Title: Unfinished Business
Summary: If you ignore a problem long enough, eventually it goes away. Or maybe it traps you in an elevator and forces you to confront it.
Pairing: Russia/Canada
Rating: M, for More Or Less Worksafe, Until The End, Which Isn't. So ... I guess that means it's not worksafe!
Disclaimer: I don't own it! I don't even own the concept of funtiems in an elevator! I think that's pretty much as old as elevators themselves.
Notes: A deanon from the kink meme. I wrote this awhile ago and figured I'd upload it now.

.:.

Canada knew, even as he'd set the alarm last night (far too late!) that getting up so early was ambitious and possibly out of the realm of possibility. He also knew that the after-dinner coffee he'd ordered was a bad idea because he wouldn't fall asleep until the blue hours of the night. And it was decently cold in Oslo; he hadn't wanted to get out of bed -

And excuses, excuses, nagged a voice that felt suspiciously like England, we said nine am and we meant nine am!

And now it was nearly eleven-thirty and he was over two hours late for the working group on domestic security issues that the Netherlands had so kindly set up for them to begin discussing something relevant and derail somehow into the war on terror.

With any luck, he thought, as he rounded the corner and spotted an open set of elevator doors, marked above with a red arrow pointing down - he panicked and put in an extra effort for that added burst of speed, c'mon legs, don't fail me now! - that was where they'd be at this moment: America trying to convince England how the latest threat to the Western World needed particular monitoring, and England attempting to calm him down and explain to him that he couldn't just operate on hearsay from the CIA. With any luck, the only one who noticed his slipping in would be France, who noticed many things but could be persuaded to keep them secret.

"Wait!" he called, and ducked into the elevator cabin just before the doors shut.

Safe. He relaxed and bent slightly, his hands on his knees, panting.

It wasn't until he straightened that he realised he was not alone in the cabin.

Russia leaned against the back wall, attempting to look casual and dismissive even though his height would have the guardrail poking into his tailbone.

Delightful. He fidgeted, rubbed the nape of his neck and huffed.

Ordinarily Canada would think, better late than later. But ... tardiness be damned, he really didn't want to share an elevator with Russia, even if it'd only be for some thirty seconds. "I, uh," Canada said, and coughed, feeling uncomfortable. "Y'know... I can take the next one." He caught the floor they were on - fourteenth, descending - and pressed the button for the twelfth.

"Da, mozhesh'. That would be nice," Russia replied, quietly, and to his feet.

But the elevator neither dinged at the twelfth, nor opened its doors. Instead, it gave an ominous lurch down, knocking Russia off his balance and sending Canada to his knees, followed by a short stop and a screech, like a train derailment in elevator form.

Canada looked up at Russia, pale and gripping the guardrail. "Are you -"

Another deafening screech interrupted him. He felt the cabin wobble under his feet before the lights cut entirely and the cabin dropped - for a split second he was weightless -

Until another screech, and it stopped, slamming Canada painfully into the floor. "Ow," he grumbled, out of the side of his mouth that wasn't connected with the tile. But at least the emergency lighting system was up and running, and he could see his hands in front of his face. Gingerly, he lifted himself up onto his haunches and sat back. "Are you alright?" he asked.

Russia's fingernails were white where they gripped the guardrail, as white as his face (as his hair, even). His chest rose and fell in shallow, terrified breaths. "There are failsafes," he whispered. "Even if the cable snaps, there are others. And the brakes. There are brakes. And safeties on the brakes. I met the man who invented them, once? you know? Norway must have them in his elevators, it would make no sense not to -"

"Of course there are failsafes," Canada said, standing up and approaching cautiously - like a terrified animal, Russia shrank back and Canada stopped. "There are failsafes," he repeated, insisting. "Trust me."

Wrong thing to say, he thought, because although Russia's breaths steadied and he calmed down, he glowered and crossed his arms over his chest. "It has been a long time since I have heard that," he spat.

Snapping: "I really don't think you've any right to comment."
With a sneer: "Maybe if you'd trusted me then we wouldn't have taken things where we took them."
In ire: "You're the one who broke up with me, ya goddamn hoser!"

... but in the end Canada said none of these. With the blankest look he could muster, he simply dropped his gaze and turned away from Russia; and there they stood in stony silence at opposite sides of the elevator cabin for a full minute until the Norwegian hotel staff buzzed in.

