Hey, I'm back.
Damn, I remember writing this when I was in so deep with the Hetalia fandom.
The fire's cooled down a bit since then, I'm afraid lol.
"Gil, you've been sitting there for the past two hours. It's time you get up and live and live a little!" Antonio said, putting an arm around Gilbert's shoulders, trying to shake him loose.
Gilbert took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to sound as calm as he could. "Antonio," He began, though he almost never used Spain's full first name, "Get off me before I break your hand off."
"All right! Fine!" Antonio drew his hands back, holding them up defensively, "Geez, I was just trying to help..."
Somehow, Gilbert sounded a lot more menacing like this than on one of his rampages. Instead, his face stayed still like a slab of marble.
Antonio figured it'd be best to leave Gil alone for now, and instead asked the bartender for another round of drinks. He slid a glass of whiskey down the rough wooden table, right beside Gilbert's elbow. The man grunted in thanks, and his borderline maniacal gaze was channelled from Antonio's face to the glass of amber liquid. He looked as if he was about to cast fire upon it, and gave his friend the goosebumps.
Francis strolled over to the two men, and took the other seat beside Gilbert, who shot him a serpentine glare when he also tried putting his arm around his stiff shoulders. Sometimes, Gilbert wondered why he had friends at all.
"Come Gilbert, it is your turn to pick." Francis gestured to the half dozen harlots sprawled around the bar, their bodies all arched in awkwardly sexual poses. His sinister appearance seemed to excite these women, instead of repelling them, as one was even brave enough to blow him a kiss.
Gilbert shook his head and looked away, resisting the urge to retch.
"I'm not feeling up to it today." He stated through gritted teeth.
Francis, apparently immune to the venom in his voice and ignoring the warning stare that Antonio shot him, refused to give in. "Nonsense!" he boldly declared, waving his hand dismissively, "What better way is there to heal the wounds of love but with more artifice? You spend too much of your time with rugged men like us, and you've kept your softer, gentler desires famished for far too long, my friend!"
He gave Gilbert a slimy smirk, and turned the woman sitting at one of the tables, her wavy blonde hair splayed across her shoulders and down her unnaturally fertile chest. He eyed her and flicked his finger, as she stood up and strutted over, her powdered, heavily made-up face displaying a sensual nonchalance.
"Francis, don't do this." Gilbert growled, his voice low and fatal.
Francis ignored him, and said to the woman, "Sweetheart, this gentleman is feeling a little lonely, and he is in desperate of your wonderful talents..."
The woman gave him a smug smirk and turned to Gilbert, who was beginning to look dangerously annoyed. She leaned over and was about to cascade her lean, curvy body upon Gilbert's lap, like she had done to hundreds of customers before him. Out of reflex, he gripped her arm and threw her to the ground. "Get off me, you filthy whore!" He roared, and immediately regretted it.
He placed his hands in the air and stepped back. "Sorry," he said quickly, looking away.
The harlot was in utter shock, and could not say anything. Francis shook his head, and pulled her up from the ground. "I apologize for my friend, miss." He said, looking down at Gilbert disapprovingly and back at her. "If you are still interested, you may serve me instead and I shall pay you double?"
She bit her lip shyly, and gave a slight nod.
France smiled kindly, and patted some dust off her backside. He turned to Gilbert, who had his arms crossed, and was looking down solemnly. "Is that the right way to treat a lady, Gilbert?" Francis asked calmly, as well as he knew how much his friend hated being condescended. Gilbert answered with silence, and without bidding farewell to the scene he had caused, he turned his heel and strode to the door, his slightly tattered cape billowing behind him.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Ever since his break with Elizaveta, Gilbert had almost completely shut himself from all social connections. Yes, Francis and Antonio would visit recently, but ever since that incident at the bar, they had refused to take him anywhere until his spirits improved, not that Gilbert wanted to go out much in the first place.
Instead of wasting his time drinking and picking fights with strangers, he instead resorted to actually finishing the stacks of homework assignments that his boss had given him, on time too, for the first time in history. He had spent days in front of his desk, frantically scribbling letters in his unpracticed, childish script, until his quills snapped in half and the ink in the bottle became crusty. As proud and relieved as his boss was, he also became worried about his subordinate's furious productivity. Not that Gilbert ever concerned himself about what his blasted boss thought of him, or anyone else, for that matter.
Nowadays, Gilbert only allowed himself to get drunk on Sunday afternoons, as a ritual to which he had religiously abided as long as he could remember, and refused to forsake. It was always right after the weekly sermon he delivered at the Königsburg cathedral, which fewer and fewer attended as the years went by. But, the fading faith that his people had in the church was the least of his worries, after a long, agonizing week that had drained all of his mental capabilities, leaving him an empty, thoughtless shell.
The agony Gilbert had felt were not due to all of this menial office work. In fact, the reason why he had entrenched himself in the first place was because, as much as he didn't want to admit... he still missed Elizaveta.
With that thought, Gilbert slapped the table, demanding the slightly offended bartender to fill his shot glass. He finished it with a large gulp, savoured the feeling of liquid fire darting down his throat. He coughed, and smacked his face upon the bible he had in his possession, a painfully uncomfortable pillow. His head was pounding, and felt heavy as if it was stuck in a bog.
He didn't know, nor could he figure out whether he got drunk to forget about her, or to be with her.
