Some Americest fluff for you guys. There's no sex, but some making out, so just prepare yourselves. This is yaoi(boy x boy) so if you aren't into that stuff, then you had better turn back now.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, or any of these characters. All rights go to the creator of the anime, Hidekaz Himaruya.
The temperatures had dipped below thirteen degrees the previous night, much to Matthew's dismay, and it was perhaps one of the coldest winter nights he had ever been unfortunate to experience within his country. He had visited many other countries, but it had always been during the warmest of months to allow himself a break from the constant dropping temperatures of his homeland. It wasn't that he disliked the time he spent ruling over his country, a job that all nations were meant to follow; no, he fancied his country more than any that he had ever resided within. But the warmer temperatures were cherished for the frigid nation, and he secretly breathed a wish for this winter to pass over without much difficulty. Matthew was anxious, no doubt. The lower the temperatures were, the more hardships would be faced during the cold months that refrained him from abandoning the comfort of his home for a more contempt piece of land, preferably one with climate humid enough to strip off the three layers he was forced to wear when he wanted to step foot outside of his door. It would be an arduous task to pull through the winter, even for a nation whom had resided within the borders of such frozen land for centuries.
Matthew strode through the living room, passing by the crackling fire without the slightest ounce of hesitation. A thick comforter rested on his shoulders, as he had been buried within the welcoming warmth of his bed just moments before. The urge to quench his boredom with a mug of hot chocolate had been gnawing at him for the past hour, but he had finally brought himself to rise from his deep slumber to retrieve the mug, and then retreat to the fortress of wrinkled blankets and thick pillows once his stomach was swelling with the cocoa.
Sniffling, he fingered the thinned ends of his comforter and wrapped it tighter around his torso, though still allowing his right arm to be visible. He needed it to prepare his hot chocolate, of course, and five minutes of his forearm succumbing to the cold would not kill him.
His fingers clasped the glistening handle of his mug before he placed a small pot on the stove, lighting the gas with a soft click. Quickly, he filled half of the pot with milk, and then placed it over the dancing flames. The blond nation then moved away from the stove, shrugging off his comforter as the heat of the flames surrounded him, and rummaged through the cabinets. After several minutes of searching for chocolate, Matthew finally caught a shimmer of light reflecting off the surface of an object, and when he turned his head to inspect whatever it was, he found that it had been the foil wrapping of one of his chocolate bars. Delighted, he peeled the foil and discarded it, and then began to break the chocolate into smaller pieces. He frowned as he glanced down at the sixteen squares of savory chocolate that lay on the countertop in front of him. Snatching another bar from the cabinets, Matthew repeated the process of breaking the bar into smaller blocks, and then used a knife to divide the individual blocks into smaller pieces.
Glancing around cautiously, Matthew plucked one of the blocks from where it rested on the countertop and pushed it between his lips as though it were a normal occurrence for him. It was-the nation adored chocolate, just as his father had always done during the earlier centuries of their relationship, but the taste had always been savored by Matthew. He was known for the richer taste it adorned, a taste more preferred than that of his half-brother, and even Vash had been envious of the delicacy that he held in his hands, which was unlikely for such a neutral nation.
"This will do," he murmured as he guided the small blocks of chocolate into the pot of milk.
Almost immediately, steam rose from the pot and curled around the length of his fingers, which still lingered over the age of the pot as he watched it intently. He hummed a tune that had been imbedded within his memory since he had met his father, and even twirled in circles slightly. He had never been much of a dancer, nor had he been gifted with the talent of a voice, but he still attempted to do both. And despite Kumajirou being the only one to see him attempt such things, Matthew would still duck his head out of embarrassment when the plump creature caught him swaying his hips to a catchy song playing on the radio, or to a jingle from a commercial on their television, which only ever happened when they weren't watching an intense hockey game together.
On que, the plump polar bear lumbered into the kitchen and haunted when he reached Matthew's bare feet. He nudged him with a cold nose and the blond nation jumped, a squeal omitting from his lips and the slightest hint of a blush forming on his cheeks.
"Kuma!" he scolded, but the bear paid him no attention. Instead, he motioned toward the stash of chocolate bars that was still gleaming from where they rested on the edge of the counter.
He shook his head, knowing that such a treat would only upset the bear's delicate digestive system, and Kumarijou slumped his shoulders in a defeated motion. He left Matthew leaning against the counters, his elbows resting on the granite surface, and his maple leaf t-shirt clinging loosely to his figure.
