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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
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"Mon bien-aimé, mon héro."
“Au moins tu admet que j'ai toujours sauver ton petit cul dans la bataille.”
* * *
It’s only just a phase.
Alfred’s strong hands, his broad shoulders, reassuring, big smile, childlike enthusiasm, courageous, teasing.
Where are you, big brother?
Matthew sat quietly at his desk, working patiently at his studies, slender fingers delicate around the long writing instrument. Alfred had been gone a long time. It had been hours since Matthew had heard the unmistakable opening and then closing of the door to Arthur and Francis’ bedroom, but he didn’t hear his brother walk back down the hall after that. There were footsteps heading downstairs, and the low sound of chatter, the metal hinge squeaking at the front door.
Matthew reached carefully with the writing instrument into the inkwell container, careful, attentive not to spill the black fluid outside the glass. His soft blue eyes gazed with quiet introspection over the document laid out on the desk, trying dutifully to focus on the task, slowly drawing out the rounded cursive letters.
Alfred didn’t come home for dinner; it was a tense, quiet affair, both Francis and Arthur deliberately avoiding the issue. Matthew didn’t ask. They were both wary and very compassionate toward him, Arthur asking him gently if he could help with the dishes, Francis inquiring about the progress of his studies, both foregoing the routine dinnertime bickering to which Matthew and Alfred had grown so accustomed.
“Time for you to get ready for bed,”
Arthur said to Matthew later that night, rising on tiptoe as he reached to kiss his forehead, and he said nothing about the fact that Alfred still hadn’t come home. Helpfully bending down, Matthew deliberately didn’t ask.
Long limbs maneuvering carefully under the sheets, he turned on his side to blow out the lantern, setting his spectacles at the side of the bed before laying his head down. His eyes followed the dim outline of the furniture in the dark room, the oblong looking glass up on the wall, familiar patches of Arthur’s embroidery.
The grandfather clock out in the hall had rung eleven, then midnight, then one, and still Alfred hadn’t come home. Matthew listened to the sounds of life proceeding quietly downstairs, giving way eventually to silence as the hours passed, and finally there were only the solemn sounds of night, the hum of cicadas outside and the wind in the treetops, wild coyotes howling.
Some time after three, at last there came the heavy slide of the front door.
Eyes open wide in the darkness, Matthew could hear footsteps downstairs, dishware in the kitchen, shutting of the cupboard and quiet pacing after that, and his bony fingers clutched slowly at the cotton edge of this blanket, he listened as Alfred made his way up the stairs and eventually to his room down the hall.
Then again, silence, Matthew’s breath came shallow and distracted, tense, fingers curled around his blanket as he gazed up at the wall that separated his and Alfred’s rooms.
It had been another hour before he slowly sat up in bed, blanket falling forgotten in his wake as he rose to his feet and paced quietly to the door. He hesitated outside Alfred’s room in the hall, having barged in there countless times in the past, but somehow quite reluctant now.
He didn’t ask permission; slowly twisting the handle, he pushed the door in and proceeded inside, stopping with his hand on the knob for a long time before venturing farther in. When Matthew was very little, he was afraid of thunder, and had crawled into Alfred’s bed at night, they still shared a bedroom then.
The floorboards creaked softly under his bare feet as he approached the bed, carefully lifting the sheets before sliding in beside his brother, pointed tip of his nose moving gently against the soft locks at the nape of Alfred’s neck. His arms came around the boy’s naked abdomen, careful and warm, he cried softly, very softly into Alfred’s hair, eyelids squeezed tightly shut, shoulders slender and brittle, tremulous with agony and forlorn despair.
“I’m sorry,”
Matthew whispered, “I’m sorry, please, Alfred, please—”
Alfred didn’t stir for a long time. Perhaps he was angry, perhaps he was asleep, Matthew didn’t understand, and no matter how tightly he held on to him, no matter how desperately and sincerely he spoke to him and cried, he couldn’t hold on to him in earnest.
Then, very slowly, Alfred’s large hands came around Matthew’s, slender and strong, he brought Matthew’s fingers to his lips and kissed them gently, head still turned away. Without a word, he slowly turned around, eyes darting quietly in the darkness across his brother’s face, and Matthew was crying, crying uncontrollably, silent, wounded, the tears streaming endlessly down his face without restraint and without shame to the angular bend of his chin, wetting his skin and his hair.
Alfred kissed him slowly, he kissed the places on his skin where the tears had rolled and then carefully kissed each of his eyes, shh, please, please don’t cry. But Matthew didn’t stop crying; weak and exhausted with grief, he only cried more, and Alfred didn’t stop him, because they both knew, Matthew was right.
There was nothing he could ask for, there was nothing he could try; they both felt it, Alfred already was gone.
I can’t stay anymore, Matt, I wasn’t built for this, I’d suffocate if I didn’t go.
