DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

SNOW WHITE, BLOOD RED


EIGHT

GILBERT

I sit in the corner by the door, as far as possible from the machine Arthur has bewitched to play music. I don't like the way his hands—skinny hands stained and smelling of herbs and minerals—bring dead things to life, even if it's only a music-player. I dislike the way it sings without human fingers to strike it. It's called a harpsichord, Matthew tells me, and it's been in Arthur's family for six generations. It's an oblong instrument with four curving legs and three rows of black-and-which teeth—keys—that produce a high-pitched vibration when the strings inside are plucked. That's what Matthew says, but I don't like mechanics that I can't see with my own eyes, and I don't trust that it's not faerie magic inside. Because of this, I try to keep Matthew away from it. I herd him to the other side of the room and place myself between he and the suspicious contraption. It's loud, too, and it hurts my ears, but I dismiss Matthew's concern. I don't like the harpsichord, but I'll grimace and bear it (Matthew laughs and says the expression is: grin and bear it) because he's enjoying the impromptu party and I don't want to spoil it.

It's Lovino's birth day, something humans celebrate with a lot of noise and food, I observe. Antonio's mate is twenty-one today, and Antonio seems proud of this fact.

I look at Lovino and decide that his pride is justified. If my mate had such a fiery fighting spirit in as small a body as Lovino's, I'd be relieved he had survived for twenty-one years, too.

He wouldn't survive in the wild, I think. Then I see Matthew and reconsider. He's a tall and healthy-looking boy, not nearly as fragile as Lovino, but I've learnt that human appearances are deceiving. It was Matthew who nearly died in the wild. Because of me.

I watch Alfred take Matthew's hands and they twirl together around the cottage, pink-cheeked and laughing. The violet-eyed boy's face is jovial, even if he's still a bit pale; even if he still pauses to catch his breath. It's good to see him animated and prancing around. He accepts Francis' hands as the dancers switch partners, weaving in-and-out of each other in a knot of limbs. I stay in the corner, safely out of the way, but I observe their fast, bouncing feet intently, especially Antonio's.

Antonio is a good dancer, skilled at the complex steps, which look chaotic to me. His footing is loose, clumsy-looking. His feet are not planted sturdily, and I know that if this was a fight I could easily knock him down. But it's not a fight, it's a dance, and Antonio is happy to be a human—not a wolf—tonight. He leads Lovino in a sweeping circuit of the cottage, then trades partners with Francis and takes Matthew's waist in his hands. I immediately tense and start to rise, angry at Antonio's audacity: that he would dare put his hands on my mate! I feel a growl in my throat and pull my lips back from my teeth, but I stop when I hear Matthew's voice in my memory: please stop glaring and growling. I swallow and sit back down, crossing my arms. I remind myself that Antonio is only playing with Matthew, like a pup; that the placement of his hands means nothing. He circles the floor, sways, and spins the boy in such a way that makes Matthew laugh. I dislike that it's Antonio and not me making him smile, but I do like that he's smiling, so I let it happen. Still, I'm relieved when Antonio abandons Matthew. The giddy chocolate wolf bends nearly in half with his arm flung out behind him in a fanciful bow, thanking Matthew for the dance, and then moves on to harassing Arthur, much to Arthur's annoyance.

Antonio has a lot of energy, but eventually he tires and retreats to my side. Or, perhaps he's just hungry. He chews a honey bun and smiles brightly at me and doesn't care that I don't smile back.

Alfred refills my tankard with beer, which I like a lot. Beer, I've decided, is the best thing about being human, other than Matthew.

I guzzle it down and lick my lips, then belch in satisfaction. Antonio chuckles and advises me to drink slower.

"It's not like water," he says. "It'll make you slow and stupid if you drink too much, and it'll hurt your insides later."

I make a noise akin to: "Pff-sh" and ignore his warning. I'm an alpha! No human brew can incapacitate me!

"Teach me how to do that," I say instead, nodding at the dancers.

He blinks in surprise. "What? You want to dance—?"

I nod.

He's suspicious now, his nostrils flaring to read intent in my scent. "Why?"