Matthew sighed with contempt as the scent of melting chocolate flooded his nostrils, and plucked the wooden spoon from the drawer closest to the stove. He stirred the mixture of melted chocolate and warm milk until the color of the mixture had shifted from milky-white to nearly coffee-brown. Before he could forget, he added a pinch of salt to the mixture. He had learnt from Vash that adding a pinch of salt would create a tasteful addition to the hot chocolate and would also aid in the melting of the chocolate, though it already appeared to be doing well without the salt's help.
Steam rose from his mug as Matthew poured the dark liquid into it, the aroma lingering within the kitchen even after he had retreated to the living room. He sat cross-legged on the leather couch, the crackling fire residing a couple of feet from his ankles, and his body swelling with contempt. It was not uncommon that he would be granted these moments of peace and satisfaction to himself, but with an entire country to run, his time spent without the pressure of bosses or the complaints of his people was becoming limited. It was moments like these that he cherished, and moments like these that he never wanted to end, but all good things came to an end.
A knock echoed through the house and, at first, Matthew thought he had been daydreaming while he dipped away at his cocoa. But the second knock came again, and the force was tripled from that he had heard on the first time.
Shaking, Matthew set his mug of cocoa down on the coffee table and slipped his bare feet into a pair of warm shoes, and then started for the door. He pondered over the possibilities of it being his obnoxious brother that would appear at the doorway when he undid the series of locks which he had installed the previous week, and over whether or not he should actually open the door and allow such a person to come into his home, interrupting the moment of peace that he had slipped into just minutes before.
He didn't have much of a choice, though, because as the blond pulled the heavy storm door open and peered out into the cold, he was welcomed with a back-breaking hug that sent him staggering.
It was Alfred.
He groaned inwardly, but smiled sheepishly on the outside as his brother loosened his grip.
"Dude," he mumbled as his chin rested on Matthew's shoulders, the nation's peculiar curl tickling his nose and the nape of his neck. "It's r-ridiculously c-cold outside."
Matthew chuckled softly and pulled away from his brother just enough so that he could allow air to enter his lungs again, and then grabbed his hand and guided him into the living room. He had his brother sit close to the fire, and then made him remove his jacket. Alfred was reluctant to do so, at first, but he then surrendered and handed the bomber jacket to Matthew, his head hung in shame as he gave it away. What Matthew saw next was something he wasn't prepared for.
Alfred's patriotic t-shirt was torn along the hem, which had several loose strings clinging to it. They were tipped in crimson, as was the majority of his brother's shirt. Fortunately, his shirt was white and slightly translucent, granting Matthew the knowledge of knowing that this was all his brother's blood, a rather unfortunate turn of events. The right sleeve was missing, revealing a deep gasp in Alfred's forearm. Although Matthew seldom became nauseous when in the presence of blood, he felt his stomach churn at the revolting aroma of his brother's blood as it continued to trickle down the length of his arm, dripping onto his denim jeans while Alfred flashed him a guilty grin.
"What happened to you?" he whispered, his violet eyes never leaving the wound that adorned his brother's forearm. It was deep enough that it would require stitches, which Matthew was fortunately experienced in doing.
Alfred did not answer upon the first time Matthew asked the question, but this was a common thing for him. He would often refrain from granting his peers the truth of what happened to him, usually claiming that he had been injured during an act of being a hero to a damsel in distress, but they all knew that was never the case. Alfred's signature laughter was always laced with anxiety when he attempted to lie, and if anyone could see through him, it was his brother, Matthew.
"You tell me right now, or do I have to throw you into the snow in your condition?" he snapped, bringing his mug of cocoa to his lips. His eyes were narrowed to slits as he watched his brother fidget nervously, his fingers shaking and sweat glistening as it clung to his brow.
A sigh emitted from Alfred's pursed lips as he gazed into his brother's eyes, his eyes full behind his glasses as he did. Matthew's usual sky gaze had hardened into something he would have usually seen on Ludwig's face; a serious expression, his eyebrows knitted together in frustration, his bottom lip quivering with anger. He didn't like was he was seeing, and it made him more uncomfortable than he already was in this situation.
"I..." was all Alfred could manage as he stared into Matthew's eyes. The violet of his irises had hardened, and now they appeared to be black on color. "I got into a fight."
Matthew placed his mug of cocoa down on the coffee table gently, and then turned back to face Alfred. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he cleared his throat and breathed a sigh. "Over what, exactly?" he asked harshly. "And whom were you fighting with? Arthur, I suppose?"
His questions echoed within Alfred's mind in an eerie fashion that made his stomach churn. His brother had never been like this, not even close. He had been angry only one time: when Arthur had confused him with Alfred, and it was Francis who corrected the Englishman, and then a fight broke out between the two rival countries, if that was the proper name for their relationship. Matthew had attempted to raise his voice, to fight back and shout at them for confusing him with his half-brother like everyone else always had, but he could only manage a squeak at the moment, and his voice was still as meek as usual.
