When You Fell
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: Elizabeta Héderváry (Hungary), Gilbert Beilschmidt (Prussia), Ivan Braginski (Russia), mention of Roderich Edelstein (Austria)
Disclaimer: Himaruya Hidekaz owns Axis Powers Hetalia.
Title: When You Fell
Rating: PG
Genre: General, drama
Summary: Some time after Prussia as a state is abolished, Elizabeta finds Gilbert in a limbo. As her maternal instincts kick in, she resolves to provide for him, no matter the consequences.
Notes: . . . I'm no history person, so it has probably been twisted around a bit, here and there. My apologies.
Elizabeta was stunned when she found Gilbert, a motionless heap on the floor. All thoughts of scolding him for being late aside, she was immediately on her knees, reaching for a shoulder as she rolled him over onto his back. He was considerably cold (which was odd, for he was always a source of warmth) and unresponsive, two traits she didn't wish to see from him. So she shook him, first very gently, then proceeded to be rougher in hopes of waking him.
"Gilbert," she started. "Gilbert."
Not Prussia.
Perhaps he wasn't truly as out of it as he was coming off to be. It could have been one of his numerous attempts at spiting her for the sheer sake of driving her up the wall. He did such things often. And it wasn't often that he simply appeared to have passed out on the floor of his own house with no apparent symptoms of an illness. Considering the current events, it was unlikely that he was sick to start with.
But if the current events were truly brought into consideration, then wouldn't he have logically vanished at this point?
"Miss Hungary!" The words seemed to echo in the small house, and Elizabeta's head snapped up as she remembered that she'd come with two others -- men in charge of clearing out the building. She knew how they'd gotten in: Having lost her patience after she'd called for Gilbert to open the door for ten minutes, she'd practically broken straight through it.
She raised her volume and called out for them to come; they were walking down the hall toward where she and Gilbert were in a matter of seconds. One man, the portlier of the two, raised a brow at the sight of Elizabeta knelt beside an unconscious youth (though, on second thought, he disregarded that last part because he knew fully well whom this "youth" was). She ignored their questioning gazes and stood up, motioning to Gilbert as she faced them.
"What are we going to do about him?" the taller man asked before she could utter a word. "He's out cold from the looks of it."
She placed her hands on her hips. "We'll have to carry him."
"I didn't sign up to move a body -- I was ordered to clear out the house of furniture and other items." His protest fell on deaf ears as Elizabeta was by her acquaintance's side again, slinging a limp arm over her neck and hauling the abolished nation up. Gilbert's body followed her movements clumsily, his figure leaning on her side that she swayed slightly and nearly lost her balance. She gave the men a look in an effort to urge them to help, but neither of the two met her eyes.
"If that's how it is, then I'll head back on my own. I trust you two can manage the house on your own."
They chose not to answer. Stifling a sigh, she half-carried, half-dragged the body along with her, leaving the men to do their job on their lonesome. Or was it on her lonesome?
- - - - - - - - - -
It took her much longer to return to her house than she'd anticipated. As lean as he looked, Gilbert wasn't all that light, and he normally towered over her by several inches. When she managed to unlock her door without losing her grip, she quickly -- but carefully -- dropped him by the wall and leaned against it, the back of her forearm resting on her forehead. She rested for a short while before reaching for his arm again, then proceeded to head for the guestroom.
By the time she nearly threw him onto the bed, she saw that he was still out cold. Whatever he'd done, it had probably given him something akin to that of a concussion. At this thought she leaned forward and checked his head, only to have her assumption proven wrong when she failed to find a lump of any sort. Then again, having known Gilbert for centuries, a head injury wouldn't have been enough to keep him down for this long, and that fact alone troubled her to a degree.
Not that Gilbert didn't trouble her enough as it was.
Elizabeta sat down on the edge of the bed with her back against the headboard. "What did you do?" she asked exasperatedly.
She glanced over at him. The first thing that caught her attention was his shirt. He was dressed in his casual wear, a dress shirt that looked to have been washed worn years ago in addition to a modest pair of tan pants. But it was the shirt that nagged at her the most, what with how the top buttons had apparently become undone in the midst of her journey. His chest was partially exposed, as was the upper portion of his midriff.
It took her a couple seconds before she swallowed and turned away. She wasn't going to deal with this.
Figuring that he would be fine on his own for the night, she stood and went for the door. When she was about to close it, however, a sudden noise stopped her hand. She peeked through the open crack from the other side of the door, and listened.
Gilbert's breathing was labored and unusually loud -- no, he was always loud -- and certainly much faster. The lack of response she'd received prior to this had thrown her off somewhat.
