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Gilbert Bielschmidt, formerly known as the German Democratic Republic and formerly formerly known as the Kingdom of Prussia, stared out at the league of nations around him and tried his best not to explode.
He did not try very hard.
His brother had virtually begged him not to come to the meeting--mostly because he wasn’t invited, and Ludwig was still kissing the west’s ass on just about everything. But Gilbert wasn’t about to pass up the chance to socialize. If the world didn’t want him there then they shouldn’t have hosted the meeting in Berlin.
When he’d first step into the conference room, he had scanned the room for one specific nation in particular. The one he hadn’t had the chance to see since the fall--the fall of the Berlin Wall that is. Not his much more recent fall. Before he’d gotten much of a chance to do so, however, some old friends were crowding around him gleefully.
And, yes, maybe Gilbert had gotten a bit distracted chatting with Francis and Antonio and cackling about old times and the great escapades of youth. Maybe he was being especially loud too and clogging up the entranceway. Maybe Ludwig had to push past them all and had to give Gilbert a look that screamed please behave as he went to set up at the podium.
But once his brother called the meeting to order, Gilbert quieted down, remembered his real mission and refocused.
One more look around the room confirmed his initial observation. “Where the hell is Russia?”
His brother choked mid sentence. He’d only reached the second point of their two page agenda. Francis and Antonio gave Gilbert a curious look.
It was Alfred who spoke up, in the end. “Don’t worry man!” he assured with a big wave of his hand, “The big bad evil has been defeated thanks to yours truly. You’re safe now!”
Gilbert stared at him.
Alfred was laughing. Laughing .
“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Gilbert snapped.
“Gil,” Francis hissed near him, almost like a warning. Gilbert ignored him, frown deepening as Alfred simply sent him that ‘Hollywood’ smile of his. He even winked.
“That’s not a god damn answer,” Gilbert snarled, standing up from his seat, “Where the fuck is Russia?”
“Why do you care?” Alfred countered, that stupid smug smile of his still plastered to his fake face. “Don’t tell me you got Stockholm syndrome.”
“He’s a nation like any of us! He should be here!” Gilbert slammed his hand on the table.
Alfred laughed again, “Dude, who even knows anymore. The guy lost. Fell apart. Good guys one, bad guys zero.”
“Are you kidding me?” Gilbert hissed. He’d give anything for his sword. He’d stab it right through the American’s chest. He’d skewer his heart for all to see just how cold it really was.
“No one has seen Russia since the fall,” Arthur admitted, shrugging his shoulders where he’s seated beside Alfred, “Can we move on? These meetings are bloody long enough as it is.”
Ludwig cleared his throat to begin again.
Gilbert wasn’t having it. “We can’t start until everyone is fucking here!”
“Everyone who matters is here,” Alfred brushed off.
“Fuck you,” Gilbert shouted, “Are you stupid? Ivan isn’t evil, he’s not a villain, he--”
“Uh, my guy,” Alfred continued, raising an eyebrow, “Did he have you locked away in a cell or something? Dude was a communist. Ever heard of Stalin? Evil has been defeated, done and done.”
“If that’s what you think why the fuck are Ludwig and I here? Why the fuck is Japan here?” Gilbert shouted.
Ludwig blanched, ducking his head down. Alfred’s smile cracked. His blue eyes turned steely and cold.
“Why the fuck are you here?” Gilbert continued, pointing accusingly at the western nation.
Alfred stood then, trying to tower over the smaller nation with all the might of the last superpower standing. Gilbert didn’t flinch.
“I saved the world, that’s why I’m god damn here,” Alfred snapped.
“You killed just as many,” Gilbert shot right back, “Don’t give me that attitude. I was there when you were in diapers. I fucking helped you back then--”
“Who even cares about Russia anymore?” Alfred growled.
“I care!” Gilberts shouted right back. “I fucking care!”
Ludwig attempted to step forward, trying to place a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Let’s take a ten minute recess--”
Gilbert shrugged him away immediately, stomping away from the meeting and all the other silent hypocrites in the room. He sent one last snarl straight to Alfred’s face, “You are a disgrace.”
He slammed the door shut behind him. He stormed away, growling under his breath until a hand seized his arm. He swirled around, hand reflexively moving toward his non-existent pistol only to see Alfred once more.
“Fuck off, I don’t want to hear shit from you right now,” Gilbert snapped, trying to wrench his arm free.
“It’s Matthew,” the man wheezed, gripping tighter.
