I wrote this story out of the desire to write a realistic, in my opinion, portrayal of mpreg. A portrayal where mpreg is unnatural, even by Hetalia standards or something. One where there's no happy ending of love and stuff. So...its not happy or pleasant. I was trying something different. That's my defense.
Its also unfinished, in a sense. I accept that. But I didn't feel like adding more nor did I know what to add.
Basically, just throw this into the category of mochi sex. Keep in mind that its not silly though.
NOTE: Let me just explain something. I don't believe that states and provinces are the children of nations. Its not my headcanon. I think states and provinces come into being on their own...just as nations and countries. So, is Ontario Canada's child? No. But in a way they are family. But, because nations are human-shaped through some 'magical' means...perhaps something can go wrong. Like pregnancy. Otherwise I choose not to think that nations beget baby nations.
Warnings: language, mpreg, past slash, drama & angst
Pairing: past UkCan
Disclaimer: Be thankful I don't own Hetalia.
Matthew is smiling feebly despite the fact he is hunched over the toilet, forehead sweaty, wisps of hair sticking to his pallid face. One arm is curled around his stomach and the other is at his side, limp. He coughs, head bowed, and Arthur quietly wipes his mouth with his handkerchief, not quite trusting himself to speak.
"Thanks." Matthew whispered once Arthur finished dabbing at his mouth.
His former guardian smiled, tight at the corners, and withdrew his hand. He was kneeling next to Matthew and, reaching up, flushed the toilet and then patted the blond's thigh.
"So Ontario wasn't exaggerating." Arthur joked, but it came across as weak and half-hearted.
His former colony just smiled again, small and secretive, shaking his head and drawing his fingers slowly across his stomach. "No. No he wasn't."
And he laughed a little, voice cracking like a bell at the end, eyes screwing shut and hunching in on his self, laying his hand flat against his belly, pressing softly. He looked back up at Arthur, eyes a little brighter from the light glinting off the white tiles of the bathroom.
Matthew corners him after a world conference, pushing past Ghana and Argentina and beckoning Arthur into an abandoned row in the front while the rest of the nations filter out.
"I can't do this by myself." He admitted, haltingly, finally. "I can barely keep my provinces from fighting and none of them were ever toddlers."
"Oh, I don't mean you, Arthur." Matthew continued, suddenly realizing what his voice may have conveyed. He gave the English nation an apologetic look. "I mean I'll have to look into hiring some help. I'll need another doctor, probably more help around the house—"
"Matthew." Arthur says more firmly, green eyes hard when the younger nation gives him a half-grin, bemused and still not sure whether the child's room should be gender neutral or if he should wait until he knows the sex. "You're getting ahead of yourself. You don't even know if it will live."
Matthew looks appalled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he regards Arthur. "What are you saying, Arthur?" He asked, voice hushed.
"Have you even considered how it will get out?" Arthur continued, not enjoying the way Matthew's expression fell. He added, "Have you even stopped to examine this entire situation?"
"I'm pregnant." Matthew said flatly. "I am male and somehow I am pregnant. The baby will be delivered via C-section."
"I don't expect you to want anything to do him or her." The Canadian interrupted, demeanor becoming cold. "I just thought that, as my former guardian, you might be willing to lend a sympathetic ear but, as usual, I overestimated your interest in my life." His lips twisted bitterly. "You only care when you need me to be your cannon fodder or when you need me to be your Alfred." He stepped away, violet eyes hateful and expression hateful and it's so foreign on his fine, kind features. "But Alfred would never get down on his knees and suck your dick, Arthur, no matter how intoxicated."
And Matthew stormed away, hands clenched into fists, and face dark.
Arthur opened his mouth to call him back, but, like other times, no words came and instead he sighed and slid into one of the empty seats, cradling his face in his hands.
No matter what, everything was already falling apart and Arthur wanted to salvage as many pieces as he could.
Apparently Matthew's Boss calls his Boss and all of them talk with the Queen and Arthur finds himself in his Prime Minister's office.
"How did this happen?" The human asked, already frazzled. "Is it your magic? I specifically asked that you stop using it on other nations. I could care less how it was done back then but today is today and you cannot—"
"I did not do this." Arthur snapped, eyebrows bristling. He glared at the human. "Do you honestly think I would jeopardize myself and another nation—who, may I add, happens to be a former colony of mine?"
