AN: Mostly just for practice. I love me some uke America. And I love me some multiple orgasms during sex. And I love…well, I love love, as you could probably tell. I'm a sap. What the fuck. Enjoy! There's seriously no plot here at all. This was just to play with them for awhile.

"I missed you," Matthew whispered, lips brushing against Alfred's cheek, chin, neck. Alfred gasped quietly as the Canadian's hand brushed against the growing bulge in his pants.

"I…Mattie…" It had been much too long.

Streamers and confetti beneath them fluttered upwards as Alfred dropped his jacket to the ground. His fatigues, which had clung to his body prior to his tour, hung from his considerably thinner form. "I missed you too," He gasped as Matthew's lips ensnared his earlobe, suckling slowly as his fingers fiddled with the buttons of his uniform top.

He tilted his head, tipping his fingertips underneath Matthew's chin and moving his face up, claiming his lips with his own. A friendly takeover. Manifest destiny at its sweetest and most pure.

Everything slowed. Their hands, their kisses. Gentle and cherishing. Matthew's fingers clung to Alfred's uniform top as he tugged him to the bedroom, lips remaining together all the while. That sweet splash of maple that Alfred had craved in the months he'd been away. He brushed his tongue against Matthew's, shuddering at the small sounds his lover made. Almost timid, except he was giving himself too willingly to really be described as shy.

The house felt extra quiet after the party only hours prior. And the party itself had felt quiet after the numbing cacophony of the battlefield. England and France arguing, the volume tuned low and almost incomprehensible. Alfred might have sat in a corner on his own, observing and flexing his fingertips to try to regain sensation, remember how he'd thrown himself into the hurricane of it all. But Matt wouldn't allow him to stay back, or rather, he'd stayed back with him, nuzzling his neck and muttering clever observations in his ear, brushing fingertips and thighs and their borders so close sometimes Alfred forget where he ended and Mattie began.

And he'd be okay. Because really, the quiet wasn't so bad. It was pretty calming. He'd forgotten just how much bliss could be found in the silence. As long as he had some sort of distraction to keep him from flailing in the memories of the war, he'd be alright.

Alfred whined as Matthew pulled away from their kiss, reaching out to try to pull him back. And then letting his arm drop, sitting on the edge of the bed, and watching as Matthew started to unzip his hoodie. A long strip of pale skin exposed itself for the American's long-deprived gaze.

"Relax," Matthew mouthed, all lips, letting the zipper fall completely. He shifted, first one shoulder, then the second, blooming as the fabric tilted and fell away, twin mounds of pale skin. His sweatshirt dripped from his body into a heap on the bedroom floor. Alfred's breath hitched in his throat, eyes trailing over Matt's chest, over nipples that were impossibly hard, and impossibly pink. Or maybe they just looked extra pink because the rest of Matthew's skin was so pale.

"Mattie," Alfred shivered, reaching out once more and clawing at air (this wasn't a dream, right? And he was home now?). "Please!"

Matthew's feet padded against the ground, muffled by the carpet, as he stepped closer. He reached forward, grasping Alfred's cheeks in his hands, brushing their lips together once more. His tongue slipped against the crevice between the American's lips, flickering over first the upper lip, then the lower, before finally entering his mouth.

It wasn't a battle for dominance. It was a willing and complete surrender. Alfred's heart was his white flag.

Cheeks completely flushed, Alfred wrapped his arm around Matthew's waist, using the advantage of gravity to tug the Canadian into his lap. He brushed his index finger over one of Matt's nipples, trailing around it in slow circles, and smiling as he felt the moan against his lips. The younger blonde quivered as Alfred rolled the pink bud between thumb and forefinger, plucking at it rhythmically, before going back to delicate circles.

Alfred kissed down the curve of Matthew's neck, the Canadian's head tilting back to allow further access to his skin, quiet little breaths of arousal given from his lips, not torn or taken. He left wet patches with his tongue, desperate to keep tasting, keep feeling. Because this was real, and not some pathetic dream that would be interrupted by the crack of a nearby bomb or the feeling of his heart seizing up as the death toll of his citizens climbed. He kissed Matthew's collarbone, leaning up and nuzzling his nose against his neck and smiling as he felt him vibrate with a weak sort of giggle.

