4 moments, 4 memories
Title: Four moments, Four memories
Author: me, keiko_keket
Character/Pairing: Gilbert/Arthur (Prussia/England)
Rating: T+
Warnings: a fair bit of drinking, mentions of sex
Summary: One important memory for each year of school that Arthur and Gilbert spent getting together. Gakuen AU.
Notes: This is version 4 of my contest entry, which is part of the reason this took so long. So, as a treat, I'll also be posting the three unfinished versions! Happy Crackship everyone!
Year 1
Head down on the counter, Gilbert wasn’t quite sure what was going on at the party anymore and the half-dozen beer bottles in front of him attested as to why. He could hear the beat of the music through the closed kitchen door but for the first time in seemingly forever he didn’t want to go out and dance the night away with all the pretty girls draping over him for a chance to dance. No, he’d just sit at this counter, alone (but there was nothing wrong with being alone! He told himself and in the drunken haze he was in, he nearly believed himself), and see how many beers it’d take to send him to the hospital. Then maybe Lizzy-
-that thought was cut off abruptly as the sound of the music increased and decreased with the sound of shuffling feet. With more difficulty that he thought possible, Gilbert levered his head off the cool marble and forced his eyes to focus enough to see what appeared to be one of his best friends backs as the Frenchman drug someone with shorter blond hair backwards, lips locked together as Francis apparently had his tongue down the shorter boys - Gilbert thought he was a boy at least - throat.
In the slow process of his mind, he considered telling them to fuck off. He really didn’t want to deal with anyone’s crappy romance right now, even if Francis was one of his best friends ever. By the time he managed to open his mouth to yell at them, the french boy had backed into the counter and managed to knock over not only all of his empty beer bottles, but the one he was working on too, spilling beer all over the floor - and all over Gilbert.
“Shit! Dammit Francis!” he swore, jumping off his stool and wiping at the large stain near his crotch.
“Gilbert? Oh, damn! I’m sorry!” for all the sorry Francis apparently was it didn’t stop him from laughing at the unsightly stain that made it look like Gilbert hadn’t found a washroom before he couldn’t hold it in any more. And, he sniffed, screwing up his face, he smelt like he’d pissed himself too.
A handkerchief was held out in front of his glaring red eyes, a deep blue and silver that almost looked as if it was hand-stitched. Startled out of his anger, the German (Prussian! He insisted) youth looked up at the hand and the face behind it -
-and was shocked into silence at the bright green eyes staring back at him. Green, like leaves... or... or like emeralds. So much like Lizzy’s... Francis’s fling was staring back at him, face flushed both from the lack of air he’d probably been subjected to (Francis held the school record for longest kiss without breathing) and, from the look in his eyes, embarrassment.
“Here. Take it. Least I could...” that very masculine timber - as well as the face and the eyebrows for that matter - told him that he was right about the unknown person being a boy. “...sorry about that.” The faint accent told him that the blond was as much a foreigner as Gilbert was, except British instead of German.
With a very muffled ‘thank you’ he grabbed the cloth and managed to lessen the amount of beer soaked through his pants, even if it didn’t remove the stain entirely. Trying to give the blue cloth back, he was rejected ever so slightly.
“Keep it - or at least wash it first.” those green eyes, not entirely sober either, were focused on him for only a short while - and some distant, not-quite-drunk part of him wished it was for longer - before they turned back to Francis, who decided he didn’t like being ignored anymore and had wrapped his arms around the nameless boy’s waist and nuzzled the back of his neck and sending a bright red blush over his face.
“Prussia, why exactly are you back here with beer for company when there are plenty of people out there,” the frenchman waved a hand towards the door, “who’d be more than willing to entertain you?” he also used Gilbert’s childhood nickname, the former-country’s title something he decided to keep alive, even if it was just a personal name for someone as awesome as he. With a groan, he was reminded as to why he was in the kitchen by himself again and he landed back on his stool with a scrape of the chair-legs.
“...Lizzy broke up with me.” he managed to slur out, slumping back over the counter and grabbing another unopened beer. Cracking it open and downing half the contents with a practiced motion, he coughed and continued, “for that fucking Roderi- Ro... Roddy pansy.” And no, those were not tears in his eyes.
“She did? Well... sorry Prussia.” Francis just looked awkward, shifting his weight more onto the green-eyed boys back and to Gilbert it was as if the French teen was taunting him with their relationship-ness.
“Pff... that was laaame man. Aren’t French people supposed to be all... wordy?” Gilbert mumbled, glaring up at the two from where he decided to rest his head on the counter.
“Cher, we may have a world of words, but we don’t have many to deal with broken hearts.” the blond shrugged, followed by a grimace. “What was that for?” he wheezed, to Gilbert’s confusion.
“That was for being a twat.” the nameless teen sniffed almost imperiously (reminding Gilbert that he thought the guy was British and it nearly sent him snickering at the stereotype) and shifted his elbow away from Francis’s gut, explaining why the French boy looked as if he’d been abused. “You’re his friend, right? You should at least do... something for him!”
“What ‘e said.” Gilbert snickered, watching Francis’s face become offended, then crafty as he pulled out one of the other stools at the counter and sat in it. Almost distractedly, he pulled a couple of the German teens unopened beer bottles his way before whipping around and grabbing the green-eyed boy around the waist. With a startled yelp, he found himself planted firmly in Francis’s lap, legs hanging over one side of the French boys (toes knocking lightly, unintentionally, against Gilbert’s leg), face bright red.
“Whatever you command, mon petit lapin.” Francis purred into the nameless boy’s ear as he grabbed one of the beers and stuck it in the other’s hands. “We shall stay here and drink with him - does that satisfy your need to do good?” he chuckled and Gilbert could see him plant a kiss on the back of an ear that was quickly turning red to match the rest of his face.
“Not helping.” Gilbert snorted, lifting his head just high enough to be able to crack another beer open and tip it down his throat. Red eyes watched the other two behind nearly closed lashes as they both fussed over who got to open the green-eyed boys beer and Gilbert could tell from the look in Francis’s eyes that this was one of his many conquests and that the other boy was completely unaware of that fact.
“Reminds me... who the fuck are you anyways?” he groused, kicking the green-eyed boy in the leg and smirking at his wince.
“Ah - my apologies Prussia.” Francis grinned into the choppy blond locks in his face. “This is mon petit lapin - I knew him from that brief period of time I lived in England and he just transferred to our school within the last couple of days. I volunteered to... show him around.”
“Idiot. That’s not my name.” the other reached up and smacked Francis on the head with considerably less force than when he’d elbowed him. With the very same hand, he reached out, offering it to Gilbert to shake and damn... his eyes were greener than Lizzy’s and for a moment he found he couldn’t look away. “Arthur Kirkland.” the other finally introduced himself when Gilbert found his body and mind connected again and had enough sense to shake the hand.
Arthur... huh.
-------
Year 2
“C’mon Bunny - put away the books and just chill out!” Gilbert whined to Arthur, whose face was behind some ungodly huge textbook while they sat on the bleachers watching Antonio, Lovino and Francis practice with the football team. He sidled up closer to the blond, peering at the tiny print of the text before trying to pull the book away.
“Gilbert, how many times must I tell you not to call me ‘Bunny’. I don’t let Francis get away with it and I certainly won’t let you.” those green eyes glared at him from behind a pair of wire-framed glasses that glinted in the afternoon sunlight.
“And how many times do I hafta say you can call me ‘Prussia’ like everyone else!” Gilbert poked him on the forehead, earning a swat and a huff from Arthur. “C’mon Bunny - we’re friends right? Friends always have awesome nicknames for each other!”
“And what - exactly - is so great about being named after a small, stupid animal?” the book was closed with a slam to Gilbert’s glee - now if only he could sneak it away without the other noticing.
