Holy oreo balls. 10 chapters? 10. Sweet Washington's ghost. This is officially my longest chapter fic. ...-is dazed-

Warnings: previous warnings apply, sexual scene, OOC-ness, potential fail

Pairing: eventual Arthur/Matthew (we are so close, lovelies)

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership.

"Winnie-the-Pooh sat down at the foot of the tree, put his head between his paws and began to think." Arthur read, voice a little raspy.

Pausing, he glanced down at the blond who was snuggled up against him. His arm now felt like a dead weight, but held Matthew steady against him.

"Always at the same part." The Englishman murmured, closing the book gently and setting it next to him softly. Reaching up, he pushed away a few honey-colored strands from Matthew's face. "Never could stay awake, could you pet?"

The younger nation just continued to doze on, chest slowly rising and falling with each breath, his face pressed into Arthur's shoulder.

"Well, there's no helping it." The sandy-haired nation sighed, shifting slightly so he could gather the other nation into his arms.

With a little trouble, he managed to hoist the other up, his knees creaking ominously with the effort. "Good heavens lad." Arthur wheezed. "I suppose all that land mass had to go somewhere. At least it's not because you gorge yourself into the triple digits like your idiot brother."

"Hey! I'm trying to set you up with my little brother." Alfred pouted, his cheeks puffing out. "And its muscle, damn it."

Francis, now preparing the tart, merely chuckled.

"Shut up Frenchie!"

Teetering down the stairs and fervently praying to the Powers That Be (whatever they be) that they make it to Matthew's room in one piece, Arthur, Matthew held precariously in his arms, slowly made his way out of the attic and down the hallway.

"Should we not help them?" Francis asked, coming around and glancing at the laptop.

"Nah." Alfred shrugged, already clicking out of the video feed. "I gotta shower."

"And so will Arthur. He is dusty from the attic."

"Yeah. I know."

"And Mathieu only has one guest shower in this house."

"Exactly." The superpower smirked, already dashing out of the kitchen.

Watching the younger nation disappear, Francis couldn't hold back a pleased grin. And with a soft laugh, the European flipped the laptop back on and switched feeds, so he could open the one in Matthew's room.

"And down you go." Arthur placed Matthew on the bed, watching fondly as the blond slumbered on. Then, realizing that he was coated with the dust, the former empire grimaced. "Now, I believe a shower is in order—"

And, right on cue, the sound of rushing water filled the house. Already realizing what happened, the Englishman swore and rushed to the guest bedroom, already pounding on the door.

"Alfred! Alfred!" He snapped, face reddening. "Why the bloody fuck do you need to shower?"

"Because I need to smell like the Old Spice Man at all times!" Alfred called back, before continuing in a deep voice. "Arthur, look down, back up, where are you?"

"Git!"

"You're on a boat—"

"Alfred—"

"I'm on a boat, motherfucker, don't you ever forget!"

"Get out now—"

"The boat is now diamonds."

"—?—"

"Anything is possible when I smell like Old Spice and not like a lady like you."

"I do not smell like a lady and I can't very well use Matthew's—"

"I'm on a horse."

With one last snarl and kick to the unmoving door, the Englishman stormed off to get a change of clothes, still muttering epithets under his breath.

When Arthur tiptoed back into Matthew's room, the blond was still fast asleep. His polar bear companion—what was its name?—was curled around him protectively, watching the other nation with bored, dark eyes.

"European?" It queried.

"Yes." Arthur answered, not really taken-aback but still wary.

"Pervert?"

Refusing to answer a talking animal, Arthur stormed into the bathroom and locked the door, cheeks very red.

"Stupid bear." He grumbled, taking a good look around him.

Matthew's bathroom was fairly spacious and tidy. Arthur's flush darkened further when he glanced at the vanity counter and realized it was the perfect height to bend someone over with straining anything…

"Keep it together man." He whispered, reaching down to undo his trousers. "In and out, just in…and…" He made an odd choked noise, head dropping down.

Well, that was a poor choice of words.

Finally making it into the shower, the older nation swiftly flipped open the faucet and the showerhead, sighing happily when the warm water hit him. Once he was thoroughly soaked, the Englishman reached for a bottle of shampoo.

Maple-scented.

He blinked water out of his eyes, squinting down at the label. So, this was what Matthew used. He recalled the soft scent that always seemed to follow Matthew no matter what. Unable to help himself, Arthur closed his eyes and flipped the bottle open, breathing slowly, remembering the sweet smell, his senses tingling in reminiscence

Okay, it wasn't just his senses tingling.

"Blast." He hissed, glaring down at his traitorous member. "You could not have chosen a worse place."

Intent on ignoring his own desire (he refused to desecrate one's private loo), he shampooed his hair militarily, rinsed, before conditioning and soaping his body—legs to chest to arms to neck—and rinsing.

But, with the soapy water sluicing down his back, his erection refused to be abated through sheer willpower.

"I was the goddamn British Empire." He snapped. "I am not some lusty, randy old codger who wants to shag a nation less than half his age, no matter how sweet…"

In his mind's eye, he could clearly see Matthew, warm and complacent, pressed against his side, fingers curled into his thigh as he listened raptly.

