The Liar's Heart
By: Haiku and Ren (Real Cute)
Warnings: Explicit Sex, Homosexual Relationships, Domestic Abuse, Rape
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: England, America
Pairing(s): OC/England, America/England
Summary: England is finally in a relationship – with a human. Things aren't as great as they appear to be, however, and America thinks there just might be something wrong with this Oliver Walker that England is so enamored with.
Note that this chapter contains graphic rape.
Author's Note: Written for the kink meme on LJ. As with all of Real Cute's work, this is a collaboration between Kitten (Haiku Kitten) and Ren (tangiblereality).
The Liar's Heart
I thought I saw a man brought to life
He was warm; he came around like he was dignified
He showed me what it was to cry
Well you couldn't be that man that I adored
You don't seem to know, seem to care, what your heart is for
Well I don't know him anymore
-Natalie Imbruglia, Torn
Arthur was glad to pretend it hadn't happened. He wanted, more than anything, to finally be happy and settled in his life. Against his better judgment, he had turned to a human lover in the hopes of better understanding what it meant to be connected to someone by intimacy and familiarity. And he had come to love Oliver dearly.
Nonetheless, he found it strange to share his bed with someone. Oliver's strong arms wrapped around him, holding him close, and Arthur could feel Oliver breathing. It was strange. He'd never been this close to another person before. Except, of course, for Alfred - but that had been another matter entirely.
For a while, he lay awake, trying to soothe his nerves. But at long last, sleep claimed him and his dreams, and perhaps the physical presence of another, took him back in time. To the little boy he'd raised with so much love and care.
"You're too old to be sleeping in bed with me," he told the teen, smiling even as he shook his head. "What do you need your old brother for, anyway? You're so tall and strong now!"
Alfred cuddled up against him with a sheepish grin. "Sorry, England! It's just, I read this weird book and it was seriously scary and now I can't get to sleep. Please? Just for tonight?"
In his sleep, Arthur smiled to himself. "Alfred..." he mumbled sleepily.
Oliver wasn't comfortable sleeping with someone else. Even as a small child, he'd never been the type to crawl into his parent's bed when he had a nightmare. Beds were meant to be slept in alone, so he was able to stretch himself out fully. Lying next to someone else was a little bit...discerning, especially if he woke up in the middle of the night and heard them breathing.
Strangely enough, he did not mind having Arthur sleeping next to him like this. The sound of the other man's slow, even breathing lured him into slumber as well.
"Who is this!?" His father demanded, taking his mother by the neck and slamming her against the wall.
His mother, frail with her too-skinny body and short hair, trembled and choked for air. "I-it's only a...c-college friend...Please, dear...Let me go...I can't..."
Oliver, just a boy at the time, tugged at his father's leg. "You're hurwting her! Leave mommy awone!"
The taller man backhanded him across the face, splitting his lip, and causing him to cry. "Stop defending her! She's my wife, and I can treat her however I damned well please!"
His mother's body hit the floor, silently.
Oliver's eyes snapped open. He was drenched in sweat and he found that he was panting slightly. He hadn't had that dream in a while. He heard breathing next to him and he inhaled a breath sharply before he remembered who it was. 'Arthur,' he thought, lovingly, wrapping his arms around him again.
And then, he heard something that made ice flood his veins.
Didn't Arthur say that he hated him? That sleepy smile suggested otherwise, and he couldn't help being angry about it; especially after that dream. He flipped the other onto his back and roughly climbed on top of him; grabbing his hands and pinning him there. "You bloody liar!"
Arthur had been so warm and comfortable, protected by Oliver's warm body and his dream of the past. It was rare that he was ever this at ease. If he could stay this happy forever, he could be satisfied. It was all he had ever wanted - to feel safe and loved.
Suddenly, his dream was harshly crashed by the feeling of firm hands grabbing him, pulling him from sleep. His eyes snapped open in surprise and he stared up at Oliver's face, completely confused and shell shocked. Having been asleep, he had no idea why Oliver was so angry.