Alfred had always know that version of Matthew: the quiet one who always had his nose in a book, the shy nation who apologized to everyone and everything, the nation who had been patient in waiting for his independence rather than demanding it as a rebel, the nation who had kept to himself and rarely spoke out, the nation who was always bullied from the moment he had become a nation in the first place, and as his brother. But never like this. It scared him.
"No, it was with Ivan." he answered curtly, lowering his gaze to his forearm. There were a few smaller scratches that traced the length of his wrist, but they were nowhere near as serious as the others along his shoulders.
"I-Ivan?" Matthew stuttered slightly, but caught himself and quickly regained his harsh tone. "Tell me why you were fighting with him or I might have to throw you into the snow like this and leave you." he threatened cooly, jabbing an accusing finger in Alfred's direction.
He flinched at the treat and tone of his brother's voice, but nodded and began to lay out the details of the fight.
He told his brother of how he had provoked Ivan with a particularly crude joke regarding his relationship with Yao, and it was Ivan, not Alfred, who had started the fight between the two rival nations. As Alfred explained the extent of the details of the fight between he and Ivan, he glanced over his shoulder sharply at the very mention of his rival's name, as if he expected him to appear out of thin air and bash his head it. It wasn't like Ivan would never attempt to do such a thing to Alfred; he would if he were able to without the interference of the the other allied countries. It was almost a coincidence that Alfred spoke to Matthew in a hushed whisper when he explained his theory of how Ivan was likely plotting the death of Alfred as he spoke now, because Matthew had received a message from Toris claiming that Alfred would be in a great deal of trouble if he wasn't safe within the remote area that Matthew lived within.
Alfred pulled his patriotic t-shirt over his head with little difficulty, and gazed at Matthew from underneath his pale lashes.
"See this?" He murmured and pointed to a gash that travelled across the length of Alfred's chest, crossing over the dip of his collarbones and ending as it neared his shoulders. The blood from the wound had dried at this point, but Matthew could still catch the faint glimmer of fresh blood as Alfred moved in a way that broke the barrier of dried blood.
He nodded grimly, his eyes never leaving the wound.
"Ivan broke his pipe when tried to hit me with it." He explained calmly. "I ducked just in time, but I think I made him mad when his pipe broke. He used the sharp end of it to dig into my chest like this..."
Matthew watched with an amused expression as Alfred proceeded to use his fingers to reenact the scene of Ivan creating the wound on his chest. He couldn't refrain from laughing anymore when Alfred followed the actions with faint sound effects from his mouth, which sounded oddly similar to the exaggerated sounds that ninjas supposedly make when they are fighting others.
Alfred ignored the outburst of laughter and continued his reenactment, and then ended it with a stiff bow. He winced as he leaned back against the couch, his body glistening from the sweat of the effort it took to lean forward. In a usual situation, Matthew would have scolded Alfred for being so lazy, but he now he could understand his brother's pain.
"Alfred."
The American averted his gaze to his brother, leaving the frayed string he had been toying with a moment of peace as he directed his attention elsewhere. "Yeah?"
"Why, of all places, did you come to my house?" Matthew asked, his eyebrows knitted together in frustration. He didn't even bother to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
"I don't even know, dude. If I had been thinking straight, I would have chosen a place without so much snow! It's too cold here..."
Matthew wasn't listening to the rest of Alfred's words. He didn't care at this point. Anger swelled within his body, his fists clenched at his sides and his cheeks scarlet.
"Wait, Matt-" Alfred began to call out to his brother as he watched him hustle out of the living room, leaving him with his arms draped over the couch and his body aching with pain and regret.
The regret he felt was not only from his mouth, which would always rebel against the words that formed in his brain, words that were not as rude and blunt as the ones that escaped from his lips; but also from the way he had treated his brother, now and in the past. Alfred had always been reckless and blunt; it was how he had been raised, partially from living on his own before Arthur had claimed him. He was oblivious to the sarcasm of Francis and Arthur, though, but he was still blunt and loud. The loudness was his own fault, regardless of how he had been raised.
His heart ached slightly as he lifted himself from the couch's soft material, a groan emitting from his lips as he tossed aside the American flag t-shirt. He would have shrieked at the sight of the blood that had soiled his clothing, but his only concern at this point was his brother. He loathed himself from what he had said, despite it being true that he would have preferred a warmer climate, but that didn't mean he despised his brother's country! Yes, they had more advantages than Alfred did with his nation, and Francis was more loving toward Matthew, even after his independence, while Arthur was hateful and sarcastic toward Alfred. He would admit that he was jealous of his brother, though would never admit to it verbally, but he still loved his brother.
