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that he hates living here is a fact, and gilbert makes it known. he shows it through the nights he breaks things on purpose, where he drinks until natalia's threats and dark glances mean nothing and the only thing that spills from his lips are memories of the berlin wall, of the poles and russians and the days where he was so cold even his mind eventually went numb.
these nights are more a nuisance for his host than for him, as the next day where he wakes up, head pounding from the alcoholic dehydration, he won't remember anything. he doesn't remember his tirades, where in the times where he isn't being reminiscent of times he tries his hardest to forget, he speaks of the days of glorious prussia, where europe was rightfully his and how one day, he will get it back.
natalia often avoids him when this happens. but in the quiet moments, where he's worn his voice hoarse from his stories, she joins him in the living room. she pours herself ice wine, which is much too sweet for his taste and for hers, but the ice is all she's known and all that she will ever know. she has long learned to make herself comfortable with her fate.
she takes only a single sip, anyway.
he thinks she only pours herself a glass to be polite. when she leaves, he downs the rest of her glass, too sloppy and unthinking to care about inconsequential imprints of pursed lips left pressed to the glass's rim.
& & &
gilbert isn't sure what to think in the first days he stays with her. mostly, he avoids his host; finding himself less than eager to find himself enrolled in staring contests he never wished to enter. natalia keeps to herself for the most part, and whenever she speaks to him, it's usually to scold him.
"you will behave," she tells him. this is her household, and she will not have a disobedient guest. gilbert doesn't have to tell her that her demands are meaningless for her to know, but he does it anyway. his voluntary captivity doesn't stop him from being as rash as he always has been.
and so, he scoffs at her words. "like hell!" he spouts, and her expression remains unchanged as she gazes up at him with empty eyes. she has expected as much from his loyalty. at the back of his mind (littered with meaningless things like self-preservation and patience), he knows natalia is not the person to talk down to. after all, despite her declarations of being otherwise, she is still her brother's sister. he knows she can't be trusted.
by the end of the first week, he's gotten more silent death-threats than he thought possible; more familiar with the cold, hard press of her blade than the sound of her monotonous voice. maybe she thinks she can communicate enough through steely gazes and hands that clutch with telltale reluctance at his insults, but gilbert isn't observant enough for it. he talks enough for the both of them anyway.
she's out for the day, and the house is quiet. as he settles himself into the living room chair (grand, he pretends, like a throne) he removes a single black, leather glove from his hand long enough to press his fingers tentatively to the skin of his neck. he can still feel the cut there, and he curses under his breath.
"shit, that woman..."
as he replaces the glove and reclines with arms casually placed behind his head, he gazes at the crackling fireplace. at least he can be thankful it's warm.
& & &
today is a cold day, and he resigns himself to the house.
in the idle moments, gilbert catches himself almost feeling at home. he's grown used to natalia's unsettling behavior, and he's learned where in the day to find time to relax; sit back, drink. for the most part, he's in the study. he finds himself surrounded on all sides by dark, reliable mahogany - olfactory senses assaulted by the distinct smell of leather and book-bindings. he can be comfortable here. it reminds him of his library.
he drinks from a fine crystal glass, and only vaguely registers the dull ache in his throat from the alcohol when it hits. since coming to minsk, gilbert has had nothing but time with which to think - maids look after the house, natalia has other duties to attend to. he often laughs to himself that she's off visiting her precious russia.
it's funny until he remembers their wager.
his lips set in a grim line, and for a moment, he considers requesting a rematch. after all, this wasn't what he planned. she should have been nothing more than an arm decoration; another epaulette to add to his rank, another useless spoil of war. she would have served her job well had he won, he thinks - a quiet, calculative woman.
