Oh, Canada (Why Do You Torture Yourself So?)
It was night. Normally, Canada would wash the dishes after dinner and head straight to bed, but with France staying over, his plans changed. It was no surprise to Matthew when the other nation picked him up, carrying him upstairs and into the bedroom. The younger man enjoyed the attention, since most people tended to forget he was even there, seeing past him as if he were nothing more than an apparition. He bounced on the mattress a bit when Francis put him down and did not have much time to think before his lips were assaulted by the Frenchman, the latter smoothly positioning himself directly over Matthew's body.
France broke the kiss and whispered like silk in his ear, "Es-tu excité, mon amour?" (Are you excited, my love?)
Canada gasped when Francis began to tease his ear with licks, nips, and bites, so he answered with a nod, not trusting his voice to cooperate.
The older nation fastened his fingers into Matthew's hair, scratching at the scalp slightly. Canada loved the feel of France's beard against his skin, which the older man quickly discovered during their first intimate act, so he rubbed his cheek lightly against the other's in a way that was not rough, but not quite entirely satisfying at the same time.
Francis was a fantastic lover, there was no doubt about that. He could be passionate and gentle while also acting rather cruel and teasing. The manner in which he removed Matthew's glasses and clothing with such calculated and caring movements, slowly worshipping Canada's body to the point where no inch of skin had been left untouched was exceedingly pleasurable with each passing encounter.
Unfortunately, even with all of the knowledge and expert techniques in the art of sex that France possessed, he could not give Canada the one thing he truly desired. Love. Was that too much to ask?
In his mind, back when he had been so naive, he thought Francis would be the One--and that was before sex came into play. First, it was lingering touches, innocent at the beginning, but they soon escalated to the point where it was obvious the actions were more than friendly. Then, the open-flirting started, which appeared to be an all too well-known quirk that was characteristic of France, though there was something about the fashion in which he spoke toward Canada that seemed to be different, special, intentional.
When he and France were alone and the latter propositioned him with the real thing, Matthew accepted the invitation easily, especially since he had taken a fancy to the Frenchman. He felt like he was on top of the world! He would be loved and cared for by Francis, or so he thought.
When the two actually engaged in sexual intercourse, Canada was filled with shock, surprise, and hurt when the other moaned out 'Alfred!' when he climaxed. Afterward, France blamed it as a slip of the tongue, but it continued happening to the point where there was no need to explain.
Matthew was aware his appearance looked strikingly similar to America, which was not far-fetched since they were indeed brothers. In the darkness of a room, hair mussed, no glasses, and eyes closed, it would be simple for someone to mistake him for his older brother. If only that was the answer, but Canada knew that France wished he was having sex with Alfred, not him.
It was a sad truth that Matthew had a one-sided love, yet he did not stop the sexual relations once he came to his conclusion. If this was the farthest he was going to get to real love, he was going to take it, despite the niggling voice in the back of his head telling him it was wrong. It was best to ignore that voice, more so during intercourse than any other time so he could at least enjoy it.
France was now licking and grazing his teeth against Matthew's neck, another one of his sensitive areas. It caused tingles and tremors to go down his spine and legs. He shuddered, linking his arms about the other man's back. He could not control the embarrassing noises--all breathy gasps, moans, and squeaks--that were escaping from his mouth. He knew France thoroughly took pleasure in being the reason for those sounds, so there was no point in even attempting to stifle them.
Matthew was in a haze, losing track of time as Francis did numerous things to his body, spouting, "Quelqu'un est en cours ce soir, avide" (Someone is being eager tonight) and "Permets-moi de t'entendre, mon amour" (Let me hear you, my love) in his deep and sensual voice. France always spoke in his native language during anything sexually related. He constantly bragged that French was the most beautiful and romantic language in the world, so why not speak it during an equally lovely act?
Canada had almost gone out of his mind by the time Francis got around to putting himself inside Matthew. Their bodies were slick with sweat as France began to thrust powerfully in and out of Canada, holding the other close. Canada clung on with his arms around Francis' neck, and legs wrapped tightly around his waist. With his eyes shut, he focused on the sounds of the bed hitting the wall, slapping of skin, and labored breathing. This is exactly how Canada would want to be made love to, nice and slow, but this was only sex. He could pretend this was love making for a little while, though the other's groans of "Ah. Ah. A. Al. Alllll" were making that difficult.
His body throbbing and warm all over, Matthew came between their bodies, arching like a strained bow until he was done and went back down flat. The tightening of his muscles squeezed around France, who gave a few harder jolts forward of his hips until he emptied himself into Canada. The aftershocks, relief of stress, and pleasant feeling of being filled with France's seed were enough for him to plainly ignore the sound of his brother's name as the Frenchman embraced him, kissing the top of his head.