“Oh,” Gilbert blinked, forcing himself to relax, “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Matthew sighed, tugging Gilbert to the side of the hallway. “Well, it’s not. But I'll let it slide.”
Gilbert would have laughed if he wasn’t so pissed off.
“I’m concerned too,” Matthew confessed, letting go of Gilbert, “I haven’t seen Ivan in years. I don’t think anyone has.”
Gilbert swallowed thickly, “I’m sure he’s fine. I’m still kicking after all.”
“Not everyone has your spirit,” Matthew countered. He looked away, “I’ve been meaning to check on him, but Al would kill me. He’s so sensitive about this stuff--who’s on what team and what not.”
“He’s an idiot. And a hypocrite,” Gilbert said.
“He’s under a lot of pressure,” Matthew defended, “Look, I can help you get into Russia. I’ve done it before, going the backway.”
“I know how to get to Moscow,” Gilbert huffed.
“He’s not there,” Matthew replied, and before Gilbert could interrupt, added, “Nor in St. Petersburg.”
Gilbert frowned.
“If he’s still around--”
“He is ,” Gilbert snapped.
Matthew closed his mouth. He exhaled through his nose before trying to speak again, “I’m guessing he’s at his country home.”
“His dacha?” Gilbert blinked, “It’s winter. Place doesn't have running water let alone heating .”
Matthew shrugged.
Gilbert licked his lips, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He knew exactly where that was, he’d crashed there many times during the summer months while living in the union. It was supposed to be Ivan’s private getaway, a place even his bosses didn’t know the whereabouts of, but Gilbert had always been good at weaseling out information from just about anyone.
Plus, if Gilbert was expected to stay locked behind the Iron Curtain, then Ivan was going to have to hear him bitch about it, no if ands or butts.
“Gil?” Matthew prompted.
“Huh?” Gilbert looked up.
“You spaced out,” Matthew said.
“You still got that snowmobile?” Gilbert asked instead.
Matthew snorted, a knowing smile growing on his face, “I’ve got many.”
“You willing to give me a ride?”
Matthew raised a brow, “So you’re planning to go the long way around.”
“It’s called an indirect approach,” Gilbert snapped, “Have you ever been on a battlefield?”
Matthew rolled his eyes, “You know you’ll have to go through Alfred to get there, then.”
“He doesn’t care if you cross through.”
“Yeah, but you’re not me .”
Gilbert grimaced, admitting in a low voice, “Well, I don’t really have the same presence I used to. He won’t notice.”
Matthew laughed, “Worth a shot.”
Gilbert offered his own grin, then his hand, and the two shook on it.
“I wouldn’t go in there.”
Gilbert raised a brow, tipping his hat back to look at Tolys more fully. The Lithuanian was dabbing at a cut on his face with his handkerchief, using the small hallway mirror as a guide. He looked a bit haggard.
“He’s throwing a hissy fit?” Gilbert asked, bored.
Tolys’ shoulders slumped, “Something Kruschev did.”
“Figures,” Gilbert hummed, adjusting the grip on his leather suitcase.
“I’m serious Mr. Beilschmidt,” Tolys continued. Gilbert cringed at such a formal address. But no matter how many times he’d told the Baltics that his first name was fine, they remained steadfast. “He’s drunk.”
It took quite a bit of liquor to get Ivan drunk.
“Hopefully he saved me a bottle,” Gilbert responded instead, forcing out a cackle of a laugh. He twisted the knob only to find it locked. He quickly banged his fist against the door, “Hey! Asshole! Let me in!”
“Отъебись!” came the angry response. Tolys cringed, but Gilbert could hear the tremble of a whine at the edge of the word. He simply rolled his eyes and banged harder.
“I’m not fucking off anywhere!” he called in a sing song voice.
“Mr. Beilschmidt--” Tolys tried.
Gilbert shoved his open palm at the other nation, “Give me the key.”
“I don’t know if--”
“I don’t have all day,” Gilbert huffed.
“Do not give it to him, Tolys!” Ivan ordered through the door.
Tolys swallowed, hesitating with the key in hand. Gilbert snatched it, motioning for Tolys to make his getaway before he shoved it into the door.
When he stepped inside, the room was dark. He flipped on the light switch to find the coffee table turned over and shattered glass littering the floor. There was a wet stain on the floor where a bottle must have been thrown. Gilbert picked his way over to it, dragging a finger along to take a lick.
“American shit-beer,” Gilbert remarked, wiping his finger on his jacket, “Good call chucking it.”
