Title: Man, What a Way to Find out You're Really Gay
Characters: CanadaxCuba, America, Spain and Romano
Rating: T+, Serious Gay Love, Not yet M, but pretty darn close
Notes: I know I promised this to you guys forever ago. I am so, so sorry that it took me so long. ;__;
Silence. When Canada had slammed the door shut, it was as if all the noise in the world had been sucked out, leaving nothing but a stagnant static. He stood for a moment, cloaked in time that seemed to move awkwardly slowly, staring at the door handle. His face—previously solid and filled with determination—blanched. It was clearly was one of those 'what-the-hell-did-I-just-DO?!' expressions.
This lull of terror suffocated the room; Canada locked in a staring contest with the handle. It seemed like nothing would ever happen until a fist pounded on the door.
Startled like a child who's just found a dismembered hand in the cookie jar, Canada flinched visibly. Instead of pushing his body weight against the door, or shouting at his brother to leave him alone, he did the sensible thing, and locked the door. It was just this little click (and most possibly the sound of America's loud cursing from the other side of the door) that sent the blond boy to cloud nine. He glanced at the door—secure—and then back at the door handle for a final time before shooting a grin in my direction.
I probably should have been scared.
With that little smirk I had seen before he kissed me, and that fire of new confidence manifested on his face, he looked not too unlike that French kid from school (the bastard who kept making passes at my Canada) when he had his prey in his sights. In fact, I wondered why I hadn't noticed the resemblance sooner. Maybe it was because I was too busy imagining how Canada would look naked. And with the look he was giving me, I wouldn't have to imagine for too much longer.
Smirk growing wider with every step, Canada sauntered over to his bed with sinuous grace. I wondered if he had been trying to make his hips sway like that, or if it was just my erection messing with my mind. His little stray curl bobbled into what appeared to be a heart shape. Yup, it was just me.
He descended upon my form (which was sitting up at this time) and smoothly took my wrists into his palms. I was pinned against the wall. He had invaded my mouth before I could even wonder where the hell he had gotten this new strength from.
For the love of…
How could Canada even think about continuing this right now?! For the love of Castro, America was standing right outside the door! Wasn't it bad enough that he had seen us in the first place? As far as I was aware, until a few moments ago, he had been completely in the dark about our relationship, and I had hoped to keep it that way. Canada didn't need that bastard screwing in his life more than he already did, and I definitely didn't want to be a source of tension. And even if one was to push that whole issue aside, you still had the matter than our privacy was still breached. Who in their right mind had sex when someone was right outside the door?! Besides hookers and horny teenagers, I mea—
. . .
Besides Canada's lips dominating up upper half, and his fingernails digging into my wrists, he had also figured out that if he could prop himself up on his knees, and push his weight forward, our pelvises would grind quite nicely. I hated the moan that escaped my throat.
Completely against my will, my legs spread apart so they could wrap themselves around his hips and lock—ankle to ankle—in the back. Hot pants escaped my lips between kisses; my body was tingling under his touch, begging for more. To confirm that I wasn't the only one lost in the heat, he thrust his body into mine. His eye lids fluttered, his lips unhooking from mine so he could concentrate on heaving carbon oxide out of his lungs. Both of our pants bulged.
He had shifted his body a way, temporarily resting, and giving me a chance to speak. "C-Canada…" The word came with a great effort—I was trying to hurl a one hundred pound weight. "We.. we gotta stop, amor."
Lashes, delicate a soft like fallen snow flakes, fluttered open, pushed by a flurry. "W-why?" He mumbled back, staring at me through hazy eyes.
"Your brother," If I just focused on his face, and not my pulsing body, the words came easier.
"What about him?" His eyes had narrowed, and he leaned his torso back into mine, pushing our pulsing bodies flush again. My reaction was immediate, a shock sprinting straight up my spine to manifest itself in a deep groan.
The split second left my mind blank.
I was too dazed to notice when his body weight shifted backwards, or that my wrists had slid down the wall and thumped against the bed when he let them go. But when those same hands started messing with my pants for the second time that night, tugging them away from my waist, I could think again.
"H-he's right out side the door, Canada!" This time it was my fingers on his wrists, tugging their white digits from a death grip on my navy jeans.
"Who cares?!" He shot back, those delicate eyebrows starting to furrow.
"I care!" My lips framed my exposed teeth in a very distinctive snarl.
"Of course you care! Because obviously you care far more about my brother than me! What does it matter that he's out there, as long as I'm in here?!" He had a point, but…
"I'm not having sex with you while your brother is standing right outside your door!"
Like a fire that has died out and left behind only glowing ashes and coals, so did Canada's passion die down, leaving behind nothing but smoldering anger. His lips grew sour, and a shadow grew around his eyebrows, knitting them together. He stood up. His steps seemed to take him back, and out of my world, and while his weight was gone from my body, something heavier entangled itself in my chest.
His eyes remained downcast—stormy like his words. I don't really remember unlocking the door, or walking past a baffled America, though I'm pretty sure I punched him, and I must have fixed my pants somewhere along the way too, because they were tight and uncomfortable when I got home.
My driveway had only one car in it, meaning that just Spain—not my aunt and uncle—was home. I really just wanted to be alone, but it was easy enough to avoid Spain if you wanted to hard enough. He was probably watching TV in the living room, anyways. I doubted he would even hear me walk in.
I had learned to shut the door without making a sound—not that it could have been heard over the roar of the television. A Soccer match—or football, as Spain would say—screamed across the large flat screen on the far wall. Spain was not sitting on the couch, but I could see a half open chip bag and the remains of two soda cans; he probably was just in the restroom or grabbing more food from the kitchen. I kicked off my shoes, and wandered down the right hallway, past a potted plant and the family photos that just about wallpapered the wall. Heaving a sigh, I went for my door. No care in regards for sound was taken as I shoved the door open; I knew that Spain wouldn't hear me over the din of the TV.
That was, unless he wasn't in the bathroom or kitchen after all, but in the room we shared. A startled Spain looked up from the bed on right side of the room—the one with the green-plaid covering. Underneath him, Romano—shirtless and looking out of breath—had gone from red to beet red, and began to squirm.
That explained the two soda cans.
Slamming my door, I shoved my feet back into my tennis shoes, not caring that they were untied, or that my backpack was still lying in the hallway.
I slammed the house door too, and was soon out of the front yard and down the street. What possessed Spain to choose today of all days? Did he even realize that his parents were going to be home in a few hours? And why the hell didn't he know that the bed with the green-plaid cover was mine?!
Fuck my life.