A/N:

I hope this isn't too confusing. And this may or may not turn into a two shot. It's loosely inspired by a REALLY great fic I read a while back, and perhaps subconsciously in sync with the movie No Strings Attached, which I've yet to see, and don't plan to.

Warning:

Bitter denial, implied man on man, because that's what you were looking for right? Purposeful slaughterment of grammar rules. Written with love and insanity~ :D

Disclaimer:

Owning Hetalia would make it so much less fun to write FanFiction. (Obviously I will never know this for a fact.)

Otherwise just look at this story as a mind written diary. If that makes sense?

The Implied Study Of Alfred F. Jones.

You and America have never been very good...friends? It was hard to say what you are, or were for that matter. Things over time got more muddled as appose to fixing themselves, but that tended to happen with you a lot. Time wasn't something that was particularly kind. But you as it passed, you found that there was no longer solace in loneliness, and this was increasingly difficult to accept.

So you would push to the back of your mind. Something you'd gotten very good at over the years.

But, you and him have been acquaintances for long enough for you to have acquired, what you can only call, ties to him. Tie that run somewhat deep...deep enough not to ignore. And as much as you want to silence that quiet need, it remains, until one day you find yourself in a situation where it takes over. More or less, he takes over, and the feeling of his mouth pressed against yours makes it hard to resist any longer, because you dominate, and there will be no question of that here.

"Do you want me?"

He'll ask, pressing himself against you. This will throw you off, because of course you want him, just like you can feel him jabbing into your leg, he has to feel you as well.

You think...

You know.

He was prone to doing things like this, things that made no sense, and it would be for that reason you would nod and try to capture another kiss before he changed his mind. Because in all honesty you've probably wanted this longer than you can remember. Here he'll stop you. "Say it. I want to hear you say it." He'll purr. You mumble something incoherent, and this seems to be enough for him as he presses another rough kiss on you. But this is no place to do such things. You're curious as to if you could get him take it somewhere else, somewhere in which you can savor the memory. God knows you won't be able to return to this bathroom, in this bar, whenever you want to relive this moment.

So you voice your question, quiet and clear. He nods, lust dancing over his eyes, and you take this as welcoming, because it cannot be anything else. So you crack the door and peek out, the empty hallway ready for escape. You take his hand, knowing you won't be seen, and sneak out a side door rushing through the near empty parking lot to your car. You inquire about his, and he states:

"I don't care, it'll be there in the morning." His carelessness, though often something that gets under your skin, suddenly turns you on a little more. This means he wants this, wants you, and that thought is very pleasing.

You try to focus on the road, but he keeps fingering at your belt buckle.

You try to focus but he keeps fingering at his belt buckle.

You try to focus but he finally undoes your belt, and starts to unbutton your jeans before you remind him your almost home, and he says in a voice barely above a whisper:

"Don't you want his now?" And you almost bite your lip to hold back a response, because you want whatever he's got for you in those fumbling hands. But you keep your eyes on the road, because your too close to home to be distracted. Because as they say, why have a taste when you could have the whole dish? Even if the whole dish has downed a few and followed you to the bathroom. Would the whole dish even be able to remember whose bed he was in come morning?

...Would that bother him?

You push these thoughts aside, pulling into the driveway, and he moves quicker than you to the door. When you finally get inside, you slip off your jacket, because your long coat would have been to much on a warm Autumn night like this, and usher him into the bedroom where you promptly pin him to the bed. You take his opportunity to kiss him rougher then he kissed you, grind against him, as he wraps his legs around your midsection, and bathe in every gasp and moan, because all of them are beautiful, just like he is. And as this thought passes, you stop, because that thought was laced with what you can only describe as fear. And he looks up at you, with innocent eyes, but a devilish grin.

You look at him with devilish eyes but an innocent grin.

"You just gonna leave me like that?" He'll ask, pulling your hips down, with his legs, to restart the motion you'd just ceased and you continue, because you want what he wants.

And this is new. This is new, and this is nice.

. . .

Come morning, you'll realize something is amiss. This is a thought that doesn't amble through, for you have meetings today, and things to do. You have to be in your office early, so there isn't time to pick up last night's mess, let alone consider he's gone, nor how he got back to his car.

That evening when you return, you don't stop in the kitchen for food tonight, but vodka. You don't stop in the living room to go channel surfing. You go straight to you room, and fall into the dirty bedding. And this will be the moment you realize you've made a terrible mistake. You'll put the bottle to your mouth, and pull a folded paper from the side table opposite the one next to you. A folded paper you hadn't noticed before.

Decided to skip the awkward morning after, but last night was fun. So call me -so..ti..me -anytime. I r..lly-

'Sometime' was scribbled out. As was everything after anytime. You could make out 'I really', but the rest was scribbled out to the point in which the paper ripped.