“Go away,” Ivan groaned out.
He was sitting in an armchair, a vodka bottle held by the throat. He was disheveled, hair mussed and shirt half unbuttoned. His expression was stern, his eyes were watery and his cheeks were stained red from drink.
“You look like shit,” Gilbert said, putting the briefcase down on the ground.
“I could kill you,” Ivan growled, “I could wipe you clean off the map.”
“As if Kruschev listens to you.”
Ivan cringed, bringing the bottle to his lips in order to take a few large gulps until the bottle was empty. He threw it to the left of Gilbert so it smashed on the wall beside him. Luckily he didn’t get nicked by any of the flying glass.
“You done?” Gilbert asked, unimpressed.
Ivan leaned over, fishing in the cabinet for another bottle. He popped it open with one hand and settled back in his seat.
Gilbert sighed, padding over to hike up a foot onto the arm of the chair.
Ivan didn’t spare him a glance, only snapping, “Take your shoes off. Savage.”
“You are such a sensitive baby,” Gilbert commented.
Ivan sneered at him, bringing the bottle down from his lips, “I’m older than you.”
“Fucking act like it then,” Gilbert huffed, kicking off and tipping the chair over completely. Ivan let out a surprised yelp as alcohol spilled all over him and he landed on the floor. He scrambled to his feet, fuming. But Gilbert had turned away to pick up his briefcase.
“Here,” Gilbert said, holding it up, “What you asked for. And more.”
Ivan blinked, taking the case. “Ah,” he said, “That’s why you’re here.”
Gilbert rolled his eyes, fishing out a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it up. He watched from the corner of his eye as Ivan set the case on the flat top of the liquor cabinet--the only furniture in the room left standing upright--and flicked it open. He picked up the pair of Levi’s jeans at the top of the stack, fingering the denim. He went through the rest of the smuggled goods with similar care.
“The gum?” He asked.
“Side pocket,” Gilbert answered, leaning back against the wall. He breathed out a cloud of smoke.
Ivan pulled out the two boxes of bubblegum, examining the foreign print on the cardboard. He gave a nod before turning back to Gilbert. He walked over, pinching the cigarette from his lips to take his own drag.
Gilbert flashed an annoyed look but made no move to stop Ivan. His gaze flicked to the gum in his other hand. “You always insist on that but I’ve never seen you chew any of it.”
Ivan snorted, blowing smoke into Gilbert’s face and making the Prussian wrinkle his nose. In retaliation he snatched the cigarette, putting it out on Ivan’s exposed collarbone. The bastard merely chuckled.
He leaned in, lips ghosting Gilbert’s, “You want your payment, yes?”
“I want money,” Gilbert replied, but made no move to pull away.
“Of course,” Ivan continued, “And a tip too,” he added, as he pressed their lips together.
Ivan tasted alcohol and nicotine, a mixture Gilbert found disgustingly irresistible. It didn’t take much prompting for him to take hold of the taller man’s collar and push right back.
Later, in bed, Gilbert was half asleep against the pillow, watching with one eye as Ivan started fidgeting with the gum package again. He did that quite a bit when he was alone, when he thought no one was watching. Let out the restless energy he was not allowed to harbor in meetings. He had to be deathly still then.
Gilbert lifted his hand, resting it over Ivan’s, startling him only slightly. Ivan’s eyes glanced over before looking back at their hands.
“The gum,” Ivan confessed quietly, “It’s for the children.”
Gilbert squeezed his hand.
Gilbert shook the memory away as he clambered off the borrowed snow-mobile. Matthew had helped smuggle him past Alaska, but the rest of the navigating had fallen onto his shoulders. For good or bad, however, he knew Ivan’s territory better than most. He’d traced the ridges and valleys along the scarred texture of his bare back. He’d carved at it himself with his own sword in eras long gone.
Even painted white he knew where to go.
He found the dacha covered in snow, with smoke billowing from its chimney.
“He’s insane,” Gilbert muttered through his chattering teeth. But then again, they all were. It was the only way to survive living at the mercy of mortal men for centuries.
He tried the door and found it locked.
He banged on it, expecting to hear the annoyed, most likely furious voice of the northern nation. All he was met with was the whistle of the arctic winds.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Gilbert growled under his breath, shouldering into the door with more force. It was only then he realized that the door wasn’t locked but frozen shut. He threw himself against the wood three more times and finally had it break free. He spilled inside with a loud yelp. He quickly scurried to his feet, shoving the door closed behind him lest the wind extinguish the fire in the main room.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he managed it, his nose starting to burn as feeling returned to it. He stripped his gloves off his hands, flexing the stiff fingers as he called out, “Ivan! I’m gonna shove my awesome boot in your ass if you don’t show yourself--”
Gilbert stopped.
