You knocked on the door of Canada's house, wanting to see your friend. You were a country, quite close to him in both friendship and border proximity. Since your name was kind of formal, he just called you _____. And you had gotten used to calling him Matthew or Mattie. He flung open the door, a hockey stick in hand.
Your (e/c) eyes widened in fear, "Mattie, it's just me!"
He breathed a sigh of relief, "Sorry, _____." You noticed his clothes were ruffled and creased as he rested the hockey stick against the wall beside him.
"I take it the meeting with the G8 didn't go too well?" you asked, stepping into his house while he shut the door behind you.
Canada nodded his head, "Russia sat on me the whole time!"
"Oh!" you said, wrapping your arms around him in a quick hug, "You poor thing! Did he hurt you?" With your head buried in his Canadian flag sweatshirt, you couldn't see the blush your actions brought to his face.
He hesitantly put a hand on your back, "N-No, I'm fine."
You smiled up at him and he tentatively brushed a lock of (h/c) hair out of your eyes. "Good. Otherwise I'd have to give him a talking to." you joked, breaking the hug. "Why don't you go sit? I'll make some hot cocoa, that'll make you feel better."
He smiled, "Alright."
You knew his house well, you two had been friends since what seemed like the beginning of time, so you found the kitchen easily and got out all you would need. Matthew followed you, watching your every move. He had the biggest crush on you, and he couldn't bring himself to confess to you.
You sat together on the couch, mugs in hand, waiting for the chocolaty liquid to cool. You took a small sip and found it still too hot for your taste. Then you set the cup down for a minute, staring at the little curl bobbing in his hair. Matthew followed suit, placing his mug on the coffee table, then caught your gaze, confused. "Is there some cocoa on my face?" he asked, wiping his mouth.
"No." you said. "Mattie, what does that curl do?"
He turned beet red. "N-Nothing!"
You stared up at him innocently with your (e/c) eyes. In fact, you knew very well what it did, you had talked to America about all the nations' peculiar hair. You had a crush on the shy nation as well, but were a bit afraid of making a move. But this, this wouldn't seem like you were making a move. It was just like teasing him. You scooted closer to him, inspecting the curl. "Have you ever tried using a straightening iron on it?" you asked, taking the curl in your hands and inspecting it carefully.
"Mon dieu." he said, eyes half lidded. As you moved your hand, his balled into fists, "_____, s'il te plait... arret..." (_____, please... stop...)
You whispered, "Pourquoi? Que fais-je?" (Why? What am I doing?) Little did you know, it positively drove him crazy when you spoke French.
And with that, he snapped. You brought out the French side of him that yearned to jump you whenever you stepped in the room. He kissed you passionately, and although he became confused when you smiled into the kiss, he was encouraged once you wrapped your arms around his neck.
For a bit you just kissed, and you could feel his senses coming back. He became more reserved, almost like he was going to pull back. That bothered you. So you allowed your hand to wander through his hair and catch in the curl. He moaned, slipping his tongue into your mouth, making you gasp. The kiss became even more heated, until finally you were becoming lightheaded from the lack of air. The both of you pulled away, breathing heavily. You were grinning sheepishly, and he blushed.
He explained, "You uh... you had some cocoa on your face."
You took another sip and looked to him expectantly, a small smirk on your face.