I feel personally attacked by his doubt. I square my shoulders and sit up, tall and proud. I have a fit body and good balance. I'm fast and agile, a prime athlete. I'd be a wonderful dancer, if only I knew the routine. I tell Antonio that I have more than the necessary endurance for this frivolity, but he's not impressed. In fact, he snorts.

"It's not a competition," he says. "It's just for fun—you know that, right?"

I huff impatiently. "Yes, I know that. Can you teach me, or not?"

He shrugs. "Maybe. It all depends on you. I'll try to," he agrees, teasing me. Then he looks at Matthew and he smiles less arrogantly. "It's for him, isn't it?"

I bristle and my face gets hot—embarrassment; what a horrible human feeling!—but I nod. Of course it's for Matthew! Why else would I want to prance around in such an undignified way?

"It'll make Matthew happy," I say.

"Yes," he agrees, and claps me on the shoulder. "You know, putting someone else's happiness first—? That's a very human thing, Gil. You're learning," he approves, only mildly condescending.

I shove him off.

"Tomorrow," he says. "I'll teach you tomorrow."

Tomorrow? "But they're dancing tonight. I want—"

"You're not doing any dancing tonight," he snickers, like he knows a joke I don't. He nods to the tankard, and repeats: "Slow down."

Alfred overhears this advice and passes Antonio as the chocolate wolf leaves to retrieve Lovino. He offers a friendly, forthcoming smile, and says: "Want more?"

I nod, liking Alfred more every minute. But Matthew is less pleased with his brother's hospitality.

"Al," he scolds, glancing worriedly at me, "don't you think he's had enough? He's never had alcohol before."

Alfred looks at me, an eyebrow lifted, and snorts. "Beer's not really alcohol; even children drink it," he says, mocking me. "Are you a babe, wolf, that you can't handle another pint?"

"Of course I can!" I roar, defending myself. I accept his challenge and the refilled tankard with a competitive grin. I don't know why the chocolate wolf and human-boy both doubt my ability to consume a harmless, amber liquid, so I down the contents to prove them wrong. "I can drink much more than any of you!" I declare.

Alfred hollers in approval and pours again. Matthew sighs.

My pretty violet-eyed boy sits down beside me and gently brushes a strand of hair off my forehead. His touch is nice and cool on my hot face. I take a deep, slow breath and lean comfortably against him, cradling the now empty tankard. It's a nice place to be, at Matthew's side. He smiles briefly at me, but his gaze is on the dancers—Antonio and Lovino, and Francis and Arthur—and his eyes sparkle. He looks very beautiful in the warm firelight. He looks faraway. I know this look, because it's how he looks waking from a dream. But the longer I watch him watch them, I realize that there's envy in his eyes. Not ugly envy, but a longing for what Arthur and Lovino have with their wolves; wolves who whisper pet-names and kiss them as they dance.

I can do that, too. I know I can. I can learn to be a good human-mate for him, someone who makes his violet eyes sparkle. I can push aside the wolf and put his happiness first.

"I can do it."

I don't realize I've said it aloud, until Matthew says: "Sorry, what was that?"

I shake my head a little, resting now on Matthew's lap. Wait—when did that happen? I open my eyes—when did I close them?—and see the room from a sideways vantage. I try to rise, but it's a bad idea. Overhead, Alfred laughs.

"Oh yeah, you're a real fearsome beast! The Big Bad Wolf!" he mocks in his loud, abrasive voice.

I grumble and growl and try, again, to get up, ready to defend myself against Alfred's insulting onslaught, but the moment I do I feel lightheaded and have to sit back down. I crumple. I squint and blink a few times, but my vision doesn't clear. My head is heavy and foggy. The faerie music is still playing, but it's just a dull whinging in my ears now. The others still dance, but all I see are blurry shapes. I shake my head in an attempt to regain my senses, to shake off this debilitating numbness, but instead I lose my balance and topple back into Matthew's lap.

It's nice here, so I decide to stay. My human-boy's body is soft and smells sweet, like cider and baked apples. I breath in deeply and sigh. I'll just stay here for a minute, until this heavy, sleepy feeling passes.

"Al," says Matthew's voice. He says something about me and beer and sounds upset.

