AN: I promised plot, and delivered yet more backstory. However, this is ultimately important for story development! And I swear that in the next chapter (coming very soon) events will actually start to happen. This has gone on for rather too long with no story and no sex. But things are going to change...On that note, on with the chapter! I apologise for any spelling/grammar errors. Be warned that this chapter does contain sexual references and language which some may find offensive (but you knew that by now, right?).

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers.

Arthur stared blankly at his own fingers, splayed out on the tabletop. They looked very white, and very thin, against the red plastic surface.

What am I doing?

There had never really been a beginning, with Francis. The French boy had been there for as long as Arthur could remember, popping up at birthday parties and play areas since they were both toddlers. Their mothers were good friends, sharing a love of home baking and classical music, and as their youngest sons were the same age it was always assumed that they would develop a similar bond.

They didn't. Arthur despised being lumped together with Francis, being abandoned by his older brothers and left in the company of the blonde boy with the strange accent and the pointed nose, who teased and mocked him.

The feeling was mutual. Francis couldn't understand why his mama insisted on making him interact with this tiny imbecile who muttered about fairies and shouted (inexplicably and often).

Still, years passed, and they both grudgingly admitted that they weren't exactly enemies, either. When they had worn themselves out from screaming at each other, when every possible insult had been exchanged and they were red-faced and tired and full of unsatisfied rage, they would curl up together on the sofa and fall asleep with their shoulders brushing.

Of course, when their mothers finally finished chatting about whatever it is that mothers chat about, and discovered their young sons in that position, their continued insistence that they were not (in any way, shape or form) friends, was ignored.

(Mothers are very often right.)

Francis' hair grew longer, and his nose became pointier, and he developed a superiority complex as big as their neighbourhood. Arthur's cheekbones became more prominent, and he chewed his fingernails ragged, and the mystical creatures that had entertained and soothed him throughout his childhood slipped away like water through a sieve.

They still didn't like each other.

But when Arthur was taunted and excluded and eventually ignored by his classmates at school, he hovered near Francis - arms crossed, head down - until the French boy paid him some attention.

And when Francis came home to find a strange car in the driveway, and an even stranger man with his hands all over his mama's body, it was Arthur's house he went to and Arthur's mother who gave him a mug of warm milk and told him he could sleep on the couch.

They say that familiarity breeds contempt. They're liars. As Arthur and Francis so accurately showed, familiarity creates bonds.

Francis was thirteen when everything changed. It was the end of August, and he had just arrived back from the somewhat traditional holiday to France that he and his mother took annually. The day after their flight returned was Andrew Kirkland's birthday, and as usual they had been invited to the party at Arthur's house.

Now, Francis was feeling rather smug. The facts were these:

1. While he had been staying with his grandparents in their large house in the Parisian suburbs, their next-door neighbour's daughter, Jeanne, had also been visiting.

2. Jeanne was very pretty.

3. On the day before Francis left, Jeanne had kissed him on the mouth – his first kiss, to date.

4. He knew that Arthur had never even held hands with a girl, and was looking forward to rubbing his own romantic success in the British boy's face.

(Unfortunately for Francis, however, the future rarely follows our expectations. Life is a river of a thousand meanders, and he was about to reach a pretty damn big one)

He arrived at the Kirkland house with his mother, shoved the gift she had bought at Andrew, who was sixteen and obnoxious and had called him a "twat" more times than he could count, and set off to find Arthur. It took him a while, but he eventually discovered him sitting alone at the bottom of the garden, hiding behind a large rose bush and looking miserable.

He'd never been very good at social situations.

Arthur looked at him with a hint of a smirk, and Francis wondered what kind of bulldozer he'd just been run over with. Something was different. Arthur was different. He had the same features- the same snub nose, chapped lips and deep eyes. He still looked a little like a ghost, with deathly pale skin and light hair. His build hadn't changed much – he was as thin as ever, although he might have grown a couple of centimetres.

And yet- and yet those characteristics seemed to have been arranged differently. Something had shifted- something subtle, something delicate, but strong enough to change him.

Suddenly, Arthur was beautiful.

He opened that perfect mouth, and- "Why are you staring at me, you wanker?"

From that moment on, things weren't the same any more. It took Arthur a little while to figure it out, and a lot longer to achieve any semblance of understanding, but a new factor had entered the equation of their sort-of-friendship.

Sex.

They didn't have it (well, not with each other), they rarely talked about it, and Arthur refused to acknowledge it, but it was there all the same. Francis' snarky comments became flirtatious. His glares morphed into long looks. His violent shoves turned into playful jostles.

Arthur hated it.

His relationship with Francis hadn't been pleasant, or gentle, or caring, but it was real. It was constant. It hadn't changed in ten years.

This new element, this wild card, disgusted him. Suddenly, the French boy was just like all the others. Just like that kid (what was his name again, Chris something) who had bullied him all through elementary school, pushed him around in middle school, called him a queer in high school, then cornered him in the toilets one day and asked in a low voice if he would blow him.

Francis Bonnefoy, Chris Whatever-his-name-was, his brother's friend who leered and stared at him, the guy on the bus who brushed his fingers over his arse as he passed by… they were all the same. They didn't love him, they didn't even like him, but they wanted him in their beds.

Bloody bastards, the lot of them.

And now I'm letting one touch my skin and kiss my mouth and run their fingers through my hair.

Arthur slowly let his head sink to rest on the bright red tabletop.

It was all because of him. All because of Alfred fucking Jones. Arthur wanted him. He wanted him like he had never wanted anyone before. And that- that terrified him.

