White Lies

Chapter 1

Notes: A few readers asked for it, and honestly, I had left that particular issue unresolved because I already had a half-idea to explore it later, so here is the sequel of 'Overheated'.

To new readers: I don't think that having read 'Overheated' first is strictly necessary, but you might miss a few points if you haven't. Feel free to ask if anything is unclear.

Now, moving to this story: as you might have guessed from the summary, it's going to include some violence in the beginning. I don't think it's graphic, but then again, I'm not really sure about what can be considered graphic or not. Consider yourself warned.

As usual, there are no romantic connotations.

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Chapter One

'A few steps. It's just a few steps. You can make it.'

Canada gritted his teeth against the pain, forcing his throbbing limbs to move. He stumbled, leaning against the wall.

When he rounded the corner, he was rewarded with the blurred image of his door's room. The view almost brought tears to his eyes – yet, it still looked miles away.

'Just a few steps,' he repeated in his mind, the endless litany that had accompanied his trek.

Matthew shifted his weight. His injured ankle screamed in pain, black spots filled his vision. Everything felt oddly detached, unreal. His ears were ringing. In the last, still logical corner of his mind, Matthew knew that he was about to faint.

But he couldn't afford it.

Bracing himself against the wall, Matthew kept limping forward, his good arm wrapped around his midsection and pain flaring up in every inch of his body at each movement.

Finally, after what felt like centuries, Matthew found himself slumping against the door. When he reached forward, the smooth, cold metal of the handle felt as soft as silk, the most welcome sensation he could ever imagine.

'That's it. Almost done.'

Leaning his weight against the door, he managed to open it and stumbled inside, mentally blessing the modern movement-sensitive lighting of the room. The big bed against the opposite wall welcomed him, the soft mattress gently rearranging itself around him when Matthew all but let himself fall on it. The movement jarred his injured ribs, eliciting a small moan from his lips as the pain spiked up.

Matthew wanted nothing more than let himself sink into the oblivion of unconsciousness, but he was aware that he couldn't afford it. Not yet.

Holding back another pained moan, he managed to force himself to a sitting position and kicked off his shoes, whimpering when a stab of pain went through his right ankle. Even without bending closer, he could see that it had swollen at least three times its size, the skin almost completely covered in red and deep purple patches. Hopefully, it wasn't broken, but there was no way he could rule out at least a bad sprain.

'Ice. I need some ice.'

Matthew didn't know where to find it, not without calling the hotel staff, which was the last thing he wanted – he should have some popsicles in the fridge-bar, though. Alfred had put his sugary treats there to hide them from Arthur, who was trying to force him to follow a more balanced diet...

At the thought of his brother, a sudden wave of anger surged in Matthew's chest – but he shouldn't worry about that.

With painful slowness, he managed to drag himself to the fridge and take out the popsicles before wrapping them around his ankle. Each movement had to be deliberately slow, every time he shifted, pain flared up in different parts of his abused body. He felt dizzy and nauseous, black spots dancing in his field of vision, but he gritted his teeth and managed to complete his task.