I want to tell him not to worry, that I really like beer, but then he begins stroking my head and nothing else matters.


MATTHEW

Gilbert is breathing rhythmically, snoring a little. "It's not funny!" I accuse Al, my voice a hushed whisper. "He's never had alcohol before, he has no tolerance for it!"

"No tolerance?" Al questions at a regular decibel. "A shotgun shell ripped through his stomach and he lived, Mattie. I don't think a few pints of beer is going to hurt him."

"It was more than a few," I argue, but Al only chuckles.

"Oh, don't be so protective," he says, rolling his eyes. "He's a grown man—uh, wolf. Wolf-man. Aw-roo!" he howls, provoking Antonio to instinctively reply. Gilbert jerks in his sleep, but doesn't wake.

I shake my head and look down at the white wolf, who's dead-asleep in my lap. His cheeks are flushed pink, and his silver hair is ruffled, and every exhale breaths out alcohol fumes, his mouth hanging slightly ajar so that I can see the points of his canines, but still he looks peaceful. Asleep, he looks younger. Not soft. There's no softness in that angular face, those straight lines and high, sharp cheekbones, but there is a gentleness about him that endears him to me. I can feel myself smiling as I slowly run my fingers through his hair—fine as spider-silk—and rub his scalp. I don't know why I do it, but it's soothing for us both.

"Oh, jolly good, Alfred," says Arthur sarcastically, "you've just guaranteed a bad-tempered wolf a hangover."

Al shrugs, and Lovino giggles, tipsy, but I keep smiling, because Gilbert isn't bad-tempered. I know he's not. He's impatient, impulsive, and irrational; his passions are irascible, but not bad. He's instinctive. He follows his heart more than his head, which none of my family is innocent of either. He's as playful as Al, as protective as Francis, and as proud as Arthur. He likes challenges, and is more competitive than my arrogant brother and more argumentative than my stubborn cousin. He's loud and entitled, but he's also careful and thoughtful and more loyal—devoted—than anyone I've ever met. I forgive his flaws because I recognize them, I love them. Gilbert's not a misfit in my family; he's one of us. My heart knows he is.

I wish I could say it aloud. I wish I could put these thoughts, my feelings, into words and be brave enough to speak them, but I can't. Al is making rude jokes and Lovino is crying in laughter and Antonio and Francis are stealing sweets and Arthur is scolding them, and no one is paying any attention to me at all; everyone is talking over my head, glad for my presence, but uninterested in my voice, so I stay quiet.

Quietly, I sit in the corner with the white wolf's head in my lap, ignored, but—for the first time—not invisible.


GILBERT

Gil? Gil—? Gilbert!" Antonio snaps his fingers in my face. He huffs, and says: "You're not paying attention."

I rub my pounding forehead and mumble an excuse. I say I'm trying, but certain factors are making it hard to concentrate on the dance lesson.

For one, the devilish harpsichord is grating on my nerves. It's high-pitch wafts through the open window and pierces my ears, aggravating my headache. For another, Francis keeps trying to hydrate me, shoving cups of water in my face and telling me I need to drink if I want to feel better, while lecturing me on alcohol consumption. And lastly, Alfred has taken Matthew into the woods for a walk, which is distracting and unsettling, because I don't know where they are, or how far they've gone, or when they'll return. I don't like having Matthew so far away from me, out of sight and out of reach. I don't like being unable to guard my fragile human-boy from everything that could harm him.

But I do want to learn to dance.

"Sorry," I grumble. It's a word—a sentiment—that Matthew repeats often, which always seems to placate the aggressor.

Antonio's frustration ebbs as he readjusts my posture, putting his hands on me. I don't like it, but I weather it in silence, because I've surrendered myself to his experience.

"It's like this—right hand, left hand," he says, placing my hands on Francis, who's grudgingly agreed to assist us, which I like even less. I can feel him fighting my lead, challenging every move I make, even though he's supposed to be submissive in this position. "Just go slow," Antonio advises. "One, two, three—"

"Ouch! That was my foot!" Francis snaps, hopping a little. My silence prompts his irritation. "This is the part where you apologize," he says peevishly.

I growl and squeeze his long, slim, breakable fingers until he yelps and yanks free of me.

