Franz- Kugelmugel

Lars- Ladonia

…

Okay so I took this fic down a while back with the intention of editing it and putting it back up. I've changed some pretty major things, added new characters, researched even more, and generally attempted to improve the writing.

For those who don't know, this is the sequel to my Sufin fic: Red Doll. It is set 24 years later, and follows Tino and Berwald's two sons: Peter [Sealand] and Lars [Ladonia] along with Charlotte [Wy], Franz [Kugelmugel] and Kuzey [TRNC] as adults. The main pairings are SeaWy and LadKug, with side pairings of LatUkr, AmeBel, AusHun, and Thaiviet, along with some one-sided TRNCWy.

...

March 1912, Vienna

…

"That's the last case," concluded Franz Gottlieb Edelstein, tightening the straps on a battered, but expensive, trunk full of clothes. He hauled it over to the other two, also full of clothes, and placed his suitcase- filled with sketchpads, paints, brushes, pencils and a piece of canvas, just in case he saw inspiration for a masterpiece on his journey- on top, completing the neat pile.

He picked his wallet, papers, tickets and keys up off his desk and stuffed them into various trouser and jacket pockets. Everything seemed accounted for; there was no last minute search for hidden items like everyone assumed there would be; and Franz felt that the day was getting off to a good start. Of course, it would have been a smarter idea to pack the night before, but Franz was never one for staying focused on the boring things- like packing and often even getting dressed- for more than five seconds. Even this morning, when he could put it off no longer, it had taken every ounce of self control to not take a break every few minutes and Franz was feeling pretty pleased with himself. It would appear pampered rich boys were not entirely dependent on servants.

Nevertheless, he decided to leave the trunks for a member of staff to carry to the car, as they looked pretty heavy- too heavy for his delicate, spindly form- and Franz resolved to instead focus his attention on his appearance.

He was well known across Europe, and even far-off America, for being the son of the renowned Roderich Edelstein, as well as fame from his own artistic achievements, and it was important to look presentable so as not to tarnish his and his father's reputations with sloppiness. The press would be sure to point out any errors in appearance, and had done before.

Checking in the full length mirror standing in the corner, Franz decided that everything was in order. His clothes, a ruffled shirt, tie, cream waistcoat and violet jacket with gold trimming were neat, if a little old fashioned due to his father's insistence that Franz wears his old clothes to cut back on expenses, claiming that they were still in good condition. They made him seem interesting, so Franz didn't care too much. His silvery hair, now down to his shoulder blades, was in a neat ponytail; apparently plaits weren't sophisticated enough on a man above a certain age (or any age, really). He'd not cut his locks since that memorable night when he was ten and his mother's ex fiancé tried to kidnap them both.

He cast his eyes around his room one last time, taking in the grand furnishings, like his luxurious four-poster bed, mahogany writing desk (well, drawing desk), matching wardrobe and rich violet carpet. He'd created the room to reflect his personality: eccentric and artistic, but at the same time, hoping to come off as majestic and ostentatious. Of course, to everyone else, that came across as a desperate excuse for him to be allowed to keep the room cluttered, messy and full of whatever weird crap he found in shops and market stalls. His shelves were filled with books, ornaments, a globe, black and white photographs and sculptures of his own creation. His desk was not much better, being covered in half-finished drawings and letters from Lars Oxenstierna, Peter Kirkland and the occasional fan.

The most recent letter, from Peter, sat neatly on top of the pile, detailing plans for the trip he was now about to embark on. They were all to travel to New York on the RMS Titanic, the grandest luxury liner in the world. He was excited about the prospect of travelling to America. This time it would be of his own free will and he'd be going with his friends, not being forced to at knife point, crying and screaming…

Pushing the memory out of his mind, Franz tightened the ponytail and brushed a loose hair off his jacket. His hair had grown back slightly curly at the tips, giving it more volume and, according to his friend Lars, making him look like some sort of 18th Century composer. But that was probably because of the clothes too, after all, his father was a pretentious composer.

