Amber flames crackle in the stone hearth, casting dancing black shadows over the golden oak-log walls of Gilbert's lodge. Gilbert slouches on the leather couch, boots propped on a hand-hewn wooden table. The fire melts the snow and hardens the caked on mud. Big game trophies adorn the walls, glassy eyes staring down at him. Gilbert cherishes each and every one of them. And they all have a story – a thrilling tale of chase and adventure he spins whenever he has an ear willing to listen. Yes, he has many hunting prizes, but there is one he still covets.
Elizaveta sits by the hearth, wrapped in a sheepskin blanket.
"Roderich's asked me to marry him."
A cup of tea rests in her palm. She brings it to her lips. Eyes, wide and expectant, study Gilbert over the rim.
He stares into the fire, expression blank. His hand, curled around a glass of bourbon, flinches upon hearing the name.
"Say something," she says, voice barely above a whisper. "You're my closest friend…."
Crimson eyes dart to meet her emerald before flicking back to the fire.
"Friend," he snorts, sipping his drink. That's all I'll ever be to you, the empty air says.
Elizaveta ducks her head as if embarrassed. She quietly sips her tea, tracing the pattern on the woven rug with her finger. Then, as if finding her courage, she takes something out of the pocket of her trousers.
"He gave me his grandmother's ring."
She holds it up, between thumb and forefinger. The firelight glints off the band. It's an elaborate thing – a delicate floral band with tiny sapphires describing flower petals leading up to a pear shaped one-carat diamond.
Gilbert eyes it. He knows Elizaveta thinks it's a romantic gesture – Roderich giving her a family heirloom – but Gilbert also knows how stingy that prick is. Compared to Roderich, Gilbert is "new money," meaning his folks were anything but rich and he had to work half his damn life to get to where he is now. Roderich, on the other hand, came from a long line of blue-blooded aristocrats – a point he always seemed to ram home whenever he had a chance, even when they were younger.
"It's not on your finger," Gilbert observes.
"It's too big. His grandmother must have had fingers like sausages," Elizaveta giggles lightly. "I have to get it re-sized."
Gilbert's mouth twitches. "Fucking inbred aristocrats."
Elizaveta's face falls. "That's not funny, Gil."
Gilbert shrugs, taking another sip of bourbon. They sit in silence for a while. Elizaveta has finished her tea and absently fingers the curls on the end of the sheepskin. She slides the ring on he thumb, the only finger it will fit, and stares at it in the firelight.
"My mother is letting me wear her old wedding dress," she says, partly out of nerves and partly to break the awkward silence growing between them. "Luckily it fits me perfectly and we won't have to get it altered."
She holds her breath for a minute, staring at the fire and waiting for a response. None comes. A sigh escapes her lips, not noticing Gilbert is finally looking at her.
"I only wish we could afford a new dress. It'd be nice to have something that's mine."
Something glistens on her cheek. She hastily brushes it away before turning to meet his gaze.
Their eyes lock. Gilbert opens his mouth. He wants to tell her he'd buy any dress she wants. He'd buy her a new ring. He'd give her anything, anything, she wants! Instead his brow knits and he glares back at the hearth and says: "Why can't that cheap ass inbreed buy you a new one?"
"Gil! That's not – "
"What! Not what, Liz? Funny? Nice? Well, dammit, he should! He should buy you a new dress. This is supposed to be your big day, right? I'm sure his family will have a nice laugh, seeing you walk down the aisle in hand-me-downs!"
Elizaveta bites her lip, eyes dropping to the floor.
"It's a way to honor our families…his grandmother's ring and my mother's dress…." Her voice is quiet, strained, filled with the tears she desperately fights to hold back.
Is that what he told you? Gilbert wants to ask, and thanks God he managed to hold his tongue this time.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs.
"It's fine," she tries to smile.
Gilbert slides off the couch, onto the floor, and is sitting beside her. He offers her his glass. She takes a sip and pulls a face.
"How can you drink that? It's vile!"
