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Gil tries desperately to focus on a spot on the ceiling at first. Problem: there is no spot on the ceiling. And so Gilbert settles his gaze upon a corner. Prays that if he focuses on it for just enough he might be able to forget the moving body above him, what they’re doing, what they are.
Pretend it’s someone else, maybe? Austria, perchance. Which is cruel and unfair and Ludwig deserves so much more than what Gilbert can give him but Gilbert knows that if he doesn’t pretend, he might just scream.
Even that much is difficult, because Ludwig is unsure and shy and tentative, his fingers wrap around Gil’s manhood questioningly with those stupidly big, blue eyes (stop looking at me like that , Gil begs silently) and every five seconds it’s a do you like this, is this okay and it takes all of Gil’s willpower not to shut him up with a scarily violent bite (kiss) to the lips. Gilbert fails, naturally, like he does.
Gilbert calls Ludwig by many names. Brother, Kid, My Worst Fucking Mistake.
Sometime between when Gilbert had been handed the infant (It was more like he had been forcefully thrust in his hands by Bismarck) and now that the names had changed. Lover (he says this as a joke, with a grin, as a tease over breakfast, his fingers on Ludwig’s arm, pulling him away from whoever else is taking Ludwig’s attention and demanding it himself) my darling, half my soul, (in the throes of passion, desperation, clawing at Ludwig with neediness) My Worst Fucking Mistake (After they’ve done it agin even though Gilbert promised himself he wouldn’t, the lights off, Ludwig asleep beside him, blissfully unaware)
Gilbert would argue that while he’s never been the best brother in the world, he certainly isn’t shit at it.
Later, he will argue (more furiously than he’d like) they aren’t brothers at all, they don’t have the same blood and forcing them into silly little human labels won’t change what they are; manifestations of dirt and maps.
The first night they have sex, its a stutter of awkward fumbling and tenderness. And for Gilbert, self loathing, hate, resentment, other things sublimed that he’d really rather not think about.
Ludwig is quiet for a long time afterwards and Gilbert hopes (fears) that this little trieste will be enough to satisfy whatever appetite puberty has ungraciously settled upon him. That he will never crawl into Gilbert’s bed again (liar).
“That’s not what I was expecting it to be like,” Ludwig tells him suddenly, with a trace of uncertain hesitance. His face is half hidden in the pillow, though he peers at Gil through the fluff.
“Oh?” Gilbert swallows. You’ve ruined sex for him, he berates himself, just like you’ve gone and ruined everything else.
“Yes.” There is silence and then Ludwig kisses Gilbert’s shoulder carefully, “Thank you. I liked it a lot. You didn’t need to be that gentle.”
Gilbert wants to laugh (cry) because if only Ludwig had known the sort or sordid thoughts running through his head. (Prussia had always been a greedy nation but the ferocity with which he craves Ludwig frightens even him. Mine, mine, mine his brain thinks, as he flattens his finger tips against Ludwig’s chest, his knee, his back)
He is so, so, stupid, Gil thinks, hysterically, mistaking Gil’s inner turmoil for kindness.
“You’re welcome,” Gilbert responds in an arrogant little drawl as he drags a hand over Ludwig’s side with a grin he doesnt mean, “I hope this means you won’t do anything stupid now, like fuck silly little village mai-”
“Look at me,” Ludwig whispers and Gilberts heartbreaks and how could Gilbert do anything but obey when he asks like that. It’s more of a demand, just like Gilbert had taught him.
( “I want- I think it’d be nice if you touched me there-,” Ludwig stutters out as Gil teases him, hovering above him like a cruel God. Gilbert’s eyes flash a mischievous red, “If you want something, say it.” A laugh, “You’ll never get anything just by hoping.” )
Gilbert has never been here before, under someone before, but he is willing to give up his pride for Ludwig. His morals, his faith, his Country, his king. Everything, just to lure precious Ludwig into the darkness on Gilbert’s side.
He hates the look on Ludwig’s face, open and honest adoration. “You’re beautiful,” Ludwig tells him earnestly, regarding him with the sort of attention a music fanatic would consume Motzart. It makes Gil want to weep. No one has held him this tenderly before. No one ever should.
