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Suicide by Proxy	By : tamasama Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 2266 -:- 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
- 1
- 2
Matthew Williams (aka Canada) sat in the passenger seat of his brother Alfred F. Jones' (aka The United States of America's) car, lightly flicking the door handle as they sped down the freeway and away from the latest G8 meeting. Alfred had sponsored the get-together at his house and was kind enough to give his quiet little brother a ride home since their domiciles were so close to one another. The American was babbling on and on about something incoherent and illogical, his voice raised above the bubbly techno-pop music that played through the Porsche's speakers at a louder-than-necessary volume. Matthew half listened as he toyed with the door handle and watched his brother speak, his violet eyes sweeping from Alfred's little fluttering ahoge, over his blue eyes and well-placed glasses, down the slope of his nose and finally stopping on his full and soft-looking lips. The younger nation was captivated by those lips, how soft and smooth they always looked, how they just moved and moved and moved and freaking moved as Alfred just babbled on and on. Didn't they get tired? How did he still have a voice?

Matthew was confident that the good old US-of-A should have sounded like a frog after all of the talking he did.

But, of course, somehow he didn't. His voice was like sex to Matthew's ears anyway so it was actually alright to him if he just talked forever. Knowing himself to sound dangerously close to Alfred, Canada had tried emulating his voice a few times whilst recording with his computer, but it never seemed to have the same… Loudness as America's.

"Yo, Mattie, didya wanna go grab something to eat?" Alfred asked, turning to look his brother in the eyes and smile, totally disregarding the road in front of himself.

"Maple!" The Canadian squeaked, flinching away from the road in front of them as if it would somehow help him die a little less in the event of a crash, "Watch the road, please!" As his brother laughed and just barely managed to miss side-swiping a blue SUV Matthew double-checked the integrity of his seatbelt as he thought how ridiculous it was that Alfred never seemed to wear one. And all at once he found himself staring at those damn lips again. This time they were forming food-related sentences at an even faster and more excited rate. Words words words, laughter, more words more words more words and a moment of coughing on a bit of saliva that traveled down the wrong tube. Soon those words would be muffled by some artery-clogging meal but they would still try to wiggle their way out into the open air as if there was nothing in the way.

Matthew would eat those words if it were only possible to take something so distinctly America into himself, it would become part of him forever and maybe it would somehow rub off on him and people would actually notice that he was there, he wouldn't always be mistaken for the asshole of the world and maybe people would treat him with as much respect as they treated his gosh darned brother who couldn't do anything but talk and talk and-

A finger jabbing him in the temple yanked the quiet country from his thoughts and made him realize that they were sitting in the drive-through of his brother's favorite fast food joint. Laughing lightly, he leaned to the side over Alfred's lap a little to see the menu board. As he made his decision he took the opportunity to inhale deeply through his nose, eyes fluttering shut and a small smile creeping over his lips at the older blonde's distinct scent. Something like Axe spray, apple pie, and gun powder all layered on top of that man-smell that came of wearing an aviator jacket all the time (for reasons Matthew had never come to understand). Flopping back into his seat, he told America what to get for him (just a ten piece nugget and a small fry, no drink). Alfred himself ordered the restaurant's signature sandwich meal with a coke, yes, super-size it. Hey, can I get a toy with that? Who the hell cares if it isn't a kids meal, what are you some kinda Nazi? No, the pink one, I already have the green one. If I find a green one in my bag I'm comin' in there!

"Why do you have to act like a little kid in public, eh? It's embarrassing." Matthew said, slouching down in his seat as they pulled up to the first window and Alfred all but threw his credit card at the woman working there.

"I'm not acting like a kid, I just wanted the damn toy but no~, according to the Rules Fuhrer here I need to fight for my right to get something cool." He snapped intentionally loud enough for the order-taker to hear. Always the professional she just passed the card back through the window with a strained 'have a good day' that sounded more like a 'fuck you'.

