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Double Entendre	By : saxonjesus Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 1403 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
- 1-Double Entendre
- 2-Part 2
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Double Entendre
The oppressive scent of sweat awoke America from what must have been a very heavy slumber. Blinking at the ceiling, he sat up, immediately regretting the action. Amongst the assorted sore and stiff muscles was an overwhelming pain. It pulsed, each beat of his traitorous heart making the injury more apparent in his mind. It was sharp, as if thin, white-hot metal wires spread from his middle outward. America was not an idiot--he knew what this meant.
"Oh, Brother, you're awake," a voice said, disturbingly close. A hand came to Alfred's forehead and whisked his hair back. "You seem a tad warm. Do you have a fever?"
Alfred knew that voice, knew it disturbingly well, for nearly all of his memories included it. This was not a voice he wanted to hear. He drew away from the hand, wanting nothing to do with the Nation it belonged to.
"Stay away!" He hissed, ignoring the pain long enough to pull the blankets over his head. Maybe if he just closed his eyes hard enough, this horrible dream would go away, and he'd wake up with nothing more than a disturbing memory.
But such was not to be.
"I thought you'd returned to me." The voice sounded hurt, and maybe deep down, repressed due to necessity, America was hurting in response, but not now. He'd done what he did because his people wanted independence and that meant all attachments had to be severed. They could no longer be brothers.
"How'd you get that into your thick skull? Now where are my pants?" Alfred grumbled from under the blanket, not wanting to look his ex-brother in the face after what had transpired the night before, even though he couldn't remember a damn thing about it. Something that sounded like fabric hit his head, and the trousers were immediately pulled under with him.
"Well, I have to say, you had me convinced, Alfred. What, was this just another attempt to demoralize me before battle?" Arthur asked casually from somewhere off to his right.
"What is the name of Benjamin Franklin are you going on about?" The younger Nation really wished he could remember, but all his sleep-addled mind could recall was him going to sleep, in his own bed.
The sound of rustling next to him indicated that he wasn't the only one desperate to gain some form of propriety before Alfred emerged from his blanket shield.
"Well, around eleven last night, as I was sitting in the living room drinking my tea, I heard a knock at my front door. Thinking it was France come to throw things at my windows again and then tell me about it, I opened it up. And to my surprise, who should be there but the last person I ever expected to see. You. You asked if you could come in and then started apologizing and begging me to take you back. You made a very convincing argument, and as you can see and probably feel, I believed you." He gestured rather vaguely in Alfred's general direction and shrugged.
"How the hell does a 'convincing argument' lead to--to this!?" America shouted, gesticulating fiercely. As if waking up in someone else's bed with no recollection of what had happened hadn't been bad enough, his supposed bed partner just had to be the one person he didn't ever want to see again.
"Well, you, er--" England began, but Alfred raised a hand to stop him.
"Never mind, I don't want to know." Knowing would just scar his brain further. "Just... give me the rest of my clothes and I'll be on my way. I'll see you on the field tomorrow."
Before any word of protest could be made, he lunged from the bed, sheet flying behind him like a cape, and hurriedly made a bid for any garment he saw on the wooden floor. Scooping them into his arms, he ran out of the room, down the steps, out of his ex-brother's house, and through the nearby woods. He didn't pause for breath once.
But when he led his army the next day, he would have to return the simple white sheet to England. Dammit.
---
When he finally reached his home, America decided to run himself a bath. Perhaps then he could relax a bit and begin to comprehend the situation a little better. It was unnerving as well as infuriating, being unable to remember doing something. It bothered him because if he was acting unconsciously, it would be a serious disadvantage for his cause. It struck him that this incident may not have been the first, but perhaps he had sleepwalked before.
But why would he go to England? The green-eyed Nation was the last person he would go to. Consciously. But unconsciously? Underneath his façade of Independence, "no taxation without representation", Liberty, and Freedom, what did he really think? That tiny minority in his mind that hissed and reviled his every action against his brother. What did they do while he slept so peacefully? He knew deep down that he wanted nothing more than to talk with England again, be allowed to love him again. He missed the days where he was always secure in the fact that there was someone there to catch him if he fell or watch his back from the other imperial powers trying to tear off pieces of his land. He missed England's smile when he came to visit and being able to hug or touch his brother whenever he needed contact. He was lonely now, being separate.
