I'm not dead! And here's an upload to prove it! (With my newfound love for Prumano!)
I have a ton of other one shots coming, probably not soon but they're coming, along with some updates.
Anyways enjoy, my cupcakes!
WARNING: This is a very angsty type piece. Possible trigger warning, I kept most of the stuff vague for a purpose, but you never know.
Color
Gilbert Beilschmidt, despite the strange uniqueness of his name, lived and awfully average lifestyle. He worked an average nine to five job at a major accounting firm in his city – a job at which he approached with intentions of minimal effort. He lived in an average apartment in a decent part of own – not that he went out much for it to affect him. Everything he did seemed average and strangely repetitive.
He had established a schedule, one which he strictly followed, to get him through those terribly long weekdays. It was simple and touched the remnants of his artistic lifestyle. He would wake up, sketch, shower, eat, leave to work, sketch at work, go on lunch break, leave work, go home, drink a couple of beers, sketch some more, sleep and repeat, Monday through Friday. He knew his weekdays were mundane, but then again, which part of his life wasn't at this point?
Everything was waxed with a thick, irritating grey. His once beautifully colorful happy world stripped wrongly of all its color, reason, and vibrancy. It drove him insane.
Of course there were times – very few and rare times – in which a spur of creativity would pour through his veins and he would spend his day engrossed in his art, slaving and working to make sure it looked as good as he wanted. He would frame it, capture a beautiful picture, and upload it onto his blog in hopes that one day someone would buy it. When he would get no response, the painting would get put away in one of the various, overflowing closets of his apartment.
But then he would fall back into the same pattern. Back to the schedule. Back to work. Back to the sick, vexatious entity he referred to as his life.
Then things would start to pile up, stacking on top of each other like a house of cards begging to be knocked down. His job would cause stress, a hole would puncture his bubble of creativity, spilling all the contents into the unknown, or he wouldn't have enough money for beer.
He would relapse into the cold, lonely recesses of his evil mind. The grey would darken into a charcoal, as would the positivity of his thoughts. He would, more often than not, find himself confined to a corner of his kitchen, tears flowing audaciously down his pale cheeks, a sharp, silver knife kicked a couple feet away.
Strangely enough, this happened on Friday's. He would spend his weekend in deep thought, attempting to glue himself back together. He would forget to eat, sleep, and sometimes even breathe. But then Sunday would crawl back in, and a tiny feeling at the pit of his stomach would prompt him to fall back into the lifestyle of a functional human being. Gilbert would eat, bathe, shave, clean, and even sleep.
But once his episode would pass, it was back to the same prosaic schedule he had grown so terribly accustomed to. The same schedule he had been following for four years. Four years since his unexpected drop out of college. Four years since the phone call that changed his life. Four years since Gilbert hung on a thin thread on the verge of giving up.
One sunny, July afternoon, right after the managers had returned from their lunch break, Gilbert saw his first spark of color in the form of a chocolate brown curl.
He had found out, through his boss' uncontrollably loud, and highly embarrassing, tone that his name was Lovino Vargas. He was fresh out of college, an Art Major – hearing that made Gilbert smirk, he had studied art as well – and recently turned twenty-two.
As the weeks progressed, Gilbert learned quite a few things from observing – he called it the perk of having the Italian as an "across the hall neighbor." One of his favorite findings was that his cute, grouchy, scowl was almost always present, as was the rebellious curl that stuck out from the rest of his straight hairs. He also learned about his attitude – something Gilbert loved in other people – when Antonio, that poor Spanish bastard, had tried hitting on him and got a staple to the face.
"Can I borrow a pen?" or "When's the next stupid meeting?" or "Do I really need to do this shit?" Became a norm and often sparked the vague conversations shared by the two accounting employees.
Gilbert ate up every second of it. He would go home with a smile on his face and replay the short, sweet conversations in his mind. When painting, the chocolate brown swirl fought its way into each of his art works. He even sketched the grouchy look Lovino seemed to have plastered on.
His life was slowly regaining color.
. . .
It wasn't long – maybe three months into Lovino's acceptance into the firm – before Gilbert invited him out to their first beer together. Lovino agreed, thinking a beer or two to be the best remedy for how ever growing his stress levels had become.
Gilbert picked him up around eight. Lovino had been ready and pacing around since seven (not that he would let the German know that). They drove to a bar, fairly new but popular in the downtown area and owned by one of the few people he let in on his life, Francis.
