Author's Notes: … So I had a complete panic attack while writing this. If it's choppy, or poorly done, I'm sorry. Any and all criticism is welcome.
Warnings: non-consensual sexual relations, and more angst than the average person can survive.
Disclaimer: Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya
~X~
It was raining the day that Alfred gained his freedom. Almost as if it was fate's cruelty, it rained on Arthur, reminding the Englishman of his own country.
Just as he had officially lost his claim in this one.
The soldiers had all left the battlefield as night wore on. Arthur could feel himself slowly freezing as he sat there alone, completely shocked. How had this happened…? How could he, the great British Empire, lose to that boy?
And how could Alfred? How could he take everything Arthur had given him, and toss it aside as if it was nothing?
It felt as if there was a gaping hole where his heart had been. It ached like nothing he had ever felt before, and it was something he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy.
"England," a soft voice said, insisting the nation's attention.
He looked up, training his gaze on the figure in front of him. His vision was slightly blurred, thanks to the rainfall, but he could still see him clearly enough.
Alfred looked too content; almost serene in the downpour. "England," he repeated. "C'mon, you need to get out of the rain."
Arthur's gaze dropped to the muddy ground before him. Tears further obscured his vision as the empty space in his chest began to pound shards of broken glass through his veins. "Get away from me," he whispered. It was barely audible in the slow-building storm above them. "I… Just leave me."
"No." A hand pressed down on his shoulder, causing the older blond to flinch.
Those tears threatened to spill over, but he blinked them back stubbornly. "You don't want me here," he insisted. "You don't want me to be anywhere near you, so just… Please leave." His voice broke a few times, making it even more difficult to meet his former colony's eyes.
Yet, the boy persisted, pulling him upright.
Arthur nearly collapsed right then, having been kneeling in the same position for hours. His legs screamed in protest.
Alfred easily caught him. "I'm not leaving you," he promised.
Hearing that, the empire shattered completely. A broken sob fell from his lips, leaving him unable to tell the boy that he already had. That this was his fault.
Almost carefully, the American scooped the older nation into his arms. A daze had settled over his thoughts, leaving him unaware of being carried from the war-torn battlefield, and through the back streets of some town that Arthur must have traveled through once. None of it looked familiar.
He did, however, notice when it suddenly became warm, almost stifling. A sense of consciousness fell over him, leaving Arthur hyper-aware of everything around him.
This was the house he and Alfred—no, America—had built together all those years ago when they had first met. He would recognize the pale oak floors anywhere. The suit Arthur had given him was still laying across the table, just like when he had left over their fight about it.
It looked like it hadn't been touched since. Dust had settled over the tan material.
His attention was abruptly ripped away as he was suddenly aware of America unfastening his jacket before deftly pushing it from his slumped shoulders. "You'll catch a cold if you stay in that," he reminded Arthur gently.
Dulled, emerald eyes somberly bored into Alfred's, who didn't seem to notice. The younger seemed enraptured by the way Arthur's clothes molded to his skin in the rain.
"I'd rather you leave me outside so I can die," Arthur found himself saying. The words, to his dismay, came out no louder than a whisper.
The American's hands clenched into fists on Arthur's shoulders, which normally would have caused him to wince in pain. "I said I'm not leaving you," he repeated, a little more forcefully than last time.
Again, tears welled up in his eyes. It made him sick to think about how much he had been crying during these last few months. Today in particular. Normally, he prided himself on keeping a blank face in the face of adversity, or pain. Now… He just couldn't seem to manage it.
Almost gently, Alfred brushed them away. It was then that Arthur realized how much the boy had grown since the war. His frame had filled out to that of a near-adult, and his height had surpassed Arthur's by a hair. The weight of battle seemed to have aged him, making him look so different from the child Arthur had raised.
"Don't cry," he insisted softly.
There was no anger left in the Brit. Nothing left but the crushing emptiness of grief. "After everything you put me through," he murmured. "You expect me not to cry after all of that?"
Those sky blue eyes hardened. "I'll make you forget it all," he swore. "Then you'll never cry again."
Had he been in any other state, Arthur would have felt confused at his words. Especially when the blue eyed boy collided their lips in a harsh kiss.
There was nothing loving in the way Alfred's lips demanded a response. They ravaged him, robbing the older blond of breath and coherency. Automatically, the Englishman opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced when Alfred's tongue slid past his lips.
