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Suicide by Proxy	By : tamasama Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 2305 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis powers or any of the characters depicted herein. This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to the events of any person's life, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter List
- 1-Introduction
- 2-Love
- 3-Lust
- 4-Hate
- 5-Envy
- 2
- 3
- 4
Lust

As Matthew watched the ground pass by so far beneath himself from the airplane's window, he toyed with Alfred's name. Al-fred. All Fred? Allen McFred, Arlene Miss Friendly. The tongue started flat at the "a", tapped the incisors, which retaliated by pressing against the lower lip, only to let up their attack as the lips puckered out to form a little "o" shape then pull back to expose most of the front teeth. Then, lastly, the tongue would do one little farewell tap against the incisors again, only closer to the gums this time. What the heck did the F stand for? Who knew? Jones. Joooooones. Joney-Jone-Jones. As Canada quietly dissected the name, he checked his watch. Ten in the AM, he had woken at four, caught his flight at five. It was no wonder he didn't come to Cuba's house too often, it was just so far away.

It had been a couple weeks since America had stayed over at his house last. Alfred had woken him abruptly by body-slamming him and proceeding to put him into a headlock. As Matthew had fought back and managed to throw Alfred to the floor with a loud slam he thanked his lucky stars he had decided to sleep with pajama pants on that night. As soon as the elder brother had fallen to the floor Canada rolled off after him and landed on his chest, pinning his arms by his sides with his knees. Some minutes of struggling against a rather painful session of "pink belly" the self-proclaimed hero finally called 'Uncle' and was released. Some casual conversation as they got ready for the day and a quick match of hockey on Matthew's shiny black third-generation gaming system later, Alfred said his goodbyes and went home. The Canadian was sad to see him go but, as usual, didn't say anything.

The 'fasten seatbelts' light flashed on and Matthew ignored it. Like he ever unfastened his seatbelt, what did they take him for? Someone who ever took risks or did anything out of the ordinary or interesting? Hahaha, don't make him laugh or he'll pee all over the seat because holy maple on a stick he had imbibed far too many shots of Royal Crown for his own good. He turned his eyes from the ground as they began their dissent and continued on his quest to become totally and utterly pissed as he tossed back the last of his glass with a slight grimace. Why all the drinking? No particular reason, if one were to say that feeling wholly and completely useless, hopeless, and all-around crappy wasn't a reason to get so slammed that you couldn't tell a goalie from center. Going to visit his good friend Cuba would surely cheer him up, and he was nearly sick with excitement (or that was just the booze, he was too ripped to tell the difference at that point) when the plane finally touched down and came to a stop.

Soon the plane had stopped and all of the passengers were herded off like sheep, glassy-eyed and somewhat disoriented. Canada pulled out his cell phone, a black one that was named after food (it always made him think of that song. The one that goes "the something the something, the sweeter the juice"), and searched his contacts list for Cuba. After a bit of scrolling he saw it and hit the 'call' button. Ring, ring, one more time with a ring-a-ding-ding and 'click'.

"Hey, mang. I saw your plane just got here, where you at?"

"I'm over by the pop machine that's close to the ice cream parlor." Matthew explained as he scratched his side, looking around the crowded airport for his portly friend. He leaned against the machine when he felt himself tipping dangerously to one side and then the other, too inebriated to stand properly.

"Hey!" He heard through both the phone and the open air, "America? What the hell are chu doing here?" The young Canadian turned with a little confused noise just in time to be punched in the side of the head by the angry Cuban.

"Gah! I'm Canada!" He yelped, shrinking away from the painful blow. "I'm on the phone with you, you hoser, why would you think I'm him?"

"Wait, what? Oh, it is you Matthew! Sorry about that, mang, you two just look so similar." Cuba said with a hearty laugh as he slapped the Canadian on the back.

Matthew grabbed the bottom of his hoodie and yanked it out to emphasize the large maple leaf on the front, "I'm wearing a freaking Canada sweater and everything!" After a moment he sighed and pulled it up and over his head, noticing that the relative cool of the airplane had finally lifted its grip on him and the country's heat was beginning to make him sweat. He wore a white T-shirt with a red maple leaf in the center with the words 'legalize it' printed beneath and a loose-fit pair of light colored jeans. His shades perched on his head for later use and he had a black backpack slung over his shoulder. "Never mind, don't worry about it."