“... you know that bunny from ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail?’” Gilbert hummed out, fingers slowly but surely making their way towards that thick tome. He wasn’t going to mention to Arthur that they called him ‘Bunny’ mainly because Francis called him ‘mon petit lapin’ all the time... or that his obsession with cleanliness, his overall fluffiness (he could be so cute sometimes~), the way he squirmed every time that his boyfriend went to cuddle (or grope) him all were such bunny-esque tendencies.
“... the evil, man-eating monster?” Arthur quirked one of his impressive eyebrows, looking rather unimpressed.
“That kicked so much ass!” Gilbert punched a fist into the air enthusiastically.
“Since when have you ever watched classic British movies? I thought you had an obsession with German movies and korean dramas?”
“... it was a British movie?” Huh... news to him - Alfred had told him that it was an amazing American movie.
“Yes Gil-” and here, Arthur winced, pursed his lips before finishing. “Yes Prussia. It is. Monty Python is British, as well as all his other movies and skits.”
“... There’s more than the one movie?” he grinned with glee at finally getting Arthur to use his nickname.
With a sigh and a massage to his temples, Arthur opened his mouth to say something else when the two of them were covered by three shadows. Antonio flopped onto the wooden bleacher with a loud ‘bang’, pulling a squawking Lovino down beside him in a happy, sweaty hug. On their other side, Francis sat down with a practiced, graceful move - that Gilbert had caught him practicing in his bedroom to perfect - and wrapped his arms around Arthur’s shoulders.
Gilbert wasn’t jealous. Not at all.
“What are we talking about, mon petit lapin?” Francis sighed, resting his chin on Arthur’s shoulder, eyes half-closed.
“We’re going to have a Monty Python marathon tonight.” Arthur stated in his ‘don’t-argue-with-me’ tone. And Gilbert’s grin was totally because he was expecting to watch a bunch of awesome movies and not because of the grimace on Francis’s face.
“Must we?” the French teen stated weakly, imploring Arthur not to torture him with British comedy. And Gilbert sat back as another fight started up between the two with the faintest of frowns.
----
Year 3
Gilbert plodded through the school’s hallways, head hanging and wincing with every surge of noise. Okay, so maybe getting completely wasted to celebrate Bunny getting Student Council President and Francis getting Vice President wasn’t the best idea when they had class the next day - and Arthur refused to let them skip because of his new responsibility. The jerk. - but they’d needed an excuse to party badly. Arthur and Francis’s relationship had become more on the rocks than ever before; Toni and Lovi had fought with the Vargas parents and ended up with the Italian teen getting kicked out of home and moving in with his Spanish boyfriend, and Gilbert himself had gotten into another fight with Elizaveta (he’d even stopped calling her Lizzy in his head) and Roderich, nearly getting kicked out of school in the process.
But while the rest of his friends had only gotten buzzed, Gilbert had gotten himself completely drunk. It wasn’t his original intention, but when Arthur and Francis had disappeared into the Brit’s bedroom and didn’t come back out the rest of the night, he’d found himself with a constant beer on the go.
Now, standing between Toni and Lovi as the former comforted him for his aching head and the latter mocked him mercilessly for being a lightweight (he wasn’t! Not at all!) they were looking to find their last two missing friends amongst the throngs of students rushing to class.
They found Francis first and usually finding one meant they found the other - but, apparently it wasn’t that way this morning as the French teen had a second year girl under his arm and was happily chatting her up. There was no sign of Arthur anywhere.
“Oi, Rosy, where’s Bunny?” Antonio called over, not missing the suddenly tense feeling in the air that had both Lovino and Gilbert sharing a look.
“Arthur?” Francis looked up from smiling down at the girl, happy face disappearing in an instant, replaced by a mix of blankness with the tiniest hint of anger. “We broke up. Last I saw him was early this morning in his room.” he waved an arm carelessly, as if the two of them hadn’t been dating for just over two years.
Gilbert wasn’t even aware of when he dashed off, back to the dorms until he was out in the sunlight and it seared into his hangover like he was staring directly at the sun. In the distance behind him, he thought he heard his friends shouting for him but he didn’t stop or slow. Francis broke up with Arthur? (or was it the other way around...?) Arthur... wasn’t at school? Was skipping class because of what happened?
It felt like forever to get back to the dorms and up to Arthur’s dorm, where they’d had the party the night before. The door was uncharacteristically unlocked, which in a way was good for him as he just stepped inside, walking around the beer cans and leftover bits of munchies from the night before - another bad sign as Arthur was obsessed with cleanliness, especially in his own space.
“Bunny?” he spoke aloud, not quite daring to yell. There was no noise in the dorm room, as if he was the only one here. Thinking and grimacing, he headed straight for the bedroom - the last place he’d seen the British teen.
Opening the door, he was assaulted by smell - alcohol, sweat and the distinct smell of what, he assumed, sex would smell like. His insides squirmed as he took hesitant steps inside, eyes roving and looking for that familiar blond head of hair. The bed was mussed up, the blankets bunched up near the bottom and suspicious red stains on the bottom cover. “Arthur?” he asked again, quietly looking under the bed and on the other side and even in the closet to no sign of the usually loud teen.
Concluding that Bunny wasn’t in his bedroom really left only one other place for him to search - the bathroom. The door was closed, but again, not locked as he threw it open, heart beating faster because if Arthur wasn’t there then he had no idea where he’d be. But his eyes quickly found the skinny Brit, huddled near the toilet and clad in only their school uniforms button up white shirt.
“Bunny.” he spoke quietly enough, trying not to startle the other whose blank stare wasn’t focused on anything. He ignored the fact that with Arthur huddled the way he was, Gilbert could see his thighs coated in dried... stuff, or the fact that the toilet was open and filled with vomit - it explained the stench in the usually nice smelling room - or the dried tear tracks. He just felt relief when those blank eyes turned and focused on him.
“Pru...ssia...” Arthur mumbled, blinking with about as much focus as someone who was still drunk. Taking two quick steps into the bathroom before sliding the rest of the way on his knees and coming to rest beside the stricken Brit.
“Hey there Bunny.” he reached up with both hands to cup Arthur’s face, forcing the other to look him straight in the eyes. “I heard what happened.” And that was really all it took to have the green-eyed boy crying in his arms, completely incomprehensible blubber pouring from his lips.
What felt like hours later, Arthur’s crying had calmed down to sniffling, the red-eyed boy had flushed the mess in the toilet away and Gilbert had shooed both Antonio and Lovino out of the bathroom door with a glance. Without getting up, the silver-haired teen reached for some toilet paper to wipe the tear stains off Arthur’s pale skin. He thought that the shorter boy had fallen asleep when he suddenly stirred and looked blearily up at Gilbert.
“Prussia... do... do you think I’m ugly?” he muttered as his fingers nervously tangled their way into what was once Gilbert’s well-pressed shirt (which Ludwig would kill him for when he saw how his hard work was ruined).
“What? Why the hell do you think I’d think that?” he was not going to say that he’d been watching Arthur since he’d first met the boy - curled up beside Francis, gesturing in class, reading, changing in the locker room, playing his guitar, cooking his horrible food, fighting with Antonio about everything from the Armada to football - because to say it out loud would probably scare him away. It wasn’t stalking... it was being aware of the other boy whenever he was around.
After grumbling and shying around the subject he managed to wheedle the reason out of Arthur - after getting drunk and doing... THAT... they’d gotten into a fight where Francis had, apparently, described what he thought was ugly about the British teen in great detail. Gilbert was wondering if maybe instead of being hung over that he was still personally drunk because a crazy idea had popped into his head.
“Alright Bunny - what about you did he say was ugly?” he looked into those green eyes with a very serious face that was so unlike him it seemed to shock Arthur into temporary silence.
“My... my hair for one thing...” he finally mumbled out, looking rather pained. “He called it scragl- ee!” his sentance cut off with a surprised noise as he suddenly found Gilbert’s lips on top of his head.
“I like your hair.” Gilbert said simply when he leaned back up. “What else did he say?”
