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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
- 6
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- 8
“Don’t cry,”
Kiku whispered, words humid and immaterial against Matthew’s ear, almost as though he hadn’t spoken at all, and, really, Matthew hadn’t cried yet, not visibly, not aloud,
Shh—
Long, slender arms came around Matthew’s neck and it really was hard, it was hard not to think, not to pretend he was Alfred, because they looked so much alike, he was almost as tall, his eyes just as blue behind specular lenses—
And Kiku couldn’t help, despite himself, wondering deep in his mind, was that what it was like, was this how he smelled, was this what he felt like up close—
No, these were selfish, horrible thoughts, but did anyone expect him to think anything else—
Even Matthew, beneath him, was silently crying, still without any visible tears, because he also knew—
No, he wasn’t like America.
No matter how much they seemed alike, he couldn’t envision Alfred breaking down and crying this way.
Gently, carefully, Kiku’s delicate fingers came around Matthew’s glasses, and, very slowly, he slid them off his face. Carefully placing them on the table nearby, he began to kiss him very softly, on his mouth and his cheeks and his forehead and the pointed tip of his nose, and, when finally the tears did come, on his eyes and the cartilage shell of his ear, whispering silently,
“Don’t cry, Canada—please don’t cry—“
Ivan and Francis waited patiently, generously, allowing this to go on and polite enough to keep from butting in, two patient wolves merely granting some time before they attack.
Francis laughed inwardly, because he really had seen Alfred break down, just like this, just like Matthew, at times wretched in silence, at times stirred with rebellion, red-faced and sticky as he hollered profanities at Arthur until at last he’d grow weary, exhausted, and, throat sore, would collapse against the door of his room, locked from the outside, and cry quietly to himself.
Francis would gloat, smiling with absolute contentment over the perfect roast he was making,
You’re a terrible parent,
His gaze seemed to say, and later that night he would find himself trying uselessly to reason with Arthur from the outside of the locked bedroom door.
Matthew didn’t put up terrible fights. He was a good boy, quiet and friendly and alone—
He cried alone.
Francis would seat him on his knee, slender fingers dabbing a handkerchief at his large, reddening eyes,
"Qu'est ce qui ne va pas? Pourquoi pleures-tu?"
What’s wrong? Why are you crying?
And, anguished and tired, Matthew would rest his head in the crook of Francis’ neck, hot and sticky and hair disheveled, and Francis would pick him up and carry him to his bath,
The good parent.
He still was such the good parent now.
Arthur wasn’t seductive, romantic, or soft, but he had a vast and genuine love for the boys all the same, and even if he couldn’t make a perfect roast, even if he couldn’t shampoo and condition and brush Matthew’s hair the way Francis did, so that it turned out luxuriant and soft like brilliant silk, he broke down in genuine tears when his boys left, and after they did, he continued to watch from afar, all the same.
All the same.
Matthew’s big eyes gazed silently at Kiku, tired and confused, but dry, and, many years his elder, Kiku gently kissed his forehead, that’s a good boy, before handing him to Francis.
Don’t leave me,
Matthew’s eyes seemed to say, but softly, unspoken, there came the reply,
Not like this.
We won’t do it like this.
Not when you’re drunk, not with them watching, not with your brother on everyone’s mind—
And yet, the next morning, Matthew wouldn’t remember what happened at all—
Still fully clothed, Kiku turned to Francis, this is your responsibility, you fix this, you finish what you’ve started.
Francis nodded slowly, vastly amused, and, settling Matthew again on his knee, he gently raked his long fingers through the boy’s hair.
"Qu'est ce qu'il y a? Qu'est ce qui ne va pas?"
What is it? What’s wrong?
“Ah,” he said then, gently leaning in to lick at the corner of Matthew’s mouth, where there still ran a slick line of fluid, and softly, he crooned,
“You really do taste so nice—“
Matthew allowed it, anguished and tired as he buried his head in the crook of Francis’ neck,
“We’ll take good care of him, won’t we, Ivan,”
Francis crooned from behind the soft tresses of the boy’s hair, and Ivan nodded in return,
That’s right, we will.
Kiku bowed slowly before taking his leave, and in his mind he thought, this isn’t right, even if Westerners had strange, bizarre customs, Alfred should really set some boundaries on what goes on at his house—
Or was that, he thought as he made his way up the stairwell, was that merely an excuse for him to speak to Alfred at all—
As he approached the attic door, he could hear from behind it the distinct sounds of scraping, of shoving—
Of flesh striking flesh—
He blinked in confusion before bringing his hands to his mouth in surprise.
The hot echo of breath—
Leave. Get out of there. For heaven’s sake, run.
Kiku stood astonished at the partly-open attic door, hands pressed to his mouth and lips frozen mid-breath,
Oh, Alfred was nothing like Matthew at all.
He had Arthur bent over across a large chest on the floor, desperate, wet, exhausted, whispering things, inaudible, profane, wicked things, glasses off and eyes closed, lips buried red at the nape of his neck, whispering, biting—
Palm pressed tight against his mouth, Kiku stared with disbelief,
No wonder they’ve been up here so long,
He thought, and despite the unquestionable jealousy burning him throughout, he nevertheless couldn’t help himself, face red with embarrassment and eyes closed in defeat as his thin, delicate frame fell in surrender against the corridor wall—
He bit hard into his palm, hair standing on end at the nape of his neck as he listened to the soft, desperate sounds emanating from within the attic nearby, slowly touching himself and stifling his voice.
To be continued…
- 6
- 7
- 8
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Matthew is Mine