A/N: I updated. Love me!
Chapter 2:
Okay, how am I going to do this? Gilbert asked himself, walking along the hall on the fifth floor of the hotel. He had stopped Feliciano to ask which room the Italies were in, certain that was where the sobbing Chiara was headed. Obviously, Chiara Vargas was not the type of girl to just jump into bed with someone who asked. Dammit, why couldn't it have been Françoise or Analiese? thought Gilbert miserably. Of course, it had to be a girl he'd actually have to work for.
"Fuck…," he mumbled, trudging along in a fuming rage. This was going to be absolutely miserable! First of all, this girl was Italian. That meant her tastes would be impossibly expensive. Dating her would probably cost more than the hundred euro bet anyway. It was only a matter of pride that kept Gilbert resigned to this arduous task. And on top of all of this, how was he supposed to convince Chiara Vargas to go out with him in the first place?! Everyone knew Chiara was after Antonio… everyone except Antonio, that is. Gah! How was he going to do this?
Fuming he knocked on the door, crossed his arms and waited for a reply.
"Go away!" was what he got. With a roll of his eyes he rapped his knuckles on the door again.
"I said go away!"
Ignoring the request, he cautiously turned the knob on the door, testing it. It appeared to be unlocked. Without further hesitation, he turned the knob and pushed the door open.
"Ya know, when I'm upset, I stop being sad and just be awesome instead," he said more smoothly than he felt, leaning against the door, his hand still on the knob. Chiara, who was lying on the bed, her back to the door visibly jumped and shot up to a sitting position, looking over her shoulder in shock.
"What the hell?!" she demanded, running the back of her hand over her eyes in an attempt to remove the tears still lingering on her face. "What are you doing here? Get out!"
"Noticed your discontent. Thought someone should come by and make sure you were okay," Gilbert lied, hoping she didn't throw something at him.
"Well, I'm fine," she spat, clearly unaware of the mascara and eyeliner running down her face. "Now get out before I call security."
"No, need for that, princess, I'm only here out of concern. What's the matter? Break a nail?"
He ducked as the vase that had been sitting on the bedside table was flung mercilessly at his head. Huh. That looked expensive.
"Seriously, though, what's wrong?" Gilbert asked, attempting to keep the irony in his voice to a minimum.
Chiara jumped to her feet, glowering and stomped up to Gilbert, so close they would have been nose to nose had she been a few inches taller. Actually, he'd never really been close enough to her to notice how short she was. The top of her head barely brushed the bottom of his nose, which was saying something given how short Gilbert himself was.
"I am not in the mood for this today, potato breath!" she shouted, jabbing him in the chest with a well-manicured finger. "Get out or you'll feel the full force of the Italian Mafia!"
The idea of prissy, little Chiara Vargas drawing a gun on him was so comical Gilbert had to try very hard not to laugh in her face. Instead, he settled for raising his pale eyebrows at her and meeting her narrow-eyed gaze without flinching. Her eyes had small flecks of blue in them, when she was angry, he noticed.
"I'm shaking," he mocked her.
If looks could kill, he thought wearily, watching her expression turn—if possible—even icier at his sarcastic tone. He saw her delicate hands twitch slightly as if she were itching to place them around his neck—and, he would later reflect, she probably would have if it hadn't been for the voice that interrupted them from behind him.
"What are you doing here?"
Gilbert barely had time to register that it was Lovino before Chiara had side stepped him and launched herself at her brother. Lovino, taken by such complete surprise, was tackled to the ground, his hat falling off and rolling away as the back of his head connected hard with the tile floor beneath them.
"OUCH! What the hell, Chiara?!"
"bastardo! Ti odio! Vorrei che tu muoia!" Chiara screeched, her hands at Lovino's neck, knocking his head against the floor repeatedly, as Lovino clawed at her hands, squirming desperately in an attempt to throw her off.
"Get—off—me—what—the-hell!" he gasped out between blows to the head, though he could barely be heard over Chiara's shrieks in Italian.
It occurred to Gilbert that he should probably do something. If the rage on Chiara's face was anything to go by, Lovino was in serious danger, but he found the exchange too entertain to intervene. There was something very endearing about watching a tiny, Italian princess beat up the brat one of his best friends had raised.
Speak of the devil, here comes said best friend.
"Chi—HEY! What are you doing?!"