His eyes suddenly opened, widened. Even in the dark she could see the glaring purple-red dots from where she stood. His left hand flew to his chest and he gripped the material around it, twisting his shirt and applying pressure as he wheezed.
The door flung open, and Elizabeta marched towards the bed. She grabbed his hand and attempted to wrench it free, but his grip only tightened and it refused to budge. She frowned and curled her fingers around his fist, urging the hand to loosen. She would have slapped him upside the head for his stubbornness, but she found that the idea was in poor taste.
"You need to breathe," she lectured, "let go. Let go and sit up."
Gilbert didn't seem to hear a word as he continued to stare up at the ceiling and only twisted harder. His labored breathing escalated in volume, and Elizabeta briefly wondered if it was actually covering up her own voice. Didn't he realize that he was suffering from overbreathing? This time she did smack him on the head (though with less force than she usually practiced on him), but her effort was met with no good result.
Her grip on his fist softened and she leaned down. "You need to breathe."
But Gilbert had never been one to listen. Instead he rolled over, so that his back faced her, sending the painfully clear message that he was not listening. She huffed and crossed her arms indignantly, continuing to watch the man have trouble breathing. He was bound to get the idea that she was, in fact, right this time. And that he, as usual, was being unreasonably stubborn.
The few seconds that evolved to minutes seemed to last an eternity to her, and Elizabeta, her patience finally having met its limit, grabbed a fistful of his shirt from behind and yanked him close. Gilbert was far too preoccupied with his poor attempt at controlling his breathing that he was pulled back without much resistance. She hoisted him up against the headboard, careful to avoid his head hitting the wall, and released her grip on his shirt. He didn't so much as acknowledge her gesture and stuck to looking up.
It was an exceedingly awkward sight for Elizabeta. That he, someone so proud and obnoxious, was reduced to a wheezing heap overnight. He could -- would -- get better the next day, but the point remained that she was seeing something completely different tonight. And she didn't like it any better than his usual arrogant self.
Eventually his breathing evened, to the point he almost appeared deceased. His eyes were closed again; however, they opened as Elizabeta watched expectantly. He scowled (or tried to).
"What do you want?"
She stared incredulously. "A 'thank you' would be nice," she suggested, only to receive an attempted smirk in return.
"Nah." At first her eyes narrowed. Then she shook her head and simply left the room, this time not bothering to close the door.
- - - - - - - - - -
Roderich visited in the morning. He'd heard about how Elizabeta had left early, although they'd failed to mention the part about her leaving with Gilbert (how that detail could have possibly been left out, she couldn't fathom). He showed up at her door at ten o'clock in the morning sharp. He wasn't particularly displeased with her for any reason, and simply took her hand while ushering himself inside after she greeted him.
She told him about Gilbert, and saw the way her lover looked at her. He didn't look too surprised, but rather understanding.
"What will you do once he is well?" he asked, seated on a couch across from her. Elizabeta lifted her gaze from the teacup to Roderich, her lips pursed.
"I'm not certain."
He only nodded and took a sip of his drink. "Whatever you decide, please get this matter straightened out as soon as possible. It's in your best interest that you do."
He was right, of course. So she smiled, nodded, and folded her hands, which then rested on her lap. "Yes." There was a pregnant pause. " . . . Austria --"
-- then she woke up. And she wanted nothing more than to curse the dream (which was more like a nightmare) due to her inability to see Roderich without complications arising. She bit her lower lip, gripped so tightly onto her sheets that her knuckles grew white, and almost wept at the thought of not being able to see the man she'd loved for centuries. Almost.
- - - - - - - - - -
Elizabeta was faced with a problem that morning. Because she'd not been able to go back to sleep, she'd stayed up since dawn. This combined with her fatigue from having dealt with Gilbert's classic stubbornness earlier, she was indescribably tired. Not as bad as it could have been, but it almost felt like she had a hangover, mostly from the throbbing pain in her head.
Nevertheless she cooked breakfast for both herself and Gilbert. It was well into the morning by the time she brought him his share of the food, but she was merely greeted by his back as he refused to get up. She scolded him then, demanding that he instantly rise and eat the food she'd made. Unfortunately, Gilbert insisted on ignoring her in favor of getting more sleep, going as far as grabbing the pillow and covering his ears with them. Frustrated and not in the mood to right him, Elizabeta simply left the tray of food by the foot of the bed and left.
When she came back two hours later, he was in the exact same position. The plates were empty. For a reason she couldn't pinpoint, Elizabeta felt better.
