Logic

"The logic behind love is cruel, unbelievably so," Francis muses out loud, hand curled elegantly around the stem of a fragile wineglass, rich crimson wine sloshing around inside. His blonde hair is tied back with a blue silk ribbon, the same color as his eyes, and the edges of it curl on his linen shirt.

Gilbert cracks a weary smile. "We agreed on no rambling." He takes a swing of his bitter beer and winces as he forces it down; Ludwig drank all their good quality stuff the day before. He sets his bottle aside and scrubs vigorously at his mouth.

"But I'm not," Francis murmurs, swirling his drink around before sipping at it gingerly and exhaling heavily. His wine is heady and rich, aged to perfection. His head is spinning pleasantly, and the colors of his living room melt together into a lovely blend. "I have something I was going to add on after that."

"Continue, then."

Francis leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stares deep into Gilbert's bloody red eyes. He sips at his wine again, shutting his eyes to savor the taste, before breathing out, "Why do we always fall in love with the one we can't have?"

Silence. Gilbert wracks his brain for something to say, but Francis continues after a minute. "If you look at the relationships all the Nations have had through the years, you see what I mean. Antonio and Lovino – though they love each other, Lovino is a stubborn ass about admitting anything and Antonio is as dense as ever. Feliks still cares about Toris, but Toris has been hurt so many times he can't care any more. Yao will never stop loving Kiku, but really, Kiku's grown up and beyond needing Yao now. And then there's you and Mathieu," Francis continues, gesturing with his free hand at Gilbert. Gilbert's jaw tightens, hand gripping his bottle so tightly his knuckles turn snow white.

"What about Mattie?" he growls, looking to the side so Francis can't see the pain in his eyes. Francis smiles, sadly, and brushes a strand of golden hair from his blue eyes.

"Matthew is, and always will be, blind to how much you love him," he says, tilting his head to the side. Gilbert inhales sharply, then takes a steadying breath as he turns to look at Francis with ice in his eyes. "And really," Francis adds before Gilbert can say anything, "You know it's probably for the best that that happens. Mathieu is still a country, unlike you. He has duties, and you know you'd only get in the way. His loyalties lie with his people, while you're a drifter."

"You..." Gilbert trails off, thinking over what he wants to say, before he sighs and says, "You've hit the nail on the head." He looks so miserable that Francis almost takes back what he said. "Mattie doesn't have the time to deal with me, and he needs to focus more on foreign relations than anything else." He bites down on his upper lip, chewing thoughtfully. "It'd be for the best if I stayed out of his way."

"I think that's the first time since the collapse of the Soviet Union I have seen you look so serious, mon ami."

Gilbert smiles weakly, white-blonde hair in his eyes. "Time and love do weird things to us all." They both take another gulp of their drinks. Gilbert stands up to throw away his empty bottle and grab a new one. "So why'd you bring it up?" he hollers from the kitchen over the clanking of glass on metal.

Francis's lips curve up at the edges, though there is no humor in his eyes. He swirls the wine around his glass again. "I understand how you feel, Gilbert," he replies sadly, "Though unlike you, my love has his attentions fixated on someone other than me."

Gilbert pops his head back into the living room, eyes comically wide. "Arthur, right? Geez, Francis, I thought you gave up on him long ago."

"Will you ever give up on Mathieu?" Francis shoots back, scowling at him with uncharacteristic steel in his eyes and words. "No, Gilbert. I can't give up on Arthur. I never will be able to, really, though I know he'll never really care about me the way I do him."

Gilbert edges back into the room, clutching a new bottle of beer in one hand. "Sucks to be you. Fought with the British bastard for over two thousand years to realize that you love him," he snorts as he falls back onto the sofa opposite Francis. He cracks open his bottle with a skilled flick of his wrist and chugs some down. "Now he's gone gaga over Alfred and you're left out in the cold, huh?"

"Precisely." Francis ignores the bitter feelings Gilbert's accurate remarks brought up; he should be used to them by now. He's lived with them for nearly a hundred years, after all, ever since he figured out that he, the country of love, the one who would never settle down, had fallen head over heels for a bad tempered Nation with fire in his eyes and a cold word on his tongue.

"So," Gilbert starts, drawing Francis's attention back to present, "What are you going to do about it?"

"Do about what?"

Gilbert smirks at him, though he looks as exhausted and miserable as he has looked since Francis brought up the topic of Matthew. "About loving Arthur."

"Oh." He blinks. "Nothing."

"Why not?" Gilbert probes, taking another swing from his bottle. Francis smiles wearily.

"It's too late to change anything," he says simply. "I'd rather see him happy with Alfred than with me and miserable."

"You've gotten less selfish," Gilbert notes, setting his bottle down so he can crack his neck. "Three hundred years ago you would have forced Arthur to love you, happiness or not."

"Maybe I'm getting more civilized," Francis mutters onto the rim of his wineglass before draining the last little bit. He pours himself another glass from the bottle on the wicker table to his right.

"Like that'd ever happen," Gilbert snorts, but Francis knows he's only joking by the way the light hits his eyes and makes them glow more pink then red and by the tiny dimple that appears on his left cheek. "Well," Gilbert continues, raising his bottle in a mock-toast, "Here's to permanent bachelorhood and watching the ones we love pair themselves off with someone else."

They share another tight, bitter smile before downing their drinks and letting the topic fade away into the back of their minds.