Alfred is the one to break the kiss, and he does it as roughly and as clumsily as he had executed the initiation. Matthew's senses reel for a second at the sudden loss of wet warm lip slide against his own, and his eyes blink open in surprise when Alfred's strong fingers start attacking the lacings at his neck.

"A-are we-" Matthew starts, giving them both one last chance at sanity before Alfred's hands deviate from Matthew's lacings and instead opt to slip under Matthew's homespun shirt and grab his hips.

The question stutters to a halt as Alfred's blue (sky blue, ocean blue, revolutionary blue, iso/i blue) eyes pin him in place like a beetle to a card and his hands slide up Matthew's sides.

Matthew's pretty sure he shouts but the sound is entirely lost as both his coasts feel Alfred's touch like a brutal summer storm and his head floats away, only to be brought back by the purely human sensation of touch – goosebumps rattle his frame and he loses the rhythm of breath for a moment.

When he comes back to partial awareness again, Matthew finds himself slumped forward against Alfred's flat chest, hard with muscle and miles of plains and Matthew finds himself aching, body, coasts, and cock, and his hands reach up and grip at Alfred's biceps.

He can feel the bellows of Alfred's breath shudder uncertainly for a moment, obviously deciding whether to take it to the bed or not, but Matthew's bed is small, spare, and narrow: with a surge of energy Matthew finds himself moving closer to the fire, and one of Alfred's hands sweeps Matthew's knees out from under him, and he's laying supine against the bearskin rug, the firelight and warmth licking along his body like Alfred's tongue does against his throat and Matthew moans.

There is something delicious in submission, and Matthew knows this well – after all, he submitted yearly to the touch and demands of General Winter, who took him over from top to bottom. It was inevitable and Matthew never fought it: in return it made the maple syrup sweeter and frosted the pines with gentle snow like sugar on gingersnaps.

This, however, is entirely different. This is a willing openness, and Alfred's lips move to claim Matthew's again and Matthew can only rock his head along with Alfred's movement. Where before there had been panic at an invading force, now there was the vice of discovery, and Matthew – Canada – wants nothing more than to be explored.

So Matthew rolls open like the great prairies in his interior, rolls open and waits, shudders as coarse fingers trace along his jaw line and skate down his trembling chest and stomach to lift at the hemline of his shirt.

"Oh, Canada," Alfred whispers from somewhere above him, fingers moving lightly, too lightly, up under Matthew's shirt and pushing it back, voice trembling and full of reverence.

Matthew takes it upon himself to call upon a higher power. "iGod/i," he moans, the syllable coming out louder than he intended it to, his hands curling into fists, eyes squeezed shut. "Get ito/i it."

Alfred doesn't need a second invitation. His mouth follows the path his fingers had taken, licking and nipping his way up the Canadian's chest, leaving a map of pink marks in his wake. Soon, Matthew raises his arms and Alfred obliges him by removing the shirt – Matthew can feel both the press of the firelight and Alfred's smile against his skin and it makes him tremble.

More movement, then, as Alfred situates himself above Matthew, his arms planting on either side of Matthew's head like the gigantic trees that populated Alfred's land more steadily than the settlers did. "Matthew," Alfred says, voice all honey and syrup and sun-on-the-rocks, "look at me."

Matthew's eyes open and his voice shudders in the back of his throat at Alfred's manic focus. "Touch me," Matthew whispers, the human side of him ashamed at the admission but his body iached/i, it ached, and when he shook with the need he clenched his jaw against a moan and almost succeeded at keeping it quiet.

Alfred remains silent and still for a moment before slipping back into hot, liquid, perfect action – his head dips and his lips seal against the jaw line that he'd been touching ever since Alfred entered his house and Matthew gasps, his whole body going rigid against that sudden wet warmth. Matthew feels a corresponding jolt in his mountains and in his balls and suddenly thinks that the combined torture of being both of flesh and of soil is going to kill him before it's all through.

Alfred moves again, his tongue licking a hot path over the shell of Matthew's ear and Matthew lets out a noise like a wind moaning over breakers and he cries out when Alfred's lips pull sweet suction against his earlobe. More tongue and lip and teeth fight down the side of Matthew's neck and by the time America has launched his full frontal attack against Matthew's clavicle Canada is moaning, insensible but to the hot promise of America's touch.