The American's hands were quickly busy with the buttons on Arthur's shirt, having peeled it off him in what felt like seconds. The night air was cold against his damp skin, and Arthur shivered.
With a panic, he realized what was going on. He tried to pull away, to tell him no, but Alfred didn't allow it. He carded his fingers through Arthur's messy hair; holding him in place.
Arthur whimpered, unable to fight off the other's strength. When had the young country become this much stronger than he?
Alfred misinterpreted the noise, and took it as a sign of encouragement as one of his hands slid down the other's slim chest.
An involuntary shudder coursed through Arthur. It sickened him. He didn't want this, but he couldn't fight back. He wasn't strong enough.
Alfred's lips detached from his, and slid down to Arthur's throat. Gentle kisses were placed along the length, pausing every now and again to suck on a few spots on Arthur's neck.
A soft moan passed his lips, and Arthur hated himself for letting it. "Stop," he pleaded. He could feel as Al's hand slid lower, hovering over the waistband of his pants. "A-America… Stop it."
It was bad enough to be tossed aside by his former colony. Painfully, heartbreakingly terrible. And now that colony wanted to degrade him further? Had he not suffered enough already?
"You know you don't want me to," he contradicted. "And I won't stop until you stop crying."
Arthur choked back a sob. This couldn't be happening. There was no way this was real.
He repeatedly told himself this as he felt Alfred's fingers undoing the buttons on his pants. Arthur's thighs tensed, trying to clamp together so the American wouldn't be able to undress him further.
"No, I-I don't want this," he insisted, trying to push Alfred away.
The blue-eyed nation refused to move back, or be deterred by Arthur's reluctance. "You're just being stubborn," he replied smoothly.
Arthur flinched away when Alfred pressed a hand against his groin. His mind had been reduced to screaming 'no' over and over again. He couldn't form anything more coherent than that.
Once again, Alfred kissed him. His lips silenced any plea Arthur might have been able to form, but the green-eyed man knew that he wouldn't be able to vocalize any of them even if he could.
Arthur fought to keep his lips firmly shut against Alfred's. He had finally given up on physically shoving the taller nation away, but if he stopped fighting all together… It would be a disgrace.
After what felt like an eternity, Alfred pulled away slightly. "Relax," he insisted softly. "You don't have to keep up appearances here. I know how you really feel about me." As he spoke, Al's hand dipped below the waist of his underwear, ignoring when Arthur cried out.
"No, I don't want this," he pleaded. Strain was heightening his voice, and panic flowed through his veins at a frenzied pace. "Alfred, please!" His shoulders were beginning to ache from all the tension, though he would never allow himself to relax like Alfred wanted him to.
"Shh…" Al insisted. Almost gently, he caressed down the Brit's spine with the hand that wasn't halfway down his—
A crimson flush tainted Arthur's entire body as he realized exactly how far down the American's hand had gone. He tried to recoil, but the palm against his spine kept him firmly in place.
Arthur tried to speak, to tell him to stop, to beg, to plead, anything. When he tried, though, he found his voice was completely blocked. He couldn't even manage a whisper without nearly choking on his words.
All he could do was stand there in shock as Alfred continued to touch him. Tears freely streamed down his face, and if the young country noticed, it didn't stop him.
He tried to block it all out. Desperately, Arthur attempted to shift his focus away from the kisses, the feel of his hands against his skin.
It didn't work. If anything, it intensified his sensitivity to it all. He could feel the damp cling of his pants as Alfred pushed them down past his knees, until his boots stopped their progress. The hot breath on his neck, and the heated palms that fought against Arthur's still-wet clothes, and traced every inch of skin they could manage.
Uselessly, Arthur brought his legs closer together, hoping that all of this would just go away. He had all but given up trying to say no. He couldn't say anything. Several broken attempts had made that frighteningly clear.
"You're beautiful," Alfred murmured. He brushed his fingertips against the older blonde's hips.
He bit down on his lip, stifling a whimper. Arthur couldn't tell if the American's words were comforting, or if it just made the whole thing more sick.
Abruptly, the ground disappeared from beneath his feet as Alfred picked him up, cradling him in his arms. Automatically, he clung to Alfred's shoulders, terrified of falling.
He hated himself for it.
Even after all of this, he would still hold on simply to avoid the temporary pain of hitting the ground? Shame burned his skin, staining it crimson. How much more would Arthur despise himself by the end of this?