“M-my forehead i-” once again, Arthur stuttered to a stop when warm, dry lips were pressed to his skin. Gilbert managed to keep himself from pulling on the Brit’s cheeks as they flamed red.
“And?”
“My cheeks.” two quick kisses.
“My nose.” another one, lingering slightly.
“My... eyebrows.” was whispered out and Gilbert paid especially good attention to the thick brows.
“My stomach.” a kiss placed over the skin as Gilbert leant down and pressed it onto his shirt, not wanting to embarrass Arthur by stripping him.
“My knees.” One and two - a devious look up from where Gilbert crouched between his knees.
“M-my c-” was silenced by a lunged kiss to his lips.
“Bunny... I really like you - don’t let one person’s opinions get you down.”
And then they were both too occupied for more words.
-----
Year 4 (Present day)
Gilbert sailed into the diner where Arthur was working with a grin on his face and a proposal on his lips. Well - not THAT kind of proposal, but one that was pretty awesome none-the-less. They’d been together almost a year now and while it hadn’t been perfect like in those fantasy novels the Brit liked to read so much, they were friends as much as lovers and they got along rather well.
“Buuuunny~” he called as he strolled towards his scowling boyfriend.
“Why do you always call me that in public?” Arthur flushed and Gilbert couldn’t resist poking him on one cheek.
“Because I can?” and he backed up a step at the annoyed look and the fist being raised threateningly in the air. “D-don’t hit me? Arthur?” seeing the lowered fist he grinned again at a crisis averted.
“Why are you here?” he was asked. He didn’t have to say anything about visiting the boy every day he could - Arthur’s parents had called him home half a year ago now and, trying to force him to come back after the green-eyed boy had said no, they had cut off his allowance. Instead of giving in, Arthur had picked up a part-time job on top of his Student Council duties. Gilbert, devastated that his alone time had been cut into had started his daily visits.
“Well - I was thinking. It’s been a year.” ‘since we started dating’ went unsaid as there were people around them and Arthur was sensitive to that sort of thing. “Wanna come home, meet the folks?” Which they’d both been avoiding doing, Gilbert not wanting to end up like Lovi especially since Arthur’s parents had reacted badly to finding out about them... which was also the reason they had tried to pull him home.
The odd look on Arthur’s face made Gilbert grin all the more, shuffling closer until all that remained between them was the tray Arthur used to carry food on. “C’mon Bunny - my parents know I’m bringing you over, they’re totally cool with it. Pleaaase?” he begged, snickering as his boyfriend’s face turned redder.
“They... they know?” he sounded confused as well as flustered as he pushed Gilbert back a few steps. “...alright then.” he mumbled, “If only you promise to stop bothering me at work!” Gilbert promised - fingers crossed behind his back - and strolled back outside, promising to pick the Brit up after work.
That was how the two of them ended up on Gilbert’s parents doorstep, having a hissed argument... or rather, Arthur was arguing and Gilbert was trying to understand what was bothering him.
“You told them I was coming... but didn’t tell them my name... or the fact that I was a boy...” the green eyed boy glared at him. “That’s... Prussia you idiot! They probably think you’re bringing home a girlfriend!” his angry look was quickly becoming more panicked.
Gilbert opened his mouth to argue back when the door swung inside, his parents both standing there, Ludwig in the background with his normal look of exasperation.
“Gilbert, there you are! You’re late.” his mother scolded, stepping aside to let him in. Turning her attention to the blond on her doorstep, she offered a faint smile. “And you must be Arthur - Ludwig has told me quite a bit about you.”
Sending a startled look towards Gilbert’s usually uptight brother, he caught a smile and a rolled eyes. Returning the smile, he held out his hand to shake both of Gilbert’s parents hands. “Ah, yes. Pleasure to meet you, sir, ma’am.”
Dinner wasn’t all that awkward, despite what Arthur seemed to have predicted. There was quiet conversation all around and it was rather nice to be able to sit beside Gilbert, to let him hold his hand under the table while the parents teased both their sons mercilessly. Gilbert’s grandfather was there as well, giving Arthur a hearty pat on the back that nearly made him stumble, thanking him for helping set Gilbert straighter - laughing at the pun he’d made - over the last year.
And later that night as the family - and Arthur already felt more a part of this one than he’d felt with his family - sat around in the living room, watching a movie and he was dozing off, head on Gilbert’s shoulder he realized that this warm, comfortable feeling was love. The German teen’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, pulling him closer as he slowly fell asleep, warming him from head to toe he decided everything he’d been through to get here had been more than worth it.
There was a reason Gilbert was crouched in a bush, in the rain, in England of all places, at two in the morning. For one thing, lurking in the bush was way more inconspicuous than, say, lingering under the streetlamp - which he had done before... and subsequently been arrested for something-or-another, he didn’t quite know or care what it was. And he couldn’t help the rained on part because if he brought an umbrella, what would be the point of hiding in the bushes? And the being in England part? France had given him this super awesome tip that he’d want to be in that stuffy Brit’s house tonight of all nights. Why? He didn’t know - but if it was something awesome (and England HAD been kinda-awesome waaaaaaaaaaay back when) he had to be there to make it awesome and to take a picture of it for his blog.
And it was two in the morning because England just wasn’t there. It was rather obvious - the house was dark, most of the blinds were open, so when he trolled around the house to look inside he didn’t see anything and climbing up the trellis to look through his bedroom window showed that the guy wasn’t sleeping in his bed. Figuring that he’d be home soon enough so he could jump out of the bushes and scare freaky-brows, he had settled down in the man’s rhododendron bushes to wait. That was about... four hours ago, if his watch was telling the right time. Gilbird had even left his head to go huddle up in the eaves of England’s porch to get out of the rain.
Sneezing loudly, he wondered if maybe France was just being a dick and lied to him for shits and giggles. He wasn’t considering giving up - hell, he’d wait until morning if he had to! - but damn was he tired of the constant wet and cold. The damp was... well... dampening his awesome! And... was that a mouse climbing up his pant leg? With a scream that was totally not girly at all - and incredibly awesome to boot - he was up and out of the bush and halfway up the trellis before the panic went away and a new thought struck him.
Without stopping to think about it - after all, all his ideas were awesome! - he was back up at England’s window, then through his window (ha! Stupid guy left it unlocked, he was practically inviting him in!) and into the toasty depths of his bedroom. Stumbling around in the dark, he cursed as he smashed his knee into the bedpost until his fumbling fingers finally found a lamp. The room was... not entirely what he expected. He thought he’d be walking into the room of an old man, but it didn’t even have that old-man smell that usually came with it. The walls were a dark green - well, what he could see of them was dark green as the walls were nearly entirely covered. One whole wall was a giant bookshelf that was literally packed with literature stacked three deep to fit them all on the shelves. Beside that was a dark wood dresser which the top was covered in knickknacks from embroidery to what appeared to be a few arrows in the process of being fletched to an old sword-cleaning kit that Prussia could have sworn he saw the man use back in the Seven Years War to a pair of old-man reading glasses.
Above the dresser was a paraphernalia of posters and pictures - posters of bands that he assumed England liked (Sex Pistols? The Rolling Stones? Pink Floyd? Dragon Force? Who were all these bands?) and pictures of landscapes that he assumed were British because they looked... dreary. Hidden amongst those pictures were what looked like hand drawn pictures of... girls with wings? A green rabbit that, apparently, flies? A... unicorn? Prussia snorted as he leaned in and saw the tiny ‘Arthur Kirkland’ signature on each bottom - whatever the English nation was smoking, he decided, he wanted some of it.
Continuing his perusal of the room, there was the bed (King sized? He almost wondered what England would need a King-sized bed for, being famous for being friendless), with black and red blankets and huge fluffy pillows, with a massive head board behind it that’s shape vaguely reminded Prussia of... a skull and crossbones? He shrugged it off - it was his awesome imagination acting up, he was sure - and went to look at the next wall, half of which was covered in a standing wardrobe the same color as the dresser. Resisting the temptation to go through the clothes in there (there were only so many suits he could see before he thought of West and his obsession with dressing ‘fancy’ too) he shuffled over so he could see what was on the wall beside the wardrobe.