Even though he probably had every right to, Gilbert couldn't find it in himself to hate Elizaveta. What hurt him most was not that she didn't want to be with him anymore, nor that she had decided to marry Roderich, but that she had lied to him. Having known Liz all his life, and watched her grow from a little girl to a woman, no one in the world knew her better than Gil did, not even herself. When she had told him that she was no longer in love with him, he could see it in the tiniest glint in her eyes, the betwixt most minute stutter in her voice, that she was lying.
Instead, he hated that Elizaveta didn't trust him enough to tell him the truth. He hated the wedding invitation that Roderich had thrown at his feet. But he could never hate her, and because she would not have wanted him to, Gilbert couldn't hate Roderich either.
Which meant, if he were to hate at all, Gilbert could only hate himself.
Gilbert couldn't hate himself every day of the week though. He had his day job to do, and could not afford to be distressed.. So, only on Sundays did the little pub down yonder welcome this strange albino man. He never left a tip, and sometimes forgot to pay his bill. But, somehow, the owner found it in himself to let it slide, especially when the man was in tears, pounding his fist against the table, and mumbling the name of the same girl over and over again.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Prussia had been sent on a rather... interesting errand today. His boss called him into his office this morning, and with his feet propped upon the desk, and as he was lighting a cigar, he told Prussia, in a frustratingly casual tone, that he was going to have a little brother.
To be frank, Prussia hated children, and had no idea what to do with them. He had only heard of horror stories from Spain about his experience with having to take care of Romano, and figured if someone as patient as Antonio couldn't handle a little child, his own chances of success was slim to none. France eagerly, a little too eagerly, asked to take custody of him, but Prussia politely declined, and punched him in the gut.
So now, Prussia was walking down the shady forest path, occasionally weaving willow branches away, and sidestepping fallen logs and boulders, trying to look for the place where his boss had said his little brother was waiting. Prussia wondered what he looked like; he hoped he was a handsome kid. But then again, everyone in his family was, except Austria.
His blade sliced effortlessly through a thicket of vines, and made him a clear path into a meadow that was only dotted by a few dwarf trees here and there. At the centre stood a wooden stump, and judging by its sheer width, it was once probably the tallest tree in the whole forest. A group of bright red mushrooms, big and small, had poked their heads out of the soil and huddled themselves in a little circle around it.
A little boy sat upon the stump, and looked comically disproportionate due the its height and width, and his own short stature. His feet dangled above the ground, and he was tapping his boots lightly against the coarse bark while humming a tune, bored. His navy blue cap sat next to him, and he had a head of well-trimmed blond hair.
Thinking that this kid was the one he was looking for, Prussia walked up to him, curiously tilting his head to see what his face looked like. The kid looked up, and when he did, Prussia almost fell on his back in shock, but luckily, didn't.
This person looked exactly like someone Prussia had met many years before. The person, or should he say, kid in question supposed to have died in war. But, he had the same facial features and hair colour than the one sitting in front of him. Now that he thought of it, when he met this person, he was wearing the exact same uniform! Prussia wondered what kind of dirty trick the Devil had in his sleeve now.
"Holy Rome?" Prussia uttered.
"Who's this 'Holy Rome' you speak of? I am Germany." He even had the same ambitious, self-righteous air that Holy Rome did, as spooky as it was.
"Then why do you look exactly like Holy Rome?"
"Do you dare to question me?" He countered coldly.
Prussia stepped back, and bowed, while trying to stifle his giggles. "My apologies, sir." He said, unwilling impose a bad first impression.
Fortunately, Germany failed to catch Prussia's sarcasm. He picked up the tree branch that he had left aside started poking at the ground, which apparently required undivided focus.
Prussia walked over and knelt down beside him.
"Wutcha doin'?"
"Killing ants." He replied, as he shoveled another bit of loose dirt, trying to bury an ant hill. But, the ants, as smart as they were, always dug themselves a way out, rendering his efforts futile. Growling in frustration, he poked at the dirt with more stubborn ferocity, which served to squash the insects more than it buried them.
Prussia shook his head. "That's not how you kill 'em," he sniggered, "If you do that, they'll just climb right back out. You're wasting your time, kid."
Germany's eyes narrowed. "Then how do you do it?"
Taking out a small silver flask from his pocket, Prussia flashed his signature grin. "You have to grab them where it hurts, dummy. Like this-"
He unscrewed the cap, and poured a good amount of hard liquor into the hole, making the poor insects squirm more frantically. He took out a box of matches, lit one, and tossed it upon the ant hill.
He gestured to the thin sheet of flames that burst into life immediately. "See? Isn't this more fun?"
Germany gave no reply, but continued to stare intently, somewhat awestruck. Prussia, who failed to see any poetic significance in mere burning fire, gave it a few seconds before stomping it out with his foot. "Come on, let's go home." He ruffled the Germany's head, and put his cap on.
"Fine." The boy grumbled, and put his hand in Prussia's and allowed himself to be pulled down from the stump he was sitting on.
"You know you're supposed to be my brother now, right, Holy Rome?" Prussia asked, as they were walking away.
"I am not Holy Rome!' He huffed.
"Yeah, sure, whatever."
Germany couldn't remember anything else, other than being told that his human name was Ludwig, and that he had to wait on the stump until, "an albino with a bad attitude came to pick him up." But, now that he thought of it, he remembered that he didn't think too highly of this man, though he couldn't place exactly where and when he had met him before.
I told you I would update, lol.
I'm on a roll tonight. xD
I don't know when the next one will be, but hopefully soon. :)