Honestly, this idea just came to me on the whim (with the ending playing on in my mind) before I forced myself to attach a back story for the angst to write this piece.[This plot bunny was a persistent one, I tell you!] This isn't even smut, and I don't know why, but I still found myself feeling embarrassed as I wrote this down. It's not the fluff and the cheese though...it's just not my usual thing, I guess? Still, it was fun and I'd love to do this kind of story again some time. Forgive me for the strange title and the choppiness/possible mistakes I made in this fic. I had no beta this time 'round to correct me. Still, I hope you like this! :D
Disclaimer: Much to my chagrin, I do not own Hetalia and its characters. All rights go to Hima-papa.
Note: I don't own the image used either.
The night is young, the moon is bright, and harmonious music fills the air. Nations gather together in a sumptuous, lavish ballroom; as two countries, united in a bond of love and peace, celebrate their newfound alliance. A lone man loiters outside, evading the celebration, as the sound of a piano plays in the distance.
Raising another glass of wine to his chapped lips, the man takes a swig, downing its contents in one big gulp. He sighs. It is far too sweet for the Prussian's liking, as opposed to his usual serving of beer; but the alcohol does well enough to numb his senses just a little bit more.
"Heh," he chuckles to himself, "I think I'd be better with taking a whole bottle tonight." He pushes past the crowd and returns to the ballroom, thirsting for another drink. Putting on his signature –albeit forced – smile, he makes his way through the sea of strangers to greet four familiar faces.
"Oi, Spain! France!" The mask works well, he believes, as they wave back at the albino with a smile. "Hungary and Austria too! Hey, don't leave the awesome me out of your conversation, guys!" Prussia continues on with the cheerful pretence, as his heart sinks slowly with every word.
He sees her arms wrap around the aristocrat's, clinging onto her husband as though for support, and the entirety his facade shatters. Since when was she like this? Feigning delicacy and courtesy as though it were an integral part of her personality; nobody could suspect she was the same rebellious nation of the past.
"Well," Roderich coughs, "I must express my gratitude for your presence on this occasion. On behalf of both Elizabeta and I, we thank you."
His chest tightens at the mention of her name; muddled with the thickness of the Austrian's accent, tainted by the repulsive sound of the aristocrat's voice. It sounded so awkward and wrong, coming from the brat. He hated it.
Averting his eyes, the albino excuses himself to grab another drink. The couple promptly takes this as their cue to exit, greeting the remainder of their guests for the evening. Gilbert watches as their retreating figures mingle with the crowd, his carmine eyes blurring slightly. It's the alcohol, he reasons; but his friends know better.
"You still love her, don't you, mi amigo?" Spain says wistfully; olive eyes following the albino's languid gaze.
"Quit it, Antonio, I – "
"I'm surprised you even managed to come here, mon cher," Francis remarks whilst running a hand through his French blonde tresses. "Doesn't it hurt? Watching the woman of your dreams in the arms of another man," his voice continues to trail off. He rests another hand upon the albino's shoulder, jolting the silver-haired man out of his daze.
Heaving a long sigh, Prussia admits defeat. There was no point in keeping his act up between these two, they'd seen right through him. Either that or he was just too obvious and careless to keep up with his own charade.
"L-Look, it's all cramped and stuffy here with all these annoying aristocrats filling up the place, so the awesome me is gonna go back outside, yeah? It's much cooler and refreshing there. I just came to get my drink anyway, so now that I have it, I'm all good to go. Gilbird's probably tired of waiting for me too," he continues to ramble on as he makes his way to the exit.
"Don't follow me either," he reminds the two men, "you'll just scare the bird."
The Spaniard stretches his hand out to stop him, in hopes of consoling the poor albino. The Frenchman intervenes, however, and shakes his head dolefully. "Ne le font pas. Let's just leave him alone for tonight," Francis says with a shrug of his shoulders. "He needs some space."
Once outside, Gilbird greets the Prussian man, resting atop his shoulders in a comforting stance. Gilbert settles his mask down in the absence of his company, giving in to the frustration pent up from within him.
"Oh Fritz, if you could only see what I pathetic wretch I am now. What a disappointment I would be to you."
Yes, it hurt. It hurt him so much, ever since that day he saw her lay her eyes on the Austrian man. How he would listen to her talk about the brunette for days on end, her emerald eyes glinting with an unforeseen shine, brimming with pure adoration and devotion – something he'd never seen before when she had talked to him about anything else. It was a beautiful expression, but he could never bring himself to like it; as feelings of envy overcame the chastity of his troubled heart.
She had changed since the two had met, and Gilbert could do nothing to stop it. Gone was the girl who fought valiantly by his side, now replaced by a frail and meek-looking lady. The champion fighter, crude and feisty, always ready to charge into battle. What happened to all of that? Where was the strong, energetic, young woman whom he had fallen so very much in love with?