When Alfred's tongue paints a wet circle around Matthew's left nipple Matthew's entire body jolts; a hot sweat breaks out over his entire body at the bolt of sensation that strikes him like summer lightning. Matthew's fingers clench and his elbows jerk but there's something that keeps him in place, keeps him from interfering with the fearless explorer conquering his territory in the most delicious of ways. Instead, he arches in a wordless cry for more.

Alfred obliges, lips sealing to Matthew's nipple and working it to hardness while his right hand slides up and tweaks at Matthew's right nipple. Matthew's head thrashes from left to right as if in denial, but the only noise of bereavement he makes is when Alfred removes his mouth from the nipple he'd been toying with to blow cool air across the sensitized bit of flesh.

Kissing his way to the other side of Matthew's chest, Alfred offers the same treatment to the other nipple, switching fingers for tongue, and tongue for fingers. Matthew is quickly losing all sense of self in the intoxicating, overwhelming blend of human pleasure with something far deeper, something that makes the roots of his trees and the streams in his veins quiver. Hot electricity pulses along with his heartbeat, and his focus slides down to the tightness in his pants like it never has before.

Matthew lets another strangled noise go as Alfred reaches down and palms at the hardness between Matthew's legs – the recoil of sensation is too much to bear and Matthew buries his head in his own shoulder to ride it out.

Alfred makes a soft noise of amusement above him, and then is a flurry of movement and dexterity as he pulls Matthew's pants down; they tangle with his boots and a couple movements of maneuvering has Matthew's boots shucked and thrown to another part of the room, and the pants are gone as well.

Matthew feels his face flush even as his eyes close: Alfred's gaze over his naked body is as heavy as winter's first snow blanket in the north. Daring himself, idaring/i himself, Matthew spreads his legs and feels his cock brush against his stomach with the movement; he bites his lip and trembles at that exquisite vulnerability.

"Oh," Alfred says above him, voice somewhere between a word and a gasp of reverence. Matthew feels heat rush through him like a wildfire at the noise, and his entire body shakes when Alfred rests a too-light touch on his hip, fingers kneading into the swell of flesh and then stroking gently across his hip and to his inner thigh, pointedly ignoring Matthew's groin in the process. The sound that Matthew lets escape is more or less a whine, and it embarrasses him.

"Oh God," Alfred groans, and Matthew doesn't know if the other is more or less coherent than before, "Matt - iCanada/i - I, oh, God –"

Matthew can't decide if he wants to moan again or just kick the other for his sudden lack of movement when those strong hands move again to his hips and flip Matthew over onto his side – Matthew moves with the urging easily, his spread hands rising above his head to cross at the wrists, still open, still exposed.

Soft, warm fingers touch the nape of Matthew's neck and then slowly trace down the ridge of Matthew's spine, and Matthew's nipples are tightening against the air of their own volition, and he feels the heavy drag of precome starting to leak from his cockhead, smearing against his stomach and he bites at his lower lip.

Alfred's hand slides lower down and cups the curve of Matthew's behind, fingers kneading into it thoughtfully, and then Matthew idoes/i moan, his body moving of its own volition to get closer to Alfred's hand.

The massage stops, and Matthew's plaintive whine corresponds with Alfred's contemplative noise.

"Stand," Alfred says, and in one smooth movement the Canadian feels him pull away, at once bereft of touch and bewildered that he still retains enough coherency to move so quickly.

Matthew struggles to right himself – his entire body feels connected with the heavy throb of his cock and balls and it seems to weight him to the ground – before Alfred's arms and hands are there again, effortlessly lifting him up and turning him around.

His arms find purchase on the thick wooden mantle overhanging the fireplace, and Alfred arranges Matthew's elbows on it for extra stability – Matthew's head lolls against his forearms like an errant schoolboy sleeping on the desk in class. Then, Alfred slides a thigh between Matthew's legs, urging the Canadian to spread, which Matthew does.

Fighting against gravity to stand is a little less than pleasant, but the mantle takes his weight easily enough. Alfred blankets him from behind and the fire licks at his front – so close, almost too close – and Matthew revels in the warmth.

From here, the American's hands can explore so much more freely; they skate down Matthew's neck and cup the base of his jaw before sliding to tweak his nipples. Alfred rolls the sensitive flesh between thumb and forefinger until Matthew is shaking, vibrating with the pleasure and his cock weeps freely, sending splatters of white liquid to drip onto the embers of the fire and hiss.

