Written for mint-chocolategelato for the AmeCan Christmas Gift Exchange.
Title: Flipside
Shorter summary: Finally reunited after a year apart, Alfred and Matthew make up for the lost time.
Warnings: frot (the act of two men rubbing their genitals against each other's), sucky smut, smoker!Alfred, slight England bashing.
Notes: I'm a bit concerned about Canada's character in this. Is he as OOC as I fear? Ah, the difficulty of writing canon.
Next part will be up in early to mid January some time. I wrote this up in less than a week, because I originally went for your pregnancy prompt, but I scrapped that. It wasn't turning out the way I wanted and I wouldn't want to give a gift that I thought was terrible. Hence the (hopefully not too obvious) rushed pace of this piece. I'll try to take my time on the next chapter.
Alfred has always been a little bit in love with the world. From the oceans to the continents to the stunning representatives, he can't get enough of it. It's who he is.
He's always loved the sky; whether it may be cloudless and azure blue, rainy and murky grey, or starry and inky black. Although, he does hold a special place on his heart for the after hours—it's when he can see space, brilliant and all-embracing above his land. He'll forever be in awe at the limitless infinity of undiscovered wonders, the universe less than 62 miles away. Almost at his fingertips.
Of course, he loves his land. Ever since he was discovered, over five centuries ago when he was nothing but a wide, open savannah he's been evolving into a thriving nation booming with citizens and expansion. He adores every one of his states (except you, New Jersey) and marvels at his cities, all the unique and spectacular people living there. …With a few minor exception, of course.
Despite all the delight found in absolutely anything, there was only one person(ification) he had ever fallen in love with.
His name is Matthew Williams and it'd been a year since Alfred last touched his snow-brushed skin. His name is Matthew Williams and he only ever likes to go out during the wintertime, when the world was cold and iced with white and people were wrapped up tightly like the gifts under decorated pines.
That's five syllables, fifteen letters and one space inbetween Matthew Williams, and yeah, he's pretty much Alfred F Jones's one true love. They've gone from strangers to brothers to enemies to allies then finally to boyfriends. Alfred thinks that's real cool, all that happening and they still manage to fall for each other. It'd make a great film for Hollywood some day.
So yeah, it's love that finds him seated directly in front of the parlour window. It's love that convinced him to purchase overpriced cologne from one of those fancy, big shot companies with foreign names. It's love that makes the clock tick several times closer than usual. Alfred can almost feel himself growing older, skin wrinkling and hair turning pallid grey.
His expensive Armani watch had never bought him so much grief. Each tick only accentuates the sluggish way time seemed to drag by. If there's sixty seconds in a minutes and each tick represents a second then that's sixty long ticks until the clock strikes 5:22 and if Mattie's getting here at 6:00 that's 38 minutes and if 38 x 60= 2,280 that's another 2,280, 2,279, 2,278, more ticks to go.
Of course, that's just going on the basis that Matt actually arrives at six on the dot. If he gets caught in the traffic, that's another ten to thirty minutes that Alfred can't even bear to think about.
Tick. Tick. Tick. He knows that time would pass by quicker if he actually did something, but he wants to stay there so he sees Matthew pull up, riding in like a knight in shining armour except he'll be wearing real daggy clothes after that long flight, and he'd have a cheap rental car instead of a gallant steed. Alfred won't mind. He's more suited to the heroic role, anyway. Wouldn't want there to be any competition between them.
Alfred listens to his heart lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub, and it sounds kind of freaky and it's definitely beating faster than it should, so he tries to will the pacing in synch with his watch.
If only he wasn't such a heavy smoker. Surely his lungs and internal organs were dripping with black tar this very moment, threatening to shut down at any moment. If he weren't immortal, he'd have been diagnosed with cancer long ago.
But he hadn't lit a cigarette in days, he wants to smell extra nice for Mattie. While his throat yearned for the familiar burn of the narcotic white cylinder, Alfred held his ground. He had brushed his teeth until they shone brighter than Sirius A, and hadn't eaten anything for three whole hours so he wouldn't get anything stuck in his pearly whites. Like hell he was about to go stain them up with tobacco.
Finally, finally, the familiar rumbling of an engine made itself known, bright headlights almost blinding him. Alfred snaps to attention, sitting up straighter and groaning as he felt his spine fall back in place with a crack. He had definitely been waiting for too long.