"dinner."
the word rouses him from his thoughts, and he tilts his head back down to look at her. natalia stares back with blank eyes - he never heard her enter, not that it matters. a smug smile forms at his lips, and he throws his head back for a moment with laughter. "haha! preparing yourself to become my arm decoration, belarus?"
he refers to her by her country name only. at times, she seems so cold and mechanical that it's hard to think of her as human. but even so, sometimes, gilbert finds himself thinking that she could be pretty. almost like a doll, he thinks; all porcelain skin and perfection and fine, blonde hair. a real decoration, he thinks, and he remembers how he once boasted to natalia that even if he lost, he would win her over anyway.
she just stares back at him; eyes void of emotion. as she leaves the room without a word, victory seems a long ways away.
he's still analyzing her from the desk as he watches her form from behind; the only reason he's observant enough to catch sight of the clenched fist at her side. unfortunately for her, gilbert can never resist an easy target.
"did that hit home, scheisskopf?!"
she doesn't answer, but he feels the chill up his spine all the same.
& & &
it's out of sheer coincidence that he's walking by the front hall when the bell rings. despite referring to natalia's home as some sort of prison, and to his host as being a monster, it hasn't stopped gilbert from treating it as though it really has become his home. and so, it's only second nature to answer as he unthinkingly opens the door.
toris is standing at the doorstep, and gilbert is unsure of how to react to this. despite the fact that toris himself has always been a jittery, fearful person from his suffering under russia, he was still a close friend of feliks. and feliks was one other person the prussian would not forgive; the poles had not made his life an easy one.
liet finds himself stuttering under gilbert's gaze; there's always been something predatory about red eyes. "o-oh. is n-natalia home?"
"that monster?" he raises an eyebrow. he doesn't see why anyone would want to visit her. "she's upstairs. the maid'll probably be fetching her or something."
lithuania's eyes light up, just a little, and gilbert steps aside to let him in. "you're so lucky," he smiles sadly, shutting the door behind him. "i always wished she would stay with me."
"you think i wanted to stay with her? she's fucking creepy!"
the other winces at gilbert's words, as if he took the blow for her. "n-no, she isn't!" liet counters, pausing from hanging up his coat. "she's lovely, a-and-- ah!" the prussian sees a blush suddenly spread across liet's cheeks, and follows his gaze, confused.
natalia is at gilbert's left side, hands folded in front of her and staring at toris.
"n-natalia, i, i had come by to ask--" but toris stops himself - he remembers that they have company. it's hard for him to remember insignificant things like that with belarus in front of him. "how are you?"
it takes her a moment to respond, and it disorients gilbert to see someone attempting to make civil conversation with someone like her. "... i am fine."
"ah, shall we-- i brought wine," liet offers, and the prussian wonders if he's ever been around natalia long enough to learn how she doesn't really drink.
it seems as though she isn't about to let facts like that about her slip, anyway. her only reply is to walk into the living room, and the two men both follow. gilbert makes himself comfortable at his usual chair, the backing towering high above the other ones. belarus sits in the middle of the couch by the coffee table, and toris makes a pest of himself and sits right beside her.
"i asked after you - f-from your brother. he said you had a guest, and i..." the prussian watches in a combination of horror and absolute astonishment as he sees toris place a hand overtop one of her own. "i wanted to visit," he finishes.
belarus only looks down and examines the situation regarding her hands. liet, the man who her brother loves more than even her, is the last person she wants to have touch her. there's a moment where gilbert wonders if she's actually showing some sort of affection when she takes lithuania's hand in both of hers, particularly because of the blissful look on his face.
it changes to dull horror as a sickening crack fills the air; two of liet's fingers bent over backwards at unnatural angles, bones broken. the sufferer doesn't look as if he's even noticed it - he's much too entranced by the woman's presence.
gilbert doesn't realize how light he's been getting off until then.
after the guest leaves, hands mangled but mood lifted, belarus goes to the kitchen and sharpens her knives. he's seen her do this before - it only happens when she's angry.