"…no matter how attractive…"

Matthew smiling bashfully in a dark green sweater, subconsciously tugging the soft wool from his neck.

"…no matter how…"

And he can't block the flood of images.

Matthew dressed in full RCMP regalia, Stetson tilted, boots polished and gleaming, scarlet and gold and proud.

Matthew wearing only a simple cotton shirt and beige breeches, hair pulled into a neat twist, pulling himself onto the horse unassisted and then smirking down at Arthur, before digging his heels into the beast's flank.

Matthew leaning over the portside wall of the ship, waving down as Arthur argued with some merchants.

And his hand is sliding down until he has a sure grip on his cock and Arthur lets his head fall back against the tile wall, eyes shut, as he groans, his grip almost painful.

And he can't ignore the memories of Matthew—less happy and more broken.

Matthew kneeling in poppies.

Matthew bringing the butt of his rifle down some faceless soldier, face stoic even as warm blood splatters across the bridge of his nose.

Matthew throwing a teapot across the room, snarling in French, struggling even as his Boss holds him back and tells Arthur to go, just go now.

And if he wasn't damned before, he surely is now because, cor blimey, those moments just feed the blaze until it burns higher and brighter and—

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." He muttered, eyes screwed shut, pumping himself with sure strokes.

And, it's so clear, he can imagine Matthew right there with him. All pale and wet and shivering, his golden hair plastered to his face.

He'd sigh and mewl as Arthur pulled himself closer, hands gripping his hips. He'd kiss and kiss and kiss until their feeble lungs screamed for air and then Arthur would ravage that pretty mouth.

And it wouldn't even matter if Matthew was taller, he'd fit so perfectly with him.

And Arthur would push his precious boy against the tile, lifting one long, lean leg and wrap it around his waist. Matthew would scramble for an anchor and he'd reach up, grab the shower bar with one hand and grasp Arthur's shoulder with his other and he'd beg and plea to just hurry, please please please but he, Arthur, had centuries of experience and he'd put it to damn good use.

(His strokes picked up and Matthew's name fell like a mantra from his lips.)

(Arthur had never even prayed with as much conviction.)

And he'd push closer and closer and Matthew would tremble just so, his muscles quivering—biceps pulled taut and quads flexing—and he'd moan when Arthur would bite his nipples—keen and curse—and coo when an apologetic tongue would lave against the abused flesh. And Arthur would thrust up—not enter, not yet because he had yet to prepare his darling for such—slick and steady so that their dicks would slide against each other, smooth and slick and they'd gasp—

Arthur gasped, thumb moving over the head of his penis, his climax rushing through him as he came, the rush of the now cold water drowning out his cry.

Standing there, slumped back against the wall, watching his semen swirl down the drain, he panted, feeling incredibly filthy and disgusted and haunted by a painful sense of wrongness.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Matthew is locked away in his room, refusing to speak with Arthur because the hurt is still too fresh.

"…you don't deserve him, old chap." Arthur whispered. "Be what he wants, not what you want. He's happy. You have no right to ruin it."

Dressed and hair damp, Arthur stepped out of the washroom and was relieved to see Matthew still asleep with his polar bear slumbering next to him.

Moving closer, Arthur sighed, watching his former charge.

"Oh my darling lad." He murmured, bending down and cupping his former colony's cheek. "Have you cast some spell to bewitch? Or am I simply taking advantage of your kindness once again?" He smiled faintly. "Do you want me to want you? Or have you found happiness with another?"

Matthew didn't stir, so Arthur smiled fondly and leaned down, pressing a fleeting kiss to the other's cheek.

Arthur used to kiss Alfred and Matthew good night once upon a time. Alfred would always rub off the kiss with a pout. Matthew would always turn into the kiss, his lips brushing Arthur's chin.

(Later Arthur learned that Matthew would kiss Francis good night as well and the habit would not fade.)

And, just like in childhood, Matthew's face turned sleepily towards Arthur.

Arthur, less than a hair's breadth from the other's face, couldn't help but think "it can't hurt."

First, a kiss to the corner of Matthew's lips and, when the nation still didn't awake, Arthur moved towards the other's lips and pressed a little harder, eliciting a sleepy murmur from the blond.

"I hate this self-sacrificing nature of his." Francis said with a frown. "It is hardly attractive. He used to never hesitate like this."

"…He cares." Alfred said quietly, thoughtful. "He can't ignore it anymore."

Old Spice commercials ftw. XD (Did anyone catch the Lonely Island reference?)

Has anyone ever fallen for someone who showed the slightest interest in them? Unfortunately, thats Iggy. But he really does love Matthew. He never not loved Mattew. He's just British. :|

So...I know I promised dates and provinces, but then I came up with the shower scene...Is that acceptable compensation for no frolicking in Ottawa and Quebec and Ontario having a fight?

Right now, Arthur thinks Matt and Alfred are a thing. Arthur likes Matthew but feels bad about it (why? Because its Iggy and he kinda sorta raised Matthew... he wouldn't really have a problem, except he's quite fond of Matthew because he was a good son). So, they're having the same issues kinda-ish.

But Francis and Alfred are gonna fix that. Oh, they are going to fix the shit out of that. BWHAHAHAHAHA~