She is going to kill him. Slowly and painfully. Preferably by ripping out his jugular, or his balls; she hasn't quite picked yet.

Stalking across the ruined kitchen, she tosses the broken pie plate into the sink and slams her hands down on the edge of it, her knuckles going white as she clenches its metal frame. She doesn't want to think about the cracked plate, or the ruined crust crumbling inside.

"Hey, are you gaining weight?" Elizaveta spun, rage in her eyes at the feeling of Gilbert's hand gripping her ass. The Prussian laughed, ducking as she swung the nearest thing she could find, her lovely half-finished pie, at his head. It missed, sort of, clipping him in the shoulder as he ducked rather then in the head, and she was glad he'd at least suffered that much.

"Get! Out!" she screeched. He dodged out the door, still laughing as she started to run after him, and she was left with the broken pie plate on the floor. Damn it, that was supposed to be a surprise for Roderich!

Long fingered hands, so gentle she knows who it was before he speaks, sweep her hair back from her neck and run through the locks idly. She sighs, relaxing a fraction, though the soothing feeling doesn't quell her anger much. "I believe the sink is not at fault for this mess."

Her shoulders slump. "Why won't he just leave us alone?" Roderich doesn't answer. He lets his fingers drift to her neck, kneading the tense muscles there until she actually does relax and lean back against him. He's warm, she thinks. She tucks her head under his chin and sighs. "Why doesn't he just get sick of it already? He's been doing this since we were kids."

Roderich frowns at her, his hands still moving along her neck. "He paid me a visit earlier," he tells her. His fingers tighten slightly, though not painfully, in her hair. "I would think he has better things to do then comment on the effeminate nature of my hands."

Elizaveta snorts indignantly. "Your hands are not effeminate."

"Gilbert believes otherwise, but he has never been one for delicate matters."

Gilbert can stuff it, Elizaveta thinks, though she doesn't say it. Something catches her eye, a small slip of white paper crumpled in the closed door. She steps out of Roderich's arms, ignoring the confused frown she knows is on his face from it, and steps up to the door, sliding the thing out of it. She frowns when she sees what it is.

It isn't a piece of paper, as she thought it was. It's a photo. It's an old photo, one she doesn't even really remember being taken. It's of her, and of Roderich. She's leaning over Roderich's piano and he looks so happy playing it. The photo is worn, crinkled and smudged at the edges. "What is it?" Roderich asks her, sliding up behind her.

"Have you seen this before?" Elizaveta asks him, handing him the photo.

Roderich takes it and stares at it for a moment, before he flips it over. His scowl deepens, and he hands it back to her. "Another one of his games," he scoffs. For once Elizaveta doesn't think so. The anger in her is draining, as she stares at the picture. It was taken from a window; she remembers the room they're in, in the photo, and there was a window just at this angle. It was taken in secret, and it looks like something that has been held onto for a very, very long time.

"A game, or a clue?" she wonders aloud. She thinks about it, and thinks about it, until Roderich places a hand on her shoulder and a few tiny little things, silly comments, gestures, teases that used to send her into a mad rage begin to fall slowly into place. A smile begins to touch her face. "I think it might be time we figured out exactly what his problem with us is.

"And how do you intend to do that?"

Elizaveta's smile becomes a smirk. "We should stage a little invasion of our own."

The house is dark when Gilbert gets home the next day, which is strange really because his brother should be home by now. Bare traces of the streetlights filter through the closed curtains, and Gilbert thinks the house feels just a little to bare all dark like this. He grits his teeth. At his age he shouldn't be bothered by the dark, though really it isn't the dark that bothers him. His brother is far too neat; Spartan, one might call it. Tidiness never bothered him before the war, before the wall. Now it just reminds him of bare floors and bleached walls and cement that seemed to stretch on forever. Old Fritz would be ashamed of him.

His photo is missing; he'd realized that about half-way home, and he has a sneaking suspicion he knows exactly where it is. If he's really lucky Elizaveta was so angry she never noticed it. He doesn't want to think about what will happen if he wasn't that lucky.