When Matthew thinks he can take no more the hands move, one large hand splaying over Matthew's stomach and pulling him back to press more firmly into Alfred's body and Matthew can finally appreciate how strong the other is, feel the thump of Alfred's heart and the twist and pull of muscle behind him and Matthew's exhale is long, low, and deep.

The massage goes further down, large fingers squeezing the thick muscles in Matthew's thighs – Alfred shifts down to his knees behind him and those hands slide down to the Canadian's calves for a moment, and the massage there isn't sexual but feels so good that Matthew raises to his toes and a keening noise escapes his throat.

It's getting to the point where Matthew wonders if Alfred is going to make him beg – his cock is throbbing at the warmth from the fire and the torture of being untouched for so long and he opens his mouth to make an attempt to speak English but then –

Alfred's hands move suddenly from the backs of Matthew's heels to cup at the curves of his ass and anything Matthew was going to say gets tangled up in his gasp. The American's bold, shameless fingers knead deep, and his thumbs press into Matthew's cleft and spread him apart.

The noise that rips from Matthew's throat at being exposed like this is animalistic in its tone, but pales in comparison to the broken cry he makes when Alfred replaces the coolness of cabin air with the hot, slick, wet warmth of his tongue.

Matthew howls.

Alfred is relentless, just like he is in battle, just like the goddamn nation is with everything ielse/i and his tongue dips, twists, hardens into a point and tongues at the pucker of flesh and then suddenly loosens and laves the whole area with long, broad wet sweeps.

Matthew's grip on the mantle is so tight he hears wood crack and he sobs, he sobs brokenly but he's not broken, he's flying, his eyes are squeezed shut and his vision pulses red with every beat of his heart and every syllable from his mouth is incoherent and he's close, he's close –

One of Alfred's hands moves and slides up between Matthew's legs, and suddenly two fingers press hard at the tender flesh just behind his balls and Matthew feels something within him snap and his orgasm hits like fire.

He's flailing, he's ifalling/i, and Alfred's hands are there to catch him as his knees collapse and Matthew falls back on Alfred's clothed chest, feeling those broad hands caressing his shaking limbs and those wide lips whispering platitudes into his ears – Matthew realizes that he's crying, and can't remember when he started.

When the waves of pleasure subside to a gentle, containable glow, Mathew raises his head – somehow in all of that Alfred ended up on his back, sprawled over the bearskin rug, and Matthew is laying face down over him. Matthew blinks as Alfred reaches up to brush Matthew's hair back.

"…good?" Matthew's mirror image asks, a nearly unbearable smirk and the obvious iI-know-the-answer/i written all over his smug expression.

Matthew wants to hit him, but finds sweeter revenge in the hardness lurking beneath Matthew's thigh; Matthew presses down slightly and Alfred's head jerks back with a hiss.

Coherency returns to Matthew in a flood – he's awake now, the dimming orgasm leaving clarity in its abatement and he recognizes Alfred's fluttering lashes as somebody who's about to give up control.

Matthew wonders if this is what human sex is like, or if the constant give-take-sway of emotion and energy is simply the bane of nations.

As Alfred's breathing deepens and slows, Matthew brushes his sweat-slick hair away from his face and then drags a hand down Alfred's body, feeling the definition of chest and stomach below the pads of his fingers. Up his hand pushes again, to rest against the American's neck and touch the stubble there.

"Stand up," Matthew tells the other, his voice deep and hoarse from his orgasm moments earlier.

Alfred nearly bowls Matthew over in his readiness to comply, standing in front of the kneeling Canadian, a red flush starting to creep up his neck.

Matthew wants to see more of it – the flush disappears under Alfred's shirt and the sight annoys him. Swallowing, Matthew wills moisture to an otherwise paper dry mouth before issuing his second command. "Strip."

There's a little jerk of hesitation on Alfred's part before his hands go to the lacings at the neck of his shirt.

Matthew doesn't move, barely breathes when Alfred throws his shirt to the ground, divesting himself of his boots and trousers. Alfred stands like a soldier at attention, the rigidity in his stance mirroring that of his cock. Despite this, the flickering firelight illuminates his skin and he looks natural somehow, like a wild animal in the night.

