Canada x Reader - Sweater Weather

“These hearts adore
Everyone the other beats hard for” - Sweater Weather, The Neighbourhood

She was wearing shorts, while he had a sweater.

It was an action out of pure habit, since summer in his home had a much milder approach than the scorching sun that insisted to greet him every morning for some hours of a true desert bare of sand (if the beaches were disregarded, something he often did, since it was a rare sight to see him trying his luck in the all too warm environment). Practically the living spirit of California. That day was an odd one, since she had managed to drag him for a stroll at the shoreline. There was a chilly breeze blowing, dusk taking over the quiet place, tinting the ships and the surfers of a reddish coloration, making the golden figures become bronze living statues. The waves crashed in the same, yet different way against the sand. None of the sounds they produced were quite like the previous, but they were similar, creating a symphony that only the ocean could produce, whispering about salt and wind, of storms and creatures that wandered inside those waters.

The Canadian felt pleased to have an extra layer of fabric covering his body, even if that slight change of temperature felt like a joke in comparison to how much colder his own land could be.

For a moment, he dreamt with his trees, the orange leaves, and the murmured sound of them scraping against the silent streets. He imagined his people; he remembered how it felt to walk inside his own country, the comfortable sensation of being a whole in his own home, not fragmented how he always felt when he left Canada behind. He heard the gentle airstream kiss his cheeks, telling him about the winter’s winds he had, how much harsher they could be, but how much happier he would be with them. How he missed the snow and the maple trees.

The girl in front of him stopped, turning on her heels and waiting for him catch up with her. She watched him carefully, intently, in a way that only she could. Matthew only realized that he started to hold his breath when his lungs started to complain and her eyes met his. Every time felt like the first when those [e/c] orbs encountered his, like he was receiving the kick of a powerful drug. His heart painfully reminded him with every beating of his feelings, flowing through him just as strongly as ever.

[f/] had that addictive effect on him, without even realizing it.

“You have that look again.” She spoke, frowning slightly. Her hand slid around the side of his face, molding the forms it met across her path, almost like her fingertips were a mortise chisel and his features were the marble she was about to sculpt. It was a loose caress, but Matthew found himself leaning against her, a satisfied sigh leaving his mouth without his intend. He craved her touch more than he would like to let her know. Even if the pleased little smirk twisting her lips told him she was aware of that to some extent.

“What look?” He questioned, trying to make her focus on something else, since he could already feel his cheeks heating up and he was a little too curious to be distracted by her again. Even if he adored her distractions.

“The one you always do when you’re sad. Or missing home. Or both.” She tilted her head to the side, creating an air in her that made the girl look like a bird, contemplative and questioning, waiting for his reaction.

He considered what she said for much longer than he should. It was rather frightening how easily she would reach the core of his troubles translating them into words whenever his own voice failed bringing them to life. Several answers formed and crumbled part even before they reached his tongue, everything seeming out of place and strange after her vivid straightforwardness. What was left, though, was even simpler and undeniable, much like her previous statement.

“...I would miss you more.” He mumbled, knowing it was true. She was the one who could see him, never confuses him and Alfred. Though saying that it was only because of that small reason that he felt so chained to her would be ridiculous. [f/n] laugher, the way she had a different type of giggle to each situation, which could make him want to cackle along or blush furiously. How she always had the right thing to say, even if it was so random that he couldn’t even begin to understand when exactly those subjects had formed on her mind. The way she fit perfectly in his arms, the nearly intoxicating smell of her hair. How her eyes light up whenever they were talking about something she was passionate about. The absolute maddening, but so comforting, way she would practically read his mind every time he was bothered about something and make him ends up grinning, one way or another.

Each and every single one of those little, silly things that would add to make [f/n] and she alone were more essential to him than air itself. Matthew knew he could deal with the absence of his home; he had done it before when he had to fight in both world wars. It was painful, but tolerable.

Her absence, however, wasn’t.

She put her hands over his, making them slip inside the holes in his sweater, now touching the bare skin of his arms. Using her arms to hug him, what made him cross his own behind his back, since they were both using the sleeves of his sport shirt, creating a strange type of embrace. Her fingertips felt cold against him, but her presence alone was very warm, making him forgets about it much sooner than he should.

“You’re warm.” She mumbled, nuzzling against the crook of his neck, leaving him with no other action but to rest his chin on top of her head, a helpless smile crawling over his lips.

Perhaps he should wear sweaters more often.