Chuckling at the thought, Franz left the room, walking through the spacious, grand hallway and descending the stairs. The house appeared empty, but then again, it always did, being so large, yet home to only three people and their servants. The sky outside- visible through large windows either side of the front doors- was grey and full of drizzle, offering little in natural light and making the dwelling seem even more abandoned, not helped by the echoing sounds of Franz's footsteps. The place hadn't really changed since Franz was a child.

Sighing, he walked across the hall and opened one of the many wooden, ornately decorated doors.

Both of his parents were relaxing in the family room, a cosy little place made up of soft chairs and a warm fire; Roderich read from a newspaper, nestled snugly in an armchair whilst Elizabeta lay on the sofa reading a novel.

"Everything's packed," he informed them, "I've sent someone up to load the suitcases into the car. I guess there's nothing left to do but bid farewell."

"You're going so soon?" asked Elizabeta, setting her book down on the coffee table and standing up to hug him.

"Hey now, Anya," he whined, blushing from the affection, "I'll only be gone for a month or two. And it's a long drive to Calais, then a ship, and a train to Paddington! It's best to go now, if I want to make it to London by April."

"It's still so long," she retorted, "stay safe and be good."

"I will," he promised.

Roderich folded the paper and stood up, walking over to the pair and placing a hand on Elizabeta's shoulder.

"Don't worry, Eli," he soothed, "he'll be back before you know it! Franz is thirty-four and a grown man; he can go on holiday on his own!"

"I know," Elizabeta sighed.

"Yeah, Anya!" added Franz, "I know I'm going to have a great time so you must too! How about you and Vatti go on a holiday of your own? I heard Milan is quite nice."

"Not a bad idea," agreed Elizabeta, "we really should spend our retirement years travelling more."

"I'll send you lots of postcards," promised Franz, "and I'll make sure they're pretty ones too!"

"You will be back in time for your exhibition, right?" insisted Roderich.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," stressed Franz, "besides, that's months away; I have plenty of time."

Roderich gave a small smile, pulling his son into a hug, "we're so proud of you; you know that, right?"

"Come on Vatti, I'm only going on a little holiday," Franz rolled his eyes, "besides, I heard this trans-Atlantic liner was built to be 'unsinkable'. So don't worry about me."

"We're your parents," cried Elizabeta, "it's our job to worry, and we'll worry even when we're old and grey, and you have children of your own, which should be soon, young man. Why don't we have grandchildren yet?"

"Erm…" Franz tried to think of how to avoid answering, but luckily his father stepped in.

"So do you have everything?' asked Roderich.

"Ja."

"Keys?"

"Ja."

"Tickets?"

"Ja."

"Passport?"

"It's in my pocket."

"All your clothes?"

"Vatti," said Franz sternly, "I packed everything last night," a teeny lie, "and I even made a checklist of what I needed to bring so I could tick it off as I packed," okay, a massive lie. But Mr and Mrs Edelstein were stressed enough as it is without worrying about him forgetting something.

"Have fun with your friends," said Elizabeta.

"Ah, Anya," whined Franz, "I'm not a child!"

"But you are going to be spending time with you friends and having fun!"

"Ja, but…" Franz shook his head, "never mind. I'll write to you when I reach Calais and tell you all about what I see. I'll even keep a journal of my trip so you'll be able to hear about everything I do and see." He smiled brightly, "I have a feeling this will be a very inspiring journey. Who knows, maybe I'll create enough art to fill another exhibition."

"I don't doubt that," agreed Elizabeta.

They heard a beep from outside and Franz chuckled; "guess I should be off then."

He said goodbye one final time, then walked outside to where a shiny black car was waiting, luggage in the boot and an impatient driver in the front. He jogged down the front steps and walked across the gravelly path, turning around before he reached the car to wave to his parents, then he opened the back door and sat down on the soft, leather seats.

"So, this is it," he whispered in excitement, "I'm going to see Lars again."