There was a curt knock, and she instinctively whipped around at the noise. Gilbert didn't move an inch at the sound. Glancing back at her "guest," she headed for the door to receive another one.
When she opened the door, she was greeted by none other than Ivan. He wore his usual childish smile, which, coupled with his devious eyes, nudged her the wrong way. But she chose to grin and bear with his sudden visit, only allowing him in after he directly asked to come in. Even then her reaction was considerably slow, for she wanted him to leave, and quickly.
"Is nice house," he commented in broken English, as if to spite her in another indirect way. Elizabeta merely stood several feet away from him, though she immediately stiffened at his next words. "I hear you have guest."
He turned and looked at her with a more childish smile than she'd ever seen, and it rendered her own expression worthless. Her smile dropped as their gazes locked, but she refrained from making any other facial expressions and resorted to a blank look. Judging from Ivan's approach, he already knew well enough who was in the house. Gilbert's presence was no secret at this point in time, and he knew it as well as she did.
"He's in the guestroom."
"Is appropriate that you put guest in guestroom, da."
She couldn't help but utter a quip, "that's what it was named for, yes." The smile widened -- his way of warning her. Ivan headed for the room; she followed.
When they entered the room, Gilbert was sitting up straight against the headboard, his hair tousled but otherwise showing no other signs of how lazily he'd been lying in bed minutes earlier. Tension was dancing around in the air, but he calmly raised his head to look at Ivan.
"Yo," he greeted (though it was more of a grunt) curtly.
Whatever they talked about, Elizabeta didn't know. She was "excused" from the room after that and sent to roam her own house. But she could guess as much what they discussed, if Gilbert's sour look after Ivan left meant anything. He always was the extremely expressive type -- one glance at him and it was more than possible to imagine what he was feeling.
Though she supposed that didn't exactly apply to him when he was so quick to change his expression from something genuine to a smug smirk. He hid it well, sometimes.
"I thought he was never going to leave!" he exclaimed when she decided to check up on him. This time she actually agreed with him. But there was still something that was irritating her that she couldn't place, and she scanned over him: Disheveled hair, sweat-drenched shirt, wrinkled pants, and a messy appearance overall.
Then it clicked.
"Your clothes need to be washed." She was rather proud of her discovery, though Gilbert found it brilliant to crush her growing enthusiasm.
He laughed. "And wear a dress for the day? No."
"I was thinking some of Austria's billowier clothes, but if that's your preference." He did have a surprisingly lean build for a man who'd fought his entire life. Perhaps a corset -- she cut herself short.
Gilbert didn't seem surprised by the fact that she had some of Roderich's clothes in her household. They'd lived together, after all. Instead he crossed his arms and started yet another petty argument. "You mean his assortment of fancy cravats." As far as he was concerned, one of Roderich's cravats was enough to purchase him a whole new attire, frugality or no.
"If you want to spend the rest of your stay in this house cooped up here with dirty clothes, be my guest." He could have sighed at Elizabeta's lack of cooperation in continuing the banter.
"All right, woman. At least get those ridiculous clothes while I change." With that said, he again turned his back to her and started working on the rest of the buttons. He momentarily stopped when she threw a pillow at the back of his head for "his indecent actions" and left, to which he shrugged and resumed. By the time he removed his shirt, she was at the door, telling him that the clothes were there in the hall (because she adamantly claimed that she did not want to go into the room and see him with the lack of clothes).
To her credit, the clothes she'd picked out weren't entirely bad. It was terrible enough that they were once or twice worn by Roderich (or who knew how many times, seeing as how the aforementioned nation constantly wore the same articles of clothing to preserve material), but the feel and design weren't too undesirable. This didn't stop him from shifting awkwardly every time he moved, however, which served to displease Elizabeta at how unmannerly he was being. He retorted that he cared more about warfare than culture.
On the other hand, Elizabeta was not only irked by how Gilbert was acting in the clothes, but also by how well they fit him. She couldn't help but see Roderich every time he sat still or something obscured his head from her view. It was far too distracting, and she found herself fumbling with whatever she was doing at the time, be it sewing or cooking. It didn't help that Gilbert was now roaming around the house of his own volition.
One day out of the blue, when they were conveniently seated across from each other, she decided to ask.
"What happened?" she interrogated, catching Gilbert's attention. She'd jumped straight into the topic, he was more than a little confused.
"What?"
She instantly corrected herself. "Back at your place; you were passed out."
