#anyways look its Prucan! they were my shit

[venjt]

Rewatched Hetalia and I had to draw me faves 😩💕 (Characters /pairs LOL) remember Hetalia?

[a-writing-bear]

[PruCan] - I like you in jerseys so please be close to me

Note: I finally finished this one!!!

Ao3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17519981

This Has been cross-posted onto FF & Ao3 under Aliases: BearBooper

You can read this Fic on Tumblr under ‘Keep Reading’

Fandom: Hetalia Axis Powers

Pairing: Prussia & Canada

Word Count: 3,090

Contrary to the common belief, fighting within a game of ice hockey was not as barbaric as most queasy bystanders or overprotective mums think. In fact, one could argue that the involvement of the unspoken tradition of on-ice fisticuffs prevented unnecessary aggression when later off the playing field. Most leagues have established clear boundaries on how a scrum would occur and whether or not it deserved a complete expulsion. Like drinking and other unsavoury habits, if you were to ban the action you'll just wind up having to deal with sneaky and unfair plays that break the rules. Now That would be barbaric. Most of his fellow teammates were not necessarily angry, fighting maniacs- it was just the game. Maybe it was just something about the quick paced action, or the fueled excitement and the clashing of sticks and skates that leads to astray plunges and dirty throws- to be frank, Matthew pinned it to the fact you’ve got a lot of tense and hype-addicted jocks jostling into each other; fighting was just a way of releasing that bubbling anger. It’s kind of inevitable.

Was he surprised at the breakout of Jones and Braginsky? Not really, they had been rivals since the junior playoffs leagues ago, if the American teen wasn’t apart of Matt’s team he would have been annoyed at the futile attempt to start another racket. It had only been a fellow university team- HetaU had played this team many times before and of course, an ongoing rivalry had formed- much to the coaches’ to their dismay. The moment the visors had come off, and the gloves had been shed in a fury of threat (At least they were following the rules of a fair fight- thank god) Matthew skid to a stop and backed off, sighing at the interruption with a roll of his eyes as he searched for someone to pair up with. It seems to be an unspoken rule of any match that no matter how much shit goes down if you’re not involved you stay out of it. Preventative measures. As well as this, it’s vital to make sure any opposing team members also stay out of the conflict- the gentleman’s agreement was to always pair up with someone on the other team, hold them back away from the conflict to stop any unfair gang up.

He glided across disdainful, slightly amused yet still bothered at the squabble ahead of him. Stopping beside some guy in a blue jersey contrasting his red one, he shuffled in his skates not looking up to whoever he had ‘paired’ with. The player had already grabbed the back of his jersey (Matthew scoffed on the inside as if he had any intention to join the brawl), in reply Matthew just slung his free arm loosely around the man’s back.

“Why do they insist on this every time? Totally un-awesome.” The thick accent of whoever was beside him drew him to look up, eyes squinting through his visor as he uttered an awkward muffled agreement. He hadn’t really paid attention to who was playing on the other team, and so the view of red eyes and pale skin never really called out to him. Momentarily stunned, his attention was subtly dragged away by the allure of this other player- he hardly noticed how the man’s jerk grab of his shirt had smoothened and softened into a mirroring touch onto the shoulder, resting on him as if they were longtime friends. As if they were not currently on opposing sides. He was so close, and although sweat should probably put him off, he kinda wanted to melt into the other man’s grasp.

‘Hey man, alright there?” the voice spoke once more, now slightly teasing as he gently nudged the red clothed Canadian, red eyes still affixed to the childish brawl. Obviously, this guy was a talker, who even talks to a rival during holdouts? Nevertheless, they held each other in a cooperating grasp, both avoiding each other gaze as they finally saw the two other players fall apart- giving up from the futile battle, the referee had also decided to call quits on the match. Just as he was about to turn away and skate the hell out of the rink- he was embarrassed at how content he was next to the attractive stranger- the other guy had caught the end of his jersey sleeve, and jutted out his gloved hand as if to introduce himself.

“Beilschmidt.” voiced the eager player, the raised gloved hovered for a short while as Matthew was still trying to understand what just occurred,

“...Williams.” his reply must have seemed nervous and the guy just laughed before snarking “You sure that’s your name Liebling? You don’t sound so sure..” usually Matthew would be petty and deck the dude on the spot for such a comment (What does Lieb-whatever mean??), but his legs felt soft and his cheeks flared as he was spluttering for a comeback. Most local players in the league circuit knew he was openly gay; it had been a whole ruckus when he first came out- if not for his team and coaches, Matt would’ve been eaten alive regardless of how easy it was for him to knock someone out. Just cus he could didn’t mean he wanted to. In the end, it wasn’t such a big deal, but it was uncommon...he’d never been flirted with on the ice...and Beilschmidt didn’t sound condescending in his playful tease. Before a smart witty comeback could roll off his tongue, Matthew had to accept the miserable fact that the other had already skated off at the urgency of his team, leaving him breathless and stumped on how he fucked up his first impression with a cute fellow hockey player. Stripping out of his skates and sports gear proved difficult as his close teammates were relentless in their questions, gawking at his fluster and proving that no matter how old you were everyone loved playground gossip. He stayed back, lingering in the showers as the others filed their way out into their lives away from hockey.

