I don't own Hetalia
Gilbert idly hummed as he walked carefully up the frozen path, three bags of shopping in his left hand as he fumbled in his pocket for his keys with his right. Eventually, after some perseverance - it could be quite difficult to do things wearing stiff leather gloves in weather like this - he managed to grasp them, and he stopped at the front door of the reasonably large house.
Subconsciously noting that he would have to repaint the chipped doors, as well as the fence once summer came, he pushed the key into the lock with practised force that came with years of living with the small obstacle. A sharp turn to the right, and he heard the lock click open. He twisted the key back and pulled it out, sliding it back into his pocket as he stumbled through the door, preferring to be out of the bitter cold of mid-winter in Novosibirsk.
To be fair, the corridors inside weren't much better as they never bothered heating more rooms than they used - and between the two of them, not very many - but at least he was now out of the biting wind.
He shuddered and let out a few huffs to let the warmer air heat up his icy lungs. He put the bags down at the side before unwrapping the scarf around his neck and hanging it up on his designated hooks. He noticed Ivan's coat was also hung up, and his gloves were hanging out of his right pocket. Well, at least he was home. With ease he pushed them back in and hung up his own coat, with his own gloves in the pockets.
He rubbed his hands together to create friction, before looking along the corridor towards the more people-friendly area of the house. After so many years of living here, he knew this place off the back of his hand; it was home. It had taken ages for him to acknowledge, never mind grow comfortable with the idea. But, after a certain amount of time, one learned to accept whatever life decides to throw at you. Including the fact that as a nation, your entire race can change.
He rolled his eyes, before picking up the bags once more and striding down the corridor. He glanced in the first room, the door of which was slightly open. No one was in here, but really, he didn't expect there to be. While Ivan could play some instruments, like most of the nations, he preferred to simply watch Gilbert - so he doubted there was any real reason for the Russian to be in the music room. To put it politely, he wasn't particularly musically inclined. A light shiver ran up Gilbert's spine as he remembered the Flute Incident of 1997. Not something that should be repeated. Or mentioned lightly. Dismissing any lingering thoughts, he instead chose to bypass the other two closed doors he passed, heading directly for the kitchen to drop off his purchases.
He banged open the door with a casual bump of his hips, knowing that it was useless to try the broken handle. It hadn't worked ever since that night in September, and really, he knew they should get around to fixing it, but it always just slipped out of mind. The door bounced off the stopper, and he was sure the sound echoed right through the house. Not that he was trying to hide, of course. That hadn't been his goal since at least the fifties, and he wasn't about to start such childish behaviour again now. Besides, he found out through personal experience, hiding from Ivan was a pointless endeavour that only postponed whatever the man wanted.
He glanced around the relatively modern room - influenced heavily from Western styles, much to Ivan's dislike, but Gilbert was not having a freaking wood stove, thank you very much - and lifted the bags onto the dark granite work surface. He only purchased the necessities, as they had done a mass shop last week, and only a top up had been needed. Vodka, beer, milk, bread, those nice imported French cheeses, the Danish butter cookies both of them had a very odd liking of - Gilbert had asked Denmark what he put in them, only to have the very slightly taller blond laugh in his face - and those magazines with the hot chicks in them. The magazines over which Ivan always gaves him a very amused look, as if he knew something hilarious but wasn't willing to share with the class. It was really irritating when he did that.
What, he wasn't allowed to be bi? Gott...
He put everything away in its correct place, before pulling out a can of beer and a bottle of vodka out of the fridge and kicking it closed. Now he had stopped all of the banging he had been making, he was able to hear voices coming from the other room. He rolled his eyes again, before balancing the drinks under his arms to open the door to the sitting room, which was no doubt warmer than this place. It had to be the stone floors; they did absolutely nothing to keep the heat in. He wouldn't be surprised if Ivan cursed them or something to suck the life out of trespassers. He was creepy like that.
The voices grow louder as he cracked it open, and he couldn't stop yet another eye roll. Honestly, all that complaining about crap television and what did he sit and do? Watch it. Sometimes Gilbert wonders how he lived with the strangely petulant overgrown man who had bipolar disorder and long, unpredictable fits of utter happiness. And then he remembered; Ivan was all he had.
