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Double Entendre	By : saxonjesus Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 1404 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
- 1-Double Entendre
- 2-Part 2
- 1
- 2
Part 2:

But apparently, he had been wrong.

Arthur's heart let out another aching throb as he recalled that particular night, yet again. The flames rising from Norwalk, great licks of fire caressing the buildings away into nothing, provided a somber background to England's inner turmoil.
It had been seven months since that night, and it already seemed like a distant memory of times when life had been slightly less blood-soaked. But it was no use dwelling on the impossible. There were cities to burn and colonies to reclaim.
It had hurt though, he could admit that to himself at least. It had hurt to wake up next to his brother again, only to have the peace ripped away so callously. It had burned like a brand when Alfred had looked at him with such disdain and disgust that morning.
It had been that morning when Arthur had realized that it was going to take more than a few small skirmishes to convince his brother to return to him. Especially with the conflict dividing Alfred further and further. Arthur had recognized the symptoms almost immediately. The sudden irrational behavior, seemingly incoherent mood swings, drastic changes in demeanor. The newly "independent" Nation was tearing himself apart in his desperation to fight for what all his people wanted. That was a Nation's job, wasn't it? Normally, there wasn't a problem, but it would appear as if Alfred's people were having conflicting loyalties.
Arthur had seen it happen before, but to a far lesser extent, with Spain and his Inquisition. The difference was drastic; instead of a complete switch in personality, it seemed that Alfred had developed a completely conscious multiple personality, though whether Alfred was aware of his Loyalist counterpart was still unknown to England. And perhaps that was for the best. For the both of them, because the elder Nation knew just what insanity could do such a young Nation. Alfred would tear himself apart and come crawling back to his dear, loving brother, who, of course, would welcome him back with open arms and they both would forget all the horrible events that had transpired these past few years.
Arthur felt the adrenaline coarse through his veins in anticipation. All he had to do was wait.
----
Today was the day. Today he was going to show his former colonizer what he was made of.
Standing on the outskirts of Savannah, his army standing solemnly behind him, Alfred could feel the cool October air prickle the skin on the back of his neck. His heart beat erratically in his ribcage as adrenaline soaked his veins. His plan was sound--the French Admiral D'Estaing had brought up troops from the Caribbean the month before, and though the heavy bombardment they had brought upon the city should have forced an uncompromised surrender, there was always the option of open offensive. The troops were to attack in secrecy along Spring Hill, and despite the deepening fog, they were going to march.
A soft breeze rolled by, just the smell hinting at the blood that would inevitably be shed. Steeling his nerve, Alfred signaled for his troops to follow him. They marched dutifully behind him, plodding just quietly enough not to give away their position. There was a rustling behind him, announcing his ally's presence.
"Eef zat swine shows up, you remembair your roll, oui, Alfred?" Francis asked. Alfred nodded. He wasn't looking at "that swine" as his brother anymore. "Zen we will begin." With a few short, lyrically barked orders, the joint American-French army went forth into the outskirts of the city.
They just hadn't counted on the fog being more of a barrier than the soldiers themselves. Alfred found himself sloshing through a knee-high swamp, stumbling past trees and trying to keep his troops together and prepared for attack at any movement. The pitch black of the pre-dawn morning chilled his soaked soldiers. He had known this was a bad idea. He had told that D'Estaing this had been a bad idea.
The sun had risen and the fog was beginning to be burned away when his tattered band of rebels made it over the last of the muddy banks and onto dry land. Turning to the city that was just beyond the trees to his left, Alfred and Francis rallied their forces and marched on.