There's a note for him on the bare kitchen counter. Gilbert finds himself grinning as he reads it, laughing at Feliciano's little sketches and the curls of his y's. So that's where his brother has gone. It's just as well, Ludwig's been working far to hard lately. Not that its anything new.

Distracted as he is, and relaxed in the safety of his own home, Gilbert doesn't hear the footsteps behind him. There is a creak in the floorboards, and he freezes, the note dropping from his hands. He doesn't have time to spin around before something heavy crashes into his head and the world goes dark.

Gilbert's head is pounding when he finally awakens. The first thing he notices is that he's on his back, on something soft. The smell of bed clothes and down tickles his nose and he knows he's on a bed of some sort. His brother's bed, from the smell of it; he doesn't know anyone else who uses that detergent, not off hand anyway.

The second thing he notices is that his arms are above his head, and something tight is wrapped around his wrists. He tugs at it carefully, slowly, just to see how tight it really is. Whatever it is, it's soft and it's not rubbing his wrists raw at least. Whatever is going on here, it can't be intend to hurt him too badly. Or someone is just trying to lure him into a deceptive sense of safety.

The bed dips, and his eyes flash open, red-framed pupils darting towards the moment. He snarls when his eyes alight on the cause. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Elizaveta grins devilishly at him and taps her cheek with one long finger. "Well, you keep harassing us," she tells him. "We thought we might return the favor."

Gilbert can see Roderich against the wall behind her, watching him with that damned aloof look that just pisses him off every time he sees it and he snarls, tugging at his tied wrists. "Let me go," he hisses. His voice is a warning, a warning that, much to his dismay, Elizaveta cheerfully ignores. Instead she's sweeping her eyes down his body like he's some sort of prize she's won. It's about this time that Gilbert realizes he's not only tied to his brothers (far too big, it's Feliciano's fault anyway) bed, he's also naked. Very naked.

He refuses to shiver, even though he's cold, damn it (who turned down the thermostat, it wasn't this cold earlier was it?), and the way Elizaveta is looking at him is, frankly, disturbing. She reaches a hand out to trace his hip with her calloused fingers and it takes more willpower then Gilbert wants to admit to keep from flinching.

Then her hand starts wandering south.

Gilbert jerks his head towards Roderich, who is still just standing there watching as if his ex-wife is not touching him like she's about too… He gasps, his back arching as Elizaveta fondles his softened cock. The touch sends shivers down his spine and his head goes fuzzy with them. This is not happening. The thought flashes through his mind for just an instant and he clings to it. This has to be some sort of crazed dream.

"What the hell are you doing?" he growls at Elizaveta through clenched teeth. His voice catches as Elizaveta's touch becomes less a brush of his sensitive skin and more a stroke. She laughs, stroking her thumb down his flesh, amused by the way its hardening under her light touches. Gilbert bites back a moan, because damn does that feel good, even if he's pretty damn sure this is a dream, and he's imagining it, because there's no possible way Elizaveta would ever touch him this way, or invade his house, or knock him out (because now he's pretty sure that's what happened), tie him down and (as it appears she intends to, from the devious glint in her eye) fuck him senseless. And even on the off chance she did do all of the above, there was no possible way Roderich would sit by and watch and (if the blush spreading across the Austrian's pale face, and the way he's shifting uncomfortably against the wall is any indication) enjoy it.

"Roderich dear," Elizaveta says, her voice a cheerful hum that belays the utter mischief in her eyes, "would you like to join us?"

This is definitely not happening; Gilbert thinks when Roderich silently pushes himself off the wall and approaches. He sits down on the other side of the bed, dipping the mattress the other direction and causing Gilbert to shift under Elizaveta's continuing (and by this point far, far to soft) touches. Gilbert grits his teeth and groans in frustration. Elizaveta ignores him and takes her former husband's hand. She twines her hand with his, guiding his long fingers (god those fingers, they really are too girly for a guy. I mean most girls don't have fingers that long and delicate and oh shit they're touching him) onto Gilbert's cock.

