A/N: I wrote the first draft of this 3 years ago today, and planned for the past couple of weeks to dedicate today to revising and then publishing it as a tribute to the fandom occasion—Happy Birthday, Prussia! The only place I ever posted the original version was my Tumblr where no one saw it, so this fic is completely new and improved for an audience. The original word count was 778—that's around 900 extra words after rewriting half of it, and because of how slow my writing process used to be until very recently I'm honestly surprised I managed to get this done today. (I was worried I'd run out of time and wouldn't be able to publish on the 18th! Looks like I'll be a few minutes late...) Anyway, I've been really, really happy that people have left reviews on my DRRR fics, and I was so inspired that I did in fact decide to write a second installment for one of them like people asked. (3000 words of that in the past few days—I'm not exaggerating when I say I'm on a roll!) That fic was also intended to be a very short oneshot... however, I may decide to continue this one too (or at least write more PruHun/APH in general) if my suddenly revisited spark of passion for the characters doesn't disappear again really soon. It's been a long time since I've been this proud of something, so I hope someone out there likes it. :)
History should repeat itself more often.
Once a year seemed fair, especially on the same exact day as this one; the special occasion at least gives him a reason, doesn't it?
Actually, screw that. It should happen at least once a month… or even once a week…?
Of course, it's always been his nature to give up on compromising with greed; under these conditions, at least, he should allow himself to revel in the granted wish of his selfishness without any shame… he deserves it.
Nah… every damn night is more like it.
Or, if that got a little ritualistically old after a decade or two, how about maybe just whenever he really, really felt like it? Looking back, he had sure felt like it a lot. It's not like this whole thing had come out of nowhere. The notion had always existed in the back of his mind, but he would swat it away like it was nothing but a fly on the rim of his mug every time his conscience began to nag.
After all, it simply wasn't right, even though it was not 'wrong'—not anymore, at least. It simply wouldn't be worth it… despite not being 'pointless'…?
Yeah… something like that, he thinks, and the senseless logic stops running circles in his sleep-deprived mind; it would probably make sense to no one but him.
Except… this was worth it. And the more he thinks about it, that confirmation is actually kind of a huge bummer, considering all the years of potential that went to waste. He knows asking for a second chance—a proper one—probably won't ever be well-received again, so what exactly was his excuse for never taking one before…? It couldn't have been laziness, since back in the good old days he'd usually found himself to be quite busy—orders to be formed, vital regions to be seized—but he can't exactly say the same now, given his unfortunate… predicament. Rather, he lived these days having nothing truly important to do at all. With so few responsibilities, he was ruled by a vibe of lethargy day-to-day and tended to occupy his ridiculous amount of free time with bars, books, and blogging… and annoying the hell out of Roderich, of course; apparently some things never really change.
He sure deserves it too, he used to think fairly often. It's obviously Austria's fault that things turned out this way between me and her… I mean, hell, it can't possibly be mine! But that was displacement, plain and simple, and he'd been assigning blame to everyone but himself for his own shortcomings since those troubles started. Through careful consideration, eventually he'd had to admit that his reluctance to act upon his own fleeting thoughts hadn't been repressed due to any actual protests from the aristocrat.
After all, when it came right down to it, Roderich hadn't a clue as to what Gilbert Beilschmidt really wanted.
…But exactly what was it that he'd wanted, anyway? Gilbert wasn't too sure either, and maybe that uncertainty had been a contributing factor; he just didn't want to think that might've been what stopped him. But in the end, did his reasons for hesitating really matter? It was too late now, and so those weak attempts had practically been for nothing. He was nearly nothing, after all—just a shell of his former kingdom, a solid ghost… merely the East to Ludwig's West. Prussia would never be whole again, while his brother would only grow stronger through their assimilation, and throughout all the decades since that process started Gilbert faded little by little with each passing day. At first, he'd tried to believe that it all happened for a reason, but regardless of the aftermath that stripped him down the entire damn thing was a mistake from the start; if the nations had strong enough free wills of their own, he wouldn't have become this.
That was the truth… but it sure as hell would never make him feel any better.
Because of that shit, soon I'll be as good as gone. This is something he remembers on a semi-regular basis, when the panic that sometimes sets in late at night keeps him up. Deep down he knows he's trying too hard to distract himself—and everyone else—from the inevitable; he's overcompensating, some might say. But Gilbert's paranoia is not completely groundless… and they can see that too, every time they realize they can see him just a little bit less. It didn't take long for Gilbert to notice that they were looking at him differently, and once he did, he'd decided to hide his acknowledgement of reality as best as he could. He wanted to avoid being the target of anyone's pity. In relation to him at least, that emotion was something he wanted reserved only for a 'To Me, From Me' basis.
