Author's Note: This is why I don't write parody. I read a lot of PruCan, and while there is good stuff out there, a lot of it seems to follow the same formula: AU or Contemporary setting, Canada on bottom, Prussia on top, WANGST, sad little invisible Canada, sad dead Prussia, extra points for FACE family references, appearance of Bad Touch Trio, mention the ledgendary five meters, use 'awesome' at least ten times. So I tried to parody it. Yeah. Oh, and there are historical allusions, of course. I wouldn't have been able to write it without historical references. Try to guess them all!
Warnings: Smut and drugs
Caught Out
The air in the bedroom shifts to yellow. Gilbert's head crashes into the wall. It resounds. Resounds and ripples. Something hot, too hot, too warm touches him. It curls over his mouth, tracing lips, caressing him with smoke. Swimming through the golden air, he slams into the mouth attached to the something, and sucks.
He should blame Antonio. Antonio probably was the bad influence. Gay wasn't catching like germs, or anything, but if you hung around it long enough, it could confuse you. That had to have been what happened with Ludwig. Gilbert had allowed Antonio to remain in Ludwig's general vicinity for too long.
They roll. Gilbert plunges. Lights shine in his eyes. A flailing arm hits a wall, and something floats over him. Suddenly a river of red and white, stars winding all the way through it, envelops him. Carries him along. Covers him. Wraps silkily between his thighs.
The night began in the afternoon, as Gilbert punched Feliciano Vargas, incubus, in the face. His body crashed to the sidewalk, and then Gilbert was on him, attacking the young man using the raging fury that had broken suddenly inside his head.
He bites the skin offered up. He means to bite. But lemons and pepper explode sweetly on his tongue, and for several minutes he can do nothing but taste. Perhaps the eyes looking into his see his wide open accepting pupils. But the world between them is dissolving in swirls of honey. He contents himself with licking. The cloth is satin against his bare skin, wrapping around him like a snake, and someone is asking him a question to which the answer is almost certainly 'no,' but the sweetness is too mysterious, so he chases it over an abdomen that ripples under his tongue, and maybe he can just slide into this person like a second skin, and be someone else for the rest of his short life.
He lowered the hot glass to Feli, both of them grinning. His was malicious, he was certain. Gilbert Beilschmidt knew his face was villainous. He had seen it often enough in a mirror, correcting any softness as soon as it appeared. God had gifted him with the appearance of a freak, and if he wanted to get girls—already precociously adolescent at fifteen, having discovered this strange creature without any help, he told himself—he had to use that gift. Feli, ten and innocently unaware of everything but the piping hot pie pan, which he handled like a pro, had the face of an angel, and his smile was simply delighted. They ran over fences, through fields of broken glass bottles and cracked concrete, steaming sweet blueberries ready for eating on a hot August day. Like awesome people, of course, they shared their bounty with Gilbert's little brother, and let him take the rap when Mr. Edelstein put in an angry appearance.
Someone pushes through a star spangled cloud of purple, their hand catching his shoulder. Off balance, naked, and tangled in a sheet or tapestry or somesuchfuck, he falls. They both begin to laugh. Gilbert rubs his face against the soft carpet, feeling moss against his cheek.
Ludwig replaced the ice pack against his eye, looking up at his big brother, who was laughing. His smile was quieter, but still it was a great feeling for Gilbert to know that Lutz was up for a smile. He hadn't been really happy since the Vargases had moved. All it took was beating up those annoying blond fags from the north side, and they could both breathe more easily.
Gilbert finds himself against something sturdy, watching a golden blur of a person, who shifts in and out of the haze of the swimming room. He can see fingers going in and out. They glisten a little with fluid. Or fairy dust. Who knows at this point? But they go out and in, and the carpet trails out into some fringe like seaweed under his fingers. The color in his golden hook-up's cheeks is high. Splinters from an unfinished floor under the carpet eat at his flesh. Out and in, to the knuckle, the fingers work. Noises flit around him, pouring their way through his ears one minute, dancing to the corners of this room the next.
Gilbert spent an afternoon once comparing complexions with his two best friends. They stuck their arms out, locking wrists, and just looking at the banding of color from glue white to rich toast brown. The hair on Gilbert's arm was invisible, even when they moved, but Francis' yellow flashed in the dappled light under the tree. Gilbert claimed to be fascinated by the colors that the other two possessed, and spent more time examining the variations in pigments than either Francis or Antonio wanted to hold their arms out for. But they did, anyway, because Gilbert put up with (even covered for) Francis' shit, and he had only given Antonio a noogie along the command not to get any gay on him two months ago.
Just when he is going to melt into the chest of drawers, and become one with the socks in sheer why-the-hell-not?-ness something grabs him, and anchors him in real world. Which is weird because at some point this evening he has or will vow never to find reality again. But reality is good. Better than good. Reality does things with a tongue that probably will melt his mind more than the drugs slipping through. Before he knows really what is happening, one hand has lost itself in gold, letting wires soft as corn silk wrap around his fingers. The other hand seeks down a back, cutting raw rows of flesh with his fingernails. And he bucks his hips into something warm and welcoming and wet.
Ludwig invited him over to the apartment four months ago, excited. Gilbert was reintroduced to Feliciano, now in culinary school. They fell into their old patterns. Ludwig and his economics major friend Kiku closer to Vargas than Gilbert. That was to be expected, of course. He was out of high school, and going through crappy job after crappy job while Ludwig still had university and his masters to obtain before he began his teaching career. But Gilbert, lively and in the center of every scene, was pleased that his little brother, reserved and focused only on goals, had friends to look after him. He could stop worrying. Lutz would be fine. Not that Gilbert ever would stop worrying. But if he ever wanted to, he now had that option.
He is sure that he is coming down. He is sure, because he is noticing more of the room. And then teeth hit flesh just lightly enough as fingers dig into his hips, and he can see nothing.
Gilbert should have knocked. Ludwig had his back to the door, bent over the sink. He had clearly been washing dishes. Feliciano stood near by, leaning away from the pressure sprayer, because the cheery man always started a water fight while helping with chores, and Lutz knew to keep his only weapon handy.
Gilbert comes back to his senses, what are left of them, and lunges forward. He has wrists in a one handed grip pressed against that soft soft carpet. The thing under him writhes and tries to disappear in a shower of sparks. He isn't having any of that, he whispers, anchoring the anonymous person who has shitty tastes in wall decorations. Lemon takes his tongue by storm as he wrenches a leg up, and out. The inner thigh distracts him for a moment, and he runs his hands all over until the body under him is growling in frustration, and actually slaps him. Skin stinging, he grins fiercely at a face he cannot see.
Gilbert walked into the kitchen with Feliciano laughing, wiping water from his eyes, his brown shirt soaked black, and protesting claims that he had surrendered at least five minutes ago ringing through out the room to cover Gilbert's approach. Lutz rumbled something about surrender not being how the game worked, and, mein Gott, was there still tomato sauce on Feliciano's cheek? Gilbert had been about to pounce, his finger to his lips, in case Feliciano, whose attention was fixed on his former attacker, did see him. Ludwig leaned sideways, stumbled, and his mouth swept any remaining tomato from Feliciano's cheek.
Gilbert is new to this. It hurts just a bit, as he forces himself in. This is much drier than a woman, but it is so tight. The man shakes around him, hot. Gilbert can feel himself slowing. He is tired from beer and the end of the high, and the earlier orgasm, but this is tight. It's good. And it's just the physical sensation. He's being stimulated properly. That's all there is to it, really. Nothing is wrong with him. Other than the obvious.