"O-Oliver?" he stuttered, heart pounding in his chest. "W-What are you bloody talking about? Let go of me!" He tried to struggle out of Oliver's grip, anger replacing his shock. "What the hell are you screaming about?!"
Oliver couldn't hide how absolutely pissed off he was. Arthur had lied to him, actually lied to him! He couldn't believe it! He said that Alfred was someone that he hated, but it was obvious that that wasn't the case. Why would you dream about someone you hated and smile?
He narrowed his eyes at his boyfriend, and if looks could kill, he would have been dead already. "What do you mean, what the bloody hell am I talking about!? You said Alfred in your sleep, and you smiled! You lied about hating him! You bastard!"
"I don't know what you're on about!" Arthur exclaimed angrily. "I can't bloody well control what I dream! And I do hate Alfred! Get off, damn you; get off of me!" He bucked and twisted in Oliver's hold, fighting with all he had to get free of the stronger man.
Despite himself, Oliver's grip on Arthur's wrists tightened. "I thought you were being honest with me for once, and you weren't! You were just playing me, weren't you!? Well, I'm not going to be played!" Oliver pulled down the other's pants roughly, shoving a finger inside of him – dry. "I'll just make you mine, if you aren't going to be honest with me!"
Arthur panicked when Oliver pulled down his pajama bottoms, eyes wide. "Don't!" he shrieked when the other shoved a finger up into him. "Oliver! Oh God, Oliver, don't do this!" He couldn't help it; tears of hurt and betrayal gathered in his eyes.
He kicked at Oliver, trying to knock Oliver off of him somehow. If he could just get free long enough, he could make a dash for the front door, but his feet found no purchase. "You said you loved me, you bastard! Don't do this to me!"
"You were smiling and saying his name in your sleep! I don't dream about the people I hate and smile! Tell me the truth! You were in a relationship with him, weren't you!? I'm tired of you always lying to me, you bloody wanker!" Oliver screamed right into the cheating bastard's face.
"Stop lying to me, you little bitch!"
He didn't care that Arthur was crying – he deserved this. He deserved all of this for betraying him. And after having sex with him, he would just break up with him. He could go to that wanker Alfred, for all he cared. He wouldn't miss him.
"It wasn't like that! You don't understand!" Arthur sucked in deep breaths, his entire body tense in dreadful anticipation. He shook his head desperately. "Don't do this, please; you don't know what you're doing! Oliver, I love you!"
"I did love you," Oliver grumbled, shoving in a second finger.
Arthur wailed in agony. He couldn't believe that Oliver was doing this! Arthur had trusted him! He'd gone against his own beliefs to have a relationship with him and this was what it came down to?
Oliver pulled his fingers out harshly, shoving his own pajama pants down and shoving himself into Arthur. "What; don't you like being treated like the whore you are?"
Arthur screamed with all his might, his eyes rolling back in his head. "No! Oh God, no, stop it! Christ, it hurts!" Sobbing wracked his body. "Please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, just stop it!"
Oliver snarled in response. Truthfully, if Arthur had not told him that he was not ready for sex, he probably would have just thrown him out of his house. The worst betrayal was to take information that Arthur trusted him with and to use it against him.
But he deserved every second of it.
Arthur had trusted Oliver. Never before had he believed those three words when they came out of someone's mouth. I love you. Oliver had said it and Arthur had fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker. He had yearned so for someone who cared. He had craved love so badly.
Oliver began to thrust; hard and fast. It was tight, and he let out a small groan. "I will not stop. Just lie there and take it," He commanded, beginning to thrust faster. "You deserve this for lying to me. And after I'm done, I'm kicking you out and I never want to see you again."
The Brit's screaming only grew worse as Oliver's thrusts ripped Arthur's body. Violated. Sullied. Shamed and shattered into a million different pieces. And a human had done this.
"I knew I shouldn't have trusted you!" Arthur shouted furiously, even as he screamed and sobbed and fat tears of pain rolled down his face. He clenched his right hand into a fist and began to beat at Oliver desperately. "Get off of me!" His voice was starting to go hoarse from screaming.
