His hand moved furiously up and down his length, pre-cum seeping from the tip, only to be spread downwards as he unconsciously bucked his hips upwards. Pants and soft moans escaped his chewed lips, echoing around the small bedroom, mixing in with the slight squeaking of the bed. The low lighting of the room only enhanced his experience, as he imagined the single, flickering lamp replaced by a tall, graceful candle, burning at a steady pace. He imagined the cold, hard bed beneath him replaced by a large, comfortable one, with sheets of Egyptian cotton, and a throw of the finest fur. But most importantly, he imagined the hand he was using to pleasure himself, belonging not to him, but to the man he had fallen so deeply in love with. He imagined that his half-lidded, lusty eyes, were not fixated upon the ceiling, but rather lost in those beautiful amethyst eyes, that, in return, would look deep into his very core. He imagined that the tickling of his neck was not caused by his hair, but rather his love's, as he whispered sweet nothings that meant the world to him in his ear. He imagined that the fingers that were now buried deep inside himself were the slender, experienced fingers of his sweetheart, as they brushed up against the sensitive bundle of nerves inside him. He imagined that as he let out a sharp cry of pleasure, his love would chuckle and kiss him softly, gently. He imagined that as he inserted more fingers, it was his love entering him, kissing his face and neck to calm him, and as he began to thrust his fingers, he imagined it, his love and him performing the most intimate of acts together. He imagined that his moans and mewls were captured by those perfect lips, that tasted of the red wine he loved so much, and he imagined that the same hand as before came down to grasp his arousal again. As his breathing became erratic, he imagined his love's voice in his ear, "Cher, let's come together~", and with one last stroke and thrust, he imagined the release of his love inside of him, as he came over both of them. The last thing he imagined was his love pulling him down onto the bed, and snuggling into him, as they both drifted off to sleep in eachothers arms.
Reality wasn't that kind, though.
Looking around him, he realised the mess he had made. His blue bed sheets were stained with droplets of white, his matching pillows, positioned underneath him, were wrinkled and stained also, and his clothes were strewn across the floor, adding to the discord of the room. As he removed his fingers from himself, he whimpered slightly, and set both hands out in front of him. One was sticky and white. The other was slick and sore. His face was purely red as he shifted his gaze away from his hands, only to find himself staring directly into his mirror, giving him a good look of himself. Straddling two pillows for leverage, his hands showing the fruits of his activity, his face flushed and sweaty, his hair tangled and greasy from perspiration. He looked like a slut, a whore even.
He felt dirty.
What if he could see him, as he saw himself now? Even he could never fall in love with someone like him. Could he even fall in love? For one who bragged about being from the 'Country of Love' so much, his nocturnal behaviour spoke for anything but 'true love'.
No.
He isn't like me. He isn't so disgusting and perverted so as to do something like this. He's brave. He can tell someone if he likes them. I can't. I'm just pathetic... it's no wonder everyone forgets about me...
He kicked away the pillows, letting them fall to the floor, and curled up on his bed, tears streaming down his cheeks. In any other situation, he would have re-dressed himself and cleaned up, before his flatmate came back home, however, he didn't need to worry about his flatmate coming home. His flatmate was a playboy. He slept around a lot, and almost every night, he was out in the bars and clubs of the city, looking for his next bedmate. It didn't matter whether you were male or female, so long as you were attractive and drunk, like him, you would fall into bed with him before you could click your fingers.
He wondered how he could ever fall in love with someone like that.
He wondered how he could have ever fallen in love with his flatmate.
More tears spilled from his eyes as he glanced at the clock on his bedside table.
12:32.
He would probably be on the way to his bedmates home now, if not, he would no doubt be having sex with them. Or maybe he'd been lucky tonight, and had already slept with someone, now asleep in their bed with them.
He let out a choked sob at the thought.
The man he loved was a flirt. He flirted with everyone and anyone.
Everyone and anyone, but him.
To his flatmate, he was 'untouchable'. He knew that if he lay one finger on him, then his brother and his brother's boyfriend would have his neck. He knew that he was shy and reclusive, and might not take kindly to any flirting. But mostly, he knew that he was his best friend, and he didn't flirt with friends.
He let out another sob, and soon enough, found himself crying helplessly into his hands.
All he wanted was for him to show that he wasn't untouchable, and he didn't care how. A wink, a smile, a wave, even if it didn't mean anything!
But it wouldn't happen.
It never would.
Because Francis was a player, and Matthew was his friend.
And players didn't flirt with friends.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

Yeah, so I should be working on some GerIta stuff, but writing GerIta all the time mean that my work for that just like... grinds to a halt. Yeah. So, here's some kinda-graphic Franada smut for ya! :3 For those of you who like angsty Franada, you can leave the story like this if you want, but I'm still going to write a second part with a proper lemon, 'cuz I'm not a fan of angsty Franada without a happy ending .

Also, yes, I'm aware it's repetitive. It's supposed to be.

Radish xxx