A/N - Sorry about the long wait again! Life is becoming very busy for me! But here we are, finally, a new chapter! If you go look on my bio, I've posted the links of two more amazing fanarts for this fic that you should totally go and check out and shower with love and comments. Thanks to Mizzy Jagger and prussiablue from LJ for them, I love you guys!
Roderich stood in the centre of the room, put his hands on his hips and glared. In response, Gilbert adjusted his smirk from a level six (infuriating) to a level eight (fast approaching a punch in the face). Roderich couldn't quite remember why he had decided it was necessary to create a scale for measuring his Gilbert-caused annoyance, since no scale could ever possibly be large enough, but since it was a fairly good indicator of impending violence, he stuck with it. Now, feeling his fingers twitch a little as he resisted curling his hands into fists, he tried to remind himself that it had been five days since The Week From Hell had begun and so the time was nearing when he would be able to kick Gilbert out of his house, preferably from a first floor window.
"Where is it, Gilbert?" he asked testily.
"That's for me to know," Gilbert replied smugly. "Are you sure you looked everywhere?"
Roderich glanced around the room in exasperation. He hadn't given up on destroying the photograph that Gilbert had stolen from Elizabeta, but before he could so much as crumple it, he had to find it. And therein lay the problem. He had ransacked Gilbert's room; removed the few remaining clothes from the wardrobe, emptied all the drawers, gone through the pockets of the clothes that had returned to oppress the carpet and even taken the cases off the pillows. Interestingly, and this fact probably said something about Gilbert's ability to turn mess-making into an art form, the room now looked a lot tidier than it had done previously. Roderich hadn't understood how this could be possible, and still didn't, but had decided to count it as a small blessing since he knew that he would be the one who would eventually have to clean the room anyway.
"I'll tell Elizabeta that you took it," Roderich threatened in a last desperate attempt at persuading the other nation to hand over the photo. It was a low blow, he knew, but he was past caring. Even the look of utter betrayal that came over Gilbert's face didn't make him feel the slightest twinge of guilt.
"Even if Elizabeta did get it back from me, which she wouldn't, she'd never give it back to you," Gilbert retorted, triumphantly latching onto a counter-argument. "She'd just put it back into her stalker stash." The most annoying thing was that he was right. His last resort snatched heartlessly from his reach, Roderich sighed in frustration and sat down on the bed. Gilbert immediately sat down next to him and slung an arm casually over his shoulders.
"Don't look so depressed, sweetheart, it's not the end of the world," he said soothingly, although the huge grin on his face cancelled out the rather good impression of sincerity in his tone. Roderich shrugged the arm off his shoulders as a small sign of rebellion, but Gilbert merely re-positioned it around the Austrian's waist. "Are you sulking?" he suddenly asked, sounding gleeful about catching Roderich acting immaturely.
"No," Roderich replied, internally wincing as the petulant tone of his voice gave away the lie. He tried to wriggle out of Gilbert's grip, but the other nation only laughed and effortlessly pulled him closer. "Can you stop clinging to me?" Roderich snapped.
"Why would I want to do that?" Gilbert asked teasingly. "You're so touchable." Roderich turned to give the blond nation a piece of his mind only to find himself smothered by a pair of lips before he could even get out the first word.
Immediately, Roderich pushed the other nation away from him. Or, at least, that's what he had intended to do. In reality, his body had committed a mutiny and was sitting docilely, allowing itself to be kissed and resolutely ignoring the urgent commands being issued by its brain. 'You too, arms?' Roderich thought in despair as the traitorous limbs reached up of their own accord to snake their way around Gilbert's neck.
It was almost frightening how frequent scenes of this nature were becoming, Roderich mused idly as Gilbert's arms tightened around him, closing the distance between them as much as their slightly awkward position allowed. Spontaneous kisses like this were becoming an almost daily occurrence and, worryingly, Roderich didn't mind. It seemed as though the more Gilbert gave, the more Roderich wanted. Sometimes he wondered about the nature of whatever was between them, but it often unnerved him too much for him to think about it for any considerable length of time. Lust obviously played a large part in it, but there were moments such as now where something else wrestled lust away from the wheel and took over the role of the driving force behind their actions. What that something else was, Roderich didn't want to know. The possibilities scared him.