They were met with immediate resistance. His troops fell like flies from the hail of bullets that rained down from all sides, and their blood oozed from his wounds. Cannon fire shed powerful waves of sound down the battlefield, whistling destruction with each bright flash. Every time one of his people died, Alfred's skin prickled and bled anew.
And they wouldn't stop dying.
It was a massacre, really, with screams of agony and cracks of weapons and bone echoing so loudly that Alfred felt like it was all in his head and that none of this was real and that if he just opened his eyes wide enough, it would all disappear and he'd just be there with his brother next to him, offering him tea, and he really, really hated war, and he just wanted it all to stop, and why did he hurt!?
Still, he kept fighting, and beside him, he saw Francis taking just as many injuries, but the Nation put on a valiant face that America could never hope to mimic. Perhaps it was because he was so new to this war thing or that he was still so very, very young, but Alfred could not help but wince and gasp at each soldier's death, couldn't help but feel the roiling in his stomach every time a musket ball passed through another victim's flesh, tearing away muscle and sinew in an explosion of gore that left a vivid trail of pain on the pallid morning grass. The sensation of tearing and ripping of both cloth and body pounding through his tattered veins was enough for his face to seek sweet relief in the rust-colored turf of the battlefield. And all he could do was watch as, one by one, his men fell to their knees, eyes clouded and darkened in death's final blow. The sound of the retreat being called only brought ironic relief as he saw Francis ushering the remains of the battalion away to God knew where, so they could once again fight and most likely die.
He had always thought battlefields would be silent after a great slaughter. How naive he must have been, because there was no silence to whisk him away into the abyss of sleep. There was only Agony and the screams she elicited from her victims when the last of the shells had been spent. Alfred could hear them, hear his soldiers pleading for their last breaths to come and for the Maker to take them away to their eternal rest. Alfred could hear them, he could hear them, and he knew their names, each one of those boys whimpering for their mothers, brothers, sisters, or wives. He knew their agony, their sorrow, their regret for dying so early... but not for how they died. Pride in death, pride for a barely together country. Hope. Somewhere, a tiny fragment of his contrary being shivered and died; it knew the tide was going to turn, it felt it just as keenly as Alfred had. His people were going to fight and die for their freedom--his Americans, not his English or his colonists, but his Americans were going to fight and defeat all who stood in their way.
His heart shuddered a bit as yet another of his men passed into the great unknown. Ensign Benjamin J. Browning, Richmond Virginia, age 19. The knowledge came unbidden, and it was too much to bear; how did France deal with it? God, he couldn't take it any longer--he didn't want to know! How could freedom cost so much and still be out of reach?
Tears mixed with blood, but Alfred couldn't comprehend it anymore. The pain bit into his joints and gnawed until he felt like he'd just fall apart at the seams. All he could imagine was just a quiet, sunny day of moderate warmth, so much different than this hot, muggy, balmy, foggy weather. He sat under a tree as a light breeze came through, and he listened contentedly to his brother's traditional music, loving the soft, lyrical up-and-downs of each phrase. The aroma of tea wafted toward him, and when he finally had the energy to open his eyes, he would take a sip from the proffered cup and sigh serenely.
Instead, he was in a white room again. Just like he had been that day several months ago, when he'd discovered that there was something extremely wrong with him. And he was in pain, too, just like he'd been then...
The aroma of tea had not disappeared.
Bittersweet memories flowed through the back of his mind, tapering away as his eyes caught the teapot. It was still steaming and obviously hadn't been there long. Opening the small china lid and peering in, Alfred found his hypothesis to be correct; the tea was still steeping. Just the smell alone filled him with a nostalgia of lost times, and he found himself blinking back traitorous tears. He missed the companionship his former brother had given him.
