Oh, did Maya just write a story about an unhappy couple and a hollow relationship? How timely. :|Here's a little something I wrote a few weeks ago, sorry for such a late update but my personal life has been quite a wreck and I remember that my friend Whaddapack wanted to beta this before so I promised him that I'd let him but then he's really busy now so I just went on ahead with posting this in its un-beta'd form. Hope you like it I guess...

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, but I do own this plot.

It's a dance that they do, him and her, an endless waltz of secrets and lies and promises that they both know will always be broken in the end.

-x-

It had always been a marriage of convenience.

There was a wedding, Elizabeta remembers, a humble ceremony in which they exchanged vows and rings and locked lips. Roderich whispered sweet nothings in her ear as they danced across the floor; leading her to a waltz as she stumbled in her step, his voice a gentle lilt that guided her throughout the way. They greeted the guests and thanked them for their presence, flashing smiles and locking arms until the clock struck twelve and he dropped his gaze, letting go of her hand as prying eyes filed out of the room.

Eight years have passed since then.

The bed is still as cold as the first time they'd slept together.

-x-

Elizabeta wakes up at a quarter to four in the afternoon, to an empty bed and frigid sheets. Her shift at the bar starts in less than half an hour, and it's probably best for her to grab a quick bite to eat before she heads off to work. She skimps on the shower, though, donning her uniform and running a comb through her hair. She can't afford to be late.

She descends the stairway and overhears the sound of the piano, but doesn't bother to shoot a glance at the baby grand that stood proudly at the corner of the room. She heads straight to the kitchen, helping herself to a slice of toast from the leftovers laid out from this morning's breakfast. The bread is stale, but it would have to do.

"Are you leaving for work, Elizabeta?" a voice comes up from behind her, and the Hungarian girl can't help but flinch from surprise.

"It's almost time for my shift," she explains nonchalantly, strapping a bag over her shoulders as she heads for the door.

"Don't forget your coat," he tells her, more out of habit than concern. "It gets chilly during the night." His voice is monotonous, standoffish, and almost near robotic.

Elizabeta stares at him with a nuance of confusion, wondering what it would've been like if she hadn't married Roderich, a man who simply tolerated her, leading her on with half-hearted emotions not at all resembling love.

Would things have been different then?

But life isn't a fairytale, Elizabeta reminds herself. Her prince will never be perfect, he will never love her the way she loves him, like how they do in books and in the movies. He will never be her dashing knight in shining armour, nor a valiant prince to ward off her fears. Maybe perhaps, she had never even needed him to be her prince at all.

The latter prospect doesn't even bother her in the slightest.

For Elizabeta has learned much throughout her life, enduring many years of living alone and working for money just to make ends meet; enough hardships to teach her that not all women are damsels in distress that are in need of saving.

-x-

Gilbert steps into the bar, crimson eyes eager and bright as he glides through the room, his look complete with a proud gait and even more confident stride.

But in the sea of flashing lights and unfamiliar faces, his gaze wanders to the young girl in red; the sight of her smile far more brilliant than the colours of the spotlight, the grace with which she carries herself more captivating than even the dancers performing on the stage.

She finishes clearing out the dishes from the table near the bar, dumping the tray on the counter surface before plopping down on the vinyl stool nearby. She sits there looking pretty, ever the perfect porcelain doll: nice to look at, but never to touch.Pity, Gilbert thinks, what a waste for such a pretty face.

He walks up to her, sucking up his diminishing resolve and steeling himself to make conversation.

"Hey there, pretty lady," he announces with a wink. "What's your name?"

Elizabeta scowls. "I'm married."

"And I'm Gilbert," he replies with a cheeky grin. "Nice to meet ya."

-x-

Elizabeta returns home at ten in the evening.

There's a post-it on the refrigerator, letters scrawled in cursive and held together by smiley-faced magnets and novelty souvenirs.

I will be spending the night in the studio to help with the preparations for the autumn concert. Will be back in the morning. The bills are on the coffee table. –R

-x-

"Elizabeta," she tells Gilbert when he returns to the bar three days later. The pale-faced customer blinks only in surprise, a sable coat bunched up in his hands as he is midway through taking a seat.

"What?"

"My name," she explains, leaning over the counter and reaching out to offer him a handshake. "You asked for it before, right? I'm Elizabeta Edelstein, or if you want the complete version, Héderváry-Edelstein. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He smiles, taking her hand. "Gilbert."

"Yes, I know. You told me already." She turns away to take the order of the blonde Englishman beside him. Another shot of whisky on the rocks? Elizabeta nods, noting the customer's puffy eyes. Surely this man is no longer sober.

"But you can call me Gil! Mind if I called ya Liz? Lizzy?"

"That sounds a bit childish, don't you think?" She pours the man a shot, sliding it across the counter.

"And so? It's not like you're old either."

"Fine," she grumbles, acquiescing. "'Liz' will be fine. Can I get your order now, Gil?"

"Can I get your three sizes now, Liz?" Gilbert asks out loud, smirking and lewd.

Her gaze falls back onto the grey-haired customer. Fucking albino.

"Say that again and I will hit you with my frying pan," Elizabeta hisses, snatching his collar and pulling him close for a moment as their faces almost collide. She slackens her grip, letting him go, and her voice is now mockingly saccharine. "So…what would you like to order, sir?"

"A beer, then." Gilbert laughs. "Give me your best one."

"That's better," she smiles. "By the way, I'm adding 10% service charge."

-x-

Elizabeta clears her throat, loud against the sound of the piano that croons Strauss' Kaiserwalzer.

"Will you be returning home tonight, Roderich?"

"I'm afraid that there have been some…ah, complications at work which I will have to attend to. You needn't wait for me this evening."

It isn't a surprise, though. Roderich hardly comes home nowadays.

Now, it's one thing to know that people cheat in relationships, considering it as a likelihood, or a mere possibility; but it's another thing altogether when you're faced with it as a reality rather than an acknowledged fact. When the evidence is laid out in front of you and the truth is held right before your very eyes, it won't be long before the time comes that your waning patience will finally snap, shatter, and break.

She knows there's someone else.

"Complications with the autumn concert?" she asks, faking interest. Or do you mean complications with your mistress? Her mind screams and she swallows the lump in her throat to hold them back.

"Yes, Lillian is having difficulty with the fingering for her flute solo in Bach's Partita," her husband articulates. "Which is why I must teach it to her, lest we find an alternative piece to replace it in our repertoire."

Oh, Lillian? Is that her name, now? I remember last time the problem had been Victoria, and her embouchure on the clarinet. Minx.

"All right," she says as she flashes him a small smile. "Well, I should probably head to the bar—"

The melody ceases. The Austrian stops playing, and he looks up instead to face his wife from behind the rims of his spectacles.

"You don't have work today," he says, and he eyes her with a brief air of suspicion.

"My friend asked me to take her shift tonight," she throws back a flippant response.

"I see…Take care, Elizabeta. I love you."

"You too, dear." She gets on her toes, promptly pressing a kiss against his lips. "I love you too," she says, but her words are scripted, hollowed of their meaning from the monotony of their routine; the kiss empty and unsettling in the pit of her stomach.

Roderich is a practiced liar; but Elizabeta, as it would seem, is a far better actress.

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