Somewhere in the house, the muffled noise of the telephone started to ring. Roderich vaguely considered answering it, and had just rejected the idea on the grounds that it would mean untangling himself from Gilbert's arms, when the Prussian pulled back slightly.
"Aren't you going to answer that?" he murmured.
"No," Roderich replied, already having lost the battle between body and mind, and he pressed his lips to Gilbert's again, fitting their mouths together like two halves of a perfect whole. He successfully ignored the ringing until it stopped altogether, but after a brief pause, it started again, shrill and insistent. This time it was Roderich who reluctantly broke the kiss.
"If they're calling again, it might be urgent," he said, although he sounded dubious as to whether or not he cared. Gilbert let him go, pouting a little.
"It better be urgent," he said.
Roderich walked quickly down the landing to his own bedroom and picked up the handset that rested on a small chest of drawers next to his bed. He was feeling slightly annoyed at whoever was calling for interrupting, and that fact made him even more annoyed at himself for losing control so easily and letting Gilbert do whatever he pleased even though Roderich was supposed to be mad at him.
"Hello?" he said in a slightly colder tone than he would usually have used. However, the response, when it came, dissolved all of his irritation.
"Roderich, you have to help me." It was Elizabeta, and Roderich could hardly make out what she was saying through the sobs that choked her voice. "Something terrible has happened!"
"What's wrong?" Roderich asked worriedly, possible scenarios flashing through his head, each one worse than the last. Had she hurt herself? Accidentally become one with Russia? Killed someone by hitting them a little too enthusiastically with her kitchen appliance of choice then chopped up the body and thrown the pieces into the river?
"It's terrible," Elizabeta gasped through her sobs. "I – I can't find my frying pan!" She collapsed into fresh tears and Roderich paused, unsure whether he had heard her correctly.
"Is that all?" he asked, trying not to sound insensitive.
"I know you think I'm overreacting, but that pan is like a part of me," Elizabeta wailed. "Imagine if your piano had been stolen. That's what this is like for me!" Well, when she put it like that…
As Roderich tried to soothe Elizabeta, Gilbert stepped silently into the room and leaned back against the doorjamb. Roderich hadn't noticed his presence, which Gilbert would usually have taken as an invitation to eavesdrop, but today he found that he couldn't care less about who was on the phone or what they wanted. Instead, he was perfectly content to watch Roderich curl the phone cord around his finger, untangle it, and start the process again. It was a habit so ingrained that the Austrian didn't even notice he was doing it until he succeeded in wrapping the wire so tightly around his finger that he couldn't pull it free. Gilbert chuckled lightly and moved forward to untangle it, receiving a half-embarrassed, half-grateful look in response.
Finally, Roderich bid a goodbye, hung up the phone and sighed. "I'm going out," he said to Gilbert, who had remained standing next to him.
"Cool," Gilbert replied, "I'll come too. Where are we going?"
"To Elizabeta's house." Gilbert's expression darkened.
"No way! I forbid it!"
"She's lost her frying pan."
"Wow, really?" Gilbert's glee returned to his face. "I've changed my mind! We're totally going over to gloat."
"Fine, but I'm buying her a new pan on the way." Gilbert paused and then glared.
"Now you're just messing with me, aren't you?"
"Maybe," Roderich admitted, his lips twitching as he tried not to let an amused smile slip onto his features. "Although I wasn't lying about buying her a new pan. She's very distressed about losing it."
"You do realise that she doesn't use pans to cook with, don't you?" Gilbert said as he followed Roderich out of the bedroom and down the stairs. "In her hands, they're weapons of mass destruction. The world would be forever grateful to you if you stopped encouraging her to commit random acts of violence!"
"They aren't random," Roderich replied idly, "you deserved every smack she's ever given you. Don't argue," he said as Gilbert opened his mouth to do just that. "Most of the time you were attacked for harassing me and I definitely think that deserved punishment. So, are you coming or not?"