The knob twisted almost innocently, and America hastened to return the covers over his dully aching body. He'd obviously been out a while, seeing as the injuries he'd received were very nearly healed. He tried to remember anything from after he'd fallen into the blood-saturated mud, but nothing came to mind. Where he was was obvious, but why he was there made him very confused. Maybe Francis had been right, and he did have a Loyalist problem. A sudden spear of dread pierced his heart and tightened all the surrounding muscles until they were useless. What if he had surrendered during his lost time? He could not let those damned Loyalists ruin what the majority of his people wanted, what he himself wanted. Yes, the battle had been devastating and yes, he had been very, very hurt and disheartened, but that did not mean that he wanted to stop fighting for what he truly believed was right.
The door opened, revealing a fatigued-looking Arthur, just as Alfred had feared--well, besides the exhausted part. The Nation didn't notice his former colony's state of consciousness and simply went to sit in the chair at Alfred's bedside. Carefully, methodically, Arthur poured himself his tea, the steam rising from the cup, causing him to squint his eyes, which in turn set his thick eyebrows in comical relief. Alfred had always loved that expression, merely because it had been so inconceivably unintentional. It reminded him of better times, reminded him that there was still a very large part of him that still loved his ex-brother.
Arthur scowled down at his tea as if he, too, remembered all the times Alfred had laughed at his face and could sense that he was thinking of it now. With precision, the older Nation added sugar and then milk to his warm drink and took a sip. Arthur sighed and looked over at the bed, meeting Alfred's eyes.
"Oh!" He sounded genuinely shocked. "You're finally awake!" He sat his teacup down on its designated saucer and stood up. The entire scene seemed surreal, like perhaps America was just dreaming this all and he was really still on the battlefield, bleeding out and crying like the pathetic young Nation he was.
He didn't quite know how to take it when England hugged him. Anger and hatred begged him to push the other Nation away and retaliate--they were still at war, were they not? But the bittersweet love that always, always remained was telling him to pull his ex-brother to him. They struggled in his head, neither side gaining anything on the other, so that America simply lay there with his arms halfway between a hug and a strangle.
"I knew this would happen! Especially with that damned Frog with you!" England proclaimed, burying his head in the crook of Alfred's neck.
Without thinking, the anger won out, and Alfred pushed Arthur away. He knew he was scowling, but he didn't really care. How dare England lecture him on his choice allies!
"Francis is not an incompetent ally! I can honestly say that he's better than you, brother." He spat the last word like a curse. England's green eyes snapped open in shock, and his lips parted in a way that Alfred most certainly did not find sexy.
"I..." England blinked, obviously completely flabbergasted at America's retort. He swallowed visibly, and then his eyes flashed and he was yelling back. "How dare you say Francis was--" He spluttered, "--was--is--better! After all I've done for you--"
"Which is what, exactly!? Leave me on my own with a gun and tell me to defend myself while you go and take over other Nations! Tax me while you're out, let your leader put unfair laws in place!?" Alfred screamed, his voice coming out crackly and raw but powerful nonetheless.
"You have no right to judge what I do with my colonies--which is what you are, Alfred: my colony!"
Outrage sparked through America's veins enough for him to sit up, bringing pain to his still battle-weary body. "I was your brother, and yet you took me for granted, thought of me only as your property," he hissed.
Whatever response had been in England's throat died, and the Nation fell into a stunned silence. An almost caring expression took hold of his face, and when he spoke, it was in that soft, loving caress of a voice that Alfred had heard so many times in his youth. "I never thought of you as my property."
"Really? That's not what you just said--I'm your colony?" He spat the words right back in England's face.
"No!" Arthur exclaimed. "No--I... you're still..."