"Stop, you know I'm ticklish," Matthew protested, brushing his fingers through Alfred's hair and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

"I'm sorry." He wasn't. He'd missed the sound of his laugh. Before he'd gone, the weight of his departure hanging over the two of them, there had been so little laughter. None that wasn't strained or carrying the pretense of possible tears. Alfred kissed his collarbone again, before his lips continued to travel down, pinching Matthew's nipple once again as he attached his lips to the neglected one. His tongue trailed over it, lips quirking into a satisfied grin as he heard Matt's moan, felt him shudder and tense for a moment, before relaxing against him once more, their breathing in sync and moving them up and down, their own personal tide.

Matthew moaned directly into his ear, a breathy, ethereal hum of a sound that Alfred had missed so fucking much in the loudness of gunshots and death throes. "Al…" Alfred shivered as Matthew's tongue licked the shell of his ear, nibbling the lobe with a restrained sort of tenderness. Matthew's back arched as Alfred licked and sucked and bit at him, grinding his hips against Alfred's as he finally began unbuttoning his fatigues.

Each release of button only reminded Alfred he was finally home, that it was over, that he could go back to living instead of surviving. His shirt slithered down the edge of the bed after Matthew eased it off of him. Alfred held his arms up compliantly as the Canadian shed him of his undershirt as well. His dog-tags jingled against desert-tanned skin, scars and the paled skin courtesy of bandages bared for his lover's eyes.

Matthew never missed anything.

He pushed Alfred onto his back, hands roaming steadily up and down his sides. "You've lost weight," He murmured, his forehead creasing before he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his sternum, a ragged patch of scar tissue.

"Yeah," Alfred laughed breathlessly, sliding his fingers through Matthew's hair. "Strangely enough, there was a lack of McDonald's in the Beirut countryside."

Countryside. As though he'd spent the year pleasantly picnicking around farm animals.

And not being shot at by children.

(and not shooting at children)

Matthew kissed the concave of Alfred's stomach, fingertips brushing lower and unbuttoning his pants. "Then you'll just have to stay with me so I can feed you properly."

Alfred's laugh became substantially louder at that, even as he shivered and squirmed at the teasing fingers against his fly. "Pancakes and poutine aren't exactly health foods, Mattie." He mispronounced poutine, though internally he told himself it was purposeful. Anything to bring that particular smile to Matthew's lips.

"Neither are Big Macs." Each tooth of Alfred's zipper squealed as they separated from one another. Alfred lifted his hips, allowing Matt to properly slip them off, the Canadian struggling momentarily as he tugged them past his feet, before tossing them onto the steadily growing pile of clothing on the ground.

"Nuh uh, at least Big Macs have veggies."

It was an old argument, worn comfortable with age.

"Deep fried lettuce doesn't count."

"A-ah…" Alfred's fingers fisted into the blankets beneath him as Matthew palmed him over his boxers. "Does, nn, so," He moaned.

"Does not." Matthew's fingers slid into the waistband of Alfred's boxers.

And Alfred promptly forgot just what the hell he was arguing for anyway.

Really. Mattie could have been telling him to become a communist, and Alfred would have been the biggest pinko ever.

He lifted his hips once more, sighing in relief as his underwear slipped down his thighs, releasing his erection from the restricting cloth. His lips twisted into a small pout as he surveyed the Canadian. "Not fair."

"What's not fair?"

"You're wearing pants!" His hips bucked up as Matthew stroked his fingers along his length.

"Oh?" His fingers brushed against the head. "So I am." He murmured, mischievous grin plastered on his face. "And you're not wearing a thing. Now isn't that a hoot?"

"Nnn…" Alfred's face flushed, a brilliant shade of pink slipping down his neck. "Get naked!"

And then Matt licked the head of his penis. And Alfred forgot how to speak completely.

"Shh, relax," Matthew muttered as Alfred groaned. His hands rested so lightly against the American's hips, like fresh fallen snow. Not heavy enough to keep Alfred still, but so sweetly imploring he had no choice but to comply.

Matthew lapped at the underside of his cock, slow, long licks that made Alfred shudder, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The warm tongue trailed along the thick vein running along the underside, before moving up and slurping at the precum dribbling translucently from the tip.

"Mattie!"

"Mmm," He hummed against the head. "I forgot how good you taste, Alfy."

Matthew was the only one allowed to call him that. Alfred's heart sung, eyes brightening. God, he'd forgotten just how easy it was to love him.

