Matthieu, Matthias, Matteo, Mattie, little Matvey, Matthew n’en pouvait plus. Son nom était pourtant simple : Matthew. Il n’apellait pas Francis Frank, Ivan Yves, Antonio Antoine, Berwald Albert, Kiku Carl, Feliciano et Felisk Félix, Peter Pierre, Tino Tobby, Toris Timothé, Katioucha Katty, Roderich Robert… Alors pourquoi eux changeaient son nom?

Lorsque Alfred donna une tape dans dos du pauvre Canada en beuglant un « Mattie! » qui résonna dans toute la bâtisse de l’ONU, la colère de Matthew explosa.

« NE M’APELLE PAS MATTIE ! »

Consterné, États-Unis regarda son frère faire demi-tour et partir en furie.

Les premières neiges rendaient toujours mélancolique Matthew. La nation aimait regarder la neige tomber mollement couvrant tout d’un manteau blanc. D’habitude, Canada enfilait son manteau et partait se balader parmi les flocons. Malheureusement, aujourd’hui une réunion importante l’empêchait d'aller apprécier la température. Une main chaude se posa sur son dos, massant ses muscles tendus. Matthew tourna son regard violet, fixant Cuba.

- Ça va mi tresoro ?

Les lèvres du Canadien se posèrent sur celles de son compagnon, oubliant sa balade hivernale. Briser des traditions avait du bon parfois.

Arthur était d’une telle stupidité. Peter n’en revenait toujours pas que son idiot de grand frère n’ait toujours pas utilisé une webcam.

- Tu cliques là idiot! Puis tu parles imbécile !

L’image d’Alfred apparût, et le visage du British devint rouge immédiatement. Alors que les deux s’engageait dans leurs disputes habituelles, Peter eu l’idée de jouer un tour à Arthur. Une main fût glissée sous la chemise de UK, et avant que les protestations ne fusent, Peter mordilla un mamelon du plus vieux.

- T’apprendras imbécile !

- REGARDE NORGE, JE MARCHE SUR LES MAINS !

Encore une fois, le Danois faisait l’étalage de son intelligence. Le dit Norge, avait sur le bord des lèvres plusieurs insultes à lancer au dit Danois. Seulement le regard du nordique était rivé sur les pieds du grand blond.

- Arrête avant de te tuer. Et viens ici.

Habitué aux remarques cinglantes, Danemark s’approcha insouciant. En un tour de main, il fut sur le sol, alors que la bouche de Norge était sur son pied, et sa main glissant sous son maillot. Allumé, Norvège ignora le rire du Danois.

Lorsque le jet privé contenant Alfred Jones atterrit à l’aéroport de Vancouver, le dit American regardait par le hublot fasciné. Il n’avait jamais vu autant de brouhaha au Canada. Du moins pas depuis… depuis… oh puis, zut il ne savait plus. De toute façon IL était le héros, et juste sa présence valait celle de milliers de personnes. Voilà. Par le dit hublot, l’Américain pouvait apercevoir les montagnes au loin dont les sommets disparaissaient sous les nuages. Le soleil brillait de mille feux. Superbe journée. Oh, mais Alfred savait aussi ce que signifiait ce grand soleil au Canada en FÉVRIER. On l’y avait prit une fois. À Ottawa en plein mois de Janvier. Voyant le grand soleil, l’américain n’avait pas prit la peine de mettre son parka avant de sortir de l’avion.

À.
ne.
JAMAIS.
refaire.

La vague de froid qui l’avait heurté l’avait littéralement geler sur place. Alfred avait donc comprit rapidement que Soleil plus Hiver au Canada voulait dire – 40 °C. Donc, avant que la porte de l’avion ne soit ouverte, Alfred mit son parka, son bonnet, son foulard, ses bottes doublés, un pantalon de ski et fit enfin signe au pilote qu’ils pouvaient ouvrir. Se préparant à un vent polaire glacial, Alfred rentra la tête entre es épaules et ferma les yeux et les dents. Il pouvait voir la limousine de Matthew à environ 5 mètres. S’il courrait vite, il le ferait en moins de 4 secondes. À vos marques…. La porte s’ouvrit : GO !!

Première réalisation, à la grande surprise d’Alfred, Matthew l’attendais en SHORT, portant son habituel hoodie Roots rouge, debout à côté de la voiture. Deuxième réalisation. Il faisait... chaud ? Sous le choc l’Américain stopa net. Trop chaud. Sous la tonne de vêtements qu’il portait, l’Américain irait droit à un coup de chaleur. Impossible….

_{- Alfred ! Content de voir que le voyage c’est bien passé…}

Alors que son jumeau s’approchait, Alfred se remit du choc. Vite. Il était le héros, hors de question de laisser paraître son choc.

- Dis donc Mattie, tu es sûr que c’est les Jeux d’HIVER auquel je vais assister.

Matthew ne pût s’empêcher de rouler des yeux. Ces dernières semaines avaient été l’ENFER. La température ne collaborais pas, mais alors là pas DU TOUT. Pluie, vague de chaleur, fonte de neige et de glaciers. Le pauvre Canadien était sur le point de fondre en larmes. Et le jeux de mot n’était pas agréable du tout. Les organisateur des J.O. avaient échauffer des plans de secours. Pas le choix. Plus de neige qu’on lui avait dit. Matthew avait donc maudit le réchauffement planétaire, emmerda Harper et prit l’avion directement vers Vancouver. Il restait encore quelques jours. Peut-être qu’un miracle viendrait le sauver. Sinon, ouvre le portefeuille et paie pour faire importer de la neige du nord. Importer de la neige… C’est bien une des dernière choses dont le Canadien avait besoin. Ironie quand tu nous tiens…

Perdu dans ses pensées, Matthew manqua le trois quart du discours de son jumeau. Cependant une phrase attira son attention vers la conversation :

- Et si on déménageait le tout ailleurs ?!