Oliver loved him at one time, but the moment he heard the word Alfred from Arthur's lips, that love was destroyed; replaced with only the desire to hurt. How long had Arthur been cheating on him with this Alfred git?
Were those even meetings at all? He supposed that it did not matter now.
He raised his eyebrows at him, barely feeling the blows. After all, due to the awkward angle, it was difficult to reach his face. "Good, because I never trusted you and I sure as hell didn't love you!" What was the harm in lying now?
Wasn't that what they both were; Disgusting, filthy liars?
Weak from pain and exhaustion, Arthur let his hand fall limp to his side and began to simply cry his heart out, bawling sobs echoing off the bedroom wall. He could not endure this. It was going to kill him; it was the worst thing he had ever, ever felt.
For a single, irrational moment, Arthur hated Alfred. If he hadn't been dreaming about that stupid wanker, he wouldn't have said Alfred's name. Oliver wouldn't be raping him right now. Arthur could have gone on fooling himself into thinking that one person in this world loved him.
But it wasn't Alfred's fault that Arthur was an idiot and a hopeless sap. It wasn't Alfred's fault that Arthur had gone against his better judgment and set himself up for this. It wasn't Alfred's fault that Arthur's virginity was being ripped away, torn to shreds, so cruelly that all Arthur wanted to do was escape the pain somehow.
"You lied to me," he wailed, each word followed by a sob. "You lied to me!"
Oliver didn't care if Arthur was hurt. He didn't care that he thought that he'd lied to him. At the time, no, he hadn't been lying – he'd loved Arthur with all of his heart. But that didn't matter now. All he wanted to see was him suffering.
After that, they would never have to see each other again and could continue on with their lives.
"Yeah, you bloody wanker. But so did you. The entire time we were dating." His eyes widened slightly and he let out a groan; coming, fast, inside of the other. He pulled out and cruelly shoved Arthur off of the bed. "Put on your pants and get out."
Arthur collided painfully with the floor and wasted only a moment lying still before scrambling up in panic, his hands grabbing the abandoned pajama pants. Still sobbing pathetic, hiccupping sobs, he pulled them on clumsily. His clothes were placed in a neat little stack. He grabbed them, avoiding looking at Oliver, and stumbled out of the room to the door.
He had to call the police. He had to go to the hospital. But he was crying too hard to think of what to do first and he was in pain and he could feel liquid trickling down his legs. Nonetheless, he pulled the door open and hurried out into the night.
He could call for them - the fairies. They would help him if they could. So he called out into the night all the names that he knew of the little creatures who had been his companions since he could remember.
But none came.
Arthur wandered for some time, bruising the bottoms of his bare feet on the sidewalks. He was in shock and he couldn't think clearly. His house was miles away - he'd taken a cab from the meeting to meet Oliver. But he wasn't going to call a cab now; what would the driver say when he saw Arthur?
Finally, hurting and exhausted, he sat down on a bench and started to cry again. He hadn't been able to find a single one of his fairy friends. They were usually always there when he needed them and he didn't understand. Where had they gone?
He fumbled in the pocked of his pants and fished out his cell phone. For a long moment, he simply stared at it. Who would he call? Not Japan or Canada - after today's meeting, they'd both caught flights home. There was only one person he knew who would still be in London.
Almost mechanically, his fingers began to dial the familiar number, his sobs reducing themselves to sniffles as he lifted the phone to his ear and waited for someone to pick up.
Going to meetings was one of the more boring parts of being a nation – Alfred would much rather stay at home and play with Tony and his whale. Or go hang out with Japan! Recently, he taught him this weird game called Dance Dance Revolution and he tripped when he tried to do Heavy mode. Why did Japan always make so many hard games!?
He had a few friends in England, and met up to play some cards and pool. He couldn't help it – he wasn't at England's house for very long, and couldn't resist the opportunity to hang out with some of his buddies.
Actually, he'd just walked in the door when he heard the sound of his house phone ringing. Who would be calling his house phone? Almost everybody had his cell, didn't they? It was probably some kind of a business call and he made a face, moving over to answer the phone on the third ring.