"No," Gilbert replied sulkily. "She'd probably test out her new weapon on me." He glared at Roderich, daring him to deny it, but Roderich was ignoring him in favour of glancing down at his dress and biting his lip. "Maybe you should wear a coat," Gilbert suggested. "It's got to be a better idea than just running around in public in that outfit like you did yesterday." His mood lifted as he remembered the events of the previous day and he grinned.
After Vash and Lily had left the day before, Roderich had indeed followed them all the way back to Vash's house, drawing more than a few shocked looks and, frighteningly enough, an offer of a job in the sort of dodgy establishment where tips were given via the insertion of cash into underwear. Roderich hadn't stayed around to hear the rest of the details, but even this incident hadn't given rise to the thought that maybe it wasn't a great idea to walk through the streets in a French maid uniform. It was only when he had managed to harass Vash into accepting the fact that Roderich did not, in fact, have any unusual hobbies involving women's clothing (and especially none that involved Gilbert, how could anyone even suggest such a thing?) that his priorities reorganised themselves into a slightly more logical order. This, however, resulted in him refusing to leave the house dressed as he was. In the end, Vash had resorted to calling Gilbert over to remove Roderich forcibly from his property. Gilbert had found the entire situation hilarious. Roderich had not.
The coat, however, when Roderich put it on, was only a slight improvement.
"You look like you're naked underneath it," Gilbert pointed out helpfully, looking as though he wished this were the case as he ogled Roderich's bare legs.
"Or maybe you're just a pervert," Roderich replied somewhat testily. At least the weather was cooler today, he considered, so he wouldn't look quite as odd as he would have done in the warm sunshine of the past couple of weeks. Gilbert did have a point though, Roderich despaired. He looked like a stripper, or perhaps just somebody who hadn't bothered to get dressed before leaving the house. Either way, he thought, looking on the bright side, at least it wasn't obvious that he was crossdressing. Maybe he would be able to get through this journey without being accosted or arrested. Maybe.
"Don't be long," Gilbert ordered as Roderich stepped outside. "And don't get lost because I'm not going to come looking for you if you do." Roderich scowled at him.
"I can find my way to Elizabeta's house," he protested.
"I'll believe it when I see it," Gilbert replied doubtfully. "Although personally I don't care if you get there or not as long as someone takes pity on you and brings you home before it gets dark." Roderich didn't even grace this remark with an answer and turned to walk away, hearing the door shut behind him.
Finding his way to a supermarket so that he could purchase a frying pan was easy enough, and although a few people gave him suspicious looks, most of the shoppers ignored him, which was a relief. As Roderich stepped out of the shop carrying a plastic bag, he was rather glad of the coat for keeping him warm as well as hiding the shameful dress. The day had become quite cold as clouds blocked out the sun and slowly took over the sky until it was completely swallowed by white.
It was only after walking down the street for quite a way that Roderich started to get an uneasy feeling of unfamiliarity. Looking at his surroundings, the feeling deepened. It was possible that he perhaps wasn't entirely sure where he was, although he couldn't be too far from the right path, Roderich reasoned. Surely if he kept going he would find somewhere he recognised. So, ignoring the fact that he used this logic every time he got lost and it had never once gotten him anything except even more lost, he carried on. After all, there was a first time for everything, right?
Forty minutes later, Roderich finally admitted that perhaps today was not a day for firsts. He stopped walking and looked around in despair. The street he was on was pleasant, lined on one side with old but well-kept houses, the other side a sloping grass bank that led down to a river, a few small boats tied to posts along the side. However, this provided little comfort since it meant that Gilbert had been right about Roderich's incompetence in getting from point A to point B without taking a detour through points L to Q and ending up at point Z. He hated it when Gilbert was right.
Roderich was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't notice the other person on the street until he started walking again and bumped into them.
"I'm sorry," he apologised, "I didn't see…" His voice trailed off as he realised that he recognised the man in front of him. "Ivan?"
"Da, it's me," the Russian replied, smiling in his customary ambiguous way. Roderich wasn't sure whether he was lucky that somebody had found him or whether he would prefer to have continued roaming the streets aimlessly until he inevitably ended up in France. This appeared to be the default destination of all Roderich's journeys if he lost his way, something that he was highly suspicious about, but so far he had been unable to prove that Francis was somehow orchestrating this. All he knew was that when the street signs started to be written in French, it wouldn't be long until he was found by a certain Frenchman who never looked surprised to see him and was very reluctant to let him go home.