Matt's mouth fit over Florida in one quick motion, cheeks puffing out as he slid his lips down to take the entire shaft into his mouth. He managed halfway before he stopped, eyes watering from the sheer size.

Alfred's toes curled, fingers brushing through Matthew's hair in a desperate fanaticism. His fingers wound into Prince Edward Island, that one little odd curl that was so sensitive enveloping Alfred's finger, before he tugged on it.

Matthew's mouth tightened, sucking Alfred in deeper. The muscles of his throat rippled around his dick as he let out a muffled moan. Violet eyes squeezed shut behind mildly fogged glasses.

"Mattie…" Alfred was very nearly praying his name as he felt that mouth continue its contractions around him. Matthew pulled back, before impaling himself once more. The Canadian's muffled moans combined with the pleased little whines Alfred made.

It had been so long. Too long. And really, nobody could blame Alfred for what happened next. It had been months, after all. And he was so very excited. And Matthew's mouth was just so tight and wet, and his tongue knew exactly where to lick and caress.

But that didn't stop the shame that burrowed into Alfred's gut as he arched into the bed, toes tightly curled as he cried out his lover's name, spilling into his mouth. Matthew continued to suck, milking Alfred's climax, and swallowing his cum before he pulled away with a wet pop. A dribble of ejaculate trailed down the corner of his saliva-soaked lips, before his tongue (just as pink as his still-hard nipples) flitted and licked it away.

"Sorry," Alfred very nearly whispered, his breath heavy and uneven as he came down from his orgasmic high. He peeked down at the Canadian nestled between his thighs, before turning away, cheeks burning.

"Don't be." Matthew tilted his face to the side, pressing a kiss to Alfred's inner thigh. The American shuddered, legs twitching and spreading automatically. "Je t'aime."

"Love you, too," He said, though he couldn't shake the blush on his face, or the humiliation. How could he cum so quickly? That was so embarrassi—

Alfred gasped as he caught sight of movement, eyes narrowing in on the tube of lubricant in Matthew's hand. When had he gotten that out? He watched curiously as the Canadian squeezed some into his palm, before coating the fingers of his left hand in the fluid. Even as he continued to tremble from his orgasm, the shame still fresh from his premature ejaculation, he felt his skin tingle at the implications of his lover's actions.

It wasn't until Matthew had his index finger stroking against his entrance in steady ministrations (causing Alfred to mewl, writhing against the blankets) that the northern nation flicked his gaze over Alfred's face. "Is this okay?" He asked in a hushed whisper, voice very nearly drowned out by the beating of his (or was it Alfred's?) heart.

Alfred blinked, or rather, he squeezed his eyes shut and moaned at the continued strokes against the sensitive ring of muscles, before he rolled his hips upward, thighs spreading and lifting up as he tried to get more comfortable.

"Getting bolder, Mattie?" He teased. Not that his Canadian hadn't topped before (it was geographically accurate, after all), but usually there was more preamble and awkward fumbling.

Matt's cheeks colored faintly, though he didn't apologize—a big step, actually, considering he said he was sorry as easily as he breathed. He offered a gentle smile. "I really missed you," He finally said. "And I've missed being inside you."

With his muscles already loosened from orgasm, it wasn't painful when Matthew pressed his finger in. Admittedly, though, it felt odd, simply because it had been so many months. Alfred wrinkled his nose a bit, squirming as he tried to grow accustomed to the foreign invasion. Even still, his cock twitched, beginning to harden as Matthew stroked Alfred's inner walls, straying over a particularly sensitive patch of skin.

"M-me too," Alfred breathed out, rolling his hips upward to urge Matthew's finger in deeper. "But…nn…don't—"

"Tell?" Matthew pulled his finger back, only to insert a second. Alfred groaned at the feeling of fullness, bucking upward before Matthew placed his hand against his hip, a silent little reminder to hold still, relax.

"Yeah. Heroes…nn…"

"Don't bottom?"

"N-yeah—o-oh, Mattie, there again, okay?"

Matthew leaned forward, brushing a kiss to Alfred's navel, as he used both fingers to stroke against the inside of him, each touch loosening him and making Alfred keen brightly. The American dug ridges into his bottom lip with his teeth, shifting in tiny movements beneath the Canadian as he found himself fully hard once again.

