Author's Note: THIS STORY.
Er, more specifically: I originally wrote a story called Somewhere based off of West Side Story. The idea was that the story was going to be beautifully written with glowing adjectives and thrilling prose.
...that didn't happen.
I am rewriting what is effectively the most shame-bringing fanfiction I have ever written because, in short, it needed to be rewritten. Originally, I pretty much just copy and pasted the script into Word and used 'Copy and Replace' to make the names different. That's bad. Don't ever do that.
So, I bring you what will (with any luck at all) be a beautifully written story based off of West Side Story, hopefully one with glowing adjectives and thrilling prose. At the very least, it'll have a lot of words! And, like anything I've ever written, it's going to have tiny bits of humor even though West Side Story is depressing.
Thanks for listening.
-Nadie
PS: The main pairing is GerIta, Spamano, and a bit of a love triangle between Austria, Hungary, and Prussia. There are other smaler pairings (I believe RoChu is mentioned maybe once in the whole story) but those are the central ones. This story also uses human names.
Also, Gilbert thinks Lili is a boy. It's a stupid thing I put in there and I don't feel like taking it out because it amuses me. He figures it out eventually.
Gilbert was infatuated with the gang life.
He wasn't sure why because, in all honesty, he should have been killed long ago for his smartass mouth. But no, he had survived (even flourished) on the streets. When asked about it, he could never really pinpoint what, exactly, he liked about it. There really wasn't a specific reason he preferred being in a gang than a nuclear family in a nice suburban house. (Not that it had been a matter of choosing between the two. Being in a gang wasn't really a choice in that the other choice was a probable death.) Gilbert enjoyed sticking it to authority. (Always pleasant.) He liked fighting, more than he would care to admit. But deep down, what he really liked about being in a gang wasn't either of those things. And though he would have never admitted to it (since it certainly wasn't very badass) the simple reason was that he felt loved.
Gilbert's parents had forced him and his brother to move to the horrible little metropolis of Manhattan from Germany when he was only six years old. Their mother had died in childbirth, so it was just him, his brother, and their father. Now, Gilbert was too young to remember who, exactly, his father had pissed off, but not too long after the move, his father was shot by someone or other. The event, traumatizing as it was, forced him to grow up alone, caring for himself and for his little brother on the streets. Being taken in by (and, eventually, becoming the de facto leader of) the Jets was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
He always tried to remember that during times such as this one.
Gilbert did enjoy the adrenaline rush of fighting, but he simply wasn't very strong. His true strength lied in his speed, because he was fairly good at dodging attacks and, if he had to, running away. (It was a moot point. Gilbert never ran away from a fight.) He fought alongside Roderich, or Rod. In Gilbert's opinion, Rod had major anger issues that he needed to work out, but in his particular 'line of work', anger issues were not the worst vice to be had. Besides, Rod was his best friend, so Gilbert was partial to overlooking his flaws. The other two 'members' were Vash, who was amazing at fighting, and his nameless little brother. Little brother had a soft, girly voice, and was not so amazing at fighting, but it was somewhat of a package deal. Besides, who was Gilbert to tell some weak, homeless kid that he was useless? Years ago, he himself had been that useless kid.
Gilbert stared into Antonio's eyes. He smirked. Gilbert couldn't wait to wipe that smug look off of his face. Sure, his face actually seemed to betray a mild sense of fear and annoyance, rather than anything resembling 'smug', but Gilbert knew better. All gang leaders were the same. It didn't matter what stories their faces had to tell. Every last one of them was rotten inside. In a way, Gilbert hoped that gangs would keep popping up or moving near his turf. Gilbert feared the day when the only rotten gang leader in sight was himself.
Just as he was about to throw a punch, Gilbert heard the wail of a police siren. Police cars swarmed the area, and Gilbert was sure that to an outsider, they would look useful and competent. Still, their presence meant that their fight had to end. Damn, damn, damn.
Gilbert hated the resident police force. It wasn't completely because they were, well, cops (though that played a big part in it; Gilbert often had days where his eating breakfast constituted a misdemeanor). It had more to do with the fact that the particular cops he had gotten to know way too well were laughably incompetent.
