Overheated

Chapter 1

Notes: This is the first story I've ever published. It basically has no plot whatsoever, I only wanted to write a fluffy piece about America and Canada. It also has no romantic connotation, I see the two of them as brothers in the canon-verse, nothing more (but nothing less, either).

It was meant to be a one-shot, but it ended up being much longer than intended, so I decided to split it into three parts.

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Chapter One

Matthew Williams's day couldn't possibly get any worse.

Actually, it wasn't only that day – the whole month had been positively horrible for the poor representative of Canada.

First of all, it was summer. And Matthew didn't exactly like summer.

Oh, it wasn't like Canada never got any warm, nor even unbearably hot summers, unlike some idiot seemed to be firmly convinced of, but Matthew himself had never been fond of the heat.

There was no doubt in his mind that winter was a far better season: the crisp, cool air that seemed to cleanse his lungs at each breath, the way every exhalation condensed into a small, white puff, the slippery ice that forced people to carefully measure each step, the sensation of the soft, fresh snow under the soles of his boots – not to mention the fact that it was easy to cover up if it got too cold, but in the heat? The only option was to suck it up, take refuge in a building with air conditioning, and pray for the heatwave to pass soon.

That summer had been so far particularly taxing for Canada: it was far hotter than usual, and it was lasting a lot longer than it would have been possible to put up with. And, following the relentless heat, fires had started developing in the forests. Thankfully, none of them had managed to reach any town or city so far, but Canada was strongly connected to his land, and the devastation, while not unbearable, was taking its toll on his body, leaving him constantly tired and achy.

Then, there had been a row of World Conferences, which Canada was still wondering why he had even bothered to attend: as usual, he had been ignored most of the time, sat on by Russia, beaten up by Cuba because he had mistaken him for America (he had apologized afterwards, but the bruises hadn't completely faded yet), and even England and France had managed to forget about him a few times. It wasn't even like the conferences had been useful at something, like solving at least one of the issues they had been summoned for. No, all they had achieved had been arguing with each other and getting on everybody's nerves. The only concrete result of that hellish week had been that Matthew had fallen dramatically behind with his own country's paperwork, which was the reason he had barely gotten any sleep or food in the last ten days.

Then, that idiot brother of his had decided that he needed to get involved.

Oh, it had been quite nice at first: when Alfred had called to ask him if he wanted to hang out (more like demanded him to do it, actually), Matthew had been overjoyed. It wasn't every day that America remembered he existed, let alone had some spare time for him. Which was why he had gladly pulled out an all-nighter to finish off his paperwork, then had headed towards the house they shared on the border after a quick shower, without even bothering with breakfast.

Things had started going downhill from there.

Matthew should have realized something was horribly wrong the second his brother had started dragging him to his private jet, without offering any explanation or even listening to his questions.

When they had finally landed in Texas, the nightmare had started.

The thing was: Texas wasn't hot. Hot wasn't strong enough to describe that kind of climate, the way the sun beat inclemently on Matthew's skin, making rivulets of sweat run down his back, his forehead, basically any surface on his body, the way each breath he took was only a stagnant, heavy gasp of moisture that left him with the feeling of not getting enough air, the heat that made him feel dizzy and heavy. It was like stepping into the deepest pit of hell.