And if he was hard again, then he couldn't imagine what it must be like for Matthew…

Who was still wearing fucking pants! Alfred moved his foot between Matthew's legs, nudging it over the decisive bulge outlined in the second largest nation's jeans. Matthew's movements halted for a moment, a small little moan leaving his mouth. Alfred smirked, moving his foot a little quicker, rutting it against the fabric.

"Al…"

Alfred tried to sit up, though the moment he moved, he was reminded of the fingers currently inside him. Said fingers began moving once again, thrusting deep inside him now, before stretching, choppy little scissoring motions that worked in opening Alfred up all the further, and in very nearly paralyzing the self-proclaimed hero. He arched against the bed, shouting as the stars from his flag danced before his eyes. Texas slid down the bridge of his nose, a thin veil of sweat covering his face. "M-Matt…I'm gonna…nn…stop…"

"What's that?" Matthew tilted his head, his curl bobbing so cutely. Alfred felt his heart melt in his chest, though even in a puddle, it managed to beat faster as Matthew started to slide his fingers out of him.

And then he promptly rammed them back in.

"AH!" Alfred couldn't even catch his breath, as Matthew rapidly moved his fingers in and out. There was no other way to describe it. He was fucking him. Mattie was fucking him with his fingers, hard and slow, making Alfred tremble and the bed beneath him squeak. "Ma…Ma…Matt…" Alfred's toes curled, hot little puffs of breath echoing from his lips as he struggled to gain control of himself.

If he kept going like this, he'd…

But it felt so good, the way Matthew was touching him. And the concentrated look he was giving him, violet eyes sweeping over him, taking over every nuance of his expression, every inch and shadow and shade of his skin…Alfred was completely and wholly consumed by Matthew's eyes. His glasses fell off his face, snatched up by Matt's free hand and set aside, farther away on the bed, before his fingers raked through Alfred's hair, tugging at miscellaneous strands before tangling into Nantucket.

"O-oh!" His prostate was hit in the same moment, his entire body clenching down on Matthew's fingers, as his head rolled back, arching up into the tugging fingers in his hair. "OH! MATTIE!" Sweat clung to his chest now, trailing down in little droplets, over his nipples, down the planes of his belly, dipping into his navel. Matthew's fingers stretched him, Alfred's legs falling completely open now, spread shameless and wide and letting Matthew plow his fingers into him, in sharp little twists that were almost painful in how good they felt. His neglected cock wept, dribbling semen down his shaft and leaving little dewy stains on the blankets, freshly scented.

Matthew must have spent all day cleaning the house, scrubbing everything down and ridding the shelves of imaginary dust, all in preparation of Alfred's return. The thought made Alfred warm more than he already was, an odd little twinge in his belly at the thought. The thought was drowned, though, as he gasped, quaking against the bed in an almost violent spurt as he came again, long arches of cum squirting against Matthew's chest and his own stomach, the stains on the blankets increasing. Alfred's face twisted in pleasure, very nearly sobbing, that little bit beyond out-of-control that only Matthew could push him to. That only Matthew was allowed to witness, let alone cause.

Because Mattie was the only one he could really trust.

Alfred gasped for breath, his eyelashes fluttering as he sank deep into himself, buried in the sound of his own rapid heartbeat, the feeling of his nerve endings twitching and recovering from such a shockwave of pleasure. "Matt…" He purred his name, reaching out and pawing at his wrist as he felt him pull his slick fingers out of him. "More…more, please…Mattie…"

He was slurring his words, so exhausted, and already a little sore. But it'd been so long. He couldn't stand the idea of being apart from Matthew right now. He wanted all of him, at once.

And Matthew seemed all too willing to comply. He drew his hand away from Alfred's grip, leaning between his legs again and kissing and licking at cum-slick thighs. Alfred giggled softly, the touch of lips to that skin more ticklish than anything else. His legs twitched, eyes falling closed for a moment.

They opened at the sound of a zipper coming down, though. Vision blurred, he was still able to clearly make out the sight of Matthew undoing his pants, finally. The denim gave way to creamy thighs, skin milkier, paler than Alfred's own. He'd almost forgotten how soft and delicate Matthew looked without his clothing on. Poetic, almost, like every little piece of him was perfectly chosen and crafted with an artisan's touch.

His pants melted to the carpet, before Matthew started on his boxers. Alfred whimpered, propping himself up on his elbows to increase his view, his cheeks rosy and heated as his gaze flickered over the concentrated expression on Matthew's face, the way his teeth dipped over his plump bottom lip in worried little rhythms. Alfred's eyes trailed down his chest, over the drops of sweat and the shimmering streaks of cum, until finally dragging down the waistband of Matthew's boxers, moving with each twitch of the Canadian's fingers as he slipped them down, eased them off his hard cock, the very proof of the size of his nation.

