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Alfred x Matthew	By : flagfish Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 2285 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia, nor do I make any money from writing this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Alfred x Matthew
- 2-Chapter 2
- 1
- 2
*Warning: offensive language

It was a snowy night in Vancouver.

Out in the parking lot at the back of the rink, Francis and Arthur meandered toward Francis' parked car, the electronic chirp of his key chain echoing throughout the open expanse, humid clouds of condensation dissipating white into the air with their breath, Arthur zipping the collar of his coat as he climbed into the car.

Francis climbed in at the driver's side, then turned partway around to put the plastic bag with dinner in the back seat, the bundle pleasantly warm in his gloved hand; there soon came the low sound of doors closing, iridescent flash of headlights, brake lights going off—

Alfred and Matthew wouldn't go home for some time. The rink almost entirely devoid of people, there came only the hard sounds of knocking collisions and scrapes, the occasional shouts resonating all throughout the rink, both brothers out of breath—

When you came in already pissed off, you were just looking for a fight. With no linesmen around, you could duke it out all evening. With linesmen around, they'd still let you duke it out, until one dude was down on the ice, or the other dude was having too much of an advantage— but Matthew and Alfred were pretty-well matched.

They went at each other too many times to count. They spent nearly as much time beating each other up as they did actually playing, and after you'd been at it that long, you'd be riled up enough to kick the other guy's ass even more, practically looking for any conceivable chance to have a go—

Alfred had the puck for a while when Matt came at him hard, elbowing him deep in the side and sending him down to his knees on the ice, the puck flying off while Matt twisted partway and nearly fell as he hit the wall of the rink—

—that was bad. That was low. Soon as Alfred was up, he went straight at Matthew, hardly waiting for him to rise to his feet before pushing him back, and Matthew's hands were on Alfred, as well, and soon they were punching each other in the belly, until they were fighting to hold each other down on the ice for what may have been the fifth time in that just that game alone.

They finally tired one another out two hours after the fact, Alfred halfheartedly hitting Matthew as the two lay in an exhausted tangle on the ice, Matthew's arms locked around his brother's waist, damp bundles of hair messily hanging down at the front of his helmet and onto his face, trembling slightly with each expiration of breath.

"Get the ff…get the fuck off me…" he breathed, and there came no response, Alfred not really hitting with interest anymore but still not letting go. Matthew's skin was damp through his shirt, they were both very hot, Alfred's eyes closed and lips dry and agape as he drew in his breath. It was a mutual, unspoken understanding to call it a night, because neither would admit aloud that this thing was done.

When finally Alfred stopped punching Matt, he tiredly reached to pull his helmet off, still holding his brother down with his other hand. His cheeks were red with exertion, his hair was a mess, Matthew proceeded to pry his hands away from Alfred as to remove his helmet, too, when, snickering, Alfred seized the opportunity to tackle him, slamming him down on his back.

Matthew cringed, teeth clenching as he hissed profanities in French, and Alfred ignored him that time, still breathing hard as he grinned with satisfaction, "You let down your guard," he laughed, leaning forth to kiss him, hands still holding tight to Matt's wrists on either side of his face.

"Son of a bitch," Matthew breathed, eyes closed and chest still heaving, his shoulders still hurt where Alfred had slammed him down, his muscles still tensed as he tried to get up while he kissed Alfred back. His knee rose dangerously close to Alfred's pelvis from below, just barely brushing close up, and, lips still moving wet against his, he murmured,

"I'll do it," voice coming breathy and hoarse, "I'll do it, Al, let go of my wrists—"

Alfred leaned farther in, knee coming hard between Matthew's legs, but not up all the way—

"Yeah?" he murmured as he kissed Matt again, "Yeah, I'll do it, too—"

But after that, he moved his knee up very slowly, as if to make a blatant point that Matthew was hard, and he snickered with quiet contentment, insulting without ever saying a word; Matt bit his lip, half smiling, part nodding, very funny, he may well have said—then he suddenly grabbed tightly at Alfred's arms, flipping him hard on his back with his face screwed in effort.

"Ohhh…!" Matthew cried, lips stretched widely in a smile as he gazed down in triumph, but he had to struggle after that to keep Alfred from getting back up.

"Ah…man, fuck you…" Alfred laughed, and he made a genuine effort to get loose, failing at first but then quickly getting out of Matthew's grasp—

He gripped his brother hard around the waist, pulling him in and then rapidly seizing his mouth, Matt's helmet still on as he struggled halfheartedly to get it off all the while;

"I'm missing dinner cause of you,"

Alfred said, hands going under the hem of Matthew's jersey, "cause you suck at hockey so bad—"

"Don't make me kick your ass again, Al,"

There came the reply, Matthew's large hands hard at the sides of Alfred's face, his cheeks felt stubbly and warm, his lips outright hot and a little bit wet; on his forehead was still the bandage Arthur had put on some hours before—

Beneath Matthew's jersey, Alfred's hands ran across the muscles of his abdomen, raking over the costal margin and up along his chest, "You're such a little pussy, Matt, this gets you off?"

"Oh, you're such an asshole—"

There came the reply, because it really did feel good, and maybe Alfred was taunting him only because he wanted Matt to get him back—

"Here?" Matthew said, voice hoarse and dry as he reached directly for the front of Al's trousers, and he snickered in triumph, "I knew it, you fag—"

"You're the fag," Alfred laughed, entirely unashamed of being hard, and he pressed up deliberately into Matt's hand, leaning in again to kiss him.

* * *

"Just leave it, I'll do the dishes,"

There came Francis' halfhearted tone, he collected the plates from the dining room table where he and Arthur had finished dinner shortly before, "I'm loading the dishwasher up anyway—"

"Those idiots, it's already twenty minutes past ten, they still out at the rink?"

The sounds of dishware clinking emanated from the kitchen nearby, where Francis was rinsing the dishes and silverware off,

"Let it go, Arthur, we're the same way with football—"

Arthur leaned back in his chair, remote control in hand. He had a vacation home in British Columbia, where he stayed very rarely, but it was nice when there were meetings or summits nearby.

"Football, that's different,"

He said, pointing the remote toward the television and turning it on, "You can't not…everyone plays football."

He turned his head partway around, "You think we should call them? They're probably having a fight…"

"Let them fight,"

Francis called from the kitchen, "I already told you, those two are grown up—"

"But there's no linesmen out now, you saw how mad they get—"

* * *

Out on the ice, Alfred had Matt on his back, long legs entangled and trousers down somewhere around both their calves, ice skates still on, the hot expiration of breath ghosting humid and low, violent, graceless, there came the obnoxious sound of a phone going off—

"F…fuck—"

Matthew breathed, hair still swaying, arm still tight around Alfred's back, and he gazed aside where, a few feet away there lay his cel phone, and, hair swinging damp, Alfred growled back, "You're not seriously gonna answer—"

"I just wanna see who it is—"

"It's probably England, just call him back later, who cares—"

Dude always calls at the most inopportune times—

* * *

"There's no pickup,"

Arthur said, voice ringing with dissatisfaction as he hit the end button on his phone, and Francis was drying his hands on a kitchen towel as he stepped out into the family room,

"They're probably still out in the rink."

"Or they've beat each other up so bad that—"

"England," Francis sighed, "they do this all the time. Just let it go and let's have some time to ourselves."

To be continued…
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- 2
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Alfred x Matthew