But that was only the tiny minority. His other half, the more dominant half, desired Freedom. It wanted nothing to do with that old decrepit Nation, who only sought to repress him. He was fighting the tyranny of the ages. He was setting the stage for the end of authoritarianism, fighting for what was right. His inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of... happiness. Happiness. Happiness had long since been lost in this war. Happiness had been spending days in the grass as England made tea and scones. Happiness had been waiting eagerly for his brother to visit, even though it had been so lonely while he had been away. Happiness had been curling up next to Arthur for a small nap on the couch.
If he won this war, would he ever have his happiness? Or would he be doomed to be free and alone? Half his mind told him that the sacrifice was for the people and worth every night spent alone. But the other half screamed in indignation, saying that no liberty was worth hurting the thing most precious to you.
He's not that precious to me! He screamed inside his head. Yes, he was my brother, but it is worth the sacrifice! He can be replaced with other allies. France is kind--a bit lewd, yes, but kind, and cultured.
Oh, please, a sly voice replied. He tried to bed you three times as "payment" for his aid. He is scum in comparison to England. Arthur kept you company all those nights when you were afraid of the thunder; he held your hand when you were sick. Do you not remember these times? Or have you become so blind that you would ignore the unconditional love that he has always offered you?
Unconditional!? Please! He has treated me like nothing more than a scapegoat from debt for the past several years!
Hush, Alfred. It's your duty as the colony, the younger brother, to offer what assistance you can.
"Not when he is requiring too much from me!" Alfred shouted, not entirely sure why screaming at the entire room made him feel slightly better. But the echoes of his voice ringing against the ceiling and walls made him feel a little less angry at the events he'd awoken to.
He lost control of his mouth, and as much as he wanted to stop whatever was spewing through his teeth, the effort seemed futile. "You ungrateful little shit! Just look at all he's done for you. When you think about it, England is only asking for a very little favor."
"It is not a 'very little favor,'" Alfred hissed after regaining control of his muscles. "He has no right to levy taxes on me when I have no representative in his parliament to protest it! If I were allowed to negotiate, then maybe it would be a little different, but the fact still remains that I have as much right as a citizen as he does. And besides, it's too late now; we're already this far into it, there is no turning back now. The Declaration has been signed and sent; battles have been fought for two years now."
"That may be the case, but there are still ways to get what you and your people want. Call a cease-fire and we'll talk it over and maybe afterward your people will have their representation and you'll still have England." The voices were sounding extremely reasonable now, though that only seemed to rile up the other side of his mind.
"There is no turning back. Maybe at the beginning it would have been possible, but too much blood has been spilled already. We will not return to a country that fires on its own citizens and forces troops into our homes and restricts our expansion into lands that are rightfully ours! We may have once been kin, but time and separation have made us two separate peoples. We are no longer England and its colony; we are England and America. We are separate and free, liberated to choose our own course from here on out, unobstructed by the iron-tight death-grip England has on our funds, slowly suffocating our people under the heavy burden of fiscal responsibility." With that resounding note, the voices died away, leaving Alfred alone in his head.
The silence left him with a feeling of unease, that perhaps his people were divided after all, as divided as he was. Families had been separated by this war. Children were an ocean away from their parents. This fight had riven families in two and had separated towns. He was left with one decision: stand and fight, or return to England with his tail between his legs because he couldn't handle being alone. His indecision was what was tearing his mind and his people apart.
He had to decide: his people or his heart. Looking down into the tepid bathwater, the decision was made.
---
An abrupt knock on his door reminded England that even the best of evenings could come crashing down on him. Scowling, he swallowed his latest bite of scone and washed it down with a sip of Earl Grey. He cleared his throat before standing up, striding quickly and efficiently toward his doom--well, his door, but was it really different? Obviously, France had come to visit him again, probably trying to gloat about how America was on his side and about the things he was going to do to the younger Nation after they'd won.
"What is it?" He asked, slamming the door open and looking crossly up at--
America. His dear younger brother was at the door, shivering with the December chill. It was cold out, even down near Savannah, enough to merit a coat at the very least. But America wore only a white pair of trousers and a thin flannel shirt.
"Brother!" The younger, taller Nation exclaimed, and at this point, Arthur realized that Alfred was crying. Silent, glistening tears, yes, but tears nonetheless. The Nation threw himself into England's arms, shaking with what seemed to be suppressed anguish. "I've made a terrible mistake! Please, I'm so sorry! Forgive me!" He fell into a crumpled ball on the dark, cold hardwood floor.
Flustered, England bent down and put his arms around his brother's shoulders, immediately concerned. Perhaps the war had bent him farther than his sanity could take.
