[Fanfic] Why isn't it my name on your lips?

[destinyshiva]

Title: Why isn't it my name on your lips?

Authors: DestinyShiva and StarSpangledSilence.

Edited and Betaed by: DestinyShiva, aka moi. (If there are grammar mistakes, I purely blame the fact that I am freaking shattered).

Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort.

Rating: Mature.

Pairing(s): USUK and CanUK. (Bottoming!UK as always from me).

Warnings: Rather pwp-ish sex, sadly. Involves a lot of jealousy and disapproval. (England might seem out-of-character, although it is deliberate to try show his devastated/heart-broken state).

Summary: After his independence, America left the once proud and youthful England in a state of disarray and personal heart-break. Now, only Matthew remains to pick up the pieces. Post-rev war pwp, CanUK and implied USUK.

Late July.

Canada.

...That year.

(When did it all go wrong?)

"Arthur? Arthur, don't feel so bad."

The same thing had been repeated, time and time again. It was always taken for granted.

It had been a month since Yorktown, and yet Arthur had only been over here in Canada for a week. The gunshots and sounds of rain were heard regardless of whether there was sun or rain outside and the Brit lived as if dying. Matthew, of course, had been automatically falling into role of caretaker.

"Here, have some more tea. It's really not worth all this. He's not worth all this."

"He's not worth it..." Arthur repeated, murmuring back almost soullessly now. At first he had been horrified when he lost him - him, the most charitable colony he had very had. His best friend. His everything. His happiness. Him.

Now, Arthur would barely move these days knowing that there was nothing worth waking up to. With his heart broken, he followed what Matthew said closely, taking his words as if they were absolute orders.

Such a vulnerable state. If anyone else had seen him like this, he might have fallen to them instantly. He needed to heal.

"...Right." He muttered.

"Here." Matthew tilted the warm liquid into his mentor's mouth, a little more than frustrated at how he was acting. All that power, all that control. Well, why was Alfred worth so much, and why was Matthew here a cushion to fall on? And yet, it wasn't like he could snap at Arthur here. Another snap would send the fragile man into little bits.

"Feeling better, right? No more moping. No more of it!" It was the loudest he'd spoken in that week.

Arthur looked up at him, eyes wide and awake, before their glance fell back down to the floor - where it had been for the last week or so. He swallowed the contents of his mouth, and gave a sigh. He had felt so empty since Alfred had gone. Nothing to fill the void.

"I'm going to go lie down," Arthur murmured, and pulled away. That was practically all that had happened since they had gotten out of America. He'd be awake for a bit, remember he had nothing to look forward to, and then crawl back to sleep.

A small huff, but Matthew simply gathered up their things for tea - all untouched, of course, as they had been for the past week, no matter how hard Matt tried - with a small clanging noise. "Go ahead, Arthur. I'll be with you as soon as I'm done with these dishes."

Same old cycle, and he still ignored poor Matthew, unless he absolutely needed something. God! He didn't break away, did he? He wanted to rant at Arthur, to make him realize. But instead, he gave another angry sigh and dried another dish.

Unlike the last week, now something suddenly occurred to Arthur - something that made today break out of the usual routine. He glanced back, eyes befalling on Matthew as he started to clean up. He looked so much like his brother. It hurt to look in his face. But there was a huge underlining question that Arthur never tried to ask. Now his lips managed to part, several days too late.

"Matthew, why are you even here?" He asked, voice cracking from misuse.

"Oh, you remember my name!" The tone was still very light, and the long fingers dried another plate with skill before moving onto the silverware. Yes, he was much better about cleaning up than that brother of his. Much better at a lot of things, in fact. Just not quite as selfish and therefore not as clever! Yes.

"I'm here because you need me here, of course. I'm here because you would finally acknowledge me - and only if dearest Alfred decided to run away."

"Don't say his name," Arthur hissed, as if the mere sound of it burnt in his mind. He did not want to face it; reality. It was something for other people. Certainly not for him. Arthur stepped towards Matthew, taking in his anger in his voice and just not understanding. He used to be so easily empathetic. Or at least his arrogance would maintain his ignorance. That was all over now though. So, why would he be here? Why would he be upset? Why would he care?