"Hey! It's America, the hero! I don't know why you're calling me so late, but if it's for business, go die in a hole!" He said, cheerfully.
The familiar, too brash voice was like music to Arthur's ears. His eyes slowly closed in relief. Alfred... Alfred would help him. He'd just ask the American to drive him home and that would be all. He didn't want to tell Alfred what had happened. He just wanted a little help.
"Al... Can you... come get me?" he slurred into the phone. His head was pounding now. He looked up, searching for a street sign. "I'm... in front of that... that suit store. I can't... I don't know..." His words shook as he fought to keep from sobbing again. He couldn't even think straight. "Please, I... I know it's late..."
Alfred opened his mouth to say that it was too late and Arthur was definitely old enough to drive himself home from the bar when he realized that voice on the other line was trembling. And not only that, he'd called him Al. He hadn't called him that since Alfred was a teenager.
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Something was wrong. That, and he didn't sound drunk and the suit store was nearly a mile away from the nearest bar.
"Yeah, I'll come get you. Want me to stay on the phone?" The American was already slipping on his familiar leather coat and heading out the door.
A hiccupping sob answered him as Arthur pulled his knees to his chest, shivering from the cold. He was likely to catch a cold, out in the weather like this. Only a few hours ago, he'd been so warm and content... If only things could have stayed like that.
"...Yes," he finally agreed, his voice soft and embarrassed. America was always going on about being the hero and it always annoyed England so much - but here Arthur was, feeding Alfred's ego because he couldn't take care of himself.
He was so mortified; he couldn't bear it.
Alfred shivered, pulling his jacket close to himself as a chilly wind blew. Hopefully, Arthur wasn't being an idiot and he was actually bundled up. It was pretty cold right now. Without hesitation he unlocked the door to his truck, climbing inside and beginning to drive.
Throughout the entire drive, he stayed on the phone with Arthur and talked to him. He didn't ask him what was wrong, because he was afraid to know what it was. He hadn't heard Arthur like this since the Revolution!
Finally, the red Toyota truck pulled up in front of the suit store, and he stuck his head out the window, searching for familiar blond hair. Spotting him, he parked and turned off the car, walking over to the bench. "Hey, Arthur!" He greeted, cheerfully. "Why are you out in weather like this in your pajamas?" He took off his jacket, draping it over the smaller nation's shoulders. "Come on, let's go."
Curled up in the cold, Arthur felt hollow. He idly wondered in the blood and... and such... had seeped through his pajama pants. His thighs felt uncomfortably sticky. But just the thought made him want to cry again. How was he going to explain this to Alfred?
He shivered and flinched when Alfred wrapped the bomber jacket around him. "I was... going home," he said softly, his cell phone still pressed against his ear even though Alfred was there. "But I couldn't make it that far. Can you drive me there?"
Alfred didn't like this. Something was wrong, but he knew if he asked Arthur would tell him to fuck off and try to go home by himself. Maybe they could talk about it after the meeting tomorrow and get lunch or something. It'd been a while since he'd hung out with Iggy. Well, not counting Christmas when he'd called him completely drunk and asked him to come get him.
He hung up his cell phone, watching him. "I wouldn't have driven out here if I wasn't going to give you a ride, right?" He replied, with a bright grin. But it was obvious in his eyes that he was bothered by all of this. There was something wrong, but what was it?
Arthur looked so small, curled up on the bench like that...
The Brit wobbled to his feet, looking extremely unstable, holding his clothes to his chest with his other hand. "I forgot my shoes," he said, as though that explained everything.
"Whoa!" The nation exclaimed, wrapping his arms around the unstable man. "Guess you were drinking, huh? C'mon, I'll help you to the car." Was that all this was; just another drunken adventure? Probably - it happened a lot. He guided Arthur to the truck, unlocking it with a tap of the button and opening the door for him. "Hey, seats are heated."