"what the fuck was that back there?" is his first question as he leans back against the kitchen counter, watching. "hell, you threaten me with knives all the time, but..."
he doesn't expect an answer. she's silent enough when she's in better spirits, and it surprises him to hear her voice.
"deserved it," is her reply, lifting the dagger from the sharpener to inspect it. she runs a finger along its edge, appraising - gilbert wonders how she manages not to cut herself.
"... i hate him," she finishes, possibly the only confession to emotion he's ever heard from her. but even so, he can't see any reason for her to hate toris - not when he's so horribly infatuated and defensive on her behalf. it doesn't matter, though. not really.
"what, that mean you don't hate me?" and gilbert honestly laughs, because the concept is just so absurd.
he's not sure whether or not to feel unsettled when she takes her time to reply.
she opens the drawer to her right, putting away the sharpener. "it doesn't matter," she responds.
for once, his sense of self-preservation kicks in, and he says nothing. she nods at him silently before she leaves, beginning to walk upstairs. meanwhile, gilbert pulls out one of the kitchen chairs and sits, staring at his hands and flexing his fingers.
& & &
when he finally makes his way to the kitchen, he sees natalia waiting for him at the table, and raises an eyebrow. in all the time he's been there, she's never eaten with him.
"where's the maid?" he asks, when it's always the maid who cooks. usually, belarus has better things to do.
"... i made it," she admits. she sits with her back perfectly straight at the dinner table; rigid. gilbert's only guess is that her etiquette - her perfectly-controlled behavior - is an influence the soviet has had on her. his mind travels back to his thoughts from the study, and he figures she would be a perfect diplomatic representative. "eat."
her food is something he doesn't know what to make of, however. he looks skeptically at his seat, but eventually, he joins her at the table. "shit, is it poisoned?"
initially, her only response is to look at him. when he begins to fidget a little under her gaze, she takes her eyes away to stare down at the goulash in her bowl. as if telling him otherwise, she takes her first spoonful, swallows.
for a moment, gilbert considers the possibility that it might only be his bowl that's filled with arsenic, cyanide. but he thinks back to that one, strange visit, and tries to convince himself that she isn't out to kill him. pride doesn't allow him to admit he might already be dead by now if she were.
she doesn't watch him when he finally gives in and tries it, and it's better than he expected. it's similar to the food they would have back home, and for a moment, he wonders if she knows that. but no, she would never be so considerate.
"huh, i guess it might be okay," he says, refusing to admit that he likes it. but belarus is smarter than that, and she can tell from the tone of his voice that he isn't saying the complete truth. she's spent enough of her life listening to others, after all - gilbert has been the loudest of all the people she's come in contact with over the years. she almost prefers it over the silence.
the meal finishes not soon after gilbert finishes his second helping, and he says (even though she doesn't ask) that it's only because he's hungry.
she does the dishes herself, and it feels strange to see someone who looks like they might be so delicate doing something so domestic. but gilbert knows from experience that the russian's looks have always been deceiving, and natalia isn't any different.
"pass," she instructs, placing her cleaned bowl on the counter-top to the right of the sink.
"can't you just get the damn staff to do this?" he grumbles, but passes his empty bowl to her anyway. belarus takes it and rinses it under hot water, scrubbing it down with soap.
"you don't need to stay," she tells him, as there really isn't any obligation.
"shut up," he replies, indignant. "you cooked me a meal."
her hands stop moving for a moment, and she raises her head to meet his eyes.
"... what the hell are you looking at me like that for?"
"... i did not say that meal was for you," she tells him, eyes already back down to the sink.
he pushes himself off from the counter, looming behind her and watching over her shoulder. "fuck you, i'll just pretend. this is just training for you!"
"to be your arm decoration." she deadpans.
"exactly!" it's in his favour to take her response at face-value. "nothing but the best for the glorious prussian empire! together, we'll beat that sissy aristocrat once and for all!"
there's a loud clunk as she places the bowl on the counter to retrieve a towel to dry it with; she makes no effort to respond. she's heard his speeches dozens of times where he's been drunk and insatiable.
