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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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Alfred stared out into the kitchen, where Matthew was busy at the countertop, long fingers absently brushing his hair behind one ear as he gazed down, he reminded him of Francis in that moment, and, to some legitimate extent, Francis really had taught Matthew how to cook.
Francis would shudder, though, and stare with arrogant dismay at what Matthew was making now, something Matthew had come up with all on his own some fifty years ago, and which, with neither remorse nor any sign of shame, he openly quite liked.
Alfred liked it, too, but that was hardly saying much, and even if he couldn't quite pronounce the word poutine, it reminded him enough of chili cheese fries that he would wolf it down the way he wolfed down nearly everything else.
But he was only partway distracted by the prospect of food that night, for once deep in thought, wondering exactly what was to be done with his baby brother.
Francis lay quietly beneath Matthew that day, blue eyes soft and searching as he silently inspected his face, accommodating, gentle, and even as Matthew, in a moment of broken despair, intended to ravage and take without heed for regard, he was careful, delicate, affectionate all the while, it was there in his nature, after all—
Mon pauvre petit garçon,
My poor little boy,
Francis softly mouthed, hands gentle and slow as they ran in Matthew's hair, he was far past the point of trying to stop him, of telling him no, because it was fair, it was only fair, très bien, alors, mon petit, ce soir je suis à toi—
All right, then, my child, I'm yours tonight—
Matthew was thin, so thin and sender, Alfred took good care of him, Francis knew that much, because Matthew wasn't scared, he'd been handled with patience and love, Francis could see that much even then, he had wondered about Matthew's brother, he had wondered if Matthew had known how much Alfred had loved him, as well—
He didn't really leave you, Francis thought, he always will love you the same—
What was it that Matthew wanted, Alfred thought, watching quietly from over the edge of the couch, Matthew absently wiping his hands on his trousers, what would make him happy?
Being with somebody else?
His evening with Kiku had left him both physically satisfied and terribly perplexed, he'd tried to calm his mind by jogging, by working out, and, when that didn't work, by beating up Ivan—
For the third time, that didn't work out, however, and, for the third time, Alfred got his ass handed to him, to Ivan's vast amusement and unmistakable pleasure, come again tomorrow, he said, we'll do it again.
There had to be a way to beat him, there had to be a way to kick his ass—
Also, he wanted to ask Matthew, he wanted to know how he felt, what he thought, but it pissed him off, it pained him, he didn't want to listen to him say that he wanted to play around, that he wanted to do bad things with other people—
Matthew's soft yellow hair, swaying at the nape of his neck as he leaned his head forth, it smelled nice, what he made, Alfred was reminded of watching Arthur and Francis cooking in his youth, when will it be ready, I'm hungry,
And Matthew would sit at his side, I'm hungry, too,
Not because he actually was, but because he wanted to be like his brother—
Matthew had hesitated as he disrobed Francis then, Francis could tell, he wanted to tell him to stop, but Matthew was determined, his fingers were brittle and light at the lacing of his clothes, tremulous, eyes dilated and large, Francis was beautiful naked—
And, certainly, this wasn't anything new, Francis had walked around half-naked as far back as Matt could remember, not counting the times he and Arthur had openly amused themselves at every which room in the house—
But Francis had promised, ce soir, je suis à toi—
Tonight, I'm yours—
Matthew was so gentle, so light, his hands were tentative, curious, he softly kissed Francis, on his cheek, then his mouth, he was good at this, too—
Francis' large hands, elegant, noble hands, the hands at which England had fallen, at which Scotland was spared, he touched Matthew so gently that Matthew wondered if he'd touched him at all, carefully attentive to hold his strength back, breath hot and humid against Matthew's skin, the light slide of stubble, the soft sway of his hair against Matthew's naked chest, he shivered as his mouth made contact with his skin, est-ce vraiment Matthew, est-ce vraiment mon doux petit garçon—
Is this really Matthew, is this really my sweet little boy—
Francis really didn't want to, truth be told.