"Maybe I wouldn't say his name if you said my name more often, Arthur. For someone that gave it to me, you use it a great deal less than everyone else," Matthew gave that smile he had learnt from someone. Bitter but forced. Arthur hated it, but he was unaware that it was an expression that he had taught the male himself. Now, while Matthew had been the save of a large muffin when first discovered, he could now successfully tower over Arthur just as Alfred had.

Indeed, they were very similar looking. Youthful, blonde, fresh, and of course, that sort of radiance that told of riches. "I'm Matthew. So, you know, every night when I have to comfort you when you have the nightmare - the least you could do is murmur my name when you're clinging to me for reassurance."

Arthur looked down at his feet again, letting the strong words spur through him, making his frame shake in thought. His lips were tugged into an uncomfortable frown, but one that looked so familiar on Arthur's face now. That disappointed, broken-hearted, empty look. Blink, and he was looking up again.

"Thank you." His breath murmured quietly, almost inaudible.

"Thank me? Or are you just trying not to think about that idiot I'm supposed to call a brother again?" The other gave him a long stare before sighing and shaking his head, backing off and away. Arthur was no longer so big. He was just small and vulnerable and, now, well… depressed.

Alfred, what have you done to him?

"You shouldn't even waste time on him. I'm right here, you know." He said.

"Thank you." Arthur simply repeated, solidifying that he meant it and that it was towards Matthew instead of... him. He still refused to mention or think his name. The one that he had left behind.

With a heavy heart, he moved over to the other man. His weak body trembling at the weight of his own thoughts. So many memories, so many depressing things, so many things that turned out not to be true, or not anymore. Like how they would be together forever. "For being here with me. A-And not..." going. He bit his lip.

How pathetic was he, right now? He didn't feel like himself. He had never been so disheartened, and so chaotically restricted. The whole world seemed to press down on him - only Matthew seemed to not blame him for what had happened.

"Huh. Thanks for being here? Isn't that new! You usually don't notice me there half the time Alfred's there," added Matthew, a little venomously, but his anger cooled and he sighed. Coming forward and actually placing his arms around that thin figure.

For the first time in about five months, when he first realised that he was fighting a battle that he will always have to inevitably lose, those eyes lit up with something as arms were placed around him, drawing him in unexpectedly. "...What are...?" You doing, he wanted to ask, but he lost his words again. Unable to speak.

Just like he's lost, and doesn't know how to recover, Matthew noted.

"Comforting you. Getting your mind off of that selfish jerk for once." The answers came deliberately, and the hug became longer and longer than the expected time. In fact, Matthew just didn't let go. He kept holding him, unable to explain it. Unable to tell what he wanted from a person like Arthur, who was as blind as everyone else. "Weren't you going to lie down, Arthur?"

"Give me a second," Arthur responded slowly. He sunk limply into Matthew's arms, and pressed their foreheads together for the longest of times. Their noses brushed, they breathed each other's air, and Arthur completely missed that they were in such an intimate position. Millimetres away from kissing. When he became wise to the closeness, after about a minute of torture, he blinked out the burning from his sore eyes and grabbed Matthew's shirt at his chest, grappling at it, clinging on.

Matthew kept holding onto him in that one position that was much, much too intimate for them two, for those two brothers that weren't even close. Comforting. Matthew's lips pressed against Arthur's cheek, as the opposite used to happen when he was a child with some unsightly woe. Then again, lower, until somehow - they were kissing. Kissing almost as lovers were.

Comfort.

Arthur had been shocked, at himself more than Matthew, but he did not pull away. In his emotion, and his desperation, he returned the kiss. All he wanted was to be loved, and the person he wanted most was gone. He poured himself out to Matthew on the rebound. Their lips slid easily against each other's, like they were experiencing this naturally. Like all thought and mind had gone away, and their instincts were forcing them to meld together. They kissed fiercely, and soon Arthur found himself opening his mouth for Matthew's tongue, clinging weakly to the embrace.

It was startling and it was entirely new and for Matthew, it was incredibly nice. Almost something exciting, since he'd never gotten something like this before. Not that he hadn't known the theory, what with a moron brother like his and the experiments they'd done as children - but all the same he swept his tongue inside Arthur's mouth with surprising confidence, making the kiss that much more… the comfort had ended, hadn't it?