"we'll even take that lithuania, and that bastard, poland." he takes a risk here, and places a gloved hand on her shoulder. at least she isn't holding anything sharp. "nothing will stop us! europe will be mine, and you can be at my side in my moment of glory!"
she puts the dried bowls to the side, and the towel with them. it's as he sees her hand reach up to grab hold of his that he's worried she'll do exactly what she did to that lithuania, but she doesn't. she simply removes his hand from her shoulder, and puts the dishes in the cupboard. he's used to her silent responses, but that was something he didn't know how to interpret.
& & &
he comes down the next day, ready to scrounge the fridge for leftovers or a maid he can yell at to prepare food for breakfast. natalia is out today, but there's food already laid out on the table, still partially warm. gilbert only scratches his head in confusion before deciding to eat.
she comes back that evening and he immediately asks her about the meal, what it means. of course, her only response is that she needed to cook for herself, too, which is plausible enough. even he can't argue with that, though he's still suspicious.
he ends up drinking that night in the living room again. the maids have had enough of him, but they don't have the nerve to chase him away, even after he's finally managed to get out most of his usual rants. most of them have gone to sleep when natalia comes down like she sometimes does. she pours herself ice wine that he knows she won't drink, and sits on the couch where he knows she won't linger for long.
but she stays long enough to hear him tell stories of how his world would be, of all the glorious things he would do. he speaks of how she will be the most beautiful of wives, and how he'll laugh in the face of the other, jealous countries when the union goes through, because it's only prussia who deserves the best. gilbert says how even frederick - oh god, how he misses him - would be proud to see the way they would rebuild it.
he calls her by name when she leaves the room, but even in this state he knows it's hopeless. but he catches the hitch in her step and he can tell she's tempted, but it's already too late. she's had her first and last sip of wine already.
the first sip he takes from her glass is always tentative, as if he needs to get used to the taste again every time. it's this time he notices the taste of her lips still left behind on the rim.
he tilts his head back, and drinks it all in.
these nights are more a nuisance for his host than for him, as the next day where he wakes up, head pounding from the alcoholic dehydration, he won't remember anything. he doesn't remember his tirades, where in the times where he isn't being reminiscent of times he tries his hardest to forget, he speaks of the days of glorious prussia, where europe was rightfully his and how one day, he will get it back.
natalia often avoids him when this happens. but in the quiet moments, where he's worn his voice hoarse from his stories, she joins him in the living room. she pours herself ice wine, which is much too sweet for his taste and for hers, but the ice is all she's known and all that she will ever know. she has long learned to make herself comfortable with her fate.
she takes only a single sip, anyway.
he thinks she only pours herself a glass to be polite. when she leaves, he downs the rest of her glass, too sloppy and unthinking to care about inconsequential imprints of pursed lips left pressed to the glass's rim.
& & &
gilbert isn't sure what to think in the first days he stays with her. mostly, he avoids his host; finding himself less than eager to find himself enrolled in staring contests he never wished to enter. natalia keeps to herself for the most part, and whenever she speaks to him, it's usually to scold him.
"you will behave," she tells him. this is her household, and she will not have a disobedient guest. gilbert doesn't have to tell her that her demands are meaningless for her to know, but he does it anyway. his voluntary captivity doesn't stop him from being as rash as he always has been.
and so, he scoffs at her words. "like hell!" he spouts, and her expression remains unchanged as she gazes up at him with empty eyes. she has expected as much from his loyalty. at the back of his mind (littered with meaningless things like self-preservation and patience), he knows natalia is not the person to talk down to. after all, despite her declarations of being otherwise, she is still her brother's sister. he knows she can't be trusted.
by the end of the first week, he's gotten more silent death-threats than he thought possible; more familiar with the cold, hard press of her blade than the sound of her monotonous voice. maybe she thinks she can communicate enough through steely gazes and hands that clutch with telltale reluctance at his insults, but gilbert isn't observant enough for it. he talks enough for the both of them anyway.
she's out for the day, and the house is quiet. as he settles himself into the living room chair (grand, he pretends, like a throne) he removes a single black, leather glove from his hand long enough to press his fingers tentatively to the skin of his neck. he can still feel the cut there, and he curses under his breath.