There was an unbearable tension growing, and the silence that followed was beginning to drive her mad. Elizabeta figured she deserved an answer after she'd brought him to her home, fed him, clothed him, and just in general provided for him. But Gilbert didn't look like he was about to answer, when he abruptly blurted out words that sounded foreign to the both of them.
"I was Prussia." When she didn't respond, he continued: "What would you do, eh? Run into Austria's arms?"
Her look of disdain was her response. "Is this what this is all about? You being -- dissolved? Is that why you hit your head hard enough to knock yourself out?"
"What kind of idiot do you take me for? I didn't hit my head!"
"Then what did you do?"
He laughed again, in a jeering way that made it sound like she was the stupid one. And to him, she currently was. "Did you think the first night here was on purpose?"
"Of course not, you were being incredibly stubborn and refused to breathe properly." It was only after she'd spoken those words that she realized the meaning behind his words. "It happened earlier?"
Gilbert looked impressed. His face told her everything: He was currently thinking, "You are so stupid that I find it hilarious." His eyes were loud, and they told her everything. What actually came out of his mouth, however, differed greatly from what his thoughts. "The cause, Hungary." And with those words, he stood and walked down the hall to the guestroom, all the while laughing to himself.
He sounded like he didn't care, but Elizabeta felt as though he was trying to hide his shame. That night, in her bedroom that was on the other end of the hall, she vaguely heard what might have been ragged breathing. This time, she didn't go to check, and instead chose to let Gilbert be.
- - - - - - - - - -
After that day, they frequently got into even more squabbles. Gilbert refused to leave the comfort of his bed, Elizabeta wouldn't put up with any of his rebelliousness, he didn't bother finishing the whole plate of whatever she brought him, and she'd been lousy with his laundry. Soon enough, she could hardly stand to have a conversation with him. He was a handful, and he appeared to find amusement in the strangest things, one of which was constantly being a thorn in her side.
On second thought, it was as if time has regressed. What happened in her house was very like how she had spent her days years ago, when she had had a bit more freedom to herself. When she had been at her happiest, with Roderich and everyone else. She was tired of how Gilbert was pushing the past onto her, whether the act was inadvertent or not.
She was tired of it. Time seemed to recognize her fatigue, and granted her respite in the form of Ivan.
Ivan paid another unexpected visit, and one she wouldn't forget soon. She opened the door, expected him to give her his frightening smile and ask to come in, but he surprised her by not following through with the latter.
"Hello, little Hungary," he greeted in a jolly fashion. "May I have East?"
It took a moment for the words to register, and Elizabeta blinked twice, thrice. "East?"
"East is home to former Prussian provinces," he explained patiently, face unwavering. "He will live in my house."
" . . . I see," she answered slowly, grasping the meaning of the situation as she came to understand that he was here to take the only other resident of the household. Gilbert. For a reason unknown to even herself (she seemed to be getting those more often lately), she didn't feel ready -- didn't want -- to be alone in her place of residence.
Ivan seemed to read her mind. "Of course, I will come for you later as well, little Hungary," he reassured, putting on a blissful expression that only served to unnerve her.
Before she could retaliate in any form, a hand nudged her aside from behind, and she connected the appendage to her "guest." True enough, Gilbert emerged and walked out the door, not bothering to look at her once as he did so. Nor did he turn to Ivan or acknowledge his presence, until he addressed him.
"Well, what's keeping you? You said you'd come back for her."
Elizabeta was at a loss for words. She took a mighty step forward, twisted him around, and grabbed his collar (laundry was timed surprisingly well, for he was wearing his own clothes today), pulling him down to her height. He looked unfazed by her actions, simply glaring right back at her as she struggled to form coherent words.
"What is this?" she managed.
"You heard him." He wrestled out of her grip and stood straight. The original intention might have been to appear proud, but the straightening of his figure was noticeably forced. "I'm East: East Germany!" he cracked a lopsided smirk in an effort to support his claim. Ivan quietly observed while Elizabeta forced herself to cope with the sudden rush of news.
Taking advantage of her speechlessness, Gilbert upped and began to trudge down the walkway. Ivan waved slowly as he followed, the two of them leaving Elizabeta to herself (her lonesome), and she merely watched them go. She watched her childhood walk away, with a rotten promise of something ominous returning to retrieve her in the near future. At this point, all she could do was watch.
She turned and shut the door behind her as she leaned against it. After what felt like an eternity she slid down until she sat on the floor, gazing blankly ahead at what had happened and would come.
Outside, Gilbert could only grit his teeth, which he covered with a smirk that strained against his face muscles. He coped, and decidedly ignored Ivan the whole way.
