In the grand scheme of things, he tells himself it doesn't really matter. Things like treaties and unions never last anyway. What does he care about the Austro-Hungarian Empire? It's a load of bullshit. All empires fall, eventually.

('cept for his, of course, because he's just awesome like that.)

No, it doesn't matter at all, but it does because she's somehow deluded herself into thinking that this sort of shit is real, like that prissy aristocrat is really the one for her when they both know that isn't the case. Their kind don't have stupid, useless things like love or soulmates, and Gilbert knows that even if they did, God wouldn't be stupid enough to pair up two people like Roderich and Erzsi.

I mean, have you met them?

And Erzsébet isn't stupid. He knows she isn't. She's smart as hell, and strong, and tough and why the hell would she marry some sort of effeminate music-playing cake-baking pansy like Roderich? It doesn't add up. It doesn't. It's like two plus two suddenly equals fucking five and he's still lost and still counting on his fingers.

Nevertheless, Gilbert still asks to attend the wedding, if only to laugh at the sight of his childhood friend in a white dress and carrying flowers when only a few centuries ago she would have gagged at the very idea.

He gets a rather passive-aggressive invitation and a 'don't you dare fuck this up or I will personally cut off your arm and beat you to death with it' threat that is all aggressive with absolutely no passiveness whatsoever. He's half tempted to reply with a 'my army is the best in Europe I'd like to see you try' but then again he really doesn't want to see them try so Gilbert just decides to make the best of it and try not to fuck it up.

Though, in hindsight, climbing in through Erzsi's window the night before her wedding sort of qualifies as 'majorly fucking it up.'

Hence why he probably should have expected the punch in the face he gets the minute his feet hit the floor.

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing here?"

If he wasn't seeing stars at the moment, he'd be tempted to laugh at the way Erzi's voice goes slightly higher in that panicky sort of way because he knows that he's caught her off guard now, but now there's sort of two of her instead of one and things are definitely feeling a little wobbly so instead he settles for groping his way over to her bed and sitting down with a slightly satisfied smirk on his face.

"So."

"Get out."

"Mmm…nah."

"So help me I will kill you right now and stuff your body in my closet."

"Haha, bite me."

They glare at each other for about ten minutes longer. Once that's out of their systems, she stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Gilbert counts off the seconds on his fingers. One. Two. Three. Four.

She's back. Thankfully, not with a frying pan in her hands, though you never know, she might be hiding it behind her skirt waiting for the right moment to use it. But instead of hitting him over the head again like he's expecting, Erzsi instead sinks into the space next to him, resting her hands in her lap and staring at the wall in front of them.

A pause. "You're an idiot."

He snorts. "I've been called worse."

It's as though the laugh is something she can't stop from escaping, though she is quick to cover her mouth with her hand and look over anxiously at the door. When there's no sound of footsteps or questions or doorknobs turning she looks back at him, tilting her head as though seeing him for the first time.

"What are you doing here?"

"Tch, what, there some kind of rule against climbing a tree up to a lady's window?"

The acerbic banter is almost an art, perfected with age. It's an old routine, one that he can easily settle into, almost comforting. Unchanging. No matter what, he will always laugh as Erzsi rolls her eyes and delivers her own pointed barbs. No matter what.

"There's probably some law against it. If not, I can always make one to apply only to you."

"Come on, seriously? I'd like to see you try."

"You can't be here."

(That doesn't quite fit. Not quite.)

"Obviously, I can, I am perfectly capable of climbing up a tree and opening a window, provided I don't get punched in the face five seconds afterwards."

It's as though she forces the words out, throws them out into the air before she can take them back. "You have to go."

Now he's the one looking over at her, as if seeing her for the first time. Erzsi is staring down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. Hands that are just about as calloused as his, hands that have seen too much work to belong to an aristocrat's wife.

"I'm getting married tomorrow."

…hands that he cannot hold no matter how much he wants to.

"Well, congratulations."

He's not quite sure where that sudden sarcasm came from. It causes her to turn her head suddenly in his direction, to frown and peer at him curiously as though wondering what could she have possibly done to deserve that.

"Thank you." Her words are just as cold. Even. Measured. It is as though ice grows in the few inches between them. A frozen wasteland that is growing with every passing day, when if he looks back all he can remember is sunshine and trees and a boy on a horse who threw apples at him and who grew up different than expected.

Then again, they both did.

More things from the fluff war. Gilbert Beilschmidt should be protected at all costs.

Hetalia is not mine.

Mischief Managed!