Before him, right in front of the fire laid Ivan.
More specifically, Ivan’s corpse .
He was laying stiff on the ground, curled into a fetal position, gaunt face and eyes open but unseeing.
Gilbert nudged him with his foot. The body was rigid.
Gilbert rolled his eyes, “You are such a crybaby.”
He left Ivan to go and dig through his cabinetry and assess what he had to work with. The man was well stocked for winter. There were rows and rows of pickled jars and jams. He wanted something heartier though. With great annoyance he bundled himself back up to head outside. He grabbed one of Ivan’s rifles, sitting by the door on his way out.
It did not take long to find a deer to shoot. Gilbert had spent many lifetimes as a hunter in the old German woods. In this wintery landscape, he blended even better. He dragged the carcass back to the yard and worked up a sweat preparing the meat.
Eventually he had enough for a stew, and he came back inside to wash up and get a pot boiling. He hung it over the fireplace, having to step over Ivan’s body to do so.
“You’re still dead?” Gilbert huffed, kicking the corpse once more.
This time, Ivan’s hand darted out, grabbing Gilbert’s ankle and bringing him to the ground. Gilbert let out a surprised shout, a stream of German curse words leaving his mouth. The grip only tightened and Gilbert feared for a moment that Ivan would snap his ankle--he still had meat chunks to lug in and it would suck to have to limp while doing it.
But then the grip suddenly weakened, and instead Ivan’s body seized. He gasped out and wretched, blood sprinkling from his lips and onto the wood floor. Gilbert took the moment to scramble backwards and back onto his feet. Ivan remained on all fours hacking and coughing. His body seemed to give and he swayed near the fire. Gilbert lurched forward to catch him before he caught aflame.
Ivan groaned and Gilbert grumbled under his breath as he dragged the larger nation away from the fireplace all together, trying to get him to lean against the couch instead. Ivan’s head lolled to one side, unable to support itself.
“Why?” Ivan rasped.
“Nice to see you too, asshole,” Gilbert snapped back. “Try not to die while I get dinner ready.”
Ivan tried to twist his head to look at him, but then his eyes rolled back and he was gone. Again. Gilbert clicked his tongue.
As he stirred the boiling pot of venison, he tried to count how many times he had died. He couldn’t. He wished he had his journals, then he could make a proper tally. He could even calculate the ratio of stupid deaths to real ones. But maybe he didn’t want to know the truth of that. Elizaveta would never let him live it down.
He hadn’t died in a long while now. Not since the war. Perhaps it was a new record. But he’d never been more afraid to die than he was now. He was already a ghost, really, clinging on wherever he could. He wasn’t ready to let go.
The next time he did die, there was a good chance he wouldn’t come back.
He sucked in a breath, shaking the thoughts away in favor of focusing on his shitty stew. He fed the fire and hunted for bowls and spoons. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get Ivan to the table by himself, and so he brought their little meal to the body.
He slapped Ivan’s face but it did nothing to wake him. It made Gilbert feel a bit better. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten the chance to slap Ivan without getting punched out right after.
“I’m not very patient,” Gilbert said, “I know you’re alive right now. I can see you breathing.”
“Why?” Ivan wheezed out, keeping his eyes closed. “Why are you here?”
“Eat this soup before you keel over. It’ll taste like shit if it gets cold,” Gilbert deflected, shoving a spoonful of liquid into Ivan’s parted lips. The nation choked, but Gilbert didn’t really give him the chance to spit it up. It went smoother the second time. And eventually Gilbert had managed to feed Ivan the entire bowl, his own portion left abandoned by the wayside.
“God, I’m amazing,” Gilbert sighed out, leaning back, “Mother Theresa who? Where’s my Nobel Peace Prize?”
“Is that why you are here?” Ivan asked, lifting a shaky hand to wipe at his mouth. “To gloat?” His voice did not crackle as much.
“I was on your side, how could I gloat?” Gilbert rolled his eyes.
“Not of your own volition,” Ivan sighed, “You got what you wanted. Back with your brother.” He closed his eyes, letting out a low groan, “I thought you would have disappeared by now.”
“I could say the same for you,” Gilbert shot back.
Ivan snorted, “If only.”