It was like Arthur was on auto-pilot. Lights on, nobody home. He wrapped his arms around Matthew's neck, curling them in longish blond hair, and moving his lips with Matthew's perfectly. He sucked on the tongue in his mouth, and engorged himself on the dominance Matthew sent to him. He then pulled back, and went to whisper in Matthew's ear. Everything seemed to be happening fast, but in reality it was so slow. Tender and fearful.

"Bed me," He managed to request, body trembling with need for comfort.

All this experience here Arthur had and yet, none of his colonies had ever known exactly how much Arthur had to offer, did they? Or had Alfred known after all? Too much to wonder. Too many sensations, and what Matthew lacked in skill he make up for in tenderness and an aptitude for learning. Sooner than later he learned to give that strong dominance that Arthur seemed to crave, and he learned to push for more in the kiss, learned to give more.

"Yes," he answered, a little breathless, and marched his mentor, still mourning, into the other room with their lips meshed together.

A few minutes later, and Arthur was pushing his bed sheets away; opening his bed up and climbing down onto it. Darkened green eyes looked up, and he pushed his body up to capture Matthew's mouth again as he pulled him down and on top of him. Never mind him being relatively inexperienced. Never mind him being young. He needed someone, and Matthew was the only familiar face that stuck by him now. He had no one else.

Oh, didn't that face look ever so much like his? It was like the same features drawn by two different artists with the same skill, yet two varying styles. That was it. Arthur's need for a love affair seemed to be too great. Matthew would naturally fall into the role as whatever was needed. He knew what to do, yes. Being raised by France had several perks to it. "Are you sure?" he murmured once, before sinking down to kiss again.

"Yes," Arthur responded automatically. Normally his lack of thought towards the consequences would have been highly worrying for the both of them; but now, something like this felt like it was the very best thing. He no longer had anything else to lose. Nor anything worth mourning over. All that was important had already cruelly been plucked from him. He kissed back fervently, pulling Matthew onto him with ease, not willing to just let the Canadian break away before he got what he needed.

In a sense, it was what they needed.

Matthew could tell, in a way, just how very needy Arthur was. For once that made him a necessity, someone who had to be there. Gratifying, of course. He pressed his kisses, gentle but lacking finesse, down to the jaw that was all too delicate, down to the neck that had become exposed now. It was more than strange, what was happening, knowing this was Arthur - he'd never thought he'd actually be able to touch their mentor in such a way.

Before, Arthur never would have remotely desired this. When Matthew, or him, were boys, Arthur never had any desires for them. He was not that sort of man. Nor did he have urges in their early teenage years. It was only now, when they were older, when they proved that they were men rather than just the people he had helped grow and grown up by himself with, that he saw them in a different light.

Because they were handsome. So handsome, and Arthur never even realised. They had a hint of Iberia in their facial structures, Anglo in their skin, and French in their hair; oceans of blue and violet in their eyes just like the vast masses of water that stretches out for miles upon miles between them. Their bodies most firm and bold for boys, and Arthur's weary eyes could pick out the muscles under Matthew's tunic shirt. He was handsome almost beyond compare, and oh, did it make him feel hot.

They were capable of independent thought. It was not like they were the same little boys he had raised. Or, rather, grown up with. Perhaps that was a more accurate description. It felt like they were friends that have grown together, rather than him being their elder.

He had only been eighteen or so in physical age when he had adopted that American, no-longer-of-his. Now, in his early twenties - probably not quite twenty-one yet - he was barely much physically older than the Canadian hovering above him, suckling on his neck and making him moan practically soullessly. He must have been, say, about seventeen now? They grow up so quickly. Disproportionately. Plenty old enough. Plenty to make Arthur's blood boil. Plenty for Arthur to... not feel guilty.

Because he wanted them.

Arthur pushed Matthew away for a second, and brought his shirt off over his head to reveal tender whitish skin and newly formed scars. One, noticeably, right over the top of his heart. As if the loss had torn one into his flesh. He blinked away a little wetness in his eyes, emotions snagging him, and captured Matthew in another kiss - before they were parted again as he stripped the Canadian's shirt away too.