Gilbert could have ignored that, as he had ignored many other little things. Feliciano was a physical person. He liked touching people. And hugging them. And, well, Lutz was not as body shy around Feliciano simply because with Feli's attitude you couldn't be body shy. Gilbert could have ignored that. He could ignore a quick brush of lips against a cheek. He could not ignore the hesitantly enthusiastic way they suddenly returned to a wet mouth that probably had soap suds on it, and pressed against it. He could not ignore the hands that suddenly gripped at khaki cargo pants, pulling practical Lutz closer to wet jeans. He could not ignore the red flush growing on the back of Lutz's neck or the wonder beginning to peek past the shock in Feliciano's eyes. Gilbert should have knocked.
This is not sin, Gilbert knows. This is him not knowing what the hell he is doing, and going along with it anyway, as so often happens. The man under him wraps legs around his sides, still red but turning slowly black-purple the way bruises do, and he hisses. The passage is warmer, looser, and much easier, so there he is, lost inside a man who would have told him to take a walk in the lake, if he had seen Gilbert a bare five hours ago. Instead, the welcoming stranger tosses his head back, and clenches around him.
Feliciano had not needed to call out after him to wait. Gilbert was waiting. Waiting for the man who had taken his little brother and perverted him, somehow. Turned him from being Lutz to being something else. Something unfamiliar and not his little brother. In response Gilbert smiled menacingly, grabbed Feliciano by the hair, and drove the mouth that had stolen his little brother's proper self into Gilbert's fist. No longer would he suffer that angelic smile, knowing that it had touched and leaped into sin.
He comes to, naked, wrapped in an American flag, and desperately hugging some stranger. Not wanting to see the face, connect name to voice, or even fucking deal with any of this, he sits up, and feels the first wave of disgust wash over him. They are on the floor. The god damned floor.
Ludwig separated them with a shoulder slammed into his older brother's sternum. Gilbert blanked out on the rest, but time had passed, and he was alone on the sidewalk. Not knowing what to do, he rose painfully, and tottered away.
He struggles upright, and goes to look for a shower, since the second wave of disgust involves exactly how unclean he is right now. The shower is stand up—not good for his aching head but it encourages Gilbert to be quick—and masculinely clean of everything except for shampoo and a bar of soap. Gilbert suspects that there is more in the cabinets, but he doesn't want to spend the time to check. Bad enough he is going to smell like whatever the other man smells like until—well, actually not until. Fuck until. Tomorrow was never coming.
He scrubs his skin raw, and then jumps out, as though hot water will seduce him, and convince him that a longer stay is better. Picking his way back through the scene of chaos, he finds everything. Boxers, jeans, shirt, wallet, and duffel bag. Not wanting to wake the man, he goes into the kitchen to get dressed. It's a nice apartment, he muses, wondering who else the fag lives with. The bathroom had been impressively clean, but this place is too big for one person, unless he's hit another stratosphere of riches by accident. Besides, a note on the fridge commands that Alfred do his own shopping.
Not curious, Gilbert places his bag on the table with a clunk, and looks at the round overhead light with the air of a man about to smash it.
So, Gil, you've fucked your life, he thinks, absently reaching inside the duffel for the gun.
Ludwig is probably going to miss it soon, the lanky man tells himself, popping out the magazine, and checking each cartridge. How often had Lutz gone down to the range after a bad week, and practice his near perfect shots? Gilbert generally accompanies his brother, never bothering to renew his own license as he generally can swipe someone else's and flash it quickly enough to get in. Their cousin Vash, who owns the place, is Gilbert's favorite target.
Harmlessly, he pulls back the slide, caressing the steel with loving familiarity. He likes metal. The sharp smell, the smoothness, the way light shines off it. He likes metal. The black shine of the gun reveals the barrel, the simple round tube tilting friendily toward the open ceiling.
Gilbert leaves the hollow weapon on the table for a moment, slotting the brassy rounds back into the magazine.
Lutz treasures this thing. Their father had bought it for Gilbert when the older boy had passed his driving test, and when the old man had died before Lutz was fifteen, Gilbert concocted a story and forged a letter from the old man stating that the gun was Ludwig's upon passing his driver's exam, as should be. Things get passed along in their family.
Well, he's taking this back. It has always been his. Lutz will be glad. They regularly joke that Gil is just going to up and disappear one day. Of course, the older man thinks, slamming the magazine into the comfortable handle, and flexing his fingers on the grip, if he wanted to do this right, he should be in another city, and have removed all forms of ID. Okay, albinos aren't exactly a dime a dozen, but from what he's seen on TV and remembers from his violent teen years, bullets tear through heads pretty impressively. He'll just disappear, and that will be the happy end of everything.
Licking the barrel experimentally, the welcome bitter tang of steel and smokey pepper of chemical polish fills his mouth. Yeah. This will be a good way to go.
Gilbert glances down the squared off slide, looking for the tell tale hint of red, before he pushes the thick barrel between his teeth, getting used to the weight. It's hard to get his jaw around this. Something happened to his lips last night, and they feel as though they are about tpo split open and bleed rawly all over the muzzle. But he manages, feeling the heaviness against his tongue, pressing into his mouth, about to take out the back of his skull.
At this very moment, the man walks into the kitchen. Gilbert, too well trained to jump, has kept his finger clear of the trigger, because this could hurt like Hell if he doesn't do it properly. So he just looks up, pinkly red eyes glazed between haughtiness and guilt. His host stares, blinking slowly, in the manner of someone who has not quite caught up to events. It must seem ridiculously surreal. Wake up. Go to make morning coffee, and discover your fuck from last night with a gun in his mouth. Under other circumstances this would be a trippy dream.
Slowly, the man raises his hands to run them through the wavy golden mess of his hair. "Now, I don't have my glasses on, but that looks like a pretty poor way to say 'thank you for meaningless sex.' You c-could have at least put down newspaper, or something."
Carefully, Gilbert blinks, stunned back to reality. With careful working of his jaw, he pulls out the Walther 99 from his mouth. "Was that a joke?" he ventures, wanting to laugh at exactly how blasé this man is being.
"I—I suppose so," the other shrugs, walking to the refrigerator, and pulling a rubber band off the hook, using it to pull his hair back. Some of the bed head (floor head?) refuses to be tamed, and a curl defiantly sprouts from the the part in his hair, as the tall blond winces. "Okay, eyes mostly clear, no idea where my glasses are. I can deal with this now."
They stand quietly in the kitchen, looking awkwardly at the same stretch of floor. It is a coward's way out. No stares. No recrimination. No explanation. In Gilbert's defense, the young man is mostly naked, minus the t-shirt that he had been wearing at some point last night, now much more rumpled, and that's weird to think about when Gilbert isn't high. He doesn't know what the fuck the other guy's problem is.
At last, the boy gestures at the wooden chairs pulled up to the round table. "Um, sit. I'll make breakfast."
Gilbert sits, now wondering if he is the one who is dreaming. "That's it? 'Sit. I'll make waffles or some such shit?' Aren't you at least mildly worried that I'm gonna, you know, off myself?"
Purple eyes narrow in irritation. "Look, your previous one night stands might have been familiar with how to talk to you when you have a gun in your hand, but this is my first time dealing with this. I'm going to try being normal, and see if that helps."
