Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekazu Himaruya –stares for a moment- ...No surprises there.

...

"All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players..."

- Shakespeare

...

Elizaveta Héderváry stared in amazement at the building—it was as any military base, truly...but there was something haunting about it. It was broad daylight, and the stream of activity was anything but unpleasant. There was, however, discomfort in the air, and she felt it; she was at a Nazi headquarters. Where, of all people—Gilbert Beilschmidt was. Of all people. And of all tasks that she had to carry out—it was to—

She cringed at the thought; she dared not even think it. To think, of all obligations, of all the worldly tasks...

She choked on her own spit, revolted by the thought.

Then sighed. She loathed him. So much. But then...perhaps...just perhaps—no, she decided, she definitely could—laugh at him when he saw his plans blow up into smithereens. When she could slap him and tell him that it was all a lie...yes...

The thought offered some comfort; perhaps, just perhaps, it was worth doing something she still could not do with Austria.

Fingering her now-lemon hair, bleached, she set forth.

...

The inside was big, and no one stopped her from entering. She strode purposefully, arms swinging slightly at either side of her; she tried not to march, for this was not a military drill, not a place to reveal herself. She had no rifle, she had no uniform, and undoubtedly no ranks. A spy has no rank. Here all she was was a German girl, loyal the der Führer and the Third Reich. She was here to play the confidence game, to seduce the enemy into her hands where she could toy with them all she wanted. She was here to play and for them to blindly follow; to be a Siren and melt with them. Here she was but a woman.

The building was huge and clean, of course; grand and almost beautiful. Almost. It was disgustingly extravagant in its own way of business. And real.

Elizaveta immediately went to the desk where a woman sat, also blonde.

You are one of them now, whispered a voice in her mind, and it was hers.

She let the German come over her, fluent and liquid as the natural stream. "I need to see Hauptscharführer Beilschmidt." It went well, to say the name without spitting it. It was a crisis averted.

The woman hardly glanced her way over the sheaves of paperwork. The pen worked, scratching the surfaces. "State your business."

With no hesitation; "Information."

A fuller glance this time, sharp in direction. "Your name?"

"Elisabeth Wertheim."

With a nod, the woman nodded and said, "Second floor. First one near the stairs. You can't miss it."

"Danke." The woman nodded again before Elizaveta walked away, relieved that her German was passable. She kept her breath at a regular pace as she reached the stairs (ignoring the elevator), striving for inner tranquility. She never wished to see his face again, unless it was shocked or pained by her own hand; it was no secret that she hated him. But, her boss had reasoned, she would know how to hit him best. His weak spots; they had been close as children, after all. Elizaveta could not complete her inner lamentations; that she had to see Roderich's face when she left.

The second floor. She stepped onto the marble with ease that surprised her nearly-distressed self; and then realized that the secretary had been quite honest in saying that Gilbert's office was more than noticeable; the door was huge and glossy black, cracked, compared to the lines of neat red ones. She had no clue as to why it would be so—perhaps the Prussian had broken it down in some fit of rage or insanity, and it had been mended like this.

She walked towards it; it almost hung there, almost a sword over her head.

Elizaveta reached out one hand and knocked. Her instant thought was that the very thickness of the massive door had strangled the sound; and immediately the totally familiar rough voice sounded from within. "Who is it?" It was a dragged out sound, lethargic and still alert.

"Informant," Elizaveta said with little hesitation, then added, "Elisabeth Wertheim." She stared anxiously at the door; could he see through it?

There was a pause.

"Come in, then." Elizaveta tried not to sigh in relief, and almost smiled at the voice; he was a stranger to her in this war, during this mission, of course...but a familiar, albeit hateful, voice had its merits to her anxiety. She lowered her head a fraction, so he would not notice the green of her eyes, before turning the knob of the heavy door and practically having to shove it in.

Gilbert Beilschmidt. She walked in to see him for the first time in forever; he had inexplicably changed. Of course it was no mystery that something of the Third Reich had done something to him; but there was something so cold and calculating, something new and serious that had never been there before. It was cryptic; how he could be the cold officer he was showing himself to be. Nothing before had been able to bring him to be this silent soldier.