Leave me in my darkness, Gilbert thinks, with every horrific kiss Ludwig places on his body, please. Let me rot in hell alone.
“I hate children,” Gilbert hisses to Elisabeth even though it’s not strictly true. He simply hates this child.
“We all need something as a legacy,” she shrugs, flipping the page of her book.
“I don't need that pathetic thing as my legacy,” Gilbert sneers, “I am my own legacy.”
“It may kill you someday, if you let it grow too big,” Elisa agrees, not looking up, “but it may also be your salvation. It could eat you but it could also save you.”
Gilbert looks outside. It is playing ball with Italy. Gilbert scowls at the sight, “I doubt it has the bandwidth to do either.”
“Does it hurt?” Ludwig asks with concern, hesitating, “your face is…”
“Sorry,” Gil lies, “I feel unwell.” It’s not a lie though because Gilbert is Sick Sick Sick.
Ludwig’s eyebrows wrinkle, “Shall I stop?” And he means it, Gilbert knows, not like how men do out of obligation. Should I stop even though I really want to fuck you and will act like I’ve been cheated out of something if I do. No, not his Ludwig, whose lust is pure and innocent and who worries far too much for someone his age.
Ludwig’s cock is already so deep in him. Doing something now wouldn’t abate the sins.
( And how can Gilbert explain that he loves his murder? That he wants Ludwig to stop without stoping, that Gilbert has been alone so long and that this his way of loving. That sex is violence. That Ludwig might just kill him and Gilbert might just be boat with that.)
“Don’t,” his hands on Ludwig’s now broad shoulders, “Don’t stop- don’t ever stop. I’ll kill you if you do.”
Prussia has never been a good older brother. Maybe that’s where it started. Maybe if he;d given Ludwig affection at the start, he wouldn’t be craving it now, in such a depraved way.
It’s the day after. Gilbert had told himself that he wouldn’t mention it, that if he didn’t they could pretend nothing happened.
Ludwig stumbles and the promise is cut short, “Are you alright?” Anxiety, fear. Look at what you’ve done, his brain hisses, he can’t even walk properly.
Ludwig offers him a pallid smile, “just fine. I’m a bit nervous, that's all.”
Gilbert’s shoulders relax. Only for a moment.
Ludwigs hand is on Gilbert’s thigh. “I want to do it again. If.. if you want to,” Ludwig adds hastily, blushing furiously, “of cour-”
“I wish you would stop hating yourself after,” Ludwig whispers at 4 am. He leaves a trail of open mouthed, hot kisses along the stem of Gilbert’s spine. “I love you. I want this. I have agency.”
They fuck often. Gilbert’s greed has never extended to sexual promiscuity, but here he is, kneeling over Ludwig in the kitchen, his hands on bare skin. His little brother’s skin. Hungry.
He can’t help it. His body hums like a bee with need and want. For the boy- man underneath him. It is a pleasant, sweet feeling and honey has replaced all his blood. Gilbert might just be in love.
Not for the first time, Gilbert wonders if Ludwig will grow into the mold of resentment Gil has laid out for him. (Gil’s used to being hated; the number of people that look upon him with disdain, hatred or simple dislike is a 1:1 ratio with every nation he’s ever met. Except Ludwig. He doesn’t know what he will do once Ludwig hates him.) He wonders if Ludwig will ever grieve the childhood Gilbert did not give him, the first loves Gilbert stole, the first times, the loneliness, the empty bed.
Ludwig laughs underneath him, kisses him, asks for more. Gilbert leans into it.
Murder was less sinful.
Ludwig sleeps with someone else now. The Italy boy that Gilbert used to find cute and endearing and if this had happened 70 years ago, both of them would have some choice organs missing.
But Gilbert is old now. He is tired. And he is wise enough to know what he does and does not deserve.
(Besides, Gilbert reasons, and this significance surprises him, Ludwig is happy. And that is what matters.)
Gilbert minds less than he thought he would, his bloodlust curdled. They live in different houses now. It was merely inevitable. They visit each other on weekends, crack a beer open while watching some blasted football game. (England’s seasons in particular are very good, though neither brother is willing to admit this to the man in question.)
For now it’s enough.