The logic just makes Gilbert slump. "Fair enough," he concedes grudgingly. "My one night stands haven't exactly been lining the block with any other suggestions on what to do, in any case."
Reaching into a cupboard for a large container marked flour, the blond snorts. "That doesn't surprise me. No offense, but you needed the practice."
"What?" pride wounded, Gilbert discovers that his face is red.
The man moves to the refrigerator, and Gilbert does notice that he is limping. Ew. "Oh, you're all right," the guy reassures him hastily. "But even for someone high, you, uh, didn't seem to know what you were doing. You're straight, aren't you?"
Seeing the wonderful outlet from the awkwardness of the conversation, Gilbert tries to leap at it, only to realize that there is a shred of basic honesty that does not allow for the save. "Yesterday: Hells yes. Today: Not a fucking clue what the Hell is going on."
"Call me a fluke, if you prefer. Plenty of people make stupid mistakes when they've got their brains scrambled with every substance imaginable," eggs crack into a bowl. Shit, he really is making waffles. Something bothers Gilbert about the attitude. He can't put his finger on it, though, and already another question has been voiced, putting him on the alert. "So, I don't usually do this, but what's your story?"
Crossing his arms, and still comforted by the weight of his handgun, the press of wood into his spine from the chair, and the world in general, Gilbert considers this. He doesn't even know the name of the other man. "I was upset. I got high off some stuff I got from a friend, and after that who gives a fuck?"
A whisk stirs through the batter, scraping the sides of the plastic bowl softly. "Fair enough. Only you wound up in my kitchen this morning looking as though you were going to kill yourself. So someone had to—had to give a fuck, as you put it."
"Oh yeah, who?"
A nervous smile flutters over the man's broad shoulder. "You, I would have thought."
"Just not you, huh?" Gilbert parries the question inherent in the statement: 'why are you doing this?.' He doesn't want to do this, but he's comfortable. Sort of. The world looks decent, anyway.
The whisk pauses, and the guy's hair in that painful looking ponytail whisks his shoulders as he shakes his head slightly. "I didn't say that. Sorry. This is very much not what I thought I was going to be doing with the morning."
Hmm. That's probably true, although Gilbert doesn't like all of the implications of that sentence, and something is now tapping on his shoulder, trying to get his attention. "What were you going to be doing?"
The guy tilts his head towards the ceiling, before shrugging, and in the movement of his shoulders, and the lifting of the green t-shirt Gilbert catches a glimpse of round peach flesh, with a thumb-like bruise buried just where buttocks and thigh meet. This is so damn weird. Did he do that?
"I suppose I was going to wake up, and then clean up my brother's room. We managed to knock down his main wall decoration in the middle of the night. I'm going to be dead if we stained it."
Oh, he lived with his brother. Ironic. Good to know, but ironic. "You mean that huge ass flag in there?"
Going back to the whisking, the man nods. "He got it when he joined the Marines."
Shit. Marines? And here this kid had brought a strange guy home and gotten fucked on his brother's special flag? "Shiiiiiiit. I'll help you."
This makes the young man turn his head, surprise written all over his features. "Oh you d-d-don't really—Alfred won't be back for two weeks. I'll have everything fixed by the afternoon. Earlier, depending on when you decide to leave."
Gilbert snorts, chuckling quietly to himself. "You think I'm going to be alright on my own?"
"No," the reply is almost covered by the rattle of pans from another cupboard. "But what do I know? I'm not you. I expected you to be gone before I got up. Yet here you are. Life is funny, eh?"
Placing the gun carefully on the hard plastic of the table, Gilbert puts the safety on, and tries to think of a good response. "I'm—y'know, I have no idea what I'm going to do after breakfast. Not that this is new, but I always generally had an apartment to go back to."
Butter sizzles as it is added to a skillet. "Oh? Were you evicted?"
"No," Gilbert sighs, reaching into his back pocket, and grabbing his wallet. Just to look at the pictures of a life he'll never have again. "My brother knows where I live, and we had a bad fight before I went to find Lars. Hmmm. I should really ask that fag what he gave me."
Although his back is to Gilbert, the friendly kid nods, revealing a scrap of skin on the back of his neck. There's a hickey there. If it was not evidence of Gilbert's complete flip out, the other would say that red suited the blond. Not that it will remain that flashing hue for long. "Lars is a good guy."
That comment sets Gilbert to really laughing this time. "He's a fucking expensive guy. Yeah, you can get good shit from him, but usually you have to pay an arm and a leg. I think I gave him full price, too, last night. Shit. Shiiiiit. I think I used Lutz's cash. Fuck. Fu—How does a good kid like you know Lars?"
The young man turns to him, eyebrow raised, as though this question is odd. It can't be. Lars, a good pal all the same, is one of the seediest men Gilbert knows. Idiot fa—fairies who take deranged psychopaths like him home really should not be in contact with someone like Lars.
"He used to watch Alfred after school, and he's friends with my old boss, Francis."
Gilbert blinks slowly as the information seeps through. Lars, Francis and Antonio was a large carefully avoided topic in Gilbert's personal lexicon. "Wait a sec, you know Francis? The Bonnefoy guy with the flower shop on seventh?"
A spatula waves, as something is flipped over on the griddle. Not waffles. Pancakes. Been a while since he has eaten those. "Yeah, I used to work there—,"
"You're the kid he was trying to set Antonio up with four years ago!" it never takes Gilbert long to make connections, he mentally congratulates himself. "I remember. He was talking about setting up his clerk with our friend who couldn't keep—Er," now that he was talking to the person, rather than some theoretical blond head, that seemed awkward to say.
The boy just shrugged. "Well, let's just say I never hit it off with your friend, and call it a day, all right?"
Gilbert shrugs. "Okay. He never told me how that worked out for him, either. I don't even see Antonio nowadays. Or Francis. Or Arthur. Hell, I don't even know if he's alive. Or Matthias. He was in jail last I heard. Berwald's probably pretty fucking happy about that. Christ. And Toris is working for some cleaning service and I haven't seen him in forever. Tranny Feliks is probably the only one I even see any more, and that's just to shout at him. Shit. Fuck. I probably owe fucking Edelstein a ring. And once I do call him, I'm going to be for it because I didn't fucking call them up sooner. If he can find the fucking phone. Is everybody—Fuck it. I didn't come here to have an existential life crisis or whatever the fuck this is."
Through the whole recitation, batter pours onto the griddle, and flips off in golden, buttery circles. They aren't perfect. Gilbert, who likes things neat, although he'll never admit it, is sad to see the lack of Euclidean geometry.
They smell gorgeous. Gorgeous. From the verb to gorge. Which is just what he wants to do. Well, not, that's not where the word is from. If Arthur were here, Gilbert would have received a whole monologue on the origin and meaning of the words. But if Arthur were here they would be having beer soup and hangovers for breakfast. There is good, warm food, instead, and it's being delivered to him on a plate. With a fork.
"So, why did you come here?" the other man asks, thankfully putting the table between Gilbert's line of sight and the hem of his t-shirt.
A stupid question deserves a stupid answer. "You brought me here."
Dark blue, nearly purple eyes bore into him. "Okay. What do you want to talk about?"
The silence swallows both of them. Gilbert turns his eyes to his stack of pancakes, and begins to cut them. An exasperated sigh escapes from the other end of the table, and the host is up once more, rummaging around for something. With a clunk that is far too close to his plate, Gilbert is forced to contend with a pale tan jar of some sort.
