DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

BIRDSONG

TEN

FRANCIS

Is that a hickey?" asked Francis in surprise. Arthur slapped a hand over his neck, but it only made it impossible to deny and the Englishman didn't try. He did, however, have the decency to look mildly ashamed of his reaction. It was just a love-bite, something that—in Francis' thinking—Arthur had needed for months. The Englishman was so tense, always stressed. It was good for him to let go and relax. It was the reason why Francis resisted the urge to tease him about it, no matter how naturally japes popped into his head. Instead, he said: "Does this mean that you and Alfred have reconciled?"

"Pft, hardly. I think it just complicated things more. It was so ungodly awkward this morning between us, especially during training."

Francis said: "But you didn't—?"

"No, no, of course not! We just snogged for a while," he admitted, blushing. "Honestly, I don't know what I'm going to do about it. I don't know how to approach him. We used to be just Magnus and Magi, bonded together. It was so much simpler. Now... I don't know what we are to each other."

Francis shook his head. He had watched several couples in the Birdcage suffer the same confusion, even fear, but he always gave them the same advice when asked. From his perspective, the solution was obvious: "Just tell him how you feel. You'll never understand each other if you can't even talk about it. Isn't that what you're always lecturing, Arthur, how important communication is between partners? I think it's you who needs a lesson in trust exercises, not Alfred." He looked at his friend, thinking of Matt. At least Alfred hasn't rejected you yet. You can still do something about it.

As if on-cue, Arthur changed the subject. "How is Matthew?" he asked.

"Oh, he's fine. His training is going really well. He's such a diligent student. He doesn't complain and doesn't stop practicing until he's achieved perfection. It's exhausting. He sleeps a lot better now, but I'm a little worried that he'll wear himself out. He's trying to make-up for lost time, observing others, but he doesn't have the discipline they have. I feel like his mama sometimes, nagging at him to eat and relax. I don't want him to get sick. Have you seen him lately? Does he look sick to you, pale or underfed?"

"Slow down, Mother Francis," Arthur teased. "I'm sure he's fine. In fact, I admire his dedication."

"Of course you do, you drill-sergeant," Francis grumbled.

They met Al and Matt in the garden. The boys were wrestling, yelling and laughing and play-fighting like the lighthearted youths they were. It was a swelteringly hot August day and both of them were shirtless and glistening with beads of sweat. Matt jumped on Al's back in attack, and Al grabbed his brother's long legs and fell backwards, crushing Matt. He flipped over and pinned Matt, tickling him mercilessly as Matt shrieked, gasping in laughter. Both were flushed and breathing hard. The two Magnus stopped at a safe distance, just watching.

Only half-joking, Francis said: "Is my nose bleeding yet?"

Arthur smacked him in disapproval. He cleared his throat, and called: "Alfred?"

Francis wanted to smack Arthur when the play abruptly stopped. Following the age-old proverb strength in numbers, the two Magnus decided to train as a group today to avoid any individual discomfort. It worked surprisingly well. Al and Matt were much more comfortable together than either of them was alone with his Magnus. It made Francis feel jealous of Al, watching the closeness the brothers shared. They managed to turn training into a game, feeding off the other's magic, which produced powerful results. It drew the attention of several others in the vicinity, whom Arthur told to bugger-off. Both Magnus were protective of the young Magis, and both Magis were receptive to the four-person regime. It gave Matt a break from exhausting himself, and it gave Al the eager chance to show-off (which he loved to do). Arthur repositioned Matt's stance, showing him better posture when spell-casting, and Francis taught Al how to use water to conduct his electricity. Al and Matt loved to tag-team in attack and defense, and since Francis and Arthur knew the other's style and intentions so well, the foursome found that they worked well as a team. "I bet together we're the most powerful team!" Al bragged. Francis loved that the boys were having so much fun. He only wished that he and Matt could have the same fun when they trained alone.

