CrimsonPruCan (Sorry I missed you last chapter), my darling girlfriend (sorry, babe), Zenna95 (be afraid), GreyMoth (That review wasn't from me…), GoAnime (You needn't wait long) and Cynmia (Dude. Give for I your tumblr. Nao.) THANKIES, MY MUNCHKINS!

Yay! Thanks guys. Um. I have a few things to say regarding this chapter, foremost of which is; SORRY.
I kind of plotted this out when I was in one of my moods (see: midnight madness) and then I plotted other events that link up to this that seem to make sense in my head. So, yeah. Generally this is not something I would write. So please, don't make yourself read it if you don't feel you're up to it, just skip the italics. The important thing is how much he freaks out and the implications of it.

And one more thing! These are dreams that I've actually had before. The first one scared the ever-loving out of me, I won't lie.

Drip Drop Safura

Can I love you forever through this?
Can I trust in you forever through this?
I don't know how to stop
How to stop
These teardrop-oh-ops
That drip-drop, drip-drop, drip-drop,
Drip-drop, drip-drop

"Mattie? What are you doing?" Alfred gasps as the Canadian's hands wander over his body. Matthew just smiles into the warm skin of Al's neck, kissing it.

"I'm loving you, Al. I'm showing you how much I love you," he answers, the salty taste of the American's skin on his lips. It feels so good to be able to touch this beautiful body.

"Mattie, stop," Al says weakly, "I don't like it," he protests before Matthew's lips silence him. Alfred struggles still. He tries to push Matthew off of him, away from him, but it doesn't work. The Canadian's tongue pushes against his lips, forcing them open and invading. Alfred tastes hot, slick and impossibly sweet. Matt moans low in his throat, his hands sliding down the American's sides. Al is gym-crazy. He loves his body and it shows. The Canadian loves it, too. His tongue removes itself from the American's soft mouth and licks a lazy trail down the strong tendons of his neck, making Alfred shiver.

"Matt," his voice is ragged and breathless, "Matthew stop this. I- I don't love you. I don't want this," his hands push against the Canadian, but he seems to weigh a tonne, and can't be moved.

"I know. But I love you, Alfred. I love you so much," his lips move down the American's bare chest, tongue licking, teeth scraping, leaving red marks on that golden skin and making it his own.

"Matthew, please," he begs as large, pale hands take his wrists in an iron grip, pushing them back against the mattress. Those long fingers are clamped like manacles. It's impossible to break free, "Don't do this!"

Matthew ignores him, his hips keeping the American's legs from closing as he grinds them together, his breath coming in harsh pants. Alfred's muscles strain as he tries to pull away.

"Just let me love you!" the Canadian snaps, pressing another forceful kiss to his lips, tangling their tongues and nipping at Alfred's soft lips until they are bruised and bleeding.

"Ah! Fuck, it, Matthew, get off me!" he whimpers, pulling away from those tearing, ripping, snapping teeth.

"Love me!" Matthew demands, his voice a feral snarl as he shoves three fingers into Alfred's mouth, making him gag. The American tries to bite the fingers, but his friend's cold words stop him dead, "Suck or I do this dry. I'm not waiting for you anymore, Al!" He thrusts his own tongue between the trapped man's lips, tasting both of them at once with a satisfied moan.

Alfred gasps as the fingers are torn from his lips and replaced by the Canadian's tongue. One, slick finger thrusts roughly into his body and Alfred arches his back in a feeble attempt to escape the pain, his yell of objection muffled by Matthew's lips. Another finger is added and another, until Alfred's grunts of pain become one seamless keen of anguish.

"Don't be that way, Al," the Canadian coos in his ear, teeth dragging over the cartilage as his fingers twist and flex mercilessly, pushing the American open as wide as he can go and then wider still, making a whimpered sob explode from his lungs, "I love you."

"Mattie," Alfred's face is pleading, pained and desperate. He can't fight him off, he can't seem to make him stop, "This won't make me love you. Please, please, please. Stop this!" Matthew just smiles tenderly, pressing a chaste kiss to his best friend's sullied lips.

"Love me," he whispers, thrusting forward into Alfred, who screams. Tossing his head back, writhing in agony, he feels like he's being ripped apart, but Matt doesn't stop, doesn't pause. He just carries on, forcing himself in and out of the American's hot, tight body as lewd moans fall from his lips and mingle with Alfred's ceaseless screaming.

He sat bolt upright in bed, sheets twisted around his body, pinning him in place. But even though the dream was over, the screaming didn't stop, and it took Matthew a full five minutes to realise that it was him. Every muscle in his body was trembling. With wide eyes, he clamped a hand over his mouth, taking deep, shuddering breaths through his nose as he felt his bile rising.

He- had he? No. Nonononono. It was just a dream. Just a dream. He hadn't really done that to Alfred it was just a horrible, vivid, terrifying nightmare. Or that was what he tried to convince himself of as his own twisted hands clawed at his arms and hysterical sobs racked his body.

But the part of it that scared Matthew the most, as he got up on his shaky legs and stumbled to the bathroom to empty his churning stomach into the toilet bowl, was that up until the very moment it had ended, he had been enjoying that dream.

=o)0(o~

"Matthieu!" Francis said happily, standing to greet his ex with a kiss to each cheek making Arthur scowl and sulk childishly, much though he tried to hide it. The Canadian in question gave a tired, half-pleased sigh and a wan smile.

"Francis," there was sincere warmth in his hoarse voice, "It's good to see you again, and this must be he stopped dead, expression narrowing in confusion.

Arthur sighed, standing and extending a hand, which Matthew shook firmly, "I don't believe I introduced myself the last time we met; Arthur Kirkland, at your service."

