Aigre doux, french for bitter sweet. That's how that romantic nudist french arshloch aka her best friend described her relationship with that piece of communist shit
I DON'T OWN HETALIA
Aigre doux
She goes back to the old house, one day.
Julchen have always lived in the west side of Berlin. (So ironic, isn't it?) When the wall was built, she had to live on her new side. In this house. It was small.
(As a socialist's house should be.)
She never sold it. It was a reminder of her past. Like a scar. As she looks at the cream facade, she can almost see his ghost. She punches the wall in front of her. Prussia don't want to see him. Not on her own soil.
She hates him. She hates everything about him. Ivan.
(She hates his name. The way it rolls on her tongue too beautifully to show his true nature)
That communist bastard. That red fuckface. That soviet dumbass.
She recalls how he exposed her secret to the world. Literally.
He killed Gilbert.
She lost the war. West was injured. Her boss was gone with all his promises. She lost everything. She just had her still half open wounds from Stalingrad, thousands of corpses and blood. So much blood. Her hands were dried red. Red. Like him. Like Moscow. Like the fire in Berlin. He came, with his stupid smile.
(That fucking smile. Full of treats behind the sweetness)
When the allies were discussing the denazification. He tore off the black jacket of her SS uniform. He tore of her shirt. And as her tightly bound chest was exposed to everyone's eyes, Gilbert died. She was just Julchen.
(She had never been Julchen before)
Prussia can't be Julchen. She choose to be Gilbert since her time as knight. But the bastard saw through her.
(She hates him.)
She hated Ivan. He didn't want Gilbert. He wanted Julchen. She only wore skirts when she was under his control. She remembers her first feminine clothes. A simple shirt and a skirt.
They could have been pretty clothes but they were too foreign.
They were a dead persons clothes. She could see the traces of carefully washed blood. He took them on a corpse.
(Sickening.)
A yellow star was on the front of the shirt.
(She cried so hard that night.)
She hates Ivan. She hates his hands. Yes, Julchen hates his hands. Large and calloused. They weren't a diplomat's hands like France's. They weren't a farmer's hands like Spain's. They weren't even a warrior's hands like hers.
(The hands of a true socialists.)
Ivan's hands used to beat Gilbert up. Violently. But now they caress Julchen.
(She'd rather take the beating.)
They caress her too softly for it to be true.
They caress her too roughly for to forget they are his.
It's horrible. It makes her sick.
But she likes it.
She hates herself for this.
(But she hates him even more)
She used to cry as she passed the tip of her fingers on every scars she had, alone and naked.
(He had scars too. So many scars.)
She breathes. She hopes it's a nightmare.
But it isn't.
(She'll never wake up. Even after the fall of the wall.)
She hates Ivan Ivan's voice.
Hate it. Love it. At this point it's the same thing.
Julchen hates his voice. She hates the way it whispers in her ear as he rams inside her. She hates her own damn voice. She hates the way it screams his name as she climaxes.
She hates everything and everyone. She becomes so much. She hates herself and the world. But she especially hates him, she thinks as his tongue invades her mouth.
He tastes like hatred.
He tastes like love.
He tastes sour like vodka.
He tastes like hot borsht after a long day of work.
She tastes like beer.
She tastes like the first bite of berliners on Christmas.
He's bitter.
She's too.
They are bittersweet.
Bitter like the wind blowing in Stalingrad. Like hatred put aside for a time.
Sweet like the first flowers after winter. Like young love, blooming in spring.
They are Prussia and Russia.
They fight in the light.
They fuck angrily on the floor, against the wall, in every room, on every desk.
She's ashamed.
She tries to be ashamed.
They bit each other lips as they kiss again and again, in the shadows.
Blood fills their mouths.
Blood fills their visions.
They hate. They love.
They are Julchen and Ivan.
They are Prussia and Russia.
They are bittersweet.
Like their ancient victories.
Like their kiss.
She hates it.