And blinked in surprise, as on the wall, mounted in a glass box and probably freaking air-sealed so it wouldn’t get dusty was England’s old pirate uniform. He recognized the red frock coat with it’s miles of gold rope and brass buttons, the black slashes across the front, the folded-back leather cuffs - even the white shirt underneath with it’s lace cuffs and cravat were there! Hanging just above the coat on a small hanger was his old tricorn, ostrich plumes still sticking mockingly out at whomever had the displeasure of seeing the pirate nation close up, gold trim around it’s three sides. His pistol was there, mounted at where he assumed England’s hip would be, right beside those tight leather breeches he’d enjoyed wearing so much and those thigh high leather boots that if he wore today he’d probably be considered some kind of porn-star.
Was this the surprise that France had mentioned? Because he was sure as hell surprised to see it there, up on the wall beside three flags - one pirate, one United Kingdom and the old English one of a red cross on white background. But no, it couldn’t be, when he thought about it. Those clothes had to have been up on the wall and France said the surprise would be on tonight so... turning away from the walls, he skipped out into the hallway, looking for the bathroom so he could dry off a bit as he waited for his surprise.
It wasn’t long after he’d dried off - stealing one of England’s bath robes so his clothes would have a chance to dry off while he warmed up - that he found himself back in the guys room with the lights turned off and dozing on the floor. He still wanted to scare the uptight nation and after that, maybe question him and get a few beers because he’d spent so much time just sitting there bored, he deserved a drink!
The door banging open downstairs snapped him out of his sleepy daze and instantly scuttling under the bed. It was a good choice too, the bed was just far enough off the ground for him to squeeze under but not high enough that anyone standing up in the room should be able to see him. Booted feet stomped up the stairs with more force than necessary, occasionally squeaking as wet rubber met hard wood and became progressively more silent the more water left behind. The bedroom door slammed open as well with a muttered curse that was definitely England’s voice - albeit, slurry enough that Prussia could guess he was drunk again - and a faint scrabbling that he could guess was the man trying to find the light switch near the door.
The sudden blinding light forced Prussia to shuffle a little further back into the dark under the bed so his eyes could readjust so when he could finally see, he scooted back out that little bit and saw what the surprise was. Mouth hanging open in shock, he blinked, rubbed his eyes and blinked again when the image didn’t change. This... this was England?
The first thing Prussia had noticed were the pants. The red and green plaid pants that were a second skin and forcing him to notice that while England’s legs were incredibly skinny, they were still as muscular as back in the old days... and also that the man wasn’t wearing anything UNDER those pants as they would have shown up as at least a line on his hips. He was wearing black leather boots that had large silver buckles up the middle and silver studs all along the edge between the boot and the rubber sole. Up further he was wearing a tight black t-shirt with what Prussia assumed was another rock band on it. He’d thought the stuffy man was just skinny under all those sweater vests, but he had muscles (just not as awesome as his!). With black studded bracers on each arm - one with a Union Jack sewn down the length of it and a thin black collar around his throat, if Prussia didn’t recognize those eyebrows, he’d have thought he was looking at a different person entirely!
He was pretty sure England didn’t see him as the man stormed his way into the room, kicking off his boots as he went and stumbling over his own feet because of it. Prussia’s heart leapt into his throat when the drunken blond did trip, arms flailing towards the bed - and potentially revealing him before he was ready to jump out and laugh at him. He hadn’t even gotten a picture for his blog yet! Which reminded him... reaching into the right pocket of England’s robe, he pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open, pressing the buttons needed for his camera without having to look. All the while, he was staring at the up-close view of those tight pants as England slowly slid down to sit with his back to his bed - and giving Prussia such a good look at his ass in those pants that he fought down the temptation of reaching out and poking it by taking a quick picture - he could smell the sweat and cheap beer coming off his skin and clothes.
His luck was with him as the tipsy nation didn’t notice the flash going off behind him. England’s arms went up to rub at his face and hair, muttering what Prussia thought were curses the whole time, before he levered himself back up onto his feet and stomped back to his shoes. The stomping wasn’t as effective as before as he was doing it in socks rather than boots, but kicking the boots over to the wardrobe made a loud enough noise to make up for the lack.
That action seemed to calm something in the cursing nation. His tense posture faded with a long sigh and a hand through his hair. As his back was turned from the bed, Prussia took that moment to snap another picture. And then he temporarily forgot about taking pictures as England stretched - and not just raised his arms above his head, even though he did that as well. Lifting onto his toes and arching his back so far he was nearly bent halfway backwards, fingers about a foot from touching the ground behind him, England managed to stay like that for nearly half a minute before he stumbled out of the surprisingly graceful pose (and surprisingly sexy, Prussia admitted in a small voice in the back of his head).
There was chaos everywhere. He could barely hear the screams of the people and horses around him over the sounds of clanging metal - of armored bodies hitting one another, or swords clashing, of chain mail swinging around, clinking the chains together. He’d lost his horse what seemed like hours ago - it couldn’t have been that long as the sun was in the same position as when the fight had started. He’d lost more than his horse - his shield was long gone, smashed off his arm and out of his sight... if he could feel more than adrenaline and fear, he figured his arm was broken with the way it was hanging. His sword was still in hand and he was swinging it with a avengence (except he wasn’t sure if he was hitting the enemy or one of his in this chaos...).
The sun was blocked out behind him. He turned -
... there was a horse... arrows littered its sides, blood spraying from the slice across it’s throat - it’s knight fell to his side with what would be a deafening clang if he could hear any specific sound over the battle
...it reared up...
...t fell - he couldn’t dodge ...
...PAIN...
...darkness....
...”’ve... nd one s...r!”
...who?...
...“‘old on! We’.... you out!”...
...it hurts, stop... don’t move it!...
... “‘wesome me... pull him out!”...
... he was moving - it HURT... please stop touching me...
...blessed darkness...
The ache had faded to something persistent, a constant thrumming with his heart beat. Slowly, he managed to open his eyes, blinking against the filtered light. It made his eyes water as they adjusted even to that much light and his muzzy brain tried to come to grips with where he was. He tried sitting up -
- and found himself, blinking dazedly as waves of dizziness and pain slowly receded. Turning his head slowly as the dizziness became a rather bothersome headache, he caught the faintest of glances of his arm, covered in thick bandages and splinted to keep it straight. And, from the feel of it, his legs were the same
They were too late.
Gilbert - the embodiment of the Teutonic Order - looked down at the carnage that was once a proud army of crusaders with a dark frown. He wasn’t a stranger to death now - after all, every battle they waged in this war to save the Holy Lands killed hundreds at least, either their own, their allies, or their enemies - but standing there, watching the carrion birds and the remains of tabards and flags in the breeze be the only things left moving in that entire valley and having the smell of rotting flesh wafted up to him churned his stomach enough that he had to force his face to not turn green. From those bits of flags, he could tell that this dead army wasn’t a victory - that the sea of corpses belonged to their British allies.
“Set up the tents.” his Boss’s voice rumbled from within his helmet. Turning his head to look at his Boss - giving him a good enough excuse to not have that disgusting air directly in his face, which was a relief - he came to realize what the man had in mind with a groan. “We shall search for survivors.” Personally, Gilbert hated this part of the job. It was one thing to barge in all heroic and awesome and saving the day - but when they were too late like this... wading through the bodies and the stench, looking for the few unlucky survivors made him want to actually make an un-awesome retreat.
“Gilbert.” his Boss snapped him out of his thoughts again and with a pout he looked back up at the man and away from the dead field. “Hurry up. Time is of the essence.”
