Love Thy Soul Mate

Author's Note:

Hello. No, I haven't abandoned the USUK fandom. This is my first time trying my hand on a straight fic. Why the hell am I feeling nervous, again?

Disclaimer: Himaruya owns Hetalia.

Soundtrack: 'Chemo Limo' by Regina Spektor.

Prologue: In Which They Had a Post-Engagement Breakfast

The ruby of the engagement ring alone could have provided for the start-up of a new, promising software company; with the gossamer-thin platinum band, it could have jumpstarted a thousand young dreams of a starving generation. It was ridiculously expensive, it was unsurprisingly beautiful, and it would not fit onto his right ring finger.

He tried twisting the band into place; however, it resisted him, refusing to accommodate even his bony little finger. The ruby eye glared at him, as if it found his touch demeaning, and his use of force a desecration. Even while he appraised its deep colour and flawless cut, he found himself deciding that the ruby was a bad choice; emerald would have suited the newly engaged Elizaveta Héderváry far better. An emerald threaded on a gold band — warm, glowing colours would complement her creamy complexion, the healthy bursts of pink on the apples of her cheeks, and the gentle waves in her hair. The violence of the ruby's blood and the cold white gold were stark on her skin; they brought out the worst of her: the shadow of arrogance in her smile, her oft insufferable self-assured posture, and the scrutinising slant of her almond eyes. The ring, he realised, was an engagement to a facet of Liz he was never well acquainted with, an intelligently seductive creature who had her ways, a risqué woman who attracted men by the dangers she posed.

Pinching the thin ring, he held it up under New York's grey morning light. Beyond the café's windows, the traffic was a clamour of noise and frustration inching along the smoking asphalt, a river of petty human miseries beneath a turgid canopy of fat, gloomily swollen clouds. He peered through the white-rimmed monocle of the ring and zeroed on the woman sitting across him. "Do you like it?"

Upon the curious, conversational tone of his question, Liz looked up from the manuscript she was editing and took off her glasses. She gave him a brief smile, a signal; he had got her attention in its whole. Losing her posture, she languished on her narrow wooden chair. Her voice was a lazy morning drawl. "You look ridiculous. What are you talking about?"

He held the ring aloft between them. Unsuspecting observers thought up a scene of marriage proposal. He laughed inwardly at the insight. Even though he was a poor, struggling sod with his career only starting to bud sullenly before him, he would not stoop to the low of proposing with another man's ring. The ring was livid, even under the weak sunlight. Holding it, his hand was steady — it was a trait of the Beilschmidt family honed and descended through generations of neurosurgeons, until he broke the decades-old trend and typed codes for a first-person shooting game on the keyboard of his laptop instead.

"Your engagement ring." And he handed it back to Liz. She took it back in silence, slipping it clumsily onto her right ring finger. She was unaccustomed to the weight of the gem on her hand; twenty-four hours had yet passed since she received it as a surprise in a velvet box beside her dessert, the closure of an eight-course French dinner of miniscule, delicate bouquets of dishes on ivory plates.

She admired the ring for a while, before grinning in a way he recognised from her distinctly boyish childhood. "Well," she mused, "I do love rubies."

"They don't suit you."

"Yeah. I don't exactly wear them," she said dismissively. "I'm more of a peridot-and-emerald person, all the green stuff. All I inherited from my mom. I got my green eyes from her, if you remember."

He did not. Even though they spent their growing up years together and then some, they rarely visited each other's house, much less meeting each other's parents. They made their turf in the outside world: the streets, the woods, and the soda-selling convenience store.

She rubbed the ruby eye fondly, a gesture which later would develop into a habit. "Look: the ruby could be the colour of your eyes, and the platinum your skin."

They pored over the shades of the ring, and he had to admit that he did resemble the ring in terms of colouration. She reached out across the coffee table, across the pancakes and the empty bowl of oatmeal, and the inky coffee dregs, to pat one of his translucent cheeks affectionately.

"So your fiancé gave you a ring that reminds you of me." He was grinning so widely that his winter-dried lips threatened to split and bleed red.

"I'm sure that that's not his intention!" But she was smirking, too; she could not help it. "I'm not going to complain, though. I'm really, really fond of that ring."

"Because it reminds you of me."

She made a scoff; her heart was not in it and she knew that he knew. "Oh, keep on hoping. It's an expensive, beautiful ring. The fact that it simulates your complexion is only a free side dish."

How Gilbert Beilschmidt and the virtuoso pianist Roderich Edelstein came to be acquainted with each other was an accident in its entirety. It was early in Roderich and Liz's relationship: only a week had passed since Roderich finally called on Liz's apartment and asked her out for dinner. They had their second dinner planned on Saturday night. What went unscheduled was for them to meet during Francis Bonnefoy's party on Friday night, and for Roderich to meet Gil, who had been invited as one of Francis' drinking buddies since high school years and whom Liz had brought along as her escort for the night.

