Author's note: This was an idea that seemed crazy, even to me. But it wouldn't leave me alone, so I decided to write it. I formatted it nicely (twice!!), but fanfiction messed it all up and now it's gone. I hope that you'll enjoy anyways. :) P.S. does anyone know a way so that won't mess with the formatting?
Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia, any countries or associated characters. They belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Lie Back and Think of England
April 30, 1789
"No!" His young, desperate voice bounced off the walls of the small room. "No, I won't do this! This is crazy! Why the hell do I have to—"
France settled a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. Understanding and old sorrow filled his blue eyes.
"It's what we do."
He paced away from the unwanted sympathy.
"It's not what I do!", he ground out.
"It's necessary. One night, Alfred, one night for the good of the country."
"I'm perfectly fine not sleeping with the new president!"
France sighed. "You need this connection, this union. You don't want your attempt at independence failing before you even lived it!"
"Damn it, I didn't know this was required!"
"Alfred, you are always talking about heroes. Why won't you give one night for the good of your people?"
America fell silent and turned to the window, watching the dreary weather. It reminded him of England, which brought about a pang of nostalgia and the sudden desire to see Arthur, to take back everything that he had said.
France was wrong. He did care for his people, did want them to prosper. But when he thought about George Washington...
"I didn't picture it this way", he quietly said, eyes downcast.
"What, mon cheri?"
"My... my first time."
Francis' eyes went impossibly wide. "You—you haven't?"
Alfred's voice grew annoyed, defensive. "No I haven't!"
"Not even with Arthur?", Francis tried.
America gave him a slicing look. "England was my guardian, not some pedophile!"
France fell silent.
Alfred's mind wandered to England, all those times he had hoped to be kissed, all those times he had woken in the night, wishing he could sneak into England's bed and have the man welcome him with open arms. Bitterness crept up on him. "Besides, he never wanted me anyways."
A short, barking laugh made Alfred whip his head up, sky blue eyes glaring at the stupid Frenchman.
"For a nation, albeit a young one, you are incredibly dense. "
America continued glaring.
"All those times he held you back from becoming independent, all those times he stopped you, grabbed your hands and begged you not to go, it wasn't because he didn't want you to be free—it was because Arthur wanted you and couldn't bear to let you go."
Alfred managed to keep a nonchalant facade, while his heart was constricting painfully in his chest.
"How would you know?"
France only gave him a small, suggestive smile. "That proper English gentleman could pretend to be so virtuous and uninterested in you, but it was clear as day to me—his thoughts were altogether improper and unvirtuous."
Alfred shook his head in denial.
"He nearly struck me with his bayonet!"
"He wants you."
"Why would I?"
Alfred squeezed his eyes shut at France's gentle, understanding smile. He had never noticed, never, never realized that... that Arthur might...
Desperation clawed at his throat. He had yearned for England. Had given up, thinking there was no hope, no future. And Arthur had wanted him...?
What was he doing? What the hell was he doing? What was he doing, awaiting the dreaded night? This was so wrong, so deeply deeply wrong!
His voice shuddered in his throat. "What should I do?"
France lifted eyes with the pain of centuries, defeat, no hope—
"When your president takes you... Lie back and think of England."
"I can't! Shit, Francis, I won't!"
"It's the only way."
"There's always an alternative! England always said there was!"
"Not this time."
A glare, a frantic, trapped look around the room. Like an animal confined in a cage far too small for it.
"I don't care. Get out of my way."
Francis stepped away from the door, putting up his hands placatingly. "You'll have to do it in the end."
The regret in France's tone drove America out of the room in denial.
He needed to see England, needed it more than he had ever needed anything.
Give me an escape.
Prove that you didn't lie when you told me there is always a way out.
He turned down the guest corridor, hoping England would be in his rooms. Knowing the anti-social Brit, he probably had already left the gathering downstairs in favour of a quiet cup of tea in his suite.
America reached the wood-panelled door that he knew England was probably behind. His hand lifted of its own accord toward the door, forming a fist for knocking. The fist, however, slowed down as it moved closer to the wood, and when it finally came in contact with it, it produced no sound and America let his fist unclench, pressing his flat palm against the door's cool surface instead.
What was he doing? What would he say? How would England react? Would he understand? After all, each country had had to do this at some point... maybe he would laugh at him for being such a prude?
His hand lost its contact with the door as it was abruptly opened to the inside, and he took a surprised step back to evade England as he stormed from his room.
America's chest constricted in a familiar way as England stopped short on seeing him, and unguarded eyes met his for a moment before England put up his walls again.
Could you be my escape?
"Where are you going?", Alfred asked, his own vulnerability giving his words a tentative tinge.