Gilbert looked up from the extreme display of sibling rivalry in time to see Antonio break into a run down the hall. The poor fool had probably been looking for Chiara, to inquire as to what was wrong and had happened upon her attempting to throttle the man he loved. How… weird.
"Chiara, stop it!" Antonio said, reaching down and attempting to pull her off her brother, but she had such a tight hold of Lovino that he was nearly lifted off the ground along with her.
"You could help me!" Antonio shot over his shoulder at Gilbert, who was still standing there watching, his head tilted to the side in mild interest.
"Yeah, I could," Gilbert acknowledged. He chose not to, favoring watching the three of them struggle for several more seconds before Antonio succeeded in dragging a kicking and screaming Chiara away from her winded brother, who sat up rubbing his neck, eyeing his sister in the most loathsome way, Gilbert had ever seen.
"You are a psycho!" Lovino screamed at her, breathily.
"And you are a bastard! I hate you, Lovino, I hate you!"
Chiara was still fighting, tooth and nail, to get back at Lovino, apparently unaware of who was holding her back.
"What's this about?" Antonio had to shout over Chiara's continued shrieks of "I hate you!".
"I have no idea! She just attacked me!" said Lovino jumping back to his feet. "And what the hell are you doing?" he added to Gilbert who still stood silently, watching the exchange.
"Watching a cock fight, apparently."
"Chiara, why did you do that?" Antonio asked, though Gilbert doubted Chiara could hear him over her own screaming. "That's so mean of you to fight with someone for no reason."
Chiara suddenly went still, her yelling now only dying echoes in the hall. Gilbert was still bracing himself for what seemed an inevitable explosion when she spoke, quietly, her voice trembling slightly.
"Go ahead, take his side. Why wouldn't you? He's so damn perfect and I'm… I'm…."
"Insane?" Lovino offered, bitterly.
That appeared to be the final straw for Chiara; she wrenched herself out of Antonio's slackened grip and ran, ran past Lovino and Gilbert down the hall and out of sight, Gilbert certain he heard another sob as she passed.
"cazzo putanna," Lovino said, staring after her, before turning to meet Gilbert's gaze. "What were you doing talking to her?" he asked, and Gilbert was surprised to hear a tone of defensiveness in his voice. Pretty interesting that he was suddenly eager to defend someone that had just tried to strangle him and whom he himself had called a fucking bitch, though he supposed he understood the sentiment. He hated his own sister at times but if anyone else dared touch her, he would murder them in cold blood.
"Setting out on the most arduous task of my life," he said bitterly.
"What are you talking about?"
"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."
"You and what army? It's not like you have one anymore."
Well, that was like salt in an old but still very painful wound. Seriously, what did Antonio see in this little bastard? …hadn't Gilbert seen Antonio leaving the hotel with Chiara not long ago? Why would he do that if he was so obviously smitten with Lovino? Gilbert glanced between the Spaniard and the Italian before face-palming as he pieced together what had happened: Antonio must have asked Chiara for advice on how to ask Lovino out. Of course Chiara had headed back to the hotel distraught and jumped on Lovino the moment she saw him. She had spent the last three decades attempting to deny what was a World-wide known fact: that Antonio was in love with Lovino. Poor girl had just had the last of that small hope shattered. Gilbert almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
With a sigh he turned and started off in the direction Chiara had gone. He still had the stupid bet to think of, meaning he would have to start working his way into her good books if he wanted to have chance at winning this.
It took Gilbert so long to find her, he thought she may have returned to the World Meeting. Through a little applied logic, he reasoned that someone as preoccupied with appearance as her would never turn up at a meeting with make-up running down her face and she therefore had to be around somewhere. It wasn't like it mattered if he missed the meeting, after all, he thought with a small pang.
Stop it, he told himself firmly; he couldn't be thinking like that.
An hour of scouring the hotel yielded no results and he was wondering around outside, thinking he may just have to pop by Italy at a later time when the sound of soft sobs caught his ears. He narrowed his red eyes in the bright sunlight (his vision was really starting to get bad. Too bad he hated his glasses.) searching for the sources of the noise. And there she was, sitting beneath a tree, knees drawn up with her face buried in them sobbing uncontrollably in the summer air. Gilbert took a deep breath to prepare himself. Well… here goes.
Quietly, he approached her, his soft, grassy footsteps not reaching her over her own uncontrollable hiccups and cries. He stood beside her, looking down at her for a moment before he spoke softly.