"'haven't had a dream this interesting in awhile," he mutters through a gasp. God Roderich's fingers are incredible, and far, far too soft. Elizaveta's are rougher, they scrape on his skin, but Roderich's feel like silk. "Alright." Enough of this, if neither of them are going to talk he can damn well do it for them. "Give a guy something to work with there. I mean, as invasions go this is pretty tame and—" Gilbert throws his head back, a groan catching and dying in his throat as the light touches on him become a tight pull. Roderich is working him with a skill that makes Gilbert wonder how often he's done this before (a few late nights all alone Specs? he thinks, biting back a smirk).

Elizaveta leans over him, her hand brushing up his chest, tickling his ribs and flicking his nipple until she's rubbing her thumb around his collarbone and along his neck. He can see down her shirt, he realizes, and when she doesn't hit him for staring he sighs into her touches as he enjoys the view. Yep, this is a dream. There's no possible way this could ever actually happen, with Elizaveta leaning down to kiss him of her own volition (god her tongue in his mouth is gorgeous) and Roderich's hands touching him just like that. He wishes his hands were free, so he could join in, touch them both. If this is a dream he might as well enjoy it. It'll never happen again. Hell he's awesome enough to have this kind of dream in the first place, why shouldn't he take advantage?

"Gonna let me go?" he asks as Elizaveta pulls back from the kiss. She looks confused for a moment, her forehead furrows and her eyes sharpen through the flush of her skin. She's enjoying this, he realizes, and it makes him grin. Roderich is pumping him now, skillfully pressing those fingers into his hot flesh, though its still so slow it's more of a tease then any sort of relief.

Elizaveta leans down to lick his ear, tracing the shell of it with her tongue. "If you're good," she whispers in his ear.

Gilbert grins. "Never."

God her smile is devious, he thinks as she pulls back from him and moves back to her former husband, kissing him deeply, and running her hand down the front of his coat. She's undoing the buttons as Roderich moans shamelessly in her mouth, and Gilbert feels himself grow hotter as she slowly strips the jacket from him, and then unties the cravat so slowly it's like torture. Roderich's shirt is next; she slides her hand up his side, still kissing him, only breaking the kiss for a moment to help him pull it over his head. It's a sensual masterpiece; Gilbert avoids thinking about how much practice stripping Roderich so damn beautifully must have taken. She's straddling his knee now, grinding herself on his thigh, tonguing his neck and his chin is tilted up, his mouth open and Roderich's gasping. Gilbert's breath hitches at the sight, and not just because Roderich's hand has tightened on his cock.

Her clothes disappear faster, and soon he's staring at both of the, naked as he is. Elizaveta turns to him again, leaning down to tongue his neck, nip his jugular, and let her breasts brush against him teasingly. He tugs on his bound wrists, gasping at the feel of her teeth on him. Roderich is leaning over her, pressing kisses down her back, and she's gasping at the feeling of him tracing her spine with his tongue. For once Gilbert is grateful for Roderich's concentration; he's still working him so slowly it's growing painful. "Will you get on with it?" Gilbert snarls, leaning up as far as he can to nibble Elizaveta's neck.

She moans, and it's a beautiful sound. It's even more wonderful when she leans up to undo the bonds at his wrists. He grins at that, and twists them a bit to stretch them out and before Elizaveta has a chance to react he pulls her down on top of him, curling his hands in her hair and kissing her fiercely. She shudders above him, gasping as they end the kiss. "Now that's better."

She grins down at him. "We should put your mouth to better use," she says. At this point Gilbert's game for anything, and still fairly convinced this is all an elaborate hallucination, but hey, it's a good one, so who's he to complain. Elizaveta leans over him, her face flushed and her eyes sharp and Gilbert knows exactly what she wants from him. He grips her thighs, needing the beautiful taught skin of them. His grin is wicked.

"You sure that's safe?" he asks, voice hoarse, and then he groans as Roderich's delicate hands press against the slit of his cock and make his nerves sing.