He loved being Matt's friend and Magnus, but he couldn't deny that he wanted more. He wanted to hold him, and kiss him. He wanted to protect him, and teach him, and spoil him. He wanted to trust Matt with his dreams and secrets, his life. Now that he knew the taste of Matt's body, not being able to touch him felt like withdrawal; like an addict desperate for relapse. Every time he looked at Matt, his heart ached.

But I can't force myself on him. It would only prove all of those horrid rumours about me true.

Francis sighed in resignation. Was there anything as sad as unrequited love?

But he had done everything he could to win Matt. All he could do now was wait and hope that someday Matt would reconsider and accept his feelings and—just maybe—reciprocate.

ARTHUR

Arthur rapped his fist gently on Francis' door. Francis wasn't in, but he knew Matt was. The boy had asked to borrow a meteorology book from Arthur's library after the Magnus had suggested he do some studying. Matt opened the door and smiled. He was freshly showered and towel-drying his curls, wearing a too-big t-shirt and shorts. "Thank-you," he said, taking the book. Then he paused, noting Arthur's hesitance. "Do you, err... want to come in?"

"Actually, if you don't mind... Are you expecting Francis back anytime soon?"

Matt eyed him warily as he stepped inside. "Err... no. He's at Antonio's. Is something wrong?"

"Oh, no. I just wanted to talk to you alone," Arthur explained. Matt's posture relaxed, but he kept a curious eye on the Magnus. Arthur pretended not to notice. Politely, Matt offered him refreshments:

"There are maple cookies and fresh coffee, or I could make tea if you prefer? I think we have—"

"Matthew," Arthur interrupted. "I didn't come here for tea and biscuits. I want to talk to you about Francis. May I sit?" He sat down on the settee and invited Matt to join him. Matt did, holding the meteorology book on his lap. He cocked his pale-blonde head expectantly and Arthur wondered where he should begin. I shouldn't be doing this, he reconsidered, this is none of my business. That's what he had told Al. But Francis had looked so forlorn today, and after all of the advice he had shared with Arthur—he was so supportive when Alfred was in the infirmary—Arthur felt like he owed the Frenchman. It's not my place to meddle in their relationship, but at least I can tell Matthew the truth.

Folding his hands, he said: "I'm not good at heart-to-heart conversations so I'm just going to say this bluntly. Francis is in love with you, Matthew. Whether you reciprocate or not is your choice, but he really does love you."

Matt sighed as if the topic was already exhausted. It wasn't the reaction Arthur had been expecting. "Look, I admire your loyalty," he said politely, "but this isn't high-school, Arthur. If Francis put you up to this, then I—"

"No, he hasn't! That's not it at all!" Arthur insisted. "Oh bollocks, perhaps I've given you the wrong idea. It's true that Francis and I have been through a lot together and I certainly owe him, but that's not what this is. Matthew, Francis is my... best mate." Arthur paused, letting that sink-in before he continued. "I don't like seeing him get hurt. That's why you can trust me. I'm not a liar and I wouldn't be talking up that bloody frog-eater if it wasn't the truth."

"Alright," Matt conceded, staring coldly at Arthur. "Then tell me I'm not just Francis' eighth conquest."

The words seemed hard for Matt to speak, voicing a fear. He looked self-conscious despite his icy demeanor, and Arthur felt a stab of sympathy for him (he knew the feeling well).

Earnestly, he said: "You're not, I promise." But he could hear the doubt in Matt's voice:

"How do you know that? Is it because of the bonding?"

"Partially, yes," Arthur admitted. "But mostly it's because two people simply can't be bonded unless they're compatible. They have to be right for each other."

"But it's possible for a Magnus to have more than one Magi, isn't it? Gil told me. Sometimes if a Magi dies his Magnus can bond with another Magi."

"That's extremely rare!" Arthur insisted, but it was hopeless. His fumbled urging wasn't convincing Matt of anything except that Arthur lacked eloquence. In honestly, he was probably just digging Francis' grave, ensuring that the Frenchman never had sex again. This was a mistake. Maybe I should just go. He started to stand and Matt didn't stop him. He just sat quietly, thoughtfully.

Halfway to the door, Arthur paused.