Every single day, he watched the girl grow; changing her ways if only to appease the elder man. He watched as the two fell deeper and deeper in love with each other, within a short span of six – or was it seven? – months. But the fact remained, as the Prussian bitterly reminded himself, that the aristocrat knew nothing about the girl and her past – their past. The battles and wars they faced side by side, their conversations underneath that old oak tree of Budapest, and the centuries' worth of memories they shared together. Gilbert knew her better. Gilbert knew her longer.
Gilbert loved her longer.
So of course, it's only right for him to believe that he deserves her more than that scrawny, weak aristocrat; a nation that couldn't even protect itself in war, desperate enough to beg for the aid of a mere woman for his own country's benefit. Though Prussia was fully aware of Hungary's strength and capability as a warrior, his dignity and pride as a gentleman refuses to back down. He firmly stands by the belief that it is only proper for the men to protect the women. Just like how he had always protected her.
And he wants to shout and scream and curse the world for all its injustice and cruelty. For making him a fool; wanting a girl who was completely oblivious to his feelings. For making him yearn for a love that will never come to light. For giving him the miserable, torturous privilege of walking her down the aisle earlier on that day – sending her off and letting her go.
Oh how he wished he could've just said no.
But he doesn't; instead, he nods and forcefully plasters on a smile as he readily accepted her query of request. For he is loyal and faithful and swears to never back down on his word – much less a promise he made with her – and because, well, he loved her far too much to hurt her.
Gilbert faces the moon, watching as the stars twinkled and overpowered the dark abyss of the night sky; a small, sad smile forming on his face. He breathes in deeply – stopping to hiccup – and takes in the air once more. "H-Hungary," he manages weakly, his voice soft and faint. He shakes his head. No, that wasn't right.
"E...Elizabeta."
He likes the sound of her name, coupled together with the tenor of his voice. He likes the way the syllables roll off his tongue, blending harmoniously with his own, thick accent. It is music, he thinks to himself, before calling out her name once more.
"Elizabeta."
There, much better.
"Yes, Gil? You called?"
A bird chirps in warning as crimson eyes widen in surprise. "Y-Yo, Hungary," he stammers, gulping hard. "Congratulations...on your marriage."
"Why, thank you, Gil!" Her jade green eyes twinkle with delight. "I'm glad you came," she smiles pleasantly.
"Hey...uh, where's your husband?"
"Piano, as usual... can't deny the man of his music," she says flippantly, with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You know Roderich."
"Ah, just like you and your frying pan I see," he jokes teasingly, "completely inseparable."
She laughs at this; soft and graciously at first, in an attempt to upkeep her ladylike behaviour, before failing to suppress a loud snort at the end. The flower in her hair, a cerise tulip, is the same shade of rosy pink as her cheeks. Not that he minded, however, as it was endearing in a way.
An awkward silence follows immediately afterwards, as an empty void of words linger in the air. Feelings surge forth, and Gilbert can no longer control the words that spill out of his mouth. Impulse takes over.
"Kiss me, Hungary."
He takes her hand in one swift motion, reeling the bride closer to his figure. And before she can open her mouth to protest, they collide, with him pressing his lips firmly against hers.
"Kiss me, Hungary. Mark me with your lips. Taint me with your poison. Kiss me and claim me as yours once more."
They part momentarily, lungs beseeching air. Reason tugs at the back of her mind, whilst the remnants of logic evade his.
"Again."
"But, Gil, I –"
"Again," he demands hungrily, his husky voice growing shrill from emotion.
Holding her by the waist, he dips the Hungarian girl's petite frame; pulling her into a heated embrace as he locks her lips another time. She, in turn, wraps her arms around the Prussian; entwining her fingers in the tangled, messy strands of his glossed, silver hair. Neither of them says anything else; only falling deeper into the sin and pleasure of each other's warmth.
Gilbert is the first to pull away.
'I'm sorry.'
'I love you, you know.'
'Ich liebe dich.'
'I have always loved you.'
'Du bist die Liebe mienes Lebens.'
'I still love you.'
Though the words flood his mind, they never leave his mouth.
Prussia takes his leave, throwing a coat over his shoulders as her turns his back to her; abandoning the young bride underneath the pale moonlight. He congratulates her once more, sending her prayers and wishes of happiness in his mind, as he swears off his feelings for the final time. He grabs another goblet of wine as he exits, guzzling its contents in a desperate attempt.
But the memory of that night refuses to cease. And the taste of her lips, so sickeningly sweet, still lingers on his.
And so he whispers to the stars, as his voice fails to reach her, with the only words his pained heart can manage – a farewell.
"Goodbye, Liz."
Translations:
Mi amigo [Spanish] = My Friend
Mon cher [French] = My Dear
Ne le font pas [French] = Do not.
Ich liebe dich [German] = I love you.
Du bist die Liebe mienes Lebens [German] = You are the love of my life.
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