Did you prove yourself, Matthew wondered silently in his mind, did you prove yourself to Arthur, was that so great, how could I ever compete with that—
He buried his head in the crook of Alfred’s neck, arms long and slender as they slid around the warm skin of his naked shoulders, he loved him, he had never loved anything so much in his life, he would gladly have done something, he would gladly have sacrificed himself if he knew it would make his brother stay.
Alfred’s fingers raked with gentle affection through Matthew’s long hair, compassionate, protective and strong, come with me, and I’ll take care of you, and both of us, let’s run away, those were all things Alfred wouldn’t say to him, and even though he knew he would refuse, Matthew found himself wishing he’d said them anyway.
Matthew leaned silently over Alfred’s naked abdomen, hair cascading in soft waves as he kissed his stomach and his waist, his hips, the bony protrusions there and the straight angle at the inguinal ridge, Alfred’s body was beautiful, slender and rigid and strong, Matthew had always admired him, he admired him for so many reasons, in so many different ways. What could he possibly say, what could he possibly offer, what chance did he stand against Arthur or against the prospect of life as an independent adult—
Carefully, lovingly, he leaned farther down and kissed Alfred’s member, gently, as though he were kissing him on the mouth, he could feel Alfred’s body tightening, shivering all at once, the strong fingers affectionate in his hair.
Matthew, you don’t have to, he didn’t say that, either, because Matthew knew he didn’t have to, he did this out of love, of his own innocent accord, the fingers in his hair were kind, encouraging.
He thinks he’s leaving? Ha! The little fool, I’d like to see him try.
Arthur would gently ruffle Matthew’s hair, cynical, confident, and Francis would tell him it’s only just a phase, and Matthew would be able to see that it was something Francis wanted to believe just as well. There would be quarrels, screaming matches and fights that spanned late into the night, when, biting down on his lip in an attempt to maintain composure, Matthew would continue working quietly at his desk.
He allowed the member past his lips, insistent now and hard, beautiful, his fingers possessive at Alfred’s hips, jealous, defeated and hurt that Alfred had shared it with someone else.
His palms would go moist, his throat would go dry, Alfred, you got yourself a bayonet? Voice lodged uselessly in his throat, becoming gradually afraid, just how far would this go, just what was Alfred willing to do just to get away—
He must really have wanted this. He must really have felt suffocated.
Matthew didn’t feel that way. He wished things could just stay as they were.
Alfred’s hard member in his hand, he gazed up through long waves of hair, eyes meeting his brother’s in the darkness, both tense, neither saying a word, the strong fingers at his hips were gentle as Matthew slowly rose to his knees and took his place over Alfred’s thighs.
Arthur must have been better, Arthur was so much older, he must really have been quite proficient, Matthew thought, while Matthew’s only experiences had been with Alfred in this regard, his brother was all he ever knew. But Alfred never complained, he never said Matthew was bad, that he was too boring or that he had wanted more, his breath came gentle, tremulous, ragged as the wet tip of his member slid insistently against the small opening, hands warm on Matthew’s hips, hair falling over his forehead and eyes attentive and wide, may I, he seemed to ask, and Matthew gazed back, please, he thought, please.
Matthew was hot, very hot, delicate and fragile, and Alfred was careful with him, he had always been careful, afraid somehow that he would break him if he didn’t watch out, because Matthew was very thin, the bones of his clavicle and ribs protruded like metal knobs and joints from under the soft expanse of his chest.
“Kiss me,” Alfred said, breath coming humid, words ghosting ethereal against Matthew’s lips, and Matthew did, mouth pressed motionless to his as he moved slowly against him, memorizing in his mind every aspect of this moment as it passed, wondering when exactly Alfred meant to go, how many more nights they would have together until then, and as Alfred began to move faster, his hair swayed against his forehead, falling slightly in his eyes, he was so beautiful then, innocent, curious somehow, Matthew wished there was something he could say, something meaningful, a convincing argument or a solution to it all—
There would come nights that Matthew would lie awake in bed, pressing his pillow to his ear in attempt to drown out the sound, the fighting, the screaming and slamming of doors, Alfred’s threats and Arthur’s dry laughter in response, and, sometimes, physical struggles that would follow after that, and where they lead from there, Matthew would wish he didn’t really know.
You’re not really going to use that, Al?
He would ask very softly, delicate fingers moving with tentative caution along the pointed metal end of Alfred’s bayonet, and his brother wouldn’t reply, but merely gaze off into the distance, at the place in the room where the ceiling met the walls.
He held tightly to Alfred, as tightly as he could, his voice coming desperate and soft into the crook of his neck, heart racing within his thorax, he gazed directly into Alfred’s eyes when he came, hair swinging wetly and cheeks flushed with blood, he tightened deliberately all around his member, watching him shudder in overly-sensitive after-response.
They stayed this way for a long time, Alfred still inside Matthew, blue eyes staring in the darkness at blue eyes, neither of them saying a word.
To be continued…
- 23
- 24
- 25
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Matthew is Mine