"shit, that woman..."
as he replaces the glove and reclines with arms casually placed behind his head, he gazes at the crackling fireplace. at least he can be thankful it's warm.
& & &
today is a cold day, and he resigns himself to the house.
in the idle moments, gilbert catches himself almost feeling at home. he's grown used to natalia's unsettling behavior, and he's learned where in the day to find time to relax; sit back, drink. for the most part, he's in the study. he finds himself surrounded on all sides by dark, reliable mahogany - olfactory senses assaulted by the distinct smell of leather and book-bindings. he can be comfortable here. it reminds him of his library.
he drinks from a fine crystal glass, and only vaguely registers the dull ache in his throat from the alcohol when it hits. since coming to minsk, gilbert has had nothing but time with which to think - maids look after the house, natalia has other duties to attend to. he often laughs to himself that she's off visiting her precious russia.
it's funny until he remembers their wager.
his lips set in a grim line, and for a moment, he considers requesting a rematch. after all, this wasn't what he planned. she should have been nothing more than an arm decoration; another epaulette to add to his rank, another useless spoil of war. she would have served her job well had he won, he thinks - a quiet, calculative woman.
"dinner."
the word rouses him from his thoughts, and he tilts his head back down to look at her. natalia stares back with blank eyes - he never heard her enter, not that it matters. a smug smile forms at his lips, and he throws his head back for a moment with laughter. "haha! preparing yourself to become my arm decoration, belarus?"
he refers to her by her country name only. at times, she seems so cold and mechanical that it's hard to think of her as human. but even so, sometimes, gilbert finds himself thinking that she could be pretty. almost like a doll, he thinks; all porcelain skin and perfection and fine, blonde hair. a real decoration, he thinks, and he remembers how he once boasted to natalia that even if he lost, he would win her over anyway.
she just stares back at him; eyes void of emotion. as she leaves the room without a word, victory seems a long ways away.
he's still analyzing her from the desk as he watches her form from behind; the only reason he's observant enough to catch sight of the clenched fist at her side. unfortunately for her, gilbert can never resist an easy target.
"did that hit home, scheisskopf?!"
she doesn't answer, but he feels the chill up his spine all the same.
& & &
it's out of sheer coincidence that he's walking by the front hall when the bell rings. despite referring to natalia's home as some sort of prison, and to his host as being a monster, it hasn't stopped gilbert from treating it as though it really has become his home. and so, it's only second nature to answer as he unthinkingly opens the door.
toris is standing at the doorstep, and gilbert is unsure of how to react to this. despite the fact that toris himself has always been a jittery, fearful person from his suffering under russia, he was still a close friend of feliks. and feliks was one other person the prussian would not forgive; the poles had not made his life an easy one.
liet finds himself stuttering under gilbert's gaze; there's always been something predatory about red eyes. "o-oh. is n-natalia home?"
"that monster?" he raises an eyebrow. he doesn't see why anyone would want to visit her. "she's upstairs. the maid'll probably be fetching her or something."
lithuania's eyes light up, just a little, and gilbert steps aside to let him in. "you're so lucky," he smiles sadly, shutting the door behind him. "i always wished she would stay with me."
"you think i wanted to stay with her? she's fucking creepy!"
the other winces at gilbert's words, as if he took the blow for her. "n-no, she isn't!" liet counters, pausing from hanging up his coat. "she's lovely, a-and-- ah!" the prussian sees a blush suddenly spread across liet's cheeks, and follows his gaze, confused.
natalia is at gilbert's left side, hands folded in front of her and staring at toris.