There were quiet shadows beneath his eyes as well; hardly noticeable, but one who knew him as well as Elizaveta herself could see it after careful looking. They were slightly gray, even on his pale complexion. His eyes were wine red, of course; always that strange red color. The silvery hair atop his head was its usual tidy mess, and that had not changed, at least. Elizaveta thought, quite unconsciously, that he looked absolutely smart and even rather attractive in his black uniform. His garrison cap was lying to the side on the desk. It was black khaki like the rest of his attire.

"Heil Hitler." He looked disgusted as he presented his arm in salute.

"Heil Hitler."

"Don't forget to close the door behind you," Gilbert said. Of course he would remind her when it was so clear that she would.

It wasn't hard to shove it behind and let it sink into the frame itself. Elizaveta then walked forward, carefully keeping her eyes averted. "I have information," she said once before his desk, "about a resistance group."

"And?" She refused to look at him when he said it; something of him, Gilbert Beilschmidt, had flickered to the surface—impatience. Perhaps he wasn't so changed.

"They have sent a spy," she said, focusing her gaze on the top of his head. Silver. "The White Rose."

"And?" he prompted.

"Nothing else. He or she supposedly has dyed their hair blonde."

"So they're trying a new approach...," the Prussian muttered. He looked up at her, a failed attempt to catch her eye. "And how do you know? They're non-violent."

He knows. Elizaveta's heart missed a beat. Of course he would. Though he hardly knew her voice when it was level, perhaps... But then it was an obvious question, was it not? Not that her boss had instructed her on what to say after. "I"—she rushed past a pause, thinking quickly—"heard someone saying so last night. At a bar."

"Oh? Then what a coincidence that you heard them. Talking at a bar of all places discreet." Her heart missed another beat. Was that sarcasm?

"Yes," she said, still checking her shock. "Quite a coincidence."

"And you come because...?"

"Isn't it obvious?" she said, feigning offense and some shame before an officer. "I am loyal to der Führer! All of his petty opponents must be put down on every meek attempt they make against him!"

Gilbert narrowed his eyes.

"What happened to you?" Elizaveta wanted to ask. Why so serious, for the love of Isten! I thought you hated der Führer too!

"I see." He gave her a curt nod. "And so I believe I shall see you at the party tonight?"

She knew; her boss had told her. "Ja. Der Führer's birthday should not be missed." She did not miss the invitation.

"Of course."

Why so reserved?

He stood up, and Elizaveta tensed. What...?

He presented arms, extending his arm. "Heil Hitler!"

Elizaveta scolded herself for paranoia as she let her face slip into that of the passionately loyal. Presenting arms as well, she said fiercely, "Heil Hitler!"

That was a clear dismissal.

...

Elizaveta did reappear that night, in scarlet watered silk. She went in as Elisabeth Wertheim again, smothering the scowl she wanted to disclose. How she hated the thought of going to a party for der Führer; she had watched her Jews being taken away, she had seen the hollowness and gaunt of their eyes. It hurt her pride; she was in the cloak of Nazi collaborator, Elisabeth Wertheim, seducing Hauptscharführerb Gilbert Beilschmidt; adultery known against her husband Roderich Edelstein.

With a beguiling smile, she made her way past the stern-eyed Nazis easily. Again she entered the building, where she kept her eyes peeled for Gilbert; he had invited her, after all, however discreetly. Her obstinacy nagged for dominance beneath that search; Gilbert could not have changed so much as to be actually polite—

How ironic that that was the moment he found her in reverse.

In uniform he greeted her, and she wanted to choke; shouldn't this be a good thing? she then thought, almost irritated. Of course, she had been beating him for centuries, and he'd been annoying even as the young knight without a real country—a change, a nice sudden flip to manners like Roderich was in need, and here he was as a solid soldier. And quiet as well...how could she be disturbed?—perhaps something about his brother's ascent into the Third Reich and Nazism...descent, she corrected herself; she held no love for the Third Reich. Her love for der Führer was even more scant. Her love for Gilbert...her like for him was hardly enough to fill the tip of those five meters he boasted of—they're fake, she mocked.