Lt. Jones was pretty bad. He had a serious patriotism fetish, which he made completely obvious every time he opened his mouth, and it was a common joke among the Jets that he jerked it to pictures of American flags (when he wasn't screwing Officer Kirkland, of course; deep down, Gilbert suspected that they really were a couple, and rarely made fun of either of them for this, but he never voiced his thoughts on the matter out loud). Officer Kirkland was even worse, because he spoke in a proper British accent. Gilbert had no idea how long Officer Kirkland had been living in America, but one would think that by now the deadly little streets of Manhattan, and the dialect of those who frequented them, would have eroded that proper English accent. It didn't. Gilbert's friendly advice to him was usually something along the lines of, "Gee, Officer Kirkland, maybe if you got that stick out of your ass, you'd be a much happier fellow!" Okay, so it wasn't the smartest thing to say to a cop, but surely he was used to it. Of all the Jets, Gilbert had the biggest mouth.
"Cease and desist! Cease and desist!" cried Officer Kirkland, foolishly acting as if he had any control over anything (which, and anyone could attest to this, he did not). "I insist that all of you stop what you are doing immediately! Do you have any questions?" He looked frazzled and, if Gilbert was being honest, just a touch neurotic. He silently hoped that he himself would age better. Or die young; that worked, too.
"Si," replied Antonio. "Can you give those instructions in Spanish?" This was the peculiar thing about the Jets and the Sharks; the rivalry had started long before Gilbert or Antonio were even members of their respective gangs. From what Gilbert could gather, there had originally been conflict because the Sharks were largely Puerto Rican and the Jets were more or less American. However, that simply wasn't true anymore. For one, Gilbert didn't even know if the Sharks that the Jets before him fought were the same Sharks that Antonio led, since Antonio himself had only shown up around a month ago. For another, Gilbert had grown up in Germany for six years of his life, and his brother had been born there as well. Rod spoke with an Austrian accent, though Gilbert had no idea if he was really from there. As for Vash and his brother, Gilbert didn't even know their last name, much less their place of origin, though their German was of a distinct Swiss dialect. In short, no one in his big, happy family was American, and even if they were, you couldn't really tell it one way or the other.
However, if you could call the Jets diverse (and Gilbert submitted that you probably could), then you would have to come up with a new word entirely for the Sharks. Antonio was the de facto leader, but to Gilbert's knowledge, he was also the only one who spoke Spanish. Then again, his knowledge was rather limited. Between the horrific fighting, he hadn't quite had time to question Antonio about whether or not his merry little gang was multilingual.
Officer Kirkland huffed. "Please vacate the premises," he said, at first repeating the phrase in English, and then presumably saying it in Spanish (though, of course, Gilbert wouldn't have known one way or another.) If it was supposed to be Spanish, to him it sounded tragically flawed. Sure, it could have been perfect grammar and Gilbert wouldn't have known the difference, but to him it was flawed because Officer Kirkland's British accent trying on Spanish words sounded too hilarious for words. After they left (apparently Gilbert had been wrong about them not understanding "vamos") Lt. Jones turned to face Gilbert's gang.
"Okay, now let's be reasonable here. Okay? Okay. Now look, as great as it is to be an American, you have to understand that those people love wherever they're from, too. Even if it's not as good as America is, the important thing is, they're here now. And that's kind of like they're honorary Americans! So be nice, okay? Or else I might have to intervene. I'm not going save you if you're on the side of evil, boys. So play nice. Say goodbye to the nice boys, Arth-I mean, Officer Kirkland."
At being called by his first name, Officer Kirkland's face flushed, but he did not acknowledge it. "Goodbye, boys," he replied, and both of the men got into their squad car and drove away, the sound of the siren fading into the night.
When they left, Rod snorted derisively (which was typically his trademark sound; Rod was always snorting dersively, it seemed). "They make a very nice couple, do they not?" Everyone laughed at this. Gilbert snickered, but then put on his serious face. "Everybody! Line up! Time for examinin' the damage..in." Whatever, so it didn't rhyme. They could bite him. Before he could think about it too much, though, he heard a baby soft voice cry out.
