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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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Eyes unwavering and intense, Alfred stared directly at Arthur, long fingers slowly unfastening the binds of his shirt. Arthur stared back in horror, somehow unable to turn away, unable to speak up, this isn’t happening, not my America, not my little boy—
Alfred didn’t say a word, but the message was all too clear—
Don’t you dare, don’t you turn away from me—
As the soft fabric of his shirt descended quietly from his back and onto the mattress beneath, Arthur’s green eyes darted in humble astonishment over his naked form, when did Alfred get so strong—when did Alfred get so big—
He really wasn’t a little boy anymore, shoulders large and broad, chest lean and slender with the slight protrusion of muscles beneath soft skin ripe with the end of adolescence—
When did all this happen? When did my America become so—
He still was cynical out on the battlefield, irritated and exhausted of Alfred’s obnoxious fights and taunts, long since ready for this all to be over and for them all to go home and for Al to make himself useful for a change—
“No, you’re not leaving this house, and you can’t have your own place, and you can’t go live out on your own.”
Put down that bayonet, Alfred, you don’t even know how to use it.
“I want you to undress, too.”
Alfred stared with absolute defiance, naked chest rising and falling with silent expiration, Arthur couldn’t help staring back, who are you, “No, Alfred, don’t—”
His voice came very soft, broken and laced with just the slightest bout of fear, we’re not going to do this, no—
Alfred clenched his teeth, golden hair tremulous as he bit down in irritation, “God damn it…!”
There were tears of anger in his eyes that he fought back, he really was beautiful, Arthur marveled with a mixture of astonishment and humility, and, despite it all, it genuinely pained him to see Alfred cry—
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Matthew had hoped, had really wanted to believe that this would all be over, that maybe it really was all just a phase, your brother has another thing coming, Arthur would smile gently at him, long fingers brushing with knowing affection through his hair—
This isn’t about me, he thought humbly as he worked quietly at his desk, I can’t be so selfish, this is something much bigger than that—
Arthur wanted to console Alfred, but he remained frozen before him instead, watching without a word as the other boy stared at him, eyes piercing fire through diffuse strands of hair, and no amount of compassion in the world could cure that, don’t you patronize me, don’t you treat me like that—
Battle is an ugly, wretched thing, there is no real glory, there is no romance, is that really what you want, America, you’re playing with fire, at the end of the day, Britain really did know how to be cruel—
Give it up, little boy, give up while you’re ahead, you don’t really want me to take you for real…?
“Very well.”
Arthur’s eyes were narrow, cold, silent as he inspected Alfred’s naked chest. Without a word, he slowly brushed the blanket aside, rising to his knees and climbing over the boy’s lap.
Before Alfred could react, Arthur pushed him unto his back on the mattress, hard and direct, surprisingly strong, Alfred gasped in surprise—
He actually struggled, but Arthur’s grip was curiously firm, he held Alfred’s arms above his head by the wrists, you wanna play it like that, let’s see how well you fare—
He wasn’t gentle with him. He wasn’t compassionate or fatherly or soft, there was blood on his hands, this was something Alfred had really always known, the sun never sets on the British empire—
Alfred gasped in surprise but he fought for composure, he clenched his teeth to hold back the tears, oh hell, it really bloody hurt—
Matthew stood at the front door in his night clothes, hand trembling on the handle as he watched Francis walk in from the stables, hair drenched and boots muddy with dirt, clothes stained with blood from battle—
What’s happening. What’s happening. Why was France—
"Matthew, je suis désolé,"
Matthew, I’m sorry,
Francis quietly said, eyes averted as he passed Matthew on his journey past the front door, and Matthew watched in horror, a dark feeling gradually setting over him like an encompassing endless night—
"Papa, où—où tu étais—qu—où est Alfred—"
Papa, w—where were you—what—where’s Alfred—
He murmured, voice trembling, head slowly turning around, eyes wide and lined with a brittle film of tears, and as he inspected the blood all along his clothes, he started to feel very afraid, petrified and terribly sick—
Francis stopped at the bottom of the stairwell, long hair curling wetly in a disheveled mess as he gazed slowly at the younger boy.
