Fanfiction → Butter and Smoke {Prussia & Hungary}
» Something seems off about this but I don't know quite what. Set in the early 1970s. [Andrei = Romania, Mihail = Bulgaria]
» One-shot
» Prussia ; Hungary ; sort of Prussia/Hungary ; mentions of Romania and Bulgaria
» PG-13
She opened the door, saw who it was, and nearly shut it again. Only Gilbert’s booted foot firmly planted between the jamb and the door stopped her from doing so.
“What are you doing here, Gilbert?”
Gilbert kicked open the door and strode inside, surveying the faded wallpaper and a basket of washing left on the stairs. His own house looked just as pitiful.
“How are Andrei and Mihail?” He asked, butchering the names terribly.
“Since when did you care about them?”
“Oh come on Liz, don’t give me that. Of course I care about them. We’re all one big, happy communist family aren’t we, after all?”
She scowled, and slammed the door shut.
They ended up smoking together next to the window in Elizaveta’s room, sharing a bottle of wine and a sandwich. Gilbert studied her. She was thinner and paler since the last time they’d met, but her cheeks had that constant blush of life that was so very her, so full of unwillingness to ever give up or give in. That was one thing about Liza. She never gave up.
It made him wonder just how pathetic he seemed in comparison, removing all traces of his Berlin, letting Prussia fade away, until all he felt was Deutsche Demokratische Republik.
He stopped eating and considered his sandwich.
“Where’d you get all this stuff from? The wine, and the meat, and the butter?”
She laughed, “stole them.” There was a smear of butter next to her mouth, and Gilbert was filled with an urge to wipe it away with his fingers and lick them, to see if, somehow, it would taste sweeter. He ignored it.
“One day you’re gonna get caught doing that, you know.”
“I’ll take the risk.” There was a lightness in her voice, a devil-may-care attitude that Gilbert recognised. He used to be like that.
“I bumped into a man the other day,” she remarked conversationally, “and he spoke Hungarian well, but I knew he was English. An English spy. Makes me laugh. Arthur never stops does he?”
“I think he enjoys it.”
“I think he’s paranoid.”
“Aren’t we all?” replied Gilbert, and Elizaveta stopped chewing. She sighed, and brushed a few stray crumbs out of the tips of her hair.
There was a pause.
“How’s Ivan?”
Gilbert’s foot, wedged against the table, slipped and the bottle of wine fell over. Quick as lightning, Elizaveta scooped it up and dabbed the spill with her sleeve.
“Ivan is Ivan. What is there to say? Brezhnev is Brezhnev, and more of my people die every day. Life goes on.”
“How pessimistic you are. That’s not the Gilbert I used to know.”
Gilbert scowled. “I’m not the Gilbert you used to know.”
“Oh come off it. Look, I’ve got stolen sandwich materials and wine and half a packet of cigarettes and a relatively nice view outside my bedroom window and you’ve got nice boots that I’d kill to have and a decent pair of jeans. I think we’re doing rather well.”
She leaned over the table, the damp redness of her sleeve spreading, and kissed him. He kissed back, tasting bread and butter and wine and smoke. She pulled back, fingertips gently caressing his neck, and sat down again.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to finish this wine before someone finds us having our fucking tea party.”
Gilbert laughed, and lit another cigarette.
» Hurrah for Cold War fanfiction! Uh, totally not inspired by the new film version of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. Nope.
Notes:
Leonid Brezhnev, General Secretary of the Soviet Union from 1964 till 1982.
In the GDR, Prussian influence was removed as much as possible, and the equestrian statue of Frederick the Great was taken away from East Berlin. I can't imagine Gilbert liked that much.
» One-shot
» Prussia ; Hungary ; sort of Prussia/Hungary ; mentions of Romania and Bulgaria
» PG-13
She opened the door, saw who it was, and nearly shut it again. Only Gilbert’s booted foot firmly planted between the jamb and the door stopped her from doing so.
“What are you doing here, Gilbert?”
Gilbert kicked open the door and strode inside, surveying the faded wallpaper and a basket of washing left on the stairs. His own house looked just as pitiful.
“How are Andrei and Mihail?” He asked, butchering the names terribly.
“Since when did you care about them?”
“Oh come on Liz, don’t give me that. Of course I care about them. We’re all one big, happy communist family aren’t we, after all?”
She scowled, and slammed the door shut.
They ended up smoking together next to the window in Elizaveta’s room, sharing a bottle of wine and a sandwich. Gilbert studied her. She was thinner and paler since the last time they’d met, but her cheeks had that constant blush of life that was so very her, so full of unwillingness to ever give up or give in. That was one thing about Liza. She never gave up.
It made him wonder just how pathetic he seemed in comparison, removing all traces of his Berlin, letting Prussia fade away, until all he felt was Deutsche Demokratische Republik.
He stopped eating and considered his sandwich.
“Where’d you get all this stuff from? The wine, and the meat, and the butter?”
She laughed, “stole them.” There was a smear of butter next to her mouth, and Gilbert was filled with an urge to wipe it away with his fingers and lick them, to see if, somehow, it would taste sweeter. He ignored it.
“One day you’re gonna get caught doing that, you know.”
“I’ll take the risk.” There was a lightness in her voice, a devil-may-care attitude that Gilbert recognised. He used to be like that.
“I bumped into a man the other day,” she remarked conversationally, “and he spoke Hungarian well, but I knew he was English. An English spy. Makes me laugh. Arthur never stops does he?”
“I think he enjoys it.”
“I think he’s paranoid.”
“Aren’t we all?” replied Gilbert, and Elizaveta stopped chewing. She sighed, and brushed a few stray crumbs out of the tips of her hair.
There was a pause.
“How’s Ivan?”
Gilbert’s foot, wedged against the table, slipped and the bottle of wine fell over. Quick as lightning, Elizaveta scooped it up and dabbed the spill with her sleeve.
“Ivan is Ivan. What is there to say? Brezhnev is Brezhnev, and more of my people die every day. Life goes on.”
“How pessimistic you are. That’s not the Gilbert I used to know.”
Gilbert scowled. “I’m not the Gilbert you used to know.”
“Oh come off it. Look, I’ve got stolen sandwich materials and wine and half a packet of cigarettes and a relatively nice view outside my bedroom window and you’ve got nice boots that I’d kill to have and a decent pair of jeans. I think we’re doing rather well.”
She leaned over the table, the damp redness of her sleeve spreading, and kissed him. He kissed back, tasting bread and butter and wine and smoke. She pulled back, fingertips gently caressing his neck, and sat down again.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to finish this wine before someone finds us having our fucking tea party.”
Gilbert laughed, and lit another cigarette.
» Hurrah for Cold War fanfiction! Uh, totally not inspired by the new film version of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. Nope.
Notes:
Leonid Brezhnev, General Secretary of the Soviet Union from 1964 till 1982.
In the GDR, Prussian influence was removed as much as possible, and the equestrian statue of Frederick the Great was taken away from East Berlin. I can't imagine Gilbert liked that much.