“Yessir...” he grumbled, hopping off his gittery horse
Author: me, keiko_keket
Character/Pairing: Gilbert/Arthur (Prussia/England)
Rating: T+
Warnings: a fair bit of drinking, mentions of sex
Summary: One important memory for each year of school that Arthur and Gilbert spent getting together. Gakuen AU.
Notes: This is version 4 of my contest entry, which is part of the reason this took so long. So, as a treat, I'll also be posting the three unfinished versions! Happy Crackship everyone!
Year 1
Head down on the counter, Gilbert wasn’t quite sure what was going on at the party anymore and the half-dozen beer bottles in front of him attested as to why. He could hear the beat of the music through the closed kitchen door but for the first time in seemingly forever he didn’t want to go out and dance the night away with all the pretty girls draping over him for a chance to dance. No, he’d just sit at this counter, alone (but there was nothing wrong with being alone! He told himself and in the drunken haze he was in, he nearly believed himself), and see how many beers it’d take to send him to the hospital. Then maybe Lizzy-
-that thought was cut off abruptly as the sound of the music increased and decreased with the sound of shuffling feet. With more difficulty that he thought possible, Gilbert levered his head off the cool marble and forced his eyes to focus enough to see what appeared to be one of his best friends backs as the Frenchman drug someone with shorter blond hair backwards, lips locked together as Francis apparently had his tongue down the shorter boys - Gilbert thought he was a boy at least - throat.
In the slow process of his mind, he considered telling them to fuck off. He really didn’t want to deal with anyone’s crappy romance right now, even if Francis was one of his best friends ever. By the time he managed to open his mouth to yell at them, the french boy had backed into the counter and managed to knock over not only all of his empty beer bottles, but the one he was working on too, spilling beer all over the floor - and all over Gilbert.
“Shit! Dammit Francis!” he swore, jumping off his stool and wiping at the large stain near his crotch.
“Gilbert? Oh, damn! I’m sorry!” for all the sorry Francis apparently was it didn’t stop him from laughing at the unsightly stain that made it look like Gilbert hadn’t found a washroom before he couldn’t hold it in any more. And, he sniffed, screwing up his face, he smelt like he’d pissed himself too.
A handkerchief was held out in front of his glaring red eyes, a deep blue and silver that almost looked as if it was hand-stitched. Startled out of his anger, the German (Prussian! He insisted) youth looked up at the hand and the face behind it -
-and was shocked into silence at the bright green eyes staring back at him. Green, like leaves... or... or like emeralds. So much like Lizzy’s... Francis’s fling was staring back at him, face flushed both from the lack of air he’d probably been subjected to (Francis held the school record for longest kiss without breathing) and, from the look in his eyes, embarrassment.
“Here. Take it. Least I could...” that very masculine timber - as well as the face and the eyebrows for that matter - told him that he was right about the unknown person being a boy. “...sorry about that.” The faint accent told him that the blond was as much a foreigner as Gilbert was, except British instead of German.
With a very muffled ‘thank you’ he grabbed the cloth and managed to lessen the amount of beer soaked through his pants, even if it didn’t remove the stain entirely. Trying to give the blue cloth back, he was rejected ever so slightly.
“Keep it - or at least wash it first.” those green eyes, not entirely sober either, were focused on him for only a short while - and some distant, not-quite-drunk part of him wished it was for longer - before they turned back to Francis, who decided he didn’t like being ignored anymore and had wrapped his arms around the nameless boy’s waist and nuzzled the back of his neck and sending a bright red blush over his face.
“Prussia, why exactly are you back here with beer for company when there are plenty of people out there,” the frenchman waved a hand towards the door, “who’d be more than willing to entertain you?” he also used Gilbert’s childhood nickname, the former-country’s title something he decided to keep alive, even if it was just a personal name for someone as awesome as he. With a groan, he was reminded as to why he was in the kitchen by himself again and he landed back on his stool with a scrape of the chair-legs.
“...Lizzy broke up with me.” he managed to slur out, slumping back over the counter and grabbing another unopened beer. Cracking it open and downing half the contents with a practiced motion, he coughed and continued, “for that fucking Roderi- Ro... Roddy pansy.” And no, those were not tears in his eyes.
“She did? Well... sorry Prussia.” Francis just looked awkward, shifting his weight more onto the green-eyed boys back and to Gilbert it was as if the French teen was taunting him with their relationship-ness.
“Pff... that was laaame man. Aren’t French people supposed to be all... wordy?” Gilbert mumbled, glaring up at the two from where he decided to rest his head on the counter.
“Cher, we may have a world of words, but we don’t have many to deal with broken hearts.” the blond shrugged, followed by a grimace. “What was that for?” he wheezed, to Gilbert’s confusion.
“That was for being a twat.” the nameless teen sniffed almost imperiously (reminding Gilbert that he thought the guy was British and it nearly sent him snickering at the stereotype) and shifted his elbow away from Francis’s gut, explaining why the French boy looked as if he’d been abused. “You’re his friend, right? You should at least do... something for him!”
“What ‘e said.” Gilbert snickered, watching Francis’s face become offended, then crafty as he pulled out one of the other stools at the counter and sat in it. Almost distractedly, he pulled a couple of the German teens unopened beer bottles his way before whipping around and grabbing the green-eyed boy around the waist. With a startled yelp, he found himself planted firmly in Francis’s lap, legs hanging over one side of the French boys (toes knocking lightly, unintentionally, against Gilbert’s leg), face bright red.
“Whatever you command, mon petit lapin.” Francis purred into the nameless boy’s ear as he grabbed one of the beers and stuck it in the other’s hands. “We shall stay here and drink with him - does that satisfy your need to do good?” he chuckled and Gilbert could see him plant a kiss on the back of an ear that was quickly turning red to match the rest of his face.
“Not helping.” Gilbert snorted, lifting his head just high enough to be able to crack another beer open and tip it down his throat. Red eyes watched the other two behind nearly closed lashes as they both fussed over who got to open the green-eyed boys beer and Gilbert could tell from the look in Francis’s eyes that this was one of his many conquests and that the other boy was completely unaware of that fact.
“Reminds me... who the fuck are you anyways?” he groused, kicking the green-eyed boy in the leg and smirking at his wince.
“Ah - my apologies Prussia.” Francis grinned into the choppy blond locks in his face. “This is mon petit lapin - I knew him from that brief period of time I lived in England and he just transferred to our school within the last couple of days. I volunteered to... show him around.”
“Idiot. That’s not my name.” the other reached up and smacked Francis on the head with considerably less force than when he’d elbowed him. With the very same hand, he reached out, offering it to Gilbert to shake and damn... his eyes were greener than Lizzy’s and for a moment he found he couldn’t look away. “Arthur Kirkland.” the other finally introduced himself when Gilbert found his body and mind connected again and had enough sense to shake the hand.
Arthur... huh.
-------
Year 2
“C’mon Bunny - put away the books and just chill out!” Gilbert whined to Arthur, whose face was behind some ungodly huge textbook while they sat on the bleachers watching Antonio, Lovino and Francis practice with the football team. He sidled up closer to the blond, peering at the tiny print of the text before trying to pull the book away.
“Gilbert, how many times must I tell you not to call me ‘Bunny’. I don’t let Francis get away with it and I certainly won’t let you.” those green eyes glared at him from behind a pair of wire-framed glasses that glinted in the afternoon sunlight.
“And how many times do I hafta say you can call me ‘Prussia’ like everyone else!” Gilbert poked him on the forehead, earning a swat and a huff from Arthur. “C’mon Bunny - we’re friends right? Friends always have awesome nicknames for each other!”
“And what - exactly - is so great about being named after a small, stupid animal?” the book was closed with a slam to Gilbert’s glee - now if only he could sneak it away without the other noticing.