"You look lost," Ivan commented, and Roderich wondered whether he really did or if everybody just automatically assumed that he would be.
"I am," he admitted, supposing that since he had already used up his quota of close encounters with Francis for this week, he might as well give Ivan the benefit of the doubt and allow him to help. "Um, could you…that is, if you wouldn't mind…"
"Of course," Ivan replied, and Roderich tried to convince himself that the Russian's smile didn't look sinister. "Don't worry; I'll take you back to where you belong."
***
Gilbert was bored. There was nothing to do now that Roderich had left. He had already found Roderich's world map and re-named Austria as 'Prussia' and the other countries had now been labelled such things as 'Pervertopia', 'Here be eyebrows', or simply 'Prussia's bitch'. It had been fun for all of fifteen minutes and then he had lost interest and doodled Gilbird in Alaska shooting laser beams from its eyes at the other forty-nine states of America. Since then he had rearranged the mess on his bedroom floor (Roderich, for some unfathomable reason, kept trying to destroy his masterpiece) and considered making himself some food before deciding that being bludgeoned by a fruit bowl was still not something that he wished to experience. At the moment he was seeing if getting a new perspective on things would reveal any exciting new ideas, and so he was sitting upside down on the couch with his head on the floor and his legs up against the back of the sofa when the phone rang.
After sitting up and letting the blood rush out of his head for a moment, Gilbert reached out and picked up the handset, feeling slightly light-headed. "Good afternoon, you've reached Roderich Edelstein's answering machine, please leave a message after the beep." There was a pause.
"Aren't you going to beep?" Elizabeta's voice asked.
"No," Gilbert replied, "because I don't want to hear your message. Why are you calling here anyway? Roderich set off to visit you over an hour ago. Didn't he make it?"
"Apparently not," Elizabeta sighed. "That's unusual. I spent months training him so that he could find his way here. He hasn't gotten lost on the way for a long time." Even so, Gilbert thought, all it takes is one little distraction and – oh. Of course.
"It's because he went to buy you a new frying pan on the way," he said, voicing his thoughts out loud. "I told him it would only cause trouble. Serves him right for not listening to me."
"He bought me a new pan? Oh, that's so kind of him," Elizabeta gushed. Gilbert scowled. "He didn't have to do that – I didn't ask him to. He's such a –"
"Can't you just back off from him?" Gilbert suddenly snapped as the already dangerously fragile buffer between his thoughts and his mouth collapsed. He paused as he realised that he had finally spoken aloud what he had wanted to say to Elizabeta for a long time. He wasn't sure whether it had been wise. But then, oddly enough, Elizabeta laughed.
"What's so funny?" Gilbert asked, failing to see anything remotely humourous.
"Your completely unnecessary jealousy," Elizabeta replied, still sounding amused. "Look, nobody's going to come onto Roderich-"
"Francis already did," Gilbert interrupted.
"Yes, but he doesn't count," Elizabeta replied airily. "He'll make a move on anything that has a pulse. In fact, I'm not entirely sure that a pulse is a requirement for him…"
"Get on with it," Gilbert said impatiently. A noise of indignation came down the phone.
"You're so rude," Elizabeta sniffed, and for a moment Gilbert thought she was going to hang up, but then she continued. "The point I'm trying to make is that even if anybody else did try it on with Roderich, they wouldn't stand a chance." Gilbert frowned, trying and failing to glimpse some sort of logic in this claim.
"Why not?" he asked, giving up. Elizabeta sighed.
"You're so blind," she said. "Both of you. Go and figure it out yourself." And this time she did hang up the phone. Gilbert scowled.
"Well fuck you then," he said to the dial tone, and put the receiver back on the hook.
Gilbert honestly had no idea what Elizabeta had been trying to say. In fact, he half suspected that she had been talking rubbish for the sole purpose of confusing him. It was the sort of thing she would do. Well, she wouldn't get away with it! Gilbert picked up the phone again and dialled Elizabeta's number.
"What now?" the Hungarian asked testily when she answered.