Second largest. And all for Alfred. A sharp wave of possessiveness bowled the American over. He wanted to touch him, now. He wanted to touch him and lick him and worship him and have him moaning his name, only his name. And right then, he absolutely hated the entire world for ever ignoring his Matthew, for forgetting Canada or misplacing him.

But even more than that, he hated all those who had held and seen Matthew before him, who had kissed him or tried to capture his attention.

Because they'd had Alfred's whole world, however briefly. And they just didn't deserved it. Didn't deserve Matthew. They couldn't have! Nobody else could possibly love anyone else as strongly and as suddenly and as easily as this. Matthew was so easy to love. So perfect and sweet and pure, perverted mind and stoner ways and all. All of it. The way he laughed at all of Alfred's jokes and the way he always brought him McDonald's on those nights when he was feeling a little less like a hero and the way he rubbed the hairs on his arm in teasing little patterns as they watched late-night stand up routines while sharing a bag of Cheetos puffs, staining their fingers orange as they giggled about jokes that are always ten times funnier at one in the morning.

How could Alfred have possibly gone without him for so many months? He missed him all over again, even though he was right here with him. He missed him retroactively. He could feel all the pain he'd stashed away on the battlefield, all the yearning, right now.

And Matthew must have felt it, too. Or known it. Crawling onto the bed then, the insecurity painted on his face moments earlier vanished. No shame or embarrassment, even perfectly naked, even hard and aroused as he was, he looked so comfortable now, crawling over Alfred's body, and layering kisses onto him, one after another. A little clusterbomb of kisses to try to replace all the moments they couldn't have while Alfred was away.

Matthew rocked his hips against Alfred's, sending tiny little waves of pleasure through the American once again, the tell-tale tug at his cock making him aware of that area of himself once again. Not quite hard yet, not quite getting hard, even, but it wouldn't be long. It never was, with Matthew, and certainly not after craving him for so long.

Alfred had never been one for moderation.

"You're mine," The Canadian murmured against him, kissing the space where Alfred's jawline met his ear, trailing his tongue over his earlobe, before kissing lower, moving back over to his lips and nibbling the lower one. Alfred's mouth opened as he moaned softly, unquestioningly allowing Matthew's tongue entrance, swirling against his, before their mouths hitched together into a slow, passionate kiss. And he was his. He was Matthew's just as much as Matthew was his own. And Alfred hated anyone who had touched him before Matthew, all his past lovers, because he wanted every experience he felt, every bit of pleasure, to always be traced back to the Canadian who occupied so much of his identity now.

Their mouths prayed together as Matthew reached for the bottle of lubricant, an obscene squirting sound the only indication Alfred had of what he was doing, of the care his lover was taking to keep Alfred from being hurt, rubbing his shaft down with the cool fluids, before the tip of his cock brushed against the American's rear. Alfred groaned against his lover's lips, lifting his legs up, before wrapping them around Matthew's waist, tugging at him to pull him closer, feeling the way he fit so well against him, the way his length pulsated with long-deprived pleasure.

And Alfred was hard again. Just like that. Shooting up to full attention.

His fingers slid over Matthew's side, trailing to his back and touching the little ridges of his spine as his fingers rememorized the outlines of his skin. Matt moved into him as naturally as the sun sets, Alfred letting out a nearly breathless moan. It didn't hurt, though, or even feel uncomfortable. It was just so right. It was just Matthew, his Matthew, fitting so perfectly into him, because really, they'd been built for each other. His hands flitted upward as he lifted his hips, drawing him in deeper. Eventually, his fingers rested at the back of Matthew's neck, tickled by the strands of curled hair.

Matt's expression almost looked pained, and for once his noises eclipsing the American beneath him. "A-Alfred…you're so…"

It didn't matter how Matthew filled in the blank, and he never bothered, pulling out but never all the way, always lingering that little bit in. Because neither could stand being apart right now. He pressed back in a little quicker, though never really fast. Alfred's fingers wrapped into Matthew's hair, fisting into the cottony strands. "Alfred…"

Matthew settled on a steady rhythm, pushing deeper into Alfred with each motion. Alfred tugged at the curl on top of his lover's head, drawing it out straight and smiling as he caught the Canadian off guard. Matthew whined, tears glistening at the corners of his eyes (but by now, Alfred's own gaze was misted over with his own pleasure-mounting tears, so he couldn't judge) as he bucked into Alfred.