"Well, come on, then, I'll make you some tea." Arthur pulled his slightly chilled brother up from the floor and helped him into a chair. It was a good thing that England always made an extra cup of tea just in case he had an unexpected guest or if one cup just wasn't enough to calm his nerves. That was what he wanted to say, though. The real reason was that it was still out of habit. It was nice to have someone there to drink that extra tea.
They sat by the fireplace in silence as America drank his tea, visible shivers running their course up and down the young Nation's spine. The time was already late, but the fire still crackled heartily, and the tea was still warm. Wordlessly, England offered his younger brother a scone, and Alfred accepted it with a nod of what England sincerely hoped was thanks.
It was endearing, really, watching Alfred as he slowly dragged himself toward the fire, eventually making a mad, scuttling bid for the warmth of the flames. So many things were the same about him. Arthur really couldn't say how much he dearly loved Alfred, as the amount couldn't be contained in such mundane means as words. They boxed in the everlasting feeling of rightness that, even if he had repressed it of late, had always resided in his entire being. Without thinking, he walked over to where America was sitting and placed a blanket around both of them.
"Come here," he said quietly, just like he had so many cold nights in the past. America came willingly into his embrace, looking up only for a moment as if to ask, "are you sure?" England nodded just for a moment and squeezed the younger Nation's shoulders. Softly, tenderly, he laid a kiss on America's forehead.
"I'm sorry," Alfred said just as softly. His voice broke on the second word, as if he was holding back a sob.
England shook his head and kissed his brother's hairline, which was in reach. "Don't you worry about it. It's okay."
They sat there for a good long while, until the fire had almost extinguished itself, leaving only glowing orange embers behind, and the antique grandfather clock in the corner had chimed twelve times. Gingerly, Arthur stood and leaned over so that Alfred could take his proffered hands. He heaved the other Nation up and sighed.
"Much as I would like to spend more time in your company, I must sleep," he said regretfully. Immediately, America's face crumpled.
A second later, the young Nation was clinging to his arm as if it was the only thing there to keep him from drowning.
"Arthur, please, please, let me stay! I don't want to be alone anymore. Can't I just sleep with you, just like old times?" And then he pulled on that face, the face that always got England to do exactly what America wanted. Especially when he added the tears.
So, seeing no way to deny the boy without it leading to more tears and more clinging, Arthur led his brother up the grand staircase and into his room. When they reached the room--a large chamber with an equally large bed and a westward-facing window--Arthur climbed into bed and shifted the pillows so that they were set for two people.
"Here, let me get you a nightshirt," he said absently.
"No, it's okay, I don't want to trouble you more," his brother said in a small voice. The younger Nation then proceeded to unbutton his flannel shirt. He shrugged the garment from his shoulders, and a moment later, his pants followed. "I'll just go to bed like this."
It was perhaps a relief that Alfred had left his undergarments on, as Arthur was sure he would burst--already, he was blushing--if another inch of his brother was exposed. Damn that annoying, rose-bearing, wine-drinking, cheese-eating surrender monkey for putting such--such lewd thoughts into his head! To make matters worse, Alfred then crawled into the bed next to him and snuggled up against his chest in what looked like an attempt to get as close as possible to him.
"Mmm, you're warm, just like I remember, England!" The younger Nation exclaimed happily, face shining as he looked up innocently.
"Er, thanks," he said, feeling his face heat just a little bit. "You're warm, too."
"Hey, England, you still love me, right?" America asked, his voice a pitiful tone that was somewhere between a whine and a hiccup.
"Yes, of course!" He exclaimed, surprised the other Nation could even think of asking that.
"Even after all I've done?"
"Yes." He said it firmly, with conviction. "Now go to sleep. We can talk more in the morning, okay?"
America nodded and lay back, still preciously holding on to the older Nation. England blew out the candle on his bedside table and encircled Alfred in his arms. The Nation smelled like fire and smoke and Earl Grey, like wheat and corn, like friendship and love. He loved Alfred so very, very much, enough that even the greatest tea in the world couldn't erase the hurt the Nation's recent actions had inflicted upon him. He wanted to throw a tantrum, scream and cry until all those strange, mixed-up emotions in his chest were expelled from his system.
And then there were the fantasies. But he couldn't dwell on those now, especially as America was in the room with him and there was no way in God's deepest layer of Hell that he would ever act on those. The fantasies were only images and ideas instilled on his mind by the stupid wine-guzzler. And no, he was not thinking about those.
Slowly, Alfred's only available hand moved across the flat surface of England's chest, coming to rest just above the smaller Nation's heart.