Gilbert kicked his shin and Ivan let out a pained hiss. “I knew it. You’re moping.”
“I am not moping ,” Ivan growled, trying to send a glare. “My people are in literal turmoil.”
“Yeah,” Gilbert nodded, “That’s like, probably 50% of the issue I’m seeing. The other half is you wanting to cry out woe is me . You can’t hide from the world forever.”
Ivan looked away. Pouting. Gilbert would have laughed if he wasn’t so pissed.
“Everyone thinks you’re dead,” Gilbert said.
Ivan shrugged.
Gilbert’s hands formed fists by his sides, “Don’t you fucking care?”
“Why should I care?” Ivan hissed, “Why should I care what they think? When they have wished me dead for centuries. Why should I care when the world has never cared for me?”
“Because I care!” Gilbert shouted, silencing Ivan, “Because I fucking care!”
Ivan stared at him.
Gilbert glared up at the ceiling sucking in a wet breath. “I can’t stand you,” he hissed out. He wiped his eye with the back of his hand. “I need to bring in the rest of the venison.”
He slammed the door shut on the way out.
It was hard to keep track of the days when the sun was barely out as is. Gilbert never traveled without a journal, however, and his habit was to write before bed. So counting by number of entries it had to have been almost a fortnight now of tending to Ivan.
The nation was walking around now, swaddled in blankets as he traipsed through the small space. He’d died five more times in that space, but the bouts were more spaced out and reasonable. Ivan was putting up an effort to stay alive. Gilbert had knocked enough sense into him to do at least that.
“What do you want?” Ivan asked over lunch, glaring down at the wood grain of the handmade table.
“Horses to get back into style,” Gilbert said around a mouthful of food.
Ivan pushed the contents of his plate around with his fork, “I meant for being here.”
“I don’t want anything,” Gilbert huffed.
Ivan put down his cutlery, “I do not like to be in debt.”
Gilbert rolled his eyes.
Ivan frowned. “You must want something from me.”
“Maybe I just want you to stick around,” Gilbert spat out, refusing to look the man in the eye.
Ivan blinked, leaning back slightly in his chair. He squinted his eyes as if trying to figure out a pesky puzzle. Gilbert refused to give in, simply shoveling more meat into his mouth.
He stood after a moment, walking around the table toward Gilbert, who still would not look at him. Ivan’s hand landed in hair, combing the white locks back before tracing down lower until his fingers were under Gilbert’s chin. He tilted his face up so red eyes were forced to looking into violet.
“You haven’t even asked to join my bed,” Ivan mused.
Gilbert swallowed, “Watching you die over and over isn’t a turn on.”
“It’s never stopped you before,” Ivan smirked, bending down to bring his face close to Gilbert’s flushed face.
“You don’t have to pay me back for anything,” Gilbert hissed out quickly, even as one hand shot out to grab hold of Ivan’s shirt collar. It was as if he was taking preventative measures to keep him from escaping. Ivan chuckled.
“Alright,” he said, pressing a deceptively chaste kiss to Gilbert’s lips. “Consider it a tip.”
Gilbert groaned out, eyes slipping closed as Ivan nuzzled into his neck, flashing his teeth along the way.
Gilbert shoved his hands in his pockets as the cold breeze blew through him. He shivered and hunched up his shoulders. He should have tightened his scarf, but that would mean taking his hands out and exposing them to the freezing air.
He leaned against the railing, squinting up into the bright sky. The clouds rolled by without a care. Mortals milled about the streets, back and forth. Gilbert remembered back when there was more forest than road here. When the mother tongue was old German and not Russian. When the heat of battle still clung to his skin. Nowadays he always felt cold--like even his blood had lost its purpose.
“Privyet.”
Gilbert jumped, twisting his head to the side to see Ivan standing beside him now. He leant against the rail just as nonchalantly. There was a faint smile on his face. His cheeks had filled out once more and there was a brightness in his eyes Gilbert had missed.
“Did I frighten you?” Ivan asked, teasing smile growing.
Gilbert felt his cheeks heat up--definitely from the cold and only that. He glared, “Of course not.” He looked over the railing and toward the river.
“I’m surprised I’m able to sneak up on the master tactician.”
“Fuck off,” Gilbert huffed, but there’s no real animosity in his tone. He turned as well, resting his forearms against the bar and looking out at the peaceful waters. He saw a bird swoop down low against the river’s edge before swinging up high into the blinding white sky, out of sight. Disappearing entirely.