Obviously, his confusion is noticed. "Maple syrup. For the pancakes?"
Gilbert pokes the plastic jug suspiciously. "Weird shape. Is this 'Mrs. Butterworth's' or something?"
Above his head, a visible wince that manages to crawl from face to the whole body. "No. It's maple syrup."
A sly grin spreads across the pale face. "'Mrs. Butter—,'"
"Finish that sentence, and I will—I will—I will make it very unpleasant for you!" the man growls indignantly, or at least, he probably intends to growl indignantly, but his voice squeaks in shaking protest by the end of the sentence.
Gilbert laughs. "'Kay, I'll try it."
This appears to satisfy his host, who nods, and crosses his arms, spatula dangling loosely in his grip. "Good, everyone should try real maple syrup at least once."
Gilbert doesn't reply for a bit, watching the long ribbon of amber, thinking of pine resin, and sunlight. When was the last time he got out in the country? He'd gone to that one stupid mountain when Fritz had died. And before that? Shit. Has it really been four months already? He should be keeping better track. Not that he trusts the various Wilhelms not to take off, and never return, but it might be nice to go visit that mountain by himself.
A cough interrupts him, and Gilbert suddenly finds himself staring at a small lake of shining sugar sloshing gently at the edges of the plate. "I don't have a magical well of infinite maple syrup."
Quickly, the skinny man cuts off the flow, and places the jug down on the table. "I like sweet things," he lies expertly, hunkering over the plate.
Well, maybe this is not a lie. He has always had a bit of a sweet tooth. It is why he chose to steal from a bakery and not a video game store in the much talked about misguided youth.
A chair scrapes back, and the blond sits across from him. Gilbert resolutely ignores the flinch, and shudder that runs through the man as he tries to find a good position. Nothing but the checkered table cloth is in front of the owner of the house. Gilbert raises a nearly transparent eyebrow. "What? Aren't you going to eat something?"
A shrug answers him. "I'm not hungry yet, and my coffeemaker takes forever to brew a cup."
Gilbert's bright eyes dart to the white thing hiding between refrigerator and blender. It's the brand that the pale man privately calls 'Mr. Asshole' because clearly whoever designed it hated coffee drinkers, and was an asshole. The only feature that isn't stupid about the back loading, filter held in by luck, broken drip mechanism is the fact that they cost under five dollars in any convenience store. "Where's your coffee?"
"Cuboard over the sink. You really don't have to—"
With a wave, Gilbert interrupts the man, "Naw. You made breakfast. I'll make coffee."
Since the albino is already half way out of his chair, the host sighs, and shrugs once more. "Your pancakes will get cold."
It can't take that long to fill a filter, and get water, Gibert is certain. Besides, there's a microwave by the oven. "Sure, sure."
Weird domestic noises fill the kitchen. All there needs to be is a radio playing the news on a classical station, and he's back at Mr. Edelstein's again. Well, there would also need to be a lot more disapproval silently tainting the air.
"You haven't asked me what's my job this month," So caught up in the familiar unfamiliar, Gilbert doesn't even realize that he let the accusing words slip from his head to his mouth.
The soft voice of the blond reminds the pale man, with a bright flush of red, that he is not wandering around a baker's kitchen, trying to avoid the usual Saturday morning lecture. Christ, that was years ago. Weird to think that he even misses that. "Um, sorry?"
Setting the filter snugly in the basket, Gilbert begins to measure out the grounds from the round tin that this man keeps them in. "Nothing. I was just thinking about boring stuff. I haven't done breakfast with anyone in a while."
"Oh?"
The basket, designed to be held in by the top of the carafe and two plastic prongs is carefully balanced back on those prongs, as Gilbert heads back to the sink, the pot under his arm, ready for water. "Yeah. My brother's foster parents used to give me breakfast every Saturday, and then lecture me about whatever they thought I was doing wrong with my life."
Gilbert can just imagine the other man shrugging again. Certainly the rustle of cloth makes him assume that the t-shirt was moved somehow. "Oh. Well, I could try lecturing, if you want, but I'd probably be pretty bad at it. I usually need to know people before I can be really critical of them."
Over the rush of water into glass, Gilbert begins to laugh. "You're funny, kid."
"Thanks. I aim to please," the coffee making man, holding the carafe up to suspicious eye level, imagines a little bow taking place behind his back. "So, what is your job, and how do you want to be lectured about it?"
Yep, just enough water. Gilbert returns to the coffee maker. "Oh, well, I got fired from the auto place a couple of months ago, so I'm back living on unemployment checks and volunteering at the wildlife rehabilitation center. You should point out that there is always a market for unskilled labor, and suggest, I dunno, construction."
Fingers drum on the table momentarily, as their owner tries to formulate a lecture. "Nope," he mumbles, his voice nearly covered by the click of Gilbert turning on the coffee maker. "I've got nothing. Hey, what're you doin—that's my refrigerator!"
Pulling his head out of the refrigerator, Gilbert just smirks around the plastic packet of sliced cheese in his mouth, and expertly juggles the cucumber, tomato, and butter. Placing everything down on the counter, he grabs the bread from the basket on top of the microwave. "Ew. White bread. You'd think with the way your fridge was stocked, you'd come up with something better than this crap. Oh well, it could be worse."
"That's my food, you know!"
Gilbert's red eyes dart to the yellow sticky note for Alfred. Yeah, the kid is defensive about his space, probably, but he hasn't actively gotten up to prevent this. Pussy little fairy. He chuckles, continuing his work, while out of the corner of his eye, the blond is slowly turning an indignant shade of red.
Slathering two slices of bread with thin slivers of cold butter, Gilbert expertly reaches for a knife from the magnetic knife holder, glad that the kitchen is as orderly as it is. The coffee bubbles along, while the tomato and the cucumber are sliced. The orange squares of plastic-like cheese are applied to each piece of bread, and then the vegetables. Remembering where the plate for his pancakes came from, Gilbert reaches into the cupboard.
The coffee finishes just as the bread is placed ceremoniously in front of the fuming blonde. "Bon appetit," Gilbert smirks by the kid's ear, but recoils as he discovers another bite mark on the lobe. Trying to cover his disgust, he quickly pours out the coffee. "Anyway, there's your breakfast."
The boy appears annoyed, and pokes at his awesome breakfast. "D-d-do you always rummage around in stranger's kitchens?"
Gilbert shrugs, sliding back into his seat. "Nah. I do it to people I know, as well. 'Nyway, you know what I do. What about you?"
Grabbing the salt, the kid sprinkles it over the bread. "Nothing much. Certainly not as cool as wildlife rehabilitation. How'd you get started with that?"
"Oh, like most things, I guess. I just kinda stumbled into it," Gilbert shrugs. "I found a falcon in my apartment, and I had to—,"
A hand goes out to stop Gilbert, giving the white haired man time to bite into his pancakes. They are still faintly warm, and practically fall apart in his mouth, thanks to their syrup bath. "You found a what in your apartment?"