"It's fine, it's fine!" Antonio leaps between us with his hands raised, ready to prevent a fight. "Gil, why don't you just, um... practice the steps by yourself for a minute. You're doing great!" he lies cheerfully as he steers Francis away.

They stand together, bickering in hushed tones. Antonio is wagging a finger at Francis in accusation; Francis has his arms crossed and his head angled snobbishly. He has his long, fair hair tied back in a ribbon today. It's a look I want to criticise, but—gods damn it!—it looks really good on him, and, since he and Matthew have the same soft curls, it makes me wonder what Matthew would look like in a ribbon, too.

I miss him, my human-boy. He's only been an hour gone, but I miss him terribly. Separation anxiety, I think unhappily. I know I'll feel better about it once we're mated, once the laws—natural and human—decree that he's mine. I'll be more confident about his absence once I know for a fact that he's my mate and no longer eligible for claiming. (The humans can't see or smell the mark on his neck, but surely they'll sense the change once he and I are mated, right?) I'll be glad to be rid of the discomfort I feel not knowing where he is or what and whom he might encounter.

"You can't be with him all the time," Antonio told me regrettably. "It's awful, I know," he admitted, "but you have to trust that he'll be okay without you, just for a little while."

He was right about the mountain, and right about baths (bleh!). I just have to trust that Antonio's right about this, too.

I shake the unease from my thoughts and resume practicing. I know the steps by heart, without the need for Francis' diagram—I've got a good memory—but the execution befuddles me. Even when I think I'm doing it perfectly, I get criticised:

"You look like you're marching," Francis says, returning.

"You're too stiff," Antonio translates.

"I look like a fool!" I argue, self-conscious of their eyes on me and my phantom partner. I drop my suspended arms. "This isn't helping! Teach me better!" I order.

Antonio starts to speak, but Francis interrupts. "Go for a run," he says.

I stare at him, taken aback. "What?"

His tone is flippant, but his arms are firmly crossed. "Go run," he repeats, and points. His blue eyes seize me with begrudging recognition, and, when I don't move, he sighs and explains: "You're frustrated, Gilbert. You've got too much... energy," he says politely, instead of verbally acknowledging the truth of my overeager, hot-blooded state, which was aggravated by thoughts of lovely Matthew. "You'll feel better, calmer, if you get it out of your system, trust me. You'll be able to concentrate. Go," he urges.

I hesitate, then—with no better solution; with no mate to focus my energy on—I sigh and accept his advice. I take off running as fast as I can.

"Hey, Fran?" says Antonio curiously. "How long do you think it's been since he's—you know."

"Much too long," Francis says solemnly, "but running is the less messy solution."

Angry in embarrassment, I blush and snarl: "I can hear you, you pets!"


ARTHUR

I lean against the tower, sipping a cuppa tea, and watching a hopeless dance lesson performed by three wild creatures in human-form. It's amusing in a mildly horrifying way, like seeing a jack rabbit suddenly stand on its hind legs, don a waistcoat and smoking-pipe, and recite poetry: charming, but wrong.

As encouraging as Antonio is, he's not a good instructor, because he doesn't even know why he can dance. He just can. Nobody taught him about music, the songs and steps and sounds, he simply took to it like a fish to water, like he was born for it. He can't teach, because he can't understand why it's so difficult for Gilbert; I can see the frustration in them both. Gilbert asks: "But how?" and Antonio replies, not with words, but a demonstration: "Like this!" which is unhelpful, because he can't explain the mechanics of it. Gilbert tries to mimic Antonio's fluid movements, but it's a sad attempt, and he looks more likely to break a bone, so stiff is his figure. Francis could offer more help than he does, but refuses, spitefully content to watch Gilbert flounder, even if it's to the detriment of Matthew's fun. It's petty, but I understand his feelings better than anyone else, because I'm protective of the boys, too. But at least I don't have wolf blood making me inherently territorial.

When Gilbert sends Francis flying—an accident, presumably—Antonio covers his face with a hand in defeat, and I graduate from casual observer to guest instructor.