"I hope your frying pan burns in Hell," Gilbert snapped, and felt mild satisfaction as he slammed down the phone. Revenge always made him feel better.
Clearly Elizabeta had no understanding of how these things worked, he considered as he tried again to make sense of what she had said. Perhaps she had been referring to the fact that he was so irresistible that Roderich wouldn't have eyes for anyone else, since this was the most logical assumption to make. However, there had been many times in the past when Roderich could have chosen to be with him. He never had. This was why Gilbert was so paranoid. In his experience, even if someone wasn't in a relationship, they had the power to enter one at any given moment, making themselves unavailable to anyone else who was interested. Not that Gilbert had ever considered the possibility of entering a relationship with Roderich himself. It wasn't a thought that came naturally to him. All he knew was that he didn't want any other bastards laying a hand on his maid. Ever.
Gilbert abandoned these thoughts for the time being, since now it was time to go and find Roderich before he inevitably ended up in Francis' clutches again. Gilbert shared Roderich's belief that Francis had somehow managed to create some sort of Roderich-magnet, capable of luring the unsuspecting Austrian into France against his will. If so, it was a terrible, inhumane device and ought to be destroyed. Secretly, Gilbert wished that he had thought of it first.
As he opened the front door to leave, however, he was surprised to find that somebody was already standing on the doorstep, hand poised above the doorbell. It was Toris. That was odd, Gilbert thought, frowning a little. Toris was one of the last people he would expect to come knocking on Roderich's door. Toris, however, did not look surprised to see him. Gilbert was about to ask what he was doing here when an envelope was thrust towards him. He took it cautiously.
"Ivan asked me to deliver this to you," Toris said shortly and turned to leave, but Gilbert reached out and snagged him by the back of his shirt.
"Hang on a minute," he ordered. "What's this about?" He held the envelope as if it might explode at any moment; anything to do with Ivan made him instantly suspicious. Toris threw him an annoyed look and tried to free himself from Gilbert's hold, but he wasn't quite strong enough.
"I have no idea what it is. I was told to give it to you and that you'd be here. That's all. I've done my job so let go of me, I have other things that need doing." He glared at Gilbert, who ignored him as he struggled to open the envelope one-handed. It wasn't easy, but eventually he managed it, holding on to the letter inside and shaking it free of the envelope, which he let fall to the floor.
A short message had been written in Ivan's painstakingly neat handwriting. It read: 'Gilbert, it may interest you to know that while I was taking a walk today, I found something that belongs to you, although it insists that it does not and assures me that I'm drawing entirely the wrong conclusion. If this is the case, I intend to make it one with Russia. If not, I still intend to make it one with Russia since it happens that I require the services of another maid and it would be a shame to let this one go to waste on you. P.S. kolkolkolkolkol!!!'
If writing a sinister laugh on a letter wasn't a sign of insanity, Gilbert didn't know what was. And three exclamation marks? He shuddered to think of the level of madness that would drive a man to use such excessive punctuation. What really made his blood run cold, however, was the mention of a maid. The thought of Roderich being in Ivan's clutches made him feel as though ice were crystallising in his veins.
"Is something wrong?" Toris asked warily as he watched Gilbert's expression, although he wished he hadn't spoken when a hand fisted in his shirt and yanked him closer to, though still not quite reaching, Gilbert's eye level.
"What has Ivan done with him?" the other nation growled. Toris strained on his tip-tops and hoped that his shirt wouldn't rip. He tried to school his expression into one that was in no way punchable.
"I don't know who you're talking about," he protested. "Whatever the letter says, I have nothing to do with it. I'm just the messenger." Gilbert looked torn between believing him and ripping his head off. "Look, if Ivan's done something wrong," Toris tried to reason, "go take it up with him." Gilbert considered this and decided that it would be much more satisfying to take his anger out on Ivan. Plus, every minute he spent here was another minute that Roderich was in danger of becoming one with Russia…
Toris stumbled as the hand bunched in his shirt abruptly let go. Gilbert pushed past him and broke into a run without a word. Toris scowled after the retreating figure as he straightened his shirt and massaged his abused throat. As he did so, something on the floor caught his eye, and a closer inspection revealed it to be Ivan's letter. Well, Toris justified as he bent down to pick it up, just dropping it like that was practically an invitation to read it. So he did. He frowned.