Gilbert swallows the pancakes, his face turning superior. "A falcon. Peregrine. They hang out downtown because of the sky scrapers. My apartment isn't that far from the city center. Okay, so the falcon was a bit out of its range, but it could have been worse. Mine looked as though it had been savaged by something. An eagle, probably. Anyway, I had no idea what to do with the thing, so I went to my brother, and he suggested the wildlife rehabilitation people would help. So I went to them, and they took Albrecht—that's what I named the falcon. Anyway, I just went back to see how everything was getting on, and then I started coming more and more, and eventually they gave me some training, and I started helping out with the birds. It's funny, because if I had known then what I know now, I never would have brought Albrecht to them in the passenger seat of my truck. I'm lucky that ungrateful feather head didn't attack me."
The young man blinks his huge purple eyes. "That's, wow, pretty awesome."
"I know, right?" Kicking back, Gilbert considers just drinking the syrup straight from the bottle.
The boy sips his coffee reflectively. "Why aren't you working for them full time, though? You really like it there, from what I see."
Gilbert shrugs once more. "The economy's shit so they're not looking to hire anyone, I hate one of the regulars there, and they don't pay much. Besides, what you enjoy should never be a chore."
The young man hums in agreement. "I'm in university right now, actually, and I'm beginning to say that I agree with you."
Gilbert perks up. Despite never having gotten along with the social system, he always loves to hear about people's schooling experiences. If they put him in charge of the district, he is sure he could fix all of the problems that made him a rejectable drop out. "Oh? Whatcha studying? My little brother's in a history and philosophy program right now. ESU," Gilbert adds proudly. Maybe the blond knows Lutz.
The boy shrugged. "I'm in Peace Studies and Global Development at NYU," he replied quietly, making Gilbert stare. "I've just started applying for a doctorate program, actually."
"You've already got your masters?"
"I'll have it in June. I'm currently revising my thesis. 'The Changes in Education in Iran and the Effects Thereof.' It's a pretty crappy title, and everyone has pretty much has already exhausted the topic. But one advantage of being so mainstream is that none of my professors hate me," the boy shrugs once more, scrunched over in his seat.
That's impressive. Not the professors part, but the fact that this guy has actually been doing something that complicated. "Cool."
Shaking his head, the young man winces once more at the pull of the rubber band on his hair. Reaching up, he disentangles his blond mane from the harsh rubber. If this had been a few years ago, Gilbert would have had one of Mrs. Edelstein's hair ties on his wrist. It would be pretty simple to pull the man's hair back and quickly neaten it up. Admittedly the blonde looks pretty girly with his hair back, but if that was how he keeps things from being too much of an annoyance, Gilbert won't argue.
If the world was different, the albino speculates, the boy would have made a cute girl. One of those chicks that Lutz sometimes has over working on projects and homework. All glasses, and would-be-Eurotrash beret over all-American girl-next-door pigtails. Smart and cute. Stuttering and blushing right along with Lutz at every insinuation that Gilbert makes about what she was really there to do.
Scowling, Gilbert realizes that those girls were over just to work on projects. Years of torment and insinuation, and his little brother turns out to be some sissy gay pervert. What the Hell was he doing with all that porn that Gilbert got him? No wonder Lutz always prefers the androgynous bondage stuff. Half the time you can't see the gender for the rope. Angrily, Gilbert spears another triangle of pancake.
"So, why Iran?" he asks around the mouthful, slurping back his coffee.
Still nibbling at his bread, the blonde looks startled, and then slightly disgusted. Swallowing a cucumber, he glares. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?"
With a dark smirk Gilbert chews on another slice, purposefully answering him when the pancake is just a mush of sweet tasting syrup on his tongue. "Nope. She's dead."
That stops the glare from the other side of the table. He looks away, ashamed. "Sorry."
Gilbert finally swallows. He has no feelings about it either way, now. "She kicked the bucket when I was seven. Caught in a shooting on the subway. You know. Wrong place, wrong time kind of thing. Night shift at the hospital, late train, gang war," the memories are flooding back to him, and so Gilbert stops them with a firm hand. "I don't really remember her that much."
Taking a big bite out of a tomato, the young man looks around for something more to say, before finally discovering some form of inspiration from the microwave clock. "One of my professors was going there for research, and I got to hop along for the ride. Besides, Alfred was stationed in Tehran for a bit. Fun, tense times. He'd write to me every day about all of his experiences and the people he would meet. He speaks enough Farsi to get by, and he's just one of those people, you know?" there is a hint of envy in the quiet syllables. "If you meet him, he'll have your whole life story out of you in five minutes, and in the next five he'll be your best friend, and by fifteen, you'll practically be family. I've never been much of a people person."
Trying to use the aching head that Gilbert has been desperately trying to ignore, he thinks back to last night. Flashes of color. Darkness. Bodies crushed against each other. Blond and purple stumbling against him. Blaring unremarkable club music. The flash of the colors in a crowd. Surrounded by other men. A laugh. Gilbert recalls a vague moment of surprise when the man invited him back into the dark corner, but by then the beer was really hitting his system. In combination with the drugs, Gilbert had been certain that his brains were pouring out of his ears and that did not matter because everything was awesome.
"You seemed to have a lot of friends," he ventures.
A small smile flits across the other's features. It fails to reach those interesting eyes, however. "They put up with me, and let me hang out with them when they go clubbing. It's very nice. They're mostly Alfred's friends, and apparently, it's almost as good as the real thing when I'm there."
Gilbert does not know Alfred, but from everything this young man has said, Alfred is probably nothing like the blond. This guy is way too awesome to be a Marine, for a start. "Or they could just like you," Gilbert points out, causing a small laugh.
Covering the smile as though he is ashamed of it, the young man shakes his head. "You sound just like Lars, you know."
Gilbert rolls his eyes leaning back from his cleared plate, and the puddle of maple syrup still left among amber crumbs. "For a stoned ass idiot, he's has occasional flashes of awesome that could be mistaken for my good opinions."
This makes his host clearly and visibly furious. "Lars is a very good friend of mine. For your information, you're moving up to his level of awesome, rather than the other way around."
As an insult, it is amazing. Gilbert snarls. "The guy's practically a fucking pedophile, I've watched him beat up the family members of people who owe him money, and we've broken into his sister's house together, looking for shit that we can sell. I'm way fucking better than he is! I've got standards."
"The kind of standards that make you melt your brains on a chemical cocktail that should have put you six feet under as soon as you mixed it with alcohol, and then go find the nearest whore willing to deal with you and your manifest messed up-ness? What did you think you were doing last night, anyway?"
The blond's voice refuses to raise itself above its normal level. Gilbert flinches nonetheless. For some reason it reminds him of Lutz's lectures, and Lutz had learned from his guardians. However, back against the wall, Gilbert will not let this self-effacing man win this one. He prepares an awesome insult, ready to peel the skin off his victim with words alone. "You're not a whore."
What. The. Fuck. Not his intent. Not even close to what he really means to say. Those words are supposed to be scathing commentary on the blonde's cowardly cringing, and his little faggoty ass, and his stupid friendship with orange loving trouble. Gilbert marshals his thoughts once more, trying to find something to recover from that weirdness. Instead he sneezes, and has to rub his nose, which rather detracts from anything along the lines of a biting comeback. "And I'm just better than Lars is. I've never done anything to my little brother that I would be ashamed of. So there."
Liar. Gilbert is fairly certain that this morning is exactly what shame feels like.
The response of his host is subdued. "No one is perfect. But I won't have you bad-mouthing my friend. You can just—just, well you can stop that."
They continue in uneasy silence for a time. That kind of pressing silence that screams of curiosity and hurt. A broken line in the sand stares accusingly at the two.