"Hello?" a voice called from the intercom. "Are you alright in there? We don't have access to the security cameras! How many are there?"

"Two of us," Canada said. "How long will it be until power is restored and we can get out of here?"

"Krrrkt -" And then there was silence as the intercom disconnected. Canada waited patiently for their return. "It should be ... maybe thirty minutes. Possibly an hour? I apologise that it can't be sooner. We're having difficulty with the technical systems."

"Allow me to guess, everything is connected through a main fuse box?" Russia muttered.

The personnel on the other side neither confirmed nor denied it. "We'll keep you updated on the situation," they said, before the disconnect was heard again.

"Great," Canada spat, "you went and pissed them off. I could've had them tell someone where the hell I was! D'you know I'm over -" he checked his watch - "two and a half hours late for a meeting now?"

"This is my fault? You are still so late for everything!" Russia crowed. "You never do set your watch on time. I am consistently surprised you can read it at all."

"Oh that's rich," he retorted, stepping forward. "Says the man who, when he wasn't standing me up, would saunter in to the restaurant anywhere from ten minutes to a full hour behind schedule."

Russia returned volley with a few paces of his own. "It's not easy avoiding your brother, who seems to think it is his priority to keep his sticky fingers in every pie! It took me sometimes thirty minutes to avoid the CIA tail back then! Because of course, unlike Canada I am not so perfectly fine with America being aware of my every move."

"Please. America couldn't care less about where I am. As long as I'm on his side he's happy to shift me to the back-burner of his mind and forget I exist."

They were inches apart, Canada bristling with his shoulders tight and Russia glaring and breathing hard down his neck. The last time they'd been so close - well, it was the late seventies, and the chemistry between them was radically different. Unfortunate how things had changed between them and without any word from Russia since - bastard just put him on ignore, like they hadn't meant anything to him, and god how that had stung - it appeared that tensions had simply frozen in time.

They stayed a moment like that until Canada grew tired of keeping his face fixed in a snarl and relaxed with a sigh. "After all these years, you still have that magical ability to rile me up so effortlessly. No wonder we didn't work."

"I thought we were good while we lasted," Russia murmured.

"Yeah, until you broke it off, eh?" Canada said, and an unasked-for bitter tone crept into his voice, but instead of stopping to work on getting it out, he prattled on. "Until you decided enough was enough and you'd tired of games and you just cut me off, like what we were had never mattered and I was completely forgettable."

"I didn't -"

"You haven't spoken to me since, Russia. Don't lie to me. This is the first time in thirty years we've even spoken face-to-face about something that isn't politics - what was I supposed to think?"

"Please, it is Ivan. You won the right to call me that, I did not simply ... revoke such privileges." Canada wouldn't have been surprised if he had. After all, if Russia attempted to call him Matthew now, he might actually slap the man across the face. "Things were different, then. You don't know the whole story -"

"You didn't give me any story!" Canada protested. "Your last words were, and I quote, I regret to inform you that this affair is over, best of luck in Lebanon and see you at the next UN Security Council. Four years of meetings between us that had nothing to do with diplomacy and everything to do with us. And you brought it to a head with that. I wasn't expecting declarations of love from you, I wasn't expecting poetic language - even though I know you're capable of that kind of thing, I've read Chekhov and Pushkin and they never left me nearly as cold as you did!"

"Then allow me to explain it now!" Russia urged. "Because better late than never, hm?"

He gave Russia his best glare, because all of his previous diatribe made it clear that he was very interested in the story Russia had never told him, but he didn't want to seem too excited. To simply forgive after thirty years - Canada was no grudgeholder, but he wasn't a doormat either. "Fine. Give me your long-winded tale. I've got nothing better to do in this tiny box, anyway," he said, acting as unimpressed as possible, while hoping the Norwegian technicians were working hard so that he could get out of here. (At this point he felt, screw the working group; he'd rather retreat to his room to nurse his wounds in private. Not that he wanted Russia to know the extent of the imprint he'd left!)

"I assume by your reaction that you remember the cafe in Lebanon," Russia began. Of course he remembered the cafe in Lebanon. It was little more than a two-storey hut, the ground floor converted to a cafe. Hookahs available to rent behind the bar with apple-flavoured tobacco for a lira - or for free if you bought a meal. Between 1974 and 1978, Canada and Russia had jointly been in the same area worldwide over three hundred times, either by wonderful happenstance or by careful planning, because you didn't just date the USSR like he was the boy next door. Approximately fifty of these times had been in Lebanon, in that cafe, where they would meet, share tea, and then carry on to a safehouse, where they would spend the night.