Her laugh is tremulous but honest, and it makes Gilbert smile in spite of himself. She sees this, taking heart in it. The sheepskin slips off her shoulders as she straightens her back. She wears a simple long-sleeved Henley shirt, the buttons undone and collar open. Gilbert always admired her penchant for men's clothes. And she made them look damned good, too.
Elizaveta sweeps her hair over one shoulder before gathering it up, revealing the graceful curve of her slender neck.
"I'm thinking of wearing my hair up for the wedding."
Gilbert's smile fades. Elizaveta doesn't notice – having mistaken it and his apology as his acceptance of her proposed marriage.
The firelight dances off her smooth ivory skin, and God her neck is beautiful. It positively glows in the flickering light, reflecting the warmth that is Elizaveta. Soft shadows appear in the crook of her shoulder and along her sharp, determined jaw. And Gilbert wants to nestle his face there, wants to nestle his face against her neck and breathe her in.
"Do you think it will look all right?"
Her voice brings him back and he knows he can't have her. Unless…there might be a chance….
He swallows and moves closer to her.
"Liz, I…I have to tell you – "
"What?"
She turns her head to face him. And he is close and she can smell him. Evergreen and leather and the faintest hint of cigar and as she breathes him in, she realizes she has always wanted to.
She blinks twice, eyes searching his. She inhales sharply, eyes growing wide, and pulls back. She belongs to Roderich. Gilbert's shoulders drop. She belongs to Roderich. Gilbert is not allowed that warmth, that gentle curve….And if he can't have it, Roderich can't either.
Gilbert finishes his bourbon, eyes fixed on the empty glass.
"You shouldn't wear your hair up," he says coldly. "It makes you look like a boy."
She lets her hands fall, hair tumbling down in waves to cover her neck once more. Her face is closed. He knows he's hurt her and he bitterly thinks, "Good."
Elizaveta stands, retrieving her coat from the hook by the door.
"Where are you going?" he asks.
"Home," she says.
Gilbert's eyes flick to the window. "But it's snowing."
"Never stopped me before," she sniffs.
"C'mon, Liz. Stay. You'll freeze out there."
"Why? Why should I stay?"
Her voice shakes. Her hand is on the door handle. It opens a crack, but she has not left yet.
Gilbert is on his feet. He's standing over her, palm flattened on the door. It clicks shut, stopping the swirling snow from blowing in.
Elizaveta's eyes are directed at the floor. She will not look at him.
"Why should I stay?" she repeats. "Tell me why and I will."
"Liz…" he whispers.
She jerks her head up at her name, meeting his gaze. Her eyes are fierce and pained. Gilbert's bore into hers, everything he wants to say is held in that stare. He wills her to see it and she does, all too clearly.
"You know, you may think you and Roderich are nothing alike, but you're wrong. You're both arrogant and think money can fix anything. But you want to know the one thing Roderich has over you? He's honest. Not only with me but with himself. Now you can either move your hand or I'll do it for you."
Mechanically his hand falls away from the door. Elizaveta wrenches it open, letting in the whirling drops of white.
The wind catches her coat and her hair, blowing it fiercely around her. She is untamable. Nothing he says now will change her mind.
She lingers for a second before shutting the door firmly.
Gilbert watches her from the window, her figure growing fainter as it disappears down the forest path.
Long after he can no longer see her, Gilbert still stands by the window. There are soft indentations in the snow from where her feet fell. They are slowly being covered over. It has been perhaps an hour, maybe two, since she left. The flakes are heavier now and the wind howls through the gaps in the panes. The snow will erase her footsteps, but Gilbert knows that image of her - of her walking away from him - is forever etched in his memory.
A/N Oh Gilbert, why do you have to be such an ass? But I still love you. So this story was inspired by The Killers' song "Leave the Bourbon on the Shelf." I honestly don't like the whole Prussia/Hungary Gilbert/Elizaveta pairing, so this story pretty much came out of nowhere. All I can say is, I was listening to the song on repeat (yeah, I like it a LOT! Srsly, it's a great song) and the story just popped into my head. I guess it's AU because they are human in this (not the personifications of countries.) And in my head, it's set in the late 1800s, but really it fits any time period. It's my first one-shot, yay! Thanks for reading and enjoy! Reviews are always welcomed.