"Matthew," he said seriously, "do you know why I believe that Francis loves you? Because he told me so. I've been with him for seven years and, yes, he's had eight other Magis, but none of them lasted. I did. I've been with him from the beginning. I know him better than anyone else, even Antonio. I've seen him at his best and at his worst. So if you won't trust him, trust me. Francis has always been infatuated with love and romance, not sex. It's always been his fondest wish to fall in love with his Magi. If I have to spend the rest of my life bonded to someone, I want to be in love with them. That's what he told me once. That's why he always tried so hard in the past to get close to his partners, probably too hard. He tried to force it and that's where it always went wrong. It's true that he's shagged other Magi," he said. Matt flinched. "But it's never been a game to him. It's always been because he was looking for genuine love. And now he's found it."

"Me—?" Matt asked quietly.

"You, Matthew. I've watched Francis with other Magi, believing himself to be in love, but he wasn't. I can see that now and so can he. You're the only one he's ever truly been in love with. I know it's your decision," said Arthur as he neared the door, "but before you make it, tell me one thing: tell me you're not in love with him, too."

Matt was silent for so long that Arthur sighed in defeat and started to leave. Then, just as he reached for the doorknob, Matt looked up and said:

"Tell me you're not in love with my brother."

FRANCIS

Francis accompanied Antonio and Lovino down to supper, expecting to find their table in the dining-hall full, but it wasn't. Al sat against the window looking distracted as he argued with Gilbert. When asked, he reported: "Mattie's not hungry, he's upstairs studying, and I have no idea where Artie ran off to. I haven't seen him since this afternoon." He shrugged and shifted in discomfort. Unlike Matt, his face was easy to read. (He would have made a bad poker-player.) "Is he, err... avoiding me?" he asked Francis in concern. "Because I thought that we were, you know... getting along pretty well. Did he say anything to you?"

"No," Francis replied. "Arthur is just preoccupied" with you, Alfred. "Don't worry, I'm sure he's fine."

Twenty minutes later, Francis found Arthur pacing back-and-forth in the empty common-room, panicking. He stopped in the doorway and watched the flustered Englishman muttering to himself. He looked distressed. Finally, Francis interrupted:

"Arthur, are you okay?"

"Yes... no, I don't know. I think I'm..." Arthur pulled at his shirt-collar, unbuttoning the top. "I think I... but I can't, it's ridiculous. It's only been, like, two months. I hardly know him... he's just a teenager. I can't really be in love with Alfred." The instant the words left his lips he knew that they were wrong. Francis could see it. His freckled skin paled as the verbal confession overwhelmed him, mouth falling open in a perfect O of surprise. "Oh God... I'm in love with Alfred. I can't... Oh God. Is it hot in here? Francis, I can't breathe," he said, fanning himself. "I think I'm—"

"Having a panic-attack?" Francis put a supportive hand on Arthur's back and led him outside. Avoiding the guards, he took Arthur into the empty garden. "Idiot Englishman, you're the only person I know of who would have a panic-attack over being in love. Deep breaths," he advised, rubbing Arthur's back as he gulped down mouthfuls of air. "I can't believe it took you so long to realize. It's so obvious that you're smitten with Alfred. You stare at him every chance you get and you talk about him and worry about him more than anyone else. He infuriates you, that's a telling sign. You're not as discrete as you think, especially not since the bonding succeeded. You've been very tense. Sexually frustrated?" he guessed.

"Oh, fuck. I knew I was attracted to him, but love?" Arthur reddened. "Francis, I've been a total twat to him! It's a wonder that he doesn't hate me! And now... I don't know what to do!"

Francis exhaled in exasperation and repeated for the umpteenth time: "Tell him how you feel!"

"Tell him I love him? No." Arthur denied. "That doesn't sound like something I would do."

Francis opened his mouth to disagree, but closed it again. "You're right," he acknowledged. "The English are such an unromantic people."

"Oi! I resent that," said Arthur in defense. He swatted at Francis. "Belittle me, frog-eater, but don't insult my culture. I'll remind you that some of the most romantic stories in history are English."

