Long hiatus because of no access to wifi, sorry!

More Eli and Gil adventures coming up, and the return of Arthur Kirkland to this story (honestly, it's like I forgot he was the title holder).

Enjoy, and please review!

–-

The kitchens, it appeared, were actually pretty easy to slip into through the vents. Except for the fact that she had to endure Gilbert kicking her in the face by accident for ten minutes, Eliza had quite enjoyed it. Not that she'd admit it, but his incessant humming of the Mission Impossible theme song had made it even better.

Now, she was watching the albino flit through the kitchen and pick random elements from the multitude of cupboards, lightly amused. Honestly, he was going so fast she could barely spot anything except his hair. To make it even funnier (the guy had to secretly have a TV show), he was apparently talking to Gilbird in rapid German, swearing when the bird's "answers" didn't please him. Elizaveta felt a bit guilty she was letting him do all the work, but hey, he had refused any help, so she might as well take a break.

Her green eyes followed the Prussian as he finally stopped, features coming back into focus, and moved to grab some of the things he had brought with him. The Hungarian pushed herself off the counter and landed neatly on the floor.

"When I said we needed a big cake, I didn't mean we needed to provide the school's entire buffet for the next year." Elizaveta noted dryly, eyeing the heap of ingredients Gilbert had dug out. He turned and glared. "You asked for my help, liebling. You don't question my methods." She rolled her eyes, before asking inquisitively: "What does liebling mean?" He paused to stare at her incredulously. "Are you trying to tell me that you and Roderich were married for centuries, and he never called you liebling?!"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "No. Why?"

The Prussian gawped. "W-what about schatze? Liebe? Engel? Süße? Maus? Spatzi? Röschen?" He asked, eyes wide. Geez, what was so terrible?!

"No, no, no, and no. Now can you please tell me what they mean?" She snapped, on the defensive. He was on too much of a roll to be embarrassed, so he simply translated: "Darling, precious, love, angel, sweetheart, mouse, swallow and rose, respectively. They're German terms of endearment." The brunet stayed silent for a moment, torn between laughter at the fact that he took it so seriously, hurt that she'd never heard them before, and a bunch of other options that were far too confusing. She settled on laughing at him, trying to hide the fact that his words hit close to home: "Oh, man. Why are you even taking this so seriously?"

He didn't respond to the joke, red eyes narrowed. "What did he call you then?" She sighed (her tactic had failed) and answered honestly: "My nation name, or Elizaveta."

Gilbert tilted his head: "What about Eliza?"

"No."

"Liz?"

"Nuh-huh."

"Veta?"

"Neither."

"Eli?"

"Nein."

"Zavet?"

"Prussia, stop it."

Acknowledging the hard tone of her voice and the fact she had reverted to his nation's name, he shut up and went back to preparing the oven, leaving her to her own thoughts.

Elizaveta had loved Roderich. She hadn't for a long while, but near the middle of their alliance she had begun to appreciate his discreet laughter and his elegant way. It wasn't a passionate love, merely a domestic one, nor was it incredibly strong; she had been happy to recover her independence, but she liked him, and if forced to it could become love. She'd grown out of it rather quickly, but they remained on good terms, and she would sometimes think nostalgically back to the olden days. He had loved her too, she knew. Or at least she thought she knew. After Gilbert's surprise, she felt unsettled. She'd never called him anything but Roderich or Mr. Austria, herself. Come to think of it, she couldn't really remember him being overly affectionate-he was always rather distant and professional; even slightly cool at times. She hadn't minded, at least until the Prussian had filled her mind with doubt mere minutes ago.

After a while, she became conscious that the kitchen suddenly smelled deliciously, and snapped out of her trance. The heap of ingredients had disappeared, replaced by empty bowls in the sink and a cake in the oven. Turning her head, the Hungarian spotted Gilbert, eyes closed and flour on his nose, sitting quietly on a chair. She consulted her watch; to her surprise she discovered she'd been out for thirty minutes.