"You want to go get some ice cream, it's pretty hot out today." Cuba asked, scratching his chin with a good humored smile. Matthew jumped at the idea of cooling off with the delicious milky substance so they walked into the Coppelia and made their decisions. Banana for Cuba, vanilla for Canada. Soon they were sitting in one of the booths by the window. As Canada dug into his bag Cuba asked him how he was. Fine, good, cool, dandy. Work was a pain in the rear lately but when isn't it, am I right? He pulled a little plastic bottle of maple syrup from his bag and uncapped it, pouring a healthy amount of the thick liquid over his ice cream. He asked Cuba about his recent goings on. Good, fine, his boss was sick so actually it wasn't really all that fine. His boss was old and ill and no man lasted forever so he was apprehensive about what would come of it.

"I hear he's giving you to his brother." Matthew mentioned as he stirred the syrup into the treat and took a spoonful into his mouth.

"That is what is being said, yeah. I'm not sure how good of a boss he'll be though. Or maybe I'm just a little worried about change. Are you drunk?"

"What makes you say something like that?" Canada asked as he failed to properly navigate the spoon into his mouth for the third time and a glob of the frozen goodness plopped down onto the table. His words were slurred and he smiled in that crooked way that he had always loved watching himself do in the mirror because it reminded him of his big brother.

"Just a hunch. Cigar?" He offered one of his world-famous cigars to the snickering man. Canada waved the gesture away with a shake of head as he slowly went about wiping the melting cream from the table. Yes, that was what the employees were for, but he didn't want to be rude. They sat and talked for some two hours, Cuba smoking away and Canada occasionally pulling miniature liquor bottles from his backpack and knocking them back with shocking speed. Their conversations ran across all types of topics, from the usual politics and world-relations to things a little less important such as television shows that they were getting in to, enjoyable books, and cute animals.

Finally, Canada rummaged about in his bag to find that he was out of alcohol. "I- I ran out." He slurred quietly, rechecking his pack for the third time. "Now what am I supposed to do? I know! Cuba, let's go out drinking."

The larger man laughed an agreement as he pulled another cigar from his tin and put it between his teeth. He declined the money Matthew held out to him and paid the whole bill himself. He then hooked his arm around the blonde's waist and lifted him to an unsteady stand, leading him from the airport shop and out to the parking lot to find his Chevrolet Bel Air. After dumping him into the passenger seat, Cuba climbed in behind the steering wheel and started the old car. It gave a wrenching cough and grumbled angrily, as if it would have preferred to laze about in the warm lot all day than roll over the hot pavement to the club. The sun was high in the sky as it draped its hot rays across the Canadian's cheeks. He watched the sky pass on by from his half-laying position in the old car, listening to his swarthy friend sing away to the music on the radio. Well, déjà vu. He lazily lifted his hand to play with the door handle. Pull only a little ways, let it go and listen to it snap the plastic base. Pull, snap. Pull, snap. Pull, snap.

What would it be like to just push the door and hop out? Exhilarating, he was sure. The sudden rush of wind enveloping you like a bubble. He pictured that the world would slow down around him and for a few precious pieces of a second it would be like flying, all sound would fade and it would be nirvana. All of the weight of the world would lift from his shoulders and suddenly everything would be bearable. Until he hit the ground, that is. He pictured the moment of impact to snap back into real time and was sure that the pain would be intense. Also, with his luck, he would only manage to horribly disfigure himself, and he was sure Alfred wouldn't have any interest in a brother that walked around resembling that mummy from those old monster movies. Oh well, it was worth a little fantasy every once in a while. The same with the idea of just spontaneously throwing himself from tall buildings, stabbing his extremities when he's holding something sharp, diving headfirst into large bodies of water. All that stuff, you know, totally normal stuff.