The first round was on the house, the last seven were on Gilbert. He had always been a heavy-drinker; eight beers could barely get him buzzed. Lovino, on the other hand, was quite possibly the biggest lightweight drinker Gilbert had ever laid his eyes on.
By his third beer, his words had slowed down dramatically. His fifth, slurred all his words and phrases together. His eighth left him drooling on the countertop as he mumbled incoherent nothings. Francis sent a variety of suggestive looks and phrases as Gilbert dragged the, surprisingly heavy, Italian out of the bar.
Unsure of what to do, and unwilling to wait hours on end outside of an apartment complex for Lovino to wake up, Gilbert ended up driving the wasted Lovino to his house. He had never been so grateful for having an apartment on the first floor.
He laid his co-worker on the couch, set a glass of water and two pills carefully on the coffee table, and proceeded to clean up the mess from his last creative outburst.
The Italian woke with a silent jolt and labored breaths, an indicator of a forgotten nightmare. His eyes darted around the unfamiliar room, billions of possibilities racing through his confused head but each and every single one fizzling away at the sight of his co-worker fast asleep, head resting on the kitchen table and pencil held between his shaking hands.
Lovino smiled, but immediately frowned, the simple action causing a sharp pain to shoot to his head. His eyes flickered to the coffee table in front of him and almost smiled again. He dry-swallowed the pills, chasing them down with water, and let out an, unintentionally dramatic, groan, causing the Prussian across the room to bolt awake.
His eyes were dazed and confused, glancing around for the source of the noise and chuckling softly at his co-worker's vibrant blush. "'Morning, Lightweight." He mumbled, one arm stretching as the other rubbed his eye and he yawned.
"Mio Dio," he groaned, partly because of embarrassment, partly because of the pounding headache. "How bad was I?"
Gilbert smirked, a hint of malice in his features. "You confessed your undying love for me, complained about work, and said something about tomatoes."
Lovino rolled his eyes. "As if," he chortled. He brought his legs up to the couch and frowned at the unexpected growl that escaped from his stomach. Gilbert didn't seem to mind, only looking concerned when Lovino's stomach grumbled.
"Someone's hungry," He chuckled.
"Shut up and feed me, idiota." The Italian grumbled tiredly.
Gilbert, being the gracious, grocery lacking host he was, frowned. "I don't know if I have anything I can offer."
"What do you mean?" He asked, eye flickering in Gilbert's direction as the man disappeared into another room. There was shuffling and rattling
"Um… I have… no wait. Nope, nothing." A head of white hair peaked through the doorway and Lovino's lips flickered into a small, unnoticed smile. "I can go out and buy you something if you'd like?"
Hazel eyes blinked in confusion. "You do realize it is almost one in the morning, right?"
He cocked his head. "Yeah, and? I've gone out at later times to buy food. I'll be back in half an hour."
Lovino groaned, but did not verbally protest. He didn't have the energy to get up, go to a crowded place to see people, and be surrounded by godforsaken noise at the state he was in. He simply let himself sink into the couch, let his eyes shut, and fell into a light sleep.
Less than ten minutes late he awoke, unable to sleep. He sat up on the couch, let out a deep breath, and cringed at the sharp pain that shot through his head again. He vaguely scolded himself for drinking too much, but didn't bother telling himself it wouldn't happen again (it always happens again).
He sat for a few minutes, observing the various decorations, most of them being paintings, around his co-worker's home. It was a strange décor: couches that didn't match, paint splattered haphazardly on the walls, various sheets of newspapers scattered around a corner of the room – presumably where he painted – and for some strange reason, the painting right by the door was one of cute yellow chick with a deep purple background.
The other paintings were dark, lacking color except for the various shades of white and black and the occasional red splattered about. One was of a black rose and various splotches of grey and white in the background with blood red drops seeming to want to crawl out of the painting. Another, a portrait of a man, with eyes so full of hurt and worry, the only color being the red of his disheveled neck tie.
It was strange to see, really. From what Lovino saw at work, Gilbert was one of the happiest guys he had ever met. It made he crave to know what he felt when he painted those beautifully tragic works of art. He wanted to know everything about him, his life, his family, his ambitions, all of it.
He hadn't noticed when he had stood up, nor did he notice the painting he was so drawn to until he stood in front of it, mouth agape.
