Warnings: a seemingly uke-ish Prussian, very hopeful, non-creepy(?) Russian and general crack. Some kissing/groping. Brief GerIta. Implied Bad Touch and Fail Brothers Trio. Human names used.
Author's Note: The moment I saw I would be writing for these two next, I was so happy~ their dynamics have always intrigued me, and really, my bias for them honestly didn't deter that. I hope I did them justice! :)
Disclaimer: Hidekaz Himaruya-sensei owns Hetalia and all its characters; I do not.
"Ve~ hola, Gilbert~!" came the soft, cheery call from a certain Italian.
Grinning in a near triumphant fashion, the aforementioned silverette cackled a bit before leaning through the doorway to tenderly pick at Feliciano's cheeks.
"Gutten Tag, Feli-chan!" he replied, before frowning when a blond behind him kept him from hugging the (clearly willing) Italian.
Of course, it pissed him off more so since it was his brother, of all people. Damn West.
"Bruder." the Prussian customarily greeted, his sharp grin up once again at the blond's clear reluctance to reply.
"Bruder." he repeated likewise, before Feliciano patted both of them inside.
"So~ are you ready for your date~?" the airy Italian cooed, exuding waves of happiness himself.
Blushing a soft pink at (what he wrongly presumed) was him being straightforward, the Prussian chuckled a bit before all cockiness returned to him. After all, what in the world could beat a date with his cute Feli?
"Don't you mean our date?" he questioned thoughtfully.
Except, at the completely confused look the Italian and further downcast one Ludwig gave, he felt his palms sweat. And not in that good, "I'm going on a date with Feliciano~ Hurrah!" way. Nor in that lovey-dovey, butterflies-in-your-stomach pleasantry.
"Ve~ what do you mean, Gilbert?" the Italian inquired himself, tone and face wholly confounded.
Rubbing a hand over his face, Ludwig was the one (forced) to break the reality to his Bruder.
"G-Gilbert," he hesitantly began, taking in a long breath to clear his own nerves, "your date isn't with Feliciano."
Blinking owlishly at his blond sibling, head tilting to the side absentmindedly, the albino looked honestly surprised.
"What?" he breathed, a sinking feeling in his belly making him simultaneously feel nauseous. "Then..."
Before his disappointed mind could betray his trampled heart any longer, the Prussian flushed again when the Italian he vied for suddenly took his pale hands in his soft ones. He beamed up at him, eyelids perpetually closed as always, a bright smile gracing his features. (Although, if he'd been paying attention, he would have noted the rather sorry look in it.)
"But, he's much better, I promise!" he encouraged as Ludwig began tying a piece of cloth over his crimson eyes. "And me and Luddy will be there, for support, ve~!"
Gulping with a difficulty he wished he weren't feeling, the albino merely nod his head as he allowed the two to escort him to god knew where.
He just hoped, of all people, he hadn't been set up with him.
"It is such a nice day today, da?" a much too familiar voice cooed happily, tender smile undoubtedly following.
Briefly ceasing in his marathon of slamming his head against the table, the Prussian glared down at his silverware when he noticed a faint droplet of blood on it.
"Verdammt..." he outwardly heaved a sigh, finally gracing the patient Russian with his gaze. "By the way, today sucks."
Completely choosing to ignore (or maybe even just not noticing) the sheer dislike the albino spoke with, the cherubic silverette merely smiled. That is, before his brows furrowed; a thoughtful look on him as he folded his napkin. Gilbert shivered, from terror he told himself, when he belatedly realized the rather intent manner those vivid violet stared at him.
"W-what is it?" he shakily asked, assuring himself mentally that he was not scared. "Oi, Braginski—"
The said Russian smiled once again, as he dabbed at the superficial cut the albino had made on himself. Though, whether he was happy to do so or because of how he made the Prussian blush an adorable pink, Gilbert was unsure. Not that he was paying any attention to the stupid Russich or anything.
Because he wasn't! He honestly could care less how nice those surprisingly cool hands felt as he tended to his wound; or as the other cradled his face soothingly. He could give two shits at the cutely focused way the silverette had his expression. He would rather die, once and for all, than admit how heart-racingly good those plush lips felt pressing against his own.
... Wait, what?
Eyes widening, face thoroughly set in pure shock (and mortification!, his conscious insisted), the albino immediately tried pulling away from the surprise lip-lock. However, he found himself simply unable to, when the Russian proved his strength: clutching his scruff with what may have very well been dear life, he was forced to meet the silverette halfway across the table. His ribcage cried at the fork now embedding into the more slimmer part of his coat. Although, it was fairly easy to bear when that winter-fresh tongue poked its way into his warm mouth, deftly moving about until it tantalized his own appendage.
With a heavy, lucid reluctance did the Russian pull away; his breath lost, but not as nearly so as the Prussian's.
Crimson eyes glazed, half-lidded and now unable to even look away from the silverette, the albino flushed more than he was when he heard his heavy panting. Even so, having grown his fair share of shamelessness from years with Francis and Antonio, and waking up to an equally hungover Arthur and Mattias, his brain decided it was time he felt embarrassed for once. Thus, he berated himself for how loud his gasps were, red blush persistent.
"Please, call me Ivan, Gilbert." the violet-eyed man before him gently assured, his smile intact and breathing somehow regulated again.
"I-in your dreams, idiot." he breathed, hands shakily giving him support so as to not collapse atop the table. Because the kiss hadn't been breathtaking or anything! It hadn't! "The awesome me will never—"
He found himself yelping, of all possible submissive reactions, when he felt the Russian's left hand suddenly grope his defenseless ass.
(And because Life hated him so, Gilbert moaned rather throatily when his cool fingers rubbed along the plump flesh.)
"Nein, Gilbert," the Russian playfully chimed, purposely using what little German he knew to his advantage, "in my dreams, you become one with Mother Russia."
As if in emphasis, Ivan gave another soft smile as his hand gave one final grope, before maneuvering to the front of the Prussian's body.
(And maybe Fate hated him, as well; because the moment the silverette chose to cup his crotch was the same moment Feliciano and Ludwig chose to see how he was doing. To say the least, the Italian froze, and his brother wasn't sure if to feel angered or sigh.)
"Now. We shall take this somewhere else, da?" the Russian cheerily inquired, a finality in his tone that made it more of a statement.
And, much to his own personal surprise (terror?), Gilbert couldn't bring himself to say "Nein" as he was led out.