Soon they were there and gosh darn it the club was hopping, even as early as it was. Matthew was pulled along by Cuba, who just shouldered people out of his way as he made his way back to his VIP box. The blonde took a seat in one of the plush sofas and set his bag nearby, smiling sweetly at the pretty young red-haired waitress who approached to take their orders. Cuba told her to get him the usual 'Buzalco Special'. She gave a nod and let out a bubbling little giggle when he slipped a twenty dollar bill down the front of her shirt and winked. It was a tip, he said, put everything I order on my tab. She nodded enthusiastically; twenty American dollars as a tip in Cuba was insane. Why the heck did he have American money anyway? It was probably fake. Canada leaned back into the comfortable seat back and sighed. His buzz was dying and the music was loud.

Cuba plopping down beside him heavily pulled him from his thoughts. "What's a Buzalco Special?" He rolled his head to look at the dark-haired man, watching as he pulled out another cigar. He was lucky that countries didn't have to worry about things like lung cancer, because if he were a human his health would be fucked nine ways from Sunday.

"Just some tequila, various mojitos, about an ounce of cocaine."

Canada nodded, turning to look at the ceiling again. "Maple, that has to be expensive."

"It's not too bad." He took a long drag from his cigar and let the smoke out in fat rings. Some minutes passed by and finally the cute waitress reappeared with two large platters balanced on her lean, tanned arms. She winked at the men as she set them down onto the low table. Cuba motioned for Canada to help himself.

Leaning forward, he removed the lids from both plates and eyed the contents. Four bottles of some pretty fancy booze, five shot glasses, the makings for various mixes. The other platter held a large bowl of the white powder, three specially-made straws, and three sharp razor blades. Matthew poured himself a large shot and fixed up a couple of lines, keeping up his casual conversation with his host all the while. It had been quite some time since he had taken the drug, but it was like riding a bicycle. You never forgot how to do it. With a little too much gusto he railed the long, thin lines and chased them with the shot, grimacing at the burning in his nose and throat. At least the biting flavor of booze would help to cover the flavor of the drip when it came. He rubbed his sore nose and sat back, leaning his head against the sofa once again as he waited for the drugs to-

That was when the party got started. It was like a blur of lights, colors, and sounds. One moment he was pounding back shots with maybe five other people (where did they come from?) and the next he was chatting up a dark haired beauty in the corner. 'I have a thing for American guys' she had said. 'I'm Canadian.' 'Close enough.' Two more lines, fatter this time. It was hard to put a normally-sized line together on some whore's well formed back, but it was a hell of a lot more fun than taking it off of a table or something. He lost an arm wrestling match with Cuba once, twice, three times. A blonde tourist was twisting his curly ahego through his thin fingers, sliding his tongue from his mouth to flash a yellow smiley face stud. Matthew was pulling Cuba off of that same man some time later. Why were they fighting again? Oh well, screw that noise and toss it to the wind because oh damn he was getting a lap dance by yet another random woman. Where the hell had she come from? Ah well, may as well combat that confusion with a little more o' that white pony. Missed a little of the line, shit. Rub it on the gums then, oh hey they're numb how weird. Felt pretty interesting, really.

Apologized for bumping into someone on his way to the bathroom. Well that kindness didn't work, punch his lights out instead. Go to the biffy and piss for what felt like hours but oh god it felt good. At the sink washing his hands, oh shit check out those pupils man, they're huge! Snickering laughter at the massive black circles. Took a swig of his beer. Wait, beer? When did he get that? Oh yeah, the guy he had bumped into had been holding a beer. His hand still hurt from the impact. He looked at it and saw blood but who the heck cared? It wasn't his, it was just some random guy's nose that had painted his knuckles a pretty shade of red. Apparently he hadn't washed his hands very well. He licked it. Yuck. Back on the dance floor and hey hey hey, who is this sexy little number? Shiny black hair and almost the same height as Matthew, he was young and hot and so damn sultry. They say it takes two to tango and by golly is it better to dance with a partner than alone. And then they were back at the booth pawing at each other like mad. Tongues danced within furiously passionate kisses and hands traveled every which place until Cuba walked over and blew a stinking cloud of smoke in their faces.

