First Person: [ Matthew meanders through the bookshop, running his fingers lightly over the spines of some of the books he passes over. His violet eyes scan the titles, catching on certain words that intrigue him and passing over the majority that don't. Finally, he stops on a book with plain white lettering and a simple one-word title. Nothing flashy. It was hard to say from the cover exactly what was even inside. Perfect. He knew better than to judge any book by a beautiful cover; oftentimes those were the ones with the impressive stories he could not even stomach more than a few pages of. The subdued story with a subtle wit and strong characters is the one he prefers. Carrying the novel over to the counter, he's checked out by a friendly Quebecoise with a round face and curly red hair. ]
Merci beaucoup.
[ Exiting the shop, he breathes in the cold air as snowflakes start to fall. With his right thumb, Matthew flips through the pages as he walks back down the street toward home. The smell of the paper and ink makes him smile. Second only to the smell of cooking pancake batter, he thinks to himself as he tucks the book under his arm and walks through the falling snow back home. A new book and a cup of tea sounds like a perfect way to get through the upcoming blizzard. ]
Third Person: With a clatter, Matthew stamped his feet as he jumped off of the couch. "Come on, come on, come on! Get it in- fuck you!" he shouted at the television screen, his face set in an uncharacteristic scowl. He ran an irritated hand through his hair as the Canadiens blocked another goal. Flopping onto the couch, he folded his arms as Montreal regained control.
It was hockey season; specifically, the NHL was knee-deep into finals, and his team was finally up for a chance to take the coveted Stanley Cup again. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a baggy Toronto jersey, Matthew flopped back onto the couch. "Never going to make it at this rate," he seethed, folding his hands and staring intently at the screen again. Matthew was not the type to usually let his temper get the best of him, but there is an exception to every rule, and hockey was his.
As it was Canada's favorite sport, Matthew followed suit and turned into a sports nut around this time. The capital city may be Ottawa, but as Toronto had the largest population by far of any of his cities, Matthew found himself favoring the Maple Leafs over the Senators. It was unabashedly his favorite city, with its bustling metropolis, diverse citizens, and long history. Not to mention that the Ottawa Senators had just reformed in 1990 after an almost 60 year hiatus, and he'd gotten into hockey long before that and been sticking with the Maple Leafs ever since.
Normally, Matthew was just like most of his citizens: he was polite and quiet, at best he maybe got a bit snarky. But when the Canadiens were beating the snot out of the Maple Leafs, things were very different. When a hockey game was on, all bets were off on what came out of Matthew's mouth. Matthew became comparable to any rabid sports fan. Alfred had his football, Arthur had rugby (or was it cricket?), and Matthew had this.
When the phone rang, he swallowed his temper, muted the TV and slid a finger across the screen to answer. "Hello?" he asked politely, his violet eyes twitching at the screen when he dared to look. "No, no, I'm fine, how are you?" Taking deep breaths and keeping a calm face, he did his best to not blow off his friend on the other end. His eyes widened and a finger curled around his ahoge as one the Maple Leafs' centers skated toward the goal, raised his stick with the puck, made a shot and- Matthew dropped his phone and screamed so loud the people above him started banging on the roof. Scrambling for the remote and his phone he turned the volume down and resumed the phone call. "I'm so, so sorry I- Hello?" Oh, now he felt bad. He grimaced and almost pressed redial but his fingers faltered as his attention zoned back into the screen for the last 4 minutes of the game. The call could wait, but he made sure to remind himself to return it.
[canon] Matthew Williams / Canada || Axis Powers Hetalia || reserved || 2 of 2
[ Matthew meanders through the bookshop, running his fingers lightly over the spines of some of the books he passes over. His violet eyes scan the titles, catching on certain words that intrigue him and passing over the majority that don't. Finally, he stops on a book with plain white lettering and a simple one-word title. Nothing flashy. It was hard to say from the cover exactly what was even inside. Perfect. He knew better than to judge any book by a beautiful cover; oftentimes those were the ones with the impressive stories he could not even stomach more than a few pages of. The subdued story with a subtle wit and strong characters is the one he prefers. Carrying the novel over to the counter, he's checked out by a friendly Quebecoise with a round face and curly red hair. ]
Merci beaucoup.
[ Exiting the shop, he breathes in the cold air as snowflakes start to fall. With his right thumb, Matthew flips through the pages as he walks back down the street toward home. The smell of the paper and ink makes him smile. Second only to the smell of cooking pancake batter, he thinks to himself as he tucks the book under his arm and walks through the falling snow back home. A new book and a cup of tea sounds like a perfect way to get through the upcoming blizzard. ]
Third Person:
With a clatter, Matthew stamped his feet as he jumped off of the couch. "Come on, come on, come on! Get it in- fuck you!" he shouted at the television screen, his face set in an uncharacteristic scowl. He ran an irritated hand through his hair as the Canadiens blocked another goal. Flopping onto the couch, he folded his arms as Montreal regained control.
It was hockey season; specifically, the NHL was knee-deep into finals, and his team was finally up for a chance to take the coveted Stanley Cup again. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a baggy Toronto jersey, Matthew flopped back onto the couch. "Never going to make it at this rate," he seethed, folding his hands and staring intently at the screen again. Matthew was not the type to usually let his temper get the best of him, but there is an exception to every rule, and hockey was his.
As it was Canada's favorite sport, Matthew followed suit and turned into a sports nut around this time. The capital city may be Ottawa, but as Toronto had the largest population by far of any of his cities, Matthew found himself favoring the Maple Leafs over the Senators. It was unabashedly his favorite city, with its bustling metropolis, diverse citizens, and long history. Not to mention that the Ottawa Senators had just reformed in 1990 after an almost 60 year hiatus, and he'd gotten into hockey long before that and been sticking with the Maple Leafs ever since.
Normally, Matthew was just like most of his citizens: he was polite and quiet, at best he maybe got a bit snarky. But when the Canadiens were beating the snot out of the Maple Leafs, things were very different. When a hockey game was on, all bets were off on what came out of Matthew's mouth. Matthew became comparable to any rabid sports fan. Alfred had his football, Arthur had rugby (or was it cricket?), and Matthew had this.
When the phone rang, he swallowed his temper, muted the TV and slid a finger across the screen to answer. "Hello?" he asked politely, his violet eyes twitching at the screen when he dared to look. "No, no, I'm fine, how are you?" Taking deep breaths and keeping a calm face, he did his best to not blow off his friend on the other end. His eyes widened and a finger curled around his ahoge as one the Maple Leafs' centers skated toward the goal, raised his stick with the puck, made a shot and- Matthew dropped his phone and screamed so loud the people above him started banging on the roof. Scrambling for the remote and his phone he turned the volume down and resumed the phone call. "I'm so, so sorry I- Hello?" Oh, now he felt bad. He grimaced and almost pressed redial but his fingers faltered as his attention zoned back into the screen for the last 4 minutes of the game. The call could wait, but he made sure to remind himself to return it.