Canada soupira. Vraiment son frère pouvait être d’une insensibilité…

Matthew was standing in the middle of the ice rink, hockey stick in hand, a dozen pucks sprawled in front of him while half a dozen others were scattered around the net a few feet away. The stadium was empty, every move, every noise echoing throughout the entire building, where the Canadian was practicing shoot out. It was « le calme avant la tempête » Soon the Olympics would take place right here. And Matthew was determined, this time he'd win medals. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Own the Podium, they said. He just lost the Junior Championship to the USA, he'd get revenge with the O.G. But even though he lost, Matthew didn't complain. He was Canadian. Inferior, low profile, polite and quiet. But they didn't know how wrong they were.


He'd show them all. Hockey was HIS sport. Not only because they were good at it – Matthew can't count the number of trophies and medals his country owned – but because it was in his people's passion. In what other country would the news of the world be put on hold each spring until the scores are in? Where else in the world could an ENTIRE nation stand up and fight, and argue and do a general angst over such a trivial matter as the Hockey Night in Canada theme song? (It still makes Matthew mad. Damn it, it was his second National Anthem!) It's Canada's sport, not only for those who play it, but for those who watch it, and even to those who cannot bear it but cannot escape it. It was his sport because his people play it all year around. In summer, streets are filled with goals and kids running around with orange plastic balls, girls playing ringette (female hockey, they call it as a joke), and adults playing in arenas. In winter, many outdoor ice rinks have goals installed. Young and old would play together, no matter the weather, from early morning until they're almost thrown out of the rink at night. It was HIS game because anyone could play it. Rich or poor (some of the greatest players started poor), young or old, male or female, even those with one leg.

Matthew looked up to the V.I.P. section where Alfred sat. The Canadian couldn't erase the smug on his face. While his brother was high above the ice with some important random dude, he was with his people, in the tier, his face painted in red. He was just behind the Canadian bench. His voice was coarse, and almost indistinct, but he would cheer and scream with all his might.

Because today was THE day. Everything was set. Through the 17 days, every athlete did their best. He had won 13 gold medals. Own the podium, they had said. He did. Maybe Canada hadn't the most medals, but he had more gold. His Women's Hockey Team had won; they were the best (Canada WAS the leader in female hockey). But there was one match left – the most important one. For two reasons: if he could reach gold, Canada would break the record for most gold medals in the Winter Olympics. The other reason was to beat America. Against his brother, he didn't want to lose. Height years. During height years, both countries worked toward the same goal – win Gold. The excitement flowed through him. All of his people were excited. He could feel them – their hope, their dreams, their cheers. He even heard his Prime Minister say that they had superior athletes. His blood was boiling.



Game on.

The ice was a strange purplish color. The Russian thought bitterly that ice wasn't supposed to be this color. Many colors were wrong these days – especially, a certain medal. It should have been gold, was the only thing going on in the Russian's head. The Exhibition Gala was hard on Ivan, as he sat still in the special sections arranged for the nations. The usual heavy coat and scarf had been traded for a black smoking jacket with a blue, red and white tie, representing the Russian flag. The first couple from his country doing their show on ice performed something spectacular, but the Russian had not expected less from them. What the taller man was waiting for, however, was a certain boy. Someone that, deep down, Russia knew, deserved better; another reason to hate that bastard American who was sitting a few chairs down from him. He could easily get up; pass Eduard, the uptight Briton, to finally be face-to-face with the huesos. Smashing his fist into that smug face would be so satisfying. Ivan pushed these dark thoughts aside as Evgeni stood on the ice. He was graceful, as usual, the spotlight making his hair shine, his eyes sparkle, and revealed every curve of his slender but strong body. The music started, soft, mesmerizing.



I don't dream anymore

I don't smoke anymore

I don't even have a story

I'm alone without you

I'm ugly without you

I'm an orphan in a dormitory

The song might have been in French, but the nation knew the lyrics; the young skater had told him what song he'd chosen, so Ivan had looked it up. Done purposefully or not, the song was meaningful. The Russian carefully watched every jump, every movement, trying to stay focused. But all he could think was how the boy was robbed from his gold medal. He thought back when they had the score – the look on his face. It had ripped the Russian's heart. What disappointed him even more, was when the nation went to try to comfort the skater, he stumbled upon a deceiving scene. He was there, pinning Evgeni on the floor, both tangled in their costumes half ripped, pulling hair, biting, groaning on the floor of the private dressing room. Ivan had turned around and walked away, the image burned in his mind forever. 



I don't feel

Like living anymore

My life ends when you leave

I lost my life

And my bed

Becomes a station platform

When you're gone

I'm sick

Completely sick


Plushenko was amazing on ice. Such grace, such power, such control; Russia was amazed. Jealousy said the attitude of his champion wasn't sportsmanship, but he didn't care. In his eyes, the silver of his boy was Platinum.



I'm sick

I'm so sick

You robbed me of my songs

You robbed me of my words

My heart is so sick

Surrounded by fences

Can you hear

I'm sick