"No fucking in my booth."

Damn. To the outdoors! They ingested a little more coke and took part in the beer bong first, and then they were hand in hand rushing from the club and around the corner to some shady-looking alley. Kissing? What's that? Screw that, they spent enough time doing that inside, it was time to get down and dirty and damn it Matthew was not in the waiting mood. He ran his fingers through that smooth black hair as he was pushed up against the cool wall (well well, would you look at that, it was night) and the front of his shirt was yanked up. He bit his lip and pushed his chest toward the hot, wet mouth that enveloped his left nipple, sighing in pleasure and feeling like a freaking god from all of the drugs that pumped through every facet of his form. The little nips and licks that ran across his abdomen teased and tantalized him as he reached down to undo his own fly, and then the man's.

He pushed the unnamed young man back and dropped to his knees, pulling the already-hard member from those fabulous ass-hugging pants that he was wearing and pulled it into his mouth. He bobbed his head up and down on it a few times until it was good and wet and pulled away. He stood up, turned around, and the sexy Cuban citizen pulled his jeans down just far enough to uncover his ass. Canada had to bend his knees a little to allow the slightly shorter man easier access. He pressed his cheek against the cold brick and his breath hitched as he felt the slick head push up against his hole. Push, push, in a little deeper. It probably should have hurt, just having someone stick it in like that, but he was high enough to not give two beavers about something like 'I'm going to regret this in the morning'. He let out a breathy moan as it finally slid up to the hilt inside him, it was hot and thick and just felt so, so good. It made him wonder how it would feel if it were Alfred.

And there went his thoughts flying out of his head when the tanned man began thrusting with all of the energy a stimulant provides, catching Canada off guard with the sudden gusto and making him yelp a moan into his hand. He felt like he could feel every thrust through his whole body, each push sending tingling shivers up through his spine and out into his limbs. He shuddered at the feel of those soft yet strong hands gripping his hips with the nails digging into his flesh. He gasped at the way the man rolled his hips, it was like he was psychic or something and knew exactly where he push, when, and how hard. He felt like his knees were going to turn to jelly when the man leaned up close to his ear and whispered 'eres tan fuerte*' in that rolling tongue of his, his hot breath ghosting across Matthew's ear. He reached down and began stroking himself, little puffs of air coming between thinly-parted lips as his eyes fluttered shut and the only things in the whole wide world that mattered were the feel in his lower regions, Alfred, the buzzing glow of cocaine, Alfred, and Mr. McNameless back there. Oh, and probably Alfred.

And all at once he thought of that kiss, his first and only kiss with his brother in centuries of life. Anonymous slammed into him and he felt the hot fluid spill out into his body. The feel of the cum and his own hand and the coke mixed with the memory of that amazing, perfect kiss all sent him slamming over the edge harder than he had in months.

And then it was a blur again. More dancing, more drugs, more women, more shots. He threw up into an older (maybe thirty-five?) woman's lap, fell down the stairs, tried putting maple syrup into a Bloody Mary (delicious, of course). The last thing he could remember was licking a ground up Ecstasy pill from some hot little lady's flat brown stomach with a suggestive glint in his eyes and a little wink.

He groaned and rolled over, burying his aching head further into the soft covers. He felt like he had been run down by a Mac truck, his head hurt, his eyes hurt, his arms and legs and the knuckles on his right hand ached. His bum hurt, too. "I'm gonna regret this tomorrow." He mumbled hoarsely with a pathetic-sounding chuckle, rubbing his eyes and trying futilely to blink away the pain of a rather wicked hangover. He felt dirty and nasty all over. There was no way he took a shower before he had gone to bed. He thanked his lucky stars that he wasn't human. Yeah, he had a headache. So what? He would probably be dead if he were human, how much coke did he do? How much did he drink? It took a country to kill a country, so he hadn't needed to worry too hard about overdosing. He was also glad he didn't have to fret about the nastier things in life, such as the STDs one could get from humping away with some complete stranger in a dirty back alley.