The man quiets and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Go to Ottawa. We will keep this as quiet as we can—"
"Because I really trust that. Are you sure it won't be in some new rag tomorrow?" Arthur sneered, the flinch he received from the human almost making him feel guilty and definitely making him feel better.
"Other than his Prime Minister blaming me, it seems that things are fairly calm on Canada's end." The Prime Minister began to shuffle papers on his desk, avoiding looking at his nation. "Go to Canada soon and several times until the baby arrives." He cleared his throat, awkwardly, "And…congratulations."
Soon happens to be a month later.
Matthew opens the door in his pajamas, looking miserable. He's not showing yet, but he looks thinner than Arthur remembers and the Englishman feels guilt settle at the back of his throat, heavy and cloying and it doesn't help that Matthew does not immediately let him in.
"You look terrible." Arthur began before panic settled as Matthew began to tear up.
"That was a stupid start. Stupid English bastard." Quebec grumbles under his breath, unfolding a huge plaid knit blanket and draping it across Matthew who is curled up on the couch. "Everything sets him off. That moron Ontario told him to stop eating so many cupcakes and he took that to mean that he was being called fat."
"He's barely there." Arthur hissed, gesturing at the blond when the province came back to the kitchen. "He's wasting away."
"Then make sure he eats something." The province snapped, pulling off his apron and throwing it at Arthur. "I have to return home and British Columbia won't be in until tomorrow night and Ontario is in Washington."
And with that, the province left the kitchen, pausing only look at his country, a soft sort of twist to his lips, before his customary scowl replaced it and he left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
And Arthur looked around the spotless kitchen before deciding that tea was probably the best bet right now.
"You don't need to be here." Matthew grumbled, taking the teacup in hand and staring down into the murky liquid. "You shouldn't inconvenience yourself."
"Because your Boss is giving you time off whenever to visit me." Matthew gripped the teacup, face hidden by his hair. "You wouldn't be here otherwise."
"You're being unfair." Arthur said quietly, taking a seat across from the blond. "You haven't even asked how I feel about this."
"I don't care how you feel about this." Matthew snapped, looking up. "It's my child—"
"That I fathered."
"—You are no father." The blond hissed, violet eyes sparking. "So don't you dare use that term with me."
Arthur's Boss doesn't believe that Matthew kicked him out of Canada.
Arthur doesn't quite believe it either.
But he knows enough is enough when he comes into a G8 meeting early and Alfred has scooted his chair over to Matthew and has head pressed to the blond's stomach, an excited smile tugging at his lips.
"You can't hear anything yet, Al." Matthew laughed when his brother turned his head and pressed a kiss to the soft curve of his belly and then blew a raspberry.
"Still really awesome." The superpower gushed. "I'm going to be an uncle and I'll be the best uncle ever!"
"You would let this irresponsible twit into its life but not me?" Arthur is shaking a little, furious and jealous.
"Not 'it', Artie." Alfred frowned. "At least say 'the baby' or something. And why wouldn't he? The question is: why would he tell you?"
"Because I'm the bloody father, that's why!" Arthur bellowed.
And it feels good to say that because Matthew has only hinted out it before outright denying it and Arthur was ignoring it before he passively accepted it and bottling everything away and putting it on a high shelf is no longer working.
And Alfred just blinks slowly and Matthew's lips are pressed into a thin line.
"Is that true, Matt?" He then asks, voice quiet.
Matthew just nods.
And Alfred's jaw clenches, tight, before the brief flicker of anger disappears and the easygoing grin reappears and he leans back in his chair. "Hope the poor kid doesn't inherit them brows then." And he laughs, all cold sunlight, and Arthur decides to sit as far as possible from the American.
If the other nations know anything, no one says anything explicitly. If Hungary is a little more nurturing, motherly, towards Matthew or if Cuba is strutting about with a protective arm around Matthew and not fighting with Alfred or if the Netherlands stops smoking his pipe around the Canadian, no one bats an eye. If Germany refrains from speaking too loudly near Canada or if even Prussia roughhouses less with Matthew or if the Scandinavian countries act as though they're getting a new brother, everyone passes it off as vaguely interesting.
And no one even mentions the fact that Russia has stopped inviting Matthew over for hockey and is instead looking at the blond with eyes full of childish wonder and actually being gentle instead of threatening.
