Never Enough

UK x US

R18

Author's Notes:

Not a lot for me to say this time. Please read and review, and let me know if you want me to keep writing in this AU. Because seriously, I'm in love with Alfred here.

Warnings: kind of a one-sided "relationship"? If you can even call it that?

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

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1. Never Enough

After Arthur fucked Alfred Jones in the abandoned playground in the woods behind their school, he realized that there is something worse than wanting. It's wanting more.

Because now, a few days later, there's nothing he can do but go back to his old routine — mindlessly sitting his way through class after class, taking notes that don't make sense, writing poems in the margins of his notebook, and silently yearning for Alfred at a distance. All while the "golden boy" busies himself with disrupting class and chatting and laughing and joking around with his equally popular friends.

It's the fishbowl effect. Arthur is on the outside, looking in, held off by a barrier of clear glass and left longing for something he's had but can't, for the love of God, keep.

He tried. Yes, he'll admit that it was a rather pathetic attempt, but he did try. After they'd readjusted their clothing and were going through the awkward red-in-the-face-and-trying-not-to-make-eye-contact phase (at least, Arthur was; Alfred didn't seem like he cared, which was probably the first clue that Arthur was in for disappointment and rejection), Arthur twisted his hands together and said timidly, "Um . . . uh . . . will you . . . go out with me?"

"What . . . ? You mean, like — date?" Alfred fixed his cool blue gaze on Arthur, the cigarette he'd lit glowing between his fingers, and the ground threatened to dissolve under Arthur's feet.

"Y-yes." As boyfriends, Arthur wanted to add, but his tongue wasn't working quite right.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "You want us to be legit or something?"

He said it like it was the most childish thing he'd ever heard. Arthur had never wanted to die of embarrassment more than he did at that moment. He switched from kneading his fingers to kneading the hem of his shirt, his voice and his temporary courage taken away by the scorn in Alfred's tone.

Alfred leaned back — he's one of those boys who can't simply sit; he has to slouch or sprawl or drape his limbs over every possible surface like a starfish before he's satisfied — and slid down lower and lower, until the swing he'd parked his butt on was at the small of his back and he was laying practically parallel to the ground, long, denim-clad legs stretched out and heels digging into the sand. He stared up at the sky through the forest foliage. The rusty chains on the swing creaked, and Arthur almost expected them to snap and drop Alfred flat on his spine, but they didn't.

"Not interested." Alfred paused. "Sorry," he added, like the word was meant to be a consolation prize instead of an apology. He took another drag on his cigarette, flicked it away, and stood up (even though he's a grade below Arthur, his muscular form towers a good four inches over Arthur's more slender one. With the age difference in the way, the only reason Arthur knows him at all is that Alfred's smart enough to be in some of his senior-level classes). "Thanks for the quick fix. I'll see you around, Kirkland."

Then he walked off the playground with that natural half-saunter that had all the girls falling for him, and Arthur was left standing next to the slide at a loss for what to do.

It doesn't matter that no one else knows about what they did, because in his head, Arthur can still hear Alfred's words.

Not interested. . . . Sorry. . . . Quick fix.

He was turned down with all the ceremony of the runt of the pack being rejected by the alpha, and his first time having sex — which happened to be with the boy he's had a crush on since the beginning of the school year — was labeled as a quick fix. And they never even kissed. It makes Arthur want to crawl into a hole and cry.

Then again . . . it's his own fault for saying "yes" in the first place. When Alfred appeared on the playground that afternoon, spotted Arthur, and casually asked if he was interested, Arthur should have declined. He should have put away his textbook (the playground is a nice, quiet place for doing homework — or used to be, anyway, before it became haunted with the ghost of their encounter), packed his bag, and left.

But he didn't. He couldn't. Because it was Alfred.

What drew Alfred to the playground that time is still a mystery to Arthur — a mystery that matters less and less. It's what they did after Alfred's arrival that has Arthur's gut twisted into a knot and his head in a tailspin and his body and heart aching miserably for more.

It's a proven fact that chances are, once you've had sex for the first time, you'll start to masturbate more frequently. That's what happens to Arthur. Since that afternoon with Alfred a couple of days ago, he's touched himself at least half a dozen times, making himself come to the memory of Alfred's skin, Alfred's sweat, Alfred's tightness. He does it before bed, once he gets home from school, and even in the morning upon waking. And it makes him feel repressed and utterly pathetic. He never used to do it so often — at most, once every couple of days. His usual agenda was once a week. Now he's unbearably horny all the time, and his hand just isn't enough. It probably won't ever be enough again. For some reason, the thought terrifies Arthur.

Alfred's changed him in more ways than Arthur understands. More ways than he wants. The loose threads that Alfred left him with are choking Arthur; he needs some kind of closure (Alfred's rejection doesn't count), or he'll never have any peace from either his body or his mind. So instead of walking home after school ends, which is what he's supposed to do, Arthur returns to the playground. He sits down on a swing and cracks open his English textbook to study, his heartbeat loud and wild and overwhelming in his ears even as the rest of the world is silent.

Twenty minutes later, something flies into his vision and lands on the open page on his lap. It's a sealed condom packet, gleaming a dull, metallic silver in the sunlight filtering through the trees. Arthur's heart catches in his throat.

"Hey."

Arthur looks up, blinking rapidly.

Alfred stands right before him, barely two feet away, resplendent in a gray T-shirt and tight jeans and his usual tinted glasses. He's near enough to touch, and he's still wearing that uninterested, nonchalant expression. His gaze feels like it's burning a path straight into Arthur's core.

"You want to go again?"

And for the life of him, Arthur still can't say no.