"Matthew Williams, a pleasure," the surprised Canadian removed his sunglasses, rubbing his tired eyes he hadn't gone back to sleep after that dream. The very idea of going through that again made him want to speak rainbows.

The Frenchman and the Englishman exchanged worried looks or rather, Francis looked worried, and Arthur did his best not to let sympathy get the better of his guard (There was no way in hell that he was letting that boy steal Francis back. He'd had his turn, damn it).

"Chouchou, what is it?" the Frenchman asked in open concern, his fingers touching the back of Matt's hand while his lover's glare melted a hole in the glass table top.

"Just a little trouble sleeping," the Canadian smiled thinly, retracting his hand and balling white-knuckled fists in his lap. He even went so far as to force a laugh, which fell flat in the silence.

"Matthieu," the elder blonde's tone was serious as poison, "Where is Alfred? I did invite him, too."

The Canadian had been hoping against hope that no-one would bring that up. But luck seemed to hate his guts, so he sighed and fidgeted with his own fingers, twisting them about each other as he considered how best to phrase his answer,

"Alfred and I," his broken heart thudded painfully, "Well, we're not exactly in contact at the moment." Heartache was a very real sensation. Like love-sickness. All those stupid metaphors that surrounded love were so very painful, and all so horribly true. It felt like someone (that someone being one Alfred Franklin Jones) had torn the beating organ straight from his chest, crushed it between unfeeling palms and then shoved it back in the wrong way around with his fingerprints all over it. There was no place in his heart that Al hadn't touched.

Arthur winced, and Francis pressed a hand to his own chest, the other giving the Englishman's finger's a gentle squeeze.

"Would you like to talk about it?" surprisingly it was Arthur who spoke, and Matthew's answering smile, though weak, was sincere,

"No, thank you. I don't think I can do that just yet without publically humiliating myself. Just know that.. Ah, this is still embarrassing; but at least I'm not lying about my feelings anymore," he gave Francis' hand a pat and Arthur's scowl returned with a vengeance. Another fake laugh staccato notes of hysteria ever-present tumbled from Matt's lips, "Arthur, relax. You can make him happier than I ever could. And Francis, I am so sorry for putting you through what I did." The Englishman's frown deepened for a moment before falling away, his finger's threading through Francis', who smiled faintly.

"It's nothing. Without you, I would never have met Arthur."

"I'm glad. You deserve happiness, the both of you do," the attentive friend was once more at the fore; smiling, chatting, making sure that everyone else was okay.

"What about you? Don't you deserve happiness?" Again, it was Arthur who spoke, and Matt got the sneaking suspicion that maybe, just maybe, the Englishman didn't hate him.

"I'll get back to you on that one," he sighed, "But there is something that I'd like to ask the both of you, while we're all here."

=o)0(o~

"Matthew! I love you, please, come back! Don't do this!" Alfred screams, the icy wind blowing his hair back and stinging tears from his eyes. He's reaching out to the other man, who has his arms spread like Christ on the cross there are even stigmata on his hands and on his forehead. The blood on his face drips onto his shirt and forms dark, tangled rat-tails in his hair.

"You're lying to me!" he yells back, the blood from the holes in his palms falling into open air. There are tears on his face as well, and it makes Alfred's heart ache to see them.

"No, I'm not! Mattie, please! Let me love you! I'll love you! I promise," Alfred takes a step forward and Matt smiles sadly at him. The wind whips at their clothing it's always a little breezy at the top of the Hero Corp. building. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Al reminds himself that the building is twelve storeys high.

"It's too late for that, Al," even though Mattie's speaking quietly, he's still perfectly audible. Pressing his fingers to his lips his blows the American a kiss before leaning back with a rapturous expression on his face, "Bye, Al." Matthew takes a half-step backwards and topples off the edge of the building.

"NO!" Alfred roars, rushing to the edge, almost falling himself in his attempt to reach his friend. His fingers brush against the Canadian's as he grabs and misses.

It was like waking up after a falling dream, the intense feeling of colliding with the mattress ran in little after-shocks through his body. Alfred's heart was beating in his throat as though he'd been running for his life, and his breath burnt in his lungs.

=o)0(o~

"Matthew! Matthew Williams! You open this fucking door right now! We need to talk about this!" Alfred hollered, hammering on the wood of the Canadian's apartment door it was a wonder that none of his neighbours had complained about the noise.

There was a scratch and a metallic rattle, and vicious relief surged through his chest as the door opened.

Francis.

Alfred's heart sank.

"I'm afraid you've just missed him," the Frenchman said coolly, and it occurred to the American that if looks could kill, he'd be dead. He'd never approved of a single one of Matthew's boyfriends, and they never seemed to like him in the slightest in retrospect, that actually made quite a lot of sense but none had disliked him quite so much as Francis did, and the feeling was mutual. He hadn't approved of the communists, or the egotist, but Francis was just too charming for his own good, and Al didn't like it. Nor did he like how serious things had gotten between the two of them. He'd always known that Francis was no good.

"Where did he go? When will he be back?" The Frenchman scowled.

"Even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you. He just asked me to finish his lease for him, so that's what I'm doing," the Frenchman shrugged, and started to shut the door, but Al stopped him.

"I always knew you were going to hurt him," the American snapped, "I'm trying to fix this. Now tell me where his went."

Francis couldn't stop his derisive laughter, "Don't play the hero, Alfred Jones, you are the villain of this tale. I did not hurt Matthieu. You did. Are you really so blind that you didn't see how much he loves you?"

Alfred's mouth opened and closed in a wordless display of outrage. Turning on his heel, he stalked back down the corridor in high dudgeon.

He had grabbed, and he had missed.