The Canadian just sighed and shook his head, more focused on committing every facet of his brother's scent to memory than dealing with the childish display in front of him. It wasn't like he had never smelled him before, hell they grew up together and still visited one another fairly often, but that just wasn't the point, now was it? He could almost feel those little scent particles floating around in his nose, digging into him and becoming part of him forever, lending their America-ness to him. There were no more incidents in the drive-through, thankfully. Alfred got his pink toy, the food was all put together properly, and no one had spit into anything as far as they could tell. Alfred was just so paranoid about people defiling his food in some way and yet here he was already stuffing his burger into his mouth after talking all kinds of shit to the restaurant employees.

After taking a long suck from his massive plastic cup he offered it to Canada, who was nursing his nuggets. No sauce, of course. Plain old boring Canada through-and-through. Sighing at the idea, Matthew took the cold cup and help it on his lap for a moment, staring down at the straw. There, at two o' clock, was a tiny bead of saliva shining like some beacon in the sunlight. Glimmering and glowing and beautiful like an oasis in the middle of the desert, like a ruby the size of your fist, like some disembodied hand under the stall dividers offering you toilet paper after you realize you just took a shit and there wasn't any left. It was, in all senses of the word, beautiful. Peeking at the American out of the corner of his eye, Matthew dipped his head and slipped his tongue from between his lips to lap up the little droplet and pull it into his mouth. He could only lightly taste the sugary cola mixed with probably burger residue but it was a tiny taste of heaven. Swallowing slowly, he liked to pretend he could feel it sliding down his throat and plopping into his stomach. He poked his tongue out again and slid it slowly around the circumference of the straw, searching for more but of course there was no more. Alfred was such a greedy asshole, taking all of his spit with him.

Not wanting to sully the tiny flavor that sat on the tip of his tongue, Canada gave the massive cup back without actually drinking anything and closed up the brightly colored nugget box, all red and white and what-not, to save for later. He was a little sad about the fries, since they were disgusting once they got cold and he would probably end up just throwing them away, but sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. Besides, Alfred had paid so that made it a little more tolerable. 'Greedy with the spit and loose with the cash' could be his motto. Heck, it should be his national anthem.

"Did you want to come over tomorrow?" Matthew asked nonchalantly, running his fingers through his hair and lethargically flopping his head to the left as he flicked his eyes up to watch his older brother. Dang it Alfred was attractive, and cool, and so highly esteemed amongst their fellow nations. Why didn't he have that? Most of the time it was like he didn't even exist, no one even cared to remember his name. Matthew was glad that he had left Kumagoro at home so he wouldn't have to deal with even his pet forgetting who he was for a few hours.

"Sure man, I don't have anything to do after two so should I come then?" America asked, straightening his glasses. "You want me to bring me anything?"

"I don't know, maybe Seth Rogen? When were you planning to give him back?"

"Yeah, whatever Mattie. Don't get all butt-hurt about all your little actors choosing the better director's house." He was laughing as he pulled into Canada's driveway.

"Whatever, hoser." Matthew said with a smile, smacking his brother upside the head as he moved to get out of the car, only to jolt in a weird-looking and abrupt way that made him remember that he was still wearing a seatbelt. Grumbling about America's mocking laughs he undid his safety harness and slid from the seat, sticking his tongue out at Alfred as he slammed the car door shut. He turned on his heel and started for his house, twisting the two little strands of hair he had managed to yank out of his brother's head with that earlier slap between his fingers.

He heard the car reversing out of his gravel driveway and the crunching of rocks beneath his boots as he eyed the small golden strands, a little crooked smile forming on his lips. This would go with the rest, and although it didn't seem like much every piece counted. He went inside and marched straight to his bedroom and opened the closet. Pretty normal, if you asked him, just some clothes and a few shoeboxes at the top containing paperwork and the like. He had made a little compartment in the back, though, which could be easily removed and replaced (why hide something better when no one was looking for it?). He dropped to his knees and pulled the small door open and reached inside. It was cool and dry and dark in there, he didn't want his years of hard work molding or something. There was a stack of papers, three photo albums, a box of miscellaneous items, and a pillowcase.

