"England wants to speak with you."
So move your palm from your mouth.
Hand reaching expectantly, Alfred held the receiver for his brother to take.
No, Matthew shook his head, no.
He couldn't, he can't, not with Alfred's mouth on him like that, not with his tongue gradually, wickedly sliding up the length of his betraying member, despite himself undeniably hard and wet.
But Alfred didn't flinch, phone waiting in his hand as finally Matthew took it with trembling fingers, and, fighting for composure, brought it tentatively to his ear.
He said, voice impressively close to unaffected as on the other end came the reply,
"Did everything go all right last night?"
Last night? Face hot with embarrassment, Matthew could hardly remember the events that transpired last night. It was Alfred who found him this morning, half dressed and asleep and hung over, partway strewn over Francis' chest and part over Ivan's lap, wet with hard liquor and wine and the hot aftertaste of sex, and, screams lodged silent in his throat, he instead unraveled his brother from between the other two.
Canada never could hold his liquor.
This is my fault, he thought conclusively, it was his fault, because he engaged in his own share of debauchery that night, with Arthur, much against Arthur's will, instead of babysitting his brother.
His brother, a full grown adult, but hopelessly naïve no less.
Could he blame them, Alfred thought as quietly he worked at cleaning him now, his tongue wet, gentle and warm against the hard length of the member in his hand, could he blame them, really, when Matthew was so cute, so hopelessly unaware of the predatory stares quietly calculating attack—
Oh, he could, and will, and he already did—he gave both Ivan and Francis a piece of his mind, but, really, at the end of the day, if he hadn't slipped out that night to have his way with Arthur—
That settles it, then; this clearly was England's fault.
Matthew swallowed quietly as his voice echoed soft against the receiver in his hand,
"We're cleaning up—"
Cleaning up after the party, isn't that right.
He bit his lip as Alfred took the entire tip of his member into his mouth then, cruel in his ministrations and disregard—
After several moments more, he allowed it at last to slip back out, slick and red and hot, and it was all Matthew could do to keep from asking him to please take it in again—
Alfred wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, reaching again for the receiver.
"Let me talk to him."
Nodding with helpless obedience, Matthew returned the phone, and, taking it decisively in his dry hand, Alfred cleared his throat.
"Last night was not okay!"
He informed the dumbfounded Arthur, who, really, was largely in denial that last night happened at all.
All the while, Alfred didn't stop his hand's ministrations on Matthew, fingers sliding gradually along the slick length even as he reprimanded England on the phone.
A few seconds of silence before at last Arthur came to his senses.
"Just whose big idea was last night, anyway?!"
Came the retort, and the burning red of his cheeks was practically visible in his voice.
Alfred trailed off as he very nearly took Matthew into his mouth again.
"You know?" he said, suddenly laughing, "I don't remember?"
All the while, Matthew was practically tearing up with frustration, humiliated beyond despair and red in the face. With an impressive superficial burst of courage, he attempted to escape his brother's grasp and get away, but to no avail; even as Alfred laughed absently into the phone, he maintained a tight hold on Matthew's wrist, keeping him safely in place.
Then, all at once, he grew serious.
"But that changes nothing. I had a responsibility to Matthew—"
The younger boy could now hear England's laugh on the other end of the line.
"Responsibility! And just what do you know about responsibility—!"
"Now you listen here…!"
Alfred had actually stopped for a moment to lick at the tip of Matthew's member before returning to the phone,
"…because of you, Russia and France—"
Now even Matthew could hear Arthur on the other end,
"…that bastard, France…?!"
"That's right! They…."
He gazed up at Canada's chest, still slick and messy from the night before, and shook his head in disappointment,
"…damn it, Matthew, you're a mess."
At that, Matthew finally fought back in defense,
"J—just let me be already!"
"Ha!" came the reply, and, dismissing him altogether, Alfred returned to the phone, "they made a mess of him, Arthur."
He slowly slid one finger past the wet entrance and sighed as if to himself, "Christ, Matthew, here, too…" and then, looking up at the mortified boy with genuine disappointment, "I thought I told you only I get to go there…"
Matthew cried out despite himself as he felt the long digit go in.
"Well," Arthur replied, "who the hell invited Francis anyway? Did you invite him?"
"Of course I invited him—"
"What! Why in the hell did you invite him?!"
"That's not the point,"
Alfred sighed, finger sliding all the way into Matthew as he began in a manner of habit to urge the fluid out from him,
"if you didn't occupy me I would have been able to protect him—Matthew, would you sit still—I really wish you would pay more attention…"
Arthur sputtered, too humiliated to correct him that, really, it was Alfred who did the occupying.
As he went on to say something or other, Alfred cupped the phone with his free hand, gazing up at Matthew as he murmured,
"I don't want you playing with Russia and France, those guys are perverts."
"You're a pervert!"
Matthew could vaguely hear Arthur call from the receiver, and he began wondering on just what grounds he would say so.
To be continued…