Canada + England (and other nations, Olympic fic) -- winter is here

(this was inspired by a series of asks between me and smieska. you can all thank her for feeding the plot bunnies)


England’s a little concerned. Canada’s tweeting, over the past month, had gone from cheerful and adorable, wishing good luck to all the nations and athletes, to manic and vicious, alternating between lower case and upper case letters. England didn’t know what happened. In the beginning, his tag ‘#WeAreWinter’ had been a little over-the-top, but it was nice to see a little zeal from Canada. Last Olympics the poor boy had run his self ragged trying to make everything perfect.

(England had found him dozing on a picnic bench with a still smoldering cigar in his mouth. It had been adorable.)

Canada’s last tweet had been ‘Winter is here’ with a little check-in at Sochi, Russia, and then, after that, nothing but radio silence. It was foreboding.

England hefts his bag onto his shoulder and tried to push away his darkening thoughts.

There were more pressing matters than Canada’s mental state. Like whether or not his hotel room would be ready.


England thinks everything will be fine until he hears America say “Hey Matt, where have you—“

And then all hell breaks loose.


France is tasked with helping get the snow out of America’s jacket while trying to keep the nation’s hysterical sobs to a minimum.

“He came out of nowhere!” America repeats, over and over, soaked from head to snow, still trembling and looking around like Canada might drag him back into a snowdrift.

Canada never resurfaced from the snow. England is mildly concerned.


The Netherlands looks disgruntled.

“I tried.” Is all he says, however, as he takes a long, wavering drag from his cigarette. England almost asks for a drag of it, but the other nation looks like he needs it more. Also, now that he’s this close, he realizes it is not tobacco.

As England’s walking away, the Netherlands calls out after him.

“Kramer will need his uniform back before his race!”


The Canadian athletes seem unphased.

“It’s a bit brisk, eh?” says one curler to her teammate.

Behind them, in a Dutch speed skater suit, Canada has somehow climbed up a light post.

“I AM WINTER.” He shouts. And then he yells and bangs his hockey stick against the pole, raising a huge racket and drawing the attention of the Norwegian curlers walking behind the Canadians.

England stares. “Dear god.” He mumbles.

Canada’s war cry echoes through the village.

England just goes back to his room.


Francis turns his back for one second and suddenly America is gone, his mitten disappearing into a snowdrift just as Francis’s expression twists to horror.

(They don’t find him for another hour, and when they do America just cries into Finland’s collar. To Finland’s credit, he takes it in stride when the overgrown superpower refuses to let go. America sleeps in Finland’s room that night.)

(It takes a week before America goes anywhere near the Canada house.)


Russia gets involved.

He finds Canada trying to set a pair of vending machines on fire.

Russia, for all of two minutes, just grins and tells Canada that everything is fireproof.

Canada just turns slowly, face devoid of anything, asks, mildly, “Even you?”


In the end, England walks out of his nation’s house in a robe and slippers and stomps over to the Canada house.

Canada is on the roof. He might be howling, something inarticulate and barbaric and utterly beastly, while drumming against the roof with his curling brush and hockey stick. He’s bare-chested, and somehow he found paint.

(England finds out later Canada’s room wasn’t complete. Apparently the paint was drying and Canada just pressed himself up against the damp walls.)

“Canada, it is midnight.” He sighs. Somehow his voice carries and Canada hears. “Come to bed.”


Something in him snaps and he shouts, “WHAT DID I JUST SAY?”


Canada slinks into his room, all wounded and contrite, rubbing his ear where England had gripped it.

(It wasn’t his proudest moment, and he’s certain someone took pictures of him, but the most important thing is that Canada is no longer rampaging like a bloody fucking lunatic and now everyone can get a few hours of sleep.)

“I am winter.” Matthew pouts, the Dutch speed skating suit pooled around his waist, the arms dragging on the floor.

“Yes you are.” England says calmly, pulling the sheets over his head. “Now go the fuck to sleep.”

It takes a few minutes, but soon Canada slips under the covers and scoots close so he’s right in England’s space.

England sighs. Canada mumbles something under his breath, and England is certain it is something about how he is winter and winter cannot be stopped and winter is here.

And reaches back to pat Canada’s hip gently. “Go to sleep, love.”


He wouldn’t climb a house in a robe and flimsy slippers for just any idiot.