His mouth tasted like strippers. What did that even mean? He didn't know, nor did he care. Slowly he began wondering where exactly he might be sleeping. He couldn't remember much about the end of the night, and absolutely nothing about leaving. He hoped he hadn't gone home with some strange person. His curiosity finally taking full hold, he sat up and looked around to let out a relieved sigh. It was Cuba's guest room. Stretching his sore muscles, he looked to the wall clock and saw that it was noon. Well, he had nothing to be up for so it was okay to have woken up so late. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, feeling rumpled and dirty in the jeans and T-shirt he must have just plopped down to bed in. His bag was sitting on the dresser.

About a half hour later he was showered, changed, and sitting downstairs in the kitchen with Cuba eating a fried egg and some toast. They recounted the night's excitement between bites, congratulating one another on conquests and berating faux pas. Cuba invited him for another night of wild partying but Matthew declined. 'I'm not sure if I can handle another night of that.' They both laughed. In all reality the Canadian was thinking about Alfred. He wanted to get him something nice and drop it off on his way home. A little more conversation and he went to do just that. He caught a plane to America's house. He slept the entire ride and was nearly left behind after everyone else had gotten off because no one really noticed that he was there, sleeping with his face pressed against the cool glass. He woke up and had to run to the cockpit to stop the plane as they were bringing it to the hanger.

A taxi-ride later he found himself at some mall or other, perusing the wares and trying to pick something that he was sure America would like. He saw a rather dekey pair of sneakers and a "super pack" of Alfred's favorite cologne. He looked through a bookstore until he remembered seeing a picture on the internet a while back of a bald eagle ripping a book to shreds with it's talons to the backdrop of his brother's flag. Underneath the picture was the caption 'Reading is for Fags'. He chuckled at the stab at his brother's intelligence and decided to stop wasting time in the book store. He went to a video game shop and looked through the new first person shooters, but he was sure that Alfred already owned them all. He considered looking through movies but Alfred only wanted to watch his own films, so there was really not much new to show him. As he was wandering he quite seriously considered a massive wheel of cheese. Candy, perhaps? Or maybe he could get a gift for himself. He stood in one of the stores, eyeing a large can of industrial strength raccoon poison. He could put it in his food. Naw, not today anyway.

As he was walking past a bakery he made his decision. Soon he was walking out to a car rental store, box of fruit cake under his arm. America must have liked them, considering how many he gave away during holidays. Car rented and rather heavy-looking cake in the back seat (buckled up, of course), Matthew set out downtown. No, Alfred didn't live downtown, but Matthew wasn't planning on stopping at his house until the sun was down. The large star still gripped to it's rule of the sky, hanging low over the land and casting an eerie glow across the city. This part of town was seedy and generally frowned upon. It was exactly the kind of place Canada was looking for. Alfred danced about in his mind, wheeling round and round like some kind of old cartoon's background. His voice, his eyes, his beautiful (and kissable, or god so kissable) lips. He was loud and irritating and god damn it all did Matthew burn with need for him. He wanted to submit to him, he wanted to make him submit. He wanted to climb inside of him and become one in a way to where they could never be separated. He wanted to touch him and love him and fuck him and hurt him and kill him all at once. He wanted to gently wipe the tears from his cheeks and tell him that everything would be alright. He wanted to hit him with some blunt object over and over again until he just stopped moving. He wanted to make him laugh and cry and smile and scream and moan out 'Matthew' in the throes of passion, but most of all he wanted to be part of him in every way. He wanted to be him in every way.

So he cruised somewhat slowly along those streets, watching the people wander up and down the blocks. His eyes passed over the women like they were invisible in their short skirts, fishnet stockings, and low-cut shirts. They waved at him and smiled, peddling their mediocre wares. His eyes rested on the far fewer men wandering the street, smoking cigarettes and nodding his way when their eyes made contact. Most of them wore cheap Kmart button up shirts and slacks, but one… One, with short blonde hair and big blue eyes was wearing a yellow T-shirt and tight jeans. Red and white runners, maybe 170cm tall, also smoking. Why did they all smoke? Either way, in the right lighting Canada was sure that he would resemble America quite well from the back. He drove by once, making eye contact. The guy's smile was big and bright, much more attractive than the half-assed little nods the other's were offering. He rounded the block and drove up again. This time the guy stepped from the curb and took a few steps toward his car. Matthew pulled up alongside him.