Gilbert, never one to pay attention to broken lines, as far as he will admit, crosses the barrier with a painful cough. "Alright. Maybe he isn't that bad. I'm still pissed at what he did to my friend, and well, since you're a fag too, I don't know, I thought maybe he might be pulling the same shit he did with Antonio."
The young man winces at the word 'fag,' but gamely pushes crumbs around on his plate. "I can't say I'm Antonio's greatest fan, given what he did to Lars. I know it wasn't a one way street, and they're over it, for the most part, but I'm obviously more willing to listen to my friend than someone my boss tried to set me up with."
Gilbert nods sagely, raising his mug of coffee. "If you say so. And Hell, what do I know, right? I've been out of everyone's lives for a while now."
"You're being oddly conciliatory," the other ventures, also sipping from his mug.
That comment strikes Gilbert as strange. "Huh?"
The blond slowly levers himself from the chair, his forehead creasing with suppressed pain, and Gilbert just wants to vomit. "I mean, I've only known you for a few hours, so I might be wrong, but you don't strike me as the type to apologize."
"You hear me say I was sorry?" Gilbert smirks, finishing off the rest of his coffee.
This elicits a small laugh. Shaking his head, blond hair disappears over the slope of the young man's shoulders. Water gushes from the chromed faucet, and soon enough the plate is being washed. Gilbert's awesome coffee remains on the table, waiting for the return of the man to whom it belongs. "Your tone of voice suggested contrition, okay?"
A slight sneeze covers the rude noise that Gilbert tries to make. "Nah, I'm too awesome for contrition." Out of the corner of his eye, something glints, and Gilbert turns to see the glasses, dropped in the hall way.
Without any thought, he slammed the unknown man into the wall. Idiot had brought him back to a home of some sort. A passing thought as Gilbert long fingers tilted the boy's head, and finding just the right angle, he attacked the willing lips. Shining teeth ride his mouth, before his tongue twines together with another firm muscle in the hot wet space shared between them. Those colorless fingers hit the bows of the glasses where they bent around the golden ears as the fingers crawled toward the fine hair. Wire rims slipped and slithered down the fine nose, and Gilbert cackled, feeling the world whirl away in a Catherine Wheel of sparks. He kissed his way from the corner of the gasping mouth to the soft earlobe. He bit down there, causing a scream, and the glasses tumbled between them.
"Got a name, Birdie?"
Not wanting to know if his memory would supply it, Gilbert dives for the glasses. Let this stay impersonal. He can deal with everything if it is just a mistake—a fluke at the kid says.
At the sink the man is still talking, responding to Gilbert's awesomeness as a good host should. Picking up the glasses, Gilbert sneezes again, causing a halt in the soft flow. "Y-you aren't getting sick, are you? The last thing I need is a cold."
Gilbert rolls his eyes, but as the guy is now bending over the sink, he gets another glimpse of firm flesh and strong thighs that he does not want to see. Hurriedly, he trots the glasses back to the sink. "Here ya go," close up there is nothing to see but blonde hair and large eyes. That view is much easier on Gilbert's confusion.
A soapy hand accepts the glasses, and slips them back on the nose, and then said eyes fix him with a firm stare. "Thanks. But I asked if you were sick."
Gilbert rolled his eyes once more. "Nah. I'm gently allergic to just about everything, though."
Blink. Widen. Stare. "What? Really?"
A curt nod, and the rangy man leans on the counter, balanced on his forearms. "Pretty much. My eyesight sucks, I bruise like a peach, I need a bottle of sunscreen to think about going outside, and I'm allergic to the world. I don't think you're supposed to have this many physical problems if you're not a product of incest. But I'm too freaking awesome to let it get me down," he grins, conveniently forgetting that there is a loaded gun on the table next to his duffel bag.
A wry smile covers up some rising color in the vibrant golden skin. "Well, I had noticed the, ah, bruise bit. You might have some interesting questions about what you did to your lips when you next head over to help with the wildlife."
Gilbert's stomach flips over at the idea that the other man has left marks on him. Tokens and reminders of the night already dot his fuck's skin. Why wouldn't he be wearing just as strong evidence? That's it. Jeans and jacket with a scarf until his body heals over. It would be nice if the indelible marks on his mind would disappear too, but the few memories that he can identify as real are not going to fade any time fast.
Trying to laugh his way out of the implication, Gilbert shrugs. "Eh, they'll just think that one of the Wilhelms finally got to me."
Eyebrows state the question dancing on the edge of the other man's lips (and Gilbert notices that he is not one to talk, given the scabbed over marks creating dots of maroon against champagne warm skin).
Still, not looking at that, Gilbert answers. "We've currently got three golden eagles, and I'm usually the guy who handles eagles—they like me," pride fills his voice just slightly, and he stands up, no longer needing the support of the counter. "You're not supposed to get attached to the animals, I guess, because it's too much like making them pets or something, and we're supposed to be making them ready to be naturalized again. But I've named those three anyway. Wilhelm and Frederick. Never could tell the blighted Wilhelms apart, though. I kind of can keep the first and second separate the younger one is a big dumb ass, and he's also the candidate most likely to savage me. I really like Frederick, though. He's a thoughtful type for a bird. Reminds me of Fritz, a little bit. I mean, he's not as predatory or anything, but he's remarkably affectionate."
"Fritz?" A dish heads back to the drying rack, and the man beckons for Gilbert's sugary plate.
Gilbert obliges, handing the remains of pancake and maple syrup over as he fishes around in his jeans. Finding the wallet there, he pulls out the battered leather, and flips it open. Perhaps it is strange, he thinks, flipping out the long accordion of plastic filled with his expired gun license, and driver's license, along with his gift card to the scrapbook store, but he is the kind of person to preserve the world in pictures and carry them around with him, lest it disappears.
"Look here," the nine pictures on this side of the accordion are spread over the flatness of the counter, even while Gilbert moves to the side so that his audience can see everything.
His hand moves swiftly to cover the three pictures at the top that involve Lutz, but Gilbert's palm is not big enough to eliminate everything about his life, and Feliciano's eyes peer happily around the room just over his pinkie. The attempt to cover the photos is not subtle, and probably has been noticed, but the blond is kind enough to pretend that he was busy with the bleach. Grandly Gilbert gestures at the fourth picture down, which is practically a field of white but with a small tawny burr-like ball looking beadily at the camera through a mask of white stubble.
"Fritz," Gilbert explains. "We had no flipping clue what he was. I still say he was a black eagle. Anyway, he literally fell on my head one day when we were out laying new fences for the coyote pens. I mean, there I am under a pine tree bunking off for a cigarette, and this tiny thing falls on my head, and hangs on like grim death. It took fucking faggy little Feliks to finally get him off.
"It was fucking awesome! I mean Fritz was tiny. He wasn't even fledged yet. He shouldn't have been able to even move. I mean, when birds are freshly hatched, they're basically a ball of a head and a ball of a body connected by a long string of a neck, which is easy to break. That's why it's so easy for the more predatory birds to kill their siblings. A lot of eagles have two or three eggs, but one will hatch before the others and have several days of growth on their brothers and sisters, which allows them to then kill when they feel in need of a meal or whatever. I'm pretty sure that Fritz was a younger brother, if you know what I mean. He had a nasty scratch on his little beak. Made him look very distinguished when he grew older," Gilbert's chest puffs out a little more as he recounts this. His bird had been a total lady killer. Oh yeah.