"n-natalia, i, i had come by to ask--" but toris stops himself - he remembers that they have company. it's hard for him to remember insignificant things like that with belarus in front of him. "how are you?"
it takes her a moment to respond, and it disorients gilbert to see someone attempting to make civil conversation with someone like her. "... i am fine."
"ah, shall we-- i brought wine," liet offers, and the prussian wonders if he's ever been around natalia long enough to learn how she doesn't really drink.
it seems as though she isn't about to let facts like that about her slip, anyway. her only reply is to walk into the living room, and the two men both follow. gilbert makes himself comfortable at his usual chair, the backing towering high above the other ones. belarus sits in the middle of the couch by the coffee table, and toris makes a pest of himself and sits right beside her.
"i asked after you - f-from your brother. he said you had a guest, and i..." the prussian watches in a combination of horror and absolute astonishment as he sees toris place a hand overtop one of her own. "i wanted to visit," he finishes.
belarus only looks down and examines the situation regarding her hands. liet, the man who her brother loves more than even her, is the last person she wants to have touch her. there's a moment where gilbert wonders if she's actually showing some sort of affection when she takes lithuania's hand in both of hers, particularly because of the blissful look on his face.
it changes to dull horror as a sickening crack fills the air; two of liet's fingers bent over backwards at unnatural angles, bones broken. the sufferer doesn't look as if he's even noticed it - he's much too entranced by the woman's presence.
gilbert doesn't realize how light he's been getting off until then.
after the guest leaves, hands mangled but mood lifted, belarus goes to the kitchen and sharpens her knives. he's seen her do this before - it only happens when she's angry.
"what the fuck was that back there?" is his first question as he leans back against the kitchen counter, watching. "hell, you threaten me with knives all the time, but..."
he doesn't expect an answer. she's silent enough when she's in better spirits, and it surprises him to hear her voice.
"deserved it," is her reply, lifting the dagger from the sharpener to inspect it. she runs a finger along its edge, appraising - gilbert wonders how she manages not to cut herself.
"... i hate him," she finishes, possibly the only confession to emotion he's ever heard from her. but even so, he can't see any reason for her to hate toris - not when he's so horribly infatuated and defensive on her behalf. it doesn't matter, though. not really.
"what, that mean you don't hate me?" and gilbert honestly laughs, because the concept is just so absurd.
he's not sure whether or not to feel unsettled when she takes her time to reply.
she opens the drawer to her right, putting away the sharpener. "it doesn't matter," she responds.
for once, his sense of self-preservation kicks in, and he says nothing. she nods at him silently before she leaves, beginning to walk upstairs. meanwhile, gilbert pulls out one of the kitchen chairs and sits, staring at his hands and flexing his fingers.
& & &
when he finally makes his way to the kitchen, he sees natalia waiting for him at the table, and raises an eyebrow. in all the time he's been there, she's never eaten with him.
"where's the maid?" he asks, when it's always the maid who cooks. usually, belarus has better things to do.
"... i made it," she admits. she sits with her back perfectly straight at the dinner table; rigid. gilbert's only guess is that her etiquette - her perfectly-controlled behavior - is an influence the soviet has had on her. his mind travels back to his thoughts from the study, and he figures she would be a perfect diplomatic representative. "eat."
her food is something he doesn't know what to make of, however. he looks skeptically at his seat, but eventually, he joins her at the table. "shit, is it poisoned?"
initially, her only response is to look at him. when he begins to fidget a little under her gaze, she takes her eyes away to stare down at the goulash in her bowl. as if telling him otherwise, she takes her first spoonful, swallows.
for a moment, gilbert considers the possibility that it might only be his bowl that's filled with arsenic, cyanide. but he thinks back to that one, strange visit, and tries to convince himself that she isn't out to kill him. pride doesn't allow him to admit he might already be dead by now if she were.
she doesn't watch him when he finally gives in and tries it, and it's better than he expected. it's similar to the food they would have back home, and for a moment, he wonders if she knows that. but no, she would never be so considerate.