“The way you love is strange,” Ludwig sighs as runs his hands down Gilbert’s bony, naked hips.
“Strange?”
“Yes,” Ludwig dips his head down to kiss the swell of Gilbert’s upper thigh, “I think writing a love letter might just kill you.”
Gilbert’s body hums loudly in agreement, sweat running a rivulet down the soft hollow of his throat, trails his collar bone. It is a humid day, mid July, somewhere in the late 1800s. Inside Gilbert is an even hotter fissure, the dreadful map of his own ruin. He’s seen this story play out before, he knows how it ends. He knows Ludwig will one day shoot him in the head and wouldn’t be wrong to do so.
Ludwig’s baby blue eyes have grown sturdier but his silky hair will perpetually be in the shade of lemons, even when he hasn’t showered, even when sweaty. It irritates Gil to no end, his perfection, his scar-less body.
Gil leans up to bite Ludwig’s shoulder. It will not last, but the teeth marks glow back at him proudly in a faint red.
Ludwig blushes, pausing.
“That. That is how you lov-”
“Germany,” Gilbert scolds, frowning down at the fallen child, “there is no use crying over something as stupid as a knee cut. You will face far worse in actual war.”
“Forgive me, brother,” Ludwig sniffles, a fist against his eyes.
Gilbert grabs his arm and pulls it away angrily, “you’ll give yourself an eye infection, brat.”
“Forgive me, brother,” Ludwig repeats, his voice small. Gilbert rolls his eyes, “you walk fast.”
“Then say that.” Gilbert insists, taking Ludwig’s small, sticky hand in his own, “You’ll never get anywhere by ho-”
“Was it good?” Gil’s head is on Ludwig’s chest, his mind for once at ease.
Until that. The question hangs in the air, a multifaceted, monstrous thing that Gilbert is loathed to confront. (The vulnerability of it all kills him.)
I loved every second. “It was fine.”
“Oh.” Ludwig is disappointed. Gilbert wants to die. “I will do better next time then, brother.”
“I don’t know what you did,” Ludwig says solemnly, “but you never cease to amaze me. I didn’t think it was possible to botch double-boiling and yet here we are.”
“I live to impress,” Gilbert bumps his head against Ludwig’s solid shoulder. He is so much taller than him now and Gilbert needs to force himself to remember this fact.
Italy is upstairs doing something messy and they know this because of the sound of something very clearly breaking. Ludwig glances up and winces.
“You can go upstairs and clean it up,” Gilbert offers casually, his hand sneaking into Ludwig’s buttercream bowl for some stray frosting, “wouldn’t want you to break down mid-cake decorating because you know that Italy is sweeping all the shards under your bed and making it all the harder for you to clean after.”
“No, it’s fine.” Ludwig holds his bowl protectively away from Gil, “I promised to spend today with you, afterall. It can wait.”
They go back to cooking. (which is to say, Ludwig bakes while Gilbert watches and manages to steal bits for himself when Ludwig isnt looking)
“They have humans on the moon now,” Ludwig says suddenly, “I wonder what that means for us. Strange how things change.”
“Yeah. Strange.”
Gilbert is bleeding out and yet all he can think about is Ludwig. Ludwig. Ludwig.
He crawls to Ludwig’s body (one of many. No war is ever kind.) terrified. He presses his ear to Ludwig’s chest, praying to god.
Ba-dump, faint as the whistle of a wind, Ba-dump.
Ludwig, Gilbert weeps into his chest, happy, Ludwig. Ludwig.
Ludwig loves in the kitchen.
Gil realises this when he asks if Ludwig cooks for Italy everyday. Ludwig gives him a look to say do you really even need to ask.
“If I let him cook, we’d be in the hospital for obesity after one month,” Ludwig had told him grimly and that's when Gilbert realized that this dalliance would last.
It is also maybe when he stops hating Feliciano.
There was something holy about Ludwig in the kitchen, in that apron. The way he cooked was equal to a warm hug. He did so with a scary, intense precision, his eye parallel to every measuring cup line. He cooked with a quiet joy and also a fury.
Ludwig mops up at the countertop stains Gil left behind with a small smile.
Gilbert hasn’t stepped in a church in a while, but he supposes this is the closest to God that he’s felt in a while.