A scowl darkened England's features, and he growled out "to get booze", dimmed fury glimmering in his green eyes.
More than taken aback, America frowned, concern rising in him. "You don't have to go look for it, I can have some brought up for you. Please, can I... talk to you?"
England looked as though he was about to protest, then gave a curt nod, waving America back into his suite. The door fell shut behind them with a quiet click, and a few awkward seconds passed between them as they moved toward the living room area, England being too sullen to speak and apparently waiting for America to do so.
But Alfred's throat was tight and words were the last thing he could force out. Even the rush of air into his lungs was constricted as he forced his breathing to continue normally. Old weakness wound ropes around his insides; he refused to give into it, to fall back into the beckoning past, so close, so close.
England was still watching him with guarded, dull eyes that screamed and cried knowledge.
Those eyes almost were his undoing, as he struggled with his control and strength that were threatening to leave him and tear apart the image of the strong and unbendable nation he had so carefully attempted to build.
Tired words rose into the air on broken wings and fell to the floor almost as soon as they had been spoken. "What do you want, America?"
It was less of a question and more of a resigned brush off that awaited no answer and expected no good will.
"Do you know what will happen tonight?"
England's gaze darkened further and he convulsively left the couch where he had settled, stalking to the small bar with restrained anger in every movement. His eyes searched the assorted alcohol and without a word, grabbed a liquor bottle. As he rejoined Alfred on the couch, the bottle was set down on the glass table with a resounding and strained clunk that made tiny fissures appear on the transparent surface.
America found it wise not to comment on them.
When England had poured himself an entire glass and reached for it, Alfred halted his desperate hand with his own trembling one. "Don't drink. Do you know what happens tonight?"
England's hand fell as if losing all its strength. "Of course I know."
"You never told me."
Anger surfaced. "What was I supposed to say, America? 'Don't go if you value your virginity?' Oh please."
Alfred could almost taste the bitterness in the air.
"A warning would have been appreciated!"
England's gaze burned him with its passionate anger. "It was your dream!"
Alfred fell silent. His dream. It had been his dream. For a moment, he saw the bald eagle soaring over wide plains and lancing, cutting pain shot an arrow into his chest.
His voice was quiet, even scared. "I have other dreams, too."
"You are going through with this." The older voice was unyielding in its strength.
The trapped feeling returned with its walls and bars, shutting him in and closing its door on his perceived freedom.
Alfred shot from his seat, pacing away in rebellion against the walls closing around him. When he had reached the door, he whipped around and stalked back, hissing his decision.
"No I'm not!"
England shook his head, not affected by America's outburst, having witnessed countless outbreaks of the younger nation's passion over the years.
"It won't be pleasant, but you will manage. Believe me, if I could I would... do anything to stop you from doing this, I'm hardly happy with it either."
"Then why aren't you holding me back?"
England's voice rose and it was the first time that America realised his composure was also cracking under the weight of some concealed emotion. "How could I? You fought so hard, you were so keen to leave me behind, so set on being free. How could I take freedom from you again?"
"It wouldn't be freedom you'd take from me!"
"And what would it be? Independence? Do I need to teach you more about English, America? Independence is freedom! No, now that I think about it, you were my teacher in this case. You were the one who drove this lesson home—freedom is independence, independence is happiness! You drove that stake into my chest with your war and pushed it further in with every action! Don't rip it out now, saying that freedom is dependence. The wound would make me bleed to death."
Alfred could feel his own face contorted into some kind of pained grimace that he had no control over. Every word England had spoken was true; Alfred had preached freedom and independence, fervent words becoming wounds that he inflicted on the one who meant the most.
"Of course freedom is independence! But what is independence if it means lonely misery? If it means giving up a different form of freedom instead? I don't want independence like that!"
"I'm not letting you go back, America."
Dismayed shock tore through him. "What are you saying?" Why won't you hold me back?
"I'm not taking you back—you are free now and you know what they say about letting go what you have set free."
"I set myself free."
England's voice was quiet with pained regret colouring its edges. His hands were twisting the fabric of his green jacket and fingernails were digging into the brown leather belt across his chest. "Yes, you did. And that is why you belong to yourself only, and to no one else!"
Alfred noticed the desperation in England's demeanour. He was close to cracking. Only a bit more.
"You're wrong. I guess from tonight onward, I'll belong to my president."
A growl, but then England regained control, hiding behind formality as though it was the strongest shield he had. "And so it shall be."
Just give me one reason not to do it.
America went on, without taking heed; he could smell victory on the air. "I guess it's for the best. In an hour, I will knock on his door and he will have prepared the bed already... he has told me that he can't wait to have me." The last part was a lie, but England didn't need to know that. America watched his facial expressions carefully.