"Maid?" he wondered out loud. He thought back to Gilbert's earlier choice of pronoun. "Him?" he mumbled. He glanced at the evil laugh in the postscript, glanced at the house in front of him, glanced back towards where Gilbert had disappeared. "I don't even want to know," he said.
Gilbert reached Ivan's house fully prepared to fling open the door, storm inside, and play hero ten times better than Alfred could ever hope to. Probably ten times more violently as well. However, as he went to make his dramatic entrance, his plans were foiled before they had even begun. The door was locked. Usually this sort of outrage would have caused Gilbert to sulk for hours, but he didn't have time for that right now, so instead he grudgingly knocked on the door, trying to ignore the disappointing sting of anticlimax.
The sound of a key slowly turning in the lock reached his ears, and he clenched his hands into fists, muscles tensed and ready to swing a punch. When the door slowly swung open, however, it wasn't Ivan's face that was revealed.
"Can I help you?" Raivis asked nervously, taking in Gilbert's expression and stance and wishing that he hadn't opened the door.
"Where's Ivan?" Gilbert asked, pushing roughly past him into the house. Raivis decided not to complain about this display of rudeness. Living in Ivan's house had done wonders for his self-preservation skills.
"He's in his study," he replied instead. "Up the stairs, first door on the left."
Gilbert was taking the stairs two at a time before Raivis had even finished speaking. There was a pit of worry eating at his insides and he only hoped that he wasn't too late. If Roderich had been hurt in any way – any way at all – then Gilbert was going to take the Russian's precious faucet and –
He flung open the study door before he could complete the thought. Ivan calmly raised his head from the papers he was reading at his desk and smiled at him in a way that made Gilbert want to wring his neck. In a fury, he marched over to the desk and slammed his hands down on it.
"Where is he?" he growled.
"I see you received my letter," Ivan said conversationally, totally ignoring the question. "Though I must admit that I didn't expect you to get here so quickly."
"Cut the crap, Ivan!" Gilbert shouted, not in the mood to deal with the Russian's games. "If you've done anything to him, I will kill you." Even Ivan couldn't ignore the seriousness of the threat, and his eyes hardened, his smile becoming colder.
"It seems that you still haven't managed to learn any manners," he said quietly, and his tone made Gilbert suppress a shiver.
"Where is he?" Gilbert repeated. Ivan let his eyes slip from Gilbert's face to focus on a point behind the Prussian, and Gilbert suddenly realised that he had been so intent on threatening Ivan that he hadn't even glanced at the other half of the room. He turned.
Roderich was lying on a sofa, the coat missing and the maid uniform exposed. His eyes were closed and his glasses had been placed neatly on a coffee table. Gilbert rushed over to him and knelt beside the couch.
"Roderich?" he said, trying to get some sort of reaction from the motionless form. "Hey, wake up!" He shook Roderich's shoulders gently, but the other nation didn't even stir. The pit of dread in Gilbert's stomach began to writhe uncomfortably, and his mouth was suddenly very dry.
"What did you do to him?" he demanded, aware that there was now more fear in his voice than anger. He looked up at Ivan, who had followed him at a leisurely pace to stand over them, looking positively cheerful at Gilbert's reaction.
"Now, now, don't jump to conclusions," he chastised. "This had nothing to do with me. I'm afraid the exertion of walking too far in the cold took its toll on him and he fainted. Poor thing," he added, idly stroking his fingers through Roderich's hair. Gilbert grabbed his wrist and jerked it away, shooting the Russian a glare so intense that it was a miracle he didn't combust on the spot.
"Don't touch him," he snarled. Ivan merely looked amused. Gilbert didn't believe Ivan's excuses for a second, although on touching Roderich's cheek it became apparent that the unconscious nation was quite cold, so Gilbert shrugged off his jacket and laid it over him. He also smoothed out a flip in the skirt that was revealing more thigh than he was comfortable with Ivan seeing.