Roderich wouldn't have appreciated her lewdness.

"Heil Hitler."

"Heil Hitler." She hadn't noticed the other soldiers greeting their peers as such. She had only seen those with too much dedication present arms. At least...Gilbert of all people, when it wasn't Friedrich II.

And then they walked in well-toned cadence, but an inch or two apart. He didn't offer his arm, and it was almost a relief. Somewhere in the grand room they were in, a piano was releasing notes with every tap; not as good as Roderich, of course.

"You're late."

"I was telling off a saukerl of a child for laughing at der Führer's mustache."

A snort.

"Have you put it to good use?" Elizaveta said. Of course he knew what she meant.

A sharp glance. "Investigation is under way."

"Ah."

Silence. Unnerving silence. Elizaveta tried not to stare as she attempted at conversation. "Do you have any family?" A fake smile.

"Yes."

I know. "Mine all passed away." She forced a faraway look onto her face, which was not too difficult; she missed Magyar, and guilt still nagged at her for leaving Roderich.

"I have a brother," was the grunt. No compassion; it was almost a relief that this about him had not changed, at least.

"How old?"

"Twenty."

"Is he also working for der Führer?" she said.

"We are all working for der Führer," Gilbert said, and Elizaveta cringed inside. Once again, and certainly not for the first time, she thought, What happened to you?

"Of course. We are all loyal to der Führer," she said, keeping her haste at bay. "I mean directly, like you are."

"In that case, yes. He is."

With that there was no more talk, and Elizaveta almost muttered under her breath in something close to exasperation.

The rest of the party was spent fairly—certainly not in the best way, but no one looked at her suspiciously; she melded into the crowd, and that was fine with her. No one thought twice about her eyes, and she only spoke in greeting. Nothing particularly brilliant happened, except for that one part when she accidentally-on-purpose touched the Prussian's thigh—(it would been more promising had it been vice versa)—when reaching for a glass of champagne on a table, and then...

"Vee!" screeched a rather terrified Veneziano, who appeared from absolutely nowhere—Elizaveta choked in shock, wanting to scream but catching herself. The Italian was half naked, and burst through the crowd at an alarming speed, screaming, "HELP! HELP!"

"Get back here!" Ludwig burst through as well, not aware of his brother's presence. Nor was he aware of the gasps of shock that were sweeping through the throngs of watching partygoers, nor the mirth that broke out in blooming clusters. The high-ranking officer Ludwig, chasing after an Italian! It was too much!

It happened quickly, and it was soon over—but then the aftershocks let the resonance appear, and soon Elizaveta was cramming her fist past her lips to stifle the giggles; to her surprise, Gilbert was laughing too! And it was uproarious, and so much like the strange way he laughed. Elizaveta was caught by it, and put completely off-guard; then smiled. She could stand it for a few moments; she hadn't even begun to notice that she was really missing him!

The moment left too soon, and Elizaveta was soon noticing that Gilbert had faded back to the quietly doughty soldier he gave an impression of, though something about him was changed...he grinned more easily and even managed that incredibly irksome smirk that had been one with his face since forever. The corners of her mouth moved.

And then, to her complete and utter surprise, he turned to her, looking like a well-hung man who was trying to romance a woman for the first time. "Dance with me?"

Elizaveta blinked, uncomprehending. "Pardon?"

"You did hear me, right?" he said back. He cocked his head, so very slightly, at the surrounding people who had begun some slow dance with whatever the pianist was playing.

Elizaveta blinked again. Then the heat rushed to her face. What? Dance? With her long-time nemesis?—whom she was supposed to seduce anyway? ...Unthinkable! ...But the odds were against her, and she quickly decided it to be her obligation. She cringed inwardly at the prospect; she doubted that he had the grace Roderich had. Roderich's skill was unmatched, of course; and Gilbert? No elegance, all barbaric. Absolutely barbaric, and nothing else. Unthinkable.

