Title: 10.23.1956
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: Poland/Hungary
Feliks dropped by Elizaveta's house at half past seven in the evening. He had no need to wait for her permission to let him enter; he knew where the spare key was hidden, and there were no locks between the two of them that he could not break into. There were special privileges that not even her former husband could imagine. He set his coat upon a stool by the window, and made his way to her room without bothering to call out a geeting.
He opened the door to her room and found her coat hanging on the hat rack. There was a faint sound of singing coming from the bathroom, and he'd listened to her voice, rough and uneven but characteristic of her usual cheer, all the same, as he took down the coat and appraised it with some interest. He put it on in front of the mirror, the fabric stretching across shoulders broader than it was used to, and he struck a pose, when he'd heard the knob turning and the door opening.
"Feliks," Elizaveta said, warmly, not at all perturbed by his presence. He felt his smile widen as he watched her rummage through her wardrobe for clothes.
"You're not ready," Feliks said, eyeing the dress she haphazardly pulled on, "and here I thought I'd be fashionably late in your ten year old coat."
He sat on the edge of her bed and patted the space beside him. She sat, crossing her legs and handing him a towel, and he dried her hair with it. She smelled of soap and victory, and her lips trembled, with excitement. Restlessness befitted her. He could remember seeing her like this far too many times to count, but he'd remembered it more when he could still see the shadow of her former glory in the defiant set of her jaw, the clenching of her fists in her more incensed moments.
Darling, Feliks almost said, but kept his words in check, biting the inside of his cheek. Tonight was the beginning of change, and he could be a little serious for her, at least. The thought made Feliks' heart tremble and clench.
"Elizaveta," Feliks said, coming to a stand, and Elizaveta patted his cheek with the slightest touch of fingers, the bare minimum she could afford to express.
"It's time," Elizaveta said, and Feliks tilted his head to the side, kissing her palm.
"To your independence," Feliks said, raising an imaginary glass to her, "and to mine-"
Elizaveta swallowed the rest of his words with a kiss. Soft, and unassuming, like all the things he knew and loved well. He held her hand as they left the room, and kissed her again, before they stepped outside. There were still some uncertainties he'd hidden with the vague nonchalance he'd sought to convey as ignorance, but he could forget it in the warmth of her mouth, the fire in her blood.
"To us," she said, not as Elizaveta, but as Hungary, and yes, Feliks thought, yes.
Outside, the streets were filled with people. Theirs, all theirs.