Boundless rage flashed across England's face and was quickly smothered with iron determination, only continuing to be reflected in steely eyes. America saw England's hands twitch in his lap, winding around themselves and squeezing with the strength of the entire British Army concentrated within them. America couldn't tear his eyes from those hands.
"Didn't you see him today? George Washington couldn't keep his eyes off me. He might be older, but he is still passionate. He'll grab me at the door to his suite and he'll start with my shirt, ripping off the buttons..."
England was gritting his teeth, eyes unfocused and yet trained on Alfred. America twitched with anticipation. Each word he said felt like a needle he was poking a lion with. One poke, impossible to know which, would be the last straw, and the lion would pounce.
America revelled in the thrill. He both feared and yearned for that pounce.
"...he'll then move his hands over my chest and press kisses to my neck..." America tilted back his head, exposing his throat and parting his lips.
A strangled sound escaped England.
"And then... then, he will lead me to the bed with its red sheets, and he will take me and make me his—"
The lion pounced. England was on his feet and in front of him in a split second.
Suddenly, America's hands were trapped at his sides with inexorable force, and England's heavy breathing brushed his neck as the older nation held him in place. America held his breath, heart pounding a frantic rhythm of thrilled fear.
It was as though the animalistic side of England had won over. Arthur yanked him into his arms at his slight resistance and a growl ripped from his throat that elicited a shiver from Alfred.
"No! Your bloody president won't do anything. It is I who will. I will do these things to you."
Hot pleasure trickled through America's body. The arms around him were tight and unyielding, the pressure crying possessiveness. America's eyes were trapped by smouldering green, and as if a silent message had been conveyed, England's hand shot to the back of his head, burying his fingers in America's hair and forcefully tilting and pushing his head down, surging up to crash his lips against a stunned Alfred's.
The beginnings of burning lust stirred in America as he relaxed his lips, letting them be ravished by a libidinous England. Starting to respond, he freed his hands and arms from England's strong grip, using his own strength to overpower the smaller nation. He folded his arms around England in turn, gathering him close and feeling the lines of muscle and skin line up with his body.
Perfect fit. He relished in pure feeling, in the knowledge that this was England, Arthur, finally.
They broke apart, breathless with blazing eyes looking at the other. America had never felt so alive, so aroused, and the tension between them sparked, charging the air with unseen lightning. The unmistakable scent of ozone lingered around them.
"We'll start a thunderstorm at this rate", America breathed, air entering and leaving his lungs in short bursts as he regained his breath.
With a horrified blink, Arthur sobered up, and suddenly serious eyes were cast down with shame. Arthur let himself fall onto the couch behind him, putting painful distance between them.
America's insides twisted with hurt uncertainty. The pleasant tingle created by their kissing gained a bitter edge. His eyes were focused intently on the Brit, searching for a clue, anything to tell him what he did wrong.
Politeness, formality. Clenched teeth covered with restrained and regretful embarrassment.
"Excuse my... indecorous actions. They were entirely inappropriate and uncalled for. I... have no explanation."
America frowned, completely bewildered by the Brit. "Did you hear me complain?"
England had developed a deeply embarrassed blush, and he looked up remorsefully as he answered. "I didn't give you a chance to, did I? Why... why did you allow it? You are strong enough to fight back!"
"Well, I didn't want to fight back!"
England's eyes were bewildered and searched his blue ones with fascination. "But... you should be disgusted by what I did!" He shuddered. "We—you broke your ties with me, you want distance, you want—"
Alfred's eyes sharpened. "You don't know what I want. You're right. I could have fought back. I could have. Notice something? I didn't. That should tell you something—do I have to spell it out?"
"I don't understand."
England could be so naively dense. America sighed and fought the blush rising to his face. It was now or never. "Do you know why I came here?"
England looked confused for a moment, but then hesitantly answered, "to calm your nerves and have a cup of tea?"
America scoffed. "With scones?"
Arthur nodded slowly.
"Forget it. No, I didn't come for your scones. I came for you. I couldn't stand the thought of offering myself up to my president without ever having experienced something that I have wanted for a long time."
England's eyes widened. "You couldn't have... this... this is mutual?"
"There's nothing I want more."
"But your independence...! Talk me out of this."
"Why would I?"
"Because I'm destroying you. I'm the end of your dreams, a nightmare, if you will."
"You would never destroy me."
England gave a short, bitter laugh. "Not intentionally, no, I wouldn't. But—"
America dropped to the couch next to him, turning to fix him with his own, serious gaze.