The bed groaned beneath them, but neither paid it any attention, so utterly transfixed with each other. Alfred's dog tags jingled, the metal dragging down against the bed and jerking about with each thrust, each shudder and quiver from the world's superpower.

America had never felt more beautiful.

Matthew clutched onto Alfred's thighs, holding them up, occasionally drawing them up higher, as he angled his thrusts, each movement very nearly choreographed with the returning memories of their times before, and the knowledge that they'd quite possibly have the capacity to do this for all of eternity. Alfred hadn't realized what a privilege, what an honor, it could be, their immortality. But he couldn't think of anything more pleasant than to be like this with Matthew forever, not even McDonald's. This was the definition of bliss. To give himself to the Canadian, to have the Canadian given to him.

Alfred gasped as Matthew found his prostate again, stretching his legs open and moving his hips up to meet his every thrust. "Matt…" He tugged at the strand of Matthew's hair, before tilting his head to the side, trying hard not to start weeping with the sheer pleasure of the moment. "Jesus…"

Matthew brushed his hand against Alfred's cheek, drawing his face forward again. "No," He said quietly, though there was a slight gruffness behind his words. "I want you to see me while I do this."

Alfred's body clenched against Matthew at that, the knot in his lower stomach twisting. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Matthew's then, the way his eyelashes shimmered in contrast to the lavender-violet of his irises. Matthew thrust into his prostate even harder then, as the hand that wasn't currently stroking Alfred's cheek reached between the American's legs and wrapped around his length, thumb caressing the throbbing vein running along the bottom.

The touch was unnecessary, though. Alfred didn't need any more stimulation.

In fact, it was almost too much. It took everything in him not to close his eyes, his body shaking even harder for the third time. How was it possible, to cum so much in such a short amount of time? The heat and fullness of having Matthew inside him, though, was another level of wonderful. Alfred choked out Matthew's name, babbling on each syllable and keeping his gaze locked upon him as he very nearly exploded. He was a supernova. And afterwards, he just wanted to suck Matthew into him, until they both drifted into their own personal nothingness.

It wouldn't be so bad.

Matthew's thrusts grew more sporadic as Alfred's muscles rippled around him, clenching and unclenching as the American twisted and moaned. The Canadian grasped onto Alfred's sides, doubling over with a stifled sob.

If Alfred wasn't so exhausted, he might have felt himself grow aroused from the sticky fullness of Matthew's cum inside him, so sudden and overpowering. He moaned, though it was broken apart by a yawn, and a tremor, reaching out his arms shakily. He still wanted contact, even if it wasn't of a sexual nature. No. He needed it. He shook as though he were going through withdrawals, the feeling almost painful as he silently begged to be held.

Matthew's fingers intertwined with Alfred's as he remained inside him for a moment. The Canadian's face was perfectly, obscenely red, though Alfred was certain his own was much the same. Both males were sticky and wet, the scent of sex clinging not only to their bodies, but pervading the room around them.

"Home sweet home," Alfred remarked, his tongue feeling almost numb. Despite it, though, he was highly aware of the way Matthew laughed, airy and bright. Both sighed as Matthew pulled out of him, Alfred grimacing as he felt fluids dripping out of his considerably sore behind. His lower back ached. Yeah, home sweet home indeed. It was almost a good feeling, though, in a silly way. Even if he knew he'd be in bed for the majority of the day tomorrow. That typically meant pancakes and trashy daytime talk shows and court TV and play-arguments about which Lorne Michaels show was the best and stealing Mattie's French fries after he made a McDonald's run while the Canadian pretended not to notice and Alfred pretended not to know that Matthew was pretending.

How could Alfred not love that? How could anyone not love that?

The Canadian wrapped his arms around Alfred's torso, laying beside him as he pulled up against him, head resting against his chest. Alfred's chin nestled against the top of his head, eyes drifting shut as he felt the blankets, sticky as they were, pull over the pair of them. After tucking them both in, Matthew's hands returned to cradling him, strumming up and down his side in a steady rhythm.

They both fell asleep before they could even exchange "I Love You"s. But really, it didn't much matter anyway.