Work Text:
1864 — Copenhagen
“The question is, Christensen.” Gilbert said, cigarette perched between his lips. His voice was low and gravelly, like someone who had just woken up, despite it being past lunch. “Are you willing to settle this conflict with blood, or iron?”
Lars watched the Prussian across from him with the wary eye of a man who knew the company he kept. He noted the deft movements of Gilbert’s slender fingers as they plucked the cigarette from his mouth to flick the ash, the casual elegance in the way he crossed one long leg over the other. Those eyes, a deep vermillion, pierced through Lars with a predatory gaze. He had the kind of eyes that saw through you. His voice slithered through the air like a snake, wrapping itself around the ears of anyone fool enough to listen. Lars could only wonder how he’d ended up here, forced to negotiate with a man like this.
“You violated the London Protocol, Christensen.” Gilbert leaned back, settling into his chair with the practiced ease of someone fully in control. His silver-white hair was cropped shorter than Lars remembered, a subtle hint that Gilbert had come prepared for this confrontation. He took a slow drag from the cigarette, his expression unreadable but his intentions clear.
Lars shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying to maintain his composure. The Prussian had the advantage here, and he knew it. They both knew it.
He glanced down at the papers strewn about the table in front of him, the only evidence remaining of the failed treaty. The roundtable wasn’t intimate by any means, but it certainly was small, and the two of them were alone. No need to be diplomatic, now.
“…von Bismark would appreciate the irony, I think,” Gilbert chuckled. “Wasn’t it you who cried for this protocol, and now it is your people who violate the thing you so proudly cried for? I suppose that makes you a hypocrite, doesn’t it, Christensen?”
Lars scowled, and Gilbert grinned, his teeth gleaming white.
The Prussian leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. With one hand, he lifted the cigarette to his mouth. The other, he extended across the table. He pointed at the words ‘Rigsrådet.’
Lars had no choice but to look, and when he did, the words seemed to crawl along the paper.
Gilbert was still grinning, a smug smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You changed your own constitution.”
Lars clenched his jaw. He said nothing, and Gilbert took a slow drag from his cigarette. The smell of burning tobacco filled the room, and Lars felt the sudden urge to flee. He swallowed thickly. “The King believed it was the lesser of two evils,” he said at last, the words leaving a sour taste in his mouth. “To change the constitution instead of—“
Gilbert shrugged and sat back. “Your King is an idiot,” he said.
Lars bristled, and the Prussian smirked.
The Prussian leaned forward once more, resting his elbows on the table again. He reached for his cigarette with one hand, and his other moved to trace the outline of the word Rigsrådet. Lars didn't dare look away. Gilbert's eyes met his own, and his smile widened.
"Your men will pay dearly for this, Christensen.”
Lars could feel the tension in the air. He swallowed and held the Prussian’s gaze. He shifted, trying not to give the other man the satisfaction of knowing he was intimidated.
The Prussian's fingers continued to dance across the paper, caressing the words like a lover. "If you lost, you’d lose half of your land, and for what? For a dream? A delusion?”
Lars' hand twitched, his fist clenching. Gilbert's smirk widened.
"Well," Gilbert continued, taking another drag from his cigarette. His fingers stopped their movements and his eyes flickered down. He leaned back, exhaling slowly, and his gaze rose again. He held the gaze for a moment, and then, his lips curled into a smile, his eyes glinting mischievously. Gilbert flicked his ashes on the floor, and took another drag.
His eyes never left Lars'.
“I suppose the real question is: are you a man of iron, or blood?"
Lars was silent. Silence was the only answer he could give in a situation like this.
Gilbert leaned forward, and the movement was swift and deliberate. The Prussian was now hovering over him, examining every single bit of him. The smirk was still there, and he could feel the Prussian's eyes burning into his soul.
He had to fight the urge to scream, to fight; not yet.
Gilbert took a final drag of his cigarette, and exhaled slowly. “Clearly blood,” he said.
Lars flinched, and Gilbert chuckled. The sound made his skin crawl, and his eyes narrowed. He had had enough of this, and his patience was wearing thin.
Gilbert raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, a challenge. "And you can't blame me," he drawled, "for wanting to make sure that it's true. I’m surprised you broke your bond, really.”
He stubbed the cigarette out on the table, and the sound seemed to echo throughout the room. The Prussian then grabbed the pen in front of him and leaned back, twirling it lazily. He stared down at the papers with disinterest.
"Well?" he said after a few seconds. “Don’t you agree?” He glanced up at Lars. "We can't have you violating the protocol, Christensen. So,” he sighed dramatically, leaning back and tossing the pen aside. He then folded his arms behind his head. “Rodi and I will have to resort to war.” he clicked his tongue. "I know, I know," he added, as if reading Lars' mind, "It's such a shame."
Lars gritted his teeth. "The London Protocol—"
"Yes, yes," Gilbert cut him off, waving his hand dismissively. “But it’s your own damn fault, Christensen. Your king is brainless, and your parliament is full of fools. You can hardly blame us for resorting to war."
Lars clenched his jaw.
"Of course, that's not what I'd like to do," the Prussian continued. “But, as it stands, we have no other choice."
“Arthur will not approve of this, are you mad? You can't!"
Gilbert guffawed. "Arthur? Arthur?" he repeated incredulously. "Arthur doesn’t care! Lord Palmerston doesn’t care about some backwater island nation, you're a mere colony!” He leaned forward. "No one cares about you, Christensen."
He could feel his fists clenching, and Gilbert's eyes dropped down to them.
