Title: Love is a Thing to Become and Eternally Be
Rating: M. And it's not just for swearing.
Pairings: America/Canada/America
Warnings: Uh, sex between male nations (though honestly, if you're reading Hetalia fanfic you cannot be surprised), violence and slight historical liberties in places.
Disclaimer: Standard and not actually useful disclaimer goes here.
Author's Notes: De-anon from the kink meme, no doubt a few people recognize this. I'll slowly post edited chapters here, once a week or so. I won't give a schedule, I'll never follow it.
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Arthur is running through the burning streets, desperately peering into any blond face he passes, hoping to find Matthew. He doesn't, and the blond man swears violently as he encounters a group of American soldiers. Luckily, they fail to notice him, and he continues on, trying to remember where Matthew's patrol had been.
He hadn't expected this, really. He knew Alfred wanted Matthew, wanted him with an almost malignant obsession, but he never thought Alfred would actually hurt Matthew. Of course, he should have expected it, Alfred had already proved himself at least somewhat unstable in regards to Matthew. As these thoughts danced around in his consciousness, Arthur fails to keep the more morbid images out of his head. All he can do is imagine Matthew, prostrated by his burning capital, pined beneath Alfred.
So wrapped up in these awful thoughts is he that he almost misses them. The alley they're in isn't on fire, thank the lord for small mercies, and they're completely alone. Matthew is laying on his back, face dry despite the fact that even in the dim light Arthur can see angry burns blistering up his neck onto his cheek. Alfred is on his knees, Matthew's head on his lap, eyes streaming as he mouths something Arthur can't hear over the snap and pop of the burning buildings around them.
Matthew can though. The minute the capital started burning Matthew knew, knew Alfred was with them, which was precisely why he had tried to get as far from the American troops as he could, even as burns crawled up his stomach and chest, making him retch in pain.
Eventually, he collapsed, thankfully close to the alley entrance, as it allowed for some shelter. Alfred found him anyway of course, they had always been able to find one another the quickest when they were trying to hide, it seemed.
For a moment, Alfred's face had been as stern as stone, eyes reflecting the fire around them, and Matthew had wanted to whimper in fear, because Alfred had always been stronger and now Matthew couldn't even run, let alone fight. He didn't whimper though, instead he tried to stand, because he would not sit there writhing on the ground while America stood over him. The minute he tried, however, his legs buckled and he pitched forward.
Right away Alfred was there, strong arms steadying him. For a moment, Matthew allows himself that one little impulse and he leans on America, though his chest screams in agony against the action. Quickly, it becomes too much though, because Matthew has always loved Alfred above any other of the nations and the idea of giving into him is so tempting, but Matthew knows better. Arthur is like water, he knows how to flood a nation or how to keep it afloat. Alfred, Matthew thinks wryly, is more like fire. He loves with intensity, but he can and will overwhelm anyone who gets too close.
This is why, with reserves of strength he doesn't even know he has, Matthew pushes away, landing on his side. He quickly scrambles away until his back hits a wall, and Matthew sighs, glad for the support. Alfred, who is just so childish, looks so apologetic and hurt it almost makes Matthew cry, but he can't cry, not for Alfred or Arthur or Francis, so he laughs.
It must catch Alfred off guard, because the hoarse pained laughter makes the other boy slump to the ground, eyes fixed on Matthew. The space between is much less than an arm's length, their knees are almost touching, so Alfred reaches forward, sliding his dirty hand to cup Matthew's unburnt cheek. Then, parliament catches fire and Matthew has to scream because good god it hurts.
The scream catches Alfred off guard, and he jumps back, eyes wide as Matthew convulses, falling forward, panting open mouthed against the dirt path as his whole body reacts to having his seat of government burned. For a moment, Alfred is a little entranced. Matthew looks almost orgasmic, writhing on the ground, hair reflecting the firelight around them, and that part of him which seems so unheroic is suddenly there, it's telling him he should just take what is his, make Matthew see. It is the same part which, that gloomy night fifty years ago, whispered that if Matthew wasn't to be his, he couldn't be anyone's as his hand squeezed the tender neck of the other nation.
Fifty years is not an inconsiderable amount of time for a young nation, so Alfred squashes those thoughts ruthlessly. Instead, he crawls back forward, gently turning Matthew over. He still isn't crying, but he is gasping so hard his gag reflex is reacting, and Alfred just soothes a hand through the dirty matted hair and whimpers into his neighbours forehead, "I'm sorry Mattie, forgive me please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry."
Matthew can't respond, because if he tries to talk he'll just scream, but he wants desperately to tell Alfred it's okay and he does forgive him. He can't though, and through the awful haze of pain he sees Arthur approach, face guarded.
"Leave and I won't gut you," the empire says firmly, bayonet fixed on Alfred. Alfred, ever rebellious almost tells Arthur to piss off, but he can see that he isn't joking. Arthur, for whatever reason, is not going to let Alfred have Matthew, so the younger blond stands slowly, easing Matthew's head onto the ground. At the other end of the alley he picks up his musket and without turning away from Arthur leaves, his eyes not straying from Matthew until he's out of sight.
Once the upstart is gone Arthur drops next to the boy, trying his hardest to soothe him. "Shh," he tells him, even as he picks up the shaking, gangly body, "where exactly does it hurt." With Alfred gone Matthew lets himself cry, burying his face in Arthur's neck, despite the fact that that really just hurts.
"Everywhere," he tells the other, and Arthur nods. London hadn't burned really all that long ago, only about two hundred years, and size be damned a burned capital was a burned capital. What he doesn't understand, is that when Matthew meant everywhere, he meant everywhere. Alfred always had made his head and heart hurt, after all.
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