"You shouldn't cry over people who don't deserve your tears," he said gravely. It was something his sister, Maria, had told him after the incident with Elizabeta and Gilbert thought it would apply quite well here.
Chiara started and looked up at him, hastily wiping her eyes on the back of her hand.
"Are you following me?!" she asked outraged.
"Yup," Gilbert said lightly, moving to sit down next to her, pointedly ignoring the look he was receiving from her—like he was a worm in one of her precious tomatoes.
"And why would that be?" She demanded. At least his presence seemed to distract her from her heartache, Gilbert thought dully.
"I know a thing or two about heartbreak."
He said it matter-of-factly but Chiara sensed some deeply hidden pain there, not that she cared. It was of course common knowledge that loss was a part of Gilbert Beilschmidt's life. Even in her own misery, she had to reflect on how lucky she was compared to him. Sure, she had just had her heart ripped out by the man she'd loved for over a century and she could never live up to the rest of her family, but at least she was still a Nation. This thought made her feel a little bit better. She chose to keep this to her self.
The silence was awkward, but Chiara had no idea how to break it. Gilbert however, didn't seem bothered by it; he was staring at the ground, a faraway look on his face as if lost in thought. It took Chiara several minutes to realize the fact that there was silence at all was extremely out of character for the man sitting next to her—she spent more time with the German family than she would have liked to and knew he was usually a ball of energy, bouncing off the walls and babbling away about how awesome he was. In spite of herself, she found herself wondering what had him in such a deep trance. Not that it was her business. Not that she cared about him. She didn't even know him. But she had to admit it was odd to see the conceited Gilbert look so… lifeless. Perhaps the tragedies of his life were finally catching up to him.
After nearly a half hour, Gilbert sighed and got to his feet, offering a hand to her, which she ignored, choosing to remain seated as she was in the fetal position.
"Come on," he said. "I'll buy you a drink."
That was unexpected.
"And why would I accept a drink from you?" she asked coldly.
"You'd rather sit here and wallow in self-pity?"
"Said the man with the bad hangover."
Gilbert wasn't sure why but he laughed, regretting it instantly as it made his head throb horribly.
"Touche. But seriously, come on."
Chiara crossed her arms over her chest, and turned her head, eyes closed and nose in the air, pointedly ignoring the offered hand. Gilbert rolled his eyes; it was really a wonder anyone could stand to be around this woman. Here he was being uncharacteristically nice and all she could do was scoff at him. What a bitch. He was very tempted to shout "Fine! Just sit here and rot for all I care!" but he bit his tongue. He'd never get her into bed like that.
"I'll buy you a tomato soup," he tempted.
"I'm not my stupid brother," she snapped. "You can't bribe me with tomatoes."
Gilbert rolled his eyes.
"Pasta then. Whatever."
"Why the sudden fixation with dining with me?"
"Come on. A pretty girl like you? Who wouldn't want to treat you?"
"Are you being sarcastic?" she asked, moodily.
"Not entirely ."
It wasn't as though she wasn't honestly attractive, with her olive skin, wild curly hair with the weird cowlick and enormous brown eyes. Hell, if he hadn't known she was a raging bitch, he might have considered pursuing her for real. Unfortunately, beauty was only skin deep.
She jumped to her feet and scoffed at him, arms still folded across her chest.
"Well that's just dandy, because you couldn't pay me enough to go anywhere with you!"
Ditto! he very nearly shouted. It wasn't worth it. No amount of money was worth having to put up with this little ray of sunshine. He would march right up to Francis after the world meeting and tell him he won, hand over the money right there. He didn't want to go near Chiara Vargas with a fifty foot pole, much less his five meters of awesome.
And yet…
The gloating image of Francis's smug face, laughing at his defeat made him hesitate as he heard the words in his head.
"Ohonhon, I knew you could not do it. You have simply lost the bad touch."
I haven't lost anything! Gilbert told the Francis in his head, furiously. He was Gilbert Beilschmidt, the awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt, a third of the infamous Bad Touch Trio and nothing if not determined. He could get anyone he wanted!... except Elizabeta… but screw her! It was her loss, right? Right. He would prove her and Francis wrong, prove to himself he still had the Bad Touch charm. And he would do it by screwing this girl if it was the last thing he ever did!