The car, which may as well have been a holy chariot for all the joy it sparks in Alfred, parks directly in front of his own. A tall figure climbs out the back, and Alfred has to remind himself to stay seated. He watches eagerly, legs thrumming with adrenaline. He's aching to jump up, smash through the window and engulf Matthew in a suffocating hug, but that would be a bit too over the top. Instead, he waits until Matthew sends the cab driver in his way and approaches the house.
Almost tripping over multiple times in the process, Alfred scrambles to the door hurriedly. Wouldn't want to keep Mattie waiting, after all! He peers through the peephole out of sheer habit, spying a face distorted by the round glass. His heart seems to be flitting between chaotic palpitation or flatlining all together. Either way he's at a risk for a heart attack, and it won't be the nicotine's fault.
Inhaling sharply, he smooths back his hair in a too cool for school style, then starts unlocking the door. It's a hefty job, all deadlocks and chains and too many goddamn keys but he makes short work of it. When it finally opens, he takes in the sight of Matt, waiting patiently on his doorstep with a duffel bag like a they're chicks having a sleepover, and he hasn't changed a bit, aside from maybe losing a bit of weight but he's still the same. They fall into each other's arms immediately, Alfred dropping the keychain and Matthew flinging his bag to the side.
They meet in a breathtaking kiss, land barriers falling into place, a perfect geographical alignment. This was the moment everything had lead up to, from the beginning of time when the universe was just a speck of nothing, when the earth was gaseous effluvium 4,600 millions years away from the hills and valleys of today; the continent of North America moulded together like their lips.
Ha. Just kidding. It's not much of a movie moment. Matt says "hi" and Alfred says it back. Then Matthew is invited in, scolded for not taking his shoes off and forced to carry his own bags in as punishment. He comments on how much Alfred seems to have matured in the wake of their departure, to which Alfred denies vehemently. It's good. It feels like the year spent apart is nothing but a brief interval.
Of course, that all changes once they make in to the bedroom. Matt slyly insists that he wants to unpack his bags, which is a terrible lie and they both know it. Alfred's barely made it in before he finds himself with an armful of Canadian.
"Whoa," he says as Matthew pins him to the wall and starts laying sloppy kisses on him. Instinctively, he reacts by returning the kisses without wondering about the cause for the sudden attack.
"Mm, missed you, missed you." Matthew murmurs into his skin, pulling Alfred closer. Alfred can feel Matthew breathing against him, smelling like maple syrup and something else and he decides that not smoking for a week and a half was definitely worth it, because if he smelt as half as good as Matt did, well that was just fine. More than fine, really. Alfred savours the flavour, revelling in the aftertaste of Matt and has to remind himself not to burst into tears when he thinks about how much he missed the taste.
And he wishes that he had realised he was in love with his brother when he was a colony so maybe he would have payed more attention to him and Matt wouldn't be so insecure. Instead of spending his youth blindly waiting for an old empire to return from his voyage he could have spent it stealing kisses and making out on their old porch.
He'd have to speak with Tony about a time machine.
Soon, they find themselves tumbling onto Alfred's bed—Matthew has never really liked it when things out steamy anywhere else but a mattress, he's so vanilla—with Alfred on top now, Matthew spread out for him under his feather-light fingertips. He knows that Matt isn't as fragile as he looks, but when you can snap solid iron without breaking a sweat you try to take precautions around loved ones.
"Al..." he pants out pulling back from Alfred long enough just to say his name and swallow like he doesn't know what to do.
Alfred doesn't really know what to do, either, it's been a long, long time since they were all tangled up together and touching and tasting so he's a bit overwhelmed at all the old sensations rushing back to him. Sure, he'd jerked off plenty in their time apart but any non-virgin could tell you that another's touch felt better than your own on lonely nights.
And it's only him, Alfred thinks, that can make him lose if this way, his head spinning in all these different directions like he's back in 1960 with all the hallucinogens messing with the chemicals in his brain and lifting him high as a kite. That's the kind of feeling he gets with Matt, only Matt, Matt, Matt.
He's hard now—really hard—so he licks Mattie's lips. It sounds… it sounds weird but he's just so elated and he can't help but want more of the saccharine flavour. It makes Mattie giggle a little, and Alfred swallows the mellifluous sounds with another long lick.
He knows what "frenching" is (thanks Francis) but it had never really appealed to him though now he is just realising what a great idea it was.
