This is actually my third attempt at writing a fanfic, but this will be the first one I publish. It's Roderich and Gilbert. This is rated M on account of Gilbert's filthy mouth and smut in the next chapter…

I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters. Obviously.

Enjoy, and reviews would be greatly appreciated. That way I can tell if I should finish the story or stop writing altogether.

Roderich sat at his piano, attempting to revise the musical piece he had just written. He stared at the notes until they started to blend with the lines they sat on. It started to get dark, and Roderich knew that even though this work was going to be a success, as it always was, it still needed something. He just couldn't put his finger on it and tried to think. Irritatingly, pointless, non-music related things started to cross his mind, and he knew that today the inspiration wouldn't come.

He sighed as he reluctantly put his things away. It wasn't really a problem that Roderich hadn't progressed on his composition for a few days, since being the prudish workaholic he was, he was months ahead of schedule anyway. He just was unhappy that he wouldn't finish writing his piece with the initial inspiration fresh in his mind. He sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, an effort to keep an imposing headache at bay.

Maybe I should go to sleep, he thought, as he watched his pen fall from the music stand and land on an ivory piano key. The sound of an E played quietly, as if it wasn't sure it was supposed to be making any noise at all. Roderich looked at it, then brought up his right pinky finger to play it again. Then he played the ebony key right below it, an E flat. He repeated the pattern again, and went on to play the first few notes of Beethoven's Fur Elise. He added his left hand and lost himself in the clear, lilting melody, accompanied by the strong, smooth bottom notes. He was so into it, in fact, that he didn't notice someone stride into the room until they sat next to him and pressed a random key in the midst of Roderich's playing.

The discordant sound that wafted up from Roderich's piano dragged him from his trance in the same obnoxious way his alarm clock dragged him from sleep every morning.

Roderich went rigid. "Haven't you learned to knock?" He demanded this of the white-haired, red-eyed man sitting next to him on the piano bench.

"I did," he took a swig of the beer that was in his hand, "but you didn't say anything so I just walked in."

Roderich looked at the man's beer in disgust. He had told him a thousand times not to eat or drink in this room. A thousand. "Gilbert…" he warned.

"What? Want some?" Gilbert shook the bottle in Roderich's direction, sending a drop of beer down to land on the other man's lap. "Oops."

Roderich turned red, losing it. "Dammit, Gilbert, how many times have I told you not to drink in here?"

"Pretty sure it's close to a thousand by now," he mused, taking another swig. Roderich got even redder, and pressed his fingers to his temples.

"Why can't you follow a few simple rules? Is it really that difficult for you?" Roderich was close to exploding. He could feel all of his blood rushing to his head, indicating that soon he'd either wail on Gilbert, or faint. The latter was more likely to happen, and that was the last thing Roderich needed to happen.

"Calm your tits," Gilbert said, rolling his eyes. "It's not like I'm making a mess. And rules are meant to be broken. Now what are you up to, anyway?"

Roderich took a deep breath, knowing that this anger couldn't be good for his blood pressure. "Well," he shut his eyes, "I was writing and playing music until a certain someone dropped in, ruining my mood."

"So you weren't doing anything important, then?" Gilbert asked, blinking. Roderich couldn't believe the amount of ignorance this one man possessed.

"Of course it was important! Writing music is my job! How else do you think those disgusting beers get into the fridge?" He got into Gilbert's face and pointed a finger toward his nose. "You have no idea how hard this is, Mister I'm-awesome-so-I-do-whatever-the-fuck-I-want!"

Gilbert moved in and playfully nipped Roderich's finger. "Come on, Roddy. You and I both know you're probably two months ahead on that crap. Relax." He grinned and licked the finger as he said this. "Hmm? How about it?"

Roderich snatched his hand away. Is he seriously trying to get in my pants right now? "F-fuck you."

"Please?" Gilbert sang. Wrong choice of words, the Austrian thought. He knew now that Gilbert was playing with him, and he was winning. Gilbert smirked and licked his lips, crimson eyes glowing.

Roderich blushed. "You know full well what I meant, German." At this Gilbert frowned and stood up, taller than Roderich. "I remember telling you that I'm Prussian. Don't you remember, Roddy?"

Roderich unconsciously backed up a step, but then rolled his eyes. "What's the difference? You know that's not the issue here."

Gilbert's eyes flashed. "What is the 'issue' here, then?"


"See? You don't even know why you're mad. You're PMS-ing like a damn woman. And you know what every PMS-ing woman needs?"

Silence. Roderich was not going to play these games with Gilbert today. He was in a bad mood. He glared at the other man.

"A good—"



"I am not doing this today."

"Fuck." He dragged out the word, crossing his arms and nodding his head as if he'd reached a simple conclusion.

"Gilbert, I don't want to do this right now. Don't you get it?" He sighed and shook his head. Couldn't Gilbert tell he wasn't in the mood for his antics?

"No. You said that yesterday, and the day before, and last week, and every week before that. It's been a month, Roderich. I'm dying here. Why won't you just let me fuck you?"

"Think about what you just said, Gilbert."

"The hell you mean by that?"

"I mean it's all about you. Whenever I do let you…uh…" Roderich struggled for a word.

"Fuck you," Gilbert offered.

The Austrian winced. "Uh…right. Anyway, whenever I let that happen, it's all about you."

Gilbert's white eyebrows knitted in confusion. "What are you talking about? Whenever we fuck, you seem to enjoy it just fine."

Roderich sighed and rubbed his forehead in frustration. "Can you please refrain from using that word So casually?"

"Psh, you know you like it." Gilbert licked his lips again and took a step closer to the musician. The shorter man could smell the beer on the other's breath.

"Are you drunk?" Roderich tried. Maybe that's why Gilbert was being so rude. But Roderich quickly concluded that that wasn't the case.

A snort. "I don't get drunk," he said the word like it was some kind of disgusting disease, "Plus, this is only my first one. I just walked in the door."

Roderich just stared at Gilbert, trying to figure out just what he saw in the uncouth, crude, pretentious brute. It certainly wasn't his arrogance. The man's ego was so large that other men would become visibly depressed whenever Gilbert walked into a room. It wasn't his build, although his body was perfect: tall, muscular, and covered in skin that was a strange but perfect shade of white. But those eyes. Those dense, crimson eyes that ever so slightly changed their hue to match their owner's emotion. Bright and clear when he was happy, fierce and glowing when he was angry, and dark and cloudy whenever he was aroused.

The eyes are the window to the soul. Roderich felt that Gilbert perfectly represented this saying. You could tell what Gilbert was feeling just by looking at those eyes. He was honest, had no ulterior motives, or anything of that nature. Everything about him was there for everyone to see, and that's what Roderich loved about him the most.

"Uh, hello? Anybody in there?" Gilbert tapped on Roderich's forehead. Roderich blushed and swatted the Prussian's hand away.

"Yes, and if you don't mind, I'm going to take a shower and go to bed. See you." He turned on his heels and walked out of the room leaving Gilbert standing there looking confused.