Yet another oneshot I wrote while in Language Arts. I'm surprised I haven't been called out for not being on task yet.
This little drabble is dedicated to my friend, Briana. Who is the Roderich to my Gilbert on Gaia. Love you~!
Still own nothing. Sadly
I don't understand it, I really don't. I'm a gentleman, an aristocrat, a connoisseur of the finer things this world has to offer. For all the 1033 years of my life, I've prided myself as being a brilliant tactician. (Though, no where near 'strong'. Vash and Elizaveta confirmed that in my youth.) And yet…yet there is but one thing that creates a hitch in my ideal life. That 'thing', is a person, actually. A personified nation like myself, Gilbert Beilschmidt, the personification of the (former) country of Prussia, If you are one who doesn't know Gilbert. One of the very, very few people, (since that man practically goes out of his way to make sure people know his name at least.) I suppose that you should consider yourself fortunate. Gilbert is loud, crude, obnoxious, a drunkard, and he possesses an ego larger then Russia. That's just him in a nutshell, of course. But, if you knew Gilbert the way that Elizaveta or myself do, you could probably come up with a word for him using every letter of the alphabet. (Yes. Even 'Z') Whether or not those words were meant to compliment or insult, depended on how you chose to interpret them.
Gilbert is one of the queerest people I have ever met. He can't seem to comprehend that the world doesn't, in fact, revolve around him. He has no concept of 'personal space', and all he does is leech off Ludwig, drink with Francis and Antonio, and play with his birds. Oh, he has other hobbies, don't get me wrong. His other hobbies include: 'Invading vital regions', breaking into my house, eating me out of house and home, demanding I provide him with beer, (which comes from my pocket) teasing me, playing with Mariazell. (Despite my protests, if he where to find out it's my…-blush- he'd never leave it be!) And flirting with, or tormenting Elizaveta. I could go on; I could write an entire essay about all of Gilbert's strange mannerisms. Returning to my problem with him…despite the fact he is all the aforementioned things, I can't help but think that…I…
It's preposterous, I know. We are much too different, like oil and water. Even in the present times, his beloved country long gone, buried under the ever-shifting sands of time, he continues to claim Prussia will rise once more. That was his excuse for 'conquering' one of the guestrooms in my home. I can hardly stand to look at the mess he's made of that once-pristine room, and every time I pass by it, (of course, he 'conquered' one of the rooms that one had to pass to reach my music room) it torments me. That room…stands as a physical representation of the abnormality Gilbert has forced into my life. So long as he continues to walk the earth, continues to barge into my home, my life, I cannot get rid of it. I cannot get rid of him. I can throw him out as many times as I feel is needed. But that won't make this clenching I feel in my heart disappear; it won't stop him from returning the next day.
Gilbert doesn't know of the feelings he's stirring in me, does he? No, of course not. He is far too busy being Gilbert, to notice something like affections I may feel for him. It is nearly psychically painful to harbor such emotions for someone like him; someone as uncivil, brutal, snarky, sarcastic, and almost cruel as him. I say 'cruel' because he continues to draw me in, he continues to tease and taunt me. Blissfully unaware of both the pleasure and pain his words and presence brings me. I can't pin the blame entirely on Gilbert's mannerisms, however. I choose to hold his heart accountable, as well.
Although he certainly doesn't act it: Gilbert holds a deep love for Elizaveta, sweet, sweet Elizaveta. Knowing that, knowing that even after so long, after being beaten, verbally called out, and chased halfway across Austria by her, he still loves her…that's what twists my insides painfully around a knife. That's what causes my heart to feel as though it is being held in a vice. There probably isn't a symphony in the world, that can properly capture this deep feeling of despair I keep hidden.
Despite the pain…I cannot stop having these feelings for him. But I often wonder: Why him? Why, of every nation on Earth…
…did I fall deeply, and irreversibly, in love with Gilbert Beilschmidt?