"Bruder! Your ear has blood on it! Who did it to you?" Gilbert could only guess that Vash's little brother had been the one to make the exclamation. Now, Vash acted more like a soldier than anyone else in the Jets, himself included. It wasn't at all surprising that he had completely blown off an injury. His motto was, "Pain is a message, and you can ignore it just like any other." Despite how he himself acted at times, Gilbert harbored a ton of respect for Vash.
"I'm a casual," he said simply, his voice a monotone. And that was typical Vash. He did have a 'thing' for a firepower, and when he used a gun Gilbert could swear his eyes lit up, but every other time his eyes were dull, and he gave off a distinct 'I could care less' vibe.
"Oh, no! Those imigrants! They branded you!" Wow, who knew someone like Vash could be related to someone so innocent? It never ceased to amaze Gilbert how innocent Vash's brother could be; every little thing that happened was met with a wide eyed look or an alarmed gasp. 'I swear, he can be such a girl sometimes,' thought Gilbert. 'Hell, you could put a ribbon in his hair and he'd easily pass for one.' But he had to focus. Gilbert cleared his throat.
"Who did it to you?" he asked Vash. He didn't even know what 'it' was, only that it was an injury that was on his ear, but either way, it suited him to know. Vash glanced at him, his expression completely still.
"Antonio. I heard him say, 'This is for shooting one of my compañeros' and I'm sure that was why." Well, that was typical. At least Antonio had gotten the right gang member; no one else besides Vash tended to pack heat. "Who was it I shot, anyway? I've long since forgotten," he finished. Gilbert winced at the statement. Something about it had seemed oddly careless for Vash, like something he himself would say. It was offputting.
Suddenly, Gilbert heard a loud, defiant "Hey!" pierce the air, and instinctivley he turned around. When his eyes fell on the voice's source, he couldn't help but roll his eyes. It was Liz.
Now, without question, Liz was probably the manliest person Gilbert knew. From what Gilbert understood, she was Hungarian, and like Gilbert she was of questionable financial status. (Though, he couldn't help but notice, she had managed to get a hold of her signature weapon, which was her 'lucky' frying pan.) Liz may have considered herself a tomboy, but she was also strikingly beautiful. She had eyes that pierced into you when she spoke, and her hair was long and smooth-looking even though she lived on the streets-of course, Gilbert couldn't have cared less about Liz, now that he thought about it. In fact, she wasn't actually pretty; she looked like a rat. Anyway, despite her considerable 'nads and the fact that she was genuinely cool, Gilbert couldn't let her into his gang. For one thing, she seemed to harbor a crush on Rod. Not that he cared, because he didn't, but the last thing he needed was to have them flirting or worse while he was trying to have a fight or find something to eat. Besides that, she was a girl. Gilbert couldn't let a girl into his gang.
"You're still here?" asked Rod. Gilbert tried his best to ignore him. Even though Rod treated Liz like she was lower than the dirt he walked on, it was obvious from the way his cheeks got pink around her that he probably liked her back. Gilbert didn't like Liz, of course; that was ridiculous. Though, he did have to admit that seeing them together was somewhat sickening. Thankfully, Liz ignored Roderich, and approached Gilbert far more quickly than he would have liked. She stood in front of him with a determined look on her face.
"How about me getting into the gang?" she asked, her face inches away from his own. She was probably doing it on purpose, which was horrible, and a great example of why he would never, ever let her join. He could feel his face heat up, and he turned his head away for about a second before giving her the biggest smirk he could.
"Well, Lizzy, you should know that there's a better chance of the gang getting into you than that ha-ow!" Mid-sentence, he could feel her terrible right hook in his face. Apparently, she had other weapons besides that frying pan of hers. Gilbert wrinkled his nose (in part to determine if he had broken anything; thankfully, he hadn't, though there was blood) and frowned at her. "That hurt, by the way." Liz ignored him.