The only other painting with color hung up on the wall. It was a beautiful portrait, various greens, yellows, oranges, pinks, and blues all blending together to create a lovely scene. It was of two boys around the same age, a blond and Gilbert, sitting by a lake. Both where staring in the direction of the viewer and laughing, but not at them, at each other. There was wave of immense happiness that spoke throughout the entire painting. It brought a sad smile to Lovino's lips.
Lovino had been too involved in the painting to realize Gilbert had already gotten back and was standing behind him with a wide grin. "You like it?" He asked, head titled to the side.
"What the hell?! Don't sneak up on me like that!" The Italian screeched, heart pounding sporadically in his chest and eyes bulging with panic.
Gilbert stuffed his hands in his pockets, smirk never fading. "Sorry."
Lovino took a few breaths, relaxed and faced him. "Who's the blond? You seem awfully happy in this one."
An unspoken pain flashed behind crimson eyes and they closed tight. No one had ever seen it before, so he never had to explain. "I… my younger brother, Ludwig."
"Ludwig." The Italian hummed lowly, for some reason the name seemed vaguely familiar. "Well, I like this piece. It brings your place to life, not that I have anything against the black and white ones." Gilbert only smiled, unable to formulate words from the millions of thoughts dancing in his brain.
Lovino didn't question. He didn't want to push away the only friend he had managed to make in the course of three months by asking a simple question. Instead, he opted for one a bit more… intimate.
"Would you like to see my art?"
. . .
Mornings in the office didn't seem as dull. Lovino would walk in, flirtatiously greeting the ladies and waving amicably at the men, and when he would arrive at his juncture he would cover Gilbert's eyes with his warm hands. The Prussian didn't mind, in fact he rather enjoyed the childish antics the Italian preformed when it was just the two of them.
Ever since their night out, Lovino and Gilbert had grown closer. They bonded in ways otherwise inexplicable to those who failed to admire art the way they did. There was no need for words because, as cheesy as it may sound, a picture was worth a thousand words.
When you take the time to really look into a person's art, you see the emotions put into every brushstroke, every line of sketch, even every sculpted piece of stone. It all holds a deeper, more symbolic meaning than what is let out. A meaning equally understood by both men.
Gilbert had stopped. He hadn't had any harming thoughts in weeks. He hadn't relapsed. He hadn't frowned. Because every moment was spent either with, talking to, or thinking of Lovino. It was as if four years of absolute pain and suffering had been erased because of a single brown curl.
And he couldn't be more thankful.
. . .
Gilbert let out a loud, obnoxious laugh causing the Italian to scrunch his nose in distaste. "I'm serious, bastard. Stay still, I want to paint you."
Crimson eyes looked up from red wine, glassy with a hint of intoxication – Gilbert could argue what the source was for the sudden euphoria he felt. He set the glass down and plopped down on the couch, body sprawled out in a suggestive manner. "Paint me like one of your French girls! Oui, oui!"
Lovino tried, he really freaking tried, to hold in his laughter, but once his co-worker found himself face first on the carpeted floors he lost all forms of self-restraint. His laugh was like music to Gilbert's ears, it was rare to hear Lovino's laugh. His real laugh, not some half-assed chuckle or a snicker of amusement.
Gilbert sat up from the floor in amusement, but frowned when Lovino's laughed died down. Hazel eyes glistened as his eyebrow raised. "Stay right there," he ordered, moving his canvas a few feet to the left before flickering his eyes back at the Prussian.
"Do I have to-?"
"Sh! I'm concentrating." Lovino barked, his paintbrush already stroking the blank space with violent, staggered strokes.
Gilbert huffed and reached back for his wine once Lovino's head was hidden behind the canvas again. He sipped on it, eyes wondering around the familiar apartment. He had been to Lovino's place dozens of times after their first time out, just as Lovino had been to his.
He loved the feeling of being at Lovino's place. The walls were painted a pale yellow and decorated with various framed pictures of family and a few friends. He had a couple of his paintings hung up, as well as one Gilbert had given him a while back, the black rose (which hung in his bedroom).
It had a nice, homey vibe and Gilbert loved the touch of very vague femininity it held, even though Lovino claimed it was all his younger brother's doing. From the various times Gilbert had eaten there, the air smelled of tomatoes, wine, and oregano, three of Gilbert's newfound favorite smells.
He felt at home.
…
And he loved it.