Matthew let him, pulling the shirt off and away as he shook his blonde curls out of his eyes, gazing down at Arthur just as the other had to him. Such pale skin, like newly fallen snow - even paler than his own, and there were times and places, depending on the season, that he wouldn't even see sun.

The scar shone out all the more vividly and Matthew felt his heart soften towards the slim Englishman, his kisses began to insinuate more love. His fingers scattered down the other's torso, before reaching back up and caressing that cheek - not too much older than his own, by years and power. He slipped his tongue into Arthur's mouth again, other hand trailing downwards to feel, slide along Arthur's still clothed thigh.

Now, their movements were met with silence. They did nothing but move and listen to the sounds that their movements made; rustles of clothing, of the sheets, creaks of the bed, the patting of the rain furiously pounding the ground and ceiling outside, and the clicks of their lips and tongues.

Arthur's body gently pushed towards Matthew's fingers, seeking them desperately, whether they were upon his cheek or his torso or his not-yet exposed thighs. He reached down with both hands, and lifted his hips, helping the trousers he had been wearing along with the underwear beneath push past his plump, rounded and full bottom, and slide down his slender legs, off of pointed feet. With him now naked beneath the other, he utterly surrendered himself, with no will to fight against what was happening. Pure need to be desired and touched expertly filling them both.

Matthew blinked a few times, as if unsure whether Arthur was just an illusion or not. Had he really never noticed in all these years? Not noticed that Arthur was so... well, there was no way he could pretend to devalue this feeling. How had he not noticed that Arthur so hot? Sexual appeal. He leaked sexual appeal and if this was what Alfred was missing, well, he could go waddle around with his independence.

So this is what real arousal felt like, Matthew assumed, and leaned in to press a kiss to the exposed knee, drawing the leg up to survey. Lovely skin, a few old scars, a few curves, all perfect eye candy. "...We will be using lubricant, won't we? Apparently it's been awhile." The blue violet orbs lingered at Arthur's near invisible entrance. He knew what to look for.

Unlike Matthew, the thought of having lubricant did not even occur to Arthur; and nor did it look like it mattered much to him right now either. He did not care for the sting it would place on his body. If anything, he welcomed it. It was a reminder that he was here. That he was alive. That he would not be feeling numb, for that was the sensation that filled every particle of his being, forever.

Wordlessly, Arthur took Matthew's fingers and pushed them into his mouth. He did not try pushing himself, to get them to the hilt, and so instead made sure that the tips alone were wet enough. His tongue tickled the undersides, and a minute later he let them withdraw. His eyes spoke louder than his lips would, right now. 'Please' was communicated through heartless pupils.

"Right," murmured Matthew, who finally understood. Hell, Arthur wouldn't pull away if he'd tied him to a pole and just selfishly did the deed, would he? Did Alfred honestly mean that much? So much that this emotionally broken mess would just bent to anyone's will as long as it meant that he was embraced, and attended to?

Naturally, Matthew pulled back, scooted Arthur over and flipped him onto his stomach to get better access to that round backside. One finger pressed against the slight pucker, and tried to push in. It wouldn't budge. Helpless to the power of physics, Matthew opened his mouth and let some more saliva trickle onto his fingers, trying to ease them inside.

Once upon a time, Arthur had been willing to experience new things. Far too sexual as a teenager - he was the sort to crave experimentation. To say that he went around a bit was not a lie. But that golden era of indulgence and whimsical enjoyment was over by now. His teenage years gone, as a person more than a nation, and he was forced to grow up mentally. A little too quickly, at that.

So much responsibility came with being the one to care for another human being. While Alfred had been his, Arthur had been brought into celibacy. Too busy to care for other individuals in that way. Too much to think about when at another man's bedside. Alfred brought about a dry spell, but he was glad that he did not have to spread himself around like too little butter on bread anymore.

Now, he had not been penetrated for over one hundred years, nor had he had any other form of sexual involvement. Never mind his past. He was a new man, new thoughts, new worries, and new heartbreak. But without Alfred, he had no one to be responsible for anymore. No one but Matthew and a few other small colonies, mostly in Africa, which he cared about far, far less in comparison to the beautiful golden boy that both changed and ruined his life, as well as changed and ruined him. Of course, he was not as easily pliable.