Hell, Canada remembered the mosaic tiling on the walls, remembered counting the blues and reds, waiting for his constantly-late lover to join him. Russia was worth the wait, he had told himself. He could probably recreate the pattern even now.

Lebanon had come across him once, while he was waiting for Russia. He didn't approve of it, he admitted, but he promised not to say anything to America. Be happy, he told Canada, with a sad smile, but happy was the last thing Canada was when Russia met him at the cafe for the last time and told him they were through.

(Moreover, Canada was unsurprised when he heard from Lebanon, a few years later, that the cafe had been utterly demolished by Israel's latest invasion. But by that time, to him, it had been one more nail in the coffin, just like Russia's nonsense idea of invading Afghanistan.)

"Then you will also recall that week's Security Council meeting," Russia continued, and indeed, Canada remembered that too.

"You abstained from the vote to send help," Canada said. "You weren't even sending any help. It was a reassignment from other peacekeeping operations, and there were no Soviet personnel there either. So you can't try and say you couldn't spare the manpower because it wasn't about that."

"I was not the sole abstention! Czechoslovakia did the same!" Russia insisted, and though it was true, that wasn't the point, and Canada ignored the sad attempt at deflection.

"No, instead, your manpower was being redirected elsewhere in the Middle East. Instead, you were funnelling billions of dollars in economic and military aid to Afghanistan, so that you could invade it a year later!"

"That is what you think?" Russia asked. "Dorogoy, you think I used it as a distraction?"

"Don't you call me that!"

"You do. You think I used you as a distraction! It wasn't like that -"

"You're making it out to be like I'm some kind of bitter ex-boyfriend," Canada grumbled. "I knew where you were sending the money. America found out about it, so he told the rest of us. You'd been doing that for decades. Your helping out Afghanistan wasn't anything new! So why the breakup right before an invasion, eh?"

"Your brother poking his fat nose where it didn't belong was the problem," Russia ground out, and Canada was about to defend him before Russia interrupted - "No. You will let me finish. Because there is much you do not know.

"Afghanistan asked me to send troops a full year before any sort of invasion was begun. I didn't start sending troops until about six months afterwards. Around the same time she started asking me for troops, America had been - as usual! - rummaging about. He began giving money to the rebels in Afghanistan, and the second I deployed troops he let his CIA start conducting propaganda operations against me and against her government.

"What's more, America went behind all our backs to mediate a peace treaty with Egypt and Israel. Even though their bosses won a peace prize for it, it got the Arabs angry and that spiralled into them assassinating Egypt's boss some three years later. So the Arabs had decent reason to be angry with America! And that snail of a brother you have, he thinks to himself, here's a good reason to get back in their good books, slander the shit out of me, and break us up, all in one, because dorogoy, he knew. He knew full well about us and instead of giving me some nonsense shotgun talk, he simply stirred up enough conflict with the modzhahed until it forced my hand in invading Afghanistan. That led to my own little Vietnam affair, and my subsequent recession and stagnation, and the fall of the Union."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing," Canada said - although the worst part of it was that it didn't make complete nonsense and part of him knew that it was certainly something his brother was capable of - "you're even trying to pin the blame for your failure at being in a relationship on America. The Cold War ended over twenty years ago!"

Russia ignored him, though the insult stuck and his lips twitched just barely. "If I had told you about any of this, you would have banked on the success of the Egypt-Israel treaty! You would have convinced yourself it was possible, and pushed for peacekeeping missions in the region! And, lyubimiy, it would have been a bloodbath. All your men - and everybody else in that peacekeeping mission, Austria's infantry, Australia's air units, Finland's troops, Poland's medics - would have been slaughtered!"

He stood very close to Canada and stared right into his eyes. Canada felt foolish, felt awkward and observed, but despite the warmth on his cheeks, on his neck, he couldn't make himself look away... "But I confess, I was selfish, I did not care about any of their people, I cared about yours. I cared about the fact that I would have had to instruct Afghanistan and India to aim for your head. I cared about the fact that they might miss and I might have to aim and fire instead. And if I had -"

"Don't talk about what would have happened if you had," Canada said, ashamed for his previous outburst because for all that he felt, Russia was right and it had been the only way to prevent further backlash. "I ... guess it's better that things ended the way they did."