Matt must have come to the same conclusion, because he licks Alfred back. It feels weird to be on the other end but good weird and it kind of feels like getting kissed by a dog, except so not as gross and way more hot, especially when Matt starts nipping a little. He starts travelling down Alfred's body, running his hands along his nipples and sucking at his chin. It makes Alfred go all weak in the knees when Matt starts lapping at his throat, and he has to grit his teeth and concentrate real hard or he'll collapse.
Alfred still doesn't know what to do, with his hands, or his legs, or anything really. He wants to feel and caress and rediscover but he's too shaky and about ready to explode in his pants, a teenager in the most literal of ways. All he can do is try to hold himself up and pray he doesn't crash.
"Mattie… can I… I wanna…" he doesn't even know what he's asking for, but Matt seems to understand. He sits himself up and hooks his arms around Alfred's hips as if they're about to waltz or something, twirling around the room to an imaginary orchestra like they used to back when England was the centre of the world. It's kind of odd to think about those times, how the grumpy old man of today had once danced so elegantly and beautifully, showing them complex steps that they then completely butchered.
Alfred had never managed to master the art, but it wasn't as if ballroom dancing was an expected or important skill in the present, so suck that, Artie-fartie. Evolutionary future for the win. He's already beginning to have second thoughts about that time machine. The past hadn't been that great for him, at least not before the 20th century.
Matthew doesn't dip Alfred into a four-count whirl, instead going for a more practical action—pulling Alfred onto his lap, who instinctively positions himself in such a way that they're crotch-to-crotch. They're both still fully clothed and beginning to chafe a bit, but Alfred decides he likes this position anyhow. Matt has always been taller than him, so by sitting on him they're face to face and everything's perfect.
Matt lets him push his shirt off, clumsily pulling it over his head and nearly knocking off his glasses. His hair is mussed around like he's just woken up, the prettiest bird nest Alfred's ever seen. The American smooths down a particularly rebellious strand of hair. Even all disheveled and tousled up, Matt's still dynamite.
A hand snakes it's way to Alfred's waist, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt and making him giggle from the fingers tickling the sensitive area. He has to hold his breath to keep from having a laughing fit, not wanting to ruin the moment.
If he had thought ahead, he would have worn a button-down. Slowly and sensually revealing his rock-hard abs (because they totally are rock-hard, shut up) would have been much sexier than struggling out of his witty 'made from 100% boyfriend material' t-shirt. No matter how funny and true it is.
As soon as Alfred is stripped of his top, Matthew's all over him like Belarus on Russia or something. Except not as incesty and gross, of course. Wait…
Anyway, Matthew starts nipping at his bare chest. He's obviously realised that, despite packing down an abundance on McDonalds every day, Alfred's still a total hottie and worthy of worship. Alfred can already tell that he's going to be left with a trail of hickies, and Matthew will be looking the same once his head isn't spinning so much.
Alfred likes to think of himself as very manly, but it's hard to not moan girlishly when Mattie starts to suckle at his raised nipples. He thinks it's just a little a bit weird, what he's doing. Since Alfred is a guy, there won't be any breastmilk, and Matthew isn't a baby so he probably won't like the taste, but Alfred doesn't really care because it just feels damn good.
"Matt," he thrusts upwards, his pants feeling uncomfortably tight. "Oh, Matt, touch me Matt touchmetouchme, please." They're already touching, of course, but Alfred's desperate and wanting more so he grabs Matthew's cadaverous hand and shoves it down his jeans.
Matthew gives him a wow-you're-pathetic-but-I-love-you-so-it's-okay look, then palms Alfred through his briefs. Alfred makes a happy noise, grinding on the appendage. "Mmm, more please!"
"You're such a kid," Matthew comments, starting to pull a bit at the top button on Alfred's pants. It's a bit difficult to successfully compete he task when the other is currently occupied, but manages to get it undone. He makes short work of the zipper, then eases Alfred up so he can slip off his trousers.
Alfred absolutely refuses to let Matthew lay him down with his legs in the air like a baby getting it's diaper changed, despite spending plentiful time in that certain position doing certain 18+ things. He shoos Matthew's hands away and does it himself, wriggling in an absurd manner while trying to peel his jeans off. As much as he loved good ol' Abercrombie and Fitch, they really needed to work on manufacturing something that wasn't so skin-tight and easier to get out of. You know, if they weren't dead.