As Matthew did manage to push a finger inside, after having to rub his entrance sweetly and coax it apart, Arthur gave a low whimper - something unexpected from an older man. Their smaller physical age gap now seemed even smaller. Succeeding to sink in him, Arthur closed his eyes and concentrated on the digit within him, trying to lose all his thoughts and regrets, and heart break, and just pay attention to that one feeling. That one, simple sting.

The sting expanded after Matthew got that fingertip in. More pushing, more twisting, and more force. That was how he managed to ease in the entire finger, after a goodly struggle. But oh, yes, didn't it feel something marvellous? Arthur was tight. As he should have been, as new parents didn't have much time for sex and he had more colonies than should be. But even more wonderful was that even as his muscles would try to, he would not resist. Another finger started to push inside.

With muscles forced to part, the Briton on the receiving end of the digits that were invading him stayed still in attempts to help stop it aching. It was a dull pain - not the sort to alert one and force one away from whatever was hurting, but the sort to remind constantly that it was there. A niggling, constant feeling, but a good distraction all the same.

Arthur's hips jutted backwards and made Matthew's fingers press against him so his fingernails would nick him, just the smallest bit. The sensation made him wince, and Arthur slowly rolled his hips again - just wanting something to rid his mind from what plagued him. Small noises erupted from his mouth, but still no words.

"Why do you want this... this is ridiculous. You're hurting," Matthew's voice floated out behind him and there, the digits were forced in further. Expanding him and stretching him for what would be more distracting pain, wonderful pain. All this wasn't out of love, was it? Pity and need and lust, sympathy even, but not much love in it. Matthew moved, lovingly, and added the third finger, twisting them about and drilling him open.

"It's good," Arthur said, cutting through his own practical vow of silence. He glanced at the other blond over his shoulder, eyes connecting with those deep blue-violet orbs. Only one of them had any life and shine behind those bedazzling irises. He pushed back, helping Matthew's hand quicken its pace and impale him more often and sometimes more ruthlessly. Not that that was what Matthew wanted to cause.

"This is good? It's clearly hurting you. Arthur, honestly..." He worked at it, stretching more and more until the fingers didn't even have to struggle before they could push in and out, easily. More vigorously. Then Matthew withdrew his fingers, just wondering if this would be the right thing.

"Stop thinking about him," he ordered, his first order, and then there was a clinking behind the Briton. His belt slid off, his trousers, underpants, and yes he was hard. Situations only accounted for so much in these matters. "Think about me," said Matthew, again, almost desperately, and he just pushed in.

As Matthew glided into Arthur's body, he struggled as he did so. Those blasted muscles just would not part wide enough and his mentor had clenched involuntarily at the thought of the boy that had left him behind.

Beneath him, Arthur flexed. The force of the Canadian's thrust pushed him downwards towards the bed more than Matthew managed to push into him. Having his hips in the air like this, when he was so recently inexperienced and tight, was disadvantageous. So the position was changed. Soon, Arthur was face to face with the other... man now, he supposed. Matthew had grown so much. Yes, now Arthur carefully wrapped his legs around Matthew's hips, drawing him back in - easier now in the new position, and after at least one thrust had been finished. The pain made his lip quiver, and him gasp.

Arthur did not call his name. He breathed out something inaudible, but sounded suspiciously like a call for someone that Matthew would rather that the older Brit would avoid. The root of all this.

"No, no, no!" Matthew's voice was startlingly loud, and he forced Arthur's hands up, gripping onto them and sliding them above his head. "No." The next thrust came more quickly than the first, and it lacked the tenderness the first one had. This was more insistent, more forceful, and it made the friction explode. "No, no. Don't say his name! Not when I'm the one who's doing this."

Arthur looked distressed for a split second, but he soon bowed his head and quickened the responsive rocking of his hips to match Matthew's pace. As his hands were made to linger above his head, Arthur used his thighs instead to pull Matthew's stomach and consequentially his hips down and unto him. "...n-nn..." His low grunts, going with every thrust that powerfully forced into him, making his internals burn and heat pool in the bottom of his stomach below all the bitter, depressed, emptiness, quietly filled the air.