"Listen. I was brilliant in that fight, Gilbert. And you know it. Why don't you let me join ? I think I could really be helpful. Not that I want to be near you, of course. Or any of your members, especially. I mean, I could technically start my own gang, but-"
"No one would join," finished Rod. Liz gave him a frosty glance before turning her head from him and muttering under her breath.
"Yes, exactly," mutterd Liz. Now she was staring at her steel-toed boots. Gilbert felt bad; everyone knew he was a jackass, but Rod could be really mean sometimes, and of course he knew this from experience. Liz cleared her throat and looked at Gilbert directly in the eyes. "Anyway, Gilbert, if you don't let me become a member, you're a real idiot." He sighed. Perhaps it was true; he had been called an idiot before.
"The road, little lady, the road," he said. Liz glared at him once before spitting defiantly on the ground. Gilbert gave her one last look as she ran off, the sound of her boots hitting the pavement almost sounding like a twisted lullaby. He shook his head when he realized that there were other things to talk about. He stood up on an abandoned tomato crate and addressed his gang.
"Okay, guys! Now, we fought hard for this territory, am I right? Don't answer that. Of course I am. Are we going to let those imigrants take it from us? Of course not! We were here first! Now, I'm not saying they will take everything we've worked for. That really wouldn't be fair," he admitted, showing a brief moment of reason. "But I am saying they might, and damn it, I don't want to take that risk! So, what are we going to do? I will tell you. We are going to fight if it means we all end up dead!" Everyone cheered. Gilbert made a great cheerleader when the need arose. After all, he had basically implied that they would all be slaughtered, which was dangerous talk when you were in a gang, and of course everyone applauded anyway.
"Then there we have it," he said, his voice carrying a touch more seriousness than it had before. Now he was speaking moreso to himself than to anyone else. "I will challenge our darling little Antonio, and that will be that. I'll do it at the dance," he said under his breath. The local gym was considered neutral territory, so that was probably the best place to do it, he decided.
"Wait a minute," said Vash. "You have to take a lieutenant." It was probably true. Gilbert couldn't trust that Antonio would ahere to gang rules, and anyway, doing anything risky by yourself was stupid. He also knew that Vash spoke the truth, and that he hadn't meant to imply that he himself was the best choice. No, Vash just wasn't that kind of person. It was probably because he didn't care.
Gilbert could have brought anyone, really. More likely than not, they would all be there anyway. Vash had killer aim and a gun, Rod was incredibly loyal and skilled at fighting. Hell, even Vash's no-name little brother might have been an okay choice. For all Gilbert knew, he could be great for pulling at the heartstrings of the Sharks. It didn't matter. What Gilbert did know was that there was only one person he could bring, and it killed him to admit it to himself. Saying it out loud to his gang members would be torture.
"I will be his lieutenant," Gilbert heard Roderich say. He shook his head solemnly.
"No," he began, in an uncharecteristically quiet tone of voice. "We have to have West." Indeed, the words had been just awful to spit out. For one thing, Gilbert's job still wasn't over; he now had to tell West himself, and that within itself was going to suck royally. It had been a long time since West had been a Jet. While Gilbert didn't really believe that it was something you could just give up (after all, you could take the orphan out of the streets, but as far as he was concerned you could never completely take the streets out of the orphan) but to his credit, West had done a pretty good job. He hadn't fought. He hadn't broken the law. He had even gotten a job. Telling him to give up his 'honor-citizen' status was going to be heartwrenching.
"We do not," said Rod. Of course he would say that. Gilbert couldn't remember if West had still been a Jet when Vash and his brother had joined, but for sure Rod had. What was more, Rod had considered it a betrayl of drastic proportions, an opinion he had never quite abandoned. He squinted behind his glasses and looked down his nose at Gilbert. (Gilbert resented the fact that he was short. He deeply suspected that being a starving orphan had stunted his growth, though that didn't explain while all of the other starving orphans he knew were still taller than him.) But Gilbert smirked at him and flipped him off before continuing.
