Sorry for the extreme lateness. My muse for this story died temporarily.
Good on you if you stuck by me and awaited patiently. I'm sorry if you gave up on me.
I want you all to know that this is a very difficult story to write so I am shortening and as a complete disappointment, Ivan will die sooner. SORRY!
/
Gilbert and Ivan never did take that hunting competition. And no one in the Russian's household was able to attend any of the meetings in the weeks following.
There were no more visits from friend nations promising laughter. In fact, there was no more reason for laughter within the household.
To see the house from the outside, people would have though ghost house. And on the inside even with the occupants walking around, it would still be called as such. For they walked around as if lifeless, barely any expression on their faces other the occasional outburst of sadness or anger or something in between.
Russia… Ivan… Had not yet died… but he may as well have… he was always in bed now. He had been reduced to it the morning he had lost control of his legs. As sad as it was… he was weak. Unable to raise his hand without breaking out into a cold sweat or passing out.
He had been reduced to lying in bed at all times, to be fed by others, to be cleaned by others… to be fully dependant on others.
He knew that a few other nations, names not needed to be mentioned, would have loved to see him like this. Weak. Defenceless.
He wasn't even able to get others to leave him so that they could attend the meetings because they were all worried about him. Except Gilbert of course.
But that wasn't his worry at the moment. He didn't care what the Prussian thought.
It was Alfred.
All he wanted was to see a true smile on the American's face at least once before he died.
But it seemed that there was no such thing in this world any more. It was non existent.
As if on cue, the door creaked slightly as Alfred stepped into the room wordlessly and closed the door before walking over to the bed and crawling under the blanket next to Ivan.
"I love you…" He whispered almost inaudibly.
"… L-Love… you…" Ivan replied slowly and haltingly.
Alfred said nothing but the taller of the two felt him put something in his ear and there was a moment before music started to play softly.
He turned slightly and saw that Alfred had the other piece in his ear as he hid his face in the Russian's arm.
Ivan sighed. Alfred… the Alfred he knew was gone. And it was his fault. His fault for bringing him into his problems.
He should never should have told him to leave Arthur. He should have convinced him that things would have worked out between them.
Looking over at the blonde again, he saw he was asleep and with another sigh, closed his eyes and concentrated on the music.
He would do anything for Alfred to be happy.
/
Gilbert sniffed as he walked around the large house, pulling his jacket closer. It was so freaking cold, he hoped he wasn't coming down with something.
Rubbing his arms and sides to keep warm, the albino continued to wonder aimlessly, until a particular door creaked open as he walked passed it. He stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder at it for a time before turning around and pushing it open fully.
He reached inside and flicked on the light switch before stepping over the threshold.
It was Ivan's office, near everything covered in a thick layer of dust from lack of presence. He frowned and looked over to his desk. There appeared to be papers on the dusty wooden surface, and not neatly arranged. It appeared that that had been what Ivan was last working on before the day he had told the world he was ill.
Now… As we all know, Gilbert is simply not one to walk away from curious looking things that someone had left out on accident or purpose. So with an itching curiosity, he inched closer before giving in and half jogging over to the desk, walking around to take a seat in the chair. Sure it may have been dusty and belonged to the man that had stripped his titles… but man was it comfy. As much as he hated Ivan, the Russian had good taste in furniture.
Grinning somewhat triumphantly, though he hadn't really come over any great or menial trial of any sorts, he picked up the paper without thinking. He cussed when he saw the marks he'd made in the layer of dust but shrugged it off. It wasn't like that fat ass was going to live long enough to want to do paper work anyway. So he chuckled and dusted off the paper like he was settling down to read a good book and his bloody irises scanned the page.
And then slowly but surely, his smile faded, a frown beginning place a crease in his brow.
That couldn't be right? He must have read it wrong.
He read the page from top to bottom, searching for any fine print or any sentence he could have missed, or even waiting for that stupid American idiot off the television to jump out of a piñata and tell him that he had just been punked.
But no. It was there in plain black and white, certain names printed in bold lettering.
"… Mein Gott…"