It was almost as if Arthur had forgotten - as if he could not voice and moan out Matthew's name in his hurt, impossible need, simply because Arthur had lost the knowledge. Parts of him shutting down with the weight of what happened. It was questionable how long he would be so numbed for, but Matthew alone had faith and hope that the Briton would bounce back, back, back onto his feet. For there was still a world out there to find.

As they rocked, bodies attached and rutting, it was more instinctive than comforting or loving - and that was clear. Arthur was only in his position because he needed a distraction, attention, tenderness as well as - to a lesser extent - bitterness. Perhaps he was masochist enough to crave punishment for his failures. For losing something so utterly important. The impact of the loss being too big for him to mentally recover from yet. It was a slim possibility, but human nature when one is depressed is more self-inflicting than one might think. No repenting for the damned and the wicked, and the guilty.

Arthur was nothing like a woman, but his man card was starting to get revoked here. Such vulnerability as the world had most likely never seen before, or at least not since he was much younger. Could his green eyes even see? They were beautiful, enchantingly so, but they seemed to not see Matthew even as the poor Canadian exerted himself and thrust inside that pliable body with force. Distracting force that it was. "Say my name, Arthur! You know my name, don't you? Say it... here I am, servicing you, and...!"

It was hard for Arthur to think with Matthew ploughing into him with such force, but he tried. Only one name appeared in his mind, and it made him shiver underneath the name's owner's own twin.

"M-m...gh..." Arthur couldn't do this. He couldn't bring himself to think back. To remember. To see anything else than that disappointed face, so similar to the man that was now driving in and out of him in slick and barely lubricated, rough thrusts.

"Ngh-M-Matthh..." He couldn't finish it. He didn't know why either. Arthur gave a choked out sob, and lost eye contact with the brother that stayed behind.

(Do you see what you've done, Alfred?)

Matthew scowled in annoyance. Could he really not even manage to say his name? After all this he was doing for him while his pathetic little twin ran away? A wave of unexplainable rage came over the Canadian, who would thrust forward with almost harshness. "Say my name. Not Alfred! I'm not Alfred. I'll do this harder and harder until you remember my accurst name!" Vicious cycle that it was.

"I can't-it hurts!" Arthur cried out, and it was clear from the frantic tone of his voice that he was not referring to the thrusts, but in actuality something much deeper. He gave another strangled noise, and pressed his head into the crevice of Matthew's neck and shoulder. Never before had he seemed so vulnerable. So willing to just hand himself over.

(He's like this because of you!)

"Hurts. Well, yes, you should know something about that! All this coming from the man who forgets my name half the time around and calls me Alfred the other half!" Matthew used the name as if a bullet, and pushed himself inside deep, moaning slightly. "I'm not Alfred! I'll never be Alfred! My name is Matthew, and I'm the one who's making you feel all this right now! Not him!"

Arthur gave a shout, almost like a high pitched and shocked scream one might sing if a shot really did go through him and pierce into his chest cavity, at the mention of that name. He should hate it, he should hate Alfred for making him loss something so precious to him, not just the profitable nation but the boy behind it. But he just didn't. Perhaps that was what Matthew could not understand the most.

(Because you betrayed him).

"M-M... Matthew...!" He murmured under his breath, closing his previously wide and distressed eyes while he simultaneously huffed to regain breath between Matthew's strong but relatively slow and torturous thrusts.

(Because you broke him).

"There! That's more like it. Not Alfred. Matthew... I'm not Alfred." Thrust. Thrust. Matthew let go of Arthur's wrists to better steady them against the bed, thrusting more smoothly, his anger fading a little. Yes, Arthur was still thinking of Alfred - when wasn't he thinking of that fool of a brother of his? But now, at least he could remember his name. Another few hard jabs forward and he became more loving again, almost resignation. Remembering the sensations instead.

Not Alfred. Perhaps, with anyone else, those would be words of encouragement. Words that would fill the emptied Briton with hope and expectation of better things. Instead, it did the opposite. He trusted Matthew even less for not being him - though he was still hung up on the thought that Alfred would never betray him. Look what happened. Look who stayed behind. It was illogical not to trust Matthew now, but he didn't. Since when had a humanoid mind ever been something so stupid as logical?