I cross the field, and, without invitation, cut in between Gilbert and Francis. Wordless, I take the white wolf's hands and position one on my waist, the other in my hand, place my left hand on his shoulder, and let myself relax in his tentative embrace. He stands straighter, rolling his shoulders back and holding his arms at a seventy-five degree angle. "Your lead," I surrender, which he likes. He likes that I'm not fighting him, that he's in control. (He thinks he's clever, but he's so easy to read—manipulate—this wolf. They all are.) We begin slowly and I can tell that he's counting the steps in his head, his red eyes darting down to be sure of his footing, but when I tell him to stop, he does. "Alphas don't look down," I say, appealing to his baser instincts, his pride. He pauses for a fraction of a moment, suspicious of my tone, thinking I may be teasing him, but I keep my face empty of mockery. "Alphas lead," I say, urging him on, and, after a brief pause, he does.

"Pretend that I'm the one who doesn't know the steps," I suggest, narrowly avoiding a collision with Francis when Gilbert accidentally sends me spinning. He curses his clumsiness, getting riled again, impatient as he is, but he's not aggressive with me like he was with Francis. He doesn't push or pull or forcibly bully me into place, because I'm a human, and humans are fragile in his mind. Humans need protecting.

I let him think of me as weak as we continue, because right now it benefits us both. I let him guide me in a lopsided circuit of the imagined dance floor, drenching my corrections in compliments, which pacifies his temper and his hangover. I shoot Antonio a pert warning glare when he opens his mouth, which silences him, and he and Francis remain quiet thereafter as they watch.

Do they recognize Gilbert's carefulness, I wonder? Do they see, now, what was missing from their lessons?

I'm not a noteworthy dancer. I'm not nearly as good as the wolves, to be honest. My childhood was filled with wilder, whimsical dances from a place where mistakes didn't exist. It was only as a youth that I learnt how to follow instructions, not unlike the wolves. I, like they, was raised by the wilderness, by the natural world. I learnt hierarchy, but not structure; laws, but not rules. Humankind finds safety in routine and regulations. The less freedom they have, the safer they feel, which is why dances and not simply dance is important to them. It's the routine steps and perfect form and controlled speed that are vital symbols of civility. As long as one follows the rules and looks the part, society will call him a gentleman no matter what his heart craves.

It's bollocks, if you ask me. But it's the disguise that will protect Gilbert—and Matthew—from an angry mob.

As long as you look like a human on the outside, you're free to be a wolf within.

Wolves, I've come to know, have more humanity in them then most human-beings.

The dance concludes without incident, and Gilbert politely mimics me as I graciously bob my head, nodding in thanks. I keep my expression demure until he rights himself, awaiting feedback, and then I smile.

"Well done," I say, and pat his head.


GILBERT

I practice privately with Arthur at every opportunity for the next three days, stealing time when Matthew is asleep. He tires easily, which worries me, but Arthur assures me that a dance won't do him any harm. Francis, too, critiques my progress—uninvited—saying things like: "Relax your shoulders. Bend your knees more. Don't frown." I bite my tongue and follow his instructions, and by the fourth day I'm ready. At sunset, as planned, Antonio asks for music and Arthur makes the harpsichord play. Everyone is together again in the little cottage, crowding the floor, but I navigate it with purpose. Alfred intercepts to offer me beer. He does it with a gamin grin that tells me never to trust him again, but it's still with deep regret that I refuse. I really like beer, but I'll need all of my faculties if I want to do this properly and not shame myself and Matthew.

He's sitting alone by the fireplace. He's usually alone, despite the crowd. His curious smile emboldens me as I approach, his gentle eyes wondering at my resolute manner. I wait until the others begin to dance—or, in Alfred's case, eat—and are paying us no mind, because I know that Matthew dislikes the centre-of-attention. He shies from it, I've noticed, though I can't fathom why. As a pack leader, I was used to being the focus of everyone's gaze all the time. I liked having their attention and admiration, and their respect as the alpha. I liked making them bow and wait on my decisions, and I liked all of their foolish challenges. I liked the thrill of each fight, proving my skill and strength while everyone watched in awe, subtly reminding them all of their place. The loudest, proudest, bravest wolf stands at the centre-of-attention, and I love it. But Matthew does not, so I wait.