"Anyway, so there I am, feeding the ingrate every 20 minutes or so, while he's sitting on my head, crapping all over the place. I spent my next four days doing that. Each time we'd get him into a warmed nest he'd try to crawl out, you know, and he'd always be peeping and shrieking. I mean technically he just wanted his food, but when he was on my head, sometimes he'd shut up. So Toris and Feliks put the warmed nest on my head, and told me to sit still for a whole day. Once it was night I was able to take him off, but I had to spend the days in a warm room doing all the paper work for the damned rehabilitation place. Basically, things got better once he got his pin feathers. Finally was able to take that stupid nest away. That's that picture there. He was able to hop around, and shit, but I still had to feed him and stuff, though."
Gilbert smiles fondly at the pictures. Both the young thing on his head, and the ones where the small bird, now a tawny chick with none of the white fuzz that had dominated its features, mantles against the sky, or hops across a table. "Isn't he just the cutest thing ever?"
The other man's eyes have rested on the final picture where Fritz was devouring his first major kill, a rabbit which looked as though it could have been someone's pet. "C-c-cute is pretty subjective."
"He was darling," Gilbert asserts. "Teaching him how to fly was a total bitch, admittedly. I had to withhold food from him, and taunt him about it. I nearly cried when I watched him going after beetles. He was a great bird."
Gilbert smiles knowingly as he hears the quiet chuckle. This kid has an easy laugh, and Gilbert feels funny and awesome every time he makes the man smile to himself, or make that quiet throaty gurgle. Gilbert sometimes finds his cackle a little grating, and he knows it creeps Antonio out when he uses it. That's it! He'll go crash with Antonio after this. Nothing like Antonio to take someone in, no questions asked.
Ready to amaze the world with his brilliance, he shoves his finger in the air. "Eureka! Y—"
The exclamation surprises the man at the sink, and his arms fly out, pulling water and soapsuds with him. Gilbert receives a face full, and splutters. After some hacking, and pounding on the back, the culprit leads his awesome victim over to the table once more to sit him in a chair.
Laughing some more, the blond picks up the paper napkin that had been placed in front of the chair, and begins to wipe the soap suds off. "You sure you're not sick?" he teases the wheezing man.
"You threw soap in my fucking mouth!" Gilbert plays along like a pro. If Francis were here, that would have been an opening that would have been capitalized upon in an instant.
Indeed, the retort is quick, although not anywhere near as obscene as Gilbert expects it to be. "And it didn't even clean it out properly. I guess that my brother lied."
Remembering a similar promise from his father once, when Gilbert was small, and Mr. Vargas had complained that his language was rubbing off on his older son, the albino cackles so hard that the chair nearly tips over. "I've had my mouth washed out by experts. You're just a germaphobe pipsqueak."
The blond, limping over to the trash to throw away the wet paper glances back with a supercilious expression. "I told you, I don't need to get sick right now."
"Then don't have sex without condoms next time," Gilbert snaps smugly before going green. "That—FUCK! Who—crap, how far back?—um, not that I want to hear about all your gay conquests or anything, but who have you slept with since, well, forever?"
The look he receives in return is dark and dirty. "Isn't that the kind of question you should be asking before hand?"
Oh, as though perhaps mystery man should have asked Gilbert if he was a raging violent homophobe before they went back to the blond's apartment. "Hey, look, I was a fucking high mess last night. I only knew you were a guy because that bar was not for women. And I wasn't planning on still fucking being in the land of the living this morning. Now, seriously, answer the question, or I'm going to freak the hell out, and break your face."
"You mean this is you when you're calm and sober?" the mutter is just loud enough that Gilbert catches it, and wants to scowl. "Look, this is a bit personal—,"
"There was a girl in high school named Joanna, and her best friend Anne," Gilbert begins to talk over him, listing his awesome list of conquests—ignoring the fact that they had been one time only. "I got really drunk one night at the and ended up frenching Toris and, guuuuh, Feliks," he shudders. "That's not something I admit to lightly, you understand. Anyway, saliva exchange, and shit. I've once used Matthias' needles for stuff. And some really dirty fantasies about my brother's foster mother, but that's not really a chance of me getting sick, I suppose. Um, there's been Sofia and Ulrike, and there we have it," the pale man spreads his arms wide. "I'm still around, and all healthy, as far as I know. No AIDS at least, since it's been over two years since Sophia and I were together, and I have been to the doctor. Actually, I'm pretty lucky that I didn't catch anything off of Feliks. Now, your turn, and I want doctor's information."
Arms cross defensively around the boy's torso, and he hunches in on himself. "Well, Lars—,"
Gilbert groans. Of course. Of fucking course. The only way that could have been worse would have been if it were Francis. Promiscuous bisexual pervert. Damnit.
The other raises an eyebrow. "Do you want this information, or don't you?"
Rubbing his nose, Gilbert nods, his teeth clenched. "Yeah, get on with it."
"L-lars, and, well, once with Francis. That was a mistake, and well, lots of wine was involved. I assume you know what he's like. Anyway, er, yeah, once with Francis. Um, are you—yes, yes, okay, I'll get on with it. Um, to be honest I don't know most of the names. Just people who pick me up on Friday nights, really," he shrugs, eyes on the floor. "There's a nice Greek guy who doesn't mind me. And, um, Ivan, I suppose. Er, we play hockey together. You wouldn't know him. And Alfred's fiance. And Raúl. And, well, I suppose Samuel doesn't count. And—look, do you really need all of these names?"
His voice squeaks on a high note of indignation. Gilbert has already lost himself on a sea of 'You're in far over your head, and you know far too many of these people for it to be comfortable.' "No. I suppose after clearing the deck about Lars, your point was made. You know what we're doing once you get some pants on," he grins widely, feeling his cheeks hurt. "We're getting STD checked. It'll be on Lutz, since this is his cash," the wallet waves in the air to illustrate the point.
Gilbert thinks that he was mistaken to believe the dark eyes were interesting. Oh, sure, without the glasses they are unobstructed lakes of color. But with the glasses, well—The kid does this thing where he looks over the tops of the lenses, and the purple just meets the gold of the rims. Gilbert shivers. "You still have money after last night? Those little appointments are expensive."
Gilbert pulls out a credit card with "Roderich M. Edelstein" punched into the bottom. "Got this, too."
The guy sighs. "You're really a criminal, aren't you?"
The accusation would have held more water five years ago. "Pretty much. Get some pants on, will you? I've been remarkably tolerant about you waving your junk around."
"It is my house!" Again, Gilbert is impressed by the ability to make an angry point without raising the voice one decibel.
He cackles as the rising red in those cheeks. "Which is why I've been tolerant, Blondie."
The glasses do not try to intimidate him this time. He waves a defeated hand. "I preferred your name for me last night. Who is Birdie, anyway? The mysterious foster mother?"
Gilbert is non-plussed for a minute. "Birdie is you—Sorry, I don't go in for 'Gay Bang No. One' when whispering drunk endearments. Kinda spoils the mood. And since we're both agreed that this is going to be an at arms length arrangement that we will never speak of again—," he shrugs, leaving the implication hanging.
There is still something wrong with this morning, but at least there is direction now. The nearest doctor, and then Antonio's apartment. Only—wait, he had promised something. What was it? The flag! Right. The flatmate's flag. Alfred—Alfred's flag—Alfred's fiance. Gilbert's eyes become saucers. "Go back to the list of possible disease donors a minute. What do you mean, 'Alfred's fiance'? You've slept with your brother's fiance?"