He lowered his window and the guy stuck his head in. "Hey."

Canada swallowed thickly, his eyes dropping to stare at the passenger seat rather than the man hanging out at his window. "Hi." His voice was even more whispered than it usually was.

"You wanna take a ride?" The guy asked, bringing the cigarette to his lips and taking a long drag. He blew the bluish-grey smoke from his nostrils and smiled warmly. Matthew just nodded and the man, well more like boy since he couldn't have been older than seventeen, pulled the door open and hopped in. He didn't buckle up, but when was the last time a whore cared about their wellbeing? "Pleased to meet you."

As Matthew drove down the street to his usual spot, he turned momentarily to eye the kid in confusion. 'Pleased to meet you'? "It's a pleasure to meet you, as well." He muttered, feeling even more awkward now.

"You from up north somewhere?"

"How did you know?"

"I can tell from your accent. You kinda sound like my friend Jimmy; he grew up in way north Minnesota."

"I guess it's that obvious, eh?"

The kid laughed quietly as he flicked his cigarette butt from the open window as the car rolled into the parking lot of some seedy motel. Matthew had him wait in the car while he rented a room, and then had him follow up to room A-64 ('second floor, first door on the right' the clerk had said, her voice low and cracking from what sounded like years of heavy smoking). Once the door was shut Matthew just stood there and watched the boy bound over the bed and throw himself onto it with far more good humor than would be expected of a kid who needed to do this sort of a thing so young. He did resemble Alfred somewhat. He's would probably dim the lights and take his glasses off first, but as long as he could pass it was alright. His hair was a more dirty blonde, but beggars can't be choosers. "Take a shower first, please. It's not like I think you're dirty or something, it's just-!" He exclaimed, waving his hands before himself and sputtering over the rude-sounding request.

"Don't fret on it, man. It's cool." The kid got up with an amused chuckle and walked to the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind himself. He didn't lock it.

Matthew felt like he was sweating bullets as he heard the shower begin to run with a creaking gurgle. It wasn't like this was the first time he had found himself in this kind of situation, but he was still mortified. He sat at the foot of the bed and turned the TV on, staring at the screen unseeingly as he considered just leaving. Of course he would leave some money on the bed for wasting the kid's time, but he thought he was going to have a heart attack from nervousness. Was it strange to be as embarrassed as he was? Just because he had this kind of exchange on a fairly regular basis it didn't mean that he was just going to kick the door down and barge in, dick in hand, bellowing something like 'Your ass is mine, bitch!' Just the idea made him turn red.

Finally, about half-way through a rerun of the cartoon starring yellow people the shower ended and the kid stepped into the room, a towel around his waist. Matthew waved him over and shyly patted the spot next to him on the bed. "What's your name?" The kid asked.

"Matthew."

"Cool, I'm-"

Canada brought his hand up abruptly, cutting him off mid-sentence. "I'm sorry, I know that was rude. I'm going to call you Alfred, is that alright?" He asked, turning to look 'Alfred' in the eyes.

"That's cool." Canada had expected as much. He was sure that this kid got weirder requests on a nightly basis so something like that was to be expected. Steeling his resolve he pulled his glasses from his face and set them aside on the side table softly. He then turned back to the wet blonde and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. His hand ran over the smooth flesh of his cheek and his eyes fell shut as the kid kissed him back with his eyes open. Canada pushed him gently to his back, deepening the kiss. It tasted like cigarettes and mint chewing gum. His fingers ran through the just slightly too short hair lovingly as his tongue rolled within the young mouth. This child here, he was a citizen of the United States. That meant that he was a tiny part of his beloved big brother and his member stiffened at the though. Although this was akin to kissing one of Alfred's cells, it was still part of him.

