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Matthew is Mine	By : flagfish Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 9688 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia, nor do I make any money from writing this story.

Chapter List
- 10
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- 12
It was a wretched thing, doing it alone.
No; that wasn't right. It was a normal thing, healthy even, something that everyone did but not everyone admitted to aloud, but it felt wretched when it was finished, and it felt wretched a hundredfold to be finished outside the attic door, painfully aware of one's solitude by the sounds still emanating from within.
Voyeur.
Pervert.
Delicate eyelashes flickering, Kiku rose very slowly to his feet, heart still racing, fingers wet.
What am I doing.
Filled all at once with self-reprimand, he made his way silently down the hallway toward the nearby bathroom, where, feeling like a criminal, he proceeded to wash his hands.
He gazed at his reflection from under the dark frame of his hair, carefully inspecting his face and clothes, just in case, just in case anything incriminating—
he couldn't get it out of his mind.
Alfred's voice.
He cried so helplessly in Arthur's arms, his words so desperate and soft—
What's wrong with you. Don't think about that.
After drying his hands, he stepped out to the hall, quietly making his way toward the stairwell when something else caught his eye. Just a few feet down, door open partway, there it was--
Alfred's bedroom.
Don't.
One hand already on the rail, Kiku stared for a long time at the partly open door, before, despite himself, he began making his way there very slowly.
This is wrong. This is so, so very wrong.
He couldn't help himself.
Slowly, gentle fingertips outstretched, he nudged the door open farther.
Silence.
The light from the hallway stretched in a yellow wedge inside, dimly illuminating the outline of the furniture. There were shelves and a dresser with drawers, the iridescent digits of a radio alarm clock beside a large bed, and, as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he noticed also that the room was really quite a mess, with magazines and clothes and partway-open mail strewn here and there, and even a plate of partly-eaten food on the bedside table.
Kiku smiled, despite himself.
He felt a sudden urge to clean it all up, to carefully iron and fold the disheveled clothes and organize them neatly, carefully—
lovingly,
he realized in a moment of shame as the slender digits of his hand reached with quiet curiosity for one of the items on the bed.
A blue button-down shirt, wrinkled but somehow still crisp, and Kiku felt like an absolute criminal as he carefully held it open, dark eyelashes batting.
It was so big. The sleeves were so long.
The buttons were pale plastic at the cuffs, a small thread hanging loose just the slightest bit from within one. Closing his eyes, Kiku brought the shirt closer to himself, inhaling softly.
He envisioned in his mind Alfred taking it off, coming home after—
what—
after a summit meeting—
his large, long fingers working quickly at the buttons, absently pulling the thing off and—what—maybe tossing it haphazardly to the bed—
blonde hair ruffling in its wake, Alfred turning to the mirror to smooth it back down, carefully removing his glasses and setting them on the dresser—
hands already at his belt on his way out to the shower—
What am I doing.
Out in the attic, they were likely still going at it.
Very quietly, Kiku sat down on the mattress; in one of the pillows there still was the visible depression of Alfred's head, and Kiku lay down very slowly, eyes open wide in the darkness and hands still clutching the shirt.
He remembered when, some time ago, Alfred had cheerfully approached him, lighthearted and absent of mind,
Hey, Japan! Japan...!
As Kiku turned with curious reserve, Alfred went on to ask what sort of food he ate, what he did to stay so thin, because Arthur had told him he was starting to put on weight.
Taken off guard, Kiku recalled awkwardly whatever it is he typically had for lunch, flattered and surprised when later Alfred asked if he could show him.
It must've been nothing to him.
He went back to burgers in a week.
Some things couldn't be helped; Alfred's body was amazing all the same.
***
Downstairs, Matthew docilely bent over Ivan's lap, the boy's large fingers in his hair as he sucked gently on his member, obediently, even at the height of intoxication careful not to hurt him or bite.
Francis watched from behind him, slowly gathering Matthew's hair in his hands and sliding it over one of his shoulders so he could observe his face. He leaned down, and, hands firm on his thighs, began to lap very gently at the opening.
Matthew stiffened all at once, voice coming muffled against Ivan, and, laughing softly to himself, Francis proceeded farther, deliberately holding him in place, deliberately not touching his member just yet.
Ivan caressed Matthew's hair gently, his fingers large and warm, and it really did calm him down, it really did console him.
“Hurry up,”
He said, and Francis laughed, licking at his lips before replying,
“I'm not getting him ready for you, I'm getting him ready for me.”
At this, Ivan couldn't help smiling. “You don't honestly think I was planning to take him? He'd never survive.”
Gazing down at Matthew in mockery of good-hearted concern, Ivan gently brushed the back of his hand against the boy's cheek.
“You want me to hurry up so you could take me,” Francis said, and Ivan nodded with knowing wisdom.
He smiled at Francis, with the warmest, sweetest, and utmost regard then when he replied,
“A little whore like you could handle it much better, I'm sure.”
“I'd hardly say little.”
And with that, Francis gently leaned forth, sensuously, and lips brushing wet, he slowly kissed the slick opening.
“Please don't hurt me,”
Matthew whispered, and he wasn't fully aware, he wasn't fully awake, it was something ancient, something he'd said to Alfred many times—
not as a genuine request or matter or preference, but because it was something Alfred liked to hear.
Go on.
Go on, say it, Alfred would whisper, words inaudible with the flow of expiration, and he would kiss Matthew, sleepily, feverishly, already aroused and completely hard behind the flannel of his pajamas, say it, you sound so sweet—
What? Matthew would ask, dreaming flicker of eyelashes batting innocent and soft, what, don't hurt me?
Yeah, just like that—
Francis and Ivan laughed; it was very cute, charmingly docile,
“He taught you well, your brother,” Francis crooned, moving back as he began to unfasten his belt.
To be continued...
- 10
- 11
- 12
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Matthew is Mine