"Yes," Francis said skeptically, "but aren't most English love stories predicated on one or both lovers dying? It seems like a lot of unnecessary tragedy for the sake of confessing your feelings."

Arthur paused, wanting to defend the literary genius of his countrymen, but found himself lacking for words. Instead, he said: "Perhaps I needn't tell Alfred anything at all. I mean, if my feelings are so obvious then shouldn't he already know? He's not that dense. And I have implied that I'm, err... very fond of him."

"Oh! You're fond of him?" Francis faked excitement. "My goodness, you'll make me blush with that kind of talk. How could Alfred not know that you're head-over-heels in love with him?"

Arthur frowned. "Oh, shut up, Francis. Just tell me what to do."

ARTHUR

We're barely even friends, Arthur considered as he journeyed upstairs. A few weeks ago Alfred considered me as the enemy, he hated me. What changed between us, and in such a short time?

Francis and Matt had been effected by the bonding. Had they been overwhelmed by lust or love? Whatever it was, Arthur had seen the messy aftermath of it. The suddenness had left Francis pining and Matt completely closed off. Matthew must've been scared, Arthur thought. Secretly, he could relate. He was nervous about confessing to Al. Then he shook his head. I'm comparing myself to a teenager! For fuck's sake, I'm twenty-years-old! Why do I feel so nervous about this? I'm so terrible at intimacy, he acknowledged. But knowing didn't stop the pounding of his heart. It only made it beat faster. If I cock this up, I can't escape. I'm bonded to Alfred, I'll be stuck with him forever.

But Francis was right. He and Al had to stop dancing around the issue and confront what was between them. I know you feel the same way I do, Alfred. You're not a subtle person. You wouldn't have kissed me like that if you didn't like me, right? I know you love me, too.

I hope you love me, too.

Cautiously, Arthur pushed into his apartment. "A-Alfred?" he called in a high-pitched voice. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Alfred, are you here?"

"Yeah." Al's voice carried from inside the bedroom, proceeding his appearance. He stopped in the doorframe, looking curious. He was already dressed for bed—undressed, really—wearing only a sleeveless white t-shirt and boxer-shorts. It revealed his strong limbs and a healthy amount of suntanned skin. His big eyes looked exceptionally blue in the overhead light. He shifted. "Is something, err... wrong, Artie? You look kind of... pink."

Al's acknowledgement only made Arthur blush deeper. He felt too hot. Why am I so helpless when I'm near you? he wondered. It was so illogical. If this is love then it's bloody hard! "I-I'm fine. I just, err... I just wanted to tell you..." Al blinked expectantly (just like Matthew—my God, they're similar). Feeling like a coward, he forced himself forward until he was standing right in front of Al, looking up at the young wannabe-hero whom he was undeniably in love with. "Alfred, I—" Just say it! "I love you!" he blurted.

Taken aback, Al stared as if he had been slapped. "You what?" Wide-eyed, his lips curled into a nervous grin. "Come on, Artie. Is this one of those dumb British jokes you make that I don't get?" he asked in jest, but he sounded winded. His eyes hadn't left Arthur's face.

"No, you bloody prat!" Arthur snapped in reflex. Then: "I mean, no. I really am in love with you, Alfred."

Al stared at him, unblinking. Quickly, Arthur continued:

"I don't really understand it myself, it's confusing. This feeling is unexpected, but I know it's real. I've never felt this way before and, honestly, I don't know what to do about it. Francis said I should just tell you," he blamed the Frenchman. "I hope it was the right thing to do. I hope it doesn't make things awkward between us. I just thought that maybe, since you kissed me last night, you might... feel the same? You might... love me, too? Or at least not hate me like you used to!" he hurried, feeling increasingly foolish. Al's face was uncharacteristically stoic; his silent stare was unnerving. Arthur clenched his fists and turned away. "Oh, never-mind. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

Al grabbed the back of Arthur's neck and pulled him forward, forcing their lips together. Like last night, he lifted the Magnus' chin and kissed him deeply. Then he pulled back and smiled.

"You're so weird," he said huskily. "I never hated you, Artie.