The blond opens his mouth possibly to answer, but a boney hand is shoved in his face. "No, no. I'm sure that there's a reasonable explanation. You slept with her before she met him, and then she rejected you, and that's why you're acting like the people you're ruining your life with are doing you a favor by turning you gay."
The look is back with the glasses. But only for an instant, and then the blond turns from the kitchen. The resolute steps throb in the hall, and Gilbert is stunned to realize that he has gone too far. "Wait! Hey, jerkwad! Okay, maybe that's not the answer. Maybe," he lunges from the chair, swiping the guy's coffee cup as he runs after the boy, "maybe you, I don't know, were really really drunk, and she was too, and flukes happen, and—,"
He stops in front of the open door to the bedroom. In daylight, the flag lies in a crumpled mess, the true center piece of the room. A blond kid jerking on unremarkable green boxers somehow fades into obscurity next to the national symbol. The thing that Gilbert has not seen since the pledge of allegiance in fifth grade. It looks defiled, laying there, on the ground.
Hot eyes glance up, as his stories trail off. The hands gripping the boxers are knuckle white. In his anger, the owner of the flat has put both feet through one leg, and now he is trying to extricate himself with frustrated, jerking movements. "Shut up. Whoever you are, just shut up."
Gilbert opens his mouth belligerently, only to have to duck a shoe, and the accompanying sock. The half naked man gives up on the boxers for a moment, and is free of them in the next. He crosses the space, kicking the flag out of the way. "You want to know what happens? First of all, my brother, Mr. America, the all around boy next door that Uncle Sam can be proud of, is a Marine. Yeah, you knew that. The thing is, he likes to taste the rainbow, as they say, and the rainbow tasted back one day. Suddenly he's using me as the go between for his boyfriend, so that none of his buddies find out, and no one will discharge him. I'm—I like my brother. I go along with it. It's fun having the boyfriend over. And we get to make fun of Alfred being incapable of doing the whole PDA thing because he loves serving his country more than he loves us. So, boyfriend and I come back to the apartment after work and school, and then Alfred comes home, and he and boyfriend get to be boyfriends under this roof. And it's fine and dandy.
"Alfred's a Marine. He gets assigned to gigs where he's in Kuwait or Iran for half a year at a time. Boyfriend doesn't like it, but he can deal with everything. But then, after that bombing at New Years, Alfred is placed on the night watch at the UN, and things get very different. Suddenly he's right within reach, and yet, no one who isn't filing reports on suspicious characters can see him. Boyfriend starts coming over more and more often, and we just drink, staying up, waiting for my stupid brother."
He waves at a picture that Gilbert barely remembers in passing. Two blonds stand before a camera. One, the Birdie, is looking off into the distance, possibly at a tree. The other is also looking into the distance, with the kind of smile that says whatever he is looking at is wonderful. The smile is big enough to pull Gilbert in, and he has photo paper and a pane of glass to protect him. "We're practically twins," the young man whispers. "Several times, Boyfriend has forgotten that Alfred isn't coming home until nine in the morning. He forgets I'm not Alfred. And then he does what he would do with Alfred. He never remembers, so what does it matter? Alfred's hurting both of us, making us pretend in public that we're together for the sake of appearances. Anyway, no one ever knows, cares or remembers, so what's the problem?" Through it all, the blond's voice remains flat, with no inflection.
"Then 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' starts to crumble. Suddenly Alfred's world is shaking. Oh, the rules still apply to Marines, but they won't always, right? He proposes that he and boyfriend get married as soon as they possibly can. Everything gets better for everyone, and the story time's over. There's the door. We'll do this doctor's trip, and then you can leave. Sorry you had to dirty yourself with me. I'll make certain that next time I'll have my hook ups fill out a questionnaire as to whether they're gay or not."
His story is much creepier than any of the ones that Gilbert had managed to concoct. The albino's lips twitch. He has to say something. Leaving like this is just going to make him feel like shit. He wants to wring the kid's neck. He wants to clobber boyfriend over the head. He wants to shoot Alfred between the eyes. Instead of all of the satisfying alternatives, he has to settle for: "I'm a fluke, remember, Birdie?"
Heading back to the boxers, the other man snorts. "Sure."
"You know, I think you should possibly see someone," Gilbert continues, wanting to smack himself in the face. Great. Buck people up by telling them that they're crazy. Good job, Gil. No wonder the world is at your feet. "I mean, well—,"
The glasses flash at him again, and his stomach does that weird flip-flop of nerves. "This from Mister 'I wasn't intending to see the morning?' You realize out of the people here who need somebody, that right there qualifies you."
Gilbert stiffens. He doesn't need to talk to anyone. He's fine. He has his friends, and he needs nothing more. He didn't actually manage to off himself. He's too fucking lazy when it comes right down to it, anyway. "I didn't go picking up clearly deranged men and take them back to my home."
He shoots, he scores. His interrogator blushes red, and pretends to be desperately occupied in the search for jeans. "I will take your advice under advisement."
No, you won't, Gilbert smiles wryly. "I'll take you up on that."
Zipping up his jeans, the blond looks at Gilbert in bewilderment. "What?"
It's spur of the moment, but it's an idea that Gilbert has had, and therefore it will rock. "Next Friday. You and me. We'll meet wherever you like. I'll prove that I'm still in one piece, minus any pieces rogue eagles claim, and you have to prove that you can pick up safe sane people who aren't likely to screw up your life like this," yeah, the idea is epic. Rocking. Hot.
"You don't think that's a little insulting?" the blond asks flatly, looking unimpressed.
Gilbert blinks, reaching down, just as the blonde kneels. He grabs one edge of the lump of a flag, as Birdie gets the other. Shaking it out between them, Gilbert finds that he has twisted the flag even more than they intended. A minor scuffle with the cloth, however, leaves him no room to figure out what's wrong. "Um, no? It gives me the incentive to show up next week, and you might actually meet someone who will like you for who you are and want to sleep with you."
Blondie sighs, exasperation pouring from his lips. They walk towards each other, and corners meet. "Do you ever listen to yourself?"
"All the time, obviously. It's hard to talk without hearing it, you know," Gilbert winks, his hands sliding down to the corners.
As the turn and fold the next rectangle, glasses fixes him with an intense, considering expression. "Whatever you and your brother fought about, by Friday, you'd better be able to tell me, and have gotten him to forgive you."
A pale forehead creases, as the flag becomes a neat package in the other man's hands. "Hey, what if he was the one lying to me for years, and he's at fault?"
Placing the stripes on the bed, star side up, the blond laughs. It shakes his frame. "I've only known you a few hours, and even I can tell everything is always your fault. Do it, or I won't agree to this."
Gilbert can always lie on Friday. He nods, smirking. "It's a deal. Wanna spit on our hands, considering how much we're already sharing?"
"I'll settle for your name. I'm Matthew," Birdie smiles, just slightly, and this is no longer and at arms length deal. Maybe Gilbert won't have to lie on Friday.
"Gilbert, the Awesome Ruler of the Universe, and King in the Sack."
Matthew makes a disbelieving noise. "Practice makes perfect, mister."
Gilbert shrugs, and they turn to the hallway. There are plenty of days to get better.
So, which historical references did you get?
~ MF