The next morning, Francis was to return home, and left with saying, "Je t'aime, Mattie." (I love you, Mattie) before kissing him. Canada knew this was a lie, or at least in the way he believed in love. With the amount of time Matthew had put up with being a substitute for his brother, it was actually starting to eat away at him for some reason. He busied himself with chores around the house, anything to keep his mind off of France's infatuation with America. This method of avoidance only worked for a short while because his older brother let himself in.
"Hey, Matthew, why the long face?" Alfred questioned, apparently seeing the other's sorrowful emotions in his facial expressions.
"Oh, nothing, really," he lied, focusing hard on cleaning a pot from dinner the previous night.
"Come on, Mattie, if there's some--" America began to say, putting his gloved hand on Canada's shoulder.
"Don't call me that!" Matthew snapped, effectively cutting off his brother's words and jerking out of his reach. He turned to look at Alfred. He was everything Francis wanted, obsessed over. So confident with himself, outgoing personality, spoke his mind, seen and recognized by others, uncaring what anyone thought of him. Why couldn't Matthew have that? Why couldn't he be loved too?
"Sorry, Matthew. What's going on with you?" It was obvious America detected that something out of the ordinary was going on with his brother. He was not acting like the little boy he grew up with.
"I told you, nothing!" Canada insisted, turning his back on the other. His mind was reeling. Alfred had everything, could have France if he knew he could. This was ridiculous. Matthew was always going to be in the shadow of the great and mighty America, never even getting close to surpassing the nation in any way. He was less than perfection, a substitute, not good enough.
"But--" Alfred continued, but was interrupted yet again.
"God, I hate you. Get out of my house!" With that, Canada fled upstairs to his bedroom, locking the door. All of the emotions he had bottled up over the years were finally emerging at an overwhelming rate. He collapsed on his bed, a mix of angry and sad tears escaping his eyes. Matthew realized the sheets on his bed were that of the previous night, temporarily stained with the result of sex without mutual love. He immediately stripped the bed, tossing the material on the floor carelessly, and collapsed on the bare mattress. His frantic sobbing and jerking body movements proceeded from there, lasting for an undeterminable amount of time. He jumped back and sat up when he felt something came in contact with his head. With blurry-eyed vision, he saw his brother had made it into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Why do you hate me, Matthew?" he asked solemnly, removing his hand from the other's head. The firm seriousness in which it was spoken caused Canada to quiet down, though he could not stop the tears. Alfred slowly and calmly took off the other's spectacles as well as his own, so they could see each other eye-to-eye.
"Was there something I did that upset you?" America pressed on. Matthew allowed the other to touch his face with his hands, which was oddly relaxing.
"Y-You-You-" he began, but his throat felt so tight, he was forced to cough. America moved forward, hugging his brother close as he tried to compose himself enough to speak. "I don't hate you. I love Francis, but he is in love with you. I hate that I can't be you."
Alfred was running his fingertips in circles against the other's back. "How do you know this?"
"We've had sex dozens and dozens of times. Each time, he calls your name, not mine." Canada shuddered a sigh. "You're the one he wants, I'm just a stand-in."
"Then why do you keep doing things with him?"
"All I want is to be loved. It's the closest thing to love I'm ever going to get. I might as well take it when I have the chance."
"I love you, Matthew," America whispered in a hushed, soothing voice, which was uncharacteristic of him. There was no one else in the house, so there wasn't much of a reason to keep quiet.
Canada sighed uselessly, as if the other had not been following their conversation whatsoever. "I don't mean that kind of love."
"Are you sure?"
Before Canada could properly respond, Alfred was kissing him hard on the mouth in a way a lover would, not a sibling. It should have felt strange and disgusting because he knew this was his brother, but strangely enough, it felt nice, good. Matthew sighed and reciprocated, the action having a relaxing effect after the mental exhaustion of his episode earlier.
He pulled back and asked, "Do you really mean that, Alfred? You're not just saying that to make me feel better?"
America laughed, albeit much softer than his usual one, and wiped away any stray tears from the other's face. "Of course I mean it. I really admire you, Matthew, I always have. Somewhere along the way it turned into something more, but I didn't think you shared my feelings."
Canada absorbed this information, reflecting for a moment, and then admitted, "I suppose I was just kidding myself when I thought I was in love with Francis, especially after I found out he was only with me because I look like you. I... I think I do love you, Alfred." He raised his eyes upward to connect with another set of blue ones.
"Well, let's see where things go from here, and maybe I can confirm a thing or two for you," he suggested, flashing a heart-warming smile that made Matthew do the same. He sniffled a bit and was consumed in the older nation's arms, warm and comforting.
"This must be what love feels like," Matthew thought to himself as he closed his eyes and reveled in the feeling of being truly wanted. It was more perfect than he originally believed, absolutely phenomenal and beyond description in words.