You tilt you head back, setting the bottle down, and re-reading the note. You smile to yourself, and set it down next to the bottle, pulling the bedding up to your nose, because it's intoxicating. It's more than intoxicating, but you can't find a word greater then than that. But your smile falters, because you note that you've had a long day, a very long day. So long, in fact, that you wish you could talk to someone about it. No. You wish you could talk to-

You stop yourself there, because last night was sex. You and him did not share emotions, or fall in-

-No. You stop yourself there because he wanted just that from you, sex, and this is what you wanted from him...well it was last night. Last night sex was enough. But today...today was different some how. Today the memory he'd brought here wasn't enough for you, and this is scary. This is frightening. So you put this thought away, and pick up your bottle, and take another swig. Because you hope inebriation will wash away his overwhelming

intoxicating

scent.

. . .

Time passes, and you have him time and time again, never failing to steal your name from the parted pink lips. Time passes and you take him more and more, and every time it's him who comes to you, and you like this. You like this because it's him being vulnerable, and when he gives you that, you take off your scarf when you make lo-

When you fuck him. Because if he will stop being the hero long enough to let himself be pleased...

let himself be please by you...

You will offer a small token such as the removal of your scarf. Because you don't take your scarf off for anyone. Because with him, it's not about dominance anymore, it's about...

...it's about...

...it's about being open. Expressing your wants and needs. And you want him. You need him.

No.

You want him. You don't need anything, you don't need him.

But it doesn't take long for you to want a little more. In fact, you wanted more after the first time, you'll recall, but you attempted to throw that thought away with the empty Vodka bottle.

He stays, sometimes, falling asleep directly after, and you take this advantage of this by pulling him into an embrace, because you know when he's awake, he may pull away, and you know you can't deal with re...

You know you can't deal with his loud mouth.

But sometimes he doesn't stay longer than the given ten minutes it takes for one to recover. He looks at you and smiles, eye lids hung low, and says something...something you can't always remember.

-Your eyes are so beautiful.

It gets better every time I swear-

-I could never get tired of this.

I hope things never change-

No, you never remember what he says.

But most days...after the heat of the moment has passed, he stands up and limps away groaning from the after affects of the 'good time', and slips into his jeans.

-The jeans he looks so damn good in.

Because he still has some place to be...or something. He never clarifies. This is where true fear sets in.

You're afraid because come to think of it, it's late. You've never noticed before, but it's very late at night when he leaves. Where could he possibly have to be? This worries you more then you'd like to admit, because you've never noticed the time before. Time wasn't something you hardly gave a second thought to simply because it wasn't important, not unless you had some place to be. But suddenly, he, a creature of habit, picks up a pattern with his visits. A ritual if you will. Arriving anywhere between six and eight(eleven on days in which he simply must have you now), often standing in the doorway, speaking briefly of his day. Something about England, or how he's so stressed. Rarely do you listen, because he won't quiz you on it later, but you watch in amazement as he speaks, lips perfect to the touch, light frolicking over his golden hair in the waning light, baby blues so full of exuberance, or on occasion, exhaustion. All the while all you can think about is pressing his body to yours just long enough to feel his breath meander over your shoulder, because when you can do this, it is something you enjoy, something you enjoy a lot.

Something you can only do when he's asleep.

But today a hollow feeling washes over you as you smile, tilting your head, acting as if you are interested...this hollow feeling setting in before anything else even registers, not even-

"...and it's like why should we meet so often if the whole time you're going to remind me about things I already fucking know about. 'Blah blah blah, your economy, blah blah'...anyways, long story short, I've had a long ass day. You gonna let me in?" You nod, and step aside so he can enter, and he takes off his jacket, as well as his boots, and turns on your TV before settling down on the left side of the couch.

Always the left side...

You glance at the time, and recall the passing thought. The one you fear. Because it was him who made you think about the time. He was only there for clusters of time. More often then not, 12 hour chucks. And he'd be gone, leaving behind the sheets it pained you to wash, simply because among all the remaining fluids laid his scent. The scent that would make the time between his visits that much more bearable. You finally admit it, that time without him was seeming to be like time wasted.

Slow time.

Time that sauntered on it's way out.

Time that you filled with work, work and vodka.

But time with him..time with him moved so fast you lost track. You found yourself only living in the present. The past was only useful for stirring unrest...or days when you needed release, and he was no where around...

But what seemed like five minutes was an hour, and when you two were done, when he'd fallen asleep...you'd pull him into an embrace because to be as close to him as possible wasn't enough anymore. Pressing your bodies together, even being inside him, wasn't enough anymore. And you knew why.

You knew why but you didn't want to say it because saying it would make it real. And as long as you ignored it, it wasn't real. You knew this because this was how you handled everything. Questions, people...time. You didn't want to admit it, because you didn't need to. You were content with it's current state. You were handling it.

Right now you were handling it well, and that's all that mattered.

"C'mon stupid. Why are you still way over there? Sit with me."

And you go and sit down, and he lays his head against your shoulder, and sighs.

"I've had a rough day, as well." You whisper.

"You don't say..."

And you smile at this, because his carelessness...his carelessness turns you on.