Matthew manages to undress entirely while he's preoccupied with the dreaded denim—how, is one question Alfred has for him, considering he's wearing some totally emo skinny jeans. Could Canadian clothing be better than American? is the second that pops up, but is quickly dismissed on the grounds of being irrelevant—and they're back to it, rolling around on Alfred's batman covers like before.
Nothing much has changed as far as Alfred can tell, in terms of Mattie's body. Just as he suspected before, he's lost a few pounds. Other than that, his bone structure is more defined, he's grown just a little taller, and appears to be doing quite splendidly down there.
"Hey, let's fuck." Alfred says like the idea just occurred to him. His counterpart rolls his eyes at his bluntness, not really surprised at the blatant statement. Alfred's never been afraid to vocalise his emotions and needs, no matter the company. Matthew can recall a time where a former US president was informed of his and Alfred's private relations in excessive detail. He hadn't been there personally, but his prime minister had confronted him about it—thus began a rather awkward interlude to the next election.
"We need lube, idiot." Matthew says affectionately, flicking the other's head gently.
"Uhh…"
He sighs deeply. "Please tell me you have lube."
"Hmm, well, you know the funny thing about that," Alfred wracks his brain for a clever excuse. "I, uh, used it all."
"Oh?" Matt's face takes on a devilish look, unnoticed by Alfred. "I guess that must mean you must already be well prepared, huh?"
"Wha- oh. Oh. Uh, no, I'm not bottoming, thanks." The darker twin makes an x motion with his arms. "It's your turn, remember?"
As a matter of fact, it is not Matthew's turn. He makes sure to remind Alfred of the hot, steamy goodbye sex that had left Matthew's spine aching for days after—which had not made for a happy plane trip. Screw Alfred and his inhumane strength. Literally, ha.
"Now, if you could shut up that'd be great." Matthew spreads Alfred's legs apart, then hesitates. "I-I'm sorry for being rude. Are you okay with this?" His French side won't allow him to go through with the act without having the other's full consent. Besides, he isn't a heartless monster.
Alfred huffs, focusing his vision on the curtains. They're open, he realises, but can't bring himself to care. If one of his nosy neighbours happened to peek in at the wrong moment, well, their fault for being busy-bodies in the first place, and he isn't paying for therapy either. "I guess. You're already about to, so just, like, do it already."
"Okay, Alfie." Matthew eases his index finger in, wincing at the tight dryness. Maybe he should have gotten Alfred to suck first… Above him, Alfred grumbles about "inconsiderate boyfriends who don't even bother to take their time, see if I'm easy on him when it's his turn, no hero should be subjected to this, stupid Mattie ughhh". Drama queen.
"I thought you already prepared yourself," the Canadian frowns, removing his finger.
"I said I didn't!" Alfred protests. "And besides, just because all the lube was used didn't necessarily mean that I used it for that, and even if I did, you know, hypothetically, it wouldn't mean that it had been recently or nothing. Right?"
"Right, I'm just," Matthew sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, a habit that often made itself apparent when dealing with Alfred. "I forgot how irritating you can be."
"Hey!" Alfred's angry yells go ignored while Matt considers their options. His erection has already started to flag a bit, and he really doesn't feel like dealing with blue balls. Of course, actual penetration is unneeded (no matter how much he wants it), and his education from France had ensured he had plenty of other possible ways to get off… And boy, did he mean plenty.
"Okay," Matthew said as he repositions himself on top of Alfred, who looks up hopefully.
"Sex now?"
"Getting to it, getting to it."
At long last, Matthew's hand wraps around Alfred's member. He fondles the sensitive area, smiling at Alfred's cry, and starts kneading the flesh. Alfred sinks contentedly into the covers, temporarily appeased. Then he realises—wait a minute, this wasn't sex! No way was he letting Mattie jerk him off, he could rub out a quick one any old time.
"Sex!" He cries, beating his fists on the bedding.
"I'm getting to it, you impatient hoser," Matthew grits his teeth. How dare Al complain. At least he was being pleasured. Matt's own phallus is practically weeping for attention, yet here he is, tending to Alfred's needs rather than his own. (Some things never change.)
Shushing Alfred, he carefully smears a portion of pre-come around his erection, covering them both so there's minimal resistance (or pain).
"Right then," Mathew pants. "Sling your leg over my back, got it?"