Just as abruptly as he was picked up, Alfred nearly dropped him on the sturdy, oaken table. A soft, pained whine was torn from Arthur's throat as his spine made harsh contact.
"Sorry, sorry," the American murmured, pressing his lips against Arthur's temple. Alfred kneeled before the Brit, tugging off his tall, black boots. "It'll be ok, England," he tried to soothe. "It'll be ok…"
Arthur tried to pull his legs to his chest. He needed to gain some semblance of control, of modesty, of protection. Unfortunately, he knew any attempt he would make was going to be in vain.
Alfred still peeled the Englishman's mud-stained pants off; his short nails scraping against Arthur's calves.
A horrified shudder ran up his spine. Once again, he attempted to say no, tell him to stop, anything to make it go away! Again, every breath was choked off in his tightening throat. Even a whisper was too much to manage.
Thankfully, as soon as the Brit was completely unclothed, Alfred stood, and stepped away from the redcoat.
Automatically, Arthur scrambled upright, hoping to make a run for it. His heart was pounding against his chest with enough force that he thought it might bruise. He reached for anything that could be used as a defense, remembering that he had lost his weapon in the final skirmish. All there was that the Brit had easy access to was the damn suit, and that wouldn't keep a normal human at bay. Much less an actual nation.
"Arthur, calm down," America insisted.
Instinctually, his eyes darted to the speaker. The second he absorbed what was going on, his blood ran glacial.
Alfred had been shedding his own clothing. The faint, yellow lamplight flickered over tanned skin stretching over his broadening shoulders, and adolescent frame. His white shirt had been discarded, and his hands were already working on his trousers.
Arthur's gaze automatically averted. When his eyes fell instead onto the dusty, tan suit, it almost felt like a slap to the face. Alfred didn't have to touch him to break him. All he had to do was remind the Englishman of every mistake he had made while raising his colony. All the little fights… That's what this damned war had really been about.
The fact that several small arguments had built up to this—Arthur, naked on a table with Alfred about to completely violate him—made him feel sick. Especially when he realized that the whole thing had been his fault.
He refused to meet the sky-toned gaze Arthur knew was fixed on him. Hot tears pricked his eyes as he continued to stare at the old clothing that lay next to him. "Please don't," he breathed. Hearing his own voice, Arthur froze completely. The tension coming from Alfred became palpable as well at the sound. "Please…" he repeated, hiding his face.
The response he got was one that he had begun to expect. Alfred climbed up onto the table, and pushed the smaller Brit down. "It's ok," he repeated. "I know it's scary, Arthur, but... Let me do this for you; I know you want me to."
A series of broken sobs fell from his lips, as he continually refused to look at him. "No," he managed to whimper. "America..."
Once again, the taller blond pressed his lips against Arthur's, silencing him completely. His large, callused hands continued to roam across the Brit's frozen, still damp flesh. Alfred forced his tongue against the firmly closed lips of the redcoat, who had been his enemy not hours before.
Had it only been hours? Had they not been trying to defeat each other that shortly ago? It felt more like it had been years, though the wound still throbbed.
Arthur wanted to push him away, to bite his tongue to make him back off. In short, he wanted to kill the other. If it would make this stop, Arthur wanted it to happen.
Shivers and shudders raced through him, as whines, whimpers and cries were pulled from his throat. His eyes were frozen wide, fixed at some point off in the distance. The tension in his neck and shoulders was becoming completely excruciating, to the point where Arthur just wanted to give up.
Maybe he didn't wan t the American to die. Perhaps it would be better if he himself died instead. Then he wouldn't have to feel this.
That was the logic that led him to becoming completely limp. He lost every ounce of fight he may have had, and that he used so vehemently against the blue eyed boy that he raised. Arthur let those strong fingers to caress, stroke, and press against every inch of him.
Tears continued to flow down his cheeks, but Arthur didn't allow himself to feel it anymore. It hurt too much. Everything was just too much pain.
Alfred, for his part, seemed to be happy that the Brit had seemingly let his guard down. His mouth and teeth attacked the Englishman's pale skin with a renewed vigor, leaving marks everywhere.
Arthur had finally let go. The sobs stopped coming, and he no longer felt the terror and shudders tearing through him. Everything was numb. If Arthur focused enough, he could even believe that he was back on the island, comfortably at home near the fire.