"We most certainly do, my little bespectacled one. He's one hell of a better Jet than you are, that's for sure." It was rather funny how much everyone cared, and Gilbert often exploited it. In his eyes, being a Jet wasn't quite something you could measure. It would be like trying to say one person was better at having a pulse than the next; no matter the handicaps, no matter the circumstances, it was something universal and in the end, something only the petty would measure. But it was an excellent motivational tool, and Gilbert weilded it with a semblance of pride.
Rod scowled at him. "Does he even want to be a Jet? If you don't mind me saying, I don't think he does." Ugh, Rod could be so annoying. Sure, he was probably right (Rod was right about a lot of things, but Gilbert rarely gave him the satisfaction of acknowledging this.) He opened his mouth to speak, when he heard Vash's brother speak.
"But who wouldn't want to be a Jet?" The question brought a smile to his face. Indeed, who wouldn't want to be a Jet? Gilbert wasn't sure if the question was directed at him or "Big Brother Vash", so for the time being he left it unanswered. He frowned in the direction of Rod.
"Listen, Rod. I do mind you saying it. He's my brother, and he's always been here for us. More to the point, he always will be here for us." Whatever Rod was trying to imply, Gilbert took offense. Still, Rod continued to speak.
"But he hasn't been with us for over a month," insisted Rod. Gilbert clenched his jaw, and tried very hard not to say anything that he'd regret. It was more self-restraint than he normally showed, but he didn't feel particuarly proud, because at that particular moment he had the urge to wrap his hands around Roderich's pretty little neck and squeeze as hard as he could. Deep breaths.
Thankfully, Vash spoke up in defense of West. "What about the day we defeated the Emeralds? We couldn't have done that without Ludwig," he said, his voice cold and calculating. (When Vash spoke, it always sounded like there was steel in his words.) Gilbert gave Vash a grateful smile.
"He saved my neck," said Vash Jr., head bobbing in agreement. (Gilbert made a mental note to ask Vash what, exactly, the name of his little brother was when things weren't so stressful. For now, Vash Jr. would suffice. It was true, anyway. Vash's little brother never dared to disagree with him as far as Gilbert could tell, and it wasn't like Gilbert ever directly addressed him when he could help it. Maybe he could come up with a nickname or something.)
"And there you have it! Once you're a Jet, you're always a Jet!" declared Gilbert. Now that everyone had agreed with him, Rod was completely outnumbered. He smirked at Rod before his voice took a serious tone. "Don't worry, I know West like the back of my hand. He's in. Just watch." And it was true. He probaly wouldn't want to be in, but he would most certainly do it. He had to.
Rod crossed his arms. "In, out, I really couldn't care less," he said loftily. Gilbert knew that he was just mad because he had lost, and all in all, Gilbert was okay with that. He knew that Rod would be perfectly fine once West showed up, intact and willing to fight.
"You should care," said Vash, before turning to face Gilbert. "Where exactly are we going to find Antonio, anyway?" It was a legit question, but thankfully, Gilbert had an answer for him.
"I'm glad you asked," said Gilbert. "There's a dance tonight at the gym, and he should be there. So that's when I'll ask," he finished. He noticed that everyone gave him blank looks, even Vash, whose expression was almost never as blank as it was now. Rod's expression was more of suspicious, but it still carried the same confusion. "What?" Gilbert couldn't help but feel defensive from their stares. "You must think I'm up to something. Well, you can all relax because I promise, I'll be a good little boy." He gave them all a mock salute befor continuing to speak. "I'm only challenging him. Mark my words, I won't lay a finger on him at the actual dance." 'If I can help it.'
Gilbert stepped down from the tomato crate and gave everyone a broad smile. Rod cleared his throat and spoke to everyone. "Dress sharp," insisted Rod, "and be there at ten!" Gilbert decided to play along. If Rod wanted to play leader, it didn't hurt anyone, and Gilbert knew that it was how he licked his wounds from being outnumbered.
As everyone walked away, Gilbert smiled to himself. Now he just had to convice West; no easy task, but certainly doable. He headed in the direction of the store where West worked, and he sang to nobody as he walked, his voice echoing in the streets.