And on that depressing thought children, was where the subject was changed.
He called through the door as the condensation on the vodka bottle caused it to slide out of his grip slightly, and he floundered to prevent it from smashing on the hard floor.
"Vanya! Are you there?" Another radically changed point in his life was the fact that the first language of most of his population was Russian. It had definitely taken some getting used to; sporadically bursting into Russian whilst he was ranting at Ivan for expelling his German population. His pride had taken a severe bashing, but he had picked himself up, like always, and accepted the fact that he had essentially become Russian. Age had given him the wisdom to understand that it would never negate his Germanic roots, never make him forget his birth language, and he could continue to be proud of the fact he had been the Kingdom of Prussia. The wisdom was part of the reason he knew he was lucky to still have a landmass, and so he was sensible enough not to question gifts when he received them.
The stuffy pianist would probably shit bricks if he ever realised how mature Gilbert had grown to be.
Gilbert scoffed, and couldn't help a - small! - smile when a deep but innocent sounding voice replied.
"Da, Gilbert. Are you coming through?"
"Da."
He finally made it through the doorway, and the hot air that was coming from the open fire was spread throughout the small room. A average sized television was on mute, and it seemed that Ivan had gotten hooked on the German reality shows Gilbert had a habit of watching. He held back a grin and a taunting comment, not really in the mood to start their usual banter.
He looked at the tall man who was slumped lazily on the love seat, with his boots on a foot rest. A habit from a lifetime of military service, neither man ever took off their footwear unless they were in bed, knowing that the next fight could be seconds away, and they sure as hell wouldn't be caught with their feet bare, as it were. His trademark scarf was around his neck, and but apart from that, the man looked extremely relaxed. Gilbert noticeed with some - slight, he supposed, very slight - endearment, that those ordinarily frightening violet eyes were half lidded, the warmth clearly having an effect on the owner of the house.
He automatically dropped himself into the empty space next to Ivan, and snapped open his beer, handing over the vodka wordlessly into the waiting hand. Ivan opened the lid and they both seemed to take a sip of the alcohol at the same time, and silent, satisfied sighs escaped both of their mouths.
Ivan un-muted the television, and after that the afternoon just seemed to fall away under the sleepy gazes of two nations who had seen far too much.
And if Gilbert after another can of beer and a few naps happened to end up snuggled into the large arms of very nation he claimed to hate, well, it didn't really matter.
And if that evening after countless bottles and cans they happened to share a sweet, drunken kiss that led to them waking up the next morning wrapped around one another's naked body under the covers on Ivan's bed, well, it didn't matter; it had happened before, and Gilbert was willing to bet his life that it would happen again.
But neither of them would mention it, and that was okay. Because neither were the emotional type, and things were really just better left unsaid.
Overall, if he was asked, he would probably say he was happy. He didn't live an exciting or dangerous life anymore, nor did he regularly, if ever, see anyone from his past; none of them needed him, and he would rather die before admitting the same.
He still longed for it often, almost daily. The era when he ruled the European front, when he was the one feared and respected, when he wasn't the one rotting in the back of history textbooks. But he knew, his heart aching with nostalgia, that those times were long dead.
If he truly went deep into his own mind, he would find something he knew to be true. That he was old, and unwanted.
Apart from Ivan. They were old and unwanted together. Perhaps that was why he had given up his 'eternal' grudge on the tall man. It was futile now, and he really didn't think he had the energy to maintain one anymore.
And so, Kaliningrad Oblast was content to waste away his days with Russia, the one nation who refused to let him go, waiting for the time when the world forgot them both.
I was in the mood for some RusPru, and not BDSM crap. Just some regular, angsty fluff. Hope that came across.
There was some historical points in this, so if you have any questions, just ask.
And please review! All of you seem to be ignoring my stories, and I want some feedback, peoples!
REVIEW.
P.S. this was written in about an hour (hardcore, I know) and so I would appreciate it if you could tell me if there are any mistakes. Merci.
Ciao!