The room was painted a dark mix of maroon and red, the curtains across the window a dreary forest green hemmed in faded gold. The ceiling fan with a bent flap was a dusty grayish-black, sporting a single broken lightbulb hanging from the middle. The only light sources came from the blaring red numbers on the clock beside a broken lamp, and from the tiny door-less doorway which led to the bathroom.
Gilbert's eyelids were heavy as he listened to the shower running. His body felt like dead weight; just a collection of useless lumps and limps attached to his neck, and even that felt tired. To be blunt, he was exhausted. He just wasn't the man he used to be, and it was taking its toll on his entire being.
His mind drifted back to his glory days; the days when he, Gilbert Weillschmidt, was just as strong as Alfred Jones was now. Back then he could war with Roedrich for months on end without a break; he could take hundreds of thousands of smacks across the head by Elisaveta's frying pan; he could rival the power of Ivan Braginski himself, and now he was reduced to a ghost of a man who could barely keep his eyes open after a few hours of pitching passion.
He had nearly passed out completely when he heard the water stop. As the footsteps of his lover moved toward him, his eyes slid completely shut. The sounds around him began to blur, and his reality began to melt and swirl into one blob.
"Don't tell me you're falling asleep already," a snarky voice teased, "isn't it you who usually says right about now; 'that was only round one'?"
"Yeah…" he muttered into the pillow in return, "tha's usually me…"
Lovino's gaze moved down his lover's naked body, half-covered with a rugged navy blanket. His skin had always been paler than most, but in the last few months he'd noticed it lightening, and in a sick sort of manner. He was also growing thinner, enough for his ribs to pop obviously, and his hair was losing its luster and becoming thin.
Sighing, the Italian let his towel fall to the floor, leaving him naked as his Prussian boyfriend, and clambered onto the creaky motel bed beside him. He gently positioned himself over Gilbert and began to run his hands over his shoulders, massaging the tired muscles he could clearly feel beneath his snowy skin.
"Mmmm…" he heard Gilbert moan from in the pillow, "that feels good, L'vino…"
"I know it does," Lovino mumbled back, "You're really tired, aren't you?"
Gilbert only nodded weakly, whimpering something inaudible as his lover buttered pleasure over his aching body. His breathing quickened slightly, and his torso rose in a kind of arch to meet Lovino's touch just a bit closer. His already-dim focus dissolved completely; it was times like these that he realized just how in love he was with the other man, when he became melting putty in his hands.
"M'no…L'vino…" his words came in small mutters, which he deemed inadequate and so turned his head to face Lovino, his scarlet eyes using the last of tonight's energy to focus on him, "Lovino."
"What is it?"
"I love you."
Lovino let his head collapse between Gilbert's shoulders, breathing raggedly into his skin and steadying himself. Gilbert's voice was too weak; it was too hopeless and pathetic. It made him want to cry, and Lovino Vargas was not one for true tears.
"I know, Gil, I know…"
But it wasn't until the Prussian was deep in his slumber, wrapped safely in his lover's arms did Lovino respond with his heart.
"I love you too."