Elizaveta's expression is beautifully devious. "If you want to keep your vital regions, it will be." She lowers herself onto him and he accepts her willingly, gratefully, god she's beautiful here too, all wet and pink and shivering. He tests her folds gently, just brushing the edge of them with his tongue and he grins when he feels a shiver quake her long legs. Before long he's laving her liberally, tonguing her clit and she's moaning over him, her hands clenched in his short hair, pulling at it. He's grinning into her, preparing to lick deeper, when the sensation of his legs being parted, and something slippery running down his perineum. He gasps and freezes, and then nearly chokes when he feels something slick press against his anus. Roderich, that has to be Roderich. The long finger pressing into him can't possibly belong to anything else and a flash of rebellion boils in him. He clenches around that finger, struggles, but Elizaveta is holding his head down, and that finger is still pushing in regardless and it burns.

"You aren't helping." Gilbert freezes again at Roderich's voice, and the finger slips in further, brushing against his prostate and making him groan. It wouldn't even have taken that much to make him groan; Roderich's voice is husky with want and that alone, after so much silence, would have been enough. Roderich brushes his prostate again, sending jolts and shivers through that little bundle of nerves that make Gilbert gasp with need. Still, with Elizaveta moaning above him, her hair falling over her shoulders in amber-brown curls and sticking to her shoulders, her face, her chest from the sweat, it isn't hard to calm himself.
Appearances aside, he has always been quite disciplined. His tongue reaches into her, tasting her bitterness, enthusiastically thrusting into her. Roderich is closer now, leaning over her shoulder, one hand toying with her nipple even as the other continues working another finger into Gilbert.

Gilbert often forgets that Roderich himself can be quite attentive when his own interests are involved. They've never really had similar interests, so Gilbert's never cared. This though, the way he can use those gorgeous hands, the way he's playing them both like his beloved piano, never missing a beat, and never faltering in his opposed movements, is something even Gilbert can admit he's impressed by.

Elizaveta cries out at the feel of Roderich's soft kisses along her neck. Her thighs clench around Gilbert's face, and her ass tightens around his fingers. She's shaking, grinding down on his tongue and her moans are beautiful. She tenses suddenly, and Gilbert digs his fingers into her thighs and licks her clit and she groans as wetness washes his tongue. If Gilbert wasn't grinning before, he is now. Take that you pansy twit.

"Knew your mouth was good for something," she hisses as she slides off of him, tumbling into the pillows above his head with a satisfied smile on her face. She leans over to play with his hair, even as he's gasping at the feeling of Roderich's fingers twisting within him. He's shifting on them, fucking himself on them (with out Elizaveta to distract him it's very hard to concentrate on anything else). His face twists in a grimace as Roderich kneads his prostate insistently. "Gilbert." He focuses on Elizaveta's voice in a vain effort to distract himself. "Turn over."

What?

Elizaveta runs her nails down his cheek and neck, and Roderich twists his fingers within him and replaces his other hand on Gilbert's cock. Gilbert moans, still not sure he heard that right. Roderich's hand wraps around the base of his cock. God he's so hot now he thinks he's about to explode or pass out and damn it that's not playing fair. "Move your hand," he growls. He tries to sit up, but Elizaveta pins his shoulders down (far too easily, much to his chagrin). He glares up at them, not at all reassured by the still-devious look in Elizaveta's eye, or the blush spreading across Roderich's face.

"I believe you should do as requested." Roderich's blush grows, if possible, redder.

Something clicks in the back of Gilbert's head, and he glances up at Elizaveta, who's grinning at him, and then back at Roderich. "You think you can handle it?" he asks. He's pretty sure his attempt to leer at the man is failing. His head is too fuzzy and he can't really concentrate enough on anything but the fingers in his ass and the hand on his cock to really try.

Roderich huffs, and Elizaveta giggles (god that sound is hot). "Of course." The fact that Roderich is flushing all the way down his chest now doesn't help his indignant stare.