Which it very well may be, a voice he hated, commented lightly. No. Don't think like that. Focus on the task at hand, only the task at hand. Convince her to go somewhere with you, treat her, use the Bad Touch Charm. You'll have to move quickly if you want to win this bet.
"Hey! Bastard! I'm talking to you!"
Gilbert gave his head a small shake to bring himself back to the present. Oh. So she had been talking.
"Why don't we finish this conversation over an early dinner?" he asked smoothly… or as smoothly as was possible considering who we're talking about here.
"I said no!"
"Oh, come on, Chichi, don't say no to free food."
"…WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?!"
"Your name's a mouthful. Come on. I know an Italian place not to far from here that's pretty decent."
"First of all I never trust Germans to accurately judge Italian food!"
"Prussian," Gilbert corrected through gritted teeth. It was a common mistake but it always irked him. "How about a drink?"
"Am I not speaking a language you understand? Nein."
"You're sexy when you speak German."
"AGH!"
She turned angrily on her heel and began to stomp off in the opposite, direction. Gilbert followed her, his hands in his pockets, smirking. What had he been thinking? Seeing her this steamed made it all worth it. He loved pissing people off! And admittedly, she was rather adorable when she was angry, with her cheeks flushed red and puffed up. He shook his head slightly. He was starting to sound like Antonio.
"How about this? Let me buy you a drink and I'll stop following you."
This one seemed to peak her interest. She stopped at least and turned to glare icily over her shoulder at him.
"You just don't take no for an answer, do you?" she snarled.
He met her gaze unashamedly.
"I'm known for it," he said lightly, still fixing her with that cocky grin.
She exhaled deeply through her nose before turning to face him more fully.
"Fine. If it'll get you off my back you can buy me a damned drink. But I'm ordering the most expensive thing they have to offer!"
"I wouldn't expect anything less of you, princess," filling his voice with as much irony as possible on the last word.
She threw him a dirty look but said nothing.
The walk to the bar was… well "awkward" wasn't the right word but it wasn't precisely pleasant. Chiara glared stonily at the ground passing beneath her feet and Gilbert watched her, smirking as she huffed and fumed along. Twice, Chiara snapped at him to knock it off but Gilbert ignored her. They stumbled into the bar, shivering slightly as the temperature changed rapidly around them and they took seats at the bar. The heavy-set barkeep greeted them enthusiastically.
"What can I get you?" He asked smiling toothily at Chiara.
"I need a bottle of the most expensive wine you carry."
"Seriously?" the bar keep asked through a laugh.
"It's on him," she explained nodding slightly in Gilbert's direction.
Gilbert rolled his eyes but said nothing. Bribery, was an affective persuasion method, especially in dating, he reminded himself. Vaugly, he wondered what he could bribe her with to get straight into bed. The idea was squashed as quickly as it had come; Chiara was far too classy sleep with someone for profit. Damn it all.
"Here," said the barkeep handing Chiara a bottle of red wine. "That's the best we've got."
"How much?"
"326 dollars?"
That sounded like a lot.
"How many Euros is that?"
"250."
"Seriously?" he said incredulously, grabbing the bottle out of the barkeep's hands and scrutinizing it. "What, is it made from gold?"
"That's really not a lot," Chiara said off-handily. "But I wouldn't expect someone as classless as you to know anything about fine wine."
"I'm buying it for you, aren't I?" Gilbert said snappishly, reaching for his wallet.
Chiara said nothing as Gilbert pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to the barkeep.
"Hold on to this one, sweetheart," the barkeep said swiping Gilbert's card. "You clearly mean a lot to him."
Chiara rolled her eyes and Gilbert scoffed as the barkeep handed the card back to its owner and he put it back in his wallet.
"There," said Chiara venomously, "you bought me a drink. Now, I'm leaving."
And before Gilbert could so much as call her back she had slid off her barstool and hurried out the door, leaving Gilbert starring open-mouthed after her, not tearing his eyes from the spot she had disappeared from until the light chuckling of the barkeep broke through his revere.
"That's one feisty broad you got there," he commented with a smile. Gilbert just lay his head down on the bar in defeat. Good God, what had he gotten himself into?
A/N: Short. Very short. And I don't like the ending :/
"Chichi" is supposed to be pronounced like "Kiki". And yes, Gilbert will continue to use this little nickname.
Leave a review, my lovelies, if you want to read more.