Cautiously, she approached her long-time foe and sat down opposite him. Huh. She observed him pensively, taking in the white, messy hair, the long eyelashes, the straight nose with the light freckles and the flour, the scarred hands, and Gilbird perched on his shoulder. A strong feeling of affection overwhelmed her, she pushed it away hysterically. What was with this guy messing up her thoughts? Nevertheless, she couldn't help but wonder (how had she only noticed this now?!) why on earth Gilbert would be calling her "sweetheart". If what he said was true (and for once, she didn't doubt him), then what he'd been calling her for the past while were mostly terms of endearment in his native language. She shook her head wryly. No doubt they were ironic or something. Still, one wonders...

As if he'd heard her thinking, a red eye opened slightly, followed by the other, and suddenly Gilbert was observing her through his lashes. "Hey, spatzi. How's it hanging?" He yawned. "Why do you call me that stuff?" Elizaveta asked frankly, watching him stiffen before snickering. "Long story short, ages ago I called Arthur cutesy nicknames for a month to annoy him and the habit stuck. When he calls nowadays I answer with a "Whaddya want from me, chickadee?" or something akin to that. He does it too, actually, though more like "How goes it, bloody git?" and that kind of stuff."

Elizaveta grinned, imagining Arthur's response to being called "sugar" by the albino, then asked: "When was that?" Gilbert's smile disappeared. "After the Second World War." They fell silent as the brunet mentally awarded herself the "douche of the year" prize.

She cautiously changed the subject to something else: "Did you finish the cake, then?"

He nodded. "Sorry 'bout dumping you with the job, I kinda zoned out." Eliza said, pushing a curl behind her ear. He smiled wryly: "Yeah, I figured that out after waving my hand in front of your face for five minutes. No big deal, though, I work fast when I feel like it." "I know that." A new silence, more comfortable than the first, then he asks: "So, about that interview...?"

–-

Gakuen Gazette, issue 13891

Prom and matters of the heart, according to one Gilbert Beilschmidt

Interview by Elizaveta Hedevary.

I greeted Gilbert Beilschmidt casually as I entered his room. Perched upon his bunk, legs dangling in the air, video game remote still in his hands; the perfect image of many a male student in our school. It was for this reason, of course, that I was approaching him.

He quit the game and indicated the couch with a wave of his hand. I settled on it and got out my notebook and pens as he watched me with a certain amount of curiosity.

I started with the basics: "Right, so Gilbert, what do you think about the prom?"

Being Gilbert Beilschmidt, of course, he had to answer strangely: "Personally, I find the prom to be an unawesome, overly formal event that makes people stress unnecessarily. It'd be much simpler if we could just have a plain party."

"Well, parties aren't known to be plain when you attend them," I noted dryly, referring to the infamous third year party in which the so-called "Bad Touch Trio" had reigned havoc, including spiking the punch, tying a student to the roof and locking teachers in a cupboard. The "Prussian" snickered, evidently recalling the event in a different light than I did: after all, the student tied to the roof had been none other than Roderich Edelstein, his long-time enemy, and my boyfriend at the time.

"Naturlich, schatze, now please continue." He purred lazily, causing me to harrumph and throw a pen at him. Sadly, his reflexes were fast as always, so he deflected it and the poor pen ended up flying out of the window "by accident". (Readers will of course recall the situation between the ex-nation and myself and understand how thrilling this interview was for me.)

After a few more questions, I gathered that for most of the school's boys, asking people to prom is pretty stressful. Not only is there the fear of refusal and the issue of pride, but the methods of approaching at asking the lady in question (or, in our school, the boy) are varied and difficult to plan. When asked what could help the possible suitor to ask the desired one out, Gilbert answered after a moment of thought that if the girl just behaved casually around him and didn't make a big deal of things, there would be less stress about "the whole shizam", as he puts it so eloquently.

Then came the big question: what kind of girl (person) would most people be looking for? "I'm not exactly most people!" He exclaimed laughingly, before finally quieting down and answering pensively: "I guess it depends on the person, but most guys I know are looking for someone sweet and smart who's compatible with them." Out of curiosity, I asked what he himself would look for in his partner (I had to make a snide comment about the few people who would want to).

His response, I have to admit, quite surprised me, as I was expecting something along the lines of "hot and worships me". Instead, he tilted his head, allowing Gilbird to perch on it, and stared at me (or rather right through me) as he replied: "I guess someone strong, mostly. Not as in super muscle chick, like inner strength and all that. And smart, and brave. I guess something like some old fashioned idea of a knight!" He laughed, before adding: "Physically, obviously I don't want an ugly girlfriend, but I think I'd live with it if she was worth it. I mean, I was considered a freak for these-" a finger points out his scarlet eyes and white year "-and I'm seriously awesome, so don't judge!"