"Still what?" Alfred hated himself a little for how soft and tender--weak--his voice sounded.

"...My... brother."

"No, we're not brothers anymore." America shook his head.

England's gaze turned downcast and looked more than a little depressed. "So, then, we are enemies," he stated, though it sounded much more like a question.

Alfred wanted desperately to say "yes," but he found himself shaking his head. No, they were not on good terms, and yes, they were at war, but there was a very large underlying affection that neither of them could afford to deny. After all, England had saved him on the battlefield after he'd passed out. And there had to be a reason he could barely control the Loyalists who kept wanting to be near Arthur's side.

"If we were enemies, then you would have just left me on the battlefield. But you saved me and took care of me, so I think we both know that. There's a part of me that despises you, Arthur," the young Nation said, looking his former colonizer in the eye, "but there is also a part of me that just wants to cling to you, like when I was little and afraid that you were going to leave and come back injured from fighting with Spain or France. There's a part of me, the part that is most dominant and overwhelming, that desires more than anything to be free from you and to make my own decisions, but it is stuck in conflict with the tiny part of me that needs you, that wants to hold you and kiss you despite wanting to push you away."

Alfred had no idea why he thought that telling Arthur the truth would help his situation, but it seemed to have caught the other Nation off guard enough to give himself the upper hand if things turned ugly. At least, that was what he was telling himself. In truth, it felt good to get everything out into the open where it couldn't be suffocating him in his confusion.

The younger Nation waited for Arthur to respond. He had said everything he had wanted to say and now he just had to wait and see how the truth would change things.

"Oh."

Alfred had kind of been expecting something a little more eloquent and perhaps a little more violent. But England just stood there right next to the bed, unmoving and most obviously dumbfounded.

And then England blushed. "K-kiss?" He asked, trying to camouflage his reddening face by covering it with a hand--or at least, that was what Alfred figured he was doing.

"Yes, kiss," Alfred stressed. He aspired to be a Nation that always said things how he saw them, and he would start by being honest with his ex-brother in the here-and-now. To reinforce it, he moved to the edge of the bed and leaned over until his face was level with England's. And then, ever so carefully, the distance between them collapsed as Alfred gently touched their lips together.

He pulled back a moment later, pleased to see that he still had Arthur's attention. His face was rather comical now that he thought about it. It was bright red, and the older Nation wore such a dumbfounded look that it was amazing that Alfred had ever been afraid of him, afraid of the power his ex-brother held.

"I know what I want, Arthur, and I won't let my emotions get in the way from fighting you to get it. But... I want you to understand that I don't think of you as my enemy anymore. You're just fighting for what your country wants, just as I am. But that doesn't mean we have to discard what we feel for each other because of it. I can be America and you can be England, but we can also be Alfred and Arthur," he proclaimed loudly, talking as confidently as he dared. England nodded absently, and the action was so stiff that Alfred could swear he heard the squeaking of un-oiled joints.

Carefully, he reached out--it still hurt, but he hid his wince as best he could--and pulled England down onto the bed with him. He hugged the older Nation very carefully to his broad chest.

"No one told you to grow up like this," Arthur muttered into the thin sheets that separated them.

Alfred shook his head and hugged England just a mite bit closer. He really wanted this contact, wanted the other Nation to understand that, brothers or not, enemies or not, he would always love him.

It was England who broke the stasis first, pulled back enough so that he could find an angle at which to lean in and secure their lips together. Just like Alfred's speech, the kiss was firm and confident, knowing. They each understood exactly what they felt, and now they were expressing it in the only way they could possibly imagine. Each of them was taking from the other and receiving just as much in return.

Arthur's hands fisted the sheets on Alfred's chest, and Alfred's hands left the warmth of the sheets to come around and rest at the small of Arthur's back.