Gilbert shrugs his shoulders, pushes himself down on Roderich's fingers, rubs himself against them moaning shamelessly. "You want this?" he taunts. A flicker of something Gilbert might almost call desperation flashes through Roderich's eyes. Elizaveta lets him go, and he leans up, crashing his mouth onto Roderich's forcefully. Roderich moans into their kiss, and he can hear Elizaveta humming behind him and that makes it all the better. "Come on," Gilbert growls against Roderich's ear. "Or are you too much of a wuss?"

Roderich shudders, and kisses him, biting Gilbert's lip lightly. "Turn around." His voice is a soft, husky murmur.

"You better make it worth my while." Gilbert is grinning as he does just that, flips over onto his knees. Elizaveta is in front of him now, stroking herself lazily as she watches them with half lidded eyes. Gilbert moans as Roderich pushes into him, and finds her hand, drawing it to his lips. Roderich pauses for a moment, lets Gilbert adjust to his size. "I'm not you, you idiot," Gilbert hisses between clenched teeth. "Move!" And Roderich does, gasping over his shoulder, pressing kisses and nips along his spine that are really too damn soft, but it's Roderich, so he doesn't expect any different.

Gilbert kisses Elizaveta's wrist, and draws her fingers, rough with all the work she's done (not at all like Roderich's far to delicate hands), into his mouth, sucking along them teasingly. She groans, shuddering, her hand trembling in his grasp and he answers her groan with a moan of his own as Roderich hits his prostate and begins to ride him hard. Good, the bastard isn't going to be a totally pansy about this. Gilbert's never liked it gentle. He's gasping and swearing at the man as the heat builds within him, still tonguing Elizaveta's hand, fingers, wrist like they're a lifeline. She shudders; he can smell her come from where he is and he moans at the sound she makes. Roderich's coming fast now, his gasps are sharp and short, and there are these shaky little sounds that Gilbert's never heard from him before, and damn that's a good thing because after all the teasing Gilbert's not sure how much longer he can hold out. His head is going fuzzy, his breath comes short and god every movement Roderich makes feel like heaven.

He barely notices when someone (he's not sure who anymore) takes his cock in hand and jerks him off roughly. He comes with a yell, and Roderich is seconds behind. He's sure he'll hear about that one later, but now he's so worn, and lazy and tired he doesn't care to think about it.

They fall asleep in the mess of that bed tangled together, with Gilbert's arm over Elizaveta's waist pressed against Roderich's thigh, and Roderich's legs tangled with both of theirs, his hands brushing idly through his wife's beautiful hair. Those damn hands, Gilbert thinks, as his eyes drift shut. They could drive a man insane. There is still a part of him, as sleep takes him, that wonders how he'll feel when he wakes up tomorrow on his brother's old, too large bed, sticky and cold and alone. His heart is aching in ways he'll never admit to as he falls asleep. Instead, he wakes still tangled in Elizaveta and Roderich's embrace. Elizaveta has flipped herself over in her sleep, and is now cuddled against his side, her hands brushing his chest, and as his eyes drift higher his heart stops.

Roderich is awake. Roderich is awake and leaning over Elizaveta, tangled as she is in Gilbert's arms, with a quiet smile on his face. He lifts an eyebrow as he catches Gilbert's startled gaze, his smile falling into a smirk. He leans over Elizaveta's shoulder, his delicate, long-fingered hands brushing Gilbert's chin, and Gilbert finds himself unable to move. He's sure he should breath, breathing would be good; his head feels fuzzy.

Roderich kisses him, just a light kiss, barely a touch of the lips. When he pulls back, Gilbert thinks it's possibly the most wonderful thing he's ever felt.

Elsewhere Germany sighs heavily, and pulls half-heartedly at the grip Italy has on his arm. "Italy, I have work to do," he groans, but Italy's grinning at him with that bright, stupid, beautiful grin.

"Come on Germany! There's so many more gardens to see," he exclaims, and tugs, and Germany finds himself following reluctantly anyway. He doesn't catch the mischievous glint in Italy's eye. Not yet, Italy thinks, as he leads Germany away. Can't let you go just yet. They're not done.