***WARNING*** Secks. And mention of violence.
His hands ran up and down his bare sides, sending tingles of fiery pleasure through his body. He could feel him inside him, there, such a physical presence that it almost made Canada faint. The burning, throbbing, sensation was just about too much. He barely managed to keep his vision clear, though it barely mattered in the darkened room. His lover bent to down to kiss him, sharing their bittersweet saliva until they needed to breathe.
Denmark stopped thrusting just long enough to stare into Matthew's eyes, and whispered, "Mathias…" Matthew smiled and reached up weakly to pat his wild wheat-colored hair. "I love you," he said in Danish.
"I love you too," Matthew replied. As he leaned up to kiss him again, he murmured, "Don't stop." Magnus obeyed him, and soon their noises ran the risk of being detected by other inhabitants of the house.
A few hours later, Matthew was awakened by the sound of one of America's movies downstairs. He sat up in bed, and listened. Alfred was yelling, true, but he was only yelling at the movie.
The young nation cast a glance at his current lover. Magnus was still asleep, his blond hair even more disheveled than usual. Matthew smiled. He liked the Nordic. True, he was brazen and rude and more than a little horny in public, but as a lover… He was kind. Accepting. Adoring. He listened. Nothing like Gilbert… Prussia had been narcissistic, only bothering to have sex with him for his own pleasure. A little shudder of revulsion passed over his skin at the thought, and he wondered how he ever could have been in a relationship with someone like that. He tucked his knees under his chin and waited for an epiphany.
None forthcoming, he stood up and stretched. The light of midmorning cast its warm yellow glow on the room. Matthew stumbled over to the dresser and pulled on a pair of loose sweatpants emblazoned with the symbol of the national hockey team, and then rummaged about until he found the matching red-and-white t-shirt. He posed in front of the mirror for a minute, and then heard Alfred calling for him.
"Hey! Mattie! Hey Mattie-Mattie-Mattie—"
Denmark sat up in bed, his hair sticking up in all directions. "Whasshapen'?" he slurred.
"I'll be right back," Matthew promised, briefly leaning across the bed to kiss his nose. "You can sleep." Magnus collapsed willingly as soon as Matthew sat up, and the Canadian smiled fondly back at him. He dashed down the stairs to Alfred's call.
"What do you want, Al?" he asked serenely as he sat down on his favorite chair.
"Eh…not much," America said, his cheeks going a little red. "It's just…. well…. I want your advice," he said quickly.
Matthew raised his eyebrow in disbelief. "You want my advice," he repeated. Alfred nodded. "You—the United States of America—want my—Canada's—advice. Are you drunk?" he asked, and then fell over laughing.
"Mattie!" Alfred admonished, blushing and scowling. Matthew rolled over on the couch, holding his stomach in. It was all so hilarious—Alfred's embarrassed face, the entire situation…
Alfred grabbed him and hauled him upright, glaring severely at him. Matthew noticed that his eyebrows were blond, too, and this only made him laugh harder for some reason. "Shut up!" the American hissed, and shook him. "I just saw Russia off in Europe, and…we had an interaction. I don't know what to do," he enunciated clearly. "And I'm asking you for help, so don't make a big deal of it, you stupid motherfucker!"
He let go of Matthew, and he collapsed back. The Canadian sat up slowly, keeping one eye on his brother. He ran a hand through his hair and straightened out his clothes before asking, "So, what happened?"
It took a while to get the full story out of Alfred, for the narrative was repeatedly punctuated by bursts of tearful sobbing or cursing. But, as far as Matthew could tell, Alfred had been conducting some business with Turkey (he was unwilling to divulge what sort of business) when Russia and France had showed up. "Probably shopping," Matthew had mused aloud.
"They were spying on me! Obviously!" Alfred had spat. Matthew merely had shrugged and allowed his brother to continue. Russia had went up to Alfred and started "putting the moves on him", whatever that meant. Alfred had repeatedly refused him, until… Here he'd pulled up his shirt to reveal a large, blotchy blue-green bruise on his torso.
"He pulled that fucking pipe out of nowhere and fucking hit me with it! Right in the fucking stomach!"
Matthew had examined it closer. "Ouch. That's not good. I think you have some broken ribs." Alfred had shooed him away and went on. France had pulled Russia off of him, and somehow convinced the angry communist to leave. Before they had, however, Russia had looked straight at America and said, you can't hold me off forever, dear America. Alfred recounted this and shuddered.
"It was so goddamn creepy, dude."
Matthew nodded noncommittally. "Mm-hmm. So," he began, getting right to the heart of the matter. "It's obvious he still loves you."
"Yeah, but he doesn't have to be so freaking psychotic and creepy about it," Alfred snapped back.
"Shouldn't you just give him a chance? I mean, he was a lot nicer when you were nice to him…"
"You saw where it got me and Liet!" Alfred crossed his arms and curled up in an irritated ball. Matthew let the air out of his lungs in a single long, whooshing breath. They fit each other, he thought. Both much too childish for their own good.
Russia sat down in the seat Cuba gestured to, and accepted the cigar that was offered him. He pulled his lighter out of his pocket and lit the cigar as he talked. "I understand that you are…not happy with the treatment you have received from dear America."
"Of course I ain't happy with it," Cuba snarled, sitting down and shoving aside his boss's papers. He was obviously uncomfortable in his neat suit, but his eagerness to please his stronger ally won over his chaotic nature. "It would be great if you could…arrange something that could give me a chance to get back at that asshole."
Ivan smiled. "I believe that I can do more than arrange something," and he took out a small plastic box from his jacket. This he placed on the desk between them. Cuba leaned forward, awe in his small dark eyes.
"Is that…"
"Only if you cooperate," Ivan said, and was pleased to see Cuba nod desperately.
"You don't have to worry about that, Mister Russia. I'll do whatever you ask."
"Good." Ivan took an enjoyable drag on the cigar, and stood up. "You can build it wherever you please. Just don't do anything with it without my permission, and…keep it a secret from America." Mentally blocking out Cuba's frantic affirmations, he walked to the door. Just before opening it, he turned back. "Oh, and dear Cuba?" The island nation had been reaching for the keys in their small black box. As Ivan's eyes fell on him, he snatched his hand back and sat down. The Russian smiled.
"These are some excellent cigars."
Okay, here it is! Chapter 23! (Wow. This is so long.) Oh the tension... Anyways, please review!
(The K/S fanfiction is...being worked on. Meaning, I am procrastinating. There is also other commitments, but I promise that I will do something with it. Probably edit the meeting and start on the second chapter. Don't give up on it yet!)