"Perhaps not ended," Russia replied gently, tucking a lock of hair behind Canada's ear, "but merely paused?"

"Ivan..." he began, like a warning.

"I did not carry on with anybody else after you," Russia continued, his voice quiet and imploring. "I could not do it. Not for lack of trying - there was Afghanistan, and then Belarus has always had her interests. But -" and here he let his hand fall, slip gracefully past Canada's shoulder down his arm to hold his hand loosely with two fingers, as though wondering whether he would be granted permission for such an act, "I had never wanted you nearly so badly as when your brother made it perfectly clear you were off-limits. And there has been no one for me since."

Canada cursed himself for how readily he responded even after thirty years' worth of silence between them, turning his palm to accept Russia's fingers between his, letting Russia in while thinking, this is stupid, there is still so much between us...

But, on the other hand, there really wasn't. Russia - now the Russian Federation, ostensibly a democracy - was on decent terms with America. Even if that were nothing but America smiling pretty for cameras and paying ridiculous amounts of lip service, he could put his money where his mouth was and chew on that for awhile, because he no longer had a decent political reason to nix his brother's romantic relationships anymore as he apparently had once done.

"My brother doesn't control who I see or don't see," Canada said, taking Russia's other hand in his as well. "He didn't then, and he doesn't now. If - if what could have happened, had happened, it would have been my decision -"

"Your decision, made with the intelligence America wanted you to have -" Russia pointed out.

"I spoke to England too!" Canada protested. "And he was also in the region at the time! ...Which I'm not supposed to tell you, actually," he finished lamely.

Russia grinned, and leaned in, touching their foreheads together. "It's not like I didn't suspect it. At least England is less obvious about his SAS forces than America with his secret services!"

They spent a moment in a silence broken only by the occasional deep breath. It required more effort than Canada had imagined to lift his eyes to Russia's so he did it in stages: first his neck, where he remembered planting kisses and knew exactly where to focus his attention to drive Ivan mad - that scarf used to cover up a lot more than just Finland's idea of a Christmas gift from 1939. Then his jawline, his lips - that mouth was warmer than he had first thought it'd be. Even though touching Ivan was a blessing whenever they met in the Middle East (channelling his own winters only went so far, it was easier with Ivan there, holding him, and they could intertwine their limbs all they liked without feeling sweaty and sticky), that heat never faded and whenever they met somewhere colder it was comforting, soothing, and tore from him cries louder than he normally shouted. Then his cheeks, his nose - that nose that had never seemed too big or too awkward even though he knew Ivan felt self-conscious, it rested perfectly against his when they kissed, the rapid exhalation of breath on his cheek a comfort, a joy, to be so intimate with him.

They had been more than just lovers, more than just a fling. And with that Canada made eye contact and held it, licking his lips reflexively. Ivan's eyes seemed less purple in the feeble emergency lighting and more an unidentifiable light shade, his pupils dilated from the darkness and how near they were standing to one another -

And perhaps, he thought, as Ivan stepped closer still and tilted his head to press their mouths together chastely, and he closed his eyes, dilated for some other reason -

There was a creak and a sound of something sliding open, and suddenly the cabin was flooded with light from the doors. They broke apart to find technicians in suits looking up at them from below (the elevator must have stopped between floors) as well as Norway, who seemed confused.

"I extend my deepest apologies," he said, glancing from Russia to Canada and back again uncertainly. Canada blushed; even if Norway couldn't have seen their upper bodies from where he stood, it pretty obvious what was going on judging from how close their legs were. "This ... doesn't happen in my hotels often. I assure you."

"It's alright," Canada said, kneeling down. "Can we get out of here like this?"

Norway nodded and extended a hand up. "This elevator's not going anywhere."

Canada crawled out and, with Norway's support, jumped down the metre and a half to the next floor - the ninth, judging by the rooms around them; they had fallen farther than he'd thought, apparently! - and Russia quickly followed. The technicians busied themselves behind them.

"We were concerned, when you didn't show up to the working group," Norway told Canada, "and then I received the text from the head of maintenance here and understood. You didn't miss very much," he said frankly.

