Disclaimer: Hetalia and all affiliated characters do not (and will never) belong to me.
Just a drabble. I myself have been rather restless as of late, and this was soothing to write.
The house is dark, and he hates it. He can't hear anything but the sound of his boots hitting the smooth marble of the floor, echoing through the halls of the large Vienna mansion, and had he been less awesome (an impossibility), he would have found it to be disconcerting. After all, he's used to hearing the sound of music filtering through the house, and catching glimpses of the servants as they move around and complete their tasks. Now, however, there is nothing – only a chilling silence that seeps passed his mental barriers despite his best efforts.
Making his way up the stairs, Gilbert Beilschmidt navigates his way through the dark corridors until he comes to a door. Pushing it open, he enters the room silently, shedding his clothing as fast as he can, feeling the cold air hit his skin as he does so; it makes finally sliding in next to the warm body already occupying the bed all the more sweet.
Wrapping his arms around Roderich's waist from behind, Gilbert sighs, smirking lightly against the pianist's neck when he hears the faint moan, alerting him to the fact that Roderich has woken somewhat.
"Gilbert?" Roderich asks groggily, twisting his head, violet eyes blurry with sleep, but still possessing the sharp glint he has become far too used to seeing.
"Go back to sleep, little master," Gilbert tells him, smoothing some hair from his from the other man's forehead. "Go back to sleep."