“... you know that bunny from ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail?’” Gilbert hummed out, fingers slowly but surely making their way towards that thick tome. He wasn’t going to mention to Arthur that they called him ‘Bunny’ mainly because Francis called him ‘mon petit lapin’ all the time... or that his obsession with cleanliness, his overall fluffiness (he could be so cute sometimes~), the way he squirmed every time that his boyfriend went to cuddle (or grope) him all were such bunny-esque tendencies.
“... the evil, man-eating monster?” Arthur quirked one of his impressive eyebrows, looking rather unimpressed.
“That kicked so much ass!” Gilbert punched a fist into the air enthusiastically.
“Since when have you ever watched classic British movies? I thought you had an obsession with German movies and korean dramas?”
“... it was a British movie?” Huh... news to him - Alfred had told him that it was an amazing American movie.
“Yes Gil-” and here, Arthur winced, pursed his lips before finishing. “Yes Prussia. It is. Monty Python is British, as well as all his other movies and skits.”
“... There’s more than the one movie?” he grinned with glee at finally getting Arthur to use his nickname.
With a sigh and a massage to his temples, Arthur opened his mouth to say something else when the two of them were covered by three shadows. Antonio flopped onto the wooden bleacher with a loud ‘bang’, pulling a squawking Lovino down beside him in a happy, sweaty hug. On their other side, Francis sat down with a practiced, graceful move - that Gilbert had caught him practicing in his bedroom to perfect - and wrapped his arms around Arthur’s shoulders.
Gilbert wasn’t jealous. Not at all.
“What are we talking about, mon petit lapin?” Francis sighed, resting his chin on Arthur’s shoulder, eyes half-closed.
“We’re going to have a Monty Python marathon tonight.” Arthur stated in his ‘don’t-argue-with-me’ tone. And Gilbert’s grin was totally because he was expecting to watch a bunch of awesome movies and not because of the grimace on Francis’s face.
“Must we?” the French teen stated weakly, imploring Arthur not to torture him with British comedy. And Gilbert sat back as another fight started up between the two with the faintest of frowns.
----
Year 3
Gilbert plodded through the school’s hallways, head hanging and wincing with every surge of noise. Okay, so maybe getting completely wasted to celebrate Bunny getting Student Council President and Francis getting Vice President wasn’t the best idea when they had class the next day - and Arthur refused to let them skip because of his new responsibility. The jerk. - but they’d needed an excuse to party badly. Arthur and Francis’s relationship had become more on the rocks than ever before; Toni and Lovi had fought with the Vargas parents and ended up with the Italian teen getting kicked out of home and moving in with his Spanish boyfriend, and Gilbert himself had gotten into another fight with Elizaveta (he’d even stopped calling her Lizzy in his head) and Roderich, nearly getting kicked out of school in the process.
But while the rest of his friends had only gotten buzzed, Gilbert had gotten himself completely drunk. It wasn’t his original intention, but when Arthur and Francis had disappeared into the Brit’s bedroom and didn’t come back out the rest of the night, he’d found himself with a constant beer on the go.
Now, standing between Toni and Lovi as the former comforted him for his aching head and the latter mocked him mercilessly for being a lightweight (he wasn’t! Not at all!) they were looking to find their last two missing friends amongst the throngs of students rushing to class.
They found Francis first and usually finding one meant they found the other - but, apparently it wasn’t that way this morning as the French teen had a second year girl under his arm and was happily chatting her up. There was no sign of Arthur anywhere.
“Oi, Rosy, where’s Bunny?” Antonio called over, not missing the suddenly tense feeling in the air that had both Lovino and Gilbert sharing a look.
“Arthur?” Francis looked up from smiling down at the girl, happy face disappearing in an instant, replaced by a mix of blankness with the tiniest hint of anger. “We broke up. Last I saw him was early this morning in his room.” he waved an arm carelessly, as if the two of them hadn’t been dating for just over two years.
Gilbert wasn’t even aware of when he dashed off, back to the dorms until he was out in the sunlight and it seared into his hangover like he was staring directly at the sun. In the distance behind him, he thought he heard his friends shouting for him but he didn’t stop or slow. Francis broke up with Arthur? (or was it the other way around...?) Arthur... wasn’t at school? Was skipping class because of what happened?
It felt like forever to get back to the dorms and up to Arthur’s dorm, where they’d had the party the night before. The door was uncharacteristically unlocked, which in a way was good for him as he just stepped inside, walking around the beer cans and leftover bits of munchies from the night before - another bad sign as Arthur was obsessed with cleanliness, especially in his own space.
“Bunny?” he spoke aloud, not quite daring to yell. There was no noise in the dorm room, as if he was the only one here. Thinking and grimacing, he headed straight for the bedroom - the last place he’d seen the British teen.
Opening the door, he was assaulted by smell - alcohol, sweat and the distinct smell of what, he assumed, sex would smell like. His insides squirmed as he took hesitant steps inside, eyes roving and looking for that familiar blond head of hair. The bed was mussed up, the blankets bunched up near the bottom and suspicious red stains on the bottom cover. “Arthur?” he asked again, quietly looking under the bed and on the other side and even in the closet to no sign of the usually loud teen.
Concluding that Bunny wasn’t in his bedroom really left only one other place for him to search - the bathroom. The door was closed, but again, not locked as he threw it open, heart beating faster because if Arthur wasn’t there then he had no idea where he’d be. But his eyes quickly found the skinny Brit, huddled near the toilet and clad in only their school uniforms button up white shirt.
“Bunny.” he spoke quietly enough, trying not to startle the other whose blank stare wasn’t focused on anything. He ignored the fact that with Arthur huddled the way he was, Gilbert could see his thighs coated in dried... stuff, or the fact that the toilet was open and filled with vomit - it explained the stench in the usually nice smelling room - or the dried tear tracks. He just felt relief when those blank eyes turned and focused on him.
“Pru...ssia...” Arthur mumbled, blinking with about as much focus as someone who was still drunk. Taking two quick steps into the bathroom before sliding the rest of the way on his knees and coming to rest beside the stricken Brit.
“Hey there Bunny.” he reached up with both hands to cup Arthur’s face, forcing the other to look him straight in the eyes. “I heard what happened.” And that was really all it took to have the green-eyed boy crying in his arms, completely incomprehensible blubber pouring from his lips.
What felt like hours later, Arthur’s crying had calmed down to sniffling, the red-eyed boy had flushed the mess in the toilet away and Gilbert had shooed both Antonio and Lovino out of the bathroom door with a glance. Without getting up, the silver-haired teen reached for some toilet paper to wipe the tear stains off Arthur’s pale skin. He thought that the shorter boy had fallen asleep when he suddenly stirred and looked blearily up at Gilbert.
“Prussia... do... do you think I’m ugly?” he muttered as his fingers nervously tangled their way into what was once Gilbert’s well-pressed shirt (which Ludwig would kill him for when he saw how his hard work was ruined).
“What? Why the hell do you think I’d think that?” he was not going to say that he’d been watching Arthur since he’d first met the boy - curled up beside Francis, gesturing in class, reading, changing in the locker room, playing his guitar, cooking his horrible food, fighting with Antonio about everything from the Armada to football - because to say it out loud would probably scare him away. It wasn’t stalking... it was being aware of the other boy whenever he was around.
After grumbling and shying around the subject he managed to wheedle the reason out of Arthur - after getting drunk and doing... THAT... they’d gotten into a fight where Francis had, apparently, described what he thought was ugly about the British teen in great detail. Gilbert was wondering if maybe instead of being hung over that he was still personally drunk because a crazy idea had popped into his head.
“Alright Bunny - what about you did he say was ugly?” he looked into those green eyes with a very serious face that was so unlike him it seemed to shock Arthur into temporary silence.
“My... my hair for one thing...” he finally mumbled out, looking rather pained. “He called it scragl- ee!” his sentance cut off with a surprised noise as he suddenly found Gilbert’s lips on top of his head.
“I like your hair.” Gilbert said simply when he leaned back up. “What else did he say?”