Yes, he loved him.
"Matthew!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the living room as he began to pace.
His mind pondered over how he could apologize to his brother, or perhaps how he could admit his feelings and express them in a way that did not make his brother feel uncomfortable. His heart pounded against his rib cage, threatening to leap out of his chest, as he stood at the bottom of the stairs with his hands on his hips, his lips pressed in a thin line.
He decided he would just wing it. That was how love was, wasn't it? He inwardly shrugged and slowly marched up the stairs, which appeared to be longer than he remembered as his conscious gnawed at his heart. Alfred knew his brother would forgive him quite easily; it was in his nature to be as polite as possible, despite the threat of whomever he was facing. But he also knew that, perhaps, he would not be forgiven so easily. There were several signs that he had deciphered from Matthew's actions that could possibly have hinted a mutual affection between the two: the stares he would receive during their monthly world meetings, the higher tolerance his brother had for him, the way he fumbled with his fingers when they were alone, the slightest blush that dusted his cheeks whenever Alfred caught him staring. He knew he could simply be jumping to a conclusion, but he had never seen his brother act this way toward anyone other than himself, and so he was more positive of his brother's affection toward him.
He stopped at one of the doors that seemed much like Matthew's. There was a maple leaf taped to the front of the door, and a 'Do Not Enter' sign clung to the brass handle. Shrugging, Alfred tried the knob and was surprised to find it unlocked. He didn't hesitate to step into the room, which was illuminated only by a maple-scented candle which rested on the nightstand to his left.
He closed the door softly as he glanced at the bed, where a shaking figure was hunched over a large pillow and sniffling loudly.
"Go away." he mumbled as Alfred approached him from behind.
He squealed as he felt two arms curl around his waist and was pulled into Alfred's lap, which only made him fret more as he remembered Alfred's injuries.
The moment of struggling between Alfred and Matthew was brought to peace as Alfred rested his chin on his shoulder, inwardly wincing at the pain of moving his neck. He planted a small kiss on Matthew's neck, and then one behind his ear, and one on his shoulder.
Matthew's curl twitched in anticipation as he felt a pair of lips press against the underside of his jaw, traveling the length of his jaw until the lips met his chin and became acquainted with Matthew's trembling lips. Soon, Matthew found himself sitting in Alfred's lap, though he was in too much of a daze to recall how he got there. He simply allowed himself to be kissed by his brother as he wrapped his legs around Alfred's waist, his arms curled around his neck. The kisses were soft and caring, much like the ones Francis had planted on his forehead when he was younger and was being sent to bed. But instead they were on his lips, and the act sent a peculiar sensation through his body. He was inexperienced in this sort of thing, and so he knew not of what he was supposed to do as his brother licked his bottom lip eagerly.
Alfred grunted and pulled away, leaving Matthew in a daze with his head still leaning forward, his eyes closed.
"Is this your first kiss?" he asked softly.
Matthew nodded.
Alfred simply smiled and planted a kiss on Matthew's nose. "Just follow my lead, okay?" he whispered and winked suggestively, though he would have never gone through with something if Matthew was too nervous or uncomfortable.
Matthew blinked, and in a flash a hand was on the back of his head, directing him toward Alfred. He closed his eyes again and pressed his lips to his brother's, shocking him momentarily, and then they began at the point in which they had stopped.
Alfred's tongue darted out of his mouth and licked the bottom of Matthew's lip, which was trembling less now. Matthew parted his lips gingerly, his cheeks burning more than they should have been, and allowed his brother's tongue to slip into his mouth. It was a passionate kiss, unlike the sloppy gestures he had seen between Francis and whomever he brought home with him some nights and lured into his bedroom. He wondered, for a moment, if he was feeling a spark between he and Alfred. He had heard of such a thing: when you feel in love, a spark would be felt between the two people whenever they kissed, or even when they held hands.
Matthew panted heavily as their lips parted, his gaze accusing as he watched his brother lick his lips, a frisky response, and lean forward to plant a kiss on his nose again.
"I'm sorry if I hurt you," he mumbled as Alfred wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling him closer to his chest.
"Hurt me?" Alfred chuckled softly and kissed Matthew once more, though it lasted only seconds. "That was amazing!"
Matthew smiled sheepishly and glanced down at Alfred's bare chest, his cheeks heating up once again as he realized that his brother was half-naked now. And they had kissed. He enjoyed it more than he had expected; he thought his brother would have been a terrible kisser as his father often appeared to be, but he was proven wrong.
"I love you."