The kiss deepened in a pleasant way, pooling heat in America's chest until he couldn't stand the distance between him and his once-colonizer. He didn't really recall how it happened, but suddenly, the white bedclothes were twisted and England was beneath him, pliant as sapling wood that would immediately be discarded on the ships on which the older Nation prided himself so much. Small, calloused hands tangled in his hair, pulling at the day's knots too hard. America hissed and broke the kiss, but England just used that as an opportunity to roll them both over--he was surprisingly strong for such a little Nation--so that the younger Nation found himself in the position his ex-brother had just vacated.
He was surprisingly okay with the change. The blankets were twisted a bit uncomfortably, but with England on top of him, staring down at him with such a... lusty gaze, well... he wasn't exactly complaining.
"Alfred..." Arthur murmured, running a hand down his--wait.
Why was his chest bare?
He pushed his former colonizer away from him and looked down. Immediately, a blush swarmed his entire body like a particularly persistent cloud of flies. Red everywhere, even--argh. He was aware that his ears were burning up with the heat of embarrassment, and to make it all the worse, his arousal... grew.
"I'm not an exhibitionist!" He exclaimed loudly, knowing innately what Arthur was about to accuse him of being. Instead, however, the other Nation just looked at him like he was an idiot--thick eyebrows raised high over lust-clouded eyes, mouth open in that "you really are an idiot, you know?" look--and then pushed him back down onto the bed.
"Why would you think that?" The smaller Nation asked him in a surprisingly low, almost guttural voice. It was strained and almost needy, and judging by the way he was attacking Alfred's mouth and chest and arms and torso and... other things, it was not just his voice that wanted to move things along.
"Because..." But Alfred trailed away. It was stupid, he was being stupid. It didn't matter. He just needed to claw away at the light button-up shirt that was being all "oh-ho, I'm in the way of your goal!" and then maybe start attacking those pants or something, because now that he looked at them, he could see that England was just as eager as he was.
He was spared the extra effort of clothing removal when Arthur pulled the shirt off and hastily undid his pants, quickly so as not to pause this most excellent moment between them.
It was amazing how fast their bodies came crashing onto each other, each of them trying to hold the other just a little bit closer. They both knew that this would be the last time they saw each other for a long time. The battles were far from over, and their leaders would never allow it. The atrocities of war could very well destroy whatever affection still lay between them, but at least they would have this moment to remember in fondness when all others were beyond salvage from the deep ocean of estrangement.
A tender hand stroked slowly over Alfred's blushing, almost feverish cheek in what felt like homage to a caress given all those years ago on that of a lonesome child. But that hand was soon gone, sliding away to where desires were more pressing, and the younger Nation realized with a start that he was shaking. With what emotion, he could only guess, but as Arthur's hands drew goosebumps across his skin, that unnamed sentiment intensified until all protest of either side of his mind died away as if they had never been there. Carefully and quiveringly, he reached out and wrapped his arms around his ex-brother's neck, something he had longed to do for so long but had always denied himself. This was taking far too long, and it was time to show Arthur exactly what kind of Nation he would be.
"Are we going to get on with this, or am I going to have to take things into my own hands, England?" He inquired, pulling the stunned Nation as close as possible without smothering him, bringing their noses together so that eye contact was just barely manageable.
The shock that had been present in Arthur's eyes only a moment ago disappeared quickly, to be replaced by an almost playful determination. It was just like when Alfred used to challenge him to a game of chess. The older Nation had always professed that he could beat Alfred at any game, and he normally did--except when it came to wrestling, which the young Nation now thought would be the more useful attribute.
"Shame on me for keeping you waiting, so as a reward for your patience, I will show you why there is such a phrase as, 'lie back and think of England.'" The sandy-haired Nation smirked, and Alfred was unable to respond, as his mouth was quite suddenly occupied.
The blankets that had just barely been concealing him were pulled away and thrown rather haphazardly off the bed, landing in a crumpled pile a few feet from the footboard. The sound of rummaging drew his attention away from the artfully placed bedclothes and over to the side table, from which America saw a small bottle procured. His stomach made a giddy sort of clenching feeling as he recognized the significance. His heartbeat sped as Arthur settled himself between his legs and expertly poured the clear liquid from the bottle onto his fingers, seeming to relish in the amount of time he was taking. He was playing with Alfred, daring him to make a move and take control of the situation himself, and oh, would he--he only had to wait...
Fingers prodded gently in what was an oddly familiar manner, which Alfred supposed made sense, seeing as this same situation had happened before. It was an invasive feeling, he noted, but not entirely unpleasant, and seeing his brother's face swim with a mixture of concentration and desire was arousing beyond belief, as was the tickling of his breath around his ear. The older Nation leaned in to nip at the cartilage and then the junction of his neck and throat, continuing down to worry at his nipple. Alfred gasped lightly, nothing more than a quick intake of breath, but enough to let Arthur know that he was doing things right.