"Roderich explained the circumstances of the dress to me before his unfortunate bout of unconsciousness," Ivan commented after watching this gesture. "He was very keen that I understand that you are the sexual deviant and not him."
Gilbert didn't bother replying to this in favour of sliding one of his hands under Roderich's shoulder blades and the other under his knees, then lifting the other nation into his arms, cradling the limp body against his chest.
"We're leaving," he said to Ivan, his tone promising that any argument would result in faucets having to be surgically removed from unmentionable areas.
"I'm afraid I can't allow that," Ivan said sadly, and withdrew something from his pocket so quickly that Gilbert had time only to blink before something was sprayed in his face, and then he was breathing it in and feeling lightheaded.
"W-what?" he managed to say, dimly realising that his vision was growing faint around the edges. Ivan gently eased Roderich from his unresisting arms.
"Do you think I sent you that letter merely to gloat?" he asked, smiling in a way that infuriated Gilbert even through the haze that his mind was quickly becoming. "I knew you would come to rescue your maid. Soon you will both become one with Russia, da?" Gilbert would have punched him, but somehow all he managed to do was plough headfirst into the carpet, and then his world went black.
Ivan watched him collapse, and then sighed. He placed Roderich carefully back onto the sofa and looked pityingly down at Gilbert. "Oh dear, it looks like Gilbert has exerted himself too much in the cold as well," he said. "When will they learn?"
***
Gilbert's eyelids felt heavy and his head hurt. Those were the only two things he knew. He tried to open his eyes, but it was too much effort and it was so much easier to just lie here where it was soft and comfortable and there were fingers carding through his hair – wait. What?
"Careful," a voice said as he tried to sit up. The hand withdrew from his hair and pressed on his chest, pinning him down. "Just lie still for a minute."
With enormous effort, Gilbert forced his eyes open, blinking them rapidly a few times to adjust them. Roderich's face swam into view above him, looking relieved. After a couple of seconds of confused disorientation, Gilbert realised that he was lying on the floor but with the added bonus of Roderich's thighs acting as a makeshift pillow for his head.
"Score," he mumbled to himself. Roderich frowned.
"What was that?" he asked.
"You have a comfy lap," Gilbert clarified, and Roderich blushed slightly and looked away.
"Well I couldn't lift you onto the couch and you looked uncomfortable on the floor," he said, his tone daring Gilbert to find a problem with this explanation. Gilbert was never one to turn down a dare.
"You could have used one of the cushions on the couch," he pointed out. Roderich bit his lip lightly, looking caught out. Gilbert decided to take pity on him. "I prefer your thighs to a cushion, though," he said, reaching up a hand to slide along under the skirt and turning his head to kiss the other's skin lightly. Roderich caught his wrist and pulled his hand away.
"This isn't the time," the brunet murmured.
"Will later be the time?" Gilbert asked automatically, before suddenly remembering where he was and why he was lying on the floor. He immediately tried to sit up again, but his head swam and Roderich had to help him.
"He drugged me!" Gilbert realised furiously.
"Me too," Roderich said, proving Gilbert's earlier suspicions to be true. He was surprised when Gilbert's hand came up to rest on his cheek.
"You're all right, aren't you?" Gilbert asked, his eyes boring into Roderich's as if he were trying to see into his soul. "He didn't hurt you?"
"No," Roderich replied, and Gilbert felt relief spread through him. He leant forward and kissed Roderich gently, just wanting to feel the softness of the other nation's lips.
"I thought you said you weren't going to come find me if I got lost," Roderich murmured against his mouth. Gilbert kissed him again.
"I lied," he said.
At that moment, a sound made them both turn. The study door opened and Ivan entered, smiling and holding a sheaf of paper. The sight of him caused a shock of anger to rush through Gilbert and he got to his feet, Roderich mirroring the movement.
"You bastard," Gilbert growled. "You can't just douse people with chloroform-in-a-can or whatever that crap was!"
"Actually, I can" Ivan corrected cheerfully, annoying Gilbert even more. "Although I'm glad to see that you've both woken up. I've finalised the paperwork that will put Austria under Russian rule. All I need is your signature." He put the papers on the coffee table and beamed at Roderich as if he were asking for something completely reasonable.