Well, there you have it, girls! The guy you think is inaccessible might just be less of a jerk than you thought! Remember, try to not stress out about the prom or create a sense of expectation about it-that'll just make it worse for the guys.

Besides, hey, if you don't get asked, go with friends! No one in this school is immature enough to care.

(At least I hope so.)

–-

Arthur Kirkland stared in shock at the blank desk in front of him. One envelope?! It couldn't be. Was there really just ONE of these damned things left?! The blonde felt like crying of joy. He turned around to shout in triumph at Francis, then remembered with a slight pang that he wasn't there. He mentally kicked himself. He was really way too used to the annoying French student.

Still, Arthur had to admit that the last weeks had felt a bit strange. Especially with half his friends now coupled up, he felt a bit excluded, and it was extremely disturbing to have no one to argue with. There was Alfred, of course, but he had turned remarkably less annoying in the last few days, even stooping so low as to drink tea with Arthur when they watched Dr Who together. Then there were those like Gilbert, but to be fair Arthur and Gilbert got along quite well in some sort of sarcastic relationship.

In general, Arthur felt like something was missing; and he kept starting to do things out of habit before remembering that Francis wasn't there.

Still, it wasn't though he missed the obnoxious student; Arthur had always liked a bit of solitude. He did, however, have a feeling that he wouldn't enjoy it if it lasted for too long. Nevermind that! He wasn't going to start wishing Francis Bonnefoy was here! Besides, the French student certainly wasn't missing him, so he should just forget it.

His mind flew back to his conversation with Gilbert, earlier that day:

"-I'm guessing you don't have someone to go with at all, sugar doll.

-To go with where, exactly? And seriously, that was years ago. Stop it.

-The prom, of course, Mr dark horse.

-Oh, yes. No, I've been too busy organizing the damn thing to bother. On another subject, what reminded you of that stupid game of yours?

-It's an awesome game, Mary-Jane.

-That one was terrible.

-Yeah, yeah, I'll stop.

-...What about you?

-Nein. Don't know if I'll even go.

-Why? You're usually the life of the party, along with-Oh.

-Yup, what with Toni all lovey-dovey and Francis gone...

-At least you don't have all your ex-colonies hating your guts.

-Oh, man, we're totally old cranky guys, aren't we? Fallen Empires and all that.

-You know...If we don't find anyone else, we might as well go together.

-Whaattttt?

-Oh, please, don't do that. I meant as friends. I'd rather have your painful company than be alone.

-Oh thanks, Art, I feel so apreciated. But sure, whatever. Then we can embarrass all the couples around us by loudly wondering how long they'll last.

-W-wh-I would never do something so ungentlemanly!

- Yeah you would.

-...Fine. I would."

An evening with Gilbert could be quite fun, he supposed. Though the Prussian certainly annoyed him with his arrogance and carefree attitude, he had a cynical outlook on life to match Arthur's own, and the traces of a powerful nation were ever present on him too. No, he could definitely have done worse.

Then had come the second part:

"-Hey, what's that on your desk?
-DON'T TOUCH THAT!"

That was, of course, the worst thing he could've said, because the albino's eyes took on an eerie glint as he grabbed an envelope. Luckily, at that exact moment Ludwig barged in, half-hysterical and asking his brother how on earth to deal with Italians. Gilbert had been dragged away as he shot Arthur a panicked glance. The Brit had only been able to return it, staring after Ludwig in bemusement.

He blinked, pushing the memories away and concentrating on the task at hand. As he opened the envelope, however, he froze, staring at the name at the top of the page.

Liewe Arthur,

As jy nie wil hê die hele skool moet hoor van jou geheimpie nie, stuur vir my 'n foto van jouself en die sleutels van die koerant se kamer.

x

A

ARTHUR? Arthur?! It couldn't be. Yet it was.

What was this language? Not German, not Dutch, maybe Flemmish? It sounded a lot like it, but-
Ah. Afrikaans.

Racking his brains, he managed to roughly translate it.