If Matthew's mouth hadn't been dry before, it certainly was, now – Alfred was lean and sharp-angled, sinew belying the strength under his skin, and Matthew could see those muscles occasionally flexing as the American kept himself from moving. Those blue eyes were on him again, something calm and yet manic in them at the same time, and the look brought Matthew to his feet.

It only takes one step to close the space between them, and Matthew takes Alfred's head between his hands in a firm grip, causing the lids over the American's blue eyes to flutter like falling leaves in the autumn.

The kiss is slow and wet, Matthew slowly pulling Alfred's head toward his own and tilting it for the perfect angle, an agonizing drag of lips and tongue.

"I love you," Alfred blurts the moment Matthew pulls away from the kiss, the words tumbling like water from the mammoth falls that marked their border. Matthew blinks and releases Alfred's face at the sudden, unexpected confession.

Matthew can tell that the other panics a bit at his silence – Alfred's hands snatch out for Matthew's shoulders but Matthew intercepts, grabbing Alfred's wrists and placing Alfred's hands on his head.

Alfred whimpers, but doesn't move his hands – somewhere along the line an unspoken treaty was drawn up, Matthew thinks wryly, one where both surrendered, but at the moment Matthew can't quite tell who's surrendering to iwhat/i.

Instead of dwelling on it, Matthew's fingers inch their way over Alfred's pectorals, one touching the delicate new scar tissue over Alfred's heart, where Matthew burned Alfred's capital. Matthew leans forward to give the new skin attention from his fingers and lips, and when Alfred groans Matthew can feel the vibration through his kiss.

Eventually, Matthew pulls away with a wet sucking sound. "I love you too," he tells the other, thumb stroking over that soft new skin, made slick with saliva.

Alfred parts his lips to exhale and Matthew takes advantage of the opening to slide three fingers in; Alfred's lips and eyes close simultaneously and strong suction begins around the Canadian's digits. Matthew rubs his fingers gently against Alfred's tongue and is rewarded by another moan.

When Matthew pulls his fingers out from Alfred's mouth he does so slowly, dragging the pads and tips of his fingers across the American's tongue-teeth-lips before stepping behind him. From the front Matthew hadn't been able to see how Alfred's flanks had been quivering but from the back it was obvious; the vibrations caused a delicious ripple across Alfred's ass and thighs, and something about it made Matthew's mouth water.

Matthew steps forward and presses his body against Alfred's, feeling the sharp inhale of breath and the tremor in his body as if it were Matthew's own. Matthew won't be coy like Alfred was – his fingertips made slippery from Alfred's saliva trail along Alfred's thigh and then wrap firmly around the base of the American's cock in a solid grip.

The high-pitched noise and shock of movement that rocks Alfred's body is like sweet spring water to Matthew: he drinks it in and holds Alfred's cock in his hand.

iThere is power here/i, a detached part of Matthew thinks. He understands, a little, why nations engage in this kind of coupling after winning or losing wars: the desire to claim is strong, and Matthew awes at the sensation of holding America captive, if only for a moment.

But this is different than true conquest; he has America only because Alfred itrusts/i Matthew with his body, and the awe shifts into reverence and the reverence inspires his hand to move in one long, slow stroke that ends with Matthew's fingers playing on the head of Alfred's cock.

The noise Alfred makes is more guttural than anything Matthew has ever heard in his life. Almost of its own volition, Matthew's free hand snakes down to cup at Alfred's balls, and Alfred's next sound is somewhere between pleasure and pain, and his muscles are vibrating like he's a strung bow about to snap.

"I want," Alfred sobs, and Matthew realizes with a shock that the other is crying, "I iwant/i-"

And Matthew knows what he wants, like he knows the wheat in the ground will rise come spring. Where Matthew wanted America to take him, to carry him, to play him like a fiddle, Alfred wants Canada to rub him into the soil, to push him down like he would never allow another nation to do by force.

But when it's by choice, Matthew surmises, it's another game entirely.

"Bend over," he orders, and the words nearly stick in his throat. Alfred complies, hands planted down on the ground, body bending into a perfect arc of nation and humanity, breathing hard and sweating and iwanting/i.

Matthew admires the view for a moment before asking, "How many?"

"More," Alfred pleads, the confession as rushed and blunt as his declaration of love had been earlier. "iMore/i."

Matthew exhales through his nose before focusing down on America's ass, the two globes of flesh trembling below him, and draws back a hand.