“M-my forehead i-” once again, Arthur stuttered to a stop when warm, dry lips were pressed to his skin. Gilbert managed to keep himself from pulling on the Brit’s cheeks as they flamed red.
“And?”
“My cheeks.” two quick kisses.
“My nose.” another one, lingering slightly.
“My... eyebrows.” was whispered out and Gilbert paid especially good attention to the thick brows.
“My stomach.” a kiss placed over the skin as Gilbert leant down and pressed it onto his shirt, not wanting to embarrass Arthur by stripping him.
“My knees.” One and two - a devious look up from where Gilbert crouched between his knees.
“M-my c-” was silenced by a lunged kiss to his lips.
“Bunny... I really like you - don’t let one person’s opinions get you down.”
And then they were both too occupied for more words.
-----
Year 4 (Present day)
Gilbert sailed into the diner where Arthur was working with a grin on his face and a proposal on his lips. Well - not THAT kind of proposal, but one that was pretty awesome none-the-less. They’d been together almost a year now and while it hadn’t been perfect like in those fantasy novels the Brit liked to read so much, they were friends as much as lovers and they got along rather well.
“Buuuunny~” he called as he strolled towards his scowling boyfriend.
“Why do you always call me that in public?” Arthur flushed and Gilbert couldn’t resist poking him on one cheek.
“Because I can?” and he backed up a step at the annoyed look and the fist being raised threateningly in the air. “D-don’t hit me? Arthur?” seeing the lowered fist he grinned again at a crisis averted.
“Why are you here?” he was asked. He didn’t have to say anything about visiting the boy every day he could - Arthur’s parents had called him home half a year ago now and, trying to force him to come back after the green-eyed boy had said no, they had cut off his allowance. Instead of giving in, Arthur had picked up a part-time job on top of his Student Council duties. Gilbert, devastated that his alone time had been cut into had started his daily visits.
“Well - I was thinking. It’s been a year.” ‘since we started dating’ went unsaid as there were people around them and Arthur was sensitive to that sort of thing. “Wanna come home, meet the folks?” Which they’d both been avoiding doing, Gilbert not wanting to end up like Lovi especially since Arthur’s parents had reacted badly to finding out about them... which was also the reason they had tried to pull him home.
The odd look on Arthur’s face made Gilbert grin all the more, shuffling closer until all that remained between them was the tray Arthur used to carry food on. “C’mon Bunny - my parents know I’m bringing you over, they’re totally cool with it. Pleaaase?” he begged, snickering as his boyfriend’s face turned redder.
“They... they know?” he sounded confused as well as flustered as he pushed Gilbert back a few steps. “...alright then.” he mumbled, “If only you promise to stop bothering me at work!” Gilbert promised - fingers crossed behind his back - and strolled back outside, promising to pick the Brit up after work.
That was how the two of them ended up on Gilbert’s parents doorstep, having a hissed argument... or rather, Arthur was arguing and Gilbert was trying to understand what was bothering him.
“You told them I was coming... but didn’t tell them my name... or the fact that I was a boy...” the green eyed boy glared at him. “That’s... Prussia you idiot! They probably think you’re bringing home a girlfriend!” his angry look was quickly becoming more panicked.
Gilbert opened his mouth to argue back when the door swung inside, his parents both standing there, Ludwig in the background with his normal look of exasperation.
“Gilbert, there you are! You’re late.” his mother scolded, stepping aside to let him in. Turning her attention to the blond on her doorstep, she offered a faint smile. “And you must be Arthur - Ludwig has told me quite a bit about you.”
Sending a startled look towards Gilbert’s usually uptight brother, he caught a smile and a rolled eyes. Returning the smile, he held out his hand to shake both of Gilbert’s parents hands. “Ah, yes. Pleasure to meet you, sir, ma’am.”
Dinner wasn’t all that awkward, despite what Arthur seemed to have predicted. There was quiet conversation all around and it was rather nice to be able to sit beside Gilbert, to let him hold his hand under the table while the parents teased both their sons mercilessly. Gilbert’s grandfather was there as well, giving Arthur a hearty pat on the back that nearly made him stumble, thanking him for helping set Gilbert straighter - laughing at the pun he’d made - over the last year.
And later that night as the family - and Arthur already felt more a part of this one than he’d felt with his family - sat around in the living room, watching a movie and he was dozing off, head on Gilbert’s shoulder he realized that this warm, comfortable feeling was love. The German teen’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, pulling him closer as he slowly fell asleep, warming him from head to toe he decided everything he’d been through to get here had been more than worth it.
There was a reason Gilbert was crouched in a bush, in the rain, in England of all places, at two in the morning. For one thing, lurking in the bush was way more inconspicuous than, say, lingering under the streetlamp - which he had done before... and subsequently been arrested for something-or-another, he didn’t quite know or care what it was. And he couldn’t help the rained on part because if he brought an umbrella, what would be the point of hiding in the bushes? And the being in England part? France had given him this super awesome tip that he’d want to be in that stuffy Brit’s house tonight of all nights. Why? He didn’t know - but if it was something awesome (and England HAD been kinda-awesome waaaaaaaaaaay back when) he had to be there to make it awesome and to take a picture of it for his blog.
And it was two in the morning because England just wasn’t there. It was rather obvious - the house was dark, most of the blinds were open, so when he trolled around the house to look inside he didn’t see anything and climbing up the trellis to look through his bedroom window showed that the guy wasn’t sleeping in his bed. Figuring that he’d be home soon enough so he could jump out of the bushes and scare freaky-brows, he had settled down in the man’s rhododendron bushes to wait. That was about... four hours ago, if his watch was telling the right time. Gilbird had even left his head to go huddle up in the eaves of England’s porch to get out of the rain.
Sneezing loudly, he wondered if maybe France was just being a dick and lied to him for shits and giggles. He wasn’t considering giving up - hell, he’d wait until morning if he had to! - but damn was he tired of the constant wet and cold. The damp was... well... dampening his awesome! And... was that a mouse climbing up his pant leg? With a scream that was totally not girly at all - and incredibly awesome to boot - he was up and out of the bush and halfway up the trellis before the panic went away and a new thought struck him.
Without stopping to think about it - after all, all his ideas were awesome! - he was back up at England’s window, then through his window (ha! Stupid guy left it unlocked, he was practically inviting him in!) and into the toasty depths of his bedroom. Stumbling around in the dark, he cursed as he smashed his knee into the bedpost until his fumbling fingers finally found a lamp. The room was... not entirely what he expected. He thought he’d be walking into the room of an old man, but it didn’t even have that old-man smell that usually came with it. The walls were a dark green - well, what he could see of them was dark green as the walls were nearly entirely covered. One whole wall was a giant bookshelf that was literally packed with literature stacked three deep to fit them all on the shelves. Beside that was a dark wood dresser which the top was covered in knickknacks from embroidery to what appeared to be a few arrows in the process of being fletched to an old sword-cleaning kit that Prussia could have sworn he saw the man use back in the Seven Years War to a pair of old-man reading glasses.
Above the dresser was a paraphernalia of posters and pictures - posters of bands that he assumed England liked (Sex Pistols? The Rolling Stones? Pink Floyd? Dragon Force? Who were all these bands?) and pictures of landscapes that he assumed were British because they looked... dreary. Hidden amongst those pictures were what looked like hand drawn pictures of... girls with wings? A green rabbit that, apparently, flies? A... unicorn? Prussia snorted as he leaned in and saw the tiny ‘Arthur Kirkland’ signature on each bottom - whatever the English nation was smoking, he decided, he wanted some of it.
Continuing his perusal of the room, there was the bed (King sized? He almost wondered what England would need a King-sized bed for, being famous for being friendless), with black and red blankets and huge fluffy pillows, with a massive head board behind it that’s shape vaguely reminded Prussia of... a skull and crossbones? He shrugged it off - it was his awesome imagination acting up, he was sure - and went to look at the next wall, half of which was covered in a standing wardrobe the same color as the dresser. Resisting the temptation to go through the clothes in there (there were only so many suits he could see before he thought of West and his obsession with dressing ‘fancy’ too) he shuffled over so he could see what was on the wall beside the wardrobe.