Dear Arthur,

If you don't want the _ school to hear about _, send me a photo of you and the _ of the newspaper's room.

x

A

His photo and the keys to the newspaper's room. Why on earth did South Africa need them? He wasn't foolish enough to suppose it was something flattering. Still, between the two options...It was a horrible decision to make, and so he needed help.
With a groan, Arthur realised he only had one option left to ask for help.

So he swung his chair around to face his brothers.

–-

Wales was spread out on his bed, brown curls hiding his eyes as he read on, while Scotland was angrily jotting down notes about some test he was taking (Arthur hadn't the faintest idea what it was; he and Scott hardly shared their lives with each other). As for Northern Ireland, he was drawing something, pastels strewn all over the floor near his bed. Not for the first time, the Brit thanked the Lord for the big room they had; if they'd been made to live any closer to each other someone would be dead by now.

The blonde coughed loudly, causing his brothers to turn towards him with varied expressions: while Scott scowled, Owen looked curious and Liam's eyes glinted mischievously (Arthur really didn't want to know).

"What d'ye want."

The Brit had to force himself not to snap back; doing so would just give him and Scott an excuse to fight, and then he'd never be able to ask them anything. He closed his eyes and counted to ten before answering: "I wanted to ask you about something."

Though their expressions didn't change, he caught the flash of interest before it vanished. What's so important that he's giving up arguing with Scott?

They would, of course, hold it as blackmail, but Arthur preferred them having it than others, because he also had his own stock, and they knew it. So he took a deep breath and told them everything.

–-

"...respond to the threat." Arthur finished, rubbing slightly at his eyes. It had already been ten thirty when he'd started talking, now it was past eleven. He surveyed his audience. Liam had curled up on his bed as if listening to an epic tale; Arthur felt a brief surge of affection for his youngest sibling. Owen was examining the letter, seemingly trying to help, while Scott's lips curled upwards in amusement. Without having to ask, the ex-pirate knew he was enjoying the fact that Francis had managed to trick Arthur into writing love advice.

"Well?" He asked after a moment. Scott smirked at him. "I was wondering why the advice had become so stupid. Now I ken why." His younger brother scowled: "Oh, shut up. I'll let you know that it worked anyway, and much better than his stupid advice ever did." The red head shrugged: "I'll give ye that...Yer an excellent Aunty Agony." He drawled mockingly, causing Arthur's ears to flush red. "Owen?" he gritted out, ignoring Scott's snickers. "Well, obviously you shouldn't listen to her. Between the two evils, it's always best to choose the one you know. And it-" The more placid sibling was quickly interrupted by Liam: "No, no, that's stupid! Give her the stuff! You never know how she might twist it!" Before anyone could add anything, he ran over to his elder's desk and grabbed the keys and a random photo, then dashing off with remarkable speed. The others stared after him. "Wh-what was that about?!" Arthur spluttered. For once, Scott mirrored his expression, while Owen was still looking, shocked, at the door.

"HEY! WAIT! COME BACK!"

–-

Liam dashed around the corner and down the stairs, leaping past Antonio as his brother's annoyed shout reached his ears. He sped through the hall and up the stairs before finally finding himself in front of the African girls dorm. He knocked rapidly and the door swung open, revealing Angélique in her pajamas, yawning. "What is it?" The Irish teen didn't bother answering, slipping past her until he reached his destination.

"What're ye doing?" He asked in his best no-nonsense voice, accent becoming louder as he did so. Adri blinked, then turned to him with an angelic expression. "What do you mean?" The freckled nation groaned, showing her the keys and photograph. "There ye go. Now talk." Her green eyes lit up and she sat up, leaving her book. "I have a plan concerning one Arthur Kirkland, and for once it won't permanently affect his mental health." She paused. "I think."

Liam grinned. "Sign me in."

–-

WHAT WILL HAPPEN GASP

If you can guess you earn drabbles ;)

The plot kind of happened at random here because I know the end but not how it'll happen, aha.
Man, I feel like writing PrUK now. And SA/Ire. Damnit.

Anyway, reviews make me write so please do!

NEXT CHAPTER: An unexpected guest appears and Gil and Eli get awkward
NEXT NEXT CHAPTER: ?

NEXT NEXT NEXT CHAPTER: End of the story!