Matthew was proud of his skill. He was a superb above-average and currently scouted hockey player. He was a professional in the making and so his training always left his love life in the dark- much more occupied with the puck than puckering up for people. There were the occasional hookups after games, with audience members who seem to swoon only when he was in a jersey and contacts; they tended to be put off when he was in his usual frayed hoodie and his signature glasses and were not impressed by his less than stellar quiet nature. Perhaps he was overthinking the interaction? It was unlikely he would see the guy again, the hockey playing season was nearly over and his team wasn’t going to any games anytime soon- at least not until Alfred stops roughing up competitors. Soon the shower grew cold and Matthew trudged his way back to his dorm. There never is any time for cute guys, is there? He sighed.

The last time Matthew had a boyfriend, he was berated for going to practice off-season. Mr Ex. was appalled by the number of hours poured into hockey and not into their love life and had argued whenever the Canadian said he was going to go out to skate.  Ever since that breakup, Matthew was wary of how much time was put into his sporting hobby, and while he may not be constantly training skating still provided a place for him to think. Skating to think was still around- his ex...not so much. The leisurely pace he had begun gently circled him around the large open empty ice rink (after hour privileges of local sports team meant he had access alone) and let him glaze over his coursework stress. His prized and well-maintained team jersey had been swapped out for his old tattered Canadian Olympic winter one; his parents had bought one for him and he’s treasured it ever since even with it’s slightly worn out print. His mind wandered in and out of focus, teetering onto thoughts of calling his friends or to go home and just wallow in his own stress yet somehow running its way to the topic of that mysterious Beilschmidt guy from last weekend. He wondered, if the guy goes to any local hockey games, if he liked his teammates, how good his puck control is, how strong his hands were, what he looked under the baggy clothing...right his mind was really wondering now.

“Lost in thought again? I’m starting to think you’re the dreaming type Liebling,”

As if God himself wanted circumstance to smack Matt in the face, he found the rink was no longer that empty when a starkly familiar voice rang loud and clear, snark even more present and his accent was more comprehensible without chattering voices of a crowded match. Snowy skin approached him, dazzling as the reflection of the ice decided to tease Matthew with the view of the fit but probably-straight man. Those red eyes glared in interest just as before and Matthew nearly needed to pinch himself to check he hadn’t fallen over, gotten a concussion and dreamt of the hot hockey player in his accident.

“Uh no.Besides  I don’t think I would be dreaming of you anyway.” Such a lie, Matthew’s conscious teased. The man tutted at Matthew's reaction to his entrance, but took no harm in the comment and instead swerve into more polite commentary.

“Did I say dreaming? I obviously meant dreamy, especially with those curls of yours…” the man gestured to his fringe which has unceremoniously bordered his puzzled look. The boy, beside his skates, was in low hanging pants and what should have been a geeky sweatshirt but still looked flattering on the slender frame of his and had made his way onto the rink much quicker than Matthew noticed; Gilbert, as reintroduced himself, asked Matthew what he was doing on a Friday night, on the beginning of break, lonely and lost at the local ice rink and not at some frat party or in some nasty girl’s bed only to revel in amusement at the explanation of Matthew’s predicament:

“I...those aren’t my kind of thing..” he nearly trailed off completely as he explained he didn’t like parties and nearly slipped up on explaining how he was very not interested in the feminine company of a girl (let alone nasally one), he shushed himself up as he prevented the latter from outing himself to the stranger. “I had nothing to do. So…” his hands gestured down to his skates and his glasses nearly slipped as he avoided looking too closely at the other boy.

“I’m something to do.” The air suddenly felt thick as Matthew snapped back up to look at the boy, gaping wide at the rash insinuation, “You could do me, definitely. Always love so-”

“Are you flirting with me?” His voice hiccupped in surprise as he interrupted the rambling german, and his cheeks felt as if summer had come along as they warmed up unconditionally- His mind was plagued with confusion and upright disbelief and concern at such forward approaches. Most times a hockey dude flirted with him, Matthew went home with a new bruise or a new story of homophobia to rant about to his friends, and so while he was feeling extremely flattered, his heart felt an ache of prepared disappointment.