"I thought you would have figured that out by now, given that your dearly departed Norway has left you. When was the last time you two spoke again?”
"That is none of your business," Lars growled.
"Oh, I think it is," Gilbert said. "Now, tell me how long it's been."
"Fifty years, three months, and five days," Lars gritted out, his knuckles turning white. "You are a coward, Beilschmidt. A coward, and a bully."
The Prussian raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. "Am I?” he stood, his boots clicking against the floor as he paced back and forth. "Or is it you, Christensen, that is the coward?"
Lars could hear the Prussian's footsteps as they echoed through the room.
"The coward," he said, stopping behind Lars' chair. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and a chill went through his spine."The coward who couldn't keep his own people in line. The coward, who thought because he won the first time, he would win the second."
Gilbert's grip tightened, and Lars winced.
"The coward who lost his husband. The coward who thinks he can get away with changing his own constitution without any repercussions.”
Lars swallowed.
Gilbert chuckled. "You should be careful, Christensen. One wrong move, and you could have your head on a pike."
The Prussian was silent for a few moments. It allowed Lars to breathe for a moment, but the way that Gilbert stood in front of him with his perfectly tailored uniform, the polished boots, the immaculately trimmed hair. It angered Lars. Everything about Gilbert was calculated. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was left to chance.
The hand on his shoulder disappeared.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a war to prepare for."
He heard the Prussian's footsteps fading, and he looked down at the papers in front of him. He could feel the weight of the words, could hear them ringing in his ears.
“Oh! And, Christensen?"
Lars looked up.
The Prussian’s posture was relaxed, his expression bored. He didn't look at Lars. Instead, he gazed out the window, his profile sharp against the afternoon light.
"You might want to consider getting your King a better advisor than yourself. Good day.”
Gilbert clicked his heels and offered a mocking salute, then left, his boots echoing against the marble.
Lars let out a breath. He slumped in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose, his head pounding. “Fuck!” he screamed. He could feel the anger boiling within him, the rage and frustration. It was all he could do to stop himself from ripping up the papers, from smashing the window. From throwing himself out of it.
He ran his hands through his hair and cursed again, his mind racing. What was he going to tell the King?
"Fucking Prussian bastard!" he slammed his fist on the table and stood, grabbing the papers. He crumpled them in his hands and threw them on the ground. “I will win! Denmark will win! You hear me, Gilbert?! I will win this war! I will!"
Gilbert was standing behind the door, smirking as he heard Lars go on a rampage, cursing and slamming things. He was still smirking when Roderich, who was standing beside him, cleared his throat.
“I will assure your victory Gilbert, but: are you quite certain you should leave him with such a…strong impression of the situation?”
Gilbert snorted and glanced back at Roderich, the smirk gone from his face. "Are you kidding? I was practically holding his hand."
Roderich raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. He turned around slightly as he heard something hard bang against the wall behind him. A chair, perhaps. “…You were demeaning and politicking like a thug. Machtpolitik or not, this could easily get dangerous for you, and for me. The man has the blood of a thousand Vikings, and it won't take much to awaken the beast. You need to remember that, Gilbert. Or have you forgotten why I'm even here in the first place?"
The Prussian scoffed. "He claims the English are on his side. The English. All because of that bluff Palmerston made. Do you think Arthur gives a shit about Denmark, when he's got his own issues to worry about? He's not stupid. He knows that if I'm here, it's for a reason."
“Arthur is a friend of convenience.” Roderich reiterated.
"A friend that will do anything for a good price." Gilbert shot back.
Roderich's frown deepened, and Gilbert waved him off.
"Rodi,” he said, leaning closer, his voice dropping. His eyes were alight with amusement. "I'm not afraid of him. He's a fool. I can control him. It's all just a game, and he doesn't even realize he's a part of it.”
Gilbert turned and glanced down the hallway. He could still hear the ruckus.
"And," he added, his grin returning, "it's a game I intend to win."
"You've done a fine job of losing thus far," Roderich deadpanned, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "You lost the first war, and you asked me to show up to help you win the second."
Gilbert bristled, and Roderich arched a brow, his eyes boring into him.
"You've done nothing but cause more problems."
Gilbert turned, glaring. “This is for the boy,” he snapped. "For Ludwig.”
Roderich gave him a look.
"Look, the plan is simple." Gilbert continued. "Christensen will lose, and his land will become ours. Ludwig will get the land, and we'll finally be able to unite the Germans. There will be no more wars, no more bloodshed. I’ll have a unified fatherland, and all the glory will be mine.“
"And what will happen to me?" Roderich asked. "What will I get out of this, aside from the satisfaction of having been dragged across Europe, and the risk of having my head taken off, and being killed in a war I don't care about. You make it seem as if it’s all for you and Ludwig. It's not."
"I'm getting there," Gilbert retorted. He leaned closer, his voice dropping again. "Once the war is over, I'll have the support I need. And when that happens, you will be the empire I choose to align myself with."
Roderich's frown deepened. “…Fine,” he said after a moment. He glanced down the hallway again, and his expression shifted, his gaze becoming more focused. He was distrustful, his eyes narrowing.
Gilbert grinned and straightened, clapping a hand on Roderich's shoulder. He turned, and strode confidently down the hall. "Come, Rodi," he said over his shoulder, his voice echoing off the walls. “Let the Dane have his conniption fit in peace. We have work to do. And besides," he added, glancing back, at the door, the bangs from Lars growing fainter.
"He'll be dead by next week anyway."