed. "I swear to god, if you don't fuck me now, I'll-"
The door flew open, hitting the wall with a crash that shook the entire room. Familiar sky-blue eyes gaped behind their glasses, taking in the sight before them.
His brother was naked from the waist down and about to be fucked into the table. By Russia.
Matthew cleared his throat awkwardly, suddenly very aware of the air conditioning blowing on his bare ass. "H-hey, Alfred. What's up, eh?"
Alfred looked like he was about to eat his tongue. "Marty?"
Before either could even think to correct him, America had spun on his heel and flown out the door, screaming about "Commie bastards!" all the way to the parking lot.