Skip the bold if you want to get to the good part.
I started off this story on a particularly tiring and depressing day, not listening to anything but silence. However, since that day, lots of things have been good. I made a friend from Thailand (still teaching her English) and formed a clique with a Hetalia fan and a History fan along with my Thai friend. I had trouble completing this story, but then I listened to a song that seemed to perfectly describe what I thought Roderich thought of Gilbert. It's called Bird Song, by Florence and the Machines. It was so damn perfect, and it gave me inspiration to continue this story. All I've been listening to are the songs Bird Song, My Boy Builds Coffins, Heavy In Your Arms, Dog Days Are Over, You've Got The Love, Howl, I'm Not Calling You A Liar... You know what, I've been listening to all of her songs from the deluxe album Lungs. They're inspiring songs, and I suggest them to anyone who wants to listen to something to get them into any mood for writing. Each song has it's own emotion.
Gilbert had one kink that drove him wild.
Erotic tattoos.
God damn, Gilbert would fantasize about that perfect pale body flush against his own, a small music chord written out on the other's hip or a black eagle's wings between their shoulder blades, and he would run his fingers across the velvety skin and trace the outline of each detail, every curvy, dark line on the flesh, because God it was just amazing to hear those soft whimpers when the other knows what he's doing.
Sadly, however, that person is only ever there in his improbable fantasies.
That person, in actuality, did not crave the warmth of another body in their bed. Nor did they crave human contact in any form. The only thing that person craved was music, nature, sweets, and knowledge, because those few things did not have the power of judgment and pain. Instead, they were conductors, symbols for reality, and that person did not want to experience the real. But they also did not want to be shut off in a fantasy, so that person forever locked their heart and soul in a routine that avoided humans other than himself, no matter how painful and lonely is caused him to feel. Because fear was what he feared, and that was the only thing he feared. And he feared that if he goes out into the world and experience what "reality" really is, then he will find a crippling fear that will keep him from remembering the good things.
Gilbert could read that man like a book. Really, it's so obvious what he's afraid of.
And Gilbert knows how insecure that beautiful man can be, because he doesn't want to ever experience the horrid qualities that "judgement" has to hold. How he will not even go outside his room unless he looked presentable, every detail perfected by his skilled, slender fingers. However, though he wanted to look nice (or as Gilbert put it, sexier than any angel omg), he also was very modest. The only pale skin that man ever shows is his face, and sometimes his arms when he is baking, but Gilbert is never lucky enough to catch him doing that. No, not even his hands. They are always hidden behind silky white gloves, a mystery to all but a very few, and that very few did not include Gilbert.
God, that man. That oblivious, beautiful, mysterious man. Some things drove Gilbert absolutely wild, although he does not like to admit it. Everything about that man drove him insane, actually. How the words flowed from his mouth like lyrics, and how you never knew if his reactions were real or not, how he'd always seem to know your darkest secrets, yet still couldn't get a clue, and especially how his fingers danced, either accompanied by a feather quill or by itself, bright ivory and raven tiles it's dance floor. His fingers were well-dressed men and woman stepping to the waltz over checkerboard tiles in a black palace made of wires and hammers, and each dancer sung in their own unique way. Gilbert loved it. Those slender fingers pressing gently on glittering keys, arousing a rich harmony of strings, and the man's head swaying slightly to the rhythm of his mind. Lips pursed deliciously, expressions changing with each note he provoked from the sleek, black instrument before him. Those violet eyes half-lidded, barely scanning the keyboard, more daydreaming off into a non-existing distance. Beautiful, is all that Gilbert can possibly think of as he watches that man, that aristocrat. However, as the music dies down, and the man is evoked from his dream, and Gilbert is no longer gifted with the angelic scene, the atmosphere changes from beautiful to dreadful, as the aristocrat will slowly turn around and glare icily at the Prussian albino in complete distaste. And then, Gilbert's mood is shattered, as those perfect, red lips spat out the words, "Gilbert Beilschmidt, what on earth do you think you are doing here?"
It's then that Gilbert is reminded that the man he's fallen for is Roderich Edelstein. And that's why it's impossible for that person to ever make his fantasies come true. Because, as Gilbert remembers, that man is the cold, distant man who fears reality.
Gilbert knew from the beginning that his love will never be returned. Gilbert contemplated about this as he sat comfortably on his brother's couch, ankle placed over his knee in some crude form of crossing his legs, as he flipped through the German TV channels in boredom. Weather reports, soap operas, Deutsch Disney, football games, (European football, mind you Superbowl obsessed Americans) and the boring stuff that Gilbert had no interest in, so he simply continued to think of his fascination until a channel will eventually catch his interest. Yes, Gilbert knew in the very moment of his realization of love that the possibilities of Roderich returning his feelings were next to zero. And by next to, he meant lower than zero, because Roderich hated his guts. It was to the point where Roderich ignored his very existence when he was anywhere nearby. Which hurt, because Roderich would even yell at Francis, the pansexual maniac, if he bothers him, but when Gilbert bothers Roderich? Oh no, nothing but a sneer, the roll of his eyes, then the "pretend-this-crude-foul-man-doesn't-exist" act. Yes, Roderich hated him more than the perverted Frenchman who fucks anything with a pulse. (Okay, that's probably a bit exaggerated, but Gilbert's trying to make a point here.)
Of course, he also had to realize his love for the man the exact time he was at war with him. And by exact, he means as he was standing in the middle of a field of corpses. Honestly, how stupid and cliché can his life get?