"It is good to know that it still beats," America mumbled sleepily, obviously nodding off. England allowed himself the barest hint of a smug smile--he finally had his brother back and this ridiculous war would soon be over. His eyes fell closed, and he began to card his fingers through Alfred's hair as the Nation fell slowly into sleep. It was so very warm under the thick blankets, so peaceful and quiet and wonderful to hear the sounds of his brother's breathing, that he felt himself beginning to nod off, too.
As soon as he became groggy enough to free his mind from the thick, controlling chains, though, the fantasies were back. America moaning and writhing underneath him, panting and calling out Arthur's name. Both of them working up a sweat even though it was December. A hand pulling through his hair and nails digging into his back as their movements became too much for either of them to handle. Pulling his beloved brother as close as was humanly possible before collapsing into sweet oblivion.
But those were fantasies that could not be entertained in reality.
"Alfred," he sighed, too far gone in exhaustion to understand that he'd spoken aloud. The fantasy changed, morphed into a larger hand trailing down from where it had lain on his chest to his stomach and further to the hem of the long, baggy nightshirt. The hand then slithered up the top of his thigh, moving inward until it was close, so close--
Holy shit, it was actually happening! England's eyes snapped open, and he positively squawked as America's hand brushed lightly against his half-hard length.
"What are you doing!?" He yelled, hoarse because his throat had gone very, very dry. In the dim moonlight, he saw America's face fall a little, like he had been hoping for a better reaction. The Nation gave another soft, barely-there brush of his hand, effectively damming the stream of air in the back of Arthur's throat. He wanted to berate Alfred, but all he could think about was how he just wanted more and how his hips were moving forward, trying to gain any sort of friction or touch in general and how--oh, dear God--how he so very desperately wanted this.
The teasing touches continued, Arthur unable to say a thing, only able to whimper when the hand was only ghosting around his now aching need. Vaguely, he knew that this should never be done. They were brothers, friends. They were in an unbreakable, perpetually platonic relationship.
"My actions in the past, though I despise them, no longer make me your brother, at least not until this war has been finished and settled," America reminded him in a hot, sly little voice that blew equally hot, moist breath into his ear. He felt himself twitch against air, the hand currently attending to him--if he could even call it that, seeing that it was lacking the whole attending bit--being too far, so painfully far, from him. Please, please let it come back, Arthur pleaded to himself.
The sinful touches began again, just as light, just as horrifyingly arousing. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay still. But then the hand disappeared entirely. He let out a low moan.
"Do you not like it?" There was a note in Alfred's voice that sounded disappointed, betrayed. England scowled through the dark at him.
"You idiot!" He hissed, fishing around under the covers for that big, frisky hand and placing it exactly where he wanted it. "If you're going to do that, at least do it properly! Damn it, you never were good at hands-on things, were you?"
"If you're talking about the chair incident," America began heatedly, finally putting a little bit of force into his touch, just enough to make the friction sweet, sweet agony against England's heated flesh, "that was hardly my fault."
"Hardly? Hardly!? I had to get a new set commissioned from the carpenter because of your fat arse!" Arthur replied, outraged. After "accidentally" breaking one of the tall, custom-made dining chairs, Alfred had then tried to "fix" it. The ending result was a fragile, wobbly plank of wood, barely held up by three poles. It had collapsed the second a significant amount of weight was put on it.
"It was an honest mistake!"
"Shut your lying mouth!"
And then they were kissing, England on top of America's broad frame, hands going everywhere. Faces, hair, arms, thighs, stomachs, sides, chests, everything was being touched. Alfred lifted his hips as Arthur nibbled at the edge of his collarbone, and they pressed together. Fabric was lost in a heated tangle of limbs. England found himself being dominated by a fierce America, but he wouldn't have the other Nation take him this way. He would be the one to do the taking, as befitting of an Empire as strong as his.
He turned them, tackled America at the throat and then the chest, all the while moving their hips together so that the sweet clashing pleasure swirled about them in waves.
"Do as I say!" He hissed, and at once, Alfred complied.
"Just give me an order," the younger Nation moaned. That wasn't a reaction Arthur had been expecting, but he would take it, seeing as Alfred was now pulling him down to him again.
He allowed himself to be drawn in, reveling in the heat the other Nation's flesh brought to his own feverish skin. Their tongues tangled in an awkward dance at first, as if Alfred had never kissed anyone like this, and that thought sent another wonderful thrill down Arthur's spine, but the younger Nation was soon up to par and their kiss intensified, leaving even England panting for breath.