"Nothing else counts. Our connection is not me surrendering to you as your colony—those times are over. This is the alliance of two equal nations, who share a special relationship."
England was silent for a moment and then, with his rough-edged voice, repeated America's words, as though tasting them on his tongue. "Special relationship..."
Hope expanded in Alfred's chest, and he stood with its momentum, holding out his hand with feeling coiling in the back of his throat, so different from the nervousness blocking his breathing earlier.
Arthur finally looked up with those vulnerable green eyes that America had only seen maybe once or twice with that emotion.
"What do you say?" Alfred asked.
A moment of breathless silence, in which England's eyes softened and then hardened with warm determination. His lithe body rose from the couch in a fluid movement and he grabbed America's hand with a strong grip, as though he would never let go.
The pressure of their hands against each other, a nod, and a word.
And then, America was swept along, behind England as the hand he still gripped led him through the rooms he knew so well, toward the room that they both could hardly wait to reach.
Somewhere along the way, England stopped to bestow open-mouthed kisses onto America's lips and neck, wrapping wiry arms around America's larger frame and pressing in close, making walking an impossibility until Arthur finally drew back a bit and, remaining in America's close embrace, blindly directed them toward his bedroom.
The last few meters were more stumbled than walked and America, not quite able to let go, struggled with an important decision as England walked him backward to the bed, eyes hazy with want.
As the back of his knees hit the bed, America steadied himself against the blankets with his hands. "Hold on—what", he groaned as England nibbled on one of his fingers, "what happens with the president? Do I—"
Arthur looked down at him with sincere eyes, suppressed possessiveness flavouring his words. "It will be your choice after we have—", here he let his eyes warm and roam over America, "—consolidated our special relationship."
"Choice..." America whispered, only to be silenced by one of England's slender fingers as it pressed against his lips.
"Shh. No more words. Just feel."
And America did. He gave himself over to sensation and left thoughts behind, the last of which was gratefulness and the sure knowledge that England would be careful with him, because he knew that it would be America's first time.
Trust combined with lust as he let England push him onto the mattress with powerful arms. Then, there were lips on his, then pressed against his eyes closed in pleasure as hands roved over his clad legs. Knowledgeable hands found the buttons of his jacket, opening them with flicks of the wrist.
The first time Arthur's hands touched the bare skin of his chest, powerful pleasure gathered wherever those nimble fingers moved and teased. He could almost feel the barriers of clothing between them and grew desperate to tear them off, especially England's because he was far too covered.
He reached out clumsy hands, revelling in the power of being able to undress England and have the older nation allow it, even welcome it.
England smiled down at him, a blond strand of hair falling over one eye, which America reached up to brush aside. He could feel Arthur's hands moving lower to grip his belt, the feeling first foreign, but then intensely arousing as England purposefully pressed a hand against him through his pants.
Alfred gasped and arched into the touch, lifting his back from the bed in an attempt to regain that particular, guilty pleasure.
He wasn't sure how much longer he could bear to take without giving back—already he was itching to touch, to give England the same pleasure or more.
England leaned down and America took the chance, bringing Arthur down with him in the circle of his arms, chests touching, some of the rough fabric of England's green military jacket trapped between them.
America blindly sought England's lips through the white spots flickering across his vision and found them parted as if in breathless invitation. His tongue tentatively teased Arthur's lips and skittishly danced with England's tongue, more lust rising to form a blissful haze in his mind.
With a decided inclination and angling of his head, England surged forward to deepen the kiss, plunging his tongue in with powerful strokes, wrapping around America's with ferocious passion, his body bearing down on him, hip bones digging into hip bones, hardening lengths brushing and pressing against each other with white, pulsing heat.
The way England's tongue entered him so forcefully made him think of sex, of plunging thrusts coming from England's hips, and not his tongue. Then, Arthur slowed down again, frenzied kisses giving way to the soft brushing of lips, which Alfred responded to for a moment until his lust overpowered him again, making him grab England's sides and throw his weight against him to flip him over so that he was hovering over Arthur and could plunge into his mouth with as much passion as England had shown before.
"Surrender!" America cried as he drew back from the kiss and leaned back with a fierce grin where he sat, straddling England.
England let out a dark laugh with his rough-edged voice that had America biting back a moan of appreciation. "I will never surrender."
And America assaulted England's lips again in response, pressing and lightly biting, leaving England breathless and panting.
"Will you give in now?"
"Never. Why don't you?" England's hands shot up suddenly, gripping his shoulders, and after a brief power struggle, roughly flipping America onto his back again, settling on his hips with his, exerting more pressure than before to hold him in place and giving him a confident smile.