“I did not think you would come,” Ivan admitted.
Gilbert raised a brow, “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”
Ivan sighed out. “You are, aren’t you?” he mused aloud, not looking at him.
“I was surprised by the location,” Gilbert continued, feeling the need to fill the air with some kind of chatter. “You’re usually too lazy and stubborn to leave Moscow.”
“Or St. Petersburg,” Ivan chimed in.
Gilbert rolled his eyes. He nudged Ivan with his shoulder. “So why Königsberg?
Ivan pouted, nudging Gilbert back a bit more roughly, “Kaliningrad.” He said it sternly and it made Gilbert laugh.
Ivan straightened himself up, digging a hand into his pocket. At first, Gilbert thought he was retrieving a packet of cigarettes. But no, instead Ivan brought out a folded piece of paper. Gilbert’s curiosity piqued.
But Ivan said nothing, fiddling with the sheet in his hands for a few seconds. And then, without a word, not a spare glance, offered the page to Gilbert.
Gilbert furrowed his brow, plucking the piece of paper suspiciously from Ivan’s hand. Ivan’s fingers moved to fiddle with each other as he leaned against the railing. His eyes remained glued to the river below.
Gilbert pursed his lip as he unfolded the paper. He only grew more confused as it unfurled. It was an official paper--a deed maybe? For the entire Kaliningrad Oblast itself.
“Are you showing off?” Gilbert snapped, looking over at Ivan, “You took it over a half century ago.”
Ivan shook his head. Gilbert noticed his ears were red. His eyes widened a little. He looked back down at the paper, reading it more closely. It was getting harder to do so with the trembling in his hands.
“Are you serious?” Gilbert asked, speechless for once in his life.
Ivan produced a pen, still refusing to look Gilbert in the eye. He held it out to him.
“How?” Gilbert demanded, eyeing the pen but not daring to take it yet.
“My boss does not know,” Ivan said, “It would still be mine, just…under your care.”
Gilbert’s lips parted. He looked down to reread the page over and over again, but the language was clear, concise and official. A formal request for a Gilbert Bielshmidt to preside as the representative of Kaliningrad Oblast.
“But why?” Gilbert insisted.
“Sign it,” Ivan responded instead.
“This is too much,” Gilbert said, “Is this you trying to pay me back? I told you, I didn’t want anything, I--”
“No,” Ivan interrupted, lifting himself up. He shot Gilbert a look before quickly turning away, like he couldn’t quite keep his eyes on him. “I…Just sign it.”
“I don’t want your pity,” Gilbert replied, handing the page back.
“That is not,” Ivan started, letting out a frustrated noise. He pushed the paper into Gilbert’s chest, along with the pen, “You are untethered! It is a miracle of stubbornness that you are still standing.”
“So this is charity,” Gilbert snarled.
“Maybe I just want you to stick around too!” Ivan shouted. He turned away again, his pale face doing little to hide his blush.
Gilbert’s eyes widened.
“You are just as infuriating as that idiot American,” Ivan hissed, glaring out at the river.
Warmth was pooling in Gilbert’s gut, sending his veins on fire. It was like his heart was restarting, seeing the need to keep on beating. He grinned and replied, “You don’t mean that.”
Ivan rolled his eyes, “No. But you are very close.”
Gilbert laughed, and the sound made Ivan look back at him. That’s all Gilbert needed to grab the ends of the taller man’s scarf to drag him down for a kiss. Ivan melted into it, hands moving to rest against Gilbert’s hips.
“You need to sign it,” Ivan hissed, when they broke apart for breath.
“Later,” Gilbert muttered, leaning back in tongue first.
Ivan did not give in, pushing him away. “Sign it before you lose it.”
“Lose it?” Gilbert repeated, “You rescinding your offer?”
“No. You are just clumsy. I’m a realist.”
“Fuck you,” Gilbert snapped without any malice. He pried the pen cap off with his teeth, holding it there as he signed at the end of the page. “There, see?” he announced, holding out the page.
A white bird swooped low, snatching the page with its beak before flying high up into the sky. Gilbert squawked and Ivan started to laugh--not his sinister giggle, but a deep real laugh from the gut. It melted any of Gilbert’s anger or annoyance, and soon he was cackling too.
“I have another copy,” Ivan said, “In my room.”
“Lead the way,” Gilbert replied. He loosened the scarf around his neck to get some more air. The temperature had risen considerably. Or maybe it was just him.
Maybe this is just what it felt like to be alive.