Arthur hiccupped again and said nothing as America helped him to the truck. He supposed that he probably did look totally drunk. Not that he wanted America to think he'd been off getting pickled again but it was better than the other nation knowing the truth.
He struggled up into the passenger's side seat, finally lowering his phone when it occurred to him that he was holding it up for no reason. He clutched his clothes tightly and prayed that America would take him home without any questions. Alfred could be plenty oblivious, after all.
Alfred climbed into the driver's side, putting on his seat belt and sticking his keys into the ignition. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure it was safe and began to drive. "Man, must have been pretty fun at the bar tonight, huh? I just got home when you called me. You get into a fight or something?"
He could just picture Arthur taking off his shoes and throwing them at someone. It was weird, though – he usually ranted about how much he hated him and how much he was an idiot when he was drunk.
At first, Arthur simply sat there, unresponsive. But then, he figured Alfred would get suspicious if he kept his mouth shut. He knew he was a talkative drunk, after all. Francis and Alfred wouldn't let him live that fact down. Damn it, though, he really didn't trust himself not to say something stupid.
"Something like that," he replied with what he hoped was a gruff enough tone that Alfred would take the hint that he didn't want to talk about it. "... Sorry, I've got a bloody awful headache," he added as an afterthought. "Can you not talk?"
Alfred raised his eyebrows at him. He'd never seen Arthur this quiet and unresponsive before and it was starting to bother him. Maybe he wasn't drunk, after all. Or it'd just worn off already.
He frowned, trying not to look bothered by that. "I'm not a chauffeur, you know. It's not like I had to pick you up." He did stay quiet after that, but it was obvious he was a bit miffed at Arthur. He thought, longingly, of his warm bed at home.
Arthur shot him a sullen glare. "Ungrateful brat!" he snapped, sounding more like he was drunk, even though he was genuinely upset. "You could have just left me there! It's not my fault you drove out here; I'm not your boss!"
That little outburst left him panting and red in the face. He quickly looked away from Alfred. Now his head really was hurting. He wondered if maybe there was something wrong with him. After all, he'd been out of it enough to call Alfred, of all people, to come and help him.
Even though Alfred was ticked that Arthur was being a complete jerk, he relaxed very slightly. Arthur was just drunk, which meant that there was nothing to worry about. This was just the same as picking him up from the bar.
Arthur really did drink too much.
He smiled, brightly – the smile that obviously meant he was going to say one of his usual remarks. "Man, England, you sure go drink at the bar a lot, huh? Even though we have a meeting tomorrow; and you call me irresponsible." Ignoring the fact he'd just gotten home, but at least he wasn't falling over himself drunk.
"Don't preach at me," Arthur snapped. The comment hit him hard. He'd been trying to go home to sleep... to be responsible for the meeting tomorrow. But Oliver had wanted him to stay and he'd gotten so mad about it, even accusing Arthur of cheating on him...
He turned his face to the window and stared out grumpily. "Maybe I needed something to forget about that idiocy you spouted today. It's not like I've ever missed a meeting - unlike you." This at least felt normal enough, even if Alfred was a moron. It made things feel a little better.
Alfred rolled his eyes at him. This was more familiar, even though he still felt like he was missing something. "Okay, drunkard." He replied, mentally listing the turns he had to make to get to Arthur's house. It was always strange driving here – he was used to England driving. It was the house he'd grown up in, after all.
"Hey!" He exclaimed, glaring at the road. "Last time I missed was because I ate a bad hamburger! But not as bad as your cooking."
"Well, Mr. Independent, I guess it's lucky for you that you don't have to eat my cooking anymore!" Arthur snapped, turning to glare at Alfred angrily. "But you never complained at the time. I suppose I could have let you starve - or I could have given you to France."
After all, he'd put a lot of love and care into raising Alfred. Why did the stupid boy have to always be so ungrateful about it? Hadn't Arthur been a good enough parent? Obviously not because Alfred definitely hated him.
Alfred made a face. "I didn't complain because you looked so happy I was actually eating it. I threw up every night." He hated England's cooking with a passion; especially when he burned the food. It just made it taste even worse.