America would never tell, but he welcomed the position, and the momentary rough dominance that England had used to get him there. There was something forbidden and highly arousing in letting England take the lead, and in witnessing Arthur behave with such abandon, to see and hear him moan as he bucked his hips against the other nation's.
They moved apart for a moment to rid themselves of their remaining clothing, all the while watching each other with hungry eyes. When they lay there, facing each other, vulnerable and open, America felt a flash of familiar fear, of embarrassed uncertainty.
England, seeming to sense his need for reassurance, brushed a loving kiss against his brow, reminiscent of old days but laden with different meaning and a love more transcendent.
"I'll be gentle." The whisper was warm against his ear, and together with the kiss dispelled the fear, transforming uncertainty into certainty.
The warm heat of England's body covering his completely.
The sliding pleasure of Arthur's fingers on him, around him, in him.
The breathless moment of England pressing against his entrance with trembling restraint.
The white-hot pain of the invasion, the slide and glide of hardened flesh inside, deeper, deeper.
The throwing back of blond heads, the synchronised moans, rising and echoing in concert.
The measured rhythm of England's hips; the faster, deeper thrusts.
The building wave of blissful pleasure, cresting and crashing.
Blinding, clenching pleasure.
They were lying in each other's arms, spent. Pervading contentment the shared emotion along with a sense of impossible closeness and intimacy, they watched each other through half-lidded eyes.
England was tenderly tunnelling his fingers in America's hair, brushing it back with calm motions. Alfred was sure he had never seen Arthur this relaxed, and it made warmth course through him to know that he had been the cause.
He felt safe in England's arms, secure. And yet, reality relentlessly trickled into their perfect moment, with each second taking away the afterglow and increasing America's restlessness.
"I... I have to go."
The motion of England's hand in his hair stopped, and he found himself missing the loving caress. Still, he couldn't disregard his duties. Or could he?
Arthur had closed his eyes in unhappy acceptance. "Then go."
Hot pain behind his eyes was the substitute for the tears he wouldn't allow to surface when Alfred slowly left the comforting circle of Arthur's arms, the cold air harshly ripping the remaining warmth from him with greedy fingers.
England stayed on the bed, watching him with unreadable eyes.
The impulse to explain himself overcame him, and when he had pulled on his clothes, had fixed the brown collar the way England used to do for him, America turned back to the silent nation between the empty sheets.
"I want you to know that... despite anything I might do tonight... nothing will take this away from me."
England swallowed, but didn't speak. He only nodded.
Alfred couldn't leave. "I wish..." His throat clammed up.
"I...", he tried again. He had no words. America spun on his heel and walked away with decisive steps.
But at the door, he turned back to see England's head bowed in pain, buried in the sheets.
His hand resting against the door frame, fingers curling into the wood the only method of controlling the urge to run back. A whisper, hardly louder than a breath, but heard nonetheless.
America fled. He walked down the corridor at a brisk pace; ignoring the continuing reminder of their connection in the soreness of each step he took.
They had only had one time.
One time to overpower the memories of what was to come.
Why didn't you hold me back?
Heavy steps took him through the familiar corridors with their high windows. The sun had set.
Give me one reason not to do it.
Give me one reason to turn back.
"Alfred!" Desperation in a rough voice.
He froze, turned, and let his face break into a smile at the sight of a dishevelled England with only a bed sheet wrapped around him in the candlelit corridor.
"What are you doing?", he asked with laughter in his voice. England always insisted on being properly dressed. "Someone could see you like this."
"I don't bloody care."
"Then, why—?", but America was cut off by an armful of Brit, who kissed him with desperate fervour, ignoring the slipping sheet. The kiss said more than England had the entire evening.
I want you to be happy.
I love you.
England was the one to draw back. He wouldn't release America's eyes from the intent of his own. "It's your choice."
Alfred's heart pounded against his ribcage in restless rhythm.
Arthur squeezed his arm with his strong hand, turned and walked back into the flickering soft darkness of the long corridor. America watched him as he left.
He turned as well, albeit much more slowly, his back to the retreating England, and moved ahead.
The decorated door to his president's rooms loomed before him, soft candle light shining through underneath.
The unmade decision clawed at his insides.
Swirling thoughts, responsibilities.
Did he really know their definition?
America closed his eyes, a rough-edged voice a phantom caress in his mind. Arthur saturated every fibre of him, the sensations and emotions wrapping over and around his heart. Like a protective layer. Like a shield keeping away the judging world.
The choice was easy when he made it; the lifting of his hand to the door a great deal harder.
You gave me a reason.
Yes, it's an open end, no, you may not kill me. I'm sure most of you know what America decided. Thanks for reading!