Francis doesn't say anything at first but he shows up to Arthur's flat in London, normally immaculate blond hair soaked around his face and trench coat pulled up to his lips.
Arthur grudgingly lets the other in and crosses his arms, waiting for the inevitable. Francis may not have cared enough to keep Matthew, but he cared enough when it was Arthur and Matthew and he had this strange sort of affection that dictated that he not let anyone else love Matthew but he couldn't be bothered to be more active.
Francis wasn't shivering from the rain, but his mouth was tight and his fingers shook when he pulled out a wrapped box from the confines of his coat and handed it to the Englishman, saying, "Your weather is disgusting as always."
And Arthur numbly accepts the gift, the silver wrapping paper glinting in the light. The box is not crumpled and the wrapping was done delicately and he sort of lets out a shuddering breath and looks at his longtime best enemy and worst friend.
Francis just shrugs fluidly. "It can be quite cold over there. That is the finest and warmest wool money can buy." He doesn't look at the box, focusing instead of the stream of raindrops on the window. "I suppose this means you've won." He said offhandedly, tone light.
"There's no victory in this." Arthur said quietly. "It was never supposed to happen. He's only going to get hurt."
"You should have thought of that before you had him." Francis said coldly, azure eyes hard when they glanced at Arthur. "You should have thought but you never do. You merely take for the sake of possessing. Its one of your less charming qualities."
"And you've never done the same?" Arthur sneered, feeling defensive in front of someone with whom he should never feel on the defense.
"But I know when I cannot win. It was a harsh lesson, but I know it well." Francis replied. "Now go to him. It is the least you can do now."
When Arthur arrives at Matthew's house, it is almost midnight and the door is unlocked and he almost can't breathe because why would Matthew leave the door unlocked—the front door—and what if something happened and what if he was hurt and these thoughts drive him up the stairs, two at a time, and he skids in front of the master bedroom when he hears sobbing and pushes open the door and almost has a heart attack when he finds the room empty.
But, thankfully, he gathers his composure and goes to the bathroom where he finds Matthew in the bathtub, sobbing uncontrollably. His eyes are red and his cheeks are splotchy and he's gingerly holding his stomach, smoothing over the small curve.
He sees Arthur and for a moment he freezes before he crumples and chokes out, "I can't do this." And he repeats that a few more times and Arthur is there by the end of the second time, wrapping his arms around thin shoulders and whispering calm endearments into the other's ear.
"Everything hurts." Matthew mumbled, eyes still swollen. "Everything feels wrong."
And Arthur bites his tongue because it's not right but Matthew doesn't need to hear his thoughts on the matter. Instead he settles the nation into bed, propped up with pillows and sits in front of him, easing his feet into his lap and pressing his thumbs into the arch of his foot.
"You don't have to do that." Matthew said quickly, cheeks coloring as he tried to move away his feet. "Really, Arthur—"
"You haven't been eating." The Englishman interrupted, drawing his thumbs down the arch of Matthew's foot and rubbing the heel firmly. "You haven't been sleeping, either, by the looks of it." He continued to massage Matthew's feet, gaze downward. "Where are your provinces?"
"Alberta's flight was delayed." Matthew said quietly. "He won't be here until the morning and Ontario has been here every night so I sent him home."
"And what about the hired help?"
"We are still screening individuals." Came the response. "But my Boss's wife has been over every other day with casseroles and fruit salad." He grinned wryly. "Help yourself." He quieted, taking a deep breath as Arthur continued to work away the soreness in his feet.
The two sit in silence, the red digital numbers on the clock blinking at them blearily. Arthur smoothed his thumbs down once more the length of Matthew's feet, alternating between each, tweaking the toes and pressing into the balls of his feet.
"I'm sorry for making you leave." Matthew whispered, eyes downcast.
"Well, I didn't exactly act as though I wanted to be here." Arthur replied, guilty. "Matthew, you're young…you don't know…" He trailed off at the innocent confusion on his former charge's face, from the lack of knowing forever, and he stops talking, shaking his head. "I'm going to go heat up some casserole and you're going to eat it."
"I don't want casserole." Came the sheepish reply. "I want…" Matthew paused, awkwardly, cheeks coloring. "Never mind."
Arthur stood there, expectant and a little hopeful. "Yes?"
"…If its not too much trouble…" Matthew began, hesitant, after a moment, "I'd really like eggs."