With a groan, Gilbert gave up on the TV and threw the remote onto the table, tipping his head back over the couch. He caught sight of his brother making something through that window that connected to kitchen and the living room together. Smelling the faint scent of marinara sauce, Gilbert decided it was best to leave his brother to work on his romantic Italian dinner and go see the very man he's been fantasizing about for the past couple of hours. He rocked out of the couch and picked up the coat draped over the armrest.
"Luddy, I'm going out. I'll be spending the night with a buddy, so I don't mind if you and Feli decide to sex each other up. See ya!"
"Wait just a damn minute." Gilbert's brother emerged from the swinging kitchen door wearing a red checkered apron, wiping his hands on an old rag. "First of all, don't talk about Feliciano that way. Second, don't ever call me Luddy. It's either Ludwig or West. Thirdly, you're not going out to bother Austria again, are you? I've gotten enough complaints over the phone over your awful behavior."
Gilbert snorted. Of course that aristocrat would refuse to directly complain to the source of his misery. "Don't worry about it, West, I'm not going to bother the damn aristocrat. I'm just going over to ask something then leave to go to Toni's place. It'll be fine, it's not like he'll get mad at me for asking to borrow a cravat."
Ludwig raised an eyebrow. "Why do you need one of Austria's cravats?"
"West, Toni's Italian lover is nothing like yours."
"Ah."
Finally, Gilbert was allowed permission to go out and see the prince of all prissiness, Austria, also known as Roderich Edelstein, the man that stole Gilbert's heart, nearly in more ways than one. (The Austrian may not look it, but he can be a pretty damn good fighter when he wanted to be. Almost stabbed Gilbert right through the chest during an accidental battle that was honestly pointless, but still brutal.) Of course, Gilbert took the train to Vienna, even if he hated going to places by train. There was always some French or Spanish foreigner trying to feel you up. Honestly, it wasn't that Gilbert disliked his friends, but their people can be a real pain in the ass.
Just as Gilbert thought about that, he felt perverted, French fingers run over his lower back.
Fuck trains.
After brutally beating the shit out of some middle-aged Frenchie on the train, Gilbert exited the station and made his way towards the Victorian mansion he usually found his prince of prissiness, Roderich Edelstein. The place was second in line to the most perfect thing in the world. The gate was always glittering with radiance, even on rainy or snowy days, and the flowers never seemed to die, even when their time of season passes. Yes, the Edelstein manor was nearly the most perfect thing on this planet. However, it is not. And both Gilbert and every other nation of the world knows that the most perfect thing on this earth is Roderich.
Well, at least this is what Gilbert thinks to himself as he walks up the cobblestone steps. Because to him, the Austrian is perfect, from the way he walks, speaks, dresses, eats, and sleeps. And especially the way he plays that piano. Yes, Gilbert can't even describe how perfectly he plays it, lips parted in his own trance, eyes half-closed, body swaying ever so slightly to whatever he's playing, and the utmost peaceful atmosphere to finish off the picturesque scene. That was certainly something every nation admired, even without any convincing from Gilbert. The air tasted sweet in those times, and all you want to do is sit down and watch that angelic face morph from some adorable scowl to a beautiful look of peace. It took one glimpse, and you would feel the peace washing over yourself as well.
Gilbert's mind fully occupied with addicting thoughts, he hastily tapped his knuckles on the redwood door, tapping his foot almost impatiently as he waited to see that adorable scowl he knew was coming. He was always greeted with the same scowl.
It took longer than usual for the Austrian to open the door, and when he did, he merely creeped his eye through the tiny crack of space that he opened, and Gilbert could see the glare behind the messy, uncombed hair. It was then that Gilbert remembered that it was Saturday, and that the little prince slept in extremely late on weekends to make up for the lost sleep he had playing concerts.
"What do you want, Gilbert? I am not in the mood."
Gilbert snorted. "Please. You're never in the mood."
Roderich's glare intensified, and he opened the door a little more to lay both his eyes over Gilbert's stupid grin. Gilbert noted silently how adorable it was to see the little prince wearing penguin pajamas. "Gilbert, I am not sure if you know the meaning of this word, but I am exhausted. I've played so many concerts this week that I haven't even found some time to sleep. I've gone five days without any sleep. I'm not in the mood for any of your antics, and if you have some question for me, you better ask it within the next 30 seconds or so help me, I'll slam this door in your face hard enough to break your nose."
Gilbert raised an eyebrow, an amused smile playing on his lips. Gilbert wasn't sure if it was a good idea to say it, but Roderich did not look nearly as menacing as he would in his usual attire, what with the penguin pajamas and whatnot. However, Gilbert decided to get straight to the point. "I need a place to stay for tonight. Ludwig is having Feliciano over and..."
"And you don't want to disturb them?"
Ah, there it is. That evil, knowing look that Gilbert couldn't tell if he hated or loved. He has to admit, it's sexy, but the frustrating kind of sexy. The kind your lover flashes at you once they win an argument. Of course, Roderich is not Gilbert's lover, and probably never will be.
With that sad thought in mind, Gilbert grumpily crossed his arms and scowled. "Wipe that fucking smirk off your face, I'm genuinely trying to ask for help here. If you're gonna act like a little shit about it, then I might as well-"
"Come in, Prussia."
Roderich opened the door, and instead of politely motioning the other in, he simply grabbed his collar and dragged him through the door.
I actually decided to make this a chapter story. It was hard to write this, half of it was written with my phone. My laptop wouldn't work. I found out why though. The internet won't reach my bedroom! Stupid, huh? Anyways, if you see any spelling mistakes and the such, please tell me! As I have said, I wrote half of this with my phone. Enjoy~ Oh, and Happy Valentines Day. Stupid Romans, he only wed a couple of people!