Roderich caught a glimpse of her amidst the drawing room's crowd: the bejewelled guests, their colourful garments, monochromatic waiters hired for the night, and the clutter of Victorian bric-a-brac, which was one of the host's numerous hobbies. He noticed her companion first, due to his odd, pallid complexion and the white of his hair — it looked as if each strand had been burnished in winter ice. His gaze travelled to the lady in the albino's casual embrace, and recognised her as his own girlfriend, the bright-eyed, quick-minded novelist Elizaveta.

A sceptic by nature, who acknowledged and believed only the stuff that science or his eyes could prove, he refrained from hypothesising on the relationship the man and Liz might have shared. Instead, he swiped two flutes of champagne off a tray floating by and made his way across the room in silence. When he found himself looking into Liz's wide-eyed expression, he proffered the champagne to her and said solemnly, "Good evening, Elizaveta."

"Roderich Edelstein!" A flush of delight stole into her cheeks. Her composure never wavered; her expression only brightened. "Of all people! You! In a Bonnefoy's party!"

He noted with intrigue that her companion had taken a step back into the shadows and was watching them, as if bemused.

"I am here as Lili Zwingli's chaperone," he replied, and both he and Liz sought out the younger Zwingli's buttery blond hair and petite form amidst the throng of human bodies, to no avail. Miss Zwingli was a new and upcoming talent in the classical music society. Interestingly, Vash Zwingli, her brother and the only family she had left in the world, was a gun specialist and Francis' personal bodyguard. It was Francis whom Vash turned to when he realised that he had a raw diamond in his care. Francis took it as his personal duty to polish Miss Zwingli into a real diamond with all its rainbow facets.

He gave the albino an inquiring, sidelong glance.

To his surprise, Liz clasped her companion's hand in her own and pulled the man's palm forward. There was a pause as she released her grip, during which Roderich examined the pale, thin hand presented to him. Those spidery fingers could easily surpass his own eleven-note span, reaching perhaps Liszt's twelve.

"Gil, this is Mr Edelstein, Roderich Edelstein. Roderich, Gilbert Beilschmidt has been a terribly good friend of mine ever since — well, ever since I was born."

He had heard of the Beilschmidt. "So you are a neurosurgeon," he concluded, shaking the firm grip around his pianist's hand. That would explain the impressive hands.

"No, I'm not." The curt reply astonished him, although he restrained himself from displaying such emotion. Liz sent Gilbert a withering glance. Gilbert chose to overlook her disapproval and instead twisted the champagne off her hands in a deft, invisible movement. "You have had three glasses. That's enough for tonight." Turning on his heels, he muttered, "Do excuse me," before disappearing into the swarm of guests.

Liz gave a long, suffering sigh. "He is such a difficult guy…"

Roderich shook his head, almost reluctantly. He did not think much of Gilbert's socialising skills, but he reserved a certain admiration for the man's unashamedly blatant protectiveness over Liz. So far, he had held an image of Liz in his head: a strong-willed, independent woman, the epitome of proud modern femininity, a courageous writer who tackled sexual themes and controversy with a chilling precision that won the critics', the readers', and his heart. It was less the representation of a human being than an idealised portrait of another artist. The champagne comment threw a new light on Liz, a flaw that rendered her into more of a human than a figurehead.

"I apologise for the champagne," he said, placing his own back, untouched, on the tray of a passing waiter. "I didn't know."

She looked at him oddly. "No, it's just that I don't really hold my drink very well, hence the need for a chaperone, but it's not your fault…" She trailed off. A smile cracked open on the surface of her face, and he saw her neat rows of teeth, lined up like square pearls, framed by her blood-red-slicked lips.

Liz paid for their breakfast, since her engagement meant that she had better financial security than Gil at the moment. "Roderich pampers me," she reasoned. "He said he has too much money from his inheritance, far too much than what he is able to deal with. Besides, I was the one who asked for your company this morning."

He held the door open for her, and together they stepped into the chilly November draft. "You're spoiling me with your fiancé's money."

She frowned. "Now you're making me feel real bad."

He wanted to escort her back to her apartment; he wanted to do it so badly. Although he managed to restrain himself just in time, it was just barely. She was going to see Roderich Edelstein and listen to him practising the piano while finishing the editing of her new novel. Still, he did not have the heart to leave before giving her a brief, tight, mute hug, and he did not dare to turn around before she disappeared around the corner of the street without any intention of looking back.

Due to the experimental nature of this first chapter, constructive criticism and reviews would be especially, especially, appreciated. Thank you for reading; I do hope you enjoyed it.

Signing off,

Ilsa S. H.

Lost Duck Inc.