"huh, i guess it might be okay," he says, refusing to admit that he likes it. but belarus is smarter than that, and she can tell from the tone of his voice that he isn't saying the complete truth. she's spent enough of her life listening to others, after all - gilbert has been the loudest of all the people she's come in contact with over the years. she almost prefers it over the silence.
the meal finishes not soon after gilbert finishes his second helping, and he says (even though she doesn't ask) that it's only because he's hungry.
she does the dishes herself, and it feels strange to see someone who looks like they might be so delicate doing something so domestic. but gilbert knows from experience that the russian's looks have always been deceiving, and natalia isn't any different.
"pass," she instructs, placing her cleaned bowl on the counter-top to the right of the sink.
"can't you just get the damn staff to do this?" he grumbles, but passes his empty bowl to her anyway. belarus takes it and rinses it under hot water, scrubbing it down with soap.
"you don't need to stay," she tells him, as there really isn't any obligation.
"shut up," he replies, indignant. "you cooked me a meal."
her hands stop moving for a moment, and she raises her head to meet his eyes.
"... what the hell are you looking at me like that for?"
"... i did not say that meal was for you," she tells him, eyes already back down to the sink.
he pushes himself off from the counter, looming behind her and watching over her shoulder. "fuck you, i'll just pretend. this is just training for you!"
"to be your arm decoration." she deadpans.
"exactly!" it's in his favour to take her response at face-value. "nothing but the best for the glorious prussian empire! together, we'll beat that sissy aristocrat once and for all!"
there's a loud clunk as she places the bowl on the counter to retrieve a towel to dry it with; she makes no effort to respond. she's heard his speeches dozens of times where he's been drunk and insatiable.
"we'll even take that lithuania, and that bastard, poland." he takes a risk here, and places a gloved hand on her shoulder. at least she isn't holding anything sharp. "nothing will stop us! europe will be mine, and you can be at my side in my moment of glory!"
she puts the dried bowls to the side, and the towel with them. it's as he sees her hand reach up to grab hold of his that he's worried she'll do exactly what she did to that lithuania, but she doesn't. she simply removes his hand from her shoulder, and puts the dishes in the cupboard. he's used to her silent responses, but that was something he didn't know how to interpret.
& & &
he comes down the next day, ready to scrounge the fridge for leftovers or a maid he can yell at to prepare food for breakfast. natalia is out today, but there's food already laid out on the table, still partially warm. gilbert only scratches his head in confusion before deciding to eat.
she comes back that evening and he immediately asks her about the meal, what it means. of course, her only response is that she needed to cook for herself, too, which is plausible enough. even he can't argue with that, though he's still suspicious.
he ends up drinking that night in the living room again. the maids have had enough of him, but they don't have the nerve to chase him away, even after he's finally managed to get out most of his usual rants. most of them have gone to sleep when natalia comes down like she sometimes does. she pours herself ice wine that he knows she won't drink, and sits on the couch where he knows she won't linger for long.
but she stays long enough to hear him tell stories of how his world would be, of all the glorious things he would do. he speaks of how she will be the most beautiful of wives, and how he'll laugh in the face of the other, jealous countries when the union goes through, because it's only prussia who deserves the best. gilbert says how even frederick - oh god, how he misses him - would be proud to see the way they would rebuild it.
he calls her by name when she leaves the room, but even in this state he knows it's hopeless. but he catches the hitch in her step and he can tell she's tempted, but it's already too late. she's had her first and last sip of wine already.
the first sip he takes from her glass is always tentative, as if he needs to get used to the taste again every time. it's this time he notices the taste of her lips still left behind on the rim.
he tilts his head back, and drinks it all in.