Characters: Elizabeta Héderváry (Hungary), Gilbert Beilschmidt (Prussia), Ivan Braginski (Russia), mention of Roderich Edelstein (Austria)
Disclaimer: Himaruya Hidekaz owns Axis Powers Hetalia.
Title: When You Fell
Rating: PG
Genre: General, drama
Summary: Some time after Prussia as a state is abolished, Elizabeta finds Gilbert in a limbo. As her maternal instincts kick in, she resolves to provide for him, no matter the consequences.
Notes: . . . I'm no history person, so it has probably been twisted around a bit, here and there. My apologies.
Elizabeta was stunned when she found Gilbert, a motionless heap on the floor. All thoughts of scolding him for being late aside, she was immediately on her knees, reaching for a shoulder as she rolled him over onto his back. He was considerably cold (which was odd, for he was always a source of warmth) and unresponsive, two traits she didn't wish to see from him. So she shook him, first very gently, then proceeded to be rougher in hopes of waking him.
"Gilbert," she started. "Gilbert."
Not Prussia.
Perhaps he wasn't truly as out of it as he was coming off to be. It could have been one of his numerous attempts at spiting her for the sheer sake of driving her up the wall. He did such things often. And it wasn't often that he simply appeared to have passed out on the floor of his own house with no apparent symptoms of an illness. Considering the current events, it was unlikely that he was sick to start with.
But if the current events were truly brought into consideration, then wouldn't he have logically vanished at this point?
"Miss Hungary!" The words seemed to echo in the small house, and Elizabeta's head snapped up as she remembered that she'd come with two others -- men in charge of clearing out the building. She knew how they'd gotten in: Having lost her patience after she'd called for Gilbert to open the door for ten minutes, she'd practically broken straight through it.
She raised her volume and called out for them to come; they were walking down the hall toward where she and Gilbert were in a matter of seconds. One man, the portlier of the two, raised a brow at the sight of Elizabeta knelt beside an unconscious youth (though, on second thought, he disregarded that last part because he knew fully well whom this "youth" was). She ignored their questioning gazes and stood up, motioning to Gilbert as she faced them.
"What are we going to do about him?" the taller man asked before she could utter a word. "He's out cold from the looks of it."
She placed her hands on her hips. "We'll have to carry him."
"I didn't sign up to move a body -- I was ordered to clear out the house of furniture and other items." His protest fell on deaf ears as Elizabeta was by her acquaintance's side again, slinging a limp arm over her neck and hauling the abolished nation up. Gilbert's body followed her movements clumsily, his figure leaning on her side that she swayed slightly and nearly lost her balance. She gave the men a look in an effort to urge them to help, but neither of the two met her eyes.
"If that's how it is, then I'll head back on my own. I trust you two can manage the house on your own."
They chose not to answer. Stifling a sigh, she half-carried, half-dragged the body along with her, leaving the men to do their job on their lonesome. Or was it on her lonesome?
- - - - - - - - - -
It took her much longer to return to her house than she'd anticipated. As lean as he looked, Gilbert wasn't all that light, and he normally towered over her by several inches. When she managed to unlock her door without losing her grip, she quickly -- but carefully -- dropped him by the wall and leaned against it, the back of her forearm resting on her forehead. She rested for a short while before reaching for his arm again, then proceeded to head for the guestroom.
By the time she nearly threw him onto the bed, she saw that he was still out cold. Whatever he'd done, it had probably given him something akin to that of a concussion. At this thought she leaned forward and checked his head, only to have her assumption proven wrong when she failed to find a lump of any sort. Then again, having known Gilbert for centuries, a head injury wouldn't have been enough to keep him down for this long, and that fact alone troubled her to a degree.
Not that Gilbert didn't trouble her enough as it was.
Elizabeta sat down on the edge of the bed with her back against the headboard. "What did you do?" she asked exasperatedly.
She glanced over at him. The first thing that caught her attention was his shirt. He was dressed in his casual wear, a dress shirt that looked to have been washed worn years ago in addition to a modest pair of tan pants. But it was the shirt that nagged at her the most, what with how the top buttons had apparently become undone in the midst of her journey. His chest was partially exposed, as was the upper portion of his midriff.
It took her a couple seconds before she swallowed and turned away. She wasn't going to deal with this.
Figuring that he would be fine on his own for the night, she stood and went for the door. When she was about to close it, however, a sudden noise stopped her hand. She peeked through the open crack from the other side of the door, and listened.
Gilbert's breathing was labored and unusually loud -- no, he was always loud -- and certainly much faster. The lack of response she'd received prior to this had thrown her off somewhat.