And oh, he was. The older Nation nibbled lightly around the pert little nub as his fingers curled and ventured deeper still. It became a little difficult to concentrate on what was happening as Arthur pulled away from his chest and moved the one free hand to below Alfred's bellybutton, trying his best, it would seem, to keep the younger Nation as distracted from what was going on as possible. It was irksome that the warmth of his brother's body was so far away, but all discontent was long gone when Arthur curled his fingers once again, sending a spark of pleasure up the larger Nation's spine and through his entire body.
In a bit of a daze, the blue-eyed Nation began to wonder how long this had been going on and why in God's name Arthur was making it so excruciatingly gentle. Hoping to expedite proceedings, Alfred reached for Arthur, wanting to draw him closer, feel his chest against his own, taste a little of the tea that the older Nation had been drinking earlier. But it did not happen that way, because as his arm rose from the bed, Arthur had deemed his work complete.
With a quick grab for the tiny glass bottle that had found its resting place next to his slightly askew pillow, Arthur applied its contents liberally to his person and leaned down to lay what little claim he could to his former colony's mouth. Not that said Nation was complaining, as slowly, ever so exquisitely slowly, Arthur pulled them together in the tightest, most sacred embrace. Alfred sighed, a breathless, soul-deep sigh that spoke what he could not. I love you, don't hate me. With light kisses to his forehead and cheeks and jaw, Arthur responded in kind. I love you, I could never hate you, but please, please, don't leave me. The younger Nation nodded slowly, almost too slow for it to be perceived as a nod. It was that strange deception that lay between the two, that strange double layer between emotions and actions. The nod was not a nod, but it was, and they both knew that Alfred promised that even as his own Nation, he would never be far from Arthur. England would never be alone.
Their arms were wrapped tightly around one another, so it was easy enough to upset the balance of one Nation on top of the other. Subtly, Alfred put his plan into motion, rolling them so slowly that by the time Arthur even noticed what was happening, he wouldn't be able to do a thing about it. The second the smaller Nation was beneath him, Alfred moved. Moved like he'd never done before. Slow at first, but the little panting moan and the wet, red parted lips and those green, green eyes--like emeralds or malachite or something equally as beautiful--made him go ever faster.
Nothing mattered to them anymore--not who was winning or who was losing, nor who was betrayed and who wasn't, nor even what was past or what was present--they were simply there, together, in one great length of perfect, heart-breakingly wonderful moments, just Alfred and Arthur, not brothers, not ex-brothers, just them, just the beautiful movements between them and the tea-flavored breath they shared, and the sweating, and the internal beating of their joined hearts.
Neither of them spoke beyond the grunts and gasps, but the silence was not uncomfortable. Each gentle clash of hips brought new meaning to the silence. Arthur's hands were tight on Alfred's hips, but if they hurt, the sensation was lost among all the others. All that really mattered was that he lean down and attempt to land a kiss on those supple English lips. Which he did, sloppy though the kiss was. So he just moved more, raked hands and stubby, battle-worn fingers down Arthur's chest. If there was pain on the other end, the smaller Nation didn't make any indication. So Alfred moved even more.
Vaguely, there was the realization that they were moving the bed and that the springs were making a racket and that there were birds in the distance chirping all too loudly, but they ignored those facts as they ignored anything else, shuddering into each other when the end came, neither moving even as the sweat still coating their bodies made them chilly. Because as long as they held each other close, as long as they were together and truly one entity, nothing could hurt them.
Yes, the end of such an embrace would have to come, but that time wasn't this moment, and maybe if they just held on long enough, the damned war would be over and they could be together all the time.
Without realizing it, Alfred nodded again, decided that that was the future he would work toward: the shining, golden future in which the two of them could embrace just like they were now and in which they were allies again; the shining, golden future in which they were brothers but not, because technically brothers did not hold each other like Alfred wanted to hold Arthur; the shining, golden future in which the two of them were happily together once more.
Alfred pulled away from the embrace but did not let Arthur go quite yet. He waited until the other Nation drifted to sleep with satisfaction and emotional exhaustion. Then he kissed him on the forehead and once more on the lips.
They would be together again. His resolve was firm.
But first he had a war to win.
---
A/N: That was so. Fucking. Long. It is about daaaamn time we finished this. We've been working on it since December. Yes, that's right, DECEMBER!!!1 (<--insert lame inside joke here) Dunno what else to say except once again, Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas. ^^ We loves you, nightblink! ^__^
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Double Entendre