He laid him down very carefully on the bed, very gentle and kind, Matthew's thin arms brittle around his strong shoulders, long eyelashes batting shut, it was no challenge to Francis, making someone feel good, countless women and men had fallen breathless against his broad chest, but it'd been ages since he'd been so careful with anyone—
Matthew's voice came very soft, inaudible almost, murmurs and words and parts of words ghosting ethereal against the delicate folds of Francis' ear, and Francis wondered if he wished he were with Alfred, instead—
Or maybe, he was curious enough—
Francis gently kissed his shoulder and his chest, hair swaying against the naked expanse of his abdomen, long fingers working with proficient mastery at the bindings of his trousers, a matter of habit, he had to remind himself to slow down—
Beneath the bare wall of his chest, Matthew's heart was racing with feelings unrestrained, he cried silently, head turned away and vision blurred, Francis' large arms came all around his slender hips as he kissed his flat stomach, je t'aime, he whispered, I love you,and he also meant to say, et, mon cher Matthew, Alfred t'aime aussi—
and, my dear Matthew, Alfred loves you, too—
But saying this aloud, reminding him, would it only hurt him more?
Matthew was beautiful naked, too, Francis thought with a curious bout of humility, blue eyes large and quiet as he gazed with wonderment at the younger boy's body, he leaned down carefully and kissed him just at the inguinal ridge, the length of his member, his hip and his inner thigh, and Matthew gasped softly, restraining himself from crying out, Francis was different from Alfred, and Matthew couldn't help thinking of his brother then, but he really had been curious enough—
He stifled himself from crying out when Francis' lips came on him, he did things to him with his mouth, with his hand, things that Alfred never had done, that left him astounded and speechless, eyes wide and voice lodged uselessly at the back of his throat, his long legs came tight all around Francis' back, feet pointed and toes tightly clenched, he hadn't realized how tightly he held on to the other boy until there finally came release and he let go at last, and even then, with the softest, most tremulous breath, he whispered,
Je t'en prie, je t'en prie, n'arrête pas là—
Please, please don't stop there—
And Francis understood, lips wet and red as he leaned in to kiss the slick expanse of Matthew's inner thigh, tenderly, affectionately, his hands were very gentle as he slowly pried the boy's legs away from around his back—
He was reminded of his time with Alfred in the kitchen, how, in a moment of jealousy, he had taunted him deliberately, harshly, determined as he pressed the peach up against his naked skin beneath his clothes—
Had it been merely to have Arthur taste him there—
He wondered somberly how it had been between Alfred and Arthur, and while he felt jealous and thought of Arthur even then, he remembered even despite himself that Alfred really had been quite generously-endowed.
But he remained very gentle with Matthew nevertheless, slender digits slowly brushing the long hair from his eyes as he leaned forth over him, voice almost inaudible when he whispered then,
Tu me le diras si tu veux que j'arrête—
You tell me if you want me to stop—
And Matthew nodded, quiet and trusting, oh, he was frightfully shy, but he never asked Francis to stop—
His fingers interweaved in Francis' when finally he moved inside of him, hair swaying back, Francis buried his face in his neck, arms gentle and large, protective and strong, Matthew's lips were very soft as he leaned forth to kiss his forehead, as far down as he could tilt his head—
"Hey," Alfred said, "When's that gonna be ready, Matt?"
Matthew grinned without turning around, still busy with the food.
"I dunno, like ten minutes?"
Alfred smiled.
He smiled, lighthearted as always as he choked back the tears.
Those guys are so dead.
You ever gonna play with France and Russia again?
We have to let those ladies know that this is not okay, and that whole night was not okay, and writing you a letter like this is not okay—
You're mine, you got it?
The sunlight streamed in clear through the kitchen window, illuminating Matthew's hair in a golden haze.
Am I really gonna give you away willingly, baby brother?
"Let's have a second party," Alfred said, voice wavering at first, but then louder, successfully feigning confidence,
"Without alcohol, and let's make sure all the ladies can make it this time."
There's still stuff they're gonna want to see.
To be continued…
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A/N: Credit for the lines in French goes to NinjaMatty
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Matthew is Mine