Hetaverse. Oneshot. Onesided PruHun. Iron Curtain. The effect of a beautiful Hungarian on a struggling East Germany.
A/N: Written for Rebel-to-Write who requested something about the two of them during this period of time. I'm afraid it's not exactly fluffy or sweet, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!
Note: The "Blue Strangler" (Blauer Würger) was a cheap sort of schnapps sold in East Germany. "The Blue Strangler - Drinking Habits in the GDR" was a book by Thomas Kochan that explores alcoholism, etc. in East Germany. I've never read it, only read about it.
When Gilbert managed to steal even the slightest glimpse of the Hungarian as she briskly made her way down the grey, rubbish-strewn streets, he couldn't help but feel a selfish twinge of pleasure. The weary, steel-edged glare she flashed from defiant eyes, the bruises worn on her face like war medals, the fists clenching in anger and fiery determination: it was as though nothing had changed and she was still the wild tomboy of the past. Despite the suffering he knew they shouldered along with the other satellite states of this damned Union, he couldn't help but think that these precious little glimpses were the silver-lining of a blood red cloud that had all but smothered the life form those it shadowed.
Some days when he saw her, he simply watched her stalk proudly down the pavement, lips chewed raw and tears held stubbornly in her fierce eyes. Other days, he staggered after her, swimming in his sorrows and hanging heavily in the choke-hold of the blue strangler. Still others, he feigned his intoxication because he was too afraid to approach her seriously. It was so much easier to sling an arm around her neck and just spout nonsense in an endless chain of babble and watch the amusement creep across her tired, pinched face, softening the sharp edges like wax in the sun.
The smiles she gave him then were greedily snatched up and stored away for the bad days, the agonizing sessions with their cruel master that brought hoarse cries out into the toxic, Soviet air tinted with the ever-constant stench of human suffering. Muscles twitching, lungs stinging, throat burning with screams and stomach acid, Gilbert would latch onto her laughing image as though it were the barest gossamer thread holding him up out of the gaping maw of utter insanity. He took pleasure in knowing that he had been given rights specifically to see that that smile, that beautiful fucking smile that could kill him for as much as it ached to see.
It bloody murdered him to watch that blissful moment of nose-wrinkling mirth when her scowling lips took leave to turn upright, and that rough giggle slipped past her defenses. Even if this perfect sight belonged to him, it was the only part of the Hungarian he could truly claim as his own.
He knew how she snuck out to see her bastard of an ex-husband, her only window to the world beyond their shared, Iron prison. He knew that the Austrian could give her everything he himself could not. Like a blade taken to the heart and lodged between the ribs, he accepted that she would never look upon him as she did that spectacle-wearing swine. After all, what person in their right mind chose a life of misery with a far-fallen drunk who was bleeding from his ass more often than not when their other choice was a clean, free life with an individual of frivolous pastimes and the air of a cultured gentleman?
"Gilbert," she would always gasp on those days that he gathered the courage to approach her, looking surprised to see him every time. Then, after a moment of hesitation, she would offer her hand and help him stand upright, wincing at the stink of booze that hung about him like a cloak, obscuring what had once been a clever opponent and an honorable companion. "Are you alright?"
"'m fine," he would slur, sober or not, gathering her into a tight, one-armed embrace. "A lot better now 't I'm with you."
Her eyes becoming merry crescents of laughter, she would let out a snort. "You're such a sap."
Then he would burst out in obnoxious cackling, half hoping that she would continue to believe in his light-hearted facade, half dreaming that she would realize just how hollow he sounded and consider for a moment that his words might have been entirely genuine.