The albino man’s confidence faltered as his shoulders sagged, just as confused as Matthew, before working out the blunt confession: “..Yes? I thought I was quite obvious…”. Forming an ‘oh’ with his mouth, Matthew laughed slightly at the awkwardness of both of them- Gilbert had warmed up with red cheeks too. The two ended up skating side by side, talking feverishly about how they both got into hockey and why they were still here wasting their first weekend of the season on ice skates and talking to a member of a rival team. After a few hours of enjoyable skating, the two waddled out and slipped off their boots as they finished up closing the rink up for the night; both giggling at random stories of sporting accidents and childhood memories. The strawberry blonde tried to ignore the fact they both walked each other to the nearest coffee shop or the fact Gilbert had ordered them both coffee even when Matthew was determined to leave five minutes earlier. He tried to not think about how Gilbert had pushed a hot chocolate it into Matthew’s hands or how he smiled when Matthew tried to shove money into his pretty face. He certainly, however, did not ignore the number that had been scribbled neatly on his takeaway napkin as they parted way.

Weeks of beating the bush around each other, as excruciatingly adorable it was, Matthew was getting antsy over the ‘will-they-won't-they’ situation he had dug himself into. His heart had jumped at the buzz of his phone, and his fingers rubbed the edges of his plastic phone case as his bit his lip thinking whether or not to reply. Gilbert had invited him on a date- some ice skating on a nearby frozen over lake; the words “bring your stick too” stood out. His confidence soared at the safety of hockey- he had been terribly nervous last weekend and had spilt popcorn over Gil in the cinema hall, and just before that he had worn the same shirt. Their first kiss had been fucked up with his glasses falling down, and their first time together was messed up with his roommate barging in way too early for a Friday night. His fumbling nature seemed to draw too much attention from Gil, who, he himself, seemed shy in his approach and slow in his movement to even be within close proximity to the blonde. Overthinking aside, Matthew had barely put on his skates on a lonely park bench when he saw a skating blurry figure zoom into view- the German had brought out a beaten up stick, possibly a homemade one, making Matthew feel awkward as he shoved his pristine barely scratch stick across the wood seating.

“You’re not wearing your contacts?” The tilt of the question was more endearing than accusatory and Matthew rolled his eyes at the idea of changing out his casual frame. Over the short time of knowing each other, Matthew’s more snarky attitude came out, more comfortable to quip and to be sarcastic with his new date. He snorted with his reply, his laces still being done as he bent over.

“I didn’t realise we were gonna clash tonight, but if you want to rough it up and break my glasses do let me know beforehand so I can break your cockiness”

“Nah not fighting- however I don’t mind roughing it up another way” again a long pause made itself present as the two stared at each other, both embarrassed at what they had said but a loud caucus of laughter rang out from the pair, unable to miss the humour in such a blatant innuendo. “Honestly...I like your glasses Liebling, one more dorky thing I can remember you for.” The two smiled as they got up to carelessly pass a puck upon the ice, the local lake had been empty and so the two basked in each other’s short conversations and scrambled over quick passes. At some point Matthew found himself speeding recklessly, round and round avoiding the arms of Gilbert in an absurd game of catch, and before he could take a sharp turn his feet had stumbled causing him to stop his skates abruptly- this of course was a doomed move as Gilbert came crashing at him, bringing both the North American and the European onto the slippery ground. Pained backs seemed insignificant as the giggled their pains away, besides both hockey players were used to such collisions.

Just as the red hoodie boy sat up, rubbing his face in glee, Gilbert had turned to him, a hand outstretched onto Matthew's slightly bruised cheek.

“Why do you avoid it when I ask you to be my boyfriend?”

Matthew gulped.

The stingy words of classmates and past nightmares floated in his head, mocking his situation; he had finally found someone he could truly be with and yet...he just couldn’t accept the words. He looked into the distance but focused on the entity that was Gilbert Beilschmidt. The man who had pale skin, as bright as the first snow. Red eyes of the glinting gemstones dreamed up in movies. The suave yet composed insanity that was his humour, his care, his livelihood. Gilbert was a long lost piece of completeness in a puzzle Matthew didn’t realise he was even completing. Busted lips and bleeding hands had always been a motive to keep hidden in the dark closet. And here was a reason he was proud to clamber out of it. Why couldn’t he say the word?

“I...I just find it difficult Gil. It’s..I don’t...I need time. But I like you...I really like you.”

Gilbert softened in his touch, resting his head onto Matthew’s shoulder and the two tried to get up, hands held grasping for connection.

“Is it too early for me to say I love you?” his breath hitched as he heard the sentiment come out unsure and airy with unresolved confusion. God yes, Matthew thought, god fuck yes of course.

“Only if I can say it back.”

Matthew would never admit it, but the first match of the following season had been his favourite memory. Was it the fact the rivalry of Al and that Ivan dude finally died down? Or maybe it was the fact that Matthew scored the most goals in his career, or perhaps it was the fact a scouting agent had slipped a card into his duffel. Who was he kidding? It was the moment they had to pair up and a familiar skater from an opposing team came over, grabbing his hand with bulky gloves and those same peculiar eyes staring at him. And as the two got ready to end the game, both departing to get changed and his teammates suddenly bombarded him on questions of who and what was that they saw play out before- Matthew confessed not only to his team but to himself, a loving thought tucked away behind a calm unwavering voice:

“Gilbert is my Lover.”