"America and England squabbling over something, I take it?"

Norway looked again from Russia to Canada before replying - and fair enough, Russia wasn't invited to this particular working group. But he decided against holding his tongue. "I guess it's not going to be a surprise to either of you. But... yes, that's pretty much what happened. We called for an early lunch. Which they should be coming back from now, if you want to follow me?" He gave Russia a polite nod. "Good day. My apologies again."

To leave just like that...maybe Norway was satisfied with a cool politeness but he wasn't. "In a minute," he told Norway, who was already pressing the down button to call another elevator, and who replied not with words but with a single raised eyebrow.

Once he'd looked away, Canada turned to Russia. "Fifteen-oh-four," he said. "I'm done at seven thirty. Come by and see me at eight?"

Russia gave him a quick kiss (with cool smooth lips, he'd missed these) on the cheek and whispered in his ear, "I shall look forward to it, Matthew."

.:.

Bonus
(because it's cruel to leave it like that, and OP did not appear opposed to more)

Later, in Canada's bedroom (which wound up being the wiser option, because Russia had already searched his for bugs and found twenty-three - most of them American - and Norway and America had little cause to spy on someone 'tepid' and 'boring' like Canada) they rekindled their relationship.

They found it was exactly as it had been in 1978.

Canada opened the door at 7:57 to find Russia on the other side, early for once. Russia was a confident, blustery sort of person who didn't like to be talked down to, but he was not that person at that moment. Instead, he found Ivan, who seemed uncertain, who wasn't wearing anything more than a simple shirt and pants - he looked like the Ivan he remembered without the scarf - and who was meeting a lover he thought he'd lost three decades ago.

Canada - Matthew - felt similarly apprehensive. Three decades. It wasn't exactly the blink of an eye.

He wordlessly stepped aside - perhaps too quickly, too eagerly - to let Ivan in, and as Ivan entered, Matthew (always facing him, never showing his back, if he turned away maybe Ivan would disappear into thin air again) shut the door behind him. He pressed himself against it like he needed the support.

Ivan stepped closer, into his personal space, so close that eye contact became difficult. He moved to press his cheek against Matthew's temple and Matthew, his head nestled in the crook of Ivan's neck where it met his shoulder, inhaled deeply. There was a subtle hint of scent and musk, undefinable except as Ivan, and as he breathed it in, he remembered how strongly scent was tied to memory. And suddenly, painfully, everything came rushing back, and thirty years of ice melted away in a thaw.

He tilted his head up to receive Ivan's lips, and this kiss, unlike the previous one in the elevator, was not chaste. It began with an open mouth, with tongue, and heat, and promise, and every one of Ivan's breaths from the get-go were audible moans that vibrated against him. Matthew too was similarly affected and ... and there was a French phrase that leapt to his mind more readily that described more accurately how he felt: il fut saisi, transi de joie -

Matthew ceased thinking in actual words - English or French - at all, and let Ivan lead him to the bed, having only the barest presence of mind to strip off his shirt before hitting the mattress. This was wise, because trapped as he was, pinned between the soft whatever that Norway had his hotel duvets made of and Ivan's wonderfully warm body, it would have been awkward to undress himself.

Ivan was, frustratingly enough, still clothed, and Matthew attempted worming his fingers in between where he could to undo buttons and properly even the score. But Ivan barely let him tug the shirt off - probably because it trapped his arms behind his back, entangled in sleeves, and there, he couldn't lay hands on Matthew, on his chest, on his hips, around his back or neck to hold him and keep him there.

It wasn't as though Matthew didn't want to be held, either, because he did, he had been waiting thirty years for that, for a kiss like this that refused to be stopped even for disrobing, and the few people he'd dated in between had not felt like Ivan did. When he finally succeeded, threw the shirt on the ground and surrendered to the blissful feel of Ivan's hands, he thought maybe that was just him preferring complications and difficulties to the Easy Route of taking a lover that his brother wouldn't be completely annoyed at him for. Easy was not better, because Easy was not Ivan.

Ivan attacked his throat next, and he moaned and arched up; as surely as he'd identified the points where Ivan was most sensitive earlier, where he remembered reducing Ivan to little more than needy noises, Ivan had not forgotten the mapping of Matthew's skin and where was quickest to render him speechless. With one hand, Matthew cupped Ivan's head, held it there, burrowed his fingers in Ivan's hair - thicker and softer than it looked - and with the other, he busied himself with the fastening on Ivan's pants in a fumbling effort to pry them off his body.