And blinked in surprise, as on the wall, mounted in a glass box and probably freaking air-sealed so it wouldn’t get dusty was England’s old pirate uniform. He recognized the red frock coat with it’s miles of gold rope and brass buttons, the black slashes across the front, the folded-back leather cuffs - even the white shirt underneath with it’s lace cuffs and cravat were there! Hanging just above the coat on a small hanger was his old tricorn, ostrich plumes still sticking mockingly out at whomever had the displeasure of seeing the pirate nation close up, gold trim around it’s three sides. His pistol was there, mounted at where he assumed England’s hip would be, right beside those tight leather breeches he’d enjoyed wearing so much and those thigh high leather boots that if he wore today he’d probably be considered some kind of porn-star.
Was this the surprise that France had mentioned? Because he was sure as hell surprised to see it there, up on the wall beside three flags - one pirate, one United Kingdom and the old English one of a red cross on white background. But no, it couldn’t be, when he thought about it. Those clothes had to have been up on the wall and France said the surprise would be on tonight so... turning away from the walls, he skipped out into the hallway, looking for the bathroom so he could dry off a bit as he waited for his surprise.
It wasn’t long after he’d dried off - stealing one of England’s bath robes so his clothes would have a chance to dry off while he warmed up - that he found himself back in the guys room with the lights turned off and dozing on the floor. He still wanted to scare the uptight nation and after that, maybe question him and get a few beers because he’d spent so much time just sitting there bored, he deserved a drink!
The door banging open downstairs snapped him out of his sleepy daze and instantly scuttling under the bed. It was a good choice too, the bed was just far enough off the ground for him to squeeze under but not high enough that anyone standing up in the room should be able to see him. Booted feet stomped up the stairs with more force than necessary, occasionally squeaking as wet rubber met hard wood and became progressively more silent the more water left behind. The bedroom door slammed open as well with a muttered curse that was definitely England’s voice - albeit, slurry enough that Prussia could guess he was drunk again - and a faint scrabbling that he could guess was the man trying to find the light switch near the door.
The sudden blinding light forced Prussia to shuffle a little further back into the dark under the bed so his eyes could readjust so when he could finally see, he scooted back out that little bit and saw what the surprise was. Mouth hanging open in shock, he blinked, rubbed his eyes and blinked again when the image didn’t change. This... this was England?
The first thing Prussia had noticed were the pants. The red and green plaid pants that were a second skin and forcing him to notice that while England’s legs were incredibly skinny, they were still as muscular as back in the old days... and also that the man wasn’t wearing anything UNDER those pants as they would have shown up as at least a line on his hips. He was wearing black leather boots that had large silver buckles up the middle and silver studs all along the edge between the boot and the rubber sole. Up further he was wearing a tight black t-shirt with what Prussia assumed was another rock band on it. He’d thought the stuffy man was just skinny under all those sweater vests, but he had muscles (just not as awesome as his!). With black studded bracers on each arm - one with a Union Jack sewn down the length of it and a thin black collar around his throat, if Prussia didn’t recognize those eyebrows, he’d have thought he was looking at a different person entirely!
He was pretty sure England didn’t see him as the man stormed his way into the room, kicking off his boots as he went and stumbling over his own feet because of it. Prussia’s heart leapt into his throat when the drunken blond did trip, arms flailing towards the bed - and potentially revealing him before he was ready to jump out and laugh at him. He hadn’t even gotten a picture for his blog yet! Which reminded him... reaching into the right pocket of England’s robe, he pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open, pressing the buttons needed for his camera without having to look. All the while, he was staring at the up-close view of those tight pants as England slowly slid down to sit with his back to his bed - and giving Prussia such a good look at his ass in those pants that he fought down the temptation of reaching out and poking it by taking a quick picture - he could smell the sweat and cheap beer coming off his skin and clothes.
His luck was with him as the tipsy nation didn’t notice the flash going off behind him. England’s arms went up to rub at his face and hair, muttering what Prussia thought were curses the whole time, before he levered himself back up onto his feet and stomped back to his shoes. The stomping wasn’t as effective as before as he was doing it in socks rather than boots, but kicking the boots over to the wardrobe made a loud enough noise to make up for the lack.
That action seemed to calm something in the cursing nation. His tense posture faded with a long sigh and a hand through his hair. As his back was turned from the bed, Prussia took that moment to snap another picture. And then he temporarily forgot about taking pictures as England stretched - and not just raised his arms above his head, even though he did that as well. Lifting onto his toes and arching his back so far he was nearly bent halfway backwards, fingers about a foot from touching the ground behind him, England managed to stay like that for nearly half a minute before he stumbled out of the surprisingly graceful pose (and surprisingly sexy, Prussia admitted in a small voice in the back of his head).
There was chaos everywhere. He could barely hear the screams of the people and horses around him over the sounds of clanging metal - of armored bodies hitting one another, or swords clashing, of chain mail swinging around, clinking the chains together. He’d lost his horse what seemed like hours ago - it couldn’t have been that long as the sun was in the same position as when the fight had started. He’d lost more than his horse - his shield was long gone, smashed off his arm and out of his sight... if he could feel more than adrenaline and fear, he figured his arm was broken with the way it was hanging. His sword was still in hand and he was swinging it with a avengence (except he wasn’t sure if he was hitting the enemy or one of his in this chaos...).
The sun was blocked out behind him. He turned -
... there was a horse... arrows littered its sides, blood spraying from the slice across it’s throat - it’s knight fell to his side with what would be a deafening clang if he could hear any specific sound over the battle
...it reared up...
...t fell - he couldn’t dodge ...
...PAIN...
...darkness....
...”’ve... nd one s...r!”
...who?...
...“‘old on! We’.... you out!”...
...it hurts, stop... don’t move it!...
... “‘wesome me... pull him out!”...
... he was moving - it HURT... please stop touching me...
...blessed darkness...
The ache had faded to something persistent, a constant thrumming with his heart beat. Slowly, he managed to open his eyes, blinking against the filtered light. It made his eyes water as they adjusted even to that much light and his muzzy brain tried to come to grips with where he was. He tried sitting up -
- and found himself, blinking dazedly as waves of dizziness and pain slowly receded. Turning his head slowly as the dizziness became a rather bothersome headache, he caught the faintest of glances of his arm, covered in thick bandages and splinted to keep it straight. And, from the feel of it, his legs were the same
They were too late.
Gilbert - the embodiment of the Teutonic Order - looked down at the carnage that was once a proud army of crusaders with a dark frown. He wasn’t a stranger to death now - after all, every battle they waged in this war to save the Holy Lands killed hundreds at least, either their own, their allies, or their enemies - but standing there, watching the carrion birds and the remains of tabards and flags in the breeze be the only things left moving in that entire valley and having the smell of rotting flesh wafted up to him churned his stomach enough that he had to force his face to not turn green. From those bits of flags, he could tell that this dead army wasn’t a victory - that the sea of corpses belonged to their British allies.
“Set up the tents.” his Boss’s voice rumbled from within his helmet. Turning his head to look at his Boss - giving him a good enough excuse to not have that disgusting air directly in his face, which was a relief - he came to realize what the man had in mind with a groan. “We shall search for survivors.” Personally, Gilbert hated this part of the job. It was one thing to barge in all heroic and awesome and saving the day - but when they were too late like this... wading through the bodies and the stench, looking for the few unlucky survivors made him want to actually make an un-awesome retreat.
“Gilbert.” his Boss snapped him out of his thoughts again and with a pout he looked back up at the man and away from the dead field. “Hurry up. Time is of the essence.”
“Yessir...” he grumbled, hopping off his gittery horse