. . .
A new painting hung on Gilbert's wall. His favorite painting from his favorite painter. Apparently, Gilbert had fallen asleep right when Lovino actually started, so he painted the Prussian napping lightly against his couch. Gilbert didn't mind, it wasn't like anyone, other than him or Lovino, was ever going to see it. He actually loved it.
It brought a new splash of color into his home, just like Lovino had done to his life.
. . .
"I'm going to ask you something and you have to be completely honest with me."
The pair was gathered in Gilbert's house that night. Lovino had opted out on drinking, claiming he didn't want a repeat of the first time they met – he could handle his wine, he once drank an entire bottle in one sitting without any effect, beer was what killed him.
Gilbert was taken aback by his words, but nodded politely. "Sure, go ahead."
Sudden embarrassment filled Lovino as he searched for a way to word his question. He knew it would come off as insensitive if he didn't word it correctly.
"Um… Ludwig…" At the sound of the name, Gilbert's face dropped and his breath hitched. "Ludwig is your brother right?"
He couldn't speak. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't. So, instead, he nodded.
"Okay… um…"
"Yes." His voice was hoarse, but filled with such intense emotion. Lovino immediately cursed his stupid curiosity. "It was some stupid idiot. Ludwig had been crossing the street, safely like the little stick-in-the-mud he was, and some idiot came… drunk off his ass and… well… he was gone in seconds. When I got the call, I dropped out of college, my last year too, and lived in solitude for a while. Didn't eat didn't sleep. Didn't socialize. It had been a dark period in my life. A very dark period in my life. It still kind of is…"
Lovino had to remember to breathe. Never had he seen Gilbert's eyes look so dark and remorseful. Never had he felt such an immense drop in the Prussian's aura. Never had he looked so lost, or hurt, or broken. And never in Lovino's life had he ever felt so useless. He hated himself at that moment. It was such a personal question to ask, and he honestly wished he could take the hurt off of Gilbert's face.
"Don't blame yourself." Gilbert whispered.
"I wasn't blaming-." He raised a sad eyebrow and Lovino frowned, defeated.
Crimson eyes rolled and a small smile spread on his lips. "You really shouldn't. You're the reason I'm as well as I am now."
Lovino blinked, unsure of what he meant. "I… What?"
Gilbert looked over at him, shrugged, and took a sip of his beer. Lovino wasn't stupid. Clueless, maybe, but not stupid.
Lovino let his gaze drop to his hands. What did Gilbert mean by well? What was he like before? What did he mean by because of him? Why was his heart racing at a mile a minute? And why the fuck was he blushing?
He tried to look anywhere but Gilbert. He looked at the paintings, at the lights, the decorations. He wanted nothing more than to avoid the serious gaze, but for some reason – one which he would never admit out loud – he was drawn to it.
When their eyes met, Lovino's breath hitched. For the first time since they met, Lovino could read the emotions battling in his eyes. Gilbert was upset, broken, and lonely. He wanted love and attention, but at the same time he feared it. He had loved his brother his entire life and the man was taken from him so easily. He didn't want to go through something so heart breaking again.
…
But he couldn't stop himself.
He hadn't been able to stop himself since the brown curl was introduced to his life. The first color Gilbert had taken in after four years of living in a monochrome world.
Lovino would never understand just how meaningful that was to him, but Gilbert could at least try to show him.
So Gilbert did the only thing he could do.
He kissed him.
It started off slow. A nice, quick peck. He didn't want to push anything.
But then Lovino shook his head, crashing his lips onto Gilbert's once again. It took him by surprise, but he kissed back, just as eager.
Lovino then pulled back, taking in slow, steading breaths. He tore his gaze from Gilbert and smiled. "That was my first kiss."
Gilbert blinked, tilting his head in curiosity as he cupped Lovino's chin in his calloused hands. "You're twenty-two and I was your first kiss? Awesome."
He frowned. "Shut up, bastard."
The Prussian did as he was told, but pulled him in for another kiss.
His world had finally been restored of its color.
Talk about cheesiest ending ever! Let me know if you guys like ne-shots like this. I have other ones in mind. A USUK, FrUK, and GerIta one. None of those are angsty like this one, but they're kind of written in the same style. (I'm trying out new styles to see which one I like best for my writing.) For now I'm just going to post one-shots, since they are less time consuming, but I hope to start updating soon :D Love you all!
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