"And I do." Al kissed Arthur again. "Love you, too. I think a part of me always has."

The lights flickered. Arthur felt giddy and lightheaded, the bedroom seemed to spin around as Al kissed him. He held the boy close between his legs, squeezing his thighs against Al's sides. Al's weight pressed down on him, trapping him. A jolt of panic speared him and then quickly subsided. He didn't fight Al's dominance. He felt weak, but not defeated. Relinquishing control was a foreign feeling, but not scary. It was as if this was exactly where he was supposed to be. He was breathing hard, unable to steady his racing heartbeat. He was fearful in anticipation, but also desperate with desire. As he moaned and writhed beneath Al, sweat glistening on his skin; as Al's supple lips moved lower, sucking in clumsy decline, Arthur felt small and helpless, but safe. And wanted for the first time in his life. He squeezed his eyes closed and wrapped his arms around Al's neck, wanting to be closer to him; wanting to give himself completely over to Al. I love you, he thought, his lips pinched together to keep from moaning. His body tensed. He could feel Al's hard, slick cock against his naked skin. I love you, Alfred. I—

"I love you," Al whispered. He kissed Arthur tenderly. "Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me?"

"Yes."

"Do you trust me?"

Pause.

"Yes."

Holding his Magnus, Al pushed his cock into Arthur's body. A surge of raw electricity rocked them both, like nothing either of them had ever felt. It was overwhelmingly powerful. Al sunk deeper, pushing himself in farther, lost somewhere between pleasure and disbelief. He groaned loudly, moving instinctively into a fast-paced rocking rhythm. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and cried-out in pain and pleasure, unable to contain his voice. It was hot and fast and felt, oh! so good having Al's cock work inside of him, making him feel things he had never felt before. He could feel Al, body and mind. Arthur let himself drown in the intense feelings that flooded him, so complex and yet so, so simple. It was good. Being together like this just felt right. Arthur hugged Al close as the Magi panted in effort. His fingers raked Al's back as the tension building inside of him reached a breaking-point. "Ah—Alfred!" he gasped.

And every light-bulb in the bedroom blew-out.

FRANCIS

The minute Francis walked through the bedroom door he found himself engulfed in Matt: his fervent touch, soft lips, and sweet scent. The boy had practically thrown himself on Francis, like a drowning-victim. His hands were fisted in Francis' shirtfront and their lips were locked together in a primal dance. Momentarily stunned, Francis merely stood there as the Magi kissed him. Then he pulled back.

"Mathieu, what are you doing?"

Helplessly, Matt looked up at him. "I-I don't know," he admitted. "I just wanted you... again."

Francis grabbed Matt's shoulders, which stopped him getting closer. "You want me?" he repeated in hopeful disbelief. Matt pursed his lips. Francis could see the boy's fingers flexing, longing to tug self-consciously at that errant curl. Wordlessly, he nodded. Francis felt his stomach flip. "Do you... love me? Because I won't just do sex, Mathieu," he said sternly. "Despite what you might think, that's not who I am. I won't take advantage of..." your feelings for me? Or is it my feelings for you? It didn't matter. "I think I've made my feelings for you perfectly clear, chéri. I want you more than anything, and that won't ever change, but I think you're feeling conflicted and that's why you're doing this." He led Matt to the bed and made him sit. Then he gently lifted the boy's chin, facing him eye-to-eye. "I don't want to play games with you, so before we do anything more I need you to give me a straight answer. Are you in love with me, or not?"

Matt hesitated. He looked so beautiful in the red sunset, so young. Meekly, he shrugged. "I don't know."

Francis sighed. It had been a strange day. First Arthur, now Mathieu. What happened to them today? But the Frenchman didn't have the energy left to puzzle-out Matt's feelings, especially if the boy was undecided. It was too complicated, and Francis was afraid that a late-night debate would weaken his resolve. (Or break his heart into even smaller pieces.) Forgoing the chance to fuck Matt was a cruel test of his crumbling self-restraint, so he simply pressed a chaste kiss to the boy's temple, and said:

"Bonne-nuit, chéri."