This was awkward too, with Ivan distracting him, but ultimately worthwhile. The moan he heard when he finally slipped his hand in was rewarding and Ivan bucked his hips into Matthew's grip, wantonly and helplessly.

For a brief moment, he was content to feel Ivan as he moved above him - with every thrust he brushed against Matthew's clothed erection, and that was nice, that appeased him momentarily. But eventually he grew weary of that and wanted more, wanted what they had had in Lebanon - and also in Zurich, in Turku, all over Algeria - the list was endless. "C'mon," he prompted, pushing Ivan off him.

Ivan understood immediately. "Yes," he replied, and rolled off Matthew to lie beside him on the bed and cant his hips upwards to work his pants off.

Even without the head start, Matthew got his own pants and underwear off first, shimmying out of them - probably gracelessly, but he didn't care about that anymore. Naked, he straddled Ivan the second he kicked his pants off the bed and brushed as many parts of their bodies together as possible. Matthew nearly came from that alone; it was shivery good and warm and he gave himself over to the impulse to kiss the hell out of Ivan again. (Ivan, that stupid jerk who thought that for thirty years it was adequate to simply admire from afar - they could have had this when the Wall fell!)

He wished he had many hands, one for each of Ivan's nipples, one for his hip, another to wrap around his waist and many more to touch everywhere ... but that didn't even make physical sense and he only had the two he was given with which he must make do. So he applied one around Ivan's neck to bring him close and kiss him again, and the other to their erections, not knowing whether Ivan had been presumptuous enough to bring lube and feeling too tightly wound for anything that fancy anyway (as delicious as it would have been, so more was the better that they started tonight like this). He pressed their bodies so close together and jerked his hips in time as best he could.

Ivan helped by wrapping his arms around his waist, by pulling him in and not letting him go. "I dreamt of this," he gasped between kisses, whispering in his ear once he knew Matthew was close (after all this time, Ivan still knew when). "Matthew, I wanted to drown in my dreams."

"Oh god," Matthew panted, "you beautiful, terrible fool -" to which Ivan answered only with moans and nails raked down his back. Matthew came apart like that, messily and in his arms.

Ivan was not far behind. Despite being spent, Matthew felt a renewed interest and throbbed at the sight he hadn't seen for far too long of Ivan, his head thrown back, his hair mussed up and his eyes clenched in an expression that if he didn't know better might look like pain. There was a pharmacy across the street, he recalled with desperation, they'd go out later. Or maybe just one of them, it wouldn't matter - but he wanted him so badly, he needed more. Or Ivan could take him, he wouldn't care, he'd happily hand himself over -

Ivan stopped his thought process with a firm, nearly bruising kiss and then said, with heavy, laboured breaths and significant conviction, "I am not finished with you. I expect I will not be finished with you for quite some time."

"I'll hold you to that," he blurted before he realised Ivan didn't necessarily mean that night, and blushed when he realised it applied equally well in either case.

.:.

Translations (not all literal):
da, mozhesh' (да, можешь) – yes, you can
dorogoy (дорогой) – my dear
modzhahed (моджахед) - mujahedin
lyubimiy (любимый) – my love
il fut saisi, transi de joie – he was seized, paralysed with joy

Notes:
I am not an historian, nor do I study political theory or the long-running Israeli-Palestinian conflict, so if I should offend I sincerely apologise, and would appreciate being corrected in a straight-forward, non-flamey manner.

The facts are all from Wikipedia and all true except for the following:

-the fact that Russia thinks America forced its hand in forcing the USSR to invade Afghanistan? there is no concrete proof of that
-the fact that if Canada had been still 'seeing' Russia in 1979, that he would have been in a giant conflict of interest and the UN would have moved to do something in Afghanistan? I made that up
-the fact that because he wasn't seeing Russia, it meant a different peacekeeping operation between Egypt and Israel, instead of aid to Afghanistan, like they're some kind of mutually exclusive set? totally made it up
-the fact that somehow Egypt-Israel conflicts are related to Afghanistan? totally made it up. And also they're separated by like three other countries so it ...really doesn't even make much geographical sense.

If you have any questions about the remainder, please let me know! I'd be excited to talk about it :D Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed : )