Really, do oneshots even have prologues? Whatever.

This is dedicated to Felicia Borja, for her birthday. :D

Of Maple Syrup and Wine

Prologue

Gilbert Beilschmidt, the awesome [former] kingdom of Preußen, awoke with an uncomfortable hangover to the sound of a piano. As usual.

He hoisted himself out of bed and went through the motions of showering, shaving, and rifling through the medicine cabinet for painkillers. Last night had been three crates of beer with West, and he was surprised his head didn't feel worse.

Gilbert managed to get clothes on himself and trudged downstairs to get breakfast. He frowned as he identified the piece. Chopin's Raindrops. He'd always found that piece filled with gloom and doom for some reason, so he wondered why Roderich would be playing it now.

Roderich. Roderich Edelstein. His… partner, for lack of a better word. They got fed up with each other a lot and rarely agreed on anything, but somehow their relationship worked.

Kinda. Sorta. Maybe. No.

Gilbert sighed as he went into the kitchen, bypassing the closed door of the music room. He put some bread in the toaster and grabbed it as soon as it popped up, ignoring the smarting of his fingers. The toast clattered onto a plate as he searched the cupboards for anything he could smear on it.

Olive oil, no. Salt, no. Hot chocolate mix, no.

Ah, here we are. Strawberry jam.

He pulled the jar out of the cupboard, cracked the seal on it and lifted the first of the preserves out with the tip of the bread knife.

Covering two slices of toast with jam, he sauntered into Austria's music room, where the male was tapping out the last notes of Raindrops. His fingers hovered over the keys, just barely pressing them. With a sigh, Roderich looked up as Gilbert set down the plate of toast on his piano.

"Have you eaten yet?" the Prussian asked.

"Not yet. Thank you." Roderich picked up the piece of bread and delicately, but hungrily, bit into it. Gilbert watched him for a while, then said "Why Raindrops?"

Roderich blinked, then looked down, chewing. He swallowed deliberately and said "Should there be a reason?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Depends. Is there one?"

"Maybe."

Gilbert let it go. Really, his head was aching too much for him to play at this. Maybe those painkillers were expired…

He pressed his fingertips to his forehead, as if he could force back the pain to wherever it had come from. Roderich avoided his eyes, which were screwed up tight, anyway.

"Gilbert… I have to tell you something."

"What?"

There was a beat of silence. Then Austria dropped the bomb. "I want to end this relationship."

Gilbert processed this for a while. Then he exploded. "What the fuck are you talking about?!"

Roderich winced. "It is becoming more difficult to—"

"Bullshit!"

"Your language, please," Roderich cut in sharply.

Gilbert pushed a hand through his hair. He now had one hell of a headache and a twisting, mangled something in his chest and—"Who is it."

Roderich blinked. "Pardon?"

"Who. Is. It." Gilbert glared at him. "God knows you won't end this without a reason. Who. Is. It."

Roderich's breath left him on a sigh. "Elizaveta. Hungary."

Gilbert had brief visions of a dark-haired, domineering woman who was, somehow, more manly than most of the nations put together. He was shocked. Roderich… and Elizaveta? He rubbed at his forehead, unable to take it in.

"I'm sorry," Austria said softly.

"Whatever." Gilbert gestured tiredly. "I'll go and pack. I'll move in with West this afternoon."

Now he knew why Roderich was playing Raindrops.