He didn't want to be needy. He didn't want to be vulnerable. He wanted to be fawned over, not fawning.

Alfred wanted him too, any idiot could see that – but how badly? Arthur needed him to be utterly devoted to him before he could even consider the possibility of a relationship.

Francis wanted to get into his pants. That was easy to deal with.
Alfred wanted to get into his heart. That was a hell of a lot harder to handle.

He had to be sure. Absolutely, definitely, undoubtedly sure. Otherwise, he'd end up powerless and broken. And yes, he knew that he was using Francis – but Francis had been using him for years.

Arthur's phone, lying next to him on the table, buzzed again. Four missed calls from Alfred, in the space of half an hour. By the time he left the cheap café, ten minutes later, you could hardly even tell he'd been crying.

Gilbert was singing. It was a tune he'd composed himself, and it was called, "I am an awesome boyfriend, oh yes, I am indeed".

Needless to say, it was not going to become a chart-topper.

He was also making tea. Now, this wasn't an activity that Gilbert usually carried out (mostly because he didn't like tea, and he was a selfish bugger). However, it had emerged that Matthew did like tea.

And so, like the awesome boyfriend he was, Gilbert was making it.

The only problem- well, not problem. Gilbert didn't believe in problems, just alternative solutions – was that he wasn't completely one hundred percent sure how to make tea.

There was milk involved. He was pretty sure of that. And water, too, and teabags (well, duh) and it was hot. Gilbert shrugged, splashed some milk into a cup, added a bit of water, dropped a teabag in (were they supposed to float?) and, after a moment's consideration, poured in a hefty serving of maple syrup. Then, still mumbling to himself, he put the whole thing in the microwave for a couple of minutes.

Things are going awesomely, he thought as he leant against the kitchen wall, waiting.

You need to expand your repertoire of adjectives, the Ludwig-voice chipped in.

You need to expand your penis.

After a moment, Gilbert added, Because it's so tiny.

Thankyou for clarifying that, the Ludwig-voice snapped back, But I did actually get your puerile attempt at humour.

Hey, Gilbert was suddenly struck by a thought, Is there a Feliciano-voice floating around here somewhere?

No, the Ludwig-voice replied, after a slight pause, You're not that insane yet.

Shit! That's why you're even more anal retentive than the actual Lud! You're not getting any!

I don't actually exist, you imbecile. I'm just a figment of your drug and alcohol addled mind.

Wow… way to make it un-fun, Voice. You should be ashamed of yourself.

Your "tea" is ready.

Wha-?

Your horrific abomination is ready. The microwave rang a moment ago.

The microwave rang? Who's calling, Captain Birds-Eye?

Snickering to himself, Gilbert opened the microwave door and took out the cup. It didn't look much like tea… But maybe it was the maple syrup. Still, Mattie was crazy about that stuff.

That joke doesn't work. If it was the freezer ringing, it would work. But you don't put frozen food in the microwave.

Oh, fuck off back to Atlantis and leave me in peace!

Atlantis? I'm not Namor!

No. You're not awesome enough to be Namor. Oh, Namor…

Matthew was perched on the edge of the couch, smiling weakly. When he'd entered the house, round about fifteen minutes ago, the smile had been fairly genuine. Now, thanks to the combined efforts of Ludwig and Feliciano, it was the grimace of a man long past sanity.

"…so I ran out into the field to look at it! But then- oh, I wasn't looking- it turns out, they were in the middle of a football match at the time, ve~! I got to the middle, and picked up the ladybird, and it was so pretty, it had seven spots and it was such a lovely shade of red and it had cute little stalks on it's head! But when I looked up, there were all these nasty people running towards me with helmets on… and then Ludwig appeared! And he carried me away, it was like, 'wooosh!', so fast! And he carried me to safety…"

Since he arrived, Feliciano had been relentlessly bombarding him with the story of his relationship with Ludwig, which seemed to consist mostly of the Italian boy getting himself into ridiculous, dangerous situations, then being rescued by the German. The tale was interspersed with the occasional doting look, or quick hug of Ludwig's arm.

Meanwhile, Gilbert's brother was giving him the patented death-glare #12. Matthew shivered slightly, and had to admit that it was effective.

Does he hate me? It kind of seems like he hates me…

"… but it turned out that they were just about to crush the car! Oh, it was so funny, ve~! I wasn't scared, because I knew that Ludwig would come eventually –"

"Take care of my brother." Ludwig cut his boyfriend off, his voice low and authoritative. Matthew couldn't nod fast enough.

"I- I intend to," he managed to reply.

I don't care what people say about Ivan. He's got nothing on this guy…

Jus then, Gilbert reappeared in the doorway like some kind of angel, smiling benevolently and holding a steaming cup in his hands.

"Oh, stop being so prissy, Luddy!" He sat down heavily on the couch next to Mattie, and handed over the cup. "Don't listen to him," he advised his boyfriend.

Matthew was about to reply. Unfortunately, he chose that moment to look down into the cup of… well, whatever it was.

Gilbert blinked at him, eyes big and deceptively innocent.

"Aren't you going to drink any?" he asked, sounding wounded.

Mattie couldn't tear his eyes away from the liquid. When he did glance at Gilbert, however, he looked so wounded that Matthew knew he didn't really have a choice.

He picked up the cup, did his best to hold his nose surreptitiously, and drank.

The things we do for love, eh?

There you have it! I hope you've enjoyed this chapter, and haven't given up all hope of ever seeing any plot. Thankyou for reading, and please review! I really hope that I can get past the 100 barrier, which would make this my most-reviewed story ever (as well as my longest). Anyway, let me know what you think!