That is, until Alfred began to press his cock inside of him. The boy hadn't even bothered to prepare him in the slightest. Even that bastard Spain had the decency to do that before humiliating the blond pirating nation.
As soon as the pain from the stretching registered, Arthur screamed. His back arched, and he fought against the American with everything he had, ignoring when Alfred gripped his shoulders to keep him still. His breath, and heartbeat accelerated to the point where Arthur was completely hyperventilating.
It felt like he was being torn in half; everything blurred into white, and he could feel nothing but the burning agony.
It was nearly bliss when unconsciousness began to drag him under. Arthur prayed it would take him before he had to feel the American completely sheathed inside him.
Arthur never passed out, though. The pain of his insides tearing, bleeding, was too much. The agony kept him terrifyingly aware of every thrust Alfred made. Those hands that had been stroking his chest and thighs went to grip his own hands instead.
It was a sickening parody of two lovers. Arthur's sobs had resumed with a vengeance, turning every breath into a cry. Again, words failed him. The Brit couldn't manage to inhale properly, let alone form words. Fear, panic, and horror coalesced into some sickening mixture that was pulsing through him.
Every now and then, Alfred would murmur some small bit of praise, or whisper encouragement. Soft moans and groans, however, were the standard noise that he made. It was constant, and made the redcoat's ears burn.
How he wished he could return to that numbness again. What he would give to stop feeling the blood leaking from his entrance, the nails digging into his hips, the complete humiliation of being carelessly fucked by a country he raised.
Arthur was all too thankful when it was over, even if the salty semen burned his insides with a pain that was almost worse than the penetration.
Alfred gasped for breath, collapsing on top of the smaller country. "I love you," he panted, kissing the other's forehead.
It was more than enough to make Arthur feel sick. Love… Love wasn't some screw after a war. If there had been any love between the two of them, it was lost the second Alfred demanded independence.
~X~
What seemed like hours had passed. The frigid night air was beginning to feel warm against his skin, which would ordinarily cause alarm to shoot through his system. Now, he was just too tired for it.
He didn't realize where he was until France opened his door with a sneer. "What's wrong, mon lapin?" he asked. "Upset that you lost your precious colony?"
Arthur stared up at him, wide-eyed and shivering. He didn't remember walking to the Frenchman's door, and he certainly didn't remember knocking.
When he failed to retort, a sliver of concern flitted over France's face. "Arthur?" He reached out to touch the younger's shoulder.
Snaps of memory flashed, unbidden, through his mind. Rougher hands grasping his shoulders, burning pain, and broken-off sobs.
"Don't touch me!" Instantaneously, he shoved the French nation away. His heart picked up to a near-painful speed against his chest.
Francis' eyes widened. "Arthur," he repeated slowly. "What's wrong?"
Nausea built up in his stomach, making the Brit wonder if he was going to actually throw up. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to block out images from earlier that night. "Can I come in?" he managed to ask.
Wordlessly, Francis nodded as he opened the front door wider.
Arthur stumbled in, holding tightly to the doorframe for support. He wasn't fully aware why he had come to this place. Neither of them particularly cared for the other. It wasn't like Francis could even help him, anyways.
No one could.
Francis shut the door behind him, before moving to stand in front of the other nation.
Arthur slid down against the door, pulling his knees to his chest. He could feel himself shaking.
"I'll get you some dry clothes," Francis murmured before flitting away.
He didn't move, or even acknowledge that Francis had even spoken. The redcoat was too busy trying to repress certain recollections from his mind.
After a few moments, the French nation returned with clean clothes and a few towels. As he set them down, he was very careful not to come close to actually touching the Brit. "You'll feel better in these," he said softly. "Did something happen?"
Arthur stared blankly at the clothing, feeling tears well up in his eyes. "Alfred," he managed to whisper.
"You've lost wars before," Francis reminded him.
Arthur flinched. Had that been all the young country had done, Arthur wouldn't be in this state. "He…" Arthur choked on the sentence, unable to speak it.
After a moment of struggling with his words, he eventually just tugged down the collar of his coat. He knew that Alfred had left several angry marks there.
Francis gasped audibly. "Mon dieu," he breathed. "Chere…"
Tears finally spilled over, coursing down Arthur's cheeks. "I couldn't say no," he admitted brokenly. "I couldn't…"