First off, the papers. Most were random shopping and "to do" lists that Matthew had managed to fish out of the garbage, with the exception of an actually important document here and there that he had stolen with the help of his invisibility effect. He knew everything written on every scrap in there by heart, often reading them in bed before he fell asleep and using them as a reference when he practiced mastering his brother's handwriting.

The albums; Shots of Alfred doing all sorts of things. In one he was sitting on a park bench, arm up and head tilted as he tried to catch a fat droplet of his melting ice cream as if fell from the cone. In another, he had passed out in a puddle of his own drool during a G8 meeting and was in the middle of letting out the loud snore that would anger Germany and get himself thoroughly lectured for some ten minutes. Most were shots of him eating or sleeping, which seemed to be what he did the most, but then there were pictures of him as serious as Matthew thought he could be at the gun range, practicing his shooting. There were a few of him sneaking a cigarette when things got stressful, one of him crawling around on the floor in search of his lost glasses, and the most prized of all: one taken as he was masturbating on his couch to some random porn video, his flushed cheeks and lightly parted lips frozen in time, one eye just barely squinted as the very start of his orgasm glimmered in the TV's light at the tip of his penis.

The box was filled with some random effects, an old and cracked pair of America's glasses, a single sock, some wadded up tissues he had blown his nose into, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, a ball made up of many wads of old chewed-up gum, three used band aids, a little army of nail-clippings, and eight cigarette butts.

He opened the pillow case and dropped the two strands of hair inside, and they landed amongst the rest. It was almost full of his brother's hair, accumulated strand by hard-earned strand over a very long time. They were all as shiny and healthy as they were the days that he gotten them, being a part of a nation they would never dull or fall apart unless the country they belonged to died. Canada leaned down and pushed his face into those prized hairs, nuzzling them with a smile. They smelled like Alfred and shampoo.

"I'm hungry!" Kumajirou's voice came from behind him, snatching him from his little America heaven and tossing him back into the real world. With a roll of the eye and exaggerated sigh he turned his upper body to the little white bear without actually getting up from his cross-legged position on the floor.

"There's leftovers in the fridge, Kumajaku, go eat those."

"No! I want cheezies." The little bear demanded, crossing its arms over its chest.

"Vous etes ingrats, ours.*" Canada grumbled, pushing his prized items back into their little room and shutting the door. Standing ended up being more work than he had expected as his butt had fallen asleep at some point (just how long had he been sitting on the floor pawing through his little shrine?) and his back was a little sore. He picked up the bear and made his way to the kitchen, where he retrieved the cheese puffs from the highest point of the pantry and gave them to Kumajirou.

"Aren't you going to thank me?"

Kumajirou wiggled out from his arms and landed on the floor with a soft 'tump'. "Who are you, anyway?" He asked, ripping open the bag and stuffing his paw inside. Without waiting for an answer he just turned and walked away, crunching noisily on his snack.

"I'm Canada!" He yelled weakly after the obstinate animal, trying to slam the pantry door but only managing to close it softly. With an angry puff he stalked back to his room, lightly 'stomping' down the hall in a show of irritation. It wasn't like he ever forgot who Kumakarou was or anything, so why didn't his own pet ever remember who he was? It was truly bad form, and quite rude. Oh well, he had more important things to think about. Alfred was coming over tomorrow and he needed to do some cleaning and move his breakable items somewhere safe (that guy sure liked to get rowdy sometimes, especially with the cool new motion-controlled video game system Matthew had bought within the past year).