He doesn't hold back, and the resounding islap/i of flesh striking flesh is so loud that Matthew jumps, but the sound of his movement is easily overtaken by Alfred's exclamation. The skin turns pink immediately after impact and Matthew shakes his hand a little bit – that had hurt more than expected.

More blows after that, their sound loud and obscene in the half-dark of the cabin. Matthew alternates cheeks, a strange rhythm of sounds played out depending on if he strikes Alfred across the thighs, under his sit spots, or straight on. Alfred is moaning continuously now, one long unbroken sound, and Matthew watches as white liquid drips from between Alfred's legs to the floor.

Eventually, breathing hard, Matthew stops, pulls away, and watches Alfred's body quake dangerously in his held position, the moaning continuing, the abused skin cherry red.

"Matthew," Alfred is sobbing now, clearly on the edge of orgasm and entirely gone to delirium. "iMatthew/i."

Matthew takes pity on him, sidling up behind Alfred's body and hooking an arm around his waist. He pulls the other nation back against him, and Alfred is clearly too boneless to stand on his own so he leans back into Matthew's body, cock as red as his ass, tears streaming down his face, repeating Matthew's name like a mantra.

Matthew feels his breath accelerate even further, and he wants one thing, he wants one – more – thing –

"Canada," Matthew whispers, hand resting against Alfred's leg. "iCanada/i."

Alfred, with all the loudness that his lungs can produce, screams the name, and Matthew barely has to touch him before Alfred comes so hard that his knees buckle and his semen nearly hits the thatched roof.

Matthew catches Alfred before he falls – just like Alfred did for him – and they both lower in an exhausted, naked, boneless heap to the bearskin rug.

Matthew settles Alfred on his side and lies next to him – the other has his eyes closed, breathing shallowly, an occasional tear still streaking his cheek.

The sight is somewhere between extremely satisfying and extremely worrying. Matthew reaches out a gentle hand and touches it to Alfred's temple, causing the other to exhale deeply, and open his eyes.

And Alfred smiles.

Matthew smiles a little bit in return, his fingers tracing Alfred's lips and coming to a rest under Alfred's chin, touching the stubble.

Their kiss is less of a kiss and more of a weak touching of the lips, each of them offering the soft movements until they run out of energy and collapse to the rug.

Alfred sighs deeply and rolls over onto his side so that his back is facing the Canadian and Matthew frowns for a moment, before Alfred shuffles a little farther back and rotates his shoulders entreatingly into Matthew's chest.

Matthew drapes an arm over the other and entwines their legs together – and this is it, this is right, this is where they both belong.

Matthew floats for a moment before his hand slides down Alfred's flank to rest lightly on the abused skin of the American's ass. "You're all right?" Matthew whispers.

Alfred makes a noise like a laugh before pushing back slightly into Matthew's hand. "You burn down my capital and don't say a word – you hit me with your hand and you're all concerned?" he asks, teasingly.

Matthew scowls and pinches the red skin just slightly, causing Alfred to jump a little. "This is different," the Canadian insists, caressing the area he pinched.

He feels Alfred sigh and shuffle farther back into the embrace – Matthew thinks that if they push together any more, their skin is going to meld. "I know," Alfred replies, voice foggy with exhaustion. Alfred yawns, and Matthew can feel the beat of the other's heart. "I love you," the American mumbles again, his fingers entwining with Matthew's.

Matthew sighs, less out of exasperation than anything else. "You are ridiculous," he informs the other. He breaks their connection by sitting up, and Alfred makes a discontented noise when he does, but Matthew merely reaches for the folded horse blanket sitting beside the fire before laying back down again.

As Matthew arranges the blanket around them both, Alfred rolls onto his back - and Matthew winces for him, becaue it has to hurt – and catches Matthew's mouth in one last kiss.

When Alfred pulls away, the look in his eyes is so entreating that Matthew sighs. "I love you too, all right?"

Alfred smiles like a satisfied child, and they reshuffle into their arrangement of naked limbs – Alfred's back pressed to Matthew's chest, Matthew's bent legs cradling Alfred's lower half.

"Now stop invading me," Matthew mumbles into the back of Alfred's neck.

Alfred sighs, well on the way to unconsciousness. "I will."

As exhaustion takes over and their bodies generate heat in the rhythm of sleep, Matthew is struck with an odd certainty that Alfred is telling the truth.

End