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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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The pain streamed through Matthew’s chest like heavy downpour, he was weak, defeated and, hands white and brittle on the wooden windowpane, lips tightly, harshly sealed, eyelids aching, he knew, he knew for a long time this moment would come, but it hurt, holy hell, did it ever hurt, the memories came flooding through him, reverberating vivid through his very flesh, too vivid, too harsh, they tugged at his heartstrings with cruelty unrestrained—
It was Francis who found him doubled over against the wall, in the corner of his room between the writing desk and the bed, and even though he was the perpetrator, even though he helped it all occur, Matthew fell readily in his arms, forlorn and exhausted with grief, too weak to protect himself, far too paralyzed to move—
Shh, je t'en prie, ne pleure pas—
There, hush, please don’t cry—
Very gently, Francis lifted him up, weak and defeated, strong arms lacing underneath the fragile bend of his knees, the slender curve of his back, outside the hail came down against the windowsill like frozen little rocks, Matthew weakly buried his head against Francis’ chest, hands coming around his broad shoulders as of their own accord.
Even now that he had grown to his full height, just as tall as Alfred and towering just a bit beyond Francis, himself, he was still somehow a little boy, innocent and soft, delicate, the tears streamed in hot, transparent trails down his face and onto the stubbled skin of Francis’ neck, and Francis set him gently down on his bed, large hands careful in his hair, paternal, affectionate and sorrowful—
Matthew was defeated, undone and weak, speechless, he clung on to Francis with silent despair,
Pourquoi, pourquoi as-tu fait ça? Pourquoi as-tu aidé mon frère à partir—
Why, why did you do it, why did you help my brother leave—
Mon héro, mon bien-aimé—
My hero, my only beloved—
''Ce n'était pas correct,''
It wasn’t right,
Francis whispered softly, fingers moving fluid in Matthew’s long hair,
“Ce n'était pas correct de la part d'Arthur de retenir Alfred contre sa volonté—”
Arthur holding Alfred back, it wasn’t right—
Malgré tout, même si tout cela était vrai, pourquoi m'as-tu trompé, pourquoi m'as-tu embarqué là-dedans—
Even so, even if it all were true, why did you mislead me, why did you string me along—
He was far too weak, entirely too frail and devastated, delirious with grief, and, without a word, he buried his head in Francis' neck, slowly, feverishly kissing the hot skin there, gently, delicately, his touch ethereal and soft—
Eyes closed, Francis became acutely aware of what the other boy was doing, and, carefully meaning to disengage, he whispered in low tones,
“Non—non Matthew, ce n'est pas bien—”
No—no, Matthew, this isn’t right—
But he couldn’t quite pull himself away, he felt shivers run all throughout the skin of his back, he couldn’t stop him, he couldn’t pry him away, Matthew was broken, desperate and forlorn—
He didn’t kiss him like a child, he kissed him like a stranger, like a man—
Still innocent, affectionate and soft, but determined all the while, deliberate, possessive—
It was with great reluctance that Francis pulled himself away, and, out of breath, he gazed at the other boy, eyes questioning and wide, and Matthew’s gaze was different when he gazed at him back, still defeated, still without a word, his eyes were deflated, but hungry—
Francis watched in silent astonishment as the long-fingered hands came on either side of his face, gentle, tremulous, Matthew pressed his mouth to his, weak but deliberate, and Francis felt his entire body go on fire, oh, it was torment to resist, for a brief moment he thought he could easily have this boy, he could easily eat him alive—
For a brief moment, he actually found himself kissing back—
Had there ever really been such a thing, innocent, or perverted, or obscene, aren’t we all merely human, doesn’t everybody want—
“Mon cher petit Matthew, mon pauvre petit garçon,”
My dear little Matthew, my poor little boy,
Francis whispered, hands gentle in his hair, he allowed Matthew to have at him, eyelashes closing, breath coming hot, it was merely natural, wasn’t it, it was only fair—
Francis had a hand in helping Alfred get away, after all—
He watched with patient curiosity as the slender digits of Matthew’s hand worked at the buttons of his shirt, brittle, tremulous and warm, and Francis held back, hell, did he ever hold back, he could have had him in a heartbeat, he could have devoured him whole—
He thought of how jealous he had felt when Alfred slept with Arthur—
He would have had at Matthew just to get him back—
But it wasn’t right. Matthew thought already, didn’t he, that he helped Alfred merely just to piss Arthur off, and, to some extent, he did—
But the prospect of using Matthew in this intimate sense, just for revenge—
He had loved Matthew far too much.
Or Maybe Matthew was getting back at Alfred.