"What makes you think I'm going to give you my country?" Roderich asked, genuinely bewildered by Ivan's casual attitude. "I'll never sign!"
"That's what everyone says…at first," Ivan replied. He paused. "In fact, they don't usually change their minds." He frowned, as if only just realising the flaws in his plan. Then he shrugged. "I'm sure you'll want to become one with me after enough vodka." Gilbert stepped forward, outraged.
"The only person who's going to become one with Roderich while he's too drunk to know any better is me!" he proclaimed. Ivan looked confused.
"How is that possible?" he asked. "You don't have a country to become one with." Now it was Gilbert's turn to look confused.
"I don't see how having a country would be necessary," he replied. Roderich smacked his hand lightly against his forehead, a long-suffering look on his face.
"It wasn't an innuendo, Gilbert," he explained. Gilbert stared at him, bewildered.
"Really?" he asked.
"Yes." Frowning, Gilbert tried to make sense of how a sentence like that could possibly not contain a double entendre.
"…are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Oh." Gilbert looked thoughtful. "Weird." Then he resumed his previous expression of righteous anger. "Either way, I'm going to kick your ass," he proclaimed, before flinging himself at Ivan, fist pulled back ready to punch.
Roderich looked around helplessly as the two men started to brawl, searching for something – anything – that he could use as a weapon. Ivan was strong and he was putting up a good fight, deflecting enough of Gilbert's blows and landing enough of his own to keep the fight more or less even. Roderich knew that his own hand-to-hand combat skills were somewhat lacking, so instead of getting in the way, he tried to find something that could enable him to help Gilbert. Suddenly, he spotted something familiar lying on the carpet next to the couch. He smiled. Bingo.
Gilbert let out a gasp as Ivan's fist was painfully introduced to his cheekbone, and suddenly he was caught in a headlock. He struggled, but the Russian's grip was too strong.
"You're always causing so much trouble," Ivan chastised, though he was panting a little. "You shouldn't-" A noise that sounded faintly familiar to Gilbert interrupted him, and then Gilbert felt the arms around him slacken and fall away as Ivan collapsed onto the floor. He looked down at the prone form in confusion and then understood. A frying pan lay on the ground, trying to look innocent, but Gilbert knew better. He now realised that the familiar noise had been the sound of a pan colliding with a head, something that he knew about all too well. He turned to see Roderich holding a plastic supermarket bag.
"Remind me to Have Words with Elizabeta later," he said. "She's clearly a bad influence on you."
"You're welcome, it was nothing to save you from being beaten," Roderich deadpanned. Gilbert looked offended.
"Hey, I was defending you!" he protested. "And I would totally have won if you hadn't interrupted." Roderich rolled his eyes and retrieved the pan, placing it back inside the plastic bag. He then hesitated and checked Ivan's pulse, just in case. He looked relieved by what he felt, causing Gilbert to momentarily assume that the Russian was dead, only to have his hopes dashed when he noticed that Ivan's chest was rising and falling as he breathed. Gilbert pouted, disappointed.
Meanwhile, Roderich was looking for something. "Can you see my coat?" he asked, having moved on from the fact that he had KO'd a man with a kitchen appliance to more important matters. Gilbert glanced around the room. The coat was nowhere to be seen.
"I'd lend you this," he said, picking up his jacket from the sofa, "but it's not long enough to hide the skirt." His eyes landed on Ivan's still form and he suddenly grinned. "I have an idea," he said.
When they stepped out of the front door a minute later, the air had gotten slightly warmer, although not by much. Roderich looked unhappily down at the coat he was wearing. It was Ivan's, and it was ridiculously large on Roderich.
"I look even worse than I did before," the Austrian moaned. Gilbert laughed and flipped the scarf around his neck that he had also liberated from Ivan, just out of spite.
"But less dodgy than you would in nothing but a maid uniform," he pointed out, and pulled the sleeve of the coat up until it revealed Roderich's hand, which he grasped tightly in his own. Roderich faltered and blushed, looking a little shocked.
"W-what are you doing?" he stuttered.
"Making sure you don't get lost again," Gilbert replied, smirking as Roderich scowled at him and turned away, although he didn't try to reclaim his hand.