Then—

"Nice eyes," he said suddenly; in a flash Elizaveta looked down, the jolt of electricity speeding down her spine; she had let her guard down, and he had seen the green of her eyes. "You part Hungarian or something?"

He knew.

But she had been paranoid that morning, had she not?

"I once knew a Hungarian," Gilbert continued with a shrug. His pomegranate-seed eyes glowed. "Got married."

"I see," Elizaveta managed, shoving her alarm back; he was talking about her? ...He was talking about her! How many married Hungarians with green eyes did he know? "And what was her name?"

"Elizaveta Héderváry." He snorted. "Probably changed her name to Edelstein. She could do so much better." For a moment, he looked ready to spit.

Elizaveta, her discomfort mounting, held out her hand. What else was there to do? "About that dance...?"

The Prussian laughed. It was half a decent sound, oddly comforting. "Probably too impatient to dance with the awesome me!"

Why not, she thought wryly.

He reached out one hand, free from the glove she had seen him wearing earlier. She let hers out, dreading it and almost relieved to swerve away from dramatic-irony conversation about her. She could not decide on whether or not it was an improvement. But Gilbert had practically melted since Veneziano—he had grown!—ran in with Ludwig at his tail; she still had a duty, and so why not? This was a chance.

Gilbert, it seemed, had unbelievable grace; she could feel every mark of his calloused hands, so absolutely big next to hers, and she was well aware that he was taller than her; he stepped smartly, and it wasn't elegant but militaristic—which was good enough. He'd always been a hooligan, militaristic and yet out-of-line all the same. Someway, somehow, Elizaveta found it easier to seduce him...if she imagined he was Roderich; just pretend the obvious bulk of muscle under the otherwise lean frame wasn't there, pretend that Roderich's height had fallen at the slightest, that those hanging silver threads were chocolate locks, and those devilish eyes mild triplets to the hair...

With an inward huff of breath, she leaned up—when did he get so tall?—and pressed her cheek against his; she was grateful for the leverage of her heeled shoes. She could not actually reach up to his cheek in the way that was secure, and so she let it rest around his chin. Holding back a shudder of disbelief, she waited for a reaction. None came. Pretend it's Roderich. If anything, he did not push her away. And when was the last time she had willingly acted womanly...?

She noted, tensely, the high ceiling above, the grand lights brought from olden times, the golden ambrosia that seemed to have spilled from them in the form of light; and noted how utterly cold Gilbert's skin was, how absolutely smooth; like the Russian snow that was quickly iced over; only even smoother, and clearly dry. Her own skin tingled, and an urge came to pull away and sink into the divine ambrosia crafted by hand. Fade and become one, away from the onlooking Germans and, of course, Gilbert. She wanted Roderich. Very much.

But she stayed put, locking herself firmly to the position as her legs still moved. "Do you...do you want to take this to your room...?" she muttered into his ear; she felt him tense, and then—moving away...in some direction. At this point Elizaveta let him go, bring her wherever; she wanted this over with.

Then they were in a room.

His room.

Isten, she breathed to herself. This was it, then. She tried not to gag, nor hyperventilate. She moved.

"Elizaveta..." She only just caught herself mid-jump. There was a glazed look on Gilbert's face, she saw through the corner of her eye. Did he suspect? Why her name?

"Elisabeth Wertheim," she muttered back, playing a flirter correcting. If anything, she though, she should take the identity in step for the sake of it becoming familiar, better for spying. On another thought, she knew that he would not regularly bed with a random woman, and one who was not a nation, after all—he wasn't like that. And yet there was an air about him that let her go on with it. As long as the job could be done...

Gilbert then let her go. Relief did not come; she dreaded the next phase, the next scene. The next act.

Then she would truly betray Roderich. Beloved Roderich; elegant, gentle Roderich; pretty and boyish Roderich.

She would drop.

One foot forward, whole body down. Plummet.

