and BAM, we now move on to the next phase: adultery. sorry for the wait, but here it is at last. :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, but I do own this plot.

Three months.

Gilbert visits the bar at sporadic intervals of days and weeks, always scanning the crowd and calling himself to Elizabeta's attention with his bright crimson eyes and wide, toothy smile.

"Hey, Liz."

He looks at her, underneath the flickering bulb of the fluorescent light – the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes borne from the weariness of age, the freckles scattered upon her nose that he never noticed until now but she had always complained about before, the creeping blush blossoming upon her cheeks that carried a mix of rose and crimson red – and it's all those imperfections, he is convinced, that make her look so much more beautiful on a night like this.

She catches his stare.

"…Your usual, Gil?"

She smiles at him and she is lovely, he thinks, in every sense of the word.

"Ja."

-x-

There is a note on the refrigerator.

Check the drawer. I left money for this month's bills. I won't be home for a while. – E

-x-

She sleeps in the bar now, often on the couches of the booths, or on tucked arms resting atop the serving counter. She only goes home to shower or change. Gilbert catches her once.

"Rough night?"

"It's my husband." She pours him a glass and he swipes it from the counter, chugging the beer in a hearty attempt before signalling for a refill.

"Had a fight?"

"No," she replies, though her gaze is somewhat distant. "Not really."

"What's it like?" he asks.

"What's what like?" she answers, and pours him another glass.

"Your relationship. Does he hurt you? 'Cause if that bastard tries anything, I'll beat him right up for you."

"So what, you're my knight in shining armor now?" she snorts at the thought. "Where's your white horse?"

"Who needs a horse when you've got a car?" he answers back with a wink.

"Yeah, well…I'm hell of a lot stronger than you, don't forget."

"Easy there, little missy. You underestimate the power of my awesome."

"I can beat you with my frying pan, Gil," she says with a laugh, glad to resume their routine of playful banter and half-hearted insults. "I take it I could probably handle him more than you."

"Well then, tell me, Liz," Gilbert speaks up in a more quiet tone now, setting the glass aside and propping his elbows on the table. "Do you love him?"

"Of course, " Elizabeta replies, grabbing a rag and wiping the counter surface. "He's my husband. I married him."

He tucks his chin atop laced fingers, puckering his lips then pouting in her direction. "Boo. That's not the answer I was looking for."

"Uh…yes, then?"

"Allow me to rephrase it, Liz." And Gilbert downs the remnants in the glass before leaning in just a little bit closer, his eyes piercing and honest with pure concern. "Are you happy with him?"

And the bartendress only blinks, but doesn't fathom a response.

-x-

"Morning, Roderich," Elizabeta greets him as she slaves over the frying pan, cooking breakfast as her husband walks into the kitchen.

Their relationship is empty now, reduced to empty greetings and austere mornings; a combination of walking on eggshells and traipsing around shallow cordialities.

"Good morning, Elizabeta."

Traces from the events of the previous evening are still evident in his appearance, Elizabeta notes, judging from the dishevelment of his hair and the collar of his shirt; vestiges of a mistress littered around as debris, taking the forms of neck bruises and lipstick stains.

He doesn't even bother to hide it that well anymore. Elizabeta looks away, opting not to say anything. The proof of Roderich's affair hangs still in the air, forever the words last unspoken on her lips, the elephant in the room that remains to go unnoticed.

-x-

"I love you, Liz," Gilbert confesses, his pale face flushed and pink, the noise of his words loud against the sound of her heartbeat.

"I can't love you, Gil," she pleads. "You know that I can't—"

"Yes," he says, and he hates how he knows she will never be his. "But you don't have to."

"I'm sorry, I—"

"Please."

She feels his lips crash against hers, the bitter taste of alcohol colliding with her teeth.

-x-

The piano is playing. Sibelius, Elizabeta recalls. Valse Triste.

Another waltz.

"I want a divorce," Elizabeta says at last, her voice tinny and edged with slight trepidation.

"Elizabeta, my dear," Roderich quips, not even bothering to return her stare, "have you gotten drunk at work again?" He chuckles at this; his tone sardonic, mocking and contemptuous.

How dare he? Elizabeta seethes. How dare he shoot her down like that?

"I'm serious."

"No." His answer is curt, brusque and stern. He plays a chord. Forte.

"Why the hell not?"

"I will not permit it." His expression is stern as he counters her tersely. "Don't think I don't know about your trysts with that red-eyed German, Elizabeta."

And what about yours? Elizabeta wants to scream, struggling to bite the words back from spilling out her mouth. What was her name again? Your mistress…Lillian, was it?

"You don't care," she hisses scathingly, gazing at him with accusing eyes. "You never cared." The words are bitter against her lips, rough and stinging at the edge of her tongue.

"Ah, but I do. Have you forgotten, my dear," Roderich snaps, the rhythm accelerating as he reaches a crescendo, "what I had promised you on the night of our wedding eight years ago?"

"You told me you loved me," she says quietly. Voice low; hesitant, even.

"Yes," he says, tongue clicking in distaste. "And I meant it then." He stops for a moment, quiet all of a sudden, pausing and struggling to look for the right words.

Elizabeta finds them for him.

"Perhaps," she says with a waver in her voice, hurt mirrored in her emerald eyes. "Perhaps you did, Roderich. But you most certainly do not mean it now."

-x-

"I could make you happy," Gilbert blurts the words out right then, cheeks flushing slightly as they tumbled out his lips.

"Gil—"

"But I could," he says as he pulls her closer, the puffs of his breath warm against her ear; his voice every bit as desperate as his heart lets him feel. "I could, Liz, if you'd let me."

So she does.

-x-

And here they are again, amidst fevered kisses and sweat-slicked skin, long-craved affections and burning ardour. Warm arms wrap around the other's torso, a tasteful tango of carnal indulgences and lustful desires.

The bar lights flicker for a while, a single buzz before it shuts down. Closed.

A fallacy of love between two strangers in the dark.

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