Some hours later, after the dishes were done, beds made, floors swept and mopped, and even the windows washed Matthew decided to unwind by partaking in one of his favorites pastimes. He was in his bathroom, his face so close to the mirror that the breaths from his nose made a little stripe of condensation on the glass. The flat iron he had borrowed from Japan sat on the counter to his right, plugged in and warming. Canada furrowed his brow, smiled, made an expression as if he had eaten a lemon, frowned. He puckered his lips and puffed out his cheeks. Leaning back away from the mirror he removed his glasses and set them to the side to replace them with the old and broken pair he had stolen from Alfred's garbage one dewy morning a few years ago. They didn't help him see very well but he felt like they added to the effect a little more.

Noticing that the ready light was on, he picked up the iron and ran it through his hair in fairly thin chunks. It took maybe ten minutes. His long curl was the last to go, and he winced at the weird sensation he got when he pressed the flat iron over the ahego and ran it down to the tip as quickly as he could. It kind of hurt and he had always found it strange that that particular strand had feeling at all. Wasn't hair supposed to be dead? With a quick run of a comb his hair now looked like a longer version of Alfred's, but he wasn't about to chop his hair off just to resemble his brother more. That kind of thing would be creepy.

He cleared his throat and tried pitching his voice properly a few times before, in his best Alfred imitation, he said, "I- I'm the hero!"

Matthew frowned. That didn't sound right at all, there wasn't enough conviction and it wasn't anywhere near loud enough. It didn't help him any that he felt the line was totally ridiculous in the first place, but having it come from his own mouth felt terribly silly and embarrassing. The thought of saying something like that in front of an audience shot through his mind and his cheeks burned bright red as he turned away from the mirror and covered his face with his hands, scrunching his eyes shut and shaking his head 'no'. How the heck did his brother manage to say something so ridiculous in front of everyone all the time and keep a straight face?

After he regained his composure Canada went about his daily regimen of attempting to emulate his older brother. He worked on his voice, practiced the right facial expressions in front of the mirror obsessively, attempted to move the same way America did. Knowing their faces identical with the exception of eye color, he wondered if everything else about them was identical. He knew they looked the same naked aside from the few extra pounds Alfred had around the belly, but were their 'sweet spots' the same as well? Most of all he wondered if Nantucket had the same strange sensitivity as his own curl. He had always wanted to touch it but never did for the fear that it would have the same effect of America that it did on him. Something like that would be rude and make things awkward so he just speculated on it, sometimes spending hours thinking about whether or not he had ever seen Alfred do something that would point either way. He could never think of anything.

In the middle of working on his voice he noticed the clock. 2:56am? What time had he gotten home, 3:00pm? Well pour maple syrup on my head and call me a mounty, time sure flies when you're having fun! Removing the old glasses and gingerly setting them aside he rubbed his sore eyes. Apparently their eyes insisted on being different in every way possible; Matthew wore 2.75 while Alfred wore 3.25 and hours of wearing the wrong strength had given him a headache. With a yawn and a stretch he stood and began putting his things away. Glasses away in the box of knickknacks and safely tucked away in the closet. He took a short and lukewarm shower, combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and cleaned his toilet. As he stood at the sink washing his hands he wondered why he didn't clean the toilet first, and then shower. He considered taking another shower, yawned deeply, tossed that notion. He would just wash his hands well and go to sleep. He needed to get up early to prepare for his brother's arrival anyway so he couldn't really waste much more time that he could have been using for rest.

When he was finished in the bathroom he stripped down and threw on a comfortable nightshirt with a large emblem of a maple leaf on the front and a gold and brown sleep mask. First he stubbed his toe on the foot of the bed and hopped around for a while, questioning why he had thought it was a good idea to pull the mask over his eyes before he got into bed. Once he pulled it up and it sat on his head like his goggles usually did he slipped under his warm covers and got comfortable. Before he reached out to the little lamp on his side table he heard the familiar sounds of Kumajirou climbing into his bed to sleep at the bottom by his feet.

"Good night, Kumaroba." He whispered as he flicked the light off.

"Who the heck are you and why are you in my bed?"
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