He moved away from the hot little mouth to kiss along the whore's jaw bone and down his neck, stopping to suck the sensitive skin into his mouth and smile at the little moan that the dirty blonde uttered. His hands slowly unfolded the small towel from his waist and pulled it away. His fingertips slipped over the smooth skin there and the thought 'he shaves' flitted across Matthew's mind. He moved his head further down to lick and nip at a small pink bud, enjoying the taste and shudders that ran through the kid's body. His hands traveled all about the lightly tanned skin and he wished the dang kid would eat something more often. He was too thin. He kissed across the flat stomach and down to where his pubic hair should have been. Tossing his hair out of the way he took the somewhat medium-small member into his mouth and gave it a strong suck. 'Alfred' moaned softly, one of his hands snaking down to stroke Canada's wavy locks.

The country ran his tongue up and down over the hardened length, stopping to swirl it over the head before he bobbed back down and took it into his mouth once more. The kid's breathes quickened as Matthew worked his cock with his mouth, thrusting lightly up into the hot orifice. After giving it one more long, flat-tongued lick Canada sat up and pulled his pants off, setting them next to his glasses. He took a bottle of lube he had set side up from the edge of the bed and poured a good amount onto his hand, slicking it over his erection. He used his knees to push the young man's legs apart as he used one hand to hold himself up and the other to aim towards the small pink entrance. He pushed in slowly, gauging the kid's reaction. Normally prep wasn't something you needed to worry about with whores, since they were used so often that it had become unnecessary, but he was so young Matthew worried that he hadn't yet reached that level of desensitization. Clearly this kid had led a harder life than he had thought, though. He just winced a little as it slid into his body, showing about the same amount of discomfort as someone who wasn't too terribly accustomed to anal sex would have after a good chunk of time dedicated to stretching.

It was kind of sad. Oh well.

Canada sat back on his knees and took the boy by the hips and began thrusting, enjoying the hot, tight heat that was wrapped around him. He thought of Alfred; Alfred when they were little, playing in the dirt and eating bugs. Alfred during his cowboy phase, chasing him about the yard with a lasso. Alfred in the '70s, his hair long and his clothes always reeking of pot. Alfred stretching before the Olympics, Alfred licking a stray glob of 'special sauce' from his forearm where it had fallen. Doing a cannon ball into the pool, picking his nose when he thought no one was looking, sitting at his desk with a serious look on his face while he was working.

Hs thrusts became harder as he lifted the kid's hips to find a better angle to slam into the decadent hole, gasping from the effort but unwilling to stop his pleasure midway to deal with something as trivial as breathing. The nicotine addict he was fucking helped by using his legs to hold himself up as his hand stroked his dick in time with Matthew's thrusts, moaning loudly and letting out little yelps and whines when he was slammed particularly hard. Three more pumps was all he needed when he cried out and came onto his stomach and chest, his sphincter clenching tightly as he rode his orgasm. Scrunching his eyes shut, the Canadian thrust as hard and deep into the boy as he could.

"I love you, Alfred!" He sputtered and came, his hot seed spilling into the quivering little entrance. He just kneeled there for a moment, catching his breath. Using the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead he pulled out of the panting blonde and turned away.

"Um… Um." He was suddenly overcome by shyness at what he had said mid-orgasm. "Sorry, that was weird."

"No worries." The kid got up and walked to the bathroom. "That'll be a hundred bucks."

"Yeah." Matthew pulled his pants back on and dug into the pocket, retrieving his wallet and pulling out two fifty dollar bills and setting them onto the bed next to himself. Some five minutes later the kid emerged from the bathroom fully dressed. He smiled charmingly as he took the money and stuffed it into his pants pocket. At the same time he retrieved a bent cigarette from his soft pack and lit up, inhaling deeply. He held it out to Canada, who politely declined.

"Thanks for your business, Up North. I hope you consider me again in the future." And with that he left, jogging down the steps to just saunter lazily down the road and back to his space on the strip, little white puffs floating out from his head as if he were an outdated train.