Adultery.

It was then that she pitied actors who had non-acting lovers. To play, and to act, and to pretend to love another, and to go naked together, to covet without truly coveting.

She pressed forward. The room, she took it all in; it was elaborate but sans décor but for swastikas, and even those were sparse; she saw the room with the open door, inviting to a massive bed that was kept surprisingly tidy.

"Where's the bed?" she said, looking up at him, pretending she hadn't seen it. Garnets and emeralds. Eyes say everything.

She stepped forward, at the one silent soldier, the Prussian who was standing. He did not protest, so she worked. Pulled at the khaki jacket, undid the loose buttons on front. Slid the heavy fabric from his shoulders; thick, the almost-waxy black hung in her hands when she reached the elbows; Gilbert crooked his arms to aid her. Beneath, the starch and pressed short-sleeved short. It tested her patience to undo every one of those damn buttons in the multitude, but she was able to, and ripped the tie off without problems. The tie and jacket were soon rumpled, collapsed on the plush floor.

She breathed.

She left the shirt on.

Didn't want to stare at the pale chest.

Silence.

"Well?" came the Prussian's voice.

"The bed," she repeated.

A snort, and then they were in the bedchamber, and the door was closed.

Behind closed doors...

She shoved him onto the bed, and he bounced lightly on it, almost comically; he sat upright and she then moved south. Ironic how south was always hotter.

Elizaveta swallowed in strange anticipation as she undid the zipper beneath the thin flap of khaki. This was the only obstacle, the only trial left before reaching Ithaca, or else Troy. That was done and overcome, and she slid loose the clasp and nearly ripped the vital guard off. And the whole time, her head was bent.

There was but the rustle of heaving cloth as she kept her eyes lower, lower than where she was, but so discreetly, yet feigning eagerness. It wasn't feigning.

"Your hair," said the voice from above, and she jumped, for it had burst out of the blue. A snowy hand that she strained to keep within her vision, a grip around her face and a soft, thick tug upwards; one that was met with no resistance. She stared into his face, now calculating, almost expressionless; horrendous, like a shadow belonged to the brow; and she realized that she was suddenly nervous. "The roots are fawn-colored. Like you dyed it. Surely an Aryan would stay loyal to der Führer. The Jews and others are angry. Of course they would be. Pft." Again, the resurfacing of Gilbert Beilschmidt as Elizaveta knew him. "And the White Rose of all people sending a spy like that."

"What do you suspect?" she said back, feigning offense; "I wish only to serve der Führer."

"And why do you love der Führer so deeply?" Another cold, withering stare. The white grip, like a piece of ice, hardened around her cheek and chin. "What is he doing that makes you so proud?—why do you revel in the killing of the Jews and gypsies and commies?"

"Because." She halted, but hurried on, letting the story weave itself together in her mind; it was not hard. "The Jews are filth. They rolled and bathed in gold while my family had nothing but sewer water to wash in, until we found the polluted river. It was an improvement." Still aware that the piece of ice shaped like a hand was holding her face up, she let her gaze fix to his, acting natural, like one who had lost everything; she thought of Roderich. "My brother died of starvation," she went on, straining her voice, wringing out anger. "My best friend got sick. She still is." Lowering her eyes, and her eyes only, she murmured, "I think she's dead." Noting how her hands had been abandoned to rest on the Prussian's thighs, she let them clench, wrinkling the material and feeling the flesh—surprisingly soft—beneath her fingers. Summoning a rasp to her voice, she went on, choking, "And the damned gypsies stole my younger sister!" Despair ringed her tone. "I don't know why, she was only another mouth to feed for them...but they stole her. And she was already starving; she was like a skeleton, and...why did they take her? Why?" Letting her voice unravel, she tried to summon a tear to her eye. "Why..."

Gilbert shook his head. "I once loved a Hungarian," he said. "She left me, and we fought for so long...we killed each others' friends. We suffered because of each other, and then that damned Austrian...what do you have to say to that?" he added bitterly; it stung and bit.

Shut up.

