He'd just killed someone; it was a little scuffle turned to an alley bashing in which he beat the living shit out of the poor guy who really was pleading for his life in the middle of it. He ended up whacking him over the head with a trash can to shut him up. He knew that he did something horribly, horribly wrong when the guy wasn't moving and his head had a gash torn deep into it. And he just stood there, his booze-drowned brain comprehending the situation. Before it can finish, he makes a mad dash for the closest place to home.
Gilbert tells himself that he can hide this; that guy wasn't going to be missed. After all, why would he be in a bar at three in the morning starting fights? (He didn't acknowledge that he was in the same boat.) His leg hits something solid and he hears glass shattering – an expensive item has broken – and he panics. The man drops to his knees, trying to collect the pieces and not realizing that he was much too drunk to feel the sharp edges slicing into his palms.
And then a light is on, and Gilbert realizes that he's in trouble, shit, it's probably that prissy ass Roderich coming to bark and scold him and he's going to find out that he killed someone without intention, oh god –
"Gilbert?"
Shit, it's fucking Elizaveta. She's going to beat him worse than Roderich. He snorts at her, not turning around and instead acting like he's talking to the wall.
"Good evening, 'Liz. Just cleanin' up a mess," He tries not to slur his voice - maybe she'll leave and go back to bed – but he instead hears her footsteps approaching him. Shit, shit, shit. "No, no, I got it, 'Liz. I-It's a lot of glass, anyway-"
The fabric of her nightgown rustles in an uncomforting way beside him, and he recoils from a possible blow. But he never feels the sting of her hand or and other object.
Gilbert opens one eye, then another, to find that the female nation in kneeling next to him, her knees in the glass, and his bloodied fingers in her baby skin soft ones. His face twists disgustedly when he catches his hands; the skin was pierced so badly that his rough flesh looked weak and disgraceful.
"Ah, damn. That shit is sharp, hey 'Liz, can you bandage this up for me?" He says with a small smirk at her.
Elizaveta's eyes aren't their normal grass green. They're pale. Small trails of liquid roll down her cheeks and she looks so unfamiliar to him; like she was someone else, and it scares him so much. Her bottom lip is shaking and her eyes squeeze tightly shut so he can't find her anymore and her fingers clutch his like he's leaving. She holds the bleeding flesh to her forehead as her neck droops, and her voice cracks as if her heart is in her throat.
"Gilbert, you killed someone who wanted to live,"