"It's no fun when you have to explain everything," Alfred complains. "I feel like you're my teacher, or something." But he does as he's told, hooking the limb over the slimmer body of his boyfriend. Matthew's arms circle around him and pull him close as he can, which makes Alfred feel pretty happy. He could definitely get used to this position. He feels his dick brush up against Mattie's dick, and they press against each other harder.
"I like this!" He announces, wrapping his other leg around Matt tightly. They slide together, all friction and desperation and sweat. Alfred's prick is sandwiched between their bodies, pressing up against Mattie's. He can feel the heat, the throbbing coming from Matt and it makes him hot and wanting more. He like to think that Mattie feels the same way.
Mattie kisses him hard, their teeth banging together and tongues tangling together like their calves. Alfred really wants to do it. He loves doing it with Mattie. If only he hadn't used their only means of doing so, fuck.
But what they're doing right now, they're, they're, Alfred doesn't know what, but it feels crazy good so maybe he's okay with it. He pushes his hips up, and they both cry out at the new angle.. Then Matthew does the unthinkable and reaches down to shove a hand between them, and, oh. Why didn't he think of this? It was a brilliant idea, such a perfect thing to do of course Matthew had thought of it.
Mattie has gotten strangely better at hand-jobs—( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)—which would usually be a cause for teasing him about stroking it too often, but Alfred's too into it at this point in time to say anything. Really, who would be able to hold a sane train of thought whilst lovingly rubbing genitals with a cherished other?
It feels really different, and strange. Every stroke brings a whole new wave of sensations, shafts sliding together and testicles brushing against one another—Alfred nearly giggles because really, they're ball-to-ball and that nearly sends him into a fit of hysterics for some odd reason.
"I love it when you jingle my bells," Alfred whispers.
"Do me a favour and never open your mouth, please."
Alfred has to agree, and tries to lay back and relax. Sometimes he doesn't know it it's better keeping his eyes open or closed. He likes to keep them open so he can see the effects of arousal painting a pretty picture on Mattie; creamy skin flushing pink, thick lashes fluttering and it's kinda hard to see when they're so close but Al can makes his eyes focus if he tries hard enough.
A lot of people might call him a narcissist for enjoying the sight of his identical twin so much, but that's not true. They really are nothing alike, because they're Matthew and Alfred not MatthewandAlfred. And sure, sometimes it's hard to tell where one ends and the other starts when they're writhing in ecstasy but it's always been clear that they are separate beings.
Matt is softer than Alfred. He has kind violet eyes framed by the longest eyelashes you'll ever see on a guy, and he always looks like he's smiling, even when he's not. His hair is a real nice sunny colour, and it's soft and flaxen and Alfred likes to run his hands through it on cold days. Matt's got real neat curls, he doesn't even have to use a curler to get them that way or nothing. They're natural and Alfred thinks that's really cool.
"Mmm, Matt- ah, you take my breath away, harder!"
"S-sap," Matthew doubles his grip (how was that even possible?), and at this point in time Alfred's pretty sure he's full-on sobbing. He just can't seem to catch his breath no matter what, choking on pleasure and moans that sound distinctly like Matthew's name.
"Uhh, unnh—ahhh," Alfred voices articulately.
"Yes, yes, yes," Matthew replies. His hand is cramping something terrible, but he's just so close and how can he bring himself to stop when Alfred's crying wantonly like that for him, his touch, only him—
Matthew comes first, a sharp intake of air and a groan being Alfred's only warning before he empties himself all over Alfred's chest. Then he bonelessly collapses into his own essence, utterly spent.
"Ugh, that's so fucking gross, Matt. Get off!" To express his dismay at the current turn of the events, Alfred politely punches Matthew's back.
He's too worn out to quiet Alfred down, so he just keeps on pumping. Alfred's hard cock feels incredibly strange against his own limp equipment, but the other blond seems to enjoy it immensely. Eventually his muscles tighten in toe-curling rhapsody, and they both curl up in each other's arms.
"We're having Kraft for dinner," Alfred murmurs after he's finished reeling. It's not exactly the most romantic statement, especially postcoital, but it's sort of touching in it's own way, and terribly Alfred.
"Yum, my favourite home-cooked meal," he teases, sticking his tongue out.
"Uh-huh." Alfred closes his eyes, letting his body grow heavy and his breathing even out. Matthew watches him for a while, then frowns.
"Hey, don't go to sleep. You promised me Kraft, asshole."
"You'll get it in the morning, promise…" I love you.
"Screw you. I know you'll end up forcing me to make you pancakes." Love you too.