"Je suis désole, Matthew—peut-être qu'un jour tu comprendras—”
I’m sorry, Matthew—maybe someday you’ll understand—
Understand what. Understand what…?
"Pourquoi tu étais là-bas, papa, qu'est ce qui ce passé…?”
Why were you out there, Papa, what’s going on…?
He felt the blood slowly drain from his face. Traitor. Bastard.
"Tu l'as aide."
You helped him.
He murmured very softly, hot tears wetting his eyes with disbelief,
"Tu l'as aidé, tu as aidé Alfred à combattre—"
You helped him, you helped Alfred fight—
All this. All this—why. Just to spite Arthur, just to piss him off—
“T—tu as dit que ce n'était qu'une phase. Tu étais celui qui me l'as dit—”
Y—you said it’s just a phase. You were the one who told me—
"Ne veux-tu pas cela pour ton frère, Matt. Tu le sais. Il n'était pas heureux ici."
Don’t you want this for your brother, Matt. You know this. He wasn’t happy here.
Matthew shook his head incredulously, slowly stepping back. He thought he would break down. He thought he would faint.
"Papa, comment as-tu pu? Tu m'as menti—!"
Papa, how could you! You lied to me—!
"Es-ce que tu aime ton frère ou non—! Matthew, merde, ce n'est pas à propos de toi—!”
Do you love your brother or not—! Matthew, God damn it, this isn’t about you—!
Matthew stared back in silence for several moments, the tears hot as they rolled down his face and to his chin from there, and, heart racing, hands brittle, he slowly shook his head.
"Non,”
he said very softly,
“ce n'est pas à propos de moi. Mais ce n'est pas à propos de toi et d'Arthur, non plus."
No, this isn’t about me. But it’s not about you and Arthur, either.
That’s really what it was, after all. It was Francis, wasn’t it, who brought Alfred into Arthur’s bed, you finish what you started.
It wasn’t easy for Alfred. Arthur was very strong as he held him down, many years his elder and far more practiced with experience, and Alfred really was just a boy, eyes closed and teeth clenched, fighting silently back, crying softly despite his determination not to let him see him cry—
He didn’t ask him to stop, he didn’t say it hurt or that he changed his mind, and, behind the harsh coldness in his eyes, Arthur was inwardly crying, too, forlorn and aching and broken, he loved Alfred, he didn’t want it to be like this at all—
Damn it, America, why—!
He was gone. Alfred was gone. Arthur came home empty-handed that night, hair dripping and red coat filthy and drenched, avoiding Francis altogether, he stood out on the porch for a long time, staring off into the night at nothing in particular, bayonet hanging forgotten in his grasp—
He’d had at Alfred for a long time, the younger boy lying resigned and stoic beneath him, eyes dry and glazed and no longer affected or responsive to pain, damn it, America, have you had enough—
He didn’t ask him to stop. He stared directly up at Arthur, eerily silent, I can take this, and I don’t need your empathy or your compassion—
At his writing desk, Matthew slowly buried his face in his hands, frame thin and brittle as he collapsed, forlorn with despair, weeping silently, his entire body trembled as he cried, softly, alone, into the slender bend of his arm—
“Damn it, God damn it, America, why—!”
Arthur fell forth onto Alfred at last, aching and broken, tears finally rising to his eyes as he clenched his teeth hard, damn it, I can’t do this, I can’t do this anymore—
Alfred had stared blindly at the ceiling for a long time, lips parted and dry, hair scattering disheveled on the mattress beneath him, body long since impervious to the pain. Very slowly, his eyes rolled to gaze at Arthur without expression and without emotion.
Arthur was crying, crying hard, wretched and visibly defeated, and Alfred watched with silent curiosity, far now beyond the point of hurt—
“You used to be—
—so big—”
To be continued…
A/N: this chapter involves a parallel comparison between events on the battlefield and what transpired intimately between Arthur and Alfred long before.
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Matthew is Mine