She went back to the dark pants, letting her hands pinch at the cloth.

"There," she said tonelessly.

Gilbert moved then, sliding the dress and undergarments off her in one go—the soft silk slipped and dripped off of her naturally, pooling in shimmering tides at her bent knees. The instant shiver came; exposure, sheer nakedness. The cloth was like water. Or blood. Or bloody water.

Act like you want it, her boss had told her.

Act like you want it.

In the next moment, they were side-by-side, lying in the soft material of the bed, and Elizaveta wanted nothing more than to slap the icy face before her; and he had been melting back to himself too! If only she could scream, do anything in defiance...

Leaning forward, she gripped one shoulder, pale, smooth, beneath her fingers. Leaning forward, she kissed him, like she meant it. Like she meant it. Broke away. And got closer, shoving herself forward. Feeling the muscle under the slim, dry frame, and then the pale arm, like a snake, wrapping around her bare torso; the air was unbearably cold against her nude chest, with a sliver of pale skin poking at it, and she felt so exposed. Closer, and closer...

She broke the distance, weaving into the tear between them, pressing her mouth to his again, and it felt like some horrible way of linking; making love fit flawlessly, but fucking hardly connected. It was a horrible mistake in tessellation; a mortifying attempt at fitting a circle with a square. The pieces would never fit, they grew up together basically, with horribly unbalanced chemistry; against the symmetry of peace, opponent to the circle of Yin and Yang.

A balanced of union between Elizaveta Héderváry and Gilbert Beilschmidt was impossible.

And it hurt—it hurt both Elisabeth Wertheim and Elizaveta Héderváry both, whoever they were. One hurt physically and one hurt mentally, or, better, somewhere in her heart.

If anything, it was to give themselves over to one man under the guise of an Aryan flirt and a Hungarian adulterer; she could hardly remember if she was either; it only hurt too much. And she fought, she thought she heard her own name being murmured, but she was hardly sure that night. She only fought—against herself, against her feinted lover. Both, perhaps. Sex is truly indescribable. If she could say anything at all during the aftermath, anything at all that could do it justice, she would have said that it was borderline rape on both their parts; and she never knew that she could love anyone that she hated so much.

Then she realized that there was no going back.

Never in a million years...

...

"They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts..."

- Shakespeare

...

PT: So, how was it? –Picks up notebook and extra pens- This won't be updated very regularly. Oh, maybe every month or so. Stick with me, nee? Notes below on plot:

- This is loosely based off Black Book, AKA Zwartboek; watch it if you want, it's considered to be the greatest Dutch film. It was God damned hard to find, but I watched the original German-Dutch version, pristine but for the English subtitles, on a Chinese streaming site; lately it's been "blocked from your region," unfortunately. Trailers can be found on YouTube; and those things themselves are riveting. It's an excellent film, and my fanfic does it no justice. Originally I wanted this to be Italy/ Germany, but...

- One of the things I noticed the most about the film was the history—through the Iron Crosses, the uniforms, the weaponry. I actually took Gilbert's rank through canon; on Hidekazu's site, I looked at the picture of him in the black uniform for reference, and used my own uniform (JROTC, hell yeah~) The shoulder ranks...at first I was desperate enough to make him captain according to my battalion's system; and then I realized that the top disk is actually a button –facepalm- I actually missed that... And the disks are really diamonds, through more specific diagrams on Wikipedia. So yeah, that's his actual rank. Correct me if I'm wrong. I suppose, from the movie, that uniforms were made of khaki like they still are today, through my experience, at least. What, the uniforms freaked me out, JROTC does that to you.

- Yeah, the historical accuracy's likely to be bullshit here –mutters- I've slipped in a reference—Hungary, though with the Axis, was in secret conference with the Allies, so I've read. I'm still trying to use it right, so it won't be horrible.

- The OOCness is kind of on purpose here, as you've seen...it's actually quite complicated in my mind, but it'll eventually unravel, really.

- The name Wertheim is ripped off a sergeant in my battalion –coughs-