"I can make those." Arthur nodded, moving towards the door.
"Scrambled." The Canadian added. "With cheese."
Arthur paused, brow furrowed. "Fine, whatever you want, Matthew."
"And relish." Matthew was nervously picking at the blanket. "Actually, no relish. Maple syrup."
Arthur blinked. "Alright." He was at the door when Matthew called to him again.
"Actually, I don't want eggs! Sorry. I want ravioli."
In the end, Arthur ended up driving out to find an open Italian restaurant.
And when he came back, Matthew wrinkled his nose upon finding out that Arthur brought cheese ravioli and Arthur almost ended up throwing the Styrofoam box out the window.
Instead he brought Matthew up a jar of peanut butter and a jar of pickles and the blond happily polished off five pickles and most of the peanut butter.
The next morning, Arthur wakes up when Alberta bursts into the room and clambers onto the bed and practically vibrates in place until Matthew gives him a sleepy smile.
Arthur just kind of sits there, bleary eyed, in the hard-backed chair at Matthew's desk and watches as the country and province interact, with Alberta lightly touching Matthew's stomach without permission.
Matthew puts up with it with a small shrug and eventually the province gets bored and says something about breakfast and disappears with the promise of pancakes and orange juice.
"They're all excited." Arthur notes, stretching out the kinks in his back.
"They weren't at first." Matthew admitted, shifting out of bed and waving Arthur away when he tried to come and help. "Some of them didn't speak to me immediately. They thought I was kidding." His eyes became distant, a little sad. "But they came around." He smiled suddenly. "It's nice. They're all getting along." He walked towards the bathroom.
Arthur felt a creeping sense of guilt.
Matthew is all shades of golden glow and Arthur is almost breathless at how lovely the man looks in the doorway at that moment.
And he is reminded of that night. And the feel of Matthew's skin under his is still strong and the taste of him on his lips is still fresh and the Englishman aches because Matthew has barely even brushed past him and he can't help but want to touch Matthew again but the last time he gave in, something terrible and wrong happened and the evidence of his weakness is growing more visible by the day.
And Arthur wants to ignore the swell of Matthew's stomach but he wants Matthew to ignore it as well but the blond, if anything, is already too far lost in his joy.
And Arthur hates it.
"Get out." Matthew snarled, face ashen and a protective hand on his stomach. "Get the fuck out of my house and off my land and stay on your goddamn side of the ocean, you bastard." And Matthew only ever curses when he's slowly losing control and Arthur can see the tremble in his fingers and he knows objects are about to go flying.
"You can't deny that I'm right." Arthur said harshly, green eyes sparking. "You are too invested already, Matthew."
"It's my child!"
"Stop saying that!" Arthur hissed, stepping forward. "It is a parasite. It is wrong. And it should have never happened."
And Matthew recoils, violet eyes wide and finally everything is out.
Silence reigns for a full minute before Matthew's face reddens and the temperature of the room plummets.
But Arthur is finally forced to face his feelings and the consequences and the words he thought were hidden burst out and he can't stop them.
"You are man-shaped, Matthew. And you are not human. This is abnormal by even our standards. Get yourself together, boy." He wants to apologize, but he means every word. Unfortunately.
"I want you gone." Matthew said coldly.
"Is there a reason Canada is threatening to leave the Commonwealth?"
"I told him he should get rid of it."
His Prime Minister doesn't say anything. And when Arthur looks up, the human is gone.
"It's a boy." Alfred tells him, casually, a few months later. "And he's healthy."
Matthew has stopped coming to world conferences.
Arthur pretends he hasn't been counting the days since the blond last looked at him.
"Matthew wants you there, with him." The superpower added. "I think you should stay far away, but Matt's always been a little sweet on you."
And Arthur thinks of shy glances and wine-flavored kisses and fingertips pressed against his heart and he doesn't look up.
"You know he can be a proud asshole." Alfred sighed. "He learned it from you. But he's already forgiven you and no matter what I do for him, I can tell he wishes it was you."
"I don't want anything to do with this event."
"How you can call the birth of your child just an 'event' is astounding." The blond sounds disgusted. "Look, if you think Matthew isn't horrified by this either, you're stupider than I think. He's just making the best out of this and you're not helping anything. He knows its wrong. He knows everything could go wrong. He's scared too, but you're too busy freaking out over the fact that he's pregnant to realize that Matthew just needs someone to stop judging him. And, like always, he's counting on you and you just keep failing him."