His eyes suddenly opened, widened. Even in the dark she could see the glaring purple-red dots from where she stood. His left hand flew to his chest and he gripped the material around it, twisting his shirt and applying pressure as he wheezed.
The door flung open, and Elizabeta marched towards the bed. She grabbed his hand and attempted to wrench it free, but his grip only tightened and it refused to budge. She frowned and curled her fingers around his fist, urging the hand to loosen. She would have slapped him upside the head for his stubbornness, but she found that the idea was in poor taste.
"You need to breathe," she lectured, "let go. Let go and sit up."
Gilbert didn't seem to hear a word as he continued to stare up at the ceiling and only twisted harder. His labored breathing escalated in volume, and Elizabeta briefly wondered if it was actually covering up her own voice. Didn't he realize that he was suffering from overbreathing? This time she did smack him on the head (though with less force than she usually practiced on him), but her effort was met with no good result.
Her grip on his fist softened and she leaned down. "You need to breathe."
But Gilbert had never been one to listen. Instead he rolled over, so that his back faced her, sending the painfully clear message that he was not listening. She huffed and crossed her arms indignantly, continuing to watch the man have trouble breathing. He was bound to get the idea that she was, in fact, right this time. And that he, as usual, was being unreasonably stubborn.
The few seconds that evolved to minutes seemed to last an eternity to her, and Elizabeta, her patience finally having met its limit, grabbed a fistful of his shirt from behind and yanked him close. Gilbert was far too preoccupied with his poor attempt at controlling his breathing that he was pulled back without much resistance. She hoisted him up against the headboard, careful to avoid his head hitting the wall, and released her grip on his shirt. He didn't so much as acknowledge her gesture and stuck to looking up.
It was an exceedingly awkward sight for Elizabeta. That he, someone so proud and obnoxious, was reduced to a wheezing heap overnight. He could -- would -- get better the next day, but the point remained that she was seeing something completely different tonight. And she didn't like it any better than his usual arrogant self.
Eventually his breathing evened, to the point he almost appeared deceased. His eyes were closed again; however, they opened as Elizabeta watched expectantly. He scowled (or tried to).
"What do you want?"
She stared incredulously. "A 'thank you' would be nice," she suggested, only to receive an attempted smirk in return.
"Nah." At first her eyes narrowed. Then she shook her head and simply left the room, this time not bothering to close the door.
- - - - - - - - - -
Roderich visited in the morning. He'd heard about how Elizabeta had left early, although they'd failed to mention the part about her leaving with Gilbert (how that detail could have possibly been left out, she couldn't fathom). He showed up at her door at ten o'clock in the morning sharp. He wasn't particularly displeased with her for any reason, and simply took her hand while ushering himself inside after she greeted him.
She told him about Gilbert, and saw the way her lover looked at her. He didn't look too surprised, but rather understanding.
"What will you do once he is well?" he asked, seated on a couch across from her. Elizabeta lifted her gaze from the teacup to Roderich, her lips pursed.
"I'm not certain."
He only nodded and took a sip of his drink. "Whatever you decide, please get this matter straightened out as soon as possible. It's in your best interest that you do."
He was right, of course. So she smiled, nodded, and folded her hands, which then rested on her lap. "Yes." There was a pregnant pause. " . . . Austria --"
-- then she woke up. And she wanted nothing more than to curse the dream (which was more like a nightmare) due to her inability to see Roderich without complications arising. She bit her lower lip, gripped so tightly onto her sheets that her knuckles grew white, and almost wept at the thought of not being able to see the man she'd loved for centuries. Almost.
- - - - - - - - - -
Elizabeta was faced with a problem that morning. Because she'd not been able to go back to sleep, she'd stayed up since dawn. This combined with her fatigue from having dealt with Gilbert's classic stubbornness earlier, she was indescribably tired. Not as bad as it could have been, but it almost felt like she had a hangover, mostly from the throbbing pain in her head.
Nevertheless she cooked breakfast for both herself and Gilbert. It was well into the morning by the time she brought him his share of the food, but she was merely greeted by his back as he refused to get up. She scolded him then, demanding that he instantly rise and eat the food she'd made. Unfortunately, Gilbert insisted on ignoring her in favor of getting more sleep, going as far as grabbing the pillow and covering his ears with them. Frustrated and not in the mood to right him, Elizabeta simply left the tray of food by the foot of the bed and left.
When she came back two hours later, he was in the exact same position. The plates were empty. For a reason she couldn't pinpoint, Elizabeta felt better.