(And I'm the only one that cares enough to help).

Arthur inclined his head up and caught their lips again, appreciating that their sex was beginning to become more controlled and loving rather than, vulgar as it was, just fierce fucking to forget. They kissed for a good few seconds, before need for breath broke them apart brutally. The smaller, the Englishman - and not the Canadian, like it used to be, those few years ago - hooked his legs about Matthew very tightly, muscles squeezing and flexing Matthew's invading cock in the movement. The end seemed nearer than the start, or the middle, for that matter.

(Yet you…)

"Mnh, you can't just be... there should be no way why you wouldn't hate Alfred now. Me. It's me that's inside you right now." His words were silken whispers and his movements had progressed to a fluidity that made the whole affair more pleasant, and the way they rocked against each other, back and forth, still powerful movements, were smooth. "It's me that's making you feel like this. Can't you feel me Arthur? Can't you feel me? It's not Alfred doing this. He wouldn't, Arthur. But I would."

(…are the only one he wants).

"Matthew," Arthur breathed again. Seemed in his whirlpool of a mind, he had managed to have that all important name stuck in there somewhere. The well endowed male's thrusts sent him into the bed quite harshly, but enjoyably now. After he had adjusted his position, the angle had changed and enabled Matthew to touch his prostate so much easier. Hot pulses flourished up his spine, through his invertebrates and through his nerves, straight into his brain, processed, and then a moan ensued from mind-controlled lips. Such energy tossed between them, and even the lost English nation was awakening to it. "Yes," he whispered. "I feel you."

Still on autopilot, Arthur's body bucked up at that - less of a masochist than his mind was, it seemed. He gave a moan in pleasure, and his brows furrowed and tightened like his lower muscles too. Suppressing the urge to cry out Alfred's name instead was hard. He looked above him, seeing not Matthew for a split second, but the man that had left him. The one with the cerulean eyes, and the handsomely smooth cheeks, and that sodding flick!

Gosh, he should hate him. But he could never, ever. Because he was once his, and that would linger in his heart forever. Arthur gasped and nodded, and suddenly the Brit had never seemed so... so small. No longer that invincible figure that Matthew and Alfred had grown up to respect, adore and fear all in one. Just a man. Just someone that needed love just like the rest of them. Suddenly such a strong nation had never seemed so human.

Because this was not the heartache of England. Nor the United Kingdom. But of Arthur's heart alone.

"Arthur..." Matthew saw him too. The emotions behind those eyes that had in reality been empty holes for days; void of anything any human could declare as living. Those Heavens had blacked out every star, and now they were glimmering again, maybe just for a while, fuelled by the pleasure and the pain and the feelings.

Even if he could make Arthur remember his name, if he could make Arthur like him, if he could make Arthur do all this… he still did not even have the ability to make Arthur love him when his heart was so clearly on another's. Even now, as he was nearly driven senseless - he would still think of one damned person.

"A-Arthur," repeated Matthew with a sigh that was euphoric and sad all at once.

"K-Keep going," Arthur responded with his next moan, and cupped the back of Matthew's neck and head - fingertips in that blond mass, a mass that was steadily covering in sweat from the effort. Their sexual intercourse lasted much longer than intended. He drew him in for another kiss in the sad, finishing moments.

As stars filled Arthur's eyes, prostate struck, all he could imagine was that smiling face. That smiling face that would likely haunt him, almost forever. He kissed harder, desperate for that image to go. Either that or he was kissing harder because it was exactly that image he desired to have responded. For him and Alfred to lock lips, cling to one another, have sex just like this.

Was there ever a more pathetic being in the world than him?

Desiring the one think that could not and would not be his.

As soon as his eyes opened, he could tell it wasn't Alfred. The subtle differences between them that made all the difference in the world. Because that American wouldn't do this with him, wasn't that right? Wasn't that why he declared independence? Matthew was here. And no matter how much he was like Alfred, he just wouldn't be. There was the answer. This practically meant nothing.

"Arthur-!" he murmured, breathlessly, just as pleasured himself.