Ou peut-être qu’il essaie de se venger—
Ou peut-être veut-il simplement—
Or maybe he’s getting back at me—
Or maybe, he just merely wants—
Tears streaming hot down the side of his face, Matthew pressed his mouth to Francis’ neck, passionately, lips hard and teeth biting, Francis gasped with a mixture of arousal and surprise, large hands gentle in his hair, paternal,
“Alors cette fois, les crêpes ne suffiront pas…”
So this time, crepes won’t be enough…
he whispered then, slowly urging him forth.
* * *
Francis had Arthur in his lap.
“For the last time, England, I told you—that glass there is yours.”
Too drunk to listen and too overcome with arousal to move, Arthur merely clung onto Francis’ naked shoulders, cursing him through clenched teeth as he rode on him then, hair disheveled, cheeks red and flushed—
“Here—”
Francis said softly, reaching for the tray with one slender arm, holding the goblet impressively steady as he brought it to Arthur’s mouth.
“Nn—”
Arthur murmured, trying uselessly to drink, still stringing expletives at Francis just over the rim of the glass, calling him a perverted wine bastard even as he reached deliberately for the very same wine—
The red liquid spilled over the edge and onto Arthur’s cheeks and his chin, dripping down to his chest and Francis’ arm from there on, it was a disheveled, terrible mess, Francis laughed with amusement,
“Angleterre , tu es décourageant—”
England, you’re hopeless—
“Don’t talk to me in that despicable language of yours—!”
Angleterre, je t’aime—
England, I love you—
Francis kissed him wetly, affectionately, mouth hot against his own, the bittersweet taste of the wine streaming down along both their chins, both their faces, they both drank until there was nothing left in the glass, until most of it had spilled down their bodies and the blanket and sheets, Francis held Arthur tightly in his arms all the while, tormenting him, teasing, wickedly smiling as he bit just at the shell of his ear, only to hear him get upset, only to hear him curse him back, he really had loved him with all of his heart—
He gasped, eyes closing, red lips smiling with a mixture of enjoyment and pain, Arthur bit hard into his neck when he came, the fluid coming liquid and hot, running white along Francis’ long fingers and the naked expanse of his chest, together with the red streamlets of wine, and, delirious, out of breath, Francis continued to move within him all the while, wetly, hot with desperation, obscene, Arthur’s hands clawing hard enough at his back to leave marks, I hate you, I hate you—
Francis’ strong hands on either side of Arthur’s narrow hips, holding him steady, holding him wet, moist bundles of hair clinging to his forehead when at last he came, as well, the liquid glistening all along Arthur’s inner thighs even before he’d pulled out, and, still not letting him go, Francis whispered against the other boy’s mouth,
“So do you still hate me? Have you had enough?”
“I hate you even more,”
Arthur whispered, out of breath, eyes closed and expiration hot as he seized Francis’ mouth, not letting him go even after Francis has pulled out from inside him, hand reaching weakly for his goblet from the table nearby, only to discover to his dismay that there was nothing left—
Arthur still straddled over his thighs, Francis grinned maliciously as he held the crystal goblet up before both their eyes, as to taunt the other boy, who’s the wine bastard now, you selfish little jerk, now it's all gone—
The crystal glittered clear in the dim chamber, luxuriant and wet as it reflected the candlelight from the chandelier, a thing of beauty in Francis’ slender hand, Francis was beautiful, too—
Angleterre, enfoiré d’égoïste, je parie que tu en veux plus—
You selfish English jerk, I’ll bet you want more—
Arthur’s green eyes rolled with quiet curiosity as Francis brought the goblet farther down, large hand still steady at his hip as he pressed the glass deliberately to the slick surface of Arthur’s inner thigh, and Arthur gasped at the cold contact, lips agape as he watched, the clear fluid streaming forth from his naked skin and past the glittering crystal edge, into the glass—
You disgusting wine bastard—
Francis’ blue eyes twinkled in the candlelight, tongue running absently just at the edge of his mouth,
“Yeah, I’ll bet you’re still thirsty, I’ll bet you want more—”
Arthur watched with mute horror as Francis slowly raised the glass, the white fluid shining clear from the rim and along the crystal edge, glistening liquid and warm, he pressed it hard to Arthur’s mouth,
Vas-tu boire?
Will you drink?
Arthur hesitated.
Hands coming on either side of the glass, he stared directly at Francis, slowly decanting the goblet just at his mouth, drinking with strange hunger, undeniably aroused, Francis tilted the glass farther inside, waiting for him to finish before pulling it away.
“You’re so beautiful,”
He whispered, slowly moving in to kiss him then, hand weakly placing the glass back on its tray as he turned his full attention to the boy in his arms, he pulled him down with him back onto the bed, they were drunk, they both were terribly, terribly drunk, Arthur continued to kiss him for a long time after that—
What if we got together, you and I.
What if we raised a little family—
—a family? With you? You drunk, wretched creature, just what in the hell would you ever know about something like that?
To be continued…
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A/N: Credit for the lines in French goes to NinjaMatty and Capitain Pickle– thank you so much!
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Matthew is Mine