There was a curt knock, and she instinctively whipped around at the noise. Gilbert didn't move an inch at the sound. Glancing back at her "guest," she headed for the door to receive another one.
When she opened the door, she was greeted by none other than Ivan. He wore his usual childish smile, which, coupled with his devious eyes, nudged her the wrong way. But she chose to grin and bear with his sudden visit, only allowing him in after he directly asked to come in. Even then her reaction was considerably slow, for she wanted him to leave, and quickly.
"Is nice house," he commented in broken English, as if to spite her in another indirect way. Elizabeta merely stood several feet away from him, though she immediately stiffened at his next words. "I hear you have guest."
He turned and looked at her with a more childish smile than she'd ever seen, and it rendered her own expression worthless. Her smile dropped as their gazes locked, but she refrained from making any other facial expressions and resorted to a blank look. Judging from Ivan's approach, he already knew well enough who was in the house. Gilbert's presence was no secret at this point in time, and he knew it as well as she did.
"He's in the guestroom."
"Is appropriate that you put guest in guestroom, da."
She couldn't help but utter a quip, "that's what it was named for, yes." The smile widened -- his way of warning her. Ivan headed for the room; she followed.
When they entered the room, Gilbert was sitting up straight against the headboard, his hair tousled but otherwise showing no other signs of how lazily he'd been lying in bed minutes earlier. Tension was dancing around in the air, but he calmly raised his head to look at Ivan.
"Yo," he greeted (though it was more of a grunt) curtly.
Whatever they talked about, Elizabeta didn't know. She was "excused" from the room after that and sent to roam her own house. But she could guess as much what they discussed, if Gilbert's sour look after Ivan left meant anything. He always was the extremely expressive type -- one glance at him and it was more than possible to imagine what he was feeling.
Though she supposed that didn't exactly apply to him when he was so quick to change his expression from something genuine to a smug smirk. He hid it well, sometimes.
"I thought he was never going to leave!" he exclaimed when she decided to check up on him. This time she actually agreed with him. But there was still something that was irritating her that she couldn't place, and she scanned over him: Disheveled hair, sweat-drenched shirt, wrinkled pants, and a messy appearance overall.
Then it clicked.
"Your clothes need to be washed." She was rather proud of her discovery, though Gilbert found it brilliant to crush her growing enthusiasm.
He laughed. "And wear a dress for the day? No."
"I was thinking some of Austria's billowier clothes, but if that's your preference." He did have a surprisingly lean build for a man who'd fought his entire life. Perhaps a corset -- she cut herself short.
Gilbert didn't seem surprised by the fact that she had some of Roderich's clothes in her household. They'd lived together, after all. Instead he crossed his arms and started yet another petty argument. "You mean his assortment of fancy cravats." As far as he was concerned, one of Roderich's cravats was enough to purchase him a whole new attire, frugality or no.
"If you want to spend the rest of your stay in this house cooped up here with dirty clothes, be my guest." He could have sighed at Elizabeta's lack of cooperation in continuing the banter.
"All right, woman. At least get those ridiculous clothes while I change." With that said, he again turned his back to her and started working on the rest of the buttons. He momentarily stopped when she threw a pillow at the back of his head for "his indecent actions" and left, to which he shrugged and resumed. By the time he removed his shirt, she was at the door, telling him that the clothes were there in the hall (because she adamantly claimed that she did not want to go into the room and see him with the lack of clothes).
To her credit, the clothes she'd picked out weren't entirely bad. It was terrible enough that they were once or twice worn by Roderich (or who knew how many times, seeing as how the aforementioned nation constantly wore the same articles of clothing to preserve material), but the feel and design weren't too undesirable. This didn't stop him from shifting awkwardly every time he moved, however, which served to displease Elizabeta at how unmannerly he was being. He retorted that he cared more about warfare than culture.
On the other hand, Elizabeta was not only irked by how Gilbert was acting in the clothes, but also by how well they fit him. She couldn't help but see Roderich every time he sat still or something obscured his head from her view. It was far too distracting, and she found herself fumbling with whatever she was doing at the time, be it sewing or cooking. It didn't help that Gilbert was now roaming around the house of his own volition.
One day out of the blue, when they were conveniently seated across from each other, she decided to ask.
"What happened?" she interrogated, catching Gilbert's attention. She'd jumped straight into the topic, he was more than a little confused.
"What?"
She instantly corrected herself. "Back at your place; you were passed out."