The Englishman Matthew called for pulled him down so that their sweat-gathering chests rubbed together. Muscles against ribs, for Arthur had not consumed anything properly for quite a while now. He was too stricken with grief at the end of the war between him and his ex-colony. He licked Matthew's neck almost sweetly and lovingly.

Finally, his noises started escalating and they actually slowed as they drew to their climaxes. Arthur's body bowed for long periods of time while Matthew tried to, and eventually did, manage to finish him. He came upwards onto his colony's chest, giving a loud, guttural moan. A whisper of a name on his lips.

Matthew narrowed his eyes through that last bit - but he was much, much too near his own climax to do anything other than keep thrusting inside, still very much hard, still longing, but then - it all snapped, and the name he gave out was very much Arthur's own. As he climaxed into Arthur, white hot feelings burst through them, and then all it began fading and the greys of what had really happened came back. A heavy weight on his shoulders.

It was another few minutes till Arthur, and Matthew for that matter, regained his breath. Still lightly panting through his mouth, slender legs around Matthew's hips, those unsheltered green eyes locked with the man's above. Guilt, loneliness, and a hint of regret lingered there. They fell for just a second, before Arthur lowered his legs slowly, allowing Matthew to slip out of him, and the eyes returned. He reached up, cupping Matthew's cheek. "...You can't... you can't tell anyone about this."

"I figured." Matthew didn't sound disappointed, really. It wasn't sadness, but rather another sense of resignation. He knew it was hopeless, between them. He pressed his own hands, his cold fingertips to Arthur's hand, and gently eased the hand off. There was a trace of bitterness in his soft voice and more so when he smiled. "I won't tell anyone. I won't tell him. You still have your chances."

Even though his were gone.

"I'll go make you some tea," he commented, now, lightly, pulling on his clothing, and getting up to go.

Though he had been silent for a few minutes while Matthew had dressed, Arthur reacted now. A hand reached out suddenly, and captured the Canadian's fingers. Below, when Matthew turned around, he was greeted with a solemn but naturally sincere expression on the broken hearted Briton's face.

"...Thank you." He breathed just loud enough to hear, repeating what he wanted to tell Matthew constantly, but just couldn't.

Matthew looked down at the familiar face, gave another soft, pacifistic smile, then shook his head. He walked out of the room.

Monday, 5th June, 1944.

English shores.

It was only seven at night, but by this time most of the men had already retreated to their tents to do whatever - dream or hope or pray or cry. The stars gleamed on this night as they would have any other night; not knowing would take place at dawn the very next morning. Invasions, rescues, heroic efforts and heroic deaths.

Normandy was the name on everyone's minds and everyone's thoughts, but no one's lips. The British and American forces would lead an invasion to that shore - and of course, the British included the Canadian battalion. So here was Matthew, and his people, under Arthur's control. Again.

Fighting, just like back then.

This threat being more terrible and autocratic than the last.

Strolling around the campsites found him nothing, but Matthew did need to go talk to Arthur in case things didn't work out like Eisenhower was so confident about. In case things turned for the worse. But one round around camp, two, three - they found him nothing but foot prints into the woods. From Arthur's tent? Matthew followed, gun over his shoulder in case, the guns he so hated to carry but his brother so loved and so craved and even collected, the moron.

Through grass, through mud, and it brought him to a glade. And there in the moonlight was Arthur. Just that he had Alfred all over him, touching his cheek, his arm, their foreheads pressed together. Their breath shone as white mist in the cold.

As the American cupped a pale cheek, and tilted that perfect porcelain face towards him, Matthew knew that the centuries old love story had finally broke out into the next chapter. Another page was turned.

His heart was heavy as he turned away, just catching the movement from the corner of his eye as two figures came together, lips touching so sweetly. He hated the sick feeling that filled him as he left, heading back to his camp. He hated jealousy, and he hated the word hate. It just wasn't his thing.

He put on a brave face, like he always did, and faked a smile for everyone that no one really saw through - because the attention was never on him. But at least he had something. Something important, that would stop him from feeling so terribly disheartened in these dark days. Something that differentiated him from the golden boy that was now in the spotlight once again.

Something for Alfred to be jealous over.

"…Enough now. Time to move on," murmured his own lips, and he smiled.

At least he had him first.

Thanks for reading.