I use the moment to plan my words. "Dance with me," I want to say, because it's what I want, but it sounds too much like a command. "Please dance with me?" No, definitely not. That sounds like I'm begging. "Let's dance!" sounds like Antonio, and "Come and dance with me," sounds like Francis, and both are orders disguised with loving smiles. I have to say something soon though, because Matthew is looking at me expectantly. It makes me nervous, and what comes out is not as smooth or confident as I intended:

"Do you want to, um, dance?" I ask, a slight waver in my voice.

Matthew is surprised—a little doubtful, perhaps, but mostly giddy as he accepts. He might have reservations about my ability, but he takes my hand without fear.

His touch is tentative at first, our bodies barely touching, but soon the uncertainty flees his face as I begin to move with the music, not against it, as Antonio lectured. I don't look down at my feet, and I don't tense at the turns. I lead Matthew, a little slower than the tempo wants, but he doesn't seem to mind, and we don't collide with anything or anyone. As Antonio and Lovino sweep past us, the chocolate wolf gives me his signature double thumbs-up, which I outwardly ignore but internally accept with glee, because I'm doing it! I'm dancing—courting—like a proper human suitor, and my intended mate is smiling! It makes all of the frustration of the past days worth it, because he's beautiful and he's happy as I swing him around, risking a little speed and whirling him. I can feel the trajectory of his body and I'm there to catch him when he returns. He laughs, so I do it again, and again. Then, suddenly, we're in the middle of the floor, integrating with the other dancers, which is something I didn't train for, but my brief worry is unfounded. I keep my focus on Matthew and we emerge from the tangle of limbs unscathed, and by the time the harpsichord finally slows to a calmer tempo, the strings straining to hold longer, deeper notes, I'm glad for it, because I'm actually a little tired. It gives me the chance to look at Matthew, really look at him, because we're not moving fast now, and I can see his soft violet eyes sparkling like the faraway stars; sparkling and smiling, now, for me. Not for Francis or Antonio or Alfred—me. Knowing that makes my stomach flutter and my face gets hot, even though I've had no beer. It's not a bad feeling, but it makes me wish, suddenly, that Matthew and I were alone. I've come to take comfort in him, and don't mind when he sees the gentler, messier emotions on my face, but I certainly don't want everyone else seeing them!

I swallow, then take a deep breath. I try to keep all of those feelings shut securely inside.

But then Matthew does something that makes me forget we're not alone, something that silences all doubt, quiets all fear. Without a word, he lays his head against my chest and closes his eyes. It's not a big gesture, but it says a lot to me. He holds me while I hold him, and we stop moving, but I don't care. I can feel his heart beating against mine, and the pale heat of his body, and the whisper of his breath, slow and soft in contentment. The harpsichord still plays, and the others dance and drink and talk, but Matthew and I are alone, now, in an isolated moment belonging only to us—a moment that I created, and it's wonderful.

I don't care who's watching, now. I lower my head to his and inhale his scent. He smells good tonight, a little spicy with cinnamon and cloves. I'd watched he and Francis baking earlier, delving, without permission, into Arthur's secret stores. I like the feel of his unribboned curls against me, too, as soft as a rabbit pelt. I've never touched a rabbit without breaking its neck, but I'm not going to break Matthew. I'm never going to hurt him again. I'm just going to hold him, gently, and protect him always.

I love him. I love his heart and his looks and his sweet voice as it quietly wafts up to my ears, dreamy at first; no words, just sound. It's just a melodic humming, but it's much nicer than the intrusive harpsichord. It soothes me. Matthew's voice is like the spring breeze that thaws winter's chill; the essence that breaths life back into the trees and flowers. It's not something immediately observed, but it's warm and sweet and deeply pleasant, and only missed in its absence, like the singing of birds.

I really love his voice. I wish he used it more.

Eventually, he lifts his head and smiles tenderly up at me.

"Thank-you, Gilbert," says his lips.

Thank-you for learning to dance for me, says his eyes. Thank-you for always trying so hard.

I'm supposed to bow my head in reply, but instead I lift his hand to my lips and press a light kiss to the back. And I say:

"You're welcome, my songbird."