"O-open your legs." It sounded so very lewd, but America had asked for an order, and he really, really wanted to have it followed. Alfred nodded, letting his legs, which had been tangled with Arthur's in order to allow their hips to come together properly, part around the older Nation's slim body.
They kissed again, hard and long, until England once more needed breath. With a light kiss, he raised a finger in order to tell Alfred he needed a minute. Getting up from his spot, Arthur padded quickly over to his dresser and retrieved a bottle of lotion. Not the most effective of means, but it soaked in a lot slower than did oil, and he was not currently in possession of anything else that might ease the passage better. He returned to his earlier position and kissed his colony tenderly on the forehead.
"Will you allow me to..." He drifted off, unable to finish his sentence.
"Yes."
Coating his hand liberally with the contents of the bottle he'd just grabbed, Arthur let his arm slip down between them, searching, searching, until Alfred let out a supreme gasp and the tight, possibly virginal, muscle before him twitched hard. Gently, with as little force as he could manage, Arthur slid his pointer finger in. He waited a moment to let the other Nation adjust and then began swirling it around, exploring and loosening what he could. Alfred clung to his shoulders, and he tensed around the probing finger.
"Hush, now, relax," England half-cooed, stopping his movements so that Alfred could calm down. "This will hurt marginally less if you are relaxed."
Eyes clenched tightly closed, Alfred nodded. Noting that the younger Nation did not seem keen on relaxing at all, England began rubbing America's lower back and sides. Anything to stop the pain that he knew he was inflicting. Anything to continue.
Gradually, when the larger Nation's muscles had loosened, Arthur began to twiddle his finger again, adding a second when there seemed to be enough pliability to do so. Each time Alfred tensed or winced, he slowed his movements, but he never stopped searching for America's prostate. A loud, keening screech from the Nation in front of him alerted him to his success in the matter.
"There, there, the pain's much easier to forget now, eh?" He used his free hand to pet down America's hair, somewhat surprised at (but not at all repulsed by) the damp, sweat-streaked quality of it.
Alfred's limbs flailed as his prostate was hit again and then a third time. That was when Arthur added his third finger. Alfred clung desperately to him, fingernails clawing at England's shoulders.
"It hurts," the bigger Nation hissed. Bowing his head, England laid a tender kiss on the other Nation's lips.
"Calm down," he said gently.
"Y-yes." America was still trying to follow orders, apparently. This was strange, as he had seemed thoroughly in his rebellious stage just the day before. However, people--and thus, Nations--bounced different ways, and there was nothing he could do to change that fact.
To once again distract America from the pain, England took hold of the neglected length in front of him, stroking it slowly. Revenge was always sweetest, after all, when one had his hand up the offender's ass. The distraction worked, at least in the distracting part, but it made Alfred tense further, and it struck Arthur that perhaps he had been preparing the other too long. He wouldn't want a premature ending. He looked down at his ex-younger brother, his sweet, innocent love, with strong lust dazing his eyes.
"Arthur," was all the Nation said. Timid voice, hushed tone, lust infusing each of the two syllables. Nothing had ever sounded sexier. Not even France. But ew. He wasn't thinking about that rose freak.
Feeling that it was time to move on, Arthur removed his fingers one at a time, making sure while doing so to coat himself with a generous amount of lotion. He didn't want his reaffirmed brother to regret his decision come morning. Slowly, taking care to soothe back his brother's hair and kiss him as tenderly as he could, Arthur lined himself up and gently pushed in.
America let out a pained whine. England paused, letting his brother adjust, stroking a finger down Alfred's cheek in an attempt to hurry the relaxation so that he could move again. After a moment, the young Nation underneath him nodded his approval. So, as befitting an Empire such as himself, Arthur started slowly, moving in and out of that wonderful warmth, enticing moans and groans from his once-again brother. It was a powerful feeling, having something you'd wanted for so long, to finally have it under your fingers to touch and caress as you please. It made him feel renewed, like a younger version of himself. Though, even as he was thrusting harder into his willing partner, Arthur could not shake the feeling that something still seemed off about Alfred. Before the thought could make any sort of impression on his lust-addled mind, he was pulled from his distraction by the object of his thoughts calling his name hoarsely, almost brokenly as he reached his climax. A moment later, Arthur followed, his stamina overwhelmed by the sudden tightness and overpowering desire.
In the fuzzy afterglow, with Alfred's arms wrapped possessively around him, Arthur felt as if his era was not diminishing as he had once begun to think, but rather, with this sudden, wonderful development, that his age of empire would last for many decades into the future.
----
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Double Entendre