He didn't hate Arthur – far from it, actually. He just irritated him sometimes. Like how a kid was irritated with their mother for constantly lecturing them. "Left or right? I forgot."
"Right, idiot," England growled, cradling his head in his hands. His headache was really getting a lot worse. "Can you please not talk so bloody loud? I already told you that I have a headache." He resisted the urge to add, 'You little shit.'
His body ached but he tried not to think about it. He just needed to get home and take a shower. Then he could curl up with a hot cup of herbal tea and forget that it had ever happened in the first place; forget Oliver, forget the rape, forget loving that man.
"You know, Iggy, headaches are your body's way of telling you drinking is bad for you." Alfred couldn't help it – he loved poking fun at Arthur. It was one of the best pass times; except for eating hamburgers, of course. He wondered if Arthur would let him stop at McDonald's.
He grimaced. Probably not.
England pressed his lips into a thin line. To think that he was getting lectured about drinking when he hadn't had a drop? On top of that, this situation really called for a little something to pick him back up and maybe dull the pain. Maybe he'd break out that bottle of whiskey when America left.
Finally, England's house came into view and it made Alfred's heart ache to look at it. It brought back a lot of memories, both good and bad. He parked in the driveway. "It's been a while since I've seen this place," He remarked, gazing at the house with interest.
When the car came to a halt, Arthur quickly scrambled out. "Well, thank you for the ride, see you tomorrow," he said in a rush as he started to pad up to his door. "Mention this to anyone and I swear I'll skin you like a cat."
Alfred watched him, raising his eyebrows incredulously. Arthur sure wasn't walking like he was drunk. Somehow, this stank to high heaven and he didn't like it one bit. But what could be wrong other than Arthur being a little bit tipsy?
Well, he might as well check. He rolled down his window. "...Hey, Iggy? Sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine!" Arthur yelled back impatiently. He was doing his best to keep from limping because that would definitely make America suspicious. If he could just get in his house and lock the door... He fumbled for his house key in the pocket of his pants. Why did he ever lock this place, again?
Finally, he found his key and jammed it into the lock. "Go away!" he yelled over his shoulder at America before slipping into his house quickly and slamming the door shut. Surely there was no way America could figure out what had actually happened. It wasn't obvious, was it? America would probably just think he was being weird.
Alfred watched Arthur closely, making sure that he was able to get into his house. As much as he teased him, he wasn't going to leave until he was sure he was safe in his house.
His eye twitched. Arthur could be a little nicer – he'd just given him a ride home at three o'clock in the morning after he was drinking at the bar! When the front door shut, he started his car. As he backed out of the driveway, it occurred to him: Arthur had taken his jacket.
Arthur watched through the curtains as Alfred backed the truck out, making sure the American was definitely leaving before he relaxed. That was when he realized that he'd taken America's jacket. He groaned. The idiot would probably come back for it when he realized. Arthur quickly locked the door. America would just have to wait until tomorrow to get it back.
He limped upstairs to his bathroom, hesitantly slipping off the jacket and laying it on the back of the toilet. His hands shook as he turned on the water, testing the temperature with his fingers until it was hot enough for his liking. He peeled off the pajama bottoms slowly, wincing as dried blood and semen was pulled off. Shedding the shirt, he gingerly stepped into the shower.
For a few moments, he simply stood beneath the warm spray, his body trembling from head to toe. A soft sob escaped him and he clenched his eyes shut as he began to cry again.
When he'd finally managed to scrub himself clean, he climbed back out of the tub and wrapped himself up in a clean towel. Spying the pajamas still lying in a pile on the floor, he kicked them into the corner, not wanting to look at them. He grabbed America's jacket as he left the bathroom.
After pulling on a pair of his own, familiar flannel pajamas, he hesitated for a moment, staring at the over-sized bomber jacket he'd laid at the end of his bed. Finally, he grabbed it up and slipped it back on, telling himself that he was simply cold and he might as well make use of it while he had it. He clambered into his bed, exhausted beyond belief.
His eyes slowly closed as sleep at last claimed him.