ingredients: comfort, stress relief, non-sexual age play - aka Alfred spends some time being bb!Alfred
Matthew can tell when a day like this is coming. Being a country is really hard, Alfred will say casually as he flops down onto their shared bed. He'll kick off his shoes, tug his tie away from his throat. Slacks, shirt, all comes off until he's down just to boxer-briefs that cling to his thighs.
Really, really, hard, he'll say as he wraps himself around Matthew underneath their fluffy blankets. Alfred's grip will tighten on him as he shifts to turn off their bedside lamp. Even if Alfred never said anything outright - though he always does, always preempts with that - Matt thinks that he would know. Pressed this close, their borders are practically non-existent, blurred to the point of indistinction.
So Matt will respond quietly, I know, when Alfred buries his face into the curve of his neck.
Because he does know.
He threads his fingers through the hair at the nape of Al's neck, breathes slow and deep, until the rhythm of America's breath matches his own.
They fall asleep like that, tangled and overlapping; when Matthew wakes, it's to the sound of water pattering against porcelain and Kumajiro's soft snores at the bottom of the bed. Blinking bleariness from his eyes, Matt gropes for his glasses before sliding out of bed, careful not to disturb Kuma.
Quietly, he pads barefoot to the kitchen, a sleepy yawn working its way up from his belly. The coffeepot tells him the time in bright neon characters - 9:25 - as he approaches it, grabbing his favourite mug from the cabinet above it. Though he prefers traditional coffee pots, Matt doesn't regret letting Alfred wheedle him into buying the single-serve kind. Sometimes he really only needs one good cup.
Just as his coffee is finishing, Alfred enters the kitchen as if summoned by Canada's thoughts about him. Blonde hair damp and unruly, clad in long, white knee-high socks and a red and white sweatshirt two sizes too big, Al looks much smaller than he normally does. His voice is hardly above a mumble when he says, fidgeting, "Matty, can you make me pancakes?"
"I can," Matthew answers from over his shoulder. Turning to face his brother fully, he brings his mug to his lips, blowing away tendrils of steam that waft up.
"With chocolate chips?" Al's lips quirk into a smile. It's not his normal smile, wide and confident; it's shyer, subdued, and for Matthew, very telling.
"Maybe. If," he pauses. He takes a sip of his coffee, warm bitterness settling in his stomach as he pretends to waffle on the idea. Alfred is watching him, expression hopeful, teetering between excitement and disappointment. Smiling softly around the rim of his cup, Matt finishes, "You can tell me how old you are."
"That's easy!" Al says, some of his characteristic brightness shining through. Matt swallows more coffee, watches Alfred as he screws up his face childishly, fingers peeking out from under too-large sleeves as he counts them. They've done this so many times, he knows the steps by heart. He'll be America's big brother, the kind that Arthur never was, that England could never be. "I'm nine!"
Matthew drains his cup, sets it aside. "Very good," he praises, as always, though he never knows what age the blonde will choose, "but you know that means you're old enough to help me now, right?"
"Mhm!" Alfred nods, beaming, eating up every opportunity to earn Matt's approval. Closing the distance between them in two steps, he wraps his arms around Matt's waist and squeezes, ducking his head to make it easier for the Canadian to ruffle his hair affectionately.
"Let's get started then, eh?" Matt suggests, earning himself another happy squeeze from the blonde in response.
Twenty minutes and a hundred chocolate chips later (Matthew knows, because Al proudly counted out each one), Matt sets a fresh stack of pancakes in the middle of the kitchen table. Alfred flops down in his chair, a handful of chocolate morsels spilling out from his palms onto the table. He pops them into his mouth in twos and threes, kicking his legs idly, as Matt splits the pancakes between the two of them.
Matt even goes the extra step of cutting his brother's pancakes into neat, even chunks and pouring ample maple syrup over them before sliding his plate in front of him. "There, how's that?"
"Awesome!" Al replies immediately, stabbing a pancake chunk with his fork. "You're the best big brother ever."
Smiling, Matthew simply makes a noise of acknowledgement, taking his seat across from the American.
"Ever," Alfred repeats, mouth full, lips sticky and streaked with chocolate and maple. There's a ring of honesty in Al's voice that makes Matthew flush despite himself, as though, for a brief moment, he's his actual age again.
And like that, they play this kid brother game all day. Matt prompts and Al leads, picking out ice cream and cartoon movies; hot dogs and mac and cheese for dinner. Alfred seems to need this respite with increasing frequency and Matthew finds he wants it just that much as well. When Alfred's like this he's bright and warm like sunshine, carefree in a way he can no longer afford to be.
Al falls asleep in the evening curled upright in Matthew's lap, every inch of the recliner taken up between the two of them. Matt watches him, gently stroking his hair, until he feels wetness trickling onto his collarbone.
Matt's torn between a fond smile and a cringe and settles he for both as he maneuvers his brother to bed, tucking him in neatly on his side.
He thinks to press a kiss to Al's temple and cheek before he walks away.
Love you, Matty.
One hand on the door jamb, Matt pauses, looking back over his shoulder. He's half convinced he didn't hear anything at all when the bed creaks with Alfred's shifting and louder, though still pillow-muffled, he says,
"Mean it. A lot."
He waits for the morning, for when Alfred's nineteen again, to say it back.
"I know, Al. Love you too."