Canada felt dirty so he took a shower, packed his things, and checked out from the room. He jumped back into his car and felt a confusing fixture of shame and happiness about what he had just done. But he always had that feeling when he drove away from those seedy motels and those dirty little people. He felt pathetic and sated all at once. It was 10:36pm so he decided that it was late enough to show up at his brother's house. It was certainly dark enough. He hopped on the freeway and followed it past three exits until he saw the one that he always took. Take a right onto the exit ramp, follow a little loop and end up traveling left. Drive past two Denny's and a KFC, take a right at the cemetery. Six blocks down and take a right. He pulled up at the curb some three houses down the street from his brother's and turned the car off. He locked it and stepped out, carrying the cake box under his arm. He eyed the domicile as he walked nonchalantly toward it. Alfred should be getting out of the shower soon.

He walked around to the side of the house and set the box gently into the bushes before he turned his attention to a rather large tree that was right next to Alfred's window. Doing a few warm-up stretches and cracking his knuckles, he began to shimmy up the tree like he had done so many times before. He was so fast at it by this point that we should just resign as a country (yeah, as if that was possible) and live in the jungle somewhere. Matthew, King of the Jungle! Partying with the apes and swinging across the vines! Settling himself in a comfortable laying position on a fat branch that allowed him to look directly into the well-furnished and nicely lit room, he patted himself on the back and felt a glow of pride as Alfred open the master bathroom's door and emerged into his room in only a towel about his waist and one draped lazily over his head. He was rubbing it through his hair and singing along with the television. Toothpaste commercial, Matthew noted. He would have to learn the words.

He watched, enraptured, as Alfred walked about his room doing his every day things. He combed his hair, wandered about brushing his teeth, cleaned his ears. He clipped his toe nails (Matthew would need to get those) and tossed them into the waste bin in the corner. He yawned and stretched. Why was he so tired? Had he been busy today, or maybe yesterday? Canada hadn't heard anything about plans. He had checked the TV Guide as well, and there weren't supposed to be any marathons of those awful reality shows that Alfred liked so much. Odd.

He shimmied a little closer on his belly, squeezing the branch with his thighs as to not fall off. Alfred yawned again and looked at his bed as if to consider just hitting the sack right then. Matthew checked his watch. His big brother didn't go to bed until between midnight and two in the morning, and yet it was barely eleven. What had happened? He wiggled further just a bit more and his eyes shot wide when he heard a loud crack. The branch lurched down, at first seeming to be fine until, with a loud snapping sound it broke from the trunk and slammed onto the grassy yard. Canada sat up, groaning and pulling twigs from his hair when he heard the front door swing open. Alfred was coming! Looking back and forth frantically, Matthew made a snap decision and flung himself into the prickly rose bushes, just barely missing the cake.

The glow of a flashlight bobbed from the front of the house as Alfred wandered over to the tree and let out a loud profanity at his tree breaking. His hair was still wet and the top of his pajamas was on backwards. He looked about himself in an attempt to find the culprit. Matthew flattened himself to the dirt, biting back the wince that tried to slide from his throat at the sensation of so many thorns digging into his body at once. Finally America seemed satisfied that it was a freak accident, so he turned around and went back into the house. Canada sighed as he pulled himself from the sharp bushes. After taking a moment to pull all of the thorns he could find from his flesh and toss them away, he turned and gave the tree a swift kick, only managing to hurt his toes. As he hopped around cursing quietly to himself his attention was drawn to the trash can sitting in the back yard. With a little shrug he went about his usual hobby of rummaging through it.

So many food containers, it was ridiculous. Old apple and toilet paper cores, a shirt that gotten ripped (he pocketed it), some dead lighters, a few empty cigarette boxes, a burned-down candle. And then, all at once, he felt his heart skip a beat and his skin prickled with goose bumps when he pulled a used condom from the can. From the consistency, freshly used. It was cold but still wet. This… This was why his brother was tired? A cold bolt of rage shot through Matthew's body and all at once he felt sick with hate.

Who thought they had the right to touch his brother? To touch his Alfred and be touched by him? Closing the can, he slunk by the side of the house and back to the rose bushes to retrieve the cake. Setting it at the doorstep he rang the bell some four times in a row and bolted back to his car. By the time Alfred came to the door and found the cake Matthew had driven off into the darkness.

*You're so tight.
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Suicide by Proxy