There was an unbearable tension growing, and the silence that followed was beginning to drive her mad. Elizabeta figured she deserved an answer after she'd brought him to her home, fed him, clothed him, and just in general provided for him. But Gilbert didn't look like he was about to answer, when he abruptly blurted out words that sounded foreign to the both of them.
"I was Prussia." When she didn't respond, he continued: "What would you do, eh? Run into Austria's arms?"
Her look of disdain was her response. "Is this what this is all about? You being -- dissolved? Is that why you hit your head hard enough to knock yourself out?"
"What kind of idiot do you take me for? I didn't hit my head!"
"Then what did you do?"
He laughed again, in a jeering way that made it sound like she was the stupid one. And to him, she currently was. "Did you think the first night here was on purpose?"
"Of course not, you were being incredibly stubborn and refused to breathe properly." It was only after she'd spoken those words that she realized the meaning behind his words. "It happened earlier?"
Gilbert looked impressed. His face told her everything: He was currently thinking, "You are so stupid that I find it hilarious." His eyes were loud, and they told her everything. What actually came out of his mouth, however, differed greatly from what his thoughts. "The cause, Hungary." And with those words, he stood and walked down the hall to the guestroom, all the while laughing to himself.
He sounded like he didn't care, but Elizabeta felt as though he was trying to hide his shame. That night, in her bedroom that was on the other end of the hall, she vaguely heard what might have been ragged breathing. This time, she didn't go to check, and instead chose to let Gilbert be.
- - - - - - - - - -
After that day, they frequently got into even more squabbles. Gilbert refused to leave the comfort of his bed, Elizabeta wouldn't put up with any of his rebelliousness, he didn't bother finishing the whole plate of whatever she brought him, and she'd been lousy with his laundry. Soon enough, she could hardly stand to have a conversation with him. He was a handful, and he appeared to find amusement in the strangest things, one of which was constantly being a thorn in her side.
On second thought, it was as if time has regressed. What happened in her house was very like how she had spent her days years ago, when she had had a bit more freedom to herself. When she had been at her happiest, with Roderich and everyone else. She was tired of how Gilbert was pushing the past onto her, whether the act was inadvertent or not.
She was tired of it. Time seemed to recognize her fatigue, and granted her respite in the form of Ivan.
Ivan paid another unexpected visit, and one she wouldn't forget soon. She opened the door, expected him to give her his frightening smile and ask to come in, but he surprised her by not following through with the latter.
"Hello, little Hungary," he greeted in a jolly fashion. "May I have East?"
It took a moment for the words to register, and Elizabeta blinked twice, thrice. "East?"
"East is home to former Prussian provinces," he explained patiently, face unwavering. "He will live in my house."
" . . . I see," she answered slowly, grasping the meaning of the situation as she came to understand that he was here to take the only other resident of the household. Gilbert. For a reason unknown to even herself (she seemed to be getting those more often lately), she didn't feel ready -- didn't want -- to be alone in her place of residence.
Ivan seemed to read her mind. "Of course, I will come for you later as well, little Hungary," he reassured, putting on a blissful expression that only served to unnerve her.
Before she could retaliate in any form, a hand nudged her aside from behind, and she connected the appendage to her "guest." True enough, Gilbert emerged and walked out the door, not bothering to look at her once as he did so. Nor did he turn to Ivan or acknowledge his presence, until he addressed him.
"Well, what's keeping you? You said you'd come back for her."
Elizabeta was at a loss for words. She took a mighty step forward, twisted him around, and grabbed his collar (laundry was timed surprisingly well, for he was wearing his own clothes today), pulling him down to her height. He looked unfazed by her actions, simply glaring right back at her as she struggled to form coherent words.
"What is this?" she managed.
"You heard him." He wrestled out of her grip and stood straight. The original intention might have been to appear proud, but the straightening of his figure was noticeably forced. "I'm East: East Germany!" he cracked a lopsided smirk in an effort to support his claim. Ivan quietly observed while Elizabeta forced herself to cope with the sudden rush of news.
Taking advantage of her speechlessness, Gilbert upped and began to trudge down the walkway. Ivan waved slowly as he followed, the two of them leaving Elizabeta to herself (her lonesome), and she merely watched them go. She watched her childhood walk away, with a rotten promise of something ominous returning to retrieve her in the near future. At this point, all she could do was watch.
She turned and shut the door behind her as she leaned against it. After what felt like an eternity she slid down until she sat on the floor, gazing blankly ahead at what had happened and would come.
Outside, Gilbert could only grit his teeth, which he covered with a smirk that strained against his face muscles. He coped, and decidedly ignored Ivan the whole way.