Oh, he certainly tries not to feel so sorry for himself—and who would imagine that would be this hard for someone with an ego as all-consuming as his? Yet even that isn't as big now as he used to think, which became obvious once his confidence was no powerful enough to conquer any insult. He can still brush them off and fire right back, but on nights when he lies awake some words still come back to haunt him through the cracks in his hardheaded armor. Hers always strung the worst.
No lessons from the past can change his fate… accepting this was a stubborn quest, but after years of fighting against the pessimistic odds Gilbert had finally stopped seeking closure for the domino effects of war. In his own eyes, he was only looking more and more like a fool forcing himself to believe something like that might still exist.
It doesn't. Not for me. Not for that.
As he had learned just a little while earlier, however, not everything he'd given up on was a lost cause… he needs no more proof than the presence of her body next to his.
What matters to Gilbert right now, more than any of his dread or regrets, is his present… and the word makes him smile with its double meaning tonight. The feeling of another's warm skin resting against his is sweeter than any victory and more tragic than any loss. The disintegration of his identity, always tortuously slow, is finally the furthest thing from his mind.
In this very moment, in fact, Gilbert feels more alive than he has in years.
He knows by her breath, quiet and trembling, that she actually hasn't fallen asleep, and he runs his hand up and down her side to remind her he hasn't either. Her act is obvious to him, made clear from the complete stillness of her body despite his touch—surely she would've at least stirred...?—and the moment she thinks that Gilbert has closed his eyes for the night she'll slip out of his arms and back to her own bed, quiet as can be. It's a game of silent perseverance now… but she can't play forever. Any second, he might feel her heart beat slower as it falls into rhythm with deep, steady breaths.
So… he waits.
Gilbert waits, just as he's done all along, for Elizabeta to make her move—this time around, it's a race to see which of them will fall into a well-deserved slumber first. The cuckoo clock West made him centuries ago is keeping time for them. Glancing over to watch it tick on the wall, Gilbert recalls his brother's slight bitterness towards his own work of art after the forced mass-production; it's a nice conversation piece, but Gilbert's typically-lacking common sense thankfully kicks in before he opens his mouth to blurt out the story... which is merely an explanation behind the clock itself, and contains no justification for why anyone would choose to be startled by the hour by something as obnoxious as that cuckoo's call in their bedroom of all places. There's a time and a place, of course, and this definitely isn't it.
He just hopes having patience won't come back to bite him in the ass again.
For now, at least, Gilbert can be proud that tonight's ending wasn't the result of a lack of initiative, or the interference of a third party. The fear of rejection hadn't kept him away. It was the same game as always, but with lowered stakes for them both, and Gilbert knew he'd learned too late not to assume that 'hard-to-get' was Elizabeta's favorite. To his disappointment over the centuries, she had never 'come to her senses' nor changed her stance or opinion of him… instead, she'd only continued to defy his predictions with an aloof air of indifference. "I'm too cool to resist, and one day she'll realize it! All I have to do is sit back and wait and she'll fall right into my arms..." Now he wonders if only he hadn't convinced himself of that so blindly whether or not this could've happened sooner.
Going back in his head through all the 'what if's'and 'if only's', he realizes for the first time that there are no longer strings attached for either of them.
Maybe, just maybe, everything happens for a reason after all... and either way, the wait was sure damn worth it, because at least now he knows.
Gilbert finally understands exactly what it was that he'd always wanted.
The next morning, as the sunlight greets his tired eyes through the window, Gilbert wakes up to the clock striking the 9th hour, and after letting out a huge yawn he immediately feels a surge of pride for having stayed up later. It doesn't occur to him yet that the obnoxious cuckoo noises throughout the night might've factored into both his intermittent insomnia and Elizabeta's decision to desert him upon waking... nor does he consider the possibility that it wasn't in the morning that she'd left at all—after all, if she'd merely thought it merciful to let him mistakenly believe that he was the winner of the waiting game, was there really any way to know...?
Indeed, Gilbert did wake up in his bed alone… but, for the first time he can remember in ages, he's not lonely at all.
He feels positively awesome, in fact.
I gotta tell Hungary she's a miracle worker.
He slides the few orange petals left on the bed underneath his pillow for safekeeping, and wonders how much pestering it would take for Roderich to play him a belated birthday tune.