Sonata 9 pt 4

Tenth man down

The sound of cannon fire deafened him, the smoke from the rifles blinded him and the smell of blood and iron was everywhere. Gilbert would have laughed with joy if he hadn't been in the middle of a battle. This is what he was made for. His hands, clutching a blood-drenched blade, his fingers, calloused from the trigger of his own rifle, his skin, dirtied from gunpowder and the soil he fought for.

Austrian soldiers, Russian soldiers, it didn't matter who faced him. He could not die. Not as long as his lands were known as Prussia. He was terrifying and glorious to behold. Prussia. A war machine if ever there was one.

Friedrich couldn't tear his eyes away from his precious nation. Gilbert was on fire with passion, with an ancient desire to fight, to conquer. Maybe a remnant from his early days among the crusaders…But whatever the reason, he was living out that desire right now, at the cost of Austrian, Russian, Hungarian and Prussian blood.

He himself, the king, was far too close to battle for his generals' comfort. Beneath him, the grey horse pranced nervously, frightened by the constant firing of rifles and cannons.

But Friedrich was deaf to the pleas 'for his majesty's safety'. His men were here, his nation was here, his heart and place were right here, close to the front lines. He could still see Gilbert, a furious whirl of red and Prussian blue, wreaking havoc amongst enemy lines and giving the Prussian forces the motivation they needed to attack.

His beautiful Gilbert…Friedrich would do anything to have those pale lips stretch into a sated smile, to see those crimson orbs content with what he had achieved. Friedrich wanted...yes he wanted Prussia to be proud of him. He wanted Gilbert to be proud of him. He wanted his name to live on in fame. Sure, he'd have preferred to be a philosopher or even a musician, but he knew what tremendous power and fame his position as king could bring him. And only a fool would let the chance slip by. Especially with such motivation as Prussia himself, an enticing, energetic and eccentric being that deserved everything a king could offer to him.

Friedrich had offered his heart and soul to Gilbert, wooing him with the promise of battle, courting him with the temptatious offers of conquest.

Sure enough, it had worked. Gilbert was dedicated, loyal, protective…everything one could hope for as a regent faced with the embodiment of his nation. But Friedrich was no fool. He too knew that Gilbert was, personally, in love with his king. It was not the popularity Fritz held amongst his people, nor was it the fact that he was doing so much to improve Prussia.

No, Gilbert had fallen in love with Friedrich all by himself. That was why he was fighting with such passion, such joy. He was fighting for his beloved king, so he could make his dreams come true.

Though it was a fatal mistake to allow Friedrich, not the most attentive of fighters, to be so close to the battle.

Roderich, the embodiment of Austria, was breathing heavily, trying to ignore the screams of anguish from his dying soldiers. He had been ordered not to go and fight Prussia personally which he was finding an increasingly difficult order to follow. Prussia couldn't be harmed by bullets or stab wounds…Only the loss of his land and army would hurt Gilbert. Or a killing blow on his regent to whom he was so closely linked.

So Roderich aimed carefully. He only had one shot at this, only one shot at the man who had started this war, who had unleashed Prussia upon Europe.

Friedrich the second seemed unaware of what kind of a target he was making on his grey horse. Roderich drowned out the shouting around him, steadied his own horse. He squinted a little along the barrel of his rifle before he pulled the trigger.

Gilbert had been in the middle of breaking an Austrian's back when he felt it. Like a sharp stab to his chest, it robbed him of his breath for a couple of seconds and he nearly tumbled to the ground. Crimson eyes widened with panic and a single name broke from his lips,

"FRITZ!"

By the time he got behind the frontlines, the generals had all assembled around his king. Gilbert pushed through them without a care for their fragile natures as humans. He fell down to his knees next to his beloved king. At least Friedrich was still breathing, though his eyes were wide with shock. Gilbert cradled his regent in his arms, unable to say anything to him. After a couple of seconds, he frowned. Friedrich wasn't…bleeding or anything.

An eyebrow quizzically cocked, Gilbert stroked over Friedrich's body slowly, as if to check himself whether he was in one piece or not.

"Friedrich…are you…not hurt?" he whispered, unable to believe his luck when Friedrich shook his head and reached to open his vest. Gilbert did it for him, giving a choked laugh of triumph as he pulled out a small, golden tobacco box. In which a bullet had embedded itself. This little insignificant item had saved Friedrich's life, that shot had been aimed at his heart and had knocked him off of his horse. Gilbert held the little box up into the air; the generals broke out into joyous cries of disbelief.

Prussia cradled his king closely, dirty fingers threading through soft brown-grey hair, Fritz had even lost his hat and wig.

The king reached up to wipe a few worried tears from Gilbert's blood and dirt-smeared face as the nation finally whispered a few words to him.

"You bastard! I was scared to death something had happened to you, but apparently Lady Luck is keeping her eye on you so I don't have to…"

"Gilbert…" Friedrich smiled apologetically, knowing damn well every word the albino had said was true. That wasn't just luck, that was a damn miracle. Something wanted him to succeed, if it was Luck or God, he couldn't possibly tell.

-1740-

Friedrich didn't know if this was heaven or hell anymore. Gilbert inside of him felt too good, devilishly good, nothing this unholy should be this right…

And yet he couldn't help thinking that this was beautiful. How could it be wrong for two men to do this? How could his father, who had done this with Gilbert before him, condemn his own son for it?

But now was not the right time for Friedrich to dwell on such matters, because the albino above him had evidently decided he was stretched enough. The young king's body shivered with anticipation, it had been so long since he'd done anything like this. Years, long, lonely years…and the heartbreak he connected to the only person he had touched sexually was too much for him to bare thinking about doing it with anyone else.

Strangely though, it didn't seem to matter now. This was so different. Gilbert was so different. He was experienced, he was hungry…he was gorgeous. The way his dark red eyes flashed with unbridled lust, the way his pale body molded itself against Friedrich's…Beautiful. Enticing. Enchanting.

"Gi-Gilbert…!"

Somehow, he wanted to show the impertinent soul that he felt…ready for this, he wanted it, he was literally panting for it now against those pale lips.

Gilbert seemed to have understood long ago because that smirk once again spread across his lips. With a wet little noise, he pulled his fingers out of his king and grabbed something from the table next to the bed. Friedrich was far too turned on now to recognize what it was, all he felt was the sensation of something far larger than a few fingers probing at his backside.

"My king…" the albino above him purred before he buried himself within Friedrich. The young king gave a startled moan of pain, he hadn't anticipated quite such an energetic 'entry'.

Gilbert breathed heavily above him, placing small kisses on the face of his new monarch. Soon enough, his movements turned smoother, he slowly began exploring deeper into Friedrich.

Slim, long fingers were buried in Gilbert's silvery locks, well-formed lips panting with pain turning to pleasure and dark blue eyes closed gently, giving in to said pleasure as the albino nation paid worship to his king's torso.

Oh, Friedrich could get used to this. Becoming king had just gained another uniquely satisfying perk.