"Get out." Matthew says. And he's wearing sweatpants and a hoodie and he looks exhausted and Arthur has never been a coward and he's never really hated himself but Matthew always brought out the human in him.
"I don't love this child." He says and Matthew looks like he wants to cry but Arthur continues, "But I love you and I'm not leaving."
Matthew lets him stay and Arthur helps him tie his shoes and watches him waddle around the house and he has to hide his laughter when Matthew gives him a pout, no longer reedy and lean, but soft and round and a little disgruntled because he can't see his penis anymore.
The maid, a middle-aged, rotund nurse born and bred in Winnipeg with laugh lines, fluffs a pillow and places it behind Matthew's head. She treats the blond with something akin to reverence and even cuts the crust off his sandwiches.
The doctor comes weekly to check on the blond, normally steady hands shaking when he approaches his nation and Matthew smiles benevolently at them all.
Arthur keeps a foot of space between him and Matthew because any less results in the blond edging away and any more results in Arthur being unable to sit still. So the sandy-haired nation knits little socks and once Matthew realizes what he's doing, he starts to cry.
"It's all these hormones." The blond explains, sobbing, nose dripping. "I've cried more these past few months then I ever have." And he starts crying louder and Arthur takes him into his arms, taking care not to press against his stomach, and their cheeks brush together and Matthew grips his upper arms.
"Remember when you said that I probably just sit around and think of reasons why you must hate me?"
Arthur did and he regretted those words.
"I just can't think of why you wouldn't not like me."
And it doesn't make sense but neither does marshmallow fluff and asparagus but Arthur takes it in stride as well.
He pulls away and Matthew's face is splotchy and red and Arthur traces the curve of his neck, just below the bump of his Adam's apple, and he presses just so.
"This is my favorite part of you." He whispered. "No matter what happens, remember this."
Matthew's shouts echo down the abandoned corridor and Alfred's face is green and Arthur closes his eyes.
The provinces just stare at the now shut doors.
The entire hospital is swarming with police and RCMP but Arthur isn't allowed to see Matthew.
He does see his son.
The child has Matthew's nose and Matthew's lips and his eyebrows.
The eyebrows that would grow and gray.
Arthur makes his decision.
Alfred has to be called in to restrain Matthew when the doctors and officers aren't enough.
Arthur ignores the hateful looks from the provinces and heads towards the airport.
He doesn't sleep for days.
When Matthew starts attending meetings again, he fades into the background and the nations all respectfully lower their eyes when he enters the room.
At the end of the meeting, Arthur doesn't move and Matthew doesn't speak.
"I am an idiot." Matthew says quietly. "An idiot for thinking you loved me and an idiot for thinking you would let my son be."
Arthur thinks of ten little toes and ten little fingers and sleepy purple eyes.
He thinks of the moment he most loved Matthew. And he thinks the moment that Matthew's eyes widened and he mouthed 'its time' comes in close second to the time that Matthew asked him to stay a moment longer that night everything went to hell.
"I hope you're happy. I didn't even get to hold him."
Arthur had wrapped the child in Francis's blanket.
And he had cried—oh how he cried—and Arthur had left him in the arms of the nurse with the promise that a good family would be found and all the Englishman could hear now were his wails.
It isn't fair.
"Not any more than you." Arthur said hoarsely. "First you wouldn't let me be in his life and then you didn't care how I felt and now this? You have no idea what I went through."
"Don't you dare throw those words at me." Matthew snapped. "You can't even begin to know how I feel. You just can't stand not getting your way."
And its too much.
"He had your eyes!" Arthur bellowed, standing up, bristling. "And perfect little fingernails! And you would've fallen in love with him and you would've been his father and then his brother and then his son and you would've looked at him every day and realize that he is human and you would've hated and grown bitter." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "And I couldn't bear the thought of that so yes, I gave the child away. I gave away your son."
He fell back in his chair, months of bottled up emotions and stress coming to a head and the pain of the past few weeks pressed against his eyes.
"I gave away our son." He whispered. And his eyes stung and his chest hurt and when Matthew approached him, he buried his face into the soft flesh of his abdomen, lips against the fading scar.
Unfinished. Unpolished. An experiment.
Perhaps, though, not terrible?